Scott s Yucca Man Tale
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A Short Tale free porn video
I DON'T BELIEVE IN THAT CRAP
The Americas isn't the place to be anymore. Well, not for me. Things
have become somewhat sketchy of late. Insider trading, is that a law?
Do they actually charge white crimes in today's environment? I
understand that, as I believe it was Zsa Zsa Gabor who stated so
elegantly, laws are for the little people. I am so above being a little
person; I could not have charges brought against me!
The audacity of it all is mind-numbing. Committing acts, so commonly
carried out by the upper echelon of political characters, hey, they
were the ones to turn me onto the easy train, is now looking to be a
poor decision. I've paid them well. I played the game by their rules,
and now I'm high and dry.
Melany O'Hara, a better-looking Irish lass, is not in existence as far
as I know. And a righteous fuck. That girl should have been born a man
to explain her sexual appetite. Myself included a confident
egotistical, maniacal bastard who needs energy drinks (or something
heavier) to ensure the competitive nature of sex with this woman. She
does float my boat.
We talked of mirage. Well, she needs a green card. Apparently, she has
reasons not to return to her home country. Now I think that marriage
might be in the cards. Citizenship in Ireland might be something that I
now desire.
There is something about Melany. Something that draws you in, even as
she partakes of your company, she acts superior, equal at best. Yes,
she exists on a plane at least equal to your manhood. Usually, this
would be a repulsive attribute, but on her sexual persona, it makes
sense. It is something that will be accepted, or you will not be in her
company.
It would be nice if she talked less. She is not like other women in
this department, but God, they all jabber on. Talking to her was not
what I preferred. Looking at her stocking clad long legs in shiny high
heels framed by incredibly short sheath dresses as she peters about in
the kitchen doing womanly chores does something to me. A leg man first,
it is so refreshing to see a woman take time to wear stockings. Of
course, her well-endowed breasts spilling out the top of her expensive
but straightforward dress grab my attention. The soft, supple orbs
accentuate a platform leading to an angelic face.
Yes, doing woman's chores is at odds with her personality. This
anomaly, I believe, is what draws me in. A take-charge woman doing
woman's work seems to make no sense. The clothes are traditional sexist
offerings. The duties seem from a time gone past. Yet, she is a tiger.
Please make no mistake; Melany has no problem excluding you or anyone
else from her existence. Everything is a show and a negotiation. She
shows you what you believe you want to see and derives her satisfaction
at your expense, if necessary.
Broaching the topic of traveling back to her home country, I'm
surprised to see a change of heart from her. A little crooked grin on
her face gives me pause. I suppose it is the irony that I might want
citizenship from Ireland that causes her to grin. Turnabout is always
interesting.
She tells me of land so green and promising that nothing else compares.
Greenland before the climate adjustment was a close second. America is
undoubtedly beautiful in many locations, but where work is available,
it borders disgusting. If she can go back to her home country with me,
she can correct many misgivings.
Transfering monetary allotments to offshore accounts, I make ready to
disembark on a new adventure. We will be married before we leave to
allow Melany to apply for American citizenship when the time comes. I
do not know why, but she wants it this way.
I can avoid several unpleasant circumstances and all in the company of
an unsatiable sexy Irish lass. Somehow, when I accompany her, I will
alleviate her difficulties in Ireland. Everyone will win. I love it
when things unfold so simply.
CHAPTER 2
A criminal keeping his ill-gotten gain, living in the countryside
estate of an absolute sexy woman, fuck all those politicians. I, again,
have managed to pull a fast one. The good life with a trophy girl at my
beck and call, it is so nice to be smarter than everyone else. And this
girl dresses and acts the part. I do not even have to purchase a
property. All of my money will continue to pile up interest. If I could
have negotiated more time, I could have lived fat on the interest
alone.
Still, it is good to know when to cut and run. You never really know
when the optimal time will be. But now I'm sitting pretty with every
need met. Five hundred fifty fucking acres of rolling hills inundated
with rocks, but yielding large profits from tenant farmers, looks more
spectacular than anything I have ever witnessed.
Why did Melany ever want to leave such a place? The profits were
surreal. The current markets made for her to be a rich woman without
lifting a finger. Sure the tulip famine is well known, but Melenay is
on easy street here. Why on earth would she ever consider leaving?
No running water has to be high on the list. Strange occult rituals
bring many questions to the forefront. I am beside myself, seeing the
first cracks in Melanie's strength. Although the property is very
profitable, candles and fetched water is typical for this place. A
small windmill exists to provide small amounts of electricity when the
wind blows.
"Melany, what is happening, and why are electricity and water not
brought to this place?"
"Toughen up there, Randy."
For thousands of years, people survive such conditions. Why will they
be any different? Melany now seems to be superior. Where I am
uncomfortable, Melany appears to thrive. She has business in town and
will be back later. She suggests that I get dinner ready as she needs
to make all the contacts for services they will need.
The place is tidy, but three years of dust is everywhere. A foxtail
brush (literally) gets the dust off everything above floor level. I
feel bad for the fox. It must have been caught looting the hen house or
some other mischief, but its tail is very effective. The broom seems to
be a bunch of herbs tied to a crooked branch but is very efficient.
Maybe this is just different, and I notice somewhat quicker. All the
modern conveniences may not be all they are cracked up to be.
A wood-fired stove, well, it's not much different than a pizza oven. I
hope I'm doing this right. Strangely this is kind of fun. It is a lot
like camping, but we are not. This is home. And a grand house it is.
Large, lofty ceilings, grand fireplaces, and a wood-carved staircase
from a time gone past. Gothic or are they Keltic symbols and themes run
on the stairs and in the roofbeams above. This place is special.
The hand pump for water in the kitchen island is an upgrade, according
to Melany. Most estates out here have water outside the kitchen door.
She had fetched water from the nearby stream to prime the pump. I had
no idea what she was talking about. But grabbing the handle and pumping
it, I heard gurgling and the promise of water from some deep hole
drilled a millennia ago. I found the clear water flowing from such a
simple device to be entertaining. The noise is different from turning
on a tap. Different but nice.
Learning new ways, which are actually old ways, brings comfort to me. I
have no idea why. The only thing that I can think of is somehow; I am
being connected to human history. The Amish may actually be onto
something. And surprisingly, the old ways seem a little more work-
related but quicker. Everything is a tradeoff.
The icebox/refrigerator with a battery backup is not operational yet.
Salted dried fish needs to be reconstituted. The dried whitefish does
not look appetizing, more like little pieces of concrete than edible
pieces of protein. But as the mineral-rich water gets changed out
several times, it becomes fat and juicy.
Rice with dill and rutabagas make a delicious bed for the excellent
whitefish that looks to be fresh. The transformation is impressive.
Outside wild greens grow, and tomatoes are fresh on a vine that must
have repropagated itself. Salad, fish, and nice starches should impress
Melany. Personally, I'm impressed, so why should she not be?
The whitefish was as good as any expensive meal I have ever paid to
consume or show off for a potential bedmate. The look on Melany's face
lets me know I'm getting laid tonight. The chardonnay complements the
meal quite nicely. I'm not even sure if it was the "correct" wine to
serve, but I only like dry red wines.
Retiring to the bed-chamber, God, I like saying bed-chamber, Melany
starts to undress. This bitch knows she is hot. She is not into
lingerie or perfumes while making...having sex; she prefers to be
naked. Her confidence here is my only complaint; it is a turnoff.
She tells me what will really get her juices going is if the dishes are
done. Apparently, if the kitchen is a mess, it will make her uptight.
Then she did a strange thing; she checked her watch. In this God-
forsaken place, why would she be checking her watch?
"Go and do the dishes, and I will make it worth your while."
I wouldn't say I liked this. I had made us a wonderful meal, and where
I come from, if you cook, someone else cleans up. I stood there with my
palms out like a scale, trying to determine the good versus the bad.
The feather bed looked so inviting. A naked Melany sat on its edge. I
thought I already earned the deed I now wanted at her prodding.
"FUCK!"
Dishes, it won't take that long, and it didn't. After finishing, I now
realized that there is not a proper drain. What does one do with the
dirty dishwater? A naked Melany stood at the bedroom doorway wearing
impossibly high heels. Her dark brown shiny hair her only cover of
modesty.
"Toss it out the kitchen window," she directs.
Looking at her watch again, she grins an evil expression. She claims
that I need to hurry as she is reaching some sexual peak. My reward
insight, dirty dishwater, cold and gray, goes out the window all of the
work being done. What was that scream?
"Pesky rabbits, they can almost sound human at times," she offered up.
Raising her hand as if to whisk me away, I forgot to investigate the
strange anomaly. Then she wants me to wash up. There is no warm water.
I used the last on the dishes. The look on her face is uncaring. She
wants me, but she wants me clean. The water coming out of the ground is
ice cold. I wash up, but the results are less than spectacular. My
usually large package is reduced. She is not dissuaded.
Climbing on top, she gets frustrated quickly and changes plans. The
water was freezing. Oh goody, I get to lick her. Nothing for it; it is
my best option at this point. An hour and a half later, things are
warming up. My dick is standing painfully erect. Then my hopes are
dashed to hell. I've never heard Melany snore before. She might be a
fucking man. Get her rocks off and drift off to sleep.
CHAPTER 3
I couldn't fall asleep. I had given Melany three orgasms last night.
Not to mention a wonderful meal on historical cooking apparatuses and
cleaned the fucking kitchen. Waking with blue balls still complaining
about how they were neglected, I'm surprised to see a decked-out Melany
fixing a beautiful breakfast. She is in the kitchen and had most of the
dirty dishes done. She has not seen me and is squatting by the back
door, ready to pour the dirty dishwater out.
The crazy bitch seems to be talking to someone. She is so sexy. My
erection is painful. Why did God create this creature? I'm not talking
about women in general; I'm talking about Melany. The food smells
divine. Finishing a conversation with nobody, she waits, then empties
the content of her pan out the back door. She is so satisfied with
herself it sends goosebumps down my arms and back.
Seeing me, she is taken back, momentarily. That disarming smile appears
on her face. And she announces that breakfast is ready. I cross the
room and take my prize. Her delicate satin, or is it silk panties move
freely to the side. My larger-than-normal erection garners respect.
Entering, my wife rocks her head back, causing her glorious head of
hair to rub whatever it comes in contact with. She will succumb to my
administrations, and an impression is formed.
"Not bad," Melany thinks to herself.
Breakfast is delicious. I know she is playing the little housewife, but
she can play it anytime she wants. The look on her face speaks of
regret. It is nice to think straight again. Blue balls is no place to
live.
"You seemed to be talking to someone, did a neighbor stop by?"
Melany was evasive. Then she was fucking cheeky.
"I was talking to the king of the little people, and it seems you threw
the dirty dishwater on their heads last night." The smile she displayed
spoke volumes of her hypocrisy. "Darby O'Gill has his haunches up
against you."
She went on to stretch her yarn as far as it would go.
"Ok, ok, it was just a little off-putting the way you seemed to reach
an agreement with nobody."
Melany agreed that some of her mannerisms might seem odd from time to
time, but in her home country, things are a bit different.
She brought me down to the basement to see the coal delivery. The
furnace will need to be fed. Things were indeed very different here.
The modern clothes she kept seem at odds with the way her homestead is
run. Some time needs to be allocated to the house's running, but things
are not altogether different from the modern version. The same things
are accomplished; it is just different.
I know she is superstitious. It is so strange that Melany can kowtow to
ancient fairytales, for that is what they are. The Irish people and
their long, drawn-out stories - it is fucking annoying. Melany is a go-
getter and someone not to be trifled with. Yet here she is spouting off
strange dealings with the King of the little people.
Apparently, I have been cursed, according to Melany. What a crock, and
I don't mean a crock of gold. Everything bad that happens to someone
can so easily be explained away. Somehow whatever befell you is because
you have insulted the little people. An intelligent race full of hard-
working individuals seems hell-bent on being stupid. The expression
that God created whisky to keep the Irish man down makes much more
sense.
Truth be told, I am Irish. I have made my way in this world, having
started with nothing. Honest endeavors were wholesome and rewarding.
When the politicians that somehow I started rubbing elbows with pointed
out new horizons to explore, I made a killing. In the Americas, there
is a line. It has something to do with how big a thief you are.
Political careers fall and are bolstered by spotlights being directed
as necessary.
The small fact that my investment made too much on the return put me
over the line. Redfield opened an investigation into my dealings. He
was key in my starting these questionable investments. It is surreal
watching the Son-of-a-Bitch claim that his powerful influences of
justice will bring down Randy Irish.
In Redfield's CNN interview, sporting a six hundred dollar haircut, he
let loose that I had absconded to a foreign land. He vowed that this
would not save me from justice. America has just announced that I will
be brought to justice, and I'm shacked up in eighteen hundred something
accommodations with a crazy woman who is my wife.
Still, I'm currently free and quite wealthy. My wife might be
delusional, but she is sexy and a great fuck. Redfield is just rattling
the cage and seeing if he can benefit. Always a politician he knows, I
can bring him down with me. No one is going to come looking for me. And
I might want to partake in whatever drugs Melany has had to talk to the
King of the little people.
CHAPTER FOUR
Feeding the goats, I didn't see Lucifer. He is one hundred and sixty
pounds. Bending over to add the kibble to the trough, I receive his
horns attempting to ram my ass. His right horn contacts my right
testicle. I see dots floating in front of my eyes.
Waking, I see several goats eating their evening meal, then the
excruciating pain comes back to me. Half in and half out, I recognize
Melany hurrying to my defense.
Coming round in a hospital bed, Melany is relieved to see me regain
consciousness.
"It is the curse," Melany states as if it is biblical.
"What are you talking about, Melany?"
She goes on to inform me that I just received bilateral orchiectomy.
The doctors somehow removed the healthy teste and then needed to remove
the damaged one. Because of the curse, according to Melany, I am now a
eunuch.
"What?"
I passed out. Waking much later, I could not tell if what Melany
informed was true or not. The bandages are very thick. You can live
with one testicle. Pretty much nothing would change. The only
difference will be to have a little more room in your crotch. But if
what Melany stated is true, everything will change. How can something
so horrendous come about? Do Irish doctors not get sued for
malpractice?
No, it can not be. Someone must have played an evil trick on Melany.
Hospitals don't make such mistakes. They might kill people, but maiming
them for life is not a thing. It simply costs too much. When people
die, no one is there to speak up. When someone turns a patient into a
eunuch, the costs can be astronomical.
It is not a good omen when Melany introduces me to a solicitor. I'm a
fucking eunuch. Do eunuchs even fuck? Well, shave my legs and put me
into a dress. What the fuck am I going to do now? Heal is what is on my
agenda. Oh, and yah, kill Lucifer. Goat ribs will taste so good. And
they did. However, my balls did not grow back. I feel cursed now.
Slowly the pain ebbed into the back of my mind. Large sums of money
flowed into my and Melany's accounts. Even without the large sum of
pilfered gains, this lawsuit made the remainder of our lives work free.
Healing physically takes time; mentally, I have no idea.
"Can someone live a normal life without hormones?" I did not know. I
was rich. And as it turns out, Fucking Melany was still a thing. What I
did not know is if it would last. She had a different direction she
wanted to explore. My size only slightly diminished; she wants to
include daily cunningly time.
Sunday, she encouraged me to drink. On her estate, one of her tenants
prepares potato moonshine. I can tell you it is quite good. When I woke
up, I have no body hair. I might have no testicles, but I am a man.
Hairless does not make you feel manly. Melany attacks me and takes my
swollen penis up her vagina as nothing else can ever satisfy her.
I know nothing ejaculates, but it feels as if I did. Copious amounts of
sperm exit my body, and imaginary spunk fill my wanton wife. She
responds as if I did fill her.
"I wish that you didn't insult the King of the little people." Melany
likes what she is receiving. Different, yes, but still satisfying.
Still, a deal is a deal, and an Irish lass keeps her word.
"What are you going on about, Melany?"
I am upset. Already I notice my arm muscle becoming thinner. My legs
seem smaller, and the general strength that I used to possess seems to
be diminishing. I do not know how long I can satisfy my wife. At some
point in the back of my mind, my penis will give up its ghost. Now
clean-shaven and diminishing into a somewhat androgynous state, I am
scared.
CHAPTER FIVE
Melany has been in town. She comes back frazzled. Interpol police are
searching for Randy Irish. She wants to disguise me. In no terms does
she want to be brought down with me.
"How do I feel about the name Colleen Finn?"
What is she going on about? My suitcase full of clothes is thrown upon
the garbage fire. In shock, I stand with an open mouth, not
comprehending her subsequent few actions. What I am wearing joins the
bomb fire. Naked smooth and transcending daily into the female realm, I
am confused.
Shortly I am dressed as any other Irish lass. Ok, I get it. The police
are on their way, and nothing here looks even remotely as if Randy
Irish has ever been here. Oddly, there is pride in my exhibited beauty.
The makeup is a significant distraction. My long hair almost seems
natural now as Melany combes it out.
The pantyhose, oh God, the pantyhose, bring new revelations to me. My
legs thinning down, now covered in the softest material imaginable,
press up against each other. The feeling is electric. Pointing my toes
into the high heels brings new thoughts to my sharp mind. I can not get
past the feeling coupled with the sight that my legs now present. My
unsupported penis in a bent back position swells to its max. The
overall feel is mindblowing.
Placing my hands in hers, she starts to spread nail polish over my more
extended than I remember fingernails. Shaping them with a file, she
completes the look. Three pumps of perfume, and I felt that the police
would not see anything but a native Irish lass.
The international police did come. It was a harrowing moment. Thinking
about going to jail dressed as I was, is not a pleasant thought.
Passing the mustard, Captin Roule took his party to other pastures.
Unfortunately, he did mention that they may very well be back.
After the danger is gone, I see Melany at the back kitchen door. She
has squatted down and seems to be conversing with someone.
A woman smart enough to fool the Interpol police seems crazy as she
thinks she is conversing with the little people again. Shaking her head
in the affirmative, she abandons her conversation.
"You know that you will need to keep up this disguise."
Melany is not wrong. Captain Roule can come back at any time. Then she
states the craziest thing I have ever heard. The King of the little
people accepts Collen Finn as his future bride. I need to ride out this
crazy situation and make it back to the states.
News cameras are not something new to me. I know how to play their
game. A strong presence and slipped threats to certain senator's
involvement, and my name will be cleared. The problem I have currently
is there are no male clothes left on this premises. For the time being,
I will need to be Colleen Finn.
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