Purchase Collier was well used to unorthodoxy, and, as such, a stick in the [*clicking sound*] was hardly foreign.
Even so, bazookas the like of which now sought to undo him were not altogether at home in his netherworld.
Upon that spear he quivered, and bucked his narrow hips, and Mewsy, lubed and loopy from her labours, was bunted off.
For the second time since lunch, intrepid Stahl was browning, and yet again, to her chagrin, his woman was unseated.
She plopped into the lap of the used-up stranger, who (having, with some uncanny sense, detected a domestic brewing) was fixing to depart.
One could say of Mewsy that she always landed on her feet, and (while not literally true in this case) today was no exception.
Not missing a beat, the she-beast filled her pouch with a fistful of cast-off catamite (luckily, the probing had left him rebar-reinforced).
“How turned about I am,” mewled the stranger to himself, “I come to spread the Good Word and find myself spreading something else entirely!”
Tybalt gaped to discover the depths of his wife’s depravity. Purchase Collier gaped also, but the depths discovered were his own.
This hog ride was, to Purchase, a queer souvenir of his smutty youth. He could taste the stale wrestle-mat, smell the keen musk of defeat.
Biting the pillow all those long years ago, Purchase had smouldered to dominate Onan-Stahl. Thus he had been driven to succeed.
But now, again, he was royally porked.
“Fata crudelia!” muttered Tybalt into his neck, while he bred him.
Yet for Collier this man-cannon still held some strange charm, and he was bedevilled by it. “Royally Porked,” he grunted, resentful.
While Purchase Collier took his medicine, Mewsy and the stranger became deeply, genitally, acquainted.
But even as she milked and Kegeled like the sex professional she so resembled, his merit drooped. Something was… vacant.
It was tragicomic: Tybalt, for honour, rammed Purchase (full rue). The stranger, disgruntled, gave Mewsy no do.
The were, the four of them, woefully misfucked.