Replying to Should my friend seek help?

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"Get over here you whippersnapper" he said. Marge stood over him, Her ancient wrinkled breasted hanging down to her waistline. "I never thought in all my years I would have a chance to suck on such big titties." Menopause had cause some small hairs to grow in the cleft in between her bosoms, his eyesight was failing so this really made no difference to him as he dragged his enormous ballsack over her chest in order to stick his still flaccid dick on her mouth.

Arnold was eighty six and as horny as ever. He moved over to the small bedside table. There lay a pile of Viagra he had crushed up earlier. He rolled up a hundred dollar bill and took a shot straight to his nose. He stood for a moment feeling his growing cock and fingering his now loose asshole. Now that he was fully erect his cock looked like a pepperoni stick, Liver spots marking their territory all the way up and down his member like clusters of tourists on the Great Wall of China. Except in the case we are talking about the Great Cock of Arnold.

He remembered the days when he used to play for his college baseball team. Those were good days. After the game they would all shower together. Their big cocks flopping around as they walked in. They would often clean each other. They would play all sorts of games, like shooting their ejaculate over one another.

Embarrassed he shut his liver spotted dick in minifridge's door to punish himself. He turned towards Marge. Her vagina looked like a kitten, teeth and all. Arnold looked magnificent his old cock standing erect, defiant of god's will, hair sticking out of his ears and nose. He prepared to give Marge the time of her life. This task would be difficult given the length of her life. It would be one last hurrah if you will.

Arnold climbed into the lift elevator attached to the bed and pulled a Mr. Werther's out of his fanny pack. He slid it into her waiting crotch taco and prepared to eat her liverwurst. As he was licking her wrinkly low hanging lips he would have to take a break every five minutes to take a hit off the oxygen machine, "Keeps me fresh" he would yell each time. Marge was sad because every time she used her machine after that she would be smelling her own horizontal fishcake for a week.

Arnold loved the way the toffee treat tasted, "It's no use," Marge yelled, "I can't feel shit anyway. Arnold would be damned if he didn't finish his Mr. Werther's. It cost him seventeen cents after all. What a waster Marge was.

Arnold Thought back to the time when he worked at Mr. Smith's Corner store when he was nineteen. They would get most of their work done in the morning. Around two or three Arnold and Mr. Smith would go into the back supply closet when business was slow and they who would see who can fit a banana farther in their mouth. Mr. smith would often impress Arnold by shoving n entire snickers bar down his throat. He only threw up once.

After he finished his Mr. Werther's Arnold was ready for some fun. Marge prepared by dumping about a liter of flaxseed oil into Mrs. Sphincter's next door neighbors. Arnold entered her as cheap steak enters a sausage grinder. The room was filled with the sound of sixty grit sandpaper against a wooden spoon. Arnolds hips protested to the continuous thrusting as he fucked Marge for all he was worth. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

After a while Marge began to look frightened, "Who are you? What are you doing to me?" Arnold didn't want to be caught so he put a pillow over her face before she cold make anymore noise. "I'm fucking you whore." He said. He had gotten into trouble the week before for taking advantage of the Alzheimer's patients and he did not want to be chastised again.

Arnold finished, leaving Marge in her bed. Asleep of possibly dead, he didn't care. He popped a Mr. Werther's in to his mouth and left, Victorious.

Walking back to his room, he stopped at the top of the stairs savoring his conquest. He didn't feel to bad about Marge, she always embarrassed him at bingo night, telling everyone that she was his wife. The old whore got what she deserved. He took one step down the carpeted stairs, his hip cracking. He tried to move the other leg forward but his hip, caught in place only buckled. Arnold crashed down the remaining 23 stairs his head hitting along the way, blood spurting like a feng shui fountain all over the yellow wallpaper. As he lay dying, he thought this was a fitting retribution. His Mr. Werthers dissolved as he lay dead.



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