The Sour Milk Suck Experience

Drag the eyball tongue done the row. Perfect houses with nauseous nuances. A wheel barrow broken wheeled being ridden by rot mould faced gnomes. Stripped cherubs holding pots of well manured gerantiums. Fresh watered cement. Still stained fresh washed clothes noosed to the line. Keys hidden in stronoplasti fake rocks. Slam the fist down in comic thymic fashion. No answer. Another random choice smashed back window. Searched bedroom drawers. No cash, no jewels but other sunken buried treasure. Stink and sweat into fantasy. Crushed under vision of delightful diseases and dangerous decisions. Hammered by spurting life. Too thick in the morning for raw flesh on the TV. Push black button off. Walk around this ghost house barefoot. Mist floats from the shower stall where the good husband showered to go to work to support the good wife while she shops away savings on plastic. Soaking towels hung up neatly. A graying pube’s curled on shaven down soap. Toothpaste speckled mirror reflects a steam ghost. Bent bristles on brushes worn down. Back into the bedsty. Stained pine needle sap dresser sits bored with memento hair. Sticky hold a photo up. They look happy but a body language expert might say contrary. Exhausted grey panties crumpled on the floor next to dead grey socks. No signs that lust lives here anymore. Flat battery hidden white mini vibe in the bottom drawer. Husband’s or wife’s? Put the plastic xxx discs back next to it. Sudden canned laughter ejaculates into my ears from down below. Feel thin strings tighten around my throat. Fridge slams shut. Fuck! Trumping up stairs. Hidden in the clothes cupboard behind dust smoked suits and shirts. Black button pushed on. Grunt grunt pig pug pump grunts smack splash from the stereo speakers on the set. Patchy pink pixels flicker. Then the buzz. Electric eel like whine. Sounds of timber being pushed through a buzzsaw. In. Out. In. Out. Start to stretch the pants. Getting brick barred before the sight is even revealed. Know already what it is. And what it means. Sex is lush slapping from the brains. Hard fuck cock hit the bitch what the fuck is wrong with my brain. Want to see more. Want to see. The angle is badly placed. Buzz buzz bar bar. She’s really pushing it to the limit. Device turned up a notch as the vibrosaurus maxes. Silence apart from the crank speed and the violence growls. No moaning lisa moans from the recipient. Just zzzzzzzzzz. Hand down the loosened pants. Push it to the limit baby. Yeah. Fuck this. I can run so gotta see now. Suit crumpled in a rubbishy heap. Then the toes. Man toes curled. Cornish growing man feet. Oh fuck. A six pack. Not many women have them. And this one doesn’t. We look eyes. He is frozen. I am frozen. Antarcticus is not more solid than this moment. Look down and see the insertation. My stomach bucket empties on the bedside. He gets up. I run. Flash through the house. Almost kick down the door to get out. He never says a word. Stops at the door. Keep running. Try to forget what it looked like being pulled out. Try to forget. And just laughing now. There are worse things than a self inflicted prostate exam, but not being caught administering it. Hahahahaha. Wipe the remnants from my lips. Food needs to be free for all. No money. Find a park. Sleep on a swing. Get told to move. Wander.


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