The Five Hour Hard On 1

When planning on being a Numbers Guy, a crucial trick of the trade is learning how to hump all night. Should you find yourself in a room filled with new women ― eager to fuck ― knowing how to pound mound until dawn results in multitudinous Digits.

In contrast, banging the traditional way ― shooting one's load, each time you mattress dance ― will cause you to miss out on numerous Numbers. Why fuck one woman, when you can fuck 12?!

Believe it or not, one of the keys to accomplishing this has to do with how you dress. Sounds strange, but an article of clothing actually enables guys to fuck better.

Work boots allow a Numbers Guy to gain traction on nearly any surface ― be it the wooden floor of a Motel Sex, slick with lube, or the nubby carpet of Strip casinos. Industrial-strength waffle stompers ― with soles more gripping than a Twilight Zone episode ― allow you to be the last man standing at a 15 guy gangbang, ready for the next Number to present itself.

In conjunction with the aforementioned attire, employ what's known as the Butterfly Position. This posture involves sliding a woman to the edge of the bed, and fucking her while on her back, as you're standing between her legs.

The Butterfly Position utilizes little physical exertion. You'll be a sexual superhero ― humping in this offshoot of Missionary ― since you're only using your hips, and will thus tire far less easily than when employing your entire body.

As this posture requires the penetrator to stand, add to your ease by placing substantial furniture behind you. In doing so, you give yourself a foothold with which to wedge your boot, and further keep from sliding, enabling you to thrust with more power.

Lube helps one retain an erection for hours ― an imperative when looking to fuck all night. Stroking yourself for protracted periods — minus groin grease — can cause your cock to become sore. Once you break the tender skin on your dick, it takes a week or more before you can vigorously jack-off again.

Lube alleviates that problem, keeping your hands from directly contacting your shaft. Liberally employing lubricant will stop you from rubbing yourself raw, and provide you the opportunity to fuck for longer intervals.

Flavored lube. The Wicked line carries an array that doesn't become mucilaginous as quickly as other brands. Caramel Apple, Cinnamon Bun, Salted Caramel, Vanilla, etc. are some of the arrows Mike Oxhard constantly keeps in his quiver.

A pittance of pretties don't like flavored lube. Such stated, a preponderance of pulchritudinous playmates appreciate the consideration displayed, when making such a purchase "for her pleasure."

Vanilla seems to be the most popular of the Wicked infused products. This flavor is neutral enough to appeal to most pallets, yet not so divergent folks find it beyond their scope.

Without knowledge of the above tricks of the trade, Oxhard wouldn't have been able to withstand the following onslaught:

A spume of hooker playing cards littered the soiled sidewalk of Las Vegas Boulevard.

Mike scurried toward the Wynn, where bronze windows tore the sky.

Deep-frying, cotton candy, and knock-off cologne suffocated the ambient scent of the desert.

Oxhard moved as quickly down the street as the crowds would allow. This was tourist season, and the teeming throngs were slathered liberally from Mandalay Bay to the Stratosphere.

Half the text message was misspelled. The included pics were either real, or purloined from a high end porn site. If the former was the case, this was gonna be a tasty treat, hand-crafted on a scratch skillet.

"ill be down in tree monutes," the electronic correspondence read. "she doesnt speak english and i cant get it up. we been awake 4 days doing blow. u need 2 fuk her 4 as long as i say. it takes her at lest 2 hours to cum"

Breeching the sterile lobby of the Wynn, Mike texted the couple on a cell that smelled of other people's beer, and recycled crab legs. Food and beverage used Oxhard, and belched him out, as he exchanged his life for cash — the vital scraps of paper this sick industry provided. He kept a roof over his head, as a runner in a restaurant on the Strip.

The golden-gilded elevator vomited forth a waste of human flesh drowning in dollars ― its soul replaced by avarice. Whatever this was hadn't been human for a while, and probably never put up a fight to remain so.

Such was the worst type of stumbling stiff ― the insanely monetarily affluent. Mike had nothing in common with them. The fact this disheveled douche wanted his girlfriend fucked by somebody with a huge hard-on, was the only reason Oxhard was here.

A Ramones shirt ― to make him "cool" ― and a wad of waved hundreds, to buy a pack of gum in the gift shop. Of course, a scene ― rivaling a battle from Star Wars ― was made, to display how much money this guy had, when the cashier couldn't produce change for a Franklin.

Mike had never heard a Ramones song, and only held hundred dollar bills when customers used them to pay bar tabs. Led to the room, Oxhard greased his oversized boner in the hotel hallway, beneath his threadbare slacks. All the while, he wondered if his Sherpa guide had ever possessed a soul.

Whatever the case, he'd be embedded in a waxed wagina in less time than it took Oprah to rape the masses.

This afternoon's entree ― Moroccan of origin ― was as plastic as an action figure, from fake tits and ass, to a bleached anus, and ice-white contact lenses. Mike could've been fucking a blow-up doll, except for the fact this portal of penetration felt warm, and he could hear what remained of its heart faintly beating within its chest.

"Choke her out, bro," the coked boyfriend decreed.

"Huh?"

"Choke her out! Choke her out!!" the incensed beau clamped down on his woman's throat with maniacal force.

Oxhard turned away, so as not to look.

Gums bleeding, the woman spit hemoglobin.

Smeared adrenaline made the room reek like the insides of a slaughterhouse, metallic to taste.

Mike had done enough coke in the past to know about the drip, and he surmised these two had waterfalls draining down the backs of their throats.

"Cum on that fuckin' horse cock," the crazed companion demanded. "Cum on that fuckin' nine inch dick!" the significant other levied the dissolute decree.

A demented demon dug dried bones ― doubling as digits ― into the wash-and-wear woman's windpipe. It was a scene from Psycho, and Mike kept wondering how long it was gonna take the head gasket to blow.

"Just a few more minutes, man. Just a few more minutes!" the bellicose boyfriend kept promising Oxhard, as he lay languid beneath his girlfriend's convulsing corporeal chassis.

But "a few more minutes" became a tavern sign promising: "Free Burgers Tomorrow!"

A recalcitrant Rottweiler, the chick never came.

Seconds turned into minutes; and minutes, hours, as the belligerent boyfriend's boner ― bread minus the yeast ― refused to rise.

All the while, Oxhard ― lucid and sober ― was enlisted to perpetually penetrate.

It's one thing to fuck for five hours; it's an entirely different beast, when called upon to pierce womb for 300 minutes, sans respite. We're talkin' no time to lavish in a full-course meal at the Y, allowing one's steel pipe a minute of reprieve.

Mike now knew firsthand such was possible, but physically hurt more than a pickaxe lobotomy.

Oxhard 's cock had been doused with acid. Carving granite, he continued boring subterranean tunnels. Two hours, three, four, five!

Either this chick was gonna blow like a tax on oxygen, or Mike was gonna dump his load like the Exxon Valdez! Somethin' had to happen, as our hero's hose hurt more than the death dictum: President Jeff Bezos!

T-minus ten, nine, eight―

Oxhard uncorked the cracked Cook's bottle — doubling as his dong — and released the fuckin' Kraken! At that moment, more cream was dispensed than the dairy industry delivers in a year!

Subsequent fireproofing this woman's chest, stomach and thighs, Mike scrambled for the bathroom, where he doused his dong in ice water for what seemed days.

The above scenario wouldn't have been possible, if Oxhard hadn't been wearing work boots, and humping in the Butterfly Position.

— authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. Mike Oxhard