An eighteen-year-old rapist and an eighty-year-old burglar are chatting in a night-club, sharing stories and tricks of the trade.
The proud young man has just finished describing in great detail how he raped a policewoman who tried to catch him.
“Policewomen aren’t what they used to be,” the old man muses. “I know these trousers they wear can light a brother’s fires, especially the tight ones, but in the old days they used to wear tight, clingy skirts. They couldn’t run fast in them, which was just fantastic, man, when you were chasing one. And you could put your hand up them. You could look up them. Once I was doing this office and a silent alarm went off. Pigs were all over the place. I hid and when I looked out, there was this skylight and a little piggy, juicy little white piece, standing right over it, one leg on either side. I could see right up her skirt. She wasn’t wearing no tights, but stockings and suspenders. She had lovely little wispy panties, man, pink with white frilly edges, bunching into her cunt and azzcrack, a few blonde hairs creeping outside. Shit, it was hot.”
“Fuck. What did you do?” the young man asks.
“My prick was going to bust my trousers, so I let it out. Soon as I did that, it pointed straight at the target and shot off like a rocket, man, a great high-speed gob, smashed straight through the skylight and up her cunt, must have pushed her panties about three inches up it.”
“Nice story,” said the young man, smiling.
“It’s true, son, or you wouldn’t be here.”
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