The Thanksgiving Day Massacre


Johnny was not enjoying the holiday. 

It wasn’t just because he despised food, or his family, or that he was learning how awful and endless Life could be… it was more than that. Something about these people, gathered around this table, like hogs awaiting feed, all dressed in their finest church clothes, all smiles and denials. It wasn’t just that Johnny was amongst them that was making him miserable… it was the fact that he was becoming one of them.

“Who wants to say Grace?” asked Grandma, and that’s when Johnny stood up and whipped it out.

His cock slid clean out his corduroys, already hard with anticipation. There was a horrified gasp from everyone at the table, and Grandma fainted instantly, but that might have been a blood sugar thing.

Johnny was already bonking away. His head was lowered in concentration, a lone beadle of sweat dripping down his forehead, and he was masturbating with the fury of the condemned. “Ug… pog… sab…” His mouth gurgled senseless babble as he pummeled his penis, which would have been screeching in agony if it had been blessed with vocal chords. A wave of pleasure shot from its head to Johnny’s, and he exploded like a fine volcano.

A load of semen- what seemed like a gallon- exploded out of him and splashed the perfectly-basted turkey, and the family began to scream in horror. The next round of cream slapped Cousin Larry in the face, and he wet himself, because he'd always wanted to. The next round of splooge landed in the candied yams, glazing them splendid. The following spurt landed in Aunt Judy’s open mouth, and as she prepped for flabbergast she took most of the jizbah down her throat. Dad stood up in rage, and slipped on a puddle of Johnny's goop, tumbling backwards over the table, knocking over the bowl of mashed potatoes and breaking his spine on the arm of his chair, paralyzing him for life.

Uncle Alan vomited forcefully, a projectile spew coating Aunt Sarah’s face and dripping down the valley of her provocative but soggy cleavage. Grandma regained consciousness, only to be soaked with the next load of spunk from Johnny’s gushing geyser. Her lethal stroke may have begun even before the man-juice dripped into her ear, and her face instantly froze into a contorted fright-mask, her corpse stiffening into a wax-museum monster.

Johnny just kept cumming, a tidal wave of baby batter dunking Aunt Nancy’s prized stuffing, drenching the relatives and the mushrooms and the pumpkin pie and the, and the, and the…

Johnny’s testicles had clearly been drained, as the stream of pow-chowder finally tapered off, and Johnny fell exhausted back into his chair. The room was rife with the bleachy funk of nut, and his foul dripped from every surface in the dining room, which was now deathly silent. The family sat frozen, their holiday ruined, traumatized beyond any hope of recovery, and a satisfied smile crept slowly across Johnny’s face. The tradition was over.

Mom entered the dining room from the kitchen, a tray in her hand.

“Sorry, everyone, I almost forgot the rolls-”

She froze in her tracks, her eyes wide at the scene before her, her mouth open in speechless horror.

Johnny took a biscuit from her tray and buttered up.

“Happy Thanksgiving"


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