CW: This is some gross stuff.

Best Overall

by Joyce Feral Oates

She shook her wack-ass pussy with ease, aired it out in the cold autumn air. Her boobs farted. Loud, just the way he liked it—he had always wanted to watch her boobs fart loud, and god was she a squeaker. Her pussy came loose while she boobfarted directly into his face, so he reached down and smacked it until it popped. “Yes,” she moaned, “shove your entire arm in there, gay boy.” He got confused as her gooch swallowed up his limb, all the way to the shoulder, but in a really hot and wet way. He swiveled around and positioned his massive three-and-a-half inch cock against her butthole, her boobs releasing small puffs as he teased it with the tip. He shoved his enormous member in and went, “Wheeeeee!” and she had never been more turned on in her entire life. Ever. “I’m gonna cum!” she squealed like a chimpanzee, and her juice flowed out of that special place where a woman keeps her deepest secrets. Then she came, and he said, “Wow!” and you, dear reader, got so horny that you jizzed your undies. And so we beat off, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Runner-Up

by William Fuck-ner

As he shoved his girthy member inside my pulping hot, worn wormhole, my eyes began to pop with the vigour of a mother in labour. I, Lord Fuck-quaad, realised what was happening. I could feel the crown of my yeastened bulbous ogre-child lick the walls of my ploughed fuckhole. Shrek, the destroyer of all (my) holes, released the most violent, primal, lustfully charged mating call of fear I had ever heard in my entire life. A crinkle had formed in my universe as the space-time gravitational continuum collapsed. My vocal cords tore the room’s silence apart as my pregnant body cracked itself open. The yeast-boy was sliding down my anal canal using shrek’s viscous seed as a lubricant. Like the unanchoring of the Ever Given in the blockage of the Suez canal, my child was coming (so was I).

Still screaming, Shrek grabbed my throat. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!” he roared. My eyes bulged through the asphyxiation of his meaty palms entrenched within my oesophagus. He fucked, and fucked, and suddenly, he extracted not only his immense velvety shaft, but the umbilical cord of my green passenger, entangled upon his uncircumcised, foreskin-abundant prong. I inhaled the breath of a thousand ogres as the onion within my gaping hole began to unlayer and unravel at the seams. At the entrance to my inner thighs lay a pool of shrek’s sacred seed and my beautiful, freshly baked, steaming, gingerbread child—he would grow to become the monstrous, sexually deviant, Gingerbread Man.

Most Historically Accurate

REVERENT

by F. Smut Fitzgerald

Paul eyed a tiny man in a comely

red coat across that bar. He ignored

common sense and led the man to

a bathroom stall. Pants unzipping,

Paul brought his mouth to the head

of Redcoat’s bayonet. He advanced…

retreated…teased and dared the barrel

to fire its load. Paul’s act was intolerable

for his lover, and Paul’s face quartered

the casualty. Redcoat’s milk-tea seed

dribbled from Paul’s lips, down his chin.

He smiled: “The British are cumming!”

This is Where I Really Got Uncomfortable

by H.P. Lustcraft 

His tongue searched my mouth and grazed my ears, his kisses rushing to cover my every inch. Working his way down, his tongue made tiny sweet circles around my nipples, which grew hard as his fingers lingered on my inner thighs before slipping inside. His tongue joined in a circus of arousal, my clitoris bulging to the size of a grape. He rose, tasting his fingers, and whispered in my ear, I want you so bad. He made deep subtle rings inside me with two fingers and I quivered, shoulders tense, head back, pure delight. I spread my knees and pulled his hips right up to my wet, quivering pussy, telling him I couldn’t take another second without his hard, massive cock thrusting into me. I stretched a condom around his girthy member and he slid inside, slowly, teasing me, exploring my pulsating clitoris with the tip, then plunging in, my insides clenching around his dick, wanting more. I shook with pleasure and cried out and inhaled his skin as he fucked me, speeding up, sliding in and out in staccato motions. I yielded—Please, daddy, more, harder!—needing more, feeling him sink into me again and again, smoother each time.

Too smoothly. Something felt different, wet and easy. He knocked up against something bunched-up and squeaky deep in my slippery tunnel and slid out. I looked down. His dick went limp like one of those inflatable characters at car dealerships. Where the fuck was the condom?

Best Motif

By Walt Clitman

The only way he could describe her at this moment was sopping wet. As she took a sip from her sopping wet water bottle, he looked over at her with his sopping wet eyes and saw her large, sopping wet breasts jump as she swigged the bottle over her head. His sopping wet jaw dropped at the sight of her sopping wet physique. Not only was her face beautifully sopping wet, as was her clothing as it clinged to her sopping wet body. Did she have an unfortunate run-in with a hose? Did she fall into a medium-sized puddle? He didn’t care how she got so sopping wet, just that she stayed that way. Her nipples protruding through her sopping wet t-shirt; her sopping wet shorts bunched up wedgied between her labia; her sopping wet socks drooping over her sneakers. However strange, it all made him sopping wet. Once she finished hydrating her insides, her hydrated outside got up from the chair, naturally leaving an ass-shaped water mark on the sopping wet chair. She sauntered past him, her sopping wet shoes squishing with each step. He couldn’t help but follow her out of the building, his sopping wet gaze following her every sopping wet move. With each sopping wet step she took, her clothing started to fall off her body, due to the sopping wetness. He picked up each sopping wet article, eventually catching up and handing the sopping wet heap over to her. Then they fucked.

Gave Me Blue Balls

By George Whorewell

I stare into your eager hole, lining up just right. You make a groaning noise of exhaustion, maybe of impatience, as I fumble for my tool. “Power,” you practically whine, and I want to give it to you. I need to. All too eager to please you, I pick up my gadget, guiding it towards your waiting slit. You hiss receptively, blinking furiously.

I hold my breath in anticipation of the connection—two parts fitting together, energy coursing from one machine to another. My mounting anticipation is quickly extinguished—it doesn’t fit inside you. Is it too big? Are you too small?

Drat. I bought the wrong laptop charger!!!