The metal cables groaned like grandma, leisurely takin' lubed mannequin arm up her asshole, while obliterated on box wine.
As pretty a picture as a gruesome crime scene photo, the SlotZilla Zipline ā above Fremont Street ā snapped, having surpassed its weight limit.
The chick ridin' was just that ā a chick. As a result, nobody stopped to question whether she might be too heavy to participate.
She was 416 pounds.
The specified weight limit on the attraction was three bills.
We're talkin' a 116 nut discrepancy.
That said, this babe was 6' 6". As a result, she held her mass well, and seemed proportionate.
As I walked below ā putting distance between me and the foursome I'd just participated in at Binion's ā the giant broad splattered against the yellow, exterior wall of the Four Queens. Crimson on saffron ā it was an interesting contrast.
Saturated in sweat, I awoke. Bolting upright, I was less successful in catching my breath than the "authorities" have been in catching D. B. Cooper.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ!" my brain sprinted. Another nightmare?!
No, not the live organ Rorschach Test. When it came to that, if I had a shit to give, I'd have held onto it with every fiber of my being.
What the fuck did I care if somebody wanted to become a blood and guts Jackson Pollack? Let 'em. I'd grown tired of wiping the asses of an insane society.
What freaked me out was an unremitting feeling I was missing sex. Frantic, I rolled off the bed. Amid the dark room, I swiped my cell off a dresser that had obviously been recovered from an Apple II house, during the infamous atomic test of the same name.
My phone wasn't in much better shape, its faceplate covered in crusted female ejaculate, as well as dried mucus from a gagging blowjob I'd received evenings prior.
I hit the activate button on my $20 Al Bell brainchild on horse steroids.
"It's room number 178," came the latest text from Vegas Vic.
I thought I'd heard a message alert in my sleep. "When was this bastard sent?" I wondered.
My eyes acclimating to the only light amid a black room, I read the time stamp: "12:53 AM".
The super-glued digital clock on the nightstand gleamed: "1:17 AM".
There was still time. But time for what, I had no idea.
Backtracking, I pored over V2's previous communications: "The door's open. Not wide," continued Sin City's version of Chuck Woolery for the sexually adventurous, "but enough so you'll know you've got the right room."
V-Squared coordinated everything from one-on-one intimacies, to 50 person fuck rodeos, anywhere within Vegas, or its outlying areas.
Scanning his earlier texts, I'd deduced whatever was happenin' this evening was goin' down at the Motel 6 off Trop' and Dean Martin. Briskly washing my balls, I donned slacks smelling of salted caramel lube, and raced from the bunker some called my apartment.
Piloting my ship o' steel across Las Vegas Boulevard, I wondered how long the shelf life was on this Manager's Pick of the Week.
Passing the fake Statue of Liberty ā in front of the fake New York skyline ā I pictured the sculpture in question garbed in a strap-on dildo, affixed to a face harness.
Hitting a pothole, I watched as motorists in the rear view swerved to avoid falling prey to the same mistake.
Crossing the 15, I felt comforted knowing another soul-starved, local lawyer had yet again named himself the "Best in Vegas." The best what, I had no clue. That said, I'd be able to sleep soundly at night, envisioning his humble billboards shredding the bucolic desert landscape.
Fidgeting with my nuts, the thought of having sex ā within the next five minutes ā turned me on. Even though I'd been with thousands of women, each new adventure made me giddy as a virgin.
Hence, I pulled a "UFO" ā taking the left on Dean Martin without decreasing speed. Nearly careening into the car in the outer turning lane ā as the Middle Eastern driver flipped me off ā just added to the romance.
Clippin' curb, I executed a dirty right into the motor court's parking lot. Sparks flew from somewhere beneath the undercarriage of my vehicle.
An angry pedestrian threw something substantial that hit the rear of my car.
All was superfluous, as I'd honed in on sex, and was determined to get my share.
A menace to anybody on the street, I was a sick fuck, to be certain. Such stated, I didn't care. I mean, people were gettin' erect at the thought of another election, and everybody still killed each other over useless pieces of paper they called "cash."
Thus, I was just gonna do what I'd done for decades: fuck.
Racing into the wrong parking lot, I quickly realized there was no Room 178 on this side of the lodging. Hence, I spun the chariot, nearly flattening a disheveled woman with no teeth, who was screaming, "Fuck you, Don Tortaco!" into the empty night air. As I passed, she punched my vehicle.
Retracing my steps, I swerved back through the entrance from whence I'd come. Honing in on the sole door that was slightly ajar, I yanked my emergency brake, and slid into a spot ā bottom level, six spaces to the right.
Again, I had no idea who awaited inside, nor when they'd hang the "Closed" sign in the window. Thus, my meager mind was flooded with visions of the door abruptly closing in my face, as I approached.
As it turned out, a couple graced the accommodations. Through the crack between the door and the jamb, I could see a woman laying blindfolded, nude, and supine on a plastic canvas spread over the bed.
Her male counterpart sat cross-legged beside her ā video camera in hand ā ready to preserve the moment, so future generations could affirm mom loved cock.
Surmising I had the correct room, or was extremely lucky, I meekly knocked.
In response, hubby glanced up, and beckoned me in.
Blindfolded, the object of desire lay still upon a mattress that had assuredly received more semen deposits than a fertility clinic. The gorgeous woman's face was caked in hardened cum.
