Apartment Eight Makes A Golden Challenge - Sex Stories

Apartment Eight Makes A Golden Challenge

... wedged between his crack, organically wiedling its way into his orifice. Any deeper and a proctologist would have to be called for extraction. The M.C. slapped him on his stomach. “Hey easy, right? Oh, before I forget. You willing to free the cobra tonight?” Vasily pinched his eye towards Johnny, “Full Monty,” Johnny elaborated, “You know, show off the goods? Flick your dick? If you’re gonna do it, just give me a signal. Tip your cap or something.” That wasn’t happening, Vasily determined. “Well, it’s up to you. Just don’t slip and fall into the crowd,” Johnny said, elbowing him lightly in the gut. “Remember… wild boars.” Vasily nodded once. That he understood. “Good,” Johnny replied. “Here’s your bat.” Taking the rubber prop --a purple bat molded at the end like a giant penis tip-- Vasily watched as Johnny slipped through the curtains. He pulled the lid of his baseball cap low over his eyes, shading them, then gripped the bat tightly in his fists as he listened to the scuzzy M.C. work the crowd on the other side of the curtains. “Hey, hey, ladies and ladies! My, oh my, what a shark tank we have going on tonight, eh?” There was a crescendo of yells and screams. Some deep-voiced woman bellowed, “Get the next piece of ass out here!” Vasily suddenly felt very thirsty. “Next on the menu, hailing all the way from the streets of Moscow… ” Vasily grimaced and sighed as he listened to some mock booing amidst the cheers. “He’s brought his big, red, Rooskie rocket to declare World ...

... War III on all your sweet asses,” Johnny declared, whipping the throngs into a higher frenzy. “Not only can he ‘Putin’ but he can definitely ‘Put-out’ ALL… NIGHT… LONG !” More screaming. “He may speak softly, but he carries a big, long, thick, swinging stick!” The screams blended together into one shrill, chaotic crescendo. It nearly blew the curtain back. “Get ready for some meaty ground balls to be shanked into your faces!” Johnny announced, “Give it up for… Borrr-ris Bat-enough !” The curtain drew apart and suddenly a bright white light splashed against Vasily. Not only was he already deaf from the screeching and whistles, now he was momentarily blind as well. He stood frozen on the launch pad, but flinched when pipe-organ music suddenly bellowed a swanky version of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” through the overhead speakers. Vasily inhaled, the buttons on his undersized jersey ready to burst against the pressure of his puffed-up chest. For a half-second, he was able to shut everything out, the noise, the lights. In that moment, one existential question transcended all. “Why am I here?” He squinted through the small holes of his mask, past the spotlights, through the discombobulating crowd of crazed females, and focused on the silhouetted image of one particular audience member seated on the second level, sipping what was probably a Long Island iced tea through a straw. In his mind's eye he could see her there, that sharp left brow of hers popped up, a diving, toothy smile ...