Message-ID: <60157asstr$1270617003@assm.asstr.org>
From: Mark Astley <markastley@rocketmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} KEBAB WORLD
Lines: 121
Date: Wed, 07 Apr 2010 01:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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<1st attachment, "KEBAB WORLD.doc" begin>

"We capture people for sex...this story is for 'Frank'...I like
to call it Crme De Menthe...colour between my legs is red...I'm a
snapper...she gave me six on the ass...fist fucked my hole after
it had been anointed with orgy butter...be near me when I fade
away...I guess that is at the root of the following...there's me
and two other guys and a chick's head positioned on a waist high
rostrum...the head rotates, at its own bidding, like an armchair
in the front window of a furniture store...it doesn't leak and
belongs mostly to Farrah F and Marilyn C, it has the esteemed
feather cut and the wholesome countenance...the untrammelled
snow...now the head is perfect, I don't really know how to
describe it...it is a great head, superb product...see I can't
get out of the thinking the neck has been cauterised, that it has
been kept in a refrigerator...or a bell jar...in order to stave
off decomposition...no red orchids here...just a hothouse
blossom...zilch formation of adipocre...fuck the serological
study...topography of a phantom fuck...a dental chart is a
verifiable dental chart...this head is delivered perfect,
contingent to an internal whim. Farrah hair and ondontology,
well, I'm a seventies boy, Marilyn C eyes and face...Betty Blue
lips before she got junked up...and no it isn't artificial
looking, a synthetic facsimile...this is the very certain
stuff...the craft of the Japanese gardener. Let's jump cut to the
set. A shitheel flat on the outskirts of an hellhole housing
estate...the kinda place Jason Swift's last tear trickled...dog
faeces...throwaway syringes...polystyrene fast-food
boxes...squashed green bottles of white cider...all the
accoutrements of modern gothic...Hammer horror courtesy of the
welfare state and She who said there was no Society...the animals
are outside...milling...unsocialised and virulent...they are less
than human (I've been an animal too, I'll admit to that)...we
need to define a new category...or get Al Speer out of
retirement...a sojourn round here breeds an interest in
eugenics...so there's me and two other guys...buck naked...one
short, fat and hirsute...he can be 'Ginsberg'...the other tall
and lanky with a dick you could club seals with ...Mr Holmes, I
presume. Me? I'm Gillis of course.  The baaadest of them all, who
left Sandra Chase's buttocks looking like an impromptu assemblage
of strips of kebab meat, sheared from a revolving charred
torso...dropping The Story of Joanna from my rap sheet...where
Gillis, an unlikely aristocrat, is being massaged 'naked and
supine' by the male butler, who leans over and blows
him...fellatio was not on the menu...well, I prefer to believe it
was unscripted...a manly, decent hand on the shoulder prevents
the scene culminating in orgasm. Hammer, anvil. I wish, you wish,
they wish. Maybe we'd all be much happier as faggots. So me,
Ginsberg and Holmes surround the head, which makes a silent
inventory of the variegation in size of our respective genitals.
We take alternate swigs from a bottle of Stolista; cheapjack
vodka that makes absinthe look like a scrub bucket thrill like
cough syrup or codeine...we circle the head, smoking hash. The
head comes to rest, lies still. All is freakily loose yet it
smacks of the quotidian...I cradle the head lovingly, hands
cupped underneath that divinely flawed jawline...she addresses me
telepathically.
"I act with my eyes. No word of dialogue. Once something is
inserted in you. I thought you cannot go back...and I never did.
Scared to spring my lids, but I did, electric charge, I loved
it."
I kiss her eyelids, her lips...I cannot get hard...why not the
fuck...what do I require...the exhortation of a Georgian
choir...remember me. Spying a khaki suit with loathing, missing
the medieval grace of iron clothing. Her lips upon them; and it
was her mouth saying: Sluggard! Ginsberg yanks the head from me.
Smashes it on the side of the rostrum...nose bursts...Marilyn
shrieks to me, only to me, I am alone in her psychic favours, "I
am not an automaton. I dug it! I sold washing powder. As white as
ivory snow."
"The old coke whore," says John H. The editing is not limited.
Knowing he has overheard, I am devastated. Ginsberg reveals a
pair of pliers, formerly secreted up his sweaty arsehole. Through
me forbidden voices: copulation is no more rank than death is. 
"That low rent cocksucker forgot Passion Pit so I'm no Little
Oral Annie but my jawbone don't detach so easy..."
Ginsberg pulls out her teeth one by one. There is no blood.
"It's still too real," he chimes.
Gentle...I get awful queasy at this point and hide behind the
armchair.
She with ivory fingers, spinning long yarns out of nothing.
John.H gets all phallocentric...hosepiping the feather cut born
of the medium, not the message...we are all screens. So Big Al's
fucking the toothless mouth, his hairy arse pumping away...John
H. rabbit punches him...Al falls with a bang not a whimper...on
the yellowed pages of The Daily Sport...laid down like so much
kitty litter. John H. with a tablespoon...scoops out an
eyeball...then another...gobbles them up in the manner of an
Alzheimer's patient gorging on strawberry trifle in a residential
home. Threads his wang through one eyesocket and then out the
other...Big Al licks the emergent crown...then drills his cock
into the left earlobe...pummels the ersatz cunt...I rejoin the
fray...We straighten and face Product...It conveys the image onto
our screen..."
Cross the wounded perineum; pretend an interest. Love of black
and white stills.
I shall not have, do not need, a story.









Kebab World




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