Tales FmV

Filth ain't filth if it's funny!

Toe Jamming

toe jamming

I’m the type of girl who doesn’t get it. A man will have to literally ask me, You wanna fuck? for me to understand the situation. Otherwise we’re just pals. This young guy was my drinking buddy. He was about the same age as my adopted niece. So, of course, I’m thinking ‘Love connection!’. They were totally not into each other. After several attempts and several failures, I had to admit this was not a match made in ghetto heaven.

So I hit it my damn self. Karma. Karma is the biggest bitch I’ve ever met in my life. Fast forward several weeks. I go to the ghetto to pick his young poor ass up. Back at the crib we start drinking. Sitting next to each other. I get a text from him, ‘Woman git off yo phone!’ I didn’t find the humor in texting me while sitting next to me on the couch. I realize I was probably being bitchy but everything about him was annoying me. I thought to myself, Damn, let’s get him done.
Upstairs, he’s eating the kitty. I’m not feeling it. I see the dick and damn, wow. Okay, huge dick. We can make this shit work. Throw a leg up. Jagged thrusts. Where is the negro hip rotation that freed several slaves in colonial America? Eh, maybe if I turn on some rugged rap music he’ll catch the rhythm. Nope. Damn you Tupac.

I just had to do a HBO Hookers on the Point check, ‘C’mon Daddy. Damn.’ He asks me to sit on his face and that will make him cum. When you’re rolling your eyes in irritation at the thought of sitting on a man’s face, you know you shouldn’t have done this dumb shit.

Normally, I have to be really into it to hop and bounce. But, like I said before, let’s get you done. I straddled the dick. Ass backwards -so he can see all and cum already. I grabbed his bony knees and got to bopping. Looked up and saw the crustiest feet to grace the earth since 10 b.c.

The toenails were yellow and loved the toes so deeply they didn’t want to leave. Those talons curled and swirled around each toe like a long lost lover, unwilling to depart. The white crust tried to come between them, but was rebuffed. Made to live on the outskirts of each crack, I could see the crust becoming resentful and finding comfort in the valleys of each toe.

Whatever moisture Tupac generated died. My vagina was as dead as the skin on the heels of his feet. Karma. Cougar. Karma. Failure. I was beyond speech. Rolled off that big dick, grabbed the bottle, and searched for oblivion. The memory remains.

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This entry was posted on August 10, 2018 by in The Tales and tagged , , , , , , , .

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