Double Your Pleasure

THIRTY-SIX

A 36 pack of condoms; a bottle of lube; half a tank of gas. Let the fuckin' games begin!

The couple demand we meet 30 miles away, at 4:00 AM.

Upon arrival, attack dogs snarl at me from behind far too low a fence.

The person answering the front door doesn't look well. He informs me his wife awaits in the back bedroom. I watch as this dude ― who epitomizes the term "pear-shaped" ― labors for at least 60 seconds to traverse the two steps leading into the rest of the house.

My initial thought is to run, though the idea of a wanton woman awaiting somewhere in this Nightmare on Elm Street home is intriguing.

Upon entering the back bedroom, I discover said senorita tucked beneath the covers, in almost complete darkness. Since it's colder outside than a snowwoman's asshole, I excuse myself to the bathroom, and run straight into a motion-activated assistance toilet. As I step toward the device, the lid opens automatically.

I find myself wanting to offer a financial stipend, in order to cover the husband's obvious medical expenses. Fortunately, by that time, I'm no longer clothed, and heading toward this guy's wife, recalling I barely possess enough money with which to make this night of upsetting passion occur.

Acclimating to the dungeon-esque surroundings, I discern this completely nude female is actually hot! We start goin' at it. All is lookin' more promising than a blind guy winning the Indy 500, until I flip this little lady over, and begin suiting up my festive friend.

Since the chick has her ass to me, she can't see what I'm doing. The dude, however ― who's observing from the corner ― vociferates, "We don't use condoms."

I turn, nonplussed. "Well, I, uh―"

"In fact, we hate rubbers!" By this point, the guy is attempting to stand, and his wife has turned away, apparently in disgust.

"Rubbers turn us off!" the behemoth bellows.

I'm dressed in less time than it takes Charlie Sheen to pick up hookers. In mere seconds, I'm out the door, and runnin' for my truck.

Behind me, the attack dogs howl.

Certain the Hell Hounds will be released, I lunge for my vehicle, fire up the ignition, and punch the accelerator. Hobbling home, I give praise to Hal Holbrook ― the Patron Saint of Sex ― for saving me from the evening's nightmarish trek into the bowels of Hades.

WHORE

As prompted by the online classified, I asked her name.

"I'm the whore of my Master," she replied.

It was all I could do to refrain from laughing. And then, the quintessential Asian guy made his appearance.

"Hey, everybody! I'm Steve! I'm not certain I have the correct hotel ― Oh, damn!" Extending a hand toward the woman in question, ol' Esteban did everything the classified stipulated not to. "Are you the whore from the online ad?"

It was my inaugural slut training session, and I couldn't have been more thrilled!

Four of us showed; a moderate turn out. She sat in the motel lobby. We approached, and began groping her ― as specified in the Internet plea for penis. Drunks at the bar pressed their faces against the glass, not certain if what they were witnessing was attributable to alcohol.

Once we reached the room, she was stripped naked, and collared. One suitor had a change of heart, and fled. The remainder of us donned our game faces, and did what slut trainers do, I suppose.

Her Master drove her face-first into the bed.

I flipped her over, and attempted kissing her. She pulled away faster than a kid bein' force-fed liver.

"Fuck her ass!" the bossy beau yelled at me.

Breaking character, the chick turned, retorting, "No fucking way!"

Holding her down, El Maestro demanded she shut up.

I was beyond hesitant.

Sergeant Hulka encouraged me to continue.

I tried, but it was like driving a Lincoln Town Car into a thimble.

She screamed.

I stopped. "Sorry, man, but this isn't gonna fit," I proclaimed in an apparent violation of protocol. As a result, I wisely chose Door #2, and spent the evening giving my hips a serious workout, while the Master barked orders.

I have no idea what I'm doing, when it comes to BDSM. I don't even know what the hell the acronym means. Still, I had a great time! I'm guessin' I fucked up somewhere ― which is par for most courses I play ― as I haven't heard from the couple since.

― authored by Hugh Mungus