DISCLAIMER:
The stories in the "Celebrity" section of Literotica are all fictional parodies - none are true, nor are they approved of by the celebrities named in the stories. Authors write these fictitious stories about famous people for the same reason that Larry Flynt made fun of Jerry Falwell, because they can. The Supreme Court of the United States, the country where this site is located, has ruled that parodies involving famous people are perfectly and totally legal under the United States Constitution. The specific case law on this was decided in the case of "Hustler Magazine, Inc. et al. v. Jerry Falwell" in 1988. No harm is intended toward the celebrities featured in these stories, but they are public figures and in being so, they must accept that they are fair target for parodies by the public. We believe in the first amendment, and more broadly, in the basic principle of free speech and this section may push the boundaries of that principle, but the United States Supreme Court has approved of this type of material. We believe that the Supreme Court was correct in their decision.
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This, as are all of my stories, is a true story.
My eyes not, yet, adjusting from the darkness of my bedroom to the glow from my watch, required me to stare at my watch, again, as if I was in a drunken stupor. Fuck! It was midnight.
My plan of going to bed early for once was foiled. At first, the distant bark of my dog did not sufficiently register enough to awaken me. His barking became part of my dream, actually, with him there in the other room barking in my dream, suddenly. Then, when he continued barking is when I awoke annoyed that my sleep was interrupted and my dream ruined.
Now, lying in bed with my eyes open and staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, I was still groggy with sleep. Then, I heard it, the distinctive creak of the steps that led from the first floor to the second floor down the hall from my bedroom.
Fear replaced sleepiness and panic replaced fear. I could not awaken from my slumber and regain my senses fast enough. Again, my dog barked. When this is over, I will give my good watchdog a cookie.
Silently, I opened my drawer, pulled out my handgun, loaded the clip, chambered a bullet, and took it off safety. Now, I was wide awake. Now, I was ready. Now, I was angry. How dare someone break into my house? They had better have life insurance and their personal affairs in order. I reached for my cell phone. Ready with my cell phone in one hand and my gun in the other, I listened before dialing 911.
Just as I was about to hit the send button on the cell phone and call out, I have a gun and the police are on their way, I heard the steps creak, again, this time, along with giggling and muffled laughter. There were more than one person outside my bedroom door, several, in fact by the boisterousness of their activity.
I emptied the chamber, removed the clip, put the gun back on safety, hid it away in the drawer, and put down my cell phone. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and shook away the last of the dream that I was having, my usual, sex with celebrities.
This dream was a new one, though. Paris Hilton, now an ex-con, but dressed in a smart and fitted designer white and black vertically striped, instead of the customary horizontal stripe, prison outfit resplendent with her prison number, 90210, was giving me a blow job while Lindsay Lohan, a soon to be an ex-con, was sitting on my face while eating ice cream, Rocky Road. Why ice cream? Why Rocky Road? Weird.
Normally, I dream of older celebrity women my age, such as, Christie Brinkley and Cybill Shephard, but I ate oysters that night and, in anticipation of my celebrity dream, retired smiling wildly at the thought of getting an erection while I dreamed my dream and maybe jerking off over it, later. Now, I just had a stomachache.
"Shh...be quiet...shh," I heard a woman's voice say in a strained whisper accompanied with more muffled laughter.
Figuring it was my friends playing a practical joke on me by trying to scare me after having had a long discussion the night before about the history of the old house that I live in and sufficiently filling my imagination with the suspicions that it might be haunted, I got up and stood by the door listening. Deciding that I would turn the tables on them by scaring them and ruining their fun, I went to the bedroom door in my briefs and was about to turn the knob and fling open the door when I recognized their voices.
It can't be. But how did they find me? How did they get in my house? I don't believe it. They must have followed me home when I left the Celebrity Ball last week. No, wait; of course, I was driven home by one of their chauffeurs. He told them where I lived, of course. Yes, that is how they found me. Matter of fact, my bicycle is still in the trunk of the limo. I forgot to retrieve it because I was on cloud nine after having had group sex with Stephen Powers, Debbie Reynolds, and et al who attended the Celebrity Ball.
"Shh...be quiet, you'll wake him," said a female voice followed by more giggling and muffled laughter. "Shh, c'mon, I want to catch him sleeping so that I can suck his cock while he sleeps. Imagine him awaking to see me with his cock in my mouth."
Oh, my God. I could not believe she said that. Farrah Fawcett is such a slut, but I like it.
My dog was going berserk now growling and barking. One of them, Bo Derek, by the sound of her voice, she loves animals, went in the room to quiet my dog.
"It's okay, Sweetie," she said, "It's okay. That's a good boy. He's a good dog." My dog loves women. He was happy and now quiet.
