{random thoughts}

Here are some random thoughts I have while I'm sucking Baby Bird's dick and unloading spit into his mouth: over and over.

This is a lot of my DNA going into this dude's stomach. I wonder if he'll get an ulcer from this? Spit is naturally acidic and mine is triple because I eat lemons as if I need them to survive.

How much time has passed? I hope traffic isn't too bad tomorrow. Shit, he's sort of losing his hard on, better choke him out at the base. That's a little better. Fucker better not hold off coming past the point of no return.

Baby Bird: "Come up one more time and then let's sixty-nine."

"Okay."

Did I check for toilet paper after I peed last? Ah well. He wants the uber bright, up-the-ass-examine, he'll deal with tiny paper balls stuck to my vagina. I can't wait for Cabernet and steak tonight. How can he swallow this much saliva? I might hurl. Wonder if he's into that? That third drink wasn't the smartest.

We sixty-nine. He strains his neck to lick my butthole. With his head propped the way it is, my legs bent against the headboard, and leaning over his bulbous stomach, it puts a ton of pressure on the one arm I use to keep myself up. Which is why I tend to quit the position before he gives me the next thing he wants, but he does so as I'm awkwardly moving out of the sixty-nine.

Baby Bird: "Put the condom on, sit on it facing away, then deep throat me and come up so I can taste you on the inside."

I need to take Monkey to the vet. He also needs to be groomed. The inside of a vagina tastes weird, sort of bitter or like vitamin C. Why does he like that? Why does he like any of this? Damn, this is tough keeping all this spit in my mouth while deep-throating him. I'm running out of fluids. Time to speed up the hand movement.

Baby Bird: "Slow down just a bit."

Bite my ass, old man.

I slide a fingertip against his taint and butthole—works every time.

Just fucking cum already.

He cums.

Thank you, Jesus.

I get up to wash my mouth out, wash my puss and pee.

I wonder if he can hear me spitting into the toilet. He's probably sad knowing there was more and that it's being wasted down the city pipes.

Baby Bird: "That was awesome!"

I smile.

What seventy-year-old says awesome?

After he does his bathroom biz, we schedule our next monthly visits, hug goodbye, and he leaves.

Freedom!! Ugh, why do men leave soaking wet, dick wash towels on the counter? So rude.

I pick up the sopping wet towel between two dainty fingertips and toss it under the sink—out of my sight. I don't need the reminder. I can deal with it during, but it makes me gag when I think about it any other time. I flop on the bed and straighten out the pillows and bedding; erasing any trace. The cash is the only remnant I want left behind.

I text my crush, "I'm free!"