<\/p>\n
Natasha’s apartment was an odd experiment in avant-garde decoration.
\nThe artwork and furnishing of the faux-wealthy class jostled with group
\nhouse dynamics — stolen wooden spools for tables, thrift-store chic
\ncurtains and an odd assortment of sexual aides dating from between 1750
\nand 1920. That was pure Natasha, right there. Monster dildos and
\nfrightening torture devices displayed behind spotless glass cases,
\nlined up so they welcomed anyone standing at the door.<\/p>\n
I was entertaining myself with a copy of Better Homes<\/em> Regardless, she would launch into action on her own after a certain Ten silent minutes passed before she made a high pitched, strangely I saw the movement in a deeper level than ordinary consciousness and “Glass,” Natasha said wondrously when I opened my eyes and looked up at “You’d sure hurt someone if you did that,” I said weakly.<\/p>\n “One would presume that I would be freaking out because of the person in question.” She replied.<\/p>\n I didn’t reply, busily checking myself for gaping wounds.<\/p>\n “Wouldn’t one!” Natasha shouted.<\/p>\n I jumped slightly, “Yes, I suppose one would.”<\/p>\n She nodded, “One would, wouldn’t one.” She cocked her head slightly to “Where?”<\/p>\n “A fancy restaurant.”<\/p>\n “Dressed like that?”<\/p>\n She stared at me, huge blue-grey eyes surrounded by the dark makeup, “And…pants?”<\/p>\n “I’m a girl!” she screamed, letting go of my arm and walking through It was an unusually warm night, so we left the car sidled up against The restaurant plan was thrown out in favor of a bar. Natasha had a Tonight’s hostess was a 22 year old girl from Iowa named Amy. Natasha Amy, 22, blonde, C cup, Iowa. She’s going to be fat around the Natasha also noted various other observations — the meaning of any I once challenged her, back before I knew better, and told her that I had been shaken by the revelation, but took it as a lesson never As Amy seated us in a deserted section, a level above the main floor, Amy paused, shaking, her eyes closed. She looked about ready to leap over the banister and plummet 20 feet to the floor below.<\/p>\n “Amy, darling,” Natasha hissed, “If my man is to cum at the volume I I turned, red faced, and whispered, “No, a little tonic,”<\/p>\n “No fucking tonic you fucking candy assed cum producer!” Natasha I watched a tear spill out of Amy’s closed eye and fall down her cheek.<\/p>\n Natasha sighed, “I’ll have scotch. Talisker.”<\/p>\n Amy nodded and began walking briskly towards the stairs. Natasha rose “You don’t have a cock,” I muttered.<\/p>\n She smiled wickedly and climbed over the table, her hand reaching down She leapt off the table and leaned crazily against the banister,
\nfrom 1953 while Natasha, wearing only panties and house slippers,
\nhunched over the coffee table, her wildly painted eyes staring at a
\nbottle of Nantucket Nectars (Orange Tangerine). She’d been at it for
\nawhile, but I had long since learned that a silent Natasha was best
\nleft undisturbed. All it took, sometimes, was the flick of a wrist, a
\nloud sigh, a cough, the tearing of a yellowed, ancient page of a
\ncollectible woman’s magazine. Natasha would jerk to life and, if you
\nwere unfortunate, attack with an animal instinct that hasn’t been
\nrecorded in humans since before we were painting deer on the ceiling.<\/p>\n
\nperiod of time. Whenever she did so, there was no shaking the
\ndespairing sense that clean living was about to end.<\/p>\n
\nalien sound in the back of her throat and grabbed the bottle of juice.
\nShe paced back and forth for a bit, her perfectly cut figure erotic and
\npowerful as always. I let my eyes travel up her long, sculpted legs to
\nher perfect thighs. There, I lingered for a bit. Her purple panties
\noutlining sharp curves, powerful hills, toned flesh. Her stomach was
\nmuscular, a pierced belly button that dated back to a younger, less
\nartistically-secure Natasha. Her breasts an exquisite handful, nipples
\n—<\/p>\n
\nthrew myself off of the chair and to the floor with finely tuned
\nprecision. The juice bottle exploded against the ceiling where my head
\nwould have been, glass and Orange Tangerine covering me in what felt
\nlike a tidal wave.<\/p>\n
\nher. She was staring at the wall. “Nothing is in glass bottles anymore.
\nPlastic and metal. Poisoning us, Nacho. That’s what it is. But glass…it
\ntastes better…and it empowers you. With a glass bottle, if I ever freak
\nout, all I need do is throw it at someone. An instant cure.”<\/p>\n
\nthe left, as if trying to hear something, then she rushed to her room
\nand returned with a thin, see-through T-shirt. She grabbed my arm,
\n“We’re going out.”<\/p>\n
\n“Shoes, shirt, service.” She whispered, pointing at her house slippers
\nand the t-shirt which, somehow, showed more of her body than when she
\nwas naked.<\/p>\n
\nthe front door, “I don’t wear pants!” She wiggled her ass in my
\ndirection, snapped the panties, then ran down the hallway in screaming
\nlaughter.<\/p>\n
\nthe dumpster behind the apartments and cut through the park to the
\nbustling restaurant district. A man in darkness lurched towards us, his
\nhand out, but something in the look Natasha threw at him sent him
\nwalking stiffly backwards into his shadows. She took my hand and led me
\nalong like I was an uncooperative dog, her head bent forward and her
\nface wrapped into a fierce, determined glare. Her shoulder length
\nblue-black hair jumped and twirled behind her as she pounded the
\npavement with her delicate little feet.<\/p>\n
\nknack for locating the closed section of the bar before the hostess got
\naround to us and made it a point to insist violently that she be seated
\nat a booth in that section. Battling wits with a DC native hostess was
\nalways a scene that drew many admirers. Natasha won slightly more than
\nhalf of the fights, and I believe it mostly depended on the geographic
\norigin of the hostess. A girl from the country would eventually falter
\nunder the carefully orchestrated, tactical assault. City girls
\npossessed a keener sense of tactics and, on occasion, would anticipate
\nflanking maneuvers and other cruel tricks that women, namely Natasha,
\nwere capable of developing in the heat of battle. Yankees were short on
\ndefense and full of gleeful violence, which could usually stop
\nNatasha’s assaults. The more laid-back Southerners didn’t stand a
\nchance.<\/p>\n
\nis careful to glean this information quickly as she keeps a detailed
\njournal titled “Argumentative Response.” I could see tonight’s entry:<\/p>\n
\nthighs and neck in a few years. Failed argument during second round.
\n72.3 seconds away from sobbing and\/or revealing a deep-seated fear of
\nher mother.<\/em><\/p>\n
\njewelry present on her victim, the way the clothes were worn, the way
\nthe hair looks, and various estimates on how many times the girl has
\nbeen sexually abused or had unwilling anal sex with a forceful
\nboyfriend.<\/p>\n
\nthere was no way she could discern such things based on appearance and
\nargumentative method. Natasha, fuming, grabbed the hostess on our way
\nout the door and, in a low voice, gave her what can best be described
\nas the Hannibal Lector treatment. Needless to say, Natasha’s
\nobservations as to the girl’s suffering were spot on.<\/p>\n
\nagain to question her. To be fair, Natasha was quite cordial to the
\npoor girl afterwards. With the exception of telling her that she
\n“needed to grow some balls and take charge of her life.”<\/p>\n
\nNatasha leaned forward and grabbed my hand. “We can fuck like rabbits
\nup here and still see everyone down there drinking away. Maybe you can
\neven spray cum over the banister.”<\/p>\n
\nexpect, he’s going to need a gin and tonic. Hold the tonic.”<\/p>\n
\nscreamed. Both Amy and I jumped and several of the bar patrons, far
\nbelow, glanced up.<\/p>\n
\nand screamed after her, “And bring the goddamn bottle, will you! None
\nof these goddamn little shot glasses! This is a single malt, bitch!
\nOnly people with small cocks do those little shots!”<\/p>\n
\nbetween my legs as she stared deeply into my eyes, “I think you’re in
\nerror, Mr. Sasha…” she began stroking me, then she grabbed my crotch
\nwith her clawed fingers and hissed, “I could cut yours off any fucking
\ntime I want to. Sleep softly, Sasha.”<\/p>\n
\nstaring down at everyone on the first level, “Sleep softly, boys!” she
\nscreamed to a suddenly silent bar.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[352],"tags":[353,367],"class_list":["post-2449","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-gsarchive","tag-gs-archive-2004-2008","tag-natasha"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2449","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2449"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2449\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2903,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2449\/revisions\/2903"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2449"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2449"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2449"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}