"I am the master of all vaginas that have never had a baby", Byron Pullingman his conviction quietly to himself before soaking his mouth with a double well whiskey and a gag from his throat. Drips fell from the corner of his rough shaven face and stayed there like a high school wrestling trophy Byron made for himself after losing every match he was in. "A for effort" is what the plaque read. He could have declared himself master of all pussies but if there was a genie listening with some super literal ear, which seemed to be the standard among genies, he would be able to command kittens forever. Not the wish for Byron Pullingman who was neither an animal lover or one who could talk confidently to any bearer of the sacred vagina.
"Another one for ya Byron?" The thick waisted, top-heavy waitress offered at the sight of his empty glass.
"You know it, Warmbus" Pullingman slurred. And secretly wished he was taking the shot off her cesarean section scar that hung proudly out of her mind drift obscuring her part between her Angus burger eating thighs. "It would probably just spill onto the ground " he thought with a giggle before swallowing the shot and nearly choking on the glass.
"I'm not paying for any of this" he chirped at the bartender before slipping off his stool out the door and into the sticky fall night. A b-line into the nearest alley for a piss next to the electric meter. He whipped out his misshapen member and grabbed between the scars to curve his penis head away from his body so he wouldn't piss all over his grease covered levis. It looked like a half chewed hot dog that fell into a garbage disposal unit and had been taken out and put on a man like the gods were bored.
Byron zipped his golden tab to the button concealing his weathered shame, coughed out a string of snot and marched sideways towards the butter store. Cobblestone crumbled on the streets below his feet as he watched the sloppy attempt of the pimple faced street sweeper trying to stir a brown cig into his dustpan. Approaching the sweeper unnoticed, Byron smiled at his feeble sweeping style.
When he was close enough, Byron yelled at the boy, "where's the cheapest butter in town?"
The boy screamed as zit juice expelled from his oily face. Once his moment of shock passed and he wiped the pus off his brow, he answered, "theres a fat lady on gore creek avenue who's got the cheap. She even let you lick it out of her back hair if thats what you're into." His voice cracked as he explained however confidently that he was answering this dirty man's common inquiry.
"Thanks, spit guzzler!" said Byron enthused before gesturing to the boy to open his mouth for a tip. The boy opened his jaw while his eyes smiled in anticipation. Byron sucked down his cheeks before hoarking up another globule of snot for the boys eager consumption. The boy caught most of it in his mouth and the little that hit his acne riddled face was licked off fervishly by his mothers tongue later for a modern dessert delicacy after an evening meal of salt and ketchup packets.
Food was rare. Stores were packed full of it but it cost money. And ever since the worlds most petty and litigious man became the leader, every transaction required multiple forms and signatures. Maestro is what the people called him, or something dumb like that.
Everything was in paper, had to be. They say that once the green copy got mailed to the building it was scanned onto the Green screen and destroyed. But then why wouldnt they just get the copy of the blue form that the contractor had to scan and keep in the blue screen? I'll tell you why. It's so they can catch you for sending the wrong color. Even if all the numbers are the same, the Maestro will sue you. Say your signature looked different from one form to the next; it's a reason for you to get thrown in the suspended animation tank. They call it paper terrorism. Ever since someone threw a paper airplane into the maestro's face and he suffered that hideous papercut, he's been on the blood river floating like a paper hat turned ship just to be soaking up red on the crossword puzzle. Now no one can solve it. Paper just rips.
So for the state of the way things was, it was quite a reward when Byron pullingman passed you in town and didn't decide to perform a legitimate transaction and bog you down with paperwork. This hero would avoid making the official bathroom monitors look at his mutilated hose, having it always had to be weighed and measured, and instead pullingman would use his piss for the electric meter. He was so generous even the street sweepers knew of him. The whiskey spit-snot combo was rumored to be the best tip short of an old packet of mayo carefully pocketed during a raid on an condiment bar. Byron would be giving out more condiment packets but there was a present shortage as he hadnt been to the restaurant in a while. But today that would change. He would find the best butter store there was and enjoy his back hair feast.
LOADED JOES
was the name on the sign above the staircase. A picture of a fat lady with legs spread flopped out each letter in cellulite folds and grease pockets withinbher flabulous matter Byron dusted off his broken sweater chunk on his arm and stepped inside. A bounty of obese hairy women filled the little vestibule where they all sat to watch a large screen. On half the screen an empty bathroom with rusty pipes and crumby vents poppin into the room like an iron maiden. The other half of the screen showed a fatter lady than all the others in the tiny room. They watched her as they moaned into various snorts of ecstasy, "go Sally!" She was eating all the ingredients to some dish being made for a rich person. A cook to her left hemisphere was sweating as he would whip up eggs in a large bowl fill it with flower and she would have just finished a plate of garnish and take it from him and start chugging it. The women in the room laughed whenever the nervous cook on the screen reached into the fridge for more ingredients. Byron found a seat on the lap of an irish lady with translucent white skin freckled with discoloration like soda pop had soiled her coat. who stunk a little bit like the electric meter? This chick did, byron noticed. Byron took out his destroyed turkey neck and started furiously fisting off. The sight of prepared food, or merely the ingredients gave him a sturdy 3 incher. The other women were jealous of the irish fatty who being very large would most likely inherit all the slime from Byron's pull.
On the screen a bell wrang and the woman, Sally, waddled off the screen in a frenzy. Then the other side of the screen expanded to fit Sally pushing through the maze of metal obstructions to sit in this dirty bathroom. The song brown eyed girl by the pussy van morrison played as Sally now bleeding over her naked food covered sloppy frame found the toilet. Not a moment too soon. As her asshole spat a rainbow of filth she sang, sha na na na na na na na na na na na" and Byron pullingman shot his family of glob into a fold on the irish womans leg. None of the seven drops went unspent by the chubby fingers licked by the irish woman as the sounds of farts from the screen as well as farts of jealousy in the room were expelled.
Sally was still squirting on the screen. The pot below her legs was unseen as her elephant legs took up most of the shot. But sally would occasionally shift from one shank of leg to the next to exhaust the pressure building below her. She started to wipe the sweat off her chest after 13 or so minutes signalling she was about finished. She made it back in the direction which she entered after passing one last time through the metal thorn bush of a bathroom. The screen went black and a side door opened in loaded joes. Sally came in now bleeding profusely and was quickly mobbed by the other fattys. Byron with his pants already down reached in his ass for a plastic bag. He approached the slop pile and quickly grabbed as much as he could.
A last speckle of translucent orange-brown splashed up against her muffin as she stood to pull her panties over her slop covered legs. Adding a bump of glitter that would go unnoticed until she dropped her loose grey panties later for Byrons wirey face. She made it back in the direction which she entered after passing one last time through the metal thorn bush of a bathroom.
The screen went black and a side door opened in the loaded joes vestibule. Sally came in now bleeding profusely and was quickly mobbed by the other fattys. Byron with his pants already down reached in his ass for a plastic bag. He approached the slop pile and quickly grabbed as much as he could and took a deep breath as he visualized room inside him growing to pocket his share of ingredients. He then positioned himself between two humping fatties so he could hide from the cameras his anal suppository which surely would have been recorded. The fatties were cool with it and knew what was up. They all had an ass bag or two also. Byron had no guilt as this transgression against the corporation was commonplace; sustaining oneself and peers from anally smuggled condiments. At a good night in loaded joes, if byron was watching, among the slop a fatty may have stashed several bags not only up her ass but also between fat folds. The government of the Maestro heard of these rumors and fattys had a thin line to walk, being both horrid smelling from their food orgies and also highly sought after for their often neglected food scabs between folds.
Byron came and pissed at the same time when he got the bag high enough inside himself and a fart slipped through somehow sucking the bag of condiments a little more high in his colon then he intended. He shuttered sending a wave through the fat women he was wedged between. The irish girl farted and sallys bloody face got sprayed with her delicate mist. Sally moaned and byron grabbed her sore nipple in his mouth. "It still tastes like eggs!", Byron thought as he enjoyed his nipple.
Soon sallys every flap and sore were licked clean and several of the tired fatties had left the vestibule. Sally was passed out on the cold cement floor in a filmy puddle that would be donated to orphans. Byron lay on her left hemisphere pushing his hands into her knotted hair and pulling her awake. She moaned like she was pissed. He motioned to her bitch face his semi which pointed like an awkward thin thumb to her belly button.
"Protein is protein" she assured herself in a sloppy groan before jacking her belly button onto his stiffy. He came shortly which she gobbled up and before passing out he ran his hands into her back hair. Finding lil crumbs he tried to booger together for her to eat later out of his pee hole.
As sleep was about to fall on this hero, he farted again past the bag that had a miniature diarrhea burst and he giggled a thought loose.
"Hey" he remembered, "i heard you know where to get butter"
"Butter?" Sallys mouth burped, "i got butter, sweetie. But you know the cost."
"I've got it." Byron said somewhat satisfied as he moved towards his levis in the corner. Rustling through his pockets he produced the thimble sized vial. The little glass container glistened an orangish yellow and as the withered beer light illuminated under it's grimey surface, sally recognized the tiny fetus inside. Sally tried to sit up excited but pulled her back out and shuttered through another painful orgasm. When she did peel herself off the puddle and slip towards Byron she waved her flabby arms toward the dead fetus hungrily.
"No, no. Not until baby's got butter, will mommy have baby!" He reminded her. A disappointed face now adorned her surrounding jowels.
Just as Byron thought of his shaft collecting brown dust a woman smashed into the netting which protected the slaves from the rich. He immediately locked his gaze into her adorable dimples. The dimples of a woman who seemed to have never frowned. She smiled at her collision and Byron pullingman put his hand in his pocket to wipe off some shaft dust as he approached her cackling louder than yhe woman.
Quite a clanger you've done here" instantly regretting the words as they rolled out of his mouth.
"Haha yes ive fallen" the woman was now reclining between the ropes like she was heading just for the spot where she crashed. Byron was charmed that she hadn't made fun of his gargled words as he was accustomed to and asked her name.
"Warmbus" she said smiling. An exotic name Byron pondered she must've been from one of the Maestros houses the syllables of her name his tongue vibrated with pleasure. Like creamy peanut butter it melted into his throat. The lad then was distracted by the thought of a malt liquor beverage of the butterfinger variety. He inagined the liquory goodness and by the time he wiped off his chin with a trail of his wanton, the woman had pulled herself from the rope and gone.
He forgot her name after. But hed forget her face too, so it didnt matter. Her fantasy was replaced by a blurry face in an edward hopper painting cuz thats historical and American and felt like it was something Byron be a part of. Cuz why not? If the fat little boy who always got his way and lived off his mommy's success and madness could claim the reference, why couldn't he?
Spite bent that fat little boy into the Maestros orange cheeto face. All thoughts of women would turn into violent fantasies of revenge against the shadow of a man who took the women from Byron with his slander. And the fat boy was the same as the Maestro, they would perish together when the veil finally dropped. And the answer man came.
They asked him good questions as if he knew the answers. He did. He had the truth in his mouth and would like nothing more than to open his mouth and let them hear. As he tried to open his mouth and explain, his tongue grabbed and manipulated every idea until it was unrecognizable to him. The one's who asked would nod understanding. But what they had agreed to understand were not the answers. And he knew this would happen. Whenever they were listening he could give no measure of the answer he tried to explain. As a remedy for this he would in a disinterested tone shrug his shoulders and counter with another question and another. Then when the questioneer was thoroughly perplexed he would offer the suggestion that the contractor of the mountain tomorrow is a prick of the mountain Another day in paradise and the summer valley. The result was the same everytime. Just as if they had been told a half chewed truth, they would nod in agreement with the answer. But with the perversion of their answer, the questioners would then venture off to leave the man with the answers alone to come up with more answers ultimately derived from his bitter mind.
A couple moons swelled and died behind the orange sky mountain. Having left the plastic swiss town with the warmed up street gutters, Byron found himself with three bearers of the sacred vagina. Walking down a street perpendicular to the main street and coming towards an intersection with a railroad track. The town was filled with paintchipping little ranch homes and was on the top of a mountain. They walked on the outskirts of the town where the weeds grew tall enough to tickle beneath the short skirts of byrons company. He didnt know their names but two were pornography girls for the rich, meaning they were super skinny, small and their features were emphasized in their faces to make them seem just unhuman enough to make you think they were sculpted by the Maestro himself. The third was Byron's girlfriend or wife. He didn't know her name either. Nor did she know his. They both had a great affection for each other though both did not know why or ever wonder.
So they were walking. On their way to some substance that was the reason. No one knew the substance, but the two actresses were going to buy it. The rich people would have anyone else thrown into the suspended animation tank for trying the substance, but they worked out a system so they could have it by expensive appointments and exchanging of false information. We didn't think about it but the journeys to the substance was always more fun than when you finally got it and couldn't remember what happened after. So we were walking.
All of a sudden I see a grey shadow engulf the street im walking in and look up to see a giant triangle speeding silently across the orange sky. I look into the face of my wife or girlfriend and ask if she saw that. She looks at my crazy face and i know she aint seen it so i start running toward the traintrack at the top of the hill to see the craft now on the other side of the mountain. When i run the others follow. Maybe one of the porngirls saw it too. We get to the tracks and one of the girls is driving a grey two door little box. The car looked like a rusty dusty biscuit and didn't stay on the icy road. Nearly missing my vitals it swerved past my lady n me and turned a hard left onto the tracks plowing itself into a snowbank. The actress got out confused but still needing to see the other side of the horizon. Another old car pulled behind her and asked if we needed help. All the women were bitches as they needed to be to not be raped by this stranger and pissed him off while i pushed the biscuit out of the snow. But she didnt get back in. And we didnt ask why. We all kept running.
On the horizon we looked down onto a city we knew was there but had never seen before. The craft circled the sky above it changing forms. First it was an airplane looking thing but huge and way to fast to be having no sound. Then its wings moved back while it hung in the air and the craft split into two peices; front and back, and bent into a right angle. In the air its airplane nose pointed down and tail end still on its flying axis, it shot up and down shaking like a fist. It maybe dropped up and down 5 times through hundreds of feet above the city in a moment before turning itself like melting plastic into an image of a butterfinger candy bar but in booze form. Then the craft disappeared completely from our sight and minds. I later discovered the craft was piloted by an imposter of an alien; a time travelling cat with sticks jammed into its feet to stand on boots hidden under a trenchcoat and a face of a green humanoid with a chain from its eye that hung some futuristic laser rifle. That craft was actually a mass hallucination from the nestle corporation to get the whores to fill out more forms. Maestro had finally done it and now the human formed Catangel was on his side with the hallucination craft, there was little anyone could do to fight him. So we went in the building with glass floors.
When we stepped onto the floor we were ready for the substance. The door closed behind the second actress and the floor lit tolife
"Too many fucking due dates and not enough todays! Ammiright?" The portly man said from the corner as he approached Pullingman inquisitively (with a limp and a crooked shrug). "You can drink the booze here but you can't dare eat it!" And then a stinky laugh from his broken teeth before his wettened lips spat more incomplete thoughts. "Wife who eats that much has got to be a lush! Ammiright?!"
Byron pulled back the wrapper from the drink and nodded before chugging the butterfinger swill to a gasping corner man.
"Dont drink it all! Not at once!" He pushed back a fat roll of his own to get at a thirst quenching pullingman. At his intrusion and to the immediate effect of the drink, Byron became enraged smashing his uncut fingernails into his palms before wryly smiling and finishing the slop.
"Im sorry, what were you saying?" Byron pushed out facetiously before crumpling the bottle and chucking it at the plops feet. The sad little man looked up to Byron like a child at a naked king before shuffling across the metal grate floor and back into the corner. Byron then whipped out his deformed meat log and pissed a squirt into the mans direction.
Plop knew most of the hot urine would go to waste between the grate but wasn't going to be choosy. He asked, though indirectly for the substance and Byron had provided. So he embarrassed by his interjection, came once again from the shadow and knelt at the grate to lick out what dribble of butterfinger-malt-liquor piss he could. And it was good.
There wasn't much. But plop could now make saliva he could spit on his dick while he attempted to enter his overweight wife who not being attracted to plop could be entered without boner sandpaper. She would stick around the poor lad and spend his petty condiment bucks because she knew she wouldnt have to work. Everyday this pig would wallow in the slop and plop would tire away in the nestle plant feeding blueprints of the mass hallucinations to the great cat on stilts. Plop didnt care and was happy when her salty folds produced a flake. He considered such sweat chips as a show of his hard work- not the money is what matters, but what you buy with it.
Sometimes plop would bend over his wife and try to put all her hair in his mouth. This always ended in him vomiting over her face and back before maybe passing out. She would beat off his bones for any extra white she could mix with mustard for a snack before using new rags to make lil scarecrow figurines. She had a name for all the figurines. She made up stories and some of the rag scarecrows had pretty good lives. Plop wanted to tell Pullingman about the most interesting rag scarecrows but couldn't remember. And after a deliberation on the thoughts he was tring to think of Byron left with all the rest of his piss and the attention for plop with him. Plop was frustrated for a moment and then savored another drip on the grate.
The two actresses and his wife or whatever were embalmed in suspended animation cuz they protested the maestro. Pullingman didnt think about their disappearance until he was crumbling woodchips onto the computer fire that night. It all seemed like a lie. How could such expensive prostitutes find their way to my street? And why would i pay for one? He knew condiment girls were free as long as they were bleeding on t.v. And he could dive in a roll whenever the boys boiled over. But nonetheless he stroked his distorted member toward the east five times a day thinking of his heaven. Spilling seed in spiral swizzles all over the ornate placemat which he would promptly squeegee into a half full mason jar originally bearing a cloth cover.
Warmbus took the public vessel erryday. She had a huge mound of pubic hair. If plop knew her, he would undoubtedly try to fit her bush in his craw. But he didn't. And she didn't even know her bush was saw the daily feed of loaded joes and knew what the pubis of a groomed woman looked like, but she never could associate herself with one of those graceful fatties in the pile.
So ashamed of her own sexuality, Warmbus would only take razor to her asshole. In the mirror she groomed a thin stripe down her taint to seperate her front from the back. If the mold got stuck in the middle, 3d printing her body would be funny. She thought of how the 3d printers were seamless and if she could create the illusion of a seam, maybe she could generate complains of her design and they would stop demanding updates as was the custom. But they never did. Everyone had updates they had to do. Everyone was a model in some rich person or reptilians bathroom or basement, theres nothing you can do about it. They take yr picture At the d.m.v and when yr born they take yr fingerprints. They dont let you out of the hospital until you have a name and a number. Then they pull up yr number and see your suffering on their spreadsheet before pulling up your face for their cumshot. We line up at the d.m.v for hours to have the "privilege" to pay for a car that breaks before we can pay it off from working at the job it takes us to. They laugh in the glass domes at our struggle.
Byron is outside the glass dome, he laughs also. Warmbus sits on the bus and Byron tries to ignore her wheezing until he notices her massive pubic nest peaking out her exposed midriff. Now her wheezing has become a drive and the pile of hair is the reward. She coughs up a reason of snot onto her forearm that Byron selfishly attacks and consumes much to her hungry dismay.
"Who the fuck are you?" She chokes out still in a cough. Ride ended and he transferred at the tubes by the grey apartments.
Byron had taken the transit tube to the apartments on the south face of the mountain. He would travel today to THE HOUSE OF CRUST, a housing function for other slaves. He had met a woman in the course of his mud waddling job. This woman although a slave, was as free as the maestro when she placed a butterfinger crack rock into her Doritos straight pipe and took a drag. The world stood still and Byron pushed his eyes into her gaze, so he thought.
He arrived at the house of crust and was shuffled into what seemed like a more dingy doctors waiting room you'd see in a projection for the slave holders. Byron was surprised as a side door opened and a half naked girl walked out with a dead face. In her stare she didnt see Byron in the waiting room and stumbled her pantyclad body toward the toilet where she was undoubtedly going to smoke crack butterfinger.
"Who are you here to see?" Byron was taken out of his stare as the skeleton of a receptionist spoke. At that a wet cough introduced a man to follow the prostitute from the side door.
"Uhhh-Warmbus" Byron said automatically and then instantly regretted.
"She'll be right out" the dirty womans mouth chirped. And before Byron could turn to leave, Warmbus appeared, fully naked and being escorted arm in arm with an old ugly man zipping up his trousers.
Another normal day for this woman. Byron was somehow pulled toward her open heart. He saw it as an invitation to open his heart towards her. He believed they had middle ground in the heartland. But now as he saw the other man leaving her bedroom as they both laughed, where his old blood would have boiled, his presently did not. It was a womans nature to stuff as much up her as possible. Pullingman was dissapointed to be such a simple being who would open to feelings for someone who without effort, opens every man the same way. He decided not to show his embarrassment at not knowing she was a trollip until he was safely clear of her.
"Tis a pity she was a whore" he thought to himself as he imagined sharing his condiment packets with her into the sunset. He admittedly had little, but would have honestly given her everything to be a reason for her smile. But being a wise enough girl to open her legs, maybe she could figure out what baby birds know and open her mouth for some other person to spit in later. He stared in her hopeless dying eyes and didn't lift his feign of her affection and played in her flirty game. She could detect the heat but wouldnt address the issue fearing retribution.
Night came quickly to all the drunks in the flop house and after the parade of flesh between the ladies in the house of crust Byron was passed out atop his pay by the hour playmate. As he was sure another man had been on the same moldy mattress before Byron, he dreamed his mangled member lifeless in a pussy he wished would grab back. Perhaps a different man the night prior had the same dream.
A wish to be loved by a whore. And the same horrible demon had wanted this all along a last fight for the ego to join the normalsphere. The get old and die idea where you can relax and smell the packets was never further from right now although sleeping right next to him.
Upon waking before the morning dew could piss on all the astroturf surrounding the house of crust, he touched her silken hair and felt hidden knots from her previous callers. Smiling at his folly of believing she could want him. He would be a reason for her smile one more time he thought as he silently got dressed and put her payment on the nightstand. He gave her all the condiments in his pockets knowing this was ten times the tip she was used to and then touched her downy shoulder which brought out an automatic cooing whimper for a goodbye. Her throat murmer was reassuring Byron who knew she didn't care what man's hand was touching her. She just needed to be touched,4 $. Byron then left into the night cold penniless and without condiments. He had no way to afford to tube to his ship but he was stupid and happy because he knew; he was stupid all alone.
And then he wrote an all alone poem
Get up yr things n get the fuck out my motel room Warmbus
I gotta catch the bus at 6am.
You aint my life, just the girl from the bathroom
I aint going to lose my job again.
Poor sad stupid bum
No bridges left to burn
Pissin on side of the road
Pickin up dead birds
Clean shaven all the scars on my face bleed
Cant never go back home again
Hop in my lap yr the only girl that i need
But i aint callin you a friend
Pickle martinis 3 dollar you-call-ems
Get me away from the desk
Where i practice writing these crooked letters
To one day wipe on yr chest
Can i borrow yr brillo pad lighter?
Its time to put this life on a rack
What would you do if everyone was a genie?
Work everyday and smoke crack
And the next day was a notable one because on this day Byron was a god. The dude on the travel tube recognized him. Not an important dude, just a reggo. Homeboy was all, "thanks for waking me up at the stop". Byron told him no big deal he'd seen the mexican dude get off before at that stop. Byron was also surprised the man spoke english without an accent. That was the second positive interaction of the day. The first was while he was shovelling the mud. A nearby shopgirl who wouldn't be at all affiliated or associated with the whoring ways of Warmbus, had given Byron time.
"Put these beers in yr icebox", Byron commanded of the shimmering toothed blonde.
"We should shotgun these during my break!", the woman said with her spandex pants riding way up- perhaps elevating her tone.
"I'll be behind you shoveling" he agreed gesturing to the pile behind the girls booth.
Her name is Serena and she doesn't smell like the snotty bitch of the others who can't open their eyes in his direction without a microexpression of disgust of which he was quick to notice. He imagined her chewing packet after packet of condiment over his eyelid as she would manually pump him for his deep laden oil deposit. She spoke in horny grunts, snarling her lips high above her teeth. He glanced at how unswollen and lite colored her gums were as her straight white teeth met his yellow eyes.
Byron licked his stinky lips as he peered at the clock ever moving closer to the time of her retirement from inside this dingy tent. She would hike her sweat pants up as if to dry her increasingly difficult sweat off her schaffing labia. Byron saw this as an invitation and each shovel of mud he plopped onto the pile was a stroke on his deformed phallus as his mind pondered at the unknown break time that would inevitably put him in the crevice the sweat pants occupied.
"I WANNA BE THAT LINT"
he thought as cream slid down his twisted tarantula leg onto his thigh. He put down the shovel, and scooped the remnants of his lust into the beercan using his finger as a ladle and licking the leftover pearly rope. And then he thought, "eh, whatever." He came and her affections would surely be short lived and not worth his efforts. She would be like the others. The others who had feigned interest to the extent Byron was comfortable and then would find the most awkward angle to deprive him from any pleasure, forcing the troll to have to find a sweet potato patch of new features to make him feel free.
It wasn't hard to find a variation. But often Byron wondered, why all women couldn't handle their lust and must push themselves into a codependent relationship instead of being independent. All of these spermsuckers said that they were independent, but the things they wanted in their mates; to look after them would be the fulcrum of their lust. He lived to be free for a succubus.
Byron was keen to the incoherent ways of the woman and upon meeting her for their shared beer, Byron had already added his froth to her drink. He smiled as Serena washed the fluid's sandy texture past her white teeth and through her soft throat to her greedy belly. He smiled satisfied.
"You can finish that. I'm done" he said. And he was.
