Chapter 1.
Ted got in around 2 O' clock. Shift work, coupled with snow made him later than usual. The lamp was left on dim by the wife - Silvia. He creaked across the wooden floor of the tenement in his working boots on tip-toe not to wake neighbors; turning up that thermostat when passed on way to his dirty-clothes closet.
He longed for it: Kicking off everything that reminded him of work, except his piss stained vest. He dropped it all in there; a damp steaming heap of soiled clothing. The wife would sort it out in the morning. It was chilly.
Ted made a B-line for the fridge - yanked it open. Blinded, he fumbled for a beer and lime, and farted long and hard and almost followed through. He needed to go and take a dump, but beer first.
En route kitchen: Cock and balls dangling amidst tired thigh; swinging and swaying unfettered - in juxtaposition of gait, but wait - rather, in demonstrative Newtonian style; passing a hung photograph of mother, the causation of which set forth his flaccid penis summarily to twitch - almost with life it seemed. It had been a while, almost like a dream, putting a glint of a smile on a face of granite, chiseled relentlessly, as water carves into stone, on a wet and dreary night of a common and garden planet.
Kitchen bound: Ted sliced a sliver of lime, and shoved the wedge down - the bottle's gizzard, into its chilly broth beneath; awaiting.
A force feeding of a kind in essence, spurring-up the golden liquid's inherent effervescence, with bubbling enthusiasm they say; why, it's only a beer, it's not as if it's Guantanamo Bay - with its tubes and funnels an' all - and as the sucking fizz of the exploding CO2 of the near vertical glass-bottled-tit built up pressure, forcing, with each gulp, a greater and greater exponential grog-thrust down the neck of its abuser: Finally, the run came to an end, as the bottle emptied, with the sliver of lime following the booze at an accelerated rate into the craw.
Choking: Ted vomited - projectile - which simultaneously back-filled his beer bottle, and continued on almost hitting the ceiling; the spew rained down, and Ted went for another beer. Silvia would clean it up in the morning.
Second bottle - no lime: Long breaths taken, lips parted. The tipping of the bottle's contents had barely started. In earnest, again, they became rampant, and a mere swig taken became glugging. He wasn't worried. He had a six-pack, so there was no sense of skulking, but there always exhibited a bent toward the hurried. Head back; bottle perpendicular, Ted sucking harder than a new born at the teat, foam building explosively in the chamber, he finished with a burp, and his ass farted.
As he guzzled away, one of his eyes was pinned on the photo. His cock became semi-erect - the head filling up with blood, but the shaft still a limp noodle. His mind had wandered back to when he had just turned eighteen, and his mother caught him sniffing her panties in the laundry room that fateful afternoon, beating his meat faster than a cocktail shaker at happy hour. He never forgot how the sheer fright of being discovered by his mother had made him ejaculate like The Fountains of Seville themselves, as she stood there scolding and beating him with a towel - her rage mounting and mounting.
Ted took after his grandfather, with a full twelve and a half inch long pole, and thick as a spade handle it was with a ripe apple stuck on the end of it - and at 18 years of age, his battery of cum was seemingly inexhaustible - he was quite confident that, during the panty-sniffing incident in the laundry, that he hit his mother in the tits, one in the eye and a bully-shot, directly into her intermittently, opening and closing, screaming, chastising, gob with a well aimed load, before she gave up and left him alone with his guilt and glory and spurting cock, to make up a story of - innocence.
Only father spoke at dinner that night, but father didn't take after grandpapa- sporting only a marginal "little-finger weenie" protuberance of the groin, I'm afraid.
Ted believed - sincerely - to be sure, that mother wanted to have the top end of her vagina massaged - from the inside, of course, and he had the instrument to accomplish this. He did her once whilst the family was on vacation in the south of France, when they both had had a little too much vino, and father was delayed by fog at the airport that evening.
Ted, now a powerful nineteen year old buck, did all three of her holes for hours that night. The cow made a terrible racket - as he recalled, but good ole grandpa, with his huge hand-me-down dick and with a pair of balls like an Angus bull, coupled-up with a prostate that could multiple-orgasm and milk out a good half cup of sperm in one sitting, why, no wonder mother stayed in bed for three days afterwards, and walked sort of...carefully for the rest of the vacation, as if she was about to shit herself. After all, it was she who insisted on having it shoved up her gazoo, and Ted had obliged with every inch at his disposal.
Ted had become adroit at prolonging the pleasure-zone of masturbation whilst wanking, by a combination of coming, then biting his lip and tongue - really hard - thus overriding the dopamine blast in the brain with pain. In this way he could beat his meat in his bedroom for hours and hours: Coming many more times than his female [wanking] counterpart - dispelling long held myths, albeit unscientifically verifiably - at the moment - that woman can have more orgasms than men.
Ted could cum thirty plus times in a night and, handily, fill up a quarter of a regular coffee-mug with his jizz. The only down side was that he would have to lay off rubbing for a bit for fear of wearing the skin off on his bell-end flanges. Many times he drew blood, but carried on regardless, inexorably drawn, toward the ultimate goal... the final pay-off; that which the female is so addicted to: The' mighty - orgasm.
I was off the hook that night, remembered Ted. He swore he'd never mix Pernod, and Chardonnay again.
