Home » Duck Dy-Nasty! by Skye Eagleday
Duck Dy-Nasty! Skye Eagleday

Duck Dy-Nasty!

Skye Eagleday

Published December 23rd 2013
ISBN :
Kindle Edition
21 pages
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 About the Book 

What do you get when you cross the Biggest Bearded Bottom in Louisiana with a bunch of incredibly horny gay guys armed with paint guns? Just add alcohol and you get a really wild evening you’ll never forget. You probably should put a condom on yourMoreWhat do you get when you cross the Biggest Bearded Bottom in Louisiana with a bunch of incredibly horny gay guys armed with paint guns? Just add alcohol and you get a really wild evening you’ll never forget. You probably should put a condom on your Kindle when you read this, just to be safe. (An absolutely only for adults story of nasty and erotically explicit non-stop action that is definitely “gay, gay, gay!” Even the ducks are embarrassed.)Excerpt:Doug saw Evan looking intently at the group photo on the bookshelf. “What do you think of the guys?”“Don’t bother me—I’m busy inhaling that rank scent of musky taint, rancid armpit cheese and butt syrup wafting off of this picture.”“So—would you hit it?”Evan sighed. “I hate myself--however I still would, but only in my darkest hour, and only from the back and only after putting on a full body condom covered in liquid antibiotics. Maybe I’ll need some bleach for my eyeballs afterwards.” He pushed the cowboy hat he was wearing higher up on his forehead and leaned closer to the photo. “Who’s the one with the ZZ Top beard and the big cross?”“His name is Phil, aka the Biggest Bottom in Louisiana. You probably recognize him from a dumb ass reality show. Quack Quack. We consider him the ingrown hair turned cyst on humanity’s nutsack. You know, I always suspected you were a closet wrinkle chaser.”“Nah,” laughed Evan, “I’m just an equal opportunist, but I will admit I would enjoy banging a guy who can use his lips to even seduce a duck.” He turned back to face his friend. “Since you’re being so personal, what the hell is wrong with you?”Doug put the back of his hand to his head in an affected swoon. “I’m just a little hung-over from a poorly thought out night of mixing cheap Chablis and the distilled jizz of the Devil others call moonshine, putting me on both ends of the “how pansy do you want to look and how shitty do you want to feel tomorrow” spectrum in one fell swoop. What can I say—I was celebrating my White Trash Tennessee Roots.”“Have any of the moonshine left?”“Do I look like I have anything alcoholic left?”“Looks like we have to hit the bars, then. I don’t want to keep looking at you and staying sober.”“Just let me get my coat and maybe throw up again.”