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“Am leanin’,” she tells you, her tone very serious.
That leaves very little to debate. She’s leanin’, and everyone who says otherwise is likely trying to steal your elephant. Speaking of which, you probably ought to stop that fight before somebody gets hurt. It might sound a bit unreasonable, but you’ve got this worming suspicion your pink pet is hungry, and you can clearly recall hearing once that elves can cause terrible gasses.
“Naya?” you hear a voice say, and the voice smells eighty percent alcohol fumes.
You could stick a lit match in that voice and it’d go off into the stratosphere.
The elephant makes an altogether unelephanty noise and charges the nice elf. You’re very disappointed at this development, but you keep your blues strictly contained. The blues might have been the hit in the 60s, but nowadays to let a blues off in educated company would be a faux-pas. The elf is impaled on the elephant’s tusks and dies in a great clatter of chocolate candy. The elf might actually have been a piñata. You’re drunk. At least piñatas don’t usually give people gasses.
“Naya!” the voice from before grouches again. “Will yeh lookit me at lasht er no?”
“Oh yea,” you add your own fumes into the mix, “right-on.”
Then, holding firmly to the couch so as not to fall off the floor, you swing around ponderously like a piñata at a giants’ birthday party. A thought flashes in your head that you should see what kind of candy the piñata-elf was hiding, but that thought vanishes without good-bye when your eyes regain a degree of arguable focus.
There is a breast right before your face.
Two breasts, to be exact, though there might be more lying around if you look. The problem is, you can’t for the life of you remember who left them there.
“Naah-yaah!” The breasts jiggle. You make a mental note that they’re remarkably lively for their size. “Ah tore eet!”
“Er, tore wot?” you question the breasts.
“Mah shirt, yeh tit!”
It occurs to you that it is kind of ironic for breasts to call you a tit, but you let it pass without remark. You wouldn’t want to offend the breasts; breasts make enemies to be reckoned with. Although rather than reckoning, you feel like you should give them something else. A poke, perhaps, or a squeeze; just not too strong a one. You shouldn’t puncture them. They’re flat enough as they are; they don’t need additional help.
“Aie?!” There’s a yelp. The breasts shiver and quake under your touch. “Cold! Cold, dang eet!”
“Chilled, wot?” you concur, reaching for another bottle. Then you come to a slow realisation that not only have you got just two hands, and that both are full of breast, but also that the third one which you sent for the overturned bottle was merely a construct of your exuberant imagination. You ponder the existence of third hands for a scant moment. A third hand would probably throw you off balance, though, and you nimbly forget all about having one. A third eye would be more useful, anyway. You could finally see these breasts in 3D.
Is that how it works?
“Ah, dong yeh! Shoot!”
The breasts totter away.
There is something about the word “dong” that makes you want to talk about dog sleds, but you can’t think why. A sudden enlightenment takes your mind off the Antarctic. The breasts were Renko! Or was that the other way around? It might have been upside-down, too. A lot of things seem to be tonight.
“Whey’d yeh doo dat,” she or the breasts demand, “yeh stupid SQUAWK!”
Only she doesn’t say “SQUAWK;” that was just a bird outside that had just then decided to express its endless sorrow of never finding a bird-mate to make little baby-birds with in the best bird-way he could. A squawk does have an awful ring to it, you admit inwardly.
“A lil’ cologhn’ might ‘elp,” you offer helpfully.
Renko gives you a look that is all kinds of geometrically innovative.
“Seh wot?” she slurs, confused.
“Ah, not’n,” you slur in response, “jus’ tellin’ that bird ‘bout them birds and bees and birds and all that n’syns.”
The words sounded like the most logical thing since splitting atoms in your head, but now that they’re out, you don’t want your name under them any more. You make the smart man’s choice and change the topic.
“Er, again, wot hapn’t?” you ask queasily.
Renko considers the question with a pensive sort of wobble. “Oh!” she remembers. “Ah tore me shirt!”
“Wot?” you voice your boundless understanding. “Wheh? How?”
“On yer ‘nob, there.”
You take a cursory look inside your pantaloons, but find no shirts there, torn or otherwise.
“Not en dat ‘nob!” the bare-chested girl chides. “Yeh imbeshyle!”
“Eh? Whish wun, then?”
“Th’badroom, yeh tit!”
“Bhoadroo… Bahwd… Crapf, hold oop.” She assumes an air of pure alcoholic concentration. “Bahwdroo—Bhewdroo—Behw… Shite! Bhoawdroo…”
“Batroom?” you suggest.
“Yeh!” she exclaims. “That! Badroom. Yeh, that dere ‘nob on th’dooh.”
“I din’ leeve no ‘nobs there, I dun recall.”
“Well, there wus—” she begins and breaks off. “Whai, whah?”
“I’f got me ‘nob right ‘ere,” you point at your nether parts. “Ne’er had ‘not’er wun, I dun think.”
She doesn’t appear to trust your grasp on your biology.
“Oh, ne’er ye mind,” you give up. “I says—Actual, held yet tits, I’m gon’ sheck’n’shee; mite off been ‘rong.”
You heave yourself up from the lopsided floor. Your pet elephant, startled by the sudden movement, gives off a high-pitched squeal and skitters out of the room—tripping you up on the way. You tumble forward, your three knees suddenly tied in a knot that would make a sailor grow issues.
There’s another squeal. This time it’s not the elephant.
An earful of “Yah,” you touch down atop Renko and her hillocks. A person could build a landing strip between those hillocks and the site would soon become a word-famous touch-down attraction. You can already testify to its safety. Your unruly nose slammed right into it and there’s not a crack as far as the eye can see. That’s to the very tip. That’s quite impressive.
You fight against a dozen different gravities and lift yourself up and slightly to the left. The left has ambition and quickly becomes right. Then it becomes apparent it’s a very indecisive right and it changes to left again. The left might actually be a woman.
“Oh yea,” you remember and speak to the slightly blurry Renko below, “speakin’ ef tits—”
“We wasn’,” she notices.
“Anywho,” you press on, “tits, uh? I jus’ wan’d tah’say, yers ah quah syuperb, is all. Aye?”
She knits her brows. “Seh woh?”
“Yer tits, swee’art.”
“Woh? Yeh ain’ seen’um!”
“I has, swee’art.”
“Yer shir’s torn,” you remind her.
“Shir’,” you say again. “Ye’s torn it. Cap’che?”
A spark of panic slowly mounts in her eyes. She turns them bewildered down at her bared charms.
“Aye,” you confirm, “thems, there. Can see’em all. Aye?”
Then there’s squeals again. You can’t tell whether it’s her or the elephant has found something even scarier than your intoxicated visage. Your bets are on Renko, however. There being arms flailing all about trying to cover her naked chest all the while attempting to scratch your outmost layers off is somewhat big of a tip-off. You could make millions on bets like these. You should get on it; you’ve got the knack for it, you think modestly.
“Oh yea,” you recall another thing. “Ha’e I e’er told ye ye’ve gots the bluest eyes?”
“Dey’re brown, yeh tit!” Renko cries in response to your impartial commentary. “Anyway! Queh yeh starin’!”
“Oh, right,” you say, “I wus.”
“Queh dat!” she demands.
“Wheh’s meh shirt?!”
“Ye’s torn it, remem’er?”
She assumes a consternated face. “Shite!” The word sounds oddly articulate in your ears. It’s always the funniest words. You’re not in a mood to laugh, though. “Weh, dis is jus’ great,” Renny-Ren whimpers; “dong it, shite, dong it all. Jus’ great.”
“Well,” you say. “Ain’ it jus’?”
“Git yeh eff meh.”
“Ah, must I?”
“Yesh! Git eff, yeh!”
“Bu’ ‘s so comfy right ‘ere.” You lie down on her chest to drive the point home. What you didn’t see where her arms wrapped around it protectively. Arms, a commonly known fact, bony, especially if you haven’t got a hobby or happen to be female. And bony usually means hard, where hard equals pain.
You make an ugly grunt.
“Dey’re not dat comfy, uh?” Renko makes a sad-sounding comment.
“Well, no’ w’en you’s got yer arms o’er em, they’ah not.”
“Shame, uh?” she says acidly. “Mary’s got better, uh? Ah’m flat, uh? Tineh, uh? A woshboad, uh? Weh, git used teh it!”
“I’d ‘err much like to.”
She blinks. “Seh woh?”
“I says, I’d ‘err much like to.”
“Da’s not funni.”
“Wa’nt suppest to.”
“Git eff me arreadeh.”
“No’ b’fore ye lemme show ye they’re fine.”
“Ah, ye agree then, wot?” you smile.
Then, not bearing further protests, you unceremoniously pry her arms open.
She’s no match for your heroic might, and your noble efforts of knocking a girl down, forcing yourself on her and more or less stripping her half-naked are finally rewarded. There are her breasts. Slightly bleary, yes, but if you look at them closer, you can see the detail just all right. And truth be told, if you looked any closer now, their tusks would gouge out your eyes. Their tusks…
You mutter an oath and shoo the elephant away.
There you go. The breasts. As already mentioned, if you looked closer, the nipples would gouge out your eyes. You couldn’t be closer if you wished. Still, wish you do. A good compromise may be to rub your face all over them, you conclude scientifically.
“Mary’s ah biggeh, uh?” the breasts’ sulky owner insists.
That she might be right about. All the same, you’ve got your mind set on more pressing matters. The breasts, for one. They’re small, true, but not lamentably so. They’re less than a handful, somewhere between a tea platter and half an orange. A white tan-line underlines the area where her skin begins to swell and climb. The incline goes on for a few centimetres, then quite abruptly tips with a small perky nipple. A pink areola brims that angelic little nipple, and the nipple stands out in its midst like a… well, mostly like a nipple. There isn’t a very good comparison to be drawn here. The nipple is good enough on its own.
“Aye, that they ah,” you admit; “biggeh, that is, but yers a’moeh titillatin’.”
You let off a covert sigh. The pun was quite hilarious in your opinion. “Well,” you tell the thick-headed girl, “they may be a tithe’ o’Mary’s, shu’e, but see this ‘ere nipple, ‘ere? ‘s real titivatin’, that.” You touch it. “Aye, real titivatin’,” you repeat, in case she didn’t get it.
She makes a sound that sounds to you rather positive, but her face seems to tell an entirely different story.
“Real titivatin’,” you poke and try again.
“Aye?” And poke. “Get it?”
She doesn’t get it.
She’s so slow, you . Some day that will come back to bite her in the behind. Then she will devote a few months of her life to study of puns, and when she’s done, she’ll return to you and puns will be mile a minute. And you’ll laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and…
… bite! That’s it! You bite!
She cries out, but that’s what people do when they experience enlightenment. You bite her again. She undergoes another drastic change of personal illumination, then smacks you across the head. The central one, not one of the auxiliary ones you feel floating all of a sudden around your ears.
“Dat hurts, yeh tit!” she complains.
That is certainly strange. The tit didn’t do anything wrong from where you were looking. A compensation is in due course, and since it’s so small and cute, the best option seems to kiss it—right there, on the nipple.
And again. A few more hits land on your scalp, but they go by largely disregarded.
“Ah… ‘ey!” Renko yelps. “Shtop it! ‘ey, shtop—ah, dong yeh, tit!”
She’s awfully critical of tits today, you observe.
She stops hitting you and does her best to crawl away instead, but it is as they say: once a sucker, always a sucker, and suck on you do, undaunted by the floor shifting under you like tides. She stop when her back encounters another floor. A floor that is, for some inexpressible reason, other colour and vertical, but the oddity glances off both of your heads with a resounding “glance!”
There aren’t many sounds a glance can make.
“Ah… Um… Ahn… Shtop yeh… Ah say…”
She squeezes her knees together.
That, naturally, is quite unhealthy, so you reach down and part them, giving it your best to appear firm about it.
She breathes in and out, in and out, and each breath is a gust of hot wind in your hair. She takes a hold of your head and shoves you away, but she gets the directions all wrong and ends up pressing you harder against her breasts instead. She’s such a silly girl sometimes.
The elephant observes all of that with a somewhat worried expression on its pink elephant-face. You give it a glare that spells death and it scoots away. Alone at last. And now that the children are gone, you can get down to the main stage, begin the main event, kick-start the premier party and a number of other uncreative metaphors.
Zip is your word, and zip you her fly down. Then you take the plunge. A literal one, not the one that means getting married, buying a house in the countryside and having a horde of noisome offspring. The plunge here leads down, into her cute, lace-trimmed undies. The undead would be proud of their namesake. And the gasp that Renko lets out when you touch her down-there could just stop their hearts again.
“Ah… Puh... Puhlease…” she moans.
You know where she’s the weakest. You don’t meander around. You go for the kill.
This is it. This is the point of no return. You roll off of her and pull your own pants off.
Renko stares helplessly, eyes just a shade glazed over, at your rock-hard Pillar of Nosgoth. The Pillar swells and twitches at the stare. A new epoch has its beginning in your mind, and the epoch screams in lust. The future generations will likely look back at the epoch and ask: were there even any other epochs before? And then you’ll stand up and tell them: “No.” They’ll look at you like you’re mad, but at the end of the day they’ll likely go home thinking: whatever, that epoch sounds interesting enough anyway.
And equally interesting is the sound Renko makes when you lift her by the sides, sit down, and arrange her, her back towards you, directly above your raging Pillar.
“Aheyeh?” comes close. “Naya?” she questions. “Yeh… goin’…?”
“Seems so, no?”
Your words are sober, but the rest of you is everything but.
And then you let her fall.
Onto your waiting erection. Your entire body trembles when it drives deep into her, from tip to the very root. An intoxicating warmth wraps all around it and seeps even further down. The sensation very nearly drowns out Ren’s own spasms.
And spasm she does.
“Ah.. Ah..” she gropes to catch a breath, but she can’t. “Ah… Nay… Nayah…”
She tries to settle against your chest, but all that does is provoke another wave of shivers. She raises her arms and crosses them behind your head, gasping still. The skin of her breast stretches pleasantly.
“Nayah…” she whispers your name.
“Well then,” you tweet in her ear. “Shall we go?”
“Ah” is all she says.
“Ah” is close enough to “yes,” you elect. Then you pick her up and let her drop again.
You lift her again. She comes down with a wet sound. And she moans.
“Ah!” And again. “Ah!” And again. “Ah!”
She tightens around you each time you grasp her under her arms and slide out of her. Then she falls and her tensed flesh fights your member, gripping, pushing, but ultimately gives up and lets you all the way in.
As you work at her, her legs throw around, trying to wriggle out of her leggings. She kicks, but whenever she’s about to get a good kick off, you enter her again, making her start and lose all progress.
“Naya… Naya… Naya…!”
The sound of her voice brings you to new heights of ecstasy. Your mind, hazed already by alcohol, becomes as though wrapped by a thick white blanket.
You grab Renko by her waist and stand up. She squeals, but you have none of it. You’re too far gone to back out now. Grunting with both effort and pleasure, you force her against the window she climbed through at the start of the evening.
“Ah! Ah, cold!” she whines.
You ram into her again and her breasts press flat against the glass.
“Ah! Naya! Ahn! People—! Ah! Might! Aie?!”
The wooden window-frame creaks dangerously when you speed your pace. She says something about people again, but to be perfectly honest, you’ve got people up a dark place even you have never seen yourself. You’re too busy being inside of her. Smashing. Pounding without respite. Splashing love juices around the floor without care in the world.
She jumps to her tip-toes with each stroke. The window squeals along with her.
You go faster.
And then the tight string of control inside you snaps.
You slip out of the gasping girl and fall to your knees. She takes a few flaccid steps and joins beside you, as you, wheezing, wheezing and dripping. The world, the narrow room, the walls and the ceiling, the furniture – all is tinted filmy white in your eyes. Your mind, too, puffs with clouds of white-hot steam. Your Pillar, the great Pillar of Nosgoth, of whom tales such as will last for centuries to come are already in making, limps and settles down for a well-deserved eon of rest. The tremor of its collapse shakes your very foundations and robs your arms of all strength,
You founder, lose your precious verticality and crumple to the floor, numb and exhausted.
Crawling, pulling herself along by scraps of will, Renko comes and rests her feverish head on your shoulder.
She can’t regain control of her voice. “Ah…” she struggles. “Ah… Na… Naya…”
Apparently, however, it was not a very important thing she wanted to tell you, because she goes for a kiss instead. Or maybe that was the important thing. She kisses you weakly, then sinks to your shoulder again, breathing with audible difficulty. You do, too.
The pint-sized elephant, the nosey pink thing, appears somehow right at your side and jabs you curiously in the arm with one pointed tusk.
“Oh bother,” you mumble. “C’mere.”
You reach out, intent on giving the troublesome pet a friendly pat between the pink floppy ears, but as touch it, your hand passes right through, and the elephant disappears in a poof of delicious candy. You stare wide-eyed at the place where it was standing just moments before, then at your elephant-vanquishing hand. This is not possible.
The elephant was a piñata all along!
This is one crazy world you live in. And you fooled yourself the one inside the border was jacked-up to the jacked-up limit.
“Naya?” Renko mumbles quietly in your ear. “Whas ‘rong?”
“Ah,” you tell her, “no, not’n. All be well.”
You decide that she deserves the pat more anyway.
She chuckles girlishly when you ruffle her short hair, and promptly sinks into sleep. The breasts that were responsible for effecting this entire situation sail back and forth gently, along with her soft, slow-paced breaths.
Well, piñatas or not, your life seems about to become much more colourful from now on.