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Subject: <*>{losgud}NEW--Pollywanna
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=========================
The following work is pure fiction. All people, places & situations are
complete fabrications of my imagination. Any resemblance is wrong.
Content includes GRAPHIC SEX. If your laws state that you are too young
to be reading this, grow up and change those laws. Until then, duh, go
wild in your own head.
©1998 losgud. ALL rights reserved. These words belong to me. Don't
fuck with them. Write your own. NO for-profit use, reposting,
archiving [other than a.s.s.m & Deja News] etc. Read, download, share
with a friend. Consider unauthorized inclusion in a personal web site
as an infringement of copyright.
=========================
M/F Inc Cons Hum
NOTE: Been awhile, but here goes. As usual, if you're searching for a
short stroke-piece, look far further. Apologies to Rimbaud. Otherwise,
enjoy!
POLLYWANNA
"I always look on the sunny side," Polly leaned over breathing beer in
my ear.
I was still too scared to venture even a furtive panoramic of the place.
Nevertheless, I couldn't imagine what sunny side my sister saw in this
thoroughly dark and dank dive.
"You always were a regular Pollyanna," I managed to mumble back.
Got a regular elbow-in-the-ribs for that observation.
On the long drive down from New York, I'd half-jokingly frightened
myself with the notion that when I finally arrived at Polly's, that,
well--he-woman in Florida that she was--she'd want to take me 'gator-
wrestling as entertainment. Instead she'd dragged me out to the _Gator
Bar_. From my perspective, it was an even more dangerous sport.
I was sure Polly wasn't the only woman in the place, but I couldn't tell
the other women apart from the men. They all looked like big beefy
carnivores, put in a permanently sour mood by a lack of teeth. Ready
enough to gum you to death and swallow you whole for the nourishment.
Dice you up and pack chunks of you in their jaws like chaw.
I just did not get why Polly would come to such a Cro-Magnon watering
hole. Nor why she would wear poured-on jeans and a shrunken t-shirt and
openly flirt with every guy in the place. She could have had any guy in
the place within a minute--and every guy inside of an hour--but if she
wanted to be the gang-bang queen of the pool hall, why settle for a
cess-pit like this? She could easily do better.
_He-woman_ was the wrong phrase. Polly was _She-Ra_. She could whip
the shit out of any guy around--and they all seemed to respect her for
this--but in that albeit self-limiting sense, Polly was all-woman. A
rather striking looking woman. Always had been. Though she'd never
been the type to fret about her waist--and granted, genetics and a
physical lifestyle were on her side--she took pride in her looks and
would never let herself devolve into the sort of butt-in-front physique
that seemed to be the neighborhood standard.
The question lingered unanswered: what the hell _were_ we doing here?
I was tired and feeling somewhat uncharitable at being perceived as some
sort of threat. Even though everyone in the bar knew who I was--"My
long-lost brother, the _poet_ from _New York_!"--it really was as though
I'd become a chip on everybody's shoulder. As though if I'd just
evaporate, then the blanket could be tossed over the scarred pool felt,
and the _real_ party could begin.
"What's the matter?" I sneered. "Polly wanna cracker?"
She turned to me coolly. "You bet. One with a big thick sausage."
I blinked. I wasn't really shocked, just shocked into remembrance.
It'd been a few years since I'd been around Polly-in-the-flesh, as
opposed to the Polly-of-anecdote. She'd always been family-famous for
her direct and untempered bawdiness. But Polly's words coming straight
from Polly's mouth had a whole different intonation then when whispered
down the phone line second- or third-hand.
The last time I'd seen her was at a cousin-of-sort's wedding. Some poor
maiden great-aunt had made the miserable mistake of asking Polly how
soon she intended to settle down with a man. It was one of those
moments where, in a room crowded with people all talking at once,
there's a sudden lull of complete silence. Which Polly filled fully
with her sharp laugh. "Why would I want to settle down with one man
when I can stay riled up and have them all? Hell, keep my pussy
elastic, one-size-fits-all; and I intend to have them all!"
Back in the dreary here and now, I fiddled with my beer and shrugged as
if to say _whatever_.
"Shit yea, I want some. Fucking Friday night--you expect me to lay at
home and spread my legs like the goddamn Yellow Pages, let my fingers do
the walking. _I don't think so!_ You drove me to the store; I intend
to do some serious shopping."
That, really, was the crux of the problem. I didn't give a shit what
she wanted to do with her night. But Polly had fancied my rental car
from its first crunch on the gravel of her drive. She'd insisted we
leave her battered old pick-up at home. And now I was feeling stuck.
And sort of sick with myself because I'd brought on the situation
myself.
Though it would have been all homey to have stayed in--or gone somewhere
I might have felt comfortable--and had an evening of sibling chatter,
we'd never really had that many hours of things to talk about. Which of
course opened the door to my own culpability.
I was due in to Miami the following day for a significant poetry slam,
where I was high enough on the roster to make the drive worthwhile, but
not high enough to warrant an airplane ticket. I'd fucked up and gotten
a late start out of New York--I hated driving long distances anyway--and
I'd already eaten the price of a motel in Virginia. It would be a good
gesture, I'd thought, to drop in on Polly. But it was well with the
consideration that if I had to spend another night in an uncomfortable
bed, I might as well get it for free.
I made Polly buy me another beer before she again flitted off looking
for a fuck. My sister the social butterfly.
No long under the protection of her wings, I wanted to run. I had the
keys. And I was tired of the glares. The thing was, I didn't think I
could make it out the door, into the car, and way down the road without
the glares catching up and turning into fists.
I watched, shaking my head, as Polly's fine form sauntered from table to
table, shaking her rear.
But then my reverie was interrupted.
"Then you the poet-boy from New York, huh? The spoiled apple," the
bleaty voice laughed long at its stupid joke. "So, you must be pretty
faggoty, that right?"
The man speaking sat several stools away. I was relieved, and certainly
not worried, directly. His stool was like a rotten stump, drenched by a
week of rain, and with a day of sunshine there he had swollen alive,
some gigantic fungus. The man was such a mountain of fat I doubted he
could get up and move even to pee. In the next few days he would either
wither in the heat or explode with spores.
I scratched the side of my nose, inviting danger as I spoke. "Yea. The
sort of faggot poet from New York that got more pussy last week than
you'll see in your entire life."
The guy sort of sputtered, so I continued. "In case you're trying to
count, that's genuine _human_ pussy. Chickens don't count. Especially
not the kind you buy in the supermarket already plucked."
I took a genuine satisfaction in the way he began to wilt, but then a
far scarier guy on the stool closer to me spoke up, "So, you're like the
Rimbaud of your generation, huh?"
A chill ran up my spine even as the mushroom-man spluttered a mouthful
of beer all down his front, "Damn Jake, that's a good one. Like him
like Rambo, like he's fucking Rocky, sitting there goddamn Sly himself,
the only real man what lives in all New York?"
This Jake guy didn't bend his neck at all towards his companion. In a
conversational monotone he answered, "No."
I knew I was in trouble, of a type I couldn't even imagine.
Me the modern Rimbaud. I hated that appellation, but it had stuck. And
it had increased my fragile cachet.
"I've been called that," I chose my words carefully, "though the
assessment is far from mine."
Who doesn't love the French Symbolists? That is, of those who know who
they are.
Jake gave me a full pan, again without moving a muscle.
"So where's Paulie, huh?"
My mind drew a blank. "What?"
"Well," he guffawed, "if you're Arthur Rimbaud, then why don't you bend
over and take my big Verlaine." He cupped his crotch as if the point
needed to be made.
What the fuck?! Oh, _fuck!_ Variation on the _suck my dick you goddamn
faggot_ line I'd been hearing for years. But with quite the unexpected
twist. Then, as if things couldn't get anymore unnerving, he began
reciting, all namby-pamby,
"Les anciens animaux saillissaient, même en course,
Avec des glands bardés de sang et d'excrément . . . "
Immediately I recognized the sounds he was saying, though I couldn't
translate a word of French if my life depended on it. The moment
contained the greatest stroke of luck I ever dared hope to see. Just a
few months prior, an older poet and myself had had parts in a short
film, trading off the alleged voices of Verlaine and Rimbaud between the
quatrains and tercets of the "Defilements". The French I spat back was
pure phonetics:
"Mon réve s'aboucha souvent à sa ventouse;
Mon âme, du coït matériel jalouse,
En fit son larmier fauve et son nid de sanglots.
"C'est l'olive pâmée et la flûte câline,
Le tube d'où descend la céleste praline,
Chanaan féminin dans les moiteurs enclos."
Jake snorted, then gave a short nod. "So your plug isn't polarized--big
deal."
I was immediately off at Polly's elbow. It took me forever to
interrupt.
"What?" she cried.
"I'm going home. I mean, back to your place."
"Huh? Sure. That's fine . . . that was the plan, right?"
"No, I mean. No, that is, yes. The plan, yea. But I mean like right
now. I'm going."
"What? But I'm not ready."
"Fine! But, you know, I'm out the door. Passing through on the way
out. To let you know."
Polly put on a pout. "But I don't wanna leave yet."
"You don't have to."
"But how will I get home?"
"Well," I just sort of rolled my eyes, "I'm sure you can get all the
rides you want right here all night long."
I didn't know why, but she gathered her stuff in a huff and followed me
out. As though she was doing me some sort of favor. As though I was
doing her some sort of wrong.
When, in fact, I kept my observation to myself, the _Gator_ was her
favored bar at least because it was within easy walking distance of
home.
Polly was still in a snit when we got back to her place. Her shack. I
wasn't quite sure how to deal with her mood. I mean, _sister wants some
dick._ That wasn't part of my accustomed vernacular. Snippy this,
snippy that--I got sick of it!
"Hey listen, Polly. You don't need to baby-sit me anymore. Go out and
get what you want; bring it on home . . . I don't fucking care. Geez!
Hop in your pick-up and ride the roads 'til dawn, fill up the bed with
all the trash you want. It really doesn't matter to me. I certainly
don't want to cramp your style or anything. I can take care of myself.
I know how to tuck myself in. And if my presence is a hindrance, hell,
point me to the closest motel."
She shot me an evil look. It was answer enough. I remembered it from
years back. She wasn't going to do a thing. Martyr-time. And guess
who would get to pay?
It was just like old-home time. Polly stormed off into her room. The
only difference was she didn't beat the shit out of me first. No, there
was a critical other difference as well: she didn't slam the door to
her room behind her. I supposed she was afraid it might make the whole
damn house collapse.
So there I sat in the livingroom twiddling my thumbs. The chair facing
the doorway to her bedroom. With Polly in full view as she reached to
her waist and savagely pulled the hem of her t-shirt out of her pants.
Then lifted the garment upwards, inside-out, baring her torso as she
obscured her head. My guess was confirmed: Polly hadn't bothered with
a bra. Fortunately she was turned so that her breasts were out-of-sight
if not quite out-of-mind, but there was that sudden moment, as she
tugged her head through the neck of the shirt, where the supple
maneuverings of her back revealed a beauty and tenderness that left me
inwardly gasping.
Women's backs, my god! that's the very reason the doggy position was
invented; otherwise such sinewy loveliness would be forever hidden flat
against the mattress!
Finally pulled free, Polly gave her head a shake, waving her hair all
around, before she flung the shirt to the floor like a discarded lover.
She kicked off her shoes, then she reached over and rummaged around the
rumpled bedding, pulling free and pulling on one of those oversized t-
shirts that sell as sleepwear. It covered her rump well enough, so I
couldn't see if she'd neglected her other underwear as she wriggled out
of her jeans.
Tight jeans indeed. What'd been poured on had to be peeled off. Polly
spent quite a bit of time and motion shimmying out of those things. So
much that I found myself wishing--appalled!--that she'd taken the pants
off first, without the cover of the long-hemmed nightshirt.
Such a thought left me mortified, and more than a little petrified
between the legs.
This was not good; this was not good at all.
Though Polly had always been pleasing to the eye, I'd never entertained
any such excitement. Even in the hormonal onslaught of teendom, my
fantasies about Polly had never involved sex, not even rape. I'd
skipped to the chase and simply slit her throat, ridding my life of
hers.
When she returned, I maintained my composure as best I could. Hell, it
wasn't like we came from a family of mind-readers. Half the kinfolk
couldn't even read; nor was there a surfeit of great minds.
Polly sort of floated back into the room without talking to me, without
even looking at me. She picked the t.v. guide up off the coffee table,
flipped through it, then tossed it back down as she turned to go in the
kitchen. I heard a bit of rustling, a few slams, then a sort of
whirring noise. Following this were some distinctive pings, then a
sound like machine-gun fire. Nearly immediately, the entire shack was
filled with the thick sticky stench of heavily buttered popcorn.
She came back with a huge bowl of the stuff, which she set down over on
the coffee table along with a can of beer before she plopped down on the
couch and grabbed the remote.
"May I have a beer?" I asked.
"Help yourself," she replied. Then the t.v. blasted on to cure us of
further conversation.
I marveled at the conditions as I made my way into the kitchen. It was
fucking amazing--here in this ramshackle hut, where even the couch
looked like some large scale culturing project at the Center for Disease
Control, and yet she had this huge shiny new t.v. that made every other
t.v. in the world look small. And then in the kitchen there's the stove
that looked like it postdated the discovery of fire by only a handful of
years, while on the counter sat this huge shiny new microwave that,
well, that made every other t.v. in the world look small.
The fridge, I quickly discovered, didn't work, except as a sort of
pantry for canned goods. Fortunately I spied the cooler tucked under
the table. Cans of beer were sunk in vaguely cool water amid swirls of
plastic bags labeled ICE in a chilly font. No danger to the Titanic in
there.
I plucked out a can, opening it as I sat down at the table. The can and
I gave out equally expressive sighs. And there I sat and sipped.
Listening to the t.v. shout away in the other room.
Finally fortified by the beer, I grabbed another, having decided to be
brave and good and go back in the livingroom to make nice.
I didn't even make it into my former chair. I just stood there,
hovering behind it, realizing the views I might have for the next
several hours. If I didn't want to stare at the t.v. screen, I could
look to the left and exchange it for a blank wall. Or to the right was
Polly on the couch. Polly lying on the couch. Polly belly down on the
couch. Polly lying belly down draped over some small pillows on the
couch. Or to be specific, Polly's plumped-up ass smiling at me from
under the hem of her nightshirt. Shirts, shit, they ride up on their
own volition. I was sure Polly had no clue how much she was putting on
display. And though I still couldn't say for sure what she'd had under
her jeans at the bar, the skimpy bit of pink silk slipping up through
her ass cheeks was a good bet.
An evening of viewing an empty wall, a boring screen, or a cute ass; my
cock quickly voted its choice. The front of my pants went stiff against
the back of the chair. I decided it best to take the beer into my
bedroom and go over some notes for the next day.
"Well," I drawled. "Um. Hate to be the party pooper. Big day
tomorrow. So . . . I think I'm going to turn in early. Okay?"
Polly didn't even budge in reply. Not a grunt of recognition. I turned
and went down the small hall to my room, my erection leading the way.
Curiously, the air conditioning was one item that Polly hadn't updated.
There was just the one gasping little window unit in the livingroom,
though I thought I detected a slightly higher pitched sputtering coming
from her bedroom. My room had a ceiling fan, turning lazily, with a
creak on each rotation as a taunt: _hot! hot! hot!_ I opened the pair
of windows in my room. There was certainly no danger of letting any
cold air _out_. My hope was that, eventually, later in the evening,
some cooler air might be coaxed inside. But any immediate effect was
unnoticeable. I bared the bed to the top sheet, then sat on top of it,
myself peeled down to just jockeys and a t-shirt. A tiny, worn-out
pillow cushioned my back against the wall as I began rifling through my
papers.
Fucking words on paper. Words fucking on paper. Fucking as words on
paper. I had no attention span.
My beer was quickly room temperature. I took the can on tip-toe into
the bathroom-in-a-closet and poured it out. As long as I was there, I
brushed my teeth and had a goodnight pee. Back in my room I turned out
the light, stripped to my skin and slipped under the sheet.
Not that I could sleep. My erection had returned in full force. I
thought briefly about jerking off, but I didn't want to do that with my
sister in the next room. I certainly didn't want to do that _because_
of my sister in the next room. I tried to fathom out what was going on,
why all the blood in my body had turned to some thickened carnal fluid,
why--for god's sake--the intimations of Polly's sexuality had me all
stirred up.
It wasn't because I was desperate. My part-time girlfriend had stayed
over the night before my departure--part-time, in her words, because she
refused to become the first full-time aspect of my life. And my part-
time girlfriend had given me an exceedingly thorough, full-time fucking.
Tomorrow, as well, would likely hold out some promise. Inevitably, and
especially if I was radiating that I was in the mood. The crowds at
these readings invariably parted to allow some black-lipsticked woman to
slink to my side. "Hi. I just wanted to let you know that I was
really, um, _moved_, by the way you pronounced _pussy_." As though I
was some French super-lover. Not as though I'd grown up with a lisp and
overemphasized my sibilants to this very day. Pus-_ZY_. Though the
tongue exercises of my childhood had tended to make me a popular guy
with those in the know.
As I slowly succumbed to the dark, I began to think of the whole
evening--at the very least--in terms of poetic structure. I'd have to
change names and locations to disguise . . . but why? It's not like
Polly or any of her friends would ever read anything I might ever
publish. I thought about how I would have to crop the ending . . .
which was a pity because my erection in the dark at the memory of
Polly's pussy hidden under a thin gusset of pink silk really was the
perfect ending . . . and then what did it really matter? Fuck all the
people who insisted on interpreting moments of literature as purely
autobiographical fact even when they were!!!
And there I sank.
Old words on paper might not have held my attention, but new words
swimming in my brain sent me swirling down until--_BANG_--some small
sound broke me back up wide awake. The bed was creaking under a
shifting weight not my own.
In the soft glow of light filtering down the hall from some other room I
saw Polly, scooting on her knees up from the foot of the bed. While she
was mostly in shadow, I could see well enough to know that all questions
about what sort of clothing she did or did not choose to wear had been
cast aside. There was nothing but flesh hanging from her bones.
"Polly?"
"Did I wake you up?"
"Polly, what are you doing?"
"Good, because Polly wants a crack at you."
Before I could answer, she was slowly sliding the sheet down off my
body. Just that small, drawn-out friction was enough to make one part
of me very wide awake. Laid bare, my body was a parade ground; at the
center was the flagstaff.
"And looks to me like you'd welcome some of Polly's crack."
I was trying to think of more words--think of anything--but then Polly
hoisted herself up and settled back down. I groaned, ceasing to think
of anything but how my cock was suddenly sunk deep in cunt. Warm wet
cunt, tightly gripping cunt.
Almost immediately, before the full realization struck me, Polly was
plunging up and down at a frantic pace. I burbled and squealed, my
hands flailing in a wish to snag her hips and hold her steady, slow her
to still for a moment, but she was fucking me too fast, too madly, and
before I could even gasp my balls were spilling their load. Just then,
she gave a paint-peeling scream. Within a minute, Polly was dead
weight--warm, soft, sweet-smelling dead weight--collapsed atop me, the
both of us thoroughly spent.
I lay there beneath her, absolutely stunned. To some extent, it was my
post-orgasmic glow, and my confusion over what had just happened. But
just as much I lay there in awe. Never in my life had I witnessed a
woman coming so quickly and so violently. Little wonder then that her
mind was always so thick with thoughts of sex.
Eventually Polly recovered enough to roll off to the side, my cock
slurping out of her though she kept the rest of me firmly in her grasp.
She murmured little kisses all across my face as my hands found, felt
and held her breasts for the first time. Her mouth whispered across
mine, our lips touching, my tongue slipping out to greet hers.
We lay there like that, kissing and fondling one another for nearly
fifteen minutes. But then the press of her thigh against my spent
member began to work an extraordinary miracle.
The penny was spent; might as well get my pound's worth.
I drew away from her and raised up on my elbows. Wordlessly I reached
out and pushed her onto her back. Then I slowly scrambled over between
the spread of her thighs. She had a hand already waiting to guide me
back inside.
Polly stuttered a little giggle, "Boy, you must be reading my mind."
My only answer was the silent resolution that--to the best of my
abilities--I give her the best fucking of her life.
Polly was easy enough. I felt like I'd spent my life in band practice,
drifting from instrument to instrument, making satisfying enough squawks
and blats. But with Polly, no matter what I did, I elicited tones most
pure and true.
After she came down from her next orgasm, Polly began hunching back at
me in earnest. She nipped at my lips, then with a toss of her head
began talking.
"I've read a couple of your books, you know. Jake turned me on to them.
He thinks you're tremendous. Here I thought this poetry was all faggoty
flowers and fruit bowls shit. But you, cocks and cunt, drugs and
depravity. Uhummm, I just had to find out for myself."
I gave her several successive slams, held back, drew back, teased her
dewy opening with swelling sworls, then sank back into her hard and
fast.
Polly began reciting:
"I lunge into loins
no flower this
this cunt-flesh
slippery and greedy
grasping with need
and I am the flower
and her the gardener's fist
gripping and yanking, seeking
to rip me out by the root."
Hardly my best effort, but how perfectly it described exactly what she
was trying to do to me. And I decided to do something about it.
I raised myself up, my hands pinning her shoulders to the mattress.
Polly's hands gripped my wrists, tightly, but as her eyes stared into
mine, I saw that that was all she was going to do.
Never before in our lives had Polly allowed me to overpower her. I'd
never really even tried. Now that I had, she let me willingly. That
established, I lowered myself, letting my hands slip down. My mouth
found hers and our teeth began gnashing, lips sucking lips, our tongues
a pair of dueling daggers. I grabbed handfuls of tits and began
slamming into her with a new-found surety. Polly certainly seemed to
like it, mewling and growling and swiveling her hips.
I tilted her pelvis slightly, hooking one of her knees over my shoulder,
running my hand up and down the silky expanse of her thigh. Lower and
lower I went until I had a side of her ass firmly in my outstretched
palm. I gave a violent thrust and squeezed the cheek hard. Polly's
eyes nearly popped out.
"Geez, please," she squealed, "do that _again!_"
I did and she grimaced, then let go, another wild orgasm racking her
body. As she slowly simmered down, I let my hand drop lower, brushing
through the damp tendrils framing her mons, tracing a finger lightly
around our juncture, the perpendicular meeting of my hard cock and her
soft cunt. Our crotches were soaking wet.
"God, Polly, you're _so-o-o_ juicy."
She set her mouth in a grinning gum-chewing motion. "That's 'cause
that's my juicy fruit down there. Super juicy for you."
I let my finger dip lower, massaging her perineum with my slickened
digit, smearing the overflow of her lubricants around. Trickles of the
stuff ran down even into the crack of her ass, and from where I was it
was just a small fraction of an inch until I felt the pucker of her
anus. I tickled that little pink star with my finger tip, getting it
nice and wet. I could feel her butt muscles clenching and unclenching
with this unexpected attention as I continued playing with her. Polly
went wide-eyed and groaned, "Oh boy, you boy, better watch out or you'll
make me come again!"
With that encouragement I started screwing her with a steady, swift
pace, suddenly sliding my finger fully up her ass. Polly reached around
and grabbed my ass with both hands, pulling me tight against her while
she bit my neck to stifle her screams.
Goddamn, but it made me wish I was a girl. I'd never get out of bed in
the morning. I'd play with myself from dawn to dusk, dusk to dawn, day
to day until I just dropped dead to the bed of a heart attack. But
barring that impossibility, I'd have to content myself being the
conductor of her orchestra.
In a moment of tenderness, I gazed down at my panting Polly. "What are
you doing here anyway?"
She growled back, "Getting my brains fucked out by my baby brother, what
does it sound like?"
"No," I lightly stroked her cheek, "why do you live here, like this?
What are you doing here anyway?"
Polly swiveled her hips in response. "Living the wrong sort of life,
apparently, 'cause I sure ain't been getting any lovin' this good in a
damn long time."
Slowly I began thrusting in and out of her sopping cunt again. Polly
twitched and groaned, a hand snaking between us to caress my balls.
"That's it, baby, that's right. Give it to me, baby, gimme everything
you got."
I was on the high-wire and soon fast to fall, so I plunged ahead, hard
and fast and deep and wide, Polly singing along, coaxing me to the end.
I felt my cock stiffen, thicken, and she did too, her cunt clamping down
as my magic wand began waving around inside her. "Oh FUCK!" she
screamed, "I'm coming _again!_" exactly as I began pumping eye-popping
jets of sperm into her very core.
As our tensions slowly dissipated, our bodies melted from the stoniness
of rigor mortis to the softness of supple dough. Sleep descended as
though induced by drugs. I didn't remember slipping out or sliding off
of her, but had a final moment of cognition, finding myself on my side
facing Polly as her lips found mine for a last, delicate brushing of a
kiss.
Next was low slanting sunshine and the high keen of birdsong. Bars of
light through the blinds on my face and a bar of lead across my legs.
There was that initial moment of enormous confusion. My eyes opening to
find a strange bed and myself not alone. The plushness of breasts
pressing against my chest, a tangled head of unfamiliar hair resting on
my shoulder, the heavy softness of a female leg weighted with slumber
slung across my thighs.
_Oh my god!_ I then remembered. _Polly!_ Lying beside me. In the bed
we'd shared. Everything we'd shared. My sister, fully fucked by
myself.
I lay there with my morning erection, the memories of the previous
night, and the warmth of her womanly flesh pressed against me. My first
instinct was to just roll her over and fuck us both silly again.
But then I grew quickly terrified. It was a new day; maybe the old
rules would apply again. And of course there was the long-held
knowledge that Polly was an absolute bear in the morning, especially if
she didn't wake up on her own accord.
I gradually and gently extricated myself from under her flung leg.
Polly's only response was to sigh and snuggle more deeply into the
little pillow we had shared as I climbed out of bed without a noise.
Standing up, I took a slow, deep breath. The room stank of sex. I
suddenly remembered reading about how the olfactory sense functioned,
that what you smelled was actual molecules of what you smelled floating
in the air. It was a wonder the room wasn't raining semen and pussy
juice, the scent was that thick.
Quietly I gathered up all my stuff and carried it into the livingroom,
delighting in the sensation of walking through rooms absolutely naked.
My cock, finally deflating, hung heavy with the dried sheen of sex. I
decided to hit the shower. The spigot-in-a-box.
Once clean and dressed, I peeked back in the room. Polly had shifted in
the bed, but was still fast asleep. I went into the kitchen. From the
digital clock on the microwave I saw I'd need to be leaving within the
hour. I found some cereal in a cupboard, but with no clue if or where
there might be any milk, it seemed pointless to locate a bowl and spoon.
I ate my breakfast dry, by the handful, straight from the box.
I knew I should at least leave Polly a note, but I balked at the actual
composition. I decided to leave it for the last minute, relying on
brief inspiration rather than bogging down in time-allowed details.
That settled, I felt nearly vibrant, brand-new, well-sexed and ready for
the rest of the road. I packed up my bag, organized my papers, reading
through some stuff and making annotations as I enjoyed a cup of instant
coffee made from hot tap water. Then I began carting stuff out to the
car.
I was out on the drive finishing up when I heard a sultry, "Good
morning."
I nearly jumped, I'd been so caught up in my solitude. Polly swayed
towards me from the front door, her look sleepy and dreamy, hair wet
from the shower. She stopped and stood there a few feet away, wearing
denim cut-offs and a grey sweatshirt cropped at the neck so it hung well
off one shoulder. "Getting ready to go, then?"
"Y-y-yea," I stuttered, "I've about got everything loaded up for the
drive." Polly stood there looking at me. "I'm sorry, but I wasn't sure
if I should wake you up or not."
She gave a noncommittal shrug, the sweatshirt falling even further off
her shoulder. Then she smiled. "Thanks for stopping by. It was an
excellent visit."
"Oh yea," I seconded. "Very, very nice."
Her brows furrowed. "Sorry if I was such a bitch at the bar."
"Oh no," I shook my head, "doesn't matter."
Then her brows lifted. "Have everything? You sure you didn't leave
anything? Hold on, I'll go have a quick look." Polly turned and
sauntered back to the house, her ass swinging in that marvelous way
women can have.
After several minutes had passed, I got in behind the wheel and started
up the car. It was nearly ten full minutes before Polly came back out,
pulling the front door hard behind her. In the rearview mirror I could
see she was carrying something, but keeping it hidden.
Polly came up and opened the passenger door. "I was right. You did
forget something."
"What?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.
She slung a small bag into the back seat, then slid in beside me,
slamming the car door shut. "Me!" she announced brightly.
Before I could react, she continued, "I want to come see you read. Do
you mind? If you do," she gave me a poke, "I'll put you in a cast and
you won't be able to leave me." She patted a pocket. "I've got plenty
of cash."
Perhaps then an expression did develop fully on my face. "Ohh, don't
worry," she soothed, "if some pretty little pussy comes on to you after
the show, I won't mind sharing."
I sat there slack-jawed. Polly reached over and groped my crotch with a
giggle. "I don't want to make you late, but if you don't get going I'm
going to climb over there and sit in your lap."
I eased the car into gear as she sat back with a smug look. I tore down
the sidestreet off towards the highway interchange. Polly gave me a
final squeeze then settled back in the seat. "That's okay. I'll get
all I want later on."
Once on the highway, I was passing like mad and concentrating hard on
the crazed parade of old people in big cars with northern plates going
so slow. There was so much motion going on in front of me I didn't have
time to spare for my peripheral vision. I scarcely knew what was up
before Polly had undone her shoulder belt, scooted over, bobbing her
head in my lap above my unzippered pants. I was what was up, thick and
hard, buried to the hilt between her lips.
"What do you think you're doing?!" I nearly screamed.
Polly gave a chortle, of the muffled sort when you've a mouth stuffed
full of cock. She pulled away long enough to give me an undistorted
smile. "Sucking your dick, what do you think?"
Good lord, but my balls were tingling already. This was not a time for
high-speeds and automotive acrobatics, so I settled into the slow lane.
The big rigs blew by, airhorns shrieking in encouragement.
Worst of the spectators were all the appalled families in their high
frame SUVs and mini-vans . . . their blanched faces as they stared down
at the nearly completed sin of emission. There didn't seem any point in
flipping them the bird; as I wound up I got real cocky, waving at them
like I was a hero.
Finally we hit a relatively clear straight stretch. I locked my elbows,
hit the cruise control, then dimmed my eyes to slits as I shouted along
with my eruption. Fuck, but did I have a full tank of gas! Rivulets of
semen were dribbling out the seal of her lips, trickling all over my
trousers.
After the pulsations tapered off, Polly gave a contented sigh, then some
other noises that sounded like words.
"Come on, girl, where's your home-training? You know better than to
talk with your mouth full."
She spat out my spent cock. "God! Not as full as it was a minute ago.
Where did all _that_ come from?"
"I told you this morning I got everything loaded up for the drive down."
"No kidding. Geez! Don't stop for lunch on account of me." She darted
her tongue around like a cat, catching the stray drops from my pants.
Then she moved back to my softening cock, eventually popping it back
into her mouth. She closed her eyes and began sucking on it like a
thumb, making purring noises as I caressed her hair.
I returned my concentration to the road, not breaking to gaze back down
until I noticed she'd stopped sucking. There Polly lay, her head in my
lap, my cock in her mouth, fast asleep.
I thought about letting my free hand do a little wandering among her
bodily landscape, but a glance at the dash clock convinced me of the
need for some two-handed driving; I had to make some fast time. With
that, my thoughts turned to the destination ahead, the destinations in
the future, the forces that might come to bear on the future of my life-
-immediate and distant.
Hell--Miami was a big town. I could lose Polly easily enough. Drop her
off to go park around the block and never come back.
But did I really want to?
=========================
Like? Yes? No? Comments welcome. losgud@hotmail.com
=========================
I am archived at DejaNews under "Author" name: LUSHGOD@HOTNOMAIL.COM
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