her pleasure, my pain
the moment we pulled into the parking lot, i saw the cruel, impassive profile of the armenian hygienist as she silently wound her way into the office. “darn,” i said to james. $5 says i’m destined for her chair.
of course i was right.
after glaring at me with predatory eyes and offering only the most cursory greetings, she went to work. if her barbarous hook could find metal - in my cavernous mouth that is not a spectacular feat - it did. when she found an exposed nerve, she vigorously probed. as her high pitched water instrument eagerly expressed her pleasure and my pain she thrust her milky white suction tube down my throat, much farther than in needed to go.
i reflexively gagged she finally relented, instructing me that it was time to rinse. i quickly sat up only to discover that in the midst of my subjugation i was most utterly exposed. zippers have long been my bane.
as i quickly tried to recover i stole a glance at my oppressor. her impassive eyes reflected neither embarrassment nor delight.
that is one hard-arsed hygienist.
Quakers and Threshing Sessions
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