1. 1967 Vulva


    Date: 9/5/2015, Categories: Supernatural, Author: adagio_sabadicus, Rating: 3, Source: LushStories

    Sometimes things happen. Sometimes people do things out of character, then sometimes...things are what they seem. The origins of sins in dreams usually originate in my sleep and shadows of my dark beseeching. Sometimes enhanced by the screaming of sluts hungering for the appendage between my thighs. Then sometimes things happen, as I will explain. "Optical illusions!' I don't think so. There is no insanity in my family, only doses of aloofness and eccentricity. In loneness, weak and dreary, twelve steps below the sun, in my subterranean bookshop. I favor Goth, dust and motes as my company. Often under the influence of insomnia and burnt toast. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ... a flaccid cock of about two inches sweeping gently across my dry lips as the hermaphrodite giggled... Sitting straight up in bed, catching my breath, hearing the alarm on my old wind up clock. Hector my wayfaring cat leaped on the sheets, then I laying back down, catching up on my dream. ... and at the hilt of the penis, no balls at all, just a cunt grinning down at me, giving new meaning to a hump at night. The bedroom was stone cold like a tombstone in a dead forest of foraging ants. I felt the presence of a shadowed luminosity as if I had given birth to something that would come to past. It wasn't the silence of the dreams when I slept, it was my bedraggled wrinkling prick shooting streams of hallelujahs and me shouting ...
    amen. My eyes wide open and I in a cold sweat. My lover nowhere around, then it dawned on me that she had to renew the tags on her 1967 Vulva. She kept reminding me that it was a Volvo... V-o-l-v-o, as I heard the roar of a broken muffler being dragged down the driveway. And at shop "I can't be late, my toddy must wait. Who's that bopping at my cranium spores?" Its not often I showed my joviality as I poured a forefinger of absinthe in my hot tea in anticipation of a visit from ( La Fee Verte) the green fairy who was to pay a visit to my shop. Other's may think they are Peter Pan or Omar Khayyam on a Sampan, it was just green to me. A liquid cascading the aroma of licorice. The wormwood making it strong. The anise making it polite. I knew tales about absinthe. I let out a silent nervous laugh. The thujone (menthol) in absinthe I was told prevents the mind and senses from recognizing what you normally would abstain from. It puts your mind on a fast track releasing all inhibitions. In my day's a monger of a quaint bookshop, by night the Captain of a mixed doubles bowling team. My lover, a pen setter...they being large oak carved dildos. I often told her to sit with the grain on the wooden pens. The bell of the shop clanged and the door flew open as the wind howled and the papers on my counter scattered, bringing with it a fracas of an apparition. In fear I was not alone, my testicles knotted and my throat felt arid. The chilled frosted over my glasses. The old wooden planks of the ...
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