Oh hi readers.

This story is short, but don’t be fooled. It’s small, efficient, and deadly, like a bazooka that fires dwarves.

This comes to us from ‘Antolino’ (finally, a latin lover who can be ravished all night, then easily wiped down come the morning) of ‘short-fiction.co.uk’.

***

Pamela loved her job as a social worker.

Well, this is a woman trusted to deal with incredibly vulnerable people every day. I’m sure that, as a result, she will written with a deep understanding of other human beings and a huge emotional literacy.

I’m sure.

At thirty years old, she felt accomplished and satisfied in her career. Her love life was suffering greatly though. The toys and movies had become boring.

I don’t know you can really call touching yourself to the filmography of Bob Hoskins a ‘love life’.

Men were using the wrong approach to getting her to date them.

Never approach a lady from downwind. She has to get your scent before she’ll trust you.

It was more of a choice than problem for her. She was drop dead gorgeous.

In that the sarcastic retort she hears most often is “Drop dead, ‘gorgeous‘!”

Her half Asian,

Dot Asian or noodle Asian?

half Negro skin had a natural glow to it.

Well, thank god his racism was there to cover up my racism.

Her silky hair was always flawless, complimenting her perfectly chiseled cheekbones.

She chiseled them herself, every day. It was incredibly painful.

Her body was one that made other women subconsciously hate theirs. Men always gawked and did the one thing she despised the most. They told her she was pretty.

Well, if she would just wear the burlap sack and bread bags I’ve been suggesting…

It made her skin crawl. Not that she felt unattractive, or didn’t like compliments.

She’s worried that her good looks are the only thing people will notice about her, to the exclusion of her other attributes?

Well, I mean, that’s a perfectly modern, logical, feminist concern to ha-

She just knew that when men treated her like that, that they would never stand their ground. To her that was a weakness, a major turn-off.

Complimenting someone you have just met, who you find attractive = Weakness.

She was turned on by confidence. It made her snatch moist when a man wasn’t afraid to be a little rude to her. She liked to be taken aback by a well crafted and rude set of words aimed at getting her attention.

Being enmoistened by aggression doesn’t seem like the best characteristic for a social worker to have.

Like the time she was at the park reading her novel and that passerby exclaimed. “I know your husband ain’t fuckin you right. See broads like you always get wit them soft types. The ones wit little dicks and big wallets!” He had described her then boyfriend with stunning accuracy.

“Well, we have been having some sexual problems as of late. What’s your take on this, stranger in the park?”

“What do you mean broads like me?” Off guard, she closed the novel and uncrossed her legs.

My my, exposing the spotlight already?

“Shit, you need me to spell it out for u?

It is very ironic that you talk of spelling, Sir Harvey.

My name is Harvey.” he sat next to her. The moistness set in. Her heart sped up.

She’s not necessarily aroused. She could be scared, in which case the leaky vagina may be a cunning defense mechanism, not unlike a squid’s ink.

“Hi I’m Priscilla.” She knew she was going to fuck him one time. She felt he deserved it.

“I guess I’ll fuck him, once. I mean, I’ll enjoy it too, but that’s immaterial to me. I’m basically donating to charity. It’s like the Salvation Army up in these panties.”

After a half hour or so of lies and deceit, she led him to some secluded woods at the edge of the park. They went in far enough to go unnoticed by any passersby. The only other person there had just pulled off.

Time for some transatlantic humour.

Americans: ‘Pulled off’, in the U.K., also means ‘to give a handjob’.

U.K.-ers: Yes, the idea that they went to the woods only to find someone there, already wanking, is hilarious.

Canadians: ‘Pulled off’, in the U.K., also means to give a handjob, eh.

Confidence has a way of making one attractive in a light that shines at the most peculiar angle. Harvey wasn’t physically attractive at all. He was short with a pot belly, over forty, and had severe acne.

Did he sneak into someone else’s house in the dead of night, like a greasy little goblin, stick a straw into the ear of the sleeping occupant, and eat their confidence, like a mosquito would your lifeblood?

It’s the only rational explanation.

‘He smelled good and had a huge cock though.’ She would justify to herself whenever she would reminisce about it. He pulled it out waving it like a snake in front of her, prompting her to drop to her knees. She smelled him first.

Like you would a fine cuban cigar.

“Oh yea this a class A cock baby. Natural cocoa flavored.”

“No artifical sweeteners, 0% trans fats, may contain nuts.”

She giggled then licked the tip causing him to flinch.

“..as if recoiling from an impending blow.”

Then she took it all the way to her throat gagging and choking as he grabbed the back of her head and fucked her in the throat. Oh you’s a nasty little slut! The rudeness exited her.

I would ask who’s speaking, but there’s only two, and one’s choking on dick.

She shoved her hand into her crotch and started fingering her soaked snatch. She pulled it out her mouth and spit on it to jerk him off more smoothly.

She pulled her snatch out of her mouth, spit on it, and wrapped it around a dick? Wow.

Purpose your pronouns properly, people.

“Let me lick on that tight little muthafucka. Take them pants on off.”

Randomly inserting ‘on’ where ‘on’ ought not to be does not make you street.

She did as she was told. He licked her clit with the precision and candor of an anteater

Animals I didn’t know were good at cunnilingus, #27.

while shoving his two fingers in and out exactly how he was supposed to. When he pulled them out they were covered by her cream.

That’s called a yeast infection.

The hot summer sun made them look as if they had been swimming. He turned her around, leaned her forward, and shoved it in.

THE SUN?!

You see, authors, you can’t just use ‘It’ to refer to things, as it can be very ambiguous, like then, when I momentarily believed that the Sun, a million-kilometre wide ball of nuclear fire at the centre of our solar system, had entered Pamela’s vagina.

Silly me.

The taboo encounter with a complete stranger mixed with the bluntness of his character, made her cum again on contact. He pounded her relentlessly. It sounded like a plunger having trouble with a stubborn toilet as she held her screams of pleasure in.

The fuck is with these comparisons?

“Her vagina sounded just like a series of municipal pipes full of human excrement.”

Yeah, there won’t be a dry vulva in the house after that one.

“Don’t cum inside me.” She managed to force out over the skin slapping and pussy farting.

When I write my autobiography, I think that’s how I’ll start the chapter about my conception.

He released his load. It hit the back of her hair and formed a line down the back of her shirt, to the edge of her ass crack.

Ooh, a go-faster stripe.

She collapsed forward. They both breathed heavily. Her lightheadedness was swirling with pleasure sprinkled quilt.

‘Pleasure Sprinkled Quilt’ is a great name for a fairy tale book about nocturnal emissions.

She had asked him for his number beforehand to avoid him wanting hers. So when she quickly got dressed and ran to her car without as much as a thank you, he wouldn’t feel hopeless in ever seeing him again. She kept his number as a souvenir. It came to represent the day she dumped the man with the little dick, the big wallet, that couldn’t make her cum.

“Honey, what’s that on the back of your head?”

“It’s over.”

“Hey, that kinda looks like-”

“I ENDED IT FIRST.”

Her office had a nice view. Her boss adored her. He did his best to hide it, but it was apparent to her colleagues. After only six years she became lead case manager for the child and family services.

Two totally unconnected facts.

She never screwed her boss as some speculated. She simply did her job and smiled a lot. She had a natural warmness and charm about herself that made a lot of the women despise her and the men worship her.

Women: Jealous harpies with cold, obsidian hearts, who will hate you if you are beautiful, or nice.

At least, according to this author.

I myself am more of a believer in the ‘cold, flint heart’ school of literary misogyny.

So when she moved from that small cubicle, the rumor mill started turning. Out in the field was where she felt the most comfortable. The home visits, the children, and the time away from the jealousy, was priceless.

Just take a moment, and think. This woman believes that pleasantries and niceness in men are negatives. Can you imagine how many abusive fathers she is going to have ignored in a six year career?

“I got a new case. You can take it, or delegate it. It’s your call.” Her boss said as he tossed the file on her desk. Jeff Sagitt,

Jeff Sagitt.

Jeff Sag It.

Jeff, on whom it sags.

was a genuinely nice man. His deep voice had a deep calm to it. It was in direct contrast to his 6’7”, 300 lb frame. His facial expression often bordered on being bored out of his mind and a little worried about something. He would meet you with a faint smile when required, but then snap right back to his familiar appearance.

Faint smile? Someone’s not getting any.

In her six years she had never had a case that had had these specifics. It was the usual single mother, but with nine children and seven different fathers. Out of all the father’s only one was qualified to gain custody of his child. She formed a picture in her mind of the kids, then the mom, then the qualified father. She wondered hoped the mother would understand her position, her heart felt light for the children, and she wondered what made the one father different from the rest.

As a qualified father (and decent human being), he’s not your type. That’s definately a good start.

Then she found herself thinking if he had a big dick.

Well, he apparently successfully tackled a nine-baby vagina. That’s no mean feat.

“Stop it Priscilla. You nasty girl!” She whispered as she stared at the file.

It’s like if Tyler Durden smelled dicks.

***

Well, I hope you enjoyed that. Personally, I’m just glad to have found that picture of Bob Hoskins.

If you like the blog, spread the word via facebook, twitter, reddit, or any of the other shiny buttons at the bottom of the post.

In the near future, I’m planning to have something special on the blog. I’ll be interviewing a few erotic fiction writers to get some perspective on how all this is done right. Stay tuned for the first interview next week.

-Alex