“Glad ya could make it, son,” he drawled in a thick Texas accent. I noticed his cock jerk up. A think strand of pre-cum oozed from his piss slit. It trickled down over his vein-etched cock. Wildfire licked his lips.

A morning-suited man of middle age and amiable aspect had come out of the church, and on this middle-aged man’s arm walked a girl in bridal white.

Hooraw for the 'Lantas ! Hooraw for the girls ! Hooraw for the Institoot ! shout a hundred voices.

Like the marble and bronze statues of nymphs and satyrs in the Tennessee Theater's lobbies and lounges, the gods and goddesses on the screen were peckerless and pussyless, smooth, seamless marble and bronze between the legs.