by Patrick Kill
Deborah was the type of conservative bitch that would prance around and stick her nose in everyone’s business, play jokes on others, then scream like a little pissed-off infant when one was pulled on her.
“My goal is to have a picture of Jesus hanging in every room of my house,” she said one evening at work.
I smiled secretly, taking her words literally, and envisioning Jesus hanging from the gallows in one room, then hanging from a light fixture in another. You see, my minds works that way sometimes – call it stress, call it a touch of insanity. It’s just how my mind copes with being subjected to this environment, like a laboratory rat running through a maze for cheese, but, for me, I’m working this endless maze for the American dollar, just to be able to survive day to day.
One day I tried to let off a little steam, so I spent the night drawing. By morning, I had finished a dozen pictures of Jesus as a pimp, Sumo wrestler, topless dancer, cab driver, porn star, pirate, mime, ballerina, zombie, plumber, proctologist and crossing guard. I bound them all together and made a yearly calendar and called it “Jesus’ Second Comings.” The next day at work, I placed them in her locker for her home gallery.
She wasn’t pleased.
I was suspended for three days. And my hatred grew.
I tried to push this loathing away and ignore her, but we worked in the same area. And when she started singing gospel songs out loud, I snapped.
At least my hand did.
She smiled at me and I knew what she was thinking, Ha ha – look who had the last laugh. And when she did, my hand flattened and arm swung absently through the air, smacking her directly in the cheek.
“Ooowwww! Damn you!” she cried.
Once she spoke, my hand bitchslapped her again.
I just stood there, amazed at how I wasn’t able to regain control of my right arm. It felt like a bad dream as everyone around me stared on in disbelief.
“What the hell did—”
My hand smacked her again. A red welt formed instantly across her cheek.
Sweat beaded on my forehead as I tried to hold back my arm.
“You…” she started.
My arm broke loose again and whacked her again. She stumbled back, then regained her composure. Her lips cracked and a smile suddenly crept forth.
“…are going to be…”
WHACK…SMACK…WHACK…SMACK.
Her lip split open and blood trickled down her chin.
“…Fired.”
I had never seen a hand move so fast. Like a hardcore pimp, I fluttered my hand back and forth across both cheeks with such lightning speed that she didn’t know what hit her. I swore I even heard her neck crack from the violent shaking of her head back and forth.
As she passed out, I had time to actually think about what had just happened. Somehow, my hand had totally branched off from my mind as a separate entity. The only way I could figure it out is that I pushed my hatred so far down that it somehow manifested itself in my right arm and hand. All the anger and hatred had somehow possessed my right limb, causing this violent event to unfold.
Supervisors poured in the room, two of them restraining me. They quickly backed away once they witnessed my hand begin to flutter. Not too long after, two cops showed up and shot my arm off. I served six months in jail and years of probation.
That was the first time it happened.
* * *
The next time it happened was in a bar. Some guy who looked a lot like an evil Mr. Rogers was taunting my lack of an appendage.
“Hey, somebody stole my beer – I bet it was the one-armed man,” evil Mr. Rogers said, followed by a chorus of laughter. Another guy jumped in, “Yeah, somebody stole my wife – the one-armed man did it!” A third idiot finally joined in, “And somebody ran up my tab – it was the one-armed man!”
I jumped off my barstool and evil Mr. Rogers pulled out a knife.
“It’s a wonderful day in the neighborhood pub,” I sang. “A wonderful day for a knife fight. Would you stab me? Could you stab me?”
“What are you some kind of fuckin’ queer or something?” evil Mr. Rogers asked.
“I don’t know,” I stated, “Bend over and you’ll find out.”
He didn’t bend over. Instead he rushed me. And my left hand came to life and bitchslapped the knife from his grasp. My hand continued bitchslapping him across the bar floor until we reached the jukebox that played some kind of hillbilly trailer trash country song about some whore-bitch that left the singer for another man. Tears and beers and women and a truck, blah, blah, blah—no one really gives a fuck…except three inbred dumbasses in a bar somewhere in ShitTowne Indiana.
My fury peaked and I bitchslapped his head through the entire jukebox display case. Records cracked. Sparks shot across the floor. The crowd cleared to the sound of distant sirens.
The cops finally came in and shot my other arm off. Four years in jail and a lengthy probation followed.
* * *
The final time was just last month. My wife had been sleeping around with another man (kind of like that hick-song playing at the bar that night). I had known for months and suppressed my anger. I was no longer a danger since I had no arms left to bitchslap her silly.
She came home late, drunk as hell, and her zipper was still down, not to mention her bra had mysteriously come up missing.
“Where the fuck have you been?” I yelled.
“None of your fucking business,” she said.
“I know you’ve been fucking around on me.”
“Oh really,” she said, “What makes you think that? Because I’m not happy and I’m married to a freak who can’t even hug me…?”
“Don’t,” I cut in.
“…Or who can’t even satisfy me in other ways. You know, just because you don’t have any arms doesn’t mean your dick doesn’t work.”
“Please, don’t.”
“You do have a tongue don’t you? Hell, use your toes if you have to!”
I felt my anger channeling into both my stumps. They flailed, sputtering uselessly.
“I bet I could suck on your dick and you wouldn’t even get it up.”
She staggered, fell to her knees, and unzipped my fly.
And my cock grew before her astonished eyes.
It poked through my fly and suddenly whacked her across the face. It wagged back and forth, smacking her again and again. I chuckled after seeing my dick-print etched across her flesh. I could vaguely make out the imprint of my cock’s head and shaft on her pale cheek.
After the ninth or tenth thrashing, she fell unconscious.
But that wasn’t enough. My hatred still burned.
And my dick was still hard, so I shoved it into her mouth. I wiggled it in deeper, lodging it in her throat. Her gag-reflex massaged it instantly. She coughed and gasped, but didn’t wake up.
“How you like my dick now, bitch?”
The cops kicked in the door. They took one look at my choking wife and shot my dick off. No real surprise there, I guess. My lawyer said I’m up shit creek for at least ten years. But, by this point, I could care less. What the hell am I suppose to do in society without hands, arms or even a cock besides running in a three-legged race or playing soccer?
But I don’t feel safe in here. Especially since I have the most important thing that any man needs in jail: an asshole. And my cellmate, Jimmy, likes me just the way I am. Helpless and pissed and naked most of the time. I just lay there with my face pressed to the cold concrete, unable to gain my balance and defend myself since I no longer have any fucking arms.
Jimmy’s been playing it rough lately – my hindquarters are bruised from his incessant pounding.
My hatred has no limits. Especially since I’ve learned the one lesson in life that I had rebelled against from the beginning. What comes around goes around – no matter if you’re right or wrong – life has a way of always bitchslapping you in the end. And right now it’s my turn as I’m getting bitchslapped from behind.
&n
bsp; But, as life goes, change is the only thing we can count on. And my hemorrhoids have started to grow, creeping forward with every session, reaching out to rip his dick off.
THE GIANT MAN
After a lifetime of solitude, Ginger finally found her soul mate. The only problem was that he was 20-feet tall and no one else had ever seen him.
He lived in her woods, safely nestled away from society due to his freakish gargantuan build. She had lived on the property for months before noticing a strange rustling from the edge of the woods. Several times she caught a giant head poking from the trees, but dismissed it as being her tired eyes or pent-up imagination.
He admired her from afar, from her nightly skinny dips in the pond to her long walks down the trails—he followed her and she knew it. She feared she was losing her mind.
But two weeks later she fell in love with the giant man. She had caught him napping next to the pond during an early walk. She screamed, never seeing him so vividly. Now, she knew, this wasn’t her imagination. His whole body rippled before her, roused from sleep. He slowly stood and she gasped at his enormous height—his head vanished into the treeline. He wore a blue tarp around his waist and his chest was bare as was his feet.
“Who are you?” she yelled.
The trees shook and his voice thundered, “Please, I mean you no harm. Leave me be.”
Though his voice was deep and loud, he sounded almost scared.
“Who are you?”
His face peaked around the foliage and Ginger realized how handsome he was. His face was tan and his eyes sparkled green in the afternoon sun. His hair was long and chopped crudely at the shoulders, as if he had used a knife to trim it.
He knelt on one knee and calmed his voice. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I have nowhere else to go. These woods have become my home. It’s one of the few places I can go and not be seen.”
“How did you get so big?” Ginger asked, slowly approaching him. She cautioned herself to watch for any quick movements. With his feet he could crush her, with his hands he could break her into two, then easily pop her into his mouth and swallow her whole.
“My parents were this size too.”
“Are they here as well,” she asked.
The giant man’s eyes grew watery, his head bowed. “I’m afraid not.”
“You’re alone in this world, aren’t you?” Ginger asked, suddenly feeling a mutual connection to him. “Well you don’t have to be alone anymore.”
* * *
His name was Ed and he was quite the charming, gentle giant. They walked together in the afternoons and she tanned on his stomach in the pond. They talked for hours and hours about loneliness and sorrows, and of how they wished to escape this world and be free.
Months passed and Ginger finally kissed him. First on the hand and then on the lips when he lay on the grass outside the woods. She ran her hand up the tarp and felt the soft flesh that sprung between his legs. And she gasped.
And their relationship hit its first barrier.
There were plenty of ways she could love a giant as she could a normal human, but the physical part of it was a bit more complicated. As she pulled back the tarp, she marveled at the size of his cock. I guess for a 20-foot giant, a 30-inch cock wasn’t too bad, she thought, almost chuckling. The next time she visited her sisters, she would definitely smile when they started talking about their husbands’ or lovers’ sizes. Her man’s cock was the length of a baseball bat and as round as a softball. Others’ would seem like half-eaten cocktail weiners to his.
She ran her hand up his shaft and he moaned. She took both hands and caressed him as he suddenly pulled back.
“What’s the matter, are you scared?” she asked.
He shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s…It’s just too dangerous.”
“It’s just a hand job, Ed, it’s not sex or anything.”
Ed frowned. “If I were to impregnate you, you would surely die.”
Ginger thought about it. If she were to harbor a giant baby inside her, it would definitely rip her to pieces. But getting pregnant was almost impossible with a cock ten times the size of her vagina. There was no way to even manage penetration.
* * *
That night Ginger lay in bed alone and dreamed about making love to him.
She climbed atop his shaft, with a milky stream of lubricant beading on the tip. She ran her tongue over his penis and drank in a mouth full of his juices. When it was nice and slick, she jumped atop him, straddling him, rubbing her crotch across the wet tip, her breasts heaving in the mid-morning sunlight. As Ed’s deep groan reached ecstasy, she felt the pressure of the geyser lift her up and away from the world, jetting her body across the sky, her own orgasm heightening as she arched her body and felt free for the very first time in her life.
She woke to dampened sheets. She had never had an experience so vivid and fulfilling—never felt like such a woman until that night.
She peered out the window and saw Ed near the woods, still sleeping in the grass.
She stripped off her clothes and pulled the curtains. She searched the house for empty cans and bottles and returned to her bed.
Still watching Ed laying in the grass, she banged herself for hours, fingers pounding against her vagina walls, stretching, stretching…
Next she tried soda cans and dish detergent bottles. Working up a lather, she inserted them deeper and deeper, stretching the inside of her body, hoping.
She bled the afternoon away and waited days before she tried again.
Then she worked in a baseball. Pains shot through her legs, but she managed to shove it inside her, the seams tearing her lips. The pain only made her want more…
She worked it for several more weeks until she could no longer contain herself.
Though Ed was dead set against the idea of making love to her, there were other ways she could get around that. And one thing she knew was that Ed was a heavy sleeper.
She rose early one morning, stripped off her pajamas and walked across the short field that separated her house from the woods. There, Ed was deep in sleep as she softly climbed up his leg and began massaging his cock. It quickly responded by growing, pushing her away, almost to where she fell off. She gazed at the tip of his penis and noticed that his urethra was gigantic as well. The darkness within his tube was somewhat frightening, yet exhilarating as well.
She worked him vigorously while he slept, bringing a tiny wet bubble from him that coated his head and dripped down his shaft.
She climbed atop him and pushed her midsection down onto the tip of his fully erect penis.
The girth of his anatomy was so much more than she had first figured, now seeing him hard and ready, yet unaware of his predicament. He moaned softly, as if dreaming the whole thing and he suddenly thrust upward, throwing her body forward several yards onto his chest.
She returned, mounting him again, working her own wetness to her advantage while pressing her delicate flesh sternly onto his penis.
But it would not enter her.
She began rocking rapidly and he responded by miniature thrusts in his sleep. And with each thrust, the soft flesh at the tip of his penis crowded into her canal, bringing her spasms of ecstasy.
She rode wildly atop him until she felt him come.
A stream shot against her midsection, the propulsion blowing her back so far that she tumbled to the ground. She smiled, watching the white stream spray onto the grass. Then his penis erupted again, spraying her entire body.
And in the fluid, something flipped around, alive.
Before she could run, scaly creatures slithered around her legs. She peered down, noticing hundreds of eyeless, tadpole-like things that whipped their tails around her.
She rose, stumbling away as another geyser erupted and dozens more of the creatures rained down on her, flopping wildly like salmon swimming upstream during spawning. Their fleshy tails whipped through the air and onto the grass, moving their bodies closer to Ginger.
/> One suddenly wrapped its tail around her ankle and started inching its way up. She grabbed it by its head and flung it away, but another one slithered through the grass and pounded into her side. She lost her balance and fell into the muddy grass. The sperm’s head became oblong, almost pointed, as it rushed her again. It slapped against her stomach, knocking the breath from her.
Before she could recover or scream, several more rushed on her, knocking her to the ground, then burrowing their heads into her skin. She tried to wiggle out from beneath them, but she was covered as more joined the pack, probing.
She couldn’t believe the size of them. They were giants themselves, seeming to be much too large to have came from even Ed’s body size.
The giant sperm continued to assault her as some struck her head. Another one worked its way into her mouth and into her throat.
She rolled over, gagging into the grass, coughing up the bloody remains of its severed head. She vomited bits and pieces of its tail as more giant sperm violated her from behind. She felt several enter her rectum and one easily slide into her vaginal canal.
But she no longer cared about getting pregnant as Ed began working himself, unconsciously finishing the job she had started. Another fountain of gargantuan sperm jetted next to her, quickly climbing atop her—in her eye sockets and ears, through the torn flesh that was once her nasal holes. She felt them inside her, ravishing her, probing further for something none of them would ever find.
Her numb body tingled with a last moment of lust as the sperm around her face cleared momentarily to reveal her lover’s slumbering body, fully erect and quivering like mad.
She smiled briefly, allowing another wave of gray, eyeless creatures to find an open entrance to her, filling her insides with Ed’s seed, flopping, slithering, poking their way toward freedom.