Furs and Hides

"Wedding in couple of weeks. In your neck of the woods; Oklahoma City. Want to go?" I asked.

"Oh! I'd, oh wait, shit, I can't. I'm going need a dress for that, no I can't afford it," Trish said.

"Trish, I'll get you whatever you need, goofball," I said.

"Oh, it's at that country club! Oh my God, I, our senior prom was there I didn't get to go; you got any idea how much it costs go there?" she babbled.

Uh huh, and in the summer? That gazebo's going be mighty warm at three o'clock in the afternoon," I said. "Why do people do that kind of shit?"

Home again, I very quickly sketched out the dress and short sleeved jacket I would be fashioning for Trish. It would be in a light green linen.

"Oh! My boots will go with that," Trish enthused.

"Uh huh, and you'll be able to give me back my tee shirts. Shirts. As in two of them you've stolen from me," I said.

"Mine," she giggled.

I emailed Theresa, letting her know that I planned on bringing one Patricia Lipscombe as my guest. Then I called Tim and let him know I did get his order and also let him know I could make just about any other shoe or boot he might want; I had held onto his mold, just in case he wanted more shoes.

Theresa replied that she was happy I would be attending her wedding. She offered the use of her spare bedroom, just like the last time I'd come to her apartment. The meaning was quite obvious.

"I'll have my girlfriend with me," I replied.

"Too bad. Would love walking down the aisle with your sperm dripping out of me," was her reply.

God. Did women even think like that? I mean, normal women.

"Why light green?" Trish asked.

"Because my tie's light green," I replied.

"And why a dress? Boots look kind of stupid with a dress," Trish said.

"Show off your cute legs," I said.

"Cute? Cute! Fat little babies have cute legs," Trish said.

"Cute. Okay? Your legs are cute. And you're not wearing boots; I'll make you a pair of shoes," I said.

I measured her and had to smirk. She was four feet, eleven inches, not five feet one as she claimed. Then I sent her next door for a beer and an Orange Crush.

On a recent hunt, I'd stumbled upon some prime grounds for coral snakes. These are very striking snakes, quite beautiful in their coloring and pattern. And extremely venomous. I used my machete and managed to kill six of the animals. Then I left the area; I didn't know if it was legal to kill them. And, if I'd managed to find six of these creatures, how many were around?

When compared to the diamondback, or the sidewinder, or the python, coral snakes are pretty small. I wouldn't be able to make much out of the skins. But I could make a pair of shoes and a clutch for Trish. I decided on a two inch sole and a six inch heel for the pumps. As that took only one of the skins, I decided to also make her a pair of sandals with a four inch heel.

Then, sipping my beer while Trish again played on her phone, I got busy on the rest of my orders.

On Wednesday morning, I asked Trish when she planned on going home. I reminded her that she and her mother worked as cleaners; surely her mother wasn't cleaning all those office buildings and homes by herself.

"We uh, we got fired," she admitted.

According to Trish, one of their customers is Mrs. Lydia Nelson. And Mrs. Nelson suffers from dementia. She gave a music box to Trish's mother, insisted that the woman take it, even though Ginger Lipscombe kept saying she didn't want it. Mrs. Nelson became quite agitated that Ginger was insulting her precious music box. Just to keep the woman quiet, Ginger accepted the gift. Then, a few days later, Mrs. Nelson called the police to report the theft of the solid silver music box.

Again, this is according to Trish; I have no idea how much of it is true. But it did explain how Trish had so much free time to hamper my time.

And, yes, it may have been horribly unfair of Mrs. Nelson to report the box stolen. Ginger Lipscombe treatment by the company, and by the police may have been completely unwarranted. But it didn't happen to me. It doesn't affect me. So, I did not become emotionally involved as Trish relayed the story to me.

Instead, I finished my orders. I kept working while Trish sobbed about the unfairness of it all. And I didn't ask why she was fired if it was her mother that supposedly had the music box, not Trish.

"Okay, well, I need to go out tonight," I said.

"Oh? Where we going?" Trish asked, already reaching for her boots.

"Not we. I. I am going out," I said.

Trish stared at me in stunned disbelief as I relayed that I would be at Vicky's house, trying to impregnate Achu, my ex-wife's lesbian lover. Finally, Trish jumped to her feet and snarled, if I thought she was just going to sit around and let me go off and fuck some other bitch, I had another thing coming.

"Uh, hey, Trish? You don't own me. You're not the boss of me," I snapped. "And, know what? It ain't none of your business who I fuck and don't fuck."

She stormed out. The hydraulic spring on the door prevented her from slamming it. The spray of gravel struck the wall of the trailer.

"You break any of my windows, I will take it out of your ass, bitch," I yelled as some of the gravel did rattle against the window.

I did not bother to pick up flowers or wine this time. I showed up. We went to the bedroom. We fucked. Achu grunted and groaned in orgasm twice before I finally managed to pump a load into her hairy pussy.

Again, I had that empty, hollowed out feeling when I left their house. I politely waved at my former neighbor, resisting the urge to wave with one finger. The douche bag did not return the friendly greeting.

Returning home, I found two Dallas Cowboy tee shirts on my porch. You know what? That hurt. She didn't even bother to fold them; she had just wadded them up and thrown them on my porch.

"That Trish girl looked some mad, hear?" J.J. said as I picked up the two shirts.

"Bet she did," I said. "Good night, J.J."

I took a good long shower, then went to bed. Sleep came very quickly; I was surprised. But I just could not stay asleep.

We didn't do the Bossier City, Louisiana show again. Instead, Charlie, Patrick and I tried a show just west of Hot Springs, Arkansas. We did pretty well and I went ahead and reserved a space for the next month. I also sent an email to Peter Linden, the audiophile friend of mine and let him know about the Hot Springs location.

And when I returned home, I saw a little Nissan sitting in front of my trailer. I saw a strawberry blonde sitting in the car, waiting.

"I uh, you got my tee shirts?" Trish asked, getting out of the car.

Make up sex is pretty damned good. Make up anal sex is pretty damned fantastic.

"I swear to God, you and Steward; why ya'll got such a thing for my butt?" Trish had complained when I'd suggested anal sex before.

I don't know who Stewart is, nor do I care. I had shrugged and told Trish it was her own damned fault for having such a sweet little ass.

"Thanks, but it ain't little," she had giggled.

Kneeling on my bed, Trish squeaked, squealed and moaned as I jammed a greasy finger into her tightly clenched ass hole. I twisted the finger around, back and forth in her dirt hole, then added a second finger.

"Reach back here, pull that butt open for me," I ordered as I fucked the two fingers in and out of her.

"Feels. Uh. Weird," she grunted, but did reach back and pull her cheeks wide.

As short as Trish's legs are, we were not going to fuck doggy style. This was just to get her shitter ready. I have to admit, watching my thick fingers spreading her little pink hole wide, getting it good and greasy, I was close to coming. She looked up as I knee-walked around to where she lay. I used a handful of her hair and fed my throbbing cock into her mouth. Her pretty green eyes looked up into my blue eyes as I thrust my meat into her pouting mouth.

After I blew my load into her hot and hungry mouth, I flopped onto my back. I then greased up my dick and had Trish straddle me. I grew impatient; I don't know if she was fighting me, of if her inexperience was getting in the way. But I finally had my hard cock lined up with her greasy little shitter.

"Uh! Oh fuck! Oh God damn, stop, stop," Trish cried out.

I did not stop. My cock was slowly being wrapped in a hot vise grip of flesh. The feeling was too delicious to stop. Trish did not move to dismount. Inch by inch, my greasy dick wormed upward into her guts.

"God damn, fucking ate you, God damn, oh God damn," Trish sobbed out.

I didn't pay any attention to her complaints; her pussy was so wet it was actually dripping onto my pubic hair. Like I said, Trish made no move to dismount. She sat, more and more of my dick sliding up into her.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Trish screamed at the top of her lungs.

Her pussy flowered open and a fine spray coated my pubic hair and belly. She then gave guttural grunts and groans while she shook in orgasm.

Just when she caught her breath, I reached out and gave her clitoris a hard pinch. She shrieked again and bucked in helpless orgasm.

Then, while she slumped, I lifted her, then dropped her. She shuddered and tried to open her eyes. I did this twice more. She then slowly pulled herself up and dropped back down.

"Here. It. Comes," I grunted and began to pump my load into her guts.

I do enjoy anal sex. I do not enjoy the aftermath. It is sticky, dirty, and very smelly.

"I'm still mad at you," Trish whispered as we showered together.

"Take a number, get to the back of the line," I said as I lifted her up and slid my freshly washed cock into her wet pussy.

"That's not funny," she groaned and wrapped her stubby little legs around me.

"And I'm not laughing," I said as I pounded into her.

A pattern soon emerged. Trish would pop up, stay a couple of days, and then drive off, usually before I loaded my van for a show. Then, she'd pop up, stay for a few days and drive off again.

Theresa Smith invited myself and my guest to the rehearsal dinner the evening before the wedding. I am not sure why I was invited; I'm not part of the wedding party. But I wasn't going to insult someone that had already thrown several thousands of dollars my way.

I rented a room at a nice hotel a few miles away from the country club and Trish had Becca Strickland drop her off at the hotel. Before driving off, Becca said she would be ordering a pair of boots like Trish's, how come I didn't give her that choice, oh, and a purse like Trish's too.

When Theresa told me of my invite to the dinner, I quickly made a pant-suit for Trish out of the same ice yellow linen my Suit was made out of. I had made her a clutch of the same coral skin that her sandals and pumps had been fashioned from and Trish looked very stylish. My suit for the rehearsal dinner was a light gray linen and I wore a pale pink tie with a starched white shirt. My black alligator belt and black alligator boots let everyone know I was man enough to wear pink with no issues.

Trish looked all around the country club grounds and the gazebo as the wedding party went through their paces. Trish kept whispering that she couldn't believe that we were there; this country club was so exclusive.

The steak restaurant also overwhelmed Trish. But, meeting Theresa Smith and seeing the far too familiar way Theresa greeted me had Trish's little green eyes flashing dangerously. And truthfully, Theresa had treated Trish with an air of condescension

"Did you fuck her?" Trish growled when Theresa walked away to talk with other guests.

"Lower your voice," I hissed.

"Did you?" Trish shrilled.

"Long, long ago," I said; using 'dog years' to calculate my one night tryst with Theresa Smith.

"Mr. Lott? Hi, Tim Servie," Tim greeted me, cutting off Trish's jealous rant.

"Tim, I'm not that old," I smiled, shaking his hand. "I remember you just fine."

"Anyway, the shoes? Man! I should been getting my shoes from you from the beginning," Tim enthused, showing us that he was wearing the suede loafers he'd recently ordered.

A woman in the bridal party admired the coral sandals and coral clutch and talking about shoes and purses, talking about Trish's stylish pants suit and the cute miniskirt and blouse the bridesmaid was wearing helped to diffuse Trish's jealousy. The staff soon started serving the steaks; Trish settled down. As for the steaks, I've had better, remember, I'm from Texas.

Back at the hotel room, Trish spotted a large box on the bed. I told her I had bought it for her, but her behavior back at the dinner? I wasn't too sure she deserved it.

"My...my behavior?" Trish shrilled, instantly angry again.

"In fact, I think you've earned a spanking," I continued, hanging my jacket in the miniscule closet.

Have you ever noticed just how small those closets are? I don't care if it's a mainstream name brand hotel like this one, or a little bitty Mom & Pop motel, none of them seem to have closets worth a shit.

"You do and I'll scream," Trish threatened, eyes narrowed.

"And quit wearing your hair up like that," I continued. "Yes, it's cute and it's okay for every now and then but not all the time."

"I thought you liked it like this," Trish now sniffled.

"I do. Very much. But again, not all the time," I explained.

Inside of the box was a black silk nightgown, matching g string panties and short robe. The gown itself had a camisole top and reached down to just above Trish's knees. The slit up the left side went all the way up to where her hip bone was, showing off the sexy panties.

"So you can give me back my tee shirts," I joked as Trish oohed and aahed over the lingerie.

"Mine," Trish laughed and took the box into the bathroom.

Lingerie knocked the jealousy out of Trish. As she said, my fuck with Theresa had happened long ago. And, Trish looked downright delicious in the slinky get up.

I proved just how delicious Trish was by eating her to a screaming orgasm. I then let Trish feast upon my cock. Trish liked to do one thing that even Charlie didn't do all that much. Trish liked to lick and suck my balls until I was ready to scream. Every now and then, Trish would fit both of my balls in her mouth and hum in her throat while her soft tongue worked all around.

And, of course, after we fucked, Trish waited until I was just about asleep. Just as I was slipping into la la land, she asked me if I loved her.

"Let you have my tee shirts, didn't I?" I groggily asked.

I cursed Theresa Smith for being selfish, or thoughtless, or selfish and thoughtless. Having the wedding at three o'clock meant that those out of town guests would either have to pay for an extra night, or hustle to make check out time, then find other accommodations in order to get ready in time for the wedding, then have to drive home, groggy from rich wedding food and alcohol. I opted to stay an extra night. Trish was happy about that; she liked our hotel room.

Then, we had to sit through the wedding. I don't care how elegant the venue; weddings are boring. Unless it is your own wedding, weddings take too damned long, there's too much fluff and not enough substance.

And, yes, it was stifling underneath that gazebo. And the afternoon sun was right behind the altar where the minister or justice of the peace or whatever the jackass in the ill-fitting suit was. So, the guests were looking directly into the sun, unable to see the bride and groom.

But we could hear the minister or whatever drone on and on about the sacred bond of matrimony. The microphone he'd clipped to his lapel had a bad connection and would crackle and hiss every now and then. Or, worse yet, would let out an ungodly squeal of feedback.

"Oh!" Trish actually sighed when Theresa allowed Brandon to kiss her.

The reception, thankfully, was being held inside of the country club. The air conditioning felt sublime after roasting underneath the gazebo.

"Congratulations, Mr. Fallchy," I said to Brandon.

"Thanks," he said, eyes lingering on Trish.

"Mrs. Fallchy," I said to Theresa.

"Oh no. I'm keeping my name," Theresa said, smiling tightly.

"What a bitch!" Trish said as we made our way to the cash bar.

She looked up into my eyes. I smiled down at her; she'd done something to her long strawberry blonde hair and it was in long ropes of curls around her pretty face. She actually looked somewhat grown up with her hair like that.

"I would definitely take your name," Trish said.

"You'd want to be Travaughn Lipscombe?" I joked and ordered a Harvey Wallbanger for her and a Jack and Coke for myself.

"No!" she giggled and took a sip of her eight dollar drink. "Mm! What is this?"

"Harvey Wallbanger," I said. "Figured since you like Orange Crush, you'd like that."

She did like it. Twenty four dollars' worth. I cut her off after the third one and she pouted. So much for looking grown up.

The wedding band was your typical wedding band. Some guys in rented tuxes, plunking out standard tunes, a singer that thinks we came to hear him belt out the Strolling Bones and Man that's Boringsome. I mean, the Rolling Stones and Van Morrison. But Trish and I had fun dancing together.

The food was also your typical wedding fare. Overly salted, overly sugared, and barely warm in those inefficient chafing dishes these places seem to love using. All of it in sauces guaranteed to permanently stain whatever item of clothing you accidentally dripped onto.

Trish did not catch the bouquet; one of the bridesmaids managed to snag it. I could have caught the garter but didn't really try that hard. And I'm sure I am not the only one that saw Theresa's bald pussy, sticky with semen as the best man assisted Brandon in removing the garter from Theresa's upper thigh. I'm sure I'm not the only one that noticed Theresa's satisfied little smirk.

The bad thing about taking your girlfriend to a wedding? It triggers some hormone, or as my grandfather used to call it, some whore moan in their brains. It causes them to start planning your wedding. As in hers and yours. All the way back to the hotel, Trish informed me of what the venue would be, where it would be, did I think we had to be members of the country club in order to hold the wedding there, she already had three bridesmaids, what was that drink again, a Harvey Wallbanger, she really should have caught that bouquet, she loved the shoes the bridesmaids had on, it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her wedding dress, is it bad luck if I make the bride's shoes, that's part of the wedding dress isn't it? And on and on. When Trish gets going, her mouth does not stop at any point.

The next morning, Trish texted Becca Strickland to come get her. I told Trish I would have driven her home but Trish said it wasn't necessary. With an 'I love you' and a passionate kiss, Trish grabbed her bag and was gone.

"You mother fucker," was the first thing Vickie snarled at me when I answered her call.

Trish had just left after another long weekend and I was getting ready to go on a hunt in Louisiana. Trish had offered to come but, really, I didn't want her to come. She has no idea how to be quiet. And, it can be dangerous.

"Yes, fucking mothers is one of my talents, but I prefer to think of myself as a business man," I cheerfully said. "And, hello to you too Vickie."

"You got a reversal," Vickie accused.

"I got a what?" I asked.

"A reversal, a reversal," Vickie screamed into her phone. "You had your vasectomy reversed."

"Vickie, I did no such thing," I said. "I swear to you, I did not get a vasectomy reversal. Really? Think I want anybody fucking with my balls like that?"

"You didn't?" Vickie asked.

"Dr. Tisdale is my urologist. He's been my urologist for years," I reminded her. "Ever since I got that kidney infection? Ask him. His records will show that I never had a vasectomy reversal."