Saturday night’s all right for… orgasms and beatdowns…

Hey kids,

Just thought I’d drop in with a little pink bubbly and some strawberry lube…

8 pages in on a new story today, which I just wrapped up for the night with:

I was scrambling out the door, kicking my pants in front of me. Garry was oblivious, head thrown back as Olivia pumped her fist in his lap. She was smiling at me as she did, then waved me off with the middle finger of her free hand, before she winked and slipped off the bench onto her knees in front of him.
I backed away out the door and into the hallway, pulling my pants up in dejected fury before running through the other room, straight up the stairs and into the starry black of four AM. I could hear Garry shouting out his first female-assisted orgasm as the door slammed behind me.

As well as this little ditty ‘ve been woodshedding:

Rabbit crashed to the floor, Devil standing over him, sneering down in open disdain. Devil hefted one steel toe into the small of Rabbit’s back and flicked his wrist out from the cuff of his jacket, the expandable baton snapping to attention in his hand. Rabbit curled up into his natural state, squealing with his hands up, begging for mercy. Devil rained down blows, twisting into each crack of the stick like he was swinging for the fences. He kept the beating measured, like everything else he did, an equal number of strikes to the legs, the torso, the shoulders. He kept the head for last, saving one quick snap for that hideous metal guard-rail, feeling it give way to the rotten teeth beneath it, Rabbit sputtering blood and screaming. The last shot was meant for the back of Rabbit’s head, right in the soft spot at the base of his skull—put him down for good.

“Out of the cradle endlessly rocking. Out of the mocking-bird’s throat…”

Devil’s arm reached its apex and held there.

 Duncan was sitting against the doorjam, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth.

“Out of the ninth-month midnight. Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child… where the child… where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot…”

Devil stood straight, staring at the idiot weeping against the door, a cascade of words flowing from him like a prayer, but it wasn’t a prayer. It was Whitman.

Ain’t that just like Saturday night?

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