Pans of Caint

Pans of Caint

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Tags

Summary

This is a narrative essay I wrote for my college professor. It is about banging a chick while standing on top of two cans of paint.

Tags

Summary

This is a narrative essay I wrote for my college professor. It is about banging a chick while standing on top of two cans of paint.

Content

Submitted: April 10, 2012

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: April 10, 2012

A A A

A A A


Pans of Caint

Ever since I could remember I have been infatuated with red headed girls. My childhood dream girl was the Disney princess Ariel from The Little Mermaid, a movie I watched religiously while fantasizing about brushing my fingers through her ravishing crimson coat. Something about red hair has always mesmerized me, as if it were a blessing from the gods as opposed to simple strands of biomaterial haphazardly perched on top of one’s head. However, not all gingers are blessed with a beauty such as that of the Little Mermaid’s. Possession of this glorious pigmentation tends to be associated with less fortunate attributes such as pasty skin and potential flocks of frightful freckles. Immaculate red headed beauties are a rare breed to come upon. Their sparsity makes them all the more alluring, a palatable feast for the eyes and a desired relic to cherish.

To my dismay, I have had minimal interactions with incarnations of my Disney Princess dream girl prior to my college career, a complication correlated with my geographical location. For the entirety of my life I have lived in Watertown, Massachusetts, a modest semi-suburban outskirt of Boston tucked in between the larger neighboring municipalities. With a relatively meager population, there were few students who attended Watertown High School; the magnitude of my graduating class being but a fraction of the surrounding communities. Considering the petty proportion of burgundy browed babes in the world, it wasn’t surprising that the entire population of gingers at Watertown High consisted of carrot capped undesirables. Like an ecuadorian native whose eyes have never lay upon so much as a single flake of snow, I felt as if I was missing out on an essential slice of life.

At last I was emancipated from the encumbrance of Watertown as the summer following my senior year came to a close and the time had finally arisen for me embark on my journey to Fitchburg State University, where I would be presented with a diverse batch of people of whom I had never met; a freshly tilled garden to begin cultivating with unique relationships, some of which may not make it past the first winter, while others will thrive with vigor as they withstand the test of time. Along with the abundance of positive energy, a crew of irreplaceable homies, as well as exquisite educational opportunities, it was in Fitchburg where my ruby tressed princess appeared before me, surfacing from the impervious depths of the ocean and embracing me as her Prince, as she is the Damsel in distress to be swept off her feet and metamorphosized from a mermaid into a human by the taste of my kiss. However, it takes a firm rod and enticing bait to reel in such a nymph.

Subsequently, I had devised a flawless strategy of seduction, an undeniable proposal guaranteed to seal the deal. Passion was palpable in the air as the holiday season approached its apex of anticipation; vibrant lights snugly shrouded every surface with vitality, winsome mistletoe swayed from adorned alcoves, and plastic wrappers littered the ground as candy canes became an epidemic. It is human nature to become captivated by the spirit of Christmas and rendered defenseless against the tantalizing charm of Saint Nick, a charm that, if used tactfully, is a game changer in the process of scoring chicks. Rocking a Santa hat makes girls want you to infiltrate their chimney as they take a ride on your sleigh....fact. I have come to find, however, that the possession of a Christmas tree is a pussy magnet of much greater magnitude. In a situation in which I’m successfully flirting with a girl at a party, yet am having trouble maneuvering a smooth transition back to my bedroom, the offer to assist me in the decoration of my Christmas tree serves as an alibi. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to decorate a Christmas tree? I can’t think of any better reason to retire to my bedroom, other than to drop trow and plow.

Thus, this Saturday night began in a similar fashion to the weeks prior: making sure to tally mark on my hand the number of shots I took as the ill crew performed their traditional pre-game ritual before embarking for a party. As usual, our brigade of hooligans departed together only to end up getting separated by the capricious chaos of party nights such as Thursday and Saturday (Friday and Sunday being the days of rest...sometimes). With such a predictable partying schedule, you’d figure that our mob would do a better job at sticking together, as opposed to being constantly dissected and distributed across separate parties. Once again I found myself in a house missing the majority of the people I arrived with, an observation generally overlooked or ignored by me completely due to the extent of my intoxication; such intoxication that abolishes my inhibitions and ruptures the barrier between my mind and my body, obliterating the filter on whatever atrocities may come out of my mouth and relinquishing the chains restraining barbaric behavior. I loitered atop the backrest of the couch as I indulged in this ignorantly blissful mindset, when suddenly my peripherals caught a glimpse of glowing red hair. To my starboard side stood a stunning succubus with scarlet strands of spiralled locks streaming down her porcelain visage. Upon offering her a seat, she sat down beside me just close enough that our thighs gently grazed against each other. Introducing herself as Ariel, her voice rang like the melody of a chickadee, each intonation echoing melodically through her windpipes with every word she uttered. Her magnificent turquoise eyes gleamed with the luster of the ocean, as if their sole purpose was to douse the blazing flames of her ruddy wig.

It wasn’t long before I had her decorating my Christmas tree. In no time we were stripping each others clothes off and tossing them across the room like wrapping paper to a highly anticipated gift. Trembling from the goosebumps fluttering across her torso, my lips cascaded down her body as she let out a soft purr. I swept my hand between her legs and upon approaching her panties she hoisted her groin into the air, an invitation for me to remove the ribbon from the box and unveil the gem packaged inside. After years of fishing, I had finally hooked the Little Mermaid on my rod.

However, sometimes we are forced to release even our most prized catch back into the wild. After a week of relishing her raw beauty, Arial regretfully informed me that she would not be returning to Fitchburg next semester. After my preposterous ploy propagated in order to possess her, I was distraught that my trophy ginger was soon to become insurmountable. Despite my doubts of ever again basking in her presence, the currents of craving carried my magenta maned mermaid back to me.

Within the inaugural weekend of the following semester, Ariel had already made her return to Fitchburg. Ecstatic to savor another night of running train on this tangerine tufted temptress, I tucked a fresh condom in my wallet before migrating to the party where we would finally be reunited. Eventually, after spending an appropriate period of time catching up, it was blatantly time for us to go back to my room and reacquaint ourselves with each other’s unclad anatomy. However, a colossal obstacle lay in the way of our desire to smash. Her meddling friend took on the role of a professional cock block, forbidding Ariel from leaving the premises and taking every opportunity to thwart us from spending any sexy time together. I didn’t want to jeopardize their friendship, but the cockblock’s onerous encroachment made it difficult for me to give a dead moose’s last shit. After finally persuading Ariel to disobey the inane orders of her infringing friend, we were on our way down the stairs and towards the exit at last.

Little did she know, but the cockblock was actually doing me a favor by keeping Ariel quarantined to the party; she left us no option but to get creative. The moment I began taking my first step out the door, Arial grasped me by the shirt and pulled me into her embrace. Walking backwards while continuing to pull me closer, she drew me into a deserted hallway tucked neatly behind the stairs. After unfastening her belt and dropping her jeans to the floor, I advocated for her to rest her leg on my shoulder. Alas, her shoes prevented her from freeing either foot from her pant legs. Settling for doggie style, I turned her around and gripped her voluptuous buttocks as she arched her back and made like a flower to a bee.

Despite its appearance of seclusion, the back hallway relentlessly lacked solitude. Constant disruptions from various party goers parading up and down the stairs became a hindrance to our animalistic liaison. Desperate to quench our sexual thirst, diluted by the adversity of yet another tribulation, we retreated into the basement in order to evade further interference. Creaking under every step taken, the stairs threatened to collapse underneath us as we descended into the murky dungeon. Mold struck my nasal passages upon entering the musty cellar. Considerably more spacious than expected, I scanned the premises for an ideal area to resume fornication. In truth, any vicinity of the vault would have sufficed, however, buried in the bowels of the basement lay a shelf that piqued my imagination.

Determined to manipulate the environment and exploit the resources within, I propped her atop the brim of the ledge, only to realize that its altitude reached above my waistline, causing our crotches to fall out of alignment. Requiring the boost of a footstool in order to successfully execute this endeavor, I hastily scoured the proximity for such a prop, yet the only perceivable buttress in sight were two cans of paint. Seizing the cans and strategically placing them at the foot of the shelf, I struggled to stifle bouts of laughter as I mounted my makeshift stilts and submersed myself inside the haven of the amorous enchantress sprawled out before me. Legs cocked back, moisture burst from her lower lips as I breached the depths of her sultry sanctuary with dynamic thrusts of vigor. Writhing with euphoria, her ecstatic shrieks of fervor reverberated throughout the basement, sheer satisfaction rendering her incapable of suppressing her lascivious shrill as the shelf oscillated with the resonance of the tremor. A palpable aura of lust smothered the atmosphere with aphrodisia.

Nevertheless, I was unable to separate myself from the hilarity of the situation upon glancing down at the cans of paint underneath my feet, the scene’s whimsical comicality a contrast to the concupiscent nature of our intercourse. Hence humor and sex epitomizing my two ultimate pleasures in life, their conglomeration engendered a sensation of overwhelming gratification. As if the entirety of my existence had culminated in this single climactic experience, all other accomplishments appeared insignificant in juxtaposition to this prodigious triumph of both comedy and eroticism. To be forever symbolized by cans of paint, I will never forget the first red head I banged and all the good-ass titty-fucking times we shared.


© Copyright 2018 JamesDunoyer. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments

Other Content by JamesDunoyer

More Great Reading

Popular Tags