Thursday, September 29, 2011

No More Baloney, You Mongrel Dog

By Allen Taylor

My wife likes it when I beg.

She cuts her baloney up into small strips and dangles them in my face.

“Speak!” she commands. “Rollover. Beg.”

I always do as she commands. She loves me on all fours.

When the neighbors come over to play pinochle or gin rummy on Friday nights, she forces me to shake hands. When I do as she commands she rewards me with cheese and baloney, which she dangles in the air and expects me to jump for. I always do.

The neighbors are in awe of our tricks. I can speak, beg, rollover, shake, and jump clothed or unclothed. It's always an exciting evening, especially if I do such things before we play cards. We then have something to talk about as we drink cherry marmalades and outbid each other.

One night, right in the middle of our pinochle game, I disrobed and crawled under the table. Everyone waited in anticipation to see what neat little trick I might perform. I jammed my snout into my wife's crotch and she rubbed my ears. The neighbors laughed and fed me potato chips under the table.

I figured if the neighbors enjoyed watching they might enjoy participating all the more. So I snarled and sunk my face into Rhonda Hurley's crotch. Her panties were wet and there was a hole in her stockings. Her skirt was much too short and I didn't like the smell. She squealed and yelled, “No, you dirty dog!” I thought she was asking for more and did it again.

It hurt when my wife kicked me. She jabbed her heel into my rib and screamed, “I told you not the neighbors!”

She had. I didn't believe her.

I turned and crotch-rushed Adam, Rhonda's overly large husband. He could have been a linebacker. His fly was open. I seized the moment. What else could I do? His penis looked like a slab of baloney.

Adam rose from the table with a thunderous yell. Cards flew everywhere. The table busted in two. Rhonda fell backwards on her fat ass and broke the wooden chair she occupied. My wife beat me over the head with a kielbasa and then spanked my bare ass with it. I thought it was a game. Imagine my surprise – and Adam's as well – when a loud “snap!” resulted in my mouth being gorged by a large piece of meat. Adam's penis.

My wife shoved the kielbasa up my ass. “I told you no fucking with the neighbors! No fucking with my friends! No.” Kielbasa “fucking” deeper “with” into “the” my “company” ass.

My wife means business. She metes out discipline with unprincipled joy. And unbounding love. She towered over me in the vastness of our living room, me with a 15-inch kielbasa dangling from my rear and a 12-inch dick slapping my cheeks as I shook my head from side to side seeking the understanding of a beast, and Rhonda lay sobbing at my side like some smarmy schoolgirl with mud on her dress. Neither I nor Adam slept that night and my wife promised me no more baloney.


BIO: Allen Taylor is a published poet and fiction writer. He's also been to war, but he doesn't brag about it. You can read his poems that somewhat depict the horror and comedy of it all at He is webmaster at and he can be found at various places on the Web, including a run-down cyber shack.

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