She was doorstep primo: heavier than the bus load, but with a little more hip and thigh. I was up for it in the bacon slicer vanguard. It was my Van Gogh moment – with dust in its arse. It cut me loose and vibrant. I liked what I was seeing.
“I read what you wrote and you’re a very sick man”
She didn’t have to read it, she was just nosey. I could tell she wanted more. Cast the junk muppet from the friction generator. We have an interglacial disintegration going on here.I mounted her like a billy goat. I had the situation under control – a few sharp thrusts – a few long strokes... I was slippery to the hilt, she made cooing noises – my turtle dove.
She groaned – that was rich – this was ecstatic pneumatic. Orbs of flesh – all smooth edges and jiggling; the slap of groin on sodden groin – the strain of muscle and sinew – all concentration to the pulsing centre of my being. The moment stretched and arrested. My cock – a monument to virility – exploded with a million myths into the temple of Isis. Cool shards of ecstasy moaned, foamed and fumed through the spasm pike. That was rich and I was warm inside – for a while.