Dark bits.

I started writing this novel under another name about five years ago. I have no real idea where it will be going, but I've decided to finish it.  

I'm posting my WIP here for my enjoyment and yours.  Originally titled A Slash of Gash. As always, comments are welcome.  If you want to follow along, make sure you follow da blog. Let's start with a Prologue and a quick chapter...

A Flash of Gash: The Story of Debbie

By G.S.

Prologue

Dinner turned out to be better than she expected. The food was perfect. The drinks were strong. And her date was charming. For dessert they shared an obscenely large slice of decadent chocolate cheesecake and strong coffee. She had a tad too much to drink, but he didn’t seem to mind. She talked and talked, and he listened and smiled. That was good enough for Debbie.

The kiss in the elevator had left her pleasantly woozy, and when his hands wandered, she didn’t protest. He wasn’t such a gentleman in the bedroom, but who wanted a gentleman in the bedroom? She drifted off with strong hands stroking her neck and breasts.

Months later, she’d remember all this as the last normal evening of her life.

PART 1
HARD CHOICES 

Debbie came to with a smile on her lips, a face in her neck, and a hard cock in her pussy. For a moment, she didn’t move - enjoying the sensation. The best thing about new lovers, was the certainty of morning sex. Well, almost always. She was forty-something, after all. When you got to be her age, the men became fewer, older, and softer.
Not this tiger, she thought. She squirmed under him and whispered, “Someone remembered their little blue pill.”
The hotel room was cold. They must have left the air going full blast all night. She barely remembered making it to the room. The two empty bottles of champagne in the ice bucket might have something to do with that, she suspected. She closed her eyes and made a mental note to take a Prilosec as soon as Tiger (she didn’t recall his first name, but Tiger seemed as good as any) finished her morning wake up call.
His lips felt cool on her neck and the mustache tickled her in a pleasant way. She stretched her arms over her head, allowing her breasts to masquerade as taught.
“Come on then. Let’s finish what you started.”
Tiger kept his face buried in her neck, his bone buried inside her, and - Debbie’s eyes flew open. His lips weren’t cool. They were cold, and as stiff as the rest of him. She wiggled a bit, trying without success to get out from under him.
“Hey. Hey!”
He felt so heavy. She didn’t remember him being so fat last night. The fuzz from last night’s activity burned away and bright, shiny panic took over.
“Hey!”
She pushed at his head and managed to move it so that it lay on the mattress. Now she could see her one night last stand’s face. Like all morning afters, Tiger didn’t hold up so well under sunlight. He had more wrinkles and blotches than she remembered. He was also a lot bluer that she’d expected. And the fly landing on his cheek, rubbing its greedy little forelegs together in anticipation, didn’t help things.
Debbie stated to scream, then stopped herself. It took her a second to understand why. It was her daughter of course. And her friends, her co-workers - the world, really. “Debbie Fein Fucks Corpse!” If she screamed now, that would be her life; her one known achievement.
“No. Not. Going. To. Happen.” She pushed at the weight with each word.
Nothing.
She was in pain now, and terrified. Tiger had died hard, she was dry, and this cork was not going to pop out of the bottle so easily. She was sweating, despite the coolness of the room and the coldness of her companion. The fly kept flying off and returning to various parts of Tiger.
Debbie didn’t know much about corpses, and less about fucking them. But she figured things were only going to get stiffer. He wasn’t about to deflate and slip out on his own.
No. And I’m sure that cock ring he’s wearing doesn’t help.
He’d said it was great at keeping him hard, and that seemed like a good idea at the time. She’d even helped him put it on and then coaxed him to attention with her mouth. The thought made her blush. Then gag.
No. He was hard, stiff, cold, and he wasn’t going anywhere on his own. She closed her eyes and tried to think.
I could maybe push him off the bed. Maybe. But what then? Would I follow him to the floor? Would he tear me up? She imagined it would be more than painful if he withdrew that way. What if he doesn’t withdraw? What if it just snaps off and stays inside me? It was a ridiculous thought, but given her situation, seemed like a perfectly reasonable fear.
Then it came to her.
He will stay hard forever. But you don’t have to stay dry. You could make yourself wet.
Could she do it? Ten minutes later, she had her answer. She’d thought about Brad Pitt. She’d thought about her first husband and how he loved to go down on her, his mouth glued to her until she begged him to stop. She thought about dildos and vibrators and threesomes, and the time her boyfriend videotaped her sucking his cock. She thought about porn and romance. Finally, after thinking about getting fingered at prom, she gave up.
“Fuck.”
Dry as Dick Cavett.
Debbie started crying and turned away. Soon only her face was wet.
Time dragged. She missed the free continental breakfast. Housekeeping knocked, she yelled, they moved on.
She was about to give up when she noticed, really noticed the ice bucket and she had another idea. It wasn’t the ice bucket that caught her attention though.
It was the tongs.
And it was a terrible idea.

You know the rules?

SPOILER ALERT:  I just realized that you can't even listen to audio of a premium elite star if you have the basic cage, filthy animal package (no judgment).  So, for all of you freeloaders taking advantage of socialized kink, here's the joke in writing...

What do two tampons at a part say to each other?

Nothing, because they're stuck up cunts!

lol.... wheeeee!

I entered a contest. At midnight they sent the writing prompts.  I had 24 hours to write a 1,000 word Ghost Story.  It had to take place in an oil field and there had to be a dollhouse in the story.

Not my best work, but given the constraints...

if you read this, any critique will be much appreciated.  

A Necessary Distraction

Jesse didn’t bother taking off his boots. Diane appeared in the small den with a look of disapproval on her elfin face. Jesse was too tired to care. The dirt didn’t bother him none and he couldn’t imagine it made any difference to her. After a 14-hour shift on the rig, Jesse felt more mud than man. The house, a small, drab company town special, always stank like fresh tar poured out on a hot August afternoon.

“Where’s Anna?”

Diane sat on the couch now. The cushions were thick with dust but she paid it no mind.
“Playing with her toys.” Diane gestured for Jesse to sit. “We need to talk.”

Jesse glanced down the hall at Anna’s room, ignoring the small knot of unease that began to worry at him.

“Girl ought to say hello to her daddy,” he grumbled.

Diane pretended not to hear him. Not for the first time, Jesse took note of how out of place his young wife looked here. A clean, pretty woman, sitting on a dusty couch with her dirty roughneck husband. For a second Jesse felt guilty about not taking off his boots.

“I told her to stay in her room for a bit. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Jesse didn’t say anything. He heard Anna singing Disney songs in her room, her voice just loud enough to be heard above the nearby oil rig’s monotonous machine squeaking. The thought occurred to Jesse that there was no true silence in their lives these days.

Jesse didn’t know why his wife stayed. They didn’t sleep together. Not even to sleep. Diane never came to bed anymore, preferring the couch, and Anna hardly spoke to him at all. He couldn’t remember the last time she had left her room. There were no neighbors nearby. Most of the families lived miles from the oil field and the few that chose to live on the oil field preferred the more modern – and more expensive – lodging further away from the rigs. There was nothing to keep Diane and his little girl here.

‘I don’t know what I’d do if they ever did leave,’ Jesse thought.
But part of him did know. Part of him knew exactly what he’d do.

“I know things haven’t been good for a long time,” Jesse swallowed. “I’ve always been; I mean, I never-“

“I know you haven’t been with other women.”

“I don’t want another woman, Diane,” Jesse said gruffly. I want you, but…” Jesse leaned in to take her hand but she drew back. It was a natural movement with no malice or alarm behind it.

“I want you to visit the Doll House,” Diane said.
Jesse looked uneasily at the floor.
“It won’t be cheating,” Diane said. “Not exactly.”

The Doll House was a ‘robot sex brothel,’ where a man could spend time with a lifelike sex doll. Jesse had heard some of the men talk about it.
Jesse stood up abruptly and walked away.

“I’m going to rinse the day out of my mouth and make some dinner. Go get Anna, please.”

Diane stayed where she always was.

Three weeks later Jesse found himself being led to the Moonlight Suite of the Doll House. The “suite” could have passed for a room at the Sheraton. Instead of a cheap television, however, there was a fancy touchscreen iPad with a credit card scanner. Jesse swiped his card, pressed the menu button and began scrolling through the available dolls. He ended up with a sexbot that looked like a younger, “perkier” Diane. He blushed at the improvements, but he didn’t change them. Jesse named her Rebecca. She possessed a rudimentary AI, and could hold simple conversations as long as he didn’t veer too far off script. Jesse spent 45 minutes to make sure everything about Rebecca worked. By the time he left her, he was hooked. He came back four more times that month.

“You should just buy her,” Diane suggested one day. She was floating behind the couch, not bothering to pretend anymore. Jesse quickly looked away. The suggestion didn’t surprise him, and it was what he wanted. What he needed. Still, he protested.

“Diane. It’s one thing to visit Rebecca at the Doll House. But bringing her home?”

“Don’t be silly,” Diane chided. “You need her, and you can’t afford to keep ‘renting’ her. Just make an offer and be done with it.”

“Diane, if you would just”-

“I can’t give you what you need, Jesse. I can’t give you what you deserve.” The room grew cold. “It has to be this. You understand?” Her voice was firm as iron. Jesse nodded.

Days later, Jesse brought Rebecca home.
“They have a payment plan,” he mumbled. Diane smiled, hardly glancing at the new guest. Jesse watched her anxiously as she walked down the dim hallway and disappeared.

Anna sat on the dirty box spring, looking up at her mother. The wall paper -Winnie the Pooh and friends – was torn and moldy now. Stuffed animals and a broken doll house were strewn on the floor. A rusted yellow shovel lay in a corner of the room, the paint of the shaft stained with something that was not rust.

“Who is she, Momma? Is she going to help us? Are we safe?”

Diane knelt down until she was eye level with her daughter and took her hands in hers.

“Of course we’re safe, darling. He can’t ever hurt us ever again.”

Diane kissed Anna on the forehead and lightly tapped her nose

“Her name is Rebecca. She’s very beautiful and she can’t be hurt.”

Anna giggled, “But why is she here then, Momma?”

“She’s here to make sure no one else has to worry about Daddy, baby, so he never bothers any girls again. "

Diane turned and seemed to look through the door. She couldn’t give Jesse what he what he deserved. But she could give the world this. She could keep the world safe from this monster.

When

words make you wet,

 and you crave phrase play -

mind begging for the heavy sting of  paper chains

that bind you to the screen.

Then your a guest in my house.

Don't overstay your welcome. 

Or the words will turn stale,

repeat on you

and you'll wake up hung over 

reeking of aftertaste. 

Be a good guest. 

Feast at my table. 

gorge on my offerings and leave 

Sated.

Still tipsy. 

But sleep it off in your own bed.

To make a long story short...

See how easy that was?

(There she was, just a squawking and a meek,

singing "Dom diddy daddy Diddy Dom daddy dim)."

I saw a trigger word one day,

Made me so mad I had to say.

"It's wrong to mock the blanks this way!"

But I posted it anyway.

RED bull

WHITE sheets.                                          &

BLUE balls.

short FUSE

tall SHOTS 

fast HANDS.

WET tears

SLURRED words

STOLEN consent 

legs PARTED

head TURNED

grand FINALE.

In a way, this is exactly what Netflix is doing.  Know what I mean? Go look at what's trending and then start scrolling and watch something.  If you're like me, and your're not.  You're nothing like me. In your dreams you're like me.  But if you're like me, you probably spend a few days scrolling through everything the streaming universe has to offer before turning on the live channels and watching Two and Half Men or Big Bang Theory again. 

What would a "Big Gang Bang Theory" comedy look like.  An autistic his mother had him tested Sheldon, trying to work out the optimum order for the entire cast to fuck Penny so that everyone can achieve exceptional orgasms, with the caveat that any cum spatter must avoid landing within 2 feet of Sheldon's Spot?  

I bet Howard's got a fucking fire hose between those spindly rooster legs. Sheldon would probably want him to go first. You know, to make sure Penny keeps her mouth shut for ten minutes.  Because it would be filled with engineer cock?  Get it?  

This whole streaming thing is beginning to feel a bit misogynistic. One of the things.  One of the many things that pisses me off about women is that they are always making me feel misognyistic.  Fuck them.

I started this Big Gang Bang Theory with the premise that Penny needs to achieve above average orgasms.  See, I love women!

Do you think Penny got her name because uh, head I win, tails she lose? Statsitically, a small amount of women fantasize about Leonard fucking them while their partner is nutting on their chest and thinking about the time their ex sucked another man's dick in front of them and how hot and how hot it was, even though they broke up over it that weekend.

See? You're nothing like me. 

You know the drill! 

,MERICA!

reposted..(maybe?)

An excited state

with undiscovered borders, the almost space -

last surrendered breath, between mouth and skin.

The final pause, the long moment.

A foreshadow of taste, the scented, secret parts that you've concealed

from all the boys.

Displayed and gifted for my greedy eyes.

I drink you in.

I devour without touching,

possess, without holding.

Mark you, brand you with mere intent,

forged and hardened in wet heat and need.

You are not here,

But you are here.

I taste the future memory of you,

Surrendered to the bare brush of lips against neck,

hands, finding their way.

The gift of a sigh,

whispered on a  heat lightning night,

and carried to me, in the dead of winter,

Sated and deprived, both gorged on anticipation.

My starving mouth ends its lazy adventure,

lingers one long, drawn out instant.

The architect of the arch. 

One last exhale

then wonderful wreckage.