My Failed Novel: Episode 9

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Making his way across the harbour, on his way to work, Tsu could only think of one thing. I imagined her making her way to her grandpa’s store. How quaint, he thought to himself. What a good girl, to carry on a family business like that. The old man must be decrepid, blind and helpless, but, being the sweet-heart that she was, she probably made him feel like he was doing everything, that she was just a helper, and that she had much to learn. In truth, she probably did everything, from handling the money, to choosing the books that they were buy from the locals. A literary fan? Perhaps she spent most of her time reading. Besdies helping the family, she must love books. He wondered what her favourite books were. Did she read what was coming from the america’s? Had she read Ulysses? Or perhaps she read those dirty romance novels. Perhaps, like himself, she yearned for a lover, a partner. He imagined her lying in bed, with a flashlight under her bed, one hand holding the light, the other bringing about an inner light by lightly fondling her labia and clitoris, bringing herself to climax, with a triumphant squeal followed by an contented soft panting. Tsu could now definitely feel his erection forcing itself against the cloth of his pants. At that moment he was alone in the universe, alone with his thoughts of his precious Kristi. Kristi. What a name. Kris-ti. Kr-is-ti. Rhymes with kiss me. Kristi, kiss me. Kiss me Kristi. He played with the permutations of those three poetic words. Kristi, me kiss. Kiss Kristi, me. Me kiss Kristi? Me, Kristi kiss!

He imagined their lives together. He would pick her up after his shift in his fancy new car (where he got this car he had no idea, but for some reason his fantasy guaranteed that dating this girl would bring riches, youth, an expertise in love making, a huge penis, and satisfaction in life that even Buddha couldn’t help but desire) from the book store. She’d be standing on the ladder, putting away an impossible amount of books stacked on her shoulder, when all of a sudden she would lose her grip and fall backwards, spilling books and letting out a cry of helplessness. As if it had been choreographed and practiced for years on end, he would stroll in and catch her in his large business-man arms, give her a wink, and then plant a Clark Gable kiss on her lips. She’d swoon, grab him by the collar, and whisper “kissmekissmekissme” while bringing their lips closer together. Without putting her down, he’d whisk her away outside to the waiting convertible, still running, balance her in one arm and open the door with the other, and let her in. Sliding over the roof, he’d hop over the door and kick the car into gear. For some reason his fantasy then takes place on a high way, at high speed, lighting two cigarettes in his mouth, giving her the one while looking over at her, at her hair blowing in the wind, not a care for the road, since he was a master roadster and people knew to stay out of his way. When they got home, she’d immediately begin to take off her clothes, revealing her perky twenty-year old breasts, her smooth skin and the beautiful lobes of her ass. She was a picture of grace, sublimity, innocence and Geisha-slutstress all rolled into one. Before he’d even have time to close the front door she’d be on her kness, looking up with doe eyes, as she’d undo his pants and remove his pulsating rod-like cock. With her tiny mouth, she’d bravely take on the beast, slathering it with her saliva and smearing lipstick around the base of his shaft. An absence of a gag reflex, the result of a child-hood accident involving a backyard bbq and a hospital visit for asphyxiation-related issues, would result in a sword-swallowing equivalent task, which she’d accomplish with a gag and a slurp. He’d try to lead her up the stairs to the bedroom, but the pendulimic swing of her buttocks as she lead the way would always get the best of him, resulting in a beastial response from him. Pulling her to the stairs by the foot, he’d lay on top of her, biting her ear while simultaneously lifting her skirt. Frustration would always prevent him from taking off her underwear in a manner anywhere close to being considered chivalric; instead opting to simply push them aside, or, on days of extra passion, plainly rip them to pieces with the strength of ten horny men. He would then have his way with her there, on the steps, face beside sweaty face, his arm grabbing her breast with the other balancing himself on the stairs, with her one arm clutching at the banister, and her other doing its best to keep her from being crushed against the stairs, against his best efforts. As this cock would slide in and out of her, she would release soft and loud moans. He would feel his balls periodically slap against the stairs, giving him a mixed sensation of pain and pleasure. His thrusts would have the force of a train, without mercy, at any moment threatening to break the entire stairway edifice. They would both reach climax together, uttering wild, gutteral and downright primal exclaims of joy, passion, catharthis and pure ecstasy. He would then pick up the whimpering girl up off the stairs, and carry her into the bedroom, where he would bring her to climax again, with two fingers in her cunt, one finger in her asshole, and his tongue lapping vigorously at her clit. After she came, he would again mount her, but this time it would be slow and nice; they would come together face to face, softly kissing. There they would lay, exhausted. When he would awake, she would have her mouth on his shaft, already bringing him close to climax. With only enough time to figure things out, he wouldn’t be able to hold back, holding her head against his pubis, her two hands holding his shaft as she would consume his seed. Afterwards she would continue to lick him, gently playing with his balls and making tiny laps at his cock, like a kitten to milk. They would then meet in the kitchen, to pick at simple foods: French baguettes, ripped and smothered in butter; cured salami, torn; grapes; chunks of aged chedder; milk; grape tomatoes; etc.

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About dontdontoperate

28 year old originally from Barrie, Ontario, Canada. H.B.Sc. from UofT with a major in chemistry and a double minor in philosophy and math. M.Sc. from UofT in physiology and neuroscience. Finished my Ph.D. in biomedical engineering at McMaster in the fall of 2013.
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