Like other members of the family flock, I attended Dartmouth University, majoring in mediocrity and minoring in meteorology, following in my uncle's footsteps, chasing tornadoes and aspiring stage dancers... perhaps a rainbow or two. I managed to slip narrowly through the cracks and received a very thin sheepskin diploma. I was ready to seek the high and low fronts of being a weather person.
Meteorology ran amok in the clan as my Uncle Julius had been chasing April Showers since she got her training tassels for her stripper's costume. He told me that she had a unique way of expelling gas with a lisp. Uncle Julius also had a TV studio on wheels, so after graduation I became an apprentice weather flunky and tire changer. The only good thing about my experience, chasing tornadoes and bimbos, was the 1956 calendar of April on the recreation vehicle/studio wall. It was 1984, but I didn't want to rock the RV by updating the calendar.
After serving my apprenticeship and receiving my certificate as a genuine tea-leaf reader of the approaching weather, signed by my uncle after a gift of two hundred dollars and my first born son, I sat out on my quest of weather forecasting in another venue.
Like a monk, I traveled with a bowl of pewter... a journal, my pen and my sheepskin. I was a failure at cumulus clouds and freaking snow procrastination. Public opinion ruled me irrelevant, and like a stone, I was cast, becoming but a rippling echo of their township. It became pretty evident after I predicted a long dry spell for the before mentioned town, then getting eleven inches of rain, along with flash flooding, that I was doomed.
Afterwards, I had become inspired by April Showers, now retired, to author her biography. It was a tale of a bumbling stripper and department store greeter. It wasn't a best seller. In fact, it didn't go over well at all, seeing as she was now a welcome wagon hostess at Familiar Acres recluse home. It was time for me to head home. Maybe, I thought, the dice would roll favorably for me on my field of clay.
My demeanor is not draconian, but simply, I am not understood in my routine of a monger of tales. After the failure of April's book, and several others, including my twin opus, "My Dildo Squeaks to Me" and "Cat Nipped My Vagina."
Like my cousin Adagio Sabadicus, I, Octavious Avada, was conceived by a mother in the deep south. I grew to manhood, dwelling beneath weeping willows and hanging moss, suffering the heat and humidity, so hot it would peel the wax off a Stradivarius. Usually, the chickens could be seen cooling their feet in the open air baptismal font at my great uncle's outdoor swamp church.
It isn't that we are a dysfunctional family. I was always on time when I crapped in my nappies as a toddler, and now suffer from bouts of constipation. In spite of my freaking insomnia, I rendered my pen to writing erotica and, at the same time, practised new knots on green ivy while practising self restraint bondage. I write now for myself, and sleep very well with my opinions, surrounded by fellow aficionados of the ivy for self abuse.
I have become the Extender of The Ivy in fellowship with others. Sort of like your everyday all-industrial Rotary Club Auxiliary... volunteers and social club. I have a fetish for Dartmouth green ivy. Sort of like one who can't get enough peanuts, I need ivy about me. Since my Dartmouth days, the clinging of the plant has created a disturbance within my britches, causing my cock to rise.
I would often twine the leaf about me in self-bondage and cum without strumming a stroke... also developing a rash. I learned why from my best friend. It was Sumac.1986
Striking the candles with a match, I sat down and composed a litany of my prose. It's always best to write with a relevance of light. I learned this lesson by stepping on my pet raccoon's tail. The oracle of my quill, spoon feeding on parchment shadows, spills my ink into words.
I was home on the plains of Georgia's red clay. My manse and shop, Shadow's Ivy, stands on a hill
overlooking Savannah town. The root of my incubation and home to minions of my friends. I am surrounded by a labyrinth-maze of shrubbery, exercising my right to privacy... and perhaps a nuance of pandemonium to wet my proclivities.
My majordome, Hecke Vonzar, gardener, and upon many occasions, cock sucker, would often be unseen for hours. Lost in the bushes of the maze, he would many times have to send up smoke signals, like the heathens of the swamps, for assistance. I found him a bit eccentric for using unlit scented candles for personal deodorant hygiene. I did have a fondness for the scent of the bayberry though.
In need of a housekeeper and duster of mites, I sought out the local printer of the paper and dispatched for enquirers. In reality my Iron Maiden and Saltire-Saint Andrew's Cross were in vacancy and whispering for company, within the catacombs of my sunken library of old buttons and bones. With a few pounded out coins of gold, I was in comfort that she would be obliging extra chores, conniving to impress on me her bare essentials.
"Absinthe, (la fée verte) green fairy, does make the hard-on grow fonder," as they say. It wasn't until after my second encounter with an illusion that I realized my mom may have been right. I remember it well. At the age of three, she said, "You were touched by an anvil." I may sound naïve, but at times I do carry on with shadows or incoming houseflies.
"How many people talk to their quill?"
Taking a sip, I heard a car draw up to my front portal entrance, and discovered that Hecke was lost anew, somewhere in the greenery. It was but two years ago that he sat ablaze my maze while firing up his bong. The city father's were exalting on some sort of celebration. I was fined a pittance for burning without a license. Hastily, I purchased an electric bong for the fool.
In the first minutes of our audience, she accepted the servitude of the wise tails on her voluptuous person. In conversation, she explained that her 'resumé included a few run ins with the local constabulary for exercising to much closeness with frequent clients. It didn't hurt that her skirt was raised mid-bosom and a bit north of the Wabash, bordering her waist.
I was in no need of a pet, nor was I in dependency on swill to get me through the fog. Indeed, I was in-tune to my sanity... just extroverted on lust and attachments of the flesh. I bestowed on her a new name of Clara Voyant and branded her with pierced nipples of hanging platinum green ivy. The first night she spent swaying from the rafters, suspended by hemp like ivy chains. In high hopes, I made it clear who her Master was. Spreading her cunt, I probed with my tongue as if searching for hieroglyphics on the walls of her vagina. With a needle between my front teeth, I pierced her clitoris before she could recite the words, "Oh crap!" I then bejeweled it with same decoration as her breasts.
I adjourned to my writings to make a list of her duties and daily fare. Early morning dew on the moss of my willows would awaken my cock's emotions and she, awakened by my boutonnière of the collar she wore, would come doodle-do of my cuckoo. Hearing announcements from below reverberating to my boudoir, I gave listen.
I was in assurance of my mind that Hecke was not busy in his practice of a majordomo at 3:00 am, especially after the scream, "Let go of my prick, bitch." Tiptoeing down stairs, I saw without being noticed the ivy which I bestowed on her clit... now swinging from the helmet of his cock. He was a eunuch in guise of Prince Albert.
In days that passed, Clara was allowed no abstention from cock, for she was amply fed inches of Cupid's Dart in the form of my average and Hecke's monstrosity. At least, when he wasn't lost in shade of the newly regrown maze. Her gift to me was her fondness for the fulcrum. On four wheels a huge bone in shape of a phallus stood on a lever. With it, some resemblance of goose grease on the knob rolled up to her posterior, spread like the stage of an opera aria as she was bent over my harpsichord. Hecke would see-saw the bone as Clara would accept it in her ass most deeply My cock sought out her dangling tonsils and made a drill of itself in her esophagus.
Moments passed, and in rhythm and sync, manipulated her asshole like the bow of a cello. She started to hum and warble like a fowl. It was as if Tweety Bird came home to roost. Encased in a cocoon spun of ivy, she screamed for fisting in her ass and her sphincter clinched. Two Weeks Later
Debauchery wasn't my thing, I could hardly spell it. I coerced her into chilling with the ice. She was the perfect frozen epitome of style, with a peacock's tail protruding from her ass and a feathered corset accentuating her derrière.This, as she was serving tea and sweets to fellows of my craft, apprentices of ivy. Quaintly as she curtsied, the feathers fanned out and without knowing, created a breeze extinguishing candles. A couple of the tipsy ones from brandy, thought she was bewitched. I had to hark laughter as dark fell over the chamber. Flapping her arms like a bird and sashaying in circles she cawed like an eagle in charge of her dominion.
As small particles of light came in from around the creases of the closed window, creating shadows on the walls as she mimed that of a horny large bird seeking worms to feed her diet of the moment, penises in a row of all different sizes and communions. My eccentric servant was miming Big Bird, yet without testicles. I could see the resemblance as he re-lit the candles. His balls were misplaced by a pair of pliers when it was found out he was a man in drag caroling in a woman's choir, but he did sing on key.
It's sort of frustrating trying to scholar several old fogies from the adjacent retirement home into paying me to teach them the art of growing ivy. They seemed more interested in other things. However, I was out voted and we joined in on a chorus of, "I'm A Little Teapot." It was apropos considering Clara was dipping their bags in her cunt. they were spraying cum as if it was soap at a car wash.
"Maybe I should tackle Tide as a new fetish," I thought.
The artificial bird wings attached to her arms went on the fritz... miniature electric lights on them short circuiting and smoking. I quickly doused her with water setting off a fire that spread to my expensive curtains and melting the paint on the commissioned portrait of mama. Not only that, but the maze was on fire again. In the distance I heard sirens and was sure I was going to be cited for keeping a menagerie without a license.
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