( the weird freaky sex thing is, in fact, just danny johnson himself, in the erotic mortal flesh, who snags his bedmate by her dainty jaw and skips the kissing part to splatter her fat bottom lip in red confetti spit. once, danny's mama told a young, tantruming danny never to pucker out his bottom lip if he didn't want a bird to land on it; her mama must have never taught her not to pucker out hers so strange boys don't get fucking presumptuous.

he rolls on top of her, knee tucked into the cradle of her thighs, hips on hips separated by a thin bedsheet and danny's buttonless trousers. she's got nice tits that fit in his hands like they were made to go there, goldilocks just right titties that danny inspects for damage, sandpaper calluses scuffing soft white skin and perky pink nipples and pale blue veins begging to be opened up, just a little.

he pops one budded peak into his mouth for good measure, then pops right off again, dribbling saliva across her collar like a beaded necklace, humming curiously. not a mark on her. maybe they didn't fuck.

or maybe she's a weird freaky sex thing, too. )

The tentacle groping ain't as fun as it sounds, though it ain't like I'd know for sure, ( says a man who knows, for sure.

his pinky hooks the bedsheet, inspecting what's beneath next. no tentacles for a pussy, disappointingly. but also: )

But I'll put on your panties right now if you can find them.