Double Stuffed

THE MAN WITH TWO COCKS

One of the schlongs was a couple inches longer than the other, with the shorter on top. Both were functional, and double penetration was the entree on this smorgasbord of sex.

Having answered an online classified, the woman ― nude, on her knees in the murky HUD home ― sucked the base cock, while simultaneously stroking the auxiliary penis.

Driven harder than a fleet of Vegas taxicabs, the horny harpy remained focused. How could she not? Most guys barely have one dick. When was the next time she'd yank some debauched dude's drawers down, and find the Twin Towers?!

Like the end of belief in "authority," and thus the liberation of our species, this truly was a moment to savor!

The guy's dongs weren't huge, but when added together, there had to be 11 inches of throbbing penis here!

The woman knew she'd never have this chance again. As such, she fucked both bacon bazookas, as if they were the last remaining pricks on the planet, outside of Barry Obama and Don Trump.

Natural lube drained from her covetous cunt, making her appetizing anus a target for the Double Penetrator, as well. Frenzied, repeater rifle orgasms exploded from the woman's tender hole.

DP left a desiccated dent between the her legs, as steam spewed from the lass' labia, like nuclear cooling towers generating electricity.

The above condition ― known as diphallia ― occurs in one out of every 5.5 million males in the "U.S.". In blunt physiological terminology, we're talkin' a guy with two cocks. It's just another amenity available, made possible by the Internet, to those seeking superhuman sexual scenarios.

As Mike Oxhard entered the dissolute damsel, she regaled him with the tale of her dual donging day. Later, amid the glow of neon rage, and lackluster lighting, Oxhard watched the woman sleep. Her breath came ― like a bukkake compilation ― in frantic spurts.

"The proles wear the scars of slavery," our charred champion silently deduced. Knife wounds inflicted by a "loved one;" missing fingers devoured by "vocational" machinery; lost teeth, due to decay. Their bodies are deformed from the abuse of subjugation.

He could see it in the shredded frame of the plebeian currently asleep atop his cum-sullied mattress. Mike had fucked her hard, digging deep into her lopsided womb, and packing her guts.

Cascades of clear fluid erupted from her cold-fusion cunt ― which had been in water cannon mode. Everything within the one-room hovel south of Hades had been saturated.

Frantic, Oxhard had uncorked his blood sausage from this hyper-human hole, in a frenzied attempt to stop the insane streams.

"Jesus fuck! The mattress! The goddamned mattress!!" he shrieked to himself.

The bed, along with all the other furniture, came with Mike's Vegas apartment. This was a pre-furnished pad.

At this point, though, it had been too late, as the woman seized with each orgasm. She was a lawn sprinkler stuck in the "on" position.

It was The Exorcist: The Porn, as her head spun 'round on its Stretch Armstrong neck, before she collapsed, gripping a throbbing gash gaped deeper than Royal Gorge.

Oxhard's mattress was a sponge at full capacity; his security deposit more gone than gonads on a eunuch.

Sin City epitomizes the floundering plight of the "human" race on Earth. From sodomizing your neighbor's lawn gnome, to snorting a Vicodin/Tabasco cocktail, this town has something to offer everyone eager to deep throat "life" for a brief moment.

Mike was no exception, and he knew it. A Numbers Guy, his vice was sex, and he'd traveled to this distant destination for that reason alone.

PERSISTENCE

I was less likely to get laid this week than Meryl Streep is to spontaneously generate a thick carpet of chest hair. Still, I had to try. This brings us to the battle cry of the single, male swinger: No matter how slow things become, never stop.

The wife swappin' world ebbs and flows. On certain days, you'll wonder if females still exist. At other times, you'll swear you're in possession of the only penis left on the planet.

Stay the course. Wait out the slow periods, and revel in the prosperous ones. The latter will far outweigh the former.

Persistence is essential.

Eight prospects recently filled my E-mail inbox. Within days, that list dwindled to none.

The Internet affords people the ability to become self-perceived superstars. That girl in high school, who popped out more kids than a fertility clinic? Yeah, the stay-at-home mom, livin' off food stamps? Well, guess what? On the Web, she's an amalgamation of the last three Playboy Playmates.

Difficult as it may be to conceive, people on the Internet aren't always who they avow to be. In your noble quest for sex, you have no choice but to deal with it.

Eight prospects, baby. Eight!

Number one asserted she'd be wearing nothing but lipstick at a local porn arcade. Upon arrival at the destination in question, a helpful store clerk informed me the place had been devoid of women the entire day.

Waiting for two hours in my truck, outside the entrance to the groin emporium, I devoured stale nachos from an adjacent gas station. One eye always on the door of the venue, I scribbled 23 pages of my latest book, on Taco Bell napkins.

Returning home, I found an E-mail from the senorita claiming she'd been inside the adult theater all along, having sex with the senior citizen cashier. Unfortunately, the guy working the counter I'd chatted with was no more than 25 years old. The grey area of deceit on this one was more ashen than Anderson Cooper's hair.

Next came the couple with whom I'd invested four days of effort. Six hours prior to launch, I discovered they were bisexual, and he was more desirous of me than his wife. Two down, six to go!

Contestant number three turned out to be a hooker.

Number four, a skillful automatic advertisement.

Number five was interesting: a duo whose classified featured photos that had me immediately reaching for the baby oil. One electronic mail into our discourse, and they wanted to meet for drinks. Two E-mails, and they were seeking a Four Seasons dining experience, for which I'd grab the check.

Number six was a no show at a local motel. Never pay for the room prior, as there's a definite chance you'll find yourself sitting in it alone, watching Ed Asner — as Hugh Grant — on a three channel black-and-white.

Hornier than a herd of rhinos, number seven professed to be seeking her inaugural trip to a local swing club. For five consecutive evenings, she'd profess how badly she wanted to wave my magic wand. Each night, upon asking for her phone number, I'd witness her vanishing more rapidly than a lone, soft stool in a sewage plant.

As such, I plied my trade with numero ocho, who was eight months pregnant, and hankering to participate in her very first gangbang.

Swinging is analogous to the Indiana Jones films ― each experience is a new, exciting adventure! After an appointment with her physician ― during which she determined sex wouldn't burn her little bun in the oven ― we were cleared for take-off. At this point, she disappeared more overtly than Dr. Phil's hairline.

No worries. With billions of women on the planet, and only one of me, the odds are in my favor!

― authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. Mike Oxhard