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Pierre Emantal had harvested many fine pelts that season. It was April in the Yukon, and the snowy teat of DuChamp's Glacier stood erect in big sky, its westerly edge so sharp Pierre could feel it slice across his tongue.

The mountain snows were melting, swelling the voluptuous meanderings of the Saskataw river. Pierre knelt on her soft, mossy banks and plunged his face into her vital, icy issue. Awash in her gentle, burbling essence, he lapped eagerly until he could take no more. Yep, he really worked his tongue into that river's fucking cunt.

Date Written: April 15, 2002
Author: qualcomm
Average Vote: 4

04/15/2002 anonymous (1):
01/17/2004 scoop (5): an unexpected warmth animated my yoni reading this one.
05/27/2004 Ewan Snow (5): Oh, yeah. Forgot all about this one...
05/27/2004 qualcomm: dylan gave it a one
05/27/2004 Ewan Snow: Figures.
05/27/2004 Dylan Danko (5): Bullshit.
05/27/2004 Ewan Snow: Mulp, he proved you wrong, Lerpa.
05/27/2004 Dylan Danko: I hate both of you. Mulp.