Improvisation

We're back in dungeonland, and it's as dank, dark, and dumb as ever. D 'n D just got owned by its third part, if you ask me.
Fuck - slippery stones abound, and my ass grinds down to the starting point more often than niggers say 'yo'
"Bitch, move," I'm being threatened by my lightsource again. Why, I don't know. Do I care? No, not at all. "Why are you so slow? Panties riding up your ass again?" Oh, god, I just want a friend.

Repeat to self, slowly: being a regular pretty boy is far superior to being an adventuring pretty boy.
But then again, I guess lusting after red-haired men, who aren't as manly as you think, fitted with bling made for, and by, females, that come complete with large, jewish noses, and just as much gold, I might add, is pretty fucking adventurous to me.

Not that, you know, I'd ever do such a thing. Too repressed - way too repressed.
God, I can't even contruct lawful sentences in my head.

"Yeah, yeah," play it like I've got confidence, which means that I obviously don't like getting bossed around by something the size of my thumb, "whatever, whatever." If only that piece of shit light came just slightly closer, I'd squash it without thinking twice. When you're cool, everything comes in pairs. Just like balls.
What the fuck?

Seeing as I'm still hated by the world, and still not allowed to die, I'm forced onwards by an unseen force - something that loves pretending it's jerking me off.
Stuff's stroked, things twitch in an unnatural fashion, and items click mechanically as I leap with furious howls from pillar to chunk of stone to enemy-infested grounds to locked doors to something that my cunning mind tells me resembles the Blue oyster bar.

So I pretend that my tight muscles don't contract everytime I'm hanging from ledges, and that I'm not making 'unf'-sounds each and every single occasion where I stop hanging, and actually pull myself up. Why's this so repetitive?
Well, probably because I've done it a million-fucking-billion times before, and the rewards are, as always, obvious and as bland as sunlight filtered through a dusty room.
Just not good for anything.

Like yours truly, only not that bad.

Shit that's easy to kill swarms me, but it's not enough to bring me out of this droned daze I've been put in. Arms flail some, cringeable sounds escape my bitchy mouth, and things slowly, ever so slowly, starts rolling downhill. Because I can, I start likening lopped-off heads and violent sprays of blood to massive orgasms.
Shield's useless, doesn't do fucking shit. Stabbed by a murky twig, or whatever, and it hurts like a motherfucker, despite hitting the piece of metal. Must be my frail arm that sucks, since faery arms are known for doing just that. Or maybe jerking is more in character.

"How long have we been doing this?" it's a legitimate question, you see, and by including the fly, it's trapped. "I don't remember getting started, or ever stopping. Is this really real?"

Light intensifies, sparkling shit starts to rain.
"I know what you're thinking," buzzing. Taunted while wiping sweat from my forehead, making the least manly sound ever, and drinking something white I keep in a bottle. What is this white liquid, you may ask? Well, I'd rather not go into that, no, "but you're not gonna get nigger cock today," a feminine giggle I desire, "or any other day."

Words are as surreal as dreams, thoughts matter little in the long run, wishes are eternal in a painful sense, and life makes you bleed.
"Why's cock such a big issue to you?" har har. I make funny - durr. Someone, shoot me. With an arrow.
Hard.

I swear, they happen automatically.
"Oh, I'm just following my owner's set example," owned, and it hurts more than dry virginity-loss to an ebony spear of epic girth. Look, I just know these things, okay? Okay. Don't question my authority. Please don't.

So we come upon this awesome chest, and it reaches not even above my really manly groin, and I see it - I see it. This is the end of this one. It must be.
Soon, I'll open that shit up, I'll take whatever's inside it, steal it, run like a small child chased by a blinged-out nigger out - the fuck out - of here, and then. Then.
Then I'll be free, until the next time.

Sigh deeply, flex my shoulders. Someone very tiny claps hands, and I just know who it is, but to hell with that buzzing thing for now. It's all a matter of timing, technique, and pure charisma.
One step towards the bo- chest. Check.
Sword in left hand, shield in right. Make sure they wobble lots. Check.
Look as if I've got heavy-ass tits beneath my tunic-covered spandex. Check.
Bob head. Check.

"Do it, you motherfucker!" it's intense, never-ending pain, and it's all because of sex.
Soon, it will all be over.

"I'll fuck your mother," take some tone, and lean into a mighty kick, "right after I fuck you - up." Giggles, frowning.

Boot meets murky, ancient, reinforced wood, lid slides open through magical means, and I lean over, into the big box, bathed in golden light, the shine and warmth of which can only be described with one phrase: squirting orgasm.
Get out of it, leave the warm, womb-like feeling behind, then I reach into the air, and in my hand is a, a.

"Another bottle."

-

VT2 - 2007.