King: Cocksure

Chapter XIV

> > > Little Endorphin Annie Colter

This novel include graphic sex scenes, some involving minors, rape and forced sex. It is purely a fantasy and is not depicting real people or events. It is intended as a satire and is meant to be both funny and stimulating. The stories have a political slant as you will see. I hope you enjoy them. New chapters will be published as they are finished.

(Mffffffffff)

Did Donna and I survive our ordeal at Balil's office suite? Of course we did or I wouldn't be here relating what happened. But to understand why we survived, you have to know about something that happened to me when I was getting started in the porn business and I met a young, reed-thin woman I dubbed Little Endorphin Annie Colter. She was a skank, trollop even back then before she became a media whore. She was dating Penthouse Publisher Bob Guccione's son at the time and wanted to break into the porn business.

"The only reason I'm dating that liberal freak is to get a layout in his old man's magazine," she said. "The old man tells me I'm kinda pretty in a witchy sort of skanky bag of bones way, but he never wants to see me in his magazine, clothed or unclothed, until I put on weight. I graduated cum laude for Chissake."

"Okay so you want to appear in our new skin rag instead of Penthouse or even Spin," I asked. "You have a law degree. You could do anything you wanted."

"I want to get into porn," Little Annie said. "I want more sex and it's difficult to get laid when men fear they'll be sliced in pieces just rubbing against your bony body. What do you want me to do? Suck a dog's cock. Been there and done it. Want me to pull a train? I am an anal locomotive. I crave the rush of getting it on and getting off."

The thought of someone cramming a dick into that tight barely-there boner hole she called a bung filled me with fear and loathing.

"Well, in our pictorials, you probably would just be shown naked, but I kind of agree with Guccione," I said. "We don't want to published pictures that will spur donations to Biafra Relief Fund."

"I suppose you want to ban me from your magazine for life? Well, just try and I'll go on the Today Show to expose you for the fraud you are, you liberal bastard."

"Not, not for life, just until you eat a big hamburger so you have things other women do, like tits and an ass, things men actually want to see," I said. "Or maybe so you can be photographed from the side and your image will actually appear."

"Typical male attitude," she screamed. "Well, I have it and I intend to flaunt it. From now on, all I'll wear is way-too-short micro miniskirts to expose my legs, my best asset. You'll regret the day you turned me down."

"I regret already meeting you," I said, "but just to be safe, expose your ostrich legs if you must, but cover up that angular, horse-like thing you call a face."

"You will only see the far right side of my face from now on, you Commie, pink bastard."

And with a flourish she was gone, until the Republican commentators meeting a few years later when I bumped into her again. All the cantankerous, cancerous cogitators of right-wing crap were in attendance. I went at the invitation a friend who wrote satirical articles for one of the magazines I publish. She thought it might be funny to see how Rush Limblab, Shawn Handjobby, and Bill O'Biley reacted to having a real, honest-to-goodness purveyor of porn in their midst.

Of course, Little Endorphin Annie was there, too, by now having built a coterie of fellow travelers on the right who enjoyed her attention-grabbing, death-defying swoops and loops above the candle of civilized good taste. But Limblab was the attention-grabber at this convention. This was back in the days of Rush's drug addiction and before the cochlear implant so he was high as a kite more than a little hard of hearing.

"Glad to meet you Cocksure," he said puffing on a cigar after we were introduced. "The world's biggest cock meets the world's biggest ego. One for the history books, I'd say."

"Yes, I guess you could say that if I had an ego to match my cock," I said.

"What was it you said about fucking an eagle?"

"No, I just said my cock is dwarfed by your ego."

"You fuck dwarfs, too?" he said. "I guess the drive-by media is right about you. But could you speak directly into my right ear? Can't hear anything in my left one."

He look down at his rotund body and wished aloud he could see his cock.

"Don't know if it's even still down there," he said. "I mean, when I piss, I see water coming out but for all I know, there's a dwarf down there squeezing a lemon."

Then when he thought no one else was listening, he leaned forward and whispered that he sure gets a boner when he thinks of that Annie Colter "femi-nazi".

"Hottest chick on the planet," he confided. "I see her walking around this convention on those elongated, coltish legs of hers and just want to be an ox in her cotton. Know what I mean? By the way. can you hit me up for some?"

"Hit you up for what?"

"Oxycodone," he said. "I figured you being a pornographer, you'd have the best shit here. I mean my maid is about to turn state's evidence so I can't source from her anymore, that's for sure."

Later, I was introduced to a fuming Bill O'Biley.

"Cocksure, you perverted scruple-less bastard," he said. "It's cocksuckers like you who are ruining this once-proud country."

"I guess you are right," I said, not wanting another debate.

"Really, well, I was wondering as long as you are here," he said in a whisper, "know any submissive chicks who like getting sexy calls from men, late at night? Doesn't have to be a Hollywood starlet. Just some porn whore-let, you know an inconsequential nothing slut who takes in the ass and in her navel."

"Bill O'Biley, you disgusting excuse for a turd," a female voice said from behind me. "How are you and the other mind-numb Roger Ailes ass fuckers at Fox doing?"

"Now there's a fox," O'Biley said. "Cocksure, have you met Annie Colter, the famous best-selling author? Now that's the kind of hot chick you should feature in your movies and in your magazines, Cocksure. A brilliant mind and a body to match."

"I am afraid, Billo, that Mr. Cocksure, has already had his shot to experience nirvana," Annie said. "He turned me down. I was just a young slut applying for a position in his magazine or in his movies while he was on an East Coast tour and Cocksure sure did turn me down. That was before I was the mature filled out self-assured woman I have become."

If anything, Annie a was more angular and less appealing than ever. There was a raspiness and bitchiness to her voice that grated on every nerve in my body.

"How's it hanging, Cocksure?" she said. "I'll bet you rue the day you let me walk out of your life."

She was wearing her trademark mini-skirt with her wobbly sun-bleached legs tottering on spike heals. Some men found her attractive, but I was repulsed.

"If I stuck my dick in you, you might inflate enough to be worth a fuck," I said.

"See Billo, I'm just not Mr. Cocksure's type. Only you Fox faggots know how to appreciate a lady."

"He's a pornographer, Annie, what did you expect?" O'Billey bubbled. "Doesn't know how to treat a real woman. Now how about it? Can I call you again tonight and whisper sweet orders into your dry, bony cunt?"

"I'd rather have Cocksure stretch my holes," she said. "But O'Billey, I'll provide a port for any dry docked ship in a storm, even a squinty-faced reprobate like you. Call me tonight and tell me how to make you cum."

Her last words to me as she left that day were: "Cocksure, you will not live to deny me thrice of your peter like Peter thrice denied Jesus. I am, above everything, a crazy-ass Christian bitch."

So you can see why I was a little disconcerted to see her walk in behind Balil that day in Balil's office suite years later.

"I warned you, Cocksure," she said. "You shall not deny me thrice. Today, mark my words, I intend--you'll be appalled to know--to have your peter pickled and boiled in luke warm water, flushed down a john after I set a match too it."

"Miss Colter is the mistress in charge of my harem," Balil explained. "She spotted the bimbo who followed you here from London and went back to capture her at your hotel when you left to come here."

"Yes , Cocksure, I do a few odd jobs for the ragheads and they pay me well," Little Annie said. "I've known Balil here since the early days in Hollywood when he and his dad and brother owned that run down porn studio/strip club. You'd be surprised how many times my feet appeared in a foot-fetish video."

“Brad, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it,” Donna said, lying naked on the floor. “She came in while I was in the shower and held a gun on me. Then she tied me up and brought me here.”

While Balil’s two thugs held Donna down, Colter pulled a large phallic object from her own purse and jammed it in Donna’s squirming crotch.

“I could jam this in your mouth to shut you up,” Annie said, “but I somehow suspect this will be more effective.”

Donna struggled for a few minutes, but slowly the buzzing in her nether regions began to have the desired effect. She was writhing and moaning while she pushed back against the force that was plugged into her. I noticed she was squirting profusely around the sides of the vibrator and leaving a puddle on the carpet. There’s something about danger that heightens the sexual experience for people in Donna’s line of work.

“Brad, forgive me,” she said. “I can’t seem to…omigod...stop myself.”

“No reason to apologize,” I said.

“Now for your treat,” Balil said to me.

After tying me securely between two concrete posts, he had four women from the harem begin to suck on my cock, passing it from one to another. Then two other women stuffed a long white enema tube up my butt and began pumping water up inside me. The combined effect was excruciating. The pleasure in my loins made it more difficult to control the water that wanted to rush out of me and it soon felt like my bowels were about to explode.

“As soon as Balil and his bitches are done with you, Cocksure,” Colter said, “your cock belongs to me.”

“I think, cousin, that your two-foot cock is about to go missing in action,” Balil laughed. I noticed Annie was holding a sharp knife in one hand while she stuffed the vibrator in Donna with another. Balil was about to say something else when I noticed a red brightly lit dot had suddenly appeared on his chest. I gritted my teeth and told Balil:

“I think, cousin, that you are the one about to experience a sudden loss.”

Balil instantly knew what the red dot meant. He tried to turn away but it was too late. The dot darkened and suddenly began to spread across his chest to cover his brilliant white robe. He fell to the floor clutching his chest. The harem women screamed and began running from the room, Colter running with them. Balil’s two thugs were targeted next and they fell gasping to the floor, shooting off a few rounds of automatic weapons fire. Donna leaped to her feet and ran naked over to cut me loose from the two posts where I’d been tied. She used the knife that Colter dropped as she fled from the room.

“Come on, Brad,” she said. “We’ve got to retrieve the Black Rock from the hidden room behind Balil’s office.”

We both ran naked into the hallway where a large force of men in paramilitary gear were assembling. I was clutching my ass cheeks as tightly as possible to avoid flooding everyone in close proximity with vile fluids. We disappeared into Balil’s office and probed the wall behind his desk for a latch that would open a secret entrance to the room. Donna found a small latch hidden behind a book case. She pulled it and a wall swung open. Inside, two more Balil henchman were trying to take the Muslim icon off the wall and get it out of the building. As I walked in, they dropped it and it clattered heavily to the ground. Part of the frame shattered and bits of the black rock dropped from the encasement.

The two henchmen both struck me hard in the chest with their fists. I backed up and landed atop the broken frame, no longer able to contain the water sloshing around in my bowels. I drenched the entire area with the water that Balil’s harem girls had pumped inside me. Some of it splashed on the icon, but I was too busy watching in amazement as Donna swung into action. She was a swirling dervish of fists, knees, elbows and feet as she subdued the two men.

“We’re lucky we got here when we did,” she told me out as she pulled me to my feet. “Balil assigned those guys to get the Black Rock out of here if this facility ever was raided by authorities.”

Tom Westbrook, Donna’s brother, walked alone into the room telling a group of armed me with him to wait outside.

“Glad to see you two are alright,” he said, smiling. “It took us longer to get over here and get all our forces in place when we discovered you were missing from the hotel, Donna.”

“No problem, big brother, just glad you are here,” she laughed. “I knew you were coming, but I just wasn’t sure it would be in time to save our asses.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Some of those are Saudi forces out there. How did they get involved?”

“We work with them all the time,” Tom said. “We help with Saudi security details all the time, train their people. When we told them what we suspected Balil had stolen, we couldn’t have stopped them from getting involved.”

He surveyed the wreckage in the room.

“That icon can be fixed,” Tom said. “They’ll put it back together good as new. But something that won’t heal is when the Saudi forces here spread the word that somebody crapped all over the holiest item in the Muslim world. They’ll spread the word that every time some Muslin presses their lips to al-Hajar-ul-Aswad , they’ll effectively be kissing your ass, Cocksure. I’m afraid that’s going to piss ‘em off something fierce. They’ll be searching for the defiler. I suggest you and Donna get your clothes on and get as far from here as possible. We won’t tell them who pooped on their sacred rock. That won’t stop them from looking for you and issuing a fatwa but at least, you’ll be far away from here if they discover it was you.”

Donna grabbed me by my hand and pulled me from the room before the Saudi forces could discover we were there. They were shocked to see a naked man and woman fleeing together but let us pass freely. Donna had been taken from the hotel barely dressed so I had to find a robe to throw over her. I, at least, had the clothes I came to the building in to wear on my way out.

As we fled the scene in cab, Donna told me that Balil had, indeed, intended to blame the west for stealing al-Hajar-ul-Aswad. He’d paid guards at the kabba to look the other way while his thugs stole the icon and replaced it with a duplicate he’d had made.

“You are a hero, Brad,” she told me.

And President Bush said so, too, in a letter I received shortly after I returned to the United States:

“Dear Mr. Cocksure:

That sure is a funny name. Where did you get it?

“I want to commend you from your success in helping to avert a terrorist threat of magnanimous dimensionality. You endangered your life and risked a fatone (What is that exactly?). You helped to prevent further conflict in the middle east and helped us destroy an enemy who had nothing but terrible intentions for all of American and in getting us more greatly conflicted.”

With the letter was a note saying that due to the upcoming inauguration, President Bush might not be able to present me with the Good Citizens Award as he would have liked.

“Please, indicate if you would rather have President Obama or President Bush present the award,” the note read.

I guess I don’t have to tell you which President I selected. The Bush letter did, however, remind me of something that happened during the weekend several years ago I went to the Conservative Commentator’s Convention. My writer friend and I went to a suite were we were told we would be able to meet and interview Shawn Handjobby. We found him in a darkened room in his shorts with a box of tissues masturbating to pictures of the Bush women. And I don’t mean bushy women or women from the African bush.

“That Laura, look at her complexion,” he snorted. Snot was dripping out of his nose and cream from his cock. “Makes me want to cry.”

“Most Americans want to cry when we see pictures of President Bush,” I told him, “and realize we elected this moron.”

“They don’t appreciate greatness when they see it,” he retorted. “Fellow Foxite Brit Humjob says nobody believes the New Deal was successful but they all give FDR credit for being a great president.”

“Everybody believes the New Deal worked,” I said. “Maybe it didn’t work exactly as planned. Maybe the government should have spent more, earlier. But eventually it worked.”

“FDR was a commie bastard just like Al Gore,” Handjobby said. “Mark my words, Gore and his buddies in Congress would be giving American industry bailouts, helping the auto industry, the auto unions. That’s the difference. It’s something Bush or any tried and true conservative never would do.”

And of course, we all know how that worked out.

Lastly, some friends have asked why I would admit to having pooped on al-Hajar-ul-Aswad after the Westbrooks did so much to protect me. Two words, a name actually. Salman Rushdie. It's better to hide in plain site when threatened by a fatwa than to try and hide in darkness. Or so I thought.