This one is short. My first ever gross out contest entry. This one took first place at Killercon 2011.
The boy had expected the smell, Father had warned him about it. Like cat food left in the sun. A smell so thick and salty, it made him salivate.
But he hadn’t expected the clit ring, dangling from between Grandma’s legs. The gold was obviously fake because the pulsating, engorged clit was covered in a green film, spreading like algae to the flabby, jaundiced flesh surrounding it.
Grandma rubbed it in a circular motion with her fore and middle fingers, hacking on phlegm as she moaned. The loose, spotted flesh of her inner thighs hung down like moldy bread dough.
Grandpa stood next to her and used his thumbnails to pop the engorged boils on the shaft and head of his wrinkly cock, and as the bloody pus bubbled out, milky red, he slathered himself with it. His balls hung low as if his scrotum were made of taffy. He reached over and massaged Grandma’s deflated breast, his foot tapping in rhythm with his stroking.
Sunday soup, a family tradition. But it was a special Sunday for the boy, the day he turned thirteen, the day he became a man. Father told him he would have the honors of extracting the soup’s brothy base from Grandma.
So with an assuring nudge from Father, the boy took tentative steps toward Grandma until there was a knee on either side of his head. As he leaned in, an odiferous mist beaded onto his forehead and upper lip. The smell crept into his throat, choked him, threatened to suck the contents of his stomach out onto the kitchen floor.
But he couldn’t do that. It would ruin everything.
So, he stuck out his tongue, just like Father told him to, and slid it into the warm, quivering maw; the tuft of silver hair tickled his nose. Grandma moaned and hissed, released a wad of phlegm that she swallowed back down.
The boy looked up into Grandpa’s eyes as the old man popped another boil into his palm and got to rubbing his hands together before grabbing hold of himself again, releasing a smell like roast beef.
Then Grandma screamed. She reached down, grabbed hold of the boy’s hair and yanked. He kept at it, pushing his outstretched tongue in and out of her, feeling her flesh get wetter and wetter as she screamed again and nearly ripped his scalp from his skull.
Then it came. Just like Father said it would. Rhythmic bursts of hot, salty fluid, like polluted seawater, bubbling like club soda against his face. And the boy opened wide and let it rush down his throat.
It’s going to need spice, Father had said. Nothing like a little stomach acid to give it a kick. And once that last spurt rolled down his throat, the boy calmly walked to the boiling pot, got a pat on the back from Father, and unleashed a waterfall of bile and octogenarian cum.
And just an extra dash of salt as Grandpa finished into the pot.
Father stirred it, widened his nostrils, and inhaled. “Perfect,” he said. “Let’s eat.”