“Don’t you fucken touch me.”
“I’m allowed to touch you.”
“Who said?”
“The mewling priest who married us. There was a bunch of rules and then a contract we had to sign. It gave me rights. Weren’t you paying attention?”
“Not really, no. I was too busy watching that lunatic you picked as a groomsman necking a bottle of vodka as I walked up the aisle. It put me off my game.”
“He had to. It was the only way he could manage to chuck a root into that crazy moll you picked as a bridesmaid.”
“Fine. Just don’t touch me until you do something about that hair. You look like something off the National Geographic channel that’s being hunted by tribesmen.”
“That’s my Plague-beard! It is sacrosanct! It cannot be shaved until the Plague has departed. It says so in the scriptures.”
“Fuck the scriptures. Fuck the Plague. And fuck that hideous furry shit-fuckery on your face. I did not marry the village madman. Do not touch me until you fix that.”
“Then I can touch you?”
“We’ll have that discussion when I see some results.”
I love her so much.
Subscribe and get to see the real spicy stuff and much more Check HERE to see what you get |
Alternatively, Tip me without subscribing if you enjoy my work. |
Or Via Paypal |
