She was an Apolloa Palomar tart, one of those raven-haired epic cunt anomalies, a grinder of a genetic, perfect, sexual mystery, an amazing atom man-smasher machine of the physicality. A million-to-one bad odds love-roll of the cosmic dice, everyone wanted her and loved her, and wanted to fuck her, go figure.
The harlot had been raised by a pair of self absorbed, way too wealthy head-casket parents like a wild fucking beast baying at the full yellow moon like a shrieking werewolf. An Einstein female, her IQ like her demands for her bitched-out spoiled wants was off the charts. It was all about, me, me, me for her, and dynamited with a body like a flimsy string, you know, one of those super-sleek, whisper cloud girls: tall, small-hipped and tripped out gal. She could munch on Twinkies and Yum Yums all night and day, she loved smoking pot and taking acid, for a tripity-dip to the other side for a brain wizard never hurt. She could party hard, way hard and, waking in the morn, she looked like an innocent fucking Princess Di, just before the ball. Men tolerated her blabbered nonsense when she moved like a fucking cluster bomb into a room, short skirts, boy's hips, long, really way too long legs, not big tits, but a face that could melt Iridium, really.
Cut short black hair, no hair on her cunt, shaved eyebrows, delicate and small face, nose, chin, taboo cheekbones, all concealing an egocentric fiend. She was a selfish, horrific and wonderful sex pistol wonder whirl. Consumed in her own sexual needs, she loved grief, pain, fucking with men's minds. A genius masochist, she adored the pedestal as well as the lash of a bull whip. A noose around her neck, she loved that, latex depriving her of air, as well as a sweet kiss from the paramedics who revived her after a tryst with the hard boys, she so loved, sucking air from a straw, just one of her sex toys.
She was complicated, to say the least. A diva of her own blood, her own cum, her own misery, pain, bondage, you better bring your Eagle Scout BDSM merit rope-tying badge, which made her happy, if that was at all possible. Too much was always never enough, her only gauge. She loved stilettos, Proust, Dylan, drugs whenever and how ever she could cage them. Breath deprivation helped keep her gilded yap shut, which really got her off when she was having a real, real, super-duper good time. Music, eclectic, The Boss, Lennon, M&M, 2-Live-Crew, before they fucking copped out for the big rap dollars, Puccini too. Pavarotti that fat fuck opera king made her body cavity puddle. A fashion queen, high heels when the moment was right.
She dug the vibe of a good beating, torn up fish nets, ripped up lips, mini skirts, piercing, branding, why not, black eye liner, coal below her eyelids. Greek poets, fucking eunuchs, those fuckers turned her on. Her mantra was: if you loved her where was her black eye?
She dropped acid just after she dropped out of MIT at a virgin-in-her-mind-game 24. Quantum Mechanics was her thing. The geek space wizards, pencil protectors on their short-sleeved white shirts feared her, adored her, couldn't fuck her as well as their abacuses could compute the distance between her wired up cunt and fucking Saturn's rings. She was a nuclear fission power plant. Like one of those plutonium motors fueling that fucker Mars Rover, one those dosimeters measuring exposure to radiation to your skin, she was unusual, to say the least.
She could log in and out of virtual reality as easy as she could fuck an entire room of NASA crazy brain boys, fix her make up, Elle up her black mop, throw an air kiss, and zip off on her Moto Guzzi 850. She was a searching, destroying, cauterizing blood traveler, seeking forever the next gig, which was always at some bar, some way-out sex guillotine, just at her fingertips.
I jacked into her life by accident. It was just one of those fucking things. A moment of luck, semen, cunt dripping and burning fate, I guess. I am a sensory, destructive, sweet artist, a creative sort, and she liked me, fell in love with me. I didn't ever mind who and what she fucked, any moment within the oracle of a Hydrogen particle of time, whatever she did was fine with me, as long as she got out of it alive.
So we hit it one eve, hooked up on her bike, you know, leather everywhere, gloves, motorcycle boots, hide saddle bags, a bottle of gin, a few limes, a baggie of wonder evolutionary shrooms, a little pot, some rope and her cunt seeded to the bike's leather seat.
Night breaking out of LA, we passed Asian, Temple City, Pasadena, then San Berdoo gassed by, and Beaumont too. Kickin' it in fourth, doin' about 85, MPH that is, we were on a cruise. Route something or another zipped past, no map, plenty a signs to Vegas, we were just heading south, warmer weather there.
Outside a Bakersfield we saw the neon of a neon bar, decided to score a shot, Cuervo Gold would do, maybe a beer too. Rumbling up, lots a tricked out Harleys tilting on kick stands. You know, big chrome, big engines, big sissy bars and stylized extended forks connected to motorcycle wheels. It looked like a cool place where we could hang and my girl could within do her thing.
It was a fucking dive, smoke, sweat, blinking juke box, beer signs, coupl'a pool tables, plastic lawn chairs, K-Mart blue light special, I figured. The slut had a cheap parquet dance floor, cheaper tattooed woman, biker boys, pony tails, Hells Angels, Lost Souls, you know the usual trash you find in desert slop stops. Big men, gawking, drunk, stoned, guts grinding to a forlorn crooner shitting some country music song outta the Wurlitzer. Maybe Hank Jr., yeah that was him. Instantly we loved it, so we settled in.
Scenes and Particle Worm Holes were her thing, she had that kind a mind, white skin, silhouetted against that black hair. Made men blink, hard, no more or no less, she was a walking cauldron of a hot wax lubricant, a real head-turner human girl aphrodisiac.
Sliding to the bar, she got the looks, evil stares from the motorcycle bitches, leers of lude awe from their men. She had that smart-mouthed attitude without saying nada and the lips, body and face to back it all up, go with it, whatever. Half of the room wanted to fuck her, the other half wanted to murder her, you just couldn't figure who was who. Lots a bisexual bar dreamer girls were eying her, she liked that, a lot.
She looked kinda like a linear Goth Girl in her black, just-below-the-cunt mini skirt, sleeveless skin tight tank, heavy black boots on her small feet. She had big gold rings on her ears, smaller ones run through her nipples, a stud pierced into the center of her usually blabbering tongue.
Tall, way tall, thin, way thin, perfect really as cosmetology goes. Her eyeliner and mascara, thick, smudged, breaking against her white skin, gave her the appearance of some shimmering and gorgeous albino snow fox. Except for that onyx hair, the paint below and above her blue eyes, that paper skin set it all off like a white bone staked into a vampires heart, exotic, lethal, dramatic, hard to fathom.
The big-bearded fat-guy bartender behind the bar, bare chest matted with fur, leather vest on, seemed okay, so we ordered shots of tequila, limes and some salt, and keep 'em coming, please. She never wore panties, so that was always a show, something no man's eyes ever missed. She sat on the barstool, wasn't the kind a gal that ever crossed her legs, that was good for the epic too. Boot heels on the brass rungs, legs plopped open, biker and trailer trash women eyes welded on her shaved cunt, a pretty little thing, where was that fucking pedestal again. Hacking back a shot, she licked pink tongue at the salt, sucked a
lime with papaya lips, threw her head back, laughed, just loud enough to draw more attention, if her cunt wasn't doing that enough.
Lots a envy, green eyes, whispers back and forth between hard headed, limited brain cells, sexy bitches, vicious and violent biker girls. You know how it goes when a predatory lioness rumbles in on another kitty cat's crib. Doing everything but urinating in the corners, shaking her booty around the joint, staking out her turf and she ain't even started yet.
Of course, I'm watching all of this, giggling in disguise, these poor fucks don't have an inkling who my baby is, what she wants, what she needs. I'm just sorta a referee, making sure she gets out alive. She's a prospect, a bantam weight contender, a street brawler, a bawler, a bangle bitch trying to rise within Ring Magazine's ranks.
Down three more shots go, alcohol intensifies her zany crazed ways. The bar is lined with hard chicks, motorcycle guys, some brown-skinned, quiet farm-workers, and of course broke back, long haul truckers.
The dance floor has a few outlaw men and women types kicking it to country music, Garth, I think, no line dancing yet, just having a good ole time. She's famous for shooting her mouth off, getting nuts, picking fights with other girls, if she don't get beaten to hell, then she beats them to hell.
Loitering around the laminated tables and plastic chairs, other biker mommas and their men, stoned, drunk, high, just having a good old time while edging along a tightrope of pure violence, edgy, rabid stuff. You can cut the tension with a switch blade knife.
Oops, off she goes, looks like she's aiming for the pool table, passing riders of the night, kicking back, hand guns slotted along jeans' waste, knives in their leather boots. A heavy-set dyke looking angel, big Levis, big tits, big belly, tattoo, BIG MOMMA stitched on arms, other tats on falling breasts and along her thick neck, lining up a cue stick shot, flapping belly resting on the green felt.
SMACK, she strokes a white cue ball, whiz, click, perfect shot as she plugs from a bottle of Jack, smoking a Camel, letting the gray haze laze from her nostrils. Her man, a big boisterous boy, string beard, Elvis black hair, more tats, chrome chain dangling from clip to wallet, cool shades on his obese face. On his wide hip is a sheath, a serrated blade, grease staining his classic vintage Levis. He howls, jukes, does a little dance as his baby doll smacks the cue ball into the eight ball, into the hole.
Mini skirt, long mile legs, naked cunt underneath and combat boots, my baby slips up, does a little bow, smiles, cripples the crowd. The fat girl with the pool cue checks her out, not liking anything she sees, yet sex is sex, and my girl is so exotic and beautiful, well, a lot of slack can be cut for bad manners, you know what I mean. She slaps double quarters in the slot, jacks the lever, no one complains as she flirts a wink at Cinderella of the biker universe, tugs big boys beard, says, "Let's play baby cakes, scratch game. Loser has to fuck everyone here, including all of your fucking chrome-spoked friends."
No complaints, folks here seem to dig her vibe, she's a polite barbaric heathen, as she gets the nod, rolls a cue stick on the felt. She's not good at pool, but that's really not the point, is it? It's all about the show. The way she moves, well, its python-like, as she bends, her mini skirt rides up her tight little ass, exposing the pink shaved cunt, legs going on forever connected to those US Army issued boots.
She wags her ass, parts her legs, stretches across the green for fucking forever, she's pure bling, bling, and every body knows it. She does another little waggle of that amazing cunt, I'm looking for the exit, some kind of last gasp escape.
Crazy works when crazy works, and folks seem to be digging her style, all eyes from the bar, dance floor to the lounge chairs, to the drunken leers are alerted that something zaftig is about to go down. Biker Momma girl leers through frosted eye balls, watching, is ready to lay some hurt around the place.
She breaks, CLACK, colored balls like rainbow drops of rain explode along the rails, a five ball whips the braided leather cup, she stands, twirls, does a little jig, moves to Momma, leans in, kisses her on the lips, smiles. Momma likes it, hates it, confusion blasts here and there. She moves along the line, bends, cunt exposed and wet and glistening, man she is something, she is ready to rumble roll, now the fun is about to begin.
She peeks at Momma of the tribe, smiles, spreads her legs, real wide like. Planting her camouflaged boots on the sawdust floor, she aims directly for the eight ball, remembering her promise of a good fuck if she loses for all. Christ, if she isn't the most glorious cunt I have ever met, then fuck me, I don't know one of any other like her. Simply said, she is so depraved and filled with deviance, so marvelous, I want to grab her, take her anywhere and fuck the hell out of her, cross my fingers and hope to die, I promise.
WHACK, the cue balls hits black, and the eight ball finds its home. She straightens, pouts, bites her lips, looks like a transformed, forlorn little girl. She goes pigeon-toed, flirts and smirks, one of her sexual favorite poses. "Oops," she blathers, looks at Momma, pouts again, and then purrs, "oops, looks like I lost, oh my."
Freeze frame. Really, how can anybody get a handle on this bitch of mirth, sexual and blatant, with an unexplainable death wish.
Leaning against the pool table rails, boots planted in the saw dust, lanky naked legs spilling for yards to the floor, pool cue resting along her cunt, she starts to laugh. Hiking up her short mini, she grabs her cunt, moans, then lowers the cue to her lips and shoves it inside her cunt, tilts her head back, moans, then smiles. She looks at big Momma, winks, throws her an air-kiss, pulls the cue out of her wet cunt, turns and fronts her. The bitch, somewhere between 30 and 99, dirty blond hair crapping down her thick back, lots a tats, you know dragons and devils and bottles of Jack. Weighs about 250, filthy jeans, Harley t-shirt and black leather vest with all the cycle world insignias on it, looks at my gal likes she's a birthday cake, and it's her special day.
My baby walks up, rakes her fist into her dirty blond, rips it back, then smooches a kiss on to her lips, doesn't get much regret, then breaks away, looks at her, grins and says. "Well you fucking bitch, you and these sissies going to fuck me, put me in my place, or you just going to masturbate that fat cunt of yours." And then she does a little pirouette.
The room is like one a those old west bars where the guy is plunking toons on some tin piano when the bad guy comes in, and then goes silent. All these biker guys and gals are frozen in place. You can smell the sex, violence and anger in the joint, as everybody hacks looks at each other, as baby does a little hip hop dance, and begins to laugh.
I got some hard folks staring at me, gawking at me. I shrug my shoulders, jerk my head, say to some tall skinny tattooed biker dude loud enough for the room to hear. Something like, she's a bitch, do whatever you want, fuck her, beat her, no fists to the face, no broken bones, watch her teeth, do whatever you want, she's partial to sodomy, that pool cue looks like fun, just don't kill her, have some fun, okay, she's a sweet kid, just wants to have a good time, just simple rules, okay? I reach in my leather jacket pocket, grab a box of condoms, flip them into the crowd and say. "Okay boys, you know, certain rules for so much fun, if not, then we gotta scoot, okay?"
Lots a tobacco stained smiles sift it out, nodding, we've brokered an agreement like NY lawyers, I'm just glad that they're not going to find my murdered body in the alley in the morning. The boys and girls seem to understand that a party gift with a white ribbon has stumbled into their perverted and ever free-flowing lives.
Gawks whistle back and forth, dentistry is not one of these hard head-case folks' strong points. Everybody seems to get the jest, as she just stands there flirting with several crazy girls and boys, prepubescent cunt exposed, long legs connected falling to the floor. From her waist band she takes a small, white footballer's mouthpiece, plucks it between her lips, grins.
The crowd begins to grow wild, murmurs everywhere. The state of awe, excitement and depravity is palatable as the count down begins. Six, five, four. I am holding my breath, feel the 38 in my jacket pocket, just in case we have to shoot our way outta here, if things get out of hand, maybe bad.
Tension, like just before one a those shoulder laser-guided missile things, over there in Afghanistan, just before they flame a copter out in a fireball of Jihad madness...Three, two, one....BLASTOFF, the place erupts.
Plastic chairs, tables, pitchers of beer, hoops and hollers, brass knuckles, knives and hand guns fall to the floor. This isn't about a bad thing, and they all know it as the silver cunt rush begins.
It the usual core of characters out of Biker Central Casting: sinewy guys, fat guys, skinny girls, fat girls, you know, freedom fighters battling the last-ditch battle against a political correct nation turning from fire to sugar cubes. Leather, bare chests, tattoos, scars and long, filthy hair. The first one there is Momma, of course, who rears back and slaps beauty across the face. It is a good first step as my girl whips her face back, grins and spits blood from a cut lip into Momma's face, which draws a smile. Momma has several missing teeth. Two huge guys in the queue, with bellies flopping over jeans, grab her by the arms and throat, as another dude, "A Devil's Disciple" stenciled on his leather vest, tall, skinny, too many late nights of partying and various drugs, violently rips her tank top off. Then he flips a switchblade out and slashes her skirt from her platinum bod, naked baby shaking out of her pinions, as more men decide to see what's what. I can see in baby's eyes: fear, delight, excitement, for she knows the sex, the pain, stuff she needs to survive, is about to begin.
Ripping her around, they slash her against the pool table, legs spread, work boots planted to the floor, palms stitched to the felt, tiny ass wiggling, tinier cunt exposed, white skin picking up neon from the ceiling lights. Lots a frenzy now, whooping and shrieking and screaming, as this mammoth guy jumps on the pool table, cracks his hands on hers, pinning them to the felt, leering into her leering eyes. She smiles, he smiles, and then CRACK.
Momma slashes a pool cue across her butt, she blinks a little, moans, as big boy in front of her gawking into her baby blues, pulls the mouthpiece out from her lips. He whispers something like, "Don't worry baby, you won't be needing this." She smiles, nods, she likes him. He smashes his lips against her pout, drives his tongue down her throat. She can smell whiskey and tobacco on his breath. She likes the kiss, being pinned so she can't resist by a bevy of girls and boys as CRACK another vicious cue stick whip finds her shaking ass, leaving alongside another pink mark of the lash.
Sparks hit her brain as one skinny girl rips a pool cue in her cunt, rams it back and forth, men's hands like vices keeping her body from shaking apart. The guy on the felt, unzips his jeans, flaps his huge hard dick peeking out from under his belly to her quaking, bulging eyes. Slam, slam, slam, the cue stick racks her cunt. She feels the pain and pleasure now as the guy on his hands and knees rips her black hair back. She opens her lips, almost begs, her body shakes, rambles and rolls as she orgasms and he rams his cock inside of her begging mouth, ramming it down her throat.
Gurgle, gaggle, gurgle, swooshing wet cunt sounds, throat sounds, whimpers, pain and pleasure as some stud takes a poll cue and rips it into her ass. Jack-hammer time, rips back and forth, a symmetry of perfect choreography, these folks seem to like having a good time. Her body goes wild, rigid, as she's pounded with artistry in mouth, cunt and ass. She groans, screams, feels her man's cock expanding in her throat. Two other thug saviors join the fray, exposed veined- and purple-cocks to left and right, which she grabs, because she loves those things. She jacks them off while Felt Boy pulls out and comes all over her face and raven hair. She screams, arches her back, throws her butt out, wants it more, blasts her head back and forth like a sick wolverine, shrieks as she orgasms again. The pool cues never stop, she does not want it to stop as she wails again, eyes screwed open in panic. Instantly, she tilts her cum-stained face, racks her mouth on another of the biker's dicks, making sure that in her white fingers is still another cock.
I'm amazed. Everything seems to be going swell, a proper kind of etiquette seems to be in place. Every one of the fun kids seems to understand the rules, which is good for me, as it is for her. I hear another shriek - she orgasms again as one fella pulls out of her mouth, cumming all over her white, tiny breasts, face and chin.
Her body is wrenching, willow-legs buckling, pulsating, moans, denials, screams, another orgasm is vibrating like a motor scooter tailpipe, every muscle tensing, rippling. Then the guy with the cue stuck in her ass rips it out. Baby doll drools, screams as he rears back and whacks the pool cue across her ass, which seems to intensify another orgasm. She bows her head and groans.
Needing more, needing another cock, she frantically plunges her mouth on the other biker's cock, allows him to drive it back and forth into her mouth, as her fists bang and beat the felt on the pool table.
Gripping both grease-stained hands around the back of her small skull, the new biker rams his cock down her throat, then pulls back into her mouth and cums as another whack splits her back thighs and she screams. No swallowing, that's apart of the bargain: everyone is clear on that as her tiny white face slaps down on the green slate, giggling, gurgling, moaning, semen spilling out of her mouth. She blabbers something akin to nonsense, something like, "Is that the best you fagots got?" which gets amazed smiles and giggles from the crowd and the pounding with the pool stick commences once again.
As far as gang rapes go, though this is certainly not rape, per se, I figure everything is going swell. During all of this, Big Momma stands aside, watching, amazed. Soon it will be her turn. Dicks hard, condoms in place, they are respectful men and know the rule of proper etiquette, I appreciate that. Two rather large men lift her up, flip her like a pan cake, slap her tiny ass on to the side of the pool table's rail. She looks all dreamy and creamy, covered in semen and her demons, lanky, perfect naked lags dangling to the floor, belly swelling, moaning, her eyes like fire fired balls of the sun.
There are about six guys left in the line, two girls too. One big stud approaches her, long beard falling down his massive gut. She takes her arms and wraps them around his thick neck as he filters his cock into her cunt. She throws her head back and he lifts her slender thighs, then begins to pound and pound her, as her eyes tilt to the back of her head. She screams, orgasms again. She's such a needle of a slender lass that he lifts her, hops his butt onto the pool table, lays back and drives even deeper into her cunt. She goes haywire - she wails, whacks her head back and bellows at the neon strung like Christmas lights along the ceiling. Her white knees are pressed against the pool table top, vagina grinding down on his massive cock, arms waving in the air. Her back bends and she orgasms and screams again. Instantly a weird, goateed, waist-hair biker maniac shrieks and hoops as he leaps on the pool table, and then with perfect aim, drives his cock into her ass.
Her body goes stark, berserk, grinds and slashes back and down, saliva and cum bubbling from her lips, down that tiny chin, down those small breasts, down those grinding little hips. She is truly amazing, meets each lunge of the guy's dick in her cunt, in her ass, matched one for one. Everyone's simply amazed, and I have to admit, so am I, for this is better than before, when she fucked eight guys in a dive bar in that last-chance, pig truck stop in Barstow.
I watch for about another half an hour, girls fisting her, men sodomizing her, fucking her. She's giggling, crying, weeping, quacking, screaming for more, more and again as the last guy flips his cock out of her ass, stands and zips up his pants.
A sudden quiet comes over the room. Crazy folks, though quite helpful when it comes to the matters of my girl's odd pleasures, know when madness has invaded their lives. No matter how loco they are, still they can feel awe and wonder when suddenly confronted with a Super Nova of depravity, sexuality and banality, challenging their fears, not to mention their dignity.
Done now, they seemed as tired as baby lambs with her yap slobbering on the table top, prone, naked white against green, purring, dreaming, humming, covered with blood, dirt and Bakersfield maniacal biker-cum. They kind a look around, look at me, and I know it's time. So I walk through the parting Red Sea of wonder, move to her, lean over her naked body slumped on the slate, bend and whisper in her delicate ear. Something akin to questions list from my lips: "Are you fine my baby doll, has happiness finally found your elegant soul, is there anything left, is it time to go?"
I hear giggles, and then gasps, from the stunned crowd, as she rolls over on her back, flops her legs over the side, her stomach bellowing, her eyes stark, cunt lighted perfectly. Madness has not dimmed in the least in those solar flares of sapphire-eyes. She chuckles, whispers, mumbles, as she smiles, as her legs part, showing the gang of criminals her ravaged and bloodied ass and cunt. Loud enough for everyone to hear, she drops her languid fingers to her cunt, hesitates, then says something classic and so very cool. "Just a
minute my love, I need to get off, just be near while I masturbate."
And of course with jaws dropped, eyes filled with tears, awe, amazement ripped into their hearts and minds, they watch their new QUEEN as if she is God's first golden crucifix, writhe, wiggle, moan, bend that tiny back. She grinds her own fist into her cunt, for a very long time. She comes over and over and proves to these ex-convicts that when you least expect a goddess, she arrives, dispelling every thought of what you really thought was crazy from your befuddled and awe-struck mind.
After, I lifted her like a limp, wet rag, get all kinda "that a boy" and slaps on the back as I drift through the crowd, exiting with my 38 intact. I dress her with spare togs from the saddle bags.
She is tired on the zoom back towards home, hands and hums and arms wrapped around my waist.
Once back in Venice Beach, I wash her, mend up her face and cunt, kiss her ass and lay her content between cotton sheets. What do I do when morning comes? I get down on my fucking knees, slip on her finger a gold ring, and ask the crazed psycho bitch to marry me.
She says: YES.