"You are sohhhhh fuhhcking weird." She made the accusation sound like seduction's siren song.

"So what, should I care, it matters not, I win because, oft' times, I dare." He laughed, at himself, but not any joke, and a hand rose to lay claim over the seemingly button topped prominence of her right breast. Again, lips teased her collarbone, reinforcing his sudden, undeclared, claim. " And that sums up all that matters, so what, should I care it matters not, not once nor twice, not e'en a jot." He savoured another tremble, fuelled by his fingers squeezing, just short of pain, about her nipple.

"You mean you don't care that you seem a little strange." She persisted her shrouded eyes turning towards him, her questing face moving as if seeking his. "Half the time you sound like you belong someplace more'n a hundred years ago."

"Why should I care? I might plagiarize in paraphrase and say 'why care for those who stand and stare, but I hate such rife eclecticism." He invaded the moment with apparent literary critique. "So fuhh'cking weird, indeed. I so'hhh fuhh'cking hope so'hhh."

"You mean we should just get it on." She asked. "Isn't that just a little dated, a lil' bit sixties and flowers in yuh hair."

"Maybe, and not exactly, so." He chuckled softly. " Tell me sweet lady J, who has the right to stand as your judge, who can tell you what you need, who can demand that you become someone you are not. Who?"

"No-one." she answered without hesitation, and with a stirring of defiance.

"Who knows what you want, need, desire, seek to own and taste and feel and live. Again who?" He demanded in question rather than command.

"Me!."... She breathed.

"So, tell me, who writes the rules you need to live by?" His words hunted the prize.

"No-one!." Again, her word dismissed all other's rights.

"Yes, oh yes, there is author of those rules, one person, just one alone, one solitary, entitled elected judge may stand over you and your ways." He corrected her. "Who is that, lady J, who is that One, that rightful custodian of your denials and your enactments?"

"Me!" Again, her one word bore the weight of realisation.

"Anyone who morally judges another without their being asked is a fool. Judgements should be set aside to be bestowed upon the criminal. If our actions serve only our pleasure, cause no bloodshed, pain or harm, they are our own affair." He lectured gently. "I am not the first to say life is bloody hard, short, and very final in its inevitable outcome. Most die unrealised, unfulfilled. I shall not." He told her. " But your decisions are your own. I once read a sentence that advocated that all should 'live and love as they willed'. Those words are right."

"Who wrote that?" she asked in a low gentle voice.

"A fella called Augustin. Wrote it in his earlier frame of mind. Later, he got scared, saw his end coming, and conveniently found a whole load of religion. Then he recanted, but only because he was running scared. So he went all saintly so to speak. Or so some say, he chased the canonisation of convenience. A last desperate grasp at salvation, as long as he had drunk and fucked his fill, then insisted, 'I didn't really mean it, let me in God!"

A pause had settled over the moment that had sought to build outcome upon slow sensation. His hand slid slightly to centre and pressed beneath her skirt, its pressure settling on the white pantie'd heat of her mound. In silence, now, the hand moved to feed the moment. "Ohhhhhh." The sound evaded her often careful control, that self imposed chain of will that bound reaction and response to rules that she too often asserted cruelly upon her apparently wanton and dissolute actions. " fuhhhk me," she sounded a sigh that implied a gentle, hungry, plea.

"Is that a request, or simply an expletive?" His finger punctuated the question by extending slowly between her dampening, sweat sheened, flesh as it sought and found the cloth covered moisture he knew would lie cloistered within the arch of her tautly moulded thighs.

"sweet jesus,sweet..ahhh just fuckhhhhh!" hot breath softened profanity in guileless blasphemy, set free of any commandment, as if to save her from involuntary sin.

His finger pressed harder into her dampness, the hand at her breast squeezed and moulded, shaping her need, forming it as some imagined vessel by which to feed all deepest appetites and wanton, yearning, hungers.

"Was that, a request?" His words flowed slowly mirroring, punctuating the movements of his hands and the toying inflections added by his lips and teeth as they played upon her needful flesh. "Has lil lady j, made up her mind now."

"Ohhhhh, gawhhhd, just fuck me." she demanded , in so soft a way it might well have been a prayer built on foundations of sweetly blasphemous innocence.

"My pleasure milady j." If he was teasing her, it didn't matter. The words found a home, at once, comfortable, in the moment of their speaking. They owned no edge, no taunt, no low intent. They simply lay claim, finally, irrevocably, to a needful moment of shared sojourn from ennui's veiling persistence, and drab oppression.

They offered respite from thought, and dutiful deeds, from chores, and tasks, and the shadowed vale that can be the day upon day humdrum of passing life.

Day by day, the tally of those same days lessens. Day by day, he set out to fill his with moments worthy of memory's efforts. Too many didn't, too many drifted from day to day pretending all was perfect whilst screaming at the world about how wonderful they were, how perfect their lives were, how sweet and absolutely matched was their magically found soul mate. Frantically, they tried to take some moral and emotional high ground from which to scream and yell about their superior little worlds.

"Ohhhhh, gawhhhd, just fuck me." she had demanded. Words that would surely be filed away as just one such, high value, moment.

He smiled thinking of all the moaning put-down artists who thought high value came from bitching on a message board about other people's lives. They were full of shit. If their world was so fucking perfect they would not take a moment away from its splendour to tell anyone, especially those the saw as hapless fools, stupid enough to take heed, the first damn thing about their imagined Shangri-la. They would be too busy living it, reliving it, or planning the next tsunami of perfection.

Then... the world's always been full of lying fools, and it always will be.

There used to be a joke about the three great lies. 'course I love you.. Cheques in the post. And, Don't worry I wont come in your mouth.. He would add a fourth, the one where so many tried to sell the dream they were any happier than most. One day they would understand they worked too damn hard at selling what they claimed existed as a perfect dream. Dreams, real dreams, sell themselves. They don't need middle men.

He leaned forwards, bending her from the hips as both hands slid back to her ass. They rose brushing the skirt up into a frail rolled rope of cloth across the small of her back. The globes of her ass gleamed with a tan. Not overdone, the darkened skin offered a soft contrast to the gleaming whiteness of her silken T' and the scrap revealed as a thong.

One hand roamed those taught, smooth domes of flesh. The other rose sliding along her spine. She felt the hand drag her T' clear, freeing her breasts. They hung sweetly full, like fruit awaiting harvest time. Gathering her hair in his grip he slowly raised her head from where she had lowered it when he bent her over. He pulled it once more level with his own, keeping her bent, his hard cock pressing its prophetic demand into the exposed, proffered, core of her body.

"Say it, tell me what you want." A finger slid down her ass crack. He grinned as she stiffened when the finger brushed across the puckering of her asshole. She stiffened again, and gasped, as it moved on and slid between wet lips to explore deeper than the fragile thong could ever hope to prevent. " Tell me." He persisted, his finger stroking deeper with each advance into her heat and wetness.

"Fuck me, fuckhhh me." She spared the words.

"Manners, my lil'southern belle," He teased with words as fingers teased in other ways. "remember those southern manners, that are so famous."

"Ah' do not beg men." Anger flared, fuelling repetition, and he felt her body try to fight feeling itself, the very feeling much of her life was dedicated to pursuing.

Quickly, he slid the finger clear, replaced it with his thumb, and slid that longer, more moist digit along the grooved portal of her body to pincer her sensitivity.

"I have already told you, I don't want you to beg, I have no need to humble you, no desire to belittle you, no urge to take from you." His questing finger stroked over her hooded clit, brushed the fold away, and pressed.

"sweet...oh my...damn you, you son of a bitchhhhh." She groaned the words almost as if in pain's dread confusion.

Behind her he smiled. The word 'damn' had drifted out to be heard as 'dayumm'. God he adored it. He slowly circled the hard nub of potential formed by her clitoris. Gently he increased the pressure.

Her breathing deepened, quickened. Gasps replaced sighs. She felt his hand free her hair for a moment then quickly return. Even as her hair was once again gently gathered into a handhold she felt his cock, now free, burn against her taught ass cheek.

"you got to..." she panted, words becoming ragged remnants of meaning.

"got to what?" he whispered, but in a strangely hard sound.

"just fuck me." she repeated the apparent chant, a mantra for flesh and its demands.

"well?" He insisted with word and act, as a second finger slid in to join the first and squeeze her tormented clit between them.

"oh my god," her words ended in a muted, scream as her whispered words raced along a broken octave. "Do it."

The fingers squeezed harder

"You bastard," she gasped, almost crying. "You fucking bastard."

He remained silent, his working hand enjoying far deeper communication than any words would supply.

"Just do it," her voice, still soft, held a higher tone, its pitch rose keeping pace with the hunger and want in her body. "fuck me, ohh mah gawd. Fuckhhhh mee .....pleeaaassssse!"

That final word, hissed, suserrant, sibilant as staked plains rattler broke his sham of inaction. In one move the cock lodged and slid inward, forcing its way into already welcoming flesh. Her muscles grasped and squeezed. Her fluids bathed him in liquid fire. Every thrust was full and so damn long. Eagerly her hips worked, her ass squirming seeking more and more, harder and harder. His hips countered hers seeking to amplify each explosive nuance of contact. Her ass moved on eloquent hips, far more gifted and able than any serpentine fauna of the Staked Plains. Her body, hips, could out-shimmy, out shake, any damn rattler. That swaying snake of Eden's fame couldn't of out squirmed these hips, or that perfect ass.

Smiling he watched her ass bump and grind about his cock.

Now that was fucking poetry in motion. Silently he made a promise. One word from her about her ass being too fat, or too this, or too that, and he would slap the thing, hard. That ass was one of the best designed he had ever seen, and it was far better looking than most he could recall.

He adored the sight of his cock as it slid free of her clutching flesh. It was hard to know which was the most erotic. The feel of her sweet cunt clutching at him, almost as if feeding on his so contented cock, or the sight, the live-porn moments of seeing himself part lust swollen flesh and explore its way into such clean lined beauty.

Neither of them would really plot the actions of the fuck. All she was aware of was the rage of feeling boiling her insides into such a terrible hunger it seemed able to swallow them both. Time became lost, merged with the sudden onrush of shifting blurred impression awash with pure, sharply known, feral heat. She knew she had cum. More than once.

At one point, her legs failed her, collapsing under the wave of a repeated orgasm. Only his hands had stopped her from falling. He had lifted her, walked forwards to where she could reach out and brace herself, stiff legged and stretched like a war bow, against the rock. Then he had fucked her hard, pounding her relentlessly 'til she came again.

Her senses had returned to find him standing, no longer inside her. Her ass could feel the slick wetness of his cooling cock against her ass cheeks. He was still hard, his hands still cupped and stroked her breasts.

"You didn't cum." a hint of indignation laid claim on her breathy, staggered whisper.

"Not yet." he agreed.

"Why?" she stiffened weakly. "This little slut not hot enough. Didn't it get you crazy enough fuckin' me all bent over and on offer like a bitch in heat?" She pressed her ass back, hard, as a taunt.

"You're not even close to being right." He turned her and walked her swiftly backwards. Her back felt the rock face behind her blocking further retreat.

His hands swept down, her thong was pushed clear and tossed a side. Each strong hand raised one of her legs and slid to cup an ass-cheek each. She was lifted and held open by his powerful mass. Then his cock speared her, sinking deep, blatant in its new demand. His hips pressed her thighs wide like some medieval siege machine trying to force a gateway.

"tell me that one word you never say." He rammed at her, unlocking a new wave of want." And know my eyes choose to watch you while I fuck you. Remember this small theatre, and always know, even as you brand yourself slut, I want to see whom I fuck. I want to make you know my cock is in YOU."

His hips thrust hard offering merciless stress to his words.

"This fuck gets past the mask. My cock doesn't just want any half assed, anonymous slut that bends over and spreads. Oh I would take you like that, would take you any damn way a woman can be taken. But, you leave here knowing YOU have fucked and been fucked, not just some safe distanced image you happily hide behind. You leave here knowing that if I came to fuck a slut, it was THIS slut, you." His hands slammed her ass down, driving her wet sheath even further, harder, down on his jutting flesh.

His hips moved into a slow tattoo of deep pistoning thrusts that made her cunt tighten as if seeking to swallow more of him, gulp him into its tight maw. Her legs, stretched wide by his body spread out wider still, taught and tensed in quivering intensity as he rammed and lunged driving her into chaotic distraction.

"Say it." He breathed into the kiss he used to suddenly, sweetly, ravish her mouth.

Her breathing grew ragged. Again, she knew the onset of release. She knew she was going to cum around his cock again.

"Say it lady j," he demanded, as one hand supported her ass his body writhed, hard, against hers trapping her between the rock and his own hard flesh. Light almost burned through her eyelids as his freed hand tore away the blindfold.

"Say it for me." he whispered his voice sounding as if filtered through coarse gravel.

Her eyes had opened to see the grey shot green of his. They possessed a strange quality, an almost unnatural hardness explained by neither colour nor pattern. She couldn't focus on his face, just his eyes stood out, clear and somehow owning their own sense of an outrageous smile. Irrelevantly an image flashed through her mind.

For a millisecond, she recalled a pinto pony from her youth. Scout it had been called. Her daddy had been a big fan of The Lone Ranger as a kid. No other name seemed right except for that of Tonto's Mount.

Why was she thinking about a childhood pony? Her thoughts were in turmoil. She even wondered if crazy really was part and parcel of living in Texas. There had always been many tales about what the sun did to folks. Some said that what the sun and lonely space didn't do, the tequila , mescal and dry moaning winds would finish.

She felt his hips renew their pattern, his hands once more settled round her ass, tilting her openness to his exact liking. The pony had been steel in velvet. Mostly Scout had been gentle as a new spring lamb. Sometimes though, when a certain cousin teased him that same pony got a look in his eyes, and she knew it would not be Scout taking shit off some over privileged pimple faced brat. Hell No, The brat would be the one needing a shovel.

That was what linked this man's eyes to Scout. The pony's eyes also had a way of changing, taking on the sort of cold flame this man's eyes seemed to own as a permanent facet.

"puhhhleeaaase" she moaned into his mouth as her body spasmed on the strange, a stranger's, cock. Her eyes flickered, truth realised, that he sought to enter her through those flickering windows to the human soul, just as surely as he drove his cock deep within her. Only then did he succumb.

She had felt the flesh throb and ripple as hot cum flew from him.

She saw him so close staring deep into her eyes. She knew he saw that moment's blankness that almost turns the eyes' centres black, as if life has fled. Feeling his shuddering completion was enough to send her reeling into another crashing wave of climactic upheaval.

She realised that was what he had finally wanted. Not the word, Not the plea, Just that moment. That sweet, deep glimmering crisis when sense flees and senses all but fail, That elusive flare of life so near to nothingness. That spasm'd collapse the Japanese offer a strange name. That moment's purest chaos that grips and defies All Mastery.

That Little Death.

Her legs had curled in, gripping about him in a fierce need to hold and be held. They sought to drive him deeper, harder, into her clutching body as it transformed all being into the spastic dance of her cunt about his cock. Even as she snared them about his hips, his prick, driven with corkscrewing persistence against her 'shrieking' clit made her simultaneously need to fling those fine legs out, tensed and rigid so he could know her fully opened, fully available, wholly accessible, totally fuckable.

She hung panting as if impaled against the rock by his slow stirring mass. He had emptied himself slow and hard, stretching the pulsing eruption out into a symphony of echoing repletion.

He had laid her gently down, clothes still swept aside in blatant, exultant disarray. Before she even thought to look closely at him, that dark swathe of softest silk settled back upon her eyes. Only then did she realise, her sight of him had been limited. All she had really seen was his eyes boring into her, own as if to lay their emerald claim on and within her emerald setting. His face had remained a sweat shimmered blur.

Then his lips had tasted deeply of her own. He drank moist breath, sipping it from her at first, and then trading full draughts of that heady vintage.

"oh mahh' lord" she had eventually panted through a smile, "a lady might swoon, in this so sudden heat." Then her back had arched deeply as his lips swooped on her left nipple and sucked hard, his tongue stabbing deep as if to sink it back into the firm mound of her breast. " oh Englishman, If ever I was goin' to hear music where there wasn't any, it might well be this moment." she sighed. " but ah'm damned if I can quite make out the tune." she teased him.

"Its called Deguello lady j," he told her his lips again feathering hers. "It declares, No Retreat, No Quarter, No Mercy, sometimes it sounds for sweeter assaults than those enshrining history might speak of. I heard it some time since, it played for you.....We will talk some more."

And he was gone. Only the sound of his rising reached her ears, before she realised his intent, and her mind shifted from it's recollection of where she had heard that tune's name, he had melted away, like some phantom travelling upon ghosted melodies. Gone, before she could shed the scrap of soft fabric obscuring her eyes.

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