Thats What I Call Melons
’ Back in the day, Marty had lived large. He stole cars, hijacked trucks, and robbed high stake poker games, and payrolls. Flush with cash, he hovered up cocaine for breakfast and Maker’s Mark for lunch, so jittery from dope and hung over from booze he seldom bothered to eat. He had gained thirty pounds in prison. Horace refolded the slacks. ‘Was me, I’d keep ’em. You’ll lose some weight once you’re out. Give yourself something to shoot for . . . getting back into those pants.’ ‘I’m leavin’ the past behind. Keep ’em for yourself.’ Horace admired the slacks then looked sadly at Marty. ‘Aw, you know I can’t. I’ll pass’m along to one of the guys, you want. Or give’m to Goodwill.’ ‘Whatever.’ Marty went back to staring at his clothes. His suitcase was a rumpled grocery bag. In another hour, Marty would be a free man. He had served his full sentence. There was no parole board to contend with. No reporting to anyone. He was free, completely free, no strings attached. Horace nodded to. It took a LOOONG time -- maybe as much as twenty minutes -- beforeIrene’s pussy clamped down for the fourth or fifth time and Kate howled,“Please, GOD! LET ME CUM!!!” and I got that tickle that said it was time.“Awright!” I panted, “Let her finish! I’m gonna ... AAAAAAAGGGGHHH!!!” a half-hour or forty minutes’ worth of priming the pump made my last nut of the evening at least respectable; I pumped out three loaded pulses and some dry ones and crashed on Irene. In the background, Kate screamed bloody murder as they finally let her off; the scream echoed and sounded loud enough to bust an eardrum, but I didn’t give a shit. I remember my nose dropping to Irene’s neck and catching a whiff of perfume and thinking, “That’s pretty feminine...”-- and that was all she wrote...I was gone -- they were unable to revive me. Over the course of two days, I’d been damn near fucked to death; I’d burned a LOT more energy than I had available. The women rolled me off of poor Irene -- who was big in.
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