Caught in a spontaneous mosh for two, with a beautiful boy young enough to be her grandson, Madonna’s pupils dilated, as her adrenal gland spat out a jet of epinephrine.
The easily triggered and always anxious to be pleased sex fiend in her temporal lobe screamed, ‘Ginme some of that!’ It wasn’t a request: her voracious libido was not in the habit of saying s’il vous plait.
The thief that is time eventually wins every battle with every human, but the subconscious succubus that had lived inside Madonna Ciccone for at least five decades was not inclined to go gently into the good night.
Oh, no, that insatiable monstrosity would go out screaming and thrashing, howling and gnashing, or it would not vacate the property at all, no matter how many eviction notices, and cease and desist orders were issued.
Whatever sorry court without jurisdiction was delusional enough to dispatch a sheriff on a such a fool’s errand was doomed to be mocked as incompetent and misguided by the beast that would not be leashed.
Once unleashed, that beast would feast on flesh, at its own behest, for it was not only almighty, it had an indomitable ally in the ego.
Fully in control of the MADonna’s searing mind, the demon changed its chant from, ‘Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me,’ to ‘Fuck me I won’t do what you tell me,’ and sprang on top of the baby grand with the athleticism of a pubescent Olympic gymnast.
It spun quickly, raised its hands if front, arms bent into Vs, palms toward face. It flicked its fingers twice, rapidly, urging its prey forward.
Lance, caught up in a primal, lust fueled frenzy of teen spirit, obeyed the hand’s commands, and lunged forward.
The beast launched itself squarely into the boy’s chest, slamming him to the floor.
Lance Lear, the boy who would be King, was pinned, flat on his back, smothered by a faceful of heaving, sexagenarian mammilla.