Chapter 63

• “It is morning?” a young woman asked herself with intelligible guttural gags. She had slept a whole ten minutes which was better than most nights and enough to completely disorient her. She could not even tell if the sun had risen because of the coarse, hairy crotch of a man on her face, his almost equally hairy ballsack enveloping her nose and eyes like a pillowcase euthanasia. Deep in her throat was a cock bigger than any other on this Earth. It was like getting your esophagus fisted but by an appendage that had never once known the touch of soap. Something warm was being dumped right into her stomach in thick, unending squirts, which were joining countless others already sloshing in her belly.
• When she waved a hand in front of her face. The midsection of the man dissipated like he was made of light dust. Only his cock remained, and it continued to spew ancient semen with a hundred times the normal sperm count down her gullet. If only the jizz was as easy to disperse, she wouldn’t be constantly digesting a bloated stomachful.
• But at least, until the white dust reformed into a prehistoric, hip-thrusting Neanderthal, she had her answer: the room was bright. It was morning. And she needed to get baking. You don’t sell a house built on an ancient caveman burial ground without the smell of freshly baked cookies competing with the smell of 100,000-year-old cum.