!ADULTS ONLY! DIRTY PARTS!

made her gasp as she looked up.

      She said fearfully, "Wh . . . What do you want?"

      The man, if he was a man under all that only God-knows-what, just stood there and blinked at her, a where am I? look on his messy face that only a lost soul can muster up. On his chest, untouched as it were by the any of the slop that covered him, were two white letters: M E.

      Taking in the full spectrum of him, our sweet, bulb-planting gardener, for reasons probably known only to a Mother Teresa or perhaps anyone with a maternal instinct, felt no fear of the stranger. He looked so pitiful. Like something the cat dragged in and forgot to kill. He blinked some more. Then in a croaky voice that sounded as if it hadn't been used much lately, he said, "Do I live here, Ma'am?"

      "No!" she said harshly. "This is my house! I live here." She stood up and found she was a bit taller than this dishevelled creature. "What on earth happened to you, young man! What's your name?" She said this so unfearfully and so forcefully, the man snapped to attention.

      He answered the second question first, "I'm Bertram Burlappe Balliwick, Ma'am." He saluted her with a drill sergeant's dream salute. "And Ma'am," he held the salute firmly and unshakingly,"I can't remember what happened to me!" He finished the salute with a drill sergeant's snap. "Tsk, tsk, tsk." was all Henrietta said.

      Sometimes in real life, a lot of conversation is unnecessary and trust-all-souls type of people know their duty, know what must be done, when confronted with forlorn creatures covered in only- God-knows-what.

      This whole exchange, as brief as it was, had the effect of bringing out Ms. Henrietta Higgambotham-Smythington's best Mother Teresa style of maternal instinct. She took him by the arm, turned him around and steered him toward the house, her house, the only house in the world
with a bathroom window, and a bathroom, that he remembered as being home.

     "You're going to get a right proper bath, young man," she said emphatically. "And a right proper clothes washing, too. Then, after a right proper meal, we'll get to the bottom of this, mark my words!" He blinked again and said, right properly, "Yes'm."

      She marched him, right properly, into the house and right into the bathroom. She stoppered the tub, turned on the water and looked him squarely in the eyes.

      "Give me your clothes and I'll put them in the washer!" She just stood there.

Bertam Burlappe Balliwick didn't even hesitate.

      "Yes'm!" was all he said as he stripped down right there in front of her, shyness never a part of the equation.

      Naked now, he handed her his clothes, which didn't add up to much: A tee shirt, trousers, shorts, (the briefs type) and socks. As he undressed, he missed her looking-at it- way-too-long glance she had given to his very large, very thick--even though flaccid--male appendage. All he did was blink a few times, like a deer caught in headlights. Naughty, naughty, Henrietta! Twinge! Twinge!

      She ordered him to get into the tub, this naked young man with the bigger-than-most-men's wee wee's. She ordered him to soap up and stay put until she could get back to give him a proper wash up, mark her words. She ordered. He obeyed. Master and slave. Does it get any sweeter? Not for a sixty-six year old widow lady who hasn't had it in decades, you betcha!

      Now, if the Guinness Book of World Records cared to time it, they'd have a new speed winner in the Get-The-Wash-Started-And-Get-Back-To- The-Naked-Man-With-The-Huge-Penis-In-My-Tub classification.

      To say she was horny doesn't cover it. She was smokin'! Just the sight of that oh-so-unreal large, male member had aroused in our dear, sweet
Henrietta the primordial lust of the ages. It was as if God had answered a spinster's prayers and had dropped a large-pricked plum right into her lap.

      And lordy, lordy, was she ever hungry! And she just loved plums. Especially the large-endowed ones served on top of large-sized nuts. You betcha!

      She returned to the bathroom, in record time for sure, and saw that he hadn't gotten too far with the soaping up. Goody-goody! The tub's water was now gore-colored and it looked as if he was sitting in a tub of blood. Which, you could say, he was.

      "Now Bertram," she said, "You just sit there while I change this water and get you fresh. OK?" He nodded as the water started to drain out.

      His penis area--Goody-goody!--soon became visible to her old widow's eyes. My, my! was all she thought, as new, fresh water started to refill the tub. My, my! My, my!

      She took the soap in hand and scrubbed him all over, right properly, she did, including a scrubbing- it-way-too-long action around the plum with nuts area, which, if truth be told, had the usual, and expected effect, on one Bertram Burlappe Balliwick.

      It grew and it grew! Then grew some more! My, my! In full anger, it reached well over ten inches (Ten and a quarter inches, if accuracy is your goal).

      Collectors of pornographic films would easily be reminded of Jeff Stryker, at his peak. My, my! Its girth was as thick around as a woman's wrist. The bulbous head, with a wide, flared ridge was--you
guessed it!--plum shaped. My, my! The member stood straight up, pointed at the ceiling and was half exposed above the now clean, clear water. It looked very similar to those amateur photographs that show the Loch Ness monster cutting through the water.. My, my!

      For sure, our heroine had never seen anything like this in her entire life, not that she had much experience for comparison. Her now dead husband, on his best day, and at full mast, had half the length of the magnificent piece of manhood she now beheld--or more like, ogled . . .