CHOOSE YOUR OWN SEXCAPADE™ is a pulpy erotic read about you and for you in which you can choose what happens next
Just go ahead and read “G-strung’s Custard Parade – A Choose Your Own Kink SEXCapade” as you would any other book but when the main character “you” is left with some choices click the link to the choice you would most likely choose and then follow to the next part. If a choice you would love to make is missing, let me know in the comments below and I’ll scribble it down. This is an extensive, labyrinthine preview. The only way to read the ending is to Click here to Order the Complete Choose Your Own Kink SEXcapade by Moctezuma Johnson on Amazon for only $2.99. Let’s begin, huh? It’s all about YOU. What are you about to do? Let’s find out.
G-strung’s Custard Parade
Your dick is out in your hand. It’s big but not fully hard. You know you have a big dick because when you’re not hard all the excess skin that will stretch out when the hormones fire and the blood flows is bunched up from under the mushroom head all the way back to the root, where the balls hang out like steroid-laced raisins. You pull the mushroom head and all that bunched up skin stretches. The blood is starting to flow. That’s because of who lies in front of you.
G-strung, as you all called her, was paid beforehand (they said) and lying face down on the white tile floor with her brown skin tight, taut, and hella fine. She was lying face down with her head in her hands. She was kicking her toes into the floor and laughing into her hands. She was cute a pink glittery button. No joke. She was. Her smile was the shit poets write about when sober. Her ass cheeks were two scoops of chocolate ice cream. If god gave out sample of her ass in little pink plastic spoons, damn, god would be popular. I don’t mean this American right wing popular I mean there would be lines trying to get in like heaven was a Haagen Dazs on a humid August day in Brooklyn. G-string was making a giggling and whining sound at the same time. The walls were white. She was feeling like she was in an insane asylum. She was kicking her toes into the ground like she couldn’t take it anymore. You thought she may have been cold, or too stoned. You looked down on her, not because she was brown and you were white. You were no racist and had dated Asians, Latinas, and other races, religions, and groupies for rival bands and sports teams before. You were open minded. They said you’d fuck anything with a pulse. You were that type, they said. They called you Sticky Rice, cause you liked Asian Chicks and admittedly jerked off rampantly. You were proud of it. Porn wasn’t something you hid. Anyway, although it wasn’t pejorative you did look down on G-strung. You looked down on her because she was lying on the floor with her beautiful ass smiling at you and you were standing over her. You had to look down at her. Now, you had to decide what to do next. You had choices. She was already paid, they assured you, and all yours. You had to take her. You could take her any which way you wanted. They say the world is your oyster, right? She was your clam. Here were your choices:
A: Get up in there and bury your nose in her ass and, like a crack whore who just sucked so much dealer dick she was crack- and cum-rich, inhale deeply
B: Get up in there and bury your cock up her ass and fuck her senseless until she kicks her toes into the floor so hard she causes a fracture in the fifth metatarsal
C: Get up take the hot custard from the electric stove and poor it down her black ass in an experiment in “contrast”