BigJimsWornOutTires
Kraken
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In 2015 I'd met a woman during The Laundry. She seemed unruly to my gaze flirts as she shown with rebukes. Perhaps it was my tousled hair, that cowlick bristling wrong assumptions as if I wasn't a clean man. Usually, I'm a dashing gent. Take outstanding care of my appearance in a meticulous fashion while donned in swanky attire. I wash me nuts and penis twice daily. But never for the laundry. Ugh, right? Why should I look my best inside that reverberating slag of dirty clothing and ear-stabbing sounds?
Not worth the boast.
My resilience of her rejections helped me to mollify quicker than most Chads in such situations. And I understood she didn't seem to be in the mood for such flirtation as I respected the parameter spacing she insisted with those snubs. But little did she know, the fecundity of the intoxicating pheromones that my musculature releases in these circumstances will soon smolder her vagina, and she'll find herself chasing me. And the heap of the sperm parasites that await bravely in my balls will insist on being tamped deep inside her moist crevice.
Release us, Master. They bellow from below.
Thoughts began squirting through my mind. Pictures of her legs splayed as I pound her vagina into a bluster of orgasmic wails. Ugh. Those thoughts had to go.
I stuff the last clothes into the rickety schemed 'designed to rip off every other person' dryer. And decide to go outside for a smoke. As I'm standing under a thatch watching people go about their day-to-day lives while the draughty humid air sweeping across my face, pissing me off, I hear the door open from behind. It's her.
"Do you have another one of those?" She asks.
No. I don't give cigarettes to bums. The first thought came to mind, but noticing her stunning 115-pound lithe figure, ugh, I hand her one anyway. She gestures for a light. Ugh. I light her cigarette, thinking, What next? Give you a back massage? Though it doesn't sound that displeasing knowing I once worked as a masseur and received a myriad of blowjobs from female clients.
"I hate this fucking city." Out from nowhere, she speaks candor.
"Ugh. Tell me about it. I have a nuclear silo outside of town," I say, then move in closer while being secretive, "And I'm so close to launching a missile straight up."
"Um," she says in a dubious tone, "Wouldn't it land in a different place considering the world revolves?"
"Ugh. Flat-Earth doesn't revolve. It spins like a vinyl record." Satire at its best.
Perplexing sweeps across her face as she realizes, This guy's prime real estate. I assumed. But instead of working with her aching desire, she disarms, taking a few steps back. As if torturing herself. Ugh. Bless her heart.
And for a moment, I thought I heard her grumble, Crazy fuck.
But the palling of her attitude began basting my spirit. So I flicked the cigarette towards the gas pumps west of the laundromat and went back inside, avoiding eye contact with the aloof vagina as I went abroad.
Several minutes later, I'm sitting on a dank seat near my clanging dryer machine, watching a piece of a shit monitor above display The Jeffersons. Thinking, I wonder if I can cast pornography on that screen from my phone. Then suddenly, she sits down beside me.
"Why did you give up that quickly?" She asks.
"Ugh. I had more pussy than these seats," saying as I glance over at her, "You would end up being nothing more than a one-timer." My head lowers in shame.
"Wow!" Loudly, she announces. "Did you REALLY just say that?"
"Ugh," I raise my head, gazing back at her. "Yeah. I did." I knew I could quickly diffuse any volatile reaction she may toss my way, but after taking a quick assessment of her carefree posture, it sounded like the right thing to say.
She busts out in laughter. As if dark and twisted comedy was one of my uncanny knacks. "You're cute as fuck," she admits with a grin.
I was successful with my evaluation.
Ugh. Sweet. The parasites begin to rally one another. "So that means, me, you, that public bathroom back there, door lock, Chaka-Chaka-boom-boom?" I suggest a unique ice-breaker. She gasps. Her smile quickly turned to solemn, looking in that same direction, imagining. Her eyes squint.
She replies, "I don't know what's happening right now, but I am-" she turns back to me and makes a small measurement with her index finger and thumb, "this close in doing just that."
Instinctively, I do a measurement of my own, displaying a breadth with both of my index fingers - about a foot wide, elucidating my monstrosity.
Her serious expression transformed into reverence as her mouth gaped open slightly. Her eyes wander down to my crotch, then scanned back to my eyes. I could hear her heart rigorously beat.
Thum-thump-thum-thump-thum-thump-thum-thump-thum-thump...
I feel my hand gripped then pulled as I follow her up.
My abound of pheromones finally enmeshed her acute derelict.
She leads me to that bathroom.
Long story short. She sucked my dick—I fucked her against the sink—she sucked my dick again—I picked her up and placed her on that sink then ate her pussy—she sucked my dick again—and finally, turned her around, she bends over the sink—jackhammered her for the finish.
In that finale, she ousted a yelp like no other. I felt like it was something she'd hankered for too long. And as she was shaking from the intense climax while still hanging on to the sink, she says, "My name's Brandy."
Ugh. Too much information. I felt.
As we're disembarking the restroom, though she was sluggish and still tremoring, wink-wink; kids were running around, and two overweight women were staring at us while the elder one called the kids over. As if we were dangerous. Ugh.
That scenery mortified her as she dropped her head and proceeded to her dryer, then began transferring articles into a hamper.
A quarter of an hour later, a car pulls up. A 30-something-year-old woman apathetically trudges inside and helps her with the clothes basket—but something else happens that takes me by surprise but explains the tightness that squelched my penis.
The woman kisses her.
Nothing too romantic or prolonged. But that kiss. Then, Brandy glances over at me. As if ashamed of what she did earlier. I also noticed the fear in her eyes. Like I would tell her girlfriend that I just fucked the shit out of the love of her life.
Although in any other situation, I would try to get a threesome going. But that was a butch-looking creature—short boyish hair. Tattoos were covering its arms and neck. Yikes!
But I wonder—later that night—when butch eats her wrecked vagina—will some of my lingering parasites slip out onto her tongue?
Hmm. I guess I may never know.
Although she'll be able to call me anytime, she needs to. So I slipped my business card into her back pocket:
Big Jim's Self-Service Laundry - 555-69D-IRTY
