Story Time: Pour, Know…Poor, No

😀 Welcome back, Dear Reader, for another amazing tale from the Okie Devil of Text US, Cade F.O.N. Apollyon. Like ‘Hee Haw Hockey‘, the following short story appeared in ‘Underdog Anthology V: Six in Five in Four‘. It’s kinda…


*Oh it’s definitely saucy, Clicky…*

… adult in it’s theme, and is called ‘Pour, Know…Poor, No’…

Olyphant sounds like Elephant

*It is that, Clicky…*

… So if you’re the type to be easily triggered, Dear Reader, then… Enjoy! 😉

*Jet aim… /rolls eyes…*


‘His throbbing cock rose like a submarine going through and emergency surface maneuver. She gasped in delight at the sight of the meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared. Almost as if by instinct, she threw herself onto the bed and spread her legs to expose the moist ocean of delight that was now eagerly awaiting his fleshy meat torpedo to submerge it’s shadowy depths.
‘He approached her confidently as she lay on the bed, his errect cock swinging like a penduluum as he walked. He glanced at the crux of her wide-spread legs and noticed her casm had began to slowly ooze her white juices in a steady flow that ran straight into the crack of her ass. His meaty cock was already standing straight up, and yet the sight of her vagina’s juices flowing made his rod pulse to an even more errect state.
‘As he joined her on the bed, there was no need to take his cock in-hand…destiny and desire would guide the target home at this point. Their bodies uniting was both a metaphysical and physical certainty at this point…and sure enough, like a submarine sailing into The Grand Canyon…’

The author paused in his writing.

Wait…if her vagina is “The Grand Canyon”…and his penis is “a submarine”…there ain’t much going to be going on there, he thought to himself. He continued his inward observations and critiques of his own writing…I mean, can you imagine what a submarine would look like in The Grand Canyon? He imagined himself standing at an observation point in Grand Canyon National Park, and then trying to find a 560 foot long Ohio-class nuclear submarine located within the 277 mile long, 18 mile wide, 1 mile deep canyon.

If sighted, what would that look like? he wondered. If his penis was a submarine, and her vagina was The Grand Canyon, the submarine would fucking disappear alright, and not in a good way.Men don’t like to think of their massive meaty manliness suddenly going from a mighty man-o-war, to completely invisible. Men? Who in the fuck am I writing this for anyway? Surely I’m not writing it for men…am I? No, I’m not. I’m writing it for no one. I’m writing this for no one in particular, but I only have the male perspective, and really have only my own male perspective based on my own experiences.

A long pause ensued in his being as to exactly what that meant, and to whom. More importantly, when. What do my experiences even mean anymore? he further wondered to himself as he contemplated jerking off, going to bed, and forgetting the whole thing.

Holy FUCK this is confusing. Subs are all about stealth and being able to disappear. But submarines don’t necessarily go away when they disappear. You just can’t see them, and usually can’t hear them either. No wonder dicks are usually referred to as “love rockets” or “heat-seeking moisture missiles”. They are big, noisy, overt and there’s little doubt as to a rocket’s intentions and purposes. It’s much easier sticking to what you know and running with the crowd than it is trying think outside the box and come up with something new. Box? Fuck!!! Women’s vaginas are sometimes referred to as a box. Inside the box, outside the box…sounds sexy…except not.

He sighed as he contemplated the energies devoted to symbolism in writing as it pertained to sex. Why is everything so distorted? So misplaced? Submarines and canyons? Oceans? Birds? Bees? Flowers? Vesica piscis and missiles? “Misplaced parts” is kind of ironic considering how well all of the parts mesh together without all of the symbolism and hype. Yeah…like…”the real thing”. Fucking. Intercourse. Getting freaky. Doing the nasty. Bumping uglies. Ten toes to Jesus. No one is thinking geometry or horticulture when grinding naughty bits together. He continued his inward rant. There are no chasms, nor is there any subversion in sex. All of those gaps have already been bridged and crossed by the time any actual fucking starts, so what it is I’m missing…other than a partner? How can I write about sex if I’m not having any? Is that my problem? Why can’t I just say “he proceeded to maneuver his being into position within close proximity to her being, so as to facilitate the timely entry of his penis into her vagina”…that works…doesn’t it?

He had started his first attempt at “an erotic story” the previous night, writing a brief story in his head after searching the local classified ads looking for a “real” job. An advertisement under the “writing” section had caught his eye and sent his mind to spinning yarns.

‘$$ Erotica authors needed for short story submissions’

After some quick thoughts on smut and “erotica” that he had read as a youth, he began to concoct a story line in his head. It started with the fucking parts of course, because this is erotica after all. He wondered if working backwards was really the way to go. No one is going to want to read some sensual and intimate romantic bullshit,are they? Doesn’t romance and intimacy always end in tears of the “bad” variety? He decided to stick with the sticky stuff to start.

The next day, he sat down and tried to type out some of his ideas which were then passed along to a friend, his editor, for her thoughts. She seemed to get a good laugh out of it. If for no other reason than the horrendous spelling. But a laugh was not what he was looking for. If he had wanted a laugh, he could have just taken a picture of his own pathetically inadequate and unused penis, posted that as his profile picture on Twitter, then sauntered off into oblivion in search of an adequate rock to bury his inadequate being under. He was trying to write an erotic story here, not a fucking comedy piece. A fucking…comedy…piece. I wonder if that would work, he mused to himself. No…stick to the basics, and see what you can do before sauntering off elsewhere. I can do this.

“She gasped in delight at the sight of the meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared on her horizon”…is how that should likely read. It kinda goes with the whole “fringe” and “verge” vibe,all while staying with the “ships” and “oceans” kinds of vibe(s). Also likely should be a “metronome” instead of a “pendulum” since it’s standing up rather than flopping around like a wobbly plumb-bob seeking center in the middle of an earthquake.

Chasm not casm. FUCK!!! How many typos do I have in this fucking thing? I guess I should re-read again before dumping any further ideas on my editor. “My” editor. Since when did she become mine? Relationships are tough to figure out when you start slapping labels on them. I thought labels were supposed to create these clearly-defined barriers and boundaries that helped us to survive the tempests that seem to rock our worlds. Maybe not. Maybe they help to create and even facilitate these storms.

Lemme try again, don’t change a thing. Just make some corrections, and rewrite without rewriting. He wished himself a good luck, but noted that getting lucky would likely help more. Maybe I should go watch some porn, and watch everything except the fucking parts? The intro bits, although typically corny, can be quite hot sometimes. Not yet…let’s keep writing…

‘His throbbing cock rose like a submarine going through an emergency surface maneuver. She gasped in delight at the sight of this meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared on her horizon. There will be no mutiny on this bounty. Almost as if by instinct, she threw herself onto the bed and spread her legs to expose the moist ocean of delight that was now eagerly awaiting his fleshy meat torpedo to submerge its shadowy depths in anticipation of the explosion to cum…’

She’s not wanting him to cum already is she? She wants him to come, not cum, not yet. He’s not wanting to cum already is he? I mean yeah, I intentionally changed that from “come” to “cum” in order to be racy. But “the explosion to come” is the passion of the actual coupling, and not his spooging the USDA recommended daily allowance of semen all over the room. And yeah, he’s gotta cum anywhere and everywhere except inside her vagina…right? He again paused in his thinking and attempted to correlate his own personal experiences, with that which is typically depicted in pornography or some other form of erotica.

Women seem to be fascinated by a particular penis that they have unrestricted access to. And by unrestricted access, we are talking about a man who had shed all pride and pretense, both flaccid and erect, and given the green light for his lover to perform any and all tests and observations they deem necessary on this particular package, its contents, and states. And while we ponder this package,let us not forget the testicles and scrotum. The penis, even in and at the height of its glory, pales in comparison to the fascination that seems to be generated by this oft orphaned accessory pack…sack…thingie.

‘He approached her confidently as she lay on the bed. His erect cock pointing ever skyward, and swinging back and forth like a metronome that kept time with his steps as he walked. Counting down the fleeting seconds until its ample girth would be delivering its timely pleasure load to her wet pussy palace…’

Pussy…Palace? Sounds like a topless bar. And topless bars have absolutely fuckall to do with the vulva, except for the g-strings that cover the one place you won’t be going in a topless bar. You get fucked in a topless bar…not laid. His personal philosophy was really starting to boil now. And what about “the pussy”? Not to mention “the vagina”? THERE’S NOTHING THERE!!! he mused to himself almost aloud. Yeah, ok, with respect to the vagina there is something there, but not really. The vulva is actually more apt description with respect to getting to where you want to be. The “Bermuda Triangle” lays atop, hiding the waiting dangers to be explored, and the clitoris lay hidden within the lush and hopefully musty and damp forest.

Let’s take it from the top…wait…top. Here I am talking “titty bars” thanks to my “pussy palace” reference, and I’ve not even given a second thought to this woman’s breasts. But why should I? A woman’s breasts aren’t sexual organs. They’re cake on top of a pie that is served with ice cream and beer in a restaurant that you just can’t get enough of no matter what is being served. She is both your hostess and waitress in a joint she herself owns, and no matter how bad her breath stinks nor how bitchy she gets when menstruating, I want to eat there all the time. I can even tolerate the pre- and postmenstruating bullshit. Those are simply temporary “irritations” which are actually just more things to talk about. Or at least, they certainly can be. So…center and centers. Center. It’s really not “all about the pussy” is it? If so, wouldn’t that make all women…lesbians? Nope. Can’t be. Not even close. You’ve also forgotten…kissing.Fondling. Buildup, and breakdown. Arcs…plural.

He stared at the cursor blinking on the screen for a long time. He didn’t mind using “sassy” vernacular within the scope and confines of a relationship, but it didn’t make sense outside of that and those realms. To write a story is one thing, but to write a story that caters to some group or groups in particular? Greek. All of it…Greek. Swahili. He had trouble relating to a single person, let alone relating to several. Perhaps the brush is too big, he wondered to himself. I’m not trying to please every woman. I’m trying to please one woman. And I’m trying to do that via my own short penis which, despite it’s lack of numerical significances in the plus column, actually gets quite hard. Or it used to anyway.

He glanced at the clock on his computer…23:47. He decided to wander outside to see if the moon was up.

‘He glanced at the nexus of her wide-spread legs, her own hands under each of her thighs to assist in holding them spreadeagle and aloft, her legs shaking slightly in what was surely her anticipation of his mounting and penetrating her with his meaty fuckrod. He began to inspect the ample hair piled atop her love nest, and then followed the trails of pussy hair downwards with his eyes to where the hair covered the meaty gates of perdition that beckoned him forward to enter. A sudden glint on her pussy maze caught his eye, and he noticed that the waiting chasm hidden by her engorged and meaty pussy lips had began to slowly ooze a river of her white love juices in a steady flow that ran straight into the crack of her ample round ass.’

Great. Now her ass is “ample”. No honey, your ass isn’t big, it’s ample. But, when you are given access, isn’t any woman’s ass “ample”, irrespective of actual dimensions? I’m not going to have the guy break out the calipers in order to get a Body Mass Index on her ass. Would that be a Body-Ass Index? Booty-Ass Index? He reached into his shorts, then grabbed the head of his penis…manipulating it back and forth between his thumb, index and middle fingers. He could feel a slight wetness on his fingers, stopped typing for a moment, and then used his other hand to pull his shorts aside, exposing his entire penis and testicles.

Hmmm…pre-cum. I guess I’m getting myself kinda hot thinking about licking this woman’s vaginal cum out of her ass crack, he thought to himself. There was a moment of contemplation as to locating a ruler to measure his drooping penis as it hung in anguish in one hand, while the other hand continued to hold the shorts aside. But what would that add to the story? What could that add to the story. A detraction? Is the addition of a detraction… an addition, or a detraction?

He was firmly entrenched in “average” and had been so for as long as he could remember. The guy that we are writing about is hung like a stallion, has a heart that can pump enough to blood to keep his boner skyward for days, likely has giant muscles, great mug, a good job, plenty of cash, big house, cool car…the works…right? We’ve none of that. Not any more anyway. How can I possibly write about something that I know nothing about? I can’t relate to this guy in any way.

Another staring contest with the blinking cursor on his computer screen. “You are never going to finish this,” he said aloud. The cursor did not respond nor reply. Simply continued it’s mechanical blinking shortly after each and every character typed.

The moon is beautiful though, he thought to himself. High in the midnight Texas sky, and so bright that it casts shadows. Plenty of stars too, he added. The only thing missing is someone to gaze at the stars with me. That’s romance dipshit. This is a fucking erotic story about fucking.

‘His meaty cock was already standing straight up, and so erect that it almost hurt. And yet the sight of her love canal’s juices flowing made his rod begin to pulse to an even more erect state that he only previously would have thought impossible. As he neared joining her on the bed, he caught the briefest glimpse of her scent with his nose. Almost on instinct, he suddenly had the desire to shove his face directly into her love trap, now glimmering with pussy juice, so as to lap up every drop.’

Women…don’t…smell. I mean…yeah…most of the time they don’t. But even when they do, they don’t. Got it? He briefly contemplated counting the number of times that the cursor would need to blink before it was considered a prompting to get back to typing. He found this odd, as usually when writing, he didn’t give the cursor a second thought except to it’s location on the page. He stopped typing again, and once again pulled his penis from his shorts. This time, he pulled the shorts further to the side, and then pulled the entire length of his scrotum from his shorts so as to expose the entirety of his scrotum and both testicles.

He shoved his left hand at the very base of his scrotum, and lifted the enclosed testicles upwards while holding his penis to the side with the other hand. As the testicles remained elevated with his left hand, he used his right hand to push back the hair at the top and base of his penis to get a better idea as to the dimensions. He could suddenly feel something in his urethra, and at the same time, a large clear drop emerged from the head of his penis. He let go of his scrotum, letting the testicles fall rather unceremoniously as they retreated back into their more natural state of hanging. His now free left hand wiped the large clear drop away before it fell from the tip of his penis, then with the same hand he transferred the contents now resting mostly on his thumb to a nearby paper towel. That shit will stretch forever, he thought to himself. I’m just going to leave my junk hanging out of my shorts while I write, and if another drop comes out, I’m just going to let it drip. I’m betting it will reach all the way to the floor and still stay connected.

‘As he joined her on the bed, there was no need to take his cock in-hand…destiny and desire would guide the target safely home at this point. Their bodies uniting as one in perfect harmony was both a physical and metaphysical certainty. There was no going back, and as much as he desired licking the sweet glimmering pussy nectar from her asshole so that not a single drop was wasted, he knew that she wanted his cock inside…again and again.
‘He placed his knees on the bed, then leaned over and positioned himself on top and above her, simultaneously taking one of the supple nipples of her ample breasts into his mouth. He felt something emanating from the head of his engorged cock…pre-cum, lubricant, and none too soon. He felt the warmth of her pussy on the head of his cock, as her wild and raspy pubic hair reached out to tickle the head of his rod. He pushed his hips forward as she simultaneously wrapped her legs around him, urging his penetrating thrust forward…and sure enough, like a submarine sailing into her grandest of canyons…’

Isn’t The Grand Canyon also kinda…dry? I really need to work on these associations. There was that comedy angle too. Not sure what happened there with the comedy angle, but I’m pretty fucking sure what didn’t happen with the comedy angle. But isn’t comedy actually, typically anyway, kinda…tragic?

His eyes once again turned to the steadily blinking cursor. Perhaps it’s the poetry? he thought. The blinking cursor continued its profane rant. The poetry of the moment. Perhaps the poetry of a moment. A moment that was. A moment that is. A moment to come. He pondered his own thinking, and wrestled inwardly with the desire to substitute “cum” for “come” Would such trivialities matter in that moment?

“Where in the FUCK am I going to take this story?” he said aloud. He’s entered her, she has enveloped him, do I now give a play-by-play of every grunt, groan and grimace? And if so, what clock do I use? Seconds? Milliseconds? Hours? We want this shit to last don’t we? WAIT!!! Maybe that’s it! Maybe the phone rings mid-coitus, she’s a world famous rocket scientist, and her scientific research group has just detected a mysterious signal from deep space. They need her to get busy on designing and building a new rocket to explore the part of the Universe from whence this signal doth emanate. She slips out of character, into her clothes, vaginal drippings and all, leaves a gooey trail all the way to her sassy BMW convertible, but not before telling him to lock the door behind him on his way out. Genius. I think it’s time to send this piece of shit story over to other eyes, and see what they think.

The response via email was quick. Well that didn’t take long, he thought to himself. “That’s what she said,” he chortled aloud.

‘I’ve spaced it out and put indents in. A couple of typos corrected. Changed the editor to a she from the start, but if you want to change that back, no biggie.

‘I look forward to reading the rest :D’

He stared blankly at the email for a moment. Um, that’s all there was dear lady. That’s all there is. Should I take the opportunity to be risque here? Nope. I think I’ll pass on that. Read what she’s sent back, see what’s she done with this monstrosity, and continue to fuck it up completely from there.

Also in lieu of taking the opportunity to be cheeky, I wonder perhaps if maybe I should instead take some time to explain what a Ohio-class submarine is? While I’m doing that, maybe I can even work out the logistics involved in somehow getting a 16,000+ ton, nuclear powered ballistic missile submarine into The Grand Canyon. Sixteen-thousand tons is 32,000,000 pounds. The largest flying machine that we currently have, The Antonov An-225, can only lift around 500,000 pounds, so we’re going to need 64 of them. A submarine would never fit inside of 64 different aircraft cargo bays without a chainsaw and a shitload of petroleum jelly, so how in the fuck can I get this thing into The Grand Canyon? Launch the submarine into space via some giant heat-seeking moisture missile, and then parachute the submarine safely back to Earth where the submarine would land safely in The Grand Canyon?

‘The massive fleet of dirigibles took flight in unison in order to hoist the gigantic submarine aloft and towards its new home, based somewhere in The Grand Canyon. Here, the submarine could prowl the ever rising moist and willing waters of The Colorado River, searching for prey. These waters were, as of yet, devoid of predators or any other unseen threats…but that would soon change.’

“That has a nice Steampunk ring to it,” he said to himself aloud.



*Indeed. For synchronous ocular and genital secretions, Clicky… Proper paw gno…*

Come back on Tuesday, Dear Reader, for the third of Cade’s Underdog Anthology V stories. And don’t forget, the sixth is coming soon… Have a Song ❤


6 thoughts on “Story Time: Pour, Know…Poor, No

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