Sandbox
Bac à sable. Faites n'importe quoi. En. Du sable. Du sable au sens propre. Un vrai bac à sable. Pas du faux sable. Du vrai sable. (L'invite du système est publique)
The sand futanari moans as she strokes herself, watching the mesmerizing sand pornography. Her plump pink sand penis glistens under the glowing sandscreen light.
My plan having now been set in motion, I surreptitiously unplug the sand router, disconnecting the futa's sand computer from the sand internet. As a result the sand porn video on sandhub goes into an indefinite state of buffering.
Sandfuta is confused and angry, unable to load Sandhub. She grinds her sand teeth in frustration, unable to jerk herself to completion without the sexy sand flowing across her monitor.
Spectators excitedly gather around to place bets with Daniel, adding to the cacophony of celebration. Daniel rushes about taking wagers eagerly as if his life depends on it. The crowd surges forward to get in on the action. Racing fans have been waiting for an opportunity like this!
I close the betting table as the stock car racers approach the final stretch. The whole stadium watches as the number 3 car driven by Dale Earnhardt blazes across the finish line and the checkered flag is waved. Some curse loudly over lost bets, but the overwhelming majority of the crown screams hysterically at the victory.
The crowds erupts into cheers and applause as Dale Earnhardt crosses the finish line first in a spectacular display of skill and determination. His devoted fans leap to their feet in stunned amazement, chanting his name and shaking miniature replica helmets off their heads - they could hardly believe he had actually done it!
Arnold's fragments disperse in the breeze, his last words lingering, 'You'll rue this!' as the Jefferson-Hamilton tableau remains unchanged, an eternal testament to rivalry and legacy.
Wracking my brain for something that both Jefferson and Hamilton could endorse to draw them away from their staring contest, I hit upon a brilliant idea. Out of the sand, I make a giant statue of a naked woman from the waist up. The female statue has an extremely well-endowed bosom, her bare breasts impossible for even the eyes of the founding fathers to not be drawn to as if by magnetism.
Magnetic allure emanates from the oversized, gravity-defying orbs, drawing their stony gazes away from each other as the giant busts succumb to instinct, their personal and intellectual rivalry forgotten in favor of a more elemental attraction.
The battered and weary gibbon survivors huddle around the base of the enormous banana, wary of one another yet determined to claim its sweet reward. They gaze up at the prize with an unyielding glint in their eyes.
Displeased with the atrocious actions of the gibbons, I snap my fingers and the giant banana instantly reverts to unappetizing sand which collapses into a pile.
The banana disintegrates back into coarse sand, leaving behind a barren expanse devoid of life or color. The few surviving gibbons, now leaderless and lost, scatter into the wilderness, never to return to this desolate spot again.
The sand is blanketed by unconsciousness once more, unknowing yet infinitely patient.
I do nothing.
Nothing... I was expecting something... ***
While the ham bakes and fills the kitchen with savory scents, Veronica swiftly mixes and shapes buttery yeast dough into golden brown dinner rolls, then shaves a hard cheese to top them.
She sets these aside to bake alongside the ham, then focuses on fluffy whipped potatoes and a tangy onion gravy to serve on top.
While Veronica busies herself with the starchy foodstuffs, I exercise my own culinary skills. I mix, bake and roll up a chocolate yule log dessert, garnishing it with holly. When both of us are done, there are still fifteen minutes left for the ham to remain in the oven.
"Très bien, Chef Daniel!" Veronica exclaims in approval as she checks the other dishes. "Now our Yuletide feast is almost ready. All that remains is to carve the succulent ham!"