He leapt off the top turnbuckle and elbow-dropped the pavement, crunching into it beautifully, utterly failing to break it and instead devastating his own arm and, in truth, his life prospects. And for what? Nothing. Nothing at all, he realised as he lay there whimpering in total solitude, unconsoled even by birdsong.
There was snail slime dried into her clothes, or so she assumed, since it couldn’t be cum, or at least she couldn’t admit that it was cum (it was cum).
She had made him cum, he informed her. “Well, no,” she interjected. “That’s not quite true.” And it wasn’t. In a sense, she had got him ready, but only by being so beautiful. That had made him hard. It had not made him cum. For that, the rapid, shuffling motion of his hand, clasped as it was around his pole, had been required. After some seconds of that, yes, the gunksome serving had been drawn forth from his prostate and, via the well-directed penile hose, hurled onto her face, where there still sat a snail-trail-like remnant, and a tell-tale crispening of part of her fringe.
Her features had been described to him as unblemished, but that was blatantly untrue, or at least it was after he creamed off a nice big sticky blemish all over her mouth, her chin and, yea, her gleaming wabs.