|
Tallulah
Tantrum, or Hot Butter
[A
sequel, of sorts, to In Quest of
a Stable Girl]
Justin
to Angie & Ella & Steven
Sent: Sunday, May 6, 2007 11:38 PM
So
here's the email in which I finally agree with you, freely
admit what's been obvious to you -- and surely also to myself, albeit
subconsciously -- all along: I actually do like the untamed
minxes I get mixed up with! Merely like them? Nay! I unreservedly
adore them and am everlastingly grateful for their existence! If
I truly wanted an emotionally stable girl, I'd certainly be able
to find one. But now I realize I've always avoided nice girls like
the plague: what a prison a nice girl can be! No ups and downs --
no enthralling ambivalence -- no challenge, aura of conquest --
no triumph over mentally straining situations: what's the point
of bothering with such a girl? "What doesn't kill me makes
me stronger," says Nietzsche, and he's right: it's conflict
that enables me to take my true measure as a man, and become more
resilient and in love with life and eager to greet each new day!
A nice girl? I was entangled with one once -- long ago, in school
-- and found it carried the obligation of always being emotionally
even keeled, guarding against swirling off into mood-swings. I found
myself strangling myself -- muting my feelings, smothering naturalness
of self-expression; and all in the interest of sheltering the nice
girl from anything (and by "anything" I mean the slightest
hint of stress) that might cause alarm and lead to confusion and
make her cry! (She once stared at me in horror and started whimpering
simply because I availed myself of the statement, "Barbeques
are an unending yawn!," for Christ's sake!) And thus the nice
girl ended by being far more of a nightmare than any uncontrollable
wildcat's ever been!
Face
it: I'm not exactly in love with stability! Stability is predictability
and predictability's an oppressive bore! What's to look forward
to if one knows what's going to happen -- or, rather, not
happen -- in advance? As far as nice girls go, nothing's going to
happen that's any different from what's already happened: no spontaneous
eruptions of feeling, overt demonstrations of passion -- zero spontaneity,
period! Nothing but a constant monotonous mildness of self-expression
that becomes more stale, stagnant, suffocating, and intolerable
with each passing day! I marvel that anyone can live under such
conditions without thirsting to toss stones in the calm waters,
stir things up!
I thought
I was seeking to avoid BratCats, put a stop to the nonstop parade
of feisty felines that raise hell in my apartment? What idiocy!
With a wildcat one needn't worry about dying for some drama: the
ocean will cease to crash breakers on the shoreline before a temperamental
cutie will fail to become an outlet for the forces of primal nature!
There's nothing like a fresh, vibrant, convulsive plunge into the
headwaters of an unbalanced beauty's unleashed discontent!
Alright,
you wanted an admission: now you've got one! Enough prelude! Allow
me to proceed to detail the latest example of the unfailing accuracy
of my manical-minx radar! Obviously, there will be a major difference
between this recapitulation and my former ones: instead of wondering
what's wrong with me when it comes to my taste in females, I'll
be celebrating what's right! It's about time I start embracing my
obvious preference for unstable girls, instead of vainly and counter-productively
seeking to deny its existence!
##########
What's
in a name? Tallulah is the very picture of her name: a perfect oval
of a face, clear and glowing complexion, wide blue eyes, a cascade
of curling chestnut hair that spills halfway down her back and is
cut and teased at her temples into bouncing puffs of fluff. Petite
(of course!), surrounded by an aura of animated grace (naturally!),
a sweet melodious little girl voice (how could it be otherwise?)
even though she's thirty-one (this fact gathered from her driver's
license on the sly: she could easily pass for a schoolgirl). I mentioned
her blue eyes: often, a look of dreamy distance is in them and then,
quick as a wisp of wind, they'll flash with fervor and intelligence
and be startlingly near; often a look of ineffable sweetness is
in them, but then they'll suddenly harden as her body tenses and
her gestures become abrupt. Her face generally wears an expression
of what's best described as alert serenity; but shadows of impatience
and discontent frequently fleetingly swirl beneath the surface of
her skin. Beautiful? Of course Tallulah's beautiful; and radiant
with health, fitness, and vitality.
When
I first sighted Tallulah during intermission at the Met -- (Thursday's
performance of Turandot) she was animatedly chatting with
a girlfriend, accompanying her speech with a veritable ballet of
hand-movements -- twirling them at the wrists, curling and uncurling
her fingers, frequently flicking the puffs of hair at her temples.
The gigglish pings of her intonation distinguished themselves from
the other voices and could be heard from across the room, although
I couldn't make out the words. She was wearing an ankle length mink,
unbuttoned to display her just-above-the-knees-high emerald skirt
and light gray cashmere sweater -- all very snug, allowing me to
do an accurate appraisal of her flawlessly proportioned figure.
I was doing what I always do when sighting a girl I want to know:
looking her up and down -- admiring her face, caressing her curves
with my eyes -- such that she can feel me doing it.
There's
an art to looking at a girl and alerting her to one's presence:
one must balance insistence with respect; one must infuse one's
admiration with hunger, but always must the former be the greater
of the two; by the same token, one must never plead with a glance
-- bright girls detest sentimental slop. Yes, glances of attraction
cut through the air quicker than the wind or sound and must be managed
with care, and... Oh, hell! Why analyze? Suffice to say I stare
at Tallulah such that she soon becomes aware of it and darts a quizzical
look at me and that I greet her with smiling eyes. Then a couple
more brief glance-exchanges; then a hand-passing-through-her-hair-as-her-head's-thrust-back-while-she's-looking-at-me
invitation to approach; then we're exchanging names; then we agree
to resume getting acquainted at the fountain following the performance.
Don's
with me -- he makes himself scarce before last curtain call, a courtesy
any man gladly extends to a friend. The remaining problem's to get
Tallulah to shed her girlfriend, and the girlfriend to shed her.
Girls stick together until they're both certain a pursuing
male isn't a creep, a courtesy any girl gladly extends to a friend,
and (as girls protect one another on principle) sometimes
even for an enemy.
Christ!
I'm bogging this down in too much preliminary! Suffice to say I
obtain girlfriend's seal of approval and that she graciously does
a Is that the time? I didn't realize this opera was so long!
I've got to get home! act and scampers off. Also, suffice to
say Tallulah and I duck into a nearby cafe for a drink and nibbles
and end up chatting nonstop for over three hours, after which she
-- like a true princess -- permits me to cab her to her building
and kiss and caress her goodnight for about five minutes without
allowing me inside. "Take me out!" she says with a fervent
grasp of both of my wrists before turning to unlock the entry-door.
Once she's inside, I walk the eighty or so blocks from her downtown
location to my uptown one, seeming to float upon the air...
What's
the matter with me in the telling of this? Now that I've admitted
to being happy to be a magnet for girls capable of authentic forays
into madness it seems the urgency's gone out of the depiction of
an example! I've always written these accounts from the point of
view of considering my taste in girls an affliction -- always written
them as an attempt at understanding and therapy: now that I've embraced
my taste in girls, the wind's gone out of my writing! I think
that's what's going on!
Well,
the hell with it! Maybe I'll send this and be done with such recapitulations
from now on! At any rate, I'm through for tonight!
Justin
*
* *
Angie
to Justin
cc: Ella & Steven
Sent: Monday, May 7, 2007 12:01 AM
What?
You finally come around to embracing the glorious truth as regards
your laudable love of wildcats, and then flop in the telling of
your latest adventure? For shame! It
seems to me you owe these girls, formerly unconscionably
maligned by you, a heartfelt tribute to their qualities!
By
your own (belated!) admission, these girls bring joy and meaning
into your life; so you need to do the honorable thing and atone
for your former recriminations against them by celebrating
them!
We're
waiting!
Angie
*
* *
Steven to Justin
cc: Angie & Ella
Sent: Monday, May 7, 2007 12:09 AM
I second
Angie's motion: even leaving out what's decent for a man to do in
the making-amends-towards-wronged-females department, I'm eager
to hear what surprise your latest sweetmeat sprang on you. In other
words, you owe us some entertainment because of how patient we've
always been with your unenlightened attitude!
Steve
P.
S. Not
to imply, though, that your former accounts weren't highly amusing.
Hell, what was always very amusing about them was how stubbornly
you were refusing to comprehend that you obviously can't live without
bringing hellcats home!
*
* *
Ella to Justin
cc: Angie & Steven
Sent: Monday, May 7, 2007 12:49 AM
And
I third that eee-motion! Get busy!
Ellakins
*
* *
Justin to Angie & Ella & Steven
Sent: Monday, May 7, 2007 10:52 PM
Think
I'm happy with the way my attempt to write a tribute to Tallulah
-- and, by extension, all magnificently manic minxes -- fizzled?
Of course I need to atone for my former assertions that willful
brats are a curse, make amends for my unenlightened complaining!
Yes, come hell or high water or hurricanes, I am going
to express my gratitude to these girls by means of a loving tribute!
And, ironically enough, it'll be my first genuine therapy-via-writing
session: what better way to calm down once and for all with regard
to my love-liaisons than by proving to myself they've all been fabulously
fulfilling? So, without further ado...
So
what do you think? Did I call Tallulah first thing Friday morning
(after meeting her, if you recall, Thursday night)? Do buds burst
in the spring? Listen: Tallulah's beauty and grace had already shoved
all else from my thoughts; the sound of her voice didn't cease to
echo in my ears; the tone of her presence was shimmering in my nerve-stream!
Yes, my eyes were thirsting to glimpse her again, my ears were pining
for the melody of her speech, my skin was screaming to feel her
rub against me! Bloodsurge fever, equally rapturous and agonizing!
How silly the expression "chasing girls" seems! It would
be far more accurate to say I'm chased into chasing girls by all
the teasing tormenting images that a girl metamorphoses into the
instant she's preferred above all the others! I was dialing Tallulah's
number as if in a waking dream...
So
we have dinner and dinner's nonstop hand-clasps and caressings of
fingers accompanied by plunges into the depths of one another's
eyes; and I'm something approaching amazed on account of some of
the things I'm effortlessly confiding to her, and likewise amazed
at some of the things she's telling me, the degree of her trust...
Our
first real kiss, when we knew -- beyond a doubt -- it was leading
to a night together? That was when she, upon returning from freshening
up in the ladies', leaned over me to kiss me before sitting down
-- suddenly the restaurant disappeared and I was swirling upwards
into her laughing eyes and my spine became tingles that spread over
my back: we ended by kissing long and insistent enough to ache our
jaws. And some people were smiling and others simply staring and
Tallulah (between nibbles of my lips, so gently stimulating) whispered,
"Every other couple in this room wants to be us!" and
giggled like a ten year old.
And
so Tallulah accompanies me home -- a hand in hand stroll across
79th Street and up First Avenue interrupted by kissing sessions
that seem to happen of their own accord: we're no more in control
of our actions than leaves tossed by the wind. Suddenly hand clasps
become arms wrapped around her, or fingers tracing the contours
of her face; suddenly I'm pressing her against a building as she
grasps my shoulders and lifts herself to wrap her legs about my
waist... Oh, it's at such times that physical matter seems to swirl
into infinity! The building against which I'm pressing her dissolves
-- the sidewalk at my feet becomes air! How I thrill to Tallulah's
responsive shudders, tight clasping, as her mouth -- warm vibrant
mouth -- sends rivulets of tingles throughout me! Her hunger's a
lifestream of energy crackling in my blood, and I know I'm returning
the favor on account of her irregular gasps, twitching muscles,
insistent grabs of any part of me she can get ahold of!
(My
friends, if I'm lingering upon the preliminaries, it's -- aside
from the delight in doing so -- to communicate Tallulah's fundamental
sweetness. She, like every other minx I've been involved with, can
be utterly disarming with her kindness. (And need I say that, were
it not for the gentle side of these wildcats' nature, I'd hardly
put up with the swipes of their claws?))
We
arrive at my apartment and fall together on the sofa -- somehow
I undress her while on my back; and I'm arching my back so she can
remove my shirt. Soon we're intertwined without a stitch on; a couple
hours later we find ourselves in bed and doze off...
I awaken
to find us facing one another in a close embrace; although still
asleep, Tallulah's convulsively clutching me; for perhaps half an
hour I lie awake as she alternately squeezes me tight and releases
while remaining asleep.
She
awakens with a sudden burst open of her eyes and announces she's
hungry -- so am I, as a matter of fact. The fact is, we were so
absorbed in one another at the restaurant and subsequently eager
to be alone that we barely touched our food.
"Do
you like lobster?" I ask. "I have two frisky ones in the
fridge -- got them in Chinatown yester... I mean, two days ago."
"My
favorite!" she fairly shrieks with delight.
The
lobsters are prepared, served with a melted butter and fresh garlic-parsley-cilantro
concoction, plus a salad of chopped tomatoes, avocados, and cucumbers.
So
far, our night's been nothing out of the ordinary, right? Simply
two newly acquainted lovebirds reveling in attraction, being sweet
to one another, single mindedly engaged in the pursuit of pleasure,
assisting one another to reach a shared goal of satiation and equanimity...
Ha, when I make suchlike observations the three of you know
the situation's about to change, don't you?
But
I always fall for it! -- fall for the seeming lack of high
drama -- that is, high trauma! -- in my latest involvement
with a blithe-voiced dollface! Always, am I duped into
firmly believing darker forces don't lurk behind my sweetheart's
eyes! And, if it comes to that... Maybe a great deal of this girl-eruption
business has to do with me; maybe these girls ordinarily are
as unlikely to be swirled into emotional strife as I first suppose;
maybe there's something dark in me that ignites the darkness in
them and causes it to roar into the light; maybe it's this shared
darkness that brings us together in the first place! Why else would
my ability to bring home wildcats in love-dove's guise be so damn
infallible? But enough pointless speculation!
Suffice
to say Tallulah and I are happily imbibing the lobster -- laughingly
dueling with our forks in the butter bowl as we each seek to coat
morsels of lobster with the sauce, wiping off each other's chins
with our fingers as butter dribbles down, playing footsie under
the table... A perfect picture of harmony!
Then,
from out of nowhere... Tallulah's having
trouble extracting meat from one of the claws -- keeps jabbing into
it with her pick, coming up empty. Suddenly she slams the claw on
the table, yells, "Son-of-a-bitch motherfucker!" and stands
up, stamps her feet, angrily flicks her hair back as her eyes dart
fire! "Why didn't you crack the claws?" she demands, gazing
at me as if I've poisoned her mother.
As
I've indicated, I ought to be accustomed to such outbursts from
sweet things, but I'm not. I'm always caught off-guard, sent reeling
from contentment into panic without advance preparation. I sit there
gazing at Tallulah, unable to mouth a word, probably with my jaw
dropping to the floor...
"What,
nothing to say?" she half-shrieks. "Treat a girl to lobster,
not man enough to crack it...want me to crack a nail instead! Inconsiderate...laz...lazy
bastard!" she sputters with rage.
Is
this really happening? Jesus Christ! I'm as good as whisked outside
of my body by the sheer improbability of it -- insanity of it! Tallulah
wants to kill me because I didn't crack the claws, even though I
treated her to her favorite food, prepared to perfection? We were
laughing two minutes ago, now she's fuming? Something else is obviously
going on in the mysterious depths of subconscious communication!
Not cracking the claws is obviously the pretense for anger, not
the cause! Damned if I'll ever figure out what it is that jumpstarts
the strife! I plow these girls and I plow them well; and their orgasms
aren't fake, I'd be able to tell! I foreplay them dizzy, and will
kiss for hours! They gaze and moan gratitude -- smile inwardly with
pleasure, give me happy rut-slut looks, giggle; and then, when I
least expect it: BAM! their inner demons hold court!
"Do
I have to do it?" she yells. "Where are the pliers then,
I'll do it!" And she races to the kitchen.
What's
flashing through my head? I'm picturing the vast assortment of potential
weapons -- all of stainless steel -- reposing in the drawers and
cabinets: knifes, scissors, cleavers, pliers, hammers, pots! Nothing
like a jumpstarted imagination to galvanize one to action! In a
flash I'm at Tallulah's heels, clasping her from behind, pulling
her back into the living room. "I'll crack the claws!"
I'm yelling. "I'll mash them to pulp, for Christ's sake!"
Squirming
furiously, she hisses, "Oh no, you won't! I've had enough lobster
-- disgusting, fattening!"
"Fine,
maybe you ought to just go home!" I say, releasing her.
Tallulah
doesn't appear to have heard what I said. "You
want to fatten me up, is that it?" she asks, her eyes glittering
with malice. "Huh? You like fat girls? They're more compliant,
right? -- easier to control! Less bother -- no energy, no self-esteem!
Want a tame triple-chinned fattie to eat buttered lobster with?
A fattie will wait on you hand and foot, won't she? Yes, dating
a princess is too much exertion, so you want me to be a heifer!
That's it, right? You want to be pampered by a blubber butt! You
want to be a lazy slob!"
"Whaaaaaat?"
I ask, flinging both hands up in authentic astonishment. "A
fat girl? Where did you get that from? You're just plain nuts!"
"Oh,
am I? Am...?" And then, just like that, Tallulah starts laughing!
"Should've seen your face!" she howls. "Oh, it's
pretty plain you don't like fat girls! Your face was a picture!"
She
sits at the table again, says, "Silly!" and laughs anew
as she taps the offending lobster claw with her finger. I pick it
up, work the meat out with my pick and hold it to her. "Thank
you, sweetie!" she says, taking it into her mouth, gazing at
me with glee.
OK,
it's now blatantly apparent that Tallulah's capable of being batty
as hell! But -- damn! she's so delectable! Such radiance emanates
from her poised and slender body! Such unblemished skin, luxuriant
waves of hair, pulsating eyes! The whole mood-swirl of her! Why
deny it: rapid mood-shifts are a surge in my bloodsteam like no
other, the headiest of aphrodisiacs! The thought that such tumult
-- upheaval and unpredictability -- resides within sweet Tallulah's
petite frame; that her blithe voice can become a scythe of icy anger
slicing and dicing the air at any second; that the mouth that kisses
so ardently and gently can hiss so acidicly and vehemently; that
her fundamentally kind disposition can be displaced by irrational
raving at any time... Yes, the contrast -- the contradiction --
of Tallulah, and her beauty! There's nothing like vulnerability
married to danger; nothing like a girl who inspires me to protect
her at the same time I'm very wary of her! Nuts Tallulah
may be, but I don't care! Whatever else this night brings, I'm very
willingly along for the ride! A girl who can spin me randomly through
the emotional spectrum is what makes heaven on earth possible! (You
wanted me to own up to adoring manic mixes, right? So this is what
you get! Before long, you'll be mocking my effusiveness and telling
me to go back to denial! I know you three! You'll be laughing at
the love-lorn lunatic, saying it was more fun when I protested my
preferences!)
It's
as if not a note of discord has intruded on our night: Tallulah's
blithe and giggly again, wolfing down the remaining lobster with
relish. But there's a change: she's become -- for lack of a better
word -- more sensual. She's caressing herself, squirming
against her chair -- a sluttish glaze has crept into her gaze --
her voice is huskier. She's winding her legs about mine under the
table as she rolls each bite of lobster about in her mouth and cooing,
"Mmmmm..."
"I'm
such a slut!" she announces; and promptly dips both hands in
the butter bowl and rubs the butter upon her belly and breasts,
up and down her arms. "And now I'm a slick slut, a butter slut!
Ha ha ha! A juices oozing slut!" Then she seizes the bowl and
dumps it on her head -- butter's streaming through her hair and
down her face onto her chest; she's standing, laughing -- butter's
sloshing all over the carpet... "A slut!" she repeats
with glee.
"Hey,
the carpet!" I shout. "Get in the kitchen, on the tile!"
"What?
What?" Tallulah shrieks. "I'm being sexy... You
whine of carpet...yell at me? Don't want me to be fun? Carpet all
you care ab...? Son-of-a-bitch!" And she slams the bowl down
hard on the tabletop, sending shards of ceramic in all directions
-- pieces strike me, and strike her. "Ow!" she yelps,
and
kicks me.
Anger
tightens me from head to toe; I'm about to -- maybe? -- kick her
back... "Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry!" she exclaims and rushes
to embrace me -- desperately, tremblingly! Ha! My anger disappears
like mist in a desert sun! Tallulah's throbbing against me, pleading
with the pulse of her warm, soft, slick, urgent body! All thoughts
flee; I'm easing her to the floor, kissing her for all I'm worth
as she wraps her legs about me, tightens them until they shake...
"Feel
the butter, honey?" she coos, gazing up at me with honeyed
eyes. "Wet and sticky, so good! Doesn't sticky wet slut me
feel good? You like my butter, don't you? Ooooo, so good!"
She's
licking my face, alternately sucking on my neck and cheeks, as I
rhythmically thrust inside her. "Just use me and abuse me!"
she whispers between tongue-tickles of my ear. "Punish me,
love me! I'm a bad girl who wants to be good...a good girl who acts
bad sometimes... Sorry!" Breathing hoarsely, she resumes sucking
my neck...
Yes,
Tallulah's treated me to a glimpse of what lurks within her -- has
had a fit over nothing, yelled irrational things, shattered a bowl,
kicked me -- and... God, how much more satisfying is it to love
her now -- on the butter-splattered carpet, surrounded by shards
of shattered ceramic -- than it would be had she been well-behaved!
As
the saying goes: "Out of chaos is true contentment forged!"
And I'm certainly content as I clasp her tight, thrill to the slipperiness
of our butter slicked bodies, thrust again and again while not neglecting
diddle her joy-toy!
"Uuuummmmm!"
Tallulah moans while breathing increasingly erratically, fastening
her mouth onto my shoulder and sucking with all her might -- lightly
scraping with her teeth, nip-biting. She's building towards a steady
-- a tense, a trembling -- inner grip... Yes, approaching climax
she is -- holding in breaths, releasing them unevenly, seeming to
fall out from under her skin, as my thumb continues to circle-press
her clit and I continue to thrust...
Ha!
I'll never understand how some guys can be dense enough to fall
for fake orgasms! In fact, there once was a time when I thought
the false orgasm business was nothing but mythology dreamed up by
our consumerist society to make males insecure! (i.e., more vulnerable
to being conned into shelling out for more gadgets, electronics
-- more razor blades, cologne, deodorant, hair gel!) After all,
advertising's very skilled at setting up "Buy this
= acquire self-esteem!" subliminal equations, right? and the
whole media monolith's in cahoots! All the publicity that surrounds
fraudulent orgasms -- the frequency with which they crop up in films,
TV, stand-up routines! But then I started asking girls if they'd
ever faked an orgasm and, sure enough, some had! So I asked them
how and, lo and behold, it's mostly done externally, as
in: sound effects, facial expressions, rollings of eyes, twistings
of torso! A particularly inventive one always tossed in a few Kegels
for good measure, to ape vaginal action! Some had an afterwards
routine too -- twitchings of face, erratic flickings of hair, intentionally
blurred intonation: all calculated to communicate that they'd been
vouchsafed a sense-shattering experience. So I grilled them further:
what of the inner build-up of tension -- the muscular tightness,
trembling stillness, that heralds a flood? What of the moments of
rigid immobility, the... Ha, how they laughed! One said: "Honey,
if he had a clue about such stuff, I don't think I would have had
to fake it!"
Yes,
pathetic: a girl cries out and hyperventilates and twists dramatically
-- maybe does some inner Kegelish stuff -- and the dolts buy it!
Who are these fools that can't read a girl?
An
orgasm can't be faked! The tension that envelops the girl,
inside and out, as climax approaches -- the what I term "suspended
hush" that overcomes her; and then the climax itself, when
her body becomes rigid on the outside to ripple inwardly... No girl's
enough of an actress to accurately falsify something that's that
much on the physiological level! They're simply taking
advantage of the ignorance of their partners, tossing off carbon
copies of what the imbeciles think an orgasm is!
Simply
put: only an utterly insensitive idiot -- or doped up and drunken
slob -- is going to mistake an act for the real thing! And if it
comes to that: if these clowns are too selfish to climb out of their
sensations enough to observe those of the girl they're with, then
they deserve to be fooled! And as for those who just don't care:
why are they bothering with girls? They might as well bore a hole
in the wall, fill it with mashed cherries, and plow that instead!
As
for Tallulah and all the other hellcats I've brought home... They'd
never let me off that easy! One of their many admirable qualities
is that they're honest girls, in the sense that they want
bonafied orgasms and aren't leaving until I deliver! And they're
experienced girls, in the sense that they know precisely
what an orgasm is and how to do their part to bring one on! Believe
me, there are times when I've slaved long and hard before bringing
a girl to climax -- muff-tonguing, endless probings and swirls of
my fingers, front vaginal wall massage, plowings with clit-stimulation!
I've had to change fingers and hands because they were getting sore
and numb -- had to switch positions, directions of approach, too
many times to count! But I've never given up, and I've never failed!
(And, as I've indicated, the disposition of these girls -- their
insistence and receptivity -- has plenty to do with that too!)
Female
orgasm can be very capricious! There once was a girl... It took
me half the night to fling her into the shimmer-wave! And then,
the following evening, we were alone in a classroom at her school
(where I'd gone to pick her up) and, quite spontaneously, I lifted
her sweater-shirt and began nip-kissing her belly, just above her
skirt, and... Ha, she was pitching forward, clinging to my back
and trembling -- moaning -- in under five minutes!
Alas,
my friends, I've veered from my narrative, left Tallulah and I on
the carpet -- another indication I'm finally at peace with myself
with regard to the minx-brats I bring home. I never veered
from the narrative when I was bewailing my inclinations, attempting
to account for why I always ended up with wildcats instead of kittens!
In those cases, it was as if I was writing for my sanity and I had
to stay on track! Yes, indeed, the bottom's surely fallen out from
under my reason to write of my escapades! Why write of them now
if I'm happy with them -- if I wouldn't have matters any other way?
But I suppose writing this has been useful: it's made it
clear that writing's now a superfluous thing for me to be doing!
So
what now? Might as well whip up a conclusion, if for no other reason
than I started this thing and it should therefore have an end! Let
it not be said I fail to finish what I start:
And
as for finishing what I've started with
Tallulah... She and I are on the carpet; she's orgasmed, I haven't;
I've withdrawn from inside her to dispense soft caresses on her
inner thighs, about her mound -- to assist her with savoring her
flood...
"You're
so selfish!" she suddenly says, abruptly snapping her thighs
shut and sitting upright. "You didn't come inside me! Why are
you hoarding?"
"Selfish!
I've been..."
"You're
holding out!" she interrupts. "I've come for you, made
you feel good about having pleasured a girl! How do you think it
makes me feel when you keep it all to yourself?"
"Stop!
Who's stopping? Are you nuts? Most girls like being caressed afterw..."
"Most
girls! Lots of girls, huh? They put up with that? Some girls they
are! Maybe they're prissies who don't mind being cheated! Do you
think I'm a prissie?"
"Jesus
Christ! A brief break in the action, you draw insane conclusions!
If I liked prissy girls you wouldn't be here, my little manic! You..."
I interrupt myself to push her onto her back. "I wasn't done,
nut case! I..." I interrupt myself again to kiss her long and
hard while pressing her firmly against the floor.
"That's
what I wanted -- some attention!" she says with mirth in her
eyes. (I tactfully refrain from informing her I've been giving her
nothing but.)
"Alright,
up with you, on your hands and knees, facing the windows!"
I command, climbing off of her. "Up!" I pull her into
a seated position by both wrists.
Going
to doggie me?" she giggles, assuming the position.
As
I take her from behind Tallulah strokes her pleasure-nub and, by
dint of some careful -- and, of course lucky (I was obliged to withdraw
from her once or twice to put off my moment when hers wasn't nigh,
as she was obliged to cease stroking to put off hers when I was
lagging behind) -- timing, we manage to attain to the Holy Grail
of sexcapades: a simultaneous flood!
Ha!
There I am, filling Tallulah full of nut milk as she's in the throes;
and I'm grasping her silky taut waist, mashing my thighs against
her soft behind; and the carpet's soaked with melted butter, shards
of the shattered bowl are near and far; and I'm all but certain
my cute delicate darling's going to act up again at some point,
do God only knows what; and... Well, my friends, all I'm going to
say is that delight is heightened infinitely when there's
some stress and lunacy and destruction to provide some counterpoint!
Out of chaos does serenity emerge, indeed!
OK!
I know what the three of you are thinking: compared to some of my
former escapade-recapitulations, what I've described thus far is
about as strife-saturated as making sand castles on the beach! But
you needn't worry: the Tallulah Tantrum party wasn't over -- serenity
doesn't exactly last forever when there's a hellcat in the house!
To
wit: shortly after we emerge from the shower, Tallulah's profusely
apologizing. "Bad me for buttering your carpet," she coos,
gazing upon me sweetly with wide eyes, shrugging her shoulders,
looking as ashamed as can be. "Can you forgive your bad girl?"
"It's
not a big deal," I say, caressing a cheek and kissing her.
"I'll have the maid come over and shampoo it in the afternoon."
Tallulah's
whole body instantly goes rigid; I feel nails rake across my chest
as she springs away. "Maid? What maid?" she screams.
"Just
the maid! I..." Tallulah's rapidly criss-crossing her arms
by way of warning me to keep my distance -- is glaring at me, shaking!
"You
make love to me, then have the ghastly Godawful nerve to tell me
a maid's coming over?" she interrupts. "A maid! Think
I'm stupid?" And she rushes at me with arms aflail.
Ha!
Handling infuriated felines, whether they be enraged girls or actual
cats? The idea's to seize ahold of the creature in such a manner
that it can do one no harm, all the while being careful enough not
to harm it: not always easy to do when the creature's hell bent
on clawing one to ribbons! I catch hold of Tallulah's wrists, circle
around behind her, hold her close with her back against my chest;
so she tries to stamp on my feet, but I keep them back while pressing
her legs forward with my thighs; so she tries to twist her head
sideways and bite my arm: I pull her to the floor, straddle her,
pin her wrists against the carpet! (I've often wondered to what
extent one of my infuriated minxes would actually harm me if I failed
to restrain her -- whether she'd flail away, claw and bite, for
all she was worth or content herself with a slap or two, and toss
in a mild scratch for good measure. After all, a girl's never attacked
me when I wasn't looking, or when I was asleep. There's always plenty
of advance warning: screams, glares, threats always herald an attack.
I tend to think I'm being counted upon to counter their attack so
they can have the grand glorious experience of being forcibly restrained.
But, of course, I've never been convinced enough concerning this
to fail to defend myself: I'd rather not learn the hard way, via
stuff thrown at my head or nail gashes that sting for days!)
"If
you let me go, I'll rip your eyes out!" Tallulah announces
-- a hint of triumph's glinting in her eyes. Yes, the brat's fully
aware of the fact that, in a way, I'm in her power: I might be on
top, but I have to stay there!
"But
what's this about? Why are you angry?" I ask, even though she's
made her suspicions concerning the maid very clear. "I said
the maid would wash the carpet -- that you don't have to! So what?"
"So
what? You have the indecency to look straight at me and lie? Aaahhh!
Let me go -- let...!" She's twisting furiously, hissing. "The
maid? Some twat, you mean! Going to come over in a skimpy French
maid uniform, clean up my mess while shaking her ass in
the lace! Like that stuff, schoolboy? Irresponsible asshole!"
"Jesus
Christ! You are nuts-a-rama! The maid, darling dearest,
is Carla, in her mid-fifties, rather hefty; and I can assure you
I don't want to see her in a skimpy anything! No ingenue's coming
over for fun and games! A professional's coming over to clean up
your mess!" (Ha, as if I'd ever employ an attractive
maid -- the job's far too important to mix shenanigans with it!
That's all I'd need: some bright, pretty, delectably devious maid
making far more of a mess than she cleans up! French maid outfits
are for fantasy games, not real life!)
"That's
right, it's my mess; and you're going to be man enough
to make me take full responsibility for it!"
"Oh,
Christ..." I mutter. "More stupid disciplinary shit --
another masochistic loon!"
"Listen
carefully, you child," she says quite quietly and very seriously
(there's never been more venom in her eyes), "and make sure
you understand, or we're going to have a big problem. No
maid is coming over, do you hear? I'm going to march into that kitchen
and get wet towels and soap, and then scrub until this carpet is
spotless and fluffy." Then she raises her voice again, shouting,
"You're either going to have the guts to make me clean up after
myself or you're going to have to sit on me all night!"
Ha!
I've said it before and I'll say it again: the main reason these
minxes misbehave is because they want to be spanked; and God help
the man who fails to spank them! Tallulah wants to atone, and I've
no choice but to bring the whip down -- figuratively speaking --
on her needy behind! Ha, in former recounts of suchlike encounters,
I've always insisted I don't enjoy bringing these brats to heel
-- that I always feel forced into doing such against my will. But,
along with my newfound enlightenment with respect to my obvious
preference for feisty firebrands... Well, maybe I do enjoy
meting out the discipline they crave! Maybe I do enjoy
being compelled to reach down inside myself for some ruthlessness
-- enjoy summoning the amount of energy and will required to quiet
them! And compelled is the word for it; because, make no
mistake, these girls are calling the shots every bit as much as
I am, if not more so!
To
wit: just because I bring sternness into my expression and coldness
into my voice and say to Tallulah, "If this carpet isn't spick
and span within an hour you're going to be bound to the bedframe
and flogged until you faint!" hardly means I'm the master:
it's the very real threat of further misbehavior on her part that's
the master! If I fail to seize her by the nape of her neck and guide
her to the cabinet below the sink and command her to grab the rug
shampoo and a bucket (as I do), then all hell will break loose!
And
so Tallulah gets her way, as the brats always do: she shampoos
the carpet, picks up and properly disposes of every last shard of
the shattered bowl. And then...
Well,
guess what, my friends? I've already wasted too much time writing
this, and you aren't going to get any more -- not today, not ever!
(I'm not trying to be a tease -- I'll fill in the rest orally with
pleasure! Hint: Tallulah's suspicions concerning the maid hadn't
exactly been laid to rest!) Yes, I hinted at such above -- now I'll
change it to an assertion: this will be my last email confession;
my glorious writing career (ha ha!) has come to an end! Finally,
I'm content with who I am and what I want, so why bother
with scribbling? Good riddance to a bad habit! I should be with
Tallulah now, not writing!
Just
one last bit of sentimental mush before signing off: I'm the luckiest
man alive! Why? Because my attraction-radar infallibly leads me
to bring home demon-inhabited cutiepies who infallibly lead me to
wonder if normality actually exists! To taste of thought-eroding
moments of panic and uncertainty, have my imagination racing a mile
a minute as I picture all the things my latest wildcat might
be capable of... That's the life electric! That's being forever
renewed! I thank all the beautiful BratCats on earth from the bottom
of my heart!
Lunch
tomorrow, right? Twelve-thirty at The Four? I'll tell you everything
then!
Sleep
in Wild Dreams,
Justin
_______________
Tallulah
Tantrum, or Hot Butter
© 2007
by Robert
Scott Leyse
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