Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 I'm not sure quite how or when her pussy imploded, though i'd be curious to
know the details of the incident.  I am, however, quite certain it wasn't
always like that; In our earliest encounters her cunt was well maintained,
one may have even called it structurally sound, which is perhaps what made
our first meeting so lackluster.  Now the slightest attention to her pubic
area causes her to inflate like Violet Beauregarde.  Fucking her is like
sticking a square peg in a round hole.

   My fingertips press together to minimize girth for easy entry as i
squint my eyes to envision my hand sliding eloquently into her slimy cunt
as I stroke my cock in this Starbucks bathroom.  As I recall, she'd barely
omit a shudder, just lay there smiling blankly, comatose, as I struck my
fist against her daunting cervix, causing me to quiver more than her.  Each
encounter we'd had had made me question her sanity, her behavior often
indicative of neurological problems which -needless to say- I was put off
by, but not nearly enough to stop me from slumming it with her in the
absence of readily available mentally competent pussy.  At times I'd
question whether the sensations of me fisting her were even reaching her
brain.  Oh god, this is not a thought I like having.  Me hooking up with
her really marks a low point in my sexual history, a big source of shame
(and not the good kind of shame).  I'm not fully convinced she was even
legally able to give consent in her mental condition, not that i'd care
either way.  I'm certain she wanted my cock, or at least my affections,
since she'd hit me up daily, even after i began screening her calls.  I'm
not certain, however, that her sexuality was any more developed than that
of a retarded person, hence why, amongst my friends, she was known as
"brain damage girl".  As I suspect you've gathered, I am not the most
moralistic person, so I should clarify that my qualms about our
relationship do not come from empathy or guilt, they are not ethical in
nature.  If I had fetishized her lack of adult consciousness, I could take
our affair in stride, but it is the fact that I was not into it, that I was
fucking her despite being turned off by her personality (or lack of one)
because I couldn't do any better that shames me to no end.  Still, she must
have possessed some alluring quality, because, even now that I am across
the country from her, she is all I can think about while I stroke on this
cold toilet.

   I had initially only come here to get a Starby chargy, which is what I
call it when you go to a Starbucks to get a coffee and charge your phone.
However, upon arrival I felt overwhelmed by the abundance of resources
offered by Starbucks and had found myself caught in an endless loop a la If
You Give A Mouse A Cookie.  The tall cappuccino had left my stomach and
consequently my asshole in a state comparable to Brain Damage Girl's
vagina, so I found myself using their public restroom and, upon remembering
their complimentary wi-fi, I found myself with a cold MacBook Pro against
my bare skin as I leisurely stroked to memories and facebook photos of all
the disgusting girls I'd reluctantly hooked up with in my past.  Because
I'm still in kindergarten and have no qualms about shitting where I eat, my
asshole remained untouched, rich with dingleberries, as I sat atop a pool
of my own diarrhea, dribbling piss and precum with each stroke of my raw
meat.

   Footsteps leave me hushed.  I switch to stealthmode fap as a janitor
waddles about cleaning shit.  My hand like that of a ninja, moving
furtively and with precision up and down my erection.  My breathing, which
prior to the janitors entry had been irregular, silenced to a low hiss.  My
cock deserves better than these clandestine meetings.