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Continuing part 10, so let's just hop right into it. Previous thread: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/32793309/
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Whitney and Rose devour their helpings of roast pork and taro, tearing at the food with their bare fingers like animals, washing it down with gallons of kava. Ms. Carte merely picks at her serving. And poor Vivian is still too much of a mess to eat at all. She lies slumped against the table, drooling.
"I think we fingerbanged her retarded," Whitney says between bites.
"Oh, she'll be fine," Rose says. She prods Vivian's shoulder and receives no intelligible response but the word "cum" slurred over again.
"...She'll be fine, *probably*," Rose qualifies.
Watching that spectacle has left you in need of release too. But even you're not as crazy as Rose and Whitney were to do something so outlandish in such a public space. At the bar there were shadows to hide in; here, the beach is lit by hundreds of paper lanterns and you sit shoulder-to-shoulder with over a thousand Palauans. Whipping your dick out is just asking for trouble, isn't it?
A man at the galley table adjacent to yours flags down one of the cart-pushing food vendors. "Can I get some coconut pie?" he asks.
"Nnn," grunts the vendor, shaking his head. "Problem in the kitchen. Dessert won't be out for a while."
"Problem? What problem?"
"Some crazy woman." The vendor shrugs and wipes his grubby hands on his apron. "American tourist is raising hell back there. Thinks she owns the place."
"That's ridiculous!" the man cries. "I want my food--"
"Tell someone who cares," the vendor says, taking up his cart again and strolling away.
You tug at the man's apron as he passes. "Excuse me, sir. Where is the kitchen?"
The vendor points to a squat brick building on a hill overlooking the beach. He continues on his way.
You think you'd better go see what shitstorm your dear sweet mother is brewing now.
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Whitney and Rose devour their helpings of roast pork and taro, tearing at the food with their bare fingers like animals, washing it down with gallons of kava. Ms. Carte merely picks at her serving. And poor Vivian is still too much of a mess to eat at all. She lies slumped against the table, drooling.
"I think we fingerbanged her retarded," Whitney says between bites.
"Oh, she'll be fine," Rose says. She prods Vivian's shoulder and receives no intelligible response but the word "cum" slurred over again.
"...She'll be fine, *probably*," Rose qualifies.
Watching that spectacle has left you in need of release too. But even you're not as crazy as Rose and Whitney were to do something so outlandish in such a public space. At the bar there were shadows to hide in; here, the beach is lit by hundreds of paper lanterns and you sit shoulder-to-shoulder with over a thousand Palauans. Whipping your dick out is just asking for trouble, isn't it?
A man at the galley table adjacent to yours flags down one of the cart-pushing food vendors. "Can I get some coconut pie?" he asks.
"Nnn," grunts the vendor, shaking his head. "Problem in the kitchen. Dessert won't be out for a while."
"Problem? What problem?"
"Some crazy woman." The vendor shrugs and wipes his grubby hands on his apron. "American tourist is raising hell back there. Thinks she owns the place."
"That's ridiculous!" the man cries. "I want my food--"
"Tell someone who cares," the vendor says, taking up his cart again and strolling away.
You tug at the man's apron as he passes. "Excuse me, sir. Where is the kitchen?"
The vendor points to a squat brick building on a hill overlooking the beach. He continues on his way.
You think you'd better go see what shitstorm your dear sweet mother is brewing now.
