Bums Beyond Belief
by Lacey Noonan
Dost thou seek literary representations of the pleasures twixt flesh and fur, astute and curious reader? For sooth, it is all here in this twisty text and more…
I caress Starla’s front, the elegant and shapely pelt that knows the ways of love. With idle fingers, I stroke up and down her stomach, smirking a sexy smirk.
She’s a big lady and knows how to please a man. Starla’s bosoms heave, she shimmies her round hips under the water and I feel her legs spread ever so slightly. She licks her simian lips. Her throat clicks. And her velvety coat strokes me in return.
I stopped questioning many days and many more miles ago how her hair could do this. Whether from ancient woods magic or intergalactic science, it doesn’t even matter. It’s too good. You don’t question the means when the results are your wang getting the Royal-Penis-is-Clean-Your-Highness treatment so hard it’s like you’re the Queen of England but for glands and not englands.
“Your hair is loving me up proper, what you say, Hammer, proper.”
“Very delightful, delightful human male unit…” Starla looks down at me with sultry eyes. Her long eyelashes flutter, demure. Her dimples widen like crescent moons. Like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, her two fingers dance up and down my back. The pond water is cool and I shiver. Not without pleasure.
“What should we do to celebrate?” I ask, my voice a mere murmur blending with the air around us. I slide my hands down her stomach into the water. I find her hips and trace the lines inward to her feminine center.
“Cele — brate?” she says, her voice going up.
“Our getting back together. Our first fight. That’s big,” I say. “What are we gonna do?” And then my fingers dip quickly to the top of Starla’s sasquatch pussy. She breathes in quickly. Shocked. “Let me in there. I want to celebrate in there. The VIP room.”
“I am conceptualizing,” Starla says.
“Oh yeah?”
“It involves the recent past.”
“Oh yeah?” I mumble. I’m not really paying attention. I’m occupied with her clitoris, rubbing her luscious little bump in cross-patterns. Flicking it with my thumbs. Pearl One. Flick Two. I am a weaver of dreams.
“It involves trees.”
I snap out of my Bigfoot clitoris-induced hypnosis. “Trees?” I say.
“Affirmative.”
And with that Starla picks me up and leaps from the pond. The water comes off her like a waterfall. The air is chilly. The air is silly.
“But don’t you need to cool down?” I say, cupped in her body. “Water… Heat… The song of your people…”
“I am no longer in estrus,” Starla says.
“What the what? Estrus?”
“My time,” she says. “I am no longer what you humans call ‘in heat.’”
“Oh? Does that mean — I mean… you’re not… you know… horny? You don’t want…? Is that why you didn’t want to go in for the deuce with me right before I went psycho? Deuce Bigalow Male Gigolo?”
“It is not like that, Jay Jason. My physiology is not like that, I mean to express. It is simply not my time. My time requires cool-down periods to prevent overheating and damage to my system. I am extra-concupiscent during my time, that is true, but it does not mean that I am not willing or able to perform sexual congress with my carnal systems at other times.”
“Nice.”
Starla carries me through the woods. We come to a tree. It is large.
“Hush now, let us not speak with audible words, but with our bodily units and parcels.”
“Okay, baby.”
Starla hoists my body like a doll and plops me on a branch again, my crotch as high as her head. Instantly my dick springs to life.
“The tree of life,” I say, legs dangling playfully. “Nice.” My dick hardens harder than any old branch could ever hope to be hard. Dumbass fucking trees, nice try.
Starla bends forward and takes me into her mouth. Her lips are soft and warm. They squeeze tightly around my cock. Like her body hair, it’s as if her lips have a mind of their own. They wobble and wiggle this way and that, undulating across the head of my dick and down the shaft in magical waves of pleasure.
My toes curl. I tilt my head back and I let out a moan up into the leaves. “Ooooohh woogie woogie woogie wooooo…” I moan, almost falling backward off the branch.
Starla laughs and keeps me from falling by locking her lips around my dick. I laugh too.
Everything feels too good not to laugh. We’d come through the eye of a needle. At that precise moment, I had no idea things were about to get seriously weird and more fucked up than a rodeo in a retirement home, but we’d survived my stupid wild outburst and here we two were back living the high life once again like Steve Winwood fisting two cans of High Life.
Starla deslurps her mouth from my mighty branch with trails of saliva, like when you pull up a slice of pizza and the cheese just gets longer and longer. My dick sproi-oi-oi-oings back and forth.
“Come,” she says. Nay, commands.
“By myself?” I ask. “Just like, by thinking of it? Wow… what an idea…” I say. I try to think sexy thoughts and make myself jizz. It’s kind of hot. I think of wonderful women, of bums beyond belief. It’s sunset over the desert dunes, there’s a harem full of women in robes with delicate filigree, like slaves and such — imported from all over the globe, given as tribute to me, some oligarch’s spoiled son. It’s raining, Greenwich Village, 1962, a young ingénue in a mackintosh huddles close to me in the doorway of a shoe repair shop. It’s the future, post-apocalyptic, drones in the sky, roving zombie hordes hard on my heel, a young mother in a skintight futuristic outfit and with dark, supple eyes reaches her hand to me from the closing door of a fallout shelter, closing, closing, closing so, so, so tight, will I get there in time? Women, babes, chicks. I think of entering a lady, any lady, all ladies, of opening them up like the door to a harem tent or a shoe repair shop or a fallout shelter and of licking to life joys untold between their legs and the ecstasies undiscovered within…
“No, that is not what I meant, human male lover,” Starla says and jumps up on the tree next to me, folded over on her haunches like a Queen of the Apes. “Come. I want you to meet my people.”
Excerpted from I Don’t Care if My Sasquatch Lover Says the World is Exploding, She’s Hot But I Play Bass and There’s Nothing Hotter Right Now Than Rap-Rock (…Because It’s the New Millennium — Book 2), which is available in ebook and paperback wherever fine books are sold.
Photo by Sam Churchill