Nandita To Nandini
- 4 years ago
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Mud Mouth And Table Spam free porn video
I need my sleep. I get about eight hours a day, and about ten at night.
― Bill Hicks
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. I'd finished leading our church choir in a rousing rendition of Air Supply's Lost in Love, which we'd cleverly retitled Lost in Love…for Christ.
The birds were chirping. Some homeless guy was idly pleasuring himself in a nearby park, using liquid rubber as lube.
Wandering into a neighborhood Hallmark store, I perused the product. I loved reading the ingenious one liners authors of these cards came up with.
For example:
"Thought a few warm fuzzies might help you feel better."
Beneath the caption were three ducks, sunbathing.
I laughed myself erect, and couldn't believe how brilliant the creators of these puns were.
And right beside it, this one, even more clever:
"Your shuffle may be a bit slower…"
A fanned out poker hand was the captivating graphic.
And then you open the card to find the punchline ― which is the most humorous, and insightful, thing I've ever read:
"…But you're still playing with a full deck!"
Rivulets of piss leaked out my cumhole, I was so hysterical.
I could spend hours ― perhaps days ― rapturously reading these literary milestones. In fact, that's what I decided I'd do.
I'd completed delivering Bibles to the homeless ― because an indecipherable tome about domination and eternal suffering is what the insolvent want, in lieu of food. As such, I had nothing to do, but memorize the Book of Matthew.
Matty was my favorite of the disciples. Even though he was a goddamned tax collector, he seemed quirky, and always had―
And that's when I caught sight of it ― a card hidden among the others that grabbed my attention. I read the cover:
"I saw you in a video on the Internet, while I was playing with myself. You were fucking some girl up the ass. When you pulled your cock out, I thought, 'How the hell could she fit something that big in there?!?' "
I stopped. Had I read that correctly?
The card in question had a cute drawing on its cover, displaying three pigs, and a penguin waddling up to a geriatric wearing sunglasses.
Opening the greeting, I read the punchline:
"Ever since then, I wanted to fuck you; and now, here you are!"
It was the same profession the Rubenesque redhead made, as she extracted the fuck junky's jean buster from her gullet. "I know you!" the bubbly babe bellowed.
Our hero had to think on his feet. Had he met this woman? If so, where? Had they fucked before?! More importantly, had they fucked each other?!?
It was imperative tfj keep in mind this lass had his cock in her mouth. A mouth filled with teeth; many of them sharp. All it would take was a fit of scorn to abruptly terminate a fairly productive Numbers run, even in the face of a pretend "plague."
Think quick, brotha'. Think quick!
"You― You do?" he replied, employing the worst rejoinder he could ― leaving himself an open heart wound, adjacent a 50 pound bag of rock salt. If he'd fucked this woman in the past, this could be his death knell. Females don't like being forgotten, especially on birthdays, or post-coitus.
If he'd been intimate with this lovely, he may have just set the stage for his own penectomy. Would he be saying farewell to upwards of 9 1/2 inches of cock, while the lass voraciously chomped away?
Without skipping a beat, the collared slave squeaked, "I saw you in a video on the Internet, while I was playing with myself…"
The waterfall of sweat cresting the fuck junky's brow receded.
"An ass I fucked?! On video?!?" he pondered. He rarely got the call to fuck butt. Even the shemales he humped were typically fearful of taking his entire length. This seemed like an encounter he would've remembered!
Perhaps she'd gotten him confused with somebody else. Although she seemed certain she was recalling the same cock she now gazed at in person.
"That's...really cool?" our hero replied, with rapier wit.
What else could he say? He felt proud homemade porn ― in which he starred ― had made it this far into New Mexico. He was also honored he'd been "used" as fuel to power a masturbation session by this woman.
He wished he could remember the flick in question. That said, unless one writes about one's adventures ― unless there's an aspect extremely unique about them ― they run the risk of being forgotten.
After all, an effective Numbers Guy hooks up with at least 150 new women per year. At his zenith, tfj put up 474 females in 365 days. That tally included TGirls ― of which 50 played a part.
Yeah, he was marriage material, alright.
The fuck junky fucked more women, in that year, than discounted dildos. Well, let's not get carried away, but the odds of him forgetting some of the faces, pussies, and assholes along the way were extremely high!
He'd experienced so much ― at such an accelerated rate ― he didn't have nearly enough time to record even a tenth of his encounters. He wrote as often as possible, but he'd never be able to catch up to his adventures. Thus, he forgot some.
Entering the Extended Stay America ― here in New Mexico ― tfj felt as though he was breaching a maximum security prison. Spotlights pinpointed him. Armed guards trained rifles at his head. He scaled barbed tape, as snarling Dobermen hunted him down.
When sliding duplicated security keys didn't work, he produced the severed eyeball he'd kept in formalin, placed it before the retinal scanner, and gained access. Safely inside, our hero stopped, allowing his heart rate to decrease, reducing his risk of a coronary, due to stress.
Tear gas canisters launched into the corridor before him, terminating his respite.
"Pull your face mask over your nose!" the clerk behind the counter commanded.
"Yes, daddy," he thought to himself, as he covered his nostrils with the most disgusting thing on the planet, outside of photos of Dick Cheney fucking. His mask reeked of dog shit left in a sealed garage, during a triple–digit temperature day. After all, it was the same one he'd reluctantly purchased months ago, when the populace allowed this Covid–19 fallacy to stifle it in fear.
How could placing something this filthy over one's face have anything to do with stopping a pandemic?!? The public was insane!
Once he rounded the corner, and the front desk attendant was out of sight, he removed his face guard.
Briskly bolting for the elevators, our hero noted the CCTV cameras descended from the ceiling, amidst the hallway. He wondered if these had been installed post–19 ― or if they'd been there for years. It was a legitimate question, since the panic of Covid–19 ― a spurious "syndrome" ― was causing people to engage in Stasi–esque tactics toward one another.
These days, simply entering a hotel for a group fuckfest ― in a private room that's been paid for, no less ― took the crackerjack timing of Ethan Hunt. "Can you solve a fully fucked–up Rubik's Cube in no more than three moves? Then you might have what it takes to gain access to our 'facility.' "
During the fuck junky's eight hour road trip from Vegas to Albuquerque, he was forced to piss in a 32 ounce, plastic drinking cup. Stopping at a procession of gas stations along I–40, he was unable to find a single one with a working lavatory.
At the third in a row, tfj asked the cashier ― who was "safely" barricaded behind plexiglass ― "Is this a plumbing issue and, if so, why is it only affecting bathrooms?"
Glancing 'round, as if being surveilled, she leaned in, whispering, "All the bathrooms work. It's just that we have to clean and sterilize 'em, after each customer. That's too much. It's impossible!"
With that, a douche bag with legs stepped from behind a door, adjacent a window of one way glass, and strode to the register. It was obvious this was the manager of the station.
Again, with the secret police. People were determined forcing others to wear face masks was good for our species. They believed threatening folks to disperse, when in groups of 10 or more; or causing humans to hide, in order to have sex, was gonna result in a positive outcome. Deducing totalitarianism would exterminate a "contagion" was lunacy!
The fuck junky was makin' pragmatic use of his unemployment wages ― leasing rental cars to attend out–of–state sex parties. Having traveled far in his pursuit of 5,000 women, he'd established connections all over the planet, during the past 28 years.
Sin City ― where tfj resided ― had become a ghost town. Almost all the swing clubs in Vegas were closed. In addition, nobody vacationed there, since not much was open, and slots were tighter than the race to determine who was more evil ― Barack Obama or the Devil.
In order to supplement the scant Numbers he could siphon from the Entertainment Capital of the World, our hero was forced to keep his ear to the ground, and travel. It was the only way he could maintain some semblance of pace, while the populace did everything it could to not only destroy his sex life, but their own, as well.
This most recent leg of his journey had him chartin' a course for the Land of Enchantment, and an orgy at a clandestine hotel therein.
Pounding the redhead ― who'd previously recognized him from an Internet video ― tfj kept an eye on the other two lovelies in the room. In addition, he listened for the female in the bed on the other side of the digs.
There were four princesses in attendance, and he planned on playing with each. Having traveled 600 miles to participate in this party, he was gonna make it worth his while―
His latest fan shrieked at the top of her lungs, as the fuck junky stocked her meat locker with protein.
Fearful of being ejected from the hotel, the host of the shindig ― a thick, ochre man ― raced into the room. "Keep it down, goddamnit! Keep it down!" the squat Colombian cried.
A random hand entered tfj's frame of reference, stuffing a pillow in the woman's maniacal maw.
"Somebody's gonna complain!" the jittery coordinator hissed.
High on sex smack, our hero pounded harder. It was the wrong move, but he didn't care. He knew what was about to happen, and he had to have it!
"Damnit! We're not supposed to have more than 10 people in here. We've got 24! They're gonna call the cops!" the Organ–Izer squawked.
Unrelenting, the fuck junky dug for buried treasure. He couldn't stop. Sick of walking two hours to a destination, only to realize he'd forgotten his fuckin' face mask, he drove deep.
"They're gonna kick us out!" the frenzied host tore free what hair he had left.
And right at that perfect moment, our hero yanked purple steel from the woman's overheating chasm, zealously raking her labia with his shaft.
She rewarded him with a quart of squirt to the face.
"Holy shit!" the coordinator squealed, flailing for cover.
Bolting upright, the subservient frantically queried, "What the hell just happened?! Who was throwing water on me?!?"
"You squirted, hon," the fuck junky replied.
"What?!?" she gasped, incredulous. "I― I've never done that before!"
"Right," tfj smirked, certain this woman was joking, since she'd pretty much mastered the art of the spray, from what he'd just witnessed.
"I swear to you!" the sex serf pressed her chest. "I mean, I've seen other women squirt, but I never thought I'd be able to." Flustered, she queried, "How'd you…?!
"Oh, that?" tfj responded. "It's a trick I learned from the Bohemian."
" 'The Bohemian'?" she questioned.
"A few years ago I ran into him at this underground swing club, and he taught me how to make women squirt."
The others in attendance gathered around, as our hero explained.
"Get 'em to mid–orgasm, pull out, and scrub their labia with your cock. It's pretty simple," he emulated the action with his donkey leg, against the woman's pussy.
"Why do they call him the Bohemian?" an onlooker questioned.
"Because his dick is the dimensions of a Bohemia beer bottle. He takes pics of both, side–by–side, for comparison," our protagonist continued.
With that, the fucking resumed. So did the squirt. Pints of it poured from the pretty's pussy, while others congregated to witness the high wire act. The screaming also persisted, but the mute button was pressed, as various cocks were lovingly stuffed in the lass' mouth, to deaden the noise.
Eventually, arid climate and human anatomy won out, as the submissive's river ran dry, and she limped to the fridge to rehydrate.
In the interim, tfj slid across the bed, re-dressed for battle, and hopped atop a light-skinned Ebony Goddess, with legs spread. This second señorita had been watching the squirt session, and began dripping like a coffee maker on high.
From there, the fuck junky crossed the divide separating bedrooms in the accommodations ― passing a TV where Anthony Sullivan hawked solar-power Fleshlights. What awaited in the opposite boudoir was another beauty ― this one aged like bleu cheese, and fine-tuned like the Queen's vibrator.
Copper from the desert Sun, the vassal in question ― disguised as a real estate broker, or time share salesperson ― spread wide atop sullied sheets. "Come fuck me with it," the woman motioned to our hero's cactus limb, beckoning him forth.
Tfj dropped to his knees for a healthy meal, ensuring the necessary juices were flowing. The woman's tight, brown crinkle star was spread like jam over morning toast, as our leading man hungrily devoured as much anus as he could. From there, the condom industry's stock rose slightly on Wall Street, and orgasms more fake than the Pope's disdain for material possessions were created.
On the opposite bed, the final female for the evening ― a statuesque reed ― sucked several staffs ringing the box spring. Allowing the leathery claims adjuster to catch a much-needed respite, and refill her Gold Driver, the fuck junky joined the fray.
"Ugghhh!" this next Number balked, belching his cock from her mouth in disgust, after administering a 10 second blowjob. "Is there something on your dick?!" she queried, gazing up from her stomach, as tfj fingered her employee entrance.
"It's vanilla-flavored lube," he elucidated, certain this would conclude the festivities for the evening.
"Too much flavor!" Gesticulating, as if she'd chugged hot sauce, she waved her hands in front of her face, and moved on to the next cock in line.
Having secured all four Numbers, our hero spiraled around the room for the next couple hours ― humping everything he could ― until the crowd dwindled, and left for parts unknown. Finding himself in his own reserved bed, tucked neatly under a down comforter, he listened to Ben ― a software salesman from Idaho ― spin a yarn of fantastic lore.
This merchant had also traveled far for the evening's event, and was passing out on the mattress adjacent the fuck junky's. As the desert fell to slumber, Ben laid down his chops.
"Are you serious?!" the fuck junky dubiously gawked, pulling the bedding tight around his chin.
"I swear to you, man. I fucking swear to you!" came the vendor's rejoinder.
"How could she not know?! I mean, was she obese?!"
"No," Ben replied. "She was chubby, but she wasn't huge."
"And you actually witnessed this?!?" tfj queried in disbelief.
"I was the one fucking her, when she started complaining about stomach pains, and raced into the bathroom."
A pause, as the two men envisioned the outlandish scenario.
"So, you heard the baby crying, right after it came out?!" our hero asked.
"Both the baby and her. She was screaming. She had no idea she was pregnant!"
"How can a woman be nine months along, and not have a clue?!" the fuck junky questioned.
"You got me, man," Ben responded. "All I know is six of us were fuckin' this chick, and she complained of stomach cramps. She hopped off the bed, and ran to the bathroom.
Next we knew, she'd had a very live baby, right there on the tile floor."
Just when tfj thought he'd heard, and done, it all on the swing scene, he'd lost the gold medal, yet again.
— authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. the fuck junky
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- 12.03.2020
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