Date: Sun, 26 Mar 2006 15:33:18 EST
From: Jane Twain
Subject: Harry Is Poked

And so there he was, pantless.

And there she was.

And there she was.

There were two girls. Women, I mean. Well, one was a woman, the other just
a girl.

Harry just stood there, without his pants on, watching the females as if
they were marauding predators come to tear him limb from limb, right there
in the middle of the prairie, or the veldt, or tundra. Or the room. There
was a carpet, a nice, old, antique-smelling carpet. And they would leave
his savaged corpse right there on the nice old antique carpet for the
carrion to pick at.

He didn't trust them.

He didn't trust himself either. He might just be dumb enough and man enough
and berried enough to let himself be seduced by the woman and her girl
bandit.

It was a long story, but now he was in this room, a room he'd never been in
before, and he hadn't any pants on. Harry was not the sort to end up
without his pants on in rooms he'd never been in before. Harry was homely,
and he was almost always wearing pants. He slept in pajamas that went to
his ankles and to his wrists.

But Harry had had too much cranberry juice. Perhaps it was more than
cranberry juice, he dimly reflected, trying to locate his ordinarily crisp
thoughts through a cranberry curtain that seemed to be unfurled over his
eyes. But he couldn't see them, those thoughts that ran like ropes from a
tent and were always staked firmly into the earth; couldn't see them
through the obfuscating curtain, just the muddled cranberry fabric over his
eyes.

Ah, he realized a moment or three too late. They had circled around
him. Clever killers. They, or one of them, had wrapped cloth around his
eyes. He felt the knot fall into place at the back of his head, and two
feathery hands land softly on his shoulders, as if smoothing out wrinkles
in his shirt.

His shirt which was, inexplicably, unbuttoning itself from the front. The
other killer was unbuttoning his shirt, apparently, so gently indeed, and
subtly too, that for a shocking moment he felt as if his clothing had
simply decided to part with him, to peel off his body and wander away. A
curious sensation.

Something kissed his chest. That was odd. Lips. Feathery too, but of
course. Was it the woman, or the girl?

His shirt fell away to the prairie floor. A four-handed thing had two
slightly cold hands pressing against his chest, a slightly cold palm
touching each of his nipples. They reacted. The nipples. The thing's other
two hands, the ones that had been smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles on
his shirt shoulders, now traveled down his arms, then took a detour,
touched on his spine, and continued sliding down his spine, down his lower
back, then to the band of his underpants.

Caressing, Harry thought. They were caressing him.

Sounded like a violent thing a thug might do to you.

A way a person might be murdered. Caressed. With the candlestick. In the
study with the leopard-print settee. Ghastly.

Now the other set of hands, the one conspiring from the front, slid down
and touched the band of his underpants from that end, the semicircle
wrapping about his tummy.

Next thing he knew, four hands did a funny little thing. They yanked.

Premeditated yanking! Yanked and caressed, two of them did it, with
broomsticks and candlesticks and dynamite sticks and licorice sticks, in
the study, conservatory, living room, dining room, hallway, vestibule,
music room, kitchen, pantry, closet where the skeletons are kept!

For Harry was now panicking. Four hands had tugged his little pants down to
his ankles, and now his ass and his prick (yes, those are the words that
flashed through his berried mind, my ass and prick) were flying free,
wiggling and jangling and sailing high on the seven seas for all the
seagulls to see.

And peck at.

The girls had stripped him. It had all happened so quickly, he
reflected. They'd moved like ninjas, like cats, like horny cats and ninjas
with soft steps and deft fingertips. Soft fingertips, lethal ones.

The blindfold slipped a bit. The room was heavily wallpapered, he saw,
heavily carpeted, he felt through his toes, heavily perfumed, cluttered
with deep-cushioned furniture and ringed with sagging bookshelves crammed
with heavy volumes.

(Volumes of erotica, actually, though Harry didn't know. The characters in
all the books in the room, even the dictionaries and thesauri and farmer's
(daughter) almanacs, were shagging across pages and chapters. They began
bucking in prologues and forewords, wouldn't even let the dedication have
its solemn moment, they were already at it, fondling dicks and kittens;
were still bumping, grinding, howling, moaning, sighing, coming, sighing
again halfway through; finally biting, scratching, muttering silly jumbled
words of ecstasy into each other's wanton mouths, and collapsing into the
endpapers, plastered to the boards with sticky love sediment, a pungent
chop, like the Japanese chop, a decadent, opium-wobbly signature. To say,
We were here. And we humped, a bit, for three-hundred and sixty-three
pages.)

In other words, it was a nice room, a soft room, soft floor, pillows
against the walls, soft furniture, thick textured wallpaper: the room was
like a woman's rump. You could bang against it and bump against it and it
was all soft and lovely.

Harry saw this. Then the blindfold dropped. He saw a toothy young thing
smiling at him, a few inches below his chin. No shirt. No bra. Young
girl. Skinny, but not too skinny. Small tits, nice to look at, each a
banana or some sort of fruit, moving in opposite directions, curved like
warped eggplants, no curved like croissants, wobbling on the nonexistent
breeze in the room. Very nice to look at. Pretty, Harry thought.

He was just wondering if they would be nice to touch as well when he looked
down and saw that he was holding each one, each little guava, in his big
hands. The toothy grin was even wider now, and he looked as the girl's eyes
fell slowly shut, like horizontal elevator doors. Then the eyes were
closed, and the grin was very wide indeed, and it said that the girl was
feeling immense pleasure, with each squeeze from Harry's thumb, and
thinking very inappropriate thoughts.

Well, good, said Harry to himself, getting into the spirit of the room and
the cushions and the decadent wallpapering and, though he didn't know it,
all those naked characters flapping their 19th century dicks and tits and
jiggling their 18th century ass cheeks and balls and thigh meat and letting
loose with their 17th century ejaculatory juices into the mouths and
kittens and assholes of Adam and Eve in all those antiquated, sex-filled,
leather-bound tomes lining the walls.

The room was dark, her skin was very pale. She shone a ghostly white, and
her tits were like little small puffs of cloud that had broken off from
some weather pattern developing outside the window (covered with
semi-transparent orange fabric), or something like that, thought Harry, he
couldn't be expected to come up with metaphors worthy of Melville just now.

What was the woman up to? thought he.

Ah, he knew, those must be her hands massaging the cheeks of my
ass. Kneading dough into bread in the bakery. What a nice image. And now
she was running a rather long finger in the crevice. How nice. It had never
occurred to Harry that a woman's (or a man's) finger lightly running north
and south between his cheeks could feel so good. When she poked his hole he
didn't mind. She wiggled the finger in, and he squeezed a bit harder on the
girl's buttery croissant tits in his large hands.

The moment the woman's finger was in, he stiffened a bit, and it was as if
she had pressed a button: his hips automatically shot forward a good six
inches so that his ass was now well in front of his heels (imagine the
parenthesis that I'll use right now) and his penis popped into a rather
impressive, rigid erection.

Harry's penis, his willy, his dick, had become a cock, just like that. A
woman's touch, he knew. Touching the button.

And in doing so his cock thwacked the girl in her tummy. A mighty, meaty
thwack. She giggled. Harry giggled. Then it settled down, brushing against
her extensive pubic hair, hair that completely hid her kitten. She
gurgled. Harry, without realizing it, gurgled too.

The finger produced a most interesting sensation. Harry felt as if the
finger, in his ass, was actually the beginning of his cock, and that he had
a very long cock that began all the way back at the woman's knuckle (a
lovely knuckle) and ended many years later at the head of the cock that,
like a happy snake, was wriggling through the girl's thick bush. The
thought appealed to Harry's vanity.

He thumbed the girl's nipples with gusto. He did a very un-Harry like thing
and gyrated his big hips a bit, moving in rhythm with the conductor's baton
that was tapping out a beat in Harry's ass. Harry, now thoroughly under the
influence of cranberry juice, grinned like the earth's number one idiot. As
he swiveled, his cock pushed forward into the belly of the girl, and bent a
bit, rounding like the top of a low hill. He felt two soft hands cup his
balls. He blinked voraciously three of four times, then closed his eyes,
focusing on the simultaneous probing of the finger that was touching on
something very intimate and powerful, and the multiple fingers massaging
his testicles, using just the fingertips.

The woman leaned close and moaned into Harry's ear. Her breath was wet,
actually. Harry felt condensation. He moaned back, keeping up his end of
the conversation.

Suddenly the tits weren't in his hands anymore. The girl had shot down. He
peeked. She was squatting before him, and all at once she swallowed his
balls. She gobbled both of them up like they were dumplings. Dumpling
balls, Harry joked to himself. The joke made him chuckle. The woman behind
him chuckled like a slut into his ear, keeping up her end of the
conversation.

And I have big balls too! thought Harry, analytical for a moment. How she,
this little lamb, could in one felled swoop take both of his testicles into
her mouth he could not fathom. Yet there they were, in her warm, sticky
mouth, and she was sucking on them, and his cock seemed to be growing like
Pinocchio's nose. Soon it would knock lightly on the door across the room,
push the door open, continue down the stairs, into the bar, and up
somebody's ass. The thought appealed to Harry's vanity.

Pleasant sucking sounds came from down below. The girl now had one of her
hands on his cock, and she was jerking him off. His pubic hair was going up
her attractive nose. Harry watched her through the dust motes filtering
through the marigold spring light that was squeezing into the room through
the thumb-tacked orange fabric over the window. He looked at her nose, the
small nostrils flaring adorably, and he felt happy.

And then the woman pulled her long finger out from between Harry's
cheeks. She moved in front of Harry, where he could see her, crouched
behind the girl, and, looking right up at Harry, put the finger in her
mouth, slurped on it, removed it, wagged the finger, left right left, and
then inserted it into the girl's asshole from behind. The girl growled and
slurped like a cute little lamb. Harry petted the top of her brown-gold
hair.

The woman reached over the girl and tickled Harry's belly button. He
giggled. The woman giggled. The girl giggled on Harry's balls. She tickled
his cock. He giggled some more. The woman laughed. The girl snorted! Harry
was pleasantly surprised. A pretty naked girl who snorts, thought Harry,
very good sign. It means she has a rich golden-brown soul. (Normally souls
were the last thing Harry thought about.)

They all three chuckled some more, until the woman lapsed into her slut
laugh and the girl segued into moaning and Harry said "Happy."

The woman then performed a sort of soft-core Greco-Roman maneuver on her
younger accomplice, wrapping one arm around the girl's waist, and rolling
back, pulling the girl with her and the girl's hand off Harry's big
Richard. They rolled up together, the two women, the girl's legs apart and
her ass in the air, and Harry was now afforded a full view of the woman's
finger fingering (as fingers do) the girl's asshole. Hmm, thought Harry, I
would have imagined that staring at this act would be repulsive, but it's
not. The girl is smiling. Her thighs are fleshy and appealingly pale, her
tummy is shaking, she's flexing and unflexing her toes. She's enjoying it,
and I should feel no prejudice against her asshole whatsoever. I'm looking
right at it, and there's nothing to cause me to look away!

And with that bold, enlightened thought in mind, Harry knelt down and
licked the woman's (lovely) knuckle, and stared mesmerized at the finger
that was repeatedly penetrating the girl, disappearing into the girl's ass,
only to reappear, take a deep breath, and plunge to the heart of the girl's
knot of pleasure once more.

The girl made a baby sound, the woman said something dirty and appropriate
out loud, and Harry kissed the finger, which had a sexual aroma to it, and
said "Happy."