1. A Lake of Fire, Chapter One


    Date: 1/14/2020, Categories: Fantasy Interracial Author: Backtattoo1, Source: sexstories.com

    A Lake of Fire, Chapter One It was a mild day in Heaven, but then all days in Heaven were ‘mild’ – warm, with a light breeze, birdsong, the smell of not-too-distant meadows. Mild. And utterly boring. Dr. Martin Luther King was ready for some hot action. He was now fully engorged and congratulated himself for having already slipped a condom over his penis before getting dressed that morning. It was a trick he had learned from JFK, which significantly cut down on the distractions of clumsily unwrapping the thing and sheathing one’s pecker in the moment. Of course, it hadn’t prevented the President from contracting syphilis on Earth, or from spreading his extensive catalogue of STDs through the Afterlife. King had made some progress on his memoirs and now rose from his desk, stretched, and aimed a solid slap at his bulging pants. ‘Down boy! Down!’ he chuckled. The breeze slipped through his office window, perfumed with lavender that he imagined rested in dewy drops on soft necks and breasts in the village outside. Somebody was going to get fucked. Of course, King had always been lucky in his pursuits, in both this life and the previous one. Even the night before he received his magic bullet in Memphis, he had heard the young women giggling outside his motel room. He smiled to remember the prickles running thrillingly up his neck, listening to them tease and dare each other to knock at the door. Vietnam had been on the television. White wine had chilled in a bucket beside his bed. Now things were almost too simple. Heaven, with its everlasting rewards, was a playground for the kind-hearted, still confounded and tortured by their own morals and inhibitions. Many of them had spent a lifetime fighting their own urges, futilely struggling to save a few fellow humans that (they would later realize) were only hairy skin bags, full of soggy organs. Now they knew that no one can be saved. They, like all the other skin bags, were nothing more than self-important harvest grounds for worm food. Coffin fillers. The temporary vessels for skeletons that would one day anchor down trees, roots knotting through their naked ribs and skulls. Their winged souls ascended to the Sweet Hereafter, where King waited, hard and ready as a humming power tool. Stooped over her garden, tending her blossoms like a doting schoolmarm, Princess Diana was the first of King’s forays that morning. He tackled her from the side and she exhaled a long, satisfied breath, betraying immediately that she had already spotted – and waited – for his assault. He knocked her down in the grass. His big palms pushed into her face and tits, before he found the buttons of her trousers and she felt them nearly torn off her body. He was not much of a gentleman, but King knew how quickly things could become unbearable if no attention was paid to lubrication. Diving down with predatory speed, he stripped Diana’s underwear from her flailing legs, and his wide tongue found the furry mound and soft folds ...
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