The obligatory disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. As such, all characters are figments of the author's twisted and deliciously dirty mind. Any resemblance to actual people is strictly an unintentional coincidence. If you are under eighteen or are offended by things of a decidedly sexual nature, you shouldn"t be reading this. For those under eighteen, experience has taught me, as it will teach you, that life will mess with your mind enough after you reach adulthood. You really don't need a head start.
Now, without further delay, back to the story!
21
Nooner
Sex in the afternoon is a wonderful thing; a glorious, wondrous, astounding event to be savored and remembered and enjoyed. Weekday afternoons are supposed to be for industrious activities: working or studying or occupying oneself with matters of commerce or education. As such, playing hooky (in general) offers a guilty, sneaky respite from the workaday world. But when this act of stealing time more properly put to use for responsible enterprises is instead diverted to endeavors of a sexual nature, it becomes elevated into the pantheon of the nooner.
The origin – the first exploration into midday screwing – has been lost to the vagaries of time; clouded by the mists of pre-history. I can just imagine Joe Homo Sapiens grabbing a handful of Jane Homo Sapiens' hair and dragging her into the bushes when they were otherwise supposed to be hunting and/or gathering, ripping off her animal skin miniskirt, fucking her brains out, and then afterwards sidling up to Fred Homo Sapiens at the water hole and telling him of the new concept he'd discovered.
It is well this new sensation did not at first catch on – that cooler heads (and libidos) prevailed, promulgated, no doubt, by the necessities of basic survival. If it had, if every Tom, Dick, Mary and Bambi Homo Sapiens had succumbed to the temptation of the lunchtime Horizontal Bop, then we as a species might not have survived.
Perhaps this is the reason we are not Neanderthals.
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Connie lounged on her side atop the covers, leaning on one elbow. Her skin held a pink glow, her legs lay spread wide and her central erogenous zone seemed to be growing again. Mine, on the other hand, rested at the moment as I stood at the foot of the bed admiring her nude magnificence.
"Could I spend the next seventy-two to ninety-six hours exploring every inch of your body with my tongue?" I asked, causing a marked increase in both of our special appendages.
She rolled onto her belly and stuck her butt in the air. "You want to have at me again, sailor?"
"Only about fourteen thousand times," I replied with minimal exaggeration.
"That many?" she asked. "Hmm..." She flexed her gluteus muscles as if testing to see if they'd bear up under such a prolonged probing and/or pounding. I responded in the only way I could: by diving back onto the bed and planting my face between her glorious muscle groupings.
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There's another thing I love about a woman's bottom in general and Connie's in particular: the taste. Every inch of a woman's flesh is delicious, in my opinion. All of her parts: from her earlobes to that bit of smooth pink skin in the arch of her foot is a taste sensation worthy of the most persnickety gourmand. But for my money, her greatest lick, kiss and nibble-worthy part (save that of her Holiest of Holies) is her ass. The globes, the folds of skin at the junction of her legs, the puckered opening in the middle of it all and the patch of flesh between it and the spleandor, wonder and abject juciness of her pussy (a special delicacy in its own right) are flavorful delights worth savoring again and again and again.
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Izzy's Mom, as shall eventually be demonstrated, likes it up the ass almost as much as she enjoys getting cum all over her face. This is, of course, important – in fact essential – in having anal sex.
There are two primary requirements: the pleasure and safety of the person receiving it, and the cleanliness of all concerned. Of these, the first is the key. Sex (procreation not withstanding) is about pleasure. Anal sex – no matter the gender of the receiving party – can be extraordinarily pleasurable. It can also be quite painful. And while a bit of pain can be enjoyable for some under certain circumstances, generally speaking, if it hurts, it ain't fun.
In addition, there's also the perception of nastiness – the ick-factor, if you like. Some people feel anything to do with the ass is inherently nasty. Others, of course, like it for that exact reason. It's all relative. The second essential thing – cleanliness – can go a long way toward removing the stigma, but ultimately it comes back to pleasure.
Some people agree to take it up the ass for no other reason than their partner wants it. To me, that is exactly the wrong reason. Your partner will have more fun if you have fun. If you don't enjoy having a hard cock (real or otherwise) repeatedly inserted into your nether regions, then don't do it. If, on the other hand, you absolutely love being pounded, then by all means, have at it.
I'm just, well, you know...
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And one final bit of sidelong intrusion before I carry on with the story: I love the female posterior form so much so that I do not, have not, and from all indications (never say never) will not pitch, as it were, in my sexual relations with men. I don't have anything against men's butts, per se, I just don't happen to find them appealing in a fuck-worthy manner. It's the hair, I think.
After all, some trannies (and I'm using the descriptor in its most general sense), such as transvestites and/or crossdressers (the category I guess you could slide me into if you must – or slide into me, if you like), are technically men and are only pretending to be women (for whatever reason), and I have no problem screwing the brains out of any of them, provided, their butts are nice and smooth. So it's not a top or bottom thing. I have no compunction whatsoever against giving a nice hard fucking (or a slow and sensuous screw) to trannies of any and every stripe, and certainly to women of all flavors. We can go into the psychological aspects and ramifications of this later (or not), but I pass it off as one of those quirks of desire.
I love being on the receiving end – catching, if you will – and I love a good slurp, slurp on the male schlong, and I even enjoy getting a good old sloppy wet blowjob from other men, provided they know what they're doing (easy with the teeth, Dracula). I just don't happen to have any interest in porking them up the Hershey-Highway (to use the first disgusting descriptor that comes to mind).
For the record (and for the umpteenth time), I wouldn't classify myself at all, let alone as a tranny or anything else you might choose. This is nothing against any group; it's just that I don't like to place limits on me. I'm an equal-opportunity slut.
And now I'll shut the fuck up and get back to having sex.
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So where were we? Ah yes!
Connie was on the receiving end of an anal tongue bath, and she was both happy and gracious enough to allow me to indulge my pleasure. But then the reality of retail management reared its ugly, capitalistic head.
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In actuality, it was the ringing of her telephone, but my metaphorical description better serves this narrative, and so I'll just stick with it. Artistic license has its priority, after all.
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That said, however, this did not – for the moment – interrupt the oral exploration I continued conducting. She answered the phone, rightly enough, but she did so as my tongue went spelunking. She listened as I carried on with my expedition, gave a quick and mildly snippy, "Fine, give her a refund," and then fumbled the phone back onto its cradle. Before she had an opportunity to provide me with details, I rolled her onto her back, situated her thighs on either side of my head, pushed her legs and her bottom and the entrance to my exploratory activities skyward and sallied forth.
So I had Connie on her bed with her knees pinned back onto her chest as I alternated between licking her gorgeous ass and sucking her delicious cock, when once again that damnable telephone broke the spell. "I swear to Christ I'm gonna rip that thing out of the wall," I said, on no-uncertain terms, making sure to first remove her yummy hardness before committing the impolite act of speaking with my mouth full.
She flopped her legs back down, landing them delightfully once again on either side of my head, and struggled to answer the latest jangling cause of coitus interruptus. She did finally manage to pick it up and say hello, but I still got my revenge by once again pinning her legs into position and entering her honeysuckle rose. The greeting turned into a prolonged moaning "Hello-Ohhhh..." and she gave me the evil eye, but did not stop me from carrying on with my penetrative action. It failed to bring the conversation to an abrupt halt, however, and so I increased the tempo and proceeded in an attempt to fuck her brains literally out.
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Yes, I can, on occasion, be an evil son of a bitch.
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I'm also devilishly quick with a condom.
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She listened for a bit as I continued my trip-hammer machinations and then exclaimed "Holy shit! I'll be right down!" and just like that, our afternoon delight came to a screeching, abortive, frustrating and orgasmically unsatisfying (this time) halt.
What awaited us below turned out to be none other than my old pal Reverend Collingswood and a cadre of his incipient, mindless, worthless, charmless, possibly dickless, certainly soulless and obviously merciless supporters.
22
Hypocracy Comes to Call
The psychological and karmic implications of running into my nemesis twice on the very day of my attempt to deflect and/or assuage my feelings of guilt about the unmitigated asshole-ness I'd inflicted upon my best friend by trying to cover it with sex (anonymous or otherwise) could serve as an excellent cautionary tale for those idiotic few who choose to tread the same path. Or not; the jury is still out, having apparently gone on extended lunch break, possibly to have a nooner of their own – or maybe a turkey on rye with lettuce, tomato and a dollop of honey mustard. Hold the pickles.
Such speculation is pointless, however, and does nothing to further this tale of sex and drugs but (up to this point and perhaps for the duration) not rock-n-roll. And so perhaps we should leave it all behind, return to Cloth Dreams and confront the resultant hypocracy head-on.
Shall we?
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We join our two-faced melee already in progress...
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"What gives you the right?" Connie demanded.
"The Good Lord and the citizens of this community," Reverend Asshole replied, filled with righteous fervor and indignation and wallowing in unparalleled bullshit.
"The people of this community gave you no such thing," I added my two cents. These were the first words I'd spoken since walking in on their attempt to close down Connie's shop, claiming her "questionable morals" as leader of the Drag Queen pack at the Orpheum were an affront to "good Christians" everywhere, compounded by her audacity to sell such overt and unquestionably sexual (and most certainly deviant) clothing and accessories. This, in any event, was their stated excuse.
And since I'd kept my mouth shut, and since the Reverend found himself otherwise occupied with bovine excrement, he hadn't noticed me and, therefore, had no idea living proof of his blatant charlatanism stood not twenty feet away. I happily clued him in. "And if God is watching this happy horseshit, I hope he shoves a lightning bolt up your hypocritical ass, Mister Guy-to-whom-I-recently-gave-a-blowjob."
"You," he choked, the sight of me apparently making him borderline apoplectic. But he recovered quickly and added, "Blasphemer," perhaps realizing he might be admitting to my accusation. He looked at one of the uniformed thugs – excuse me, members of local law enforcement on his payroll – er, um, I mean police officer who just happened to be accompanying him on this legally-suspect foray into Nazi-like activity. "Arrest this homo!" he shouted, and all Hell broke loose.
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Asian culture in general and martial arts in particular carries with it an extraordinary degree of philosophy – at least in comparison to Western Civilization's penchant toward pop-psychology and thirty-second sound bites. And unlike our American and Judeo-Christian sensibilities, with its feet encased in the concrete overshoes of male-dominated, so-called reason-based religion (a contradiction in terms if ever there was one – think Thomas Aquinas and his notion that God might have made a mistake by creating women, and you'll know what I mean), the Oriental belief system is fully-rooted in Nature and the natural order of things.
Slightly less than half of my eleven years of Tae Kwon Do had been spent in what I in my Western ignorance had felt were pointless philosophical discussions of how to act and what is truly important, sprinkled with the occasional tidbit about defense and offense (primarily based upon Sun Tzu's The Art of War) when faced with overwhelming odds. Lu Pao and the numerous sensai who followed him bored me to tears with their ceaseless ramblings. I felt certain none of it would serve me in the harsh light of reality. In the case of the impeding melee within Cloth Dreams, anyway, I was right.
The crumb of information I applied in this instance came from no less an intellectually bereft place than American television. By benefit of having watched endless reruns of the seminal program Kung Fu, I learned this: The best defense is not to be there.
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Three Goons – one of them the guy in uniform – approached my position near the exit head-on, as a fourth came at me from the side. Menace and serious thoughts of bodily harm to yours' truly came with them. If I ran, they'd be on me in no time. I needed to create some space.
I snap-kicked the one at my side in the general vicinity of his jaw, then stepped forward and dropped, sweeping three pairs of legs into unnatural and gravity-defying positions with a nice little sit spin, sending all four would-be assault-and-batterers to the ground in a heap of arms and legs and various other body parts too numerous to mention at this time. And then I pushed through the door amidst jangling bell and, without tossing a possibly incriminating "goodbye" toward Connie, got the flying fuck out of Dodge.
23
The Necessity of Groveling
So I was technically an outlaw, at least in certain goose-stepping circles; on the run, on the lamb, and Top of the world, Ma! I could have gone home, I suppose, because I doubted Reverend Fuck-Stick knew my name, and even if Connie told them (which I could not see happening) the information would not immediately provide them with my address. They could, however, get my likeness off the Cloth Dreams security camera (which thankfully and discretely did not point at either the dressing rooms or the delightful storage area in back – and wouldn't that have caused a few eyeballs to pop out of their ocular cavities?).
As a result of my wide-ranging sexual exploits, however, more than a few people – most of them women but a few jealous boyfriends and husbands, as well – knew me and what I looked like and where I lived. It seemed conceivable that some of those women might have felt slighted by my failure to call them later following an afternoon, or evening, or first-thing-in-the-morning romp in the hay or the grass or the livingroom or the Jacuzzi or the (Gasp!) marital bed (you reap what you sow – and I'd done one hell of a lot of sowing – I have no shame – I might even need a spanking!), and so (?) sooner or later, the jig would be up. I needed a place to lie low, a hideout, a safe house, a Hole in the Wall, a Bad Guy's Lair (visions of crooked architecture and warped floor plans a la the old Batman TV show came to mind – Holy Crossdresser, Batman!).
I guess I could have gone to Izzy's, but somehow I felt sticky-buds and presentations of Cheerleaders who Take it Up the Ass #24 – while no-doubt amusing – would in all probability be counterproductive at this juncture. I needed someplace with a little less pornography and a lot less mind-altering herb. I needed my lesbian.
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Groveling seemed in order, as did flowers. I had surreptitiously relieved a nearby garden of several tulips, which I hoped I'd remembered correctly were her favorite, and held them concealed behind my back when I knocked upon her apartment door. I waited in silence for several moments as I sensed (but did not, of course, see) her peering at me through the door's peephole. I endeavored to wear my most contrite expression in the hope she would know I took full responsibility in assuming the mantle of designated asshole. I would have, in fact, written those very words: Designated Asshole, upon my forehead if I thought it might help.
After what seemed an interminable period of time (and no less than I deserved) I heard her small voice through the rectangular wooden portal. "What do you want?"
I launched into my apology. "To throw myself upon your mercy, offer my pathetic head upon a platter, and crawl through broken glass to beg your forgiveness."
"Would you stick flaming hot pokers into your eyes?" she asked, still through the door.
"Only if it would please your spectacular, unparalleled, and infinitely groovy magnificence," I answered. "Can I come in or would you like for me to go to each of your neighbors and inform them what a complete worthless piece of human excrement I am?"
The silence continued for a few more moments (during which time I surmised she was trying to stop laughing) until finally, the door opened and she stepped aside to allow me entrance into her domicile. Her eyes seemed to indicate my laughter theory had been correct, as they appeared red and teary, but without the telltale puffiness of crying.
Discretion being the better part of valor, I chose to let it pass without comment, thus proving I could, when necessary, remove my head from my own ass.
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As confirmation to those of you who might wonder why my writing has taken a sudden turn for the self-loathing, yes, Frank is reading this as I'm writing it, and yes, my sense of self-preservation and a desire not to be pummeled into compost is both intact and in proper working order.
Pardon me for the author intrusion.
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Ouch!
Frank just smacked me upside the head. It would appear the self-preservation aspect has not proven to be all-that effective. Did I mention she was beautiful and intelligent and kind to animals and a shining example to all of womanhood?
All of mankind? Isn't that taking things a bit too far?
Ouch!
Fine. Have it your way. You are a paragon of human-kind; a veritable Nietzschean Uber-Human. The finest example of humanity the world has ever known.
Are you happy now? Can I carry on with the story?
Gee thanks.
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Sorry...
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Putting aside editorial assistance from violent lesbians – Ouch – who are nevertheless lovely and talented and chock-full of wisdom and the milk of human kindness...
Stop it!
Don't make me check your expiration date...
...I filled her in on the latest developments while simultaneously apologizing for being such a shithead. Oh, and by the way, she loved the flowers.
Bottom line: I knew I'd hurt her; knew my smart-assedness had taken several steps down the path toward ruining the best and most stable relationship in my life, up to that point, and also knew I'd need to get out of the penalty-box if I were to get through the mess in which I'd suddenly found myself. Regardless of the reason and/or justification for what I'd done in Connie's shop, the fact of the matter remained: I had assaulted a police officer.
Law enforcement agencies tend to take a dim view of such activities, and even though the rotten bastard had been a rotten bastard who routinely clog-danced upon the Constitution and violated basic human rights like so many virgins on prom night, I doubted his fellow officers would take that into account until well after they'd shot me while trying to escape. I needed help, and the one person who could best provide it was (however justifiably) pissed at me. This needed to change.
"Is Connie okay?" she asked once I'd given her all the gory and hypocritical details. That this bypassed questions of my own well-being could, I suppose, be explained by my essentially undamaged body sitting right in front of her at the postage stamp-sized table in her kitchen. Be that as it may, I chose to carry on the conversation as if she'd shown great concern for my predicament.
"I have no idea," I replied. "I got the Hell out of there."
"Coward," she said, bitch-slapping me with linguistic aspersions upon my intestinal fortitude.
"You're right, Frank. I should have stood there and allowed them to kick the shit out of me then throw me in jail for sucking that two-faced bastard's meat puppet," came my snippy reply. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"So you just walked out on her?"
"Ran, actually," I corrected. "Just as fast as my size nine-and-a-half feet'd carry me. I took off, hit the road, made like a banana and split."
"And then you came right here?" Her voiced dripped with continued accusations like a leaky faucet on a vat of vinegar.
"No, I stopped off and had a manicure first," I snapped, my sarcasm-meter having red-lined. "Of course I came right here. Who else would I come to?" She stared at me without comment. My sarcastic responses were helping about as much as my smart-assed ones had the previous night.
I took a deep breath to calm my inner-son-of-a-bitch and tried something with a little less mockery. "Look, Frank, you're my best friend. I trust you more than anyone else in the world. Of course I came to you. Of course I did."
She contemplated this for a few moments, her stink-eye glaring at me with practiced virtuosity. If Pavarotti or Yoyo Ma had such an expression, it would look like hers, only, you know, masculine and more rotund (and in the case of Yo, decidedly more Occidental). Such tidbits of information were of little or no value at the time, however, and so I cast them aside like fish bones from last night's dinner.
"Could you please stop being pissed at me?" I continued. "I know I fucked up last night. I know my dumb-assed mouth got me in dumb-assed trouble. I am, after all, a dumbass. I admit it, I cop to it, I'll take out a full-page ad in tomorrow's paper and inform the citizenry of my guilt and uselessness as a human being, if it'll make up for what I did."
"It'd be a start," she replied, but the stink in her eye had been replaced by a smile she struggled to conceal.
Reaching across the table (which, given the microscopic size of it proved to be approximately three and one-quarter inches), I took her gently by the hand, looked into her green soul-windows, and said, "I'm sorry," with every bit of sincerity I possessed.
Her eyes rolled skyward in apparent exasperation and her head gave a dismissive shake as she said, "Whatever," but her hand in mine proffered a squeeze that said everything I needed to hear.
I pulled her knuckles to my lips and puckered up in gratitude, adding a "Thank you," to the mix, before releasing her digits and sending them on their merry way, which happened to be back onto the table.
"First thing we need to do is find out if Connie is okay," she said, moving onward.
"Right," I replied, ready to agree with pretty much anything she said.
"And then we need to see if your stupid ass is on the Ten Most Wanted List."
"Absolutely."
"And then you need to buy me some nice, yet ostentatiously expensive trinket to make up for what you did."
"You're pushing it, Frank."
"Fine. Have it your way," she said, reaching for the phone. "Let me see, what's that number? Oh yes! 9-1-1," she added, punching several more buttons than her comment would indicate. "Who knows? Maybe they have a reward out for you. I could buy my own trinket."
I waggled my finger of accusation at her. "You're trolling for a spanking, aren't you?"
"Sexual innuendo will get you nowhere," she smirked.
I was about to retort with some pithy comment about the total lack of innuendo my statement possessed when whoever she called sent electronic vibrations back through the phone line and into her ear. "Hey, it's me," she said.
"Did you hear?" She listened for a few beats then replied, "Really? Good. Yeah, no, he's here with me." She glanced in my direction. For all I knew she could have been discussing the latest lesbo-approved recipe for borscht, but I sincerely doubted it. This was soon confirmed when I heard her utter, "I've got a contact in the Sheriff's office – you know, Abby, the brunette with the cute butt? No, she's strictly Bi, but I have hopes of converting her. Yes. Yes. Only if you bring the paddle and the nipple clamps. Okay...Bye."
I raised a questioning eyebrow and tossed an interested smile her way, waiting for her to translate the one-sided conversation – especially the last naughty bit. Come on...Nipple clamps? Tell me you wouldn't be intrigued.
"That was Marge," she said. "Connie's okay, but her shop is closed down by order of the City Council."
"The paddle and the nipple clamps?"
"Lesbian code for mind your own fucking business."
"That's it. You're officially no fun."
"Too bad," she replied without an ounce of concern over my decree. "Now do you want to hear the rest or not?"
"Party-pooper." She answered my epithet with an expression indicating a "fuck off" lingered just behind her pouty lips. As if to confirm, she showed me first one then both of her middle digits. "Carry on please," I acquiesced.
"As far as you, Idiot Boy," she carried on, "Nothing official yet, but word on the street is, you better not show your face."
"That was quick," I observed. It had only been maybe an hour since the confrontation at Cloth Dreams.
"The lesbo hotline works better than Ma Bell," she agreed. "In any event, you're persona non grata in this town. I hope your social calendar wasn't too full."
I shined it on with a wave of my hand and a lack of concern belying the dread which had taken up residence in my aorta. "Nothing I can't reschedule." But this brought up a question for which I had no answer: How does one reschedule their entire life?
As it happened, the solution involved hair, makeup, women's clothing, several well-concealed cameras, a willing anal MILF, two trannies and one seriously hot lesbian Uncle Sam.
...To Be Continued...
Dear Reader: Okay...We're starting to get down to it now, the end game. And this is where YOU can affect the outcome. You know where it's headed (Jack fucking Izzy's Mom up the ass as she sucks off Connie and as Frank, looking incredably hot dressed as Uncle Sam sings her rendition of "My Country 'Tis of Thee," and all the while videotaping that hypocritical bastard Reverend as he gets a blowjob from an asian crossdresser named Rachel). We know that's where we're headed. The question is: how do we get from here to there? Let me hear your ideas, Dear Reader. Use your imaginations and delightfully dirty minds, e-mail to wyldenights at yahoo dot com, and as always, Support Nifty!