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Message-ID: <33093asstr$1004069402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Karl Edelsamen" <granger56@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP The Lawful Dick {Edelsamen} (MMFFF satire)
Date: Fri, 26 Oct 2001 00:10:02 -0400
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As you may have noticed, I don't think much of people republishing
stories in ASSM -- unless you have a damn good excuse.  Which I
do.  "The Lawful Dick" was published once before, on Mon, 24 Sep
2001 04:10:02 -0400, but Igor plaintively informs me that Usenet
hiccupped that afternoon and a lot of newsreaders never saw it.

"This deplorable state of affairs cannot long endure," according
to Mitzie just before giving birth to Tiny Joe on the salon
floor.  So here's the tale again.  I promise this is the last
time you'll have to see it.  Unless of course Stag Comix or
Hustler changes the color of those little notes they mail back to
you in the SASEs.  When they send a check, do they at least use
their own envelopes?

Karl Edelsamen
Almost Halloween, 2001


WARNING:  This story contains a load of crap.  If crap is illegal
or immoral to you or your neighbors, then you should be cleaning
up your own instead of reading this.




The Lawful Dick
by Karl Edelsamen
Copyright (C) September, 2001, Karl Edelsamen




"They cut their own balls off?"

I recoiled in horror when I finally understood the euphemisms
employed in a newspaper article about the religious extremists
responsible for the recent rash of whorehouse burnings.  I rushed
into the bedroom where Igor was comforting two survivors from the
devastated cathouse across the alley from the laundromat.

"What's with these scop-tissies?" I demanded.

All three were kneeling on the bed, the girls side-by-side with
their fannies upraised.  They giggled in appreciation as Igor
arbitrarily visited one and then another with his massive dong.

The midget looked up without altering his languid hip motions and
responded with unnatural avidity, "Pronounce it right.  Leave the
T out if it bothers you: scope-see.  And it's already plural."

"Okay, okay.  Do the Skoptsy really cut their own balls off like
it says in this newspaper?" I demanded, waving a copy of the New
Fork Times.

"That's right, pal.  They do it ritually.  As a cult they've been
around for over 300 years.  They first appeared in Russia during
the reign of Peter the Great, whom they considered one of Satan's
minions."

"But, but," I stuttered, "how do they possibly justify
descrotalization?"

"According to the one who tried to talk me into descrot--  What
is this, Karl?  Did you just invent a word in revenge for me
having corrected your pronunciation?"

I tilted my head to view the action on the bed more clearly, and
noted, "He didn't succeed, I'm glad to see.  But what did he tell
you?"

"The Skoptsy note two key points:  first that God was displeased
when Onan spilled his seed on the ground, according to Genesis
38:9, so they slice off their nuts to eliminate the seed.  Their
alliance with the anti-wanking extremists arises from this
concern.  And second they argue that the Bible doesn't mention
the scrotum, so therefore it must be an appendage of Satan."

The girl with the least rapturous expression -- the one currently
empty -- craned her neck around to ask, "What do we _girls_ have
to do with any of that?"

"I suppose the whorehouse burnings are the work of the most
extreme Skoptsy, who take it a step further.  The bible doesn't
mention the vagina either.  You can't cut off a hole, can you?"

The girl's face blanched.  I exclaimed, "Jesus Christ!"

"Maybe."  Igor shook his head.  "But they're always ready to
debate about that."

"How have they managed to propagate such a weird religion?"  I
fingered my groin protectively.  "The initiation must be
extremely daunting."

Igor shook a befuddled head.  "I don't know, Karl, but they've
obviously survived somehow.  Until recently they lived secretly
in Europe and the Americas in cells that amassed enormous wealth.
Now they have surfaced to unite with the militant anti-wankers of
Christian fundamentalism, and we suddenly have a national
emergency."

"Emergency?  Because of burned out bordellos?  Don't you think
somebody is getting carried away about this?"

"Somebody?  Where have you been for the past couple of weeks, in
Antarctica?  Those guys invaded maternity hospitals all over the
country last weekend in militarily precise operations.  Some of
them were disguised as pediatric surgeons and others as rabbis
going about the routine of circumcision.  They cut off the nuts
of 263 infant boys before the police intervened, and in the
ensuing shootouts 48 people were killed."

Actually I had been in Bora-Bora comparing anatomy with a sweet
young thing.  Igor's explanation was so unsettling that I was
overwhelmed by a wave of nausea.  I had to sit beside the three
on the bed and breath deeply.  "Surely the authorities are on to
them," I gasped.  "They can't get away with this."

Igor placed a hand on my shoulder.  "Karl, Karl," he murmured
patronizingly as if I were a hopeless naif, while using the new
leverage to lengthen his stroke in the girl to the right.  "Of
course the government shall track them down before they mutilate
too many other guys.  But right now the entire country is in a
hysterical panic to such an extent that people are willing to pay
any price for protection against the terrorists.  That's
understandable, of course.  Where would we be as a nation without
our balls?  The real problem, however, is the feds' intent to
exploit this outrage, to use it as the excuse for a national ID
system."

"You mean like they have in Europe?  National ID cards and the
like?  Huh!  How about internal passports?  Retinal scans at the
banks?"

"If it were only that Karl, it would be bad enough.  But what's
in the works is more than a mere assault on our privacy; the
government wants to brand us."

I looked skeptically at my wee friend, a person who is prone to
rash assumptions and conclusions.  "Brand us?  Perhaps on the
ass?  What in the world does that have to do with the Skoptsy?"

"Not on the ass, Karl," he responded solemnly with a woeful
expression on his dwarfish face.  "On the prick.  As I understand
it, the government intends to inscribe a barcode on the head of
every cock in America.  That means we'll have to whip it out
every time we go to the post office or whenever a cop asks for
ID."

"Wow!" exclaimed the empty girl, eyes alight.

"What's your name, honey?" I asked, pleased by her attitude.

"Sweet Pee," she simpered, wiggling her ass excitedly as Igor
transferred back to her.

"Don't be too pleased, Sweet Pee," warned Igor.  "They're talking
about putting barcode readers in every woman's incisors."

I shook my head impatiently.  "But surely such nonsense must face
enormous opposition, if in fact you're speaking sensibly and not
merely on the verge of coming.  Can you imagine politicians
exposing themselves at voting booths?"

"Unfortunately, Karl, this heinous scheme is taking on an aura of
inevitability.  The media has climbed aboard.  Leman and Letterno
are making jokes about the opposition, saying the only guys
against the anti-terrorist measure are those with tiny cocks.
They quip that the government shall graft magnifying lenses on
those that don't measure out.  They claim that real men would be
proud to display their wares."

I commented dryly, "And you most proud of all, I take it."

He replied smugly.  "Well, I do offer inspiration, don't I, Sweet
Pee?"

"Oh, you _do_, Igor!" she breathed but immediately turned crossly
to me.  "But why only men?  They have to identify girls too."

I said teasingly, "Maybe they think if you don't have a dick you
don't matter."

She froze with glinting eyes.  "Is that what they say?"

"Damn it, Karl!"  Igor sighed and transferred back to the other
girl.

"The fact is," I told Sweet Pee, "not even the government wants
to fuck up such nice screwing as this."  To make my reference
clear, I put my finger into that moist aperture, already closed
despite Igor's recent withdrawal.  A cunt is so wonderfully
flexible!

She smiled encouragingly.  "I see what your trouble is.  Shuck
your pants and get up here."

My hands went immediately to my belt but I thought I should warn
her.  "I'm not Igor."

"Who is?"  She shrugged and sagged onto her back behind the
blissful other girl, then grinned up at me.  "But the regular
item is great in a pinch, and boy, am I gonna pinch it!"

And she did, too, soon as I got it between her legs.  But Igor's
early return had apparently been too much for the other girl, who
screamed a couple of times and passed out backwards across my
legs.

My girl was annoyed and probably just a tiny bit jealous.
"What's she got that I don't?"

"Nothing.  It's the other way around.  You've got something she
never had."

"What?"

"My 'regular item,'" I answered sullenly.

"Oh, yeah!"  A smile spread on her face and she crossed her legs
behind my hips.  I said she had a good attitude.


* * *


I was half convinced the midget had been sniffing a controlled
substance, and at first I felt relieved when Mitzie burst in on
us as we lay in tangled recovery.

"You girls!" she cried.  "Are you from Rosa's behind the
laundry?"

"Yeah," Sweet Pee admitted, wiping half-dried semen off her chin
with the bedsheet.

"Is it as bad as I hear?"

"We were gone to a party when it happened.  We're the only ones
left."

Mitzie shook her head.  "Damn those Skoptsy!"

I spoke up.  "They don't really cut off your balls, do they?"

"Not when you don't have them," Mitzie answered sourly.  "Then
they do even worse.  I wish the feds would hurry up with that
identification for men."

"Good god, you mean it's true?  A barcode on the glans penis?"

"Congress passed it just yesterday."

"Jesus Christ!"

She sniffed.  "He wouldn't be able to cover His up either."  She
grinned slyly.  "Though He'd probably enjoy rendering unto
Caesar."

I desperately wanted expert opinion.  "You seem to know so much
about it, Mitzie.  How does the government justify taking such
extreme measures to combat the Skoptsy?"

She shook her head.  "What makes you think they have to justify
anything at all, now that we're in a war against denutting?  But
the new law provides for a redesign of men's britches.  Whenever
you whip it out for identification, which will be a lot easier I
hear, just a flip of the wrist, your balls will be exposed -- or
the lack of them, as the case may be."

"A flip of the wrist!" I gasped.  "My god, the fags will have a
field day."

Mitzie leered.  "And that ain't all!"  Then her expression
hardened.  "You ever had a hand banged into your bra?"

"N-no."

"Well, maybe you'll find out what it feels like to have one
jammed into your jocks."

"Ulp!"  Actually I didn't care to find that out.  "But the loss
of privacy, the infringement of liberty!"  I shook my head,
unable to continue.

To my surprise, she nodded slowly.  "It's not all good, I'll
admit.  Men are so squeamish.  I'm told the feds will supply a
marshal in plain clothes for every establishment to verify that
arriving johns expose themselves publicly, not just to their
girl.  That probably won't be good for business, even if
customers and staff do feel safer."

"Tell him about the extension," suggested Sweet Pee.

Mitzie gestured at my newly shriveled manhood.  "Congress added
an amendment to yesterday's bill.  For those who need it, the
feds will pay for the new cloning procedure that puts a two-inch
extension in the middle of your cock."  Her voice grew scornful.
"They'll also pay to retract the cervix on women who complain
about longer dicks."

"Two inch extensions!" mused Igor.  "I hadn't noticed that."

"You still wouldn't," noted Mitzie with that special smile women
usually have for him.  Her hand traced his organ entangled among
the girls and pulled it free.  She kissed the limp glans.  "This
one won't need any identification."  As she caressed the lump of
flesh, it began to stiffen with a jerk.

Concealing my satisfaction, I noted, "But they'll mark it anyway,
won't they."

"Ulp!" exclaimed Igor.  "Mitzie, have you heard how they mean to
apply the barcode?"

She shrugged.  "As a tattoo, I imagine."

The thing in her hand lost its renewed starch.  Igor had fainted.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the girl he had transported there.  She
scooted around and lifted his upper head into her wet lap.  Her
eyes swept imploringly among the three of us.  "We've got to help
Igor.  He's a victim too!"

Mitzie noted dryly, "I think he needs MCR."  By opening her mouth
so wide that her jawbones creaked, she was able to plunge the
entire massive glans within it.

"Wow!" murmured Sweet Pee in admiration.

"MCR?" I asked quietly.  Suddenly the meaning came to me and I
was able to declare knowingly in unison with the girl, "Mouth-to-
Cock Resuscitation!"

Sweet Pee looked sadly at my groin and shook her head.  "Suction
can only do so much.  Why don't you sign up for a larger organ?"

What happened to the good attitude?  I opened my mouth for a
scathing response, planning to stare contemptuously between her
legs and claim I never meant to play in a cathedral, when without
warning the door to Igor's bedroom, which Mitzie had closed,
sprang open and thudded against the wall.

"Here's five more!" a contralto voice shouted gloatingly.

"A mixed bag," called a soprano voice.  A woman?

Several large people invaded the room, each dressed in black
boots and black shirts with integral hoods that covered heads and
faces except for eyes and mouth.  The hoods had cute little
batman-style ears on either side.  The newcomers were naked from
waist to ankle and their gender was obvious despite the voices in
the feminine register.  So was their religious persuasion.  Funny
how you don't notice balls until they turn up missing.

Mitzie's experience in controlling johns misled her.  She spat
Igor out, whirled smartly around and aimed a vicious kick with
sharp toenails between the lead invader's legs.  Whap!  Totally
unfazed, he shoved her back onto the bad.  Her rock-hard skull
took me in the belly, leaving me breathless.  Talk about giving
head!

"Don't have time for you split-tails today," Contralto declared.
He was so big he looked fat.  "Grab the candidates!" he ordered.

Apparently that meant Igor and me.  Four guys each clamped onto
our arms and legs with hands that felt like iron manacles.

"Inductors forward!" Contralto added.

Two other guys pushed into the room.  One wielded a wicked
looking straight razor.  The other bore a brush and a small
bucket of something black that steamed and bubbled.

"Please, sir," I called out in pretended bewilderment.  "A
candidate for what?"

"You may refer to me as Ball-less Leader," Contralto said with a
sniff.  He pointed to me.  "This one is first."

The two holding my legs elevated my ass off the bed as the last
two arrivals approached.

"Won't you answer my question, sir Ball-less Leader?" I begged.
"I might like to join you."

"I said we don't have time, but all right, I'll tell you this
much."  He gestured for the initiators to pause.  "You are being
inducted into the Spill-proof Skoptsy, Cell 14, in case anyone
asks.  I suspect you'd like to know why.  It's simple.  We
realized just recently that all men would love to join if they
were allowed, so we have decided to assist them without waiting
for their petitions.  Proceed with the induction."

The inductor with the razor felt around for my dick, perhaps to
hold it up out of the way.  He frowned, bending closer, as if he
couldn't find it.  For the very first time I was glad --

But Sweet Pee interrupted the proceedings.  She grabbed the wrist
holding the razor in both her hands and snarled into the
wielder's face, "We girls wanta be inducted too!"

"You fool!" Contralto scoffed.  "Do you want a gash?"

"Huh!" she sneered.  "Already got one."

"Pull her off," Contralto directed, nodding at the man holding my
left ankle.

He looked puzzled.  "_Pull_ her off?  Don't you have to --"

"Damn it," snarled Contralto.  "Make her let go of Ball-less
Two's hand!"

With a shrug my restrainer released me and reached for the
clinging girl.

I recalled reading that a hard muscled belly is one of the
secondary sexual characteristic that testosterone produces.
Contralto was standing directly before me.  I drew back my foot
and kicked him in the belly button with everything I had.

Whoosh! went the air from his lungs.  He staggered backward,
thudding against the wall, and sat down with a crash that shook
the furniture.  His followers' chins sagged as they stared at
their fallen leader.  I didn't waste any time before delivering a
similar kick to the razor wielder just as Sweet Pee released him.
He happened to be between the door and me.  Backward he went in a
rush.  I had a glimpse of his boots as he keeled over going down
the stairs.

The girls got the idea.  Mitzie, who happened to have fallen on
her side with legs drawn up, lashed out with both feet against
one of Igor's captors.  Meanwhile Sweet Pee and the other girl
kicked the two holding my wrists.  My own third target was the
man holding my right ankle.  Suddenly I was free!

Mitzie reached for the bedside telephone and snatched up the
receiver.  "I'm calling 911," she declared stridently.

"Shit!" cried one of those holding Igor's arms.  They dropped him
to the bed, dodged Sweet Pee's next kick and rushed to help their
fallen comrades.  In a jiffy the room was cleared of black
jackets.  Thudding boots on the staircase rattled the building.

We crowded to the door in time to see the last of them, dragging
a vomit-streaked Contralto backwards, vanish through the
landlord's foyer.

"Wow!" cried Sweet Pee, staring after them.  "You are so brave,
Karl!  How'd you know it would work?"

"They have an Achilles Belly," I declared smugly.  "What made you
think one was enough?"

"Say what?" she inquired wonderingly.

I chuckled.  "Miss Already Got a Gash."

Behind us we heard the beeps of someone keying a telephone.  I
spun around to see Mitzie with the instrument in her ear and
noted, "911 is only three digits."

"I'm calling Marco's Pizzeria," she retorted with a sniff.
"Attempted descrotalization makes me hungry."


* * *


"What's that racket outside?"

Sweet Pee turned around so quickly a pendulous breast slapped
Igor painfully in the face and sent him sprawling on the bed
where he had been sitting.  I stepped quickly to the fallen
midget to learn he had been knocked entirely unconscious.

"It sounds like a riot, Karl," the young woman exclaimed with an
eager grin.  "But there are also preacher sounds."

She lurched to the window and leaned out dangerously, unmindful
of her nakedness.  Her boobs dangled toward the street two
stories below; not such an unusual sight in our neighborhood.

"There is a preacher, Karl, a really fat one, as well as a whole
crowd of people."

I joined her at the window, and with a hand on her naked butt for
support I leaned out to witness the tumultuous scene.  I too was
naked as was the subdued Igor.  The three of us had been fucking
away the afternoon.

Down below people were streaming to our street corner from all
directions.  At first I saw no single focus of the disturbance
until a well-dressed fat man standing on the hood of a Pontiac
caught my attention.  He held aloft a large banner upon which was
emblazoned in black lettering on a white background: "JESUS DID
NOT MASTURBATE."  He was bellowing at the swirling mass of
humanity despite having attracted few listeners.  I recognized
him at once: The Reverend Jerry Flawedwell, the best fed
Christian in America.  I could scarcely believe my eyes because
it was so improbable for our modest neighborhood to be visited by
this famous titan of the religion industry.

"Yes, of course we allied with those folks at first," he
thundered, "because they share our abhorrence of the foul crime
of masturbation.  But when they resorted to ugly terrorism, we
turned away from them.  We rejected _them_, you understand, not
our common crusade to bring about federal legislation declaring
wanking a felony.  No, my friends, we continue that holy cause,
that struggle in defense of the unconceived, even as we stand
forthrightly with our government against the scourge of
terrorism.  Obey the authorities!  Accept the tattoo as an emblem
of your patriotism in this national struggle against unspeakable
evil.  Save your balls!  Save America's jewels!"

No one paid any attention to the man, even when he whipped out
his cock to demonstrate his own acceptance of the tattoo.  The
crowd passed him by as it surged toward a couple of vans
surrounded by a phalanx of riot police equipped with transparent
shields, grim-set mouths and menacing Billy clubs.  A troop of
mounted police had entered the street a few blocks away.

"It's the tattoo crew!" I gasped.

I was astounded the government had dared to enter our
neighborhood, one not noted for overt patriotism, having neither
a house of worship nor a drive-through bank.  We had expressed
our determination to resist the new ID bar code in no uncertain
terms in a wild rally just two days previously, during which a
group of men and boys circle-pissed a crew of cowering census
takers.

"They're really serious," I groaned as I looked up at a hovering
helicopter from which an amplified voice boomed authoritatively
though not intelligibly.

Some people on the street below noticed us leaning out the window
and frantically warned us with waving arms.

"They're after Igor!" a voice yelled up at us. Those words were
repeated by an increasing number of indignant people until the
crowd began to roar in outrage.

"Hide Igor!"

"Protect Igor!"

"Igor!  Igor!"

Flawedwell toppled from the Pontiac as the maddened crowd
overturned the car and then set upon the police with their bare
fists.  I yanked Sweet Pee from the window and slammed it shut
just as a loud pounding shook the front door of my apartment.

Igor groggily came to on the bed.  "What's going on?" he groaned
and wriggled down from the high mattress.

I was about to explain and to suggest we all flee out the fire
escape in back, when the door splintered from it's hinges and
thudded to the floor.  A burly policeman glared ominously at me
from the broken doorway, but he was immediately pushed aside by a
smaller, more slender man in a brown business suit.  This one
cast a brief smile at me and Sweet Pee then quickly turned to
focus on Igor who leaned against the bed with an expression of
purest horror on his dwarfish face.

"Well!" the guy began affably, taking a step toward the naked
midget.  "There's no mistaking who you are, little man.  I've
never before seen one quite that large, and I'm a professional in
these matters.  My name is Dr. Elton Crisplick.  I'm with the
Department of Homeland Defense, Penile Records Division."

"You're a cock doctor!" I sneered, feeling brave now that the cop
had retreated.

"Are you gay?" asked Sweet Pee in complete seriousness.  "I bet
you can't fit Igor's thing into you."

"No, my dear, I'm sure I couldn't, although I'd wager you've done
it numerous times."  He nodded in my direction.  "And what about
your other friend?  Do you entertain him for comic relief?"

"You're one smug fed!" I burst forth in anger, "and a queer one
at that, I'll bet.  I suppose you want to fondle Igor's pride
even if you can't squeeze it into your skinny ass or stuff your
prissy mouth."

"There's no need for such verbal abuse, Mr., ah, Edelsamen," he
retorted with a glance at his clipboard.  "The federal government
is an equal opportunity employer.  Admirers of the male appendage
are welcome in the Penile Records Division just as the marginally
sociopathic find a home in the Department's enforcement bureau.

"It's my cock!" Igor interrupted, taking hold of it in a
threatening manner.  "Queer or not, Crisplick, you're not going
to touch it."

"But Igor," the man simpered.  "I'm not personally interested in
your remarkable schlong.  Actually I much prefer performing my
duties at junior high schools.  What brings me here to you
personally is an offer to make you famous throughout the
country."

"Famous?"  Igor showed sudden interest.  "Is there money in it?"

"Spoken like a true American!  And I'm certain you can develop
some product endorsement opportunities, if you have a good agent.
But what I propose is for you to become the poster boy, as it
were, of our nation's noble effort to register every non-
strategic penis in the country."

"Non-strategic?"  Igor and I shouted the question in unison.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Crisplick cooed smarmily.  "Certainly you
can't expect our nation's elite to endure such disfigurement.
That patriotic honor is reserved for the 95% of the population
who shall stand shoulder to shoulder in our determined struggle
against terrorism.

"Now let's get down to business."  He accepted a physician's
black bag that an effeminate assistant handed him.  "Just scoot
up onto the bed.  This won't take five minutes."

Igor retreated slowly toward the kitchen.  "I've decided I don't
want to be a poster boy," he said quickly, ready to bolt.

I moved in his direction, pulling Sweet Pee with me.  I had
whispered to her moments before, and she agreed to serve as our
rear guard as Igor and I fled down the fire escape.

Crisplick sighed.  Instead of pursuing Igor, he said, "Sometimes
if you can't have the reality, the appearance has to do.  We in
the government understand that very well.  Look here."

He put one hand in his pocket and took out a small, silvery
gadget.  The other hand pulled open the front of his britches
with a tearing sound.  I'd read about the new design.  The new
underpants form a little cup for balls and dick but outer
britches contain a triangular flap from crotch to waist, held
closed at top and sides by Velcro.  They say it still has a few
bugs in it -- "crabs" according to Letterno.

Crisplick performed the new "flip out" maneuver -- that is, he
would have except the tiny thing slipped between his fingers.  He
had to pump it few times for visibility.  I thought, What a
hypocrite!  His dick head was unblemished pink.

"Watch closely," he advised.

Igor and I drew hesitantly closer.  He pressed the silvery gadget
to the circumcised glans and drew it back with a flourish.  "What
do you think of that?"

Now his glans showed a neat row of vertical marks, some thick and
some thin, clearly a barcode.

"What's that," asked Igor, "like a rubber stamp?"

"Oh, no, much more modern than that!  You can be sure the U.S.
government has the latest techniques.  This is an ink slinger.
You press this little button and it sprays your ID on whatever it
is pressed against.  The ink dries instantly.  It can be
distinguished from a tattoo only with a magnifying glass.  We
call this cute little bugger a 'head marker.'  I've got one for
you, Igor."

"Does it wash off?"

"No, it has to wear off.  Takes a few days for most of us."  He
smirked.  "You'll probably have to renew yours every few hours.
I'll give you a larger ink supply."

Igor shrugged.  "Sure, sure," he responded agreeably, extending
his hand.  "Lets have it."

"One thing more.  As you may know, the constitutional amendment
guaranteeing freedom to display the penis has passed congress and
over half the states already.  Your government wants you, Igor,
to make a TV commercial showing your ID and testifying that its
application did not hurt.  Will you do it with a smile?"

Igor's eyes widened.  "And lie to all my countrymen?"

"The alternative is to go ahead with the tattoo.  I've got plenty
of men ready to hold you down for it -- and that fire escape is a
sucker bet.  If you won't agree, we'll go for the second biggest
prick in the country, that fellow from Massachusetts.  Sooner or
later we'll find a willing player.  What about it, Igor?  I must
have your answer now."

Igor looked at me with his "humor them" expression.  I'd seen it
often when Mitzie wanted him to fuck a dozen girls at once.  But
he raised his chin.  "You got a head marker for Karl too?"

Crisplick looked at me with a sneer but sighed and nodded.  "Yes,
but you'll have to give our cameras the biggest grin you've got."

"I'll grin."

"Then we have a deal.  Here."  Crisplick took another gadget from
his bag, inspected it and passed it to Igor.  He took out a third
and passed it to me.

"Now raise your right hands, both of you, and repeat after me: I
swear never to mention the head marker to anyone, so help me
God."

Igor and I opened our mouths to comply but Sweet Pee beat us to
it.  She sniffed.  "Well, I'm not going to swear to anything
unless you give me one too."

Crisplick's eyes widened in astonishment.  "You?  What do you
think you can do with one?"

She smiled slyly.  "Use it on my two-inch extension, of course."


* * *


Those poor Skoptsy!  Never has history recorded a more abject
failure.  Not only did they fail to descrotalize the world, they
caused women to sprout dicks.  Talk about doubling the fun!

END
Comments to Karl Edelsamen, granger56@hotmail.com



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