Lenore had prepared herself, and a scene. When she'd heard Milo returning, she'd lit a fat candle on a wooden stand hung from the van's wall . There was music. She had unearthed another of her heretofore-hidden strip-poker winnings, a cheap catalogue stereo wired to the van's battery. She'd already cued the record, and as she slipped into the van, she dropped the needle onto the scratchy vinyl -- side two, track three -- of American Beauty.
Milo followed in a haze of stoned lust, barely seeing his surroundings. Turning past the driver's seat, he saw Lenore laying half reclined on the futon they cohabited, just behind the cockpit. She had hiked up her dress to expose fully her russet pubes.
Whatever Furolonger's barkeep head poured back in the village, was beginning to mambo with the pot, agave liquor and the lime cordial in a big way. Milo paused to drink in the vision that showed itself before him, and heard a soundtrack -- the familiar strains of Bob Weir's Till The Morning Comes.
"Music?!" he said incredulously, "How..."
"Cool, huh?" Lenore said proudly. "It's the Grateful Dead. You like?"
Milo nodded, then tried to move in close to her. Lenore shook her head, mocking, teasing.
"Sit across from me, against the other wall," she ordered.
Milo sat, member tent poling uncomfortably in his boxer shorts.
"Open your mouth," she purred.
As Milo obeyed, Lenore tossed a cube of mezcal-laced jello at it, landing it perfectly on his tongue. Milo slurped around his mouth, and swallowed. "Your turn," she said, pointing to another jello jar beside him. She opened her mouth, Milo threw, and it fell short, nestling to a precarious stop atop her left breast.
"You missed! Now you have to do what I want you to," said Lenore, the glint in her eye obvious, even in the dim light. "Show yourself to me. And stay right there."
She scooped the shimmering lime cube up from where it had bounced, and threw it back at Milo, landing it square in his mouth. Then she began to slowly touch herself, pressing her fingers into her hotness, out again, then back in. His own fingertips felt sneakingly for his aching shaft...
Without warning, jism was everywhere.
"Shit! That wasn't supposed to happen!" Milo bellowed.
Lenore rose slightly and padded cat-like, hovering over him, kissing the sperm from each of his fingers, then from his chest, then gently sucking up the puddle in his navel.
"It's okay, lover. Just a teensy mezcalculation. Plenty of time to make it right. We aren't in a hurry at all tonight."
She gripped Milo's slippery, somewhat limper member in one hand and they exchanged a long soul kiss. She swirled around and around his mouth with her tongue, and massaged him. In a surprisingly short time, perhaps seconds, he was stiffer than before. Lenore rose to her haunches, emptied an entire jarful of slippery jello cubes onto Milo's abdomen, and began to slurp up the green, liquor-laden gelatin and whatever bodily fluids remained. Her back was arched, her rump was swaying in the air, and a slick sheen of pink steam rose between her thighs into the cooling night air.
Milo was sure he saw pink steam.
A Teensy Mezcalculation
