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Love your ‘zine. Great energy. I own Issue 14, No. 637.
But you need more malty fiction, with a wedge of lemon from time to time. The following submission is free to you.
Highlands is a local place, and this really happened.
MJR
Confessions of A Beer Goon–001
About 600 words
DaVinci Diamonds
By M. J. Rennie
Ah. 5:30 PM. My day off and time for my daily beer. Where to go is always the problem. Choice today is the Highlands, on Donald, at 40th, because I can walk.
Cell phone buzzes.
“Yeah.”
“I was thinking the Highlands,” she says. “What about you?”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“What do you want to play?”
“What else? DaVinci Diamonds.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“So, do you going to stop anywhere first?” I ask.
“No fuckin’ way,” she answers, and gives me my arrival time.
I’m hiking. At exactly 5:51 PM, I cross the asphalt lot the Highlands shares with the grocery store and several other businesses. I step inside, immediately enveloped in the welcoming atmosphere and cruise straight to the bar.
Nice. These folks enjoy their occasional alcoholic beverage, but they are relaxed about it. Mmmm. The zaftig blond Terry at the bar tips me a full bodied Ninkasi Spring Reign, filling it right to the brim, the soft, creamy head no thicker than my upper lip.
Ah. Yes.
We don’t need no stinking sticker to proclaim our full pint policy appears to be the Highlands slogan.
Terry hands me a water to go along with the Reign. We’ve been here before. I glance around, pretty much knowing what to expect.
She has commandeered DaVinci Diamonds, as I figured she would.
“You’re two minutes late,” she says.
“Sorry.”
“Tastes this,” I say, handing her the Reign.
She takes a long deep, pull, consuming no less than two ounces.
“That hops flavor? You like that?”
“The nectar of the gods,” I say, giving her the icewater.
She is blond, like the barkeep, and thirty nine months older than me. Beautiful as a Sumerian Goddess. She came late to the vices, but embraces them fully.
“I’ve only got a buck in this thing,” she says. “You ready to feed it?”
My twenty goes in, adding to Mona Lisa’s single.
I get ready to press the Spin button.
“There’s only five interesting subjects,” I pontificate: “War, sex, murder, gambling, and love, though not necessarily in that order.”
“Shut up anmd play,” she says.
Down goes the spin button and and something exotic happens. I take a sudden breath.
She grips my forearm. “No reaction,” she whispers insistently. “No reaction.”
“I can’t help it.”
Twelve thosand nickels. An Oregon lottery notice appears, saying the win has been truncated, having reached the maximum $600.
“Can you fuckin’ believe it?” she whispers, barely audible.
I answer with a cough. The counter finishes toting. $601.
She takes over from there, going through the slot offerings. I keep nibbling my TG, gamboling through fields of hops ripening in the north valley only last year. She ends up at Flush Fever, having pushed the stake to $721.40.
“Let’s cash out,” she say, yawning.
“Righto.”
In the car she tells me she is very, very pleased. And horny.
“When we get home get home I want you out of your cargo shorts and briefs. But leave on your T-shirt, socks, and shoes. I’m going to give you a hand.”
“A hand? I haven’t had a hand in a long time. Not since my vasectomy.”
“Well, DaVinci has earned you one tonight.”
“Bless him.”
Ten minutes later, we are in the second floor bathroom, in front of the sink on her side, her hand gripping me, my product spilling into the sink. I scream.
M. J. Rennie is a Springfield writer with a penchant for fully hopped microbrews. He is the author of PERMISSION, THE PERFECT WIFE, ALTERNATE EROS and SEX AND SEXIBILITY, among many other works of fiction. See the next issue of BoozeWeek for even more CONFESSIONS OF A BEER GOON.
Confessions of A Beer Goon
About 400 600 words
Reamed Again
At lunch with Steve Olson. We went to the seafood restaurant again. Moby Dick’s, our favorite place. It may be the last of its type in this part of the country. All the rest are gone.
It is clear why this franchise is still in business when so many others aren’t.
Like that giant anchor that sticks up in the lawn outside. Try getting rid of that thing in less than a thousand years.
The phone buzzes while I’m eating with Stevo.
“Yeah?” I say.
“Where tonight?”
“You wanna know what I’m thinking?”
“What?”
“I wanna go to Good Times for a change. Don’t ask me why.”
“No fuckin’ way. I was gonna say the same fuckin’ thing,” she says.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Good Times it is.”
“What time?” I ask.
“I goota piece of shit her at work I gotta deal with, but I’ll be there at 4:08 PM. Not a minute later.”
“I’ll be there.”
We didn’t even mention games this time. But I knew what hers was going to be. The Wolf.
Romulus and Remus were suckled by a she wolf, or so the legend went.
Downtown. We’re here in separate cars, But at least she’s in the hybrid.
Asphalt. The Ferry Street Bridge. The big outdoor liunge facing Sixth Street. The beer Brian plops down in front of me is a litle goddamn foamier than I would prefer, but I’ll take it.
“The keg has just been tapped,” he says. “Give me a minute or so and I’ll bring yours up to the brim.”
“Why, thank you,” I reply. “I’ll need an icewater, too.”
“You playing?”
I nod.
“I’ll bring it over to you.”
I’m at the machine, keeping her chair warm. She anounces her presence by pinching me on the butt.
“I was down twenty,” I tell her. “Now I’m up three bucks.”
“Let me take over.”
The game is Triple It.
“You were down twenty on this?”
“No, I went from Diamond Dealer to Crown Bonus to Flush Fever to Triple It. I can’t say exactly where I was at any given point but now I know I’m three bucks up.”
“Okay.”
I get up and she nestles her rear end into the chair.
“Cash me out,” I say, “and I’ll feed a fresh twent in for you.”
“Okay.”
She presses the cash out button and hands me the ticket. I slip an Andy Jackson into the money slot and wait for the machine to soak it up. Ready.
She goes to her favorite game, The Big Easy, betting the maximum on the first spin. Nothing. She does the same on the second spin. Nada again.
The barmaid come by with me beer, the one Brian has allowed to settle down. It is nice and full, the mug is cold, and she has the icewater with her, too. I give her a two dollar tip.
Life is good.
She pauses in her game play, saying, “What are you drinking?”
“An Alaskan Amber. Want a taste?”
She takes the mug, sipping part of the head and taking it about an inch down.
“Not bad.”
What is bad is the gaming. Not a damn thing pays. After about a half an hour, we are down seventy bucks.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says. “This isn’t working at all. So much for Good Times.”
When we get back to the house, she makes me go into the bedroom and get her strap on, the harness, and the lube.
At her direction, I take my pants down to my knees and bend over the arm of the sofa. She greases me up with her forefinger and tells me to close my eyes and count to ten.
The dildo goes in my ass with a single push, the second time today I’ve gotten reamed by a machine.
M. J. Rennie is a Springfield writer with a penchant for Ninkasi microbrews. He is the author of PERMISSION, THE ALIEN APHRODISIAC, ALTERNATE EROS and SEX AND SEXIBILITY, among many other works of fiction. See additional posts on the site for even more CONFESSIONS OF A BEER GOON.
Confessions Of A Beer Goon
Paulina & Dolph In Post-Change Year 2051
From The Story Collection TOTAL FEMDOM
By M. J. Rennie
“Lie down here on your back,” Paulina said. “I’ll get on top of you.”
“Sure thing.”
Dolph stretched out on the hard, flat surface of the Steel case desk, his legs dangling over the edge. Not far away from where they were having sex, enough weaponry to outfit an entire U. S. army regiment was carefully stored. They were the only two people who knew of its existence. And in Paulina, there was at least one person who had an inkling of the significance of their find.
With the material they had at their disposal, they could easily take over the ranch. With a little but of luck and some capable allies, they could probably conquer Montival.
After that, who knew?
Paulina settled her ass over Dolph’s face, the downy hairs of her pubis damp with excitement. His tongue shot up into her furrow and she squirmed with pleasure, rubbing her clit over his nose.
Right in front of her own nose was Dolph’s cock, sticking up like a totem pole. Maybe he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he would do what she told him. Besides that, he was as virile as a stallion. Paulina cupped his balls in her palms and applied her lips to the head of his swollen crank.
Dolph moaned like he always did when she sucked him.
“Oh yeah… That’s it baby. Yeah.”
He continued digging his tongue into her furry notch.
Paulina licked him up and down, up and down, pleased with the way her tongue strokes made him throb. This wasn’t going to take long at all. She’d make him cum fast and then have him spend a good long time on his knees, eating her pussy.
But she’d have to get off at least once before she milked him. That was her standard practice.
And then, after they practiced with the guns they’d found they would go back to the ranch and start killing people.
From that day forward, the world that had existed before The Change would begin, in slow, incremental steps, to reassert itself. The glitch in space time that the Tau Fei created as a work of art was fading, like a painting left out in the sun.
Once again, guns fired bullets. Electricity flowed through wires. Engines of all sorts would work as they had before, if somehow or other people could remember how to build them.
The fire, thought dead forever, had reignited.
Another world was born.
It wasn’t a better world, just a different one.