He didn't want to be single. He never had, but the infinite plume of pussy had thwarted his lackluster attempts at falling into an emotional affair. “What good would falling asleep next to the same woman to which I wake do me?” he asked himself. The stale exhalation of morning offended his nostrils. The awkward morning wood had to be rubbed away, wake-n-fake was perpetually out of the question, work had beckoned three snoozes ago.
Besides, he knew finding a woman to put up with his shit day-in and day-out wasn't a particularly easy task. In a world where it was easier to offend someone than to slap a smile on their face, surely his misanthropy would keep him warmer at night than a pair of tits glued to walking, talking cunt lips. Being alone was simple. He’d wake up, give his modest but more-than-willing cock a few strokes (that was all it took) and watch the cum explode from his dick into an ill-fated pair of athletic shorts. He loved to watch the ejaculation, almost more than he did to experience it. To him it was a moment of perfection. The potentiality of millions of tiny soldiers, their mission thwarted by the tug job of some post-adolescent pervy manboy. “We've been duped,” they decry, “’tis every offspring for itself!”
The moments following orgasm always left him awry. Jerking off was like a gateway drug and he wanted more. His eyes pinned shut, imagining the walls of a wet pussy still stroking, up and down as he slid in and out, seeking an expulsion of her own. He was done, so he could care very little what was happening in the outside world, but the feeling was nice; the elongation of benevolence, the waxing and waning of her contracting pelvic muscles, the yin to her yang almost as if he cared. Slowly, surely, the shrinking began. The massive five inches he started with quickly became four, before long settling into its two-spot. She’d sigh and roll over and the world would return to normal. He’d lie there, dick in his shorts, shorts in his hand, and reality would come crashing in around him. Life sucked.
How easy was it for him to walk into a bar and walk out with another night’s tale? The pussy flowed like a draught beer. It was never a hat tip to his good looks, the little he had, nor the muscles he was desperately lacking. It was always the words. He always had the words. His mouth would open and pheromone would spray out like a skunk scorned. It was the words that got her pussy wet, not the bulge pressing against the zipper in his denim jeans. It was the dropping of the gorgeous bombs and the I-could-see-myself-loving-you bullets. The women ate it up. They’d flock, almost as if they shared a feather, from all corners of the rathskeller, even if only to suck the dick of compliments and baby blues. The lust was neverlasting, however to your point, for the words could only be heard from so far.
He’d lubricate their morals with a witty gesture and a quick-turned phrase, and before they knew it their knees were too weak to carry the evanescence of foresight home with them. Their panties leaked with anticipation, his cock loaded with approbation. The deal sealed, the letter signed, now all that was left was to consummate the agreement. He walked out with his dick held high, the effeminate femininity trotting behind him like a Shih Tzu proud to be confined to the restraints of her leash, for her master had chosen her, never the other way around. Tonight sweet, miraculous love would be made, and henceforth she would be considered a woman. She would be a woman never before obtained or restrained by a man with such prowess. She would be the queen to his thrown, the ovaries which ruled his kingdom, making the peasants cower in the power of her merkin.
And as the tale was told the story began. The garments sequestered to the foot of his bed, the inhalation of foreplay which spread her knees like a season’s change brought the onset of quivered moans. He kissed her neck with such finesse, with such savoir faire, her lips spread in a welcoming
gesture. His cock bore witness. Hands were drawn over her rolling body as if gusts rolling down a greening hillside on a late spring eve. From breast to naval, the caressing hovering of skin punctuated each subtle movement. Her nipples perched, anxious to make a play in the call of duty.
Down, down his hands traversed, meeting the pink sea. Soft canopies protected the moist nectar that was her ecstasy. Easily the fingers of Moses parted the waters, digging deep into the soul of Neptune, releasing the stymied anguish built upon the guilt and reservations of a millennia of labor. “It was him the reason I have abstained!” she declared. “It was him to whom my thoughts have desperately clung!” And then he penetrated with the force of a thousand suns, the girth of his cock enough to make the sirens reel in pain. “OH!” she moaned. Agony and rapture intertwined, she was one with the Lord.
She arched her spine with a degree of difficulty reserved for the gymnasts and the circus freaks. She groaned and she spit with the tongue of an ancient sect only to seize like a possessed prophet. Bliss was hers, she was no longer a story untold. And as consciousness moved about in a plane of veritable existence, she fell; she was now withdrawn. The comatose sensation which had washed over her had been subverted and she now lay awake, falling endlessly back into her body. He had come and now lay asleep not but centimeters from her side; however they were kilometers apart. Her wisdom had betrayed her. The legacy of this man dripped from her abused vagina onto her thighs, down into the crack of her ass, caring very little about the emotion the action bequeathed, for the mission had been accomplished, the castle had been razed . One pedestrian attacked by a million men marching with no dreams, no vision, simply a commandment.
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