mcsquiggans

A Real Pot-Boiler!

Category: sexual humor

The Lieutenant’s Butt-Hole

Reveille ripped Private Jonny away from the safety of his hedonistic unconsciousness and transformed his newly awakened world into a hellish nightmare.  “Oh Jesus.” he moaned, as he rolled over in his rack to get up for the morning inspection. He’d had a particularly rough evening the night prior and was in bad shape yet again.   The back of his OD green service pants were torn out at the seat, and he was still wearing a shit-smeared rubber.  “Medic! Corporal, get over here, dude! I’m not going to make it!” he screamed to Corporal Bloer, the unit corpsman.  “Shut the fuck up, Jonny. I can’t believe that you fucked the general’s son in the ass again!  You’re supposed to be my twink!” said Bloer.  “Well, you always said that the worst thing on you is a drunken Irishman, so don’t get too upset, you fucking fag!” chuckled Jonny.  He staggered to his feet and hastily pulled off his shredded pants and dangling jimmy-hat and threw on his fatigues.  The platoon assembled in front of their racks and stood at attention just as Sergeant Rahmjobb kicked open the doors to the barracks and began screaming at the nearest set of troops. When the sergeant got in Jonny’s face he said, “Jesus-H-Christ. Well, you obviously take it deep in the ass!”  “YES, SERGEANT!” screamed Jonny.  “I’D ALSO LIKE TO CRAM MY BONER IN YOUR CHEESY ASSHOLE, SIR!” he added.  “Is that so, private?” said the sergeant with a faint smile. He brushed a crumb out of his bleached soul-patch and eyed Jonny for a response.  “YES SIR!  AS A MATTER OF FACT WE COULD GO INTO THE LATRINE RIGHT NOW, SIR!” the private screamed at top-volume.  At the other side of the aisle, private Emmons let out a barely audible chuckle.  Rahmjobb turned around and with unmerciful swiftness, grabbed Emmons by the throat in a chokehold, bent him over and rammed the end of a grenade launcher in his rectum and fired the projectile while simultaneously kicking him behind a row of metal gear lockers.  Poor Emmons didn’t know what hit him.  He exploded with a wet pop and in an instant the wall of the barracks and the back of the lockers were covered in meaty chunks of gore.  “Anyone else have anything to say?” said Rahmjobb.  “NO SIR!” came the reply in unison.  “Very good.  Private Guzelspouph, form a detail and get this shit-hole cleaned up.  Jonny, you come with me for a latrine inspection.” said the sergeant.  He did an about face and followed a bow-legged Jonny to the shitter.  Once inside, Jonny pulled off his pants but left his codpiece on as the sergeant took off and folded his crisply starched uniform.  “What’s with the banana hammock, private?” said the sergeant.  “That’s for you to find out, sir.” said Jonny as Rahmjobb got onto his knees and pulled it aside so that he could trumpet his own rendition of reveille on Jonny’s skin flute.  As the codpiece gave way, a coiled spring snake like you’d buy at a joke store burst out and rocketed into the sergeant’s face.  Rahmjobb was so stunned that he sharted and then looked up at Jonny just as he was bringing down a ten pound sledge hammer at full force.  “YAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!” screamed the private as the sergeant’s head turned into a splattered pumpkin.  His inert body slumped to the floor and Jonny donned his fatigues to get prepped for work at the mess hall.  “Sorry, sarge.  You were a serious piece of ass, and you know that I don’t say that lightly, but today was just not your day.  I hate it when you wear that damned musk oil.  It reminds me of getting schtooped at the barber shop when I get my high-and-tights.”  Private Jonny walked out of the latrine and formed up with the platoon and marched to the mess hall for work detail.  Once inside, the mess hall commander Lieutenant Tom Hotdork mustered the men and assigned them their duties.  Jonny, along with specialist Pendergrease and private Pypedyner were given the prep station as their “command.”  Jonathan walked over to Pendergrease and Pypedyner and the three of them marched to their station to get everything set up.  As Pendergrease was pulling plastic buckets out of the lowboys, Jonny got behind him and ripped his pants off, slathered his veined dick with astroglide and stuffed it into his scabbed asshole so quickly that Pendergrease jerked his head up and hit it on the bottom of the counter.  That didn’t seem to matter really, because he started to moan and ram his butt into Jonny’s thrusting waist.  Pypedyner definitely liked what he saw.  He pulled off his tear-away warm-up pants and jumped up on the counter top.  He rapidly jerked himself stiff and hammered his schlong into Jonny’s slack mouth.  He grabbed the back of his head and started to violently skull-fuck him.  Jonny’s eyes bugged and he blasted a soupy load into Pendergrease’s gizzards and then ate one himself, the poor bastard.  Jonny pulled down his own pants, squatted over and defecated a steaming pile of mush onto the tiled floor.  “Cleanup on aisle 5!” he said, laughing.  “Jesus, Jonny, you are a fucking madman!” said Pypedyner.  Pendergrease didn’t have too much to say.  The initial bonk on the head when Jonny penetrated him, plus all of the subsequent knocks as he was getting jack-hammered had put him into a coma, and he was now laying basically lifeless on the floor with jizz running out of his bleeding ass.  “Oh man.  That fucking pansy.  Now what are we going to do, Jonny?” said Pypedyner.  “There’s only one thing to do, my dear friend.  Pick up that sack of shit and we’ll toss him into the meat grinder.  Fuck, we’re low on ground beef anyway, and the menu tonight has burgers, tacos and Swedish meatballs, so the timing couldn’t be better.  How could you not see that, you fucking imbecile!” said Jonny.  All Pypedyner could come up with was, “Oh, right.”  Jonny flew into an immediate and uncontrollable rage and grabbed the back of Pypedyner’s head and dunked it into the deep fryer.  He had to use tongs to hold it down as it fried up, lest he burn his hands.  He needs his hands un-marred so that he can constantly jerk-off and wipe his stinking ass!  “This is working out better than expected.  Now I’ll have enough ground beef for the rest of the week, plus a surprise fried calf’s head!” said Jonny to himself.  He walked back to the Lieutenant’s office and rapped on the door.  “Yes, private, come on in.” said Hotdork.  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.  You’ve gotten some really high marks from your co-workers, so I’d say that you, my good man, are up for promotion!”  Jonny was flabbergasted. He’d killed everyone that he’d ever worked with, so he had no idea where the lieutenant got his information which was obviously bunk.  “Uh, sir, I…” muttered Jonathan.  “Now, now, there’ll be none of that, private.  Come over here and immediately perform fellatio on my pumped-up poo-pounder.  THAT’S AN ORDER!” screamed Hotdork.  “YOUR WISH IS MY WILL, SIR!” said Jonny as he got to his knees.  He fumbled with the lieutenant’s fly and fished out his skipjack tuna tube steak and gobbled it up with an immediacy that he hadn’t known since the last time that he had explosive diarrhea onto the wall of the shower stall.  Hotdork said, “OHHH, OHH YEAHH, AAAGGGHHHH!!!”  He pulled Jonny up from beneath the desk and turned around so that his butt was right in Jonny’s face.  He then said, “Come on, make my butt-hole feel good.”  He spread his cheeks and pressed his anus to Jonny’s face and heaved with all of his strength.  In an instant, there was a sound that could be heard across the kitchen and into the dining room. Officers and Enlisted alike looked up from their pots and pans; their dinners and deserts, as the lieutenant’s bowels gave way.  At first, the fart exploded flecks of fibrous debris which formed the cap of what was to become the main bore of the poop log onto Jonny’s face, creating a camouflage-esque crust of warm slop.  Next came another baritone fart, which quivered Hotdork’s bung-hole.  Since he was at such a close range, Jonny noticed a couple of boils which, he deduced, were most likely herpes pustules at one corner of the lieutenant’s puckered poopie.  Oh well, that was probably from me anyway, he thought to himself as Hotdork shrieked, “AHHHH!” and the main log came out like a crowned skull and then launched like a booster rocket into Jonathan’s mouth, filling it with sludge and knocking him to the side as if he’d been cuffed.  “UUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!” moaned Jonny.  “THAT’S RIGH!  AND NOW LOOK AT WHAT’S NEXT!!!!!” yelled lieutenant Tom Hotdork, who spun around revealing his boner spraying jizz in flying arcs.  The lieutenant was moaning uncontrollably and fell backward behind his desk.  Jonny took the opportunity to wipe the poop out of his mouth and run outside.  He jumped into the seat of the bulldozer that was in the parking lot and fired it up as diarrhea started to run down his leg.  He brought the machine forward at full speed and demolished the wall of the mess hall and drove into the mess hall office obliterating everything in his path while yelling, “IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE, DARLING!”  Hotdork peeked up from behind his desk and saw his doom approaching, so he desperately started to reinflate his rubbery weenis.  When that failed, he laid on his back and thrust his hips into his face in a last-ditch attempt to blow himself just as private Jonny drove the bulldozer through the office wall and crushed him like a walnut husk.  Jonny calmly turned off the engine and dusted himself off.  He had to double time it back to the barracks so that he could watch the movie where the farmer fucks one of his sheep in the ass and then sends it stampeding into the 4H craft room.  “Damn, this sure is a fucked-up world we live in.” he said while saluting his barracks watch officer.  The officer looked down at the bulge in Jonny’s fatigues and winked at him.  “Yep, here we go again!” he said and immediately started to finger his own butt-hole as the lights went dark on another day in the life of the man who really had all of the answers… Private Jonny.

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Jonathan: A maniac that’s obsessed with wiping his ass

 

            ‘Twas another shameful night at work for Jonathan, who was the resident beertender at Thor’s Hammer – a male review and bottle shop in Portland, Oregon. Jonathan had spent the last two hours prancing around on the bar, wearing tan chinos, no shirt, a plaid bow tie and a stovepipe hat. He had a contraption the he himself had invented strapped to the inside of his leg which consisted of a plastic bag filled with fake semen, a hand pump, and a plastic nozzle that threaded onto the huge rubber penis that protruded from his pants. He was tasked with running up and down the line and indiscriminately grabbing the back of patrons heads and dousing them in the face with loads pumped from the bag while yelling, “Hoo-Ha-Hoo-Ha!” The tips were good and the crowd loved it, but Jonny-boy had other, more important things on his mind. He needed to get to the latrine immediately, and there was nothing that was going to get in his way. He ripped off the huge rubber schlong and tossed it in a garbage can, unstrapped his goo-machine and raced for the can yelling, “Get the hell out of the way, this is an emergency!” He walked into the bathroom and, of course, all of the stalls were filled with groups of men. The floor was covered in paper towels, toilet paper, condom wrappers, spent travel sized bottles of astroglide, pictures of Doogie Howser and a shirtless Mario Lopez, peanut shells and baskets of hand towels. “Jesus” said Jonny, “I can’t wait to wipe my ass.” The only sounds from inside of the stalls were shrill moans and the sound of liquid splattering onto the walls. In a near panic, Jonathan went to the stall on the end and kicked in the door. What he saw startled him, but he’d seen many strange things at work before and this was a genuine emergency. There was a man lying on top of the bowl with a stag handled knife sticking out of his back and behind him was Troy, one of the dancers from the club. He was standing there with his pants around his ankles, his massive crooked boner coated in what appeared to be mustard. Jonathan kicked him as hard as he could in the balls, which sent Troy sprawling on top of the dead man, and then pulled a Smith & Wesson 500 out of his pocket and blew his brains out. The stall and Jonathan were now completely covered in gore, so Jonny turned around and walked out, bumping into screaming patrons who were heading for the bathroom exit like rats from a sinking ship. “Well, that problem’s solved!” said Jonny. He went into the adjacent, just vacated stall and sat down to finally go doo-doo. He put his head in his hands and started straining, the effort monstrous. Capillaries in his forehead and nose started to rupture, and his grunting intensified into a heaving wail. “HHHHGGGGGGGGHHHH!” At last, the first product of his effort came forth in the form of a chainsaw-like fart. “Oh god. At least I finally have the dump all lined up. Come on, baby, let’s rock!” said Jonathan. The excrement came out with such force that Jonny was rocketed into the wall, thrown like a scarecrow. He climbed back aboard and grabbed a wad of toilet paper, douched his butt-hole and didn’t bother to flush. He pulled up his chinos and walked back out into the bar to have a little chat with Smitty, the owner of the place. Smitty was in his office getting blown by Stuart, who was the beer rep from Barley’s Chubb Soda. Un-fucking-real, thought Jonathan, who had only last week stuffed his bloated crank into Stu’s bung-hole. It hadn’t been just another tryst for Jonny, not this one. This time he was in it for the long haul, and he was prepared to do whatever necessary to defend his honor, consequences be damned. He ran into the room and pulled Stu off of Smitty’s fat cock and pulled the gun back out and fired a bullet into Smittys forehead, which, you can well imagine, blew his brains out all over a poster of Sylvester Stallone as Cobra that he had thumb tacked to the wall. Stu got up and wiped off his face with a napkin that Jonathan handed him. “Thanks, man. That poor bastard had it coming. Fuck, he hasn’t paid a bill in over three months!” said Stu. “I hear you. By the way, WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING?!!!!!” screamed Jonny. “What the hell did it look like I was doing, dumbass? I was sucking on his immense pipe with the full intent of gobbling his load! You’re awful touchy tonight. What gives, amigo?” asked a concerned Stu. Jonathan, who at this point was weeping openly, looked up in the air and shook his head and then started laughing hysterically. “Why me? Why the fuck does this shit always happen to me? I’m a good guy and yet I always seem to get the shaft!” cried Jonny. Stu laughed and said, “You sure do, you homo, but isn’t that the point?” Jonny laughed too and then quickly grabbed a baseball bat that Smitty had in the corner and proceeded to bash Stu’s skull into a mashed pulp while yelling, “YAAAAAAA!!!!” Bruce, the appetizer cook, ran in and said, “What the hell is going on in here? Jesus, Jonathan, what’s this?” Jonathan turned around and said, “Nothing Bruce, I was just tidying up. I’ll be out in a moment. Hey, by the way, can you start me an order of taquitos? I’m famished.” “Sure thing, J-dog! Sorry for the interruption, but I heard the screaming and now, you know, there are two dead bodies lying in front of you, so I thought that something might be amiss.” said Bruce. “Haha, nothing is always as it seems, my good man!” said Jonathan, who gave a big horse wink to Bruce. “Got it, muchachbro! You’re the doctor!” said Bruce who winked back. He had every intention of butt-fucking Jonathan later and didn’t want to shit where he eats. Well actually he did, but that’s another story. In any case, he walked out and headed to the kitchen to prepare Jonny’s treat, so Jonathan wiped himself off again and went back out to the bar. The lounge was about half full of mostly older gentlemen. Jonny walked to the front of the room and climbed onto the stage and picked up the microphone. “ARE YOU GUYS READY TO FUCKING PAR-TAY-HAY?! My name’s Jonathan and I’m your beertender. I also, as some of you already know, am the person who mans the bulls-eye glory-hole every Tuesday and Thursday from nine to eleven, so put it on your calendars! Ha, well I’m standing in front of you tonight with a little confession to make.” Cheers from the crowd. “I slept with a woman once…” Boos from the crowd. “Just kidding, you homos, hardy-har-har. But seriously, I apologize to any of you that had the corn chowder this evening because when I came in earlier and it was being prepared, I defecated in the tureen.” said Jonathan. At that point, four people in the crowd started projectile vomiting onto the ground. Jonathan said, “Yep, that’s about right. It usually doesn’t sell too well. AND NOW YOU KNOW THE REASON WHY! WOO-HOO! Come on, come on, you guys need to lighten up. I’m just trying to keep things interesting. Speaking of keeping things interesting…” Jonathan hit a foot switch and a Gatling gun rose from beneath the stage. Jonny grabbed the hand crank and started mowing down the shrieking crowd by maneuvering the gun from side to side. The patrons were literally cut to pieces. Heads were blown off, as were arms and legs, and one gentleman (one of the corn chowder guys) had his entrails come out and land on top of his dinner companion who screamed and, while trying to pull them off, was decapitated by raging gunfire. Jonathan finally stopped cranking the gun and jumped off the stage to survey the damage, which appeared at first glance to be total. He found one victim who’d been cut in half trying to scramble under a table by pulling his upper body forward with a table cloth. Jonny went over to him and crushed his head like a cantaloupe with the heel of his boot. He walked back into the kitchen to check on his taquitos which were sitting in the pass-thru under the heat lamps. Bruce and the head chef, Dominic were busy behind the line preparing a whole laundry list of food for the now deceased patrons. “Hey, y’all! You can cancel all of those orders. I’m afraid to say that the patrons have all crossed the River Styx.” said Jonathan. “If that were actually true, I’d bugger you right now in the walk-in!” said Dominic. “Me too!” chirped Bruce. “Well, it’s your lucky night guys! Take a look out in the dining room and then meet me in the walk-in!” said Jonny. They both went to the window and, sure as shit, everybody was wiped out. “Holy moly! That bastard was telling the truth. Let’s get back there and commence with the gay threesome!” said Dominic. “Sounds about right.” said Bruce. They proceeded to the cooler where they found Jonathan wearing only his g-string, sitting atop a crate of cucumbers. “Am I great or what?” said Jonny. “You are indeed, sir!” said Dominic who was trying to get his belt off. Bruce was already undressed and was grabbing at Jonny’s pecker which was now fully pumped up. “Dinner time, bro!” said Jonny as he shoved his meat stick into Bruce’s grouper like mouth. Dominic got behind Jonathan and began pumping his fist into Jon’s exhaust-chute while fondling his ball-bag. Jonathan turned Bruce over and began reaming out his tail-pipe while Dominic jerked off into a five gallon bucket of chicken stock. Jonathan said, “Hey-Ho-Hey-Ho,” and then, “Hiya-huma-hiya-huma” as he blew a massive load into Bruce’s large intestine. He then grabbed Bruce by the neck and shoved his head into the lobster tank and held him there until he drowned. “That’s some crazy shit, dude!” said Dominic.  “Life certainly can surprise you.  Hey, Dominic, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that you give crummy rim-jobs.” said Jonathan. “I do admit that it’s my weakest skill, but I have a rubber molded butt in my apartment that I’ve been practicing on, so with time and effort I’ll be able to get there eventually.” said a shrugging Dominic. “Well, here’s the bad news, you’ll never get the chance because your number just got called.” said Jonny. “That stinks. Can I at least eat first? You know, a last meal type thing? Asked Dominic. “No.” said Jonny who pulled out a Mac-10 that he’d stashed behind a bag of potatoes and fired directly into Dominic’s bloated face which, very quickly, became decidedly un-bloated. You guessed it, his brains were blown out onto a case of smoked oysters. “Well, that’s all she wrote for this shit-heap.” said Jonathan, who put his g-string back on and waltzed out of the club into the crisp night air. He was hoping that the Chinese restaurant was still open so that he could grab some late night crab rangoon and then, with luck, bugger the new busboy that had just arrived from Canton.