A Good Run Munged

Mark's nosehairs vibrated with the scent of the limping animal half a mile away, its odor wild with blood as it foraged on the forest ground, unable to climb. He looked down at the Racemaster 3000 on his wrist, then kicked his jog into the next gear with one powerful stride. In seconds, he hovered over the squirrel, his eyes steady as he watched it stumble to and fro over last year's dead leaves. With a whip of his right arm, he seized the creature, brought it up to eye level, and punctured its swollen belly with his razored fingernails. The thing squirmed, then shuddered, then calcified into death as its entrails poured from its abdomen.

Mark licked the length of the squirrel's hanging intestines before throwing it deep into the woods; its insides tasted not much unlike those of a blue crab. He wished he hadn't been so hasty in getting rid of it as he returned to the trail vivisecting Cedarville Park and his stomach grumbled with hunger. But he grinned - he could see lunch up ahead.

The woman was alone but for her walker. Dressed in a worn housecoat and slippers, she ambled along slowly, as if re-living her eighty-five years one tiny step at a time. Mark overtook her in a matter of seconds, shouldering her into the woods with a bump of his lean hips. He grabbed the walker and threw it in behind her, then descended upon the silent, wide-eyed woman as she lay unmoving fifteen feet from the trail and behind a flurry of dented bushes.

He pulled his razor from the fanny pack that sagged just above his hard-on, dropped to one knee, and ripped open the housecoat, exposing the woman's naked, dilapidated body. As he sliced off her left tit, he felt her heart stop with a noiseless stammer under the right one. With a laugh, he mashed the bloody breast, which hardly bled, into the woman's face, then proceeded to do the same with the other breast.

Mark re-fannypacked his razor, then positioned himself at her blank head, his feet on each side of her thinned, blood-smacked, gray hair. He fell forward and caught himself on his hands beside her hips, burying his face into her cunt, which smelled of urine and leather. Opening his mouth wide, he placed it over her pussy, then slowly raised himself up into a handstand. With all the force his hips could muster, he slammed the soles of his Adidas running shoes into the woman's swelling belly. And in one gulp swallowed everything that flooded from her cunt in a single swoosh of mung.

He stood up, the blood falling from his head into the rest of his body. And burped. He almost gagged, which surprised him for a second. Until his belly was warmed, almost full. Almost. He looked to his Racemaster 3000, estimated the remaining distance to time in his head, wiped his mouth, and took off in a flash, his hard-on bouncing wet and slimy with pre-cum in his thin running shorts.