Enter the Dragon

Courtney stared at the number written on the piece of paper she held in her hand, which her best friend and partner-in-crime Becky had given her. 

Dare I? she wondered, her eyes flitting to her mobile phone, which lay on the bed beside her. I mean, I was complaining pretty hard to her about the lack of action my pussy’s been getting. She sighed. Things haven’t been the same since James passed away. Not to mention this damn pacemaker I had fitted. Who has heart problems in their 30s? A widow, clearly. 

She closed her eyes and thought about the conversation she’d had with Becky that morning during their Monday coffee, cake and catch-up ritual. 

* * *

“Look, I know a guy,” Becky said, sat at Courtney’s kitchen table. “He’ll sort you out. Trust me,” the blonde bombshell with balloon-like knockers continued. “He’s not the brightest tool in the box, but my God . . .”

“Yeah? Hmm, I don’t know. I mean, I have my toys,” Courtney said. “And Buttons.”

“Christ, you just said you’re gagging for wood! Your tabby cat and toys can’t provide that. Dragon definitely would though.” 

“Dragon? What sort of name is that?!”

Becky scoffed, rolled her eyes and laughed. “To be fair, I didn’t get it at first, but it’s because he has a giant cock.”

“Ah, like a dragon’s?”

“No, because he’s draggin’ on the floor!”

Courtney spat her coffee and howled with laughter. “Oh, you bitch, Becky,” she said, coughing and spluttering, wiping the remnants of hot drink off her chin. “I’ve never heard that expression before.”

“Honest to God, it reaches his knees. Boy’s a freak show.”

“You’re something, girl.”

“I heard he fucked a cross-eyed girl so hard once, that her eyes became straight.”

Both girls laughed.

“But he’s thick, you said. A bit slow?”

“Oh, the lad’s going backwards, he’s that slow,” Becky said. “When I first chatted with him, I told him to come over and hose me down with that giant prick of his. Unfortunately, I left out the ‘giant prick’ part in my message, thinking he’d know what I meant, but he turned up with a bar of soap and his garden hosepipe, ready to wash me down, thinking it was a kink.”  

Courtney scoffed. “Nobody’s that stupid.”

“Trust me, he is. But Jesus, he knows his way ’round a love tunnel. He screwed me inside out, and I think that’s what you need before your big trip away to Tinseltown Island.”

Courtney cupped her coffee mug and nodded. “Well, I could definitely do with loosening up.” 

“Here’s his number,” Becky said, writing it on a piece of scrap paper. “Tell him I sent you.”

“Got a photo of him?”

Becky produced her phone and began scrolling. “Pretty sure I . . . Ah-ha!” she said, turning the mobile to Courtney. “Hunk, right?”

Courtney eyed the picture, spying the large, topless and broad guy, who had shaggy blonde hair. “Beautiful.”

“Yeah, but try not to look at the dent in his head. There’s a metal plate there.”

“What happened?”

“Kicked by a feisty sheep during shearing season. Lucky to be alive, really.”

Courtney’s mouth formed a perfect O. “Poor thing. So, he’s a farmer?”

Becky nodded, eyes darting to the clock on the wall. “Shit, that the time? I need to shoot—I have a hair appointment in town,” she said, swallowing the dregs of her coffee and standing.

“Could you send me that photo, please?” 

“Sure. Must dash!”

The snapshot had pinged through to Courtney’s phone hours later as she lay in bed, and she was unable to resist breaking out her vibrator after examining the picture of the golden-haired stud. 

“Damn, those chest muscles,” she had said, imagining Dragon throwing her around the bedroom. With her free hand, she moulded her pert tit, teasing and pinching the nipple. As one part of her dildo had stimulated her clit and the other plunged her pussy, she climaxed for a fourth time. 

Spent, she lay there, thinking how much she missed sex. 

“Fuck it,” she said, reaching for the number, her hands shaking.

But, as much as she wanted to reach out to Dragon, she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it and had found herself staring at the number until the digits were seared into her brain. 

* * *

Courtney looked at the paper and thought about it again.

“It’s just sex,” she said, biting her lip, envisioning Dragon pounding away at her. A kaleidoscope of butterflies erupted in her gut, her pussy beginning to awaken for more. “Christ, I’ve got such a horny, naughty kitty-cat.” 

The fingers of her free hand slipped between her legs, her mind overtaken by an image of Dragon bending her over her bed, his tongue lashing her from back to front.  

Do it. Do it now, while you have the mind to, a voice whispered inside her head.

“It’s almost midnight,” she muttered, her breath trembling. 

Then, a wicked thought came to her: I’ll text him. Tell him there’s a key to my front door under the welcome mat outside. 

She sent the message.

With a giggle, Courtney threw the bedcovers to one side and stood on trembling legs, her thighs shaking. After steadying herself, she rushed downstairs, took her door key off the bunch, and placed it under the hessian doormat out front. 

Heart pounding, she thought for a split second about retrieving the key. No, never mind. If Becky vouched for him, that’s good enough for me. 

With a titter, she rushed back upstairs to see if he’d texted back. Her face lit up when she noticed the screen to her phone flashing. With a trembling hand, she opened his message: Sure, I can do that for you. See you in the morning. Dragon. Xx

Oh, God. I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought, heading towards her shower to clean up and trim her pubes. 

When she was done, Courtney got into bed, naked, and tried to sleep. But her mind raced, thinking about waking to the touch of his rough, farming hands. His face buried between her thighs or his mouth nibbling her tits. She squirmed.  

Stop it. She turned the light off and wriggled down in her bed. I’ll never sleep at this rate, she thought, feeling her clit pulse. 

That was the last thought to cross her mind, as sleep took her. 

* * *

An acrid, choking stench awoke her with a cough. Trails of black smoke filled her bedroom. 

“The hell?” she said, bouncing out of bed, sleep and drowsiness lost. She grabbed her gown and slipped her feet into her slippers. 

Sunlight poured through her window. 

Jesus, how long have I slept? 

She rushed out of the room. When Courtney reached the top of the stairs, the smoke alarm located there kicked in, and she had to stand on tippy toes to turn it off.  

She ran downstairs and checked all rooms, finding nothing out of sorts until she arrived at the kitchen. Upon entering it, she spotted a plume of fumes snaking from the oven—the source of all the smoke and commotion.

Before her, sat at the table in coveralls plastered with cow shit, was the behemoth called Dragon. He tore at something ravenously.

She gasped, taking in the heinous scene. Is that . . .? 

It was.

She fell back against the door, the handle jabbing her in the small of her back. The wind sucked from her and she was unable to move.

Dragon held the remnants of Buttons up, snapped off one of the feline’s charred legs (which he’d stripped like a fucking piranha), and ripped into it with his teeth, devouring flesh, blood and gleaming bone as though he were eating ice-cream. 

Done with the leg, he smashed his hands into the cat’s gut, ripping and tearing, shattering the ribcage, shoving partly cooked innards and intestines into his mouth. Blood, gristle and grease splashed everywhere. His huge, chewing maw was a gory mess. 

“Mmm,” he said between mouthfuls, giggling a hick-like, hiccupy laugh, which would have sounded goofy in a different scenario. Dargon licked his fingers and went back for more, pulling the tabby’s tail free and chewing through the sinew and muscle. 

Courtney wanted to vomit, her stomach twisting, as a fresh, hellish smell hit her. “What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed, her face and neck turning red, then purple. Veins protruded from her forehead. 

Pain exploded in her chest and rushed down her arm. 

“You said your pussy was naughty and unruly, that it was playing up, and that you wanted me to come over and sort it out. Teach it a lesson. ‘Eat the fucker,’ you said.” He shrugged and grinned. “Well, I am. The fucker won’t be giving you any more grief, darlin’.” 

He stuffed handfuls of Buttons into his slobbering mouth, whiskers and all, as Courtney slipped down the door she’d collapsed against.

Her heart gave out, her face twisting into a painful, frozen scream.   

Iron Fist

The club’s neon sign buzzed and flickered like a dying insect, casting sickly purple shadows across Joe Oroborus’s face as he watched Kandy Fontaine saunter through the entrance of Club Euphoria. Her leather jacket caught the light, transforming ordinary street grime into a constellation of sin. Behind her, Princess Cherrypop’s flame-red hair created a bloody halo that seemed to pulse in time with the industrial music bleeding through the walls.

Joe’s cybernetic hand twitched, sending sparks of pain up his arm where flesh met metal. The implant had been acting strange lately, picking up phantom frequencies, whispering things in the dead of night. Sometimes he caught himself having conversations with it, his organic fingers tracing the chrome joints while the artificial ones spelled out messages in a sign language he never learned.

Kandy noticed the spasms, her FBI-trained eyes missing nothing. “Your tech’s got the jitters again,” she said, sliding onto the barstool beside him. “Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten that upgrade from that back-alley clinic.”

Princess Cherrypop leaned against the bar, her alabaster skin almost translucent under the strobing lights. “The one run by that doctor who disappeared after the incident with the flesh cubes?”

The music shifted, became something darker, more visceral. Joe’s artificial hand clenched involuntarily, crushing his glass. Blood and bourbon mingled with shattered crystal, but he couldn’t feel the cuts. The hand was moving on its own now, fingers dancing across the bar top in precise geometric patterns. Princess Cherrypop’s eyes widened as she recognized the symbols. “Those are the same markings we found carved into the walls of the quantum computing lab after the massacre.”

Kandy pulled her service weapon, but kept it low, hidden beneath the bar. The other patrons seemed oblivious to the horror unfolding, their bodies swaying to the rhythm while reality began to crack around the edges. Joe’s mechanical fingers were leaving trails of light in the air now, tear-tracks in the fabric of space-time.

“It’s not an upgrade malfunction,” Joe managed through gritted teeth. “Something came through when they installed the new neural interface with cybernegative twisties. Something old. Eldritch, even. Something that’s been waiting in the spaces between binary code.” 

His artificial hand lunged for Kandy’s throat with terrible purpose, but Princess Cherrypop was faster. She slammed a crystalline vial onto the bar, and the air filled with ozone and the smell of burning circuit boards.

The hand froze mid-strike, trembling. Shapes began to emerge from the chrome surface, faces screaming in silicon agony, bodies twisted into impossible Möbius strips of flesh and metal. The entity that had been riding Joe’s circuits revealed itself, a thing of angles and edges that hurt the mind to look upon.

“Now!” Cherrypop screamed.

Kandy moved with the fluid grace of a killer, her gun spitting sanctified code-bullets programmed by techno-priests. The things living in Joe’s artificial hand shrieked in frequencies that shattered every screen in the club. Reality buckled as the entity tried to maintain its hold on our dimension, but the holy algorithms were stronger.

In the end, Joe’s mechanical hand lay smoking on the bar, inert but finally clean. The club’s patrons continued dancing, their minds automatically editing out anything that didn’t fit their comfortable version of reality. Kandy holstered her weapon while Princess Cherrypop swept the dead hand into her purse like it was nothing more unusual than a compact mirror.

“You’ll need a new one,” Kandy said, lighting a cigarette. “I know a guy. No demons, guaranteed. Just good old-fashioned chrome and steel.” Joe nodded, cradling his cybernetic arm. The music had returned to its regular rhythm, but underneath he could still hear echoes of that other frequency, that digital death-jazz that played in the spaces between ones and zeros. 

He ordered another drink, knowing he’d need it for what came next. After all, something had opened that door between worlds, and it wasn’t the kind of door that stayed closed for long.

Parable

Betty lives in the apartments across from Hackley Park, where yesterday a seven-year-old kid found a loaded gun. It turns out the kid found the gun last week, buried it and then came back to show it to his friends. One of the kid’s friends told their parents who told the police. The park is surrounded by yellow crime scene tape. I see people looking up as if the gun fell from the sky like evil manna.

It’s hot in this apartment, the TV is on the religious channel which makes everything hotter. A preacher with white teeth is speaking about the parable of the treasure in the field. 

“The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure in a field, which a man found and hid again,” he said.

I live in my mother’s house with my wife. My wife is not happy about it, she said she is chained to the wall of life. We only have one car, and every time I get home, my wife wants to look at houses. We can’t afford a house, we have zero revenue, we have no means. 

The last time we looked at a house my wife caught me stealing a book from the house we were viewing: “Short Stories of O. Henry.” She was in a panic. 

“How can I steal something that already belongs to me?” I said. 

“Huh?”

“All books are mine, the same way some guys think all women were made for them to have sex with, all books were made for me to read.” 

I told my wife I was done looking at houses until she gets a job. She spit at me like a prisoner being led back to her cell. 

My wife is afraid to leave our bedroom whenever I leave the house. She locks herself in our bedroom and doesn’t come out except to use the restroom. She’s the one who wanted to get married, she inflicted this on herself. 

We’re preparing to cut each other’s throat, after only five months of marriage. I gave up everything to marry her. She made her happiness my slave and now it’s my fault she’s unhappy.

“You should see me with other women,” I said. “I make them laugh. I make them happy. I can make any woman happy except you.”

“You do make me happy,” she said. “We need our own space.” 

Every day, my mom and my wife fight over who gets to make me coffee. They both worship me like gold they hide from each other. 

Betty’s TV is still on the religious channel. A preacher with even whiter teeth is talking about the tent of Achan. This channel is counterfeiting religion. 

I try to turn the channel and Betty yells at me. 

“I need God in my life,” she said. “I’m not embarrassed about it.” 

“The advantages we gain over our enemies are not truly our own, but belong to God,” the preacher said. 

“Amen,” Betty said.

Betty and I work at the supermarket together. She works in the deli, in fact she’s heir to the whole department. She’s next in line for deli manager. (We’re famous for our deli.) I work in the meat department. 

Betty’s daughter left Betty a note saying she had to leave for a few days “and please don’t try to find me.” She took Betty’s car. So, I’ve been giving Betty a ride to and from work all week. This is the first time Betty has invited me inside her apartment. 

Betty and I do little things for each other at the store, like holding doors open and taking our breaks together. We even punched each other’s timecard. I even sold her steaks priced as hamburger. I even took time off from work and went to her divorce hearing with her. 

Betty sits me in a kitchen chair and gives me a haircut. Leave me some hair, I said. At the end of the haircut, she rakes her fingers through my hair a few times like I’m a Zen Garden. Before I get up, I look up at her. She’s standing behind me looking down at me. She lets her hair fall on my face. That drives me wild. Betty’s hair is her prized possession. 

Then Betty gets dressed twice, two different outfits like a fashion show.

“Do you like this dress?” Betty said. She said it’s her daughter’s dress, but that she looks better in the dress than her daughter. I’ve never met Betty’s daughter, but she must be around my age (I’m twenty-two). That would put Betty around forty. 

Betty asks if I will unbutton the back of her dress. I tell her I’m going to unbutton everything she asks me to. 

“Never mind,” she said. 

Betty and I roll a bag of weed into joints. Our hands are busy, like dung beetles rolling balls of dung. We light a joint and smoke (the blur is on my brain once we smoke). 

“I have a funny story to tell you,” I said. 

I told Betty about my dream. I had a dream I was a sign artist at the grocery store. 

“I had created all these clever signs for the meat department: John Steinbeck Likes Turkey Necks; Ezra Pound Prefers Ground Round; William Blake Chooses Ball Tip Steak; Stephen King Eats Our Chicken Wings; Charles Dickens Likes Fresh Roasting Chickens; Edgar Allen Poe Enjoys Our Escargot; Nietzsche Eats Our Sushi. Then as I was looking at all these clever signs, I had an epiphany. I came up with a new sonnet form, the butcher’s sonnet. This sonnet was going to change things, going to change everything. That’s when I woke up.”

Betty looked worried. 

“Do you have any food?” I ask. 

I felt like I hadn’t eaten in two days. I found five carrots in the refrigerator. I also found a brown banana. The banana makes my stomach feel queasy, so I go into the bathroom. Betty has a wooden toilet seat. I didn’t get sick. In fact, I kissed myself in the mirror. 

 We left the apartment for a stroll. We’re holding hands, whatever that means. 

Betty is a holy beauty. Betty’s eyes look like church windows filled with sunshine. 

“Now it’s my turn to say something,” I said. “I love you.”

“You have no right to say that to me,” Betty said. But she likes me saying it. 

A fat boy puts both hands above his eyes and stares at Betty like he’s looking into a bakery window. 

We toss one dollar and eighty-seven cents into the hat of a homeless man sitting on the curb. 

We pass the Nims Community Garden, and I stare at the gazing ball. There are people pulling weeds, perverting nature.  

We walk past The Women’s Club, where I’m told they’re trying to rid the city of all phallic symbols. 

I’m a lucky man. Every man we pass on the sidewalk wants to be me, wants to be beside Betty.

“What would you do if you looked up at the sky right now and it said, ‘Will you marry me, Betty?’”

“A message from God? I guess I’d become a nun.”

We duck into city hall, where they have a full-scale model of the city. I pretend I’m bigger than the city. I pretend one hundred cities can fit within me. 

We go into Dreamer’s Bar which used to be called Flip’s Friendly Lounge. Dreamer’s is as dark as a coal mine.

I see someone I know. I didn’t want them to see me but of course they did. Even with the name change this place is still friendly. It’s this double-jointed Christian that’s seven feet tall and has hips like a woman. He lifts me off the ground in an embrace. 

“I never thought I would see you here,” I said. 

“You mean because I’m a Jesus freak? I’m celebrating beating cancer.” He said he had had skin cancer. He said he found out because dogs wouldn’t stop barking at him.

“I’m cancer free. How is your brother?”

“He’s great, he’s married and has three kids,” I said. He listens to me talk about my brother like he’s trying to crack a safe. He used to follow my brother everywhere. He even followed my brother into the seminary. He even tried to dress like my brother. 

“Did you hear about the gun in the park?” he said. 

I nodded. “Hey, this is Betty. Show her your stuff.”  

He bent the fingers of both hands back to his wrist. Then he laced his fingers behind his back and lifted his arms over his head. 

“That’s odd,” Betty said.  

Betty sees one of her most loyal customers. 

“I almost didn’t recognize you without your hairnet,” he said. “I never thought of you as having hair, especially not hair like Venus.” He shakes my hand with a violent grip. He has a suitcase with him. He said he needs to get out of town for a while.

“Where are you going to get your deli ham from?” Betty said. 

“Did you know when the Titanic sank there was seven thousand pounds of ham on board?” this loyal customer said. He’s serious. “Don’t you ever cut that hair,” he said. He’s even more serious. 

We had a few drinks. I drink mine like I’m drinking Betty’s desire for me. 

“It feels so good to be divorced,” Betty said. 

“I’m never getting married,” I said. 

“Now you’re talking like a man,” she said. 

Then we walked back to Betty’s apartment.

“I’m not going to have sex with you,” Betty said. 

We walk down Clay Avenue through a little jungle the city calls a Monet Garden. You can hear frogs croaking “watch us go.” 

We walked past a library I know by heart, where I stole The Complete Works of William Shakespeare and Cujo when I was a kid.  

We walked past the synagogue where the Rabbi looks at Betty’s hair and plucks his beard with envy. 

I can hear Betty’s TV from the hallway. This time a female preacher is preaching. She’s talking about Abraham and Sarah. “He talks and laughs as if he had no wife, he hid his wife. One good man in one thousand I have not found,” she said.

Betty’s daughter is home.

“Behold this fool! Is he spending the night?” she said. 

“No,” I said. 

“How long have you been sleeping with my mom?”

“I’m not—I haven’t.” 

“She just got divorced, man!”

“Do you have to be so hostile? Leave him alone,” Betty said. “He’s been giving me a ride to work since someone took my car.” 

“You two smell like dope. So, this is the guy setting my mom’s crotch on fire? Are you my new daddy?”

Betty asks me if I want a drink.

“He doesn’t want a drink. You know what he wants. He wants us to drink. He wants to get us both drunk and fuck us.”

Betty gives me a helpless look. She can’t control her daughter. 

“I’m sorry,” Betty said. “See you tomorrow?”

I nod.

“Looks like no tail for you.”

I nod again. 

I take a step toward the door and turn back to see Betty without her hair, her hair is a wig and is in her daughter’s hands! Without the wig, Betty has just enough hair to cover her scalp. Her daughter sees the horror in my face and smiles. Then she holds the wig high and makes Indian war whoops with her hand over her mouth. 

I go home. It’s two am. The house is asleep. 

I get naked and climb into bed. I push my wife’s cotton panties to the side and have sex with her. My wife takes sedatives (along with numerous other pills), so she doesn’t wake up right away. She’s frightened for just one second. Her eyebrows stretch up like fast-food arches, like she’s afraid for her life, but then she knows it’s me, the man of her dreams. 

I’m making love, not having sex. I’m making love to my life, not my wife. She comes to life beneath me. It’s my life coming to life. 

She pushes against me. I hear the cave woman inside her moaning primitive passwords, she’s trying to slow me down. 

I yank my wife’s hair to make sure it’s real. She slaps me. 

“Motherfucker that hurts!” she said. 

When it’s over I’m neat, I move her panties back to the exact position they were in to begin with, like a painting over a safe.

I go outside where I piss in the rosebushes. I look at the stars like I’m looking at an old photo. I light a cigarette to reward myself. I look at the house to see where I live. I’m going to break my wife’s heart tomorrow and drink my mom’s coffee (they both make terrible coffee). 

Mom doesn’t want cigarette butts in her yard, so before I put my cigarette out on the ground, I make a divot with my heel. I bury the cigarette beneath the sod. I get down on my haunches like I’m planting a new crop, a terrible new seed. I even pat the earth like we’re good friends.

Reinhardt the Soldier

The Thai waitress he had met at the restaurant was small and tight, and it did hurt her initially to adjust to his cock. He was gentle, helping her get used to his length, girth and glass-breaking hardness, but soon primitive fuck lust overwhelmed him and he forced his way in. Reinhardt could almost feel her body swell like a rubber raft getting pumped with air. A strange sound erupted out of her throat, between scream and laughter, as if she reacted to conflicting states of desire. 

Reinhardt wondered if she had rape fantasies, which he had happily helped a few of his male and female clients to fulfill. Of course, everyone denied they harboured such feelings. Never debating the point, he just fucked the way his clients paid him to, regardless of the fantasy. He charged both according to time and scenario. She moaned and cried both yes and no in one syllable, then clung to him, her legs scarcely able to wrap around his broad back as the masterful cock plunged and thrust until it was ready to unload ropes of alpha spunk, so much that it seeped out. 

He didn’t wear a condom; he was disease free and had no anxieties about the cunt he was now fucking. She was clean and, she had assured him, it was okay because; she was on the pill. Not that he gave a shit about any pregnancy. Her womb, her problem. He had no paternal desires or fantasies.

Over the past two days, stopping for delivery pizza and toilet breaks, he had fucked her, not quite to death but close to it. He had lapped and eaten her cunt until his jaw got sore and he became bored. She was limited in her experience, unable to deepthroat, and prone to whimpering and going limp like an exhausted doll. He didn’t even attempt breaking into her ass, nor did she wish to lick his. 

Business now demanded his attention, and he had appointments to make up for lost custom. He paid for a cab to drive her home. She insisted on giving him her phone number. Once she left, he tore it up. Already he had forgotten her name. Taking a shower and dressing in a soldier’s uniform according to the wishes of the clients he was seeing this evening, Reinhardt fondled his dick, feeling it get hard over the cash he’d be earning later in his role as the couple’s demanding and merciless bull.

***

Reinhardt entered the kitchen through the garage door and, as instructed by text, she was on her hands and knees, completely naked. Without removing his leather bomber jacket or army boots, he simply knelt behind her, unzipped and plunged his hard cock into her wet cunt, labial lips already swollen and glistening from the fingering he had ordered her to do before he arrived. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, and leaning over her back he fucked, not saying a word. He wrapped an arm around her neck and pushed her flat on the floor and still fucked her from behind. He told the husband to sit on a kitchen chair in front of her and watch her face, her eyes, and listen to her moaning as she got fucked by a soldier, rape-fucked by a soldier, the realization of her fantasy played out when her husband, who could not satisfy her, was forced to watch.

While boning her, Reinhardt ordered her to tell her husband what she was: “I’m your fuckmeat. I’m your private cunt, your pussy pet, I want your cock, I want you to fuck me, yes, fuck, fuck your little slut bitch slave, fuck me like a slut.” Reinhardt fucked her while still fully clothed and booted, except he had pulled his fatigues down below his knees, and the piece of married fuckmeat was naked on the floor panting and moaning, all the while her eyes blazing directly at her husband, although Reinhardt didn’t think she was in a full state of consciousness. The husband’s own cock was getting hard and he also wanted to fuck her face, but dared not move without his bull soldier’s permission. His own fantasy involved getting fucked and beaten by a soldier, maybe two. Reinhardt thought he could arrange that scenario with a buddy and charge a few hundred euros extra.

Reinhardt suddenly pulled out and dug into her cunt with the fingers of his right hand, pushing them all in, and slowly fist-fucked her until she cried for mercy, and tears of pain-pleasure spurted out her eyes, her mouth wide open. He withdrew his soaking hand and made her lick her juices off his fist. Then he rolled over on the floor and told her to suck his dick, still hard and glistening wet from her cunt gushing all over it, and she buried her head in his groin, slurping and moaning, her body writhing. The husband wanted so badly to fuck her but wasn’t allowed to. Reinhardt pushed her away and ordered her to straddle him, one leg on either side of his waist, her knees resting on his open bomber jacket, his hands digging into her thighs, as she lowered herself on his huge dick, her eyes glazed open, bucking up and down as she jiggled and wiggled on his cock. The husband was still wearing his clothes, his cock hard as all fuck and straining under his pants. He asked: please, Sir, may I fuck her, too?

But Reinhardt didn’t at that time give permission. Only to watch and do what he was told.

Her fantasy, her craving, was to be treated like a bitch slave, to submit to an alpha soldier and fulfill her masochistic fantasies, she trusted Reinhardt because he was safe, discreet, and knew how to realize her deepest darkest desires. And she had read and believed the glowing reports of satisfied clients on his personal website. She wanted a brutal edge to it all, wanted her bull to pummel and fuck her into submission and to come to the hard thrusting of a soldier’s big cock. He wondered if deep down she had a thing for Nazi cock and wondered for a moment if he should have dressed as a Sturmfuhrer. His big cock, thicker than her wrist and long enough to push into the depth of her womb and unload rich, life-giving German seed. Yeah, next time he’ll fuck dressed in a Nazi uniform. 

Later, after giving her a rest, while he stood against the counter, drinking a beer he got from the fridge, and staring at both husband and wife until he was ready, Reinhardt boned her against the kitchen table (her back was on the table, her legs around his waist, his fatigues down to his ankles and piled over his military boots. She moaned and screamed as he gave the bitch one last shove and pulled out, his cock squirting out a shower of man juice all over her husband’s face and shirt. The husband gasped and stuck out his tongue, trying to capture droplets of bull cum. 

Reinhardt exploded spunk and wanted to fuck again, an effect middle-aged married women often had on him. His cum shot out in powerful streams. Especially if they were rich dissatisfied bitches hankering after a real man and craved some rough action. The wife and husband would do anything Reinhardt wanted; he understood that. Look at the guy gathering spunk on his fingers and licking them off. This first session gave him all the info he needed about how far he could go with them. 

Reinhardt stirred, his cock still resting on the vaginal lips soaked with cum. He wiped himself with a tea towel covered with a picture of Prince William and Kate. “Don’t forget to put this in the laundry.” He rubbed it against her husband’s. Then he lifted her off the counter and sat her over his lap on a chair, so close to the husband that he could see his cock hard beneath his pants, and slap his face without moving from his position, if he wanted to. Not yet. Not too much too soon. The wife’s head hung towards the floor, her fine ass ready for use.

“What she wants is what the cunt gets,” Reinhardt had explained to the husband when they had met at the restaurant a while back, Reinhardt having answered the husband’s online ad for a bull to fulfill his wife’s fantasies, and his, and to fuck his wife while he watched. A rough kind of no-nonsense soldier preferred, they both desired. They didn’t want romance.

“She wants rough play, and she gets it. I never do what a cunt doesn’t want. But I can make them want what they didn’t even know they wanted, if you get my meaning.” 

And the husband had also said something about serving, eventually, when he got used to the idea. Reinhardt knew the husband would crawl, beg, and lick his soldier’s boots before getting slapped around and fucked by a man in military uniform, Nazi or not. The hard dick in the husband’s pants and the animal sounds he was making as he watched his wife gave Reinhardt all the information he needed. One day the husband would suck him dry in front of the wife, and become his obedient, cock sucking cuckold, and pay handsomely for the privilege, but first things first. And, of course, the beating the cuck craved at the hands of a soldier. There was money to be made here.

“Now this little cunt wants the slap of a hand on her ass. So, I oblige.”

And he began slapping her ass hard in the kitchen, four stinging reddening smacks. She moaned aloud. “It’s interesting, really, how slapping a firm ass makes the pussy get wetter and wetter until my bitch cunt is moaning and begging for a fuck. Sure, the hand gets a little sore, but what a beauty those red cheeks are, and how easily the fingers slip in her cunt. The good part about spanking is that it lubricates the vagina so my hand can slide in and out easily without causing pain, but she sure feels my fist fucking her. See?”

And he inserted all five fingers in her widening cunt, in and out, staring at the husband all along.

“It’s a pleasure to fist fuck a pussy and hear all that deep breathing and panting and moaning and feel her body buck up to the wrist deep inside her cunt.”

She was begging him to stop in a voice thick with lust, which meant she was begging for more. Reinhardt pulled the hand out, raised it to show the husband how wet it was. He put his hand in front of the husband’s mouth and allowed him to lick her juices off the fingers, practically gobbling as if inflamed by the taste of her bull. His bull, too. Then Reinhardt returned his attention to his wife and probed her pussy with his fingers and said that it belonged to him, just like her mouth belonged to him, and she was his property, all of her, her cunt and ass and mouth were his personal property. All her holes would be used by his bull cock.

“Aren’t they, bitch?”

He made her nod her head in agreement. Ecstasy burned in her eyes, the glow of her body from intense satisfaction and release. 

“See, she likes it, Just the way you want and need it, too, don’t you? 

And he was speaking directly to the husband, who panted on the kitchen chair, so close to Reinhardt that he could smell the odour of fuck sweat and see a stream of cum still leaking out of his wife’s cunt.

“Aah …mmm…I mean yes, yes…”

“Yes, what, cocksucker?”

And Reinhardt slapped the husband’s face, who, face blazing, whimpered.

“Yes, Sir, oh yes, please, Kommandant, fuck me.”