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Our Daily Bread-Part 2

Our Daily Bread-Part 2

My wife, Ata, entered the shop as the bell clanged, and the lights snapped back on.

Ata was born in Bordrum, Turkey. On the sea. The Turquoise Coast it's called. She never knew her parents but there were rumors that her mom was a witch. Ata wore a locket that she wore with the name of Iamar engraved in it.

In university we had met and became as one, experiencing what life brought us.

I went from owning video shops, in the hay-day of the business, to now a small bookshop.

Now in the middle of the floor there was a small puddle. A puddle that left too long would attract mosquitoes type of puddle. Shortly after, you would have a fuckin' gazillon friggin' baby critters. The type that navigate to a puddle in a damn bookshop type of puddle. They would have babies, and they would grow into heathens with wings. I hate mosquitoes and calamine lotion. If there is one thing that annoys me, it's insects.

"I have your prescription for insomnia," she said.

It was rumination and my frustration for failure to sleep.



Now, two weeks had passed, since I had the encounter at the bookshop with a demon that caused me to seek out an analyst.

My insomnia, again.

Both my practitioner and psychologist now agreed a few days of relaxation just may be the right formula. Especially after several prescriptions had failed me.

I was losing weight and not eating. Mostly due to frustration.

My analyst said it could be due to little 'blue-haired' old ladies, with the terrible bumper chutes. The little old ladies that wanted books for almost nothing. Seeing as how I traded used books and wanting just a few shekels to feed me and pay the bills. No one ever considers that. Sound Familiar?

Although we hadn't smoke pot since college, Ata suggested that it might relax me. I just happen to know of a 'carry-out' place and took delivery on an ounce or two.

I got the hookah from out of the closet. A gift from one on Ata's relatives. We had used it on occasions, but only to smoke Burley and nothing else. Well, not until this moment. The pipe was said to have been several hundred years old and carried with it mystical powers.

Yeah! Like I'm Captain kangaroo and the pipe is Mr. Greenjeans.

Ata was going shopping with her sister and I was left alone with the hookah and a bit of pot. Dancing With the Stars on TV and a frozen dinner.

I set up the pipe next to my chair, firing it up. Switching channels and inhaling. By-passing on the dinner.

'Good chit.'

'Blast off.'


Laying on the floor was Ata's locket. I picked it up and noticed the broken clasp. Placing it on the table beside me.

It was time for what's-his-name and Dancing With Misfits, or whatever.

Then the cold wind rushing in from the cold Georgia Novembers.

Ata must not have shut the door, I thought. I took a deep pull and let my eyes close.

'Emmmmmmmmmmmm, good chit.'


Like a cave it was, with a cool damp temperature. I was chilled to my bones. I could almost feel frost forming on my skeletal inner being. My breath. gray like that of a coming storm. Heavy tapestry hung from the red clay walls, lit by millions of fireflies locked in crystal lanterns. The fireflies were suspended in animation, yet they blinked. I tried to act nonchalantly.

There were large transparent figurines of mythological beings in Kama Sutra poses. Appearing to move their eyes and starring at me. I needed a drink.

You would have thought, and I let it pass. You would have thought that I would have noticed the lack of patrons to this brothel. The lack of people like me. Human beings seeking pussy. Except for the hostess, band and barmaid. I was all alone in my naivetés.

The band dressed in tuxedos were comatose, yet music was coming from the amplifiers. The sound and beat of raw blues with an open mic. I could fool myself, but I swore I heard moans also. I don't think it was Guy Lombardo and his band of renowns. My throat was dry and my lips were cracking from whatever beseeched me. It was that fucking insomnia that was playing havoc with my life. So I thought.

I was sitting at a table. The top supported by a stalagmite. A hookah next to me on the floor. I had the nozzle in my hand, letting out a trickle of sweet smoke. I needed a drink.

"Je peux s'il vous plaît prendre un verre?" 
(May I have a drink, please?)

As if an invisible genie had granted my wish, a glass appeared. A pontarlier (reservoir glass) with a green liquid cascading the aroma of licorice. The wormwood making it strong, The anise making it polite. I knew tales about absinthe. I let out a silent nervous laugh. The thujone (menthol) in absinthe, I was told prevents the mind and senses from recognizing what you normally may abstain from. It puts your mind on go, releasing all inhibitions.

" La Fee Verte "
(the green fairy)

"Who said that?" I looked around me.

"Here is your spoon, water and sugar."

Like telekinesis a slotted spoon lofted to the top of my glass, followed by a cube of sugar. Then a small pitcher dripping cold drops of water...drops fell on the cube. I sipped.

Like a wisp of new fallen mist she transposed. Wafting, so it seemed. As if on a current of air with a form of femininity. A spirit conveyed on flight but now grounded. Transparent but I felt her touch. I saw the aura. Her eyes that of a cat.

Her naked green emerald skin and black hair, was so black it showed blue. I thought of my best friend, other than Ata. Our miniature Poodle. China Blue.

In my stupor - noticing, I now shed off my clothing. My was cock emulating a ship's mast.

Looking at my reflection in the glass, I was bare of all gender hair.

Undulating with a sinuous wavelike motion, her ample hips and full figure were causing me to sip more of La Fee Verte and take another hit from the pipe. The nozzle of the pipe was shaped like a penis. I was now a full-fledged cock sucker.

Her breasts were rising-and-falling, swaying side-to-side in smooth alternation of her poetic convulsion. Precum drooled from my third eye. Her hands reachrd out with open palms as if imploring me to dance with her. Who did she think I was, Fred Astaire?

Quaking. Now with a serpent about her body, emanating from her groin. A full 10 foot cock with scales she was endowed with. The head that of a snake. It wrapped around over her shoulders with evil eyes and dripping venom from needle like fangs. It seduced me into a trance. Below the base of her ghastly cold blooded rapture was a cunt with protruding lips. Puckered. They were in susurration.

"Hermaphrodite!" I stuttered.

"Who did you expect, Ginger Rogers?"

Again she whispered.

Born of inclination,
and lust. 
Have of me,
what you must.
La Fee Verte.

Her snake-cock uncoiled from around her body and with its head it reached out and kissed me. French kissing with a forked tongue was like nothing you can imagine. Serpents sense with the tongue. Its tongue reached into my body and yanked out what felt like my inhibitions...and we danced. I embraced her in slow rhythmic movement. Her breasts laying across my shoulders. I felt them drip down my back - lactating.

"La Fee Verte," she whispered.

My cock pressed up against her, I knew she could feel my exploding geyser. Then separating. Her serpent head-mouth open and encased my wilting penis up to my tight balls. Like a sump pump it digested my left-over juices. It's mouth squeezing me. I screamed.

As her snake-head pulled loose, my cum looked like dew on it's tongue. I rushed back to the table, to my glass and took a long swallow. It was burning all the way down.

"Give me more cock," I shouted. Again placing the penis nozzle to my lips. Tasting the sweetness of the opium. Soft and sticky.

She turned around and with another round of up tempo music spread her legs wide apart, and bent over. Her long talon fingers laying flat on the floor. She resembled a table. Her tits now sprouted hands. Instead of her long nipples moments ago, they opened the cheeks of her ass. Her snake slithered toward the sweet spot as I smoked more of the opium.

She moaned as the serpent took sight of its destination and with its scales meandered in. The pleasure was all hers by the way she gyrated her ass. She started walking on all fours, her long nails clawing at the floor. The snake-cock, like a sledge hammer, pounding her ass hole.

"La Fee Verte," she yelled.

I was on the verge of going over the edge, of my sanity.

Je peux s'il vous plaît prendre un verre?"
(May I have a drink, please?)

The nerve endings in my nipples were like placing a finger in a light socket as my new breast implants tickled me. I cupped them and pushed them together. The nipples now becoming blinking eyes and winking their charm into my face.

Shemale, I was now.

Shemale, high on pleasures.

I flipped the top off the table and impaled my ass on the stalagmite. As if doing aerobics I did deep knee bends, fucking me into my own nightfall dreams. She table walked on all four until she was genuflecting before me. Her mouth took my cock and I could feel her throat constricting, as she supped down. She rode the crest of her green vaporous smog as her cunt erupted into a gelatinous muck, sticking to my feet and holding me like a vice.

"Yoohoo, I'm home."

Like a funnel cloud but green, the room spun. The funnel disappeared inside her locket.

"What is that goop on the floor, and why are you naked?"

"It's my TV dinner."

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

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