Maja Thurup: Gangbang Spoiler

"I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center."

― Kurt Vonnegut

"What up, señor?" I launched my wee hour text into cyberspace.

I was a Sin City swinger, more dedicated to my craft than anyone I'd ever met. In addition, I had a dream; an aspiration, if you will: 5,000 women. Nothing else mattered.

"Good morning, sir," came Vegas Vic's rejoinder. "The Rocket" was enslaved graveyard shift ― five days a week.

Vegas Vic — otherwise known as The Rocket, V-2, V-Squared, etc. — was the best group sex coordinator in the Entertainment Capital of the World.

"What do you wanna work for?! This has gotta be stopped! [...]

Jobs? They can get fucked! I've had enough! Why do we have to do them? Everything's fuckin' built! [...]

It's time we stop working. It's a trap. It's a fuckin' trap! Five days on, two days off; five days on, two days off; five days on, two days off; five days on, two days off—

'How long does this last?'

' 'Til you're fuckin' dead. [...]'

It's made up by the ruling 'elite,' so we're tired, and poor, and can't rebel, and philosophize about our own existence, and actually fuckin' evolve properly. [...]

It's slavery, but we've gotta get our own accommodation, and food."

― Steve Hughes

As such, I knew V-Squared would be awake at this inhumane hour, trollin' for online sex.

"Any new developments?" I queried.

"Setting up a gangbang with a couple in town from Florida. These are her pics."

The forwarded media caused me to deplete my supply of coconut oil, and moderately sprain my wrist.

"She's here with hubby for three nights. They're staying at Arizona Charlie's. She wants five to eight guys."

"Sounds great! This weekend?"

"Sunday. 10 PM."

"Are we still on for Saturday, at Planet Hollywood, with that other couple from Idaho?"

"Reggie and I are, but you're out," Vic replied.

"I've been removed from the starting lineup? Too young? Didn't like the face pic?" I questioned.

"None of the above. She said your dick's too big."

"Maja Thurup was overhung, vastly overhung. No girl in the village would accept him. He had torn two girls to death with his instrument. One had been entered from the front, the other from the rear. [...]

Maja was a lonely man, and he drank and brooded over his loneliness."

― South of No North: Stories of the Buried Life

My single piston apartment stank of burnt pussy, B.O., and dirty buttholes drenched in sweat ― resultant of low rent fucking. I was halfway inserted in the Ebony vagina of a UNLV student with a curiosity to determine what 9 1/2 inches felt like.

"Stop!" the debt slave in training squealed. "You're fucking huge! Are you all the way in?"

"N― no," I spied down between my legs.

"Jesus!" the neophyte serf exclaimed. "I can't do this."

" 'When did you first begin to have love feelings for Maja? What exactly were the circumstances which tripped them off?'

'Well,' said Hester, 'it was...'

'She love me when I give her the thing,' said Maja from the rug.

'He has learned English quite quickly, hasn't he?'

'Yes, he's brilliant.'

Maja picked up his bottle, and drained off a good slug. 'I put this thing in her, she say, 'Oh, my god! Oh, my god! Oh, my god!!' Ha, ha, ha, ha!'

'Maja is marvelously built,' she said.[...]

Maja took another drink. He looked at me. 'You fuck her. I am tired. She big, hungry tunnel.' "

― South of No North: Stories of the Buried Life

"I'm gonna puke!" the Hispanic homemaker flipped over, atop my bed, gasping for air, as she clutched her chest. Not a thread defiling her perfect body, she fidgeted.

Vegas Vic and I stared at each other, less certain how to handle this situation than the president would be with the instantaneous awakening of the masses. As a result, V-2 simply readjusted the cell phone cameras around my apartment, and continued texting the woman's Dom, providing him updates.

The lass raced for the toilet and wastebasket that comprised my bathroom, stridently re-examining her breakfast. The wretch of smoldering gears jammed into reverse emanated from the smallest room on the planet.

Vic and I could smell stomach bile.

A trip to the sink, and the Latina returned, mascara streaming down her cheeks, and mucus clogging her nostrils.

"Are you okay?" I inquired.

"I'll be alright. Just go slow, please."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course," I responded. "Too much to drink, last night?"

"No," the Mexican Barbie replied. "You just have a really big cock, and it hurts, is all."

The senorita might as well have been a waitress, forced to sing "Happy Birthday" to some 112 year old bastard, with a shriveled dick hanging out his shorts, while his family looked on in horror. It was obvious she was having the time of her life!

Still, this was the "assignment" her Dom had chosen for her: Fuck two guys, simultaneously, and stream the results.

Outside my lean-to, perhaps a thousand gallons of alcohol were consumed in 60 seconds, along this desert rest stop. Shrieking livers sopped up the fermentation like 10,000 open pore sponges. Teeth fissured, and gums split, as 20 pounds of cocaine were snorted up bloody nasal cavities, inside Vegas city limits.

"You fuckhead...You broke Millie's pussy!! She said she's sore all over...lol.

I invited her to stop by the Palms after work and she said she's bruised everywhere...

Goddamn you and your monstrous penis!!"

― a Vegas Vic text to the author

The initial dagger penetrated below the rib cage. Since I didn't see blood, I couldn't be certain of this, but that's where the first jolt of pain came from. It hurt more than the realization you're gonna be a slave for the rest of your existence, because most of the population is stupid.

I didn't have a clue which organs were located in that region, but I could tell at least one of 'em had been pierced.

The second dagger got my left thigh. I knew this, because Tyler knew this. Kidding...but he probably did. As soon as I attempted to stand, I fell on my face, only able to stabilize myself with my right leg.

The third, and hopefully final, dagger grazed my right shoulder.

The $89,000,000 Question was: How the fuck was I gonna get outta here, alive?!

Although there were only three of 'em, that was 300 percent more than my army of one, and each was gunnin' for my scalp. After all, when the woman centering this evening's erotica threw in the towel, my name was uttered in the same sentence as to why the match was being forfeited.

Here at the mini-gangbang, I'd hidden my most cherished treasure in the woman's treasure box. Ostensibly, her bin hadn't been designed to accommodate riches of an oversized dimension.

"Ow!" she squealed, crab-crawling away from me, atop a cheap hotel comforter, obviously sewn by a hippie, during the worst acid trip he'd ever experienced.

I truncated my strokes, but it was too late, and we all knew it.

The air in the room had become somber, and I could feel my compatriots — who all towered over me in stature — glaring.

"I— I need a break," the homemaker sat up, catching her breath, as she put her hand on my chest. Pressing her bellybutton, she limped to the bathroom.

Moments later, hubby called the game, after he and his wife conferred in the room's lavatory. Exiting the restroom, he promulgated, "Guys, we're sorry, but Danielle is done for the evening." Motioning to me, he continued, "Hugh went a bit too deep, and her pussy is out of commission for the night."

Immediately, the three unfortunate bastards — who had yet to take the full tour of Danielle's pleasure path — launched their ocular daggers. Each hit their target, bringing me to my knees, pleading for mercy. But the denied dudes had none, and rightly so.

"Next time, Hugh goes last!" one of the triad shouted. The others in attendance laughed, but if murder wasn't punishable by lethal injection, the group would've exacted revenge.

" 'The Cromwell went great on Friday. She's a little hottie!! They're gonna get in touch for their next trip.'

'The Cromwell? What happened there?' I inquired.

'The couple from Indiana...Remember she said you were too big for her?' "

— a Vegas Vic/Hugh Mungus text conversation

Rejection: It's a lonely, one lane road with no room for U-turns. Cell service is nonexistent, here. What's more, there haven't been overhead land lines in these parts since―

Well, maybe never.

This thoroughfare has no street lights, no exits, and not a directional sign to be found. In conjunction, this region is a GPS dead zone.

Amidst a nebulous, black sky, you'd be lucky to find a star, let alone a constellation, or a satellite. No HOV lanes, and not a rest stop anywhere.

No, this is a trail everybody traverses at least once, and when they do, it's always alone.

One week you're sportfucking at an Olympic level; the next you're kicked outta the club, professing undying adoration to your lubed left hand.

" 'Now, without thinking about it, tell me, Ray. Say it. What is your winning tool? No, without thinking about it. Say it. My name is Ray, and I...'

'I've got a big dick...Now, what the hell do I do about it?' "

― Hung

— authored by Hugh Mungus