Playing For All The Marbles




He was fed up, and besides, the reek of her crack, (…”her” being The’ Wife, an’ all), was becoming…well, somewhat of a burden to him lately.

Ben had turned into a bit of a couch-potato over time; so had his wife. Their sweated, fart-ridden, poorly washed, buttock-cracks feeding greedily upon their individual under-garment gusset fabric, which conveniently soaked-up the constant drool of putrid sweaty goo that driveled out of their rot, rot, rotten holes of an evening, drenched the inexpensive weave of their lingerie-of-choice, and tended to hold it there, in a sort of a…butt, butt, buttock-hole pong, pong, pongo-stasis; a suspended animation of stink itself. They had become…unconcerned.

Night after night, the unwashed duo slovenly lounged in an almost palpable uncomfortableness. Their rumps sunk deep into the ever gaping lapping embrace of a couple of second-hand squeaky fake-leather recliners; chuckling intermittently, but rarely in sync these days, at some cheap telly sitcom droning away on their new 19 inch flat screen; whilst their daughter of some 19 years sizzled away upstairs in her bedroom viciously doing both her holes, generally, with just about anything she could lay her greedy little lascivious paws on.

During all of this, hubby and wife sat there, oblivious of the upstairs violation being executed with daemonic zeal. They… just sat there, entrenched: The sodden knicker cunt-hammock of hers, and his putrid knackers duffel-bag steaming away; marauding in the dark, dank, humid, void…sequestered somewhere under them; somewhere…between the crack at the top of their flabby thighs, and their loose, puckered brown eyes…(the wife, (for many a year past now), having secretly held a burning penchant for being done – at length – in the coal-chute, whilst hubby loved to get fingered in the back-door upon ejaculation too). Hence, the leaky pong-pong holes: the sodden fabric of her cunt-sling, and the skid mark-ridden freeway of his three day old piss stained jockey’s: All of which, greedily swallowed-up by the very depth of their bulbous ass-clapper fissure, tended to retard — somewhat – the consequential fuming whiff frothing forth out of their bacteriologically-unsound crevices — for a while, that is; so much so, that the time regimen between showers had become rather…elongated, sometimes stretching into weeks, rather than mere days; to the delight, no doubt, of pleasing various hoards of “Save the [Fucking] Planet nuts”, by reducing the water usage, of them, to a minimum.

As a young man, of 19 years, he, Ben, having spent his formative years in a picturesque little hamlet on the outskirts of a large city, attributed the fact that he could throw the steaming cum out of his, engorged, throbbing helmet, a good foot and a half over the best of his inner city pals, and when they weren’t around, he would content himself with squirting his roasting cock-cream into the next door neighbor’s rain-barrel alone; wanking like crazy around the corner of their house, only emerging into the open when his balls began dancing like a pair of hairy marionettes in their pink, fuzzy, sack, hanging unceremoniously out of his unzipped trouser fly. Ben knew that Sherrie, the neighbor’s daughter — now his wife – drank of the barrel daily, and regularly he would wash his ass in the water too, having once taken a huge shit and piss in the mini reservoir…the shit sank immediately.

Ben, the husband I mean, had been…pretty active — sexually speaking. He had always had…his choice of chicks: Word gets around in small communities — fast! Ben’s father, being much more than well-hung, had, apparently, passed-on the “steam-gene” to his son — and all the girls just loved it…and loved it, more and more…and the more they loved it…the more they got it! But, Sherrie, his, then, girlfriend was the only one who could take it all — all twelve and a half, throbbing…punishing…rigid inches — and she wanted even more…constantly!

One particularly passion filled evening, in the cool of the encroaching darkness; standing there behind the old oak tree, in farmer Mac’s clover field: Her, (Sherrie); knickers soaked and trapped around a lone dancing-ankle; legs split wide akimbo; pelvic region thrust forward and upward… Shoulder blades hugging bark for stability: Him, Ben; standing into her, leaning hard against the frothing apex of her hot, fuming, vulva; a stance which set him forward at the loins on her at around 20 degrees off the perpendicular: A technique Ben had developed which gave him that extra thrust – that gravity-assist on the way in: An extra hump that had her squealing like a new born pup impaled on a garden post: A penetration which took care of that all-too-important…last final half inch of his: The shovels of his for hands cupping her taught buttocks…ripping them apart almost! Opening and closing her puckered stink-hole — wide – with red-rhythmic, periodic, regularity. The continual, combined, opening ataşehir escort and closing of her vents, coupled with a full-length prodding of her front hole…the spewing head of his rock-hard rod, subtly, yet inexorably, coaxing…the leading, business-end, of a massive, firm, vegetarian-based nut/tomato-skin and corn-husk-encrusted stench-log…closer and closer…and ever closer toward her hair-rimmed threshold-of-no-return — the winking, gaping sphincter-gate of the pouting female dangle-berry chasm, stinking quietly, deep within the shadowed valley of her bulbous ass-mountains: The dripping, engorged ring, of her bung-hole: The womanly wonderland of delectable delight… The hole of victory! which she uses sparingly on the male’s thunder rod…especially when she thinks she is about to loose an argument, or simple when she wants to get her own way. Then she opens it…and opens it wide for Him: And not a tear is shed, as she milks his rod of potential babies, relentlessly…knowing full well, that their massacre, deep inside her manure cave, where countless millions of his potential babies, melt into oblivion, as the sticky mess out of his gonads coats, and drips in death over her burning hot steaming turds.

She knew it was coming! Her turd, I mean. She could feel it sliding — slowly — like a massive, brown, melting glacier, down the internal sleigh-ride-ramp of her internal anal-chamber, but she could do nothing to stop it…and as he pounded her dripping, inverted fish-canoe — mercilessly, in the darkness of the field — her man-in-the-boat, battered senseless by the storm of his raging torso – she began to neither care anymore, and in fact started to help the process along with almost imperceptible, well timed, contractions of her substantial gut muscles.

He could smell her glacier coming, and stepped up the pace — the eyelet of his meat-pole opening and closing like a goldfish gasping out of water: His bursting, purple, helmet-eye, gulping insatiably at her love juices during every inward thrust. The very motive force ramming her viscous, gray/blue passion-cream deep down into his constricted urethra tube, packing it full of her…drinking of her; an intravenous infusion of her hot slippery mucous under such pulsating pressure, that the goo almost reached his violently swaying oysters themselves.

Finally, because of the sudden increase of her whiff, he took his two index fingers off her buttocks, the rest of her orbs held securely with the remainder of his fingers, and palms, and ran the tips over her rot-hole. It was bulging from within, like a volcanoes’ caldera — readying to explode.

She was murmuring something unintelligible. Cooing, yelping…uttering long steaming sentences of pure gibberish. He wondered for a moment, if she would be able to take what was coming, and then almost immediately shook-off the notion. He had to take this to the end-game…his balls, were awash now in her cock-snot, and he needed to shoot not only his load out of his dancing knackers, but also clear her lust-marzipan out of his tubes too — he was worried about infection — if he left her cream in his rod and balls, but also, he had reservations about doing the ultimate to her…! It had ruined the last four ex-girlfriend’s debris-chocolate holes — possibly for life! The resulting incontinence costing them a pretty penny in spoiled lingerie, and many an hour wasted concocting exotic excuses, and making-up wild, convincing, stories to their future fiancés that would – plausibly – explain why they shit the bed…again, whilst making love, and why, it seemed, that they could easily fit the blunt end of a two liter coke bottle up both their holes, simultaneously…with as much ease, and effort, as it took a rampant nun to get the bishop’s rod all the way down her holy neck, and stuff his shaved knackers into her overstretched cake-hole, licking his quivering garbage-chute with a hot, long…slippery, probing tongue-tip, and with as much passion as peeling a ripe orange, with their terribly manicured talons, while watching the T.V. over the shoulder of their lovers, as they grunted uselessly, in the futile attempt to get satisfaction out of fucking the cunt – a activity tantamount to shoving a French fry up the Brooklyn-Battery tunnel.

Again, he shook off the thought…and got back to business.

In tune with the pumping of her greasy baby-tube, with his punishing, vicious, proboscis: He dug his snot-picking nails deep into her undulating panty-fillers, and wrenched them apart with so much…unrelenting force, that her coccyx almost broke skin: Under his insistent urging, her ring reluctantly opened — and opened wide!

Her ass kept on opening and opening as the colossal log forced its way out of her. She was moaning, and screaming at times, and he was afraid at the sheer size of the thing at the back of her; that she was struggling, mind bogglingly, to give birth to!

The mud-truncheon was now about four kadıköy escort bayan inches out from her ring, and as much as he could tell, by feel alone, it had a girth of close to four inches…but, the head was still growing and he feared for her ass-hole, and whether she would be able to continue with her ballet lessons after the birth?

She was dancing on his pole like a monkey on a stick; screeching and babbling like a banshee. Ben heard the latch of a door unbolt in the distance, and bend around the old oak tree to scan the pitch black horizon for possible intruders. He saw, in the distance, a lone figure standing in a lighted doorway, holding something long, and slender. It was farmer Mac…and he was toting what looked like a double-barreled, 12bore shotgun.

The farmer bellowed into the night, “Who’s there…? Show yourselves, or I’ll…and with that he stepped out of the light, and into the night.

Ben’s balls were tightening, and were buried deep somewhere up in his lower abdomen. He was moving like a steam train; effortlessly, all fatigue had left him…he was on the final approach…on the “vinegar-stroke”.

Sherrie, his girlfriend, was wriggling around on him like a worm on a fisherman’s hook. Ben had to do something fast…! He reached around, and up and under Sherrie, and caught hold of the monstrous log hanging now ten inches out of her over-stretched disposal-hole. He pulled on the steaming stink-pole and at least a foot came out of her — it must have been a good five inches in diameter, and he was amazed at how such a slender angel, weighing no more than 110lbs soaking wet could drop such a gargantuan stench-dildo.

She tensed and dug her nails into his back, tearing at his flesh as her turd rolled out. He pushed the log back into her a good six inches, and she went limp on him, almost fainting with utter pleasure and ecstasy.

Ben worked her ass with her tepid turd like there was no tomorrow! The nuts and corn husks titillating her bung hole to such a degree of stimulation that she threw-up over his shoulder, and down the back of his sweat-drenched T-shirt. He could hear the dung-dildo doing its business on her sphincter, and silently remarked to himself that it sounded like a butcher trying to cut through a handful of chicken giblets with a blunt hack-saw.

Sherrie’s legs were now locked securely behind her head at the ankles. Her hands were clasped in a crushing death-grip around the back of his neck, and they were locked at the cocks, tighter than a couple of Siamese twins. Her shoulder blades were raw and bleeding, but she felt nothing — only unadulterated bliss. Spew driveled out of the corner of her mouth, and farts blasted out from the edges of her ass.

Ben, felt his balls unload into his urethra, and his testicles danced in their sack, then rose, and hid, wantonly, deep within his gut again. He was coming.

Ben allowed Sherrie’s dildo-turd to slither out of her and the roasting creature fell; a good 20 inches in length, landing, sizzling, and curling, and fuming, onto the ant infested ground…killing all, and everything it touched. The remaining ants in for a meal of the century!

Ben pushed hard into Sherrie, and together with her extreme position on him, and his enormous length, he had — by sheer chance — positioned the humongous arrow-shaped head of his love-rocket directly over the center of Sherrie’s cervix. As he pushed his rock-hard salami deeper and deeper into her, with more and more force, the cervix started to open, and with one final continuous thrust, the entire head of his penis broke through the cervical orifice, and it clamped shut; tight around the throbbing shaft of his cock…the cervix, I mean.

Ben and Sherrie both gasped in mind bending hedonistic pleasure. For Ben, it was like fucking a cunt within a cunt, and the inner cunt was oh, so, so tight!

Ben heard a twig crack, and remembered the farmer…and his gun! He tried to pull out, but his helmet was fully through Sherrie’s cervical canal, and she was so tight, that when he tried to withdraw, he almost yanked the entire womb out of her. She gasped and another turd dropped, steaming, from her gaping garbage-chute and hit the ground with a dull thud.

There was no other way. Ben had to shoot his load directly into Sherrie’s womb, and hopefully, his turgid pole would subside enough to grant a bloodless withdrawal. The last thing Ben wanted to see after he came was a sizable amount of Sherrie’s innards dangling from the flaccid end of his foreskin.

Ben got down to business – seriously, and he shook that girl’s womb like it had never been shook before; with his battering-ram of a tool! Sherrie was sobbing, and begging him to both stop…and not to stop!

Then it happened! Ben shot his long awaited load…and then he shot, load, after load…after steaming hot, sperm-ridden load, straight into Sherrie’s womb.

It was a bad time of the month for her; what with escort maltepe her egg dancing wildly in the inner turbulence, around the very head of his rod, and all.

His cream filled her infant cavity to the brim, and as he pumped away, he could feel, with the flat of his hand, her womb filling up.

Ben’s ardor subsided, and his limp noodle slid effortlessly out of Sherrie’s womb, and not a single drop of semen flowed out from her hole.

Sherrie quickly wiped her stink hole on a nearby leaf, and jumped into her panties. Ben, zipped-up his fly, and the two made-off into the bushes just before the farmer came around the back of the old oak tree: Rifle cocked, flashlight taped to the barrel.

The two hid in the bushes, and peered out timidly, at the farmer, as he unloaded bath barrels into Sherrie’s turds. He trundled off back to his ranch house muttering to himself,

“Dammed rattle snakes…”

They both stifled a laugh, and Sherrie farted.

Her ass was sore.

Sometime later they were married, and shortly after…Candice, their daughter…was born.

Sherrie never danced ballet again.



Ben used her.

Sherrie: Ben’s wife, never went in for large broods — being the only child of her nuclear family herself – and consequently they, Ben and her, that is, settled on just one child: A token of sorts – cement for the marriage: A …political move by The’ wife…one that would, simultaneously, ensure the union’s…longevity, along with a seemingly…never-ending supply of “throbbing-rod”; being pounded – religiously — day after day, week after week…and Yes! …year after fucking year, into the “not-too-damaged” one-child orifice — dripping regularly — it seems, between her (dutiful) wifely, fuming, legs — supplemented, of course, by copious ‘safaris’ into — “The Dark Continent”… A stinking hole ruminating at the back of her, which tends to be used strategically — yet periodically, by “experts…of the game” — to bolster-up whatever is, or what [she], considers to be…lacking in her insatiable riding-regimen of her husband’s enormous stork!

By the way of sanity, Ben has had to realize that the woman/girl that he had married – Sherrie: An uncaring mother; derelict wife: Egotist, with hysteroid, narcissistic, overtones — has, throughout their time together…pulled…all of her pseudo-feelings, back, into her cold, calculating, heart…through the polished conduit of her steaming-hot, fish-market, tuna-hole cunt…which by the way, the facility of; …she had engineered, and perfected, over many a year of practice.

The gusset of her knickers was always wet – damp – steaming and stinking, and it drove Ben, and many a wayward man — simply gaga!

And Sherrie just loved [it] in her stench-hole, ever since grandpa did it in her ring at least twice a month, starting all those years ago, on her 18th birthday, but his rod-cream always helped her out with her vegan-induced constipation, though.

Sherrie would spend many an teenage-hour sitting upon the porcelain throne watching intently, with her hand-held vanity mirror stuck expectantly between her open legs; whilst straddled upon the cold, white, toilet pan…watching her swollen, reddened, fudge-bar hole reluctantly open and close, in fits and starts; and as she scrutinized her burgeoning pong pong-hole; staring in amazement, at the sheer volume of slippery, white/gray, semen drivel out from under her: Out from her puckered, bleeding aromatic, rear, pleasure-hole; followed by a massive, steaming, hot, turd…14 to 18 inches in length, with a head on it almost the size of a bulging tennis ball on a hot summers day!

“Thanks Granddad…” She thought.

Yes! Sherrie was turned into a nymphomaniac, by her grandfather alright, but if the truth were told, her…affliction, was driven more decisively, by her inherent need to simply…take a good shit — now and again…! Sometimes she had an orgasm when her rancid logs opened her rot-hole sufficiently enough to overstretch her perineum itself, thus taking-up the bias of her vulva…forcing the inner and outer labial wings apart, and peeling-back her clitoris’s prepuce: …Thrusting forth, the sticky, engorged, unfurled feminine war-head of her womanhood — out! Into a world of…unadulterated…stimulation, and…”secondary”…feeling.

Her cunt was at war with the world, let alone her ass! …and She cried sometimes — but not often – with gratitude, coupled with an intense feeling of…nothingness: At these times; her sultry mood being shifted out of gear, and into an overdrive of mirth and merriment, by enormous farts, forced out from within her brilliant gut — with moderate malice and mitigated fear of harm to innocent bystanders, which, incidentally, she intrinsically knew, within herself, without redundancy, that is — the minimum of destructive,(employed), force necessary, to simulate the blaring sound of that red-hot 750 Norton chugging away noisily, in the dim corner of her father’s father’s garage. That place…where he, her beloved grandfather, shot his multiple hot loads up into the back of her…up, up…into the very cavity itself: Cushioning her shit-logs, sitting there, silently, under her very spine.

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