DirtyShack
- 2 years ago
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A criminal is a person with predatory instincts who has not sufficient capital to form a corporation.
Most government is by the rich, for the rich. Government comprises a large part of the organized injustice in any society, ancient or modern.
Civil government, insofar as it is instituted for the security of property, is in reality instituted for the defence of the rich against the poor, and for the defence of those who have property against those who have none.
― Adam Smith
The tiny, Asian hand emerged through the glory hole, latching onto my healthy hard-on.
Wincing at the sensation of somebody other than myself grabbing my cock, I straddled the particle board partition, placing both palms against the composite wood barrier. Rivulets of sweat trickled down my bare thighs, soaking my socks, and pooling in my fuckboots ― the two remaining articles of clothing on my person.
Summer in Sin City was no joke. You could drink 10 pints of water, and not even take a piss, out here. It was a Hans Klok magic trick ― the Missing H20 ― and then some!
Someone else's skin ― other than my own ― touching my flesh felt fantastic! Fantastic, but foreign.
In the murky surroundings, it was tough to tell who'd breached the opening. That said, the hand was small enough, it had to be the Japanese chick I'd seen fucking her husband earlier in the sex swing, as opposed to hubby, himself.
In the background, Taco's Puttin' on the Ritz meekly emitted from what sounded like an 8-track player, jammed into the dashboard of an AMC Pacer, in the parking lot.
"Is this music really playing," I wondered, "or is this the soundtrack to my sorry excuse for an existence?"
Gazing around the enclosed space, I searched for some source to the terrible tune. "Am I the only one hearing this shit?!" I pondered.
Sensuously thrusting into the woman's "homemade" vagina, the lube along my slickened staff heightened the pleasure of this particular scenario.
I'd observed this potent pair doin' each other for fifteen minutes in the dungeon. When they departed, I followed, not certain where they'd end up. Knowledgeable of the terrain, and diligent in my efforts, I made certain I was first in line, when they wandered into the glory hole.
I knew they'd have to pass the room in question, in order to exit the downstairs area. I also deduced, by the fact they remained nude ― upon leaving the dungeon ― the show wasn't over.
As promulgated in so many of my articles, never underestimate experience. From experience comes confidence. From confidence comes everything!
Watching the pretty palm petting my penis, I couldn't help but offer self-praise for decades spent takin' bayonets and bullets. Years battling abuse ― both physical and mental ― as well as denial, made times like these such sweet fruit!
A wedding band on the ring finger of the petite paw pullin' my protuberance, caught the light.
On the other side of the wall, I could hear low murmurs, as if the couple were whispering to each other. Retracting my throbbing cock, I perched on the seat behind me, and peered through the aperture.
In the soft glow of the opposite room, the diminutive oriental sat bare-assed on hubby's lap, her quivering hand outstretched to the gap in the divider. Her significant other had been breathing something in her ear, as she'd massaged my member.
I'd recently been belched from one of the worst experiences of my life ― having spent lengthy intimacy with a person as toxic as a swimming pool filled with Ricin. The ordeal gave new meaning to the term "sleeping with the enemy," and made me wonder if I'd shared a bed with a demon.
Hence, I was eager to exorcise whatever it was I thought I'd had feelings for, and once again become the jubilant gentleman everyone knew and loved. As it turned out, this would be a task more difficult than building The Great Pyramid of Giza with an office stapler, and three sheets of used carbon paper.
What the hell did I know? This had been my first relationship. You're right; you're right. No Repeaters. I fucked-up!
In any event, I was on the route to recuperation, or so I thought. Thus, being here in the glory hole, at a local swing club.
Watching my penis being expertly manipulated, I pondered, "This is the road to recovery? All I see are speed bumps the height of Pike's Peak, and potholes the depths of Bingham Canyon Mine."
For whatever reason, this wasn't feeling the way it used to; it wasn't feeling good. Even though I was no longer in a relationship, it felt wrong, contrived, and forced.
I was informed once I accumulated enough victories in the concupiscent combat zone, I'd be able to move on, not only restored to my old self, but…
"a much wiser version of who you were, son! Capable of takin' down Wonder Woman ― with her own golden lasso ― and fuckin' her with my dick!" my useless friend Lenny apprised me. It was a disgusting mental image! I'd seen Lenny's dong, and it was nauseating ― six inches of pasty, powder-white, Pillsbury Doughboy rolled confection.
Then again, all dicks ― except for mine ― were revolting, as far as I was concerned.
Still, I'd been promised things would once again be mirthful, if I simply played with enough women, in order to "forget."
Rubbernecking the fingers wrapped around my fucktool, I counted, "One…"
Observing glory hole etiquette, I spent no more than five minutes in the booth, before departing, and allowing those in line to enter. Gathering the wrinkled rags doubling as my clothes, I exited, and embarked on another seven adventures that evening.
From that point, everything was a whirlwind of blowjobs, handjobs, and the occasional fuck. I was beyond frustrated, and needed to vent as much steam as I could. After all, this was Covidia ― where the population loved suckling the tit of the nanny state, and still engaged in asinine superstitions, like saluting flags, and choosing "leaders."
Covidia ― where some pixelated prick, with a Ph.D. after his name, could tell you to drink a pint of your piss for breakfast, and you'd comply. "The CDC announced all Americans should partake in a hearty first meal of the day, washing it down with at least 16 ounces of their own urine."
There's Bob barfin' on the front lawn, his cum-crusted tie droppin' into the waterfall of pork fat and chicken embryos he's regurgitating, as he races to enslavement. "Wouldn't wanna be late for that prison sentence you call your 'job,' would ya', Bobby Boy?"
It was into this neurotic landscape I piloted my 379-year-old vehicle. A drive through the Bermuda Triangle, it was a Twilight Zone episode crawlin' outta mom and dad's black and white TV. At the end of my travels was allegedly another BBC group event, during which I'd make a cameo appearance as the lovable, lone white guy…with a big dick.
Canned laughter and pre-recorded applause filled the studio, where an audience of zero took no interest watching me stumble from one sexual encounter to the next.
The text had been cryptic. Some cyber identity, referring to themselves as "Klaus," was organizing an "interracial" HotWife session, at a location GoogleMaps was struggling to pinpoint.
All around me there was…nothing. A suburban wasteland.
A feral house cat sprinted across the road, a severed, human foot ― sporting a toe ring ― between its jaws. Nobody said anything, because there was nobody to say anything. The streets were emptier than the heads of the Maskholes ― those stupid enough to wear face masks, to protect themselves against an "epidemic" that didn't exist.
But why was I complainin'? At least I no longer had to deal with traffic.
And why should I be surprised at the barren state of things? If you'd studied history ― and I mean history, as opposed to the lies punched down your oesophagus in school ― you saw this shit comin'.
Trouble is, most people thought the propaganda festering in a textbook ― like a rotting corpse ― was history, as opposed to the marketing ploy it actually is. A marketing ploy to sell you into slavery, no less.
If you wanna be enlightened, pick up Orwell's 1984, or Animal Farm. Read Zamyatin's We, or Huxley's Brave New World. Each has elements foretelling what we're experiencing, and each gave us the tools to prevent the desolation surrounding me.
All of 'em had one common denominator: They each described civilizations in which the population refused to think for itself. Societies that let a bunch of psychopaths think for them. And that's what we had here.
Thus, why we believed preposterous claims of some "outbreak" with no physical effects. Google "smallpox victims," or "sufferers of bubonic plague." Those are what pandemics look like. Hideously deformed bodies, permanently destroyed.
Now gaze upon people who allegedly "died" from Covid-19, if you can find any. Immense fuckin' difference! They look like they simply fell asleep. If their eyes were open, you could throw a dinner jacket on 'em, take 'em to any five-star restaurant, and nobody would say anything.
Try doin' that with a victim of severe smallpox, or bubonic plague. You'd not only be turned away at the door, whomever denied you would probably vomit from the grotesque nature of what he saw, and call the cops, as well as the CDC.
Reaching my destination, I carved a right into a parking spot floating in some poor bastard's power steering fluid, and pulled the e-brake harder than I pull my pud to shemale porn. A glance to ensure I wasn't leavin' my block of rust on wheels as chum for greedy vultures calling themselves a towing company, I raced across the lot.
Another apartment complex, with yet another seven trillion apartments. It was like tryin' to find the cumload dumped in a 10,000 gallon vat of whipped cream.
Since I was old school, I flipped the Post-It Note left, right, and upside down, in order to read my own scribblin'. No cell phones allowed.
After trying the fourth apartment number 236, I hit pay dirt, as some Rastafarian ― who apparently knew me, even though I couldn't recall meetin' him ― opened the door. On the couch in the background, a beehive blonde was gettin' boned by a dude who could've played forward for the Harlem Globetrotters.
"Hugh! Hell, yeah! Bring on the big dick, brotha'!" Ostensibly, I knew this guy, as well?
Thrilled to oblige, I thanked my host, as I disrobed. It was then I realized I actually did know these guys. Prior to this fake-ass "virus," they'd both been chiseled specimens of masculinity. Now ― due to being self-quarantined, and gobblin' Cheetos all day ― they had massive beer guts, and love handles you could sit a three-year-old on.
Chuckling to myself, I was glad I simply ran my ass off, to keep in shape. These two were on the verge of suffering strokes, just tryin' to maintain hard-ons, in this overheating apartment, as they listlessly pumped away.
Acclimating to the crock pot environment, in which we were boiling alive, I pulled my cock from my slacks, and generously applied flavored lube. As always, I had a smorgasbord from which to choose. I like to keep at least three varieties on hand, just in case the woman in question is picky, or partial to a particular taste.
Today, I went with candy apple. A departure, since I typically break out vanilla, when meeting a lass for the first time.
As proclaimed in one of my previous articles, vanilla tends to be the most widely accepted flavor. Some people don't like apples; others aren't fans of cinnamon. Vanilla, on the other hand, is as commonly adored as chocolate, and it's a rare person who doesn't love Hershey bars.
There were no objections, as I sidled up to the woman in question, and lips smeared in maroon make-up pleasured my pulsating pipe.
From behind her, my rotund, perspiring friend pounded away as best he could, while wiping sweat from his brow.
All the while, the Rastafarian ― who I'm assuming was hubby ― took pics.
Sensing the guy doin' the heavy lifting was on the precipice of death, I squeezed my bacon bazooka one last time, so the horny housewife could taste every vein in my shaft. From there, I produced a condom, and covered my mutton machete, as I directed traffic.
"Want her to suck your cock, bro'?" I queried my friend ― a guy whose name I couldn't recall ― as he chugged a pint of water.
"Please," he responded, extracting his man root, removing his one-fingered glove, and toweling off.
Changing places, I positioned myself behind an asshole with perfect, undulating spokes.
Bending, I had to taste, before stretching the cunt a couple inches below, and feeling girl jizz drain over my wombjabber and shaved balls.
All the while, some douche dick announcer, on some government propaganda TV channel, rambled about the abnormally red penis of the Proboscis Monkey. From a nearby apartment, Dan Fogelberg's Longer blared forth, as though somebody's volume knob got cranked all the way to the right, and broken off.
I allowed the insanity to wash over me like a comforting blanket.
An hour later, I launched from the convection oven, back into 116 degree heat. Streaking across asphalt that would've turned my shoe soles to gum ― had I stopped ― I grabbed a white-hot door handle on my car, and burnt myself. A sizzling steering wheel peeled flesh from my palms, as I gripped it, and drove into the great nothing.
Again, this was Covidia ― where people begged to suck corporate cock. Covidia ― where the populace is more concerned about ranch versus garlic butter, than their own enslavement. Covidia ― where it doesn't matter if we're all prisoners, just so long as Mission Impossible 7 makes it to a theater near you.
— authored by Hugh Mungus
Pansy
- 08.05.2020
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