Let's Destruction!
Hello, and here's a bomb for you...
Nutcracker Sweets... that's what I've dubbed those delicious Japanese SM mavens who punt the brainpans of rope-restricted men.
I'd be a liar if I said I didn't go in for it.
Whether or not the ladies are a product of society is moot. They boot because it suits. The men deserve it. They deserve to deserve it.
And what of me? Do _I_ deserve it? ... Maybe. Maybe we all do.
Maybe it's part of the job of being a 'Man'. We men 'pound that pussy!!!!!' Yeah! YEAH! We do... But it doesn't make us gods. It shouldn't
Kurara. That's her name. No last name.
Her business card listed her as a 'Professional Sessionist'. WTF!? But what's in a title when you crush people's nuts for cold hard cash?
She claimed to be the byproduct of a society gone divorce dysfuctional, youth obsessed, and junk mad.
Mating that with incestuous parental units, designer drug binges, and petty theft arrests... she makes for a real gem.
Her days are filled by frothing, rabied, lunge kill-crazy, brand-name consumers. And her nights by power sickos lost in that lovin' feelin'.
I admit; I'm strung out on her. One step away from overdose, and three from a sharp boot in the 'nads.
Kurara has a body, and a body of 1700 AV titles. Each one a block ball buster. Her resume reads like a dirty magazine ad. As it should.
I don't know why she chose me. She's that kind of woman. Nothing for nobody but herself. Everything on her terms.
My invitation to the industry party was an afterthought. A spot filler. An applause-fluffer.
She leeched on to me at the catering table between the couscous and jambalaya. But I didn't know her from the faceless on the streets.
"Have you ever eaten sashimi from a naked woman's body?" Her tone was conversational, sincerely inquisitive, bizarrely honest.
I've heard better pickup lines from JunkDNA addicts trolling donation clinics for unsuspecting first-timers.
But in her clodhopper pumps, she was an Amazon. I didn't want to fit on her plate next to the yakisoba, and I was afraid to look at her teeth.
"I'm sorry?" was the stumbling lunacy that I coughed up.
"Sashimi off a naked woman." She popped a gyoza and cocked her head at me. "Frankly, I'd rather just eat the girl."
"There is that. But you have to watch for pubic hair." I tried to chuckle off-handedly. Non-chalantly? Can you do that!?
She eyed me. "She shaves first." Mental head-desk. "I would never eat a woman or off her, unless she shaved first." That's the fact Jack.
And that was that. She hounded me down the rest of the table, invited herself to my table, and helped herself to my plate. She bitched me.
When I tried to excuse myself to go to the pisser, she followed me down the long, twisting hall, and camped, cat-like in a tiger-print top.
I bolted! But tweaked to the gills, she had enhanced strength and speed. I fret-pondered if she'd installed a cannibal gene.
Her left hand reaches up under my neck and using my own momentum against me, she plows me into the wall, lifting me off my feet.
She rubs her body up against mine. A petitle, dark nipple pops from her halter top as she leans in to phero-snif my mandible barcode.
A wet sigh betrays her lips. It is quickly followed by a creek of blood that rivulets down her neck after she takes a hunk of my earlobe.
Read the rest of the story at http://www.twitter.com/junkdnafiction
Nutcracker Sweets... that's what I've dubbed those delicious Japanese SM mavens who punt the brainpans of rope-restricted men.
I'd be a liar if I said I didn't go in for it.
Whether or not the ladies are a product of society is moot. They boot because it suits. The men deserve it. They deserve to deserve it.
And what of me? Do _I_ deserve it? ... Maybe. Maybe we all do.
Maybe it's part of the job of being a 'Man'. We men 'pound that pussy!!!!!' Yeah! YEAH! We do... But it doesn't make us gods. It shouldn't
Kurara. That's her name. No last name.
Her business card listed her as a 'Professional Sessionist'. WTF!? But what's in a title when you crush people's nuts for cold hard cash?
She claimed to be the byproduct of a society gone divorce dysfuctional, youth obsessed, and junk mad.
Mating that with incestuous parental units, designer drug binges, and petty theft arrests... she makes for a real gem.
Her days are filled by frothing, rabied, lunge kill-crazy, brand-name consumers. And her nights by power sickos lost in that lovin' feelin'.
I admit; I'm strung out on her. One step away from overdose, and three from a sharp boot in the 'nads.
Kurara has a body, and a body of 1700 AV titles. Each one a block ball buster. Her resume reads like a dirty magazine ad. As it should.
I don't know why she chose me. She's that kind of woman. Nothing for nobody but herself. Everything on her terms.
My invitation to the industry party was an afterthought. A spot filler. An applause-fluffer.
She leeched on to me at the catering table between the couscous and jambalaya. But I didn't know her from the faceless on the streets.
"Have you ever eaten sashimi from a naked woman's body?" Her tone was conversational, sincerely inquisitive, bizarrely honest.
I've heard better pickup lines from JunkDNA addicts trolling donation clinics for unsuspecting first-timers.
But in her clodhopper pumps, she was an Amazon. I didn't want to fit on her plate next to the yakisoba, and I was afraid to look at her teeth.
"I'm sorry?" was the stumbling lunacy that I coughed up.
"Sashimi off a naked woman." She popped a gyoza and cocked her head at me. "Frankly, I'd rather just eat the girl."
"There is that. But you have to watch for pubic hair." I tried to chuckle off-handedly. Non-chalantly? Can you do that!?
She eyed me. "She shaves first." Mental head-desk. "I would never eat a woman or off her, unless she shaved first." That's the fact Jack.
And that was that. She hounded me down the rest of the table, invited herself to my table, and helped herself to my plate. She bitched me.
When I tried to excuse myself to go to the pisser, she followed me down the long, twisting hall, and camped, cat-like in a tiger-print top.
I bolted! But tweaked to the gills, she had enhanced strength and speed. I fret-pondered if she'd installed a cannibal gene.
Her left hand reaches up under my neck and using my own momentum against me, she plows me into the wall, lifting me off my feet.
She rubs her body up against mine. A petitle, dark nipple pops from her halter top as she leans in to phero-snif my mandible barcode.
A wet sigh betrays her lips. It is quickly followed by a creek of blood that rivulets down her neck after she takes a hunk of my earlobe.
Read the rest of the story at http://www.twitter.com/junkdnafiction