Extending The Milf List Ch 23

EXTENDING THE MILF LIST: CHAPTER 23

Finding the Path Beyond the MILF List

"You can't fuck for a living if you are a man." I spoke the words with the eager conviction of the newly converted, the acolyte newly minted, brim full of the certainty that insufficient information tends to create. My excuse is that I was a youth, pure and simple and I had just had the most incredible days of delight, fucking a host...or would it be a hostess...the Holy Host? The Holly Host? The Holly Hostess? Whatever, I fucked the semantics out of a lot of females. I fucked them all, a coterie of females so that my perspective on life was canted in favor of pussy and then de-canted to fill me with doubt about the wisdom of allowing pussy to so thoroughly dominate my life. Now, in this surrealistic moment, I was being confronted with a contrary view from the sixth degree of separation.

But it was far from that simple because it was the sixth degree of separation from three or four points in my life. Jeb Wills knew the man or he said he knew Jeb Wills. He also knew Hassum, though not well, only by sight he said. He knew Borland Northcutt and Suzanne...when he mentioned her I got the distinct feeling he knew her in much the same Biblical way, chapter and verse, that I had been introduced to her and it amused me to think this serious guy with the sense of humor of a guillotine could have been mounted by Suzanne. He also said he knew Pixie, which amused me more. The picture of that tuft of pussy penetrated by this guy's cock was so surreal that it almost seemed normal. Now that is surreal! And last but not least, he knew Chilton St. Vincent and the clump of family pussy that I had all fucked. Not the guys, just my standard though I don't mind lining a cock and pussy up for that fine and delicious interaction...er...insertion.

What is more, he seemed to know who I had fucked and why...which is silly because "why" was always answered with "because I could" in my mind and he seemed to see some complex and profound purpose to it all. Oddly, Sid...oh, yes, he knew Sid and Annie both and rattled off a few Chinese names I did not remember and did not know, so they were not "separation" so much as disconnections. Sid had recommended me to him, so he said. This guy was the most humorless man, no person, I had ever met. He talked like Ellen but with no understanding of how odd and funny and foreboding he was. He acted as if it was all normal.

"So you see, Mr. Duncan, there is some indication that you have a rather unique property that could have some value to me, to us. I know Hassum but he doesn't know me, not by sight. He arranges some things for me from time to time but I don't meet him face to face." I really wanted to make some smart ass comment about why I was blessed with his face and this meeting but something else had caught in my mental craw and I got busy hawking it up, trying to clear my head of the whole idea, which silence he took for assent and persisted in talking which I had the distinct feeling made him uneasy. By the time he paused, I was uneasy...and I had very good reason.

"But you say you kill people for a living." I muttered, disbelieving. The man shook his head.

"I have said no such thing. You said that."

"Why else would you want someone to be able to get a woman out of the house so only the husband would be home?" I asked, all Hollywood-wise in my liberal narrow-mindedness.

"Maybe I'm gay and want to try my hand at raping a Vanilla Wafer who has a beautiful wife to compare it with some other version of dicking a dick." He has his own lingo, I'll say that for him.

"Hey, that's not funny." I objected. "I was once a vanilla wafer."

"Never intended it to be. My friend, I do know this will likely twist up your girdle...but that is part of the test. You may never see me again. If you fail the test, you'll one day think you dreamed this and the reality I live in will fade from your mind. Not every shadow hides a horror."

Great. I get stuck with a Zen Master Assassin.

"Some shadows are just shadows." He finished, fucking up the whole laconic Zen thing he had going. I felt like I was getting advice from an auctioneer who liked to gossip. "Mr. Duncan, men like you are rare. I am here to see if you can perform under pressure. The pressure that knowledge creates when surrounded by people who don't understand what is really going on."

That puzzled me.

"Why would that create pressure in me?"

The man shrugged and that didn't look comfortable for him, like he had learned it from me and was curious about what being unsure of something was like, like tasting an exotic new food from a street vendor as a way of living dangerously for once, haute cuisine a la gutter, snails served cold in a plastic bag. He continued.

"Some people seem to need to tell what they know. I guess to see if they know it, to get external validation, to correlate the new, strange information in a way that tells them they know it. They chatter and if you just listen, you know what they know soon enough, what they think too soon, what they believe unavoidably early, too early. They mistake potential for ability. And they learn nothing of you. If I see you again, ever, it will be because you have gone on with your life like this moment never happened."

With that, he rose and left the hotel room.

Talk about weird. That was fucking weird. I come back to a hotel room, paid for by...well, either my sisters, which makes no sense, or their boss's wife, which makes much less sense so that would be like negative sense despite the fact that she seemed to want to be fucking me but wasn't, then anyway, or the boss himself paid for said room, which makes the most sense because he's intent on boning sisters, but who isn't? My sisters is the point, so if he is paying for my room so I can fuck his wife, it's all to get a mile of cock into my sisters six inches at a time, which does make sense but everyone denies it, so I go to that room on that Wednesday and I find this guy. No name, he tells me when I ask, because it's better if I don't know. He's just a blue presence...not his skin idiots, clothes right down to blue suede shoes, shades of midnight and mystery. He then runs a finger down his left cheek smearing the makeup there and pulls off the bushy black right eyebrow so he looks like a mime who just got punched out by a gay boxer. It's just to let me know not to trust my eyes either, he says.

Then he tells me that he has reason to have access to a man like myself...I puff up at being called a man, which has not happened very often yet at that point in my life and I was still young enough to have that as a sincere aspiration, that I'd be a man someday. I asked why and he says, powerful men, important men, evil men still had women who loved them and mostly the women were innocent and should not be splattered with the blood of the sacrifice when their men pay for their sins. And he is surprised that I jump to the conclusion that he is an assassin! I suppose if you analyze his statement the blood came from the sacrifice and the sacrifice was a metaphor for paying a debt of some sort but still...blood!

He tells me that it is a fantasy that men like him were any good at seducing females or males for that matter or anyone. The James Bond character does not exist, at least not for very long. Once a man is known to think with his dick, Mr. No Name says, the minute he steps into the shadow, someone will end his life, just to reduce the clutter in the shadows, I suppose. "No, lethality and sensuality remain forever separate despite the French overstatement or understatement, which is what brings me to you," he said to me. "The best way to move an innocent out of the way of disaster is to have her seduced, to have her mind succumb to the needs of her body and then find that her heart has been captured in the process."

"You mean get her to think with her pussy?"

Mr. No Name looked positively embarrassed.

"I wish you wouldn't use that word with me." He said.

"Okay, how is cunt? That better?" I was finally back on my metaphorical feet from finding this strange man in my hotel room. When I challenged him, in the midst of a disturbing experience of my own, with an internal fissure in my psyche, destined to grow more intense, Mavis would see to that, he opened our interview by showing me a very menacing weapon, a matte black pistol in a shoulder holster while informing me of his conviction that he didn't think I wanted to make a ruckus or call security or anything of that sort. In fact, after he had his say, he thought I would likely just forget him and this conversation.

See? I'm trying to tell about this experience and it's all jumbled up in my head as if my head wasn't like a rummage sale after a tornado already or no, it would be soon, as I said, Mavis would contribute to my inner turmoil...but I'll get to that. Finding a stranger in my hotel room, well, a male stranger I guess, that unnerved me. Like it can't be real and isn't something that fits for Sonny Duncan. I remember snippets of the conversation but mostly I have this amorphous sense of what happened, which sort of fits with his intimation that I'd eventually think (and feel) like I imagined the whole thing which seemed immediately reasonable since I thought at the time I was...imagining him, his words and that blackish pistol he showed me. He wanted to tell me that he might like to engage me to "seduce a woman or two from time to time, to move them out of the line of fire" were his words. "Or maybe to interdict some childishly jealous man from doing something he ought not to be doing by tweaking his jealous nose."

"By fucking his wife?" I'd interrupted, aghast and appalled and feeling most put upon. That I would ever be party to such a perversion astounded me...but then I remembered my promise to Borland about seducing his ex-wife, check, and the insinuation to her that I'd put her 19 year old son between her legs, check, and handing Lydia to Seth, check and Holly on a leash, check, and fucking Mrs. Percival so my sister, ugh, sisters, could fuck her apparently incredibly sexy husband, check, well pending at that precise moment but Mrs. Percival assuredly gets fucked, by me...how the man knew all these things and managed to throw them into my face, I had no idea. I didn't want to know either. It spelled N S A, however I labeled it. Or he was an angel from God and I should be soon heading back to church?

See? I am making very little sense because this is Hollywood movie type of shit, not Sonny Duncan type of shit. Of course, when I think about what I had been doing, as Mr. No Name aptly pointed out to me, no one would believe that either. Not like I was firmly rooted in conventional reality anyway...so that realization allowed me to listen to the guy without freaking out because he'd casually showed me a gun. In fact, looking back on it, I was calm, cool and collected even though my asshole was tight as that of a felonious priest in prison.

Each time I try to summarize, I get new flashing fragments of why I think that part of the summary is true but I'll try to stop chasing rabbits. The point of his visit was to tell me that he would be interested in engaging me to seduce specific women in a time frame of his choosing. He was telling me this to see if I could function with that possibility dangling out there. He wanted me to know of this possibility and then he'd "see" if I could function normally in my life with that possibility pending on purpose.

I told him there was no chance. I didn't do theater and I'd fall to pieces. Theater was Chris's world but this guy didn't know Chris so wouldn't get the reference, or would he? That thought made my neck tickle, so I told him I had no aspiration to do that but he just smiled in a way that would forever define enigmatic smiles for me. I think he left about then and Mavis returned. I almost asked her if she saw the guy but realized I had no idea how to begin to explain our conversation, being less able at that moment then even, than I am now! Oh, he did say never to mention him to anyone, which, well, I am mentioning it but, I didn't at the time or later, just now, so the contradiction is only if you discount time and space which I find inconvenient if not down right risky.

I know, I'm skipping a whole lot of stuff and I am. When last we left our hero, he was arriving in the hotel room his sisters had got for him, presumably for his rest and recovery after a couple weeks of non-stop fucking that they feared was killing him or at least, affecting his scholastic endeavors adversely (which it wasn't by the way, well not much, well okay, maybe they had a point, a small one, but points tend to be small so that's just silly and redundant). Turned out that they were putting him in the path of the wife of their boss whom they all seemed to want to fuck, the boss not the wife, Georgia at the very least, except she had already fucked him but past the 500 miles the rules allowed so that didn't count in their calculus of coitus. They had made this big "to do" about intervening to save my life when they were only trying to get me focused on freeing up the boss at work so they could get additional cock. Without hurting my three little feelings I suppose.

I honestly had no idea where they worked. It always struck me as a little strange that they all worked at the same place and traveled and did things like that. I was incurious. They didn't offer and I didn't ask. They didn't know what my major in school was...which is sort of disingenuous since I didn't know either. So her explanation that she was Mavis Percival and her husband was Howard Percival who was the head honcho at the place where all three of my sisters worked sounded just outlandish enough to be plausible, even if I didn't much feel like checking the story. The "lazy" do love trust. So do the "naive", the "innocent" and...oh well, fuck me, I guess everyone loves trust.

She was in my hotel room, Mavis was...that is, in my hotel room bed, wearing, when I looked closer, one of my shirts over the flimsy negligee that showed off her plush body. And she was plush. Not fat, not even big boned but plush. Her tits were the size of my head, bold, proud and full with no droop or apology, clearly evident as being responsible for the swell in the negligee with its spaghetti straps so tight from the strain of holding in those mammoth breasts they creased her plush upholstery, fine skin that makes the mouth water, my mouth, to be honest, that was the negligee I'd see after she removed my shirt. And thin material that let me see her hard, erect nipples very clearly. The rest of her body was in proportion to those big tits, so that she looked right, just...um...formidable, which, to be clear, was a contradiction, no, a paradox I think she called it when she went to calling things by their proper names, which took her awhile for reasons I had little understanding of.

Mavis had thick ankles but dainty feet, in proportion with rest of her mortal coil, but pretty feet, which is rare which is why some females wear those pointy-toed high heels and the Chinese wrapped their girls' feet with wet leather straps. There was no cottage cheese on her menu. She was like a prototype Porsche, all slick and clean and hard carbon fiber but plush, no straight lines to be seen anywhere. She had those cool brown eyes that make you think she could eat you in one bite and that makes you think about teeth and everything falls apart...voracious has its place but cocksucking may not be the number one spot on the hit parade.

I was so exhausted that Sunday night and with the empirical demonstration that my cock was done for the night, I had no interest in fucking her or anyone else. I thought my sisters understood that. Clearly they had more faith in me than I did or deserved. Mavis was mature too because when I ignored her entirely, showered and slipped into bed, turning off the light on my side of the bed, she didn't say a thing. She just turned off the lamp on her side of the bed and cuddled up against me, pressing her full breasts to my back and that's the last I remember. She was very polite. This was the first indication that Sonny was beyond the MILF list.

I woke up about one in the morning and my body was finally talking to my brain about something besides pussy. Hunger was the topic and the conversation was one sided and repetitive. Mavis, whom I wasn't yet on a first name basis with, was snoring on her side of the bed, the uncommitted sort of sniffle that would keep me awake if nothing else was on my mind. I slipped out of bed and took my clothes out into the hall and dressed...and hoped I had the key card amongst them. I didn't. I did have my wallet and decided I'd worry about the door and getting back into the room after I ate something...something, not someone, assholes.

The hotel restaurant was long closed so I asked at the desk for some all-night establishment catering to cops and drunks, which are different or more people would get shot and for my money, at that moment, I figured we all deserved that and no one was innocent. I was about to prove that I'd passed some point of no return on a journey I didn't plan but which I could not end, avoid or redirect and do something else either.

A hash house down the street got my business. The walk woke me up so I was shivering when I stepped inside. The waitress told me it was too early for the drunks and too late for sane people. I suppose that was a sort of question but I just sat down in a booth and ordered one of everything. Not really, chicken fried steak, eggs, hashed browns with cheese and a big glass of milk. Karen brought it and sat down across from me in the empty place. We chatted while I ate. She seemed very friendly but just that, friendly.

It wasn't until I returned to the room and lay on my back beside the wheezing Mavis who slept sound as a grizzly in January that the existential thought breeched my tired mind and turned it all to oil and water. Suddenly I was all paradox and Platonic love. If a female of age dons a slinky nighty and slides into bed with you, does that constitute consent and the implicit desire to fuck you? And, and if you do not fuck her, putting ability aside for a moment, does that constitute rejection along the lines of "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" sort of hazard, moral and otherwise?

Is the fundamental flaw of jealousy that if you stick your dick into another woman, then you have ipso facto rejected the previous female into whom you had previously stuck your dick and thus scorned her and invoked this hellish fury from which there is no return or recompense? Since a woman can always open her legs and get stuck in just that way without many inhibitions to interfere, does such a wandering curious cock constitute scorn independent of what the man attached to said cock feels? So jealousy is just the incarnation of rejection arriving after the fact, so second, and thus late to the party and not fashionably so, so out of fashion and thus a social sin imposed on the female by the curious cock which made her so? Which accounts for the fury that such social breeches invite?

You get how muddled my mind was in this moment.

I was awake with this sort of reasoning rampant in my mind and that's not the end of it. I had ordered D. Debra to her knees and dipped my dick into sister after sister for her culinary pleasure and she'd opened wide and sucked and licked as instructed, and I was aroused and thrilled...but then I simply handed her off to Jamie to use as he saw fit. Which I presume he did...his presence at my house, at the Sonny ambush, the memory of which was gradually turning to umbrage in me but with no convenient outlet, puzzled me for I didn't know why he was there but he had the woozy look of a man who was sexually satiated and I doubted if he could have fucked the willing Ellen any more than I could have in that moment. But that wasn't the gist of the thought stuck in my mind that kept me awake that night. Of course, had I known about the visitor with the sinister sinecure, that would have kept me awake but that wasn't to occur until hump day. With that on my mind, days later, the next week I'd scurry down a rabbit hole. Here is the thought gyre that pulled me in.