Of Dragons, Damsels, and Dildos

The Idiot and the Fornicator

“Bring forth the fornicator!”

The priest’s booming voice echoed around the town square, shushing all chatter. Excitement grew amongst the townsfolk, jostling for the best positions. The priest stood to the side of the raised platform so as not to block the crowd’s view of the stocks.

Two burly guardsmen dragged a hapless wench up the short stairs and onto centre stage. She wore a simple, grubby, cotton nightdress. Her mousy brown hair hung down over shoulders and face, making her features hard to distinguish. Blowing hair out of her eyes, she looked upon her accusers. Those in the front row glimpsed her somewhat coy expression, covered in grime but free of tears.

Overhead, grey clouds had rolled in, hastening the dusk. A misty rain fell. The market stalls surrounding the square had closed, except a few selling snacks and ale. All eyes turned inward to the main attraction. The crowd eager to see the ensuing punishment and humiliation. Husbands stood embracing their wives and trying not to look too eager. Teenage boys drooled, and the town’s youthful women looked on with curiosity, ready to make the inevitable judgements of the guilty party’s attributes.

The priest unrolled the court scroll with exaggerated ceremony.

“I have found you, Madeline Atwood, guilty of wanton fornication. The sharing of your flesh outside the marital bed. Today we carry out the sentence of public shaming, after which you shall endure three months labour in the Queen’s stables. Let the first part of your sentence begin!”

A raucous cheer erupted from the townsfolk. The priest crossed to the woman and with no more ceremony, grasped the collar of her nightgown and ripped the garment clean away.

A collective gasp filled the air.

There she stood, held in place by a guardsman on either side. Her hair not long enough to cover her bare, pale breasts. They hung over an ample stomach, but a stomach not ample enough to obscure her full and untamed bush flourishing between generous hips. She hardly squirmed, this one. Her feet remained apart, as if inviting those in the front to make out her most intimate details.

“I can see her cunny!” came the cry from a callous lad unable to contain his excitement. This turned the crowd’s gasps into laughter, including a chuckle from the priest.

“Bring forth the idiot!” the priest decried.

From the side of the platform, a brute of a man climbed the stairs. He stood before the crowd, dressed only in a stained breechcloth. He had the body of an ox and the face of one too. None too bright. His ugly face wore an expression of dumb eagerness.

He stood alongside his quarry and allowed the Priest to lean down and rip off his breechcloth.

Attributes that suited the task at hand were now obvious.

The gasp from the crowd this time had a more feminine ring to it.

The guardsmen manhandled the nude woman back behind the stocks, treating everyone to a superb view of her plump rump on the way. They placed her head in the large centre hole, pulling her arms outward and securing her hands. She hung her head low, hair falling down in a veil, breasts dangling in a most ungainly fashion.

The village idiot remembered his cue, and with his impressive manhood already rising to the occasion, he took his place behind her. A kick to the insides of her ankles separated her legs and presented him with a most convenient target. With a calloused hand on each of her hips, he pushed his swollen head between her lower lips.

She parted easily, he thought, and his length slid inside her.

The woman squealed and shook her head from side to side. It was the only movement she could manage, apart from clenching her fists. The idiot began his well-practiced rhythmic thrusting, and the wooden stocks shuddered on the platform with each movement. He drove his hips against her wobbling cheeks, and his heavy balls swung like a pendulum between her legs, bouncing against her mound. Her breasts, a larger version of his dangling balls, swung in time with them.

The priest, guardsmen, and crowd gawked in delight. The wet slapping of skin on skin and primal grunting were the only sounds heard, as many enjoyed the shame of one.

***

Three days prior.

Madeline, dressed in her most respectable attire, presented herself to the Queen to elicit a royal pardon for her sins. It had been a day’s journey from the town to the castle. Were it not for the fact that she was the chief consort’s niece, her request for an audience would have been denied. As it was, the priest had forced himself into the proceedings to ensure that she had little chance of success.

All explanations and excuses for her indiscretions fell on deaf ears.

The Queen lounged up on her throne in her jewelled finery, bored by the Priest’s re-telling of the woman’s sins, and Madeline’s version of events.

The King was nowhere to be seen, drunk again, if rumours were to be believed. He was a drunkard, and a known fornicator. Not that he would end up in stocks for it. The long-suffering Queen took it all in her stride. Word around the court suggested they no longer even shared a bedchamber. Perhaps that was why she showed no sympathy for the adulteress who presented herself before her.

“I’ve heard enough!” she snapped, cutting Madeline’s pleas short. “Priest, you may leave and prepare the town to deliver the just punishment, for it should indeed be delivered. You, Mrs. Atwood, will remain behind. I have a few choice words for you that would not fall softly on the ears of the Church.”

The Priest gathered up his robes and took his leave, grinning. If the Queen wanted to give this slut a tongue lashing herself, all the better.

***

The idiot was nearing his climax. Most times, he could hump away for a good while, having dulled his arousal with ale from the tavern all afternoon. This woman, though, was hard to take time over. He looked down as he worked, and the view only hastened him. The rain glistened on her plump, round arse cheeks, and the sight of his rock-hard length sliding in and out of her was too much to bear. She pushed back against him too, and with impeccable timing. She rode him with each stroke, warm and wet around him.

The priest coughed and threw the idiot a warning glance; A reminder he must never sow his seed in fertile ground, lest more idiots sprouted.

Withdrawing just in time, he repositioned a touch higher for re-entry. An inch inside the wench’s back passage, the tightness overcame him. As he spilled into her, she shouted.

“Yes, you bastard, have me!”

And he could have sworn that she also came, her knees quivering as she slammed herself backwards, driving him deeper.

For a moment the idiot wondered just who was fucking who.

The crowd broke their silence with a cheer as he raised his hands above his head, hips still bucking. Madeline nodded her head, hair flying, and fists clenching and unclenching in the stocks.

An aroused township drifted off into the rain. The town’s beds would see extra action that night.

The idiot extricated himself. The guardsmen released the woman from the stocks. Weak at the knees, she couldn’t have run away, even if she tried. They wrapped her torn nightdress around her and led her down the stairs to the waiting carriage. The sentence of mucking out the Queen’s stables would begin on the morrow.

With the night drawing in, the carriage made its way out of town, wheels turning in the mud created by the rain shower. Its driver navigating around puddles, lest they were too deep. Seated inside, the punished woman remained flanked by the two guardsmen.

But sitting opposite was a second woman, of a similar frame.

The real Madeline Atwood, in fact.

The Queen brushed back her hair and used the borrowed nightdress to wipe the worst of the grime from her face. She shifted on the seat, finding a nicer spot for her tingling backside.

“Well...” she announced, in a regal voice, “that was most delightful. I believe I’ve been royally shafted!”

The guardsmen somehow kept straight faces, although straining with the effort, as their Queen continued to ponder.

“Perhaps we could find the village idiot a job in the castle, so I may call on his services without need for this subterfuge?”

Madeline, only too happy to have escaped punishment and helped her Queen in the bargain, answered in as cheeky a fashion.

“Perhaps he could stand in the great hall with an oil lamp hanging from his mighty manhood, my Queen?”

“Now there’s an idea. Although I fear it may singe the hair off those lovely big balls of his!”

Both women and guardsmen erupted into gales of laughter.

A Right Royal Roasting

A small Kingdom somewhere in medieval Europe, oppressed under the reign of corrupt King “George the Grunter.”

Crash! Bang! Wallop!

The crash came from another crystal wine goblet bouncing over the edge of the feasting table and crashing to the stone floor. The bang was produced by the massive serving platter’s lid, jumping up a good six inches before banging back down, in place. The wallop was the sound of the King’s wobbly hips walloping into the servant girl’s bare arse cheeks, as he bent her over the table and took her from behind.

At the opposite end of the table, the Queen sat dressed in all her finery. She also wore her “I am not amused” expression. An ugly woman, even in royal regalia and makeup. She lifted her plate and glass clear of the seismic vibrations that threatened to send them flying with every thrust her husband delivered to the poor wench.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake George, will you finish already! What happened to that one-minute dip I got from your wick on our wedding night?” She yelled over the dented dishes and scattered serving spoons.

“Is this going to go on through dessert? It’s jelly tonight; I fear the wobbling will make me seasick. Do you even have that small sausage of yours in one of her holes? Or are you hopelessly humping her arse crack?”

Another piece of cutlery jumped clear of the ruckus and flew towards one of the royal dogs lounging in front of the hearth, coming close to skewering the canine’s testicles.

“Nearly….there.” The King grunted, all squinty eyed and red-faced as he tried to overcome the drooping effects of a dozen goblets of wine. His rotund belly kept getting in the way, making his drunken efforts even more inept.

“Well thank God for that, is all I can say,” the Queen took a sip of her wine and smacked her thin lips, “if you take much longer the wretched waif will drown, seeing as how she’s ended up face down in your soup. Although I should think she’d find drowning a blessed relief!”

A bubbling, burbling sound confirmed the Queen’s observation. The serving girl, skirts pushed up over her back and face sunk halfway into a deep bowl, coughed gouts of beetroot soup across the table and took a gasping breath to replace the liquid with far more useful oxygen. All the while being jiggered in the privates by a semi-flaccid royal penis.

The Queen, contrary to her last statement, had more to say.

“I don’t see why you always feel the need to undertake this depressing display of feckless fucking during our dinner. Can we not feast in peace at least one night a week?”

“Oomph!!” The King found release with one last thrust and raised his double chin up to the roof in triumph and relief. When his pleasure and his porcine grunting had subsided, he mounted his usual weak defence, with much less conviction than he’d displayed when mounting the staff.

“I couldn’t help it; she showed me her tits when she served the bread.” He lamented, withdrawing his royal sword from the girl. Or at least that’s what he liked to call it. Right now, it looked more like a royal thimble.

The King delivered a hearty smack to the bare buttocks in front of him. The serving girl took that as her cue to stand up, straighten her skirts and perform a half respectable curtsey. Soup dribbled from her face and streaked her messy blonde hair. The King’s paltry climax dribbled down her throbbing thighs.

“Will that be all your highness?” She enquired in a tone that suggested the course she had just served him was the roast duck, now splattered down her front, not the “pussy du jour” he had devoured.

The King was making a half-hearted attempt to straighten his dining robes, covering up the shrunken royal member and searching the debris on the table for the last of the wine. “Yes, that will be all... err.... Anna isn’t it?” He dismissed her, and she limped away to the kitchens.

“And anyway,” he declared to his Queen, “it’s not like you can control yourself. The fire is going out because you’ve had that page under the table since the entrée.”

The ornate hearth set into one wall of the feasting hall did only harbour glowing embers by now. The two hunting dogs had been edging closer to it as the warmth diminished. The Queen returned her plate and goblet to the now still surface of the table and lifted the tablecloth to check on proceedings down below.

“Yes well, I have to seek my own treats, given that you can no longer serve me any. At least I’m not making little Tim here spit the second course halfway across the room!” She reached down and tapped the head of the small rag-clothed boy that knelt between her open legs. A cherubic face looked up for approval, nose and chin rubbed red raw from wet friction.

“Back to work young man,” the Queen admonished, pushing his head back down and scooting her bottom further forward on the chair to smother him with a face full of flange. Tim’s head set about a rhythmic bobbing motion as he took up his licking again.

“Damnation, you deviant bitch,” the King declared as if it was a royal pronouncement. “That lad is so small I fear we may lose him up that mammoth minge of yours.”

The Queen was unruffled. “A tongue is a tongue my Royal Uselessness, and the younger tongues can lick faster.”

The King drained the wine and searched for the bell to summon more. “Anyway, you’re the one that needs to finish,” he grumbled, “so the little blighter can put more wood on the fire before it goes as cold and miserable as your southern regions!” And with that, he let out an almighty belch.

Grabbing a roast duck’s leg from one of the surviving dishes, he lifted his end of the tablecloth and lobbed it down to the long-suffering boy underneath.

“Here lad, shove that up her while you’re at it. That should hurry things along. She loves a good duck fucking!” The King bellowed with laughter, rocking back on his chair.

Too far back.

The chair and King crashed down onto the hewn stone floor. His skull cracked, and his laugh cut abruptly short. A shocked intake of winded breath would be his last. The two dogs raised their heads at this new commotion but were not loyal enough to bother with a closer inspection. Licking their own balls seemed far more important.

The Queen was also too busy to worry, having just felt Tim penetrate her with the piece of poultry. She gripped the sides of her chair and presented her lower lips to consume two delightful dishes; leg of duck and face of boy. He too would have difficulty breathing. But he needn’t have worried; he’d done his job well.

As the King was going, the Queen was coming.

All concern for her husband’s wellbeing disappeared in her moment of climax, if there had been any concern at all. Transfixed, trembling thighs clamping shut against the boy’s ears, her ugly head thrown back, emitting a long guttural moan.

Such was her indulgence; she did not notice a dishevelled Anna return to the room, this time from behind her. Nor did she flinch until after the sharp carving knife sliced through her exposed, wrinkled, neck.

Arterial blood spurted across the table, achieving the same distance the soup had from the other end. The two red stains met in the middle.

Anna helped young Tim up from under the table, and the two of them stood there in their dirty rags, staring at the expired monarchs. The fat King, stone-cold dead, still seated in his upturned chair. His robes were open, revealing under his belly a shrivelled dick looking more like one of the pickles fallen from the table. It lay on its side, as if in surrender.

The Queen had assumed Anna’s previous face-down position in her plate, the last pumps of blood from her neck pooling across the table. Her arse somehow clung to the edge of the wooden chair. But poultry fat and royal pussy juice had slickened the silver birch, and the chair slipped out from under her. Broad buttocks hit the floor with a wet thump, and her body keeled over backwards, legs spread as if in childbirth.

Anna leaned forward and reached down into the sodden thicket between the Queen’s legs. With a tug, like an expert midwife, she facilitated the delivery of a lone leg. It produced a slurping, sucking sound as the corpse reluctantly released it.

“Congratulations, it’s a duck!” she declared, then passed the leg to Tim who took a well-earned bite, grinned up at her, and spoke through his mouthful.

“Waste not, want not, right?”

Anna giggled and tousled his hair.

“Let’s find that jelly. I think there’ll be plenty to go around now.”

Holding hands, they wandered back to the kitchens to deliver the good news.

A Whole Lot of Rosie

Boobs. The county had a generous assortment. Two for every fair maid in fact (in one case three, but that’s another story). They came in all shapes and sizes. Well okay, not all shapes. No one had square boobs. And granted, not all sizes. Nobody had boobs the size of beer barrels.

Nevertheless, no boobs were more generous than those of Rosie, the landlady of Rosie’s Rest, a tavern in the lowlands of the western reaches.

At the foot of the snow-capped western range, the tavern’s massive stone hearth always housed a roaring fire to keep the elements at bay. Travelers in these parts knew a jug of ale would cost more than the usual five pieces of silver. To quench their thirst at Rosie’s, they’d also need to cough up a piece of wood for the fire.

Rosie held court in her humble establishment every night from dusk until the witching hour, her aforementioned boobs spilling from the top of a beer-stained bodice.

Arrivals would stack their wood on the pile inside the door. Nods and grunts of approval would greet a hefty log of pine. A mere handful of twigs and tinder would elicit grumbles and groans. But the newcomer would still be served. Should they arrive with no wood at all, however, they’d be sent back into the night on a cold quest for fuel.

With this etiquette satisfied, clientele enjoyed more than a jug of strong ale, the warmth of the fire and hearty banter. They also bathed in the orange glow of the flames dancing over Rosie’s ample bosom, matching the russet curls of hair that fell about her shoulders, and the rose-red cheeks that had christened her at birth.

If a conversation interested her, Rosie would linger in front of the participants and listen in. Her chin supported by plump fingers, each adorned with rings from long-gone lovers.

Rosie’s boobs would squash against the wet oak bar as she leaned in to hear whatever gossip had caught her fancy. On a busy night, with raucous tales echoing throughout the tavern, she’d snuggle in nice and close. It wasn’t rare for a stray nipple to peek from its lacy ligature as she listened intently to the tale. It took a skilled storyteller indeed, to keep her intrigued while still enjoying the view. So, the stories told to Rosie tended to be more captivating than most.

This particular night began like any other. Yvette, a slip of a blonde bar girl, had built a roaring fire in the hearth and was busy serving bowls of steaming leek soup to the tavern’s patrons.

Seated in their usual spots at the bar were regulars, Jacob and James Hawthorne. Two brothers who earned their living escorting well-to-do folk through the mountain pass to the neighbouring county. They regaled Rosie with tales of the silly city dwellers and their mishaps traversing the treacherous winding paths through the peaks.

James, the younger of the two, would do most of the telling. Occasionally he’d look to Jacob for confirmation, the more mature endorsement adding weight to any embellishments.

“… and there she stood, as bold as brass!” James enthused to Rosie, flicking a forelock of black hair from his eyes. “She was eighty if she was a day, fending off a crazed mountain cat with naught but a parasol. While her cowardly footman scarpered back down the pass, as fast as his boots could carry him. Isn’t that right Jacob?”

Jacob raised his tankard to take another long pull. “It sure is. That lady was about to be cat food!”

Rosie, with a fondness for animals, and not so much for townsfolk, leaned in closer “Yes but tell me about the mountain cat. Was it a fine beast? White like the snow? I hear those are getting harder to find now, even in the coldest months of winter.”

James took a drink of his own ale, relishing the attention, “It was for sure, all white fur standing on end and haunches twitching as it made ready to pounce. It stared down the old lady with glowing yellow eyes but then looked to me and Jacob beside her. I’m sure it thought we’d make a tastier meal!”

The story continued, with the gallant rescue of the brave old biddy from the mountain cat’s gleaming white fangs. Rosie re-filled the two adventurer’s tankards and came around the bar to help Yvette clear some soup bowls.

The first signs of trouble came when a stranger arrived, bearing no wood.

While that oversight might have been forgivable, the arrogance with which he held the door open as he surveyed the tavern’s interior was not. A biting cold wind blew in from behind him, scattering sparks from the fire over those seated nearest.

All heads turned, faces frowning with annoyance. The stranger, largely hidden by a hooded grey cloak, stood, legs apart, in the windswept doorway. When little Yvette scurried behind him to close the door, he cuffed her with such force she tumbled to the floor, ending up at Rosie’s feet. Patrons jumped up with howls of indignation but were silenced when he raised a long-barrelled musket.

The intruder spoke gruffly into the hushed tavern. “Throw all your guns to me, now. Or the fat tart gets it and you’ll be pouring your own ale.”

Hands reaching for hips hesitated. No-one was prepared to chance their arm and risk their beloved landlady’s life. A clatter of firearms skidded across the floorboards towards the heathen’s grey boots.

“Now, I’ll be having all your silver!” he said, waving the end of the gun at Rosie, not ten feet away.

Yvette cowered down below, among Rosie‘s petticoats swirling in the bitter draft. To her left and right the Hawthorne brothers had put their tankards back on the bar. They leaned in a little closer to their host.

“Looks like we have our own mountain cat to face here boys,” Rosie said. “But this one lacks the grace of a cat. He’s more like a rabid dog and a none too bright one.”

“You’ll be watching your mouth, cow!” The gun toting robber shouted from under his hood. “I’ve heard about you and those magnificent tits. I figured this place would be rich pickings if the stories were true.”

“Oh, the stories are true all right,” Rosie replied. “In fact, would you like to see them in all their glory?”

The gun wavered as the robber contemplated the offer, lifting his hood. It seemed like a no brainer. Which suited him fine. “Yes, give me an eyeful and then round up that silver!” he demanded.

Rosie obliged, tugging at the drawstring of her bodice. The overworked garment fell away. Two fabulous, bountiful, breasts sprung forth. Erect pink nipples pointed proudly in the chill mountain air. Rosie cupped both weighty tits in her hands.

“Like what you see?” she asked her dumbstruck audience.

The armed offender could only murmur in agreement. His gun wandered even more from its target as he took in the wondrous view of womanhood being seductively squeezed in front of him.

“Let him have it, boys!” Rosie shouted with glee, lifting her boobs to her chin, revealing two gleaming gold pistols.

James and Jacob snatched the loaded guns as they fell from beneath each bosom. The two brothers fired simultaneously. A bullet entered each wide eye of the man in grey. His body was blown back through the tavern door and into the freezing, dark night.

Rosie blew on each of her nipples, left and right, as if to clear the gun smoke from her double barrels. The tavern erupted in jubilation as she declared, “Well, he certainly got his eyeful!”  

Rudolph

As the front door opened, Tommy was astounded by what London was wearing.

“London?” he asked the huge reindeer’s head looking down at him. It was a silly question. This was London’s house, and the legs protruding from beneath the costume were hers.

“Oh, thank god it’s you, Tommy. I can’t get this frigging thing off.” She moaned from somewhere within layers of fake reindeer fur.

“You answered the front door like that?” Tommy asked, pushing his way inside.

“Well, I’m stuck. Now please, can you get this thing off?”

“Sure!” Tommy laughed, “Here, gimme some head!” he grabbed a pair of antlers.

“Oh, you’re just hilarious,” London said, wriggling as he pulled. They extricated her from Rudolph’s head. She shook out her hair and adjusted her bra.

Tommy put the deer's head down and leaned against the door, checking his girlfriend out. He loved the way her dark hair contrasted with her pale white skin. “Never get a tan or shave those lovely pubes,” he’d always told her.

“You’re a horny little tosser,” she always replied, but granted his requests. At least he wasn’t into anything too kinky, and he loved her smallish boobs, and bigger bum. Why couldn’t she swap those around, she often thought.

For his part, Tommy usually allowed her to dress him. While he knew what he wanted her to look like (nude, mostly), he didn’t care about his own appearance, so London organised his wardrobe.

“Why are you in a t-shirt and track pants?” she asked, “I thought I told you what to wear?”

“Did you? Oh, sorry.” Tommy leaned in and put his arms around her waist, “I figured we’ll be in that silly costume, so nobody will see, anyway.”

“Yeah, but after the show Tommy. We’re going to grab a drink dressed as Rudolph?”

“Well, excuse me!” he mumbled from between her breasts. “I didn’t realise the old people’s home was putting on an after party.”

London pushed his shaggy head away. “Stop pissing about. We’ll be late! Grab the bottom half, it’s in the lounge.”

Outside, Tommy stuffed the two parts of the costume into the back of his Corolla while London locked up. She now wore a respectable blue skirt and white blouse. He decided not to tell her that the black bra was visible through the blouse.

Ten minutes later, they pulled up outside Fairhaven Rest Home and Hospital and found the others from their amateur dramatics club.

“Ah, there’s our Rudolph!” exclaimed director Clarence, slapping his hands together with exaggerated glee. “We thought you were coming from the North Pole or something.”

“Oh god, it’s Andrew Lloyd Webber,” Tommy muttered as he levered Rudolf’s awkward head from the back seat.

“Sush, don’t be mean. You know this thing means the world to him,” London said.

Seated in the dining room’s makeshift theatre, in rough semi-circles of mismatched chairs, the rest home’s residents awaited the show.

Backstage, behind the meal serving window, London helped Tommy struggle into Rudolph’s back end. Once he was in, his feet down in Rudolph’s hooves, they had to slide London’s legs down into Rudolph’s front pair, then squeeze her into the awkward head with the silly red nose.

Mary and Joseph were on hand to help. Mary had to put baby Jesus down on the serving window to free her hands, much to the annoyance of the fussing Clarence. He scooped the doll up as he flitted by. “Goodness me, we’re not serving up the lord and saviour with the mashed spud! Have some decorum, people. This is the theatre!” he huffed. “Five minutes, Rudolph, this is your five-minute call!”

“What’s Clarence dribbling about?” Tommy’s muffled voice resonated from Rudolph’s stomach. He was bent now, holding London around her waist and trying to keep his back straight and low, in case they looked more like a camel.

“He said five minutes,” London replied. “Okay, you got to walk with me. I can just see through this mouth. We have to trot out when the song starts.”

Tommy lifted his feet in time with London’s and the two clip-clopped back out the kitchen and around to the side of the stage, hidden from view by a hospital sheet stretched between upturned tables.

The strange gait they adopted, as Tommy bent over his girlfriend in a tight hug, caused his hips to move against her rear. Her skirt rode up her legs with each hoof step.

“Is it hot in here, or what?” he whispered.

“Stop doing that. You’re making me horny,” London whispered back, trying to turn around inside the head.

Tommy grinned in the darkness. He let her waist go, and pushed her skirt all the way up, over her bum. There was very little room inside the costume, but with some dexterous wriggling he shoved his own pants down. When he hugged her again, London felt a stiffening erection pushing against the black knickers between her legs.

“Tommy! What if someone sees?” she squeaked, feeling even hornier.

“In this thing? Nah. We’re safe as houses. C’mon, it’s Christmas. Santa only comes once a year, remember,” Tommy pushed against London, the end of his erection poking her.

She moaned. “OMG, you have to fuck me now.” She said, “Even if your jokes are that bad. Please, Tommy”

Tommy reached down and pulled London’s knickers to one side. He slid his length between her wet folds of skin. Her moan drowned out by his satisfied grunt.

“You feel amazing. We should do it like this more often,” he said as he started up his rhythm.

“What, inside a Rudolph costu……Oh, god!” London couldn’t finish her sentence as Tommy filled her, “Yes. Like that. Oh, Tommy… fuck me. Like that…keep going.”

“Okay, Rudolph, you’re up!” Clarence gave Rudolph’s rump a friendly pat, startling Tommy and sending him deeper into London.

“YES!” she cried.

The sheet came down and Rudolph staggered onto centre stage.

The rest of the cast, gathered around baby Jesus, broke into song, with the oldest resident, Percy, on the piano.

“Rudolf the red-nosed Reindeer...” they belted out in a variety of keys.

Tommy thrust into London, his hips slapping against her bum cheeks.

“YES!”

“Had a very shiny nose...”

“YES!”

Clarence checked his song sheet.

I don’t think Rudolph answers “Yes” after each line. He thought, scratching his head.

“And if you ever saw it...” The oldies in the audience were getting into the spirit now, sitting up and singing.

“YES! Oh Fuck, Yes,” Rudolph cried

“You would even say it glows...”

Tommy, at full speed now, took London from behind with genuine Christmas spirit, his rock-hard length sliding in and out of her with expert ease, even in the cramped conditions. London did her best to push back with in time. The brazen bonking was bringing them both to a hot and sweaty climax.

Clarence and the rest of the cast looked on with bemusement, as their reindeer made the strangest noises and appeared to be having convulsions.

“And all the other reindeer...” The old men and women were now in full voice.

“Oh Tommy, I can’t last another verse.” London’s voice shook. “Fuck me harder, Tommy. Harder.”

“Used to laugh and call him names…” The knitting ladies in the back row joined in.

“I’m going to come!” Rudolf’s rear end announced.

The stretched and bulging costume could take no more. Velcro strips connecting front to back came apart at the same time as a large tear ripped down Rudolf’s spine. The whole furry mess fell to the stage floor.

Tommy’s hips quivered as he emptied himself deep inside London.

“I’m coming too!” Rudolph’s head shouted.

The audience looked on as Tommy pumped himself into London, his pants around his ankles, her milky white bum cheeks getting hammered, and her screams of ecstasy shrieking from behind Rudolph’s bobbing red nose.

Mary instinctively covered the eyes of baby Jesus.

One elderly gentleman in the front row leaned over to the woman seated next to him and shouted into her hearing aid…

“Best fucking Christmas show we’ve ever had!”

Naughty Mister Nibbles

Mister Nibbles brought me another treat in the night. I wish he wouldn’t, but I suppose it’s his way of saying thanks for looking after him. He thinks I need feeding.

At least this time it’s an intact body. Not like that time he dragged just a bottom half up the stairs, leaving a trail of blood across the carpet before depositing it at the foot of my bed. Gross!

I named him Mister Nibbles because he has this cute but annoying habit of nibbling my ear when I’m trying to sleep. He snuggles his face right up under my chin then finds my ear lobe and gives me lots of little bites. His teeth never sink in too far though, and I can tell he enjoys it. The contended “nom nom” sound he makes is deafening right up in my ear. And it tickles something terrible. I have to stoke his back, the power of my strokes pulling his mouth away until he gives up.

Mister Nibbles is a weird little bugger!

I’ve had him two years now. Although you know what they say, maybe I belong to him as much as he belongs to me. He just turned up one day, moping around the garden looking mournful and hungry. So, I took him in and fed him. And the rest is history. I no longer sleep alone at nights (when I get to sleep that is, after all the nibbling). I’m not worried about being single anymore. Mister Nibbles is all I need for companionship.

I love him so much. He’s loyal, and he doesn’t judge. I can eat what I want, wear what I want. Heck, I can walk around the house naked if I want. I tell him all my secrets, knowing that he’ll love me not matter what.

I wish he’d stop bringing me these night-time treats, though. I will have to wash the bedding again. And bury his latest prey in the back garden. This one looks like a beautiful specimen too. No sign of bite marks. It looks like he just broke its neck. Poor thing.

Damn, it’s still twitching. That means I have to finish it with a whack on the head. Can’t let it suffer.

How can I convince him to stop doing this? It’s time we had a chat. As I head down the stairs with the body, I can hear him in the kitchen, slurping his milk. He looks up as I walk in.

“Mister Nibbles. You know I love you right? But you’ve got to stop depositing bodies in our bed!”

He puts down the glass of milk and smiles as he stands up and saunters across the kitchen. Those thin lips curl back from gleaming white teeth, just like they do when he nibbles my ear.

“Aww. I thought you’d like this one, she’s a beauty, isn’t she? And I was so careful. See? No blood anywhere!”

Mister Nibbles licks the dying woman’s hair, and a glint appears in his eyes.

“Don’t get the spade just yet, let’s play with her first.”

I sigh. “Mister Nibbles, you’re so naughty!”

An Altarian Motive

LHC (Large Hadron Collider) Control room. Outskirts of Geneva, 13 April 2008 2:37am.

Dr. Katie Adamson suppressed a yawn and leaned forward to silence the warning buzzer on the control board. Likely another mouse tripping a sensor, but she’d have to go check the damn thing. At least it gave her something to do; her backside was going numb. The control room chair didn’t quite accommodate her plump frame.

She saved the latest algorithm she’d created and put down her tablet. At thirty-five she was young for a quantum physicist. But she understood the fundamental structure of matter like no other scientist on the LHC team. This project was her baby. She had no time for partners, family, or even a cat. Dr. Katie Adamson lived and breathed particle physics. The world’s scientific community had the utmost respect for her intelligence and dedication. While Katie struggled to squeeze into the silly control room chairs and moved a little slower than her colleagues, she smashed particles together at the speed of light!

Standing up, she patted down each ass cheek to get the blood flowing. Night shifts were a real drag.

Tucking stray locks of dirty blonde hair behind her ears, she put her safety helmet on, pushed her glasses higher on her nose, and set forth through the control room door. The elevator played the usual crappy music as she took it down to the collider level. The cheery notes did not cheer her. They only reminded her she was alone.

On the LHC level she climbed aboard one of the yellow electric mopeds, being mindful to pull up the long tails of her white lab coat, lest it get caught in the wheels. She had a two-mile ride ahead of her. She followed the gentle curve of the narrow maintenance tunnel at a sedate ten miles an hour, being careful not to the nudge the cables and piping that lined its concrete walls.

The moped vibrated under Katie, and she wished that the sensor had tripped in a more distant section of the collider. A nice long ride might be just what she needed to relieve boredom and frustration.

I wonder if I could get myself off on this thing. That would be an interesting experiment. All in the name of science, of course.

Ten minutes of stimulating moped riding brought Katie to the offending section. A glowing blue sphere crackled with electrical current, wavy lines of bright energy snaking over its surface. Stopping the moped, she reached for the radio that wasn’t in her pocket and cursed herself for leaving it behind.

What the hell is this? An overload? We aren’t even operating though. It can’t be coming from the LHC.

Katie turned the scooter around in the narrow tunnel. She needed to get the crew down here. As she was about to pull away, a voice sounded from behind her.

“Excuse me, human?”

Holy shit! Katie fought the urge to yelp with fright and twisted around on the scooter.

A figure stood in front of the crackling blue sphere. Katie squinted as she couldn’t quite make out features. The human form seemed to shimmer in the blue light, its outline waxing and waning. An intense headache bloomed behind her temple.

Ow! What the hell!

The headache subsided as soon as it began. The figure in front of her sharpened. A face appeared. Mark Wahlberg’s face. Her favourite actor. Clothes formed over the body, stone washed denim jeans and jacket over a striped tee-shirt. One of his “Dirk Diggler” outfits.

“Oh, hilarious guys! Ha-ha, that’s some impressive projector work.” Katie chuckled, her initial fright subsiding. This must be the work of the technicians who had heard her laugh about Dirk Digger’s exploits in “Boogie Nights.”

“Excuse me, Katie?” Dirk’s voice sounded like it did in the movie.

“I’ve just probed your mind. I know everything about you. But I have limited time to explain. I am required to complete this mission in under sixty of your minutes. Please pay attention.”

Katie’s unease returned. This looked less like a prank now. She was close to swivelling on the scooter seat, opening the throttle and taking off back down the tunnel. But something told her to wait. She also enjoyed the view.

“You can’t be in here! The LHC is a highly sensitive area.” She pushed her glasses up her nose to show her indignation.

“Yes, we know it well. Your LHC is the reason I’m here. You humans have now reached a level of scientific achievement that means we can ignore you no longer. We must assimilate our races to remove any threat of a standalone species challenging our dominance.”

Katie digested that. “Our races? What the hell are you talking about?”

He must be a sci-fi geek, maybe hid down here since the tour this afternoon. Dressed like Dirk Diggler because he read a bio of mine that listed my favourite movie.

“Altarians and humans. We must take you into the fold. Make you part of the great Altarian Empire so that your development does not continue unchecked.” He paused for a second. “I‘m what’s known as an inter-breeder. And I have fifty-seven minutes left to breed with you.”

Katie had heard nothing so ridiculous in all her life.

“And what makes you think I want to breed with you?”

“Oh, but you do. I’ve taken the form of a sexually appealing partner from your very own mind. And it’s been 237 days since you’ve had sex, other than masturbation. I know you want to have sex with me. I can also tell you it will be satisfying sex. And you will then become the first mother of our new united race.”

Dumbstruck, Katie had no reply. Dirk moved towards her in long deliberate strides. He held his hand out to her. This close, he looked even more alluring. A spitting image of the porn hero from the movie. Katie’s scientific mind raced through some calculations.

So, what if he’s a looney? He doesn’t seem to want to harm me. He would have by now. And he’s right. I need to get laid. What’s the harm?

“Good decision, Katie.” Dirk smiled, his eyes sparkling. His whole body oozed confidence.

Somewhat mesmerized, Katie put her hand in his, and stepped off the moped; it toppled over onto its side, just missing the pipework along the wall.

This is so crazy, what the hell am I doing?

Dirk led Katie into the blue sphere. She stepped into the light after him, waiting for some kind of electric shock that didn’t occur. A flash and she materialized in a small white room. What looked like a massage table occupied the centre. She turned to take in her surroundings. Nothing but white walls, and the sphere behind them. Soft white light seemed to come from all directions, and none. And then Katie realized she was naked, but for her glasses.

What! How on Earth?

She tried to cover her privates. One arm across her ample boobs and a hand below, that didn’t quite cover the unkempt bush under her chubby belly. She blushed a bright red at being exposed to a stranger.

But he’s not a stranger, he’s Dirk Diggler.

Oh my god, I’m losing my mind.

Dirk turned to her and placed his heavy hands on her waist, his clothes also gone. She faced gym-sculpted chest and abs and couldn’t help but lower her gaze. Between his legs hung a porn star penis. Semi-flaccid, it already looked like a good ten inches. Bulging balls hung either side. Something didn’t look right down there, and she squinted through her glasses for a clearer focus, but Dirk interrupted her examination with another perplexing statement.

“Welcome to the mating room. We have little time, Katie. You must let me mate with you and complete the mission.”

And with that he lifted her clean off the floor and strode to the massage table, plonking her on the end. His hands were warm and strong. Katie wanted to surrender control.

Whatever this is, I will enjoy it. If I wake up later and someone has spiked my coffee, I’ll thank them for the excellent dream!

Dirk pushed her knees apart and bent his head down between her thighs.

“Lay back if you wish Katie, I’m going to bring you to full arousal.”

Does he need to be so damn clinical about it? Trust my science brain to dream of sex like it’s an experiment.

Blushing with embarrassment but also flushed with arousal, Katie lay back on the table.

He better be good, after this build up.

He was.

Small kisses ran up the inside of her thigh, each one seemed to spark against her skin. His mouth firm and purposeful. When he reached the top, his cheek brushed against her sex and she couldn’t help twitching. Her hands made fists by her sides and tried to remain still as she lay back.

OMG, when was the last time a guy did this? College?

“I will lick you now Katie. As per your desire. You may orgasm if you wish. It will help with the mating.”

Whatever dude! Just get on with it!

Dirk parted her with thumb and finger. His hand rested in her pubes above while his tongue pressed between her spread lips.

Sweet Jesus, I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Katie groaned as he licked and sucked at her flesh. Dirk worked his firm tongue expertly around her. Rubbing it over her sweet spot before sinking down inside. All the while nibbling her swelling lips. Suddenly his tongue expanded, instantly filling the volume of her vagina. His tongue must have doubled in size.

How the hell did he do that?

Then intense vibration, twice as fast as the “little helper” she kept in her bedside drawer. The sensation was incredible. Throbbing waves of energy emanated from vagina outwards. Tingling bolts of electricity escaped her body via her fingertips and toes. A jackhammer made of jelly was jammed inside her and set to maximum speed.

“Oh my God. I’m going to come, sorry!” she gasped, unsure why she was apologizing but the word slipped out between groans.

Dirk looked up at her and gave a cheeky wink as he rubbed her clitoris with the pad of a thumb.

That did it. Katie climaxed, lifting her hips up against his face as she shivered from the inside out.

“Oh yes, fuck yes, that’s good!”

She didn’t want his tongue to leave her, but it slipped out all the same. A hand patted her slick mound, as if in praise.

“Well done. You are sufficiently aroused. We may now begin the mating.”

Katie sat up, resting on her elbows. His tongue seemed normal now. She must have imagined just how big it became inside her.

Well, I’m imagining the whole thing, so anything goes, I guess.

“Wow. I mean, just wow. Obviously, I’m hallucinating, but that was amazing all the same.”

Dirk smiled and moved a hand down between his legs. Katie followed the movement. He lifted a semi-erect penis, as if for her inspection.

“That’s a mighty fine specimen you’ve g…” Her compliment cut off by the breath catching in her throat.

Underneath his dick, hanging down, was another one! Another dick!

“What the hell? You have two penises?” Katie cried out, pushing herself back down the massage table in fright.

“Well, yes. It appears that way,” Dirk seemed unperturbed by her reaction, “the mind probe rendered this body to produce a maximum effect. It should ensure a successful mating.”

Katie laughed out loud. “Okay, this is definitely a dream! The job has finally gotten to me. Right then, Mister Double-Dick-Diggler, let’s see what you’re made of!”

“Excellent Katie. Turn over please.”

As she obliged, he pulled her by the ankles until her legs were down off the table and her chubby backside hung over the edge.

Katie turned her head to inspect her dreamy partner over her shoulder. Both dicks were erect now, at least twelve inches each, quivering like a pair of pink divining rods.

His hands gripped her soft butt cheeks, kneading them. His thumbs worked inward, moving closer together with each squeeze. She opened her legs wider for him, exposing herself.

It then occurred to her what the two dicks might entail.

“Wait, a minute! You’re not going to…”

“Yes Katie,” he didn’t wait for her to finish the question. “It’s a fantasy of yours. I believe the term is DP. Double penetration? I will fuck you in your ass and your pussy at the same time. Those are the correct names, are they not?”

“Yes, but… I’ve never…”

“Do not worry, entry and movement will be…. facilitated.”

Katie kept looking over her shoulder. A tube of blue gel materialized into Dirk‘s hand. He squeezed a line onto both his erect penises, as if preparing two hot dogs. He covered the fingers of one hand with the gel before the jar de-materialised.

Katie clenched her teeth together. Dirk moved closer behind her. A fingertip pushed right up against her tight asshole.

Oh fuck, that is so sexy!

The cool gel triggered a wave of pleasure. Katie reached both hands back and spread her cheeks for him. Confident she was dreaming, she delighted in the sheer filthiness of the position, as his fingertip entered her ass. Her glasses slipped off her nose. Her hair fell forward over her eyes. She didn’t care. Having his finger inside her ass felt so bad, and so good, all at the same time. Another two fingers slid into her soaking wet pussy with ease.

“We have adequate free passage I believe.” Dirk intoned and withdrew his fingers.

Two swollen heads pushed against her, each searching out an entrance. Her pussy and asshole were on fire, desperate for him to find his targets. The blue gel eased the way as her skin parted and her spaces filled. She trembled as both rock-hard lengths slid inside her. A second orgasm was imminent.

“Oh yes, please. Fuck me in the ass Dirk. Make me come. Please Dirk, please.” She rocked her hips now, lifting herself onto her elbows. Her breasts swung beneath her, nipples rubbing on the table adding to the delight. His balls bounced against her damp mound.

“I am, Katie. I am fucking you in both holes, just like your fantasy. I believe you’re about to come, as you say. Please remain in this position while the mating completes.”

Wild horses couldn’t drag me out of this position.

She moaned, sliding her body along the dual dicks of the alien Dirk Diggler.

The dicks then rotated inside her, in an eggbeater motion. Their heads drumming against her sensitive inside walls. Faster and faster. Shaking her whole body from within.

She exploded in orgasm.

“Arghhh! Oh. My. Fucking. God!”

She screamed as she came, slamming herself back against his hips. Her ass and pussy sending lightning bolts of pure pleasure through her being. Wave after wave of sexual delight enveloped her mind and soul.

“Keep coming if you wish, Katie.” Dirk encouraged. “The seed is being sown.”

The dick on vaginal duty let forth a tremendous spurt of warm fluid, jetting up inside her. Such was the volume and pressure of the release Katie wondered, unscientifically, if she’d soon be spitting it out of her mouth.

Dirk withdrew from her, and Katie lay on the massage table, exhausted, her entire body covered in sweat.

She turned to see Dirk, now clothed, inspecting her still throbbing pussy as if he was some off-duty gynaecologist.

“It seems we achieved adequate insertion and delivery.” He said, peering out from between her legs.

“I must go now, Katie. But we will be in touch soon, regarding the raising of the first brood.”

“I’m sorry, did you say brood?” Katie‘s arousal diminished.

“Oh, yes. The first fifty spawn are the most dependent. You will need help.”

Before she could process that revelation, the room dissolved and Katie found herself back in the maintenance tunnel, clothed, and sitting next to the moped. Dirk stepped into the blue sphere as it collapsed in on itself. His voice trailing off with one last sentence.

“Welcome to the Altarian Empire.”

The Golden Arches

“Watch out for Annabel, she’s anal about everything.” I remembered the advice clearly, as Team Leader Annabel strode through the kitchen towards me.

She could have been in one of our commercials. Her uniform fit perfectly. Immaculate in every way, the golden arches on her black shirt pocket glowed. Her matching pants had creases you could cut yourself on. How did she make polyester do that? She passed the fry station, lifting a basket out of the oil and silencing the alarm with a slap of her hand. She didn’t break her stride.

I noticed, with some satisfaction, that a few blonde hairs had escaped the tight bun at the back of her head. She was human after all then, not a McDonalds android. She blew them away from her face and confronted me. I caught a whiff of breath. Minty fresh. Even her breath was perfect.

“Sam, the freezer is at negative twenty-two degrees celsius. Didn’t I ask you to check it at the start of the shift?”

“Yes, Ma’am, you did.”

“You don’t need to call me Ma’am. I’m not that old. You can call me TL, short for Team Leader.”

I made a note to remember that. “TL”. Not Ma’am, and not “Anal Annabel” that everyone called her out of earshot.

“Yes TL.”

“And what temperature should the freezer be at?”

“I’m guessing it’s not negative twenty-two, TL?”

“No, it’s not. It’s negative twenty. That’s a whole two degrees out.”

“Okay, but colder isn’t a problem?”

That was a mistake. Annabel frowned.

“There is a reason behind every protocol. It might not be obvious, but the company has determined all these settings. How long has McDonalds been making burgers, Sam?”

Ha! I knew this one! “Sixty-four years.”

“And how long have you been making burgers, Sam?”

My shoulders slumped. “About two weeks.”

“Exactly!” And with that she performed an about-turn and marched back through the kitchen to find something else out of order.

I decided that the reprimand was worth the view of her departing backside, tight black pants hugging each cheek. The gap between them was probably regulation width.

I spent my break studying more of the facts and figures that I knew Annabel would test me on. Tonight was my first late shift too, continuing for an hour after the restaurant closed.

We’d polish everything to within an inch of its life.

I had just finished cleaning the clamshell grills, pleased with how I lined up the fresh sheets of teflon on both top and bottom surfaces, when Annabel came up to me.

“Okay, turn the grills back on Sam.” She plonked a handheld temperature probe on the counter beside us. “I’m going to flick off the front lights, then I’ll show you how to check the temps.”

I admired the view again. At midnight, she was looking worse for wear. In a good way. Her shirt had come out of her pants and she’d let her hair out of that bun. She flicked it back over her shoulders as she turned from the bank of light switches at the front. I decided she could be in a shampoo commercial now. I looked away before she caught me checking her out.

“You’ve got the teflon sheets on the wrong way ‘round silly. They have a shinier side, see? That side faces down on the top grill and up on the bottom one, so the patties don’t stick.”

Leaning right over the grill, oblivious to the heat wave coming off it, she snapped the teflon back into its brackets without burning herself. I paid careful attention, not to that, but to the way her shirt tail rode even higher, exposing pale skin above her waistband.

“There!” Annabel stood back, hands on hips again, admiring her work.

She put the end of the probe on the lip of the bottom element and closed the clamshell top.

“We’re looking for 185 degrees C, with a tolerance of 3 degrees either way. McDonalds allow us that, because they don’t make the temp probe so they accept it might not be precise.”

“Roger that, TL.” I said, grinning. Her attention to detail was less annoying and kind of cute now.

When the digital readout settled at 184, she nodded. So, I reached out and grabbed the probe.

It was hot. Burning hot.

“Ow, shit!” I dropped it on the countertop and put my thumb and finger in my mouth.

“Sam! Don’t grab the hot end. You know, you can be a bit of dummy sometimes,” Annabel sighed and pushed me to the nearest sink. Her hand felt nice holding mine.

Up close she still smelt minty, with a slight hint of caramel. I wasn’t sure if it was a fragrance, or the smell of the sundae machine she’d been cleaning. But knowing Annabel, she could have put McDonald’s caramel sundae under her arms and made it work.

“You’re real nice, sorry I’m a dick at this job”. That was all I could manage as I grew more attracted to her by the minute.

“No, you’re one of the fastest learners I’ve had. Don’t worry about it, Sam. Apart from getting the teflon round the wrong way, you broke that grill down and cleaned it faster than the old hands.”

I blushed. What the heck was I blushing for?

Annabel’s pale cheeks turned red too. “Right let’s get this place locked up and head home I guess.” She said. I felt a pang of sadness at that. It had been nice hanging out with Anal Annabel, even if it was at work.

After that I tried to get rostered onto the closing shifts, at least if Annabel was the TL on them. We kind of flirted, I suppose you’d call it. Everyone else seemed intimidated by her, but I got away with giving her a slight ribbing over her attention to detail. I’d return from the back of the kitchen shouting “Freezer still at twenty degrees TL.” Sometimes I’d get a smile and an eye-roll. Sometimes I’d get a “Fuck off Sam.” I considered both to be cute responses.

Once, when I reported that I couldn’t get more than “warp factor three” from the air conditioning. She replied with “That’s fine, we’re in docking range so it should only be on impulse power, anyway”.

Wow, a Trekkie too! I think that was the moment I fell in love with my boss.

The kitchen became the scene of our first passionate encounter. Maybe we were on a high from the very busy shift that night. It was only us left, as usual. Annabel’s hair was down and shirt out. Her scent was that same caramel, but also grease, Big Mac special sauce and a little sweat. Someone should bottle that fragrance combo.

She leaned over to snap the bracket in place and her body pushed against mine. I decided not to move, pretending I didn’t notice that we were kinda squashed together. She stood, looked at me and then leaned in for a kiss. As simple as that. That was a McDonalds principal. KISS - Keep it Simple Stupid. So being Annabel, she was acting out company policy.

I put my arms around her waist and touched soft skin above her hips. I pulled her close, and we kissed. She tasted minty and her tongue felt delightful, moving against mine. Our teeth clashed, which ruined the moment but made us both laugh.

“I suppose we’ve broken a company regulation, doing that?” I asked, bright red.

“Nah, it’s fine if your TL allows it. And she does!”

Going in for more, I tried to cope with sensory overload. I explored her back, under her shirt, while I tasted her lips and mouth. She seemed a little more passive, her hands pressed on my hips, but I could tell by her kissing that she was enjoying it.

I slid my hands down and grabbed an arse cheek in each one. That backside I’d been admiring for weeks was now in my grasp. She pushed herself closer and our mouths remained locked together while I continued my exploration. The polyester uniform was rough, not what you’d call sexy. But at least I could feel the shape of her body under it. I squeezed a hand between us and tried to feel her up from the outside. Sliding fingers right over her pubic mound and between her legs. She rewarded me with a brief moan against my lips and a push against me.

“Sam?” She broke the kiss off to speak.

“Yeah.”

“I’m tired of being in charge. How about you call the shots? You’re TL for the rest of this shift!”

I smiled, “You got it!” my heart rate increased another notch. She seemed like she wanted to go all the way. Right here in the kitchen. I thought I better check. “Any rules that I should follow?”

She bit her bottom lip before answering. Do women do that on purpose, knowing it’s such a turn on?

“No rules, I’m yours. See if you can get me as hot as our grills!” She giggled, and the last of the boss-like demeanour evaporated.

While we kissed, I worked on the front of her pants, fumbling the button open. I tried to maintain the kissing while shoving her pants down her legs. I couldn’t resist a glance below. Sensible white undies. When I rubbed her through them, my fingers felt dampness and soft skin giving way underneath.

“Wait!” She leaned down, and I thought maybe she’d had second thoughts, but no, she picked the pants off the floor and folded them into a pile on the prep counter. I smiled, and she shrugged. Even in the heat of passion, she was tidy. I kneeled in front of her and hooked a finger into each side of her undies. Pulling them down her legs revealed a shaven landing-strip of dark pubes leading down to the pink labia I’d been feeling from the outside. I looked up at her blushing face and couldn’t help teasing.

“I bet if you look up “Vagina” in the McDonalds manual, there’s a photo of yours. It’s perfect!”

She smiled shyly, “Glad you like it, but you know we call the outside the vulva, right? Not the vagina. It’s a common misconception.”

I rolled my eyes. “Did McDonald’s teach you that too?”

I didn’t wait for an answer before pulling her sensible whities the rest of the way down to her feet. She stepped out of them. Then I made a show of folding them in front of her and putting them on her folded pants. She laughed.

Shirt and bra next, and a lovely pair of breasts that needed some attention too. She flicked her hair back over her shoulders and leaned up against the grill while I sucked on each stiff nipple at a time. I caressed her tummy and walked my fingers further down, over the strip of pubes and between her lower lips. Her kissing became more vigorous, and she held me against her while I explored hot wetness with my middle finger.

When she moved to unbutton my shirt, I pulled away.

“Tell you what. As your new TL, how about I do all the work this first time. You enjoy. Maybe I can teach you something for once?” I winked at her.

“Wow… okay, it will feel kinda weird but, sure. You realise you’ve got your boss naked and aroused, and you’re fully clothed.”

“Yep, I’m aware of that and it suits me fine. Now relax. And I’m the TL now, remember!”

“Yes TL!” Was all she managed because I knelt down in front of her and buried my face in her pussy.

She leaned back and moaned as my tongue pushed between skin and worked up and down. She tasted divine. Musky with a slight tang. I thought I might struggle to keep my own arousal under control at that point.

My nose rubbed against her pubes as I pushed harder against her and then moved my tongue down a little, finding that even hotter, wetter entrance. I licked right around the outside and received the loudest moan from above as her hips shoved against me, trying to force me inside.

“Oh, fuck Sam, I’m going to melt if you keep doing that.”

“And that would be bad, how?”

I stood up and kissed her, while my finger replaced my tongue downstairs. I was in a mischievous mood and wanted to see if the taste of her own pussy bothered her. It didn’t. She kissed me in return, as deeply as before. She started rocking her hips against my hand and finger inside.

“So, are you as hot as the grills yet?”

“Close! Oh my god, I so needed this. Wow!” She was melting around my finger now, I felt wetness trickle into my palm. I decided to get kinky. She did say there were no rules.

“Hmm… you are hot aren’t you! I guess we better check though. It’s protocol.”

“Eh?” She seemed a little bemused but was way too turned on to be distracted.

“Turn around Annabel.” She complied, presenting me with her lovely smooth back and chubby ass cheeks.

I traced my fingers down her spine, caressing every bump, all the way to her tailbone and then ass crack. I didn’t stop, and she shivered as the pad of my forefinger slid down, not shying away from her puckered asshole. She groaned and her knees buckled. My finger moved over her taint and then sank inside her wet pussy again. That got her hips moving, awkwardly, as she tried to move along my finger from that position. Her hands spread further out on the grill cover and she shuffled her feet wider apart.

I reached behind me and grabbed the temp probe and knelt down between her legs.

“Do you know what the rectal temperature of a healthy adult should be Annabel?”

“What? Oh my god, you’re not… oh jeeze.” But she didn’t stop moving against my finger.

I licked the end of the probe. It was thin, no wider than a pen.

When I pushed the probe against her ass, her legs and hips froze in anticipation. I kept my finger inside her pussy too, deciding she’d feel good to have something in both.

I pushed the probe in, just an inch, and she quivered.

“Oh my god that’s cold!”

“Hang on, we gotta leave it in place to get a reading.” Despite being turned on, I was curious. So, while enjoying the view of Annabel’s open legs, ass with a silver probe coming out of it and pussy lips with my finger buried between them, I wanted to see her temp.

Maybe I’d already worked at McDonalds too long!

The probe’s display screen read 37.2 degrees celsius.

“Congratulations Annabel, you’re healthy!”

“Gee thanks Doctor Sam!” She said from over her shoulder. “Now please, make me come before I go insane. You’ve got me so horny, I’m dying here.”

“Sure thing!” I withdrew the probe and chucked it aside. “Turn back around”

She did as I told her. Her blonde hair hanging in damp strands over her blushing face.

“Keep your legs apart for me. I’m going down on you until you come, okay?” I figured she’d like direct instructions.

“Yes please!”

I settled in to licking up between her lips again, pushing my tongue right inside her, at least as far as I could. Every few licks I’d move right up and find her clit. Her moans and jolting hips told me she was close.

“Sam?”

“Yep?” I paused and looked up from her wet pussy. Her face hidden behind her mess of hair.

“Can you... can you put your finger up my ass, that felt amazing before.”

I didn’t even answer, just traced my fingers up the inside of her leg, all the way from her ankle. She opened her legs wider and slid down the front of the grill a little. I reached my hand under, found her tightest opening with my middle finger and eased inside. It was just as hot inside there as her pussy.

“Fuck Samantha, I’m gonna come!” I lowered my face again, found her clit and licked as hard as I could.

She came in a frenzy, hips bucking against my wet chin. I kept my finger up her ass the whole time and my tongue pressed against her. I held that for what seemed like a full minute while her entire body shook against me.

Finger out and face wiped dry, I stood up to give her a cuddle. She fell into my arms.

“Wow. That was…”

“Yeah, I know,” I smiled, brushing damp hair from her face and kissing her forehead.

“You feel good?”

“You can say that again! Good. And embarrassed!”

“Hah! Don’t be, you were awesome. And sexy. You know, I think I might be in love with you, Anal Annabel.”

“What?”

“Never mind”

Guardian Angel

The window was open just enough to let in the cool night air.

That was very careless of you.

I frown at your sleeping form. But you sought reprieve from the oppressive heat of the day. I forgive you.

In sleep, and this close, you are even more beautiful than when I watch you from afar during your days.

Our days.

I kneel for my nightly prayers, for the first time beside you. So close.

I pray to whatever created me that you will remain mine. That I will maintain the strength to care for you, and the control to keep my distance. Have I just now lost some of that control? I pray that I haven’t. But I know that I cannot resist this new intimacy. I must be this close for all the nights to come.

Our nights.

A police siren stirs your sleep. I step back and fade into the shadows of your room. You should be familiar with these city sounds by now. It’s been two years since I followed you from that small country town to the capital.

I whisper “Shush. It’s okay, my darling. It’s not meant for us.”

I yearn to put a finger on your closed lips. How soft they are. I want to touch them. Would you feel me? Would you feel my fingers if I ran them through your long black hair? Or the palm of my hand if I cupped your breast? Or my fingertip as it ran down the bumps of your spine?

Night sweat shines on your skin in the moonlight as you curl into your favourite shape.

You are nude in the city heat, immodest in the sanctuary of your private boudoir.

And you are safe, under my watch.

The man who followed you home last month bears testimony to my protection. His body will be showing bone by now, in the city sewer. His intent was clear, as was mine. I saw the blade as he closed the distance behind you. He sank it neatly into his own neck, with the help of my guiding hand. And you returned home safely once again.

Nothing will harm you and you will want for nothing, not under my watch. I have the wealth and power of two hundred years of toil. And it is yours. I am yours.

And you are mine.

Time passes by unnoticed as I drink from your beauty. Another silent prayer is answered when you roll from your side to your back. My love is revealed to me.

You are exquisite.

Leaning over your body, my mouth an inch from yours, I’m overwhelmed by desire to kiss you.

Instead, I inhale. Deeply. The scent of your female youth. Of soap and skin. Of sweat and sex. Yes, I can smell your sex and it is divine. It is life itself.

Sleep well my love. I will see you tomorrow.

We have long lives to live, you and I.

Cindy

My art is dying. When I go too, I don’t think there’ll be many left to keep the craft alive. And of those left, none can match me. I am the last great master, and my name will go down in history.

The stage lights blaze into my eyes as the curtain raises. The usual momentary blindness means I cannot see my audience but judging by their loud applause we have a full house. The theatre is small though, at the back of this seedy Vegas casino.

Cindy sits on my lap. She’s my latest. Strangely, as my career comes to its inevitable last curtain call, I’m taking even more care over the preparation of my dummies.

I’ve been an hour preparing Cindy this evening. I made sure every strand of her lovely blonde hair was in place. Her blue eyes are bright and clean. I buy the best glass ones available. Her cheeks are rosy with blusher. Her little white pinafore dress with its yellow polka dots looks perfect. It's arranged just so, and voluminous enough to hide my arm. My hand is tightly squeezed through the hole in the back of her head.

I’m in my best-performing suit and bow tie, shiny shoes and brill-creamed hair. I wonder who looks better, me or Cindy? It's her of course.

Cindy could outshine Marylin Monroe!

We both look up at the audience and smile as my age-old routine begins. It’s the afternoon family show, so I remind myself to leave out the vulgarities.

I go about my stagecraft effortlessly, years of mastery coming to the fore. Cindy is a hit, with her southern belle accent and innocent questioning that makes me feign frustration. The crowd is laughing. Those that thought my art already dead are the most surprised. They're nudging their partners, fascinated, as they can't see my lips move.

I am the most expert thrower of voice, and my hand opens and closes Cindy’s jaw with consummate precision and timing.

My eyes adjust to the glaring lights now, and I can make out the front row.

A little black girl with a purple dress and cute afro sits between her parents. She loves the show — all squirming and giggles.

Maybe I will make just one more dummy. Cindy won't last much longer, after all.

There’s only so much stench that formalin can mask, and only so much rotting skin that the layers of makeup can hide.

Of Dragons, Damsels, and Dildos

It was a dark and horny knight that galloped up Pubis Mons, the hill at the valley’s southern end. Dark was his mood, as Sir Richard Cranium had slogged for six days across the valley floor. Horny was his disposition, a result of the hot and wet swampland being bereft of hot and wet damsels. Knight was his title, undeserved, given the unknightly nature of his nocturnal activities.

Sir Richard dismounted his faithful steed and considered, not for the first time, mounting his squire instead. He watched young Bob make slow progress towards him, his scrawny frame struggling to stay atop the horse. Come twilight, after a few ales and with the lad’s features less distinguishable, he could pass for a maiden, at least from behind. If Richard didn’t get his end away soon, Bob might find himself bent over a boulder.

The sun shone from high above by the time Bob crested the smooth hill and joined his master. A single strip of brazil nut trees offered some shade. He hitched the horses and unbuckled their saddlebags, and the cage of squawking ravens. The knight had found the only rock nearby and planted a heavy boot upon it.

“Well, young Bob, that was a tedious tramp through the undergrowth. This princess’s pussy had better be worth the palaver,” he shaded his eyes, “Another sketch, I think. Granted, Pubis Mons is hardly a worthy mound to conquer, but we should inform the lucky princess of my progress, should we not?”

Bob hid rolling eyes. “Yes sir. I’m sure she’s itching to know how much closer you are.” And if she isn’t itching now, she will be afterwards!

Bob retrieved the easel, parchments, and charcoal from a weathered saddlebag.

Sir Richard struck a pose on the rock, the sun glinting off his silver breastplate. He removed his headgear and shook out his curly black hair, lest dreaded helmet-hair besmirch his handsomeness. Helmet in one hand, broadsword in the other, he looked quite the picture of heroism.

Bob sat cross-legged in the shade, blowing his red hair from his freckly face and squinting at his subject. He put charcoal to parchment with practiced ease, given that the vain knight had recruited him for his budding artistic skills.

“Make sure you capture my full manliness!” Richard demanded, thrusting his hips forward at substantial risk of toppling backwards in his heavy armour.

“Sorry, sir?”

“Show her I’ve got a colossal cock, lad! I want the lass in no doubt as to the attributes of the hero that will free her from virginity.”

“And the fire-breathing dragon that guards her.” Bob added.

“Oh, yes, free her from that too. If there even is a dragon. Could be she just hasn’t met the right man yet and refuses to leave her tower until he shows himself.”

“It could be,” Bob agreed, “but one wonders what happened to all the wrong men that didn’t return.”

“Ha! I’ll wager they ran away in shame, having failed to satisfy even a desperate damsel!”

Bob wriggled his backside into a more comfortable position and went about his work. Another two day’s ride across the lowlands would bring them to Dragon’s Keep and the climax of this latest quest for copulation.

For six months he’d squired for this paladin of penile pursuits. The role entailed no glory or honour. No lessons in combat or nobility that would help him earn a knighthood of his own. Instead, he’d found himself backstage, behind boudoirs and banquets rather than battles. Sometimes under a lady’s bedchamber window, with the reins of the getaway horse at the ready.

Should Sir Richard come up dry in his attempt to hide sword in scabbard, then the young squire performed lookout duty outside a busy brothel, whilst a less finicky floozy lightened the load of the knight’s money and ball bags alike.

“Excellent!” Sir Richard announced as he inspected his latest portrait. “The parchment loves me, does it not?”

Bob, familiar with these rhetorical questions, didn’t answer, but scrawled beneath the portrait, “Your Knight comes quickly”; then followed it with an attempt at wit, albeit a lie, “But not too quickly.” He rolled the parchment up tight, tied it with twine and offered it to the largest of their ravens. A low-magic spell, cast upon the birds by the royal wizard, meant they’d fly straight and true to Dragon’s Keep.

***

In the tower poised above Dragon’s Keep, the incoming squawk of a raven alighting on the windowsill awoke the princess. She’d been dreaming that her last rescuer had bested the dragon guarding the tower’s lower entrance. He’d climbed the stairs, thrown her on the bed and breached another lower entrance, this one unguarded and willing his entry.

A shame no man has survived the dragon. To run rough hands through these golden locks of hair, trace fingers over these lovely curves, kiss these luscious red lips. To behold the swell of these breasts and nibble on these nipples. To let me free his manhood from his breeches, and part my precious...

Her hands strayed beneath the sheets at the thought, seeking to renew the pleasure of the dream. But the raven kept squawking. If she didn’t take the message, it would never close its beak. She threw aside her bed covers and padded, naked, to her tower window.

With only a bird to witness her, she cared nothing for modesty. In fact, such was her frustration at the failing of potential suitors; she considered dressing to be a waste of time even when the doomed men were in view. They never lived to tell the tale, so what did it matter if they saw her nude? There was no use playing hard to get. She could never be got.

She took the parchment from the raven’s claws, coming to terms with the fact she’d be coming alone, forever. The latest idiot sending messages stood no more chance of bedding her than the others. Reviewing the rack above her bed, she contemplated which masturbatory method she’d use once the mail was cleared and she could concentrate on her other more personal inbox.

Hanging from a dedicated rack, the princess had the largest collection of homemade dildos in the kingdom. Fashioned by her own hand, from bones her dragon delivered. The smaller bones of many a creature were carved into the requisite shapes and provided an additional stimulus when her fingers wouldn’t suffice. Tibia and fibula, metatarsal and clavicle; her vast collection even included fingers, or at least finger bones. Neither she nor the original owners took much solace from the fact that in death they had found a way to fuck her.

Another great shame, their proud pricks never survive the flames; at least then I could fuck flesh and not just burnt bones.

Unrolled, the parchment displayed Sir Richard’s grinning face, above a puffed chest and exaggerated codpiece. She threw it into the junk mailbox with the others.

Yep, just another dick pic.

Back on her bed, she selected the jawbone of an ass from the dildo rack. Lying down, legs akimbo, she masturbated with the mandible, enjoying the way a protruding tooth from one side of the jawbone bit right into her ass.

But even as her taint tingled, she thought...

That it’s come to this, being DP’d by a dead donkey.

***

Two days later, with supplies spent and balls blue, horny Sir Richard and his weary squire reached the gate to Dragon’s keep.

The castle’s concentric curtain walls topped with countless crenulations and matching merlons was an impressive enough sight. But rising from within its ramparts, a tall tower penetrated the azure sky above.

“Well, that’s a mighty fine erection, if ever there was one!” Richard declared, dismounting and shaking his legs awake within their chain mail.

Bob followed his gaze to the single window beneath the tower’s spire. He blinked twice at the sight. In the window - a woman of years no more than his twenty. Although it was hard to tell exact age from this distance, it was easy to tell she was lacking attire. As naked as one pleased. And please Bob it did. He straightened his tunic and tidied his hair.

“Bugger me backwards, if she isn’t already prepared for my passion,” said Richard, withdrawing his mighty broadsword with one hand and adjusting his straining codpiece with the other, “Gaze upon those tantalising tits boy, they’re taunting us. When I’m spent, I’ll get her to rub that puny prick of yours between them.”

Sir Richard Cranium marched through the open gate, beneath the raised portcullis and across the deserted bailey towards the tower.

Bob, nursing his own modest erection, proceeded with a tad more care. He glimpsed a circular construction of downed trees and branches behind the tower.

“But Sir, don’t you think it’s strange the gates are open? It all seems rather easy. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s a Dragon’s nest over there.”

Sir Richard was at the tower and neither heard Bob, nor saw the shadow cast by giant wings.

Above, the arousing view of an exposed maiden was replaced by the less pleasing visage of a winged dragon blocking half the sun. Massive leathery wings beat the air to hold it aloft, and thick green scales covered it from its giant head to the tip of a tail, a good thirty feet long. Its eyes blazed red with fury as it settled in front of the intrepid adventurers. A voice boomed from deep within...

If you wish to go deep

In the Dragon’s keep

And rescue the Princess fair,

You must guess for a start,

A rhyme in two parts

But answer me with great care.

For if what you choose

is not right, then you lose.

And your body belongs to me.

I’ll reduce it to ash,

In one fiery flash.

There be nary a chance to flee.

Richard raised an eyebrow at Bob, indicating “I got this”, and with much priggish pomp, answered the fuming dragon.

“Your proposal is accepted, foul beast!

The dragon’s mouth curled into a most draconian smirk, and it boomed once more.

It grows hard between two people,

Can be difficult to maintain,

And if it’s mistreated or over-used,

It can cause no end of pain.

But use it right and keep it clean,

In the future, and present, and past,

And to your delight, and of those you love,

It will last and last, and last.

Bob, cowering behind his knight, tried to speak “Sir, I don’t think it means...” but Sir Richard sniggered at the apparent ease of the riddle.

With two hands on hips and a smug face raised to his scaly foe, he answered.

“Why, it’s a cock! A mighty massive one like mine...” But his bragging ceased as twin streams of molten fire erupted from the dragon’s flared nostrils. They burned the witless wonder to a crisp where he stood.

Across the kingdom, in towns and villages far and wide, women of varying stature paused from rubbing anti-itch ointment and potions into their privates. A collective sigh of relief overcame them, though they knew not why.

Bob froze in fear, paralysed by panic. The dragon turned to him. He could feel the remnants of fire on its breath as it eyeballed him with a gaze that seemed to emanate from the depths of Hell itself.

The dragon opened its carnivorous mouth and boomed in a voice that almost blew Bob’s eyebrows off, “And you, scrawny runt, do you have an answer?”

“Ye...ye..yes” Bob stammered. “The answer is honesty.”

The dragon snorted.

“Humph...not as stupid as your barbecued boss, then! Here is the second question...”

Using your answer to the first,

You must answer me this:

Will the maid be respected?

Desire your kiss?

This is no trick to contemplate

You may answer me straight

But look me in the eye as you do

Try to lie and you’ll fry!

Bob gathered himself. With newfound confidence he stared into those fiery eyes. With a voice as loud as he could muster, he answered.

“The maiden shall have my utmost respect. I will take nothing from her ‘cept her lonesomeness. If I raise my hand, it will be to carry her. If I raise my voice, it will be to sing her praises. If I...”

“Enough!” The dragon coughed glowing red embers around Bob’s feet, who danced a jig to avoid burnt boots. “You will make my cry if you go on like that, and a crying dragon is a travesty. I have judged you....” The dragon coughed out a clump of smouldering cinder.

“…and found you to be....worthy!”

“YES!” came a lady-like cry from above. Both Bob and dragon looked skyward. The princess leaned from the window, boobs dangling and hands clapping. “You did it! You passed! OMG!” As fast as she’d emerged, she vanished from sight.

The Dragon turned back to Bob. “Don’t mind her, it’s been a while,” it huffed and then beat its wings, lifting its huge clawed feet off the ground and rising into the heavens, revealing the sun once more.

Bob stood, bemused and baffled. A rapid patter of feet on the tower stairs cut his contemplation short. The princess appeared in all her full-frontal glory. Boobs bounced as she skipped across the bailey. Bob couldn’t keep from admiring her features, from the golden tresses above sparkling blue eyes and cute button nose, to those bouncing bosoms and that darker thatch between milky white thighs. Her rosy cheeks met his, and her arms encircled his chest in a hug. She pushed him back, hands on his shoulders, to admire her rescuer.

“A little younger than I expected,” she said in a lilting voice, melting Bob’s heart in an instant. Lost for words, he could only look downward, blushing all the more. There was no relief from embarrassment in that direction. The view was of bare bosom, belly, and bush. Thankful she was no longer pressed against him, he debated if his dick had ever been harder.

It hadn’t escaped the princess’s notice, either.

“My word!” she exclaimed, not one to mince words. “Is that a broadsword in your pocket or do you just have an epic hard-on?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that, I’ve never seen a girl so beautiful, or so… err… nude.”

He felt an introduction was in order but could manage only, “I’m Bob.”

“Hi, Bob, I’m the princess!”

Her teasing ceased. She took his hand and led him to the foot of the stairs, both of them stepping over the smoking remains of Sir Richard.

Following judiciously behind her juicy behind, Bob climbed the spiral staircase. His desire climbed just as high with every step and hers did too, judging by the wanton glances she threw over her shoulder.

Upon entering her bedchamber, the princess pushed Bob against the stone wall and roughly ripped off his tunic and britches. She planted a firm kiss on his lips, tongue tangling with his, then ran kisses from his neck to navel. She knelt before him to take in the wonderful, hitherto unseen, view.

“I never thought I’d see the day.” she said, “Gorgeous, cock and balls in the flesh. Not a scorch mark upon them yet buried in a fiery red thatch. How ironic!”

“I’m sorry if I’m not so err, well endowed,” Bob said from above.

“Oh, Bob, no apologies needed, you have an endearing endowment!” She giggled. “Anyway, it’s what you do with it, and trust me, we’re about to do a lot with it!”

Her words became muffled then, her mouth full of erect young squire.

An afternoon delight of lustful lovemaking followed, the princess having had plenty of time to ponder positions and possibilities. Daily workouts had kept her body limber and lean. Flexible, fast fucking became her forte. She contorted curvaceously around him, and Bob hovered on the edge of ecstasy as he entered her every which way. Whenever he felt himself near, he slid from her succulent snatch and replaced member with mouth. His princess moaned with delight as his tongue probed her pussy.

Covered in a sheen of sweat, the couple sucked and fucked each other into a foaming frenzy.

To finish, she had him mount her from behind as she leaned out the tower window. Her stiff nipples scuffing the rough stone. The dragon circled around them, and she enjoyed the view while Bob’s boner boned her. She reached a hand down between her legs and alternated between grabbing a bulging ball and fingering herself furiously. Thighs trembling, she shrieked her climax to the sky with pent up power that trumped a thousand manless masturbations.

Bob could contain himself no longer as he banged against her bare buttocks. “Oh! My princess, I’m going to come!” he yelped, not a moment before pumping her sex full of his seed. She arched her ass against him, taking his full length for the filling.

When she felt his twitching tire within her, the Princess smiled over her shoulder.

“You’re a prince now, Bob. You don’t come. You arrive!”

Later, as they lay in each other’s arms, Bob glanced up, and noticed, for the first time, the rack of dildos.

“Those are interesting ornaments,” he said, stroking her breast and kissing her hair.

“Eh? Oh, those. Yes, ornaments, that’s what they are. But I don‘t need them now. I’ve got you to…. gaze upon.” Somewhat flustered, the princess rose from the bed, gathered the ornaments in both arms and strode to the window.

Bob admired her beautiful bare bottom all the way.

The princess threw her redundant toy collection from the window, and a dozen dildos rained down on the deceased dickhead below.

The Dream Factory

“For God’s sake, can nobody control that perverted little pipsqueak?” the Grim Reaper yelled from his dressing room in the dream factory. He’d been trying to apply “Crimson Soul” lipstick for the last five minutes, but progress was ponderous due to his lack of lips.

“It seems not,” Cinderella answered through the wall. “I dare say we’re in for quite another tortuous night, Mr Reaper.” She lifted the hem of her ball gown off the floor, peering around her perch for her missing slipper.

“It’s not night though,” Little Red Riding Hood hollered from the hallway as she zoomed past on her scooter. “It’s daytime. The kid’s daydreaming about us in school.” Her red shawl streaked out behind, such was the speed she’d achieved. Mickey Mouse scurried out of the way in time, the scooter flicking one of his big black ear lobes. Little Red popped her cherry sherbet lollipop from her mouth, “Watch out slow poke!”

Walt Disney’s voice came over the PA. “You’re all up in two minutes.”

“This is stuffing my schedule,” Reaper lamented. “I should be out scything people. I’m not even a bloody Disney character!” He gave up spreading the lipstick over his teeth.

Cinderella finished fiddling with her billowy ball gown, lest she get it grubby, and located the missing slipper at the bottom of Snow White’s locker. The thieving tart.

They met on the stage, Walt flicking the house lights on before taking a seat in the centre of the front row.

“Oh, you have got to be joking!” Mickey Mouse squeaked from down at everyone’s knees.

A Twister mat lay centre stage. Off to one side stood a row of shot glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Afraid not,” Walt said. “You’re in for a rough one. The only consolation is that it won’t last long this time. The dreamer has to wake up when his English class is over.”

Cinderella flopped down on the boards, no longer concerned for the state of her gown. She had a sneaking suspicion she wasn’t going to the ball in this dream. “What’s wrong with this kid? Too much internet, not enough sport?”

Little Red bailed from her scooter, letting it crash against the wall and plonked herself next to Cinderella, licking her lollipop.

“Do you ever stop slurping on those?” Cinderella asked, “You can’t have any teeth left?”

“I’ve got great teeth. All the better to eat candy with!” Little Red laughed.

“You stole that line from Wolfie, I’ll wager. How long you been waiting to use it?” Cinderella teased.

“Anyway, it’s showtime,” Walt announced. “Your turn first Reap. And lose the scythe, you’re liable to take someone’s eye out.”

The Grim Reaper sighed, leaned his scythe next to Little Red’s scooter and bent down to flick the spinner. Stage lights shone through the gaps in his skeleton, casting a shadowy rib cage across the Twister map.

“Right hand, green.”

He reached over to place a skeletal hand on a green circle, bones clattering all the way.

Mickey Mouse was up next and had a tough time reaching the mat in the first place, being such a short arse.

Little Red stumbled on her turn, trying to reach around one of Reap’s tibias without touching it. The first to take a shot. Rather unfortunate, given her lighter body weight. She‘d be well pissed after the next one.

Cinderella’s gown got in everyone’s way. But the unseen titillated teenager dreamed a solution.

“Sorry Cindy.” Walt directed, his head cocked, listening to the schoolboy’s thoughts. “The gown’s gotta come off. It’s ruining the game he reckons.”

“Of course he does.” Cindy sighed, downed a shot, and lifted the gown over her head.

Bedecked in only a blouse and bloomers she re-entered the fray.

Reap collapsed in a heap, forced to take a shot no matter how nonsensical the notion was. Jack Daniels splashed down his spinal column, perfused through his pelvic bone, and trickled onto the mat.

Mickey Mouse slipped trying to slide his foot onto a blue spot and had to suffer a second shot. The resulting release of cheesy vomit missed Cindy’s folded gown. Most of it, anyway.

Little Red was doing well, balancing in a back arch over Cindy, teetering tentatively above the sharp tiara, a bare inch beneath her bottom.

“For the love of God, please let this be over,” Cindy mumbled, her face squashed against the sticky mat, ass cheeks pointed skyward.

“Not yet,” Walt answered, “In fact, there’s been a last-minute casting call.”

And with that, Puss in Boots slinked in from stage left to take a spin.

Reap’s next move proved impossible and had him draining another shot through his bones and over Cindy’s already clammy bloomers. They clung closer, conforming to every curve and crevice.

“Curses, now I’m showing camel toe.” An innocent invitation for all eyes to gaze upon a vision of velveteen vulva.

Mickey’s inebriation failed to prevent the eruption of an erection between the two buttons popping from the front of his pants. Without Minnie for scale, it seemed miniscule. It also lacked the required rigidity to support the tiara that Cindy attempted to hang on it.

“Well, that’s curtains, I’d imagine?” Reap enquired, regretting he had no eyes to roll.

“Not quite,” Walt said.

Little Red’s last move had her straddling Puss in Boots, her red miniskirt tightly taut, treating him to a face full of pink panties. They proclaimed “Hello Kitty!“ from her pudenda and he purred with pedo-pride. Until a pre-teen fart of cherry sherbet blew his whiskers backwards.

“Now, THAT’s curtains.”

Aphrodite’s Day Off

I have grown bored with Hephaestus and his monotonous humping.

Just because he is the god of all blacksmiths and I am his wife, that doesn’t make me his anvil, to bang away on every night, with that pathetic little hammer of his. The Goddess of Love and Lust should be treated with a little more sophistication. If I can’t find what I need on Mount Olympus, I will pay the humans a visit.

Travelling to the mortal world can be instantaneous. If I wished, I could possess any of our unwitting subjects from the heavens. I prefer a more gradual approach in both method and journey. I consider it foreplay — something Hephaestus couldn’t grasp, which is why he’ll be left grasping his hammer on his own today.

My spirit soars inside an eagle, circling over the island of Keos, buffeted by updrafts as the chilly ocean winds blow across the warmer land. I let the eagle’s mind take a well-earned rest from scanning the earth for prey. He can have his mind and his lovely wings back when we land.

A small village on the southern coastline is home to several of my worshippers. Their thoughts are open to me, visible through windows of the mind kept clear of dust and grime by their devotion and worship. The cleanest, sharpest window belongs to a middle-aged woman. She is going about her household duties in a modest, thatched kalyva close to the shore. Her name is Kassandra, and she’s been praying to me a lot recently.

I ride the currents down to the beach and swap the eagle’s mind for Kassandra’s. The eagle struts around on the sand for a while, bemused, before taking to the sky again.

It is a hot and dry noontime, and Kassandra is trying to make the most of it by washing and hanging as many linens and clothes as she can. A storm is brewing above the hills of Arkadia to the west. She needs to have the washing all dry and back inside before this evening.

Her mind is troubled. Otis, her husband, has been cheating on her with a woman in the village to the north. Neither the woman nor Otis are my followers, so I cannot see into their minds for their reasoning. Not that it matters. I already know enough. Even without the cheating, Otis is not a caring husband. Kassandra is not in love with him, if she ever was. Her prayers to me are to be expected. She wants advice on how she might come to love Otis and have him love her. Her mind has been reaching out to me each night as he flops himself off her and falls asleep satisfied. She thinks him a pig. I wonder if he worships my Hephaestus; that would be appropriate.

The years of domestic duty have weathered Kassandra; Her skin feels like the linen she’s washing, dried in the sun many times over. But the chores keep her body from losing all shape. She still has an alluring quality, if only she’d smile more. Her belly and behind may not be as firm and tight as a younger woman’s, but a coy smile that betrays knowledge and experience of the flesh can harden a man just as well.

I love and admire all my followers, so I’m biased, but Kassandra is not without appeal. Surely more fireflies than the obnoxious Otis can be drawn to her mature flame?

I will find her one.

A small fishing boat is churning its way through the roughening waves into the southern bay. My chosen man is at the tiller, muscles bulging as he fights the undercurrents to bring his catch home.

Just a little subconscious nudge from me is all it takes for Kassandra to decide it best to leave the washing. I’m settling into her body and mind now, and it’s almost like we decide together to take a quick walk down to the shore to inspect the catch.

Otis doesn’t particularly like fish, another obnoxious trait for someone living on an island, and all the more reason to present him with a fish dinner tonight.

Kassandra and I make our way down the path to the beach. I have her hang back while two other women from the village haggle with the fisherman, Darius. He has prayed to me once or twice before. It seems he’s more satisfied with the ocean for a mistress, apart from the occasional tryst to satisfy his pent-up desires. His is a dark and brooding soul; his knowledge of both women and love is but a scratch on his knowledge of winds and tides.

The storm is approaching sooner than I thought. Bulbous black clouds are gathering on the horizon, and the wind has picked up a notch. I wonder what has annoyed Zeus today.

The other women leave with the spoils of their haggling. Kassandra and Darius are now alone, except for a mischievous Goddess dancing between their two minds.

Darius is weary from his day fishing. Slipping into his mind, I grant him some new found energy. I don’t wish to exercise all of my godly power on my children; I will not force him to lust for Kassandra. I will merely suggest that his mind focus on the natural attributes of the lady that now approaches him. With no other distractions, and with a rejuvenated spirit, he can see in Kassandra that which he desires. It is not a matter of trickery it is merely a matter of focus.

Kassandra looks lovely to Darius. Her mature shape is easy to make out below the light peplos blouse that is now billowing around her with the long brown hair that has fallen from its fastener. He admires the generous curve of her hips and recognises strength in her thighs and upper arms. As she comes closer to him, her face betrays the years it’s smiled through, but it is far smoother than his own — that has weathered the ocean for over forty years. She has a proud nose and full lips with just a few cracks from a coastal life. When she’s standing before him, her eyes are not shy like a young girl’s. They fix on him with a direct blue stare.

Darius reminds Kassandra of the fisherman in a story her mother used to tell her. A big strong man that could haul in a net with a thousand thrashing mackerel, he lost his true love at sea when a whale breached their boat. She can’t remember now, how the story ended; her mind is distracted by the sight of him before her. His sandaled feet are planted in the wet sand in front of the boat he’s dragged single-handed up from the surf. His hands are on his hips while he waits for her to get close enough for conversation in the growing wind. A simple fisherman’s tunic hides only his waist and upper thighs. Scars from nature’s wrath adorn his chest, arms and face. Care and kindness show through facial scars and haggardness. His brown eyes are as direct as her blue ones. But squinting into so many suns has ploughed furrows around them.

“Would there be any fish left for me?” she asks him while trying to catch and hold the full-length blouse billowing up around her. It wasn’t the best choice of attire to wear to the beach, and she wonders why she had felt the need to hurry so, without changing first.

“Of course, my lady”, Darius assures her. “But please, I need to pull my boat further up the beach, lest the waves suck it into the storm.”

Kassandra sits then, just above the wet sand mark and watch as he hauls the small vessel by its bow. He pulls it three feet with every heave, and she enjoys watching the muscles in his back work. A mischievous thought occurs to her then; she wonders if those muscles would move like that as the fisherman made love to whichever lucky woman found herself under him.

With the boat beached well away from the water line, Darius approaches her. She looks demur to him, sitting in the sand. She’s not dainty and in need of furniture under her backside wherever she sits.

He likes that.

He extends her a hand and pulls her up to stand next to him as if she weighed no more than a single mackerel.

She likes that.

The two have exchanged a dozen words, seen each other for mere moments and now held hands. It feels to both that those events have conspired to change the course of the day. Like the storm rolling towards them, freshly charged atmosphere has blown away their previous preoccupations and troubles. Neither can explain the feeling to themselves.

I dance between their two minds. I hardly need to nudge them now.

Darius has a somewhat bewildering desire to feel those ample curves under his hands.

Kassandra wants to run her fingertips over his raised scars, feel the tightness of his skin across his chest. She has no guilt at these thoughts. Otis is a distant memory; she no longer looks forward to annoying him with a fish dinner. She has her own hunger to satisfy.

“Come back to my boat, and we’ll pick the best fish for you, my lovely,” Darius murmurs, not releasing her hand, but ready to let it go if she wishes.

She doesn’t.

The first spatters of rain fall. The beach is now deserted but for my two playthings. I’m enjoying myself immensely. It’s a privilege as a God to share the physical and mental feelings of both man and woman. There will be three of us pleasured today. I no longer need to guide these two. Their movements, motivations and reactions are all their own now. Another good reason to play with more mature subjects. They will not be giggling and ruining moments while they fumble around with each other’s bodies.

The purchase of fish has become a pretence now. They both know it. Darius’ hand feels strong and protective to Kassandra, and she would let it lead her anywhere. Darius instinctively knows this. He feels younger and more alive for it. This lovely lady is putting herself in his care.

The boat has tilted to one side by the weight of its small mast, and it offers protection from the prevailing wind and rain, in the small triangle created between it and the sand. Darius turns to Kassandra when they reach it, his back against its wet hull. Leaning on the wooden partner that’s carried him on the waves for years, he looks into the eyes of this new partner, about to carry him to other places.

Kassandra still does not remove her hand but gives him her other, wriggling her smaller fingers between his larger ones. She moves her body into him. He is big, strong and seems to be able to shelter her from more than just a storm. To her, he does not smell of fish; he smells of sea spray, and adventure.

Darius lets her hands go, but only to put both arms around her and hug her close.

“Are you not cold my lovely?” he asks.

“No, not now,” is all that Kassandra can reply with. She has no awareness of the temperature, not outside of the heat that is growing within her.

“Well, you must be wet though, I fear?”

“Soon.”

I laugh and have to be careful that I don’t disturb their inner thoughts with my presence. I am the God of Love and Lust, and I could not have delivered a more perfect answer than Kassandra’s. I feel sudden pride in my faithful subject. She and Darius are a fitting reward for each other.

Darius bends then and lowers them both to the sand beneath the boat. The wind and rain still reach this little haven, but with less force.

Just as he’s about to lay Kassandra down, she twists a little, and he can’t help but drop to the sand first.

“Let me on top,” she says.” you must be tired from fishing all day. Lay back”

And with that, she straddles him, just below his tunic. His thighs can take the weight of her, a safe assumption on her part. She works at the laces of his tunic and pulls the two halves apart, to either side of his hips. Darius is too old for embarrassment and too enamoured with her to feel anything but desire at being exposed. Her blouse billows around her still and the light fabric brushes against his manhood.

Kassandra pulls her clothes over her head. She shoves them in a bunch between the boat and the sand, lest they blow away. Nude now, and sitting on her fisherman, her breasts sag only slightly, and rosy pink nipples are growing and reddening in the biting wind. Her tummy curves outward somewhat but doesn’t hide a generous bush of dark hair between her thighs. She shares a shameless smile with Darius as they enjoy the sight of each other, before she reaches down and takes him in hand. He is already erect at the sight of her and a quick stroke completes his growth. She moves her bottom over, onto just one of his thighs. He feels wetness there. Her hips rock back and forth, preparing for him.

The rain is driving across the beach, drenching the boat and soaking the new lovers as it bounces onto them from all angles. The wind is cold, but not freezing, and it has no chance of tempering their heat. Kassandra lifts her bottom and repositions her knees. Darius reaches for her hands, wanting to contribute something to the act.

She lowers herself onto him. There is no need for fingers to guide; she knows her body well, and he is tall and stiff, like the mast of his boat. Flesh makes way for him, and she feels herself filled.

Darius wonders if Aphrodite herself has taken him into her.

I again have to restrain myself from obtrusive thoughts of triumph. Other gods might fume at the blasphemy of a human being compared to them. Not me. Kassandra is part of me, and I’m part of her. Just as I’m part of Darius. That he thinks of her as me is a spiritual delight. I have achieved my goal and brought my subjects to a new plane.

Kassandra rides him, and all her thoughts, senses and emotions amass between her legs. They surround his length just as her flesh does. Each time she sinks down and takes all of him inside her she comes nearer to ecstasy.

They lock hands together in the sand at either side of Darius’ weathered face. He tries to assist with his hips, thrusting in time with hers. It doesn’t matter though. Kassandra can take them both there. He looks down to enjoy the view of their joining. When she reaches the top of each movement, he can see where he’s penetrating her. The sight alone brings him closer. When she rocks back down, he feels her soft bottom on his thighs.

Kassandra slides down his length with even more conviction. She feels full and complete and… joined. Her sex encapsulates all whole being. She leans her head back into the storm and feels the rain on her face as she climaxes. Waves of ecstasy ripple outward through her body from her center. She cries up at the angry black sky, and just as the waves abate, she feels Darius explode deep up inside her. A new warmth joins her own, and she shivers all over again. His hips push steadfastly up under her, and they both hold that position together. Both fighting gravity while he empties himself into her.

When she feels he’s done, and her own orgasm has dwindled to a background feeling of warm fulfilment, she gently leans down and repositions herself in his arms on the sand. The storm seems satisfied too, as it grumbles off down the coastline.

My new lovers lie in each other’s arms, and I stay with them a while.

I will watch over them in the times to come. And I may even join them again.

After all, Darius hasn’t had his turn at the tiller yet.

Dead Cam

The leggy blonde’s white dress billowed around her. For a moment her clasped hands held it down, revealing only pale skinny legs. But her fingers loosened, and hands fell limply away to the sides. Unimpeded, the dress flew up and covered her face, offering protection from any embarrassment that full frontal exposure might cause. Below, a dark triangle of pubic hair contrasted starkly with lily-white skin.

“Cut!” Carl shouted from behind the handy cam. He jumped off the steel examination table and stomped on the leaf blower’s power switch. Three cubic meters of air a minute became none. Soft cotton floated down and covered the offending genitalia.

“The hands won’t stay together. Maybe you have to glue them?” Daphne offered, leaning against the doorway in her white lab coat.

“No shit, Sherlock!” Carl shouted, forgetting that the noise of the blower had abated. His shrill voice echoed around the deathly quiet morgue. “And I thought I asked you to put some panties on her? Just in case we caught a glimpse. I’m making a respectful Marilyn tribute here. I can’t have a face full of hairy pussy!”

“Why not? It was good enough for JFK.”

“Well, yes, but not on film. At least not that I know of. Celebrities weren’t exactly getting their iPhones hacked back then.”

“More’s the pity. Come on, Carl. I’m getting horny after seeing that. When are we going to shoot the damn porno? Marilyn will turn blue soon, the same colour as your balls, maybe.”

Daphne pushed her glasses up the slope of her nose and herself off the door frame and sidled up to Carl. A full head shorter than the budding young movie director, and a few inches wider. She squashed her boobs up against him and reached down to caress the front of his jeans.

“Harden up, dude. Literally. You can edit the pubes out of your masterpiece. Let’s film the porno now. I wanna see you fuck Marilyn.”

Carl sighed. His dick responded to both the rubbing and Daphne’s dirty demands. He supposed the porno flicks were the ones that bought in the cash. Well, bitcoin anyway. His art could wait.

“Okay, okay. But hold the camera steady this time. Your last film of me looked like the Blair Witch Project. Some of our subscribers in the chat room complained of nausea. Ironically.”

Daphne wasn’t listening. She unbuckled her junior colleague’s belt and dragged both jeans and boxers down his legs, before squealing in the high-pitched tone that women reserved only for greeting babies. And in this case, penises.

“There he his! My lovely little sausage. But you want to be a bigger sausage, don’t you? Yes, you do! Let’s get you nice and lubed up so you can fuck the dead girl. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Say ‘yes I would Auntie Daphne’” And with that she grabbed Carl’s dick at the base and waggled it up and down in agreement.

“You’re a nutter, you know that don’t you?” Carl said from above, but couldn’t help hardening in Daphne’s soft, pudgy fingers. He looked over her head to confirm the double doors were locked and the blinds drawn tight. With the time now 2am, it was unlikely they’d be disturbed. No, it was just the two of them and the corpse. A young overdose victim that bore an unfortunate resemblance to Miss Monroe. Or a fortunate resemblance, depending on your point of view.

Daphne retrieved a tube of KY jelly from her lab coat pocket and coated the length of Carl’s erection. She shoved her glasses up her nose again and looked to the other participant. The Hollywood stand-in, balanced by a broom wedged between her back and the wall. Rigour helped the cause.

They’d done their best to add some bounce to the dirty dishwater blonde hair, but it still hung against a tired drawn-in face. Daphne was right, a blue tinge tainted the complexion.

With Carl somewhat encumbered by his protruding penis, they both struggled to get the corpse back onto the examination table. Daphne leaned over and pushed the Marilyn dress all the way up over the waist and spread the legs before applying a liberal amount of lube between the corpse’s labia and up into her vagina. Daphne’s own vagina moistened itself, and a familiar warmth spread from her crotch into her chubby belly.

“No name yet, I suppose?” She knew it was asking a lot when the body belonged to a user.

Carl inspected the tag hanging from a big blue toe. “Nope, another Jane Doe, sorry. Twenty something. That’s all the cops knew.”

“Okay, Jane it is then. ” Daphne stroked the dead girl’s hair, flattening it against a pallid cheek. “Well Jane, just one more little ride. You’re a lucky girl. This will be the nicest dick you’ve ever had. Trust me.” Jane’s stare remained fixated on the ceiling, her cloudy eyes betraying not even a slight hint of appreciation.

“When you’re done communing with the dead, can you film? I can’t maintain this all night, you know. I’ll get lightheaded.” Carl, now nude, climbed onto the table. His thin, muscular body served only to highlight a proudly erect penis, pointing towards its target as he propped himself above the vee of wide-open legs.

“We need a tripod,” Daphne said, retrieving the camera and flicking it back on. “Apart from you, I mean! I wanna play while I watch, but it’s hard when I have to keep so still.” She reached under her lab coat and pulled damp underwear down. “Hang on, lemme get a chair this time”.

Daphne wheeled a chair over from their shared desk and plonked herself on it. A front-row seat to the main attraction on the exam table. With heels up, a well-practiced hand jammed between her chunky thighs and the other resting the camera on one knee, she shouted “Action, Mister Sausage! Out of the frying pan and into the fire!”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” Carl groaned. He lowered himself onto Jane Doe and pushed the head of his dick between her dead lips, his tight balls tingling against the cold.

Daphne, already fingering herself, somehow maintained the presence of mind to zoom in and preserve the penetration in pure 1080p.

Much like a restaurant table falls quiet when the food arrives, the banter in the morgue now ceased. The movie’s audio track would comprise soft squelching sounds as Carl fucked Jane Doe towards climax. His at least. Not hers. Daphne provided an accompanying moaning sound as she filled herself with two fat fingers and rubbed her clitoris with the pad of a thumb.

“Zoom in for the money shot!” Carl interrupted the squelching and moaning and looked towards his one-woman camera crew. “Eh, where are you going?”

The motion of Daphne’s masturbating had her rolling away from the table and towards the far wall. Oblivious, her eyes now squeezed closed and her hips rocking against her fingers, she came as she went, until the chair hit the wall.

“Arghhh! Carl, I’m coming. Sweet Jesus, yes!” Her orgasm shivered from the core of her sodden pussy, through the undulating cellulite of her thighs and throughout the rest of her ample frame. The wobbling camera captured a close up of the ceiling fan for posterity.

Daphne found some composure and remembered her duties. She could redeem herself by filming the last moments. Rocking her bottom and using her feet as oars, she sailed back across the room and smacked into the table with a thump.

“Come on her face Carl. That would be super-hot!”

Carl could only grunt. He hadn’t stopped his thrusting during Daphne’s antics, and he was close. Withdrawing himself from the cold confines of the corpse’s cunt, he re-positioned over her face. Daphne grabbed his shaft to ensure accurate targeting.

“God, your hand’s so warm!” Carl moaned.

“Well, it should be, compared to the inside of Miss Ice Queen here. Plus, it’s just been up my hot pussy.” She laughed and rubbed Carl’s swollen head with her thumb. “Come on Mr Sausage, let’s make some lovely sauce. There’s a good boy.”

Mister Sausage obliged her, spitting hot, white sauce all over Jane Doe’s blank expression. Most of it pooled onto one eyeball.

Carl shuddered as he emptied himself, bare backside humping as he fucked Daphne’s hand with a final few thrusts. “Please tell me you got that centered and focused!” he gasped.

“Of course! I’m a consummate professional, I’ll have you know, young man.”

“Well, you’re a consummate something, that’s for sure.”

The duo spent the next half hour cleaning up after themselves. Daphne had ruined the office chair, the damp stain of her carnal juices almost impossible to scrub out. They’d swap it later with one from the admin office upstairs. She wiped Jane Doe clean as best she could and returned her to the freezer drawer. Carl bundled the Marilyn dress into his bag. It would need a good wash before being hung back in his costume closet.

By 3am the morgue and its attendants looked as normal as they could manage. And another movie was in the can.

Roll credits.

Confessions of a bar fly.

When you have less than a day to live, moments become precious.

The idiot blocking my way into Grub’s Bar and Bistro had already wasted one of my precious moments. I would not let him waste any more. Suffering from some poison or another. He collapsed when I smashed him in the face.

Dead.

Yep, must have been poison. I climbed over him.

Just a few more obstacles between me and the bar. Some idiot had left their kids crawling around. Impossible to avoid, I stood on at least a couple. Although it’s hard to tell. Grub’s floor always felt squishy.

Inside, a motley crowd of the world’s lowest life forms. Their incessant chittering and chattering matched the low hum of my headache.

Crap. There was Rita! I’d ditched her that morning. I should have known she’d end up here.

The old tart likely didn’t have much longer than me. She looked terrible, half asleep, a lattice of drool connecting her chin to the bar. I wondered if I could sneak in without her noticing me.

Nope.

“Freddy!” she screeched.

Too late for me to escape. She lurched towards me. “Fredeeeey! Let’s do it again for old time’s sake!”

I wasn’t sure if I had it in me. But even as she closed the distance, vomiting down her front, I could feel my lower parts tremble.

Dammit. I only came here for a last drink.

Grub laughed in that low cackle of his as he burrowed his way through a pile of mess in the far corner.

Rita arrived at my feet. Glowing eyes, shit-eating grin, and legs to die for. Her pungent smell enveloped me, and any chance of resistance evaporated with the steam coming off her puke-coated abdomen.

“Okay, Okay.” I surrendered. “Turn around then. And only one more time, I’m running on empty here.”

She spat her thanks in my face and swiveled about, more dexterous at the promise of some Freddy action.

I fucked her in front of all the other customers. We created quite the buzz of conversation. Even Grub raised his shiny black head from his burrowing. He seemed pleased with the free entertainment we were providing his venue.

At least until Rita started screaming in climax.

I’d forgotten about that. It’s why I’d left her.

She was a red-hot screamer.

I shrugged my apologies to the audience, who all blocked their ears with various appendages. I even blocked mine while I shafted her.

“Make it stop!” Grub shouted from the corner. “For fuck’s sake!”

But I was too distracted by our anatomies. The irritation of her hideous screeching paled in comparison to the primal, burning ecstasy that fired through my synapses.

A big hairy lout couldn’t tolerate the noise anymore. He strode over and twisted Rita’s head clean off. The noise coming from her exposed neck became a guttural wheezing.

Gotta say this for Rita. She had stamina. The wreckage of her headless body still thrust back against me a few more times.

But I was coming, and she was going.

After those hesitant humps, the rest of her admitted she was dead and crumpled over.

“More fucking mess.” Grub grunted.

He needn’t have worried, though. The kids were already scrambling over Rita’s corpse, racing each other to the juiciest parts.

I looked down and saw with dismay that I’d been a bit too vigorous. I’d broken my dick off inside her. So it would indeed be my last hurrah.

I stumbled to the bar, oozing green muck in my wake.

One of Grub’s six-eyed wenches looked me up and down, without much pity.

“What’ll it be?”

“A shot of your best putrid puss.” I replied, as the room blurred and three of my legs went limp.

Time was almost up.

“Better make it a double!”

Checking Out

There was nothing left of the money except a C note protruding from the top of the sleeping girl’s black panties. At least that’s what I thought at first.

Crazy Carl and Hunchback Harry appeared to have dispensed with each other in a remarkable display of synchronicity.

Carl lay spreadeagled across the threadbare rug. Harry slumped against the rusty old air-con unit opposite, hunched even in death. The air con’s fan blowing wisps of bedraggled hair in front of his dead face. Both had taken gunshot wounds. Carl’s to the belly. That seemed right, if Harry had shot him standing up. The short ass that Harry was. Most of their arguments involved Carl shouting down at the top of Harry’s head and Harry shouting into Carl’s belly button as if it were a microphone. Harry’s fatal wound had taken half his face away. Already a face that only his mother could love, now it was one she’d only half love.

The girl, by far the prettiest of the three occupants in the sordid room, was also the only one living. She lay in a peaceful slumber on the motel mattress. Curled up, head on the pillow and oblivious to the carnage surrounding her. They must have really laid one on, by the looks of the whisky bottles.

And then a fight, perhaps over her, perhaps over the money. Most likely over both. Carl and Harry would fight over the weather forecast.

A quick search uncovered the duffel bags under the bed, bulging with cash. A cool one point five mill, according to HQ. Carl and Harry’s biggest job for sure. They’d never hit a security van before. Their game was corner stores and houses on the hill. What a shame they couldn’t hold their tempers until they’d split the cash and gone their separate ways. True losers, right to the end.

The girl roused, bloodshot eyes opened and stared at me blankly. She lifted herself up onto one elbow, bare breasts and all, and smiled at me. Compared to the surrounding scene, she looked angelic. But among angels she’d look devilish. Makeup ran down her cheeks and she had morning hair in the middle of the afternoon. But her smile, so lovely.

It was her smile that decided it for me.

I took the radio from my belt to call it in.

“Base. Two — five. I’m at the highway motel. Both perps here, deceased. Looks like someone got the jump on them. No sign of the money.”

I clicked the radio off and smiled back at the nearly nude girl on the bed.

“Ever been to Mexico darlin’?”

A New Year’s Resolution

The alley smells of new rain and old piss.

The downpour has abated to the same fine mist that preceded it. But we’re both still soaked, as the disheveled man leads me further into the darkness. He shuffles along, shiny black shoes scuffing across the wet cobblestones. For some reason, I’m intrigued by the shoes and, hunched over just like him, I focus on each hesitant step he makes.

Our destination is a dumpster at the end of the alley. It’s overflowing with waste. I wonder for a moment when it will be emptied. I try to remember what day it is, and when the city clears the rubbish from this area. I’m not sure why such trivialities are distracting me.

Shit! Focus!

I know what this guy is about to show me. I can feel it. I’d promised myself that 2022 would be the year I’d bring an end to the Strangler. Who knew it would be January the first.

Half an hour ago, I was dozing at the station’s front desk, tired from last night’s foot patrol, when his voice jerked me awake.

“Its time. I’m done. I need to show you something.”

He sounded tired, resigned, but also a little relieved. I know a guilty voice when I hear it, and I know the long sigh of a man who’s just unburdened himself from years of heavy secrets.

We walked to the squad car in silence, and then drove through the slick city streets. The city was quiet and eerie. An hour before dawn, everyone asleep after their New Year’s Eve celebrations. . It seemed like there was only us in the entire world.

And now, here we were, at the back end of an alley, at the back end of town. We stood over the body.

She’s too young. Outside his MO. Can’t be more than eighteen.

What was he thinking? Had he mistaken her for his usual older type? Her other characteristics fit. The hair. The eyes. Still open too, with rain pooled in them, but reflecting nothing but death. She looks sad. I feel anger flare.

What was the silly bitch doing out at night? On her own. Especially in this city. After three years of living under the constant fear of the Strangler. Did she not read the news? Did she not have family watching over her?

Fuck! What a waste!

We bend over her, him and I. And I can see now why he’s decided its time. Why he’s done.

She wasn’t meant to be.

But she’ll be the last. Thank god.

I see his hand reaching for my gun. But mine is there too. Our hands merge and close over the familiar shape. I snap the holster open and pull the weapon out and up. He doesn’t show any fear, any attempt to stop me.

His life is over. He knows it. I know it. Even the dead girl, looking up at us lifelessly, seems to know it.

I’m going to shoot him in the side of the head.

We’re done.

The Lighthouse

The young boy of no more than nine lay with his face in the wet sand.

Breaking waves churned over his skinny white legs. The water swept around his shoulders and sizzled past his ears as it drained away. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up, but not before a bigger wave broke and almost knocked him over again. Brushing wet sand off his soaked shorts and tee shirt he squinted through his blonde fringe into the sun, down the beach. Not a soul in sight, at least not as far as the glaring sun would allow him to see. And nobody in the other direction either.

He must have been the only survivor.

A desolate shoreline stretched in both directions. The sea crashed up, over the shore until it could reach no further and the dry sand become white and glistening. Windswept dunes piled up in front of sparse tussocks and cutting grass, and beyond that, further inland… He didn’t look. He didn’t want to.

Out to sea, a calmer scene. Just occasional white crests breaking up the green. Above, three or four birds circled in the blue.

There was no sign of the ship.

The boy set off down the beach, away from the harsh sun, walking in his own shadow. He liked how when his feet pressed into the dark sand they pushed the water away and the sand became lighter. Like he was squeezing it dry. Behind him the water came back, absorbed by the thirsty land and his footprints were lost.

Every trace of his journey erased.

He liked that too.

He knew to head for that lighthouse, way down the beach on the small rocky outcrop. It was his duty to light its lamp, to warn other ships. The journey would be a long one, even so he was determined to make it.

Bored with making foot impressions, he walked further away from the tide line and into the white powder. Except it wasn’t powder. It was grittier. And hot! The first few steps burned, until his wet feet were encased in a crusty layer, like a sugar coating, they were protected. Walking was bearable, and the sand moved pleasantly underneath the arches of his feet with each step.

It tickled and he scrunched his face up to bear it.

He rubbed his toes together to feel the harsh scratching of the grains on that more tender skin. Best stop that, the boy thought, or he’d rub his toes raw.

Up ahead, the lighthouse seemed to be no nearer. He better walk in more of a straight line he thought, try to make some progress, before hunger and thirst overcame him. Also, he should try to find some useful treasure along the way, or some tools to help with his survival or rescue.

And so he shuffled on, his head down most of the time, scouring the beach for items, every so often looking up to check on progress. Eventually the lighthouse loomed larger. It looked abandoned and unkempt.

His keen eye spotted treasures along the way. They included a beautifully formed Paua shell. Not easy to find without chips and cracks. If he ever made it home and back to his family, he’d give it to Dad for an ashtray. A couple of other shells, the fan shaped ones were sun bleached white, but in reasonable shape. They’d go in the bottom of his fish tank once he was sure all the salt had been washed off.

IF he ever saw his fish tank again.

And lastly, spied in a rocky crevice just under the lighthouse, a tooth. He was quite sure that’s what it was. Not very big, so he couldn’t claim it be that of a great white shark or anything too exciting, still it was unusual enough to keep. Maybe he could cut things with it or use it to hook fish once he’d made a fishing line.

Everything went into his pockets.

The lighthouse stood, as it always had, unblinking. No longer in use, or maintained. Broken. Unloved.

The boy walked the perimeter, dragging fingertips against the slimy moss growing on its crumbling cement.

He sat for a while in the shade. Rearranging his treasures on his legs, brushing away pesky midges as they hovered in greeting. The wind made an eerie sound around the old stone tower. Waves crashing against the rocks reached higher each time, sucking at his feet. The tide was coming in, and he knew he had to leave. He stood with weary legs and scratchy feet, and stretched in preparation. He tried his best to shake sand from all it’s hiding places, with poor results.

The boy stank of the sea. He was hungry, and tired, but he was happy.

The return journey was quicker, as the sun settled, and the waves seemed to die down a little too. He wondered, not for the first time, if the sea was calmer at night than during the day, having its own sleep. Maybe not.

The white sand was cooler now, but his legs were tired and it was easier to walk on the firm damp stuff, near the water line. The water was colder too, as it washed him below his knees. He reached the place where he’d been dumped ashore from his shipwreck, and resigned himself to looking inland, past the dunes and grass, to the roof lines of the houses that lined the beach road.

The fantasy faded then, as it always did.

He needed to find the red roof of his house, and dinner.

Ethel and Enid: A lucky escape

Dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight that fell across Ethel’s prison bunk, at least that’s what she called it.

At the top end of the bed, Ethel’s worn and wrinkled face protruded from the rest home’s putrid green covers. Creased eyelids were closed over cloudy cataracts. Slack cheeks bordered thin, dry lips. A witchy nose sprouted grey hairs, with more vigour than those thinning on her flaky head.

At the bottom end of the bed lay a tabby cat, its eyes also closed, and its furry chest rising and falling in sleep. A stripy tail and triangle ears sometimes twitching as it dreamed.

A junior nurse dressed in hospital- blue popped in. Pretty and smart, she closed the blinds a tad, lest a sunbeam make its way across the old biddy’s face. She didn’t want to wake this one up, even if the rules stated she should.

Ethel had a temper; everyone knew and was best not woken. Nurse Kelly popped the paper cup of capsules on the bedside cabinet and beat a quiet retreat in her soft-soled shoes.

An old eyelid squeezed even more wrinkles together as it lifted. A single eyeball swept left and right, scanning the room for the Gestapo. Its surveillance stopped on the second sweep, settled on the cat and widened.

“Oh no, you farking don’t!” Ethel growled through gums and false teeth.

Two gnarled hands appeared from under either side of the prison blanket, as she called it. She leaned forward, her creaky spine complaining all the way.

A rest home cat is a dozy feline. It doesn’t face many threats, adored by those inhabitants that have enough energy to love it and ignored by those that don’t. It is said these cats can sense death and will sleep on the bed of the patient next to die.

Ethel had other ideas.

Mister Horace, the tabby, did not have Ethel’s years of experience, nor her stealth. And being one of those rest home cats, he was not alert to much danger. Ethel’s clawed hands came within inches of his furry neck before she pounced, securing a grip she had no right to produce with her eighty-year-old strength.

“Gotcha!”

“Yeeeeowww!”

An innocent ball of fur transformed itself into a writhing mass of claws and teeth in an instant.

“Faaarrkkk!” Ethel spat out her teeth in the melee.

She could have abandoned the assault, with justified fear that her paper-thin skin might be shredded. But she was made of stronger stuff. With amazing dexterity, she bundled the cat into her prison blanket and twisted the corners just so. She now held a wriggling, screeching bundle of blades.

Nurse Kelly appeared in the doorway. Ethel glanced over and rolled eyes. Kelly was far too attractive for Ethel’s liking. Having it off with the prison guards no doubt, for extra favours. Probably stockings.

“Quick, open the window, ya dopey tart,” Ethel snarled.

“I will do no such thing. Is that Mister Horace you’ve got in there?”

“The grim reaper more like!” Ethel declared and tried to shuffle her way to the window side of the bed, clutching her hysterical prize.

“Now open the window, I’ll toss the little blighter out, scythe and all.”

“We’re on the top floor, Ethel!”

“Are we? Marvellous! He’ll have a lovely view on the way down.”

Kelly stepped further into the room, unsure of her next move. Fortunately for her, as the front end of a mobility scooter crashed into the doorway where she had stood a second before.

At the controls sat a plump old lady. A wig of blue curls on her head clashing with her rosy-red cheeks and nose, a symptom of the hipflask of whiskey secreted somewhere in her yellow cardigan.

She appraised the scene in an instant; saw her friend’s predicament, calculated that the chances of any help coming from the twelve-year-old pretending to be a nurse were slim, and came up with a plan.

“To me! Chuck it here, Ethel!” she yelled from the doorway, as if calling for a rugby pass out of the scrum. “I’ll bung it down the laundry chute.”

“Enid! Thank Christ, someone with a clue. Mister Horse Shite here was trying to kill me. Little fekker chose me to sleep with!”

Enid manoeuvred the scooter through the door, taking some institutional grey paint with her, and received the living rugby ball wrapped in green. Bundling it in her lap and holding it down with a saggy elbow, she pulled off an impressive about-face and headed for the hills, with Kelly in tow.

“Hey, isn’t that John’s scooter? You know he can’t get around without it. Enid!”

A voice echoed down the rest home corridor from the direction of Enid’s escape.

“He’s fine. I left him on the bog. He won’t need his wheels for ages now; he’s been blocked up since the Sunday roast.”

At the end of the corridor, Enid scored for the team, flinging a spitting, screeching Mister Horace into the laundry chute, to massacre the first poor soul he came across down below.

Ethel leaned back in her bed, repositioning her teeth before grinning in triumph.

Enid tried her best to run over Nurse Kelly’s toes as she turned John’s ride back towards her best friend’s room for a celebratory tipple.

Ethel and Enid: Just Desserts

8am Monday morning found Ethel loitering with intent on the ground floor, behind the fake shrubbery in the lobby.

Right on cue, Nurse Kelly arrived with sheets of paper and a staple gun. She stapled new memos over the old ones on the noticeboard and headed back to the nurse’s station. Ethel came out of hiding. With her hooked nose a bare six inches from the board she scanned the despatches. This was her daily routine. Ethel needed to know what was going on in the camp if she was to keep one step ahead of the filthy Gestapo.

The memo of most interest was titled “Dinner ladies industrial action.” It informed all residents that because of a company-wide kitchen employee strike, an external contractor would cater today’s evening meal. Dinner would now be served at 7pm.

“Seven?” Ethel muttered to herself as she yanked the notice down. “They’re trying to bloody starve us, the dirty rats.”

She crumpled the dirty rat’s communique and made it disappear into one of many hidden pockets within her voluminous housecoat. A furtive glance over both hunched shoulders confirmed no one else had seen the notice. Satisfied, she shuffled off in her pink bunny rabbit slippers to find her partner in crime.

Ethel had a plan to share with Enid.

She found Enid’s room empty but knew where to look next. Down in the common room, Enid was hard at work trying to swindle poor old Percy Wainwright out of his weekly tobacco allowance. They sat crouched at the back of the room, over a well-worn scrabble board atop a card table. Ethel navigated the obstacle course of mismatched furniture and dozing octogenarians to reach them.

Ethel wasn’t sure if Percy’s suit and tie meant that he considered the scrabble match a business affair or he’d just forgotten that he didn’t work anymore. His headmasters face stared intently at the row of letter tiles, pondering each combination before rearranging them into a new one. It must have been his turn because Enid sat back in her chair opposite him, each hand tucked inside the sleeves of her favourite yellow cardigan. She didn’t seem to pay much attention to her tiles or the game in general. But that was all a facade.

Percy was out of his league.

Ethel watched Enid work her swindle, impatient to begin the planning for tonight’s strike against their captors.

Extra tiles hidden inside cardigan sleeves facilitated the construction of “JEZEBEL” on a triple word square, thus saving Percy’s lungs from another week-long nicotine onslaught.

Enid grabbed her spoils and her cane and levered her generous frame from the armchair. The two comrades in arms returned to their barracks to plot.

At ten to six that evening, John, on his mobility scooter as if some kind of pied piper, led the residents of Fairhaven rest home, B Wing, into the dining hall.

There appeared to be two new serving ladies at the buffet counter tonight. Their aprons were ill fitting. The elasticized hygienic hair net on the taller lady, who seemed in charge, had slipped down over one eye, squeezing it closed. The large silver ladle she waved served as a cutlass to complete the picture of a somewhat deranged pirate.

At the helm next to Captain Ethel stood first-mate Enid, barely able to see over the counter. At least her sight was unimpaired by elastic, although her hairnet was slipping up her head and threatened to go pinging off into the kitchen behind her.

Ethel surveyed the arriving POWs. John was first, plate in hand to receive rations. She had to lean over the counter with her ladle to plonk a massive scoop of French vanilla ice cream right in the centre of his plate.

John looked up, bemused. “What’s this? Pudding first? and we’re never allowed that much ice-cream.”

“We are tonight!” Ethel cackled. “Move along now; you’re holding up my operation.”

Enid pitched in, rosy cheeks aglow with delight as she removed the rest of the covers from the tubs of ice-cream misappropriated from the kitchen freezer.

When the nurses arrived on the scene, having discovered an empty common room and mounted a search, the entire B Wing company was finishing lashings of French Vanilla.

Running to the tables, Nurse Kelly shouted at Ethel, who couldn’t hear well at the best of times, much less with a hairnet pulled down over her ears.

“What’s she yelling about Enid?” She enquired of her co-conspirator.

“I dunno, something about not tolerating black toads” Enid shrugged as she battled with her apron strings, ready to escape through the kitchen before the advancing nurses arrived.

“Black toads? Who’s she calling a black toad? I’ll report her for that!” Ethel declared.

Nurse Kelly arrived at the front line, a look of panic on her face.

“I said LACTOSE intolerant! some of them are lactose intolerant!”

“Eh?” Was all Ethel could manage, having no idea what the young whipper-snapper was on about.

Percy, the sufferer nearest to this confusing conversation, had bent over his empty plate. “Oh dear, I apologise. I appear to have come over a bit windy.”

Kelly bravely went to his aid as a couple more diners also reacted to their forbidden diet.

Ethel’s look of confusion morphed into one of horror as the first airborne assault hit her.

She hastily turned to catch up with the departing Enid, who’d only made it halfway across the kitchen, her cane slipping on the slick linoleum floor.

“Faster Enid! The blighters are trying to gas us!”

The two made a hasty retreat to barracks, ditching their disguises behind them.