Smacking the Bishop

Vinnie hung his head.  The ideas would not come, as they had not for quite some time.  His masturbation blog, Thus Spanked Tharathustra, had been a neglected, malnourished child lately.  “Three entries in two months…” he lamented, “could I have run out of ideas?”  Stylistically, he relished going into exquisite details of each technique, each new apparatus being reviewed, and each sensation it yielded.  But now he felt lucky to slap together a paragraph.

He had been through many phases in documenting self-stimulated nirvana, and none of them had brought him to “The God Zone” which Vinnie promised his readers was most certainly out there – and attainable.

He tried all shapes and manners of toys including cock rings and anal beads (which he grew in the habit of extracting rather quickly, as if struggling to start a reluctant snow-blower), prostate milking, ballsack tugging, an obtuse method of his own invention called “The Egyptian Gasmask,” various lotions, natural and synthetic furs.  But all came up short and he was beginning to lose faith.  His body didn’t feel like a temple.  More like a used car dealership.Vinnie stared at the tablet screen absently; the flickering image of the five naked dudes huddled over a kneeling, 18 year old, Japanese girl barely registering.  His trance was broken by a soft knock at the door.  “Uh, yes?” he asked.  The gentle voice one the other side reminded him: “Pardon me Father Vincent, but Mass begins in five minutes.”

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