Story Time

So I’m in bed with a dime and she says to me, “Willis, what are your goals in life?”

“Simple, Adime,” I respond with my larynx. “To explore the caverns of dimes throughout the world.”

“Not just me? Ain’t I special?”

(backhand slap given to her) “Whad I tell you about talkin in slang woman?! Show some gawddamn class ho!” (another backhand slap given, with a subtle emphasis on turning her back on (she recently orgasmed whilst my canteen of a dick wast roaming her cavern, and I was in a generous mood))

“I am sorry General. It shall never happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t. See……..(pause for effect)…. that it doesn’t.”

“Indeed. And wow just wow. Your pause truly affected me.”

“What else has affected you tonight?”

“O that’s right, Mein Fuhrer, your penis in my vagina.”

“And how did it affect you?”

“With orgasmic pleasure, Sir. You induced cummage upon my quakering body 5.5 times.”

“Let’s make it 7.”

I take her. By this I mean sexual intercourse was had again.

“Goddamn, Professor! I think I might explode!” she says inbetween fits of ecstatic ecstasy.

“Then do it already!”

She does, as if by command.

After the time in which I have no interest in her as a human being passes and my johnson starts boning back up, I turn to her. She says, “You never answered my question. Aren’t I special?”

“You’re more special than that land whale of a sister of yours, Bertha. Because, you see, that land whale of a sister of yours, Bertha, is fat. You’re more special than your friend Marie, because your friend Marie looks like an ugly stick firing squad took aim at her face and left breast. But you’re not more special than your dime-and-a-penny friend Natalie. Natalie’s symmetry pleases me.”

“Cannot we look past such shallow things, Master?”

“No, Adime. For do you not like me for my charm, wit, intelligence, looks, penis size, and extensive Scandinavian stamp collection? Is that not ‘shallow’?”

“I suppose it is. I suppose I simply like to view the world in another way.”

“The false way?”

“What’s false about romanticism, Lord?”

I remind her of her last gentleman suitor. Average height, median weight. Put the schlub in the word schlub. “Do you remember when he strapped on his kneepads and proposed marriage to you?”

“Unfortunately I do.”

“And do you have any recollection of how the beaver felt in that moment?”

“Dry.”

“Dry as the Gobi,” I say, alluding to a desert in Asia that is known for not being sexually attracted to beta males.

“Dry as the Gobi,” she echoes.

“Yet he was a romantic, was he not?”

“Aye, Captain.”

“And he was begging you to allow him the privilege to get the State involved in your relationship, for the express purpose of making sure you obtained half of his fortune in the inevitable offchance of divorce.”

A grin formed upon her semen-encrusted lips. “That’s why I said yes.”

“And that’s why you are a whore.”

She gives me the o-face for the 8.5th time of the evening.

“And that’s why,” I continue, “I’ll never marry you.”

“I love you, King,” she swoons.

“Make me a sammich.”

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