Thursday, March 17, 2011
My everyday life is humdrum. You could call it mundane, or even oppressive. I used to rankle at wasting my irreplaceable years with so much stupidity, but then I got bored and apathy kicked in. After that I adopted my new hobby, which is tracking celebrities, drugging them and sodomizing them. It gave me a newfound sense of self-esteem and hope in life.
I have a fat wife. We have sex twice a month whether we need it or not. I have to imagine someone from a porn video and I am sure she has to do the same. The monstrous beast mounted by the stick-thin man with a lisp and nerdly quasi-stache. Our marriage has always been about practicality. With her, I can afford a house and the two kids who think I'm a wimp so steal from my wallet and make fun of me to their friends when I'm in the room.
But having a teenage daughter means I've heard of most of the trends, so when I was suffering through an extended business lunch meeting and someone said, "Hey, isn't that Rebecca Black?" I excused myself and went right to the car for my rape kit. Doubling back, I faked an illness and found a quiet stall in the Barnes and Noble bathroom to change into my disguise.
As I approached the Hot Topic where she was still, I felt sweat on the palms of my hands. Was I still able to make this work? But then I slipped out of my work persona, where I'm in the invisible nerd as interesting as oatmeal, and into my nocturnal identity as the terror of ruptured colons everywhere. I palmed my newest piece of gear, a hand-held turbo aerosol that can jet my fentanyl mixture across a room and knock someone out cold.
She stood there with her bodyguard and two friends, looking at some silly gothic dress. In the armor of my disguise, I boldly approached a nearby rack with an exclamation as if I had found some item I eagerly sought. the group, embarrassed by this weird old guy prowling through Hot Topic, turned away in disgust, which gave me an opportunity. I whipped up my arm and discharged a load of the fentanyl mix in each face, their eyes widening as they gasped in surprise and gulped down huge doses of the mixture.
As they slumped, I drove forward, picking up Rebecca and pushing us both into the employee lounge. Luck was with me; it was empty. I pushed out a back door and into the tunnel system behind the mall. After a few minutes of duck-walking her around, I located a phone cabinet and pulled her inside, locking the door. I opened my kit and got out the wrist restraints and lubricant.
The anticipation before entering her itched like a hornet burning its way through my loins. She lay before me, consenting by lack of resistance, and I realized for the first time how young she was. 13 doesn't look all that different from 16 with a girl like this, I thought, peeling off her tights and cute pink little underpants with elephants and hearts on them. Her sex and the shadowy hole beneath it winked at me.
I took a deep breath. Like many younger girls, she was not as tuned to hygiene as she could be, which just made my heart pound faster. I broke the heat stick in my bottle of lubricant and waited as it heated to body temperature, then sprayed it over her thin pink anus. It pulsed under me and the pulsing quickened as I loosened my zipper, my member flopping out at full height, a condom already wrapped around it.
Riding her was like a dream. Her tender jailbait rectum enfolded me tightly, and the new flesh of her ass was like the cheeks of a baby, giving some resistance but not much, making it like a caress to enter her. I could smell the slightly acidic and sweet faeces of a young girl who liked her treats, the sugary filth squirting down her legs as the suction of my withdrawal extracted it from deep within. She squirmed a little and I felt my prostate twang and sing. I got ready for the inevitable explosion.
She stirred. "Where?" she managed and I smiled down at her.
"In a dark alley," I said. "I'm an anal rapist."
"I get that," she said dreamily. "You forget I've been in Hollywood for two weeks. This is about normal for a Thursday."
For some reason this enraged me, so I piled in deeper. She widened to accommodate, a faint stench of digesting cinnabon wafting up from her twitching sphincter.
"I hate your music," I said, to add some gravity to the situation.
But she rolled with it. "Me too," she said. "I'm more of a Miles Davis kind of girl."
"Why don't you do jazz then?" I said.
"No money in it," she said. "I save the best for myself. 'Friday' is going to make me a million or two straight up, because the people out there don't want Miles Davis. They want simple."
I dug in deeper and she made the sweetest feminine sound, a grunt of readjustment overlaid with a sigh. Her flesh enclosed me like the sheath of a flower, yielding but adhering, tempting my final moment with its gentle pressure.
She leaned forward and spread herself further. "Why don't you take off that irritating condom? I'd like to feel you."
This threw me off, so I thought it through. "Not on your life. You want DNA evidence so you can go public with this."
"A book deal's a half-million," she said languidly. "If I do talk shows, I could double that. I want to be retired by 21."
"That's the annoying thing," I said. "Ordinary people work their whole lives and get maybe a tenth of what you'll get for this silly song with words that don't make any sense."
"Who's screwing who then?" she asked, and inhaled sharply as I rammed deep into her and convulsed with my ecstasies of ejaculation. As my thick fluid ballooned the condom, I punched her sharply on the back of the nape. She collapsed forward as I detonated deep in her rectum.