Too Much Of A Good Thing

 "You were great, Eli Braden (@elibraden)" Eric Gosselin said, hurrying Eli toward the front door.
"We're not on air. Why are you saying my full name with twitter handle?" Eli asked.
"Whatever, man. Have a good one." Eric said, firmly putting his boot in Eli's ass and kicking him out the door. Eli flew, sprawling, out onto the front walk, skinning his hands and face. Eric slammed the door shut and then hurried past Jon.
"Hey, man. What's up?" Jon asked as Eric disappeared into Jon's bedroom.
"You okay, man?" Jon called, knocking on his own bedroom. The lock on the door snapped shut and Eric was off in his own world.

Eric ripped open his laptop and logged on to http://www.chokethatjap-jew.com/, Eric's favorite strangulation porn site. Eric ripped his pants off, not bothering with his belt and actually breaking it as his pants fell. Before long, he was off to the races, stroking like a manic. Sweat rolled down his temples and his face turned beet-red. Blood spurted from his nostrils. Little, red veins bulged and burst in his eyes and finally, he exploded with cum. Cum splashed against Jon's walls and bedspread. Semen washed over Eric's inner thighs and calves. Jism splatted onto his chest and beneath his chin.
The only way I can avoid seeing everyone I love die is to die first. Eric thought and a single tear rolled down his eyes. Such morbid thoughts were common after he popped. His hands were slick with spunk and sweat and he wiped them on Jon's comforter. With that important business done, Eric logged onto Twitter. After retweeting a few times, Eric noticed that he had a private message. He checked out the handle, @McMickey89. The name was vaguely familiar so he went on to read the message.
McMickey89:
is this ok

The lack of punctuation was familiar as well. The cosmo girl. Jon and Eric did a segment where they gave advice to stupid, teenage girls. McMickey89 was one of those girls. He had recommended that she send him pics of her breasts. Beneath the three-word message, there was a link to a jpeg. Eric clicked on the link and saw teenage breasts. He saw a bare, lightly tanned torso with a scatter of freckles across the right breast. Her breasts were the size of plums with tiny, pink nipples. Eric gasped and began to type a reply.
Theericgosselin:
Christ! I could be registered as a sex offender just for looking at this. You can't send grown men pictures of your boobs.

He was about to hit reply, but then thought better of it.
Theericgosselin:
Take another one from a different angle. Your tits look lopsided in this one.

He sent the message and instantly panicked, wishing he could take it back. He awaited a visit from Chris Hansen, but instead he got another picture from McMickey89, headed with the line: is this ok.

This new picture showed the same bare chest, re-angled to show more of her bare, taut stomach. Eric could just make out the hem of a pair of Justin Bieber pajama pants, riding low on her narrow hips. Eric felt a pang of guilt, remembering that he had brought his ten-year-old niece a pair of those pants for her birthday. Eric started a message.
Theericgosselin:
Sweetheart. You're someone's daughter. You should have more respect for yourself.

He nearly sent this message, but again he thought better of it.
Theericgosselin:
That doesn't work either. Let's see what we're working with downstairs.

Another message came almost instantly, headed with the line: is this ok.

This new picture showed her bared crouch, infested with tangles of strawberry blond hair. Eric grimaced at the sight of it.
Theericgosselin:
You need to shave that and I mean now. I'll bet you $100.00 that all the pretty girls at your school are bald down there.

Another message came twenty minutes later, again headed with the line: is this ok.

This new picture showed the girl's newly shaven pussy, lightly dampened and angled directly at the camera.
Theericgosselin:
That's better. I should check out your bung-hole. Just to be sure, of course.

Another message arrived in his inbox ten minutes later. By this time, Jon was banging on his own bedroom door, shouting for Eric to open the door.
"It's my house! I'll call the cops!"

McMickey89's new photo was of her straddling the camera, showing her tight, little ass. Her hands were gripping her cheeks, spreading them apart to reveal a tiny, brown circle.
Theericgosselin:
We'll talk about anal bleaching, but first let's try some things. 

Eric had her dress in costumes and had her dribble random food items across her breasts. He had her shove her fist up into her vagina and up into her asshole. He had her shove her fist in her mouth and pour dog food across her feet. He had her dress up as a Nazi and a naughty nurse and a regular nurse and a doctor. He had her pack her poop-shot with silverware and her baby-maker with Skittles. He had her take a series of pictures with eggs up her assholes. Cadberry eggs, white shelled eggs, brown shelled eggs, one of those huge, fair-trade, organic eggs. She managed to get each and ever one of them up there without a single crack.
Theericgosselin:
Let's see how far you can get a broomstick up your ass.

The door rattled in its frame as Jon slammed himself into the door, trying to regain access to his own room. Another message arrived in Eric's inbox with the familiar legend: is this ok. This new one was of McMickey89 with a broom handle sticking out of her mouth, Blood and guts were splattered across her lips and cheeks. It was dribbling down her chest and down toward her pussy. She had shoved the broomstick straight through herself and Eric was sure she was dead by now. A cold sweat trickled across the nape of his neck. The door slammed open, bashing into the wall and then falling off the hinges.
"Christ!" Jon cried, his eyes jutting wildly around his bedroom. " There's jizz everywhere!"

The End

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How Adam Sandler Keeps Making Movies

By Hurricane Amy

Rose Peters sauntered down a dimly lit hall, her wide, red-silk clad hips swaying like a rhythmic metronome. The hallway was lined on one side with a long window covered with dust and long wooden blinds. Blue and red police halos and the piss-yellow streetlight shot between the blinds and across Rose’s ample bosom. She stopped at the end of the hallway before a door reading: Cock Johnson, Private Investigator. She rapped sharply on the scuffed, wooden door.

“It’s open.” A groggy, sloppy man’s voice called. Rose turned the brass knob and entered into a small, cluttered office. A fat, balding man with a bushy mustache sat behind a large oak desk laden with over-clogged  manila folders towering close to the ceiling. He had a cigar clamped between his teeth and a halo of smoke around his head. Sitting prominently in the middle of the desk was a gallon bottle of rot-gut vodka.

“Hello, Mr. Johnson” Rose said, pulling up a cracked leather chair and seating herself on the opposite side of the desk.

“Ms. Peters.” Cock said, his eyes securely locked on her cleavage.  

“We spoke over the phone. You claimed that there was a break in the case?”

“Yes. The Sandler Case. How he can keep making terrible movies and attract A-list actors.” Cock paused to drain a quarter of the rot-gut from the bottle. He smashed the bottle down on the table and choked down a little vomit. He then dug out a video camera and handed it to Rose.

“I hid in a Dumpster for nearly six hours to get this.” Cock said, pointing to the camera. Rose pressed the power button and the viewfinder winked into life, seeing the low angle of a parking garage. Tom Cruise stood alone in the midst of the gloomy, trash-littered garage. Rose had remembered reading in Variety that Cruise had recently signed on for Sandler’s newest project Fart Academy. Rose flicked an eye up to Cock and saw him draining the rest of the rot-gut. Rose pressed PLAY and Cruise began to pace back and forward with his hands on his hips. A black BMW pulled up alongside the Mission Impossible star and the back driver’s side door opened up. Adam Sandler stepped out from the BMW, wearing grubby looking clothes, and offered a hand to Cruise. Cruise declined to take it.

“You got me here, Sandler. I don’t know why I’m here. I’m not going to do the movie.” Cruise said.

“I thought you might say that. Al Pa-pa-pacino had said the exact same thing.” Sandler said, adopting that stutter that people apparently found funny in Little Nicky, but was actually very stupid sounding. Sandler began to undo the belt to his ill-fitting 90’s jeans that he still wears for some reason. He pulled down on his zipper.

“Whoa. Whoa. What are you doing?” Cruise asked, wicking a droplet of semen away from his bottom lip. “I’ve stated clearly that I’m not gay. Even if I were, I could do a lot better than you, Sandler.”

“I ju-ju-ju-just wanna show you something.” Adam Sandler said, dropping his pants and boxers around his ankles.

“I’m getting out of here. I knew this was a waste of my time.” Cruise said, glancing at Adam Sandler’s baby penis. Tom Cruise started to leave. Sandler turned quickly and spread his ass cheeks apart. Cruise stopped in his tracks, transfixed by a golden glow like sunbeams gently kissing the dewdrops on the pedal of a sunflower. Cruise fell to his knees and his eyes widened like awe-struck lanterns. He reached a tentative hand out toward the wondrous glow as if he were reaching a hand out towards the Creator at the center of everything.

“No. No. No. You can’t touch until you agree to be in my movie.” Sandler said.

“I need to eat your asshole out.” Cruise said as salty tears welled in his eyes. His jaw began to tremble. He looked as though all the beauty in all the world had been set before him and his single heart couldn’t quite bear it. A child being born. A golden sunrise. The smiling face of Tom’s secret lover, Jeremy.

“Spade!” Sandler called and the driver’s door opened. David Spade stepped out, holding a briefcase.

“Please. I’ll do anything. Just let me toss your salad.” Cruise said.

“Sign on to Fart Academy.” Sandler said.

“Yes.” Cruise said and with that, David Spade handed Cruise a contract and a pen. Cruise scribbled his name down on the contract’s signature line and then walked on his knees toward Sandler’s opened, waiting ass cheeks. Spade placed a hand on Cruise’s shoulder, stopping him for a moment. David Spade then produced a jar of Strawberry jelly. He handed the jelly to Cruise. 

“Have a ball, Chief.” Spade said and then he picked up the contract and returned to the BMW, leaving the door open so he could watch.

“Thank you.” Cruise said. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he unscrewed the top of the Strawberry jelly and dipped a hand in. David Spade reached into the passenger seat and picked up an egg salad sandwich. He unwrapped it.

“Yeah-Yeah. Let’s get the show started.” He said and started eating the egg salad sandwich with his mouth wide open, gobs of egg rolling from his mouth and onto his shirt.

Tom Cruise slathered the Strawberry jelly in between Adam Sandler’s hairy ass cheeks, applying it methodically like a mason spreading mortar on a brick. With Sandler’s ass thoroughly swathed in dripping, red jelly, Cruise pressed his face inside and went at it like a fat, slightly suicidal man might go at an opened can of spaghetti without a utensil. Cruise dove in like a lion tearing into a zebra, like a man eating a particularly delicious peach and he slobbered like a dog with a bone. Tom Cruise was digging his fingers up in there like an old lady searching for two pennies at the head of a long check-out line.

“Oh-God! It tastes like stars!” Tom Cruise said, parting his mouth from Adam’s puckering asshole. He dove back in, rooting in there like a gerbil up a weirdo’s bung-piece. He licked up and down the asshole like a kid licking an oversized lollypop or a chocolate ice cream cone.  

It continued in that fashion for sometime, but Rose pressed PAUSE on the video camera.

“How long does this go on for?” Rose asked.

“Another forty-five minutes.” Cock said, opening up another bottle of rot-gut.

“Is it just him eating out his asshole like piranhas eating a big breasted spring break slut?” Rose asked.

“Spade starts jacking it and he opens up another egg salad sandwich.” Cock said, vomit gurgling in the bottom of his throat. He drank deep from the new rot-gut bottle, sucking it down like Tom Cruise was sucking Strawberry jelly out of Adam Sandler’s asshole. The rot-gut was soon emptied and Cock tossed the bottle against the wall. “I want some fucking tacos.”

“So, he has a glowing, hypnotic asshole?” Rose asked. Cock reached underneath his desk and produced a five-liter canister of gasoline.

“Bingo. Production. Financing. Casting. There isn’t a single step in the movie-making process that he doesn’t use his magic asshole for.” He lifted the canister up and began sloshing it into his mouth.  “You have large breasts.” Cock said. They both stood up and began tap dancing and then sang:

And That’s How Adam Sandler Keeps Making Movies!

The End

Garfield Erotic Fan Fiction

Why Garfield Hates Mondays
By Hurricane Amy
 
 Jon Arbuckle sat in the dark, burning his chest with a cigarette while fondling his genitals through his thin, cotton under shorts. His teeth were gritted and his jaw was tensed. His eyes were laced with tiny, red veins  and his face was slicked with sweat. He’d been up for days, stewing over a quip Garfield had said after he’d stubbed his toe on a chair.
“It’s not that bad, Jon. It’s not like it happened to me.” Garfield had said. He pulled his hard cock out from the slit in his under shorts and dragged his fingernails along the helmet. He shuttered hotly and then let up. He couldn’t cum yet. Tonight was the night. Tonight, he was going to fuck that fat pussy. Never mind that fat pussy was covered in orange fur matted with clotted cheese and tomato sauce.  Never mind that fat pussy’s moans of surprise would sound exactly like Bill Murray. Jon was going to fuck that pussy. Garfield had been freeloading off of Jon for years, endlessly eating pan after pan of lasagna, knocking Odie off the counter top and mocking Jon’s sense of style.
“It’s not like it happened to me.” Jon said aloud in a mock Garfield voice. He stroked his dick once and it pulsed expectantly. Tonight, Garfield would know who was the owner and who was the pet. Jon saw it all in his mind. He’d spread that fat pussy’s fat ass cheeks and he’d fuck the cheese clods out of his poop-shoot and to pour salt into the wound, he’d have a pan of lasagna waiting in the oven. While spunk dribbled from Garfield’s flabby asshole, Jon would eat it, right in his face.
Jon burned himself again with the cigarette, this time just above his navel. A smile cracked across his face and laughter began to bubble up from his belly.
“Happy Monday, Garfield.”

Flag Ship Post! You Might Have Made A Mistake Coming Here!

Hey!

I'm Hurricane Amy and among many things, I'm a gross. I'm here to make you gag, heave and/or turn green with disgust. What better way of doing this than by taking things you love and making them do horrible things to each other. I'll be giving you a prime example of the twisted thoughts coming from my mind in the days, weeks, months and possibly years to come. I'm excited! I hope you are too!