I wrote a story, does it suck? Weigh in!

[NovaFritz]

Dont think wild west, think modern america, everything else is just allusions, metaphors...eeeyaa. She just takes character, takes shape. Here goes:

Thought is the enemy of any living breathing human being. Uninvited thoughts and thinking that seep into the quiet mind and start it alight. Thoughts that are the inflammation occurring from the sudden rush of air into the heart of a fire whose fundamental logs and sticks have been rearranged.
These brimstone thoughts are not normal thoughts. They are not the normal, pure, and welcome processes of the mind, not the kind that we use for walking, cooking, driving, working, or reasoning. These ideas are the enemy of logic. The thoughts of regrets and of mistakes mixed with fortunes.
I blame these incendiary thoughts on a certain Annie Oakley. An armed defiler from Wyoming who sunk her spurs into the hide of my being and continues to roll them back and forth within it. I am in pain. From a door well I see Chaos grinning before me. A morning dove coos in a rusty cage while the cracked shell of a toy gun box gathers dander on the floor nearby. Miss Oakley’s made herself a gown from the several yards of brown cloth lying mutilated in a heap on the floor and offers me an outfit as well. She stands in front of me clicking the gun and gushing petulant smiles. Would I like one? She knows my size. She knows.
Chestnut and blonde and the smell of melted candle wax, Miss Gish leads us through town in a black overcoat upon tarnished white heals. “I said I was curious, I never said I was brave,” croons Leonard Cohen from the deep recesses of a magazine review. I would chew these later, rubbing my own wounds of the person and of the nape, but for now I was happily smoking a cigar in a cherry-red lounge off the Capital Square and being questioned about why I looked so down. I wasn’t, I really wasn’t, but I got her attention. Or I was, and I got her attention.
Spin the hands. Pass some time. We are at another bar, another dank cave of musky wood, fuming burger grease, and spilled beer. I spilled beer on myself, all over my coat. I was laughing, poking fun at some discrepancy of the night that mattered little then and even less now. I remember no conversation of the night. Actually, I remember no conversing in any specific or in any non-specific capacity. I am no stenographer, I am the personal caterer to Lilian, my Lily, delivering to her the cold water infused with even colder ice that she requested and downed like a stranded performer at a water hole in a boundless desert. The glasses were received with a gaze that you could play in like a shallow, cold, and receding sea, where the brine clings to your legs.
As we all know from experience, the sensation of the hand fishing for a dropped key in subzero water, or of the faucet with its temperature handles askew, cold and hot can be confused. They meet at that fine line of extremes. The twist in the Mobius Strip. Freeze and Burn. Accept and Reject. Love and Hate. The confusion in the heat of the moment; its that same moment when the strip connects. It’s that spot in all of existence where emotion and reason snap and fuse in their struggle, and the impossible is possible. The old grow young and the evil become good. Up is down and the frozen tundra becomes an inviting sauna.
Where to now? She’s gone. Annie Oakley’s pernicious drive took her out the saloon’s still swaying doors and left me alone with a warming beer on the counter and my head spinning in time. The remainders gather up to go. We are scattered seeds finding our shells and heading back into the wind in search of a new patch of soil to slither our tentacles into. But my flower box was gone.
Did I mention her party trick? A lit match extinguished on a tongue. Annie, Annie, Annie…
I arrive back home. Descend to the stove room for hot tea water. Tomorrow I will split wood in 109 acres of desolate silence. Meditating on the thwack of the maul and atoning with the clunk that the piling of butchered slabs of once flowing phylum and xylem will make. Not yet though, not yet . . . instead I am pulled into an explanation about the origin of the English language as offered by a bearded Swede sweatered in red tweed.
I learned a lot about gl-, bl-, and lu-. Of course, I forgot most of it. I was streaming consciousness. Skimming the tributaries of speech flowing through the hammers, the anvils, and the stirrups of the human aural organs. She reels away, and I pursue closely my nightmare as she disappears around the bend, then up the hollow steps, and then finally across the littered causeway just in time for my pitiful wish of a regretful goodnight.
“I never said I was brave.” The sudden snap of a slide projector. The Technicolor ruins of a gorgeous Jayavarman monstrosity playing postcard on a mildewed carousel box. Outside the drunks make catcalls to the pinups single filing across the iced sidewalk. I play mental poker, appeasing the mistake of my last hand, preparing myself for another, better one. A better one?
Knock, knock, and knock. Spring to my feet; skip to the door; I swing it open with great aplomb. A smile floating away down the steps, a note folded upon the ground. Lord knows I can’t do this by myself.
Sticking food into a trashcan, Miss Vergeten tells me that it will never happen again, but we shall remain friends (at my suggestion). After a day of intensive wood splitting executed on two or less hours of shuteye I concur. I go back to my room, freshen up for a party later in the evening, and promptly collapse into a coma half a planetary rotation long.
Pow. The lunar mare made her first impact on my frightened mass of foolish dreams, and I hadn’t even caught a scent of her cosmic designs. The designs that I have surely had to decide exist. The designs whose existence reveals my own designs created in search of designs. These are the schematics for the blueprints of my own confusion. The confusion of the emptiness that once was something else, something that rang with a reality that was hot and real and near. That was the source of all of this unwelcome thinking.
Understand? I almost do…

I knocked on Miss Gish’s door.

I lay there trembling. Trembling like I always do. It’s a Freudian slip of embarrassing proportions. The same tremble that comes with a waft of wintry chill, or sometimes when I simply sit in a room without heating. I’m temperature sensitive. It’s a tremble that reveals a boy beneath mounting years of experience in something. It’s spilled milk.
Rubber limbs and dove coos, using and the used. Candles burning dangerously low are lighting origami cranes one step away from textbook realization, their necks drawn by some involuntary force to the sky. Sweet release and gentle caress as the last midnight gondola sails through an empty canal. Not that canal, but another one, one that during the day is crowded with dog-walkers, day laborers, chore-running housewives and photo snapping tourists in sun hats and cheap municipal T-shirts, but is now, by some great magical mystery, completely abandoned. Repose.
I am paid in deer meat for my wood offerings. I get dropped off and before I know it am at that trashcan. Everything is different. The tourists are back. Lilian is gone; a bearded guy wielding a high-pressure faucet head is punishing a soiled teacup. I talk to Miss Vergessen in a blue smock and standing next to a stinking garbage can.
The next few encounters bear witness to diminishing returns. Some adjectives? Friendly, stern, rude. A medley of the uneventful and unobtrusive bores the heavens to tears. Chance encounters with a disconnected phone receiver. I can’t find a wall jack to plug it back into. I am incompetent, lazy, and as fearful as a mouse in a barn full of toothless cats (they still have claws). Days pass. Finally the dove coos. I enter the house and a clickity-clack riddles me with make-believe bullet holes. Smiles. I receive an offer of a brown country dress of similar stock. I put her plastic gun into my mouth. Click, click. The cranes turn minutely on their taut leashes. The death penalty has been declared. The saloon door swings shut.
I go back into my room and the lunar mare begins her second strike in the form of a long precipitation, a drizzling cosmic hammering of ifs and maybe and of whys and hows. Knocked doors with no answers. Sudden glances and their subsequent escapes; it’s the game of encounters in its final moves.
I go to smoke a cigarette on the porch, to draw a breath of laced air. Snow stains the earth and lays blankets of silence on parked cars. The cruel Western Wind tickles me with her wintry fingers; my trembles begin. Somewhere a window swings open with a bang. A moment of calm and then a sudden, well-aimed gust scatters the ash from between my fingertips. It floats away, scattered inscrutably into the white night.

[benjamin619]

I don't know why they call it work. I sign in. I check the boxes that come in via the loading dock. Then I sit at my desk. Sometimes I masturbate there if I am bored and the men are busy. When I am not at my desk I am usually being called "onto the carpet" as the men say when they are not ogling my cute bottom and asking if they can "put it in." I was on the carpet late this morning. I have recorded my encounter as faithfully as I could.

"Missy, what am I going to do with you?" said my boss Daisy, as she rose from her chair while all the time tapping the sharp end of her pencil on the desk. The men call Miss Daisy "the tarantula." I can't imagine why. She has a pretty face, and she keeps her body up. She wears old time underwear though, those garter things. Black, usually. Maybe it looks like a tarantula. I don't know, I'm not good at those things.

"If I've done something wrong, I'm sorry."

"How many this time?" she asked, moving slowly from behind the desk until she was close enough to lift the hem of my dress with her pencil.

"Three. But we were on our ten minute break, Miss Daisy, so I thought it would be ok."

I felt the edge of the eraser on my thighs as she eased the skirt higher and higher with her pencil. "Ten minutes! What can you accomplish in ten minutes?!"

I scooched up in the chair until I could feel cool air on my twat. That's what I like to call it--twat. It sounds so flubbery and elastic.

"Good lord, it's dripping!"

"We didn't have time to clean up. The bell had rung. The men returned to their posts in a hurry. Ed got his caught in his zipper."

"Well, we can't have you sitting there smelling like a sex factory and oozing all over your chair. We don't want the same thing to happen as last time do we?"

"No, Miss Daisy, we wouldn't want that," I replied. Last time the men had sold my chair to one of the drivers for almost $400 because they said it smelled so good and they'd make a nice profit. But then I didn't have a chair for over a week.

Miss Daisy's eyes were all glazed over and was sinking to her knees slowly as if she was sinking in quicksand while all the time staring into my twat. I felt her need and looped my legs over the arms of the chair. Gosh, you could hear my lips slither apart like a boot coming out of mud. That was so cool.

"We must clean you up before we send you back to work," said Miss Daisy oddly, like she was a zombie or something. She didn't want to have to buy me another new chair or anything.

Miss Daisy has a big mouth rimmed with bright red lipstick. For a prim and proper looking boss, she sure enjoyed trying to cram my twat into her mouth. Gosh, I'm lucky to have a boss like miss Daisy. She pushed my thighs even further apart while she sucked my clit into that red gash of a mouth. She slurped. Like she was hungry. Then I felt something entering my twat. Little balls.

"OH, Miss Daisy, what's that?!" I exclaimed.

She stopped licking to look up. The area all around her mouth glistened like a thin sheet of glare ice. She licked her lips and said "I'm lubing up my pearls, dear girl."

"Gosh, Miss Daisy, you don't have to do that!"

"You don't mean...."

"Yes, Billy Joe has got some of his in the other place."

Miss Daisy lifted my butt off the chair. I helped, of course. It's so nice to help people when you can. "I see, dear!" Miss Daisy said, exclaiming the pearls Billy Joe left before going back to work tonguing my swollen little clit.

Then I felt the pearls slowly being stuffed back in my "anal canal," as Billy Joe called it. For each one that went in, one of Daisy's slowly oozed out of my twat. I didn't think anything could feel better. It was like a snake was slithering in all my favorite places and tonguing all the best parts with that flickering tongue they have. Of course I really wouldn't like a real snake down there. I don't think so anyway...

By the way, Billy Joe was the cute one with the cock that curved to the left. He liked to tell how it was best for the ladies that way. It could get in the crevices, he said. He was a vacuum salesman before they had to let him go for giving discounts to the housewives who bent over for him. He liked putting his "crevice tool" up my anal canal best he said.

And he really put a load in me this morning. But those pearls were filling me up fast, too. I had to loop my legs around Miss Daisy's head and smash her to my clit because I was starting to get those ripples in my tummy that meant I would lose control and I wanted that fat red tongue to nail my clit and dance on it and maybe smoosh up against it really hard. Then I remembered some sorta rule that said you shouldn't pin your bosses face to your twat but I didn't think she'd mind. I'd ask my friend Mindy later if it was ok. Mindy helped me through a lot of things I didn't understand.

I was thinking of the time Mindy decided my twat needed stretching and how she showed me the variety of things she could put between her cute twat lips when all of a sudden the ripples in my tummy turned into large waves and I had to grab the arms of the chair hard. I was riding Miss Daisy's head like a bucking bronco. "YippieTieYieYippie!" I screamed as my twat convulsed like it does and I could feel it flooding Miss Daisy's face.

Gosh, it just about left me limp as a noodle.

But to see Miss Daisy's face! Juices were running down her chin. Her pearls left a wet chain design on her blouse. And something was buzzing....

"Here," she said, reaching under her garter and removing a small box connected to a wire that snaked up her thighs. It had one of those knobs you twirl. She handed it to me.

Miss Daisy plopped herself onto the top of her desk and spread her legs. The garters pulled on the black stocking tops. The wire from the little box in my hand dissappeared into her twat.

I twisted the knob. Miss Daisy threw her head back and made a deep growling sound in her throat. I twisted the knob some more and her legs snapped shut like she was trying to trap a bug or something in her twat. She ripped at her blouse like a madwoman.

"More!" she screamed. Buttons flew everywhere.

I turned up the knob. She fondled her big breasts through the lacy bra. I don't know if that's the right word, fondle. She squeezed them really hard like she was punishing them for being so big and pronounced. Then she started pulling and twisting her nipples through the bra. Way cool.

So then I turned the knob DOWN. She went limp for a second. Her hands slowed, just barely grazing her big nips poking through the bra. She was breathing in short gasps like she had been running a marathon. Then she started whimpering like a puppy. "Please!" she said.

So I twisted the knob hard like I had seen her twist her big nips. She snapped upright, almost falling off the desk. Then she wiggled her big butt over to the corner of the desk and slid off until the edge was just pushing the thing hard into her twat. Her hand with those long red nails wrestled with the bra, pulling it down over her tits, all fiery red from all that twisting, her nips all dark and swollen and glowing like embers.

Gosh, she was violent when she had to get off! She pressed her twat and that thing into the corner of the desk and tried to keep the scream deep inside of her until I thought she was going to explode. She slammed her clitty down one last time into the desk corner, then she went limp, finally slithering onto the carpet.

Then the lunch bell rang. I propped Miss Daisy upright so she rested against the back of the desk. I shoved the box back into her hand.

"Thanks. That was way cool. I have to have lunch with Bobby. He said something about needing help with his blue balls."

"Wait," Miss Daisy croaked, "get me a new blouse from the closet."

Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. Miss Daisy wore suits, always with the same blouse. I walked to the closet and picked one. There must have been thirty, all the same.

I picked up all the loose buttons before I left. When I bent over I could feel the cold air hitting the liquid leaking from me. I wondered how Miss Daisy got to her high position. She certainly wasn't very good at cleaning things up; I was sloppier than before down there. I practically sloshed as I walked out the door.

[mistle]

tl;dr

[celluloid_love]

Originally Posted by NovaFritz

Miss Gish

lolz