Taffy

He creamed his jeans. Ripped the seams when fellows beamed at his wet seeds wasted on these cold floors below me. Calloused palms tease, or, rather, some slimy sleaze. Can I have some more, please? My sphincter decrees a scuzzy squeeze, stench of cheese; paring knife to the nostril lashing and thrusting like a maid feather-dusting, corrupting a grunge within to correctly place the pin to pierce it through the skin and the good feelings begin for a second, a half whim. Then, reality rescinds and, with stone pillars, crushed him.