God of the Game

JC comes into my room. Experiments are over and I can go home. What he got out of my buttocks and brain he won’t say, no matter how much I probed. Only clue he gave was that I’ll see reincarnations of myself running around in future.

Packing bags, I’d grown to love this place; grown to love my friends, three of them in particular; and grown to love my teachers, one exceptionally more.

I have to say my goodbyes.

Anna Doreen sits on a sofa in the staff room alone. She’s in a dark, tight corporate skirt and a figure hugging pearl-white with navy-blue stripes shirt. Spectacles, hair in a bun, some strands loose and teasing the ears, Anna is marking papers, and the two top buttons of her blouse are undone, promoting a racy bra and the voluptuous tease of cleavage beneath. Under her skirt are long pantyhose-legs, dark, sexy and mysterious, leading all the way to designer heels embroidered with the barbwire, florid circle that is the AD logo.

I made my presence felt, she looks up, holding a red pen and a printed piece of paper with too many crimson corrections. “Hi,” her lips tip upward, “going, I heard.”

I nodded.

Ms. Doreen closes the file the stack of ink-desecrated processed wood fibre is in, places them on a table next to the settee, and gestures for me to sit by tapping the cushion beside.

Strangely, I felt like I was visiting Mona the Moan, head Bitch of Mercy in my Horny Hound. But it can’t be. Anna Doreen is nothing like Mona.

`Cos for one, I have my tongue in her. I will never share, not even a drop of saliva, or other bodily fluids for that matter, with any professional slut of that feminist movement. They exist solely in my life for jerking off...and...torture.

The taste of her mouth is honey, dripping wine - slushy and messy and simply delicious. Our hot, passionate, embraced bodies slugging off furniture; it seems the chair is swallowing us whole, and at the whiff of Anna’s perfume smeared upon her breasts, I am transported, and her along, to a land before time, a land in a fruit of the flesh, budding on a tree of lust.

To a man, each flirtatious fruit on this tantalizing tree is a shapely woman. I’ve heard of this giant palm before, which incarcerates penises; inside each, the pulp is a chick pierced by lots of cocks and cummed on all over. Jizzed, it is the juice of the fruit when you cut or peel it open. The flesh is a foetus of a dead hot babe, drowned in semen, a delicacy of gods and men alike.

My sanguine lover is in one of these shells. She is sucking dicks off one by one. She likes it, she enjoys it. I am aroused, but a tinge jealous, a bit envious. I am a little afraid, but quite amused. Pomelo Anderson, in another cage, is locked on to one banana after another. They are both toying bunches of grapes.

The soil around the tree of lust is a cemetery composed of emasculated and castrated men, moaning. They can feel their collective genital’s excitement in the female fruits of flesh via psychic connectivity, or in some tech savvy cases, through Wi-Fi spectrums.

My organ is in my wife’s orifice. She is indulging me oral sex. I love her. Anna Doreen is the gutsy waitress once again; but I am no more human. I am a blob alien. Blubber is my belly, and Anna, sitting on it, sinks into green and purple jelly. My erection in her mouth is a tarantula. Eight-legged hard-ones; and she is taking her time with each. Thus, my pleasured out zone of a face is an aroused catfish with eyes at the ends of tentacles, three of them, checking out, with magnifying lenses, that bod I’d come to love. Limbs I have no use for except to clamp her in sexual postures. They are small, short and claw-like, and in fact, I move on my stomach, similar to an accursed serpent. I have four tails which act as whips to spank her with when she’s naughty and asking for it. They are also desirous to please Anna with. Two muscular appendages are lifting her up from my abdomen, and the other pair is riding her pussy and asshole. Anna Doreen makes beautiful music. She’s finished sucking off my octopus genitalia, and each tentacle, each arachnid leg, ejaculates on her. Anna Doreen is covered in thick blue cream, the colour and texture of my seminal fluid; and her face is at the centre, at the base of eight dicks opening up like a sunflower. The middle, where she osculates on sixteen loose globular objects, is golden brown and naturally lubricated, and Anna’s cheeks are rubbing on furred florets arranged in a Fibonacci pattern accustomed to the blueprint of creation. Her head is banging into the hymen of that spot, and soon, Anna is fucking me there with her brain. I take her out; I have other plans. I rearrange her with my dorsal extensions and stuff what’s above her waist into my fish mouth, all the while frenetically digging into the two holes below. Then I spit her on dry land as if she is Lady Jonah, and crawl all over her slimy body in monster rape.

The cavern of my mouth opened is a hippopotamus’ maw, and my giant tongue is spiked with hundreds of pink phallic protrusions, prickling Anna all over, sniffing her sensitive spots out. Another huge tongue, one akin to an adult-sized bolster, is coming out from the belly of this beast to lick her like an enormous pet dog welcoming its mistress home. Her hormones released are driving mine insane. She’s squatted in the large jaws of abomination, receiving cunninlingus from this fat, inscrutable ET.

Then as if JC changes the setting from landscape to portrait, dimensional reality is tilted ninety degrees to the left, and Anna Doreen is suddenly hanging from a cliff. What you see of me from above is just a gigantic chasm lined with sharp rocks of teeth, and evil tongues lashing out at her heels from a deep abyss.

I am hungry. I wanna ravish Anna Doreen. I want to eat my wife so that she will be mine; one body, one flesh. I succeed. I drag her into my cave and masticate her into tiny bits. Snacks. She disappears into a lotus of clear white semen bubbling and aerating out of my oesophagus, dissolving her flesh as her toes are dipped into the vicious liquid. A scarlet gown flows out on the surface as Anna submerges and sinks; she screams a silent ‘o’ as the pleasure of pain strikes her quick and fast, and a rose remains where Anna had been, jettisoned and afloat, terribly and acutely lonely; that’s how I feel, as the waft of her pheromones blow into my somnambulant apogee.

Then I belch a disgusting bellow and shit out her indigestible leftovers, like trinkets, and shoes, and pieces of raiment; unnecessary clothing. Hidden in her undigested hair coiled round dung and bone fragments that was once the person Anna Doreen, I locate the inimitable wedding ring I proposed to her with under that humongous tree.

What do I do with it? Now that she is gone, in my spirit and soul forever, that expensive metal and stone circlet of commitment is just worthless souvenir. I should have known by now, known that I am insatiable. I can’t fool myself with marital bliss. In the end I will destroy all that I love. That is my nature. I seek, and I take, and I fuck. Then I chuck and don’t even bother cleaning up or taking out the trash. Anna Doreen, she just lies there and decomposes, till she is compost and part of that Great Mama.