Watch me dance. Follow me and know you want more…. comment and tell me what you want… I’m a people pleaser….
So the memoir of my sacred pleasure continues. Be sure to catch up on the story by reading here.
When I graduated from college, really I just got my MRS. degree. I married Donny Blumfield who I met at Sunday mass my last semester. He had inherited his family’s Blumfield funeral home in Jacksonville.
He switched to law when he heard that the law firm Goldman & McGee next door to the mortuary was available because the couple retired their estate planning business and took up alligator farming in New Smyrna Beach.
We had had the huge, Catholic wedding, replete with buxom women who sat together chatting in the back pews gazing and waving at Father who was out on parole. He turned , smiled and gazed back at them occasionally, like a rooster checking on his hens.
All three of my wild, sexual sisters came. Twins Regina and Bettina, and Vivian. I made them promise to behave. They said they would as long as they could invite their top five clientele who said they were just dying to see them look like good, little girls in a Catholic Church instead of the stripper and whores they knew them as at their club and salon. They each paid them $5k to witness the act and then take turns fucking them both afterwards at the Motel Sherman.
Naturally for years, Donny and I kept our sex under tight wraps and cool hymns. Sex was only for conception, and I dutifully bore our dear only daughter, Bernadette. I then settled into volunteering with Catholic Services, helping to place Burmese orphans with local families.
But I would always hear groans in the bathroom Donny locked himself in for an hour-and-a-half every Sunday afternoon. I could hear a whipping sound, more moans and a mess of toilet paper stained with blood stuffed at the bottom of the trash can.
I kept silent and I never put together his bathroom episodes with the scars on his back until years later that I discovered in a box behind a brick in the bathroom wall his secret diary along with hundreds of antique postcards of nude dance hall girls. In it he confessed his desires to be a Penitent and his hours and hours of masturbation.
As my daughter grew into adolescence and started budding sexually, well I guess that was my rise and shine call too for a second coming. For I noticed that my dear Bernadette was being called, “Bernie” by all her girlfriends. She didn’t have many boy friends by the time she was 15.
She kept her brown hair cropped short and wore only pants and long-sleeved shirts after school or weekends, even though her best friends, Teresa and Catherine, wore lovely dark stockings, heels and flowing dresses and wore flawless makeup that included false eyelashes while Bernadette wore none. They were also on the cheerleading team, but Bernadette was in the Jazz band on bass.
It was her 18th birthday party that did it finally. We threw a big party and Bernadette invited the whole Catholic high school. It must have been that I was exhausted from the late August heat and humidity, so I drank a little more wine than I should have.
While the party raged in the backyard lined with palmettos under the night sky and Metallica music raged, I sat down at the kitchen table to rest while Donny excused himself in the bathroom again. I watched the shadows of young, virile men who had given me the up and down look with bawdy smiles on their faces when they arrived, their clothes heavy with the scent of marijuana. I said nothing. I just smiled and as always just kept everything under wraps.
Just then, a young man named Steve, who I know from Bernadette’s drama club, came and pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and sit down next to me. As I watched as his fine, smooth skin and hard muscles I felt a shock of fever erupt in my pussy. I had been so good all these years keeping it down, but tonight it was different with this young, young man next to me. Like I could smell his hormones and desire.
I rubbed my thighs together in surprise. His piercing blue-eyes gazed at my thighs that were exposed from my bunched up seersucker skirt, and it made my body lurch in an almost orgasm, so I jumped up to go to the refrigerator and cool down.
“Mrs. Blumfield,” he said in a low voice with a soft Southern drawl. “I just have to tell you, I think you are a really cool mom.” I stood stunned holding the refrigerator door as I gazed at his firm, smooth biceps and pectorals peeping through his soft, blue shirt. I was even more stunned at how wet and sticky my panties were at that moment and my knees gave in a little.
“You and I, you know, we have a lot in common,” he said. “We hold things back, but I just can’t anymore.”
His smile was as if the Cheshire Cat was incarnate as a hard-bodied young man. It ripped open a tiny opening of carnal lust that came trickling out of my dammed up libido for 35 years. I saw his hard on bulging through his jeans. I gasped.
“I think you’re beautiful,” he said as he stood up, then brought his cheek close to mine. “And one of the hottest MILF’s I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Just then, the waters of my desire rippled the hole inside my loins wider until I could barely stand as my muscles started contracting. I started gushing, gushing, gushing and gushing. Amrita, they call it I learned later, female ejaculation.
I moaned and squirmed as I came and came and came. I couldn’t control my body, the orgasms bottled up for years, years my desire withheld, came bursting forth in massive orgasm out from between my legs. Steve caught me before I feel to the floor. I couldn’t stop my heavy breathing and moaning like someone possessed. I couldn’t help it because my body seemed to have been seized by Eros, by some mysterious, overwhelming power, something that had been kept under wraps for too long.
I was no longer Veronica Blumfield, as if her mind had been banished from her body and left with just raw carnal flesh to confront – heaving breasts whose nipples were piercing through the white blouse now stained with sweat, an open red-lipsticked mouth, quivering thighs and trembling hands that started grabbing for a throbbing clit. It narrowed my eyes into slits that were gateways to another world.
I was pitched out of ordinary time into eternal time. There was nothing but desire. Nothing but passion. I had tasted orgasm and fulfillment, and that desire and passion for more of it had to be satisfied again and again and again – and fast.
Steve sat there holding me on the kitchen floor as I quivered in orgasm and felt his hard cock in jeans press against my body. It was as if he had received a psychic transmission. The same jolt of energy I was struck with, because he then heaved to his feet to help me stand up. He held his arm close around me as he led me out the door and into the sultry night.
I didn’t even get my purse and I can’t even remember anything much else except that we were kissing and grabbing at each other’s clothing on the front lawn, stumbling toward his Mustang as the sound of teenagers and loud music in the backyard faded into the distance.
He peeled out, and burning rubber filled the air as I fumbled at his belt buckle, ripped open his zipper and pulled out his stone hard cock, erect like a monument to Zeus. A thunderbolt of the sheer power of licentiousness. He fondled my breasts or reached under my skirt to fondle my soaking cunt with his right hand as he drove, and I plowed my mouth all over his cock, sucking and licking while he screamed out the window, “Hot fucking Jesus! Yeah!”
He didn’t stop driving until he parked near the swampy shores of the St. John’s River, the darkness roaring against the chorus of crickets and katydids. “A secret spot,” he said. We lept into the back seat, his blond hair tumbling all around. My white underwear – long ago soaked and peeled off – flew out the window. I ripped off his shirt ripped to reveal his gleaning, hard skin and youthful virility. His mouth plunged into my pussy, sucked on my clit forever, viciously sucking and licking it as if I were the creme frosting on fresh red velvet cake.
I gushed. I moaned. I watched my breasts bare in the darkness and smelled the vinyl of his car mingled with our sweat dripping from us, panting, trembling.
My orgasms rippled through my body like Bach on an organ at Christmas, shattering the night and only matched by an explosive “Veronica!” as he arched his back, came and collapsed on my chest.
He assured me that drama class taught him well, as he smoothly explained that he noticed I was looking piqued in the heat and wasted no time to take me to the hospital. That was the official explanation back at the party two hours later. Bernadette raised a well groomed, arched eyebrow and looked gorgeous in her tuxedo, but turned back to her crepe-dressed doting girlfriends and stoned guests.
I spent all night touching myself, still convulsing under the sheets next to Donny who must have psychically sensed the sexual frenzy and climbed on top of me, penetrating me, but only lasting a little while before he squeaked, came and then rolled over to sleep.
Next morning that Saturday, Steve drove me to meet his older cousins, Zach and Buck who had rented a room at Motel Sherman.
All I can say is that it was very hot and steamy, fast and furious, fucking those two young men in every conceivable position. I cried out, “Ave Maria!” as I came over and over and over again while the air conditioner churned overtime to cool our heated bodies that soaked the sheets with sweat and cum. We sat smoking pot afterwards and drinking bourbon as the neon lights outside flashed against the night sky. That was when I confessed to them, “I can’t go back. I like this too much. I need to be fucked. And a lot.” Then we’d start fucking all over again.
So much to say, but I can tell you for the first week I based myself out of that hotel room. Called Donny and said to take care of Bernadette. Steve’s cousins brought more friends, young men with hot, hard bodies and great pot. For two weeks we roamed the countryside, fucking in the back of cars or in barns and his crew of friends. You can use your imagination, darlings.
Lots of tongue, cock, pussy – an orgiastic frenzy of a dozen or so men among female ejaculation while those boys mounted me one after another from behind. And I like it from behind. Brings out the animal in me – too much heaven for so long – I needed earth. Plus it made me scream, and I like screaming as I get fucked. But I screamed so loud that they started to have to bind my mouth with a gag and that made me come even harder as they took turns pounding their cocks in me.
I must stop here, my dear reader and wind this down now. I have so much more to say about the memoir of my sacred pleasure. This is really just the beginning still. Eventually somebody talked. Word got out about the orgiastic rituals with Steve and his boys, spreading like storm surge during a hurricane, engulfing the church in scandal and washing everything of my old life way.
My divorce was quick. Bernadette would go to college and became a lesbian poet in Paris. I wouldn’t see her again until years later. But back then I set out on my own with a suitcase full of and high heels and hot new clothes that my twin sisters, Regina and Bettina, made special for me when they got the news of my rebirth.
Then I got on a bus to far, far away, disappearing and dying to my innocent and saintly old life – letting my sexual instincts long-neglected, buried and forgotten get to know me as I began the long journey of my sacred pleasure.
And I let my pussy lead the way.
Until next time, dear reader.
Don’t you just love to dance? My Handler sent me to Buenos Aires to learn this sultry dance called the tango, which originally was about a pimp and her prostitute. I wrote this Erotic Tango Tanka poem while I was there. I can still remember the cafeteriías and milongas. I danced to all night long in my high heels, fishnet stockings and ruffled black dresses. We drank the best wines from Mendoza. I remember all the men who wanted to dance with me. But really I remember the women…. I really enjoyed the women the best. How I remember that night with Marcella….Enjoy.
Don’t forget to shop till you drop, baby!
Looking back on my high school days, I can laugh now. But back then it wasn’t so easy. Suppressing the heat and scent that my loins oozed, ignoring the fierce pulse in my muscles of sexual longings. I had to so that I could aid Mother in dealing with my wild sisters.
I imagine it’s all what was supposed to be. Because you know, after keeping my lust and passion bottled up for so long, it would be just the raw fuel for an supermassive explosion of sexual energy that would rock my world, my body, and the universe as well.
But I get ahead of myself. My oldest sister, Vivian, got pregnant a few months before graduation with Lenny Colabello who worked at DaVinci’s Auto. Mother insisted she graduate and get her diploma, and Father made them have a quickie wedding.
Vivian named the baby Leonardo and saved up the big tips from her elderly clients at Mane Event Salon where she worked. The old men loved her young, adoring eyes, sensuous shampooing hands and charming giggle that made her big breasts jiggle at all the flattering hot whispers in her ear while jazz tunes played and she danced and laughed and served shots of Jack Daniels.
The “happy ending” pat on their dicks that were bulging through their pants by the time the shampoo was over doubled her tips too, and in just one year she opened her own hair salon, Amore Galore. She was booked solid for months straight and rented booth space to hot, hair stylists with big breasts that were stuffed into French maid outfits.
Business soared. No advertising needed, just word of mouth. Lenny didn’t mind, because she made so much money he could eventually quit his job and just screw around and get high with the young blonde cashiers at Spendlow Thrift Store next door before picking up Leo at daycare.
At school my younger twin sisters, Regina and Bettina, excelled in home economics. Instead of sewing blouses with cap sleeves or calf-length skirts that I hid myself beneath, however, the Twins’ sewing machine roared to the assemblage of gold and aqua-sequined outfits with matching thongs and g-strings designed for their exotic dance routines they choreographed together in the garage after being thrown out of Dona Elaine’s school of ballet for lewd behavior the summer before their junior year.
Mother started having nervous ticks after that on the right side of her face, and it made her Margarita drinking difficult, so she switched to drinking rum and cokes with a straw. I stayed close to home to help her since my father’s out-of-town trips were longer and longer by enrolling at University of North Florida on a scholarship and majored in art history and English.
I resisted the advances of my professors, how they stared at my breasts as they discussed my Latin or chemistry homework. Even my geography teacher Ms. Doan would watch my ass as I walked out the door every day. I did have a real thing for my Contemporary Literature Professor, Mr. Tomich. His lips tucked behind his thin beard around his square jaw was so soft-spoken with the way he said, “Hemingway’s women.” It aroused me everytime, and I had to cross my legs a lot and squeeze them tight to shut down the fever in my loins and my imagination that had me joining my sisters in a strip tease before pinning him down for me to suck his cock.
He even one day after class slipped his hand on my knee when I asked him to look at my Raymond Carver essay. I held my breath. I could feel my nipples harden and his soft, dark eyes that were locked onto mine.
“You’re gorgeous, smart, sexy,” he said. “I’ve been watching you.” Then he looked down at my nipples pushing through my sweater. When his hand moved up my thigh, I wanted to give in, jump him and kiss him, but I shook it off and ran off because I would have exploded at that moment since the moisture in my panties already was giving way with my sweat. And because real trouble was waiting at home and Mother would need me.
The twins were always quite dramatic and flashy with their clothes they designed and sewed. They were in all the high school musicals. Their senior year they had convinced the drama teacher, Miss Kirchbaum, the spring before to do Gypsy for the spring musical even though the PTA had an uproar and had her fired when they found out and the new teacher replaced it with Oklahoma instead. But that didn’t stop my twin sisters….
Because of their popularity and dancing talents, they were naturally picked to help choreograph, and they kept everything well-behaved. Or so everyone thought. I took mother to opening night and she beamed proudly at Regina and Bettina wrapped up in high-collared brown and pink prairie dresses for the opening numbers. But when the Dream Ballet scene came on, half-way through the twins broke the routine I had seen them rehearse at home.
The band must’ve been in on it, because Regina screamed, “Hang on folks, now the real show begins! YEAH!” and she snapped her fingers as she cued Rex Margoli, the jazz band sax player, who stood up, cued his pals in the band and shouted, “1, 2,3, here we go,” as the band switched to playing The Stripper.
My mother sat with her jaw dropped and eyes rolled back in her head as I stared at my twins sisters on stage strip out of their innocent red and green lacy dance hall girl outfits as they strutted their long legs in high heels downstage toward the audience to the strip-tease music.
Then Regina and Bettina’s long red nails that they had meticulously manicured the night before ripped open their bodices to reveal braless firm round breasts with just red star tassels covering their nipples.
“Here you go boys,” they shouted as they threw the bodices to the old men from Vivian’s salon who were all invited and sat wide-eyed in the front row. The Twins’ hips were clad in only red sequined g-strings with pink fur covering their pussy and black garters to hold up their fishnet stockings over their tone thighs.
The Twins bumped and grinded, swayed their sumptuous asses to the audience, which had broken out into shouts, whistles and jeers as all the male students rushed the front of the stage trying to touch them, grabbing at their legs and fighting over Vivian’s clientele to do it. Regina would squat down and thrust her pelvis forward fast as if she were a reincarnated Middle Eastern belly dancer as the principal, Mr. Duggan, sat dumbfounded and stared at the stage with a hard-on as the audience roared.
Regina and Bettina kissed each other, took turns shimmying their bodies up and down each other and blowing kisses to the audience. Other girls, even fat ones, started climbing on stage and stripping and dancing naked wild with sweat next to them because of the frenetic, erotic energy the Twins’ dancing and shocker behavior unleashed into the theatre that night. I even felt the rush and almost jumped up, thinking, go Regina and Bettina! Do your thing! But I caught a glimpse of Mother sobbing and I kept myself planted in my seat.
By the time the high school jock Brad Moulton was climbing on stage and put a $1 bill in Bettina’s g-string, that’s when the velvet curtain came down, and the lights went out as Mother started screaming, the exit doors flew open and I rushed her out with everybody else into the spring Florida night.
Needless to say the Twins were expelled from school after that, but already 18 and with every North East Florida newspaper screaming headlines about them replete with photos that the high school Photo Club President Marsha Livingston sold for $500 a pop, they started dancing at the Bus Stop topless bar with a large clientele and a $1000 each signing bonus. They even had their own marquis with their names on it. “Double Trouble” they headlined, and Vivian did their hair and makeup every night with her clientele in tow in the front row.
Their costumes and hot duo dance routines became so popular that eventually the Twins would open their own club, Orchid Royale, along the St. John’s River. Father was indicted for selling Valium and Xanax samples to the prostitutes’ pimps he frequented in Atlanta on business trips. And Mother died in front of the television, a copy of Gone With the Wind found in the DVD player.
So that was my college career. Graduated magna cum laude. It wasn’t until later I would have my own big act of love and sex. But that is another story… to be continued, dear reader. Do tune in until next time. xoxoxoxo
by Veronica Love
They did not want to die virgins – The outline of her nude body – There were no restraints in France – Her fleshy-white thighs – Sex and mortality – her black silk stockings – A reward – and garter – for surviving battle – came off – or a refuge from imminent death – Fingers on her soft-silken pussy – Young British officers had money to spend – Her gorging breasts – Knew they stood a good chance – nipples like young, pink raspberries – of being killed within a few weeks – The way she moaned and arched her back.
Fellow officers chose to visit the brothels of Paris – Several young women writhing and sucking each others’ breasts – A maison tolérée – The Madam – “blue lamp” – took him to an eight-sided room – a refined category of brothel – walls and ceilings entirely covered with mirrors – reserved by secret edict – The only furniture a low divan – of the British army – luxurious – for the officer classes – on which this pretty little brunette displayed her charms – the misery of the trenches – opened her legs wide – A refuge cherished from the horrors of the first industrial war – She welcomed him most pleasantly – born in late Victorian Britain – her blue – tens of thousands – blue eyes – of young men – the scent of lilac – fear of imminent extinction – her honey tongue – dissolved sexual inhibition – She knew how to suck his cock and make him shudder.
The shelling – She buried his head in her pussy with her slender hands – the slaughter – She went wild when he handcuffed her – the Western Front – to a wrought-iron bed – He had performed – He could suck her breasts for hours – heroic deeds for England – The way she loved to fuck – but also felt the need for a little love – The way she moaned – a little laughter – He grabbed her ass and fucked her.
Outside the room – the heat – young British officers – the sweat – drinking – building his desire – smoking – The way she touched herself and orgasmed – playing a battered piano beneath sensuous drawings – half-singing – pinned on walls – half-lusting – of young women wearing – loving – or half-wearing – radiant and beautiful – provocative clothes – made his heart ripple across his chest – German shelling – as he restrained his hard cock from climaxing – intensely – sweating – dangerous – so he could fuck her more – underground – fuck her again – war – those tender fuchsia lips. Dear God.
Bridges – heat and heavy breath – a railway station – her passion – devastated – fucking her silken tender flesh – vast craters – fucking – her heat – too large to have been created by an artillery shell – her cunt – a tunneller – 1915 – wet – served in France until 1919 – thrusting – burrowing – faster – beneath – faster – No Man’s Land – fucking faster – to blow up the German trenches – He cried out as he came – The shuddering in revulsion from death – collapsing in each other’s arms – one turns instinctively – listening to heavy breathing and heart beats – to love as an act to affirm the completeness of being –
Rested they breakfasted on an omelette – melon – and champagne.
Memories – lost love – Her name was Yvette – her pictures kept hidden – she was his favorite – locked away in a biscuit tin – Her scent still lingers on his fingertips – He never talked about it all these years – A lock of her hair – All we know is that he fell in love with a young woman in France – her garter – and that his family apparently discouraged him from marrying – Memories – He never talked about the Great War – brief physical encounters – Romantic love – not so easily suppressed – Right at the end of his life – Amour – he would talk about the young woman he had known in France – Je t’aime – He would become very emotional – Yvette – while talking about her – Je t’aime – He would even – Embrassez-moi – lapse – Yvette – into French – Je t’aime – Je t’aime – Je t’aime.
© Copyright 2017 Veronica Love
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by Veronica Love
© Copyright 2017 Veronica Love
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by Veronica Love
© Copyright 2017 Veronica Love All Rights Reserved
So dear reader, as I mentioned last post that I would tell you everything, but there’s so much! Where do I begin? I guess at the beginning.
I was the middle of four daughters growing up in Jacksonville, Florida. My hot sisters and their sexual escapades caused trouble for my poor, dear half-Italian Mother. No doubt they were incredibly beautiful budding in their adolescence, as was I.
First Mother had a hard time keeping my highly sexual older sister, Vivian, under wraps. Vivian was gorgeous, but not the prettiest of we sisters, maybe being the oldest. But she was lovely nonetheless, exuding an intense sexual aura like that of an Italian movie star with her shapely curvy body and thin waist topped by perky breasts. Her almond- shaped green eyes were like magnets that pulled any boy in toward her sultry, olive skin topped with flowing, thick brown hair. And she had the desire to please.
I was what you consider an Italian twin, born just nine months after Vivian. Followed two years later by my identical twin sisters, Bettina and Regina. They were beautiful with dark hair, and mysterious brown eyes. And they were blessed with the enormous, bouncy breasts that my mother had. By ninth grade starting high school they flaunted those breasts in push-up bras from beneath their Peter Pan-collared white shirted uniforms we had to wear to class at St Peter’s Catholic School. They left the house innocent enough, but changed into them in the girl’s restroom.
“You’re a whore! Only whores wear such clothes!” my Mother always called after my sisters when they ran off with their friends on weekends. They’d wear the tightest t-shirts and low-cut collars that you couldn’t just help but stare at their tits. They loved the shortest of shorts and shoplifted makeup from the 5 and dime.
But their sexual rapaciousness was even worse than Vivian’s, relating to me nightly their stories of masturbating after school at their best friend Jill’s house or giving all the neighbor boys blow jobs. Word got out and they were expelled for giving blow-jobs in the boys bathrooms. Banished to public 9th grade high school, Vivian promptly helped them dye their hair red.
“You’re whores! Only whores dye their hair red!” my Mother cried, holding a picture of Mother Mary. My Mother sobbed to my Father that she couldn’t control my sisters , who was quiet about everything, rocking in a chair and smoking a cigar when he was home. He wasn’t around much. Always on the road as a pharmaceutical salesman, and as I learned later in life, getting his own jollies. So my mother didn’t have much help reeling my sisters in, as My Father seemed just nod in approval as mother complained about their activities and dress. It’s as if he were secretly proud of his seed and what fine stock it produced for masculine tastes and pleasures.
Naturally being the middle child, I became the good girl. Born on her feast day, July 12, I was named after Saint Veronica, patron of laundry and photography. Also the woman who was moved to compassion for Christ and wiped his face with her veil when he fell with the Cross. I took pity on my Mother, who failing to control my sisters and getting no help from my Father, began to drink margaritas with extra salt every afternoon and resigned to an armchair to listen to her Maria Callas records before cooking her famous Italian dinners.
So I shut down my body and excelled in my head, getting good grades in Latin, Greek, history, art and English, studying when I wasn’t working or at school. I stood by Mother’s side to help mitigate my sisters’ lasciviousness, and repress mine. Or at least try.
Even though I tried to control my sisters I was the prettiest of them all. Really pretty. Piercing brown eyes, luscious long brown hair, wide cheeks that I got from my father’s Czech side of the family.
And I was really hot. Exuding the same sexual charisma as my sisters that drove men wild. Only I kept it tightly controlled. I controlled that inherited Latin fever in my loins, the same fever my sisters succumbed to, that I got thinking about my own sexual fantasies. Fantasies I had since childhood. But dared not confess.
I was always stared at and hit on constantly – a smooth brush of the tit from the hand of Mike Mitchell who sat behind me in math class, a slide of the hand on the butt by patrons of my after-school waitress job at Nicoletti’s Pizza Parlor. I always turned my eyes downward from their stares. I have to admit I did like the big tips but I turned away their advances and ran home to Mother.
Now I know all along that men…and women alike… have been picking up my hot cunt scent subliminally, subconsciously, I was emitting it all along….touch me…touch me… I was desperate to be touched, desperate to be fucked and loved, desperate to rip out of these confiding clothing of Catholics and to indulge in the pleasure and satisfaction of giving into raw pleasure and carnal lust of the body and nature that I was denied.
But I pretended to be shy instead, for Mother’s sake, keeping my full, womanly breasts under wraps, eschewing short skirts to hide my long legs. I was to be good for Mother, to be good for Jesus. As a Catholic, I felt guilty for the sexual feelings I had for Jesus. I wanted to be Mary Magdalene. Jesus hung out with the prostitutes. Why would there be anything wrong with it? I wondered. Plus, not having any women or sex seemed unnatural and out of balance. I mean how can pleasure be wrong? How can my beautiful body, my sister’s luscious, sensuous bodies, be wrong?
Plus, the Hindus get to have their Lord Krishna having sex with a thousand Gopi girls and he could have sex with his consort Radha. Why couldn’t Jesus have sex with Mary Magdalene as the ultimate religion? Why not the pleasure of Mary Magdalene’s body merged in bliss instead of the torturous pain of the cross? I wondered this in agony each Sunday as my tongue felt the communion host melt on my tongue. But I shut all that down for Mother.
One evening, when Father was gone for a week, just as we were about to sit down to eat, Mother with tears in her eyes stared at her eggplant parmesania and stromboli and wondered where the Twins were.
Vivian crossed her long legs, threw her head back and just laughed, “ As if you should ask Mama!”
“Vivian! Shhhhh!” I scolded, as my mother’s right hand made the sign of the cross across her plump, round body, then reached to open a bottle of red wine.
“I know where they are, Mama. You just sit tight. I’ll get them here for you.” I grabbed the car keys to the Ford and headed straight for Jill’s House.
Jill’s house was a big red-brick mansion out in the woods. Jill’s parents were both doctors, but they must not have been home, because I rang and rang the doorbell, but there was no answer. I could hear the laughter and smell the marijuana, which led me around back down the path to the screened-in pool house.
There I spotted Bettina, Regina and Jill with three guys from church in the jacuzzi! I stood there stunned, watching Regina moaning and masturbating up against the jacuzzi jet stream, one man relaxed sitting next to her watching her and fondling her balloon-like breasts with one hand. Surely he had already come, and nympho Regina just couldn’t get enough and wanted more. No wonder Americans don’t have bidets! I marveled.
Bettina was on top of another guy who was sitting, fucking him and making waves in the tub, while he sucked her tits. Jill was getting fucked in the same position, but smoking a joint and then passing it to the third guy.
I was mesmerized by what I saw. I felt the passion rise in my loins and I began to sweat as I stared at this orgiastic ecstasy of the flesh I witnessed. My hands reached for my own now hardened nipples, then to my neck as my feet continue to be cemented in my tracks. But an owl hooted, and my head took over my senses again as I charged ahead to complete my task.
“Regina! Bettina!” I screamed through the screened pool house. Crickets buzzed as every head turned, and the fucking stopped. I was so flustered as what to say next. So I just stood there. They went back to their fucking! And Regina even climaxed and I stood there and listened to her moan.
“Regina! Bettina!” Come home this instant! Mother wants you home!” Regina exhausted said, “Oh, Mother. Such a nag.”
“It’s dinner time!” I said to no avail.
“We’re not hungry… at least not for food… but for something else,” Bettina laughed, as she took in her fingers the joint from Jill, took a drag and then blew the smoke into her guy’s mouth. They resumed fucking again.
Flabbergast, I sputtered out, “But, but she made stromboli!!!”
Regina and Bettina stopped!
“Mother made stromboli?” They both chimed together, wide-eyed, thick-lipped mouths open in giant O’s. “Really?”
“Yes!!! She made stromboli! Now come home, for Jesus’ sake!” And Mother’s I thought, and mine, as I watched the Twins leap out of the jacuzzi, grab a towel as the guys cried, “Hey!”
They grabbed their public school clothes of T-shirts and short shorts and school bags.
“Don’t worry, guys,” Jill said. “I’ll let you know the next time my parents are out of town for a conference.”
The Twins grabbed their shoes, waved a quick, “Bye!” to Jill and the guys, then streaked across the Kentucky bluegrass lawn, the moonlight illuminating their four bouncing breasts. They ducked into back seat of the Ford and squirmed into their clothes as I drove them home in the dark, my eyes set on the road in front of me.
Nothing was said at dinner, of course. Except the Twin’s orgasmic sounds of pleasure to feast on their favorite dish of Mother’s. Mother seemed content, likely because the girls loved her food, but also because she was drunk.
In bed that night after dinner, I could not get the images of what I saw out of my mind best I tried, tossing and turning until I fell asleep. In the morning I had dreams. Dreams of nothing I could be remember except a misty haze in which my body eventually convulsed in orgasm after orgasm after orgasm. I didn’t deny them, I could not in my sleepy state, and I indulged in squeezing my thighs together as the orgasms rippled through my body. I allowed them to, until the light of dawn awoke me to get ready for school.
So there, dear reader. I will stop. I have said enough for now. There is so much more to tell. We are only getting started! Tune in next time! Be sure to follow this blog to get the latest in your email box!
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