F.W.F. Newsletter, Fall 2012
by Cristina Prince
3. Pussy Prayers
Okay. I promise I am not simply writing documentary porn. That would be pretty twisted of me. I find no pleasure in what I report. I very much long to see this world, and particularly this country, make itself well and free again. So I only use such blunt, explicit terminology in my work because St. Brittany’s sidesteps any truth about their agenda.
Sex is described in vast, careful detail here, because the church would rather gloss over it, like so much GleamyGal body wash. Or treat it like a physical form of prayer. I can’t believe there was even a time when I couldn’t believe that so many people bought into that bullshit.
Of course, now it’s become such a ubiquitous excuse for swollen glands and powder-keg libidos, it’s something of a reverent euphemism. (ex. “You shoor as sorghum look happy, Honeyholita.” “Thank yeh, daddy, I done been prayin’ all day.”)
I’m reminded of the very first time I had actually heard a real person defend themselves that way. It was almost four years ago today. Frankly, it might perplex me even more now than it did then.
In fact, it’s worth putting into some context, if only because my story isn’t unique, merely one of the first of its kind. I’ll come back to giving you more tips on how to fortify and protect yourself, but I want to take some time to tell this story right.
You can never know how naive you are about this stuff until you feel totally positive, that what you know about St. Brittany’s is all you need to know. Then the truth fills you in ways you never quite anticipated, like a limited edition BlondeBanger with Princess Water-ejaculating capability.
“Hyper-thetical-like, Missy Crissy. You and I both know your breedin’ shape’s not up t’snuff, but just try to imagine if it was. Y’all could use it as a direct vessel to the Lord. Completely nat’ral. It’s how us good Christian folks has wore-shipped fer milleh... Miller...”
“No wait—” Irving had sputtered at the bar, really thinking he was about to convince me. He was one of the earliest Family Way Fighters, a spindly geek into things like craft beer and circuit-bent keyboards. Shy, quiet, and agreeable, he was a mild counterpart to the pissed-off majority of us.
We’d even gone out for a little while—until he embedded himself in Cherub Cove, to do some undercover investigative reporting. (The initial snag of the Carmen character who pops up often in my work, a composite of three or four girls whose cases I studied, was based on this.) I hadn’t heard from him in months.
He stopped answering his phone, never replied to single e-mail after the first few weeks, and the only Facebook status he posted in all that time was a cryptic, “Shoulders sore from too much hoein.” So, while it was flattering to receive an invitation for a date when he finally did show up, I was naturally a bit hesitant.
It turned much less flattering, fast.
Irving swapped his Prius for a beat-up hatchback, apparently, but hadn’t remembered to cover the muddy and hay-strewn passenger side with a blanket or anything for me. I didn’t even notice, since the truck had no interior lighting, and I was trying to see what it was that seemed so different about him. Besides the cowboy hat.
I squirmed to get more comfortable in the ancient, deflating seat cushion, unknowingly spreading farm filth all over the only dress I owned. If a group of cig-smoking teenagers hadn’t laughed and pointed at my back from a far corner of the Applebee’s parking lot, I might not have known until I got back to my apartment.
That had been my first real point of contention, by the way, when we had a little fight right outside: the horrid venue. “Everybody loves Applebee’s! It’s so cheap,” was his weak reasoning. “Everybody but me,” I said.
I think what set me off, beside my dirty dress that he didn’t seem to care much about, or the fact that he still hadn’t apologized for or explained his lack of communication, was that he had the gall to insist I stop asking questions. And to keep my hands over my eyes on the ride there, too.
It was a douche move, but I permitted it. Because he wasn’t just some random guy, and because he kept hyping the date up, assuring me he was taking me to my favorite kind of place. “I thought you loved them fancy restaurants,” he countered, unfathomably.
I met his strong gaze, searching for a sign of sarcasm. A smirk and a twinkle in his eye would somehow be sufficient. I didn’t want to argue, not when he seemed so pleased to see me. I held on looking at him, my first real view, made possible by the bright lights of the parking lot.
I wanted to say something, first that I saw some definite changes in his face, then that I noticed how sharp and handsome they made him look. I couldn’t. All I could do was stare and feel all giddy and odd, all of a sudden.
Irving’s smile made my hunt for the appropriate phrasing seem pointless. His eyes sparked, pierced right through me. I knew I was still frustrated at him for some reason, some perfectly sound reason, but I wasn’t going to locate it if I kept on ogling his stubbly square jaw.
“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” I managed, standing my unsteady ground. I’d had a long day beforehand. “I think I might just head home.” Irving shifted his sharp stare, nervously looking around the lot to check if anyone was watching.
Then he rolled up his weathered, grass-smeared thermal shirt and flexed a bicep, winking at me when he saw my shock. My mouth dropped, approving the quintupled, toned mass of his upper arm, before my mind could render a possible explanation.
Back then, nobody really knew what, if any, effect Cherub Cove had on the men. Besides, the most I’d ever seen him lift was two 12-packs of Dr. Pepper. Where had this muscleman come from?!
I had to sort of force the laugh I wanted to let out, but made sure it ended up a mocking one. He seemed pissed. That made my hunch decision a little easier to make, then.
“Really, Irv,” I chuckled a little lighter, rolling his sleeve back down, trying to ignore his rush of fuming breaths, “I’m kind of tired. I’ve got nothing against you or your little muscles.” I didn’t know where all this coquettishness originated from, but I thought it my best way out.
Still, if I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have teased him by kissing him goodbye! It was only on his cheek, though. I just wanted to feel his facial hair. He couldn’t grow any before! I turned to walk away. “Just come by the office anytime you’re ready to talk about—”
“No!” he shouted, grabbing me by the arm. I shot him a disbelieving glance, my heart racing. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me, but was he really prepared to implode any shot at redemption like this?
“Dick,” I seethed, though I felt newly intimidated by him in some strange way, and wished I hadn’t said it. We were right in front of the entrance, and a party of five was coming out. A family.
I made the mistake of catching a mother’s eye and suddenly got self-conscious, hesitating. She looked to be a single mom, and a tired one at that.
I couldn’t figure out why it was getting so hard to think any thoughts at all, let alone clear ones. Irving stepped right up behind me, putting his arm around my shoulder.
“Come on,” he commanded, direct and in my ear. “This is a wholesome family establishment. Don’t you go startin’ a scene now.”
Me make a scene? How could he even pretend I was at fault? I was my own human being, not having much to do with him anymore at this point. I was the one making the effort by even letting him take me out. I wasn’t the kept trophy-doll he was treating me like!
My legs walked along anyway, despite my addled, almost adolescent confusion. It was like I was too embarrassed to let myself concentrate, on a growing frustration with my old flame, nor on the other part of me that wanted to go ahead and give him the benefit of the doubt.
The family’s kids were horsing around and chattering. I took a deep breath to gather my wits, and got a good grab of his sweaty, natural musk on the uptake. “What a stud you are,” I heard myself sigh, my nose subbing in for my mind.
His grip was strong. He smelled just as strong, and twice as nice. I got rocked with a most bizarre scent memory of my father, and of my childhood. A time in my life with little to worry about. Protected through and through.
I caught Irving’s powerful eye proudly acknowledge the group, coming closer ahead. I wondered why he wasn’t looking at me. At the same time, I had no idea why I suddenly had this petulant need to impress him.
“See something you like?” I joked, and he just kind of snorted in response, his deep aroma pouring heavier into my nostrils as he did. My knees almost buckled, but he steadied me on the waist with one of his big hands. It trailed downward.
Because he grunted brutishly for my permission, I let him. By this point, I’d forgotten about all the muck on the back of my dress. He was probably just rubbing it in.
As we sauntered into Applebee’s, his hand still firmly on my ass, pinching it gallantly, I considered how much I missed him. It sure felt like a whole lot, anyway, but I’m positive it was just his bullboy pheromones talking. They kept saying the sweetest things.
At any rate, he had never been this forward before. I’d been the one to have to introduce the concept of sex into our relationship. So I at least had to respect that new candor of his. He was a changed man.
It was more than a little intoxicating. I was getting wasted off of the guy. Irv had become a real man. A real man whose musk unlocked and satisfied more and more of my hopes and dreams with each successive whiff.
Though the tiniest bit of wondering wasn’t extended toward such certainty, I knew that all I had to do was breathe him in, and my life would be perfection. Suddenly, I was loaded with a celestial sort of contentment.
He bore down deep into me and communicated my destiny, through his farm-won fragrance. If I believed in such a thing as a soul, I would have let him grab mine like he did my tush, and he could just run with it, right then and there. No question.
I finally felt the kind of happiness I always thought didn’t exist on this planet, and that happiness smelled fantastic. Anything I ever needed to know was pulsing and blushing inside my brain and body, shapeless and soulful. Anything at all...
Most things, anyway. Maybe.
He couldn’t finish half his sentences, or remember fairly normal words like “investment”. It took me a bit of time and concentration to really pick up on that glitch, like his charm hadn’t quite been shopped on independent minds yet. I was too smart for him, I guess. He’d actually have to put in work to make sure I became a dumb dame.
Otherwise, via this vantage of hindsight, I wouldn’t have broken his kiss as abruptly: almost four whole minutes, tonguing publicly, with his hand encroaching further and further up my thigh. I recall repeating to myself, Family establishment. Family establishment. Family establishment.
He was the one that thought that was so important, though, not me. I thought back to what I’d accepted from him as an adequate response, to the fourth time I asked about his long stay out in the country after we’d gotten comfy at the bar.
“There’s a lot of... feminism... stuff on the farm. Girls can make up their own minds, to opt out of underwear, or even clothes, if’n they so choose!” This was said only seconds before we started making out, but the sludge of all the sexiness made it seem like weeks.
Really, I was just as surprised then as I am now, that I could think at all, stifling underneath that blanket of romantic heat. As he piloted a newly calloused finger around the trim of my underwear, I snapped my legs shut with tardy trepidation.
“Please!” I went to yell, but it was mostly breath, and partially a whimper. Something about my dislocated voice, how it didn’t seem like it belonged to me, was one part terrifying and one part delicious. It got yummier the more I couldn’t get a hold on it.
“No!” I rasped, barely noticing the word leave my throat. My whole body was primal screaming the opposite. If I listened to it, I suppose I’d have at least two kids by now. And about three times as many boyfriends and girlfriends, alongside my inevitable marriage of mindless submission, to born-again good ol’ boy Irv.
I knew something was clashing, between the honey-drizzled euphoria he flung at me, and the unhinged sexism in the way he acted and talked. The situation suddenly did not mix well to me. I never imagined I could ever want to vomit and fuck at the same time.
Still, I did some quick mental arranging. Irv’s diminished intelligence notwithstanding, if he boned half as awesomely as he made out (also taking into account how he mostly made me feel totally harmonious with my body and myself), maybe I could overlook his asshole tendencies.
In particular, it severely irritated me how one of the stories he thought I’d love (I didn’t) was making me more jealous than worried. My gut reaction to his regailing me of “bangin’ bitches bareback at last month’s Candy Thong Social in the seminary” was shock, then disappointment.
Getting creeped out didn’t come until a bit later. I took my hand off the bulging crotch of his lived-in jeans, and put on my best “ew, gross” face. Irv wasn’t so thoughtless that he couldn’t decipher the look.
His appeasement of me was clipped and careless, not at all showing signs of the genuine love and longing to make sure everything was okay with me, like he had when we dated. It only made him mad.
He seemed cajoled, gave off this vibe like I was ruining the night. He explained that once I accepted Our Family Way, my body would eliminate any trace of sexually transmitted disease, along with the capacity to ever get infected with one again. (“Just like the chicks from thong night!")
It was the first time I had heard the proper name of Cherub Cove’s religious denomination, so I had no idea what he meant. I blanked and lost track of what we were talking about, because he was just being so cute! I thought he was saying he wanted to start a family with me.
He probably did, or at least reserved the right to knock me up. Subsequently, because I could scarcely fathom that he’d be serious, I took it as a flirty little roleplay. Really, he could have said anything and I would have rolled with it.
Face to face, his breath was hot, heavy magic. I licked my lips, because I craved his addicting taste, and couldn’t wait another second for him to kiss me. I didn’t want to come on too strong.
He was a man, after all.
I couldn’t resist other activities, though. I put my hand back on his crotch while I sat patiently, and he stiffened without delay. “Okay, big daddy,” I whispered in his ear, licking it. “Let’s start a family right here.“His woody nearly doubled in size at that one, and looked like it was about to bust through coarse denim.
“You like it when mommy talks about makin’ babies?” His eyes rolled into his head as he nodded, big dumb grin plastering his face. Words formed in the back of his throat and got choked down halfway out.
I was happy just to turn him on. I had no idea what I was doing. None of us knew the full brunt of Cherub Cove’s transformative intent. Irving did, but he’d been brainwashed and converted. Any crucial details would just get the saintly spin.
What we’d known for certain before was that any woman going in or coming out of the place turned into a sex-obsessed bimbo. We knew it somehow gave them the sort of overblown bodies strippers and porn stars might kill for, only all-natural.
At the time, it was like the plot of a science-fiction B movie. Today, if you’re a woman with an A cup and a flat ass, you’re treated like E.T. Go figure.
We didn’t know that religion, family values, pheromones, or pregnancy factored into it at all. Once we confirmed the town’s pseudo-Christian agenda, I had a little trouble wrapping my head around the notion that all of those are exactly what makes a cherub the nymphet she is.
“Makin’ babies with big daddy’s horny housewife?” I babbled on, teasing. He growled, dry-thrusting into the palm of my hand. I unzipped his fly and his dong shot straight up like a foot-long soldier. It bumped up underneath the bar, making our long-emptied plates rattle.
It was the first time I’d ever salivated from looking at a penis. He noticed and flexed it. It almost loosened my grip. The smell of it was similar to his magic musk, only a thousand times more concentrated and fruity. I got completely lost in the role he goaded me into.
I tried a country accent on for size, just to poke a little fun. “Jeez, daddy, I don’t remember you bein’ suh dern big!” I don’t think he was even half as long before he’d left, and nowhere near as thick.
“I reckon you’ll give a gal triplets with that pecker.” I tried to make it sound playful, but my drawl got thicker as my man got me higher on his essence. My hand seemed to slide a bit easier on his shaft. It was wet.
Pre-cum. I was ecstatic that I could get him off so quickly, and only with some light stroking and dirty talk. Little did I know that bullboys are, when erect, pretty much dribbling some amount of jizz constantly.
I felt like I was going to faint. The feel of the fluid on my hand, that extra dose of his pleasant pungency, made me black out for a few seconds. When I came to, he was putting his pole back into his pants.
No! I wanted to suck and/or fuck it! I went back for it, greedy. He batted my hand away, quite roughly, and motioned to a family seated at a table across from us.
It was the same one from outside. The mother’s eyes bugged out of her skull, and her youngest son’s mouth just hung open, a portable gaming console in pieces at his feet.
Right. Family establishment, family establishment, family establishment.
Oh, well. I tried to feel guilty, but it wasn’t working. I begrudgingly moved my hand to his thigh and took a big swig of my margarita, ready to extend the hot makeout sesh, at least.
As we frenched, I couldn’t stop concerned thoughts from poking my conscience. I wanted to, though. Thinking didn’t feel a fraction as good as my new man’s tongue did. Or his cock in my hand.
But I knew I wasn’t the only woman who had gotten acquainted with that new and improved thing. Despite his reassuring tone in discussing these Irving-molesters’ purity, I needed more. Who the hell were these girls?! I wanted to know.
I wanted to hunt them down and beat them black and blue, choke those cherubs with their candy thongs. His perfection was all mine!
Yet, the more I mustered a little lagging brainpower, the more it seemed not only dirty of him, but disgusting. He fucked bitches, plural, all without a condom? Even without risk of an STD, it was just as shady. Wasn’t that a recipe for unwanted... pregnancies?!
Recollecting the mystery behind the dumbing down of all those girls in Cherub Cove, and considering how riled up playing house had made Irv, I had a hard-won epiphany.
What else was that place’s goal but family establishment? With its own side order of stupidity and pliability, of course. Why else would I just blush and giggle when he told me I’d be a sweet mom?
It was all on him, too. It must have been! The truth hit me. I figured it out, through the haze. He wanted to get those girls pregnant. He loved it... He was a... bimbo-mommy-maker!
If he didn’t start to struggle with his speech, or say such stupid shit like the bubblebrains we’d wanted to help, I would have let him prod me right then and there. Until we got kicked out, or worse, ran off to the men’s room to make it a trio with a rapt onlooker.
Instead, and I do admit I took my sweet time, I went to stop his kingly lips from re-connecting, shoving on his rock-hard chest. Except, that didn’t work as well as I thought it would.
I’d become too weak, just too girly in the face of all his masculine mind-gumming. My biggest push met him like the tickle of a feather.
Irving just laughed right at me, making me feel even dumber. He huffed a hot and sticky breath straight into my lazy, still open mouth, forced my head to his sweaty chest by grabbing a clump of my hair.
He was so gloriously built. I felt like I was in junior high, going through puberty and discovering for the first time what sexuality was all about. Shriller and louder than was necessary, I cried, “Stop it!” at a pec. I was just too frustrated.
Thankfully, it caused enough of a scene that a lot of customers around us were giving him the evil eye. They would save me from myself. “This guy bothering you?” the bartender asked. At first, I couldn’t understand the question.
The visibility of my man’s chest plumage, through the thick threading of his shirt, had momentarily made me forget the English language. The sweat stains on his ribs and collarbone had convinced me I didn’t to worry about anything, least of all words.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” he tried again. Irving poked me in the shoulder, growling in my ear to do his bidding. Fam-o-lee ess-tubbly-something...
“Naw,” I half-lied, muffled. A distant but diligent, nagging quadrant of my brain was getting fed up, though. It gave me the power to break free from nuzzling his armpit.
“He’s just a hound dog in heat,” I joked courageously. I slid my stool away from my once-but-never-again boyfriend and straightened my dress, to better avoid any more of his fuck-tastic funk invading me.
Five minutes and a well-needed coat of chapstick later, I started asking more questions, getting less and less satisfied with his responses. My inquiries came slowly, though. My worked-out lips felt sore and puffy. They really didn’t want to let out sentences.
They really wanted to let in some dick.
Irving’s dick, specifically. But I grew determined to make sure he was still smart, because I was still smart. Only then could I suck all the smarty-pants cock I wanted. And I felt desperate somehow, to suck as much as I possibly could.
Don’t judge me. It made perfect sense at the time.
I applied some more chapstick, but it only ramped up this desire. I had to pucker my lips at the end of each one, but I actually made it through all of my questions. I don’t know how.
The last straw was pulled when I wanted him to clarify his preposterous claim that he simply wanted to “pray” with me. That it was why he was so persistent with his advances (the ones I had to keep telling myself were really as bad as they didn’t at all feel).
That it was how people had done it for the longest time. For millennia, even. “Miller... Miller Lite... Miller Genuine Dra—” Irv furrowed his sexy brow as he scanned the dozen or so brews on tap, like one of them might give him the answer. He saw that he was losing me, and I saw that it made his jaw clench. I tried not to love it!
When I finally gathered the requisite decency to keep my legs closed for good, I could tell he was tensing with all his might, struggling to find any word, even if it was the wrong one. To do anything at all but grumble like an idiotic, muscle-minded brick.
And I wasn’t too far gone to placate him by offering up the word he was looking for, no matter how much hunky effort he had to put in to keep his pick-axed cheeks closed. Or how the pressure made his chest muscles so agitated, they rippled quite obviously and deliciously.
I wasn’t even going to blow him goodbye, like the both of us wanted me to. It would have been the considerate thing to do if I was just going bail, but Applebee’s was still a family establishment when all was said and done. It was confusing.
I knew I was doing the right thing, but I’d already started to regret leaving halfway through my exit. “Wait!” he called out behind me. I refused to look back. “Not Miller! Coors!” Tears welled up as I left what could have certainly been a surefire husband, and a toiling father to my many kids.
“Blue Moon?” he guessed, futile, at my sashaying lower body and the loud image it must have made as it exited. Though really, it wasn’t like I’d simply gather my wits after a couple minutes of not being around such an expert, manly mind-melter.
In fact, it only took me that long to get that much sluttier and stupid-er.
It was my first taste of infection, after all. I’ll try to make this brief. It’s probably best not to take up too much time talking about the rest of my night of confusion and coming down.
That I let the first idle smoker just outside the door offer me a lift home, and presented the bro with an offer of my own: to go down on him in return, with my puffy, eager bows.
That he graciously accepted, and spurted so much jizz on my face, I was almost suffocating in the stuff when I went to catch a breath!
By the time I was done eating it all off, the nice cop who’d stopped this guy for speeding was already handing him back his ID, letting him off with a warning. I tongued the last bit of cum from my fattened upper lip just as the officer told us to have a good night. I asked her if she wanted to strip-search me in my tightening dress.
Actually, it was more like begging, but she only gave me a sidelong look and said it wasn’t going to be necessary. The rejection made me cry, quite stupidly. Man-dude made fun of me for it the rest of the ride to the nightclub.
(Blazin’ Saddlebags wasn’t normally the kind of place I’d even make a joke about wanting to check out, but it was the first thing I sputtered out when he asked me exactly where this “home” was that I’d whined for him to take me.) I tried to shut him up with a nice dessert handjob. His moaning, mumbled insults escaped anyhow.
With one hand gliding eagerly up and down his rod, I alternated in light work with my other one: between pushing up past my plumper thighs, and switching to shush him on his lips with a sticky finger. I wasn’t about to let him get away with calling me a whore over and over, no matter how gushing it made me, down there.
No matter how gullibly I started believing it. When his inevitable finger-licking and slurping started to feel better than if he’d been eating me out, I gave in and started to use both my hands. The height and thickness of his tower of power certainly called for it.
One of his mitts gripped the steering wheel as its twin stroked my slit, occasionally pausing to poke or tug at one of my nerve-stuffed nipples. It made me feel a sharp degree of helpless.
...Helplessly good. I knew I had become whatever he kept saying I was. I knew I was a dumb, dirty whore.
I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the excessive coats of sperm that remained on my palms and his bone, from his first load, made jacking him off an insanely easy task. I can clearly remember marveling at how shiny his big dick was, in the passing rhythm of the streetlights overhead. I couldn’t help but smile, a huge one, as I milked that monster right.
To this day, no amount of lube can recreate that slippery fun car ride, with any of the boys I stroke in a given week. I keep seeing ads for Dongdairy brand “Dreamspread” that promise the willy-wetting world [it also doubles as a butter replacement], but, obviously, I’m not the least bit interested. It doesn’t even come in economy size, for one thing....
You probably don’t want to hear about the tough groping my fleshy new fanny got later on, either, by a touring MC and the rest of his five-deep entourage of fellow rappers.
We were in Bronco Bwoy Buck’s stretch Hummer, parked right outside the club, when the perpetual motion of those ten massive hands labored, alongside the persistence of my enlarging butt, to completely decimate my then-threadbare dress.
After it ripped open, they took turns fingering me under my plain satin panties, then transformed into a liquefied thong. I was getting crazy wet, and barely felt myself register their prodding of me: to cum, and to work for them. I must have said yes. I must have said yes, over and over again.
If you must know, I still, from time to time, call up the YouTube address for the promo of “Sex Wayz 2 Sondae”, the sole documentation of that night. Not just for the share of screentime given to that crazy ass I’d grown by then, but for the secret knowledge of how each of those dudes had drilled it with their donkey dongs just minutes before shooting.
It’s nice to see my two fellow video girls shake their shit, too. I naturally haven’t seen much of them since then. I’d pouted that my cartoonishly wide and supple new cheeks weren’t nearly as bangin’ as theirs. They gave me some good pointers and made me feel like their equal. My girls knew all about what it meant to grow.
It’s advice I still make use of to this day: partly out of a weird solidarity with the power of that night, and partly out of sheer laziness. Deena had explained how much guys loved getting oral with her tongue stud, and Niecy really sold me on how much I needed to get my clit pierced.
I agreed with the fucked-out aura that told me these additions were much nicer payment than the other option: fifteen bucks and some new yoga pants. It was, of course, plenty more of a no-brainer than it seemed at the time.
After getting my metal done, I felt a lot freer and more comfortable in my soft new skin. The cross tattoo on the small of my back neatly completed my initiation into their clique, and soon I was getting my donk down to the floor, dripping and dipping with my bitches on either side of me.
It kind of sucks to see now, but I look overjoyed to bounce onscreen like that Cinderella bimbo brat I was. It might be my eyes playing tricks on me, but I swear you could see my booty jiggle and puff out, get visibly bigger right there, all caught on video. It happens the first time you see us all in the jacuzzi. Not the second go-around with the jelly dildos.
Of course, every time I start the clip, I promise myself I’ll do the right thing and flag it for objectionable content. When it ends, though, I always seem to just hit “play” again. At this point, that vid is basically playing me.
[I actually downloaded the mp3, but it’s nothing to worry about, I promise. It’s the only Ruttaz Rekkid$ release I have a copy of, and I don’t even listen to it all that often. No more than twenty times a day. Usually ten or twelve. That’s typically the perfect amount of plays to make my pussy really seep when that bridge and its awesome bassline kick in. I know well enough to not overdo it.]
None of this really concerns you and your fight, though, does it? Likewise, I won’t trouble you with the details of my further exploits when I finally managed to remember my contagious condition, at around quarter to 3 a.m.
How I’d resigned myself to let go and have some more fun, after taking stock of the gravity [and gravity-defying accoutrements] of my state, seeing as the Morning After Bimbo Blaster salve was still on the shelves at this point, still legal.
I had to bite down on a fat dick, my only way out, when it registered that I wound up in some renovated orthodontics office calling itself “Brittany’s Bridal Boothie”. A shirtless minister with that name tattooed underneath his brown collar was fastening a raspberry ring pop on my index finger.
When he saw how confused I was, my faceless fiancee just grabbed hold of my chin, pointing me by the jaw to the wonder that was his wood. I can see that thing, now, a hundred times clearer than I can see his face. I shook to the rubber mat and suckled for a few seconds until I chomped down, making him wail like a soldier whose arm had just gotten blown off.
Luckily, the two beefy security guards were busy humping two glory holes in a wall beside the entrance, the scream only making their thrusts more violent. The big lugs just assumed I was done for. They didn’t know I was such a fighter. It was hard to move fast in the skanky pumps MC Thickness bought for me, but I jiggled my way out of there successfully.
I didn’t remember I had signed some papers in lipstick until I ducked into the dance club next door to get a hold of myself. The newlyweds that treated me to one Long Island Iced Tea after another, along with their freshly married bodies, comforted my simmering mind.
I couldn’t find it again before it led me to pull some random sanitation worker onto the platform, where I grinded against a shiny pink stripper pole. It wasn’t the quarter and nickel he’d tossed at my heels that reminded me of what was going on. I was already feeling cheap, and plenty good about that. No.
It was when he complained of how much spunk was slopped all over my almost totally bimboized body. The wad of whomever that slunk out of my slit was embarrassing enough, sure. But it wasn’t like it was the end of the world.
The gobs that were starting to yellow my lily white bridal bustier, the fact that he called me a “brainless cocksuckin’ bitch like all the other cherubs” when my growing girls were too slimy for him to sandwich his hard-on, were what finally clued me in. Then I chided myself for cheating when I should have been honeymooning.
As I scooped up my four and a half dollars in coins, I realized: I wasn’t married!
(Actually, I was. I went through months of tiresome legal battles, not to mention great shame when I had to make my mom aware. It took longer than an average pregnancy, but I got my official divorce from Jim-Bret Strongg. I, luckily, never had to see him since that night when I could barely recall him.)
All that alcohol made me really need to pee, so before I could locate, with blissed-out half-lids, some culprit who wasn’t even there, I stormed into the bathroom: slipping, sloshed, slutted. I washed my hands and face, put on a new, even heavier coat of makeup, and felt a cottony empowerment when it dawned on me that this could all be over come sun-up.
I rewarded myself for this knowledge by opening up the bouncer’s pants and playing with my umpteenth long dick of the endless, nearly as long, night. I wasn’t going to strut out those doors without letting him know I saw him: the way he gave me thar stink-eye and made a blowjob motion with a closed fist.
He just looked so lonely. In my state, that’s how I had interpreted these gestures, anyway. I gently worked the big guy with my breasts, since I’d chucked the bustier into a toilet out of spite, but nevertheless forgot to put anything else on.
Whatever changes (beside the body art) that took place would be gone after an application of the life-saving, reputation-renewing product. It put me at ease to remember this as he finished into my flushed, imperceptibly enlarging bustline.
Gentleman I thought him to be that night, he didn’t seem to have any problem sticking it between my still-unwashed boobs.
I was going to be fine. Just as long as I made sure to reach three unique orgasms (one on my own, one with a guy, and one with another girl, in that order), before putting any food in that pudgy little pot belly I’d acquired.
That, and shaving off the quickly grown, thick thatch of curls atop my porky new “Country Cunny” was all I had to do to supplement a full bodily cover with the ointment. I had no idea I’d need to use scissors first, that it had sprouted so densely already.
My home treatment was indeed a success, even if those memories were hardly erased, and in fact burn ever brighter with time. I won’t expound much further. That would only be boring and annoying, and I don’t want to make it sound hip or something. Gross.
It’s anything but fetching to grow five cup sizes between midnight and daybreak, to have your jumbo jugs leak milk the consistency of yogurt, by the quart. There’s nothing hip about pitching a fit and demanding to be bound and nipple-clamped before allowing the seventh dick of the night to explore your asshole.
There’s nothing cool about waking up in a blanket of slick semen and sweat to being roughly tit-fucked, opening your cummy eyes to take yet another wad on your chin, gulping down what you can of it like a cool glass of water.
…Holy shit, I just had to turn my vibrator up and have some “me” time right there. TMI, I know, but maybe you masturbating boys know something I don’t, after all! Okay. I’ll move on. I have to. The abbreviated story of that night isn’t all for naught, I don’t think.
Always keep a guard up. It’s severely crucial that you not underestimate the extreme power that mere bullboy pheromones can sometimes emit all on their own. Especially if they mingle with MissionMud, and that stuff gets worked into your skin through a light dress!
What can I say? I learned my lesson. But there’s still so much more you need to know, even though it’s more fun to talk about sexy stuff than I care to admit. I’ll give you all the rest of my pointers, if it kills me or my libido. Let’s see.