6 comments/ 55374 views/ 6 favorites Art Of Growing Up By: Clare_Ca_2 The Art Of Growing Up. Chapter One. BRIBERY AND BLACKMAIL! "Why it's a girl's best friend..." as the saying goes - felt Tonya... "Yes! ...Rather naughty is me, sometimes I am -- I guess...? What I know is, although I live in a maybe, regular home by some standards...and on top of that, most if not all, of my friends around my age, would not have to put up with spankings... Hell, I'm gone eighteen, some five months now: I can vote – I can drink – I can drive... Why, I can even die for my country, if I choose to take a side – but if my dad gets mad...hmmm! –Why, he still thinks he has the right to put me over his knee! Ouch! I love it, the poor old bastard is stuck in the past though, dreaming of turning out a sweet, lovely, little cherub-angel of a daughter, when I have been doing my holes for years with every vegetable in the fridge that would fit, that is. What a joke! Quite often, in his rage, he would pull my pee-pee stained panties down around my hot, shapely, thighs, and paddle my sweet, innocent looking buns, until I sobbed, and sobbed, and promised, and promised, to be daddy's "good little girl" – once again... What a joke! I sure he think I'm still six years old! I mean, can't he see the hairs on my ass-hole and beaver, these days...? Doh! Anyways, "I'm a good girl, I am..." smirked Tonya with Pygmalion overtones after watching a re-run of "My Fair Lady" – again on the telly. TONYA HAD JUST TURNED-WOMAN when her mom started down at the local community center. She enrolled in sewing classes there, meeting every Tuesday evening with friends: They did quilts. "I'm always at my naughtiest on Tuesdays." smiled Tonya to herself, inwardly. I just love cooking dinner for dad when mom is off sewing. I don't want daddy to miss her, so I try very hard to copy everything mother does when she's here. Every Tuesday, before I let him eat though, first, I make him take the trash out, and move furniture around. On times I would, accidently on purpose, drop a fork or something behind the refrigerator, and insist he slide it out so I could get in there at it. One Tuesday evening, I even made him mow the grass, and trim the hedges of the back yard lawn at last - though it had gotten dark, even: Miserable and fairly forlorn, quietly suffering mommy's absence, he was, "...too hard to get daddy's mind off from missing mommy by using my ass." I thought, but I forced the issue out there, in the dark, sweating-off his useless dangling, love-sick horn. What use is daddy's horn, hanging flaccid between his powerful thighs, drooping out of his sequestered marital loins – what use is it indeed, unless it is long, and thick, and rigid, with all of that lovely, rich cream, driveling out of the hole in the top? Hell, it's a waste to just use it as a hose-pipe! Before Tonya's daddy could come to his senses, and realize that he really missed her - his wife I mean - on his, lonely, Tuesday evenings... and realized the depth of the darkness and despair dawning in his fat-ridden heart, Tonya stepped in and worked his ass off, so hard, that the pathetic old bastard could only think one second in front of the last, let alone stew in reminiscence of having his wife there at his beck and call 24/7! "Hun, get me this. Hun, get me that. Hun where's the remote? Hun, where's the paper? Hun, where my fucking ass-hole, I have to take a shit...?" Tonya mocked in her mind. Well, today is a new day, and forget all of that. You know what is said about new brooms...and from now on, Tuesdays will be known as – "New Broom Day" -- for daddy...! THERE IN THE GARDEN – tooth-marks in the apple – paradise gone: Daddy-Adam, and daughter-Eve - why! Almost a new paragon... I made him sweat whilst yawning: I was daddy's wife for the night. He needed to...to -- to be taught! -- To love - me - as his wife. --Why, mommy didn't care - pricking her fingers, under the quilt on Tuesday nights, at the college - out there. I smiled: Tearing at his mental fig leaf: Adorned stains: My panties were wet in the middle. I could smell their sweet acrid aroma, billowing out of my buttoned crew-necked blouse. It's a wife's right - to have a wet-panty-gusset, at any time of a night. If it is seen to be fit, and – I as surrogate wife for the night – well, I saw fit. GARDEN LOCKED: Standing there, holding some sort of flash-light: Hip, hand, elbow thrust half-akimbo out. Leg-crossed, forward-foot beating: Impatient! Toe-patted ground, contrite: Stubborn lower jaw jutting-out – in resignation, that's right... Head wobbling: neck-about-shoulder; spinning - pictured - china - balance - wobbly atop; spindly bamboo sticks; vaudeville bimbo. Tonya stood there, barking orders, shifting her head around like a Puerto Rican 'hoe, reading her pimp the riot-act; just before her knocks her two front teeth out. Ordering – Yes! Ordering more and more – and more – and more... Trimming: --Daddy; snipping here, daddy chopping there: Wildly mowing! Mowing here, wildly mowing there; daddy snipping and mowing - wildly! Every-fucking-where...! Tonya blushed scarlet - in the dim light of the night-ridden garden – flushed at the sheer power of it all – her knickers dripping at the turn-on. WHAT A SIGHT, the brazen harlot touched little by life and, bruised and hardened, not by sin itself but, from Christmas-card sights; frosted cut lawns and mowers paid by the hour alright. Tonya cooled herself down though, through thought and the reminiscence of pallid mimicry: Stark, stolid copied wanness of mommy's dead-pan hanging face. Yes! That one; the one she adopts, when dealing with daddy. Tonya did what she did to him for his own good: He couldn't survive without mommy - not even for a single night...! No. Not even for - one - single - night! No...! Not for – even! - one dirty stinking night: One mother-fucking night! No... Daddy couldn't survive without -- Her...! The Bitch! TONYA KNEW IT: All she wanted was one stinking night... So...she did it! And somewhere inside – he knew it, and somewhere too, she knew her daddy blew it - it became known to all, stewing in it... Come to Tonya daddy: Why! She won't bite – Right? – Maybe. Well not tonight; baby but don't screw it up - alright! "Men are wild beasts." Tonya's mother had often told her, "...and it is a woman's duty to tame that beast, hunnie." "I had often seen mommy do it to daddy – control him, I mean. But on Tuesdays, I was the mommy: I was the controller, and I was daddy's wife too – then." She beamed, "At last, on Tuesdays - by default - daddy would become mine, mine: Yes—ss all fucking mine!" ...it seemed? THE POWER OF it all made Tonya – stink! Thinking: She loved her panties stinking – 'specially when she was thinking... At night, Tonya would pull them over teddy's head: her stinking knickers, I mean, and cuddled up in bed. Tonya holds - a whole night of cuddling - Mr. fluffy Bongo tight: Into her budding bosom; Inside out: Creamy gusset fuming silently, steamily close, musky scent - pungent clout... Night breath bathed: Crack-fudge boiling – off: Musky pong – there's nuttin' wrong. Tonya flosses – her gash with her thong; and snuggles into Teddy; cumming under the blankets, and then she's gone. Steady streams of pungent whiff; sucked-in throughout the night, as if -- intoxicated senses of love-hole cream and powdered shite -- director of dreams, the sniff so thick; wetting her next day panties – a symbiotic relationship trick. (To be continued...) Art Of Growing Up Ch. 02 Tonya loved her Tuesdays! Following dinner, she would drop a cup, or plate or two, about the kitchen area, during the washing-up; she recalled. I would curse out loud. That! usually, got daddy up from his couch - half-heartedly, of course - attempting a re-establishment of himself, like a lame horse, a rebooting as top-dog, again, flapping about, clucking worse than a frightened farmyard hen: Unenthusiastically ordering - his yapping mouth foaming at the corners bordering - the immediate cleanup of broken, splattered, crockery, strewn across the stark linoleum floor, of printed colored pebbles, reminiscent of sea-side rockery gardens, polished to threadbare limits, in gleaming tattered mockery – of nature. Lazy gardeners, grimace. His aggressive mind, carousing the limits – our homely stench of former cooking – tainted; with reeks of subtle humid nasal strands, born of detergent-popping quasi pine-scented bubbles of a kind, impregnated into ripe kitchen airs, stirred into action, by the pairs; of red-knuckled dish-swilling hands -- of mine. Point-blank, Tonya would blatantly refuse and stomp her foot in sympathy with her concocted principles; wearing her naively feigned rationale and phony objection's on her cuff - the delivery of which, held, just short of a rant, a quarrel and all that stuff - reminded daddy, that, although his daughter was closer to him than his son, she was still a woman, and that came not from him, but from her Mom. Tonya recalled... The very fact of the existence - at all though - of my refusal to obey his command, seemed to daddy - it seems to me - as if sand, itself, were being kicked into the very face of his manly Right, to be: Obliterated from sight - the blind acceptance he needed to rule -- especially that night – torn out of his gut, by his loving daughter of a slut, seemed to him, as it seemed to me – doubtfully contrite! Daddy's illusion of authority was thrown on the line! To him, it all added up to the same thing - his manhood was being challenged, and he didn't like it - but to me, that was just fine. I questioned his self-appointed superiority, and fought him on it: Now and again rattling his lock and chain, which held lobby -- wresting apart rusted gates, of self-righteousness: Corroded steel doors, guarding entrance at the very core of his being. My reluctance to dwell within the narrow bandwidth of blind compliance - father-daughter style - tearing mercilessly at the very heart of his soul with razor sharp nail-varnished talons, dug deep at the quick of his male persona – it seemed, as I policed my daddy, like a London Bobby: I learned how to do this when watching mommy fighting against him – it became my hobby. I tried to keep to the program, I tried to hold the format: I wanted to be consistent: I wanted to be a good daughter, I didn't care about no Totem or Taboo: I knew what I wanted – sort 'a: My little pussy was stinking; all I wanted was for it to get licked. My daddy – I love my daddy, but he is a man, and I had become a woman, and my slit had blossomed up into a vibrant open flower under me, and it opened like a clam, and as daddy's wife, on mommy's sewing night, I used my given Tuesday Right, but not out flat, to have my young ass treated like a caveat.I wanted my toosh sniffed and sucked, and caressed, not used by fictitious giant's, or their boots -- as a convenient doormat. I didn't want to do it, but I couldn't resist! I love daddy, and I wanted to make him feel at home with – me; as his "Tuesday wife", in a three-way love-tryst. I wanted him to feel as he did when mommy is around, so I ripped his heart out, and ate it, laughing into his face, as it pumped frightened between the claws of my burning femininity, and the cool talons of my daughterly love - and I viciously tore at his flesh - like the eagles of Zeus sent daily on errands of maligned laceration – feathered sorties of dissection and ruin. The Promethean liver tattooed with hieroglyphs from a daddy's tome; an intuitive male instruction manual handed down to him by all the Mothers of the world: An unwritten body embroidered with descriptions of ill-gotten goods, laced with hereditary promise of pseudo-superiority, male-privilege and entitlement. A "How-to..." leather-bound hardback, outlining coded directives of what it means to be - a man. The encryption cipher broken, and its esoteric secrets spilled out the instant mother's nipple-fountains pumped-out its warm life giving milk into her infants hungry suckling mouth, issuing forth cascades of broken secrets for only "Him" to ponder. A closed-book, one in which my "Mother-Eagle" disposition, was intent upon opening, and once read, ripping down to the very spine, page by page; exposing the dripping backbone within. Picking over the carrion, reducing it down to its skeletal remains, with the incisive instrument of my word – in vain: Never to judge a cover, by the book – again. I would rush up at him, babbling like mom 'til red in the face; shaking my belligerent finger, blatantly, into the very magnitude of his trumped-up authority; until, until -- until finally, I got what I was after. (To be continued...) Art Of Growing Up Ch. 03-05 CHP.3. FURIOUS: MADLY FURIOUS! ...he would grab me rough, by the arm, and drag me squirming, kicking and screaming into the living room. I spit at him like a King Cobra, hissed like a bob-cat, and creamed my panties like a cloistered novice taking her vows with Farther O'Reilly in the Bell-tower following Vespers - after the last candle had been blown out -- well, the last but one...O' Reilly? No, --Oh! Really! Daddy lifted me up by the waist, with just one of his powerful, masculine, hairy limbs, and plunked himself down into the couch toting my entire body like a sack of spuds - tucked untidily under the crook his arm. I would be kicking and screaming, and complaining by then, but he calmly ignored my tantrum, throwing me over his lap, and pulling my little mini-skirt up, exposing my squirming buns; my firm young melons packed into my tight fitting, skimpy, panties like two boiled eggs in a handkerchief. Daddy would pay no attention to my dire objections, and yank my two-day-old knickers, down over my bulbous rump and rapidly developing thighs. The Animal would spank my clappers, until I begged for him, kicking and screaming, to stop - which he never did, mind you! As I got older I would maliciously soak his trouser leg: Foamy bubbles would coat the swollen lips of my labia as he beat my ass-cheeks pillar-box red. I would drip, and squirt down the leg of his pants as he heated my firm young orbs with the palm of his brutish hand, causing violent orgasmic waves to thunder through my naïve form. I shuddered and convulsed in his lap, and dug my false nails into his thigh. I bit him, viciously, through the leg of his trousers. I liked biting him. Some months into this, we were starting to run out of dishes, but I needed daddy to surreptitiously give me my Tuesday-night orgasm before we moved from china onto plastic; although, I understand a province someplace out in the orient, is making real, imitation, plastic Wedgewood these days -- dishwasher friendly, they say...! AFTER I PISSED and creamed down daddy's leg, I would think to myself, "...Now then, that'll teach you, won't it! Try explaining the smell on your pants to mommy on wash day - daddy darling, and I will be helping her, so don't worry, I will make sure she gets a good whiff before they go into the wash. Oh--oh! Daddy's going to be in the dog-house -- again!" consoled Tonya to herself, as her daddy spanked her hams red raw. Tonya would fart loudly, as the brutish monster did it to her over his knee, and turn her crying face around to see if she had affected him in any way, with her pungent retaliation. Tonya's pooh-pooh hole was all she had to fight back with, and she used it with gusto! The racket from which had become alarming though lately, and during her weekly orgasmic spank, she, and her daddy, were treated to a rather reedy rendition of baritone issuances from her hairy little ring, that would put a sextet of Louisiana funeral-march trombonists to shame. Chp. 4. THAT SUMMER, the summer of Tonya's 18th birthday, she got very big down there, between her legs, I mean - and up on top too! Tonya's bottom got to be so rounded that year, that she could hear the stitching of her panties creaking and straining in the mornings as she tried to pack 10lbs ass-cheek into a pair of 5lb knickers: Her poor panties were doing double duty at the back of her, valiantly struggling to contain her new, burgeoning, haunches. Tonya would spend more than half an hour of a morning aligning the cheeks of her ass, tidily, into their respective panty tote-bag bloomer sacks which hung left and right of her musky ass-crack, and dangled like weighty droplets of fat and muscular tissue atop her ample thighs; her panty waist band, cutting deep into the soft smooth flesh along the perimeter-shelf at the curvature of her hip plateau, the elastic band biting-in under the dead weight of her developing bum. A red circular welt was visible in her soft lovely flesh, when she showered after gym with the girls at college, and rode like a fiery halo about her torso, broadcasting the voluminous load her panties had to put up with from her exploding buttocks, with blatant, irrefutable, confirmatory evidence. Tonya was always embarrassed by the red ring! If only she would resist those curly-fries, and those cream-éclairs, but she knew she couldn't, and she hated her ass, dangling, heavily, in her screaming panties, as their sheer mass bit welts into her pristine flesh. Tonya spent countless hours kneeling down in front of her bedroom mirror, staring over her shoulder at the reflection of her voluptuous ass, crying and viciously beating her ass-cheeks with a spatula from the kitchen. She would punish her ass severely for getting so big, and pulling her panties up into her clout, giving her a constant camel-toe. Tonya would paddle her buttocks hard, and wouldn't stop until she came to a shuddering orgasm, whereupon she would roll over onto her back, and do her foaming vulva-hole something shameful with the handle of the spatula; legs sticking up into the air, her steaming beaver squirting at her reflection with utter malice and contempt. Chp. 5. IT WAS JUST last summer: Tonya had gotten out of class early, and rushed home to beat her ass -- good and proper, following off-hand remarks throughout the day, concerning her camel-toe at gym-time, by the other girls! The house was empty. Tonya rummaged through the kitchen cutlery draw and grabbed the spatula and the ice-cream scoop, too. The scoop had a short, thick, rubbery tapered handle, with knobble finger-grips undulating down one side of it. She stripped off, staring at her reflection in her bedroom mirror, furiously! Instead of punishing her buttocks in the kneeling position as usual, this time, she decided to try and get a better angle on them; and also, afford herself greater access to her beaver and stink-hole, to finish herself off, when the time came. Tonya put a pillow under her head, and one under the small of her back, and pulled her legs up, wide, open and unashamed. She anchored her feet and ankles under the edge of the bed. She remembered thinking that her clout resembled a large cut of flank steak, rimmed with a quarter bushel of coarsely-cut, black, curly, watercress. Tonya threaded, both, her arms and shoulders, and upper torso, through her legs, and started beating ten-shades of shit out of her naughty, bulbous, ass-hole cheeks with the flat of the spatula. She was really fed up with her bum, and paddled it without mercy or quarter, screaming and begging herself to stop, but the more she cried, and the more she begged, the harder she beat her buns -- she was vicious that day, and she spoke to her buns as she laid into them with all of her might! "If I've told you two once, I've told you umpteen times! Don't pull my panties up into my beaver-crack when people are around to see! ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME...? You malicious pair of bastards...!" she screamed. And with each and every word, she reinforced it with a blistering whack of the spatula. Chp.6. IN AN ATTEMPT to alleviate the pain, Tonya grabbed the ice-cream scoop and stuffed the handle into her mouth, wetting it good. She found her slit-hole, and without hesitation rammed it into her creamy clout, all the way up to the beginning of the cold metal scoop itself - she shivered. Tonya stared at her ass, and beaver in the mirror, her buttocks turning a dark, blue-red, as she willingly punished them for nothing more than being just what they are; and her pussy-hole, bubbling, foaming and creaming-up as she stabbed at it relentlessly with her scoop-handle of a carving knife, like a sex-driven 'Psycho' in an Hitchcockian motel bathroom scene. Tonya's head was rolling around wildly on the pillow, as she took equal grains of pain and pleasure, ecstasy and quail, delight and displeasure into her swale. She, as her daddy often said, was a, "little Princess". A naughty, naughty Pocahontas; and today she was about to live up to her name, as she beat her ass, not merely with a feather, and without the absence of distain, but simply out of pain and pleasure, and without reservation, or gain. Tonya drifted into the final slalom-run of her long, anticipated, slippery orgasm; her psyche skidded into protect-mode -- And she gasped as her nostrils filled with the aroma of burning rubber, more from the ice-cream scoop handle, than from the symbolic smoking tires of the psychological Harley which she rode in on; engine thumping, headlights blazing, tires screeching at the behest of a looming psychotic break. There was just too much vulgarity, and irrefutable graphic evidence, of wanton carnal desire forcing its reflected sight deep into her eyes and consciousness, as she stared at who, and what, she had become, writhing there, alone, over the bedroom floor; flashed back at her, from out of the mirror. The almost surreal movie-like image mailed at the speed of light, in real time, projecting the sight - of a frothing, moaning, punishing stranger - in the glassy, silvered-screen, fictitious reality, of an envisioned hanging tantric weave, bathed in brown-hued, hurricane lamp-light... Flickering! Vision: --Stark sultan: --probable, dream. Approximated: Chaotic eyelids -- occurring... Climax: --Light oscillation... Eyelid shutters...blurring: ... to and fro - rolled-back eyes; Banging in the wind; Soft-lidded things -- there you go! --Butterfly-wings, all a'row: ...cooling bodies; of Red Admiral and trinkets: And, sparkly bell-sounding tings... Height of heat, influenced by cruel built suns; --Orgasmically driven, of course, fooling: hopefully, not , All the way up: ...into her buns - sweetly slotted, With ringlets, dangling in her hair and an un-cooling ardor besotted affair. "Would you like butter or margarine, madam, with your fries on toast, and would you prefer your cream, clotted - Red?" screamed Tonya's bloody mental organization, as it fell apart at the seams; her ankles chaffing and bleeding under her bed...'nuff said. Chp. 5 (and a bit.) Tonya's stared at the shameless trollop in the mirror, and sobbed in utter despondency, as she watched herself defile her genitals, with much perspiration, and a pinch of intence ideology. Writhing around; her ass-hole opening and closing outside of her express control. Her vulva foaming as she tried to stab the beast within, with her ice-cream-scoop, dagger of sin. Her legs bent back: Wide as wide can be: Hooked under the edge of the bed: The frame anchoring thee: Her fluid breasts wobbling and slopping around frantically: In counter-opposing spins: It is said: To be the spin of the northern hemisphere: I read. (To be continued...) Art Of Growing Up Ch. 06-08 Chp.6. IN AN ATTEMPT to alleviate the pain, Tonya grabbed the ice-cream scoop and stuffed the handle into her mouth, wetting it good. She found her slit-hole, and without hesitation rammed it into her creamy clout, all the way up to the beginning of the cold metal scoop itself - she shivered. Tonya stared at her ass, and beaver in the mirror, her buttocks turning a dark, blue-red, as she willingly punished them for nothing more than being just what they are; and her pussy-hole, bubbling, foaming and creaming-up as she stabbed at it relentlessly with her scoop-handle of a carving knife, like a sex-driven ‘Psycho’ in an Hitchcockian motel bathroom scene. Tonya’s head was rolling around wildly on the pillow, as she took equal grains of pain and pleasure, ecstasy and quail, delight and displeasure into her swale. She, as her daddy often said, was a, “little Princess”. A naughty, naughty Pocahontas; and today she was about to live up to her name, as she beat her ass, not merely with a feather, and without the absence of distain, but simply out of pain and pleasure, and without reservation, or gain. Tonya drifted into the final slalom-run of her long, anticipated, slippery orgasm; her psyche skidded into protect-mode – And she gasped as her nostrils filled with the aroma of burning rubber, more from the ice-cream scoop handle, than from the symbolic smoking tires of the psychological Harley which she rode in on; engine thumping, headlights blazing, tires screeching at the behest of a looming psychotic break. There was just too much vulgarity, and irrefutable graphic evidence, of wanton carnal desire forcing its reflected sight deep into her eyes and consciousness, as she stared at who, and what, she had become, writhing there, alone, over the bedroom floor; flashed back at her, from out of the mirror. The almost surreal movie-like image mailed at the speed of light, in real time, projecting the sight - of a frothing, moaning, punishing stranger - in the glassy, silvered-screen, fictitious reality, of an envisioned hanging tantric weave, bathed in brown-hued, hurricane lamp-light… Flickering! Vision: --Stark sultan: --probable, dream. Approximated: Chaotic eyelids – occurring… Climax: --Light oscillation… Eyelid shutters…blurring: … to and fro - rolled-back eyes; Banging in the wind; Soft-lidded things – there you go! --Butterfly-wings, all a’row: …cooling bodies; of Red Admiral and trinkets: And, sparkly bell-sounding tings… Height of heat, influenced by cruel built suns; --Orgasmically driven, of course, fooling: Hopefully, not, All the way up: …into her buns - sweetly slotted, With ringlets, dangling in her hair and an un-cooling ardor besotted affair. “Would you like butter or margarine, madam, with your fries on toast, and would you prefer your cream, clotted - Red?” screamed Tonya’s bloody mental organization, as it fell apart at the seams; her ankles chaffing and bleeding under her bed…’nuff said. Chp. 6 (and a bit.) Tonya’s stared at the shameless trollop in the mirror, and sobbed in utter despondency, as she watched herself defile her genitals, with much perspiration, and a pinch of intense ideology. Writhing around; her ass-hole opening and closing outside of her express control. Her vulva foaming as she tried to stab the beast within, with her ice-cream-scoop, dagger of sin. Her legs bent back: Wide as wide can be: Hooked under the edge of the bed: The frame anchoring thee: Her fluid breasts wobbling and slopping around frantically: In counter-opposing spins: It is said: To be the spin of the northern hemisphere: I read. Chp.7. …Tonya had a somewhat global personality trait about herself: She was intrigued by the demonstrative fact that one of her mammary glands always chose to rotate anti-clockwise for the Northern hemisphere, whilst the other went the other way around? She wondered if she were in the Southern half of the globe, would they spin the other way. It puzzled her, as she pumped her holes with gusto and verve – alone. “I wonder…” thought Tonya, “When Eskimos at the Poles do their holes like this, perhaps their breasts wobble around at tremendous speeds, and their pooh-pooh logs probably spin like tops, falling perilously down into their liquid graves - pulled asunder by whirling steep watery vortices - hurtling down and around the bend of their porcelain Universe at dizzying, frantic, speeds; and at the equator, would her breasts, not wobble at all? Her steaming logs, rather than doing their usual farewell circular dance around the Mulberry-Bush-vortex like that of the Inuit’s, would they not just be sucked, unceremoniously, down into Hades itself, with a horrible slurping noise? The fuming debris being gobbled-up by the pan, devoid of all fancy rotation; slurped at, as nothing more than torque-less, organic, fuming, environmental - torpedo-like - deposits, neither spinning one way, or t’other …?” puzzled Tonya to herself. Tonya ruminated as she pumped her holes with a vengeance, “But what will happen to those who have just dropped their logs, if the “trout screw-effect” of the spinning, brown-puckered-ring-ejector is nullified by the absence of the Coriolis Effect, as it is at the equator...?” Why, Freudians have long held the view, put forth by Kline, his most loyal disciple, herself, that buried deep in the mental organization of the psyche, at a strata laid down long ago, during the, psychotic, pre-genital stage of infantile anal development, the child, unconsciously - believes - that his or her chocolate-logs, are actually unborn babies, and as any Freudian worth their salt, will tell you, the child, during potty-training, ought to be taught, to flush the toilet bowl, and as the steaming chocolate “babies’ dance around the guzzling whirlpool at the bottom of the cold porcelain “womb”, then, to give the child proper “closure”, thus avoiding a substrata of guilt to be indelibly deposited within that structural “synapse” of the evolving personality, it – the child, I mean - ought to wave, and vocally bid his or her babies – 'Bye-bye…', all the time - the child - waving away merrily, watching intently; as the roasting clumps of brown matter speed-up in their circular dance of death, before being voraciously swallowed by the gag-less toilet-throat; dragged, screaming, helplessly around the bend, down into the all-accepting esophageal sewer; the slopping water, finally belching out a liquid burp, as the putrid babies rush headlong through the lonely darkness of the stinking, tubular, underground expressway, dumping its floating payload, into the fathomless gut and bowels of an insatiable earthly appetite. Tonya worried about those at the equator though... The children there, because the logs get sucked straight down, perhaps there isn't sufficient time for closure…? As soon as they flush, then the babies are gone! But the inhabitants of equatorial islands seem utterly devoid of repressed guilt, and show little signs of shame, running around with their loin cloths, and tits hanging out everywhere…? Perhaps, the anomalous, observation of guiltless tribes is due to past generations who shit directly on the floor - where they stood! Consequently, they had no need to wave their reeking babies good-bye, because their chocolate logs never went anywhere, and were there the next day, and the next, and so on. Just in case, after giving birth to a roasting chocolate baby, the child, could come back day after day, and visit with the dropped log, until either the flies carried it away, bit by bit, or until someone trod in it, and carried it off squelched between the gaps of their toes. It was a puzzle, alright, and it took Tonya's mind off watching the scorching scene going on in the wall-mirror, so that she could get closer to her orgasm, without being hindered by intense feeling of guilt and shame and self loathing. Tonya pumped away courageously, loving each and every thrust; with delicious delight. Chp. 8. One of Tonya’s goals in life was to take a shit at the poles, and at the equator. It was on Tonya’s to –do list, the list that the Humanities teacher at college asked them to compile; more for their own use, rather than as a project to be turned in for grading, though: A list of the ten most important ambitions that each student would like, or strive, to fulfill at one point, or another, in their lifetime. …Tonya had listed it at the number three level. Number one being the most desired life-goal, but for number three it was: Taking a shit at the “Poles” and watching the chocolate-log go straight down, without spinning. Tonya’s listed life goals numbers one and two as being: #1. To “bone” her daddy, hard and long, with her creamy love-hole, and finish him up by having his urgent deliver of steaming cargo, splattering, deep up her roasting coal-chute, and: #2. To have her mother lick her creamy clout and ass-hole out, “69-Style” afterward, whilst she fisted her mom’s cod and stink holes, vindictively; a good three inches past the wrist - respective. Tonya’s innate and highly developed androgyny, lent itself to immense internal drives, experienced deep within her gut; feelings which had a tendency to drive her unremittingly, and audaciously, to seek out adequate resolution of, not only, the anticipated Electra Syndrome, but also, the covert, unanticipated Oedipus Syndrome, too; hence, the list priority positions. As Tonya pumped away between her legs, she reminisced over her remembered childhood rhymes, and hummed them to the rhythm as her holes opened alternating, hissing and sloshing, to the beat of her desire. The childhood rhymes comforted her, in times of turmoil, and difficulty. It was not so much the content, but rather the rhythmic rendition, of the words, they imparted a sense of…security and safety, leading to quasi constancy, and pseudo permanency – it’s a must in a girl’s make-up compact-bag, along with her lipstick, sable rouge-pomp-stick, bobble-handled hairbrush, small, tubular and Vaseline applicator; just in case there’s a knock on the “back door”, out of the blue - an un-lubricated rosebud, is a sore rosebud in the morning! …And breath-spray, for those odd occasions when sperm, is not the preferred oral whiff – especially when [His!] wife turns up at the office, unexpectedly… OoOphh…! Way down at the other end of the list – number nine and ten, was to shit in her father’s work boots, and piss in her mother’s handbag. These two were crossed off as completed, together with number six. That of creeping down into the kitchen the night before Thanksgiving, when everyone had gone to bed, and was fast asleep, and to fuck both her holes, with the drumstick-ends of the uncooked Turkey’s legs, rubbing the wings over her swollen labia, and clitoral head; rhythmically rocking alone there in the dark, squatting over the kitchen table until she made herself come to a vicious, blinding, orgasmic crescendo in both her stink-cavities, squirting and farting with total abandonment, -- Oh! How chilly it is! --Muffling the wanton screams of her illicit ecstasy, by deep-thoating a medium sized, un-peppered, salami. “Pepper makes me cough!” Tonya thinks. The fucking of the Turkey, constituting the epitome of a pre-baked poultry massage, with lashings of hot, honey-buttered bastings, and a heavy lard greasing session, worthy of a bulldozer-mechanic’s, smudged, adroit, attention to warm bearings, and squeaky universal rack and pinion joints. A greasing, straight from the womb, via the, pumping, gyrating love-tube-Freeway of the loins; and the aromatic, earthy-grit, sewer-pipe, effluent evacuation port, of the pong-pong hole, laid down by Tonya’s delicate, puckered, magenta rosebud, and her velvety smooth, dripping, baby-tube-tunnel. Tonya made it! There on the cool, dark kitchen table: Trying her best to mitigate the squeak of the wooden legs, by counter-swinging her dangling breasts in opposite oriented swing-fashion, to that of her locomotive-pumping, out-stretched, buttock orbs, which powered her stink, and cod holes; riding greedily over the stiff, cold, rigor mortised, meaty proboscises of her plucked fowl necrophilic lover. (To be continued...) Art Of Growing Up Ch. 09 Chp.9. The "boning" of the Turkey by Tonya's pungent rings in the hushed, thick, pitch-blacked darkness of her mother's smoking, smoldering, traditional "Apple-Pie" kitchen, with its hanging copper-bottomed saucepans, green-rimmed, white, enameled colander, oiled, grandmother, hand-me-down blackened iron skillet heavy enough to drop a pig to its knees with one hefty swipe; arrays of wooden spoon, diamond-cut, serrated, elm meat-mallet - forks, scoops -- knives of all shapes and sizes, lined up, dangling from age-old, browned, wooden hanging pegs, like little, obedient, tin-soldiers, standing at constant attention -- mute, and simpering with passive belligerency in the wake of the robbing of their inherent chaotic tendency to loll around in natural disarray, like louts in a pool-room: ...Potato masher, curly wire-wound whisk and the large two-pronged fork that could kill a man stone-cold dead, at a measured 20 paces, if thrown properly, hangs there quietly. All of this "Order", Tonya violated, as she rode the Turkey legs, hard and deep and fast, getting a good 7 inches into her dripping fish-hole, and a massive 11 inches up into her creamy, brown, stink-hole -- she shivered as her rings expanded close to splitting point...and gasped in unabashed pleasure, as she rose up, off the girth of the Turkey, and her holes constricted, back to their original size. The constriction, together with their counterpart, that of her hole's expansions, brought untold ecstasy, and bliss to Tonya's rings, and her brain, reeled, and she pissed and shit everywhere, without knowing it...and she loved it so, so much. Tonya was a machine now, gasping and panting, under her breath, as her mom and dad slept soundly, mere feet away, in the down stair master-bedroom -- she heard her father snort in his sleep, in the wake of a massive fart, from his wife -- her mother. Tonya knew it was her mother's fart, by the little giggle that followed it. Tonya's mother always giggled when she farted -- even in her sleep. One New Years Eve, after one too many glasses of wine, Tonya's mother, being a bit tipsy, had to be carried to bed, and sometime during the night, let go of such an enormous fart, that her ass forgot to close in time, and she shit the bed something terrible! Tonya's mother always giggled after farting, but when she shit the bed, she became hysterical! Tonya's dad, got so turned on that he fucked her all night long, in both her holes into the early hours of the morning - the noise was incredible! And, in the morning, when the two of them finally staggered out of the bedroom, you could have sworn, they had been mud-wrestling! It took weeks of scented candles, burning continuously, to get the stink out of the room, and daddy got a severe infection deep inside his urethra. The doctor said that a nut fragment became lodged inside Tonya's dad's stork, as he did his wife in her stink-hole, the sharpness of the nut fragment had scratched the inside of Tonya's dad's urethra. Tonya's mom's mud, got impacted down inside her dad's rod-tube, and the infection started. Tonya had never heard such alarming language from out of her, usually, placid father, as when he went for a piss during the ensuing infection: The windows would rattle! Doctors recommended that Tonya's daddy, either stop fucking his wife in the ass, or teach her to chew her food properly, before swallowing -- especially the nuts, or buy more peanut butter -- non-chunky, of course. Tonya prayed that her mom hadn't shit the bed again, as she straddled the Thanksgiving Turkey -- just as she had for years and years...ever since she discovered one of her father's Hustler magazines hidden behind an old box of floor-tiles, out in the garden shed. Most of the pages were stuck together, but the pages that she could still open, let her know, that whatever it was, that she had between her legs, was very powerful. Tonya would lick the sticky pages, and they would make her think of her dad. The cream that came off the pages, she would gobble down, as if it were vanilla-honey ice-cream... Mmmmmmm she loved the musky taste, and would tear out pages, and eat them, under the blankets, at night, in the secrecy of her own room. Tonya always pee'd the bed, if she ate too much of her daddy's magazine... She would fall asleep rubbing her slit...and pee the bed, sometime in the night. Tonya limited herself to half a page, per night, and then she only creamed the bottom of her panties. Tonya loved the smell of the cream in the bottom of her panties. She would spend hours scraping it off into a saucer, and mix the powder with baby oil, then wear it, on her wrists, and behind her ears. Then she would sit on her dad's lap, and feel the hard swelling build under her buttocks,; as she sat on his lap, and hung around his neck. Tonya's mom would get jealous sometimes, and slam dishes around in the kitchen? Tonya's parents quieted down again, and so she continued her rigorous Turkey-fucking. Her massive breasts flailing around, cancelling-out any obtuse side-ways sheer movement, her open buttocks pumping wildly in a perfect perpendicular plane to the sturdy wooden chopping block which held her Turkey Lover's plucked proboscises, and upon which, she straddled, like a Queen Praying Mantis -- legs and knees, wide apart -- toe-nails grinding unconsciously into the butcher's-top wood, with so much ecstatic power, that splinters - being driven, slowly, but relentlessly, up, and under the nail - deep into the quick... the blood; seeping out from the claws, driveling --languidly - under her feet with imperceptively-deceptive capillary action, threatening to destabilize her Thanksgiving Tantric Dance itself, by her blood's intrinsic -- slipperiness: The pain -- a non-player.... Dancing atop the kitchen table: Mouth agape; fine gossamer strands whipping viciously from a chin-full of thick, drooling, viscous, saliva propagating slowly out of her lovely, quivering lips, and sweet smelling cake-hole... Eyes rolling back in her perfectly shaped cranium, her two, golden, platted pigtails, cutting through the air as they whipped about her face, and neck with incisive hisses, which resemble the dire warning from a nest of newly-born rattle-snake's alarm-bottles; still damp, from the birth. Tonya started to smell the bird she was riding. Her holes were steaming! To do this...without dislocation, and the tell-tale snapping-off of wing and leg, was a feat of pure mechanics: The annihilation of outward resultant and resonant force, nullified by closed-loop, internal, counter-balanced vectors of unknown - but randomly chaotic - continuously up-dated, and consequently finely adjusted degrees of magnitude and direction, introduced into the fowl-fucking-equation, by the precise countermanding swing of Tonya's massive, rigid-nipple'd, far-flung pasty titty-rack, was enough to boggle the Fermat equation solver, himself. Thus Tonya massaged the Turkey's goose-pimpled legs, like a rabid 'hoe's greasy buttocks chewing on her stinking gusset, as she exhaustedly drags her sorry soiled ass home after a rather bad day on the skids; staggering onward, almost comatose from the cruel heat of the day, and the intense surgical dissociation of the reality on the street. Tonya saw a version of it on the Food channel. Massage was within her quadrant of expertise. Tonya likes to help out in the kitchen. She never eats Turkey at Thanksgiving -- Of course, she's more of a Ham girl: Incessantly giggling at the table, though? The parents had warned her, and were puzzled by her constant outbursts of laughter and badly-smothered smirks; putting it down to a flaring of adverse counter-reaction, to stifled over-stimulation of -- facsimiles - relating to repressed feelings of hostility, pent-up, and repressed - en mass - by peoples, in attendance... The "Family": Cradle of dysfunction... As they, her parents, glared at her over, and through, their ingesting actions upon savory seasoned legs, torn carefully from the braised golden torso of her clandestine night-lover's baked corpse: Gnawing greedily at the flesh of the succumbed carcass: Nibbling irascibly, down to the very bone... and they, the parents, blinked in wonderment unto one another. The rolling of their large horsey eyes and the slow, rhythmic, shaking of their heads, in absolute, knowing, and preferred condemnation; in cahoots, with nothing more than their hidden fears, for reference: Chomping at their bits, chewing at their bones; as they stoically watched her, their Thanksgiving daughter, double-up in laughter... Swallowing their legs... They, Tonya's parents, blinked, and chewed, as she rolled off her chair, desperately hugging her tummy; crying with about a fair welt of bitter-sweet pain, and cramps of mirth, as she wriggles around, helplessly, under the Thanksgiving table, pissing her knickers and farting - year after year... They got used to it in the end. So! All this happened in the blink of an eye. Tonya made a habit of "Going somewhere else", in her mind, as she underwent the recollections of the stark reality of her past, embroidered into the gaudy sequences of the performer's attire: The trodden fragrant scent of straw, sawdust, and elephant droppings stuck, unapologetically, on the trodden heel of the ring-master's heavy boot: The smell of face paint, a welcomed repose, from ringside reality, and the distant promise, of a good steak, a whore, and a cheap suit. Chp.9. The "boning" of the Turkey by Tonya's pungent rings in the hushed, thick, pitch-black darkness of her mother's smoking, smoldering, traditional "Apple-Pie" kitchen, with its hanging copper-bottomed saucepans, green-rimmed, white, enameled colander, oiled, grandmother, hand-me-down blackened iron skillet heavy enough to drop a pig to its knees with one hefty swipe; arrays of wooden spoon, diamond-cut, serrated, elm meat-mallet - forks, scoops -- knives of all shapes and sizes, lined up, dangling from age-old, browned, wooden hanging pegs, like little, obedient, tin-soldiers, standing at constant attention -- mute, and simpering with passive belligerency in the wake of the robbing of their inherent chaotic tendency to loll around in natural disarray, like louts in a pool-room: ...Potato masher, curly wire-wound whisk and the large two-pronged fork that could kill a man stone-cold dead, at a measured 20 paces, if thrown properly, hangs there quietly. All of this "Order", Tonya violated, as she rode the Turkey legs, hard and deep and fast, getting a good 7 inches into her dripping fish-hole, and a massive 11 inches up into her creamy, brown, stink-hole -- she shivered as her rings expanded close to splitting point...and gasped in unabashed pleasure, as she rose up, off the girth of the Turkey, and her holes constricted, back to their original size. The constriction, together with their counterpart, that of her hole's expansions, brought untold ecstasy, and bliss to Tonya's rings, and her brain, reeled, and she pissed and shit everywhere, without knowing it...and she loved it so, so much. Tonya was a machine now, gasping and panting, under her breath, as her mom and dad slept soundly, mere feet away, in the down stair master-bedroom -- she heard her father snort in his sleep, in the wake of a massive fart, from his wife -- her mother. Tonya knew it was her mother's fart, by the little giggle that followed it. Tonya's mother always giggled when she farted -- even in her sleep. One New Years Eve, after one too many glasses of wine, Tonya's mother, being a bit tipsy, had to be carried to bed, and sometime during the night, let go of such an enormous fart, that her ass forgot to close in time, and she shit the bed something terrible! Tonya's mother always giggled after farting, but when she shit the bed, she became hysterical! Tonya's dad, got so turned on that he fucked her all night long, in both her holes into the early hours of the morning - the noise was incredible! And, in the morning, when the two of them finally staggered out of the bedroom, you could have sworn, they had been mud-wrestling! It took weeks of scented candles, burning continuously, to get the stink out of the room, and daddy got a severe infection deep inside his urethra. The doctor said that a nut fragment became lodged inside Tonya's dad's stork, as he did his wife in her stink-hole, the sharpness of the nut fragment had scratched the inside of Tonya's dad's urethra. Tonya's mom's mud, got impacted down inside her dad's rod-tube, and the infection started. Tonya had never heard such alarming language from out of her, usually, placid father, as when he went for a piss during the ensuing infection: The windows would rattle! Doctors recommended that Tonya's daddy, either stop fucking his wife in the ass, or teach her to chew her food properly, before swallowing -- especially the nuts, or buy more peanut butter -- non-chunky, of course. Tonya prayed that her mom hadn't shit the bed again, as she straddled the Thanksgiving Turkey -- just as she had for years and years...ever since she discovered one of her father's Hustler magazines hidden behind an old box of floor-tiles, out in the garden shed. Most of the pages were stuck together, but the pages that she could still open, let her know, that whatever it was, that she had between her legs, was very powerful. Tonya would lick the sticky pages, and they would make her think of her dad. The cream that came off the pages, she would gobble down, as if it were vanilla-honey ice-cream... Mmmmmmm she loved the musky taste, and would tear out pages, and eat them, under the blankets, at night, in the secrecy of her own room. Tonya always pee'd the bed, if she ate too much of her daddy's magazine... She would fall asleep rubbing her slit...and pee the bed, sometime in the night. Tonya limited herself to half a page, per night, and then she only creamed the bottom of her panties. Tonya loved the smell of the cream in the bottom of her panties. She would spend hours scraping it off into a saucer, and mix the powder with baby oil, then wear it, on her wrists, and behind her ears. Then she would sit on her dad's lap, and feel the hard swelling build under her buttocks,; as she sat on his lap, and hung around his neck. Tonya's mom would get jealous sometimes, and slam dishes around in the kitchen? Tonya's parents quieted down again, and so she continued her rigorous Turkey-fucking. Her massive breasts flailing around, cancelling-out any obtuse side-ways sheer movement, her open buttocks pumping wildly in a perfect perpendicular plane to the sturdy wooden chopping block which held her Turkey Lover's plucked proboscises, and upon which, she straddled, like a Queen Praying Mantis -- legs and knees, wide apart -- toe-nails grinding unconsciously into the butcher's-top wood, with so much ecstatic power, that splinters - being driven, slowly, but relentlessly, up, and under the nail - deep into the quick... the blood; seeping out from the claws, driveling --languidly - under her feet with imperceptively-deceptive capillary action, threatening to destabilize her Thanksgiving Tantric Dance itself, by her blood's intrinsic -- slipperiness: The pain -- a non-player.... Dancing atop the kitchen table: Mouth agape; fine gossamer strands whipping viciously from a chin-full of thick, drooling, viscous, saliva propagating slowly out of her lovely, quivering lips, and sweet smelling cake-hole... Eyes rolling back in her perfectly shaped cranium, her two, golden, platted pigtails, cutting through the air as they whipped about her face, and neck with incisive hisses, which resemble the dire warning from a nest of newly-born rattle-snake's alarm-bottles; still damp, from the birth. Tonya started to smell the bird she was riding. Her holes were steaming! To do this...without dislocation, and the tell-tale snapping-off of wing and leg, was a feat of pure mechanics: The annihilation of outward resultant and resonant force, nullified by closed-loop, internal, counter-balanced vectors of unknown - but randomly chaotic - continuously up-dated, and consequently finely adjusted degrees of magnitude and direction, introduced into the fowl-fucking-equation, by the precise countermanding swing of Tonya's massive, rigid-nipple'd, far-flung pasty titty-rack, was enough to boggle the Fermat equation solver, himself. Thus Tonya massaged the Turkey's goose-pimpled legs, like a rabid 'hoe's greasy buttocks chewing on her stinking gusset, as she exhaustedly drags her sorry soiled ass home after a rather bad day on the skids; staggering onward, almost comatose from the cruel heat of the day, and the intense surgical dissociation of the reality on the street. Tonya saw a version of it on the Food channel. Massage was within her quadrant of expertise. Tonya likes to help out in the kitchen. She never eats Turkey at Thanksgiving -- Of course, she's more of a Ham girl: Incessantly giggling at the table, though? The parents had warned her, and were puzzled by her constant outbursts of laughter and badly-smothered smirks; putting it down to a flaring of adverse counter-reaction, to stifled over-stimulation of -- facsimiles - relating to repressed feelings of hostility, pent-up, and repressed - en mass - by peoples, in attendance... The "Family": Cradle of dysfunction... As they, her parents, glared at her over, and through, their ingesting actions upon savory seasoned legs, torn carefully from the braised golden torso of her clandestine night-lover's baked corpse: Gnawing greedily at the flesh of the succumbed carcass: Nibbling irascibly, down to the very bone... and they, the parents, blinked in wonderment unto one another. The rolling of their large horsey eyes and the slow, rhythmic, shaking of their heads, in absolute, knowing, and preferred condemnation; in cahoots, with nothing more than their hidden fears, for reference: Chomping at their bits, chewing at their bones; as they stoically watched her, their Thanksgiving daughter, double-up in laughter... Swallowing their legs... They, Tonya's parents, blinked, and chewed, as she rolled off her chair, desperately hugging her tummy; crying with about a fair welt of bitter-sweet pain, and cramps of mirth, as she wriggles around, helplessly, under the Thanksgiving table, pissing her knickers and farting - year after year... They got used to it in the end. So! ...And all this happened in just a blink of an eye. Tonya made a habit of "Going somewhere else", in her mind, as she underwent the recollections of the stark reality of her past, embroidered into the gaudy sequences of the performer's attire: The trodden fragrant scent of straw, sawdust, and elephant droppings stuck, unapologetically, onto the trodden heel of the ring-master's heavy boot: The smell of face paint, a welcomed repose, from ringside reality, and the distant promise, of a good steak, a whore, and a cheap suit.