The stairs

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Revision as of 07:16, 24 December 2015 by Wannabe rockstar (Talk | contribs)

You descend the dimly lit, uneven steps. As you're walking past your neighbours' open door, a bottle whizzes past your eyes, grazing the tip of your cute little nose, and shatters into a thousand pieces against the opposite wall. You're more than accustomed to the couple trying to kill each other, but as you're stopped in your tracks coming to grips with how close you came to having your face scratched off, your drunken neighbour stumbles right into you, having lost yet another round to his wife, who is still bellowing unkind-sounding things at him in Slavic while rolling dough and restraining two of her children from stabbing each other with kitchen knives. She's an incredible multitasker. You cringe at the horrible scent of sweat, filth (he's so dirty you can even smell him over yourself) and grappa and try to shove your way past the man, but he's about three times your size and absolutely hammered. The 300-pound father of six trips over thin air as you struggle, and grabs for a handhold to break his fall. Unfortunately, he seizes the lace at the front of your dress that effectively holds your bust in; it snaps under his weight and your round, firm breasts spring out into the open like jacks-in-a-box.

You squeal at the top of your lungs and dash for the stairs, but in your panic you trip over your neighbour's prone body and land sprawled on top of him, your huge, bare boobs landing smack in his face. He's far too drunk to realize what's going on, but possibly driven by instinct, he bites down hard on one of your tender nipples.

You scream absolute bloody murder and try to wrench yourself free. After a struggle during which you slide your half-naked body all over his fat, hairy one in a way he'd definitely appreciate if he was more than semi-conscious, you stagger to your feet and hastily try to shove your tits back into your dress. With considerable effort you manage to more or less stuff the girls back in and re-fasten the lace. Panting, your face beet-red with the indignity you've just suffered, with more of your tits than ever bulging precariously out of the top of your dress, you step over your dozing neighbour's bloated belly and wrench the front door open with a huff.

You stand, frozen, doorknob still in hand - it's your worst nightmare. Standing in front of you is none other than your landlord! And he doesn't look happy at all. In fact, he looks like he's figured out that those "gold nuggets" you've been paying your rent with up to now are actually hardened dog feces, painted yellow.

How could your life get any worse?

You:

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