Dingle eats what Dingle buries

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Nutrimentia
plata o plomo

Registered: Sep 2000
Location: The Bottom of the Toyem Pole
Posts: 9466

Dingle eats what Dingle buries

This little story might be old news to ye intarnet greybeards but it has a significant history among the Idawhores and only recently resurfaced thanks to the power that is Bob. I first read it in Moscow, ID, at the beginning of the infamous party I threw upon my arrival there immediately following my departure from Minnesota for the summer. In Minnesota, I had worked at a liquor store and had amassed a nice little collection of spirits, about 17 or 18 bottles if memory serves. I had a full gamut of stuff, all packed in a 40 oz Red Bull malt liquor box.

This must have been in 1996, before I first went to Japan. On the drive down, I remembered I had half a hit of acid from months before in the car. Considering how little I'd gotten off when I ate the first half a month and a half earlier, I figured the remaining half would have little to no effect. In retrospect, I'm certain that the reason the first half was so ineffective was because all the drug was on the other half, as I got off spectularly for that tiny piece of paper I put in my mouth. It's about a 90 minute drive down to Moscow and I didn't drop acid until part way into the trip. But I was still 30 minutes outside of my destination and the lines marking the shoulder of the two lane highway were so wavy they started crossing each other and doing that "slipper when wet" schtick. I ended up behind an old mazda or toyota pickup and just locked onto the brand name (which I oddly don't remember exactly anymore) and followed it into town.

I was far far higher than I expected to be by the time I arrived which greatly amplified the effects of the trip. I don't know if people were expecting me to come down then or not, but I know they weren't expected the $300 of booze I'd brought along. I was too high to drink, but everyone else dug in. I remember the pinecrika walking cradling four or five bottles, unable to drink from them without dropping any but blissful just the same. It was quite the bash.

At the beginning, we were listening to GWAR, who I was familiar with in concept but hadn't listened to. I heard "Rock and Roll never felt so good" for the first time and was blown away by the lyrics and fucking of the asshole with frozen shit. I was in near hysterics.

Then someone brought out this printout of a sick story that had been passed around. I started reading it and was overwhelmed by the erotic nature. I was in tears by the end and ACTUALLY MISSED THE FUCKING PUNCHLINE! I thought it was just an erotic story that was extremely well written (it appeared so under the influence, fo' surer!). I was a bit confused as to why so many people were saying "Now isn't that the most fucked up thing?" and "Pretty fucking gross, eh?" I could have sworn the end had bloody clumps rather than the plain clumps it has, but I've resisted the urge to edit it and post it as I found it recently.

The party was a rousing success, so much so that when I was up for drinking the next night, no one else was. The story got lost but retained its infamy. I'd tried searching for it from time to time to no avail. It was recently suggested to try again and I did, so here it is. At the time, it was more raunchy than we're accustomed to now with a decade of internet exposure, but it was good then.

Without further ado:

quote:
"The Clowning Touch"

Ever since I was a little girl, clowns have always scared me.

Now I know why.

I work for the Edmondson's as their live-in helper. A week ago,
Mrs. Edmondson's daughter was about to celebrate her seventh
birthday. The food had been prepared, and the so-called enter-
tainment had been arranged. The clown was due at noon.

I intended to sequester myself into my room until he left. At
11:45, however, Mrs. Edmondson knocked on my door. Her
daughter had been taken ill, and she had been forced to call
off the party. Unfortunately, the scheduled clown was already
en route and could not be reached. While she was at the doc-
tor's office, I would have to pay the clown and send him on
his way.

Fifteen minutes later, I heard a honk. Not of a car, but of a
clown's horn. The entertainer had arrived in full makeup.
Through the door's peephole, his red nose seemed bigger than
his face, and his wig shot wild wisps of orange in every direc-
tion. I took a deep breath before opening the door.

"Hey there, hi there, ho there! It's Captain Dingle, boys and
girls!" he sang. His crazy rant was met with silence. He furr-
owed his brow at the obvious lack of screaming children.

"I'm sorry, sir. The party's been canceled." I explained the rea-
son and gave him his money. He seemed dazed and walked in-
to the living-roomsofa, accidentally honking his horn when
he sat.

"That's the fourth time this month ol' Cap'n Dingle's been
canceled," he said sadly. "A clown starts to get a complex,
you know."

"I'm sure it's not you, sir," I consoled, sitting beside him. "I'm
sure you're a good clown."

He place his hand on my cheek and smiled wanly. "Thanks."
He pulled a dozen pink roses form under his billowing sleave
and handed them to me. I smiled like a schoolgirl; this kind of
vulnerability was unseen in the strict Edmondson house. Then
I smelled the flowers and kissed his cheek, leaving red lipstick
upon his white greasepaint.

He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me warmly; I felt
I'd known this clown all of my life. He ran a hand along my
pine, pulling me closer into his chest. My right breast brushed
against one of the red pom-poms that dotted the exterior of
his garment.

I pulled away and stared into his glowing eyes. "Come with me,"
I whispered and led him into my room, the sound of oversized
shoes flopping against the hardwood floor.

My room was dark and surprisingly cool for a June afternoon.
Sunlight filtered gently through the blinds, casting oblong sha-
dows across my single bed. We talked, kissed, and talked some
more. My heart raced. I hadn't made love to a man in three
years, and the last time had been my first, when I was 18. I
was more mature now and felt better prepared to please a man.

The kissing intensified. I traced the exterior of his painted, red
lips with my tongue. The cotton cloth of his gloved hand reach-
ed inside my black-and-white maid's uniform. I unzipped the
back and let the outfit drop off my shoulders. He closed his eyes
and smiled, dropped his gloves to the floor and rubbed perspir-
ing palms into my tiny breasts. He lowered his head and ran his
tongue along the nipple, grabbing the flesh nugget with his teeth
and biting me lightly along my areola. A tingle ran down my
spine to the top of my bottom.

I grabbed his orange wig and began to pull it off his head. He
suddenly baked away and returned the wig to its original posi-
tion.

"Please don't," he frowned.

"I'm sorry," I forced out, feeling self conscious.

He put his finger to my lips. "Do you trust me?" he asked , his
fake eyebrows arching oddly in the shards of sunlight.

"Yes," I whispered.

"Will you let Dingle perform?" he asked, now a little more agg-
ressively.

"Yes," I said, trembling.

He pinned my arms to the bed, pulled off his big, red nose and
shoved it into my mouth. He flipped my body over, unfastened
his giant clown belt and bound my hands behind my back. I
craned my neck and saw a beaming smile on his face as he
pulled inch after inch of pastel stockings form his left sleeve.
He tied my ankles to the bedposts. I was spread-eageld and sil-
ent, thrilled, and only a little frightened.

He opened my butt cheeks with both hands. A trickle of saliva
fell into my little hole, which flinched and throbbed when he
slid his tongue inside. The movement of his mouth against my
arse forced a dribble of moisture to escape from my vagina. He
stopped the flow with a well placed thumb. He continued slid-
ing his Little Jack Horner digit in and out of my pussy, still
sucking my anus like a chocolate Lifesaver.

My nipples scraped against the wooly fabric of the bedspread,
and his thick thumb probed deeper into my vagina.

I was near orgasm when he lifted his smeared face and yelled,
"It's party time, Jimmy!"

He spritzed my asshole with a water-dispensing plastic flower
that hung from his lapel. The crystal geyser flowed inside my
parched bumhole. When the squirting water had ceased, a
new sensation bumped my pussy -- his penis.

His boner felt disproportionately large, as if the head were bigg-
erthan the shaft. He stuffed himself past my outer labia and
into the deeper recesses of my womanhood. I wanted to adjust
my hips to ease his thrusts, but my legs would not budge. I
was at his mercy, and mercilessly he pounded away, stopping
only to switch portals of pleasure.

"Ever feel like life gave you a bum deal?" he cackled, and
rubbedsome kind of greasy gunk into my backside. One finger
and then two squeezed into my butthole, preparing it for the
painful pleasure of his nobby cock.

I would've screamed with agonizing delight, had not the rubber
nose kept me quiet. He laughed, his orange wig shaking with
excitement. The deeper he plunged, the more I liked it, espec-
ially when he pulled out of my ass, pushed inside my mommy
box and then roughly back inside my backside.

I wiggled both my hands free of his restraining belt and reached
downto pull my butt cheeks apart wider, to allow him more free-
dom within. When I arched my neck and looked over my shoulder,
I was shocked to see a tiny tear sliding down his cheek, making
his greasepaint makeup smear even worse.

"Please don't," he sniffled, and turned my face gently away with
his hand. He was oddly silent until his pace quickened. My ass-
hole was on fire.

He shrieked loudly like a crazed animal. "AWWWW!" His cock's
convulsions stretched my elastic sphincters wide. Warm liquid
flooded inside my colon; it felt like I was digesting a hearty meal,
only backward. The room smelled of anal sex, and I struggled to
catch my breath. My head was spinning throughout his long ej-
aculation, and when his creamy flow had subsided, he collapsed
against my back.

When he finally pulled out of my butt, my tiny hole burned. I
felt something sharp scrape against my sore asshole. I craned
my neck again and saw the clown inserting a straw into my butt.
The deeper the plastic probed, the more sinister his expression
became. I finally dislodged his rubber nose from my mouth and
said bitterly, "What are you doing?"

He smiled.

"Dingle eats what Dingle buries."

As he sucked on the plastic, his sperm traveled in clumps through
the clear straw. He sucked harder, and a gush of wind rushed
through my guts as he finished his task, removed the straw and
gulped his load down into his belly.

"Magically delicious," he giggled, and wiped his mouth.

After untying my legs, he kissed my forehead and clomped his
way to the front door. I didn't talk; I was too disgusted.

My opinion of clowns has definitely worsened.

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