The road to Saffron City was long and hard. Misty knew this better than most. She had found herself constantly adrift in a sea of pokemon, sex, pokemon, sex, and was beginning to go under. Lucky for her she was mistress of the ocean and could beckon star shaped pokemon Starmie to her aid. Often finding herself cooling her burning labia with a concentrated cleanse from his ever gushing water gun. Gone were the days of sulking in her room buried half a vagina deep into Starmie’s top spike, she was finally with two men, two powerful and presentable men, Brock and Ash. In Ash she saw a deep power still hidden in the body of a boy, while with Brock a brooding secret holder, choosing to act with huge Onix rather than his powerful hands. Hands that had held hers only nights before as he drunkenly rubbed his flaccid cock against the worn denim material of her jean shorts. She sucked on his finger as it curled like an ekans in her mouth, promises of cum torrents wet her ears, and he fingered her suspender strap with his free hand. Sadly that’s a s far as his curious digits explored, passing out abruptly into the still of the night as a Noctowl perched, glowing eyes and all at the fizzling sexual fireworks that ended in the abrupt and violent outbursts of Brock’s persistent snoring. That had been days ago, the trio had walked in closely quite comfort, never saying, but thinking heavy thoughts that made Misty wet against the beads of sweat parading down the front of her short yellow tee pooling in her tightly wound panties, grimy with age and frustration.
Lost in thought about Misty Ash noticed his cock grow strangely hard. It wasn’t the first time he had experienced an erection. Once when he was playing in the woods near his home he had spied two Pidgeys furiously beating at one another with rampant wings, their feathers molting and blanketing the ground. As the birds rolled, squawking at one another, he had found his hands gripping at his swollen phallus, extinguishing his burning seed into the soft underbrush of Eterna forest.
He and Misty had met by mistake, a bike accident, more fate than misfortune. She had tagged along out of determined claims of retribution, but the way she looked away blushing when their eyes would meet spoke the words she never could. When he closed his eyes he sometimes thought nothing of badges, or of pokemon glory. No. His mind toyed with the pure pleasure of pulling Misty down onto his quivering cock, perched right above its swollen head, toying with its entrance. Her eyes, obscenely large, terrified as gravity worked against her struggling muscles and she succumbed to cum. That was fantasy, he had set out with a heart full of good intentions and despite his numerous misadventures he didn’t want his gentle cargo to crack and tumble from his human sheath, he didn’t need the sharp dagger of love to penetrate his resolution, he elected to watch. Spying the more matured Brock fumble with Misty’s soft, giving flesh. Wishing that as Misty had sucked the fingerprints from his hands that he, Ash, could be every one of those fingers.
The trio marched mechanically into the dimming sky as night fell heavy on their backs. Each adventurer lost in their heads as their feet did the finding. Daydreams spoiled! Team Rocket appeared with a flash, descending from the quivering blackness in a cat shaped balloon. Jesse, James, Meowth, that’s right. The two teams faced each other quietly, there were no words that hadn’t been spoken, no pain that hadn’t been felt. Repetition had played this stage every night, and as the actors took their tired places they felt marionette strings jerk their limbs into routine position. Unbeknownst to Ash, Misty, Brock, Jesse, and Meowth James had taken ground up Ryhorn horn into his nose and was concealing a throbbing growth under his ‘R’ belt buckle. In typical spaghetti western style the opposing forces faced one another, protagonist vs. antagonist, yin vs. yang, and with a deafening battle cry they clashed. As the skilled combatants reached for the prison balls containing their gladiator animals, James reached for his yearning balls and threw them from his sequenced white pants. Ash’s eyes dropped from James’s bizarre haircut to the throbbing pillar of flesh that ran in an impact course collision with his slow to the turn ass. Colliding in a frenzy of furious hands and tearing fabrics the other warriors paid no attention to the cries of one Ash Ketchum as James slid himself into the welcoming, nubile bottom of the young pokemon master. Pikachu stood aghast at screamed “pikapikapika,” at deaf ears. Too scared to shock James in fear of electrocuting Ash, Pikachu sat humbled in the grass and closed its eyes to the horror unfolding in front of its apple red cheeks.
Ash found the pressure in his ass comforting as his struggles turned into steady movements that complemented the ancient dance James performed with rough but guiding ease. What were once struggling hand flailing movements turned into reassuring grips on James’s own mitts, comforting the older man with understanding caresses, adding complacency to his position.
Brock spying the assault on his acquaintance leaped on Jesse and wound her red locks into his penetrating talons. Letting out a bird like cry she fell to the ground, pulling Brock’s legs out from beneath him. The pair tumbled, searching for hand holds in the fabric of their loose clothing, soon their furious swipes turned into sensual clawing as Jesse held Brock’s semi limp dick in her mouth. Grating her teeth across its vein ridden surface Brock howled with two parts fear and equal parts arousal, his limp organ stiffening responsively. Gripping his firm sack in her fiercely manicured nails, she pulled on his small testicles, milking him like she had done with so many Miltanks back on her father’s farm. With traces of surprise on the corners of her mouth there was no heavy cream load to spit back into the collection bucket, Brock’s lone udder was a fighter. Submerging from the depths of her throat Brock’s vessel surfaced, jettisoning a load of pre-cum ballast onto Jesse’s arched lips. Almost as soon as it had come up for air was it back down once more, down into the warm, wet tunnel where tonsils lay in wait, probed gently by a solitary eye on a grinning purple head. Brock held Jesse’s mane tightly, his hand’s interwoven into her nappy red roots, pushing himself deeper into her face pussy as he felt her tiny palms scurry, crab like, up his moist shaft. Pumping his hot iron they ascended only to fall inches that felt like stories, rising once more and plummeting again quickly. His balls ached and prayed for a discharge. Swollen stones seemed to replace his once fleshy testicles, and ground between hungry palms they produced a heavenly ambrosia, a milk nectar, trumpeting from his fountain spout, and cascading in cream torrents deep into the vacuum of Jesse’s starving gullet. Letting out a maddening cry Brock tried to pull himself away from the suction but found his deflating prick being drained by a lashing tongue, slurping the trace remnants of baby fluid that hung loosely from a punctured hole, gasping cum breaths. Jesse swallowed every morsel of Brock’s mammoth salty load, and slapped the rubbery cock against her chin, shaking free a few drops still trapped in the shaft. Brock collapsed backwards onto the grass as Jesse stood, licking her ruby demon lips, watching as Meowth slowly advanced on a terrified but unsatisfied Misty.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Dining in the Dakotas (Part II)
Taco Johns
Shortened breaths. Arm Tingling. Chest pains! Symptoms of a heart attack? No, I just came from Taco Johns. Like a virgin executed after a deflowering, my West-Mex hymen has been popped and my entry sealed, my mouth will no longer feast on an eight inch meat burrito, filled to the brim with foaming cheese. "Unfair," you may say, "how can you close yourself off to all that West-Mex has to offer?" "Fuck you," I reply with a bastards bravado, if Taco Johns is even 1/100th of a representation of the culinary potential that West-Mex has to offer then I will play no part in your game of chicken, staring down congestive heart failure as he rushes me with the devil riding shotgun.
There is much about Taco Johns that startled me. Be it in the overweight crowds pile driving meat encrusted cheeses into their rancid gullets, or the sheer audacity displayed by the bold concept of 6 and a pound. 6 and a pound to the blissfully uniformed consumer is the coupling of six crunchy or soft tacos, paired with deep fried potato lumps weighing in at one pound, the price for this fast and movable feast, $8.69. As a novelty item I accept its existence, if 6 and a pound was walking next to my car I wouldn't roll up the windows but I would lock my door. Yet 6 and a pound is no mere novelty concession, no, it is a highly popular food item. In my seven minutes of Taco John's hell I witnessed no less than fifteen people consuming these heart blockers. Before you get an image in your mind of an obese, white American gorging on grade D meat, STOP! All possible scenarios you have self created are true, and beyond simple truth, they are perpetual.
I opted out of a pound and 6 and went for the grilled chicken burrito. My solitary request was met with "Is that it?" uttered disheartened by Glenn my Taco John's executioner. With a half heartened grin I replied "I guess," and was pretty sure he mouthed "fag," from under his visor. When my burrito came from its cheese womb it was parceled and ready to go, Linda, the food depositor screamed "Jeremythanks," as though it were one word, and on top of being one word, coherent. Already feeling like a terrorist for not ordering more food I half heartedly bit into my sad-ritto only to be met by a money shot of something that I hoped was American cheese. Never before have I wished an unknown substance was American cheese as I did with my grilled chicken burrito. Soft giblets of chicken came out plastered to the cascading cheese(?), and I realized that "grilled" had only been attached to the burrito's name for the sake of fun.
Downing the rest of the culinary abortion I spied a poorly drawn portrait of a Native American child sleeping, or mourning corn. I instantly found some relatable material in the Taco Johns. I to was equally sad that corn had been used to make any of the products sold there. As I left the porter potty with food dispenser attachment known as Taco Johns I did everything in my power not to tear down the children's artwork of retardly colored bags of 6 and a frown. Though shall not worship false idols, though shall not worship false idols.
Shortened breaths. Arm Tingling. Chest pains! Symptoms of a heart attack? No, I just came from Taco Johns. Like a virgin executed after a deflowering, my West-Mex hymen has been popped and my entry sealed, my mouth will no longer feast on an eight inch meat burrito, filled to the brim with foaming cheese. "Unfair," you may say, "how can you close yourself off to all that West-Mex has to offer?" "Fuck you," I reply with a bastards bravado, if Taco Johns is even 1/100th of a representation of the culinary potential that West-Mex has to offer then I will play no part in your game of chicken, staring down congestive heart failure as he rushes me with the devil riding shotgun.
There is much about Taco Johns that startled me. Be it in the overweight crowds pile driving meat encrusted cheeses into their rancid gullets, or the sheer audacity displayed by the bold concept of 6 and a pound. 6 and a pound to the blissfully uniformed consumer is the coupling of six crunchy or soft tacos, paired with deep fried potato lumps weighing in at one pound, the price for this fast and movable feast, $8.69. As a novelty item I accept its existence, if 6 and a pound was walking next to my car I wouldn't roll up the windows but I would lock my door. Yet 6 and a pound is no mere novelty concession, no, it is a highly popular food item. In my seven minutes of Taco John's hell I witnessed no less than fifteen people consuming these heart blockers. Before you get an image in your mind of an obese, white American gorging on grade D meat, STOP! All possible scenarios you have self created are true, and beyond simple truth, they are perpetual.
I opted out of a pound and 6 and went for the grilled chicken burrito. My solitary request was met with "Is that it?" uttered disheartened by Glenn my Taco John's executioner. With a half heartened grin I replied "I guess," and was pretty sure he mouthed "fag," from under his visor. When my burrito came from its cheese womb it was parceled and ready to go, Linda, the food depositor screamed "Jeremythanks," as though it were one word, and on top of being one word, coherent. Already feeling like a terrorist for not ordering more food I half heartedly bit into my sad-ritto only to be met by a money shot of something that I hoped was American cheese. Never before have I wished an unknown substance was American cheese as I did with my grilled chicken burrito. Soft giblets of chicken came out plastered to the cascading cheese(?), and I realized that "grilled" had only been attached to the burrito's name for the sake of fun.
Downing the rest of the culinary abortion I spied a poorly drawn portrait of a Native American child sleeping, or mourning corn. I instantly found some relatable material in the Taco Johns. I to was equally sad that corn had been used to make any of the products sold there. As I left the porter potty with food dispenser attachment known as Taco Johns I did everything in my power not to tear down the children's artwork of retardly colored bags of 6 and a frown. Though shall not worship false idols, though shall not worship false idols.
Dining in the Dakotas (Part I)
Pizza Ranch
There were many positive aspects about today, although few as hilarious as pizza ranch. Pizza Ranch, from my understanding was established in Iowa, some town starting with a W. The founder was a nineteen year old male with a defined Christian agenda. He set out to create a restaurant that doubled as a missionary esque outpost, equipping each employee with the necessary tools to aid their community through exemplary service and god love. What this boils down to is a $10.00 all you can eat buffet where you can get anything that is already on the menu, thusly nullifying the purpose of individual orders, that is unless you're a vegetarian, and if you're going to be to eating at Pizza Ranch, chances are good that you aren't.
Upon entering the establishment I was met by a rotund (read fat) over excited mid-western feed cow, she had glasses and a smile, given a joint and a bottle of Early Times we likely could have found something to talk about. Deprived of these necessary social vices I was unarmed, and unprepared. My cover blown, Boston discovered, first time Pizza Ranch customer, long time fan. She talked and I listened, wanting my plate and possibly a shirt. "Whoah...that's good," was written over a Conestoga wagon on a red t-shirt, and everyone was a model. As slogans go theirs was perfect, and no good deed goes unnoticed so I came up with a slogan of my own design, "The dough is sweet! Pizza Ranch, the place to eat!" Not as good as the vocal ejaculation one makes when trying to halt a horse, but pleased me more than the cactus bread.
Taking my plate I assaulted the food and grabbed at gooey slices of cheese and meat. The pizza was....fine, in fact perfectly palatable. Yet my hungry gaze was directed more towards the diabolical diabetic deviancy that was embodied in the dessert pizza, a doughy, apple filled, toaster strudel frosting, cardiac arresting delicacy that I could only eat 2/3's of.
To comment on the fellow patrons seems almost as though it would be an exercise in rhetorical futility. For pure aesthetics there were a bunch of hefty American sized portions of human, draped in precious camo cloths and varying military or motorcycle paraphernalia. There seemed to be so much gung ho Americana flowing through the place that if one accusation of homosexuality were to escape my lips it would be met with a veritable witch hunt, and a flurry of self reassurances backed with mouthfuls of spherical meats. In an almost dull panic I reached with my eyes for reassurance, finding solace in a sign that assured me in 1879 nothing had happened here.
Breathing tangible sighs of relief I drowned my hunger in soft serve ice cream and ended up buying a Pizza Ranch shirt for the paltry sum of $10 bucks. Shirt and sticker badge in hand I left Pizza Ranch with every hope of returning, knowing full well that when settlers braved their way through these plains one hundred fifty years ago they were paving the way for Pizza Ranches, where Pizza Ranch hands could rope pepperonis and hams, and settle down with the good book and painted cow skulls. Rest easy colonial heroes, your ghosts are satisfied, and your memories preserved, Pizza Ranch honors fallen soldiers and American Americans, change your plate, it’s South Dakota law.
There were many positive aspects about today, although few as hilarious as pizza ranch. Pizza Ranch, from my understanding was established in Iowa, some town starting with a W. The founder was a nineteen year old male with a defined Christian agenda. He set out to create a restaurant that doubled as a missionary esque outpost, equipping each employee with the necessary tools to aid their community through exemplary service and god love. What this boils down to is a $10.00 all you can eat buffet where you can get anything that is already on the menu, thusly nullifying the purpose of individual orders, that is unless you're a vegetarian, and if you're going to be to eating at Pizza Ranch, chances are good that you aren't.
Upon entering the establishment I was met by a rotund (read fat) over excited mid-western feed cow, she had glasses and a smile, given a joint and a bottle of Early Times we likely could have found something to talk about. Deprived of these necessary social vices I was unarmed, and unprepared. My cover blown, Boston discovered, first time Pizza Ranch customer, long time fan. She talked and I listened, wanting my plate and possibly a shirt. "Whoah...that's good," was written over a Conestoga wagon on a red t-shirt, and everyone was a model. As slogans go theirs was perfect, and no good deed goes unnoticed so I came up with a slogan of my own design, "The dough is sweet! Pizza Ranch, the place to eat!" Not as good as the vocal ejaculation one makes when trying to halt a horse, but pleased me more than the cactus bread.
Taking my plate I assaulted the food and grabbed at gooey slices of cheese and meat. The pizza was....fine, in fact perfectly palatable. Yet my hungry gaze was directed more towards the diabolical diabetic deviancy that was embodied in the dessert pizza, a doughy, apple filled, toaster strudel frosting, cardiac arresting delicacy that I could only eat 2/3's of.
To comment on the fellow patrons seems almost as though it would be an exercise in rhetorical futility. For pure aesthetics there were a bunch of hefty American sized portions of human, draped in precious camo cloths and varying military or motorcycle paraphernalia. There seemed to be so much gung ho Americana flowing through the place that if one accusation of homosexuality were to escape my lips it would be met with a veritable witch hunt, and a flurry of self reassurances backed with mouthfuls of spherical meats. In an almost dull panic I reached with my eyes for reassurance, finding solace in a sign that assured me in 1879 nothing had happened here.
Breathing tangible sighs of relief I drowned my hunger in soft serve ice cream and ended up buying a Pizza Ranch shirt for the paltry sum of $10 bucks. Shirt and sticker badge in hand I left Pizza Ranch with every hope of returning, knowing full well that when settlers braved their way through these plains one hundred fifty years ago they were paving the way for Pizza Ranches, where Pizza Ranch hands could rope pepperonis and hams, and settle down with the good book and painted cow skulls. Rest easy colonial heroes, your ghosts are satisfied, and your memories preserved, Pizza Ranch honors fallen soldiers and American Americans, change your plate, it’s South Dakota law.
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