The stranger’s resolve had flagged, leaving our voracious clamshell hollow.
A lifetime of ribaldry had rendered this spurt-sucker encyclopaedic in intimate affairs, however, and there were yet tricks up her chute.
No dum-dum she, Mewsy distilled the afternoon’s delights and easily lit upon how best to enable the stranger to fulfill her wet request.
She manoeuvred to perch his rump on a mammoth peppermill nearby. Down he slid, and, as with Archimedes, one protrusion displaced another.
Voila, their needy voids were answered. And the stranger, judging this window as good as any, began: “Have You Been Saved?”
“I – beg – your – pardon?” Mewsy countered between hungry, hungry humps. (The stranger moaned evangelically.)
[Meanwhile, the corporate cornholers boinked on, mired in the Sin of Sodom’s trademark mashup of enthusiasm and regret.]
“Do you ever feel empty inside?” The young visitor began again, “Like something’s missing?” His words rang true as he diddled her.
“Do you know, I do feel that way now and again!” Her quest for a willing dong – having consumed the last hour – still smarted.
“Once you let the Father inside you, you’ll never need another!” He was pumped to be finally opening her up to the Word.
“Tell me more… more… More!” she hollered. (It seemed the way to Mewsy’s immortal soul was up the servants’ entrance.)
The stranger, impaled on the unbending will of Our Lord and Master, burned in his zeal to penetrate Mewsy with the Pillar of Truth.
Of course, this intercourse was not lost on her husband, who, upon witnessing their rapture, dismounted his manful conquest.
Collier had at last bent to the inevitable, and the tickled look he got from having his back doorbell rung had pounded home truth to Tybalt.
The husband’s swollen ire had abated and a moist and tender need for his wife throbbed in its place. Petty jealousies be damned.
They had both dallied, what did it matter? He ached to plumb her dripping pipes once more.
Sword swinging, he strutted from bull to filly.
“Quia tu vicimus, Mewsy,” he conceded, “Come ride the rocket.” Masculine preparations flowed abundantly from him at the prospect.
Mewsy surfaced from receiving the spirit and cast her eyes first over her bullock, then heavenward.
“Tybalt,” (she was the very picture of saintly abstraction) “I have no desire for earthly cocks, for He is inside me and has made me whole.”
“What, him?” Tybalt indicated the stranger’s business derisively. (It was on the modest side of medium.)
“The LORD has cum inside me by dint of this young stranger,” quoth Mewsy, “No more am I fit for your schmuckering.”
Having spoken thusly, she ungripped the strange evangelist from her hirsute hammock and rose up singing, the picture of Our Lady.
(For his part, the stranger, whose attentions had turned to the nubbly tool up his twinky, barely remarked upon her departure.)
Purchase Collier looked on, bowlegged and bemused. Well-acquainted as he was with the bottomlessness of Mewsy’s fleshpit, he suspected ruse.
For, though nothing churned up his liquid zip like a tease, he couldn’t believe his Mistress would ever truly foreswear Dynamic Therapy.
“I’d see a sowbelly squeeze out vipers before Mewsy Stone would change her spots,” thought the blackguard aloud. And his handle hardened.
(On their wedding night, the remorseless slag had – shall we say – “wheedled” ornery ol’ Onan out of Sticking her with his family name.)
Tybalt growled, a phenomenon which of itself on your typical Wednesday would have had Mewsy up the flagpole in an Augenblick.
Setting feminism back miles, Mewsy had always felt that it was a woman’s duty to keep les gentilhommes suffonsified. Not today.
He stood unserviced. “Tybalt,” she enunciated pertly, “My little pookie has seen the Light.” (In fact, it was quite accustomed to exposure.)
She gave a whoop and a crystalline whinny answered. The muscular shadow of Rex D.I.Y., Clydesdale, darkened their parlour.