A Quick Swap | #hotwife #anal

I bent over

And she ate my ass

Reaching around

And jerking me

Through the thin walls

I heard the familiar grunts

My wife makes

When getting fucked in the ass

It made me rock hard

While my buddy’s girl

Rimmed me good

WIP: If on a Summer’s Day a Prostitute | Moctezuma Johnson |#LPRTG

This book, tentatively titled If On a Summer’s Day a Prostitute, is like one of Joan Miro’s burnt canvasses. Learn more about this Work in Progress.

“Wine and head” by Namio Harukawa


You’re so excited to read the new one by Mictezuma Jihnson. You’ve heard a lot about it. It’s been promoted on twitter by a thousand russian prostibots and it’s been shared in readers groups (you know the ones where authors like Mictezuma copy and paste the same links ad nauseum). Pins have made their way around various folders. Instagram accounts have been hashtagged from the tens to the thousands to get those invaluable likes. Influencers have gotten freebies and exponentially grown their own followers while promoting the heck out of this new one from the great MJ. ARCs have been given out. Special advanced copies have been given to subscribers and to patreons who have supported with $2 and higher per month. All of this has been done to create the buzz of the indie author. None of it does much, yet all of it does something. The Gestalt Philosophy is that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, and it may be. This is the modern world. This is modern publishing. You are a modern reader, as comfortable with paper against your thumb and forefinger as you are swiping pages across a small pixelated screen. You fancy yourself a good reader, thus you can hang with the heavyweights like MiJi, the nickname they’ve given this Mictezuma Jihnson. MiJi’s writing is an acquired taste like whiskey. He is not for everyone. They’ve described him as Bukowski on steroids, the Great K’iche’-Mayab Philosopher with the cooking skills of the Mediterranean and the cock prowess of an out of work pornstar drinking beer on his couch in just his tube socks pulled up to his knees like Jimmy Connors in the 70s. He’s more like Bukowski on Steroids laced with Viagra, but that’s a debate for another day. Today, you’re happy to have one of the first copies of this new book. According to the internets, it’s a good one. You are done with work. Kick your shoes of, and tell your kids you’re done for the night, to leave you alone. And turn down the volume on that damn tablet so I can read, you say. There are so many tocsins stealing your attention. Devices are attention whores, and you want to be whored out right by Mictezuma’s new book. 

You turn on your device and wait for it to appear, like a phantom out of thin air. You begin reading, mouthing the words silently, “If on a Summer’s Day a Prostitute…” and already your heart is beating a tick faster. That one illicit word has affected you. That MJ’s words do that do you every time.

If on a summer’s day a prostitute

A small maple tree bloomed. In months it would shed. Now it was magnolia and cherry blossoms. The mother collected fallen leaves gingerly and placed them carefully in wooden boxes. She poured her husband’s sake with two hands. He accepted it with one. She was as delicate as a cherry blossom. She walked the house gently like a full step would shatter the floor, causing a rift that would sink the mountain into the Earth’s core. She wore pretty robes that hugged her fresh young body. She had a wonderful figure. She was geisha and hentai rolled up into one obedient wife. She pranced on her toes. Her breasts were perky and full. She spoiled her son with sweet breads and chocolate sticks. Everything about her was perfect. I was simply a guest of the house, part of their guesthouse. She brought me fresh cut fruit and cooked fish that she cut open for me expertly with chopsticks by slicing the skeleton straight down the bone with one stick, while she held the stick’s twin demurely with her crinkled pinky finger. She was an amazing woman. She let me gaze at her, admire her small nose, smooth skin, ample breasts, and ripe bottom. Her legs were always neatly together when she sat and her knees rarely parted. Yet, for all this delicate apparent conservatism, there was something sexually alluring about her like all this self-control was practiced to cage a ravenous wanton beast. I was sure her husband got to enjoy pleasures I could only dream about. In fact, I could hear some of them after the sun went down. One night I got up to investigate the sound and found their wooden door cracked open. I stood there and watched through the crack in the wall as she massaged him. He moaned like they were making love but all she was doing was cupping his balls in her hand. No woman ever cupped my balls to orgasm but I think that’s what I witnessed through the crack that night in the moonlight. I had to abandon my spot for fear of getting caught. I went back to my room but couldn’t get the sight of her naked bosom out of my mind. I was in love. She had me in her hand. I was her guest, her customer, and her adorer.


The kindle has started smoking from the sex scenes and it melts but still works. The whole thing hasn’t melted. Don’t let Mictezuma confuse you with his hyperbole. Also, what do you think about this second person bullshit? Ever read a story like this and liked it? You remember reading Half Asleep In Frog’s Pajamas, but that was probably the worst of all his books. Oh well. 


The kindle hasn’t melted like a Dali clock. It just gives off a faint smell of burning rubber, like the semiconductors have burned out. If you look closely at the ugly boxy corners of the Amazon reading device, you find they are slightly brown and rounded. 

Unfortunately, when you scroll you are stuck in a new story. You can backtrack to the boarder story but when you return to the present, the next story, that next story is different. It’s no longer the hot Japanese boarder story. 

It’s no longer the sultry wife skittering about among the weeping willows and japanese maple trees in the well-manicured garden. No more demure woman for which who you and the protagonist have teamed up to yearn. 

Now it’s an empath dealing with a murder. Wtf?

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Too Groggy to Realize This Sexy Woman is My Wife | #Poem #SmutpunkPoem

Gorgeous Wife and Big Breasts

my eyes are barely open
moon hangs low nearly tapping the window
some woman’s breasts
tap against my chest hair

groggy hands caress her hair and neck
slide down her arched back
find her ass-cheeks
marvel at the roundness

sliding inside this woman
the joy of new pussy
envelopes me deeply
her breasts are wonderful

she uses her hips expertly
just how I like.
How can she know my body so well,
this stranger
cascading in the moonlight
bringing me to the edge
then backing off

leaning back
exposing her amazing tits
tight midriff

she kisses me so deeply
as I fill her with all my juice
we stay like this, kissing

Read More Smutpunk Poetry

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4:00 am Tryst | #smutpunkpoem #poem #LPRTG

She sleeps on the floor with the baby

I sleep on the bed

We meet in the middle of the night

Like two school kids sneaking out there windows

We meet quick strip quick

Get right to it

Cock pussy titties shaking

Am I awake or dreaming?

Shrinkage | Part 1


Shrinkage | Part 1 | Commissioned with Love by friend of SMUTPUNK BustyShrink


If you want to shrink something,
You must first allow it to expand.
If you want to get rid of something,
You must first allow it to flourish.
If you want to take something,
You must first allow it to be given.
This is called the subtle perception
Of the way things are.

The soft overcomes the hard.
The slow overcomes the fast.
Let your workings remain a mystery.
Just show people the results.

–Tao Te Ching


Shrinkage: A Story about a Vindictive Ex-Wife and Dark Scientist with plans for Revenge

Two kids on a Suburban New Jersey street made sound effects of bombs, machine gun fire, and nuclear warning sirens as they pedaled at full speed. They stood on their bikes like kids do when they want to go fast. The occasional squeak of brakes mixed the rolling sound of the rubber on road. There was a clunk that interrupted the whooping sound when one bike smacked into something. One kid was on a blue bike the other on a red and cream colored bike. The kids both kept riding. As they rode the bikes now, the tires left blood red trails on the pavement. Neither of the young boys even noticed as they kept to their game of dodging obstacles both real and imaginary. They had a grand old time, never noticing the decapitated head rolling around like a stray football, rolling irregularly as the oblong sphere thunked its way clumsily down the asphalt. The severed head smacked into a curb and came to a dead stop. The boys biked on sweating. The day was hot, too hazy and humid for this time of the fall.

In the house, Ken was tied to a…
…see this is a weird way to write a story with the reader already knowing what will happen. How then can any author create suspense? Can author deliberately mislead, like this? Ken was tied to the back of a Ferrari speeding down the highway. Ken was tied to his desk while masked intruders forced his secretary to her knees. Ken was tied for the lead in his office golf game. You already know none of these to be true. You know, since you created and requested it, that Ken was tied to a small Barbie chair. He was about one foot big and barely fit on the chair. His ex-wife Barbara sat at her regular-sized dining room table drinking wine from a normal-sized glass. She was halfway into the bottle and getting chattier. “Kenny Kenny Ken,” she said. She was getting drunk. For years she had felt alone, misunderstood, and deeply sexually unsatisfied. Ken made her feel unfuckable. That was cruel. He made her feel alone, the deep loneliness many married couples unfortunately experience. The loneliness of having someone right there yet feel more solitary than when unescorted through this cruel life, like their frequency just didn’t pick up yours, was unbearable as the lightness of being.

Ken’s ass, naked and toned, didn’t fit on the kids chair. There were two sizes of things, three if you counted the regular adult stuff. There were adult chairs full sized and one in which Barb tucked her firm ass. There was a kids chair which Ken was on, although he was too big for it. There was also a Barbie chair that Barb planned to make his perfect chair.

Barbara had started shrinking Ken post sex while he sucked on her tits in the stifling heat. After he’d come over and fucked her in the ass in his weekly sexual humiliation of ex-wife in exchange for alimony she seized his post-coital haziness and squirted him right in the face with her magic milk. Steam rose. A paper bag crumpled. She laughed when she squirted him.

It was a hot languid day, too hot for October. It was too hot to be humiliated. Too muggy to be pissed on. It was too humid to drip with shame.

She squirted him repeatedly with her breast milk.

“What is happening to me,” Ken said. He screamed out but all Barb did was laugh. Then she squirted him again. Each time she squirted him, steam rose from his head and he shrunk about one percent of his total size. She leaned over and squeezed his shrunk body between her big breasts. “Is this what you wanted? Tits?” She squirted him again. “Is this why you came back and fucked me, you dirty man? Are you just fucking helpless in the face of big tits?”


“Is that why you fucked that floral whore?” Barb taunted him while steam rose from his head and his body shrunk another one percent. “Have you no will power in the face of tits?”

Squirt. He was now small enough to lift up like a child. She put toy handcuffs on his wrists and lifted him roughly like an angry mother.

“Wine!” she said.

She brought Ken to the dining room where she had a kids chair and Barbie chair set up. She took a long gulp of red wine, then added, “Will you jizz just being in between my massive breasts, baby?”

“You had this pre-planned?” Ken said, the full fear of being at his humiliated ex-wife’s mercy unfolding like a butterfly knife in a small intestine.

Ken was in between regular- and kid-sized. The toy handcuffs kept his hands behind his back bound to the chair. Still, Bimbo Barbara had his head stuck between her massive breasts. He was about one fifth of his normal size. Her breasts could crush his small bones. His ex-wife, let him out of her cleavage. She loved her new massive bimbo tits. She stared at them happily. They gave her power and swag. She looked at her shrinking ex-husband and laughed. “You can’t fucking control yourself, can you?” she mocked. She grabbed his hard cock between her big fingers. “You’re fucking hard even though I could crush you, you pathetic little man.”

“No, yes. No.” Ken pleaded. “I just love you. I have always loved you. That’s why I’m hard!” Ken desperately tried to appease her.

She regarded him a moment and then aimed a nipple at his cock. “Disgusting. Don’t you dare fucking patronize me, Kenny!”


She hit his cock with a spray of titty-milk and steam rose from the little member’s head and it shrunk.

She finished the glass of wine. She menacingly held it out in front of him a minute. The flickering candle light reflected off the curve of the wine glass. Ken could see his ex-wife’s body in the reflection of the glass. He was so small now that his head could probably fit in the fluted wine vase now. She put down the glass and with her free hand turned him to face an even smaller toy rocking chair from part of the barbie dream house. It was on the table in front of her and next to the half-empty wine bottle. His heart sank. Why couldn’t he have pried a few extra hundreds of thousand dollars from his stack of millions for her and avoided this. He knew that a few more squirts of breast milk from his increasingly drunk ex-wife and he would be no bigger than a regular barbie doll. His ex-wife still had her blouse open and both new balloon tits hanging out distressingly over both the bra and blouse, like an Imperial Battle Cruiser hovering over an x-wing fighter. She was like a villain robbing a train and waving the gun around while talking about corrupt governments. Those magic man shrinking udders were menacing as any gunman.

“LI-AR,” Barbara screamed. She was starting to slur a bit. Spit rattled out of her mouth and sprayed over him as she screamed. Her voice came out so loud that Ken was knocked unconscious for a moment. While he was out cold on the chair, Barbara squeezed her threatening nipples gravely and bathed him in more glorious white titty milk. She smiled slightly as she heard the sound of a paper bag being crushed and watched his body shrink one more time.

She moved him from the small kids chair which was now way too big for him to the tiny doll’s chair and bound him. He started to come to again while she was tying him up with dental floss and ranting about his shortcomings.

“Why don’t you just shut your fucking mouth, Ken? Don’t you think you’ve fucked things up enough with that mouth, Kenny Ken?” Her long black hair was in a tight, bitchy ponytail that fell down her back along her spine. “You couldn’t keep that mouth off her cunt. Bad mouth!” She aimed her nipple at his mouth. “You know what that mouth didn’t do…ever? It never made me cum. Nope “ She had an improbably skinny waist for monumental tits like hers. Even a Barbie doll would be jealous of her. “Stupid fucking mouth!”

Speaking of Barbie, Ken woke up and found himself tied to a Barbie chair with dental floss nearly as thick as his fingers. It was a white rocking chair made of oak and painted. There was a pink cushion on it. At first he barely could fit in it, but after a few extra squirts of her tit milk deluge, Ken’s ass fit right into the rocking toy chair. The chair was about four inches high. He was bound and stuck. He stared up at his evil wife’s big nipple. Her nipple was now nearly the size of his entire head. His pulse raced from his tiny heart. Each Montgomery bump around Barb’s Areola was bigger than a normal sized nipple. It was disgusting. He felt nauseous. Ken remembered foods he hated as a kid. Her colossal nipple was gross as calf liver.

Months ago, Barbara caught him eating out their florist, a young attractive little thing with metallic blue hair. That led to the divorce. It wasn’t the cheating. It was that he had become such a lazy, selfish husband and lover with her. Ken made her feel like such a useless piece of shit. He didn’t talk to her, didn’t fuck her, didn’t make her feel special. She was just a maid and someone to listen to him go on and on about his acquisitions and successes at work. She no longer felt womanly. The eating out was too fuckng much. He’d replaced her sexually. And it wasn’t fair. She always knew she’d get revenge. She never knew it would be this milky sweet.

“I can explain, Barbara, I can.” Ken rocked in his tiny chair. He turned away, afraid he was going to get another squirt of his ex-wife’s breast milk but she spared him this time. His white button down office shirt was soaked with her milk. He sat in a pool of her milk. The white liquid dripped from the tiny chair placed on the heavy dark oak dining room table in their old marital house where they had once eaten many meals together, where they had once fucked like animals in the passionate old days that were long gone, where they had once carefully calculated their mortgage way back when Ken wasn’t rolling in money. Now Barbara lived in this house. She sat and stared at her tiny ex-husband. He sat on a milk-stained pink cushion. She brought out her huge finger, with large manicured nail. She placed the tip of her forefinger on the tip of his head and stopped him from rocking.

“You stay still,” she said.

At this point, a man came into the room. If Ken was his normal size he would have seen who it was, but at this size things so big came in out of focus until they came closer. As the man got closer tiny Ken in a Barbie chair could see that he wore no clothes underneath the lab coat and that this man had a bazooka for a cock.

He was wearing a white lab coat. Ken recognized the man.

Ken started to feel really hot, right on his skin. It was like the pores in his flesh were opening. Up and down his arms his tiny little hairs stood up as this man in lab coat walked up to his giant ex wife and bent down tenderly to kiss her on the neck. “Hello, baby,” the man said in a sexy baritone voice.

Barbara closed her eyes, her long lashes sloping out in thick mascara’d ski jumps, as her new man put his full red lips onto her porcelain white skin. Maybe it was his new size, maybe it was the open pores, but Ken seemed incredibly sensitive, like he could smell his ex-wife’s arousal. It smelled like orange blossoms and coconut juice.

When bazooka man was done kissing Ken’s ex-wife in the vulnerable nape of the neck, he fixed his eyes on Ken. Ken could smell Barb’s sweat. He saw here pores, big and open. Pulsing. The sweat carried pheromones with it, a delicious, intoxicating smell that Ken had never smelled from his wife before. This was the smell of Bimbo Barb not Tomboy Barbara. Andy’s kiss on Ken’s ex-wife brought out the aroma. Andy looked deep into Ken’s eyes, like he was processing the effect of the eleven and a half inch man. “How are we doing down there, little man?” he said. “I see the titty milk has operated as advertised. Mwuuhahahha!” He laughed the cliche cackle of a megalomaniac.

The man was Ken’s Chief Scientist, Andrew.

Spring 1993
Barbara stopped the car in the Parking Lot right by the NJ Transit stop. “Go get the roses for me.” Ken opened the car door obediently. “Don’t just get out. Give me a kiss first,” Barbara said. She wore a tight t-shirt that hugged her flat chest. She was bossy and boyish, but Ken did as told and gave her a peck on the lips reluctantly before going into the flower shop. “I wish you actually cared about kissing me.”

He was in there a long time. Barbara turned on the radio. She turned off the radio. She redid her lipstick. This was before cell phones. Now she would have been able to update her status, but in those days. Nothing. She fiddled with the rearview mirror. “God you’re gorgeous!” she said to herself. Then she made a face. She didn’t love the way she looked. She was too masculine. Her jaw line too hard. Her breasts too flat. Her positive reinforcement was waning with the wait.

“What the fuck is taking him so long?” she said out loud. She beeped the horn. She waited. She beeped again. “Goddamn Ken,” she said and got out of the car.

She went to the florist window. She didn’t see him inside. There were tons of Latin American weeds growing all over the place. It was a jungle inside. She walked in and Enya was playing. She passed the baby Ceiba trees, the lianas, the birds of paradise, the hydrangea. They were all plants growing around a loud, bubbling fountain. It was noisy. There were jungle sounds. There were fucking birds inside! She heard some other noises like heavy breathing. The cut flowers were in two refrigerators on the far wall across from a counter and a cash register. They were big monstrosities in those days, cash registers. There was no clerk. No Ken. There was a door to a back room.

Barbara walked into the back room. Cut flowers were everywhere in stacks of petals, thorns, stems, and colors. Enya was way louder back here. Long stem roses with big thorns on the stems were stacked up. There were thousands of them. The young florist was lying on a bed of roses with tons of little cuts in her back and hips. The hot coed looked down her massive tits. Ken was on his knees between her sprawled open legs. Her bush was a jungle and Ken had his tongue deep inside the young coed’s inner lips tasting her tropical rainforest.

Barbara gasped. The coed moaned and clamped her knees down on Ken. She started riding his face wildly while she slapped his head with a long stem red rose, throwing red petals off into the air and wandering down to the floor. The petals helicoptered beautifully in the air in little pendulums and sine waves.

Barbara slammed the car door, trembling. She was jealous, but not about Ken. It was that she wanted to be eaten out wildly. She wanted massive fucking tits. She wanted to be so womanly men would throw away mariages over her. She wanted…


Read Part 2 of Shrinkage! Be sure to be a part of MJ’s Mailing List for updates. Oh, and be sure you’re a VIP smutpunk

Brick Pig Poem

on the brick

the spray-paint drips

as the artist

shapes her breasts

like butter

on top of a pancake

lathered in syrup

like an old 80s pop song

sweet as can be

is there even a head in that bitch?


on the brick

inside are whatever families

tenements, projects,

crackheads, cheaters, rapists

and cop killers

but outside

the spray-painter

in hoodie

drips syrupy goodness

of a big juicy pair

is there even a head on the bitch?