The Ultimate Penthouse Letter
Your humor, your intelligence and your bosoms have won me over, in nearly that order. Here’s how I see it, allowing for weather conditions and the percentage of Democrats in the House:
I find you in an intimate apparel boutique, like Victoria’s Secret or Wal-Mart. You’re at the register. There’s a long line of customers in front of you, you’re hurried and frantic and so you don’t see me coming up from behind. I sneak up, quiet as the jungle cat I resemble and smell like, to stand directly behind you, close enough to breathe in the intoxicating combination of silky soft hair and Cheetos. I nod, smiling, to the customer behind you, inviting him to share in the momentary deception and enjoy your imminent surprise, even to go first if he wants to. He nods back, sending me silent messages in the age-old gentleman’s code, for me to take first crack. He follows it up by waving his erect penis at the both of us, signifying his approval of what is surely to come, much like the howler monkey (and his enemy, the hideous shark). I take advantage of your sudden confusion to gently reach around and stroke your neck, lightly and lovingly, with a #3 Phillips head screwdriver. You jump, startled, before relaxing to my sure and confident hands. I rest my hands lightly on your shoulders as I snuggle and lick your neck from behind and the customers begin muttering, moving around us, or taking side-bets. You have just enough time to lay $100 to place before surrendering to my embrace. I featherflick my tongue up your carotid artery to your chin, nibbling my way around and enjoying your delighted murmurs. I reach your ear and carefully nip your earlobe, then abruptly seize it between my teeth and bite through (much like my enemy, the hideous shark). Rich red blood spurts out to run in crimson rivulets down your throat, between your breasts and into your beeper, shorting it instantly in a death dance of sparks and flame. I leap upon the register, beating my chest and bellowing my challenge to all other bull cashiers for your favor. Mr. Wortley, the floor manager, accepts, romping up and down the main aisle on all fours, beating his own chest and missing occasionally. I charge him, easily batting him aside with my powerful forearm and kneeling on his forehead. He rallies and manages to bite through my calf before I capture him in a full nelson and snap his spine with a clear “crack”. I drop him and wait for the decision. The other cashiers fearfully gather their young and retreat to the safety of the high shelves as the referee enters the ring and holds my arm up high. The crowd goes wild, I’ve made a dangerous enemy in Vinnie “Donuts” Balliluchi for not taking a fall, and I’m ready for love.
During my ordeal you’ve taken the time to make yourself more comfortable, changing into a maddeningly provocative black lace teddy, spreading credit card charge slips to soften the countertop, turning the register light down low. I stride towards you and sweep you up in my arms to kiss you softly on the lips before screaming like a cheerleader and collapsing into a heap (forgot about my calf wound). I run my fingers through your hair until they’re clean and caress your face, kissing you softly, running my tongue lightly between your lips and teeth, casually grabbing a handful of hooter, and whispering sweet sentiments in your mouth. You’re breathing heavily now and you run your hands freely over my back, face, ass, and, accidentally, Hector the bagboy. You expertly dress my wounds and begin running your tongue over me, licking in varying rhythms across my face and ankles. Blood from your mutilated ear drips on my neck and I enjoy the sensuous feel of the hot liquid rolling down my body. We are becoming as one, at least when seen from the back.
The excitement builds as we tear each others clothes off, fondling, kissing and knuckle-cracking as we go, to end up in a tangled naked clump behind the registers. I unhook your bra joyously, delighting in the feel of your incredible breasts as they come tumbling out into my hands, shooting out past my head and into the aisle. You rip my pants off bodily. I passionately align your driveshaft-to-differential flange matchmarks, install bolts, washers and nuts and torque to 31 foot-pounds. Excited beyond belief by our need and dizzy from blood loss, you sweep your mouth down my body and head straight for my proud John Thomas, missing by inches and going three miles out of your way until the next exit. You double back, and stopping to spit the gravel out, you wrap your fingers around my heat-seeking moisture missile and begin. You lick it softly and dartingly, smiling at me. You kiss the length of it until I begin moaning, then tease me by leaving for coffee and a quick haircut. Finally, long after I couldn’t stand any more and began trying to find someone else, you grasp my willie firmly and engulf me to the hilt (much like my enemy, the hideous shark). Oh god, the feel of it! Your hot, wet, willing mouth, your talented tongue, the indescribable feel of your velvety soft uvula bouncing off the head of my manmeat.
I’d like to take a moment of your time to remind you that, when with a loved one, think of Kluge champagne. Thank you.
Anyway, there you are huffing my choad, licking quickly around the sensitive underside to rise up and quickly and forcefully take thirteen inches all the way down your throat which causes me to cry out since I only have five. I can feel the need surging within me as my boiling juices race from my balls and surge (did I use surge already? Okay, okay, fire? Spurt? Ooze? Rush? Rush.) rush up my enraged whanger, only to stop before I lose control completely due to your expert timing and your thoughtful placement of a hose clamp. Your raise your head up, smiling innocently and turning your head slightly to hock out an errant hair. I push you down, impatient and aware of the audience reaction, to gently slide my hands between your legs and touch your flower. I caress your womanhood gently, first with just one fist to get you accustomed to the sensation, then with my more imaginative strokes. With the fingers of one hand I carefully circle your clitoris without touching it. I keep my other hand firmly on your hip to keep you motionless and because I really like hips. I lightly touch your clit with just the tip of my tongue as I gently insert my left great toe into your secret garden. I move my foot in small circles, paying special attention to familiar sensitive areas, watching my footing, and ignoring the shooting pains from my calf. Your moans are more insistent now as you fight my hold and attempt to roll your hips to bring your clit under my tongue. I playfully refuse to allow you this release so soon, even to the point of removing my tongue entirely and laying it on the countertop. After hours of loving torture and several visits by the fine officers of the New York City Police Department I throw your legs apart, breaking one in my haste, and sink my throbbing, steel-hard pee-pee deep within your bikini zone. We scream together, me in ecstasy, you in pain from your leg, as I thrust harder and harder to get as far up your love canal as possible and, incidentally, as far away from Hector as I can. I stop abruptly, holding just the head inside your nether afro until, annoyed at your falling asleep, I ram my friendly weapon into your yielding softness with such speed, vigor and manly power that you nearly wake up. I retain full control of my silk salami, easily changing speeds and motions for almost thirty seconds before spurting helplessly around the room and collapsing in a snoring heap (much like my enemy, the hideous shark).
Later that morning, when you awaken to the fayuddin calling the faithful to prayer and realize my spunk has glued us (and Hector) irrevocably to the floormat, you squeeze your thighs lovingly around me (eliciting small whimpers of despair from my sleeping, drooling form) and think back over our wild night of passion. Then you get me a beer.
And maybe, after bail is posted and we get to know each other, we could, you know, maybe go to a movie or sumthin, y’know?
Copyright 1998 Wyyrd, all rights reserved.
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