Sexnight At Casa Del Crenshaw
I have done many regrettable things in my life. But nothing approaches the horrific night crouched in the pfitzer bush outside Mills Crenshaws bedroom window.
A romantic dinner of Yankee pot pie and Jell-O had apparently done the trick for the Crenshaws. The dirty dishes were left for Nyk Fry to do, and off to the bedroom the couple went. Mills retired to the bathroom for a quick coat of Brylcream and to change into his Mr. Mac brown, polyester robe (complete with light brown piping and suede elbow patches).
Mrs. Mills took advantage of the time alone to eat another slice of pie, belch like a fat sailor and pick her nose. Mills emerged from the bathroom, with purpose. He set the demure mood with the music of John Philip Susa. I sensed an immediate bulge in his robe. His back stiffened, the bulge grew as he gave his less than lovely wife a military salute.
Taking the point, Mrs Mills rose from the bed, her breasts sagging around her waist like a roofers nail bag. She started what can only be described as a really embarrassing striptease; layer after layer of ZCMI's finest hit the floor until all that was left was this horrid woman, who believe me is only a nosebone and lip plate away from being on the cover of National Geographic. Her panties were both visually pleasing (gray with high tensile steel suspenders,) and functional-keeping her uterus from prolapsing on the expensive carpet like a dead squid. Then off came the last items: panties, hair, teeth, left eye, right leg below the knee. She "assumed the position" on the bed, not unlike a large, desert tortoise flipped over in the sun. She reached beneath the bed and pulled out the Jaws of Life, hooked them up to the hydraulics, and spreads her legs for Millsey.
There it is my friends, deep in the great rift valley, the OLDUVAI GORGE! the land that both time, and personal hygiene products forgot. I can only describe what between her legs looked like as a deflated football stuffed in the mouth of Grizzley Adams...after he had eaten a jam sandwich. Then it was up to the Red Baron. The robe hit the floor like a flag of surrender. He worked his penis until it has reached its full and glorious length-roughly a cherry stuck on the end of a ball point pen. He strode gracefully to his love, carefully tethered himself to the headboard, and proceeded to slap his weenie against the thick fleshy labia, somewhat akin to throwing a hotdog down the hallway.
He was really working, his neck wattle bright crimson and flapping side to side like a 4H, blue-ribbon gobbler. I can describe Mills' "gameface" as looking like he's about to sneeze, then jamming his toe in a light socket. He rose to his knees, let out a scream, and his ejaculate emerged from his glans like the last drop of Visine.
Then it was over. He defecated on the sheets, then sat at the edge of the bed, sobbing into his cupped hands. It was what I can only describe as "very weird." As I looked back I saw Nyk Fry gathering up the sheets for cleaning, and Mills still sobbing like a child.