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From: "Nikki@P.U."
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.incest
Subject: Muzak to my Ears (Mf, cons, pedo)
Date: Sat, 09 Oct 2004 15:30:13 -0700
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Muzak to my Ears (Mf, cons, pedo)
by Vivian Darkbloom
Any day that begins with a grindingly tedious wait in a dentist-office
lobby deserves suspicion. Compounded by the hideous grating on my ears
of the most wretchedly insipid music imaginable. Look, I've got 5
earrings and one eyebrow-ring (for balance), I wear black leather and
silver spikes, and my hair is a different color every day. The only
strings I want to hear shatter the air with monstrous distortion through
electronic speakers. I want the earth to tremble and the sky to split
open, and the temple veil to tear into two geometrically equivalent
swatches. And that's with the volume set on "1."
Waiting, I sat alone in the room across from a pale young brunette girl
with braces on her teeth, in a prim, trim, and proper light-blue
school-dress. Around her neck is a clear quartz crystal in a silver
setting that is inscribed with strange symbols. Maybe eleven years old,
she was beaming with delight, swinging her legs back and forth under the
chair.
"Guess what!" she asked me, unable to contain her exuberance. Her bright
eyes shone with the light of the moon.
"What," I said.
She cocked her head to one side. "I, get my braces off today."
"Wicked," I replied, suppressing my grumbling.
"So you know what that means," she continued.
"No, what."
"I have to find someone to kiss." Fluttering her eyelashes, she lifted
her knees up, putting her heels on the edge of the chair, which meant
that her lovely pale-blue dress fell back to reveal her prim little
panties (with frilly lace around the edges) scrunched in suggestive
shapes, behind which my seething imagination eagerly vivified her thinly
veiled soft sweet sticky wonders.
I chastised myself for staring at, and madly imagining about, this
little girl sitting right there mooning me, but with the early morning
hour the blossoming of sexual arousal only grew worse with my
resistance, and with her apparent obliviousness to what she was doing.
She fixed her eyes curiously, innocently, on my bulging crotch.
I shifted self-consciously, and reached for a contemporary periodical,
grabbing what was on the top of the stack, and furtively leafing through
it. Some kid's magazine about the world of nature. I tried to seem
fascinated with the article on squirrels, and keep myself from staring
as she put one leg down and began swinging it rhythmically.
She stared innocently at me, (squirrels) with enormous beautiful
blue-green eyes, (squirrels!) and swung her leg in rhythm. Her rhythm
was perilous. It was a veritable hazard. (Squirrels, dammit!) It should
have been declared a national menace for the way it sent warning shivers
down my thigh. The seasons and tides were at risk of being thrown off,
for being so distracted by her rhythm. Her rhythm could set fire to an
entire city in one stroke, and the firemen would have to come get out
their hoses...
A nurse appeared at the portal "Gianna Dubuque?" The girl stood up, and
skipped innocently through the doorway as the nurse escorted her into
the bowels of hell.
Gianna, a beautiful name to call out in the middle of an orgasm, I
thought briefly. I shook my head. Sheer lunacy. For once I was grateful
for insipidly fluttering trill of a flute as it abruptly doused any
shred of passion I might have been feeling. What in blazes, makes people
associate romantic feelings with music that's got five million and forty
three violins in it? For me, it's the sound of hard rock with the volume
turned to eleven.
From within the room where the receptionist was working, I heard an
entrance, and the receptionist's voice, apparently talking to the
dentist: "the repair man is here. He's sitting in the waiting room."
"Oh good," came the disembodied reply. Entered the dentist through the
portal, an anemic timid older man with thick glasses, in a white
labcoat. "You're the repairman?" he inquired.
"Wheatley Ericsen, systems installer for the Muzak Corporation," I
introduced myself. "How can I help you?"
"Yes," he smiled timidly. "Well, I called because," he lowered his
voice, as if afraid to disturb anyone. "the music is too loud."
"Well," I laughed. "That's easy. There's a volume knob, along with a
multifeatured equalization unit that can adjust the perceived volume as
well as the actual decibel level, with preset curves calibrated for the
reproduction devices..."
He shook his head. "No, that's not -- what I mean is..." He pointed his
finger "there. Listen:"
I listened. I heard some of the most boring, saccharine, drippingly
inane trumpet solo I have ever listened to.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Tsk," he impatiently clucked, seeing that I was just not boarding the
train of thought he found so obvious. "Horns."
"Horns?"
"The horn was an instrument of the hunt. It drums up primal responses of
adrenaline and excitement. See," he hushed his voice once more to
confide in me: "This is a dentist office."
I was glad he informed me of that.
"I need music to help people stay calm. To soothe the savage beast. To
calm the restless soul..."
"Well, sir." I cut in, "I would observe that you happen to be tuned to
the most tranquil and relaxing channel that we have available at the
Muzak corporation. However, if you like, I could put you in touch with
one of our audio architects, and he or she would be glad to review the
selection available."
"I would appreciate that very much. You know, I just don't understand
the music young people listen too nowadays. So much energy and
excitement. It just -- causes me anxiety."
"I understand, sir. If I could just get you to help me fill out this
customer feedback form, I can get started on fulfilling your request..."
After a conversation like that, only one thing will do the trick.
Doughnuts and coffee. Well, two things. Doughnuts and coffee and a
cigarette. None of this fancy gourmet malarkey either. Gimme the coffee
from the corner store, the kind that could unpaint golden-gate bridge.
The kind that, when you say "It tastes like weak battery acid" they open
up a battery and pour in more acid.
So I'm sitting in the Muzak van, in the parking lot of the doughnut
shop, listening to Sex Pistils. See, before I got called in to work for
Muzak, I did car-stereo installs. I got a good rep for being able to
wire anything for sound. See for me, wires are an extension of my
nervous system. Speakers are my eardrums. My blood is the flow of
electrons. I am, like, cosmically connected to the essence of
vibrational impulses flowing through the resistors, transistors, coils
and capacitors of your sound system.
A buddy of mine was working over at Muzak, and he ... what? You can't
hear me? Here, I'll turn the music down a little. Was on 1.5, I'll turn
it back to 1. That better? Good. Yah, probably a good idea to turn it
down, seeing as the bass vibrations were doing some scary things to the
plate-glass windows in the doughnut shop over there.
Maybe the 15-inch JBLs are a bit much for the van, but hey, I got a good
deal on them from the rep. I tell you, give me good old-fashioned
membrane any day. This boxy Boze subwoofer crapola just doesn't sound as
good, don't care how many truckloads of physicists you got telling me
there's no difference. Look, they don't have my ears, especially the
earrings. You know, it's been scientifically shown that a person can't
hear correctly until at least one body part has been pierced?
So where was I? Oh right. A friend of mine needed someone to sub while
he was on vacation, which is how I got this gig, and I get to drive
around this spiffy van with "Muzak is emotion -- creating experiences
with audio architecture" in neat sans-serif letters along the side. See?
And the cute little m-inside-a-circle logo. I been doing this now for,
what, going on five years? See once they realized I can wire anything,
they figured they had to keep me.
So I'm sitting inside the Muzak van smoking, drinking coffee, eating one
of those heavenly cream-filled doughnuts with chocolate on top, letting
the nicotine disperse through my bloodstream, talking to myself (with a
vengeance). Sitting in the Muzak van with the tunes cranked, I'm
noticing this place seems to be a veritable hangout for, like, kids on
their break from school or something. Guess those school lunches don't
stretch so far anymore.
When who comes skipping by, but that pale brunette girl I saw in the
dentist office. Pale blue dress and all. I guess first thing when you
get your braces off, you gotta go scarf something loaded with sugar.
Anyway, she sees me and, like, stops, and walks over to the van and
smiles at me real wide, so I can see her beautiful, straight, blindingly
white teeth. Nothing like my crooked yellow ones.
I roll down the window to talk to her. "Looks very nice," I reply. I
don't suppose "bitchin'" would be quite the right thing to say.
"Thank you," she says. And then, I cannot believe she did this, but she
reaches over where I'm holding the cigarette between my fingers kind of
out the window, and she grabs it and throws it on the ground and stubs
it out on the parking-lot asphalt with her foot..
"Kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray," she says.
Mouth agape, I stare at the smoldering ash on the ground.
"What are you listening to?" she asks.
"Sex Pistils," I reply without thinking.
"Mmmm. Sex," her eyes widen, she smiles and winks at me, switching the
tiny crescent moon of her cute little butt, swishing her dress.
"Oh good," I say. This is all I need, some 12-year-old with a crush on
me ... "How old are you, anyway?" I ask.
"Eleven. Did you ever listen to 'Alice in Chains?'"
"Who?"
"You know. Only the best band in the world. 'Alice in Chains.'"
She whips out a CD from her little school backpack and hands it to me.
It's got a picture of a 3-legged dog, and a 3-legged man. OK bitch, I
think, you're on. So I put on the CD, and yeah, it's pretty nice. Got
some kick-ass bass, sure enough puts the JBLs to good use. She's leaning
with her elbows against my drivers-side door staring at me, fingering
the quartz crystal she has around her neck, twirling her feet and her
tiny cute little tush in time with the music in a way that makes me
horny as all hell.
I notice the gaggles of kids all finishing their doughnuts and
straggling off in different directions. "Don't you gotta be in school or
something?" I ask.
She tilts her head. "Nah. It's a half-day, so we're done. And my mom is
at work, so I'm bored as a loon, with nothing to do."
"So," I say. "You want to hear some real music?"
She looks miffed. "Maybe."
I unlock the passenger door. "Hop in."
She hesitates. "Are you one of those men that gives girls candy? Because
my mom told me not to get in a car with a man that offers candy."
I sighed. "Love, I can pretty much guarantee your mom would completely
forbid you to get in this van."
Next thing I know she's run around to the other side of the car and
yanked open the passenger door, and I shuffle aside the papers I have
laying there. As she slams the door shut, and I think how nice it feels
to have someone in the seat next to me. A female someone.
"You've got to be in the middle of the speakers for the premium quality
sound. It just isn't the same otherwise."
She smiles. "OK." She's all checkin' out the junk I have in the back,
coils of wire, speakers, wire strippers and cutters, various components,
skateboard, crescent wrenches, and so on strewn in a godawful mess (by
the way, would you remind me to straighten it up? I keep forgetting).
At the end of the song, I pop out 'Alice in Chains,' and the radio
momentarily comes on with the voice of our loathsome embarrassment of a
president, lying about something or other. Immediately I cut the volume
and make a face.
"What?"
"You know who that was."
"The president."
"Yup."
"My mom hates Bush," she says. "Mom's a lesbian, and she thinks she
should be able to get married if she wants."
"But George White-trash Bush doesn't."
"I always wondered what the W. stood for," she says. "What's Whitetrash?"
Solemnly I instruct: "White trash means a white person who lies, steals
and cheats. So, does our president qualify? He told shameless bald-faced
lies to convince the American public to fight a senseless war. He's lied
about everything from his failure to serve in the military to the
harmful effects of his buddy's oil refineries on the citizens of Texas."
"He lied about Saddam being friends with Osama," she offered.
I smiled with pleasant surprise. "Clever girl. Does he steal? Well, a
tax-cut that funnels money from the poor to the ultra-wealthy, of which
he is one, counts as stealing in my book. Reverse Robin-Hood. And as for
cheating, when someone loses the election and then takes power anyway,
which our president did in fact do, that's called cheating."
"Because Gore got more votes. A guy at my school has a T-shirt with the
numbers on it."
"You are a very smart young lady," I said with genuine respect. "Which
doesn't answer the question of why you are sitting here with me.
Nonetheless," taking the 'Alice in Chains' CD, I gently hand it back to
her. "Very nice," I say...
As we make the exchange, our hands connect briefly, and I feel the
warmth of the living pulse in the touch of her soft gentle delicate
fingers. Electricity. She feels it too, I can see it in the flush of her
face, but she says nothing.
I shake my head. "OK, where was I? Right. Your music has some delectable
bass vibrations, my lady. But stand aside and make way for the veritable
King of Rock."
Dramatically, I slid into the CD player "Are You Experienced?" by Jimi
Hendrix.
I observed her reaction as the opening chords of "Purple Haze" tore
through the air, in living hi-fidelity stereo. I guess she liked it, at
least she seemed to. She kicked her feet in time and rocked with her
ever-so-famous national hazard of a rhythm. I finished my doughnut, and
sipped the battery-acid coffee.
During the third song (which would be "Manic Depression"), she reached
over and placed her smooth dainty little white left hand on my hairy,
dark-tanned and weather-worn right hand, resting face-down on the
armrest. I turned my hand over and gently grasped hers, delicate and
soft inside of mine. She gently, lovingly, grasped mine back, sitting
upright in her seat, eyes wide and smiling moist lips.
My ears rang from the sound of hard rock with the volume turned to eleven
We sat and listened for a few moments, in the delicate silence of
clashing distorted power-chords. Sheer angelic bliss, the moonstruck
madness of holding hands with Gianna.
Before I knew it, she had some how wriggled onto my lap, sitting with
her back to the steering wheel, and was staring up at me intently in
anticipation, holding now both of my hands.
"Ahem," I cleared my throat. "So, you got your braces off today."
"Uh-huh."
"And you're looking for someone to kiss."
"Yup," she nodded.
"You know," I said, "It would be the sort of thing that can only be done
in private,"
"Uh huh."
"And you can't tell anyone about it, ever."
"Except my friend Britney."
"Unh-uh. Suppose Britney starts telling one other person, and then soon
the whole school knows about it."
"OK. But Britney gets together with a bunch of her girlfriends and has
sex with this older guy all the time."
Hmm....
"OK, look. I know a perfect place, if you feel like coming with me. Any
time you feel uncomfortable, just let me know and we can stop."
She grinned up at me. "You really want to kiss me, don't you?" She
bounced up and down on my lap, treacherously treading a path of perilous
enchantment, yielding the predictable stiffening of my lap below her
soft tiny little buns. Noticing, she glances down. "Whoa," she says
quietly, grinning even more widely, continuing to bounce, pinching my
rod in her crack.
"OK look."
She straightens up and plants her lips on mine, and for a glorious
instant I taste the precious sweetness of her delicate little mouth.
The sound of hard rock. Volume at eleven.
She hops back into the passenger seat. "Drive," she says.
Incredulous, I start the van.
On the way over, I call up my buddy co-worker on the cel, and this is
what Gianna heard as we were driving down the road : "Yo, what's up?
Yeah, well I had a rough morning. Got a screamer. Yeah. Said the
old-school wasn't mellow enough. Surreal. So I'm gonna take the
afternoon off to chill. Anything urgent out there? What? Again? Rammed
through with somebody's cane? Why on earth would the residents of Sunny
Pastures vandalize the speakers in the elevator? Baby-boomers getting
older. Go figure it. Anyway, catch you later, bye."
Funny thing as we are cruising out there, I notice every dog that we
drive by seems to set into howling wildly. At her. She doesn't seem to
notice.
Or was I just imagining? She sits calmly beside me, twiddling with the
rough-cut crystal she has hanging on a silver chain around her neck,
inscribed with bizarre symbols.
There's this great park, a little out-of-the-way and hard to get to, so
it's always deserted. Ours is the only car in the lot. We both disbark,
and she stands there as I hand stuff to her.
"Here, take this." A red-and-white checkered cloth; a picnic basket with
a bottle of wine and a baguette, which just happened to be in the back.
And, my skateboard. I pull out the long board, big enough for both of us
to ride on.
I drop the board loudly onto the pavement, rolling it back and forth a
half-inch or so. "Get on," I say, taking back the basket and the cloth,
slamming the van door shut.
She looks up at me timidly, the first I have seen her look timid.
"It's OK," I say. "I'll do all the work. You just relax and hold on."
She sets one tiny foot on the board, holding out her little hand for my
support. I reach out and take her hand, feeling the softness and warmth.
Soon we are gliding down the smoothly paved walkway, my two huge feet in
clomping work boots, her dainty little feet between mine in pretty
little-girl shoes. I feel the warmth of her back as she leans against
me, my hands brush the softness of her hair. I sense the faint aroma of
turned-on little girl.
The great thing about this park is there are all these big old long
paved trails through the woods, perfect for skateboarding, with lots of
secret side-paths to cool hiding-spots for engaging in, uh, various
activities. And the amazing thing is that nobody is ever here.
And it's a beautiful, sunny day, a glorious day, as we breeze easily
through the lush green trees of the forest, occasionally brushed by huge
green leaves hanging softly over the trail. All around us, giant trees
stand as gnarled sentinels of time, gentle guardians of the gateways of
the secret rites and passages of ancient days gone by.
Finally, she smiles up at me. "This is fun," she says.
A few more eternities of sailing over clear blue skies with the virgin
of Atlantis standing beside me, on our way to submerge continents into
the ocean of madness and passion.
Choosing an arbitrary stopping point from the list of hideaways I was
well familiar with, we hopped off the board and I carried it along with
us across the bright green grassy meadow, through a place in the bushes
that looked impassible, into another green meadow surrounded by friendly
foliage, where I lay down the red-and-white checkered blanket and
beckoned my companion to recline beside me in the beautiful afternoon shade.
I pop open the picnic basket, and offer her the baguette, from which to
tear a hunk of bread. She looks at me quizzically. "It's white bread,"
she says.
"So?" I reply. "Would you like some?"
She shakes her head. "I only eat whole wheat organic."
"Right." Led Zeppelin. "Then may I offer the lady some wine?"
I extract the bottle of white wine, uncork and pour into a sparkling
crystal-clear wineglass. She looks at it dubiously, takes the glass,
tries a sip, and immediately runs over and spits it out behind a tree.
"Yuck," she says. "What was that for?" returning to sit next to me on
the blanket.
"I was simply making an effort to be romantic. Look, I think there's a
bottle of Evian water in here."
Now she hardly trusts me, but I open the bottle of spring water, and
Polly Purebred tastes a sip, then contentedly gulps half the bottle.
"Better?" I ask.
"Better," she replies. She caps it and rolls over to where I am lying on
my side, spooning her cute little butt into my crotch and sighing,
leaning back on me. I feel her warmth, and gently stroke her silky soft
brown hair, as my tip rises to meet her bottom through the bluejeans and
Alice-blue dress that separate us.
I feel her gently breathing beside me, and sense the erotic aroma of her
body smell, surprisingly sweet for her age. The sexual trigger of a much
bigger girl. I feel a tremendous affection, a longing to hold her with
the simple tenderness of all the mythical lovers of yore, to entwine our
bodies like graceful flowering vines around the sensuous lust of perfect
romance.
"Gianna, you are the most beautiful girl I have ever met," I whisper in
her ear.
She half turns, soft cheek one bright shining eye regarding me. "Now
that, is romantic," she says.
"I'm glad you approve," I reply, feeling an incredible yearning for her.
Gently, I moisten my lips and place a soft kiss on the her delicate cheek.
Savagely, she turns over and pushes me onto my back, so she is sitting,
legs spread on top of me, her hot little crotch pushing rhythmically
against my organ, and forces her wet lips against mine, pushing her
tongue into my mouth, doing battle with my tongue as my hands lovingly
caress every square centimetre of her slender body, her back, her dainty
little shoulders, her erotically flat little chest, her slender arms and
buttocks and ankles.
Then she stops, staring down at me, grinning.
"That was intense," I say. "Are you happy you got your braces off?"
"Yes."
We continue at a slower pace, and she loses her shoes and socks, now
barefoot on top of me, kissing me. I feel her soft warm moistness on my
cheeks and forehead. Giggling, she gently tugs at my eyebrow ring.
"So now," she continues, "You kissed my mouth that had braces in it.
Would you like to kiss the mouth that didn't have braces?"
"What on earth could you mean?" I ask.
In reply, as she towers diminutively over me, she walks her knees up
towards my head, and places one knee on either of my shoulders. Looking
up under her Alice-blue dress, I find myself face to face with her lacy
little panties. I hear her gently petite quietly lustful breathing.
Swiftly raising my head, I pounce with my lips towards the fateful spot
between her legs, pinching a corner of the fabric between my teeth and
tugging playfully.
She gasps, and giggles knowingly. I can almost see the drops of moisture
surging on the other side of the fabric. I adjust my hotwired rod for
comfort as it screeches its tires at the starting gate, behind the
zippered jeans.
With tantalizing laziness, she reaches under the skirt and slowly
releases the elastic from around her slender waist, gradually, teasingly
revealing the tiny bodaciously blooming red dripping flower.
Overwhelming aroma.
Perfectly smooth pink folds of skin surround the beautiful blossom. Not
even peach fuzz adorns it, simply pure milky-white tender flesh.
The tip of my tongue reaches out and contacts her sweetness, she gasps
again, and then begins moaning with pleasure as I find the secret spots,
touching each one with gentle the loving tip of my eager tongue.
She holds my head with her hands, and I caress up and down her legs,
around her tiny buttocks. My hotrod, wired with aching tosses and turns
in its cloth cage.
She pulls away and stands above me. "Your madness pleases me greatly,"
she declares, removing the necklace she has been wearing, seizing the
crystal and holding it high above her head, declaring in a loud voice:
"Chandrika Luna Hecate Heirogamus Reina Maximus Cielus Altimo!"
From the heart of the crystal, a faint light flashes into blinding
brilliance, a million pinpoints of stars, and instantly following the
world is plunged into darkness.
Underneath me I felt a slab of stone, once rough but smoothed with the
footsteps of a thousand ancestors. The scent of the ocean filled the
warm tropical night air, along with the fragrance of exotic blooming
flowers, and in the quiet distance I heard the faint crashing of
waves... and drums in the distance.
As my eyes adjusted, I saw Gianna before me in the dark, but now she
wore a long white robe with an Egyptian-styled curvy crown. At the
center was a white stone laced with subtle rainbow veins that glittered
in the torchlight. Moonstone.
As I rise to stand up, several pale tiny hands reach out to assist me. I
find myself surrounded by young girls, some clad in long robes, others
scantily clad in translucent scarves with glittering jewelry, others
completely naked aside from a bracelet or anklet.
When I am on my feet, the hands begin unfastening, unzipping, and
untying every article of my clothing. As I feel the bonds loosening
around me, I yield to the gentle tugging, and soon find myself
completely naked, my mercilessly hardened horn protruding before me. The
girls exchange smiling glances, an occasional hand reaches out to stroke
or touch it.
"What the hell is this all about?" I demand, in a hushed voice.
With serene tranquility, Gianna replies. "I am one of the ninety-nine
daughters of the Moon Goddess, the princess of the evening star, and
your madness has pleased me greatly. You have been chosen to take away
my virginity in a sacred ceremony attended by the divine court of the
mood-maidens and nymphets."
"I never dreamed being crazy had such benefits," I mutter. Gianna
smiles, eyes glittering with starlight.
One of the young girls, about Gianna's age, with slender thin child's
body, kneels before me. Her blond hair flows elegantly across her
shoulders, and as her lips part I see that she is wearing braces. She
begins to run the tip of her tongue up and down my shaft, occasionally
immersing my head between her teeth.
The other girls are busy tying soft, smooth silken cords around the base
of my penis, sometimes looping around the balls, a dozen or so silken
cords, each held by a different girl. Each holds a lit candle in the
other hand.
"Follow me," says Gianna, turning and walking slowly away. The blonde
girl with braces who was attending to me takes up one of the cords and
steps back with the others as they lead me down a stone walkway. We seem
to be on the top of a giant castle or other such ancient edifice, and
with slow solemnity they guide my stiffened, lit "candle" on the end of
their leashes through the tropical night air.
As we are strolling along, the girls softly chant rustic melodies in a
strange foreign tongue. It sounds like a frickin' Enya album, but for
once I forgive them. It does set the mood, OK?
We pass the doorway of a candle-lit room, and inside I glimpse an old
woman seated on a regal throne, decorated with the same sort of strange
symbols I had seen earlier on Gianna's crystal setting. She is
surrounded by young girls sitting, standing, in various states of
undress or wearing suggestively erotic garments. The old woman's silver
hair glows with the ancient wisdom of the millions of months of the
millenia since the dawning of the universe, and in her eyes dances the
playful sparkle of gentle madness, and she silently greets me with a
knowing smile. In the distance, a dog howls briefly.
After we have passed by the doorway, I call out ahead to Gianna, "I take
it that was your mom?"
She half-turns back, smiling, "yes."
We walk under an arched trellis heavily laden with sweet-scented
flowers, and reach a small amphitheatre at the center of which is a
round dias, large enough to accommodate our entourage a dozen girls or
so; including me, that would be thirteen, a pleasant coven.
As we enter the circle, the girls each place their candles in
iron-wrought candle-holders encircling the dias, and we are bathed the
warm glow of candle-light.
"Lie beside me first," Gianna directs, as she reclines on the dias
(which turns out to be soft, like a giant pillow) and opens the bottom
of her gown for several of the girls to begin probing her sensitive
lower mouths, with their tongues and fingers, causing her to commence
once more her gentle moaning.
I lie beside her, and a few girls attend to me in the same manner, as
the others hold tight their leashes, and I notice some attaching to the
end cleverly constructed belts that act as a fulcrum, so that when I
pull on the leash it will push a long smooth object into the girl's
vagina. Five or six are wearing similar apparatus.
Gianna reaches over next to me and takes my hand. I squeeze her tiny
fingers gently in mine, feel the heat of her sexual pulsing in tempo
with her pelvic gyrations as we share the joint pleasure of erotic
stimulation.
"Isn't this romantic?" she asks.
"There is absolutely no doubt that I should be taking lessons from you
on what is romantic," I reply.
The rhythm intensifies, not in speed, but in sensuality, until I feel I
cannot take any more.
"Now," says Gianna, "come over here."
"OK, love," I reply, gently pushing aside the girls who have been
tonguing and fingering my sensitive parts.
A pale light gradually has begun to dawn in the sky over a nearby
mountaintop.
I kneel before Gianna, throbbing organ standing as a wizard's staff
before us, a maypole trailing off with a dozen silken leashes connected
with young feminine hands and vaginas, my hotrod filled with fiery
aching of yearning to be quenched by her ocean of passionate desire.
She simply reaches up with her dainty hand, and pulls my staff towards
her gaping, dripping red blossom.
As I push towards her, I feel the tug on a dozen cords, and the moans
around me of a dozen young girls.
The point of my spear pierces the searing cavity of slime between her
legs, and I gently shove myself through the ring of her virginity.
Under her moonstone crown, her expression turns to intense feeling, the
purple backdrop of blood-red stars of sensation.
Slowly pushing, I feel the gentle tearing of tissue. She yelps, gasping,
and grabs my buttocks with both hands, pulling me frantically towards her.
Unable to hold back any longer, I shove with all my might, finally
possessing the deep beauty of her scarlet innocence. Around me I hear
repeated moans and sighs of a dozen girls as our erotic rhythm
establishes a musical cadence.
I feel her muscles pulsing gently around me, as she loses control and
convulses wildly.
Hard rock, volume at eleven.
She gazes up at me with her starry eyes, seeing that I cannot take this
much longer, and with a wry grin she gently writhes her open legs with a
kung-fu that triggers the long-overdue cascade of release. I shoot into
her again and again, deep into the center of her beautiful little
slender flat-chested body.
Over the nearby mountaintop, the Moon rises, and a blinding
rainbow-white light engulfs my being. I feel myself falling once more
into daylight. I turn to find myself lying naked on the red-checkered
blanket atop Gianna, also naked, but obviously no longer a virgin (given
that we are still fucking).
She is clad solely in a silver necklace, with a quartz crystal set with
mystic glyphs and runes. And -- an Egyptian-styled crown with a
moonstone set in the middle.
I look down to see my still-stiff organ stuck in her vagina, floating in
sweet white sticky semen.
Seeing my astonished expression, she gives me an incredulous look.
"Whoa, what kind of lunatic fantasy were you having?"
Then she winks at me, giggling.
It was the beginning of a long, torrid, and celestially fulfilling
relationship.