by Martin James Hunter
I am neither an attractive nor an interesting woman. This is how I know that the men who approach me only want to fuck. I consider this a natural process that spares the good souls. Those too drunk to know what they are doing are excused. Only if their mistakes persist do I find my generosity slipping.
When they step through my door and ask about the smell I pretend not to notice. I am rarely invited to their homes; I imagine half of them have wives, and the other half live with their parents. It’s good to speculate on who flashes before their eyes as their lives draw to a close.
I become aroused at the scent of their sweat as they work themselves up, giving the impression that they are performing well. Too late they notice my body unfurling, giving birth to a nightmarish wall of flesh. As I fold over and secrete gastric juices I feel their dick soften against me. Eventually their struggling ceases, and it is then my great body shudders with an orgasm.