House-sitting!
A couple I know well suffered a shockingly humongous collapse of collective forethought by actually asking me to act as their house-sitter for a week while they cruise the Gulf of Mexico.
And here I be.
Curious thing, curiosity; I'm ordinarily not that interested in other people's stuff unless I've had a few, but gimme the chance to covertly sift through a few bottom bedroom drawers in the absence of consequence and I'm Hercule fucking Poirot.
Apparently these people are sexual deviants; I've never beheld such an avalanche of imagination-confounding sexual apparatus. For example, last night I'd just got out of the shower and was trailing water across their fitted carpets looking for a towel when I stumbled across one of these contraptions
In a kitchen drawer, no less, whilst rummaging for a particularly elusive chicken wing that'd accidentally fallen from my sauce-smeared fingers. People prepared to canker their kitchen with the mechanisms of sexual misadventure are simply asking for diphtheria, for a start, and numerous other potential maladies I have yet to spell into google correctly.
I know! What kinda diseased freaks are we dealing with here? There's only one use I can possibly comprehend for this device and that involves two adjacent fleshy holes, a ratchety whirring noise, high-pitched screaming and arced blood flecking across the backspash.
Sick.
Their two dogs seem to have learned (or, I suspect, been taught) that the naked, swinging crotch of a Human Being is an adventure playground of taste and smells, especially if liberally coated with the crunchy peanut butter I found in a massive (and nearing empty) jar in the fridge. Folks, we are not dealing with regular perverts here; everyone else I know knows to keep a spare jar in the pantry! Obviously they're keeping theirs barren in order to add to the savor of pleasure deferred. Those poor, hungry dogs…
I'm thinking of calling the ASPCA.
A protracted exploration of a locked underwear drawer confirmed my suspicions; the quartet of a nipple-less bra, a pair of black patent 9" stilettos, edible tighty-whities (pre-stained) and nipple-clamps (with detachable tassels) proved to be decidedly uncomfortable to wear, especially socially when the pizza delivery guy finally fucking showed up.
Someone needs to have a very sober conversation with these people.
Now, where's that remote…
And here I be.
Curious thing, curiosity; I'm ordinarily not that interested in other people's stuff unless I've had a few, but gimme the chance to covertly sift through a few bottom bedroom drawers in the absence of consequence and I'm Hercule fucking Poirot.
Apparently these people are sexual deviants; I've never beheld such an avalanche of imagination-confounding sexual apparatus. For example, last night I'd just got out of the shower and was trailing water across their fitted carpets looking for a towel when I stumbled across one of these contraptions
In a kitchen drawer, no less, whilst rummaging for a particularly elusive chicken wing that'd accidentally fallen from my sauce-smeared fingers. People prepared to canker their kitchen with the mechanisms of sexual misadventure are simply asking for diphtheria, for a start, and numerous other potential maladies I have yet to spell into google correctly.
I know! What kinda diseased freaks are we dealing with here? There's only one use I can possibly comprehend for this device and that involves two adjacent fleshy holes, a ratchety whirring noise, high-pitched screaming and arced blood flecking across the backspash.
Sick.
Their two dogs seem to have learned (or, I suspect, been taught) that the naked, swinging crotch of a Human Being is an adventure playground of taste and smells, especially if liberally coated with the crunchy peanut butter I found in a massive (and nearing empty) jar in the fridge. Folks, we are not dealing with regular perverts here; everyone else I know knows to keep a spare jar in the pantry! Obviously they're keeping theirs barren in order to add to the savor of pleasure deferred. Those poor, hungry dogs…
I'm thinking of calling the ASPCA.
A protracted exploration of a locked underwear drawer confirmed my suspicions; the quartet of a nipple-less bra, a pair of black patent 9" stilettos, edible tighty-whities (pre-stained) and nipple-clamps (with detachable tassels) proved to be decidedly uncomfortable to wear, especially socially when the pizza delivery guy finally fucking showed up.
Someone needs to have a very sober conversation with these people.
Now, where's that remote…
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