Tearmonger 1

"No one is more hated than he who speaks the truth."

― Plato

Dried snot caked his nostrils, forcing the playground bully to breathe through his mouth.

Fists balled into cords of sinew, he perspired amidst the four square diamond, in the midday Sun. He'd definitely lost control of the situation.

Across the pitch, staring him down, was the entire student body ― minus the faculty. An unwavering gaze, they stood as one.

Where could he run to?!

The playground was surrounded by a chain-link fence, with only one breech ― an alloy gate ― on the northwest quadrant of the yard. But that had a lock on it, and it was never certain whether this would be open.

In addition, the gate was 30 seconds away, at a full sprint. Could he reach the egress before the ravenous throng descended upon him?

Even if he was able, did he have what it took to manipulate the lock, or would the witch hunt devour his shrieking face, in redress for years of torment he'd unleashed upon them?

The only way to determine such was to race for the opening. And so, that's what he frenetically did.

The valves of his diminutive heart gaped, as he reached the fence in record time.

Maneuvering the lock, he lunged through the portal. Spinning 'round, he tensed in preparation for the vicious mob that―

Was nowhere near him?!

Confused, he scanned the playground.

What the fuck―?!?

The student body hadn't moved. They were exactly where they'd been when he'd bolted for the gate, still staring at him.

Drowning in adrenaline, he fidgeted with the lock, in attempts to secure it, in case the horde decided to rush him.

They didn't. They just continued to gaze.

Incredulous, the bully had no idea what to make of the situation. After all the milk money he'd stolen from them over the years. After all the threats he'd levied; the mental abuse he'd perpetrated, and the cerebral anguish it had caused.

How many of them had pissed their pants in abject fear of him? How many of them had feigned illness, staying home from school, to ensure he wouldn't make good on his promise to "beat the fuck out of" them?

How many broken arms did they endure?

Where was their enmity? Where was their disgust?! Weren't they going to seek retribution?

And suddenly, he had his answer, although ― at the time ― he hadn't comprehended what that answer meant.

In unison, the mob turned and walked away.

Into the dusk, they dispersed, leaving him to be alone.

He was no longer feared. He no longer controlled his fellow students, because they no longer allowed him to.

The group had made the schoolyard bully, the schoolyard bully. And now, in the same fashion, they usurped him of that crown, transforming him back into what he'd been all along; one of them.

Should he revert to his thug tactics, they'd simply walk away again, and circumvent him at all costs. If he forced his malevolence upon any one of them, he'd be confronted by all of them.

His reign as tyrant was over, because the students made it so, in the same way they'd once made him dictator. He was powerless against the group, just like any autocrat. Kings, popes, presidents, and teachers are only as powerful as the masses make them.

By believing those you perceive as your "leaders" are your leaders, you give these people "dominion." In the same token, you can remove that "sovereignty," by no longer recognizing them as anything more than your equal ― which is all they are, anyway.

It's what the fuck junky was contemplating, when he asked Doris if she'd like to go to a private room, at the swing club. Although he'd been chatting with her for over an hour, he couldn't get an accurate reading on the desperate woman. The ping she was producing was more hazy than 20/1200 eyesight.

Periodically disembarking his train of thought, our hero would temporarily comprehend what Doris was saying, before intermittently returning to self-speculation.

The henna honey was either austerely concerned over the disproportionate size of Steve Harvey's teeth, or how her husband had addicted her to large, strange cock.

Ostensibly, hubby hadn't realized his wife had been suffocating an inner freak for a decade. He'd been on the planet 30-plus years, yet never comprehended marriage ― like any prison sentence ― repressed innate desires.

Now, the wanton woman was freely displaying her unquenchable hunger for the biggest, hardest poles outside of Lech Walesa.

Even so, the fuck junky had been unable to lock the crosshairs on Doris, and fire away. She'd seemed interested, but in what he had no idea.

Thanks to her rejection ― in regard to tfj's advances ― he no longer had any doubt concerning her lack of intrigue in him.

Or did he?

Abandoning the hunt, he departed in search of other prey. Amidst the dungeon room, he spied a wounded GILF trailing behind the herd. Muscles ― or lack thereof ― tightening, he pounced, ensnaring the injured animal, taking her down to the mattress.

Here, boiling angst was ejected out the grandmother's release valve, and the fuck junky added a new Number to the resume. As tfj reclined ― raging hard-on in hand ― the octogenarian caught her breath.

It was at that pivotal point Doris walked in.

Right then and there, the fuck junky's cock had reached its zenith; straining to its full 9 1/2 inches. It was that perfect moment; almost as if tfj had planned it all along.

Spying the prurient princess focusing on his "calling card," our hero bookmarked the scenario; making a mental note for later use.

Doris stole one last glance before departing.

That was the fuck junky's cue. He packed up his affable apparatus, donned a shirt splotched with perspiration and groin grease, and scrambled for the bathroom. Beneath feeble lighting, he cleansed lube off his semi-soft shaft, in a sink that smelled of Cadillac Margaritas, and upchucked chimichangas.

Retying his ponytail with a shredded shoelace, and sudsing his mustache with mint-flavored soap, he washed away the aroma of freshly-plucked pussy. Tearing into the rear pocket of his food-encrusted slacks, he uncovered a half-melted breath mint fused to the inner workings of his pants. After being sat on for a month and three days, washed twice, and ironed once, the Tic Tac was still delicious.

He then sprinted to the backyard, where Doris awaited. Gulping a hand-sliced cocktail ― in an elegant, plastic cup ― she smiled, as tfj approached.

"How's your night goin', sista'?" the fuck junky queried.

"Nowhere near as good as yours," the woman exclaimed, alluding to the scene she'd just witnessed.

Feigning naiveté, our hero responded, "Whaddya' mean―? Oh, that. Yeah, y'know? This place can be fun from time to time."

"I'll bet, with somethin' that size," she motioned to tfj's crotch.

The fuck junky smiled, "Well, it opens a door or two...So, can I help you find a guy? What types of dudes do you like?"

Doris was more vague than, "as your president, I promise to foster hope, by generating faith in me and my ability to foster hope...by generating faith in me." One thing was certain: Her preferred petrol was fruity and fermented. She was filling her frame with such by the quart.

Even from this distance, her breath was the stuff of almonds and cherry ― Amaretto and grenadine, if he had to deduce. "Do you like tall guys, short guys, black guys, white guys, older g―?"

"I was kinda hopin' I could take your cock for a ride," Doris interjected.

Feigning shock, the fuck junky placed a palm on his chest. "Well, I...I thought you weren't interested..."

"That's before I saw it," the girl sheepishly smiled, no longer sober, if she ever had been.

The proverbial light bulb illuminating over his cloudy cranium, our protagonist grinned, "Oh, okay. I get it...Well," he dug the heel of his fuck boot into the dirt, "did you wanna get a room?"

"No," Doris pressed into him, grabbing his cock through his trousers. "Let's just fuck right here," she motioned to the outdoor canopy bed adjacent them. "I can't wait for a room. I need to cum now!" she slurred each and every word in a perfect purr.

"Sounds like a plan to me," tfj motioned to her sweaty tits. "Do you mind if I...?"

Doris flopped heavy breasts out of her sundress, and our hero began to suck like capital punishment for jaywalkers.

"I have to be honest," the bashful bride divulged. "Your cock will be the biggest I've ever had."

Thong-clad, Brazilian dancers whirled into the foreground, shaking their asses, and sporting headdresses that made them eight feet tall. A nude Kenny G limped into frame, blowin' horn, with a raccoon tail anal plug danglin' out his non-existent ass.

In less time than it takes those within government to decide if they should butt fuck us, Doris and our hero were nude atop the bed, and a lustful lance was moments from penetration.

Gripping the fuck junky's hips, the curious cutie gazed into our hero's eyes. "Go really slow, okay?"

Tfj smiled. "Of course."

Shredding his bony sides with Freddy Krueger fingernails, the convenience store clerk drew blood, as the fuck junky impaled her atop the outdoor box spring. Punching tfj's chest, she bit through her bottom lip, producing still more hemoglobin. Flailing for a nearby pillow, she muted her shrieks.

A gaggle of lusty voyeurs ringed the bed, gripping their groins, or the groins of others.

Errant ropes of sperm jettisoned into the crisp night air, as the woman violently arched her back, and blew out a year's worth of minimum wage slavery. Another apogee achieved, and six months of anxiety ― regarding threatening letters from the IRS ― was expelled. A brief ebb, before the stress of facing eviction was extricated from the woman's blue collar frame.

With each orgasm came a tsunami of palpable fluid, launched like rockets from Cape Canaveral.

Throughout, the woman vociferated with vehement velocity about the fuck junky's size, and how she was unable to take the frightened fucker's full tool.

The stage act concluded with the perfect grand finale ― a rousing round of multiple orgasms catapulted into the audience, like splattered fruit at a Gallagher show.

When the house lights came up, what remained was a smoldering cinder of a woman ― completely nude, and caked in her own liquid love. Beside her, tfj relaxed naked atop the mildewed mattress, exposing his concupiscent culprit for all to see.

Listlessly rambling about what she'd just experienced, the freshly-fucked female's Yelp reviews convinced a chubby Chicana in the audience to request our hero's services.

This scenario culminated in the second sex queen riding ribald rod in a private room, while her hubby captured the coitus ― in moving pictures ― on his Android.

The fuck junky strangled the curb with his Datsun Dipshit, at the black tie event. Evacuating the vanquished vehicle, he was violent Ebola ― glowing fluorescent, sizzling in its own virulent juices. Not a soul would come near him, let alone touch him.

Dropping his pants, and erecting nine-plus inches of essence-energizing affection, he transformed into a fucked-up combination of Elvis, Andy Griffith, and Jeff Stryker. Not only was everybody scramblin' to purchase an E-ticket to ride his main attraction, they all wanted him as their official next door neighbor, forever and ever.

Four hours later, he was birthed onto the floor of the dirtiest restaurant in Vegas, and mercilessly shit on by his fellow slaves — i.e. "employees." One minute, a god; the next, a goddamned disgrace.

— authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. the fuck junky