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It never happened because gang bangs these days are too dangerous. But it happened in a made-up world. One in which I was a twenty-four-year-old heart throb and a political martyr.
I had an envelope of forty-five men: seventy-five-year-old plusses, on my passenger seat. The sun burned down on it as I drove to the tattoo parlor. The day before, with handmade wax, I yanked all hairs from my nostrils to my toes. And after a hot shower, I felt odd under those clothes, extra nakedness to the point oxygen could molest. I wore loose grey sweatpants with no underwear and my bubble ass jiggled in the parking lot. I adjusted my Spiderman mask and entered the cold, lamp-lit parlor.
“I am Jake.”
“You are the “Won’t vote…”
“Yes. That is me.”
I laid on slab of medical paper over a black cushioned bench. He pulled my pants down to the crack of my ass and lifted my shirt to my shoulders. The tattoo prickles tickled and pinched my lower back. The first was a blue hand print, then a nearby phrase, “Won’t vote Trump” in Helvetica: Designed for men to read out loud their oath and place their hand on my lower back, riding my ass across the Democratic line. All forty-five to dishonor the 45th president.
Three weeks later, the tattoo healed, and all forty-five men resided at the Holliday Inn. An outdoor camp was set up for a blue-sky Halloween day: One picnic bench for my elbows and knees near one metal garbage can with flames for engulfing their MAGA hats.
These vacant woods facilitated my abandoned half pipes from those younger skater days and I still grew hordes of marijuana there. Which was good because that hoppy kept nourished paths big enough for those fat ass Republican invitees. I waited there alone stripping marijuana buds into a Nike shoebox. Two vans would enter the Myakka sand path driven by two ex-lovers who would escort them through the narrow paths to “Rampland”. One ex would video and the other would manage the gang bang.
When you see forty-five men, single file, stream out of a dense jungle, there to pound your ass; I was overwhelmed. My videographer, Sean, threw me up against the free spin van.
“I don’t want you doing this Allen,” he said.
“I am fucking doing it; these men will kill us if I back out.”
“How about, I fucking kill them?”
“You only fucked two men in your life, and they are both here…and now we get to watch you take forty-five dicks like watching a soccer game…its sick!”
“What does Kevin think?”
“Kevin does not give a fuck, seriously, you asked me that.”
“I don’t know what the fuck is going on over here, but I am burning my little red fucking hat and fucking some ass, let’s get a move on it!”
“Who the fuck was that?” Sean said.
“I have to check the file…Rick I think.”
“Right wing Rick?”
“Ain’t fucking left wing Rick.”
Red haired Irish Kevin was my rebound off of Sean. Kevin was a diagnosed sociopath. Not a violent one, but a promiscuous one who accidentally told the truth once in a while.
“I will have them line up here by the bench,” Kevin said. He had on his reversed Boston Celtics hat and carried an olive tree branch like a teacher’s pointer. “Here they are naked, hopefully hard, they walk five steps, fuck you, cum, and burn their hats per exiting over here. Then we have beer and chicken at the back of this van.”
Sean watched Kevin’s animated indifference with murderous eyes. But it was Sean who cheated on me with his movie theater co-worker the previous summer. I climbed the stairs to see them fucking to the stench of popcorn by a hot clicking projector. Part of me didn’t care about Trump, but it all was worth it, all of it, but I wanted to look back and see Sean’s heartbroken face. The way I looked in the movie theaters, times a thousand. Each cock was going to feel like a million bucks, even if it didn’t: my show for Sean’s eyes.
I wore black leggings and a tiny black spandex skirt that strangled my waste and upper thighs. For aesthetics, I put on black high heels, two sizes too small. My smooth bubble ass squirmed out from underneath with each step along Georgia’s backcountry quicksand. Blood flowed bonus veren siteler to my cock feeling all the red hat grandpas studying my ass. I reached the bench and placed both knees on a quilt that Kevin tossed down. I bent over. My bare bubble ass jiggled in the hot sun. My glowing fresh tattoo of one blue hand print to the right of ivory lettering that read “Won’t Vote Trump” hovering over my bent ass.
“Okay, if you are up next, try to stroke it hard, come up, get busy, cum, spank his ass, and toss your red hat in the fire, okay?”
The first man looked like a fat farmer. I looked back to see Sean’s hands trembling below the red dot of a camcorder. The man carried a cold Budweiser can and put his cold wet palm on my lower back. “I won’t vote Trump!” I felt a little pinch, then my ass was filled up with something stiff. It was a lot bigger than Sean or Kevin. I couldn’t ask Sean how big it was but when he started moving his hips, I knew I was in for a long night.
He grabbed my right ass cheek and slurped down his beer with his left. I looked back at his old blue eyes and crooked red MAGA hat. I think Sean was crying.
“What is your name sir?” I asked.
“I am Steve. I grow cherry tomatoes.”
“How big is your…?”
“Oh, about eight inches I suppose…as big as a horse I’ve been told.”
“It feels like it.”
“Kevin put my first when he saw it…he said you need to break that pussy in ASAP, so here I am.”
The thrusts of his cock took wind out of my lungs. I moved my elbows closer to the tomato farmer and popped my ass up a notch. I think his cock fit better. I looked back and Sean was gone. Steve reached around and started stroking my cock. Was this allowed?
Nobody answered. Sean’s rhythm sped up and everything beneath my bellow button felt too good. Steve’s gentle tomato squeezing hands molested my dangling genitals like soft jelly fish tentacles and his bit fat cock danced the around my pussy further complicated things. I could not think. Steve leaned forward and sucked my right ear lobe. I turned towards him and let him put his tongue deneme bonusu veren siteler into mine. He bit my lip. “Your pussy is worth all of it, that soft little pussy, so kind to this old geezer.
I knew there was a line of 44 stroking cocks behind me, but it just surfaced out of the pits of my belly: “Oh big daddy, fuck that ass.” A peach perfumed gust smacked up against my body. I looked back and saw Steve’s mouth a big black hole and his all white zombie eyes glowed under his cap. His balls flooded a gallon of cum in my ass.
It was Kevin and his authoritative branch waving it at Steven.
“Toss your hat in the fire. Let’s try to keep it under five minutes gentlemen.”
A few hours had past and the night sky had arrived. Kevin brought Tiki torches. The picnic table was about to collapse, it squeaked and leaned to one side. It barely held its nails together with all the fucking and rows of my bottled waters and Coronas. My sweaty round bubbles now flickered with orange and shimmying shadows of a Republican cock in my ass and my own jiggling flesh.
“What number?” I said.
“This is thirty-eight,” he said.
Every man followed farmer Steve by sticking their tongues in my mouth while they filled my ass with more cum. I heard the pop echo the skies. I wanted to say it sounded like a firework, but I knew better. Kevin had not been around for hours and he was on foot. He carried a .38 most of the time. I told myself: It could have been something else, anything.
I looked over at Kevin as his wide eyes connected with mine, reassuring me that Sean just blew his brains out probably after pacing the camp and drinking.
I had “forty-four” pounding my ass and “forty fives'” cock in my mouth slushing around.
“After I tear this pussy up, my hat stays on, I aren’t voting for the democrats you lit’ whore beetch!”
He pulled his cock and and dressed my ass cheeks with cum. Zipped up his pants and wondered off into the Tiki torch haze. My elbows and knee caps bled as my mouth and ass oozed seamen. I figured Trump would probably win and the love of my life was dead. But I had sociopath Kevin to cheer me up.
“I need to soak my pussy in a salty bath for two days,” I said.
“I will drive one van, you drive the other,” he said.
Oscar Wilde once said, “The emotions of man are stirred more quickly than man’s intelligence,” and I was on my way to join Sean.
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