'...toilet paper!!' There's no doubt, considering your perspective on the toilet bowl and on Kristina. Your girl friend towers above you, the sight of her so majestic you nearly fail to notice.. she's hiking her pants down. 'Kristina, no, its me, John,' what you meant to be speech makes it only as far as thought. 'Oh no, she can't hear me.' You watch as her beautiful ass thunders down on the toilet and stare helplessly at the naked thigh across from you. Once you were this Goddess's lover, now all you are is a scrap of paper to clean the feces from her crack. Your body, your pride are gone; only your senses intact.
In fact, your eyes seem to be working better than normal, and so to, you soon find out, is your smell. With ineffective phantom limbs you reach to pinch your nose, but to no avail. Neither hand nor nose exist, but that doesn't stop you from smelling Kristina's fetid gas as she squelches out a messy sounding fart. You imagine the brown splatter it no doubt left on the inside rim of her pale perfect ass, a splatter you're destined to mop up face-first. In one last desperate attempt to steer from your fate, you try to move. After straining enough to hurt your phantom muscles, you feel nothing but a slight rocking on the central roller that impales you through your cardboard core -- not enough, if that was even me and not just a draft.
The torrent of Kristina's bowel movement derails your thoughts. You find yourself watching her slowly relaxing features with rising dread. 'As soon as she's done, my.. job will start.' You don't wait long, for no more than a fart later, her painted nails are extending in your direction.
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