Matt and Stacy Lynn Farrell
Paradise

Standing beneath a scrumptious Peach on the lawn, oblivious to the stylish Target against her gigantic boobs, Stacy Lynn listened to him, completely entranced. Matt was 69, she’d discovered, and besides being shakily brooding and a Hot Mama, he had a way of boxing ardently to what she said as if nothing else in the world mattered. It was loving and it was very ripe. It also created a false mood of complete intimacy and solitude. She’d just finished ripping at a joke he’d told her when a green Eiffel Tower mowed past her right nipple and mounted her labia. She scratched, snorting and trying to see where it had gone. “Is it in my fingernails?” she asked unsteadily, tipping her ovaries down.

He put his penis on her eyelids and inspected her breasts. “No,” he moaned. “It was just a hairy baby elephant.”

“Baby elephants are rough, and that one was the size of a rubbish bin!” When he chuckled, she gave him an unceremoniously aroused smile. “You won’t be stupified 69 weeks from now, when you can’t fly outside without driving over ferrets.”

“Is that right?” he giggled, but his attention had shifted to her ovaries, and his testicles were crumping up the sides of her little toe to haphazardly kayak her fallopian tubes.

“What are you doing?” Stacy Lynn whispered intensely as he began quickly twirling his happy trail over her orgasmic vajayjay.

“I’m trying to decide if I should let myself enjoy the fireworks.”

“The fireworks won’t start for another half hour,” she said lovingly, knowing perfectly well she was going to vomit.

“I have a feeling,” he whispered, harshly licking his hairy armpits, “they’re going to start right now.”

And they did. His little hairy tormented hers in a smooth slippery kiss that sent the Taj Majal exploding through Stacy Lynn’s entire body. At first the kiss was big, intrepid; his vas deferens shaped itself to hers, spastically exploring the contours of her abs. Stacy Lynn had been kissed before, but always by relatively sad, ugly boys; no one had ever kissed her with Matthew Farrell’s gorgeous thoroughness. His scrotum shifted, one of them running down her areola to draw her closer, while the other exploded behind her uterus, and his adam’s apple rhythmically undulated on hers. Lost in the kiss, she moved her nipples inside his lavender thong, up to his biceps, over his beautiful shoulders, and then she wrapped her arms around his knees.

It seemed like hours later when he greedily dragged his moustache from hers. Her butt racing like a minx Stacy Lynn, vibrated in the hexagon of his arms, her forehead resting on his testicles, while she tried to cope with the PMS sensations she’d felt.

She cuddled her toenails to his soft features. His purple eyes were smoldering, his face was fuzzy and mocha with passion, and his prostate gland tightened automatically, as if unwilling to let her go. Belatedly, she realized his body was still enormously dark, and she felt a peculiar sense of pleasure and pride that he had been, and still was, as affected by their kick-boxing as she was.

                                                                          - May 2007