Just Another Day 20

"And still life pushes on

With or without you

We've got to carry on

Our will will guide us to

A place where we belong

Know there lies the truth

I am the believer who gives purpose unto you"

― Dream Theater

Conversation at the bar was strained. Darrell sported twin hearing aids, and Betty was less talkative than a Mafia informant given the ultimatum: silence or death. Plying the couple with quadruple Vodka Tonics, I asked enough vapid questions to warrant the opportunity to hump this Titanic-titted lass.

"I'll be in the basement, cleanin' my gun," were Darrell's parting words, before leaving his naked wife between my legs, at the edge of the bed.

"That was a sexual reference," I assured myself. Luckily, I appeared to be scared stiff, as Betty played a tune on my trumpet.

Slurping sounds emanating from my groin, I gazed about the crazed couple's master bedroom. The mammoth bearskin rug over the mattress was unnerving, especially after being informed it was one of Darrell's recent kills.

The trail of spent shotgun shells littering the carpet didn't do much for my anxiety.

Gazing from the door, to Betty's mouth, and back again, I couldn't help but envision Darrell — polishing his corroded cannon — amidst his subterranean arsenal.

Watching the woman's wrinkled lips wrap my rod, I surmised this chick found me more lame than a bird with two broken wings. Still, I beat her alternative: the 853rd consecutive evening with an inflatable love doll, resembling James Garner of The Rockford Files.

The scene definitely trumped my sole substitute: a palm similar to a worn-out catcher's mitt, due to repeated use.

Concluding the framed shooting targets about the room were Darrell's best efforts, I reflected...

I'd had a busy day. Initially less productive than strolling into the next room of your house, to determine if the weather's any different, here I was ― playing with the fourth female in 24 hours.

Strapping as a Mouseketeer, and less attractive than a rotting cadaver, men like me are forced to rely on other attributes, in order to get laid.

Hence, during the afternoon's trip to a local swing club, I'd resorted to strokin' sword in front of a bountiful blonde we'll call Hot Honey. Cresting the water of the venue's Jacuzzi, I'd double-fisted my dong, as H-squared locked radar onto my heat seeking missile.

Noting his wife's interest, an uneasy hubby chimed in, "I— I'd love to watch her take another cock."

And just at that moment, in walked Navajo ― a horny housewife seeking sex. Catching sight of me pulling my taffy, she'd sauntered over. Next I knew, I was performing whatever magic this broken-down Doug Henning has left in his 5' 6" inch frame, atop this newcomer, on the open orgy bed.

Pulling up a pair of dilapidated lawn chairs, H-squared and hubby had observed the proceedings from the front row.

Forty-seven seconds subsequent, I'd gathered my belongings, and headed for the parking lot.

Following me out to my vehicle, hubby had flagged me down.

"Hey, uh, we're pretty new to this," the fidgety man asserted, "but my wife says you have a — well, uh — a huge dick, and she'd like to get to know it a little better."

Sidling up to her man, Hot Honey smiled, as she fondled her tits beneath a pink hoodie that was completely unzipped.

"I'd love to!" I responded. "Does the orgy bed work for you guys?" I queried, motioning to the aquatic area of the swing shack, bad breath condensing in the crisp Fall air.

"Actually, we'd kinda like a bit more privacy, if that's okay," hubby replied.

Squealing, his woman slid her finger down the front of her pants, and began fingering herself, as a wet spot formed between her legs.

"Uh, I can get a room—" I gestured to the private accommodations of the sex shack.

His face souring, hubby nervously glanced about.

Bequeathing my debit card to the coked-out clerk behind the counter, I'd sprung for a moldy hourly at a Motel 5 up the road.

"I— I'm working through some jealousy issues," hubby confessed, standing astride, as a pair of gay truckers entered the lobby, and began swappin' saliva.

My smile faded, as I watched my card be approved, and summarily charged.

"I— I'm pretty certain I can keep myself in check, though," the man stared off into the distance, attempting to convince himself.

In the background, one of the rotund men gave the other a hickey. Beyond the lubricious lobby window, a McDonald's billowed steam from its roof, as a pair of minimum wags debt slaves dropped acid, behind the store.

Amid the parking lot, Hot Honey fingered her cunt in the front seat of a Nissan pickup built before the invention of radio, and rusted-out, due to salt corrosion.

"That'll be $76.43 with tax," the cashier smirked, pulling the thermal paper from the machine, and handing it to me to sign.

From anticipation to uncertainty, the mood had changed with a single sentence.

The air in the temporary lodging was heavier than the lone bathroom at a chili eating contest. Not only had the beleaguered beau been tearing his hair out, but his wife couldn't keep her hands off my cock.

Ten minutes in, I found myself dining at the Young Men's Christian Association, as harried hubby received what seemed unrivaled oral fulfillment from Hot Honey.

Asking if I could place my insignificant instrument inside the man's wife, he'd replied, "Let me fuck her one last time, in case she doesn't want me afterward."

Trouble was a brewin' like the morning menu at Starbucks.

Watching hubby hump his spouse was an agonizing affair, since the man had convinced himself his wife wouldn't be the same, after having me inside her.

When the bridegroom tossed me the keys to his ride, I could tell things were more turbulent than the ocean in The Perfect Storm. Hot Honey had already faked two orgasms on my tongue, and asserted she was enjoying things.

One spider chased another up the cracked wall.

Something indeterminate oozed from the ceiling, slopping onto a mattress older, and more disgusting, than Woodrow Wilson's decayed scrotum.

The lass was virgin tight.

"H— have you ever taken a cock that large before, baby?" hubby meekly queried.

"No," his wife sighed.

The man's expression forebode a derailing roller coaster from there on out.

Two minutes in, H-squared announced, "I'm gonna cum, Daddy! I'm gonna fuckin' cum!"

Incensed, hubby pushed me off his wife, as he delivered rapid uppercuts to his own head.

"Bad idea! Bad idea!! Bad idea!!" the hysterical husband shrieked.

Hot Honey intervened, halting her man's self-abuse.

I fled to the other bed, frightened like a ― well, a 5' 6" dork in a room with angry, normal-sized people.

A mouse appeared from under the warmth of the box spring, scampering straight into the crumbling baseboard, knocking itself out.

Frenetically, hubby clothed himself, and raced out the door, whilst Hot Honey apologized profusely to me.

Unnerved, but still exceptionally horny, I'd returned to the original swing venue, where I met Martha ― somewhere in her 60s, and new to the whole scene. Following a generous grope in the pool, this dainty dame and I hit the orgy bed.

Suiting up, I'd slid inside, envisioning Senator Mitch McConnell in a schoolgirl dress, boasting atrocious milk breath, as he whispered sweet nothings in my ear. Finally, this beautiful babe yelled, "Uncle," and proceeded to purge herself in the bathroom, while screaming, "I feel so dirty! I'm so goddamned unclean!"

With half hour an left in the afternoon matinee ― and Martha gone ― it seemed I'd be more likely to find a "Be Kind, Rewind!" sticker on a factory DVD player, than to encounter further action.

In walked a living porn goddess, who headed straight for the bed with her significant other ― a guy resembling a stressed Bronson Pinchot, post-Perfect Strangers.

The lass in question proceeded to finger herself like the only suspect of a crime.

Hankering to catch the free show, I pulled-up a front row seat, and removed my hotdog from the steamer.

"Cum for me!" she demanded, obviously a fan of mutual masturbation.

Informing her I wouldn't wish that upon my worst enemy ― which, in fact, is whatever seems to be hindering Richard Marx from mounting a comeback ― I made an exception.

― authored by Hugh Mungus