Felisha was crying out f*ck and a string of other words at the top of her voice as I thrust it in with all the force I could muster. When I blew my load into her I grasped onto her hip bones and kept pounding her ass until I was completely exhausted.
We got very little work done that night and not much the following night, in fact in the following three months I achieved very little apart from making my d*ck sore, it was just too much for me. In the end, I had to get my agent to tell her I wouldn’t be going round there again. In my place, he sent another writer called Hal Jordan.
I found it amusing because Hal was around fifty, he was four foot f*ck all and his ribs even showed through his shirt.
“I bet he won’t last the week out,” I said to Morty, “that woman is going to suck him dry – I’ll see you at the wake.”
Surprisingly Hal lasted almost six months. According to rumor, Felisha died of a heart attack while he was f*cking her in the bath tub. She left everything to that sniveling little prick, and while I’ve had to move back in with my parents, he’s throwing lavish parties in his Beverly Hills mansion.