“By the end of my shift, my arms throb, the film on my eyeballs peels like an onion, my ass feels stuffed with novocaine, and my lower back is in such excruciating pain, I have no energy for anything in my bed except sleep.”
“Stacy must have looked at me and seen a white picket fence and two-point-five children or something because she clung to my ass like stink clings to raw chitterlings—she was all over it!”
“The girl slowed, and I could see her head turn as she checked me out, flat on my ass atop broken box crates and split-open trash bags.”
“I caught a vision of him standing behind me, my fat ass tooted up in the air while that nigga tapped the thick tip of his dick against my ass cheeks before easing every hard inch inside me.”
“I once had somebody charge himself airline tickets on my Visa—and you know, that card never even left my billfold, I had it on my person the whole time, in my ass pocket—and here it comes charging me, anyway, some somnabitch flying from Vegas to Boston.”
““Kindly inform Mr. Tochera that Mr. Mendip, senior partner of Clay & Westminster, reckons that the grieving relatives of fifteen dead people will be snapping at my ass by tomorrow, and that in his professional opinion a powwow today is better than one when my butt has disappeared.””
“I swallow the Vics back down and stare in the mirror and load up a shot of testosterone and plunge it into my ass in defiance.”
“Just her staying firmly locked as Mrs. Gunners while my ass was steady playing my position as wifey in second place.”
“There they would have given me an aspirin and shoved a flashlight up my ass to check for an over-the-limit bottle of Johnny Walker.”
“Now when she came to the mouth of the passage where I stood, she turned right and left and, calling one of the Castratos, whispered in his ear; and behold, he came up to me and laid hold of me, whilst another eunuch took my ass and made off with it.”
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Looking for tweets for my ass.