Enjoy this new teaser for Michael Ampersant's new book (from Chapter 29, "I'd strike a deal with Mephistopheles, I win"):
I’ll be feeling his hands on my neck and his fingers on my throat. You like gasper sex, don’t you? he’ll ask. There’ll be a last, dying yell from yours truly and Alex’s thumbs will have squeezed my wind pipe. I’ll kill you, he’ll say, his mouth next to my ear, and the men around us are enjoying this thoroughly with their torchlights on my face and their free hands masturbating. At first it’s just a choke, but with his whole hunk weighing down on my pecs, his hands tight on my throttle and his cock ravaging my innards—searing pain jerking across my gut with each of his thrusts and total panic clinching my breast, and he—who’s usually fairly quiet during sex—ejaculating heavy grunts with each lunge of his hips, pumping his boozy breath into my face—my lung imploding, exploding—a spasm bopping up and down until it reaches my abs where it goes quiet and segues into the cadence of an impending ejaculation; the pain gone, the groin voltage surging, his dick off the charts, the loins contracting, time vanishing, space vanishing, his erection filling the void—and I’m gone.
He’s squatting next to me. The horny men have finished their business and left me under buckets of goo that Alex is slathering across my pecs and tummy—stuff that tastes like fresh oysters, old pennies, salty mushrooms, and bad sour cream. I rub my eyes. It’s gotten into my nostrils, I sneeze, there’s slime in my ears.
We disengage.
“I do funny things, you see,” he says, or contemplates. He peers at a glob of jizz on a large leaf of the ivy—the leaf hanging its head as if pondering gravity or the joys of fauna sex. Whose jizz is it, I wonder—the stuff seeps off the foliage, drip by drip, the leaf dipping with each drip, then raising its head again. “Ce n’est pas ma faute,” Alex says with the horrible accent of an American hunk.
Are you still there? Then you'll like THIS IS HEAVEN:
I’ll be feeling his hands on my neck and his fingers on my throat. You like gasper sex, don’t you? he’ll ask. There’ll be a last, dying yell from yours truly and Alex’s thumbs will have squeezed my wind pipe. I’ll kill you, he’ll say, his mouth next to my ear, and the men around us are enjoying this thoroughly with their torchlights on my face and their free hands masturbating. At first it’s just a choke, but with his whole hunk weighing down on my pecs, his hands tight on my throttle and his cock ravaging my innards—searing pain jerking across my gut with each of his thrusts and total panic clinching my breast, and he—who’s usually fairly quiet during sex—ejaculating heavy grunts with each lunge of his hips, pumping his boozy breath into my face—my lung imploding, exploding—a spasm bopping up and down until it reaches my abs where it goes quiet and segues into the cadence of an impending ejaculation; the pain gone, the groin voltage surging, his dick off the charts, the loins contracting, time vanishing, space vanishing, his erection filling the void—and I’m gone.
He’s squatting next to me. The horny men have finished their business and left me under buckets of goo that Alex is slathering across my pecs and tummy—stuff that tastes like fresh oysters, old pennies, salty mushrooms, and bad sour cream. I rub my eyes. It’s gotten into my nostrils, I sneeze, there’s slime in my ears.
We disengage.
“I do funny things, you see,” he says, or contemplates. He peers at a glob of jizz on a large leaf of the ivy—the leaf hanging its head as if pondering gravity or the joys of fauna sex. Whose jizz is it, I wonder—the stuff seeps off the foliage, drip by drip, the leaf dipping with each drip, then raising its head again. “Ce n’est pas ma faute,” Alex says with the horrible accent of an American hunk.
Are you still there? Then you'll like THIS IS HEAVEN:
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