That night Miss Lucky decided to put aside her personal prejudices. Love was all about giving selflessly, right? So what's a little ass munching between soulmates? Maybe he wasn't a pervert, maybe he genuinely enjoyed the hickies on his hiney. Anyways he loved her. And that's all that mattered. She had been waiting for him her whole life. With these reassurances in mind, Miss Lucky sprayed copious amounts of Chanel No 5 all over Mister Lucky's bottom. Then she closed her eyes and leaned in. It's a plum, you're chewing on an overripe plum, she kept telling herself as she sunk her teeth into his fleshy posterior. A few strands of hair tickled her nose and she quickly altered her inner pep talk—It's a prickly pear, it's a prickly pear on a grassy meadow. Then, just as she was getting used to the sensation of matted hair and shingly skin on her tongue, she smelled something that was unlike anything Coco Chanel had ever concocted. It certainly wasn't No 5's jasmine and musk. It was more spaghetti carbonara, post-digestion.

"It's the bloody humiliation of it all," she spat out later the same night. Bacardi Eristoff Gold had sufficiently dulled her senses over the last two hours. She could no longer remember the scent of her ex-fiancé's dinner. But she hadn't been able to blank out her wrath. "You know what it is… perversion! I'm sure my dad never asked my mom to do this. The whole experience of biting his bum made me feel so inferior… and helpless. It's the same feeling you get when a guy throws you over his shoulder and dances around at a pool party. But he couldn't do that to me, so he settled on farting in my face. All men are perverts these days. How are we supposed to love them," bawled Miss Lucky.

alternative sexuality

Here Come the Bum-Biters

Bound Free

A Roommate with a Difference