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If you click through to the Chester and Lester page, you can read the original rejection letter. Chester's Cloudy Ice was originally titled "Bind Us Together" and was intended for The Reverend Burdizzo's Hymn Book. It was obviously rejected. I have a different story in there. "Chester's Cloudy Ice" ended up in Rejected for Content 6.
I am starting to put together notes for a Chester and Lester novel. I don't plan to start actually writing it until 2022. I do have teeshirts and a book cover planned so the Chester and Lester novel will be self-published. Warning: This is fiction. I am never in the mood for sexual harassment and armchair diagnosis. Chester’s Cloudy Ice (originally titled “Bind Us Together”) By Dani Brown Chester rolled the sticky white substance between his fingers, adding corn-starch as required. When one ball was complete, he placed it in a lubed ice cube tray and scooped more cum from the cup he’d jerked off into while examining the finer points of a photograph of a pony’s rear end. The box of corn-starch had spilled all over the coffee table when he knocked it over during some vigorous wrist action. He hadn’t let that bother him. In fact, it suited him. He used his coke nail to scoop up the perfect amount of corn starch to make the perfect jiz ball. He was on his second ice cube tray. He needed to fill the freezer. Sunday was due to be warm. After the service, there was meant to be an Easter egg hunt – a display of the growing bonds between Christianity and Paganism. He was the man in charge of ice and frozen desserts. He had the biggest freezer, so it made perfect sense. Here sat a man with a butt plug up his arse and the biggest balls in town examining the world’s largest collection of pornography. Apart from the magazines in his basement and outhouses and the collection of animal porn kept housed under the floorboards, he had a loft devoted to video tapes, with the overflow kept in a giant storage facility with his DVDs and Blu-Rays. Although Chester lived alone, he had to have a six-bedroom house for all the external memory drives. Only one of those rooms was used as an actual spare room for guests to sleep in. He didn’t trust servers enough to not blow up, yet he had begun the slow process of digitalising everything. The remote control in charge of his collection was king. Without it, Chester would have to trek into the basemen (in all its illegally extended glory) for porno mags, since his video player lay in a broken mess beneath a snowfall of cum. Every day, he gave the remote controller fresh offerings of batteries to keep his unconnected house free from a raid. The pony’s rear end wasn’t doing it anymore. He ate the paper it had been printed on (plenty more between the floorboards) and switched on the multi-screen. Everywhere he looked a fresh image awaited his cock’s approval. He could change them all at the flick of a switch. Or one at a time with a different button. In the safety of his home, he was God. Outside, he served a different God. On Sunday, he would have to keep up appearances by making friends with heathens at the suggestion of the young hipster vicar with the man-bun. Chester offered him pots of the finest beard cream. He pushed all the spilled corn starch to the centre of the coffee table and blew his load while staring at the TV mounted on the ceiling. The rush of having his head back while his man juice flowed made him dizzy, achieving maximum pleasure. With the volume muted, his keen ears heard his warm cum hitting the corn-starch. He needed to milk that baby before he could roll them into balls. If it hardened and dried out before he was ready, more jiz would fix it. Dizziness pulled him backwards, wasting what remained in his balls. It was only a few seconds before he came to. His house had slight padding due to the risk of concussion. His cum was still warm and fresh. It mixed with the corn-starch, creating a perfect consistency for rolling into balls. He played with it, licking his fingers to check all the pineapple juice he’d drunk had sweetened his cum. No one wanted salty drinks. His salty spunk was currently in use in the old-fashioned ice cream maker. The villagers were in for an Easter treat. He rolled his spunk balls and filled five dozen more ice cube trays. He brought all the filled trays to the freezer to set, with a little bit of water to suspend the cum ball. There wasn’t much space left. His balls ached. They were full once again. He couldn’t allow his cum to go to waste down the kitchen sink. He was a good Christian man. He didn’t approve of the friendly village Easter get together with the local heathens. He jerked off into a pint glass and left it on the counter. Cum made an excellent coffee whitener. He’ll need extra coffee in the morning to deal with the Easter fayre. Extra coffee meant extra whitener. He should consume more pineapple – he’d save money on sweetener in the morning with cum that sweet. Spring sun and sticky sheets woke him before his alarm went off. He rubbed his eyes. It had become an increasingly common occurrence to wake up with his eyes glued shut. His balls were heavy, despite the drainage during the night. Every morning he had to pry the sticky sheet away from his ball-sack. With his eyes open and bloodshot from the manjuice, he was ready to jerk off. He pulled an empty sample container from his bedside table. It was too early for porn. He wouldn’t be able to operate the TV without the emptying his balls anyways. Anything he needed to do in the morning lay beyond him until the relief of jerking off. It was a quick job, but still required some teasing. Chester had already spent all his savings on fuck cups, before realising he could have started a decent subscription service and used the profits for one of those ultra-realistic masturbators or a live-in escort. Relieved, it was his bladder’s turn to complain. He needed a shower to wash the night’s spunk off. He listened – the coffee maker had turned on, so he hopped into the shower and turned himself on. This time, the cum would be lost down the drain – a sin, but one God might overlook if he didn’t indulge in it at any other time of the day. His wasn’t very well going to try and catch his cum in a shower gel bottle – his cock wouldn’t fit in it and his aim was bad this early in the morning. Any sin washing down the drain now would be erased later. He switched off the taps and wrapped himself in a towel, singing praises to the one true God. Church days brought a smile to his heart and a semi that lasted long into the night. Coffee called his name. Chester was a man who lived alone and kept his blinds shut. It was only him, Jesus and the porno collection to watch his towel become a tent. If there was someone in the house to get dressed for, she would bring him his morning coffee with a side of bacon and eggs like a good wife should, and then suck him off while he ate. Women weren’t interested in doing the things he required. When they were, it was only due to them being attention-seeking whores with co-dependent personalities and bright red lips. Easy enough to scoop out of his head and replace with his projections, but he liked that little bit of resistance. The ultimate goal involved bringing a strong independent woman to her cum-stained knees and forcing her to renounce the heathen gods before throat-fucking the last of her personality away and replacing it with spunk and the Lord and Saviour. Jesus died nailed up so he could partake in such Earthly pleasures. Two spoonfuls of pineapple-enhanced jiz meant his coffee didn’t require a sweetener. There was no bacon and eggs. He lacked the time to fry them himself. He took his steamy mug upstairs to get dressed. He was awake an hour early to get everything ready for the Easter fayre. The cum cubes needed to be left in the freezer but the cream needed to be whipped with fresh ball juice to give it that extra kick. His penis provided cum when his refrigerated supply ran out. He didn’t need pornography of any variety this Sunday morning – this was jerking off for Jesus. It always added to the pleasure and made his balls bloat with glee until cum dripped out and he needed to change his underwear. Once he reached the leaky tap stage, he tied a plastic food storage bag to his throbbing erection and set to work preparing frozen desserts. He couldn’t be too liberal with cum, there was plenty to go around, but some was old and filled with salt and sour milk. The taste would be noticed. He didn’t want parents to taste spunk in the little heathens’ ice cream. They’d take it away before Chester could tell their little suggestable minds about the one true God and how witches aren’t allowed life as the chocolate rabbits and Easter eggs melt in the glory of him. Late Easter combined with unseasonable sweltering heat meant the heathen way was through but just in case, Chester packed his extra sharp knives at the suggestion of Jesus, who was speaking directly to his impulse control centre. It didn’t occur to Chester that Jesus was an ancient Jew, and that English wasn’t around back in those times. The vicar provided a beautiful and uplifting service. His ‘tache twinkled in the sunshine, warming Chester’s heart. If he squinted hard enough, he could see the flakes of his dried cum on those holy hairs. They met on the village green after Chester returned home to fetch the ice and frozen desserts. The heathen children were already hunting chocolate eggs and rabbits in the grass. Easter was about Jesus, not chocolate, eggs or bunnies. The Lord died and rose three days later to save humanity from themselves. Chester made himself smile and laugh, his cock reaching odd limpness in his pants as the children giggled. He hated children. These ones didn’t even belong to God. They were the spawn of the Pagans. He put ice into plastic cups and cursed the hippies who insisted nothing disposable was used. It offended their heathen gods. He looked around. Too many people would notice him spitting into the punch. His special ice would go to waste. He put all the drinks on a tray and carried them over to the children’s Easter egg hunt. Rolling around with praises and Pagan tradition was thirsty work. All the little heathens took a cup. They were greedy little fuckers and swallowed the drinks in one or two gulps. Chester was pleased to see some of the children sucking on the ice. He turned around and watched their parents helping themselves to the punch. A tray of ice per punch bowl. Everyone would get a sample of dick juice. “This ice tastes funny.” The woman’s husband (or live-in partner - Chester didn’t like to think) shrugged. He didn’t give a shit. He was too busy thinking of the threesome planned for sunset. The one in which his wife wasn’t invited. The Jesus in Chester’s mind even sent him mental images of the action scheduled to take place. It was Chester’s mission to stop it. The young hipster vicar walked over, with cum in his ‘tache and a cup in his hand. He’d found the time to get changed into casual jeans with manufactured rips on the knees. “Great party. The ice cream is delicious.” Chester smiled. “Thank you, I made it myself with a few secret ingredients.” The cum counted as a few. Each type of porn created a different cumshot to add to the mix. Chester winked at him. Jesus offered images of the vicar bound to the high priestess’ bed. Men should never submit to women in any capacity. The picture came close to making Chester’s returned semi die away again. “Hey man, are you feeling okay?” Men of the cloth should never speak like the street urchins with their cheap cider and curfews their parents couldn’t enforce. “I think I’m going to sit down for a few minutes. I was up all night making the puddings.” Chester went to a bench with his cake-cutting kit. “These people are heathens, all of them,” Jesus whispered. “Look at what they get up to behind closed doors.” Cascading images tumbled through Chester’s head. “Do it, the time is now. Make them sing praises to me.” He unzipped the cake-cutting kit part of the way and ran his fingers along the knife handle. Blood pumped into his cock, giving him a tentpole. Cum followed shortly after, creating a wet patch. He’d removed his plastic food bag to attend church and replaced it with a sanitary towel. They didn’t hold much fluid. I can’t. Children giggled and ran around, their faces covered in chocolate. “Not even for Jesus?” Chester’s hands moved on their own accord to caress the knife handle. Good Christians should not be fraternising with Pagans. There was only one true God. Images of people with wings and halos playing harps on clouds danced across Chester’s mind. He would be rewarded in his next life if he took out the witches. It was time to return to the ways of old. Unfortunately, all he had were cake knives. He really needed a fire. There was plenty of dried grass around. It would burn out quickly. Witches required burning to ensure their souls were sent to Hell and the Earth was cleansed. “Get with the times, stabbing is perfectly acceptable.” If the Lord and Saviour said it was so, then it was truth. Chester pulled the knife out of the case and stood up in one movement. Sweat broke out on his forehead and under his arms. These were witches wearing the cloak of humanity. They even came disguised as children. Not that he liked children, but if there were Christian children they would be of God. Clouds danced over the sun. The first drops of rain fell on the fayre. If they ran into the gazebo, Chester could slaughter and then burn. He looked to the sky. Make it so, Jesus. Lightning lit up the darkening sky. The crash of thunder shook the frozen treats laid out on the table. Chester started to sing praises to Jesus, using the thunder as a back beat. As expected, the people ran for the gazebo. Chester swung his knife from high above his head and sliced off half of the vicar’s cum-enhanced ‘tache when he ducked. Instead of stopping, Chester jumped backwards and leapt to the side so he was standing behind the hipster vicar and stabbed him in the back. The Earth ran red with his blood. Chester didn’t have time to stop and watch the rain wash it away, he had to kill the next person. It wasn’t until his fourth kill, people realised that not everyone was making it to the gazebo and started to scream. They shouldn’t be screaming, they should be singing praises to the Lord and Saviour for releasing them on this rainy Easter Sunday. “Sing.” He started a new hymn. There was no expectation for the Pagans to know it, but some joined in. They wouldn’t be spared. Jesus warned that the witches came in sheep’s clothing pretending to be one of the flock. They’d infiltrated the church with their hipster vicar. It was up to Chester to save the souls of true Christians. He ran to the car park and fetched a petrol can. He filled an empty punch bowl with the damning liquid. Wannabe sheep were too scared to make a run for it, or even phone for the police in the few minutes he was gone. He came back and threw the petrol on the gazebo. The people sang hymns. He lit a match and threw it. He had to throw another and go back for more petrol. He stabbed a little girl with blonde pigtails on the way. He didn’t want the people to get the impression that he would allow them to escape. His cock throbbed and leaked cum down his pants with the additional petrol. His balls felt close to bursting. He stabbed a little boy and went for more petrol. He couldn’t take the throbbing much longer. It ached and resulted in light-headedness. He needed relief. The singing turned to screams of agony as the fire spread. The scent of burning flesh teased his nostrils. It made him hungry but there was work to be done. Lightning struck the gazebo. Embers fell on top of the people sheltering and trapped them. Chester ran around it in circles, his cock leaking, stabbing anyone who tried to escape. “Soon, my son.” The chocolate rabbits and eggs melted in the warm rain. Jesus was with him, helping him. The screams died away as the hail came. He couldn’t take the throbbing any longer. He would pass out. He dropped his knife and pulled off his pants and church trousers. He couldn’t get them past his shoes but his member was free. He pulled on it, Jesus providing images from his pornography collection until his cock erupted in an explosion of cum. Chester wouldn’t be punished for the sin of allowing it to go to waste. The rain and hail didn’t wash it away. He was ready to ejaculate again. “Use the vicar’s body. Send him to Hell where he belongs.” Without questioning, Chester obeyed. He pulled down the vicar’s jeans, a bit too young and hip for a supposed man of God. He wasn’t wearing underpants and his arse had been shaved. Chester could see the hairs growing back beneath the rain. He plunged his dick into the man’s arsehole without any sign of friction. He thought it was because the vicar was taking cocks in seedy back alleys and allowing sperm to be washed into the sewers. Jesus could have told him it was because Chester’s cock was a few inches too small but Jesus was silent. Chester pumped into the vicar’s arsehole as his blood flowed into the rain. It didn’t take many thrusts before he blew his load. He didn’t notice the family of Pagans in the bushes, filming everything and waiting for him to either pass out or go away. They said silent prayers to their Goddess of Protection and flashed warnings with their eyes to the children to keep their mouths shut. He didn’t bother to pull out when he ejaculated. There wasn’t much point. Praising the Lord Jesus through ridding the world of a few Pagans made Chester extra horny. Doing the Lord’s work always turned him on but this more than anything else. If he’d known that the relief afterwards would be so intense, he would have sold his porno collection and used the money to travel the world, brining heathens to justice everywhere. The vicar’s arsehole filled with cum until it leaked out. Chester couldn’t allow it to be washed away with the rain. Too much spilled semen and he would go to Hell to be slaughtered on an endless loop by the people he’d just killed. He pulled out and started lapping it up, feeling the friction from the vicar’s re-growing arse hair on his tongue. The man had no one to shave for. He shouldn’t have bothered. Sex outside of wedlock was a sin. His cum mixed with the vicar’s final bowel evacuation for a nutty flavour. Chester was allergic to nuts but he didn’t make the connection until his throat swelled up. He wouldn’t be able to sing praises to the Lord as he licked. Jesus kept him safe from nuts. He didn’t need to carry an EpiPen. Where was Jesus now? Chester had been forsaken. Cock leaking and throat closing, he noticed the family of Pagans in the bushes. He reached his arm towards them. They were too frightened and cold to make a move to help him. The police found them shaking and requiring shock treatment a few hours later. If you enjoyed "Chester's Cloudy Ice" please check out Stef and Tucker. There isn't any cloudy ice but there are ice zombies in the middle of the desert. And bikers. Plus Tucker's love socks.
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