Tallulah Tantrum, or Hot Butter

by Robert Scott Leyse

[A sequel, of sorts, to In Quest of a Stable Girl]

Justin to Angie & Ella & Steven
Sent: Sunday, May 6, 2007 11:38 PM

So here's the email in which I finally agree with you, freely admit what's been obvious to you -- and surely also to myself, albeit subconsciously -- all along: I actually do like the untamed minxes I get mixed up with! Merely like them? Nay! I unreservedly adore them and am everlastingly grateful for their existence! If I truly wanted an emotionally stable girl, I'd certainly be able to find one. But now I realize I've always avoided nice girls like the plague: what a prison a nice girl can be! No ups and downs -- no enthralling ambivalence -- no challenge, aura of conquest -- no triumph over mentally straining situations: what's the point of bothering with such a girl? "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger," says Nietzsche, and he's right: it's conflict that enables me to take my true measure as a man, and become more resilient and in love with life and eager to greet each new day! A nice girl? I was entangled with one once -- long ago, in school -- and found it carried the obligation of always being emotionally even keeled, guarding against swirling off into mood-swings. I found myself strangling myself -- muting my feelings, smothering naturalness of self-expression; and all in the interest of sheltering the nice girl from anything (and by "anything" I mean the slightest hint of stress) that might cause alarm and lead to confusion and make her cry! (She once stared at me in horror and started whimpering simply because I availed myself of the statement, "Barbeques are an unending yawn!," for Christ's sake!) And thus the nice girl ended by being far more of a nightmare than any uncontrollable wildcat's ever been!

Face it: I'm not exactly in love with stability! Stability is predictability and predictability's an oppressive bore! What's to look forward to if one knows what's going to happen -- or, rather, not happen -- in advance? As far as nice girls go, nothing's going to happen that's any different from what's already happened: no spontaneous eruptions of feeling, overt demonstrations of passion -- zero spontaneity, period! Nothing but a constant monotonous mildness of self-expression that becomes more stale, stagnant, suffocating, and intolerable with each passing day! I marvel that anyone can live under such conditions without thirsting to toss stones in the calm waters, stir things up!

I thought I was seeking to avoid BratCats, put a stop to the nonstop parade of feisty felines that raise hell in my apartment? What idiocy! With a wildcat one needn't worry about dying for some drama: the ocean will cease to crash breakers on the shoreline before a temperamental cutie will fail to become an outlet for the forces of primal nature! There's nothing like a fresh, vibrant, convulsive plunge into the headwaters of an unbalanced beauty's unleashed discontent!

Alright, you wanted an admission: now you've got one! Enough prelude! Allow me to proceed to detail the latest example of the unfailing accuracy of my manical-minx radar! Obviously, there will be a major difference between this recapitulation and my former ones: instead of wondering what's wrong with me when it comes to my taste in females, I'll be celebrating what's right! It's about time I start embracing my obvious preference for unstable girls, instead of vainly and counter-productively seeking to deny its existence!

##########

What's in a name? Tallulah is the very picture of her name: a perfect oval of a face, clear and glowing complexion, wide blue eyes, a cascade of curling chestnut hair that spills halfway down her back and is cut and teased at her temples into bouncing puffs of fluff. Petite (of course!), surrounded by an aura of animated grace (naturally!), a sweet melodious little girl voice (how could it be otherwise?) even though she's thirty-one (this fact gathered from her driver's license on the sly: she could easily pass for a schoolgirl). I mentioned her blue eyes: often, a look of dreamy distance is in them and then, quick as a wisp of wind, they'll flash with fervor and intelligence and be startlingly near; often a look of ineffable sweetness is in them, but then they'll suddenly harden as her body tenses and her gestures become abrupt. Her face generally wears an expression of what's best described as alert serenity; but shadows of impatience and discontent frequently fleetingly swirl beneath the surface of her skin. Beautiful? Of course Tallulah's beautiful; and radiant with health, fitness, and vitality.

When I first sighted Tallulah during intermission at the Met -- (Thursday's performance of Turandot) she was animatedly chatting with a girlfriend, accompanying her speech with a veritable ballet of hand-movements -- twirling them at the wrists, curling and uncurling her fingers, frequently flicking the puffs of hair at her temples. The gigglish pings of her intonation distinguished themselves from the other voices and could be heard from across the room, although I couldn't make out the words. She was wearing an ankle length mink, unbuttoned to display her just-above-the-knees-high emerald skirt and light gray cashmere sweater -- all very snug, allowing me to do an accurate appraisal of her flawlessly proportioned figure. I was doing what I always do when sighting a girl I want to know: looking her up and down -- admiring her face, caressing her curves with my eyes -- such that she can feel me doing it.

There's an art to looking at a girl and alerting her to one's presence: one must balance insistence with respect; one must infuse one's admiration with hunger, but always must the former be the greater of the two; by the same token, one must never plead with a glance -- bright girls detest sentimental slop. Yes, glances of attraction cut through the air quicker than the wind or sound and must be managed with care, and... Oh, hell! Why analyze? Suffice to say I stare at Tallulah such that she soon becomes aware of it and darts a quizzical look at me and that I greet her with smiling eyes. Then a couple more brief glance-exchanges; then a hand-passing-through-her-hair-as-her-head's-thrust-back-while-she's-looking-at-me invitation to approach; then we're exchanging names; then we agree to resume getting acquainted at the fountain following the performance.

Don's with me -- he makes himself scarce before last curtain call, a courtesy any man gladly extends to a friend. The remaining problem's to get Tallulah to shed her girlfriend, and the girlfriend to shed her. Girls stick together until they're both certain a pursuing male isn't a creep, a courtesy any girl gladly extends to a friend, and (as girls protect one another on principle) sometimes even for an enemy.

Christ! I'm bogging this down in too much preliminary! Suffice to say I obtain girlfriend's seal of approval and that she graciously does a Is that the time? I didn't realize this opera was so long! I've got to get home! act and scampers off. Also, suffice to say Tallulah and I duck into a nearby cafe for a drink and nibbles and end up chatting nonstop for over three hours, after which she -- like a true princess -- permits me to cab her to her building and kiss and caress her goodnight for about five minutes without allowing me inside. "Take me out!" she says with a fervent grasp of both of my wrists before turning to unlock the entry-door. Once she's inside, I walk the eighty or so blocks from her downtown location to my uptown one, seeming to float upon the air...

What's the matter with me in the telling of this? Now that I've admitted to being happy to be a magnet for girls capable of authentic forays into madness it seems the urgency's gone out of the depiction of an example! I've always written these accounts from the point of view of considering my taste in girls an affliction -- always written them as an attempt at understanding and therapy: now that I've embraced my taste in girls, the wind's gone out of my writing! I think that's what's going on!

Well, the hell with it! Maybe I'll send this and be done with such recapitulations from now on! At any rate, I'm through for tonight!

Justin

* * *

Angie to Justin
cc: Ella & Steven
Sent: Monday, May 7, 2007 12:01 AM

What? You finally come around to embracing the glorious truth as regards your laudable love of wildcats, and then flop in the telling of your latest adventure? For shame! It seems to me you owe these girls, formerly unconscionably maligned by you, a heartfelt tribute to their qualities!

By your own (belated!) admission, these girls bring joy and meaning into your life; so you need to do the honorable thing and atone for your former recriminations against them by celebrating them!

We're waiting!

Angie

* * *

Steven to Justin
cc: Angie & Ella
Sent: Monday, May 7, 2007 12:09 AM

I second Angie's motion: even leaving out what's decent for a man to do in the making-amends-towards-wronged-females department, I'm eager to hear what surprise your latest sweetmeat sprang on you. In other words, you owe us some entertainment because of how patient we've always been with your unenlightened attitude!

Steve

P. S. Not to imply, though, that your former accounts weren't highly amusing. Hell, what was always very amusing about them was how stubbornly you were refusing to comprehend that you obviously can't live without bringing hellcats home!

* * *

Ella to Justin
cc: Angie & Steven
Sent: Monday, May 7, 2007 12:49 AM

And I third that eee-motion! Get busy!

Ellakins

* * *

Justin to Angie & Ella & Steven
Sent: Monday, May 7, 2007 10:52 PM

Think I'm happy with the way my attempt to write a tribute to Tallulah -- and, by extension, all magnificently manic minxes -- fizzled? Of course I need to atone for my former assertions that willful brats are a curse, make amends for my unenlightened complaining! Yes, come hell or high water or hurricanes, I am going to express my gratitude to these girls by means of a loving tribute! And, ironically enough, it'll be my first genuine therapy-via-writing session: what better way to calm down once and for all with regard to my love-liaisons than by proving to myself they've all been fabulously fulfilling? So, without further ado...

So what do you think? Did I call Tallulah first thing Friday morning (after meeting her, if you recall, Thursday night)? Do buds burst in the spring? Listen: Tallulah's beauty and grace had already shoved all else from my thoughts; the sound of her voice didn't cease to echo in my ears; the tone of her presence was shimmering in my nerve-stream! Yes, my eyes were thirsting to glimpse her again, my ears were pining for the melody of her speech, my skin was screaming to feel her rub against me! Bloodsurge fever, equally rapturous and agonizing! How silly the expression "chasing girls" seems! It would be far more accurate to say I'm chased into chasing girls by all the teasing tormenting images that a girl metamorphoses into the instant she's preferred above all the others! I was dialing Tallulah's number as if in a waking dream...

So we have dinner and dinner's nonstop hand-clasps and caressings of fingers accompanied by plunges into the depths of one another's eyes; and I'm something approaching amazed on account of some of the things I'm effortlessly confiding to her, and likewise amazed at some of the things she's telling me, the degree of her trust...

Our first real kiss, when we knew -- beyond a doubt -- it was leading to a night together? That was when she, upon returning from freshening up in the ladies', leaned over me to kiss me before sitting down -- suddenly the restaurant disappeared and I was swirling upwards into her laughing eyes and my spine became tingles that spread over my back: we ended by kissing long and insistent enough to ache our jaws. And some people were smiling and others simply staring and Tallulah (between nibbles of my lips, so gently stimulating) whispered, "Every other couple in this room wants to be us!" and giggled like a ten year old.

And so Tallulah accompanies me home -- a hand in hand stroll across 79th Street and up First Avenue interrupted by kissing sessions that seem to happen of their own accord: we're no more in control of our actions than leaves tossed by the wind. Suddenly hand clasps become arms wrapped around her, or fingers tracing the contours of her face; suddenly I'm pressing her against a building as she grasps my shoulders and lifts herself to wrap her legs about my waist... Oh, it's at such times that physical matter seems to swirl into infinity! The building against which I'm pressing her dissolves -- the sidewalk at my feet becomes air! How I thrill to Tallulah's responsive shudders, tight clasping, as her mouth -- warm vibrant mouth -- sends rivulets of tingles throughout me! Her hunger's a lifestream of energy crackling in my blood, and I know I'm returning the favor on account of her irregular gasps, twitching muscles, insistent grabs of any part of me she can get ahold of!

(My friends, if I'm lingering upon the preliminaries, it's -- aside from the delight in doing so -- to communicate Tallulah's fundamental sweetness. She, like every other minx I've been involved with, can be utterly disarming with her kindness. (And need I say that, were it not for the gentle side of these wildcats' nature, I'd hardly put up with the swipes of their claws?))

We arrive at my apartment and fall together on the sofa -- somehow I undress her while on my back; and I'm arching my back so she can remove my shirt. Soon we're intertwined without a stitch on; a couple hours later we find ourselves in bed and doze off...

I awaken to find us facing one another in a close embrace; although still asleep, Tallulah's convulsively clutching me; for perhaps half an hour I lie awake as she alternately squeezes me tight and releases while remaining asleep.

She awakens with a sudden burst open of her eyes and announces she's hungry -- so am I, as a matter of fact. The fact is, we were so absorbed in one another at the restaurant and subsequently eager to be alone that we barely touched our food.

"Do you like lobster?" I ask. "I have two frisky ones in the fridge -- got them in Chinatown yester... I mean, two days ago."

"My favorite!" she fairly shrieks with delight.

The lobsters are prepared, served with a melted butter and fresh garlic-parsley-cilantro concoction, plus a salad of chopped tomatoes, avocados, and cucumbers.

So far, our night's been nothing out of the ordinary, right? Simply two newly acquainted lovebirds reveling in attraction, being sweet to one another, single mindedly engaged in the pursuit of pleasure, assisting one another to reach a shared goal of satiation and equanimity... Ha, when I make suchlike observations the three of you know the situation's about to change, don't you?

But I always fall for it! -- fall for the seeming lack of high drama -- that is, high trauma! -- in my latest involvement with a blithe-voiced dollface! Always, am I duped into firmly believing darker forces don't lurk behind my sweetheart's eyes! And, if it comes to that... Maybe a great deal of this girl-eruption business has to do with me; maybe these girls ordinarily are as unlikely to be swirled into emotional strife as I first suppose; maybe there's something dark in me that ignites the darkness in them and causes it to roar into the light; maybe it's this shared darkness that brings us together in the first place! Why else would my ability to bring home wildcats in love-dove's guise be so damn infallible? But enough pointless speculation!

Suffice to say Tallulah and I are happily imbibing the lobster -- laughingly dueling with our forks in the butter bowl as we each seek to coat morsels of lobster with the sauce, wiping off each other's chins with our fingers as butter dribbles down, playing footsie under the table... A perfect picture of harmony!

Then, from out of nowhere... Tallulah's having trouble extracting meat from one of the claws -- keeps jabbing into it with her pick, coming up empty. Suddenly she slams the claw on the table, yells, "Son-of-a-bitch motherfucker!" and stands up, stamps her feet, angrily flicks her hair back as her eyes dart fire! "Why didn't you crack the claws?" she demands, gazing at me as if I've poisoned her mother.

As I've indicated, I ought to be accustomed to such outbursts from sweet things, but I'm not. I'm always caught off-guard, sent reeling from contentment into panic without advance preparation. I sit there gazing at Tallulah, unable to mouth a word, probably with my jaw dropping to the floor...

"What, nothing to say?" she half-shrieks. "Treat a girl to lobster, not man enough to crack it...want me to crack a nail instead! Inconsiderate...laz...lazy bastard!" she sputters with rage.

Is this really happening? Jesus Christ! I'm as good as whisked outside of my body by the sheer improbability of it -- insanity of it! Tallulah wants to kill me because I didn't crack the claws, even though I treated her to her favorite food, prepared to perfection? We were laughing two minutes ago, now she's fuming? Something else is obviously going on in the mysterious depths of subconscious communication! Not cracking the claws is obviously the pretense for anger, not the cause! Damned if I'll ever figure out what it is that jumpstarts the strife! I plow these girls and I plow them well; and their orgasms aren't fake, I'd be able to tell! I foreplay them dizzy, and will kiss for hours! They gaze and moan gratitude -- smile inwardly with pleasure, give me happy rut-slut looks, giggle; and then, when I least expect it: BAM! their inner demons hold court!

"Do I have to do it?" she yells. "Where are the pliers then, I'll do it!" And she races to the kitchen.

What's flashing through my head? I'm picturing the vast assortment of potential weapons -- all of stainless steel -- reposing in the drawers and cabinets: knifes, scissors, cleavers, pliers, hammers, pots! Nothing like a jumpstarted imagination to galvanize one to action! In a flash I'm at Tallulah's heels, clasping her from behind, pulling her back into the living room. "I'll crack the claws!" I'm yelling. "I'll mash them to pulp, for Christ's sake!"

Squirming furiously, she hisses, "Oh no, you won't! I've had enough lobster -- disgusting, fattening!"

"Fine, maybe you ought to just go home!" I say, releasing her.

Tallulah doesn't appear to have heard what I said. "You want to fatten me up, is that it?" she asks, her eyes glittering with malice. "Huh? You like fat girls? They're more compliant, right? -- easier to control! Less bother -- no energy, no self-esteem! Want a tame triple-chinned fattie to eat buttered lobster with? A fattie will wait on you hand and foot, won't she? Yes, dating a princess is too much exertion, so you want me to be a heifer! That's it, right? You want to be pampered by a blubber butt! You want to be a lazy slob!"

"Whaaaaaat?" I ask, flinging both hands up in authentic astonishment. "A fat girl? Where did you get that from? You're just plain nuts!"

"Oh, am I? Am...?" And then, just like that, Tallulah starts laughing! "Should've seen your face!" she howls. "Oh, it's pretty plain you don't like fat girls! Your face was a picture!"

She sits at the table again, says, "Silly!" and laughs anew as she taps the offending lobster claw with her finger. I pick it up, work the meat out with my pick and hold it to her. "Thank you, sweetie!" she says, taking it into her mouth, gazing at me with glee.

OK, it's now blatantly apparent that Tallulah's capable of being batty as hell! But -- damn! she's so delectable! Such radiance emanates from her poised and slender body! Such unblemished skin, luxuriant waves of hair, pulsating eyes! The whole mood-swirl of her! Why deny it: rapid mood-shifts are a surge in my bloodsteam like no other, the headiest of aphrodisiacs! The thought that such tumult -- upheaval and unpredictability -- resides within sweet Tallulah's petite frame; that her blithe voice can become a scythe of icy anger slicing and dicing the air at any second; that the mouth that kisses so ardently and gently can hiss so acidicly and vehemently; that her fundamentally kind disposition can be displaced by irrational raving at any time... Yes, the contrast -- the contradiction -- of Tallulah, and her beauty! There's nothing like vulnerability married to danger; nothing like a girl who inspires me to protect her at the same time I'm very wary of her! Nuts Tallulah may be, but I don't care! Whatever else this night brings, I'm very willingly along for the ride! A girl who can spin me randomly through the emotional spectrum is what makes heaven on earth possible! (You wanted me to own up to adoring manic mixes, right? So this is what you get! Before long, you'll be mocking my effusiveness and telling me to go back to denial! I know you three! You'll be laughing at the love-lorn lunatic, saying it was more fun when I protested my preferences!)

It's as if not a note of discord has intruded on our night: Tallulah's blithe and giggly again, wolfing down the remaining lobster with relish. But there's a change: she's become -- for lack of a better word -- more sensual. She's caressing herself, squirming against her chair -- a sluttish glaze has crept into her gaze -- her voice is huskier. She's winding her legs about mine under the table as she rolls each bite of lobster about in her mouth and cooing, "Mmmmm..."

"I'm such a slut!" she announces; and promptly dips both hands in the butter bowl and rubs the butter upon her belly and breasts, up and down her arms. "And now I'm a slick slut, a butter slut! Ha ha ha! A juices oozing slut!" Then she seizes the bowl and dumps it on her head -- butter's streaming through her hair and down her face onto her chest; she's standing, laughing -- butter's sloshing all over the carpet... "A slut!" she repeats with glee.

"Hey, the carpet!" I shout. "Get in the kitchen, on the tile!"

"What? What?" Tallulah shrieks. "I'm being sexy... You whine of carpet...yell at me? Don't want me to be fun? Carpet all you care ab...? Son-of-a-bitch!" And she slams the bowl down hard on the tabletop, sending shards of ceramic in all directions -- pieces strike me, and strike her. "Ow!" she yelps, and kicks me.

Anger tightens me from head to toe; I'm about to -- maybe? -- kick her back... "Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry!" she exclaims and rushes to embrace me -- desperately, tremblingly! Ha! My anger disappears like mist in a desert sun! Tallulah's throbbing against me, pleading with the pulse of her warm, soft, slick, urgent body! All thoughts flee; I'm easing her to the floor, kissing her for all I'm worth as she wraps her legs about me, tightens them until they shake...

"Feel the butter, honey?" she coos, gazing up at me with honeyed eyes. "Wet and sticky, so good! Doesn't sticky wet slut me feel good? You like my butter, don't you? Ooooo, so good!"

She's licking my face, alternately sucking on my neck and cheeks, as I rhythmically thrust inside her. "Just use me and abuse me!" she whispers between tongue-tickles of my ear. "Punish me, love me! I'm a bad girl who wants to be good...a good girl who acts bad sometimes... Sorry!" Breathing hoarsely, she resumes sucking my neck...

Yes, Tallulah's treated me to a glimpse of what lurks within her -- has had a fit over nothing, yelled irrational things, shattered a bowl, kicked me -- and... God, how much more satisfying is it to love her now -- on the butter-splattered carpet, surrounded by shards of shattered ceramic -- than it would be had she been well-behaved! As the saying goes: "Out of chaos is true contentment forged!" And I'm certainly content as I clasp her tight, thrill to the slipperiness of our butter slicked bodies, thrust again and again while not neglecting diddle her joy-toy!

"Uuuummmmm!" Tallulah moans while breathing increasingly erratically, fastening her mouth onto my shoulder and sucking with all her might -- lightly scraping with her teeth, nip-biting. She's building towards a steady -- a tense, a trembling -- inner grip... Yes, approaching climax she is -- holding in breaths, releasing them unevenly, seeming to fall out from under her skin, as my thumb continues to circle-press her clit and I continue to thrust...

Ha! I'll never understand how some guys can be dense enough to fall for fake orgasms! In fact, there once was a time when I thought the false orgasm business was nothing but mythology dreamed up by our consumerist society to make males insecure! (i.e., more vulnerable to being conned into shelling out for more gadgets, electronics -- more razor blades, cologne, deodorant, hair gel!) After all, advertising's very skilled at setting up "Buy this = acquire self-esteem!" subliminal equations, right? and the whole media monolith's in cahoots! All the publicity that surrounds fraudulent orgasms -- the frequency with which they crop up in films, TV, stand-up routines! But then I started asking girls if they'd ever faked an orgasm and, sure enough, some had! So I asked them how and, lo and behold, it's mostly done externally, as in: sound effects, facial expressions, rollings of eyes, twistings of torso! A particularly inventive one always tossed in a few Kegels for good measure, to ape vaginal action! Some had an afterwards routine too -- twitchings of face, erratic flickings of hair, intentionally blurred intonation: all calculated to communicate that they'd been vouchsafed a sense-shattering experience. So I grilled them further: what of the inner build-up of tension -- the muscular tightness, trembling stillness, that heralds a flood? What of the moments of rigid immobility, the... Ha, how they laughed! One said: "Honey, if he had a clue about such stuff, I don't think I would have had to fake it!"

Yes, pathetic: a girl cries out and hyperventilates and twists dramatically -- maybe does some inner Kegelish stuff -- and the dolts buy it! Who are these fools that can't read a girl?

An orgasm can't be faked! The tension that envelops the girl, inside and out, as climax approaches -- the what I term "suspended hush" that overcomes her; and then the climax itself, when her body becomes rigid on the outside to ripple inwardly... No girl's enough of an actress to accurately falsify something that's that much on the physiological level! They're simply taking advantage of the ignorance of their partners, tossing off carbon copies of what the imbeciles think an orgasm is!

Simply put: only an utterly insensitive idiot -- or doped up and drunken slob -- is going to mistake an act for the real thing! And if it comes to that: if these clowns are too selfish to climb out of their sensations enough to observe those of the girl they're with, then they deserve to be fooled! And as for those who just don't care: why are they bothering with girls? They might as well bore a hole in the wall, fill it with mashed cherries, and plow that instead!

As for Tallulah and all the other hellcats I've brought home... They'd never let me off that easy! One of their many admirable qualities is that they're honest girls, in the sense that they want bonafied orgasms and aren't leaving until I deliver! And they're experienced girls, in the sense that they know precisely what an orgasm is and how to do their part to bring one on! Believe me, there are times when I've slaved long and hard before bringing a girl to climax -- muff-tonguing, endless probings and swirls of my fingers, front vaginal wall massage, plowings with clit-stimulation! I've had to change fingers and hands because they were getting sore and numb -- had to switch positions, directions of approach, too many times to count! But I've never given up, and I've never failed! (And, as I've indicated, the disposition of these girls -- their insistence and receptivity -- has plenty to do with that too!)

Female orgasm can be very capricious! There once was a girl... It took me half the night to fling her into the shimmer-wave! And then, the following evening, we were alone in a classroom at her school (where I'd gone to pick her up) and, quite spontaneously, I lifted her sweater-shirt and began nip-kissing her belly, just above her skirt, and... Ha, she was pitching forward, clinging to my back and trembling -- moaning -- in under five minutes!

Alas, my friends, I've veered from my narrative, left Tallulah and I on the carpet -- another indication I'm finally at peace with myself with regard to the minx-brats I bring home. I never veered from the narrative when I was bewailing my inclinations, attempting to account for why I always ended up with wildcats instead of kittens! In those cases, it was as if I was writing for my sanity and I had to stay on track! Yes, indeed, the bottom's surely fallen out from under my reason to write of my escapades! Why write of them now if I'm happy with them -- if I wouldn't have matters any other way? But I suppose writing this has been useful: it's made it clear that writing's now a superfluous thing for me to be doing!

So what now? Might as well whip up a conclusion, if for no other reason than I started this thing and it should therefore have an end! Let it not be said I fail to finish what I start:

And as for finishing what I've started with Tallulah... She and I are on the carpet; she's orgasmed, I haven't; I've withdrawn from inside her to dispense soft caresses on her inner thighs, about her mound -- to assist her with savoring her flood...

"You're so selfish!" she suddenly says, abruptly snapping her thighs shut and sitting upright. "You didn't come inside me! Why are you hoarding?"

"Selfish! I've been..."

"You're holding out!" she interrupts. "I've come for you, made you feel good about having pleasured a girl! How do you think it makes me feel when you keep it all to yourself?"

"Stop! Who's stopping? Are you nuts? Most girls like being caressed afterw..."

"Most girls! Lots of girls, huh? They put up with that? Some girls they are! Maybe they're prissies who don't mind being cheated! Do you think I'm a prissie?"

"Jesus Christ! A brief break in the action, you draw insane conclusions! If I liked prissy girls you wouldn't be here, my little manic! You..." I interrupt myself to push her onto her back. "I wasn't done, nut case! I..." I interrupt myself again to kiss her long and hard while pressing her firmly against the floor.

"That's what I wanted -- some attention!" she says with mirth in her eyes. (I tactfully refrain from informing her I've been giving her nothing but.)

"Alright, up with you, on your hands and knees, facing the windows!" I command, climbing off of her. "Up!" I pull her into a seated position by both wrists.

Going to doggie me?" she giggles, assuming the position.

As I take her from behind Tallulah strokes her pleasure-nub and, by dint of some careful -- and, of course lucky (I was obliged to withdraw from her once or twice to put off my moment when hers wasn't nigh, as she was obliged to cease stroking to put off hers when I was lagging behind) -- timing, we manage to attain to the Holy Grail of sexcapades: a simultaneous flood!

Ha! There I am, filling Tallulah full of nut milk as she's in the throes; and I'm grasping her silky taut waist, mashing my thighs against her soft behind; and the carpet's soaked with melted butter, shards of the shattered bowl are near and far; and I'm all but certain my cute delicate darling's going to act up again at some point, do God only knows what; and... Well, my friends, all I'm going to say is that delight is heightened infinitely when there's some stress and lunacy and destruction to provide some counterpoint! Out of chaos does serenity emerge, indeed!

OK! I know what the three of you are thinking: compared to some of my former escapade-recapitulations, what I've described thus far is about as strife-saturated as making sand castles on the beach! But you needn't worry: the Tallulah Tantrum party wasn't over -- serenity doesn't exactly last forever when there's a hellcat in the house!

To wit: shortly after we emerge from the shower, Tallulah's profusely apologizing. "Bad me for buttering your carpet," she coos, gazing upon me sweetly with wide eyes, shrugging her shoulders, looking as ashamed as can be. "Can you forgive your bad girl?"

"It's not a big deal," I say, caressing a cheek and kissing her. "I'll have the maid come over and shampoo it in the afternoon."

Tallulah's whole body instantly goes rigid; I feel nails rake across my chest as she springs away. "Maid? What maid?" she screams.

"Just the maid! I..." Tallulah's rapidly criss-crossing her arms by way of warning me to keep my distance -- is glaring at me, shaking!

"You make love to me, then have the ghastly Godawful nerve to tell me a maid's coming over?" she interrupts. "A maid! Think I'm stupid?" And she rushes at me with arms aflail.

Ha! Handling infuriated felines, whether they be enraged girls or actual cats? The idea's to seize ahold of the creature in such a manner that it can do one no harm, all the while being careful enough not to harm it: not always easy to do when the creature's hell bent on clawing one to ribbons! I catch hold of Tallulah's wrists, circle around behind her, hold her close with her back against my chest; so she tries to stamp on my feet, but I keep them back while pressing her legs forward with my thighs; so she tries to twist her head sideways and bite my arm: I pull her to the floor, straddle her, pin her wrists against the carpet! (I've often wondered to what extent one of my infuriated minxes would actually harm me if I failed to restrain her -- whether she'd flail away, claw and bite, for all she was worth or content herself with a slap or two, and toss in a mild scratch for good measure. After all, a girl's never attacked me when I wasn't looking, or when I was asleep. There's always plenty of advance warning: screams, glares, threats always herald an attack. I tend to think I'm being counted upon to counter their attack so they can have the grand glorious experience of being forcibly restrained. But, of course, I've never been convinced enough concerning this to fail to defend myself: I'd rather not learn the hard way, via stuff thrown at my head or nail gashes that sting for days!)

"If you let me go, I'll rip your eyes out!" Tallulah announces -- a hint of triumph's glinting in her eyes. Yes, the brat's fully aware of the fact that, in a way, I'm in her power: I might be on top, but I have to stay there!

"But what's this about? Why are you angry?" I ask, even though she's made her suspicions concerning the maid very clear. "I said the maid would wash the carpet -- that you don't have to! So what?"

"So what? You have the indecency to look straight at me and lie? Aaahhh! Let me go -- let...!" She's twisting furiously, hissing. "The maid? Some twat, you mean! Going to come over in a skimpy French maid uniform, clean up my mess while shaking her ass in the lace! Like that stuff, schoolboy? Irresponsible asshole!"

"Jesus Christ! You are nuts-a-rama! The maid, darling dearest, is Carla, in her mid-fifties, rather hefty; and I can assure you I don't want to see her in a skimpy anything! No ingenue's coming over for fun and games! A professional's coming over to clean up your mess!" (Ha, as if I'd ever employ an attractive maid -- the job's far too important to mix shenanigans with it! That's all I'd need: some bright, pretty, delectably devious maid making far more of a mess than she cleans up! French maid outfits are for fantasy games, not real life!)

"That's right, it's my mess; and you're going to be man enough to make me take full responsibility for it!"

"Oh, Christ..." I mutter. "More stupid disciplinary shit -- another masochistic loon!"

"Listen carefully, you child," she says quite quietly and very seriously (there's never been more venom in her eyes), "and make sure you understand, or we're going to have a big problem. No maid is coming over, do you hear? I'm going to march into that kitchen and get wet towels and soap, and then scrub until this carpet is spotless and fluffy." Then she raises her voice again, shouting, "You're either going to have the guts to make me clean up after myself or you're going to have to sit on me all night!"

Ha! I've said it before and I'll say it again: the main reason these minxes misbehave is because they want to be spanked; and God help the man who fails to spank them! Tallulah wants to atone, and I've no choice but to bring the whip down -- figuratively speaking -- on her needy behind! Ha, in former recounts of suchlike encounters, I've always insisted I don't enjoy bringing these brats to heel -- that I always feel forced into doing such against my will. But, along with my newfound enlightenment with respect to my obvious preference for feisty firebrands... Well, maybe I do enjoy meting out the discipline they crave! Maybe I do enjoy being compelled to reach down inside myself for some ruthlessness -- enjoy summoning the amount of energy and will required to quiet them! And compelled is the word for it; because, make no mistake, these girls are calling the shots every bit as much as I am, if not more so!

To wit: just because I bring sternness into my expression and coldness into my voice and say to Tallulah, "If this carpet isn't spick and span within an hour you're going to be bound to the bedframe and flogged until you faint!" hardly means I'm the master: it's the very real threat of further misbehavior on her part that's the master! If I fail to seize her by the nape of her neck and guide her to the cabinet below the sink and command her to grab the rug shampoo and a bucket (as I do), then all hell will break loose!

And so Tallulah gets her way, as the brats always do: she shampoos the carpet, picks up and properly disposes of every last shard of the shattered bowl. And then...

Well, guess what, my friends? I've already wasted too much time writing this, and you aren't going to get any more -- not today, not ever! (I'm not trying to be a tease -- I'll fill in the rest orally with pleasure! Hint: Tallulah's suspicions concerning the maid hadn't exactly been laid to rest!) Yes, I hinted at such above -- now I'll change it to an assertion: this will be my last email confession; my glorious writing career (ha ha!) has come to an end! Finally, I'm content with who I am and what I want, so why bother with scribbling? Good riddance to a bad habit! I should be with Tallulah now, not writing!

Just one last bit of sentimental mush before signing off: I'm the luckiest man alive! Why? Because my attraction-radar infallibly leads me to bring home demon-inhabited cutiepies who infallibly lead me to wonder if normality actually exists! To taste of thought-eroding moments of panic and uncertainty, have my imagination racing a mile a minute as I picture all the things my latest wildcat might be capable of... That's the life electric! That's being forever renewed! I thank all the beautiful BratCats on earth from the bottom of my heart!

Lunch tomorrow, right? Twelve-thirty at The Four? I'll tell you everything then!

Sleep in Wild Dreams,

Justin

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Tallulah Tantrum, or Hot Butter
© 2007 by Robert Scott Leyse

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