Whores don't scream.

 She screamed at the smegma of his.

“Go you son of a bitch, clean that smelly shit.”

He was furious that a whore had made him panic. 

“A graduate fucker,” she screamed.

“I hold a degree in bachelors of ….”

“Whatever, need a hole.”
Terrified that he would miss the opportunity. “Yes.”

“Get yourself clean, here take this soap.”

“Too many chemicals I can't even pronounce.”

“Can’t take  too many words from your mouth for the little price you pay.”

“Can i get some hot water”

“Lucky if you have water in the bucket.”

If there is a perfect whore with some sense of humour she is her.

If there is a room clean enough to reflect your enlightened heart, well that's not this.

Huge rats battling like WWE champions on the shelfs.

She would throw pieces of bread to calm them down.

Rats never care about pussy. They only want to escape from pussy.

He had successfully walked to the bathroom to find half the bucket with water. Not clear. Made him doubt more if it was piss mixed soap.

He smelled that shit and it was soap water.

He never wanted to make bubbles so he pulled his foreskin way back as it would reach with his left thumb and pointer finger.

He was surprised that he never took care of his penis.

He was cleaning his smegma and imagining how he would penetrate and she would scream. "Stop it fucker, i can't take anymore of it."

He was rubbing his glans with soap, up and down, jiff and jaff, rubbed clean, hu-hu…. Ha-ha…. He had splashed those millions of thickness on the toilet seat.

There you go… you and your disappointment of him not fucking the whore.

“How much time would you clean it, you can’t make it big by rubbing it more. You only splash the ketchup, you only chop it off.” she said knocking on the door,

He said what you would say. “fuck.”
A thousand times louder.

Cry of the doomer.

The whole house listened to his cry.

“What happened, did your penis fell off.”

“I splashed the mayonnaise on the seat. And I dont have any left in the bottle to smirk on your tits.”

“No worry.”

“You can foreplay a lot.”
He was relieved from the scream.

Happiness of the doomer is incomparable. 

She cleaned his penis with a cozy soft towel of her.

Kept her hands on his shoulders and escorted him to her bed and unbuttoned his shirt and grabbed him tight with her both hands around his shirt and dragged his right cheek with her left cheek so that he can sense her soft and she bent down a little and kissed him to make him awake. That was what glory meant, to kiss a woman, to enlighten, fuck those meditations and soul and power, and poems. Fuck those philosophies, they never gave you peace. Peace was never a mission. Peace was never an option.  Fucking was. Fucking with souls who made peace with your soul to fulfill other souls who could just like to want what you would say to make them awake. You need a good woman to hug you tight with her lips on yours, that makes sense, only that, nothing could. Tears of joy came running down as he felt the hardness of his little weiner poking to make way out to breathe on her navel so it can shoot a little of what  those tiny balls of his has produced within two minutes. That was the pain followed by floods, floods of pain. 

He never was a pro.

He had more than what he could take.

He leaked once more, but on her navel.

Pain, pain, again pain. Glory hadn’t reached the soul but the pain had pissed the mind.

She felt warm.

Disappointment in him of not fucking her was also warm.

“Alas, I couldn’t make lose your virginity.”

He cried a lot.

“Don’t worry, you can cum over and over again.”

“It needs a lot of practice to ream a cunt.”

“Perhaps you might ream more than gods.’

He couldn’t stop crying.

He screamed. But slowly

"I want to kiss."

She licked his lips like a snake and devoured it like a dragon and made him suffocate.

He couldn’t accept the experience of not fucking.

"I want to ream your cunt."

"Look at your dick."

"It will get up once you show your cunt flaps."

She loosed her pants and it fell down and she picked it with her toe and throwed it away.

No panty.

She lay on the bed and spread those marvelous black thighs exposing her rose petals.

Still it couldn’t get up.

"Perhaps i need to suck on those titties."

It didnt work.

He placed his fingers on those and they were dry.

He put his lips on the petals and they were ready. 

He polished them with those fingers, feeling every curve and wrinkle and hair on it.

He pushed his fingers and it was hot, hotty, hotter.

His nerves were shaking, shaking with terror.

He licked it again from butthole to the clit.

He couldn’t make her scream.

She was a whore.

Whores don't scream.

She was watching like a teacher who had given an experiment.

Poor, the student had written the aim but might not reach to the conclusion.

She already had the conclusion. Imagination won't make it. Experience makes it. 

He was scared.

He watched it, it was limp.

She looked.

"It would up any moment now."

"Go ahead."

He jerked a little and rubbed it on the lips and it was up.

"Go ahead."

He pushed it hard and it didnt go half the way and pain had spread those thighs and balls and the sauce had once again spilled.

You got the conclusion of not getting a conclusion.

Hence proved.