Pocket Dimension Pussy: Part One

I’ve defined myself, my whole life, by what I was against. Ideally I’d be against the wall, pinned at the neck by the forearm of a Latina with hair loud and red like a firetruck. I want her bigger than me in height and width; girth, even. Her breasts will have muscles and she’ll be able to do that thing where she flexes them and they move like marionettes. It should go without saying I’m gonna need her to hit a home run into my nuts; with a knee, a fist, a steel toed boot, whatever. And while she’s got me pinned to the wall I need her to spit in my face. Enough to where once we’re done it looks like I just took a shower but smells like I need one.

Her ribs will be dense, her toes webbed, her eyes distant cousins, and her nose convex. She’ll growl at me like a caged animal and a part of me will be averse to the whole thing, throwing my eyes to the wall, fixating on a spot of construction I can deconstruct while she has me.

She’s gonna drop me to the ground, kick me around a bit more, and shout insults at me. “What a pitiful little dick you’ve got. For someone working at the best law office in Chicago you sure are hung like an intern.” Then she’d grab me by the waist, pick me up, and thrust her cock inside me like she’s the q-tip and I’m the dirty ear. She’s got a half-moon smile which is in a knot on one end. Beads of sweat curl at the top of her forehead and fall onto me, simmering like oil on my hot pan of a forehead.

The friction of her fucking my dull fudge cutter is enough to melt wax. “Do you want my load you bitch of a man? I’m gonna get you pregnant. Have my babies and carry them to term. Do you want my babies, faggot?” Her voice is a hairdryer clogged with bathroom dust.

“Yes mommy, get me pregnant, punt your gunk into my little moon cave, slam dunk a hot one into my shitter!” My voice is that of a gay man on the verge of tears. We both clench, her ab muscles ebb in waves and I see only the beginning of my skull.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum!” We both scream in homunculus masochism. She shoots her load, it travels through me and I begin to gag on her hot yogurt. I cum in the next instant, seizing from head to toe. The spittle hits my chest and I exhale deep convulsions, waiting for the wheels to stop spinning.

Fuck, I hate myself.

My favorite rewards are those I get for doing nothing.

Whether it’s number 7 or 17, after every load I blow I have to go piss. Women get UTI’s and men get this weird thing where they have two pee streams if they don’t unclog their urethras immediately after cumming themselves. That aside, having a bladder full of pee while you’re trying to get off is kinda stimulating, it’s like taking it in the ass knowing that the phallus is the only thing between you and having to get a new mattress.

I’ve got a handful of waist fat, which hangs over my hips as a heavy flesh belt. It wasn’t there when I was with Mariana. Rather, I had a perfect set of abs like hot dinner rolls.

“Just like daddy used to make,” Mariana said to me, mounting me like about to deliver CPR and rolling her pussy between her fingers, not unlike her method for pinching marijuana joints.

Now I’ve got the body of my father, wisps of armpit hair on my chest and nipples, and haven’t shaved my bush since my last birthday; I’m almost 29.

I hadn’t expected Serious to text me,

Yo, its williams, wanna meet at park tavern?

I hadn’t expected that I wanted to text him back,

fs. b there in 30?

Serious Williams had enough burner phone numbers on his rolodex to rip one off every day for a calendar year and still have enough to make it to Valentine’s day. I never knew when he was going to text me. With the fever of my disposition it was usually after I’d orgasmed. Serious and I met when Mariana introduced us. I had spent a few months tugging on her shirt and she thought it would be good for me to make a new friend. I wanted none because I had her.

But I was lucky to have him, after she and I broke up, we bonded all brotherly. At a young age he stopped physically maturing as a result of the same trauma that at an old age stopped my emotional maturing; hog tied and facing 25 years incarceration.

His baby, smooth head; infantile bone density, peaked over the table chair like a half moon overtaking the horizon. His same spot, at a table for four in the middle of the restaurant floor, facing the patio door (change that later, you’re too old for rhyme schemes) was a mystery of vapor plumes, somehow his sizzling fajitas always managed to arrive right before I did.

Sat in my usual seat, waiting for the plates heat to die down so I could hear him- the smoke not as obtrusive as the fireworks happening under the peppers.

“How do you feel about a job, Jones?” He asked; my first thought, a blow job, and I brought my knees together to seize my groin muscles from sending any blood to my cock.

“What did you have in mind?” I swallowed the question.

“Old lady up on the corner of Oak and Dearborn called in to have her thermostat fixed. I’ve got a buddy who works for the call center. Said maintenance won’t be out there till tomorrow, but here’s the catch, he never sent in the service request. So early morning we go up to that bitches place, mess around with the thing, mess around with her, and then make like a dog in a bathtub once we’ve managed to smuggle out some of her valuables. You got any coveralls?” He laid all this out, not once making eye contact, having assembled two tacos, and pronouncing the like duh

“Somewhere, I’m sure.”

The host came and set a water down in front of me, her walking away made me lightheaded, she had a bottom half that made mine retain heat.

“You look fuckin’ pale, want a beer?” Serious asked.

“I think I might stay for one.” Only in hopes I could store the part of our host I liked the most (fuck, again?) in the amniotic reserves at the back of mind I reach into when I need inspiration building the imaginary woman-algamation for my presleep gasm’.

Her hips are two lion heads fighting over the gazelle neck i’ve got for a penis, biting and breaking the skin into little pock marks up and down my fur. With each puncture my neck-cock grows more stiff, until strained completely, its wet nose on my torso and making eye contact with me.

She sneaks a couple passengers into my revolving door asshole and the people run circles around my sphincter, doing roulettes and racing, spinning, generating orgone electricity. Making bounce the pinecone turd at my anus; knocking at my prostate. The poo finger presses my butt button with an rpm not unlike the daftest pianist.

With each deep breath, growing more rapid, my left testicle does a jump and after a fall turns into a newtons cradle with my right, right right, right left, and left right testicles. Doing meaty splats into each other.

Orgasmic stimulation fires in my brain electric and green, my body static numb. I am her limp toy. Snakes in her hair lunge and staple into my nipples, pulsating into my blood their burning venom. My heart begins to die. From my gazelle mouth I ejaculate and in the next moment I am stiff as stone.

The old woman’s house was a marvel of of Italianate design, a style of architecture honoring the picturesque aesthetic of the 16th-century Italian Renaissance (or at least that’s what the internet tells me). The exterior was romantic brown-stone, looking like the bigger sister of its Gold Coast siblings. Putting every other house on the block, on the street, in the neighborhood, into a tax bracket few could afford. Suffice to say, I had no remorse robbing this old woman.

“This is the one.” Serious Williams said shutting the barn doors of his borrowed van. His endless rolodex of phone numbers was shadowed by his collection of vinyl adhesive with company logos on them. He could transmute his transportation into accommodating any false profession we might have to lie our way into. Although he only had one pair of coveralls, and they didn’t match mine.

We approached the house, one of us white and the other navy blue. Looking as if the painter and the contractor showed up at the same time. Neither of us looking especially confident as HVAC specialists.

He knocked with the doorgod, lifting its heavy frame with a grunt and letting it drop onto the door, which rattled its glass core. The glass settled into a growing female silhouette. The door opened.

“Don’t do that again!” The old woman cawed, hacking especially her enunciation of “again”.

“I-“ Serious tried to say.

“This frame is older than me,” she grazed it with her hand, “and completely irreplaceable.” She drew a bird beak claw and pointed it at the electronic doorbell, “use that next time.” Such a device felt like more of an assault to her historic home than utilizing the equipment it was built to withstand. Maybe we’d sneak that into our bag on the way out just to save her any more trouble.

“Ma’am I really am sorry, can’t say we’re used to dealing with properties as antiquated as yours,” Serious spoke with honey and words he certainly looked up this morning, “we’re here to have a look at your thermostat.”

The old woman sucked her dentures dry and scowled.

“Come on in then.”

The homes interior was sepia-tone mildew; as if we were walking through the storeroom of a museum on high society, my lungs felt like I were breathing through a pillow yellow with sweat. I wouldn’t be surprised if her air conditioning system wasn’t broken, just her vents caked with so much dust they didn’t blow like they used to. Maybe she’s not so unlike her home. They do say you can tell a lot about a person based on where they live.

Serious and I rotated in awe, enjoying the pirouetting dust bouncing from sheet covered furniture to peach fuzz countertops.

“Don’t be too gobsmacked, enjoy it now while you’re still here.” I wonder if she ever felt joy. “Follow me.” She took us to through the drawing room (a rich person will never know the squalor of a living room), past the dining room, around the kitchen, and into a hallway at the height of which was the bum thermostat.

“So you see,” she gave the device a few hard taps, “nothing about this thing works.” She was right, it was a completely blank interface.

“This thermostat looks older than the door.” Serious said poking at it with his eyes strained like someone reading a book without their glasses.

“Speaking of which, I’m gonna go and make sure you didn’t chip the walnut.” She left, with a forward-leaning stride. The old woman was gone, likely still frowning.