Mewsy was salivating despite herself, the fecund skank, and the stranger gave an involuntary sphinctral clench.

It was a monolith. The stranger knew his Kinsey scale rating had audibly teetered. Onan-Stahl advanced.

“Nurse on,” he commanded, “While I, in my fashion, sate myself.”

Before this skyscraper, disobedience was not borne. The stranger reclamped himself orally to Mewsy’s already chafing left dome.

Over top of this fleecy bobbing head she beheld her turgid mate, whose eyes and pelvic fist were coated with insistence.

And lo, Mewsy’s spousely appetite awoke.

 

“Justitia suum cuique distribuit,” the towering brute instructed her, and his voice was husky with anticipation of justice.

For once, Mewsy’s mouth was muted – leaking though she was from pertinent apartments – and she awaited him.

 

As often befell her in such moments of pith, expository images rubbed together feverishly in her memory.

As if it were yesterday, she could still feel in her mind’s twat that moment when Tybalt’s outsized spelunker first made her a woman.

It had plunged her like an pumpjack plunders its borehole, and left in its wake a passion for smashin’ that even he could not wholly quell.

And now, she verily throbbed to feel him flush with her liver, for there he stood, and there HE stood, and they were nearly upon her.

 

But the brooding Stahl had darker raunch in mind.

A crisp daub of sputum anointed the elephant worm, and forthwith it plowed the ditch of his rival. The stranger exhibited surprise.

Onan-Stahl grunted comfortably, wriggling his hydraulic hips. The stranger frantically assessed. Mewsy raised a fine slender brow.

“Tybalt, you absolute Hun,” she declared with a wry upward curl of her plump, desirous bouche, “What HAVE you done?”

Each married deeply beheld the other; she, basted with her own grease, he, vindicated, and encouraging his conquered steed.

Stretched between them on the hot need of another was the stranger. How foreign it was, he thought – and how intoxicating.

 

Mewsy’s mammary was abandoned, and, seeing the fresh face of her lust of yore mirrored in the stranger’s eye, her heart grew black.

Onan-Stahl’s divining rod knew well the thrum of acceptance, and it sang full-throated from this bullock’s rosebud.

It pleased him, as did the covetous bile that rose so pinkly in Mewsy. And he was a man one did well to please.

For her part Mewsy was unaccustomed to a hole denied. Thus scorned, her flapping loins cried out: this would not stand.

 

“Well, well… Glaze me in poon-juice and call me a pork chop…”

 

They started, all three – for there in the doorway stood Purchase Collier!

 

NEXT CHAPTER!