"Stellaaaaaa...!"

A day after I retired my quest for Sasquatch, (bigfoot) I discovered a size ten and a half rubber foot protruding from my lover's pussy. "Sasquatch snatched snatch." 

Coming down with the grippe, and not being able to adequately satisfy Stella, I gave my proxy a shout over the phone. Proximate same size dimensions of my package. His sap was running as she sat on his lap. Like a maple tree in spring his bark had darken. In his case the bark was a case of shingles. She was sashaying her twat across his floundering cock-bough and painting her fingernails, watching The View.

People about me know that I am not prone to exaggeration and I take my writing seriously. With a major in Psychology, a minor in Philosophy and a D- in Anthropology; I cover all bases. I have been working on a theory (the missing link) that man came from Walmart. Here lately I have been into my bones mode; carry-out from KFC, Chick-fil-A and Zaxby's.

Her pussy is like a fine-tuned lint trap on a Maytag dryer, it catches all the fuzz. Blue denim, serge fabric, corduroy and the occasional bellbottom trousers. It doesn't make any difference who is wearing them. It resembles a head of romaine lettuce wilted into a Fu Manchu moustache. Even with her pussy's inconsistences, I love her.

"Stellaaaaaa...!"

On her off-time she instructs indecent behavior from a four foot tall barstool of higher yeaning at a strip bar on Osage Avenue. Usually in between a cheese cracker or a ménage a trois sandwich. Sometimes writing her thesis on Lotto scratch-off tickets.

It was Happy Hour and the usual denizens mobbed the lounge. On her dime under the lights, her pussy swallowed moth balls and spit out wings like a Gatling gun as she ambled on the brass pole. With her snatch stretched wide open, one could hear the echoes of an All's Hollow Eve. Her clit like a tuning-fork out of sync and tiptoeing across the stage. Where she spread her ass cheeks, like the great divide. Then her pussy yodeling like the Queen of country music. I was all in tears as the DJ played, "It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels."  Watching her, I gnawed on the bones of Popeye's Louisiana Kitchen chicken.

"Stellaaaaaa...!"

Her tits like a zephyr when they clashed, causing a rumble and small quaking on the hardwood floor. One of the training wheels of her breasts had a flat spot, causing her to be off balanced. Sometimes she was a stand-in if the cymbal player for the Savannah Symphony phoned in sick. She ask a volunteer from the audience, it was a packed house, all the seven chairs were taken.

"Who wants to stick this florescent stick up my cunt?"

A moment later her twat was buzzing like a hive of bees. The ballast was going out and the light was blinking as if at an intersection of Osage Avenue and Baker St. She was humping and he-hopping as if the current was crossing over a medium, by vibrating her swollen pussy lips. It appeared her cunt was yapping as if a ventriloquist dummy.

The men in the audience were sucking down their suds, as her clit reached out for their five dollar bills and the vice squad impounded the florescent light bulb for illegal parking in a crack.

The next morning, while Stella lay in bed I went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. With Anthropology on my mind, I fixed eggs and baked beans. I couldn't find the kielbasa (Polish sausage) we had purchased just yesterday.

On entering the bedroom, the missing link was probing her moist cunt with the aroma of garlic, to scare away vampires.

"Stellaaaaaa...!"

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