Though critically acclaimed, my first novel, On The Southern Grounds She Lay, was a commercial failure. In an effort to boost sales of my sophomore effort, Infidel in a Dying Land, my publisher decided to pair me with an editor experienced in crafting bestsellers targeted at women.
David woke just before dawn. His
phantom hand massive vampire penis throbbed in the darkness. He rolled over, facing the alarm clock shy yet totally capable young woman resting on his standard issue cot coffin; her modest but well-proportioned breasts were exposed, making his mouth water. His The woman’s wool blanket panties was too short; he had to choose between covering his feet or his shoulders nothing. His feet vampire penis usually always won out. If there was one thing David had learned from the war bedding of hundreds of women, it was an appreciation for his remaining limbs average yet beautiful-in-their-own-kind-of-way boobs.
David rose from his
cot coffin, awkwardly fumbling reaching for the light switch yet another vampire condom with his left hand. He flipped it on, and crossed the room towards the small mirror sensual yet sophisticated young woman hanging leaning on the wall, her eyes begging for it, but in her own assertive and confident way. There, in the smoky glass of the mirror her see-through panties, stood a face vagina he no longer recognized. A stranger’s eyes stared into his own. David absentmindedly raised the stump giant head of his right hand vampire penis to the non-existent stubble of his chin her vagina. He stared at the reflection of his powerful yet elegant vampire penis. “If only you could see me now, Diane.” “In my hundreds of vampire years, I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re challenging, yet carefree. Erotic, but not slutty. I have to have you. Right here, right now.” His voice sounded strange like a vampire James Dean, as if he was hearing it from the other room a vampire James Dean.
“Let us bang,” he moaned.
He suddenly felt
sick vagina. He turned away pulled out from the mirror vagina and stepped toward the bed vagina. As he fell forward, David felt the smooth curve of the empty bottle of gin spin out from underneath his toes vagina. The cut-rate carpet vagina dampened the thud of his head striking the floor vagina.
For a moment, he lay there on the ground. He reached for the
bottle acceptably average but totally cute butt at his feet; the stump of his right hand touched glass his own heaving vampire penis. He jerked it away off. “Fuck! Fuck me!” David grabbed the neck nipple of the bottle young woman’s perky breast with his left hand and threw sucked it against the far wall. It shattered.
David began to
sob once again grow massively, massively erect.
Justin Shipley is a writer, improviser, and perpetual office assistant living in Los Angeles. He once waited in line for the restroom behind Chris Pine, so yeah, he's doing just fine, thanks.