While I’m under Taylor’s desk, eating out her Grammy-award-winning pop-star-vajeen, she squeezes my head with both her thighs. It turns my cheeks purplish-red—my eye-veins swell and visibly throb, to the point where you can watch them and clock my pulse. Then, as she gasms, she bangs my head against her desk.
“OW!” I rub my dome as she lets me go. “That HURT!”
“Shut up Man Whore.” She scoots back in her chair and hoists a fistful of crisp hundos. “Want a bonus? Straight cash.”
“Uh, yeah…sure,” I venture.
“Turn around.” She points down at the floor and spins her finger in a little circle. “All fours.”
I do as she says, reminding her in a quavering voice, “Remember, that hole is exit only. Don’t—”
“Oh shut the fuck up.” She taps out a line of coke on my buttcheeks, snorfs it up with a diamond straw, then rears back and exclaims, “Ah said got DAMN! WHOO!”
“Okay, then…” I crawl out from her desk and start getting dressed. “Always a pleasure. Oh,before I forget: I’ve got a new app called Manwhore On Time. It allows you to schedule up to three months in advance.” I glance at a Superbowl victory photo of Travis Kelce on her desk. “Hey, won’t your fiancé—”
“Fuck that neander-fuck.” She flips the photo facedown and pulls a crackpipe out of a drawer. “Imma hit this stem, so do me a favor and shut your—”
Travis Kelce, all six-foot-five and 250 pounds of him, busts through Taylor’s office door. “What in the FUCK???” He points at Taylor’s nekkid lower half. “What the—” Then at my glistening, vajeen-shiny face. “You piece of SHIT!”
Taylor shimmies her skirt down, smacks my ass as she runs past me—“Adios, Man Whore!”—and crashes through her high-rise window, hitting a free-fall before a high-tech drone swoops in from nowhere and snags her body with an elastic decelerant tether. An instant later, she swoops off into the cloud-dotted sky.
I turn back to Kelce and raise both hands. “Easy, big guy. I was just doing my—”
“RUAAHHHHH!!!” His giant head turns beet fucking red. Spittle flies from his mouth as he charges toward me.
Shit. I’m about to be skull-fucked by a goddamn Bigfoot. No options left. So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality-distortion powers. Magic flash.
My wiener uncoils from around my shin and my thigh. At the same time, Travis’s pants disappear, revealing a mole-rat-pale, hamster-tail sized nub that could technically be called a penis, if you were high off your tits and being incredibly generous with the known laws of physics.
“A-HA!” I point at his thimble-sized dick. “So THAT’S why Taylor called me—it looks like a terrified freeze-dried clit!”
“NO!” He crosses his legs and covers it with his hands. “DON’T LOOK!” Then he sinks into a hunched crouch, hands twitching with unbridled rage. “Gonna rip your spine out and mount it on my WALL!”
I circle my wiener above my head, as if it was an x-rated cowboy lasso. The sheer beauty of it stuns Travis—it’s like Gandalf’s staff in Helm’s Deep, when he uses its magic to blind Sauron’s armies. He turns his head to the side, shielding his face from my wiener’s dazzling radiance. As I run past him, I swing the ponderous head into his mug, giving him an extra gooey mushroom stamp right on his temple.
“HRRNNGH!” he screams. “IT BURNS—IT KILLS! EYAAAAAGHHH!!!”
Then I’m cackling and running down the hall. Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
😀
What does that have to do with my social media links? Absolutely NOTHING! But while I have your attention, I’d like to urge you to follow me on these other platforms! Thanks a bunch, and may Crom bless you with the lamentations of your enemies!😊
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