windar
Teller of Tales
I SAID THE SCENE WAS VERY WELL DONE, OK!!!! Sure she wrote 3 words/day, but they were 3 very well chosen words.
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Barb, Marcella And Tree Visit N E New York
- Thread starter windar
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I SAID THE SCENE WAS VERY WELL DONE, OK!!!! Sure she wrote 3 words/day, but they were 3 very well chosen words.
The
Oh yes! He's begun his reply ... with the definite article! Over to you, Bob!
Well, Alec, 47% of Wragg's replies begin with the definite article, he's resorted to a tried and tested answer format, well have to see where he goes from here!
(With thanks to Monty Python)
bobinder
ARTISAN
next
time
windar
Teller of Tales
There you are Barb, done for the day. And those were 3 great words
undoes
windar
Teller of Tales
3.
I woke from the deep sleep I had fallen into after last night’s performance to see that it was beginning to get light. I gently slapped Barb’s tight little (the regular one) to rouse her. “We better get up; it’s a long hike.” I could swear she once again remarked on winged pork chops, but she sat up and began dressing as did I.
Soon, we got to work preparing breakfast, deliberately making as much noise as possible to rouse the couple in the other tent. After a little while, they both emerged, dressed and looking a bit ragged. “Rough night?” I asked, mockingly.
“From the sounds coming from your tent, no rougher than yours,” Marcie replied. “Tree promised to crucify me tonight. You too, Barb, if you want.” Barb smiled enigmatically.
“What about that ranger?” I asked.
“What the ranger doesn‘t know about never happened,” Tree replied. I was going to argue the point, but I was distracted by one of the best things one can smell in this world. No, not pussy, but bacon (from a grounded pig) and eggs cooking in the great outdoors. Washed down with some strong coffee, it was the perfect way to fortify your body for a long day’s hike.
Finishing the last of the breakfast, I asked, “Who’s ready for a great climb to the top of Mount Marcy, the highest point in New York?”
The girls both said they were eager for this adventure, but Tree looked dubious. “How far is it?”
“About fifteen miles round trip,” I replied.
“Are you fucking nuts, windar? If God wanted Tree to walk fifteen goddamn miles, he wouldn’t have invented the pickup truck. I’ll stay here and prepare for tonight’s festivities.” Frankly, I was happy to hike with Barb and Marcie and didn’t need that hillbilly pain in the ass along so I didn’t argue. Besides, the hike would take us above the tree line and I knew Tree would feel out of place up there.
It didn’t take long to pack some trail mix, fruit, and fleece jackets for the colder conditions up high in our day packs and set off. The girls were both in good shape and had no trouble keeping up with the steady moderate pace I set. After a while, I let them go ahead, so I could enjoy the view of their tight littles in their short shorts as we made our way up the trail.
I could hear them gossiping about something, probably comparing notes from last night (I wasn’t worried, believe me). After about four hours or so ascending, we did indeed emerge above tree line onto the bare rock of the summit cone. Another half hour or so of vigorous climbing brought us to the summit, where we stretched out for lunch, enjoying the magnificent views.
By the time we descended back to camp, it was late afternoon. Tree had obviously spent a productive day; he was stretched out on a blanket on the ground, the almost empty bottle of Seagrams lying on its side behind him. As Barb and Marcie set about dinner, I nudged him with the toe of my hiking boot.
He sputtered awake and sat up, none too gracefully. “Goddamn windar, what took you guys so long?”
“Fifteen miles and 6000 feet elevation up and down, eleven hours is pretty good time. I see you got a lot done here.”
“This fucking forest here has no oak trees,” he said looking a bit peeved.
“Not at this altitude this far north,” I told him. “ It’s mostly maple down here in the valley, then birch and spruce, then only spruce until that gives out. We were up where there were no trees at all.” I smiled at him. He looked displeased. “Of course, with climate change, in a few years there will be oaks up here as well,” I added. He looked even more displeased. “Anyway, I thought you were bringing some Fine French Crucifixion Wood™ from your personal stock.”
“Windar, do you know what driving all the way from Missouri with heavy beams in the back of my truck would do to my carbon footprint? Do you not care about Mother Earth?” I had to admit he had a point. He continued, “It goes against good crucifixion practice to use anything but oak, but I found a maple that I think will do. The girls will have to share it though.” I had heard that Barb had written some story about two girls sharing a cross that some people seemed to like a whole lot for reasons that weren’t clear to me, so I guessed they wouldn’t mind.
“I still think you’re taking a big chance. Ranger Goldman warned you, and if he sees you doing it, he won’t cut you any breaks. I really don’t think you’ll enjoy sharing a cell with three guys from the Bronx.”
“Stop worrying, windar. I’m in the Union.” He pulled out a greasy looking paper from his jeans pocket and showed it to me. Somehow, I didn’t think that he would convince Ranger Goldman that that was just as good as an official New York State Execution license, but dinner was smelling awfully good and I was starving.
I woke from the deep sleep I had fallen into after last night’s performance to see that it was beginning to get light. I gently slapped Barb’s tight little (the regular one) to rouse her. “We better get up; it’s a long hike.” I could swear she once again remarked on winged pork chops, but she sat up and began dressing as did I.
Soon, we got to work preparing breakfast, deliberately making as much noise as possible to rouse the couple in the other tent. After a little while, they both emerged, dressed and looking a bit ragged. “Rough night?” I asked, mockingly.
“From the sounds coming from your tent, no rougher than yours,” Marcie replied. “Tree promised to crucify me tonight. You too, Barb, if you want.” Barb smiled enigmatically.
“What about that ranger?” I asked.
“What the ranger doesn‘t know about never happened,” Tree replied. I was going to argue the point, but I was distracted by one of the best things one can smell in this world. No, not pussy, but bacon (from a grounded pig) and eggs cooking in the great outdoors. Washed down with some strong coffee, it was the perfect way to fortify your body for a long day’s hike.
Finishing the last of the breakfast, I asked, “Who’s ready for a great climb to the top of Mount Marcy, the highest point in New York?”
The girls both said they were eager for this adventure, but Tree looked dubious. “How far is it?”
“About fifteen miles round trip,” I replied.
“Are you fucking nuts, windar? If God wanted Tree to walk fifteen goddamn miles, he wouldn’t have invented the pickup truck. I’ll stay here and prepare for tonight’s festivities.” Frankly, I was happy to hike with Barb and Marcie and didn’t need that hillbilly pain in the ass along so I didn’t argue. Besides, the hike would take us above the tree line and I knew Tree would feel out of place up there.
It didn’t take long to pack some trail mix, fruit, and fleece jackets for the colder conditions up high in our day packs and set off. The girls were both in good shape and had no trouble keeping up with the steady moderate pace I set. After a while, I let them go ahead, so I could enjoy the view of their tight littles in their short shorts as we made our way up the trail.
I could hear them gossiping about something, probably comparing notes from last night (I wasn’t worried, believe me). After about four hours or so ascending, we did indeed emerge above tree line onto the bare rock of the summit cone. Another half hour or so of vigorous climbing brought us to the summit, where we stretched out for lunch, enjoying the magnificent views.
By the time we descended back to camp, it was late afternoon. Tree had obviously spent a productive day; he was stretched out on a blanket on the ground, the almost empty bottle of Seagrams lying on its side behind him. As Barb and Marcie set about dinner, I nudged him with the toe of my hiking boot.
He sputtered awake and sat up, none too gracefully. “Goddamn windar, what took you guys so long?”
“Fifteen miles and 6000 feet elevation up and down, eleven hours is pretty good time. I see you got a lot done here.”
“This fucking forest here has no oak trees,” he said looking a bit peeved.
“Not at this altitude this far north,” I told him. “ It’s mostly maple down here in the valley, then birch and spruce, then only spruce until that gives out. We were up where there were no trees at all.” I smiled at him. He looked displeased. “Of course, with climate change, in a few years there will be oaks up here as well,” I added. He looked even more displeased. “Anyway, I thought you were bringing some Fine French Crucifixion Wood™ from your personal stock.”
“Windar, do you know what driving all the way from Missouri with heavy beams in the back of my truck would do to my carbon footprint? Do you not care about Mother Earth?” I had to admit he had a point. He continued, “It goes against good crucifixion practice to use anything but oak, but I found a maple that I think will do. The girls will have to share it though.” I had heard that Barb had written some story about two girls sharing a cross that some people seemed to like a whole lot for reasons that weren’t clear to me, so I guessed they wouldn’t mind.
“I still think you’re taking a big chance. Ranger Goldman warned you, and if he sees you doing it, he won’t cut you any breaks. I really don’t think you’ll enjoy sharing a cell with three guys from the Bronx.”
“Stop worrying, windar. I’m in the Union.” He pulled out a greasy looking paper from his jeans pocket and showed it to me. Somehow, I didn’t think that he would convince Ranger Goldman that that was just as good as an official New York State Execution license, but dinner was smelling awfully good and I was starving.
windar
Teller of Tales
4.
I had barely begun digesting dinner when Tree stubbed out his cigarette, doubtless one of dozens so far that day (just wait until he gets a look at the cigarette taxes in the Empire State). “Alright, ladies, it’s time for your crucifixions.”
“About time,” Marcie said, almost jumping to her feet. Barb got up a bit more slowly, but perhaps she was sore from the hike.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Tree,” I protested. “That Ranger is around, I can smell it and he’s just waiting to bust you. Besides, crucifixion is barbaric and frankly ridiculous in this day and age.”
Marcie looked a bit peeved. “Windar, you promised to crucify me and if you won’t do it, at least don’t stand in Tree’s way.”
“You heard the lady, windar,” Tree admonished me. “You don’t have to do anything, just leave it to me. You can be the gawking crowd that always gathers at a crucifixion, OK?” He bent next to one of the tents and began removing several of the metal stakes that held it down. Holding those in his left hand, he picked up the hammer that was lying on the ground nearby with his right.
Now you two, follow me,” he added, pointing at Barb and Marcie, who meekly followed him into the underbrush. Against my better judgement I fell in behind them. Must have been the sight of their tight littles in the short shorts.
Tree led the way into the forest heading away from the campground and the trails that led towards the peaks. I noticed that the route was marked with bits of cloth tied on branches every few feet. “I spent a good two hours looking for the perfect tree and I wanted to be sure I could find it when I needed it,“ Tree explained. Of course, unauthorized marking of trees was another forbidden practice that Ranger Goldman would only too happy to cite Tree with.
Soon we reached a clearing surrounded by dense underbrush. In the center was a sturdy maple tree distinguished by the fact that it had two large branches several feet off the ground jutting out from the trunk in opposite directions. “You see, windar, one wrist nailed to each branch and the feet nailed to the trunk and it will work just fine. Necessity is the mother of invention,” Tree explained. Now he’s getting Frank Zappa involved too.
“OK, you two have read enough CF stories to know what comes next,” he continued.
“Read them?” Barb replied. “I’ve written 5,897 of them.”
“So, what are you waiting for then?” Tree asked. “You know you get crucified naked. Off with the clothes. On the double, too, daylight won’t last forever and I don’t want to nail you up in pitch darkness in case I miss.” The girls bent to undo their hiking boots, removing them and their socks, then lifted their T shirts over their heads, dropping them on the ground. I supposed they wouldn’t be needing them again.
Next, they unbuttoned their shorts and slid them down the long, well-toned legs that had carried them up the mountain, leaving them in only bras and panties. Barb reached behind her to undo her bra and Marcie quickly followed suit. After a moment’s hesitation, they both lowered their panties and stepped out of them. I must say, I can take or leave the crucifixion, but the preliminaries are quite enjoyable, at least if you aren’t the victim du jour. The two of them certainly made a delectable pair, standing in the forest clearing, their skin glowing from the sun which hung low in the western sky.
Tree located a large fallen log about one foot in diameter and began rolling it towards the base of the maple tree. He stooped to align it to his satisfaction. “Alright,” he announced, “One of you get up on the log and we’ll nail your wrists to the branches, then we’ll do the other on the opposite side. Capische?” I thought the Italian was a nice touch, giving the proceedings a vaguely Roman air.
But something didn’t seem entirely right to me. “Tree,” I interjected. “I’m no expert like you are, but aren’t you forgetting something? Doesn’t a proper crucifixion involve whipping the victims before you nail them up? Seems I read that on CF or somewhere.”
“Goddamn, windar,” he said, sounding annoyed. “We’re here in the forest without official crux supplies from Nailus Martyrs. I don’t have a Roman flagrum with me. I’m doing the best I can.”
“But Tree,” I replied, “You said necessity was the mother of invention. I’m sure we can make a perfectly good switch out of one of the smaller branches lying around here. I’m not much into crucifixion, but I know I’ll enjoy reddening these two tight littles. Don’t I get to have some fun, too?”
“OK,” he said, “But make it snappy. The sun will be setting soon.”
It took me no more than 30 seconds hunting around to find a suitable branch that had broken off a birch tree. It was about as thick as my ring finger at the thicker end, tapering to the diameter of my little finger at the thinner end. It was quite green and very whippy and flexible. All I had to do was strip off the leaves and side branches, which took a minute at most, and it was perfect.
I looked around and noticed a large fallen tree at the far end of the clearing. “Alright, you two,” I ordered the girls, “March yourselves over to that downed tree, bend over and rest your hands on the wood.” Barb muttered something about flying pigs once again, but when Marcie shuffled over to the log, she followed. They stood beside each other, their hips almost touching, then both bent at the waist and placed their hands on the log, leaving their delectable tight littles pointing straight at me.
Author's note: I am compelled to mention that sadly none of these photos really match the true awesomeness of either Barb's or Marcella's hindquarters. They merely represent lovely women properly positioned (though #4 should stop looking back at me like that-it won't save her ass and might even get her extra). Also, Mount Marcy wasn't named after Marcella, but after William Marcy, a 19th century Governor.
I had barely begun digesting dinner when Tree stubbed out his cigarette, doubtless one of dozens so far that day (just wait until he gets a look at the cigarette taxes in the Empire State). “Alright, ladies, it’s time for your crucifixions.”
“About time,” Marcie said, almost jumping to her feet. Barb got up a bit more slowly, but perhaps she was sore from the hike.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Tree,” I protested. “That Ranger is around, I can smell it and he’s just waiting to bust you. Besides, crucifixion is barbaric and frankly ridiculous in this day and age.”
Marcie looked a bit peeved. “Windar, you promised to crucify me and if you won’t do it, at least don’t stand in Tree’s way.”
“You heard the lady, windar,” Tree admonished me. “You don’t have to do anything, just leave it to me. You can be the gawking crowd that always gathers at a crucifixion, OK?” He bent next to one of the tents and began removing several of the metal stakes that held it down. Holding those in his left hand, he picked up the hammer that was lying on the ground nearby with his right.
Now you two, follow me,” he added, pointing at Barb and Marcie, who meekly followed him into the underbrush. Against my better judgement I fell in behind them. Must have been the sight of their tight littles in the short shorts.
Tree led the way into the forest heading away from the campground and the trails that led towards the peaks. I noticed that the route was marked with bits of cloth tied on branches every few feet. “I spent a good two hours looking for the perfect tree and I wanted to be sure I could find it when I needed it,“ Tree explained. Of course, unauthorized marking of trees was another forbidden practice that Ranger Goldman would only too happy to cite Tree with.
Soon we reached a clearing surrounded by dense underbrush. In the center was a sturdy maple tree distinguished by the fact that it had two large branches several feet off the ground jutting out from the trunk in opposite directions. “You see, windar, one wrist nailed to each branch and the feet nailed to the trunk and it will work just fine. Necessity is the mother of invention,” Tree explained. Now he’s getting Frank Zappa involved too.
“OK, you two have read enough CF stories to know what comes next,” he continued.
“Read them?” Barb replied. “I’ve written 5,897 of them.”
“So, what are you waiting for then?” Tree asked. “You know you get crucified naked. Off with the clothes. On the double, too, daylight won’t last forever and I don’t want to nail you up in pitch darkness in case I miss.” The girls bent to undo their hiking boots, removing them and their socks, then lifted their T shirts over their heads, dropping them on the ground. I supposed they wouldn’t be needing them again.
Next, they unbuttoned their shorts and slid them down the long, well-toned legs that had carried them up the mountain, leaving them in only bras and panties. Barb reached behind her to undo her bra and Marcie quickly followed suit. After a moment’s hesitation, they both lowered their panties and stepped out of them. I must say, I can take or leave the crucifixion, but the preliminaries are quite enjoyable, at least if you aren’t the victim du jour. The two of them certainly made a delectable pair, standing in the forest clearing, their skin glowing from the sun which hung low in the western sky.
Tree located a large fallen log about one foot in diameter and began rolling it towards the base of the maple tree. He stooped to align it to his satisfaction. “Alright,” he announced, “One of you get up on the log and we’ll nail your wrists to the branches, then we’ll do the other on the opposite side. Capische?” I thought the Italian was a nice touch, giving the proceedings a vaguely Roman air.
But something didn’t seem entirely right to me. “Tree,” I interjected. “I’m no expert like you are, but aren’t you forgetting something? Doesn’t a proper crucifixion involve whipping the victims before you nail them up? Seems I read that on CF or somewhere.”
“Goddamn, windar,” he said, sounding annoyed. “We’re here in the forest without official crux supplies from Nailus Martyrs. I don’t have a Roman flagrum with me. I’m doing the best I can.”
“But Tree,” I replied, “You said necessity was the mother of invention. I’m sure we can make a perfectly good switch out of one of the smaller branches lying around here. I’m not much into crucifixion, but I know I’ll enjoy reddening these two tight littles. Don’t I get to have some fun, too?”
“OK,” he said, “But make it snappy. The sun will be setting soon.”
It took me no more than 30 seconds hunting around to find a suitable branch that had broken off a birch tree. It was about as thick as my ring finger at the thicker end, tapering to the diameter of my little finger at the thinner end. It was quite green and very whippy and flexible. All I had to do was strip off the leaves and side branches, which took a minute at most, and it was perfect.
I looked around and noticed a large fallen tree at the far end of the clearing. “Alright, you two,” I ordered the girls, “March yourselves over to that downed tree, bend over and rest your hands on the wood.” Barb muttered something about flying pigs once again, but when Marcie shuffled over to the log, she followed. They stood beside each other, their hips almost touching, then both bent at the waist and placed their hands on the log, leaving their delectable tight littles pointing straight at me.
Author's note: I am compelled to mention that sadly none of these photos really match the true awesomeness of either Barb's or Marcella's hindquarters. They merely represent lovely women properly positioned (though #4 should stop looking back at me like that-it won't save her ass and might even get her extra). Also, Mount Marcy wasn't named after Marcella, but after William Marcy, a 19th century Governor.
Author's note: I am compelled to mention that sadly ...
"compelled"?
Who could possibly compel you to make such an admission? Surely not moi?
You aren't trying to butter Marcellla and me up with such a statement now are you? Appealing to our vanity in a not so subtle effort to dissuade us from our eagerness to have Tree get on with the job of satisfying our seemingly irresistible desire to be crucified?
"compelled"?
Who could possibly compel you to make such an admission? Surely not moi?
You aren't trying to butter Marcellla and me up with such a statement now are you? Appealing to our vanity in a not so subtle effort to dissuade us from our eagerness to have Tree get on with the job of satisfying our seemingly irresistible desire to be crucified?
windar
Teller of Tales
Blahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!
Would I do such a thing? Don't answer that!!!
That's out of my hands. I am but a spectator
Actually, this is L'il Caprice's rear end which is a fair representation of Barb's tight little...
Tree is quite aware of NY's cigarette tax. One of those 30 quart coolers is filled with Marlboro from Missouri where the sin tax is much more reasonable....
The girls bent to undo their hiking boots, removing them and their socks, then lifted their T shirts over their heads, dropping them on the ground.
yes a sight to behold...
Cella
Spectator
We're getting buttered up! Yay! This is just getting better and better!
Butter me up! (Unsalted, please.)
Would you accept extra virgin olive oil?We're getting buttered up! Yay! This is just getting better and better!
View attachment 521485 Butter me up!
Actually, this is L'il Caprice's rear end which is a fair representation of Barb's tight little...
View attachment 521486
yes a sight to behold...
You have been warned about that camera angle!
And don't you mean a "site to hold"?
Yeah, a 'sight to hold' works too.You have been warned about that camera angle!
And don't you mean a "site to hold"?