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Shagging Oozing Smashing
by Nikki Isaak © 2005

I was devouring my carne asada burrito in El Farolito Taqueria when this attractive, curvy brunette woman sat down in the chair opposite me. Her brown eyes twinkled mischievously. She said, "I'm the Supreme Being, and I want to shag. Interested?"

I'd had a few drinks at the bar next door, but I wasn't that drunk. "Uh, no thanks. I have enough craziness in my life."

"You don't believe me."

"He might." I pointed to the drunk Mexican guy who was hassling the cook at the cafeteria-style counter. I did this quickly, lest he see me pointing at him, and think I was talking shit about him. In San Francisco, anything can happen.

She ignored that. "I'll convince you then," she smiled, lunging across the yellow plastic circular table, pressing her hot hand against my forehead before I could stop her.

Fast moving flash-visions of outer space, cosmic explosions, evolving landscapes, frozen dinosaurs, falling hacked-up angel limbs, and other more familiar historical images filled my mind. The visual collage ended with the image of Britney Timberlake, formerly Britney Spears, being elected as President. I shivered in horror.

"I know," said the freaky brunette. "That last future image of President Timberlake usually gets to people."

"You've done this before?"

"Even the Supreme Being gets horny sometimes, though my needs are more specialized. Does that mean you believe me?"

"You're... different."

"Okay. So do you want to do it or not?"

"Assuming that you are the Supreme Being, why me? Why not create a being specifically suited to your sexual needs?"

She smiled. "You're cute. Plus, you don't have a sycophantic bone in your body. That's attractive to me. A purely sexual creation would inherently possess a sycophantic bent. And a live-in lover would become possessive. Eventually, they all do. Besides, do you know what it's like to spend eternity with someone?"

I laughed, unsure how to respond. So I redirected the subject. "You said your needs were 'specialized.' Specialized, how?"

"Nothing weird, I promise. Just a minor fetish involving no effort on your part."

"I'm not into BDSM, or any freaky shit like that. I let a girlfriend gag and tie me up once. It was fine, until she fell asleep."

She smiled that pretty smile again. "I know. She still feels bad about that." She paused. "No BDSM, I promise. Shall we go?"

I admit I was curious now. Over the course of this strange conversation, she'd grown more and more attractive to me; had she mickeyed me with a tactile drug when she touched my forehead?

"Sure," I heard myself say.

The blue and yellow taqueria disappeared in a whorl of color and distorted voiced noise, and I found myself in a pristine, bright white bedroom, not unlike the one seen in the latter part of the film 2001 A Space Odyssey.

"I agree. It does look like the bedroom Dave Bowman found himself in," she said. Again, that hungry smile from the Brunette, who, naked, became translucent.

"This is my original form," she said, beginning to melt into a clear pool of gel-like ooze. Her voice maintained its musical tone as she said this. "I need you to strip, and sit on the edge of the bed."

I did as she said. I went to the four-poster bed and stripped. The Puddle—once the Brunette—flowed swiftly across the glowing marble floor and over my body, warm pleasant tinglings as the gel being became my new skin. When she filled my mouth and nostrils, I initially resisted, but her voice in my mind assured me that I'd be able to breathe just fine, if I'd just let her be my oozing fuck-slut.

She was right. It was like she wasn't even there... breathing-wise, anyway!

I came quickly, spasming and crying out, like I never had before.

How long this went on, I don't know. When I woke up, the Supreme Being had resumed her Brunette form.

"Follow me," she said, leading me into what looked like a massive hallway, where fine china was displayed along the walls.

I shivered, delighted.

I once had a wet dream where I was at a china-smashing party, all sorts of rare collectibles being shattered on white marble, people dancing naked while brushing each other, hot and sexy. It became a tucked-away fantasy of mine, one I could never indulge, because of the danger of foot cuts, and, well, the weirdness of it—

She smiled. "You indulged my fetish. Now I'll indulge yours."

Suddenly the endless hall was filled with naked curvaceous women of all human colors, kicking, whooping, shaking and hurling fine china.

"Thank you." I hugged the Brunette, warm and vibrant. Tears filled my eyes.

The smash party lasted for about an hour. I'd come on, and kissed more women among the scattered, shattered china shards than I can remember. The crockery became spongy and edible—like pancakes—after it broke. When dipped in pussy juices, it tasted like chocolate. Otherwise, it tasted like a hybrid of raspberry, blueberry and whipped cream. Quite yummy!

Then the Brunette told me it was time to go. Smiling, she handed me an antique plate circled with blue Latin script. Seeing my puzzled look, she said, "It says, 'I hope you had a smashing time.'"

I hugged her again, and found myself back in El Farolito Taqueria, surrounded by loud drunks and tired night trawlers. As I stumbled out onto the chilly, trash-cluttered street, I clutched my heavenly plate.

Later that year, an ex-girlfriend—Sammy, what a nutjob she turned out to be—would break that prized plate, claiming that I loved it more than I loved her.

She was right.

© 2005 Nikki Isaak. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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