[LONG] Joys of Rimming

From alt.tasteless Mon Dec 12 18:04:59 1994
From: jimmo@kimber.uk.moon.com (Jim)
Subject: [LONG] Joys of Rimming
Date: 5 Dec 1994 10:21:58 GMT
Lines: 128
Distribution: world


Are you sitting comfortably?


It all happened last summer. It was an arid day in Jaipur when I was there. I roamed the streets at a leisurely amble, trying to scratch my gusset through my trousers because the sweat that lubricated my buttocks was itching like buggery.

Anyway, as I scuffed a dusty path through the streets of seedy backwater Jaipur, I noticed some local prostitutes. Unlike a significant proportion of whores in north India, these were not eunuchs. It all started as a religious thing, castration. However, now woman-wannabes become eunuchs for fun and for a source of income. Basically, here is what happens. First, the genitals (penis and scrotum) of the eunuch-to-be are tied with an inch wide strip of material, making the genitalia protrude further from the abdomen. Then, after prayer (well advised prayer too), the headeunuch (I can't remember what the name for him/it is) takes a large, sharp kitchen knife and slices off the genitals. Without an anaesthetic, of course. The groaning, contorted mass that gibbers in agony on the ground is left without medical treatment as it is up to the Gods to decide whether he lives or dies (through bleeding to death).

If the eunuch lives, the pulpy genital remains are plopped into a hole in the ground. Now, if you've had a wedding in India, you will know that the eunuchs come to the wedding and have to be bribed to go away otherwise they will lift their saris and show off their vertical smiles!

Anyway, I digress. There were these prostitutes and, by God, they were decidedly ropey looking hags...a full double-antler on the moose-scale! But they had two redeeming features:

1. They were very, very cheap.
2. They would do absolutely fucking ANYTHING for money.

Point 2 put life in my heat-striken love sausage. So I picked the leastscabby one and waved 100 rupees at her. Ha! She was MINE!

Er, at this point I should mention that there are some stunning women in those parts of Asia, not just the orient. I say that before you think I am implying that this scabid, moth-eaten old fuckrag is the norm over there.

Still, I went back to her shack (a mud and corrugated iron structure setback from the heat) and got to work.

I sat on the, er, collection of hessian sacks that served as a bed and positioned her in front of me. I reached round her waist and untucked the fold in her grubby cotton sari that holds the whole damn thing on. I took the free end and passed it round her waist...about four damn times, then over her shoulder. Then it just fell away.

I stared in awe at her. She assumed that was because I found her attractive so she smiled at me. Her smile basically entailed the retraction of the rubbery, flaky skin around her mouth to reveal a couple of yellow stumps in swollen, blood-stained gums. Her breasts hung like pool-balls in a pair of stockings. Her malnutrition had produced a cute little pot-belly, like the
ones you see on the "feed the starving" newsreels. I ran the tips of my fingers up her ricket-bent legs, over her thighs and across the two bits of flappy kebab-meat that hung from her vagina like curtains in a dolls house. Fascinated, I parted the distended lips to see small semi-white spots peppered across her labia. They looked rather like large mouth ulcers. I don't think they hurt her much because when I touched the tip of my tongue to one of the tart summits, she didn't flinch. The taste of her lips was decidedly sharp, rather like the negative pole of a 9v battery! As I was indulging in the yeast-feast, an idea dawned! So I stood up, turned her around and pushed her down into a kneeling position on the ramshackle bed. I clasped a wrinkled buttock in each hand and splayed them apart, revealing one of the most filthy sphincters I have ever seen! Evidently, this old trollop had been suffering from dysentry! I gawped at her anus, which puckered and dilated in rhythm with her breathing. Moist traces of semi-liquid stool lined the inner wall of her anal crater. Tastless I may be, but my tongue is not! I grabbed a bit of her sari and have the whole cheesy area a quick wipe, leaving a musty brown skid across the material.

Okay, I thought, time for me to indulge in the most tasteless rimming I have ever, ever given. I leant toward her waiting cornhole, pausing only to catch my breath as a pungent draft of anal exhalation wafted out to meet me. It would take more than a fetid fart to stop me! But, as my
lips encircled her nether-kisser, the fart that escaped previously was obviously not alone. There was just a little follow through. No sooner had my tongue rasped across the anal squid-ring than I felt a tiny warmth spread across it. This warmth was swiftly followed by a taste that is damn near undescribable. You know how some things taste like other things smell? Well this taste was exactly like the smell of a pile of rotting vegetables and cheese. A cheese with more blue veins than a tourniqued cock!

I had to withdraw. I scraped the surface of my tongue across the underside of my teeth, as if to remove early-morning post-beer tongue-carpet. I spat into the grey dust. There, intertwined with my sputum, was a string of pale brown excrement. I felt the bile in my stomach rise up my gullet with that kind of nausea that signals an unstoppable barf. Desperate to maintain my balance, I leaned against the wizened rump of the prostitute. She was, of course, off balance with her ass stuck in the air and she fell onto the bed. The vomit was starting to push between my fingers like meat through a free-flow mincer and I had to let rip. I regurgitated a bitter and bilious curry-based chunder over her sprawling nakedness. I couldn't really tell but I thought I
saw, through bleared teary eyes, a visage of disgust on her face. However, she must have thought this was what she was being paid for and so, with a decidedly aggrieved look, she tentatively started to smear the vomit over her breasts.

I found this incredibly sexy! Without a word, I rolled her over onto her slightly bloated belly, which made a slight squelching sound as her gut displaced the exhumed contents of my stomach. I reached between her legs and scooped a handful of cooling retch over the tufts and crevice of her backside. Then, after hastily unbuttoning my cotton pants, I climbed on top of her. The stench was damn near erection-withering! Anyway, I nuzzled the muzzle of my member against her sphincter and rubbed in gentle circles to pick up some lube from the bile. It stung a bit, actually. I pushed forward and slid into her rectal tract with too much ease, the kind of ease that says "Hey Boy! This ain't her first time up the shitter!"

Basically, there ensued a truly tasteless butt-fuck which doesn't need description as I'm sure you all know. :-) Anyway, it was the withdrawl that really did me in! After I pulled out, I looked down at my exhausted bijja and a opalescent sheen of blood, sweat, bile and the odd skid. To cap it all, there was a soft khaki pinnacle of bugger-mud on the end! I paid the crone Rs. 500/- and bid her farewell.

Jim.

A spot of the old ultra-violence...

From: misc061@csc.somewhere.ac.nz
Subject: A spot of the old ultra-violence...
Date: 16 Sep 94 23:14:17 +1200
Lines: 114

A spot of the old ultra-violence
--------------------------------

Last weekend I lost and maimed a friend--but that's OK, because I learnt a moronic beer trick in the process. It's the kind of thing that you see oily twentysomething boys doing in cheap night clubs while they work on their nascent beer-guts. Lots of fun.

What you do is this: grasp your stubbie (Australasian for 12oz beer bottle) firmly by the middle, wait until your friend is deeply in the midst of a pick-up speech (this is an important point of etiquette), listen for some particularly witty line (that is, wait until the pompous git squeezes out something that obviously needs deflation), and smack the top of his stubbie, hard, with the bottom of yours. This should be done with a minimum of arm movement and a blank lookon the face; ideally the woman shouldn't notice. Your victim's beer will "cum" vigorously all over his delicate proceedings. Repeat often during larger promotions.

The best way to save face when this happens to you is to jam the bottle firmly in your mouth, suck hard, and hope your eyes stay in your head. This is especially effective if you can keep a straight face while sinking vast quantities of warm, foamy beer, but does tend to come unstuck a little if you blow chunks all over the person you're trying to pick up.

John, the friend I mentioned at the beginning, taught me this in a bar. It was near the end of the night... we (John, me and a few friends) had been drinking for eight hours. Our faces were red and glistening with sweat, we were talking too loud and had somehow formed the idea that we were the funniest people on the planet. We had been smacking each others beers incessantly, so our shirt fronts, and the surrounding floor, were soaked. The bouncers had started to edge closer, trying to pick the delicate point at which we would be costing them more than they were making out of us--or maybe they just wanted to pound seven shades of shit out of us. One of them looked pretty excited; had a hard-on, even.

Being a keen spotter, and veteran cause, of the sort of bad craziness that involves large quantities of alcohol and huge bouncers, I went to negotiate peace with the doormen. As I'm a spotty little gimp, my usual negotiation technique involves lying on my back and pissing
myself like a crippled dog. However, eight hours of drinking will bestow a little courage on even the lowliest little shit, and so I begged time for another round. Regrettably.

By this stage of the evening we had given up all pretensions to normal drinking etiquette (no pointing, no showing of teeth, no use of consonants... that sort of pratty crap) and had started to lunge and flail wildly whenever we saw an unprotected bottle. John barely got his last beer off the bar before I hit it. He was expecting this, though, and immediately stuffed the stubbie in his mouth. Fair rammed it home, he did. Which was unfortunate, because the top had busted
off.

His eyes went wide as the glass slit through his top and bottom lip, and sank into his tongue. He fell to his knees, trying to hold the bottle still, but the foaming beer forced its way into his wind-pipe and he coughed explosively, spraying us with a fine mist of blood. He dropped the bottle and clamped his hands to his mouth, letting out a loud, low wail. The whole bar went silent. Even the arsehole bouncers were staring white faced at the mess. He was bleeding rivers. In about fifteen seconds his hands had been covered in slick red gloves, and the front of his shirt, once a cheerful shade of larger, had turned a violent crimson. He just knelt there, staring at me with enormous yellow eyes, making pathetic mewling noises and letting out small coughs whenever blood ran down the back of his throat. Blood was dripping off his elbows.

Two of us picked him up and hauled him out the door, pulled him into the back seat of his car and drove to Accident and Emergency. On the way there he went into deep shock. The bits of his face that weren't dark red were white. His fingernails were showing dark blue through
the coagulating blood, he was shivering uncontrollably. By the time we got to the hospital he couldn't walk, so we carried him inside.

Saturday night in A&E is one of New Zealand's national institutions; drinking and fighting is one of our national sports. When you walk through the doors of a hospital's emergency department in the weekend you're greeted by the smell of freshly processed alcohol; the cloying funk of acetone and vomit. The lobby is generally crammed with groaning rednecks and blue, spew-choked corpses. Still, John received attention fairly promptly, probably because of his cute injury.

The attending doctor soon worked out that he wasn't in a life threatening condition, but was concerned about giving him anaesthetic because he was so pissed. She did give him a few injections, but he still started whimpering and shaking when she began to stitch him up.
She started mumbling a few platitudes to encourage him to stay still, but hadn't got far when, Quite abruptly, he stopped shivering and his eyes lost their focus. He burped. A weird, hollow, relaxed burp. The doctor went all quiet and stared at John, her nostrils flaring slightly with fear. Suddenly John's entire lower body convulsed, unloading a couple of litres of warm beer and clotted blood down the young doctor's front. She jumped backwards, swearing, and leaving the
needle dangling from the suture in John's lip.

A few litres later, John heaved himself upright, blowing vomit out his nose to clear his airway. He gawped at me accusingly before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted, rolling sideways off the gurney. His head hit the ground with a sickening squeak, the sound of skull plates sliding against each other, and his arm folded under his body unnaturally. Rather than stunning him, this seemed to bring him out of his faint. He rolled his head around to look at me
and vomited again. His cuts had reopened; the sutures had torn out. After a few rough breaths he fixed me with his best "fuck off and die" stare, and started to spit black blood and ill-formed words: "I'll 'ill 'ou, 'ou 'uck. 'Ou 'ick 'uck. 'Ou 'uck. 'Ou 'uck. 'Ou 'uck..."

I left.

--Will (w.hoyle@csc.somewhere.ac.nz)