Onan-Stahl’s vital mechanism pumped on, autonomous as it was, but his face burned to see his nemesis here, in the very heart of his kingdom.

Collier – ever the buttondown, his greying mane disciplined – was belied in an indifferent veneer by the slim stalk pushing down his inseam.

How well Mewsy knew that rapacious dagger. It had gone where such things ought, and otherwise, and all the while she gloried in it.

Now, in her moment of ravening torment, its precise and agile dimensions (along with the steely squint of its leering master) commanded her.

Mewsy lived for cock.

 

“Do excuse me, boys,” she said, slipping from the ménage. (Her passage was handily eased by her own southern emissions.)

Nude as all get-out, the vixen pranced across the laminate to her fuck-prince.

“That’s it, Delilah,” Purchase drawled malignantly, “Leave your old man to pull from that dirty well and come give your daddy a spanking.”

(The dirty well in question had given up pretence for hooting, “Oh boy, oh my Lord, for goodness’ sake,” like a right old trollop.)

Tybalt, taken aback, observed and considered – but with trademark pragmatism he also refused to waste a good squeeze in the alley.

 

Mewsy’s muff felt positively dusty with neglect, and it was for the modest but cunning tool of this interloper to plug her up again.

She would have sucked it right into her belly, given druthers, but Purchase Collier needed a special wind-up.

“Your daddy’s been a baddie,” lisped the fit exec, “And he needs vigorous correctin’ before he gets a treat.”

A typical Mewsy’d’ve whacked the wicked off the wanker in two shakes, but on this occasion, already twice-flummoxed, her patience thinned.

Nevertheless she was practiced in the slatternly trade, and the intuition of her love cup teased out a mutually satisfactory solution.

 

Purchase Collier’s carefully stubbled cheeks stung from her slapping. His colour rose, as did his trou’.

“Get down there!” Mewsy ordered, “Roger my crinkle ’til I’ve had enough, and don’t let me see any naughty squirts!”

As Collier’s belt buckle hit the floor, the dick-drunk stranger Stahl had mounted felt sure he heard a “Sproing!”.

“At last!” whispered Mewsy. Her lower lips parted to accept the purple helmet. “At last it’s Mewsy’s turn.”

But Tybalt Onan-Stahl could bear no more, and left the toasty warmth of the virgin bowel with still less ado than he had entered in.

 

“Mewsy,” he bellowed, “A man can only take so much!” Left gasping from both ends, the stranger heartily concurred.

“Tybby-love, do what you will, but you’ll never drag me from my pogo stick!” (And to herself: “…the day I’ve had!”)

The stocky stud was not above using force (as has been shown) but dagnabbit if his meaty paws didn’t just hydroplane off the coital writher.

“Slippy as greased soap, ain’t she?” grinned Purchase Collier, who would himself have come unhooked if not for Mewsy’s grip on his testes.

 

Tybalt was stumped. Purchase Collier’s eternal superiority over him in worldly matters was, for the first time, extending below the belt.

As spunk-laden lads (thought Tybalt, wistfully) the pair wrestled endlessly, the winner impressing himself on his trouncee.

Tybalt always won (his piston twitched to recall) and he always claimed the booty. But Collier – the fox – won back his dominance in school.

“Quieta non movere!” shrugged the rugged husband. “Why didn’t I think of it before?” Then he stuck his penis right up his old friend’s butt.

 

NEXT CHAPTER!