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Damsel in Distress

DAMSEL IN DISTRESS: MODERN-DAY FOLKTALES;

or, Amusement for Adults,

compiled by MAX BLITZ.



INTRODUCTION: Tiffany's Troubles, and Her Helpers.

Our self-sacrificing heroine always does her best to do right by others, especially the men and boys who are only too happy to help her out of her troubles.

Along the way, the gentle click of her mental kaleidoscope shows how her views change as a pair of decrepit old boots wins her affections in "The Godfather and the Goodfellas; or, Beauty and the Boots", while in "Prince Charming and the Devil's Thorns; or, Sleeping Beauty" an endangered species of wasp gains her sympathy.



Chapter 1: THE GODFATHER AND THE GOODFELLAS;
or, Beauty and the Boots: Welcome to the Country, City Girl.

Tiffany pulled her car up beside Buford, who was crossing the dusty drive towards his farmhouse. Buford grinned down at her. "Well, this is a surprise," he said, "I certainly wasn't expecting to see you today."

Tiffany smiled back. "I wanted to thank you for seeing to it that I got fed this past year." She had gotten into some financial difficulties; and Buford had been willing to help her out, for a price.

Buford grinned again. "My pleasure."

Tiffany laughed. "Yes, I'm sure you enjoyed it a bit more than I did." She reached for the gift-wrapped package on the passenger's seat. "I brought you this."

Surprised, Buford took the package. "Well, I certainly wasn't expecting this either."

"Now that I have some spare cash, I wanted to show you how much I appreciate what you've done for me." She hesitated, then asked, "May I come in? I wanted to ask you something."

"Sure." Buford headed towards the porch, then stopped to remove his well-worn boots before he entered the house. Tiffany also removed her shoes before she entered the house. Buford liked to keep things clean.

Buford opened his present. It was a pair of fine leather boots. He looked up at Tiffany and grinned. Again, Tiffany smiled back. She was relieved that he seemed to like his present. Buford was rumored to have a good deal of money stashed away, but Tiffany knew from experience that he didn't like to spend it. His old boots looked a lot older than Tiffany, who was twenty, and a student at the local college. Buford looked a lot older than Tiffany too; but then, he was a lot older.

He pulled on his new boots and paced up and down the room a few times. They felt good and comfortable. He nodded his approval. "So, what's your question?"

Tiffany took a deep breath. She had been wanting to ask Buford for a while, but had always been too embarrassed to ask. She shifted uncomfortably, then said, "It's about your old boots."

Buford grinned again. Tiffany could feel her face getting hot. It was too late to turn back now. She took another breath. "I wanted to ask you," she said, "what you were thinking when you were using me to clean the soles of your boots. At least, I think you were using me to clean them." She paused. Buford didn't say anything, so she continued: "I have my own ideas about what you were thinking, but I don't really know, since you never said anything while you were cleaning them." She paused again. "Anyway, I just wanted to know for sure whether I was right." Tiffany looked down, unable to meet Buford's gaze.

"Why don't you tell me what you were thinking, and then I'll tell you if you were right," said Buford quietly.

Tiffany nodded. "Okay." She paused again to collect her thoughts, then began: "The first time you did it, you caught me completely by surprise. Usually, you ask me whether I'll do something, and then when I hesitate, you give me an alternative that doesn't seem much better; but this time you didn't say anything before you stuck the toe of your boot in my pussy." Tiffany could hardly believe she had just said that, but she could hardly believe the events of the past year either. It had been an unbelievable year. There was never a dull day at Buford's chicken farm.

"I didn't know what to think at the time," she went on, "but after I got home the ideas just started coming to me. I knew you took good care of your boots, and had seen you clean them with a soft brush and cloth and saddle soap, but I don't think I had ever seen you clean the soles or the bottom of the heels.

"Anyway, I wondered why you hadn't asked me how I felt about your wiping the soles off on my pussy, but then it occurred to me that you already knew the answer, or at least thought you did. Actually, it occurred to me that you might have thought about asking me whether I would clean your boots with my mouth, since my lips are soft and supple and would be gentle on your boots, which always look old and almost fragile to me. I thought you knew I would hesitate, and then, as you always do, you would give me an alternative, one that doesn't seem much better. In this case, you would have pointed out that if I didn't want to use my mouth to clean your boots, I had another mouth and another pair of soft, supple lips available for use.

"Given the alternatives, I felt you had decided you knew which one I would choose, and so you just went ahead and used my pussy lips since you felt you already knew that would be my choice.

"The only thing I couldn't figure out that first night was what I was getting in return. When you had given me chores to do before, I knew what I was getting in return, but this time I wasn't sure at all. Then I had my physical, and the doctor said that I must have a thriving, healthy microbiome down there, as I had no trace of a yeast infection; and I realized that everything you had stepped in was probably crawling with micro-organisms and that they would be transferred to my pussy lips along with the dirt and the grime from your boots. After my first 'inoculation', I was getting a 'booster shot' every time you cleaned your boots!

"That made sense, because I know how much you love the environment and hate to waste anything, especially if it's just going to end up in a landfill somewhere. I thought you probably liked the idea of using my pussy lips instead of a rag to clean the gunk off your boots because the rag would have just ended up in a landfill after you had disposed of it, and then you would have had to use yet another rag each time you cleaned your boots; my pussy lips on the other hand, after I clean the dirt and grit and crud off of them, have the advantage that they can be used to clean your boots again and again and again, and that is definitely better for the environment.

"The only thing that still bothered me was that my pussy lips were often sore after the cleanings, as they were on the day I had my physical since it had taken some hard work to rub the gum you had stepped in a few days before off of your boot. The doctor said my labia minora looked a bit chafed, but she just smiled and told me to tell my boyfriend to ease up a bit."

Tiffany looked down and smiled. "I wonder what she would have thought if I had told her that my boyfriend, or maybe I should say 'my boyfriends', was a pair of old boots." She laughed and shook her head. "No, I didn't tell her that you were using my pussy to clean your boots because the lips are so soft and silky and protect your boots from damage even when you have to apply enough pressure to remove the grit and any stuck-on gunk from the soles."

Boots weren't made for stepping softly, thought Tiffany; and the idea that Buford could tread gently on anything with his boots on struck her as absurd: He wasn't clumsy, exactly; but she would never call him graceful either. Moreover, the thought that her doctor would undoubtedly tell her not to let Buford use his boots on her labia irritated her, since to her mind he was not guilty of doing that; instead, she thought he was doing just the opposite: She thought Buford was using her labia on his boots. "It's my pussy lips' responsibility to protect the soles of your boots from getting chafed, not the other way around!" she exclaimed.

Surprised by her outburst, Buford and Tiffany stared at each other, wide-eyed. Tiffany laughed, a little embarrassed. "Well, am I right?"

Buford smiled. "Yes, you're right," he mused. He certainly wasn't going to tell her otherwise. "The only thing I might add is how it came about that I started cleaning the soles on your twat in the first place."

He looked out through the window at the barn as he thought back to the time he had first used her nether lips to clean his boots. He began: "I had stepped in something really nasty that day, and at feeding time I was still in a bad mood thinking about having to clean that crap off, maybe with a stick. Anyway, when I got to the barn with my spittoon, you weren't ready yet, which didn't exactly help my mood any, especially since I knew you had already finished cleaning the fresh droppings out of the chicken house and had had plenty of time to get ready. I dumped the contents of the spittoon into the bucket of droppings and picked up a thick rubber hose while I waited until you were in position, head down, ass up. You didn't seem to be in any hurry to get fed, so I smacked your ass with the hose to let you know that I was getting pretty damned impatient.

"That seemed to get your attention, and you quickly reached back and spread your cheeks. By that time I was in no mood for your pussyfooting around, so I just thrust one end of the hose into that tight bottom of yours, as far as it would go; but as I was shoving it farther and farther in, I caught sight of your pretty pink pussy lips peeking out at me. The sight of those lovely lips had a soothing effect on me, and I worked the rest of the hose in more slowly, until only an inch or so remained in sight."

Tiffany winced. Buford's words had reminded her of the Bufords' little family reunion: His twin sons normally stayed with their unwed mother, who had retained sole custody; but they had gotten to stay with their father for Take-Your-Sons-to-Work Day. Dad had taken advantage of the opportunity to show them a good time.

Buford and Sons had been waiting for Tiffany when she had gotten back to the barn with her bucket of slops. Junior and Junior obviously weren't going anywhere, so Tiffany had disrobed and knelt at the feet of the Unholy Trinity. She had assumed her usual position, on her knees and facing away from them with her ass high in the air, and had placed her hands on her rear cheeks, awaiting the command "Open sesame!" Upon hearing the boys recite the magic words, Tiffany had parted her cheeks to reveal her hidden rear entrance.

Buford had left her in that position while he explained the coming procedure. Tiffany remembered hearing him say that no more than an inch or so of exposed rubber hose was needed to attach the funnel, so it simply made sense to stow the unneeded length of hose in Tiffany's backside in order to get it out of the way. Buford had droned on and on until he saw her relax and let her guard down. This was the moment he had been waiting for: Like a shot, he had nailed the bull's-eye at the center of the target Tiffany had set up for him, causing her to gasp and rock forward as the hard rubber forced its way into her secret entrance.

The Peanut Gallery, when it saw and heard the explosive effects of Buford's direct hit on his exposed target, had burst into cheers. Better than jeers, thought Tiffany. She realized that, by waiting until he could catch her off her guard, Buford had actually eased the entry of the rude Buttinsky into her back passage; for neither she nor her bottom hole was still tensed up when he had driven his vulcanized point home.

Tiffany had looked incredibly cute with both her front and her rear entrances forming a perfect circle, like the two sides of a holed coin. The opening in her backside, aided by her Godfather wielding his rubber magic wand, was a good deal larger than the one in the front though; since Buford's conjuring had made the pucker disappear from her tight bunghole and magically reappear on her lips: "Oh!" Given the choice of Heads or Tails, the twins had chosen to record both on their cell phones, as they found both her face and her backside great fun to watch.

As Buford relentlessly plied her backside with more and more hard rubber, Tiffany had found herself sorely wishing she could release her cheeks so she could rub her belly; but she had to continue holding her cheeks open like a book, waiting until she was released from her duty by hearing her taskmasters chortle the command "Shut sesame!" She had therefore tried to keep her moans and groans as soft and low as she could to make sure she could hear the arcane, mystic words. Hypnotism really does work, thought Tiffany.

Comments

Anonymous

If Flash is going to falsely claim authorship of this story, he ought to remove the real author's pen name from the by-line: "compiled by Max Blitz."

 

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