Disclaimer:(standard) Do not screw up. Do not do anything illegal.
This includes specifically (but not limited to) reading on if you are
under 18- 21 in some localities If you are underage you must leave
now. If you're and curious, this is not the place to get the
straight story. You act like this and people will look at you strange
and give you a wide berth. Also, don't try this at home. Some of this
stuff is just plain wrong, most of it is unsafe in the present viral
climate and some of it doesn't work in this universe. They are stories.
They deal with ideas, fantasies and thoughts that might not even be
pleasant in real life. Thoughts are like that. Fantasies are there so
we can toy with the sensations without feeling or inflicting the pain,
despair or humiliation. End Sermon.
Don Duquesne- (Duquesne.txt)- Ritual murder and bizarre sex.
They were so much in love. To say more ruins the thrill. M/F, oral
and the murder of course.
Don Duquesne
They had to kill him. It was the most merciful thing to do. He
wouldn't last a day without her. He had said losing her would be worse
than losing his life.
And they were in love. So much in love. Umberto couldn't stop his
hand from trembling as he reached under her skirt to pull down her
panties. He felt so crude as he lifted her skirt as she leaned against
the greenhouse table. But he couldn't help himself. He loved her so.
She was busily freeing his straining cock from the restriction
of his trousers. She needed him. She needed him just this way, quick
and explosive- in the greenhouse. She needed the stimulant he pumped
into her veins when they were together. He had to be hers.
He was too much of an animal. But that was because he loved her
so. He had to be inside her. He was crass- too eager. But his body would
only rest from its trembling when he had gone inside her and could hold
her with all his love.
It was always too sudden and never soon enough. He was like a
narcotic that soothed away her troubles when he filled her with his
desire. Warm and throbbing inside her, she moved against him, daring him
to match her passion. She needed him to want her.
She called to him with her hips. She told him wordlessly that she
wanted him like he wanted her. They were so deep in love. Being in each
other's presence was foreplay. He could take her now, hurriedly, and she
could respond because they had their passion even apart.
He feared he would soil her clothes when he felt the passion run
out of him and flood her sheath. He did not mean to be such an animal,
but he loved her so much.
It was nearly fulfilling and made the color rise from her to her cheeks. An invigorating jaunt, she thought. Umberto could be so
totally amusing even in such a brief encounter. He would do. He would
quite do.
Don languished in the parlor. She had told him not to move. He
knelt on the checkerboard pattern floor in his nylons and heels and
waited.
She would allow him to have her tonight. He could feel it. She
would open her legs and grant him access to that honeyed grove between
her lathe-turned thighs. She had hinted before she left.
He would dive into her. He would give her pleasure tonight. She
would be glad she had opened the gates to him. He would nestle his face
into that valley and please her as long as she allowed.
"Now my fine husband I have something special for you," she said
breezily as she swept into the parlor.
She arranged herself like a patrician woman on her couch, almost
upright yet one foot on the cushion and the other dangling carelessly
toward the floor. She nodded to her stockinged husband to begin.
Her thighs were works of art. No imagination could catch the
swell and sweep of those white columns he revealed as he inched her
skirt up. The grotto of her desire was beyond the scope of words.
It could only be praised by the tongue when the tongue was
cleverly applied directly to its beauty. A tear of gratitude slipped
down his cheek as he bent to praise it.
"I have added some spice to the stewpot tonight, my darling," she
said as his tongue grazed her flesh.
He was not manly. It was scarce a weakness as his agile tongue
explored. He was too lithe, too limber, too gentle to be like a in
his worship of her sex. He was as she imagined a woman might be.
He did not taste her recent passion. He memorized only the way she
felt and tasted this time. He did not compare. His time was spent only
to record. He must remember lest she not afford him his due for some
time to come. He must remember always.
They all said a woman was the best anyway. As her hips responded
to his clever tongue, she thought only the manner and not the sex
mattered. He was so dutiful in pleasing her.
"The difference today is that I have just made love to a man," she
told him.
His tongue went on without pause. She had not bid him cease. He
lapped at her without considering her words. She was allowing him to
praise her beauty.
"Umberto is quite passionate to have me," she said.
But who could resist such perfect charms? Don delved deeper into
the parting of her labia. She was a delicate flower, a beautiful flower.
Her thoughts were swirled for a moment. He could put her in such
states with that tongue. It was hard to think what she had come to tell
him. Oh yes, Umberto and his passion.
"We are to run away together so he can have me all to himself,"
she told him.
She was open like an orchid and he sought the fleshy stalk. She
shifted most delicately and moaned quietly. He could feel her heat
touch his face. He pressed forward to kiss her.
She let the hot wave pass over her. She was completed now. He
kissed gently, catching wetness on his tongue. She reclined a bit.
"We will have to kill you, you see," she told him, "You wouldn't
be happy alone."
He looked up into her cool green eyes. His face was shiny with her
moisture.
"I wouldn't want to live without you," he said.
He must die if he would not release her. No crawling thing
deserved the respect of a man. They must do it. They must do it soon.
Umberto would kill him willingly. He would do anything for this
woman, his love. She would bring him to Umberto. He would strike the
final blow.
Her hands were on his need. They were delicate like a swallow's
wings as they touched him. Yes, he was mad in anticipation. They were
so much in love. To think that he would have her for himself, it was
too great to control his response.
He talked with passion of the murder. She sought the passion
between his legs. He swelled so easily. His desire was a wild thing.
She baited his passion in its den.
He wished to touch the her breasts. The that would be his
breasts. He wished to touch her all. He longed for the chance to show
his love to her all night long.
She exposed the rigid stalk. It burned hotly in her hand. He did
want her so. She should please him, but quickly. There was no time to
compromise their pact. She stepped back, feet far apart.
Ah, the things lovers do. She was mad with her love. They would do
the things lovers do. He drew up her skirt and found she had prepared
for him. No barrier clothed her from his love.
It was less magical than she planned. She had to concede to
gravity and hold his shoulders as he stepped between her legs. But the
fire of his entering was what she had wished.
She was a furnace. They were in love. Their passion could not wait
on endearments. He could take her where she stood because their desire
drove them. It was not a crude coupling for lovers like them.
Mere inconvenience at holding him did not cheapen the weakness in
her legs as he took her robustly. He was so eager to fill her. He was
driven. He satisfied her need. He was so strong inside her.
His love made him premature. When she was his, he would have the
time to please her. He could not restrain how much he loved her. The
flood rushed out because it wanted to be with her too.
So eager and wild. He was firm and manly and mad with desire. His
strength moved her. His passion filled her. He was so eager and
unrestrained like a given his head.
Don despaired that tuxedos did not come with two pair of trousers.
He was afraid he was damaging the knees of this pair. He knew there
would be scuffs on the toes of his highly-polished shoes.
He knelt by the bed like a suitor from the waist down. Above he
wore an outrageously padded bra and the wig. She was preparing
for bed. Tonight she would let him share at least an inch or two
of her bed with her.
She stepped over him like he was a lying on the floor. Her
satin robe pulled up his back and tugged at his wig. For a glorious
second she was kneeling in front of him. All her glorious charms were
but a breath away under the canopy of her robe.
Then the robe settled and she settled onto her back.
"Tell me, my love, am I bruised?" she asked.
He answered by praising her again. His lips were tender as he
sought to soothe her complaint. It was a marvelous wonder in the cleft
between her thighs.
Her breath caught. He was gentle as a butterfly wing. Her account
paused as she waited for the wet touch of his tongue. He kissed her so
very lightly again.
This was a wonder. They all were wonders, but this was the wonder
of wonders. So cunningly crafted that irregular surface met irregular
surface seamlessly. He explored the perfect seal.
"Umberto was so impatient today," she revealed.
She felt the heat rush to her belly. Her womanflesh crawled at the
direction of his tongue. Her sex moved on its own as excitement rushed
to it.
The petals would bloom. His tongue knew their secrets. He felt
their quiver grow with the beat of her heart. Soon they would bid him
taste the honey they protected.
His tongue touched deeper. She must remind him of the force of her
lover. His touch was so light. She would tell him of her lover's
passion.
"He takes me as he will," she breathed, "Today we stood in the
garden."
The flower called him in. It gaped wide in invitation. Bee-like,
his tongue probed her calyx. There was much nectar for him to steal.
Her womb moved up for him. She could feel it grasp at no offering.
Her would have to wait. Her desire ruled her mind.
She wanted to pull him in. He felt the working deep in her flesh.
He sought the pistle to lick it clean of foreign pollen. The flower
became a flytrap to snap at him. It poured honey to lure him in.
Her hand gripped the bedclothes. He had caused so much commotion.
Her cheeks were flushed with her breach of decorum. She would have to
take a breath to speak calmly to him.
"I believe we will murder you within the week," she said. "Umberto
is so impatient to take your place."
The head between her legs gave no sign it heard. He was
lapping up the moisture that had escaped her sex.
"Then it will be today!" Umberto proclaimed.
He moved his trowel across his throat in the gesture of death.
But not outside, she counseled. Make him come to the manure he
will soon become, she tempted.
The shed was cool and the smell was earthy, not raw. There was
something elemental in this place. It was apt for what they had to do.
So basic, so universal in all the corners of the Earth, the smell
of fertile black dirt, the tingle of events to come; her nipples
hardened. There was wetness between her legs.
She gave him the kiss he yearned for. Their lips met for the first
time. He was committed now. He would have her in the way of a man.
Her were containers of Ocean, tipped with the
spouts of life itself. His love was so strong as he stroked them. She
was the goddess and he was her thrall.
He was quite rigid in the loose white pants. Her hand circled the
rod and urged his passion. He would know her completely on this fatal
day. She drew him along as she lowered herself to the floor.
She opened his pants on this day. She pushed it all down so his
stalk raised ready from the arch of generation. She allowed him to open
her dress and gaze on her breasts.
He was so near to having her. He wished to fasten his lips to
the pink roses on her chest, but she pushed his hands down to her hips.
She would know how full his love was. He threw back the dress to expose
her lower half. They would forever share this great love.
She yearned as she had not yet yearned for him. The warm air
closing on her flesh as he uncovered her was the touch of desire's hand.
They would conspire together. She would allow him the time to touch her
completely.
She was primal symbol. His staff made her complete. Umberto
settled into her with a restraint he could only feel now that she would
be his. But he loved her too much to tarry.
He was the raccoon in the corn, reaping her harvest with the
sharp tooth of his manhood. She could feel the canes crumple to the Earth
in the face of his assault. She was the harvest and he was making her
ripe to feed mankind.
He was there, over and in her. His passion was not so brief on
this the crowning day. She felt his need warm her. The flower welcomed
his sting. The shadow of death looming behind him unseen promised only a
starry rebirth.
She loved him so well. He felt her move beneath him. He would give
her his love and she would love him back. This time he was a and
not a rapid little boy. He felt her rise to him. He went down to her.
The tickle about his throat was so brief. He was proving his love
when the rope snapped him from his senses. The body thrashed but his
spirit soared above him. He saw her eyes close in her passion from above
them both.
She had felt his flood on the cusp of her completion. His eyes
protruded and she saw his tongue. He took her finally and another flood
greeted her as she crested with his dying offering.
Don pulled him back by the garrote and threw him on the dung heap.
Once again it was over. Her heavy-lidded smile told him they had sent
him to heaven.
"Kiss it!" she demanded as Umberto lay before her, tongue still
protruding in death.
His chest heaved the pretty print as he glared at her.
"Kiss it!" she said again, pointing to the still waving organ.
She had stirred too many male hormones for him to grant that
easily. But he went down, staining the organdy on the dung, and kissed
the dying staff.
His plumage was all male. He lay naked in the center of the bed to
wait for her to attend him.
The straps bound her too tightly. The thin strap on top
pressed her to the anvil of the wide one in an impressive and painful
display. The dismembered organ within her reminded her she was the
fertile mother.
He directed her up from her knees to crawl to him across the bed.
She was his due. He had conquered the life cycle and by right was master
of its bounty.
She bent to the staff of creation. She awoke it with a kiss. It
stirred serpent-like at her attention. She coaxed it up to be the symbol
of generation. She worshipped the pole of the life-giver with her mouth.
He was male principle. He could bestow fertility to turn the
cycle. It was his duty. It was his due. The king was buried in the
ground. He would make it bring forth life by fertilizing the goddess.
She made the sacrifice on his hardness. She felt his ache and
impaled her throat to his need. It was her redemption to take him. It
was her part to give to his need.
She had opened herself in her acceptance. She had given him the
extent of his due. He was in possession of her femaleness. He pierced
her to the depth and flooded her with seed.
She curled at the foot of the bed. The floor would hold her. He
would spend the night in his kingly comfort.
In the morning the king would die and the creeping female take his place. No one so feminized could sleep with the goddess. No in woman's garb would be worthy to die.
And then it would begin again.
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