Sheep bestiality.
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Charita knelt next to the redhead and gave her a look. "Well?" she demanded. The redhead peeked around Brian's right hip. "Is it OK?? Vanessa said. "Go ahead, honey." The redhead still held her cigarette in the slim fingers of her right hand and used her left to heft his erection to her lips. Brian squirmed, waiting breathlessly for her to lick him, and when she did, when her pink tongue slithered between his dark lips and caressed the big bulb at the head of his cock he squeezed his eyes shut and moaned like the frightened boy he was.
The pretty redhead engulfed the head of his penis in her mouth and began sucking him slowly, her berry-red lips tight around his shaft. Her head went up and down his cock eight, nine, ten times, before Charita put a finger on the girl's chin and eased her lips away. She licked her lips and then put the cigarette to her lips again. She slowly blew a cloud to the ceiling. "Was it OK?"
Brian almost cried, "Yes!" but the question was directed elsewhere. "You'll learn," Charita said. She said, "Go on, Ashley." The skinny platinum blonde leaned over and her silky hair formed a canopy over his groin. Again he felt warm lips surround his penis, felt that incredible slippery friction. This girl worked him faster, her head bobbing back and forth as she sucked his dick. She let him slip from her lips and used her tongue up and down his shaft, and Brian writhed because the sensations were too intense to bear.
The chubby girl stroked his inner thigh with her long pink nails. He turned to look at her and saw a kittenish smile on her lips. Her lipstick was the same color as her nails. "You like that, don't you?"
He nodded hard. "Yes."
As a cub reporter for the third largest agricultural newspaper in Tufton Flats, Iowa, I'm trained to keep my eyes open for a story, any story which might enlighten and provoke our readership of two thousand strong. You might even recognize my name if you're a fellow member of the fifth estate---it was I who in 1998 went undercover to penetrate the secret cabal of county fair judges which unethically gave the award for Best Holstein Calf to Artie Sampster three years running in exchange for free annual tune-ups of the head judge's Toyota Camry. I made many enemies the day that sordid tale was printed, but the brush with controversy only encouraged my lust for journalism. I wasn't ready for the big time, though, until last October, when I wandered into Lazy Eyes Grocery and Meats for my usual weekly food run, only to stumble across a story that I knew would soon have one-third of downtown Tufton Flats scrambling for every word I wrote.
I had already carted all the basic supplies necessary to sustain a single gal of twenty-six until her next paycheck---six cans of tomato soup, six cans of Calves-Be-Slim, six cans of wontons---when it struck me that I was almost out of cereal. Cereal to me is like the Koran to Cat Stevens, so I beat feet to the breakfast aisle and surveyed the fall line of offerings. CookiePie was too sweet for my taste, Bran Francisco ("the Golden Gate Bridge to good colon health") was too insipid, and Eat Oats Like You Mean It was somehow intimidating. I had just about settled on a supersized box of ever-dependable Lick-O's when I saw a cereal two feet to the left that riveted my reporter's keen gaze.
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It was a very bland, plain rice cereal in an unassuming yellow box. The edible bits were of no particular shape or color. All in all, just another lame offering from some anonymous company committed to middle-of-the-road discount breakfast fare. But the name of the cereal---that was something different. It was called, simply, HOT WET PUSSY.
Shell-shocked, I grabbed a box of the stuff and, leaving my cart behind, strode right up to Heather, the egg-shaped weekday cashier who occasionally had to be rushed to the hospital in mid-shift for swallowing her gum.
"Heather!" I said, thrusting the box in her face. "Did you have any idea this was on the shelf?" "Well, it's cereal, ain't it?" she replied, a minty yet somehow tomblike odor gushing from her gob. "Where else would it be---up your butt?" She cackled knowingly.
"Never mind," I said testily. I was about to ask her to page Gus-Gus, the owner of Lazy Eyes, but then it occurred to me that the best thing to do was go straight to my office and make some phone calls. I didn't want anyone else muscling in on my story.
Now when I say "office", see, the thing is, right now I'm sharing a desk with a few of the guys from Distribution. Some would call them "paper delivery boys", but they're pretty mature for fourteen. Anyway, the phone works fine, and with my box of Hot Wet Pussy (contents sold by weight, not by volume) in hand, I dialed a 1-800 number that connected me with the consumer affairs department of the Profit Pusher General Product Corporation. After wading through various menu options, still staring in disbelief at the name of the cereal contrasted with the cartoon images of two perky elfin creatures hopping about on either side of the bowl depicted on the box, I finally got a customer service representative to pick up.