Motor City Gumshoe

I collapse into waiting bed of her brown skin, and I can feel the rhythmic pulsations as our hearts beat as one.

Soon there is only the chirping of the crickets, broken by howling of a group of canines over on Don King Circle. Not feral dogs this time, but coywolves, a hybrid of coyote and eastern wolf. Coywolves have taken over much of the Northeast, including the thriving downtowns of Toronto and Chicago. Thus, they are nothing to be ashamed of. You might even say that compared to wild dogs, they are a status symbol. At least there will be some type of life in the wasteland we are handing to the future.

"Come here, baby," Mahrheahah whispers. I want to show you something. You ever been twerked?"

"Sounds painful," I tell her. "Not sure if I have."

"Oh you'd know it if you have. Trust me." I free her hands, and she reaches into her bag and pulls out puts out a tube of some kind of gel. She slaps some on Mr. Happy's head, then makes an "O" with her thumb and index finger, which she slides up and down my shaft to spread the gel over every inch of me (and there a quite few, so she she had to go back for more).

"Turn me over and cuff me again," she says, and I am only too happy to oblige, but all in due time. I ascend her flesh, stopping at her slit, which I clean thoroughly with my tongue, circling her clit as she arches her back in pleasure. My hands move up her mocha flesh, seizing her boobs, which I maul while I continue to eat her. Her hands seize my head and press it hard against her. I bury my mouth in her triangle and eat her as hard and as fast as I can. Her breaths become gasping and faster and faster until she cries out and her body goes rigid. But I do not let her get off that easily, and I devour her with the ferocity of a tiger as she comes over and over again.

I ascend her body once more, sucking her breast as my shaft enters the familiar and welcoming home of her cunt. I sheath it in her as my lips meet hers, our tongues flickering through the barrier of our teeth, each in desperate search of the other.

My balls rest on softness of her brown skin as she turns over beneath me, brushing them. I lie completely on top of the inviting bed of her hot brown skin, with my throbbing pole nestled in the welcoming valley formed by the coffee-colored hills of her ass. I kiss the back of her neck and ears as I slide my schlong up and down in the groove of her ass. I reach around and grab her breasts, mauling them, as I run my worshipping tongue down the hollow of her spine to the top of her ass crack. I reach underneath her and put all ten fingers in motion around her wet slit. I drop my tongue even further, licking the crack of her ass until I reach the hungry hole of her anus. I move my tongue in and out of that sweet orifice, circling it in preparation for each thrust, as my fingers continue to work her slit, my whole hand entering it now. I run both hands up and down her nether lips. I flick my tongue in and out of her ass several more times, until her whole body shudders and she cries out in orgasmic splendor.

Then I climb up her curved, inviting back and spear her with my shaft once again. She gasps at as I bury it to the hilt, violating her to unexplored depths.

Nevertheless, she is able to whisper, "Not this time, guinea. You need to use my upper door."

I withdraw my shaft from her cunt and then try to shove it up to the hilt in her ass. But she is too tight for my girth and can only penetrate a couple of inches.

"Use me, you stupid wop! I am nothing. Ignore my cries, my pleading," she says.

I put a full nelson on her, pushing her head into the pillow and back out and batter my ram into her ass once more. She cries out. I pull back and shove my throbbing cock into her all the way up to the hilt.

"Now get ready for the ride, dago!" she says. "I'm going to twerk you all the way to heaven."

Her butt begins vibrate up and down like a jackhammer. I grab her shoulders and pull her body closer to me, as her twerking becomes even more frenzied. The walls of her ass are moving at an unimaginable speed, and my cock is in for the ride of its life. I reach around and grab her humungous breasts in lieu of a saddle horn, as her bronco ass gyrates up and down my cock. I squeeze them hard and pull her body closer to me as I ride her. Suddenly I explode, my hot cum filling her bowels and I collapse upon her beautiful quivering brown back. My tongue runs up and down her spine. I am spent, save for the eternal desire to be wrapped in her skin.

THE SEARCH FOR TRIXIE

Finally, I muster up the fortitude to put us back on task. "What about your friend Trixie?" I ask. "We need to find her."

"Who? Oh right, Trixie," Mahrheahah says, shaking the cobwebs out of her over-fucked brain. "Yeah, we'd better do that," she says, and closes her eyes and rests her head on the pillow.

"You said she had joined some sex club called the Salt Mine."

"Yeah, her desires are becoming more and more twisted. She does guys, groups, sadists, basically anything that moves, so long as it's twisted enough."

"Tell you what, I'm gonna hit the streets," I say. "See if any of my sources know anything about this so-called Salt Mine. You get started by calling Trixie's friends, see if any of them knows anything."

"Boy, you really are old school, aren't you?" Mahrheahah says. "We can find out whatever we need from the laptop Trixie and I shared." She pulls out a rectangular metallic box.

"Laptop?" I say.

"Jeez, you really oughta get out a little more often, my well-endowed guinea," Mahrheahah says.

"I went to the Detroit public schools," I say in my defense.

"You poor thing, she says. "That explains it. Here, just let me reboot it."

I stand back, not knowing if she's a soccer-style kicker or a punter. Some of these dames ha d pretty strong gams, and I knew from personal experience that Mahrheahah was more than sufficiently endowed to kick a 60-yard field goal.

However, she merely opened the box up and pressed a few buttons, and up came a screen showing everything you wanted to know about the Salt Mine but were too nauseated to ask.

I watch her talented hands fly over the keyboard, and I know right there and then that I am going to have to replace my trusty Underwood Typewriter (some of the keys stick anyway) as well as the boxes of index cards that line my bedroom walls. Will wonders never cease?

Mahrheahah shows something called Trixie's browsing history. It shows all the spider web sites that Trixie has visited in the last few months. About a million of them were the Salt Mine site. She pulls up Trixie's chat history, which proves most illuminating. This Trixie dame fantasized constantly about unnatural acts of submission, domination, scatology, onanism, body piercing, torture, and most other forms of total depravity, acts that I had never dreamed existed in my sheltered world on Wesley Snipes Boulevard in the heart of the Motor City. Many of the acts depicted in Trixie's selfies seemed to violate the laws of physics and physiological bounds of human contortion. My gat sprung up at the sight of the depraved acts depicted in the videoclips Trixie had emailed to the Salt Mine, much to my everlasting shame.

This Trixie was beginning to look like a most interesting and appealing little dame. I have to rescue her before those rapists and sodomists murder her and carve her into little pieces or she looses motor control over that luscious tight little body of hers. I have generally found bodies more sexually appealing before vivisection rather then after it, but maybe that's just me.

Then I look over at Mahrheahah, my still naked Nubian queen, and all thoughts of Trixie vanish from my head. I tell her, "Maybe the best way in would be to join the club."

We look up the membership fee and it's seventy-five grand, and that's for the tin membership. The platinum memberships go for five mil. "A little steep for our money," I say.

But then Mahrheahah says, "I might just know where half a million in Mayor Kwame's shake-down funds is located."

No money worries then. I might even get paid this time.

DEPARTURE FOR THE UNDERWORLD

After I've packed to hop on the bus to the underworld, Mahrheahah stretches her delightfully naked ebony body out on my bed. "Sure you don't want to give me a goodbye kiss, sugarboy?" she asks.

So I give her a very nice two-and-a-half hour kiss, which cleanses my soul. After I get dressed and ready to go descend the stairs to Wesley Snipes Boulevard on my rubbery legs, I take one last look at Mahrheahah. She flashes a bright smile at me. "You come back to me, hear?"

"You can count on it, doll," I tell her. "You and I have unfinished business to conduct." An uncountable infinity of business, I thought, as I close the door and walk down the stairs to greet the fresh Detroit morning air.

TAKE ME TO THE RIVER

The light in the van is dim, and I can barely make out my five fellow transportees. We are all naked and have IVs dripping into our arms. Whatever's dripping, it must be a powerful aphrodisiac, both of the men have their bazookas raised to the sky and all three dames have wet spots on the seat right in front of the delta of their crotches, with more love juice pouring down every minute. My fellow internees strain at the straps on their arms and legs, apparently trying to act out the lustful fantasies that are running through their heads. I know, because they run through my mind too.

As for me, I flashback to the rape house in Afghanistan. Naked women are bound to every conceivable device for sexual torture as punishment for crimes such as not wearing their head scarfs, or having been raped and thus impure.

Many of these chained women have had their noses, ears or fingers cut off. All of them are being violently raped through various orifices, including eyeless sockets, profusely bleeding rectums, and mouths from which all the teeth have been brutally extracted.

The red berserker rage overcomes me once again, and I open fire on them. Time seeks to slow down, and I can almost see the bullets traveling through the air at a snail's pace. Then they speed up and reach their intended targets and paint a Jackson Pollock of raghead nerves, skull fragments, and blood on the back wall of the torture palace.

I then see the women's eyes, more fearful of me than they were of their so recently deceased rapists. I close my eyes and see the piles of skulls at in Cambodia and the moss covering Angkor Wat, that sacred place of peace and hope buried in a jungle of rage.

I see the massacred bodies at Auschwitz, Andersonville, and in the cradle of civilization once called Assyria, but now called ISIS, once the goddess of life, but now the putrefying goddess of death.

I throw my M27 on the ground and take out my Glock. The women all cringe, but I put the barrel into my own mouth. The trigger seems too heavy and so I cry like some dame until the special forces arrive and pry the pistol from my hands. And so I am condemned to walk this earth a little while longer.

Of course the military tribunal had ruled it a righteous shoot, as the ragheads were heavily armed. But the tribunal in my head was not so forgiving.

Our van has come to a stop. The door is opened and we are unstrapped. We emerge into the false sunlight of a maze of white tunnels.

The six of us are lined up in a straight row, men on the left, women on the right. Finally, our mysterious host emerges from one of the side tunnels. He is nearly seven feet of musclebound flesh.

"Welcome to the Salt Mine," he says in a booming James Earl Jones voice. "But we no not mine here, instead we offer you a leisurely tour of paradise, with unlimited sexual pleasure, in more varieties than you have imagined in your most twisted dreams. You are about to enter a realm that is best depicted in Hieronymus Bosch's painting of the Garden of Earthy Delights, in other words Heaven rather than Purgatory.

"Allow me to introduce myself." he says, as he takes position in front of a bridge separating us from the main tunnels. Holding his sword vertically before him, he looks like Heimdall, the guardian of the Bifrost Bridge in the Thor movies.

"My name is Charon," he says in a voice that threats to unleash an avalanche of salt that would collapse these tunnels. "The river behind me is the River Styx. But do not fear it. It is not the gate to hell, but rather to paradise.

"Here there are no erotophobic laws to dampen your pleasure or your sexual creativity. Here you are free to indulge in your darkest fantasies with no fear of reprisal or discovery. Here our members must obey all sexual requests. They must obey yours, and you must obey theirs.

"Don't worry about unwanted sexual advances. With the chemicals we have already pumped into your veins and those that are always circulating in the air of our underground palace, you will want all the advances you can get. And even if you are shy, you will find yourself requesting and performing every sexual act you can conceive of and many of which will surpass your wildest imaginings. And no one you ask may turn you down. If they do, they face excommunication and exsanguination."

I wasn't sure what exsanguination meant, but I was pretty sure I didn't want to find out.

"Is there at least a safeword?" the naked redheaded broad with the gigantic hooters at the far right of the line asks.

"Of course," our overmuscled guardian replies.

After a minute of silence, she finally asks the most obvious follow-up question: "What is it?"

This question seems to throw Charon off. After thirty seconds of thought, he says, "Safe."

At least it would be easy to remember.

Charon resumes his spiel. "We have many restrooms located throughout the tunnels as well as free food courts, which will serve you until such time as you depart this realm. We sincerely hope that your stay will be so pleasurable that you will remain with us for a long, long time.

"There is one little test you must pass before you are allowed to cross the River Styx and enter our humble paradise. We must ensure that your sexual functioning meets the standards required to serve all our guests. Rest assured that if it does not, we will simply adjust your medications until it does.

"Now please meet Cerberus, the guardian of the gate."

I remember that Cerberus is the three-headed hellhound that guards the gates of Hades, the land of the dead in classical mythology. Of course classical mythology is itself finally dead, thanks to the I-tuned illiteracy of our youth. But still he lives on as Fluffy, the three-headed dog in the Harry Potter movies. One must be thankful for small graces.

Charon pushes a button and the cage doors in the tunnel walls open. Three naked dames rush from the left cage, wearing the spiked collars typically sported by pitbulls in our fair city. They are chained together, their red eyes filled with both carnal and homicidal lust (must be contact lenses). Juice drips from their cunts and runs down their legs. Their large udders swing beneath them. These are evidently meant for the three males in our intrepid party, including yours truly.

From the right cage spring three dudes similarly fettered and with gleaming muscles. This trio charges toward our three female comrades, their boners bounding furiously up and down. Both of the false triple-headed doggies come to a screeching halt at the bridge which has not yet been lowered.

"I hope you will forgive me one small pun," Charon says. "You must each share a bone twice with our faithful demonic pooches, if you catch my drift, before you are admitted to the Salt Mine.

He lowers the bridge. "Charge," he commands his ersatz canines, who rush across the bridge with foaming mouths and bared fangs.

The middle bitch, the one with the jet black and white-streaked hair and powerful legs, takes me out like a linebacker, and all the air rushes out of my lungs. I land on my back and she takes my balls in her mouth, and gives them a death shake that would be quite lethal for a hapless rodent. For some reason, they remain attached to my body. Castration must not be in her job description, and I am not a eunuch. Not yet anyway.

Her tongue swirls around my balls, perhaps savoring their taste before she goes on to the main course. She then runs said tongue up and down the length of my shaft. She looks at me with the grateful eyes of a Newfoundland-German Shepard mix who has just been tossed a new bone. She grabs my balls in her hands, moving them as her mouth slides up my shaft and over its tip. I look at the guy to my left, and he doesn't look so good. He is whimpering and crying like a baby as the bull dyke starring in the role of Cerberus' right head chomps down on his testicles.

My own organ throbs in Newfoundland delight as the hell-hound's middle head give me some of the best head I have ever known (outside of Mahrheahah, of course). My fellow initiate to the right seems to be a happy camper so far, and we are both moaning in ecstasy when we come, pouring gallons of our seed into our partners' throat.

I steal a glance at the three women initiates and see that they are engaged in similar activities, but in this case giving, rather than receiving, head to the three men portraying the male Cerberus's heads. All three appear to have a full plate, or should I say mouth. Their lips can barely stretch around their false canines' girths. The red-head appears to be choking even though she still has an additional four inches of doggie meat to go. However, she is a real trooper, that one, and she takes one for the team, plunging down on the hellhound's organ. Surely that fiend's shaft must be well past her uvula and throat. Incredibly, she raises up and plunges her mouth all the way onto its length again. And again. And again. The beast can hold out no longer, he grabs her by the shoulders and forces her to remain impaled upon him as he shoots massive wads of hot cum into her throat and esophagus. The false hound holds her fast in this position, his gluteus maximus trembling as he pours every last drop into her willing, ravenous mouth.

We appear to be finished with Bone #1. The three dames playing the female Cerberus rise to their feet and pull us backward upon their naked, inviting bodies. The male Cerberus pulls its partners up and then leaps upon their equally naked bodies. Looks like its going to be the missionary position all across the board, a pretty ironic gateway to hell when you think of it.

But when I enter my dog, I feel the studs that have been implanted all along her honey tunnel. These are not ordinary studs, but studs that vibrate, delivering intoxicating microshocks, and induce contractions throughout her birth canal.

This is going to be a hard one to ride out, but ride it out I must. I figure this is not the prelims, but the final exam.

I get a brief glimpse of the cocks that are penetrating our three intrepid women. They too bear the studs, but seem to deliver pain and expansions rather than pleasure and contractions.

I feel the psychoactive chemicals running through my body and brain, which induce the most intense pleasure and lust I have ever known, but I keep soldiering on, bringing up images of maggot-infested floaters we have pulled from the River over the years and remembering the win-loss record of the Detroit Lions in an effort to ward off premature ejaculation.

It is too late for the guy on my left as he pours out his seed with a "yippee-kay-yeah-yeah" and waves an imagined Stetson cowboy hat over his head. I'm pretty sure he just flunked out. I won't look for him at graduation or among the ranks of the living. I'm pretty sure he has drawn the Monopoly card that reads "Don't pass Go, no more breathing for you." I keep my end of the bargain for another 40 minutes, as do the guy on my right and our three female compatriots.