210

210:

definition: "BJ: an acronym for the term Blowjob. The number 2 correlates to B, or the second letter in the English alphabet, while the number 10 denotes the tenth letter, which is J."

A starry-eyed Al Roker will be crowned Miss Teen USA, before my publications find their way onto Oprah's Read o' the Month Club.

Strawberry-flavored cum, my articles are easy to swallow, but not for everyone.

From corn cob dildos, to guys with two dicks, I strive to capture the human condition in my work. Whether it's women with two assholes, or dudes with three balls, our slave species is displayed via my literary offerings.

Oddly enough, all my stories are true. I know, since they happened to me.

Who am I?

A veteran of the swing scene, the business card reads Hugh Mungus. Even though I haven't had a date in decades, I've managed to hook-up with over 5,000 women.

Shorter than a direct flight from El Segundo to Playa del Rey, the only time I turn heads, is when those craniums look away. Less attractive than the late Abe Vigoda exercising nude, my sexual arsenal was never fully stocked.

Hence, if I'd been able excel in the coliseum of coital cavorting, anyone can.

From the front lines of fornication comes a tale as anticipated as liverwurst-flavored Coke. A publication less successful than Macaulay Culkin's acting career as an adult. A literary offering more useless than opening a GAP in a nudist colony. We're talkin' another anecdote — complete with insider tips — for the single male swinger.

Look, you're smart. You don't require some motivational speaker — who sees you as nothing more than a paycheck — telling you how to get laid. Should you be curious, however, as to what it's like on the other side of the wall at your local hump haven, peruse a creamy fistful of my adventures, here on Literotica.

Unlike so many pop psych resources, my articles are free. I just have a story to tell — actually over 5,000 stories — and needed a venue at which to do so. Thus, I'm grateful Lit' provided me this outlet.

Let's face it. With all the self-help publications these days, it won't be long before The Idiot's Guide to Breathing hits a bookstore near you. Only idiots buy Idiot's Guides. It says so right there in the title. Again, you don't need an instruction manual, when it comes to finding sex.

Such stated, a little extra help never hurt. Hence, I'm happy to provide.

The Naugahyde couch creaked under the weight of half a ton of human flesh. This was a five-on-one, and everybody had somehow managed to congregate on the butthole brown sofa.

To our right, a porn — with no budget — skipped across a projection screen. A massive pair of trimmed balls slapped against some cameraperson's lens. Whomever had been operating the Canon XL-1 — over a decade ago — had obviously fallen asleep.

"Guy's got three freckles on his right nut, and a crucifix-shaped scar on his left," I observed, viewing this nameless actor fuck some chick in a nun's habit. "Unless this dude watches his own performances," I pondered, "I know more about the underside of his baby balloons than he does."

The bastard's jizz berries were obviously too close to the screen, as the camera lost focus for a couple seconds, before coming in crystal clear.

And that's where the DVD got stuck — right there, during an extreme close-up of some XXX thespian's plum satchel, and hamflower.

Turning away, so as not to detract from my current engagement, I thought to myself, "Ninety-five percent of these flicks is tits and ass. We had to freeze on this oversized wrinklepurse, and gargantuan anus?"

It was all superfluous, since six of us were makin' our own porn — sans camera — here in the backwoods of Missouri.

Known as Pyramid of Pleasure, the venue in question is sadly no more. Like all edifices of ecstasy, this baby eventually "up and vanished, like a fart in the wind."

One side of POP was pure strip club. The other — sporting two XXX theaters — was dedicated to the swinger in us all. In between, a dingy dive bar fueled the fuckin' with rebated gutrot.

Stuffed on Pappy's, Scottish Arms haggis, and Urban Chestnut Schnickelfritz — yeah, we're talkin' The Lou — the two guys on either side of me looked like they might pop. Stoking their sausages, they patiently awaited their respective turns.

Doggystyle, in front of me, was somebody's wife. Said somebody was receiving skull from his spouse, while I ground my Arabica beans against the ass end of his missus.

Beyond the door to the theater, some drunk was mixin' up bum gravy in a bathroom across the hallway, and makin' no effort to hide it.

Through ventilation slats in a particle board wall, I could hear tires crunching over hot stones, as cars parked in the lot outside.

Pyramid of Pleasure was obviously a hybrid swing club. And like all sex shacks, POP had to remain inconspicuous, in order to survive.

Those you refer to as "government" are nothing more than criminals. They hate us so deeply, they'll do anything to keep us suffering. To them, that's "job security."

If everybody's happy, we realize we've no need for these felons, pretending to be our loving "patriarchs," so they can cut themselves huge paychecks. Thus, bureaucracy has to generate fear and turmoil within us.

Only when we're frightened, do you we run to them, screaming for help. Hence, why they cause all our problems. Again, "job security," so we feel as though we need them.

This means screw shacks — where people actually feel good about themselves — have to hide amid the landscape. Case in point, Pyramid of Pleasure — which was camouflaged at the edge of a rustic field.

Today's meeting wasn't one of chance. In the wee hours, the evening prior, I'd responded to an online classified this afternoon's couple had posted on a sex search engine.

The lass was lovely — happy, and high-spirited. Short spikes for hair, she dropped to her knees, as soon as the six of us entered the theater.

Prepared, hubby positioned a folded blanket beneath his wife, to prevent floor burns.

Awash in cupidity, the woman — we'll refer to as Nora — instantly began squeezing our cocks through our shorts.

The place — probably swamp cooled — was stifling, as we all rushed to remove our clothes.

In the bar a wall away, the crisp tinkle of glassware, and bottles kissing the speed rack, could be heard. The swift pump of colas being siphoned from bladder bags pierced the partition.

Once our pants were down, and Nora's clothes were strewn across the floor, she inhaled as many corporeal carrots as she could. This woman was ravenous, and 210 was her thing.

We'd have been fools to object, since the object of our lust was a seasoned snake charmer — superlative at her craft. A phallophile, she simply loved cock!

She probably spent an inordinate amount of time in the produce section, around the bananas, cucumbers, and zucchinis. Her family was almost assuredly sick of gnawin' on hotdogs every night, since that's all mom ever made!

Every car in the garage was stick. Every vehicle she ever owned, much less drove, was manual. In fact, she'd never learned to pilot an automatic.

Baseball cards, or comic books, were typical items hobbyists collected. For Nora, however, it was microphones used by famous people.

Every morning, it was sausages for breakfast. Lunch always included popsicles. Every evening, it was corn on the cob.

The woman was transfixed — addicted, if you will — with no desire to be cured.

For this, we were all grateful, as she rapaciously coveted each of our shafts. She couldn't have been happier, if she'd been the Pope stranded on an island, alone with a bunch of kids.

Drooling from zipper ripper to mancream maker, she'd slurp one, while stroking two others. If only her pastor could see her now.

The enclosed room — probably 400 square feet — became a sauna. All those bodies, generating all that energy, in a confined space, overrode any climate control system the proprietors had installed.

As such, we all sweated profusely.

Perspiration streaming down Nora's heart-shaped ass embodied the effort she was pouring into her passion.

After 15 minutes on the floor, I figured if she wasn't cramping up, she would be soon.

"Let's head to the couch, so we can fuck you, hon," I motioned to a sofa that was definitely not the envy of the other couches at the manufacturing warehouse.

"Brownie!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Pyramid of Pleasure!"

The other sofas snickered. Some cowered in fear, backing away from Brownie, as if he was now diseased.

"Ex— Excuse me, sir?" the young couch stared in horror.

"You— You heard me, son," the Priya Sofa Astoria Grand softened his tone a bit, aware he'd just levied a death sentence on the young couch.

I didn't even wanna consider how many loads the sofa had taken. "Uh," always chivalrous, "why don't you hop up on the couch, hon, so we can help you get off."

Patting the cum-crusted davenport, I directed traffic, as Nora planted her naked ass on a cushion that was probably Hitler reincarnated — forced to endure the most hideous penance. The piece of furniture was literally a cum target, sat on by more fat, naked guys than the toilets at a weight watchers camp.

Eager to screw, Nora complied, spreading her legs, and holding her ankles aloft.

Snatching the blanket from the other end of the room, I slid it to the edge of the sofa. Kneeling before the woman, I suckled her slit.

On either side of her, the two dudes who'd inhaled enough Ted Drewes concretes to expand their waists to insane proportion, diddled their dicks.

Bucking beneath, Nora ground her pelvis into my mouth. Unaware how bony her cunt was, she thrust against me, causing my teeth to stab my tongue.

It was a pain I anticipated each time I licked the plate clean. Blood draining into my mouth, I ingested that familiar metallic taste, like I'd just sucked a handful of nickels.

Arching her back, Nora launched a successful mission into my maw, biting her own lip, before returning to a supine position. Grunting, she snorted, "Fuck me, baby. Fuck me with that monster cock!"

Sometimes makin' 'em wait is fun, and heightens the experience. In this case, however, Nora was more ready to go than freshly-prepared Grubhub fare.

Applying shrink wrap, I prepared to board and pillage.

Everyone in attendance was losing pounds per second, due to the water weight we were shedding.

As I entered her sausage wallet, I'd have been more successful clutching a greased pig, than I was attempting to grasp Nora's thighs.

Halfway inserted, I could feel myself sliding headfirst onto the woman, unable to grip ground with my wet feet.

The crazed caballeros astride Nora didn't care, as they emptied their clips on fine, female face.

Meanwhile, I toppled, toes digging into the cedar beneath, as I fell. Calf muscles releasing, I collapsed apologetically upon the poor housewife.

"No problem," the cool chiquita confirmed.

Following three unsuccessful attempts to pound in this posture, I flopped atop the other sofa, and continued to stroke. Frustrated, I knew there was an answer to this conundrum.

Some other guy gave it a go with Nora, encountering the same disappointing results, tumbling as soon as he took the plunge.

"Occam's Razor," I whispered, glancing across the room to my boots, hastily stashed in the corner. "Of course!"

A third suitor face-planted into the floor, as conditions were just too humid to hump.

Or so it appeared.

By that time, I'd already bounded back onto the battlefield of bliss, sporting what seemed felicitous fuckwear.

Three thrusts in, and it was a whole new ballgame, so to speak! I'd become a superhero. Not only were my boots gripping the slippery surroundings, they did so in any position.

Dropping like cell service on the Moon, the other penises participating were sidelined, due to atrocious playing conditions.

To those now relegated to watching from the opposite sofa, I turned, "Wanna give it a go?" Removing my galoshes, I offered them to any willing wieners.

And so it began: the origin of the fuckboots. Nowhere near as iconic as Eddie Van Halen's Frankenstrat — sealed behind glass for fascinated tourists to photograph — this footwear made impossible fucking possible, over the years.

That afternoon at Pyramid of Pleasure, we traded off using the boots, the way we traded off using Nora's pussy. As a result, the female orgasms flowed like solid steel at 32 degrees Fahrenheit.

I never said I was worth a damn in the sack. Thanks to the fuckboots, however, I'd now be able to hump in Florida quicksand, during a Category 5 hurricane.

— authored by Hugh Mungus