Clara (part 6 )

I WOKE UP, but I couldn't remember going to sleep. I had slept in my clothes, that much was evident, and now felt that well-known icky feeling all over me, especially in my feet, which seemed to be way to big now for the shoes I hadn't removed. With my eyes refusing to open for fear light might enter and immediately blind me for life, I pondered my caged feet, and this icky phenomena.

As a scientist might.

Three things had possibly taken place to make my feet feel the way they did: My shoes had shrunk. My socks had expanded in ply width. Or my feet had gotten fatter, especially my toes. They felt twice as big as normal.

Aha! The first two were impossible, ergo, my feet had fattened up! Write this down, before you forget it: Sleeping with your shoes on promotes fat feet!

I mused: Would the corollary of sleeping with your hat on lead to a bigger head? Had my unremoved shorts made my dick fatter? Should I start measuring it?

Perhaps, I funned to myself, that's Nick's secret! He never takes his shorts off! Even when showering! I was on a roll with my scientific probing.

Now, if I could get my hands on the son-of-a-b*tch imp who stuck all those sharp needles into my eyes during the night, and stuffed 30 cotton balls into my mouth, I'd rip his heart out with my bare hands, then eat it raw.

Shit, I needed a drinkie poo.

With my burning, stinging eyes half-lidded, keeping light at bay, I stumbled around the apartment, as a blind man would, one who knows where everything is, but still plays it cautiously cagey.

A trip to the fridge got me a small can of V-8 juice. I stuffed the cold can into my trouser's right pants pocket, feeling the iciness of the can on my thigh through the pocket's thin inner material. This immediately made my left pocket jealous, so I stuffed it with chipped ice. Ah . . . I felt in balance for the first time today.

Still afraid to see fully, I furniture-groped my way to the liquor cabinet and easily, ha ha, found a glass, a tall one. I emptied my left pocket into it. I felt proud of myself. I could handle blind. No problem, son. But, hey, God, I'm in no rush to test it out, OK?

Believing it was OK with Him, I found the Vodka, a nice switch from Scotch, and poured what I felt was a jigger of it into the glass, if, that is, a jigger is measured as four fat fingers. Shit, I told myself, leave some room for the V-8, buddy! Hey, I then told myself, I'm not stupid. This has been carefully planned, don'tcha know?

I pulled the juice out of its pants pocket hiding place, popped its pull-tab, and poured the entire contents, willy-nilly, into the tall glass. Then I watched, but with only one squinting eye, fascinated, as V-8 sloshed over the rim and puddled up on the white Formica shelf. Oh, well, nobody's perfect! I bent over and sipped from the liquid surface of the glass top, in preparation of picking the glass up. The few sips tasted only of V-8, and obviously needed stirring to bring out the Vodka's flavor.

I marveled at how easily such a simple task as making a friggin' Bloody Mary, sans celery, could become a disaster in my klutzy hands. Shit, I mused, if it absolutely needed celery, my ineptness in shearing off a stalk would put the bloody in Bloody Mary. I squinted at my hands, just to make sure I hadn't sliced and diced them and forgotten about it. Aside from the visible trembling, they looked fairly normal. Goody, goody! I wouldn't lose any masturbation time! You hearing me, Nick and Clara?

Oops! I shouldn't have thought that! Here comes Nick and Clara! Entering stage right, in the buff, and holding hands. They gaily skip onto the stage, like kids, her tits jiggling and swaying, his cock jutting out, cutting through the air like a meaty saber, and his big, hairy balls bouncing all around, slapping themselves loudly against his legs. Go away, you two, can't you see I'm busy? They ignored me, right there in my very own mind.

Nick lifted Clara up and, with an expertise that comes from years of practice, impaled her cunt on his mighty dick. Her arms were around his thick, muscular neck, and she looked demented with lust.

I stirred the Bloody Mary with my finger, lifted the glass, took a big sip, and watched them perform their lewd act. Nick turned to his left a bit, showing her *ss fully to me. He smiled at me. He had her firmly by the *ss cheeks and was raising and lowering her with apparent ease, as if she weighed no more than air.

"Like what you see, Arthur?" Nick said, looking directly at me, and moving Clara up and down on his pussy-stretching shaft. "Clara rides my big, fat prick very well, don't you think?" I stared at him over the rim of the glass, and nodded. It was true. She did. In spite of the fact that his cock looked, as it sawed in an out of her, as if it was trying to cut her in two and, in my opinion, it might very well succeed in the task.

I now stared at her pussy and saw her pubic hairs surrounding his cock's wide girth, to the point where I couldn't distinguish her hairs from his, except when she was at the shaft's uppermost positions. In those positions, her pussy reminded me of a strange, hairy mouth, a large, inhuman hairy mouth that was sucking him off. And enjoying it immensely.

Just as the hairy mouth reached the cock's ridged flange, it would swoop downward, seemingly unaided by Nick, and deep throat him, all the way down to his balls. It was so fascinating.

Her back to me, Clara said, "You like watching us f*ck, Arthur?" I nodded, but then realized she couldn't see me, so I said, out loud, "Oh, yes, Clara, very much!"

She threw her head back and laughed. Then she screamed. "Oooooh, Nick, I'm going to cum! Oh, yeah, oh god, here I go, right now. Oh, darling Nicky, oh yeah, oh God, oh yeah, oh yeah! You hearing me, Arthur?" I nodded, not caring to voice a yes.

Her whole body trembled violently, and then she said, "Oh, Nicky, no one, absolutely no one, makes me cum the way you do. I love you, darling, with all my heart and soul. You hear that, Arthur?" I ignored the b*tch by not even nodding.

She then squeezed her arms around his neck tightly, and kissed him, a fierce, passionate kiss, a kiss reserved only for the truest of lovers.

I hated Nick. For fucking Clara as only he could, and for giving me a roaring erection. I unzipped and fished out my hard, erect cock. I watched them, knowing that although I was their prisoner, and their captive audience, they were also mine, and couldn't leave the stage until my orgasm gave them permission to do so. We had a symbiotic relationship, if nothing else.

As I stroked my cock, feeling a soreness in it, I watched as Nick lowered Clara to the floor and said, in that super manly voice of his, "Now, darling, suck and clean all your cunt juices from off my magnificent prick and, when you've finished, I want to cum in your mouth." She obeyed, and before you could say squat, she had his cock in her mouth and was bathing it with her saliva, sucking it clean.

Nick said, "Her mouth's talents know no bounds, eh, Art?" I nodded, dopey-like.

Then, feeling a sensation that signaled I could cum soon, I fast- forwarded the scene a tad. Nick's big, hairy cock, with the cum-laden hairy balls, was unloading a huge amount of cum; I imagined at least a gallon, into Clara's eager, talented-without-no-bounds mouth.

She was sputtering, her cheeks puffing in and out, bellows-like, as she swallowed as much as she could handle, with much of the gallon escaping past her lips, and waterfalling down onto her knees, and the wooden boards of the stage, creating a large puddle of his cum.

Nick pulled his cock out of her and finished his superhuman cum deluge on her face. In a trice, Clara's face, neck, and shoulders, was awash in his sticky sperm. I watched as gravity made lots of it cascade down onto her tits, dripping then onto her belly, and finally finding the hidey-hole between her legs.

Bingo! It's my turn, Nick. With my eyes closed, and a feeling of utter bliss all through me, I shot my load . . . I know not where. When drained, I opened my eyes and discovered that the "where" was the surface of my Bloody Mary concoction.

My white cum stood out starkly from its vegetable juice background, and floated on it, with a billion sperm undoubtedly drowning in the mixture and, also undoubtedly--and given their almost nonexistent weight--getting rip-roaring drunk on Vodka. "Belly up to the bar, boys, it's your last day on earth." I had whispered this, for some strange reason, hoping it had escaped Portal's ears. I didn’t think of the fact that he had no ears to hear with.

"Waste not, want not." I said out loud. I grabbed a swizzle stick, stirred the new mix fully, and took a sip. Amazingly, I had discovered a new use for cum! It didn't taste bad at all. It was as if I had merely added some salty onions to the drink. Celery, eat ya heart out!

I looked at the talking door. "Cheers, Portal, old thing." I took a long swig, and swallowed. The aftertaste reminded me that cum wasn't that easily cut. I could taste its sting in the back of my throat with each and every new swallow of my saliva.

I looked at the acting stage in my mind. Nick and Clara were gone, resting no doubt, from their recent sexcapades. Good! They might have said something truly embarrassing to me about my new sperm-loaded drink discovery, which, on the sperm of the moment, ha ha, I had decided to call a Cummy Clara! Do newly invented drinks, I mused, need to be patented? Or do the inventors merely rejoice in their silent, anonymous fame? I had no idea.

"Hey, Harry," I said out loud for Portal's amusement, "There's nothing like a Cummy Clara, buddy, to cure a hangover, you know what I mean?" Then, using a British accent for Harry, I said, "Bob's your uncle, guv'nor, and that bleedin' strange, oniony aftertaste gives you an instant erect. Me wife's taken to making 'em for me every night now! Cheers for Cummy Clara, mate." I giggled like a schoolgirl at my drollery.

Then I heard from Portal. He was, at last, awake. Or do doors, like sharks, never need sleep?

"You're a pip, Arthur, a real pip. An insane pip, to be sure, but a lovable one, too. Good morning, Arthur, did you sleep well? Or did having your clothes on give you that icky feeling we doors never need to experience?"

"Icky, but good morning to you, too, Portal." I lifted my drink and toasted him.

"Oh, well, C'est la vie! as French doors like to say. But we have more important matters to discuss. Your Nick and Clara dilemma. Ready for my advice?" I nodded, with great anticipation coming over me.

"It's simple, old pip. You've got to kill Nick, before these shenanigans kill you!"

I was stunned. I had expected something with more, shall we say, deep insight in it, something with ageless wisdom behind it. What did Portal have in mind next? Hiring a hit man? Wiring Nick's car with explosives?

I glared at Portal. "That's crazy, and out of the question. Even if I knew it would work, and I would get away with it, and Clara would be all mine, there's no fucking way I can kill anybody. My mother didn't raise me that way. Shit, Portal, even my father was against killing . . . of any kind." I glared at Portal. "He thought hunting for sport was barbaric.

"He hated the fact that we had to kill chickens in order to eat them. He felt God has gotten it all wrong when it came to chickens. They should be, my father would say, like peaches, unfeeling and edible. Grown in chicken orchards, and picked at their ripest and plumpest. Or, he would also say, chickens should have the magical ability to be eaten, but immediately reappear, alive and well, pecking away and no worse for the wear." I took a deep breath before plunging on.

"So, Portal, killing Nick is out!" I could swear I saw portal tremble, as if in anger at my poo-pooing his wonderful suggestion. To lighten the atmosphere somewhat, I said, quite jovially I thought, "Hey, Portal, don't go getting unhinged on me!"

This had me laughing so hard my chest ached. I struggled to speak, and finally managed, "Any other bright ideas?" Clutching my chest, I stared at him.

"Yeah, pippy . . . if you won't kill nick, then go and kill Clara!" Doors named Portal, it appeared, are not the brightest bulbs in the package. So much for a door opening and leading to great wisdom.

"Listen, Portal," I said, as if speaking to a child. "If I won't kill nick, why the f*ck do you think I'd up and kill Clara? Didn't you hear me when I mentioned my father and his chicken story? For crissakes, Portal, get it through your plywood head . . . I'm not a killer . . . I don't do murder!" That told him, I felt.

"Yes, you are, Arthur. I saw you kill a billion or so of your living sperm, and then, most cannibally I thought, drink them down, as if they mattered for nothing at all. And then, you hypocrite, you relished the salty onion taste left behind by their little corpses! And I'm sure your mother didn't raise you that way. Or did she?" He sounded too fucking smug, if you ask me.

But shit! He had me there. I didn't know what to say, or how to answer him. How do you explain to a door that sperm is expendable? And how do I tell Portal that billions, trillions, and even gazillions, are killed every day as a matter of course? That it's not murder, its . . . it's . . . what? I couldn't find the word with my fuzzy, boozed-up, and hung over brain.

Portal said, viciously almost, "Even your lovely Clara is a cannibal! Tell me, if you can, old chum, how many live spermatozoa has she swallowed in her lifetime, eh?" I immediately pictured Clara's mouth puffing in and out as she swallowed Nick's copious discharge. Zincadrillions? Kerzillions? We would need to coin a new word for the infinite count.

"Listen, Portal, that's different. It's not considered murder to knock off sperm. Think of it more like . . . uh . . . oh . . . a sacrifice! Yeah, that's it! Sperm willingly sacrifice themselves, quite altruistically I should add . . . so we men can have some pleasure." I was warming up to it now, ready to teach the door all about it.

"You see, Portal, sperms get bored just hanging around waiting for a shot at getting a woman pregnant. Bored silly! And, because each and every one of them little critters knows only one will make it to the female's egg, they figure, what the hell, might as well make my man happy." It sounded good to me. But to Portal?

"Gee, Arthur, I had no idea. Please accept my most humble apology. I am truly sorry I misjudged you. And Clara, too. I know now it's not murder, it's love." Whew! Am I good at bullshit, or am I good at bullshit?

"Apology accepted, Portal. Now, what can I do about my problem?"

Portal thought for a moment, then said, excitedly, "I know! I'll hypnotize you, and make you forget all about your insane obsession. It'll be fun, too. What say you, Arthur? You game?"

I told Portal I was game, and up for it. What the hell, went my reasoning. I had to do something. And, who knows? It just might work, however foolish I now felt even thinking about it. I took a long swig of Cummy Clara and sat down on the couch. Then looked over at Portal, my new door friend.

Portal seemed to sway from side to side, hypnotically, his hinges gently squeaking. "Now, Arthur, your eyelids are becoming very heavy. You can't keep them up. They're closing. And, you're feeling very, very sleepy . . . "