All Hands on Dick

"When the government's boot is on your throat, whether it is a left boot or a right, is of no consequence."

― Gary Lloyd

"Handjobs! What supremely beautiful fuck invented these release valves on hellish servitude?!" Mike Oxhard silently pondered, as the six-foot tall, charcoal cherub pounded the middle of his swollen staff, while the Asian exotic dancer palmed the shiny head. This left the base free to fondle, which Oxhard prepared to do.

"Whomever the manual Magellan was who first set foot on this idyllic shore, had to have been a 'prole,' " deduced Mike. Prole being short for proletarian, or proletariat, in Orwellian parlance. The proles were the lowest class of slave in the book 1984.

Only agonizing frustration would cause a person to yank on their own genitals, in order to relieve the pain of perpetual servitude. Only a prole would've taken the time to work his hands down his pants, in the lunch room at his "job," and fondle his fucktool in full view of his fellow vassals.

Being a prole himself, Oxhard gripped his base, and―

"Holy Ground!" he quietly contemplated. "That's one enormous zit!"

A semi-solid salience ― the dimensions of a moderate marble ― protruded from the area where his silken sack met the base of his quivering cock. Still, he reveled in the sweet sensation of three, different hands ― from three, different people ― simultaneously stroking his staff, while doing his best to alleviate his worries.

The slight desert breeze slathered his skin in delicious serenity, while multiple manos provided the added element of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Chinese lanterns softly illuminated the scene, as Mariachi music kissed the night. The smell of elotes ― hocked on side streets ―filled Mike's senses. He wanted so badly to savor this quilt of sensation, but that damned protrusion beneath his cock had him more fearful than Hillary Clinton roofied with truth serum on live TV.

"Was that a slot machine here in the lobby?!" Oxhard quietly queried, as he entered the Vegas emergency room. This town truly had no soul.

"Cancer?" a frazzled Mike questioned from the cardboard cot emergency room bed.

"No," the clinical quack concluded.

"A blood clot?" Oxhard queried, envisioning Josef Mengele offering brutal transfusions from a van in a Kmart parking lot.

"Not even close," came the esoteric reply.

"Why the suspense, fucker?!?" the severe swinger mentally massacred himself. Doctors were up there with lawyers, politicians, the fuckin' Pope, and nitroglycerine, on Mike's list of lovable playthings.

"A― a venereal disease?" It was all Oxhard could do to form the phrase.

"You're not very good at multiple choice, are you?" came a response stranger than the success of karaoke.

"Well, if you'd just fucking tell me...!" the dissolute deviant ruminated. He pictured his blue ribbon rod dissected by Bill Nye, on some Rupert Murdoch-funded propaganda used to dissuade the masses from having group sex.

"If you look closely," Bill holds up a veiny, inside-out Coney Dog for the oxygen-deprived audience to examine. "You can clearly see why monogamy is the only option for us all."

Feeling faint, Mike's mind returned to its default screen saver, and a montage of BBW assholes, he'd viewed in the flesh, filled the monitor of his cranium. When contemplating his own mortality, this always happened.

"I― I guess I'm not," were the words that emitted from his trembling lips, "you fuckin' drug dealer in a lab coat!" was the addendum left unsaid.

Oxhard pictured the DSM-5 beside this bastard's bed, alongside a stack of Tony Robbins CDs, detailing the fastest way to fuck one's fellow human.

"Well, I'm gonna go with..."

"So this is how it ends," concluded the 4,432 Woman Man. "I'll never reach 5,000."

"An infected..."

"Fuck!!" Outside of "amputated," this was the second to last word Mike wanted to hear, when it came to a description of his penis.

"...ingrown hair."

The labia lover's sigh of relief was audible in Croatia. This meant he could keep fucking, right? Sex consumed him. It was who he was! He could recall no greater passion. It was his literal connection with his kind; his USB cable jacked into femininity's USB port. Without this, he'd be more lost than the Super Bowl played by a team wearing no protective gear.

"You shave your genitals, don't you?" Kevin Orkian ― "Kev" for short ― inquired.

"Drive-thru organ donation will become the popular fad, before my pubes fall out naturally, leaving the-perfect-opening-line-smooth cock you see before you," Oxhard thought. "Yes," was his actual response.

"You can still engage in sexual activity. I'll write you a prescription...for..." The remainder of what this corporate narcotics pusher rambled about faded into whichever back alley Skeet Ulrich's career mistakenly drove down. All Oxhard heard was he'd be able to continue fucking.

Two weeks can be a long time. It's the duration you had to wait for your self-lubricating, remote-controlled pocket pussy to arrive by mail. During that interim, 9.8 million people ― roughly the population of Sweden ― opened accounts with Facebook. In 14 days, 200 million customers ate at McDonald's.

It's also how long Mike had to keep his pants on at a local swing club ― Band-Aids criss-crossing the base of his cock ― as he watched others fuck.

That said, he did manage to manually or orally service three new women per week, during this interval. Never underestimate experience.

― authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. Mike Oxhard