For quite a while now, I do not dare to open my own mailbox. I’m getting a little bit worried about the tiny, hot houswives who are dwelling inside of it. They might be smaller than four inches, yet they behave like militant amazons only waiting for the post box to be opened, and then, they can have what they think they deserve: me.
They’ve been living in that goddamn box for about one and a half month now. At first, I was hoping that if I would continue on ignoring them, they will shortly change their minds and move to an other mailbox, maybe the one which is owned by that dirty old hag living on the third floor. That broken down bitch is sure to teach them a lesson they will never forget! Or maybe -I thought to myself- if they don’t bother moving out I will let them starve to death andlet them eat the tiny little corpses of each other. But things were just not turning out the way I wanted them to.
They are banging on the metal door of the postal box now, and they are offering their tiny, hot bodies to every single male passing by, let it be the hormone troubled teenager from the fist floor or the hard-working family man from the sixth, who is leaving to his office every morning in a rush.
I’ve alredy tried to clog the tin box with every bit of waste paper I could find in the staircase, but that didn’t seem to work too well either. I wanted to suffocate the little whores, but they easily tore all the flyers and the newspapers apart and made themselves sexy paper underwares and comfortable nests from the material. They now can rub their tiny bodies more comfortable all day, layng in luscious positions, offering their questionable erotic services further to the residents of the flat, who are getting angrier and more impatient day by day.
To be honest, this situation has started to get out of control pretty badly by now. At first it was just the sniffy, sometimes even murderous stares of the neighbours passing me by in the staircase that made me think that the tiny harem dwelling in my post box is starting to annoy the members of the residential community. However, the last time I took the elavator to my apartment, a neighbour of mine told me, that if the liliputian whores will not leave her husband alone, she will have to call the cops on me. She claims that one of the post box prostitutes (a little, hot MILF) regularly tried to win her husband’s attention by showing him her little, round asscheeks, and whispering dirty things while he was passing by my mailbox. The man, of course, is declining all the charges pulled against him. He sais that no other minor slut can get him excited except his only wife. But the lingering glances addressed toward the tin letterbox have betrayed him already.
I had to find the fastest, most effective solution to get rid of these dirty little parasites, and I couldn’t see any other way then sending them to Hell with the help of some poison. So about two weeks ago I went on to the internet to order some penis enlarging capsules made from the mixture of herbal extracts and illegal dopping substances. The little tablets have arrived in a thick envelope, wrapped in bubble foil. I went to the post office to pick them up myself and when I got home, I smashed the capsules with a spoon and mixed the powdered drug with some tap water and rosé wine. I loaded a squirt gun that I’ve bought in a neighbourhood toy store and sprinkled the dirty little drabs with the smelly pink alcoholic tinkture. The slutty little moms were bathing in the rain of alcohol and drugs with their pointy tongues sticking out, lustfully moaning, hungry for pleasure. But surprisingly, things didn’t really work out the way i wanted them to.
The slutty little MILFs are now banging on the door of the mailbox riding fully grown, erected dicks thanks to the side effects of the penis enlargement pill cocktail. The cocks sometimes stick their shiny, purple heads out through the holes of the mailbox and they usually whisper dubious deals in the ears of the passerby. They are trying to get someone to open the door, and set them and their mistresses at large, so they can roam the hallways of the flat free and rape the assholes of the uncareful residents.
-Psst! Hey! Hey, Dude! Come ’ere I’ve got a great deal for ya! How would you like your schlong to be four inches longer and a lot more thicker in only six days? Pretty sweet, huh!? You only have to let me out of ’ere! Hey! Hey, Dude, don’t leve me ’ere! Didn’t you know that even the setting sun can have strength? You will be amazed with the results, I tell ya!
When they are not in an erect state (which is a quite rare occasion actually) they are trying to lure people near the mailbox with other shady offerings.
-Oi! Oi, Mate! Did ya know, that you’re the one-thousandth fortunate visitor who set foot on this stair? Come ’ere and open this goddamn mailbox to claim your prize, a brand new, shiny testicle ironing kit!
Last time one of the neighbours almost fell for a dirty trick of one these tricky little motherfuckers, and it was only a matter of a few seconds that he did not break the door of my post box open with a crowbar. Those cheeky bastards told him that if he would break the box open he would win a three week luxury trip to yugoslavia. Inside, the fuckin’ little whores and their foul servants were only waiting for the right time to escape from their tinbox prison cell, and rape all the possible orifices of that poor, naive bastard. Fortunately, at the moment I was on my way home from the store. Just in time to tear the heavy metal tool out of the excited neoghbour’s hands before he could set the unholy beasts of the mailbox free. The ice cold piece of metal got hit him on the back of his skull, fell clinking on the ground with the dull thud of the lifeless body.
I am now afraid to set my foot in the staircase. I can hear the lustful moaning mixed with the horrible death rattle leaking through the tiny cracks of the door and I can feel the upcoming anarchy building up in my entrails. I can hear thundering footsteps in the staircase, and I am sure, this time they are coming for me. What else would be the cause of this frantic commotion outside? They are coming to get me, they are going to hunt me down, they want to hurt me. They are hungry for my life, my blood. They are going to drain my putrid body fluids into a jar and put them on the shelf of the pantry, next to the rotten pear compote and the moldy raspberry jams of grandma, and I am going to stay there till the end of time.
I can only hope that the police will discover my cold body on the floor of the hall before these filthy unrightous little whores find me. I’m afraid there is no such thing on earth that might be sacred in their eyes.