Art Of Growing Up Ch 06 08

Chp.6.

IN AN ATTEMPT to alleviate the pain, Tonya grabbed the ice-cream scoop and stuffed the handle into her mouth, wetting it good. She found her slit-hole, and without hesitation rammed it into her creamy clout, all the way up to the beginning of the cold metal scoop itself - she shivered. Tonya stared at her ass, and beaver in the mirror, her buttocks turning a dark, blue-red, as she willingly punished them for nothing more than being just what they are; and her pussy-hole, bubbling, foaming and creaming-up as she stabbed at it relentlessly with her scoop-handle of a carving knife, like a sex-driven ‘Psycho’ in an Hitchcockian motel bathroom scene.

Tonya’s head was rolling around wildly on the pillow, as she took equal grains of pain and pleasure, ecstasy and quail, delight and displeasure into her swale. She, as her daddy often said, was a, “little Princess”. A naughty, naughty Pocahontas; and today she was about to live up to her name, as she beat her ass, not merely with a feather, and without the absence of distain, but simply out of pain and pleasure, and without reservation, or gain.

Tonya drifted into the final slalom-run of her long, anticipated, slippery orgasm; her psyche skidded into protect-mode – And she gasped as her nostrils filled with the aroma of burning rubber, more from the ice-cream scoop handle, than from the symbolic smoking tires of the psychological Harley which she rode in on; engine thumping, headlights blazing, tires screeching at the behest of a looming psychotic break.

There was just too much vulgarity, and irrefutable graphic evidence, of wanton carnal desire forcing its reflected sight deep into her eyes and consciousness, as she stared at who, and what, she had become, writhing there, alone, over the bedroom floor; flashed back at her, from out of the mirror.

The almost surreal movie-like image mailed at the speed of light, in real time, projecting the sight - of a frothing, moaning, punishing stranger - in the glassy, silvered-screen, fictitious reality, of an envisioned hanging tantric weave, bathed in brown-hued, hurricane lamp-light…

Flickering!

Vision: --Stark sultan: --probable, dream.

Approximated: Chaotic eyelids – occurring…

Climax: --Light oscillation…

Eyelid shutters…blurring:

… to and fro - rolled-back eyes;

Banging in the wind;

Soft-lidded things – there you go!

--Butterfly-wings, all a’row:

…cooling bodies;

of

Red Admiral and trinkets:

And, sparkly bell-sounding tings…

Height of heat, influenced by cruel built suns;

--Orgasmically driven, of course, fooling:

Hopefully, not,

All the way up:

…into her buns - sweetly slotted,

With ringlets, dangling in her hair and an un-cooling ardor besotted affair.

“Would you like butter or margarine, madam, with your fries on toast, and would you prefer your cream, clotted - Red?” screamed Tonya’s bloody mental organization, as it fell apart at the seams; her ankles chaffing and bleeding under her bed…’nuff said.

Chp. 6 (and a bit.)

Tonya’s stared at the shameless trollop in the mirror, and sobbed in utter despondency, as she watched herself defile her genitals, with much perspiration, and a pinch of intense ideology. Writhing around; her ass-hole opening and closing outside of her express control. Her vulva foaming as she tried to stab the beast within, with her ice-cream-scoop, dagger of sin.

Her legs bent back:

Wide as wide can be:

Hooked under the edge of the bed:

The frame anchoring thee:

Her fluid breasts wobbling and slopping around frantically:

In counter-opposing spins:

It is said:

To be the spin of the northern hemisphere:

I read.

Chp.7.

…Tonya had a somewhat global personality trait about herself: She was intrigued by the demonstrative fact that one of her mammary glands always chose to rotate anti-clockwise for the Northern hemisphere, whilst the other went the other way around? She wondered if she were in the Southern half of the globe, would they spin the other way. It puzzled her, as she pumped her holes with gusto and verve – alone.

“I wonder…” thought Tonya, “When Eskimos at the Poles do their holes like this, perhaps their breasts wobble around at tremendous speeds, and their pooh-pooh logs probably spin like tops, falling perilously down into their liquid graves - pulled asunder by whirling steep watery vortices - hurtling down and around the bend of their porcelain Universe at dizzying, frantic, speeds; and at the equator, would her breasts, not wobble at all? Her steaming logs, rather than doing their usual farewell circular dance around the Mulberry-Bush-vortex like that of the Inuit’s, would they not just be sucked, unceremoniously, down into Hades itself, with a horrible slurping noise? The fuming debris being gobbled-up by the pan, devoid of all fancy rotation; slurped at, as nothing more than torque-less, organic, fuming, environmental - torpedo-like - deposits, neither spinning one way, or t’other …?” puzzled Tonya to herself.

Tonya ruminated as she pumped her holes with a vengeance, “But what will happen to those who have just dropped their logs, if the “trout screw-effect” of the spinning, brown-puckered-ring-ejector is nullified by the absence of the Coriolis Effect, as it is at the equator...?”

Why, Freudians have long held the view, put forth by Kline, his most loyal disciple, herself, that buried deep in the mental organization of the psyche, at a strata laid down long ago, during the, psychotic, pre-genital stage of infantile anal development, the child, unconsciously - believes - that his or her chocolate-logs, are actually unborn babies, and as any Freudian worth their salt, will tell you, the child, during potty-training, ought to be taught, to flush the toilet bowl, and as the steaming chocolate “babies’ dance around the guzzling whirlpool at the bottom of the cold porcelain “womb”, then, to give the child proper “closure”, thus avoiding a substrata of guilt to be indelibly deposited within that structural “synapse” of the evolving personality, it – the child, I mean - ought to wave, and vocally bid his or her babies – 'Bye-bye…', all the time - the child - waving away merrily, watching intently; as the roasting clumps of brown matter speed-up in their circular dance of death, before being voraciously swallowed by the gag-less toilet-throat; dragged, screaming, helplessly around the bend, down into the all-accepting esophageal sewer; the slopping water, finally belching out a liquid burp, as the putrid babies rush headlong through the lonely darkness of the stinking, tubular, underground expressway, dumping its floating payload, into the fathomless gut and bowels of an insatiable earthly appetite.

Tonya worried about those at the equator though...

The children there, because the logs get sucked straight down, perhaps there isn't sufficient time for closure…? As soon as they flush, then the babies are gone! But the inhabitants of equatorial islands seem utterly devoid of repressed guilt, and show little signs of shame, running around with their loin cloths, and tits hanging out everywhere…?

Perhaps, the anomalous, observation of guiltless tribes is due to past generations who shit directly on the floor - where they stood!

Consequently, they had no need to wave their reeking babies good-bye, because their chocolate logs never went anywhere, and were there the next day, and the next, and so on. Just in case, after giving birth to a roasting chocolate baby, the child, could come back day after day, and visit with the dropped log, until either the flies carried it away, bit by bit, or until someone trod in it, and carried it off squelched between the gaps of their toes. It was a puzzle, alright, and it took Tonya's mind off watching the scorching scene going on in the wall-mirror, so that she could get closer to her orgasm, without being hindered by intense feeling of guilt and shame and self loathing. Tonya pumped away courageously, loving each and every thrust; with delicious delight.

Chp. 8.

One of Tonya’s goals in life was to take a shit at the poles, and at the equator.

It was on Tonya’s to –do list, the list that the Humanities teacher at college asked them to compile; more for their own use, rather than as a project to be turned in for grading, though: A list of the ten most important ambitions that each student would like, or strive, to fulfill at one point, or another, in their lifetime.

…Tonya had listed it at the number three level. Number one being the most desired life-goal, but for number three it was: Taking a shit at the “Poles” and watching the chocolate-log go straight down, without spinning.

Tonya’s listed life goals numbers one and two as being:

#1. To “bone” her daddy, hard and long, with her creamy love-hole, and finish him up by having his urgent deliver of steaming cargo, splattering, deep up her roasting coal-chute, and:

#2. To have her mother lick her creamy clout and ass-hole out, “69-Style” afterward, whilst she fisted her mom’s cod and stink holes, vindictively; a good three inches past the wrist - respective.

Tonya’s innate and highly developed androgyny, lent itself to immense internal drives, experienced deep within her gut; feelings which had a tendency to drive her unremittingly, and audaciously, to seek out adequate resolution of, not only, the anticipated Electra Syndrome, but also, the covert, unanticipated Oedipus Syndrome, too; hence, the list priority positions.

As Tonya pumped away between her legs, she reminisced over her remembered childhood rhymes, and hummed them to the rhythm as her holes opened alternating, hissing and sloshing, to the beat of her desire. The childhood rhymes comforted her, in times of turmoil, and difficulty. It was not so much the content, but rather the rhythmic rendition, of the words, they imparted a sense of…security and safety, leading to quasi constancy, and pseudo permanency – it’s a must in a girl’s make-up compact-bag, along with her lipstick, sable rouge-pomp-stick, bobble-handled hairbrush, small, tubular and Vaseline applicator; just in case there’s a knock on the “back door”, out of the blue - an un-lubricated rosebud, is a sore rosebud in the morning! …And breath-spray, for those odd occasions when sperm, is not the preferred oral whiff – especially when [His!] wife turns up at the office, unexpectedly… OoOphh…!

Way down at the other end of the list – number nine and ten, was to shit in her father’s work boots, and piss in her mother’s handbag. These two were crossed off as completed, together with number six. That of creeping down into the kitchen the night before Thanksgiving, when everyone had gone to bed, and was fast asleep, and to fuck both her holes, with the drumstick-ends of the uncooked Turkey’s legs, rubbing the wings over her swollen labia, and clitoral head; rhythmically rocking alone there in the dark, squatting over the kitchen table until she made herself come to a vicious, blinding, orgasmic crescendo in both her stink-cavities, squirting and farting with total abandonment, -- Oh! How chilly it is! --Muffling the wanton screams of her illicit ecstasy, by deep-thoating a medium sized, un-peppered, salami.

“Pepper makes me cough!” Tonya thinks.

The fucking of the Turkey, constituting the epitome of a pre-baked poultry massage, with lashings of hot, honey-buttered bastings, and a heavy lard greasing session, worthy of a bulldozer-mechanic’s, smudged, adroit, attention to warm bearings, and squeaky universal rack and pinion joints.

A greasing, straight from the womb, via the, pumping, gyrating love-tube-Freeway of the loins; and the aromatic, earthy-grit, sewer-pipe, effluent evacuation port, of the pong-pong hole, laid down by Tonya’s delicate, puckered, magenta rosebud, and her velvety smooth, dripping, baby-tube-tunnel.

Tonya made it! There on the cool, dark kitchen table: Trying her best to mitigate the squeak of the wooden legs, by counter-swinging her dangling breasts in opposite oriented swing-fashion, to that of her locomotive-pumping, out-stretched, buttock orbs, which powered her stink, and cod holes; riding greedily over the stiff, cold, rigor mortised, meaty proboscises of her plucked fowl necrophilic lover.

(To be continued...)