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The Owl Goes Deutsch

Owl is good when owl ends well.
My dear readers,

I’m afraid I have little time to reveal all the secrets which surround me. You see, there is a little time frame at night when a few inanimate objects, blessed with a name, are able to communicate with humans. It’s the only time when I, K. Buch, the most prolific traveler and writer amongst the plush owls, can pen my stories. However, I can see, hear, and remember everything from the day my name was given, three years ago. My mistress, a pretty Bulgarian woman, received me as a Christmas present, and she grew a particular fondness for me over time. So, when she won a 4-month scholarship in Germany, I was the first thing she slipped in her travel bag.

In late summer, our plane landed in Frankfurt Hahn, and a bus took us to Rohrbach, a municipality of Heidelberg. This was our final destination – a small, university town, divided in two by Neckar River. Two bridges – one modern, and one old fashioned, serve as connection as well as defense lines. Muddy waters frequently rise to dangerous levels and flood the tiles of the old part of the town, Altstadt. It almost never stops raining in Heidelberg, even in summer, and gloomy clouds often cast lightenings over the gothic ruins of a famous castle, Das Heidelberger Schloss. But if you dismiss the bad weather, you can delve in a most unique atmosphere - the labyrinth of crooked little streets in Altstadt, where tourists never get lost, yet somehow never return the same.

We chose the time to visit Aldstadt rather poorly. The afternoon sun shined brightly when we took tramline 23 from Rohrbach Markt, but when we arrived at the middle of the main street in Aldstadt, cold rain was already dripping over us. I was tucked securely in my mistress’ handbag as she rushed to look for cover. A little store to our left was the closest shelter, so we hurried in.

When my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, I noticed we had entered a small liquor store, fashioned in a traditional German style. Walls were covered with big shelves, on which dusty glass containers as big as a small child held bright colored liquids. Bottles of various sizes offered liquor flavors of peach, citrus, strawberry, and, of course, the famous cherry brandy, Kirschwasser.

Red and green absinth, packed in creepy skull-shaped glass bottles, rested in a niche to the left. In the middle of the store, right in front of the cashier, stood a small table with a red and white checkered tablecloth. Small slices of baguette in a basket laid there, along with half full wine glasses – free samples, ready to be given to whoever looked old enough to try. Two young men frequented the table. I regularly slipped my head out of my resident handbag to peck a little something, and I’m sure the couple of fine German lads saw me; but they were too drunk to be a threat to my secret, and soon left. We stood alone.

The store was beautiful and charming, although I had a slight sense of unease. But when the owner came out, I dismissed it as superstitious nonsense. He stood taller than my mistress, so I couldn’t see his face, but laid-back attitude and rich, cheerful laughter painted a pleasant picture in my mind. He quickly introduced himself as Martin, and, being a fluent English speaker, he wasted no time indulging my mistress in a hearty conversation.

 Martin’s parents had left the store to him seven years ago, when he was only 23, but he had good friends and with their help the place kept running smoothly. He was grateful for what he had; however, it was not what he wanted for himself. The store owner visioned himself as an artist, and admittedly very good with a brush and canvas. As a matter of fact, he and his friends had established a small club, which assembled every year on the night of Equinox, and organized a costume festival in an old stone circle up on the hill. The Equinox was tonight, and all was arranged. There would be roughly 50 people there, all males, and every year they had to bring a lady as a companion. Unfortunately, he still had none, so he had to go there alone, and bring the finest liquor for his greedy friends, as usual. He finished his little speech with a burst of heartfelt laughter.

“I would love to invite you, but I guess it would be completely out of the question, no?” – said Martin with a sulking tone.

“I am afraid I have no costume, and no time to get one”, replied my mistress hesitantly.

”Worry not, Miss, nobody does. Men design costumes for the ladies, that are the rules, and I’d be more than happy to give you one.”

My mistress reluctantly agreed, and, clutching her bag nervously, prepared to leave.

“And don’t forget”, smiled Martin, “11 o’clock at Bismarckplatz, I’ll be waiting… Say, what is this?”

He lowered his upper body towards her opened handbag and soon his face was right before mine. He had warm, amber eyes and an inviting smile. I understood why my mistress agreed to this odd invitation.

“Eule”, he whispered. “A plush owl. How odd. Do you carry it everywhere you go?”

“Well, not always, but…”

“It would be a great inspiration for the costume. How beautiful. It has never occurred to me before… to make my lady the Mistress of Owls. Owl Mistress. I shall call you like this from now on.”

With this, he gallantly opened the door for my mistress and closed it quietly behind us.

“Hm… artists. Always so strange. What do you think, should we go?” – my mistress lift me up and looked in my eyes. “I think you’d say yes, if you could. You look like the adventurous type. I’m frightened, to be honest. But Heidelberg is so small, there would be some rumors if ritual killings have been taking place for three years uphill, wouldn’t they? Besides… I want to go. He’s sexy, don’t you think?”

I said nothing.

“So it’s decided, then. Time for some risk taking!”

We spent time sleeping and woke up at nine. My mistress applied make up rather boldly, with eyeshadows in green and gold, and bright red lipstick. Her emerald eyes shined brightly, and, I have to admit, mischievously. ..

Martin was waiting for our tram at Bismarckplatz and we transferred to his blue BMW. Soon we were at the top of the hill, where a big circle, composed of large stones, glistened under the light of two big neon lamps in the middle. It was as bright as day. And we were not alone.

About fifty men and fifty women were sitting on the stones, a couple on each, but when Martin stepped out of the car, they stood up and cheered him loudly, like a king. I soon remembered why. The liquor, of course.

There was plenty of it. The wine, the brandy, the whiskey, the peach and strawberry liquor were poured generously in big wine glasses. Other couples lay red and white checkered blankets on the ground and decorated them with currywurst dishes. Marzipan figurines with chocolate filling lay around in tiny baskets. Seven grilled chickens glistened in golden brown sauce. Huge piles of pretzels threatened to fall over the wine bottles. And people still didn’t stop, and kept filling the blankets.

As we were admiring the view, one young woman sat beside us and cheerfully introduced herself. Her name was Angelika, and she was born in Triberg, a small town in Schwarzwald, famous for its watterfalls. Her parents kept a shop for handmade cuckoo clocks, she said, and she went there every summer break to help them.

“Is this your first festival in Heidelberg?” my mistress asked. “No one is wearing a costume, and I’m starting to wonder what is going on.”

“Have patience”, laughed Angelika. “It will be worth it. To answer your question, yes, I’ve been here before. This festival cannot go without me. I’m the most important person here, besides Martin.”

“Why so?”

“Because of this.” Angelika pointed to a large, cupboard box next to her knee. She put it carefully right before us, and opened the box.

Sharp , musky scent of cherries and dark chocolate filled the air. The odor was so strong, you could get drunk just breathing it in. And everyone knew what it was.

Die Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte!” chanted the crowd of people, and greedy looks devoured the cake before it was even sliced. Angelika was quicker than the hands which tried to grab it; she sliced it as fast as she could and filled dishes with generous portions. The alcohol aroma from the cake was so strong I could faint. The famous cherry brandy, Kirschwasser , is used to make the Schwarzwald cherry cake, and, as beautiful and tasty as it is, it’s not a treat for children. Soon ladies were blushing, their eyes went dark and glistened like black cherries in the summer sun. Some emptied blankets were removed, a man produced a violin, and fifty couples danced to a cheerful traditional melody, trying to make as much noise with their shoes as they could.

At one thirty, one woman, whose hair fell thick and curly to her bottom, stepped into the center of the circle, and announced in broken English and German that the real costume party is to begin. With this, she went to a stone block right next to us, sat on it, and started undressing.

To say we were shocked would be an understatement. Some ladies gasped. Some came closer. One left.

But when the woman got completely naked and lay gracefully on the stone, an even more peculiar thing happened. The young gentleman, who accompanied her for the evening, fetched a bag from his car, took out some brushes, and a palette of body paints. He leaned above the long haired woman, and started stroking a paintbrush over her flat belly. Before our very eyes, a richly colored, bright blue and black Morpho butterfly slowly took shape. She was as beautiful as a real one, and the contrast between neon blue and the milky white skin was startling.

The painter did not stop there, however. Slowly, meticulously, he drew more, smaller ones – on her arms, feet, and neck. Butterflies of varying colours appeared on feminine skin, and soon the man moved closer to her smoothly shaved nether area. Right at the top of her clitoris, he started drawing a lush, fiery red rose. The stroking of the brush soon had the woman breathing heavily and her blue eyes closed. The briar rose became glistening, as if with morning dew, and the woman’s thighs were moving impatiently. Feminine moans, half pleasure, half frustration, filled the air.

 The painting gentleman laughed softly, stood up, and gently kissed his artwork’s forehead. Then he resumed his drawing. This time, however, he picked up one of the thicker brushes, and slowly inserted it into her depths. Slow motion, however, was obviously not to his lady’s liking. She lifted her left leg and hooked it around her lover’s neck, pushing his face closer to his handywork. The gentleman dropped the brush in his hand, pushed the one inside her further, and gently kissed the almost finished rose. Then, his lips parted further, and his tongue boldly covered the whole drawing with one swift movement.

A sharp cry tore the night and the woman’s back arched, making the butterflies on her skin move. Her orgasm was a blazingly hot sight, and I felt my mistress moving uncomfortably next to Martin. He quickly took the hint. His hands unbuttoned her blouse, preparing for designing her festive costume.

My mistress lay on the hard rock, slightly quivering from the cold, when Martin flew to his BMW to get his paints. When he returned, she was completely naked, and she was holding me in her arms, clinging tightly on me for support. Martin dipped his brush in paint and started working on her belly.

By that time, the butterfly lady had the petals of her rose parted by her painter’s thick, hard cock. The brush which filled her was now pushing in her anus, its soft bristles stimulating his balls. Long, curly hair tossed on both sides of the stone, pearly white neck and chest were arched, and butterflies danced wildly in a back and forth motion. The woman had her legs securely locked around her lover’s waist, pushing hard and increasing the rhythm. No man could last long in that situation; with one hard pull he broke free from her grip, and his shiny manhood shot a string of pearls over the Morpho butterfly. Then he collapsed on the grass below.

The dame, however, recovered quickly. She sat on the rock, turned around, and locked her gaze over me. She stood on her feet, rather shakily, and drew closer until I could see every drop of semen adorning her painted stomach. She softly spoke in German to Martin, who translated for us. The lady's name was Ingrid. She liked me and wanted to know where I came from. When she discovered our Bulgarian origin, she looked a bit sad that I wasn’t bought in Germany.

“Schöne Eule, sehr schöne Eule!“ she exclaimed, when my mistress became restless and withdrew a large gulp of breath. I couldn’t see what Martin was doing, because I was tossed suddenly aside and fell to the grass. The German butterfly laughed and picked me up, cushioning me against her warm breasts. There, I could see everything.

Martin had adorned my mistress with the most beautiful, most livelike owl I’d seen in my life. Lush olive branches,
with silvery green leaves and jet black fruit, covered her breasts , thighs and lower abdomen. A white pigeon was half visible on her mound, the other half covered by Martin’s mouth. Ingrid did not like that my mistress‘ breasts stood neglected; she bent over, and gently sucked her nipple. The Owl Mistress shook violently, and her hands gripped the Butterfly’s neck tightly.

"Suck me, Martin. Oh, please, I'm so high right now."

Two pairs of feminine lips were soon locked in a kiss, muffled sounds escaping their throats. Martin was still eating out the white dove in abandon. My mistress' thighs had locked his head in a grip and rocked it back and forth, trying to increase the pressure on her clit. The muffled moans increased in volume and I could feel the impending orgasm that would sweep through her body. Ingrid felt it, too. She broke the kiss, put me on the lying woman's stomach, climbed on the rock, her face towards Martin's, and lowered her red rose right above my mistress' face. A soft tongue parted the petals, and Ingrid tossed her head back in pleasure. Martin was astounded. He watched the butterflies flying towards Ingrid's orgasm, while still pleasing his Owl Mistress.

Ingrid's rosebud was being washed skillfully, and her irregular breathing became as light as a touch of a butterfly. Thick flood of feminine juice slide down my mistress' chin, and hips moved restlessly, trying to get as much hard licking as it could. Martin sensed her impending orgasm, and quickly stood up, taking position behind her. Finally, Ingrid could not take anymore. She let out a ragged, raspy breath, and her head fell back onto Martin's hard chest. He gently picked her up and brought her to the center of the circle, covering her nude body with a blanket.

Sitting on my mistress' stomach, I could see Ingrid's mate slowly raising from the ground and drawing towards us. He slid his semi-hard penis in my mistress' hand. She grasped him firmly, and picked up a hard, steady pace of jerking. Fully erect now, the butterfly artist turned to Martin, and made a hand gesture to help him. Martin took my mistress' limp body in his strong arms, letting the other man take position, his back resting on the rock. Then, my mistress' ass was slowly eased onto his cock.

Inch by inch, her anal opening engulfed his fuck pole. My mistress twitched in pain, squeezing me tightly in her arms. She bit Martin's biceps down hardly, until the protruding dick was firmly lodged in her ass. Two pairs of hands eased her onto her back, leaving her swollen slit wide open for Martin's dick. He eased in slowly, letting her body savor the feeling of being completely full. Then, the fucking began. Hard.

"No... that's too much! Easy, please! Oh, fuck, yes, harder!" My mistress no longer made sense, but no sense was needed, except in her ass and cunt. Long, juicy strokes parting her anus. Short, violent bursts shaking her pussy. Nothing else mattered. Martin lay over my mistress, muffling her pleas with his tongue. Squeezed between two giant German men, fucked enthusiastically, with no chance of escape, she had no choice but to come.

"Mercy... please don't stop now... go harder... go easy... love me! Love me!"

An owl hooted somewhere far in the surrounding darkness.

Two spent men glided the limp lady easily off their glistening shafts. Martin took me in his right hand, draped my mistress over his wide shoulders, and walked to the blanket, where Ingrid slept soundly. But she wasn't alone there. A sexy, little vixen body, covered in stylized birds, was laying beside her. Two black cherry eyes drowned us in an intoxicated gaze. Angelika.

"Want some Schwarzwald fun, you two?" she gurgled in a drunken voice. "Just look what I've got for you".

A bottle of Kirschwasser was in her hand, half empty. She poured the cherry brandy generously over her bird adorned breasts and smiled suggestively. Martin lay my mistress next to Ingrid and sat beside Angelika. He leaned before the Triberg slut, inhaling the brandy and her perfume. His dick, however, remained limp.

"Mmmmm... oh, Scheiß! I see your new friend drained you. What is me to do now? Oh, well... good thing my Kirsch never fails me" she said. Angelika emptied the bottle in three huge gulps, but did not throw it away. Instead, she positioned it right between her legs, and pushed hard. Both Martin and me watched in awe as the slender bottle quickly disappeared.

 Alcohol trickled down her breasts, some gathered in her navel, next to a blue hummingbird. Martin licked the tiny pool, then gently removed Angelika's hand off the bottle. He grasped the small protruding part of it and pushed it in and out, much faster than her own pace. "Mmm, now that's festive" Angelika enjoyed this. She thrust against the bottle hard, her cunt clenching over it. Fast. Hard. Good. But then, suddenly, just before she came, the bottle stopped. Angelika looked up and saw Martin smiling smugly. Her eyes darkened even further.

"You fucking bastard! You stop again, I kill you!"

"That's the Equinox spirit, baby. Calm down, I was just teasing you. Come now, lay and love that bottle again".

But Angelika had a different idea. She had noticed that Martin had hardened again, so she grabbed the bottle out of his hands, grabbed his cock, and guided it to her mouth. Laying on her back, she sucked him gently, while using the bottle to pleasure herself.

"Feed your slut, honey. Give me your cum. I know you want to. Good boys like you don't last long", smirked Angelika. She quickly found the single most sensitive spot on Martin's shaft. Just below the purple head, her tongue slicked over the frenulum, swirling into an 8 shape-like motion. The man exhaled sharply.

He reached with his right hand, grabbed Angelika's head, and forced it down his fuck pole, until his balls hit her chin.

"You want to be the death of me, you Equinox witch!", hissed Martin. "I'll have to fuck the evil out of you. Now be a good little dirty angel, suck me hard and nice, and I may decide not to get you on your belly and fill up your little ass, while the bottle still throbs in your pussy."

The idea of a huge, angry cock, competing with a bottle for space in her insides was clearly frightening to Angelika. She sucked vigorously in an attempt to get Martin off and eliminate the threat. However, Martin pulled out and shifted her body to the dreaded position with no effort at all. Her eyes widened.

"Sweet little vixen. I promise not to hurt you" - whispered Martin, gripped her bird adorned body tight, and with one long, tantalizing stroke, he slid into her ass. He could feel the curves of the bottle in her pussy, and Angelika's tightness only increased his pleasure. Using long, slow strokes, he fucked her ass, making his balls hit the bottom of the bottle with each one. Angelika couldn't endure this. Her little mewling sounds of pleasure turned into screams as the first rays of daylight lit the horizon.

"Mein Gott! Deutsche Polizei!" shouted one woman, covered in paintings of autumn leaves. Two dozens of naked men and women, panicked, rushed into gathering clothes and reaching vehicles. German indecency law was harsh, and police did not fuck around. 

Angelika wiggled to get free and flee the place, but Martin did not let her. The sense of the impending danger aroused him to heights he had never reached before. With a final grunt he coated her insides in blazing hot semen. The voices of the police officers were already near, and Martin wasted no further time. Grabbing Angelika, whose bottle was still inside her, he woke up my mistress, took me in his hand, and we all ran down to the BMW. The police came to an empty, sad looking place, where various clothing, paint bottles, and a cherry scented cupboard box were the only witnesses of what the plush owl saw that Equinox night.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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