The Peripheral Cocksucker: Book IbyBig_Kahuna_69©
It's back; or why the fuck is this even here?
This is not the first time this story has been here. Call it a re-tread, recycled work, mental masturbation—it's up to you. It was originally posted in 2008, my first-ever story, and how it came to be is something of a sad, twisted tale.
I never set out to write porn. It was never a goal of mine, nothing I ever considered doing. Blame it on JK Rowling. I read her stuff and said, "Well, I could do that," (which is not to say that I could do that—I am not so conceited that I would think that I could ever match her imagination, and certainly not her level of intricacy and plotting, but I can put words together, sort of).
So that was how the metaphorical seed was planted, but it did not grow until I began reading Internet porn. "What the fuck is this crap?" I would ask myself after an evening of skimming through grammar-challenged stories featuring busty eighteen-year old babysitters born without gag reflexes, ridiculously endowed stepfathers fucking their barely legal stepdaughters, and über-hot milfs being stuffed airtight by their sons, their son's friends, the basketball team, not to mention that really hot biker with the Great Dane.
I read that stuff and said, "I could do that."
"Then do it, motherfucker!" my inner voice replied. So I did.
As to why this story is back, it was never supposed to have left in the first place. I liked it being in Literotica's top five mind control stories (ego, what ego?), but when I asked the admins to yank books two and three so that I could sell them online, they mistakenly pulled this one, too.
So now it's back, bigger and better than ever, commas corrected, and dumbass italics removed.
The Peripheral Cocksucker
I warn you now: the boobs are going to get really big. This is not an inducement; I'm not trying to lure you in. I'm letting you know in advance that the tits in this story will grow to wholly ridiculous, almost unmanageable proportions. I originally wrote this story for a breast fetish site, before it sort of morphed into a mind-control tale with larger issues than just cup sizes. But know that the massive, whopping cans in this piece are more a sideline than the goal, and that they are not so much boobs as they are metaphors; heavy, pendulous funbags that symbolize my protagonist's feelings of guilt and excess, incredible juggs that threaten to smother him under the weight of his arrogance.
Okay, actually they're just really big tits, but I promise that they won't get any bigger than some crazy stripper-types who exist out there in real life.
You may find this story out there on the Internets if you look hard enough. It's been posted a fair few places. These are older versions, barely literate, forced to prostitute themselves in cheap, virus-infested pirate dens, innocent victims of the plunderers of copyright. But this version, the final version (please, God, let this be the final motherfucking version), is the best of them: typos corrected, thinkos put right, and commas placed with one hundred percent accuracy (don't you fucking believe it).
The reader may also notice certain similarities in style and word usage to actual professional-type authors—this is intentional. It is my homage (pronounced the snooty French way) to all of those who, while I may have given them a few bucks for their book, have given me a lifetime of enjoyment.
The right people will get it — Joel Hodgson
She was late.
It figured. After all, it was because of lateness—mine—that we were partners in the first place. I stood at the front window of my shitty apartment, looking out through the worn curtains and shaking my head, wondering what the fuck I'd done to deserve this. Top grades throughout high school, four years in the Army (communications specialist), one year bumming through Europe, and I wind up with a total ditz airhead for a project partner in freshman SCI, and all because I overslept.
I sat down in my shitty club chair and tried to relax. Around me everything was in place, everything was ready: laptop, printer, paper, video camera, and of course the necessary bits of hardware. I even had a pot of coffee and clean cups, my ever-so-British parents being sticklers for observing the niceties having drilled that into me. All I needed was the subject, and she was a no-show.
It wasn't as though I really gave much of a shit about the project in the first place, although I supposed it might be interesting in its way. The whole exercise involved finding out what we knew about the scientific method, and how good science happens. It was interesting because we were given no instructions, no rules, and no guidelines. We were offered a variety of pre-made projects, or we could create our own, within reason, and given one week to see what we could make of them: what guidelines, controls, documentation, etc. A very organic approach, I must admit.
"ES-fucking-P," I muttered. I'm not given to muttering, at least not much, but I felt the occasion warranted it. There were about twelve million other projects I'd have chosen ahead of this one, but the choice was not mine—it was Roberta's idea, my tardy earth-mother partner. It would be my unhappy task to re-create fucking experiments done who-knew-how-many-fucking-times, using fucking cards with wavy fucking lines, fucking circles, and fucking stars. A much better idea, I felt, would be to use cards with silhouettes depicting erotica such as missionary, doggy-style and blowjobs.
I checked my watch for what seemed like the hundredth time. Lost, probably. Or caught the wrong bus. Or forgot what day it is, more likely. Let that be a lesson to you: make absolutely sure you pull out that little fucking button on the alarm clock, or you'll end up playing nursemaid to some spoiled, rich-bitch, vegetarian, Uri Geller wannabe. Well, who knows, she might be on a lettuce and semen diet, and'll need a fill-up when she gets here.
Not that she was my type. She was attractive, in her own way: dirty blonde hair, good complexion with a cute button nose, and nice clear blue eyes behind those silly granny glasses of hers. A little chunky, especially in the butt—broad abaft the beam, my dad would say—medium height, and a nice set of child-bearing hips. A decent enough package, but not quite what I look for in a woman.
I like tits, pure and simple. I mean big, fat funbags that you can mash together and stick your whole head into. I'm talking about a fantastic pair of large, fuckable melons that a babe can wrap around my junk and show me the kind of love that only a full-figured gal can. I've set a minimum D-cup rule, which often caused my friends back in L.A. to rib me about my fetish: 'Hey, Jake, how big are the tits you're dating this week?' and shit like that. I mean, my last girlfriend Angela, or Amanda—it started with an 'A,' I think; maybe it was Amelia—anyway she had an absolutely killer pair of DDD's. They were full and heavy, without the slightest hint of sag, and were topped with perfect 3/8-inch long nipples that just begged to be sucked. I loved Norma and Jean, my pet names for them, with all my heart. I was sorry to see them go.
So Roberta of the A-cuppers had nothing to worry about from me. I'd let her blow me, if she were so inclined, but I wouldn't cross the street for it.
Rapid footsteps clacked on the concrete walk outside my apartment, followed by a series of staccato raps upon my door. I exhaled slowly, trying to dispel the tension building up within me, her insistent knocking about to give me a cerebral hemorrhage.
"I'm-so-sorry-Jake-the-guy-at-the-Starbucks-didn't-know-the-difference-between-a-Cafe-Macchiato-and-an-Espresso-Macchiato-and-it-took-him-fucking-forever-to-find-the-soy-milk-and-then-it-turns-out-that-it-was-his-first-fucking-day-on-the-job-and-he-didn't-even-know-how-to-operate-the-cash-blah-blah-etc, fucking etc..."
I flipped the card around to show her the black circle; she frowned, as usual. We had been at it for three hours, and it was beginning to tell on her. We were using the classic five-card Rhine set: wavy lines, plus sign, circle, square, and star. With only five cards to choose from, the average person being tested should score roughly twenty percent, all things being equal. Roberta, or Robbi, as she preferred to be called, was not quite equal. She was, not to put too fine a point on it, lousy.
She had started off so sure in the knowledge that she had some psychic ability ("I always know what someone is going to say before they say it."), and her disappointment was obvious. No longer did she sit with her back almost painfully erect, booming out her choices with the confidence of a hick at a revival meeting. Now she sat with her chin resting on her hands on my kitchen bar/counter. In fact she wasn't really even guessing anymore, but rather making a desultory choice followed by an unmistakable sigh.
I did feel rather sorry for her. If there's one thing I've learned about human nature is that practically all of us want to be special in some way. Whether it's psychic ability, math prodigy, or even just being hung like a horse, most of us want to be exceptional. But the sad fact is that for most of us, 99.9% of us probably, we're just average. That's my philosophy. Less than one in a thousand of us will ever be or do anything of note, win a lottery, or even get a truly great deal on cable. Not a real day-brightener, I know, but there it is.
And Robbi, it appeared, was every bit as mediocre as the rest of us. In fact, to give her her due it seemed as though she might be somewhat exceptional in her anti-psychic ability. Through three successive runs of forty-five minutes each she had managed to score exactly 18.2% on each of them. Perhaps the Rhine Institute should be notified, I mused. At the very least, I knew I would never trust any gut instinct of Robbi's, ever.
"Well, Robbi," I said, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible; the last thing I wanted was for some chick I wasn't banging to start bawling about fucking voodoo, new age, psychic nonsense, which any sensible person should know ESP to be—besides, I was eager to put this sixties bullshit aside and put my own stamp on this project, "I'd say we've collected more than enough baseline data. What do you say we bag it and try something new?"
"New?" she said, some perk coming back into her now, still no doubt clinging to some faint hope that she might be able to levitate, or channel Elvis, or something. "New, like what?"
"Well, we've done the standard stuff with the cards, and gotten the usual results...." I'd lied about her abysmal performance and told her that she was bang on twenty percent. "I was thinking it would be cool to bring this ESP study into the twenty-first century."
She looked at me quizzically, head cocked to one side. "Like how? You're already using a computer."
"Yes, but only for record-keeping. There are some experiments I've read about. Experiments I'd like to re-create and possibly even improve upon. I've got a few ideas...things," I paused for dramatic emphasis, "that may not have been done before."
She cocked her head in that RCA dog way again. "Things like...what, exactly?"
Good gracious me. The airhead shows signs of good, solid skepticism. Perhaps there's hope for her yet. "Well, I thought we might try doing stuff with brainwaves, y'know? Maybe EEG's, and sensors, and stuff." I don't normally speak this way, but I was trying to keep the technobabble to a minimum.
"Huh, what do you mean, EEG's? That's like science fiction, isn't it? But we'd need all kinds of monitors, and a hospital room, wouldn't we?"
"Once upon a time, Cinderella, we would have. But," I reached back behind me to the other counter of my laughably small galley kitchen and retrieved a small cardboard box, "this is the now. I've got everything we need right here." I placed the box in front of her and opened it so that she could see inside. Her disappointment was obvious. I wasn't sure what she was expecting, perhaps some cool silver apparatus with chase lights going around it, emitting little beeps and whirrs.
I took it out of the box. It wasn't much to look at, I admit, but then I hadn't built it for looks—it was, after all, a prototype. I'd got the idea, and the plans, from an old issue of Popular Science (Build Your Own Remotely-Controlled Railroad!), and updated and reconfigured it for my purposes. A little visit to Cal Berkeley's computer lab netted me some spare parts on the cheap, an afternoon's work cobbling it together, and voila!
"Uhh...what is it?" she asked.
"This, madam, is our addition to science, or parascience, if you will," I said proudly. I held it up to eye level, undaunted by her less than enthusiastic response.
"It looks kinda like a baseball cap."
"It was, until yesterday," I replied.
"And you want me to wear this...on my head."
"You catch on quickly." It took every effort to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
"You're kidding, right?" she asked, fixing me with what I supposed was a stern glare. She looked it over, and I could see her immediate and obvious mistrust of it, which I had expected. We geeks are used to the uninitiated, those incurious fools who love the sleek lines of modern technology but have absolutely zero appreciation for the magic that lies beneath the molded plastic. She wrinkled her nose at the hearing-aid batteries stitched to the brim, the hand-soldered connections and bits of looped wire. "It doesn't look...safe."
I took the cap and placed it gently on my own head. I had to do it gently, not because it might fall apart, but rather owing to the fact that I had cut away most of the bill, which had the unfortunate effect of making it look like some sort of techno-beanie. I took it off and placed it back on the counter in front of her. She crossed her arms—a bad sign. This was going to be a hard sell.
"I don't know, Jake. Do you mind if I ask why?"
"Not at all," I said, continuing to smile and trying to keep my voice light. "I'd like for us to try something that, while it has been done before, I'd like to improve on. Something that might actually yield results."
"You mean...with brainwaves?" she asked, the barest hint of interest starting to show. "Like telepathy?"
"Exactly!" I said, my face beginning to hurt from this insipid smiling, but I soldiered on, giving it my best PBS documentary voice. "Parapsychologists in the late seventies, some even here in Berkeley, tried experiments involving brainwaves, using computer programs and electroencephalography to see if they could discover or induce latent telepathic ability in test subjects."
She narrowed her eyes slightly. "And did they?" More interest there, I could see. A little skeptical, yes, but she was no longer ruling it out.
"Nope," I said flatly. "None whatsoever. But that was thirty years ago!"
"And you think we might succeed where they failed?"
"I don't know what will happen," I said truthfully. "I just know it's never been done before."
"What?" she asked, now definitely curious. "What's never been done before?"
I slid the cap toward her. "A little faith is all I ask."
She looked at it appraisingly for a few moments, then picked it up with both hands and placed it upon her head, her forehead creasing as her eyes slid upwards in their sockets, trying to get an idea of how she must look.
"This thing isn't going to fry my brains, is it?"
"Nah, this is wireless technology," I said. "It'd be more like microwaving."
"Nope." I was the one sighing now. Another hour of fruitless effort, another hour of the exact same results—18.2%. I don't know why I expected any difference. This was all nonsense, end of fucking story.
Robbie was a trouper, I had to give her that. She was still going strong, with only the occasional yawn, sitting in my living room and calling out cards every few seconds despite the lack of any improvement whatsoever. And that is why I was so pissed, because it was nonsense; nonsense that I had, for a little while at least, forgotten to close my mind to. Nonsense, in short, that could never, ever fucking work.
Everything was running well. My trusty laptop had no problems with the 'questionably obtained' EEG software, which was running smoothly, sending video versions of the ESP cards to the 'thinking cap,' as Roberta now called it.
No, the problem here lay not with the equipment, but with the theory. You see, I knew it would never work, but some small irrational part of me had thought, for the barest fraction of a moment, that there might be something—some improvement, some new insight, intercourse with the gods, something. Stupid, I know, but there it was.
My theory, which I've already admitted was stupid, was based on adding something to the mix that as far as I could find had never been attempted. You see, back in those bad old late seventies, they had tried a shitload of experiments that had centered on using computers to send images to the brain, all of which had failed miserably. My addition, our addition, I suppose, was to add a wrinkle to this method, a wrinkle that actually predated the computers of that period.
It is hard to imagine what life was like before telephones, or rather, before long-distance telephony came into being. Due to the incredible amounts of static in the phone lines, talking to somebody across the country was damn near impossible, about on a par with trying to whisper a secret to a pal at a rock concert—in the front fucking row. Engineers had worked for years to try to make the long distance signals reasonably static-free, with little success.
But one day, whilst stuck in a traffic jam, one of those ubergeeks had himself a brainwave—what if we feed some of that signal back into itself?
And what do you know—it worked. Static go bye-bye, patents galore, and now we can send videos of naked chicks out into the universe at the speed of light with nary a pixel out of place.
Well, no such luck for my partner and me, unfortunately. I had interlaced her brain waves, courtesy of my slapped-together headgear and vast intelligence, into the video signal that the computer was streaming back to the cap on her head. I had experimented with varying degrees of modulation, even up to the point where I thought I might actually scramble poor Robbi's brain—nada. Not one iota of difference.
Well, I told myself, at least you proved it wouldn't work, which one must admit is part of science.
"Robbi," I called out, "what do you say to a little break? I'm fairly frying here."
I got up from my stool, my legs and back making sharp cracking noises, letting me know how much they disliked their recent lack of use. I left the confines of my little kitchen and padded around the corner into my laughably small living room.
"Robb—" I started, but chopped off immediately. Seeing her sitting in my big Salvation Army faux-leather chair with her head back and her mouth open told me all I needed to know—the bitch was out for the count. I stood there for about a minute and silently debated with myself whether I should let her sleep or kick her flat-chested ass out.
Well, call me Galahad, but I opted to let her keep snoozing. Besides, if I woke her up she might start talking, and my burned-out brain was just not up for that. I went back to my kitchen and, in best geek fashion, made myself a bowl of cereal.