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I grew up in a rural farming community. I didn’t live on a farm, but farms were all over the place. Wheat, barley, and milo fields were everywhere. Cows grazed lazily everywhere you turned, slack jaws and bored stares offered to passers-by, tails lifting every now and then to deposit their commentary on the state of human society at large.

My friend James was a fifth generation farmer’s kid. While I’d rattle off my favorite X-Men characters, he’d gush about his dad’s new tractor. While I’d be drawing my illicit naked pictures of April O’Neal and Gadget from Rescue Rangers (Fuck off. I WAS A KID, and I knew nothing about Rule 34 and furries. Take the mouse ears and tail off her, and she was just a chick with buck teeth), he was sketching designs for bigger and better grain silos.

We used to play Army Men on his land, using old rusted out husks of tractors and trucks as bases and forts. Our clubhouse was a derelict semi trailer. The old Studebaker was our Millennium Falcon.

One day, for his 13th birthday, James got a horse.

She was a beautiful pony. Pure white, with a proud mane, and powerful muscles that twitched tightly with every confident step. She was a younger horse, not yet fully grown, and she trotted happily in her enclosure, head high. Her name was Flicka, after the children’s book.

“Want to pet her? She’s REAL friendly,” offered James, opening the gate a bit.

I was thrilled. I’d never been close to a horse. I slowly entered the pen, and approached Flicka. I offered my hand as I got closer, in a friendly gesture.

Flicka snorted, and her eyes fixed on me intently, wide and firghtening. It was then that I saw two things.

One, that Flicka had begun to paw the ground in front of her.

And two, that she appeared to have an erection.

I looked back, in time to see James closing the gate with an evil grin.

“James. . .you son of a BITCH.”

I slowly started walking to the gate, not wanting to make any sudden movements. I could hear Flicka pacing me, gaining on me. I picked up speed. Flicka matched it. I broke into a run. . .


Flicka rammed me, knocking me to the mud. I tried to stand, only to be pinned down by two hooves to my shoulders. Something firm poked my buttocks.



James continued laughing, and did nothing, as Flicka’s penis jabbed and rammed the back of my jeans. Each thrust was like getting punched in the ass, and I was afraid my jeans would split.


More giggles. The pounding increased in frequency and intensity, until–


There was one final thrust, hard and prlonged, and the back of my pants were suddenly warm and wet. Flicka took his front hooves off my shoulders, and with a contented snort, he trotted off.

James was laughing his head off. He entered the gate, and reached down to help me up. “OH, MY GOD, you should have seen you–”

With every ounce of strength I had in me, I punched him in the balls. He went down like a sandbag, and I stood up, and gave him three hard kicks in the nuts. As he lay there screaming, I yelled through clenched teeth:


I gave him one final kick, and began my long walk home, covered in muddy hoofprints, and stinking of horse spunk and shame.


It was afternoon, and I was working the desk. After the departure of Dan The Army Man, I had been pulling a lot of double shifts, meaning a lot of 17 hour nights. The owners didn’t seem in too big a hurry to replace him, and it wasn’t as if I had anyplace better to be.

Around 3:00 PM, the phone rang.

“Joey? It’s Matt at Hilltop Pawn. You asked me to call if any more of your TV’s and fridges showed up. I got a lady at the counter trying to unload two TVs and a fridge, all with your logo and phone number stamped to the side.”

I chuckled. Usually, the crackheads were at least smart enough to sand those off first.

“Okay, Matt, don’t turn her down. Say you’ll buy them, but make sure that, during processing, you start to have ‘computer problems.’ I’ll be there in a few.”

Hilltop Pawn was about six minutes away at a brisk walk. As I approached, I could see a figure at the counter, gesturing wildly, visibly agitated. I got to the door, and crept in quietly.

“. . .how long this gonna take, anyhow? I coulda got twice that from Royce Pawn and Gold down the street, AND been outta there by now. . .”

I tapped her on the shoulder.

“Hello, Estella.”

She froze, and then slowly turned. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but she said nothing.

I held out my hand. “Keys.”

“You can’t fire me, you ain’t authorized to fire anyone.”

“You’re right. I’m not. But I’m sure as shit authorized to call the police if someone steals from the hotel. So the way I see it, you can either deal with the cops, or you can just hand me those keys, and quit.”

Her nostrils flared, and she looked about ready to speak. But she thought the better of it, and thrust the room keys into my hand.

I put the keys in my pocket. I then turned to Matt. “Go ahead with the deal.” To Estella, “Think of this as your last paycheck. Don’t come back.”


Seven months came and went. Boo replaced Estella, and was the best damn housekeeper we ever had, until her son was killed by a drunk driver, and she left town to be with family.

We never got a replacement for Dan. The hotel struggled on with two desk clerks, and our business steadily dwindled. It got to the point that we had six regulars left, and no new business.

The other clerk quit, and left me alone at the desk. I called the boss in Florida, and asked him to at least send one of his brothers to lend me a hand.

No one came.

I had to start closing the office in the mornings, keeping it running from 3:00 PM to 8:00 AM. I was running on fumes at this point, but I didn’t know what else to do. Had I quit, I’d have been without not only a job, but a home.

Then, the cable got disconnected.

One by one over the next two weeks, the regulars were leaving. Things were just falling apart. The phone got disconnected. Then the power, and the water.

I later learned that the owner hadn’t paid a single bill in months. He KNEW, and just left us to rot.

Eventually, he stopped taking calls.

One day, there was a knock on my door. It was a policeman, saying that the owner had called to complain about about a vagrant. That he had been asked not to arrest me, but to please make sure I vacated the premises.

He gave me a few minutes to gather what I could into a duffle bag, and escorted me out. It was the coldest night of the year, and I had nowhere to go.

So I walked. . .

. . .And walked. . .

. . .And walked.


Terry was a friend of my father’s. He was a redneck and a drunk, like most of my father’s friends, but otherwise a normal enough guy. I’d give him slightly discounted rates every so often, when he’d be too drunk to drive across town to get home.

This particular night, he was reasonably straight. He obviously smelled like beer, but his eyes were clear, if a bit tired, and his speech was unslurred. He seemed a little edgy, but otherwise okay. I assumed he was just a bit sleep deprived.

I gave him his key. He had requested a room by the side entrance, so I pointed him in the right direction. He thanked me, walked out to his truck, and drove toward the side door.

I turned my attention to the TV. That’s My Bush was on, and I chuckled as our Fearless Leader was talking Jack Kevorkian into killing the first lady’s cat. I began to light a cigarette, when I heard grunting and banging down the hall.

I ran to the side entrance, to find Terry dragging an unconcious woman by her arms to his room.

“Terry, WHAT the FUCK?!” I hoarsly whispered, trying not to wake any guests. “Who the fuck is this?”

Terry’s head snapped up like a shot, and he froze.

“Terry. . .what the fuck is going on?”

He swallowed hard. “She’s. . .my date,” he began. “We was at the Zebra, throwin’ a few back. We was gonna hit another bar, but she passed out in the truck.”

“So why did you bring her HERE? Why didn’t you take her HOME?”

“You know how my neighbors talk.”

“No, I mean HER home.”

He glared at me for a minute, and then got a better grip under her arms. “We ain’t ready to go home yet, ya hear? Now are you gonna get her legs, or do I have to lug this drunk bitch myself?”

I sighed. “Jesus, dude,” I whispered. I shook my head, and took her legs, leading the way to the room.

When we reached the door, I held out a hand. “Gimme the key,” I said. He obliged, and I opened the door. We carried her in, and lay her on the bed. It was then that I noticed how heavy Terry was breathing. It wasn’t from exertion, she wasn’t that heavy.

It was the heavy breathing of anticipation. Nervous sweat was already beading up on his brow, and his hands were shaking. I glanced at his crotch. An erection was clearly visible.

Jesus fucking Christ, no.

“Hey, Terry, I’ve got some beers in the office. You wanna come get some to bring back?”

“What-? Uh, yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

We exited the room. I closed the door, locked the deadbolt, and put the key in my hip pocket.

Terry spun around, and looked at the door, then to me. “Dude, give me my fucking key.”

“Not a chance, Terry.”

“I’m not fucking around, asshole, give me that goddamn key!”



I undid the clasp on my Maglite’s belt pouch, and slid it from its holster. “Terry,” I said calmly, “this can go down a few ways. One, you get a different room, and I don’t charge you double for hers. Two, I give you a refund, you drive home, and she stays here. Three, I cave your fucking skull in with this heavy aluminum sonofabitch right here, you go home empty handed and in need of stitches, and she stays here. What is NOT happening is you going anywhere near her unless she’s concious, and says she wants you there.”

Terry puffed up his chest, and advanced toward me. “Now, you look here, you mother–”

WHAM. I brought the Maglight across his face, knocking him to the floor. He looked up at me, dazed, blood trickling from his lips.

“That one was a warning, Terry. Next one’s gonna HURT. So I want you to think REAL hard about what you’re gonna do next. No matter how this goes down, you’re not raping an unconcious chick.”

At the word “raping,” all the fight seemed to leave him, and rage ebbed from his face, replaced with fear. He got up, spat crimson on the carpet, and without a word, went to his truck and drove off.

I stood in the dark hallway for a few minutes. I’m not violent. Never have been. But I wasn’t thinking about that.

All I could think was. . .

. . .no.

As soon as I could stop shaking, I walked to the employee toilet, locked the door.

And cried.

Life can be pretty lonely in a hotel. There was a strict rule against fucking the guests (not that I really cared), and girlfriends were out of the question.

I mean, would YOU want to bring someone you cared about to a place like this?

A year into my time, I discovered telephone dating. You’ve seen the commercials on late night cable. So I tried it for a few weeks. Fuck it, it was something to do. Every other night, I got to talk to this girl named Emily. She had the sweetest voice, and lived about five minutes from the hotel. Phone sex was a common theme in our conversations, and she was good. REAL good.

After a couple weeks, we decided to meet. She came to the hotel, and we made it to my room. She was a bit on the chunky side, but not what I’d call “fat.” Just thick thighs, huge tits, round ass, and a bit of a belly. As soon as we got through the door, she was on me like a velour tracksuit on Joey Buttafucco.

Her togue thrust into my mouth, probing and embracing mine. She placed my left hand on her breast, and my right down the front of her pants. She was totally shaven and smooth, and was already very wet. I was amazed at the heat that came off it. I slid a finger inside, and teased her mercilessly.

“God. . .I want more. . .” she panted. She pulled down her jeans and panties, and knelt down on the bed, ass in the air.

I obliged with two fingers.

“More. . .”

Okay. I slipped a third in. Her quivering slit sucked greedily at them.

“MORE. . .”

Kinky. Okay. Slowly, I slipped my pinkie next to the others. She clenched hard, hips bucking wildly.

“MORE. . . .”

“Jesus, girl, I’ve already got four. . .”


I shrugged. It was HER snatch, not mine. I spit on my thumb and wrist, and plunged further, deeper.

Now, I cannot even BEGIN to describe what it’s like to have your entire hand in someone’s fuckhole up to the wrist. Tight comes to mind. Her vaginal walls were very tight and muscular, and there were a couple moments where I thought she was going to break my fingers. Also, a great deal of suction gets built up, and it gets increasingly harder to pull your hand free.

And the QUEEFING. . .I have heard queefs, but if a queef is the squeaky, friendly voice of Tiny Tim, these queefs were the demonic growling of Corpsegrinder from Cannibal Corpse.

She was VERY into it, moaning and screaming, biting the pillow. Her ass quivered with every stroke, and she pushed back, forcing my hand in deeper, and deeper, and. . .

What the fuck is this?!

I stopped thrusing, puzzled, as my fingers curled around something inside her. I withdrew slowly, and examined the object in my hand.

“Hey, Emily, did you know you were PREGNANT?”

Yes, this story is total bullshit. I concocted it because someone had made a crack about the rubber fist mentioned in a previous entry, and had asked me not to share any fisting stories, if I had any.


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