/lit/ - Literature

This really is not a good book. Portnoys Complaint is alot better.

And yet still my mind seems to turn back to that night, at regular intervals even. I can remember that night clearly, you had a ass full of farts. And I felt obliged to fuck them out of you. Every time I plunged my cock into you it had the effect of a air compressor almost, like I was just pumping them out of you. Like the space displaced by my massive erect penis was sufficient space to decrease the room available in your body, and there was just no room for those farts to stay. So they came gushing out of you, long windy ones. I plunged it in you again as a big fat fellow blew out of your hole. I started pumping faster and we begin to get a rhythm going of quick little merry cracks. And yet even though each fart was unique and special there was something universal about every one, I think I would recognize those farts anywhere even in a roomful of farting women.