What you've missed: I woke up from a coma after a motor cycle crash, to find that my penis could talk, and more than that, when it wanted, it could take control of the rest of me. It was able to sing in a way which it called 'pussy charming' in such a way as to entice nearby females to come and shag me, which it demonstrated for me with a 50 something overweight nurse called Elaine.
After my pussy charming cock continued to provide me with mature, BBW pussy, I started to call it Marlon, because when it's soft it reminded me of Marlon Jackson from the Jackson 5. A nasty encounter with Doris the cleaning lady convinced me that I'd been going wrong lusting after skinny young girls in the past. My recovery continued well, until during an evening session with Elaine the Nurse I asked her whether I'd be able to go home soon. She informed me that first I needed to speak to Dr. McGowan. Elaine had overheard me talking to Marlon several times, and was worried that I was still suffering from my head trauma. She had arranged for me to see Dr. McGowan – the psychiatrist!
Marlon promised me that he wouldn't make me do or say anything bad in front of Dr. McGowan, so that she wouldn't sign my release papers, but I wasn't sure whether I could trust him or not. In the meantime we had a visit from Geraldine the vicar, and Marlon revealed that assholes are good for shagging, but not so good for having a conversation with.
In our meeting with Dr. Julia McGowan she revealed that she knew all about my sexual adventures since awakening from my coma. I came clean, as it were, and told her all about Marlon. She, in turn, revealed that she had her own talking pussy, a German speaking Katherine Hepburn lookalike. I persuaded Julia to discharge me, if you'll pardon the pun, so that Marlon could give her Katherine exactly what she wanted, in the course of which Marlon made me give her such a licking that it severed the connection between Julia and her talking pussy, and returned her to 'normal'. I began to worry what would happen to me if I was ever 'cured'.
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As I walked out of the front gates of the hospital, looking for a bus stop, it's fair to say that I had three priorities on my mind: 1) My flat – 2) My family and friends – 3) My job. Marlon also had three priorities, but his were somewhat different from mine, his being namely 1) Mo' pussy – 2) Mo' pussy – 3) Mo pussy.
"Marlon, " I pleaded, "flat first – pussy later. Ok?"
He grumbled a bit, but he could see the logic behind my insistence. It was a long wait for a bus, and an even longer walk from the nearest stop, so quite a lot of time had passed by the time I reached my flat.
My flat was actually the basement of an old Victorian townhouse. The monthly rent was right at the limit of what I was able to afford from my salary, but I counted myself lucky to have found it. As I walked up the steps to the front door there was something which struck me as odd and out of place, something which I couldn't quite put my finger on. Still, my anxiety lessened when my key worked in the lock, and I entered, and then opened the door to the basement flat. There was a smell of food cooking, which made me immediately wary again. Mind you, not as wary as the aerosol wielding maniac who was leaping up the stairs towards me screaming,
"What the hell are you doing in my flat??!!!! GET THE FUCK OUT!!!!"
"Somebody say fuck?" asked Marlon, suddenly interested, but before I had a chance to say anything I had received a faceful of mace, squirted at me from point black range.
The next few minutes were extremely uncomfortable, to say the least. When the worst of the pain started to recede, all I could hear was Marlon laughing,
"Sheee-it, asswipe – she done y'all proper!"
I thought that he wouldn't have been laughing so much if she'd clobbered him with a baseball bat – mind you, neither would I for that matter. She stood there, with her can held out in front of her, ready to squirt again, and waited until I could focus on her.
"Now, " she said, "I will give you one minute to explain what you are doing in my flat, and how you got a key to my door, before I call the police. Any nonsense, and you can have another dose of this."
She obviously meant it too. It wasn't easy, but I explained as best I could about the accident I'd had all those weeks ago, and how, when it happened, this had been my flat. The woman appeared to be weighing my words carefully, then, all of a sudden, she stopped my explanation with a raised hand, and said,
"Hey, what did you say your name was?"
"I didn't. It's James Hardcastle – Jamie –"
"I get it!" the girl replied, enlightenment dawning, "This was your flat."
Well, I wasn't too fussed by her use of the past tense, but at least she had put the aerosol down. She didn't apologise for squirting me though. Marlon had been surprisingly quiet for the last few minutes, but then the girl, who I found out later was called Cassie Smith, really wasn't his type at all. She had short cut black hair, and couldn't have been much more than 30. Her figure was slight and svelte, and hidden in corduroy dungarees. There was absolutely nothing to her ass when she turned her back on us and began to walk down the stairs.
"So what are you going to do now?" I called after her.
She turned back, and with a look of which said "Isn't it bleedin' obvious?" she replied, "I'm going to ring Mrs. Golightly. She'll have to sort this mess out. Come on – are you going to stand on the doorstep all day?"
Marlon still didn't say anything. Which started to worry me a bit. So I excused myself, went into the bathroom and locked the door. Then I quickly dropped my jeans, grabbed Marlon, and hissed,
"Wake up! Wake up! Marlon, for God's sake speak to me!"
Nothing. Oh. My. God. Had the mace attack robbed me of the ability to listen to my cock?
"Haaaahhhhhh! Gotcha!" shouted Marlon. "Nah, I'm still here, man. I was only fuckin' wit yo' head a little."
"Oh, very good. Very fuckin' funny. Look, Marlon, I'm going to need you to go to work. I know that you probably don't fancy the aggressive Miss Smith out there, but . . . well, I really need you to go to work."
"Sorry bro, you know I would, but I can't."
I started to squeeze him a little harder out of anger and frustration,
"What the hell? What do you mean can't? Look, I know she ain't your type, but, come on. All you've got to do is to charm –"
"Did I say that it's because she ain't my type, dipshit? Hell – pussy is pussy. Everythin' else is just window dressing. But I can't. It ain't that I don't want to . . . but I can't."
"Why can't you?"
"Because, you dumbass, she –"
BANG BANG BANG.
I quickly pulled up my jeans and opened the door to find Miss Smith standing on the threshold, with an accusing look on her face.
"Were you just talking to your . . . willy . . . in there?"
I didn't know what else to do so I put on what I hoped was a winning smile and shrugged my shoulders.
"Bleeding pervert." She sniffed, and walked back into the living room.
Within half an hour Mrs. Golightly arrived. Now, a more inappropriately named woman would have been difficult to find. Mrs. Golightly did nothing lightly. She was a large, almost spherical woman, who puffed her way down the stairs and immediately plonked herself down on the largest sofa the flat had to offer, which immediately started to sag in the middle, and creak as if in protest. Mrs. Golightly was my landlady. She owned the house, which had been divided into 4 flats, although she herself lived a couple of stops away on the Underground.
Her opening remarks made her attitude to my predicament quite clear,
"I was quite within my rights to evict you, yer know. Two months' rent yer didn't pay, and not a word by way of an excuse."
"For the first month I was lying in a coma on a hospital bed, Mrs. Golightly!"
"Well, that was very nice for you, I'm sure, layin' around, having nurses running around waiting on you 'ands and feet. But that didn't pay my rent now, did it? It's all in yer tenancy agreement."
"But all my stuff – "
"Well, if you're talkin' about that pile of dirty magazines, well, they had to go in the rubbish. Terrible sticky them was an' all. "
"But my clothes-"
"All put into black bags and waiting for you to collect them – "
"Thank God –"
