Freak O'Nature

There are dicks, big dicks and then there are freaks of nature, the sort that make the list of largest structures in the city. These massive monuments provide such labrynthine and interesting questions of care and handling. I mean it's not like you can swallow the thing.

Then there is the issue of what happens when they actually get going and you find yourself on the lower end of a pile-driving re-engineering project! I tell you, my friends, when it comes down to it, just don't worry about it! Just kick back, take it like a big girl should, never cry, and never ever 'worry bout that mule!'

Don't Worry 'Bout that Mule

Under Wormwood

"Let me be mad ...mad with madness of Absinthe, the wildest most luxurious madness in the world."

Stagger Lee

Po-lice officer, how can it be?
You can 'rest everybody but cruel Stagolee
That bad man, oh cruel Stagolee

-Traditional American blues song

He was the sort of man who let you know straight up he wasn't nothing nice, a thug, roughneck, if you like, or in his word, "scan-o-lous."

Once he had me in the motel room, he didn't even give me the time to undress. He just pushed me back on the mattress and reached under my blouse to pull out my tits. He took a moment to twist my nipples, then went straight for the object of his intentions, wrenching apart my thighs to spread my legs, tugged my panties in one snap down to my ankles, slammed back my knees and plunged two fingers sharply up the cylinder of my pussy. He obviously liked what he felt inside. "Oh, yeah," he said, "you're fuckin' wet! Fuckin' wet already, you nasty Bitch!"

Feigning protest, I struggled to get up, to escape my prone position on the mattress. Well, not really, of course, but just enough "struggle" to make that big pipe inside his trousers rise to attention. With one sweep of his big right hand he ripped down his zipper, reached inside and fumbled to pull himself out. "You want it? You want it, Bitch?" He didn't even wait for a reply, answering for me, "Yeah, I know you do? I know you been wanting some of this big dick!"

He seized the back of my skull and wrapped my hair into a knot around his fist, then dragged me up to his crotch, and jammed my head down on his dick. I gagged, much to his delight. "Choke on it! Choke on it, bitch!" he raved, taking special delight at the tears that began to reflexively roll down my cheeks.

Yeah, I'm Stagger Lee
and you better get down on your knees
and suck my dick, because if you don't
you're gonna be dead, said Stagolee,
That bad man, oh cruel Stagolee

He tossed me back onto the mattress and mounted, then with one cruel thrust, he stuck it in me. It made me squeal, "Oh, gawd!" I shrieked, "It's too big, too big for me like that!"

"Shut-up Bitch!" he snapped back, "nothin's too big for you, nothin's too big, you fuckin' Bitch!" He drilled down deep, "Now take it! Take this Mutha-fuckin' dick, Bitch!"

"Goddamn! Godamn!" I protested without effect. "Shut-up, Bitch!" he said, "You love it, Bitch, you know you do! You love this big long dick!"

"Come off that shit "he growled, "Bitch you know you want it! Maybe I should get on my cell and call my ro-dogs, so you can give everybody a play of that pussy. Would you like that?" he asked. "I might" I responded. "Yeah, I figured" he said with a smirk, "You seem like that type."

He pulled it all the way out and wagged it's big glistening head in the direction of my face and then drove it deep, deep and hard, all the way to the hilt. Stuck it fast, too, with a rib-shaking thud, all the way to the bottom of me, then just for good measure he pulled it back out and stuck it back in again, harder than the first time.

"Oh yeah, yeah, there it go, there it go," he barked, "Your poppin' now, Bitch, poppin wet!"

Truth be told, the big long pipe was gliding easy, gliding in and out without resistance, with me gone foaming wet. He crushed down on top of me, rolling it in and out, running up and back against the walls, finding that feeling he liked, then finally settling in on a steady driving power hump.

Oh yeah, I thought. This is fuckin! This is how I want it, this is how I need it, but I couldn't form the words to tell him. Instead I pulled at his shoulders and threw out my legs, threw them out wide. He had me now, the way I love to let a man use me for his pleasure, and the size of him, that big monster dick, made it seem so total.

Go, Stagolee, go, Stagolee!
Go, Stagolee, go, Stagolee!

Then I must have hollered, though I can't remember, but I felt my eyes roll back and my toes curl up and then I got it. Got it like a bomb going off inside. That cum, that filthy cum, I crave. He let loose a chuckle, I think, and then as if on cue, I felt his muscles tighten, his whole body stiffen, and with a loud satisfied grunt that made my bones vibrate, I could feel his thick cum spurt deep up inside me. Spurt all the way to parts unknown.

He rolled off me and rested quietly for a moment, beads of sweat formed on his forehead while he rested. I touched his shoulder gently, but he brushed me aside. Rising from the bed be gathered up my clothes and wadded them in is big hands. He hurled the ball of cloth at my head, "Get dressed, Bitch! Get out! We're Done!"

That bad man, oh cruel Stagolee

All that, and Dr. Freud too

The other day I was with a guy, a quiet, average sort of fellow. After I did for him what he liked, he said, "I never had another woman let me watch her masturbate, are you BPD?"

"BPD," I asked? "What is BPD?"

"Borderline Personality Disorder" he answered, "You know, a sex disorder, needing to do filthy things for men."

"Is that some sort of clinical term," I asked?

"Yes it is," he replied.

"Are you asking me if I'm a slut?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Yes," I responded, "Does it bother you?"

"No," he said.

Pump and Dump

A good raw fuck is a thing of beauty.

Now don't get me wrong, I like everything about sex, I like all the trappings. But when it's time to get down to business, the main event for me is the fuck. I want it bad that way. I need a man to drill me, stick it to me. Don't give me that finesse stuff, just go ahead a fuck me; make me feel it. Matter of fact, as much as I enjoy all the fancy stuff, and I do, that stuff is all icing on the cake. When I get down to it my favorite position is with the man on top.

Like I always tell them, I prefer a man on top, where he belongs! It's kind of funny, isn't it, that they call that position missionary-style?

The missionary-style, like it's some sort of religious experience. I guess it might be, depending how you look at it. Call it pre-ordination or something, the natural use of a female by a male, always to be penetrated, always to be used for the pleasures of men.

Oh, I know I must be treading on some bloody, forbidden ground here, but it's the truth isn't it. Deep down we all suspect it. In some cultures they tell you that when a female accepts it she can finally stop feeling conflicted inside. I haven't got an issue with it. I always liked it anyway. I know what men like and I like that too. That's what makes me so shameless, I guess.

There's something about the season that makes me think like this, and to act out on all my little cravings. Something about the season, the cold wet damp waning days of autumn that makes me like a filthy kettle, boiling over. Something about the weather or just the rhythm of nature, but in these wind chilled darkening days of November I seem to need it all the more, want it bad.

The shorter days becomes a sort of maddened hunt, sometimes in the back of my mind, sometimes front and center; a frenzied search for that certain type of man who seems to be the kind who can appreciate me as I am.

Oh yes, just about any man out there can appreciate the no holds barred pleasures of the slick-wet walls of a willing pussy hole, but I like a man who really loves to let a slut be a slut; to let me indulge my craving to the fullest and let it all go in all my writhing glory. When I get like this I want a man to break me down raw and use me.

Saturdays are for boning.

Today's search didn't take too long, and I didn't need to go too far, just as far as Woodward Avenue, one once grand thoroughfare that bisects our City. Despite the patchy attempts at gentrification on recent years the avenue still pierces plenty of forlorn stretches of Detroit. On a wet, cold, overcast day like today you don't find a lot of people out strolling along the Avenue, even early in the day. So I feel fortunate to have found what I'd been thinking about all morning without having to go too far. "Got a man?" he asked in a voice with just enough sugar on it to catch my interest. "No," I responded. "Want one?" he asked. I smiled.

You know the rest.

We spent the late hours of the morning in just the perfect sort of relationship. The kind that lasts about an hour and a quarter or so, just long enough to satisfy both our cravings for the day, most of it in a clinch of power penetration, with he mounted on top, of course. With thinly veiled contempt he mocked, "Do you love me? Do you love me, bitch?" his jack-knife thrusts going deeper with each impalement.

"Fuck me!" I responded, "FUCK ME!"

A good raw fuck is a thing of beauty.