Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Friendly Fire / Death and Donald Duck's Nephews Come in Threes / free verse


Wanda Morrow Clevenger makes no excuses. It is what it is.

 

Friendly Fire

Chrissie rhymes with pissy and hissy fit and coo-coo

for cocoa puffs and from what little I saw of her smiling

mugshot she sure could get her hackles up; whatever

you do, don't call her 'miss' (that makes her real mad) and

if you address her as 'missus' you better be wearing a cup.

 

I had seen this brand before, behind door #2, Medusa fresh

from the hair salon, way on back in the show me yours and I'll

show you mine days where getting snatched bald for sticking

your head out of your fox hole was considered friendly fire;

 

the admin banned her from the group, she whined on her wall,

some defamation thrown in for artistic integrity

―an objective observer rushed to console.

 

 

 

Death and Donald Duck's Nephews Come in Threes

 

Voices wielding armchair philosophy agree

I should shake off the funk and step away from the flake;

save your skin, they chorus, rip off the band-aid―

guiltless unfriend

one quick shriek and the deed's done

 

time has tethered me to neurotic undertow, and besides

she fears facebook, will never join; her ex might find her

 

after 30 years is he looking for you, I asked, her

changing the subject

 

and she is afraid of dangle earrings

a cousin forever ago ripped open an earlobe with a hairbrush, and

everyone knows death and yawns and Donald Duck's nephews

come in threes

 

she told the ex she married a pro baseball player, traded up,

moved out of state―

she doesn't admit but fears getting hung in this lie

 

and she is afraid of tampons too; the voices rolled their eyes then

I thought I heard one fall off a chair laughing.

 

 

free verse

 

that one poetry contest I got suckered into that time

I swear was rigged to eliminate the riffraff, and I had

placed some lines with a journal or two but nothing

near this triolet pleiades sonnet sonsabitch feather quill

me a cinquain whilst I flash my pantaloons at the Pope

plucking love me or not dewy damn daisy petals

 

and I told those judges straight out, oh hell no

Sunday, November 25, 2012

How I Watch Political Debate


Kevin Ridgeway is a mannish boy from Southern California, where he neither surfs, drives a car or has a tan. Instead he sits in his cave, and at night he rides a unicorn over multi-colored clouds and moonbeams while everyone else is sleeping. The unicorn often shits out poems, and Ridgeway sends them in to journals and zines, claiming them to be his own. He must be stopped!

How I Watch Political Debates

I tried to get stoned

before the debates

I don’t usually smoke grass

but I get high blood pressure

when things get political

I went over

to the roach motel

next door where

my amigo shoots

cockroaches with

his magnum

bullet holes line the ground

of his house

he took a toke on his

miniscule joint

and it got sucked up

in his mouth and

went down his throat

leaving me sober

during the debates I

paced back and forth

chain smoking my

lungs raw and black

watching two men

in suits get into a

near fist fight

but mostly staring

at my women’s legs

as she crossed them

focused on their words

I wanted to have sex

instead,

thought it would be

more spirited and American

than paying attention,

but she declined to let

me spank her

or have her

spank me

I celebrated the debates

by going to a small

Mexican restaurant,

and buying a cheap,

fake mustache out of a

vending machine

the girl behind the counter

didn’t watch the debates

and was not amused by

my mustache

she was there doing a real job

rolling the burritos

I furiously began to

demand extra chiles

adjusting my blonde

mustache as I screamed

and then I got kicked out,

and when the door slammed,

my fake mustache flew

into the gutter

and a group of cockroaches

dragged it away

 

 

Thursday, November 22, 2012

The Mansion / Window Peeks



Anita McQueen runs the streets at night, feeling the wind against her face, and long shadows on her back.

 

The Mansion

You give me your
dead eyes and testicles
expecting me to spread
like some grateful nympho,
when frankly your frank looks
rather haggard,
and I just changed my
mind and mood...
I'm out of here
on my little bike
back into the city,
where men know how to laugh,
and boys know how to dance
like animals.



Window Peeks

Swelling up
the mark
I do it
expertly

the men
the boys
all the hits
grinning
in their instant world
cartoons

and I
running nude
window peeks
for a little licorice
and ice

relishing
when
I melt
under the hand
of the sun

my crack
filling in
with hot asphalt.


Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Between Lines/Legs


Caitlin Hoffman  is a mink wearing a suit of human skin. She'd like to live in your brain if you'd let her.


Between Lines/Legs

 
Never wanted him. Never will. Hated him more than... loved him even more than that and... Just wanted to retreat, tail between the legs. No eye contact. Fists in the face. Every day I saw him.

Take my name and shove it up his nasal tract, give it all up, no acting here, no trying to be pretty and no faking any strength.

His charming grin melted into a sneer, sticky with toxic waste... his romance-ridden compliments turned to shards in my brittle, shaking chest.

"Speak of the devil". Laughs. Shrieks of cruelty. Winding around me like I was some disease, like touching me and taking all those kisses (pulling them, wrenching them from my lips) had been the start of a sickness, like touching and kissing me again would rape the marrow from his bones and leak liquid into his brain.

Never wanted me. Never did. Maybe every once in a while but... he’d always find someone else to warm his ribs and...

Just wanted to escape from him, but those pills didn’t quite work and he stayed tucked safely in my nightmares.

Used to fantasize. Kill him. Shoot him. Burn him. Choke him. Used to think of shoving needles down his throat... kissing him (like rape, like love) while he vomited viscera and said goodbye to our cruel little world, that world we had sworn to fight against together.

"Go and die!" Said that and he... the sadness flashed in his eyes and I was reminded of what we had been.

But those pills didn’t quite work and I wasn’t allowed visitors anyway.

Used to fantasize about scraping pheromones in his skin. Licking the tears clean, savouring the salt. (Just one more time.) Hearing him say that thing (just one more time) and... moan like he used to on the phone when I was shoved in blacked out corners of my room, rocking against my own hand and praying that no one would hear the dirty, dirty words cussed out of my desperate mouth. So goddamned, fucking desperate. Hearing him buck and spray on the other end of the line, so goddamned far away, never so close that I could touch him and ever reach him, reach that puss-blocked organ I so needed to see...

Never able to eat his heart, rape his soul, ruin his corpse, brand my name into his hand just to make sure he’d never forget it. (Make him read me every time he wrote a note, scratched his chin or rubbed his cock empty.)

Used to want to run. Bolt, scatter with broken ankles. Kick up dust, kiss his broken nose and watch the comets of my caring blast away his nerve receptors.

Then when he was gone, up and out of my life, up and out and gone and hardly ever seen... suddenly I needed him. Just needed to see him again, no matter how much I didn’t want him.

DIDN’T, DON’T, NEVER WILL WANT HIM.

There were so many days (months...) that went by without word, and I’d hear of this girl or that girl but tried not to get jealous because I had this guy and that guy too. Separately, we lived in those sins. Lived apart from each other. Never a daily factor in each other’s lives. A footnote, a nightmare coughing out dust in the medulla oblongata.

Every once in a while sights were made, kisses exchanged regardless of this girl or that guy.

"You look so good today." Quiet in the face of compliments, just like those compliments that came before the insults that came before the pills that didn’t quite work.

Then when it happened... so many years after I hoped or dreamt it ever would... Desperate, awkward kisses lacerating skin, but never enough to draw up blood, to leave some tangible mark on me or him (like a welt, like a scar), real proof that we’d ever been there. Snakes shedding morals.

"It’s just, it’s been so long..." "Shh," and he grabbed me, shut me up with his mouth on my own, letting me suck the calcium out of his skeleton (one more time), letting me steal his skin and make him feel something, no matter how sad or empty or wrong it all was.

Kissing down his body.

"Aren’t you still with her?"

Gasping in his own self-loathing:

"This will be good for us. It’ll help our relationship."

Burns on the breasts. Mouth suddenly chalk-dry, desert-dry, no saliva coming up no matter how hard I tried.

Scorned kisses on his cock. Sucking him down with a dry, angry mouth.

Never wanted him, even when he was in me.

Over too fast. Split from the moment, rushed and compounded by those words he used to say to me. The "uglys" and the "freaks"... "We went our own ways"... "She broke my heart once then had the nerve to think we could stay friends"... "Let me fix your hair so you’ll look like a normal person"... "You look so good today"... all announcing a drought between my legs. Numbing nerves, cutting beautiful throats in my brain. Such pretty paintings (lost) in passion, so many dreams (lost) in the smoke. That fire which had always determined our lust... determined our love and our hate and the regrets of what had never been... strangely absent when our bodies finally collided in that house.

That house was so goddamned quiet.

Too far apart, even when he was in me.

Walked around the basement afterwards when he had gone off somewhere to get me water or food or just to avoid being in the same room as me. Saw this warped, darkened version of myself reflected in the tv screen, shut off from everything... Looked at my body and wondered if there were welts and scars burning me up on the inside, if my shrunken, slightly damaged liver was tending to them, massaging them clean of infection.... Wondered if I’d ever come to a point where I’d feel like I was pretty at all... wondered when love had become a cancer-kiss. Transferrable through the lips.

There was a pebble in my shoe... it ate at my big toe while he walked me to the bus stop.

Never wanted me. He never did. Not even when he was furiously thrusting (finally in the same room as his lust) and making his way up to an orgasm that shot against the sheets, an orgasm that came too fast and didn’t last long enough for either of us. We’d touched each other like strangers, like the lovers we should have been sharing intimacy with. Had he stopped wanting her or had he just wanted me too much?

Didn’t ask too many questions. Not enough to discover the truth.

Fantasized about ending it for good. For one of us or... both of us.

Wondered if he ever wondered about me.

Never wanted him. Never will. Couldn’t ever love him, not like I loved this man or the other one. He hardly even knew me, seldom ever saw me.

Never wanting to see him... always half-hoping I will.

Run into each other, crammed up in the corners of a bar, too close to touch and too faraway to speak.

Run into him in a park with a wife at his side and child on his arm, eyes quietly begging that I might give him that escape he always sought from me, that I will return to him as the Other Woman to hide under his shame, wrap my sinewy flesh-sticks called legs around his waist... finally getting the chance to say,

"No, not this time."

Maybe even getting to hear him say it, that thing he would never say unless he was drunk or unless we were texting or e-mailing or talking on the phone, that thing he would never say as long as we were face to face and...

 

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Sam


Josh Olsen is a writer, teacher, and father from Southeast Michigan. His first and maybe last book SIX MONTHS is available from Zygote in My Coffee/Tainted Coffee Press.

 

 
Sam

 

Sam was the third girl on stage.

She was one of two Asian women dancing that shift, but while the other was taller, thinner, flat-chested, and Chinese, Sam was petite, yet curvy, and Japanese.

I didn’t often find Japanese women sexually attractive, and I definitely didn’t obsess and drool over them like so many men I knew did, but my physiological response to Sam was immediate and irrepressible.

In laymen’s terms, she made my dick as hard as a rock.

So, after Sam’s routine, when she sauntered off the stage and asked, “Are you gonna windowshop all day?” I had to fight my instincts and try to play it smooth.

“Well, I just got here,” I replied, “so I’d like to have a couple more drinks, first.”

And, with that, she was gone, off to proposition the next customer.

With the exception of employees, the bar was nearly empty, and it was rather brightly lit and smelled strongly of cleaning products.

Everything seemed so square and straight and sober.

I was…uncomfortable.

It was a weekday afternoon, and the first time I’d gone to a topless bar by myself, and I was beginning to regret my impulsive decision to pull in, but after a few beers, I began to loosen up, and by the time Sam made her second appearance on the main stage, I was pleased that I had decided to come.

At first, I’d merely stopped to see some tits and drink a beer or two and leave with some cash in my pocket, but after seeing Sam, I decided to splurge on a lapdance, and she must have intuited what I was thinking, because after she finished her second performance, she didn’t even ask me what I wanted.

She took me by the hand and led me to a dimly-lit, curtained booth.

We made some brief small talk and she complimented my moth-eaten cashmere sweater and told me that I looked like an engineer, but when the music started she went straight for my cock.

She stroked it through my jeans, at first, but since I didn’t object, she undid my belt and pulled it out.

To say that I was shocked would have been an understatement but, goddamn, it felt fucking good.

It was only a handjob, but it was a thoroughly unexpected handjob, and at the time being, I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

It was exactly what I needed.

For the duration of three songs, Sam enthusiastically jacked me off, and I came close to cumming several times, but I wasn’t quite sure about the proper etiquette.

Was I even allowed to cum, and, if so, could I shoot it on her tits, like I wanted to do?

And so I played it safe and managed to hold back until she finally whispered, “Gimme that poison,” and right before I let go she gave me an uppercut to the testicles, which made it feel like I was cumming from the tips of my toes.

“Nobody’s ever done that to me before,” I confessed while putting myself back together, and Sam smiled knowingly, and the crow’s feet around her eyes made her look much older than before.

She was still beautiful, and her tits were still perfect, but cumming seemed to improve my eyesight.

“That’s as far as I ever go,” she proclaimed, after asking if she’d made a repeat customer out of me, and after I paid her I offered to buy her a cocktail but she told me that she didn’t drink.

“Well…have a good night,” I said, and she gave me an emotionless peck on the cheek, then I made my way towards the exit after stopping in the bathroom to wipe some of the cum off my lap.

I felt kind of bad for running off so suddenly, and I worried that it made me appear guilty or ashamed of what had just happened, but the alcohol and lust had worn off, and it was just about time to pick up my kids from school.

 

 

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Trapping Oneself

Kent L Johnson

I hail from the Central Valley of Northern California. I write novels and short works of fiction as something I do when I'm not paying the bills. I am a biologist, I've traveled the world, I own a motorcycle leather store and website and lots more. You can find more about me at http://KentLJohnson.com

 
Trapping Oneself


“It's my frickin' neck again. God, I can barely move my head.”

“I think you're a hypochondriac,” my current girlfriend, Sandy, tells me. “Your neck, your carpal tunnel, numbness in your fingers, vertigo, a small rash from God only knows what... tennis elbow.”

“But it does hurt. I must have slept wrong or something.”

“Slept wrong? Christ, you were bouncing all over last night. Kept waking me up.”

“I'm sorry,” I tell her meekly.

I look at her and notice she has black lines under her eyes from lack of sleep. She's still in her robe sipping coffee. She'll get ready for work in about ten minutes.. The robe hangs loosely open and I can't help but stare at her breast. The soft tissue just laying there, her nipple erect.

“What you need to do is go out and get some exercise. Just because teachers get the entire summer off, doesn't mean you should lay around and watch movies all day. Get out, go for a bicycle ride, do something.”

I'm still focused on Sandy's tit. I'm in my boxers and I can feel a little tug on them as my cock moves on it's own, just slightly.

“Maybe I'll go get a massage today.”

“Walk there, get your blood moving. I'm going to spend the night at my apartment tonight. I need to get some sleep, so I won't be over after work.”

Sandy finishes her coffee and stands up. I move next to her and put my arms around her. “I'm sorry for keeping you awake.”

I give her a hug. I can smell the coffee on her breath, that acrid aroma that filters up from the esophagus when she exhales. Her chest pushes tightly against me also as she breathes and I can feel her breasts rubbing on my chest.. My cock twitches again, so slightly.

I grab my coffee cup and follow her into the bedroom. I sit on the bed mute. She enters the bathroom. I hear water from the faucet splashing into the shower pan. I move to the far end of the bed just in time to see her step into the stream. I marvel at the vision of her ass as it moves into the steamy environs. I recall how her buttocks feels when I grab both cheeks during love making.

It's been a while since we screwed around, I don't know why.

I hear the shower turn off and I get up and make my way back to the kitchen. I refill my coffee and walk outside in my boxer shorts and get the newspaper that lays next to the sidewalk. I see a curtain move aside from across the street. Someone watching me. Kids out of school, most likely. My head and neck ache as I lean over to pick up the paper and the blood rushes into them. I'm a little dizzy upon rising, paper in hand. The dizziness goes away rapidly. I turn and walk back into the house.

I hear a blow dryer shut off and I know she is almost ready for work. She appears in the doorway of the bedroom. Sandy looks great, her hair clean, fresh makeup. She always dresses in chic clothes that look so comfortable.

“Bye,” Sandy says. She kisses me on the cheek, then walks toward the front door, car keys in hand, purse over her shoulder and overnight bag under one arm. “Don't forget, get some exercise.”

“I'll try.”

I scan the front page of the paper, nothing new. I call my masseuse and get an appointment in just an hour. I hop in the shower and quickly wash yesterday's grime off my body. I put on loose shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and sandals. I make the bed before I leave, then take the car to the strip mall where my favorite massage artist works.

It's an Asian massage parlor. Michelle is my masseuse. She's a tiny Asian girl of perhaps a hundred and five pounds. Her face is smooth and child like. Her smile is contagious. Michelle is her Americanized name. She emigrated from Hong Kong three years ago. Her Chinese name is Meixiu. For such a small girl, she can beat and dive into the muscles of my body thoroughly. I sometimes hurt for two days after a massage.

I pay for an hour, then walk to Room 6, enter and close the door. I peel off my clothes and hang them on pegs. I take a towel off the massage table and throw it over my bare bottom as I lay face down on the table. A knock comes on the door and Michelle walks in. We exchange pleasantries and she begins to massage my back, grinding on my shoulders and neck. She walks across my back on her knees and leans into the muscles, pushing bundles apart and smoothing them back again. I grunt and my face contorts at times because it is painful. She works on my arms and hands, then brings out body oil and rubs the silky liquid all over me pushing down hard as it rubs into my skin. She removes the excess oil off my back and arms with hot towels. The towels sting at first before the heat dissipates.

She starts on my legs, spreading oil evenly over them. Michelle deep rubs my calf muscles and applies pressure points to the inside of my knees with her tiny hands and I almost scream in pain. She moves up to my thighs and and uses both hands to rub around them and as she does, she makes sure her hand rubs across my dick. She spreads oil on my ass and massages those muscles and she ever so gently runs her fingers down the crack and across my anus. She repeats the ass massage a few more times. She covers my ass with the towel and then lightly runs her fingertips up the inside of my legs in a swirling pattern, and then she tickles my balls. She knows just where to touch. At the base of the scrotum she applies a little pressure and I can feel my cock stiffen and convulse. I lift my butt in the air and her hands find their way under me, and she strokes me a couple times before she climbs off and wipes me down with hot towels.

Michelle tells me to roll over on my back. She covers my sex with a towel, making a tiny tent. My chest and shoulders get massaged by those small yet powerful hands. I can see her now that I'm facing upward. I can see the concentration on her face as she plows into the muscle tissue. Her chest is small but I really want to see it.

“Topless? Like usual?” I ask.

She checks the lock on the door, then removes her top and bra.

“Always for you. You my favorite,” she says in broken English.

She stands over my head and pushes her hands down across my chest, over my belly and under the towel, touching me. Her tiny crab-apple sized tits rub over my face. I lick one as it passes by. She smiles and repeats the move.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yes, Meixiu,” I say. She likes it when I call her by her Chinese name.

“I work on your legs now, okay?”

“Please.”

She begins the same massage routine as when I was laying on my stomach. She rubs the muscles first starting with the calf, then works her way up until she is moving around my thighs. She uncovers me me and begins to play with my balls, working her hand up and down my shaft. She spills some more body oil over me and continues to play. I really want her to remove her pants and squat over my face while she finishes the massage, but she won't go that far. I know, I asked before.

She sits on her knees between my legs. My legs stretch across the table. Her right hand moves up and down my erection in a complete stroke. All at once I feel it and I watch as it shoots up in the air and lands across my hip, not once but three times. I watch her grin as she slows her hand down but keeps it on me. Meixiu then hits that pressure point somewhere on my scrotum with her left hand and a new burst of jism and wave of pleasure pass over me. I see her look at her hand, it's dripping with my viscous secretion. She smiles at me as she lifts her hand to her nose and inhales the scent. A drip of me falls from her hand, then lands on the tip of one crab-apple size tit.

“You smell good. You need see me more. You have much stress,” Michelle says to me. “Your girlfriend not treat you right. That why I here.”

She cleans us both up with hot towels. She dresses and leaves the room. I'm alone and content, really content. I think about what I just did and about Sandy while I put on my clothes. I should feel guilty, and I do, but only slightly. I like Sandy, but lately, I haven't felt like making love to her. I still feel the need, but for some reason, at times, Sandy just doesn't turn me on like when we were new lovers.

That's my problem, always has been. I get comfortable with one person then I feel trapped. I don't want the pressure of a relationship, too many expectations. Expectations that I know I can't always fill, so failure is just around the corner. I don't want to fail.

I leave the room and on the way out, Michelle greets me with a glass of cold water.

“This is for you. Drink,” she tells me.

I drink the water and pitch the cup. My neck is feeling better and I'm relaxed. I give Michelle a forty dollar tip. She smiles at me. I don't feel trapped at all.

 

 

Monday, November 12, 2012

Deepest Swoon / Sap / Odd Hum


Misti Rainwater-Lites stays alive in San Antonio, Texas. She has one son and four tattoos. When blocked Misti Googles Captain Beefheart lyrics.

 

Deepest Swoon

She feels him fucking her astral style so goddamn it
he must be, he is, he is fucking the shit out of her
from all those wine soaked states away
and she feels him so good and she feels him so hard
she bites her own arm
screams blow down the straw walls

stars and satellites shake their heads
smoke curls and those are her ten wicked toes
witches drown sultry and those are her two evil eyes

and her hair such disobedient sprawl is a snake cemetery

in other words the road that leads in clouds of dust

up the mesa that is Acoma Sky City.

Her ass, meanwhile, is some kind of basket.
Delicious. Untouched. Brimming with a most
unusual picnic.

 

 

Sap

Oh fuck these sad songs this lonely beer
balloons fat with maybe bursting beyond
your fingers which are aching for mine.
I could blow you kisses from my particular prison

until I fall down dead and get thrown out with the slop

but then everything you love about me
would be a guess at most and baby
we’re better than any game show.
I’m done with games. I’ve lost all the darts.
Your mouth is the prize I’ll never possess
but instead of Billie Holiday records in the dark
I’d much prefer to treat myself to 48 hours
with you…tangible, tangled up, treating time like taffy
s t r e t c h i n g

p u l l i n g

sticking our tongues out at clocks and televisions,
telephones and calendars

the entire calculating gawking drooling world
beyond us.

We could meet in Vegas and I promise
it wouldn’t be tacky.
Slot machines and tourists and drunk frat boys
pissing on the sidewalk in front of the volcano
would disappear
but the neon would stay on for us
and it would be Paris and Cairo and Coney Island
the carnival that ate the planet

the circus that stayed

the wedding cake that did not dissolve in sobs

a tiny godless infinity

our piracy

so much gold

visible only to us

no one could ever

steal it.

Odd Hum

 

Eat thistles from cunts, celebrate the sixty hour work week

with angel piss beer and darts, gallivant desperate

in the shit smear parade and disregard me, the forsaken cow

shadowed ugly in the corner.

The grass is gone.

I’m licking salt from wounds, spouting fables

in an American sitcom cheese ass accent

to soothe myself

put myself out to pasture

in a manageable trance.

The fat of sacrifices is yellow

and I lost my martyr glasses in the snow

so I don’t see that, however noble.

You might assume I’m lazier than Lazarus

and trashier than gasoline sign orange,

waiting for the ghost foxes to appear in the glowing garden.

I’m ambitious enough for twenty cowboys

but I was raised to maintain a phlegmatic profile.

I chew things slow when there are things to chew.

If there were pudding you would find the proof

but I can’t seem to locate an acceptable bowl.

Friday, November 9, 2012

I'm Here To Nail You Motherfucker


Make-up, Hair, and Assailant: Kitty Maer
Model: Elle Tyler

RESURRECTION


Chuck Willman is a self-taught writer with poems and essays published widely. He loves hiking naked in the desert, painting, and hanging with his dog. Chuck lives in Las Vegas with his partner of 24 years.

 

RESURRECTION

 

Two vodka martinis from the bar nearby made me hear the calling to my

own Gethsemane that night, a blood-red splashed, black back room—

half a block from the bar—willing to be crucified; ready to meet Him. I wore

 

thorns scribbled in black ink across my smooth chest: POZ – USE – PLEASE,

and a stained, come-crusted, piss-damp jockstrap wafting its sweet and sour

scent behind as I walked, making my procession to the only place I knew 

 

Disciples were waiting for that ritual we all hungered for. Once there, calm

and sure in my judgment, a large, nude hirsute body (Pilate?) slowly stepped

forward out of the shadows, leading me to the black wooden St. Andrew’s

 

cross in the corner, a spread-eagled wallflower standing upright, alone, as if

waiting for the right partner to dance with. Face the wall, the behemoth growled

into my ear. Sensing I was a virgin at this, he forced me around and secured my

 

thin wrists and ankles tightly onto the crossed wood with thick, prickly rope

that burned my fresh tender flesh, digging into my skinny arms and legs like

barbed wire or nails, my willowy body twitching in excited anticipation and

 

pain. His enormous hand hovered over my spine—sending chills through every

nerve, my stiffening cock scraping against its damp restraint—before sliding his

paw down to caress the white cheeks of my ass. THWACK!—came a sudden blow.

 

I yelped, startled, my ass on fire and stretched body quivering. He palmed my

tightened butt before surprising me with another—THWACK! I screamed louder

this time, the pain shooting through my entire body. Massaging me roughly, he

 

grunted a firm order into my ear, No sounds. No sounds—THWACK! THWACK!—

a ruthless slap to each tight cheek again. But I bit my lip, silent, head spinning from

the blissful ache. He removed the black leather riding crop from the wall, making 

 

me stare at its thick flat end first before pressing it against me, then sliding it up and

down my ribcage, flicking it softly once in the middle of my back. I squirmed, but the

rope cut into my wrists as my hair was grabbed while a bottle of poppers was stuck

 

under my nose—a Molotov cocktail exploding in my brain—my next desperate breath

making my eyes roll back, and any desire to fight cease. The leather landed sharply

again in the same place, the thrash now a blend of excruciating pain and wicked joy.

 

Seconds passed. Then several hands rubbed and pinched my bare skin, kissing the rising

pink welts and worshipping me by stroking and pinching my trembling torso as I hugged

the cross. My cock ached, longing to be freed from its cage while the flogging continued.

 

All twelve Disciples passed the crop. Thirty-nine lashes across my back and ass caused an

odd, numbing sting as my skin split open, forming raised, purple gashes and small dashes

of blood resembling the assiduous lines of stitches in homemade quilts, or tiny carats of

 

delicately carved, sparkling rubies. It was almost unbearable, but far more exhilarating.

New, my front was spared. Instead, four Disciples untied my limbs, releasing me from

the cross to drag me to their black leather altar, swinging by chains from rafters. My jock

 

was ripped from my legs as my wrists and ankles were once again nailed in place, this

time with leather straps that were even tighter, though I barely felt their burn as my jock

was soaked in poppers and placed over my face. Breathing in this intoxicating potion

 

made the smoldering welts on my back against the wide leather straps of the dangling,

merciless table feel more intense and pleasurable. Carcass-hung, I was the offering; they

lapped my entire body with their wet tongues like wolves softening the hide of a kill.

 

Faceless, growling men began their feeding; fingers burrowed deep into my ass, prying

it open and mouths eating my insides clean, slobber hanging, claiming place settings for

this Last Supper. Eyes wild-wide, my prayers to be devoured were answered when fat

 

cocks and nimble hands took turns ramming and exploring, stretching my starving hole.

My Disciples brutally sliced into my writhing torso at both ends until my mind ascended

above my body, watching as they stabbed what was stone for far too long. My mouth was

 

held open by thick fingers, becoming their spittoon and bottomless chalice, raping my

inverted throat, sliding cocks deep down, slicking them up, saliva-soaked, rigid, ready,

gagging me until I spit up their rancid wine. Then one by one they lined up to bathe my

 

gut—a ravaged, stained collection plate—feeding me what spilled out: my own blood and

the rich honey churned with the greasy seed of all who had denigrated my temple. Cocks

and fingers were crammed into my mouth, and I choked down exactly what I had come for,

 

then was baptized again, fucked clean with their sour fluids—hosed off, soothed by their

warmth. Fountains of piss rinsed my mouth for more skull-fucking, semen and saliva leak-

ing from my lips—force-fed this, too. Then (Judas?) unhooked my weary, aching limbs,

 

and my own throbbing cock was finally attended, erupting all over myself, leaving me spent

and shaking. Tears ran down my slimy face as every single gash, prick, and thorn had been                                                             transcendent, delivering me to Heaven.