Treed

Suffering from insomnia, I walked outside of my apartment and gazed up into the tree across from my door. There, in the branches, sat the Captain, completely starkers.

He held his hard cock in his hand and stroked it. "Hey, Hilda," he called to me.

I came over. "Touch it," he said.

I reached up and wrapped my hand around his member and drove it up and down with a twisting motion. Bringing it to my mouth, I peeled back the foreskin with my mouth and sucked noisily on the head, rubbing my thumb against his frenulum.

He moaned and put his hand gently on my head as I bobbed up and down with my mouth, my hand continuing to cover the base and most of the shaft. "Hilda," he said hoarsely.

I continued until he could no longer hold back and he shot into my mouth. I held his cum until he'd descended the tree-and when he kissed me, I gently deposited it into his mouth. He swallowed and I ran my lips over each one of his. First, the top, then the bottom. And then, both together. Sucking on his lower lip and running my hands over his nipples, he moaned and I ran my mouth down to his nipples and began to suck each one. "Hilda, Hilda," he kept saying my name. I continued down to his stomach and kissed each hip, being careful to avoid his penis, lest I disturb the refractory period.

He lay me down on the grass and tore off my nightgown, a dark blue lace affair that had a built -in bra. Hungrily he sucked upon my nipples, "So, pretty," he murmured, "so pink." Sweeping a hand over my belly he followed with his mouth down to my plump little thighs, his hand briefly caressing my hot little blonde vaggie. "Oh, Baby," he said, parting my legs and moving his head between them. He opened my labia with his hands and began licking up and down each lip, his mouth stopping briefly to suck on each one, sideways, before he came up to the top of the crest and began licking, side to side, his finger, finding my opening, he began to lick and finger fuck, in earnest, until I could no longer hold back-and I began to sing.

His cock, my this time, had hardened up quite nicely, so he put it in me and we fucked for a bit with him on top. "I love you," he said, coming into me-and then resting briefly on top of me, he hugged me tightly and then kissed me deeply.

"Mal?"

"Yes?"

"I've missed you."

"And, I, you," he patted my bottom.

"We've both been busy," I said.

"Yes," he agreed. "But I want you to know that just because I'm busy doesn't mean that I don't love you," he placed his finger on my lower lip and drew me into him.

"Same for me," I said, kissing him. (Really, it's been me, not him.)

"I know," he picked me up and carried me inside, "are you ready for bed now?"

"Yes," I said.

He lay me down on the bed and got in next to me.

Within minutes, we were both asleep.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson-Reynolds

Indigenous Food

Here in Tucson, you might think that there would be no indigenous food left. After all, this IS America. But the fact is, out here, people are using the flora and fauna to create certain delicacies that it is my duty to write about, to whit: the prickly pear.

I was fortunate enough to receive an appreciation gift of a jar of prickly pear syrup. It was profoundly delicious. The color of the syrup is fuchsia on the plate-and a deep light pink in the jar. The syrup is watery, but is not entirely lacking in viscosity. It is, in short, a way to disguise a poorly engineered pancake (which I confess I baked myself, in the oven, when I discovered the batter sticking to the frying pan with great tenacity. I decided: non-stick cookie sheet). The pancake, flat and WAAAY too salty, tasted fine under the prickly pear syrup.

In other news: I was recommended a restaurant for its clam chowder. The chowder in question was very good. There was just a hint of bacon and the potatoes were absolute perfections. The problem? The small size would have fed a family of four. I ate a fourth of it.

The fish taco I had ordered was mediocre, but then I had discovered that they had put the tarter sauce ON THE SIDE! (Who DOES that?!) I ate most of the taco sans tarter! Dreadful! (I love tartar sauce!)

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Evisceration!

Sing it to the tune of "Infatuation".

Now, my dear fans, you must understand my absence has been due to the fact that I have gotten a new job that keeps me very busy-and I am still "settling" here in Tucson.

On Friday, I was the first to arrive at work-and unfortunately had problems with the alarm. A short squat ugly Mexican "sheriff" arrived to harass me.

"You've got to calm down and stop crying," more sobs from me, "do you want to go to jail?"

I stepped away from him.

And later I dreamed of doing this:

I took out a tiny little shot gun-and shot him in the head. Then, I took a big ol' knife and eviscerated him. I mean, you know, the gunshot was to be sure he would sit STILL for his evisceration. His guts fell out and irrevocably stained his khaki uniform. "You, bitch!" He breathed his last.

Yes. Bitch IS the new black.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Dreams Of MGS

Last night I dreamed that Michael Scott was chosen for a mission.

He was the fifth. Meaning, he and others of his kind had been taken from other worlds (parallel universes) to complete a task. But the difference between THIS one and the others, was that this one was to be successful in the mission, where the others had failed.

The others were a bunch of depressed sad sacks. And of course, the difference between the fifth and the others was that he had Holly.

I think that we are all looking for our Holly. That person who completes us. The person who understands our foibles, accepts them, and accommodates us. The person to whom we say, "Ah! Yes!" Because they UNDERSTAND.

I am about to eat a chocolate cupcake with pink icing for breakfast.

Can anyone out there get that?

I remain,

Hilda Stinson