As Seen On TV

“This is going to be horrible,” Donald’s hair whispered.

“Stop whining, bitch. At least you aren’t jammed in his back pocket,” Donald’s hat groused.

Sarah stumbled out on the stage, waving to the crowd of braying retards the campaign had recruited from the line of people waiting for blind dates at Frisch’s Big Boy.

“What in the holy fuck is she wearing?” the hair rhetoricalled.

“Dammit. What does it look like? Tell me!” the hat demanded.

“It’s… I don’t really fucking know. It’s like a half cape covered in, I dunno, stainless steel ziti, maybe?”

“Say what? Oh, Christ, Donald! I think he had nothing to eat yesterday except hard-boiled eggs.”

“It jangles,” the hair said, with growing horror. “I think she made it herself, some sort of deranged Bedazzler seizure.”

“I told you we should have got appearance approval,” the hat said.

“Her handlers said no. They said they’d rather shock her back into her crate and take her back to Mooserape, Alaska.”

“Son of a fuck. It’s like Fart City, USA down here,” the hat groaned. “Wait… what did she just say?”

“No clue, dude,” the hair said. “It’s like a homeless street preacher. You just sort of tune her out after a while. I think she rhymed ‘holy rollers’ with ‘rock ’n’ rollers.’”

“I can barely hear down here in assland,” the hat said. “And the crowd noise.”

“They are pretty much cheering and clapping at random,” the hair sneered.

“Sarah is a genius. Sarah is a wonderful. I love Sarah. Sarah is so smart. And the crowd is all geniuses. Geniuses. You two should shut up. You two shut up about Sarah. I don’t care about much weight she’s put on. I love her,” Donald muttered.

“Calm down, Donald,” the hair whispered. It massaged his head to soothe him.

“Yes, calm down,” the hat said. “And please stop farting.”

“I’m not farting,” Donald said, his words almost lost in the torrent of madness from Sarah and the sounds of the crowd touching themselves. “I’m making my butt cheeks clap for Sarah. My dear Sarah.”

Technical Virgin, The Best Kind Of Virgin

Sarah ground her crotch forcefully against Christine’s face as she sat upon it. The left side of her distended labia dangled into Christine’s throat like a monstrous uvula; the other slapped loosely against Christine’s right ear. Christine’s nose was buried in Sarah’s anus, forced deeper and deeper as Sarah leaned back to let Christine gasp for a bare half a lungful of air. Christine’s breasts lolled across her chest and into her armpit and back out again with every forceful thrust of Sarah’s hips. They had pierced Christine’s nipples with a safety pin before they began and a thin smear of blood covered them.

Sarah slipped her hand down Christine’s pale, doughy body as she rocked away, stealing toward the dark thatch of pubic hair sprouting between her legs.

As Sarah began to wind her fingers like veiny snakes though the hair toward Christine’s clitoris, Christine began to buck. She exhaled forcefully, Sarah’s labia flapping to creating a drawn out farting noise and filling her cavernous vagina with air. As Sarah swung off of Christine’s face, a protracted queef quickly filled the air with the scent of old scallops and regret.

“I’m still a virgin, Sarah,” Christine gasped. “I’m not married yet.”

“Then what are we, you know, doing here, you know?” Sarah asked.

“I just need to keep myself pure for my husband, so he can have my ladyflower on our wedding night all to himself,” Christine said in a small, meek voice. “I’ll do whatever you want to you, but I need to stay untouched. My peach is still fresh at 41 and Jesus needs me to keep it that way. Jesus knows everything about our vaginas, after all.”

Sarah slapped her sharply across her face.

The Love Loveultion rEVOLution Ution

Ron stood before Sarah wearing nothing but the folds and wrinkles of his 75 years. But his manhood was erect, as hard as it ever was in the 1950s.
Sarah slipped her glasses from her face and twisted her mouth into a grotesque parody of a wry smile. She struggled out of her blouse, slowed down by armloads of cheap jewelry and fumbled buttons. She couldn’t take her eyes off of Ron’s erection. It was Texas-sized, hopefully a tight fight for a vagina pried wide by a series of children. She clawed at her pantyhose to free her throbbing sex for him. She was wetter than she had been in a decade, the dry lack of response for Todd’s clumsy pawing and squeezing a thing of the past. Her dampness filled the small, dark office. Ron breathed it in greedily and slapped his turgidity sharply, making his penis bob expectedly.
Sarah unhooked her bra and her heavy breasts swung free. Her areoles were brown and baby-gnawed, slowly contracting to form deeply wrinkled, but hard nipples. Ron grunted. Sarah fell to her knees in front of him and took him roughly into her mouth. His penis was meaty and saliva dripped from her lower lip in long ropes as she forced him deeper and deeper, choking herself. She ringed the base of the shaft with strong fingers and dug her thumb into the base of its underside. Ron groaned when he could feel the convulsions of her throat as she gagged on him.
Sarah came up for air, tears running down her face, dragging long black trails of mascara down her chin and neck. Ron leaned in for a rough kiss, his tongue jamming in and out of her mouth. Pulling back, he spit in her mouth.
She broke away and Ron motioned her up and over to a chair. Sarah got on her knees and spread herself wide for him, a whispered fart escaping as she did. Her genitals gaped like a ragged wound.
Ron punched her right in the cunt and got to work.

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."