Suggested Audio Candy:

 

[1] Daryl Hall & John Oates “Maneater”

[2] Olivia Newton John “Physical”

[3] Dusty Springfield “They Long To Be Close To You”

 

 

Verse I: Isle of the Banished Sirens

 

There is a place which exists far, far away from civilization. A colony tucked away within the camel’s toe of a concealed location near the coastline. There is but one feasible in-road and its perils provide thorny resistance to anyone unhinged enough to traverse this twisted path. Feminia has a population of merely five inhabitants; gorgeous Amazonians with pelts that could burst a man’s peepers like bloated bladder-satchels should he dare approach. Many have tried but their bones become mere costume jewelery after these vixens have vivisected their quarry. Heads drop like coconuts and are swiftly rolled to their nearest impalement spot. Cocks are currency in Feminia, any associates to lose their member status have their Johnsons plucked like fleshy harps from their very roots and ordinarily wind up in pickle jars of surplus semen which these sirens sip from habitually.

Do they pleasure each other? Why yes they do. This is Keeper’s parable so hands off…it’s all integral in some diminutive way. Anyhoots…pleasurizing. Yes, they sip from the chalice of fur, quench themselves on one another’s’ mammalia, and use the evening’s penis of choice to plunder their fortresses at last light. They are, after all, secluded from society and even succubi need to get their jolly rogers somewhere right? The quintet is ravenous for the tang of man-pelt and will wrestle playfully over especially tender cuts. Ordinarily, they perform this ritual in a small muddy pit and mirthfully roll around in as little as their panties, which are fashioned from dock leaves and tree sap. They also often put their hair in bunches and suggestively suckle on lollipops whilst doing so. Don’t blame me, I’m just telling the story.

This day, this particularly lush summer day, something lurked in the undergrowth around their treacherous perimeter. Two young bucks, Larry and Garry, had decided to take the pilgrimage along the coastal regions in search of the elusive Magenta Willow. This deadly flower was incredibly rare and Larry needed one to complete his pressed-flower collection. They had read about its existence around these parts and foolishly ignored the pleas of village busy-body Crazy Wilf who reminded them on a number of occasions of their impending doom.

Let me fill y’all in on these two stallions. Larry was flaxen blonde, with piercing blues and abs you could skin a ferret on. More muscles than a deep-sea trawler, he was in possession of an Adonis-esque chiseled bod and front bulge to make Ron Jeremy weep lactose. He worked as a cable-repair guy and had a penchant for Jane Austen literature and origami. He also waxed and we’re talking back, crack and even his gooch and sack. The whole nine yards, which seemed fitting due to his meat loaf resembling a gladiator’s puglestick. He meticulously shaved his testicles but always left one straggling hair on his nuts as a reminder of what could have been.

Then there was Garry. Garry was a brunette delight who sported similar penile length and a slither more girth than his compadre. His buttocks were known to wrestle together beneath his cut-down denim shorts like pot-bellied pigs. A pool cleaner by trade, Garry also enjoyed a spot of cultivation and was a farm-hand down at O’Garrity’s ranch on his lieu days. He particularly enjoyed tending to the sheep out by the lake and once disappeared for three solid weeks. It took him weeks to stave off the lingering scent of lamb-chops on his return.

Together they loved nothing more than watching the entire back catalogue of Odyssey Home Video tear-jerkers starring Brian Dennehy and old Judy Garland movies in their onesies. That’s right, their inclination leaned rather conclusively toward the more rectal of pursuits. They may as well have been named Neil and Bob they were so in favor of the purple-muzzled musket. To them a vagina was little more than a splurge of dough kneaded by leprous gibbons. No thank you ladies, I’ve got a lean brisket of baloney here to chow down on. And by the way, did anyone record Beaches the other night? We were predisposed at Mardi Gras. I’m digressing but you get the idea?

Considering these bronzed brutes appearing every bit the hunk’o’hunk capable of forcing a Vatican of nuns to dart straight to the confessional, they had no interest at all in the female form. You try telling a ferocious succubus that you’ll take their Eve and raise them a Steve. Not a prospect worthy of salivation let me tell ya. No, the ladies weren’t privy and I implore y’all not to give the game away as they’ll come straight back to me. Our secret, Finders…Keeper’s.

As I mentioned earlier, before this point no man had been able to make it through their foul tapestry of traps and banana skins. The surrounding woodlands were littered with devilish temptations which no man could resist. The downfall of their plan was that Larry and Garry weren’t susceptible to any of them. They walked straight through without as much as a hairline fracture. Meanwhile, lingerie hanging suggestively from the boughs of trees caused not so much as a flicker of excitement from the boys, although Larry did consider trying on a particularly decorative silk slip which laid strewn across a mulberry bush. Sensing he may not get it over his child-bearing hips, he thought better of it and the threat duly passed.

Eventually, after stopping at a clearing for a spot of tree-etching and a quick clearing of the anal cobwebs, the boys arrived in Feminia unscathed and uncannily oiled by this point. They weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed and remained totally oblivious to the bloodied stumps scattered around the foliage. They had, after all, been rambling for a number of hours and only craved a little hot food inside them. Upon their arrival, the ladies began to close in stealthily, unbeknownst to their next meals.

Verse II: The Anathema Phallus

 

 

To start with, things appeared to be going rather swimmingly. Both Larry and Garry were an absolute riot to be around and all five vixens were in suitably high spirits. Considering it was so rare that anyone made it to their compound in one piece, they had every intention of taking their sweet time and decided to feed both boys up until suitable for consumption. However, it wasn’t all about food for the Feminia girls; they had other carnal needs and these two young bucks in the prime of their lives appeared simply primed for the fornicating. There was going to be sex, long hot sweaty coitus, followed by a banquet fit for five queens. Or so they suspected.

On the third day, one of the ladies began to grow restless, and it appeared that tonight would be the night for their defilement. All five huddled together to confer while Larry and Garry were off collecting twigs and berries and surreptitiously heading into the nearby cave to pillage one another rectally with fallen stalagmites. After almost an hour of heated discussion, they decided on their game plan. It would be the ultimate seduction and entail dark desire and much sexual quenching. Alcohol would be imperative in order to loosen the boys up before their proposed ravaging and there was no shortage of moonshine in Feminia although it did have a tendency to provoke gut-rot so they’d be required to work fast.

Once Larry and Garry returned from their short expedition with a vague limp, all that was left was to set the mood. Larry suggested Dusty Springfield’s The Look of Love and this proved a popular choice with the vixens. After a good half an hour of small talk around the fire, and a skinful of intoxicating liquor, things started to grow a little freaky. Truth or Dare was suggested as per the plan and this game never traditionally ends well. Early questions didn’t probe too much and dares consisted of the usual PG-13 shenanigans until one of the girls decided to shift through the gears some. None of them had the vaguest inkling as to the boys’ sexual orientation but the cat was about to vacate the bag in some style.

Both Larry and Garry were fiercely guarded about their relationship. It wasn’t that they were ashamed, more that they considered it nobody else’s business than their own. The past two nights had seen nary a hand job and, other than the stalagmite incident, they had decided to undertake a temporary vow of chastity so as not to arouse unnecessary suspicion. So when Garry was posed the question “truth or dare” and plumped for the latter, he probably wished he hadn’t. While “I want you to strip Larry down to his bare skin and then Larry I want you to do the same to Garry” appeared like an ideal way of killing two birds with one stone, their cover was about to be well and truly blown, much to the ladies’ disenchantment.

Timing was unfortunate as They Long To Be Close To You was the song playing when the boys first met back in the enterprising summer of 2009. As Dusty released her lungs and Garry relinquished the shirt from Larry’s soft back ever so delicately, something began to stir south side. I’ve already informed you of Larry’s endowments and, within seconds, his cut-down denims could take no more of the tantalizing and he proceeded to bolt the paddock.

At first, the vixens were pleasantly surprised as, while they were quite aware of what he was packing beneath the loin cloth, they had never seen it standing to salute. Each of them began to rub their palms together with cunning intent as they pondered the ruination one of these bronzed beauties could provoke. It was then that the Feminia sirens made their critical error as they took their eyes from the prize for a solitary moment while bickering over who would wear his schlong as a thigh bracelet.

Why do birds suddenly appear? I’m just curious. Anyhoots, things reached fever pitch for Garry as he lowered the zip on his beau’s denims and the beast became fully unleashed before his wide-eyes. He looked up all doe-eyed and Larry’s return look suggested only one thing, that being “We both know it’s magnificent but does it look like it will suck itself?” At that moment the scent of sex became too strong and deep-throated fellatio commenced. I shall leave any detail to your imaginations at this point and urge you to dust off your old Dusty Springfield vinyl and create your own montage. But I will say this: Garry’s tonsils were swinging like Tyson.

By the fourth gargle, the intelligence made it back to the ladies and, needless to say, they weren’t best pleased. One of them callously shoved Garry from his perch and took his place at the podium but Larry wasn’t feeling it and went flaccid in a heartbeat. To the sirens of Feminia there was no insult more significant than “sorry I’ve got a bit of a headache coming on.” Sadly for Garry, the sheer force of being forcibly removed from suction was sufficient to relocate his larynx and he was dead before he hit the sand. This left one man and five famished succubi, translating to a rather splendiferous 5:1 ratio but Larry didn’t see it that way and was heartbroken over the loss of his one true love. If You Go Away beginning was the final straw and he dropped to his knees faster than Rocky Dennis on a carousel.

What happened next? Well let’s just say that it didn’t end well for Larry either but it mattered not to him as his lifeforce had been all but expurgated the moment Garry commenced his penultimate death rattle. His prize-winning weinerwurst was promptly removed from its fixtures and fittings and they all tucked into the remainder of his carcass as they’d gotten what they wanted from the transaction. An extra ten minutes over the grill and his Johnson made for a most delightful widow’s comforter or mother’s-little-helper if you prefer. You know…a dildo. What else were they to do after such bitter disappointment. Their needs had not been met and therefore it was time for a little well-done mutton. Rumor has it that Larry’s charred penis is still being used and abused to this very day and the Feminia sirens are reportedly still there in their cruel alcove, attempting to lure in wayfaring seamen and wrestling semi-naked in the moist sand of the shoreline. As for the fates of those stalagmites, well that’s another story for another day.

Click here to read She: Chamber of Desolation