awareness.
If one could gasp mentally, Sary did so, and it was a gasp of fitful wantonness. Her body churned on the mattress, buttocks clenching, toes flexing, sex palpitating. Her fingers were twisting a delicious ache into a gorged nipple, while her other hand seemed determined to admit itself entirely into her womanhood’s tender threshold. Her sexual fluids ran rampant; her abdomen sucked in and out as her back stressed like an archer’s bow pulled to maximum arciform. In her mind, she knew she was awake, yet that simple acknowledgment is all she seemed able to command. What remained was only a fervent—no—an inexorable sexual ravenousness, a yearning for orgasm comparable to the hunger of a donjon convict left unfed for a fortnight. The capability of coherent thought was impossible, overtaken as she was with this raw and primitivistic need to be penetrated, to be cored, to be drubbed by immediate and interminable intercourse. In fact, if any analytical thoughts did indeed exist in her head, they were merely recollective images of her dream...
Not the glorious pastures and atavistic sunrises, but her three antagonists cabalistically forced to consume various bodily waste.
She felt aflame, bolting up in the cot. She could hear the thuds of her heart as her hand bedeviled her sex and her breasts buzzed.
Her eyes snapped wide.
Aw, my GAWD...
The logical queries that such a predicament might bid never arrived, queries that considered her sudden, unquenchable, and very uncharacteristic lust, or, in her own backland dialect, Haow can dreamin’ baout men etting shit’n drinking pee’n spit make me so dag blasted horny? It was a pertinent question, and had Sary been a schooled alienist of, say, the Freudian Doctrine, she might devise that such an excitement came as the result of multiple retrograde symptoms of erotic-reversal revenge totems.
But, lo, Sary was not a schooled alienist.
At any rate, the recollection of nauseating imagery blotted out all else in her mind, leaving only the verisimilitude of sexual appetency and the unheeding drive to slake it.
In labored breaths, she scanned the shed’s interior. Only a sliver of light leaked from the oil lamp on the desk, and in this inappreciable illumination, her eyes deciphered the lanky, awkward form of Wilbur, slumped asleep in his chair.
Sary rose as if instigated by Vodou. She walked dizzily to where Wilbur slumbered; then, with no abashment whatever, she skimmed the diaphanous gown over her head and straddled Wilbur bare-groined in the chair. Whether he came awake instantly or not, she had no idea; her focus, instead, had her hands frantic at the man’s belt. Several eye-blinks later, his belt was untied, his trousers were opened, and Sary was grunting in an absolutely adamantine effort to haul his trousers down. Wilbur did indeed come awake at this point, and in such a manner as could be likened to outright alarm.
“Suh-Sary! What it be yew’re doin’, gull?” he exclaimed, and then his hands came to her bare waist, to intercept her efforts.
The words of her reply seemed hewn by the heat of her angst. “Wilbur, I carn’t ‘splain it at all but I feel jess plumb out’a my mind with a hanker ta fuck yew! Got ta thinkin’ ‘baout all ya done fer me, and ‘specially makin’ them men do them things at the store and— jiminee! —it’s got me hornier than a mare in heat!” and with this declaration she was able to jack Wilbur’s pants down several inches.
Wilbur hitched them back up. “Aw, no, Sary...”
“Wilbur, please! I dun’t know what come over me, but I jess, I juss, I juss GOTTA have yew in me!”
“But-but,” and then his large hands finally snapped to her wrists and arrested all movement of her hands. “Thar’s suthin’ ye dun’t understand! See, I’se different, is what I’m a-sayin’!”
“ Different? ” she wailed.
“Different from fellas hereabouts!” He broke into an ungovernable stammer. “Different, I
If one could gasp mentally, Sary did so, and it was a gasp of fitful wantonness. Her body churned on the mattress, buttocks clenching, toes flexing, sex palpitating. Her fingers were twisting a delicious ache into a gorged nipple, while her other hand seemed determined to admit itself entirely into her womanhood’s tender threshold. Her sexual fluids ran rampant; her abdomen sucked in and out as her back stressed like an archer’s bow pulled to maximum arciform. In her mind, she knew she was awake, yet that simple acknowledgment is all she seemed able to command. What remained was only a fervent—no—an inexorable sexual ravenousness, a yearning for orgasm comparable to the hunger of a donjon convict left unfed for a fortnight. The capability of coherent thought was impossible, overtaken as she was with this raw and primitivistic need to be penetrated, to be cored, to be drubbed by immediate and interminable intercourse. In fact, if any analytical thoughts did indeed exist in her head, they were merely recollective images of her dream...
Not the glorious pastures and atavistic sunrises, but her three antagonists cabalistically forced to consume various bodily waste.
She felt aflame, bolting up in the cot. She could hear the thuds of her heart as her hand bedeviled her sex and her breasts buzzed.
Her eyes snapped wide.
Aw, my GAWD...
The logical queries that such a predicament might bid never arrived, queries that considered her sudden, unquenchable, and very uncharacteristic lust, or, in her own backland dialect, Haow can dreamin’ baout men etting shit’n drinking pee’n spit make me so dag blasted horny? It was a pertinent question, and had Sary been a schooled alienist of, say, the Freudian Doctrine, she might devise that such an excitement came as the result of multiple retrograde symptoms of erotic-reversal revenge totems.
But, lo, Sary was not a schooled alienist.
At any rate, the recollection of nauseating imagery blotted out all else in her mind, leaving only the verisimilitude of sexual appetency and the unheeding drive to slake it.
In labored breaths, she scanned the shed’s interior. Only a sliver of light leaked from the oil lamp on the desk, and in this inappreciable illumination, her eyes deciphered the lanky, awkward form of Wilbur, slumped asleep in his chair.
Sary rose as if instigated by Vodou. She walked dizzily to where Wilbur slumbered; then, with no abashment whatever, she skimmed the diaphanous gown over her head and straddled Wilbur bare-groined in the chair. Whether he came awake instantly or not, she had no idea; her focus, instead, had her hands frantic at the man’s belt. Several eye-blinks later, his belt was untied, his trousers were opened, and Sary was grunting in an absolutely adamantine effort to haul his trousers down. Wilbur did indeed come awake at this point, and in such a manner as could be likened to outright alarm.
“Suh-Sary! What it be yew’re doin’, gull?” he exclaimed, and then his hands came to her bare waist, to intercept her efforts.
The words of her reply seemed hewn by the heat of her angst. “Wilbur, I carn’t ‘splain it at all but I feel jess plumb out’a my mind with a hanker ta fuck yew! Got ta thinkin’ ‘baout all ya done fer me, and ‘specially makin’ them men do them things at the store and— jiminee! —it’s got me hornier than a mare in heat!” and with this declaration she was able to jack Wilbur’s pants down several inches.
Wilbur hitched them back up. “Aw, no, Sary...”
“Wilbur, please! I dun’t know what come over me, but I jess, I juss, I juss GOTTA have yew in me!”
“But-but,” and then his large hands finally snapped to her wrists and arrested all movement of her hands. “Thar’s suthin’ ye dun’t understand! See, I’se different, is what I’m a-sayin’!”
“ Different? ” she wailed.
“Different from fellas hereabouts!” He broke into an ungovernable stammer. “Different, I
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