TAPE OR DIE 1

admin — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 23:23:37 +0000

BUCKTAILS

admin — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 23:53:42 +0000

Life is like a Hurricane

AudioStory – The Reception

admin — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 18:11:22 +0000

The Reception
story originally posted here
text after the jump

I stirred my drink calmly in the corner and took in the ambiance of the elegant ball room. I looked down at my shoe to ensure the dog feces I had stepped in earlier wasn’t visible, even if the smell was strong enough to nearly be audible. As I moved my head back to its normal resting position, I saw that a small cadre of well-dressed young men were approaching. “I’m Blake”, the alpha male of the group said smugly with a gift of spittle that landed on my recently shaved cheek. “Hello, I’m-” “WE can SEE your nametag” another one of the group said, cutting me off. This fellow was more burly, obviously stupider. “He doesn’t LOOK Ivy League, does he, boys?” Blake said with a chuckle. “Does he, Cyril?”, Blake joked to the burly oaf. Cyril, what a name, I thought to myself. I wonder if his mother had any children that lived, I thought to myself.

“Waddya think you’re doing here, pal, if ya don’t mind us askin’, that is”. Blake was getting closer. He had an intimidating presence, towering over me, but I was not intimidated in the least. There were seven of them, I counted quickly. “We don’t allow retards in this here good college” Cyril said. I ran the fingers of my right hand through my hair and focused on preparing my chi, preparing for the worst I stirred my drink again and stared calmly into the eyes of the leader of the group, never averting my gaze. I knew what to do from years of working with packs of sled dogs in Alaska. “Say, pal” Blake said, emphasizing the pal. “What sort of material is that jacket made of?” he continued. In my bottom right peripheral vision I noticed him making a point with his index and middle finger. “Jacket looks like it’s made out of shit” Cyril said and then laughed heartily. The others in the group laughed in unison.

Blake moved his fingerpointer to within 10 centimeters of my breast. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you” I said. “Ooooh” he said in response. “Waddya gonna do, tell the Dean on me?” He then executed his plan and poked my breast, forcefully and without hesitation. I acted without hesitation myself and executed my counter-plan: I threw my drink right in his face and made a mad dash for the elevators. “HE GOT ICE IN MY EYE! DON’T LET HIM GET AWAY!” he screamed. They all followed me down the seemingly endless hall. “GET HIM, DONTRELL!” Blake cried. “Dontrell”, I thought to myself. “Must be an affirmative action admit”.

I ran and ran for what seemed like an eternity. Most of the pack was still pretty far behind, but Dontrell was catching up. He was fast. “Must be his larger Achilles heel”, I thought to myself. I could feel him breathing down my neck, and then all of a sudden, he was grabbing my coat. He was directly behind me, with each hand on my upper arm. As the coat was of very poor quality, the sleeves he was tugging on began to tear from the seam, and in a quick moment they tore away completely, leaving me wearing a sleeveless sport coat. “Thanks a lot, I love this look for the summer” I said as he stumbled, adjusting his balance and discarding the jacket sleeves to the side. “IMA KEEL YOO, MUDDAFUCKA” he slurred. “Not very Ivy League” I thought to myself. “Not very Ivy League at all.”

Dontrell caught up to me again and this time grabbed for something with a bit more permanence: my beautiful, pomade-slicked hair. At first, he had difficulty grabbing the slippery locks, but was eventually able to get a firm grip. He yanked hard and received a handful of hair. I was pissed. I could feel the air hitting a patch of bald scalp in the back of my head as I ran, and with each step I became ever more livid. It was right then and there that my five years of Tae Kwon Do paid off: I landed a spinning backfist right in my assailant’s cheek and he, in turn, spun to the floor. He was dazed.

My animal instincts took over, and I leaped on top of him. I made my way to his feet, and noticed a strange inconsistency: his dress was preppy, with pleated khakis, a blue button-down shirt, and a sweater tied around his shoulders. On his feet, however, were a pair of classic red and black Air Jordans. Curiouser and curiouser. Still enraged, I removed his right shoe and sock. I eyeballed his sweaty foot and engaged: I bit into his Achilles heel as hard as I could. He screamed out in pain as I ripped the tendon with my teeth. His blood tasted weird.

A few moments later, the rest of the gang caught up with Dontrell and I laid out in a puddle of his blood on the fine marble floor. As they encircled me, blades out, a shadowy figure emerged: The Dean. He pushed through the gang and grabbed my shoulder, hard. No one dared question The Dean. Pulling me up and through the crowd, he whispered “hurry” into my ear. We went through a series of rooms and doors, finally arriving in a dark room. He sat me down on an uncomfortable wooden chair and lit a gas lamp skillfully. Kneeling on the ground in front of me, he took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from my mouth.

“It’s okay”, he said to me. “It’s not your fault.” I didn’t really understand what he meant by this, but I was glad to be away from the wild mob, so I accepted his kindness. Suddenly, I could feel his hands on my thighs. He moved his head forward, ever closer to my crotch. He placed his mouth over my groin and breathed heavily: I could feel his warm breath on my nether regions. “Dean… Dean, I don’t” I began to say, but was interrupted as he placed an index finger on my lips and gave a low “shhh”. He unzipped my trousers and I closed my eyes. As I was going commando for good luck, he had ready access: he popped my flaccid penis into his mouth. I could feel his bushy, academic moustache on my mons pubis.

“Dean, that feels really good” I said without a hint of irony. “I know it does”, a woman’s voice said. I opened my eyes and looked down. The Dean moved off my dick and ripped off his moustache. To my surprise, and upon closer inspection, this Dean was a she, not a he! “I’m Pamela Anderson, pleased to meet you” she said in a smooth, attractive way. “Pam, you’re great” I said. “My Corvette’s parked outside, how would you like to go take it for a spin and get some road head?” she asked in a sultry voice. Maybe grad school wouldn’t be so bad after all, I mused.