Domination In The Desert

A stifling August afternoon in Palm Springs. I run into her in the liquor section at Ralph’s. She’s a hot MILF, maybe 50ish and she filled out her tight skirt and flimsy top like nobody’s business. Of course, you know me. Age isn’t a factor. It’s all about the body and the attitude, and this one had it all. After some playful suggestive banter she says something to the effect that if I want to keep taking up her time, I’m going to have to get my ass to work on her behalf.

-What did you have in mind? I ask.

-Oh, just a little cooperation. Nothing you can’t handle. You strike me as a leg man. And, of course, an ass man. I'll bet you have no need of even checking out what a woman's got going on above the waist, do you?

-Surely you jest, I replied. Good face is high up on the list. And, Migod, arms! Smokin’ arms are almost as sexy to me as legs. Sometimes equally so.

-You ever gotten off on ‘em?

-Arms?

-Yeah. Just the arms.

-Sure. Nice big arms can send you all the way; easy. A lotta women don’t even know that.

-How are you at taking orders? she asked.

-Excellent. Top of my class.

The big woman looked at me intently.

-Yeah? Well, for my money, I think you're a fucking chump. But, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Put all your shit in my cart, finish my shopping, pay for everything, take it to my home, put it away, fix me dinner and drinks, and if you serve me just perfectly, I mean really super-fabulous, I’ll let you kiss my ass.

-Really?

-Yep. One time, though. That's all you get.

-Can I see it first?

-Fuck you.

She started to walk away. Can't win 'em all.

-Ok, I said, you got a deal.

She said her name was Jeri, and I had to admit, I was excited as I made my way around the store, picking out everything just as she wanted, becoming her servant, making sure the shopping trip went flawlessly from that moment on.

The old girl seemed to get hotter by the minute, too. She slunk along in her short, tight skirt, slinky top, and slip-on high heels, supervising me in a most stimulating, imperious manner. Though she didn’t really resemble her, I kept thinking about Mrs. Wormer in Animal House. Over-sexed older broad meets brash young world-conqueror and it’s damn the torpedoes, and let Freedom ring! As we went along, I told her of my above-average skills in the kitchen, and asked if I might have the honor of preparing her one of my favorite dinner combinations.

-What’s in it? She asked.

-Trout. They get it in fresh here. Pan-seared with a lovely seasoned breading, spinach-mashed potatoes, the best Caesar Salad you’ve ever eaten, guaranteed, and a top notch Pino Grigio. What do you think?

She looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and trusting frivolity, agreeing that it sounded perfect. Before we got out of the store, her sexual appeal had risen by a few more degrees in my mind as I continued to observe her confident mannerisms and the powerful flow of her body movements. Never once occurred to me to ponder what I might be getting myself into. I have to admit, though, to having a momentary meeting of minds with myself when we checked out and I paid for all her groceries. Her bill came to $235.00 and change, a decent little layout for a first, and probably last, afternoon encounter. And so my flow changes, a little. Floats through the mind now a titillating mix of X-Treme sexual arousal vs. questioning whether I’d actually get into this whole thing, whatever it was, once I was ‘under the gun.’ On top of that battle, I begin feeling the desire to start kicking myself for blowing this kind of money on a lark. All such ambivalent convolutions twisting and turning through and around my brain. The if’s always try to knock you back among the chumps when you’re out there on the edge, but thankfully I manage to remember that at the moment in question, and having done so, I’m good to go. Totally with the program. What the fuck? It’s Palm Springs, hot MILF, and my whole life ahead of me after this.

We get to her house on the hill and I have to say, it’s pretty fuckin’ cool. Sprawling one-level job, nearest neighbors maybe half a mile away, and the chick’s got the whole thing I mean RETRO’D OUT. Everything is 50’s-Early 60’s. Hot, geometric shapes, sharp lines, primary colors. Looks like something from a tripped-out Stanley Kubrick movie. I’m enthralled.

-You know how to make a decent martini, dip-shit? She asks.

-The best.

-Good. Then get your sorry ass into the kitchen and make me one while I get undressed.

‘Getting undressed’ consisted of hopping out of her tight skirt and tossing onto the chair. Now she stood there, eyeing me with serious intent and wearing nothing but a hot black thong, black thigh-highs, the slip-on heels and the skimpy top. Her power became quickly evident now in those big, strong shapely legs and an ass that was truly spectacular.

-If you think you can handle it, put those groceries away and get moving on dinner. I’m starved.

She became more demanding and humorless, which, along with the formidable size and power of her lower body was having a telling effect on me in the form of an unmistakable bulge in my jeans. It took a little doing to put the groceries away without her guidance, not always knowing where different people keep things, but I managed to find my way, and as I did I could feel my heartbeat quickening, my mouth turning dry, and the pulsing flow of blood moving headlong in the direction of my hardening cock. As I cooked, I had to ask her at one point if she might have a hand potato masher in the kitchen. Her response was to walk brusquely into the kitchen, slap me violently across the face, and point out to me that she was watching TV.

-Don’t ever interrupt me when I’m watching TV, asshole! Do I make myself perfectly clear?

-Crystal.

-You know, smart-ass, she said, the hungrier I get, the harder life is going to become for you. So, if I were you, I’d fucking step it up over here.

-Yes, Ma’am.

I get the salad ready and take it in her direction. She says nothing, but points to the patio area. There's a table there, and I deliver the salad and a glass of wine, waiting then to see what she does next. She comes slowly out the back door, holding her martini with an absolutely regal air about her. She is incredible. I pull her chair out for her, and she sits down, eyeing me contemptuously. I went back inside to finish preparing the meal, and if I said so myself, it was all perfect. I served Jeri another martini, and then set her dinner in place with a second glass of the Pino Grigio. Then I brought my plate out to join her.

-What the fuck are you doing? She asked.

-What?, I joked, sitting down.

-What are you doing?

Her voice was stern.

-Tell me you don’t think you’re going to sit here and eat in my presence.

I shrugged. She didn’t say another word, but got up from the table, came around to my side, jerked me up out of my chair and punched my fucking lights out with a monstrous right cross. I slammed down onto the patio, and before I could even respond, she came right behind me with my plate of food and smashed it into my face so hard the plate fractured into shards. I sat there, stunned, my face lacerated from the broken China, and wearing my 5-star dinner.

-Did you really think I was going to let the fucking hired help sit here and dine with me? Huh? Well, did you!? If that’s what you think all this is about, then you’re even fucking dumber than you look. And that boggles the mind! Now you get back into that kitchen and do something, I don’t care what, and check on me frequently, because if I need something and you’re not there when I think of it, I just might beat the living shit out of you, do you understand me?

-Ohhh, I groaned. OK, Jeezus. Ahhhwww.

I watched her storm back to her seat, that huge, gorgeous ass zig-zagging back and forth like two bombs being carried off to the cargo bay. I was bleeding pretty badly. Her wicked punch had flattened my nose, which was pouring blood, and then the slicing and dicing from the broken plate and, well, things had turned ugly just that fast. Knowing now how serious she was, I somehow managed to get to my feet and start back for the kitchen. She slammed her martini in a rage.

-And you better get me another drink out here muy pronto or we’re gonna start having more fun.

When I got to the door, however, I was faced with a dilemma. The blood was dripping badly from my face and if I went in I would surely get it on the floor, the carpet, probably on everything in my path. I stood there like a cowering puppy, trying to decide what to do. I decided it would show my best interests toward her if I pointed out the problem and let her make the decisions.

-I’m afraid I’m going to get blood on your carpet if I go in there right now, I groaned, trying not to bleed on her.

She looked at me with eyes of intense evil, stood up from the chair, and kneed me so hard in the stomach that I folded in half instantly and fell forward face first onto the concrete. She reached down, grabbed my arm up between her legs, pulled it backwards and butt-dropped with her full weight right down onto that arm, forcing it to extend in two directions against the joints and snapping it like a twig in both places, high on the femur and down near my wrist.

The pain was indescribable and I burst into hideous screams as she simply continued to sit there, driving my arm harder into the concrete as she bounced and wiggled her big ass on top of it.

-I doubt that you can grasp this concept, dumb ass that you obviously are, but you have now officially ruined my dinner.

Then she stood up, snatched me by the hair, pulled me up to her incredible ass and cut a huge, gassy fart right into my face, commanding me to breathe deeply as she did. I was gasping for breath anyway as a result of my screaming, and sucked down her fabulous flatulence more or less automatically. She laughed at me as she held me in place there, forcing my gaze upon her hot, powerful ass.

-So, she said, you’re a real screamer, aren’t you? Don’t have much of a tolerance for pain? That’s too bad, because I really can’t have all this noise going on. Someone down the road might think I was beating the shit out of some pantywaist and call the cops. I’d be VERY disappointed in you if that happened. So I’m going to be extremely fucking generous with you and give you a chance to shut your fucking pie-hole on your own. Otherwise, I’m going to shut it for you. Now keep in mind that you’ve already blown our deal, which was that I get a perfect dinner and you get to kiss my ass. It’s already too late for that.

So, if you want to hold any hope of saving yourself, you REALLY need to come through here. Alright, now look at my ass and Shut The Fuck Up!

I understood the gravity of my situation, and after shattering my arm the way she did, I couldn’t really put anything past this woman. I dug down deep and tried to suppress my painful cries. Jeri held me in place by the hair, looking back at me over her shoulder, just waiting for me to crack. Her expression was so sexy, so powerful, so arrogant, knowing that I was in no shape to endure this test. Her ass and legs shimmied before me as she shifted her weight from side to side. The pain shooting through my arm was unbearable and with another moment or two at the mercy of those legs and ass, I indeed broke down. I began to cry, mostly from the shock of my close proximity to her exquisite flesh, those fat, gorgeous legs spilling out over the tops of her black stockings, and her remarkable, round ass tempting me far beyond my capacity as she teased me relentlessly. Then the waves of pain joined in the assault on my senses and I burst out into a combined sort of chanting-crying-groaning, perhaps trying to beg for mercy, perhaps some disjointed prayer. In any event, it wasn’t particularly loud, but it was enough to constitute disobedience.

Jeri chuckled and turned on me. Then she shed her top, flashing her exceptional breasts. In spite of my dire situation, all I could do was marvel at her. The fact that a 50-year-old had such a sexy face, firm tits, and powerful body actually brought me to a state in which I was more turned on than in pain. She grabbed me by the hair again and pulled my face near her crotch area.

-Look at my legs, she commanded, and smell my pussy.

I followed orders and the intensity of the combination caused me to begin shaking.

-Hold still, she said.

I tried, but kept whimpering uncontrollably.

-Does that smell good, hmm?

-Mmm-hmmm, I muttered.

Jeri shot forth a short knee lift into my face that was like being run over by a tank. I flipped over backwards and came down face first on the deck. As I tried to raise my head I realized she had just knocked my front teeth out. I started spitting the bloody kernels onto the concrete as I cried out in agony.

-Ahh-ahhh, Jeri laughed. Gotta keep that trap shut!

With that, she walked over and stood above me, imperious in those heels and stockings and with that look of absolutely child-like joy in her eyes. The joy of beating me to a pulp. I couldn’t stop groaning, so she pulled me up from the ground into a side headlock and clamped it onto me with a power that was truly not to be believed. Struggling for all I was worth, I pushed against her body, and swatted helplessly at her legs in an effort to relieve the pressure. All she did was cinch the hold in even tighter which made me start convulsing like a madman, crying out loudly, only to find the noise almost completely muffled due to my face being pressed tight against her body just under her gorgeous breast.

Through it all, I could still hear her laughing and the sound of her arrogant jubilation in exerting her dominance over me just kept turning me on more and more. As I screamed into the muzzle of her body flesh, my cock was pounding out a heavy rhythm in synch with my rapidly accelerating heartbeat. Just as I thought my head would pop from the pressure, Jeri reared back and brought that huge thigh up again, slamming it like a battering ram into my face. Again I flipped over, this time twice, and came crashing down onto the concrete. Everything started going black and I knew I was in trouble. Blood gushed from my nose and mouth and every time my broken arm made the slightest movement, the excruciating pain shot through me with a vengeance.

Now, there wasn’t a chance in Hell of suppressing the expression of my agony and I again screamed out loudly and uncontrollably. That headlock was so powerful, it felt like she had literally cracked my skull, and on top of that the blast to the face jarred my brain into another dimension, even as it split my lips in two more places and started a second torrent of blood flowing from my nose, which was now completely crushed.

-Hmmm, Jeri mused playfully, I guess you’re just one of those people that has a hard time with authority. Don’t like people giving you orders. That’s too bad, because around here, I give the orders, and there is hell to pay for those who don’t fall in line. Now, I’m telling you for the last time to Shut Up!

She rolled me over onto my back and before I knew what had hit me, she executed another big butt-drop, this time right down into my solar plexus area. Not only did she come down with her full weight, but she actually doubled the force by launching herself slightly upwards first, and then coming down with increased velocity. When she hit, the air exploded out of my body completely and I instantly began to heave, mouth gasping desperately for breath, eyes bugging out of my head, blood flowing like wine, a real mess. She got up and looked down at me, giggling demonically and muttering something about my turning a nice shade of purple.

-Take a break, fuck-stick, she said. Just don’t get any ideas about leaving.

She left me lying there convulsing in agony while she went into the house, quickly returning in a hot green bikini. When she got back, I was beginning to catch the first inklings of returning breath, but was still completely helpless.

-You know, she said, it’s such a hot afternoon, it would be a shame not to take advantage of the pool.

She walked up and looked over me again, that arrogant smile etched into her face.

-You kind of like that feeling of air coming back into your lungs, don’t you, chumpstain? Well, we wouldn’t want you to get used to that idea. You might start yelling again. Let’s just take a little preventative precaution, shall we?
She took pinpoint aim and dropped her knee into my throat with her full body weight behind it. My body went into the most violent seizure, kicking, writhing, convulsing in excruciating pain. Jeri remained perched on my neck for a moment, driving her knee down even harder. Finally she got up off me and, clutching my throat, utterly unable to breathe, I began flipping around on the deck like a fish out of water. Jeri came back to me, snatched me by the hair, and dragged me a few feet over to the edge of the pool.

-Looks like you could use a little cleaning up, she laughed.

She shoved my face down into the water and held it there as my last remaining rational process, realizing I would quickly drown in this situation, kicked my body into an even higher gear of Brahma Bull action, bucking wildly against the force of her hold on my hair. In truth, however, since I really wasn’t yet able to breathe in anyway, I wasn’t in immanent danger. Jeri held me firmly in place before at last jerking me up to safety. A pool of blood swirled there in the water and Jeri looked at my face, checking to see if it was washed clean.

-There, she said, that’s much better. Always feels good to be clean, hmmm? Now then, let’s be a good little monkey and look at my legs again. Take a good, long look!

She held me by the hair, again forcing my gaze right into the glory of her massive thighs. Despite the beating I was taking, the sight of those exquisite legs flaunted with such sensual artistry as Jeri possessed, inflamed me with desire. I started to writhe even harder as the stimulation merged with my breathless, battered emotio-physical condition, which then became utterly indescribable.

Then she turned sideways, forcing my gaze upon the phenomenal contour of her ass, and finally turning just a bit more, taunting me with her ass cheek directly before me, and then pulling my face up to make contact with that divine area of her flesh. I went nuts. I could feel the electrical pulse firing from her flesh and connecting with key targets deep within my psyche. I gasped harder for air, now feeling, possibly, the return of a fragment of breath. Jeri couldn’t contain her laughter watching me flutter like a flag in the wind as she held me tightly by the hair.

-Now, you see how much fun that is? She laughed. I knew all along you were an ass man!

Then she turned to face me again, and without warning blasted me with another knee lift right into that same spot in my solar plexus. There it went again; all air expelled in a mighty rush and down I went, a few meek little murmurs slipping from my lips, which were now covered with my blood which was again flowing freely from my facial wounds. I had barely hit the ground when she jerked me up again by the hair, flashed me another quick close-up of those thighs, and slammed a repeat thigh lift into the exact same spot. This time the force of the kick caused me to throw up violently, much of it splattering onto Jeri’s legs. I was beginning now to see that white light people talk about as I had no possibility of catching a breath and with the involuntary wild vomiting, I had become a poster boy for death at the hands of this beautiful beast of a woman. She still wasn’t through. Laughing now like a crazed witch, she picked me up again, almost to standing position, and sucker-punched me square in the middle of the face with a wicked roundhouse right fist.

I went down like a brick close to the side of the pool, blood and vomit now pulsing from my face in regular rhythms. Jeri then took my broken arm between her legs, pulled it over the edge of the patio above the water and yelled ‘Olli-Olli-Octum-Freee’ as she dropped into the water snapping my arm backwards at the elbow joint against the edge of the pool and then releasing it. My arm hung there, broken in three grotesque sections, dangling uselessly in the water. I can’t really describe what I was going through at this point, so devastating was the pain and my numerous injuries. Unbelievably, she climbed up out of the pool, still laughing with glee at the carnage she was creating and did another butt-drop onto my abdomen. More vomit and more blood exploded from my mouth, this time drenching her from head down to her waist. She seemed to revel in it, with that wicked smile on her face, and the majority of my body fluids coating her upper body.

Then she got up, jerked me around the other direction by my good arm, and with some kind of indiscernible war cry, put it between her legs and again jumped off into the water. My other arm now snapped like kindling, breaking in a clean separation at the elbow. I was aware of intense screaming, but I don’t think I really was. I couldn’t possibly have been breathing at that point. Well, there’s no point in continuing the blow-by-blow account here. I don’t remember anything after this point anyway. But Jeri actually did finish the job. She continued on with each of my legs, apparently lying me down on my stomach, and jumping into the pool in order to break each leg in half at the knees, forcing them with all her weight in the opposite direction of the workings of the joint. Next, she followed suit where the legs join to the hip bone, snapping those joints completely as well as causing extensive damage to the hip itself.

To this day, I don’t know how I survived Jeri's torturous onslaught. I woke up in a hospital bed where I remained in traction for two months as doctors tried to reset my bones. The doctors said I was found beneath a tree in downtown Palm Springs placed there like a human stump with my demolished limbs tied in grotesque fashion behind my back. They say it's a miracle I survived. I often wish I hadn't. Life is very difficult for me since that dreadful, fateful afternoon. I have a hard time getting around these days, but maybe it’s for the best. At least I won’t be tempted to accept any more strange invitations to spend afternoons in the service of wicked women with torture on their minds.

Beach Party

♠ Is it really an obsession to want out of your life and into a fantasy? Some would say it depends on the fantasy. I say, if your life isn't a fantasy, then you've got some intensive reevaluation to get on with, and if you conclude that the everyday world is really for you after all, then you might as well blow your fucking brains out right now, because you're already a waste of universe-energy, a drain on the eco-resources of this-sided dimensionality, in short, a colossal fucking failure.

Make no mistake about it, the world needs less people like you, way less. So does going for the fantasy have anything to do with the nature of the fantasy? A resounding 'Fuck No' to that one. A fantasy can, and should, be exactly that, YOUR idea of the ultimate lifestyle. Doesn't matter as to specifics. What's the rant all about, you ask? (I know. I can HEAR you out there asking!) It's about Awareness. Specifically, the lack of it in the lives of the common herd. People are fucking desperate to be ordinary, and it makes the world one abjectly demoralizing, depressing, and discouraging place if you fall into the trap. If only I could get through... Hell, it's probably better for we of the enlightenment if I don't. Sometimes I get confused. It's only out of frustration.

♠ Cool. Got that out of my system. Now lemme hear ya say "Look up, all ye walking carcasses! 'Tis only beyond the stars ye shall discover the spirit that imbues thee with Life!"

♠ OK. Now I promise to get to the point, which is to tell you of a recent experience I had at a beach party right here in the lovely OC. Shit. I'm all nerves at the moment. You know how I get; over-agitated for no reason. Brain-wave fluctuations, I'm told. Where's the hot fat chick to calm you down by pissing in your mouth when you fucking need her? OK. Here goes. No, really.

♠ Beach Party
Though we've already broken the September barrier, the So.Cal summer is still in full swing, the heat feeling anvil heavy as the sun continues its descent, blinding-brilliant most days and the dark curtain-fall of winter showing not its face for the time being. I'm meditating at the beach when my flow is interrupted by two serious hotties, one of them the most sublimely plump little demoness I've ever had the privilege of exploring, visually speaking, and I immediately long to be engaged in some explorations of a more comprehensive nature. They're having an apparent wealth of girl fun, and I notice they're armed with preferred party favors in the form of a bottle of Jack and a half-finished, oversized Newcastle. I’m feeling done with my meditation. Off to engage.

-You know it’s illegal to have open alcohol containers on the beach, don’t you?

-You a cop? The fat one asks.

-No, I say. Actually, I’m an alien. So, why don’t you guys take me to your leader?

Instead, they took me to a party. At one of the nearby mansions overlooking the ocean, some lucky college kid’s parents had gone on vacation and left him to convert the place into rubble. He was well on his way. The place was teeming with party-goers and the fat girl, a rather severe-looking Arabian beauty named Kamilah, was cool enough to take me under her wing, introduce me around a bit, and fortify me with more bourbon as we got to know each other. She knew I was a sucker for big power-girls, at first by the way I continued to tease her jokingly, and conversely a little later by the way I began to fawn over her. I never leave any doubt in the mind of such a woman as to my desire to serve her. She was so hot she should have been illegal. It certainly should have been illegal for her to wear that skimpy bikini in public. To make matters worse, upon returning to the house, she had slipped back into her glossy white high heel pumps, which only served to send her already unhandle-able big girl sexual perfection soaring into realms of the unreal. For myself, I was damn glad I wasn’t in swim wear as the perennial hard-on Kamilah had given me would by now have ceased to be my own surreptitious possession, and would most likely have rendered me a bona fide party novelty as it made its presence known. That is, of course, if it hadn’t impaled somebody first.


Kamilah took great delight in the effect she was having on me, and I could feel her growing more comfortable in her dominance as she became more certain of my obedience. She tested me with a few simple orders as we mingled, getting her drinks, her snacks, her cigarettes, lighting the cigarettes; it didn’t take long. We snagged a fresh bottle of Jack and a couple of glasses from the kitchen and Kamilah led me up the regal stairway of this quite exceptional mansion into a super-swank, elegant guest bedroom. The room looked as if it had been prepared for a queen, with elaborate, expensive Victorian style furnishings, original artworks, a massive solid gold mirror, and an exquisite Persian rug tying it all together in the center. From either of the two windows you could see for miles out into the vast blue of the Pacific. I went to pour us drinks but Kamilah snatched the bottle from my hand and put it to her lips, downing a hefty mouthful and then passing it back to me. I followed suit and had barely set the bottle down on the end table when she shoved me forcefully down into the chair just behind me. She crawled onto me, straddled my lap, clasped my face forcefully between her hands and began to devour me with the most delicious, sloppy wet kisses I’d ever experienced. Her hot whiskied breath was a raging fire of pure lust, scorching my face and neck with unexpected power and sensual perfection. Her lips were so soft, so full, so delicious, I only hoped they would never again part from my own. She bit into my lower lip, at first playfully, then with increasing force and aggression.

My hands roamed freely over her fat, luscious body, trembling with agitation and excitement. She was divine. Her flesh was like crushed, silken velvet, the most incredibly sensual, SEXUAL sensation I’d ever felt with a woman. She wrapped her plump, gorgeous arms around my head, which began to drive me wild immediately as their imposing size and plush texture pressed through the sides of my face and straight into my brain. She continued to kiss me like a wild woman, licking, sucking, biting, as I said, devouring me. I was already desperately horny, literally beginning to implode as she worked her witchcraft on me.

She stepped down onto the floor, still bent over me, still tearing at my lips, which were now actually bleeding slightly from the assault of her teeth upon them, and at last released her grip on me. She looked into my eyes, giggled haughtily, and then suddenly snapped my head back with a jerk of my hair. She came closer, again breathing into my soul with her delicious warm breath.

-Tell me, big boy, she whispered. You strike me as the kind of man that’s in need of some serious discipline now and again, am I right?

I started to say something, but she put her index finger to my lips to silence me.

-Shhhhh, she said. You don’t have to answer. I already KNOW what kind of man you are. You’re the kind of man that just doesn’t feel ‘normal’ unless you’ve been punished for your transgressions. Mmmm-hmmmm.


She sensually licked the blood from my lip and swallowed it with near-orgiastic delight.

-Oh yes, she said. You’re a bad man, a VERY bad man. A man riddled with guilt. And you’ve just been waiting for big-ass Kamilah to come along and make it all better again. Mmmm? Yessss. Yes, I think I’m exactly right.

She licked the last streak of blood from my lips and smiled wickedly. Suddenly, the beautiful, playful woman had become transformed into something dark; a sublime, remorseless sexual powerhouse. A Satanic Angel if ever I had encountered one. Her voice became even softer and deeper.

-You taste GOOD, she whispered. You can tell a lot about a man by the taste of his…FLUIDS.

Her dark, rich brown eyes looked sternly into mine, possessed with some familiar but elusive quality of spiritual power. I shuddered inwardly, feeling the presence of something other-worldly at work within that gorgeous, Arabian soul. That look then dissolved into the knowing, sexy smile of the fun-loving hottie at the beach party, accompanied by the delicious sprightly giggle that signals a young woman’s awareness of her own Girl Power. She took another slug of the JD, and ordered me to light her a cigarette. As I did, the glorious movements of her big body were digging deep, touching nerve with every incomprehensible jiggle of her luscious bronzed flesh.

-I’m going to need you out of those clothes, she said, taking a deep drag off her cigarette.

I started for the buttons on my shirt, my fingers almost useless as they trembled with anticipation.

-Stand up, she said. I want to check out your bod.

I stood up and stripped quickly as Kamilah flaunted her surreal body in front of me, surveying my form top to bottom as she puffed sensually on her cigarette. When I had finished, she couldn’t help but crack a wry smile. As I stood before her in all my glory, my cock was reaching for her, stiffer than the flagpoles at city hall, and dripping pre-cum liberally in the true spirit of sexual conciliation. She reached down and wiped off a drop or two on the tip of her index finger, which she then artfully caressed with her marvelous lips, tonguing the sample around on her palette as a wine taster tests for confirmation of vintage.

-Mmmmm. Oh yes. You definitely taste good. Be a good boy and pour me a drink.

I poured her drink and turned to present it to her.

-Hold it for me a minute, she said.

She then turned and walked toward the door, her singularly phenomenal ass pounding from side to side like a wrecking ball with each powerful step she took. Watching those superb big legs shimmy as each beautifully heeled foot made solid, seismic contact with the floor caused critical malfunctions; circuitry and wiring, electrical processing units, speech centers. Steel cock overheated, trying to enlarge far beyond capacity, like sharp bone threatening to rip through flesh, some never before seen explosion impending. Kamilah locked the door, checked it twice, and, satisfied we were insulated here, turned and started back toward me.

Omigod. Same syndrome, different vision. The sound of those heels clacking at the hardwood before she reached rug again. Delicate, white shoes driven to ground by such massive weight and force. The physics of it don’t seem to work out. I spin out further. Her every gesture another bomb going off inside. All systems hit. Extensive damage. Beyond repair. Kamilah. With stern expression undulates back to me. Sees me broken. Takes the drink from my hand before it plunges earthward. Takes deep drag from cigarette. Blows it into comet-struck face. One short walk for a woman, she thinks, one giant devastation for Man-kind. She laughs.

-Open your mouth, mullet, she commands.

Everything is muddy inside, but I manage to obey. I open my mouth, and she drops her cigarette butt onto my tongue. Mouth is dry so it burns a bit longer than usual before mouth-moisture extinguishes it. An involuntary grunting noise issues forth from my throat and I am seized by a feeling of terror that tells me I’m lost. All control is hers. Consequences may be dire.

-Swallow it, fuck-brain, she says. Hurry up!

Somehow the butt goes down, but things are quickly worsening in here.

-See if you can guess who I am now, she says, giggling.

Sips her drink, sets it down on the chair, rears back and slaps the shit out of me. Like getting hit with a bowling ball.

-Snap out of it! She yells, Moonstruck.

I get it, and I know I want to say it: Cher. But everything’s broken down. Don’t know how, but connections are all severed. Desire won’t lead to resultant action. Willing won’t make body move. It fucking FLOATS in there. Cher, Cher, Cher. Goddammit. Not that it mattered anyway. The colors of her polka-dot bikini, the sounds of her heavy footfall on the Persian rug, the debilitating scent of her perfume, her exquisite flesh so near to me, and the divine sound of her voice, its words now fading into some alien language, the whole greater than the parts and I have become something else.

She laughs loudly at my ineptitude, slaps me harder. The jolt only scrambles things to the greater extreme.

-C'mon, motherfucker, that's an easy one. Here, I'll do it again.

She slaps me so hard this time that I fall to the floor.

-Snap out of it! There. Now I'll ask you again. Guess who I am!

I'm down, distressed, and disoriented. The word's floating around (in my head?) but I can't grasp it. Cher...Cher... It's no use. Kamilah is standing over me, laughing, pushing me to answer. Hopeless.

-OK, poor baby, she laughs. It's too much for you. C'mon. Let's give little baby his medicine before we put him to sleep.

She pulls me up by my hair and rips a thundering leg lift into my downturned face. The force of her gigantic thigh nearly decapitates me as it flips me over backwards in a full somersault with return trip to the floor. I screech in pain, clutching my head. The crushing blow has bloodied my nose and mouth, and I can't tell what hurts worse, my face or my severely jarred head itself.

-Ouch! she laughs. That's gonna leave a mark!

She glares down at her fallen prey.

-Get up, she says.

I try, but no chance.

-Your funeral, she says.

Same routine. Picks me up again and slams that huge leg lift into the other side of my face. I go down hard, face first, and just past the edge of the rug; solid wood. Now there's some serious blood and I start to flip on the floor. Mackerel outta water. Everything going black. Kamilah cracks up harder as she sees the blood from my now flattened face on her leg just above the knee.

-Aww, she mocks, poor little baby not so good fighting girls, hmmm? You going to fight back, or are you just going to lie there and bleed?

All I could do was spin out. Not much left, and she knew it.

-OK, little baby boy. Let's take care of Mama real quick, and then go to beddie-bye.

With that, Kamilah pulled me by my hair out into the center of the floor and plopped down onto my face, smothering me with her exquisite, monstrous ass and riding me towards her own appropriation of transcendence.

-Keep your tongue in me if you can, pig-boy! she exclaimed. Let's try to do a good job!

She had completely shut down my breathing and along with the other existing complications I was on my way elsewhere in a big hurry. Kamilah rode me until she burst into a delirious orgasm, cumming all over my bloody, disfigured face. She then reached forward and began to stroke my throbbing cock. I screamed in exultant rapture from beneath her, but nothing ushered forth except a low, indeterminate, muffled sound. It only took a couple of strokes before I exploded, showering huge gobs of cum onto my torse and onto the precious Persian rug. Kamilah laughed wildly at the prodigious amount of jizz she had just extracted from me, and remained seated upon my battered face until I was unconscious and near death from oxygen deprivation.

When I awakened, someone was slapping my face, trying to revive me and there was a crowd of people standing around. I looked up at the concerned faces hovering above me. Their voices were a mix of 'how ya doin's?' and 'what happened's?' and 'are you alright's?'

-Do you want us to call an ambulance? someone asked.

I looked above me, everything fuzzy, disconnected. But I saw clearly enough the face of the questioner. It was Kamilah. She smiled a bewitching, knowing smile down at me, a momento of our time together.

-No thanks, I muttered incoherently. I think I'll be all right.

I stayed right there in that bedroom for the night, unfit to attempt the drive home. The next morning, the kid that lived there and a couple of others were having coffee and offered me a cup. They inspected me like I was a zoo animal, trying admirably to keep their giggling suppressed.

-Rough night, one of them said.

I nodded, feeling thoroughly embarrassed and after thanking them for the coffee, made my way back to my car. As I let it warm up, I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. The cell phone number for a girl named Kamilah.

Fat Girls and Art Galleries in Conformist America

I've been outside my goddamn mind the last few days. Actually, it's been good. Never mind that. It hasn't. It's been sucking shit. It's just that I'm having one of those weeks. No focus, sinking into the quagmire of swirling miasma that is my inner world. (You'd love it in here!) It doesn't help that I haven't been able to focus on anything except the virtues of fat girls. Of course, that's not the strange part. I'm very rarely able to focus on anything other than the virtues of fat girls, especially lately. I've recently rediscovered Asshley, who is now older and even more beautiful than when I first discovered her online lo these many years ago. She's considerably heavier, her face is hotter than ever, and she's got me talking to myself. That's the 'good' part. Never mind. I'm losing it. This is not what I'm trying to say. Shout-Out's to Asshley.

What's got me crazy is the way people think. Er, I mean, the way people DON'T think. I feel I may explode from madness at any moment. I don't know, I talk to people, but they've all gone deaf. They're fixated on 'conventionality.' All there is is being like everybody else. Well, it's all the fault of living in a culture that promotes so-called 'norms,' instead of promoting the liberty and sovereignty of the individual. We know nothing of individuality in America ca. 2008. All we know is our media-driven conformity which leads, as is plain for all to see, to a culture of Ultimate conformity. Modern day American culture will have almost nothing of relevance to leave behind because in spite of all the 'cool' it has accomplished, which is considerable, it has still not ascended to the level of thought, which is to say that it refuses to renounce intolerance, and this failure will appear to posterity for exactly what it is, a reflection of mass spiritual ineptitude mired in bigotry and prejudice on a multitude of sociological levels. Some legacy for the 'Leader of the Free World.' 'Scuse me, I need a second to throw up into my office trash can here. Fuck it, this is not the point, either.

Sorry, but I'm losin' it again. I'm trying to tell you about my being transmogrified into spinach during an encounter with the unfathomably sexy and powerful legs of a huge woman. It's just that my fucking mind sometimes races. This is one of those times.

OK, so her name is Rebecca, she is huge, gorgeous, and powerful, and she turned up in my gallery late one spring afternoon, the spectral forms of two fanged black angels perched menacingly astride her shoulders. She brought her friend, Vanessa, to me in search of a particular artwork. Popular artist/I happen to inventory. Obscure piece/but I happen to have it. I don't really give a rat's ass if Vanessa buys the piece of art, (of course, that would be fine) I just want her to stick around considering it for as long as possible so I can get to know Rebecca. The furies take their leave, having already accomplished their mission of alerting me as to her intentions here.

Rebecca is young and fine. Early twenties and already probably pushing 250. She's wearing a tight one-piece black stretch dress from which her massive and quite fabulous tits are literally escaping. She wears a lavender business jacket over the dress and is adorned in black stockings and some major league high heels. Delicious, spiked, black patent leather high heels. Very nice. She's blond, adorable, and exuding a serious talent for domination. She speaks with the slightest trace of a lisp, really cute and sexy, and she and the diminutive Vanessa sit down on the sofa where she crosses her big legs, skirt riding up just enough to let you know those legs look good and we talk about paintings.

There are quite a few people mingling about, and Rebecca knows what I'm thinking (I've learned to make it really obvious to fat girls that I adore them) so she squirms a little bit on the couch, adjusting her position, clothes, etc, and ends up with the skirt hiked about halfway up her gorgeous leg. She smiles deliciously as my eyes continue to watch the tennis match--backandforthandbackandforthandbackandforth--between her legs and her monumental cleavage.

-Sit down here next to me, she says.

I comply, sitting on the arm of the sofa looking down upon the dreamy expanse of her body.

-I'd like you to kiss me, she says.

-What?

-Mmm-hmmm.

-Right now?

-Yep.

Ogod. Will this work? It's yes or no, right? 3 guesses. I bend forward toward her face.

-Oh no, silly! Not my lips.

I look her right in the diabolical eyes.

-Right here.

She points to a spot on her leg in the mid-thigh area. Jeezus, Mary, and Joseph. Fuck it. As I kneel down, looking this way and that, worrying about who's looking, she slaps me across the face with the force of speeding semi.

-You pay attention to me, she says sternly.

She hikes that dress up even farther and migod, the size, the texture, (divinely supple) the smell, (lilac fragrance, maybe) all of it descends upon me mightily.

-OK....ready.....set....Go! Kiss it!

My lips touch her sublime youthful flesh and the world recedes into its dry dismal shell as we whirl hurtling into new dimensions.

-Houston, we have lift-off, she chides.

She lifts her leg further and nods OK on the underside. I tunnel to the rear of her thigh, kiss, and go farther galactic. It is my texture: soft/firm smoothly rippling/ no muscle/all fat/more powerful than buildings.

-Mmmm. Big boy seems to have caught his ride. Where ya goin’ big boy? Flying high? Into the sky?

-Leg man, Leg man! Vanessa exults.

-Mmm-hmmm. Like my panties, Simon?

Maybe answered. If I did it was in the affirmative.

-OK, Sky Pilot. Onward, into the heart of things.

She slides her dress all the way up and points to the fattest portion of the upper inner thigh. Opens her legs slightly and smiles. Floral and fragrant, every inch a botanical journey. I arrive but my lips don’t touch. She snaps them shut, vast columns of the transcendental substance, a lock/a vice. I latch onto each with my hands/too strong too incendiary. My head is swallowed but for the very top protruding somewhat. Locks my gaze straight-on into hers. She’s a-giggle looking into my rapidly blood-shooting eyes and her high pitched voice is slightly on the raspy side which makes my cock grow stiff as starch. Sculptured marble, ding dong steel girder dipstick. Rebecca is concussion-ing me without effort, so strong are those delicious big/fat legs beneath my feeble hands.

-Everybody’s watching now, she says. You don’t care, do you?

Vanessa leans over and looks into my tortured face, and she goes a-giggle as well, to the uncontrollable.

-Check his cock, Rebecca tells Vanessa.

She crawls over me, kneels there and checks the pump.

-Fully locked and upright, she reports.

-HA! (staring into my face) Look at him! There he goes! Farther he flies/I see it, I see it/Come back, Simple Simon, come back. Describe the view for us if you can! HaHaHaHa!! Go ahead and pull down his pants, Rebecca says.

Vanessa works them downward into the hogtie.

-Watch, he’ll go farther. A LOT farther! Look how red his face is!

-Red Face! Red Face! Vanessa echoes.

Voices...
Omigod!!
Jeezus Christ!
What’s going on here?
What are you doing?
Ogod, I think she’s killing him!
Somebody call the cops!

Heavy scrambling going on in the real world. But not for me. Not now.

-OK, Rebecca says, here it is, watch. Here he goes…see! Just the right shade of purple now. I think he’s more than just a leg man. I think he’s MUCH more than that.

She keeps staring into my eggplant face, applying even more pressure.

-Y’know how much harder I could squeeze, if I wanted to? If I showed you, I’d kill you. But I’m gonna turn it up to the next level, at least.

My hands flail/claw/paw/pull/slap to the power of nothing. She laughs and gives me just a little more psi. I’m thinking it’s over when she reaches up and teasingly pulls the top of her dress down, releasing those exploding torpedoes, which bounce in place a couple of times and cause me to (somehow) squeal. Rebecca laughed out loud, Vanessa joining her in a dissonant duet. Webern, I think.

-Didjoo hear him? Rebecca laughs. He did it! He squealed. Just like a fucking little pig!

She bounced her breasts up and down with her hands a few times. I swear I hear the bones crack in my skull, same time.

-Happy, Li’l Simon? she taunts, Happy now?

Joy unspeakable and full of glorious cunt scent.

-C'mon, little piggie, squeal some more! Squeeeeeeel for us girls!

She keeps flaunting the breasts, over and over, squeal upon squeal, building her psychotic-catatonic man. I wonder if I died.

-Let’s finish up and go home, Rebecca says to Vanessa, before the cops come.

She lets go of my head, and as she does, I throw up on the floor.

-Sorta saw that comin,’ she giggles.

She stands up, and Vanessa pulls me onto my back in the middle of the floor. Rebecca ties her skirt up around her waist and stands straddling my head. I’m looking straight up at the two divine Towers of Babel. Pole climb to heaven.

-Now you see, Vanessa, this is why I keep telling you you’ve got to put some weight on. It’s the only way you can do this and have it, you know, be effective!

She rocks back and forth a couple of times, just to tease me, and then delivers a massive, Rasslin’ style butt drop, WWE, full body weight, right onto my head. Indescribable/unfathomable/unhandle-able amount of pain. Momentary/Then I leave. Well, pretty much gone. Felt the second one only a little bit.

-See, Vanessa, then you get back up and do it again, and you’ll be all done. It’s off to the hospital for Simple Simon.

She drops. Booooooom!! Floor shook damned hard. My body kicks, flops, writhes, convulses, and expels vomit, bile, blood…Oh yeah, and lost control of bladder and bowels there. Huge pool of piss forms on the carpet, and goddamn the place stinks to high heaven as I dump a landfill-sized load of shit from the other end. Rebecca stands up and gleefully watches me twitch and jerk.

-Can you still see my legs, dipshit? She asks.

If I can, I can’t answer.

-Ewwww, he stinks, laughs Vanessa.

-Let’s go, Vanessa, Rebecca says.

They are both laughing hysterically, schoolgirl belly-laughing fits. Rebecca pushes my body over onto my stomach with her foot, takes me by the hair, and proceeds to hold my face a few inches above the fetid medley of shit/piss/vomit, showing it to me like an untrained puppy. Then, she shoves my face down into it and holds it there. Lifts it up again, shows me, shoves it down again. Their laughter sounds like air raid sirens now. She repeats this a couple more times, then slams my face down in it one last time, leaving me for dead as they exit together.

The police came, I was hospitalized, and somebody suggested the mess be cleaned up. On account of the fact that it really did stink.

Fade-In...Fade-Out

No longer living by the alarm clock. Life is about so much more than arriving on time for someone else's dream.

Drifting into my own dreaming I follow the path with heart into separate realities where the big legs of power-girls entice and destroy by caprice.

The dog heat of her divine substance!

Transcendence in the expanse of her reigning leg-flesh.

Remembering now, as a phantasm; crossed legs, a hundred miles wide and not just wanting them, but wanting (somehow) to merge, to join, to become, to assimilate, to equate in terms of Being…mmmm, that those huge, powerful, gorgeous legs, crossing each other like adjoining mountain ranges, were something greater than the totality of ‘I’ and that ‘I’ must become one with all that comprises the experience of the skirt; ass, hips, legs, cunt, panties, skirt, stockings, garter belts, garter straps, and high heeled shoes.

Here, I am free to surrender. I will bow down to her thighs and beg her for one electrifying/mortifying leg kiss.

Walking the street to market, she wears tight jeans and an even tighter top. Form fitting fat. God, it’s heavenly. I follow along, life gone, praying that she stays out here for a while.

She does. Walks the long Mexican Mile. Nothing but gray out here. Factoried sky, colors flattened by dreamlessness.

Her powerhouse ass threatens to burst the bonds of those delicious jeans. Her face, so sultry, oozing raw, steaming sensuality and a real woman's confidence. Her chubby arms excite me all the more; soft, but strong. She can throw a mean punch or vicious slap. She won't take shit from you, but if she trusts you with those breasts, you'll be in worse trouble than if she beat you with her hands. Hers is a world of control, down here in a gray, concrete cage, in which traversal of the circumference constitutes living.

I stayed behind today, knowing you were getting ready for your bubble bath. You're always OK with my voyeurism. You know I'm there, anyway. Besides, showing off your death-defying fat body, so unspeakably HOT, so powerfully Sexy, is always on your top 5 TTD list.

I want you more than anything, and would surrender life itself to touch you right now, and to serve as your personal valet, attending to your bubble bath.

You have the world at your sexy fat fingertips. So many girls that weigh 300 lbs. want to be sexy, but don't know how to let go of the world. They don't know what you know; that by letting it go, you come to own it.

You own it with your attitude and your gorgeous face. Your sensual lips awaiting the arrival of my own that they may caress mine, and thus parting, allow your teeth to take a delicious bite out of me. Ahhh, such willful aggression! It will take my hands, my tongue, my lips, my body, and my mind all night to explore you with the infinite, burning desire for your ample charms that you command and deserve. I will give you everything, and hope that it is enough. As you prepare for your bath, a woman's glory in solitude, you are reminded by your shapes, texture, scent, and astonishing mirror image, that you are All-in-All.

Stuck In Reverse

♠ Someone said I should call this 'Confessions of an incorrigible, horn-dog-sex-fiend who refuses to mature, grow up, get real, be realistic, face reality, or deal with the ludicrous conventions of 'normal' society.'  Well, although I can certainly offer a resounding 'Feh on normal society', I still felt such a label, in the overall sense, to be a bit too restrictive.  I prefer to have no guidelines at all when it comes to 'thinking out loud.'  

♠ Art Dealer in super-high-profile Southern California venue. The girls here are unreal, especially during the summer. The states of undress are of infinite variety.

♠ Another one: Fat legs in skyscraper high heels and denim mini-skirt. I wonder how she's going to respond to "Gawd, you've got amazing legs! Would you mind crushing my head with them for a few minutes. Nothing major, you understand. I don't wanna have sex, or take up much of your time, and I'm certainly not interested in getting into your life in any time-consuming fashion. Just need a good brain-squishing for a few minutes, during which I'll cum like an afterburner and then be on my way. So, whaddaya say?

♠ You can't talk to people about 'things you'd find buried deep in the unconscious mind.' Always afraid they'll reveal something about themselves, as if whatever life is supposed to be about, it's most certainly NOT about THAT. Makes me wonder how many hot, psychotic, sexually inflamed women are out there looking good for they know not what reasons and hoping they don't end up doing it with anyone. Of course, falling love would be OK, they reason. So it's Fuck-Me clothes in search of a husband. Hmmm.

♠ This one: Big, arrogant black chick, probably 5'7" and maybe 270 lbs. She walks really slowly and hot as a pistol in a pair of Daisy Dukes and stilettos, getting maximum wrecking ball effect from a gigantic and spectacular ass that appears to be coming through the window each time it swings to this side. She wears Hollywood sun glasses, has straight hair and a rack that could harbor a cell of terrorists beneath the shade of its prodigious horizontal extension. I hear her say, "Fuck that, girl! I ain't havin' me no damn kids! Uh-uhhh. Waste all my time wrist-deep in shit, puttin' up with all that hollerin' and screamin,' uhh-uhhhh, girl. That ain't me." I'm thinking that's the most sensible philosophy I've heard nutshelled in quite a long time.

♠ I totally believe in the anthropological theory that homo-sapien came out of Africa. Africa is the cradle of the human race, making Africans the original people. It follows that original people have an evolutionary head start on the rest of us, and those who can't see the clear evidence of this in modern culture simply 'have not the eyes to see.'

♠ Black culture has never been seduced by the 'thin fetish' that has completely corrupted white culture. Black men know that Fat is Where It's At, and Black Women don't go to restaurants and order salads. Not as an entire meal, at any rate. If they have a salad, it's just a warm-up for something serious.

♠ The Black Race is the most sexually aware and most intelligent race on the planet. It's no coincidence that those two characteristics go hand in hand. They know that life in the flesh is life indeed, and as a result, they make sure that, when it comes to flesh, they've got an adequate supply on hand. Entirely practical and commendable understanding of things.

♠ White culture is still living in Medieval Times. They get this whole 'Suffering' ethic from the world-wide establishment of Christianity. It trickles all the way down to the idea of suffering to keep your 0% bodyfat level happening. OK, I'm done. Just want to say that living is about enjoyment, not suffering. The Christians got it wrong.

♠ Footnote: I know. There are a great number of Black Christians. Though I feel it's a terrible shame they've forsaken their own spiritual roots to embrace those of the White Man, at least they don't carry the whole thing into the kitchen. They continue to cook for people who like to eat, thereby producing lots of Smokin' Hot Big Beautiful Women, and as long as they keep the Big Girls coming, they can believe whatever they want.

*We are not lower animals, for god's sake. For homo-sapiens, food is not simply a practical necessity. Through the power of higher thought, humanity has taken 'eating' to an entirely 'nother' level; it's called "Dining." Dining differs from eating in that, as humans, food ascends to the level of art. We don't just 'get our nourishment,' we have an experience. This is not accomplished by counting calories, but by maximizing enjoyment in the realm of culinary dyamics. Do I really have to explain this shit? Obviously, I do.