I'm very pleased to be able to post another great story from Mykola Dementiuk. Remember, if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at mchristianzobop@gmail.com.
Goddess
by
Mykola Dementiuk
Their first stop out on a Friday night would usually be the local Clancy’s for a few drinks --beers for him, Shirley Temples for her-- a hard-drinking bar where boilermakers were the norm and where a woman alone was most likely an alcoholic hooker and a woman with a man was probably getting paid for it and was no better either.
But they were known at Clancy’s and for the hooker they presumed her to be or not, there was always room for them at the crowded two-deep bar --three-deep or more if an important game was on-- and the Friday night regulars always gravitated nearby to order their drinks and get their Friday night peeks at her cleavage and a possible fleeting brush of their shoulders against her blouse or leg against hers, though it was questionable how many of the besotted Friday regulars would be able to do more given a chance with pussy like that than fall flat atop her, with flattened belches, flattened grunting, flattened shriveled alkie dicks.
Clancy’s was even more crowded than usual this Friday night; the Stanley Cup playoffs were on and each of the two home-area teams had their raucous followers and it was already a forgone conclusion as to who would boast the best hockey team in the world; Go New York! meant little in differentiating the teams -- Islanders and Rangers -- and team loyalty had become nothing but brazen civic boosting, each night’s news report leading off with the most important news story of the day: where the competing team players partied the night before…
She had hoped for a few drinks, a few showoff ass pats and squeezings --That’s my doll!-- but he had gotten as enthused in following the game with the other bar patrons that she knew they’d be here past midnight and it’d be too late for a movie by then, even if all she could expect at the movies was to take an aisle seat as he pulled up her blouse and groped and mauled and mangled her breasts for the entire length of the hour and a half or two hour film, sometimes leaving her with her tits out for ten, fifteen minutes while he went to pee, to get soda, get popcorn but she steeled herself over the years to concentrate on the film and ignore whoever was gaping or jerking-off at her from nearby seats, and he always seemed to return just in time to keep someone from getting too close to her seat, or her tits…but at least the Friday night films broke the moronic pattern of weeklong nothing or barstool roosting.
She took a sip of her Shirley Temple and frowned, certain the smirking bartender had spiked the alcohol-free concoction with vodka or gin, but certainly not enough to overpower the innocent grenadine, ginger all, and cherries brew, --still, with the smell and noise and atmosphere of alcohol all around it was easy for her husband to shout, It’s your imagination! as he’d taste her drink, slobber a kiss in her neck, grope at her crotch, and return to the cheering of the home-team.
And the crowd went wild…
As was expected, one of the home teams won, the cherished trophy stayed ‘home’ and the chaotic excitement of the hockey arena on the TV was almost exact image of the frenzy of cheering, screaming, jumping that erupted in the bar. They overturned stools, dropped drinks, grudgingly dished out cash in lost bets, spun in the delirium of a victory that represented more than just a sports rivalry that probably a mere handful actively followed throughout the entire season, but the repressed pride of their soulless, mis-lived lives, freeing them to erupt in a cacophony of whoops and roars and bellows that in some primeval primitive past would have exorcised demons or summoned a goddess…
And in a corner of the barroom, a goddess arose…
She was drunk and fat and as she climbed the barstool her miniskirt rose up her ass to where at least six or seven pairs of hands were clutching at the meaty panty-streaked ass and thighs to steady the goddess until she succeeded in standing once, wobbling her tits, screeching a YEAH! at the crowd, tottering off the stool into the waiting eager hands and fingers of the men below.
Yet almost immediately, from another corner of the room, another goddess arose…
This one was younger and pony-tailed, thinner and prettier and wearing the winning team jersey and hat and waving a team banner at the crowd as she screamed and roosted on the shoulders of her boyfriend wearing an identical team jersey and screaming as much as his girlfriend’s blue-jeaned thighs clasping his cheeks allowed…
But by then she had lost her Shirley Temple (but had sipped and squirmed from someone else’s real drink), had been pushed away from the bar, lost sight of her husband, been hugged and grabbed and crotched and petted by countless hands, and glared at the cheerleading tramps who wove down above the crowd. The fat pig was the barroom blowjob queen and the other some kid probably underage to be in a bar anyway. What were they showing off? What did they have that she didn’t? What’s a fat drooping stretch-marked ass compared to a smooth high round one? And who cared about some baby-tits in a too large jersey when she could show’em great ballooned raised ones? They wanted a goddess! Enough of these fat whores and schoolgirl teasers, she’d not only show them what a goddess looked like, she’d show them where the goddess lived, right between her legs, right in heaven!
And even in her tight red pants it was an easy two steps to a table top --one on a fake leather-cushioned chair and one to the table top-- and she stood above the crowd, even higher than the jerseyed girl and she raised her arms, shook her bosom and screamed NEW YORK! NEW YORK!
For a moment the crowd hushed and turned to look and she didn’t disappoint: she beamed, tugged up her blouse to her neck, dipped her thumbs into the lace-frilled bra cups and shook out her moist round breasts.
The room of men spun and surged; the goddess had made herself available, and her followers had come to worship and adore…
But for an instant she tensed in fear, than spotted her husband. He stood above the fat mini-skirted whore on the floor, her short skirt hiked up and spun like a belt around her waist, his dick in her hand as she sucked another off, and the two men stood leaning on the bar as if their blowjobs and hand-jobs were incidental to the drinks they each clutched. She met her husband’s eyes and he sheepishly grinned and looked down at her breasts and scowled; she recognized the tensing of his neck and jaw and face muscles contorting before the force of his ejaculation. She shook her tits and spun atop the table…
Things went black, then bright, the bartenders flicking the lights and beating the bar for order. And in the blackness of her shaking and spinning and jiggling and screaming she broke a heel and lost her balance and toppled into the reaching, pawning, groping crowd of men...
The only thing that surprised her was how easily the tight red pants were ripped off and how easily she was fucked, over and over….just like a goddess…
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