One Sex Bit
In any case, the collectively therapeutic conversation concerning our mutual acquaintance had made me aware of Philip�s peculiarity and heightened my sensitivity of the peculiarity�s evidence. I was perhaps unlucky that my sensitivity should have been heightened at the moment that it was to receive its most shocking stimulus.
It was another large winter ball held by the same family as that at whose Helena had first spoken to me of Philip�s breath that reunited the three of us in attendance. The family was proudly presenting their second daughter, having succesfully married the first as a probable consequence of the previous engagement. There were bound to be many young men about, eager to court, as well as young women to pick up the stragglers. I thought that it was again to be a source of amusement for Philip; jealousy Helena. After an astonishing converstation on astronomy with a brother of Bukar�s recently returned from the colonies, I had mounted to the balcony from which I could overlook the dancers. Here there had been a recessed hallway and several closed doors to guest chambers giving directly onto the landing. While I leaned against the balustrade, a strange sequence of events had unfolded.
This first thing I noticed was a wafting odour near me. But this was ephemeral and my attention was replaced by the strange way a servant had begun acting of a sudden. I heard footsteps quite too near my back and turned to see a maid staring at me and backing away, looking frightened. Then I noticed that a door near me was ajar. From within the chamber came a muffled explosion like perhaps a small bomb in an aquarium. Looking after the retreating servant�s back and nurturing an unformulated question, my curiosity got the better of me and I approached the door.
From my vantage facing the foot of the large bed inside, I did not at first see the faces of its occupants. But I noticed Helena�s hair, always worn down, and her crumpled, dirty dress hiked to her waist. She was fucking, in crouching position, the bearer of the large brown penis underneath her, the man who groaned her name in distinctly the voice of Philip. I had entered at the opportune moment when their throes would be most likely to draw their attention from my presence, as I could clearly see by their frantic motion, the machine-like ease with which their organs, even when momentarily separated, recoupled, and the awful palpitating dilation of all involved orifices, including, to my disgust, the moist, hairy and brown cavern of Philip�s arsehole, into the activity of which I was directly looking at the precise moment of crisis.
Although it was the first time I had viewed, voluntarily or no, the coupling of lovers, it was not my embarassed invasion that rested in my mind but rather the boiling brown motion inside Philip�s colon, a turbulence seeming to gather for a forceful ejection of his excrement onto the banded drapery. I retreated.
Other Sex Bit
I entered into communication with the physic in town, sending directly a message of utmost need, and urged the man to speed his way to my home. Of whether he arrived quickly or no my rage and worry did not permit the calculation, but it was no small occasion to further my rage when I saw the hooded figure�s steps approach over the hill in reflective, gradual measure. I sped the medic to task.
In my confusion, however, I did not make note of the medic�s rather unaccountable behaviour, for the figure maintained a complete silence in transaction with me, returning no greeting, and proceeding directly to the room without a word. I threw my weariness over the sofas and attempted to wait out my anxiety. It was some minutes before, tumbler in hand, two reflections gave form to two fleet observations I had let escape upon the medic�s arrival. The first was that there had been an inordinate stink of the liquor about the figure, and the second, that I had not once, during my hurried, worried and confused exclamations, made any mention of the location of the sick man�s bed.
I sat up immediately, and shook off with force the effect the tumbler's contents had descended upon my ill-defended awareness. There had been no prior communication to town about the occupant of my rooms, as I had steadily kept all the staff on the grounds. I surmised that whoever could know Philip�s location, must have been one of the participants in his late debauchery. One means, I had, of confronting this surmise, which I put into action.
Behind my great-great-grandfather�s portrait, my great-gradfather had instituted a narrow passage that connected the rooms of Philip�s wing to his own rooms. This portrait was impossible to lift from the wall by a single man, given the heaviness of its frame, and thus the passage had not been frequented, but instead, if one located the seam of the trouser in the portrait, one could lift a section of canvas that, when grasped, swung the entire frame inwards and into the passage. This last I entered.
The passage ran the length of the wing, and the rooms into which it opened were marked on the wall, but these marks had, through disuse, long faded. I therefore expected to rely on erring and trial before I reached my destination. This meant that I groped for the panel that afforded a view onto each communicating chamber, and this panel opened, I peered upon the scene within. I recognised my advance towards the sick man�s room by the sequence of rooms leading to it.
This method would have perhaps been unnecessary if I had considered the incomparable noises that would likely have led me straight to my target. Indeed, as I approached, I began to hear the muffled outbursts of the strange treatment, filtered, but not muted, by the damp stone of the secret corridor. Recognising the source of the noises, I proceeded directly to its regions, and fumbled with the panel. The exclamations of agony having increased in both frequency and force, I panicked and lost grip on the thin, ancient grove that permitted the access to the chamber. At last, it revealed all.
As the last time, I was afforded a most indicriminate view of the occupants� actions. Unlike the last time, I was the only witness, and fortunately, because my shock riveted me to the greater grotesqueness of the scene.
This time, when my hasty fumblings had unlocked the panel, I confronted again the heaving arseholes meeting and separating in a dual star system model of the human act of coupling. Of course, when I had sent the team to clean the man, I knew, despite my denials, what they faced, and what I had not wanted to face. Through a mad favoritism of pure and uninterrupted revelery over hygiene, Philip had allowed his entire body to become coated with his own waste. While I had observed this previously on his face, arms, and hands, I now saw the extent to which it had reached. The medick�s habit lay discarded near the door, and its former occupant heaved her rear up and down over the prostrate patient, and her thrown-back head and throaty rasps took no aversion to the fetid brown pole surveying her nether cavern.
The hooded medick, my sudden multiple cascade of thoughts told me, could only ever have been Helena. She had revealed by her white, bony body the identity of the hooded figure, and it only occured to me later to wonder how she had acquired the medic�s habit. Now this revealed body, this fetid coupling, these twin orbiting stars unleashed blows to my consciousness the size of continents, and my body was nothing but a vessel fixed to the image of repeated ecstasy.
Tie me up against the wall. Cuff me with the fuzzy cuffs or use those ropes. I don't care. Just secure me so that I can't move very much. Okay?
Okay, now whip me. Here and here and here. With that whip. No, the bigger one. Yeah, whip my body so that I hurt! But don't whip me there -- that hurts too much.
Yes, whip me, whip me! Yes! Alright!
Okay, enough whipping. Maybe more later. Now put those nipple clamps on. Put them on harder. That's not hard enough -- okay, that's hard enough. Careful! Okay.
Oh nipple clamps! Oh!
Now say degrading things to me! Call me a slut! A whore! A stinky gross ugly man! A nerd! A poo holder! A...yes, you've got the idea now. Yes! Call me those things. Wait -- don't call me that. That's a little offensive. I know you're not being serious, but I'm kind of sensitive about that.
Oh! These nipple clamps are the best! Yeah, I like these. Sorry? They don't really do much for you? Well, keep them on me a little while longer. And tug on them a bit -- whoa, just a bit. Yeah. Is that better? Well, whatever. I like them.
Okay, what next? Oh, good idea. Yes, the hot oil. Is it hot enough? Well I'm not sure. How do you know? What temperature is it supposed to be? Do you have a thermometer? Check on the Internet. I'll wait here. Oh, before you check that out, put those nipple clamps back on me. Yes. Mmmm, that's good. Oh!
You done yet? Hey, you done yet? Yeah, okay. Well, let's play it by ear. I said, let's play it by ear. You can feel the bottle and judge for yourself, or pour a little drop on first and we'll see. Okay. Pour some on. Yeah. I think that's alright. It could probably be a little hotter, though.
Wait -- is that the phone? Shit, yeah, it's the phone. Well, you better go get it. Don't take too long.
I hope she gets back soon. These nipple clamps are starting to chafe. I think my nipples need moisturizing, that's the thing. They get kind of dry in the winter.
Honey? You done yet? Hmm. La la la. Hmm.
Man, my arms are getting tired. And my legs. Next time I think I'm going to do this lying down. That would be much more relaxing. Maybe I should get her to strap me to the bed. But I like doing this kind of thing here in the basement. Maybe we should buy a cheap bed at a garage sale and put it in the basement. We could use it as a guest bed, too.
Honey? You done yet? Well, you've been on the phone for a while. Oh, it's your mother?
Fuck. Her mom never stops talking. What? Oh, sorry, honey!
You would never believe what I did last night!!! ! YeeeeeaaaaAAAAEEERRRR.
GalaXXon rules THE UNIVERSE. Let me tell you a little bit about how, when and where I got my Galaxxon, plus what a Galaxxon is, and what I did with it ALL NIGHT.
Galaxxon is a retro videogame. It is--in my opinion--the classic gaming machine of all time! It comes only in an arcade-style box, and you have to put in American quarters to use it! :) :)
I spent all night pulling the little stick on my Galaxxon back and forth, and thumbing the hard, red buttons. I pulled my stick back and forth, back and forth, up and down: I could not for the love of the cosmos quit pulling my stick! I thumbed the hard red buttons with my left hand, and pulled my stick back and forth, up and down, faster and faster every which way. I did not lose energy all night. In fact my energy levels only increased! This is a testament to the power and fun-factor of the classic gaming machine Galaxon.
Here's a picture of me playing with my Galaxxon:
Oh s**t! ! I've been calling it the wrong name. I'm sorry, how could I be so stupid ! Let's set the record straight before I go on: the ULTIMATE gaming MACHINE in the COSMOS is ZAXXON!! I've been stupidly (oh, stupidly, stupidly f**m), calling it Gallaxxon. Pay no attention to me. I've just been up all night. ;Q
Summary of the Game
1. Zaxxon is a diagonal side-scroller. As such, it belongs to the category of games known as side-scrollers, but Zaxxon implements this in a method never duplicated, and never re-demonstrated!
Zaxxon's screen scrolls diagonally from north-west to south-east. This ensures that, on a 17" screen, the full 17" are filled with ACTION!
2. To control Zaxxon, you have to pull your stick back and forth and up and down in full three-dimensional motion. The master players of ZAXXON pull their stick in all three dimensions. I can bet you that I pull my stick hard.
3. To shoot, you have to press the red buttons, but to rapid-fire, you have to manoeuvre your thumbs delicately and subtly over the red button so that you generate a vibration that excites the low-phase fenestrator defenestrators.
4. At about 4am, my girlfriend came over to my apartment and I tried to pretend she was Zaxxon! At first she played but her beard caught under the shoddily-installed glass pane. I rescued her by cutting her beard which luckily grew back in moments.
(The shoddy worksmanship of the device has nothing to do with the quality of the software game itself, the casing being produced here in Russia by crooks.)
5. I lay Polga down diagonally and pulled her stick back and forth while thumbing her red buttons, but after some time my movements made her bleed and cry and we both had dry skin and felt irritated.
6. You have to avoid the holes in the brick walls that try to block Zaxxon from advancing forward. In space, there are many brick walls.
At the end of Zaxxon, you meet the BOSS. I won't tell you yet how to defeat the boss ;|, but maybe next time! Until next time readers, see you next TIME.
Polga passed out.gif
No lover, approach the undefended.
The patient, on his table, waking from the ether,
Terrified to tear the drip from his arm,
Has no recourse to prevent your amorous operations.
My patient, my patient: repeat this while stroking his hair,
And lovingly fit an oxygen mask tight over his working mouth.
Lovingly fit the organ tight in his working mouth.
His tight mouth working lovingly over your organ.
Swing low, crouch low, squeeze the fleshwarm drip bag.
Teabag plunk, plunge, dive, and dye a milkcloud.
Rosy mouths multiplied lovingly over your organ,
Give a warm squish to the dripbag.
Like a stroke, the patient jacknifes.
You jacknife your hips, and this repeats.
Dripping, you wander the sterile hallways,
Breathing the medicine, in a poorly tied--and this is intentional--gown.
As a memory, you've returned to the same table,
But years later, married now, divorced now,
Giving a warm squish to the dripbag.
(It dyes a milkcloud). And suck the stolen drip.
Dead love brutality with sandwich and chips
Lost opportunities for pale and ripe lips
Frozen conformity played out in a bar
Awkward rear entry in back seat of car
Apologies spent like a pocket of change
Songs left unsung for inadequate range
Intentions rot slow for emotions well hid
Any love felt calls the price of the bid
Ballad of the gouda overlord
He likes to mattress your matris in tents
His name with pudding in Latin doth tense
In huts he captivates figlia gents
But one white look at this man doth rate
He uses a vice to masturbate
O come now sing songs of butt plugs in terse
He lubes with pudding from Nederland sirs
A squeeze so tight that his buttocks do blur
But give him a gal or potentate
And prostate perversions soon will grate
A charge of bald sex or shock of the new
They both sound their horns from his mound of poo
Placed still as a corpse on fine china blue
But such sexy dreams do obfuscate
The fact that he's actually a woman
He's actually a woman
(repeat and fade)
Ssyn-fock vort-gyo = Yyr-f�ck tyn momvort.
Anum tuam matris cum mea lingua tento.
Il pudding-pud overlord still captivates my figlia in his dirty hut.
But my futb�l amigos have planning for il pudding-pud.
We have constructing an immense cone of gouda.
(It is a diabolicci butt-plug, Signor Marco retrieved from the Nederland when he received the victory in the f�tbol sweepstake two-people holiday to Nederland, but Signora Marco declined to accompagnying because she is in hospital, so Signor Marco bring replacement of Signora Marco her best amiga).
The gouda plug enjoys electric power.
When reggio soon emerggi il pud, ready to take target at my figlia,
We will approach, like the banditos.
We will weggio the reggio.
We plug the gouda (imported from nederland) into the rear of reggio, il other end into the light socket.
The reggio, instead of feeling with his dirty dita his amore,
Will receive his anus the electrical gouda 300 ampere-hora!
I looking toward to see his face see his anus get a jolta.
He will be more shock than Alessandro Volta.
it watches, it covers
eats too much, it writes over
too much mature
superimposition of a manual commando, camici.
And that el puta of a butt daughter
emerges from she knows it
supporto piccolo stupid dell'escremento
Il soereggio, sorveglia, ricopre, si oscura, sovraccarico, mangia troppo, scrive sopra, troppo maturo, sovrapposizione di un comando manuale, camici.
E che el puta di ma figlia emerggi da sala casa... precipitevolissimevolemente.
Facada do puta:
She demand more ampera pora hora
More ampere pora hora!
No man can show his face at her big gouda.
"It's over." Pause. "Sorry."
overlord, oversee, overlay, overbear, overcast, overarch, overreach, overanxious, overact, overrun, overreact, overwrought, overeat, overwrite, overripe, overrate, override, overalls
(overdone, n'est-ce pas?)
Brimming bowl held aloft by local man
It melts, it melts -- this damp'ning mound -- and I try to scoop up the strawberry nectar as soon as I glimpse its shimmering wink under these buzzing yellow lights.
I can never score it all -- drops and dribbles inevitably linger -- but even if I could, would I be able to swallow such volumes? It threatens to drown me, ballooning my lungs pale with Pepto-Bismal pink, and my careful and constant tally of progress is surely an attempt to regulate and encapsulate this dribbling tide.
I can't help it; I can't stop it. I have lost, surely, or will soon. Please rescue me while you still can. Please. And bring a spoon.
I've only got a few minutes to tell you my gruesome story, so I'll try to be brief. There I was, fraught with buzz, standing on your mother's porch in my briefs, sneezing at the pollen perfume and regretting the lump of Gouda in my briefs, nestled betwixt splayed testicles, underneath my astoundingly large bag. The cheese was wet, you see, sweating its grease around and through my briefs, and the breeze was surely going to freeze the bejeezus out of my wang and thangs. And then she opened the door and smiled, and reached for my briefs, and I thought I'd be brought relief by her teef of my cheese, thus allowing the breeze to dry what was now dribbling down my thigh. (Such a large bag, and such large dollops of heat and sweat adorning it, despite my general chill -- oh!) But no -- her reach moved to deek, and your chief yanked the briefs round the back, and I screeched -- I screeched! She laughed and sighed, and snapped back inside, and there I stood with a wedgie...what a tease! And the cheese -- smooshed all around, I must say did please, although I was still cold as a motherfucker. So I banged on the door again. Jesus.
Zut, @lors! How can one work with bores?
On this the second day of our campaign, we have little more for you than damp'ning whores.
What do you want to do today? Listen to The Who?
Or Whole? When lead Courtney Love shoots, she scores.
We've had clients bare their butts and asked for spanks with oars.
Upon departing, they offered thanks. We've had masked celebrities in ranks. We've had Tom Hanks. We provide costumes, candles, still water, and banks.
We provide a room to read in peace.
Help yourself to our library. Imported oils from Nice. Simulate flight--suspended by cables--with lady geese.
We have all this in store, in mounds, and more!,
and yet we cannot have clean floors!
Ah! ses articles sont partout,
tampons mixed with cubes of Knorr's.
The walls bear marks of squeez�d pores.
We should have long thrown one of-doors.
But the law, cherished clients, such pre-emptive strikes abhors.
All will be rectified; in the meantime, we are here to serve you.
m & ms
"I grasp [grandeur] like a gimp grapples with mistress malady -- lovingly and unwholesomely."
- Chickarouser, The. "fatboys and chokeslams." Thursday, April 10, 2003 2:44 PM
chambre a bouche
Ampereheure, the relati to you articles is everywhere, like if a hurricane the sex has had they with. And the room is not cleaned up, neanche.