- Stunning Honky
- Sep 7, 2004
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" . . . "
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The TFR thread where they read Enemies: Foreign and Domestic is actually pretty hilarious because of how bad the books are and some of the more grotesque parody fanfiction
And since we should have a sex scene coming up, here's a preview for y'all:
He kissed Rayna. She kissed him back. Then she tore off her clothes, and she was obviously very wet. Brad snuck a glance at his operator's wristwatch; 9.5 seconds. "Not your best time, but not bad!", Brad thought. Rayna, though a virgin, lay back on the bed and spread her legs. Brad quickly positioned himself in between her legs, clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and told Rayna to look at him. She did, and became transfixed. The Brad quickly unclasped his hands and spread his arms apart, making an eagle's caw with his mouth while quickly penetrating Rayna. No blood, no pain, just immediate ecstasy.
"That didn't hurt like I thought it would!" exclaimed Rayna. Brad, busy thrusting in and out missionary style (and only missionary style) smiled and, between his grunts, her panting, and their combined moans, explained that he had learned the Eagle's Love cherrypopping technique from his time living among the last of the Navajo Indians, before they had all died out in 1993. After hours of good, non-tantric sex, neither one could take it anymore. Brad held his arms up in a muscle pose and began to chant "My baby! My baby!", then increased the frequency of his groaning until he ejaculated inside Rayna. Brad, like all young, vigorous country-born white males, could provide copious amounts of seed almost indefinitely.
Innately, they knew it was their duty to do so and improve the gene stock on the country. It was almost a sacred, though unspoken, obligation - only give their premium seed to those they deigned to be of superior stock. Brad's every cell cried out to do that constantly, mostly with white women as nature indicated through indicative erections, but the bodies of these men also indicated their consent for mating with Asian women - all Chinese, Korean, and Japanese women, certainly, with Filipinas, Thais, and Vietnamese women being acceptable in a pinch. The constant presence of indicative erection indicated through biosignalling that these species of women were acceptable.
Light skinned Latina women, high-caste and light-skinned Indian women, and in certain cases, light-skinned Middle Eastern women who didn't practice Islam, had converted away from it, or needed to be converted from it were also acceptable, per the biosignalled indicative erections. Rayna fell into this last category, so Brad wouldn't have to explain himself too much to his friends when they were drinking beers, shooting pool, playing darts, and constantly high-fiving as normal men do when they are together.
Of course, urban negres black women were not acceptable, because they were of obviously of an inferior gene social stock - but they could still tempt a country white man by the biosignalling emanating from the residual white traces their wily female ancestors had artfully seduced, forced, and tricked out of their owners maste gainful benefactors centuries ago. The internal sexual compasses of low urban white men sometimes lead them directly to coitus with these women, as did the compasses of white urban progressive men; but neither of these groups fell into the normally functioning human category, after all.
Anyhow! He retracted his penis from her vagina, some of his seed spilling out on the thousand count Egyptian cotton bed sheets he liked. It was thick, and creamy white with a pearly sheen. It usually tasted of vanilla, but it was always sweet.
Rayna was sprawled out, still panting from the super radical sex he gave her. While she came down from her cloud nine, he gave the base of a his penis a quick tug, and it quickly became de-engorged and shrank back down to normal. Brad was a full thirteen and a quarter inches when erect, and was normally nine inches when not. His technique compacted it down to six inches. Much like when he was carrying a compact Hi-Point or throwaway Glock, he preferred not to "print" too much in public.
Rayna suddenly sat up, put her hands over her face, and quietly began to sob. "What...what if I get pregnant!?" she blubbered out. Brad sighed internally; this always happened. He could always convince women to have sex with him, without condoms, and then ejaculate inside of them as was his natural duty and right, but he couldn't seem to get them to stop automatically blubbering about pregnancy and their lives being derailed. Women...didn't they know that being pregnant with his child was an honor, and they should be pleased that he had deigned to grant them access to his superior seed? He always had to make them understand.
He gently grabbed Rayna's wrists and pulled her hands down from her face. She looked even sexier, he thought, with the tears in her eyes. "Rayna," he said "don't worry about that. Your father would have wanted you to get pregnant. Every father wants his little princess to become pregnant. Nature wants it. You want it. Right?"
Rayna shook her head left and right slowly and whispered in a low, mournful moan, "But what about school? My life ambitions? My dual career as a doctor and symphony violin player? I...I'm not ready for a child!". Brad fixed his gaze on her. She tried to break away, but felt an irresistible force stopping her doing so. Brad calmly spoke. "Rayna, you made me give you a baby. You may not know it, but your body asked me to do it. You know it's true."
And inside her brain, as it received the biosignal from Brad's eyes through her retinas, she began to feel calm as new, unfamiliar hormones rushed through her. Within seconds, she suddenly felt at ease, and every cell ached within her in its acknowledgement that she totally wanted to be a mommy to Brad's baby above all else. Her school, her desire to travel the world, to be a doctor, all melted away, replaced by visions of cooking casseroles in a kitchen, her bare feet on cold linoleum because, really, it was more comfortable that way. It seemed like the most natural, most desirable, most true thing she had ever felt, and ever wanted.
Brad knew that he had her. Still, a figment of doubt remained inside of her. "But...maybe neither of us is ready for parenthood?". Brad shrugged. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Sleep on it. If you're really, really unsure...well, I know a guy who knows a guy in a junkyard who can take care of this quietly and discreetly. Just, you know, we'd have to keep it on the downlow. If you truly want to murder our sweet, innocent child, I can make it happen."
Rayna stared at him, biting her lower lip in confusion and uncertainty. Brad, not really concerned as was his right as a seed-bearer, asked if she wanted a beer. She shook her head yes, slowly, inattentively. Brad got up and walked out of the boat's sleeping quarters buck naked, and headed to the mini-fridge in the galley. He grabbed two beers and headed back. He paused for a moment and yawned.
In a mirror, off to the side, the corners of his mouth unfolded into an squarish array of loose skin flaps, with a mandible protruding from each end. Quickly putting the beers down, he quickly pressed his mouth back into its human shape. His kind still hadn't quite mastered the physical disguising.
quote:
Yeah, what's Brad up to after taking Rayna's virginity, mentally programming her into carrying his child, and revealing himself to be, well, something not quite human?
After Rayna left, her face flushed of color and with a vacant stare, Brad got his pants on and thought about what to do next. No point sticking around, in case some sex drama blew back on him from Rayna. The joy's of living on a boat - he could just weigh anchor and float wherever the current might take him. He decided to sail down the coast to Point Mell, where he had two good friends - Jay Albrechtson and Marv Roberts. It was fairly remote, and only Jay and Marv lived there. With the help of a good wind and an assist from a plasma drive unlike any known on Earth outside of Nevada black sites, Brad made it to Port Mell at around 10 in the morning. When the guys hung out, they did so at Marv's, which had a great view of the water. It was a Sunday, and he knew that Jay and Marv would be watching football like regular Americans. Jay and Marv didn't go to church, but they said a prayer before watching the games on TV, and that's good enough for God to not smite a person, at least.
Brad opened the door. Jay and Marv weren't inside the house, which wasn't unusual. Brad heard noise coming from around the back. It was probably Jay and Marv, but Brad patted the Hi-Point he had duct-taped to the small of his back nonetheless. It was still there. Sometimes it wasn't, after he left grocery stores and strip club bathrooms; he suspected his back hair and the composition of his sweat affected the adhesive of the tape. This was also why he preferred Hi-Points; if he lost one, say by a school or daycare, it was very cheap to replace. Sure enough, Jay and Marv were on the deck. Jay was warming up Marv's massive grill, and Jay was bringing out kielbasa, a tray of raw hamburger patties, and a tub of marinated chicken wings through the deck's Freedom doors. Brad could see the large-screen television through the doors. "All right!" thought Brad. He could dig a BBQ.
He also noted that Jay and Marv weren't wearing any pants; they were completely naked from the waist down. "Oh yeah," Brad suddenly recalled, "it's steak and BJ day!". Jay saw Brad and called out. "Brad, you motherfucker! Didn't expect to see you here!", he said. Marv hollered out, "Brad, you cumsucking human being, take off your pants! Steak and BJ day!". Brad did so. With the TV turned on and showing the pre-game, and the coals warming up on the BBQ, the three men starting talking. "Where's Donna and Launa?" asked Brad. "Oh," said Jay, "they needed to go into town to get some pickle relish and Hays potato chips". "Oh", replied Brad. An awkward silence filled the void. The game was going to be between the Virginia Minutemen and the Salt Lake City Crabshuckers. The Crabshuckers had originally been a team based in Baltimore, but the powers that be in that city had misplaced their priorities and decided to waste money on after-school programs and a new library, instead of investing in a new stadium at the owner's behest. They even had the chutzpah to tell taxpayers that a football stadium was a sub-optimal use of taxpayer funds. This sense of misguided priority and elitism was a symptom of the liberal disease, one that right-thinking posters on the FreeAmericans website liked to rant and bellyache about, usually from public access computers at public libraries.
The silence was broken by the beginning of the game. All three men let out whoops and commenced to barbecue. The Crabshuckers won the coin toss, and were first to return the ball. Their star quarterback, Zumumba Brasky, was rushing down the field when top Minuteman player Tad Hildeman rushed by him and grabbed the ball out of his hands and began running towards his team's end zone. A perfect steal! Just one steal compared to the millions done by Zumumba's low urban compatriots, of course. Thirty-two yards from a touchdown, three Crabshuckers tackled Hildeman. Just another black on white assault. All three men whooped with joy, then began rubbing their penises together. This is what normal, country born white men do to show non-sexual brotherhood and camaraderie amongst themselves. The indicative erections that result are just biosignals that indicate who belongs where in the pecking order. It wasn't homoerotic or gay or anything, despite what the ever-ready-to-tar-gay liberal mainstream media propaganda said about it. It was just a sign of brotherhood, male bonding, of showing that you felt good and felt deeply when you hung around with your brother country born whites.
It wasn't gay, because long-suppressed scientific research by the pre-ZOG Army had shown that gays didn't physically feel anything when they succumbed to the bestial zombie urges induced in them by the desire of HIV to reproduce itself and engaged in their unnatural copulatory maneuvers and acts. Brad, Jay, and Marv all felt something - skinkinship, the warm glow spreading from the nexus of their loins into the soul depths of their bowels. It was an act, and feeling, of unity. The recent political events in America had caused the FreeAmericans site to set up a whole board about it, and everyday the number of new screen names posting on it increased. Many talked about how their formerly active gun clubs still met despite their stated purpose for existing no longer existing, and how they were engaging in the penis-rubbing ritual to foment cohesion and unity as they discussed what action to take. "Reminds me of my Young Republican days at college!" said HuntnFishTX12. "Something big is coming!" said WhyLiveInWy254. The most succinct statement was expressed by one Shoot1stNvrAplgzInAK. "Any day now," he posted, "we're going to erupt". No doubt, mere discussion and penis-rubbing would one day be replaced by concrete action; but no one knew when.
The game resumed, and once again Hildeman had the ball. Jay and Marv, tense with excitement, began hooting and hollering as Hildeman plowed through the Crabshucker defense like a Norse AryanSS supermanbulldozer and scored a touchdown. Marv and Jay looked at each other and screamed in ecstasy. The touchdown ritual was to take a manly bite out of one's food and scream, then wash it down with beer. Jay grabbed a raw hamburger patty and shoved it in his mouth with both hands, chewing vigorously. Marv took a giant bite out a kielbasa. Brad, who had been vigorously urinating off the deck, wasn't near any food. The ritual, oh no! But Brad was nothing if not a quick thinker, like all of his kind. On the railing, a seagull alighted, likely drawn by the sight of the BBQ smorgasbord below it. Brad, without a second thought, grabbed it and ripped its heart out with his teeth. Marv and Jay silently stared at Brad for a second, mouths agape and dripping food, and then commenced the biggest, loudest bunch of hooting and hollering they had ever done.
Brad smiled and thrust out his pelvis, his erect penis noticeably the largest of the three. Picking up on the cue, Marv and Jay began rubbing their penises against Brad's. Brad ripped off the dead seagull's head and started shaking its carcass over the trio, blood spraying all over them, all of them whooping and cheering. Just then, the side gate creaked open. Brad quickly dropped the bloody seagull carcass and reached around for his Hi-Point, while Jay simultaneously reached for his Taurus Judge, loaded with rocksalt and broken glass shells. Donna and Launa had returned home. While the noise of their return made Brad and Jay go for their guns, it broke Marv's penis-rubbing concentration. It took control and deep thoughts of brotherhood to keep from losing one's self in the ritual with one's fellow country born white men, to tip over from merely platonic, unifying rubbing into the realm of Eros and losing one's self in their fellow man. Marv's concentration, being broken, tipped him into this realm. He exported a voluminous quantity of his precious seed all over the kielbasa on the grill table. Everyone looked at him, quietly.
He had broken the rule; spill no seed but with yourself or the consortium approved species of women. But his loving, patient wife Launa broke the awkward silence with a smile. "Guess you really are a Minuteman!" she guffawed. Everyone began to laugh, and Marv sheepishly started toweling off the kielbasa. Launa was used to these little accidents of Marv's; every country born white woman should be, because it happens a lot during the male bonding of the penis-rubbing ritual. In fact, this was how she and Marv had met; he had been kicked out of a frat kegger (also on steak and BJ day) back in college amidst cries of "Beat it, homo!" and "gently caress off, fag!", and had been sobbing in the bushes when Launa, fresh from her serving duties at the steak and BJ event, found him. She found his vulnerability womanly, and that attracted her, because Launa (like all women) had a bit of a lesbian streak - just not in an appropriate, sexy way.
Everyone was laughing and cracking jokes. Brad, his back to the water, felt an electric jolt run down his spine. Under his disguise, he felt the spikes on his back rear up and strain to break through. Danger! And, in an instant, he saw the lavender dot on Marv's forehead. Brad tried to call out, but before he could half-form the word "Duck!", Marv's head exploded in a liquidy, red burst. Like, really exploded. The top part of it probably went thirty feet in the air. It would have looked great in a movie (Publisher: hint hint). Everyone else leaped down, Launa sobbing across Marv's body. Brad looked around behind him. He couldn't see the shooter, but he sure smelled him. Even without his super-keen and enhanced alien nostrils, he could have smelled him.
A Nigcountry born black. Brad had heard rumors about their capabilities (almost as good as country born whites), but the fact one actually managed a headshot on Marv from across the bay was proof enough. A terrifying thought formed in Brad's mind - if the rest of these country born blacks were even half as good as the one that had awesomely snuffed Marv, then country born white America was in trouble. Because they could breed faster than country born whites, especially when backed up by an endless supply of government money. Brad needed to get to a computer and report this to the FreeAmericans immediately.
The ATF had just upped the ante.
This is more or less how the book actually reads.
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Sep 3, 2014 22:51
