His cock drooped pathetically, his miserable, oestrogen-riddled barrel of a body unable to sustain the insistent boner he needed to satisfy his lubricious companion who now gave up and flounced out of his mildewy basement in contempt and disappointment, closing off his only avenue for some measure of birthday action and leaving him alone to onanise lethargically and unsuccessfully as tears streamed down his flabby, acne-strewn cheeks.
“No, you’re having porridge today. We all are. Try it. It’s nicer than it looks,” said Mum. Jennifer gulped melodramatically. “I literally cannot ev-” CRASH! Suddenly Pete from next door hurled himself full-force in through the kitchen window, tumbling awkwardly over the tap and falling off onto the floor between the sink and Dad, his body lacerated in several places and the porridge issue now moot thanks to the shards of broken glass scattered across the table and most of the room.
She rode him for what seemed like a solid hour, grinding and sliding across him in every possible way, alternating sensuality with hard up-and-down slamming, snarling at him, smiling sweetly, coming down to snog him and then whisper something dirty in his ear before ramping it up again. Nothing worked! And they should have known that, really, since only penises can ejaculate, not amputated limb stumps.