Located in the Southwest United States, in Southern Arizona, Tucson is one of the oldest continually inhabited areas in North America. Hohokam Indians lived and farmed here for 4,000 years before Spanish missionaries and soldiers arrived in the late 1600s. In the 1700s, these “newcomers” established the Presidio San Agustín del Tucson and theMission San Xavier del Bac — the two most iconic and historic structures in the region. ”The Old Pueblo,” as the adobe-walled Tucson Presidio became known, is Tucson’s nickname to this day and it was in “The Old Pueblo” that Sean was being sucked off by three eager Univeristy of Arizona sophomores. Angela, the geeky one, was snarfing his balls; Violette, the French one, was licking the long side of his shaft; and Esmé, under whose brash exterior lay a sweet soul roaming lonely the halls of a house too big, gave free reign to her tongue as it dithered pleasantly on the tip of his penis. Sean’s lilly-white ass was resting on the glass top of the “Old Pueblo Pinball Showdown” a one-off game made by the Shandy Gaming Company of Tullahoosee, MT in honor of the quadricentennial anniversary of the founding of Arizona. Every time Esmé made a sudden movement, the pinball machine let out a sad echoey jangle and Sean moaned.
An old security guard in a poly cotton blend uniform too big for his bag of bones frame walked by. He had fought in Korea, he often told visitors. Flashlight in hand, he performed night recon decades past his discharge date, on the lookout for spooks. He didn’t notice Sean and his three ladies due to cataracts in his right eye. Though his sight was failing, the guard’s s military mind, softened by years spent peering into the deserted halls of The Old Pueblo four nights a week from 8 pm to 6 am, had enough acuity to force the old man’s spindly fingers to spit polish his shoes every evening before work. Peeking just past Sean’s balls, which hung pendulous like hair tufted curtains above the stage of the Met opening to the hallway lit like a Shakespeare set with the old man walking downstage right—cue gel 27—Angie thought, “There’s nothing sadder than an old man with shined shoes and a menial job.” The thought gave her the schpilkes since she knew someday she too would be aged and wearing poly cotton blends. Just then, Sean’s balls twitched and cum gushed into Esmé somewhat eagerly awaiting mouth—I say slightly because in fact Esmé was wryly though not without tenderness reflecting on the kind of man who would place her and two of her kind servicing a faceless guy named Sean in a National Historical Monument after hours with nary a thought of her pleasure and who, in fact, probably had succumbed to the fantasy that her current mouthload of jism tasted sweet and to her gave pleasure. “Oh god, yes!” she cried and opaque waterfalls down the slightly aghast face of Violette below her. Violette, raised Catholic but lapsed, let her chubby white finger find the waistband of her cheerleading skirt—she got it at Halloween Parade on a recent trip to New York City and wasn’t in fact a squad member—and slide down to her tidy suburban milk-fed pussy. Twenty minutes of so later, Sean, Angie and Esmé had wandered off to the gift shop to gaze at snowglobes of mesas and cacti. Violette frigged herself to the crest of orgasm. She rocked back on her heels and jostled the pinball machine. “Tilt!” a robotic voice chided, “Tilt! Tilt!” but Violette’s clit swelled, she came and the machine clanged and chimed in time to her orgasmic moans, like a erotic Stockhausen eroica.
Submitted by female editor, Tucson AZ