Message-ID: <27462asstr$974344202@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: Dean Travers X-Original-Message-ID: <8uv2v9$40$1@nnrp1.deja.com> X-Article-Creation-Date: Wed Nov 15 22:33:13 2000 GMT Subject: {ASSM} [ASS] BritneY SpearS: AmazoniaN PrincesS Date: Wed, 15 Nov 2000 22:10:03 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: RuiJorge, gill-bates If I were to have my druthers, my demise would be at the Charmin- soft hands of tender pop starlet Britney Penelope Spears. The surroundings & circumstances of this final, fatal encounter would be negligible because, after all, such a proposition is purely chimerical in its very essence. Titney--my phantasy's pulchritudinous protagonist-- would be duct-taped in oily lacquer-complexioned midnite leather; every lavish contour, nuance & secret of her fresh-squeezed callipygian hips, thighs & ass broadcast in the sloe-black Corinthian accordion--& that abbreviated gauze-thin vanilla baby-tee, concupiscently pageanted on the Nickelodeon Kid's Choice Awards w/a bib of sweat dilating, whispering an innuendo of barefoot, cream-filled areolas thru the oh so fucking fortunate fabric, cropped enticingly to reveal her well- buttered cumtarget of a belly. An uncharacteristic malevolence caroms from Brit's soft chestnut eyes as she audits my awkward, taut bow-like quavering body: vertical & fashioned exclusively in a set of Venetian-pink bikini panties: my convulsing cock inflates the pursy cloth, gabling it like some obscenely disproportionate teepee, in its slow-motion rise as tho a crouched Shaquille O'Neal unfurled in methodical, successive degrees within his own lavender silhouette. "Git on awl fours like tha bitch faced whore thatcha are, ya rancid puddle a' catpiss," she castrates in sforzando (her drawly backwoods voice resonating w/that same heretofore unheard harshness) whilst whipping on a grain silo of a black bolt-on. "Yes, mommy," I meekly obey, leaning on my jittery elbows-- solipsitting in that nervous see-saw symphony of pompous & teeming anxiety set above the dirge-like contrapuntal hum of dread--I deliver my goose-bump bloused rump skyward--a raw-pale offering of abject submission. Brit Brit revolves about her naked slave like a jury of deliberate clock hands before finally pausing at the rear--a tiara of sleek apricot hair fellates cheeks bukakked w/blushing bloom--& reaching her butterscotch hand down from the pomp of her flagrant posture--in between my just-Naired tinker-toy legs--thumbs the flimsy petals of fabric aside w/a purposefully teasing brush vs. my tender atiptoe balls & taint. She veils her iniquitous intent w/a show of faux-innocence, as tho she's thinking: "what's this button do?" She places her viraginous hands about my hips--as a fulcrum-like support--& shoehorns as much of the 10" ersatz manmeat my virgin asshole can take sans Crisco. I howl & writhe abandonly, squinting & teary-eyed, my face wrenched into a mask of anguish, as the plastic phallus shreds my lenient entrails asunder, dissecting the soft walls w/the absent conscience of a 6th grader in science class. My sphincter instinctively struggles forlornly to expel the inexorable intruder as it pickpockets the precious spelling bee trophy of my behymen. I try an pull away but her puissant Johnny Bench-like hands hold steadfast--her wild-cherry nails dissolving into the soft flesh of my flanks. Britty caustically hiccups degrading barbs, smuggling the counterfeit sympathy of Bambi chucking hand grenades at an orphanage: "How's that feel ya worthless pigslut, cumwhore, grandmotherfucker?!" & if that's not enuff 18th century punishment to get my telephonicaphiliac ass off, the libelous lingual lashings abide: "Ya'll like it up tha ass, huh faygit?" Her L'weeseyanna southern twangy, Kewpie doll dulcet, embellishes every excruciatingly erotic, aphrodisiac-like, dick-hardening, seminiferous word. "YES, FUCK ME UP THE ASS MASTER BRITNEY, MAKE ME YOUR PUSSYBOY DOGSLAVE. RAPE MY SHITTY FUCKHOLE!!" I answer, screaming (& creaming) amidst moans of pain & ecstasy. "HIT ME BABY FROM BEHIND!!" Ba Ba Britney quickly grew bored w/simply jackhammering my burning & looted shitpipe--ah, the green capricity of youth--so she slowed down her pace (from bucking like a wild bull in heat, to uneasily jabbing like Jerry Cooney in a title fight) & began spanking my pallid, upturned bottom; each hard, manual assault leaving behind a deep, fuchsian tattoo--a digital brand asserting her unquestioned dominance, as a farmer who holds domain over cattle. But I feel more like a bitchdog, fixed in this obsequious, doggystyle pose. I only wish I had a bowl of Brit's period blood set before my face; I swear, the odor of the nepenthe alone would be enuff to get Slash shit-faced. I'm hijacked from my temporary reverie by the childbirth-like relief of Brit Brit extracting the filthy fuckstick from my Holland Tunnel-ish anus--left gaping wide like a veteran fagwhore--looks like I'll have a safe new place to keep my wallet. The cruel defilement persists as Mommy Britney--w/o a twinge of abatement--sharply jerks me by the hair, flips me over, pulls me to my knees & slaps me in the face w/the revolting rod. "Lick it clean ya spineless scumsucking shitworm!" Bit Bit barks, commanding me to polish the blood & shit drenched tool w/my slobbering tongue. Unsatisfied w/my understandable hesitation, the `Crazy' crooner shoves my head down, forcing me to deep-throat the Brobdingnagian babymaker like Pamela Lee on her honeymoon. Unlike Pam, however--& being unaccustomed to speaking Lou Genitalese--my gag reflex kicks in, triggering a chunky Niagara of vomit stew to spill from my feces-fouled lips. Demonstrating the compassion one would normally associate w/`Britney Spears - America's Sweetheart,' she mercifully purges the apocryphal zipper snake from my mouth, gently brushes back the errant strands of my dirty blond hair & allows me a moment to catch my fugitive breath. But alas, such benevolence proves ephemeral as-- flashing a wicked, Colgate grin--she tosses back her cascading, auburn locks & laughs as I choke on the thick, slimy, technicolor gumbo--globs of undigested meat floating in a sour, pungent, green bile, now merged w/the aroma of my own wretched waste, form an exceedingly sickening salmagundi. Quite an unsavory sight I must make--a panty wearing, faggot fuckhole, w/an uber-nauseating omnium-gatherum stampeding down my salty, tear-stained face--but it doesn't make a goddamn, fucking shitstain of a difference to this mollycoddle mama's boy, as I steadfastly remain genuflecting at the altar of her--& every woman's-- sexual supremacy. The buxom belle unfastens the ebony dick belt, casually tosses it aside (like one of Donald Trump's model bitches on their 25th birthday), & whips out a brand new toy--a pair of iridescent chrome handcuffs. "Getcha hands ba-hin' ya back, mar con maygit," she lip synchs. "Uhh a, yes ma'am," I cough as I comply w/pre-nuptial agreement- like hesitation. She arches down & forward, stretching her ambrosial arms around my girlishly underdeveloped torso (I grow a 3rd eye to get a better look at those magnificent mammaries, boy, would I love to jam my creamstick between dem tits) to slap the cuffs on my delicate, bony limp wrists. Violently squeezing my skittle-sized stones, she raises that cloying mezzo-soprano to a stern vituperating tone: "Fruh now on when ya'll ansuh me, ya'll talk w/uh lisp like tha faygitcha are. Got that, sissy britches?" She stresses each syllable w/a wag of her finger. "Yesss, Bwitney," I concede, pressing my salivating tongue between my teeth to produce the desired `lisping pansy' effect. She tightens her grip, twisting my bruised baggage: (apparently not content w/my oversufficient, timid response) what more could my ethereal Erosian empress desire? How I delight in the euphonic echo of her eloquence: "Sowwy, Mommy," I stammer, lisping like a pathetic cumstain, queer, queenie, asslicking, couch-humping fuckwad. I exhale relievedly as she releases my crushed orbs; what a fucking grip: she must masturbate even more than me! "You're a li'l bit slender in the gender, aintcha boy," Brit the Tit taunts as she takes my slackened cock--after all the abuse my baby bags have endured, sex has lost its priority--in her hand & inspects it curiously. My fleshpole instinctively salutes her skillful touch, turning to granite in her buttery hand. "Hee Hee," she giggles girlishly, tickled by my cock's Pavlovian reaction--or perhaps by the power which she possesses. "You like that, huh? Betcha'd love ta git inside my amusement park. Too bad ya ain't tall enuff for any of tha rides in Britneyland. Hell, you couldn't show a parking meter a good time w/that puny peter." She laughs--this time at her unintentional rhyme--& releases my wing-wang. It slingshots up against my belly w/the velocity of ammo. A stiletto heel to my concave girlyboy chest sends my kowtowing corpuscle toppling to the ground w/a kitten-like whimper. I look up from my newborn sprawling, supine position in lickerish wonder as she unbuttons her cowhide jeans & wiggles them down around the luscious bulge of her wide, fertile hips. I groan softly as a light, neatly trimmed patch of golden fuzz--resting comfortably on her succulent mound-- comes into view. Bit-Bit slinkily slithers the sable pants down to her ankles, steps out & kicks the glossy bundle aside. She clicks over to me--awkwardly--atop her 6' spikes & stabs a razor sharp heel into my panting, heaving sternum, the other foot stepping behind my head leaving me w/a moist perlustration of her ripe, flushed crotch: dangling like a slab of roast beef between her sinewy thighs. Bitchney pivots into a salacious half-squat, straddling my scarlet face. I lift my pencil neck, in an uncomfortable abdominal crunch position, straining to lingually solve her Chinese finger puzzle. A sticky IV drip of yummy cuntnectar hits my nose w/the erratic, syncopated, hemiola of lying beneath an air conditioner in Tucson on Independence Day, as she begins feverishly frigging--thrusting two fingers in & out of her juicy, dripping honeyhole, moaning wantonly to the steady rhythm of the fingerbanging. (Film this action & it could keep Kleenex in business for the next fucking zillennium!) My nutbags are about to burst--they're fucking bluer than Papa Smurf while choking on a ham sandwich w/Mama Cass. But all I can do is squirm around, kicking up my legs & knees desperately trying to make contact w/my veiny capacitated piss tube. Before long, I realize the fruitlessness in my epileptic-like actions, as my hard-on is so fucking raging that it's pressed flat against my stomach, thoroughly out of the scope of my frenzied pedals. Peradventure, the titillating temptress senses my amplifying frustration--& hoping to boost it further--begins using her idle hand to massage her hitherto neglected clit. Undulating like a turbulent, hurricane ravaged sea, she grinds her sweaty, voluptuous hips against the invading digits, stimulating her juicebox w/a teasing `come hither- like' gesture. But sadly, the vulgar, staccato shrieks of her impending paroxysm come to a disappointing halt, as she abruptly breaks the furious fuckrhythm, depriving me of bearing witness to the most breathtaking natural phenomenon this side of a total solar eclipse. Staring out from behind her damp, disheveled, smoky topaz locks, Britty looks into my attentive eyes &--w/a girlish giggle--leisurely licks her moist, gooey fingers--tasting her own sweet woman-juice; concupiscently biting her lower lip, she rolls her eyes back into her head & purrs as the confectionery philter hits her palate. I'm shuddering on the ledge of my threshold: a light breeze would be enuff to trigger my wad thru a brick wall. The sizzling, salene-enhanced songbird steps between my obscenely displayed, akimbo legs & drops to her knees. She grabs my throbbing Grimace-colored spear & begins lightly stroking it; her silken hand pets the 11th finger gently, like a delicate newborn puppy. This technique serves to tease my over masturbated cock: Ms. Spheres cruelly perpetuates the cycle of manually bringing me to the edge of a Chernobyl-like explosion, only to squeeze the shaft tightly, sending my confused prickjuice rocketing back into my balls. After amusing herself w/three or four rounds of this little game--laughing each time my hips jerk up, anticipating the phantom spasm--she buries her head in my crotch, taking the full length of my modest manhood in her mouth. W/each blow, her fleecy lips bounce off the scratchy pubes at the base, leaving a curved, mahogany stain at my pelvis. Her saliva feels warm & safe--lathering my cock in it's thick, foamy enzymes; her breath comes in short hot pants. My insides unravel & whirl w/the intensity of the Tazmanian devil & somersault w/the nuclear rush of a bungi jump from the roof of the sun. I unconsciously bark out someone's name; my toes curl into themselves & hyperextend in hastening meter; a thin film of sweat becomes an ocean, deluging my body; 18-year-old titty flesh swings buoyantly as the cantaloupe-chested cantatrice suckles every inch of my jubilant fuckstick like a dripping popsicle stick to a diabetic on a July afternoon in the Mohabi desert--I swear my meatus must've curved into a smile. My hips are bucking & writhing--pleading to explore the depths of her utopian oral cavity. & w/an arctic, hypothermic shiver I enter the throes of a tsunami sized orgasm & incontinently wail: "Oh Mommy, Oh God, I'm CUMMMMM AHHHHHHHH NOOOOO AHH FUCKKKKK!!!!" Alas, my ecstasy quickly transmutates into molten agony-- clobbering my piteous senses--making my body convulse w/tidals of shock: Brit has bitten off my 4 inch fucktool--quadrilliseconds before I could flood her mouth w/a legion of potential losers--& is gawking at me w/a sly, bloody grin: sanguine ribbons of erstwhile cockfuel bifurcating her chin. Reflexively--hoping the sound of my voice would somehow overwhelm the pain--I cry out: "YOU BITCH, YOU GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING WHORECUNT COCKSUCKING SLUTHO YEAST-INFECTED..." The stream of expletives persists--about as long as my orgasm would've. Thru squinted teeth & clenched eyes I watch her daintily chewing the cockmeat--making exaggerated "mmmm mmmm," sounds & patting her belly as she relishes the fleshy taste of the kosher pickle--& w/an audible gulp--ripping at my ears like Mike Tyson's teeth--the nefarious nightingale swallows the bite-sized billet. She imperiously tears off what's left of my once coral panties, wipes them across her mouth & flips the florid rag in my face. Dazed, light-headed & growing faint as the molten blood steadily oozes from my wounded crotch, I proofread a fuzzy, colorless & shapeless panorama--the details leaving behind a grayish concrete vacuum of muffled, retreating space & sound. I take these constricting minutes to reconcile myself--this is all I ever wanted: there could be no more fitting, apropos ending to my will-o'-the-wisp vagary, but enjoying a snuff fantasy w/the girl w/the most thumbtacks in her forehead. Britney can hear my thoughts--& agog to veto my momentary reflective peace she re-approaches me w/the strap-on. "Oh, Mommy, please no more; please let me go beddybye now; please gimme a goodbye kiss Mommy, pretty, pretty, please." I beg semi- lucidly. "Why stop now, `specially since ya gotta brand new hole to fuck," is her sardonic, Dixieland echo. "No more pain, no more, ohhhh," I groan. "Why can't you give me just this last moment for uh a hug, a kiss, a smile, anything." "Why?" She asks w/obvious rhetoric. "Oh, I'll tell ya why, javelin catcher." She bends down, reaches into her discarded pants' pocket, pulls out a crumpled piece of yellowed paper & begins to read aloud: (in an uneven confederate-toned meter) Bitch faced ho stop blockin' tha door B'foe I send ya ass to tha muthafuckin' floor Git me uh beer & start suckin' mah dick Tha only thing yo good for is a meal & a lick Worthless cunt don' gimme no lip Talkin' back is jis goin' get you a trip To tha emergency room, w/both eyes black I'wl hit ya so hard ya'll swear it was uh Mack Truck that slammed against yo head 'Membuh las' time how yo fuckin' ass bled? Dress'd like uh slut you be tryin' at mah nerves Puttin' on a show for awl da drunken' redneck pervs I hit tha bottle & tha chalky straw I hit tha brakes 'bout a quarter pas' four Chainsaw killers invade mah nightmares Pianos crashin' down spiral deck chairs Smashed uh stop sign thru her goddamn skull Las' thing I heard wuz Jethro fuckin' Tull Blastin' out on tha eight track deck Only ding broke wuz her muthafuckin' neck Where's mah car, where `s mah rights? Take awl mah shit cuz I love da Friday nights The only sound left is my soft whimpering. After a pause, she breaks the silence. "That's a poem my Daddy sent me from jail. It's all true, tho he ain't no poet laureate, I'll tell ya. My goddamn Daddy was notin' but a drunk & uh..." (begins sobbing) "& he killed my Mama, the damned sonofabitch killed my Mama," she cries loudly, waving & choking the paper. "Are you sure that's not the new Eminem single?" I'm thinking--instead, I wisely say: "But I'm not your Daddy, I'm yaw wittle lisping qweer boy," I try to reason w/the satyric psychotic. "It doesn't matter, scumcunt--this is for all you drooling, runny-dicked pigs. & w/that, she buries the supersized semenless surrogate into my bloody gaping crotch; pumping, raping & riding me missionary style. My eyes slam shut--who will help me find the key to re-open them? "Expecting God?" Laughs the guy in the red suit from the hot place. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+