A story from fuckedcompany
This is some good writing right here:
This evening, I shall shower, shave, slap on a little Aqua Velva, and put on my best suit. I’ll shine my shoes up nice, fold a silk handkerchief into my breast pocket, and adjust my jacket to be sure my colostomy bag isn’t bulging too badly. I’ll be sure to take all my pills and check my blood pressure. At 7:00pm sharp, the doorbell will ring.
It will be you.
I’ll invite you in, offer you a drink (I’ve already had a few myself), then escort you to the bedroom. With slow, shaky, arthritic hands, I’ll undo my trousers and let them fall about my wrinkly ankles. I’ll bend over the bed, spreading my withered buttcheeks wide for you, demonstrating that I’m already lubed up for you back there. Don’t worry, I’m clean and fresh as a daisy - I haven’t pooped since the colostomy, back in 1993.
You’ll unzip your pants, letting your thunderous erection spring free. Without further ago, you’ll ram it in, and the two of us will let out a simultaneous moan of ecstasy. You will begin pumping, faster and faster, wracking my elderly body with the force of your thrusts. Unbeknownst to you, my retarded son will be hiding in the closet, peeking through the keyhole and spanking his tiny, misshapen cock.
At some point in our communion of sodomy, I’ll expire, my final rattling breath escaping my lungs. The knowledge that I’m dead, the sound of my mournful son wailing “Papa, Papa!” in the closet, will only excite you further, and you will complete our lovemaking as you shoot your seed deep into my tight, dead bowels. You will pull out and wipe yourself off as my son bursts forth from the closet to embrace my corpse. Perhaps you will throw him a twenty on your way out?