Joe's Garage (Malina & ramster)
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Exotic Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Ramster on 16-07-2010, 18:58:46</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Joe's Garage (Malina &amp; ramster)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ramster</strong> on <strong>16-07-2010, 18:58:46</strong>
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				<strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;" class="bbc_size">Joe's Garage</span></strong><br><br><br><strong>ACT I</strong><br><em><strong>Summer, 1972</strong></em><br><br><br><br>&nbsp;<br><em>This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER. It is my responsibility to enforce all the laws that haven't been passed yet. It is also my responsibility to alert each and every one of you to the potential consequences of various ordinary everyday activities you might be performing which could eventually lead to THE DEATH PENALTY (or affect your parents' credit rating). Our criminal institutions are full of little creeps like you who do wrong things...and many of them were driven to these crimes by a horrible force called MUSIC!<br><br>Our studies have shown that this horrible force is so dangerous to society at large that laws are being drawn up at this very moment to stop it forever! Cruel and inhuman punishments are being carefully described in tiny paragraphs so they won't conflict with the Constitution (which, itself, is being modified in order to accommodate THE FUTURE).<br><br>I bring you now a special presentation to show what can happen to you if you choose a career in MUSIC...The WHITE ZONE is for loading and unloading only...if you have to load or unload, go to the WHITE ZONE... you'll love it...it's a way of life...Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha...Hi, it's me, I'm back. This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER...The WHITE ZONE is for loading and unloading only...If yah gotta load, or if yah gotta unload, go to the WHITE ZONE. You'll love it...it's a way of life. <br><br>This, is, the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER!</em><br><br>JOE (20) is jamming with his band, arrogantly named The Joe Swanson Experience. He is preparing the for the greatest, and also the first, gig in his life. Mauling his second hand Stratocaster, he plays their pretty much only song, Electric Toothbrush Love, for the 274th time. Larry, on bass, and Stewie, on drums, complete the infernal racket, drowning out Joe's mother's screams of protest. They crack open the first beers in their crate, and soon empty it.<br><br>It is 8 pm, just after dinnertime, as stipulated on the crude posters Joe's band have stuck on every available surface in the neighbourhood. Some of them were actually read before they were torn down. The girls he went to high school with are all coming, and even quite a few people who won't be going to see him play out of sympathy, but Joe doesn't know all that yet. If it wasn't for the beers he's had, he'd be shitting bricks with the nerves. After a clandestine smoke of an illegal natural substance, The Joe Swanson Experience open the garage door to a crowd of at least 50 people.<br><br>"ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!"<br><br>The band starts playing Electric Toothbursh Love like they've never played it before. They've never dared to turn up the amplifier to 10 before because of all the complaints they get when they turn it up to 7.<br><br><em>"Electric toothbrush lover!<br>Open wide for the vaginal dental hygienist!<br>Hear that electric motor hum<br>Make that bitch's pussy cum<br>And reduce her chance of vaginal tooth decay<br>But if there's really teeth in the lady's cunt, <br>Why don't you just stay away?"<br></em><br><br>It's not a very good song, but the girls hearing them play aren't the most critical of audiences. The band manages to keep in time, the girls are drunk and somehow managing to dance to the noise, and Joe is possessed by his new found charisma. He downs a bottle from the band's second crate, and beckons to a girl in the audience.<br><br>"Hey you! Yeah, you, gorgeous redhead. Now that's number one fan material if I've ever seen it baby!" he taunts her with his microphone. "You look like you could use a drink. Come up here and get one!"<br><br>Joe holds out a not too lukewarm beer, sticks his tongue out at the slutty looking redhead in hot pants and starts playing the same song again, about twice as fast. It must be the testosterone rush.<br><br><br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Joe's Garage (Malina &amp; ramster)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Malina</strong> on <strong>16-07-2010, 23:32:14</strong>
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				Suburbia stands on its head. A happening is happening, and with the excitement and determination only youths living in the most boring of small towns can muster at the prospect of hearing a garage band, they plunge into preparations with the feverish zeal of an ant hill under siege. They all want to make the most of this occasion, and of their looks, everybody is determined to impress, have fun, get drunk, get laid, or at least not to make a fool of themselves, be a bore, an ugly klutz.<br><br>By evening, most girls have managed to ease themselves into a state of near hysteria, they have giggled, quarrelled, fretted, shamelessly lied about their friends' attractiveness, screamed with laughter, discussed boys, sex, drugs and music, and drunk enough to be lightheaded even without passing round the one weed still a rarity in these parts. A few last adjustments of what is supposed to let them look older, sexier, better, and they are as ready for some fun as they will ever be. Clonking and clicking along the pavement, they approach Joe's Garage, in clogs, fancy boots, high heels.<br><br>Who started the competition of who would wear the shortest, tightest outfit is hard to tell, but some girls must have become quite ambitious. A certain redhead, for example. Wriggling and trashing around on her bed, cursing and panting, belly drawn in as far as she can, she has squeezed herself into her newly created hot pants. Its frayed legs are gone, rigorously and not nearly symmetrically amputated. Pulling up the zipper has cost Sheila more patience than she has deigned bestow on anything in a long while, brutal force, and one fingernail, but the result is worth it. <br><br>She is not even chubby, her wide hips are the problem, not fat, and as she stands before her mirror, she feels wildly triumphant. Smooth and flat her belly rises over pink pants, her ass is round, one cheek half covered, the other three quarters, firm and solid legs rise from orange and violet platform shoes that raise this gorgeous midget to near average height, and her lilac coloured crocheted bikini does well to be of such robust, thick cotton wool, for it has quite a bit of flesh to hold and cover. It is meant for breasts a good two cups smaller in size, but what girl would want to hide the best pair of boobs in town? <br><br>Correct, confidence is not what Sheila lacks, taste is. She has combined colours that have created a visual war zone even before the countless glass bead necklaces and Indian bracelets come into play, and each looks horrid either with her hair, her freckled skin, or her eyes. Miraculously, she still looks pretty, with her snub nose, pouting mouth, glittering orange-red and sticky wet with gloss, and those dramatically framed canary green eyes. <br><br>One of the few to arrive alone, she is not exactly unpopular, but her temper is known to be as angry as her hair colour. Also, she blurts out, loudly, whatever crosses her mind, no secret is safe from her, the biggest fool would not take her into their confidence, and the only reason nobody talks openly about her sleeping around is that, after the first guy bragged about it, she has given the whole school such a full account of his less than impressive performance that everybody else has kept quiet about what would doubtlessly deserve mentioning. She does not only look hot as hell, she is it. <br><br>Rocking her body, tossing the glaring halo of her curly thicket about, furiously shaking her hips and tits in blissful independence of the rhythm Electric Toothbrush suggests, which is too slow for her taste, she is a girl to stare at with eyes huge as saucers. She is shameless, slutty, more than mildly intimidating for the sheer force of her temperament. Her body undulates wildly, her freckled ass cheeks protrude from the frayed hem of her pants, their seam neatly parts her nether lips, her boobs almost spill out of her bikini top, she is pure sex and provocation, she knows. And she loves it. <br><br>She knows right away who the gorgeous redhead is Joe talks about, she gives a shite for his song and does not pretend otherwise, its stupid text amuses her, but she thinks they need a damn lot of practise and a better songwriter if they ever want to get out of that garage. But Joe and the beer are interesting, especially when his mother pokes a face almost violet with anger out of the window and stares right at Sheila as if she was, which she probably is, her worst nightmare personified when she dares approach her precious Joe.<br><br>And so, Sheila grins her widest grin and, hips swaying, pushes trough those standing before her, jumps up onto the stage, grabs the beer, downs half of it, belches, notices they're playing again, or Joe is, and fast enough for her, this time. Instantly, she is dancing again, spills beer down her chin, neck and cleavage, laughs about it, with her head thrown back and her body rocking. Her yellowish green eyes meanwhile scrutinise the band members, especially Joe, with undisguised curiosity. She is almost leering, misses not the smallest detail, and openly pays much attention to what interest her most about them. No, not their musical instruments. 
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				Title: <strong>Re: Joe's Garage (Malina &amp; ramster)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ramster</strong> on <strong>18-07-2010, 02:02:46</strong>
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				As the girl steps up on stage and makes use of the beer like Joe hadn't dared hope she would, our hero finds himself wishing he had more appendages. If he stops playing, the beautiful creature in front of him won't have anything to shake her divine teenaged ass and tits to. But every atom of his maleness screams for him to drop the guitar and grab her. He bulges heavily in his ripped jeans, his eyes locked on the redhead's body as he licks his lips with need.<br><br>Only knowing how to play one song shows its benefits now. Joe shows he is able to play at the same pace and without making mistakes with his guitar held above his head, then behind his back, as he grinds lewdly against the girl's hot, tight excuse for a pair of shorts, barely containing her hot, tight fuckhole. Bulging denim strains against bulging denim. It helps to have the guitar out of the way for that, and the song only consists of three easy chords anyway. This allows him to play with one hand from time to time as he casually slips an arm around her waist, and dances more dirtily than the people of Canoga Park have ever considered decent behaviour in public. With a firm bump of his excited groin to the hottie's ass, Joe briefly considers smashing his guitar out of machismo at the end of the song. He decides against it; he had to mow a lot of lawns to buy it. <br><br>He drops it cavalierly onto the planks of the narrow makeshift stage in front of the open garage and cracks open two beers. A pity they aren't any colder, Joe thinks, as he wedges one bottle firmly between the bodacious boobs of his new number one fan. "Hey, didn't I meet you at Big Raoul's Backyard Beerfest a few weeks back? Sheila, right?" he asks, pulling her close to him with a finger hooked in the hem of the hotpants.&nbsp; Gazing down at the sight of titties and beer, two of the three things that make life worth living to him, he resolves to write a song about it later, and takes a sip from the bottle wedged between her now sticky breasts.<br><br>How could Joe have forgotten about Big Raoul's Beerfest? Easily really, a choice between alcohol and heatstroke. But seeing Sheila douse her luscious rack with amber nectar brings it all back to him. It's a good thing she never noticed him there, he'd rather embarrassed himself after a beer bong, and now he vividly recalls seeing the band later known as D-Ring slurping Busch from between her jugs. To the rock star belong the sluts.<br><br>Larry and Stewie show remarkable insight into the situation as they herd the crowd a safe distance away, imposing themselves upon Sheila's eager friends with the rest of the crate. It's not as if Joe will notice its absence right now. Standing almost a foot taller than Sheila, he has to lift her thigh up high to hold it to his side, as he&nbsp; pushes her backwards onto the old Dodge's hood. The sweet stink of drying beer wafting from her cleavage smells better than perfume to him. In a maneuver he's practiced since junior high, the hack guitarist's hand finds the handle of the garage door behind him and shoves it down. It snags halfway, but he doesn't notice or care. <br><br>Joe lunges, his dark eyes locked on the redhead's, who smells the gel in his short mohawk, and the fresh sweat and beer soaking his black T shirt, as he roughly shoves his mouth against hers.<br><br><br><br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Joe's Garage (Malina &amp; ramster)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Malina</strong> on <strong>19-07-2010, 00:04:39</strong>
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				With a wide grin and a cocked brow Sheila shows she's one to immediately pick up on a dilemma such as Joe faces, and to gleefully make the most of it. Her shimmies and convulsions become downright lewd, her eyes take ample and obvious note of the prominent bulge he's sporting, and when they're not fixed on his crotch, they cling to his eyes with the same intensity with which he craves to cling to her body, but can't. She flaunts her curves before his eyes, pushes her hips up as she circles them, lets him see how the lips of her cooch stand out through the tight fabric, a peach nearly split by the tight seam of a double layer of denim.<br><br>She laughs as he lifts the guitar over his head, then behind his back, mildly impressed, and willing to reward his efforts by being the kind of tease that's anything except elusive. She not only allows him to dance as close to her as he can, but thrusts out her ass and rubs its half naked cheeks firmly over his boner with every shake and twist, up, down, left, right, shimmy, shake, bump, shiver - it's&nbsp; fucking torture! They're lucky the guitar demands some of his attention, else, she might have gotten his rock off just by working her ass off to get him started.<br><br>When he makes that final bump and puts the guitar aside, she slows done, then stands panting, one hand stemmed on her hips, and, grinning boldly, reaches out the other to give his butt a squeeze while he bends over to fetch more beer. When he sticks the bottle down her cleavage, breathless, rough laughter shakes her - and the bottle. More beer spills down her front as he pulls her and she takes those two small steps closer to him. Joe isn't the only one having a hard time remembering that beerfest, and so she asks. "Big Raoul? Oh, yeah, the fat guy who puked all over the barbecue." <br><br>She chuckles, looking as if she wasn't as much a stranger to his own little incident as he hopes she is, but for once shows discretion bordering on tact. "That's right, Sheila's the name." She purrs, and pushes out her chest so that he can better reach the bottle. She clearly is the kind of girl who knows what matters to a real man. Even better, when he lifts her thigh, it shows that she's got the agility of a ballet dancer. She hooks her leg around him when he pushes her backwards on the Dodge. <br><br>Beer spills over, foam hisses, sticky, smelly, lukewarm amber liquid runs over her freckled skin, but she doesn't care, she pulls him closer. His rough kiss makes her greedy, and she locks her lips to his and slips one hand down his back, squeezes it into his pants, and kneads a good handful of his tight buttock in the rhythm of their sucking and exploring. The other hand cradles his head, fingers weave into his Mohawk, pull at his hair where it's long enough, nails trace along his scalp, and the leg that's hooked behind his back helps her snatch to rub firmly against his cock. 
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				Title: <strong>Re: Joe's Garage (Malina &amp; ramster)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ramster</strong> on <strong>22-07-2010, 22:01:01</strong>
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				As their groins grind together, Joe feels the growing heat between Sheila's legs against the uncomfortably tight and deliciously rubbing bulge of his adolescent erection. He undoes her top impatiently with one hand, cupping his hands over Sheila's full breasts and kneading as he stabs his tongue into her mouth. Reaching between her breasts, he pulls out the bottle from between them, empties it and tosses it away, letting it smash against the wall. The beer he licks off her flesh suddenly tastes better than it did out of the bottle as he undoes her shorts and shoves them down. They come off much easier than she'll be able to pull them up again. Once freed of his T shirt, Joe flexes what pecs he has against the hardening rosy nipples at his disposal.<br><br>Despite seeming like an extremely eager and horny teenager, which he ceased to be six months ago, Joe's well aware of what he's doing. His right arm pulls Sheila's leg tight around him again, and after freeing his straining cock from its denim prison, nothing gets between his shaft and the smoking hot slit it grinds up and down against. Waggling his tongue against hers, as he tugs at her copper red tresses and greedily squeezes her bare buttocks. Joe's left, skilled, fret hand dips down and traps the girl's ignition, as he calls it, between two fingers. Feeling her moisten, the digits slip in and out of her, showing off his fingering technique. It's more honed than his musical technique; after all, you can find groupies who will boogie to any old racket.<br><br>With a growled gasp of need against her lips, fingertips dancing up and down over and inside her, Joe plunges his practically granite erection into his new friend with a deep, powerful stroke. Lifting Sheila's short but shapely legs to his shoulders, he leers down at her rabid with lust as he fucks a wide, shallow dent into the car's hood using her as a battering ram.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Joe's Garage (Malina &amp; ramster)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Malina</strong> on <strong>29-07-2010, 22:35:44</strong>
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				Sheila could curse her choice of pants right now, the thick, too tight fabric and the seam running right across her clitoris. Against her bare thigh, she can feel Joe's erection, and she wants to feel it in her crotch, but through two layers of solid denim, that wouldn't be nearly as delicious as it could be had she decided for a miniskirt, for example. For a fleeting moment, she has a terrible vision of her hot pants proving more unwilling to be taken off than they had been when she put them on, a memory of her thrashing around on her bed, and she thinks 'Oh, shite, what if we can't get them off me?' Perhaps even greedier thanks to this possible doom, she grinds on, determined to make the most of what she can get, her fingers dig into his bum, pulling him closer, she sucks his tongue, hers slides along it from underneath, starts to circle it, entwine around it.<br><br>Her breasts, freed of the ridiculously small bikini top fill Joe's hands with warm, soft flesh. Her low, husky laughter is briefly heard again when he empties the beer and smashes the bottle, and when he licks her breasts, her hand leaves his head to push generous amounts of flesh towards his mouth. She wants him to suck, nibble, bite her nipples, and is about to say so, but just then he proves a genius with her darned hot pants, and action down there is better than anything, so she wriggles out of them eagerly, eyes bright with expectation. Finally released from their restraints, her nether lips swell with pleasure. Her clitoris, formerly numbed by too much pressure, jumps to attention, in time to feel the silky skin of Joe's heavy cock rub over it as it slides up and down between her tender folds. They give it a slippery caress of welcome and a promise of the wet, hot kiss it will receive when it ventures forth into her depth. <br><br>But, all gentleman, Joe's fingers claim that pleasure first, and far from objecting, Sheila moans around his tongue as he seizes her ignition, and his fingering technique produces a sequence of utterances of lustful approval and mounting need that sound more exciting than a lot of what he has coaxed out of other instruments, musical or female. She generously coats his fingers with mother nature's finest lubricant, her flesh is on fire, tight, hot, so eager it feels as if it could suck his entire hand right into her. Half his technique would have been enough for lusty Sheila, yes, even if he had only held out his fingers, she would have fucked herself straight to orgasm on them eventually, and so it's a wise choice Joe swaps cock for fingers and impales her deeply. <br><br>Her lips and tongue for the first time neglect his as she screams with pleasure, her flesh closes firmly around his cock, it's a tight fit, but in her arousal, she can take his entire length. The hands that have been roaming over his back and buttocks dig and clutch, fingers clawing, scratching him with her nails, and soon hoarse cries of lust cheer him on as his pestle plunges in and out of this lovely human mortar. Her exuberant, bundled up body aglow with passion, she splashes around in a shallow puddle of stale beer, hips and hole raised to ensure she won't miss out on half a centimetre of his shaft as he humps her. Cheeks flushed, eyes rapt and hungry, she gazes at him with something close to admiration as he ruins the car and lays the foundation for his reputation as a prize stallion.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Joe's Garage (Malina &amp; ramster)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ramster</strong> on <strong>02-08-2010, 04:16:54</strong>
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				With grunts of lust and exertion, Joe and Sheila set about exposing the flimsiness of the Dodge's hood. His teeth tug at her lips as he powers into the sopping sluttiness of her slick slit. Stiffening his thumb, he applies rotation to her sugar plum continuously. Ever the musician, he loves to produce noise. He expertly tweaks her hardened nipples and clit like knobs on a mixer panel.<br><br>Panting and growling rabidly, he thumps into her. Subtlety is not a concept Joe would recognise if it painted itself blue and ran naked through the streets, and the idea of slow, sensual lovemaking isn't part of his voracious and simplistic sexual appetite. Comparisons to farm animals are in order as he services his prize, although cows and ewes hardly moan so sexily when mounted. He has the length and girth to stretch her experienced cunt tight around him as he torpedoes into her cervix, and coupled with his manual talents it gets him far enough with the ladies.<br><br>Police sirens sound as Joe works into a frenzy, but he's oblivious to them even as he enjoys the rhythm of his flesh slapping and colliding against Sheila's. Outside, a drunken gathering of the band and several young people of the neighborhood appears to be up to several kinds of No Good at once. There have been many complaints.<br><br>Joe doesn't realise this as he pumps into the voluptuous redhead with the speed of a pneumatic drill. This is what he wants to become a rock star for, after all. Gripping her silky copper curls, he pants into her mouth as an afternoon's production run of adolescent semen spews into her from his mating prong. The sheer muzzle velocity brings to mind a fire hose or water pistol. He continues ramming into Sheila furiously as he explodes, then softens.<br><br>The garage door is unceremoniously opened by two police officers with dogs, whose arrival leads to the sudden departure of all Joe's other guests, fans and miscellaneous previously congregating on his lawn. The rusty rattle of the garage door sliding up makes him turn his head to look behind him with a grimace of absolute horror. He is mercilessly seized by the police and dragged off Sheila with his jeans still around his ankles. Sheila is taken away too, and it's unlikely he'll see her again.<br><br>Some time later, Joe is returned home in a police car, with a donut. An uncharacteristically broad-minded police officer tried to tell him something about safe sex and proper condom use, but he didn't really listen. As he munched his donut and received a chewing&nbsp; out for underage drinking, he'd connected a couple of dots in his head.<br><br>So they wanted him to go to <em>church?</em> Well, that wasn't particularly rock and roll to say the least. Then it had dawned on him that there was an all girls Catholic school just down the road, St. Innocent's. The name of founder of the Jesuit order has become a byword in his neighbourhood for red hot and completely inaccessible&nbsp; female orifices. Surprisingly enough, the Bible thumping cop has made more of an impression on him than his colleague, with the condom and his delusions of being down with the kids.<br><br>That Sunday afternoon, a hungover Saturday of parental bitching later, Joe attends a church service at St. Gisele's with his parents for the first time since they stopped forcing him to, some two years ago. His mother is immediately deluded into thinking he's seen the light, and hopes for a garage free of the ravages of The Joe Swanson Experience. No such luck.<br><br>Joes eyes sinfully roam the church for hours, and the sight of the famous ladies of St. Innocent's is more than enough to keep him awake. After the service, he sidles up to one of the girls he's had his eye on, a blonde, as they head downstairs to the basement. There, church-oriented youth activities await him, although the church probably doesn't share his idea of suitable youth activities. His eyes stray to the silver crucifix dangling between her full breasts.<br><br>"Hi, I'm Joe. I'm new to this church, and I've come to join the youth movement. I didn't know they had actual angels as members," he smiles, as innocently as St. Innocent, or so he thinks.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Joe's Garage (Malina &amp; ramster)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Malina</strong> on <strong>06-08-2010, 22:39:23</strong>
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				Their music is the wet rhythm of his scrotum slapping against her bottom, glistening with the sap of lust flowing from her fleshy fruit, the blooming, glowing centre of heat between her legs, that hole she stuck up as high as she could, to have it filled and filled again. The splashing sound of beer drones out the subtler, sucking, slurping nuances of their mating noises as they shape the Dodge's hood into a token of their finest hour. Under his thumb dances the slippery sugar plum, bright red lips stretch between his teeth as hoarse cries interrupt her groans and moans when he tweaks her nubs of pleasure.<br><br>Plowing away heedless of their surroundings, they do it all right, though, sticking to farm life allegories, they joyously do their chores topsy-turvy. What a fine, tireless churning it is, preceding the milking of his eager rod, a crescendo of effort, speed and noise, for now, she screams more than she moans, her voice as raw as their lust. She loves when his member's thick head rams into her cervix. Her hands leave his maltreated back to grab the hollows of her knees and pull them closer, stretching her thighs, pushing up her bottom. Her entire body shakes with every hump, her voice, too, it sounds as delicious as it feels for her, and she comes even before he does, comes again as his seed sprays her cervix as it bounces against his glans, her convulsing flesh expertly squeezing the last droplets out of him even as his cock softens.<br><br>And that's the end of bliss and rut, the once proud, now horrified cockerel is pulled off the no longer crowing hen. Sheila is dragged onto shaky legs, beer running over her glorious, freckled form and a merry rivulet of seed down her thighs as her ever contracting snatch releases it in tiny gushes. His mother's shrill voice accompanies her effort to wrestle the stunned looking redhead into Joe's beer soaked shirt, that, reaching down to her knees, soon hides what some would call a feast for the eyes, and others Sheila's shame. Her usually fierce green stare is softened to a dreamy, languid gaze. As she watches Joe hobble away with his bare bum and dangling, swinging, bouncing member, a slow grin spreads her full lips, and the last he sees of her is that mighty mane flaring wildly as she struggles to pull free from his mother's iron grip. "Oye! Let go of me, you jealous crone, or I'll shove your ugly face straight into that puddle!"<br><br><div align="center">*****************************</div><br>St. Gisele's. It's a different world, a different century, almost, one might think. As the church bells ring out, most of the congregation has long found their seats, they have come, they have knelt, they have dipped their fingers into the holy water and made the cross, gazing up at the altar. They have filled the benches to either side of the aisle, they sit very upright and silent as the sun shines through the colourful windows and illuminated scenes of the life and death of Jesus and a whole lot of saintly martyrs. <br><br>Mother Mary smiles benignly down on them over a see of candles, the chubby infant in her arms has lost some of its once vivid flesh coloured freshness, but none of its charm. On the opposite site of the nave Jesus is already a man, and dead, he has been bleeding from his many wounds, his flesh wept blood from where the thorns pierce his forehead, his mother is weeping over him. It becomes her, though, it's a Pietà of remarkable beauty, yet grim and sad to behold, this pious, gentle face bent over the lifeless body, destroyed by suffering. A scene that must appeal to Joe's mother, who probably believes she has freed her own sun form the clutches of a certain demon just in time to lead him back onto the righteous path.<br><br>To Joe, understandably, the girls of St. Innocence hold much more fascination. They fill the front rows, and look very young, neat, and clean in their school uniform of Ancient Campbell tartan pleated skirts that cover their knees when they stand, the white stockings that cling to their calves, the white long sleeved blouses, freshly ironed and starched, the shiny black patent leather Mary Janes they all wear. Only their choices between the dark blue wool cardigan and the dark blue wool slipover some wear in the cool church interrupt the overall monotony of their attire. <br><br>There is an advantage to this, however, as attention is drawn to the rest of their appearances. They come in different sizes, colours and shapes, as most girls will, and these are very obvious thanks to their uniform clothes. Also, he can see no make up, no extravagance on them, no beauty nature has not bestowed, and so it is easy to detect the prettiest among them as they stand, sit, or kneel, as their lips move in unison to answer, still in Latin, or hear their clear voices ring out in hymns and pious songs. It must have been even better in the morning, during mass. To watch them beat their bosoms, full or flat. "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa." Oh, and to see them kneel, hands clasped, heads tilted back, eyes on the priest, opening their mouths to receive the host on their tongues, how suggestive...<br><br>Yet, such an afternoon service has its benefits, the entertainment to come might yet make up for the lack of holy communion inspired fantasising. There are many youths, lots of girls are pretty, some stand out as they probably wouldn't if all had been allowed to paint their faces, wear whatever they liked, and do God knows what to their hair. Joe has singled out a girl called Mary. She is the choir's first soprano, and will probably look young and innocent all her life. Her face unites two qualities that rarely come together, cuteness and beauty. She is angelic, lovely to behold, and so say all her many admirers. What they fail to mention is that she also stars as the centrepiece of most fantasies and lonely carnal activities they frequently and shame-facedly whisper about in the confessional. Average of height, her delicate bones let her appear petite. Her long, slim extremities are those of a young girl, but somehow, her small waist and high breasts evoke, even through her starched blouse and pleated skirt, tantalising visions of smoothest skin and perfect curves.<br><br>Her complexion is one of milk and roses, with only the slightest hint of sun kissed caramel, which Joe sees as she turns her face up to him, startled from some reverie, no doubt. Her eyes, forget-me-not-blue, and who could forget those eyes, meet his, in time to catch him glance at the pretty round cushions against which her cross nestles. She wears a simple white bra, and the display of cleavage must have been accidental, for Mary blushes, casts down her eyes, then her head. A long, shimmering curtain of fine spun blond hair falls over her faces, and her fingers fly in their haste to button up her blouse. Then, she looks up at him again, smiling shyly, her cheeks decidedly rosy. "Angels? Oh! Oh... Ahem -&nbsp; hi. I - I'm Mary. I - ah - I sing in the choir..." She's flustered, due to the compliment, the peek he sneaked, his handsomeness, his being a boy, an outsider, new to the group, and older than her. Her stammering vexes her, for she is quite bright, actually, and would much rather have made a good first impression.&nbsp; 
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