Why Garfield Hates Mondays
By Hurricane Amy
Jon Arbuckle sat in the dark, burning his chest with a cigarette while fondling his genitals through his thin, cotton under shorts. His teeth were gritted and his jaw was tensed. His eyes were laced with tiny, red veins and his face was slicked with sweat. He’d been up for days, stewing over a quip Garfield had said after he’d stubbed his toe on a chair.
“It’s not that bad, Jon. It’s not like it happened to me.” Garfield had said. He pulled his hard cock out from the slit in his under shorts and dragged his fingernails along the helmet. He shuttered hotly and then let up. He couldn’t cum yet. Tonight was the night. Tonight, he was going to fuck that fat pussy. Never mind that fat pussy was covered in orange fur matted with clotted cheese and tomato sauce. Never mind that fat pussy’s moans of surprise would sound exactly like Bill Murray. Jon was going to fuck that pussy. Garfield had been freeloading off of Jon for years, endlessly eating pan after pan of lasagna, knocking Odie off the counter top and mocking Jon’s sense of style.
“It’s not like it happened to me.” Jon said aloud in a mock Garfield voice. He stroked his dick once and it pulsed expectantly. Tonight, Garfield would know who was the owner and who was the pet. Jon saw it all in his mind. He’d spread that fat pussy’s fat ass cheeks and he’d fuck the cheese clods out of his poop-shoot and to pour salt into the wound, he’d have a pan of lasagna waiting in the oven. While spunk dribbled from Garfield’s flabby asshole, Jon would eat it, right in his face.
Jon burned himself again with the cigarette, this time just above his navel. A smile cracked across his face and laughter began to bubble up from his belly.
“Happy Monday, Garfield.”
By Hurricane Amy
Jon Arbuckle sat in the dark, burning his chest with a cigarette while fondling his genitals through his thin, cotton under shorts. His teeth were gritted and his jaw was tensed. His eyes were laced with tiny, red veins and his face was slicked with sweat. He’d been up for days, stewing over a quip Garfield had said after he’d stubbed his toe on a chair.
“It’s not that bad, Jon. It’s not like it happened to me.” Garfield had said. He pulled his hard cock out from the slit in his under shorts and dragged his fingernails along the helmet. He shuttered hotly and then let up. He couldn’t cum yet. Tonight was the night. Tonight, he was going to fuck that fat pussy. Never mind that fat pussy was covered in orange fur matted with clotted cheese and tomato sauce. Never mind that fat pussy’s moans of surprise would sound exactly like Bill Murray. Jon was going to fuck that pussy. Garfield had been freeloading off of Jon for years, endlessly eating pan after pan of lasagna, knocking Odie off the counter top and mocking Jon’s sense of style.
“It’s not like it happened to me.” Jon said aloud in a mock Garfield voice. He stroked his dick once and it pulsed expectantly. Tonight, Garfield would know who was the owner and who was the pet. Jon saw it all in his mind. He’d spread that fat pussy’s fat ass cheeks and he’d fuck the cheese clods out of his poop-shoot and to pour salt into the wound, he’d have a pan of lasagna waiting in the oven. While spunk dribbled from Garfield’s flabby asshole, Jon would eat it, right in his face.
Jon burned himself again with the cigarette, this time just above his navel. A smile cracked across his face and laughter began to bubble up from his belly.
“Happy Monday, Garfield.”
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