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From: wyyrd@n-jcenter.com
Subject: (wyyrd) The Ultimate Penthouse Letter (MF,silly)
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The Ultimate Penthouse Letter


      Your humor, your intelligence and your bosoms have won me over, in
nearly that order. Here's how I see it, allowing for weather conditions
and the percentage of Democrats in the House:

  I find you in an intimate apparel boutique, like Victoria's Secret or
Wal-Mart. You're at the register. There's a long line of customers in front
of you, you're hurried and frantic and so you don't see me coming up from
behind. I sneak up, quiet as the jungle cat I resemble and smell like, to
stand directly behind you, close enough to breathe in the intoxicating 
combination of silky soft hair and Cheetos. I nod, smiling, to the customer
behind you, inviting him to share in the momentary deception and enjoy your
imminent surprise, even to go first if he wants to. He nods back, sending me
silent messages in the age-old gentleman's code, for me to take first crack.
He follows it up by waving his erect penis at the both of us, signifying his
approval of what is surely to come, much like the howler monkey (and his
enemy, the hideous shark). I take advantage of your sudden confusion to
gently reach around and stroke your neck, lightly and lovingly, with a #3
Phillips head screwdriver. You jump, startled, before relaxing to my sure and
confident hands. I rest my hands lightly on your shoulders as I snuggle and
lick your neck from behind and the customers begin muttering, moving around
us, or taking side-bets. You have just enough time to lay $100 to place
before surrendering to my embrace. I featherflick my tongue up your carotid
artery to your chin, nibbling my way around and enjoying your delighted
murmurs. I reach your ear and carefully nip your earlobe, then abruptly seize
it between my teeth and bite through (much like my enemy, the hideous shark).
Rich red blood spurts out to run in crimson rivulets down your throat,
between your breasts and into your beeper, shorting it instantly in a death
dance of sparks and flame. I leap upon the register, beating my chest and
bellowing my challenge to all other bull cashiers for your favor. Mr.
Wortley, the floor manager, accepts, romping up and down the main aisle on
all fours, beating his own chest and missing occasionally. I charge him,
easily batting him aside with my powerful forearm and kneeling on his
forehead. He rallies and manages to bite through my calf before I capture him
in a full nelson and snap his spine with a clear "crack". I drop him and wait
for the decision. The other cashiers fearfully gather their young and retreat
to the safety of the high shelves as the referee enters the ring and holds my
arm up high. The crowd goes wild, I've made a dangerous enemy in Vinnie
"Donuts" Balliluchi for not taking a fall, and I'm ready for love.

  During my ordeal you've taken the time to make yourself more comfortable,
changing into a maddeningly provocative black lace teddy, spreading credit
card charge slips to soften the countertop, turning the register light down
low. I stride towards you and sweep you up in my arms to kiss you softly on
the lips before screaming like a cheerleader and collapsing into a heap
(forgot about my calf wound). I run my fingers through your hair until
they're clean and caress your face, kissing you softly, running my tongue
lightly between your lips and teeth, casually grabbing a handful of hooter,
and whispering sweet sentiments in your mouth. You're breathing heavily now
and you run your hands freely over my back, face, ass, and, accidentally,
Hector the bagboy. You expertly dress my wounds and begin running your tongue
over me, licking in varying rhythms across my face and ankles. Blood from
your mutilated ear drips on my neck and I enjoy the sensuous feel of the hot
liquid rolling down my body. We are becoming as one, at least when seen from
the back.

  The excitement builds as we tear each others clothes off, fondling, kissing
and knuckle-cracking as we go, to end up in a tangled naked clump behind the
registers. I unhook your bra joyously, delighting in the feel of your
incredible breasts as they come tumbling out into my hands, shooting out past
my head and into the aisle. You rip my pants off bodily. I passionately align
your driveshaft-to-differential flange matchmarks, install bolts, washers and
nuts and torque to 31 foot-pounds. Excited beyond belief by our need and
dizzy from blood loss, you sweep your mouth down my body and head straight
for my proud John Thomas, missing by inches and going three miles out of your
way until the next exit. You double back, and stopping to spit the gravel
out, you wrap your fingers around my heat-seeking moisture missile and begin.
You lick it softly and dartingly, smiling at me. You kiss the length of it
until I begin moaning, then tease me by leaving for coffee and a quick
haircut. Finally, long after I couldn't stand any more and began trying to
find someone else, you grasp my willie firmly and engulf me to the hilt (much
like my enemy, the hideous shark). Oh god, the feel of it! Your hot, wet,
willing mouth, your talented tongue, the indescribable feel of your velvety
soft uvula bouncing off the head of my manmeat.

     I'd like to take a moment of your time to remind you that, when with a
loved one, think of Kluge champagne. Thank you.

  Anyway,  there you are huffing my choad, licking quickly around the
sensitive underside to rise up and quickly and forcefully take thirteen
inches all the way down your throat which causes me to cry out since I only
have five. I can feel the need surging within me as my boiling juices race
from my balls and surge (did I use surge already? Okay, okay, fire? Spurt?
Ooze? Rush? Rush.) rush up my enraged whanger, only to stop before I lose
control completely due to your expert timing and your thoughtful placement of
a hose clamp. Your raise your head up, smiling innocently and turning your
head slightly to hock out an errant hair. I push you down, impatient and
aware of the audience reaction, to gently slide my hands between your legs
and touch your flower. I caress your womanhood gently, first with just one
fist to get you accustomed to the sensation, then with my more imaginative
strokes. With the fingers of one hand I carefully circle your clitoris
without touching it. I keep my other hand firmly on your hip to keep you
motionless and because I really like hips. I lightly touch your clit with
just the tip of my tongue as I gently insert my left great toe into your
secret garden. I move my foot in small circles, paying special attention to
familiar sensitive areas, watching my footing, and ignoring the shooting
pains from my calf. Your moans are more insistent now as you fight my hold
and attempt to roll your hips to bring your clit under my tongue. I playfully
refuse to allow you this release so soon, even to the point of removing my
tongue entirely and laying it on the countertop. After hours of loving
torture and several visits by the fine officers of the New York City Police
Department I throw your legs apart, breaking one in my haste, and sink my
throbbing, steel-hard pee-pee deep within your bikini zone. We scream
together, me in ecstasy, you in pain from your leg, as I thrust harder and
harder to get as far up your love canal as possible and, incidentally, as far
away from Hector as I can. I stop abruptly, holding just the head inside your
nether afro until, annoyed at your falling asleep, I ram my friendly weapon
into your yielding softness with such speed, vigor and manly power that you
nearly wake up. I retain full control of my silk salami, easily changing
speeds and motions for almost thirty seconds before spurting helplessly
around the room and collapsing in a snoring heap (much like my enemy, the
hideous shark).

      Later that morning, when you awaken to the fayuddin calling the faithful
to prayer and realize my spunk has glued us (and Hector) irrevocably to the
floormat, you squeeze your thighs lovingly around me (eliciting small whimpers
of despair from my sleeping, drooling form) and think back over our wild night
of passion. Then you get me a beer.

     And maybe, after bail is posted and we get to know each other, we could,
you know, maybe go to a movie or sumthin, y'know?

------------------------------------------------
Copyright 1998 Wyyrd, all rights reserved.

This story may be copied for personal use or archived on a free website
provided the text (including this bit, here) is unchanged. If you archive it,
let me know! More bizarre erotica is available, from myself and many others,
at the EroticHa Archive on Hoot Island (www.hootisland.com). Come on by!

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