Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Coffee: by Mark S. Kourge

                                                    Coffee.
                                            By Mark S. Kourge.

 
            She stood before with a 10 inch Butchers knife and can Dairy Whip. Carrying an evil smile, slowly exposing her teeth as her ruby lips curled higher. Dressed in black latex and Kiss-like tall boots.
           She kicked me in the chest to further waken me. Hurting me, my eyes shot full open.
         “Which would you prefer? The knife or the whip cream?” Head cocking sideways, short blond spiked hair backlit as the eastern sun splashed through my bedroom window.
         Groaning slightly, “I cannot decide without coffee. I need coffee.”
         “oh, no, darling. You decide now!”
         Brain barely showing signs of thinking, I muttered, “whip cream then.”
        Unleashing the can, spraying me, not to mention my bed sheets, smiling greater still.
        “good choice, I’ll save some for later.

        She liked games like this. She was most sick and messed up in mind processes.
        She’d been abused at a very young age that never left her mind for periods greater than a few days at a clip. Not only growing up with abusive father, she had a seriously perverted aunt.

         Leaving my bed, whip cream dripping down my chest and face, I walked toward my kitchen. Shaking my head, wondering how long I would let myself deal with this, I put on a pot of coffee.
        Following me, as if on remote control, she hesitated briefly at the entrance to the kitchen.
       Sitting on the stool by the island, looking at her. Light beginning to grow full as it filtered through my windows, bracing myself for what I knew would happen next.
       Looking at her feet, shuffling slowly, pouting.
       “I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!” she screamed, tossing the blade behind her putting yet another cut in my hardwood floor. Pulling off her latex suit, giving me full view of her amazing body, raw.
      Throwing herself at me, connecting firmly, knocking me off the stool, her arms clasped tightly, we hit the floor.
      Her lips pressed against mine, her breath giving tells of Eclipse Spearmint gum, covering my face with wet kisses.
       “you love me, don’t you?. Tell me you do. Please, PLEASE tell me so.” Panting, her body clamoring over me like a rock climber desperately reaching for Earth as they begin to fall. Her left hand finally grabbing at my groin.
      “of course I do. Don’t you know this by now?”
      “I so much like the taste of whip cream on a man! Tastes so much better than blood, don’t you think?” Her voice sounding more happy, less needy. Her body, her hands, moving less like a lunatic and more like a passionate lover.
      “Oh yeah. You know the only time I like to taste blood.” Kissing her slowly, eyes fixed on hers, my arms reaching around to hold her close.
      BINNNNNNNNGGGG! The Jonson-Freed coffee sounded, letting us know it was done brewing. Truly, this is the best coffee maker to ever hit the YBAOT Channel. The YBAOT standing for some obscure products company based in Canada. I thing the YBAOT stood for: You’d Buy Anything On Television. Even with contempt in my heart, it did make a great cup of joe.
      Standing, her panting, gasping, new wetness coursing down her great thighs. Fully erect, she extends me hand. “Let me help you up, my wonderful husband.”
       Up and having yet another bruise to add with the many others on me, looking at her beaming face.
      “I need a smoke, Izzy, “ I said. “you got any?”
       She turns and walks to the cupboard above the sink. Taking them with shaky hand, turning, she hands the Players with a Bic.
        Lighting, taking a huge inhale as I add the sugar to my coffee…
       “WAIT, LOVER! DON’T YOU EVEN MOVE!”
       Like a skipping record, I know what comes next.
       Shooting my cup of coffee with Dairy Whip, gleefully saying, “here’s your cream, honey.” Stepping back slowly, her glorious body causing me to have fullness of throbbing member.
       “Thank you, darling. You are so thoughtful.” I take a sip of my coffee. Tasting perfect, I gaze back at her with fond heart and sore bones.
       “Do you think I need help, my husband?” Showing a face of sincere concern she questions.
       Izzy is not my wife, but that’s okay. She thinks she is.
      “No, you’re fine. I love you just the way you are.”

       Author: Mark S. Kourge.