The Lw Troll

Well, I thought I might as well enjoy myself.

I had Snakes in mind when I wrote this. It didn't take long to do. I just imagined him having a good time.

It'll be worth the grin.

GA - Ranong, Thailand - 23rd March 2014.

In his mind he's the tattooed biker, a badass one-percenter who never backs down and who never,

ever

takes shit from

anybody

.

He's upstairs at the computer when the knock comes on the door at the back of the house. Not that he moves from the desk. Let the old lady answer it.

And, so, it's down to business.

The first one he reads fill him with disgust: another cheating slut story.

Damn, where do these assholes get these ideas from?

He wants to puke; he's so damned outraged.

In his mind the scarred, misshapen and be-ringed biker fists clench.

His fingers work at the keyboard. The bile flows out of him. And the vitriol he pours onto the virtual page on the screen is cathartic.

Finally the red mist clears.

"Goddam, asshole, fag-fucking prick," he mutters.

And clicks on the next piece of garbage.

Another one! Another slut bitch fucking around on her ol' man!

Damn,

now

he's pissed. But he'll show the maggoty, cum-sucking piece of filth who wrote this shit.

As he types, he mumbles, "Read this this you pile of slut-stinking fuck-slime!"

And he pours it out again: the rage, the full force of it as he vents his spleen.

"One more," he growls. "One more fucking chance..."

But the next one is even worse. It's one of the ones he hates the most: a white woman getting tag-teamed by

niggers

while her wimpy, limp-dick, cuck husband looks on.

He's mad now, really fucking angry. He's so fucking mad he goes at it with the words just flying from his fingers. Then he drops his most potent weapon - he hits the key and awards the stinking shit pile a one star vote.

By then his chest is heaving. He's sucking in air while his heart bounces in his chest. His hands tremble as he logs off the site and the computer powers down.

He takes a minute to calm, and as he's cooling down he hears a woman's laugh.

When he stands he's already hard. He paws at the front of his jeans, squeezing his cock.

It's a pity it won't last but, or so he tells himself, maybe it'll be different this time.

Maybe.

When he opens the door and steps out onto the landing he hears the voices more clearly: low male rumblings mixed in with the higher pitch of a woman. There's laughter, and he can't help but feel it's at his expense.

It's dark up there, but the light coming up from the ground floor is enough to go by as he creeps along the landing.

His dick is still stiff when he gets to the top of the stairs.

He descends, pausing outside the door where he gulps, swallowing anxiety the size of a housebrick when he contemplates what lies ahead. His stomach swells with nervous dread, his chest is tight, and he's enraged at what's going on - what he can hear - and so fucking horny at the same time.

The woman's laugh comes to him again. To his ears it isn't a good sound. It comes out of the slut like a lie. The bitch-laugh is a low and dirty chuckle - like liquid shit.

He hates her for this, despises her slut-whore's cunt for its hunger, and part of him wants to storm into that room and smash every mother-fucker in there with a ballpeen hammer. That, he thinks, is what a one-percenter outlaw biker would do.

But he isn't a biker; and he doesn't have the balls.

He swallows heavily again while that rage boils in his guts: wouldn't that just be so fucking good? Wouldn't it be

awesome

?

He'd just smile when the cops came and took him away. Some of them would probably understand, too. Some of those cops would be real men, they'd know in their hearts and their minds that he'd done the right thing.

That the cock-hungry whore had it coming.

Then he realises his hard-on has deflated like a pricked balloon.

Collapsed...

He's soft...

Maggoty-soft.

He's humiliated even though there's nobody there to witness it, and he despises himself for his weakness.

"Bitch," he whispers. "Fucking slut-whore cunt."

The breath hisses in through his nose.

"Bitch," he repeats, the voices beyond the door reaching his ears again.

He grabs at the handle and opens the door.

And sees his wife on the sofa.

She's on her back with her whore's thighs wide, a man lying between them.

The guy's ass is moving, the cheeks bunching and flexing as he drills into the slut beneath him.

The woman's face turns towards the door as he enters. "Well, look who it is," she jeers, her disdain plain to see in her expression, derision obvious in her tone.

The guy on top of his wife doesn't even pause. He just keeps banging away.

And he stands there and watches her get fucked. He listens to his wife's moans and gasps and sees her face twisted with lust as her young lover pounds her cunt.

When he looks around the room, when he can drag his eyes away from the obscenity, he sees two more men, young guys in their twenties: muscular studs with leering faces and long cocks, their expressions all pity and scorn.

He can read their minds, he knows they're thinking about how a man, a

real

man, could stand it. How could a man stand to watch his wife fucking three guys? What sort of

man

would let it happen?

Those men are incredulous; he can see that written all over their faces. But he also knows they don't really give a rat's ass. After all, they're going to fuck the slut, too. The bitch is going to open her legs and welcome them aboard with a huge shit-eating grin on her painted-whore's face. She's going to tell them how good they are. She's going to let them know that her husband is a needle-dicked wimp who can't give her what she needs: a good, hard, long and very nasty fuck.

He looks at his wife's face and sees her pleasure. Her fingers are tugging at the man's skin, she's gasping and groaning and babbling about how big he feels inside her while she clutches him, begging him to tear her apart.

The guy on top of his wife is smirking as he drills her. He knows he's doing a good job. He knows he's being watched and wants to give the cuck something to think about.

Then, at his wife's croaking plea, one of the other guys is at her. He's in her mouth, his girth stretching those whore-lips.

And she takes them both: one in her slutty cunt, the other between her bitch-lips, and while all that is going on, through all the moaning and gasping and slap-slap-slap, she has her eyes fixed on her husband's face.

He sees it there in her eyes. He can read her disdain, her scorn, her

disappointment.

You, her eyes say above lips distorted by cock.

This is what you really want. You say you hate it, but I know you love to watch me doing this. You make a big deal out of it, telling me how fucked-up it is, how big a slut I am, but I know how much it turns you on to watch these guys fuck me.

Go on, watch. Watch me get fucked; watch me suck dick and listen to me beg for their seed.

Maybe he'll come inside me? Maybe I'm not taking the pill? Maybe he's bareback in my naked cunt...

Maybe I'll scream for him to flood my unprotected womb with cum.

As he watches, the guy inside his wife mumbles he gonna blow. Right in front of him, while he's staring at the slut and her lover, the man thrusts deep and hard for four or five vigorous strokes. Then he bellows he's doing it. His butt cheeks tighten and release, clenching and unclenching as his cock pumps semen.

The woman beneath him is mumbling around the mouthful of male gristle wedged between her lips. She squeals and whimpers and has a hand between her legs. She rubbing her clit and coming, carried along by the pulsing cock inside her.

Then, while he stares at where the young man and his wife were joined, he sees the scarlet gape of her and the dangling bulb of the condom, the teat filled with jizm. And he's strangely disappointed by the sight of that bloated bladder jiggling as the guy climbs away from the slut on the sofa.

"More," gasps his wife. She's fisting the cock that was in her mouth, looking at the third guy to climb aboard.

"On your knees," the third young man says. He's cranking at a huge dick with one fist as he hauls the whore around to suit his wants with the other. "Yeah," he adds when the woman is kneeling there, her pelvis raised, her buttocks high, the sodden and scarlet mollusc of her cunt offered to him. He slides in bareback while his friend fucks into her mouth again.

Those boys use her like she wants to be used. They make a big deal out of telling one another what a slut she is; they talk to each other and make ribald comments about how the older women are always the horniest, about how crazy some of them are for cock.

He knows they're taunting him.

He's still standing in the doorway, his stare fixed on his wife's big tits swinging back and forth. The slut has dressed for them. She's in stockings and heels, the denim skirt she wore to greet them at the door all bunched around her waist, the blouse a heap on the carpet.

He hates what he's seeing, but he loves it, too, and the conflicting emotions seethe inside him. He knows he's weak for letting her do this. It shouldn't be allowed to happen.

He

should stop her doing it.

But he can't control his wife, and he knows if he tries to, she'll leave. And having his buddies know his wife left him is even more galling than these three having at her.

So this is what he has to endure. He can't give her what she needs, and so he has to let her do what she wants. Not that she forces him to watch, but he knows from experience that she'll just go off and fuck all those other guys anyway. It's better to see it than make it worse in his imagination. At least this way there's only three of them. If she goes out alone for a night of hotel sex he conjures up gang-bang scenarios of incredible numbers.

It's ironic that during those times when his wife's been a motel slut he's been as hard as iron. Alone in bed imagining her filled with strangers' cum, those fantasies get him so spitting mad at her for leaving him in a cuck's bed that he masturbates and thinks up hate-fuck scenes in which he's the tattooed, one-percenter, outlaw biker who fucks his wife into submission.

During those times in bed with just his mind and fist for company, when he comes, it's a deluge of semen. If she could only see him during those times...

He thinks about how it'll be when those boys finish and leave. Then he'll get hard, and If his wife's face is spattered with cum, even better. He'll lick the goo off her and kiss her mouth, and better still would be if the bareback guy pumps her full of the stuff, too. That way he can fuck into the mess, stirring the guy's porridge with his spoon until he adds his own gloop to the sodden mess, his ejaculate mixing in with that boy's.

He hates the shit-stinking scenes those guys write on the internet. He reads those stories and wants to puke.

That's what he tells himself. But he loves them, really.

He just hates himself for the thrill they give him.

Which is why he trolls the story boards and writes those comments.

Because he wants to watch her getting gang-fucked and used; he wants to taste other men's cum from his wife's pussy.

That's his dirty little secret.