Works by
Tom Conoby
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The Mirrored Ceiling
by Tom Conoby
Gertrude rotated her hips, stretched her neck, gazed at the ceiling, wondered how much it would cost to have a mirror installed. Some very intense sensations were running through her body. Her fingers tingled, her skin itched, her thighs throbbed, her belly gyrated to a dance of its own.
Finally, she was on top of young Smokey and it was every bit as good as she’d hoped.
Smokey lay beneath her, wondering how it had come to this. Some wizened hag was pirouetting on his cock, moaning like Sylvia Kristel, looking like Sylvia Sims. His balls were crushed, his cock numb, and if she didn’t move her knees he feared for the state of his kidneys. At least there’s not a mirror, he thought, the sight of that arse wobbling above me would make me puke.
Gertrude and Smokey were not the likeliest of couples. In fact, despite their coupling they weren’t a couple at all. This was Smokey’s first and last attempt to be a gigolo, while for Gertrude it was the culmination of a twelve month spree of casual sex which had steadily eroded her inheritance until nothing of her father’s once proud tuna importing empire remained but debts and a seedy collection of used condoms.
A collection which was one too few.
Baby Smokey smoked into the world nine months later. He looked at his mother, looked at his father, then started to cry as though with indignation. He didn’t stop for two years, by which time daddy Smokey had become more of a smolder and Gertrude had lost the will to live.
They lay in bed one evening, past midnight, their eyes red with fatigue. They stared at their mirrored ceiling.
“That was a waste of money, wasn’t it?” said Smokey.
Gertrude had nothing to say.
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