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Colors Of The NightChapter 11 free porn video
"Damn, I'm sore down there this morning," Anya complained, as the pickup truck bounced and jostled through potholed streets.
Travis looked at her with confusion written on his eyebrows, "Why don't you heal yourself?"
"I could, but that would upset my personal balance; my body is telling me to give my pussy a rest. Would you want me to be a continuous fucking machine and nothing else?" She asked with studied seriousness.
Travis sucked in his cheeks in an effort to swallow his laughter, and finally gave up. With a surety he hadn't experienced before, he voiced this thoughts, "The little boy in me is jumping up and down yelling 'fuck yeah!', but I guess fantasies are only that: they never work in real life. I enjoy all of your body and brain, and the reality is that I would be disappointed if I didn't have both."
He paused, "I can't believe I just said that."
Anya stroked his arm with sympathy, "Besides the discomfort is a reminder of all the fun we had last night. You outdid yourself for my pleasure and I don't think I'll ever look at an armchair the same way ever again."
They both chuckled until Travis's thoughts turned to the reason for their drive this morning, "Yeah, it's a bitch to think I'm moving from 'fucking' to 'fucked' in the space of a morning."
Anya slid next to him and cuddled against his arm, "You should be proud. Today you are facing one of your worst fears and you made the choice to do so. This is your biggest step in bringing balance to yourself."
Travis pulled up to the old homestead and stopped the truck. The house looked the same as always but he scanned the place with new eyes. The shutters were dirty and the walls needed of a new coat of paint; the gutters should have been replaced and all of the bushes needed to be cut back before spring. The whole house looked tired, like his parents.
Travis ran around and gave Anya a hand stepping down from the running board. He didn't even realize the importance of the gesture although it was not lost on the young woman. She lowered her face to hide her quick smile.
Travis took one last deep breath and barged through the front door, "Ma! I'm home and I brought company. Are you and dad decent?"
His mother came rushing out of the kitchen in baby blue robe with pink puffy flowers like cancerous lesions all around it. Her ancient cloth slippers slapped across the floor as she ran to the door where Travis was hanging up his coat and Anya's cloak. His mother's hair was wrapped in pink curlers.
She grabbed her boy and gave him a big smack on his cheek while squeezing the life out of him. "Where have you been for six weeks? Why didn't you call?"
"Ma, you knew where I was and you had my cell phone number. You could've called me," Travis softly replied.
His mother cocked her head towards the kitchen and rolled her eyes in the same direction. Travis caught the inference and nodded his understanding. He watched his mother's face change to wonder as she caught sight of Anya standing patiently behind him.
"Hello," his mother offered her hand to Anya. "Travis, why didn't you let me know you were bringing company? Look at me! I'm not dressed and my hair isn't done. Oh, I must look like a horror."
"Ma, you look beautiful and you always have. I swear," Travis answered with sincerity, "and this is Anya. We met up at the cabin."
His mother was slightly mollified, and led them to the kitchen where she rushed to put on fresh coffee. Travis and Anya followed behind, where she promptly collided in his back as he froze in the kitchen doorway. His father, bald and grizzled, was sitting at the table with the Sunday paper spread out across the length of it.
"Will you look at who finally decided to show his face, Shelly. The Boy Wonder has returned to bless us with his presence again," the gruff voice grumbled.
"Good to see you too, Dad. This is Anya," Travis replied as he pulled Anya to his side.
"Shit, Wonder Boy. From what cradle did you pull her out? Jesus, ain't you got the brains you were born with?" His father snarled all the while ogling the woman.
"Charming, Dad," Travis reported as he offered Anya a seat and took the chair opposite his father, "you sure know how to win friends and influence people. She's nineteen, Dad, and her father sent her with me. Get over it."
"Would you and Anya like something for breakfast?" Shelly interjected, effectively ending the first diatribe.
"No thanks, Ma," Travis started and was rudely cut off by his father.
"What? Your mother's cooking isn't good enough for you anymore?"
"We'll take whatever fruits and vegetables you have, Mrs. Doherty," Anya imposed herself, "we must have eaten something that upset our stomachs yesterday and we're trying to be careful today. May I help?", and without waiting for a reply, she walked over to the refrigerator, leaving the two men alone.
"I got us a new contract with Rosenblatt, Dad," Travis laid the papers on the table.
"You like doing business with that hoity-toity Jew bitch," Jerry snapped into the Sports section of the paper.
"That 'Jew bitch' as you call her, gave us a minimum purchase, twelve month contract for six pieces," Travis replied and then added, "could you be any more offensive if you tried?"
His father snorted as his manner of reply. Travis shot a look of askance towards his mother who gave him the sign to remain patient. Travis put down his head and pretended to read the newspaper as he waited. He couldn't keep a sentence in his head.
"Let me see the contract," his father requested without the usual gruffness. Travis slid the paper over and watched his father peruse the paragraphs. When he reached the paragraphs describing the various woods, the old man's eyebrows went up and he shot Travis a suspicious look. Then he reached the specification of prices and the minimums, and his father shook his head slightly with disbelief.
"Damn," was his only comment on the first read-through. His second read elicited an expanded response of his vocabulary, "Son of a bitch."
Travis munched on an apple that Anya had tossed him before she sat down to his right. His mother joined them at the table with her English muffin and dab of cream cheese. Travis marveled at how some things never changed.
His father put aside the document and shot Travis another look meant to pin him to the wall. "What is this contract I got on the fax yesterday from a Howard Tannenbaum. Who the fuck does he think he is taking a 50% cut on anything."
"It's a special piece that Madelyn can't move, Dad," Travis explained.
"Travis is being too modest," Anya spoke up, "Madelyn called it a 'museum quality' piece and arranged for it to be featured in an art show. Travis is an artist, a sculptor."
His father snorted with disbelief, "He can barely tie his own shoes. He's just being taken for a ride by another bastard Jew."
"Jerry," Shelly heated up, "shut your face. Your son just got a great honor and all you can do be nasty. You owe him an apology."
Jerry said nothing and returned his attention to studiously examine the hockey statistics. Travis shot Anya a look and she replied with a cryptic statement, "It's all a matter of balance."
Shelly looked up confused while Travis took a deep breath and refocused himself. "Most art agents take at least 75%, Dad. In New York, the best agents demand 90%. This 50% is a favor to me from Madelyn."
Travis pinched his lips, "And you can stop slurring them because they aren't Catholic; I'm tired of you hating everybody that isn't like you. It's not like you're so high and mighty, or praying in the pews this morning."
Travis took a last bite of apple and walked over the trash and tossed in the core. He felt Anya come up behind him using her banana peel as an excuse. She quickly whispered in his ear, "Use your power and feel for his balance."
Travis returned to his seat, gathered himself and reached out to his father. He was appalled.
"Jesus, Dad," Travis called out, "you look like crap. Why aren't you taking care of yourself?"
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