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Thursday, December 21, 2006


DISCLAIMER: the following narrative relates a dream that I had the other night, and as it’s the product of a slumbering subconscious mind I take no responsibility for its content.

I awoke to the Dreamtime in a scenario straight out of one of the Lance Horner Falconhurst novels — a series of humorless potboilers set in the old south during slavery, each brimming with violence and interracial sex (both consensual and otherwise), following in the footsteps of Kyle Onstott’s MANDINGO — to find myself as one of a pair of escaped slaves making their way to freedom in some nebulous destination. I was Ozane — my maternal grandfather’s name turning up as it sometimes does — a strapping artisan/blacksmith, and my companion was the diminutive Mike, one of the Caucasian indentured slaves that you seldom hear about in history class (those who know him in the waking world, that's Mike Lackey); our “cover” was that he was a down on his luck son of a recently deceased plantation owner, a departed patriarch who went tits up after losing everything he owned to drought, sickness, and insurmountable gambling debts, and I was his father’s legacy, a valuable asset with whom he was moving to Virginia to start up a local smithy’s shop (I’m not certain of the muzzy details thanks to this being a dream and all, but I think we were in either Mississippi of Louisiana).

Our cross-country adventures brought us to a small farmhouse and barn, and under cover of the night we stole into the upper recesses of the barn. As the sun began to rise, Mike and Ozane were roused by the very loud creak and thud of a door across the loft dropping open to reveal a large featherbed covered with rumpled bedding, and a young, shift-clad girl of perhaps thirteen descending the ladder to answer the call of nature. The pretty blonde thing took no notice of Mike or myself as she ran off, bladder ready to burst, and we remained still and silent for what seemed like an eternity, but then we noticed a stirring beneath the previously immobile blankets.

From beneath the covers arose a lovely young blonde of nineteen whose looks fairly screamed “hillbilly sex machine,”
and while Mike remained stock still, Ozane’s eyes met the crystal blue gaze of the hayloft angel.

She greeted Ozane with a quavering and unsure, “Hello, Mandingo,” and Ozane rose to assure her that it wasn’t what it looked like, namely a couple of scumbags showing up looking to rape white women. The girl relaxed at that, stood up and undid the front of her shift, then said, “Glad ya ain’t here ta hurt me, but I am feelin’ a bit lonely…” Ozane considered that for about a nano-second, and made his way across the barn to the hillbilly lass, and some of the most graphic osh-osh I have ever dreamt commenced.

Oh, it was epic, the stuff of fuck-legend; forbidden carnality unapologetically played out secluded from the ready-to-lynch outside world, with tender and dream-fueled unending endurance for both participants running rampant. Once fantastically naked out of that nightie, the hillbilly gal revealed curves that would have made Stevie Wonder say, God DAMN!!!,” and Ozane acquitted himself accordingly to show his appreciation. This went on for an unnaturally long duration thanks to the skewed time/physicality of the Dreamtime, and this dreamer had no complaints.

When the lovers had spent themselves, they noticed the presence of the younger girl, not five feet from the action and held firm by Mike; the older sister yelled out, “Flora! What the hell are you lookin’ at, girl?” Flora freed herself by biting Mike and commented that what her sister and Ozane were doing looked “kinda fun.” The big sister thought about it for a minute and invited her sister to get her first taste of a man. Fortunately for Flora, Ozane was not equipped like then-legendary slave stallions of myth, and he eased her into adult activities by letting her ride “cowgirl.” After that, Mike joined the fun, and the foursome enjoyed each other’s sweaty exertions for quite some dream-extended time until a voice called from outside.

“Gillis McQueen!!!, screamed the voice.” “Why the hell aren’t you out feedin’ them chickens?” The blonde made an effort to gather herself, and answered, “Sorry, mama, I just slept late, that’s all…” She then turned to Ozane and said, in that goofy post-coital way, “Hi. I’m Gillis McQueen, named fer my daddy. Do me a favor, wouldja? Go in there and fuck my mama. We ain’t got no beef with you colored boys or you little white things neither, and believe you me, she kin use a good seein’ to!”

And so, Ozane obliged, with mum later asking, “Can you boys stay on and pretend to be our hands?” Mike and Ozane unhappily turned that offer down, and moved further north toward their freedom, possibly populating the south with more awesome kids who would go on to contribute to this fine nation’s gene pool…

TO BE CONTINUED (or not, depending in the dream stream)

Man, I have to stop reading Lance Horner novels, FALCONHURST FANCY being the best of those, mind you…

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I see the Ronco Dream-Caster 2000 that I purchased works quite well.

Merry Christmas Bunche.