- Don’t forget the episodes, too. You may have to search on Amazon for them.
- Pop & Lollie
- Attack of the North Korean Giantesses (coming soon!)
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!
If you haven’t done so already, please, check out Emme Hor and follow her on Amazon so you know when new books come out. She’s about to drop I AM NOT A WHORE, AM I? on Amazon any day now. This one is a lot less tame than the first one. You’ll see.
It’s loaded with facefucking, big Asian tits, power struggles, and Brittany’s descent into whoredom.
I’ve written a short foreword (which we’ve put at the back) for it.
by Moctezuma Johnson
Well, as Lena feared the Yeti got to have his way with her. It took a while for her to learn how to take his entire yeti-penis inside of her, but she did. She was better off being on top of him that way she could control how much of him she was taking. At first it was pain on par with childbirth, not that she was conscious for hers. Then it was pain and pleasure mixed. It led her to orgasms of which she had previously only dreamed. The yeti was the king of the sexual jungle, no doubt.
Then her worst fears came true. As much as the yeti had obsessed over her, and her milky titties, she woke up one morning and her breasts felt different. She cupped one of her magnificent titties and it was softer, lighter. The yeti grabbed Lena and had a kneading session and then a quick suck but was upset to find that there was no milk left. The following day he sucked again in the morning and found them devoid of milk one more time. On day three, when her tits turned out to be done producing milk he took her over his shoulder. Lena was crying, cursing the gods of milky titties, and pounding on his back trying to convince him not to punt her. He rolled her into a ball, like she was in the middle of doing a crunch or a hanging leg raise, and then kicked her down the mountain, again. It was a bone crushing kick that shattered her femur and sent her flying through the air. She landed plushly in a soft powder of snow but her momentum carried her down the mountain. She rolled and rolled, in excruciating pain each time she flipped over, and landed at the village one more time. Natasha was contacted. Lena’s thigh was set in a bandage by the local guru. She was given hot tea and blanket. She sipped, shivered, and cursed the fucking yeti, milked by “Mike” for the last time.
MILKED BY THE YETI
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