This is strictly a parody. As such, it's intentionally absurd, over-the-top ludicrous, and just plain silly. Hopefully you'll recognize those certain wildly hypocritical "Morality Police" critics who live to skewer writers of stories describing wives who aren't 100% pure as the driven snow. This one's just for them.
Pollyanna stood before the full-length mirror, simply admiring herself.
She was just incredibly hot.
'Gosh, I'm just incredibly hot, ' she mused delightedly to herself.
Incongruous, you say, for Pollyanna to be standing nude in front of a mirror ... in the fighter's locker room of Madison Square Garden?
Not at all. It was a big night for her. UFC 1,475: Revenge of the Thrice Offended was on tap, and Pollyanna was there. Though Pollyanna was just incredibly hot, she was also a news reporter, and somehow she always ended up naked in such environs.
Pollyanna and her meticulously put-together yet achingly envious friends met weekly for baklava and the filling out of wedding invitations. Once the pleasantries were dispensed with, conversation would inevitably turn to the topic of Pollyanna and her latest episode of finding herself completely naked in the company of hunky, horny and equally naked men.
"It just sort of seems to keep happening to me! Good thing I'm married though, huh, otherwise I might be tempted to suck all their awesome cocks dry, gorging myself on a never-ending bounty of yummy, cum-filled balls. Some of these guys, jeepers, their delicious beanbags are as big as a water buffalo's!" giggled Pollyanna coquettishly.
The well-put-together hens would all cackle in jealous agreement.
Although Pollyanna was forty-three, her loving husband always said she really only looked thirty-four-and-a-half. Then there were the buff, tanned, mule-dicked lifeguards who swore to her that she had a body any nine-year-old cheerleader would die for.
Back in the UFC dressing room, a naked Pollyanna was sucking sweetly on her pen as she stood hungrily - though not inappropriately - checking out all the naked men.
The Great Gustavo looked over at her. He was six-foot-six, two hundred and seventy pounds of jungle-pigmented reigning UFC heavyweight champ; a fierce warrior, for whom the term 'fierce warrior' was likely coined, and both he and his fourteen-inch "Anaconda of Love" were checking out Pollyanna.
Just a moment earlier his pile-driver cock had only been eleven and three-quarters inches, with a width of four and seven-eighths inches and the circumference of a "Big Gulp" Slurpee. He was flaccid then. That was before his feral eyes alighted on Pollyanna's preening nuditity, the sight of which made his incredible jousting spear grow steely hard and downright erect. He quickly shot up to his usual fourteen inches; nay, he pushed past fifteen, and his head spun from loss of oxygen.
"Nuditity!" he said to no one in particular, letting loose his manic third-world laugh. "I love that word. It's funny!"
In addition to being painfully dim-witted, Gustavo was also easily amused. There was one famous occasion when Heinrich the Hun tricked him into missing their match simply by rolling a colorful ball of yarn across the floor of the locker room twenty minutes before show time.
Gustavo was leering stupidly at Pollyanna's firm bottom when, like a dull thud, he was struck by inspiration. Reaching into his locker, he pulled out a quarter from his caiman hide fanny-pack and flicked it at her naked, ripe butt cheek, bouncing the quarter off her tight ass.
'I bet I could bounce a quarter off my tight ass, ' Pollyanna mused delightedly to herself.
Pollyanna was highly prone to musing delightedly to herself.
Her tight ass was such a tight ass that she was well used to quarters haphazardly bouncing off her tight ass. She had just come to expect it - quarters being launched off her tight ass - wherever she went.
'It makes me happy, ' she mused delightedly to herself.
Risking a glance around the locker room, she saw that she was surrounded by naked, sweaty, virile, granite-ab'd fuck puppets. Her bladder voided as she sighed through another earth-shattering public orgasm.
'Had I not been raised in a convent aboard a lunar space module, golly, I might be sorely tempted by all this mouthwatering cock meat bouncing around my face, ' she decided, realizing she was so horny that it made her tongue itch. 'I mean, sure, I suppose I might be tempted to act inappropriately around all these gorgeously well-endowed hunks with bodies that just make me want to bend myself backwards to piss down my own voracious gullet, ' she mused rather candidly to herself, 'but then not every woman with an ass you could bounce a quarter off of is married to Sledge, like I am. I would never behave inappropriately! I'm happily married!' she finished musing, giggling to herself.
Standing there like that, with two fingers buried deep inside her tight ass and glistening baby oil dripping from her excited and downright inhumanly long inch-and-a-half nipples, Pollyanna felt safe, content, and not the least bit inappropriate.
Sure, she was driving relentlessly in and out of her taut, quivering and audibly queefing ass. Yes, her seventeen-carat diamond wedding ring was making mincemeat of her anal sphincter with each bludgeoning stroke, and blood was pouring down her perfectly smooth, shiny thighs.
'That's okay, ' she mused delightedly to herself. 'A little anal blood never hurt anybody, and Sledge bought me this ring. If my darling, sensitive and incredibly wise husband didn't want me to rip my asshole open while standing totally nude inside a men's locker room full of hot, naked cock swords, gosh darn it, he wouldn't have bought me such a big, pretty ring! He did, though, because I'm the luckiest woman in the whole world!'
Gustavo, incensed and inflamed as always by the sight of blood, scurried over to bury his bearded face in Pollyanna's hemorrhaging ass.
'That feels tingly!' she mused delightedly to herself, giggling as she glanced down at Gustavo happily noshing away on her bloody bottom. 'It's a good thing I'm married! Sure, it tickles, being eaten like this, and I'm about ready to let him wear me like a sombrero, but it doesn't feel quite as wonderful as when my sweet, caring husband jams whole pineapples up there during our live webcam shows. Everything with Sledge is just the best! I love my eternally devoted man!'
Thirty thousand feet over Punta Gorda, Belize, Sledge was deep in thought.
"Cocktail, Mr. Hammer?" offered the pretty nineteen-year-old stewardess, interrupting Sledge's furrowed-brow reverie.
Miranda was the daughter of Sledge's personal pilot. She was studying at the local university to become a veterinarian because she wanted to help fluffy kittens. She also enjoyed helping her beloved father, so she was subbing that day as a stewardess for his flight.
"Mr. Hammer? Would you like a cocktail?" she again politely offered.
"I'm married, you whore!" barked Sledge, deftly knocking the startled girl to the floor with a violent backhand.
'Good thing I took off my brass knuckles in the john, ' he decided, nudging the unconscious girl with his boot. 'Don't need the hassle when we land of having to explain another crushed face.'
Excitedly rubbing his tumescent little trouser hamster, he grimaced and mused out loud, "Damn, I need a new cock pump."
Indulging himself in a few blissfully uninterrupted moments of lurid fantasies, he fingered the six-inch scar that ran diagonally across his left cheek.
Sledge's story to Pollyanna was that he had gotten the scar while single-handedly rescuing fourteen of his platoon buddies during the evacuation of Saigon.
"You know, babe ... the 'Nam. Dark times ... bad things..." he gravely intoned, shuddering convincingly before turning away to sob like a little bitch into his pillow.
He'd said he caught a hunk of shrapnel in his grill when he attempted to deflect an incoming mortar round with his skull, like the former World Cup soccer star he had also told her he used to be ... before that damn war changed everything.
She'd felt so badly for her brave and apparently formerly athletic hero. "Gosh, Sledge, you were a World Cup soccer star, even with your clubbed feet? How brave! That darn war!"
Her face had been wet with tears, but it wasn't nearly as wet as her oh-so-gullible pussy.
He'd just patted her on the head before draining his tiny nuts in her ear.
Sledge didn't mind that Pollyanna was just too plum stupid to realize that a forty-year-old man in the year 2009 would have barely been out of kindergarten when Saigon fell.
He didn't mind, because he didn't want Pollyanna to discover the real reason for his scar.
It was 1988 ... and fucking Billy Joe Babbit. That asshole never could keep his big yap shut.
Sledge - or "Ball Peen," as he was usually referred to behind his back by his college buddies - was enjoying one of his fraternity's quarterly gangbangs. That particular soiree involved the successful rounding up of a gaggle of blind, autistic chicks to serve as lurching entertainment for the entire house. Granted, those girls didn't do a whole lot in the sack, but they also didn't protest much, so all in all the guys were more than happy with the evening's fare.
There they were, just hammering the bejeezus out of a bunch of bewildered girls straight off the short bus. The frat dorks had them lined up in a row, and Sledge was dutifully taking his turn in one particularly hirsute Iowa farm girl's ass.
.... There is more of this story ...