0 comments/ 7570 views/ 0 favorites Antiqua By: sf_biboy We hated each other with an intensity greater than most of the love I've ever experienced. I think this is why we spent so much time together, seemed to need each other so much. That burning emotion deep in my guts is something I've never experienced with another lover, until recently. The night we fucked, I was hardly expecting it. We had gone to a show on pearl st., with leslie and mark. The music, for some reason, turned me on. The singer was a punk-ish woman, in her mid-20s maybe (a little old for me at the time), and I could hardly look at her without fantasizing of making her mine. Of putting her on her knees, fucking her until she screamed and clawed the bed under her hands and I exploded into oblivion inside her. During the course of the show, I became completely obsessed. I had almost forgotten that I was there with anyone other than the girl on stage, looking constantly like she was ready for the microphone to come all over her pretty face. When it was time to go, and I remembered that you were there somewhere, it made me angry. I had gotten all lost in myself, in my fantasies of this woman, and now I had to put up my guard again, get ready for your usual conversational barbs and antagonism that I knew were sure to come. They did. Ditching mark and leslie (quite literally evading them in the crowd), we trekked back to my apartment through the snow. I set a faster pace than I knew you could manage, enjoying watching you struggle to keep up. I liked that it was snowing--i felt as though I were journeying through hostile climes, bound somewhere with a warm hearth and bed for the night, and you my wench, who I knew was mine, I knew wanted me even though I had denied her sex so far. When we got to my building, I opened the door for you (feeling generous, apparently). You passed in front of me and swung the door shut in behind you, so that I walked into it, stumbled. "fuck! Bitch." You smiled at me over your shoulder. I unlocked the door again, and caught up with you at the elevator. "you'll pay for that," I threatened, as the door slid shut. "you think?" you snarled, flipping your finger at me in that half-ass, adjacent-fingers-halfway-extended bullshit way I've seen coloradans and west-coasters do. The elevator door slid shut as you punched "13" with your other hand. In answer, I grabbed you by the arm and threw you against the back wall of the elevator, generating a satisfying "thump." I grabbed your hair with my left hand, twisting your neck back. The kiss surprised me in its violence. I snaked my tongue as deep into your throat as I could get it, feeling you able to do nothing but get out of my way. I left both our lips bleeding slightly. You smirked sardonically as you glanced at the drop of blood on your finger, wiped off the inside of your upper lip. "frustrated?" "fuck you," came my retort. "yeah? I have been waiting." "then don't wait anymore. What are you waiting for?" You just nodded ambiguously. I hated that. We arrived on the 13th floor, and got out. My door was just across the hall from the elevator. You walked in front of me across the foyer, and waited expectantly for me to open the door. I unlocked it and tried, ineptly, to push by you. You slid by me, anticipating my move. You did always seem to. Blessedly, my roommate and his girlfriend (my best friend at the time) weren't in the apartment. Best friend or not, I couldn't stand to be around her. I started in the general direction of a glass of water, and you quickly made a coughing noise, and interrupted. "i thought I was getting fucked." "you're not naked yet, I can't fuck you. Figured I'd get a drink in the meantime." "prick." "you have to say, 'please.'" "fuck you." frustration. God, I loved getting you riled. "you get naked. I'm getting a drink." You made an exasperated noise and whirled and headed for my bedroom. I got a glass from the cabinet and started to pour water. Thinking again, I got two wine glasses from over the refrigerator, and grabbed the bottle of merlot that had been sitting on the counter for a few months now. I opened it and filled the glasses, and turned and walked down the hall to my room. I mostly succeeded in concealing my surprise in finding you naked on my bed, languidly masturbating. You barely looked up as I came in. Your cunt, red-brown hair trimmed close, was swollen and red from your masturbation, and your nipples were puckered and erect. Your slight frame and pale, chalk-white skin made you look like a doll to me, most times, though I knew you could fight. I still can't forget the shock of a surprise bloody lip from a 95-pound sparring partner. This was the first time I had seen you completely naked. Nearly no hips, though I could tell that from dancing with you. Trying to play off the surprise, I handed one of the glasses to you and sat down on the edge of the bed. "refreshment? You must be tired." Ignoring the bait, you took the wine and sat up against the headboard, splaying your legs lewdly. I took my shoes, socks and shirt off, then turned and sat lotus at the foot of the bed, looking you up and down as we both drank the wine. Catching me staring, you dipped two fingers into your wine and, leaning back, used them to spread the lips of your cunt wide, exposing your clit. "want some?" The look in your eye caught me. The anticipation. The fear. The vulnerability. I hid these same emotions from you, behind the aggression, the sarcasm. Laying back against the head of my bed, spreading your sex wide and offering yourself to me, I couldn't turn you down. It was too heartbreakingly beautiful. Slowly, watching you watch me, I kneeled up. I slowly reached out, and placed my hands on the inside of each of your knees. You were all eyes, locked on me, wondering what was coming. I kept moving forward, and in one smooth motion, brought my face to your pussy. I had been able to smell you from three feet away, and as I brough my mouth down on your lips, the scent of you filled my head. Sharp, sweet like something both organic and metallic, it was at that moment the most sensually satisfying thing I had ever known. You sighed out loud, from deep inside you, and brought your hands around to the back of my head, gripping my short hair and grinding your cunt into my face. I sucked your inner lips into my mouth, tugging on your clit, and nipped at them with my teeth. You squealed, and brought your legs together around my head, desperately pulling me against you harder. I quickly grabbed your wrists, and pulled your arms around your knees and down to your sides, pinning you and pulling you farther down on the bed. I began to flick my tongue up and down across your clit quickly. This was something you had mentioned liking to me in one of our conversations about sex. You were serious. I was surprised to learn how quickly I began to take advantage of all you had told me about your sexuality. I knew that you wanted your arms pinned down. You struggled and pulled against my grip, but I had no trouble controlling you. Our strength and size were so far apart, there was no question of control. I could anticipate, too, the deep, throaty groan that rewarded me for sinking my thumb into your ass as I ate you out. That I could hold almost your entire ass in the palms of my hands, not even having to spread my fingers far, suddenly struck me as the sexiest thing I could imagine. You came, and I looked up at you, one of your hands pulling on your nipple, the other entwined in my hair, your eyes squeezed shut as you screamed. As your orgasm tapered off, your face lit up, eyes wide. "fuck me. I don't want to wait anymore." Antique Book Trade Adventures Berkeley Square, London. The stripped branches of the giant plane trees are stark against the pewter November sky. It’s only mid-afternoon, but already the narrow streets and lanes are growing dim in the weak, dying light of a watery autumn sun. A famous bookstore stands on the west side of the square. Unchanged in layout since it first opened in 1853, it remains a Mecca for antiquarian book collectors. Its unkempt, disorganized, labyrinthine nooks and crannies are an Aladdin’s cave of rare texts on such varied subjects as “Aquatic Birds of India,” “Ivory Carving in Early Medieval England,” or “Scientific Results of the Second Yarkand Mission of 1874.” A bitter wind swirls the usual London mixture of plastic bags, tabloid newspapers and dead leaves around my feet as I cross the square towards the warm orange bloom of light through the window of the heavy, brass-bound front door. Spatters of icy rain begin to speckle the gritty pavement, and I lower my head as I increase my pace towards the haven of the bookstore. Just as I reach for the smooth, cold brass door handle someone else shoots into the alcove, nearly bumping into me, breathless from running through the now-splashing rain. “After you,” I say, pulling open the heavy antique door. She is still disheveled from her last-minute dash, her spotted glasses starting to fog over with exertion. I catch a glimpse of her light blue eyes as she murmurs “thanks,” and slips into the lobby, curly red hair hanging down with dampness. The marble floor echoes her footsteps as she briskly approaches the untidy desk where a hunched figure is barely visible behind a haphazard battlement of used books; unwillingly, the clerk (who looks as if he has been here a century at least), disengages himself from a dusty volume and asks if he “may be of service” in a tone that makes it clear he resents the disturbance. I discreetly hang back, looking over some 14th-century French illustrated missal pages¾a bargain, at just under two thousand pounds. In response to her whispered request, the clerk scribbles a floor, aisle and shelf number on a slip of paper, and hands it to her. She hurries off, heels clacking on the floor, and as she hangs her dripping raincoat on an old hat-stand, I approach the clerk quickly before he can re-submerge in his tome. It takes several minutes for the clerk to pinpoint the location of the items that I ask to see; he is not asked often for early Georgian anti-government leaflets. By the time he locates the distant room where such arcane ephemera is kept, her footsteps have faded into the distance, lost in the maze of corridors somewhere in the interior of the building. The clerk directs me to the “half-basement,” an annex in the far bowels of the old store, where I will find my volumes. After wandering through the meandering aisles, I find the back of the building, and the stairs to the “half-basement,” and I note that there are only a few other clients on the main floor; I catch fleeting glimpses down twisting aisles half-blocked by stacks of books that have overflowed the shelves; the occasional dim figure may be seen, tweedy, lost in thought, poring over the shelves, or nose-deep in an old leather book. The “half-basement” is well-named; down half a flight of steps a dim corridor, lined with books, leads off to a mezzanine only a few feet below floor level. As I walk down the corridor, glancing at the clerk’s scrawl on the slip of paper he gave me, I note that between the rows of books, I can see the back aisle of the main floor, now at eye level. After taking a couple of wrong turns down short aisles of unfamiliar subjects, I find my objective: early 18th-century ephemera. There are several long shelves full, and I settle in to browse. I don’t know how much time had passed—perhaps three-quarters of an hour—before I heard an odd sound coming from somewhere farther down the mezzanine corridor. I poke my head into the corridor, but see no-one. Quietly, I step slowly farther down the corridor, and the sounds become clearer—a rhythmic breathing, with a soft rustling of fabric. It grows closer as I sidle down the corridor. I see a sign at the corner of the next aisle, reading “Curiosa”—a code word in the bookseller trade for antique erotica. Slowly, I put my head around the corner. It’s her. The redhead! Her back is towards me half-way down the gloomy aisle. Her head is bowed over a book in her left hand, and her hips are swaying ever so slightly, one foot out of an expensive-looking sling back high heel shoe. Her breath is coming in short gasps, in rhythm with the sinuous undulations of her hips under her mid-length skirt. I am transfixed; I can’t look away. She puts out one hand to support herself, then straightens up as she greedily flicks over a page and continues to read to herself. I can feel my pulse strengthen as I watch unseen, licking my lips, my chest tightening as I match her breathing in unconscious harmony. I can sense a tingling in my chest of excitement and danger. I want to know what she is reading and rise up on tiptoe to try and see the title at the top of the page, but I’m too far down the aisle. I take a quiet step forward without taking my eyes from her; but I brush a stack of books, and a fat volume of poetry falls to the floor with a “plump.” She spins around, eyes wide, dropping her book in consternation. Her large blue eyes are glistening, her cheeks flushed—but with embarrassment or arousal? Before she can speak, I say “I’m sorry—I thought I heard something back here. Are you all right? Here, let me—“ I step forward and bend down to pick up her book. Flustered, she says, “No, please, I can—” but too late, as I have already grasped the thick volume. “ ’The Perfumed Garden’, the Burton translation;” I say. “This caused quite a scandal in its day!” I open the old book, and read aloud in a quiet, husky voice: “Woman is like a fruit, which will not yield its sweetness until you rub it between your hands. Look at the basil plant; if you do not rub it warm with your fingers it will not emit any scent. Do you not know that the amber, unless it be handled and warmed, keeps hidden within its pores the aroma contained in it? It is the same with woman. If you do not animate her with your toying, intermixed with kissing, nibbling and touching, you will not obtain from her what you are wishing; you will feel no enjoyment when you share her couch, and you will waken in her heart neither inclination nor affection, nor love for you; all her qualities will remain hidden.” As I read the ancient words of Sheik Nefwazi, she closes her eyes and licks her lips. As I continue to read in a deep, quiet voice she begins once again to breathe deeply, her firm, pert breasts heaving with each line I read. I move closer by her side, so that I may drop my voice to a whisper, next to her ear. As I finish reading the passage, I take my free hand, gently place it on her shoulder, and turn her around so that I am standing close behind her, against her, and feel the warmth of her body flowing into mine. I murmur in her ear more verses: “In order that a woman may be relished by men, she must have a perfect waist, and must be plump and lusty. Her hair will be black, her forehead wide, she will have eyebrows of Ethiopian blackness, large black eyes, with the whites in them very limpid. With cheek of perfect oval, she will have an elegant nose and a graceful mouth; lips and tongue vermilion; her breath will be of pleasant odor, her throat long, her neck strong, her bust and her belly large; her breasts must be full and firm, her belly in good proportion, and her navel well-developed and marked; the lower part of the belly is to be large, the vulva projecting and fleshy, from the point where the hairs grow, to the buttocks; the conduit must be narrow and not moist, soft to the touch, and emitting a strong heat and no bad smell; she must have the thighs and buttocks hard, the hips large and full, a waist of fine shape, hands and feet of striking elegance, plump arms, and well-developed shoulders.” She begins to slowly grind her buttocks against my hot, hard cock, which is throbbing against my fly. I stop reading, and whisper “raise up your skirt.” She bends forward slightly, and slowly runs her hands down her outer thighs. Gathering the hem in her hands, she gradually brings her skirt up towards her ass, bending forward slightly as she does so. To my amazement, I see she is not wearing any panties. With one hand holding up her skirt, she slides the other hand down over her stomach, and brushes her fingers through her pubic hair, then moving back so that her bare ass is now hot against my crotch, grinding and pushing my pulsating cock. The front of my pants are damp with her pussy juice. I growl in her ear, “Undo your blouse. Play with your nipples.” She drops the hem of her skirt obediently, and her hands tremor as she undoes the buttons on her blouse, then pulls down on her bra, releasing two firm, small breasts with large, pink nipples. I take her right wrist in my hand and guide it to my mouth, sucking it, licking it, then leading it back down to her hardening nipple. I make small circles around it, then take my hand away as she takes up the motion herself, sighing quietly with pleasure. My breathing is now hard, rhythmic, spasmodic. Her ass is moving up and down the shaft of my still-imprisoned cock. I feel the groove of her buttocks envelop my hardness. I feel her heat through my pants, now sodden with her juicy perfume. Barely able to catch my breath, I read more: “You will excite her by kissing her cheeks, sucking her lips and nibbling at her breasts. You will lavish kisses on her navel and thighs, and titillate the lower parts. Bite at her arms, and neglect no part of her body; cling close to her bosom, and show her your love and submission. Interlace your legs with hers, and press her in your arms…” Gulping, I spit out the words. “I want you to touch your pussy for me!” She smiles as she complies, drawing up her skirt once more, the fingers of her right hand tracing out the swollen, distended lips of her sweet cunt. She slowly draws tiny circles around her clit, matching the movement with her ass against me. My hard cock quivers with the motion, and I press hard into her ass, the rough twill fabric wet against her skin. “Let me taste!” I gasp, and once again seize her right wrist in my free hand. Her index and middle finger glisten with the sweet honey of her slippery cunt, and I can smell its heady aroma as I draw her fingers into my mouth, savoring the musky, gingery tang. I read another verse from the book: “It has the splendid whiteness of a forehead, In its dimensions it is like the moon, The fire that radiates from it is like the sun's, And seems to burn the member which approaches; Unless first moistened with saliva the member cannot enter, The odor it emits is full of charms.” I can’t hold it any longer. I drop the book to the floor, freeing both hands. I reach around with my left hand and cup her breast, just brushing the now-hard nipple with my thumb and forefinger. My right hand sweeps down across her tummy to her bellybutton. I make small, gentle circles around it with my middle finger, and she wriggles with the tickling sensation. Continuing down, my hand finds just a hint of stubble; remains from her recently-shaved bush. She opens her legs slightly, allowing my fingers to seek the fleshy outer lips of her pussy. I can smell her warm, mouthwatering aroma as I gently use my fingers to part the swollen, pink lips of her cunt. My fingers become slippery with her abundant juice immediately. She gives a little gasp as I slip and slither my fingers over her small, hard clit, tracing along its edges, then gently, barely touching it with a flicking motion. My fingers are soaked with her essence, and I feel the warm liquid running down my fingers to my hand. I slide my fingers down her flowing channel to her cunt, and tentatively stroke the wet hole with the tip of my middle finger. I keep my hand close pressed to her clit, and use my wrist to gently rub as I start to penetrate her cunt, slowly, tentatively, with my finger. I begin to breathe with a low rumble, deep in my chest, as her gasps become more insistent, small whines of pleasure. I run the tip of my tongue up her neck, towards her ear. I gently nibble her right earlobe, my heavy, hungry breath panting in her ear. Suddenly, looking up, over her shoulder, out through the row of books on the shelf, I see a pair of feet coming along the aisle on the main floor, just above our heads. I clap my left hand over her mouth, and whisper “Shhh!” in her ear; she opens her eyes now, and I can feel her body stiffen as she realizes that there is someone standing only a few feet away, studying the shelves above us. Did he see? Does he know? Can he hear us? But rather than freezing in place, she continues to thrust her ass into my crotch, her cunt even wetter and hotter with the danger of discovery so close. Her heavy breath slips through my fingers, still over her mouth, and I grit my teeth to remain silent as she works her ass up and down the front of my pants. Unable to stop myself, I match her thrusts with the fondling of her cunt and clit by my right hand. Her breath is coming fast and shallow now, and I can hear her cunt slurping with wetness as my finger moves faster in and out, feeling every silky fold. Hasn’t the stranger above heard? He hasn’t moved; I can see nothing but a pair of alligator shoes, damp from the rain. As her panting increases, she suddenly grips a couple of the fingers I have over her mouth with her teeth; not hard enough to hurt, but insistent and wild. I can feel her tongue running over my fingers, and I release my grip over her mouth, to slide my first two fingers into her now-open mouth. Slurping and slithering her tongue over my fingers, she bobs her head, sucking them, giving little nibbles, running the underside of her tongue over the smooth nail. I can feel the tension in her body as we pound into each other; we’re so close now—my breathing is jerky and uneven; I bury my face in her back to stifle my whimpers of ecstasy. We come together, in a mute, intoxicating frenzy of euphoria. My hot cum oozes down the shaft of my cock, over my balls, leaving a warm stickiness inside my pants. We are both breathing hard, still clinched together, chests heaving, hearts racing. Looking up, I see that the stranger’s feet are no longer in view; in the scorching delirium of orgasm, I had forgotten that someone else was so near. She turns to face me, her cheeks apple-red from our frenzied grinding and rubbing together. Her eyes are huge, the blue-grey iris almost wholly eclipsed by her dilated black pupils. I start to speak, but she puts her index finger against my lips and gently shakes her head. I run my hands once more over her small, jutting breasts, then softly pulling her bra cups back up over the milky white orbs. Smiling, I help do up her floral print blouse, fumbling with the backwards buttons. Her hand slides over my wet crotch, and she giggles, “That was a very fruitful shopping trip!” Blushing a little, I start to ask her name, but she again places a firm but gentle finger across my lips. “No names, no questions. Just two people who love old books—right?” I nod, and my lips grow into a smile under her finger. She bends down to replace the fallen poetry book on the shelf, winks, and turns to go. Suddenly, she stops and takes a step closer, bringing her lips to my ear. “I thank you—and so does my husband. He likes to listen, you know.” She disappears down the aisle. Bemused, mystified, I watch her small, trim feet clack down the main floor above. Stopping, they are joined by a man’s pair of feet, still in the alligator shoes. After a moment, they walk together down the main aisle, out of my field of vision. Antique for Gordon Pt. 01 CHAPTER 1 Gordon Kincaid had been driving since forever, or so it seemed. He'd come onto Lookout Mountain in Chattanooga, had driven through part of Georgia, and now was in Alabama. Problem was, he was still on Lookout Mountain. The road had twisted and turned all the way up the mountain, drawing him to the tourist traps. What had started out as a simple sight-seeing trip had gotten reasonably boring after the first hour. Ruefully he remembered the 700,000 billboards that had drawn him here. Let's face it. When you look out over seven states, even though you know that they won't be there in reality, your mind expects to see the state lines. Without them it's just another panoramic vista. Instead of heading for the other "attractions" he'd decided to sightsee on his own. Driving the mountain turns had been interesting, but once at the top he'd driven down mostly straight roads, mile after agonizing mile. "Boredom sucks," he thought to himself. In Chattanooga for a business conference that had been postponed due to the delayed arrival of the key speakers, Gordon had found himself with a day to kill. The option of sitting around the hotel with a bunch of other equally frustrated businessmen, talking shop, held no appeal. The option of sitting in his hotel room, paying $40.00 for an all-day adult movie pass, and spanking the monkey a few times, seemed too depressing; especially when the blue pills were the only thing that worked anymore to help his arousal. So he'd opted for the sight-seeing rounds, which was making the $40.00 hotel charge seem more inviting at each passing moment. A weathered sign, hanging askew from a rusted wrought iron pole, caught his attention. The sign swung rapidly back and forth but the nearby trees, bushes, and grasses were nearly still. It was almost as if the sign was trying to grab his attention. (Which it did.) Gordon stopped the car and looked at the sign. RED'S GARAGE/VONNIE'S ANTIQUES HAGERSVILLE 7 MILES → The sign itself looked almost new. Raised white lettering, on a red background, with no other distinguishable features. Nothing about the sign would make the average traveler take a second look. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was watching too many traveling antique shows on TV. Whatever the reason, Gordon decided a seven mile trek to Hagersville would, if nothing else, get him off the mountain. At the next intersection Gordon turned right towards Hagersville. CHAPTER 2 Hagersville was a typical backwoods Alabama town. A few homes; a mom and pop store replete with worn and rusted cola drink signs; a hardware store that had a huge sale on "hog feed"; and a garage. Red's Garage was easy to spot. A large cinder block building with three garage bay doors, two very old "SINCLAIR" gas pumps, and a car off to the right of the entranceway sitting on railway ties. The car seemed to have "almost" made it to the station, and then died right there, never to move again. Attached to the garage was a newer brick addition. "VONNIE'S ANTIQUES" was clearly visible in a small sign in the window. A few pieces of well-worn furniture sat in front of Vonnie's. Various pieces of pottery, jewelry, and suncatchers were displayed in the multi-paned windows. The place looked well maintained and worth a looksee. On entering Vonnie's, Gordon was immediately impressed by the quality of merchandise. This was not your typical gift shop full of postcards and "authentic" Alabama novelty items. (Made in China) The "antiques" were actually just that, real wood, brass, tin, and crystal. Not replicas. Genuine furniture, dishware, household items, and artifacts from a multitude of bygone eras. The store appeared to be more the collection of a well traveled antiquarian than a location for marketing such items. Books, toys, glassware, paintings, carpets, and just about every other imaginable item one would dream about finding in an antiques store was displayed and ready for sale. Gordon picked up a first edition "DAVID COPPERFIELD" and thumbed through the pages. The binding was like new. The pages crisp without age discoloration. A handwritten note, in flowing script, to "V," on the inside cover, was dated 1850. On the wall was a painting of a beautiful voluptuous woman. Gordon was captivated by the raw sexuality depicted in the painting. The middle aged woman depicted was stunning. Even more stunning was the framed letter under the painting. Addressed to "Vondra" and dated 1630, the signature was exciting in itself. Pieter Pauwel Rubens. Gordon took a deep breath. A heretofore unknown Rubens original could be worth; who knows how much? And what was it doing here in a backwoods country antiques shop in Alabama? CHAPTER 3 As Gordon marveled at the painting he heard a soft voice behind him. "You like that woman," the voice said in an almost melodic tone. Gordon was taken aback by the question. He was looking at a priceless Rubens, yet the voice was right. It wasn't the painting that attracted him. It was the woman. To his surprise he felt something he hadn't felt naturally in years. His penis was stiffening. Gordon attempted to turn to the woman but found that he was rooted to the spot. He could not take his eyes off the woman in the painting. The voice behind him was closer. He could feel the heat from the woman she was so close. It excited him and his dick stiffened all the more. "Pieter lost his wife you know," the voice said softly. "He thought he could not love again." Gordon was confused. He had lost his wife eight years ago and this woman was dredging up sad memories he'd hoped to have stored away for good. Gordon jumped as he felt the woman's arms come around his waist and he felt his belt being loosened. "Pieter realized that he could not run away from his past," the voice sang in his ear as his pants dropped to the floor. "Pieter came to me for help and he found another young lover." Gordon took a sharp intake of breath as the woman's hands slipped inside of his briefs and she began to stroke his now rockhard cock. "Pieter married the girl," the voice continued. "Not that he had to, but it was what he wanted." Gordon could feel the cum boiling in his balls. It had been such a long time and he hadn't ever even fantasized that such a thing could happen to him; a mystery woman jerking him off in the middle of a store. "What is it that you want?" The mystery woman asked. Right then and there all Gordon wanted to do was cum, and cum he did. With a loud groan he felt his sperm race up his shaft and burst from his cocktip. He felt his knees buckling but somehow the woman kept him on his feet. Volley after volley of hot sticky sperm jetted from him. He had never felt such an orgasm in his life. He was sure that after it ended he would never be able to cum again. He would be absolutely and totally empty of all semen and sperm. He looked down and saw the jets of sperm striking the mystery woman's hand but it appeared to his shocked and clouded mind that the sperm was absorbing into her hand, not pooling as he would have expected. Eventually the spasming in his cock subsided and he felt the woman's hands release him, and her arms leave his sides. With a start Gordon realized that he was standing in the middle of a store looking up at a picture of General Robert E. Lee. A quick check of his clothing, wallet, and keys, showed that everything was where it was supposed to be. Gordon looked around quickly. The woman was not there. The store was simply a standard, run-of-the-mill, garden variety, gift shop. Gordon suddenly felt embarassed. He still felt a semi-hardon and he wondered what he might have done from the time he entered the store until now. Gordon quickly scanned the nearby shelves and spotted a rabbit's foot key ring hanging by itself. An old, rusted, cast-iron key hung from its end. Gordon grabbed it and quickly walked to the front of the store, to the cash register. A kind-faced old woman stood behind the register and smiled at Gordon. He placed the key ring on the counter and took out his wallet. "How much?" He asked. The old woman looked directly into Gordon's eyes and in a sing-song voice that sounded eerily familiar to him said, "Oh my. That looks like my husband's key ring. He's been gone for so many years now. No charge dearie. I'm sure he'd like you to have it." Gordon didn't stay to argue. He quickly headed for his car. If he'd turned around, or looked in his mirror, he'd have seen the woman from the Rubens painting, standing at the door, licking her hand like a popsicle. Hell. If he'd slowed down when he got back to the main road, he'd have noted that the sign that made him go to Hagersville wasn't there anymore either. A quick check of the rearview mirror as he turned off of Hagersville Road would have shown him another surprise. The road to Hagersville no longer existed. Nope. Gordon Kincaid wanted to put distance between himself and Vonnie's Antiques. Something just wasn't right. Antique for Gordon Pt. 02 I had a lot of great comments and e-mails about Part 1 of this story and I hope that you all will enjoy part 2 just as much. I generally don't write in a fantasy venue and I was not not at all happy with my first attempt. (HOTM) Having lived on Lookout Mountain and being familiar with the Chattanooga area I hope will add an aura of authenticity to the storyline. Anyone who has lived or visited the area will know the geography and personalities. Again I thank all my readers for their continued support and also thank those ladies who have continued to help fuel my imagination. This story is dedicated to my faithful readers. CHAPTER 4 PECANS BOILED PEANUTS CIDER COUNTRY CURED HAMS Gordon Kincaid looked absent-mindedly at the signs appearing every fifty yards. "Hopefully they have a restroom", he thought. "I really need to stop." AUNT KATIE's FARM MARKET – 500 YARDS That sign convinced Gordon that it was time to stop. Hit the head and collect his thoughts. He looked over at the keyring and key lying on the passenger seat. Just ahead he saw a gravel parking area in front of a long wooden building, vaguely reminiscent of a log cabin. Various fruits and vegetables were displayed on tables and in bushels. Burlap covered hams hung all along the front porch. Several tables of (discontinued Gordon assumed) toys and souvenirs lined one wall. Most important to Gordon though was the "Public Restrooms" sign just to the right of the front door. Gordon picked up the key, dropped it into his pocket, and entered Aunt Katie's. CHAPTER 5 Standing in front of the urinal and releasing what seemed like a never-ending stream made Gordon glad that he decided to stop. "Much better than pulling off to the side of the road and finding a spot in the woods", Gordon chuckled inwardly to himself. Suddenly Gordon felt a warm and tingling sensation against his thigh and he instinctively reached down to feel the bulge of the key and keyring in his pocket. Gordon quickly reached into his pocket and removed the key. Immediately the sensation on his thigh stopped. Gordon began to examine the key and keyring to see if there was a sharp edge or something that would have caused the heat or the tingling. The keyring was a typical rabbit's foot keyring popular in the 1960's. It was beat and faded and overall non-descript. Though it had claws they were short, clipped, and could not have caused the sensations Gordon felt. The key on the other hand was captivating. This was the first time Gordon had taken a close look at it and he was awestruck at the workmanship. The key was approximately 8" long. The head of the key was circular. An intricately carved woman's head was at the center of the bow. The remainder of the circle was made up of carved flowers, leaves, and various runic symbols. The shaft of the key was approximately 6" in length leading to two square teeth. All along the shaft were multiple symbols, all as finely carved as those on the head. Gordon also noted something else. He had assumed by the dull black color that the key was cast iron, but in examining the key he noted that two of the symbols were gold in color. He ran his thumb across the symbols and was surprised to note that, as his thumb passed over one of the symbols, it was warm to the touch and made his thumb tingle. Gordon took his keys out of his pocket and used his car key to attempt to scratch some of the black off of the key. The car key left no marking whatsoever and the black material, whatever it was, remained, covering the key except for the two symbols. Gordon decided that he would have to have the key examined by an expert as he couldn't even begin to comprehend what type of craftsmanship or metallurgy went into making the key. Gordon disconnected the key from the rabbit's foot and attached it to his own keyring. He replaced the keys back in his pocket. Three shakes of his cock to dislodge any remaining droplets, put away and zipped, and he was ready to continue on his way. He dropped the rabbit's foot keyring in the trash as he exited the men's room. CHAPTER 6 Katie Reilly had run Aunt Katie's Farm Market for the past 23 years. Her husband had disappeared, along with the neighbor's wife, about a year before she opened the farm market. Approaching 50 she was proud to have inherited her mother's complexion and facial features. Most people assumed she was in her late thirties or early forties. She hadn't even had to start coloring her hair. It remained a sandy brown without a hint of gray. She'd put on weight over the years but still maintained an hour glass shape. The top of the hourglass she was extremely happy with even if she wished the bottom of the hourglass was a bit trimmer. She had noticed the man come into the store and watched him head straight for the restrooms. This wasn't unusual. This stretch of road along the top of Lookout Mountain didn't offer many places to stop and many a traveler stopped and used the restrooms. Unfortunately they often didn't stay to shop, or if they did, only to buy something small as if to thank her for the use of the facilities. She sat behind the counter marking her candy order for the vendor. The man had been in the men's room a couple of minutes when a strange feeling came over Katie. She suddenly felt warm and tingly all over. It was a strange sensation not at all unpleasant. Katie undid two more buttons on her blouse exposing her ample cleavage. It made her feel a bit cooler. The tingling sensation though was something new and it seemed to be focusing on her pussy and clit. She quickly forgot about the candy order and sat back on her stool to enjoy the sensation. As the tingling sensation continued to gather in strength she found that she was thinking of the man in the restroom. Had he taken his big cock out of his trousers? Would he be stroking it as he thought about her? Would he shoot big healthy globs of cum for her? Katie was shocked to find herself rubbing at her clit through her panties as she broke from her reverie. Quickly she sat up realizing how flushed and out of breath she was. Then she heard the man come out of the restroom. CHAPTER 7 Gordon felt like he should buy something rather than just leave the building. "She isn't making a living by me pissing", Gordon thought apologetically. As he passed by the counter he turned towards Katie and said "Hi". "Hi back atcha", Katie said dreamily. Gordon was surprised to catch the scent of pussy in the air, and even more surprised at how quickly it hardened him. "What's wrong with me?" Gordon muttered under his breath. "This is crazy." He looked down at the counter and noted the rack of candies and snacks. He quickly grabbed a couple of dark chocolate bars and placed them on the counter in front of Katie. Ever since the man had come out of the restroom Katie had found herself overcome with lust. She didn't understand it but she didn't care. She had to fuck this man. She had stared intently at his crotch and saw him stiffen when he stopped at the counter. This made the juices flow from deep inside her now fiery vagina. It made her feel so good. Katie looked at the chocolate bars on the counter and then up at the man. Before she could think about what she said she blurted out her first thought. "I see you like dark and sweet", Katie said with a leer in her voice. "I've never been fucked in the ass but I bet it's dark and sweet." Gordon's breath caught in his throat. He didn't know this woman from Adam and here she was throwing herself at him. Even more surprising to him was how hard he was. He hadn't had an unassisted hardon in years and yet, twice today, he was sporting a raging woody that he could drive nails with. Gordon gulped. "Excuse me", he said with great difficulty. Katie pulled of her panties and tossed them to Gordon. Then she bent over fully at the waist and looked back at him. "I think it would be nice if you'd take that nice big fuckstick of yours and ream my ass with it", Katie said matter-of-factly. She reached down to the drugs and sundries shelf, grabbed a small jar of petroleum jelly, and placed it on the counter. Gordon looked on in amazement but slowly raised the panties to his face and inhaled deeply. The sweet aroma of Katie's sopping pussy filled his nostrils and his mind. His cock took over from there. Quickly dropping his pants and stepping out of them he moved to a position directly behind Katie. His hands massaged her hips and buttocks as he slid his cock against the soft crack of her ass. "Oh my god that feels good", Katie hissed. Gordon stooped a bit and slid his cock lower until he felt the open, wet vaginal folds awaiting him. He pushed forward with a grunt and imbedded himself deep in Katie's willing cunt. Katie squealed in delight and reached back to fondle Gordon's balls as he drove in and out of her steamy depths. As Gordon pummeled her pussy he picked up the jar of petroleum jelly, opened it, and took a big scoop of the slippery, oily substance. Gordon then began to slather the stuff all over Katie's brown, puckered asshole. Katie became more excited and egged Gordon on. "Oh yes Baby", Katie's sexy southern voice drawled. "I know you want to fuck my hot ass. You want to cum in it don't you?" Gordon was mesmerized by the situation. He began inserting jelly coated fingers into Katie's tight ass, lubricating and loosening her for his planned assault. Katie was beside herself with pleasure. "Oh Baby. Fuck that ass Honey. Fuck my fucking asshole good." Katie had stopped massaging Gordon's balls and was now massaging her clit vigorously. Gordon pulled out of Katie's cunt and the suction and wetness of her pussy made a popping sound as Gordon's cockhead exited. It was the sexiest sound Gordon ever heard and it inflamed him all the more to fuck Katie's ass as hard and deep as he could. Gordon's hand was still coated in jelly and he quickly massaged the length of his cock coating it fully in the slippery goo. Then he placed his cockhead on her sphincter and pushed. As Gordon's cockhead popped past the outer ring Katie let out with a whoop of surprise and lust. Though she was expecting his cock to be big and hard, never having had a cock in her ass, this was a totally new sensation. Gordon pressed forward, sliding easily inside of her well lubricated bowel, until he was fully imbedded. He waited for Katie to adjust to the anal intrusion and for her to make the next move. After a moment of adjusting to the shock of having a man's dick buried deep in her ass, Katie let her lust take over her body. "Fuck me Boy", Katie screamed. "Fuck my ass really deep. Fuck my ass really hard." Gordon didn't need any further prompting. He pulled back until his cockhead was just inside her anal ring and then drove forward viciously. Gordon drove forward so hard and so fast that it drove Katie's breath from her lungs. Still Katie wanted more. "Y'all better fuck me harder Baby", Katie taunted. "Show your Aunt Katie what ass fucking is all about." Gordon was beside himself with lust and Katie's taunting and crude talk was inflaming him all the more. He began to piledrive his cock in and out of Katie's colon. "I'll fuck your ass", Gordon shouted. "I'll fuck your ass till you can't stand up. You and your fuckable big asscheeks and tight little asshole. You like being my sweet little asswhore don't you?" Katie knew she had Gordon where she wanted him. He was going to fill her ass with gooey cum and make her reach a much needed orgasm. She continued to play as the fantasy developed in her mind. Her sister's 22-year-old son. Big, young, virile cock about to explode in her ass. "Does Auntie's little boy want to cum in her ass?" Katie said slyly. "Does Auntie's little boy want to fill her ass with hot, sticky cum?" Gordon's engorged balls swung wildly with each stroke as he began to think about how nice it was going to feel filling his Aunt's ass with cum. Gordon's mind was thousands of miles away and years in the past picturing the day he had walked in on his Aunt Peggy. Aunt Peggy had been on summer vacation with Gordon's family and Gordon had accidentally walked into the changing room behind the summer house not knowing that Peggy was changing into her bathing suit. There she was, bent over at the waist, getting ready to pull up those bikini bottoms. Gordon had fantasized for years over that sight and here he was fucking her ass. Katie was lost in her fantasy and Gordon was lost in his but both of them were enjoying the moment to the max. "Yeah Babe", Gordon breathed through clenched teeth. "Gordy's gonna fill Peggy's ass with cum. Whitehot, steamy, sperm-filled cum." Katie was close. It was going to happen any second but she wanted it to occur at the same time Gordon unloaded it in her. She wiggled her ass and egged him on. "Come on Baby. You've been wanting to fill my ass for some time. Auntie's hot, tight ass that's going to suck your throbbing cock dry. Cum in me you fucker. Cum in your Auntie's fucking ass." That was enough for Gordon. Years of fantasy, and the tight muscles of Katie's ass, worked their magic on him and a torrent of sizzling fuckjuice blasted deep inside of Katie's shitchute, basting the walls in searing sperm-filled goo. Katie felt Gordon's cum blast and it unlocked a violent flow of her own juices as her muscles tightened and her orgasm overtook her. She probably would have fallen to the ground if Gordon wasn't holding her hips so tightly as he ground his still cum-spewing cock into her fiercely sucking asshole. Eventually their orgasms subsided and Gordon's cock, still trickling cum, softened and plopped out of Katie's ass. Katie sat back on her stool behind the counter, without replacing her panties, placed her elbows on the counter and her face in her hands, and stared absent-mindedly at the front door. Gordon picked up his pants and went into the bathroom to clean up. When he came out of the bathroom he stopped at the counter and paid for the chocolate bars. "Thank you", Gordon said to Katie as he tried to read her face. Katie was lost though in a fantasy of her nephew's next visit and everything she intended to experience with him. She blankly looked at Gordon. "Auntie had a nice time", she droned. Gordon shrugged, headed for his car, drove down the mountain, and back to his hotel. Unbeknownst to him the key was now permanantly attached to his keyring.