1. Last Stop Bubbles: A Lost Blondie-Verse Tale, Part Four


    Date: 1/16/2020, Categories: Group Sex Author: MadMartigan, Source: LushStories

    I. Retrograde One of our old haunts, a repurposed manufacturing plant, still hums with life on breezy Saturday nights. Used to come here every weekend. Her great escape, a middle finger to her name. Detach from reality and just… exist. Breathe, ya’know? Be straight average for a change. Slip into the other side. She never said it, but I could tell she hated that bitter chaos circling in her head. That suffocating truth of lucky sperm finding lucky egg to create life. Slide out naked and screamin’ and richer than the other 99’. Festering like some Civil War era gangrene. Loved having stacks of Benjamin’s. Hated what having so much of it meant for others. Paradoxes. Happiness. Wealth. Poverty. Struggle. Depression. Sanity. Frustrations of reality. The reason for being and why we are all the way we are, why we do what we do to each other… that deep existential shit of Plato and Socrates and Nietzsche in her blackest of moods. Zion 1 for the modern age. Or Lupe. Hopsin. Common. Pick your lyrical poison. Upside shadows in caves and alleys of flames and lies. Shit so far beyond me the head spins, brain screams for relief. Maybe I’m biased, but I think she could have torched them all in debate. Spun her logic with that detached spatial flight of mind and that sultry haze of voice. Looking fine in white cloth toga. - I still remember how she moved, svelte form liquefying into whatever style that suited whatever alchemic mixture of emotion boiling inside her, which was always a ...
    ... struggle to pin down. When her mind thrummed with too much chaos, we’d walk along the piers and end up here. And she’d flow from contemporary to jazz to ballet to styles I can’t even put a name to. Harley Quinn of dance. Crazy. Bump and grind. Wiggle and twist. Shake and spin. Leap. Vault. She was seven degrees of tragic beauty and smoky eroticism. And damn did she ever get off on flaunting it. Granny Teague would say girls like that were spawned from the devil’s seed. There’s a certain truth to that, I guess, given who her bastard of a father was. Lucifer was still an angel though, fallen or not. She inherited most of the good. But like the moth, I was never careful about how dangerously hot she could burn. Hellfire hot. - Beneath Technicolor laser lights, she’d ensnare strangers on the dance floor, arms circling like bear traps. Most of the time it was her nubile peers, teenagers looking to escape the brittle card they got dealt. But sometimes she’d prey on the women that came to recapture forgotten glory days. She’d nibble at their ears. Tease fingers between their thighs. Redheads were her favorite. Likened them to cherry red fire trucks. Flashy. Powerful. Loud when their flaming slits needed to be doused with champagne and a wet tongue. The more reluctance showed, the hotter she burned. Sometimes it’d take only a thumb brush across a blushing cheek, sometimes a kiss. The most reluctant would melt like butter as soon she curled a finger inside them, stroking to the beat of ...
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