Saturday, February 03, 2007

They Don't Suspect My Real Power

The tricks I played on women did not necessarily guarantee that I would be able to trick them into fucking me. Occasionally, yes. But whether that had anything to do with the tricks themselves is, I must admit, something of a moot point. That is, it could have been the tricks – along with the skill, the daring, the absolute thrill of surprise – but it could also have been my easy charm, my stunning good looks and my fabulous collection of Spider-Man comics (especially the British ones, including every issue of Spider-Man Comics Weekly from 1973 to 1976). After all, who needs tricks when you’ve got comics?

The tricks I played in bed, once I got these women into bed, usually involved some kind of superhero activity. Mostly to do with Spider-Man. So, for instance, if I was fucking them from behind I would press my hands and feet against the headboard and pretend I was clinging to a wall. Or if they were riding me, straddling me as I lay on my back, I pretended I was unconscious, knocked cold by Dr Octopus’s merciless adamantium arms. I mean, tentacles. Granted, they weren’t tricks as such – more like poses. But on one occasion I did wrap a woman in a makeshift web, leaving the appropriate hole exposed so I could fuck her as she hung from the ceiling. That, at the least, took a good deal of skill, as well as a small degree of contortionism.

The tricks I played on women, however, were not exclusively played on the women themselves. They were sometimes played on the men, as a means of getting to their women. These tricks included, for instance, locking the men in cabinets while I undressed their women with a deft, as they say, flick of the wrist. Or hypnotising the men into insisting that I fuck their women. Or, perhaps my favourite trick of all, transmuting my soul, my very essence, into the bodies of the men in order to fuck their women.

But as I said, my tricks were not always guaranteed to succeed. And neither could I be sure that the women I fucked as a result of the tricks I played on them were not, in fact, just playing along with the trick angle in order to hide the fact that it was my fabulous collection of comics that drew them to me. That is, that they were just pretending to be tricked into fucking me. After all, is it better to be tricked into being fucked, or is it better to be fucked as a result of being turned on by somebody’s fabulous collection of comics? That said, I can fully understand why my fabulous collection of comics would have exactly that effect on women. I mean, if I was a woman I’d rub myself sore just thinking about them.



Blogger Inconsequential said...

lol :)

7:47 PM  

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