(sequel to HARRY: A Trilogy)

An erotic love story


It isn’t the fucking.  I write about the fucking, sure, but let me say at the very start that Harry is the love of my life, the love of my soul.


I don’t know how to write about stuff like that, so I write about the sex.


Harry and I have lived together for a few years.  If you want to know more, you can darn well take the time to read the Harry trilogy which tells the backstory.  Otherwise, don’t complain and take what you get.


There are four of us:  Lily, Harry’s fifteen-year-old dog, and Simon Rattle the Cat (yes, named for Sir Simon) who is nearly seventeen, and of course we two humans.


Harry is an artist.  I am a writer.  Harry has a studio in Soho and I have an office at home.  We live in a three-bedroom condo on Manhattan’s Upper East Side.


I am a vegan.  Harry is a vegan at home.


We do a lot of things, separately and together, so don’t go thinking that fucking is all we do.


On the occasion I’m about to describe, Harry and I had decided to arouse and satisfy one another using only water as a device.  The handheld shower with the adjustment panel of a fighter jet figured prominently in our plans, but if one or the other of us came up with an additional creative use of water, then that would be admissible.


We decided this in the morning as we prepared to launch into our individual days.  This amounted to some fourteen hours of virtual foreplay.


We parted early to go our own ways.  Our schedules change because we work for ourselves and we are in and out of one another’s ways at odd times but on this day we didn’t expect to see each other until early evening.  Harry was heading to his studio and the course of his day usually led to visits to galleries and museums all over town – he was becoming known and respected, and it was heady stuff.  I was working on deadline on a piece for a majorly major magazine, on special assignment if you please, and I intended to work through until it was finished.  Since I worked at home, I’d be there for Lily.  Lily is Harry’s (and now our) beloved elderly black medium-sized mixed-breed dog.  She has her own bathroom accommodations, but the vet says she needs a twice-a-day once-around-the-block swing for the exercise.  This is no problem for me because I love this dog as if I had known her all her life.  When I’m not with Lily, she hangs with Simon Rattle the Cat.


Harry’s key in the door at 7pm-ish brought Lily and Simon to the door where a lingering three-way greeting took place.  I watched from the open bar between the kitchen and the living room because this ritual gives me so much pleasure.


The four of us puttered around the kitchen, only the cat and the dog digging into their meals, with the humans merely grazing and touching and caressing one another as we pretended that it was dinnertime.  The hours of anticipation worked: we were acutely in the mood.


Simultaneously, we rose from the kitchen table and moved to the bedroom.  I was naked by the time we got there since I was clad only in my around-house sweat shorts and tank top.

Harry was without clothes only seconds after I.


We headed for the bathroom.  We didn’t touch.  Remember, this was Water Night.


We got under the regular shower and soaped each other’s bodies and hair with the excellent vegan melon and cucumber body wash we both love which leaves us smelling so fresh. 

We did not stimulate one another because the rule was water only.

The fact of avoiding exciting one another made us just about frantic by the time we turned off the overhead shower and commandeered the dashboard of the handheld power shower.


The first target of the jet was my nipples.  The spray was already sharp and the initial tingle of the water jet made me gasp.  Harry moved the spray around, touching me with nothing other than the water spray, making adjustments to the spray intensity until I indicated that it was perfect. 


I wanted to reach for Harry, but it was against the rules.  I reached for his hand holding the shower to push it downwards, but Harry pulled back his hand.  No touching.  I pointed.  Please? 


I sat on a small bench I use when I shave my legs and I opened my legs to give Harry access to my clit and my labia which he approached with enthusiasm and lots of water.  He adjusted for a sharp needle spray with an intensity which was almost more than I could bear.  My labia and my clit were engorged and throbbing and I was close to orgasm with only the touch of the water.


Harry brought the jet spray in close to my clit and moved it over the surface until my cries let him know that he had it right.  My water orgasm broke the surface and I cried out Harry’s name.


Harry’s neck, back, shoulders, ass, armpits are sensitive, so I ran the needle spray over these areas, as he writhed with pleasure.  I let him spread his ass cheeks and I sprayed his ass crack and hole which made him moan and rotate his hips with pleasure.


I worked his balls, beginning at the base, thoroughly.  Harry’s balls are large and heavy and both of us love them very much.  The needle jet spray was exquisitely tormenting and Harry was making the motions of fucking, his erect veiny cock doing a stiff dance in front of us.


At last it was time to get down to business.  Don’t get me wrong.  I adore Harry’s cock.  Literally.  Not for nothing do I call him a sex god.


But I really didn’t know if I was going to be able to bring this off.  So to speak.  I mean a real, live gloppy orgasm.  With a handheld shower.


But I love a challenge and I love Harry and I love Harry’s penis, so I was game.


I started at the base and moved the spray around, up, down – watching Harry’s face for reaction.  I moved the spray around the circumference, then up and down, sides, back, front – always watching for reaction, listening for intensity of moans, shortness of breath, gasps, shudders.


I was gratified by the presence of all of the above reactions, including a few unscheduled whimpers.


God, this man is hot.


Harry was beginning to beg.  So appealing in a man.  I decided it was time.  I broke the only-water rule to grab the thick veiny, pulsating shank of my lover’s adorable “member,” while I directed the water-needles at the tender purple knob which was glistening hopefully through the spray.


As I tormented Harry’s most sensitive spot, I worked his cock shank briskly and it took seconds for Harry to rear and buck and shudder and spasm into an orgasm which I bent to take into my mouth.  (In case you were wondering:  two calories, nutritional value of egg white.  Sole exception to my vegan diet.)


Harry and I slept deeply.


The next morning, water entered our lives again.  When we woke up, it was pouring torrentially.  The sound of the rain was so loud that the thunder sounded far, far off.


Harry had to drive to Long Island.  He bent to kiss me goodbye and I grunted.


I stayed in bed for a couple of hours after Harry left, cuddling lavishly with Simon and Lily, who would not go out in this rain, and who was delighted to miss her exercise.


I was just about to embark on the writing of a piece for which I was nowhere close to having an inspiration so I decided to take the day off to listen to the rain and maybe take a walk all rubberized so I could feel the rain pound on me which is something I love.


I typically get my news online – we have one television in the bedroom which is rarely used, but three computers – which I did while I had my Starbucks Kenya.


At about 4pm, I got a phone call from the Long Island gallery owner with whom Harry had been meeting.  Had I heard from Harry?  Why, no…


I was about to find out that water had come into our lives again.


With no visibility and slick conditions – the gallery owner who was also a close friend told me – there had been a massive vehicle pileup on Interstate 495, more famously known as the Long Island Expressway, the road Harry would have had to take – had in fact taken – to get back to Lily, Simon and me.


Eighteen people were known to have been killed outright.  The fate of literally hundreds of others was not known.  The site was a place of mayhem.


Harry’s name, my name and that of our Long Island friend had some recognition – and our friend had put in a number of calls, bandying about all three of our names.


Our friend and I were talking in the hushed, reverent tones of the bereaved and I was casting a benevolent eye on Lily vowing with aching heart that I would love her as my own for the remainder of her life, when there was a key-click, a knob-twist, a door-turn and in walked Harry, not the least bit dead.


I stifled, What are you doing here?  I said, He’s here, and hung up on our friend.  And joined the cat and dog around Harry.  Only I was surprised.


What accident?  Harry asked.


Harry had missed the accident and gone to his studio.  Heard sirens.  Lots and lots of ‘em.  New York City.


A tragedy that day.  But not ours.





Erotic love story

SEX TOY – An Erotic Love Story in Four Parts

by Leeza Coleman

Part 1

Guess what?  When I came home from Starbucks last night after a great evening of talk and laughter with friends, who was waiting for me, but my human sex toy.

He was waiting in my bed, one of the few places he belongs, the others being the bathtub, the floor, the toilet, the big reclining chair or anyplace it strikes my fancy to drape him for access to his ass or his cock and his balls or his nipples or his feet or whichever body part I wish to tease, luck, suck, rub against, stroke, eat, blow on, torment.

He is my favorite sex toy because I can make him moan.  I can make him whimper and cry with need.  I can make him beg.  I can make him cry out.  I can make him scream.  I can cause him to shudder and spasm and twitch.

I can make him forget everything in the universe except his need to come.

There are no toys like this at F.A.O. Schwarz.

And there is something else my sex toy can do that more, well, plastic sex toys can’t: mine can possess my body – my ass, my nipples, my cunt – with his tongue and mouth, his fingers and hands, his cock so that I am completely helpless and for that time belong to him utterly.  He can make me come so hard from deep within me, and spreading through my full body to every nerve ending, that I feel as if I am going to shatter as wave upon wave of personal monsoon wash over me.

My vibrators vibrate; my human sex toy does not.  But he wields the vibrating toys on me – as I do on him – in ways that the vibrators themselves could never think up on their own.

So, as I said:  I came home to find Human Sex Toy on my bed, reading the New York Times.  This is allowed.

Conversation is not allowed.  The only permitted verbal outpouring is that related to the sexual activity at hand.  We may refer to past or future sexual activity as long as there are no statements of intent, mentions of other individuals, anything that could be construed as a promise or commitment, anything that could be interpreted as a demonstration of affection.

Perhaps I should explain. No, there is no “perhaps” about it. An explanation is called for, and right about here seems to be the perfect place.

My human sex toy was in disguise as a funny, smart human person called L…. who told me all sorts of interesting stuff about his life, his job, his interests.  He evidenced affection for me.  He was fun and hot.  Great combo, right?  Sure is. That is, when it, in fact, exists.

It turns out that the L…-person was the well-executed facade behind which skulked a sex addict.

Yes, I said sex addict.  Go look it up.

“Sex” is not the deal in the devolution of the L…-person to Human Sex Toy.  “Addict” is.

Maybe this little joke will give you an idea of what I’m reaching for here:

Question: How do you know an addict is lying?

Answer:   His (her) lips are moving.

Are you eager to hear loads of stuff that you know are lies? Do you want promises that you know won’t be kept because this is not an actual choice an addict can make?

Or would you rather hear nothing at all?

I chose nothing at all.

When Sex Toy (hereafter, I will refer to him as ST) becomes useless to me as a sex toy, he will be shown the door without even a spanking to make him hot.

Now, my sex toy is still reliable for rendering me suffused with hot desire and shattered by gale-force orgasm.

If he decides to leave – I will get a new sex toy.  Maybe I will also get one I can trust as a friend.  So, back to fucking the erstwhile-L…-person, now reborn as ST.

ST has brought me a gift.  Wow.  How touching.  It will fit without sizing, it is something I have never before owned and it is a classic, so it will never go out of style.

It is an enema kit.

My welcome home was to be my first enema, after which ST would get his very own enema – also my first – to perform.  Virgin enemas all around – at least for me.  I did not ask ST, of course.  If he had told me that he had had, oh, 700 sex-connected enemas, how would I have known if that meant, really, a mere 500, or if he was shielding me from knowledge that he had had some 6,000 of the things?  (I am far too delicate for that kind of information.)

ST explained that he would see that this felt pleasant and that after our enemas our ass sex might be hotter. He was very gentle. I was nervous but I was hot.

This is how ST did my very first enema. I liked him very much after he did this, but I did not tell him.  You do not tell toys that you like them. And this is one of the things we were not going to do: expressions of affection.

I am not a liar.  But Mr. Sex-Addict-erstwhile-L…-person is, so he is not getting the truth while I get lies which is clearly about as unfair as it gets. (If you’re reading this, Sex Toy, shut up.)

So I go naked into the bathtub where there is a long soft comfy bath pillow and ST has put a kind of rubber sheet (another present!) on top.  I lie down on my left side.  ST strokes my nipples but I am nervous. I want to go ahead and get it done. He warms the nozzle under warm water in the sink and puts lots of warm lube so maybe I will get hot.  He fucks my ass with the nozzle. He fucks my ass until I moan a little even though I am scared.

He tells me the water is coming but it will be gentle.  It is. He puts more water.  I do not like it and ST stops immediately.  We always use condoms to protect our insides and because we do not care about touching each other’s body substances on the outside and because we like to bathe together after, the subject of enemas has never come up.

To help the rest of what is in my ass to come out, ST covers my biggest vibrator with a lubed condom and thoroughly fucks my ass as i lie in the tub.  Then he helps me to the toilet to let everything out.  While I am shitting he strokes my clit to orgasm. I hold him around the neck to keep from falling over.

It is ST’s turn for an enema at my hands.  He says not to worry. He has rinsed and turned, but not sanitized, the rubber sheet – I told you we are not bothered by what comes from each other’s bodies – the condoms are not because of revulsion.

I put the nozzle which I washed in hydrogen peroxide and I do not think ST even noticed in ST’s ass, no trumpet fanfare. He wriggled, sighed, got comfy and took the water like a champ.  He made it to the toilet. His cock was hard but I did not sit on it because it was too soon for him to come.  Also he would not let me.

On Enema Day, I had known for about four days that my L…. was in fact anybody’s L….

I was in a certain amount of pain over this.

No.  He is the liar, not I.  I was in a deep doo-doo-trough of pain.

As soon as I stop finding ST the hottest man in the Milky Way, I will send him on his way.  I promise.  This cannot possibly take longer than three decades.

The stuff in the tub soaking in a tub of peroxide solution – ST’s idea – I wanted to toss ’em on the floor and fuck, so he is useful for something – we took a shower.

I love when ST soaps me all over and washes my hair and rinses me all over with the high-power hand shower.   He soaped my ass, twice, I begged because it was so good, and held myself open while he directed the hard spray at my asshole.  I was crazy by the time he finished.  He directed the spray at my nipples which I love but right now I was so hot that it was cunt or die.

When that spray hit my labia and clit, my knees folded.  I mean, my legs simply buckled right under me. I would have dropped to the bottom of the tub if ST had not caught my arms.  I told him that I needed to wash him and get out of the tub.

I soaped him as he had soaped me. The powerful shower spray on his asshole and his balls and the shaft of his cock made him as desperate as I to get to where we could go to work on each other.

We were still wet when ST pushed me face down, spread my ass, buried his face in me and began to tongue-fuck me within an inch of my life, moaning and nearly crying as he did so.  I slid a pillow under my hips so he could finger-fuck me and push my g-spot into orgasm, but his hands were not quite in the right position for this.  I thrust my pelvis trying to find his fingers, weeping and begging for relief. “Make me come, please, oh, god.” I was too wild to realize what the problem was, but then ST got it. He lifted his body slightly and turned his hand palm up.

And suddenly, he was cupping, patting, stroking my g-spot – while eating my ass – a shudder of such intense ecstasy swept over me that I would have liked to wait to come but I had already fallen over this cliff. I arched my hips toward ST, threw back my head, screamed the hoarse inarticulate call which was the only sound of which I was capable, as he ate my ass and manipulated my g-spot throughout my long orgasm.

I asked ST for a few minutes to recover.  He thought I was joking. Complimenting him for the intensity of the orgasm.   Fact is, he had obliterated me.

I dozed for about ten minutes, I guess, when I felt ST eating my ear and fingering a nipple, both of which arouse me deeply.

My appetite for ST is huge.  I told him that if he’d let me have his ass (shame to waste the enema) and his balls for breakfast. I’d see what I could do about arranging an orgasm for him.

I went straight for the balls, which I sucked on for a while. This is soothing.  I think it’s the same kind of soothing a man might get from a woman’s nipple.  I don’t know.  I just know that I love latching on to testicles.

Then I ate some ass.  ST is always fun to eat. He was fun to eat after the enema.  But an enema is not needed to make eating his ass drive me crazy.

I was still shaken and weak, but I felt that I could manage a small clit orgasm.

I told ST, who by then needed rather badly to come, clit first, then cock.

ST dispatched the clit requirement with his tongue and threw in a little g-spot surprise which shook me to the core.

I was so shaken, in fact, that I looked at ST, shook my head, and said, fuck you, buddy, just do it.

I poked my ass in the air so everything was out in the open, I rested on my elbows and I said to ST:

I am yours.  Choose your hole.  Fuck me six ways to Sunday.

And he did.

Part 2

Let me tell you, it’s a no-win situation dealing with an addict, unless the attributes you’re looking for in a friend are lying, sneaking, conniving, cheating, stealing, bamboozling, manipulating, unreliability, deceitfulness, untrustworthiness, disloyalty. If these are what you cherish in a friend, an addict is the way to go.

As for me, these are the personal characteristics whose promises of unending joy send me screaming into the night.

Why am I telling you this?  Did you stop by to read about sociology?  Psychology? Addiction pathology?  Of course not.

You stopped by to read about sex.

The connection is that my lover is an addict. A sex addict.

Is this cute and madcap, or what?

Now, I know that the addict-friendship capability capacity is negative. Then, I tell you that my lover is an addict.  A sex addict.  But I have told you that he is my lover.  My addict lover.  My lover addict.

What gives?

Here’s the thing of it.

L wasn’t always a sex addict.  Well, no, I mean, he was always a sex addict, it’s just that I didn’t always know that L was a sex addict.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that I learned that, instead of being my always-hot lover, L was in fact anybody’s always-hot lover.

How did I find out?  Well, I had an inkling.  I asked.  And, suddenly honest for the first time in his life, L told me.

This might have destroyed a lesser woman.

Here’s what the greater woman did:

I considered ordering L off of the planet.

Then I remembered that I have needs and that L just might be the best lover on that very planet.  I didn’t have even an understudy, let alone someone ready to take on the role of Always-Available Ass.

But I was going to hold on to my dignity with both hands.  Okay, with one hand.

I took steps:

a)  I changed L’s name to Sex Toy, Human Sex Toy for formal occasions.

b)  I forbade conversation about anything other than the sex at hand (this usage is rhetorical).

c)  I forbade L to tell me tales of home, the office, life; to make future commitments or promises; to make any type of demonstration of affection.

Why?  I thereby dehumanized L, shielded myself from the shame and ignominy of having to pretend to believe probable lies, gave myself a measure of control over a situation in which I was, in fact, absolutely powerless.

The good news:  I believe that Sex Toy did not realize precisely the extent of the devastation.  I could keep having sex with a man whose body and touch turned my knees to jelly and my body into an aching mass of need – and, from there, into a tsunami of total-body shuddering orgasm – without his being aware of my inner feeling of having relinquished my self-respect.

Got the picture?

Good.  Then maybe you’ll tell me what the fuck I’m doing.

I’m now going to tell you about our latest fuck.

But first let me mention that the L-to-Sex Toy switch doesn’t always come off quite as planned.  During intense sexual arousal and in orgasm, it has not felt right to cry out: “Oh, Sex Toy, please don’t stop. Make me come!” or “Now, Sex Toy!  Yes!”  So L gets used then.

Back to sex.  The thing for which, with Sex Toy (who henceforth will be ST for fewer key strokes), I am willing to put up with so much.  (You should see this man’s ass.  Edible, I tell you.)

I’m home.  Online.  Blogging.  I do politics.  I get a phone call.  It’s ST: can he come over? I kind of expected him, but the new rule is no commitments, no promises for future.  The deal is he calls if he wants to come over and I say yes or no.  If I am out or busy that’s the luck of the draw, tough titties.  [ST accepted, without question, all of my conditions.  Either he likes me more than I think (least credible); has been down on his luck pimping himself recently (pretty credible); thinks I am the best fuck he has ever had (actually, very credible – little pat on the back)].

Sure, come over, I say.  Takes about 30 minutes.  He comes right up – doorman has instructions.   I let him in and when I see that he has broken our rules Big Time I scowl.  I mean it.  I am not delighted.  ST, trying hopelessly to become L for the night, is carrying a bunch of gerbera daisies, which I adore.  I grab them out of his hand and without a word stalk into the kitchen to make them comfortable in a pretty vase. They match my kitchen – it is for this room that temporary-L has meant them.

I’m still scowling and snarling when ST puts his arms around me – still wearing his coat, cold against my light T-shirt, shorts and bare arms and legs – and pulls me to him for a long, slow, hot kiss that would be too short if it went on for thirty minutes.

When he pulls away, to take off his coat, I am left standing there, empty arms raised and open, unable to speak, needing his body, his mouth, his cock, his hands – and his gorgeous ass of which I am never able to overeat.

ST is naked and I am still standing, unmoving.   I am standing in the kitchen entrance where ST kissed me – ST has been moving around the living room, as I watched, removing and placing his clothes on the couch.

He takes my hand leads me to my bathroom where he strips me naked, pushes me down on to the toilet and tells me to evacuate whatever I have inside.

I obey.  ST prepares the loveliest balsam pine bubble bath.  After I have gone to the bathroom, ST does, telling me to climb into the bubbles.

I obey once more.  The bath feels and smells wonderful.  I soap myself, even though we will do it again for the hand shower, because the soap, too, smells like pine and I love it.

Then, ST is in the tub.  He has moved me, so that I lie on top of him.  His pine-soapy hands are working my breasts and nipples, my belly and my pubis.  My hips are moving as if we were fucking and I am moaning.  ST is speaking softly in my ear and breaking the rules again about expressing affection.

I feel his hard cock drifting between my legs. I beg him to put it in.  Not yet.

The bath is cooling and we rise clumsily to our feet.  As we say bye-bye to the pine forest, ST is setting the power hand shower to the sharp needle spray that can actually bring me to orgasm on my clit.

We soap and rinse.  It is erotic, but this is not going to be where the earthquakes are going to happen tonight.  The only communication I now trust with ST is the sex we are doing right now – in this, our communication is infallible.  This is more dangerous than it sounds.  Unless, maybe, if you are a psychiatrist, then you totally get it.

We dry off separately and move to my bed without touching.  I am dying for the touch and taste of him.  And the feel of him touching and tasting me.  And then he is. Touching and tasting me, I mean.  My breasts.   Everywhere on my breasts. Except my nipples.  He strokes in concentric circles with the palm of his hand, stopping short of the nipples.  The friction makes the skin of my breasts nearly as responsive as my nipples and I am starting to thrust my hips, moan and beg him to take my nipples.

ST touches me nowhere but my breasts and here he is relentless.  He never stops. And I can actually feel the orgasmic sensations building inside me.  Then he stops and he begins gently to work my nipples as if they were clits.  At the first touch of his palms on my nipples, I yelp and shudder.  As he strokes, rubs, then licks, teases and sucks my nipples I feel such frantic need between my legs that I beg almost in tears for him to take me where I need to go.

Suddenly, ST is gone.  He has touched me nowhere except my breasts and now he is touching me nowhere at all.  Then I feel his hands gently raising my knees, sliding a firm pillow under my hips and urging my legs open as wide as they can go.

For seconds I feel nothing except air on my exposed cunt.  But I know that ST is doing something.  I feel what can only be my tiny vibrator against my asshole, and then it is inside, oh, maybe an inch.  It is set on low. Think background music.

Then his finger – one finger – is stroking and teasing my labia. There’s extra lube which turns pleasure into screaming ecstasy.  ST is stroking the walls of my cunt, already sensitive, engorged and throbbing.

ST licks my clit: lightly, firmly.  I am dying.  A hoarse drawn-out sob my only form of communication.  ST removes the vibrator from my ass.  I know that this is to increase the intensity of what is to come now – something most woman will never in their lifetimes feel.

ST’s finger – I know now that it is his middle finger – has stroked its way up my pussy walls and is now circling my deep-spot – he is working the most sensitive zones outside of the deep-spot that a woman possess.

I feel nothing except the need to come. There is nothing else in the universe.  I feel no pleasure.  I do not like ST.  Just fucking make me come already.  Or I will die.

As ST’s finger settles on the deep-spot and begins to execute the special stroking motion which will shatter me, he licks my clit strongly and firmly with the flat of his tongue.  Then the deep-spot…o, god, o, god, o, god, o, god…

While I am still spasming and twitching and full into “o, god,” ST mounts me and fucks my cunt hard.  My cunt is still engorged and aroused and I might come again…it is sure I could have come again with his finger, but he knows that it excites me to know that his cock is doing this to me.

I tell him I’m not going to get it again, but I am wiped out, I am fine, but will he hold off coming for a minute and he says he’ll try.  ST groans when he sees what I am going to do.

I had bought this giant dildo, partly as a joke, partly to see how ST would react.  (I think that Mr. Monster Dildo is terrifying.)  It made him hot as hell – it doesn’t go all the way in, of course, which would mean internal injury, emergency room, surgery, yada, yada, yada, but sometimes we fool around with the tip, heavily lubed.

Mr. Monster Dildo is what I grab now. I need its length what with my arms having to reach all the way around ST and all.

I lube it heavily heavily heavily.  I reach around ST poking for the hole.  I want to giggle, but ST is too aroused to appreciate the humor. He reaches around and helps me find the hole and arches his back for the ass-fuck.

When Mr. Monster Dildo is inside just the right amount, ST moans, “Yes.”  I fuck him – sort of gently because an accidental high-force blow could mean having to invite my doorman to the gathering.

Now, I  say, “Fuck my cunt the way you need to do it.  Fuck me hard”

And he does.

When he comes and lurches and spasms, Mr. Monster Dildo flies right out of his ass, out of my hands and across the room.

This time, I giggle out loud.  We both do.

Parts 3 and 4 to come…