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Rated: GC · Poetry · Activity · #1405310
About the love life of a short, dumpy, elderly woman.
Perched atop, straddling, leaning back subtly, seeing past the ceiling, being pleased by a
         barely-adequate cock.

The dwarfish woman moves as if in her dead mother’s antique rocking chair:
                   Back, forth. Back, forth. Back, forth.

She wants to gyrate a little, maybe clench her hairy teeth.

The attempt almost makes her topple.

The euphemismistic rooster slips out, a strand of gooey substance keeping the two keenly
         connected.

She leans forward, having to meet his gaze and almost losing the moment as a result.

She deftly lets it pop back in and resumes her self-sacrificing stance.

Twisting to keep her neckless-head limber, she reflects on her dresser-bound image:
                   A small mass, like a weak sack of lumpy potatoes, keeping her own rhythm:
                   Back, forth. Back, forth. Back, forth!

She feels a sudden surge, a heated flash.

She’s suddenly too hot for her own skin.

She’s already naked and can’t take off her closely-stitched, leathery hide.

The heat is all over, grating her flesh.

The friction is increased or at least she thinks so.

It excites her further and she can feel the pressure bubbling, trembling, vibrating through
         her spine and shaking rivulets of sweat from her makeup-encrusted pores.

It’s getting difficult to breath but still:
                   Back, forth. Back, forth. Back, forth. Back, forth!

Her image again:
                   Lumpy bulges shaking with the building pressure; it has to be released!!

Faster with her movements, she starts to use her weak knees to lift herself, leaning
         forward slightly, averting visual contact, allowing a hard grind on the dull quiver.

When does it end!

She wipes her forehead, keeping sweat from her eyes.

She’s been sweat-blinded before; she’s learned from that mistake.

She hears no groans and makes none for herself; experience has trained her to keep quiet.

Finally, with a guttural grunt, the pressure explodes, bring out with it the gratisfaction she
         was letting herself be drilled for, and she feels warmer and moister between her          cellulitic thighs.

It gushes; she’s a gusher who cannot pause during the flashes of menopause, flowing like
         a geyser in reverse, coating the pelvic-portion of the bed that sits to either side of
         the vastly-flaccid prick.

It would take a while to get the stray, sticky hairs out of the perma-wrinkles down there.

The bed stains only evolve, like a tree in Spring, developing new leaf growths.

She huffs from the effort, slumping as much as is statically allowed, which is little as
she’s been gravitationally compacted.

Turning to look in the mirror again, she absently chews one of her nails:
                   She now resembles an oafish baby who’s made a diaperatic mess and isn’t sure
         whether pride or shame is the proper genuflection.

Satisfied to have obtained that look in her advanced age, she climbs of and scurries to the
         bathroom, hoping it doesn’t take too long for the water to turn hot.
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