Thursday, June 26, 2008

Bit by Nasty Bit


They're out there....my lusty tales of cowgirls and "no" girls, fighting girls and sporting girls. I want them back. Come home inked and linked....someday....please! And to St. Francis de Sales, the Patron Saint of Writers, I ask for your intersession. Patience. Humility. And maybe one yes -- two if I behave? But wait -- St. Francis de Sales probably isn't much into porn. I'll ask anyway. Of course there's the Patron Saint of Sex -- St. Raphael (the Church calls her the Patron Saint of Happy Meetings). I'll give her a shout. And there's the Patron Saint of Whores -- St. Nicholas. No joke -- good old Saint Nick! Santa Claus, oh kind benevolent pimp, throw me a bone!


The Nasty Bits

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Batting A Thousand

“Are you fucking kidding me? Soccer? No, no, no my na├»ve little friend. It’s all about baseball. Baseball or nothing. Baseball is where it’s at. Baseball is the sexiest sport there is.”

“Just look at them Eva. Look at them! Men with hot fucking asses playing with dicks and balls for money. Lots of money. What is not sexy about that? Soccer players don’t play with dicks and they don’t make dick. Do the math.”


Lucifer’s Fist
My reflection is splayed out across the glossy surface of the conference room table, distorted and meshed with the bored faces of the other eight office whores gathered for another ridiculous meeting. Sunlight bounces off of a class corporate award on a shelf across the room, casting a shadow that makes it appears as though I have small black devil horns sprouting from my head.

A verbal skirmish erupts at the other end of the table as I’m admiring my horns. I can feel my white lace jailbait boy shorts pressing into my cheeks, my breasts naughtily free in a matching cupless bra. The starched white shirt beneath my black silk blazer is just rough enough to keep my nipples entertained while the blathering goes on and on.


Blood Lust
Rae knew the minute she saw the chick’s blood on her face that she had to have her. What was her name? “Fuck you bitch – I’m taking you out” were the only words she heard the cunt say. What did her coach call her? Marinda? Even though it was just a sparring match, girls always fight to kill. Marinda was no exception and she fought like an animal. Rae guessed she fucked like one too. In the locker room, Rae pulled her hair out of the rubber band, letting the thick waves loose and tipped her chin up into the mirror to examine the damage.

That’s when she saw it, a little smear of the bitch’s dark blood -- a long, thick streak at the edge of the bruise staining purple on her right cheek…..the sight of it made her incredibly hot.


Mustang Sally
Lisa could hear the angry stomping of hooves and feel the shifting weight of the trailer behind “Big Red,” her beast of a Ford truck, as she hauled three wild mustangs to auction along I-94 in northern Montana.

“Hang on darlin’s, we’re getting there. Soon you’ll be broke and tame and sweet enough for little girls with carrots and sugar cubes.”

Lisa’s thick long golden hair blew like chaff on wheat through the open window, her breasts hanging on for the ride through her thin white ribbed tank top as she gunned it for a ranch in Booley. Chris Isaak crooned on the satellite radio.

A few miles down the highway, Chris disappeared and a radio preacher appeared, damn prick, beaming in from some little Podunk town, stealing airtime.

2 comments:

Jeremy Edwards said...

her breasts hanging on for the ride

Love that!

KM said...

Cheesy smile. Thanks!