Where There Is smoke
It was on the cusp of dusk and a late autumn storm was brewing. A frozen fog hung over the small village of Tarrytown. A village of mostly Dutch ancestry, who had no predilections or immoral behaviors. A village of non-swearing apple pickers and scattered-vendors. It was the autumn of 1791, and as they say… "Frost was on the pumpkins."
The frogs must have had a forewarning as they croaked a melancholia, as if feeling an omen in the wind. The tall shadows of trees like marionettes, bending, being pulled by strings. In the distance the thunder sounded as if nine-pins being bowled over. I had just recently taken residence in the village as a monger of books. Also a haberdashery of linens, button of bones, threads and ivory didoes. Tarrytown was nestled in the Hudson Valley, a few leagues from New York.
The denizens of my mind ran deep at times. Due to having unscrupulous thoughts and acting on them. Evicted, tarred and hustled from my previous venue, due to morality concerns. The constabulary did not take a liking to my idiosyncrasies and masturbating in public. I spent goodly amount of time in the pillory before my departure aloft a log and adorned with feathers. Now, with a new locale, the laudanum and my tea serving me well as I grinned. Intoxicated on lustful yens.
I was in dream-state induced by my fondness of tea, laced with laudanum. Laudanum, a concoction of alcohol and opium. I could feel my cum boil, as I was fine-tuned my cock, as if it were a piano. Masturbating until a blob accentuated. Lately I had been suffering the collywobbles of the stomach and I expected a corruption to flop on the floor. Hopefully, Elsie, would soon bring me chicken broth.
Unaware of the time as the door squeaked to my shop and in walked a gangly stork of a man, as I tugged up my britches. Dressed as if a Puritan Preacher. He was singing, "...and while the lamp holds out to burn, the vilest sinner may return." His warble that of a love bird, tweeting its lover. His paleness resembling that of a cadaver, with feet like shovels. Very effeminate, waving his hands and moving as if with conniptions to his trembling legs. His powdered wig askew and he suffering the sneezes. He cut an ugly sight of a man; small of the head, with large ears, that stuck out like wings. He had wide eyes and a snipe nose, like that of a flamingo. It resembled a weather-cock. A small cranium, meant a small mind, so our beliefs. He introduced himself as Ichabod Crane. A peddler of a devise at a fair market bartering price.
He inquired about certain books as my brows raised. Books on curses and poultices and even, "the Good Book." I offered him tea. During the course of the conversation, he told me his fondness for The Lord. That he could exercised "the bad" back to where it came from.
I confessed my lack of obtaining an erection. A hard-on like that of forged steel. Something that would make the women blush.
He told me that it was a time of female hysteria, widely associated with sexual dissatisfaction. From his carpetbag he pulled a small bellow-like contraption, seeming to be enamored by it. Patting it, as if it was the fanny of infant.
Instructing me to lower my britches and bend over. He placed the nipple of the bellows in my anus. In reality, he was puffing and blowing tobacco smoke up my arse. Not that it wasn't a bad feeling, but it was my last ounce of a good chew for later. He was chanting, "I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every satanic power of the enemy, every scepter from hell, and all your fallen companions; in the name of our Lord Jesus."
In a matter of moments, the shop filled with a blue cloud. I heard the mice coughing as I expounded an air-biscuit fart. At the same time my left foot kicked a googly (bounce) with a pebble, striking a mouse. Needless to say, I felt better, as we made a dealing. He leaving, doffing his hat.
Steeping another tea and laudanum. Mrs. Elsie Sedgewick, was doing me the pleasure of squeezing her lips about my eight-inch predicament. She the wife of Parson Sedgewick, the village mummer of Psalms. Her ample tits, freed from her bodice. Shaped like gourds and round as mush melons, jiggling a minuet. Her nipples like young figs, her lips and fingers playing my cock as if it was a piccolo.
Offering her tits to me, I accepted, squeezing them gently. Feeling their weight upon my palms and the passions within them. Like waves crashing against my hard dick, my pre-cum crashed, spilling outwards. My inner demons urging me on, mocking me. "Do it, have her. Don’t be a coward. Fuck her until she moans."
Her slobbering cunt juices mingling a puddle as her sighs interlaced with my cries, of laudanum things. Her spittle dripping from my testicles and her chin, as she hummed an old English tune. Like a turkey with a gobble she nibbled a testicle, stretching my scrotum to the max. I'm sure she could feel the rhythm of my pulse, as my cream rose to the top.
Slowing her cock-spittle, she scooted her ass over my face. Spreading her cheeks I heard the whispering hole inviting my kiss as I strummed my tongue to play a sonata on her sweet sphincter. I had prided myself on bringing women to full release by engaging my tongue. Her asshole, like a serpent latched on to my tongue. I owed it to my tobacco and blue brume of smoke.
That night at choir practice as the women in the church balcony sang praise. They bent over the railing with skirts raised. Their voices like roses with smooth tongues, as smoke rose from a few rears.
With Ichabod, walking at a fast pace, and counting his pennies. In the dark of night appeared a headless horseman. As the steed rose up on hind legs, the phantom heaved a jack-o-lantern at Crane. It was a googly.
Written by adagio
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