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Archive-name: Dreams/vignette.txt

Archive-author: Horn E. Hacker

Archive-title: Vignettes

     Tossing fitfully in a sleep caused by the dull whine of the Delta

turbines and the Scotch, Jon woke ocassionally.  He alternated between slow

pulls on his Chivas bottle, glances at Harry and The Hendersons, and thoughts

about the girl seated next to him.  Time flowed by in a slow, supersonic drone.

     She was small, the frustrated product of some moderate, fundamental

family, she was dressed as is the fad among many German youth.  It was what

Jon thought of, for lack of a better term, as slutty-chic.  Thank God

mini-skirts are on the rise again!  On this small bitch, the hem was only a

palm's breadth away from her panties.

     Or, perhaps she is wearing crotchless underwear, Jon thought, looking

across the aisle at the turbines and marvelling at the sheer ridiculousness of

a bird being able to tear such a powerful system apart.

     The goddamn trip reports and expense statements.  Fuck it.  I'm going to

start reading the papers this time. I've had it, I'm burned out and sick of

this travel shit.  Having cursed his fate he had to admit it would be hard to

convince anyone-himself included if he were truthful-of this trite crap.

     Another pull on the Scotch; a glance at Harry's lovable, ugly, puss on

the screen; and a word of help on how to use the headphones to the spaced out

bitch beside him, the time and jet streams flow past.

     And what of the bitch. Well first off, it was hard to be sympathetic to a

dumb cunt who married a man, just enlisted in the Army, for the sole purpose

of leaving home. And second, it was hard to deal with the monster hard on and

the urge to fuck this young thing until she begged to sleep.

     Not possibly more than 18; a moderate case of acne; approaching 85 lbs

and 5 feet; she reminded Jon of an anglo version of the girls in TDC, Korea.

Girls with cunts so tight and muscle control so profound that you got up more

often than not with stars in your eyes and a shredded foreskin.  Another

feather weight cock wrench.  Drunk or sober, Jon was certain she would squall

in mad frenzy from a cock in her mouth, cunt, or ass and would, perhaps, crave

all three at once.  An idea as absurd to Jon as three men reeling in the same


     The drone and Scotch took control once again, rendering Jon unconscious,

as he struggled to think of a way to convince this slut to join the mile-high

club in one of the stalls aft of passenger seating.  So close but never a

strike, he thought as he closed his eyes.

     The strident beat of German classical music was punctuated by Armed

Forces Network broadcasts as he raced down the Autobann toward Wurtzburg at a

constant 200 clics, marvelling at the handling of the Audi Quattro, and

cursing the poor wheel balancing and alignment he must contend with.  The

sadistic bastards at Budget, alive and well no doubt.

     Another session at Club L'amour is definitely in order, he thought.  That

Jamacian girl with booze soaked breath would be a real cock pleaser.  And she

still owed him the 60 marks he lost at sonderspeil from impaired reflexes that

she had caused when she started rubbing his cock and licking the base of his

neck the other night.  An oiled, shimmering gem, she was all the more of a

turn on by the scant, one-piece, white body suit she wore.

     Then why the fuck did I pick the other girl?  His lack of understanding

of subliminal attraction was a constant marvel.  Not that there were any

regrets other than the fact that she was slightly too tall for Jon to gain the

proper angle from behind to really actuate his thrusts into her seathing

sheath.  But the fact that she was AIDS conscious and made you forget the

goddamn rubber more than offset this slight problem.

     A cruel groan escapes his lips as his dick gets hard thinking about that

night and looking for the AusFahrt to Kitzegen.  She truly gave a jam packed

25 minutes of effort but Jon kept thinking it was the Swiss who would be so

goddamn clock conscious.  All in all she wasn't bad though, he had to admit.

She swirled his latex-ensconced log around in her mouth with vigor, though the

membrane precluded the proper attention to the little spot just below the tip

on the bottom side of his cock and she did neglect the base, hidden beyond his

sack.  And she missed a big crowd pleaser by not licking and sucking on both

balls properly...but the fucking itself made her a world class professional.

     She hit the 20 minute mark, naked, kicking and sucking on his cock and

slowly jacking it from the base with one hand and holding her hair out of the

way so he could watch with the other.  Her cheeks alternately deflated and

puffed as she bobbed up and down hoping for a quick cum so she could go home

for the evening.  Jon knew this bull shit, pulled away causing the most

delectable slurping noise to escape her lipstick and saliva smeared mouth.

     Positioning above her, he rammed downward to meet her as hard as was

polite (whore's having the upper hand.. and your must be courteous

of the flesh you rent). She met him thrust for thrust sending thrills along

Jon's spine as the magnificent, blood-engorged, lips of her sex, stroked his

balls, and coated them with layer after layer of the liquid fire that seeped

out and flowed intermittantly down the crack of her ass to disappear into the

sheets below them.

     Under normal circumstances, Jon would maximize this effect by period-

ically letting his cock pull completely free and slide down a girl's ass crack

to make sure lubricant was plentiful in that ultrasensitive area.  This was an

immense turn on to most women he met because the reduced friction enabled Jon

to lightly manipulate the sensitive inner surface of their crack with a

scraping fingernail that sent shivers from head to toe.  Two minutes of such

treatment was generally adequate to induce strong hip thrusts when accompanied

by a gradual movement toward the tight hot flower uncovered within.  The

lubricant then played it's most important role as Jon teased a lady's

sphincter muscles in ever widening circles until she gasped in surprised

pleasure when one or more fingers slipped craftily inside the constricted

cavern of molten desire he himself awakened by mere prestidigitation!  Quite

often it would take several such finger fuck sessions before the girl was

properly dialated so that there wasn't too much pain but it was worth it.  The

raw sexual power unleashed when a proper lady first learns the base pleasure

of bucking and snorting on all fours with a rigid rod prodding the recesses of

her ass while one hand maniputates her clit and the other tugs and toys with

her tits is exquisite. Once properly prepared, to avoid the brute pain of dry

penetration, Jon was generally able to lead a woman to freedom from her

stereotyped, proper persona to a catharsis of violent orgasms where she

drolled, and punctuated body-wracking spasms with near inhuman pleas:



.Now slow....

.Easssy.... yes...

.Slow and easy....

.In and out....

.Innnnn ahhh

.Ouuuttt ohhhhhh yessssss.

.Fuck me? Please?


     Jon was a man of mental control learned from years of experience.  A man

adroit at sensing when a lady was on the brink of regressing to animal

sensuality.  And knowing that prolonging the time spent on this brink....

He stopped.


     With a jerk and a squealching suction reflex from the surprised woman's

ass they were seperate once again.  And Jon could tell by the bucking, often

violent, backward thrusts andlow groans, just how close to the brink of orgasm

the woman was, and whether she would be pushed further over the brink in the

end by ramming into her violently while grabbing her clit and tits or biting

lightly on her neck and ears as hot cum hosed down her intestinal sleeve.  Or

by further disorientation, spread eagled on a bed unable to see or speak, at

Jon's command as if she were a keyboard to be strummed or a drum to be pounded

in virile beat.

     Ting Ting.  "Fasten your seatbelts" jolted Jon from his revery to the cum

soaked reality of his trousers and the girl he had left unattended beside him.

     "Damn shame" she said, indicating the bunched up sweater on Jon's lap.

If I had known you were packing a load like that I could have qualified for my

5-mile badge and life membership in the mile high club".

     Maybe next time, Jon thought as he turned his attention to the problem of

what kind of story he could write and upload on ISLENET.  Fuck it, I just

don't ever do anything worth writing about, he thought.  Taking a final pull

on his Chivas, he prepared for landing.


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