Mark stared at his knees, which were still stinging since he'd fallen on them after crossing the finish line. Slight criss-crosses of quickly coagulated blood looked back up at him, mocking his every thought, whether it was Harry Papp's address, which he'd memorized weeks ago, or the semi-hardon he still sported as he caught whiffs of Justin Bieber's cologne as the boy walked onto the far side of the podium. A loud cheer exploded as Justin grabbed the microphone, a small, fake-gold trophy in his other hand.
"What's up, my Cedarville peeps?!" the singer yelled. Another cheer deafened the pops of Pamela Pohanka's out-dated camera as she snapped photos for The Cedarville Gazette and Dustin Rexford's mumbled questions as the reporter stood next to Harry Papp for a brief interview. "All right, yo, I gots to say, that was one def race yo. Let's hear it for these boyeeeeesss!" Justin waved the trophy towards the race's winners, Harry Papp for the overall title, Rad Eichenbocken for the mentally-handicapped title, and Mark and Bo Digglio, the respective runners-up. All bowed and clapped, except for Mark, who was still too ashamed even to glance at the boy he'd been wanting to get raped by for the past several months.
But he no longer had any choice, for Justin was suddenly standing in front of him, his chipmunk cheeks pushed up by his toothy smile. He patted Mark on the shoulder, then gently raised Mark's chin with his free hand, his dark-brown eyes glinting into Mark's. "Hey, man, chin up," said the singer. "You'll get 'em next time." He winked.
Mark's 4 inches of trouble strained against his waistband, wanting so badly to be 4 and 1/2 inches that he thought he might pass out from lack of blood to his brain as it all puddled into his crotch. He shook his head violently, finally regaining his composure. But he was too late: Biebz had already moved on to congratulate Harry Papp. However, while the tiny pop singer's mouth paid lip service to Harry, his eyes were resting on the man next to him-
A shout went up from the crowd - actually, it was more of a bark - and everyone on the podium looked out to the middle of the mass of people where two men were locked arms in arms, a circle instantly forming around their struggle. Detective Jorge T. Vinos quickly spun Mark's boss, Mike, who was naked from the waist down, around and applied a rigorous choke hold under his chin. "I'll ask the questions!" screamed the detective as a collective gasp at Mike's micro-penis flailed up from the crowd, hovering in the air just above it-
But before anyone could make sense of what was transpiring, the sirens of the ambulance at the back of the congregation screeched into full blazing, blinding, strobing, red-and-white lights as it took off with the one runner who had succumbed to a devastating Achilles tendon injury. All heads turned towards the ambulance as it kicked up rocks into the faces of those just behind, several of whom fell to their knees, their hands wiping their bloodied eyes-
And through all the ruckus, Mark heard the hammer click back, felt the wind of the arm as it raised the gun up, and saw the trench-coated man's finger confidently pull the trigger. Without thinking, Mark jumped on Justin, his heartbeat in his ears and the searing flesh of his shoulder drowning out the pop of the .45 that sent a bullet off Mark's deltoid and into Harry Papp's chest just behind him.
Mark looked down into Justin Bieber's eyes as he lay on top of him, the heavy breathing of the two of them the only sound they could hear. Finally, Justin smiled. "Is that a bullet in your pocket or are you happy that you just saved my life?" he said. Then winked.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Biebz in Da Haus (Or, Aesop's a Fucking Bitch!), Part II
Mark glided up alongside the table and grabbed a plastic cup of water on the edge. As he began to drink, the woman coughed. "This water's for participants in the Cedarville 10K only."
"I'm in the Cedarville 10K-" Mark finished the water and set the cup back on the table.
The woman looked at her watch - a Racemaster 3000 just like Mark's - and huffed. She crossed her arms, tipped the bun of red hair on her head to one side. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah-"
"Where'd you start, just around the bend there? Because there ain't no way-"
"I started at the starting line with everyone else-"
"Then you must've drove-"
"Do you see a car?"
"Rode-"
"Do you see a bike?"
"Or cut-"
"You saw where I was coming from." Mark held up the number pinned to his tank top: 666. "I'm in the race-"
"You're barely sweat-"
"I don't sweat much-"
"Well, then, where's my husband?"
"Your husband?"
"Harry!"
"Harry?"
"Harry Papp! He wins this cotton pickin' race every year! And he's gonna win it this year and we're gonna meet Mr. Bieber!"
Mark pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "He's back there somewhere. Haven't seen him for miles-"
"Okay, Mister, you've gone far enough." Mrs. Papp's face was as red as her hair, as if a bucket of menstrual blood had been dropped on her head. "I'm just gonna make a call-" She reached for the walkie-talkie behind her.
"Can I use the Port-a-Potty?" Mark asked. He nodded to large rectangular shit-holder.
Mrs. Papp turned around and glared at him. "That's what it's there for, cheater!"
Mark opened the spring-loaded door and let it flop back with a smack. Jesus Christ, the woman had actually put a damper on his boner. "There's a dead animal in there," he yelled.
The chubby woman jerked the walkie-talkie to her hip before she could speak in it. "It's a cotton pickin' Port-a-Potty, for crying out loud! What do you expect it to smell like?"
Mark shook his head with emphasis. "No, ma'am, I mean there's a real dead animal in there. A possum or something."
"The runners!" The woman jumped in place, threw the walkie-talkie to the ground, and hopped over to the Port-a-Potty, her triceps flapping like the wings of a condor. As she opened the door, Mark eased up behind her, his cock stiffening, and threaded his fingers quickly through her tight, auburn curls. He held her small, fat face in the bottom of the toilet until her limbs ceased jerking and her back no longer heaved for air. At which he pushed her fully into the Port-a-Potty, clicked the lever to "Occupied," pushed the door to, and snagged another drink of water.
As he pulled up to the second -and last- water station, he looked at his Racemaster 3000. Way ahead of time. The station was empty but for about a hundred plastic cups of warm water. As he grabbed one, his eardrum grabbed a slight rustling from inside the lone Port-a-Potty. He gulped the water, then grabbed the door to the john. Which pushed out as he pulled, revealing a boy of no more than 14, a rolled magazine in his other hand, the head of his cock peeping above his waistband just as Mark's was.
The boy looked down and giggled. Then rolled his eyes. "Just taking a break. Are you with the Club?" he said.
"I'm in the race-"
The boy looked at his own Racemaster 3000. "No fucking way, dude-"
"Yes, fucking way, dude-"
The boy grabbed Mark's wrist and flipped it over. A few clicks of his thumb and he studied the distance clocked. He pulled back. And looked around. "How-"
"I'm kinda fast-" Mark grinned back at the boy. Then pulled up his fanny pack just high enough to expose his cummy cock. The boy looked, then turned his head, his blonde bangs beating against his squinting eyes. "Here," he said and handed Mark the magazine. "You can use this-"
Mark unfurled the magazine and his grin burst into an ass-eating smile: Justin Bieber - and only Justin Bieber - adorned the latest issue of TeenBeat. He laid the magazine on the table and pointed at the boy's waistband. "Can't I use that?" he said and watched as the boy's cock pulsed upwards against the elastic.
"Fuck yeah-"
Mark bent over toilet seat as best he could in the small square they were afforded by the closed Port-a-Potty and dropped his running shorts, underneath which was nothing but his shaved balls, ass, and cock. The boy spit in his hand, lubed Mark's ass and his own dick, which wasn't much bigger than Mark's, and thrust forward. After a few more stabs, the boy pulled out and sighed. "Either my dick's as tiny as I think it is, or your asshole's huge," said the boy.
"Thanks, fuckhead-"
The boy laughed. "Nah, man, I just came. I don't think it's gonna work-"
"Then use your fingers-"
"What, all of 'em?"
"If you have to, you prick-"
Mark listened as the boy laughed again, then spit several times. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. PLUP! And Mark lurched forward as his asshole collapsed around the boy's wrist. Which then began turning in half-circles, his knuckles spiraling against Mark's prostate, an inverted cement truck grinding semen into his urethra.
"How's my asshole feel now?" said Mark.
"It fits my hand like a glove," gasped the boy. "Like an, an, an...Isotoner-"
Mark's head reared back, and he finally touched his cock, the cum dribbling at first, then pulsing out in strokes that shook his whole body. As he caught his breath, the boy's fist slid out of his asshole in a whisper. Mark grabbed some toilet paper and wiped himself - clean! - and watched the boy take off his shirt, wipe his cock of his cum, then his hand. He stuck the Yellow Cedarville 10K shirt in his back pocket and sighed, a smile spreading across his face in the semi-dark of the Port-a-Potty much as Mark's asshole had spread across his hand. Mark jumped. "Did you hear that?"
"What?"
"It's them-"
The boy peeked out the door. "Just one-"
"Papp?"
"No, some young guy. I can see Papp's still far off-"
Mark looked at his Racemaster 3000. "No fucking way-"
"You can catch him-"
"Yeah, but I didn't want it to be like this-"
"Just fucking catch him and pass him, dude-"
"Yeah-"
They popped out of the john. The boy picked up his magazine and put it in his other back pocket. Mark gulped down a hot water and adjusted his fanny pack. Before he took off, the boy grabbed his arm. "Make sure you go the right way at the fork. They've changed it."
"Which way?"
"I don't know. I was just told they had to re-route it."
"Fuck, that's the first I've heard of it-"
"It shouldn't be." The boy looked over his shoulder at the mass of runners, led by Harry Papp, rounding the corner of the road. "Go. Just follow that one dude."
"Oh, I will-" And Mark was gone.
Up ahead, he could see the back of the ghost he'd seen earlier in the day. He took a deep breath and increased his strides, tripling his speed. At the fork in the road, he was feet behind the man, who veered to his right. Within seconds, Mark was at the guy's side, his head turned to get a better look at the fellow. He shivered as the guy turned to him - if it wasn't Danny Raleigh, then he wasn't Mark Dennison. Finally, he said, "Hey."
"Hey."
"Haven't seen you around-"
The guy shook his head.
"You got a name?"
The guy took a deep breath, then spoke slowly in short, choppy bursts: "Dude...I'm trying to...run and win a race...I don't really...have time for...chit...chat."
Mark turned from the man, unable to feel his legs from both shock and anger - the guy sounded just like Danny except for the cadence of his sentences. But then he pulled up. And looked around. He yelled out to the guy, "Fuckface!" The fellow stopped and turned. And looked around too.
They were standing in the middle of an undeveloped cul-de-sac, skeletons of houses that would soon be occupied by families of all sorts standing at silent attention all around them, leering at them, as if about to break into laughter. All Mark could hear was the blood rushing through his swelling face - and the feet of the other runners who had been so far behind but who were now obviously way ahead of them. "You fucking dick, you went the wrong way," he said.
The guy wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Um...yeah, I guess...so."
"You guess so? What the fuck, dude?"
"I wasn't sure...which way to go...so since I'm right-...handed...I just went right."
"Fuck!" Mark screamed. And pushed the guy in front of him. As he took off, he pulled his right leg back until his heel touched his ass, then let loose with a kick that landed square on the back of the fellow's ankle. Not even the audible pop of the man's Achilles tendon could soothe Mark as he flew on, only the balls of his feet barely scraping the ground.
At the fork, he circled right - and right in front of Detective Jorge T. Vinos - who yelped something at him - and his boss, Mike - who yelled what sounded like, "Woo hoo! Good Times!" But he didn't have time for anything except vanquishing Harry Papp and meeting Biebz. He bulleted past several more runners, who were grinding out their finishes, until he saw just ahead of him the lone figure of Harry Papp - crossing the finish line.
"I'm in the Cedarville 10K-" Mark finished the water and set the cup back on the table.
The woman looked at her watch - a Racemaster 3000 just like Mark's - and huffed. She crossed her arms, tipped the bun of red hair on her head to one side. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah-"
"Where'd you start, just around the bend there? Because there ain't no way-"
"I started at the starting line with everyone else-"
"Then you must've drove-"
"Do you see a car?"
"Rode-"
"Do you see a bike?"
"Or cut-"
"You saw where I was coming from." Mark held up the number pinned to his tank top: 666. "I'm in the race-"
"You're barely sweat-"
"I don't sweat much-"
"Well, then, where's my husband?"
"Your husband?"
"Harry!"
"Harry?"
"Harry Papp! He wins this cotton pickin' race every year! And he's gonna win it this year and we're gonna meet Mr. Bieber!"
Mark pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "He's back there somewhere. Haven't seen him for miles-"
"Okay, Mister, you've gone far enough." Mrs. Papp's face was as red as her hair, as if a bucket of menstrual blood had been dropped on her head. "I'm just gonna make a call-" She reached for the walkie-talkie behind her.
"Can I use the Port-a-Potty?" Mark asked. He nodded to large rectangular shit-holder.
Mrs. Papp turned around and glared at him. "That's what it's there for, cheater!"
Mark opened the spring-loaded door and let it flop back with a smack. Jesus Christ, the woman had actually put a damper on his boner. "There's a dead animal in there," he yelled.
The chubby woman jerked the walkie-talkie to her hip before she could speak in it. "It's a cotton pickin' Port-a-Potty, for crying out loud! What do you expect it to smell like?"
Mark shook his head with emphasis. "No, ma'am, I mean there's a real dead animal in there. A possum or something."
"The runners!" The woman jumped in place, threw the walkie-talkie to the ground, and hopped over to the Port-a-Potty, her triceps flapping like the wings of a condor. As she opened the door, Mark eased up behind her, his cock stiffening, and threaded his fingers quickly through her tight, auburn curls. He held her small, fat face in the bottom of the toilet until her limbs ceased jerking and her back no longer heaved for air. At which he pushed her fully into the Port-a-Potty, clicked the lever to "Occupied," pushed the door to, and snagged another drink of water.
As he pulled up to the second -and last- water station, he looked at his Racemaster 3000. Way ahead of time. The station was empty but for about a hundred plastic cups of warm water. As he grabbed one, his eardrum grabbed a slight rustling from inside the lone Port-a-Potty. He gulped the water, then grabbed the door to the john. Which pushed out as he pulled, revealing a boy of no more than 14, a rolled magazine in his other hand, the head of his cock peeping above his waistband just as Mark's was.
The boy looked down and giggled. Then rolled his eyes. "Just taking a break. Are you with the Club?" he said.
"I'm in the race-"
The boy looked at his own Racemaster 3000. "No fucking way, dude-"
"Yes, fucking way, dude-"
The boy grabbed Mark's wrist and flipped it over. A few clicks of his thumb and he studied the distance clocked. He pulled back. And looked around. "How-"
"I'm kinda fast-" Mark grinned back at the boy. Then pulled up his fanny pack just high enough to expose his cummy cock. The boy looked, then turned his head, his blonde bangs beating against his squinting eyes. "Here," he said and handed Mark the magazine. "You can use this-"
Mark unfurled the magazine and his grin burst into an ass-eating smile: Justin Bieber - and only Justin Bieber - adorned the latest issue of TeenBeat. He laid the magazine on the table and pointed at the boy's waistband. "Can't I use that?" he said and watched as the boy's cock pulsed upwards against the elastic.
"Fuck yeah-"
Mark bent over toilet seat as best he could in the small square they were afforded by the closed Port-a-Potty and dropped his running shorts, underneath which was nothing but his shaved balls, ass, and cock. The boy spit in his hand, lubed Mark's ass and his own dick, which wasn't much bigger than Mark's, and thrust forward. After a few more stabs, the boy pulled out and sighed. "Either my dick's as tiny as I think it is, or your asshole's huge," said the boy.
"Thanks, fuckhead-"
The boy laughed. "Nah, man, I just came. I don't think it's gonna work-"
"Then use your fingers-"
"What, all of 'em?"
"If you have to, you prick-"
Mark listened as the boy laughed again, then spit several times. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. PLUP! And Mark lurched forward as his asshole collapsed around the boy's wrist. Which then began turning in half-circles, his knuckles spiraling against Mark's prostate, an inverted cement truck grinding semen into his urethra.
"How's my asshole feel now?" said Mark.
"It fits my hand like a glove," gasped the boy. "Like an, an, an...Isotoner-"
Mark's head reared back, and he finally touched his cock, the cum dribbling at first, then pulsing out in strokes that shook his whole body. As he caught his breath, the boy's fist slid out of his asshole in a whisper. Mark grabbed some toilet paper and wiped himself - clean! - and watched the boy take off his shirt, wipe his cock of his cum, then his hand. He stuck the Yellow Cedarville 10K shirt in his back pocket and sighed, a smile spreading across his face in the semi-dark of the Port-a-Potty much as Mark's asshole had spread across his hand. Mark jumped. "Did you hear that?"
"What?"
"It's them-"
The boy peeked out the door. "Just one-"
"Papp?"
"No, some young guy. I can see Papp's still far off-"
Mark looked at his Racemaster 3000. "No fucking way-"
"You can catch him-"
"Yeah, but I didn't want it to be like this-"
"Just fucking catch him and pass him, dude-"
"Yeah-"
They popped out of the john. The boy picked up his magazine and put it in his other back pocket. Mark gulped down a hot water and adjusted his fanny pack. Before he took off, the boy grabbed his arm. "Make sure you go the right way at the fork. They've changed it."
"Which way?"
"I don't know. I was just told they had to re-route it."
"Fuck, that's the first I've heard of it-"
"It shouldn't be." The boy looked over his shoulder at the mass of runners, led by Harry Papp, rounding the corner of the road. "Go. Just follow that one dude."
"Oh, I will-" And Mark was gone.
Up ahead, he could see the back of the ghost he'd seen earlier in the day. He took a deep breath and increased his strides, tripling his speed. At the fork in the road, he was feet behind the man, who veered to his right. Within seconds, Mark was at the guy's side, his head turned to get a better look at the fellow. He shivered as the guy turned to him - if it wasn't Danny Raleigh, then he wasn't Mark Dennison. Finally, he said, "Hey."
"Hey."
"Haven't seen you around-"
The guy shook his head.
"You got a name?"
The guy took a deep breath, then spoke slowly in short, choppy bursts: "Dude...I'm trying to...run and win a race...I don't really...have time for...chit...chat."
Mark turned from the man, unable to feel his legs from both shock and anger - the guy sounded just like Danny except for the cadence of his sentences. But then he pulled up. And looked around. He yelled out to the guy, "Fuckface!" The fellow stopped and turned. And looked around too.
They were standing in the middle of an undeveloped cul-de-sac, skeletons of houses that would soon be occupied by families of all sorts standing at silent attention all around them, leering at them, as if about to break into laughter. All Mark could hear was the blood rushing through his swelling face - and the feet of the other runners who had been so far behind but who were now obviously way ahead of them. "You fucking dick, you went the wrong way," he said.
The guy wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Um...yeah, I guess...so."
"You guess so? What the fuck, dude?"
"I wasn't sure...which way to go...so since I'm right-...handed...I just went right."
"Fuck!" Mark screamed. And pushed the guy in front of him. As he took off, he pulled his right leg back until his heel touched his ass, then let loose with a kick that landed square on the back of the fellow's ankle. Not even the audible pop of the man's Achilles tendon could soothe Mark as he flew on, only the balls of his feet barely scraping the ground.
At the fork, he circled right - and right in front of Detective Jorge T. Vinos - who yelped something at him - and his boss, Mike - who yelled what sounded like, "Woo hoo! Good Times!" But he didn't have time for anything except vanquishing Harry Papp and meeting Biebz. He bulleted past several more runners, who were grinding out their finishes, until he saw just ahead of him the lone figure of Harry Papp - crossing the finish line.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Biebz in Da Haus (Or, Aesop's a Fucking Bitch!), Part I
Thanks to a week-long, intensive diet of fibrous carbs and bloody protein, Mark deposited the largest turd in the history of mankind into the bottom of the lone Port-a-Potty servicing the Cedarville 10K's starting line. On top of which he added ten silky squiggles of cum like a horny pastry chef, his shit-log a double-chocolate eclair accented with his second hardy load in as many hours. He wiped himself five times, four of which were superfluous thanks to the plywood consistency of his constitutional, then popped out of the john. And would've shit his pants if his intestines had anything inside them, as he gazed upon what could only have been a ghost.
The boy was the same height as Danny. The same build. The same hair color but cropped short. He even looked around skittishly like Danny used to and wiped his brow nervously with the back of his hand the same way. Mark walked - no, glided without moving his legs - over to the boy. But before he could say a word - could he say a word? - a collective scream went up from the thousands of runners and spectators. He looked to the stage set up to the side, right next to the Port-a-Potty. And watched Justin Bieber moonwalk across it, the singer's eyes fixed on his feet as he made his way to the microphone. Instant boner.
Mark looked back to the doppelganger, but the boy was gone - Mike, his boss, was in his place, his pasty, orange-haired legs dangling from his well-worn black shorts. Mike waved. Mark shook his head. Then nodded. And readjusted his cock in his running shorts so that it was vertical and lay behind his fanny pack. He quickly swiveled his head once more at the sound of a bark behind him. But it was just Detective Jorge T. Vinos, who quickly ducked his head behind his short, fat hand.
"Yo yo yo, what up Cedarville?" Justin yelled, his perfect bowl of hair unmoving in the slight breeze that pushed the heat through the crowd. "Now, boyeeee, I was supposed to sing The Star-Spangled Banner" - the crowd booed - "but I gots somethin' better for yous playas" -the crowd cheered- "Hit it, Scrappy!" And he broke into an acoustic version, played on the electric keyboard by his right-hand thug, Scrappy, of "One Less Lonely Girl," which, of course, for all the world reverberated through Mark's ears as "One Less Lonely Mark."
The men, women, boys, and girls jumped up and down, bobbing their heads, the pavement growing slick with their joyous pubescent and elderly tears. Mark jumped along with them, every hop higher and higher, his eyes fixed for Danny Raleigh's reincarnation. But to no avail. So as Justin hit the last run-on chorus, he slid his way between this fat girl and that old guy here and there until he was at the front of the mass of runners. Feet from Justin, he froze and watched as the singer hit his final note, then bowed to the roar of the audience...and threw a wink his way? Mark pushed his fanny pack against the head of his tiny cock, wetting his waistline.
"Yo yo yo, Cedarville in da house!" yelled Bieber, who then gave the microphone to Harry Papp, the Cedarville Runners Club Chairman.
As the man gave his thank-yous to various organization, individuals, and parasites, Mark watched Justin in the background as the singer got a drink, punched Scrappy in the arm a few times, laughed with his mom, adjusted his baggy jeans several times...and threw him another wink?, all without his hair moving one iota. Until a girl next to him read his mind: "He's so hot!" she screamed. "Yeah," yelled Mark, "I'd eat the corn out of his shit!"
He watched as those nearest him recoiled, their faces scrunched up, mumbled "Ewwww's" escaping their throats. Before he could say anything else, Harry Papp was at his side, jumping up and down. The tiny old man pushed his taped glasses up his nose and laughed. "See you guys at the concert," he said. "Oh, wait, no I won't - I'll be in the front row!"
"Dick!"
"Fucker!"
"Arrogant prick!"
Harry nudged Mark. "Like any of you have a chance." He laughed.
But Mark said nothing. Instead, he watched Justin Bieber tip-toe to the front edge of the stage, hold aloft the starting gun, pull the trigger...and throw him yet another a wink? "See ya," he said and took off, his cock harder than it had been all morning.
The boy was the same height as Danny. The same build. The same hair color but cropped short. He even looked around skittishly like Danny used to and wiped his brow nervously with the back of his hand the same way. Mark walked - no, glided without moving his legs - over to the boy. But before he could say a word - could he say a word? - a collective scream went up from the thousands of runners and spectators. He looked to the stage set up to the side, right next to the Port-a-Potty. And watched Justin Bieber moonwalk across it, the singer's eyes fixed on his feet as he made his way to the microphone. Instant boner.
Mark looked back to the doppelganger, but the boy was gone - Mike, his boss, was in his place, his pasty, orange-haired legs dangling from his well-worn black shorts. Mike waved. Mark shook his head. Then nodded. And readjusted his cock in his running shorts so that it was vertical and lay behind his fanny pack. He quickly swiveled his head once more at the sound of a bark behind him. But it was just Detective Jorge T. Vinos, who quickly ducked his head behind his short, fat hand.
"Yo yo yo, what up Cedarville?" Justin yelled, his perfect bowl of hair unmoving in the slight breeze that pushed the heat through the crowd. "Now, boyeeee, I was supposed to sing The Star-Spangled Banner" - the crowd booed - "but I gots somethin' better for yous playas" -the crowd cheered- "Hit it, Scrappy!" And he broke into an acoustic version, played on the electric keyboard by his right-hand thug, Scrappy, of "One Less Lonely Girl," which, of course, for all the world reverberated through Mark's ears as "One Less Lonely Mark."
The men, women, boys, and girls jumped up and down, bobbing their heads, the pavement growing slick with their joyous pubescent and elderly tears. Mark jumped along with them, every hop higher and higher, his eyes fixed for Danny Raleigh's reincarnation. But to no avail. So as Justin hit the last run-on chorus, he slid his way between this fat girl and that old guy here and there until he was at the front of the mass of runners. Feet from Justin, he froze and watched as the singer hit his final note, then bowed to the roar of the audience...and threw a wink his way? Mark pushed his fanny pack against the head of his tiny cock, wetting his waistline.
"Yo yo yo, Cedarville in da house!" yelled Bieber, who then gave the microphone to Harry Papp, the Cedarville Runners Club Chairman.
As the man gave his thank-yous to various organization, individuals, and parasites, Mark watched Justin in the background as the singer got a drink, punched Scrappy in the arm a few times, laughed with his mom, adjusted his baggy jeans several times...and threw him another wink?, all without his hair moving one iota. Until a girl next to him read his mind: "He's so hot!" she screamed. "Yeah," yelled Mark, "I'd eat the corn out of his shit!"
He watched as those nearest him recoiled, their faces scrunched up, mumbled "Ewwww's" escaping their throats. Before he could say anything else, Harry Papp was at his side, jumping up and down. The tiny old man pushed his taped glasses up his nose and laughed. "See you guys at the concert," he said. "Oh, wait, no I won't - I'll be in the front row!"
"Dick!"
"Fucker!"
"Arrogant prick!"
Harry nudged Mark. "Like any of you have a chance." He laughed.
But Mark said nothing. Instead, he watched Justin Bieber tip-toe to the front edge of the stage, hold aloft the starting gun, pull the trigger...and throw him yet another a wink? "See ya," he said and took off, his cock harder than it had been all morning.
Monday, June 14, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Sports Briefs
Bieber to Officiate Cedarville 10K
By Dustin Ruxefjord
Evening Gazette Staff Writer
Cedarville - Critically-acclaimed international pop star Justin Bieber will officiate this year's Annual Cedarville 10K in downtown Cedarville, Maryland, The Evening Gazette has just confirmed. Bieber, 15, will fire the starting gun of the yearly event and hand out trophies to the winners of all age- and gender-related competitions, including the Open 10K, which is open to all competitors, except those who race professionally.
"This is quite a coup for the Cedarville 10K," said Harry Papp, the race's organizer, as well as one of its most feared competitors. "To have someone of Justin's - nay, Mr. Bieber's - stature and talent officiating our little race is...wow, I just can't put it into words."
But the events' combatants are not the only ones excited by Bieber's appearance - the ultra-talented singer is a major sex symbol to pre-teen girls, desperate homosexuals of both sexes, and pedophiles the world over. The turnout for this year's event is expected to exceed those of the race's entire 215-year history combined. Especially as there will be a special incentive for those who show up to compete, according to Bieber himself.
Reached by telephone this week, Bieber had this to say: "Yo! What up, Cedarville! East side! Thank you for having me and thank you to all the fans. And just to up the ante, the top 5 finishers in each category will receive free front-row tickets to my concert the following night, with the winner of the Open Category receiving the privilege of hanging for the day with yours truly. Peace out, my Cedarville homies!"
The Annual Cedarville 10K will be held on June 19th, weather permitting. The starting gun will go off at 8:03 a.m. after a performance of "One Less Lonely Girl" by Bieber. Competitors and spectators may sign up for the event at the Cedarville Community Center; fees are $25 for runners and $15 for spectators. Good luck to all who participate.
Pamela Pohanka contributed to this report.
By Dustin Ruxefjord
Evening Gazette Staff Writer
Cedarville - Critically-acclaimed international pop star Justin Bieber will officiate this year's Annual Cedarville 10K in downtown Cedarville, Maryland, The Evening Gazette has just confirmed. Bieber, 15, will fire the starting gun of the yearly event and hand out trophies to the winners of all age- and gender-related competitions, including the Open 10K, which is open to all competitors, except those who race professionally.
"This is quite a coup for the Cedarville 10K," said Harry Papp, the race's organizer, as well as one of its most feared competitors. "To have someone of Justin's - nay, Mr. Bieber's - stature and talent officiating our little race is...wow, I just can't put it into words."
But the events' combatants are not the only ones excited by Bieber's appearance - the ultra-talented singer is a major sex symbol to pre-teen girls, desperate homosexuals of both sexes, and pedophiles the world over. The turnout for this year's event is expected to exceed those of the race's entire 215-year history combined. Especially as there will be a special incentive for those who show up to compete, according to Bieber himself.
Reached by telephone this week, Bieber had this to say: "Yo! What up, Cedarville! East side! Thank you for having me and thank you to all the fans. And just to up the ante, the top 5 finishers in each category will receive free front-row tickets to my concert the following night, with the winner of the Open Category receiving the privilege of hanging for the day with yours truly. Peace out, my Cedarville homies!"
The Annual Cedarville 10K will be held on June 19th, weather permitting. The starting gun will go off at 8:03 a.m. after a performance of "One Less Lonely Girl" by Bieber. Competitors and spectators may sign up for the event at the Cedarville Community Center; fees are $25 for runners and $15 for spectators. Good luck to all who participate.
Pamela Pohanka contributed to this report.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Event(ful(l))
Mike walked quickly back from the door, cracking his neck left and right so hard that Mark thought the gigantic, beige mole on the side of his nose was going to fall off. "They're lined up around the corner! Woo hoo! Good times!" he squealed. He glanced over at the basket full of hundreds of ebony dildoes. "Though I'm not so sure about those-"
"Relax," said Mark. "You're going to sell more of those black mambas today than you will your beloved comics in the next ten years-"
Mike sniggered. "We'll see. And we need to get this place back in order-"
"For crying out loud, Mike, relax! It'll all be taken care of." Mark looked around the store, which was empty but for the table towards the back, the basket full of dildoes, two chairs, and two small stepladders. The store's inventory and shelves were neatly stacked and pressed against the walls. "Ladies!" Mark called. "Are you ready?"
"Just another minute-" a voice sirened from behind the door that led to the booths.
"Let 'em in," said Mark.
At which Mike went back to the front door, his elbows and wrists popping all the way, and turned the lock. He stood by and collected and inspected all 70 tickets from Cedarville's most perverted men, all regular customers and known either by name or face or both to both Mike and Mark. As the last customer made his way into the throng breathing heavily into what little space was left, Mike locked the front door, pulled the shade, and reclaimed his spot by Mark. He looked at the table. "I sure hope that thing doesn't break," he whispered.
"It's tested for a metric ton, there won't be any problem." Mark jumped down from the register stand and stuck his head through the door leading to the booths. He shut the door and turned to face 70 smiles of all ages, races, orientations, widths, and varying stages of toothlessness. He'd never seen so many debauched men in his life and was suddenly thankful that he didn't have to look at their faces as he sucked them off through the gloryhole of Booth 3.
He cleared his throat. "Gentleman, BJ's would like to thank you for coming today. In just a minute, you will be treated to a live performance by Miss Jane Sheckleton and Mrs. Dana Callahan of their now-famous double-headed double dildo mutual masturbation scene from their acclaimed production, Nasty, Dirty Anal Cunt Sluts, Volume 18. And as I can see from the bulges in your pants-" a collective laugh went up from the group of jostling men - "you're more than ready. Well, so are they. Without further ado, I present to you Miss Jane Sheckleton and Mrs. Dana Callahan."
The back door opened and out squeezed the two morbidly obese porn stars, who didn't look so morbidly obese squeezed into two of the largest teddies - or were they slender tents? - known to man. A sonic holler and whoop rose to the ceiling, shaking BJ's very foundations. The women bowed and asked for silence.
"Thank you," said Dana. "Before we begin, we'd like to introduce our assistant, Miss Katleen Werner. Miss Werner is the newest addition to the roster of DoubleStuff Productions and will be making her debut this fall in Ginger Clit-Lickers from Mars, the Planet Almost as Red as a Ginger Girl's Period. Miss Katleen Werner!"
A hush settled over the crowd of men, their mouths agape as a petite, auburn-haired girl, who couldn't have been more than nineteen years old, stepped stark naked from the behind the back door. After another minute of cross-eyed ogling, erecting boners, and crotch self-massages, the men cheered. Katleen bowed and laughed, her enormous breasts, which almost hid the rest of her body, jiggling up and down like two mini-planets hit by comets simultaneously.
"Are those real?" a man yelled.
"100%!" said Mark. And he wouldn't have believed it himself if Katleen hadn't let him put his taut 4 inches between them until he'd come in her mouth earlier that morning, just before Mike arrived. They were almost as squishy as the fat rolls on Jane and Dana's backs, which he'd also fucked several hours earlier. "And no touching!"
The men laughed and hee'd and haw'd until their boners were almost extinct. As they quieted down, Dana removed her glasses and gave them to Katleen, who held them in her left hand, as her right hand was already occupied - by a small knife. Dana looked to Jane and nodded. Then both ladies removed their high heels, took to the step ladders, and after several grunting attempts, stepped onto the large padded table.
Slowly, they removed their teddies one button at a time, their bodies grinding the air around them, the waffled, stretch-marked flesh underneath springing out with audible sighs. They threw their teddies into the crowd of jumping men, then turned and bent over, revealing two of the largest combination dildo-butt plugs in the history of mankind. Each half measured at least eight inches in diameter, from what Mark could tell; his asshole ached with jealousy as the women moaned in unison and poop-queefed the sex toys out onto the table beneath, their holes momentarily black, breathing, inviting tunnels.
They rose up and embraced. Their tongues found each other in a messy kiss of over-applied lipstick that smeared their faces as they ground their humongous rolls of belly fat together. They made their way down into a simultaneous squat, the table creaking as they sat back on their asses facing one another, their legs spread, the soles of their feet glued one to the other. Katleen suddenly appeared, four 24-inch, ebony, double-headed dildoes in her polite, little hands. But before inserting them, she hunched over the table and went to work on each lady's clit, snarling and growling as she attacked each, biting, sucking, and clawing with her tongue.
When Jane and Dana's cunts and assholes were sopping wet with Kathleen's spittle, the young girl took her time and smilingly inserted two dildoes into each of the women's holes. The shiny black mambas were defenseless and quickly devoured by the stunningly muscled orifices of the two porn queens, who slid back and forth on the dildoes, their crotches kissing briefly, until they picked up so much speed that their cunts were never untouching for more than a half-second.
The men were silenced with awe. The only sound to escape from them were muffled grunts - actually, this came from only one man, way in the back - and the scratching of hands against jeans and khakis. Until someone finally called out, "Can we jerk off?"
Mark looked to the crowd and met 140 eyes pleading with him. He looked to the man grunting in the back. "Detective Vinos!"
"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"
"Detective Jorge T. Vinos! Do you think it'd be-"
"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!"
Mark looked at Mike, who looked back at him and mouthed, "What the fuck?" Mark grinned. Then looked back to the detective. "Well, we're all consenting adults here and no one can see us-" Detective Vinos was nodding approval "-so yeah, go ahead."
"Where do we come? On the floor?"
"Hmm-"
Jane and Dana stopped abruptly, their thick cunts mashed together and hiding the stuffed, suffocated dildoes. Dana whispered something to Katleen, who bounced over to Mark and whispered in his ear. "No problem," said Mark. He ran through the back door and reappeared moments later with a bucket. He handed it to the man who had asked if they could jerk off. "Use this bucket. Just pass it around as you need it. And when you're done-" he nodded to the table "-give it to Katleen. The ladies have a surprise for you-"
"Oh, fuck!"
"Oh, shit!"
"Hell, yeah!"
"Cum on dem bitches-"
"Bucket, please!" And it was passed back to the fellow who'd come in with Detective Vinos, a rather short, stocky man in a baggy plaid shirt and khakis. He made the first deposit and passed it to the next hand to be raised.
Dana and Jane began where they left off. Their sweaty rolls squeaked louder than the table with every lightning-quick thrust that seemed it would be the death of them - or the table. Mark thought he could smell burnt latex wafting from the friction between their cunts and assholes. And could've sworn that the two gigantic black mambas were smoking. But before he could confirm either sensation, he was distracted by a sight he wished he could unsee: Mike had dropped his shorts to the floor and was furiously working the smallest cock Mark had ever seen between two slender, red, cracking fingers, a cock so tiny that it re-defined micro-penis and buoyed Mark with the confidence of a multi-million dollar porn star.
The bucket began to change hands quicker and quicker, a plastic crowd-surfer, as the porn queens picked up steam - yes! that was a slight stream of smoke emanating from the burning mambas - and Katleen dropped the knife and glasses and joined in, her hands working her clit, her mouth working each woman's cunt in turn. Until the whole store was thrown into a mist of sweat, cum, cunt juice, ass juice, and a cacophony of moans and grunts that ended only when Jane and Dana let out two orgasmic howls that sent the last drops of semen - from Mike! - into the bucket. The men hollered and yelped and jumped up and down and pushed each other, briefly creating a miniature porn mosh pit that quickly subsided into ooh's and aah's as the bucket passed finally to Mark, who'd been giggling too much to get hard and shoot yet another load that day.
Katleen grabbed the bucket and ran over to the ladies. Gently, she turned the bucket over and spread its contents on the heaving bellies of her leading ladies, rubbing it between the flabs of skin until it was dry and they had regained their breaths. Katleen picked up the knife and carefully sliced the four dildoes in half, the four now eight and all lodged tightly in their respective holes. The ladies rolled over and pulled the chairs up to the table. They sat down and accepted ice-cold bottles of water from Mark. They placed the towels Katleen had retrieved around their necks and opened the markers supplied to them by Mike.
Mark stepped to the front of the table. "Well, how'd you like that?" The men applauded and yelled out obscenities that made the ladies blush with gratitude. "Now, Miss Sheckleton and Mrs. Callahan have been kind enough to agree to sign autographs on these here-" Mark pointed to the large basket full of hundreds of black, double-headed dildoes, each neatly wrapped in cellophane "-the price for each is forty dollars-"
Some of the men booed. "Why so steep?" yelled one.
"I'm glad you asked." Mark smiled. He picked up one of the dildoes and held it out in front of him. "Each dildo here has been used personally by Miss Sheckleton AND Mrs. Callahan. And the forty dollar price includes the signing fee-"
"Bullshit!"
Dana pushed her glasses onto her face and stood up, grabbing the dildo from Mark. "It's not bullshit. Every single one of these dildoes has been in both of our cunts and assholes. Both ends. We got here early this morning and fucked each and every one of them. I guarantee it." She sat down and handed the dildo back to Mark.
"Gentleman, this is a collector's item. No one else in the world except you men can say that they own an authentic double-headed dildo used by both Jane Sheckleton and Dana Callahan. And when you get your hands on one - or when you get it home and look over it closely - you'll see for yourself that each one is lovingly layered in these fine ladies' cunt and ass juices." Mark squeezed the dildo in his hand and it almost slipped out onto the floor.
The men rumbled, but this time their grumbling was accompanied by energetic shrugs and nods. Hands suddenly went up in the air, requesting 70 dildoes. "Now, listen," said Mark, "I'd suggest you buy two or three at this great price. Keep one as a collectible and the others you can use in the bedroom on your wife or your girlfriend or-"
"Or ourselves!"
The room grew so quiet one could've heard another butt plug drop. All the men turned to the man who had shouted: Detective Jorge T. Vinos!
"Faggot!" shouted someone. And the men howled, their laughing vibrating the hardwood floors of BJ's. Mark watched Detective Vinos shrink back in horror, his grunts audible amongst the jovial laughter. He shook his head.
"Fellas! Fellas!" Jane Sheckleton stood up. When all were quiet, she continued: "For an extra ten dollars, you can crawl under the table and get a lick or two of our cunts and assholes, including Miss Werner's." The men cheered at this, looking at each other in giddy amazement. "But you have to buy at least two dildoes. And please, when you're eating our cunts and asses, do not bite or nibble on the dildoes inside us. Or you'll get a golden -and brown!- shower that you'll never forget."
Within minutes, the basket was empty, each man holding several dildoes. Mark's pocket was full of bills, and he and Mike looked on as the first two men in line made their way under the table. Katleen sat on the floor at the end of the table, her legs spread and wrapped around the table legs, the knife coyly dangling in her fingers. "Well," said Mike, "you did it-"
"You certainly did, Mister Dennison-"
Mike and Mark looked up. Detective Jorge T. Vinos stood next to them, his pants stained with cum, at least five dildoes in the crook of his arm. Next to him was his companion who'd accompanied him, his pants also stained with cum. And ketchup. "Mr. Vin-"
"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"
"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" Mark yelled. "Do you know Mike?"
"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!" Detective Vinos switched the dildoes noisily to his other arm. He cleared his throat. "Yes, I know the proprietor of this establishment."
"And who is this, your boyfriend?"
"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison! I'm not a homosexual!" Detective Vinos looked to his companion, who was giggling, his cheeks flushed. "I'd like to introduce you to my partner, Detective Jerry Wead! He's been assigned to the missing persons cases, along with yours truly, of your friends, Dick Cox and Dill Doublepound-"
"Are those really their names?" whispered Mike.
"Oh, yeah, I tried calling Dick's cell phone the other night, but I got nothing-"
"Oh, did you, Mister Dennison? That's very suspicious behavior, Mister Dennison, calling missing persons-"
"Why is it suspicious that I tried my friend's phone because I want him found just as badly as you do?"
"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!" The detective looked to his partner, just catching a roll of the man's eyes and a shake of his head in his peripheral vision, and let out a series of almost completely uninhibited grunts and barks. He shifted the dildoes to his other arm and leaned in towards Mark. He looked around sheepishly. And whispered, "How much for those butt plug-dildo thingies on the floor?"
"Relax," said Mark. "You're going to sell more of those black mambas today than you will your beloved comics in the next ten years-"
Mike sniggered. "We'll see. And we need to get this place back in order-"
"For crying out loud, Mike, relax! It'll all be taken care of." Mark looked around the store, which was empty but for the table towards the back, the basket full of dildoes, two chairs, and two small stepladders. The store's inventory and shelves were neatly stacked and pressed against the walls. "Ladies!" Mark called. "Are you ready?"
"Just another minute-" a voice sirened from behind the door that led to the booths.
"Let 'em in," said Mark.
At which Mike went back to the front door, his elbows and wrists popping all the way, and turned the lock. He stood by and collected and inspected all 70 tickets from Cedarville's most perverted men, all regular customers and known either by name or face or both to both Mike and Mark. As the last customer made his way into the throng breathing heavily into what little space was left, Mike locked the front door, pulled the shade, and reclaimed his spot by Mark. He looked at the table. "I sure hope that thing doesn't break," he whispered.
"It's tested for a metric ton, there won't be any problem." Mark jumped down from the register stand and stuck his head through the door leading to the booths. He shut the door and turned to face 70 smiles of all ages, races, orientations, widths, and varying stages of toothlessness. He'd never seen so many debauched men in his life and was suddenly thankful that he didn't have to look at their faces as he sucked them off through the gloryhole of Booth 3.
He cleared his throat. "Gentleman, BJ's would like to thank you for coming today. In just a minute, you will be treated to a live performance by Miss Jane Sheckleton and Mrs. Dana Callahan of their now-famous double-headed double dildo mutual masturbation scene from their acclaimed production, Nasty, Dirty Anal Cunt Sluts, Volume 18. And as I can see from the bulges in your pants-" a collective laugh went up from the group of jostling men - "you're more than ready. Well, so are they. Without further ado, I present to you Miss Jane Sheckleton and Mrs. Dana Callahan."
The back door opened and out squeezed the two morbidly obese porn stars, who didn't look so morbidly obese squeezed into two of the largest teddies - or were they slender tents? - known to man. A sonic holler and whoop rose to the ceiling, shaking BJ's very foundations. The women bowed and asked for silence.
"Thank you," said Dana. "Before we begin, we'd like to introduce our assistant, Miss Katleen Werner. Miss Werner is the newest addition to the roster of DoubleStuff Productions and will be making her debut this fall in Ginger Clit-Lickers from Mars, the Planet Almost as Red as a Ginger Girl's Period. Miss Katleen Werner!"
A hush settled over the crowd of men, their mouths agape as a petite, auburn-haired girl, who couldn't have been more than nineteen years old, stepped stark naked from the behind the back door. After another minute of cross-eyed ogling, erecting boners, and crotch self-massages, the men cheered. Katleen bowed and laughed, her enormous breasts, which almost hid the rest of her body, jiggling up and down like two mini-planets hit by comets simultaneously.
"Are those real?" a man yelled.
"100%!" said Mark. And he wouldn't have believed it himself if Katleen hadn't let him put his taut 4 inches between them until he'd come in her mouth earlier that morning, just before Mike arrived. They were almost as squishy as the fat rolls on Jane and Dana's backs, which he'd also fucked several hours earlier. "And no touching!"
The men laughed and hee'd and haw'd until their boners were almost extinct. As they quieted down, Dana removed her glasses and gave them to Katleen, who held them in her left hand, as her right hand was already occupied - by a small knife. Dana looked to Jane and nodded. Then both ladies removed their high heels, took to the step ladders, and after several grunting attempts, stepped onto the large padded table.
Slowly, they removed their teddies one button at a time, their bodies grinding the air around them, the waffled, stretch-marked flesh underneath springing out with audible sighs. They threw their teddies into the crowd of jumping men, then turned and bent over, revealing two of the largest combination dildo-butt plugs in the history of mankind. Each half measured at least eight inches in diameter, from what Mark could tell; his asshole ached with jealousy as the women moaned in unison and poop-queefed the sex toys out onto the table beneath, their holes momentarily black, breathing, inviting tunnels.
They rose up and embraced. Their tongues found each other in a messy kiss of over-applied lipstick that smeared their faces as they ground their humongous rolls of belly fat together. They made their way down into a simultaneous squat, the table creaking as they sat back on their asses facing one another, their legs spread, the soles of their feet glued one to the other. Katleen suddenly appeared, four 24-inch, ebony, double-headed dildoes in her polite, little hands. But before inserting them, she hunched over the table and went to work on each lady's clit, snarling and growling as she attacked each, biting, sucking, and clawing with her tongue.
When Jane and Dana's cunts and assholes were sopping wet with Kathleen's spittle, the young girl took her time and smilingly inserted two dildoes into each of the women's holes. The shiny black mambas were defenseless and quickly devoured by the stunningly muscled orifices of the two porn queens, who slid back and forth on the dildoes, their crotches kissing briefly, until they picked up so much speed that their cunts were never untouching for more than a half-second.
The men were silenced with awe. The only sound to escape from them were muffled grunts - actually, this came from only one man, way in the back - and the scratching of hands against jeans and khakis. Until someone finally called out, "Can we jerk off?"
Mark looked to the crowd and met 140 eyes pleading with him. He looked to the man grunting in the back. "Detective Vinos!"
"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"
"Detective Jorge T. Vinos! Do you think it'd be-"
"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!"
Mark looked at Mike, who looked back at him and mouthed, "What the fuck?" Mark grinned. Then looked back to the detective. "Well, we're all consenting adults here and no one can see us-" Detective Vinos was nodding approval "-so yeah, go ahead."
"Where do we come? On the floor?"
"Hmm-"
Jane and Dana stopped abruptly, their thick cunts mashed together and hiding the stuffed, suffocated dildoes. Dana whispered something to Katleen, who bounced over to Mark and whispered in his ear. "No problem," said Mark. He ran through the back door and reappeared moments later with a bucket. He handed it to the man who had asked if they could jerk off. "Use this bucket. Just pass it around as you need it. And when you're done-" he nodded to the table "-give it to Katleen. The ladies have a surprise for you-"
"Oh, fuck!"
"Oh, shit!"
"Hell, yeah!"
"Cum on dem bitches-"
"Bucket, please!" And it was passed back to the fellow who'd come in with Detective Vinos, a rather short, stocky man in a baggy plaid shirt and khakis. He made the first deposit and passed it to the next hand to be raised.
Dana and Jane began where they left off. Their sweaty rolls squeaked louder than the table with every lightning-quick thrust that seemed it would be the death of them - or the table. Mark thought he could smell burnt latex wafting from the friction between their cunts and assholes. And could've sworn that the two gigantic black mambas were smoking. But before he could confirm either sensation, he was distracted by a sight he wished he could unsee: Mike had dropped his shorts to the floor and was furiously working the smallest cock Mark had ever seen between two slender, red, cracking fingers, a cock so tiny that it re-defined micro-penis and buoyed Mark with the confidence of a multi-million dollar porn star.
The bucket began to change hands quicker and quicker, a plastic crowd-surfer, as the porn queens picked up steam - yes! that was a slight stream of smoke emanating from the burning mambas - and Katleen dropped the knife and glasses and joined in, her hands working her clit, her mouth working each woman's cunt in turn. Until the whole store was thrown into a mist of sweat, cum, cunt juice, ass juice, and a cacophony of moans and grunts that ended only when Jane and Dana let out two orgasmic howls that sent the last drops of semen - from Mike! - into the bucket. The men hollered and yelped and jumped up and down and pushed each other, briefly creating a miniature porn mosh pit that quickly subsided into ooh's and aah's as the bucket passed finally to Mark, who'd been giggling too much to get hard and shoot yet another load that day.
Katleen grabbed the bucket and ran over to the ladies. Gently, she turned the bucket over and spread its contents on the heaving bellies of her leading ladies, rubbing it between the flabs of skin until it was dry and they had regained their breaths. Katleen picked up the knife and carefully sliced the four dildoes in half, the four now eight and all lodged tightly in their respective holes. The ladies rolled over and pulled the chairs up to the table. They sat down and accepted ice-cold bottles of water from Mark. They placed the towels Katleen had retrieved around their necks and opened the markers supplied to them by Mike.
Mark stepped to the front of the table. "Well, how'd you like that?" The men applauded and yelled out obscenities that made the ladies blush with gratitude. "Now, Miss Sheckleton and Mrs. Callahan have been kind enough to agree to sign autographs on these here-" Mark pointed to the large basket full of hundreds of black, double-headed dildoes, each neatly wrapped in cellophane "-the price for each is forty dollars-"
Some of the men booed. "Why so steep?" yelled one.
"I'm glad you asked." Mark smiled. He picked up one of the dildoes and held it out in front of him. "Each dildo here has been used personally by Miss Sheckleton AND Mrs. Callahan. And the forty dollar price includes the signing fee-"
"Bullshit!"
Dana pushed her glasses onto her face and stood up, grabbing the dildo from Mark. "It's not bullshit. Every single one of these dildoes has been in both of our cunts and assholes. Both ends. We got here early this morning and fucked each and every one of them. I guarantee it." She sat down and handed the dildo back to Mark.
"Gentleman, this is a collector's item. No one else in the world except you men can say that they own an authentic double-headed dildo used by both Jane Sheckleton and Dana Callahan. And when you get your hands on one - or when you get it home and look over it closely - you'll see for yourself that each one is lovingly layered in these fine ladies' cunt and ass juices." Mark squeezed the dildo in his hand and it almost slipped out onto the floor.
The men rumbled, but this time their grumbling was accompanied by energetic shrugs and nods. Hands suddenly went up in the air, requesting 70 dildoes. "Now, listen," said Mark, "I'd suggest you buy two or three at this great price. Keep one as a collectible and the others you can use in the bedroom on your wife or your girlfriend or-"
"Or ourselves!"
The room grew so quiet one could've heard another butt plug drop. All the men turned to the man who had shouted: Detective Jorge T. Vinos!
"Faggot!" shouted someone. And the men howled, their laughing vibrating the hardwood floors of BJ's. Mark watched Detective Vinos shrink back in horror, his grunts audible amongst the jovial laughter. He shook his head.
"Fellas! Fellas!" Jane Sheckleton stood up. When all were quiet, she continued: "For an extra ten dollars, you can crawl under the table and get a lick or two of our cunts and assholes, including Miss Werner's." The men cheered at this, looking at each other in giddy amazement. "But you have to buy at least two dildoes. And please, when you're eating our cunts and asses, do not bite or nibble on the dildoes inside us. Or you'll get a golden -and brown!- shower that you'll never forget."
Within minutes, the basket was empty, each man holding several dildoes. Mark's pocket was full of bills, and he and Mike looked on as the first two men in line made their way under the table. Katleen sat on the floor at the end of the table, her legs spread and wrapped around the table legs, the knife coyly dangling in her fingers. "Well," said Mike, "you did it-"
"You certainly did, Mister Dennison-"
Mike and Mark looked up. Detective Jorge T. Vinos stood next to them, his pants stained with cum, at least five dildoes in the crook of his arm. Next to him was his companion who'd accompanied him, his pants also stained with cum. And ketchup. "Mr. Vin-"
"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"
"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" Mark yelled. "Do you know Mike?"
"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!" Detective Vinos switched the dildoes noisily to his other arm. He cleared his throat. "Yes, I know the proprietor of this establishment."
"And who is this, your boyfriend?"
"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison! I'm not a homosexual!" Detective Vinos looked to his companion, who was giggling, his cheeks flushed. "I'd like to introduce you to my partner, Detective Jerry Wead! He's been assigned to the missing persons cases, along with yours truly, of your friends, Dick Cox and Dill Doublepound-"
"Are those really their names?" whispered Mike.
"Oh, yeah, I tried calling Dick's cell phone the other night, but I got nothing-"
"Oh, did you, Mister Dennison? That's very suspicious behavior, Mister Dennison, calling missing persons-"
"Why is it suspicious that I tried my friend's phone because I want him found just as badly as you do?"
"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!" The detective looked to his partner, just catching a roll of the man's eyes and a shake of his head in his peripheral vision, and let out a series of almost completely uninhibited grunts and barks. He shifted the dildoes to his other arm and leaned in towards Mark. He looked around sheepishly. And whispered, "How much for those butt plug-dildo thingies on the floor?"
Monday, May 3, 2010
Biebz
"Mark." Sarah stood at his bedroom door, her arms folded under her bra. "What the fuck?" She nodded to the hundreds of posters and cut-out magazine pages on his walls.
"What?"
"You like Justin Bieber or what?"
"Not his music." Mark grinned over the top of his blanket as he lay in bed. "But since he's gonna be my husband someday-"
"Yeah, right-" Sarah shook her head. And laughed.
"You'll see-" Mark giggled. Then slipped his hand under the elastic of his boxer briefs, his hand encasing his hard-on. He closed eyes, two little slits over the wide slit of his shit-eating grin.
The concert's over. Mark's finagled a backstage pass from security - by deepthroating the fat guy's short, half-limp cock in one of the 20 stalls in the bathroom just outside his section of the arena. He watches all the girls as they take turns posing for pics with Justin, sitting on his lap, their little cunts wet in their skinny jeans and panty-less mini-skirts. And as he's staring at the boy without blinking, he gets hard as the boy stares back at him without blinking the whole time.
The last girl gets her autograph on the back of her concert shirt, her ass plumped into Justin's face, which he totally ignores because he's only looking at one thing, one person, in the room. As she leaves, passing Mark giggling like a schoolgirl who's come for the first time - and she probably did because she's wobbly and because Mark's almost come himself just watching Justin watching him - the room's finally empty.
Just the two of them. Staring at each other. And smiling with a well-known secret. Justin finally sighs and lays back on the couch, stretching out his legs in his skinny jeans, his inflated cock a rumple next to his zipper. He looks down at it. Then back up at Mark, who's standing over him. He puts out a hand and pulls Mark onto him.
Straddling his new boyfriend, Mark pulls back, removes the boy's cocked hat, slowly rifles his fingers through his messy mop. He caresses one smooth cheek - as soft and hairless as his own - then falls forward, buries his tongue into the boy's mouth and is met halfway by a tongue even more urgent than his own.
Clothes rip, flying to the floor. Justin's on his knees over the back of the couch, Mark's face ensconced in his ass, which smells of soap and sweat. Mark reaches down, grabs his cock, which is now no less than a good foot of thick rope, and puts the tip to Justin's hole. He enters as he hunches forward, chest to back, his arms wrapped around the boy's slight, moaning frame, their mouths entwined in hurried exchanges of lips, tongue, and spit.
Mark pushes in until he's flush with the boy's ass. And feels it tear, top and bottom. He pulls back, pumps, and watches as it splits in half, soaking his pelvis in blood. And all he hears is the boy begging for more.
With one last thrust, he shoots three gallons of semen into Justin Bieber's guts, and they collapse, one upon the other upon the couch. And continue kissing, between giggles just like those of the girl who came earlier.
Sarah coughed. Mark opened his eyes. Then pulled his hand out of his underwear and wiped his cum on his New York Giants blanket, on the same spot hardened by months of ejaculate. He looked at his mom and shrugged, grinning.
"You're a mess," she said and shook her head.
"I know-" Mark giggled.
"What?"
"You like Justin Bieber or what?"
"Not his music." Mark grinned over the top of his blanket as he lay in bed. "But since he's gonna be my husband someday-"
"Yeah, right-" Sarah shook her head. And laughed.
"You'll see-" Mark giggled. Then slipped his hand under the elastic of his boxer briefs, his hand encasing his hard-on. He closed eyes, two little slits over the wide slit of his shit-eating grin.
The concert's over. Mark's finagled a backstage pass from security - by deepthroating the fat guy's short, half-limp cock in one of the 20 stalls in the bathroom just outside his section of the arena. He watches all the girls as they take turns posing for pics with Justin, sitting on his lap, their little cunts wet in their skinny jeans and panty-less mini-skirts. And as he's staring at the boy without blinking, he gets hard as the boy stares back at him without blinking the whole time.
The last girl gets her autograph on the back of her concert shirt, her ass plumped into Justin's face, which he totally ignores because he's only looking at one thing, one person, in the room. As she leaves, passing Mark giggling like a schoolgirl who's come for the first time - and she probably did because she's wobbly and because Mark's almost come himself just watching Justin watching him - the room's finally empty.
Just the two of them. Staring at each other. And smiling with a well-known secret. Justin finally sighs and lays back on the couch, stretching out his legs in his skinny jeans, his inflated cock a rumple next to his zipper. He looks down at it. Then back up at Mark, who's standing over him. He puts out a hand and pulls Mark onto him.
Straddling his new boyfriend, Mark pulls back, removes the boy's cocked hat, slowly rifles his fingers through his messy mop. He caresses one smooth cheek - as soft and hairless as his own - then falls forward, buries his tongue into the boy's mouth and is met halfway by a tongue even more urgent than his own.
Clothes rip, flying to the floor. Justin's on his knees over the back of the couch, Mark's face ensconced in his ass, which smells of soap and sweat. Mark reaches down, grabs his cock, which is now no less than a good foot of thick rope, and puts the tip to Justin's hole. He enters as he hunches forward, chest to back, his arms wrapped around the boy's slight, moaning frame, their mouths entwined in hurried exchanges of lips, tongue, and spit.
Mark pushes in until he's flush with the boy's ass. And feels it tear, top and bottom. He pulls back, pumps, and watches as it splits in half, soaking his pelvis in blood. And all he hears is the boy begging for more.
With one last thrust, he shoots three gallons of semen into Justin Bieber's guts, and they collapse, one upon the other upon the couch. And continue kissing, between giggles just like those of the girl who came earlier.
Sarah coughed. Mark opened his eyes. Then pulled his hand out of his underwear and wiped his cum on his New York Giants blanket, on the same spot hardened by months of ejaculate. He looked at his mom and shrugged, grinning.
"You're a mess," she said and shook her head.
"I know-" Mark giggled.
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