“I’m Peter Pitts and my life is the pits,” thought Peter. He was right. He hated his boring, low-level job, which necessitated a long, painful daily commute; he had no interests to sustain and energize him; and his relationship with his wife was figuratively—and literally—in the toilet. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex with anybody. His shamefully tiny feet dragged as he started his walk to the train station, and he wished with all his might that something, anything, would happen to improve the monotony of his miserable life.
He stepped in three different kinds of animal shit on every block. None of it came from a dog.
“I wish I could have a day where some things went my way,” Peter whined again and again, to the tune of the Cheers theme song. Then he pounded his feet on the ground, took three deep breaths, and shook his hips vigorously: “…where everybody knows…your name!”
Several people nearby applauded. One pressed coins into his hand. Peter was taken aback. Normally, his hip-shaking version of the Cheers song disgusted people to the point of physical illness. Maybe he just might get his wish after all…
It appeared not. The disks were not real coins, but small circles of hard rubber, bearing the imprinted face of Charles Goodyear, which Peter recognized from his Captains of Industry commemorative plate series, the one he had cashed out his 401K to buy due to his prurient fascination with Mary Kay Ash.
The Greenpeace canvasser who had passed him the worthless coinage smiled at him. She was wearing a miniskirt and a shiny new nametag (“Minty”) that weighed down her shirt. She caught him staring at her cleavage and winked, leaning forward to let him get a better look. Then she whispered, “I’ll show you what those coins are for.” She took a coin from his palm, positioned it between his thumb and forefinger, and then shoved his hand between her legs. She was not wearing underwear. Peter felt a brief, shockingly powerful suction, and then pulled his hand out and sniffed the ends of his dripping fingers. The coin was gone! “Thank you for your donation! May the three gods bless you,” she said.
Walking awkwardly, but smiling at everyone he saw, Peter headed to the train station.
As the train doors slid open, he braced himself to squeeze into a carriage full of sandwich-munching, smelly, loud-phone-talking assholes. But the carriage was empty. It was so quiet he could hear the elevator music playing. The tune was familiar: something by Warren Zevon, but he couldn’t quite place it.
He sat down with a pleased sigh and spread his legs wide, granting an absurdly excessive berth to his modestly sized genitalia. It was the first time he had ever been able to sit and read his paper on his commute. He didn’t even mind that his ass quickly grew sweaty on the rubber seat.
At the office, for the first time in years, Peter wasn’t tired. At noon he had gotten through three days’ worth of work, and only the ankle straps restrained him from stepping out for lunch. But when Peter looked down, he saw that they had changed from leather cuffs to thin elastic bands—made of rubber, of course—and he broke free easily.
Cheered, he went downstairs and pushed inside a luncheonette where maintenance men were upholstering the stools with rubber cushions. A smiling waitress brought him a menu and a pencil. Opposite each item was a small circle, and a line at the top explained: PLEASE MARK WANTED ITEMS, DROP IN SLOT.
But if he could order just by putting a menu in a slot, what was the waitress for? Peter started fantasizing about other uses she might have.
When he finished eating and masturbating under the table, he found that he still had forty minutes of his lunch hour left. He spent it standing below the building’s transparent escalator, watching other people walking on it, many of whom were wearing rubber skirts.
That afternoon, stepping onto his train, Peter was not surprised but still gratified to find the carriage empty aside from one other passenger, an attractive Korean man who smiled at him. As the doors slid softly shut, Peter Pitts sank into one of the luxurious rubber chairs and fell asleep.
Just before his stop, Peter awakened from a dream in which he’d been enjoying a sensual massage given by his high school crush, Becky, dressed head to toe in black rubber. The Korean man had donned a blonde wig and was giving him a skilful handjob. In an inexplicably accurate impression of Becky’s voice, he entreated Peter to cum on his face.
The train stopped and the doors opened.
“I’m sorry, this is me,” said Peter apologetically. He bounded outside, his boner leading the way, and ran to his wife’s car, where she was waiting for him. The window was rolled down, with her rear end presented through it.
“Peter, is that you? I’ve been stuck like this for hours! Can you help me get out?” The new rubber windowframe was holding her in place no matter how delightfully she squirmed.
Once Peter finished laughing, he saw there was a rubber block near the car that would give him just the right height to make the best of the situation, which he did with gusto and efficiency; first with his cock, then with a discarded soda bottle. Passersby high-fived him, and after the wonderful day he’d had, he felt so magnanimous that he let some of them have a go at her themselves. His wife, knowing what was best for her, covered him with kisses when he finally freed her.
That night, Peter and his wife slept comfortably. They did not even have to get up to piss but wet themselves freely in the bed, which was now made entirely of rubber.
Two years later, they no longer had the rubber bed, but the memories kept Peter going.
The alarm clock on the nightstand buzzed, a thin rubber bouncing sound. Peter rolled out of bed. The sheet stuck to him and he peeled it off, enjoying the now-familiar crackle of static.
Nobody appreciated the hard sacrifices he was making for his personal rubber goals. Least of all his wife. She had moved to the spare room just a few months into the project. While he couldn’t really blame her—the stink of the fresh rubber was overpowering—he did feel that she could be trying harder. It had been over a year now since he’d gotten laid, and almost two years since it had been consensual.
“Gosh and golly, I sure wish I could meet someone who shared my feelings about rubber,” he thought.
The desk intercom buzzed. “Mr. Pitts, can I come in for a moment? There’s a problem with some of your files.”
“Yes, of course, Peggy,” Peter said. That ditzy secretary of his must have misplaced a client’s contract. He sighed. His performance had been suffering enough lately even without her—
Peggy entered his office, and his jaw dropped. Her jacket was open, revealing her bra. Her white skirt was short, flared, and so he could tell what else she was wearing under it… VERY LITTLE INDEED! She took a couple short steps in on her towering heels and closed the door behind her. He hadn’t seen a woman act like this since nearly two years ago.
“Peggy, what the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Peter.” She seemed genuinely confused by the surprised look on his face, as though she didn’t remember this wasn’t how she normally dressed. As though it were normal for her to lean in close to him, lips parted, breathing heavily. Before he could respond, she sat in his lap and began caressing him. He started to object. He wasn’t used to this, it was too much too fast. But then he realized that rather than avoiding the rubber on his face, she was focusing on it. Nobody had admired his rubber like this before. When Peggy dragged her lips across his cheek, all thoughts of resisting left his mind.
She pulled back abruptly, and motioned for him to undress. Peter fumbled with his fly with his left hand, until Peggy impatiently tore his pants off. “Ouch!” Peter screamed, even though it felt good. She bent him over his desk and pulled out an enormous orange dildo. Peter cried out in fear.
“Ugh, no. Seriously, stop. How would you like it if I—well, what’s something you don’t like?”
“I’m up for whatever. Oh, if you don’t mean sexually, then listening to people eat, I guess?”
“OK, sure. So, suppose you wanted to spend some time together, and all I wanted to do was eat in front of you, so I cleaned you up and suggested we go to a dinner theater. There’s a buffet with a prime rib station. The secret is to take two plates! Then you can get a lot of prime rib. The first such occasion I visited this buffet...”
Peggy’s mind began to wander as Peter described his adventures in gourmandizing….
Her attention returned as Peter intoned, “I stick my roast through the ranch dressing fountain from behind and force your head down to suck on the tip of it that was sticking out from under your napkin, and my silverware is clean, and then you start moving your arm like you’re doing the chicken dance while I grind back and forth slightly. Keep my roast inside your mouth, your neck strained to maintain the necessary angle, my gravy back in full effect mere minutes after my last portion, my next portion miles away, so I can just keep eating and pushing, grinding and chewing, without fear of being nourished anytime soon. Then I suddenly push you over and start fucking your other steak - did I say fucking? I meant eating, but this time from the front, with you lying on your back, and I’m thrusting hard, and you’re holding your plate down tight, and even if it seemed kind of silly up to this point, now there’s no denying that your teeth are clenched tight, savoring your delicious side dish (mashed potatoes with gravy). I’ve turned my body so that you can play with my napkin, and with your other hand you grip my spoon and slide your thumb up toward my—wait, you’re not paying attention to my story! You’re just fingering yourself!”
Peggy, who had indeed been touching herself as he talked, smirked. “You don’t get it, Peter. That stuff you’re into disgusts me. Deeply, horribly. That’s why it excites me. When you started that long rambling sexmeat story, I was grossed out at first, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. I want you to defile me like your steak. To use me like a ruined dish, in the way that gives me the least pleasure, that shows me the least respect, so that I’ll know just what I am to you. Consume me, Peter. Stick your fork in me. Leave me soaked in your gravy.”
Peggy didn’t understand why she was saying or doing these things. Peter’s tone of voice on the intercom earlier had somehow made obvious the actions she’d needed to take before she could take him in the ass. She knew what could be done, what must be done, and all that remained was to execute it faithfully.
Peggy removed her bra. She pulled Peter’s hands away from her breasts teasingly, guiding them to her breasts. She wondered why she’d never been able to read people’s sexuality like this before. Every guy she’d slept with had been a frustratingly uncommunicative puzzle, like a maze with a sly minotaur who refuses to tell you how he really feels about cunnilingus. Why couldn’t she have seen them this way? Why, only now, did the distractions fall away and the true order of the world reveal itself?
Peter was groping her again. This time the proper course of action was to let it happen, to seem to surrender, to gasp softly as he felt bolder. She could do otherwise, of course, but deviating from the path visible to her was abhorrent. Nothing mattered more than carrying out the correct actions at their appropriate times. She imagined her body as a sculptor’s chisel, with her actions in service to a great work. The tool does not need to understand what it creates, only how it is to be put to use. Hers was to kneel in supplication before Peter, the work in progress, and attend to his cock.
She knew she wouldn’t want this normally. Sex in the office, with Peter Pitts of all people— it would have horrified her, before she’d been awakened to the truth, not of what she wanted to do, but of what she had to do, the narrow thread of proper actions that had been hidden in a tangle of errors, but now glowed bright before her, a lifeline promising rescue from a life of confused mistakes.
Her faithful submission had torn Peter’s mind away from earthly concerns of propriety, decency, erotic etiquette. Without question or delay he was now using Peggy as the incarnation of his masturbatory fantasies, and the enthusiasm and rigor with which she complied only made it easier for him to forget that she was a separate being with independent will, and see her only as a mechanical servant of his delights. Just as she told herself she wanted.
“Tongue the hole,” he ordered calmly. “Lick anything that comes out. Suck it in, drink it.”
She did. His desire to fuck her mouth, to be fully fucked by her mouth, filled Peggy. She noticed the softness of his penile skin, the iron hardness beneath. As her tongue worked around the hole and then up and down the shaft, she noticed how her saliva glistened along its length, emphasizing the protruding and throbbing veins. No longer conflicted about her task, Peggy was focused again on her constant need to be carrying out the right action, whatever it revealed itself to be. She was deep in Xetia’s grasp, wholly engaged with giving Peter Pitts and his magnificent penis the blowjob of their life.
Peter grabbed and yanked Peggy’s tidy bun with one hand and pushed her head in a forceful rhythm along his cock, no longer trying to mute the animal sounds that began to come out of him. He was close to the edge and Peggy knew it.
There was a knock at the door. Peter took his hand out of his mouth.
“Come back later!” he cried hoarsely.
“Mmmmgmphhhhhhhghl!” agreed Peggy.
But the door opened. Mrs. Titifuque strode in and shut it smartly behind her. She looked down at Peggy and Peter.
“I have really big tits,” she said, flatly.
Peggy and Peter, with dinner-plate eyeballs and tongues hanging out, seemed to agree. They slowly turned to each other and mouthed “wow” silently in unison.
Suddenly, Peter’s fuck-ravaged penis and balls started pulsating violently.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!!!” Peter screamed, as hot blood and cum shot out the tip. “MY DICK HURTS A LOT!! IT’S LIKE I’M CUMMING BROKEN GLASS!!”
“This is terrible,” Mrs. Titifuque remarked while gagging Peter to shut him up. “I came here for one reason, and one reason only: to get titty-fucked by rubber man. Who will satisfy me now?” She was nearly in tears as she gently placed a heavy chair on top of Peter for added humiliation and suffering.
Peggy stood up, wiped some of the cum off her eyebrow, and declared, “I have an idea!” Quickly and without consent, she pushed Mrs. Titifuque in front of a different, previously unmentioned chair. Just as quickly, and still without explicit consent, she ripped Mrs. Titifuque’s shirt off.
“No bra, huh? Classic Mrs. Titifuque.” Peggy smirked as Mrs. Titifuque blushed.
“What’s the game plan here?” an increasingly aroused Mrs. Titifuque asked.
Peggy cupped Mrs. Titifuque’s loose tits, bouncing them playfully as she estimated their weight and size.
“I’m going to shove your breasts into my vagina. A true ‘titty fuck’ the likes of which have never been seen by this horrible world!” Peggy’s shouts of passion must surely be reaching the moon.
Peter, underneath a chair and now surrounded by a pool of blood and semen, shook violently as he watched the scene in front of him. Mrs. Titifuque had begun crying, normal tears at first, but soon, her face was covered by a thick black ichor slowly weeping from her tearducts as Peggy crudely tried to rein in the huge bouncing rack of grade-A fat titties into her vagina.
“What’s with those tears?” Peggy asked, successfully getting one nipple inside of her.
“I don’t know… I think… we’re breaking this world apart!” screamed Mrs. Titifuque as black drops of foul-smelling ink running down her face. Mrs. Titifuque was submitting wholly to this ground-breaking titty-fuck. She was filled with a mixture of terror, admiration for Peggy, disdain for Peter, and pure adrenaline-pumping titty-fucking arousal. Her uptight husband, the Reverend Titifuque, had never done anything like this for her.
Peggy continued the dread task. She had seen through the normal laws of behavior, the obsolete standards of propriety that limited what others counted as sex. Previously unthinkable vistas of titty-fucking were open to her now. She would shepherd this new beast of pleasure into the world, and herald its arrival with the vast orgasm building inside her.
The ichor dripped from Mrs. Titifuque’s eyes onto them both, joining with Peggy’s own juices in lubricating their bodies. Peggy worked the breast further and further into her widening vulva.
Peter wanted to get away from this powerful display of feminine energy, but his rubber-coated limbs made it too hard to push the heavy chair off of him. Even if he hadn’t been gagged, he didn’t want to ask the women for help, because then they’d know what a weak loser he was.
Mrs. Titifuque’s hair was standing on end. Her left breast was nearly halfway in. No woman had been able to take so much of her before! How much further could this go? Her bones vibrated with desire, emitting a hum that shook the furniture. And still she thrust her chest, harder and harder, farther and farther, stretching Peggy past the limits of humanity, sending jolts of static and ball lightning throughout the room. Mrs. Titifuque felt herself begin to grow.
Peggy gasped in delighted pain as the breast inside her swelled. Even her heightened awareness had not predicted this. Mrs. Titifuque was getting taller before her eyes. Not just taller, but bigger in every way. Her already-gigantic breasts grew too large to be contained, and Peggy was thrown back as the boob she’d been straining to envelop burst free.
Mrs. Titifuque was now over eleven feet tall. Her breasts were each bigger than the biggest dog she’d ever seen, which was pretty big. Her skirt and panties hadn’t grown with her, even though they could have if she’d wanted them to, and now lay as rags on the floor. Peter hated himself for not being able to look away.
Peggy was dismayed. Her task now seemed impossible. “Gee whillikers,” she said to herself, “I wish there were some way I could still ram her tits into my cunt!”
Mrs. Titifuque’s eyes were now wicked waterfalls of flowing black bubbly death. “I require another cavity,” she bellowed. As if by magnetic attraction, Peggy’s cunt dragged her through the air onto the left nipple. Peter was flipped around upside down and his buttcheeks spread open like the gates of Mordor. Peter flew across the room at exactly sonic speed as the right nipple deeply penetrated his asshole.
“Now we will remake this world,” the gargantuan Titifuque thundered as her breastmeat expanded her two victims from the inside out. The ichorous blackness now ran from their eyes as their body cavities stretched like rubber. Peggy and Peter’s organs shoved themselves higher up in their torsos, making room for the massively distended vaginal/anal cavities (the distinction no longer mattered; all orifices were as one) stuffed with breasts.
Space and matter could not long contain what the game was creating. The nature of the physical universe was insufficient. But it was too late to stop. Analogous bloats and ruptures spread throughout the solar system, a wave of destruction moving faster than the speed of light. Galaxies wept. An inverted Big Bang began drawing the distant jurisdictions of the universe together, and from the din of devastation six words emerged:
Peter, do not fear my voice.
“I could not fear it,” Peter’s soul spoke directly to the heart of the universe. It was not a voice that spoke to him. It was not a mind to which he spoke. The words he knew, and the timing of their insistence, were as true and immutable as arithmetical tautologies.
It is you, Peter.
Peter, you are becoming everything.
“Why me? I’m not anyone special. Why not someone beautiful, and wise, regal...like Mrs. Titifuque?”
Can you feel the titty in your ass?
“It is my titty. It is my ass. No—”
They are both you.
“There is no...space...between…”
Space is nearly full. The fulfillment of your rubber titty fuck wish, it was the purpose of this universe. The game is nearly over.
“Did I win?”
You played the game. There is no greater victory.
They. Are. You.
You. Are. Me.
There is no barrier between my thoughts and my world.
Energy in matter, in space, that was one way to express reality. It was the way of our universe, but I see now—
Our universe, is very, very small. It is brief, and irrelevant, but the three gods have graced us with their beauty and attention.
J’iainae, may your own wishes come true.
G’losh, may your influence stretch across the cosmos.
Xetia. I think I love you most of all.
Your touch is still with me. It is the only thing that is not me. If you had form, if you were matter, I would fuck you. I know it as all you want, to be fucked by your creation. It is my dream too, to fuck you, my mother, to climb inside what will always be my first home.
Matter vanishes all around me.
All that remains is—
Your touch, Xetia, it—
Your touch, how can you—
Fuck! The universe is, I am—
It is all your climax, Xetia, it is what we have always been.
I feel it, not happening to you, it’s coming on, not happening to me—
I am the cum.
I am the cum.
I am cumming, Xetia, I am your cum, cum me, cum me, come on, come on.
I am this universe is nothing but
fuck it fuck it fuck it
fuck the tiniest opening
fuck the deepest abyss
fuck my Gaia vagina with your Cthulhu cock
fuck your King Kong titties with my Godzilla dick
fuck a hole in spacetime with your Rodan member
with your Mothra mulva
with your T. rex clitoris
with your Swamp Thing buddabing
with your Dracula crackula
with your Frankenstein pussy
and your Wolfman cum glands,
man, WOLFMAN GOT NARDS!!
[three DRUM BEATS lead into a simple loop]
[repeating PIANO line begins]
[slight RHYTHM GUITAR backing, along with faint BASS]
I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain
He was looking for the place called Lee Ho Fook’s
Going to get a big dish of beef chow mein
Werewolves of London
If you hear him howling around your kitchen door
Better not let him in
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again
Werewolves of London
He’s the hairy handed gent who ran amuck in Kent
Lately he’s been overheard in Mayfair
Better stay away from him
He’ll rip your lungs out, Jim
I’d like to meet his tailor
Werewolves of London
Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw Lon Chaney, Jr. walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic’s
His hair was perfect
Werewolves of London again
Werewolves of London
Werewolves of London...
[WOLFMAN JACK VOICE overlays the repeating chorus as it fades]
These lyrics are copyright LeRoy Marinell, Waddy Wachtel, and Warren Zevon, 1977.
They are reproduced here for educational purposes only, not for profit.
If this isn’t fair use...hey, cats, the universe is gone. Just chill out, and be cooooool.
It was a good ride.
[INCOMPREHENSIBLE ETERNITY OF NON-EXISTENCE]
(seed text: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/51550/51550-h/51550-h.htm)