Write a story in a single post

Write a story in a single post.

I called a pizza place and ordered a pizza. They delivered it to my house. I ate it.

The trap door only opens for those that close it.

>Write a story in a single post
user typed with a smug grin, as he affixed an image of a chimpanzee smoking at a typewriter, solved the captcha, and pressed "post." "Surely no one shall rise to this challenge" he opined while adjusting his full brimmed black felt cap. After several minutes had passed with no replies, user grew complacent, opened a new tab, and started auto-fellating himself to pornography featuring his favorite paraphilia. He was not prepared for what lie in wait when switched back tabs, jizz drool seeping from the corners of his chapped lips.

This is pretty off topic, but just because you mentioned auto-fellating.

I've had a lot of dreams lately about being able to suck my own dick. I'm sitting on my bed, and I think to myself, I haven't tried to blow myself in a while, might as well give it a go, not really expecting anything. But when I go for it, but penis fits easily into my mouth. I am too stunned to actually suck myself off. I think to myself, "holy shit, I have a dick in my mouth, and its MY dick!" and then I wake up.

Almost every night for the past few days. I'm not even joking.

What does this mean?

"I don't get how you could be so fatuous as to post this.

"What the fuck is so interesting about it? what do you hope to gain from this thread?"

I wrote, wondering about the enigma of OP's mind.

John Baxter woke one day and found that the universe had left the building.

He didn't understand this of course, at least not at first, but when he opened his eyes ready to embark in another day of routine work at the town's butcher's shop, he saw nothing but white. A confused scan of his surroundings revealed that there was no horizon and no floor beneath his feet either. If not for the fact that he did not feel any kind of wind rushing against his body, he would have sworn he was in free fall.

Nausea didn't take long to set in. John could feel his stomach lurching, trying to expel whatever remained of his midnight dinner like it was pure poison. He tried to resist, but in the end, the reflex won. A stream of bile, with a puree of semi-digested food mixed in, shot out of his mouth, coalesced upon itself into a ball and remained there, floating in front of him.

"Bloody fucking hell" he spat. Or at least, that's what he tried to say. His vocal chords found no purchase at all, and he suddenly become keenly aware of the deafening silence that permeated this place.

The only thought that resonated inside his befuddled, and slowly panicking mind was "Where the hell I am?"

I'm no psychologist but I think it means you want to suck your own dick.

don't we all?

There were few things in Quadree's life less tolerable than his coffee. It smelt of raw fish and had distasteful color, somewhere between the light tan of a fawn's coat and the yellow of an ancient newspaper. Even so, he drank it each morning without fail, spending each night in preparation rather than sleep. This state of affairs continued for his entire adult life, from the age of twenty-four to his death from pneumonia at ninety-six. Upon his deathbed, surrounded by his hundreds of foster children and a pack of Adventist ministers, he cursed the coffee bean and all who partake of it, dooming all who do so to a end more gruesome than his own.