I now live in a novel. A wonderful story full of humor and pathos, pain and pleasure, fear and freedom, and sometimes even the rawest, scatty enema sex.
In today's chapter, I am walking down a lonely street, I think it must be Amsterdam. I don't have a clue how I got here, but just around the corner starts the famous avenue of prostitutes. Lush young girls, all made up and frilly lingerie, huge tits hanging from their windowsills. I reach in my pocket to see how much money I have, but my wallet slips from my grip and tumbles through an open grate into what seems to be a storm drain. I know I should just leave it, but I can not. I seem to have no power to stop my hands. I reach for the grating and lug it up from the opening in the dirty street. Despite the smell that wafts up, the dark, the threat of rats or who knows what, I sit right down, new slacks in the damp dirt, and lower myself into the dingy cavern.
There is a ladder against the damp brick wall of the opening. I climb into the dank pit. At the bottom, some twenty feet below the street, there is a large catwalk. The sewer is high enough to stand in, a main storm drain for this part of the ancient city. At first, it is too dark to really see, and I spend a moment letting my eyes adjust, then I become aware of a glow ahead, around a bend in the catwalk. It is so faint at first that I do not know whether it is light, or a trick of my eyes, now deprived of the garish neon signs of the street above.
I think once more of my wallet. It is too dark down here to see it, and I have no light with which to search--not even so much as a match. Perhaps the glimmer beyond is a lantern, and I could bring it back here and find my lost billfold. I am uncertain. Should I explore. I reason that there is light enough coming in through the open manhole to let me find my way back, what with the firm iron railing of the catwalk in hand.
But more than reason is at work. An electric energy is flowing. Subtle at first, it grows in intensity rapidly, till I can hear my blood course through the veins in my head. It flows across the muscles of my chest, down through my ribs, around my tensed buttocks. My cock feels it. It commands my legs to move. There is an incredible excitement in yielding to its powerful pull.
I start to advance toward the distant glow. Faltering, unsure of my footing at first. Then faster, more urgent becomes the need to reach the source of this light. Every step I take toward it seems to greatly magnify its brightness. There can be no mistaking now. It is a light, shining yet around the next bend of the massive drainage tube. As it brightens, as I near its source, the energy coursing through my entrails is compounded, surging, reaching frightening levels. And yet I am strangely without fear, ready to go on no matter what.
I turn the last corner, and there you are. You are bathed by a spotlight glowing on your out-thrust ass. You are bound, held upright by black leather cords fastened to bands buckled tightly to your hands and legs. Your legs are slightly spread, and firmly fixed with a spreader bar. Long you must have been here, bound, waiting for someone to come and set you free.
You are moving, swaying your hips as much as your bonds will allow. Beside you, hanging well above your head, there is an enormous enema bag with a long hose leading to a penis-shaped nozzle, huge in proportions and lying on a table just beyond the reach of your hips.
Unaware of me, your dance seems intent on seducing the giant nozzle itself, trying to bring it to life as a snake charmer might. I am transfixed by the raw power of what you are showing me, but the energy coursing through me doubles and redoubles, and I cannot any longer stand and take it in. I push on to you.
I know what you want. Neither of us can talk, but your eyes lock on to mine, and there is a pleading desire in them that would melt Shylock's frozen heart. The nozzle is dry. There is nothing at hand with which to lubricate it. And so I kiss you hard, sucking you into my mouth. I relish the hiss of breath you draw in. I work on your breast, first one then the other. I will make you wet. Your own juices will coat this monster so that it can slide up deep inside your waiting ass. As we kiss, I let my hand explore. What does your pussy feel like when you are so displayed? How do you react if a finger, now wet in your own love dew, slides slowly up your ample rear to pull you even closer into a yearning mouth?
Fascinated by the lush feel of your rectum, I break away from our kiss and kneel behind you. I withdraw my finger, wet it with the growing flood of precum covering the end of my own love tool, then slide it deep into your perfect ass. You moan a hissing yesssssss. I search for your G spot from behind, intent on applying enough pressure to release a surge of sex juice from you. Soon, you are drenched in fragrant cum. It is soaking you, dripping down your silken, inner thighs.
I grab the massive enema tip. It is hot and flesh like to the touch, and I can feel veins in it pulse as if alive. I slide it across your swollen clit, this way and that, teasing you ever so close to cumming, getting it slippery on every side. But you are enjoying this too much. With the nozzle slippery from your own cunt cream, and having moved it so as to transfer plenty of your pungent slime to the crack of your ass, I position the enormous tool against the perfect pucker of your anus. Now, I return to our kiss, but first I tell you to open yourself to the invasion. "Push out as if you were letting out a large load." I say. And when you do, I ease the giant dong right up into your bowels, loving the sensation as you moan and groan into my kiss.
I open the clamp, and the hot liquid begins to press its way, inch by inch, deeper into your insides.
The filling goes on and on, as does our kiss. I know how much you want something more. You want a cock to grind against, or at the very least, a hand or mouth lovingly caressing your clit. It will not be. We will kiss, and you will submit to this unmerciful onslaught of hot water. Something must explode. Either you, in blinding, wondrous release, or your impossibly bloated belly. I run my hands over that pregnant-momma paunch, loving it, almost touching your clit, but always retreating.
When your orgasm starts, it is more than I can stand. You are doing this jungle dance of total abandon round the invading monster in your ass. I see the beauty of life before me, as up in a long tunnel, in the spotlight, gyrating, beckoning, putting on the lewdest imaginable show. I am drawn like a moth to a flame, coming closer and closer to your spasming, flooded rear end, knowing that soon I will be sucked so far into you that I will be washed out in a stream of spew from this imaginary mistress, life, and awaken covered in your reality, down in the gutter of some street, almost washed up till the fecund smell of your ripe body calls me back to life, a real adventure, even when it is so acid-trip unreal.
Jim Who is not normal tonight.
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