Homer drank another beer and didn't say anything. He was sitting there in his boxer shorts, his old Johnson hanging out one leg, kind of like a big, p...nk old boa constrictor snake just waiting to pounce. He reached over and grabbed up his guitar and started to strum some chords. Then he started to pick out a one-string melody. Then he started to rearrange things and start again. He had this thoughtful look on his face."Wilbur, gimme your knife," he said to me. I did and he started all over. Lines cut in a V directing my gaze down to his flaccid cock. A firm grip of tangled pubic hairs do nothing to conceal him. Long and thick and limp. “ Should I dress?” he asks. Dear god, no. He laughs and I see them. Fangs. What are you? He approaches the bed. His sandy blonde hair pushed to the side. His eyes dark and sunken yet gleaming with the flickering flames of the candles on tall stands pushed back into the corners of the room. “ I am yours, of course. As you are mine.” His words. More

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