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by Lauren McAllister
Hi. My name is Yvette and I am a world-class moron. Now, I’m not talking about just your average gap-toothed, thick-tongued, inbred dunderhead, here. I could be a super-hero of stupid. Oh, if you chanced upon me in the street, you might not intuit that I lacked sufficient brain cells to form a neo-cortex but the lamentable tale I’m about to unfold will leave you with very little room for deliberation.
For the first 33 years of my life, things were rolling along a lot like my Nissan Altima (occasional fits and starts but for the most part a fairly smooth, if not overly comfortable, ride). I graduated from college without completely embarrassing myself and procured reasonable employment at one of those anonymous firms that shifts bits of paper from here to there and makes a mountain of money doing it. While I didn’t acquire a mountain of cash, I did manage to tuck away a tiny hillock and purchased a rather tony condo with “lots of morning light.” Then I broke up with my long-time live-in. That was really the moment my brain drove straight into a pothole and stayed there. The sensible girl would have given herself time to readjust and explore the myriad opportunities afforded the modern-day bachelorette. I should have taken up reading long books at the park, yoga at the gym and masturbating under the bathtub tap. But noooo! I had to go and meet Danny at a goddamn fern bar.
Mr. I’m-About-to-Ruin-Your-Life was a charming sort of fellow, about 10 years my junior. Right away, you’re probably hearing the alarm bells that my own ears chose to remain deaf to. He was funny, wild, handsome and he pounded the hell out of me in bed. (In a good way.) I know we ladies are not supposed to be concerned with the size of our swain’s manly organ but he was not un-gifted when it came to loin candy. We partied, did a little coke, got drunk, had a threesome and even ran naked through a church. The priest didn’t seem to mind though; I’m not really sure which one of us he was staring at as we galloped on by him.
About three months into this staid and adult relationship, he proposed and plopped the biggest diamond I had ever seen onto my finger. Shit! I was now officially head over high heels in love. To celebrate, we went out and I sucked his cock in the back of a taxi while it drove through downtown. I had never been so happy. That was the second set of blaring alarm bells that I chose to ignore. Weeks passed in blissful drunkenness and debauchery. He was absolutely insatiable when it came to activities of the boudoir. My legs hardly ever saw each other after about 6 o’clock in the evening.
In fact, I was still basking in the glow of a four-orgasm evening, over my morning coffee at work, when I got “the phone call.” It was the only one he was allowed to make. The idiot was calling from jail. I didn’t perceive him to be a lying, cheating, criminal pusbag of the highest order at the time, of course. He was my fiancé. There had to have been some laughable misunderstanding or gross miscarriage of justice. It was incumbent upon me, as his loyal bride-to-be, to marshal all available resources and rush to his aid.
Unfortunately, my resources had been somewhat strained as of late. Perhaps I forgot to mention that, besides being much younger than I and delightfully well endowed, Danny was also unemployed. The cocaine, champagne and taxi-cab blowjobs were solely financed by moi and it had put a sizable dent in my now unsizable bank account. Oh sure, it was a lot of “fun” but you can’t return “fun” and get your money back and Danny needed 20,000 big ones to get bail. My swore-he-was-innocent betrothed steered me to an old colleague of his who could be persuaded to advance me the jack in question for about $2,000 in interest. Wow! Justice maybe blind but it sure wasn’t cheap. But, I calculated that if we cut out the coke and the booze and I sucked his dick at home, I might be able to cobble together the “vig” as I believe gentlemen in the gray-area-loan-business call it.
Danny was over the moon when I “sprang him” from the local constabulary. He actually went down on me in the Altima as we drove home. It’s not that easy to do but luckily his tongue took after his Johnson and he was able to reach all the main points of interest. I honked the car horn with my forehead and almost ran over a school-crossing guard when I came, but after apologizing profusely and flashing him my tits, all was forgiven. Upon reaching my humble abode, my returning Price Charming drank all the remaining alcohol in the fridge and fucked me unconscious. When I awoke, he had scarpered and I don’t mean down to the store to buy me some flowers for my surprise breakfast tray. That fucker had hightailed it and now I was on the hook for 20 grand plus vig that I did not have. Oh, and the engagement ring turned out to be made out of a material they stopped selling on QVC because it was so cheap-looking. I took a “sick day” from work to bang my head against the wall while wailing, “Why, oh why, oh why!” But surprisingly, that didn’t bring me much closer to solving my problem. A complete and thorough scouring of my condo turned up three muscle relaxants and a pair of airline little-liquor bottles. Luckily, I hadn’t eaten anything all day and after about half an hour, I was in the perfect frame of mind to call Danny’s “colleague” and inform him of the unfortunate fiscal tidings. It was only after calling him back the next day that I vaguely recollected agreeing to meet him for a drink that evening.
I took another “sick day” from work. This time, to decide what to wear to this very important meeting plus, I was still dizzy as a cunt from those pills.
Needless to say I was a mite anxious as I entered the restaurant. I was dressed sexy but not too sexy. Nice, but not like I had a lot of money…cause I didn’t. Turns out, I should have just worn an adult diaper because when I saw who I was meeting, I almost shit myself. Devon looked like someone had tried to put a suit on an Uruk-hai. He had bad teeth, little beady eyes, huge Popeye arms (post-spinach consumption) and a face that could have scared women who weren’t pregnant into labor. His neck was decorated with a tattoo of a zombie strangling a goat. As I walked over to the table with the friendliest smile I could muster,Devon was taking a big drag off his Tareyton cigarette. No one in the entire eatery seemed the slightest bit interested in telling him it was completely illegal. He failed to look up as I warmly said hello and sat down. I didn’t attribute it to nerves. There were several moments of stomach-churning silence and no eye contact. I could feel beads of sweat forming between my breasts and running down the inside of my dress like that guy who kayaked down Everest (only my breasts aren’t quite that big). Where was a good-sized puke bucket when you needed one?
Finally, he looked up. I was definitely better off before. Devon glowered murderously at me, loudly sucked all the contents from his sinuses into the back of his mouth and then spat them on the floor. Still, no one complained.
“Stand up.” he barked…and the resemblance to a rabid dog didn’t stop there.
I understandably complied. Again he glowered.
The trouble with turning around was I could see the exit. If only I could have rallied the courage to kick off my heels and do a Usain Bolt across that restaurant floor…but there was no where to go.
“Sit the fuck back down,” he growled and broke my train of thought. Another charcoal-filtered cigarette was slowly taken out of his soft pack and lit.
“You owe me money.”
“Well, technically I do but…you see, Danny really owes…”
He threw his whisky in my face, including the ice cubes. The bourbon stung my eyes and the ice dropped down into my cleavage. Somehow I didn’t scream. Devon leaned across the table as my vision was returning. “You just might be the luckiest cunt in this city.” He did not say this quietly enough for just the two of us to hear.
“I don’t feel that lucky.” I replied, trying not to burst into tears or piss myself.
“I was going to punch your teeth out, drag you into an alley and make you suck cocks till you choked to death on the blood and cum.”
This did not sound like an idle threat. I so wanted to wipe the alcohol off my face but I was too afraid to lift up my hands.
“But, you’re…you’re not going to do that now?”
He leaned even further towards me. “You ever see Midnight in Paris? The movie. The one that Jew with the glasses wrote.”
“You know, we’re going to get along sooooo much better, if you keep that little filthy bitch mouth of yours shut.” He reached over and stuck his ring finger into my filthy bitch mouth like it was his cock. I could taste the nicotine and god knows what else as he slid it in and out. “Rachel McAdams was in that film. You remember her?”
I nodded my head as he continued to finger rape me.
“Well, ever since I seen her in that, I’ve really, really wanted to fuck that bitch up the ass.” He took his finger out of my mouth and wiped the saliva off on my tits.
“Well, everyone should have a dream,” I probably shouldn’t have said.
“And the reason you are one lucky, lucky cunt is that you’re just about her size.”
As bad as this conversation was proceeding before? It now seemed to be hurtling off in a really ominous direction.
“I, I’m not quite sure I understand.” I was pretty sure I did understand but I so desperately hoped I was wrong.
“You owe me 20 grand plus vig. Each time I fuck you up the ass, I take 500 off that. At three times a week, you’ll have paid your debt to me in 15 weeks.”
Waves of nausea and fear were crashing over me like I was an Antarctic penguin in a storm. “I could pay you some of the money…next week.”
“You pay me now, in full, or it’s up your ass I go.”
As yummy as that sounded, there had to be someway to mitigate my sentence. Perhaps he could just garrote me while I was on my period. I’m pretty miserable then, anyway. A thought. “And…ah…but, 500 into 22,000 is 44 and 15 weeks times 3 would be 45 times…”
Devon’s face turned a rather blazing hue of bright-lavender. He crushed the glass in his hand, trying to control his I’m sure, limitless fury. Blood from his meaty palm trickled down between the shards and ice. ”What, are you a fucking math professor now!?”
“No! Forty-five times will be fine.”
The very next day, I had to go out and get this stupid tattoo “She had” on my lower back, left hand side. That and the curly blonde wig, of course. Then, I pretty well sat around at home and drank and cried, realizing that as soon as that scab came off, it was “Showtime!”
The first session was by far the hardest (pardon the painful pun). Even the drive across town, envisioning the fate that was going to befall me upon my arrival, was beyond horrific. I had never “hosted” anyone in that particular body part before. Especially a psychotic, demented loan shark with a sick, twisted Canadian-actress fixation. I guess that’s what makes me unique among women.
I pulled up in front of a hotel you’d expect to see guys with goalie masks and chain saws booking into. Shit! This thing was just getting worse and worse. At the reception desk, I was presented with a dress by the leering, smelly concierge and had to put it on in a bathroom that was even more gross and disgusting than Kent Morgan’s. You don’t know him, but at college, people used to pee back into their beer bottles rather than go in there. We girls drank Mickey’s Big Mouths, exclusively.
After donning that ridiculous wig, I made my way up to his decorous “accommodations.” The door was ajar. Devon was sitting in a leaky beanbag chair as I trembled across his threshold. The whole room smelled of cigarettes and cat piss. I don’t know whether he kept them as pets or ate them. His eyes never blinked as I slowly unbuttoned this cream-colored number that Rachel wore when she kissed Owen Wilson on a bridge. It was all terribly romantic. As soon as the dress and my stomach hit the floor, I reached back to unhook my bra. I could practically feel his cancerous soul feeling-up my breasts as I released them into the air. Ick! Now, there was only one last item of delicate apparel to surrender to the squalid carpet. Down went the panties. They had a leopard-skin sort of a pattern with a black frilly border. Ms. McAdam had apparently worn such a pair in some flick called “Morning Glory.” So there I stood before his Satanic Majesty, naked and shaved, debased and ashamed. I could feel my poor little pucker-hole trying to find some place to hide from the bad, bad man as he reached over and squeezed my denuded pudenda between his thumb and forefinger. Devon rummaged around my labia and courtesy suite for what seemed like an eternity while I tried very hard not to throw up on his head. It was almost a relief when he unhitched himself from me gave the dreaded “nod.” That was my cue to go lay face down on the bed and the pageantry only increased from there. When I heard Mr. Creepy unzipping his pants, I spread myself out like an “X” and he whapped my ass about a dozen times with his belt. I guess he wanted nice glowing pink cheeks to dive into.
“Splurt.” Alas, Devon wasn’t taking a moment to put on some sunscreen. I almost jumped though the headboard as he pushed the freezing cold K-Y up between my butt-cheeks and smeared it around my thoroughly scandalized doo-doo door. They say the real secret to anal sex is to try and relax. That was not an option. I was now about as tight as my high school jeans. At first, he even had a hard time getting his ring finger past my very unwelcoming sphincter but Devon was not the kind of man to take “No” for an answer. A little bit more pressure and “zooop!” up it went. So this is what men of a certain age have to put up with at the doctor’s office. While a trip to the gynecologist is no picnic, at least a vagina is designed for two-way service. This was really, weirdly uncomfortable. Two fingers! God! He worked them around in there like he was trying to find his watch.
Minutes merrily skipped by. I began to worry about the hygiene history of the flop-house pillow I had my face buried in. Then, a quick shift in weight and I knew that the “grand opening” was about to commence. I clenched my teeth and girded my soon-to-be-violated loins as I felt the tip of his heavily-lubed lance push against my “rose de la derriere.” A little harder. A little harder and….HOLY FUCK!!! The head of his dick popped into me causing my eyeballs to pop out of me. This was already more than I could bear and I had untold inches of excruciation left to go. Higher and higher it went like some sort of demonic snake, wriggling its way up my horrified lower intestine. I let out a few muffled grunts and cartoon “oofs” into my mystery-stained pillow as he started the actual ass-fucking. The sensation was indescribable and devastating. It was like he had a toilet plunger up there and was trying to flush the entire contents of my body out through the top of my head. I’ve never prayed for a premature ejaculation more in my entire life. Faster and faster he pumped. I gripped the edges of the mattress so hard, as he continued to piston inside me; I tore holes in the material with my fingers. I heard him call me Rachel a few times, above the din of the bed smashing against the wall, and told me in rather graphic detail what he was doing to my movie-star ass-cunt. Hey, whatever it took to pop his cork was more than fine with me. Finally, there was this sort of growling “Umphhh!” and one last blindingly painful thrust as he deposited his rancid squirts of man-goo up inside his pretend celebrity whore. His dead and spent weight flopped down on top of me and I could feel his post-orgasmic drool drip down onto the back of my neck as his rectal invader slowly started its shrinky retreat. How’s that for basking in the glow? There were a few tears; I’m not going to lie. Devon gave my tush a hard you-did-okay slap when he was fully out and rolled over.
I wanted to bolt out of that room screaming, now that my obligation had been literally discharged, but my ass hurt so much, it took me a couple of minutes just to gingerly sit up on the side of the bed. Devonseemed to find my nether-region agony alluring. I could see him getting hard again. Time to skedaddle before he decided to knock another half a grand off my slate. God, struggling to painfully put my underwear back on as that mattress troll just lay there and ogled me was about as savory as having to jack off your grandfather into the gravy boat before Thanksgiving dinner.
While I’m not trying to sugarcoat the appeal of getting repeatedly rammed up the fudge-cupboard by Ming the Merciless, subsequent stopovers were not quite as “Silence of the Lambs” in nature as my “fifth base” premier. I bought myself a rather bulbous butt-plug (gee, wasn’t that a joy to have to take up to the cashier) and practiced impaling myself on it while watching old Brady Bunch repeats, in the evening. You know, to get myself better acquainted with the new traffic route. I also had my hair cut tomboy short. It can get absolutely sweltering under a wig when you’re being brutally sodomized in a room with inadequate airflow.
I was adjusting as best I could to a pretty awful situation and things were going pretty well…you know — really, really considering — until the other day. I don’t want to get into a lot of off-putting specifics but let’s just say I experienced a bout of digestive unpleasantness and it has left an extremely vital area of my person far too sore to receive any visitors? I am far too well aware that Devon isn’t exactly the understanding, metrosexual type and he’s either going to slit my throat or add another hundred appointments to my colon calendar, if I request a postponement. Neither of these options has me doing “The Electric Slide” in a public fountain, if you catch my drift.
So…that’s why I’m putting this ad up on Craig’s list. What would you want me to do in return for taking it up the corn-factory – just a couple of times – starting tomorrow while wearing a blonde wig? Any serious offer will be entertained…oh yeah, and you’ll have to get a stupid tattoo.
So look forward to hearing from you.
Copyright 2014 Lauren McAllister