MOOT IS DELETING /v/

MOOT IS DELETING /v/, PREPARE FOR THE END.

Damn it moot, now I have to play some video games!

>>120
You'll live

Why does this happen every time the image boards go down? Seriously.

>>123
Sorry for ruining your secret little club

>>119
>THAT IT BRINGS ON SATURDAYS

What makes saturdays special?

>>125
It was the only thing I could think of that rhymed with ways...

fuck this shit ;_;7

>>124

It's not like people don't know the text boards exists.

Right?

>>128
God I hope they know. It's right fucking under the name on the front page. You'd have to be blind or some kind of redditor to not see it.

So, what's everyone playing? Or do all you guys do while /v/ is down is just refresh the page hoping that it's back up, or maybe decided to go on the textboard because it's the next best thing?

>>128
Why come to this abandoned stink hole if the image board is up?
There is no reason.
It's like a last resort.

>>130
GET OUT OF MY HEAD

>>130
We're only here because all the other boards are at a standstill.

>>130
I came here because I'm enjoying this ridiculous discussion and theres no captcha.
But I've been playing Alice: MR and Skyrim recently.
Jumped on the bandwagon a little late, but I just discovered 200gb a month downloads.

>>130
>So, what's everyone playing?

I havent played a single videogame in about two months.

I go on /v/ everyday.

Oh so it wasn't just me. Okay.

I've been playing Pokemon Black and the Phoenix Wright series most recently.

>>135
Why?

>>39
420/7chan, take your pick

>>135
We all know that feel

Seattle to Shanghai. That was the route of the first commercial Rift Gate. Not everyone's crazy about the name they picked, but just take a look the other few they considered. The Warp Gate? Doesn't get much more cliched than that. The Teleporter? I stand corrected. The Bilateral Trans-Space Unifier? That's a mouthful. The Portal? Already taken.

With the opening of that first Rift Gate, all traditional forms of air-transport, sea-transport, and space-transport were nullified overnight. The nature of the gate was simple, really. In Seattle was an eighty-foot by ten-foot metal doorway; in Shanghai was its mirror image. The two gates were joined in space allowing all matter and radiation to transfer uninterrupted and instantly, a seamless bridge in the fabric of here and there.

My head spins when I think about the explanation, but it goes something like, they trick space into thinking one point is a different point, two points are the same point. Gullible, the universe. To make a rift, it takes a plane of super-dense aluminum—which becomes the gate—a micro black hole, a dash of dark matter, and after it's made a never-ending supply of electricity to maintain the link. If a rift loses power and goes down for too long, the aluminum "forgets" the rift and has to be re-treated.

You'd never know the two eighty-foot gates were what they were by looking at them. They appeared simply doorways to another chamber, a stream of people going on the right, another coming on the left. They were set in unimpeded walls to help foster this illusion. The only things that gave them away were the windows above to the clouds outside.

>>138

Don't really like videogames that much anymore. But for some reason I still go to /v/ everyday.

At first, people were reluctant to use the gates. There were one or two electronic glitches that turned people off the things, unexpected shut-downs resulting in half-people and quarter-people. In time the technology improved and there were fewer surprise failures. Systems were invented that detected all possible shutdowns well in advance.

Slowly, and with the help of their ridiculous convenience, the rifts garnered the trust of the public. Laws were passed allowing their more everyday use. Rifts to the next town. Rifts to work. Rifts to school, and even rifts to the supermarket. Not so long ago they even hit the personal market. Last I heard, you can buy door-sized rifts at one-hundred-thousand per linked pair, which means that the doorway in the apartment in Stockholm can lead directly to the family cabin in northern Saskatchewan. Just think of the hell these things will cause immigration authorities.

Of course, it was the military who really got creative with the things. Back in 2075, when we invaded the Australian Fascist state, our bombers no longer carried the nukes. Simply rifted them straight out their assholes all the way from the bomb storage facility in southern Nevada. That turned out to be a double-edged sword, the kind of elementary mistake that afterwards when you see the error you scratch your head and say, "Yeah. . . Should have seen that coming."

A damned Aussie smart missile flew through the rift on a bomber's undercarriage, into that nuclear storage facility, and Nevada became one giant fucking crater in the single biggest loss of life in that war, with a mushroom-cloud so big it tickled Zeus's balls. The single biggest explosion on planet Earth since whichever meteorite killed the dinosaurs. Not that it helped the Aussies win. We got them in the end.

But that was a long time ago, and young men like me no longer have to worry about getting drafted and sent overseas to shoot dingoes. The biggest worry I have this morning of my nineteenth birthday is getting to my eight o'clock class on time at Summerwest Collegiate. If I'm late for French again, Mrs. Harris'll have my head—in her own subtle way. She'll make me recite in front of the class.

Rnnnnk— Rnnnnk— Rnnnnk— Rnnnnk— Rnnnnk

I smack my alarm clock and it shuts up. 7:20. I really hate that horrible grating sound. I should get a new one, one with birds chirping. Or energizing music like that song by Carl Orff.

I hop out of bed and toss on my clothes for the day selecting a loud, yellow-blue tee and white shorts. I leave my room and skip down the stairs to the kitchen. Alice, my sister, is already there and eating breakfast at the table. She has prepared herself toast and eggs. Probably was up at 6:30. I pour some cereal into a bowl, splash in some milk, and take a seat opposite her. We eat in a pregnant silence. Who will throw the first jab, only time will tell.

Mom meanders into the kitchen. "Morning, Cliff."

"Morning, Mom."

Mom meanders out. Obviously forgot that today is my birthday. Bitch.

I wolf down the cereal.

A series of melodic rings fills the house. Our elaborate doorbell. Now that's the kind of sound I wouldn't mind waking up to.

"Someone at the door," I say.

Alice sits there, unmoved.

In the distance I hear mom shout, "I'm in the bathroom!"

It's down to me or her.

"Get the door," I say.

She rolls her eyes. "You're closer."

I stew for a moment. We stare at each other. Neither flinches. Caving, I loudly scrape my chair back and walk down the hall to the front door. Its blurred glass panes let in the morning sun in distorted waves of brightness. A tall, female figure in red is shadowed behind it, and even though the image is hazy, I can tell from the head of long, strawberry blond hair that it is my Aunt Sandy.

I open the door.

"Happy Birthday, birthday boy!"

"Hey, Aunt Sand."

She outstretches her arms and her massive tits ripple buoyantly, tightly contained in a red halter top. The wide, swollen nipples tell me there's no bra. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze. The breasts mash into my chest. I give her a quick kiss to the lips, she hugs me, I hug her, and we rock like that for a moment.

"Oooh, my little Cliffy is already nineteen!"

I pull away and sneak a peek down the hall to make sure Alice isn't watching. She isn't. Coast clear. I reach up and squeeze aunt's right, pendulous breast, saying, "You'll be driving the customers crazy today."

She leans in close as I tweak her nipple with my thumb and whispers, "I know."

I cup my fingers flat under the breast and jiggle it. It dances beautifully. I sigh at the sight, and she titters. Damn you, mother nature, for making us men so subject to these simple things, breasts. But they aren't simple. Their shape and motions are hypnotic. They tell my male mind that this is a healthy woman ripe for the bearing of children, and therefore very attractive to my genes' interest in propagating the species. But it kind of takes the fun out of it when you break things down into terms of science. Tits are great, and that's enough for me.

My fingers explore the bra-less contours of her chest. She lets me play. It is my birthday after all.

Bras have become somewhat of a rarity these days. It's even legal for women to go topless, which a few of the more adventurous types at school do if they be confident enough in their endowments. And oh, should they be! What glorious tits I have seen, what amazingly developed girls frolicking naked in the sun and wind like they once did in the gardens of archaic man. Oh the joy of phys-ed and the warm up run! But I digress.

The sound of shuffling feet behind me prompts me to yank my hand from my aunt's chest.

"Sis!" Aunt Sand says. "Good to see you." She walks past me to Mom who is coming out of the side hall where the bathroom is. They embrace.

"Morning, Sand," she says flatly. Mom tends to speak in a monotone much unlike my bubbly aunt. Their careers so much as spell out their differences in character. Mom's a legal secretary; Aunt Sand runs a flower boutique.

"Did you know it's this strapping young man's birthday?"

Mom turns an unchanging expression towards me. "I do now. Happy Birthday, Cliff."

"Why thank you, Mum," I say in a robotic voice mimicking her monotone.

"I swear!" Aunt Sand says. "Doesn't remember her own son's birthday."

Mom levels aunt a hard look. "Some of us have more important things to worry about than clipping the daisies."

"Yes," Aunt Sand says. "Some of us have to worry about which file goes in which duo-tang! Now before I forget, I have a present for you, Cliffy." She taps my nose. "Wait one minute."

She goes out the front door and bends over to the right, lending me a spectacular view of her wide, womanly rear in white short-shorts. If I could up and jump. . .

I start. There appears to be something in her shorts, something covering her crotch. A kind of bulge, but before I can get a good look she stands back up with something in her hands. She comes through the door with a small, black box wrapped in white ribbons, a white bow on the top where they meet. It has a simple lifting lid. The only things restraining it are the ribbons.

"For you, Cliff," she says, and offers it with a smile.

I take it. "Awe. Thanks, Aunt Sand. You shouldn't have."

I yank at the ribbons.

"No!" she blurts in an urgent tone. Mom and I look at her with surprise.

Aunt Sand laughs. "It's just. . . It's a surprise! You can't open it yet. Not here. Not till you're at school."

I've got no idea what she could give me that has to do with school. "Alright. . ."

"It will help you. . . focus on your studies." She winks. "I promise."

"God, Sand, you look like such a slut in that," Mom says.

Aunt's Sand's superb hangers do tend to jut out in that flimsy top, and the lack of a bra leaves little to the imagination, the areolae plump and vital.

Unconsciously I lick my lips.

"Better than looking like a frumpy nun," Aunt Sand says brightly. "Besides, I sell twice as many flowers when I'm a little more. . . relaxed with my wardrobe."

Mom smiles. It looks sincere this time. "I bet," she says. She isn't much worse off in the chest department, so I bet she can empathize what weapons breasts can be.

I check my watch. 7:51. "Shit!" I say. "I gotta run. Thanks again, Aunt Sand."

"You're welcome, honey. Hurry up now. Don't wanna be late for school again."

"You'd think he was your son, for Chrissakes. Let's see you spend seven days of the week with him, and then treat him like he's your little cupcake."

"Chill, Mom," I say as I leave the two women in the hall.

I run upstairs, hurriedly brush my teeth, and toss my binder into my backpack. I rush back down to the front by which time mom and aunt are talking distantly in the living room. Alice is already gone.

I jet.

The third-street rift station is two blocks away. Running down the sidewalk I reach it at three to eight and search out the one in twenty doorways that rifts to Summerwest. I walk through it behind two other tardy students and step out into the rift hub adjoining the school parking lot: like the station I left but fewer doors. The tall, brown pile that is Summerwest looms before me. I run through its glass doors.

>>139
>go to 420chan /vg/
>threads about black ops 2
>threads about emulating psx
>threads about ocarina of time
>no shitposting whatsoever
>no angry posters
Why can't we have nice things like that?

Flying down the light-blue halls I find the room with the placard that reads, "Room 203: Mrs. Harris," and enter the class of twenty-some other students. Most are slumped in their desks with bleary eyes. I lean my pack against mine and ease inside. The bell strikes eight with a loud Rnnnnk. What bastard gave the school bell the same annoying buzz as my alarm clock? Students are in bad enough spirits without having to listen to that nails-in-a-blender bullshit.

In the desk left of me sits Bill. He grins and shakes his head at my punctuality. Mrs. Harris is busy at the blackboard writing the name of today's lesson. She is a stout brunette in a black, business looking getup, decent tits, exceptional ass. She turns and faces the class, denying me its heart-shaped image, and shouts,"The Past Parfait!"

I pull my binder out from my pack and spot the gift beneath. It'll have to wait. I start to write with the rest of the class and soon forget my zebra present as my mind is inundated with French verbs. The minutes drag past. Mrs. Harris eventually stops talking and lets us work on the conjugation exercises. The thought of my gift comes back to me and I decide to take a peek.

Reaching into the pack I yank at the bow. It unties at once, the ribbons dropping free. I ease the lid off the black velvety box and set it aside. Inside are two things: a written note, and a long, grey cylinder with a matte texture, not perfectly round but ovular, about nine inches long by four in length, three in width. It has a lid on one end built smoothly into the frame. I pull the cylinder out of the pack—rather light—and see in silvery letters on the side: Rift Tube.

"What in the. . ." I mutter, and shake it. Nothing rattles. Feels empty.

"What'cha got there, Cliffy?" Bill says, snatching it from me. He sets it on his desk. "Looks like a jumbo glasses case. . ."

I grab it back. "Fuck off!" I say. "It's my birthday present." I shove it into my pack.

"Settle!" he says. "Just lookin'." And then quieter—chaffing: "Happy Birthday."

I shake my head, and unfold the written note in my lap. It says:

Cliffy!!! Don't open the tube in class!!! Open it in the bathroom in private!!! The lid is reversible, put it back in upside-down!!!! But only in private!!!! Have fun Sweetie......Love Your Aunt Sand.....xoxoxo.

"Hmm. . ."

Students are allowed to use the washrooms at their discretion, so after a moment's deliberation I decide to hell with it, zip up my pack, and head for the door.

"What'cha doin'!" Bill calls to my back, and tosses a paper ball. It hits my leg. I flip him the bird once I'm safely in the hall out of the view of Mrs. Harris, and as I leave hear her rag on him about throwing things. There's nothing really hostile in our banter. It's just the thing between me and Bill. Most guys our age test each other's mettle.

I walk down the hall, take a bend, and enter the male lavatories. No one else is there. I pick a stall.

Taking a seat on the toilet I lock the door. Taking the tube out of my pack I examine it under the bright fluorescent lights. On the lid near the edge are two silvery buttons. I have no idea what they do. I clench the lid with my fingers and pull. It hisses free. I stare into the black abyss of the tube. Nothing's inside. I probe in with my fingers. It has a soft, cushiony wall, but there's still nothing.

"Well, fuck."

I feel cheated. I flip it upside down and shake. Nothing comes out. But then I. . . Oh God then I. . . Then I notice the lid in my hand!

"My. . . Fucking. . . God. . ."

On the bottom of the oval lid in my palm, which had faced the inside of the tube, is a pussy. A great, pink pair of blossoming pussy lips protruding from the oval, the only surface area of which not a vision of the female sex is the faintest of borders. Other that that it's all pussy. A clit proud in its hood, a meaty crevice of pink, and all the better because I know it's flesh and blood and not artificial. The quality doesn't tell me this; there are the most amazingly realistic fake toys these days. What tells me it's real is the fact I'm starting to piece together what the text on the tube means, and the fact that I recognize the pussy. It's Aunt Sand's. Aunt Sand's pussy in the palm of my hand, the petals parted slightly inviting a stiff dick.

"Those clever bastards. . ."

Rift engineering has impressed me severely. A tiny doorway straight to my aunt's cunt! That's what the bulge in her shorts was this morning. . . The lid to her tube. I wonder where she is right now. Sitting in her office at the back of the shop? Or maybe she's with a customer? Ha! And all while her pussy inches from my eyes.

"Well it's time she knows I've opened her present."

I bring the pussy to my mouth and run my tongue up the length of her pink crevice, lashing it over the clit.
~~~


"Oh!" Sandy squeaks, busy arranging the azaleas behind the display window taking advantage of an empty shop. She smirks wickedly. "Naughty, naughty nephew. . ."


~~~

I smile, and proceed to lick the pussy lips up and down and suckle the clit. I kiss it. The pussy swells and reddens. I put the lid into the tube reversed and now have a convenient grasp on the cunt-ended contraption. With my fingers I part the lips and stare into her pink, ribbed well. My dick throbs at the sight. Her wet hole runs back many inches, which is weird to see, because my brain knows the lid is a half-inch thick. But the tube helps foster the illusion that perhaps the pussy's inside somehow.

Time for some fun. I unzip my fly, yank down my pants and boxers in one motion, and sit back down. The porcelain is cold on my ass. My dick stands tall at attention, its crown purple and swollen, anxious for a home. I grip the base of my cock with my left hand and with my right slowly lower the salivating pussy towards it. A slimy strand of her inner lubrication falls and graces the head.

Sandy stands with a wistful expression on her face, fully clothed, her hands leaned against a metal rack hosting a display of small, purple flowers behind the window.

"What are you waiting for. . ." she says. "Stick it in. . ."

A bell rings. A little old lady steps in through the front door of the boutique.

"Fuck. . ." Sandy moves to greet her. She puts on on her brightest smile and says, "Hello!"


~~~


I run the head of my dick up and down her slippery entrance. The engorged lips kiss it. I tilt the tube back till it's in line with my cock, then slowly lower it, parting the petals with my head entering her warm, womanly guts. It is slick and tight and hot. I continue to lower the tube till my shaft is half buried, then, sighing, grip the tube with both hands and slam the pussy all the way down. A feeling of contentment washes over me as her warmth pulsates around my shaft.

This story had better be some /ss/

I bet the jews did this

I look down at the tube. My brain thinks my dick is inside, but I know better. My dick is miles from here, far away in my aunt's flower shop, and deep in my aunt's flower.

Slowly I raise the pussy off my glistening cock, watching the labia cling to it as if reluctant to part. My dick slips out and slaps my stomach rigidly. With one hand I aim it back at the target then slowly lower the pussy again, watching the pink lips devour me inch by inch till I'm balls-deep. I raise the pussy up, pausing when it contains only the head, then slam it down fast. I raise it up. I slam it down. Raise it up. Slam it down. I fuck her. Oh I hope she's with a customer right now, I hope she's struggling to contain this.


~~~


"Is there a problem, Mrs. Royce?" says the grey-haired lady, there seeking flowers for her brother's birthday.

"No!" Sandy laughs shakily, standing in the center aisle with her customer, metal racks of potted plants on either side, a hard dick slamming in and out of her pussy. Her face flushes and contorts; she looks like she's trying to contain an uncomfortable sensation.

The old lady looks at her quizzically. Sandy tries to be composed. "Now if you'll just look over HERE," she squeaks. "We have the. . . we have the. . ." She puts a hand to her chest. "Oh, my."

"Are you sure there's nothing wrong, dear?"

Sandy laughs, but it sounds curiously like a moan. "Yes! Just a little. . . lightheaded today. That's all. Oh, Jesus!" she practically screams.

So I'm sure we are all mature enough to ignore the story poster and just reply to each other.
Right?
Guys?