My clit was taking flying lessons from Brad Pitt. He sat up close, flight jacket leaking English leather. She took his every word literally – round head fastened above her pit. Brad embodied an archetype – forever hyper to maximize buck bang, stoning in the bush multiple birds.
He multi- (straining to contain rape) -tasked; urged her to take the stick, while he munched on a bun, offering a jelly donut, describing a roll, simultaneously pitching the complex plane into a hammerhead stall.
My clit at once stood up tall, licked her lips – she was totally excited without being at all afraid. Bumped her head on the canopy. Rolled eyes up to peer out plexiglass at sideways horizon, while the machine whined earthward.
Brad jerked her back down into the cockpit. Switched back control.
Restarted engine. Wrenched from dive just before loss of cool – leaving both stomach pits skewered in the trees behind.
Brad flew up into the sun. Leveled out. Once again handed over control.
Instructed her to orbit the field. Nothing fancy. Keep it simple. This just a plane. She nothing but a teeny point; practically didn’t even exist. Let him – especially since he just wolfed yohimbe – be all thumbs.
So she circled high above the runway. Concentrated in professional fashion on flaps, stick, tail. Till with a leer teach was all over her.
Then it was all over.
Because she killed all the birds – held course, popped canopy, shot the bird, used a shoulder to take advantage of the torque of the arc of the plane to flip Pitt out of the pit into the air. Oh – quel pity!
She was about to weep; when finally his silk opened. She breathed a sigh. The little worm would after all survive.
Gazing at the medusa of Brad’s chute float toward the union of the bottom of the sky with the surface of the earth, my little man in the boat turned to stone, muttering to herself, “Although the sheath wears out first, the clit is mighter than the sword.” |
