LONE WOLF MCGAYED [MGAY] (Fiction)

Aarmaan keeled down upon his knees (good way to start a sex-story, no?). A string of tears ran down his face. His homosexuality has finally caught up with him and now he would pay the price for his preference, in a country where eight-year-old girls are often forced to marry moldy old men who are able to rape and beat them regularly with no worry of reproach. Why? It didn't matter. Bigotry knows no logic. All the members of 'The Exclusive Allah Fan-Club' knew was that he did not conform to the rules and regulations of Muslumism and he therefore had to be destroyed.

The executioner raised the sword above his head and Aarmann squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the cold sting of sharpened metal to penetrate the back of his neck and slide down through cartilage and bone until his head became detached from his body (It's actually kinda gross when you think about it), but just then the unmistakable report of gunfire echoed through the hot, desert air. After a brief moment of stillness, curiosity finally got the better of Aarmaan and he opened his eyes to see what had happened.

For a moment the executioner's shadow still hovered over him like a bird of prey ready to descend upon his victim (Hey, that's a good one! This writing crap ain't so hard after all. I just hope I remember to delete all these unprofessional little tangents before publication), but just then he went completely limp and collapsed into the dust like a cartoonishly clumsy bird of prey almost descending upon his victim, missing his intended target and cashing face first to the ground; flatting his head like a pancake much to the amusement of all the children watching his marry misadventures on Saturday morning, except that his head was still 3-dimensional and there was a great, bloody hole burned into the space between his eyes.

Also, his muscles continued to twitch for sometime afterwords so that he resembled a paraplegic attempting to break-dance with, as we all know, is not even remotely funny…and he shit himself. Other than that, it was the perfect analogy.

Aarmann looked up to see a shadowy figure standing high atop the tallest mountain. Aarmann squinted hard against the caustic Afgani sun in a vain attempt to make out the mystery man's facial features. Aarmann was, however, successful in making out his savor's figure; it was a tall, virile male with a slick yet muscular build. A perfect specimen of manhood if there ever was one and, hell, even if there wasn't one he would probably be the first.

Even from such a great distance, Aarmann could sense this man's incredible power; this was a man who could single-handedly build a mountain so great that he himself could not lift it while simultaneously being able to lift it, and while Aarmann knew that didn't make any logical sense, he still knew it to be true. This was a man who's sheer greatness made him immune to the limitations of logic and reality. This was a man who made his own rules, all the laws of science and nature be damned!

Aarmann immediately thanked Ahllah that whomever this man was, he was on the side of righteousness.

Aarmann gazed upon the mysterious figure, his mouth agape in awe, drool running down his chin until his concentration was interrupted by the rapid sound of machine gun fire as Abir attempted to gun down the mystery man. The bullets stopped short of their intended target; only riddling the top of the mountain just beneath where the mystery-man was standing. Shards of rock and bits of molten lead flew off the mountain in droves until Abir was out of ammunition. Aarmann was impressed with the mystery man's impassive demeanor; he didn't twitch. Didn't move a muscle. He didn't even appear to have noticed. To him, the bullets were less of a threat then a small swarm of flies; flies would have at least been annoying. Finally, the mystery man made a move. He must have, for in that moment he was gone.

"Where the hell is he?!" Abir bellowed in English for some reason. "If you really think he's in hell…" Came a soft but steady voice from behind, "Maybe I should send you there to look for him." Abir turned around and was instantly assaulted by flying, collision-shaped pieces of white-hot lead being prepared from the barrel of a handheld sub-machine gun. (In other words: He got a shit-load of caps in his ass). Blood erupted from Abir's mouth like a crimson volcano as the bullets ripped through his torso, permanently staining the once pristine, white thawb that he had just gotten back from the cleaners.

Abir's body twisted and contorted as the bullets shattered his bones and freed large chunks of meat from his body, turning him into something of a human buffet for the few that still believe in the Atkins diet. Within seconds, Abir was reduced to a quivering mess of torn skin, fragmented bone and steaming blood (Don't worry, folks. This gets sexier). This did not sit well with the six other members of the 'The Exclusive Allah Fan-Club', as they're numbers were already too few. They had a hard time recruiting new members partly because of the name was deemed "lame" by the Afgani youths and the fact that was so exclusive it even had 'exclusive' in the name.

Abir (R.I.P) had once pitched the idea of creating an "All zinclusive terrorist organization", but as Abbud, (president of the 'The Exclusive Allah Fan-Club') pointed out, being all inclusive kinda defeats the whole point of forming a terrorist organization in the first place. Making matters worse was the fact that one of their few members was about to be executed for being a queer after they had found a collection of naked Boy George pictures under his bed. Poor Aarmann. He had tried to convince them that he thought he was a woman, but the guy's name was Boy George, plus he was naked so, ya know, com'on.

When you got right down to it though, Aarmann's execution wouldn't have been a great loss for them anyway, as Aarmann never really seemed to "dig" (Afgani slag) the whole terrorist scene anyway, and if there was anything that Abbud hated more than a homosexual, it was a fuckin' poser. Anyway, none of this really matters, since these guys are pretty much just kill-fodder now anyway. Look at that! That mysterious hero-guy just ripped that nameless terrorist's throat out with one hand! That just came right the fuck outta nowhere! I should probably get my shit together and go back to narrating this story…

OK, so one of the six remaining members charged with a knife he had clutched in his right hand. The stranger, nonplussed by this attempt at his life, merely stepped to the side to avoid the blade's oncoming thrust. Immediately, the stranger's hand shot out from his side and grabbed the terrorist by the throat. His shriek of sudden surprise was quickly converted into gargle, and then a gruesome crunching sound as the mystery man's vice-like grip began to compress his Adam's apple like a soft piece of fruit.

Then, the mystery man's hand shot back leaving a gaping hole in place of the terrorist's throat, an exchange which did not seem gratify the terrorist one bit as he clutched desperately at the hole, as if trying to contain the blood which was now spilling out of him like a train vomiting on a tunnel (In-joke; see, 'The Carnal Craving Of Connie Kiew'). As he clutched at what was left of his neck, he could feel the rough carnage around the perimeter of the hole, the torn vocal cords that now hung freely from his neck and the warm blood that was still being pumped as he struggled to breath. The terrorist began to feel sick and soon the blood was joined by a dark-yellow bile that seeped out from between his fingers. This only lasted a few seconds, however, and soon the terrorist was lying face-down in the hot, crimson sand. Aarmaan began to wonder if he was dead.

Suddenly, two more nameless terrorists attacked the mystery man; one came up from behind him and grabbed him around his waste, pinning his arms to his sides, the other stepped in front of him banishing a knife. The mystery man throw a quick crescent kick, knocking the knife out the hand of his would-be assassin. He followed it up by pulling himself upward and, using the terrorist behind him as a brace, throwing both feet into the attacker still in front of him, then he throw his feet straight up into the air. The terrorist behind him struggled to support the weight of the man he thought he captured and he fell backwards while the mysterious stranger rolled directly over him.

Both terrorist were stunned but only temporarily; in no time at all they were on their feet, charging. The mystery man took out the nearest one by stepping to the side and delivering a bone-cracking sidekick to the ribs. The terrorist fell to the ground struggling to breath. The other terrorist throw a punch at the mystery man's head, which he blocked effortlessly before throwing two punches of his own, both making contact with his attacker's midsection, causing him to lean over. Quickly, the mystery man lifted his right leg, driving his knee into the terrorist's chin. The terrorist fell backwards, the back of his head smashing onto ground, making it felt something like a watermelon at a Gallagher concert. "I'd better get at least one-hundred virgins for this shit! And no fat chicks!" He thought to himself as he felt around for his knife. He found it. "Fuck!" he said, "I was actually kinda hoping I'd have an excuse to give up! Oh well, here we go…"

He rushed at the stranger one more time, emitting a loud battle-cry, but not too loud a battle-cry because, you know, his head.

The mystery man stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding his opponent's stab and grabbed his wrist once the arm was extended. Before you could say, "Oh damn!" the mystery man brought a devastating karate-chop down upon the terrorist's extended elbow, breaking his arm in half like a raw spaghetti-noodle. The terrorist let out a glass-shattering scream as he clutched at the bone protruding from his arm. The mystery man quickly throw a sharp elbow jab into the terrorist's face, causing his noise to pop and splatter across his face like a crimson paintball.

His screams fell silent; his vacant, blood-covered eyes starred blindly through space, his mouth hung open and drool, stained red with blood, dripped from his beard. The mystery man finished him off by spinning around and throwing his keel into the back of the terrorist's head, causing his eyes to pop out like a horny wolf in a Chuck Avory cartoon.

The mystery man immediately set upon finishing off the previous terrorist who was still lying on the ground; his hand lightly clutching his fractured ribs, his breath coming in shot, sharp gasps. The mystery man pushed him with his foot causing him to roll over on his stomach. The stranger then sat down upon his back and grabbed him with both hands just under the chin, pulling his head up sharply until the man's spine broke with a wet crunch. Once he was sure the terrorist was dead, the mystery man through his head back down upon the sand and stood up to confront the four that remained. He waited patiently, arms-crossed while they played rock-paper-scissors to see who would have the honor of being his next opponent.

"Rock, paper, scissors!"

"I win!"

"You did not!"

"Did so. Paper covers rock!"

"This is not a rock, it's a hammer. See; my forearm is the handle."

"You can't do that!"

"Can too!"

"Na-ah; it's not 'Rock-paper-scissors-hammer', you lying cheater!"

"Yeah well, you lick your mom's balls, so there!"

"You lick your mom's balls!"

"Do not!"

"Do too! Hey what happened to the other two guys. Aren't there four of us left?"

"Yeah, but the other two are in hiding. So their current absence is anything but a plot-hole."

"You're a plot-hole!"

"You are!"

The mystery man was loosing his patience, this was indicated by a tired sigh and him leaping into the air, spreading his legs far apart and kicking both men in the head simultaneously. One man clenched his jaw biting his tongue in half.A thick strip of blood sprayed from his mouth as his body was lifted off the ground and he fell onto his back. The mystery man finished him off by stomping on this chest, sending shards of shattered bone into his chest cavities and his lungs.

The terrorist's lungs burned like hellfire (which was fitting since he already smelled like brimstone. Men; am I right?) as he desperately struggled to breathe; every breath came in sharp painful gasps and he winced in agony. His anguish did not last long, however, as the next stomp, this one to the head, submerged him in soothing blackness. The other terrorist was a lot more resilient; the kick made him stumble backwards but he remained on his feet. He swung his fist, landing a lucky blow on the mystery man's chin. He followed that up with a kick to the gut that sent the mystery man stumbling backwards. Unbeknownst to the terrorist while the kick was effectively painful, the mystery man's stumble was partly to create room for his next counter-attack; as the terrorist lunged at him, the mystery man grabbed him by the collar and rolled over backwards while lifting his left leg, pushing the heel of his boot into the terrorist's midsection. The terrorist let out a shriek of surprise as flew over his opponent and landed on the ground headfirst, fracturing his neck.

And then there were two…

Realizing that this story would hit a dead end if they remained in hiding, the two remaining terrorists jumped out at our hero, guns blazing. The mystery man caught each bullet with his hands and made a fist, crushing them into a find powder. The two remaining terrorists were in a state of shock and dismay; of all the days not to have brought a video camera! Their agony was, however, short-lived when the mystery man pulled a pistol from his jacket and ended both their lives, hence, short-lived (get it?).

The stranger approached Aarmann, it was the first time he had gotten a good look at him. He was clearly an American; tough and rugged with large, muscular forearms that looked like boa constrictors lying just beneath the skin, but there was also something quite chivalrous, even gentleman-like about him. He walked with a noble swagger reminiscent of his heroic cowboy ancestors such as Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. His body language spoke with a quite self-confidence that only an immensely strong and powerful man could possess, yet there was also a strong sense of tenderness lying just beneath the surface, and while Aarmann had seen first hand the brutality this man was capable of, he was somehow aware of the fact that he would only use violence when violence was necessary, and that it would only ever be employed for the sake of protecting the innocent. What amazed Aarmann most was the man's hair. He had never seen a blonde before and to him it looked as if thin strips of golden of sunshine were emerging from this man's head. OH yes, he was clearly an American.

"Hello." The American said in a calm and soothing voice, "I'm Chuck Norris and I'm here to help."

Aarmann couldn't believe it. He had long known about the one they called "Chuck Norris" but he had always thought that he was just a myth; a master of all martial arts known to man and a few known only to extra-terrestrials. The man who never needed a gun, but who'd sometimes use one just to give his opponents a fighting chance. The man who once bowled a perfect game with a golf ball. The man who could build a mountain so great that he himself could not lift it, yet still somehow able to…wait, I already talked about that…Chuck Norris!

"I am Aarmann." Replied, well, Aarmann, "and I am ever so grateful to you for rescuing me from those barbaric men. I don't have any money, but if there is anything I can do, any service that I can provide in return for your valiance, I will gladly provide it." (That's how Middle Easterners talk, right? I didn't do any research) "Oh, I don't knooooow!" said Chuck as he slid his hand down Aarmann's pants, "I'm sure I can come up with something!" Aarmann backed away quickly.

There must have been some mistake! After all, a legendary warrior such as Chuck Norris wouldn't be caught dead in another man's pants, much less rummaging around in them while alive. Aarmann didn't know what it was that could have caused Norris' hand to slide down there, but whatever it was Aarmann was sure that it was his fault. He was very much ashamed and he begged Mr. Norris to forgive him. "First of all," said Norris, "there's no need to hide your sexuality from me; I already know. Second, what just transpired was not a mistake on your part; I did it, intentionally. Every girl deserves, nay, every girl needs to indulge in her passions! To satisfy her erotic cravings! Even if "girl" is really a euphemism for "homosexual man". For there must come a time in everyone's life when their sexual urges must be fulfilled, (Author's note: This does not apply to pedophiles, zoophiles, serial-rapists or hack porno-writers. Sorry) and I have rescued you, dear Aarmann, so that you shall live to satisfy yours!" (That's how Chuck Norris talks right? I didn't do any research) and with that, Chuck Norris kissed Aarmann full on the lips.

When their lips separated, Aarmann let out a cry of, "Oh Mr. Norris!" Chuck replied by wrapping his mighty arms around Aarmann's waist and leaning in close to whisper sweetly in his ear, "Just call me Chuck. Mr. Norris is my father's name." Aarmann thought that sounded like a strange name, but a pretty convenient one seeing as how most American men are commonly referred to as "Mister" anyway. Just then, Aarmann's train of thought was interrupted by the feeling of having his pants pulled down so that they dropped around his ankles, exposing him to the warm Afghani air.

Aarmann gasped with both surprise and pleasure as Chuck took him in his mouth and began to suckle him like a meaty lollipop; his full, bushy beard tickling Aarmann's testicles, making him giggle. Chuck smiled, but said nothing for he was a gentleman first and foremost, and it would have impolite for him to talk with his mouth full. "Oh yeah!" Aarmann groaned for lack of anything better to say, "Yeah, that's it!"

Finally, Chuck removed Aarmann's genitals from his mouth, stood up and unbuckled his belt. Aarmann's eyes widen at the sight of Chuck' enormous member as it unfurled itself before him like a giant fruit roll-up. "That's really somethin'." Aarmann said, his voice shacking with nervous excitement. "Don't worry about it." Said Chuck, placing his hand gently on Aarmann's shoulder, "I would't expect you to tackle something like this your first time 'round. I'll take care of the front myself; you just take care of the back." And with that, Chuck turned around, displaying his pink, pouting rectum to Aarmann.

"Are-are you sure Mr. Norris, err, Chuck? As you know, I'm not very experienced!"

"Of course I'm sure. I am Chuck Norris, aren't I? Just do what comes natural because homosexuality itself is natural. We didn't choose it, but we can sure as hell get a lot out of it! Come now, Aarmann; fuck me up the ass! Let us make love the way the good lord intended!"

Aarmann was still nervous, but at the same time, he couldn't lie to himself; he knew he wanted this. He wanted this more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, so he complied. Chuck reached back with one hand and helped Aarmann guide his cock to the right spot. Aarmann sank into Chuck like fleshy quicksand. Gasping as he did so, trying to adjust to this new sensation. At first he wasn't certain that he was enjoying it; he felt somewhat embarrassed and even a bit guilty about what he was doing. He had always been told that sodomy was unnatural; a sin practiced only by the lowest of degenerated scum, but his inhibitions quickly disappeared as if by magic. Aarmann had surrendered himself to ecstasy. Besides, Chuck Norris himself said that it was natural and those that told him otherwise were going to decapitate him anyway, ya' know, fuck those guys.

The interior of Chuck's colon so felt smooth and warm, almost like Aarmann's member was sliding around a cavern of hot, muddy silk. Aarmann wished his whole body, his entire being could be absorbed into Chuck's anal-passage where he would live and frolic in that magical wonderland of tuna and avocado sandwiches for all eternity (that is what Chuck Norris eats. I actually did some research). This compelled him to thrust even deeper into the wild brown yonder while Chuck shouted words of encouragement; "That's it, cowboy! Fuck me in my rural, rowdy Texan ass! My Tex-ass, if you will! Faster! Harder! Don't puss-out on me now, boy; you're almost there! And don't worry 'bout hurtin' me none, I am Chuck Norris after all! Come on, pilgrim, fuck me like a stack o' beef at a Texas meatpackin' plant! Ya-fuckin'-Hoo! Keep drillin' like that and your bound to strike oil!"

Aarmann tried his best to hold back once he felt the spasm, but sadly all good things must cum to an end. Aarmann shot a vast stream of seminal fluids into Chuck's colon. Chuck slowly let out another "Yaaaahoooooo!" as Aarmann slowly slid his slick, shit saturated seaman-sausage out from Chuck's now slimy rectum (we'll just pretend that "rectum" starts with an "s"). Upon completing the elegant task of cornholing, an idea crossed Aarmann's mind. It seemed like it would be such a unique and kinky thrill, but he didn't dare preform it; what would he's new friend think if he did? No. Such a perverse and disgusting act he could never go through with. He must resist for the sake of decency and appearances. That's when Chuck gave him more words of encouragement; "I know what you're thinking, Aarmann. Being Chuck Norris grants me the power to read minds. It's alright, Aarmann; you have my full permission. Anything is permitted as long as it's safe and is only practiced between consenting adults. So go right ahead, Aarmann. Com'on, you know you wanna!" With that Aarmann put his mouth to Chuck's anal crevice and consumed the sticky, salty-sweet fluid that seeped out from between his muddy, man-cheeks.

After he had his fill, Aarmann and Chuck got dressed. Chuck picked Aarmann up off the ground and cradled him in his arms as he brought him to an American helicopter that was just landing on the sun-kissed dessert floor. Aarmann thanked Allah that it had landed after he was done getting dressed, it would have been pretty awkward otherwise. Chuck gently laid Aarmann down upon a soft, warm seat. Aarmann leaned back and closed his eyes, feeling more relaxed then he had ever felt before. As Chuck sat beside him, stroking his hair, Aarmann thought of himself as a cat curling up on Chuck's lap to take a nice long nap (that sounds kinda gay, doesn't it? Sorry about that). "Where too, Mr. Norris?" The pilot asked, breaking the silence, "To the land of the free and the home of the brave" Responded Chuck. "So, what, like France?" Asked the pilot. "No." Said Chuck, "I said the home of the brave." "Oh, pardon me," The pilot said, "The only reason I misunderstood ya' was because the author wanted at least one cliche French-joke in this story." "I understand" Said Chuck.

Just then the motor started to roar and the blades started to spin. It wasn't as bothersome as Aarmann had expected. In fact, it was rather nice; a bit of white noise to help sooth his nerves. He had been through a lot, but it was all behind him now, "Like Chuck's penis sometime in the near future," he giggled to himself.

Aarmann's thoughts become more distant and abstract as he drifted off into a deep, relaxing sleep, knowing that when he awoke, he would be at his new home.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticstories/comments/3md58x/lone_wolf_mcgayed_mgay_fiction