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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o  	I don't believe in categorizing things. "I don't want to  o
o  be typed therefore I don't type things myself."  I think it's  o
o  a lot more fun to browse around and find  'little'  surprises  o
o  that you might not have even thought of looking for.           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.                   o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Cute Guys Getting It On XXX

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This story is rated XXX. For excitement. For excrement. For extraneous
details.

I was entranced by the way sweat glistened off your heavy gut. I abhorred
your stiff physicality. Pumping you with laxatives seemed right. I know,
you were never much of a housekeeper.

You've got to kill the maggots or you'll have a million flies.

Years ago, I discovered the rotten little rural town. The mountain
landscape parted like pine-stubbled asscheeks in whose linty crack had been
built the two supermarkets (1962 and 1979), the Liquor, Bait and Ammo
store, a darkened thrift store thick with dust, and the Econogas station
with its small convenience mart: cigarettes, lotto. Refreshments. Heedless
youths purchased beer there, sped away in their old wrecks, blaring shitty
music.

I'm a stinking drunk now, your best student grown to maturity. It blew in
again, the chill from our deer hunting days. How you roared with laughter
when I shot that dog by accident. You pushed me over, and I remembered how
handsome you were. You of the jutting brow, square jaw, the low hairline,
eyes red as valentines. Time for some cold ones. I fucked you for hours as
bleary hope and boredom urged me ever onwards. The sun would rise, we'd
pull the shades and fall entwined into a painful hangover. I drowned you
and left your ass sticking out the tub. No one came by, far as I ever
heard. The old trailer rots away under the vines and blown trash, old
Pampers pressed into the lawn. You once wore them. We had some times.

The carrion fly seeks the new bloomed flesh-flowers when the old have
sifted into the earth. I think of you when I'm with Joe now. He's
different, a slender amphetamine sort, confused and quick to anger. I
dragged him back to this cabin where the people wouldn't return till next
summer. I was nearly sure. If they came back sooner I had the gun. Joe had
been married, but prison had dispatched the wife (divorce), and taught Joe
how far he'd get in the world if he let himself be fucked by his superiors.

To be honest, I was turned on my his temper. "I'm not doing your fucking
cleaning, you fucking depraved animal," he would protest, standing in
disbelief before the ziggurat of dirty dishes. I'd take one look at his
shirtless torso, skinny, muscular, scarred; savor his insolent slouch, cig
dangling from his lip, beer barely held by two fingers, and I'd belt him
across the face. His long dirty blond hair would swirl across his face for
the half second it took him to hit the floor. He'd be mad as hell, ready to
kill, but I never let him get to his feet. I'd smack him across the face
again, and knock the wind out of him with a hard blow to the stomach. That
usually bought me time for personal reflection.

One morning, as he looked at me in shock and hatred, clutching his stomach,
it occurred to me to grab him by a clump of hair and drag him across the
floor. I hadn't grabbed quite enough, and the clump pulled out of his head.
Adjusting my technique, I managed to drag him across the filthy
brick-patterned linoleum floor where I handcuffed him to the wooden arm of
a heavy couch. Words came to him as he collected his wits: I was now
perilously close to having my feelings hurt.

His voice, a high, raspy tenor, filled the air with invective: "You
motherfucking asshole, I'm gonna fucking kill you, you turd. You
motherfucking turd. I'm gonna fucking burn this house down with you in it.
I'm gonna fucking kill you, you fucking sadistic, sadistic ASShole." I was
much larger than he was, and managed to still him while I gave him the
injection.

His unconscious body lay face down, cuffed hands circling the sturdy arm of
the couch. I removed his worn jeans, marveling at his butt, shapely if
sickly pale. I couldn't restrain myself from licking it, opening my mouth
wide and taking a long slow bite of it. I licked at his crack, getting a
mouthful of dried shit crusts. I turned his head sideways and gazed at his
beautiful features. His broken nose. His sunken eyes, rung black from years
of cigarette and pot smoking. His sensual lips gathered whitish foam at
their edges. I planted my mouth on his, tasted at length his warm tongue,
the taste of his blood and what profanity remained undischarged from his
throat. I was likely to demonstrate my sensitive nature when Joe was out
cold. I tied his ankles to a broom stick in a spread eagle position. I
wiped his silent lips with a paper towel before sealing them with gray
gaffer's tape.

I knocked back a couple beers while gazing out the window. Snow swirled
lightly. Through the trees, I could see the highway. A pickup with a couple
dead deer strapped to the roof shot by. In the distance I could hear a
chainsaw. I took a flashlight with me out to the old toolshed out back
where I found a few nails in a rusted old coffee can.

When I returned to the living room, I heard some low groaning; Joe was
beginning to stir a bit. I stretched the skin of his ball sack to the floor
and positioned a broad-headed nail on top. Two heavy taps with the hammer,
and the nail head pressed his ball skin securely to the floor. A collar of
red started to glisten around the nail head. I put in three more nails,
spreading his ball sack as wide and flat as possible. He was secure now. I
took a poker from the rack of tools by the fireplace. It had a shiny,
rounded brass handle which I shoved it up his ass about eight inches. I
left it there for aesthetic reasons.

I must have blacked out. When I looked around, it was dark out. I opened
the fridge to fetch a beer. Light spread from within, revealing a smudge of
blood on the linoleum floor. It all came back to me.

Flicking on the living room lights, I saw Joe's whitish body surrounded by
the rich, warm colors of woodland holiday: framed prints of ducks and
retrievers, paneled walls, an appealing free standing brass ashtray with an
amber glass dish at top. Joe, belly down in his own piss, looked at me with
rage and despair. He'd discovered that he couldn't move his butt without
ripping his scrotum. Blood and piss commingled in a puddle between his
legs. I made myself some coffee.

I sat on the couch to chat with Joe. I told him how touching it was that he
wanted to live with me. That nothing compels him to stay. But that I would
require him to be more thoroughly domestic in the future.

Tears streamed down Joe's face.

I ripped the tape off and touched the barrel of my gun to his temple. His
lower jaw quivered with fear. I knelt beside his head and fed him my cock.
His mouth felt soft and moist, delicate even. It made me want to cry. I
slowly fucked his mouth for about an hour before tiring of it. I sealed him
with fresh tape.

Later that night I rallied a few of the local boys to come by and fuck Joe,
still nailed to the floor, reeking of piss. He'd beaten them all back in
junior high. We had to remove the brass-handled shovel. The mood was
convivial. We all drank beers and laughed as one youth after another
plunged his full hard dick into the increasingly ruined hole, a living
sewer for come. Joe began red as a beet with rage, but paled over time, and
the last kid complained that it was like fucking a corpse. I sent them
home. Outside the sky was getting light again. I was ready. My cock was
nearly hard. I put down my beer and crept up behind Joe. I stripped off his
tape-gag.

"Why?" he wept. "Why?"

I lay my cock at his anal opening. The smell of the boys' fermenting semen
was becoming quite heady. I didn't have to push my way in, that's for sure.
I eased into his warm slimy ass.

"Why the fuck not?" I rejoined.

The harder he wept the more unintelligible he became. I felt encouraged. I
pumped at his hole, breathing heavy beer breaths. He could no longer speak.
His mouth was just open. He panted like a dying animal. I grabbed his hips
and pulled him onto my dick. His balls still nailed to the floor, he
regained speech and through loud uncontrollable weeping, he implored me to
stop. With all my might I stood up, keeping my dick pressed deep into his
bowels. His scrotum ripped free of the floor. The room filled with his
screams. I fucked him. An astonishing amount of blood ran down his legs. I
added my semen to the collection.

I'm so far away now. Alone. We move on, we can never go back. I'm
reluctantly convinced. From my trailer I watch dust rise up off the plain
in the wind.

Why did Joe have to leave?

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(c)1995 Kurt Hoffman
