PURE PAROXYSMS AND JUST JERKINGS: THE CLEAVING PLEASURING OF SCAGDEAD
By Quillon42
(SOMEWHERE OUT ON THE BIG LAKE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA)
I NEED…TUG.
So did the bumbling yet baneful blob of lethal lard known as Scagdead croak continually, yea quite contumaciously, as he worked his way chaotically through the Queen Zenobia. Though those supposedly in the know had professed the ramblings of this staggering, disgusting creational error of this reality's resident Reorx as a repeated plea for a comforting embrace, what the monster had actually been mewling about involved something much less innocent and far more insidiously intimate now.
I NEED…TUG.
Tragically, none of the other, oozier constituents of this crate upon the waves could provide sufficient visual stimulus for this monolith of a monster to complete this most titillating of tasks. Pincer and Vanilla and Tricorne flavors of seafaring skulkers were too featureless yet simultaneously freakish to warrant any sort of erotic release for a humanoid of any order or species. Farfarellos were too very fierce, and the Sea Creeper was overly sensuous yet still did not appeal to the segment of Scaggs that was still a sapient homo.
I NEED…
But then it was there, upon a banquet table in the cafeteria teeming with buffest mists making the scene reminiscent of the Ghouls' lair in the televised Tales From The Crypt's "Mournin' Mess"…
…TUG…
…the terrifying titan of a thugamajig trained his wearied eyes on a most feral of feasts transpiring between two most able-bodied effers, biological combatants indeed from the FBC.
He was an imposing iceberg of a burly beefcake, definitely of Italian and supposedly of British descent herein. His pudgy yet powerful profile brought to mind a certain Foley who was not ravishing like Rachael but rather meaty like Mankind. This man had always been professionally yet never personally a partner to some of the most enticing ensigns existing; such a famine of femmes for him was about to become as flux as the fluid form of any foe upon this freighter.
Lying beneath him was the most captivating of cappuccino-fleshed fighters that the transmogrified communications officer had ever espied in any form. Swaddled in a scuba suit that was apparently missing a practical pant leg for who-could-possibly-conceive-why, the seething South Asian lady comprised consummate passion in a person. Forsooth, beyond what Scag could see in the shimmying Shimla siren at face value now, the woman was in fact intelligent, entrancing, and could wield a sighted rifle almost as menacingly as Artie Bucco had at the end of Season One of the most seminal of millennial cable series.
"I better never hear you go 'Jeeellllll' ever again now, Parker."
Just an affirmative nod from the slovenly sirloin of a soldier to his Mumbai mistress regarding the reviled vixen known as Valentine.
"You know, like, she acts all serious and noble and all this shit, and then I hear 'Jessica Shareatwat' come out of her Jordana-Brewster-boxy-ass face when she thinks I'm out of earshot. The fuck with her I swear."
He grinned more greatly than he had in so many episodes, Parker once but a happy skipper aboard that doughty dinghy approaching the Zenobia, but he now an all the more huffy seducer, he presently pruriently preparing his dive into the diabetic badonkadonkey that was Jessica Sherawat's quite sweet ass in fact.
I NEED…TUG.
Now the burbling behemoth from around a corner worked at the same time ever silently with one of his left appendages; though he was a righty when once a guy, and not the galoot he was now, he'd had to learn to adapt in so many ways given the traumatic transformations he'd endured.
"The burr-o that holds…the…door-o," mused Parker, the man delving deeply into his latte-lovely compatriot's sleek sienna derriere with his heaviest hatchet.
I NEED…TUG.
Verily, it was accepted as objective truth that Hardy Bootyco could heft, singleassedly, one of those one-way gates separating sections of everywhere from slug-swarming beaches to Terragrigia Towers; to be sure, she could haul up the metal portals in the Arctic hinterlands with her heaving hindquarters much more readily and effectively than any one-word-uttering hulk could keep out White Walkers in a similarly imposing entryway.
And in this instant it was that same beige buttocks which the bruiser had breached with his brutish billhook now.
HINY…TUCK.
Once this luckiest Luciani's giant Ghiozzo had emptied enough muck through its mouth into the fawn-tastic fanny before him, the blustering Eurogarbage then motioned for his maiden of Maharashtrash to womaneuver such that he could mount another offensive upon her. Mere meters away, the gurgling ogre of awful offal ratcheted his fermenting firearm all the more.
Parker then ventured his way from the bottom front end of the sublime Semiramis that was the stunning Sherawat to the top. His more-than-awakened Windham leveled up to the point of owning the effing Raid Mode Ghost Ship as it grinded first against the terrific turmeric of her toned thighs, then upon the basundi batter of her balmy belly. Everest-stratum sensations of climbing triumph coursed through the agent as he scaled the pair of immense seamounts upon the ecru-perfection figure that was this most heavenly Hearty Boobco.
Thence the trooper latched onto the Nalanda nymph's comely cardamom neck with his lips like the toothpaste-tube-throated sentries of this ship did when siphoning life force from an unwary adventurer. Just famished lips and not frightening incisors were employed in this endeavor, as by now each of these beset buddies of the BSAA had been nommed on in spades by the various execrable outputs of T-Abyss.
"I'M…HU…MAN…" rasped the rapacious aquatic alien reaver nearby in the steaming shadows, he asserting his normal nature while grabbing at his gross ass self and doing all he could to distance himself from so much ooze. To his relief in more ways than just the most disgusting, the creature discovered that as he jostled himself about jauntily, the man within the appalling morass was becoming unmoored from the disease consuming him worse than COVID or any other ailment ever could.
"NNNHHH!" cried the Kolkatan countess as her Lombardy-Leicester lover unleashed every remaining shell from his Hydra into her hallowed hollow.
"HU…MAN…"
And as her inamorato made with his most manly M3 into her tightest of tandoors…
"GOT YOUR SIGNAL…SIG…NAL…
"STOP IT!...
"RES…PON…DING…
"MAYDAY…MAY…DAY…
"STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP…"
And then as the fuck-fabricating FBCers climaxed then settled into one another thereafter, each envisioned the same dream on the same wavelength now, they lovingly sharing an igloo together in the Arctic with a daughter they would name Sarah so that the lurid Luciani could have an excuse, given their collective trilogy of first names, to watch reruns of Carrie Bradshaw in Copulation And The Metropolis on HBO alongside that other contemporary show featuring the owner of Nuovo Vesuvio who also reminded the man of his swami soulmate for some unplaceable reason.
These reveries were unfortunately and unceremoniously interrupted when of a sudden
"UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…"
just a table away the couple caught sight of what looked to be a random dude standing in a pool of the whitest, most rapidly-receding ooze they ever beheld.