A Christmas Future

by

Caution: This Humor Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, Ma/ft, mt/Fa, Fa/Fa, ft/ft, Fa/ft, Ma/Ma, Ma/mt, Consensual, Fiction, Celebrity, High Fantasy, Humor, Black Male, White Male, Hispanic Male, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Royalty, .

Desc: Humor Sex Story: Humour, satire, written some time back in the Clinton era.

All names, places and events in this story are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is totally coincidental.

This story is a humorous fantasy, written some years back and with some references to certain women’s names which may mean something to the Clintonic era of scandal archivists.

So these three kings arrived at this unexceptional town after a long journey into a remote area of a long forgotten country. No vehicles could negotiate the treacherous passes and ravines. Bridges were down, metalled roads were now dust and the thought of a personal jet flying in was laughable. King Charles of England was accompanied by King Bill of America and King Mandela of South Africa. The IMF logo in the sky they had followed, hovered far above, but gave no indication of the place they were supposed to go with their gifts. The town seemed quiet and uneventful for a place they had been told by their subjects to make sure they got there on time. But in time for what? Little scruffy hovels were scattered around and none seemed the sort of place kings would normally go to and there was no one to ask the way. “For God’s sake, where is the damn place,” moaned Charles. “My horse and I are absolutely worn out.” “Camilla always looks the same to me,” giggled Bill, glancing at the tired old nag Charles rode. “Well at least he’s got a genuine nag Bill,” said Mandela. “That Hillary of yours seems to think she’s a cut above the rest the way she’s insisted on that New York fodder every night.” Charles chuckled and wagged his huge ears, grinning with that lopsided smile so well beloved by his subjects. “At least I’ve got a horse Manny,” retorted Bill. “What the fuck d’you call that you riding on?” “You know it’s Winnie my donkey. She’s a real bitch and fucks me about something rotten, but at least she’s sturdy,” Mandela replied patting Winnie’s ample rump. “The new wife thought it would be a good idea to use the old gal for something useful instead of kicking the youngsters after they’ve had their evil way with her.” “The street kids still screw her then?” asked Bill in disbelief, dismounting Hillary and avoiding her attempt to nip his butt.

Mandela nodded. “Hey I have done too. Any port in a storm,” he told them. “She’s still pretty tight in the old coal hole, I ain’t talking about her twat,” he chuckled. Bill and Charles grimaced at each other and gazed around the township. Camilla started to piss and Charles sneaked behind her to watch her lift her tail sideways and let her droopy, greasy vagina flaps release her load into the sand. She had the most delectable looking vagina, he mused to himself. “Now I need a fucking piss,” muttered Bill, wandering to a wall. “So do I ... and me,” answered the other kings and they lined up at a mud wall, hefting their cocks from their pants. No sooner had Charles’s urine flow started, with Bill following suit, Charles had to leap out of the way, dancing about in indignation. Mandela chuckled as he waited for his to start. “Good god man,” whined Charles to Bill. “Can’t you urinate straight? It’s all over my brogues.” “It’s his banana dick Charlie,” giggled Mandela, still waiting and waggling his prodigious black cock. Charles managed to start pissing again, away from the mumbling Bill, who continued with his toilet. He didn’t react and wondered if the folk at the final destination would allow him to have a cigar. He pissed furiously, splashing the wall with a strong fountain of bright yellow urine. Charles’s crystal clear piss ceased and he adjusted his clothing and went to gather in the trusty steeds who had strayed a little. A trickle started from Mandela’s cock, alerting the American who peeped at the old man’s genitals while adjusting his clothing.

“Holy shit man!” exclaimed the American king. “That’s one hell of a Broaddprick ... Er! I mean schlong you’re packing there Manny, don’t do much though does it?” he added, watching the feeble urination. “Don’t you worry your bouffant head about this beast Billy boy,” said Mandela, banging his pink knob against the wall and knocking the drips off. “He’ll show you the way with interns and externs for that matter, whatever they are.” They joined Charles who stood patiently with the three steeds. “The camel train should be arriving now,” said the English monarch. He gazed into the dusk and pointed, confirming the approach of their loads of gifts sent by the various charity TV events and phone-ins world wide. “Yeah OK but we’d better find this motherfucking place,” groaned Bill. “Don’t be so crude Bill. Haven’t you got the Gracen to be pleasant for a while,” complained Charles, stroking Camilla’s underbelly. The horse neighed softly and he lovingly blew into the mare’s nostrils. “Shit! Look who’s talking,” laughed Bill, viciously pinching Hillary’s ear, making her twitch and skitter about nervously. “You’re the one wishing you could be a tampon. Did you hear about that Manny? Made front pages of the rags world wide.” The ancient old king nodded and chuckled as he took Winnie’s reins. Suddenly a man appeared from the shadows. “Pssst! You looking for Jesus?” he whispered. “We don’t actually know,” answered Charles vaguely, scratching his head. “You mean there’s a fucking Mexican out here in this godforsaken shithole? But I guess that figures,” said Bill, studying the swarthy stranger. The man who was crumpled in both appearance and shape, bent at the waist and shoulders, nodded and scuttled off, beckoning the kings. They shrugged their shoulders at each other and decided to follow at a distance. His clothes gave off the most pungent odour.

“Even if we lose him in the dark, we can follow his scent,” guffawed Mandela. “Yeah! you natives outta the jungle should know all about that. Smells like these three animals when they bed down for the night,” smickered Bill. Charles tutted and stroked Camilla’s flank, hoping that at last he could have a nights sleep in peace away from his annoying companions and be close to his beloved horse. “I think you smell wonderful darling,” he whispered. The old mare whinnied and nudged his leg with her muzzle. “There is no jungle in South Africa,” retorted Mandela in his wise old tones. The stranger stood near a stable, where a glimmer of light escaped through the boarded walls. “You bring gifts?” he asked. “Sure buddy. They for this Jesus then?” blustered Bill as he beckoned up the following camel train. They were led inside and gasped at the scene

A very attractive girl stood in the corner, quivering with fright, totally naked. She kept reaching down and swiping her hand through her crotch and muttering as she peered at what she obviously expected to be some sort of resulting evidence on her palm. She had long black hair, big firm tits, free growing pubic hair and long shapely legs. Bill clenched his sphincter making his cock lurch as he gazed with lust. Charles ignored her and stared at a muscular youth squatting at her feet, his bottom half wrapped in a white shroud, whose thick curly black hair and generous smile sat nicely atop his chocolate coloured frame. “No no it cannot be,” whimpered the girl, as Mandela approached her concernedly. “It is, it’s your baby Mary,” came a soft voice from the shadows of the stable. The three kings swivelled to see a tall skinny man emerge. He wore workmanlike clothing, had a long beard and long flowing hair and carried a bag of tools. The girl sank into Mandela’s arm in sheer terror as the tall man stepped into the middle of the stable. A cow mooed and a donkey whinnied in the corner and a cocky old rooster strutted about in the hay. The youth spoke. “Hi. I’m Jesus, You brought me some stuff?” he asked cheerily. “Look I’m going,” said the tall man. “I’ve got three roofs to repair and some old biddy wants a coffin made up, after I’ve repaired her commode.” “Who the fuck are you?” asked Bill, glancing continually at lucky Mandela, in whose arms the girl still cowered. “My name is Joseph and this is my son Jesus. Mary has just given birth to him, not sure how. Please give him the gifts, otherwise he’ll get very upset,” replied the tall man, checking to see if his tenon saw was in the tool bag. “You’re a carpenter,” said Charles knowingly.

Joseph nodded and muttered “wise guy” and left the stable. The girl shuddered and Mandela patted her head, liking the way she cuddled into him. He turned slightly so that his crotch was against her naked thigh as he held her close. Bill spat with frustration at the scene, watching her tits billow out against the old African’s chest. She had real nice nipples, all sort of pink and rose bud like. “He’s your kid?” Clinton asked belligerently, pointing at the smiling youth.

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