Miss Eve

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Wandering the streets of New Orleans, I guess they are called rues here, I am as depressed as the hurricane beaten neighborhood through which I stroll. The ornate sarcophaguses are further reminiscent of my meaningless life. Born in an up and coming neighborhood, I abandoned the cultural expectations to strive for power and greed by embarking on a spiritual journey at the age of 14. Of course my parents would never agree to such a thing, thus, I ran away to Cuba.

Che was as long dead as was the summer of love and his hopes for Caribbean communist utopia. The Cuba I found was as void of idealism as it was of the pirates of years gone by. The beautiful dark bronze bodies fought to stave off starvation rather than for Libre. I was similarly crushed in finding no Zen in the washing of dishes for 3,000 Tibetan monks. I found no Celestine road map while wondering cold and dirty over the Andean mountains of Peru.

I had however, apparently found a mosquito, one carrying malaria no less, when my excursion dipped down into banana trees before climbing up the steep path to Machu Picchu. Having collapsed within the ancient stone structures, I awoke from a coma back in Duluth, Minnesota; the home from which I had ran almost 10 years prior. Confusion reigned as darkness was eclipsed by a waking mixture of images to include my childhood room, the erotic feel of a sponge bathing my testicles, and my mother’s caring face.

Mom commenced to nursing me back to health as Father began teaching me the mundane details of our family business, shipping cargo over the great lakes. With the acceptance that nirvana had eluded me, business success did not. Each of the projects dad entrusted to me succeeded astoundingly. I soon was surpassing his knowledge in the business and was pushing beyond previous barriers which had held us back. One such boundary for us was expansion beyond the great lakes. Thus, my presence in New Orleans auditing bostancı escort bayan our recently purchased Mississippi River Shipping Company corporate offices.

New Orleans; where everything of culture and spirituality is for sale. Souls up for sale, a concept which I would meditate upon, had I not abandoned that practice. Could I actually purchase that which I had thought beyond the power of the dollar? The creole (meaning homemade) cooking was heavenly. Big Mama, was selling her heart by the plate to customers lining up outside her restaurant. The pain, the pleasure of the soul exuding from street musicians, for the low, low price of putting a dollar into their hat. Tourists purchased release from the confines of their restrictive social standards by baring their breasts in exchange for beads. A religious practice gone as wild as the girls on Bourbon Street.

With a smile on my face and the flashing of breasts in every conceivable size and shape freshly emblazoned in my mind, I stepped into a touristy voodoo shop on the edge of Storyville. This area of town was well known for the high end brothels of yester year. The area conveyed an appearance that the experience still might be found behind the veil of neon. The voodoo shop held the same promise, behind the rubber skulls and pin pierced dolls might one find the soul of the famous practitioner the store is named after? Thus spawned my answer to the simple inquiry of “How might I help you?” “I am here to purchase pleasure, enlightenment, love, and eternity.”

Once again, I slowly awoke to a kaleidoscope of confusion: Who’s bed am I in? Why are my hands tied? The smooth sponge again washing my testicles and bringing my cock to erection. Rather than my mother, this time a beautiful mullata woman is the source of my erection. This time rather than releasing my cock from her hand with sheepish embarrassment, as my mother had, Miss Eve continued ümraniye escort to caress my cock whispering in my ear: “Relax, release control, … I am your spirit guide, I am your goddess, … I will teach you, you will worship me, … relax, submit”

Relaxing and allowing my eyes to close I lost a conscious level of awake or sleep, real or dream, physical or spiritual. “They are one and the same. Don’t question. Feel it, learn it.” The room was filled with mist yet I could see clearer than I have ever seen before. My tethers no longer held me bound as I felt like I was floating above the bed, first out of my body only for it to catch up. Looking to the mystically beautiful Miss Eve I noticed her clothing to be an erotic African tribal wear. No, it was the rags of a slave, but provocative and revealing in the right places. … Or rather a toga of a goddess, pure and white but certainly not chaste.

“Release time, release place, release the labels, they hold us no longer.” Miss Eve had no clothes on at all, simply clothed in her beauty. What she is, what she was, what she will be … was coming from within, rather than what she had on. Miss eve was the embodiment of perfection. Reaching out I felt her hair; long, dark, curly, the exotic look and feel of a mullata bringing arousal and hunger to my groin. Within my hand I felt the warmth become cool. Miss Eve’s skin had paled as a gorgeous tall, blond, vikingesque woman stood before me. Her blue eyes turning green accompanied a heat emanating from her now red hair accompanying a fiery attitude.

The beauty I now held in my arms enraptured me as I lay her upon the bed. Miss Eve embodied all women and every woman. She was the mother of all men, she was the lover of all men. I could see and feel my mother in my arms, the Cubana who took my virginity, the geisha who stole my heart, every woman I knew, every woman I had held, every woman I had desired.

I escort kartal made love to Miss Eve for hours, feeling and kissing every part of her body, only for it to change. I kissed a small Oriental breast, nibbling and sucking her sensitive brown nipple as she squirmed underneath me. Seconds later my head was being pressed forcefully against a large Germanic breast with hard, swollen, and pale pink nipples. I entered a young sparsely haired pussy of a virgin just coming of age, closing my eyes in the rapture of her tightness. I opened my eyes with my cock buried in the thickly bushed pussy of my mother who I used to spy upon as she bathed. Rather than the timid body and arms I first felt, I was now pulled tight against the always loving, forgiving breast I suckled over two decades ago.

Each body part was perfection in and of itself: Heaven can be found in the large bubble shaped ass from Brazil. Small breasts with youthful puffy nipples. Large breasts with nipples elongated from breastfeeding children. The tight, the wet, the hairy, the shaved, … simply the pussy. A woman’s pussy is the source of life, the source of pleasure, and even the source giving man the ability to become a creator. I felt each of these individually while making love. These different aspects of womanhood reeled through my mind as I felt my balls tighten, my toes curl, eyes roll back, my cock was buried in the perfection we call pussy. My ecstasy was becoming complete, finding what I thought was Nirvana in a mind blowing orgasm.

Collapsing exhausted into the arms of Miss Eve, I felt a woman under me rather than a sum of the parts. Instead of fucking a pussy, I had just loved a woman. As each part is perfect, each woman is perfect. Miss Eve who lay beneath me with my sperm swimming to unite with her egg, is all perfect. She is perfect as Asian, Hispanic, Caucasian, African, Native American and she is perfect in the mixed race Mullata who’s arms I lay in.

Falling into sleep, I find peace in the knowledge that spiritual fulfillment comes not in a world wide quest, but from women: Loving your mother, finding a life partner as a wife, caring for and protecting a daughter. Eve is God’s capstone creation.

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