Erotica For Pencil Sharpeners
My first experience with a pencil was through dating site www.meetstationarystation.co.uk. He described himself as HB, with German parents but brought up in a primary school is Sussex. He still had a large amount of lead to sharpen, but said he was looking for a special companion to settle down with and be used for scaled drawings (preferably of the architecture of Stoke). I, a two holed sharpener, was simply looking for a **** buddy, as I have serious commitment issues after an experience with an orange crayon, but despite his chilled nature I rather fancied my sharpening virginity to be flawed by his sharp black point.
I endured painful days of small talk, discussion and political debate when I finally had had enough. I undressed and shot 7 photos of my holes, and emailed him them as an attachment. He seemed to enjoy them, and over time he built up quite a portfolio. He would talk for hours of the things he would do to me, and I decided he was the one.
I left my family to embark on a journey on the back of a staples lorry, destined to stop off at his apartment in Woking. The journey was perilous, and I narrowly escaped molestation by a dreadfully violent 6H Staedtler, by threatening his deformed 8B cousin, called Jeremiah. Jeremiah would not make the trip, his mental retardation caused him to snap near Croydon. Only 87 of the 100 pencils made the journey. Justice for the 13, **** you Thatcher.
I arrived at dawn, horny as ever. He collected me from the retail park in superb fashion with his second hand box, that he told me he had spent some time polishing the night previously. As we drove I took in the true beauty of Woking, and remarked how it should have won city of culture over Hull (**** you thatcher). After what seemed like literally minutes we pulled up at his cosy apartment, and he led me in. On the bed he had laid roses, the aroma of fine wine raped my nasal cavity, and all the while his hands explored my smooth edges, teasing my blade. I could no longer resist, and began to straddle his nib, fine shavings filling the cold autumn night. I screamed his name as he plunged his lead deep inside my larger crayon hole, which despite the name could not accommodate someone of his size without water based lubricant.
After tens of minutes my blade was clogged with his shavings, and he collapsed atop me, caressing my sodden, blackened face. He kissed me good night, and I lay amazed at how beautiful the magic of life can be.
