moment. “Betty,” he muttered without much enthusiasm. Marvin
was now really impressed. “And you screw her? Really screw
her? In the pussy?” “Sure I do, right in the middle of her
pussy.” Victor regained his tone of authority. “Yessir,
right in the middle.”
Eddie too was becoming convinced. “What does a
pussy look like?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, but only if you let me and
Marvin beat you off.”
“But I told you already…I DON’T WANT TO BURN IN
HELL!!!” Eddie wailed.
“Don’t be stupid, Eddie. You only go to hell if you
beat yourself off. Not if somebody else beats you off.
[....!??] “Are you sure?”
Victor could see that Eddie wanted very much to
believe him. “I’m positive. In fact you can even beat
somebody else off and it doesn’t count…it’s only when you
beat yourself that you go to hell.” Victor could see Eddie
was weakening. He was pleased with himself. “But first
you’re going to have to show us your penis.”
The bald guy wearing the sunvisor was wheezing
audibly. He weighed 275 pounds easily and could barely hold
himself up in the squat over the scrawny longhaired guy with
the pimples and coke bottle glasses lying flat on his back
between the fatman’s legs in the bathtub. HERE IT COMES…
Kurt Jr. twisted his left tit with one hand while he held
the bottle of Locker Room up to his nostrils with the other.
The shaky camera panned down the fat guy’s back to his
distended shit hole. IT’S COMING OUT… Kurt recapped the
popper and rammed his middle finger back up into his own
hungry poop-chute, just as a brown turd ribbon began
squeezing out the fat man’s rectum, dropping by clumps into
the longhair’s open mouth. Kurt pushed his finger in as far
as it would go up up toward a lump of his own shit. He
clamped down with all his might and then withdrew his finger
to look at the treasure. It was clean. He held it to his
nose and sniffed. DAMN…nothing.
Back on the screen the pimply guy had started rimming
the filthy asshole. The shit was getting smeared everywhere.
One of the guy’s lenses was completely mudded out.
Now THAT is disgusting Kurt thought to himself. He
was irritated with SHIT LOVERS #3. It was exactly like
LOVERS #1 and #2. Why did they always use such ugly nerdy
types in these scat videos? That guy shouldn’t be wearing
his glasses for godsake. It was ludicrous and made the whole
thing a travesty. Why couldn’t there ever be any nice
healthy looking guys with white teeth, flawless tans and
fresh blow-drys like in all the other porn? After all, I’m
hot looking, atheletic, with a nice body, Kurt thought, I’m a
shit lover…why can’t they make these movies with guys like
me. This is so demeaning. It really pisses me off. If only
he had more guts, he reasoned for the thousandth time. He’d
given it so much thought…lead the movement, give public
speeches, be a spokesman and role model, march in the
parades… If only he had more guts. Guts enough to bring
respectability to scat. Educate the public. Go into
politics even. Who knew where it might lead? Kurt Schidink
Jr. the country’s first Brown Hanky Congressman. B.M.
Brothers Unite!!! Keep your chins up high!!! Don’t be
oppressed just because you let people shit on you. Spread
those Cheeks and FLY!!! It made his head spin. Kurt took
another hit as the video shifted to a new duo. Well, not
entirely new. There was that same fatty but this time he was
wearing a black wig..(!) THIS IS REALLY INSULTING…what a
piece of shit this #3 was turning out to be and he’d forked
over $89.95 for it too. Non-refundable.
At 10:03 pm, the exact moment of Kurt Jr.’s
disappointing discovery, downstairs his father had positioned
himself over his mother’s cunt and his tongue was beginning
to search out what they called her little love-snail, his
youngest brother Timmy still on the pot was on the verge of
passing out from pushing out and his other brother Marvin was
untying his pajama bottoms. And two blocks away out on the
icy street the fuel pump of a ‘79 Ford Pinto was giving up
its life, unbeknownst to Larry Henderson, the car’s current
owner coming back from a gay bar through a neighborhood he’d
never been in before. It was incredible coincidence that
when the engine died it died right in front of 677 Rigoletto
Place, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Kurt Schidink and their three
fine sons. The coincidence was made greater by the fact that
during the summer of his highschool sophomore year Larry and
Kurt who were classmates and neighbors at the time used to
get together to assfuck and suck each other off. But then
Kurt’s family moved across town and Larry took up with a
different crowd and the rest was history. Kurt and Larry had
not seen each other in 25 years. Larry steered the coasting
Pinto across a slick of ice next to the curb. Shit it was
cold. For the first time that evening he regretted not
wearing more than the jockstrap under his leather chaps. He
got out and threw open the hood. His butt was FREEZING. He
hoped he’d be able to spot what the problem was, only the
problem was that Larry actually only knew zip about cars and
realized that the gesture was more one of macho reflex than
constructive action. Larry could see his breath in the beam
of his flashlight. It was dark except for some yellowish
light coming from behind the upstairs shaded window of 677.
Behind those shades Grace was moaning herself through
multiple orgasms under her husband’s increasingly clumsy
ministrations and manipulations.
Kurt didn’t know what had taken over him. He felt
great. Out of control, but great. And then Grace crested her
biggest wave and one knee kicked out in one of the many
reflex actions her coming was prone to and landed square in
the center of her hubby’s swollen tight-as-a-drum
fluid-filled paunch. OOOOoofff. [pop] The stopper blew out
of Kurt’s greasy red hole, which opened up like a fireman’s
hose and sent quarts of brownish fleck-laden water flying
across the bedroom spraying all over the mirrors and
glasstopped vanity. What was happening? Kurt didn’t really
know. He looked between his legs and caught the reflection
of his hydrant butt at full power. Oddly, he felt removed
from it all…no big deal… time stood still…he was just
floating in a blissful out of body experience… In what may
have only been seconds later he found himself sitting on the
Port-a-Potty squirting out a few remaining ounces, while
Grace, ever the vigilant homemaker, good-naturedly surveyed
the damage.
Larry Henderson knew he had only two choices, both
fairly humiliating: ask these folks to call AAA or find a bus
stop and hope that public transportation was were still
running at this hour. He might have opted for the later
option, however the risk of frostbitten buns made him decide
to head for the front stoop of 677. I sure hope these folks
are home, he thought to himself as he prepared to ring the
bell.- – - – - – - – – - – - – [TO BE CONTINUED...]
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