36DD Tanya Danielle's Fantasies


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Past Crimes: Part 2

In recent months Jewell Marceau had begun telling people that I was a "weak link." She had even gone so far as to dress me down me in public by declaring at a party that someone needed to show me how to keep my mouth shut. Other people present were visibly taken aback by the malice blazing in her eyes and the venom in her words. Of course they didn't have any idea what she was talking about so obviously I do know how to keep my mouth shut. The reality then and now is that Jewell and I have a few dark secrets that we share. None of the details are particularly heinous but we could both potentially face prosecution if someone were to find out about everything. We both would suffer if the truth came out and we both know that. That's why Jewell's suspicion of me gets me so angry. I'm neither stupid nor self-destructive enough to spill the proverbial beans. Last week I drove all the way out to her place and demanded that she quit making disparaging comments about me. Her expression remained unyielding during my diatribe as I began to list the reasons why we had to rely on each other. I ended my spiel by pointing out that she and I each had a lot to lose if either of us ever broke our silence. At last I saw a bit of resignation in her face. "You're right," she sighed, "we really do have to trust each other." Her eyes flicked around the room and then landed at a space on the floor. Suddenly she began to look almost childlike and it seemed like she was about to cry. I wasn't sure what to do so I stared uncomfortably at the floor also. Finally, in a voice choked with emotion, Jewell said softly: "Sometimes I just feel like you don't trust me at all anymore. We don't hang out like we used to and now I only see you if we happen to run into each other. It's like you're avoiding me and I always wonder why. I suppose I've been running my mouth a lot because I was hoping that you would finally come and confront me." Wow. My mind started to switch gears. Maybe she was right. Maybe I had become aloof. Perhaps subconsciously I had been avoiding her. Maybe my behavior had given her reason to doubt me. Jewell seemed to sense the nature of my thoughts. "I just need some reassurance from you." she said as she peered up from underneath her long, dark lashes. I remained pensive and silent. "Look," she suggested gently, almost pleadingly, "why don't we do an exercise in trust? Remember when you used to let me tie you up and take pictures? Let's do it again so we can recapture some of the mutual faith we had in each other. It will be fun. You can tie me up too after I release you from the ropes." She seemed to be afraid to look at me directly so I used a few moments to try and arrange my face in an expression that did not convey my jumbled emotions. The feelings of anger that had propelled me to drive out to the desert to face her were beginning to subside. A sense of guilt was now replacing my animosity. After a bit of consideration I took a deep breath and nodded my agreement to her idea. A sense of hopeful anticipation gripped me as I realized that our positive intentions would help erase a lot of the suspicions and insecurities that had arisen between us in these past few months. Everything felt like old times when Jewell told me to lie on my back and began tying my wrists to the metal frame of her futon. We were giggling and playing around like the old friends we were until Jewell roughly slapped a jagged piece of red duct tape over my mouth and then hissed: "Now I can finally teach you how to keep your mouth shut.."

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Past Crimes (Part 1)

Tanya's viewpoint: Jewell Marceau and I were hanging out at a roadside bar in the desert hoping some cute truckers would stop by. No such luck. We sat there expectantly until the crotchety old barkeep decided to shut the place down for the night. We were disappointed, but not ready to give up yet. We asked the barkeep, an elderly woman with an astonishing resemblance to Phyllis Diller, where else we could go to meet some guys. With an evil cackle she recommended that we go hang out by the truck scales on Interstate 5. "Maybe you'll even make $20!" she added. It surprised me how fast Jewell ripped the woman's cheap wig off her head and dumped a beer on the tangled mop. The woman was screaming profanities at the top of her lungs as she chased us out the door. It was too late when she remembered that we hadn't paid our tab. I was already inside my car gunning the engine in a threatening manner when she began bellowing about the money. Maybe my perception was cloudy, but I think that my sideview mirror may have clipped her in the boob as I tore out of the dirt parking lot. We drove a few miles and then pulled over to the side of the road. It was unclear to either of us whether our transgressions had been serious or not. The whole episode had been kind of odd. We decided to cut short our night on the town. After readjusting the side mirror and driving to Jewell's house we started playing darts in the livingroom. Jewell put on some country music because those cowboy songs always seem apropos when you're at a low ebb in your life. The sappy music was cranking at full volume when I noticed Jewell taking the very last swig out of the Jack Daniels bottle. That was the last drop of liquor in the house! She laughed out loud when she saw the outrage on my face. I told her I was going to teach her the lesson of her life. The details of the resulting battle are a little bit murky in my mind, but I could swear a song called "Whiskey River Rage" was playing in the background. Most days I like to pretend that none of it ever even happened...

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Cowgirl

A few months ago I was at a shoot and the photographer and I started joking about people with birth names such as “John Johnson”, “Tom Thomas”, etc. I’ve previously made reference to parents who make these unfathomable name choices in a different blog. Someone later read a version of it on MySpace and commented that an athlete named Pete Peters was a goaltender for the Philadelphia Flyers. I told the photographer this and she and I kept laughing about the subject. One of us suggested that “The Inbred Banjo Players” would be great name for a country group. The guys in the band would be named Pat Patrick, Danny Ray Daniels, and John Johnston on drums. For some reason it just seemed funny on that afternoon as we were shooting outside in the blazing hot sun. I was posing in a cowboy hat and boots so that’s probably why the subject of The Inbred Banjo Players even came up at all. And it probably just seemed so humorous because we were swilling vodka at high noon while we were shooting. The photographer’s assistant, David, was not participating in our drinking or our foolish conversation. David always remained sober and professional at any type of debauched shoot. I had known him for years and had seen him on countless porn sets. He habitually maintained a courteous rapport with both models and photographers, but he had always struck me as somewhat pensive and morose. I suspected that someday I would see him let down his guard, but it had not yet happened. On this day he watched the photographer and me with quiet detachment as we cracked endless jokes about The Inbred Banjo Players and she and I kept adding more guys to the band: Harry Harris, Walter Walters, Bob Roberts, Clay Clay, and on and on. We finished shooting that day and wound up ordering a pizza and finishing off the vodka by sundown. By the time I got home I’d forgotten all about The Inbred Banjo Players. The next morning I was leafing through the new issue of Sports Illustrated as my coffee was brewing. A photo of Kris Kristofferson caught my attention. His piercing blue eyes stared off the page at me, one moreso than the other. Kris Kristofferson. I was so hung over that his entire countenance seemed to be mocking me. Why was I so drawn to this article? Why couldn’t I turn the page? My addled mind could barely function without a shot of coffee and the liquid was still percolating. Kris Kristofferson. I rubbed my bloodshot eyes. Kris Kristofferson. What was wrong with me? I willed my mind to move onto a different subject. Kris Kristofersson. Omigosh! It finally hit me. My bloated mind really was moving that slowly. Kris would be a shoo-in for The Inbred Banjo Players. I’ve known of him for so many years that I’d just stopped noticing his name. Or I thought it was a nickname or a stage name or something. Was it? Could it be his real name? Here he was in Sports Illustrated - of all places - posing in a music hall with a guitar and a pair of boxing gloves around his neck. I began reading the article. “Kris” was indeed his nickname. Yep, it was short for “Kristoffer”. Kristoffer Kristofferson. Evidently Kris had been mentioned as a promising young Pomona College athlete in the March 31, 1958 issue of Sports Illustrated. Now author Ben Reiter was visiting him to discuss Kris’ memories of having been included in that issue all those years ago. The article is both brief and awesome. Reiter’s most poignant sentence describes Kristoffersen as: “..the only three-sport college athlete and Rhodes scholar to work as a janitor in a Nashville studio.” Who knew? I vowed never to poke fun at anyone with a purposely redundant name ever again. Of course neither Kris nor anyone else cares what I’m doing anyways, but that decision was to become surprisingly pertinent to my health and well-being in the very near future.

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Egomaniacal Dipshit

Tanya's viewpoint: Who would cheat at Twister? Really, who would do that? What kind of egomaniacal dipshit would have any sort of need to triumph at that stupid game? I ask these questions because I don't entirely know the answers and it's an exercise in self-reflection to ponder the issue at all. Yep, I'm the one who cheated. I don't know what came over me, but I switched positions behind Jewell Marceau's back when she went to spin the wheel. The contorted position I was in was impossible to hold so I switched my foot from a green dot to a red one. It was embarrassing when she caught me, but I had no intention of admitting to my transgression. It was actually mind-boggling that she even remembered what color dot my foot should have been on. She was as petty in her singleminded determination to win as I was! It takes one to know one. The game of Twister was quickly forgotten as we stripped each other naked, clawed breasts, pulled hair, and punched each other as if we were fighting over the deed to the Trump Towers..

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