Davide (pronounced Da-VEED)
was a burglar par excellence. A former Cirque du Soleil acrobat, Davide
had been forced to "retire" at the tender age of 25 following a scandal
with a Chinese contortionist. Nevertheless, this being Canada, and more
importantly the province of Quebec, Davide received a generous
termination settlement.
Bored to tears and despondent over this sudden new unchallenging "phase two" of his life, Davide briefly considered suicide—until discovering the magical powers of a certain American brand of antidepressant he "lifted" from a friend of a friend's house during a party one weekend. That and a face-powder tin full of pharmaceutical-grade cocaine.
The breakthrough, the epiphany if you will, in Davide's new life came one day while feeding his sister Sophie's cat, also named Sophie. Sophie—the sister—was as beautiful as her brother was handsome. Like Davide she had a trim, lithe body and like Davide Sophie was a performer. Having worked sporadically for several years in both Montreal and New York as a stage actor and dancer, Sophie now had a permanent gig at a dance club exotique in Longueuil. Her apartment was conveniently located nearby. It was here, at the club, that Sophie met one of Quebec's richest men, an Egyptian financier. And it was this gentleman Sophie was now on a private yacht with, somewhere in the Caribbean's blue waters. While she was gone Davide had agreed to feed Sophie the cat. It wasn't like he had anything else to do.
It was after filling Sophie's bowl and refreshing her water that Davide began nosing around Sophie's—the sister—personal effects. Finding nothing of interest in her medicine cabinet—she'd packed up all the good stuff for the trip—Davide moved on to her bureau. Because of its mahogany height, and just for kicks, Davide, while Sophie the cat looked on with interest, had climbed atop the bureau and was hanging upsidedown by his toes. It was in the third drawer down—well, up—that Davide hit the motherlode. He flipped to the floor in excitement. For to a man with a panty fetish, such as Davide, discovering a beautiful woman's underwear drawer is the equivalent of a pirate opening a treasure chest brimming with gold doubloons. Davide ran his hands through the silky, sisterly treasure. He brought pair after pair to his face. He caressed them, he breathed in their perfume. He—
Having chosen a particularly silky, lacy, racy, lavender pair, Davide dashed to the mirror with them. He barely managed to get his trousers undone and his throbbing hard-on out. And barely managed to get the luxurious seat of the panty wrapped his cock, and more importantly its head—Davide was Jewish, well, half—when the involuntary explosion occurred. Davide let out a shriek and watched in horrified amazement as lavender turned a spreading grey while thick clots of white leaked out a leghole. Davide looked at the parquet floor, newly decorated. Another shriek. A curious Sophie was slinking toward it.
"Beat it!" he cried, in English. (Sophie was a rescue cat Sophie had picked up in New York, and she only understood l'anglais.) Followed, in French, by: "Sophie's gonna kill me!"
After rinsing the poor panty out in the bathroom sink and leaving it to soak in detergent, and after mopping up his floorboard mess, Davide instead offered Sophie a saucer of soy milk and then collapsed on his sister's ratty couch with a Molson. It was at this precise moment—well, a beer or two later—that the epiphany occurred.
There are thousands of beautiful women in Montreal, he reasoned. No, hundreds of thousands. And they all have Facebook pages and Instagram. Their location is easily enough found out. I, by day, Davide said to himself, could begin breaking into their apartments while they're at work and, after obtaining my "release," as I have just done now (Merci, Sophie mon cher!), steal the silky source of my comfort. And start a varied collection. A trophy room if you will. Like the cups and medals and ribbons and awards an Olympic gymnast might keep, behind glass. Only mine (trophy room, that is) will be a bedside drawer. For, you know, convenience's sake.
Now. I will need (Davide went on, pacing in front of Sophie the sister's window, while Sophie the cat observed), since it will be daylight, a white costume. No, black. Skin-tight, but with a big pocket in front. Maybe Aunt Genet could sew me up something custom. Gloves, which I already have. Check. A compact jimmying tool. (Note to self: Look up options on the internet.) Nylon rope. Check. What else? A pistol? NON! Ziplock plastic bags. The freezer kind. Large. Easily obtained at the neighborhood grocery store. (Another note: Remember to buy them one box at a time. So as not to arouse suspicion.)
Davide clapped his hands, to Sophie's ears-back surprise. The deed, while not done, aside from today, was nevertheless fully realized. The die was cast.
"I shall become," Davide declared aloud, "a cat burglar!"
"Meow?" Sophie inquired.
"What?" Davide asked in English, before heading to the bathroom sink muttering French.
Davide's various roles in the circus had prepared him brilliantly for his new avocation (since he was not stealing money it could hardly be termed a vocation). In the bright glare of broad daylight he could scale a four-story fire escape, jimmy a window and slip through it in the time it would take a normal person, even a halfway athletic one, to mount the first flight of metal steps. And since he was an exceedingly quick cummer the time he dwelled in this or that woman's, or couple's, apartment was brief indeed. His panty collection grew and grew. As did his once seemingly irreparable self-esteem.
When not breaking into people's homes he walked down the street with his chest out and a broad smile on his face. I am King! he liked declaring. A Prince, anyway. The Prince of Panties! he would laugh outloud, invariably drawing the attention of others in the hair salon he frequented. ("What's with that asshole?" was often heard. Davide, however, on top of the world by now, could not have cared less.) True, there were occasional blunders. Miscalculations. A new roommate still in the apartment after his beautiful panty-target had long left for work. A sleep-over boyfriend he hadn't counted on. That kind of thing. But these were minor obstacles, mere bumps in the road. For the ever-resourceful Davide could back out of a window as quickly as he could enter one. And by the time the police arrived, if they did arrive, a bounding Davide would be three blocks away, enjoying a craft beer in one of Montreal's drab neighborhood bars.
Huh! he thought. You might as well try to catch a chimpanzee on the loose. Or orangutan. Good luck!
Davide's long-running success as Montreal's panty burglar stemmed from the care he took with his victimless victim's cum-filled undergarment. After "doing the deed," and having learned from his spillful first-time experience with Sophie the sister's lavender-and-lace string bikini, Davide took great care in his choosing and subsequent handling of the freshly soiled and sopping wet "trophy." By sticking with larger styles (French-cut was fine, although he drew the line at anything skimpier than a hipster, or a size 6) and, once masturbated in, carefully removing and then folding over that day's chosen panty, and inserting it with additional sticky care into the ziplock freezer bag, Davide avoided the possibility of detection. Just as his gloves (which he removed, one of them, in order to jerk off) obviated fingerprints, so his ziplock Glad bags denied his pursuers DNA evidence. Couple that with his gymnastic prowess, and Davide, over and over again during an eight-month period, was repeatably able to commit...the perfect crime. He became known, when known at all, as the ever-elusive "Panty Burglar of Montreal."
The beginning of Davide's downfall came innocently enough on a Tuesday, late morning. It could not have been more routine. It was snowing and Davide had switched to the white costume Aunt Genet had customized for him. A male and female couple occupied (though not at the moment) this particular abode and Davide, after choosing a panty from the drawer, quickly jacking off into it and "zipping" it, had his eye caught by something on a second perpendicular dresser he presumed to be the husband's. At any rate it had bottles of men's cologne on its lace doily. In addition there was, on the far left, a squat jar with a yellow label. Davide took a moment to walk over to it. On label's left side was the black image of a medieval knight holding a jousting lance. To the right of this, black on yellow, was the product's bold name:
CUM-A-LOT
Davide picked the jar up, read the back of the label: "Directions: For first-time user man, apply liberally over both testicals [sic] twice daily. After two weeks reduce supplication [sic] to once daily. Results can best be prophesized [sic] after 3 weeklongs [sic]. Stop usage eminently [sic] should swelling to access [sic] or burning fire result. Not for oral consumption. Increase [sic] sperm count or potency of man not included. Guarantee or You're [sic] Money Back. Product of China."
Hm, Davide thought, pocketing the jar along with his wet panty trophy.
Later that day he looked up Cum-A-Lot on the internet. The website was in English. That is to say, intelligible English. Davide read:
Cum-A-Lot is an amazing breakthrough in increased semen volume production. Scientifically tested, Cum-A-Lot has been shown to increase semen volume by as much as 100% or more after regular application. Applied directly to the testicles by a male or his partner (pregnant women should avoid contact with the product, or wear hazmat-grade gloves) Cum-A-Lot is unconditionally guaranteed to increase semen volume beginning in as little as three weeks, when properly applied. (Results will vary.) If you're not completely satisfied with the Cum-A-Lot cream you may return it for a full refund on your credit card. Simply pay for return shipping to China. For more information about the kind of results you may experience after using our product, click on the Testimonials button below. Millions of happy Cum-A-Lot users around the globe have entrusted their faith in our product in order to increase semen volume and the consequent enhancement of their partner's pleasure. Be Amazed! Try Cum-A-Lot!
Hm, Davide again thought. The jar he'd stolen had been nearly empty. And the best deal seemed to be the "Triple Play:" three jars for $185. Time to dip into his termination settlement again! Davide clicked buy. He couldn't wait. Thank god it wasn't the Chinese New Year...
Eschewing saving three-day loads for his panty runs, Davide, product now in hand, decided to do a little experiment. Having purchased a box of non-lubricated, receptacle-end Trojans at the corner store, Davide, properly sheathed and after just one day's rubbing of the cream onto his shaved balls, masturbated. He then weighed the outcome on a little scale he had. A miniature, plastic "scales of justice" given to him by his parents one Christmas prior to their acrimonious divorce. Since he had no weights, per se, he used Molson beer bottle caps. Three, four...six. Six in all. He made a note.
Three weeks later, after assiduously using the product and ignoring the warning about cutting back to once daily application after two weeks, Davide conducted another condom experiment. Holy shit! He didn't have to weigh the three-day load to see the difference. He weighed it anyway. And ran out of beer caps at the count of 13. Holy fuck! This stuff is great!
It was right after this, at his next burglary, that Davide sealed his own acrobatic fate. The panty was pink. Silky microfiber. With lace. It really felt good. (Don't they all?) But his cum went everywhere. Squirted out each leghole. Out the lace waist perforations. Even through the seat's fabric. Davide had never seen so much semen! And once he and three other male performers had gotten drunk and had a circle jerk. It got all over his hand. Some dripped on the dresser. More, much more dripped to the floor. Which is to say the bedroom's thick, knotty carpet. (Unfortunately for Davide it was not a Stainmaster.)
Davide cleaned it up the best he could. But it was hopeless. The fucking rug! He heard footsteps and had to exit. He'd left the panty drawer open.
Mon dieu!
Detectives from the municipal police department showed up at his door three days later, just as he was about to perform another experiment. They had a warrant. He was charged with one count each of breaking and entering and burglary. "But," as the lead detective went on to say, "if you're who we think you are there's lots more to follow."
There was. 48 counts in all. 48 times two.
When, the night of his arrest, he asked the police how they'd been able to nail him the lead detective, a paunchy guy named Simenon, replied: DNA evidence.
"Yeah but how can you prove it's mine?" Davide asked hopefully.
"It was a match. A perfect match with the sample you were required to give when that Chinese contortionist brought workplace harassment charges against you a year ago."
"Oh."
"And believe me, the lady in the apartment you robbed wasn't too happy about having to replace her wall-to-wall carpet either. So you can expect a lawsuit from her too."
Great, a handcuffed Davide thought. Just great.
He pled guilty, what the hell. The court's sentence was harsh. Seven years in prison—but with the possibility of parole after 13 months. Harsh by Canadian standards, in other words.
Davide's second life was over, however. Ruined. Caput. He was an object of ridicule around the world. The Panty Burglar, the Canadians dubbed him, his picture plastered all over the newspapers and online. In nearby towns like New York and Philadelphia the tabloids called him The Montreal Panty Burglar, while in other more distant, geography-challenged places, such America's deep south, he was merely referred to as the Canadian Panty Burglar. Whatever, his infamy was universal.
He had one visitor the whole while. Sophie drove to the prison outside Quebec City on weekends about once a month. She looked haggard. The thing with the Egyptian banker hadn't worked out. "When he's not banging me," she lamented, "he's trying to make me wear a burka. Fuck that."
"Oh," a dejected Davide would reply, absent-mindedly. One thing she said did brighten his day, however. Sophie offered him a temporary place to stay after he got out of prison: her apartment's second "bedroom."
"Keep in mind I sometimes bring guys home," she advised. "From the club. So you'll have to keep to your closet. Your room, I mean."
"Oh, right. Sure."
"And help me take care of Sophie while I'm at work," Sophie added. "I keep her litter box in that room."
"I'll scoop it. No problem."
Davide sat there trying to disguise his emotion. His bubbling joy. It was about to spill out of him like a load of Cum-A-Lot-enhanced semen. For the first time in months he had something to be happy about. As he lay in his cell night after night it was all he could think about. Well, that and...He couldn't wait! At last he had something to look forward to:
Carte blanche access to his sister's panty drawer!
Bored to tears and despondent over this sudden new unchallenging "phase two" of his life, Davide briefly considered suicide—until discovering the magical powers of a certain American brand of antidepressant he "lifted" from a friend of a friend's house during a party one weekend. That and a face-powder tin full of pharmaceutical-grade cocaine.
The breakthrough, the epiphany if you will, in Davide's new life came one day while feeding his sister Sophie's cat, also named Sophie. Sophie—the sister—was as beautiful as her brother was handsome. Like Davide she had a trim, lithe body and like Davide Sophie was a performer. Having worked sporadically for several years in both Montreal and New York as a stage actor and dancer, Sophie now had a permanent gig at a dance club exotique in Longueuil. Her apartment was conveniently located nearby. It was here, at the club, that Sophie met one of Quebec's richest men, an Egyptian financier. And it was this gentleman Sophie was now on a private yacht with, somewhere in the Caribbean's blue waters. While she was gone Davide had agreed to feed Sophie the cat. It wasn't like he had anything else to do.
It was after filling Sophie's bowl and refreshing her water that Davide began nosing around Sophie's—the sister—personal effects. Finding nothing of interest in her medicine cabinet—she'd packed up all the good stuff for the trip—Davide moved on to her bureau. Because of its mahogany height, and just for kicks, Davide, while Sophie the cat looked on with interest, had climbed atop the bureau and was hanging upsidedown by his toes. It was in the third drawer down—well, up—that Davide hit the motherlode. He flipped to the floor in excitement. For to a man with a panty fetish, such as Davide, discovering a beautiful woman's underwear drawer is the equivalent of a pirate opening a treasure chest brimming with gold doubloons. Davide ran his hands through the silky, sisterly treasure. He brought pair after pair to his face. He caressed them, he breathed in their perfume. He—
Having chosen a particularly silky, lacy, racy, lavender pair, Davide dashed to the mirror with them. He barely managed to get his trousers undone and his throbbing hard-on out. And barely managed to get the luxurious seat of the panty wrapped his cock, and more importantly its head—Davide was Jewish, well, half—when the involuntary explosion occurred. Davide let out a shriek and watched in horrified amazement as lavender turned a spreading grey while thick clots of white leaked out a leghole. Davide looked at the parquet floor, newly decorated. Another shriek. A curious Sophie was slinking toward it.
"Beat it!" he cried, in English. (Sophie was a rescue cat Sophie had picked up in New York, and she only understood l'anglais.) Followed, in French, by: "Sophie's gonna kill me!"
After rinsing the poor panty out in the bathroom sink and leaving it to soak in detergent, and after mopping up his floorboard mess, Davide instead offered Sophie a saucer of soy milk and then collapsed on his sister's ratty couch with a Molson. It was at this precise moment—well, a beer or two later—that the epiphany occurred.
There are thousands of beautiful women in Montreal, he reasoned. No, hundreds of thousands. And they all have Facebook pages and Instagram. Their location is easily enough found out. I, by day, Davide said to himself, could begin breaking into their apartments while they're at work and, after obtaining my "release," as I have just done now (Merci, Sophie mon cher!), steal the silky source of my comfort. And start a varied collection. A trophy room if you will. Like the cups and medals and ribbons and awards an Olympic gymnast might keep, behind glass. Only mine (trophy room, that is) will be a bedside drawer. For, you know, convenience's sake.
Now. I will need (Davide went on, pacing in front of Sophie the sister's window, while Sophie the cat observed), since it will be daylight, a white costume. No, black. Skin-tight, but with a big pocket in front. Maybe Aunt Genet could sew me up something custom. Gloves, which I already have. Check. A compact jimmying tool. (Note to self: Look up options on the internet.) Nylon rope. Check. What else? A pistol? NON! Ziplock plastic bags. The freezer kind. Large. Easily obtained at the neighborhood grocery store. (Another note: Remember to buy them one box at a time. So as not to arouse suspicion.)
Davide clapped his hands, to Sophie's ears-back surprise. The deed, while not done, aside from today, was nevertheless fully realized. The die was cast.
"I shall become," Davide declared aloud, "a cat burglar!"
"Meow?" Sophie inquired.
"What?" Davide asked in English, before heading to the bathroom sink muttering French.
Davide's various roles in the circus had prepared him brilliantly for his new avocation (since he was not stealing money it could hardly be termed a vocation). In the bright glare of broad daylight he could scale a four-story fire escape, jimmy a window and slip through it in the time it would take a normal person, even a halfway athletic one, to mount the first flight of metal steps. And since he was an exceedingly quick cummer the time he dwelled in this or that woman's, or couple's, apartment was brief indeed. His panty collection grew and grew. As did his once seemingly irreparable self-esteem.
When not breaking into people's homes he walked down the street with his chest out and a broad smile on his face. I am King! he liked declaring. A Prince, anyway. The Prince of Panties! he would laugh outloud, invariably drawing the attention of others in the hair salon he frequented. ("What's with that asshole?" was often heard. Davide, however, on top of the world by now, could not have cared less.) True, there were occasional blunders. Miscalculations. A new roommate still in the apartment after his beautiful panty-target had long left for work. A sleep-over boyfriend he hadn't counted on. That kind of thing. But these were minor obstacles, mere bumps in the road. For the ever-resourceful Davide could back out of a window as quickly as he could enter one. And by the time the police arrived, if they did arrive, a bounding Davide would be three blocks away, enjoying a craft beer in one of Montreal's drab neighborhood bars.
Huh! he thought. You might as well try to catch a chimpanzee on the loose. Or orangutan. Good luck!
Davide's long-running success as Montreal's panty burglar stemmed from the care he took with his victimless victim's cum-filled undergarment. After "doing the deed," and having learned from his spillful first-time experience with Sophie the sister's lavender-and-lace string bikini, Davide took great care in his choosing and subsequent handling of the freshly soiled and sopping wet "trophy." By sticking with larger styles (French-cut was fine, although he drew the line at anything skimpier than a hipster, or a size 6) and, once masturbated in, carefully removing and then folding over that day's chosen panty, and inserting it with additional sticky care into the ziplock freezer bag, Davide avoided the possibility of detection. Just as his gloves (which he removed, one of them, in order to jerk off) obviated fingerprints, so his ziplock Glad bags denied his pursuers DNA evidence. Couple that with his gymnastic prowess, and Davide, over and over again during an eight-month period, was repeatably able to commit...the perfect crime. He became known, when known at all, as the ever-elusive "Panty Burglar of Montreal."
The beginning of Davide's downfall came innocently enough on a Tuesday, late morning. It could not have been more routine. It was snowing and Davide had switched to the white costume Aunt Genet had customized for him. A male and female couple occupied (though not at the moment) this particular abode and Davide, after choosing a panty from the drawer, quickly jacking off into it and "zipping" it, had his eye caught by something on a second perpendicular dresser he presumed to be the husband's. At any rate it had bottles of men's cologne on its lace doily. In addition there was, on the far left, a squat jar with a yellow label. Davide took a moment to walk over to it. On label's left side was the black image of a medieval knight holding a jousting lance. To the right of this, black on yellow, was the product's bold name:
CUM-A-LOT
Davide picked the jar up, read the back of the label: "Directions: For first-time user man, apply liberally over both testicals [sic] twice daily. After two weeks reduce supplication [sic] to once daily. Results can best be prophesized [sic] after 3 weeklongs [sic]. Stop usage eminently [sic] should swelling to access [sic] or burning fire result. Not for oral consumption. Increase [sic] sperm count or potency of man not included. Guarantee or You're [sic] Money Back. Product of China."
Hm, Davide thought, pocketing the jar along with his wet panty trophy.
Later that day he looked up Cum-A-Lot on the internet. The website was in English. That is to say, intelligible English. Davide read:
Cum-A-Lot is an amazing breakthrough in increased semen volume production. Scientifically tested, Cum-A-Lot has been shown to increase semen volume by as much as 100% or more after regular application. Applied directly to the testicles by a male or his partner (pregnant women should avoid contact with the product, or wear hazmat-grade gloves) Cum-A-Lot is unconditionally guaranteed to increase semen volume beginning in as little as three weeks, when properly applied. (Results will vary.) If you're not completely satisfied with the Cum-A-Lot cream you may return it for a full refund on your credit card. Simply pay for return shipping to China. For more information about the kind of results you may experience after using our product, click on the Testimonials button below. Millions of happy Cum-A-Lot users around the globe have entrusted their faith in our product in order to increase semen volume and the consequent enhancement of their partner's pleasure. Be Amazed! Try Cum-A-Lot!
Hm, Davide again thought. The jar he'd stolen had been nearly empty. And the best deal seemed to be the "Triple Play:" three jars for $185. Time to dip into his termination settlement again! Davide clicked buy. He couldn't wait. Thank god it wasn't the Chinese New Year...
Eschewing saving three-day loads for his panty runs, Davide, product now in hand, decided to do a little experiment. Having purchased a box of non-lubricated, receptacle-end Trojans at the corner store, Davide, properly sheathed and after just one day's rubbing of the cream onto his shaved balls, masturbated. He then weighed the outcome on a little scale he had. A miniature, plastic "scales of justice" given to him by his parents one Christmas prior to their acrimonious divorce. Since he had no weights, per se, he used Molson beer bottle caps. Three, four...six. Six in all. He made a note.
Three weeks later, after assiduously using the product and ignoring the warning about cutting back to once daily application after two weeks, Davide conducted another condom experiment. Holy shit! He didn't have to weigh the three-day load to see the difference. He weighed it anyway. And ran out of beer caps at the count of 13. Holy fuck! This stuff is great!
It was right after this, at his next burglary, that Davide sealed his own acrobatic fate. The panty was pink. Silky microfiber. With lace. It really felt good. (Don't they all?) But his cum went everywhere. Squirted out each leghole. Out the lace waist perforations. Even through the seat's fabric. Davide had never seen so much semen! And once he and three other male performers had gotten drunk and had a circle jerk. It got all over his hand. Some dripped on the dresser. More, much more dripped to the floor. Which is to say the bedroom's thick, knotty carpet. (Unfortunately for Davide it was not a Stainmaster.)
Davide cleaned it up the best he could. But it was hopeless. The fucking rug! He heard footsteps and had to exit. He'd left the panty drawer open.
Mon dieu!
Detectives from the municipal police department showed up at his door three days later, just as he was about to perform another experiment. They had a warrant. He was charged with one count each of breaking and entering and burglary. "But," as the lead detective went on to say, "if you're who we think you are there's lots more to follow."
There was. 48 counts in all. 48 times two.
When, the night of his arrest, he asked the police how they'd been able to nail him the lead detective, a paunchy guy named Simenon, replied: DNA evidence.
"Yeah but how can you prove it's mine?" Davide asked hopefully.
"It was a match. A perfect match with the sample you were required to give when that Chinese contortionist brought workplace harassment charges against you a year ago."
"Oh."
"And believe me, the lady in the apartment you robbed wasn't too happy about having to replace her wall-to-wall carpet either. So you can expect a lawsuit from her too."
Great, a handcuffed Davide thought. Just great.
He pled guilty, what the hell. The court's sentence was harsh. Seven years in prison—but with the possibility of parole after 13 months. Harsh by Canadian standards, in other words.
Davide's second life was over, however. Ruined. Caput. He was an object of ridicule around the world. The Panty Burglar, the Canadians dubbed him, his picture plastered all over the newspapers and online. In nearby towns like New York and Philadelphia the tabloids called him The Montreal Panty Burglar, while in other more distant, geography-challenged places, such America's deep south, he was merely referred to as the Canadian Panty Burglar. Whatever, his infamy was universal.
He had one visitor the whole while. Sophie drove to the prison outside Quebec City on weekends about once a month. She looked haggard. The thing with the Egyptian banker hadn't worked out. "When he's not banging me," she lamented, "he's trying to make me wear a burka. Fuck that."
"Oh," a dejected Davide would reply, absent-mindedly. One thing she said did brighten his day, however. Sophie offered him a temporary place to stay after he got out of prison: her apartment's second "bedroom."
"Keep in mind I sometimes bring guys home," she advised. "From the club. So you'll have to keep to your closet. Your room, I mean."
"Oh, right. Sure."
"And help me take care of Sophie while I'm at work," Sophie added. "I keep her litter box in that room."
"I'll scoop it. No problem."
Davide sat there trying to disguise his emotion. His bubbling joy. It was about to spill out of him like a load of Cum-A-Lot-enhanced semen. For the first time in months he had something to be happy about. As he lay in his cell night after night it was all he could think about. Well, that and...He couldn't wait! At last he had something to look forward to:
Carte blanche access to his sister's panty drawer!
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