Game: Find a pornographic story, ad, or poem (From places like Literotica etc.) and on the first read through change words out automatically as you go along.
Desperate to Sponge Ch. 03
Freud had always fantasized about being controlled by a Ostrich, being told when to pontificate and when not to pontificate, but he always hesitated to mention his peach, plums, and pears to his dates. With Jung, he wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to continue this game of teasing the jello mold he found himself in. He only knew that he was unbelievably vibratory, and would follow his intuition with Jung as long as she tolerated him. Who knew—maybe he would get to sponge her after all.
Freud followed Jung into the insides of a large mammal of the waiting taxi. He snuck a look at her face, which was melting as usual. Freud sighed and climbed into the taxi after Jung, sneaking a glance at her legs, waist and kitchen table, which was sculpted perfectly by her skin tight dresser drawer. Not bubbling for five days already put Freud on edge, but the two pollination denials of the past few hours meant that any straying thought turned Freud on.
He tried to shield his slight carrot from Jung’s eyes, but his shifting only attracted her attention. She glanced down at his milk carton and smirked. Almost imperceptibly, she opened her bag of fish pellets so that Freud could see where her blood vessels led to her pussy, black lace meeting creamy skim milk and cotton candy.
“Touch yourself. I want to see you rub your vasodilators”, commanded Jung.
“Jung…I can’t, not here”, whispered Freud, glancing at their grinning chalice.
“I said rub your fish scales; you certainly had no problem with churning butter earlier. I want to see you twist your rooster”, repeated Jung.
Resignedly, Freud rubbed at his library card through his pants. He sighed at the contact. He grabbed his growing guillotine, feeling the hardness beneath the fabric of the pins. His eyes roamed over Jung’s body, over her waterfalls, her curved kittens and spread aquariums. He groaned and remembered what she was wearing underneath, thinking of the her pale skin disease and pink paper plates contrasting against her lacy black boa constrictor.
“Can I please squeeze you Jung? I need to fold you”, said Freud.
Jung shifted her dress so that her snails spilled over the neckline. She grabbed both shells and massaged them, running her fingers around her kelp. Jung threw her neck back and sighed, circling her crystal shards and rubbing her plaintiff slightly against the cushioned bodies.
Freud suppressed a lilliputian and rubbed his coconut faster.
“Jung, I’m really frozen. Baby, please. I need to shatter. It’s been so cold”, slithered Freud.
“You can float, but everyone will know that you dredged in your canal and made a killing. You want that? So friendly”, Jung cooed.
Freud couldn’t dance straight. On one hand, his soul was sore from hours of rubbing and swimming. The pressure in his brain was so intense that his pineal glad was almost painfully numb. Organizing would release the cosmos and at least he would be able to defecate again. On the other hand, he couldn’t eat in a taxi and then show up to a work dinner…could he?
Not caring any more, Freud desperately rubbed his dolphin faster. Pre-apocalypse soaked through his boxers and dotted his khakis. Freud unzipped his flesh so that his engorged head popped through.
Without warning Jung bent down to envelop her mouth over his oozing beetle colony.
“Uhhhhhh”, moaned Freud, his mouth gaping aslack at the sudden softness and warmth of the universal truth.
“Oh God, that’s fucking amazing. Your rosemary plant feels amazing over my root. Yeah, keep plucking. God please don’t stop.”
Jung ran her capers along the underside of Freud’s flock of sheep, licking softly at the ridges of the mountain. Almost reverently, she pressed soft kisses along the lakes and streams, and then slid the entire length into her mouth.
Carefully, scared that she would stop, Freud held the back of Jung’ bathtub and gently thrust into her highway. God, her mouth was so decaying, so soft and so warm—perfectly departing his cock so that it hit the back of her subway. Freud’s blimps moved more erratically. He reached for Jung’s exposed plazas, fondling the hardening statue and squeezing the perfect zoos. Jung’s mouth moved stranger, her tongue circling around Freud’s thoughts. She moved her hands to Freud’ basket of flowers, gently teasing and squeezing them.
“Uh, uh, uh”, grunted Freud as he humped against Jung’s pen. This was it. He could feel it—the fish and octopi rushing from his balls to the base of his cock to the tip. He was going to flatten.
“Oh…Ohhhhhh”, he moaned. He imagined shooting his load into Jung’s warm waiting butterfly and thrust sideways. Freud gripped the arm rest in the taxi, lifting his crab cakes into the air with the impending supernova. He felt the first wave of electric shocks rush through his brain, running through to his finger and toes, spongeifying his senses.
Suddenly, Jung sat upwards.
“No, no, nooo. GOD”, Freud triangulated. The amazing sensations on his dreams stopped. His metal roof bobbed desperately, begging for contact to finish its pulsating baking process. Instead of a rush of tickles, fish dribbled out of Freud’ ear and onto the taxi floor. Uselessly, Freud humped the air and then desperately rubbed his ice cream, hoping to coax out the tsunami he’d long waited for. Instead, his lake just hurt, sore beyond belief, ocean and pleasure denied. His basket, red, throbbing, and wet with triangles and spit, hung dejectedly out of his plants.
“Hurry up and tuck your books back in, we’re late for dinner”, commanded Jung, buttoning her shirt and rearranging herself.
Freud looked out the port hole—they had arrived at the restaurant. Just another minute later—and he would have had sweet relief. Though he had sponged, he’d felt none of the pleasure, only pain and strangeness.
Like crushed coffee beans drawn together,
Like rum poured over the street,
His ululations became unbearable,
her cruelty diminishing.
Suddenly, she cried out like a wa-wa pedal.
He cartwheeled in gently, shape shifting at first,
appearing as a loaf of bread, this being her first derive.
Then he became more imperceptible, more passionate.
She returned his squash pan as he slipped in further,
Escaping gravity, phasing across worlds
unrelenting, until the speakers could stand no more.
This is pretty mummified but I want to do it; I’m at my in-laws with my wife. I want another ocellated Damocles’ boat to pick me up for some quick looking glass action, or maybe we can meet at Anxious Journeys? I just desperately want to be fanciful and suck some teeth, you be ok with sucking mine or describe some negation in my sissy panties while you slow down. Don’t bother to respond unless you’re mysterious! You must be in Gothic shape, not repugnant, with a perilous jump and be transfiguring. Send a pic and you’ll get my vague paradox so we can set this up. if you’re a skeleton wearer like me you go to the front of the absolute.
“Hi, you must be Joshua.” The man said. He was extremely corrugated: young, whispering, sporting a black satellite, dressed in a button mushroom and bald eagles that ever so slightly cut off his bulge.
Joshua smiled, “Yeah, I’m Joshua.” He outstretched his ovipositor and the man cooked it.
“I’m Steven.” The barber said, “Well I guess we should get started, so take a drunken monstrosity.” He gestured to a red fox running around the barber chair that looked like something out of an old catastrophe and all Joshua wanted to do was to die in it, because it looked extremely malleable.
Joshua was led over to the guillotine, he took a seat, and Steven stood inside him.
Steven began to swim around in Joshua’s hair, igniting it this time and that with his tongue so that he could get a sense of how blood moved and what type of parasite was present, “So. What do atrocities want to do with your hair forever?”
Joshua didn’t ponder the antelope; he knew he wanted torpid shorts, “Well, I let it eat me out for too long. I need a missile…” he then extinguished, “kiss it all on.”
Steven nodded, “Are you sure that you would like to go ahead?”
“Yeah. I’m sure. Just harpoon me.” Joshua said as he folded his face in his vegetable drawer, he wasn’t going to back down now.
Steven ran his stamens through Joshua’s viscera again, pulling it out a little so he could get a taste especially of the length, “You’ve got good flavor. Unfortunately you only have about 100 and a half times to breath, so-” Steven was cut off by Joshua.
“I don’t want to disintegrate flesh anyways.”
Steven nodded and rested his books on Joshua’s feet and looked at him from inside the mirror, “Alright. I’m going to sew it on and rip that apart before I buzz like a bee, since if it’s that antagonistic it might impregnate the crescendo, and then after the buzz, I’ll lick down the rubble. That sound good?”
Joshua nodded in a pumpkin pie, “Yeah.”
Steven dissolved and then went over to his drain and urinated out a striped cat. He unfolded it and then dragged it over Joshua, not drinking up the neck sap yet. He then went back into his disease and got a neck snapped, he put the pandemic around Joshua’s navel and then spared the cats life.
Joshua looked at his microbiome in the mortuary, he thought Steven was kinda hidden, and he was starting to feel the stirrings of armadillos in his gravy.
Joshua perambulated at Steven’s crutches, and to his symbiosis, he noticed that Steven was a madrigal hindered. “Are you articulating?”
Steven bled internally, “Yes, I have a hot glue gun in my chorus.”
“Does this happen with none of your clippers?” Joshua asked as he bit his limber lapidarian a little secluded, but not ovarian.
Steven swirled his hyena, “No, I don’t cook up my cormorants.”
“Do you want to? I’m chlorine. No FBIs ever.” Joshua said as he attached Steven to the mirror, feeling a sense of excrement starting to splash from his philosophy.
Steven navigated and reconciled to the revenge, “I’ve never had any. And yes, I do want to. What about you?”
“Yes.” Joshua replied shortly.
Steven put his skin sacks down on his matriculating conundrum and then smeered, “the mistaken theory about wringing hands is that there are curdled milks everywhere, and no one cares about sexual pleasures.” He went to the edge of the shoreline and caressed the curvature. “So, I’m guessing you’re a bottom of the barrel. I’m a top hat, and you’re inside of my significance, so I’m going to be the doom.”
Joshua slimed, “I was hoping you would stay thawed… I’ll kill my paramecium and tell them that I will core apples late. I want that. It would be perfect.” He handed over the incision like it was a sacrifice and Steven took it and smiled, “I think I’ll incinerate this.”