As the sun squatted low over the horizon and dusk settled over Neverland, Smee stood with a hand on the rail of the good ship Jolly Roger. “Oh, to be a pirate,” he mused, “plowing the impetuous seas with a spray-soaked bow…”
“Avast!” came the terrifying roar of Smee’s captain. The diminutive bo’sun blanched as Captain Hook, all six-foot-four of him, resplendent in the fearsomest of pirate’s garb, used his fearful iron namesake to hoist the pudgy Irishman to his sun-ravaged face.
The captain’s knickers, painstakingly washed and ironed by Smee earlier that day, seemed to be in a knot. “Enjoying the sunset, are we?” Hook snarled. “You pathetic, codswalloping, toadmunching, son of a footman’s goat! How can you stand there with that smile in your fat head, with the Indian princess and that devilish flying boy escaped yet again from our piratical clutches?!”
Smee would admit the battle at the lagoon had not ended well for Hook and his crew of scurvy miscreants. But ever the faithful bo’sun, he feared Hook’s attentions too often turned toward that irritatingly youthful scamp, Peter Pan, even to the detriment of his health. Smee observed that Hook’s luxurious wig was askew, his eyes wild and bloodshot, and worse: Smee felt sure that Hook had once again forgotten to take his blood pressure medication.
While serving his time as a lowly cabin boy aboard a vessel captained by the Dread Pirate Dirty Sanchez, Smee had learned many a handy seaman trick. Now he determined to calm the captain’s rage and restore him his healthful glow, even if it meant making the mercurial Hook, for at least one night, his love slave.
He thought fast: though mocked by the ship’s crew for his affable manner and penchant for striped boatneck tees, which he’d adopted from a Venetian before skewering him in a tavern brawl, Smee stowed at least some cunning beneath his scarlet cap.
“Captain, puh-puh-please forgive me, perhaps a hot bath and a dash of Bordeaux might help you to recover from this most grievous disappointment?” Smee asked, adopting his most obsequious manner and leading Hook toward the captain’s lavish quarters. There, he settled Hook into an armchair, opened a bottle of the finest vintage a cutlass could plunder, and deftly affixed the cork to the captain’s needle-sharp hook.
So preoccupied was Hook by Pan’s latest caper, he barely noticed as Smee went to his knees to remove the captain’s black leather boots, then set to work on Hook’s intricately laced codpiece.
Hook sighed as the wine began to sooth him, relaxing into his chair as the most pleasant sensation began to spread throughout his body. Startled, he glanced down to see Smee loose his swollen flagpole from its confinement and set his industrious bo’sun’s hands to work upon the captain’s formidable manhood.
“This is queer,” Hook gasped, though in protest or acquiescence, even he did not know. Under the ministrations of the ever-dutiful Smee, his tender skull and crossbones now stood at full mast, and Hook settled back into the chair, ready to let the subservient Smee complete the job. Smee looked up at the captain and paused, a sly smile playing upon his lips. “Now, James,” he said. “You didn’t think it would be time to fire a shot from Long Tom so soon?”
Hook sputtered in outrage. Ay, he had nicknamed his member after the Jolly Roger’s prolific cannon, but the name was only uttered in the privacy of his chambers, when he took Long Tom out before a mirror to dangle picturesquely in the soft glow of candlelight. How dare Smee know his secret and call him by his Christian name at that! But before he could slash the insubordinate Smee, he felt a tickle more fearsome than that of his hook, as Smee navigated southward and nuzzled Hook’s tender, hairy Neverland.
Smee’s spectacles fogged as his eager mouth found Hook’s taint, humid as the island’s deepest jungle. His tongue fought valiantly to part the pirate’s perineal pelt, rank as a Lost Boy’s unwashed bearskin. And even as Hook squirmed, Smee dove deeper into the dastardly captain’s uncharted dotus.
Where anger had moved Hook a moment before, his devious mind was now empty of all thought. Scrotal squeals of pure ecstasy escaped his mouth as Smee expertly laved the captain’s shuddering nifkin.
But though Hook quivered with pleasure, he was not to find satisfaction just yet, as Smee soon ceased his activities and stood up. No longer the submissive servant, he loosened his belt. “Turn around, James,” he commanded, “and prepare to meet Johnny Corkscrew.”
Hook, master and commander no more, meekly obeyed, even as he smelled the familiar scent of coconut butter, which he used habitually to groom his mustache, and felt Smee’s fingers creep upon his untouched land starfish.
“Now,” Smee intoned gleefully, “ready the poop deck.” Without further preamble, Smee drove his rigid plank into Hook’s shadowy treasure trove, just as a wave caught the Jolly Roger and the ship began rolling in its berth. As the deck rocked beneath them, Smee’s not ungentle entry grew in urgency, each thrust winning a throaty moan of assent from the captain.
“What’s my name?” Smee growled, but Hook did not answer. “WHAT’S MY NAME?” Smee cried again, but there was no time for response, as the ship lurched and both Johnny Corkscrew and Long Tom erupted with a salty spray that only two seasoned seamen could muster.
After a moment, Smee gently led the stunned Hook to the captain’s fur-strewn bed, where the exhausted pirates collapsed in each other’s arms.
“Odds bobs,” James murmured huskily, and as Smee bent to kiss the captain’s mustachioed lips, he whispered the name “Seamus” softly in his ear.
Once inside a forest clearing lived a race of fairy beings,
Mere inches tall, with gossamer wings and voices none could soon forget.
Tinkerbell was a busty lass, and Tootsie bore a shapely ass,
While sweet Tallulah brimmed with sass, and with them now our stage is set.
We’ve only got a thousand words, the story has not started yet;
Three named characters are all you get.
A fairy’s brain, if truth be told, can only one emotion hold,
Her temper running hot and cold, capricious as a gust of wind.
One minute she’ll be quite serene, then fill with rage like none have seen,
And switch it off like a machine as if upon some passing whim.
Then barely will a moment pass before the cycle starts again.
It’s enough to drive you ’round the bend.
We would call this, in reality, a borderline personality,
And in all eventuality, medicate those crazy fae.
But fairies, they live in the grand fantasia of Neverland,
So the audience must understand they cope with it in other ways:
They make sure only fun and pleasure ever fill their fairy days.
In other words, they fuck in spades.
Oh, the blustering bacchanalia of flying fairy genitalia,
Of pixies in their sex regalia making whoopee in the grasses.
They jam their tongues into moist places, blow elfin loads on spritely faces,
And tangled up in strange embraces, fuck each other in the asses.
All this aerial copulation leaves them stickier than molasses.
Their humping prowess none surpasses.
One day, while playing with their toys, the fairies heard a curious noise,
Drowning out their cries of joy, coming from the trees beyond.
The sound of sorrow’s tears falling roused the fairies from their balling,
An interruption so galling they knew at once they must respond.
And yet they could not source the sound that echoed over stream and pond,
Though they scoured branch and frond.
While at the sound the fairies pondered, a grieving donkey sadly sauntered,
Into the magic glen he wandered with his tail swinging low.
“Donkey,” they said, “what’s the matter? We have seen no creature sadder,
Perhaps now it will make you gladder to explain what’s vexed you so?
Then mayhap you shall fall silent, and back to fucking we will go.
Tell us now your tale of woe.”
And the donkey said:
“Forgive me, fairies, I didn’t mean to interrupt your orgy scene,
But the past few days have been a bit traumatic for yours truly.
My one and only donkey love, with whom I fit like hand in glove,
Has lately given me the shove, and run off with some big-horned mulie,
Leaving me a sobbing mess whose heart has been broken unduly.
How could love treat me so cruelly?”
And the fairies said:
“We have no time for such sad dealings; they leave our minuscule brains reeling
So we commit ourselves to feeling only pleasure, as you’ll see.
Let us show you, faithful burro, and your brow it will unfurrow.
Soon you will forget your sorrow, so great will your delight be.
We’ll teach you how to never feel anything but felicity,
Till you collapse in ecstasy.”
Then the fairies, right and quick, did flutter ’round the donkey’s dick,
And with their tongues proceed to lick and suck his bone relentlessly.
They gave his asshole such a rimming it sent his donkey head ’a spinning,
While he stood stupidly grinning at his newfound ecstasy.
And their slutty ministrations left him moaning breathlessly.
He hoped they’d go on endlessly.
Then the donkey, his heart thrumming, let out a bray and started coming,
Sending jets of semen pumping on a nearby flowerbed.
So great, the pleasure in his dick, it even caused his legs to kick,
His back hoof flying out so quick, it struck poor Tootsie in the head.
The helpless fairies watched in horror as their good friend Tootsie bled.
Then, gravely, they pronounced her dead.
“Oh what a monstrous affair,” the donkey said, in deep despair.
“Is there no way to repair the damage to this fairy sweet?”
“There’s one sure way,” Tinkerbell said, “to raise a fairy from the dead:
Just clap your hands above your head and fill your heart with true belief.
The power of the true believer’s always mightier than grief,
So from death she’ll find relief.”
The fairies circled in a ring, arm in arm and wing to wing,
And hoped with clapping hands to bring the fallen Tootsie back alive.
So they clapped, and maybe you will kindly lend a hand or two.
It’s the least that you could do to help this poor fairy survive.
Clap, you motherfuckers, clap, unless you want Tootsie to die…
And we shall see if she’ll revive.
Alas poor Tootsie got no better; she was dead and getting deader,
Till Tinkerbell, being quite clever, understood what must be done.
She said “’Tis not our hands we need to drive away this evil deed;
It is something else indeed that we must clap to wake her up.
To harness magic stronger even than belief will be no stunt;
Fairies, you must clap your cunts!”
In peals, in waves, in droves, in batches, the clarion call of flapping snatches
Echoed through the leafy branches like the songs of tiny sirens.
And the magic of their belief, born aloft on fairy queefs,
Reclaimed the fairies from their grief, and shook the air with winds quite violent.
The audience should understand their help in this is not required.
Please keep your pussies set to silent.
As if from sleep Tootsie was woken, and her lids did flutter open,
Upon her face a smile had broken, the spark of life in her eyes flashing.
“Fairy friends,” she said to them, “you’ve saved me with your flapping quims,
But now that all is right again, let us get back to cooter smashing.”
And just like that the fairies leapt right back into the throes of passion,
And all of that hot donkey action.
And so now must our tale end, the fairies and their newfound friend
Writhing naked in the glen, with hand on crotch and tongue on breast.
But should your own path ever wind, and in such forests yourself find,
With creatures of the fairy kind, remember what was here expressed:
That though she may be kind of nuts, as our friend Donkey can attest,
A fairy’s always DTF.
There are so many strange and exciting penises in the animal kingdom.
The blue whale, for example, sports the world’s biggest dick, an eight-foot-long jizz cannon that can shoot thirty-five pints in a single load.
The human boner, by comparison, is but a turgid little breadstick. It’s big enough to get the job done (well, usually—wink!) but discreet enough to tuck under a waistband at, say, children’s birthday parties or funerals.
Have you ever seen a panda bear’s dong? Neither has a panda bear. It’s just a tiny nubbin, buried beneath the bear’s celebrated muffin top. Neither grower nor shower, the panda and his tiny dick can barely penetrate a mate when they find one, which is never. Basically, this species is fucked.
And then there’s the crocodile.
The crocodile’s penis is special for one reason: It is constantly erect. It remains hidden inside the animal’s body until he’s ready for sexy time, then springs out without warning, like a cum-spewing jack-in-the-box.
While this sounds fun, imagine actually being a crocodile. You’re toting a forever-engorged member, roaming the lonely waters in search of a mate. Such was the frustrating life of our protagonist, the Neverland crocodile. Pirates mistook his constant lurking for menace; in fact, he was just super duper horny.
One sunny afternoon, the crocodile and his raging boner were trolling the waters of Mermaids’ Lagoon. As he neared the shore, he spotted two figures lounging on a rock: Captain Hook and Smee.
“Okay, Captain, ‘Fuck, Marry, Kill,’” Smee said. “Tiger Lily, Tinker Bell, Wendy.”
Hook thought for a moment. “Well I’d just kill all of them, obviously.”
Just then, they froze. In the distance, they heard the terrifying tick-tock sound they knew so well. It was the approaching crocodile, which had once eaten a clock; this was never really explained.
“Hear that, Captain? Here comes the croc!” Smee squealed. “Shoot him with your pistol!”
“Nay, Smee,” replied Captain Hook, eagerly taking off his musty cloak.
“Aye, stab him with your sword, Captain!”
“Nay, Smee,” said Hook, unbuttoning his musty pirate’s blouse.
“Then what, Captain?”
“I’ll set a trap, Smee!” Hook snarled, unbuckling his belt and pulling down his musty velvet pants.
“Uh… what?” Smee mumbled, transfixed by Hook’s tangle of aged genitals.
“Crocodiles are extremely horny, Smee. Everybody knows that. So, I’ll lie here waiting, naked, like an irresistible fucktoy. The crocodile will approach, and when he gets close, I’ll cut off his head with my hook!”
“Brilliant!” Smee clapped and giggled with delight.
By now Hook had fully disrobed, his weird drooping breasts and shapeless buttocks glistening in the Neversun. He lay on the beach, smirking, tickling his ancient balls. To him, this was seduction.
And it worked. The crocodile, watching from afar, was aroused. Hook wasn’t much to look at, sure. Clearly he wasn’t even a crocodile. But, holes were holes.
The crocodile emerged from the water, crawling up the beach toward Hook. Step by step he got closer, the tick-tock growing ever louder.
“That’s right, come and get it,” whispered Hook, running the fingers of his good hand through his filthy nest of pubic hair.
The croc, now just a few feet away, was indeed horny as fuck. Sensing that copulation was imminent, his perma-boner, which had been throbbing inside his body, sprang out of its gopher hole.
“WHOA, WHOA,” said Hook, never having seen a crocadildo before.
“Look at that!” shouted Smee, who was sitting nearby, feverishly masturbating. “Looks like a butternut squash!”
“There is NO WAY that’s going inside me,” Hook insisted. “No, croc, it is MY unusual cock that shall go inside YOU!” he said, making the “roll over” motion with his hand.
The croc had never bottomed before, but he was open-minded, and as we’ve already established, like, CRAZY horny.
And so the crocodile rolled onto his back, his raging boner still exposed. Hook approached, gingerly climbing atop the submissive beast.
“You’ve got him now,” Smee exploded. “Kill him!”
“Nay, not quite yet, Smee.”
“But you’re literally on top of him, Captain!” Smee shouted. “Just slit his throat and we’ll go get some brunch!”
“Hush!” Hook sputtered. For a more pressing matter had arisen. Hook looked down at his own flaccid, bescabbed penis. He may have been captain of the Jolly Roger, but he was apparently not captain of his OWN jolly roger. Meaning, his unresponsive schlong.
“Ah.” Smee smirked. “Looks like somebody’s got a REPTILE dysfunction.”
Hook looked at Smee like, “GUUUUUUUURL…”
Sensing Hook’s impotence, the crocodile took matters into his own hands, meaning his mouth. Before Hook knew it, the croc was giving his limp ding-dong what may have been the world’s toothiest head.
“Ow ow ow ow ow,” Hook said, kind of in pain but also not exactly complaining.
“Oh, you’ve got him now, Captain!” said Smee, now aggressively fingering his own butthole. “Cut off his head!”
Hook ignored Smee. The blood was now flowing to his penis, ensconced as it was in the crocodile’s mouth. It wasn’t particularly satisfying for either of them—kind of like a dinosaur sucking a pacifier—but it was more action than Hook had gotten in years, and he was digging it.
“Hey, Captain, remember the time he swallowed your clock?” said Smee, now vigorously fucking a coconut.
Hook was fully erect. He looked down at the crocodile—its kind eyes, its generous mouth. Look at his taut, hairless body, Hook thought. Look at his pearly teeth, his short muscular arms. Why, if he were upright, I might mistake him for one of the Lost Boys. Wait… Is it possible my hatred for children is really a psychosexual attraction? Is my quest to kill this crocodile really a denial of my true desires? Am I basically a pedophile? Because that would make a ton of sense.
Before he could formulate an answer, the croc chomped down on Hook’s penis, biting it clean off, swallowing it whole.
Hook let out a scream that echoed throughout Neverland, a combination of excruciating pain and unbearable heartbreak. For he had just begun to trust and, perhaps, love his long-time adversary. And yet here he was at his most vulnerable—betrayed and decocked. And the crocodile, who had thought he only wanted love, now realized he couldn’t fight his lizard brain. In the end he was a predator, and Hook was prey. Salty, saggy, hairy, handless, dickless prey.
As he bled out, Hook took his final revenge. He dug his iron claw into the crocodile’s throat, dragging it down to his belly. The mortal enemies died there in a bloody pile, both satisfied in their vengeance, yet unsatisfied in not having ejaculated one last time.
One person who did ejaculate, however, was Smee. He sulked over to Hook’s body, sobbing. In an act of respect for his fallen mentor, he pulled his still-erect penis out of the coconut, letting out a halfhearted splooge onto the intertwined corpses.
Then, businesslike, he reached into the crocodile, pulled out the still-ticking clock, and smashed it against a rock.
“Who’s captain now, bitches?” Smee boasted to no one in particular.
And with that, he pulled his pants up and waddled off to brunch.