Kickstart Challenge...

[Guest]

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[Guest]

ok.. heres something i wrote a few years ago. i had no intention of 'doing' anything to it but i would be interested to see if someone else could add to it....
very macabre.

~~~~~~~~~
I’ve always been the class clown; the person voted most likely to become a comedian. I’ve also always known that because of my sense of irony, I would be an awesome mortician.

You are probably scratching your head and wondering what I am getting at, aren’t you? Well, frankly, I am too. So, I shall start now, the tale of my life. Those of you who choose to fall asleep, please confine your snoring to a low roar. Thank you.

When I was very young, I had an intense curiosity about death. It was nearly all consuming. The older people in my family were dropping like flies and I wondered where they all went. I was never sad when my they passed and wanted to see what it was that these morticians did to make them look so doll-like. Certainly, Grandma never had that much color to her face when she kicked it. Upon closer inspection; for which I was severely berated, I saw that her clothes weren’t really on her properly. HRM! What does this all mean?

With all these burning questions, I decided to become the world’s best mortician. After college and the requisite graduation, I spent many years in the basement of the local funeral parlor, draining, infusing, dressing, and painting color onto the recently deceased. Don’t be fooled by the movie “My Girl”, it’s not anything like that.

The best thing was that every night, I had an audience to practice my material on; no hecklers! They never needed warm up acts so I would just forge ahead and it would go something like this:

“Welcome, ladies and gents to the Dinoto Funeral Tree House Comedy hour. Your comedian for today is Vella. A lovely hand for Vella, Please.

Thank you, thank you very much. Ben Franklin said, “In order for three people to keep a secret, two of them must be dead.” Looks like we’re ahead of the game here, folks.

One good thing; I can’t bore you to death.

A murderer, sitting in the electric chair, was about to be executed.
"Have you any last requests? asked the chaplain.
"Yes," replied the murderer. "Will you hold my hand?"

I hope you’ve enjoyed the show and I hope you’ve packed light. You’ve been an awesome audience. Thank you for dropping by.”

I swear my customers went to their coffins with a vague smile upon their stiff upper lips.
One day, you will see me on Letterman and say, “I read her story. She’s the shiznit!”

 

[cloudy]

I have one I want to contribute, but damned if I can find it.

stupid, damned computer crash

 

[Guest]

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[Rumple Foreskin]

Dranoel said if I played nice here at the Kickstart Challenge, he'd enter the Valentine contest. The only problem was I didn't think I had any unfinished stories. That's due to the way I write, not any work ethic on my part.

However, I did come across a 1300 word opening I once tinkered with as a possible sequel to my "Nurse Nailed" interracial stroke story. It had a working title of "Leroy's Fall." It's a raunchy, sexiest, and racist work-in-progress. Feel free to avoid, complete or add on to it as ye see fit.

Tomorrow, I'll try to take a shot at Vella and/or Dranoel's unfinished business.

Rumple Foreskin

==

If what you say is the Gospel truth, then it ain’t bragging. And the truth was, I had it made. I mean, there I was, stretched out in the middle of a motel bed with a sexy white chick, my boss at the hospital, a nurse named Donna Faircloth, kneeling astride my hips. She was busy working her fine young hips down over my thick black dick, cramming inch after inch up into her tight pink pussy. See what I mean?

From her expression, I knew she was getting off on sensations she wasn't getting from her button-down husband. My dick, a big black hammer I call Roscoe, had pushed aside those silky, dark-blonde pubs, then stretched her pussy lips wide apart. Now I watched as more and more of it kept sliding up inside her prime pussy.

Talk about a trip! Don't get me wrong, Brenda, that's my old lady, is a righteous piece of ass, at least when she's in the mood. But Donna was something extra special.

By now she’d gotten into a sweet rhythm, using the bed’s motion to help her ride up and down on my hammer. The sight of her sweet boobs jiggling inches from my face was a great rush. She was shaking her head, like this was just too damn good to be true. The motion sent her short, blonde hair swirling. There was a spacey, blissful look on her face that left no doubt she was really tripping-out on the sex, on the feel of old Roscoe reaming her out. I swear, watching that little fox in action could get a dead man off.

All this time I’d just been laying there, letting her do all the work. She always seemed to like it that way. And what can I tell you? It was fine by me. But now I couldn’t resist stroking her creamy thighs, gradually moving up toward that sweet spot where our two bodies had become one. She responded to my touch with these little moans that are such a turn-on. The closer my fingertips came to the sweet spot, the louder the moans got.

She started pumping her hips even faster. Each time she finished a downward stroke, you could hear this far-out, squishing noise. I swear, she’s got the wettest pussy I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Everything was moving faster. She leaned forward with her hands on my chest for balance while her hips were working like a runaway jackhammer.

What I’m trying to say is this lady was about to get off. I placed a hand on one of her firm jugs and tweaked the hard, pink nipple. Meanwhile, I slid my other hand to the top of those smooth thighs. When I touched her clit, she went wild.

There was a loud gasp and her eyes opened wide. She tried to lunge forward, but I pushed her back upright. I knew this would increase the pressure in her pussy to an almost unbearable combination of pleasure and pain. But she could take it. What’s more, I knew she loved it.

With eyes closed and arms wrapped around her head, she shook from the force of the orgasm. Her stomach muscles rippled with each wave of the climax. I thrust my hips up, and she almost shot out of the saddle. Letting go of her head, she grabbed my arm for support. Just then, warm pussy juice started sloshing over my nuts. That’s one of the greatest things about fucking Donna. I mean, the way she’ll cum like that, at least sometimes. It makes you feel great knowing you’re doing a chick some real good.

I’ve got no idea how long this orgasm lasted. It was a strong mother and seemed to go on forever. In part, that’s because each time it seemed to be easing, I’d twitch my hips and slam Roscoe in a little deeper and things would start all over. But that won’t work forever. When the last waves of the orgasm ebbed away, she sighed and slumped back, arms dangling at her sides, with me still planted deep inside her warm, wet snatch.

We didn’t say anything, just looked at one another. She had this pleased, shit-eating grin on her face. Odds are I looked about the same. After catching her breath, she leaned forward and lay on my chest. I stroked her silky hair, knowing she was savoring the afterglow of her climax and the thought that she’d soon be having more of them.

Donna had taught me to like these quiet times together after we’d screwed. But it wasn’t long before her hips began moving. Of course, she still had old Roscoe buried inside her juicy snatch so the only way she could move was up and down. The pace was slow at first, but she began picking up speed. It wasn’t long before she sat back up and was once again pounding away on my hard hammer, pushing herself towards another orgasm.

I didn’t rush it. She’d come soon enough on her own and I loved watching her ride me. When it hit, her fingertips dig into my arms and her pussy clamped down tight. I made one big thrust upward, making sure she had every inch of Roscoe buried deep inside her shuddering body. When the orgasm finally passed, she rested for a minute, and then we began again.

We’d gotten into this kind of action the second or third time we’d screwed here at the motel. I have no idea how many times we usually replayed the scene and don’t even give a shit. It didn’t bother me that I wasn’t getting off. That’d happen soon enough. Besides, it’s such an ego-stroke giving a sexy fuck-a-holic like Donna one climax after another until she’s exhausted.

After several more of these mini-orgasms, I started toying with her. The next time she was about to explode, I forced her to slow down, keeping her on the edge of a climax. After repeating this a few times, she was almost frantic to come.

The next time she reached the brink of an orgasm, instead of keeping her at the brink, I thrust my hips off the bed drilling her with every inch of old Roscoe. She let out a gasp of pleasure like a kid at Christmas and her hips became a blur of motion.

When she came this time, there was nothing mini about the orgasm. It left her panting, sweaty and exhausted. She was too tired to do anything more than just sit on Roscoe and try to recover. But I knew this chick was a long way from being fucked-out. Only now it was my turn to go to work.

I pulled her down on top of me and then rolled us both over. We finished the move with me on top and Roscoe still in place. I leaned down and kissed her long, hard, and deep. Our tongues danced back and forth. She put her hands on my head and ran her tongue deep into my mouth. I took it between my teeth, sucking it in even deeper. Her moan was a mixture of lust and pain. But instead of pulling back, she opened her mouth even wider. We both knew she was giving me control, not just of her tongue or mouth, but of her entire body.

All this time, I’d been pressing my hips hard against hers. She’d responded by spreading her legs even wider. When our mouths parted, I pulled back on Roscoe, leaving just his head inside her waiting pussy. We looked at each other, and then I hammered him deep into that fine little white bod.

She shuddered and moaned, “Oh, yes.” With those words we began a long, righteous fuck. This time I wasn’t as frantic and could enjoy the feel of her body writhing under me and her pussy clutching at my hammer. We got into a nice rhythm as I pumped into her with long, deep thrusts.

There’s no telling how long we’d been going at it like that when my nuts began to churn. I guess she could sense this because she wrapped her legs and arms around me and began fucking back even harder. We came at the same time. It was a long, gut-wrenching, shared moment that left us both totally satisfied and completely fucked out.

So maybe you can understand what I meant about having it made. And then I had to blow the whole sweet deal.

 

[Guest]

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[Guest]

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[MissBri]

 

[impressive]

I'll go through my WIP folder tomorrow & see if there are any suitable stray pieces.

 

[Selena_Kitt]

Here's a short little one:

****

The Waiting Room

Her nails were ragged, bitten to the quick, the cuticles red and raw-looking. Her fingertips drummed on the magazine-littered table in front of her, keeping time with the music that was being played through the speakers in the ceiling. It was typical slow, doctor’s-office music, and the beat she was keeping was slightly off. A huge worn fringed black purse as snuggled up to her hip, like an old dog that had fallen asleep on the brown waiting-room furniture.

She might have been pretty. She looked like the type of woman who might have had to live in the shadow of an older sibling, one who would later marry, get out of that rut, blossom and come into her own as she had time away from so much pressure, ad write home as little as possible.

She might have been pretty—but she was not. She was a little too heavy, and she covered that unsuccessfully with a long, black coat. Her hair was dyed blonde, dark roots showing, medium-length, soft and windblown. Green eyes, eyes that darted here and there, resting often on the receptionist. She wore no make-up and was exceptionally pale. Her pallor only accented the circles beneath her eyes, heavy and dark, as if she had slept without removing her eye make-up.

She looked nervous and she was. I hid behind the February issue of Time magazine and watched her. She chewed on what was left of her fingernails until they began to bleed. Then she rummaged around in her purse, that dark, fringed thing, looking for a tissue. The search was only satisfactory after she had empties the entire contents of her purse onto the chair beside her, a menagerie of make-up and other female things.

When she had stopped the bleeding and loaded her purse back up, she threw the tissue in the basket near the drinking fountain, got a drink, and made her way back to her seat. She peered through the receptionist’s window as she went by, probably wondering, as I was, what was keeping the doctor.

She settled herself back in her seat with a small sigh, pulling her purse back in close to her side, and picked up a magazine. She held it, upside down, propped in her lap and she fixated at a point on the floor for some time.

She sighed again, looking back down at the magazine and realizing that it was upside down. She blushed a little, giving a surreptitious look around before righting it and leafing through it. It was a copy of Field and Stream. Her eyes darted to the receptionist, to the clock above my head, and then to her watch, as if this would make any of them move faster.

She gave up on Field and Stream, tossing it back onto the table. She sat quietly for a moment, taking in the room’s décor, the brown and beige and “blah” of it. If you weren’t sick before you came in, you’ll leave feeling that way, I thought, flipping past another unread page in Time.

What did she have to see the doctor for? She didn’t look all that healthy, but she didn’t act sick, either. No coughing, sniffling or sneezing. I was simply in for a physical—I’m meticulous that way, I like to keep fit—but she didn’t look that type.

She picked lint off her coat and twisted her pinky ring around and around her finger and then wet her finger with her tongue to get the salt off her black boots. She wound her watch and tapped her foot on the brown carpet.

The receptionist came to the door, wearing white and smiling as receptionists in doctor’s offices tend to do.

“Steven?” she asked. I put down my magazine and got up. The blonde looked at me, I think for the first time since she had arrived. I smiled at her and she offered me a smile in return. It was small, weak at best, but she was suddenly pretty—it had lightened her. Briefly.

“Good luck,” she said, her voice low and soft, something like liquid fire. It was an odd thing to say to a guy on a way in to get a physical, and I couldn’t think of a reply for a moment.

“You, too,” I finally said, following the receptionist and glancing back over my shoulder at her. She just shrugged. Her smile was gone.

 

[Guest]

I have a really short, no directional piece right here... I had vaguely plotted turning it into a non-human piece, as I haven't done anything along vampire lines in forever... but then I kind of got sucked down into the black hole of HFF and the chain story thing. So... here?

_

She could have been anyone, anything, standing in the shadows as she was, only the flicker of face and hands to pick her out of the darkness. It was more then manner of her waiting, the aloof grace and high-strung poise, and the way she looked at him, straight across the heads of the gathered fans, her eyes only on him, and for a moment he could see them clearly, an impossible blue-green like deep water, sprinkled with gold. She saw him, smiled, dark lips against white teeth, and turned away, walking away with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her long dark coat, a scattering of flower-petal children trailing after her, all brilliant hair and beautiful faces. He watched them, even as he signed autographs and posed with fans, watched them disappear into a scatter of cars; old hot rods with fanciful paint jobs and deep, throbbing music pouring from the speakers, and roll out of the parking lot.

"She looked familiar," he told Will as they settled into the back of the limo the promoters had provided. "Like I should have known her." Mike chugged half a bottle of water, set it down and wiped his face with his hands before turning inquisitive brown eyes on Lane.
"Tall chick with long black hair and really fucking amazing eyes, right?" Lane nodded. Mike grinned. "Dude, that's Shade. She's the lead singer for the band that opened this gig, Falling Dreams. She mentioned in passing that she really liked the way you handled a guitar. Here..." Shifting on the seat, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a business card. "She gave this to me, said if we weren't too wiped to drop by after the show for a drink." Lane took the heavy engraved stock from his friend's fingers cautiously. An iridescent blue scorpion ran across one side of the card, with an address stamped in tiny black copperplate type beneath it. He flipped it over and read the elegant, slashing cursive message.
" 'Puck, they're with me: Shade.' What the hell is that? Some sort of private club or something?" Will, ever intrigued by a puzzle, snapped the card from his fingers.
"Looks like fun. Think we should go?" Across the seats, Brian and Greg just shrugged. Mike enthusiastically nodded, and Will's insane green gaze turned back to Lane, sparkling with challenge.
"Why not?" Lane said resignedly. "If we don't all go, I'll just have to come haul your ass out of trouble later." Will pressed the intercom and gave the chauffeur the address with his usual insouciant authority. The long black car purred smoothly through the night, the band sprawled in various poses of relaxation, drinking water and thinking silent thoughts, coming down from the dizzying rush of adrenaline a show always brought with it.
----

 

[SEVERUSMAX]

Well, I'll give it a shot. This is what I have written, so far, of Chapter 5 of "Ambassador's Life". I got stuck for a while on the next paragraphs.

I'll see how it looks....and if I like the result, I will give whoever completes it PLENTY of credit, I assure you...I just had to try this and see what happened...

Ambassador's Life- Chapter 5:

Lieutenant Aldenar of the Akrosian Imperial Marines found it more difficult to follow his own plan each hour that he spent on Dekeris. He knew the risks involved in mating outside his race, not to mention breaching his nuptial contract. Even so, he secretly lusted for the exotic, bald women of this planet. His body didn’t exactly care about the possible consequences of any such acts.

The shocking thing was the completely open attitude about sexuality on this planet. Nudity was rampant, while men and women of various ages flirted with each other in a “lascivious, shameless” fashion, as the propaganda had described it. He had doubted the reports of Dekerin promiscuity, but he no longer did so. The slutty behavior of the Dekerin females aroused him in particular. The prostitutes on the street even made subtle eye contact with him, as if to suggest the “unthinkable” (Imperial rhetoric there) to him and his comrades, of BOTH sexes!

Quite a few of the Lieutenant’s troops blushed at this embarrassing sexual attention. Since their world viewed prostitution as a crime, punishable by hard labor, to have women non-verbally proposition them was a bit jolting to the poor Marines. Most of them had mates, but they hadn’t seen them in months, and were not likely to do so anytime soon. Yet they were still expected to avoid sexual contact with these gorgeous, off world women. The penalty was harsh, after all. It was even tougher than the punishment for mere adultery. They would be executed slowly and painfully if they were caught.

Aldenar’s own union was about to expire a lot sooner than most of his comrades’, and the chances of forming a new one were slim. Only two other Marines in his unit were available, and both were male. Since he was a heterosexual man, he had no interest in either of the men. Furthermore, the chances favored them finding mates before he had the chance to unite with them anyway.

While homosexuality was itself legal on Akros and mating with a subordinate legal as well, the latter was often resented by lower-ranking personnel for “egalitarian” reasons. Sexual harassment was a serious offense on Akros, as a matter of fact, and was so vaguely defined that ANYTHING could be considered it, as long as the “victim” so defined it. Lieutenant Aldenar personally regarded that standard as insane, but he dared not speak up about it, since dissent was “strongly discouraged” in the Akrosian Empire.

Aldenar could only think of one solution to his problem at the moment: masturbation. Unfortunately, this practice was viewed as “wasteful” and unofficially considered taboo for that reason. (Aldenar also suspected that many people on his planet were just inclined to discourage pleasure in any form outside of a relationship.) In any case, it seemed better than breaking an actual LAW and being gruesomely slain for his “crimes”.

The truth was that, in spite of his lack of intent to do so, Aldenar was becoming a dissident. It was a gradual process, and he simply couldn’t help himself. Too many nagging doubts about the wisdom of this war and the social norms prevalent on his world were becoming apparent to him on a constant basis.

These thoughts were not yet organized into a system of beliefs for him. He mostly accepted the civilization into which he had been born, but its ideals had been undermined in his head with each day since his youth. The weird thing was that he also had carried the knee-jerk reactions and stereotypes of his society, which were harder to eliminate from his mind.

The most disturbing event of the war, however, was his new role as bodyguard to the eccentric Ambassador from the Federation of West Asia. The Terran diplomat gave him the impression of being AWARE of things that were just starting to occur to the lieutenant. There was a sense of the sort that Lieutenant Aldenar had always been taught to disregard: an extra-sensory, clairvoyant impression of superior knowledge and insight into the Cosmos. Aldenar instinctively respected Ambassador Abel Kalitz and took his statements seriously. He even found himself eager to learn more from the man, as if he were a mentor, instead of a public official from a barely neutral extra-solar regime.

Aldenar tried to avoid those frightening thoughts by concentrating on something more urgent once he returned to his bunk: his need for physical pleasure. What he refused to see was that the very act of masturbating was the act of a dissident. A society that scorned pleasure for its own sake would ALWAYS regard masturbation as evident of “decadent hedonism”.

 

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[Rumple Foreskin]

Dran,

In my humble, and totally objective, opinion, you've turned that starter of mine into one hot steaming piece of well-written fiction with interesting characters and a really neat twist at the end.

With everyone worried about Vana, the post slipping off the first page without getting any response is understandable. Whether anyone else comments or not, you should consider checking with Pure about posting it on the Story Discussion Circle forum.

Rumple Foreskin

 

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[FallingToFly]

Actually- the Guest piece on here is mine... so feel free to slam away at it anyone who wants to... and I think I'm going to give Selena's a shot at a nudge along the line, if she doesn't mind.