ILOVEMISSMANNER
New member
So, I showed up at Missmanners's shack last Friday afternoon. I rang the doorbell, but all I heard from inside was a woman's voice screaming and yelling, and children screaming and yelling back. I rang the bell a few more times until I finally heard the argument come to a halt as someone screamed "Shut the fuck up! I gotta get the door!" The house boomed with plodding footsteps, and suddenly, I sawthe bloated, broad, exhausted face of Missmanners looming at the screen door, a mangled cigarette clenched in her teeth. She looked me up and down for a moment, and then asked: "The fuck you want?"
"Uh, I'm your date - I'm ____ from TK."
Missmanners brightened up noticably. "Oh, hey, alright, well come on in," she offered, kicking the screendoor open and motioning me in. Ice cubes clunked in a huge plastic mug she carried, filled with whatever alcoholic mix I smelled on her breath. "Sorry, hope you didn't have to wait long - I was, uh, talking to my kids." Missmanners was wearing a long, stained and tattered red t-shirt, stretched almost to her knees; she wore capri jeans against which her flabby legs strained mightily. One of the knees was worn through. Her flip-flops did not match.
A loud thump and crash echoed from the basement - Missmanners stomped furiously on the floor and screamed, "Goddamnit, knock that fucking shit off or I'm gonna come down there and KILL YOU!" Missmanners turned to me with a slightly embarrassed smile, muttering "Kids..." while the little ones in the basement pounded the ceiling with what I imagined to be a broom handle and screamed back, "Fuck you, Meemaw!"
"So, I, ah.. so, you ready?" I said. We had planned to see an early movie, followed by dinner at a cute little Mexican cafe. Missmanners lit a fresh cigarette, drank deep from her huge plastic party mug. Her foul belch led into the sentence: "URRRRRP yeah, you wanna help me, like, fold some laundry first?" She said it with a laugh - I got the feeling we'd be skipping dinner and a movie, and going straight to the good stuff.
I was afraid, very afraid.
Missmanners led me back through the house, kicking aside toys, magazines, oily engine parts, dishes, until we got to her bedroom. Interestingly, there were two deadbolts on her bedroom door, which she swiftly unlocked. She put her shoulder into the door, heaving it open against the foot-deep layer of underwear, cigarette butts, prescription pill bottles and burrito wrappers on the floor of her room. Ripped and battered plastic blinds admitted only a few slivers of light into the dark and musty hole that was Missmanners's room, and I was thankful.
Missmanners ushered me in, giving my ass a drunken swat on my way in, and bolted the door behind us. She shambled over to a bare, stained mattress on the floor, flopped down on it, and fumbled through her purse. Having found a nearly empty pill bottle, she twisted off the lid and upended the contents - four pills of whatever - directly into her mouth, washing them down with a final chug of her drink. Her face screwed up with the effort of swallowing, then she looked up at me, lit yet another cigarette, patted the space on the mattress next to her, and said, "I ain't gonna bite." Then she snickered in a way so tawdry, so filthy, so gracelessly lascivious that I considered bolting out the window right there and then. I don't have to go through with this.... I don't have to go through with this... I thought to myself.
As she sat there on the mattress, swaying slightly and leering at me, I thought of ways to stall. Over in the corner was a cheap second-hand desk with a nicotine-stained keyboard and mouse and an old, dust-covered monitor with the familiar crimson glow of TK. Tiptoeing my way through the filth matting her bedroom floor, I picked my way towards it. "So, here's the computer you post from, huh?" I could hear the nervousness in my own voice. "There's - heh - there's a lot of people who'd love to get their hands on this thing, you know."
"Yeah. Fuckin' cunts," she said, her words starting to slur. I rarely hear a woman used the c-word, but somehow it didn't sound so out-of-place in this house, from this woman.
As I tried to discern what thread Missmanners had been reading, I heard here flop back onto the matress - I looked back at her; she lay spread-eagle, cigarette pointed straight up from clenched lips like a miniature smokestack on some foul, polluted land. As I looked her over, and she me, she made her intentions plain with a sentence that was half spoken, half coughed: "What the fuck you waitin' for? You're horny, I'm really fuckin' horny, and I'm drunk."
Missmanners took my five seconds of shocked silence as a yes. Without passion or deliberation, she reached down, unbuttoned her jeans, and pried them off, balling them up and heaving them into the corner where they knocked over a half-full beer bottle. She didn't seem to notice - she was busy pulling her greasy red t-shirt up over her head. Her bra, yellowed and threadbare, came off with a pang!, and her pendulous, lumpy tits poured forth onto her belly.
For one blessed, hopeful moment, Missmanners looked like she'd forgotten about me - she puffed on her cigarette, regarding her breasts and flicking pieces of lint and food off of them. I was busy concocting an excuse for using two condoms - sensitive penis skin? prolonging the sex? - when the kids banged loudly on the door, hollering that one of them had gotten dishwasher detergent in her eyes.
Missmanners cut them off, bellowing from the mattress at the door: "Just go wash it out or call the fuckin' neighbors! My boyfriend's here!" Honest to God, my nutsack went tight and cold at the word boyfriend. But the kids kept pounding away and begging for attention, so Missmanners played what I imagined to be her trump card: she staggered to her feet, lumbered across the room, unlocked the deatbolts and through open the door, looming above the kids in nothing but a badly overtaxed thong. She yelled something at the childred, something I couldn't make out over the horrified shrieks of the little ones as they sprinted down the hallway and out the back door.
Missmanners slammed the door and staggered back to me, cigarette dangling from her crooked smile. "I'd guess we got a good couple a' hours now," she slurred.
Now the time had come - Missmanners walked right up to me, looking up into my face, her cigarette dangerously close to burning my chest. "Best part is, I don't need no foreplay," she said, ending with a laugh that quickly degenerated into a hacking cough. Not breaking eye contact, she reached down and peeled away her thong, letting the woeful scrap of fabric fall around her feet.
I know this can't possibly be the case, but in my memory of this, Missmanners removing her panties was accompanied by a low, unearthly rush of air, a dreadful doom that heralded an equally vile smell. It was the strip-club odor of feminine hygiene spray that was badly losing its battle against feminine funk. I nearly retched.
Missmanners stubbed out her cigarette on the wall and flicked it across the room. Looking back at me, she snickered, licked her lips, and said:
"Come to mama."
With that, she got down on all fours on the mattress, her knees spread apart, her hair hanging down to the ground, swaying uneasily. Her gigantic ass jiggled like jello, and like some kind of perverse seismologist, I watched the ripples traverse her flesh, back and forth. "C'mon," she beckoned again in a drunken slur.
With trembling hands, I undid the button on my jeans, unzipped, and let them fall to the floor. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I was horny and hard as a rock - no sex for a month and a half will do that to you. But it wasn't just that; something about this sad, filthy, awful spectacle had really turned me on. I usually dated (or had sex with) "good" girls, nice clean professional women from the world I'd grown up in. And now here was a fat, disgusting, degenerate skank on all fours for me, who wanted me to fuck her without foreplay or so much as a proper introduction. It had an irresistibly dirty thrill to it, although I know I'd hate myself later for this.
So, I rolled on the condom - never before had I felt so much allegiance and gratitude for a condom, I almost wanted to say a silent prayer of thanksgiving and sacrifice for it. I got down on my knees behind Missmanners, who mumbled something that ended in "yeah, atta boy." Resting on her elbows, she was busy lighting her next cigarette. I wasn't offended - I just wanted to get this over with and get far, far away from there.
I slid my cock in. She was wide and sloppy, but warm and wet, and she let out a long "ooooooh" as I entered her that trailed off into another coughing fit. The coughs were actually kind of a nice sensation - the spasms of her bronchial hacking, transmitted through untold pounds of fat tissue, massaging my cock. I began to fuck her, my hands dug deeply into the mounds of fat on her thighs, and she made vaguely sexual noises in between coughs, wheezes, and drags on her cigarette.
At one point, she muttered, "God damn, I really am drunk. Those pills..." I didn't pay attention - my eyes were shut, and I was using all my energy to pretend I was fucking someone else - my first girlfriend, my mom's secretary, Barbara Bush, whoever. I felt Missmanners shift a bit, and opened my eyes - she had reached across the mattress to snare a small plastic bucket, the kind you buy at the beach for your kids to make sandcastles with.
It happened too fast for me to do anything about it. Missmanners uttered a couple more words - "I think I'm-" and then brought the bucket up to her face. She gave a little gag, then heaved forcefully into the bucket, vomit splashing out onto her face, her hair, her breasts; splattering the mattress and walls, and even me a little. I felt her powerful waves of retches from deep inside her, and they squeezed my cock to a truly amazing orgasm, boosted by the pure depraved perversity of the situation.
I pulled out just as Missmanners collapsed onto her side, passed out, the bucket tipped over and forming a lake of puke in the mattress indentation where Missmanners lay. The vomit oozed around her, making a horrible little moat around her body. At that point, the smell, and more importantly, the reality of this room hit me with full force - and up came lunch, spraying between my teeth and out my nose, showering Missmanners with chunky, awful filth. She didn't stir, but continued snoring loudly.
I ripped off the condom, tied it off, dropped it on the bed in front of Missmanners's face (as a helpful reminder when she wakes up, I teased myself). I pulled on my jeans and ran out of the house, leaving skid marks on her lonely, decrepit street as I drove away as fast as I could. All I could think of was my shower.
"Uh, I'm your date - I'm ____ from TK."
Missmanners brightened up noticably. "Oh, hey, alright, well come on in," she offered, kicking the screendoor open and motioning me in. Ice cubes clunked in a huge plastic mug she carried, filled with whatever alcoholic mix I smelled on her breath. "Sorry, hope you didn't have to wait long - I was, uh, talking to my kids." Missmanners was wearing a long, stained and tattered red t-shirt, stretched almost to her knees; she wore capri jeans against which her flabby legs strained mightily. One of the knees was worn through. Her flip-flops did not match.
A loud thump and crash echoed from the basement - Missmanners stomped furiously on the floor and screamed, "Goddamnit, knock that fucking shit off or I'm gonna come down there and KILL YOU!" Missmanners turned to me with a slightly embarrassed smile, muttering "Kids..." while the little ones in the basement pounded the ceiling with what I imagined to be a broom handle and screamed back, "Fuck you, Meemaw!"
"So, I, ah.. so, you ready?" I said. We had planned to see an early movie, followed by dinner at a cute little Mexican cafe. Missmanners lit a fresh cigarette, drank deep from her huge plastic party mug. Her foul belch led into the sentence: "URRRRRP yeah, you wanna help me, like, fold some laundry first?" She said it with a laugh - I got the feeling we'd be skipping dinner and a movie, and going straight to the good stuff.
I was afraid, very afraid.
Missmanners led me back through the house, kicking aside toys, magazines, oily engine parts, dishes, until we got to her bedroom. Interestingly, there were two deadbolts on her bedroom door, which she swiftly unlocked. She put her shoulder into the door, heaving it open against the foot-deep layer of underwear, cigarette butts, prescription pill bottles and burrito wrappers on the floor of her room. Ripped and battered plastic blinds admitted only a few slivers of light into the dark and musty hole that was Missmanners's room, and I was thankful.
Missmanners ushered me in, giving my ass a drunken swat on my way in, and bolted the door behind us. She shambled over to a bare, stained mattress on the floor, flopped down on it, and fumbled through her purse. Having found a nearly empty pill bottle, she twisted off the lid and upended the contents - four pills of whatever - directly into her mouth, washing them down with a final chug of her drink. Her face screwed up with the effort of swallowing, then she looked up at me, lit yet another cigarette, patted the space on the mattress next to her, and said, "I ain't gonna bite." Then she snickered in a way so tawdry, so filthy, so gracelessly lascivious that I considered bolting out the window right there and then. I don't have to go through with this.... I don't have to go through with this... I thought to myself.
As she sat there on the mattress, swaying slightly and leering at me, I thought of ways to stall. Over in the corner was a cheap second-hand desk with a nicotine-stained keyboard and mouse and an old, dust-covered monitor with the familiar crimson glow of TK. Tiptoeing my way through the filth matting her bedroom floor, I picked my way towards it. "So, here's the computer you post from, huh?" I could hear the nervousness in my own voice. "There's - heh - there's a lot of people who'd love to get their hands on this thing, you know."
"Yeah. Fuckin' cunts," she said, her words starting to slur. I rarely hear a woman used the c-word, but somehow it didn't sound so out-of-place in this house, from this woman.
As I tried to discern what thread Missmanners had been reading, I heard here flop back onto the matress - I looked back at her; she lay spread-eagle, cigarette pointed straight up from clenched lips like a miniature smokestack on some foul, polluted land. As I looked her over, and she me, she made her intentions plain with a sentence that was half spoken, half coughed: "What the fuck you waitin' for? You're horny, I'm really fuckin' horny, and I'm drunk."
Missmanners took my five seconds of shocked silence as a yes. Without passion or deliberation, she reached down, unbuttoned her jeans, and pried them off, balling them up and heaving them into the corner where they knocked over a half-full beer bottle. She didn't seem to notice - she was busy pulling her greasy red t-shirt up over her head. Her bra, yellowed and threadbare, came off with a pang!, and her pendulous, lumpy tits poured forth onto her belly.
For one blessed, hopeful moment, Missmanners looked like she'd forgotten about me - she puffed on her cigarette, regarding her breasts and flicking pieces of lint and food off of them. I was busy concocting an excuse for using two condoms - sensitive penis skin? prolonging the sex? - when the kids banged loudly on the door, hollering that one of them had gotten dishwasher detergent in her eyes.
Missmanners cut them off, bellowing from the mattress at the door: "Just go wash it out or call the fuckin' neighbors! My boyfriend's here!" Honest to God, my nutsack went tight and cold at the word boyfriend. But the kids kept pounding away and begging for attention, so Missmanners played what I imagined to be her trump card: she staggered to her feet, lumbered across the room, unlocked the deatbolts and through open the door, looming above the kids in nothing but a badly overtaxed thong. She yelled something at the childred, something I couldn't make out over the horrified shrieks of the little ones as they sprinted down the hallway and out the back door.
Missmanners slammed the door and staggered back to me, cigarette dangling from her crooked smile. "I'd guess we got a good couple a' hours now," she slurred.
Now the time had come - Missmanners walked right up to me, looking up into my face, her cigarette dangerously close to burning my chest. "Best part is, I don't need no foreplay," she said, ending with a laugh that quickly degenerated into a hacking cough. Not breaking eye contact, she reached down and peeled away her thong, letting the woeful scrap of fabric fall around her feet.
I know this can't possibly be the case, but in my memory of this, Missmanners removing her panties was accompanied by a low, unearthly rush of air, a dreadful doom that heralded an equally vile smell. It was the strip-club odor of feminine hygiene spray that was badly losing its battle against feminine funk. I nearly retched.
Missmanners stubbed out her cigarette on the wall and flicked it across the room. Looking back at me, she snickered, licked her lips, and said:
"Come to mama."
With that, she got down on all fours on the mattress, her knees spread apart, her hair hanging down to the ground, swaying uneasily. Her gigantic ass jiggled like jello, and like some kind of perverse seismologist, I watched the ripples traverse her flesh, back and forth. "C'mon," she beckoned again in a drunken slur.
With trembling hands, I undid the button on my jeans, unzipped, and let them fall to the floor. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I was horny and hard as a rock - no sex for a month and a half will do that to you. But it wasn't just that; something about this sad, filthy, awful spectacle had really turned me on. I usually dated (or had sex with) "good" girls, nice clean professional women from the world I'd grown up in. And now here was a fat, disgusting, degenerate skank on all fours for me, who wanted me to fuck her without foreplay or so much as a proper introduction. It had an irresistibly dirty thrill to it, although I know I'd hate myself later for this.
So, I rolled on the condom - never before had I felt so much allegiance and gratitude for a condom, I almost wanted to say a silent prayer of thanksgiving and sacrifice for it. I got down on my knees behind Missmanners, who mumbled something that ended in "yeah, atta boy." Resting on her elbows, she was busy lighting her next cigarette. I wasn't offended - I just wanted to get this over with and get far, far away from there.
I slid my cock in. She was wide and sloppy, but warm and wet, and she let out a long "ooooooh" as I entered her that trailed off into another coughing fit. The coughs were actually kind of a nice sensation - the spasms of her bronchial hacking, transmitted through untold pounds of fat tissue, massaging my cock. I began to fuck her, my hands dug deeply into the mounds of fat on her thighs, and she made vaguely sexual noises in between coughs, wheezes, and drags on her cigarette.
At one point, she muttered, "God damn, I really am drunk. Those pills..." I didn't pay attention - my eyes were shut, and I was using all my energy to pretend I was fucking someone else - my first girlfriend, my mom's secretary, Barbara Bush, whoever. I felt Missmanners shift a bit, and opened my eyes - she had reached across the mattress to snare a small plastic bucket, the kind you buy at the beach for your kids to make sandcastles with.
It happened too fast for me to do anything about it. Missmanners uttered a couple more words - "I think I'm-" and then brought the bucket up to her face. She gave a little gag, then heaved forcefully into the bucket, vomit splashing out onto her face, her hair, her breasts; splattering the mattress and walls, and even me a little. I felt her powerful waves of retches from deep inside her, and they squeezed my cock to a truly amazing orgasm, boosted by the pure depraved perversity of the situation.
I pulled out just as Missmanners collapsed onto her side, passed out, the bucket tipped over and forming a lake of puke in the mattress indentation where Missmanners lay. The vomit oozed around her, making a horrible little moat around her body. At that point, the smell, and more importantly, the reality of this room hit me with full force - and up came lunch, spraying between my teeth and out my nose, showering Missmanners with chunky, awful filth. She didn't stir, but continued snoring loudly.
I ripped off the condom, tied it off, dropped it on the bed in front of Missmanners's face (as a helpful reminder when she wakes up, I teased myself). I pulled on my jeans and ran out of the house, leaving skid marks on her lonely, decrepit street as I drove away as fast as I could. All I could think of was my shower.
You should have sent it to OUCH!?! I havent laughed so hard in months.
