Zone 37

"You can choose to be free, but it's the last decision you'll ever make."

― Franz Kafka

Numbers; Digits:

definition: "Notches on the bedpost." *

* The fuck junky's goal: 5,000 Numbers; Digits.

Amid the bowels of the Sin City swing shack, the fuck junky tightened the tourniquet.

Naked, save for a pair of black hiking boots, tfj — another single swinger — plunged the rusted needle into his bone-hard shaft. Sex was his drug, and this place, his most recent den of ill repute.

Depressing the trigger on the syringe, he inflated his cock with adrenaline.

He was paper thin, doing everything he could to keep the system from devouring his body, before vomiting it into vagrancy.

The liquid froze our hero's arteries, awakening every atom. For the next 12 minutes, he would live!

After that, it was a rapid return to the illusion so many falsely believe is reality. Consumed by bills, "debt," "taxes," etc., the ignorant lied to themselves such was being "grown up," and "responsible."

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Right now, though, the fuck junky couldn't care less, as he prepared to pound Number 4,592, in his quest for 5,000 females.

Snorkel Stan — a devout diner at "the downstairs restaurant" — pulled his fingers from the dyke.

In response, the alabaster angel released raging rapids of cum, atop the stained sheets of the orgy bed.

A kaleidoscope of lights whirled around the walls.

The woman's straight, blonde locks fanned about, like palm fronds in a tropical cyclone. Sweat spewed from her every pore, splashing anyone within a 10 foot radius. Blood red fingernails tore her fishnet bodysuit — with open crotch.

"Plug the hole, bro! Do it now! Plug the fuckin' hole!" S-Squared shrieked.

Six foot five, Snorkel Stan was apple pie, while our hero — 5' 6" — was whipped cream. Stan was popcorn; while tfj, hot, melted butter. The two were a team the likes of Oprah and anorexia; politicians and sincerity; government and truth.

Making it a point to excel in his oral abilities, Snorkel was more adept at eating than Joey Chestnut! What resulted was a trail of female fluid following him wherever he went.

The fuck junky had a big cock, and enjoyed penetration the way a billionaire does money.

Here in Zone 37 — a Vegas swing club ― the tandem continually created Digits, in the same fashion a belief in "authority" perpetually produces pain.

Standing astride the misshapen mattress, tfj complied with Stan's latest decree, slamming his rigid revolver into the housewife's holster. Her streams of luscious liquid had little means of escape, and were rerouted to the sides.

Splashed in succulence, onlookers raced from the scene.

Digging his fuck boots into the cum-crusted tile floor, tfj crushed cervix, as the woman screeched. Twin voyeurs pumped their penises, while holding the woman's legs wide.

"Pull out!" Stan commanded.

Our hero obeyed.

Snorkel replaced the fuck junky's flesh filling with fingers, raking the woman's insides.

She blew frustration in fluid form, sex sap spewing from her carnal cavern.

A room of spectators shot thralldom in the face, and left it writhing in the dust, oblivious they'd done so, let alone were slaves.

The scenario meant everything to tfj! He'd been listening to the truth on his stereo for decades, while other vassals tuned to radio station K-LIE.

Without the Numbers, our protagonist would suffer withdrawals painful as a point-blank cannon blast to the asshole. Just another lowly Strip casino slave by day, he transformed into a superhero by night.

Beaten mercilessly by those referring to themselves as "co-workers" — debt slaves, back on the truth train — he was abused and berated, while the Sun shined. Come evening, however, he'd bounce from one pussy to the next — a kid in a toy store, with Daddy's open credit card.

Causing a 19 year old to squirt on her cousin, in a private room, was just part of a typical evening.

Draining a Canadian porn actress in front of her husband, and a dozen bystanders, was business as usual.

One could be strapped to the St. Andrew's Cross, but why not release the sable slave tied to the torture tool, and fuck her for everyone's viewing pleasure?

Each night in Zone 37 was a new adventure; each night was different. They were the butterflies in your stomach you felt as a child, when entering the sideshow funhouse — not knowing what to expect around each corner.

A late night call into subjugation — or one's "job," as the clueless referred to it — blew more than a Category 5 hurricane.

Deprived of his fuck fix, the fuck junky would scour tenebrous alleyways for his next hit, clawing at any dribble of coitus for temporary escape.

Sure, most had heard of Area 51, but how many were aware of Zone 37?

Four miles from the platitudes of the Vegas Strip, it was here the crazy became common. Gangbangs ― most only fantasized about ― were part of an evening's regularly scheduled programming.

While the rest of the populace hocked Herbalife, or insurance for one's dog, in Zone 37, souls were sucked through penis holes, as saliva blended with cunt chrism.

Here, butts came to be plugged, and orgasms were served at all hours ― steaming fresh, and charred perfectly around the edges.

Most would never know this hidden hermitage existed, let alone venture to it. Thus, the highlight of their Vegas trips would encompass watching Barry Manilow mainline Metamucil, rather than launching a squadron of orgasms onto other humans.

Using Sriracha as lube is more pragmatic, since all one need do is conduct an Internet search, to uncover their wildest fantasies, moments from Las Vegas Boulevard. No need to navigate dead roads crowded with cattle carcasses, and alien landscapes devoid of radio signals. Area 51 is north, while Zone 37, south.

Nude and horny, tfj wandered the underground hallway of the club in question. Spying a familiar face, he made small talk for 42.8 seconds, before jamming his tongue down the woman's throat. The Texas Toast recoiled, drunkenly declaring, "Ugghhh! Your breath smells like cunt!"

In Zone 37, everybody's breath smells like cunt!

It's here, you smile, recalling what caused the pulled muscles in your neck. You just ate so much pussy, you may as well have been a ravenous Doberman released in a cat kennel. Your tongue is so sore from the acidity, the thought of losing one's virginity ― in prison ― sounds more appealing than swallowing.

Hustling down the halls of his mind, the fuck junky heard his own footfalls. It was that familiar sound of stepping off the path; the deep crunch of coarse gravel, as it ground the soles of his worn boot heels.

And the cherry on top was the fact — when viewed from above — this club was literally shaped like a cock and balls. Purportedly built by a porn producer, the venue in question was destined to be a sex shanty.

It was 3 AM on a Saturday night. Tfj was scheduled to return to slavery — i.e. "work" — in four hours. It didn't matter. He'd stay down here in Zone 37, until closing — 60 minutes from now. After all, he had a goal.

— authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. the fuck junky
https://wiki.mabinogiworld.com/view/User:Spinazzola

Zone 37

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