CATALONIAN CHEESE MOUSE: Known for its phenomenal sense of smell, the Catalonian Cheese Mouse is thought to have been bred secretly for purposes not entirely clear. One theory is that it was used by aristocratic ladies as a means of personal gratification.
Beneath her straining skirt, beneath the high-waisted, longline, white open bottomed girdle that secures her expensive stockings, her unpantied cunt is stuffed with cheese.
She has decided to serve him Gouda this time. Actually, she thinks, she may have cut too large a piece. It’s wedged in pretty tight and she’s getting excited already. When will he get here?
When he does, she wants to tell him to skip the restaurant they had planned. They’ll go straight to her apartment and they will pretend that she was going to give some nice cheese to her pet “Mickey” but seems to have misplaced it. She and “Mickey” will look high and low for it, until he will sniff the air and say, “Wait! I smell it.”
“Where, Mickey? Tell me where?”
“The smell seems to be coming from under your skirt, mistress.”
“Oh no. That’s not possible.”
Sniffing about her as she tries to dodge him: “I believe it’s in your cooter, mistress.”
“What? How stupid do you think I am? How could I possibly be stupid enough to lose a huge whack of cheese up my thing and not even know it? Oh you dirty minded little mouse. No cheese for you!”
“Yes! I wants it! I must have it!”
“NO! You’re a very bad little mousie. Back to your cage this instant!”
Then of course, mousie loses all control, and, dreadful little creature that he is, strips, binds, and orally ravishes his unfortunate mistress while berating her for her culinary stupidity, all the while enjoying two kinds of delectable repast at once.
If “Mickey” doesn’t get here soon, she thinks, sweating into her girdle and her leather outfit, I’m going to have to find the ladies room here and . . .
* * * * * * * *
This last one was the last straw. My husband has cheated on me for the last time and I am leaving him. But when I found the bitch’s picture I was conflicted: damn, she’s hot. Do I want to kill her, or do her? I’ve suppressed my desires for both sexes for years to be loyal to my husband. Not any more. It would serve him right too if I took his latest popsie away from him.
And why not?
So here I am, unnoticed by her at the opposite end of the Eighteenth Century Room at the Metropolitan Museum of Bizarre Curiosities. Tasteful, tight black leather. Very hot. She looks terrific. Very well put together.
But you can’t just walk up to a woman and say, “Hi! I’m the wife of the bastard whose been boinking you! Let’s have dinner!”
She looks very proud. Proud bitch! How I’d love to break that pride and turn her into a quivering puddle of jello. I wonder what would happen if this proud bitch encountered a situation she simply couldn’t handle? What if something bizarre and terrible happened to her in this museum of the bizarre and she got into trouble and ended up pleading for rescue? Rescued people can be very grateful.
Yes, I know all about hubby’s habits. He and I used to do the cheese thing long ago when he still cared. If my hunch is right and she’s got her muff wrapped around a fat stick of Edam or Gouda she’s about to have a surprise.
Yes, enter my new little friend, Mickey. Hello, my little furry friend. Tired of being inside my stuffy little purse? How about if I set you down on the floor here. What’s that? You smell something tasty? Off you go then. See what you can find. Yes, look at him run, the little devil, look how he scampers right towards her, her with her cheese laden and unsuspecting Achilles cunt. My dear Mickey does love a bit of cheese so.