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Message-ID: <27462asstr$974344202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Dean Travers <larrydallas3@my-deja.com>
Subject: {ASSM} [ASS] BritneY SpearS: AmazoniaN PrincesS
Date: Wed, 15 Nov 2000 22:10:03 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

     If I were to have my druthers, my demise would be at the Charmin-
soft hands of tender pop starlet Britney Penelope Spears.  The
surroundings & circumstances of this final, fatal encounter would be
negligible because, after all, such a proposition is purely chimerical
in its very essence.  Titney--my phantasy's pulchritudinous protagonist--
would be duct-taped in oily lacquer-complexioned midnite leather; every
lavish contour, nuance & secret of her fresh-squeezed callipygian hips,
thighs & ass broadcast in the sloe-black Corinthian accordion--& that
abbreviated gauze-thin vanilla baby-tee, concupiscently pageanted on
the Nickelodeon Kid's Choice Awards w/a bib of sweat dilating,
whispering an innuendo of barefoot, cream-filled areolas thru the oh so
fucking fortunate fabric, cropped enticingly to reveal her well-
buttered cumtarget of a belly.
     An uncharacteristic malevolence caroms from Brit's soft chestnut
eyes as she audits my awkward, taut bow-like quavering body: vertical &
fashioned exclusively in a set of Venetian-pink bikini panties: my
convulsing cock inflates the pursy cloth, gabling it like some
obscenely disproportionate teepee, in its slow-motion rise as tho a
crouched Shaquille O'Neal unfurled in methodical, successive degrees
within his own lavender silhouette.
     "Git on awl fours like tha bitch faced whore thatcha are, ya
rancid puddle a' catpiss," she castrates in sforzando (her drawly
backwoods voice resonating w/that same heretofore unheard harshness)
whilst whipping on a grain silo of a black bolt-on.
     "Yes, mommy," I meekly obey, leaning on my jittery elbows--
solipsitting in that nervous see-saw symphony of pompous & teeming
anxiety set above the dirge-like contrapuntal hum of dread--I deliver my
goose-bump bloused rump skyward--a raw-pale offering of abject
submission.
     Brit Brit revolves about her naked slave like a jury of deliberate
clock hands before finally pausing at the rear--a tiara of sleek apricot
hair fellates cheeks bukakked w/blushing bloom--& reaching her
butterscotch hand down from the pomp of her flagrant posture--in between
my just-Naired tinker-toy legs--thumbs the flimsy petals of fabric aside
w/a purposefully teasing brush vs. my tender atiptoe balls & taint.
She veils her iniquitous intent w/a show of faux-innocence, as tho
she's thinking: "what's this button do?"
     She places her viraginous hands about my hips--as a fulcrum-like
support--& shoehorns as much of the 10" ersatz manmeat my virgin asshole
can take sans Crisco.
I howl & writhe abandonly, squinting & teary-eyed, my face wrenched
into a mask of anguish, as the plastic phallus shreds my lenient
entrails asunder, dissecting the soft walls w/the absent conscience of
a 6th grader in science class.  My sphincter instinctively struggles
forlornly to expel the inexorable intruder as it pickpockets the
precious spelling bee trophy of my behymen.  I try an pull away but her
puissant Johnny Bench-like hands hold steadfast--her wild-cherry nails
dissolving into the soft flesh of my flanks.
     Britty caustically hiccups degrading barbs, smuggling the
counterfeit sympathy of Bambi chucking hand grenades at an
orphanage:  "How's that feel ya worthless pigslut, cumwhore,
grandmotherfucker?!" & if that's not enuff 18th century punishment to
get my telephonicaphiliac ass off, the libelous lingual lashings
abide: "Ya'll like it up tha ass, huh faygit?"  Her L'weeseyanna
southern twangy, Kewpie doll dulcet, embellishes every excruciatingly
erotic, aphrodisiac-like, dick-hardening, seminiferous word.
     "YES, FUCK ME UP THE ASS MASTER BRITNEY, MAKE ME YOUR PUSSYBOY
DOGSLAVE.  RAPE MY SHITTY FUCKHOLE!!"  I answer, screaming (& creaming)
amidst moans of pain & ecstasy.  "HIT ME BABY FROM BEHIND!!"
     Ba Ba Britney quickly grew bored w/simply jackhammering my burning
& looted shitpipe--ah, the green capricity of youth--so she slowed down
her pace (from bucking like a wild bull in heat, to uneasily jabbing
like Jerry Cooney in a title fight) & began spanking my pallid,
upturned bottom; each hard, manual assault leaving behind a deep,
fuchsian tattoo--a digital brand asserting her unquestioned dominance,
as a farmer who holds domain over cattle.  But I feel more like a
bitchdog, fixed in this obsequious, doggystyle pose.  I only wish I had
a bowl of Brit's period blood set before my face; I swear, the odor of
the nepenthe alone would be enuff to get Slash shit-faced.
     I'm hijacked from my temporary reverie by the childbirth-like
relief of Brit Brit extracting the filthy fuckstick from my Holland
Tunnel-ish anus--left gaping wide like a veteran fagwhore--looks like
I'll have a safe new place to keep my wallet.
     The cruel defilement persists as Mommy Britney--w/o a twinge of
abatement--sharply jerks me by the hair, flips me over, pulls me to my
knees & slaps me in the face w/the revolting rod.  "Lick it clean ya
spineless scumsucking shitworm!"  Bit Bit barks, commanding me to
polish the blood & shit drenched tool w/my slobbering tongue.
Unsatisfied w/my understandable hesitation, the `Crazy' crooner shoves
my head down, forcing me to deep-throat the Brobdingnagian babymaker
like Pamela Lee on her honeymoon. Unlike Pam, however--& being
unaccustomed to speaking Lou Genitalese--my gag reflex kicks in,
triggering a chunky Niagara of vomit stew to spill from my feces-fouled
lips.  Demonstrating the compassion one would normally associate
w/`Britney Spears - America's Sweetheart,' she mercifully purges the
apocryphal zipper snake from my mouth, gently brushes back the errant
strands of my dirty blond hair & allows me a moment to catch my
fugitive breath.  But alas, such benevolence proves ephemeral as--
flashing a wicked, Colgate grin--she tosses back her cascading, auburn
locks & laughs as I choke on the thick, slimy, technicolor gumbo--globs
of undigested meat floating in a sour, pungent, green bile, now merged
w/the aroma of my own wretched waste, form an exceedingly sickening
salmagundi.
     Quite an unsavory sight I must make--a panty wearing, faggot
fuckhole, w/an uber-nauseating omnium-gatherum stampeding down my
salty, tear-stained face--but it doesn't make a goddamn, fucking
shitstain of a difference to this mollycoddle mama's boy, as I
steadfastly remain genuflecting at the altar of her--& every woman's--
sexual supremacy.
     The buxom belle unfastens the ebony dick belt, casually tosses it
aside (like one of Donald Trump's model bitches on their 25th
birthday), & whips out a brand new toy--a pair of iridescent chrome
handcuffs.
     "Getcha hands ba-hin' ya back, mar con maygit," she lip synchs.
     "Uhh a, yes ma'am," I cough as I comply w/pre-nuptial agreement-
like hesitation.
She arches down & forward, stretching her ambrosial arms around my
girlishly underdeveloped torso (I grow a 3rd eye to get a better look
at those magnificent mammaries, boy, would I love to jam my creamstick
between dem tits) to slap the cuffs on my delicate, bony limp wrists.
Violently squeezing my skittle-sized stones, she raises that cloying
mezzo-soprano to a stern vituperating tone:
     "Fruh now on when ya'll ansuh me, ya'll talk w/uh lisp like tha
faygitcha are.  Got that, sissy britches?"  She stresses each syllable
w/a wag of her finger.
     "Yesss, Bwitney," I concede, pressing my salivating tongue between
my teeth to produce the desired `lisping pansy' effect.
     She tightens her grip, twisting my bruised baggage: (apparently
not content w/my oversufficient, timid response) what more could my
ethereal Erosian empress desire?  How I delight in the euphonic echo of
her eloquence:
     "Sowwy, Mommy," I stammer, lisping like a pathetic cumstain,
queer, queenie, asslicking, couch-humping fuckwad.  I exhale relievedly
as she releases my crushed orbs; what a fucking grip: she must
masturbate even more than me!
     "You're a li'l bit slender in the gender, aintcha boy," Brit the
Tit taunts as she takes my slackened cock--after all the abuse my baby
bags have endured, sex has lost its priority--in her hand & inspects it
curiously.  My fleshpole instinctively salutes her skillful touch,
turning to granite in her buttery hand.  "Hee Hee," she giggles
girlishly, tickled by my cock's Pavlovian reaction--or perhaps by the
power which she possesses.
"You like that, huh?  Betcha'd love ta git inside my amusement park.
Too bad ya ain't tall enuff for any of tha rides in Britneyland.  Hell,
you couldn't show a parking meter a good time w/that puny peter."
<giggle, giggle>   She laughs--this time at her unintentional rhyme--&
releases my wing-wang.  It slingshots up against my belly w/the
velocity of ammo.
     A stiletto heel to my concave girlyboy chest sends my kowtowing
corpuscle toppling to the ground w/a kitten-like whimper. I look up
from my newborn sprawling, supine position in lickerish wonder as she
unbuttons her cowhide jeans & wiggles them down around the luscious
bulge of her wide, fertile hips.  I groan softly as a light, neatly
trimmed patch of golden fuzz--resting comfortably on her succulent mound--
comes into view.  Bit-Bit slinkily slithers the sable pants down to her
ankles, steps out & kicks the glossy bundle aside.  She clicks over to
me--awkwardly--atop her 6' spikes & stabs a razor sharp heel into my
panting, heaving sternum, the other foot stepping behind my head
leaving me w/a moist perlustration of her ripe, flushed crotch:
dangling like a slab of roast beef between her sinewy thighs.
     Bitchney pivots into a salacious half-squat, straddling my scarlet
face.  I lift my pencil neck, in an uncomfortable abdominal crunch
position, straining to lingually solve her Chinese finger puzzle.  A
sticky IV drip of yummy cuntnectar hits my nose w/the erratic,
syncopated, hemiola of lying beneath an air conditioner in Tucson on
Independence Day, as she begins feverishly frigging--thrusting two
fingers in & out of her juicy, dripping honeyhole, moaning wantonly to
the steady rhythm of the fingerbanging. (Film this action & it could
keep Kleenex in business for the next fucking zillennium!)  My nutbags
are about to burst--they're fucking bluer than Papa Smurf while choking
on a ham sandwich w/Mama Cass.  But all I can do is squirm around,
kicking up my legs & knees desperately trying to make contact w/my
veiny capacitated piss tube.  Before long, I realize the fruitlessness
in my epileptic-like actions, as my hard-on is so fucking raging that
it's pressed flat against my stomach, thoroughly out of the scope of my
frenzied pedals.
     Peradventure, the titillating temptress senses my amplifying
frustration--& hoping to boost it further--begins using her idle hand to
massage her hitherto neglected clit.  Undulating like a turbulent,
hurricane ravaged sea, she grinds her sweaty, voluptuous hips against
the invading digits, stimulating her juicebox w/a teasing `come hither-
like' gesture.  But sadly, the vulgar, staccato shrieks of her
impending paroxysm come to a disappointing halt, as she abruptly breaks
the furious fuckrhythm, depriving me of bearing witness to the most
breathtaking natural phenomenon this side of a total solar eclipse.
Staring out from behind her damp, disheveled, smoky topaz locks, Britty
looks into my attentive eyes &--w/a girlish giggle--leisurely licks her
moist, gooey fingers--tasting her own sweet woman-juice; concupiscently
biting her lower lip, she rolls her eyes back into her head & purrs as
the confectionery philter hits her palate.  I'm shuddering on the ledge
of my threshold: a light breeze would be enuff to trigger my wad thru a
brick wall.
     The sizzling, salene-enhanced songbird steps between my obscenely
displayed, akimbo legs & drops to her knees.  She grabs my throbbing
Grimace-colored spear & begins lightly stroking it; her silken hand
pets the 11th finger gently, like a delicate newborn puppy.  This
technique serves to tease my over masturbated cock: Ms. Spheres cruelly
perpetuates the cycle of manually bringing me to the edge of a
Chernobyl-like explosion, only to squeeze the shaft tightly, sending my
confused prickjuice rocketing back into my balls.  After amusing
herself w/three or four rounds of this little game--laughing each time
my hips jerk up, anticipating the phantom spasm--she buries her head in
my crotch, taking the full length of my modest manhood in her mouth.
W/each blow, her fleecy lips bounce off the scratchy pubes at the base,
leaving a curved, mahogany stain at my pelvis.  Her saliva feels warm &
safe--lathering my cock in it's thick, foamy enzymes; her breath comes
in short hot pants.  My insides unravel & whirl w/the intensity of the
Tazmanian devil & somersault w/the nuclear rush of a bungi jump from
the roof of the sun.  I unconsciously bark out someone's name; my toes
curl into themselves & hyperextend in hastening meter; a thin film of
sweat becomes an ocean, deluging my body; 18-year-old titty flesh
swings buoyantly as the cantaloupe-chested cantatrice suckles every
inch of my jubilant fuckstick like a dripping popsicle stick to a
diabetic on a July afternoon in the Mohabi desert--I swear my meatus
must've curved into a smile.  My hips are bucking & writhing--pleading
to explore the depths of her utopian oral cavity.  & w/an arctic,
hypothermic shiver I enter the throes of a tsunami sized orgasm &
incontinently wail: "Oh Mommy, Oh God, I'm CUMMMMM AHHHHHHHH NOOOOO AHH
FUCKKKKK!!!!"  Alas, my ecstasy quickly transmutates into molten agony--
clobbering my piteous senses--making my body convulse w/tidals of shock:
Brit has bitten off my 4 inch fucktool--quadrilliseconds before I could
flood her mouth w/a legion of potential losers--& is gawking at me w/a
sly, bloody grin: sanguine ribbons of erstwhile cockfuel bifurcating
her chin.  Reflexively--hoping the sound of my voice would somehow
overwhelm the pain--I cry out: "YOU BITCH, YOU GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING
WHORECUNT COCKSUCKING SLUTHO YEAST-INFECTED..."  The stream of expletives
persists--about as long as my orgasm would've.  Thru squinted teeth &
clenched eyes I watch her daintily chewing the cockmeat--making
exaggerated "mmmm mmmm," sounds & patting her belly as she relishes the
fleshy taste of the kosher pickle--& w/an audible gulp--ripping at my
ears like Mike Tyson's teeth--the nefarious nightingale swallows the
bite-sized billet.  She imperiously tears off what's left of my once
coral panties, wipes them across her mouth & flips the florid rag in my
face.  Dazed, light-headed & growing faint as the molten blood steadily
oozes from my wounded crotch, I proofread a fuzzy, colorless &
shapeless panorama--the details leaving behind a grayish concrete vacuum
of muffled, retreating space & sound.  I take these constricting
minutes to reconcile myself--this is all I ever wanted: there could be
no more fitting, apropos ending to my will-o'-the-wisp vagary, but
enjoying a snuff fantasy w/the girl w/the most thumbtacks in her
forehead.
     Britney can hear my thoughts--& agog to veto my momentary
reflective peace she re-approaches me w/the strap-on.
     "Oh, Mommy, please no more; please let me go beddybye now;  please
gimme a goodbye kiss Mommy, pretty, pretty, please."  I beg semi-
lucidly.
     "Why stop now, `specially since ya gotta brand new hole to fuck,"
is her sardonic, Dixieland echo.
     "No more pain, no more, ohhhh," I groan.  "Why can't you give me
just this last moment for <groaning> uh a hug, a kiss, a smile,
anything."
     "Why?" She asks w/obvious rhetoric. "Oh, I'll tell ya why, javelin
catcher."  She bends down, reaches into her discarded pants' pocket,
pulls out a crumpled piece of yellowed paper & begins to read aloud:
(in an uneven confederate-toned meter)
Bitch faced ho stop blockin' tha door
B'foe I send ya ass to tha muthafuckin' floor
Git me uh beer & start suckin' mah dick
Tha only thing yo good for is a meal & a lick
Worthless cunt don' gimme no lip
Talkin' back is jis goin' get you a trip
To tha emergency room, w/both eyes black
I'wl hit ya so hard ya'll swear it was uh Mack
Truck that slammed against yo head
'Membuh las' time how yo fuckin' ass bled?

Dress'd like uh slut you be tryin' at mah nerves
Puttin' on a show for awl da drunken' redneck pervs
I hit tha bottle & tha chalky straw
I hit tha brakes 'bout a quarter pas' four
Chainsaw killers invade mah nightmares
Pianos crashin' down spiral deck chairs
Smashed uh stop sign thru her goddamn skull
Las' thing I heard wuz Jethro fuckin' Tull
Blastin' out on tha eight track deck
Only ding broke wuz her muthafuckin' neck
Where's mah car, where `s mah rights?
Take awl mah shit cuz I love da Friday nights

The only sound left is my soft whimpering.  After a pause, she breaks
the silence.  "That's a poem my Daddy sent me from jail.  It's all
true, tho he ain't no poet laureate, I'll tell ya.  My goddamn Daddy
was notin' but a drunk & uh..." (begins sobbing) "& he killed my Mama,
the damned sonofabitch killed my Mama," she cries loudly, waving &
choking the paper.
"Are you sure that's not the new Eminem single?"  I'm thinking--instead,
I wisely say: "But I'm not your Daddy, I'm yaw wittle lisping qweer
boy," I try to reason w/the satyric psychotic.
"It doesn't matter, scumcunt--this is for all you drooling, runny-dicked
pigs.
& w/that, she buries the supersized semenless surrogate into my bloody
gaping crotch; pumping, raping & riding me missionary style.  My eyes
slam shut--who will help me find the key to re-open them?
     "Expecting God?"  Laughs the guy in the red suit from the hot
place.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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