Mewsy was engaged in a carnal self-satisfaction when the stranger sidled in and clicked his teeth her way.

Mewsy swivelled in her chair and shot him a look of unrepentant sluttery.

“You’ll have me,” he said, cocksure.

 

Mewsy attractively abandoned all sense of modesty, spreading her voluptuous thighs like the jaws of some great predator.

The stranger moseyed over with an almost mocking gait, and placed his warm, hairless hands on the pulsing nooks of her tender knee-backs.

“Alley-oop!” he said, flipping her up like the hood of a rental car, to expose the taint of her giraffe-patterned boy-shorts.

“Well this is going somewhere fresh,” mused Mewsy to the inside of her thigh, which now rested snugly against her own temple.

 

The stranger huggled himself against her cootchy encumbrance, loosened his still-stylish ascot, and let tumble out a pendant crucifix roughly the length of a modest cinnamon stick.

Mewsy gasped as he nested it between her flowering labia.

Though no blasphemy could shock her eroded sensibilities, the steely nubs of Our Saviour’s tortured Gebeine sure did the job.

“What filth,” she slavered, upon regaining herself. “You’re much more creative than you look.”

The stranger – whose name Mewsy had not bothered to learn, so voracious was her appetite for fine adultery – gruntingly withdrew his tumescence.

 

“I wanted to do this the easy way,” he mumbled in a gravelled contralto, squatting astride her while the windsock sagged in little pulses.

Mewsy playfully batted at his milk-plumped prunes, dangling just about the carpet-scuff on her left kneecap.

“C’mon back, baby,” she pooped, “I need that hysterical paroxysm like whoa.”

“You, madam, need a host of things beginning with H, not least His Guidance and the Holy Ghost!” His tone was thick with lust for the LORD.

“Gosh,” thought Mewsy, sunk into her couch of satin and sin, “I’ve never had to work quite this hard for the favour of a gentleman’s prong.”

 

“You think you’re real special, don’t you,” he muttered, replaiting his scented ascot. He jabbed a ringèd finger toward her wrinkly strawberry.

“But let me tell you: having been slid in and out of from Minsk to Manila won’t win you any gold in the Gold Beyond.”

“Honey, if you wanna hurt my feelings you’re gonna have to try a little harder than that,” minxed Mewsy.

Her minarets heaved ever-so-mildly as she spoke. “Now why don’t you let your hands do the talking, Smacks-a-million?”

He thereupon ejaculated that the atrophy of her natural shame had clearly stymied the awakening of a repentant spirit.

 

“And furthermore…” he began, but Mewsy’s elegant fingies were snickering across his pelvic floor.

He cocked his head (Mewsy realized only at that moment that he dead-rung for a spaniel) and lanced her with his peepers’ twin regards.

“Hot damn do I want to suckle those cones, though.”

Mewsy had started an eye roll minutes earlier, which, too monumentally slow to be perceived by the naked eye, had only just finished.

Catching sight of her gaping visage just then the stranger felt sure she was in ecstasy on his account, and he fell to his task with slurps.

 

Mewsy, ever-courteous, countenanced his feeding with a bitch’s neutrality, and in the garden of her mind she drifted along to other males.

She thought of her thick-legged husband, Tybalt Onan-Stahl, and of her favourite lover, the wealthy and perversely deceitful Purchase Collier.

And of course there was her Clydesdale, Rex D.I.Y. How she loved riding them all.

“If only we were all here together,” she simpered. “Mewsy and her men.”

Her lascivious wish was to bear fruit with more than hoped-for haste.

 

No sooner had she let the ungoverned phrases babble from her plush lips than the door slammed shut.

Its Egyptian stained-glass inset shattered with the force, and, through the void, blazing midday light cast a figure into silhouette.

From underneath her loosened shock of tresses Mewsy could make out a pair of broad, well-developed quadriceps. “Tybalt!” She gasped.

And to herself, the nanny-goat admitted, “Oh good. I was getting rather bored.”

 

“Mewsy!” – his exclamation a barely strangled roar – “I should have known I’d find you in armis alterius!”

She unstuck the stranger’s suction cup, hitherto still titting her while the drama raged.

“Tybsy!” squeaked the Innocent Accused, “And here I thought you were away on manly business until the Ides!”

“It IS the Ides, Mewsalorca.”

“Oh my,” was all she could muster. The use of her full name announced a certain pickle.

 

At this, sensing an almost imperceptible change in the room’s emotional temperature, the stranger zipped up and made to beat it.

“I think not, boy,” the formidable Stahl intoned, “My consort has not done with your service.”

“Oh but Tybbykins, I have, I have!” she declared. “Do be a dear and let me make this up to you… In my own way.”

The image of Mewsy’s drenched vacuum hole eliciting his gush made the stalwart Stahl stagger but for an instant.

“Not this time, Mewsy,” he countered, “Redemption comes my way,” (and here he glowered, rigid with cuckold’s seed) “Or it comes not.”

…Upon which he retrieved from its capacious pants-pouch the Leviathan, in whose shadow the famous legs of the Onan-Stahls seemed twigs.

 

NEXT CHAPTER!