Like a Fox on the Run, стр. 115
“Promises, promises.” She faked a pouty face. One hand slid from her chest down her belly, past the neatly-trimmed red patch of hair. She savored the feel of the sticky wetness that now coated the junction of her inner thighs, the mixture of his and her fluids. Hungrily, she looked up to him. “I hear a lot of talk … but I ain’t gettin’ any action here.”
“First things first, my dear.” He slid off the bed. reaching for his weapon, which hung from the foot rail. He pulled his service laser from its form-fitting, molded-rubber holster.
Now this is interesting,” she remarked.
Walking a few steps out from the bed, he turned back to her, his nude body like that of a graceful, medieval statue, sculpted and defined but not over-muscled and gaudy. Holding the gun up on display with one hand, he gestured to her with the other. “You first, then I’ll oblige.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is, is it?” She gave him a challenging look.
“You did tell me you’d do anything.” He raised an eyebrow. “At least that’s what I thought you said.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds as she bit her lower lip provocatively, the curiosity and kinkiness of this new game getting the best of her. She went headfirst over the side of the bed and slid off onto her belly. Rising to her hands and knees, she looked up at him hungrily. Slowly, like a stalking animal, she began to crawl across the floor toward him, her eyes locked onto his now. Challenging. Encouraging. Demanding. Pleading.
“That’s my girl,” he encouraged her. “Come to daddy.”
She stopped just in front of him. Using the back of his thighs for leverage, she brought herself up to a full upright position, her face now just mere inches from his blood-gorged member.
“You know what to do,” he prodded, his hand now on the back of her head. Ejecting the ammo pack from the gun, it fell to floor with a clatter. He then activated the charging mechanism. The zerreeeem sound the pistol emitted, as it powered up was enough in itself to ratchet her excitement up to another level. He raised the pistol and put it to her head. “Now, you naughty tramp! Get to work!”
As she felt the end of the barrel press firmly against her temple, he simultaneously pressed himself against her lips. They parted ever so slightly, allowing him to feel the moisture of her mouth; the tip of her tongue teasing him with such agonizing anticipation. Looking up with those seductive eyes, she gave him a tantalizing smile as her pink tongue moved over those luscious, full lips.
“Next time … leave it loaded,” she instructed as she, ever so slowly, began to gradually allow him the access he so desperately sought.
When I was a young’un, one of my Uncle Mud’s favorite adventures was “shittim wood” tree expeditions. It seemed this strange, little tree seemed to grow out of the bare rock of Monte Sano, where the soil was most void, forsaking any reasonably good patch of soil that any other tree with good sense would have chosen. Hell, maybe it enjoyed the challenge. Mud would tell me how this curious, flowering, foliage only grew over in the Holy Land and in the craggy ravines of this one mountain here in North Alabama. Nobody could explain why, he would say, nodding with one eyebrow raised, letting me know it was a great Southern oddity I was to now ponder.
“One of the great mysteries of the world,” Ol’ Mud would spit a stream of tobacco juice and pet his old blue-tick, Roy. “Y’know, shittim is the wood the Hebrews used to make the Ark of the Covenant. Ain’t that some shit?”
Years later, I found out that whole story wasn’t exactly true. Turns out the chittamwood tree on Monte Sano and the shittah tree of the Holy Land were two different species. The New World version, more commonly known as the American Smoke Tree, while sparse, was not just relegated to North Alabama, but grew as far away as Texas and Oklahoma.
I never had the heart to tell the ol’ fart any different. It just didn’t seem right. Besides, what was it going to hurt to let the old man think he knew something unique and special. Sometimes in life, some mistakes just ain’t worth correcting and harmless fallacies are best left alone.
Not every mistake needs correcting and not every lie needs confronted.
Especially the ones we tell to the fools we see in the mirror.
~ “The Ponderings of an Old Spacer” ~
By
Tanner “Tiger” Thomas
June, 2203
Chapter 12
By midnight, things had settled down at the Carter residence. Lulah had gotten over the initial shock of Amber and busied herself with making her “guests” comfortable for the night. However, she was now giving Tiger the cold shoulder. He quickly sensed this and gave her space. After all, who could blame her?
Ol’ Tex had set himself up in an armchair by the front window. Using the partially closed curtain as concealment, he kept a constant vigil on the street out front. His trusty Westchester lay in front of him, across the arms of the chair, cocked and ready. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by certain junior members of the household. Blake couldn’t keep his eyes off of it. Its shiny metal and polished wood mesmerized the boy. It was cooler than anything in any VR game. And it was real! He lingered nearby, fascinated by the stranger and his fancy shootin’ iron. Yet, he couldn’t overcome his shyness. Even when Tex gave him a friendly wink, he remained skittish.
Brittain, in the meantime, helped her mother make sandwiches for their famished guests. She had been unusually helpful, not only