#LPRTG | Read a Preview of The Book of Real & Imaginary Girlfriends – Original Smutpunk

In some ways, this book is the original smutpunk. It’s literary smut with a lot of attitude but also a layer of smarts and depth. See for yourself. Read an excerpt and then download it and flip through it. Most people feel that the Amy Sequence is the most emotional part. One erotica writer, Connie Cliff, says it made her cry. Give it a read!

Read Excerpt of The Book of Real & Imaginary Girlfriends by Moctezuma Johnson

Fill Your Free Time with a little MILKED BY THE YETI #EARTG #SSRTG #LPRTG @MJKingOfErotica

Yeti Terrorizes the Village

MILKED BY THE YETI

Moctezuma Johnson

In Nepal, things were chill for a few months. “The Yeti (aka “Mike”) fucked his wife, sucked on her tits, and was generally calm, and even happy. He still yearned for Lena’s Russian goodness but was content enough to love the one he was with.

He patiently waited for his yeti-wife to get pregnant and start producing milk. He hadn’t visited his milking station since his return to the Himalayas. No excursions to his private Yeti-cave, no kidnapping of voluptuous Pakistani women, no ass-raping brave Western tourists, nor milking Russian Lena-look-alikes. The Yeti had been surprisingly well-behaved.

He went for the first time. He remembered skating her. He remembered entering Lena but he was too big to get all the way in. He found Lena’s tattered top. It was a ripped plaid button down shirt. He used the torn shirt to wipe the tears from his eyes. Then he stomped down to the village and mauled a bunch of Sherpa. He ripped some from limb to limb. He bashed the heads of some into each other cracking both their skulls and leaking their Asian brains onto the snow. He disemboweled others. After he killed them, he placed them on the snow. He worked very diligently and delicately with the dead, maimed Sherpa. It was the worst Yeti-massacre in human history. He finished posing the dead bodies. He wiped his eyes again with Lena’s old shirt. He could smell her glorious lactation. He growled. The thunder of his growl exploded through Nepal. He looked down at the strewn bodies. They formed the perfect image of Lena’s gorgeous Russian tits.

If it wasn’t so bloody, the dead bodies would have formed a beautiful scene. It turns out the Yeti was quite the artist. He had Lena’s tits expertly narrated. With the whitish flesh of the dead bodies he built the subcutaneous goodness of her massive mammaries, with the jackets and clothes drenched in a good amount of blood he formed her spectacular areolas with expert shading, and with their heads and darkest features (sometimes the most utterly blood-soaked) the yeti formed her extraordinary nipples, the source of all the yeti’s longing. He stared at his elegy. It wasn’t a lament for the dead. The yeti didn’t empathize with dead humans any more than humans feel for mosquitoes. He lamented the loss of his favorite milky titties, Lena’s breasts.

On the open seas, Vlad, Natasha, Barnacle Man, a fettered Yeti, and a comatose Lena (with all her life-support machines) were en route to the Himalayas.

“What happened to you, Jackie?” Natasha asked the poor Sea Captain who was in the beginning throws of an orgy with the gorgeous blonde when he was rudely assaulted, captured, and taken against his will.

“Ah those guys?” Jack Li said. “I owed them a quarter. Sorry I couldn’t pleasure you right back there. Jack Li hates to leave a woman in anticipa–”

He stopped the boat for a moment, his cock rudder ceasing to flap incredibly, then he steered them at full speed into a narrow river that led them at insane speeds past Dhaka, West Bengal, and Sikkam, India to the end of the river. They made their way from Darjeeling without drinking even one cup of tea [[tea’s nutz, I had to say it!]] through the highlands by bus to their destination at foot of the Himalayas where they saw the Yeti last time.

Leaving the baby-yeti and his comatose mother in the rudder-craft, Vlad, Natasha, and Jack disembarked.

The villagers were in an uproar. They had knives, shotguns, even a few (who must have been in a military of some sort) had AK-47s. They were speaking frenetically.

“The Yeti has been massacring the locals, breaking a long tradition of relative peace beside a few big-titted women taken for pleasure,” said Jack Li. “They want to kill him.”

They all looked back to the craft to Lena’s comatose body to see if she’d stir. Nothing. Natasha sighed and flipped her golden hair back. There was a sound from way high above. It was a glassy gong sound, a chime. The villagers were scampering, getting in pick up trucks to go get Yeti-blood. It permeated the air, some deep bass. It was a tocsin, alerting the villages that it was time to attack.

Vlad said, “It’s emanating from the Buddhist temple on the mountain. Hide the baby!”

It was too late, the villagers had spotted the baby-yeti in the strange craft of Barnacle man and were already pointing their firearms in their direction.

A massive growl thundered out of the craft. The thunderous growl tore through the sound of chimes, gongs, voices, and clips locking into automatic rifles.

The leader of the villagers, an old man with a wrinkled brown face, lively green eyes, and a grey mustache and goatee, barked at Jack Li.

“They want the boy,” Jack said to Vlad. “We have no choice.”

“No,” screamed Natasha. “They will kill him. Never.”

Natasha was trembling with rage, fear, and indecision.

The leader stepped slowly to the entrance of the craft. Jack Li allowed the old man to move to it. Natasha, however, stepped in his way and put her lanky body in front of him. “Nyet,” she said in decisive Russian defiance.

He looked at the Russian goddess closely, inhaling her blue eyes, letting her golden hair fan out in the cold like rays from the sun. He smiled.

“Take me instead,” Natasha said. “You can all have me, share me.”

The old man laughed. He reached forward and grabbed Natasha hard by the nipple right over her jacket with one hand and by the hair with the other. He yanked her head back with a fistful of her hair. “You cannot handle even one of us, let alone ALL of us,” he said. He laughed hard and loud, and his heavily-armed minions laughed with him although they probably didn’t understand much of his broken-English. He twisted her nipple.

Natasha, with her head back, hair in this old man’s grip, stayed confident. “You’re wrong. If there’s one thing I know it is how to please groups of men. I have experience.” She said it slowly and her cocksucking lips were full and gorgeous. They carried with them the promise of oral pleasure. Her hands worked down to the old man’s crotch which she rubbed playfully.

Their discourse was cut short by a loud growl and white, hairy fist smashing the craft into two in one swift blow.

When the yeti, the adult yeti named “Mike”, was up there arranging dead Sherpa into the shape of Russian titties, the she-yeti was watching. She stood there watching the love of her life go on a killing-rampage because he was pining for the milky tits of a human. It was the saddest moment of her long, she-yeti life. It was sure as snow falls from the sky that her man was obsessed with tits that did not hang from the she-yeti. The she-yeti’s heart broke as she stared at “Mike” and the eerie sounds of chimes and gongs hung in the Himalayan air.

She decided that she would help her yeti man. He had been good to her. He had tried to love her properly. Love is a bizarre force. The heart goes to places that none could ever anticipate.

Fate is even more bizarre. Wifey-yeti snuck away from the yeti and his dead-body artwork and into the village because she spotted Jack Li, so she thought. She figured he would lead her to Lena.

Her fist smashed the craft in two. The villagers started to shoot, to run forward to knife her ankles, but none of this mattered to the she-yeti. She had expected to find Lena and give her to her husband. In one side of the split craft she found Lena, sleeping. But what she found in the other half of the craft changed everything. It changed her whole life forever. She didn’t hear the screaming, the gunfire, the gongs, the vitriol in the Nepali curses thrown at her as she mindlessly swatted, kicked, and utterly annihilated the angry militia. She only saw a baby-yeti with eyes of sunshine, fur of cashmere, and heart of pure gold. She unfettered him from his seat with the superhuman strength that only a mama can possess and took him into her arms. At that point, even the angry mob stopped attacking. One, the attack was futile, it was suicide to engage with a protective mama-yeti. Two, they were curious what was happening and just wanted to watch. What they saw was a miracle. The she-yeti held the baby to her and he went for her nipples. She shook her head. She hadn’t been pregnant. She was of no real motherly use to him. She wasn’t the mother and didn’t have big balloon titties filling automatically with milk. The big-titted, comatose, human, non-furry whore was the actual mother. Although it was true that the she-yeti was not the biological mother, the DNA gods that twist our strands—human, animal, mythological beast, etc—into double helices, had gathered the cosmic fibers in the she-yeti in such a maternal way upon sight of the baby yeti that when his lips met her yeti-nipples the damnedest thing happened.

Milk rained from her tits.

The baby yeti had found what he was looking for in a mother, in a life force. He drank and drank and was truly being sated, the way every child deserves.

The villagers were in awe but then they were again shouting and screaming and arming their guns. The He-Yeti emerged from the white. But the yeti did not attack. He did not maim. He did not even growl.

The fucking yeti rubbed the back of the she-yeti. Then he gently smacked his son on the bottom. If a chronicler of animal emotions was nearby he would probably say that the yeti’s look could be classified as a smile. Think dog wagging his tail, cat with its tail up, or a duck standing on one leg. The yeti appeared happy.

The yeti found the half of the craft with Lena in it. He removed her and the life-support machines. He unhooked her from the machines.

Natasha gasped and Vlad grabbed his new wife while watching the yeti put his old wife to eternal sleep. The yeti didn’t look sad exactly. His eyes were focused on Lena’s. They were burrowing through her. He had Lena’s body resting tenderly on his forearm. With his other hand, he kneaded her breasts. Then he leaned down and sucked on them.

“That’s a moribund milking,” Vlad said to Natasha with more than a small amount of disgust and superiority.

The yeti sucked the milk. His eyes, the antumbra changed color. They glowed pink. The she-yeti saw her husband’s eyes change color. It was love. She knew it. They were pink as roses on Valentine’s Day. The yeti stopped sucking Lena’s milk and cast his pink and black eyes, like pink solar eclipses, at his love.

Lena, although deep in a coma, barely holding on to her own life-force, on the brink of death, felt the pink eyes on her. It was like a chime in her brain. It flipped a switch. Her heart revved into gear. Her eyes opened.

She saw her beautiful yeti staring down at her. The opened her mouth. They kissed deeply. Her tongue was immediately ensconced in the warm cashmere of yeti-tongue which stimulated every nerve ending in her own tongue. It like kissing heaven directly.

The villagers began to clap.

Natasha and Vlad held each other tightly. Jack Li tossed a quarter up and down in his hand. The mama- and baby-yeti walked up the mountain to their cave.

The yeti continued to kiss his love. Once again Lena had been milked by the yeti.

 

End Book 3 ###

(What? you want more Yeti? If so, let Callie Press know with a tweet or any form of cummespondence. Thanks! We can convince her. Love, MJ)

My feeling is that the Yeti can never be monogamous and punts her off the mountain again!

Want more Moctezuma Johnson? Visit http://moctezumajohnson.com/ or check Moctezuma’s Smutpunk On Amazon

 

 

 

 

Merry Chistmas! #LPRTG #EARTG #SMUTPUNK || MILKED BY THE YETI, Book 3, Part 4 BY MOCTEZUMA JOHNSON

MILKED BY THE YETI, Book 3, Part 4

BY MOCTEZUMA JOHNSON

Natasha took home the baby-yeti. Vlad did too, but these decisions are ultimately up to the woman and the man, while able to interject his views here and there, is essentially just a passenger along the ride, much the way Rhode Island is to the US presidential elections thanks to the electoral college. They got the baby yeti home and Vlad went out to the local shops and got a child’s bed, he was already so goddamn big, and packed the car full of formula. This boy could drink! Wow!

At first baby yeti was okay. Natasha was hopeful that she could mother him. Her and Vlad were a family. They were equipped. Natasha, however, had lost her best friend again. She wasn’t gone. But she was in a coma in Brighton General. Perhaps, part of Natasha resented the baby yeti. Or maybe it was just physical. She had no milk to give the yeti. So what use was she?

As the days passed the yeti grew in stature and he grew restless. Vlad went out for more formula every day. Every day he packed the car with formula, goat milk, horse milk. He was on the black markets online, the ones on 86th street, searching the black milky markets for more milk. He was quickly dubbed The Milkman by the local vendors, a pretty swarmy group.

None of it was enough. And none of it seemed right. The yeti always looked unsatisfied. It was like, Vlad thought, he had a special milk that he needed and none of what Vlad was providing was correct. Occasionally, after feeding on seventeen bottles at once the yeti would bang his big furry hand on his bed and Vlad would again get the drill and re-attach it. Vlad felt bad for the yeti. The yeti was grossly out of his element.

He also realized that the yeti was half human but the yetiness of the yeti was so dominant that it was hard to not consider him fully yeti. This was making raising a yeti in a human home difficult. Also, humans grow so slowly compared to just about any creature in the animal kingdom. This yeti growing fast. He was already walking. He was already getting into trouble. He had knocked down the TV, upturned the fridge, pulled the sink out of the socket, eaten the shower-head, and walked through a wall from the parlor room to the bedroom. Vlad reinstalled a shower-head, re-caulked the sink, put the TV back, but just left the hole in the wall.

Vlad knew he had to do something.

On a beautiful fall night, Vlad snuck into Lena’s hospital room. She looked like Snow White laying there (think more Bella Swann’s version than Disney’s, please). Even reclining and comatose, Lena’s tits were fucking humongous. He was all alone in this part of the hospital. There was only one guy working the wing and he was way down the corridor. Vlad lifted up her hospital gown and let her titties breath the crisp fall air. He’d rarely seen Lena’s nipples so soft. They were exquisite. She got turned on easily and usually he saw her nipples in states between hard and neutral. They were completely down, like a pat of putter melting into a pancake. He allowed himself to touch one. He rubbed it. Sure enough it got hard. Not very hard, more like neutral. But it responded to his touch. He let himself suck on it, he sucked until a squirt of milk shot into his mouth. He was rock hard. He knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t resist. He straddled his comatose ex-wife and proceeded to use her tits to pleasure his big Russian dick. It was utter joy! He was titty fucking a sleeping goddess. Her breasts were filled with milk, he could feel it, and better than ever. He was at the brink. He shot a creamy load of cum into the ravine between her massive juggs. Then he unpacked the milking paraphernalia he brought in and proceeded to milk his ex-wife’s tits. He filled up a few bottles, but then her tits went dry. It wasn’t nearly enough but at least it was the yeti’s mother’s milk. Maybe this would satisfy the young cub.

In their apartment, Vlad fed the young yeti cub his mama’s milk. This worked. He rested peacefully after draining the bottles. But when he woke, he wanted more and there was no more.

The Yeti-tantrum turned the 4-level brownstone they lived in into a pile of rocks within minutes. The neighbors ran to the street when they heard the earthquake taking place. The street was a nightmare. Women were screaming, crying, sirens were wailing. The fire department was on its way. Vlad, Natasha, and the yeti would have all been captured or killed if it wasn’t for the sudden appearance of a weird craft on the street. It came in fast, pogoing on a big barnacled stick. That’s right, it jumped in on part of this guy’s massive anatomy, his cock. And it came in so hot (fast) that the crowd parted in fear, awe, and a considerable amount of jealousy and stereotype-busting. It was Barnacle Man! The little Asian with the massive dick!

“Look, it’s Jack Lee.”

Jack Li/Barnacle Man arrived on his hovercraft which wasn’t exactly a hovercraft because it bounced rather than hovered. It bounced on his massive, hard dick. He came to a stop near the yeti-infant. “My name is Jack Li, not Jack Lee.”

The crowd murmured in confusion, his name is what not what? Aren’t they the same? Is Jack Li/Lee okay? Holy shit is his cock massive! Who cares about his name!

Barnacle Man harpooned the baby yeti and shackled him to a seat on the craft. Vlad and Natasha took human seats and fastened harnesses. They pogo’d off to Brighton General where Barnacle Man expertly took Lena and her coma-keeping life-support machines into the craft.

They headed to the bay and entered the water. The cock-pogo turned into a rudder and they were off to travel back across the planet.

$.

End Act 2

[Intermission – take a piss, have a smoke, get a quickie]

Stay Tuned for MILKED BY THE YETI, book 3, part 5

Preview of Part 5

In Nepal, things were chill for a few months. Mike the Yeti fucked his wife, sucked on her tits, and was generally calm, and even happy. He still yearned for Lena’s Russian goodness but was content enough to love the one he was with.

He waited for his yeti-wife to get pregnant and start producing milk. He hadn’t visited his milking station since his return to the Himalayas.

He went for the first time and found some of Lena’s tattered clothes. It was a ripped plaid button down shirt. He used the torn shirt to wipe the tears from his eyes. Then he stomped down to the village and mauled a bunch of Sherpas. He ripped some from limb to limb. He bashed the heads of some into each other cracking both their skulls and leaking their Asian brains onto the snow. He disemboweled others. After he killed them, he placed them on the snow. He worked very diligently and delicately with the dead, maimed Sherpas. It was the worst Yeti-massacre in human history. He finished placing the dead bodies. He wipes his eyes again with Lena’s Swiss-cheesed, old shirt. He could smell her glorious lactation. He growled. The thunder of his growl exploded through Nepal. He looked down at the strewn bodies. They formed the perfect image of Lena’s gorgeous Russian tits.

(to be continued)

(hate waiting? don’t worry! A new one comes out EVERY day!)