Lady Godiva rode again, forsaking three engorged suitors. Pressed to the heaving flanks and clad in naught but righteousness, she rode.
“Adieu, my erstwhile gully-pokes!” She called from the direction of the sunset, “Blessings!” She was gone, but their boners remained.
The cavernous silence was broken only by rhythmic scraping from the pepper mill. The stranger was bungstung and he didn’t care who knew it!
“I’m going after her,” Tybalt resolved, seminal ardour stoked by the prospect of a chase. “My Arabian outpaces her mount at a trot.”
He strode off to the stables and returned with a virile clop, unable to resist parading his horse-top meat mansion past the lesser men.
Purchase Collier was driven half-mad, denied by his Tantala. His pestle groaned for that mortar, “Mewsy… My tormentress.”
“Oh, ferneyhough!” he cursed, “I’ve gone and sent my car away.” His frustrated javelin jutted hopelessly. “I’m beached.”
His arrogant butt buddy smirked. “Quid pro quo, Collier. A puckered stopgap for the ladyless could ride in my prow.”
Purchase had only just rectally adjusted to being taken and left, but beggars, as they say, can’t choose. He saddled up.
Tybalt saluted the double boon: competitive debasement and a temp sleeve for his serpent. The humbled prickwarmer thought only on his prize.
“Wait!” called the pepper-pot as the pegging papas prepared for pursuit, “I forgot to give her the address of our church!”
Purchase Collier sneered down at him. “I’m no errand boy, but if’n you settle onto this here saddle-horn you might tell her your own self.”
Collier’s dignity suffered with sausage in his Sloppy Joe; he wished to reassert mastery. So out came the grinder and in went the glans.
It was all the same to the stranger (a certain knobbiness notwithstanding) and off they bounced in merry daisy chain.
“First love is true love,” averred Tybalt.
“I’ll spill up Mewsy or not at all,” proclaimed Purchase.
“Isn’t this nice!” said the stranger.