Archive for the ‘teen facial cumshot’ Category

Archive-name Miscellpure-001501

Wednesday, December 23rd, 2009

Archive-author:
Archive-title: Purity Test – 1 Question

================================================================================

THE UNISEX, OMNISEXUAL
P U R I T Y T E S T

_______________________________________________________________________________

Version 5.01 (1)
Final Release
11-September-1989
_______________________________________________________________________________
Public domain; no copyright. All rights wronged, all wrongs reversed. Up with
going down. The risen flesh commands: let there be love. Murphy’s law on
sex: Love is a matter of chemistry; sex is a matter of physics. Chaste makes
waste. Virginity can be cured.

This document was not sponsored by the Department of Defense Advanced Research
Projects Agency, and was not monitored by the Air Force Avionics Laboratory.
The views and conclusions contained in this document should not be interpreted
as representing the official policies, either expressed or implied, of the
Defense Advanced Projects Agency or the US Government. Neither should it be
interpreted nor inferred that the authors/contributors have actually performed
any of the actions contained herein.
_______________________________________________________________________________

Disclaimer of Liability

The user of this test acknowledges that sex is a hazardous sport; that a person
must copulate in control, and use good judgement at all times; that partners’
conditions vary constantly and are greatly affected by weather changes and
previous use; and that dirty sheets, variations in terrain and bed surfaces,
spouses/pimps/managers, forest growth, rocks and debris, clothed obstacles, and
many other natural and man-made obstacles and hazards, including other users
and customers, exist throughout the bedroom area. Personal managers
(pimps/spouses) and sado-masochistic operations and equipment are constantly in
use and may be hazardous to those not copulating in control. Impotence,
collisions, and social diseases resulting in injury can happen at any time,
even to those copulating in control with proper sexual equipment. Inherent
risks are part of the sport and may exist within your partner. As a condition
of being permitted to use the facilities of your partner, the user of this test
agrees to copulate in control and within the limits of his/her ability, and
further acknowledges and accepts these hazards, dangers, and risks and assumes
the risk of injury or loss to person or damage to property which might result
from use of the partner’s facilities.

…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellguideseltxt

Wednesday, September 16th, 2009

Archive-author: BeastBoy
Archive-title: Guide to Select Female Animal

This is a Guide written by one of my friends, BeastBoy. I hope you
find it informative… Constructive comments welcomed. All flames
will go to /dev/null…

A Guide to Selecting a Female Animal for Fun and Friendship

Copyright 1993 BeastBoy
All Rights Reserved

INTRODUCTION

I have often been asked by the would-be bestialist: “What kind
of animal is the best?” A lot of the answer, of course, is
personal taste, but many guys have little or no experience, and
have no knowledge on which to base an opinion. An ideal
situation would be to have one of each to experiment with, but
in this day and age, few can have a place to keep farm animals,
and fewer still can keep a selection of them. Therefore, I
have written this paper, in which I will share some insights
gained over more than 35 years of making love to animals of all
common species. My opinions are my own, of course, but perhaps
the information here will help lead you in the right direction.

First there are some important things that are common to all
animals:

WHERE TO GET YOUR ANIMAL

If you live in an area where you can have farm animals, there
are bound to be one or more livestock auctions nearby. If you
decide to attend, get there early and inspect the possibilities.
A lot of this is just gut feel, since you will not likely get
close enough to touch them. If you are going to bid on an
animal, select one that has a sleek coat, bright eyes and an
alert posture. A lot of auction animals have not been treated
very well in their life, so they will be suspicious of humans
and may be difficult to train.

The best place to buy livestock is from a breeder. The cost
will be higher, but you will be able to better evaluate the
animal and find out something about her history. You will be
able to get a “hands on” inspection, so be sure to briefly get a
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellcarpentrtxt

Tuesday, June 16th, 2009

Archive-author: Neil Bernstein
Archive-title: John the Carpenter’s Tale

(c) Neil Bernstein 1993

One Sunday, driving Dolores’ truck back from a provisioning
trip, Pete stopped along the riverbank to watch a crew of panting
scullers labor their way against the current. Their slender craft
slipped around chunks of floating ice smoothly as a ballbearing
sliding down a greased track. Got all the time they need to do
that, he thought bitterly. Men who could go home to adoring wives
and get up the next morning to go to work.
In Lombard’s General Store he met old John buying feed for his
three geldings. The man’s belly nearly split his overalls as he
carried the sacks out to his car. Pete hid a chuckle.
“You come back for coffee now,” John bellowed.
Pete could see no reason to refuse him. He followed John’s
rusty truck up a series of gravel paths, shook hands with his
pretty wife. John eased himself into a great armchair. He bade
her serve them their coffee and an endless succession of snacks:
toast, honey, ham sandwiches, spiced drumsticks, maple candies,
pear cobbler…
When she was done serving she settled back on a kitchen stool
and nursed her baby. Pete watched her play with the suckling,
bouncing him gently on her knee. He knew, feeling the certainty
only the superstitious know, that it could not be John’s child.
John had been a carpenter for twenty years. One morning he
found the work too exerting and gave it up violently, pitching his
toolbox through the window of the house he was building. He tried
a variety of jobs after that, settling on delivering the Weekly
Argus. He sat long hours alone at the head of his kitchen table,
playing solitaire late into the night, gaining ten pounds a year.
He always left a half-finished puzzle set up in the living room.
Pete remembered the last time he’d been out to John’s house.
A selectman was giving Grandpa Goosehair some problems, badmouthing
him in town meeting. The old man wanted Pete to see if John could
dig up any incriminating tax information. John looked over
everyone’s tax forms, considered it his neighborly duty. He got so
he could do the arithmetic so quickly that everyone brought him
their crumpled forms: farmers who could only read with a certain
pair of spectacles they’d lost years and years ago, folks who could
read Latin but couldn’t be bothered with figures.
Pete’d got himself lost on nameless gravel tracks and had
arrived very late. The ex-carpenter’s wife had just finished
showering and now stood before a full-length mirror. Her hips were
swathed in fine linen, her arms left half-bare by a silk-finished
nightgown. She braided her hair and rubbed fine powder and oil
into her tremulous neck. John knelt on the parlor floor, his
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Bus Driver

Sunday, May 31st, 2009

I was a school bus driver in my High School days or should I say DAZE. Some
of the young ladies that rode the bus sent my mind in a whirl and. They kept
my HEAD up and alert.
One I remember who was exceptional was Angie this sweet thing was always on
the front seat. She was picked up at the Jr. High school. We chatted often
about our futures and interests. She wanted to be a model and dancer.
Because she liked wearing short skirts I was able to tell her from what I
saw she had great legs for her prospective career. She smiled and blushed.
The next day she had on a new Micro mini and asked what I thought of it.
“It is honestly attractive and I adore the way it shows off your lovely legs.
I bet it has gotten a lot of attention from your fellow class mates.”
“Thank you! I really needed that. The girls have been a little cold today
and the guys were not so chatty ether.” Says Angie.
“That is because the girls are jealous and the guys are left in awe.”
“You always say the sweetest things.”and gave me a peck on the cheek. That
was the first time I noticed her breasts as they rubbed against me. I glanced
down her blouse as she bent over for the kiss. The softness and whiteness
there looked like heaven.
Till we reached her house I kept glancing in the mirror to look over those
long lovely legs. It is a wonder we made the trip safely. Occasionally her legs
would part or she would slip down in her seat. At those times I would get a
glimpse of her plain white panties.
When Angie boarded the buss the next day she had on a shorter macro mini
skirt.
“I hope the class mates were more friendly today”
“No they weren’t. But how do you like my skirt.”
“Come on Angie, you know I like your legs. You must be teasing me. The
more I see of them the more I like it.”
As we drove home I could hardly tear my eyes away from the mirror. This
time Angie caught my gaze in the mirror.
She bent over to whisper in my ear. “How long have you been watching in the
mirror?”
In reply I made an announcement. “Since leaving school I have been watching
the misconduct of all of you. Now I am going to appoint a bus monitor, ANGIE.”
“Hope your mother will not mind you riding the route with me.”
“I am sure she will not. She says I spend too much time before the TV
anyway.”
Angie boarded the bus the next day with her mothers permission to ride the
full route. This doubled my pleasure for her skirt was another micro mini.
Half way through the route I could see Angie was getting restless. She lost
her posture and eventually rubbing a post between her legs. I was watching
and had noticed a darkening of her panties as it moistened. When she remembered
the way I had been watching the day before a blush came to her cheek. We
miraculously made it back to her home safely.
“You did a good job today! Thank you. I had time to tend to more important
business other than the brats.”
“Ohh Yea!! What business was that looking up my skirt? Hee Hee”
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscell77reasontxt

Monday, March 9th, 2009

Archive-author:
Archive-title: 77 Reasons Why Animals are Better than Humans

1. You can throw the critter off your bed and they come right back
when you call em.

2. You don’t have to appologize if you cum in less than 3 hours.

3. They come in more colors than just black white red and yellow.

4. They consider cum a delicacy.

5. They don’t argue with you.

6. They don’t buy shit from the avon lady.

7. They think a herd of critters is better than just one.

8. You won’t catch any terrible diseases if he screws the bitch on the corner.

9. They already HAVE fur coats.

10. The don’t mind sleeping in the wet spot.

11. Animals don’t write e-mail flames.

12. Animals don’t divorce you and take half of your life.

14. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. A man’s best friend is his dog.

15. Animals can’t talk.

16. Animals can’t spell “mysogynist”.

17. Animals don’t drive.

18. Animals aren’t offended by the words “bitch” and “pussy”.

19. Animals don’t tell lies.

20. Animals will forgive you for being human.

21. An animal, when it’s horny, will let you know.

22. Animals don’t know what lawyers are.

23. Animals don’t call you a chauvanist pig when you hold the door for them.

…End of the part1. To be continued..

The Commute

Friday, February 15th, 2008

Port Authority Bus Terminal was nearly empty at this hour of the
evening. Ben waited on line for his bus home to Jersey, exhausted after
another day of bullshit at his public relations firm. It was bad enough
to pull these late nights on occasion, but to top it off this was the
start of the July 4th weekend. Just about everyone else had deserted
the city for cooler climates, making the station seem more desolate than
usual.

There were two other business types waiting on the “33″ line. Ben
looked at the clock: 11:45, five more minutes. He glanced across the
corridor, to an old bum lying in front of a bank of payphones, to the
contents of a trashcan overturned by someone looking for cans to
recycle. He was jostled from his reverie by a soft voice.

“Excuse me, is this the line for Montclair?” Ben turned to behold
a very pretty blonde. He momentarily forgot the question as he stared
at her. “The 33, does it stop here?”

The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties. She was clad in a
short, loose black skirt with a sleeveless gold top that accented her
hair, which looked freshly washed. Maybe she just came from the gym,
Ben thought. Her attire and hair complemented a deep golden tan. Ben
remembered that it had been some time since he’d been laid and he felt
some familiar twitchings in his pants.

“Oh, sorry,” he finally responded. “Yeah, this is the line.” The
blonde thanked him and pulled out a paperback.

The bus pulled up to the door and the riders boarded. They were
greeted by an announcement that there was an accident in the Lincoln
Tunnel that could delay the trip. If there was one thing Ben hated, it
was getting stuck in the tunnel.

The two passengers ahead of him sat up front. Ben opted for
something in the middle of the bus. The blonde sat in the row in front
of him, across the aisle.

When the bus pulled away from the gate, the driver turned off the
main lights. Ben switched on his overhead lamp and returned to his
crossword puzzle. The blonde switched her light but it didn’t work.
Neither did the one for the seat next to her. “Shit,” she muttered, as
she gathered he bag and moved to the seat directly across from Ben. At
least he would have something to look at.

The blonde crossed her sexy legs, and tugged at her skirt. Ben
kept glancing at her, hoping she wouldn’t catch him. But she was intent
on her book.
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellcolortxt

Saturday, September 8th, 2007

Archive-author:
Archive-title: Your Favorite Color is the Key to your Sexual Life

RED Tend to be tigers in the sack. They are easily aroused and
enjoy sex in every way imaginable. Once the sexual spark is
lighted, it may take hours to extinguish. When two Reds get
together, the ensuing erotica could make Lady Chatterley blush.
Lovers of Red tend to be the aggressors and weaker colors should
beware!

YELLOW If you tend to favor Yellow your sexual drivers are
complex and lean toward the adaptable. The favorite color of
homosexuals is Yellow! No don’t panic – not everyone who wears
Yellow is gay. In most cases the person will acquiesce to the
stronger partner’s desires in a passive manner. You will never
enjoy sex to the fullest, but you will never turn down an
invitation from someone you enjoy or admire.

PURPLE Lovers of the color Purple frequently consider
themselves too regal for a fun romp in the sack. Women sometimes
are the type who hate to muss their hair. Men are business-like
in their approach to lovemaking. In both sexes, Purple partners
are more concerned with their fulfillment than anyone else’s
gratification.

BLACK Black color preferences point to Black sex. These people
are the misfits of the sex world and seek out each other in
kinship. They tend to prefer perverted sex and are usually
masochistic or sadistic in nature. They are moody people and
often perform at their peak when under stress or during unhappy
times. Police psychiatrists claim that many sex offenders prefer
the color Black. And it is no coincidence that the uniform of
mobsters and teenaged gangs is Black attire.

GREEN Those who prefer Green are fresh and innocent in their
approach to sex. Women who love Green will make love like
virgins all of their life. And a man may always be a trifle
clumsy and awkward, but in a charming and endearing sort of way.
Green lovers are gentle, but not passionate. If chosen as a
mate, one will never need worry about infidelity.

PINK Persons who like Pink show a reluctance to mature in
sexual matters. Women tend to tease; to promise more than they
intend to deliver. In some cases, they flaunt their femininity -
but because they secretly hate men. A great percentage of
prostitutes boast entire lingerie wardrobes in Pink. Men who
like Pink are philanderers and flirts. They are the type who
will take three dates for the same evening and not keep one;
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellcarpentrtxt

Tuesday, September 4th, 2007

Archive-author: Neil Bernstein
Archive-title: John the Carpenter’s Tale

(c) Neil Bernstein 1993

One Sunday, driving Dolores’ truck back from a provisioning
trip, Pete stopped along the riverbank to watch a crew of panting
scullers labor their way against the current. Their slender craft
slipped around chunks of floating ice smoothly as a ballbearing
sliding down a greased track. Got all the time they need to do
that, he thought bitterly. Men who could go home to adoring wives
and get up the next morning to go to work.
In Lombard’s General Store he met old John buying feed for his
three geldings. The man’s belly nearly split his overalls as he
carried the sacks out to his car. Pete hid a chuckle.
“You come back for coffee now,” John bellowed.
Pete could see no reason to refuse him. He followed John’s
rusty truck up a series of gravel paths, shook hands with his
pretty wife. John eased himself into a great armchair. He bade
her serve them their coffee and an endless succession of snacks:
toast, honey, ham sandwiches, spiced drumsticks, maple candies,
pear cobbler…
When she was done serving she settled back on a kitchen stool
and nursed her baby. Pete watched her play with the suckling,
bouncing him gently on her knee. He knew, feeling the certainty
only the superstitious know, that it could not be John’s child.
John had been a carpenter for twenty years. One morning he
found the work too exerting and gave it up violently, pitching his
toolbox through the window of the house he was building. He tried
a variety of jobs after that, settling on delivering the Weekly
Argus. He sat long hours alone at the head of his kitchen table,
playing solitaire late into the night, gaining ten pounds a year.
He always left a half-finished puzzle set up in the living room.
Pete remembered the last time he’d been out to John’s house.
A selectman was giving Grandpa Goosehair some problems, badmouthing
him in town meeting. The old man wanted Pete to see if John could
dig up any incriminating tax information. John looked over
everyone’s tax forms, considered it his neighborly duty. He got so
he could do the arithmetic so quickly that everyone brought him
their crumpled forms: farmers who could only read with a certain
pair of spectacles they’d lost years and years ago, folks who could
read Latin but couldn’t be bothered with figures.
Pete’d got himself lost on nameless gravel tracks and had
arrived very late. The ex-carpenter’s wife had just finished
showering and now stood before a full-length mirror. Her hips were
swathed in fine linen, her arms left half-bare by a silk-finished
nightgown. She braided her hair and rubbed fine powder and oil
into her tremulous neck. John knelt on the parlor floor, his
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscell8preludetxt

Saturday, August 11th, 2007

Archive-author: Byron Elbows
Archive-title: 8-preludes to stories

1. Honey drips slowly from the edge of the jar. Emma takes the knife and
catches the falling stream, feeding it back into the jar’s mouth. I have
watched her do this, not this exact thing, but this sort of thing, for almost
an hour now. Either the honey falling, or the wind through the screen door
blowing papers onto the floor, or else the newspaper catches when she tries
to fold it back on itself. She fascinates me, in a humiliating sort of way.
I could watch her for another hour, unseen.

2. She gets up now.
From my bedroom window, I can’t quite see her face when she stands up,
and just like on the tabloid shows where they replace the faces with a
featureless blue disk, I expect her or her body to betray some terrible
secret. Maybe she suffers from scoliosis, or psoriasis, or possibly some
horribly disfiguring congenital defect that now and then allows her navel
to grow as large as a football.
I wait, watching for the telltale swelling in her abdomen. Surprisingly,
it never happens. No, her body remains perfect, just like yesterday.

3. “Where’s my Pepsi!?!” she cries to no one in particular, staring into
her refrigerator. “All I wanted was a Pepsi \ldots” Well, I have to
laugh at that. Just what I’d thought about all day. But when I looked in
the cabinet, all I had was syrup of ipecac. Revolting, but hardly sufficient
for the job.

4. She walks over to the sliding glass door, opens it just wide enough to
slip her slim body through, then closes it. I can see her dress now, a sort
of twopiece summer outfit, leaving her midriff bare. God, I want that
midriff. She can have the rest of her body, but I’ll take this perfect,
smooth—
Was that—? No, she just took a deep breath, that’s all.

5. She lies down on the lawn chair, reclining nearly all the way back, with
a Pepsi in her hand (she found one after all). Emma, Emma, Emma. I repeat
her name like Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, whose name I see in front of me as the
answer to a Trivial Pursuit question. I shake my head, annoyed, and the
mantra returns. You may have the alpha and the omega, but in between, there
always lives Emma, sweet Emma, a pretty little Greek figure in the middle of
all that Roman nonsense.
Still wondering? I only took Greek to decipher the sorority house names.
Imagine my disappointment when all the letter combinations appeared random,
rather than producing lurid, lascivious names, such as \ldots But I digress.

6. Emma sucks Pepsi through a straw. Sounds vaguely like some sort of
childhood insult. Your mother rides a vacuum cleaner. Your father has a
nose like a rubber hose. Emma seems mostly unconcerned about this.

7. She puts down the empty can on the cement patio with a hollow clank,
and closes her eyes. They do not like the sun, after all. I scratch my
legs.
I want to fall on her. Fall on her, like a Georgian flower, unfolding,
pressing petal to petal, surrounded only by the echoing sound of soft
waterfilled fibers. In my mind’s eye, the Pepsi takes on ambrosial
proportions, linking me with a divine nature. I see all the things I should
not ever see: every unicorn that ever ran, my hands held by someone on the
street, bells I never heard ring, and besides, the reverent smile of a little
boy and a blue blue sky.

8. I shake off my reverie to find her gone. I let out a hmph. The orchid
has fallen into the pond to meet its reflection with open arms, only to see it
disappear as it sinks slowly beneath the water. Shh! and goodbye.

(c) 26 Apr 1993

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