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"snusnusnu glmp?" "fgegegegelump?" That sounded friendly. See it's appendages waved and that hole in its trunk looks like it's smiling. I think we're getting somewhere. "Gorpgorp?

gee manumanubeezelgwak" I spoke to the alien octopus thing. "Man, I hate breeding these things. They demand so much attention, and we're supposed to be doing the accounting."

"Yeah," said Bertha. "I don't get paid enough for this." Just then, a slimy, purple tentacle wrapped around Bertha, lifting her up into the air. I grabbed the corner of her dress

and hung on, swaying precariously under Bertha's skirt. "Dammit it, man, are you trying to get killed?" Bertha screamed from above. It was a nice view, but the scary purple octopus

was closing in on us! "Hurry up!" Bertha's old self was coming out. Therapy can only do so much. Her head ached and the little mice hanging on to her skirt were starting to freak

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keep having hand orgasms when I'm writing steamy erotic prose. He spoke sternly to his left hand reminding it that it had a job to do. His brain butted in then, saying that it had

to put a stop to this. The right hand was fingerwalking in enraged circles, even as lefty wrote of conjugal juices. No, he said. No, he cried, a hand forming fingerguns templeward.