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Betrayed by love, Jenna gives in to forbidden desire.

She has a nice little fuzzy landing strip over the oriental peach. Then she comes close and gets back to work on my Jolly Roger and I start rubbing her coochie until it is wet enough for me to get two fingers inside. My other hand is squeezing her sweet apples and she is keeping up a nice steady up and down rhythm along my bald eagle.

I feel the dong juice building up as she strokes. She brings her hands up to the bell end and just runs her fingers around lightly. The bully beef starts jumping up to meet those fingers and the pressure is getting terrific. Now she runs her fingers up and down a few times, and then wraps both hands around it and really gets to jerking.

It isn't long before the flag gets to the top of the flagpole. I start spurting man cream up in the air and she is holding on tight. Then I fall back exhausted, my fingers still twitching in her little pootie tang.

She goes about the business of cleaning off my banger baton, wiping it nice and friendly with a hot towel. Then she gives me a real polite bow and walks out of the room, motivating her cute little back bumpers as she leaves. I figure this is money well spent and walk on home, my Jonathan resting comfortably in my shorts and not bothering me for the moment.

It seems that relief don't last very long when you are young and male and randy. Sure enough the next morning I wake up with a great big Woody Woodpecker. I got my mind on nothing but boinking a sweet muffin again. I dial a few girls' numbers looking for one who is ready for some rumpty-tumpty, ya know what I mean? But my luck is not in because they are all busy or switching me to voicemail.

The nice thing about the Big City is that you can always go for a walk to relax. I gets out on the sidewalk again to clear my mind and see if the hot rod will cool off. But just like yesterday, everybody I pass seems to be talking about playing hide the salami while I ain't.

I pass a couple guys with big black hats and long beards. I figure them for diamond merchants for sure. I can't help hear one of them say, "Abraham, vat is a man to do when his vife isn't available? Am I not a man? Do I not have a man's needs? My schlong is dancing."

His friend replies, "Hyman, it is simple. No need to let vorry Golda. Just find a nice koorvah to shtup. Believe me it is vorth the money."

Hyman says, "You do that, Abie? It vorks for you?"

Abie replies, "My friend, I promise you, it is easier to buy a little schmoonda to dip your petzel in than it is to worry about when your vife goes to the mikvah. You just come down the street with me and I show you where, you know vat I mean?"

Well, low and behold, these two fellows start right off for the same massage parlor I visited yesterday. I thought about following them, but cash was getting short and I couldn't depend on buying a happy ending all the time. I dialed a couple more numbers but still no answers.

Now Noo Yawk attracts a lot of different types. You never can tell what you happen on around here. But I wasn't expecting the next pair of guys I almost bumped into. Two working men with soft brown caps were standing outside a pub named The Black Swan and talking with an outrageous accent.

"Jamie, I wouldn't mind dropping in fer a pint at the Mucky Duck meself."

"Shure, Mike, Oi'll lift one wiv you, but I wish I was back where I could 'ear the Bow Bells chiming, I does"

Cockneys, for all the world. There are some of them around the city, and I like to hear them talk. They have this crazy slang where you have to figure out the rhyme. It took me a bit to understand what these two were talking about.

"Mike, wot I misses the most is my sweet little Rosie. I would sure like to pat her little Jack and Danny again. We could play a bit o' slap and tickle at the back of the pub, yer know wot I means?"

"Jamie, I could squeeze me Molly's Eartha Kitts roight now and 'ave me a grand old time. She is a foine one at doing a Two Bob. I miss 'er lips running up and down me Brighton Rock, I do."

"Ah Mikie, me Cobbler's Awls is turnin' blue thinking

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