Always on Wednesday

Fri, 17 Mar 2006 00:00:00 +0000

This story sent to me by Rubbersheep, thank you for sending it in. If you are the author of this story, please let me know

“Rubber doesn’t grow on trees.” She snapped the thin black elastic sheath against her chest.

“Maybe it did once, but now it’s chemical magic. Smells like a petrol station in the summer, but tastes like hot penis and pussy.”

He didn’t say anything. He was too occupied watching her dress.

Peter Marlett on Gromet's Plaza Archive