WRITE STORY HERE
'THE TALE OF THE LAMA'S ARSEHOLE'
© Mark Govier
This ugly business happened in a dimly lit penthouse suite of a 5 star hotel… I should know... I was there, right there, amongst those glittering, super rich celebrities, in that dimly lit room, in the hotel… And it happened...
The Lama, my owner for the last few days, sat cross legged, reading the sports section. He was telling the monks he had always been a United supporter. I was in my cage, as usual, bored out of my tiny brain, licking the still raw mess where my claws had been. I heard him talking with his monks. 'It's necessary, just in case things go wrong, happens all the time... Better to be sure than sorry...' I can still see him watching that quiz show, on satellite, while his monks held me down and filed away. They kept talking about a Hollywood star who was going to take them out on the town that night. They forgot what they were doing and filed my claws to the quick, til there was blood, despite my squirming and squealing. Fortunately, they didn't do the same when it came to filing my tiny teeth.
The next night, the Lama’s celebrity friends came round. I could see all of them from my cage. Big names, big money. There were six, all men. When the lama instructed his monks to leave, the ceremony began. On his instruction, the celebrities laid out a large ornamental plastic cloth on the floor. They stripped, revealing erect pricks of various shapes and sizes. They made a circle round the Lama, got on their knees, praying and chanting and prostrating. The Lama was amused, clapped his hands, lifted his robes to his waist. He smiled, squatted, then strained. Turd upon turd dropped onto the plastic. He farted loudly, stood up, clapped his hands again, and ordered his disciples to feed, which they did, on all fours. The lama circled, pissing on each as he passed. 'Rich Hollywood trash' he laughed jerking his prick off, 'each you pay fifty thousand, eat my shit, there six, so three hundred thousand… eat trash, eat, eat lama shit, you go to best life next time yes, taste good, yes, taste real good...'
The Ring ceremony, as the Lama called it, followed. Each had his prick embedded in the anus of the other. There was a knock on the door. The Lama clapped his hands, the Ring was broken, the cloth wrapped up. The disciples quickly retired to the bathroom. An oriental man entered. He wore a white robe, had a long black beard, and held a black brief case. 'Brother Lama' he said, in broken English, ‘I Asahara come pay Lama back for help keep Japan police, Tokyo police, CIA, off Asahara back… You Lama best friend Asahara, yes...'
The white robed man opened the brief case.
'Check, you check, $2,000,000, count you like, help you fuck commie scum enemy, get plenty gun, plenty bullet, yes...' The Lama was pleased.
Once his visitor had gone, the disciples were called back to finish the Ring ceremony, during which the Lama proclaimed himself Lord of the Rings. He then led his disciples to the corner where I sat in my cage. I was inspected and stroked, commented upon in a favourable light.
'Shall I do the honours your Holiness' asked the tall Hollywood star.
The lama farted loudly, smiled. He went to a large leather chair, lifted his robes, spread his legs, opened his cheeks.
By the time I knew what I had been bought for, it was too late. The star wrapped me tightly in a plastic tube which he inserted into the lama's well rimmed and well-greased anus. I was forced to squiggle my way up. There was no light, I was terrified. I tried to get back, but I couldn't, so I went deeper, and deeper. I could feel the lama breathing in and out. His whole body shook when I squirmed in a mad desperation to get out. It was becoming difficult to breath. I was going to die. But, the plastic had a weak side. I gouged into this with the few sharp stumps of my teeth the monks had left by mistake. I tore at the plastic. I was now partially free. I ripped at the excrement caked flesh over and over again. I tasted blood. The Lama began writhing and screaming. A hand was groping up the Lama’s bleeding colon. The plastic was grabbed. Finally, he had me by the tail. I was brutally ripped out and tossed to the floor. I ran for my life.
From under the sofa I could see the Lama. He was bleeding. He was pale and shaking. One of his disciples was on the phone. The others were shouting. The smell of fear, the Lama’s mainly, stank the room out. Another disciple tried to stop the blood by using a monk’s gown. The tall film star dressed. He said he would arrange for the hotel doctor to keep quiet. When he opened the door, I ran out.