Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Trixie heads into an exciting world of the unknown, and possibly the wandering hands of the rotund Mr Watson... looking forward to the next post!
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Trailer Park Trash Trixie's Turkish Torment
- Thread starter Praefectus Praetorio
- Start date
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Nor does Barb's tight little, which probably would remain neither tight, nor littleYou don't know what you're missing! Neither does your pancreas!
Did you imagine that I might not notice that little zinger?
Seating is a bit cramped (although not for a trim tight little) and stowage space for carry ons almost nonexistent, but one of my favorite planes in which to fly. Canadian built too. The country is good for Moore than Mounties, interesting politicians, and @Jollyrei .
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Tuesday, February 5th, 2019, Hartsfield–Jackson Atlanta International Airport
Trixie exited the jetway to emerge at gate C22. Before her was a larger crowd of people than she had ever seen in her whole life. With typical determination and effort, she found the sign to get her to Terminal A. Walking along the seemingly endless corridors, crowded with an endless crush of humanity, the girl kept her attention fixed on her way and the navigation signs. All around her were hundreds of men women and children, walking, running, dragging bags, hoisting backpacks, cradling crying infants as the sea of faces moved relentlessly onward, each with their own distinct destination, but together creating a tidal wave of motion.
Small Trixie was repeatedly pushed and shoved and jostled by the surging crowd. On several occasions, a hand might have stroked her ass or tit in passing, perhaps innocently. On two occasions, the rude intent was made clear by an accompanying pinch. Humiliated by such assaults, Trixie, nonetheless kept her mind concentrated on her goal, Terminal A. Due to her calm determination, twenty minutes later, she turned right out of the main concourse and into that Terminal. Another hundred yards down, she saw the lighted sign, A11. She checked in and proceeded to wait the forty minutes to boarding. There was not an empty seat in the waiting area and she had to stand, leaning against the wall, fifteen yards down the corridor.
At 4:55 PM the boarding began and by 5:19, she was in seat 33F, window, one row in front of the rear lavatories. At 5:29 PM, flight 2827 pulled away from the gate for the long taxi and wait for takeoff. After what seemed an unbearably long wait in the taxi line, the plane lifted its wheels off the ground at 6:00 PM precisely.
Tuesday, February 5th, 6 PM, Columbia Park, Arlington, Virginia.
Tom Watson, pulled his car into the underground parking garage at his condo and took the elevator to the third floor. His three-bedroom condo in a middle-level development was nothing special. It was, in truth all he could afford after his disastrous divorce seventeen years earlier. His fat cow of an ex-wife had taken him for everything she could after she found that cocktail napkin with another woman’s lipstick in his blazer pocket. Her PI had produced very salacious evidence, including certain activities that might have crossed the line to criminal. So he had to give her anything she wanted. And, what she wanted was everything. In addition, Marge had a very generous alimony. Tom had frequently planned ways to kill her to end the financial drain. Although some of his ideas seemed very safe, he was much too cautious to actually try one. He simply had to make do and hope she remarried which would cut the payments in half (though Tom couldn’t imagine a man desperate or dumb enough to marry an overweight bitch like Marge).
Tom stripped off his jacket, undid his tie, kicked off his shoes, and made himself his favorite drink, Seagrams on the rocks. It was pleasantly warm for February, so shed his trousers and waddled out onto his patio in only his shirt and boxers. The wings of the high-rise condo blocked any scenic views. Tom could care less. The third-floor patio provided an unobstructed and close-up view of the condo swimming pool. In the summer, he could spend hours out here, nursing his whiskey and watching the girls in their bikinis.
Even better was his ‘special arrangement.” He had installed on the railing a cute birdhouse. It was actually a hidden, HD camera with a remote pan and zoom controlled by his phone. He could follow, zoom in and record any fetching, young babe as she lay out sunning on the deck. Later, he would ‘review’ these recordings in the privacy of his bedroom on the big screen TV.
Tonight, however, there were no swimmers at the pool. Instead, he spent his time finalizing his plans for Trixie. Her file said she was twenty. A little old for his tastes, but if he could get her to do what he wanted, he wouldn’t quibble over a few years.
Trixie exited the jetway to emerge at gate C22. Before her was a larger crowd of people than she had ever seen in her whole life. With typical determination and effort, she found the sign to get her to Terminal A. Walking along the seemingly endless corridors, crowded with an endless crush of humanity, the girl kept her attention fixed on her way and the navigation signs. All around her were hundreds of men women and children, walking, running, dragging bags, hoisting backpacks, cradling crying infants as the sea of faces moved relentlessly onward, each with their own distinct destination, but together creating a tidal wave of motion.
Small Trixie was repeatedly pushed and shoved and jostled by the surging crowd. On several occasions, a hand might have stroked her ass or tit in passing, perhaps innocently. On two occasions, the rude intent was made clear by an accompanying pinch. Humiliated by such assaults, Trixie, nonetheless kept her mind concentrated on her goal, Terminal A. Due to her calm determination, twenty minutes later, she turned right out of the main concourse and into that Terminal. Another hundred yards down, she saw the lighted sign, A11. She checked in and proceeded to wait the forty minutes to boarding. There was not an empty seat in the waiting area and she had to stand, leaning against the wall, fifteen yards down the corridor.
At 4:55 PM the boarding began and by 5:19, she was in seat 33F, window, one row in front of the rear lavatories. At 5:29 PM, flight 2827 pulled away from the gate for the long taxi and wait for takeoff. After what seemed an unbearably long wait in the taxi line, the plane lifted its wheels off the ground at 6:00 PM precisely.
Tuesday, February 5th, 6 PM, Columbia Park, Arlington, Virginia.
Tom Watson, pulled his car into the underground parking garage at his condo and took the elevator to the third floor. His three-bedroom condo in a middle-level development was nothing special. It was, in truth all he could afford after his disastrous divorce seventeen years earlier. His fat cow of an ex-wife had taken him for everything she could after she found that cocktail napkin with another woman’s lipstick in his blazer pocket. Her PI had produced very salacious evidence, including certain activities that might have crossed the line to criminal. So he had to give her anything she wanted. And, what she wanted was everything. In addition, Marge had a very generous alimony. Tom had frequently planned ways to kill her to end the financial drain. Although some of his ideas seemed very safe, he was much too cautious to actually try one. He simply had to make do and hope she remarried which would cut the payments in half (though Tom couldn’t imagine a man desperate or dumb enough to marry an overweight bitch like Marge).
Tom stripped off his jacket, undid his tie, kicked off his shoes, and made himself his favorite drink, Seagrams on the rocks. It was pleasantly warm for February, so shed his trousers and waddled out onto his patio in only his shirt and boxers. The wings of the high-rise condo blocked any scenic views. Tom could care less. The third-floor patio provided an unobstructed and close-up view of the condo swimming pool. In the summer, he could spend hours out here, nursing his whiskey and watching the girls in their bikinis.
Even better was his ‘special arrangement.” He had installed on the railing a cute birdhouse. It was actually a hidden, HD camera with a remote pan and zoom controlled by his phone. He could follow, zoom in and record any fetching, young babe as she lay out sunning on the deck. Later, he would ‘review’ these recordings in the privacy of his bedroom on the big screen TV.
Tonight, however, there were no swimmers at the pool. Instead, he spent his time finalizing his plans for Trixie. Her file said she was twenty. A little old for his tastes, but if he could get her to do what he wanted, he wouldn’t quibble over a few years.
NewUser
Magistrate
An interesting psychological trait.
Someone else, rather than complicate everything so much, just bought a premium account on Pornhub.
NewUser
Magistrate
And Alzheimer's
For anyone here who has never had the pleasure. This is the busiest airport in the U.S. It’s a sprawling thing with long corridors, little redeeming architectural character, if any at all. And, yes, watch out for the gropers. It happens because a lot of folk from Arkansas must pass through the place.
Hopefully not the addiction to CruxForums they found evidence of on his computer?
I must agree with Barb on this point! Who designed that place??? By the way, the 'gropers' are from blue states... they never learned manners...
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
No surprise when you wiggle a tight little lovingly cuddled in a thin, tight, and insanely short skirt! The expression, "She's asking for it," comes to mind!
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
Well, ah do declare, Mister Tree. Those Yankee carpetbaggers are such awful people. Ah do wish they’d all go back to wherever it was they came from, and leave us righteous, God fearing, law abiding folk alone.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
The rumor I hear was that the PI found activities that would not even be allowed on CruxForums!
Amen, Sister! Amen!!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Another great Southern song from Leadbelly (Huddie Ledbetter), with international performance. I think that the first time the line, "It was down in Louisiana" is sung by Jeron, "blind boy" Paxton, he nails the elusive, and rarely accomplished by non-natives, correct pronunciation of the State name. @Apostate can tell us for sure.
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Tom Watson, whilst being a loathsome individual, is certainly a man with plenty of innovative ideas on a variety of nefarious subjects
In fact the bird house looks so real that I would be amazed if he didn't get a few different varieties of tits in there during the season 
Been there. That’s exactly what it’s like!!!!