Art Of Growing Up Ch. 09

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Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Chp.9.

The “boning” of the Turkey by Tonya’s pungent rings in the hushed, thick, pitch-blacked darkness of her mother’s smoking, smoldering, traditional “Apple-Pie” kitchen, with its hanging copper-bottomed saucepans, green-rimmed, white, enameled colander, oiled, grandmother, hand-me-down blackened iron skillet heavy enough to drop a pig to its knees with one hefty swipe; arrays of wooden spoon, diamond-cut, serrated, elm meat-mallet – forks, scoops — knives of all shapes and sizes, lined up, dangling from age-old, browned, wooden hanging pegs, like little, obedient, tin-soldiers, standing at constant attention — mute, and simpering with passive belligerency in the wake of the robbing of their inherent chaotic tendency to loll around in natural disarray, like louts in a pool-room: …Potato masher, curly wire-wound whisk and the large two-pronged fork that could kill a man stone-cold dead, at a measured 20 paces, if thrown properly, hangs there quietly.

All of this “Order”, Tonya violated, as she rode the Turkey legs, hard and deep and fast, getting a good 7 inches into her dripping fish-hole, and a massive 11 inches up into her creamy, brown, stink-hole — she shivered as her rings expanded close to splitting point…and gasped in unabashed pleasure, as she rose up, off the girth of the Turkey, and her holes constricted, back to their original size. The constriction, together with their counterpart, that of her hole’s expansions, brought untold ecstasy, and bliss to Tonya’s rings, and her brain, reeled, and she pissed and shit everywhere, without knowing it…and she loved it so, so much.

Tonya was a machine now, gasping and panting, under her breath, as her mom and dad slept soundly, mere feet away, in the down stair master-bedroom — she heard her father snort in his sleep, in the wake of a massive fart, from his wife — her mother. Tonya knew it was her mother’s fart, by the little giggle that followed it. Tonya’s mother always giggled when she farted — even in her sleep. One New Years Eve, after one too many glasses of wine, Tonya’s mother, being a bit tipsy, had to be carried to bed, and sometime during the night, let go of such an enormous fart, that her ass forgot to close in time, and she shit the bed something terrible! Tonya’s mother always giggled after farting, but when she shit the bed, she became hysterical! Tonya’s dad, got so turned on that he fucked her all night long, in both her holes into the early hours of the morning – the noise was incredible! And, in the morning, when the two of them finally staggered out of the bedroom, you could have sworn, they had been mud-wrestling! It took weeks of scented candles, burning continuously, to get the stink out of the room, and daddy got a severe infection deep inside his urethra. The doctor said that a nut fragment became lodged inside Tonya’s dad’s stork, as he did his wife in her stink-hole, the sharpness of the nut fragment had scratched the inside of Tonya’s dad’s urethra. Tonya’s mom’s mud, got impacted down inside her dad’s rod-tube, and the infection started. Tonya had never heard such alarming language from out of her, usually, placid father, as when he went for a piss during the ensuing infection: The windows would rattle! Doctors recommended that Tonya’s daddy, either stop fucking his wife in the ass, or teach her to chew her food properly, before swallowing — especially the nuts, or buy more peanut butter — non-chunky, of course.

Tonya prayed that her mom hadn’t shit the bed again, as she straddled the Thanksgiving Turkey — just as she had for years and years…ever since she discovered one of her father’s Hustler magazines hidden behind an old box of floor-tiles, out in the garden shed. Most of the pages were stuck together, but the pages that she could still open, let her know, that whatever it was, that she had between her legs, was very powerful. Tonya would lick the sticky pages, and they would make her think of her dad. The cream that came off the pages, she would gobble down, as if it were vanilla-honey ice-cream… Mmmmmmm she loved the musky taste, and would tear out pages, and eat them, under the blankets, at night, in the secrecy of her own room. Tonya always pee’d the bed, if she ate too much of her daddy’s magazine… She would fall asleep rubbing her slit…and pee the bed, sometime in the night. Tonya limited herself to half a page, per night, and then she only creamed the bottom of her panties. Tonya loved the smell of the cream in the bottom of her panties. She would spend hours scraping it off into a saucer, and mix the powder with baby oil, then wear it, on her wrists, and behind her ears. Then she would sit on her dad’s lap, and feel the hard swelling build under her buttocks,; as she sat on his bursa bayan eskort lap, and hung around his neck. Tonya’s mom would get jealous sometimes, and slam dishes around in the kitchen?

Tonya’s parents quieted down again, and so she continued her rigorous Turkey-fucking. Her massive breasts flailing around, cancelling-out any obtuse side-ways sheer movement, her open buttocks pumping wildly in a perfect perpendicular plane to the sturdy wooden chopping block which held her Turkey Lover’s plucked proboscises, and upon which, she straddled, like a Queen Praying Mantis — legs and knees, wide apart — toe-nails grinding unconsciously into the butcher’s-top wood, with so much ecstatic power, that splinters – being driven, slowly, but relentlessly, up, and under the nail – deep into the quick… the blood; seeping out from the claws, driveling –languidly – under her feet with imperceptively-deceptive capillary action, threatening to destabilize her Thanksgiving Tantric Dance itself, by her blood’s intrinsic — slipperiness: The pain — a non-player….

Dancing atop the kitchen table: Mouth agape; fine gossamer strands whipping viciously from a chin-full of thick, drooling, viscous, saliva propagating slowly out of her lovely, quivering lips, and sweet smelling cake-hole…

Eyes rolling back in her perfectly shaped cranium, her two, golden, platted pigtails, cutting through the air as they whipped about her face, and neck with incisive hisses, which resemble the dire warning from a nest of newly-born rattle-snake’s alarm-bottles; still damp, from the birth. Tonya started to smell the bird she was riding. Her holes were steaming!

To do this…without dislocation, and the tell-tale snapping-off of wing and leg, was a feat of pure mechanics: The annihilation of outward resultant and resonant force, nullified by closed-loop, internal, counter-balanced vectors of unknown – but randomly chaotic – continuously up-dated, and consequently finely adjusted degrees of magnitude and direction, introduced into the fowl-fucking-equation, by the precise countermanding swing of Tonya’s massive, rigid-nipple’d, far-flung pasty titty-rack, was enough to boggle the Fermat equation solver, himself.

Thus Tonya massaged the Turkey’s goose-pimpled legs, like a rabid ‘hoe’s greasy buttocks chewing on her stinking gusset, as she exhaustedly drags her sorry soiled ass home after a rather bad day on the skids; staggering onward, almost comatose from the cruel heat of the day, and the intense surgical dissociation of the reality on the street.

Tonya saw a version of it on the Food channel.

Massage was within her quadrant of expertise.

Tonya likes to help out in the kitchen.

She never eats Turkey at Thanksgiving — Of course, she’s more of a Ham girl: Incessantly giggling at the table, though?

The parents had warned her, and were puzzled by her constant outbursts of laughter and badly-smothered smirks; putting it down to a flaring of adverse counter-reaction, to stifled over-stimulation of — facsimiles – relating to repressed feelings of hostility, pent-up, and repressed – en mass – by peoples, in attendance…

The “Family”: Cradle of dysfunction…

As they, her parents, glared at her over, and through, their ingesting actions upon savory seasoned legs, torn carefully from the braised golden torso of her clandestine night-lover’s baked corpse: Gnawing greedily at the flesh of the succumbed carcass: Nibbling irascibly, down to the very bone… and they, the parents, blinked in wonderment unto one another.

The rolling of their large horsey eyes and the slow, rhythmic, shaking of their heads, in absolute, knowing, and preferred condemnation; in cahoots, with nothing more than their hidden fears, for reference: Chomping at their bits, chewing at their bones; as they stoically watched her, their Thanksgiving daughter, double-up in laughter…

Swallowing their legs…

They, Tonya’s parents, blinked, and chewed, as she rolled off her chair, desperately hugging her tummy; crying with about a fair welt of bitter-sweet pain, and cramps of mirth, as she wriggles around, helplessly, under the Thanksgiving table, pissing her knickers and farting – year after year…

They got used to it in the end.

So!

All this happened in the blink of an eye.

Tonya made a habit of “Going somewhere else”, in her mind, as she underwent the recollections of the stark reality of her past, embroidered into the gaudy sequences of the performer’s attire: The trodden fragrant scent of straw, sawdust, and elephant droppings stuck, unapologetically, on the trodden heel of the ring-master’s heavy boot: The smell bursa evi olan escort of face paint, a welcomed repose, from ringside reality, and the distant promise, of a good steak, a whore, and a cheap suit.

Chp.9.

The “boning” of the Turkey by Tonya’s pungent rings in the hushed, thick, pitch-black darkness of her mother’s smoking, smoldering, traditional “Apple-Pie” kitchen, with its hanging copper-bottomed saucepans, green-rimmed, white, enameled colander, oiled, grandmother, hand-me-down blackened iron skillet heavy enough to drop a pig to its knees with one hefty swipe; arrays of wooden spoon, diamond-cut, serrated, elm meat-mallet – forks, scoops — knives of all shapes and sizes, lined up, dangling from age-old, browned, wooden hanging pegs, like little, obedient, tin-soldiers, standing at constant attention — mute, and simpering with passive belligerency in the wake of the robbing of their inherent chaotic tendency to loll around in natural disarray, like louts in a pool-room: …Potato masher, curly wire-wound whisk and the large two-pronged fork that could kill a man stone-cold dead, at a measured 20 paces, if thrown properly, hangs there quietly.

All of this “Order”, Tonya violated, as she rode the Turkey legs, hard and deep and fast, getting a good 7 inches into her dripping fish-hole, and a massive 11 inches up into her creamy, brown, stink-hole — she shivered as her rings expanded close to splitting point…and gasped in unabashed pleasure, as she rose up, off the girth of the Turkey, and her holes constricted, back to their original size. The constriction, together with their counterpart, that of her hole’s expansions, brought untold ecstasy, and bliss to Tonya’s rings, and her brain, reeled, and she pissed and shit everywhere, without knowing it…and she loved it so, so much.

Tonya was a machine now, gasping and panting, under her breath, as her mom and dad slept soundly, mere feet away, in the down stair master-bedroom — she heard her father snort in his sleep, in the wake of a massive fart, from his wife — her mother. Tonya knew it was her mother’s fart, by the little giggle that followed it. Tonya’s mother always giggled when she farted — even in her sleep. One New Years Eve, after one too many glasses of wine, Tonya’s mother, being a bit tipsy, had to be carried to bed, and sometime during the night, let go of such an enormous fart, that her ass forgot to close in time, and she shit the bed something terrible! Tonya’s mother always giggled after farting, but when she shit the bed, she became hysterical! Tonya’s dad, got so turned on that he fucked her all night long, in both her holes into the early hours of the morning – the noise was incredible! And, in the morning, when the two of them finally staggered out of the bedroom, you could have sworn, they had been mud-wrestling! It took weeks of scented candles, burning continuously, to get the stink out of the room, and daddy got a severe infection deep inside his urethra. The doctor said that a nut fragment became lodged inside Tonya’s dad’s stork, as he did his wife in her stink-hole, the sharpness of the nut fragment had scratched the inside of Tonya’s dad’s urethra. Tonya’s mom’s mud, got impacted down inside her dad’s rod-tube, and the infection started. Tonya had never heard such alarming language from out of her, usually, placid father, as when he went for a piss during the ensuing infection: The windows would rattle! Doctors recommended that Tonya’s daddy, either stop fucking his wife in the ass, or teach her to chew her food properly, before swallowing — especially the nuts, or buy more peanut butter — non-chunky, of course.

Tonya prayed that her mom hadn’t shit the bed again, as she straddled the Thanksgiving Turkey — just as she had for years and years…ever since she discovered one of her father’s Hustler magazines hidden behind an old box of floor-tiles, out in the garden shed. Most of the pages were stuck together, but the pages that she could still open, let her know, that whatever it was, that she had between her legs, was very powerful. Tonya would lick the sticky pages, and they would make her think of her dad. The cream that came off the pages, she would gobble down, as if it were vanilla-honey ice-cream… Mmmmmmm she loved the musky taste, and would tear out pages, and eat them, under the blankets, at night, in the secrecy of her own room. Tonya always pee’d the bed, if she ate too much of her daddy’s magazine… She would fall asleep rubbing her slit…and pee the bed, sometime in the night. Tonya limited herself to half a page, per night, and then she only creamed the bottom of her panties. Tonya loved the smell of the cream in the bottom bursa rus escort of her panties. She would spend hours scraping it off into a saucer, and mix the powder with baby oil, then wear it, on her wrists, and behind her ears. Then she would sit on her dad’s lap, and feel the hard swelling build under her buttocks,; as she sat on his lap, and hung around his neck. Tonya’s mom would get jealous sometimes, and slam dishes around in the kitchen?

Tonya’s parents quieted down again, and so she continued her rigorous Turkey-fucking. Her massive breasts flailing around, cancelling-out any obtuse side-ways sheer movement, her open buttocks pumping wildly in a perfect perpendicular plane to the sturdy wooden chopping block which held her Turkey Lover’s plucked proboscises, and upon which, she straddled, like a Queen Praying Mantis — legs and knees, wide apart — toe-nails grinding unconsciously into the butcher’s-top wood, with so much ecstatic power, that splinters – being driven, slowly, but relentlessly, up, and under the nail – deep into the quick… the blood; seeping out from the claws, driveling –languidly – under her feet with imperceptively-deceptive capillary action, threatening to destabilize her Thanksgiving Tantric Dance itself, by her blood’s intrinsic — slipperiness: The pain — a non-player….

Dancing atop the kitchen table: Mouth agape; fine gossamer strands whipping viciously from a chin-full of thick, drooling, viscous, saliva propagating slowly out of her lovely, quivering lips, and sweet smelling cake-hole…

Eyes rolling back in her perfectly shaped cranium, her two, golden, platted pigtails, cutting through the air as they whipped about her face, and neck with incisive hisses, which resemble the dire warning from a nest of newly-born rattle-snake’s alarm-bottles; still damp, from the birth. Tonya started to smell the bird she was riding. Her holes were steaming!

To do this…without dislocation, and the tell-tale snapping-off of wing and leg, was a feat of pure mechanics: The annihilation of outward resultant and resonant force, nullified by closed-loop, internal, counter-balanced vectors of unknown – but randomly chaotic – continuously up-dated, and consequently finely adjusted degrees of magnitude and direction, introduced into the fowl-fucking-equation, by the precise countermanding swing of Tonya’s massive, rigid-nipple’d, far-flung pasty titty-rack, was enough to boggle the Fermat equation solver, himself.

Thus Tonya massaged the Turkey’s goose-pimpled legs, like a rabid ‘hoe’s greasy buttocks chewing on her stinking gusset, as she exhaustedly drags her sorry soiled ass home after a rather bad day on the skids; staggering onward, almost comatose from the cruel heat of the day, and the intense surgical dissociation of the reality on the street.

Tonya saw a version of it on the Food channel.

Massage was within her quadrant of expertise.

Tonya likes to help out in the kitchen.

She never eats Turkey at Thanksgiving — Of course, she’s more of a Ham girl: Incessantly giggling at the table, though?

The parents had warned her, and were puzzled by her constant outbursts of laughter and badly-smothered smirks; putting it down to a flaring of adverse counter-reaction, to stifled over-stimulation of — facsimiles – relating to repressed feelings of hostility, pent-up, and repressed – en mass – by peoples, in attendance…

The “Family”: Cradle of dysfunction…

As they, her parents, glared at her over, and through, their ingesting actions upon savory seasoned legs, torn carefully from the braised golden torso of her clandestine night-lover’s baked corpse: Gnawing greedily at the flesh of the succumbed carcass: Nibbling irascibly, down to the very bone… and they, the parents, blinked in wonderment unto one another.

The rolling of their large horsey eyes and the slow, rhythmic, shaking of their heads, in absolute, knowing, and preferred condemnation; in cahoots, with nothing more than their hidden fears, for reference: Chomping at their bits, chewing at their bones; as they stoically watched her, their Thanksgiving daughter, double-up in laughter…

Swallowing their legs…

They, Tonya’s parents, blinked, and chewed, as she rolled off her chair, desperately hugging her tummy; crying with about a fair welt of bitter-sweet pain, and cramps of mirth, as she wriggles around, helplessly, under the Thanksgiving table, pissing her knickers and farting – year after year…

They got used to it in the end.

So!

…And all this happened in just a blink of an eye.

Tonya made a habit of “Going somewhere else”, in her mind, as she underwent the recollections of the stark reality of her past, embroidered into the gaudy sequences of the performer’s attire: The trodden fragrant scent of straw, sawdust, and elephant droppings stuck, unapologetically, onto the trodden heel of the ring-master’s heavy boot: The smell of face paint, a welcomed repose, from ringside reality, and the distant promise, of a good steak, a whore, and a cheap suit.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32