*Not suitable for the prude.
You drank a lot. It is how you get yourself into these things. There is a pinball on crack bouncing round the space in between your brain and your skull. Your mouth is filled with cotton; and there is a long strand of hair stuck at the corner of your mouth. You hope it is hair from the head, and not hair from between her legs. That is one monster snatch, you think. You can’t remember.
Her voice is sending the pinball in your head mad, on tilt.
“You like jalapenos in your eggs? You like peppers? How about mushrooms?” Her nails scraping on your lipstick stained chest. “I love jalapenos on everything. I could even eat it off your cock.” She grabs a handful of your package with an exuberant grip.
“Yes! I love jalapenos.” You squeal, your voice remembering puberty again.
“I love rubbing peppers on my lips, my tits. I love the burn. The fire. I will be so comfortable in hell, especially a jalapeno hell.
Please shut the fuck up.
You think it.
You want to say it.
But you can’t.
Your right hand is still chained to the bedpost, she is laying on your left hand with thoughts of covering your cock with peppers, and there is one evil World of Warcraft motherfucker staring down at you from the ceiling.
You search around the room for your clothes. You see your pants at the door to the bedroom snuggling with a skirt. It’s ripped at the crotch. Your shirt is on some driftwood looking dresser. There are a couple of its buttons hiding in fake animal fur on the floor. They peek up at you like soldiers in foxholes, firing giggles.
You shut the fuck up too
“Have a shower, I’ll make breakfast.” She digs her teeth in around your nipples, releasing her bite with a nip of your nipple.
The Death Knight peering down at you from the ceiling seem upset your bonds are being released. You give it a finger–the middle one.
The bathroom is welcoming–A small cave of freedom. You look yourself in the mirror. There are red spider legs crawling on the whites of your eyes. Your eyes, already shot by blood. You look like shit. You feel like shit. And you want to shit.
You turn on the sink fosset to dull the beer farts you are about to unleash. You sit, and you squeeze out drops of last night like an assassin carefully staging a bomb. Drop by drop, you want to explode, but you can’t, you can hear eggs crack, she can hear ass crack, too. You continue to plop little bombs.
“I brought you a tow. Oh God sorry?”
She jitters in confusion. The towel falls. She doesn’t know which way is out; panic pushes her into the bathroom. “Oh God sorry.” She about-turn. A wet noise shoots out your anus at warp speed. She shrieks, and flaps her arms like a bird flying away back to the kitchen.
You wash up.
You put on your crotch-less pants.
You put on your shirt. Buttoned the survivors.
You left the fallen ones behind for the Death Knight.
You skip breakfast. She didn’t fuss.
You go home.
Your mother answers the door.
She looks you up and down
“Where are your shoes, boy?”