Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Frank Dieselwang & the CDC vs. the Toxic Dude Outbreak

“We’re glad you came into the office today Mr. Dieselwang, I’m Shellandra Foreheart-Stiner Coldcrusher, but call me Shelly,” Shellandra Foreheart-Stiner Coldcrusher said, giving him a firm handshake as he entered the clear bubble office that was intrinsic to the CDC while sensuously simultaneously spraying him up and down with a canister with her other hand. During this process, her eyes ate up his extremely masculine form, his skintight shirt clinging alluringly to his abdominal muscles which seemed to ripple like perfectly melted chocolate being poured into a parchment paper lined half sheet pan.

“Mrs. Dieselwang is my mother, you can call me Frank. And it’s a pleasure and an honor,” Frank replied warmly, totally and manfully unfazed by the sanitizing spray, without taking offense to anything she did, “I understand you have a problem with Toxic Males.”

Monday, September 28, 2015

Frank Dieselwang vs. The Zombcchini

Frank Dieselwang didn’t set out to take on a seven foot tall Zombcchini with biceps the size of bowling balls, but when his assignment was to take on the Moreganic industrial complex, he should have foreseen something like this happening.

Monster Zucchini, taken by Meg Lauber

“Well, when life gives you Zombcchini, make Zomboli,” he quipped before flexing his arms and charging forward, a metaphorical truck with huge arms charging with abandon towards a vegetable patch.

Earlier that day…

“As you can see, Professor Gasolinedick, this is the most Moerganic of factories! Everything is certified organic!” shouted the “organics minded” director of Pharm To Tables Totally Industrial Moreganics Factory. That director’s name was Director Cuppingplant Barpillow.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Frank Dieselwang vs. the Buxom Brick Boulderer

[Switching to a different one shots for now, while I try to regain my inspiration for So Sous Me, please let me know if you rather I finish that one!]

At the time when most decent people were asleep, Frank Dieselwang bore his 8 back abdominals out in the starkly dark moonlight, his muscular curvatures glinting like quartz crystals in a mine with subpar light, which is to say somewhat dimly but more than you’d expect things to gleam in the night.
Bricks, originally taken by Marc Falardeau

It was the witching hour, and most decent sorts were safely tucked away, but Frank was up. Even though Frank was a decent man, because the author used the word “most” and not “all” this is not necessarily a contradiction. 

Monday, September 21, 2015

The Calm before the Smoke - So Sous Me - Part 8

With a mighty heave of his corded muscles, perhaps three times as corded as a well above average man, Frank heaved in an enormous piece of wood into Taeryn’s cavernous smoker. 

Frank grunted with slight exertion which nevertheless resulted in his porterhouse steak sized pectorals to heave heavily in the sweat inducing sun as they were coated liberally with sweat, the pectorals with which he wiped down with a rag in a spiral pattern so that the sweat caused by the sweltering sweat inducing sun, the heat causing his nipples to lay flat against his chest, waiting for more ardent stimulation.
Modified image, originally taken by Blake

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

A Contest of Grills - So Sous Me - Part 7

Frank, shirtless, sat bare-chested in the sun of a well lit train car as two drops of sweat hung like jewels from the tips of his engorged nipples, so excited he was for the competition to take place. Like the dual nature of man and woman, Frank and Taeryn were bathed in light and darkness over and over again to some dramatic effect, to the author’s best approximation and attempt to class up this piece with visual imagery.

Repeatedly, the train went through mountain tunnel entrances and came out into the light again and back in again into mountain tunnels on the way to the contest site, the phallic vaginal sexual imagery readily apparent for anyone who seeks to grab it, though whether this is a victory sex kind of metaphor or some kind of screwing over foreshadowing remains to be seen, even for the author who is kind of flying by the seat of his pants at the moment.

“Did you say to put the salt on the right?” Frank asked, pointing with his right arm, and flexing as he did so, revealing the sexy “cuts” in his muscle definition simply because he could do so, “Or the left?” he continued, pointing towards the left in a different arm holding but equally tantalizing pose, for the sake of variety. He held this pose unnecessarily so that anyone who liked male bodies could appreciate him for a bit.

“Naw silly! Ya put it in the middle, cause it’s important,” Taeryn answered playfully, hip checking him, the velocity of that movement causing his chest to jiggle slightly, in spite of its hot firmness. She admonished him encouragingly, pressing her cleavage together with her arms as she said, “Now git yer game face on, cuz it’s bout ta git HAWT.” 

Reassured by the sight of her winning face and encouraging words and not her bosom, though that was a nice bonus, not that he was trying to look that way, Frank put on his Nintendo Entertainment System playing face; pensive, attentive, undivided. Which was pretty much the only way you can beat a Nintendo Entertainment System game. 

After a perhaps excessive amount of mountain tunnel entering and re-entry, Taeryn and Frank, Taeryn slightly in front because she was the leader of this expedition, entered the fairgrounds of Mega Oil Magnate Landing LLC (Formerly known as Goldenrod Fairgrounds) and headed to their station, Number 4, which had been prepared by a lot of those same townsfolk who have supported her time and time again but the author hadn’t had time to flesh out. 

“Good luck to y’all!” The crowd collectively called out, while simultaneously leaving, saving the author time and mental energy, instead of forcing him to make up characters on the fly/read back a bit to remind him of some names.

Taeryn pointed at things and barked orders in a meaningful and purposeful way, and Frank got to work helping her set up the mise en place. Frank wiped his barrel chested barrel chest torso, more sweat gleaming down his pectorals and biceps and abdominals as he stood in the hot Texas sun, even though there was a perfectly good canopy there.

Taeryn queried in a drawling fashion, “Aren’t ya hot out there?”

Frank smiled at her, assuming it was a compliment, “It’s kind of you to say that.” He pecs flexed reflexively, subconsciously showing off how hot he was for her, before he consciously realized the true meaning of her statement, “Oh, right. Force of habit.” And with that he shifted into the shade, effortlessly, like a sleek jungle beast sliding back into the bush.

Time lazily passed, like a high school senior in June who had received his college acceptance letters from his backup school already and was resigned to living closer to home than he wanted, and they waited until it was time to throw down. 

For the sake of adding wordcount, Frank and Taeryn gazed around at their competition at their own stations, a pretty motley assortment of competitors. 

There was the requisite newbie at Station 1, also known as the “one and done” table. This year it was Waid Ayed Inos Cente, who would in a normal year be destined to see the corruption of the competition, go home, and then probably get a job as an accountant, having his or her or their dreams of being grillmaster crushed underfoot like the notion that a bachelor’s degree is all it takes to secure a good job in modern times.

Huffily, the officiant, Fauxsef Pallehgreengo, shouted, “Let the  Big Jim Bob Joey’s Mega Meat Mountain Competition begin!”

There was Peligro Infierno at station 2, the stoic latino competitor of the open air barbecue joint, Fiesta Del Chorizo, known for his bounty of sausages. He nodded respectfully at Taeryn, conveying with a gaze that he wanted anyone to win except for the dick at station 3. “Good luck to you Ms. Yewanewon.”

Taeryn smiled back at him, grim and respectful, knowing that the outcome was probably beyond their control, “Y Usted, Senor Infierno,” she said in his grandmother’s tongue (He was born here, and his parents, but he did appreciate the language, as they were friends in the trenches together and this was a good thing, and not just appropriation/showing off her language skills, which is still nothing to be ashamed of).

Such pleasantries were not exchanged with the dick at station 3, almost interchangeable each year, the main commonalities being that it would be an entitled male with blood ties to the Barbecuerporations that had taken over the town. This dick will be described later because the author had already written the description and it doesn’t quite fit here, so sit tight reader.

As though cued, a shot fired through the air, ringing with promise and anticipation as competitors raced to their stations, eager to deliver an excellent product deserving of a win, except for the one smarmy looking brat that vaguely looks like the reader’s nemesis from high school, named Chaz Bradding Sanjeevingtodd, and pronounced in the most annoying and insistent way possible to the reader (options include nasally, self righteous, entitled, self important, etc).

As Taeryn blazed through the initial steps to assembling her ketchup and rub by rote, Frank competently kept up with her, grappling with thick, hard wood, and setting it ablaze with his practiced lighter, and then got to working on the meat, sawing through the ribs with a keen eye and steady arm, going back and forth with intensity and care, stacking the sausage with the precision of a master log cabin builder, and massaging tenderness into the pork butts with his strong, masculine hands. 

Frank was extremely confident and competent, and it is clear this is not the story where the assistant bumbles through and does lots of stupid things only to come through at the end with some kind of clinch accident and reveals himself to be the hero who saves the day, because the readership should be really tired of that crap by now.

“Ribs! Ready?” Taeryn shouted at him to reach through to his ears in the rising chaos of grillmasters working loudly and in a hurry.

“Yes! Ready!” Frank asserted, holding two whole racks of ribs before him, and Taeryn rubbed her hands herb fortified salt up and down this meat, and Frank threw it into their large oil drum smoker. The sausages, already seasoned, were slid in with care onto a rack to cook and drip onto the other meats, and the butts went to the bottom.

The crazed work over, Taeryn and Frank smiled at one another.

“Well, now we keep an eye on it for a while.”

“Good work Taeryn, we’ll get through it and get you that prize.” Frank said, with more confidence than anyone else, because he was a Dieselwang, and because he hadn’t seen the corruption of the competition firsthand. In the distance, Peligro Infierno shook his head sadly, as though he had heard.

Taeryn set her jaw. “Sure hope so Frank. Sure hope so.”

To be continued.

Monday, September 14, 2015

Getting Saucy! So Sous Me - Part 6

Taeryn gasped gently, as Frank’s meaty hands closed around the pair of her meaty tomatoes.

“Softer! Gently! Gently grasp it just so… yes, just like that… now… twist the tips.”

Frank, while a massive specimen of man who would appear to have the fine motor control skills of a Rhinoceros on a T-Rex sized dose of Ketamine, displayed technique and care, as he slowed the grasp of his sausage like fingers to grasp firmly around the pliant skin of her tomatoes, the tips of his fingers reaching the top of that supple flesh, and he tweaked the top ever so gently, until they gave way, and yielded to him, and fell off into his hands.
Two Big Tomatoes, taken by fs999

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Frank Dieselwang in So Sous Me! - Part 5

[Extremely NSFW sex story link here once the author gets enough interest and an arbitrary (crowdbasing website) pledge level is reached]

Later, after that extremely satisfying sex scene:

Modified/Cropped image of a Fit Finn, taken by istolethetv. Only a rough approximation of Frank Dieselwang's perfection.

“Damn, your abs are amazing,” Taeryn declared, lending credence to the notion that the author has constantly been hammering, that Frank is a great looking guy, especially his abdominal area, but also the rest of him too.

Frank smiled and continued to flex his abdominal area for her visual benefit, then maintained this flex, for reasons that will be detailed shortly.

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

A Woman Named Sally - Part 2 - End

Trigger warnings: Gore for humor's sake and/or mild violence for humor, text descriptions of nudity.

Photo by Ben Hussman.

Frank Funburthers looked on with mild astonishment that his serendipitous thought was so suddenly thrust before him like a plate of pickles in front of someone suffering from a severe salt deficiency and an extreme love of delicious pickles, and preferred them plated. That is to say, he was extremely pleased. 

“Hi, I am Frank Funburthers,” he said with an air of male self satisfaction, the very picture of male privilege who was societally conditioned to expect a certain quality of life through naught but his own entitlement. “I’m very pleased to meet…” he started to say, as he knew that the audience was greatly looking forward to some wild umbrella tearing erotica.

But that didn’t last long since the author almost too belatedly realized that this character wasn’t appealing to the audience. The author employed some misdirection and pointed out that this location was again, a bar, but not one of those hipster bars, but like, a really manly bar, authentically manly, like a biker cowboy bar that was surprisingly progressive in spite of its old fashioned style and rugged individualism. It was the kind of bar where the kind of man such as Frank Funburthers wasn’t typically seen, which will absolutely explain what happens next.

Suddenly a pack of wild wolves, jowls a dripping with slobber and a desire for the blood of poorly written characters, charged into the bar.

These selfsame wolves tore into him and whisked away his bloodied and mangled corpse (or mildly injured and continuously protesting body arguing that “he can change, he can change!” which fell upon the deaf ears of the author who knew some ideas were beyond saving) into the collective forgetfulness of suspended disbelief, only remembered in the very niche fan fiction of this eventually completed piece of work that would be known as the Chronicles of Frank Dieselwang, and lets face it, this piece will probably be edited out by any competent editor.

With a sudden pan shot dramatically to the other side of the room, the audience/reader’s attention is forcefully but not uncomfortably* redirected by the author.

Through the saloon style double doors that showcase just how positively manly the bar was, burst a man who threatened to outmanly the room that he just entered. Perfectly tanned from just the amount of time he spent in the sun (to the reader’s personal preferences) his square jaw and dark black hair framed piercing green-gray eyes that penetrated the soul in a deep and stabbing way that is probably symbolism for something** that will occur in about four chapters from now. Or two depending on how rabid the readership is.

But back to the manliness! Bare-chested from his belt up to the top of his perfectly disheveled hair that showed that he did real work but not so messy that it was clear he was a bum, unless you’re so into that sort of thing, his body rippled with the easy flexibility and musculature evocative of a hunting cat well sated after a kill, sweat dripping from his muscle girded muscles onto the floor. Oh, and he had good broad shoulders that reminded one of a workhorse, and big pecs too. But not like, scary big, whatever that means to the reader. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and turned to regard Sally like some kind of …. Predatory animal that is not a hunting cat because repetition is bad. 

He kept his eyes locked on her as he strolled across the bar like he owned it, which wasn’t true, because it was owned by someone else, but due to some background, he happened to have saved this bar from some evil corporations, which the author believes can be a universally accepted foe (as opposed to good corporations. #NotAllCorporations). The author’s main point for all of that was being the savior of the bar lent special privileges to that savior, which is displayed by the conveniently placed outdoor style shower inside the room, placed in the corner, which this new character had requested. 

It was frosted from the waist down so that as he stripped only his perfect buttocks were visibly as he stripped and tossed his clothing over the side and manfully soaped his bulging 10 pack abdominals down with soap, cleaning off an honest day’s grime, the evidence of the work washing down the drain from his body… of work. 

He made his way to the nearby dressing room, modesty barely preserved, for whichever ways can be imagined by the reader, but if you don’t have that imagination due to the reader’s boss giving the reader a hard time today, the reader may choose to imagine a towel held firmly yet flowingly from a strong clenched grip, fluttering with the movement of this character’s movements, bouncing around to show a lot of skin, but never the penis. 

Some time later, enough time to show that he didn’t slack off with preparations, but not so long that it made you wonder what was taking so long, which should be a pretty clear indicator of how good a lover he would be, this perfectly sculpted man of a man stepped back into the room.

When he emerged he was well put together again, in a tailored Italian cut suit, navy in color, a bespoke checked Italian shirt underneath the perfectly fitted jacket. They clearly were of some money to show he knew the value of quality and buying to keep clothing for a long time with good maintenance, but not so much that he appeared a dandy.

He strode over to Sally confidently, who by now was sitting at the bar and strangely not surrounded by the typical frat boys and dudebros that would normally populate this kind of bar if it was in the wrong kind of city (which this was not), and looked into her eyes, communicating to her with a single glance the confidence and experience that only the most worldly of men can, indicating that he knew they would be drawn together with possibly frivolous reasons in a torrential affair for the ages or at least a few hundred pages. He also communicated through Sally to the audience that he was no Frank Funburthers, but instead a much more audience pleasing, improved Frank.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Dieselwang. Frank Dieselwang.”

She looked down and licked her lips, her nipples pressing hard against the thick but clear plastic of her worn umbrella.

“You certainly are.”

*No guarantees that you experienced no discomfort, but the author has hope.

**That something is sex.