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A whole civilization thrived beneath the tables. Savage Hartwell understood this better than most. He spent the majority of his childhood wandering through a forest of legs, trousered thighs and calves, thick matronly haunches thundering out of skirts and dresses. He reveled in the sounds of muted adult voices emanating from above, discussing matters, speaking of things. He delighted in licking his finger and collecting the crumbs that had fallen from the adult’s plates and then scraping them off in to a pile that he would later eat.

Throughout his childhood he spent most of his formative years beneath the dining room table. As a teething infant he would gnaw on its varnished walnut legs. As an older child he would take his toys down there and imagine entire planets consisting of strange, alien tables, with a fantastical assortment of legs. As a teenager, he first masturbated during one of mother’s luncheons while staring hungrily at his aunt’s white-pantied-crotch.

When he achieved adulthood, married a wife had three children (all conceived underneath the table of course) Savage’s passion for his magical subterranean world only grew. He spent most of his nights down there, resolving important family situations, handling the bills, smoking a pipe.

Just yesterday, alas, Savage’s wife passed away. With his children far away raising families of their own, Savage was all alone, with no legs to keep him company underneath the important tables in his life. That’s why, at this very moment he is secreted under a booth at the local Hot Shoppes, his damp dentures in one hand, his limp, gnarled dick sitting absently in the other, gumming the cold, steel table legs, remembering.

Date Written: November 07, 2004
Author: scoop
Average Vote: 3.1111