Ankles and Sex

Do my ankles look swollen, Martin?

Maybe a little puffy, dear. Although you’ve always had gorgeous gams. Are you eating right?

Not so much lately. I seem to be distracted.

Ah, off your feed then, Harriet?

God, Martin, that makes it sound like I’m a horse.

Sorry, Dear.

Oh, well.

I’d rub your feet for you if I had substance, Harriet.

Yes, I know you would, dear. I appreciate the thought, even if your hands are misty memories now. You always were fairly good at it, too. I loved some of the spots you so cleverly hit. Weakened my knees, I tell you.

Well, finally! A comment from you that isn’t in some way making my manhood feel even more insubstantial.

Don’t be stupid, Martin. You know you were always a fairly adequate lover.

Fairly adequate… well, don’t get too effusive there, Harriet. Wouldn’t want you to muss your hair in the excitement.

Give me a large break here Martin. I can’t help it if you decided to marry a bitch.

Uh, …

Ha! I finally rendered you speechless.


Quite right, Martin. Quite right.


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