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 on: Today at 02:34:54 PM 
Started by just me - Last post by just me
atheism is a non-prophet organization

 on: Today at 02:33:59 PM 
Started by Jessica_33 - Last post by just me
fortunately all the officers had truncheons .. so you will never know wich one it has been

 on: Today at 02:31:29 PM 
Started by carhamgrater - Last post by just me
just kinky


 on: Today at 02:14:43 PM 
Started by darklord - Last post by vile8r
I don't know if any of you watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, but there was an episode Larry David did like that, where he's dating this chick and he sets up a video camera on the coffee table to tape everything. He didn't want to become the next #MeToo guy he said. LOL, it was hilarious, but at the same time I was thinking.on a more serious note, this is the way things are going to have to be pretty soon so some poor sucker isn't getting charges of rape or sexual misconduct leveled at him.

 on: Today at 02:09:17 PM 
Started by Bruiser7 - Last post by vile8r
What a scenario, Bruiser! Merit earned.

 on: Today at 02:06:52 PM 
Started by dawnamber - Last post by vile8r
Dear Dawn, Ohhhh I'm loving this. Very hot as only our Miss Dawnamber can do! I like the portrayal of your characters, Hector and Jose, the anonymous black guy, and then the white douche-bag, Squeezy! A real gathering of dirtbags. It's early in the story, but already you warrant a couple dancing penises!

 emot_mrhappydick.gif emot_mrhappydick.gif

 on: Today at 01:50:32 PM 
Started by 90lbsofdynamite - Last post by 90lbsofdynamite
Episode 2

Somewhere in Spiny Cactus County
Present Day

The old pickup hurled over an unpaved road. Bouncing from one side to the other, the old rickety rust bucket moaned and groaned as the vehicle bounded along the roadway. Air rushed through the open window. The roar of it threatened to drown out the radio. Thorn turned off the radio, removed his hat, and let the rushing wind blow through his hair.

“You know why I go by Thorn and not Thornton?”

“No,” Earl Lyman concentrated on the pain more than the man’s words.

“Thorn describes me better. I’m a thorn in your side, a pain in your neck, or a prick up your ass,” the Sheriff sniggered. “The air rushing over us, through the window, reminds me of flying. I love the feeling of air passing across my feathers as I glide over the landscape. You, being a mere human, can’t understand the sensation of the wind blowing over your fur when you prowl as a bear or wolf. You can’t even comprehend being an Eagle.”

Lyman’s foot ached, the missing toes, throbbed. His mind scurried to process what the old cowboy meant. Every bump of the pickup, lumbering over a big rock, banging through a pothole, or jostling about to miss an obstacle, sent shards of glass through the beaten and battered man’s body. Earl Lyman rubbed his head. Lyman picked up a bottle of water, taking a swig he let it trickle down his throat. He wanted something stronger. He returned the bottle to the holder in the console.

He glanced at the bearded sheriff with his long hair, his massive bear paw hands, with sweat on his face in fine beads, and thought, ‘he’s gone batshit crazy.’ Talking of being a bear or bird. What the hell was wrong with the man.

“Ever glance over from a passenger seat to see yourself driving the vehicle?”

Earl Lyman took another draft from the water bottle, peeked over to the driver seat, and there he sat, Earl Lyman, driving the car. The Other Earl turned to Earl and said, in Earl’s own voice.

“See, there are more things in heaven and earth, Earl, than are dreamt of in your paltry religion and science.”

Squashing himself against the door, his feet up on the console pushing away from … himself, Earl’s mind raged. The water jiggled and sloshed from the bottle, soaking his shirt. The bottle rolled down his chest, landing on his crotch, it finally fell on the floor. His heart neared exploding, his head rushed with waves pulsing through the flesh under his hair, which prickled on his scalp like ants scuttling about. Hard electric surges pulsed under his skin. Blinking a few times, once again Sheriff Thorn Lang sat in the driver’s seat.

“How should I fuck that daughter of yours? As you, maybe as her 14-year-old beau, or as me?”

Earl searched his mind for the word. He’d heard it. A word that the Navajo refused to utter. The word alone could destroy your soul. A cloud passed over the sun, momentarily darkening the cab of the pickup. Thorn Lang’s eyes glowed in the demi-darkness a brilliant green.

“Skinwalker,” Earl shouted, “SKINWALKER!”

June 1981

The heat shimmered into the sky rising from the highway. A lake of blue appeared to lay either side of the road. A mirage of the sky reflected over the desert sands. Leonard Slye thought, ‘I better not have a breakdown today.’ The four o’clock heat would cook the proverbial egg on the hood of his car, or the asphalt highway, take your pick. Leonard was still more than an hour away from the town of Spiny.

Slye went against orders, but he had a feeling. That gut reaction a cop has a hard time ignoring. His boss told him, “It’s a waste of time. Just leave it.”

His boss was, more than likely, right. Even so, what are the odds of a brother and sister both falling to their death at the same place, seven years apart? The coincidence gnawed at his belly, like a dog on a bone. The pure improbability of it harassed his mind. Then again, Len Slye didn’t believe in coincidences, especially those that are so implausible.

There were other reasons to get away from Phoenix. Personal, private reasons. Lucille had been hard on him recently. He’d been a good boy for three months. That notwithstanding, she’d been on him in constant, never-ending bickering, hateful questioning, from the time he returned home until they retired for the night. Often, going to bed didn’t end the nagging. Her suspicions drove him to the brink of insanity.

At times, he desired nothing more than for her to just go away. Go back to her mother, go live with her sister, or just be … gone. Len had no trouble abstaining from fucking around, he had a problem with her constant questions if he was or wasn’t faithful.

It was his own fault. He’d had three affairs over twice as many years. The thing was, Lucille Sly hadn’t a clue about any of them but the last one. He got careless, he got caught. With three little ones at home, between child support and alimony, divorce would kill him.

The town of Spiny was a typical desert community. Small compared to Phoenix. Still, 32,000 souls were calling the city home. Even at six pm, the temperature was 112 degrees. The waves rising from the pavement distorted everything in the distance.

Leonard Sly locked his black Crown Victoria. Taking his luggage from the trunk, he proceeded inside the Grand Palace Hotel, as he contemplated the inappropriateness of the appellation. Moving to the desk, he put his bags down, plastered his best grin on his face, and spoke to the desk clerk.

“Hello, ma’am. I need a room, for an extended period. I’m going to be here a while.”

“Fill this out and Sign at the bottom,” Jane Stout told him, handing him a registration card. “Be sure and include your license number. It’ll be 13 dollars a day.”

“Please bill The Department of Public Safety, Criminal Investigation Division, we have an account with your chain,” the man handed back the card to the young woman. His cheery disposition and handsome face pleased the woman.

“Oh, you’re some kind of detective,” twirling her hair, she smiled at him, handing him the key. “Mr. Slye, room number 127, up the stairs, turn to your right, last room on the left. I hate to pry, but can you tell me what you’re investigating?”

“Oh, no ma’am, I couldn’t say,” he tipped his wide-brimmed Rancher Stetson. Picking up his bags, Slye bobbed his head, “Ma’am …”

“Jane, just call me Jane.”

“Jane, alright then, Jane, could you tell me where the Sheriff’s Office is?”

“It’s here in Spiny,” Jane couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“Yes, I know that. But where is it located?”

“On Main street, just west of the Courthouse. If you need me to, I could have the boy look after the counter and take you there.”

“Not necessary, Miss.”

“Can’t imagine Sheriff Lang asking you, folks, for help on something.”

“No, ma’am, young Sheriff Lang didn’t ask for help. I suppose it’s too late to see him tonight anyway. I’ll just hunker down for the night. Does the Hotel restaurant have good food?”

“Better than most other places in town. You can order as late as 9:00, and we can bring it right to your room.”

“No, I’ll clean up and come down for dinner. I’d like to have a few in the bar to help me unwind before bed.”

Jane Stout picked up the phone, dialed a number, “Yes, could I speak to Sheriff Lang, please.”

Jane fiddled with the phone cord, thinking back to high school. Back to a day when Thornton Lang had paid attention to her. All the girls wanted Thornton; she’d been no exception. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember it. She couldn’t fix on that moment in time, any more than she could remember who’d raped her, way back then.


“Moon’s full,” Simon took a hit from the bottle, danced an awkward jig around the campfire, and took another shot of the bourbon.

“No, child, it isn’t, they call this phase waxing gibbous. The next three nights is what’s called the full of the moon.”

“Sure, as shit looks full,” Simon sat on the lawn chair. “She’ll be wanting it tonight.”

“You want me to go into her as you, and fuck her?”

“Would you?”

Standing, Thorn Lang sampled the air, breathing in deeply. Closing his eyes, he absorbed the night. He reached out, plucked the bottle from Simon Green’s hand, filled his mouth with the bourbon. He moved to the edge of the campfire, spitting booze into the fire.

A plume of flame rolled upward. The Sheriff repeated the process. Turning, he took the few steps back to Simon, his eyes glowing green in a flash they were a glowing light brown. His body shrunk, clothing changed, and there stood Simon Green looking down at Simon Green.

“Yeah, I can fuck the whore for you. She’s ripe tonight, you’re going to have another baby.”

“It’ll look like its mine, right?”

“Same as the last one,” Skinwalker, the Other Simon, turned away, walking, adlibbing a stagger, he moved toward Green’s house.

Simon Green would give them a few minutes to get into the bedroom, then make his way to the adjacent room and watch through the peephole in the wall. There were only two ways for Simon to get a hard-on, getting it up the ass, or better still, watching himself fucking his wife.

Of course, Simon wasn’t fucking her, Thorn Lang fucked her as were-Simon. Simon would watch and whack off all the while, Thorn disguised in the form of Simon, fucked her raw. The small man moved with quiet stealth, to the porch. Kicking off his boots, he slipped inside, tiptoeing into the small office next to his wife and his bedroom.

Simon pulled his clothes from his body. He removed the picture from over the peephole while he slavered lotion on his hard cock. He peered through at the action. He knew he’d nut off right fast. Get hard and nut off several more times, until his cum catch rag was soaked.

He also knew they’d keep going for a good hour or more. Thorn would pump her full of sperm. At least two loads of cum before he finished with Simon’s wife. They were removing each other’s clothes. He didn’t understand this Skinwalker thing.

“I don’t understand you,” Dolly Green fumbled to remove his clothes. “We fuck less than once every two months. And when we do, you’re like a fucking different person. You’re like Thorn when you get horny. Wish you was horny more often.”

Smacking her to the floor, “Stop using your mouth to talk.”

“God damn, that motherfucker gets e-fucking-normous when you’re like this.”

Squatting over her, were-Simon pulled her face to his crotch. Slamming his prick down her throat, he skull fucked her with fury.

Watching, jacking off while he does, Simon felt like a real man, seeing himself fuck his wife. Hearing her call his name, the adoration in her voice. Dolly crying out profanities, as her plump body yields to his hard use.

Somehow, Simon Green could never separate himself from what Thorn did to his wife. Simon believed he became Thorn, when actually Thorn became him. Long before Thorn finished with her, Simon lay on the floor, covered in his own cum, sleeping, having exhausted his strength.


“What do you think of Sheriff Lang?” Slye asked her, raising two fingers to the bartender.

“What do I think of him, what do you mean, what do I think of him?” Jane sipped the last of her drink, peering at the man. Her free hand twirled a strand of her hair. Her eyes never left his, even when he glanced away in an escape from the uncomfortable moment.

“Do you like him?”

“Well, I don’t dislike him. He’s never had much to say to me, and less to do with me. Well, there was this, one time, back in high school …” Jane’s voice trailed off, the gaze of eyes her became distant. “No, no, that’s not right. Must’ve been another boy.”

“Another boy, what?”

“It’s private. And it was back in high school.”

“People say the Sheriff’s daddy use to beat him.”

“That ain’t true. Sheriff Lang was a fine man. I mean the first one, William Lang. Sheriff Lang’s dad. It’s getting late, I should get home. Unless,” Jane leaned forward, put her hand on his knee, “we go to your room so you can question me some more.”

Len Slye knew he should take her to his room. But knowing not to, and not do something are different. For three months, he’d abstained from straying from his material commitments. His wife’s trust teetered on the return. But he was hundreds of miles from her, how the hell would she find out, and Jane was anything other than a plain jane.

‘Fuck Lucy, fuck-her-up her forbidden, fat ass,’ he thought.

“Bartender, could you give me a bottle,” he turned to Jane, “bottle of what?”

“Vodka,” Jane’s smile seemed even sexier. “I like vodka,” the words tingled in his ears, filling him with anticipation.

Len handed the bartender the money, with the phrase, keep the change, and he and Jane walked out of the room, arm in arm. She leaned into him, rubbing his arm with her free hand, her head leaned to his shoulder.

“We have to stop by my room. It won’t be but a moment. I need to check on my son.”



“Where’s your husband?”

“Don’t have one.” Once Jane satisfied herself, her son was fine, she and Len moved his room.

All pretense of getting to know one another ended when his door closed. Jane pulled him to her, kissing him. All the while, she ran one of her hands over his chest. The other hand, let loose of his head, roamed over his back down to his ass and then found his cock.

The new couple’s clothing lay in a tangle on the floor. Exploring each other’s bodies, tangling up, arching of a back, writhing in pleasure, Jane and Len made love. Not it wasn’t lovemaking, call it animalist fucking. Breaking only for a shot of the vodka, they copulated. Touching, kissing, biting, climaxing, beginning over, and they continued their congress.

As to the bottle, Jane took tiny sips, while Lenoard took healthy gulps. Jane had her reasons to drink in moderation. Mescaline from the bud of peyote cactus infused into the vodka danced through Len’s veins. It riled his brain, drove him into a frenzy.

Like two rutting pigs, they humped, sucked, and exchanged body fluids for hours. Not one time, nor two, or even three, but four times they fucked. Until, after having expended all their sexual energy, they curled together.

They lay there, entwined together, in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Len hadn’t felt so alive for months. Makinglove to Jane broke his chains, he was free. Free from the shrew that had harped him to death for three long months. Free at last, free at last, thank God alight, I’m free of Lucille at last. Only, this freedom would end when he went back to Phoenix.

Jane handed the bottle of vodka to Len. Taking the bottle from her, lifting it to his lips, he filled his mouth. He pulled the bottle away, handed it back to her. Leonard let the vodka trickle down his throat. The drinking from earlier had him hammered.

Something else happened as well. Something inside him. Waves of heat rushed through his scalp. The head rush caught him off guard. He blinked, widening his eyes, a heat burnt behind them. There was the vaguest of discomforts in his belly. Like a piece of meat had been, just a tad, too old.

Dis-embracing her, Len sat with his back against the pillow, which was in turn against the headboard of the bed. The color of the wallpaper changed from yellow to blue, then to red and back to yellow. He ordered his hand to push him up so he could swing his legs over the edge of the bed. His arm and hand refused the order, but his leg flopped over tangling in the sheet.

“What the fuck,” Len looked at the woman, she held a large Native American pipe. Picking him up between her forefinger and thumb, she pushed his legs into the bowl. Pressing down, pushing him further into the small bowl, his belly offered a moment of resistance.

She pushed down harder, and his gut yielded. Jane wrapped one hand, round his body, then the other. With persistence, she pushed her thumb on his head. Down, down, down he went. At last, looking up, he saw her face, gazing down at him. She rubbed her nose with the mouthpiece.

“I bet you smoke up, right good,” she placed the mouthpiece in her beautiful mouth. Len saw the flame above his head, lower it came. Hovering just above the rim of the bowl. He could feel the heat. He felt a sucking, drawing air over his body, no not air. FIRE!

Leonard Slye burned, and his body began turning to smoke. The sucking again, he turned to vapor past her lips, past her teeth, he was in the back of her mouth, her throat. He filled her lungs, oh god, he rushed from her into the air. Drifting above the bed, he could see himself, a cherry red glow, in the pipe. Crap, she sucked more of him into her lungs. Again, he traversed her body until she exhaled him into the air, and he joined his misty self in the smoke-filled air. Wait, he was the smoke-filled air.

Darkness covered him. Like the dam broke, the floodwaters of nothingness poured over him. In the darkness, two glowing globes of green stared at him with a hateful glower. A man emerged from the darkness, a strong face, hard-muscled body, green eyes, long brown hair, all these things swam around forming a man. A ten star on his chest proclaimed Sheriff Spiny Cactus Count. He was gone, and warm waters drowned him in ungodly heat. The waters became rivulets of sweat ruing down his body. As they ran down, they blistered Len’s flesh. His eyes batted open; the sunburnt them.

Len blinked several times, trying to get used to the sunlight. Slye moved his arm, he struggled to put his hand over his eyes, no it snubbed the order. Len tried another time. No, his body wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t do it, his arm declined movement.

He hung naked in the air. Suspended between heaven and earth. Turning his head to the left, his arm was extended, and tied to a plank at his wrist. He turned to the right, the same thing. What the hell, Leonard Slye hung on a cross.

Bolting upright in bed, Leonard gazed about the hotel room, he was alone. The woman was gone, the bottle of vodka sat empty. A note was on the pillow beside him. He picked it up and read.

“Wonderful time last night. Can we have a go at again tonight.”


Simon Green sipped coffee at the table. His wife alternated between cooking his breakfast and feeding their child. She whistled while she went about the kitchen. God, how Simon hated it when Dolly whistled.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, smacking his fist to the table.

She brought his bacon and eggs to him. Sat them on the table in front of him. Scoping up a fork of eggs, she put the food at his mouth.

“Chug, chug, let the train into the tunnel.”

Knocking the fork from her hand, he snatched a handful of her curly blonde hair, standing he tossed her near the high chair. Balling up his fist, he scowled at her.

“I’m not the fucking baby, bitch.”

“Sorry, I was wanted just to be playful.”

He closed the three steps in a furious rush. Raising his foot, he brought it down, stopping himself inches from her crotch. If he killed that baby inside her, he’d be hanging from the cross.

“That’s the problem with fucking you, woman, you get to thinking your important and mean shit to me.”

Dolly Green had no clue why he stopped. The only time he started to beat her, and didn’t, was when she carried Jimmy inside her. Little Jimmy balled when his mother crashed to the floor beside him. Covering her ears, she tried to think.


“What do you do for a living?”

“Handyman,” Simon picked up the drink that Len Sly bought him. Holding the back of his head, “Fire in the hole,” he tossed the double shot down his throat.

“Handyman? You can afford that ninety-acre spread and nice house doing odd jobs?”

“It’s desert, not a tree on it. Just Heart of Arizona as far as you can see and a passel of peyote.”

“Ah, then you harvest and sell the peyote,” Slye said.

“No, Navajo’s harvest the buds of the plants and pay me for it. I can’t harvest it, that’d be wrong and illegal. They use the mescaline in their religion.”

“Yeah, sure, you never touch the stuff.”

“That’s right,” Geen held his glass out, shook it a little. “You buying me another one?”

“Bring my friend here another Jack, please,” Len Slye returned his attention to Simon Green. “So, you do work for your friend, the Sheriff.”

“No, sir, he is just a friend.”

“Tell about his aunt.”

“Which aunt?” Simon asked.

“The dead one,” Len replied.

“Well, the jokes on you, he has several dead aunts.”

“Back in 72, the one that died while you and Thronton were visiting her and her husband.”

“Yeah, what you want to know?”

“What happened.”

“They picked us up on a Friday after school, his Uncle Ben and Aunt Jean. She made us cookies; we ate them and went to bed. In the morning, she was gone.”

“What else?”

“She liked to walk in the desert at night, so she did,” Simon picked up the shot of bourbon. “Fire in the hole,” tossing it back.

“Naked, or so I hear.”

“What of it?”

“Hear she cheated on her husband … a lot,” Len nagged at Simon, prodding him for information.

“No one’s business but theirs. They had themselves an agreement.”

“Had three children and none were his,” Len pressed on, attempting to make the man make a mistake.

“That has nothing to do with nothing.”

“Where we’re their kids that weekend.”

“They were grown and gone. Thornton’s Aunt Jean wandered off in the night, got lost, fell off the cliff, and got eaten by bears, mountain lions, and every other critter around the area.”

“Don’t you think it odd, that it’s the same cliff that Thornton Lang’s father fell from,” Len pushed him.


“Why’d Ben Harper leave his property and money to Thornton?” he pushed again, waiting for the moment when out of anger, Simon Green makes a mistake.

“Did you say the kids weren’t his? I mean, one was a Mex girl, the second one an Indian boy, and the other kid a fucking half-a-nigger daughter.”

“Yes, but …”

“What’d thorn tell you?”

“He said I could investigate anything I wanted. He has nothing to hide. I just wonder if that’s true.”

Standing, Simon Green kicked his stool back a bit, pulled his ballcap from the bar, and put it on his head. He waved his two hands in circles.

“Simon says, shut the fuck up and investigate in someone else’s head.”

“I hear that Thorn bulled you growing up.”

“You heard wrong. He’s my best friend.”

December 1970

Without a doubt, any yee naaldlooshii, or Skinwalker, has great powers. He can shift his shape, having touched a thing, a wolf, a bird, a man, he can become that thing. The Skinwalker that lived inside of Thorn Lang was clizyati (pure evil), having done terrible things to his own relations. Eventually, slaughtering the last of his family, seven generations removed from his lifetime.

This Skinwalker terrorized the tribe for over 300 years. Then, Skinwalker joined with Thorn Lang. The Skinwalker’s malevolence infected Lang, spreading its evil through every fiber of the boys being. Weaving through his body, spirit, and soul merging itself with Thorn. Until only the purest wickedness endured.

An unseasonable warmth, close to 90 degrees, covered Spiny Cactus County that December. The eagle sat on the limb of a dead oak. Watching the little group of five approaching him. One man, one near man, and three boys walked the rough and rugged hillsides. Flapping his wings, the great bird took flight, curling upward until he found currents. The eagle soared on currents of warm air rising from the land, circling over the forest.

Looking up, Howard Green caught sight of the bird.

“Boy’s look up at the eagle,” he told his four sons. “You behave yourself, or he’ll swoop down and carry you off to feed his eaglets.”

“Dad,” William, the oldest, scoffed.

The blow was hard and fast. William plunged to the rough ground, his father stood over his son, fist, clenched, “One more word, Willy boy, and I’ll beat the fuck out of you. Now, get to your feet, and let’s find a fucking Christmas tree.”

Is cruelty a blood thing, or is it passed from father to sons by actions?

The near man got to his feet, seething with his anger. He bowed his head to his father, turned, and scoured the landscape for the perfect tree. “Simon, you go that way and see if you can find one about my size that looks good. If you find one, let out a holler.”

“What shall I say, daddy,” the runtish lad asked, eager to please his father and stave off a beating.

“I don’t know, and I don’t give a shit. Just go find a fucking tree, if you can,” Howard pulled a bottle from his pocket, opened it, and drank down a sizeable swill of booze.

The 12-year-old strode across the grass of a wide-open patch of land between the thickets of trees. Kicking a rock, he looked over his shoulder at his father. The man was mean, his meanness pulsed through Simon’s veins, as it did the other four boys. The 14-year-old trotted softly as if on eggshells, to avoid tripping the man’s trigger. All of Howard Green’s sons and daughter did the same. Most days, they did so without success.

The eagle lined up, diving he swooped toward the child. Simon strolled, unaware a raptor glided toward him. The eagle spread his wings wide, twisting its wings perpendicular to the ground. He slowed, timing his attack with for the moment when he’d again flap his wings to climb. Opening his talons, he aimed at the boy, yards turned to feet, feet to inches. Curling his feet, he dug talons into the boy’s shoulders, snatching the child from the ground. The bird turned, with a furious flapping, lifting the boy from the ground. It acquired a new target. The eagle hurled himself and the boy toward the father.

“Daddy!” the boy screamed. His head, heart, and body ached from the adrenaline that surged into him. The claws of the bird scratched deeply into the flesh.

Howard twisted toward the sound. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The beast headed right at him, he stretched out his arms, thinking to steal his son from the clutches of the bird. Reaching out, his hands missed the boy as the raptor sailed upward, into the sky. It veered to the left. Continued a quarter-circle glide to a new course. Sailing on the tide of warm air toward a distant pare of barren peaks.

Howard Green’s anger flared. “Fucking bird!”

The other boys rushed to their father. All watching, in horror, as the large eagle carried away the youngest of their dysfunctional tribe. The last to arrive was William.

“What the fuck,” William exclaimed.

Howard Green turned to his son, hitting him with a balled-up fist, knocking the boy to the ground. William rolled to his belly, put his down to push himself upward to his feet. The boot his ass, knocking his face into the rocky soil. Another kick, and third, battered him.

“Why’d you let this happen, Willy?”


“You should’ve protected your little brother. You’re a selfish little prick.”


The talons released the child. Simon Green plummeted to earth. Falling about fifteen feet, the boy crashed into the ground of the flat-topped peak. He rolled into a ball, spring to his feet. The eagle dived toward the ground. Just before landing, it changed, a wolf bounded toward the boy. Turning, Simon blindly ran. Hanging a toe on a rock, he tumbled to near a cluster of prickly pear cactus.

“Careful, Simon, don’t hurt yourself,” a familiar voice said, it was his own voice. “Where’s the fun in that for me?”

“What,” Simon stood up and turned. “You’re not me.” but it was him, only different. The other him didn’t look girly.

“Them spiny cactus is what the country is named for, did you know that Simon? You’re such a pretty, dainty girl,” Other Simon moved to him. Reaching out, he touched Simon’s face, “Yeah, lovely face, nice hair.” Other Simon’s hands moved down his body. Touching, caressing, he pulled him to him. “Oh, your little dicklett’s hard.”

Turning Simon around, he forced down on all fours. Yanking his pants down, Other Simon whispered in his ear, “You’ll like taking it in the ass. Not fucking anyone with your own worthless pecker. No up your shitter is better for you, little girl.” the voice changed back to Thorn’s. “How about me doing it. How you take a real man’s prick.”

“Thorn,” Simon cried as the big eight-inch boner pierced his ass.

“The bitch is one that’s fucked.”

It took them all day to find him. His father was enraged, his oldest brother bore the marks of their father’s anger. The blame shifted over the next few weeks, falling on every kid. But most often, the father beat the youngest. After all, Simon was the one dumb enough to be snatched up by a bird.

Thoughts of Thorn gutted Simon, cutting through his psyche like a knife. In school, walking to or from, in his bed and night. Yes, in his bed at night yanking his tiny prick thinking of Thornton Lang, violating him.

For three years, Thorn Lang had come to him at the oddest ways, at the oddest moments of a day. On a walk home, a bird would divebomb his head. Simon would run. The bird continued its assault, pestering him all the way to his home. Or a big dog would bound out from nowhere. The dog would tackle him. The beast humping his leg as Simon struggled to getaway. Soon, the beast dumped semen on the boy’s pants. Now he understood all those creatures that attacked him were Thorn. He feared and hated Thornton Lang and loved him. Thorn never showed Simon one moment of tenderness.

Len Slye continued to question his person, then another. He alternated to a manipulative conversation to guide the interviewee to say something damning about the Sheriff. Or to press the individual to anger. Neither tactic worked.

No one would say a bad word about Thornton Lang. No believed it possible he would kill someone other than in the line of duty. Which he had done once. No thought the relationship of his aunt and father dying in the precise same place anything other than a coincidence.

It didn’t help that he had an ungodly hangover. It didn’t help that this fucking town, either out of admiration, adoration, or fear, had no ill will to the sheriff. That was, in and of itself, odd. He planned to expand his search for critical information the next day.

He walked into the hotel bar and restaurant at 10:00pm only then remember you had to order food before 9:00. He sat down at a table; he took a gander around the bar. Jane sat at the bar, her back to him. Next to her sat the Green nitwit. He thought about pestering the man more.

“The Sheriff ass raped me,” someone said.

Turning his head to the sound, he saw a woman at the next table. He gave her a quizzical look. Picking up her drink, she sat beside Slye. Her eyes darted around the room, she put her finger to her lips, “Shhh.”

“What will it be?” the waitress asked.

“I guess I’m too late for food.”

“Yeah, by more than an hour. McDonald's and Burger King are open.”

“Okay, I’ll just have a shot of vodka. And bring the lady whatever she’s drinking.”

“No more for me, thank you, kindly.”

The waitress slinked away, her hips swishing from side to side. She hustled back a double shot, sat on the table, “Compliments of Jane Stout.”

“OH,” he said, he looked to Jane and lifted his glass.

The waitress moved on to other customers. Slye sipped his drink, waiting for the woman to talk. An older attractive woman, maybe fifty years old. He sized her up, taking her natural beauty.

“Look,” she began, “we can’t talk here. Let’s slip out back to my car, and I’ll tell you all you can stand to hear about Thornton Lang.

You can see the wheels working in Leonard Slye’s mind. This was a good thing, he thought, licking his lips, he’d either be fucking this bitch or have what he needed to bring Thornton Lang low.

With that, he followed her out of the bar into the parking lot behind the hotel. With every roll of hips, Slye’s thoughts turned to sex. His cock throbbed, he wanted to just take her himself. He wasn’t above rape. He’d done so several times, when the need arose. Len only forced the haughty ones, though. This woman didn’t seem stuck-up to him.

“I want you to meet someone,” the woman said.

Stepping from the shadow, a tall man moved toward him. His mind reeled at what he saw. Len saw a man that seemed to be a reflection of himself. A massive fist smacked his jaw, and darkness covered him. The ground rushed up and attacked him, the old broken pavement rushed upward into his face.

The darkness receded, just a tad, he could smell a sickly-sweet odor. Cool air blew over his flesh, he lay on something soft. His eyes adjusted to the light. Len pushed up, sitting in a chair, naked, he saw himself. The other him, stroking a cock that dwarfed his own.

“Come suck me up hard, little girl,” his voice ordered.

“Fuck you,” Len snapped, he got out of the bed. Searched for his clothes as he tried to figure out where he was.

The other version of Len Slye stood. This other him was more muscular, toned, and hung like a fucking stallion. He didn’t speak, grabbing Len by the neck, he ratcheted his finger, pinching the nerves of his spine.

Try as he might, he couldn’t move. His body tingled, his mind rushed, and words, unspoken words, filled his mind. “Suck it.”

He put his mouth around the other man’s penis. Desire consumed him, longings both unfamiliar and unnatural to him. Yielding to the other of himself. Repeatedly, his throat was invaded, tears ram from his eyes as the man hammered into his mouth. The bat balls slapping out a tempo on his chin, the slobber running down his chin, neck, and find its way to his chest, all disgusted and thrilled him.

“See, he is a big sissy girl,” the woman chuckled at his humiliation.

And it wouldn’t end there. Leonard Slye endured, ass fucking after ass fucking until he passed out on the bed. How many loads of cum were dumped into him? He hadn’t a clue. When he woke, he lay naked in the street in front of his hotel.

With cum and blood oozing from his ass, he hurried to the stairs. He stopped halfway up, covering himself, “Could you give me my key?”

“Catch,” the night clerk said as she tossed him the key, laughing at him.

Unlocking his door, he rushed inside the room, shutting the door. He clambered into the shower. Len showered, showered, and showered again, trying to wash away the nastiness. He sat on the bed of his room, his face in his hands, crying.

His humiliation wasn’t over, either. That woman would tell people. She’d say he liked it and wanted it. She’d out him, she’d destroy him. And that man, he looked like Slye but wasn’t. That beast had his way, he made Len want it. This couldn’t be possible.

What the fuck was happening to him.

 on: Today at 01:44:50 PM 
Started by Neighbor - Last post by Jessica_33
Excellent story so far Neighbor very humiliating.

 on: Today at 01:43:05 PM 
Started by carhamgrater - Last post by Jessica_33
Sucked Off


 on: Today at 01:42:43 PM 
Started by Jessica_33 - Last post by Jessica_33
Unfortunately.....a truncheon pressed against my rear, at least I hoped it was truncheon

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