Furs and Hides

"So? Is it important?" Charlie asked, smirking.

"Uh huh," I agreed, typing out that it didn't look too badly bruised but I'd be happy to kiss it and make it all better.

'Bet you would!!' was Trish's response, along with a smiling emoji.

"And how did Patricia Lipscombe get my cell number anyway?" I asked Charlie as the waitress finally urged her bulk to our table.

Tuesday, I was finishing Brad Paisley's competition's diamondback pants when I heard a car crunch to a stop. I didn't pay any attention; there's several cute single and not-so-single women in our trailer park. They get their fair share of traffic.

I heard knocking on another trailer's door a few minutes later. Again, I paid it no mind as I included the slip of paper telling David Boudrine how to care for his pants. No, you can't just throw them into the washing machine.

A screen door slammed. I could hear J.J's nasally voice talking and assumed it was the Jehovah's Witnesses that often came to try to convert the people in our trailer park. Then, a moment later, there was a knocking at my trailer door.

Look, I have nothing against people that believe. Even if it does seem a little contrived, God bless them, at least they have something to cling to, something that makes sense out of the senseless things men do to each other. But don't try to make me believe.

I thought to ignore them. But, then decided to answer the door with my twelve gauge shotgun in hand. The last time I'd done that, it had been several months before any of them braved knocking again.

And there, on my steps was a smiling Trish Lipscombe. Hair piled up on top of her head. Her beautiful green eyes did open wide at the sight of my shotgun, though.

"Okay, I'll drop the law suit," she announced when she came into my trailer.

"Good thing," I said. "Weren't going to win anyway."

"For a pair of them boots," Trish said. "Jesus; Becca won't shut up about them."

Well, fuck me. This snotty little bitch was just trying to scam a pair of boots out of me. Just what I fucking need. Yet another little bitch thinks she can use me.

"I don't think so," I snapped, ready to get my shotgun again.

"Aw, come on. Remember? My coccyx was severely bruised," she smirked.

Okay. She did have a really cute coccyx. But these were going to be the ugliest boots I'd ever made. Trish would be embarrassed to ever wear them anywhere.

I mixed together the gel. While I worked, I asked Trish how old she was; was she still in school, what did she do when she wasn't lecturing hunters on the evils of hunting for food and hides?

Trish is nineteen, much younger than me. She works with her mother, cleaning offices and homes; that's how she was able to get that law firm to draft that letter. The law firm was one of their customers.

I formed the sole out of pig hide. Yeah, these were going to be some hideous boots, but they would be comfortable. Trish watched silently as I worked. Actually, I was shocked that she knew how to be quiet. Most of the time, her mouth is running a mile a minute.

Then I formed the boots. Becca's boots had a pointed toe box. Trish's had a round toe box, following the natural curve of Trish's foot.

"I want python," Trish argued when I formed the vamp from pig skin.

"This is the inside of the boot, Trish," I said.

Because Trish was five feet, one inch tall, and I highly doubted three of those inches were real, I gave her boots a three inch riding heel. I had some forest green pig hide left over from another pair of boots so I made the shaft from the green leather. Instead of pull tabs, I put two finger-holes on either side of the shaft and reinforced the holes with very heavy thread.

Then I found all the scraps of python, those scraps I would have thrown out. I carefully patched the scraps together and covered the vamp of each boot. Trish's green eyes were wide as she watched me work.

"Oh my God! They're , I love them!" she finally squealed as I set them aside to set. "When can I try them on?"

"You, you're kidding, right?" I asked, looking at the ugly hodge-podge mismatch of snakeskin.

I had some strips of diamondback rattler left over from Mr. Boudrine's pants. So, while Trish impatiently waited for the boots to dry, I quickly made her a pair of diamondback flip flops. For the outer sole, I cut some soles from an old tire from my van. The tire had blown when I ran over some debris from a dump truck; thankfully we had only been going forty miles an hour. We'd only been going forty miles an hour because that dump truck in front of us was going forty miles an hour.

I sent Trish next door to fetch me a beer and whatever she wanted. I began to work on the red patent leather pants while she was gone.

"I can't believe you had an Orange Crush," Trish enthused when she returned. "That's like my all-time favorite. Oh! Did that Charlie girl tell you that, I told her I like, well, I love Orange Crush, is she your girlfriend? Where was that Kelly guy?"

I determined that the boots were ready to go. Trish pulled them on and pranced back and forth. They did look cute. Okay, Trish looked cute, butt cheeks sticking out of her denim cutoffs, stubby legs jammed into those ugly boots.

When I handed her the flip flops, she immediately tried them on, sitting on my floor, thin strip of her shorts doing little to hold back her prominent camel toe. I almost put a needle through my thumb, staring at her camel toe instead of my handiwork.

"So, why green?" Trish finally asked, indicating her boots.

"Because I had enough green left over," was the truth.

I didn't tell her the truth. Instead, I told her it was because of her beautiful green eyes. That statement earned me an orange soda flavored kiss, with plenty of soft tongue. And, yes, I took the opportunity to caress, fondle her cute coccyx.

"Thank you, Travaughn," she murmured when she pulled away.

"Welcome, Patricia," I responded, wondering if Trish could see my hard on tenting my jeans.

I noticed that Trish's purse had seen much better days. So, after I packaged David Boudrine's red patent leather pants, along with instructions for their care, I quickly fashioned a matching purse of patchwork python for her. She was too busy switching boots and flip flops to notice what I was doing.

"Oh! That, that's so cute!" Trish enthused when I completed the medium sized handbag.

With the last bit of scraps, I fashioned a python belt and found a chrome 'P' belt buckle. I had five more boots and twelve pairs of shoes on my list, but my back and shoulders were sore and I was hungry.

I'd pulled out a venison steak earlier. It would be enough for me, but would hardly be enough for the both of us. So, I diced the meat into cubes and cut up some potatoes. I used some frozen green beans and made us a stew.

"Um; this is good," Trish claimed as she swallowed her food.

"Really? You tasted it?" I asked; I wasn't even halfway through my meal.

"What kind of meat is this?" she asked as she scraped the last bite onto her fork.

"Venison," I said, savoring the rich, hearty stew.

"Deer? Deer? You made me eat Bambi?" Trish screamed, leaping up from the table.

"I put a gun to your head?" I asked as Trish actually scraped at her tongue. "Oh, quit that. You're being ridiculous."

While I ate, Trish ran to the kitchen sink and rinsed her mouth with tap water. She then gargled with a beer from the refrigerator. I grabbed her plate and mine and brought them to the kitchen.

"I can't believe you made me eat deer meat," Trish complained.

"I can't believe you're bitching about it," I responded. "You even said it was good."

"That was before I knew it was Bambi," she said.

"Doesn't change the facts. You said it was good. If I'd said it was one of the Happy Cows from California, would that change anything?" I asked.

The horrified look on her face told me Trish had never made the connection of hamburger and the cute commercials advertising cheese from the state of California. Popping a few Advil, I made my way back to the work trailer. Trish followed me, sipping her beer and complaining.

Inside the trailer, I handed Trish the belt and the purse. She regarded me, pretty green eyes opened wide.

"This, this is mine?" Trish squealed happily.

A cute purse and belt apparently knocked the horrors of eating meat out of her head. Again, I developed a boner as we kissed. My cock stayed hard as I watched Trish threading the belt through the belt loops of her shorts. How can women make the simplest of acts look so damned sexy?

She pulled the boots on and now paraded back and forth, ugly purse slung over her shoulder. Her pale ass cheeks beckoned to me as she strutted around.

"Leave my coccyx alone," Trish giggled as I reached out and gave her right butt cheek a squeeze.

Obviously, though, that wasn't what she really wanted. I began to form a pair of women's boots in white emu. When she saw that she did not have my undivided attention, Trish bent over to pick up her battered old purse. Her head nearly touched the floor as she bent to retrieve the old handbag.

She transferred all of her possessions from old purse to new purse. Then, she again bent nearly in half to put the old purse into the garbage can in the corner, cute butt facing me.

"Let me finish these boots, then I'll play with your coccyx," I said.

"What? Who says I want you playing with my coccyx?" Trish giggled, draining her can of beer.

I meticulously lined up the stencil and carefully embossed a majestic eagle onto the shank of the boot. Doing that in front of Trish was a mistake; she now wanted an eagle design on her boots.

"Next pair," I said. Too late to do it on those."

"Now, who says I want you playing..." she started, coming too close to me.

I grabbed her around her soft waist and pulled her against me. I bent over and kissed her, even as she 'struggled' to get away. My left hand cupped and squeezed her right butt cheek.

"Me. All right? I said I want to play with your coccyx," I said, releasing her.

"Okay. Just so there's no questions," she giggled and bit down on my bottom lip.

I finished the boots, then pulled Trish onto my lap. We kissed; she was a very good kisser. My right hand toyed with her cone shaped breasts through the material of her halter top, my left hand alternated from cheek to cheek, squeezing, caressing those firm hillocks of flesh.

It is amazing; flesh can be so soft and warm, yet so firm. The same was true of her breasts. They were soft, pliant, spongy and yet so firm to the gentle squeeze. Trish pressed my hand hard against her left boob.

"I like, I like it kind of hard," she whispered, pressing my hand hard against her.

I gave her what she wanted. She moaned into my mouth as my hand now mauled her tits. She squeaked when I tugged on her rubbery nipple.

"Mm yes," she shuddered.

I could feel the moisture of her sweet little honey pot seeping through the leg of my jeans. Which meant the crotch of her shorts had to be dripping.

There is a cot in my work trailer, for those times I'm just too exhausted to make it to my home trailer. I carried Trish to that cot. She did not protest as I unbuckled her python belt and eased those shorts down and off her short legs.

Trish's pussy was covered by a small splotch of pink hair. Apparently, the strawberry hair coloring is natural.

Her fragrance was strong, but not unpleasant. I could see her inner lips peeking out, plump and wet.

"That's not my coccyx," Trish managed to gasp out as I glued my mouth to her small slit.

I ignored her comment and licked and sucked her pussy to one screaming orgasm. Thrusting two fingers into her pussy brought on a second screaming orgasm. Jamming my thumb up her tiny little ass brought on a third screaming orgasm.

I rose up, pulled my shirt and my jeans off. I then pulled her halter top off and this left Trish Lipscombe in just her ugly python boots.

Trish's eyes opened wide at the sight of my throbbing cock. I didn't know if she was a virgin or not; she had not had a hymen when I'd fingered her. But that doesn't mean anything; I'd once overheard one of my sisters confess to a friend that she'd popped her cherry using a candle.

I'm not porn-star endowed, but remember, I'm six feet and four inches and my cock is proportional to my height. Maybe I am porn-star endowed. Anyway, Trish, at five feet and one inch, is much smaller than me.

"Mm! Oh God!" Trish called out as I drove my hard dick into her.

Her legs wrapped around me; I should have taken those ugly boots off of her. Her arms held me tight as I lay on top of her.

"Oh Travaughn, I love you," she moaned, beautiful green eyes squeezed tight.

Thankfully, I was too far gone for her words to affect me. My cock was throbbing, in need of relief. I hammered her incredibly tight box for all I was worth. By this point, I did not care if I was crushing her; she was the one clinging onto me. I didn't care if I was hurting her; she held her legs opened for my assault.

And just after the first spurt shot out of my dick, I realized I was fucking this nineteen year old venison hating high school drop-out house cleaner bareback. I shot rope after rope of my jizz deep into her hot pussy.

"Oh Travaughn," she keened, clutching me even tighter.

Trish left the next morning, hot little pussy full of five loads of my spunk, another three loads deep in her gullet. I was drained; and amazed I'd managed not one, but eight ejaculations in less than twelve hours.

She also had my Dallas Cowboys tee shirt on. Trish had insisted she needed something to sleep in; only uncivilized people slept in the nude. Her cute little pussy was covered by a pair of plain white cotton bikini panties and she dug through my drawers, until she found my Dallas Cowboys tee shirt. The thing reached below her knees when she pulled it on but Trish declared that it was perfect.

In the morning, she refused to give the tee shirt back. She took her shower while I fixed our breakfast of scrambled eggs and deer sausage. And, yes, I did wait until she had scraped her plate clean before telling her that she'd just eaten deer sausage.

After she left, I managed to get my boots orders completed, then lay down on my cot and took a much needed nap. It was five hours later, but felt like five minutes later that I received a text message from Trish; she'd made it home safe and sound.

'My pussy is sore,' was her next message.

'There is no skin left on my dick' was my reply.

Patrick was a good looking black man. Charlie seemed to agree; she flirted outrageously with him. They worked well together and earned their commission that weekend.

"Man, Mr. Tray, I swear," Patrick smiled as he helped me load the van. "Ain't no way I'll ever be able wear no other shoes; my feet are spoilt."

"They are the best, aren't they?" Charlie cooed, thrusting her fake titties in Patrick's face.

And when I returned home, J.J. came over to let me know I'd had a visitor while I was gone. I worked quickly; I had a ton of orders to fill and J.J. was slowing me down.

"Damn, damn, what was her name? Cute little thing," J.J. mused aloud, getting in my way. "Looked kind of funny, wearing this big old tee shirt and cowboy boots. Didn't look like she had nothing else on neither."

"Never mind J.J; here she is now," Cheryl interrupted J.J.

I looked up and Trish popped out of her car. She had on my Dallas Cowboys tee shirt and those hideous boots. And, yes, her hair was again tied up on top of her head.

"Hey. Brung me my tee shirt back?" I asked.

"Mine," Trish said, grabbing the other end of the container I was hefting.

"J.J., Cheryl? This is Patricia Lipscombe," I said.

"His girlfriend," Trish said, nodding to J.J. and Cheryl.

"Well now, that right?" J.J. started.

A firm elbow in his ribs from Cheryl shut J.J. up. Trish helped me unload the van. When we'd brought the last items in, she asked what we had to do next.

I got started on some orders. Trish played some games on her phone. She also texted someone quite actively. Honestly, I didn't care. Despite what she told J.J. and Cheryl, she wasn't my girlfriend. She could text whomever she wanted.

When I was too tired to continue, I pulled Trish to her feet. We went to the trailer next door and I started on a quick dinner. I ignored her demands of 'no deer meat' and got down two plates.

She whooped when she found a twelve-pack of Orange Crush in the fridge. Again, I ignored her demand that this had better not be no deer meat.

It wasn't. It was moose. She was pissed off about eating Bullwinkle, and again, I ignored her.

Then, we fucked. I ate her to two orgasms, then flopped on my back and demanded that she ride me. The position was new to her and I had to guide her through it. But, soon enough, she was bouncing on my cock like I was a horse and she was a bronco rider. After her third orgasm in this position, I flipped her onto her back and pounded her into the mattress.

After a far too long shower that I am sure drained my eighty gallon water tank, Trish stole another Dallas Cowboy tee shirt and snuggled against me. I kissed the top of her head and she fell asleep fairly quickly.

I woke her up at six thirty in the morning. She complained, even as she was wiggling out of her panties. Then, she wrapped her stubby legs around me and pulled me into her very wet pussy.

"So, what we need to do today?" she asked as she chomped her way through scrambled eggs and deer sausage.

"Need go check my box," I mused aloud.

"It's still sore," Trish said.

"My post office box, smarty pants," I said, kissing the top of her head.

As we drove, in my van, I pointed out various places of interest to her. She had said we could use her car, but I was sure I'd never fit into that tiny box.

"Hey. You miss me?" she asked as we pulled into the parking lot of the post office.

"Yeah," I said, then cursed when some asshole cut us off.

"Then why you didn't text me? Huh?" she asked, pouting. "Or call me? Huh?"

I was reminded, immediately, that Trish was nineteen years old. She was just a kid. Used to kid relationships.

And, unlike me, Trish didn't see our fuck last weekend as a fuck. She saw it as our souls joining together for all of eternity.

"I uh, hey, didn't want to come on too strong," was the only excuse that came to mind. "And, give me my tee shirt."

"Mine now," she giggled.

In my PO Box were a few orders, including one from Tim Servie. He wanted a pair of shoes, just like the shoes for the wedding, but in a suede. I determined that I would send him a few Polaroids of other styles I could fashion for him.

Some genius, seeing the Dallas Cowboys tee shirt came over and angled in between Trish and myself. He hovered far too closely to her and started talking about Prescott and Elliot and Jones. Trish looked uncomfortable for a moment, trying to peer around the punk, trying to catch my eye.

"Dude, you on drugs?" she finally barked at him.

"Uh, no, but uh, hey, you want? Know where we can score us some," the kid crooned to her.

"No, you got be on drugs. Only way you can't see I am standing here, with my boyfriend," she snapped.

"Ready, baby girl?" I asked, stepping around the would-be lover.

I smiled a tight smile at the scowling kid and Trish latched onto my arm. In the van, I lay everything onto the console of the van. There was an engraved invitation to the wedding of Theresa and Pathetic Wimp-Ass on the top of the stack. No. That's not what the invitation said, but it might as well have said that.

"What's that?" Trish demanded to know.

I guess, as my girlfriend, she saw it as her right to know. No. I don't have any privacy; she was my girlfriend.

Looking at the date, I made a snap decision. After all, the invitation did read that I, along with a guest were invited to the wedding of Mistress Theresa Smith and her subservient cuckold.