Werdna, once venerated as a scholar, was discombobulated when the newspaper related a belated story about the unethical penetrating of a little tart who stole his heart and fucked him then plucked him feather by feather after he bucked at the little tart’s pressing to continue the undressing and re-dressing when Werdna truly thought that that was that, merely a debonair affair of thirty seconds flat. Oh but how he was mistaken!
The paper would make him a pauper and he would be expunged from his profession because of his transgression and he would be made the fungus of society, a champion of impiety, an ignominious and lascivious old scholar with kisses under his collar. Oh the opprobrium! The shame! Only playing the game, he thought, in the selfsame way that everyone rolls in the hay with the coquettish foot fetishist. Now it’s on me to foot the bill, to fill the shoe, to shoe the foot.
Winona was raving, but she was also craving mashed potatoes because the day-after pill didn’t work when Werdna’s condom broke, and the sperm fertilized the egg, or the egg chose a sperm rather, so Winona was in a bind, to consummate a craving or go on raving at her disgraceful scholar husband who broke the condom and the sanctity of marriage with his relentless thrusting, dipping his penis into so many baskets; she’d weave him a condom out of sheep’s intestine that he’d never break, the cock-dipping, basket-busting, sanctity-thrusting cunt-crazed kook. I’ll weave him this condom so tight that his prick will have a constant reminder of the ignominy it brought on me, with its leering and thrusting, its tearing and busting, its insatiable undeniable reprehensible needs. I will sit on his cock until the old crock drops dead while his prick turns rock solid in rigor mortis and it will be an open casket funeral and he’ll be naked with his big red hard cock sticking up to the sky.
Werdna never inquired about Winona’s whine, so he assumed everything was fine, and he hid the paper before she would see it, but she already knew of his secret visit with the tart and her cunt, the cunt and her tart, the post-prandial pussy, the crock and his cock, cocksucker winding his wristwatch.
Come here my darling, Winona said with a whine, I’ve got a present for you, for your cock more precisely, the stock of our marriage, your glockenspiel with the head unpeeled, a little gift after our little rift about the breaking condom. I think I’ve loomed the solution for your hard-on with its hat off.
Winona, my dearest, all is water under the bridge, dust under the fridge, food for the hogs, hogs for the bear, barren of meaning, barely meaning a thing, my lovebox.
I insist that we couldn’t subsist without that which I have made, because it’s with this sheep’s intestine condom that you can thrust your heart out, fuck your bone out, and love me deeper than a ravine, my lovefiend.
Well if that’s the case, encase my cock with the sheep and sleep no more, because my love bone doth murder sleep, lady. Dream a dream of my cock in sheep’s wool and write it on foolscap next to your bed because it’s about to become a reality in your prissy pussy my cuntlove, and there will be nothing prim about it when I surge with my lovepump my plump little darling.
My anus is wet with anticipation listening to your oration you old scholar. Quit lecturing me and pump your love into my love if you’re thirsty enough to handle it.
My lovepump is so rigid that it will be hard to get that sheep over my corona, but once it is, you better prepare your persnickety bologna for a penetration greater than any to ever hit the nation.
Werdna set about capping his snout and they went for a roll in the hay.
Winona sat on his cock as she leered at the clock and watched night turn quickly to day.
He had been so heinous; Winona clenched her anus; for the disgrace, she would be sure that he pay.
His cock turned hard in the sheep, so Winona went to sleep and woke to find him dead the next day.
His cock pointed to the sky, as people moaned “why oh why” and they buried him and his hard-on in clay.
