The above screenshot was an entirely inappropriate question posted to an entirely off-topic Facebook group. Group members called the hapless poster out pretty quickly. I, however, have decided to graciously fulfill his obvious desire to locate fap material.
I check my lip gloss in my compact mirror before I ring your doorbell. This is a big date, you said, a very important date, and your game is A+, or so you claimed. I needed to be ready.
When you open the door, I smile, pushing my shoulders back so you could get a better look at my full, perky breasts straining against my tiny white babydoll T-shirt. Other than that, a denim miniskirt, and stiletto heels, I’m not wearing anything at all. I know you can tell by the way your eyes widen.
“Hey,” I say. “You’re the guy from that Facebook group, right?”
“Uh…yeah,” you say, tearing your eyes away from my effervescent chest in a gentlemanly gesture. “Come on in.”
I walk into your living room. You’ve gone all out for this date, with candles, soft music, and even a bouquet of roses sitting on the coffee table. My heart beats faster as I realize you really do know how to treat a woman right.
“So,” you say, walking into the living room behind me. “You…uh…you said you would answer my question when you got here.”
“Oh, yes!” I say, and put my tiny pink beaded purse down on your coffee table. “Well, actually, I figured that instead of just telling you the answer, I would show you.”
You swallow hard, surprised by this comment. “Show me?”
“Oh yes,” I say again, with a dazzling smile that shows off my luscious lips and every one of my perfect white teeth. “That way, I’ll be freshly prepped and ready for you.”
I can tell you like this idea as my eyes fall on the bulge in your pants. It’s huge, the biggest bulge I’ve ever seen, and I used to date a Lippizaner.
You have a seat on the couch. I open my pink handbag and start removing the tools I need: a razor, a can of pink shaving cream, some Q-Tips, and a small jar.
“What’s in the jar?” you ask. The bulge in your pants is more prominent than ever, straining against the fabric. I can tell it’s taking all of your manly self-control not to touch yourself.
I give you my best secretive smile. “Oh, you’ll find out.”
I turn around and busy myself preparing my tools, bending over to give you a full view of my perfectly round, smooth ass through the fabric of my miniskirt. My skirt rides up a bit and I can tell you’re getting a full view of my perfect legs as well.
I hear you moan softly behind me. Then you say, “You know, if you want to just talk about it later….”
“Oh, no,” I say, my voice husky but teasing, like the smell of bacon you know is cooking for someone else. “I love this part. Prepping my beautiful kitten while you watch. It gets me so hot just thinking about it….”
I pretend to be arranging things for a minute or two more, just to heighten the tension. Then, I pick up the jar and turn around.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
I see you lick your lips. “Yeah, baby. I’m ready.”
I open the jar.
An ominous sound, like the flapping of bats’ wings, fills the room. But you don’t have time to comment on this; you’re too busy, suddenly, screaming as a rush of tentacles and a wave of briny slime slide across your masculine torso.
“Holy shit, baby, what’s this?” you scream, as the gelatinous mass comes to rest on your stomach. You try to flinch, to push it off, but its suckers have already fastened to your hard, muscular chest, injecting you with a fast-acting paralytic, and your arms are useless.
“You asked how I prep my vag for a hot date,” I say, batting my impossibly long and entirely natural eyelashes at you. “This is the first step.”
“What’s it doing? Get it it off me!” you screech.
“First,” I say, letting my voice drop to an erotic purr, “I unleash the tentacled hellbeast from the depths of the Void.” I tilt the open jar so you can see the inside. Rather than being the usual cylinder of glass with traces of vitriolic slime, as you might expect, the inside of the jar is pitch-black. A reddish light the color of blood flickers from somewhere within its bottomless depths.
You don’t notice the inside of the jar. Your eyes are fixed on the creature of darkness oozing across your lap.
“Then,” I say, “I let her clean up as Nature intended.” I drop my voice further, almost to a whisper. “And nothing turns me on more.”
Your eyes widen. A look of horror has frozen on your face. As the hellbeast clamps its six rows of teeth around the bulge in your pants, I begin to moan. The sound of my ecstasy is drowned out by your screams as the beast’s caustic saliva dissolves your body from the nutsack outward.
When nothing remains of you but a pile of bones and a faintly acrid smell, I tuck my kitten away demurely in my purse. I pull out my phone, and log in to Tinder.
Kittens love coffee and sharing on social media. Buy me the former or click for the latter.