Day 3: "The Unexpurgated Truth" (Fairy Tales, R for smut and language)
Title: The Unexpurgated Truth
Fandom: Fairy Tales
Characters: Goldie and some unnamed famous folks
Words: ~825
Rating: R for smut and language.
A/N: Still with the fairy tales. This was going to be the Half-Frog Prince today, but it's turning into a longer thing and isn't done. As ever, commentage on missed typos is totally okay.
The Unexpurgated Truth
Okay, so they've told this story before, but what you have to understand is that biography was so fucking unauthorized. I should know; I was there. And seriously, I have no idea why they went and cleaned it up; my understanding is that scandal sells and porn sells better, and I can't imagine how this wouldn't qualify. But, I guess they were looking for something for the kiddie market, so there you have it.
On the plus side, it means the real story is pretty much mine to tell with no friggin' worries about copyright infringement because of all the things I don't need, a lawsuit is high on the list.
Here’s the real scoop. That house was not abandoned. It's true that it makes for a story more to the liking of the family-friendly booksellers if we don't name names, but if I did, let's just say you'd recognize them. They tend to hang out together in the House, see. But I can't actually prove it, and like I said, I don't need a lawsuit, so I'm staying away from any slander charges.
But, in order, okay. Porridge? Hell no. Unless that's a new term I'm not familiar with, but there are certainly plenty of other words for pussy, so let me just let this suffice: too cold? Okay, gross.. There are no circumstances where anyone's snatch should be cold from the get-go. I don't know what was wrong with that chick honorable lady, but that's just not cool. So to speak. And that's all I want to say about that. I don't mind going down on a girl--or anyone else--but it ought not to feel like some sort of necrophiliac delight. Ew.
But then, let's see, I guess the next thing was the chairs? Yeah, has to be. Again, that's a fucked up metaphor, unless it's in the sense of, like, things you might sit on. And I hate to complain, because really, it's how you use it, but damn, if you have a cock that really belongs on a fucking elephant, you're going to do better with the ladies if you don't make like you're going to make them bleed. This seems like common sense and of course you are going to wind up with my knee making uncomfortable contact with parts of you that also don't like pain. I'm a slut, not a pain-junkie. Accident out riding the bike in the park, my ass. And then, honestly, if you're the next fellow and I'm still hurling curses at the first one, and you're hung like a hamster, fine, I can lie there and say oh baby as well as the next girl, but don't go acting like you're god's gift. Though I do feel kind of bad for mister Just Right because any other day, I'm pretty sure I'd have been a lot more enthusiastic, but by this point I was coming up on all orgied out, and me with nary an orgasm in sight.
Pathetic.
So this is where the beds come in. "Bed" is a relative term. I mean, mister Just Right seemed like a decent dude, and he was trying. He said he thought I looked tired and maybe I should get some rest, which, okay, good idea, and I did sleep for a while, but then I woke up, still all unsatisfied--oh, did I mention I took some, er, pharmaceuticals for stamina before this little party? No? Anyway. So I woke up horny and they'd all gone, so I thought, fine, I should get home, but first, take the edge off. Fair, right? But fuck, man. You try to get yourself off on a moving fucking waterbed when you're high, sore, and tired. Yeah, no. I mean, maybe it would have been okay with any other combination, but it totally didn't work. So I was all, fine, and I got out of the bed, but, yeah, let's revisit: high, sore, and tired. Totally bit it. Have I mentioned this was in the basement? Yeah, cement floor. My ass is still bruised from sitting down too fast, and let me tell you, it hurt.
So finally I dragged my sorry self over to the other bed, which thankfully was just a regular bed, regular mattress, normal sheets, not too damn hot or cold or big or small or hard or soft or anything, did my business, and went to sleep.
I do wish mister Just Right weren't all shy about eye contact. I've seen him a couple of times, since, but he always turns away. God, it's not like I'm going to go up to him while he's making a speech and pull off my shirt and grab his crotch right there at the podium. I just want to offer him another go, a little more private.
Well, maybe next party, I'll just find him first and have a conversion from slut to steady, just for the night. Worth a try.
Fandom: Fairy Tales
Characters: Goldie and some unnamed famous folks
Words: ~825
Rating: R for smut and language.
A/N: Still with the fairy tales. This was going to be the Half-Frog Prince today, but it's turning into a longer thing and isn't done. As ever, commentage on missed typos is totally okay.
The Unexpurgated Truth
Okay, so they've told this story before, but what you have to understand is that biography was so fucking unauthorized. I should know; I was there. And seriously, I have no idea why they went and cleaned it up; my understanding is that scandal sells and porn sells better, and I can't imagine how this wouldn't qualify. But, I guess they were looking for something for the kiddie market, so there you have it.
On the plus side, it means the real story is pretty much mine to tell with no friggin' worries about copyright infringement because of all the things I don't need, a lawsuit is high on the list.
Here’s the real scoop. That house was not abandoned. It's true that it makes for a story more to the liking of the family-friendly booksellers if we don't name names, but if I did, let's just say you'd recognize them. They tend to hang out together in the House, see. But I can't actually prove it, and like I said, I don't need a lawsuit, so I'm staying away from any slander charges.
But, in order, okay. Porridge? Hell no. Unless that's a new term I'm not familiar with, but there are certainly plenty of other words for pussy, so let me just let this suffice: too cold? Okay, gross.. There are no circumstances where anyone's snatch should be cold from the get-go. I don't know what was wrong with that chick honorable lady, but that's just not cool. So to speak. And that's all I want to say about that. I don't mind going down on a girl--or anyone else--but it ought not to feel like some sort of necrophiliac delight. Ew.
But then, let's see, I guess the next thing was the chairs? Yeah, has to be. Again, that's a fucked up metaphor, unless it's in the sense of, like, things you might sit on. And I hate to complain, because really, it's how you use it, but damn, if you have a cock that really belongs on a fucking elephant, you're going to do better with the ladies if you don't make like you're going to make them bleed. This seems like common sense and of course you are going to wind up with my knee making uncomfortable contact with parts of you that also don't like pain. I'm a slut, not a pain-junkie. Accident out riding the bike in the park, my ass. And then, honestly, if you're the next fellow and I'm still hurling curses at the first one, and you're hung like a hamster, fine, I can lie there and say oh baby as well as the next girl, but don't go acting like you're god's gift. Though I do feel kind of bad for mister Just Right because any other day, I'm pretty sure I'd have been a lot more enthusiastic, but by this point I was coming up on all orgied out, and me with nary an orgasm in sight.
Pathetic.
So this is where the beds come in. "Bed" is a relative term. I mean, mister Just Right seemed like a decent dude, and he was trying. He said he thought I looked tired and maybe I should get some rest, which, okay, good idea, and I did sleep for a while, but then I woke up, still all unsatisfied--oh, did I mention I took some, er, pharmaceuticals for stamina before this little party? No? Anyway. So I woke up horny and they'd all gone, so I thought, fine, I should get home, but first, take the edge off. Fair, right? But fuck, man. You try to get yourself off on a moving fucking waterbed when you're high, sore, and tired. Yeah, no. I mean, maybe it would have been okay with any other combination, but it totally didn't work. So I was all, fine, and I got out of the bed, but, yeah, let's revisit: high, sore, and tired. Totally bit it. Have I mentioned this was in the basement? Yeah, cement floor. My ass is still bruised from sitting down too fast, and let me tell you, it hurt.
So finally I dragged my sorry self over to the other bed, which thankfully was just a regular bed, regular mattress, normal sheets, not too damn hot or cold or big or small or hard or soft or anything, did my business, and went to sleep.
I do wish mister Just Right weren't all shy about eye contact. I've seen him a couple of times, since, but he always turns away. God, it's not like I'm going to go up to him while he's making a speech and pull off my shirt and grab his crotch right there at the podium. I just want to offer him another go, a little more private.
Well, maybe next party, I'll just find him first and have a conversion from slut to steady, just for the night. Worth a try.