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Rob Zombie Meet The Creeper
I’m guessing that we all have a few skeletons lurking in our closets. It matters not if we have spent the last twenty years with the same partner in missionary, lights dimmed just enough not to be made privy to each others’ flapping bingo wings and unsightly blemishes, or sexual rhinoceros, complete with an assortment of different cum-faces for every occasion and four bed posts carved in notches, we have all been at least a little freaky at one point or another. Whether participating in regular aerobic adventures or snuggled into that comfy rut, his and hers pajamas and fellatio gum-shield, we’ve all had our moments of freakishness somewhere down the line. I am no different to all of you. Have done some stuff, some of it a little outlandish, but I’m sure no more bizarre than the next man. Difference is, I kiss and tell.
Having said that, I must remind you that ambiguity is perpetually assured. Any of these indiscretions are covered by Keeper’s Confidentiality Act 2014 and I have no interest in sharing such intimate detail unless referring to my penile recipient on each occasion as simply Jean Doe. Consequently Ms Doe may appear to be something of a brazen strumpet and, whilst this is true in part, she does have her unique strengths. One said endowment is the exclusive ability to milk my memorial gland, providing me with a pocketful of seedy recollections. Of course, being Keeper, there’s a gaping hole in my pocket which leads directly to my brace of mother brains.
There have been a multitude of enlightening experiences which have helped to shape this deviant, some of these are invigorating while others mildly terrifying. But I wouldn’t change them for the world. As the proverbial open book, I am duty bound to share with one and all the grisly detail. My reasoning behind the choice to share is simple: I spent the first seventeen of my years under a mushroom cloud of confusion, unable to tell the tip of my monster from its chariot wheels. Once enlightened as to the distinct special purpose of my pecker, I gathered all the intelligence I could throughout my adult life, learning a thousand and one ways in which to punish a pussy in the process.
I have recounted my primary engagement once before, that scheduled deflowering which went spectacularly awry leaving me none the wiser as to the workings of my tool or its personal preferences. Coitus came knocking at the shaft of my sexuality, begging to teach it the joys of cum-faces and knee trembles. I saddled up like an equestrian, ready to bolt the gate, and desperate to attain the judges’ high scores. In actuality, it received little more than a token information pack on how to feed the organ grinder and I left more befuddled than when I started. Like a Rubix cube whereby each of its sides was missing a sticker or four, it left me in state of intense discombobulation.
This toxic cloud of sexual ambiguity gathered above me with caustic intent, until which time as I received a second bite of the cherry. The personnel had changed but the goal remained constant, to plunder and destroy. I had gathered the floor plan of a lady garden and, despite the fact that its complexities were still largely alien to me, I battled hard and attained my A for Effort, with occasionally hilarious results. Each individual culpable of unearthing of desire taught me something fresh and I continued to burrow for hidden treasure, expectant of an epiphany which has only just arrived, twenty years tardy.
The shenanigans began in earnest long before I planned my member’s ill-fated maiden voyage with a couple of rambling expeditions beneath the pinkish veil. I believe second base is the term one uses when recounting their sexual internship. One set of feelers under the top, that first discernment of a bra strap and subsequent attempts to free the orbs from their laced shackles. Base #2 also afforded route to the nether regions via a cranny in the front of my suitor’s denims. Like a cat in a cradle, I flexed my digits as I lurched from one squelchy crawl space to the next, punctuated by an unsolicited slide into the trash compactor, much to the bemusement of my similarly blinkered belle.
Such a complex nexus of intrigue. Supposedly simplistic in design, it provided a purring paradox, which had me wholly baffled. To make matters worse models strayed wildly from the basic template. From tidily inverted maximum security plunder-domes to loose dangling chewed-up toffee pulp with overhanging vaginal verandas…they all offer a unique set of challenges to a prick still wet behind its ears. I conducted all the research I could cram in, raised my flag with regularity, and explored the living shit out of these bushy badlands.
It didn’t always pan out of course. There was this one suitor who informed me that her last sexual partner was a club bouncer with a neck like a thigh and a thigh like ten necks in cable tie. He beat me to the gold and smashed her blast doors wide open, leaving a cavity sprawled enough to kiss all five of my digits, right up to the knuckle. Any elasticity she possessed had been beaten out of her in cock academy and I was left with a yawning chasm which would have taken at least three tools to fill. Alas, a Swiss army knob was never in my inventory.
A deviant I may have been on occasion but I never slept around. You could count my penetrative conquests on a mere two hooves as I prefer to hold certain things back for love. Plus I was just so fixated, I desired to be down there at face level like a horse whisperer, learning each nuance and building rapport orally. I have never been one to hit the weights, outside of one stretch with creatine, protein shakes, and bar belles which lasted all of six months. My tongue however…that’s one burly motherfucker. Laced with aluminum and brimming with vim, my mouth lance has caused many a stir on its travels and thinks nothing of a two-hour chow-down. Even a gastric band wouldn’t stem the appetite of this particular cunnilingual warrior.
Despite brief excursions into dogging, blood/water sports, exhibitionism, fisting, rimming and skimming, I am actually not that much of a deviant. Allow me to elaborate for y’all. I haven’t, for example, ever worn a raspberry beret or sipped from one cup with two girls present. There’s a whole world of freaky out there should you necessitate such and barely enough man hours to flick every switch. But there isn’t much Keeper wouldn’t explore in a committed loving relationship. I reserve my most freakish for that.
My scrapbook is like a frequent flyer’s passport, crammed with badges of authenticity from my previous exploits. But a good scrapbook is never finished. However, I have no intention of filling it frivolously as, push to shove, I’m an old-fashioned English gentleman whose only requisite is love. Within those confines, I am one freaky motherfucker.
The funk of my spunk all up in your trunk
The pulse in my junk all freakish acts thunk
look deep in my eyes they tell you no lies
just truth as I dunk my chunk in your bunk
Deviating with vigor finger pressed down on trigger
My safety is off I’m exposed now go figure
I trust the dynamics of love panoramic
Each white lie dispelled swollen heart just grows bigger
It kindles the fire thus freeing desire
No longer grounded I become frequent flyer
I hustle to nuzzle and bustle to guzzle
Removing my muzzle no longer the liar
Deviating but always sinning,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
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Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Revised Edition 2015)