I walked along the side of the carpark, occasionally
stumbling on the cracked paving. Like I was paying any
attention to where the fuck I was going. Honestly, these
seaside holidays were fucking boring as hell, and it was
getting worse every year. I’m 19, I’ve reached that stage
where I’m just growing apart from my family, and as sad
as it is, there’s nothing I really can do about it, even
if I could be fucked…
Is this where I go into the “I’ve got blonde hair halfway
down my back, 32C tits, blah fucking blah blah,”
description of me? Well. Long blonde hair hasn’t been in
style since the 80s. Even most porn stars have caught up
with that now. Likewise I’ve never worn lacey underwear
in my life. Eww. Anyway, for the record my hair is cut
spock rock style and black. I have no idea what bra size
I am. Show me a girl who has any two bras that are
actually the same size, and I’ll show you someone with
implants. They’re not all that big though. Because while
I’m quite tall, I’m pretty thin. And guess what, thin AND
big breasted are not a natural combination.
Let’s just say my titties are a nice handful and I like
playing with them, and letting my friends play with them.
It’s the closest I’m getting to sex at the moment, those
drunk moments that are all laughs and jokes at the party,
but you know you’re going to be reverently masturbating
to the memory as soon as you get home, and hopefully, so
is she. At least I wish she is, that is. Some of my
friends are hot and I’m totally aching to fuck them.
But no luck. I haven’t got laid in six months. I’m crabby
as hell. I want sex and I want it now and everyone else,
unless they’re going to fuck me, is totally irrelevant.
My chances of scoring at wholesome family beachside
holiday town are remote. There’s the odd teenage party
house, full of daddy’s spoilt little bourgeoisie girls,
drinking Stolli and banging 28 year old local surfers
who’re either going to knock them up, or give them the
clap.
There’s like a 2% chance I could score with one of those
blonde hoes. Make that 3%, it’s trendy to “experiment”
with bisexuality nowadays. But I’ve only got sex here
once, and that was with an older Goth girl, when I was
16. We fantasized about abducting one of those blonde
sluts, and tying her up somewhere and shitting all over
her fake tanned body.
The closest we actually came to it was when Corinna, the
Goth chick, convinced me to let her take a crap on my
chest. She started my love affair with female faeces, and
all things anus-related. The only trouble is that she
lives interstate, and I’ve never found another girl who’s
into that. We wrote a few letters, sent a few dirty
emails, then lost touch. She dyed her hair a sensible
brown and became a law student. She wears white fucking
capri pants these days. I bet she looks like Shakira or
some shit. It’s a shame. A super hot coprophilliac Goth
with a joy division tattoo is a terrible thing to waste.
Every year, when my parents make me come with the rest of
the family for the obligatory two weeks, I have vague
fantasies that I’ll hook up with one of those surfwear
sluts in such a filthy manner, and get to practice my
latent domme skills, corrupting the bitch totally. Or
better yet, having three or four of them invite me to
stay in their parent’s house, and having them use me,
beat me, abuse me…there’s something wonderfully, pant-
destroyingly erotic about sex with people you despise,
especially the degradation of submitting to them.
Sometimes, being a dyke by default is totally weak. I’m
handicapped by the fact that I find almost all boys
physically revolting. Otherwise I’d have my pick of the
high school kids here. I get enough of them hitting on me
at the pub. Hmm. Football team gangbang. Now there’s an
unappealing thought. Or I could fuck some ageing
businessman living out his mid life crisis. If there was
money in it, I’d probably actually do it. I’ve had enough
shitty “I want to try being bisexual like I read in
Cosmo,” lovers to know I can fake it with the best of
them…But there’s been very, very few guys that ever
turned me on.
Not so Corinna, goddamn she ruled.
I remember one time we were walking half drunk through
the cemetery out towards the highway. She stopped in
front of this huge tombstone, and suggested we both piss
on it. I was drunk, and feeling very punk rock so I
readily agreed. We soaked the last resting place of some
poor moron, and stood back, pants down, to survey our
handiwork: urine, greenish yellow against the granite,
dripping down the headstone. It looked good. No. Good’s
not the word…more like “delicious”. By some unspoken,
sudden agreement, we both dropped to our knees and began
licking up our combined piss. God, this was perverted.
And thanks to her, it got so much worse too.
We were on our hands and knees, licking the tombstone
greedily, occasionally swallowing each other into
passionate kisses as our tongues met on the pee stained
granite. Each of us had a hand working furiously in our
cunts, our pale white butts seemingly humping nothing in
the dark night. Musta looked kind of funny.
I’m naturally pretty submissive. So when Corinna groaned
out “eat me, whore!” I nearly tripped over my panties
getting around behind her and latching my mouth onto her
cunt. I licked furiously, and I have to admit inexpertly,
slobbering all over her thighs and stabbing into her hole
with my tongue (hey, I was only sixteen), but it did the
job because she came in shuddering waves, her head
resting against the grave.
I couldn’t held giggling when she rolled over: her hair
had ended up soaked in our piss, and was plastered to her
face. “Shut up, bitch” she laughed, and before I knew it,
she was on me, wrestling me to the ground, with her knee
in my stomach, pinning me. Her piss soaked her dripped
around me and stuck to my face as she bent down and
kissed me deep and long, her pierced tongue bitingly cold
in my mouth.
She stood up, lifting me, embracing me, turning me
round, sitting me down on the grave and pushing me up
against the piss soaked headstone. She lifted herself off
me and with a lingering touch said “wait there, Chloe”
Yes. My fucking name is Chloe. Do you have a problem with
that? Because if you do you’re not going to get to whack
it off to the sex scene that’s about to come up…no?
Good. Let’s go on then.
So I’m lying there on the grave, legs spread wide,
previously unmentioned t-shirt pulled up over my boobs,
jeans nowhere to be found (I did later. They were very
muddy). It’s the middle of the night, I’m still pretty
drunk, I’m in a graveyard in a crappy beach town, I’m
swimming in my own girl cream, masturbating, awaiting the
return of an extremely perverted girl whom I just met
three days ago, who’s going to do debased to me things
that will probably send me to hell for all eternity. The
sheer thought made me masturbate even harder.
Presently Corinna returned. She had the most evil grin on
her face and I saw why as she held it up before me. It
was a thick wooden crucifix. About two feet in length all
up. I don’t know where the fuck she got it from but I had
a fair idea…I seemed to remember it sticking up from a
bunch of flowers and shit in front of a recent grave. My,
my, my. Naughty. Her grin widened as, placing a finger on
my lips, she lowered herself so she was level with my
crotch, spread wide open. She roughly teased the skin at
the entrance to my cunt with the base of the cross. I
knew what was coming, I knew it was going to be
excruciatingly painful, and I knew I wanted it and would
beg if I had to.
As it was, I started to say “please” but it turned into
“pleeaasssaaaauuuggghhh!!” If the birds nesting in the
nearby trees had any respect for tradition they would’ve
all taken flight in an orgy of flapping wings. But they
didn’t, bastards. They were probably too busy watching me
humping baby jesus on the top of some dead guy’s last
resting place, screaming profanities and a few “fuck me
Corinna! fuck me jesus'” as well.
Corinna kept twisting the wood flat so it stretched me
sideways painfully. It hurt a lot. I didn’t care. The
unlubed wood tearing at my labia as it thrust into me
hurt a lot. I didn’t care. The granite grave top biting
at my bare butt cheeks hurt a lot. And I didn’t care. I
was lost in pure ecstasy, in the physical sensations, and
the sheer erotic thrill of doing something so dirty:
being practically raped with a religious icon.
When the cool brass of the little jesus figurine came in
contact with my clit, I lost it completely. The crucifix
was practically ripped out of Corinna’s hands by my
contracting pussy muscles. My bowels gave way for some
reason (this has never happened before or since) and shit
splattered out my arse and onto the grave. And I began
screaming in agony, and orgasm, as the pain of the
crucifix inside me, and what it had done to me soft
flesh, began to sink through. Corinna grabbed me by the
throat and started choking off my screams, laughing at
me, and spitting in my mouth. She relaxed her grip, and I
smiled back at her, rolling of the grave to collapse on
the wet grass to the side.
Corinna grabbed me by a fistful of hair and lifted my
face up over the brown mess I’d left on the grave.
“Naughty, naughty bitch!” she scolded, and pushed me face
first into it. I gagged a little, but this wasn’t the
first time I’d rubbed my own shit on my face. I’d done it
a few times before in the privacy of my bathroom. I found
out later that my willingness to submit to this had
intrigued Corinna and given her some ideas.
Still grasping my hair, she lifted me off the grave and
turned me to face her. Laughing at my disheveled state,
she kissed my now brown cheek, getting some of the mess
on herself in the process. Seemingly oblivious to this,
she took me by my hand and led me off, while I was still
struggling to get my clothes sorted and find my jeans,
through the graveyard.
“How did that feel baby?” she asked.
“Uhhm…well,” I replied, still unable to talk, almost
tripping over the pants I’d just found and was now trying
to put on backwards, “I think I may have found
religion…”