Holly

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Amateur

Man has a quick forgettery. Carl Sandburg said so. Not true when it comes to Holly, the sylph I have gratefully surrendered to. No matter how wizened my brain becomes, my forgettery is incapable of such treachery.

In our tiny, licentious kingdom, I am king. Holly is my lone subject, a shameless wench compelling me to commit mortal sin at every opportunity.

How was it possible? I shake my head considering this remarkable woman, the best of the lot I have fucked during my somewhat checkered history. Two insignificant specks out of billions salted across this big blue marble, serendipitously intersecting.

An average fellow whose mug is saved from insipidity by a ponderous beak mapped with broken veins, a mostly resolute chin. Nothing special about me, not even a whopper of a wanker to brandish. Nor am I the smartest guy in the room. Even in a small room.

Past fifty, well past it. Gray plays havoc my flaxen hair. Printed words appear as hazy, petite medicine bottle script, hence the reading glasses. Not fat, not flabby, not overly fastidious, firm and muscular enough by God. Boyish good looks scoured away, in minute increments, my visage is un-fraying into an old man’s soft edged, drippy mien.

From the herd Holly collected me. I am so much the better for it.

I am transformed from myopic, occasionally hypertensive, Joe Average into god. A lower case deity, one with an attitude, a Jack Nicholson wannabe with arched eyebrows and skewed take on the world.

Oklahoma born, bred on Sooner football, raised with niggardly affection, meat and potatoes fed, always good natured now. No booze needling me into good humor. Naked, head pillow tilted, legs, one grazed long ago by an expiring bullet, bracing Holly, her voracious mouth pouring on the coals, never letting up. I on football played out knees, mouth molded to her muff, tongue tricking across her clit, Holly pulling my ears back. This is the truth and consequence of our propitious meeting.

All powerful, a towering, growling behemoth captured inside me, my eyes, sleepy looking ala Robert Mitchum, glaze over. My lower rung ego, counted average in any accounting, swells magnificently, fills Holly’s marauding mouth. This is so every time. Pre Holly, my non-elated, limited dimensions humbled me as nothing else did. Holly suggesting a blow job, summoned to her quickened body, emboldened my unassuming manhood with a bull’s proud musculature.

Trapped in Holly’s rowdy mouth, natural or manmade disasters register as no more than pesky annoyances. Say a meteor barrels into earth, wipes the slate clean, I trust Holly is getting me off.

Holly’s merry, intrepid mouth, her other equally audacious ports in action, akin to watching a devil may care test pilot jerking a new high performance bird through the heavens.

Sex, its traditional configuration, its kinkier genre is good anytime anywhere and getting head rules. Yet nothing is finer than to be in a vagina with one’s mouth. Holly’s genitalia, bonne bouche for my face diving satisfies this other appetite. This blowjob ideation and proclivity for muff diving originated in my chilly matrimonial bed. My wife’s refusal to engage, even consider such acts, sparked a compulsion in me for women sharing my fixations.

In her narrowly conventional mind, sodomy was sinful, wore the same filthy mantle as bestiality, other unnatural acts most suitable for the barnyard. On one memorable occasion she took me in her mouth enough to immediately spit me out. For the next hour, toothbrush in perpetual motion, mouth frothing white, mumbling through globs of toothpaste, swearing, I think. No more blowjobs the final outcome.

Made melancholic by my thirty-eight month marriage, nonetheless honoring my marital obligations, I had not stepped out on the little, clinched legged woman. Not once. I lusted in my heart, did no rutting with cheaply available women.

Divorced, when opportunity presented itself, I got and gave head. My solitary-eyed snake found favor with gifted women begging to suck cock. I reciprocated in kind.

For twelve months, such appetites unfed. In those early post-September 11 days, stationed where mountains are highest, the wind is coldest, everyone is Moslem and a good many are mad about it, I mourned the scarcity of such sustenance. Outfitted in desert camies including a rakishly tilted bush hat, most often chewing Black Jack gum, I hunted, harmed to death desperados crazily murdering, killing by the gross, for their nasty spirited God. Damn their evil, misdirected, satanic souls. Maybe I am reckoned for damnation too if Allah has a say in the matter.

Living not so comfortably, I worked out of jury-rigged camp of prefab tin huts and sandbagged bunkers confined by concertina, emplaced machine guns and belted with Claymores. In this forbidding landscape, Rudyard Kipling’s former stomping ground, we had the amenities of home. A commercial sized, Swiss made latte machine was available yalnızım mesut bey izle inside a pavilion furnished with rattan furniture and potted orange trees. A three hole golf course but don’t go too far off the fairway, step into the mine field.

Internet was an amenity. A pipeline from this wearying, primitive place straight back to the world I represented, a country chock-a-block with Wal-Marts, McDonalds, ATM machines and Bluegrass.

A Tuesday, evening had come on; starlight punctured the sky’s black velvet hood, gunfire in various calibers popped in the distance. I had retired to my compactly ceilinged bunker malodorous from a community of pack mules quartered nearby. Restless, contrite following my recent incautious behavior in the field, I brooded over my stupidity. In company of my dust beset computer, searching for solace, I trolled the Internet.

Tapping the laptop’s keys, cursor flying fast as greased lightning, sucking breath mints from a red and white tin of them, sipping scotch from several succeeding tiny twist cap bottles, the empties, salvos of them, fired at a plastic lined pail next to my table. Rough grained, pitted, the table’s surface darkly stained in sanguinary memory of chopping off a squalling mujahedeen’s right leg with a stropped knife. This instrument, the most coldly murderous and bloodiest I had seen proved inadequate.

Going here and there, grossed out once or twice, and finding Holly after a dozen or so clicks. There she was, head tipped insouciantly, smiling coyly. Sumptuous breasts begging to be licked and manhandled, bare mons pubis catching my attention, roundly etched hips doing so just as nicely. All given in such excess struck my perverted soul at its very marrow.

Holly fetchingly tilted against a black wing chair. Clad in semi-transparent red shift not quite up to the task of covering her hard buttocks. Breasts, their majority conveyed from under the gauzy material. Gloriously long, shapely bare legs more so in flamboyant stiletto heeled red mules lathered in scarlet feathers.

One spicy shot out of a gallery of twenty such shots. Another one she wore a turquoise chemise engineered to focus attention on her breasts, linger lovingly on her buttocks.

Another delicious sex bomb pose clicked into view after a God awful amount of time. One pitched with a raining cats and dogs theme. Dripping wet, decked out in lustrous black leather g-string and corset, black hose, stilettos. Wet hair smoothed down, sparkling as though plaited with strands of diamonds. I saw no safety or succor in her eyes. Something deliciously degenerate swirled like smoke in her green eyes. In the rakish tilt of her chin, I perceived a swashbuckler’s daring, zealotry for fleshy pleasures. Seconds before snapping this shot, a cock had been properly engaged in her. Obvious signs of such habitation drove me mad with desire to be so positioned.

Holly in dishabille, imaging her and me routinely doing normal and nastier sex acts had me aching for quick relief. Glancing at the black plastic tarp covering my doorway, not expecting any interruptions, I promptly ripped my trousers open.

Slumping forward in my squeaking brown vinyl chair, my hand made a merry band around my unrobed hood. She knew how to attract one’s attention. I was eager to engage in her hot pursuit. Yet I retreated, hesitant. She’d never answer me. Not this wench. No way would she cotton up to me. It was absurd.

Amidst such negativity I cast seeds, hoping for a miracle to gestate. Not to mention my little head, a powerful little bugger when properly taunted, squashed my big head’s sensible opposition. I fired off an email after shooting a wad. Most of which missed the computer screen. Taking my time, composing what I hoped was a lucid, winning and honest word portrait of my particulars. Punched up with active sentences, turbocharged with energetic words, I added several shots of me to the missive, sent it traveling. Proud of my composition, not so conceited about the pictures, I could do no more but wait.

Inexplicably, this pretty, provocative woman answered me. Promptly too. This lass was interested in me, a plain looking White Anglo-Saxon Protestant with meager means and much mileage. In my favor I was ex military, one of the good guys, a confident fellow with more successes than failures tallied on his slate.

She was no sunshine patriot, a beefcake maven, a shallow pretty boy seeker. Across the vast distance we plied each other with the facts of our histories, facets of our personas. I surmised she was normal. An inference based on wishful thinking, guesswork and libidinous aspirations not any real proof. Under her spell, common sense was cast aside. My less than prudential behavior was impermeable to any doubt relating to Holly’s authenticity. In my noggin she was no cyber mirage, she was real and all good things to boot.

I gambled, did no faking. yüzüklerin efendisi güç yüzükleri izle I grew up as Axel Campion and Axel Campion was given to Holly. Axel Campion, the brow beaten, roughly handled son of an unsuccessful high school football coach.

A blizzard of spicy emails populating my in-box inflamed me; kept me at a fever pitch. Desire stirred my dulled roots with spring rain the poet once scribed.

Attracted, admiring my service defending America, appreciating my enforced horniness, available, an instrument alleviating my sorry state. Her body offered as reward for my selfless sacrifice.

Holly explained her circumstances, articulated her intentions.

Comfortably fixed, circumspect, home ground bound, Holly trimmed her flesh in all things provocative. Flirtatious, face meticulously painted, beaming a chatoyant smile, impudent body exciting interest, exclaiming look, don’t touch. Gaze all you wish, glare if you must, grin if you like. Fondle from a distance. Watch the rude remarks.

She loved challenging men in public venues to not notice her scornful eyes, her scorching body, then conjuring impromptu open-mouthed amazement and sudden outbursts of erections.

I imagined this superlative standard bearer of her sex, ankles turning in tangerine or polished oxblood high heels, wrapped in something giving her figure a good turn, briskly striding somewhere. Encamped in pastel leaves burbling against her handsome, silky legs, sleek body merrily flouncing beneath, men halted in their tracks. In the wake of whispering silk, flashes of thigh, flaunted breasts, sensible, serious men were deluged by such a scintillating spectacle. Hearts pounded and pricks whipped and snapped until Holly passed out of view.

Away from home, far as the Czech Republic and Venezuela, the little devil closeted in her runs free. Stage managing exposed flesh, baring her midriff, often wearing spiked heels, she’d bend over, break out her private stash, bits and pieces of flesh not often seen in the local coffee house, the cluttered, exotically scented aisles of a village bodega. So she said in one email I often beat off to. She titillated from afar. Steamily kitted out, she’d lean on some poor sod; feel him shipping around in his trousers, feed him a caress here, a poke there. Guy’s stewing in his juices, his discomfited eyes beating the fuck out of her practically bare breasts, some other exposed body part the day’s special. Dude’s mouth, tremulous, gaping, imitating a floundering fish and just as helpless.

Fending off grouping arms, too easily fixed for intimacy, bedewed by languid petting tongue, bedeviled by a word, an impromptu sensation and her hard breathing, sweat soaked body was in free fall toward the thing she only wished to fascinate not fuck. Her aloof amity altered with astonishing suddenness to boundless admiration for this particular cock. She wanted it with an addict’s craving. She’d fight like hell to get her mind off this firm proposal put up to her body. Inflicting torment not being impaled on her petard was the name of the game. Leave them high and dry, struggling with agonies her provocative body did nothing to placate.

Fooling around on such dangerous ground made Holly cantankerous, out of sorts. To a fortunate few — too few for an adequate circle jerk – Holly sallied forth, exhibited her smoldering body, and conferred her formable company up close and personal. Presently, exchanging bodily fluids, she eradicated those dreary feelings boozers know so familiarly, the gut ache assuaged only by a good snoot full. She got her snoot full, felt better—for awhile.

This cadre fucked Holly. Nothing more was expected. She saw no incentive in courting; all the rigmarole men practiced previous to putting it to a woman was wasted putting it to her. Her cup of tea was transitory alliances, fast lane fornicating, randy rabbits ripping into each other, straining, staining the sheets and briskly moving on. Hit and run. Bedding a man, she was a cold-eyed, hot on the trigger gunslinger. I was most fortuitously in her gun sight, a plane trip away from settling in her tiny colony of fuck buddies.

I was muy simpatico. Who wouldn’t be? I said so in more than one missive. As a young man full of piss and vinegar I dreamed of such hit and run encounters? Older, a seasoned letch, no less enthusiastically, I wished literally and figuratively to come upon such loose women. Finding an insatiable woman with no qualms about hopping into bed with all possible dispatch, no whispered sweet nothings expected, effortless, non committal free form fucking. Tete-beche or sixty-nine accorded highest priority. Shots of head action paid to her and me.

A day or two, a week of hectic sexual congress, kisses exchanged, ultimate blow job, final cunt licking as valedictory to kissing each other off, dissolving their interim confederation.

Single for a long time, footloose, fancy free, amiably disposed to Holly’s terms, eager to commence our journey however abbreviated.

Two days before getting out of Dodge, a camp called Fort Dodge matter of fact, Duncan Hymes, our best and least dapper communications tech, sheared my hair. Duncan, slender once, stolid now, gray ponytail, a pennant on his back, beer gut prominent as a pregnant woman’s belly, gold hardware buried in his fleshy ears and nose was no hair stylist. He cut hair short or not at all.

Last morning in country, freshly shaved, Old Spice scented, “enough is enough” looping in my brain, I debouched from my bunker. Pale strips of blue overhead were pulverized by wide swaths of luminous pewter and bands of greasy looking gray clouds. Everywhere sky scratching stone citadels, coarse terrain asserting little vegetation, presided over by small and large boulders, sliced by crevices, thriving with crags. Mountains bumping mountains, their loftiest reaches snowed under or obscured by clouds.

I paid little heed to this brittle, forbidding landscape, author of such misery. Not this morning. My mind having moved stateside, to Holly, her soft, supple figure promised me.

Momentarily I was distinguished by my impending departure. Handshakes and backslaps all around, final cup of coffee quickly sipped and a helping or two of the Frenchman’s hand-made, powdered sugared beignets adrift in powdered sugar.

I tossed back the last morsel of the ultimate beignet, savored it, a lackadaisical smile akin to Mona Lisa’s creased my mouth. Maybe I’d cart a ten pound sack of the Frenchman’s sugar back, pour it over Holly’s nakedness and lick up every granule. Toss cinnamon on her cunt, her nipples.

Bald headed Boone-known as Dan’l and horsey-faced, frog eyed Davis-both sporting Fu-Manchu mustaches and M-16s-jauntily cursing me in a stream of profanities, escorted me across the hard pan to my steed. Merrily chewing two sticks of Black Jack plucked from one of three packs tucked in a pants pocket, I clutched a scratched, beaten up valise, all my possessions therein, a Sony lap top and several paperbacks, snug in a black saddle bag in the other hand. Shining tube mocs, a long time not on my feet, dust covered in three or four strides.

Magnificent, alone, inelegant, dull gray, painted in dust, door guns manned by camouflaged helmeted men in aviator sunglasses, blades lazily twirling, threatening to drive dust into deviltry. I, one of three passengers, was clad in sharply creased dark blue trousers, pale blue shirt, blazer, another variation on blue. My ensemble was wrinkle intolerant, bought on line at an emporium catering to the frequent traveler. I was definitely one of those. Most often at government expense and usually to places any sane person would recoil from visiting. Including this sweeping pustule of hard ground where every rocky purchase and pinnacle witnessed man’s infinite brutality and limitless butchery.

All things near eastern heeled backwards traveling by beaten up helo, raunchy looking, down in the mouth turbo prop —helmed by a disheveled pilot sporting a pink aloha shirt and faded, sweat stained fedora — finally packed sardine tight in a jumbo size shiny silver jet where I fell asleep early on after several shots of straight gin.

The plane’s great sized tires screeched touching down; Nervous, clear-headed, the booze buzz tuned out by my liver before the plane entering American airspace, I deplaned, shot out of the jet way like a fleeing purse snatcher. Brief stop at a crowded head to purge my bladder, broken field running through clots of travelers, Holly not standing where she said she’d stand. Mild anxiety sundered by fear. Had Holly come to her senses, seen the error of her ways? No, I was nothing more than one more sad-faced schlep teased by Holly. The only difference my distance. I faced a boring interlude in an airport well off my beaten path. That was I what I had flown to with such enthusiasm.

Saying “damn, damn, damn” under my breath, passengers gathered round to retrieve luggage. In the commotion of banging luggage, disgruntled babies and chattering adults, a marvel of acoustics, the sound of glass doors tracking backward in a sonorous whish, boomed in my ears. A knot of people stepped through the doorway; their heads swiveled to the rear, trying to see something. The object of their interest following closely on their heels, sauntered into the terminal.

Holly had arrived.

Eyeballs clicked in a loud thunderclap. So it seemed in my ears. Men’s eyes licked her, memorizing, many this night in bed or bath, cocks in hand, eyes closed, seeing Holly as she was now. Breathless, rotund males trying to streamline their portliness sucked in their guts. Little fellows dwarfed by taller travelers nearly leaped from their footwear seeking Holly’s notice. Women less impressed, less impressive themselves, their envy thick as tree sap, stared daggers at Holly, shook their heads, several loudly threatened slaps to their mates if they did not promptly look away from this trollop. Holly ignored the furor, concentrated on me, made a bee line my way. She moved with the confident gait of a high wire aerialist. Unhesitatingly, she slipped into my arms with a dancer’s supple elegance and fluidity.

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