The hand cupping his sack was wrinkled with age, but still it gave him that spunking feeling and oh, God, no, he’d just seen her face for the first time and now he was flaccid, flaccider even than her sagging cheeks, and now he imagined her collapsed old titrack, and then the rest, and he shuddered with horror. No way was he going to cream one off now. The load had run for cover and wouldn’t be coming out until this lubricious crone had been ejected (slowly, because of her knees) from not only his office but the whole area around the Pentagon.
There was no point him slapping his wanger on her cheek to make himself hard. She wasn’t going to start slobbering all over it. Even if she was, it would only be to tease him, not make him erupt. Even if she did make him erupt, it wouldn’t be going down her throat. If, in some bizarre scenario, it somehow did, she wouldn’t hold it in and digest it. Well… in truth, that last bit, and therefore all the other bits, might be wrong, but still, she wasn’t a slag. That was the important bit – she didn’t want to be made to feel like a slag. ‘The swallowing semen bit I can accept. Just don’t call me a slag,’ she thought as the spooge flowed and everyone began talking about what a slag she was.
“Stop biting your nails!” she screeched as she slipped between two dimensions.
BANG! He knee-capped himself, screaming for many long minutes in disbelief at how much pain he could possibly endure without losing consciousness, and only as he was close to death did he manage to mutter ‘YOLO’ into the camcorder that he had fortuitously dropped at just the right angle to capture his farewell grimace.