In His Mom's Basement There Lived A Young Troll Named Morris Magill

Morris fended off her attempts to bite him. A single well-placed slap knocked her dentures loose and sent them flying. They clattered out of sight in the darkness of the basement. She still numbly clawed at him, but could get no purchase on the heavy rain slicker. She had been dead two days.

Morris struggled with her off-balance, but managed to topple her onto the work bench. He fired the nailgun repeatedly into her hands and forearms. The fingers twitched like a galvanized frog. She could only weakly move her legs, kicking up from where they hung off the end of the bench. He tied them with efficient knots to the supports of the bench itself.

She moaned. It almost sounded like his name. Her bloody night gown hung in tatters and he ripped the rest of it away. He was nude after he let the slicker fall to the floor. Morris struggled for purchase against the smooth concrete of the basement floor and the height of the work bench, but he finally entered her. After a few frantic thrusts, he came, spurting thick ropey semen into her gray pubic hair as he fell backwards.

From the floor he stared at her vulva, already torn from his exertions. Morris felt himself begin to stiffen once more. He smiled. His mother would never turn him down again.

The Lost Tapes of Sappho

"Oh, Nancy," Dianne exclaimed as she writhed on the blood-warm waterbed. It had been stripped of its sheets and the two of them where coated in a thin layer of GMO-free soybean oil. Nancy lifted the pudding-filled sweatsock of Dianne's breast from her armpit and lightly bit the coarse hairs surrounding the ragged aureole.

Dianne scrambled to find Nancy's dessicated labia, lapping oil from the bed to provide enough elasticity so that her clitoris wouldn't break off and crumble in her hand. Nancy slipped a lubed finger in Dianne's anus and began to massage her perineum in lazy circles with her thumb. "Oh, Nancy," Dianne exclaimed again, "Harder, like the doula when Katherine was born!"

In their ecstasy neither could see the red LED of the camera or hear its soft whir in the dim chamber.

Grateful Grannies, Vol. 6

...on the third hard pull of the reel, the gas-powered multi-dildo sprang to life. Its noxious exhaust quickly filled the cramped room. Dianne watched with rapt attention as all seven jiggly jelly junk jammers gyrated spastically as the masked man gunned the engine. Volume three of the California penal code hung from a crude steel post pierced through his frenulum.

As he advanced on her, she exclaimed, "I been wet for seven days!" He mumbled something behind his mask, but it was drowned out as the machine began its work.

Behind The Warty Door

With the last grating pass of the razor, Lindsay looked up at Warty expectantly. Warty tossed the razor away and turned under the harsh glare of the klieg lights. The corn oil dripped from his elbows and penis onto the layer of shower curtains the servants had put down.

"Ah gawd," came Lindsay's effete Southern drawl, "You look good enough to eat for Sunday dinnah." Warty playful flicked oil at him as Lindsay squatted in the gloom outside the powerful lights. The oil was heating up under the them and the room filled with the scent of tacos and immigration.

Lindsay finished rubberbanding his penis and testicles into a genital bouquet and slowly inserted one then two then three tiny liquor bottles into his anus. They clacked together when he stood. He carefully shimmied toward Warty while flashing his shittiest of shit-eating grins.

Lindsay said, looking deep into Warty's waiting eyes, "Ah wish you were a nigrah."

Warty fainted dead away.

The Sex-Robots Who Have Sex Robotically

"I've seen things you white males wouldn't believe," Sonia muttered as she slid the enormous strap-on from beneath the judicial robes.

She ran after Souter, gibbering and hooting in Bronxian Spaglish. She could hear him breathing, hiding behind a rotted wall. She could even hear the skin of his withered testicles as they drew up in fear. She rammed her head through the wall and caught David's hand, stripping the gavel from it easily. "Empathy is for turtles," she said as she gnawed his hand open. "This is for Ruth!" she growled, his pinky bone snapping like a whip. David cried out. "And this is for Sandra!" as she broke his ringfinger while he moaned. Sonia placed the gavel back into his hand. David tried to adjourn, but she was too fast.

David ran from her through the crumbling hotel. He couldn't help but look back at her strap-on as it flailed in time with her inexorable stride. The roof, he thought. The roof.

Kitty Cat Pool Party, featuring Paul Krugman

"This what we have to do the greedy upper class, who have gotten rich suckling at the neck of the virtuous proletariat!" Paul dropped the cat and reached into his shirt, pulling out the Nobel Prize that hung around his neck. He fumbled at the dental floss that was threaded through the rough hole he had drilled.

"I can do this because I won the NOBEL PRIZE!" He brandished the over-sized coin at the pundits and cameramen in the studio as he waddled away from the desk with his pants around his ankles. Sweat dripped from his beard as he advanced on the frightened cat.