Stephen King watched Lance and Kitty wander down the hall, peeking into rooms, deciding where they were going to bed down, until he heard the first notes of O Fortuna erupt from the executive suite’s sound system.
King was not at all disappointed that there would be no bedtime story. He smiled, turned, closed the door, locked it, and turned the lights off.
Following the flickering candle lights, King made his way to the bedroom, where Madonna was waiting for him, on hands and knees, on the bed, with a straight razor clutched between her teeth.
The two wrestled for position, stopping to thrash away at each other when they found a mutually agreeable one, then repeated the process when they tired of the thrust and parry limitations the position imposed.
All the way through the wild animal ballet King was thinking of Kitty, or her mother, who was somewhere in the relative vicinity of Kitty’s present age when the King of Horror had inseminated her in a cheap motel room, on a long and lonesome highway, west of Omaha.
The septuagenarian stallion wanted to make little Kitty purr like a Ferrari, and growl like a 1960’s Detroit steel muscle car. Her physical presence, natural sexual magnetism, combined with her wanton declarations and displays of untamable promiscuity had awoken his once Rasputinian appetite for hedonistic sexual congress.
Madonna, who had had her way with damn near every man she wanted since she mastered the techniques of the art of sex outside a CYO in Rochester, Michigan, thought only of Lance, son of Stephen, as she grappled with his father.
The Queen of Pop, the Countess of Coitus wanted to teach young, beautiful, hard bodied, and richly endowed Lance everything there was to know about satisfying a woman. Given his age, she knew that he could do so over and over and over again, day and night, for as many years as it might take for the tiger in her tank to taper off, if indeed that was even possible.
Over and over they fought for dominance, pulling each other’s hair, grunting and howling like rutting beasts. It wasn’t love making; it was ritualistic Klingon mutual rape.
After an hour of punishing each other mercilessly, Madonna sensed that her mate might be on the verge of a lights out, game over jammer, and delivered the coup de grace, putting him to sleep, just as she had promised.
As Stephen slept like a baby next to her, Miss Ciccone, still not fully sated, checked Pornhub to see if there was anything new under the sun. Once again disappointed that there was not, she settled for an age old, simple pleasure; a pack of Japanese midgets gangbanging a naïve, nubile, naughty Nipponese nun.