Nymphomaniac

Two of the men who were side-fucking her threw their arms around each other and began to engage in a deep soul kiss as they continue to pound their chosen pair of cunts. She felt an unbridled submissive pleasure at the octuple violation and invasion of her body. Her breaths came faster and faster, until she surrendered herself completely and came in a torrent of fluids of Alice-in-Wonderland proportions just as all eight men spilled their hot ancestry juice deeply within Paraphilia's body cavity.

"Anybody got a cigarette?" Paraphilia asked.

The men patted themselves down. One produced a smoke and lighter, but one of the more puritanical killjoy nympho-haters pointed to the no-smoking signs over the commuter train doors.

"At least we can fuck and sexually abuse each other," Paraphilia said, garnering a round of applause. "The pigs can't take that away from us. Let them try."

"Here, here," her minions shouted, although they should have shouted "Hear, hear."

"What about us? When are we going to get some?" the female passengers cried.

"You ain't seen nothing yet," Paraphilia said. "Hey you. That's right, you with the pimple planation on your cheeks. Turn that penlight to red and shine it on me." The gangly young IT officer complied and soon Paraphilia's entire body glowed with a crimson light. It elongated into a roughly rectangular shape which sported 12 throbbing nine-inchers ready to ridden like the world's most pleasurable tandem bike.

The women took no time in shedding their clothes. Soon everyone on the train was engaged in a rite of Saturnalia not seen since the time the people of Earth foolishly abandoned the worship of this fun-loving god. Saturn Himself was still pissed about it.

Just then Paraphilia's cell phone went off. She flipped herself upside down and walked to the offending communication device like a centipede (or perhaps more accurately a dodecapede) with penises for legs. Her (12 cocks pressed a sequence of buttons on Paraphilia's cell phone. Then the largest of her 12 wangers looked askance at the multitude of revelers, or at least as askance as an eyeless appendage can manage. The peehole of this spokes-penis began to speak in a thin, high-pitched reedy voice. "Sorry, I've got to take this," the delectable appendage informed the trainful of copulating commuters.

"I gotta go," the verbally eloquent johnson told the crowd. Please carry on with your copulating, but please tidy up before you go. We don't want the Transit Authority complaining about our behavior. "

"You can't leave us," said a double-watermelon-sporting voluptuous grandmother of an extremely fortunate grandson, who continued to suck her two mega-hooters simultaneously.

The crone-sucker looked up in desperation at his insatiable matriarch. "I don't know if I will ever see you again, grandma. If I don't, there is something I need to say to you."

"And what is that, favorite grandson?"

"Thanks for the mammaries," the incestuous nip-sucker replied before resuming his ultimately futile attempt to extract the last drops of colostrum from his grandma's uncooperating breasts.

In the meanwhile Paraphilia hear a voice behind her suddenly shout, "Somebody grab her. Don't let her get off the train."

"What happened to 'Throw the bitch off the train'?" Paraphilia asked her would-be captors. As they reached out to grab her, she simply disappeared. She reappeared on the other side of the train.

"Looks like y'all have developed a Jones jones. Haven't you, you horny little devils?

"Don't you guys get it? All of this so-called reality is just a fucking dream." she told them, and then disappeared into thin air once again, this time permanently.

Most of the commuters now wore a dazed look on their faces. "Wasn't somebody else just here?" one of them asked.

"I can't remember how I got here," said Mrs. Jackie Bottomsup of Secaucus, New Jersey "But I'm sure glad I did," she told Bobby Thumpingham of Seekonk, Massachusetts, who awoke to find his not-inconsequential shaft well buried in the Secaucus librarian's love tube. Her legs were wrapped around the MIT exobiologist as he sat on the bench of the train car.

"Well, this is a little bit awkward," he told his potential new librarian POSSLQ.

"I don't think its awkward at all," she whispered. as she began to post up and down, driving his Washington Monument deeper and deeper into her Holland Tunnel while carefully avoiding her Slauson Cutoff.

"You know," she whispered, "I have long dreamed of this moment. I have watched you on this train for the past twenty years and I have longed to kiss you, to hold you, to feel you inside me, to give you the special things that only a woman in love, or maybe a gay guy at a highway rest stop, can give a man. I'm talking Cleveland steamer with a reverse tea bag, ballcuzi, flea-flicker Dirty Sanchez, pureed Santorum with a double cherry, you name it. It's all yours.

"I love you. I have always loved you," she said.

Feeling somewhat encouraged, the exobiologist grabbed and squeezed the librarian's not-inconsiderable hooters as she began to ride him faster and faster. "You know what's really hot?" she said.

"No what?"

"The article you wrote about free radicals in the atmosphere of Venus in last month's Journal of Scientific Exploration. It was totally hot. Literally. 864 degrees Fahrenheit hot, actually."

He pressed a finger to her lips, understandably not wanting to talk shop in the middle of a good boffing. He stroked her hair and she pressed her breasts against him as she continued to ride him with extreme prejudice. Before an hour had passed, they both exploded and his hot fluid poured into her Slauson Cutoff and she released her own hot fluids all over his Washington Monument and over his legs and chest.

When they were spent, they lay there quietly, lost in each other's flesh. They stayed that way for a good three or four hours, until the exobiologist began to wonder what exactly a Santorum with a double cherry was.