Our Fire Island Group House Pt. 02

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They are still slumped. Good boys. They are not touching themselves. They look exhausted from just lying there.

Two thick boners are curved back over hairy bellies, trying for a touch-back at Belly Button Basin. It would be fun to explain to Mignon why they look as though someone has splashed them with virgin olive oil.

“Take your glass,” I command.

We walk to the fridge. I pour two chardonnays. Mignon has unrealized potential for this; she is on her sixth drink and her eyes aren’t crossed, yet. This is a serious young woman.

With two cold beers, I head back. They start to rise. “Nope, stay right here.” I hand out the beers.

We stand together in front of them, two stripped naked women. I am a little taller than Mignon, my legs longer. I have thoughtfully cultivated my patch; she has gone with the wild garden.

Jerry groans. He is guzzling his beer. I can’t believe a stiff-o can arch back at that angle. The poor guy is in agony. Is he gazing at Mignon, at me? Is he hallucinating the fall of Troy?

I am confident that someday Mignon will burn another Troy.

I am not self-conscious. It’s just good old tomboy Ellen, one of the guys. A chardonnay and a Camel. Does the world have ANY idea, today, how to LIVE?

I have slipped into another realm of consciousness. Mignon’s panicked touch on my bare arm brings me back. How could I forget? Needy manhood awaits. Get down on your bony knees, women.

I set down my glass, my cigarette. Come to stand towering over Jerry. I couldn’t care less whether he is cut. These dicks look exactly the same. Jerry looks up, fathomless yearning. If he glances over to checkout Mignon, right now, I’m going to pour the cold chardonnay on his dick. Maybe burn it with my cigarette, too.

He does not. He loves me. I’m certain of it. I clunk down onto my knees, hold his eyes for one tantalizing, teasing moment. I take his thick, crimson, burning, throbbing boner in my neat, manicured hand. I study it, looking down over my nose at it. Give him my most big-sisterly smile. My fingers are teasing the underside, slowly spreading the lube. He’s groaning, now, nonstop. Better slow down.

I glance over. Mignon is still standing at attention, waiting for an order, staring at me with bugging-out green eyes. Oh, my God, Tom over there may be about to start balling.

“Do him, bitch.” And I add, “slowly.”

She looks even sexier kneeling. Her boobs are a floating shelf. Her titties are like the noses of pointers, dead center on the fallen prey. She has taken Tom in hand. He is gnashing his teeth as though a 10-pound weight were dangling from his nuts. Not a bad idea. Mignon’s darling face has leaned far forward; unconsciously, her lips yearning for him.

Where am I going to take this Betturkey thing? I have heaved up so I can rub one stiff little tit on Jerry’s dick. I am grinning. He is losing it. I think he is speaking Swahili.

Mignon imitates me with her Tiffany’s tit. Lucky Tom.

They are pleading, both of them, for liberty or death.

Can’t get aboard this thing. Obviously, Mignon is a virgin. No contraception. Irresponsible, Ellen. The girl’s mother sent her the milk money to spend the summer out here. Can’t send her home banged up.

Where are your qualities of leadership? Just say “suck.” Still kneeling, I bend over Jerry’s hairy lap.

His eyes are shut, but, when my lips slip onto his dick, he jerks, flips his hips to drive his prick deeper into my throat. Out of control.

Mignon has observed. She seizes Tom’s dick like an ice cream cone. Her small, pale hand has it right at the base, resting in the thick hair, and she is dragging down the skin without realizing it. Tom is yelping as his skin is stretched to the limit and the red raspberry surges out. Is he going to ask her to stop? VERY funny joke. If she wraps a hotdog bun around it and slathers it with mustard, he isn’t going to protest.

Oh-oh. Premature detonation. Can’t blame poor Tom. His hips are jerking. I think he may snap Mignon’s neck. He is yelling. His hand is wrapped in her auburn hair and he is bashing the childishly beautiful face again and again onto his boner. Yes, I exaggerate. You have to get the spirit of the thing.

Christ. There is something in this Southern womanhood thing. The girl is NOT gagging. NOT panicking. She is swallowing. I can see it, the long lovely throat gulping down half of Tom’s lifetime supply of cum. She hasn’t even closed her eyes; she is gazing up right at Tom as he hoses her. Wait a minute. Has she seen Deep Throat, after all? Tricky bitch.

Oh-oh. Heads up. My guy is coming, now. Naturally, he has a death grip on my short black hair. What is it about guys? Do they all have primal formative experiences with being abandoned mid-cum? If he pulls my hair any harder, I’m may sock his nuts.

I remember to look up into his eyes. He is a gusher. I mean, also verbally. He is sobbing, “Oh, God, Ellen, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

I am swallowing. Both his cum and his line. I believe every word of it. I have found the man of my dreams, here, on Fire Island. In short, I am hallucinating.

So we have done it. Two naked slave girls, side by side.

Now, Mignon must know the truth. Can the poor girl take it? Can I take it?

When a guy has come like an ammunition depot hit by a shell, he has NO interest in your pussy, honey. If he starts licking it, he’s going to fall asleep, right there, blow-drying you with Betturkey Giriş snores. Oh, dear Lord, how can this plain girl from Georgia accept this awful wisdom?

I look over at her. She is smiling with happiness. What happens NOW, Ellen? Does he ravish me like in Gone with The Wind?

No dear, he is asleep.

They are not exactly snoring. More like heavy breathing. Dicks declining in doleful curves. Mignon is watching, frowning. Hey, what happened to the ravaging of Southern womanhood, guys? This is a tear-jerker. Get the chardonnay.

I am the leader. The goddess. I buy the next round.

When I take her hand and start to lead her away, she looks confused, glancing back at Tom. Why are his eyes closed when her knockers are jutting out 25 percent farther than their theoretical maximum extension?

I pull her out the door, across the breezeway, into the bedroom wing. She is docile, a sex bomb turned cocker spaniel.

Into my room. I maneuver her up against the bed. I approach slowly, until the points of my nipples brush hers, I never release her pleading green gaze. Give her time to pull away. My face lowers to hers, our lips meet. Her eyes are closed; she is utterly still, face lifted. Is she still awake? Has she fainted standing up?

I lift my lips to ask her.

“More,” she prays. “More, Ellen Pierce.” Somehow, that sort of CRAZES me.

For new experiences, I grab her big tit and try to tear it off. She moans louder, twisting away, but she is pushing it into my hand. I try to yank out a handful of her pussy hair. She nuzzles her pussy farther into my hand.

Shit, I’m on fire. I shove her down onto the bed so hard, she bounces.

I am lying on top of her with all my weight, slobbering her lips. Then biting her breasts till she yelps and reaches up to push me’ “Ahm sorry, Ellen Pierce,” she gasps. “It hurt a little, darling.” Another gasp.

“Shut up.”

“Oh yes, dahling, yes, ah will…”

God, what couldn’t I do to those breasts? I sit astride her belly and slap them back and forth, harder and harder. She doesn’t even whimper; she has her orders. I understand cannibalism, now. I will be satisfied by nothing less than devouring them. Love is funny.

I am sliding down over her body, smooth and warm, undulating hills and hollows. Here a tiny mole; shall I eat it? By now, my hand is harrowing my own cunt…

I come to that pure silk. Imported from Heaven. My cheek, my lips, gliding over it, again and again. But not often enough. I would love to come back for a longer visit, thank you.

Mignon’s sudden cry is a stiletto to the soul. “OH, Ellen Pierce, ah need it, Ah need to be…”

This must be the “up” button. Nice clit, Mignon. If it gets any bigger, you might need medical attention. I lick, flick, bite, suck. Wow, I love this feeling of driving another woman into temporary insanity, so she starts screaming ‘fuck me, you bitch…'” ALL women know dirty words.

Stop THRASHING, Mignon. We are going to roll off the bed.

Jesus, they always grab your hair, don’t they? Guys, girls, it doesn’t matter. She is forcing my face against her slippery pooch; she is sobbing; she is going to bring the volunteer fire fighters. Not a bad idea.

“Ellen Pierce…Ah love you, Ah love you…”

Everyone loves me, when I’m lapping their sex organs.

She is snoring. I kid you not. The poor kid has had a full day. She needs her sleep.

It is just five minutes later. I am standing beside the bed, looking down. Nice bod, kid. I suppose I could climb up and plot down on her face. Not so exciting when you know she’d MUCH rather sleep.

I pull on my white bathrobe, walk out of the room. In the living room, nothing has changed. Tom and Jerry are snoring, side by side on the couch. Their dear little dicks are curled up like dozing mice with little smiles on their faces. Mignon just shrieked her lungs out, with cries that would make a banshee shit her pants. They are sleeping like babies. They ARE fucking babies.

I take one quick sip of chardonnay. Put the glass in the sink.

Out the door is the hot July evening. Few lights, now, across the dunes. I like the boardwalk under my bare feet, memory of the sun. As the boardwalk becomes beach, I step into warm sand. No one here. It must be later than I thought?

The low moon seems distant, beautiful but unattainable. It draws me across the wide beach to the surf. No matter how far I follow that moon, its lovely light will elude me. How far could I swim out to sea, enchanted by that cold light, until all strength, all will, failed me?

Alone in the night, I let the bathrobe drop. Is it exciting to be nude, even when no one sees or cares?

The madness, the frustration, is receding. I reach up for a titty check; they are softer. Not little horns, now. The tide is ebbing, the surf calm, a little edge of wave chasing up the flat sand. In the moonlight, the foam is white, warm to the toes.

I take a long step. The firm sand welcomes my weight. Another long stride and I am running at the surf’s edge. I can see far down the beach. Alone.

I notice the moon cuddles my breasts, rounding and shaping them. I almost laugh. And then I am running hard, each breath coming easier until breathing is an intoxicant. My woman’s swatch of hair is wet with salt water, splashed up by my feet to cleanse my womanhood for what is to come.

I will run in the moonlight until I stumble and fall, exhausted, into the foam. I will lie, my thighs splayed, until Poseidon comes surging out of the waves—rampant, virile, and brutal with loveless lust-and violates me at the edge of the sea.

Until in my happiness I cry out to heaven itself.

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