Contributor: Roger Leatherwood

- -
I knew exactly what came over me. It was the boiling warmth in my balls, the orgasm growing that would explode into my drunken wife within seconds.

My mind was not my own, my erection an animal apart from my body and yet connected, raging and hard and grown deep and rooted within my soul, my ardor and pulling my stomach as I rammed slowly into the slippery snatch of my wife, who lay on the neighbor's bedclothes.

Jason had come in, maybe looking for a bathroom or to get away from the band in the den, and stood watching. I saw him and did not stop.

I kept going at my wife, she was my wife after all, pants around my ankles. That Nicki was so drunk that her eyes were rolling into her head even as she spread her legs as wide as she could on the tangled sheets to let me in - that her hand was reaching down between my body and hers to finger her cunt along with my humping shaft so she would have some before I shot off, quick and horny.

And she wasn't aware that Jason was in here now, watching me do her; it was our secret and she didn't cover up for the stranger.

Nicki got amorous when she got drunk, and rubbed me as the third tequila shot hit her, all laughs and missteps and tongue in my ear. Since she'd gained weight after the last kid moved out her sexual responses had heightened but I'd had a harder time getting to her inner nub, her secret skin of inner sexuality. Hadn't been able to get her off, by tongue, finger or thrusting as much as before. People got old, they grew bored, you fucked out of habit rather than out of need.

I flopped her down on the bed, hard and full of cum myself, not having brought myself off for 2 weeks and looking to throw one up in her in a fast minute and continue outside with the party guests, none the wiser. And then Jason, watching, as I was having my pleasure in her folds, made me slow down, and rock farther out, slowing to show him my long shaft, sluicing out of her and then sliding it back in with a wet slippery gesture. Parting the waters like Moses and a red sea of cunt.

Jason closed the door behind him and walked around, kneeling lower and opening his pants. He pulled his heavy penis out, brown and curved, and stood over Nicki's head stroking and making himself point in rude accusation. As I pumped Nicki's flesh from above.

I kept my eyes on Jason's hairy cock as the tip moistened and glistened, and I released my husbandly seed, pumping a pint of my jism into her vagina and against her womb walls.

Nicki moaned, feeling it inside her. "Awesome, dude," he said, still stroking. I pulled out, a sticky rope of cum trailing from my cock to her wet pink crease, red and raw. A half smile crossed her face, like a hallucination.

I fingered her dark red clit, a tiny marble sticking above the fat mound of her bald cunt.

"You want to finish her off?"

"Me?"

"Give her some," I said. "You can see, she wants it."

Her hand was still raking the wet crease, legs still wide open. Jason pulled his pants off and kneeled between her legs.

My cock was sagging, spent, the evidence inside Nicki and dribbling out in thick chunks. "Wet . . .," he said and he leaned in and began licking her, moving the spunk up and down, lubricating her crack and swallowing.

Nicki moved and moaned underneath his tongue, happy for more attention. His cock stood at angry attention. I reached over and grabbed it.

"Nice fucking cock," I whispered. It was hot - hard and hairy at the base. I'd never held another man's cock before. The object was alien and sexual, urgent and delicious, throbbing with his heartbeat in my fist. "Let's get it in."

I directed his hard erection to the wet crease and split her bald cunt lips with the head. I pushed him in and he sighed a moment as the hot shaft was entombed by her slick fuck tunnel.

He began fucking her cunt. "This your wife, right?"

"Yeah. Don't bang her enough."

"She's a nice piece all right."

Her weight heaved back and forth on the bed. As he pushed into her body her tits jiggled in rhythm to pumping . . . and she looked over at me.

I pushed his ass onto her, helping him fuck my wife. I placed my hand on his back as he went in deep, then slid out carefully along the up stroke. His cock was covered in white foam and slime the consistency of eggs, my spunk all over his cock, and he went in deep again.

I reached down and grabbed his balls, hairy and tight, below him, and felt them slap against my wife's sopping asshole.

My cock was getting hard again. "Do her, she likes it. She used to always like it."

Jason looked down at Nicki. Her eyes were half open and she might have seen, might have realized, who was this, this was not my husband, and she reached up and put her arms around his neck. Pulled him closer into her.

I held to the base of his cock as it went in and out of her punky cunthole. He fucked faster, harder, and she raised her ass up to meet him. "I'm gonna cum."

"Do it - cum in her."

"I'm gonna cum in your wife, dude. Fuck your old lady?"

"I want you to do it. Fuck my Nicki. Cum in that cunt."

He began to pull out. I pushed him in.

"Don't pull apart. Stay close."

He pushed back in, and her breath caught. I grabbed his balls, and they convulsed. His cock jerked and shot up a ball of cum inside her, deep, out of his purple cockhead deep in her fat pussy. I felt his balls tighten then loosen, my cock hard again with the thought of his sperm shooting out into her where my cock had been moments before.

The taint of sweat and piss was in the room, the stink of earth and peach, someone's lotion, or maybe Nicki's drink from before with the umbrella in it, still on her hot breath.

She rocked now too, cumming herself - and her asshole was puckering as her cuntlips tightened and shrank around Jason's cock, milking him clean. She held him close, held him dear, rubbing against his cock, jerking herself off against his leaking cock, warm and lumpy.

Nicki looked over his shoulder to me, saw my hand around Jason's cock base massaging the rest of his spunk. I was still naked and erect. She smiled.

He pulled out and his cock made a _vvvvv-ploip!_ sound as it pulled out of her fuckhole.

"Thanks for letting me fuck her."

"Thanks for finishing off my wife," I said. I leaned down and sucked the cum and shit and pussy juice off his hard cock. He leaned back, sighing.

The feeling of having a hard cock in my mouth made me cum. A white flow of sperm oozed out of my cock and down my shaft all over my balls and my pubic hair.

Nicki watched me as I sucked Jason and asked, "Is there anyone else you want me to fuck?"


- - -
Roger Leatherwood worked in the lower rungs of Hollywood before returning to print fiction, where he has been exploring the value of shock and the authenticity of the profane.

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Author: Roger Leatherwood

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Down at Scumland, population cunts
is where I now happen to reside.
Down at Scumland, population cunts
is where I now do drunkenly hide.
At home with the whores and junkies
and at one with the common thief.
I saturate my senses continually
I take all kinds of quick relief.
The rain and sun don’t bother us
they’re just backdrops to the shite.
The shite we’re all living through
which the weather can’t put right.
I take it easy and I take it all
I’m accustomed to my surroundings.
Down at Scumland, population cunts
we’re all individual and astounding.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
The erotic mind on drugs
is a wonderful place to be.
The erotic mind on drugs
yes, it always seduces me.
It makes my soul go quivery,
it sets my nerves ablaze.
Every small touch and caress
sends my emotions into a daze.
The erotic mind on drugs
effects more than the head.
The erotic mind on drugs
sends me jumping for the bed.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
He sat there, thinking of her again
wiping someone else's blood away,
cornered in cell number 2.
In they came, team handed
8 of the fuckers, with broom handles
"You dirty bastard, fucking scum!"
He headbutted the first one
then frowned loudly to himself,
after 3 broken jaws they evaporated
into silken mists before his eyes.
And he left the cell backwards
unable to help the other man
sat in the corner
Chewing his left fist off with fear.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: E Young

- -
Jason has watched enough anime to know where this is going.

He was staying with his e-friend Susumu—alias CharClone008—in Chicago for a bit so that he could attend a con. Even though Susumu constantly scolded him for having no job and no money, somehow he'd still managed to drive all the way from Virginia to spend tens of dollars along with all the other sweaty fanboys. He tried to get Susumu to go with him, but he passed. He even tried to pay him a little rent money since he'd be there for a few days, but all Susumu wanted in return was a cute little souvenir.

Susumu worked nights at a bar downtown and slept most of the day, leaving Jason alone to eat chips and watch old mecha tapes and DVDs. It was a pretty good life, mostly what he did at home anyway except Susumu didn't leave the A/C on twenty-four/seven like he did. Susumu had two rooms, and one was dedicated to his growing collection of ancient military artifacts, so Jason was relegated to the futon.

“Look at you, you even say 'futon' right,” Jason had teased. “You're so Japanese, Susu-kun.”

“Half,” Susumu snipped. “Please quit adding honorifics to my name. You're not even doing it right.”

Jason just smiled stupidly.

It was a comfortable life, for at least a day and a half, until Jason caught Susumu with the needleman.

It happened one afternoon, when Jason assumed Susumu was asleep. He was taking a piss in the bathroom when he heard the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk. At first, he thought it was just Susumu tossing and turning, but as he washed his hands it happened again. Perverted curiosity got the better of him, and soon he was outside Susumu's door, nudging it open for a peek.

Inside, Susumu sat on his dresser, naked. In front of him was the needleman—Jason had called it that because the thing looked like a giant needle with pointed arms and legs. He only assumed it was male because what other gender would a needle-thing be? When it moved backwards or forwards, it made the thunk-thunk-thunk sound.

Wordlessly, Susumu hopped off the dresser and turned around, perched his foot on the dresser, exposing his dick to Jason. The needleman came up behind him and ran the broadside of its arm along Susumu's ass crack and then his cock, working it in a circle until its steel melded with Susumu's flesh.

“Ah—ah!”

Jason watched the needleman pump its arm and listened to the sounds his friend was making. The needleman had molded and reshaped his genitals like a child's clay set, sliding in and out of his newly-formed hole almost cartoonishly. Susumu shuddered and presumably came even though Jason didn't see any evidence. Jason quietly pulled the door closed and went back downstairs.

Later that night, Susumu decided to make Jason dinner before he left for work.

“Con is Friday,” he said idly, mashing the chopped potatoes.

“Where did the needleman come from?”

Susumu stopped but didn't face him. “What's a needleman?”

“That thing you were fucking this morning.”

“Whaaat? You know I sleep all day.”

“Whatever man, stop lying.”

“I'm telling you, there's no such thing. You watch too much anime shit.”

Jason had bristled, but Susumu was done cooking and talking. Soon he went off to work. He went back to his futon fortress and glanced at the staircase. Not even a peep. Maybe it was a dream.

But just in case it wasn't, Jason was outside Susumu's door the next morning, this time with his dick in his hand. He nudged the door open a little and watched while Susumu paced around, naked. He could hear the needleman thunk-thunk-thunk-ing around but couldn't see him.

“Try not to be so loud this time,” Susumu said, perching on the dresser again. “That one downstairs has ears like a bat.”

The needleman apparently said something back, but Jason didn't understand it. He only saw it plunge its sharp arms into Susumu's chest and in his crotch again, like plugs in sockets. The needleman worked Susumu while Jason worked himself in the hallway; when he was done, he excused himself to the bathroom. There was a squishy schlicking noise coming from the bedroom.

Naturally, Susumu denied the needleman until he was blue in the face.

“What do the girls call it? Gaslighting. Yeah, you're trying to gaslight me. Make me think I'm just imaginin' stuff when I'm not.”

“I don't think you should go to the con. You're sick.” For good measure, Susumu took Jason's temperature with his hand. They both knew he didn't mean physically sick.

Jason pushed Susumu away. “I'm not the sick one. I'm going out tomorrow.”

“I just don't think it's a good idea.”

Susumu was nervous. Jason had him on the ropes.

“Why?”

“You're not well.”

“Shut the fuck up, I'm fine. Thanks for lunch.”

Susumu left for work a few hours later. When he was gone there was no thunk-thunk-thunk or schlick-schlick. Jason sneaked up the stairs to Susumu's room and threw the door open. He turned the lights on and the room flooded with the soft fluorescent bulb's light.

There was the dresser, a platform bed, a small closet, and nothing else. He looked in the closet, under the bed, the cotton sheets. No needlemen. But he wasn't fooled. He went back to his futon and waited. He pretended to sleep when Susumu came in, and still waited. He waited until his eyes were angry, red, dry. Sure enough, the same time every morning, he heard the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk upstairs. Horny kids.

He bolted up the stairs as fast as his pudgy out-of-shape body would carry him and he threw the bedroom door open.

“Go-got you,” he said numbly.

Susumu was in the process of growing. His legs pinched off at the knee into a slender needle point, his back unnaturally stiff, and the middle of his face was becoming soft and translucent.

“Itsssh hard to shhhtop onsssh you get into it,” he hissed with sagging lips. The other needleman stood behind him. Jason got the feeling it was watching intently.

“Care to join?” Susumu the needle asked, and Jason realized he wasn't speaking with his useless mouth anymore, but with his mind. He offered a pointed, fleshy arm.

Jason has seen enough anime to know where this was going. If he didn't accept, he couldn't leave. If he did accept, he would have to transform and never look back. At least he had no one to hide it from. And there was nothing to look back to anyway. Susumu's arm plunged into his chest and together the two of them writhed and stretched into fleshless, sexless beings of sharp, glorious steel.


- - -
E Young is a southern writer with no twang, a slight TV addiction, and a bunch of gender complications.

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Author: E Young

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Radio Riot F.M. (Session 1)

“Whey-hey, and welcome motherfuckers!
You’ve just tuned in to Radio Riot F.M.
The newest, greatest pirate radio station in town
And I’m your host, the Chickenshit Turkey.
After our first song, we’re going to be doing the weather forecast,
By the time that’s finished I want some of you to have called in for a chat,
A request or something like that.
Hey, can you dig my shit man, I’m a motherfucking poet.
Anyway, here’s our phone number, its 01639 8264.
And remember calls cost between 38 and 40 pence a minute,
So if your parents don’t approve of those kinds of prices kids,
You’ll just have to wait until they nip off for a shite.
Well, here we go with the first song of the show and it’s….
Wait for it.
Paranoid by Black Fucking Sabbath.
Yeah alright, you’re just too much Ozzy baby,
Just too motherfucking much!”

“Whey-hey, the Chickenshit Turkey here again and you’ve just been listening to the Sabbath, gonna kick straight into the weather forecast now, so here goes.
There’s motherfucking rain and wind and shit, every fucking where today.
So stay in the god damn house, O.K. cocksuckers.
Because that shit’ll kill ya!
Can you dig what I’m saying fuckface, eh!
Everybody stay in and get pissed right up, yeah alright.
That’s unless your motherfucking arse is ugly.
If your motherfucking arse is ugly, get out there, you deserve the motherfucking rain and wind and shit.
I hope it gets ya Medusa fuckers good, real good!”

R-r-r-r-ing, ring, R-r-r-r-ing, ring.

“Hey, there’s our first phone call of the show.
Yo, motherfucker, you’re on air with the Chickenshit Turkey,
What can I do for you?”

“Hi, this is Tony; I’d like to make a request!”

“Oh yeah, Tony, what kind of fucking request do you want, eh, what do you think I am, motherfucking psychic?”

“No, no, sorry Mr Turkey!”

“Hey, don’t you Mr fucking Turkey me, it’s the Chickenshit turkey, Jesus H Christ, what’s up with you motherfuckers out there?”

“Well, I’m sorry Chickenshit Turkey; I was just trying to be polite!”

“Listen Tool, or whatever the fuck you said your name was, just get on with the request, you twat!”

“Oh, O.k. well, I’d like to request The Lady In Red by Chris De Burg, for me and my fiancée Judy, it’s our song!”

“You fucking what, your song, wait a minute, is that her I can hear giggling in the back round?”

“Yes, yes it is!”

“Hey, she sounds quite horny, although not quite fulfilled; say is she in need of a few extra inches, cos she fucking sounds like she’s missing ‘em?
I could always come over and brush out those cobwebs which you can’t reach, eh, what you think Tool?”

“No!”

“What, is that it, just a simple fucking no?”

“Yes!”

“Well, listen here Tool, you motherfucker, I was just trying to be helpful, I bet she looks like a bulldog chewing a wasp anyway. And as for your pathetic request, man I spit on it, man I fucking piss on it, The Lady in Red, shit, I’d rather fuck cacti than play that bunch of fucking vomit on this station.
You’ve got absolutely no fucking taste whatsoever and the only treatment that I would advise for this is a suicide pact between you and your stinking mattress, what’s her name again?
Broody, or something stupid like that, isn’t it, but I’m feeling charitable today so I’ll play something for the two of you dirty bastards anyway!”

“O.K. listeners, this next fucker’s for Tool and Broody.
And it’s…..wait for it.
Smack my bitch up by The Prodigy.
So I’ll see you at the other side of that, O.K. fuckers.

And remember kids.
Alcohol is not funny.
I repeat (Belch!)
Alcohol is not funny.
Unless you add some cocaine.
Whey-hey.
See you all in a couple of minutes.
Cocksuckers!






Radio Riot F.M. (Session 2)

“Whey-hey and welcome motherfuckers!
You’ve just tuned into Radio Riot F.M.
The greatest pirate radio station in town.
And I’m your host, the Chickenshit Turkey.
After our first song we’ll be chewing the female fat with a special guest.
Erm, what’s your name love?”

“Germolene Sneer, its Germolene Sne...”

“Oh yeah, Germolene Sneer from the women’s liberation movement is in the Stud-io with us and I just hope that she doesn’t plan on liberating any of her movements in here, we’ve got no air-conditioning for fuck sake.
By the way, don’t any of you bastards think about phoning in,
I want this one all to myself!”

“Hmm mm, Turkey!”

“Yo, shut up bitch, you’ll have your chance to do your shit in a minute, I’m working here, are you blind, motherfucking working?
So here’s our first song of the show
And it’s…..wait for it…..
Sweaty Betty by The Macc Lads.
Yeah alright, where’s me chips n’ gravy?”

“Whey-hey, the Chickenshit Turkey here again and you’ve just been listening to The Macc Lads, great bunch of guys.
Anyway we’ve got Germolene Sneer in the studio, you’re live on air, baby!”

“I don’t believe it, what was that record that you were just playing, it was the biggest pile of male chauvinistic propaganda that I have ever had the misfortune of hearing,
I think…”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do, and I’m glad you liked the song.
So what’s your beef with men, eh?
Are you sick of sleeping on the wet patch?
You not getting enough length?
I mean what’s up, a couple of nasty diseases?
What’s making you so bitter, bitch?”

“Bitch, bitch, don’t call me bitch you uneducated faggot, my god, I lecture at a university, I have published books to my name, I am a regular guest on intelligent television programmes, I’m respected in high circles, I’m a hero to all feminists, I’m…”

“Jesus Christ, you’re just like all the lasses I know, ya love to show off and you love to rub it in, but ya all look the same in the sack, don’t ya eh, all ya need’s some beef, love!”

“I shall be calling my solicitor as soon as I leave this place, you ill mannered baboon!”

“Yeah, he’s got ta beef ya needs, has he, eh?”

“Look you can be crude all that you like, you will not get the better of me, I’m far too superior, but I did think that we would be talking about feminism and…”

“Yo, hold on a minute, I feel another song coming on yee-ha motherfuckers!
Quite a good guest isn’t she?
I know you can’t see her but she’s kinda cute in an untidy sort of way,
Hey, I’ve got half a trunk on.
Anyway, this next song is dedicated to her over there.
Yeah, that’s you Sneer Baby.
And it’s…. wait for it….
Only Women Bleed by Alice fucking Cooper, yeah!”

“Whey-hey, the Chickenshit Turkey here again and you’ve just been listening to Alice Cooper.
Yo, Germolene, what do you think about fist fucking?
Do you reckon it’s all down to knuckle structure?”

“Right, that’s it, I’ve got nothing else to say to you, you sexist pig, let me plug my new book and then I shall leave, I have never been so insulted in all of my life!”

“Fuck you!”

“Pardon?”

“Fuck you!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Fuck You, you ain’t getting to plug your book, get the fuck out, now!”

“But-but-but you cannot simply throw me out, I’m Germolene Sneer, feminist icon, I’m supposed to walk out in a screaming fit of indignation on behalf of my fellow sisters.
I can’t be thrown off a pirate radio station by a man, I’ll never live it down!”

“Well, you can take that extra rib and barrel yourself stupid, but ya ain’t plugging no fucking book of toilet-paper on this station, unless I say so, O.K.!”

“Oh!”

“Now, you wanna plug your book?”

“Yes, I would!”

“O.K.. there are two conditions, the first is that you give me head and ya give me head right now live on air, the second is you wash the coffee cups after the show.
Ya dig what I’m saying, girlie?”

“I can’t possibly do that!”

“And that was Germolene Sneer Everybo…”

“Wait, O.K., O.K., the things that I do for womanhood.”

“Fuck womanhood, I wanna see what you’re gonna do for my manhood, take a look at this fucking monster baby.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiipppppppppppppppp!
Don’t worry I had it washed on Tuesday.”

“Oh dear!”

“HaaAAaa, oh yeah, I know it’s big but try for the whole length, yeah that’s it.
Hey, you’re quite deep throated for a fucking snob, ain’t ya?
You’re getting aroused love, ain’t ya?
You’re getting wet, I can fucking smell ya from here, turn around a bit and I’ll slip a thumb in, yeah!”

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzziiiiiiiiiiiiiippppppppppppppppp!
“Whey-hey listeners, the Chickenshit Turkey here with my new bitch Germolene Sneer.
It’s nearly time for you to go, you got any words of wisdom for our listeners before ya go do the pots and pans, Sneer?”

“I feel sick, I think I am going to vomit.”

“Well, ya swallowed the fucking lot, didn’t ya, you fucking nympho, I doubt there’s a single drop of muck left inside me.
That’ll teach ya, you greedy pig, when I pump it out I really pump it out, oh yeah!”

“O.K. listeners, Germolene’s gone ta do the fucking dishes and I need a motherfucking cigarette, so we’ll play our intro music once again and I’ll see ya all after that, O.K. fuckers!

And remember kids.
A wife is for life,
Not just for Christmas.
Whey-hey, see you all in a couple of minutes, cocksuckers!”


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
I was wrong;
I only wanted to visit his sister
there was no malice intended.
But she looked at me horrified,
he bore the brunt
I hit him twice,
the second time
she looked more horrified.
I was trying to impress her
All I did was depress myself.
Her lack of smiling wounded me
more than the piece
of paving slab could ever do,
I walked away gutted.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Joshua Dobson

- -
I had long harbored suspicions that my nubile blonde underling Jodi had a tingle in her pussy for me. She dressed mouth-wateringly slutty and broke into a shit-eating grin whenever she caught me copping a carnal eyeful of the orange spray-on-tanned flesh she so freely displayed.
Her voice kinda got on my nerves sometimes and she had big huge blue eyes with a crazy twinkle glimmering in them, like that lady on the news who killed her baby and cut it open, cuz she thought it had stolen her liver whilst in the womb; she had icy blue psycho-eyes.
“I cut myself shaving,” Jodi chirped flirtatiously, batting her fake eyelashes at me, “Wanna see?”
I nodded my head yes.
She pulled up her black leather miniskirt until it bunched around her waist. She wore a shiny pink thong. She planted her stiletto-heeled right foot on top of my desk, treating me to a view of the inside of her thigh, it’s perfectly smooth orange finish disrupted by a gaping bloody laceration.
The sight froze me in lust.
“If you wanna, you can stick your finger in it,” my slutty secretary bubbled coquettishly.
I plunged my finger into the open wound on my artificially tanned secretary’s meaty thigh. It was warm and gooey inside, the laceration sucked on my probing finger like a hungry infant. I pushed my bony digit into the wound until I felt the hard smoothness of her femur against the tip of my finger.
“If you wanna, you can stick your dick in it?” my slutty secretary bubbled coquettishly.
Unable to speak, I jerked my zipper down and freed my throbbing cock from my trousers. I rubbed the head of my turgid phallus against the hot wet wound. The hungry wound sucked my member in. As soon as the swollen tip of my dong was fully engulfed in my slutty secretary’s hot meaty thigh I came cataclysmically.
“I didn’t actually cut myself shaving, I did it on purpose to get your attention,” Jodi later confessed.
The next morning Jodi says she’s pregnant. She shows me a big meaty thigh, yesterday’s laceration is completely gone, and a big bloated blister squats in its place. A little wormy thing is visible squirming beneath her orange skin.
"Wanna touch it?" she asks.
Vomit bubbles up the back of my throat.
"My daddy knows," Jodi says. "He's got a shotgun and he's gonna tan yer hide if you don't marry me."


- - -
Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun.

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Author: Joshua Dobson

Contributor: NaughTee

- -
He pushed me
to...
a window
quietly stand
face my reflection
strip clothes
watch myself
uncamouflage
embrace beauty
touch flesh
revel

He pushed me
to...
want more
challenge more
be liberated
brazen
demanding
unashamed
surrender my fear
relinquish control
try

He pushed me
to...
reveal yearnings
fuel my temptations
quench thirst
not question
feel not think
respond
seek fulfillment
rejoice not regret
permit myself

He pushed me
to...
push back
brace against window
straddle thighs
bury his cock
thrust wildly
moan
scream
claw his back
orgasm

He pushed me
to...
live
forget reality
break the rules
meet secretly
ignore any voyeurs
fuck at work
after hours rendezvous
become greedy
need it again


- - -
I am published in various anthologies and online, including The Erotic Woman, Haiku Journal, Epiphany magazine, and others. My first book was released in 2006 with Publish America. I have conducted poetry seminars for kids. I reside in New Jersey with my husband and crazy cat.

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Author: NaughTee

Contributor: Dirky Henkel

- -
James took her out the bonnet and undid the tape from her mouth. She winced then spat and screamed, even though it was useless in this desolation. But he wouldn't have it, so he responded with a playful smack to her jaw.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” James told her, smacking a bristly kiss on Sandra's forehead. He forced her up onto the porch and shoved her through the door of his old Piney Woods farmhouse, and Sandra saw the barricaded windows, the unfurbished void making up the inside, the passage to his bedroom drowned in fresh concrete. The door shut and the key turned. Then they were in darkness.
“Hope you don't take the tying up thing personally.” James fed a candle wick. A pair of flickers rollicked in the navy hue of his sunglasses. She was taken aback for a second, seeing that monster's face of tattoos and scars arise from the shadows.
“Think about what you're doing,” she said. “Please.”
“I've thought long and hard, darling. This is for your own good, God's plan for us.”
“You're delusional.”
“Not this time. I promise you, you'll believe. Tonight it begins: three days of hell, as prophesied. In here, you'll have a chance at life after the event. Maybe you should've paid attention before.”
“I'm sorry. I can't fucking remember because you were banging me about so much, fucking asshole. Fuck you--”
“No, darling, fuck you. Forgot what it was like between us? Ain't you my maiden no more, forever avowed?” James snagged her hips toward his, gently swaying in a mock dance, and her squirming was useless against his might. “Damn, you're still as hot as you were in your younger days, ain't ya? Remember our song? If I made you feel second best, I'm sorry I was blind. You were always on my mind.”
“They should've kept you behind bars, you son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, but then I wouldn't be able to satisfy you like old times, huh?”
His finger went under her skirt, slid into her panties, and he tickled her clitoris.
“Fucking stop,” she said.
“But I'm taking care of you, hon.”
She hesitated, then burst out, “The sheriff's coming.”
And so he let go. “Tell me you're fooling.”
“Before you grabbed my cell, I alerted them, okay? They're on their way.”
James threw her to the dust.
“Fuck you,” she retorted.
Silently, he culled thought and scanned her cellphone for confirmation, and shook his head in disappointment. “Shouldn't have done that, woman.”
“What are you going to do? Beat me up again? Release me and it'll be over, James, I swear. I'll drop this, nullify the court order, anything you want. Just let me go.”
James clamped her face, meeting hazel beads made more frantic by the snap of the candle's flame. “This is how you thank me? I'm saving your life from humanity's inevitable harvest, pouring out my heart, and you call those pigs? Right now I should be treating you like the backstabber you are.”
She kicked his knee from the ground, but it dealt no damage he was willing to express. Instead, he taped her mouth again. “I'm not sure I know you anymore,” he said, “but I always tried to treat you right.”
The urgent rap at the front door came almost instantly, stealing his smile. By the window, he unscrewed the planks and clocked a double-barrel that seemingly came from nowhere. “Look at what you did, Sandra. Now fathers and husbands will have to die on my land.”
The instant daylight rendered Sandra's eyes askance, and illumed the room's contents: rows of crates and ammunition packed against the walls, a survivor's paradise.
James poked his weapon through and shouted, “First and last warning. Get off my porch and never come here again.”
“Code 30. Need assistance,” a voice communicated. “Law enforcement, sir. Put the gun down.”
James shouted, “Take your pistol out, I'll shoot you right where you stand, hear? You're never taking me in.” His next action was instinctive--he clicked the trigger.
Sandra temporarily lost hearing, and could see nothing beyond the filling smoke, until James fell off-kilter out the smog. She assumed it was the shotgun's power which had unseated his frailty; yet he'd been wounded, his glasses sunder. A crimson web was forming on the wooden floor, swift expelling from his chest. Right then, he was still enough that she saw her opportunity. The open window drew her to a cautious stand, teasing safety. But then she sank creeping by his body; her ex wasn't dead yet, budging from his momentary outage. Inside, she cursed. Yet she caught sight of something else, under her sole. She quickly slid it into her corner, and returned.
James recovered. “Fucker got me.”
Her fingers married the edge of the shard. She began incisions, tuning into the rope like a surgeon prying for an artery.
“Wish you could've trusted me, hon,” he started.
She was certain the liquid dripping into her palm was blood, but didn't care.
“How do I make anyone believe what I'm saying? I wouldn't have done this if I wasn't so sure about it.” Then he raised his voice, “Understand, woman?”
But she wasn't really listening.

The sirens came.
“James McBride,” a loudspeaker blared, “surrender your arms and come out with your hands up.”
James was jolted from his momentary nap. He challenged them, “Every one of you government heathens will rot. If only you knew what I knew, boys. Hell's a coming.”
Bullets bit the surroundings and set the roof to rain, right before he could flaunt further courage. He slumped to cover, sat where he was in a humored naivety. Stirring ever closer, footsteps. He got up, dragged a cupboard toward the window, and the interior was dark once more.
“Never forget that I did this for you,” he whispered to Sandra's innocent front. He crept up to her with his candle light. “All I wanted was for us to be together.”
There was a bang at the door. And another.
James tapped the gun, showed her a pair of rounds, “One for you, one for me, huh?”
She shook her head.
“Don't worry, hon, there's a special place in heaven for us. Tell me you love me,” he said, peeling off the tape.
“Sure...honey,” she assured him. “Just like...just like it used to be.”
“I knew you'd finally make sense.” James lit up.
The gun came by her jaw.
“James, wait,” she insisted.
“We have to do this now, hon.”
The door began to splinter.
“Truth is,” she said as her hands separated, “you mean nothing to me.”
She stuck the shard into his neck, and stuck it in over and over until the gurgles were over.


Sandra watched his carcass being stretchered out, his throat a smile of death. It was as if his eyes still hadn't quit that insane love. They were on her. She turned away to the first of the moon and clung dearly to a gratis blanket.
“Ma'am,” Detective Sandton startled her. “Hope you're comfortable? I can't imagine what you've been through, Miss...”
“Brown,” she replied.
“Miss Brown, my apologies, but we'll need you at the station for a bit of questioning. You might be there a while, 'till we have your word and we know every detail of what went on back there. Are you fine with that, ma'am?”
“Yes, I--”
She stopped, distracted.
“I--”
Something was playing in the rear view mirror. She blinked to make sure she wasn't dreaming.
“Are you seeing this?” she asked Sandton, who looked up, then at her, before entering an awed hush.
“Close the door,” he said.
She did as she was told, and rolled up the windows. She saw the things in the sky descending still, and the more that could be discerned of the specks, the less they alluded to being anything she was familiar with. Suddenly, there was no explosion. The entire car tremored, then a viscuous substance came slithering down the windows. There was green everywhere. On the detective. The other officers. They were doused in it. Motionless, like dolls in a display cabinet. Then they were moving, walking her way, and she saw James--dead James McBride--raise and join them.
At the windows, they scratched to get in.
“You were always on my mind, Sandra.”


- - -
Dirky Henkel is an unwanted child originally from Berlin, Germany, currently residing in Rehburger Moor. Follow her on Twitter @DirkyHenkel.

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Author: Dirky Henkel