SATAN DON’T SURF

SATAN DON’T SURF

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I’m Corky Dora, the world’s top surfer, and this is my story.

First, I am “legally” obliged to say that reading my story to the end constitutes a contract with Satan for your soul.

I’m sorry. I need 666 of you to get me out of my own contract. I’m sorry.

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THE END

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Ha.

Sorry. That was a sick joke. I’m scared. That wasn’t the end. But the rest of what I just said is true. I warned you. Legally.

I was a fat little white worm sitting on the beach watching the surfers. Listening to surf music on my iPod. Getting painfully sunburnt.

Watching the surfers get beautiful honeys, sometimes two for one guy.

They made fun of me.

One day I said out loud that I’d give my fucking soul to be like those guys.

Next thing I knew this hot honey kneeled next to me and whispered, “Those guys are assholes. Fuck them. You could be better than all of them.”

I stuttered, “Huh…? What…? ”

Her suntan oil smelled like sweet coconut.

I flushed when I glanced at her barely restrained tits.

I stuttered, “How…? Why…?”

She giggled so sexy. She said, “I’m Satan.”

I thought rapidly, she’s teasing me like the others, she’s reading my eyes, she’s speaking metaphorically, fuck, who says “metaphorically”?, no wonder I’m a worm, she’s pushing her tits at me.

She said, “This pair could be yours. And more chicks than you can shake a dick at, Corky.”

I really stuttered, How…? How…? How…? You know my name?”

She smiled and I froze as she kissed my forehead. All I could see were her tits and all I could smell was hot coconut.

She said, “Does that sound like a bargain? Think about these. And if you want to be the best surfer in the world there is a simple thing you can do for me. Besides masturbating!” and she giggled so sexy.

Then she became serious and said to me intently, “Kiss my ass.”

I almost boiled when she turned and she got on all fours in front of me.

She looked back at me and said, “Sign with you tongue ‘Corky Dora’.” Then she giggled, “I’ll bet you wish your name was ‘Englebert Humperdinck’.”

In a dream I did what she asked.  In a dream my life changed.

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I have won all the top surfing events in the USA. Florida, California, Hawaii, Virginia, wherever, whenever . I am ripped. I have become Legend. I have fucked a thousand girls.

Finally, the night before the North Shore Grand Event, I was fucking my thousand-and-oneth girl when she started to laugh. I’d had girls moan, scream, and cry but never laugh! I thought I hit a new spot.

Then suddenly it felt like a crab claw grabbed my dick.

I yelled and looked into… what-was-her-name’s face.

She said, “You forgot to ask how long you had.”

The crab claw released my dick and I was spat backwards out of … the bed in mute terror.

She leaned on her elbow and looked down at me over the bed, “Satan got your tongue?” and she giggled.

I stuttered, “I.. I… thought you would come after I died! I’m still young!”

She raised her eyebrow, “Yesssss. Tomorrow you die. A rouge wave. A heroic attempt to ride it. But when I suddenly take away all of your skills that I gave you… you die. Very dramatically, of course. Shouldn’t hurt too much,” and she giggled.

I was nauseous. My mind outraced my soul. I begged, “Take someone else. New deal! What can I do? What do you want?”

She put her finger on her pouty lip, then giggled, “I’m short 666 souls.”

I clutched, “I can deliver 666 souls! I have thousands of fans.”

She nodded, “Very generous. How?”

I muttered, “I… I… I could sell my memoirs.”

She frowned down on me, “And?” Then she giggled, “I’m really fucking with you now! I’m putting thoughts in your mind,” then she became serious, “You will write your memoirs but they will really be a contract with me.”

I felt sick with cowardice, “How?”

She continued, “You will have to be completely honest. You will have to start your story with a legal disclaimer. The rest is free will,” she giggled, “Very expensive.”

I whimpered, “I don’t understand.”

She proclaimed, “Anyone who reads your story to the very end will consign their soul to me.”

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I just couldn’t write and write and write this to stall anymore for your sake. I just can’t write anymore. I’m so tired. I’m sorry. So tired. What can I do?  I have re-read this draft over and over.  Hey… Wait a minute…

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(TO BE CONTINUED)

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2 thoughts on “SATAN DON’T SURF

  1. Well I’m glad I did not read all the way to the end; since it is continued I still have a chance.
    God liked to surf I’m sure. After all he did “hang ten” commandments in front of our noses didn’t he?

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