heavens-to-Betsy, would have thought differently about accepting the marrriage proposal
of one Mr. Lord-Amighty Wellington Frobisher Morton Higgambotham-Smythington, Esq. The third, dontcha know! Girlishly now, and with soapy fingers, she reached down and proceeded to wash the plum-like head. Twinge! Twinge! The thought of using a wash cloth for this task never occurred to her. Fingers do a much better job anyway, dontcha know? Twinge! Twinge! My, she thought, how wonderful the head feels in my old hands. It looks good enough to eat! Balliwick moaned. He had a dream-like look on his face. His eyes merely blinked. He was now totally enraptured by his first--was it? Can't remember! Don't care, either!--male-female encounter. That the female was almost three times his age, old enough to be his grandmother, and not what anyone, drunk or sober, would call a beauty, didn't matter to him, either. For now, anyway, his Nessie monster was in complete control. So here was, our hero, clean as a whistle and hung like a horse, ready to be towelled off. She ordered him to step out of the tub. He did, and stood before her, buck naked, all wet and glisteny. His beady little male eyes brimmed with male lust and his ten and one-quarter inch woody, big around as a woman's wrist, pointed in her direction. In a blue bathroom that, sure as shit, seemed very familiar to him now. She ordered him to towel off his top part. She'd see to his bottom part, she told him as she handed him a big, fluffy, Terry cloth towel. He dried his top. She dried his legs. His stomach. His cute bubble- like ass. Twinge! Twinge! My, My! Then gently, so gently, she dried his scrotum, and his large member swayed mere inches from her face over the top of the towel. Then, for reasons probably only known to a Monica-of-the-oval-office type female, she kissed the tip of his penis. Smooch! Balliwick moaned, so she did it again. Smooch! And one more, to grow on, and for good luck. Smooch! Balliwick became a moan-fool, he did, with each gently planted kiss. Smooch! Smooch! Smooch! If old Welly, she thought, could only see me now! He'd do a double spin in his grave, that's for sure! This thought so invigorated her, that she decided, right there, right in her very own bathroom, all decorated in blues, her favorite color, to do to Bertram Burlappe Balliwick something only very, very--very bad girls did with men. She took his engorge penis into her hot--oh so hot--sixty-six year old widow's mouth! How's them apples, Mister Wellington Higgambotham- Smythington, Esq.? she thought as she went farther along the shaft. Her mouth crossed the bumpy ridge--what some folks kiddingly refer to as a speedbump for the lips--and continued slowly downward. Balliwick let out his loudest moan yet. This so emboldened her that she started going up and down feverishly. Her tongue swirled around. She clamped her lips here and there and changed the pace; slow, then fast, then slow, then fast. Her head bobbed up and down as she sucked to beat the band. Her saliva ran down her chin. Her heart beat faster and lustfully, lost in the task at hand--her first ever blowjob. His too, but he didn't know it. The little shit didn't care, either, if truth be told. Balliwick reached down and put both hands into her white, granny-like hair. He held her fast this way while he methodically sawed in and out of her mouth. He moaned a good one and picked up the pace. One inward plunge hit the back of her throat and animated the gag reflex. She let out a gurgle and almost upchucked, right there on her blue bathroom rug. He sensed this, and being the gentleman he was at this particular moment, made his plunges shallower. A whole lot shallower. She read this as some form of rejection, which it certainly was not. Thus our sweet Henrietta decided to take the--uh--plunge, so to speak. After all, she thought, how difficult could it be? So, slowly, very slowly, she pushed her mouth farther down the shaft and took quarter inch by quarter inch. When the plump plum head nuzzled her gag reflex again, she chose to simply ignore the urge to regurgitate. Mind over matter, she thought to herself, that's all it is. Five inches swallowed! Then six! Then Seven! God, she thought, does this darn thing have an end? It was right about here, at six or seven inches, that a buried thought entered her mind: Thank goodness he's not Rasputin the Monk! Long ago, when old Welly was still capable of bitchin' about the weather, she had read in one of those fact books on people, places, and things, that Rasputin was said, or rumored, to have thirteen manly longer-than-should-exist inches. Even Alexandra, the czarina of all the Russias, was said to have sampled the lengthy man-pole. Just how many times is unknown, but her undertaker could not remove the smile from her face. So it's rumored throughout the Russias.. Well, Henrietta had trouble picturing a thirteen inch schlong in her mind, so she promptly went to her sewing room and got out her wooden yardstick. As she held it out in front of her, with fingers at both ends of thirteen inches, she let out a gasp. My God, she thought, that damn thing would go in one of my ends and come straight out the other! That thought gave her a few girlish twinges, no doubt, fantasies being what they are and all. But let us not leave Balliwick, uh, hanging . . . |
nd her husband's Wham-Bam- Thank-You-Ma'am-Gotta- Snore-Now attitude sure didn't add to her sexual fantasies. Nor did his "Only-Need-It-Once-A-Month!" posture. If she had known, as a young woman, that men with things like this existed, she sure as hell, |
