1. Beef with Broccoli


    Date: 2/12/2016, Categories: Fiction, Blowjob, Erotica, Written by women, Author: CandyXLove, Rating: 92.9, Source: sexstories.com

    dissolving into giggles, "you order the Hunan beef?" There's only one real antidote to a Valentine's Day like this one: watching my favorite terrible horror movie. It's a surprise, right? I'm a first grade teacher and I still have that apple cheeked, blonde, girl-next-door thing going on. I should be watching something with Jennifer Aniston in it. Here's the thing, though, that I figured out in college. Women in those movies are idiots. They hate a guy from the moment they lay eyes on him, he does nothing to change her mind the whole time, then fifteen minutes from the end of the movie, she realizes she loved him all along and it's all been some kind of misunderstanding. I'm sorry, but if I'm going to watch a movie about a woman who's too dumb to know what's going on, I'd at least like it to be the zombie apocalypse or killer hillbilly murder cult she doesn't quite know how to deal with, not her own goddamn life. That's ridiculous. Life can be ugly, like every step around you is the scummy, gum-spotted sidewalk in front of a laundromat; Life can crush down on you like broken cinderblocks and rebar held together with coagulated smog. Your life, though, your life is the one thing you're always qualified to figure out. The brunette is running, streaked with blood, her shirt ripped half off so one cup of her white bra can show off her bouncing breast. She looks over her shoulder, panting, running. Nothing is behind her but skeletal trees and darkness. The camera changes shots ...
    to behind her, the lights of a house visible past her cutoff jeans. Her legs are long and bright red with blood. The wings of her feathered hair flap around her terrified face as she staggers up the porch and pounds on the peeling paint of the door with the flat of her hand, huffing out incoherent noises that might eventually resolve into pleas for help. Motion behind the yellowed curtains shows someone on their way to the door who will open it, give her safety. The camera cuts back to her as hinges creak and light shifts across her face. Her mouth stiffens halfway to a smile of relief, then drops open in a gritty, terrified scream. A rough, twisted plow blade flashes down out of the darkened doorway three times, each blow bringing another word in dripping red letters to overlay the scene. Scream. Bloody. Death. The camera circles the porch as the silhouetted figure pulls the poor girl's dismembered body inside. It pans into the door so the inside of the cabin is clear: the walls are completely covered with overlapping, palm-sized printed pages spattered with red. It will soon become clear that they are pages of the Bible, pasted up to keep out the Devil's influences and provide shelter for the insane Baptist preacher maniac, shelter from all the teenage sex, rock music, and marijuana cigarettes he'll be correcting by force for the next two hours. He heaves the girl's body onto the table in the middle of the room and hangs the plow blade back on the wall with his other tools. ...
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