"All things must be examined, debated, investigated without exception and without regard for anyone's feelings."
― Denis Diderot
"Hold on," the Boulder Highway babe removed my friend's cock from her throat. Deftly, she dislodged a pair of teeth from her mouth, more false than the laugh track on a TV sitcom. Placing the dental work on the mattress beside her head, she continued sucking.
Hal's erection ― once carved in titanium ― disappeared like a plane lost in the Bermuda Triangle.
Viewing the proceedings, I gulped down the woman's precum, and worked her clit between my lips.
Kneeling at the edge of the bed, I watched as my buddy retracted his member into his Houndstooths, and quietly zipped up. Disgusted by the lass's lack of pearly whites, Hal slowly dismounted the box spring, so as not to arouse suspicion, and cause the senorita distress.
I, on the other hand, was more turned on than the family radio in the 1940s, during the broadcast of the World Series. So turned on, I abandoned my feeding frenzy, hovered my sizable schlong above the woman's face, and partook of a superlative blowjob. There were less teeth goin' on here than the completely stripped gears of a transmission.
Gazing down at this lithe lovely, I realized how unfortunate Hal was to have departed so hastily. This chick epitomized that White Trash demographic every married dude jacks-off to in secrecy, while his wife sleeps in the other room, dreamin' of anyone but him.
That slender jawline; hardened features carved from just enough self-abuse to create desperation, but not so much to destroy innate beauty for another 10 years. A taut stomach, resulting from regular hits off a crack pipe, as opposed to any workout regimen. A pair of muscular legs, thanks to hours struttin' up and down Boulder Highway, sellin' her wares.
Other guys donated social security checks, to receive the unbridled pleasure I was currently experiencing for free, here in a private room, of yet another local Vegas swing club. What the hell did I care if she didn't have any teeth?! "Could it get any better than this?!?" I silently queried.
Once I parted her sinewy thighs, and delivered my rubber-wrapped rod, I had the answer to that question. It definitely could get better, and just had. Her pussy superseded that dream I have of waking up on a planet where people had never heard the term "war," and kindness was the only thing folks comprehended.
The diminutive damsel took nearly my entire length, as I eventually befriended her cervix. I had no clue at the time, but this act alone would secure me pole position with yet another fantasy, and further proof that, "Yes, this could get even better."
Let's call this one a Whoopi Goldberg, if you will ― otherwise known as a Sister Act.
Who knew this horny honey had a sibling, and who knew said sibling was a porn actress of minimal acclaim?
Somebody had to, since the sister in question was deriving an income from her XXX exploits. I, however, wasn't made privy to this potential new Number, until being introduced to her at the same local swing shack, a month later.
