June 2005, Vol. 4, Issue 6

1. Existentialist Conversations with Strippers, Part III by Tenzin McGrupp
I shrugged my shoulders and looked up into the desert sky. I smiled because I found myself on the bitter end of karmic payback for attending a strip club on Easter Sunday... More

2. Rainy Days and Sunny Ways by Dan Keston
Every time I travel, I come face to face with one eternal truth: getting away from your friends, family, dog, job, and the address where the post office sends your bills is great, but no matter how far you go, there is no place, however distant, that enables you to get away from yourself... More

3. Lap of Luxury by Grubby
Me, f'rinstance. I'm my own mutt, I play by my own rules. I'm a canine Jack Kerouac... More

4. How To Fuck a Donkey by Daddy
Before we go any further I think it is important that everyone know the proper way to fuck a donkey. There are several approaches, but none more efficient than this one. I prefer to call this the "Backdoor Cut" approach, but it is also known in parts of Appalachia as "Slapjacking," "Mule Greasing," and "The Old Rough n' Tumble"... More

5. Timmy by Bob Respert
Becoming the largest bookie in a state where sports betting was illegal wasn't easy. If you start at a young age and immerse yourself in the degenerate lifestyle it helps. More importantly though, you need to make nice-nice with plenty of unsavory people... More

6. Master by Kasia Klyne
I had never felt so uninhibited in my life, and I was amazed at the things I had been willing to do for him...More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

Thanks for returning back for the birthday issue of my literary blogzine. Yes, I can't believe but this rag turned three years old this month! I cannot thank everyone for all their support over the last three years, especially Jessica who is the sole staff member (besides myself) and she does most of the grunt work. Thanks to all the writers who submitted their work this past year. I am eternally grateful.

This issue represents an excellent collection of writers including two new writers; Kasia Klyne and Dan Keston. Bob Respert returns along Grubby and Daddy who are representing the poker bloggers. And I'm back with Part III of my strippers project.

Thanks to everyone who shared their bloodwork this month. I always say that the other contributing authors inspire me, because it's true. You guys write for free and if I could pay you, I would. Your time and effort is worth more money than I can ever afford to pay.

I ask that if you like these stories, then please do me and the rest of the writers a huge favor: Tell your friends about your favorite stories. It takes a few seconds to pass along the URL. I certainly appreciate your support. Feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.

Thanks again. I am grateful that you wasted your time with my site. Until next time.

Salukis,
McG

"A man with money is no match against a man on a mission." - Doyle Brunson

Existentialist Conversations with Strippers, Part III

By Tenzin McGrupp © 2005

We wandered past the tourists and devoted gamblers into the casino. I was staying in Vegas for another day but Senor had to get back to Rhode Island for work. Grubby agreed to drive Senor to the airport and we had about fifteen minutes to kill. Senor wanted to play Pai Gow Poker at some point during his trip. We never had the chance with all the time we spent at the Mandalay Bay's sports book gambling on college basketball, or playing regular poker, and hanging out at strip clubs. We wasted a few minutes after we got slightly lost and stopped to ogle at all the hot college girls on spring break. We resumed our quest for a Pai Gow table and finally found one. The only problem... it was a $50 minimum table... when we were looking for a $5 or $10 table.

Caesar's did not spread any low limit Pai Gow. There were six tables and half of them were empty. We walked over to one table where a pit boss talked to the dealer. Grubby asked the suit if he could drop the minimum bet to $25 since we wanted to teach Senor how to play. We told him we were going to leave in five minutes to take him to the airport. The pit boss agreed. Our dealer was Lee, a middle aged Korean woman, and she quickly explained the rules to Senor. We bought in for $100 each and got four green chips. I won the first few hands and pushed the rest. Senor won $75 in three hands and walked away after he tipped Lee $10. He won enough money for dinner and was satisfied with his first Pai Gow experience. Grubby and I played for a few more hands. I went up $100 then decided to walk away. Grubby was a winner too. On our way to the cashier's window Senor mentioned, "You won yourself enough money to cover dinner and a few lap dances."

Grubby drove Senor to the airport quickly. We encountered traffic trying to get out of the labyrinth called Caesar's parking garage. Grubby avoided the crowded Las Vegas Blvd. and drove down side streets en route to McCarran. Grubby was officially a local and had been living in Vegas for three months. It felt cool to have a different perspective of a city that was so heavily populated with dipshit tourists and people working in the service industry. After we said good-bye to Senor, Grubby sped off in our quest to do a little strip club hopping. We already hit up Sin a few days prior, which I loved especially Jessina. Grubby suggested a handful of places. He and his sister, Grubette, had a crazy night at Club Paradise a few nights before and he wanted to try a different place. We headed downtown and decided to check out Olympic Gardens.

As we drove up to the club, a Las Vegas Metro squad car sat out front with it's doors wide open. An animated guy spoke very loudly to the two cops as they stood with their arms crossed.

"That doesn't look promising," I said.

We parked and walked inside. Grubby pointed out that the doors were wide open and how that was also another bad sign. We took a peek inside and it was empty. We didn't even bother sitting down and walked right out. I could only imagine what might have gone down twenty minutes before we showed up. maybe we missed a good fight? Or an extremely drunk and frisky customer getting rowdy with the dancers?

We found our way to Treasures and the parking lot looked empty. That's when I remembered that it was Easter Sunday night.

"It's not like strippers are religious or anything," Grubby explained on the walk to the entrance of the lavish strip club.

We paid the cover charge and made our way inside. It reminded me of a cross between an art museum and Anne Rice's house in a weird fusion of Goth meets Italian Renaissance. A stage with funky lights and a stripper pole sat up front with winding stairs leading up to a balcony which wrapped around the room. If you removed all the smaller tables and booths along the walls, the strip club could have been a great venue for live music. We found a table and a few minutes passed before a waitress came over. I did not spot any available strippers. In the booth across from us, a bald accountant from Ohio happily sat with two strippers. They were laughing and sipping cocktails and the black girl erotically rubbed his chest and while the blonde girl applied more lipstick as we watched and a small wave of envy flashed over us.

"This is just like a regular bar. I'm being ignored," Grubby said in a dejected tone.

"Easter Sunday," I reassured him that it wasn't us, just the fact that strippers were more religious than we anticipated.

Our waitress eventually arrived with our over-priced beers and I scanned the room for available strippers. One danced on the stage as bad Eastern-European techno music blasted over the sound system in the near empty room. A few dancers were scattered through out the room and were busy entertaining other guests. At Sin it seemed that strippers constantly walked around and offered their services for a dance. At Treasures, the most action we got was watching the bald Ohio guy get double teamed by the Silicone Twins. That's when Julie stumbled over.

Extremely wasted women are a turn off... unless they are completely passed out. (Sorry, bad frat boy joke.) She was so ripped to the tits drunk that she didn't even bother using her stripper name and blurted out her real name. Julie then sprawled out on my lap and slurred, "Spank me!"

I obliged and she screamed again motioning towards Grubby, "Spank me!"

He spanked her and I followed up with another "whack." I wondered if I could add that to my resume?

Special Skills: Knowledge of Java. I also speak three languages fluently, can make a bong out of any household item, and spank strippers.

How could I not get hired with those mad skills? Back to strippers. Julie asked us if we wanted a dance. Grubby gave her a quick thumbs down and I reluctantly agreed. She sat up and waited until the next song. She slumped over me and I could smell the liquor on her breath. That's when I uttered, "You know, Nietzsche died of syphllis."

That comment went right over her head.

Out of the hundreds of strippers working that night, I was matched up with the Tara Reid of strippers. The new song began and she took off her top and began her tipsy lap dance. A couple of times she lost her balance and slipped off my lap. I caught her each time and was worried that if I dropped her, one of the bouncers would rush over and kick me in the junk. It was a horrible experience and I pissed away $20 on half-assed grope from a soused stripper. Normally, a half-naked woman grinding away to Rick James' "Give It To Me Baby" is a lot of fun. Unfortunately, I wasn't aroused by Drunk Julie and couldn't wait for our moment to end. Our four minutes together was like ordering a bowl of soup and having it served cold with a dozen cockroaches floating around in there and glazed with both a urine and semen sample.

As we walked out of the strip club past the bouncers, I shrugged my shoulders and looked up into the desert sky. I smiled because I found myself on the bitter end of karmic payback for attending a strip club on Easter Sunday.

... to be continued

Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.

Rainy Days and Sunny Ways

By Dan Keston © 2005

Every time I travel, I come face to face with one eternal truth: getting away from your friends, family, dog, job, and the address where the post office sends your bills is great, but no matter how far you go, there is no place, however distant, that enables you to get away from yourself.

Or, more importantly, how you view the world. Which is why I am so shocked when, while eating one of the best Club Sandwiches I have ever had, the 60-year-old host of Noodles and More hands me a fly swatter. The old man handed it to me not because I asked for it; he simply noticed a bee circling my head, eyeing my bacon (which was hickory smoked to perfection may I add), and stopped what he was doing to head out to the porch and kindly say, "I just wanted to make sure that bugger wasn’t ruining your lunch."

This would never happen in Los Angeles. Back home, the hostess would probably be staring at her nails contemplating the many ways she could sleep her way into a bit part on Young and the Restless. Certainly, she would not give a damn about me. However, here in Eatonville, Washington, population 890, the host genuinely surprises me not because he moves mountains but rather because he does not think twice about being nice just for the sake of doing so.

This is not an isolated incident. As I continue my trip from Washington down into the heart of Oregon, I am continually amazed at the pure goodness of the people here. In Willamette wine country, my wife and I are eating dinner when the person at the next table overhears us order a glass of a local wine. He proceeds to get up, walk to our table, and tell us that he is the owner of that vineyard, and he profusely thanks us for ordering a bottle of his Pinot Noir. Then he invites to come take a private tour of his winery the following day, and taste some of the vintages he is already planning for next year.

What the hell is going on here? No offense to anyone, but if I overheard someone ordering my wine the only thing I would do is count my $12.50. I certainly would not invite them into my home and spend two hours showing them around.

So who is the crazy one here? The old man who wanted his customer to enjoy his lunch? The vintner who wanted to show me his appreciation? Or me, the cynic, for thinking they are f-ing nuts simply for being kind?

The answer, of course, is me. Going on vacation makes me realize that I am self-absorbed, self-conscious, insincere, sarcastic, and generally not as nice of a person as I like to think. So what am I going to do about it? Am I going to start being nicer to all the people around me? Start enjoying the little things in life, smell the sweet fragrances of the Washington Evergreens, and learn to relax during my few weeks away from fighting the 405 Freeway?

Hell no! I am going to drink endless cups of the strong, delicious coffee that can be found on every corner in the northwest and spend many hours hiding from these overly friendly freaks in the gargantuan bookstores unique to the cities of Portland and Seattle.

The most extreme of these book monoliths is Powell’s City of Books, the only bookstore so large it can be called a city and nobody would ask why. Powell’s welcomes over 6,000 shoppers each day and has 3,500 sections color-coded for its guests’ browsing pleasure. This store is especially great for me on this overcast Thursday morning, because when I am depressed about my view of the world nothing makes me happier than getting lost in a bookstore so large I am guaranteed to find many, many non-fiction volumes that confirm all of my biggest fears about myself and fictional escapades that offer a glimpse into the depths into which I could plunge should I decide to quit my job and write fiction books. Sure, I could visit the self-help section and read something uplifting like Tony Robbins' "Bring out the Real You in 12-Easy Steps," or Martha Stewart’s "How I Beat Five-O and Still Be Selling Tons of Cookies, Bitch" but if I wanted something uplifting I would go see a movie.

Hmmm…how ironic. In Los Angeles, the land of the movies, our entertainment is warm and fuzzy but we ourselves are totally unpleasant, while in the Pacific Northwest they are sweet as pie but their art comes in much darker forms. At least this is the conclusion I have come to while drinking my coffee and reading the Post-Intelligencer at Starbucks.

Yes, the first Starbucks was opened in Seattle, Washington in 1971 just outside of Pike Place Market. And here I sit, at the mothership, enjoying beans handpicked by penny-a-day migrant workers and paying way too much for a grande. Which, as we all know, is really a small.

Are Seattleites wearing macchiato colored glasses? Or are they as cynical as I? My guess is the latter - they know my coffee is really a small, and this is their way of getting the rest of the world to pay $1.50 for a small cup of coffee while they laugh their way to the bank.

It wouldn't be the first time the world has felt the silent wrath of the Pacific Northwest. Every day at work, I can almost hear them laughing at me as I notice yet another glitch in my Windows for Macintosh program. For those of you that don't work on a Mac, Billy G and his buddies made software just good enough to work so companies would continue to buy their programs, but added enough delays in the functionality that every day its employees would be reminded that they should have bought a PC.

Which further leads me to my conclusion that these people are not, indeed, as nice as I thought they were at first glance. They just want to sell me coffee, wine, and computers. These just seem nice. It’s a big cover up, a scam, a ruse, a ploy.

But then again, they put a lot of effort into that Club Sandwich. And it sure was good.

Dan Keston is a Los Angeles based writer. He has written commercials, sports and movie columns, short stories, and too many checks.

Lap of Luxury

By Grubby © 2005

Cast of Characters

Misha: purebred, younger female
Radley: mixed breed, older male
Human: wealthy WASP, female
TV Dog: privileged purebred puppy, female

Setting

A pet store at a mall.

Time

The present.

Note: Misha and Radley may also play to a nonexistent Human and TV Dog. (At Rise: Misha and Radley sit in two connecting crates along the wall.)

(Radley holds a chew toy. Misha's snoring.)

(A bell jingles, and a rich female human enters the store.)

RADLEY
Psst. Misha.

(Misha's paws twitch. Radley runs in circles, squeezing and squeaking the chew toy at Misha.)

RADLEY (Continued)
Wake up, Misha, wake up.

MISHA
You lookin' at me? You want a piece o' me, Mr. Posty Man?

(The human looks in Misha and Radley's direction, then continues her dog browsing.)

RADLEY
Incoming, two o'clock!

MISHA

(bolts upright)
Where, where? Pee-you, what's that smell?

RADLEY
Science Diet doesn't agree with me.

MISHA
No, no, it's more like... it is! The smell of m-u-n-n-y: money.

(Misha and Radley's noses twitch. They size up the human.)

RADLEY
Mmm-boy. Pure heaven.

MISHA
Stinky.

RADLEY
Neutrogena wrinkle cream, Downey fabric softener, suntan lotion SPF 15.

MISHA
I'm gonna barf.

RADLEY
One 16-ounce bag of M&Ms -- peanut -- in her purse, Biolage conditioner for oily hair, last had sex four... no, five days ago. With her right hand.

MISHA
Trying to hide it. Shower with perfume much, hon?

RADLEY
Nice legs, too.

MISHA
Yo, check out the pedicure. Not the kinda gams that scream let's toss the ball and play fetch.

RADLEY
Like you can walk more than half a block without losing your breath.

MISHA
I pant a lot. I'm a purebred.

RADLEY
I may be a mix, Miss Pant-a-lot, but that only makes me more attractive and unique looking.

MISHA
Keep paying your therapist to tell you that. People can spell "terrier."

RADLEY
"Lhasa apso/shih tzu/chihuahua" is so hard.

MISHA
Radley, she's looking this way!

(Misha and Radley go instant smiles, posing like Calvin Klein Obsession models.)

MISHA (Continued)
(singsong, corner of her mouth)
You're drooling.

RADLEY
(singsong, corner of his mouth)
You're in heat.

MISHA
(singsong, corner of her mouth)
Your dick is showing.

(The human shifts her attention to the doggie in the window. Misha and Radley return to normal.)

RADLEY
Forget it, she's on to the display case. Who's the pooch? She's so cute I want to bite off her head and stuff it down her neck.

MISHA
New kid from last week. Just back from the groomers.

RADLEY
Hardly recognized her.

MISHA
She got the whole makeover. Shampoo, flea dip, high colonic irrigation.

RADLEY
She does look like she lost weight.

MISHA
If she looks at her ass, she'll find it.

RADLEY
Mee-ow.

(Misha points.)

RADLEY (Continued)
(squints)
Whoah, you're right. It was hiding in the corner. How could I miss it? It's like her little ass is draped over her big ass.

MISHA
If she laid down, she'd roll over.

RADLEY
J.Lo laughs at that ass.

MISHA
(to TV dog)
White fur sure ain't becoming on you, sweetness.

RADLEY
Oh! Oh! If they said, "Get your ass off the sofa," she'd have to make two trips.

(Misha and Radley high-five through the bars.)

MISHA
Hey, Radley?

RADLEY
Yeah, Meesh?

MISHA
Do you wanna, I dunno, do you wanna make a pact? Like wherever one goes, the other goes. Wherever the other goes, one goes.

RADLEY
What if someone goes somewhere or neither goes nowhere?

MISHA
You lost me.

RADLEY
Exactly.

MISHA
Yeah, never mind, bad idea.

RADLEY
'Sides, we can't go making promises we can't keep.

MISHA
I said, all right. I get it.

RADLEY
Me, f'rinstance. I'm my own mutt, I play by my own rules. I'm a canine Jack Kerouac.

MISHA
Okay...

RADLEY
No offense, now.

MISHA
None taken.

RADLEY
Nothing personal.

MISHA
Are you finished?

RADLEY
(Humphrey Bogart impression)
And you... you're part of this shopping mall, you make it work. If that woman leaves this pet store and you're not with her, you'll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon and for the rest of your nine lives.

MISHA
Nine lives? Have you been sneaking catnip again?

RADLEY
You get my drift.

MISHA
Yeah, yeah. I just... I don't know, I'm so tired of being stuck here, you know? I want a dish with my name on it. I want my own backyard. I want... I want a real family.

RADLEY
You're better off without me anyway, Meesh. You got the looks, the charm; I'd just get in the way.

MISHA
That's not true at all.

RADLEY
I'm the runt of my litter. I'm from the pound, I don't even have a license. My price keeps dropping.

MISHA
I'll pay for both of us. A two-for-one deal.

(The human picks up the TV dog, rubs noses.)

RADLEY
It's all moot anyway. Groomer dog's still holding the attention. Youth is so wasted on puppies. Bet she still doesn't know how to play dead.

MISHA
Want to know what's worse? I hear she's a celebrity. Had a threesome with the "Frasier" dog and Joan Rivers' dog.

RADLEY
Swear?

MISHA
Right on the QVC couch. Balls to the wind. Doggie style.

RADLEY
Dang, then we really got no chance against a TV dog.

(As the human pets the TV dog, her huge diamond ring sparkles.)

MISHA
Dude, take a gander at the rock on her finger.

RADLEY
Whooo-eee, dog. I'd be in the laps of luxury. Servants at my beck and call. Silver collar. Alpo every day.

MISHA
No, dear, you'd be outdoor. For show. 'Cause if you were indoor, you'd stink and mess up the Persian rugs. Once a day the kids would come out and ride your back. They'd tug and spit on your fur and get it all matted, then the vet would shave everything but your head and tail.

RADLEY
(crosses legs)
Everything?

MISHA
Everything times seven.

RADLEY
That wouldn't be... so... bad.

MISHA
'Member Mr. and Mrs. Worthington the third? Been there, done that, got the scar to prove it.

RADLEY
You got that scar from humping a cheese grater.

MISHA
It was left out. I couldn't resist.

RADLEY
I think they spayed and neutered your brain, woman. Girls aren't supposed to hump.

MISHA
At least they didn't snip something of mine and feed it to the cat.

RADLEY
Bitch.

MISHA
Thanks.

(The human puts down the TV dog, pats it on the rump.)

MISHA (Continued)
Hey, Radley?

RADLEY
Yeah, Meesh?

MISHA
Do you think I have a big butt?

RADLEY
Uh. No comment.

MISHA
What? Come on, tell me. Please please please please. If you were a strange dog, would you sniff it?

RADLEY
I'll take the fifth on that.

MISHA
The fifth on what?

RADLEY
I'm not getting into it. I like my life.

MISHA
You think I'm fat, don't you?

RADLEY
I didn't say nothing.

MISHA
You don't have to say nothing, because I hear it loud and clear, and you said plenty. If you can't say nothing nice, don't say nothing at all.

RADLEY
What'd I say?

MISHA
Precisely.

RADLEY
Purebreds.

MISHA
What's that?

RADLEY
Nothing.

MISHA
There you go again.

RADLEY
I can't talk to you when you're like this. All that incestual breeding rattling around in your head. Are you on the rag?

MISHA
I-have-been-fixed! How dare you. Do I mention your microscopic neuter surgery?

RADLEY
All the time! You just did!

MISHA
Talk to the paw. I'm done with you.

RADLEY
Good.

MISHA
Good.

RADLEY
Fine.

MISHA
I think it's good you don't want a pact. I think maybe it's time we spent some time apart. I think maybe -- omigod, she's coming!

(The human approaches Misha and Radley. Both go wide-eyed and follow her movements.)

(The human reaches toward Radley's crate. Radley sticks out his tongue at Misha.)

(But then, the human moves on to Misha's crate and opens the door. The human attaches a leash to her.)

MISHA (Continued)
It's the silver collar! Radley, it's the silver collar, what we always dreamed about. You come too. I'll put in a word. There's gotta be room for one more.

RADLEY
Stop it.

MISHA
C'mon, Radley. We're a pair, we go together. We have a pact. I'll tell them --

RADLEY
No.

MISHA
Well... well... I'll give you a buzz when I get settled.

RADLEY
No phone number.

MISHA
Then I'll write you.

RADLEY
No opposable thumbs.

MISHA
Then, then...

(Through the bars, Misha tries to hug Radley. Radley backs away.)

MISHA (Continued)
Radley...

RADLEY
Have a great life.

MISHA
Don't be like this. I'll say we're family, I'll say we can't break up the litter. I'll say --

RADLEY
(growls)
Dammit, Misha, just go!

(Misha stops, stunned.)

RADLEY (Continued)
Did you hear me? I said, get your fat, smelly ass out of my sight and go! I don't ever want to see you again!

(Misha whimpers, walks away with the human. Both exit.)

(Radley squeezes the chew toy. It squeaks. He gently slides the toy into Misha's crate.)

RADLEY (Continued)
Here's looking at you, kid.

(Radley curls into a ball.)

(Suddenly, offstage, a LOUD BARK.)

HUMAN (Offstage)
OW! SON OF A --!

(Misha comes running out, the leash trailing behind. She enters her crate, closes the door.)

MISHA
You see that?

RADLEY
Thinks she's too good for us.

MISHA
Wouldn't know quality if she stepped in it.

RADLEY
High maintenance princess.

MISHA
Better off with a poodle.

RADLEY
Or a tree frog.

MISHA
I'm telling you. She doesn't have a clue what family's all about. Not a clue.

(Misha removes her silver collar, gives it to Radley to put on. They both smile.)

END OF PLAY

Grubby is a writer and professional gambler from Las Vegas, NV.

How To Fuck a Donkey

By Daddy © 2005

Before we go any further I think it is important that everyone know the proper way to fuck a donkey. There are several approaches, but none more efficient than this one. I prefer to call this the "Backdoor Cut" approach, but it is also known in parts of Appalachia as "Slapjacking," "Mule Greasing," and "The Old Rough n' Tumble."


What You'll Need

a) 30' rope - polypropylene or vinyl will work, but I prefer some good ole-fashioned Manila. This rope needs to be at least 1/2" in diameter with 2300 lb. + breaking strength. Donkeys have a tendency to get all riled up when you try to fuck them.

b) A standard 2 x 4 at least 2' in length. I've also used a baseball bat when I've been in a pinch, and I've got several friends who prefer to use an iron tire tool. It doesn't matter really, as long as it's 2' in length, and can withstand a pissed off donkey.

c) Pocketknife. I've still got a Swiss Army knife that I got for my 13th birthday. Any pocketknife will do as long as it's good and sharp.



Once you've gathered together all of your equipment and found yourself a healthy young donkey, everything else pretty much falls into place.

Step 1 - The Tie-off
First, approach the donkey and establish a good rapport. You don't exactly have to be best friends, but it helps if there's a little bit of trust. Once you've achieved this, take the length of rope and wrap it around the donkey's waist just below the stomach. After you've wrapped it around the waist completely, tie it off in a standard square knot.

Step 2 - The Exposure
By this time the donkey is certainly a bit curious as to what you plan to do. I usually give him a pat on the back of the neck, and maybe a quick ear-scratch just for reassurance. To complete this step you'll need to insert the 2 x 4 inbetween the rope and the donkey's stomach. Once the board is in place, slowly begin to turn the board in a clockwise fashion so that it tightens up the grip of the rope on the stomach much like a tourniquet. As the board is turned more and more the stomach will start pushing on the lower intestines forcing the inside of the donkey's anus to protrude outside of his body. Once the fleshy anus muscle has been exposed close to six inches you can stop turning the board.

Step 3 - The Lambasting
With the exposed anus muscle in front of you, begin making sweet passionate love. Once you've neared your climax, take the pocketknife out and cut the rope. This pressure release will cause the protruded anus and everything that is inside of it to go rushing back into the donkey. This in turn will almost certainly suck you completely off and finish the job.

Daddy is a twisted fuck from Southern Indiana.

Timmy

By Bob Respert © 2005

Timmy always rolled out of the rack early on Mondays. Most people will tell you they hate Mondays, but not Timmy. Mondays meant cash. Monday was collection day.

This wasn't an ordinary Monday though, today would be tough. So tough, in fact, that he’d told that bitch Jennifer to leave as soon as he was done boning her last night. He needed the time alone to think.

Normally in a situation like this, Timmy would fire off a phone call or email to his longtime mentor Pauly.

He always counted on Pauly for advice. He thought back to a few of the more memorable replies he’d gotten from his buddy. Pissed off at his dad for trying to send him to baseball camp, Pauly convinced him to confront his dad's desire to live vicariously through him, and demand he be allowed to "chase muff," as he had so succinctly put it. There was also that time his asshole principal had caught him running a March Madness pool and wanted a 50% cut. Fucking prick. Pauly was dead on when he suggested finding some dirt on that douche bag to level the playing field. Who knew anybody liked fucking donkeys?

He’d be calling this morning, but not for advice. This time it was business.

Becoming the largest bookie in a state where sports betting was illegal wasn't easy. If you start at a young age and immerse yourself in the degenerate lifestyle it helps. More importantly though, you need to make nice-nice with plenty of unsavory people. That’s how you get your connections. That’s how you become known.

That’s how you find yourself collecting a debt from your mentor when you know he can’t pay.

Seriously, who bets a hundred grand on a WNBA game? Fucking Pauly, man. How did he let this happen? Normally, he was a good judge of when to cut his friends off before they hurt themselves. Normally, it worked. Normally, shmormally. Where was the rest of that fucking whiskey?

Knowing full well he couldn’t pay the bet off, the numbers were dialed. No answer. Now he had to find him. That would take time. Time would favor someone before it was all said and done. Maybe time would allow Pauly to win the fucking lottery. Maybe time would cool off a conflicted, degenerate bookie. Things weren’t looking good for Pauly.

There were only a few spots Pauly would be. He might be exactly 100 yards from the front door of some chick in Brooklyn. She was an heiress to some elevator button company that he had dated some 15 years ago. That was one of three restraining orders that Timmy knew about. Another spot you could find him was down in Chinatown trying to hawk his paintings and novels. If he wasn’t at his apartment, or either of the other two spots, he was in Vegas.

A quick search of each spot confirmed for Timmy what his gut was already telling him. He was in Vegas spending more money that he didn’t have. Money that he owed. Looked like time was going to give Pauly about five hours to come up with a jackpot. Timmy was heading for the airport.

As a 6'5" monster of a man, Timmy always flew first class. He always used the same carrier as well, and they knew him by name. There’s something comforting about being able to just smile and nod your way quickly through what should be a slow, and annoying process.

Almost to Vegas, Timmy was strangely compelled to buy something from the Sky Mall catalog. Who knows why the fuck it happened. Maybe it was just to be able say he did it.

Taxi to Excalibur. Beeline to the poker room. Beating of a lifetime. That was the plan.

Plans are just plans for a reason. You follow them as closely as possible, but sometimes plans change. When Pauly wasn’t there, and Timmy overhead that the World Series of Poker was going on at Binion’s, he knew right where Pauly would be.

The crowd was huge, but Timmy was bigger. He pushed his way through to the front of the spectator area, all the while scanning the crowd for his mentor. His left fist was having a hard time not balling up, preparing for the inevitable beating it would help deliver.

Scan. Push. Scan. Shove. Scan.

And there he was. Sitting with one two other guys at a poker table, right at the center of this madhouse. Not being much of a poker guy, he asked some kid in a pair of sunglasses what the deal was. The weird fucker wearing sunglasses indoors told him it was a heads up battle for the WSOP title.

"What the fuck is that," asked Timmy

"The biggest poker tournament in the world, man. The winner gets $4 million dollars."

"What about the loser?"

"Around $2 million."

Timmy grinned like a 15-year old boy seeing real live titties for the first time. He couldn’t help it, he was given an out. There would be no beatings, there would be no awkwardness, and most importantly, there would be one hundred grand. He noticed Pauly finding him in the crowd, and he smiled.

Pauly smiled back as he pushed all the chips he had into the center of the table. The announcer was yelling something, but you couldn’t hear it over the screaming from the audience gathered close.

BZZZZ....BZZZZ....BZZZZ

What the fuck was that? Some sort of fire alarm? A weight limit like in an elevator? There were a lot of fat people scattered around the second floor of this casino.

BZZZZ......BZZZZ.....BZZZZ

Pauly woke up in a cold sweat. FUCK! Was it Monday fucking morning already?

Damn, Pauly hated Mondays. Mondays were collection days, and that was one weird fucking dream to start off the week.

Bob Respert is a drugs salesman from Michigan.

Master

by Kasia Klyne © 2005

I woke up early in the morning, my body still trembling from the exquisite pleasure I had experienced the night before. I could feel a slight blush spread across my face as I recalled our activities and the complete abandon that he had made me feel. I had never felt so uninhibited in my life, and I was amazed at the things I had been willing to do for him. My movements must have awakened him, as he rolled over and smiled at me. Not a word was spoken between us, but I dared not look away or even blink as I wanted to capture every moment I had staring deep into his eyes. I knew that the look on my face must have been one of complete lust, still relishing in the glow from the previous night.

He got out of bed to go make coffee, asking me to dress into something sexy as he left the room. Unsure of what he had planned, I slipped on a pair of black panties, cut high on the side with not more than a g-string in the back. I put on a matching bra and slipped on my favorite piece of lingerie, a silky, form fitting camisole that reached just to the bottom of my ass, slightly showing off each cheek. I covered everything with my black silky robe.

I walked out into living room and found him sitting in the armchair. He motioned for me to be silent, and then with his finger indicated for me to turn around so he could see me from all angles. As I turned around he smiled slightly, and I knew he approved of what I had chosen to wear. A slight sigh of relief escaped my lips, and I could see that he was amused by my insecurity. Still not sure what he was up to, I awaited my next silent instruction. When none came, I understood that it was up to me to do what I thought would please him.

Deciding to remove my robe, I reached to my middle and untied the silky belt holding it together. Without ever letting my eyes leave his, I let the opening widen, falling to my sides. My hands spread the material slightly apart, and then ran along my waist and across my hips to push the material off of me, letting it slide off my shoulders and down to the floor. I turned a little to the side, watching his eyes run up and down my body. I bent over very, very slowly, reaching down to pick up the robe that had fallen to the floor so I could toss it out of my way. When I reached it I paused, knowing that he was watching the sight of my ass barely covered by the g-string. I gradually straightened up and watched as his eyes snapped back to mine, checking to see if I was still watching him. I smiled, knowing he expected me to maintain eye contact with him and that I hadn't displeased him by being caught looking away. I was also smiling because I knew I had his complete attention, and there was nothing at that moment that could have given me greater pleasure.

I knew that he would want to participate, not just watch me, so I walked over to where his riding crop sat, and picked it up gingerly. It felt strange being in my hand as it belonged to him. I brought it to him quickly, and took a couple of steps back to give him some room to assess what he wanted to do. Watching his eyes carefully, I could see that they looking at my waist area, but were not focused there. I turned slightly to the side, and could tell that it was my ass he wanted to see again. I turned a little more, just enough so that I could still see his eyes, and he brought the tip of the crop to my camisole, lifting it up to expose my panties. I instinctively knew he wanted me to remove it so I slipped it over my head quickly, not wanting to lose eye contact for longer than absolutely necessary.

His eyes darted back down to my ass, and he started to use the crop to stroke across my cheeks again, delivering light smacks which sent delicious shivers up my spine. I could feel the tip of the crop running along the g-string down to my asshole, and then underneath until it reached my pussy. With a shock I realized how much my senses were ready for this, and felt a rush of pleasure spin throughout my body as he gently teased me.

My body was screaming for him to touch me, so I moved a couple of steps closer and turned so I was facing him head on. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment, and then they looked down to my bra. Reaching around my back I unhooked it and tossed it to the side, exposing my breasts fully to him. He still didn't make a move to touch me, so I took my own hand and ran it ever so gently across my nipple, watching his eyes as my nipple hardened on contact, begging for more attention. I then took both hands and cupped my tits, every now and then licking the tip of my finger and teasing my nipples again. His eyes snapped back up to mine, and I got the feeling that he wanted to touch them now, to use them for his own pleasure. I moved even closer to him and immediately slipped down to my knees, leaning in so that my chest was within reach of his hands and mouth.

He reached out and squeezed one of my nipples, teasing and twisting it, and then reached for the other to do the same. He lifted me up so his mouth could envelop them one by one, continuing the onslaught now with his teeth. He never actually hurt me, but caused an erotic sort of pain, moans of excitement escaping from my lips as his mouth ravished me. I was watching his every move now, reveling in the exquisite sight of him taking control of my body. My nipples were shining a bright pink color when he finally removed his mouth from them, and they were aching. Not from pain, but from a hunger deep within wanting his mouth back on them.

He motioned for me to stand up, and then looked down to my panties. I could tell that he wanted them off, and wanted them off now. I was able to see the desire in his eyes, the sexual heightening that overcame him, the raw, vivid passion that he felt. I was almost taken to my knees again by the sheer power he exuded, the control he had over me. I knew that I would do anything to have him touch me again, to feel his body against mine, to feed the hunger that we both shared. I removed my g-string quickly and watched for a sign as to what he wanted me to do next.

He motioned for me to get back on my knees, but to turn around facing away from him this time. I was now very nervous, not because I was afraid of what he may do, but because I couldn't see his eyes and would have to trust my instincts to please him. Facing away from him on my knees, my hands fell to the floor so I was in a doggy-style position. Since his attention had been mostly on my ass, I felt that is where he would want to focus most. I stretched my hands along the carpet in front of me and let them slowly slide away until my chest was almost touching the floor and my ass was high in the air, about two feet away from him. I stayed in this position as he stood up and removed his clothing before dropping to his knees directly behind me.

I felt a gentle smack on my left ass cheek, and I knew that he was now ready. He was caressing and lightly spanking my ass with his left hand, and in his right hand he held the crop which was running along my back. He removed his left hand and I could feel him pour warm oil onto my skin, on my ass and then down to mingle with my already soaked pussy. I sat up a bit and reached between my legs to rub it in, paying particular attention to my asshole, quite sure that was where he wanted to go with this. I moved my hands to my pussy and rubbed the oil in there too, massaging my clit in the process, trembling with desire at finally being able to acknowledge the ache that had been persistent there since we started. I knew that he liked it when I teased myself and then abruptly stopped, letting the passion build. He wanted to control my orgasms, having the control over when and how I came.

I felt his breath on my neck, never actually touching me but causing a rippling sensation across my skin. I could swear that he had me wrapped up in his arms, so great was his presence. He pushed down on my back and I went back to the position I was in earlier. I could feel pressure on my asshole once again, and this time I knew it was the handle of the crop pressing against me, causing luscious sensations to spread across my ass. I whimpered slightly as I felt the first shocking pain that always comes, then sighed in pleasure as the entry was made and he started stroking in and out. He was gentle at first, then with increased fervor he began fucking my ass with the crop handle. My hand went back to my pussy again, letting myself enjoy just enough to bring me one step closer to orgasm before I stopped, denying myself any further pleasure until he was ready for me to have it.

I was shaking with desire when he removed the crop handle from my ass and flipped me over so I was now facing him. With a longing look I gazed at him, feeling the lust race throughout my body. He didn't move, just kept looking into my eyes until I finally spoke my first word, unable to wait any longer. "Please," I whispered. He gave me an inquiring look, teasing me, pretending he didn't know what I wanted him to do. I couldn't keep silent any longer, and repeated myself, unable to speak above a whisper. He always loved that word on my lips, the word of complete abandon. When he still didn't move, I began begging him to take me, telling him I wanted him inside my pussy, fucking me, taking me, owning me.

Finally he grabbed my hips, yanked them towards him, and in one long stroke he entered me. He started stroking faster and faster, pounding into me as though his life depended on his release, fucking me so hard and so fast. I spread my legs wider and he entered me deeper than I ever thought possible. I could feel that he was ready to explode which sent me right over the edge, making me cum instantly, over and over. I loved knowing that I succeeded in pleasing him to the point that his whole body was shaking, his grip on me tightening, his body shuddering with the release of his own amazing orgasm, covering my entire body with his hot, hot cum. We fell to the floor where we both lay panting, drenched in each others moisture. After a moment of rest, he leaned over to me and looked into my eyes. Bringing his face close to mine, he smiled and whispered something so quiet that I couldn't make it out at first. Then I realized that he was ending his silence by whispering my name. I smiled back at him as our lips touched once more in a long, passionate kiss.

Kasia Klyne is an Erotic fiction writer from New Orleans, LA.