God of the Game (Dreamstate) (32 page)

When he
awoke, courtesy of Roanna Fausi, his male organs were gone! In place was a polished new vagina any girl would be proud to own. Unfortunately, you can’t say the same for the rest of his body.

Ecstatic, Divalicious understood the meaning of the dreams. Roanna is mankind’s redeemer, and he
, (or rather now, she,) is to be the herald, preparing the hearts of men with a sultry songbird’s tonal quality,
plus
, a Vegas showgirl’s pole-dancing sensuality.

The truth and nothing but the truth; Brit Patt is still a virgin. Twenty-nine-years-old to zero, that’s the score. Only a few naughty girls have seen him in the nude, and that was back then, when he was but a pimple wrecked teenager. He was a scrawny thirteen when a fifteen-year-old babe flashed her bra braided boobs and promised him more if he were to parade in the buff.

Young and eager, Brit Patt obeyed. She laughed
, and did nothing else but threw his clothes out the window. Then she called her friends in. They all laughed some more. Poor Patt, in tears, was forced to masturbate in front of their taunts; and finally, they simply exited whilst he came.

He sobbed and cursed himself; he should have controlled lust and adhered to the Ten Commandments. From then on, guilty Brit cou
ld only fantasize clothed chicks. He was always the only one naked.

It’s not that he’s g
ay, he shoots up to sexy females, but softens in fear at the sight of an un-garmented lady of pornographic materials. Sick, even to the point of vomiting; and this was damn worrying; but at least, aged sixteen, he found a nice, willing and aggressive girlfriend. He was metamorphosing, turning into the handsome man destiny ascribes. Teenage darlings were after him, and the horny lucky girl, one night, got the satisfaction of exchanging virginity. At last, Brit Patt thought, normal college life was before him.

H
owever, honestly, he felt queasy when he saw her pussy (which was quite large, loose and
flappy
), and his languid cock would not rise no matter how much she cajoled. Instead, in the end, unable to sustain the upheaval of acidic juices digesting dinner in his belly, he barfs out when she suggested he orally stimulate the clitoris. The
vulvarian
odour was the last straw.

Scared shitless
, and nauseous of that long slit of flesh gasping, as if it were the mouth of a live fish caught in net, he fucked her with puke instead. She was disgusted; they broke up. But this embarrassing episode was not to be concluded. On an uncanny level of perversion, Brit Patt found fulfilment retching upon the ex. Soon the fantasies descended into morbid planes. Celebrities, centrefolds, porn stars and schoolgirls were prisoners tortured and humiliated in this dungeon.

But week after week sermons dug deep, convicting of sin; moreover Brit knew he would never
ever carry out his desires into the flesh; he never had the guts. The first and only time was a fluke.
Goodness
, even now he dared not reveal his dick to the fairer sex; though, clad in swimming trunks, he basked in their unrestrained admiration.

He confessed. The priest said, “God created sperms for procreation, not as a final rite of self-satisfaction.” But the man in black frocks comprehends. He is human after all, battling his o
wn afflictions; but perhaps Brit Patt could tone it down? Stick to CFNM, not agonizing women. Father advised, “Each time you ejaculate, work doubly hard at your studies and your career. Penance, stay on top.”

All those hours in the gym, sweating on the treadmill, swimming laps, pumping iron, staying tone and lean;
couple a Greek statue physique with intelligence and wit, charm; practising that million dollar smile in front of the mirror just to earn the title of most desirable male on the planet; this discipline, this suffering, watching what he eats...all penance; nothing more than mere penance.

Adhering to the voice of a spiritual leader, he never really wanted to b
e a demagogue.
When sin abounds, grace abounds much more
, and now, entering his third decade, Brit Patt feels it is time to fulfil his true destiny. He is ready. Ready for celibacy, ready to train as a priest and call home a monastery.

Kunty Kaur is another person considering a change in occupation. After being impaled by a stone dick, one would have sympathy. Prostitution is a dangerous profession, and furthermore, Kunty’s cunt had been deformed by that granite spike. Disfigured, slashed across when the paramedics pulled it out; no customer would want, now.

Too gory and ugly, even
she
can’t bear to bring the mirror down there. Looking at its jowly labial reflection was good luck once, a blessed omen to attract guys; now she can’t bear the thought; and it still hurt with blood on the fingers whenever she touched. When Kunty Kaur did finally conjure the guts, she fainted on sight. The whole thing was just one gigantic mess akin to minced meat squeezed out a grinder. The private part had been turned inside out, and what were once vaginal walls was now shredded wet flesh, dangling, similar to mushy molluscs’ tentacles.

The doctor said she had to live with this forever. But her pain is more than physical. She is considering this switch in vocation not
entirely because the tool of her trade is destroyed. In fact, she can always invent a novel and kinky selling point, a niche to cater for a certain fandom. In this evil and perverse generation, Kunty Kaur can attain depraved clients with deranged minds just to jerk off at the view of her mutant oyster. She can actually charge more for this privileged offer, and do so much less by just sitting, legs spread, behind a window with a roller shutter. The screen cranks open for a minute after tokens are inserted, and the dude has got to like combust within sixty seconds of psychopathic pleasure or put more coins in to continue. God only knows what sick thing they fantasize about at the sight of her tattered vagina.

  
“
Heh
, perhaps I can join a touring freak-circus. See the world,” Kunty shrugged, “I always wanted to travel.”

The Rottweiler happily licked Manny Masculine all over. In turn, Manny Masculine happily licked his girlfriend all over. He is overjoyed Rex had returned, but more so because he’d won Mr. Dwarf for the eighth straight time: the record to end all records. As promised, to celebrate, Manny’s tongue is in his girlfriend’s fanny; she is moaning maniacally... 

Madam Medusa is moaning maniacally. At her illustrious cunt is a small man. He is safe from being turned to stone. At only four-feet, her boyfriend cannot look her in the eye. At most, he perceives her nose and chin, which appears as twin precipices from his abysmal location; and what lies beyond the rock facades are just dark shifting clouds with many red glowing lights in a multitude of hissing thunders.

Manny Masculine is ideal for Madam Medusa. Standing
up, he is the height of her navel. On tiptoe, his outstretched tongue can barely reach her fanged nipples. By squatting a little, he provides unsurpassed gratification.

60

Hollywood gossip rumoured that Brit Patt could be gay. Other so called insider information states he’d gone cuckoo. 

S
ince his announcement to join the brotherhood, headlines have been abuzz. As vowed, he’d told all. Females were surprised; but more delighted. Some offered to cure him of gymnophobia (the fear of nudity), whilst others hoped to
devirginize
his stalk. Love letters poured in, promising the best night of his life, asking him to elope rather than to take his vows; girls dispensing adulation, begging for his pure hand in marriage, assuring they are virgins themselves.

Reprimands came
in, too; said if it is isolation he wants, isolation they can give - they can lock him in the basement and feed him bread and water; perhaps Brit Patt will consider being a sex slave? Feminists commented on the merits of clothed-female naked-male femdom, and Brit would make an excellent mascot, promoting female empowerment and the domestication of male sexuality. He can be a male stripper anytime.

Prostitutes joined the bandwagon, saying the star truly needed a
professional for his first time; all vying to be the
one
, the woman who stole Brit Patt’s cock, and even possibly, heart. Movie studios wanted in, porno cos., they offered huge contracts in exchange for exclusive rights to film the hottest guy fucking for the very first time.

Shrinks
and hypnotists proclaim they can diagnose and cure this insanity; they can make him normal, reverse his phobias and eccentricities so that he continues with Hollywood and forgets about the monastery.

The female schoolmates who teased him in yout
h were tracked down; also, his one-and-only, whose chastity was mulched by ‘mashed potatoes.’ They became minor celebrities, milking fame, even co-authored a book titled
I Made Brit
. Hate mail surfaced from an opposing group that empathized with the superstar. Another book was published, called
Give Brit a Break
. A few of the ladies of the first title were shot execution style. The hype died down.

But in contrast, Roanna’s hype is going up and up and up; ballooning and soaring high the popularity charts. The world loves her, she can unite the nations, bring back the glory days before the War; except that the globe will now be united under one flag,
hers
. 

Bearing high Roanna’s banner is Divalicious. Bearing high, dumbbells too; everyday in the gym without fail for a strict workout and a stricter diet is the transvestite with the dream come true.
Work that body, baby!

The man she used to be is gone. In place, a svelte figure that would fool any hot-blooded idiot. Divalici
ous is taking up vocal and pole-dancing classes to honour that divine pledge. Once she has graduated, and is a qualified entertainer, she will warm the stage before Roanna’s godlike presence descends upon the crowd.

An elaborate production, the hermaphrodite goddess floats down on a cloud
, lowered by invisible wires, to the
Vote for Fausi’s
theme song of dramatic music. The backdrop is sky, and her hands and ego are raised to absorb and drink of the champagne sprays of praise offered by noisy supporters drunk with her aura.

Hair in bun, revealing a delicate nape, the horn-rimed
bespectacled campaign manager with minute breasts in white silk-shirt and grey pantsuit, the brain behind this entire operation, saw in Divalicious the final key to global domination. On their side, they’d gotten the fairer sex, both flat and fully-endowed, homosexuals, and the in-betweens. What’s left is the average bloke.

To get this demographics’
attention, you need a sublime creature to appeal to their masculinity. A Marilyn Monroe type; never mind that she used to be a guy (that fact they can easily hide). The campaign manager ensured Divalicious’ image and routine was sexy, but not slutty; that her voice was trained by a speech coach to sound like a damsel in distress - stopping short of the needy mark...or of a squeaky demarcation – just enough to tug gently at the spermatic cord; and her black Indian skin bleached white and demure, radiant, soft and sweet-smelling - exactly the way regular guys fantasize. 

In another part of town, Wong Boom Bong is delighted his little experiment is paying dividends. By a push of a simple switch he can manipulate the souls of canines. The animal spirits burn bright in myriad flames, and are projected by the dogs’ brain onto the canvas of spacetime; a three-dimensional manifestation of the ethereal.

In this amplified state, the physical frame of the creature m
orphs to its immortal substance; the stuff stars are made of. Just a fraction of this universal gas suffices.

How on earth did
the boy get his hands on such potent vapour? From a computer game, where else!? Bought it off the developers using a prepaid card. From another programme, encoded in the skeletons of the first fully-interactive 3D novel, which words jump out to grab at you, he modified the elements of the first, converting it from virtual reality, only potent in the MMORPG, to an actual power usable in real life.

His next step is to try it on humans. Fact, he’s been operating on his parents every night while they sleep. The adults wake up feeling different, this
they admit over breakfast table, though what exactly, they’re not sure. Good or bad, they don’t know. Their son just shrugs and grins, and continues masticating cereals.    

Master Wan, stroking in glee his silky hair with a comb carved from an angel’s carcass, is satisfied with the progress of his plan. That kid, no doubt, is in possession of incredible talent; only a prodigy could decode and enter the innards of his book. But the child is clueless of the prominent role he is to play in the end of the Earth; the last act, the final scene.

So what the Master feared initially was just a hoax, a boy cry wolf. Rather, this early discovery of Wong Boom Bong’s faculty is a gift of providence, the divine machine chugging out tragedies and comedies, and a vital page of god’s script for an upcoming movie on mankind’s demise had in
advertently flew in the wind and landed onto his lap. Destiny introduces a main character to the unfolding of events, and now Master Wan has the opportunity to twirl that little bugger around his pearly-pink-painted-pointed-pinkie, and perchance, rewrite the climax of history. Give what we like to call a
twist
, nowadays, to the story. Soon it would be time to make his presence felt.