Message-ID: <5933eli$9711281622@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/5933.txt>
From: <mrspraycan@mailanon.com>
Subject: THANKSGIVING STORY: "Stuffing The Old Gobbler"/MrSpraycan
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <65kb3l$aed@camel15.mindspring.com>



Feedback is appreciated. By all means write if you have something to say.
For those who've not looked recently, the MrSpraycan homepage is back,
mostly repaired. All free, non (or un-!) commercial. Find it at:
<http://spraycan.sinewave.com> 

From now on, it'll get frequent upgrades, and there'll be fresh stories in
due course. As well as 'other stuff.' The story list is up-to-date, and
pretty long. So, bookmark it.

Disclaimer: Fiction, I suppose. Any resemblances are coincidence,
improbable, whatever. 
Stuff: Intended for entertainment. Private use only. Do not archive,
redistribute. All rights reserved. Copyright (c) 1997 MrSpraycan.



It's that time of year, so...


STUFFING THE OLD GOBBLER
by MrSpraycan


Home for Thanksgiving. How could it not resonate in your heart? Well, if
you come from a dysfunctional family like mine, you'd try damned hard to
make sure it doesn't. But I'd skipped three consecutive holidays, and the
family were beginning to nag. Oh, I'd stayed in touch by phone. Heard all
the exciting news in great detail. The July 4 party seemed particularly
fine. Desert Storm veterans would have felt right at home. Maybe the shit
fits my parents' barbecue cooking always causes could become a whole new
Syndrome  . . . 

What happened on July 4? Well, cousin Garth's a little simple. Wears his
Stetson too tight, they say. But after a few sixpacks of beer in the
broiling sun, he decided to add some fireworks of his own. The rockets' red
glare be damned, let's shoot off some M-16, full auto from the roof of the
barn. Too drunk to climb back down, then forgets where he is and starts
jerking off on the roof. Laughing stock when the police finally show up, a
half-hour later, and arrest him. For indecent exposure, of course. 

And Labor Day? Must you ask? Cousin Marjorie's wedding. Well, seven months
pregnant and DNA test in hand, she had Jeff Hargreaves by the balls,
literally. But what a wedding, by all accounts. His family are rednecks'
rednecks. Latterly infected by some Aryan Nation bug, so the boys all
shaved their heads. Like refugees from some WW2 movie. Definitely the
shallow end of the gene pool. Marjorie's brothers are all stuck in some
Nashville Network world, and look like line dancers from some Shania Twain
video. Totally plastic. Seated on opposite sides of the aisle, glaring at
each other. 

A tense affair from the get go, they say, though my eyewitnesses all left
before the actual fighting got started. Holding the reception at the VFW
was a tasteful detail. They ran out of beer quite soon. I mean, only three
kegs. And on to the serious liquor. Personally, I think Pappy Hargreaves
was right to say Marge is a drunken cunt - I mean chugging Boone's Farm
straight from the jug in church is a bit much, especially when you're that
gravid. But the fighting turned pretty feisty. Who drove the Dodge ram
pickup in through the side wall? They say the boys will all get out on
parole by Christmas, and it's possible Pappy will walk again.

With so many kith, kin and neighbors in jail, it seems safer than usual to
be around this Thanksgiving, I calculate. To grow up a dike in Missouri,
you learn to be practical, way early on.

I phone Ma, and say I think I'll be there.

"Polly," she cackles. "You is mighty welcome, but don't you go bringing
none of your pre-verted misfit friends along. Any them pussy-eatin' women,
I mean." 

Coming from people who think fried squirrel brains are a delicacy, and who
regularly snacked on road kill until the 1980s, you'd wonder why licking
pussy was considered beyond the pale. Wouldn't you?

"Yes, ma."

No sweat. I wasn't real steady with anyone, really. And Ingrid, the
closest, was going to brave a trip to her parents in San Antonio.


I fly in that morning, rent a car in Louisville. When I arrived at the old
homestead, little had changed. Rural wasteland. Though to some extent,
they'd redecorated. Pa's 1979 Lincoln Town Car (Cartier edition, $600 cash,
we don't buy junkers), had been put up on blocks. There were a few new
planters. "A Goodyear For The Roses," like that old Tummyache Whinette song
Elvis Costello used to sing. What a dump. Yet, bursting with memories.


Were they pleased to see me? Hmm. Maybe. Pa was somewhat hung over, from
some pointless pre-Thanksgiving blast. He recognized me after a moment of
glazy-eyed staring.

"Polly? Good to see you, I guess."

"You too."

And really, that was as good as it got.

"Are you still a vegetarian?" Ma squinted suspicious.

"Yes, it's perfectly natural. Like the chickens, cows, etcetera."

"So you'll be making a big scene about the turkey again?" she said,
bristling.

Last time, I'd given it the last rites. Well, it's my disposition to be
confrontational sometimes. I'm working on it.

"No, no, ma. It's a preference, not a religion. Find your own way to it.
You eat what you like. I'll eat the stuffing. I brought my own recipes too,
for some extras."

"Unnatural." Three words to Ma. Un. Nat. Chral. She's looking and sounding
more like Ross Perot each year. Gnomic, somewhat dazed.

"We should all go back to Vegetaria, I know."

"Didn't say that. Not like you are some kind of raghead or Indonesian or
whatever, importing strange notions. Still, it's unnatural. Not to mention
. . ."

A vague all-encompassing wave. She doesn't like the k.d.lang haircut, the
black clothes, the army boots. The absence of make-up in "make Mary Kay
rich" country. Back to Lesbia too, I guess.

"Right, not to mention," I confirm. "Truce. Okay?"

She grumps under her breath. I'm shown to my old room, now a repository of
junk. It's been bulldozed back enough for me to find the bed. Maybe some of
my high school stuff is in here. My shaved-head Barbie. Ha! Who knows? If
it is, it's buried deep. This is mostly sports junk, old clothes - nothing
is ever thrown away - and about five generations of cheap-ass stereos, boom
boxes, TVs and food blenders. An Apple II, a Kaypro, from garage sales.
Some of this crap would be out on the porch, if it wasn't for the several
old fridges and stoves there. Kenmore World.


I offer to help in the kitchen, crowded with loud, womanly women. My
sisters are not going out of their way to be sociable. Though in their own
way they're sort of happy to see me. Someone new to pick on. I'm rather
waspish, so this "bait the lezzie" sport palls quite quickly. Perhaps I
remind them too much of their husbands. 'Ex' in some cases, 'in the
slammer' in others. My aid is directed to sauces, and whatever "darned bird
food" I want to make for myself. Well, that's good, I guess. Bread sauce,
stuffing, cranberry sauce. This is almost a meal.

Poor turkey, I think. Legs up, trussed. I've been it that position too, I
chuckle. And fun it was too.


As it gets time to serve, the last few stragglers arrive. I'm immediately
struck by the absence of men this year. Why? They're mostly in jail. Just a
couple at liberty. Uncle Zack, and his retarded son Billy. They are both
doing their slack-jawed leering thing. They've been boozing since sun up,
and their speech is slurred to the point of incomprehensibility.
Incomprehensihillbillity? 

Which means everyone else - my three sisters, plus seven or eight female
cousins and aunts - can just ignore them as they mumble to each other.
They're guffawing crassly about 'dark meat, heh heh' and 'stuffing that old
gobbler.'


Vast amounts of food were consumed. I'm bloated with nutloaf and stuffing
and sauce. And two or three glasses of this horrible Californian white
toilet bowl cleaner they've bought. A wine box. What a boon to screw-top
people, folks who won't use a corkscrew because it's too complicated. 

I decide to take a walk later. Out past the barn, down towards to the
creek. The barn, scene of lots of adolescent show-and-tell games. Scene of
some memorable spankings with a strap. Which still appeared in my
fantasies, all these years later. The creek, scene of some skinny-dipping
adventures that would have gotten me spanked even harder. 

Now nostalgia time really grabs me. So many memories, of first kisses. Of
being in love. Several times. Of John, touching my breasts. Poor John. He
went to college in the East, a radical notion. Turned gay.

Well, come to think of it, so did I. At Berkeley, though.

Somewhere along here, where I first kissed another girl.

I was, what, sixteen? Ruth. Older, wiser. Whispered all kinds of strange
and revolutionary ideas to me. Made many things clearer. We'd become lovers
for a summer. Split went she went back to college. Poor Ruth. Buried
somewhere outside Casper, Wyoming. She loved everything and everyone, and
got too fond of the white powder her outlaw biker friends provided. 

I hear a female voice calling. "Polly?" For an eerie moment, I think it's
Ruth calling across the years. A chill, even though I'm wearing a heavy
down coat. No. Cousin Jane, bustling along the path. She's a little taller
than me, with long blonde hair with those expensive silvery highlights. A
C&W type of gal, and perhaps a stereotype in her own way. But, aren't I
too? She catches up with me.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Of course not. Just walking it off."

"Same here. Oh, that family gathering scene."

"Know what you mean, yes."

"I see why you don't visit much, Polly. They're rather hostile, aren't they?"

I grunt.

We talk a bit. Why I left. Places and people.

Reminisce, her about her own situation. She's not exactly local. Nashville
now. Divorced. Her two kids with her ex in-laws for today, back with her
for the weekend. Teaching.

With no particular context, she sighs: "Men."

"Meaning?"

"Oh, nothing. Those drunks. So vulgar."

"Like most, I'd say."

"Yes, but sometimes you need them."

"And most times, you don't," I offer.

She looks at me for a moment.

"Ah. Yes, well you . . . I'm sorry, Polly. I forget."

"That's alright. I don't mind."

"I didn't mean. Well, maybe I did. You, I mean . . ."

"I'm a dike, yes. But it's okay, I don't bite." A bitter laugh. Actually,
I'd like to bite this shapely blonde, in a very personal place. Leave
teethmarks on her ass.

She gives me that look again.

"And if I said?" she begins.

"That sometimes?" I pick up.

"Uh, yes, ah, sometimes . . . I, well . . ."

"Wonder what it would be like . . .?"

"Wonder . . . How do you know? That I was going to say that!?"

"Um, call it intuition, maybe?"

She moves her face close to mine. A veil of blonde hair. Cool blue eyes,
long lashes. I put my hand on her shoulder, as if to steady her. She gets
the cue, steps up close. Puts an arm round my waist. Kisses me. Bending
slightly. 

Pulls me to her. 

And of course, I kiss back, hard. Hungrily.

We pause.

"You kiss like a guy." It's said with total wonder. Also true. But I love
to hear that.

"Yes. And you?"

"I like it."

"Here." We kiss again. These damned great padded coats. I bump my hips
against hers.

"Where are you staying?" She gasps, after several such maneuvers.

"Here. At the farm. You?"

"No room. Motel Seven, a mile or two down the road."

"Ah."

"Will people talk?" she asks anxiously.

"About what?" I smile.

"You know."

"Oh? If you take me back? Uh uh. Not about me. All talked out on that
subject. They'll talk about you, though. Can you take it?" 

"Maybe. And your folks?" she asks.

"Won't notice so long as I'm back later. Where's your car parked?"


Seduction is so familiar to me. But so much is in the scene, that I forget
how innocent some women are. Oh, Jane had been married. And Jane had been
to teacher's training college and read "a bunch of books." But Jane had not
been around. Jane had never been undressed by a small, active lesbian. By
one hungry to get her unwrapped and spread out. Had never seen another
woman's shaved pussy. Had never touched one. Had never had her own vulva
licked, clit to perineum, with a long hot hungry tongue. One that knew
where to go, and what to do. Had never been fingerfucked while her nipples
were licked and chewed on. Had never had her anus played with quite like
that. Had, never ever, been invited to make her beautifully manicured right
hand into a tiny tight fist and insert it, oh so gently, but oh so
forcefully in the vagina of a squatting girlfriend. Or been taught the art
of how to withdraw it after. And the joy of sharing licking it clean.
Thanksgiving is about sharing, after all.


After, driving me back to the farm, she sighed: "Can we do it again?"

"It? Anything in particular?" I smile, looking out at the rolling hills
zipping past. She's deliberately taken a longer route, out of town to the
interstate, and then back to the next exit.

"Any of it, really." 

"Love to."

"Me too."

"I have no plans for tomorrow, particularly."

"Oh, Polly. Come back to Music City with me, please?"

"I could. Switch flights, yeah, should be able to. Gotta be in Seattle
Tuesday, though. Conference."


We dropped my car at the airport, and I picked up my new tickets.
Transferred my luggage. As she drove, she wanted to know more about me, and
what I did. A fascination straight women have. I told her that I was 90%
gay, but would do it with men, sometimes. She brightened at this, and said
she wanted to be bisexual. Ah, the American dream again. She wanted to know
if I shaved or waxed, why I wore black. With men, was I the dominant
partner? No, I sub with men, I told her. Did I do rough stuff, she asked
anxiously. I told her abut the Seattle scene, how I had no problems with
S&M, as long as it was carefully thought out. Told her about some of the
clubs, the little parties and munches. Her eyes got quite distant and dreamy.

She lived in a little condominium complex. I met the kids. Her
disapproving ex in-laws. Rich white trash in this case. We did some boring
stuff. Shopping, eating.

And so began an interesting weekend. A weekend when we were domestic
during the day and then at night, turned into wild beasts. Another seasonal
reversion? Puritans by day, savages by night? Where submission begins to
show, as it must. She hands me a large dildo, kneeling before me,
trembling. Where her anus gets its full share of attention, at last. Where
she learned as much as I could teach about the licking and tongue play, the
sucking and nibbling I need. And like to share. Where we, naked and
sweating, 'stuffed the old gobbler' - hers and mine - over and over again.
To the point where my knuckles ached, from her violent contractions. And
where, to my deepest delight, late Saturday night - the kids away at the ex
in-laws again - she murmured: "Do you, I mean . . ."

"Spit it out, eh?"

"Tommy Joe used to want to, you know?" she began. He being her ex, another
of the low-rent local boys gone bad.

"To?"

"He was kind of rough, you know?"

"Surprise me. And he wanted . . . to spank your ass, perhaps?"

"You know?"

"I can guess. It has great spanking appeal, Jane. Don't people say that to
you quite often?"

"Men, yes. I often think about it after, wish I'd said yes. At school,
teachers were always doing it to me. And, I keep wishing that the codes
were different now . . ."

"Yes, many teachers do, too."

I had her by the wrist. She was naked. What more was needed?

"Want to be spanked, Jane?"

"Would you? You said you did that kind of  . . ."

"I do."

"Oh, I'm a bit scared."

"One step at a time."

"Yes."

"Over my lap, Jane. You've been a bad girl, haven't you?"

"Polly," she gasped, her eyes growing damp.

"Jane. Now."

"Bare hand?"

"I'll start there, but I think you have some toys, don't you?"

"Yes. Tommy Joe left them."

She was in position. Such a cute ass. Big and round. Totally female. I
touched her crease from behind. Hair. Dampness. Nice female smells. A good
hard whack.

"Oh."

"Tell me."

"He had a, I guess it was a special paddle. Long one, leather."

"A tawse."

"I think that's what it was called."

"Oh, lucky Janie."

"Will it hurt?"

"I expect so, sweetheart. But after a few dozen with my hand, it'll need
to hurt to make any impression on you." 

"Polly!"

"Remember, you asked."

"Oh."

She had said a lot more than "oh," by the time I was through. A nice plump
ass, turned a pleasant crimson. Stinging intensely. Tears in her eyes, the
make-up running. But the word 'stop' was never uttered.

Making her crawl through her apartment on hands and knees, ass high. Red,
hand-printed. Rummaging in a drawer, finding the tawse. So mean-looking.
What a thug her husband had been. I thanked him, under my breath. Quite the
right thing for her, under the circumstances. I let her crawl back to the
living room, holding it in her mouth. Taking along a few scarves and
stockings to bind her tightly. I truss her on the dining room table, legs
back over her head. Just like the seasonal bird, but so much tastier.

She's trembling, almost speechless with excitement. She can see herself in
a full-length mirror, see how she is on show, open, revealing everything. I
fingerfuck her, let her sense her vulnerability.

"Polly," she gasps. "Please. Do it?"

Finding her dirty panties to gag her. Before she swallows them gratefully,
she sighs: "Hard, Polly. Oh God, make it hard."

I did. Hard, a little mean. Paddling her ass and her pussy. But with her
pleasure evident every moment. Splashes and drooling prove that to me.

Thanksgiving is not such a bad time of year after all, I found myself
thinking. No, not so bad at all. Here are two people who think so, for sure.

Copyright (c) 1997 MrSpraycan

[ Via MailAnon Remail Service <infos@mailanon.com> ]

-- 
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
\ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/>    .../assm/faq.html> /