Log in

No account? Create an account

Mad for Ahmadinejad

Mahmoud best be gettin' street cred fast

Mad for Ahmadinejad

Mahmoud best be gettin' street cred fast

Previous Entry Share Next Entry

I'm fond of Mahmoud's metrosexual style, but how is he going to compete against this?

  • a documentary account, part one

    On a recent visit to Iran I somehow found myself in the enviable position of being one of the few reporters permitted to interview the 'Jad himself. He answered all the questions essentially as expected, and as we were of course being recorded he couldn't be too overt, but I got the sense he wanted to give me something more than verbal responses. I stuck around after the cameras were gone and with a few choice Persian phrases was soon able to gain entry to the presidential suite. Soon I found myself engaged in intercourse which was far more than lexical.

    As I slipped off his pantaloons I had the honor of viewing a pair of monumental legs, harder than enriched uranium cylinders. I suggested that I now suspected the existence of at least one warhead in the country despite the ostentsibly peaceful aims of the nuclear program, and he obliged me by immediately revealing to me the fully-extended mighty meat-missile, longer than longcat and as wide of that of even the gayest of niggers. Without further prompting I began to zealously fellate his throbbing member. In a flattering display of respect for my African American heritage, he complimented my performance with phrases in my language which he knew I would understand.

    "Shiiiit, bitch," he opined, clearly focusing intensely on translating his intimate feelings into the appropriate lexicon. "You are a nasty ho." I responded to the flattering praise by sucking harder and taking it deeper. Soon he expressed his desire for something more. "Reveal to me your nigger ass," he requested in his most diplomatic tone. I immediately stood up, bent over and obliged him. His front-mounted bitch-splitter entered me rectally at such a shocking velocity that my hands slammed into the adjacent wall hard enough to leave handprints which I am told he has taken casts of and treasures to this day. After several minutes of vigorous and exhilaratingly painful anal knowledge, I demurely requested that he transfer his penis to my vaginal canal, explaining that this would not require a fundamental change in position, as doggy style was common and even preferred among American Negroes. His response was refreshingly blunt and further demonstrated his interest in my culture. "Bitches ain't shit but burkas and tricks," he remarked, "so lick on the balls and suck the dick." I was aroused by his domineering attitude, finding it reminiscent of the treatment I had enjoyed at the hands of males of my own kind, and as he lifted me bodily off of his penile unit and threw me onto the bed, I eagerly tilted my head back and opened my mouth in anticipation of violent irrumatio. He lowered his celestial nutsack into my mouth forcefully, sitting on my face for what seemed like at least a minute to show me my place by temporarily denying me the honor of breathing the same air as His Excellency. Though by nature a peaceful man, he deliberately made me feel at home by putting his hands around my throat just after he withdrew his testicles, cutting off my gasp for breath and throttling me until I began to experience sensations reminiscent of my youthful experiments with PCP. He showed his respect for me as a person by allowing me another few breaths just as I thought I was about to pass out, clearly preferring me to be conscious.

    I felt like I was back in Harlem as he forced his phallus down my throat, and knew that my gag reflex was pleasing him greatly, which made me feel better about myself as a person. He seemed to know just when to pull out for a few seconds to spare me from asphyxiation. I felt like we had a spiritual connection as his dong ravaged my esophagus. He knowingly addressed me by familiar terms such as "slut," "bitch," "nigger" and "cum dumpster," and I felt my neurons flooded with heavenly gratitude.
  • documentary account part two

    "Now do the work yourself, whore," he soon asked. I placed my hands on his firm buttocks and used this grip to mercilessly choke myself with his cock, and I could tell he was gratified by my selfless efforts. When he was almost finished he seized my neck and pulled out suddenly, his mighty dong dragging my saliva down across my face, and I knew there was something more I had to do to make him come, which I had so far failed at.
    "I'll puke for you, Mahmoud," I exclaimed. "I know I can do it. Just hit me in the stomach." He slammed his fist into me as I had requested, but I could not conjure up the promised vomit, to my great shame. He thrusted his penis back down my throat and lifted me off the bed, suspending me upside-down with my legs in the air as he continued to fuck my throat. He carried me into the bathroom in this position, still choking on his dick, and, surely calculating that this was the most sanitary setting for the coming activities, stepped into the bathtub and slammed me into the wall. Understandably frustrated, he angrily punched me in the stomach over and over again, and I gagged and sobbed from the pain but vomited only slightly.

    He threw me to the floor of the bathtub, positioning my head directly below the faucet, and, standing with one foot on my breasts and one on my stomach, turned the hot water on full blast, making it impossible for me to breathe. This was more intense than anything I had ever experienced, and I instinctively struggled to free myself, not considering how offensive this would be. He placed his knees on my arms, making my resistance futile, spat on my chest, forced my breasts together around his cock and fucked my chest in a leisurely fashion with no apparent consideration for the fact that I was in danger of drowning.

    Finally I began to vomit violently, and he obligingly turned off the faucet, though his manly hands forcefully prevented my from turning my head to the side, so that the vomit mostly remained in my mouth, encouraging further vomiting. He seemed intensely pleased, and turned himself around so that he could thrust in and out of my throat as I puked my guts out, clearly trusting me now enough that he did not bother to hold me down. As I convulsed he finally blew his holy load, mostly straight into my tortured stomach but part of the sacred sperm mixed with the vomit, saliva and tears which now covered my entire face. The moment he was done, he used my tits to wipe off his dick, as if I was a towel, then closed the bathroom door on me. Soon I heard the outer door close as he left me alone in the apartment without a word. I had never felt so liberated.
Powered by LiveJournal.com