Assraped by a Crazy Poetry Bitch (Part 5)

I woke up the next morning with a headache and a sore ass. Next to me on the couch was the poetry bitch's daughter, still naked and still wearing the strap-on. Her big juicy tits stood to the sky, even as she slept. The sight of her, so young and innocent, yet so vile and perverse, wearing a pussy juice saturated strap-on (and probably having my shit on her hands) turned me on immensely. My morning wood stiffened significantly, and I reached over and lightly stroked her firm, slightly muscular abdominals.

She awoke quickly, but wasn't startled; instead, she smiled at me, and cupped her shit-covered hand over the back of my neck. I tried to climb atop her, but my ascent was interrupted by her strap-on nearly impaling my stomach. Pushing the instrument to the side, I mounted her and snaked my stiffy up into her moist young pussy.

It slipped in easy, into an extremely tight, warm opening, and we were sharing a deep, passion soaked French kiss until her mom burst through the window, smashing the glass and climbing into the flat, after maybe having come up the fire escape or rappelled up by a rope ladder or something, fuck knows. She was wearing an elegant evening dress, but I could tell she still had the strap-on on underneath it. She was also still barefoot.

When the crazy poetry bitch saw me on the couch fucking her daughter, she flew into a rage, screaming in banshee-like, incomprehensible sounds. She then began picking up books off the floor and throwing them at us, well, mostly at me.

Having a dictionary whack me in the head kinda killed my boner, and I withdrew my semi from her daughter's pussy, shielded myself with my arms and ran out of the apartment, naked, into the gray, chilly English morning.

The poetry bitch followed after me. She continued to throw books and whatever else she could, chasing me about two blocks, barefoot, her feet bleeding and tracking bloody footprints down the sidewalk. She only ceased her pursuit when she got too winded to keep running.

Peering over my shoulder as I ran, I could see her hunched over, gasping for air and reaching one arm out in my direction, making a clawing motion at me as I escaped and disappeared into the city street.

I kept running for about another block but stopped when I saw a familiar looking vehicle. It was my rental car. I could jump in it and escape the crazy poetry bitch and this entire fucking city and entire fucking country. I could go back home to Miami, where things are much more normal.

However, I realized I didn't have my car keys, wallet, or passport. All that shit was back at the poetry bitch's flat. And fuck, I'm gonna have a hell of a time showing up to the American consulate like this, asking for a new passport.

A group of young thuggish street types emerged from an alley nearby. Some were laughing, some were grimacing. One was mentioning something about the blood around my ass.

“Fucking hell! What happened to you?” asked one of them, a tall, bald headed kid, with blond eyebrows that had stylish slits. He bore a slight resemblance to the bald guy with the midget from last night's show. Maybe that was his dad. (Probably the bald guy, not the midget.)

“Listen, dudes, it's a long story...”

They just stood there staring at me, with puzzled expressions, almost like they expected me to tell them.

And for some reason I actually had the urge to recount the entire incident, in vivid detail, which I bet is what Dr. Phil would have done. But then a sudden idea hit me.

“Hey, any of you fellas got a screwdriver?”

Assraped by a Crazy Poetry Bitch (Part 4)

The crazy poetry bitch didn't answer and just kept raping me. I was quite surprised she had a daughter, considering everything.

The daughter stepped angrily through the piles of books and slammed the door to the bathroom. A minute later, she came out naked, also with a strap-on, and stepped up behind her mom, who was still raping me, and started fucking her mom wildly, slapping her on the ass, pulling her hair, and cursing at her in French.

Her mom, now being fucked, anally apparently, too, slowed down her raping momentum, and dropped her rifle to the floor. I took this as a cue to break free, which I did, and I limped over to the couch and tried to sit down but couldn't totally, since my asshurt had returned a bit upon breaking free of the strap-on. So instead I shifted my weight onto only one buttcheek and rested my left shoulder against the soft, velvet couch, which felt quite nice on my naked skin.

Watching this young chick pounding her mom from behind turned me on. It sort of reminded me of an online video I saw of two ladyboys fucking. For some reason it had really aroused me, although I did feel like a complete fag after watching it.

The scene presently unfolding in front of me again brought up those confused feelings and I looked down and noticed my cock was rock hard, which led me to wonder if it'd been hard throughout the entire anal raping. The possibility of that made me feel like far worse of a fag.

The more the mother/daughter team screamed out in pleasure as they fucked, the more hot I got, and before I knew it, I spit in my hand and started wanking like crazy as the poetry bitch's huge tits twirled in circles as her daughter banged away from behind.

Her daughter even started giving her mom a reach around, which I thought was polite, and the mom seemed to enjoy, though I didn't see much point to it all. Still, it was hot for some reason, and I got that tingling feeling one gets right before orgasm.

Hoisting myself up, I pointed my hard cock at the poetry bitch's twirling tits and tried to aim my load at her rapidly revolving nipples, but it was hard to hit them, almost felt like an arcade game. I got at least one of them, though, and spaffed a bit on her daughter's strap-on jerking hand, too.

Exhausted, a rush of vertigo overcame me, and I fell back into the couch and passed out.

Assraped by a Crazy Poetry Bitch (Part 3)

She pointed the hunting rifle at me and cried out, in an American, street pimp type voice, “Don’t move, you chickenshit, honky ass motherfucker!”

It was sort of weird being called a “chickenshit honky ass motherfucker” by another white person, but I was too freaked out by the gun she was pointing at me to really ponder this.

Prodding me up to my feet, with the icy tip of the rifle, she ordered me to turn around and place my hands on the edge of the couch.

It took a second to register, but soon enough, especially when she undid my jeans, I realized this crazy bitch was about to rape me.

Everybody, I'm sure, thinks about getting raped at some point. It's the worst fear of many women. But for most men, aside from maybe prison, the Catholic Church, Penn State, or the backwoods of Mississippi, we don't really think about that shit happening to us.

But here I was, pants around my ankles, gun to my head, soaking wet, drunk and high and staring down at a Dr. Phil book cover, about to take it in the ass from some crazy poetry bitch. It was the kind of moment that really leads one to serious introspection...

I guess she'd lubed it up, because it slid in my butt fast, the strap-on dildo. It didn't hurt as bad as I thought it would. Just felt like a big piece of shit going back into my ass rather than out. By and by, it wasn't nearly as awful I'd imagined, the few times I'd pictured getting assraped in a prison shower or accidentally wandering into a gay bar, drunk, wearing a kilt or something.

Speaking of prison shower rape, the scene in the film “American History X” totally fucking scared me, but this wasn't nearly that bad. It was a big breasted woman, after all, raping me, and not some heavily muscled, tattooed, white supremacist. Yeah, I'm sure it could have been a lot worse. As far as assrapings usually go, mine wasn't so bad, actually.

After about 20 seconds, my ass just went kinda numb. I pretty much stopped noticing the raping and focused my attention more on the quotes from Dr. Phil that adorned his book cover. I wondered what ole' Dr. Phil would say about this whole situation or how he might react to getting raped. I didn't think he'd like it very much. I also wondered what it'd be like getting raped by Dr. Phil. I think that definitely would be worse than this poetry bitch, or even the prison nazi.

The crazy poetry bitch seemed to be enjoying herself and was making strange monkey type sounds and every few minutes was yelling something about “gimmie that choon choon, you white bitch!”

Her chants were suddenly halted when I heard the front door to the flat open. Into the room walked a jaw droppingly beautiful girl in her late teens, around 18 or so. She looked exactly like the crazy poetry bitch, tall, monster tits and all, though much slimmer, and without the disheveled hair and messed up makeup. She did also have that one of her eyes looking bigger than the other thing, however.

“Oh, mum, not again!” The young girl screamed in apparent disdain at the evening's proceedings.