Comics conceived of and drawn in (roughly) ten minutes. And it shows (seriously, I'm actually not a five-year-old).
Updates Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
10 Minute Comics
You follow my blog, right? Because if you do, you’d be digging my currently ongoing summer project.
I can’t even remember why they fell out, but the result of it was, when he came back from the Caribbean, there was cum everywhere.
There’d be twenty or thirty guys in the house at any one time; three weeks, twenty four hours a day, of a constant flow of traffic. And cum. They’d be ushered inside the front door, then out through the back when they were done. Some of them came as soon as they’d got their nobs out, but others took ages, bashing away for hours, with fifteen or twenty guys there in the room, all doing the same; no sound but that slick noise of a fist sliding over a wet helmet. Saw some that ejaculated through flaccid cocks. Little dribbles with no power at all, like a sickly worm sneezing.
Every room had blokes wanking in it. A bunch in the living room. Bedroom. Kitchen. The bathroom was popular. Someone put the plug in and came in the sink, and it became a thing where I think they were trying to fill it. Only took three days to get it up to the overflow.
There were all kinds of men. Young, old, white, black, gay, straight. And there were all kinds of cocks. Stubby little tadgers that looked like rotten strawberries; huge, thick horsecocks like your own forearm, with veins like power cables that needed two hands. Size didn’t relate to potency. I saw one portly little guy with hairy shoulders and a three-incher that came on the ceiling. There was a lot of variation in the amount of cum too. Some probably blasted one off before they got there, so they barely had more than a spit, while others seemed like they’d never stop pumping thick piss out of their bells. Numerous guys came back more than once, and there were university-age guys who hung around all day, shooting constantly, either side of fifteen minute intervals of pacing and energy drinks and “Yeah bro, I totally just emptied my balls!”
Another thing that varied was the technique. You’d think there’s only one way to properly wank your willy, but over those weeks, I learnt different. Righties that went left; backhanders, with their thumbs at the bottom. One guy had his dick flat up against the wall and was fucking it with fast, rough thrusts. A particular bloke stood there for sixteen, seventeen hours, hand going up and down the whole time. He’d get himself right to the edge, then pull back, squeezing little pre-cum tears out of his head into a shiny puddle between his feet. When he finally let his dick be sick, he walked out like he’d sat on a traffic cone and let it go right up to his lungs, because his balls were so achy. Some could only do it on their backs; laying on the cummy carpet like a starfish and shooting the milk over their own heads with a moan. I saw one who came inside his own cock. Uncut, he pinched his foreskin closed as he came, keeping all the cum inside like a balloon. After a few minutes, he let go, and it all came falling out of the end of his prick like emptying a bucket. Many were set in their ways about how they could shoot, stuck in a habit of only way they could get off. Hole fingering was the most popular, but there were some who’d get on their knees and literally fuck their own hands. There was one guy with a cock like a Pringles can with an apple in the top, and he could only get hard by windmilling his william in a big circle. He still wasn’t fully inflated when he came, but it was like watching a Catherine Wheel on Bonfire Night.
So much cum. It was dripping off the walls. Fucking stank. Whole place was awash with cum. It hung from door frames and counter tops like January icicles, with the walls, fixtures and fittings resembling a badly iced cake; photo frames and DVD cases just visible beneath the sticky layer of grey-white jizz. A photo of his ex-wife got it the worst. Smiling outside a museum, she was. By the time we were done, she was buried inside a snowman of semen. Everyone had trouble staying on their feet from all the cum on the floor, skidding around like Bambi. The smell was horrendous too. I’d gotten used to it, but near the end, newbies who walked in were gagging and blacking out, and you’d have to lift their noses out of the cummy puddles before they drowned.
In all that time, I don’t think anyone spoke. All you heard was cocks being jerked, and that spurting sound of cum cumming out of a little purple slit. Two guys came right over each other. Strangers, they stood in front of one another and let rip; both barrels in the face and chest. One black guy with a dick that was wider than it was long shot it right into his own mouth. They frowned on that, because you were there to cum on the house, so they made him spit it out, but he swallowed half of it and pretended it was an accident. When he came back for another go, they made him wank with the Sky remote in his mouth so he couldn’t fire his dick down his throat again.
When the three weeks were up, the all rooms were smaller because there was an inch and a half of cum slicked to every surface.
I heard that when he got back, he didn’t sell it at all. Opens the front door with all his suitcases, and his house looks like the inside of a slut’s mixing bowl — didn’t even blink. Maybe he expected something, cos they had this history of fucking with each other, and he was sat there waiting for him.
“Alright?” he says, putting his cases down and chatting away. Makes himself a cup of coffee from the cum-covered coffee machine, in a cum-filled mug with cum dripping down the side. Takes a nice big cummy sip. Got a cum-moustache, but he doesn’t break eye contact with him, not for a second. “Thanks for looking after the place,” he says, “and don’t be a stranger.” By this point, our guy’s gotten up to leave, livid, but he calls out after him, “Feel free to come here any time you like.”
Fuck knows what he did with that place after. I heard he upped and left it, and even the hobos won’t touch it. But someone told me that our guy’s gone missing. Some say that he lives in there now, and his mind’s gone. He just sits there, wanking, trying to flood it up to the light bulbs.
(If you’re reading my Tumblr and wonder what the fuck this is all about, then this link will explain all: http://franticplanet.wordpress.com/2012/07/06/reinventing-myself-as-an-erotic-author/)
Oh no, more non-comics! Whatever must you think of me?! :(
Anonymous asked: Can you stop using 10MC as a plug for your book and get back to being funny? Cheers.
I was going to, but I probably won’t bother for a while now.
All your fault.