Funeral at the Hunting Lodge

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Black suit, the black so deep you think you’re in a Hi-Fi movie theater; makeup and hair so perfect, you know everyone spent all morning in the bathroom; only whispers beneath the sound of utensils, you know it’s all about the young man whose portrait sits on the chair. The eye tries to escape the heavy, dark atmosphere. It crawls along the wall with its exposed river rocks knee high and mahogany wood paneling above. Only a short glance at the ceiling makes the eye dart back down. The ceiling is low, held by heavy beams that evoke the oppressive feeling of imminent collapse. A small window with cross beams opens the view onto the lawn around the hunting lodge and the dry forest beyond, where scrawny deer are bloodied by men drinking Coors light.

A young woman sat upright, her back facing the big round table for eight. Ivory-white Revlon foundation covered her entire face. The ceiling lights reflected off her high gloss Maybelline Red Revolution lipstick. The dark mascara and meticulously groomed eyebrows made her blue eyes radiate brilliance. A black mesh veil cut thin, black, diamond-patterned lines across her face, hanging down from the little black Robin Hood-inspired hat. The look of the twenty-four year old was so dramatic that the men thought it as perfect as an actress for a high def close up porn and the women thought it as perfect as a princess from a fairy tale.

Four marines filed into a line in front her. The skinny, white leather straps, the golden buttons, the little pockets in the vest, honorary ribbons, and of course the needle-spikey saber at the side. They faced straight ahead. Their eyes were fixed on a distant point, like a port on the other side of the ocean. There was a little terror in their gaze, like it had been drilled into them. Their faces were so clean and smooth like boys taken from playing around the creek in trunks and making dirty jokes followed by lots of snickering. One stepped forward to present a ceremonially folded American flag. A white cotton-gloved hand was placed beneath and another positioned on top was positioned with the precision of a laser guided bomb. The young woman grabbed the flag. Her drunk hand missed the first time and the second time smashed the thing on the table next to her on the pile of envelopes and photos.

Next up was aunt Mathilda. Her fat heels overflowed the black slip on black flats. She had had to convert a tent into a dress to fit her fat belly and hips into it. The skin underneath her eyes was droopy from age and fat, as well as living her whole life for gossip. Her brunette hair had the curls of yesteryear.

“Oh child, it is such a horrible thing that William passed. At least he died fighting for our country.”

“No, he died in a car accident.”

“If I can get my hand on that reckless other driver, I’ll strangle him myself!”

“There kaynarca escort was no other driver. He was falling-drunk and drove into a bridge support.”

“I’m sorry, Ivy. But you are so pretty. You’ll find a new husband in no time.”

Flap, Ivy’s black gloved right slapped across aunt Mathilda’s face. Uncle Benjamin’s mouth dropped open and a broccoli crown rolled down his shirt and landed somewhere between his thighs. “How dare you,” Ivy’s voice screeched through the hunting lodge like a firework rocket whistles on takeoff.

Ivy surged up onto her black Dolce & Gabbana high heels. Her bare legs showed below the Skaist Taylor tight, black, mid-thigh dress. Only a young person would show that much skin at a funeral. Daisy, Ivy’s best friend, rose from her table, pulling on the tablecloth that a young lad swiftly grabbed to hold the plates on top of the table. The two ladies stormed out leaving utter silence in their wake.

Outside was a porch with a rustic untreated, wooden railing. The wood was so weathered that it had been bleached and roughened. Ivy squatted down, hugging her legs to her chest, and started bawling. Her lungs were shaking, emotion flooding out of her. She was a little, black bundle on the stilts of her high heels. Daisy, severely constrained by her tight dress and super high heels, side hugged Ivy from behind, slowly patting on her back. “I’m here. Just let it all out.”

A young lad peeled away from one of the circles of people talking in front of the lodge and smoking. He was dressed in a black jeans, actually rather gray from the many machine wash cycles, a dark blue Gap shirt, and his nicest sneakers. “Hey, William and I went hunting a couple of times. I wanted to give my condolences before the game is starting. Notre Dame…”

“Not now,” hissed Daisy. Her shaking raised finger was an inch from his eye. Her eyes were shooting fire and devastation out of murderous, protective rage. She had swiveled around in a second.

The young lad walked down the steps of the porch backwards. With terror in his pitch black eyes and ghostly white face, his reticular activation system had narrowed onto Daisy, as if a white shark had jumped at him out of the blue sky.

Mies was standing in the door. He had followed them out to see what had happened. Mies was in the inner circle of William’s friends. He had a blond crew cut that made his chiseled face stand out. His strong chest made any shirt and suit look good. He was a contractor. He worked all day with his hands. And his body was buff from carrying wooden beams around and lifting heavy bricks. He stood there, easy as ever, centered as ever, and warm as ever like a cuddly, yet very sexy, teddy bear.

“Mies, watch her. I’m getting the car keys. I’m getting her out of here,” said Daisy.

“No problem,” orhanlı escort said Mies. With a luxurious black Armani bow tie perfectly tied and a bottle of champagne held by the neck, he was the perfect gentleman both in the good boy and bad boy sense.

With Daisy gone, Mies and Ivy were in their own little bubble. The other guests had given them a few yards of distance. Ivy straightened. They looked at each other for a while. The dried out, wilted fall grass around them felt a little more peaceful. The deer heads and wood carvings on the façade of the hunting lodge felt a little more dignified. The worn surfaces reminded them how the lodge had been there for decades, lasting through time, and it would still be here tomorrow, and so would they.

“Is there any private place in this lodge?” asked Ivy.

Mies took her pale, slender hand in his strong, manly hand and led her inside and up the creaky stairs. “This is a strictly men-only club. They made a huge exception for William to close down for a day, and let mixed people in. With everyone in black formal wear, I doubt anyone went inside the steam room. It’s probably turned off today to save energy.”

He pushed the locker door open. Benches and tall locker doors filled the room. A neat stack of towels was at the end of each bench. White lined baskets were neatly emptied of used towels. A big screen TV was still on with a newscaster blabbing idly to an audience of no one. Mies’ hands gripped the big steam room handle and pushed the milky glass door open.

The air was still warm and moist. Nobody would find them here. Mies sat down on a stone block. He put his baby, the champagne bottle, carefully next to him. He untied his bow and let it hang over the back of his neck. He opened the two top buttons of his shirt. He relaxed his head back against the tiles and let his legs sprawl open.

Ivy walked past him, grabbed the champagne bottle by its neck, leaned against the wet wall and let herself glide down to the floor. She kicked off her heels. Her feet were freshly pedicured. Mies’ eyes followed up her slender, athletic body with a smitten smile. She popped off the champagne cap. The bubbly sprouted over the bottle, her fist, the floor, and finally her dress, and she lifted the bottle to her lips and drank. The golden champagne foam ran down her mouth.

“Fuck it,” she said, when she handed the bottle to Mies. Her eyes rolled wildly without a care, now that she was away from the audience. Her décolleté was glistening from a combination of the steam room moisture precipitating, her sweat forming from the heat, and champagne runoff still frothing. Mies had taken of his suit jacket. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. The rolled up fabric at his elbow reminded her of a pirate or at least a Caribbean vacation. He was a hunk tepeören escort to look at with his strong body and easy, carefree blue eyes looking ahead. She stared at him as if she were beaming a hole into him with laser eyes.

“What I miss the most is a big hard cock.” Her eyes exhibited her drunken state. The rawness of her thoughts bubbling out uncensored. “We used to fuck every freaking day. Mm, I can taste his salty, sweaty skin on my lips just thinking about it. He ravaged me every day. The withdrawal from that is so horrible, like getting off H at the end of summer 2011. And I can’t talk about it with any of those people. What would aunt Mathilda think, if I admitted that I’m so depraved that I’d sell my soul for a thick, hard cock?”

“Lady blue balls,” uttered Mies. He said every word slowly with a deep voice, letting it sensually roll over his larynx. There was this warmth and understanding in it. And there was that ever cool, warm, friendly, devious smile on his lips. He looked steadily into her eyes. There was a deep sub communication in the connection.

Ivy got on her knees and crawled across the slippery, wet, white tiles. She climbed up his body. He let her come onto him. She latched her full lips onto his. The lips were fully mashing against each other, eating each other, deep tonguing each other with a hunger to get the most exposure to that warm slippery mouth of the other person. Her boobs pressed against his 300 lbs. bench press chest. Her slender hands chased over the back of his smooth, white shirt feeling up his body and revving his engine of arousal.

His hands curved around her ass, pulled her closer, and slipped in between them to grope her breasts. She tore at his shirt to get him out of clothes, all the while their lips were locked tight as if for life support. She reached into his pants and wrapped her fingers around his thick, hardened manhood. “I want this.”

His shirt came off. The deltoids were wonderful. He pinned her against the wall, where she had been sitting earlier. She wrapped her legs around the small of his back. She loved the feeling of being pinned, of his strength, and of being taken. He loved the hot young girl: her boobs, tongue, eyes, ass, and her wet nether lips. He ripped her panties down her thighs.

Half-dressed with her black funeral dress riding high and his bare butt above the pulled-down pants, they were fucking like animals in heat. Biting and nibbling on each other, he thrust deeply into her. And she ground her pelvis against him to receive each ramming. Sweat glistened on them and drenched their clothes. The whole scene was shrouded in the light lingering steam.

Eventually, they succumbed to the release. Breathless, they glided down to the ground. Sprawled out, exposed in disheveled clothing, they rested in the womb-like warmth of the room. The erotic, warm feelings were slowly glowing inside of their limbs. The semen slowly dripped out of her and down her thighs. Her fingers played idly with his nipple. She thought about pulling out a chest hair to torment him. However, she only did that in serious relationships.

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