Michael Malone - Weebly

knees, her soft plaid skirt wadded around her waist, her
splendid buttocks glazed in the setting sun, Beatrice
Dingley Abernathy was being, as her ancestor Elijah
would have phrased it, "rogered" by an inspired Richard
Rage. First slowly, then with abandon, with one hand
on pine needles and the other on Beanie's mossy
firmament, he thrust lustfully home, at last believing,
after thirty-nine nihilistic years, that, sure enough, home
is where your heart is.
"Funny…but nice," decided Beanie, grasping the
trunk of the oak tree as Richard shot a shower of sperm
into her with such a jolt that a less sturdy woman would
have toppled. Pulling out, he slid under her backwards,
reverent as a mechanic under a Rolls-Royce.
His beard twined in her vagina, Rage then did
something Winslow Abernathy had never done.
Below her head, like a stalagmite, his glistened
organ dripped beads on its shaft. From down where he
was doing the something he mumbled at her. It sounded
like "I'm your mother, you're my mother, suck each
other (or utter) (or udder),"—all of which was peculiar.
But she did feel a brand-new urge to put that shiny