This section contains little bits of prose that’s meant to stir the loins and make your hand long to touch…..those parts.
Cherry did not like to wait. In fact, Cherry hated to wait. It was one of the things that irritated her most in the world, and her impatience often got her in trouble. But yet tonight, she waited. She knew that if she was inpatient and impetuous that she would get burned. It was one of the things SHE had told her would happen if she couldn’t be patient. So, she waited, with her red stockings on, clipped to a crisp white garter belt, and her nice white open-toed, high heeled slings. Nothing else.
If she sat properly, she wouldn’t be exposed. Cherry didn’t sit properly. Cherry sat looking at the kitchen bar with the fresh, out-of-the-oven, ooey gooey cherry pie with the flaky lard-filled pastry crust cooling on a red cherry trivet, with steam slipping out of the small slits in the crust that reminded Cherry of discreet vaginal openings– pre-cherry popping, with her knees open and her legs splayed, so the cool air kissed her clit.
Cherry felt as steamy and gooey as the pie she was lusting after. She ran her tongue slowly around her lips. She licked the tip of her forefinger, and slowly slid it south and into herself. She pretended that was the luscious cherry pie, with a finger being slid into its hot filling. Cherry slowly rocked back and forth, gradually rocking a little faster and deeper each time, reaching for that voluptuous cherry hidden within that always seemed just out of reach. As she reached harder and deeper, her fingers couldn’t help but rub against her clitoris that was growing as hard as a cherry pit.
The more she grabbed, the more plumper her cherry grew until Cherry couldn’t stand all the anticipation and wait any longer! A frustrated sob fell from her lips as she plunged one hand just a little further and the other hand into the piping hot cherry pie. Riding the fullness of the experience, she crammed her scalded fingers into her mouth and licked off of the delicious red sweet gooeyness as her own gooeyness trickled down her legs to the tops of her stockings. Her hand was red and throbbing, and the pie filling was still hot enough that the taste buds on the tip of her tongue were gone too. Cherry didn’t care. She couldn’t have waited any longer.
The phone rang, and Cherry jump to her feet. She had been so caught up in the moment and the succulent cherry pie that for a minute she couldn’t focus on what to do. With sticky fingers, she picked up the receiver.
”I saw you!” SHE said, with stern amusement. ”Go light the red candles and wait on the kitchen table for me to come and eat your cherry pie.” Cherry sighed. SHE was right. Cherry was going to get burned.
They had a fiery attraction fueled by the passion of Beltane. Or maybe it was the whiskey and pills. And not good whiskey either. He was tired of people mooching his alcohol, so he bought cheap. It was a good test of the woman he was with at any given time. He had more flasks in his pockets than a pirate. And his pills–well, we’re not really sure where he ever kept them.
They knew each other in a shy coy kind of way. They had met in the faith while both of them were on hiatus from relationships and sex. There had been a few emails back and forth about free range fowl, and there were even a pair of finches given as a courting token, but both thought privately that the other couldn’t possibly be attracted to them.
The heat of the season inflamed their desires and sparked their destinies. The sun melted their flesh to sweat, swirling their pheromones under each others noses. By the evening they were sitting together, she plaiting and putting feathers in his hair like he was a tall backwoods Samson and she an over educated Delilah. She looked into his eyes. It was like standing at Rebecca’s well. Once she fell in, no rescue crew could save her.
By evening they were initiated together. By the wee hours, they were slyly brushing hands and knees together, sharing stories of grandmothers and hog killings while getting up the courage to do something besides drink more and pop more. In the quiet time before dawn, they decided to find a secret vacant place. Drunk on Beltane’s vibes–or whiskey–they headed through the woods and found a love shack, their very own temple in which to enact the ancient rituals demanded of men and women, gods and goddesses, at this time of year.
He felt dirty as he watched her strip in the moonlight, a slight dread traced its way down his spine. With her slim curves caressed by the shadows and her braided pig tails laying over tender breasts, she looked very much like every man’s worst jail bait fantasies.
“How old are you again?” he whispered.
“You know how old I am,” she replied as she unbuckled his belt to help his pants off. Their embrace was a flurry of limbs and lips, rubbing and petting.
He suckled her pert nipples, and started to nibble her apple breasts, which only left them both hungry for more. She was a far cry from the previous pieces of trash he had wallered with.
He carried her to a cot and spread her legs. She gasped loudly and cried out as he bit down onto her right inner thigh. She had never been bitten so hard in her life. He lifted his head to see if he should slow down.
“It’s OK. I like pain.” She chirped, as if her masochism was an every day occurrence. She wrapped her legs around his neck and pulled him closer to her. She grabbed the bar above her with one hand and his hair with the other. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to be on the top or the bottom, but she knew that she wanted more.
He left a trail of teeth marks from her knee to her pussy. Then he started a slow kitty cat licking of her clit that drove her mad. As he lapped her milk, he would alternately growl and purr. As she started to quiver with her first climax, his faced changed. He had transformed into the Green Man, ravaging her like a spring tornado, spiraling into her heart and devastating every trailer park of her being. It had been ages since she had been fucked by a god, and the prospect made her cum even harder.
As she was trying to catch her breath from the aftermath of the first storm, he shoved her off the cot and onto the mattress on the floor. Gently Johnny he was not.
“On your knees,” a deep thunder rumbled from far away. She crouched like a cat in heat. He came up behind her and grabbed her tight, holding her hips firmly so that her ass rubbed his cock. She shyly looked back over her shoulder. His face was still wreathed by green leaves. Theirs was rough, dirty fucking, the kind that Ron Jeremy wishes he could emulate in his films. He slid into her wetness easily, and quickly they were off. Her tits bounced in a steady rhythm with a heaviness that she found perfectly luscious. Her braids flew around wildly, popping her in the face. She slung them over her shoulder. Instantly, a hand grabbed them. With one hand still holding her hip so tightly that there would be bruises, his other hand wrapped the braids in a rein grip, controlling her head.
The increased control made him instinctively ride his filly harder and faster toward their destination. As it came into view, she started chanting, “Spank me, spank me, spank me.” He slapped her flank and spurred her onward, her cries blossoming in a crescendo as they charged into the ocean, over come with waves of bliss. As he reached his brink, his hand left wild cat claw marks down the length of her back.
By the time the mattress burns on her elbows and knees had healed, they were bonded permanently.