Flash Fiction Friday: The One-Eyed Tit and The Penis Snatcher
by Allen Taylor
I awoke last Tuesday morning to my girlfriend’s breast winking at me. Its solitary brown eye fixated upon my hairy chest and rotated clockwise until I slapped it. At first, I thought the nipple had engorged itself into an opening of some kind, perhaps a cancerous chancre or a portal into another universe. But I was relieved when I discovered that it was merely an eye.
The nipple, as pink as it ever was, jutted out into the balmy air above my chest.
The eye had a set of lashes which fluttered zealously as if a pair of butterfly wings. The teat’s tiny nipple appeared to me like a nose which existed merely to preserve a fecund expression of contentment on the most unorthodox face I’d ever seen and I’d have sworn it was nothing more than an ornament or an addendum to a strange tattoo had I not seen it actually move.
The voice itself came from within the eye. It had a shrill whine to it and an odd febrile accent that could have passed as Dutch-Norwegian, perhaps even Swedish.
I could not believe I answered it. It was almost a question. Then it dawned on me that I was talking to a tit and that the perky little bastard had a visual sense that induced a spirit of envy in my penis. My girlfriend slept on, oblivious to the scene that was developing as the sun invaded our sex space.
Just when I began to wonder if maybe I had imagined the voice while slipping in and out of REM, I heard it again.
“Nice cock,” it said.
Again, the nicety flew from my lips before I could stop it. I didn’t want to be cordial. But I couldn’t very well act against my nature either.
“Mind if I ride it?”
I wasn’t sure if I should answer. I mean, who was asking? An eye? Ride my tool? What would the girl sleeping in my arms say to that? I mean, if she knew? And before I could think the whole thing through I could hear my voice respond with its sincerest lack of confidence.
“Ummm, yeah, sure.”
I began to feel creepy. Perhaps I was imagining this event after all. Or maybe it was some odd dream from which I could not emerge. Yet, what happened next cast all doubt from my mind for good.
The eye bulged. I don’t mean the breast, which didn’t move. But the eye itself, it opened wide as if some gateway to another world. Out of the eye crawled a six-inch ogre covered in yellow moss. The moss glistened in the sunlight entering through the window. When the ogre stepped into the shadow cast by the curtains on the window it lost its glitter and the yellow moss took on a sudden dullness. I’d have bet my left nut he climbed out from a yellow swamp.
The ogre pushed himself out of the eye and slid down the breast to my sternum. Then he galloped toward my penis leaving yellow footprints in a zig-zag trail from my chest to my belly button where he fell face forward and slid until tangling himself in my pubic hairs. I watched with incredulity as he picked himself up again and tossed a rope over the head of my erect penis.
As the rope dangled from my awakened prick and returned to him the yellow-mossed ogre took it and tossed the end of it through a noose, then he pulled. I could feel the rope tighten around the head of my cock as the ogre hoisted himself up the rope and climbed upon the head of my dick. He straddled it and slid down the shaft to the soft landing of my ball sack. I swear I heard him scream, “Wheeee!” and then I felt his bulbous head slap the skin of my scrotum. I grunted.
Having lost sight of the ogre, I couldn’t tell what he was up to down there, but I could feel something that had the sensation similar to a knife dicing a tomato. There was a sharp sting followed by a gush of liquid that covered my balls and it hurt so bad it damn near felt good.
When he finished his work my priapic manhood fell flat against my belly and lay there like a split log. The ogre yelled, “Fucking A!” and leaped vigorously off my balls, landing with a thump right next to the penis. He rose to his feet and brushed himself off and ran around to grab the rope on the end of my waiting dick.
The ogre yelled, grunted, and cursed until he managed to pull my penis across my belly and back to my sternum. Then he somehow managed to climb back up my girlfriend’s tit dragging the dick behind. After several minutes of grunting and sweating and cursing he pushed my penis into the eye and climbed in after it.
“Thanks a lot,” he yelled poking his head out and smiling, his thumb pushed up to the sky like the Red Baron showing his approval after the perfect photo shoot.
“Don’t mention it,” I said.
And then he disappeared. I gazed at the bloody mess he left below my waist, the reddish gore mixed with yellowish moss, and stole a glance at my sleeping fuck buddy, her tit resting upon my hairy chest blinking and blinking and blinking like a castrated strobe light. I wondered whether I should rise up out of bed and make breakfast, but I decided, why bother? It was only Tuesday.
Allen Taylor makes his living writing online content. In his spare time he writes stories and poems. He sometimes gets them published. He is the publisher/owner at Garden Gnome Publications and the author of “The Saddest Tale Ever Told.” He lives in South Central Pennsylvania with his wife and some chickens.