Glass Stones

“Sixty-nine doesn’t work,” she stated before taking his cock deep into her mouth again with the power of a goddess.

“I know,” he agreed before his lips went back to work between her thighs.

The room was a deep red from the lamp casting it’s light through the burgundy shade on to the already red painted walls.  The only light, it seemed, in existence beyond the plump round Moon that watched the large couple in their mating dance.

She stopped and pushed her brown hair strands away from her mouth.  “I always lose my concentration on what I’m…oh fuck…right there, babe…”  Sitting back, she straightened up and sat on his face with her hair swaying at her shoulders and framing her brown eyes..  “Yeah, that’s the ticket.”

He said something muffled, but did not stop.

Feeling as though she were his muse, she gasped and looked down at the cock she still held in her right hand…her left balancing on the head board of the bed.  The cock became her gear shift as she quickly discovered that the faster she stroked, the more his tongue worked.

In the background, Elton John cooed a rather odd soundtrack to their play…

I had Little Richard and that black piano

Oh that sweet georgia peach and the boy from tupelo

Oh, I was made in England

As he lapped at the pussy laying on his mouth he thought, At least it isn’t that “Man or Muppet” song.

She leaned back further against the head board…her finger tips sliding up and simply holding the head of his penis as she enjoyed his tongue work.  “I could do this all day.”

A muffled response.

“But it is already eleven, so not much of the day left.”

The muffled response was an obvious agreement…and followed by a whimper.

She was not small and lifted up on her knees slightly, not wanting to smother him.

“You’re too heavy…” He groaned mid word as his belly imploded from her fist.

The fist did not have far to travel to his beer belly, and she swore she felt the mattress beneath him.  She was off him with the speed of gossip and had his clothes off the floor and on top of him before any further words were spoken.  A quick run to the washroom and she had the water on to splash on her face and clean herself off of his filth.  As she returned to her bedroom, he had done as she had willed without words…dressed and left.

The blood red walls mocked her.  The Moon, full and round outside the thirtieth story condo window, laughed at her.

“Fucking bastard,” she whispered and picked her cell phone up from the desktop it shared with her computer and the red shaded lamp.

Who would she call?  Who would comfort her?

Not mom…this would be awkward.  Not Brad…her ex…again, fucking awkward.  Not Wanda…she had a three-day-old at home…awkward.

She put the phone back and stripped the bed in the hopes that laundry would rid her of Fucking Bastard’s smell.  She then flipped the computer music to an old Huey Lewis tune…

Hip there…and everywhere…hip hip…so hip to be square!

Why had she listened to her cousin, Lacy?  Oh yes…such a nice guy who would treat her right.

Sitting at the computer, her fingers began to fly across the keyboard as she began to make Fucking Bastard immortal in his failure.  Nothing more than a judgmental man…fat in mind…limited in thought…and with a tiny penis.

His penis was, actually, rather small.

She laughed and smiled at the thought as the caricature she created, whether he read it or not, would make him out to be no better than a eunuch.  It was a funny feeling as he was both the first and last man to ever screw her…well…in a bad way…as she decided to write about all of them.

Not all the stories would be factual…but she was going to clear them all off her slate.  She would make them all pay on a fictional level that they would never imagine…her words would cast them into such plight that they would drown in their own cum.

The fat boy who had called her too heavy…would only be the first.


  1. Okay, your twists sometimes bewilder and surprise me, like this one. Dammit, I was with you until it became negative. I sure as hell can’t sixty-nine with any grace, it starts to feel good and I lose focus with my mouth, or I ignore the pleasurable sensations to only focus on working with my mouth – an utter waste to his talents.
    And then, he insults her, but what was up with her horrendous pillow talk, anyhow? And he disappears, as ordered, and she saves the exaggerated, negative imprints. Tragedy, when I was hoping for a fairy tale.

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