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“Daddy,” she complained, “diddling my bean is fine, but it’s not as much fun as when it’s diddled by someone else.”
“You want me to diddle your bean?” I asked.
“What I mean is, a surprise. A stranger. An unexpected diddle.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, “the serendipitous fappening that one finds unbidden upon the side of the road, in a bar, or wherever one may get one’s jollys jilled on a sunny spring day.”
“Without putting it quite so poetically, yes. After all, it is May. Masturbation Month. Hooray! Hooray! The First of May! Outdoor fucking starts today!” she sang.
“Sounds like you’re the poet.”
“Oh Daddio,” she pouted, as she continued stroking her smoothly shaved pussy on the bedside. “That’s older than you are.”
“A relic from Chaucer’s time then.”
“Maybe as old as Beowulf.”
Her climax was building until she shot a small stream sprinkling up through the air onto the tile floor, much like a shot from a water pistol.
“And what, may I ask, put you over the edge that time?”
“The thought of meeting Grendel in the woods.”