Her mouth will be wrapped around your penis when the
supports go. “She” will be the girl you’ve
been fucking behind her husband’s back for the last seven months. As the fall begins and the seat belt holds
you down you’ll know for a fact, feel in your bones (and your bone zone HEYO)
that you’re going to die. Irreverent and
dickish to the last, you’ll clutch the ponytail at the back of her head and
drive her throat down on to your dick in an effort to achieve one last
self-serving orgasm before the end comes.
It’ll work almost too well.
As you thrust into the back of her throat you’ll arch your back in your
seat so that the impact of the car hitting the water snaps you forward and
extends your neck, snapping it so violently that your spine will sever
itself. Your grip will relax and her
head will speed away from your penis upon the moment of orgasm, but you’ll die
all the same, jizm dribbling out of your penis and down your pants while your
horrified concubine swims out of the open window of your car, even as water
pours into it, and towards the surface.
She’ll emerge into light, one of a handful of bridgegoers
with the temerity and foolishness to not wear their seatbelts and/or awkwardly
position themselves over a relative stranger’s penis to correct some low
self-esteem issues that emerged earlier in childhood. She’ll resolve, as she begins to swim towards
the shore, that she’ll go back home to her husband and never speak of you to
him, to anyone really, spending the rest of her life as a faithful wife. She’ll tell herself that this is god’s will,
but really it will be her fear guiding her towards the shore.
Congratulations on Dying When the Bridge You’re On
Collapses!
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