eyes shock-wide as the amorphous female grappler kept the nightmare pubis pressed snug to his face. Every so often, she’d lean forward in her ecstasy and block Straker’s nostrils, whereupon he’d helplessly flop, squirm, and cringe until she got the message that he was close to smothering. Looking up from this vantage point showed him a mountain range of ascending white blubber, with two foot-long avalanches that were breasts. A few wire-like hairs sprouted from pores on nipples that looked like stepped-on persimmons. Worse than this vision, though, was the tactility of the entire scenario. Straker’s tongue did its best to oblige her wishes, often losing its bearings in a vaginal opening that could only be described as a morass. It sat plopped on his face like the mouth of a great sucker fish, constricting once in a while, and drenching his chin, neck, even his upper chest with a nefarious sheen. Blubber settled on either cheek, a hot vice of pocked lard, and sometimes the weight of her inchoate buttocks threatened to crush his ribcage like a taco shell and separate his head from his shoulders.
Please, God. Just let me die…
The pancake breasts and ground-pork majora of the chicken lady seemed like as beautiful as a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model compared to this. A clitoris the size of an acorn hardened against his tongue, beyond which occasional careless delvings revealed clusters of fibrotic cysts.
“Yeah, sweetcakes! You are one hot tongue-fucker!”
Straker did not appreciate the compliment. He gasped in momentary relief, though, when she suddenly inclined herself off his face. At first he thought she was done, but then a deeper horror assailed him when he noticed that she was merely traversing her position. “Let’s take a drive down Route 69!”
Let’s not, Straker thought. Now her feedbag buttocks settled monstrously on his face, his nose pressed into a rank abyss. “Let me give ya some workin’ room back there, huh?” she was kind enough to offer, and with both hands reached back and parted the gelatinous rump. Let me die, he thought again. But that would be the easy way out. The bottom of her vulva drooped now, a pair of rooster wattles, and the highest scope of his vision showed him the collided moons of her sagging, white Sasquatch caboose, highlighted by tiny red butt-pimples you could use to play connect-the-dots. But this was a vision of heaven when compared to that opened crevice of ass-crack. Straker imagined Bosch-like visions of hell, beaked demons shouldering from the puckered rictus to pull off strips of his living flesh and clip off extremities like carrot-ends. Yes, this woman’s ass-crack was truly a vision of hell. Gilles de Rais would flee in horror. Even Satan himself would wince. That pitlike pink-brown starburst of an anus. Had Straker ever seen anything scarier in his life?
No.
Trace hair lined the groove, littered with dinkleberries. Her anus looked like an empty eye socket, complete with lashes, and it was no secret that she hadn’t been very thorough about wiping after her most recent Number 2. Now Straker was pitted against a paramount effort to see how long he could hold his breath and perform cunnilingus at the same time.
“Aw, sweetcakes! How selfish of me!”
With this remark, she offered some attention herself, attention of the oral persuasion, settling forward like a white manatee and taking his entire scrotum into her mouth at once. She sucked his balls like a bag of gumdrops, yet his penis felt dead. Dead meat. The head of a turtle trying to retract back into its shell. Soon he would be history’s first man to sport internal genitalia.
Eventually, she liberated his scrotum with a wet smacking noise. “How’s that for a ball-suck, honey? Hmmm?” Then she took the dwindling strip of flesh that was his cock wholly into her mouth.
Straker squeezed his eyes shut. Concentrated. But—
Nothing. Dead.
“Come on, sweetcakes. Get this love-stick hard for
Please, God. Just let me die…
The pancake breasts and ground-pork majora of the chicken lady seemed like as beautiful as a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model compared to this. A clitoris the size of an acorn hardened against his tongue, beyond which occasional careless delvings revealed clusters of fibrotic cysts.
“Yeah, sweetcakes! You are one hot tongue-fucker!”
Straker did not appreciate the compliment. He gasped in momentary relief, though, when she suddenly inclined herself off his face. At first he thought she was done, but then a deeper horror assailed him when he noticed that she was merely traversing her position. “Let’s take a drive down Route 69!”
Let’s not, Straker thought. Now her feedbag buttocks settled monstrously on his face, his nose pressed into a rank abyss. “Let me give ya some workin’ room back there, huh?” she was kind enough to offer, and with both hands reached back and parted the gelatinous rump. Let me die, he thought again. But that would be the easy way out. The bottom of her vulva drooped now, a pair of rooster wattles, and the highest scope of his vision showed him the collided moons of her sagging, white Sasquatch caboose, highlighted by tiny red butt-pimples you could use to play connect-the-dots. But this was a vision of heaven when compared to that opened crevice of ass-crack. Straker imagined Bosch-like visions of hell, beaked demons shouldering from the puckered rictus to pull off strips of his living flesh and clip off extremities like carrot-ends. Yes, this woman’s ass-crack was truly a vision of hell. Gilles de Rais would flee in horror. Even Satan himself would wince. That pitlike pink-brown starburst of an anus. Had Straker ever seen anything scarier in his life?
No.
Trace hair lined the groove, littered with dinkleberries. Her anus looked like an empty eye socket, complete with lashes, and it was no secret that she hadn’t been very thorough about wiping after her most recent Number 2. Now Straker was pitted against a paramount effort to see how long he could hold his breath and perform cunnilingus at the same time.
“Aw, sweetcakes! How selfish of me!”
With this remark, she offered some attention herself, attention of the oral persuasion, settling forward like a white manatee and taking his entire scrotum into her mouth at once. She sucked his balls like a bag of gumdrops, yet his penis felt dead. Dead meat. The head of a turtle trying to retract back into its shell. Soon he would be history’s first man to sport internal genitalia.
Eventually, she liberated his scrotum with a wet smacking noise. “How’s that for a ball-suck, honey? Hmmm?” Then she took the dwindling strip of flesh that was his cock wholly into her mouth.
Straker squeezed his eyes shut. Concentrated. But—
Nothing. Dead.
“Come on, sweetcakes. Get this love-stick hard for
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