Percy was watching TV. He was on his sofa watching the Adult Channel and eating taco chips, but his mind was on neither activity; he was thinking about Elmer Grant. He spent a lot of time thinking about Elmer Grant these days, just like the girls spent a lot of time talking about him. He’d noticed a subtle change in their conversations lately, which proved he was a lot deeper than people took him for. They all thought he was dumb.
The girls fancied him, Grant. Every time they talked about him it was to do with sex. What d’you think he looks like naked? D’you think he’s got a girlfriend? D’you reckon they do it then? Could you have sex with someone like him? Think his thing’s all deformed too? And then Laura really putting the icing on it, ‘I don’t know about deformed, have you seen the size of that thing he’s packing?’
And that had really started the ball rolling.
He sighed. What a crowd. And men were supposed to be obsessed with sex? And that Laura, no better than she ought to be, as his mother always said, and always so stuck up and lah di dah with him, like she wasn’t a cheap little scrubber. I mean, God, she had an accent you could cut glass with, it was so coarse, and she’d had the cheek to turn him down like she was something. She was worst of all for chasing this Grant character, actually marching up to him in Dining and chatting him up, pretending she was just getting to know him when all the time it was just what he was packing in his pants that interested her. Not that he was packing anything special, that was just their dirty minds. They were disgusting really. These new kids they were letting in weren’t really up to the calibre of the old staff.
He sighed again and picked up the satellite listings magazine – there had to be something good on. He picked up the remote and put it onto the shopping channel.
Doris looked out of the tube window at the oily black crumbly walls that marked her passage through life and tried to understand the way she was feeling. On Friday night on her way home she had got the oddest feeling, looking at these black walls speeding her back to Wanstead like some demented mole. I want to go out to the country, she’d thought. So she’d phoned up Derek and asked him to take her on Saturday, and he’d been quite pleased because he liked bird watching and all that sort of thing, and really that bored her, if she had to be truthful, so usually she pulled such a long face when he suggested going out to the country that it was hardly surprising he should be surprised. Anyway, when she’d got there she’d felt so queer, and had kept turning down places Derek suggested until he got irritable and said, “Really Do, we’re going to run out of places if you don’t watch out.” And she’d blurted out, “It’s got to be somewhere with trees, lots of big trees.” And she could feel him looking at her, but he’d taken her to a wood just outside Brighton and that had been it. She’d jumped out the car and practically run there. Derek had shouted after her, “It’s private, Do!” But she’d gone in anyway. What’s more she’d taken her shoes off. But that wasn’t the worst of it. She’d got all sexy feeling and been really saucy with Derek, feeling him through his trousers and encouraging him to put a hand on her over her panties. She’d felt all wet too, like Laura said she got. It had all been a bit sordid really and now she felt heartily ashamed of herself.
Not to say confused.
She sighed and became aware of the wall going by again, black, sooty, too close, like going to Hell. She felt an even odder sense of anticipation. She couldn’t remember ever feeling anticipation on a Monday morning, going into work, but she did. It felt almost like she’d done something exciting that she was proud of. She wanted to tell someone and prove herself, somehow. She blinked confusedly, mind grasping at something, but the train thundered into the light and the thought was lost in the excited confusion of being there.
Laura was itching. At first she’d thought it was literally that. She’d woken at 7:02, blearily looking at the clock and trying to work out what had woken her and she’d actually been lying there rubbing herself before she’d realised what she was doing, and she’d rolled onto her back and said, “My God” and started rubbing three fingers furiously up and down her slit, but it hadn’t been enough so she’d pulled her cunt open with her other hand and really frigged it, whole hand trying to ease the inflamed itchy flesh, and it had felt so good and so bad at once, hot, burning, desperate, and she’d been sweating like a pig and thrown the quilt off and spread her legs, squirming her backside on the bed and grunted at how red and puffed she looked and then she had suddenly grabbed a handful of the quilt cover and rubbed it up and down over it furiously, but it hadn’t been rough enough, oh no. So she’d hopped out of bed, still furiously frigging herself, and grabbed some sports socks out her drawer, rough towelling, still balled up, and climbed up in front of the dressing table and rubbed – no, scrubbed – these socks all over her furious quim, her tongue practically hanging out at this huge red gash in the mirror, and come. Not a big thing, not the orgasm of the century, not the ultimate relief, but a small cramped spasm, almost painful, and wet slime everywhere, but her cunt still rock hard with swelling and….. nothing.
She’d peered at it there in the mirror, barely changed, just the frenzied itch gone out of it, and found herself pulling it open and examining her bumhole, and squeezing her nipples in the mirror, then taking her hairbrush and teasingly pushing it up her anus, giving her clit the tiniest rub, but it was obvious nothing was going to happen. She wanted it and didn’t, she was ready for it and wasn’t. She had to tear herself away from it in the end, but even when she was dressing, she kept surreptitiously fingering herself, and now in the car, stuck in this traffic jam, she could feel how swollen she was still, like her clit was rubbing against her pants all the time. She wondered if she’d have the nerve to finger herself in the middle of a traffic jam. She smiled to herself. Not bleeding likely.
The traffic moved forward suddenly. Laura kept her hands on the wheel.
Wayne was desperate for a wank. He couldn’t remember the last time, if there had ever been one, when he’d been desperate for a wank on a Monday morning; he was usually too half awake, knackered after Sunday football and the night before, round the town. He always joked that work was a rest for him after the weekend. It was no good, he couldn’t fight this. He muttered something unintelligible to old Bert, who grunted back at him, and bolted for the stairs. He went up them two at a time, and into the Gents. This was his secret Gents. No one else used them. They were in an awkward out of the way spot, so you could invariably sit in them half the day without being interrupted. He got into a cubicle and decided on something special. Wayne did not normally believe in anything fancy when it came to sex between him and his hand; his only criteria was that he would use anything or do anything that might make it better.
He pulled down his trousers and briefs and pulled them off his feet, chucking them on top of the cistern. He stood now in his shirt tail, socks and shoes. He pressed his bum against the cold porcelain wall, lifting his shirt to do so. It felt fine. His cock stood up like a peg.
Looking good this morning, baby, what d’you want? A super fast fisting or a long slow pull?
He closed his eyes and felt his way up his length like a doctor feeling a damaged limb. He was trying to read what it wanted. He had a rapport with his prick, he listened to it. Someday he hoped to find a girl who could listen to it as well as he could.
You want a tugging? Okay, then some nice tight pressure.
His hand did everything experimentally as he thought it.
Then a piss.
What?
He frowned. That was a new one.
He turned to the toilet and tried to urinate, looking at his penis curiously, like a parent at an erratic child. But nothing would happen.
Can’t, he thought.
Suddenly the door opened.
Shit.
He heard someone’s feet, odd, dragging. He bent and looked under the door. He did not recognise the feet, but he knew who it was, something told him. Elmer Gantry. He licked his lips. There was silence from outside. Wayne looked at the toilet again.
You could, he thought. And it was like it wasn’t him. You could. Try it.
He did, bowing his belly out and pressing his stiff prick down. It came out, a huge thick stream of it. God, where had that come from? He hadn’t even been needing. He watched his cock swell up harder, like the pressure of this huge flow was swelling it. Christ, what a prick I’ve got on me. God, that’s beautiful, Christ, I wish I could suck that.
You could.
That voice, his but not his.
You could, easy – try it.
He put one foot up on the toilet seat like he’d been doing it all his life and bent his head. He pulled, he tugged, and it reached; it actually reached. He felt his own lips close over his knob. It was all he could do, but it was enough. He pulled his penis up in rough little jerks, his knob jigging in his mouth and sucked himself furiously, fascinated by his own flavour, worming his tongue under his foreskin.
Oh, tasty, tasty. Oh, I taste like velvet, silk, my come’s salt, God my knob’s big, sucking myself, I love you, I love you, sucking… big knob… sucking… oh.
And he came.
Not yet discovered the wonder of The DANNY Quadrilogy? You can check out all the volumes currently in print at Poison Pixie where you can read an extract of Volume 1 for FREE! Or start your collection on Amazon here where you can also buy a ‘sampler’, entitled CULT Fiction, containing an introduction to The DANNY Quadrilogy along with an excerpt from Volume 1, for only £2.99. But hurry, the sampler is being discontinued at the end of this year so you gotta move fast!
If you are a new fan who wants to know more about the background and history of DANNY, then visit The DANNY ‘Wikipedia’
You can also see me in person on my YouTube site (as well as DANNY’s various trailers and ads) here or you can see the same material on the Poison Pixie film site.
To subscribe to this blog, without divulging your email address, scroll down the page and you will find a button marked “Entries RSS” under Meta in the left hand sidebar. You can also sign up to follow comments here. Or you can simply post the following text into your RSS browser: http://www.chancery-is-god.com/?feed=rss2
Lastly, there is a DANNY Discussion Board run by fans, C Stone’s DANNY haphazardly hosted by Jodie. It’s haphazard because the poor soul never has anyone to talk to, so go along and pester her; she likes it. Don’t you want to belong to a really elite club?
