The Revenge Of Jolly Roger
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Once A Jolly SwagmanChapter 2 free porn video
There was an odd conversation in the Campoulos family home that night. Nina and Georgio arrived home shortly after ten-thirty, as usual reeking of fried fatty food. Georgio is in his late-sixties and Nina fifty five and as usual, they are dog tired. As usual, Mary had dinner on plates for them after they had had their showers and that was when all normality ended.
"I met a boy today..."
Georgio dropped his fork as if he had been shot in the arm, waiting for the other shoe to drop,
"He's very nice, and very mature."
Nina sees in her mind's eye: mature=dirty old man.
"I asked him here to have tea with me, but he refused, as he wouldn't come in here without your permission."
Nina: good manners, must be a nice Greek boy, mature worries me.
Georgio: why would she think to ask, what has my baby done. My baby is no longer a virgin, I'll ring the police before I kill him myself.
Nina: Maybe he's got money, virgins come, virgins go. After all, I lost mine five times before Georgio eventually took it officially.
"I would like him to eat with me at night, because I'm always alone. I'm sick of always being alone. We'll read some books together, and we will discuss them. After he eats, he will go straight home, just down the road to us. I would like him to eat with us Sunday night so you can meet him.
"Mumma, I'd like to talk with you after you've eaten tea, about woman's stuff."
Poppa got huffy as Poppa does, "What's the secret so secret, you can't talk in front of your Poppa?"
"Okay, Poppa. Mumma my period started early, today, not like last time when it was late and you..."
"You should talk to your Mumma about these things. Have you no decency?" Clever girl, my baby, as smart as her father, I miss my virile Nando. Sigh.
It was after dinner and rather late as usual, "Mumma, his name is Damian and he'd not a boy. He thinks I'm a child but he is deadly smart and I won't be able to put anything over him. Some people are not like Poppa. Damian will not believe what I tell him, because he understands everything, without being told the whole story. I will tell him the truth and you should tell him the truth or he will see right through you and tell you the truth. He wants me, I'm sure, but doesn't need me. I want him to need me. He's very virile, but seeing naked pussy doesn't make him lose his cool."
"Anyway, that's Damian, and it was the truth I was bleeding like a stuck pig this morning, and then it stopped again cold, and I'm not even due for another week. Last month I was two weeks late and you had me checked if I was pregnant and Mumma, I'm still a bloody virgin. You're having next Tuesday off to go the dentist, can we make an appointment for next Tuesday and see the doctor?"
"Yes, baby, and I'll cool your Poppa down. He's a good man, and a good provider, but not very bright."
"Mumma, Damian looks me in the eye and I feel really, really good, then I feel all funny and I've gotta sit down just like when I touch myself only, better, really, really, better. Mumma, I gotta get him to need me."
It was amazing how Mary's accent degraded from impeccable Australian English to her parent's Greek tarnished English, when she was being close to them. Mother and daughter held each other and Mary cried like a thirteen year girl newly in love. Her mother understood completely because the fifteen year old virgin Greek girl, in which her husband believes as a fact, is a myth, perpetuated by the Greek female population from perpetuity. As her female end of the family, and her female friends often say, 'there ain't no such thing'.
They were on the same train next morning, a Friday, they met on the station, and Mary was reading his half destroyed copy of Gordon Dickson's, Dorsai! though she wished she was wearing gloves as she held it. She has decided that the only similarity between a real book and this remnant is this contains every single word of the story. Even the first chapter title, Cadet, is half gone, burnt off, but absolutely nothing else, so this book means something more to him than being, just another book. She is about a third the way through and in deep concentration, now understanding what he means by looking behind what is written rather than the just words themselves, she even had to look up the word 'allegorically' as she thought it had only religious connotations. She realised last night, almost an epiphany of sorts, that this is what her English teacher has been trying to teach her since she first had her class.
He's not a teacher, according to him he's not intelligent, seemingly equating intelligence with education, but he has made her recognise what outwardly is said in all fiction: the timbre, the era when it was written, maybe even the mood of the day in which it was written, was almost as understandable as the explicitly intended story itself. That day she had a talk with her English teacher explaining her dilemma, Damian's explanation about a book, the book, pretty well much trashy science fiction, hell, almost pulp fiction quality which he sees as an allegory of The United States world attitude in the 50's and 60's.
Mrs Heller agreed with him to an extent but not in toto, she actually asked if she could discuss his overall understanding of that genre of fiction itself with Mary's 'friend'.
When Mary told of her friend's opinion of the famous Asimov, she almost busted a stay laughing, "It was a common opinion held when I was in university, where did he do his degree?
"Oh! No education at all, eh?
Mary reiterated, "His education is barely above first class English comprehension level and no Maths worthwhile talking about."
Mrs Heller appeared impressed, "He sounds more like my old English Lit professor, at Cambridge; none at all? Terrified of commitment, hmm? Now he sounds more like my ex-boyfriend."
Mary had one little discreet look around, "He is in total disagreement with the schools', really the Catholic Church's, restrictions on knowledge and literature in general."
"Should you, Mary, have issues with the Church's dogma; keep them to yourself around the school, and most of its students and employees. Frankly I agree with him but I never said that, neither did Galileo, I'm sure." Mrs Heller supplied Mary with the keys to the restricted library, saying "No, I didn't give you any keys. In fact, we have never had this conversation, and don't lose those keys. One day Mrs Heller will discuss with Mary, the similarities between Torquemada and our Headmaster, Mr French; but, for the time being, there aren't walls made thick enough."
Any leanings Mary may have had towards the Catholic religion, just flew out the door on delicate angel's wings. School she feels is supposed to be a place of learning not of repression.
He opened Dune at the torn envelope bookmark, held Mary's free hand with his and felt very content for some reason. She leant her head against his sleeve covered, strong, hard, muscular bicep, and all the little people crowded cheek to jowl on the train beside them, simply disappeared.
That afternoon he had finished the gardening work, using the antiquated scythe on the maintained raised marble lawn graves, dead on time; for a change. There's a knack to using the scythe, it's the angle of the right wrist. That made him on time for the first of the one in three trains which stop at Karrakatta in the afternoon, then three quarters of an hour early to West Perth for the train Mary caught, so he spent the extra time speaking to the people in the main city book store and discovered that Dickson's books are out of print.
To Damien this is one of the reasons why traditional bookshops are going out of existence as they are only selling what the publishers wish for them to sell, not what people actually want, presumably on the off-chance they will discover another author instead of what is currently popular, because that is all they publish. It leaves one wondering if a book becomes less valid as it ages so therefore no one will want them.
Music is popular (sic) because radio stations play it, not because it is good music or even really popular. People buy books on line because they are heavily advertised, like that poorly written, Nine Shades of Grey book, not because you take them off the shop shelf and browsed through one to see if you liked it.
He jogged the three blocks away to the arcade (you should try that wearing steel toe capped work boots), where the West Perth used book and coin collection store was. They did have poor condition versions of Necromancer and Soldier Ask Not. To him the words were important, and were not to be discarded because some child had scribbled through it with a yellow crayon. He smiled at the vast expense, of fifty cents.
He just made it back to the West Perth Station, he's not sure why sign says City West Station, maybe he's being pedantic but all his workmates call it West Perth, anyway he made his train with seconds to spare. The carriage is half empty, so he places himself in such a way that he was taking two seating places and caught some very bitter looks at the next overcrowded station, Perth. That fat lady tried to squeeze in, the same smelly one as the day before, and he just looked at her and she immediately lost interest. Mary came through the train's door at the last second, short of breath, and she looked around; the relief on her face was manifest.
She sat when he made the room and kissed him on the cheek; he smiled with pleasure and she wished she had kissed him on the lips.
'Little steps, Mary, ' Mumma had told her, 'little steps.'
She put the completed book on his lap with a smug look, and he put the two new/old ones in her hand. He said, "Necromancer is the next in order and Soldier Ask Not is the better book." She made a little squeal of joy and went to kiss him on the cheek again, only Damian had turned his head to look at her. They missed their stop unnoticed nine stations later and had to change platforms and return one station.
He made a coffee for her again, just the way she liked it and they sat on his swag against the same wall this time. He told her he missed the view he had yesterday, she giggled and knew he was pulling her leg; she wished. He was deadly serious.
Damian went over the time line of the books, as he made them each a coffee.
She told him about Mrs Heller and about the key and the trouble they could both get into. "Who's Torquemada?"
"Tomás de Torquemada was the first Inquisitor General in Spain and was employed by the then King and Queen, ah, Isabella, of Spain. You should ask for the schools attitude to the Church's Inquisition before I poison your mind against the torture, murder and repression of students in Inquisitorial WA. I'm sure the school will be fair and even handed."
Those little steps of Mumma's went over a cliff and she's had no experience in dealing with her body which was doing back flips and somersaults inside, and she wasn't even moving. Her heart felt like it is trying to punch its way through her chest. She went home earlier than last night, as she no longer trusted herself.
Damian thought the kiss was a little premature in their relationship and that she was having second thoughts. He enjoyed the kiss though as it made him feel refreshed, less used by the world for its football, but it was just a kiss ... just a very long kiss!
Saturday morning arrived and Damian enjoyed the sleep in. This working at a steady job has the downfall that he has to work at a steady job. He's a man who had never been held in continuous employment for longer than two weeks at any time. The hours are consistent but the hours are so consistent. Previously his working hours ranged from sixteen hours at a stretch falling to an hour of clean up three days later.
This suburb has a small IGA supermarket about three blocks away on the other side of the station but most people use the big ones two suburbs over for the specials and home brands and then pay considerably more for everything else. He has little interest in petrol discount vouchers and he doesn't have to make a train journey to buy unbranded lower quality food.
He walked over to the shop carrying his plastic bags that they supplied last time and mostly bought tinned meals, for the want of refrigeration, lots of snack chocolate biscuits which he knew Mary would like (almost every female he knew compared Arnott's Tim Tams favourably to an orgasm), and another bottle of Turkish coffee, which he is going through at a rate of knots.
Mary was sitting on the slightly rickety back porch when he arrived home, the bags weren't that heavy, but by now they felt like they were cutting his hands in two. She had her own ubiquitous plastic shopping bag by her side full of her books and she stood and immediately plastered her lips onto his. No sweet little peck on the cheek for this girl today, nor panties or bra either if he wishes to take advantage of her; fuck Mumma's little steps. Mary felt that she was becoming such a potty mouth.
The kiss is nice but Damian desperately wants to put the shopping bags down. Mary opened the door as he had shown her the trick yesterday afternoon from inside. And he gave a deep sigh of relief as he put down the bags on the kitchen floor. He put some water on, "Have you had breakfast?"
"I don't like breakfast."
"Another kiss like that and you'll run out of energy. I'll make us some baked beans," she motioned sticking her fingers down her throat, "and I bought a loaf of fresh bread. When you kiss me next time I want to have a burn on my lips from that spark of extra energy." She wrapped herself around him again and thoroughly hugged him, her cheek crushed against his chest. What she wanted was to put his thing inside her thing, but the thing which is her insecurity held her back. God, he must think I am such a little girl.
Mary drank her coffee, and she was beginning to like it a bit stronger, while Damian scrubbed out the billycan and put the open tin of baked beans on, to directly heat. They ate them warm, rather than wait an hour for them to get hot. They had bread wiped with very soft margarine with the back of a red KFC spoon. They used the bread to wipe up the food left behind on the paper plates that he used, then tossed them.
They lay on opposite ends of the swag.
Damian thought he must have broken some rule until he realised he was looking straight up inside a very pretty vagina which has seen some continuous use this morning by its moist redness. She couldn't leave it alone last night, then thought about him when she woke up this morning and she imagined his eyes looking at her as she did it.
Mary was glad her door was closed because she made a very loud noise then wet her bed. Forgive me my Lord, she prayed, as my body is weak, and she continually fingered herself to completion until she was rubbed sore. She had limped on her way down here using supreme discipline to not touch herself on the way. She imagined his eyes as she recited The Lord's Prayer the complete distance.
He liked this way of reading. A chapter, look at leaking pussy, read another chapter and she has pulled her skirt up at the back as it is being saturated by sitting on it. The feel of the rough swag under her bare bottom made her feel so sensuous and naked. He looked up at her and her eyes are squeezed together, almost in pain.
He said, "Mary ... come."
Her hips flung themselves up and down vigorously as if she was fucking a naked erection, or having a violent epileptic fit. She cried out, loudly. Then quietly fell asleep. An hour later she awoke, refreshed having missed sleep last night due to her self-abuse, and suddenly she realised where she was and what made her fall asleep and she moaned in acute embarrassment. He saw her wake saw her face fall from pleasure to shame and he joined Mary and cuddled her.
"Mary, tell me what's wrong."
She tucked her face under his armpit, "You saw me and I'm so ashamed." Her voice was muffled.
"Mary, if you sneeze, someone will say bless you. You know there is nothing you can do about the sneeze, as it's the normal human reaction to an irritant in your nose. You gave me the extreme pleasure of letting me watch your naked body. As you know, I get pleasure out of looking at your naked body. You have an absolutely beautiful vagina. You have been masturbating all last night and again this morning, and doing that makes it even more desirably beautiful.
"Displaying yourself like that excited you so much that you were in agony from frustration so I simply told you to come. The only thing which would have been more beautiful would have been if you were naked, as I'd love to watch you make love to yourself like that. There's nothing to feel embarrassed about any more than the sneeze.
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