Smutpunk on Skates Page 6

  “I’ll take care of it,” Lana assured him, although she had no idea how she would take care of Heather. Lana couldn’t even take care of herself. Lana had been urging her daughter to choose stability, but it hadn’t been working. Heather was addicted, obsessed and crazy. She wanted that fucker at all costs.

  Charlie sat and bowed politely. Lana really filled out her tank top. This woman was still young and very attractive. Charlie ate one of the oranges that he’d bought for Lana, which she peeled neatly and placed on the table. He stood up and bowed a final time, quite deeply—an essential sign of respect—and he left the old apartment. Walking away, he turned around and looked at the old brick structure. The building, with its two little towers on the roof, looked like a pack of cigarettes with two cigarettes sticking out the torn foil. Charlie stared at the building as his monorail pulled away from the station. He went back to the new part of the city, still doubting if Heather would ever stop fucking around on him. He didn’t think he could take disrobing her, to find another man had plugged her asshole again. He was starting to crack emotionally.

  That fucker looked in the mirror. He was dressed in a classy black suit with a red tie. His hair was in a full pompadour—part politician and part Elvis—like a young David Gandy. That fucker stared in his blue eyes in the mirror. He was sweating ever so slightly from his upper lip. That fucker rarely got nervous. That was one of his superhero skills—he held it together even when he felt excited. He could quell the animal in him enough to make it look like he wasn’t a fucking savage lion stalking lost children on a hot Sudanese night.

  In the stall, a hot chick with a big naked phat ass was kneeling over the toilet with her supple yellow hands cuffed to the bar for the handicapped, waiting. Her ass was full and yellow and her asshole was winking. That fucker was so used to plugging assholes with big butt plugs that an ass without a butt plug looked naked to him, like he was looking in the mirror just after a haircut and a shave.

  “Still here, whore, huh?” That fucker pulled his dick out.

  “Aiyseh, of course, I’m here. Where can I go, ma?” The phat-assed, rail-cuffed woman said. Her ass was thick and sexy as fuck if you liked your asses big and juicy.

  “True,” he said.

  “Nice, ah?” She shook her ass. She was getting a bit sore in this position and wanted to get on with it.

  “Your ass looks very nice presented to me like this,” he said. His yellow piss trickled out. His piss ran down her ass crack, down her cunts lips, some pooled in the small of her arched back, then dripped down her sides. She could smell it. She was horny. He was about to unload all his filthy thoughts into this willing cunt, but his phone buzzed and he realized he really needed to work. He uncuffed her and walked out of the bathroom.

  “Won’t you fuck me?” She said turning awkwardly to wipe his piss off her body.

  “Sorry, hun.” He handed her a bottle of perfume. “Take it.”

  “A gift?”

  That fucker shook his head. He smiled. “What? I’m not always a fucker!”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Well, the exception proves the rule.”

  “Help, ah, and fuck me now.”

  “Can’t, babe!”

  “What the fuck? Where the fuck did that fucker go? Who is this asshole in a suit that won’t fuck me?”

  “If I fuck you, I’m an asshole. If I don’t fuck you, I’m still an asshole. I see, see?”

  A pigeon is hungriest when you feed it sporadically. Remember that!

  On the way back from his lunch break at Lana’s apartment, Charlie stopped at a little store and bought Heather a cute stuffed animal with massive eyes. It was some kind of flamingo with exaggerated eyes. He came into their office and walked to her desk. They all had cubicles in a stuffy office that they needed key cards to get into. Heather wasn’t there. She never told him where she was and that bothered him, but he didn’t complain because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings and make her pull away. She was slipping off his fishing line already. Any bump in their relationship, Charlie thought, and she would fall off his hook, swim to the next man and mouth his hook. That was Charlie’s constant worry. He put the big-eyed flamingo on his desk.

  Heather looked in the mirror in the bank’s 69th floor bathroom. That fucker had left her alone. She still had a little extra time now that she didn’t spend a lunch hour in hard abusive fucking. She checked her phone. There was a message from Charlie.

  Where are you?

  She wrote a text, I’m tied to a railing in that fucker’s bathroom, but she didn’t press send.

  She instead took the bus to her mom’s for a quick stop. Maybe this is why they said Malaysians are lazy, she thought as she further shirked her work and her clingy boyfriend.

  Heather nibbled on her mom’s Nasi Goreng, fried rice with an egg and little fish. “Baby, stop stalking that fucker and settle with Charlie, lah.” Lana sipped on tea. “He’s stable.”

  “I can’t mom. That fucker is just so exciting. He’s always got something on me,” Heather said. She wiped her itchy nose and could smell his sour piss on her fingers.

  “Don’t you have to work?” Lana asked her daughter.

  Heather smiled, spooned a final bite into her mouth, and left.

  Cocoa Butter

  Lana wasn’t crazy about cocoa butter, but Heather bought it for her on her last trip to Jamaica. It wasn’t Palmer’s Cocoa Butter from Indonesia—from the nearby island of Jakarta. This was the Caribbean kind, greasy and yellow and Lana applied it to her arms and it gave her skin a lustrous quality, made her look luminous and sparkly. She rubbed it over her big breasts slowly, feeling the way her skin hungrily soaked up the moisture. Her skin was very hungry. The cocoa butter was greasy and slippery which made it so hydrating. Her hands skated over her breasts, past her nipples, and then she rubbed her neck, that spot just between her two collar bones and rubbed up her neck, then behind her ears where she felt a lot of tension. Her hands went back over her breasts and down her midriff. She touched her bush. She wondered for a moment what it would be like to touch another woman’s pussy. She rubbed her own clit and found an incredible feeling with this slippery cocoa butter. Then she heard some noises outside and stopped touching herself and came back to Earth. She had important stuff to take care of. This was no time to slide and glide on herself.

  Imagine you made a giant steel Islamic star, then you kicked it mightily and it spun like a nut onto a big imaginary screw, eighty-eight stories up in the sky. Now pretend you’ve done it again, until you have twin mega-high-rise towers. Imagine now you’ve stuck a giant spire antenna on top of each of the giant Islamic star screw/nuts picturesquely. Finally, imagine that about halfway up, you connected a big, enclosed Sky Bridge and voila!—The Petronas Towers.

  These towers and other skyscrapers made a dynamic and glorious view. The Petronas Towers, the tallest twin towers in the world, loomed over the city like a duo of big, white penises looming over a kneeling brown whore. It was a symbol of power—of penis, of cocksucking, and gagging. For the kneeler, in shadow of the towers, there was hope—of modernization, of pulling out from the shadow of British Imperialism and yanking its dirty third-world cunt up by the labia right into the cummy cock of the first-world.

  These towers stood up to the bullying influence of the US government and its dual state sabotage. This was done the Malay way. This was done with a Muslim government—with stability and with peace. Those two towers stood up to the world of superpower meddling. They stuck their two large middle fingers up the ass of the dominant world. Those two towers proudly told the world Asia can be anything it wants, nymphomaniac slut or buttoned-up nun. Those two towers asserted that religion did not need to be divisive agents of war and hate.

  On the street level, in the shadow of the two looming towers, were the old apartment buildings in the all-Chinese dilapidated part of town. That fucker divided street level Malaysian society between the monorail and tower level. Those who lived above the st
reet had great skin, fine clothes, cushy jobs, and fast cars. Those on the street level worked for those on the top. They were the bottoms to the tops.

  That fucker, foreign investment manager at one of the largest and most lucrative launderers in the world, looked at the towers and the sky bridge, getting a chubby in his pants thinking of all the blowjobs he’d gotten on that suspended bridge, virtually on top of the world. That fucker wondered what would happen if he fucked his boss’s wife. Would she submit to him? He thought of their earlier dialogue.

  “You’re not like other Malays.”

  “The girls on the street can’t smoke in public. Up here in a skyscraper the rules don’t apply to an expensive woman like myself. I like my things high-class and imported from abroad.” She looked down at that fucker’s crotch as she said this.

  He could probably get her up onto his mantel. How submissive would his boss’s trophy MILF wife willing to be?

  “But I stoop pretty low and bend over pretty deep to get what I want,” she had said. No doubt he could break her.

  His phone’s buzzer broke his reverie. His secretary, a neat-looking young chick with a trim bush, came over the speaker, “A Lana Choi is here to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “She says it’s regarding Heather Choi. She says you would know.”

  “What the fuck?” That fucker glanced up at the sky bridge. “Send her up.”

  The Anal Plug Mantel

  Some people had rooms for their trophies. It could be a collection of medals, plaques, or trophies for a high school athlete—a swimmer, a quarterback, a basketball wizard. A serial womanizer was no different. In his bedroom, he kept the obligatory box of tissues, the big mirror on the wall, and a bunch of home porn on the computer. His home porn was made over the years, mostly on phones and crappy point-and-shoot cameras. The girls would often balk at the idea at first, but then go all in, hamming it up by giving their best performances. That fucker felt that the addition of a camera really brought the slut out of a chick. The camera was like dousing slut sauce on a taco.

  That fucker kept his real trophies in his office. They were on his mantle. It wasn’t a mantle filled with photos, medals, or anything else most people would expect. They were big, thick dildos in a variety of colors. They formed a skyline of proud monoliths, each casting a shadow on the other like a vibrant dick downtown. Butt Plug City.

  There was big black one, thick as a coke can and stubby. Another was sparkly, glittery pink and turquoise, and long and jellylike. There were over twenty-five butt plugs and they all had a back-story, which was written on a little placard that that fucker had placed on a little pick stand. Much like a buffet spread, with a card in front of the chafing dish, but this one displayed what was in a chafing anus.

  Movie Theatre Spit Roast

  On the menu—Chindian-Malay pork. She was blindfolded, plugged and enjoyed by me and my fucktard friend. Heather enjoyed it physically, especially taking this massive plug, called Priscilla, up her tight Asian asshole. Mentally it was too much and she’s been obsessed with me ever since.

  That Fucker had tons of stories like this, but only the special ones were displayed. He liked nothing more than plugging a slut with a big butt plug. He admired the Movie Theatre Spit Roast butt plug with its abnormally big head (which was possibly why it had got stuck up Heather’s ass), and why she’d needed Charlie the Wok’s help to get it out. This had started the relationship between Heather and Charlie. That Fucker texted Heather one day while watching her glide by sexily on her skates.

  Bring me back my butt plug.

  His phone immediately buzzed.

  Miss me? Heather had responded.

  I miss my plug.

  I miss you, too. Meet in the garage?

  Of course.

  That fucker sat in the driver’s seat of his Range Rover and looked up through the glass sunroof at a full moon—Heather’s yellow-brown naked ass. Her asshole was right there—winking. On the outside was a ring that burst out into tiny dots, which expanded as she started to finger her own asshole. That fucker watched her finger her hole. Heather licked her fingers then inserted the middle finger. Soon she added her first and third fingers and stretched her asshole out while he watched from his comfy bucket seat and stroked his massive dick pleasantly.

  When he looked at that butt plug on his mantle, he relived all of it. It was a mausoleum of his well-orchestrated, extraordinary debauchery. He admired his masterful relationship with Heather, even as her mother, Lana, rode up to his office in the elevator. Lana had tried to dress conservatively (as if), wearing a light sweater that buttoned up to the neck and fit her bust so tightly the outline of her bra showed. A gold necklace matched her dangling gold earrings and the skirt fit her round bottom like a glove. The skirt came to her knee and had a small slit that showed off her thigh. She carried a handbag and wore a gold watch on her demure little wrist.

  She explained how she wanted her daughter out of his sexual haze while neatly seated in a leather chair facing his massive mahogany desk.

  “So let me get this straight. You’ll do anything to get me to leave Heather alone? Anything?” He smoothed the lapel of his suit jacket.

  “Anything,” Lana said. Her gold earrings caught the intense sunlight coming into the windows.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Deal, ar?” Lana asked desperately seeking confirmation for getting her poor daughter out of this abusive asshole white boy’s control.

  “Anything, right?” He pressed.

  This asshole really wasn’t bad-looking. “Yes,” she agreed. No wonder he was a buaya.

  That fucker grabbed Lana’s neck and shook her. Her eyes went wide and her throat went dry. She swallowed down the fear and looked at his tattooed wrist. His big animalistic hand grabbed her throat. He shoved a big butt plug into Lana’s mouth.

  “That’s where the cock is going to go, right where your daughter’s butt plug is.”

  He spoke in a deep authoritative voice that made little hairs on the back of her neck stand up. He pushed the plug deep into Lana’s mouth until the tip of it banged against the back of her throat and she made a gagging sound.

  “Yep, old hag, that’s where the dick is going to go. Don’t be scared. You can bite down on the plug.” That fucker reached down, yanked her shirt open and grabbed her hard nipples.

  “Look at that,” he said. “The old lady is hot. Bet your husband never fucked you like this,” he said. He pushed the plug past her tonsils and into her throat. She bit down on it to keep it from going deeper. It felt good to bite on the rubbery material. It relaxed her jaw. He still pushed it in. She couldn’t take it, pulled off and then leaned forward and gagged violently and coughed. It was exciting getting used like this but she was scared she couldn’t take it physically. That fucker had his cock out and the moment she caught her breath, he shoved his big, ‘white rice’ dick into her nervous mouth. He pushed his pelvis forward while pushing her neck down until her lips met his balls in one perfect deep-throat thrust.

  “Holy shit, look at that. Heather’s mom is a fucking natural deep-throat pig.”

  That fucker laughed as his cock bore a tunnel into her. He held her there a moment and then pushed her head back, off of his dick, long strings of saliva hung off her lips and his cock. He watched them fall to the carpet in his office and then shoved her down on his dick again.

  “You’re better than your daughter, shit.” He watched Lana try to suck on it while struggling to breath. She closed her eyes, her long fake eyelashes banana’d under her purple eye makeup. She looked like a whore. He thought of Heather, who had a similar look when he throatfucked her. That fucker smiled and squeezed her nose shut as his dick plugged her mouth. He looked down and noticed that Lana had lowered her black slacks and her round, gorgeous ass cheeks were out. As she swallowed the whole length of his cock, she started to feel really hot and filthy. Her clit throbbed. Her pussy leaked. She just had to put her finger on her clit and started rubbi
ng.

  That fucker noticed something was going on here.

  “When was your last orgasm?”

  “Never,” Lana said while his cock loomed in front of her face making her eyes go crossed.

  He yanked her off her knees by her thick black hair and threw her onto his desk. He pushed her face onto the desk, into the big calendar on the wood desk. He held her big, phat ass in his hands and spread her ass cheeks. He put his head right between those cheeks and licked up the sweet nectar of her MILF pussy. He lapped right at the wet petals, his nose in her butthole. She felt great, as if he was priming her for his big, white dick—which he was. He put his tongue over her clit and left it there, covering her. She felt better than she ever had. Being a young white man’s slut was exhilarating. She reached back, grabbed his head, and pushed his tongue down on her clit while moving her hips in quick stuttering circles. This brought her right to a clitoral orgasm—the first of her entire life. She moaned and then screamed until she found his hand plugging her mouth. She now had this empty feeling, like she needed something in her pussy. Then she felt it. All that emptiness, all the longing of the last thirty-five years . . . was stuffed with this young white executive’s massive cock. She closed her eyes and enjoyed being pounded from behind.

  After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and saw his week’s schedule on the desk calendar.

  Monday 3:00 p.m. Tatiana Titty Fuck