there is always that 1 fucked up fry in the batch you wanna try but just don’t.
Seriously, I need advice and just to get shit off my chest
Come to me PLS
For those of you who are aware of my adventure last night on the train: The crash happened on a military base, explaining why all the army guys were running around. There were over 10 police cars, an ambulance (why?), a fire truck, some undercover cops and eventually the coroner, the train safety management team and a tow truck. They didn’t allow us to open our curtains until we pulled away but people were defiant and looked anyways, as did I. Every time someone in uniform walked past a person would ask about smoking. “Can we get off?” “Just two drags, c’mon” but no. Finally the guy caved and opened the luggage cart for us and opened the side of it for fresh air. So I smoked on a train. While standing there with over 25 people, someone who sat up front told us he saw a white suv with a male in it pull in front of the train and park his car. People thought it was an accident until witnesses told them otherwise, it was a suicide. Have you ever seen Red Asphalt? I’m pretty sure that’s what it looked like. I was 8 or 9 carts back from the head of the train and a white crumpled mess landed a little behind my window. I was persistently looking out my window, trying not to get caught. But when I saw those 2 guys dressed in all white I had to stop. I couldn’t watch them take pieces of someones body away. But, besides little details that is basically what happened. And don’t think I’m not asking Amtrak for a refund!
Cold hard tingling pressed against my right cheek, a delicate mist of white slowly grows into a flossy circle on the window’s glass. My whisps of hair stuck to the chill glass,moistening as heat from my head formed a halo against the passenger’s window. Beside me is my father,silent but smiling, as usual, his eyes on the road , his thoughts turned inward. I feel a slight ruffle like a bird’s wing at my thigh as his large knuckly hand shifts gears.
I tuck my skirt under my thigh and recross my knees,as I regard my heated halo on the window.I can see two circles where the edge of my chin and nose each touched the glass. A wavy arch marks where my ear was. Scratches of lines above and behind show my flyaway hairs.I blow a little steam circle where my cheek should be. As the window’s temperature regulates to the car’s inner and the outside combined temperatures, I draw a sideways eye and notice little papery lines where one of my lips had left it’s mark as well.
” Dad, look : a ‘snow child’,” I smile, as Dad breaks at the red light and turns his head to me. A smile warms his face and eyes as he looks to the window drawing, then to my eyes, warming them in turn and rubbing my knee with his cold dry hand. He hates wearing warm clothing, even in the winter and so his hands are often cold. I feel the goose bumps tingle my knee as I remember the coziness of my douvet beneath which, as a child, I would cozy in and listen to Dad’s reading of the Russian farytale I had just referenced.
Dad breaks again and grabs my hand, kissing the back of it gently.
“Have a good day, honey. Be good,be bright.”
This is Dad’s ritual goodbye to me when he drops me off at school. He usually saves it for test days and assemblies; special days.I guess he’s feeling reminiscent too. I feel like the first time he said this phrase to me on my first day of Sunday school. I reach across the stick shift and hug Dad’s neck, leaving a quick peck that hits his ear as I pull away, hefting my book bag and closing the door with a ” ‘bye, Daddy” and a wave.He is beaming and waving goodbye as he pulls out and exits the roundabout.
My school is as peaceful as a forest glade .I have arrived early to work on the French class newsletter for our school paper.I am hoping to receive an honor’s grade for this class since I want to study languages in college. As I make my way to the entryway,my knobbley, overly long legs are cold, even in their white wool tights and cashmere legwarmers which Mom has knitted for me. Loafers are not the warmest shoes to wear in cold weather but they are required as part of our school uniform . Our walkways are always kept pristinely clean so, there’s no extreme reason to wear boots, even in the snow, during which our buses drop us off at the school’s loading dock which stays warm and snow free due to it’s heated garage.
My knee-length pleated wool skirt keeps me relatively warm,especially where my turtleneck sweater is tucked in at it’s waste, again, as required.My skirt is pretty,the required tan and brown plaid with faded red ticking ; the tartan of the school’s founders.I wear a fitted pea coat which is a complimentary rosy hue.I like my school uniform and so I am a little vain of how it looks on my frame. I am long limbed and a little scrawny but the required white fitted turtle neck sits squarely on my angular shoulders and caresses my long neck, highlighting my delicate chin and jaw. I have chosen to wear my long silky ginger hair in a simple pony-tail today,my hair’s squarely cut ends looking perfect, I think, with my neatly primped uniform.I stroke my liquid flow of hair over my shoulder as I clack my way down the school’s long empty hallways.
A figure turns the corner at the end of the hall and moves towards me. I can tell from the slinky carefree gait that it is SHE.I feel my heart flutter, my fair cheeks heat, I can feel the flower of a blush growing from the center of each cheek and my decolletage.I am glad I am wearing a turtleneck to hide my all-over glowing but, it is also making me hotter. My arm pits have moistened, my tongue has dried up.My lips feel tingly and puffy and dry.I try to flutter my eyes’ gaze away from her and across the ceiling and walls then back to her. I give my best nonchalante, surprised smile as her eyes meet mine, ten or so paces from me.I touch my cold hands to my cheeks, patting them,breathing steadily,then taking a deep breath to try to dissipate my cheeks’ glowing. Maybe she’ll mistake my blushing as just windburn.
Her white turtle neck shirt is a little scrunched at the top of her neck where it hits the base of her square jaw. She wears a single chain with a locket, one of the few pieces of jewelry allowed at our school beside her small pearl stud earrings she received for her 16th birthday. I wear the third allowable addition : a wristwatch, a gift from my visit with Grandmere last summer.
She has chosen to wear the school’s pale red pleated trousers, today.Her curve of hips is highlighted by the tiny waste and belt,the trowsers skim her hips and ass perfecty, then fall straight and neat to barely touch the lips of her loafers.Her chest rises in two tender mounds like two marshmellow mountains beneath her softly knit cotton turtleneck. As usual, her pixie-cut flaxen hair gleams a greenish white beneath our hallway ceiling lamps.
“Good morning,P.” I reply, making a show of blowing on my cold hands and rubbing my cheeks.
In our school,teachers call us and each other Ms.and Mr. followed ,of course by surnames.Most students drop the titles with eachother unless they are being introduced and many of us who have known eachother long, just drop all but the first initial. Some of the more widely known students, as the lacrosse captain is, have nicknamed surnames like ‘Sully’.
“What time is it?” P asks, resting her palm beneath my wrist and leaning her head forward to study my watch.Her hair’s herby scent rises to me, overwhelming my lungs.
“8:15.” she announces as I remind myself to open my rapturous eyes from their dreaming.Her eyes question mine,her eyes furrow slightly in a tersely questioning way. “Sooo we should get going.” she says, starting on down the hall, pausing for me to turn and meet her footsteps.
I do not ask why we are travelling in the opposite direction of Madame’s French classroom. As we walk, I watch the rows of cast light change against P’s shining hair .I assume that Madame has already assigned our Extracurricular class a classroom for the editing today.As we walk, P slips her slender hands into her side pockets,pulling her trousers’ seat a little tighter against her curvy hips.I assume I have wrongly remembered that I was expected in Madame’s classroom at 8:30 a.m. this morning.As we walk,P turns her calm face slightly as if listening to hear if I am still following behind. I assume I have already missed Madame’s newsletter intructions this morning. As we walk , P’s shoulder blades shift beneath her white cotton when her elbows adjust her hands in the trouser’s pockets.I guess Madame has already retired to the teacher’s lounge to grade papers while we work. P turns, she holds open one of the many heavily worn oak doors of our school.In my haze,I follow,lost in the sparkling down of white gold on her long thin fingers against the polished oak. In that moment I notice that the door has no window, unlike most of the classrooms. I assume we must be working in the staff copy room, for efficiency in creating the newsletter drafts.Once inside, I pause facing the door to collect my thoughts before I turn to face our Extracurricular class. When I do turn to the room,P alone stands before me. She stands stone faced but tender,softly glowing in the bright clean light of the staff bathroom.
Her shoes’ wooden soles ring out against the glass floor tiles. Her eyes seem larger in the bright sunlight streaming around us,blindingly soft in it’s brightness, reflected off of the white tile walls and row of cut glass mirrors.I hear the birds in the trees from the small open windows high near the ceiling.I look up to see rainbows glistening in the melting ice caking the skylight.
Long impossibly smooth fingers have touched my cheek.Like polished stone sheathed in silk,her fingertips glide down my cheek. Her eyes seem hollow,as though I can see the sunlight beaming through them - grey sky seen through a raindrop.Her pale lips, the color of a young rose bud are shimmering, they are so soft.Her mouth smells like my cotton pillows when I wake up on a summer morning. A breath escapes of herby minty milk. A strand of her pale hair floats across my eye,rainbows in it like in the ice above.
Our lips shimmer across eachother. She is moving her face so slightly, I barely feel her lips against mine -butterfly wings against a rose petal. Her strong,vine like arm is around my waste, I feel the tendons in her wrist press against one of my lower ribs. Her long firm stomach muscles press against mine - two tree limbs against a seaside rockface. Liquid flowing strawberry strokes my lips apart. I taste faint salty ocean and flowery strawberry. My tongue in her mouth, against the round, slick little rocks of her mouth’s riling storm, I taste metallic tang of oyster shells washed in a rumbling clear stream.
Her hands, bird’s wings against my body, pull me with her to the corner by the rubbish bin.
“In case someone comes in.” She murmers earnestly,her eyes purposefully locking mine for a moment.She takes my hands in hers, holds them limply for a moment, concentrating on stroking my tongue with hers, our hands- birds’ wings nestled around each other, long elegant,smooth and taut, herons at the end of their mating dance.
She presses my fingers against the rimmed button of her trousers’ waist. I trace the ridges of thread where it is sewn in.Her hands trace the muscles of my back, rest around the back of my neck, stroking the tendons there,cradling the base of my skull.Her nose shifts sides, her cheek - cream against glass - slides against my own.
My hand is against beneath her cotton turtlenesk shirt slipping it’s way up her silky belly.I slide my finger tip across her navel which has a slight rounded bump at it’s center.I follow the tender dent in her lower pelvis back down to the top of her pubic hair, as light and delicate as candy floss. I fold down the waist of her trousers,press down the tops of her pale cotton panties, as thin as the hymen of a virgin.
Hair tickles it’s way out of the top of her panties. It is the down on a peach fresh from the tree, not quite ripe enough to eat, it is cobwebs clustered, the candy floss from c***dhood funfairs.
I wrap my arms around her waist where she stands, I press my face against her stomach until I feel her stomachs’ sinew tensing against my cheekbone and jaw. My eyelashes crush against her skin as I turn to melt my mouth against her now hot stomach.
Now, my face must be bright red at the cheeks,my eyes shining in their watery emotion. My lips are hot as well, I imagine the raspberry color they turn when I blush as I am doing now.
I turn my round thick lashed eyes up to hers. I see only her jaw from beneath, the curve of her throat, it’s jugular like the underside of a penis. I rub my nose in her fluffy hair and slide her trousers and panties down her thighs.
Hay, hay dried in the late morning, still slightly stale with damp, barely perceptible in smell.
Moist hot wool and thread where her crotch seam pressed against her hot body between her legs.
I admire the curve, as I sit back on my heels, holding myself steady with my hands on her hips like two cherubs clutching their bodies against a french urn.
Curved as the bud of a Bleeding Heart flower, with the same inner curve where her hip bones dent in to her pelvis and stomach flesh .
Between her hips is a seedling just beginning to split with life, round,tender,a small cleft, softest downiest pale blonde down.I see her pink skin beneath as when seeing the the ears of a baby rabbit.
I touch my finger tip to the top of her clitoris and enjoy my shining pink nail there like a Slipper Shell against it. I watch my fingernail as it slides up to her navel and rounds it’s self against the slight bump inside there.
I hear her sigh,she sounds far away. I continue to slide my finger tip over and around her navels’ rounded button. I kiss her clitoris lightly, and bring my dry smooth lips around it and slide them up and away. With my right finger, I nudge what little of a clitoral hood she has. It is slightly darker but still pale like her mouth.
There is a rounded ball like the ball in her belly button. There is a tiny indentation in it like a miniature penis head.The balled tip is slightly smaller than my pinky nail.I purse my lips and kiss it. As I continue to kiss it and her surrounding skin,I circle the clitoral hood, as I am her navel. My hand lays flat against her stomach. My long pony tail lays it’s weight against my shoulder.
My tongue circles her clitoris.
Another sigh, far away, a feather on a breeze, rises to the skylight. I look up to see the sliver of the side of her face, her eye barely visible above her cheek from where I look up from below her. Her grey eye glints in the sunlight.
“It’s almost time.” she murmers, and embraces the top of my head with her hand like a hug. She directs my head to her clitoris and holds it there, she holds my other hand at her navel.
“Continue…… please.” she adds,in an almost childlike whisper I haven’t heard since we were much younger.
My lips kiss her labia, which are tucked in between her chubby labia majora, rose petals in a marshmellow peach.I slide my tongue’s tip up and down between them, lightly, but faster and faster,barely between her labia majora , barely touching the tips of her inner labia as my finger continues gently sliding up and down across her navel.I run my finger up and down the dent in her lower pelvis. I fluff her pubic hair,my fingertips caressing themselves in it,then flickering against her pelvis again. I continue to barely trace up and down the cleft between her navel and her clitoris, pressing into it every few stokes to hear her gasp or sigh. I am remembering laying in my bed by the beach in early summer, the sighing ocean breeze lifting the sheer summer curtains of my window like a lascivious peek beneath a girls skirt. I imagine my ass pressed in outline against the pleats of my skirt,the lines of my delicate square shoulders and neck, my shining ginger hair in the sun light, my head shuddering slightly as it moves my mouth against her.
My tongue tastes something like water and salty egg whites. The herby smell of her is stronger and another smell like the chicken filet when mother has first brought it back freshly cut from the poultriers’ shop, as it sits shiny and glistening, freshly washed. That faint meaty smell beneath the water and herbs and salty protein as I tenderly splay my fingers to hold her lips apart.
I see two rose petals fat with water, I see the chicken meat fileted. I stick my tongue between them as far as it will go. My nose is wet, pressed into her clitoris. I rub the tip of my nose against it as I slide my tongue side to side faster and faster.My thumbs press into the cleft in her belly, my finger tips grasping to the edges of her hip bones.
The saltiness increases. My tongue is so hot. I press my face further in,the tips of my cheeks get wet.I push her lips wider with my own and speed my tongue’s side to side movement.I move my right hand lower on her cleft stomach to press my thumb into her clitoris. I am pressing it hard as if it would pop back into her body,my finger tip wobbles as I try to keep it in place on the slick round surface- a goldfish on a pebble.
I press my tongue against her right side of her succulent salty sweet vagina. I smell herbs and hot hay and salty water.I press my tongue as hard as I can and move it as I do in whichever direction it will go.
” aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhAH ah”
I slide my hand up and down and all over her stomach, under her shirt, up to the satin seam of her bra.
My tongue deep in her vagina, rolls and flips side to side.
Her hand presses against the back of mine, she moves it to her mouth and places my finger between her lips. Her slick strawberry slides around and over my finger, like my tongue slides in her vagina. Her movements begin to coincide with mine and my wool tights stick and unstick against my soaking crotch as I shift where I sit on my heels.
I move my tongue out and take a quick firm lap of her clitoris.
I take a breath before I begin to finish our experiment.I stick my tongue out as long and firmly as I can and thrust it like a dagger between her labia, then out and in again over and over, as deep as I can as I round and press into her clitoris ball.My left hand finger hangs hooked inside her now gaping mouth.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahuh ah ah”
She holds my head gently as it pivots back and forth, her fingers twist my pony tail.
A gutteral gasp and she has gone silent, her hand frozen, fingers grasped in my pony tail. Her thighs bend to me slightly and shudder. She stumbles against me. I feel her hand swiftly leave my hair . I sense it pressed into the wall above me.
“ah…….ah….ah….yes, don’t stop. yes, there. ah….ah….ooooooooooooh…oh”
I dig my fingers into her stomach as I rub as hard and deep into her soaking clitoris as I can.I press my face hard against her cunt until I feel her pelvic bone pressing into my cheeks and jaw. I flicker my tongue deep inside as I press it against what feels like a wave rising and falling,pouring it’s saltiness all over my tongue, to subside against a bladder of flesh which I press my tongue up into all the more intensely.
” ahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaah” I hear murmered against the wall tiles as her legs shimmer like our lips did. I imagine her breath like the flossy circle on my window beside my father.
“It’s time to go” she whispers.
We are only beginning but I kneel to stand, beginning to gather her trousers up for her as she bends to retrieve them, our hair briefly floating against eachother’s like passing clouds.
There is a squeek and soft thud then a rush of air as the door swings open,obscuruing our view from our corner as heels clack to one of the stalls on the opposite wall.
P buttons her trousers, I hurriedly tuck in my blouse, as we try to swiftly but quietly round our way out of the slowly creeking bathroom door.
” Hello?” We hear, haltingly questioned to an empty bathroom. We slide a little on the hallway floor boards in our haste to safety. We march determinedly en route to Madame, stopping briefly at the classroom’s sink to wet our faces and rinse our mouths as Madame emerges from her supply closet.
” Bon matin, etudiants. Comm’t’allez vous aujourd’hui?”
“Tres bien, Madame.”
“Tres bien, Madame…magnifique.”