old man has warned me about this. The words he picks out of his literary pocket while blurting out his honest description of her situation conjure dreams of godlike quality. I have to admit I am quite curious. I'm definitely aware of how old hardened sages tend to shower their perceptional findings with ample exaggeration. Any storyteller worth his spit would admit that performance is equal if not greater to content. Any libertine worth his scum would amply pride on it. The old man's disjointed tales about her immortalised, sanctified and idolised being are laden with levity. He throws his arms wide open and smiles, a dirty, sly, lecherous smile.
“This big!”
Imagination makes sure that he now has my undivided attention. I feign indifference but covert my way into exhuming a few more details. Apparently, she works at this cooperative store, which is next to a high school and both of them are in a village about an hour's drive from where we are currently sitting, reminiscing. He looks at me and lifts the left edge of his mouth into a squinting grin.
“Kokoc is scared of going in there. If he won't be breaking something, he will be forgetting something. Usually his words. That bastard!”, he laughs and slaps his raised right knee.
Today's run is scheduled around a brand new itinerary. Ample driving. Machine-gun music. Dashboard thumping. Excessive speeding. Going incommunicado even for a few hours at a time. Going postal, almost all the time. One of my checkpoints will bring me to her. Once the rig is underway and on the road I begin to experience this permeating “holy grail” sensation, as if I'm out on a very serious but ultimately rewarding quest. I know I'm just a junkyard god. I drive around collecting crucibles, offerings, tributes. Deciding who is to pay up or not is usually not of my choosing, but extracting the goods out of their haptic tanks is my unmissable priority.
She must have something securely sealed inside her tandem canisters, something that appears selectively on general offer. I'm a sucker for bending a process. The old man's descriptions have purposely ignited the crackling fires of my impulses. If he didn't know that he should be aware of it, although I'm sure he is in a way vicariously projecting his dangling will on my blistering potential. If I get it, he thinks, he gets it. I do have an agenda of my own. I'm also, like every agile and crafty entrepreneur, open to recommendations. The old man has effectively set me up in order to make, or break, someone's day.
It's well past noon when I pull into the empty dirt yard opposite the school. The cooperative store is just across the road. A few customer vehicles are lined up outside, so is a supply van. I hook up the truck to the school depot outlet and log in the local control node. This day, as days around here usually happen to be, is hot and dry. I'm moving some beryllium-copper crates containing extracellular after-waste, leftovers from the de-oxidation process. Soon enough I'm sweating again. I know I won't be making a pretty show. This isn't the beach and I'm not shaking myself dry out of a speedo. Dirt marks line up my forehead, gray liquid patches stain my cargo shorts.
I keep a keen and trained eye on the front entrance of the cooperative store. A few customers come and go. The delivery man carefully examines my hulking figure lugging crates around for a few moments, then closes all doors and drives off. The coast seems clear. I urgently need a refreshing drink and some cool shade. The door opens up without any input from my part. The inside of the store smells of vegetables, detergent, and flour based products. The temperature is markedly lower than outside and the air-conditioning system is working overtime to ensure climate stability. This isn't a particularly large store. I can see the full extent of its width without swinging my head around. The rear end of its length is obscured behind stacked boxes and stuffed shelves but it's evident that space is limited. The till is placed near the entrance to the left. There is somebody standing there but I ignore them as I spring without hesitation towards the fridges. Soon enough my refreshment of choice is cooling off my palm and I'm making my way around the shop, just out of curiosity and to allow myself ample time for exposure. Seeing is much more powerful than talking. A strong imposing physique is nothing without correct posture. All of your extremities have to operate in conjunction and be at peace among themselves. Profound grace can be extracted, and a strong wordless message can be sent through body language alone. Every moment spent interacting with the encompassing world is an exercise in seduction. If there was no living breathing soul around you to notice and acknowledge your passing, you would still be engaged in a furtive unending seduction battle with yourself. Nature loves to yield to the impressively unexpected. I keep my head held up high and my gaze straight. This store hasn't got much to offer me and my refreshment is exerting heat, attempting in this way to revitalise the world. My hand dives into my back pocket. I'm standing in front of the till.
Slowly she rolls into my field of view from behind a heavy set shelf. I can feel a tingle in my spine. The old man's words come suddenly rushing into my mind.
“Is it her?”
The woman now standing in front of me is tall. The old man never said anything about height. Always inquire about height! It makes a world of difference. I stand straight and tighten my back muscles. She looks at me, calmly, sombrely. Doesn't seem to know whether to smile or sulk, move or freeze. It's evident that she is at least half a head taller than me.
“Fuck!”
I could never get around tall women. They were always an alienating challenge for me. I knew it was purely psychological but there was no way in hell for me not to be intimidated by their size. In my eyes, they seemed to possess a special kind of lustre that I myself was unable to muster. My inner milling machine always returned the message that we would be ill-matched, considered purely from a logistical viewpoint. This occasion does not seem to mark an exception. I feel upset, annoyed. She finally moves from behind the counter, transporting her body a full inch closer to me. I go into surface detailing mode. Her eyes are largish, minxish and brown, her mouth small and tight like the bud of a blossoming flower. She is fair skinned and her hair is long, wavy, scaling black hair. I'm quite impressed by her dress. It's plain white with a black and white floral pattern. Clean lines, quite conservative, buttoned at the back. Her bosom is well hidden, raw flesh is only revealed from the neck up. To my immense disappointment, I discern that her breasts aren't remotely close to being as big as the old man so profoundly exclaimed them to be. I feel disappointed but I don't know exactly why.
“Is it her??”
I'm quite clearly annoyed, angry even. My expectations have come to a hard clash with reality. I'm not sure who this tall woman really is. Her rapsheet fails to offer a matched description. Either that or I'm looking at a completely different person than the one introduced during past fables.
She takes the can from my protruding hand. I can see her eyes darting up and down the monitor. She is pressing buttons, issuing commands and I'm suddenly aware that whatever I'm observing seems really beautiful and inviting. For a moment, I forget that she is tall and that moment carries on. For another moment I forget about her unrepresented chest, and that moment also carries on. She informs me about the particulars of our transaction and I bore my gaze intensively right between her eyes. She seems surprised, taken aback. Her eyelids momentarily flare up. This is my sign, a revelation of a foothold and I gladly take it, going in for the kill.
“Word on the street 's that the council will be spearheading a campaign to neutralise all foul odour emissions coming from interloping foreigners”
As I say this I keep strong eye contact, not batting an eyelash, never giving out a smile. She seems taken aback at first but soon she clicks and willfully rolls with it.
“You should be the first to go then”
She doesn't look like the “get on the bandwagon” type. Her movements are soft, unbridled. Doesn't appear to be immediately calculative, formative. Girls like her are often found in villages such as this. If the setting around us was different she could be swooning inside a long strapless glittery black tube dress, swinging her poignant red lips around a cradled microphone. She definitely possesses some flair, some class. She gives me my item back and I hand over the medium of exchange.
“I can't and shan't leave until I take everything with me”, I say and coyly smile. She takes my offering gently, using only her fingertips. Somehow, I will have to get into her perimeter, somehow I have to jump over the border and engage in atypical first contact.
“And how do you propose to take what is not rightfully yours?”, she says without lifting her sight off the monitor, the tiniest of tremble ringing out in the timbre of her voice.
This isn't nearly close to the ballpark. This is gone, straight down the hole.
Perceptually I draw myself up as a modern version of a Hannibal or Genghis Khan, kicking down doors, rustling treasures out of the stoned hands of raw-boned victims of circumstance, as I flawlessly, impeccably, deliver my punchline.
“By brute force”
She is giving me her full attention. Enlarged eyes, dilated pupils. A break of sweat on her brow. Her white arms are crossed in front of her chest. Using only one hand I open the container, and as I raise it up to my mouth, I lean over the counter, without the tiniest jib in my approach and gently pull her left arm down. I take a big lengthy gulp and when I open up my eyes again she has both palms on the counter, shoulders wide apart, leaning slightly forward towards to me. I am looking at her lips, she is looking at mine. She appears calm, tame her figure is no longer imposing. I bang the container on the counter and she pulls back a little. With one swift move I'm over the counter thrusting my weight on through her lips. Her mouth is dry, her tongue is a little rough, I can taste a fading flavour of tobacco and sour cheese picking through the immediately forming moistness. Her body pushes against mine, she pants and lets out small sharp sighs as both of my hands crawl around her back and quickly start unbuttoning her dress. Her chest is small and nowhere near the descriptions given by the old man. Maybe it's not her, maybe it's her cousin and she is somewhere else in another store, on another counter her raised legs trembling through the air as they shoot to pierce through the roof. The dress is down at her waist, her breasts are milky-white and soft. I squeeze at them over her white cotton bra and I'm quick to locate a hardened nipple. Our kissing is rough and intense, my fingers pull and twist at her nipples. I press forward, push her head back, bite her lips and stick my tongue down her throat while I pull the bra down to her waist. I cup her breasts with both hands, spread my legs apart aim for her centre and lean her down over the counter letting my weight on her body. Her hands are thrown wide over her shoulders, her head twists comfortably to the side and I fold the dress over her legs, cupping them at the ankles, lifting them up, exposing the bottom of her pink slip. My tongue slides down her calf all the way over one buttock, my hand caresses a thigh, my hands slowly rub against the inside of her knee. She moans, once my tongue comes perilously within the periphery of her ovarian epicentre. I bite the inside of her thigh and stick my head through the cluster of her legs to take a good look at her, they way her expression shifts from expectation to surprise as I roll her slip off her thighs. I cusp her ankles and forcibly pull her legs wide open. Her cunt is dressed with a thinly trimmed, square patch of black pubic hair. My hands slide down her thighs and around her buttocks, lifting her pelvis up towards my face, as I dive down towards her field of earthly pleasures. I won't be playing around today, not in this place, not with her. The spire of my extended tongue slides smoothly into her already wet cunt. I stay in there for a time that feels like forever and wriggle my oratorical snake around inside her soft, rubbery, slightly piquant wonder hole. I take my tongue out and brush my lips over her pussy, my lower vermilion lip forcibly caressing her labia majora. She squirms, heaves and draws her thighs tightly around my head. Just like Moses, I command them apart by my hand, bury my face into her bush, roll and slide my tongue over her shiny clit in quick successions. I lift my head up, draw her pussy lips aside with one hand and send a large loving wad of spittle in her hole and on her clit. The time is right for decision. I kneel up from my throne of pleasure, release her to float free over the sentiment of the moment, unbutton my shorts and let my stiffened cock levitate above her lubricated, curated, primed for action, cooperative cunt.
I'm standing inside an air-conditioned warehouse, doused in dampened light, breathing fermented air, exposed, erect, like a derelict relic of a formerly glorious regiment. She is lying at my feet and her flesh radiates heat towards me, then dissipates, granulates, formulates so that I can absorb, through my pores her pouring sensuality.
I grab the base of my cock, rub it lightly against her clit and the slide it down and into her open cunt. The first push is always the longest. I can see her eyes roll to the back of her head as her neck jerks in one intense spasm. Never buy into nobody's shit, never kid yourself, I'm here solely for my pleasure. I pull my cock out right up to the surface, I flick it once or twice over her tangled folds and thrust it back again assuming a pace I wont relent from after about seven minutes of sustained effort. I'm lunging over her overstretched body, I'm biting her nipples and pulling her hair back, I push into her as far as I can go and then come up again, I swing my pelvis down when I enter then tilt it up as I dive to full depth and return. This run is not about the explosiveness of speed or vulgarity of commotion. Hard sustained focused thrust akin to digging over a grave or fleshing out the foundations of a normalised build. Silent communication or lack thereof. Sensory endowment. Hard, silent, resilient fucking. The counter shakes, packets of gym, paper napkins, loose coins and small bottles of fizzy drinks fall over and rattle behind the screaming din in my head. She doesn't talk, she just looks at me through wide crystallised eyes and lightly pants, letting out an almost inaudible “ahh” every time my length scrapes the bottom of her barrel. Together we swing and sway like a sailing craft over a heavy rolling sea. She cups both of her arms around my neck and suddenly draws my down and close towards her. I can feel she has something to say to me but whatever it is gets lost within the thumping pangs of pleasure. I keep going at it, sometimes with my eyes closed, smelling out the mystery, sometimes with my eyes open, watching her skin squirm over the rattling of her bones. Being close to the point of climax, I grapple both of her buttocks in my palms, bury my nails into her flesh lift her up and proceed to pound her profusely and mercilessly for a short but glorious amount of released time until hell's bells rings upon me and I withdraw like an obedient servant, spraying my load all over her coiling writhing sweating body.
For the first instance in quite some time I'm able to discern sounds coming from the surrounding environment. The growling of machines supplicates my absence of expression. We are not alone in this. I pull my underwear and trousers up, straighten my shirt and run my hands a couple of times through my hair. She is still lying on the counter, head twisted over to the other side, breathing shallowly . I pick up the container, still half full, having miraculously not being tipped over and exit the department store as I gulp down the warmed up after-taste of my spent
Read the first part in the series, Undisclosed Paradise