A COUPLE FRIES SHORT OF A HAPPY MEAL
"So many of the women in swing clubs spread easier than Skippy Smooth."
― Anonymous
Her tits were bigger ― and more interesting to me ― than the recent demise of American Top 40 DJ Casey Kasem. Hence, I grabbed those babies with as much glee as a shoplifter does merchandise, in a convenience store sporting no security cameras and a sleeping cashier.
From there, I migrated away from the pool table, and meandered into the back room, where Liza was dancing nude.
This Footloose female was the venue's live, flesh sex doll. As such, I knew she'd be a 24 hour Denny's ― open all night. Hence, I plied my trade with a Latin couple who spoke less English than I do street slang Hindustani.
Initially, the seas were rockier on this quest than an ocean drained of water. After an hour watching this inebriated wife flash her hair-laden honeypot, though, I eventually had a pair of delicious, cellulite-riddled ass cheeks in my palms.
Fifteen minutes later, the duo in question and I were headed to the couple's theater, in this maze of the mirthful.
Ten minutes following that, I found myself bangin' staff against a rapidly opening ― and rather accommodating ― doorway of delights, as the Mexican maiden beneath me pretended to cum.
Marv ― a second suitor ― made his way toward the festivities at just the right time. As such, I handed this brown beauty off ― like a football behind the line of scrimmage ― and headed to the opposite end of the grind house, where Liza was polishing pole.
Naked as a newborn, I positioned myself on the contiguous couch ― a single article of clothing beneath my non-existent ass, in order to protect myself from a decade's worth of bodily fluids embedded in the cushions. From this vantage point, I stroked like a PGA player on the open fairway.
Within moments, Liza sauntered over, dropped to her knees, and tasted my toothpick. Because I'm a loser, a couple minutes into the blowjob, I uttered, "Hi! I'm Hugh."
Gazing up from her task at hand, Liza inquired, "What?!"
"Hugh. That's my name. I'm Hugh."
The lovely lass rolled her eyes, as though I was more dorky than a farmer's tan; more retarded than Mr. Martini in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
"Uh, yeah. Whatever. I'm Liza," she stated, before engaging in seconds on my slight snack.
Eight minutes later, she was spread eagle atop the dirtiest sofa in the U.S., accommodating my three inch throbber, whilst simultaneously suckling several, salacious swords hovering precariously above her eager mouth.
