Happiness Is a Warm (Yes It Is!) Gun

August 14, 2011 at 8:45 PM | Posted in Fiction | 10 Comments
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This is another in the series of flash fiction from Chuck Wendig’s site “Terrible Minds.” The theme this week was to write something about guns. That’s a little open-ended, if you ask me. To find out the details and read more entries, go to his website:
Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Must Love Guns

Violet eyed her target in the scope and pulled the trigger.  She held off for as long as she could, enjoying the mounting excitement in her loins and the wetness it produced.
Now the job was finished and Violet felt…unfulfilled.  Although the sniper rifle was long and hard and smooth, it lacked the personality and raw sexual power of her .38 Revolver.  Quickly she disassembled the rifle, pausing only to briefly slide the still-warm barrel inside her pants, where the heat and hardness caressed her soft, aching mound.
“Not now, not now,” she thought, and finished her close.  She already knew where she was going next.  Where she had to go.
In her hotel room she prepared to go out for the evening.  In the shower, she softly caressed the scars that disfigured her neck, her shoulder, and her breast.  Gunshot wounds from a battle long ago that caught her in the crossfire:  A battle that killed her family, and shaped who she would become on the inside as well as the outside.
She thought the scars were beautiful.

He had no idea who this woman was, who was dressed so seductively, revealing at once nothing and everything.  Violet made eye contact, and her eyes burned with passion.  Bernardo sensed it.
“Excuse me, madam.  But the gentleman there in the private room has asked politely for the pleasure of your company.”  Violet went to the room.
Bernardo stood and bowed slightly.  “Forgive me, madam.  You betray so much with your eyes.  I feel as though I know you.  And yet–”
She took his proffered hand as he applied more than a salutary kiss.  “I am Miss Violet Nuncio.  You, too, sir, lead with your eyes.  I sense a predator.”
He gave a reserved laughed.  “Only in that I seek the finest of all things.  And people.  I feel that you are the finest.”
“At what?” she inquired demurely.
“Ah, that is the question.  That is what I hope to discover.”
“I am sure, Senor Bernardo, that in due time you shall.”
Violet shared the gift of immediate intimacy with Bernardo.  After a fashion they found themselves naturally in Bernardo’s suite.  “Will you now have champagne with me, Miss Nuncio?”
“Yes, of course, dear Bernardo.  I would like to freshen up, if you don’t mind.”
“Please, of course.”
While Bernardo prepared the champagne, Violet prepared her tender loins for what she hoped would be a night of wonderful passion.  Her wetness made it easy, as she slid the birth control device inside her vagina.  She then put on a dark, high-collar negligee, and nothing else.
“Ravishing.  Simply ravishing,” he said upon her return.  She smiled a dimpled smile.  “When I say ‘ravishing,’ my dear, I mean that.  I would feast upon you.”  Bernardo took her in his arms softly, yet she could feel the strength in his hard, sinewy arms.
She said, “I know.  Bernardo, I know.  I know of you, and I know what you desire.  I have dreamt that one day I would be your feast.”  She looked into his eyes, and lightly ran her fingers over his hard, masculine chest.  “And I will feast upon you as well.”  She slowly licked her lips.
With that, all pretense was broken.  He kissed her hard, passionately, then began to kiss and nuzzle her face and neck, and worked down to her now-heaving bosom.  With a squeal of surprise and delight, Violet found herself thrown onto the bed, and she thought enough to land with her mocha-colored legs open, inviting him in.
Bernardo quite naturally attacked her, head first, and put his face down in her private area.  He took note of the small and neatly trimmed patch of hair, and appreciated her attention to detail.
The aroma of her sex flared his nostrils.  God, how he loved this!  He wanted to bury his face in her beautiful mound.  Instead, he plied her groin with small kisses, and lightly brushed her outer lips with his tongue.  Gradually he made his way in, working his tongue and lips on all of her beautiful, wanting parts.  He found her tiny button and sucked on it.  He paid attention to her responses, so that he could find that which she liked the most.
Violet was in ecstasy.  Her head was back and she was moaning, as her fluids coursed through her to be lapped up by her lover.  In her mind’s eye, while she knew it was Bernardo, she imagined it to be her gun.  It was her gun that she loved.  Her gun knew how to please her.  Her gun was always hard, always hot, and never let her down.
The thoughts of her gun brought her nearer and nearer to orgasm.  It wasn’t time yet–Not yet.  She knew it was close, as she felt things moving inside her.
She knew that Bernardo would let her know when the time was right.  Sweet Bernardo–so loving and giving, eating her pussy, sticking his tongue inside her…
“Huh–What the hell?”
That was the cue.  That was the signal that her vaginal muscles had pushed her modified Semmerling out far enough to not hurt her.  “Oh, yes!” she cried, and contracted her vaginal muscles in exactly the right way, firing the gun in Bernardo’s face.
The recoil of a Semmerling is considerable, and it pushed back deep inside her.  This sent her over the edge in wave after wave of orgasmic pleasure.  The heat from the barrel burned her a little, even though she had it in a protective case.  Still, it was exhilarating.  Inside her it dampened the noise considerably.
Bernardo was dead.  He died doing what he loved, but still, he was dead.  After 12 long years, Violet had her revenge.  Finally, she came down from her pleasure high, and rolled away from his body.  After she showered and changed, she prepared to leave.  She said, “That was the best,” to no one in particular.  The room.  Bernardo.  The Semmerling.

The Train

June 11, 2011 at 10:17 PM | Posted in Humor Me | 1 Comment
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(You must know that of course I do think like this, and I do write like this–but I generally don’t post like this–on my blog, anyway. This is part of Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge, “Dirty-Ass Sex Moves.” Check this out to read other entries and to verify that I’m not full of shit. About this.)

It’s important for you to know (for my own self-esteem) that of the various incarnations of Anna-Nicole Smith (hot, zaftig, fat, unconscious, freshly dead, or a several years’ dead) this true story happened when she was hot.

The hallway was wide and luxuriously appointed.  The man sat in a high back chair, waiting.  He was on the 30th floor of a swanky, expensive hotel in New York City.  He sat musing as he waited, wondering how a Midwestern, middle-aged, middle-class, middle-income guy would find himself in this situation.
He had entered the online lottery on a whim, not really believing the prize.  He had an email address already made up that he used to sign up for crap, so that all the spam would go there:      fornicatewithsheep@aol.com.
And then he dismissed it, and almost missed the deadline, checking it only because signed up for another BS online spam-trap.  What the hell?  A finalist?  He didn’t believe it, but he pursued it anyway, and after two and a half frustrating hours online, he got an email confirmation with air flight, ground travel, and hotel accommodations.
Of course, the hotel he was staying in was not this fancy, swank, five-star hotel.  His hotel didn’t have stars.  His hotel barely had electricity.  His hotel was in Jersey.  Good thing the ground transport (three bus changes, a taxi, and three blocks of following a transvestite) was included in the trip.
He was jolted out of his daydreaming when the door opened.  Then, nothing happened for a long, long time.  Finally, after what seemed like several minutes, a young black man emerged.  Tall, dark, and muscular, with a shaved head and a commanding presence…like a bouncer, or a pro wrestler.  He stood there, scowling professionally with his arms crossed and his feet a measured shoulder-width apart. He contemptuously refused to make eye contact.  Bryan shrugged, turned his head to face forward, but watched for movement with his peripheral vision.
After another few minutes, he heard some noise, but still saw nothing.  Finally, after several more minutes a man emerged from the room.  An old man.  A very old man.  He was pushing a walker and breathing oxygen, which was hanging from the walker.  He had a big, vacant, toothless smile, and he slowly pushed the walker and took tiny steps behind it.  The walker had tennis balls cut and placed on the front legs.  The old man was wearing pajamas and a coat, and those tennis shoes with Velcro straps.
Only when the old man had moved sufficiently down the hall–three feet from the door–the bouncer looked at Bryan and gruffly motioned him to follow.  Bemused, he stood and followed.
He entered the suite to find a singularly unique scene:  A cavernous, beautifully appointed luxury suite that was completely trashed.
Broken furniture pieces lay about.  Party trash was everywhere:  bottles, cans, pizza boxes.  A half-dozen or so people were casually tossed about like the trash, passed out.  They were of a variety of sexes and in various states of dress.  He had to step over and around things and people to make his way, and almost stepped on a naked woman’s hand.
When he dropped back through difficulty making his way through, the bouncer turned back to him and stage-whispered impatiently:  “Keep up!  In here!”
He entered the room, and the bouncer turned and left, closing the door behind him.  Bryan turned his attention to the person on the bed.  A blonde, buxom woman, wearing some skimpy lingerie.  She was looking at him, but she seemed to be out of it:  her eyes were droopy, and her head lolled a bit.  Was that drool?
She wobbled as she got off the bed.  “Hi!” she said.  “How are *you*?”  She came up to him, rubbed her chest on his.  “You’re a handsome devil.  What’s your name?”  Her voiced was slurred.
“Bryan.”  He cleared his throat.  “I’m–My name is Bryan.”
She walked around him, strutting, and touching him as she did.  “Well, it’s good to meet you Ryan.  My name is Anna.”

The room smelled of perfume, alcohol, and Cheetos, with the faintest hint of ozone.  Bryan wondered at that as he stood while the buxom Anna walked around him, babbling.  He was never sure if she was talking to him or herself or someone else.
“What a nice day. . .It’s been fun.. ..busy though.  Do you like chocolate?  I just took a shower.  That old man was frisky, but he smelled funny.  Where’s my ear rings?  Do you feel lucky?”
Bryan stood, watching her alternately prance and wobble.  He was surprised at how beautiful she actually was.  He watched her ass, which was bare, showing from underneath her short baby doll negligee as she bent over.  She knocked several empty Slimfast cans and a few pill bottles aside, and picked up an earring.
“Hey!” she said sharply, knocking him from is daze.
“Huh?  What–”
“I said–” she repeated, as she put her earring in, popped a pill, downed it with Slimfast, and sidled up to him, pressing her tits hard against his chest, “–‘Do you feel lucky?'”
“Oh.  Well, sure, yeah.  I guess so.”
“‘Cause you were one of only 723 winners selected to receive the grand prize.”  She paused, beaming at him.  “Me!”
“Uh. . .’723’?”
“Yeah, about 780 some-odd people entered the contest, and we had to weed a few of the real losers out.”  Bryan reflected at the barely mobile octogenarian who just left.
She saw his concerned look, and completely misread it.  “Oh, don’t worry; you’re one of the winners.  You get to have me!”  She giggled and pulled at his arm.  “See?  You are lucky.  Come on, let’s fuck!”
Anna pulled Bryan over to the bed, and basically undressed him, with some help from him because she was feeling the effects of whatever drugs she had taken.
Bryan was completely unsure about all of this, but his hard-on won out; being that close to hot chick undressing him–even her–kicked his cock into gear.
She saw the bulge in his underwear when she removed his pants, and said, “There he is!  There’s my wiener-mobile.  She pulled down his underwear and said, “Oh, my!  More like a polish sausage!”  Bryan’s cock was thick, and growing as she looked at it.  She looked at Bryan, and kissed him.  “Thank you.  Thank you for having such a nice wiener.  I’m going to suck it now.”
With that, she pushed Bryan back on the bed and attached her mouth to his cock.  Her hair flowed down around her face.  As she sucked him, taking his cock deep in her big mouth, and her fingers nimbly massaged his balls and stroked his cock, Bryan thought of how awesome it was, and how he’d like to cum in her mouth, and he thought despondently of his cell phone, which had a camera, which he had been forced to leave in a basket when the big black man had searched him upon his arrival.  Dammit.  What had he said?  “No cameras, no condoms, no dildoes. No freaky shit.  Behave your ass.”
He would love to have a picture of Anna-Nicole Smith sucking his cock.  He would show it to his friends, and they would think it was Photoshopped, but he wouldn’t care.  *He* would know.
She sucked his cock sloppily, wetly.  It was good.  She stroked him, lifted his cock, and placed both of his balls in her mouth.  Then she started to hum.  The sensation drove him wild, and he was really getting into it, until he recognized the tune she was humming:
“I’m a Yankee doodle dandy!
“Yankee doodle do or die!
“A real live nephew of my Uncle sam–
“Born on the fourth of July–!”
Bryan pulled back a bit, and she released his balls.  She took his cock back in her mouth for several more minutes of sucking, and she started humming again.
“I wish I were an Oscar Meyer Weiner,
“That is what I’d truly like to be-e-e
“Cause if I were I an Oscar Meyer Weiner–”
Bryan pulled out of her mouth.  “Oh, ready to fuck, huh?  Me too!”  She rolled over and got on her back, put her legs in the air.  “Right here–uh,—shit.  What’s your name again?”
“Bryan,” he said as he rolled to his knees to mount her.
“Yeah, Ryan.  Right here, Ry.  Fuck me, Rye Bread.  Fuck me good, Reagan!
He got between her legs, and she looked good.  Bryan checked out her body before he entered her:  Her eyes half-open, her big titties laying on her chest, her tiny little patch of bleached blonde pubic hair just above her pussy, and finally, her pussy:  the lips were wet, pink, and swollen, sticking out like a cow’s tongue.
She held out her arms for him as he got into position.  She grabbed his cock with one hand and shoved it to her hot, wet hole.  Hot it was, and very wet.  He was amazed at how wet it was; his cock slid right in.
Or did it?  He was sure he was in, but it was so wet and mucous-y that he couldn’t really tell.  And shouldn’t he *feel* her pussy if he was in it?  He felt nothing.  She groaned in pleasure.
*Hmmmph*, he thought.  *Let’s try this again.*
Bryan continued to thrust in and out of her, and he was feeling nothing.  Meanwhile, she was moaning and groaning like a porn star.  Was she really enjoying it?  Could she feel anything?  Or was this her attempt at acting?  His face was screwed up in concentration as he tried to discern if there was any sensation whatsoever.  His cock was thick, and yet he was not touching the sides.  This was one loose cunt.
He thought of asking her to tighten up a bit if she could, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, or for her to take it the wrong way–
“Say, your cunt is really loose and I can’t feel anything, can you take up the slack a bit?”
–You never know how someone will take constructive criticism.
Bryan had an idea.  Anna was in the throes of what he was sure was a fake orgasm–either that, or she really didn’t know what an orgasm was, and just thought she was having one–so he decided to ride it out until she was done so he could spring it on her.  He pounded away at her hard, for her benefit, and she seemed to enjoy it, but he was fearful of pulling out too far and then going back in and missing, because he couldn’t tell if he was in or out.
He realized it didn’t matter, because it was like fucking a five gallon bucket; there was no way he was going to miss.
When Anna’s orgasm–to the extent that it was an orgasm, the validity of which is uncertain–subsided, Bryan slowed his pace, and got her attention.
“Anna–?”
“Oh–Yes, Ronnie?”
“Bryan–”
“‘Ryan’?”
“‘Bryan.'”
“Yes, Ronnie?”
“Whatever.  Anna, do you want to switch and turn over, get on your knees?”
“Ooooo – –kinky.  Okay.”  Bryan pulled off of her and leaned back while she got up and turned over.  Whatever she meant by “kinky,” he didn’t know.  This was normal sex–
To the extent that fucking Anna Nicole Smith could be normal.
As she switched up, Bryan looked down at his cock.  Yes, it was still there.  Yes, he could feel it.  It was wet and sloppy from Anna’s pussy, the walls of which he could not feel.  He had doubts about feeling them from this position, too.  But he had a plan.
She got into place, her ass presented for him.  She waggled it at him.  “Come on, Ronnie!  Fuck me!  Fuck me hard!”
She had a nice ass, he had to admit.  Soft and round, nicely shaped, and he could see her pussy and her tiny little butthole.  Time to execute “the Plan.”
He grabbed her hips and guided his cock to what he thought was the general direction of her pussy.  He felt wetness, so he assumed he was in.  Anna-Nicole started making appreciative noises of pleasure, and he still had no idea why.
He put his hand on her pussy and got his fingers wet, and started to play with her asshole.  She muttered, “Naughty-naughty, Ronnie,” but moaned appreciatively.  He stuck his finger in her ass.
“Oooh!” she cried out quietly.  He continued to work her ass, only to see what he could get away with.
And he realized now, he could get away with it.
His cock was soaking slippery wet from her gushing pussy.  He pulled it out of her pussy, and just when she said, “Hey, did you cum yet?  You need to get back in there–” he grabbed the head of his cock, lined it up with her asshole, pushed it against it, and thrust with his hips and shoved his cock deep into her ass.
Anna-Nicole Smith screamed loudly and deeply as Bryan penetrated her ass.  It was pretty tight.  *A damn sight tighter than her pussy, that’s for sure*, Bryan thought.  He was in her to the hilt, and he could finally feel something:  The tightness of her ass.
Anna was panting and gasping in between light screams, and she said, “Wha-what–what the–what the hell are you doing, Ronnie?”
“I’m fucking you in the ass, Anna.”
“No– –”
Her protests trailed off and were replaced by moans of pleasure and pain.  She said no, but she wasn’t pulling away from him.  In fact, for the first time, she started to push back against him, at the right time.
“Oh, God, oh, yes, oh, God, Oh yes, Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God, OH MY GOD!!”  Anna came with a thundering quiver throughout her body.  Her pussy contracted and there was nothing there.  Her ass contracted around Bryan’s cock, and he just paused to enjoy the moment.  That was no fake.  He really made her cum that time.  She called out Ronnie’s name, which only made him fuck her harder.  She came once more, and Bryan realized he wasn’t going to be able to last much longer.
Bryan grabbed her ass cheeks with both hands, and started to really fuck her deep and hard, and with a purpose.  He pulled out as far as he dare, and went in to the hilt.  Anna was still moaning and groaning, either having another orgasm or still in the throes of the previous one.
He was enjoying the fuck, thrusting deeply, feeling his balls slap against the sopping wet pussy of Anna-Nicole.  He briefly feared them getting sucked up inside her cunt, so he thrust harder to keep them away.  They were socking and slurping as they slapped against her cunt.  They were wet, and starting to get itchy and irritated.  Idly, he reflected that he needed to cum soon so he could towel his nuts off.
He fucked her harder and harder, and the pressure started to build inside him.  His nuts started to tighten up, so they weren’t hitting her pussy as much.  He felt as though her pussy lips were surrounding his balls, like he was fucking her ass and her pussy at the same time.  The waves of pleasure started to roll over him, and his cock hardened and thickened, making her feel it more, as he spewed his cum inside her.
“Yes, Ronnie, Yes!  Yes!  Fill me up, baby!  Yes!  Fill me with your hot seed, Ronnie!  Oh, baby!” she screamed as she came again, while he was still pumping away, pouring the last of his cum inside her ass.
He finally stopped, and noticed she wasn’t moving.  He pulled back, and his cock slid out easily, with a plop…like a smooth turd.  Anna’s legs collapsed and she slid flat on the bed.  Bryan got up, and checked her.  Her face was sideways, her eyes closed, and she was snoring.
Bryan got up and took a quick shower in her bathroom while she slept.  He got his clothes on, and when he walked out of the bedroom, the bouncer was sitting in the living room, watching SportsCenter.  He completely ignored Bryan as he gathered his things and walked out.
Out in the hallway, a small, young Asian dude sat nervously in the same chair he had sat in.  “Good luck, dude,”  Bryan said as he walked away, and headed for the elevator. He waited a minute and held the door for the old man in the walker.  They rode down in silence.

Epilogue:
A few months went by, and Bryan heard, like the rest of the world, that Anna-Nicole Smith was pregnant.  He was not surprised in the least, but in an interview with Larry King, Anna said something that was incoherent to most people, but Bryan heard it.  He rewound the TiVo and played it over and over again to be sure.
Larry:  Who’s the father?  Can we ask that?  Do you know who the father is?
Anna, giggling:  Oh, Larry!  It’s you.  Ha-ha.  No, I’m pretty sure I know who it is.  Ronald Reagan came to visit me in dream and impregnated me.”
Everyone else thought it was random babbling, something about “really reaching me in a dream about being pregnant.”
But Bryan knew.
Many months later, after the baby was born, and then Anna was found dead, all of the media frenzy around death ignored a few facts because they made no sense.  Anna Nicole Smith had made up a new will, which was denounced as drug-induced babbling.  Here is an excerpt:

“And I want Ronald Reagan to take care of my baby.  I know it’s not his, but he is a good man who did something very special for me.  Whatever is left of my money after the vultures get it should go to him, to take care of my baby.  I love you Ronnie!”

The Last Picture Show

January 17, 2011 at 12:40 AM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
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Fall 1991

It was a beautiful fall evening in the suburbs, and everything seemed normal and quiet and I surveyed my domain.  I wasn’t sure how much longer this car would last, though–
But for now it was running well; I just had it back on the road after replacing the shifter.  I buzzed around in the little Toyota with the sunroof open–of course–and enjoying the weather that was still warm enough to do so without looking like a crackpot.  It was after 9 pm so the major rush was long over, but for the few drivers left we still had business, and business is good.
I dropped off the first order of my double without anything remarkable happening, and headed off to the other stop.  Once I found the house, I park against the near-nonexistent curb and cut the wheel.  It’s enough of a bump to keep the car from rolling away, since I don’t have a parking brake–this way I don’t have to turn the engine off.
It’s a standard house in the subdivision, but I remember it had cedar shingles.  Close to the end of the dead end part of the street, so there wasn’t any traffic that didn’t have to be there.  I knock on the door and a guy answers, and holds the door wide for me.  “Pizza man!  Alright!  Come on in!”
Yeah, I know we aren’t supposed to.  If I had a nickel for every time I didn’t follow the rules, my tip average would be higher.  I step in.
The dude that answered the door disappeared to find money–I hope.  I was standing in the living room, and there were three people on the couch.  Two dudes, and a chick.
The dudes looked like dudes.  A little older than me, but that’s not saying much.  One had long hair and a 3/4 sleeve concert shirt, so I assume he was a time-traveler from the 70s.  The other guy looked like a truck driver–hat, slight beard, flannel over a greasy t-shirt.  The chick in question–let’s call her Bethany–Bethany was cute in an escaped-from-rehab kinda way.  Plain face, no makeup.  Revealing top that her boobs sprang out of because she needed to accent her best feature, and straight, flat, dirty blonde hair.  They just sat there, watching TV, then they would one by one glance at me, then glance back at the TV.  They did this a couple of times.  I turned towards the TV.
They were watching porn.
Three guys and one chick, watching porn.  Somebody is getting lucky tonight.  And somebody is getting an STD.
The guy came out with the money, and hesitated, as he caught the eye of the long-haired dude, and some unspoken communication passed between them.  The girl glanced my way, and then at the other guy.  Long-hair nudged her, I think.
I hope I’m better at concealing my expressions now than I was then.  My interpretation is that they were maybe hoping to barter a piece of ass for some pizza.  Maybe they didn’t know how to go about this either–I mean, it always looks easy in the porn movies, because they have a script and everything.
But the uncomfortable moment passed, and the guy paid me money, giving me a three-dollar tip.
It’s probably for the best, anyway.  I was married at the time, and as much as I crave to be the center of attention, performing in front of others in that way might be awkward.  *Might be*?  Shit.  Plus, would it all be male on female?  I like surprises, but I don’t want to be mounted from behind.  I guess it’s a fine line.

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