Archive for the 'Short Stories' Category


Short Story: Dementia Pugilistica

flat,550x550,075,fI wrote this one back when I was doing that creative writing course at about this time last year. The assignment was to write a character in action and make him or her compelling enough to make the reader want to read more.

The big catch was you had to show and not tell who your character was through their actions and their surroundings. So I wrote this short piece and it’s one of the few that, reading back over it now, I still like.

That’s the problem with writing, you end up hating at least 90% of your own work, if not more, which makes it difficult to stay motivated.

But anyway, here’s the piece:

His bedside radio alarm jolted him awake, triggering a Pavlovian memory of smelling salts and the cloying taste of ammonia. His mouth agape in silent horror, he blinked hard, his watery blue eyes struggling to adjust to the morning light while he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

Familiar shapes slowly emerged from the fog. The floral curtains Miriam had so loved, the glass-framed poster of him and Jake “The Haymaker” Hagler above his dresser, his ratty red silk gown hanging behind the bedroom door under which he’d neatly laid his trusty brown stoukies.

His heart slowed. Home. He was home.

He lifted his duvet and swung his tree-trunk legs slowly from under the covers, planting them squarely on the creaking yellow wood floors. He rose slowly but steadily, his spine stooped under the weight of his meaty shoulders from which slab-thick arms hung, their swollen knuckles practically dragging on the floor as he lumbered toward the bathroom.

He ran the warm water tap and splashed his grey, grizzled face. His calloused hands scraped over the hard ridges of cuts opened and sewn shut countless times. He mopped his face with a towel and stared unflinchingly at the haphazard wreckage that stared back.

“Whadda mug,” he chuckled.



Short Story: Steering Lock

Dance.4Thick plumes of smoke churned from his wheels as Lenny popped the clutch, geared up to fifth and braced for impact.

He came to in the lobby in a mess of twisted steel, broken glass and people screaming. His was sheeting blood from a broad gash across his forehead. He wiped the mess from his eyes, grabbed the steering lock from under his seat and shoulder-barged the driver’s side door until it came loose.

The crowd parted like the red sea around him as he lurched across the dancefloor, his face inhuman with rage. He kicked the door to the back office open in a shower of splinters and stood framed in the crimson light.

Hallas was waiting. He drew on Lenny, flames bursting from the barrel of his nine mil as he emptied the clip. Two slugs found their mark, one in Lenny’s thigh and one in his side. He roared and charged Hallas, rugby-tackling him through a glass table, the ancient kettle drums of war thundering in Lenny’s ears as he raised the steering lock above his head.

He swung the steering lock down in short, brutal arcs. Hallas tried to shield his face from the blows, but Lenny landed them with bone-shattering force until Hallas left the opening Lenny had been waiting for and Lenny began working in earnest to crack Hallas’ skull open.

On trial, Lenny would say that he remembered none of it – the screaming, the blood, the mess he made of Hallas – all he remembered was finding Susan.

All he remembered was how cold she felt clutched against him.



Short Story: The Grindstone Cowboy

mqdefaultI mentioned a few weeks back that I’d enrolled on a 10 week long Creative Writing course run by Getsmarter in the hopes that it would light a fire under my ass to finish my first manuscript by August.

Good news is the course has definitely taught me a few tricks that will be seriously helpful over the next few months. Bad news is with all the course assignments, I have no time to actually write my manuscript.

Same goes for this blog, which is why I came up with the genius idea of posting some of my writing exercises on the site and in this way, killing two birds with one stone – SPLAT!

So the following piece of writing is for an exercise in writing in the second person, a point of view very rarely used in fiction. The instruction was to write a typical morning in the second person, so here’s what I got.

Grindstone Cowboy

Your cell phone alarm tone sounds at 4.30am, rousing you from a vaguely remembered dream about swimming at Dalebrook as a kid, summoning the courage to dive under the waves, your mom smiling and waving at you from the shoreline.

You hit “Dismiss” on the phone’s touch-screen and sink back into slumber, wrapped in a soft cocoon of bone-deep warmth and blissful oblivion.

At 5am the second tone sounds and for a few minutes you consider just rolling over, snuggling up to the soft, warm body of the woman you love and drifting back off to Dalebrook, but the mantra that galvanises you to action every day screams out in your head, “Do you want to be a world-famous writer or a world-famous sleeper?”

You pick your way through the darkness and disarray of the lounge, tying your dressing-gown up tight as you go. The seasons are turning, the cold bite of winter nips at your bare legs, a menacing promise of the bitter months to come.

You stretch as you fire up your laptop, your muscles sing and your joints click. You crack your knuckles and the world holds its breath as you begin to type, a holy silence interrupted only by the clacking of the keys and the distant sibilance of passing cars.

That old familiar energy starts to surge through you as you type. The hair on the back of your neck starts bristling and your heart beats faster. It’s strong today, very strong. You bend words into worlds as the collective unconscious flows through you, rushing through the rusted pipes inside, only to pour out in abundance, dirty-brown and flecked with pieces of you.

You read back through what you’ve written and smile. What a blessing to wield this power, to experience, if only for the most fleeting of moments, what it must be like to be a god.

Outside the sun has risen and the day has started. Your thoughts turn to the overdue client pitch you were supposed to have turned in on Monday and the bungled client interview you set up on some shit-hole community station or other. Your six-month review is coming up soon, with any luck you won’t get sacked for the poor effort you’ve shown over the past few months.

You sigh and shuffle listlessly toward the bathroom to shower and shave.

Another grindstone cowboy in the uncaring rodeo of life.




Short Story: Vesuvius

volcano13-iceland-lava-aurora_22340_600x450So I tried my hand at another writing exercise, I get them monthly in the All About Writing newsletters, you should hit this link and subscribe as well if you’re an aspiring writer.

The word limit is 250 per story so you have to keep your writing as lean and mean as possible, which is a great exercise in creative limitation.

Oh and I forgot to tell you guys that my last submission won! I got a R200 book voucher that I donated to The Shine Centre, a place where they teach underprivileged grade 2 and 3 kids how to read.

Fingers crossed for this one, though I think they give the prize to a different person each month, so I I’ll just be happy if they publish this one on the news letter.



Henry’s unholy rage boiled with pyroclastic intensity. The veins in his neck grew thick as ropes and his face turned a disconcerting puce as one consonant after the next exploded in a hail of spittle so violent I feared Celine might lose an eye.


Celine gazed up at him with pupils big enough to park a bus inside and burst into a peal of uncontrollable giggles. The Electrolux stood proudly where she’d left it when he walked in on her whimsically vacuuming the flat, naked.

“I uh, umm, I…” was all Celine could manage before a fresh stream of giggles bubbled up. She clutched the couch pillow against her as tears started welling up in her eyes.


“And what, Henry?” I replied calmly, “you hide it in your sock drawer while you try to fob it off to the highest bidder and surprise, surprise your daughter eats it.”

Henry stiffened suddenly, grabbing his chest.

“Are you ok dear?” I asked.

“Fine. Just reflux. But she moves out today, starting with this godawful picture!” he said as he lurched across the room and tore one of her abysmal acrylics off the wall.

He staggered out the room with the painting, breathing in short, sharp gasps only to drop like a sack of anvils in the passage outside.

I smiled at my daughter, my unknowing accomplice, as the eruption I’d been waiting twenty-seven years for finally happened.



Short Story: Dead Ringer

mental1It’s been nearly a year since I last posted a short story on this crazy junkyard site, but that’s not because I ain’t been writin’ ‘em!

The following piece is one of my more recent attempts. It’s based on a writing exercise I did a few weeks back that I think turned out pretty well.

I call it Dead Ringer.

Maria woke in a warm sluggish fog of dreamy half-thoughts. She struggled unsuccessfully to open her anvil-heavy eyelids and take in her surroundings. She felt warm and cosy and could taste the damp, earthy scent of fresh pine.

A languid contentment spread through her as she surfaced from the deepest sleep she’d ever experienced. Her thoughts drifted and changed like smoke-shapes in murky light. Memories of Dr Mormo floated into focus, the acrid smell of his skin, the sound of his baritone whisper in her ear during their lascivious encounters.

“I will save you…”

She sighed sleepily and tried to swallow but her oesophageal muscles rubbed like sandpaper behind her cotton wool tongue.

The rusted iron taste of thirst caught in her throat. She was getting hot. She imagined cracking a window open and drinking the cool night air in, the scent of blooming jasmine floating up to her from the garden she played in as a child.

Those were better days… before the doctors and the smell of iodine, the constricting leather straps, the torture, the humiliation. The icy steel clamps holding her eyes open. The things they made her watch…

Dr Mormo said he would get her out. She remembered the sting of the needle as he slid it into her, the lava hot tetrodotoxin burning through her veins.

“When you wake my love, this will all be over…”

It was getting hotter and a deep-down ache was settling into her muscles. She turned to roll over, but her shoulder grazed against rough-hewn pine boards, the same ones she was lying on, the same ones that surrounded her on all sides.

Her eyes snapped open violently as she started screaming.

The dark came flooding in.



The Nod

MariachiThere’s a great spot for all-you-can-eat sushi on Strand called Active Sushi where J-Rab, Jennyjen and I went on Saturday night to eat sushi until we were drunk on it.

We sat at the best table in the place, a quiet alcove of couches where we could sprawl out and watch the escalator below us turning endlessly as it brought people upstairs to eat and back down again into the howling wind outside.

From where we sat we also had a killer view of everyone in the restaurant. The table closest to us had pink helium balloons floating above it and was set for about 20 people, all of them unremarkable in every way. Except one man.

When it came time for the birthday girl’s speeches, this man got up and came back with a guitar case. He looked different, maybe Brazilian, maybe Argentinian. He unfolded a music stand slowly, deliberately, adjusting it so it stood just high enough for him to read from it comfortably.

I remembered going through the same routine back when I first learned to play. I remembered how my hands, nervous in front of the parents and school kids gathered on soiree nights, used to shake while I propped my sheet music file up on the stand, took a breath and started playing.

If his hands were shaking, I didn’t notice it. He unlatched his guitar case, unholstered his guitar, fixed a strap on it and took a seat, waiting for the speeches to finish.

I was itching to hear what this guy was going to play. It takes a special kind of nerve to pull a guitar out in a restaurant packed full of people. In my experience only two kinds of people do this – complete douchebags or guys who can play the guitar like a motherfucking riot.

When the speeches finally wound down this man stood up, wished the birthday girl happy birthday and started to play.

He sounded like Antonio Banderas in Desperado – a one-man Mariachi band, his right hand strumming chords in rapid-fire succession while his left switched chords deftly, hammering notes on and pulling them back off like it was nothing, like he’d been doing it all his life, a natural born player.

His vocals were pitch perfect, rising above the howling wind outside while the melodies he strummed reverberated through the restaurant and the people gathered there ignored them completely.

The birthday table hardly watched him at all. God forbid he should interrupt their conversation. Their voices rose as he played louder, almost drowning him out completely and when he finished playing it was us, not them, who clapped for him.

He played three songs before packing up and sitting down again. I could feel his frustration – a man that talented knows better than to pull a guitar out in a busy restaurant. Someone had convinced him to do it and I could see from his body language as he sat back down that he regretted playing.

Not long after that he got up to leave, guitar in hand, sheepishly doing the rounds while people congratulated him on his playing as a polite afterthought.

I gave him the nod as he was riding the escalator back down into the merciless night. An almost imperceptible gesture but one that I felt he needed to see.

The ghost of a smile passed his face when I did that, one guitarist to another paying respect where respect was due.

I like to think that simple gesture made up for a restaurant full of people ignoring him, but I’m not sure that it did. I should have stood on a table and told everyone to show the man some fucking respect but I doubt it would have made a difference.

In a world of apathetic, unaffected people, you can’t force anyone to give a shit. You can only fight on and hope that somehow, somewhere someone will understand.



Short Story: A Visit From Lenny

Lenny came creeping in the bar in a gigantic coat with the collar up and an old baseball cap pulled down so low I barely recognised him.

His head jerked awkwardly as he scanned the room like it was attached to him with a series of gears that were grinding and cracking under the strain.

For a second he looked like he was about to turn tail and bolt back into the street, half the bar was already staring at him, trying to catch a glimpse of his face and see if it looked anywhere near as dirty and destitute as the rest of him.

His nerves got the better of him eventually and he leapt back into the street, disappearing completely into the shadows and the ventilation-shaft smoke.

A minute later, he bounded back through the entrance, crossed the room in a weird half-shuffling, half-skipping motion and perched at the far end of the bar where he fumbled with a box of matches for nearly a full minute and then lit the wrong end of his cigarette.

I finished pouring the draught I was busy with, slid it down the bar counter to Joe and his cronies and went to say hi to Lenny.

“Hi Lenny,” I said.

“Sam!” he replied, “S-Sam, my man, my main man, Sammy-Sam, Calamity Sam, heh heh…”

“You got out?”

“Yep. Yepyepyep. Yessir. Heh. Free’s a bird Sammy-Sam,” he said and lapsed into a violent coughing fit.

“You’re smoking the wrong end, Len. Here,” I said, taking his smoke and showing him, “see?”

“Heh! I see it, I see it man, I see it… S’ok, happens all a the time! All a the time!” he said, laughing apologetically. “Umm… you don’t happen to err…”

“Here,” I said, taking a smoke from my pocket and lighting it for him. He took it from me delicately, with the fingers from both his hands, like he was holding a tiny recorder or a flute or something.

He smoked for a bit and chewed his thumb nail horizontally between his two front teeth. I watched him cast anxious, jerky glances over his shoulder at every person in the bar. Not one of them so much as took a sip without Lenny’s skittish eyes fixing on them.

“You got a plan this time Len?” I asked him.

“Hm?” he said, his attention snapping back on me.

“You got a plan?”

“Ooh I gotta plan Sammy, I gotta plan you bet your fucking ass I gotta plan,” he said and laughed nervously, “I been hearing stories, everyone saying the same things, all a them, which makes it true.”

“What stories?”

Lenny suddenly grew quiet. He cast a quick jerky glance over his shoulder and leaned in a little closer.

“Big Bad stories,” Lenny said, “Big Bad stories.”

“Ah Jesus Len,” I said.

“Nononono Sammy, you don’t understand!”

I looked at Lenny, his fucking eyes twitching, red as road maps and sunken deep, too deep into their black sockets. I looked at his motley beard, uneven from the hairs he’d either pulled out or twisted into hard knots all over his starved, pallid face. His cracked lips, his yellowing teeth, his fin-bone nose.

I looked at Lenny, my oldest friend, but I barely recognised him.

“They said you were getting better,” I said.

“I am! Much, much, much, much better! Better ‘nuff to pull the ol’ switcheroo, the ol’ Cansas City shuffle and get the fucking FUCK outta there Sammy-Sam!”

“Alright Lenny, calm down.”

“Better ‘nuff to give em the slip, heh heh! Because I think…” Lenny suddenly grew serious, “there’s truth in the stories, Sam. Really. I do.”

I’d regret it later, but I had to know.

“What stories?” I asked.

Lenny leaned closer.

“There’s a guy in there. Santos. Hardly fuckin’ speaks a WORD!” Lenny said, spitting a little in my eye. “But he speaks to me. When the others aren’t watching and they switch the bugs off, y’know?”

I nodded.

“WELL! Turns out he knows, Sammy! He knows about Big Bad! Where he comes from! Says he worked for his fucking family! His fucking family! When Big Bad was just a fucking kid Sammy!”

“Lenny, I’m calling the bin, I’m sorry…”

“Nononononononono! Sammy! Wait!” Lenny said, gripping my arm, “Don’t do that, please, don’t.”

Something in his voice made me stop. I turned to look at Lenny, he’d stopped shaking and twitching. His eyes had stopped rolling around endlessly in his skull and there was a tiny glimmer, underneath the broken shell sitting across the bar, of my old friend.

“I’m going there,” he said to me with total and utter conviction, “I’m going to find his family.”

“And that’s going to make it better?” I asked him and no sooner had I said the words than he exploded with shrill, manic laughter.

“What do YOU think Sammy-Sam! Heh heh heh heh, what the fuck DO YOU THINK?!”

He stubbed his cigarette and pulled his collar back up, his head jerking as he scanned the room one last time.

“I’m getting better Sammy-Sam,” he said, “not much longer and I’ll be the old Leonard we all used to love.”

“Goodbye Lenny,” I said, but he’d already taken off disappearing like smoke into the smoke.


*                    *                    *                    *                    *                      *                    *                    *


I went home after that, drank half a bottle of grain whisky and tried to pass out, but sleep wouldn’t come.

I couldn’t shake Lenny from my mind, babbling like they all do about the place Big Bad comes from and how they know someone who knows someone who swears they knew Big Bad when he was a kid, harmless as any other, climbing trees, scraping his knees, making mud pies.

They’re stories told by babbling idiots, wretched basterds that all have one thing in common: what Big Bad did to them.

So they make up stories about the man, a hundred different kinds of bullshit and they hang for everything it’s worth onto the last shreds of sanity they have left because they can’t bare the truth.

That he has no family. No past. Not even a real name.

That we have it on pretty good authority that Big Bad was spat straight out of hell onto this Earth a thousand, thousand years ago and will exist for a thousand thousand more.

But it’s not that thought that keeps me up. I’m too old and powerless to ever be of any interest to a man like Big Bad.

It’s the memory of how I found Lenny, holding them to him, his head buried in the bloodied curls of their blond hair.




The Zombies Come On Thursdays

Just before sunrise, they come.

We hear them in the streets, moving sluggishly, bags of bottles clinking as they shuffle hopelessly through the suburbs, hungry.

They take their time, they have all the time in the world, they are dead to us.

We pretend to sleep, but we can hear them outside, rummaging. Eventually our cell phone alarms sound and we get up, make some coffee, turn on the morning news, eat a hearty breakfast, shower, change.

How different our morning routine is from theirs.

We know if we just don’t make eye contact and walk quickly and briskly to our cars, get in, start the engine and leave, chances are they won’t approach us.

But still, it’s hard not to look as they tear open our rubbish bags and start sifting through our leftovers, driven by a hunger that is unrelenting and is satisfied only by eating scraps we couldn’t manage because we ate until we were full to bursting the night before.

The zombies come on Thursdays, it’s easier to think of them that way.

Just don’t make eye contact and everything will be fine.



Guardian Angels

By the time you see the blue lights flashing, it’s already too late.

Thursday night we get pulled over, I’ve had two tequilas and about five beers so basically I’m up shit creek and I fucking know it.

They run through the usual pleasantries of “Have you been drinking, sir?” and “Please get out of your car sir” and all the while all you’re thinking is, “It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. Somehow everything’s going to work out. Just be cool.”

They make you check the nozzle, check it’s freshly sealed in plastic and no one’s tampered with it before they open the plastic and attach it to the breathaliser.

“Point zero five is the legal limit sir, are you aware of that?”

“Yes, I am.”

She aims the breathaliser at me like a firing squad and I fill my lungs to bursting with clean, fresh air…

                                     *          *          *          *          *          *         

Friday night we’re going down Kommetjie road, J-Rab’s driving and we see a line of cars pulled over.

“Oh fuck,” she says.

“What is it? Is it a fucking accident? Please tell me it’s a fucking accident.”

“It’s a road block.”


Again. It’s happening all over again…

                                     *          *          *          *          *          *         

The number on the breathaliser is changing. I feel like I’m watching a roulette wheel spinning. Point zero three. Point zero five. Point zero six.

How is this even possible? I wonder. I’m WAY over the limit, how is this even fucking possible?

                                     *          *          *          *          *          *         

“Can I see your license please miss?”

It’s like some kind of recurring nightmare. If he gets a breathaliser out we’re fucked. God, anything could happen to her in those cells.

I feel sick to the stomach.

He checks her license, moves around to check my license disk. Holy fuck, isn’t it expiring soon? There’s no way we’re getting through this, it’s just not possible. The license disk has expired, we’ll get a fine, he’ll smell the drinks she’s had on her breath.

She’s not drunk, but she’s over the limit.

God, we are so fucked.

I take a deep breath, fill my lungs to bursting with fresh, clean air…

                                     *          *          *          *          *          *         

The numbers stop changing. There’s a moment of silence so heavy I think my heart’s caved in.

This isn’t happening. How is this even happening? How?

“Point zero four. You’re under the legal limit sir. Drive home safe”

                                     *          *          *          *          *          *         

“Your license expires at the end of the month, but remember, you still have 21 days after that to get a new one so don’t worry too much about it and have a nice night.”

“Thank you,” J-Rab says.

And we drive home both times, safe as houses and jump into our warm bed and hold each other, laughing, just laughing and so goddamn happy to be home.

                                     *          *          *          *          *          *

I found this drawing on a wall on Saturday night at a house party we were at and I spent a long time staring at it and smiling. The other people there, they had no idea why.

But when J-Rab saw me staring at it she smiled too.

“Guardian angels,” she said.

“Guardian angels,” I replied.





Afrikaans Porn – TRANSLATED!

Last week Monday, I shocked and enthralled the Afrikaans world with my epic short story entiteld: Afrikaans Porn. Seconds after posting it, a whole flood of people retweeted the piece, both of them commenting on how I’d reached a whole other level of blogging excellence by catering specifically for the Afrikaans market in such a thoughtful way.



What was even more amazing than the piece itself was the Google Chrome translation of it, which my main man Civilian sent through to me on the weekend.

Prepare yourself for the awesomeness of this post. Actually no, fuck that. Nothing can prepare you for the awesomeness I’m about to blow your mind away with.

Good Luck.



It was a cold Monday evening, and Charles Bester was in his favorite bar Charnelle, enjoying a bitjie brannewyn and coke while Kurt Darren on the jukebox a nice song played.

"You know what the fucking problem with Marikie is?" Charles said as he was a long drink from his brannewyn took, "she is not at all adventurous."

"Not adventurous not?" Said Charnelle asked, her eyes darting between Charles’ face and his krotch, "which means you, Charles?"

"Well, the thing is, I Marikie and is now nearly five years of loyal and do not take me wrong I fucking love her in pieces."



"Jaaa …" said Charnelle said as her long, pink fingernails on Charles’ duk, hairy arm gestrook did.

"But it does not matter how hard I pray, she would not gatsteek try it!"

"Wow!" Said Charnelle called out, "but you’re a naughty boy for poor Marikie daaie to ask!"

Charles has blood-red geblush. "How drunk am I?" He thought. "I certainly would not Charnelle this shit about me and her sister whore.”

"Sorry Charnelle, I, I, fuck me mat…"

Charnelle has slowly licked her lips while her length fingernaels further Charles’ duk, hairy arm gestrook have.

"Charles, do not be so blerrie Shy," said Charnelle gewhisper, "we are old buddies long before my sister had married …"

"Charnelle…" Charles said, "it is cabbage than I… umm… your nice hole in the pitch…?"

"Oh, Charles! You’re so fucking romantic, for sure it is cabbage! Come, let us go to my place, we can be a bitjie KY loob and buy biltong on the way. "



                    *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *


"Fuck, but Charnelle’s place looks nice with all those candles," said Charles as he thought of her naked on couch sat, "as daaie late night television programs on E-TV."

Charles has his soft shlerm in his hand frantically gemaseer. "Come now, you fucking lazy thing," said Charles to himself gemumbel, "Charnelle would now come through the bathroom, and then you active as a pole so that I can in her poepgat jam."

As Charles said that had Charnelle the bathroom door open quickly so that it cast a harsh blow between the wall had made.

"Charnelle …" Charles said, "I’m fucking Speechless …"

Charnelle lived in Leathers stood with a red rubber ball gag in her hand.

"You look beautiful," Charles said.

"And you look like a softly bitjie ne?" She replied.

"Yes, sorry man," said Charles Embarrassed said, "I think I have a bitjie brannewyn drank too much.But if you cook me come slurp it will get nice hard. "

"Your wish is my kommand," hey sexy Charnelle already said as she got on his knee and Charles’ dick in her mouth were.

"Fuck yes," Charles said, "that’s right bitch, my banana trunk, aaaahhh."



Before he knew what was Charles gebeer iron-hard and ready to Charnelle’s Hershey highway driving.
"Come now," Charles said, "I leave my hard cook fast in your beautiful hole stretch, I must go home before I leave the evening repeat of Noot vir Noot wrong."

"Fuck, is it tonight?" Said Charnelle said, "I thought it was on Tuesday evening."

"No, it’s tonight. Now sit daaie gag in your mouth down, and give the KJ to me. I wanted to enjoy loob hole so it does not tear. "

"Yes, do as you are not guilty, he gave me so terrible hole I getear poepsak a month for a bore."

"What?!" Charles said, "you and me modeled gatsteek whole new …?"

"Yes, but do not worry, your chef is completely bigger."

"Oo, that’s ok then," Charles said as Charnelle the gag in her mouth and sat on the coffee table gebend did.

Charles has already KJ gesquirt over his privates. "It’s now or never," he thought, "I hope her Charnelle stinkgat good washing, I did not want any dinglberries my pubes have not."



Charnelle’s hole was the tightest thing Charles throughout his life felt. It took a few bands before he was completely in and then a few more good hard before he came.

"Aaarrararargrahggrhrggrghahrgagragrgahghhhhhh," Charles said.

"Mmmommommmommmommoo," said Charnelle gemumble back.

"How does it feel!" Charles shouted, "it feels good when I come into your hole pump? Ohh yes, take it!Who’s your daddy? Wies your daddy bitch! "

"Mmmmmomommmmommo," he said Charnelle.

"Ahh …" Charles said. "Okay, thank Charnelle, I’m ready." Charnelle have taken the gag off and back to Charles commented.

"Did you enjoy my hole?"

"Yes!" Charles replied happily, "jib, it was very nice feeling, I can you in the hole next week stretch?"

"For sure!" Said Charnelle replied.

"Thank goodness Charnelle. Pleasant evening. "

"And you, Charles," he said as Charles Charnelle colors dressed and out the door walked.

"Wow, I really enjoy daaie Charles," said Charnelle thought.

"I hope I am not my krotch crickets for him gave …"