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.
She was so beautiful and had such poise and social sensibility that it was hard to imagine her pooping one off. But it was even harder to imagine her not pooping one off, since she had just started doing exactly that, and soon would have finished the off-pooping. Thereafter it would have been a fait accompli. Imagination would have been shoved aside, just like the anal folds that the steamer shoved its way through on its way to freedom.
She drifted listlessly through the days, having a daytime nap here, a cheeky glass of Pimms (less fun without the girls) there, a slice of cake on occasion, but always niggled by the miserable dearth of hard penises to slide onto. As she prepared to move house, though, she did at least find an old laserdisc of gay pornography, and though she struggled to imagine herself in any of the roles presented on screen, she was brought to a sudden, screaming orgasm simply by the sight of a solid and slightly upcurved rod and the way it spilled spunken goodness from its winking terminus.