Family Spirit

As the poet said, "Two roads diverged in a woods, and I took the one least-traveled by and that has made all the difference."

That road, a well-paved Federal highway outside Glenwood Springs, quickly became a Colorado State highway, then more of a Pitkin County road, rutted and pot-holed. That turned to well-packed gravel. Then to two ruts going off into the near-distance. Finally it morphed into a walking path, then a deer trail, finally a rabbit run, after which it ran up a tree and disappeared into a knothole.

"Two roads diverged in a woods, and I took the one least-traveled," and now where the Hell was I?

Apparently, I was right beside a little old, disused cemetery, ringed with a rusty old pipe fencing. There were about six old, weed-encrusted headstones and one lonely, tiny mausoleum. The names on the stones said 'Helbore'. The little mausoleum, though, just bore the name of 'Jenny'.

It was sunset and it was clear I wasn't going to get out of where I was until morning. I had about half-an-hour before full sunset, on what was to be a moonless night, and thus blacker than the inside of cow's stomach at midnight.

So—at age 30, here in 1992—my 'campsite' was a silnylon tarp over the triked maxi-scooter, then extended back and pegged down to a grass surface. I was snugged right up against the little tomb, my head almost touching, with a ground-cloth under me, and a can of vaguely-warm beans, crackers plus water for my dinner, drawn from my emergency supplies. Tying and staking everything down took a few minutes and by the last of the evening light, I was in my sleeping bag and settled in for the night.

It was too dark even to think about the composition of my next nightly pun. In the fading light, supplemented by flashlight, I re-read my ex-fiancee's last letter one more time.

Shaking my head at how I managed to 'dodge-a-bullet' by getting away from this enraged, inconsistent, entitled, cheating blonde airhead, I re-read:

"To my creep, pervert, sex-obsessed ex-boyfriend, who should be castrated for his own good. The engagement and marriage plans are OFF.

You didn't do what I told you to do. I was gonna wear the pants in this marriage, that's what I decided, just the way I told you to behave, when you gave me your ring. I'm keeping the ring.

You don't own me. I'm not your slave. I can go out and have sex with whomever I want, whenever I want. After all, I learned in my Women's Study classes, it's my body—my choice—and I can decide to use my body anyway I please.

You just have to pay for my vacations, my dating, my other men and always be there when I get back, chaste and waiting.

The courses I took on Woman's Studies at college taught me that monogamy is a relatively modern concept. It became clear that I needed to 'find myself' and get re-connected with my Inner Sexual Female Goddess.

I learned that a woman's body is designed to please several men, not just one. No one man can totally satisfy me, now that I know I'm truly liberated from obsolete conventional social mores.

So, OK, I had my 'fling.' If you don't like the way I am, you can just fuck off.

After all, this 'fling' was just once, to get it out of my system. It was just recreational sex. Come on, a little fuck with another half-dozen black guys over a couple weeks vacation that you paid for is no big thing.

But you didn't wait for me to come back. You weren't chaste, the way I demanded you to be. You dated another woman while I was gone to the Islands.

You weren't true to me. You betrayed me.

Now I've got to punish you.

The best thing is that I don't have to listen to any more of your stupid, dumb puns, jokes and limericks any more.

So I'm getting rid of you before we get married. You're a sick, perverted sex fiend. All you want to do is fuck and have sex, twice a week at least. You're pathetic. My grandmother and mother warned me about men like you.

My former boyfriend was so much more moral, so upstanding. He didn't want to do sex morning and evening, especially since he had that really good-looking hunk of a close friend to spend time with, not bothering me for any dirty, nasty stuff, until the two of them suddenly left.

That meant I had to make-do with you.

Except for my 'fling,' sex outside a committed relationship isn't right. It says so in the Bible, and in social hygiene films.

I don't talk about sex. I don't think about it. I don't miss it.

Remember, sex is only for married people, for diamond-ring owners, for nice girls. Sex takes place behind closed doors, with the lights out, bed-clothes on and then only for 3 minutes.

Sex isn't fun. Sex isn't casual. Sex is a deadly serious, disgusting, dirty, humiliating, sticky-gooey, slimy, degrading business. Sex is nasty. Sex is what women have to endure. Sex is shameful.

I have to save my sexing because pleasure from sex is a commodity that can be provided or withheld, bought or sold, even in marriage. That means there's only just so much of it, so I've got to be frugal with it.

Sex has VALUE = MONEY = WEALTH and I've got to save every little bit of it. Now that you're gone, I can tell you that I'll give up the least amount of sex I can, while getting the most money and valuable stuff I can from my Island men.

Now that I'm free of you and your pervert's fantasies, I can tell you the truth. Liking sex is what you fake until the ink is dry on the marriage license. Just lie there. Don't move around. Don't use your fingernails or moan or anything; that's slutty.

That's what Mom, Grand-mom and the profs at school taught me. I am not a slut. Being a slut is not frugal.

I'll never let a man make me into a slut, so I'm getting out. I get to keep the ring and all the gifts you gave me, plus the car and the apartment, all paid up for the year. I have some new guys that I met in the Islands and each one is bigger, better, longer and stronger than you and they only want sex when I say, which will be once a month, if that.

Goodbye, mofo!"

Shaking my head at the lengths a screwed-up, entitled woman would go through to justify, rationalize and excuse a bad-judgement, emotionally-impulsive decision, I relaxed, looking up at the star-filled sky, through the edge of my emergency tarp.

I was in luck, as the weather forecast said no rain.

Yeah, sure. The flash of lightning and clap of thunder woke me from a dreamless sleep, along with the pattering of raindrops on the silnylon fabric over me. Sighing, I burrowed back into the bag and fell back asleep again, hoping for no wind.

It was an odd dream. Very vivid, in full color and sound. I was me (warts and all) but naked, lying on a bed of soft, sun-warmed moss. No tent & no bike. There were trees around, but in the near distance, a wall of mist enclosed the trees. I could hear a little wind in their leaves, above, but where I was, the air was still. I was sun-warmed, although there was no sun overhead, just glowing mist.

I also sported a huge, rock-solid, throbbing erection.

Just beside my head was the little mausoleum, but this time, the little door on the front was open, revealing a small bronze container sitting inside.

On the top of the little white limestone coffer was a girl.

She was sitting there, one leg under the other in a sort-of leg-swinging half-lotus, the other leg idly swinging. One tanned leg swinging, spread wide. Leather slippers on her feet. No tan lines on her hips or belly.

I noticed that there were no tan lines because all she had on were thin doeskin fringed leggings, attached to a thin leather belt around her waist at the outside. She had a simple loin-cloth arranged up-and-around-and-through the belt, but it was pulled aside, exposing her bare shaven-smooth pussy. Above the belt, she was a bare-midriff little hoyden. Delightful nut-brown bare waist.

She had a sort-of soft, fringed, thin leather vest that kind-of enclosed her small but prominent boobs. The vest was held together by a simple loop tie, in a slip-knot, with a small leather toggle. The leather was thin enough that I could clearly see the twin thrusts of her erected nipples through the material. I guessed that one tug on the toggle and the vest would come apart, baring all of her to my gaze.

Tanned shoulders, face and neck. Long brown hair, ironed smooth in a late 60's hippie style, down to her shoulders, held back with a simple leather band. No jewelry. No rings. No make-up that I could see. No lipstick.

A silly grin on her face, bright black eyes looking right at me. At my felt-like-iron-rod cock.

"Hi, I'm Jenny," she said, adding, "I'm kinda dead. I hope you don't mind. You're cute."

What do you say to a pretty girl in a vivid dream, who appears hot, dresses like a slutty hippie but says she's dead? I noted that, although her tongue, lips and mouth appeared to move, what I heard echoed inside my own head, like my own voice.

In such cases, I'm so smooth, suave, sophisticated, so cool. Yeah, sure and water flows uphill.

I gurgled, coughed, choked a little, tried a couple of false starts and stuttered out, "Uh, I'm Casimir but everyone calls me Caz. No, I don't mind that you're, uh, dead. Right now, you look pretty hot to me. I like your smile."

In my confusion, I fell back on my lifelong habit of making up puns when I was stressed. "Wanna hear a funny joke?"

She giggled agin and grinned, saying, "Yeah."

So I told her about The Cowboy:

"It seems the Israeli police, in conjunction with Interpol, are looking for the thief who robbed the Port of Haifa bank. The miscreant names himself as The Cowboy.

Little is actually known about this mysterious person, as only fragments have come to light.

There is an unsubstantiated rumor that The Cowboy likes to play American Roots music, usually on a Native-American flute.

Some sources suggest that he actually is an American, named Joe, raised in the State of Arizona, as part of the large and extended Gunn Family.

There is some controversy, regarding The Cowboy, because each robbery was accompanied by a stylized picture of a cowboy hat, usually drawn with red marker on a prominent surface. However, while the Haifa robbery did have such a drawing on a wall, it was done in red lipstick.

In addition, it had a used tampon dangling from the drawing, pasted to the wall. Analysis of this item indicated that it came from a female who was having her monthly period (or, as the American's put it so indelicately, 'being on the rag').

Therefore, in summary, the two law enforcement groups are looking someone—now renamed as 'Jo'—who is:

A Haifa-lootin', Rootin'-tootin', Son of a Gunn, From Arizona: Rag-time, Cowboy Jo."

Jenny laughed so hard she fell off the tomb and rolled around in the moss, holding her sides and then grasping at her bare pussy, still on display, legs wide open. Still laughing, she knelt over me, pulling the toggle that held the leather vest together. The vest fell open, exposing both small boobs, having very erect nipples on top of equally-swollen, mounded-up aureolas.

Jenny said, right out of the blue, "That was funny. I like you. Tell me more funny stories. You have a big, hard cock. Wanna have some sexy fun?"

That, I knew how to handle, saying, "Yes, I'd like to have sexy fun with you."

With that, Jenny said, "Wheeee," and slid off her hands and knees, then into my arms, wiggling like a very female eel. Her little boobs had no tan lines. The loincloth and leggings disappeared in a few seconds. Her skin was cool but also sun-warmed. I was smothered in giggles, sighs, gasps and moans, as we both massaged each other with our whole bodies.

Jenny held my cock with one small, cool but surprisingly-strong hand while I attended to her boobs, aureolas and distended, rigid nipples. She appeared to have at least two squealing orgasms while I kissed and massaged each one, her back arching and legs kicking.

Moving to 'eat-at-the-Y' cafeteria, I found her tiny clitoris and equally-tiny pussy opening and lightly tongued both. Suddenly, I was simultaneously deprived of life-giving oxygen in the air, blinded by the clasp of quite strong, well-tanned thighs and deafened by close proximity to a steam-powered calliope playing the Fuck-Me Sonata without any sharps or flats.

Somehow, I managed to get little gasps of air through her thighs, exhaling directly onto to her clit, which sent her off into a back-arching, kicking, arms-thrashing multi-orgasm. It was clear that Jenny, being dead but remaining hot and squirt-full (but I didn't get wetted), didn't need to inhale or exhale, and I did.

An indeterminate time later, my throbbing cock slid inside this squirming, squealing, thrashing little girl and her black eyes—which I happened to be looking at right then—went wide. With pleasure. She screamed out, "Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes. Deep. Hard. Sex me, you big dick little dead girl molester, yes, fuck me, hard, deep. I want it. Need it. Oh, yeah, take me. I wanna offer all of me to you. Take me. Cum inta me. Oh, Gawd, yes, yes, yes!"

I thrust into her. Often, hard and fast, deeply into this sun-warmed young girl, fresh from the tomb. Not knowing how long I could last, I thrust like a mad man, in-and-out, over top of her in classic missionary position, looking deeply into her startlingly-black eyes, the pupils fully dilated.

I didn't last. Couldn't last. Surrounded by this tornado of passion and lust, I came into Jenny, hard, deep and long, in several pulses of man-seed.

Only to crash to one side, immediately after, as soon as the man-orgasm passed. I waited for the 'he-raped-me' scream or the cutting words of, 'so-soon, my-former-boyfriend-could-last all-night' and the other things just-fucked women say to 'even-the-score' ... which didn't happen.

Jenny just sighed, smiled and then cuddled into my exhausted arms. Damn, she might be dead but I surely wanted more of this wanton little chick, just as soon as I could get enough strength to raise my head.

She said, dreamily, "That was wonderful. I could see into you while you had me. You were so focused, right up at the end. I could feel what you were doing to me, with your cock, at the same time I felt it inside myself. You were so powerful! I looked down at myself, cumming, while I looked up at you, cumming. I want more. A lot more."

She added, "I can't leave my jar inside the little room, except in your dreams. You'e got to be close to my jar, too. Steal me away. Please. Pretty please."

With my new girlfriend enclosed in my arms, we drifted off to sleep.

We made more love twice more that night, all in the moss bed and all illuminated by the sunless enclosing mist.

In the pre-dawn darkness, though, Jenny slid out of my arms and started to shrink, as she moved toward the little white tomb, finally becoming as tiny as the small opening into the chamber inside. At the end she just faded into the bronze container.

I snapped awake with newly-risen sun in my eyes, still in my sleeping bag. Checking carefully, though, there were no signs of spilled semen nor of girl-squirt inside the bag. Jenny had absorbed it all. The tomb door was closed.

Resting there, the tarp covering my over-night camping site, I had to make a decision. Leave the tomb intact or break in, stealing jenny's cremains and become a grave robber.

I hesitated—about 2 whole seconds—consulting my exhausted-but-still-tingling cock. Then, using my heaviest wrench and a rock, I smashed the little door to the mausoleum and took out the small bronze container of Jenny's cremins. I packed the little bronze container inside my sleeping bag, gathered up my tarp and pegs, and stowed everything in the under-seat compartment to my triked Burgman maxi-scooter.

In case I had to come back, to return Jenny's cremains, I took a reading from my phone's GPS, getting the latitude, longitude and the altitude of the Helbore cemetery in Colorado's Pitkin County.

—————.

Then I rode back the way I came and took the other fork in the road (the one more traveled by) to get a breakfast and gas for the trike. A 250-mile day later, I got a room in an up-scale motel and crashed for the night, the small bronze container on the nightstand, right by my head.

Jenny emerged in my vivid dream, again. This time, she danced and stripped for me, then posed as sexy as possible, all over the motel's room. She got a bit transparent when she was more than 10' away from her bronze container. Stretching her limits of distance from her container (about 10 feet), late at night, I got her urn at the edge of the motel's pool, after I managed to fall asleep on a chaise-lounge at the water's edge.

In dream-time, Jenny imitated a mermaid for half-an-hour, never surfacing (since she didn't need to breathe). If you've never been cock-sucked by a mermaid, I recommend the sensation to you, with a follow-up of mermaid-style (submerged) complete sexual penetration and multi-orgasm sexing. It was a small pool but I swear we raised waves, at least in dream-time. Waking, I gathered up her urn, stumbled back to the motel's room and collapsed.

What an exhausting wench!

Two more sex sessions happened, before my Jenny had to withdraw to her cremains container, just before sunrise.

Before she shrunk, I told her the one about the Yugoslavian nun:

"PRILEP, Yugoslavia (AP) - Outside a small Macedonian village close to the border between Greece and strife-torn Yugoslavia, a lone Catholic nun keeps a quiet watch over a silent convent. 
She is the last caretaker of the site of significant historical developments spanning more than 2,000 years. 
When Sister Maria Cyrilla of the Order of the Perpetual Watch dies, the convent of St. Elias will be closed by the Eastern Orthodox Patriarch of Macedonia.

However, that isn't likely to happen soon as Sister Maria, 53, enjoys excellent health. By her own estimate, she walks 10 miles daily about the grounds of the convent, which once served as a base for the army of Attila the Hun. 
In more ancient times, a Greek temple to Eros, the god of love, occupied the hilltop site. Historians say that Attila took over the old temple in 439 A.D. and used it as a base for his marauding army. 
The Huns are believed to have first collected and then destroyed a large gathering of Greek legal writs at the site. 
It is believed that Attila wanted to study the Greek legal system and had the writs and other documents brought to the temple. 
Scholars differ on why he had the valuable documents destroyed -- either because he was barely literate and couldn't read them, or because they provided evidence of democratic government that did not square with his own notion of rule by an all-powerful tyrant. 
When the Greek church took over the site in the 15th Century and the convent was built, church leaders ordered the pagan statue of Eros destroyed, so another ancient Greek treasure was lost. 
Today, there is only the lone sister, watching over the old Hun base, amidst the strife of war torn Yugoslavia, and when she goes, that will be it. 
Thus, that's how it ends—like a technically-perfect game—with no Huns, no writs, no Eros, and nun left on base."

As before, I thought my un-dead sex-lover would bust a gusset laughing (not that she was wearing anything that had a gusset at that moment ... or much of anything else).

It might seem that I was getting sex every night, which just wasn't so. After all, I had to pilot my trike, eat, calculate, get really restful sleep, pay bills (online), day-dream, stay in touch with my attorneys, deposit royalty checks, invent, read and do all the 101 other tasks that a on-the-road nomad must attend to. Jenny only came into my dream-life when I slept with my head near her urn.

While resting, I once asked her about the times when I didn't waken her.

She replied, "Cas, while you're not sleeping near me, I'm not awake. I can't tell time or day-dream or anything like that, since what we do is mostly in your head, but directed by me. If anyone else had sex with me before you came by, I'd never know about it now. I can only remember what you remember."