I was in bed reading the news on my phone last January when suddenly I sat up, my heart pounding. Australia was on fire! That’s where Russell Crowe lives! With shaking hands, I examined maps of the wildfires. There was Adelaide, where I had distant cousins who owned an RV dealership. And, ten hours along the coast, was Copp’s Harbour. Russell’s home. Right in the path of the fires.
Russell had been my first and only love ever since I’d seen him pissing on a wall in an alley outside an illegal vegan restaurant in Chicago. He spoke just one word before he turned and ran into the night. “Oi!” he said, and to this day the echo of it makes me wet. I made a quick decision. I would go to Australia. I would save Russell Crowe.
There was so much to do. But first, I needed to come. Fast. Thinking about Russell Crowe made my clit throb like a 70s disco. I grabbed my Hitachi out of the mess of wires leading to my nightstand, put it on the bed, and mounted it like a horse. Its high pitched motor nearly drowned out my squeals as I rode the vibrator to five quick but satisfying orgasms.
After dismounting, I grabbed my laptop and chugged an old cup of coffee with not too much hair and dust floating in it. I tucked my long, sturdy legs and ample ass into dark jeans and threw on a white t-shirt that strained over my triple Ds.
One ridiculously expensive plane ticket later, I was packing slutty Russell-worthy dresses and ringing those dear, long lost cousins in Adelaide. “Peter!” I practically yelled. “It’s you! God, how long has it been?” A long pause, because we had never actually met, then a tentative, “Who is this?” I laughed heartily while I surveyed the sex toys I’d spread on the rumpled maroon bedspread. I was fairly sure that my backpack shouldn’t be more than half butt stuff but who cared.
“It’s Maleen!” I said. “Brinda’s granddaughter. Your mom was my gran’s second cousin. I’ve always heard such wonderful things about her,” I said, which was completely untrue. Gran said the “Australia cousins” were cunts. I paused while I weighed two sets of nipple clamps, then shrugged and threw them both in.
“Oh! Maleen! I remember now,” Peter said. “You’re the one with purple hair and a bunch of piercings, right? Something about getting arrested for…” Peter cleared his throat. “Public indecency?” Damn social media. Everyone knew about the cops busting my girl-gang gang-bang just because it was in the park and it turned out to be the day Mrs. Murdoch took her third graders on a field trip.
I laughed dismissively. Normally I’d be more than happy to discuss what a depraved pervert I was, but sensed this would not help my case. “So anyway, Peter. I’m coming to Australia. Tomorrow.” No sense beating around the bush. Hmm, beating the bush. I selected a short, slim flogger and put it in the bag.
“You’re… coming to Australia? It’s on fire you know.”
I finished packing while trying to convince cousin Peter that it would be totally cool for me to show up at his house in 24 hours and definitely fine to lend me his RV. By the time I got to the airport, I’d worked my magic and was just hours from rescuing and then sitting on Russell Crowe’s face.
“I can’t let you take my caravan up to the fires,” Peter said. “But I can lend you this motorbike someone left behind the building. I’m pretty sure it still runs.” He was awfully chipper for someone who had just crushed my dreams of fucking Russell in a fancy RV while on an indefinite road trip. The motorbike was large and misshapen with rusty, homemade panels and an exceedingly dicey looking gear compartment. It was more Burning Man art car than a roadworthy vehicle. I had no idea how to drive it, but decided to rely on adrenaline and pure dumb luck.
I arrived in Copp’s Harbour as the day was just beginning to fade into dusk. The false sun of the fires still burned bright though, and I saw how close the flames were coming to the Crowe’s Nest. I parked the bike right next to the gates of the compound and pressed the intercom button.
There was no answer, and no one came in response to my banging on the gate. I tried to climb the walls, but I’m made for hauling and crushing things, not scaling a wall. The flames were coming closer now, fanned by a strong breeze from the East. “RUSSSSELLLLL!!!” I screamed, my heart constricting in fear.
“Yeah? Whaddya want?” said a sweetly twangy, deeply masculine voice that fired all of my nerves and synapses at once. My pussy instantly leaked enough juice that even my knees were drenched and my mouth was dry from dehydration.
“Russell!” I breathed, turning to face him in Romance Novel style as my purple hair streamed in the wind and the bodice of my t-shirt ripped. I fell swooning into his strong arms and looked up at the face I’d loved for so long. Then he dropped me on the ground.
“You’re trespassing,” Russell said coldly, his manly visage partially obscured by a soft mane of hair. He’d grown it out since his Oscar-worthy performance as a rakish n’er-do-well in “Pennyfarthing.”
“No, Russell, you’re wrong! Well, I mean, yes, technically you’re right,” I stammered. “But I’m here to rescue you, my love!”
Russell smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Fucking groupies,” he swore. He started toward me, his hand out like he was going to smack me. I whirled around and stuck my ass out. “Oh yes! I’ve been so naughty! Spank me Russell,” I squealed.
Then I saw that one of the barns was on fire. “Russell!” I shouted. “Whinnipeg is in danger!” Whinnipeg was Russell’s beloved dappled gray mare who appeared in every one of his band’s videos.
Russell gave a shout, then said, “Whinnie’s out to pasture miles away,” he said. “But we better run for it, that fire is as hot as my performance in “Les Miserables.” I started to argue, because come on, even I knew Russell was no Javert.
“We need to get to the beach!” Russell yelled. His shirt was off now. I could barely focus on anything but his delectable nipples.
I shook my head and ran to the bike. “Hop on!” I shouted, grabbing the handle bars and revving the engine. Russell looked dubious, but a glance back at the shooting flames beginning to engulf his estate spurred him and with a leap he was seated behind me, his arms surrounding me, his nipples poking my bare back, his hot crotch pressed into my ass.
I hit the accelerator and the bike jumped forward. My pussy was pounded by the vibrations and the addition of Crowe cock resting in my ass crack made me orgasm instantly. As I came, I humped the bike seat and ground into Russell’s thickening cock. He said nothing, but his hands moved from my waist to my breasts and he pinched each nipple ferociously. I was still screaming as I skidded to a stop on the beach.
“It’s no good,” Russell said. “We’re going to have to swim for it!”
“Swim where?” I asked hysterically as I removed my knee high maroon boots and dusty jeans, which were so wet from my arousal that they had become too heavy to wear.
“There,” Russell said, pointing to a faint outline in the water just visible in the light of the bike.
“It’s too far!” I cried. I hoped Russell wanted to fuck until we were burned alive.
“No, it isn’t,” Russell shouted. As I watched, his body began to stretch and grow. His pants ripped off and a massive erection sprang out. Oh my GOD. Its prodigious length gleamed in the glow of the fire that crept ever closer. Tendrils of thick veins climbed the thick shaft, which was crowned by the most well molded penis head I’d ever seen. My mouth and pussy watered. He could be my “Master and Commander” any day.
His cock began to grow and swelled until it was nearly as long as my arm and as thick as my wrist. It looked completely human, but in size it was all horse. Holy fuck. This was the moment I’d been training for since I was 15 and lost my virginity to a guy with a member like two stacked soda cans.
I noticed that the rest of Russell’s body was also transforming, but I was more interested in the encroaching flames. Mostly I just screamed things like, “What the fucking shit is taking so long?” and “Should I start swimming?” and “Get over here and fuck this gaping pussy!”
Then there he was, in his true form. Russell Crowe was a Centaur. “Mount me,” he growled, and lowered himself so I could climb on, his gargantuan erection stabbing into the ground. I pulled myself up using his blond mane. “Oh yeah. Ride me baby,” he said. My pussy gushed so much juice that I slipped off and tumbled to the ground. Russell chuckled as I wiped off his back with my t-shirt and climbed on again. I tried not to think about my naked clit rubbing on his slick horse hair.
“Russell! The fire!” I shouted, as the flames began to singe Russell’s lustrous walnut-colored tail. How I longed to braid it.
Russell reared on his hind legs and plunged into the sea. Salty spray hit my face and chest. I fervently hoped it wasn’t the only salty spray I tasted that night. As I clung to Russell’s russet chest, he swam with powerful strokes toward the island. The only sounds were his heavy breathing, the crackle of fiery destruction, the gentle waves, and my heavy breathing as desire flowed through my in waves.
Finally we reached the shore of the tiny island. It looked just like those ones you see in old timely comic strips- a nearly perfect circle about 50 feet across with one palm tree at the center. It seemed ready to sink at any moment,
I slid off Russell and fell to the ground, where I lay panting. He stood over me and I took full stock of him. The rising moon revealed a shapely equine body with Russell Crowe’s torso stuck on top. It was pretty weird.
I stood up and gazed into Russell’s eyes as I took off my drenched pale blue bra and panties. I stood in front of him, naked, juices flowing down my legs and pooling in the sand at my feet. He sniffed the air and I watched his huge erection throb. I knew he could smell my arousal.
“I can smell your arousal,” he growled, stamping his black hooves.
“Wait a sec,” I said. “Can’t you turn back into your human form? Are you stuck or something?”
Russell just stared into my eyes and said softly, “Do you want me to?”
I licked my lips and considered. It seemed kinda awkward, right? Like how would he eat my pussy? Maybe stick me in the tree with my pussy at mouth level? Would I even be able to use tampons after being pounded by his thick and meaty sausage link of love? I might have to use rolls of paper towels instead. But the call of the wild was too much. “Hell no! I want to fuck Russell Crowe the Centaur!”
And with that, Russell knelt in the sand on his forelegs and scooped me up into his manly arms. My legs slid apart and my pulsing squeeze box collided with his torso, just as his fingers found each nipple and squeezed. I came instantly of course, grinding my naughty clit into the rough hair that began just under his navel.
Russell growled something Australian like, “Oi!” and sank his teeth into my neck. I flung my arms around his neck and we began to thrash together in a dance as beautiful as two ungainly fish flopping on the beach as the tide goes out. Hands grabbed hair, teeth gnawed any available flesh, tits seemed to be everywhere, and moans of pleasure and pain filled the air. “Oh Russell Crowe Centaur,” I swooned as his hands lingered on my ass pucker, “please lick my sugar cube.”
He needed no more encouragement and lifted my whole body so that my glazed donut hole was even with his sensuous mouth. He said, “Did you know centaurs are super strong? Even our human parts are strong! Some nerd told me that and she was right.” He buried his face into my steaming crotch and sniffed loudly. “Mmmm, funky,” he said and flashed me a huge, lascivious Russell-y grin. I drenched his neck with cream. Then he began to eat my muffin in earnest, and quickly earned multiple Oscars for Best Clit Licker, Best Supporting Muff Muncher, and Art Direction.
His mouth played my clit like it was a mixtape from a high school sweetheart, and I came so many times that my head was spinning and I was mumbling lyrics to “Tainted Love.” When he switched to licking my inner pussy lips and taint, I was able to catch my breath and realized that I had turned into pumice from extreme dehydration and heatstroke. I was probably dying but what a way to go.
Russell noticed that I was melting like Wicked Witch of the West Australia, and without missing a stroke of his devilish tongue, he trotted over to the lone palm tree. Several large plastic containers of water were slung over a low branch. He positioned my mouth under one of them, and while I opened the spigot of one and began to drink like a hamster, Russell’s prehensile tongue swabbed my decks and hoisted my mainsail over and over again.
Water splashed down my chest and joined the renewed flood of cream soaking Russell’s face. He leered up at me and his magnetic gaze made me come even harder. I sank my nails into the water jug, and, as I was choked by stale, lukewarm water, I saw stars– whole freaking constellations– in an orgasm that went on and on.
I woke on the sand with Russell panting beside me, his haunches covered in a sheen of sweat. My long curls were frozen in a medusa crown of salt water, sand, and come. I extricated myself and we both sat up.
“Now it’s my turn,” he growled, standing up and shaking his tail. I stared at him from the ground. Under his glossy russet belly, his formidable member bobbed in time to the lapping waves. I got to my knees and crawled slowly toward him, my huge tits dragging in the sand, and sat down cross-legged to get a closer look.
I wished I could google what the fuck I was supposed to do with Centaur Crowe’s cock. And, truth be told, I was kind of tired. But how could I turn down a chance to sample the Gladiator’s thick and meaty member, even if it was swinging under a massive horse belly. “Um….” I cleared my throat. “So, any tips for me? Tips for the tip? Ha ha ha,” I fake laughed. For some reason, my prodigious porn habit had included nary a Griffin, Sphinx, Centaur, or any other mythical beasts.
Russell Crowe just looked down at me with his soul searing blue eyes and commanded: “Suck that centaur cock NOW!” And so help me dear reader, that is what I did.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/j1em2l/that_time_russell_crowe_was_a_centaur_humor_mf