The Three Sisters
Excerpt 1: The Slaughter
Arranged like a Triangle of Adorable Cherubs in pink flannel pajamas: six-year-old Bonky; seven-year-old Shanty; and eight-year-old Windy slept tangled under a cloud of white bed sheets and a billowy star patterned patchwork quilt. For lack of space and wealth, they still shared the same enigmatic bed they had since the beginning of time.
Their communal center of government was snuggly nested on the lofty second floor of a farmhouse, under the attic window where observations of the outside world were considerably expansive. The children’s elevated view of the empire meant that everything occurring outside could be seen, heard or speculated upon from their Tower of Youthful Wisdom and Tribal Order.
The small attic room was littered with clothes, toys, dolls, books, paper and other school paraphernalia and a few musical instruments.
A cockerel strutted outside under the attic window and crowed in jubilant bursts as the sun appeared on a flat stretch of prairie horizon. The flamboyant feathered alarm awakened Windy. She jolted out of her dreams and cried to her siblings, “Wake up! Wake up, or we’ll miss it!”
Shanty groggily stirred and chirped, “Yeah, I don’t want to miss this!”
From Windy’s hierarchical position at the head of the bed, she administered an inaugural shove with her foot to the insubordinate slumbering Bonky, who was inverted under the covers at the foot of the bed. “Come on Bonky. This is the day!” reminded Windy.
Bonky lazily rolled over. From the neighboring position next to her, Shanty pushed Bonky with her feet until she rolled her right off the bed. With a thump and a snore, Bonky continued sleeping on the floor.
Desperate to begin the day, Windy crawled out of bed and slipped the straps of an accordion over her shoulders. Within seconds, the Grand Master of Torture and Interrogation exploded forth a loud and lively tune as she heaved the bellows back and forth in rhythmic syncopation.
The instrument’s keys and chords issued a metronomically regulated acoustic sound that caused Bonky to unequivocally end her peaceful slumber. She jumped up off the floor and quickly scrambled into her clothes. She yelled at her tormentor, “Put that thing down! I’m getting up already! I’m getting up!”
Shanty covered her ears tightly with her hands just as Windy abruptly abandoned her weapon. Within minutes, all three Storm Troopers were dressed and ready to harness the day.
“I wonder who will be first: John, Paul, George or Ringo?” queried wide-eyed Bonky.
Shanty replied, “It hardly matters. They’re all doomed!”
On their anxious way out, each of the girls hastily ingested their usual morning breakfasts of puffed wheat, sweetened with heaping teaspoons of sugar and soaked in reservoirs of fresh cow’s milk. When they were finished, Windy gave the usual, “On your mark. Get set. Go!” routine for any opportunity that required speed or urgency, as this one did.
With uncombed curls and stringy locks of sun-bleached hair in ocher, sienna and shades of umber, the team of sprinters raced outside passed the crowing rooster until they reached the wooden fence surrounding the pigpen. They climbed to the top of the three-tiered enclosure and with attempted composure, clumsily arranged themselves in a row. Their primitive stadium seating required much conscientious steadying and balancing to prevent an unintended fall.
The athletes’ Father and owner of the farmland, was already inside the pen holding his shotgun. He was waiting for the pigs: John, George, Paul and Ringo to settle down following their sudden burst of activity, which seemed to coincide with the arrival of the fans.
“Go back to the house! You little monkeys shouldn’t be out here!” ordered the Farmer with a distinct tone of exasperation and annoyance in his voice.
The girls shouted in accidental harmony and unison, “But dad! Yesterday you said we could watch if we were quiet.”
“Alright, alright! But don’t make me change my mind,” warned the Farmer. The on-looking groupies became dead silent and the quartet of hefty boars settled. The full grown band of soon to be evolved pork chops was once a newly arrived set of affectionately named quadruplets, wrapped in dolls’ blankets and bottle fed in the arms of their adoptive and nurturing child hosts.
For two years the pseudo-parents contributed to the daily fattening of the venerated Squadron of Prisoners despite their somewhat punishable past histories including: John’s attempted escape while rooting for the elusive truffle that never was on the other side of the fence; Paul’s misconduct when he impregnated a neighbor’s sow while on parole; Georges’ deceptive back scratching against the lower boards of the pig barn until the entire structure lost its support and tumbled to the ground; and Ringo’s ill-mannered, unremorseful, carnivorous consumption of Hercules, Bonky’s favorite stuffed teddy bear that horrifyingly tumbled out of her arms and into the pigpen just before feeding time one morning. The only remaining scrap of the revered bear was his podgy tail, unsalvageable from the mud and dung that gradually buried the trophy.
All four of the Death Row Inmates stood fastidious and motionless in a queue. They starred straight at the Trio of Enemy Accomplices positioned for duty on the fence. Periodically, the mesmerized corn-fed, pink-skinned,
musician-anointed swine snorted and oinked, melodically.
Inside the fence at the feet of the patient wardens, the Executioner slowly lowered himself on one knee and held the shotgun in place. Unimpaired by physical or emotional strain, he took aim and fired. George went down with a violent squeal. Blood poured out of the hole in his forehead. John, Paul and Ringo raced wildly in circles inside the confines of the pen. The resolute fans smiled magnanimously and gloated over their anticipated favorite cuts of grilled, stewed or boiled pork.
Windy staked a hurried claim, “I want the ears, simmered with onions!”
Shanty hollered, “I’ll take the hooves, stewed with mushrooms!”
And Bonky covetously piped, “I have to have the tail, grilled with cheese!”
The Farmer ignored the frantic display of the remaining livestock. With a large butcher’s knife in his hand, he approached George lying on his side. He grasped the dead hog by the snout, then sliced George’s throat to enable the necessary rapid escape of blood.
Bonky mumbled with tears in her eyes, “I guess that’s one down and three to go.”
The Farmer dragged the carcass by the hind legs to the curing rack. He tied a thick rope to George’s hind ankles and suspended him upside down from the top horizontal wood beam. With a steady outstretched finger pointed at the hanging carcass, Windy surmised, “That’s a lot of bacon!”
Shanty and Bonky nodded in agreement from their stadium seats. The Farmer returned to death row. It was evident that his Petite Accomplices were eager to continue the survival of their own intelligent dominant species.
This time Ringo became the motionless but grunting target for the predictably perfect shot. The enterprising Killer once again dropped to his knee and took aim. His years of experience defending his agricultural domain, made a mockery of his passive target. Ringo went down like an enemy surveying the fort.
“Should we play drums for him?” asked Windy.
“No way!” said Bonky, “The accordion this morning was bad enough!”
“Besides, George didn’t get a musical send off,” interrupted Shanty.
With a slightly delayed response to Bonky’s curse of the accordion, Windy pushed and shoved Bonky until she lost her balance and fell to the ground from her prestigious perch. Bonky started to howl.
“Settle down,” warned the Executioner again, “if you don’t behave, you will all have to go back to the house.”
Windy pulled Bonky back onto the fence. Bonky repositioned herself and stopped howling. Shanty leaned toward Bonky and whispered, “We don’t want to miss this. It’s very educational.” Bonky and Windy nodded in agreement.
They could see that Ringo was now hanging from the rafter next to George. The remaining pigs, Paul and John, were extremely restless from the two previous slayings. The deadly shots seemed to buckle and soil the atmosphere with an unforgivable smell of exsanguination and fresh excrement.
The Slayer was restless as well, and was unable to establish proper aim for either remaining target. An idea besieged the Farmer’s intellect. “Windy, bring the accordion out here. A little music might calm them down,” suggested the King of the Jungle and Lord of All Beasts.
“Oh, crap!” groaned Shanty and Bonky, as they eyed their Father who stood in direct earshot of their voices.
Windy bounded off the fence. As she ran back to the house, she shouted, “ I’ll play a ballad. That should work!” The Gymnast wasted no time as she stumbled back to the pigpen with the accordion strapped to her chest. She gracefully lumbered up to her place at the top of the fence and began to play.
Shanty and Bonky covered their ears with their hands. The agitated pigs began to calm down. Paul and John stoically joined ranks, side by side. They stood perfectly still and starred straight at the Executioner’s Daughter, daunted by the hypnotic tune she continued to tirelessly propel forth from the bellows of the music box.
Windy’s Father dropped into position for the third shot. Paul went down. The remaining John, squealed helplessly as he raced around the inside of the pen, alone and hysterical. He frantically kicked up dirt and fecal mess as he recklessly slammed his heavy body against the wooden fence. Windy stopped playing the ballad and instead, bellowed forth a jaunty Marching tune.
The Farmer slit Paul’s throat and dragged him out of the pen to suspend him from the rafter, next to Ringo and George. In spite of Windy’s musical distraction, John refused to compose himself. Without the companionship of a single teammate, his behavior was suddenly erratic and unpredictable.
Shanty and Bonky yelled at Windy, “Stop that racket!” But, Windy just played louder and faster than before. Consequently, John squealed louder and louder and ran faster and faster around the inside of the pen until finally with a crack and a snap, the delinquent boar broke through the fence and scurried off through the barnyard and across the field toward the bush.
“Shit! Alright Windy, that’s enough!” complained the Farmer. Windy immediately stopped playing. Shanty and Bonky uncovered their ears.
Bonky quietly mimicked her Father, “Shit! Thank goodness!”
Realizing that a pig on the loose was potentially any neighbor’s food for the winter, the Executioner swung his rifle over his shoulder and headed in the direction of the escapee. The Farmer’s task was now that of a sniper. He would not return from the woods, or the dark of night, or the glow of dawn unless John’s carcass accompanied him.
As the Sniper headed off on his solitary mission, he gave no specific instructions to his three impetuous daughters. He knew they were afraid of the dark and wouldn’t dare follow him.
As expected, the Little Prison Guards deserted their official seats and headed back toward the house. Shanty and Bonky scampered ahead while Windy eloquently rendered a mournful tune on the accordion. She plodded after her sisters, purposefully stepping in time to the ponderous requiem that intoxicated the atmosphere with an accomplished, electrifying distant charm.
The Three Sisters
Excerpt 2: The Beheadings
In their messy moonlit bedroom, Windy, Shanty and Bonky slept like vampire bats after a blood-fest. It was an hour before sunrise when their alarm clock clanged, mercilessly. They knew the roosters would still be sleeping this early.
Bonky bolted upright and yelled, “Let those heads roll!”
Shanty sat up and remarked, “They won’t roll. They will just drop off.”
Windy climbed out of bed and correctly added, “What matters is that their heads still squawk, even after they have fallen to the ground!”
“Their voice boxes still have air in them and if you give their throats a little push with a stick, they squawk.”
“Neat-Oh,” cried Bonky.
The Trinity of Terror rushed into their day clothes, skipped breakfast and ran out of the sleepy house in the twilight toward the barnyard where the day’s beheadings were scheduled to occur. Eight roosters were still sleeping on the lower branches of the maple trees, but the carnage had already begun.
Two roosters’ heads were camped on the ground at the base of a bloody tree stump where the girls’ Father embedded the sharp edge of an axe blade, the handle poised for re-use. In his hand he held a sixteen-inch wire hook. A few feet away lay two large white-feathered roosters’ bodies, twitching and flinching reflexively.
The girls stopped abruptly and huddled together within good viewing distance of the action.
“What are you kids doing here?” interrogated their Father, “You should still be in bed!”
“But you said we could watch,” reminded Windy.
Shanty added reassuringly, “We won’t get scared.”
“No way! We love this kind of stuff!” stuttered Bonky with anticipation and excitement in her voice.
“All right, but no noise from any of you Little Devils,” (an endearing reference the daughters preferred to interpret to be synonymous with Little Divas). “And stay back!” demanded the Dark Warlord of Evil (an equally endearing title usually understood to mean Dear Dad of Envy).
The slightly intimidated Triumphant Triad nodded in unison as they complied with the fastidious rules and regulations befitting a coronation or a knighthood. The Little Divas obligingly satisfied their dear dad and quietly shuffled backwards, a bit farther from the theatrical stage.
The morning sun had still conveniently not risen, so in the half light of the morning dawn, the drama continued. With the wire hook in his left hand poised for battle, the Farmer stealthily moved toward a white sleeping rooster. He carefully hooked the rooster’s ankles and with a quick jerk of the wire, he dislodged the hefty bird from its tree perch and rendered it upside down.
The comatose dinosaur derivative, spread its wings at a relaxed and noble distance appearing more like an eloquently festooned Drag Queen than a Ruler of the Roost. Without delay, the Farmer removed the axe from the surface of the stump and placed the bird’s neck on the chopping block. With calculated precision, the Butcher cracked the air with a hard fall of the axe to the rooster’s neck, severing the cocks combed head from its body. The bird’s bloodstained intellectual center, dropped to the ground and rolled a short distance from the stump.
“See,” said Bonky, “It rolled. It really did roll!” Windy and Shanty didn’t bother to acknowledge their baby sister’s potentially riotous observation.
The Axe-Man hurled the headless fowl off to the side. When it landed, it swiftly became airborne again. Its reflexive muscles powerfully tossed and turned the bird repeatedly as it ascended and descended in a ballet-like theatrical tragedy choreographed for a seasoned audience of macabre cynics and satirists.
The blood spray from the severed neck drew spirals and loops through the crisp October air. Finally, the decapitated winged entertainer settled in a heap near the first two headless carcasses, still twitching and flinching.
Bonky exclaimed, “Wow! What a sight!” She turned to look at Shanty and Windy and added, “Hey, I think we’ve been hit.”
Windy and Shanty looked at Bonky and responded in unison, “Oh shit! How gross!” All three Farmer’s daughters were dramatically spattered with fine droplets of fresh chicken blood.
Windy groaned, “I guess this means baths.” Shanty and Bonky followed with extreme groans.
“Oh well,” squealed Bonky, “it could be worth it. Five more beheadings to go!”
An audible, “ShShShSh!” from the girls’ Father silenced them as he stalked another sleeping Master of the Dance. The sisters quietly spied an opportunity to examine the voice boxes inside the severed heads scattered on the ground. Before their Father returned to the chopping block with his next victim, the Three Illustrious Vixens scrounged sticks off the ground and poked the available throats within reach.
Squawking noises fired out of the disabled beaks like party horns at a birthday. The satisfied Vixens shrieked with delight then rearranged themselves seated on the ground with still a good view from the gallery, but a bit farther back than before. As they huddled together again to watch the next beheading, Shanty said, “I’m glad we don’t live in the city.”
“Yeah, me too,” quipped Bonky.
“City kids are too naïve to appreciate this sort of excitement,” insisted Windy.
“What’s naïve?” inquired Bonky.
Shanty obliged with an answer, “It’s just a nice word meaning stupid, stupid!”
“I’m not stupid!” Bonky retorted as she kicked and elbowed Shanty in the gallery seat next to her.
Windy scolded her two sisters and warned them, “Settle down or we’ll be sent back to the house.”
Shanty turned to Bonky with a firm instruction, “Yeah, don’t wreck this day for us or we’ll be doing dishes instead! This rooster stuff is good for us. It makes us smart. We don’t want to be naïve like the city kids!”
Windy concluded with, “Yeah, we might become great poets, novelists or morticians some day. This training could be valuable. My teacher says that the great thinkers in the world are people very close to nature, people with courage and imagination.
“What’s a mortician?” begged Bonky.
“It’s someone who builds brick fireplaces, stupid!” clamored Shanty.
Windy laughed so hard, she lost count of the axe blows. She corrected Shanty and casually replied, “A mortician is a person who makes dead people look alive.”
“Why would dead people want to look alive?” asked Shanty.
“How do I know?” said Windy, “The dead can’t speak.”
“Shit, I hope not!” droned Bonky.
As the decapitations and aerial dances continued, the Inspired Infidels also continued to argue and cross-examine each other as topics fermented. Following a short meditative evangelical pause, Bonky summarized her cataclysmic thoughts, “Do roosters go to animal Heaven?”
Shanty answered, “No. There is no animal Heaven.”
“Why not?” countered Bonky.
“Animals have no souls,” Shanty definitively remarked.
Windy straightened her back from a previous gladiator slouch and informed her sisters with guarded ostentatiousness, “People don’t have souls either; and for your information, there is no Heaven for people either.”
Shanty and Bonky also straightened their previously slouched gladiator backs. With index fingers wildly pointing directly at Windy they hissed, “Sinner! Sinner! You’ll go to Hell for that!”
Windy calmly hissed back, “There is no Hell.”
“How do you know?” demanded Shanty.
“Yeah, how do you know?” echoed Bonky.
With the uncanny presentation of a Professor with tenure, Windy paced her words, “I simply know that Heaven and Hell are imaginary places that naïve people create in their minds.”
Shanty and Bonky glared at each other with dangerous skepticism in their unretractable voices as they simultaneously exclaimed, “Shit!” for lack of a more intelligent well thought out word suggesting Armageddon and it’s deeply extolled beliefs.
Shanty was the first to challenge her older sister, “What about God? If there is no Heaven, then where does God hang out...besides EVERYWHERE?”
“Yeah?” agreed Bonky.
“There is no God,” said Windy.
Shanty and Bonky irrevocably stated, “Shit!” with heightened concern regarding the implications of a lost concept, but little respect for the deification of Godlessness.
Shanty wondered, “How will we tell our parents?”
Windy apprehensively replied, “We don’t have to. They already know.”
Bonky pouted, “Then why do they pretend to believe in God and Heaven and Hell if they really don’t?”
Shanty also pouted, “Yeah, why would they want to trick us like that?”
Windy resolutely sacrificed a gamble, “Do you like getting money from the Tooth Fairy and presents from Santa Clause?”
“Yes! Yes! We do!” sobbed the two girls in unison.
Their attention was suddenly diverted back to the stage of fowl carnage. The morning sun skirted the horizon and threw subtle beams of light that penetrated the Coliseum of Terror. With one final calculated precise stroke, the Butcher cracked the air with a hard fall of the axe to Number Ten, severing the last cocks-combed head from its body.
With similar gravity of thrust, Windy also dropped the axe, “Well,” she uttered with deliberate hesitation, “the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus do not exist, and nor does God; but most people like to think they do.”
Bonky cried, “Shit! The Tooth Fairy?”
Shanty blurted, “... and Santa Clause?”
Together they cried, “They don’t exist?”
“Of course not,” reassured Windy.
A prolonged and saturated lamentation emerged from the vocal cords of the two devastated younger siblings. It was as if their voice boxes were being prodded with a stick.
Shanty finally acquiesced mournfully, “Oh well, at least I won’t have to worry about going to Hell anymore.”
Bonky agreeably gargled a moan, “Yeah, me either.”
The slaughter was over, but not the punishment the two traumatized siblings cohesively decided their philosophically brilliant older sister deserved.
Before their Father disengaged from his chores, Shanty and Bonky repeatedly kicked and flogged Windy as she tumbled back and forth between them. The young Professor cradled her precious head in her skinny-jacketed arms and laughed unabashedly at her sisters’ unsuccessful attempts to suppress her influence and individuality. The psychologically agonized pair of Monstrous Child Tyrants failed to harm her.
All three Divas quickly rose to their feet as they noticed their Father approaching the viewing gallery. With an unmistakable sigh of disgust and a tempestuous shake of his head, the Farmer looked upon his blood-spattered, grass-stained, dirt-encrusted, lack-luster daughters with recognizable disenchantment.
The pure, angelic, youthful darlings he might have hoped for, was a mere fantasy. Like a harbinger of predictability and rationale, he liberated them with an exhaustive but gentle command, “Jesus Christ! You had better get cleaned up or your Mother will disown you!”
The Three Little Maidens raced to the gigantic outdoor wooden rain-barrel full of cold water. They tore their clothes off as they scrambled head over heels to be the first immersed. The masochistic fiasco resulted in a rejuvenating sequence of primeval ceremonial cleansing. The Barbaric Babes ritualistically soaped and scrubbed themselves and lathered each other’s bountiful discolored locks. Their wet bare skin shivered and their teeth chattered in an arpeggio of vocal sputterings.
Bonky in particular, entranced the chilly sun-drenched October morning with, “Jesus Christ! No Tooth Fairy... No Santa Clause... No God... No Tooth Fairy... No Santa Clause... No God... No Tooth Fairy... No Santa Clause... No God...”
Shanty jerkily pleaded and intercepted Bonky’s repetitious soliloquy with, “I... hope... later... we... can... watch... the... feathering... and gutting... of... the... roosters!”
“I’ll... make... sure... we... can,” shivered Windy in a goose-bumpy staccato voice.
Soufflé With A Kiss And A Warm Bath
Helena was nearly finished high school when she realized that her
exterior being was finally extolling some notable feminine virtues. She
hoped that soon she might be appreciated by more interesting human
specimens than just the giddy, insecure female classmates whose identity
crisis made them want to constantly touch her skin or stroke her curves,
accidentally and intentionally.
The vibrant femme fatale was a powerful target for the lesbian fascination
that dominated the girls’ school she attended. But for Helena, girls did
not arouse in her any emotions other than fight or flight. Girls functioned
as boring companions and dull conversationalists at the best of times, and
hostile jealous creatures the rest of the time.
Girls were semi-functional, uninspiring clones. They were replications,
not unlike her father’s herd of bovine conformities. Touching their teats
would have been less than scintillating. Girl’s kisses were dry and
deceptive; their fondling was awkwardly cumbersome and loveless.
Helena’s conclusions were the result of embarrassing attempts against her
purist heterosexual constitution during an unavoidable clandestine
sleepover in the girl’s dormitory after a late night study session in the
Having lost track of time, the tired susceptible Diva found herself enticed
into a half night’s sleep in the retirement quarters of her resident
classmates. Upon their intrusive, nonconsensual violation of her private
parts, Helena made a frantic exit from the objectionable predatory cast of
scandalmongers. She scurried through dark wide hallways; ran clear of
Private Teachers’ Lounges and Student Cafeterias; descended granite
stairways and eventually entered the Janitor’s room where she curled up
on an empty cot. The displaced, sleep deprived, emotionally wounded
runaway rested for a few nightmarish hours until a stream of sunlight
struck her face and aroused her before the in house staff and students
began to stir.
Later, in the Phys-Ed shower room where all the girls were temporarily
naked, attended by a gymnasium supervisor and member of the
sisterhood; the juvenile neophytes were visually scanned by the burly
nun from inside her defensive cloak and habit. Helena, feeling
extraordinarily secure and boldly superior, exposed her athletic but
modestly developed physique with obvious pride and flamboyance. Her
delicate musculature moved with assurance, ease and confidence as she
undressed, cleansed herself and dressed again. Her dejected ambient
classmates however, cowered shyly behind their surreptitious desires,
blushed cheeks, unfulfilled sexual strategies and oversized towels.
Helena was solemnly preparing her mind and body for an exquisitely
stimulating male companion, someone who would be an exalting lover
and quintessential friend. The young Goddess’s patience and integrity
withstood the passing of final exams including her driver’s license, a long
awaited acquisition which bestowed upon her a most vital degree of
Without any impending foresight or intuitive sensibility, she finally met
her elusive male one evening at the lake near her school. Helena was
resting on the sandy beach watching the sun disappear when suddenly he
was quietly sitting beside her. They both had been jogging around the
body of water at spaced intervals.
Unknown to Helena, as she mentally carved her poems and recipes; with
each rhythmic step he had been behind her, training for the sports team at
the boys’ high school across the street from the convent. Sitting side by
side, they talked and laughed with mounting acquaintance and trust.
Nonchalantly, they slipped off their clothes and entered the lagoon.
The motionless water was soothing as a warm bath. As they relaxed near
each other casually floating in circles, hours passed. They shared stories
under moonlight, tiredly whispered goodbye and agreed to meet again
the next evening.
Helena was demonstratively excited. The next day was Saturday, a
cooking day and she had already been fearlessly skinny-dipping with
someone named Napoleon. Should she give him a poem or just
something candidly appetizing?
Naturally, she planned to share her extraordinary culinary talent with her
newly discovered mate; her poetry she thought could wait. Helena
occupied her kitchen all Saturday afternoon displaying great fervor and
radiance as she prepared a ravishing dessert. It didn’t take Helena long to
decide that her Napoleon might appreciate the extravagance of a
Perfectly baked and draped in streams of chocolate and flavored with
spirits of rum, Helena guardedly delivered the gift that evening to her
Napoleon by the lake. When she arrived, he was already there waiting for
her, with a gift as well. For Helena, Napoleon held an iridescent white
seashell with a blue topaz necklace nestled inside.
They sat down on the sand close to each other, cradling the warm bowl of
soufflé and cupping the jewels between them. With each spoonful of
dessert, Napoleon leaned toward Helena; with sensual grace, he
embedded his damp lips on her forehead; on each cheek; then intently, on
Helena swayed with intoxication as the earth rocked under her. A surge
of trembles flowed throughout her being and overtook her sense of
judgment and rationale. Like a flock of internal migrating butterflies
dislodging her center of gravity, she felt limp and disembodied. Helena
was as dreamily captivated by every kiss, as Napoleon appeared
genuinely captivated by each mouthful of soufflé, until the bowl was
Helena grew mildly perplexed as her Napoleon seductively smiled, then
began to lick the inside of the bowl for any final remnants of ephemeral
pleasure. He groaned and rhapsodized with each unctuous swirl of his
tongue around the dish, until the feast was truly over. Napoleon’s oral
endeavor seemed comically onanistic, yet unobtrusive.
The evening continued in deliberate anticipated silence. Both Helena and
Napoleon impulsively discarded their clothes and hesitated momentarily
before entering the lake. Napoleon secured the string of faceted stones
around Helena’s neck as she shamelessly gazed at the strident Athenian
attending to her. His juvenile regard for the soufflé was a display
completely antithetical to his physical maturity. His muscular wealth and
gracefully hung necessities reminded Helena of the quantifiably beautiful
stallion in her yard. Without a moment of hesitation or mistrust, Helena
stretched outward onto her back, suspended by the warm bath and her
She began to seriously ponder the significance of the young man nibbling
at her wet toes like minnows, when she pleasantly awakened to the
meaning of a very special kiss; one that found its way up the watery
pathway between her legs, as she continued to lay suspended upon the
lake. Napoleon’s watery lips and tongue journeyed along her inner thighs
to the entrance of her private orgasmic temple, then kissed and gently
suckled her vulnerable bud of sensory sublimation. How did he know it
was there? And how did he know of her longing to be seduced into such
ecstasy? His capacity and appetite for indulgence was becoming
obviously sacrosanct. Napoleon’s slippery wet hands slowly caressed
Helena’s torso as they ascended towards her small plump pubescent
The erotic experience was enveloping Helena in a positively tranquil
mission to the stars and back. She would certainly have to analyze the
meaning of the epiphany later. The bowl licking sequence earlier seemed
of little worrisome consequence now and perhaps it was even a necessary
prelude to the ultimately angelic kiss between her thighs.
What if she had given Napoleon a poem? Would the planets have shifted
out of their orbits? Would a coronation so triumphant have occurred in
serious detriment of her youthful virginity for the dignity of a greater
sphere of Wisdom, Fertility and Divinity?
Helena disengaged from her virtuous position on the water. As she stood
on the sandy bottom of the lagoon, somewhat unsteadily, she drew
Napoleon close to her. The warm bath water surrounded them as the air
above cooled and the sky darkened. The topaz adornment glistened
against Helena’s wet skin.
With her arms wrapped around his sculpted torso, Helena graciously
kissed Napoleon’s lips. He thanked her for the chocolate soufflé, and
Helena thanked him for making her feel like one. The evening ended with
the young Goddess feeling uncertain of everything, including their next
already planned encounter.
Causes Wendy McNally Supports
Cancer Support; Sick Kids