"Where are all the BBW strippers, let alone BBW strip clubs?!"
― Don Keedik
From the tenth floor of the Four Queens, Don could hear the drunken droves below, as the six-foot tall, Chinese BBW jerked his javelin. This mental snapshot ― tattered, and yellowing with age ― graced the cover of his cerebral photo album.
Most broke out Polaroids of brainwashed kids, or holiday memories, inducing sleep faster than an Advil overdose. Before even opening Don's mind ― which may occur, thanks to neurotechnology ― the first image you'd see is Keedik's blood-engorged cock down this gorgeous gal's gullet. Big, bare balls clutched in her hungry hands; the Fremont Street Experience in the room window for context.
Views from most downtown or Strip hotels are more spectacular than a six-titted, bisexual chick with three pussies! Whether staining sheets on the 14th floor of Caesars, or sending sperm sailing off the wraparound balcony at The Cosmopolitan, a lighting bill rivaling the Black Budget, in the background, provides serious memories.
Don knew it. Still, he scampered from the event with the big, beautiful woman toward a destination far from the tourist traps. There, awaited yet another commodious cutie.
This new BBW heaved in rapture. Her squirt pooled five inches deep around her delicious body, as Keedik opened her up with as much zest as an IRS refund on rent day. The mattress beneath her was more dead than Kirk Douglas' chances of gracing the cover of Seventeen magazine.
Such wasn't uncommon. Our hero drove by the swing club four times a week, often finding box springs ― as lifeless as Carl Reiner's cock ― hauled to the curb. The slaves were rapacious for flesh. In this Phil Dick, dystopian chain gang of the cosmos, humanity gorged itself on any nibble of escape it could.
Blade Runner was our default environment. We didn't see it, because the Sun shined regularly. In the PKD tale, it was obvious shit was bleak, since our empyrean light bulb was nowhere to be found, leaving skies dark.
Here, though, we thought we were free, because a handful of psychopaths told us we were, and the yellow dwarf star in our Solar System danced on us invariably.
Not that it mattered for Don. This was Vegas ― a 24 hour town. Since being here, he'd proven one can survive on two hours of sleep per day.
Most folks strive for 56 hours of slumber a week. Don boxed up, and hauled away, 24 during a seven day period. Such was the personification of the masses napping, while a faction of the populace ― alert and aware ― devoured as much as they could, before departing their physical form.
Between Thursday and Sunday, Keedik crashed two hours per night. The three remaining evenings of the week, he'd cast the nets, ensnaring six hours each. It was exactly the amount necessary, if he was to achieve his goal of 200 women in five months.
Awash in darkness, the familiar report of a text message pierced Don's short-lived solace like Chris Tucker's voice at an opera. Keedik was thrust back onto the field; given the opportunity to race for the end zone.
Grappling consciousness from the greedy clutches of slumber, he sat up, unsure what time it was, nor what day. Fumbling for his cell, he scanned the prospects, and sickly blue illuminated the slovenly surroundings.
"Work" clothes ― his prison uniforms ― were draped over everything.
Tip money scattered across his dresser, interspersed with unused condoms. Bottles of flavored lube ― some full, some with but a few strokes remaining ― littered the particle board counter. A pair of cock rings had been lovingly placed beside car keys, and his casino badge name tag. A stack of laundry quarters held down a mismatched pile of phone number-bearing cocktail napkins, swing club passes, and "work" schedules.
Don tapped the "Messages" icon on the phone, displaying a sole text.
"You up for a gangbang, tonight?"
Photos were attached, revealing what would be an "unattainable" BBW wet dream for most, but standard daily fare for Keedik and the group grinders with which he ran.
Retracting slats from the lone window of his hovel, Don exposed a sea of neon. After all, this was Vegas. A tasty Moon defined a Martian landscape beyond the Strip.
"What day is it?" Keedik responded on the two-bit talk and text machine.
A pause.
"Wednesday," came the reply.
And such was the backstory to the event at the Four Queens.
Now, naked at a swing shack, Don peeled away the tinfoil lid on a delectable chocolate/vanilla pudding combo. He stood beside the moaning mattress, where a charcoal BBW blended seamlessly with an alabaster cutie. The two treasures devoured each other like a pair of starving zombies.
Keedik gazed on, gripping his gonads.
Breathless, cocoa separated from cream, and sidled up to our hero. "Your cock is gigantic," the darling debutante drooled, staring at Don's throbbing hard-on. "We were watching you stroke it in the dungeon. I'm Sherry, and this is Melissa."
The bountiful beauty motioned to her nude friend ― covered in her own cum, and reclining on the happiest bed on the planet. "It's Melissa's birthday, and—
Drum beats kicked in, as a disco ball the size of Anderson Cooper's sphincter descended from the ceiling. House lights dimmed, and more lasers flashed about than a scene from Star Wars. All to the sporadic thrusts of Keedik, his bargain basement boner, and a pair of buxom beauties bursting with bliss.
Adult beverages sloshed in abundance, while voyeurs scooped out a hearty eyeful, and plenteous girl goo oozed down thick, bourbon-colored thighs.
When said and done, Don felt compelled to push deeper into the mysterious night, unlocking adventures with his nine inch key.
The two remaining señoritas with whom he played that evening couldn't have tipped the scales at more than a buck twenty, each. Hence, we'll leave that for another story.
In total, we were talkin' close to 1,500 pounds of glorious goddesses that night.
— authored by Hugh Mungus
― Don Keedik
From the tenth floor of the Four Queens, Don could hear the drunken droves below, as the six-foot tall, Chinese BBW jerked his javelin. This mental snapshot ― tattered, and yellowing with age ― graced the cover of his cerebral photo album.
Most broke out Polaroids of brainwashed kids, or holiday memories, inducing sleep faster than an Advil overdose. Before even opening Don's mind ― which may occur, thanks to neurotechnology ― the first image you'd see is Keedik's blood-engorged cock down this gorgeous gal's gullet. Big, bare balls clutched in her hungry hands; the Fremont Street Experience in the room window for context.
Views from most downtown or Strip hotels are more spectacular than a six-titted, bisexual chick with three pussies! Whether staining sheets on the 14th floor of Caesars, or sending sperm sailing off the wraparound balcony at The Cosmopolitan, a lighting bill rivaling the Black Budget, in the background, provides serious memories.
Don knew it. Still, he scampered from the event with the big, beautiful woman toward a destination far from the tourist traps. There, awaited yet another commodious cutie.
This new BBW heaved in rapture. Her squirt pooled five inches deep around her delicious body, as Keedik opened her up with as much zest as an IRS refund on rent day. The mattress beneath her was more dead than Kirk Douglas' chances of gracing the cover of Seventeen magazine.
Such wasn't uncommon. Our hero drove by the swing club four times a week, often finding box springs ― as lifeless as Carl Reiner's cock ― hauled to the curb. The slaves were rapacious for flesh. In this Phil Dick, dystopian chain gang of the cosmos, humanity gorged itself on any nibble of escape it could.
Blade Runner was our default environment. We didn't see it, because the Sun shined regularly. In the PKD tale, it was obvious shit was bleak, since our empyrean light bulb was nowhere to be found, leaving skies dark.
Here, though, we thought we were free, because a handful of psychopaths told us we were, and the yellow dwarf star in our Solar System danced on us invariably.
Not that it mattered for Don. This was Vegas ― a 24 hour town. Since being here, he'd proven one can survive on two hours of sleep per day.
Most folks strive for 56 hours of slumber a week. Don boxed up, and hauled away, 24 during a seven day period. Such was the personification of the masses napping, while a faction of the populace ― alert and aware ― devoured as much as they could, before departing their physical form.
Between Thursday and Sunday, Keedik crashed two hours per night. The three remaining evenings of the week, he'd cast the nets, ensnaring six hours each. It was exactly the amount necessary, if he was to achieve his goal of 200 women in five months.
Awash in darkness, the familiar report of a text message pierced Don's short-lived solace like Chris Tucker's voice at an opera. Keedik was thrust back onto the field; given the opportunity to race for the end zone.
Grappling consciousness from the greedy clutches of slumber, he sat up, unsure what time it was, nor what day. Fumbling for his cell, he scanned the prospects, and sickly blue illuminated the slovenly surroundings.
"Work" clothes ― his prison uniforms ― were draped over everything.
Tip money scattered across his dresser, interspersed with unused condoms. Bottles of flavored lube ― some full, some with but a few strokes remaining ― littered the particle board counter. A pair of cock rings had been lovingly placed beside car keys, and his casino badge name tag. A stack of laundry quarters held down a mismatched pile of phone number-bearing cocktail napkins, swing club passes, and "work" schedules.
Don tapped the "Messages" icon on the phone, displaying a sole text.
"You up for a gangbang, tonight?"
Photos were attached, revealing what would be an "unattainable" BBW wet dream for most, but standard daily fare for Keedik and the group grinders with which he ran.
Retracting slats from the lone window of his hovel, Don exposed a sea of neon. After all, this was Vegas. A tasty Moon defined a Martian landscape beyond the Strip.
"What day is it?" Keedik responded on the two-bit talk and text machine.
A pause.
"Wednesday," came the reply.
And such was the backstory to the event at the Four Queens.
Now, naked at a swing shack, Don peeled away the tinfoil lid on a delectable chocolate/vanilla pudding combo. He stood beside the moaning mattress, where a charcoal BBW blended seamlessly with an alabaster cutie. The two treasures devoured each other like a pair of starving zombies.
Keedik gazed on, gripping his gonads.
Breathless, cocoa separated from cream, and sidled up to our hero. "Your cock is gigantic," the darling debutante drooled, staring at Don's throbbing hard-on. "We were watching you stroke it in the dungeon. I'm Sherry, and this is Melissa."
The bountiful beauty motioned to her nude friend ― covered in her own cum, and reclining on the happiest bed on the planet. "It's Melissa's birthday, and—
Drum beats kicked in, as a disco ball the size of Anderson Cooper's sphincter descended from the ceiling. House lights dimmed, and more lasers flashed about than a scene from Star Wars. All to the sporadic thrusts of Keedik, his bargain basement boner, and a pair of buxom beauties bursting with bliss.
Adult beverages sloshed in abundance, while voyeurs scooped out a hearty eyeful, and plenteous girl goo oozed down thick, bourbon-colored thighs.
When said and done, Don felt compelled to push deeper into the mysterious night, unlocking adventures with his nine inch key.
The two remaining señoritas with whom he played that evening couldn't have tipped the scales at more than a buck twenty, each. Hence, we'll leave that for another story.
In total, we were talkin' close to 1,500 pounds of glorious goddesses that night.
— authored by Hugh Mungus