Monday, July 27, 2009

They Wouldn't Understand Their Love...

Jack gently parted the hairs around his partner’s anus. The smeared headlights of the cars passing them on the highway lit up the tender folds of Bill’s balloon knot. Jack felt sorry for those drivers. They could never know, never understand what he felt for Bill or what they had been through to get them to this place. Those passing motorists could not understand the unbearable sexual tension that builds when you taser a smartmouth in the crotch or rattle the teeth of an insolent teen or shoot some uppity professor for looking you in the eye. They could never understand the furtive glances that passed between them as they got their story straight or the soft brush of Bill’s knuckles against his hand as they faked incident reports together.

Jack grunted from his revelry as Bill twisted the saliva-lubed nightstick into his anus. He tensed against it, forcing Bill to twist harder, push harder. Jack began to lap eagerly at Bill’s man-cunt. As he briefly wormed his tongue inward he tasted ashes and some exotic spice he could not place. Jack slid his tongue downward, lightly flicking along the seam of Bill’s scrotum. Bill engulfed him with his mouth; Jack’s penis throbbed, seemingly begging to ejaculate in the back of Bill’s hot throat. Jack’s index finger slipped into Bill’s rectum. Probing as far as he could, he could feel a gnarled nugget of feces. Jack pressed against it urgently as Bill suckled him harder and harder.

They rocked in and out of each other, in time to the frantic beeping of the radar gun.

Friday, July 24, 2009

He could have been The Belle of the Ponderosa, but that was not the fat man's plan

Joe slid the train bathroom door lock to "Occupied." His shoulders slumped with relief. The poor people on the train always wanted to shake his hand or slap his back in gratitude for his support of public transit. He shuddered at the memory of their proletariat caress.

He washed his hands in the tiny metal sink. The water smelled like machine oil and pennies. He splashed water on his face and groped for a paper towel, but the dispenser wasn't there. He stared at the hand dryer bolted in its place. The start button was covered with a large "Go Green!" sticker. It whirred to life briefly but ignored his repeatedly jabs. With a sigh, he unfastened the snaps holding down his toupee and then wiped his face with it. He stuffed it into the small trash slot. There were three fresh ones still in factory plastic in his briefcase.

He rubbed his tumescence through his slacks. It was already hard, trained to the sights and smells of an Amtrak bathroom. Joe braced a foot on either side of the tiny room and slipped his penis free. He started with a light Western grip, occasionally stopping to pinch his glans so he could feel it refill with blood. With his left hand he cradled his scrotum, pulling the gray hairs at first, and them cupping tightly, the side of his thumb digging into the base of his penis.

Joe switched to an a full-fisted Cleveland grip, sliding the flesh his penis up and down, straining at the circumcision scar under his glans on the down stroke. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fantasize. The usual image of Sarah at the debate would not come to him, only brief flashes of her glasses and his post-debate hug and the half-grind he managed.

Random images flickered: distorted memories of watching from the bedroom closet as his wife was anally violated by an intern, summer camp and smell of Helen Sartoski's crotch as he lapped at it through her shorts, a brief image of a shirtless Barack that he squeezed away.

Joe opened his eyes. The train swayed and bucked beneath him. It was slowing now, almost to its destination. He cast about for a visual aid as he pumped harder and harder. His vision strayed to the trash slot. A lock of hair from his discarded toupee hung from the slot like a peek of pubic hair during the first week of bikini season.

He ejaculated directly into the toilet.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Deep within the bowels of the Rayburn building...

Nancy kicked a lever under the cold metal table Dick was strapped to. He felt the blood rush into his head as his feet pivoted into the air. Nancy straddled his face, her genital piercings cracking a tooth as she lost her balance. She began tracing his open heart surgery scars with her tongue, paying attentions to every one.

She bit down hard on the disc of the pacemaker she could feel under the skin of his chest. Dick gasped and coughed, fighting for air under the clanking rings and studs in her vulva.

She hadn't washed in days, like she promised. She worked her way down him, sliding her breasts toward his mouth. She began biting harder, drawing blood from his clavicle. She sucked briefly and then spat the blood onto his wobbly neck.

Nancy was squatting over him now, staring intently into his rheumy eyes. Quick as a striking snake, she bit gobbet of flesh from his right cheek, shaking like a rat terrier to free it. She stood and took it out of her mouth. She ringed her insensate nipples with blood and threw the ragged chunk of Dick away.

"Get on with it, you commie bitch!" Dick growled. Nancy stretched the plastic wrap over his mouth and nose, stood and began pissing on his face. She watched as he choked, writhing against the restraints. The sensation of drowning was perfect, encompassing. His penis got a little larger with every electronically-assisted heartbeat.

Somewhere Off The Coast Of Alaska...

Barry slid the long zipper of Sarah's jeans down, tooth by delicious tooth. Each of the teeth clicking apart sent a shiver of pleasure down the length of her gunt. "Oh, yeah! You bethca!" she exclaimed as he reached through the open zipper and tried to push aside her enormous Wal*Mart panties.

As he leaned in close, the tip of the cigarette hanging from his mouth was inches from her own mouth. Sarah breathed in the acrid smoke. "Cool," he said, the cigarette bobbed as he spoke and ash fell into her cleavage. Barry stubbed out the cigarette on the side of a salmon Sarah had caught for him and let the gentle rocking of the boat guide his fingers against her swollen clitoris.

Sarah's fingernails scrabbled for purchase against Barry's own jeans. "Button-fly, baby," he drawled, "Hold on."

Sarah began to softly whine has he pulled his hand out of her crotch to undress. He wiped his hand on her face and gave her a salty finger to nurse. Sarah stumbled backwards and landed on a pile of fishing nets.

Barry dropped his jeans to his ankles. His POTUS underwear could barely constrain his turgidity. "Hey, girl. Where's the shitter in this place?"

"It's a boat, Barry."

"Yeah it is."

The Surgeon General Will See You Now

I wonder about her position on masturbation.

Standing? Leaning against the stall? Prone? Back? Stomach? Is she a vibrator or pillow-humping kind of gal? Does she do the couch-arm slide? How many attachments does her shower head have? Does she like the realistic, veiny dildos or the smooth kind? Balls or no? Silicone or glass? Does she stimulate the G-spot? Ass play? Is she a squirter?

I'd go on, but there's no call to be gross about it.

El Amor Prohibido

Abuela locked the door behind her with a click that echoed through the attic and back into the cramped room. Sonia and Miguel stayed where they were. They longed to cuddle, to sooth each other after Abuela's accusations, but they were afraid she would double back to catch them.

"Hermana, ¿está usted bien?" Miguel's eyes moved over the huddled form of his sister. Abuela had caught them kissing again and slapped Sonia cruelly.

"Voy a estar bien, hermano." Sonia held out her arms. As she shifted into the light Manuel could see the mark that would become an enormous bruise by morning. "Ven, Manuel. Abrázame, estoy frío." Manuel crossed to bed as quietly as he could. The ancient bedsprings protested under his weight.

"Usted no comer sus pasteles de esta mañana. Usted debe mantener su fuerza hasta," Manuel murmured. "Mi estómago me duele cuando comen," she whispered as she drew him close.

Manuel could feel her breasts against him through the thin material of her shirt. Abeula had taken all her bras when they moved here. She said Sonia was too young.

To Manuel, Sonia did not feel too young.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

a steel fist of regulation covered by a velvet glove of emission trading

Henry nervously twirled his mustache as he watched the steel fist being unwrapped from it's velvet hood. The fist was plunged into a bucket of warm water to gently heat it. Nancy ran a coathanger down her cast to scratch her ruined leg. The bruises ran up into her bloomers. She farted and then let out a giggle tinged with hysteria.

The masked man raised the steel fist from the water by the sturdy three foot rod it was welded to. Henry chuffed as the fist was wiped dry and held up to gleam in the feeble sunlight trickling in though the boarded up window of his Rayburn office.

The phone rang in the hallway and an intern in ass-less chaps duck-walked to answer it. The bit in his mouth slurred the words, "Congethmah Wakmah's offith." A thin of line of spittle fell on the floor. The intern dropped the phone to wipe it up and then began to massage it into his scrotum.

Henry nodded to the masked figure. "Do it," he said, "Do it as many times as it takes me to learn." The steel fist smashed upwards into his crotch hard enough to lift him off his feet.

Nancy caught the fist on the laconic backswing and left a smeared kiss on the knuckle of the thumb.