Extra Large Combo with Everythingbygossog©
This story is an experiment: one tale that overlaps all thirty-plus Literotica categories, from "Anal" to "Transsexuals and Crossdressers" ... in alphabetical order. (Hence the "Combo" title.)
There will probably be some parts you don't like. Your favorite genre might not be treated with the reverence (or skill) you'd like. Your least favorite genre might drag on and on like "The English Patient." I apologize in advance, knowing I can't please all.
As each category is addressed, its name will be shown in capital letters (e.g. GIRL-ON-GIRL CHOPSTICK FIGHT). The timing of this announcement may be delayed or advanced to maximize its comic effect.
Okay, let's begin.)
Winston Jeffries strolls along Toro Beach, admiring the young ladies sunbathing on a July morning. He is 26 and single, and enjoys rugged good looks. Still, he finds the dating scene annoying (especially the clubs) and is trying other ways of meeting single women.
Stephanie Ross lies prone on a Nordstrom blanket atop a sunbleached expanse of sand. She's not big on responsibility and wishes she could stay 22 forever. Her top is untied. She doesn't plan to turn over, for she knows her back side is her best: a ripe, curvy butt that reminds one of a peach just picked off the tree. Sometimes she fantasizes about laying out here nude, her bare warm bottom an irresistible lure for any man walking by. For now, she has to settle for letting her round cheeks strain against a bikini one size too small.
It is this sight that stops the wandering Winston in his tracks.
"Boy, I'd love to tap that anus," he remarks. A skimpy triangle of nylon barely conceals her twin globes and the treasure between them. He speaks softly, but stands close enough for Stephanie to overhear.
She lifts up on her elbows and turns, to peer over her shoulder at her visitor. This bares her small breasts, which does not concern her: the man standing above has already made his interests clear. He's good-looking, but he needs to work on his manners. "Did you say what I just think you said?"
"I'm sorry," he says with a shrug. "Just thinking out loud."
If she dismisses him at this point, we don't have much of a story. Fortunately, she does not. "In that case... did you come prepared?"
"I''m ready," he laughs, pointing at his stiffening cock, bulging against his swimtrunks. "What more do I need?"
"Lube, silly. Astroglide. This isn't the HMS Bounty."
"Okay. Where can I find this Astroglide?"
She ponders this. "Costco has the best prices. One exit north on the freeway. Come back and I'll be waiting for you."
"You'll be right here?"
She smiles. "You hope so."
He sprints to his car and peels out of the parking lot. Astroglide, astroglide. The freeway entrance ramp is plugged up. On the overpass, northbound traffic creeps along. "Damn, damn," he says.
If he is late, he knows he can kiss Stephanie goodbye. She'll change her mind, or even worse. He imagines this vividly: as he runs toward her, she's already naked, stretching out like a cat, feeling very satisfied. "Another guy came by, and had sex in my anus," she purrs. "It was gooooood. But now I need to rest. Maybe some other time?"
"I've got to get there faster," Winston vows. The opposite lanes are moving freely, which gives him an idea. He roars up onto the southbound exit ramp, driving the wrong way, amused at the symbolism of this act. Dodging cars and trucks, blatting horns and raised middle fingers, he makes his way to the Costco offramp. (Onramp, actually.)
At Costco, he parks in a fire lane and runs through the exit door (symbolism again). "You're not supposed to go this way," yells the receipt checker. "Plus, we're out of Astroglide."
Disconsolate, Winston slows to a walk, passing through the checkout lanes. Maybe the hookup with Stephanie was not meant to be.
Dammit, he thinks. If I had just walked on past Stephanie, never said a word, I'd still be at the beach now, instead of stuck here amidst 100 million soccer moms pushing shopping carts.
It's way too crowded for comfort; the center aisles, checkout lines and exit are jam-packed. He heads toward the back corner, away from the bustle, to clear his head. In the hardware aisle there is only one other person, keeping to herself. Good. On second glance, he notices a few things pretty strange about her.
She's a slender woman, young, European looking, with short spiky hair. What looked at first like a choker necklace is actually some sort of leather collar, thin as a woman's watchband. She wears a long yet narrow white T-shirt, extending just far enough to cover her butt. Her legs are otherwise bare, even her feet. The way the shirt drapes over her body suggests she's wearing nothing underneath. When she reaches to pluck an item from a higher shelf, the shirt's hem rises to expose the lower half of her butt.
From her handbag she produces a utility knife and slices open what she picked out: a blister pack of alligator clips of different sizes. She finds a pair that would be at home on jumper cables and squeezes them open experimentally. Curious, Winston walks closer.
She fishes out two small squares of felt from her handbag and lays them on the shelf. Their purpose is not clear. She notices Winston, glances at him, and returns to her work. Jewel thief, he thinks, which is a silly notion; or maybe not. He doesn't like to think of himself as nosy, but he's close to asking her what she is doing.
Then she pulls the T-shirt up and off.
She's nude from head to toe now, except for the leather collar. Her pussy is shaven. Her nipples are erect in the chilled air. She has a dancer's figure and poise. This does not appear to be her first time naked in public.
Winston stares as she folds a square of felt over her left nipple, and is saying "Oh, no, no, no" as she clamps an alligator clip over the folded felt.
She closes her eyes, cringes, and tenses up. It has to be painful. She opens her eyes, touches the other square of felt, but pauses for a moment before picking it up. She is steeling herself for the additional pain.
Her unpinched breast looks so vulnerable, her nipple delicate even though hard, that Winston can't bear the idea of her hurting herself again. As she picks up the felt and folds it, he says "No. Please," and impulsively blocks her from putting it on. Instead, his fingers rest gently on her breast. She looks at him coolly. It's an awkward moment.
"Your instincts are in the right place, I suppose," she says. She doesn't flinch from his touch. "But my Master wants me to try these on."
Now it's making sense.
"If my Master disapproves, He will spank me." The capital letters hang in the air. She seems to look forward to such an event rather than fearing it.
"That's okay," he says, backing away, removing his hand. "I know that scene."
She undoes the clamp on her left nipple, pinching the felt with her other hand to keep it from falling. Her nipple doesn't look much worse for wear. But is she allowed to use the felt at home? Winston doesn't want to think about it.
"You could spank me," she says, conversationally. "He would like that. You could take me out in the center and spank me. Or you can fuck me. He likes that too."
"You know, nothing personal, nice to meet you, but-" As Winston steps backward he bumps into someone, and turns to face him. He knows this man from somewhere. Not personally, but from TV or something. The name comes to him.
"You do not share an interest in our vocation?" Malkovich says.
"No, man, I never got into it," says Winston. "Sorry."
"She enjoys it very much," he says. His expression never changes. It creeps Winston out.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Malkovich." he says, and steps away.
Now I pass the narrative to my esteemed colleague, American poet Walt Whitman.
"Thou orb of many orbs!
Thou seething principle! thou well-kept, latent germ! thou centre!
Around the idea of thee the war revolving,
With all its angry and vehement play of causes,
(With vast results to come for thrice a thousand years,)
These recitatives for thee, my book and the war are one,
Merged in its spirit I and mine, as the contest hinged on thee,
As a wheel on its axis turns, this book unwitting to itself,
Around the idea of thee."
Thank you, Walt.
Winston walks away, feeling frustrated. His wild goose chase has come to naught. He would have been better off just ignoring Stephanie and walking by. At least he would still be at the beach instead of dodging giant shopping carts.
"Pesto ravioli, sir?" A woman in a white smock, Maribel, stands at a sampling table that supports a small microwave, a stack of napkins, and nearly empty tray. Her brown hair with streaks of gray is tied into a bun. "It's the last one."
"Sure," he says. "Thanks."
She hands him the remaining sample cup containing half a triangle of pasta impaled with a toothpick. He tastes it experimentally. "This is pretty good!"
"We have five-pound bags for your freezer," she says. "Cooks in ten minutes." She reminds him of the lady who demonstrated Polynesian dancing to his junior high school class nearly fifteen years ago. Easily thirty years their senior, with the stout, full figure characteristic of some island women, the dancer still had the warmth, enthusiasm, and moves to ignite several sixth-grade crushes.
"I'll think it over," he says. A five-pound bag is a big commitment.
"I know," Maribel says, commiserating. "It never tastes as good back home as it does here."
Winston smiles. "Well, at home, we don't have you serving it." It's a throwaway compliment, intended only to spread a little happiness and smooth the rough edges of modern interaction.
She smiles and looks away. "You're just saying that."
At that point he realizes he isn't.
"If you're back here tomorrow, I'll stop by," he says.
She looks him in the eye. "Why do you ask when I come back? What you should ask, is what time I get off work?"
I'll bite, he thinks. "Okay, what time?"
"Fifteen minutes. I'll meet you at the front entrance."
As soon as Maribel is out of sight of the Costco entrance she doffs her cap and undoes her bun, letting her long hair extend to her back. She loves her hair and has kept it long, and will put off coloring it as long as she can. At 44, she's happy with herself and how she looks.
She has an apartment about two miles from the beach and two blocks from the freeway. Winston has to park a block away. Her decor is flavored by bamboo, pictures of nieces and nephews, and crosses.
They don't say much at first; any remark might lead to how incongruous this attraction is, and why the smart thing would be to call the meeting off. She closes the blinds in her bedroom and undresses in the semi-darkness. He steps out of his clothes and joins her under the sheets. She's very warm and smells slightly of pesto, perfume and soap.
With a sly smile she reaches between his legs. He feels a little apprehension, as if this were his first time with a woman. He's in her bedroom, she has a lot more knowledge and experience than he does, and she has handled this meeting confidently from the start. Pesto ravioli, sir, he muses. I've been picked up.
He sits up and reaches over Maribel, who lays back, grinning. Time to take a little initiative. He kisses her shoulder, then moves slightly downward and inward, barely ascending the swell of a bronze-toned breast; changing direction, his kisses slowly hop to the nape of her neck. "What do you like?" he whispers in her ear.
"I like this handsome young man in my bed," she says. Witty, yet evasive.
Okay, I'm on my own, he thinks. He tries different things: long, slow, tender caresses, leading from her cheekbones to her thighs, following heavenly contours of neck, breasts, waist and pubic mound. He kisses and caresses her breasts, teasing at first, going in circles, before converging on the dark, engorged nipples. When she lies on her stomach, he traces his fingers, then his lips, down the seam of her spine, his erection poking insolently between her thighs. She props up on her elbows as his hands reach around her ribcage and massage her breasts from behind.
She turns over again and guides him inside. He grins as he recalls an ancient joke about the advantages of sex with older women: they don't swell, don't tell, and appreciate it like hell.
"Having a good time?" she says.
"I am working there next weekend, too."
"I think I'm going to have a freezer full of pesto ravioli."
Soon neither of them are laughing, but both are breathing really hard. Right after he comes, he kisses her on the mouth, surprising himself. She returns the kiss as if they were both high school juniors in the back seat of his car.
"Now that was fun," she says, as he pulls out. They both lay back, facing the ceiling, enjoying post-coital serenity. Winston grins. He's had a very nice romp in the sack with a pretty lady and it's not even noon yet. He rests a hand on her warm inner thigh, just far enough out to avoid getting his fingers sticky. He watches her breasts swell as she breathes.
"What's that?" she asks.
In a moment he sees it too.
A bright dot appears in mid-air, a foot below the ceiling. It quickly expands to hula-hoop size and a giant monster with scores of tentacles climbs through. The creature has a ring of six eyes and a slavering mouth ringed with teeth, each of which has its own mouth with smaller teeth. The teeth also have eyes and the tentacles have eyes with mouths and more teeth.
"Oh shit!" Winston cries. Maribel pulls the sheet up to her shoulders and screams. He rises from the bed and attempts to shield her from the alien creature.
The monster does not attack Maribel. Instead, three tentacles snake out and pick up WInston as easily as he would pick up an apple. Its yellow eyes regard him with unreadable intent and it flips him over, his ass toward the alien and his face toward Maribel. She screams even louder at what she sees but he cannot. He can only feel the slimy tentacle sliding down his back and between his cheeks.
Oh no no no, he thinks, and then his eyes go wide as the monster penetrates him. He screams. The sensation agonizes and sickens him. In a coating of slime the tip of the tentacle forces its way in and out. Maribel faints.
How long must I endure this? he cries. He struggles against his restraints with no effect. The monster single-mindedly continues its assault. An eternity seems to pass before the door is kicked open and a furious young woman marches inside.
"Dah-MEH!" she yells, followed by a firehose stream of angry Japanese. She unclenches a small fist, releasing a pale green glowing orb. It pauses for half a second before beelining toward the monster's mouth. After a bright flash, both disappear. No longer suspended by anything, Winston suffers an ungainly fall to the floor.
"I'm Ryoko. Are you OK?" the girl says. Her spiky hair is dyed orange. She wears an odd skirt and sweater outfit, a mix of cheerleader, anime and Jetsons. Even at 25, she looks too old to wear little girls' clothes. Her skirt is so short that whenever she moves, she flashes her bright white bikini panties. Her breasts are large on her slim figure, and strain against the V-neck sweater.
"No, I'm not OK," he says, struggling to his feet. "Not at all." He makes an assessment: bruised elbows and side from the fall. Fortunately, nothing broken. Ass sore, numb, maybe bleeding. Humiliated. Violated. "What the fuck was that thing?"
"They're from another dimension," she says. "Here, sit down on the bed. It's never easy to go through what you just did. They come to earth to rape humans. They cannot reproduce with us, but they still do it."
"Okay, then who are you? I mean, I'm glad you're here, but how did you know?"
"I fight them. I can track when they're preparing to come in." She reaches for his underwear and pants, and hands them to him. "Sometimes I can destroy them. Other times, like now, I can only send them back. A lot of times, the monster prevails."
"Prevails?" he asks. After all, she's still alive. " What do you mean?"
Her look is grim. "It rapes me. After it's done and leaves, I'm curled up on the floor, sore, naked, and covered with slime. Because it overpowers me, or my weapons don't work against it, and then there's nothing I can do. It rips all my clothes off, slathers all over my body, and then sticks a tentacle in wherever it can."
"What surprised me is the monster went for you instead of the lady."
"Maribel. Her name's Maribel. I just met her today." She hasn't yet recovered from her faint.
He lets loose a crazy man's laugh. "A gay space squid. Just my luck." He reaches for his shirt.
They revive Maribel, who gets dressed and rushes to her sister's house. She won't return to her bedroom for a week. Winston apologizes, even though nothing was his fault. He and Ryoko leave her house, locking the front door behind them.
"Thank you," he tells her, still unnerved by the incident.
"You're going to be all right," she says. "You'll probably never see one again. It's like getting struck by lightning."
"But you see them all the time."
She smiles. "That's my job, to go in harm's way."
"If I were you, I'd wear a full-length Kevlar jump suit."
She laughs, a little ruefully. "The Commissioner insists on this uniform. Even though the panties are very easily taken off. Then it is hard to keep my guard up and the rest of my clothes are taken too."
"Sounds like the Commissioner just likes seeing you naked."
"He and many others." She shakes his hand. "Listen, be very careful. If you see one of those creatures again, leave immediately. Get away as fast as you can."
"You mean it's going to come back?"
"Just keep away. The opening of the rift is a warning. It gives you a head start. Winston, I will see you later. But keep watchful. Good luck."
"I have to go." She unlocks her Beetle, hops in and drives away.
Winston tries to make sense of this. Certainly he should stay away from Maribel's bedroom... but can those monsters just pop up anywhere? Then why doesn't Ryoko stick around?
EXHIBITIONIST & VOYEUR
At Toro Beach, Stephanie realizes Winston isn't coming back; more than enough time had passed for him to go to Costco and return. "Phooey," she says to herself. What a letdown.
More people have arrived, setting down blankets and playing in the water, but no one has paid her any attention. The isolation makes her restless. Maybe this would be a good time to strip all the way off, and make the day a little more interesting.
She wants to stay on her stomach, in order to reveal only her butt. She pushes down her bikini bottom as far as she can reach, which is only part of the way toward her knees. The fabric stretches across her thighs as she enjoys the unfamiliar feeling of fresh air and sun on her bare bottom. Lying flat on her stomach, she can't push the bikini any further, but she wants it all the way off.
She raises her butt in the air to bring her knees closer and move the bikini downward. This looks pretty clumsy, but she guesses it's still better than rolling on her side. Certainly turning over on her back or sitting up would be easier, but that would give everyone a full frontal view.
Now the bikini is past her knees and she lays back down. She is now able to work it off using her legs. It takes longer than she expects, writhing and kicking like a beginning swimmer, but finally one foot is out, and she kicks it away with the other. The bikini bottom is a few feet away in the sand; she can't see exactly where. She'll pick it up later.
She's nude now, though something still bothers her, something unfinished. It's the top, which is untied, but still lies underneath her breasts. She leans up a little, enough to pull the top out and throw it aside. That's better, she thinks. The towel, though soft, is still rougher than the inside of her bikini top, and the sensation stimulates her nipples.