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Sunday, May 04, 2008

boob torture entanglements

Thursday, January 18, 2007

forced male milkings

So I called on my mate, Bob, the ither day.

“Howdy Bob?”

“Guid, aye,” sez Bob. “How’s it hanging?”

“So ye’re coming oot, richt? I brocht the camera?”

“Sure thing,” sez Bob. He gits his jacket. “Whur we goan?”

“We’re gonna make us some porn,” I tell him. “The sista’s got this blog, ye see, and fowk’s keep searching for stuff what ain’t there.”

“Wowee,” sez Bob. “So whur’s the lassie? We meet her there?”

“Ain’t no lassie,” sez I. “’forced male milkings’ is what the punters wanna see. That’s what we’re gonna gie them.”

Bob looks puzzled. “But I like milkings.”

“Doan matter,” sez I. “You gotta scream an’ struggle an’ all. I got me some ropes, jest in case.”

Bob looks worried. “Why me?” he sez. “Why no’ I hold the camera and you…”

“Cos, I said,” I say, sharply. Disna the auld fella know who’s boss aroun’ here?

So we gits there, and we gits all the gear set out. “Dinna worry,” I tell Bob when he starts looking nervous. “It’s just acting.”

“But I’m really gonna be milking? On camera like?”

“Yup.”

Bob hangs his head. “Now’s no’ the time to get camera shy,” I tell him. “Git yoursel’ ready.” I picked up a stick, jest in case he needed a prod.

“Git on,” I tell him, halfway through. “Stop looking so happy. Forced remember. It ain’t porn if you ain’t compelled.”

“Why forced?” Bob asks, his voice muffled. He turns his head away from the mound of warm flesh to look at the camera.