Triskele.
Wednesday July 27, 2011
Offuckken fuck me’ell mumbled the punk into the geek’s cunt pale and slender, thin-lipped, hotly wet and painfully tight about her finger and smelling of electricity and vanilla, a picklish tickle on her tongue, and oh please right there, deeper and deeper please said the geek into the jock’s cunt open wide with lips that slickly pressed about her mouth and a clit like a hard little cock bobbing beside her nose with a smell of hot clean sweat and talcum powder and grass, and mmf mmf oh my sweet goddamn groaned the jock into the punk’s bare cunt slobbery sloppy and jangling with rings that smell of bourbon and cigarettes and piss, and then the jock lifted her head away as the punk said Oi! and Oi! and the jock’s hips rolling and bucking as the geek clung to her hips.
Sorry, said the jock.
You bloody well should be, said the punk.
I think I got whiplash, said the geek.
It was that thing you did, with your mouth, said the jock. I wasn’t ready for that thing you did with your mouth.
You went off like a house afire, said the punk. And I weren’t nearly ready.
I was close, said the geek. Maybe if I’d been thinking of Dolly Wilde.
Sorry, said the jock again.
Well, said the geek, leaning down, laying her head in the punk’s pink lap, we could always switch off, and try again. The punk’s rings jingled and clinked against her teeth, and the punk took in a deep and hissing breath and said yeah we could do that, and laid her head between the jock’s meaty thighs, and the jock winced and said slow and steady, please, I’m still a little ow! and the geek spread her legs for the jock who nosed her way up and in and began to slurp and lick and kiss. Huh, said the jock. Vanilla.