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She sells seashells by the seashore

(Featured image from The Other Me.)

Imagine, an actual store with a sign “SPECIAL SEASHELLS” right by the ocean. With tons of seashells of all shapes and sizes right there on the ground for free. Well, a “store” would be too fancy a name for it. A shack with no windows, boards hanging loose, only traces of the original paint, barely a door, and a lady sitting on the ground by the door, reading. The absurdity of it is what drew me in.

“Excuse me, what…?” I couldn’t even finish the sentence, my bewildered look making the implied questions quite obvious.

“Ah, yes, what. And why. And how. All good questions. Here, try this.” She reached out into a seashell-covered bag she had by her side, picked… surprise, a seashell, and offered it to me. “Hold it by your ear, dummy!” she laughed at my confused expression. I complied, rather mechanically, my mind still lost in the misapprehension.

Sound of waves. Quiet at first, then louder, as I tuned out outside noises. Faint laughter. I closed my eyes to hear better. The laughter grew louder in my ear.

“Oh, you are a naughty boy, George! Look at you, so hard already!” The voice of my middle school librarian, whose deep cleavage, stern look and half-moon specs fueled erotic fantasies of many a classmates of mine. And I was no exception. I felt a tug in my pants, her fingers playing with the tip, the shaft, then sliding down, gently squeezing and releasing the vulnerable flesh below. The teasing scratching of her fingernails on my perineum almost sent me over the edge.

I pulled the shell away from my ear, opened my eyes and took a rugged breath.

“What in the world…” My flustered expression left the shopkeeper lady bemused.

“One shell — one fantasy. The bigger and fancier the shell, the… you get the drift. A double shell lets you share with someone else. Cash only. No refunds.”

The librarian’s voice and the memories of her fingernails on my skin were still there echoing in my mind. I needed those shells! But…

“I have no cash on me, do you take cards?”

She laughed. “Do I look like I take cards? But there is something you can do for me in lieu of cash, pretty boy!” She beckoned me with her finger into the shack. “One orgasm: one shell. The better an orgasm, the bigger the shell. Do you take the deal?”

The sun has long set and the night was pitch black when I finally staggered out of the shop, face and hands covered in the shopkeeper’s juices, a dozen of seashells of various sizes in my backpack. I made a few steps, licked her taste off my lips… and fervently wished that one of the shells had the last few hours imprinted in it. I had turned around to ask, but there was no trace of the shop or the shopkeeper.

If you see She who sells seashells by the seashore, selfishly spend some specie.

Masturbation Monday

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