All two of the characters portrayed in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance they bear to a real person, living or dead, is most unlikely [I’ve deleted that adjective—Ed.] purely coincidental.
Ah—those necessary evils known as storycodes: for instance MF (for the sake of argument), cons, rom, ws (incidental—in passing, you might say).
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Shish Kebab
A likely (short) story
By Sam & Shanna Deevning
(The first published version of this story was posted to a.s.s.m under the name Lingua in 1997 during the golden years of Usenet. There’s been a change of nom de guerre, but not a change of authorship.)
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“Shish-kebab me,” I say. “But don’t let any of that sand get on to the traveling-rug. There's no knowing where it’ll end up.”
“Get fresh with me,” you say. “Thread yourself around me.”
“Do me like a dinner,” I say. “Let me soak up your heat.”
As Carl Orff softly beats his lyrical tempo from the streamlined black plastic beachblaster on the folding table I feel your oily prick snake its way [I suggest “I feel your oily snake prick its way”—Ed.¶ Mitts off, it’s fine as it is—S&S.] up through my innards, weaving benignly but thrillingly between (not through—how careful you are, Antony) my vital organs. Till now, as I’ve told you several times, I’ve only imagined your prick going that far. Now it’s happening. Double, double toil and trouble. My fire burns, my cauldron bubbles. But the great dramatist never envisaged anything like this scene.
“Oh, my,” I gasp, locking my eyes on to yours. “Where will it end? It’s in my chest now. I feel so full. So fucking full. So fucking full of Antony.”
“And it’s going further, Sue, darling,” you say. “May it slide up into your throat?”
“Yes, please!”
“And then may it enter your mouth—carefully?”
“Oh, yes. But shove it! I don’t care for the ‘carefully’. Shove it into my mouth. Let me bite the fucker.”
“Stuff that ‘shove it’ idea,” you say. “I don’t want to fucking hurt you—or me.” Your penis creeps gently along my relaxed throat and slowly enters my mouth. Your bloated rubbery glans, tipped with its own tiny dribbling mouth, deforms when it nudges my top incisors, and sprinkles what feels like a few tablespoons of your precome over my bottom lip and my chin. I scoop up some precome, baby-oil from your supernatural spring, and rub it on my cheeks and my ears. Between my fingers it forms webs as glisteningly iridescent as detergent bubbles.
I try to speak, but all I can do is gurgle, because my throat and my mouth are full of Antonycock. We gaze into each other’s eyes. I put a finger between my lips and palpate your ruddy rude glans, on the side that’s usually the underside but that’s now the side touching my top incisors. I then nibble the eaves of your mushroomhead, and my incisors nibble the skirt of it. My bottom jaw moves from side to side so that my top incisors tantalise (I hope) the nerve-endings in your exquisite unvandalised frenulum—the clitoris you have when you don’t have a clitoris. That finger, and the gently sharp teeth rasping your cockhead, seem to be the trigger that detonates your cache of white explosive.
“I’m coming!” you say. “Sue, I’m coming! Do you feel it?”
I try to nod my head. Antonyspunk fulminates from my mouth (still surprised after all these years) and on to my chin and my neck. The sight of it is the trigger for my own explosion, from my scalp to my toes and back to my scalp, and then, erratically, to an archipelago of electric nodes between (I wonder whether an acupuncturist could identify them). I start to shake. My legs clench you and release you, clench you and release you. My hips jerk jerk jerk. Gurgle. Without the benefit of subtitles written across my face I can only wonder whether you’re clever enough to interpret the gurgles as: “I’m coming too. Oh, fuck—I’m coming all over. Oh, gosh—why haven’t I experienced anything like this before? Oh, fuck. Oh, my darling.”
But, of course, I have experienced it before. It’s just that each time seems better than the previous time.
I shudder and moan and splutter while you, with an unlikely gymnastic agility, allow your cock to reciprocate through me with a me-length stroke. My mind dances to the shafting friction in my mouth, in my throat, in my torso, in my tummy and in my streaming crotch. With sweating brow you withdraw your cock from me till its tip comes down to my womb, and then you push it all in again. This time about a forearm’s length of the luminous thing (it seems to improve each shining minute) emerges from my mouth. My eyes widen, and with one hand I grab hold of your slippery cock and cuddle it to dissuade the vain and veiny thing from retracting into its me-sized sheath. With my other hand I scoop up some cock-spittle from my neck and rub it over the end of your cock and over my thimble-teats and over the rest of my conical titlets and around the stretching “Oh!” ring of my lips. (“Oniontower” is your choice of metaphor, bless you. You describe each of my tits as a pair of oniontowers: a smaller one atop a slightly bigger one. Whenever we prepare onions for a meal, or whenever I come across a picture of St Basil’s Cathedral, my nipples swell with blood and stand to attention. Because of you.)
I gurgle with another shuddering climax, and I lose control of my bladder. My bumcheeks and my thighs feel my piss soak into the rug that separates us from the sand. More of your mayonnaise spills from your glans and drenches my hand. My eyes widen again, and I look into your eyes. I wink at you to tell you that everything’s all right. You reach beneath yourself with a hand and collect some of my piss, still gushing from what now seems to have been a pretty full bladder. You rub my piss all over your smiling face, and you put some into your mouth, squish it around and swallow it. For the first time today I drink that surreal sight into my consciousness, and I flood my memory with all the earlier times in which you swamped yourself with my lemonade or drenched me in yours and my imagination with all the times to come.
“Sue’s piss,” you say, and the final sibilant of that lovely phrase sprays some drops of me from between your tongue and your front teeth and on to my face. “Sue’s fine piss. Fine Sue’s piss. Your bittersweet urine. Your chablis. I love your piss because it’s yours, it’s Sue’s, just as you love mine because it’s mine. You didn’t faint, but you did the next best thing—you wetted yourself, you good girl. My darling.”
Speechless I touch your lips with my fingers as you utter those wonderful words. I transfer some of my piss to your stiff teats (there’s nothing vestigial about your nips, Tony—when they suckle me they take me all the way back to my infancy) and to your wispy armpits and to your tummy and to your hips. I yearn to put some on the ever-suckworthy tiny twitching mouth (always Enemarvel-clean for me, all the way inside, just for my tongue and my fingers and our toys) that you harbor between your bumcheeks, but now I can’t quite reach it. I remember the first time you went off to work carrying not only a pastrami-and-tomato-and-cheese (or whatever it was) sandwich and a golden-delicious apple in your briefcase but also a couple of drops of my keepsake piss evaporating like eau de cologne from your cheeks, on your top ones and between your bottom ones.
We stay there, wordlessly stroking each other. Your glans retreats to just outside my lips, and when I kissingly purse my lips around your penis just below your glans my lips read your pulsing veins and arteries as if they’re Braille. What a message! What a medium! My fingers caress your glans. I still can’t speak, but my circular fondling is designed to tell you that everything’s still all right. You kiss my lips and your glans at the one time. You jerk some more semen out of your pouting slit and suck it into your mouth. You let the lotion (my usual trusty Pond’s can jump in the lake, for the time being) ooze from your mouth on to my cheeks and nose and forehead and lips. I rub it into my smile with my hands. Shish-kebab sauce of the gods.
A few minutes later your penis starts to shrink slowly down through my system. When it retreats from my throat I take three or four deep breaths and say:
“That’s enough foreplay, Antony, my darling. Don’t be shy, dear boy. You can take your frigging finger out of my cunt now. Here, I’ll show you what to do next.”
—The end—
PS: My thanks go to the people who created and have been maintaining this excellent website. It works a treat, mainly.