Dennis the Menace 2 The Other Girl
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Dennis Gets Tested (Part 1 Of 2) free porn video
I sat in the waiting room.
Basically, Brie had told me that if I really was as much of a manwhore as she suspected I was in my last year of high school and in the fall (yesiree), then I had to get tested before we had any more sex. She’d actually rebuffed me a day before, my right hand on her bra, my tongue having just been stuck in her mouth, and told me the terms and conditions. Before Brie, I would have just ditched whatever chick asked me this and found pussy elsewhere. I wasn’t sure what was different about Brie.
I had filled out the questionnaire. Did I have any pre-existing conditions? Other than a probably genetic pre-disposition to alcoholism, mental illness and white-collar criminality, nope. I checked no. Was I taking any medications? No. Did I have any allergies? Yes, to multiple choice questionnaires. I wrote that in the margins. I wanted to toss the clipboard across the room at the older woman with hair dyed like a fourteen year old girl and tell her that she would have a blast with this particular piece of paper. That I didn’t do.
But I’d been waiting for a long time and the nurse still hadn’t called my name. So I peered at the next question.
How many sexual partners have you had in the past sixty days?
Hmm. Should I lie and say one? I didn’t have a problem referring to Brie, who I’d banged twice at that point. It looked like her and I might actually be together. We’d gone out on several excursions that one might even refer to as dates. So I could sound like a regular college Freshman—the kind you see smiling in over-lit pictures on pamphlets advertising safe sex—or I could tell the truth. Which was, I think, five, including Brie, three of whom I was certain I’d had actual intercourse with. Then two others; one who I’d performed cunnilingus on and due to my own antics had never gotten to the dick in pussy stage; another one who I had a memory of watching her vagina slide backwards from my face while I lay on her bed in some semi-functioning state brought on by ten beers, but whose name I forgot, along with any additional physical activity we may have engaged in.
Then there was Sarissa, who I’d raw-dogged. There was Mary, who I started off raw dogging before she stopped everything and told me that although it felt really good, I had to wear a condom; she wasn’t comfortable with this. I’d put one on and flipped her over on her chest, pounding her pretty hard, hoping the rubber would break.
Oh shit! And then there was Ashley, my ex from Junior and Senior year, who I’d, you know, reconnected with over Christmas break. Six, then.
END OF PART 1.
I put down one.
I turned to the overweight, fidgeting guy beside me and asked, “Nobody really gets STDs from eating pussy, right?”
While he was still reacting, the door opened and an elderly nurse called out my name. I stood up and walked slowly to the door she held open for me, catching a glance of the dyed-hair adult woman out of the corner of my eye. She was glancing at me in a similar fashion and suddenly I wanted to fuck her. The door shut.
“And do you see yourself staying with her for some time now?”
“Sure.”
“That sounds like hesitation.”
“That’s ‘cause I hesitate about all people. But yeah, I dig her.”
“You always use protection with her?”
“Yup.”
“Condoms or…”
“Saran wrap.”
I looked at the Indian doctor across from me. He looked up from his clipboard. He was pissed.
I chuckled.
“Yeah, condoms,” I said.
“Dennis, please understand that these are serious questions. I know you might be nervous or uncomfortable with discussing this aspect of your private life, but it won’t be shared with anybody and I’m only trying to help.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
“Okay.”
After that conversation, a whole lot of things happened. I went in to a claustrophobic, creepy-white bathroom and peed in to a cup. I sat on a stretcher and got my blood drawn. Other people are grossed out by the sight of their own blood flowing through a transparent syringe. I’m not. I watched the whole thing. Then an older doctor came in and, seemingly apprised by his colleague that they had a patient with some ‘tude on their hands, asked me a few questions, basically repeats of the questions I’d already been asked, and proceeded to stick a needle up my junk. Ow. Jesus fucking Christ. I had not been expecting it. They let me go with some pamphlets, a band-aid on my arm at the point where the blood was drawn, and a sticker.
On the way out to the parking lot, I saw the older woman throwing something in her trunk. She opened the driver’s seat door to her gray minivan. The car was a metaphor for her life, I could tell. I thought about it for perhaps a quarter of a second and approached her.
“Hey,” I said.
She was surprised.
“Hi…” she responded.
“Dennis.” I extended my hand.
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
That got her thinking about whether she should pursue the conversation or not. She didn’t move so I knew she would.
“Nadine.”
We shook hands.
“How’d it go in there?” I said.
“Um…fine I guess?”
I didn’t respond. I looked at her in a way that said I expected her to continue.
“I mean I’m not pregnant so…” she gestured at nothing and nobody.
“Congratulations,” I said. “On not having a child.” I laughed a little bit. She smiled.
“I actually have to…” She stuck her thumb out at her car as if it was a faraway object. I almost interrupted her. Women love it when you almost, but not quite, interrupt them. Wait for them to finish then jump in immediately after the final syllable has exited their lips. It means you have already taken charge of the situation.
I said, “612. 568. 2341.”
She looked at me. She was in a suspended state.
I repeated it very slowly. She took out her phone halfway through and started entering the digits.
“2341?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
We looked each other over for the next several seconds.
“Go home, get some rest,” I said, turning away.
“Bye,” she said.
I glanced back at her in profile and nodded. I went to my car.
I sat in the car, the engine going, Ice Cube playing on my iPod and watched the gray minivan cruise away. I peeled my eyes away from it and sent Brie a text: Okay. Done. I’m a man of few words; a Hemingway character.
Right then, I remembered that she wasn’t going to read the text any time soon. She was either in her studio painting (an activity for which she left her phone turned off), or she was out with Rachel and Sam on their once a week Bloody Mary outing. Yeah, probably the latter. She was probably shitfaced already. Then she would go home and paint.
The minivan disappeared down the road. I watched it go and thought, sure, I’d bang a forty year old. Or however old she was.
My dick burned when I peed for the next two days. It was troublesome. But they called me fairly promptly and told me no to the big-deal diseases (you know what I’m talking about). I was all in the clear. Brie suddenly pitied me. It was as if she felt like it was her fault for my discomfort when urinating. I told her in an abstract sense it was, but who cared. In a literal sense, it just meant we couldn’t have sex. She told me that when she got tested she didn’t have to suffer the pee-burning that guys did. It was the one thing that apparently went easier for girls than guys.
After I was given the medical go-ahead, I ended my dry spell by careening my tongue around Brie’s clit while getting a view of her boobs heaving up and down with her increased breathing. Her hand grabbed the fabric of the armrest on her couch. Above her head was a Jackson Pollock painting. Something he’d done probably while completely trashed; he probably did not even remember doing it. He’d had no idea a nineteen-year old girl would lie naked on her couch, her mouth open to the canvas, moaning “Dennis…” in to the history of abstract expressionism. He had no idea that further down her body, Dennis himself would be performing cunnilingus on her. He would probably approve of the whole charade; what he might not approve of was a young woman who wanted to be a painter.
I took my middle finger out of Brie’s pussy. Her G-spot was getting to be too much for it; it was pushing my finger out of her clit. I wiped my middle finger across Brie’s cheek and circled it around to her lips. I rested my middle and index finger across her open mouth, letting her breathe on them for a second while I adjusted my mouth further down her vagina, getting my nose wet, exhaling inside of her, not giving a fuck if she liked that or not. She started sucking on my fingers. That was what I wanted. That was what all women did in this situation. Literally, all. It didn’t matter how much of their own bodily fluids were on your fingers; they would suck them.
She was getting towards her high point when she moved her hand from the armrest to the pillow beside us. She’d made the decision, a good one, that the pillow was the best thing to clench her fist on. I watched her arm muscles flex and contract and it made every part of her body look sexier, even her half-shaven armpit. With her other hand she took my fingers out of her mouth so she could be louder and slid my hand over her right tit and down her stomach.
I got the memo, but I added my own twist. I stuck two of my fingers back in to her clit, moving my tongue back upward and pressed in and out very fast until I heard a smacking sound, like a malfunctioning suction cup. Once I was tired of the sound, I took advantage of the leg that had brushed up against my ear and clamped it against my head full on. Her other leg was not getting away scot-free. My head was its temple and this was a team effort. So I pried that leg up over my other ear and pressed my fingers in to her creamy soft thighs while they rubbed against my cheeks. The last thing I heard her utter was “fuck.”
I saw both her arms flexing—one against the pillow, the other against the edge of the cushion and watched her loll her head around on the pillow, mouth open, no sound. My eyeline was scrunched down to her pubic hairs, which I was content to stare at for a while. The one thing I didn’t like about Brie’s groin area was the mole on her inner thigh. I could see it flitting in and out of darkness, but fuck it, this was fun. I didn’t release her legs until I was sure she was over the summit.
I really really hoped I could get my dick wet the next day and it wouldn’t burn to cum.
I work out. If you think that pushes me too far in to the douchebag section of the sandbox, fuck you. You should stop reading now. Okay? There. Now for those of you who are still reading, here’s why I’m mentioning that I work out in the first place. The reason is that as I lifted the thirty-pounder that I had been working on for the past week, I saw a familiar figure walking past. She wore a clefted skirt and didn’t look like she belonged there.
The forty-year old. Nadine.
She noticed me, too. She didn’t want to say anything at first. She squinted to make sure she recognized me. She wore a black blouse and earrings. Was she dressed up for somebody?
She sat down on the bench at the other end of the gym and crossed her legs. I could tell by the way she crossed them that she was type of woman who would just smear her pussy all over your face. This thought made me the slightest bit hard.
I set the weight down and rolled out from under it. I stood and faced her. Actually, I hadn’t taken my eyes off her. I was sweaty in a good way.
“We’ve met before…” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think we’re both crazed sex fiends or something, and we were paying for it?”
Another You-Won’t-Believe-What-Dennis-Just-Said! Moment. Cosby, move your ass over completely. Dennis Says The Darndest Things.
With no other reaction left, she chuckled.
“Right,” she said. She eyeballed the room. “Nice job.”
“What brings you here?” I asked.
“Picking up my son,” she said. She motioned her head to the group of Youth Gymnasts in a closed off room with a large glass ceiling.
“How old is he?” I asked.
“Caleb is nine,” she said.
“What a stupendous age,” I answered. I stretched. I suddenly realized I had to. I had been doing push ups for the last hour and hadn’t stretched at all.
“Are you done working out or…”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m done.”
“You think you might want to put a shirt on?”
“ I might…” I said.
We gazed at each other for a bit.
“Well, as they say on that thing the Internet, BRB,” I said, and went in to the shower.
When I returned, fully clothed this time, Nadine was still there. Of course she was. She was with her son.
I decided the best thing to do would be to walk out the door.
“Call me sometime,” I said over my shoulder, sort of loudly. Her son wouldn’t know I was talking to his Mom.
But she knew.
Later that evening, I watched an amateur video and followed it by jerking off in the shower to the mental image of Ashley having an orgasm on her couch, months before, when I plowed her once again over Christmas break. Actually, what I mainly remembered was her knees knocking together in front of my vision. I had her legs pushed up and flailing in the air and her idea of cumming was to knock her knees together. It was when her knees separated that I could see her open mouth and her still open eyes and a put a moan to a face.
That was what made me cum. Not the porn vid. I smoked a bowl and thought about Nadine’s legs. I thought about Brie’s. I decided not to call Brie. I hoped to get a call from Nadine the next day. I fell asleep in my Anorack chair.
Basically, Brie had told me that if I really was as much of a manwhore as she suspected I was in my last year of high school and in the fall (yesiree), then I had to get tested before we had any more sex. She’d actually rebuffed me a day before, my right hand on her bra, my tongue having just been stuck in her mouth, and told me the terms and conditions. Before Brie, I would have just ditched whatever chick asked me this and found pussy elsewhere. I wasn’t sure what was different about Brie.
I had filled out the questionnaire. Did I have any pre-existing conditions? Other than a probably genetic pre-disposition to alcoholism, mental illness and white-collar criminality, nope. I checked no. Was I taking any medications? No. Did I have any allergies? Yes, to multiple choice questionnaires. I wrote that in the margins. I wanted to toss the clipboard across the room at the older woman with hair dyed like a fourteen year old girl and tell her that she would have a blast with this particular piece of paper. That I didn’t do.
But I’d been waiting for a long time and the nurse still hadn’t called my name. So I peered at the next question.
How many sexual partners have you had in the past sixty days?
Hmm. Should I lie and say one? I didn’t have a problem referring to Brie, who I’d banged twice at that point. It looked like her and I might actually be together. We’d gone out on several excursions that one might even refer to as dates. So I could sound like a regular college Freshman—the kind you see smiling in over-lit pictures on pamphlets advertising safe sex—or I could tell the truth. Which was, I think, five, including Brie, three of whom I was certain I’d had actual intercourse with. Then two others; one who I’d performed cunnilingus on and due to my own antics had never gotten to the dick in pussy stage; another one who I had a memory of watching her vagina slide backwards from my face while I lay on her bed in some semi-functioning state brought on by ten beers, but whose name I forgot, along with any additional physical activity we may have engaged in.
Then there was Sarissa, who I’d raw-dogged. There was Mary, who I started off raw dogging before she stopped everything and told me that although it felt really good, I had to wear a condom; she wasn’t comfortable with this. I’d put one on and flipped her over on her chest, pounding her pretty hard, hoping the rubber would break.
Oh shit! And then there was Ashley, my ex from Junior and Senior year, who I’d, you know, reconnected with over Christmas break. Six, then.
END OF PART 1.
I put down one.
I turned to the overweight, fidgeting guy beside me and asked, “Nobody really gets STDs from eating pussy, right?”
While he was still reacting, the door opened and an elderly nurse called out my name. I stood up and walked slowly to the door she held open for me, catching a glance of the dyed-hair adult woman out of the corner of my eye. She was glancing at me in a similar fashion and suddenly I wanted to fuck her. The door shut.
“And do you see yourself staying with her for some time now?”
“Sure.”
“That sounds like hesitation.”
“That’s ‘cause I hesitate about all people. But yeah, I dig her.”
“You always use protection with her?”
“Yup.”
“Condoms or…”
“Saran wrap.”
I looked at the Indian doctor across from me. He looked up from his clipboard. He was pissed.
I chuckled.
“Yeah, condoms,” I said.
“Dennis, please understand that these are serious questions. I know you might be nervous or uncomfortable with discussing this aspect of your private life, but it won’t be shared with anybody and I’m only trying to help.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
“Okay.”
After that conversation, a whole lot of things happened. I went in to a claustrophobic, creepy-white bathroom and peed in to a cup. I sat on a stretcher and got my blood drawn. Other people are grossed out by the sight of their own blood flowing through a transparent syringe. I’m not. I watched the whole thing. Then an older doctor came in and, seemingly apprised by his colleague that they had a patient with some ‘tude on their hands, asked me a few questions, basically repeats of the questions I’d already been asked, and proceeded to stick a needle up my junk. Ow. Jesus fucking Christ. I had not been expecting it. They let me go with some pamphlets, a band-aid on my arm at the point where the blood was drawn, and a sticker.
On the way out to the parking lot, I saw the older woman throwing something in her trunk. She opened the driver’s seat door to her gray minivan. The car was a metaphor for her life, I could tell. I thought about it for perhaps a quarter of a second and approached her.
“Hey,” I said.
She was surprised.
“Hi…” she responded.
“Dennis.” I extended my hand.
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
That got her thinking about whether she should pursue the conversation or not. She didn’t move so I knew she would.
“Nadine.”
We shook hands.
“How’d it go in there?” I said.
“Um…fine I guess?”
I didn’t respond. I looked at her in a way that said I expected her to continue.
“I mean I’m not pregnant so…” she gestured at nothing and nobody.
“Congratulations,” I said. “On not having a child.” I laughed a little bit. She smiled.
“I actually have to…” She stuck her thumb out at her car as if it was a faraway object. I almost interrupted her. Women love it when you almost, but not quite, interrupt them. Wait for them to finish then jump in immediately after the final syllable has exited their lips. It means you have already taken charge of the situation.
I said, “612. 568. 2341.”
She looked at me. She was in a suspended state.
I repeated it very slowly. She took out her phone halfway through and started entering the digits.
“2341?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
We looked each other over for the next several seconds.
“Go home, get some rest,” I said, turning away.
“Bye,” she said.
I glanced back at her in profile and nodded. I went to my car.
I sat in the car, the engine going, Ice Cube playing on my iPod and watched the gray minivan cruise away. I peeled my eyes away from it and sent Brie a text: Okay. Done. I’m a man of few words; a Hemingway character.
Right then, I remembered that she wasn’t going to read the text any time soon. She was either in her studio painting (an activity for which she left her phone turned off), or she was out with Rachel and Sam on their once a week Bloody Mary outing. Yeah, probably the latter. She was probably shitfaced already. Then she would go home and paint.
The minivan disappeared down the road. I watched it go and thought, sure, I’d bang a forty year old. Or however old she was.
My dick burned when I peed for the next two days. It was troublesome. But they called me fairly promptly and told me no to the big-deal diseases (you know what I’m talking about). I was all in the clear. Brie suddenly pitied me. It was as if she felt like it was her fault for my discomfort when urinating. I told her in an abstract sense it was, but who cared. In a literal sense, it just meant we couldn’t have sex. She told me that when she got tested she didn’t have to suffer the pee-burning that guys did. It was the one thing that apparently went easier for girls than guys.
After I was given the medical go-ahead, I ended my dry spell by careening my tongue around Brie’s clit while getting a view of her boobs heaving up and down with her increased breathing. Her hand grabbed the fabric of the armrest on her couch. Above her head was a Jackson Pollock painting. Something he’d done probably while completely trashed; he probably did not even remember doing it. He’d had no idea a nineteen-year old girl would lie naked on her couch, her mouth open to the canvas, moaning “Dennis…” in to the history of abstract expressionism. He had no idea that further down her body, Dennis himself would be performing cunnilingus on her. He would probably approve of the whole charade; what he might not approve of was a young woman who wanted to be a painter.
I took my middle finger out of Brie’s pussy. Her G-spot was getting to be too much for it; it was pushing my finger out of her clit. I wiped my middle finger across Brie’s cheek and circled it around to her lips. I rested my middle and index finger across her open mouth, letting her breathe on them for a second while I adjusted my mouth further down her vagina, getting my nose wet, exhaling inside of her, not giving a fuck if she liked that or not. She started sucking on my fingers. That was what I wanted. That was what all women did in this situation. Literally, all. It didn’t matter how much of their own bodily fluids were on your fingers; they would suck them.
She was getting towards her high point when she moved her hand from the armrest to the pillow beside us. She’d made the decision, a good one, that the pillow was the best thing to clench her fist on. I watched her arm muscles flex and contract and it made every part of her body look sexier, even her half-shaven armpit. With her other hand she took my fingers out of her mouth so she could be louder and slid my hand over her right tit and down her stomach.
I got the memo, but I added my own twist. I stuck two of my fingers back in to her clit, moving my tongue back upward and pressed in and out very fast until I heard a smacking sound, like a malfunctioning suction cup. Once I was tired of the sound, I took advantage of the leg that had brushed up against my ear and clamped it against my head full on. Her other leg was not getting away scot-free. My head was its temple and this was a team effort. So I pried that leg up over my other ear and pressed my fingers in to her creamy soft thighs while they rubbed against my cheeks. The last thing I heard her utter was “fuck.”
I saw both her arms flexing—one against the pillow, the other against the edge of the cushion and watched her loll her head around on the pillow, mouth open, no sound. My eyeline was scrunched down to her pubic hairs, which I was content to stare at for a while. The one thing I didn’t like about Brie’s groin area was the mole on her inner thigh. I could see it flitting in and out of darkness, but fuck it, this was fun. I didn’t release her legs until I was sure she was over the summit.
I really really hoped I could get my dick wet the next day and it wouldn’t burn to cum.
I work out. If you think that pushes me too far in to the douchebag section of the sandbox, fuck you. You should stop reading now. Okay? There. Now for those of you who are still reading, here’s why I’m mentioning that I work out in the first place. The reason is that as I lifted the thirty-pounder that I had been working on for the past week, I saw a familiar figure walking past. She wore a clefted skirt and didn’t look like she belonged there.
The forty-year old. Nadine.
She noticed me, too. She didn’t want to say anything at first. She squinted to make sure she recognized me. She wore a black blouse and earrings. Was she dressed up for somebody?
She sat down on the bench at the other end of the gym and crossed her legs. I could tell by the way she crossed them that she was type of woman who would just smear her pussy all over your face. This thought made me the slightest bit hard.
I set the weight down and rolled out from under it. I stood and faced her. Actually, I hadn’t taken my eyes off her. I was sweaty in a good way.
“We’ve met before…” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think we’re both crazed sex fiends or something, and we were paying for it?”
Another You-Won’t-Believe-What-Dennis-Just-Said! Moment. Cosby, move your ass over completely. Dennis Says The Darndest Things.
With no other reaction left, she chuckled.
“Right,” she said. She eyeballed the room. “Nice job.”
“What brings you here?” I asked.
“Picking up my son,” she said. She motioned her head to the group of Youth Gymnasts in a closed off room with a large glass ceiling.
“How old is he?” I asked.
“Caleb is nine,” she said.
“What a stupendous age,” I answered. I stretched. I suddenly realized I had to. I had been doing push ups for the last hour and hadn’t stretched at all.
“Are you done working out or…”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m done.”
“You think you might want to put a shirt on?”
“ I might…” I said.
We gazed at each other for a bit.
“Well, as they say on that thing the Internet, BRB,” I said, and went in to the shower.
When I returned, fully clothed this time, Nadine was still there. Of course she was. She was with her son.
I decided the best thing to do would be to walk out the door.
“Call me sometime,” I said over my shoulder, sort of loudly. Her son wouldn’t know I was talking to his Mom.
But she knew.
Later that evening, I watched an amateur video and followed it by jerking off in the shower to the mental image of Ashley having an orgasm on her couch, months before, when I plowed her once again over Christmas break. Actually, what I mainly remembered was her knees knocking together in front of my vision. I had her legs pushed up and flailing in the air and her idea of cumming was to knock her knees together. It was when her knees separated that I could see her open mouth and her still open eyes and a put a moan to a face.
That was what made me cum. Not the porn vid. I smoked a bowl and thought about Nadine’s legs. I thought about Brie’s. I decided not to call Brie. I hoped to get a call from Nadine the next day. I fell asleep in my Anorack chair.
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