The Little Drummer Boy

Fiends! See how Rebeccah Love Margolin cares about you? A story, newly inspired by recent lunchtime events, awaits! The latest from the BBRC, entitled "The Little Drummer Boy," has just been released to the public. A tale of an annoying lad who couldn't stop banging his bongos, will leave you lust thirsty and sexually frustrated. One of the top ten picks of the victims of the drummer boy phenomenon (and you know who you are), Rebeccah Love truly hopes you enjoy this latest tantalizing tale. So sit back, crack open a cold one, and enjoy "The Little Drummer Boy."

Mortamer Beaver couldn't stop drumming Night and day, sleeping or awake, rain or shine, he had to keep the beat. While at work or at play, he felt the need to beat things with his hands in a rhythmic manner. O how he longed to have an outlet for his incessant need to pound things. As luck would have it, a new temp arrived in the office where he worked. A secretary named Methusala Balustrade, and oh! How he longed for her. Finally, the day came when he was left alone with her in the stock room. He noticed her whilst he retrieved copy paper for the xerox machine. She was standing on a stool, trying to find ink cartridges, and he realized this was the only excuse he needed.
"Um, pardon me, Methusala," Mortimer said, inching his way toward her. He could smell her designer imposters perfume, Chanel No. 6. "I couldn't help but notice we're alone here in the office. There's something I have to confess.""Yes, Mort?" she asked sweetly, even slightly suggestive.
"I want you, Methusala. I want you now! Be my muse for my ever incessant beating! The beating and beating in my head!"
"Oh, Mortimer! I thought you'd never ask! How I've longed to be your instrument of desire!"
And with that, he took her. The began to kiss furiously, deeply, Mortimer's tongue penetrating Methusala's mouth hole rhythmically, like that of a metronome. He could feel his mallet becoming firm, yet yielding to the touch. She began to stroke it, caressing it like a rare rain stick made in an ancient land. She stroked him until his underbite jutted out fiercely, and the pressure from beneath the skin caused his black heads to protrude out from within his pores. He stroked the masses of dreadlocks in the ponytail on the side of her head, and moved his hands between her dreads and the other side of her head, which was shorn to the scalp. Finally, he could take it no longer. He tore open her clown-orange blouse and loosed her giant white bongos. He yanked off her sackcloth skirt and neon yellow fishnet stockings, caressing her stretch marks and and cellulite, and began to bang his mallet against the tightly stretched membrane of her snare drum. Oh, but he didn't realize it was her first time as muse! She cried out, first from pain, then from pleasure, as he continued to bang her in 3/4 time. The tension was building toward the grand drumline finale. Finally, he let out a yawp, as he pulled out, doing a flashy flip-and-spin move as his mallet released it's bounty, leaving trails of love juice all over the shelves and supplies, and her face
Spent, and lying on the floor, Mortamer turned to Methusala. "Well, honay," he said, grasping one of her still exposed bongos, "You sure know how to tune my tympanis."

We at the BBRC would like to thank you for reading Rebeccah Love Margolin's latest submission, "The Little Drummer Boy." Act now, and send in your seven bi-monthly payments of $1.97.9 (cheaper than gas!) and recieve a drumstick-shaped anal vibrator, a $70 value, absolutely free!