Re: Reading The TT Leaves

from: Ed_Zeppelin
8:14:55 AM

<<But one in particular seems to have caught her jaundiced eye… 3/18/01, 21:12:13 http://www.popeye-x.com/antippx1/0000005b.htm

TACKI is riveted by EZ's prawn pic post, she ponders this page for 48 seconds >>

...Slowly her eyes scan the words, understanding them yet not comprehending the meaning. What can this mean?

The angels in the wallpaper pattern try to tell her but she is not listening tonight. Fortified with Prozac and gin, the voices are dimmed into a background murmur as she stalks the computer screen for signs of mention, any mention, of her name by the evil P-----e-x and his henchmen.

There. What's that? Oh just that asshole Ed talking about actual turkeys. Hmph. Close call, though.

Ashamed, yet unable to resist the lure, she clicks to yet another page, ready to react in horror and revulsion at what surely must be another mention of her name or a graphic assault on her synapses.

But it's like crack, the first one was the kicker, and everything after that is a shadow of that first time she saw her actual name associated with some horrible image. Yet she craves more, reads on, studies, clicks, copies, mmmbaby.

Without her even realizing it, her fingers inch slowly down, past the rolls of soft belly fat and slip under the waistband of her stretchy pants. As she eyes the photo of the splayed prawn, it's pearly ripe flesh draws her in and she thinks to herself for just a moment "ewwww..." yet her fingertips now brush her soft, velvety hairs "down there" as they slide beneath the rim of her panties, over her mons and seek something further, deeper.

Eyes locked on the screen, she barely notices as she slides her huge ass forward in her chair a bit and spreads her knees, her hand gently kneading her most sensitive area now. Two thick fingers seek purchase on either side of the steamy folds and spread them gently as the middle finger begins to stroke the outline of her fleshy nether lips. Hungrily, they swell in reaction to her stroking and prodding like a tropical flower.

Her eyes glaze as she stares at the image of the desecrated prawn, gently biting her lip in concentration, she doesn't notice the tiny bit of drool in the corner of her mouth as her fevered brain pulses with the very heat of her awful discovery. Meanwhile, her finger, twittering gently and stroking heavily by turns at her swollen clit, reaches down, down, down oh so deep, toward the vestibule of her very femininity, the opening of her very self;

As Michael wails soulfully in the background and the flayed prawn heats and caresses her tormented eyes, and the gin and Prozac lay bare the layers of her neglected womanhood to the urging of her knowing digit, the fingertip gently circles the tight ring of slickened muscle it must now invade, and carefully pushes forward until the ring gently begins to open...

Okay, Terrie. That stuff on your finger is from your Bartholin's Glands. Now you can understand this;

There was an old man from Calcutta, Who was heard to mumble and mutta; "If her Bartholin's glands Don't respond to my hands, I'm afraid I may have to use butta!"

Thanks for playing, and enjoy your stay.



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