Grammar Nazi Prime, in all his jawline-devoid, receded-hair glory, slaps my face with my own flaccid wiener.  “I’ve dreamt of this occasion multiple times.  Now is the winter of my discontent.”

“Ack!  PHHBBT!”  I strain against the zipties binding me to the chair.  “It’s because yours is the size of a frost-bitten acorn, you imagination-stifling degenerate!”

“Perhaps.”  He grinds my dickhole into my eyes, causing me to swivel from side to side—“Blech!  GROSS!”—in a desperate attempt to escape my own womb-hammer.  “Nevertheless, I won’t let trivialities detract from my victory.  Now.  Let us conclude with the coup de grace.” 

Wh-PAP!  My glans hit me with brutal force, mushroom-stamping me across the cheek.  Wh-pap-pap-PAP!  Concussive strikes rock my vision.  For an alarming moment, the world goes blurry.

“Is there some way to…”  He starts fiddling with the shaft.  “How do you unleash your repulsive semen?  There would be no greater irony than drowning you in your own disgusting testicular yogurt…”

“It’ll never work for you,” I spit out a mouthful of blood and phlegm.  “It’s for soccer moms only, you red-ink-huffing, story-killing fuck.”

“No matter.”  He starts swinging the end, building up momentum so he can beat me to death with my own weighty-ass meat.  “This will have to do.”

Fuck it.  No options left.  So I rip an arm free, reach into the trousers puddled by my feet, and open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers.  Magic flash. 

A Werther’s Original appears on the tip of my forefinger and thumb.  I instantly grasp the reason behind it:  Werthers are coveted by decrepit-ass fucks who live to nitpick and shake their fists at clouds (I don’t make the rules, that’s just how it is—you know it, I know it, the entire fucking world knows it.  When’s the last time you saw an energetic visionary sucking on a goddamn Werther’s Original?)

I flick the grumpy-codger candy into the air.  Grammar Nazi Prime follows it with his gaze, eyes wide, lips parted, and murmurs, “Werther’s…” in a slack-brained tone that would put Homer Simpson to shame. 

While he’s occupied, I squinch my eyes shut and visualize a montage of scenes from myfriendshotmom dot com.  My wiener rips free of Grammar Nazi’s fingers, lifts its dicklips up to the sky, and issues a terrifying, bone-shaking roar.  Then it deluges him with a torrent of gametes.

“AGHHH!  PHHBBBTTT!!!”  He shields his face with his arms, but he might as well be trying to hold back Niagara fucking Falls.  A second later, he tries to run, but my dick ratchets up the pressure, driving him face-first into the ground.  With tremendous effort, he muscles up on his knees…then flattens onto the concrete deck. 

“DAMN YOU, KENT WAYNE!  DAMN YOU TO—”  The rest of it’s lost in a maelstrom of jizz. 

Once he’s unconscious, I wind my cock around my thigh and tuck it back into my sock.  Kent Wayne wins again!  HEH heh heh!

😀

Has a low-down Grammar Nazi tied you up in an abandoned warehouse, then assaulted you with your own award-winning genitals?  Never fear!  Buy my books and drown him in gametes! 

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