Joanne traveled through an oblivion of lust. Her mouth worked as if it had a mind of its own. She had done such things for so long they were now being done by rote.
She felt his cock struggle in her mouth, as her lips went up and down, her mouth tireless. She could feel the veinlets and arteries grow thicker and more prominent with blood. His excitement causing his heart to pound faster.
And she could feel each throb through his beating cock.
She tried to breathe, but found it difficult with that much cock jammed into her mouth. Yet she tried her best, not wanting to give up the divine work she was now accomplishing on his madly throbbing cock.
She sped up her pistoning of lips and teeth over passionately aroused meat. Her mind was mad with need for him now. In her speed she felt the fire in his groin. It grew hotter with every passing second. Her mouth was a fast moving blur, an oval of painted lips around a needing prong.
Bissick's balls clenched in ruthless desire, coiling up into his body, his face shaking, his whole body joining in. The fire in his cockshaft filled his crotch, tripped up along his spine into his sizzling brain, and stirred up the erotic centers.
Desire had made of him an envelope of flesh, totally in her power. Her lip work was perfect. Every scrape of her teeth made him more eager to push himself into her. He began to fuck up into her mouth in a steady cadence. She took him without any trouble, merely adjusting the rate of her mouth coming down, as he humped up hard into her.
CHAPTER ONE
Joanne Sparger smiled to her partner in the dim gray light of the bedroom. But even in that pale lighting her features were clear and sharp to the eyes of her lover.
Joanne was now in her late thirties, but clearly a woman who'd had it all when she was younger and even with aging had kept it. The years had been kind, as the saying goes.
Especially kind to Joanne.
Joanne had a smiling gypsy face, with an ample mouth, the lower lip being thicker than the upper and adding a bit of a pout to her mouth. She always wore pink lipstick, believing it gave her a sexier and more sultry appearance and in this she was right.
Her hair was almost jet black, a bit fading now and long, to her shoulders. She wore a pink ribbon in it to make herself appear somewhat of a baby doll and a little bit different from other women her age. It did that, but it also made her look like what she was, an older woman hot for cock, younger cock, and older cock too, if the younger variety wasn't around.
She had a medium-sized nose and two liquid brown eyes, which could smile very warmly at the male object of her attention. Her face was gypsyish, even though she had not a drop of gypsy blood in her.
Looking at herself in the mirror she was proud of her figure. For a cock-hungry older bitch she had developed early and kept herself in shape as the years took their slow and steady toll.
Her breasts hung down, but not too much. They were like well-fleshed grapefruits, about a thirty-seven. The long sweep of her body down to her pubic mount, revealed just a small, pleasant bulge at her abdomen. It was cut by a deeply indented navel, which many lovers liked to put their fingers in before they stuck their fingers deeper in places lower down.
Her cunt was well-furred and black as the forests of night. Her pink pubic lips winked out between the wilderness of black. And Joanne liked when men pulled on the fur. It gave her a sort of masochistic pleasure.
She had wide, well-fleshed thighs and good calves. When a man got her legs around him, he really felt the wonderful meat and muscle pull him into her hot fuck-hole.
Turning around and showing herself off to men, revealed a sight in back as intriguing as the view from the front. She had a long smooth back and her thighs and calves were excellent from behind. Her rear, while not large and outward jutting, was well fleshed and when she bent it revealed a deep groove, with many dark hairs growing along it and then the brownish ring of her anus. She had known men here, too. Only those she really liked and wanted to treat extra well.
Joanne's husband, Tom, was a traveling salesman and a drinker. He had women along his route. And when some men saw Joanne they wondered why. But some men are blind that way.
Tom was a hulking tall man with wide shoulders and gray hair he combed to the side.
Not that he was much older than Joanne, but he was prematurely gray. He liked to smoke and drink Southern Comfort and bowl and play the ponies. The kids missed their father. But after a while they did not miss him so much. The Spargers were not so much a family, as a bunch of people living together at the same address.
Joanne had two daughters and a son, all in their middle teens. Dick was small for his age, with elfin features; a nice small nose, slightly outward jutting ears, black hair that was combed to the side and back. His sisters, Ellen and Hellene, were different. Ellen was taller than Dick, but still a short girl. Hellene was the large one. Hellene might best be described as a cow of a teenage girl. She had a fat, outward jutting backside, two thick, well fleshed and muscular thighs, fine calves, a good chest, and a dumb face with a brain to match. She wore the same pink lipstick her mother did, had hazel eyes, which always looked slitted, a small nose and nice lips.
Ellen was more elegant, with a pretty face, distant light brown eyes, small breasts, a nice figure, a nice behind, good slim legs. A small mouth that was not quite rosebud, with a full lower lip; a small nose and a cat's smile.
They all lived in a pleasant brick and green shingle six-room house with a low attic and basement on Merivale Lane in the town of Jasper near Napoleon Junction. Judging from the names it was an area that had been settled generations back and showed it in many of the landmarks identified by plaques.
Joanne Sparger was a woman who liked life and the men it would bring to her doorway. There were three who brought endearment to her. Reginald Bissick, who was at the moment sharing her bed and charms; Barcelona Bob; and Harvey Mungerforth.
Bissick was tall, in his late forties, with blackish hair, wavy and grayish in places. A small, trimmed mustache under his nose, a hard sparkle to his eyes, thin lips and a long, pointy nose. And when the passion had him by the gongs he certainly knew just where to point that sharp nose of his.
Bissick owned a line of bookstores and at one time had owned a book club, selling mysteries, secret agents and such like novels in hard cover and soft cover. ., At the moment there was very little talk about his occupation. He was smiling at her and she was smiling back. Then his finger began to trace a path between her breasts down her plump tummy and to her black forest. He stopped there.
His fingers formed into a claw and he began to tug at her hairs. She winced and the smile disappeared for brief seconds off her plump, painted lips, but then it reappeared again. His fingers let go of the hairs and then began to pull at them, lower down.
She winced once again, but then the winces turned into lances of pleasure as they traveled down into her body. She began to wiggle her ass in tune to his tugs at her hairs.
"Owww, you are hurting me, Reggie," she said with a smile and a smoldering fire in her eyes.
"Some women like to be hurt, Joanne. Are you one of those women?"
"Sometimes," her smile grew wider. He really gave her a tug this time. She bent double.
Then he let go. Joanne moved back towards him and dropped a hand to massage her stinging pussy.
He pushed her hand away. "Here, let me do that."
And he began to rub, his rubs soon leaving the places of hurt and going to her pubic lips and tugging at them, after which he snaked a finger into her and soaked there in the hot wetness for a few seconds. He pushed it in to the second knuckle.
Joanne closed her eyes. "Oh, Reggie, deeper, deeper." He shoved it in till his joints were aching. "Deeper, deeper." Her lust knew no reason. Her thighs closed around his hand, pulling him toward her.
Bissick laughed and then grabbed her by the hair and pulled her face towards him. His lips touched hers and set Joanne on fire. She pressed her mouth harder to his and ground her face and lips against Bissick's mouth. His response came soon enough, as he pulled his finger from her needing, wet cunt and pulled her to him with both arms.
Bissick rolled over on his back and then Joanne scrambled on top of him; her tits pressing down into his chest, her cunt over his semi-flaccid cock; her lips still glued to his.
Bissick took the extra load with no strain. His mouth continued to kiss her, while his heart pumped extra blood to the needing parts of his body speeding up in the process.
His cock was being pushed at by her fat and hairy mount and the scratchy hairs, plus her wiggles were setting off sensations that made his meat begin to grow more and more.
Her legs parted and fell away to either side of him. His hands came down to her back and slid onto her buttocks and then dug into the meat, burying his fingers to the second knuckle. With that Bissick began to knead her ass, squeezing the meat between his fingers, enjoying the throb of blood through the fatty tissue.
She wiggled her behind in response to his finger work and kissed on. Bissick was getting tired of this. And yet he did not dare to pull his lips away. This was a woman with insistence in her heart and a plump, scratchy cunt that was making him harder and longer.
Finally, Joanne pulled her mouth off his. Bissick sucked air into his lungs. Before he could get enough in, her mouth was down on him once more and this time her tongue jabbed between his open lips and teeth into his mouth.
He lifted his body up in response to this, finding himself greatly excited and his cock bursting with length and redness and heat. She straddled him and arching her back, she then rested her knees on the bed on either side of him and began to rotate her hips and cunt up and down, like a go-go dancer. Rubbing her cunt across his cock, the length of which pointed up his belly and was flattened down by her cunt and belly.
The sensation of her pink, wet tongue dueling with his tongue and her scratchy, wet cunt rubbing up and down his meat, sent shivers through him. Bissick began to moan wordlessly. And his body started to lift off the bed. But it was held down by her body and her rubbing cunt was shoving his ass into the mattress.
Bissick thought he would come then and there. But he was not yet ready, though heavily aroused. At the moment he had to contend with Joanne's fast, slick, wildly flailing tongue.
She licked at, shoved, lifted, and pressed down on his tongue. Bissick replied, determined not to be pressed down. like primeval snakes, they slipped over, under, and around each other, amid the gasps and heavy breathing of two people in the throes of lust.
At last she lifted her mouth from his. Bissick raised his mouth and his open mouth turned temporarily crooked as he sucked air into his fevered lungs. Joanne was not breathing as hard. She watched him, through slitted eyes, a smile of satisfaction on her sultry face, lust rolling about in her womb; her cunt lips quivering with need for him. Then she began to slide down his body, her mouth and face dropping lower and lower. Bissick watched her through slitted eyes, knowing that his big, red, swollen prong would soon rest between her hungering and knowledgeable lips.
She said nothing as her face beamed, while she studied his cock, from the swollen veins bulging so blue all along the shaft, to the purple hooded cobra head, to the big, cream-filled balls in the wrinkled, hairy sack hanging down between his legs over his ass.
Joanne lifted her mouth just over his cockhead to the gleaming drop of pre-cum dew in the slit of the head; resting there like a morning jewel before the sun comes up to dissipate the work of the night.
Joanne took a deep breath, then opened her mouth wide and began to breathe hard over the head. The feel of that hot breeze across the head of his excited cock made him gasp and arch up. Joanne pulled her face away and smiled. Then she repeated the same maneuver. Again, his eyes closed, his head came up and his body arched before coming back down onto the bed again.
Licking her lips to make them wet and smooth Joanne now opened her mouth and swallowed the knobbed head and one inch of the shaft and held them to let the meat soak in the hot, throbbing warmth of her mouth. She closed her eyes and absorbed the feel of his life force flowing through his meat.
Then Joanne began to fill her mouth with saliva and swirled this in and around his shaft and the knobbed head. Bissick had his eyes closed and his feet spread wide, waiting for her to work her magic upon him. He knew from previous experience that he would not be disappointed.
As soon as she had enough saliva to fill her mouth and start, Joanne did. She began to swing her head from side to side, rubbing the head of his cock against the smooth silkiness of the lining of her mouth. Each swish sent a gasp through him. A dozen suck strokes and his middle was moving about in bliss.
Joanne stopped and swallowed another inch of shaft. Then she began to let him slip from her mouth, an inch at a time. Her lips smoothly slid over his cock and when she had him out to the tip, she swallowed back in. She repeated this a second time and then began to do it very fast.
In a steady water-pump cadence Joanne swallowed him in and let him out, his meat flying swiftly through her mouth, before being allowed back out.
Red needles of passion skipped up his hot prong into his crotch and down into his hanging, quivering balls. Joanne sloshed more saliva around to make the ride smoother and faster and friction-free. He rode across her smooth and moistened lips with no trouble, like an ice skater going across a frozen solid pond.
The instant-to-instant change from outside to inside her mouth and the smooth slickness of wet flesh and lips and saliva-sloshed tongue and palate, drove him half-wild with the fires racing through his body and down from his crotch into his faster and faster quivering balls.
Joanne now began to indent her cheeks, each time he was sucked in, she indented and forced more smooth silk against his flaming pole of manly lust. Bissick shuddered and hissed and sucked air into his fevered lungs. She was absolutely divine when she did this for him.
Now Joanne sped up; she added a twist of her head and mouth to the left or right, every time she came down onto his pole. The last several sucks having sent him to a still higher plateau of arousal.
His balls were now coiling up into his body, tensing, the sperm in them being raised to a moderate boil. Joanne worked relentlessly to make him long and strong.
She added a suck using her lips, and also her teeth. Dropping her upper and lower teeth to his shaft, she lightly scraped him down and down, as if her were a meat sandwich, while continuing with her saliva sloshing and lip glides and fast piston-head movements.
Joanne's eyes were tightly shut. Her mouth was a humming instrument on the launching pads of lust's glory. Her lips were numb, her tongue was tired, her mouth and face and neck and shoulders hurt. But like the good scout and all-around fuck she was, Joanne did not for one moment cease or slow down her good lip and mouth work. In fact, she sped up and worked all the parts faster, proving that years of experience in working with many cocks from many economic and social and age levels do make an expert sapsucker. And she worked his meat as if that was exactly what Joanne was trying to prove to one and all. Almost as if there were a judge and jury here to judge her like an entrant at a beauty contest.
There was no one, but Joanne worked at all times and in all places as if there were. She was one woman who liked to excel and she was proving that she would and could excel at all times and in all places.
Using only her lips and lower set of teeth, she scraped up and down his cock applying tongue, tooth and hp action. Bissick felt like flying.
He kept rising up and falling back down onto the bed, setting it to shaking. Joanne began to hum deep down in her throat, the song of the contented cocksucker. It ululated through his plunging shaft.
Bissick was speechless, his fingers continued to dig down into the mattress and his open mouth sucked more air to his hard-working lungs and feverish body.
He tried to sit up, so great were the feelings passing through his head. But the energy was now being sapped by her mouth and all of it flowed down to his cock and madly quivering balls.
She tried to breathe, but found it difficult with that much cock jammed into her mouth. Yet she tried her best, not wanting to give up the divine work she was now accomplishing on his madly throbbing cock.
As her lips went up and down him, her mouth tireless, Joanne could feel the veinlets and arteries growing thicker and more prominent with blood. His excitement was making his heart pump faster. She could feel each throb of his heart pump through his beating cock.
Bissick could no longer dig his fingers into the mattress. He just held onto the bed and allowed himself "to be worked, like an automaton under remote control.
His face was like the death mask of a pale and sick man. He was a numb and distant figure now. Sweating like a ripped sieve. His skin tight. The blue, blood-thick veins bulging in hundreds of lines from his lust-enraptured face. Bissick's eyes were screwed shut and his face was covered by a thin film of sweat, so that it glistened like a pagan mask in the noonday sun.
Joanne sped up her pistoning of lips and teeth over passionately-aroused meat. Her mind was mad with need for him now. And in her speed she felt the fire in his groin. It grew hotter with every passing second. Her mouth was a fast moving blur, an oval of painted lips around a stiff prong.
Bissick's balls clenched in ruthless desire, coiling up into his body, his face shaking and his whole body joining in that exercise of lustful calesthenics every part of him was participating in.
He was a man without ties to the earth. In his mind he flew over the high mountains. The fire in his cockhead filled his shaft. It traveled into his crotch, tripped up along his spine into his sizzling brain, stirred up the erotic centers, causing more signals to be sent down to his clenching and heaving balls, making his stomach ripple with the sensations now passing up and down his body.
Desire had made of him an envelope of flesh totally in her power. He would have wanted it no other way at that moment. Her lip work was perfect.
Each slosh of saliva. Every scrape of her teeth and sweep of her lips, made him hotter and more eager to push himself into her. He started to fuck up into her mouth in a steady cadence. She took him without any trouble, merely adjusting the rate of her mouth coming down, as he humped up hard into her.
She hummed more deeply, total contentment filling her face. Her cunt a swirl of lusts and fires, her brain wild and growing wilder all the time. She was a consuming woman, needing and desiring nothing more than the goodly amount of cock she was getting now. Her sweet bitch-lips rode up and down the meat, driving him higher and higher on the plateau of erotic lusts.
He wiggled on the bed like a stuck worm. Joanne put both her hands on his hips and allowed him to fuck higher and harder into her mouth. Her lips by now were like soft, swiftly drumming jelly across his man-flesh.
His brain turned into a molten sizzle. He was gasping, his mouth a crooked 'O.' His balls had begun spasming uncontrollably. She felt this and sped up her sucking, knowing that very soon his cum would shoot into her hot and needing orifice.
Her lips were a mad whorl of activity at those last moments. And then he came with a rise and a shout. His entire brain turned into white hot mush and his scum bubbled up from his balls and thundered down his cockshaft into her mouth. She hissed and took the first white-hot bullets of cum.
Joanne swallowed and sucked to make room for more. Her lips drummed like an efficient piston, not giving an inch, as she milked him of his manly essence.
Bissick continued to hump up into her mouth, going harder and faster, his cock having grown during his come and excitement by at least a half-inch. And now it waved about wildly in her fast moving, milking mouth.
Joanne took that movement, adjusted to it and sucked on, not even loosing him from her mouth, as would have been the case with a less experienced sucker.
Bissick began to gasp out loud and convulsions passed up and down the length of his body, from top to bottom and back again. He felt as if all his. guts had been shot out of his lower abdomen into her hot and hungry mouth. Joanne knew nothing more at the moment. Her mind was an oblivion of whirling lust. She felt her own come exploding from her body, and running out of her. Her mouth worked as if it had a mind of its own. She had done such things for so long that now they were being done by rote, as her mouth worked on and her body convulsed with her own erotic reactions to the stimulus provided.
She felt the cock now slowing its struggles and beginning to get softer as the flow of sperm slowed. Joanne never liked that and so she slowed speeding up her pistoning of mouth over shaft, her ovaled lips like greased lightning now, her mouth beginning a quick suckle of the heaving cock still shooting into her mouth.
This slowed the shrinking and sped-up the flow of sperm, but soon that stopped too and was down to a trickle and then nothing. She had milked him dry.
Joanne continued her mouth work, hoping to get some good joy still, even though he was dry and dead for the day. Bissick was no longer arching, but coming slowly down from his heaven and being washed by the warm waves of the erotic fire she was keeping burning in him as her mouth worked on and on.
She smiled and licked his cock with her tongue on each up and down stroke. But that could not cease the shrinking and shrink he did, until she had to let him out of her mouth, merely a wrinkled and limp.rag, well-worked, but no longer of any use to her.
Joanne raised her head, feeling the exhaustion and strain in her body. Sweat dripped from her wiggling tits. She smiled again as she swallowed, then licked her lips clean. His cock was lying lipstick-stained and crumpled in the matted hairs of his crotch.
Joanne took his balls in her hand and raked her fingernails lightly over the wrinkled and hairy ball sac. He stirred and opened his eyes with a smile.
"Thank you, Joanne darling. You were darling."
"I'm always darling," she said, shifting her tits around so they would wiggle and entice him.
"I wish you weren't married to that ass husband of yours," he exclaimed, "then I sure would like to take you with me and marry you. We'd go all over."
"But darling, I am married. Happily married. Don't think just because I fuck around I am a bad person or an unhappy one."
"Joanne, we all know that husband of yours has other women and is never home. You deserve better."
"I am getting better, Reggie," she said, as her hand dipped and she cupped his balls.
"No more," he said, holding up a hand. "I don't want to die here."
"My purpose isn't to kill you, Reggie," she said with a loving smile, "but your happiness is my purpose."
"I'll bet." Then he frowned. "Where are your kids?"
"They're out on dates. Only Ellen is home, she's asleep."
"Good, I'd hate for her to come in here and wake us up. It's bad enough I have to sneak in the back way."
"Don't worry about her, Reggie. Think about us," Joanne answered smilingly.
She began to rake her fingernails lightly over his cock and he gasped. Light stirrings of lust were already starting up in his crotch and he had assumed he was finished for the day with her.
She bent her head and with her soft lips, began to kiss her belly and then lower down.
"Oh Joanne, " he moaned. "You make me feel as if I'm twenty-five again."
Upstairs, in her room, Ellen was sitting in her long nightgown. Her bedstand lamp was open, casting a pale yellow light across the shaded room that was her own.
She was smiling at the boy she had snuck into the house. He was blonde, tousled-haired, fifteen, like herself and extremely nervous.
"Are you sure this is okay, Ellen?"
She smiled. "Mom is laying some guy downstairs. Don't worry. Just get your clothes off. You're groovy. I want to suck your cock."
He undressed faster at that, his cock having grown long and strong. When he was out of his clothes, she stood up. Wiggling her fingers, she said, "Come kiss me."
He came to her, embracing Ellen crudely, his lust making his movements jerky. Their lips met. His were on fire. With one hand she grabbed his cock, He almost arched. She pulled her mouth from his and smiled.
"Easy now. You don't want to come in my hand. Remember, this is like M & M's. It's supposed to melt in my mouth and not in my hands."
Ellen kissed him a few more times. But it was easy to see her mind was less on kissing, than on cock. She opened her mouth and let his hungry tongue search about and french her.
Then she pulled her face away and went to sit on the bed. He sat down and parted his legs, his pecker sticking up from his pants crotch. He had a long cock with a violet colored hood and reddish-blonde shaft. His balls hung down below, not being particularly big, with light blonde hairs growing from the wrinkled ball sac.
Ellen held them and then smiled into his face. "Like me?"
"Uhuh." He nodded his head up and down dumbly. "How like a hick," she thought.
Then she licked her lips and bent her head and took him into the velvet moistness of her mouth. "Like mother, like daughter," she thought, as she began to slurp on his meat. Immediately he threw his head back and shut his eyes and began to breathe raspingly through his mouth.
Ellen ignored this. She swallowed two more inches of shaft, her lips soft and wet over his meat. She suckled it, closing her eyes, loving this meat in her mouth.
"Mmmmm," she kept repeating. She swayed her head from side to side to swish his meat against the inner silkiness of her. Then she began to slowly piston her head up and down, letting him out two inches at a time and swallowing him back at the same rate. Her lips were wet and soft and loving, covering every inch going into and back out of her.
She kept filling her mouth with saliva and slurping it around and around the shaft to make it wet. His long, glistening meat moved in and out of her mouth more rapidly.
He fell back on the bed, his head and upper back resting against the wall behind him. His eyes were screwed shut, his mouth sucking more air in, small hisses escaping each time some sensation proved too great and he lifted his head up and let it fall back down. His hands were on the bed, forming into tight fists.
Ellen felt the heat in her own core rising. She hoped she was doing this the way she had seen her mother with the various guys her mother brought home.
Her hands dropped to his balls and she began to squeeze them. The boy gasped a few times and fell silent. She let go of his balls and continued to let her mouth glide up and down his cock. Feeling a bit bolder, Ellen now began to swallow another inch of shaft, allowing him to bury the tip right up to the back of her throat. She felt him stiffen and gasp some more with the effort.
That made Ellen warmer between the legs. She shut her eyes still tighter and then began to hum lightly, the song of the contented cocksucker coming as easily to her as to her mother.
The saliva sloshed around and around the glistening rod shooting in and out of her oval lips and the wetness also covered her lips and this made the ride of his rod in and out no bother at all. Her slicked wetness created a no-friction undertow that ran him in and out with swiftness and ease.
As the heat in her crotch and belly blossomed and her nipples hardened with growing desire, Ellen sped up. her good lip work. She sloshed, slurped and licked at him. She rowed around his cock with her mouth and now began to let her upper and lower teeth ride the rod to create scraping sensations which sent him flying out over the hills around town.
The boy was rising up again. She was causing him to shake. His whole body trembled with the fire in his crotch. His balls had now coiled menacingly and the sperm in them was being raised to a boil by her slicked licking and sucking.
"Christ, shit, oh fuck," muttered the almost mindless and incoherent youth. His gasps and moans became one long series of sounds escaping from his mouth. His face by now having gone a deep color of red. The blue veins stood out prominently on his passion-changed face.
Ellen was not even looking at him. She was caught up in a world of her own. A world in which all that counted was her need for his cock. The sounds of sloshing, slurping lips working his pounding meat, was music to her ears.
Her brain was in high gear. A froth of lustful ideas and images had been sent charging through her brain by the sex she was having. Her whole body tingled with it. A wave of pink hot heat had filled her whole body, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
Her black hair shook with the efforts of the blow and her body under the long nightgown, was glistening with a film of sweat. Her only half-developed, baby teenaged tits jiggled and jiggled with the ferocity of her oral work.
Her head kept on bobbing, kept on taking and letting go of his cock. It was a work without end. She loved all he was giving her and hoped to do as much for him as was possible, before his sap was sent flying into her mouth by his overheated and overexcited cockshaft.
And Ellen was doing her all to get that payment as soon as possible. Not being an older, more-experienced and fully--developed blower, she was being tired by this marathon suck job. Her unused muscles were tiring. And though the spirit may have been much more than willing, her muscles were not up to the task. Only by sheer effort did she keep up the advanced sucking she was doing.
Her whole face felt stiff and strained. Her lips and mouth hurt. Her neck muscles were corded like ropes under a tarpaulin. Her hair hung in moist curls around the sides of her face.
The boy was now growing wilder with what she was doing to him. He fucked up into her mouth. Not as experienced as her mother, Ellen almost choked and lost some of the fine bob of her head. But then she began to time herself and was able to take his fucking of her mouth, while still thrusting down with her ovaled lips around his hard and heaving manhood.
The fiery delights of what she was doing to him sent shivers of lusting fire down her body and caused the heat in her crotch to become a furnace. Her nipples were hard as missile points with lust and her mind was a flaming fury of orange froth and green balls of exploding incandescence.
The boy she was sucking off grew wilder with the passing moments. He gasped and thrust his head from side to side, still sucking air into his fevered lungs.
His balls were coiled Tike hand grenades about to go off. It would not take much more to send him off over the edge into instant Nirvana. And his upward jabs into her down-coming mouth only added to the slicked friction fires along his shaking, shivering cockmeat.
Massive jolts of electric pleasure sensations were being sent up his spine into his brain, from the fiery crucible his crotch had become due to her grand oral work.
Events that took just milliseconds seemed like long minutes in the slowed down time-space reference of his erotically aroused and rapidly flying mind.
He was mere putty in the hands of this hot, sap-sucking teenage fellatrice and future cock artiste. But enough time had now passed under her hot oral massage of his flayed manhood. He was ready to blast off into erotic outer space. His crotch felt as if hundreds of tongues had licked him everywhere, over and over again.
It had pushed him to the edge. And now with an, 'eiioww," escaping his mouth, he went over into pure ecstasy.
She heard this and it excited her to no end. Her cunt and heart began fluttering and then his melting cum raced through his penile shaft into her mouth. She knew this would happen as soon as he began moving about under her fast drumming lips, like a volcano about to blow.
She steeled herself to take and swallow whatever he shot into her mouth and not to loosen his cock from her lips. And she succeeded admirably.
The first white-hot bullets shot and were swallowed and when his cock grew an added half inch and began rowing around to all points of the compass, she held him and sucked, her mouth not losing one second of fine pistoning motion. She almost gagged for one second, when he rammed his raging tumescence into her throat. But like a true trooper she regained her composure and went on with the show. Suck and swallow, that was her family tradition. And she carried it off admirably.
Every drop he shot into her mouth was swallowed and she milked his raging manhood, staying with it as he shot his big load and then as his cock began to come down from the maximum growth.
Undeterred by any threat of growth loss, she continued to work him to keep him hard and long, in the process milking him of his last drop of cream and swallowing all that down.
Her hair and tits really shook with the fury of his work. She felt the meat going flaccid. But by good teeth and tongue and lip work she managed to keep him hard and was even for a few moments able to reverse the shrinking.
The boy was in heaven. He reeled through a snowy wonderland he lost sight of just as soon as it appeared on his feverish, flame-filled horizon. His mouth opened and shut like that of a beached fish and then he shook as a long spasm of purple flame passed from his head down to his toes.
He was numb. He could feel himself coming down from the high and slowly becoming more aware of the sounds of the scene around him. He heard her still faithfully slurping away, enjoying his shrinking and softening meat. He could hear his own breathing and feel the sweat pouring out of his body.
He was a shaken man. That had been one of the best blows he had had in his short sexual career. He just sighed now and leaned back to enjoy her work on his cock.
Ellen continued to suck, not having come yet and afraid she would not get her own rocks off before his wonderful cock had to be dropped from between her well-worked and faithfully pistoning lips. The heat was just running around in her. She knew if she could keep this up just a little longer she would come long and strong.
The fires were dancing everywhere and merging, but not fast enough. Ellen lusted for him to be long and strong again. She ground her thighs together and worked more faithfully on his meat.
The boy opened his eyes and rested in that wonderful erotic after effect of a good blow, while gazing lovingly at her face. He even put his hand atop her head.
The feel of his hand pressing like that down on her head was just what she had been needing. She was hit by a trip hammer series of blows which created in her the sexual shellshock needed to send her flying off into space. Her mind was reeling with the fires riding around inside.
A sheet of red flame filled her horizon as Ellen was lifted off her sexual launching pad and sent reeling across the face of America and back. She almost stopped sucking and shivered as her body rippled to the effect and the copious flow erupted from between her legs. She shuddered again and then began to suck on. Her high had passed. She worked him and worked against the pressure of his hand on her head.
She sucked just a bit longer. He had shrunk too far to hold in her mouth, so she let him out and licked her lips clean and swallowed. Then she looked him in the eye.
"Hi, girl. You were great."
"Why, thank you Roger Barstow. Glad you noticed and liked it."
"I'd like to go steady," he. said.
She smiled. He was not a guy to beat around the bush. And especially now that she'd given him a demonstration and shown him just how good her lips could be.
"I'll have to think about it, Roger."
His eyes showed sudden alarm. "But why?"
She shrugged. "I'd like to get to know a bit more about you first."
"Why do you have to know?" he asked, his voice a bit more under control now. "You have gotten to know me when you blew me."
She shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I just want to know more about you.. '
"I'm young, fifteen and free. I go to your school. You've known me for years. I have two hands, two feet, read, write and know the English language. I don't drink much, smoke to moderation and don't curse in front of older people. When I was seven I took tap dancing lessons. I also play the piano badly. My mother made me go for lessons for four years in a row, until I said, stop, no more of this crap.
I'm not going to be Van Cliburn and I won't need this stuff for a job."
He extended a hand."
"There, I've told you all about myself. What more do you have to know?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. I've got to think about it."
"Okay." He looked a bit deflated, then his face brightened. "How about coming with me to the dance tomorrow night in Sayersville?"
"Okay," she answered with a smile.
Roger smiled. At least he would get blown again. Then he considered as how to best get her to go steady. Lips like that should be around only one cock at a time: his. This girl was oral dynamite. He did not want other guys to find out and stake this territory out for themselves. Guys with cars, better looks than his, money, ten-inch cocks. That kind. He had to lock up this deal while there was still time too. Girls like Ellen Starger did not grow on trees. Lips like that were good enough to be bronzed. And she was just a young cocksucker now. Later, as she got older and her technique improved, aided and abetted by experience she would improve even more and become a gem.
Downstairs, in her mother's bedroom, Reginald Bissick was getting dressed. "You are a delight," he said bending forward to kiss her on the forehead.
"Thank you, Reggie. And I hope I see you soon again."
He looked back to the bed and smiled. 'As soon as my cock recovers."
He finished lacing his shoes and tying the laces. Then he stood and went to the door. I'll call you, Joanne."
"Sure," she said with a smile. "Watch yourself going out."
"I will." He opened the door and looked out into the hall. It was clear. He went out and shut the door and started down the hall.
Roger Barstow was dressing at about the same time. He kissed Ellen on. the forehead and went to the door to open it and go out. It was then he heard movement downstairs and pulled back.
"What is it?" Ellen asked, with sudden concern in her voice.
"I hear someone downstairs."
"It must be the guy who's been fucking mom." She paused. "Wait a few minutes and then go down. I wouldn't want mom finding you here."
"I wouldn't like her to find me here, either," Roger answered, faint concern marking his face.
CHAPTER TWO
Joanne had put a Taryton cigarette in her mouth and had just lit it when the phone by her bedside rang. She picked up the receiver. "Hello," she said into it in a sexy and contented voice.
"You sound like you've just been fucked," the voice on the phone laughed.
"Who is this?" she asked in sudden surprise.
She was totally baffled.
The rich voice on the other end said, "You don't recognize your old amigo, Barcelona Bob."
She laughed in relief. Barcelona was an old fucker, she knew from two years back, having met him at a barn dance. He was a Mexican American of three generations with a French father. His real name was Robert Carboneau. He owned two filling stations along the main highway. Each separated by ten miles. His wife had died in a skiing accident three years ago. Ever since he enjoyed all the free pussy there was to find. Many widowers grieve after the passing of a loved one. Barcelona Bob had not suffered. He got over his sadness quickly by going with other women, Joanne Sparger in particular.
Now he was calling to assuage the heat in his crotch. "I was wondering when you'd call me, Bob," she said.
"Now you need wonder no more."
"I suppose you have some hot and horny need you wish to tell me about."
"How did you guess. Joanne sweetie?"
"Do you have to refer to me in that corny way?" she asked with some irritation. "Can't you call me darling or honey, like other men?"
He laughed. She liked that rich voice over the phone. The hoarse quality ripping over the line. "How about me calling you just plain fuck?"
She grinned. "That sounds good. At least it's something I could live with."
"Listen," he said cutting the fun talk off, "I want you to come out to my place for a drink. Or would you want me to come out to your place?"
"No, your place sounds fine. But just for a drink?"
"Well, naturally, I wasn't just thinking about a drink. I really want to fuck your cunt until it falls off. But you can't just say that straight out."
"Why not?"
"Okay," he answered, his voice getting an amused tone, "I want you to come out to my place because I've developed a ravishing hunger to put this third-generation French-Mexican cock into your wonderful, wet, furry cunthole. So could you hustle your darling ass over now, so that you can get her quick, then suck me up till I'm nice and hard and then we can do some sexy, sultry, all night fucking?"
"Why, I'd be delighted to sir. It sounds just like the kind of evening I'd love having at your house. Only I can't stay the night. I must put up a front for the children."
"Ah, the children," he exclaimed. "Those darling bastards your husband gave you by fucking you up your twitching, hungering cunt."
"They're not bastards. I'll have you know each and every one is legit. I have the papers to prove it."
"Well, then, maybe I can do the trick and give you a baby bastard. I've always wanted to be a father."
She smiled. "Maybe, if that's the case, I shouldn't come over."
"Scared?"
"Yep."
"Okay, Joanne, I relent. I'll just fuck you for pleasure and won't try and make you pregnant."
"You couldn't. I'm protected."
"Try and get over here in half an hour," he answered, then said goodbye and hung up.
Joanne skipped out of bed and ran to the bathroom to take a shower. As she put on her shower cap and stepped under the jet of warm water, she wondered why Harley Mungerforth had not called her in over a week. Maybe he had found someone else. There was a knot in the pit of her stomach. She certainly did not want that.
Harley Mungerforth had curly blonde hair and a mild face, but two steely blue eyes that told the world he was a man who would be trouble to go up against.
And he was. A sharp dealer, he had a paper mill, two drugstores, a movie theater, a book store, and his own farm. He was a small town version of a success story. A boy who had never left Jasper, Wyoming and had made it big in small town terms. No one knew his true worth, but rumors were that he sat on an annual salary of over eighty-five thousand dollars per year. Which was hefty. That was six times the annual average for the people in Jasper.
His success, his toughness, his money drew Joanne. A man's cock size was not the only parameter by which she judged the male of the species.
Mungerforth rode around in a golden, black vinyl roof Lincoln Continental, like that detective Cannon on TV He had his own crest, with an intricate 'M' painted on the door. Of course, he did not come from royalty. But he had contacted one of those phony coat of arms places. And for his name the coat of arms was a head of a lion with two pikes crossed over it, a knight's helmet on one side and a fair damsel on the other.
It might have been a bit gauche and pretentious, but in that place and with a man of his seeming wealth, Mungerforth not only got away with it, people looked up to him for living as he did. Fathers used to point him out to their sons as Mungerforth rode through town, his head high, his fine head of blonde curls glowing in the noonday sun, and the fathers would say, "There goes Harley Mungerforth. The most successful man in town. Just look at him ride, proud like a mandarin. I remember him when he was younger. Always a mover and doer. He came from poor stock. But no more. Now he'll be proud and rich. Take him as an example, and not your poor dad. Measure up to his standards. If you do only half as well as he did, you'll be living in style."
The room at the top always looked so golden. But only if you were watching. For the man behind the wheel it was a different story. He had to live the so-called dream. And he saw it was tougher than one thought. It was no breeze and never had been. He kept that from people, especially the prying Joanne Sparger. But at least with her he could relax and forget himself in her arms. She was good for him.
Joanne finished with her shower, toweled off, removed her cap and ran to dress. She was barely ready when the horn honked out front. Barcelona Bob then drove around the corner and down two blocks and stopped.
Ellen listened at her door as her mother ran down the hall to the front door. Ellen now felt sorry she had let Roger go home. She had a hankering for his vibrant young cock again.
But now that he was no longer here Ellen would have to seek satisfaction through fingering joy.
She smiled at the thought of her next date with Roger and then shut her eyes and flopped down on the chair next to the door. She would daydream a bit about her younger years.
Joanne left the house and went quickly down the block, her thick heeled wooden clogs clacking away at the sidewalk. She turned the corner and spotted his Camaro two blocks down on the other side of the street, opposite a wooded lot.
She reached it quickly and then opened the door and slid in. Barcelona looked a bit surprised. But he slide over in the seat and kissed her. Barcelona had a rounded moon face, with broad cheekbones, thin almost-purple lips, a long, narrow nose, liquid brown eyes, silky black hair and stunning, winning-white-toothed smile.
Joanne had taken to him from the first time they had met. He started the car without saying much and drove off.
"Want to stop any place to eat?" he asked, the green dashboard dials adding a sickly greenish-yellow tint to his skin color.
She patted his crotch. "There's only one thing I want to eat." Barcelona almost lost control of the car.
"Watch it, Joanne. Not while I'm driving." She threw back her head and laughed. But she did not touch him till they got to his house. He turned into his brief driveway, hit the dashboard control and the motor in the garage lifted the door. Once inside, he hit the control again and the garage door came down. Joanne got out of the car, followed by him and they went into the house through a side door.
Barcelona had a well kept and furnished house, carpeted, cozy, warm, the way Joanne liked for homes to be. He had a stereo and a large collection of records. She put on a Montovanni album and he mixed drinks.
He brought her a dewy crystal glass and had one for himself. She tasted it. A frosted daiquiri. She drank. It was good. But then Barcelona always made good drinks.
He sat down on his couch and was beginning to undo his clothes. She watched him with a sly smile. "And what do you think you are doing?"
"Just stripping off. Why don't you begin?"
"I think I'll finish my drink first," she answered, her smile as sly.
'Okay." He continued to undress. He stopped when he was down to his underwear. She liked what she saw. He had a dark, hairy, masculine body. And Joanne was just wild about his fabulous French-Latin cock.
She drank the last of her drink and felt the hot liquid running through her bloodstream adding to the natural fire that the sight of him undressing created within her.
Starting again, after a pause to whet her appetite, he unlimbered his meat. It had already grown long and strong. She smiled. His cock was a muscular long, thick snake of a dark flesh, glimmering redder in the heat of his momentary needs.
She licked her lips. He rubbed his cock and said, "It hurts so bad. The pain is so bad. I need someone who is an expert, who can help take the pain away and make it so much better. Where will I find such an expert?"
She looked at him. "Search no farther. The expert you seek is here. And I will give you relief from your sorrow, sir."
She went to him and knelt before him, putting the glass on the carpet, then smiling up into his face. She took his quivering organ with her hand and opened her hot and hungry mouth and then took him in.
He hissed as the silky, wet, hotness engulfed him. She held till he settled down, the ripples ceasing in his stomach muscles. Then she clasped a ball in each hand and began to piston her mouth back and forth, swallowing four inches, letting it back out, using her lips to massage him, as he went in and out of her.
The hot oral bath made his cock grow longer and harder and soon it had extended to its normal length of eight and one half inches of muscular prong.
She let him flop from her mouth, then lifted him and began to use her soft tongue to lick up and down on the underside. From just under the hooded cobrahood to the hairy base, ending at the juncture of his ball sac, her educated and knowing tongue went.
She did this three times, then dropped her mouth lower and began to work his balls with her licking tongue. He hissed and arched, opening his mouth, throwing back his head.
Joanne decided that was enough. She'd had her daily ration of scum and now wanted some in her needing pussy. She dropped him, causing him to open his eyes in surprise and look at her. By then she was standing and removing Her blouse.
"In a minute, honey," she said with a knowing smile. "You'll get it all."
He watched her shuck off her garments until she stood just in her panties, her tits hanging free. She wore no bra. Joanne believed tits should be free and unfettered.
She stood to look at him, before taking down her panties and stepping out of them. She threw them aside and went to him. Barcelona put his arms around her and crushed her to his chest.
Joanne thrilled to the feel of a strong and younger man pulling her to his chest, his muscles tight around her body, his blood throbbing through him and his cock so hard and long and strong, pressing up against her cunt and belly.
She pressed her face against his and began kissing him on the side of the face. He laughed and then let go of her. Barcelona went and lay down on the couch near where they'd stood and then parted his legs. He patted a spot near him.
"Come, sit down. Show me how good your mouth can really be."
She went and sat down and then before he could say a word more the smiling woman opened her mouth and swallowed him in and began to slurp wildly around his organ.
His cock had shrunk somewhat since she had let it out of her mouth. Now, it began to grow again as she suckled and made believe his hood and shaft were part of a giant nipple. Her soft, slurping lips worked him up to a quick lather. He began to rise up from the couch and his cock trembled harder in her mouth.
That brought a smile to her lips that she had done such good work and could easily arouse men and make them young again.
With that thought in mind, she opened her mouth and dropped him out. Barcelona opened his eyes and looked down the long sweep of his body at her. There was a pout ot his lips. "Is that all?"
"No, you devil, it isn't," she answered, as she rose and then swung over him and grabbed his cock, holding it up like a human leaning Tower of Pisa. She straddled his body and then aimed his cock and her wide and wet and hungering opening and then, very slowly, she lowered herself down, ensconcing the hood into her and letting her body slide down, down, down, as she completed the act of self-impalement. And for her no impalement could have been sweeter.
She felt him fill her almost completely. She stayed this way to let him soak in her hot wetness and that proved to add a stir to his ravenous manhood.
He sighed and his cock began to wiggle from side to side in her. Joanne's cunt responded by exerting pressures on his meat. At that point she began to lift up, her strong legs giving her the power to do so easily, and her hands on either side of the couch providing added push and balance. She rode up almost all the way off his glistening, bowed cock and then slid back down in a long sweep of swishing cunt sleeve over firm prong, that set up a gasp from his mouth.
She repeated the procedure a bit faster and then sped it up and threw a wiggle into the whole process. That pole of hard meat slipping in and out of her made her gnash her teeth and sigh with the feel of good flesh sliding into and out of her.
"Oh, oh my lord," she cried.
Barcelona lifted his hips in joy at the feel of her cunt slipping down on him and sliding up again. He had to do nothing now and he would leave everything up to her.
She wiggled more and in a wider circle now. This sent further thrills slipping down his shaft and down from his throbbing cock to his crotch and his bouncing balls.
Her cunt clutched at his instrument, squeezing it on every down and up move. She added her own conscious squeezes, making him suck air into his mouth each time she did so.
His eyes were still open, but glazed. She smiled his way, and he watched her go up and away and then come back down on each piston cycle of her body impaling itself on his firm prong.
She moved like a demon on him, her shaking tits flopping up and down with the force of her movements. He reached up and took a tit into each hand and began to rhythmically clench at them. He felt the already hard nipples poke at his palms and he laughed with the sensations.
His hands on her tits sent her into further spasms of delight. She could feel the fires of warmth fill her whole body. Her cunt was already frothing with the sensations that constant self-impalement created. The heat increased also in her twitching ass-hole and from there combined with the heat in other parts of her body. Her entire flesh was now a battle zone of ruthless delights.
Joanne wanted him badly. She wanted him in her cunt. In her mouth. In her ass-hole too. Her mouth formed into a satisfied bitch smile and she sped up the level of the fuck to send the ripples and waves and flurries of the fire across her body faster to heat up her mind and cunt even more. Her eyes slowly closed. Her mouth broke into a warmer and warmer smile. Then, as the passion raced through her very blood and sent her heart to thumping ever faster, and the hum in her mind and body to grow stronger as she fell deeper into the vortex of racing sensations passing in and out of her body.
She rode him up and down faster, the clench of her cunt around his cock strong. The power of his tool plunging towards her very womb; an overwhelming sensation for her. Each time Joanne came down she tried to go deeper as if to swallow his cock into her body and keep it there forever.
Barcelona belonged to her body and soul now. Her shooting up and down on his stiff cock had produced a myriad of sensations in his cock and sent them flying up his spine into his frothing brain, as well as down into his coiling and tensing balls.
She continued to dance up and down on his instrument, her hairy, and meat-lined, maw swallowing and stroking his cock, adding to the fever and the fire in his crotch.
He was hissing, sucking air into his mouth, gasping, twisting about under her. He was trying to rise, but her body crashed down onto him each time and shoved his ass back down into the couch. She was pounding like mad at him and he was wild with her movements.
In response to all that had been done to him he started to fuck up into her, and in fucking her cunt, as she came down, he rammed deeper into her hot maw that he ever had before. She gurgled in delight at this. Her mouth came open, her body wiggled more on his cock and rowed it roughly inside her downward plunging cunt sleeve.
Barcelona gasped. His balls quivered. His hissing hissed and gasped. His brain turned to orange fire. His balls clenched tighter. He started to fuck up harder into her and she took every jab.
They were two envelopes of flesh. Bodies bashing into one another. He, offering his penis; she, impaling herself, hopping up and down on his big dick, lovingly taking every jab of hard prong.
"Vive la cock," she gasped in her ecstasy.
Barcelona said nothing. He merely gnashed his teeth, set his feet flat on the couch and began to lift his body up, jabbing like a pile driver into her wet, squishing, clenching cunt. "Take that fuck," he muttered. "Take that and that." And she took it and bashed down harder still onto his jabbing prong.
His balls were in a fast boil now with his sperm about to shoot. He wanted to get the maximum number of possible jabs in before that happened.
She gasped her pleasure, feeling her own juices boiling, loving every second of what he was doing to her, wanting and needing and getting more.
He shot on his last upward jab, as he felt her coming down to meet him. She felt the burst of sperm and the flood that followed. Her cunt clenched his meat. Joanne sped up her writhing and wiggling and dancing up and down on his meat as it reached its greatest length.
She too wanted to get off before he lost that length and hardness and slowed, taken down by the twin monsters of exhaustion and drying up of his sperm flow.
She felt herself rising to the point, moving to the edge of that great pit which would fling her into the eternal world of ecstasy and sexual bliss.
Barcelona Bob already flowed through the world in his mind. Humping up into her, barely aware of her as he flowed out across the great unknown of the sexual universe, where the mind is the adventurer and the spasming body merely the receptacle of the pleasure and an unconscious instrument of love automatically performing, while the mind travels across untold and ever newer frontiers.
like always, the trip did not last forever and was always too short. He felt himself slip downward, never a good sensation, and at the same time he became aware of a clenching in his guts and a heavy, hot maw still working his exhausted and still quite large manhood.
Barcelona could hear her breathing, feel the sweat running from both their bodies, and feel the exhaustion exploding across his, along with the sleepy feeling in him and the feelings of peace and bright euphoria passing over him.
It was then that she came and with an explosion of sensations that passed through her body like lightning bolts. She knew not what she was doing for long seconds as the madly fucking woman became one with the universe.
Her mouth was an open pit of sucking lips, taking air down to fevered lungs. Her hair and tits jerked wildly left and right and up and down as her body flailed on around and around and up and down on his meat.
Her efforts kept his shrinking down and his cock even had enough power to still jab hard up into her, even though his last sperm had been drained seconds before.
In the time-space of their fuck-world, events were slowed down and every second became a long and eternal minute. They fucked on, but much slower, exhaustion having sapped their initial, wild strength, as it does that of all lovers. No more did they pound like wild stallions on the range.
Eyes opened, mouths smiled with knowledge in common. Barcelona blew out a gust of air. "You're the girl for me, Joanne," he said.
"And you're my kind of guy," she answered, giving his cock a little squeeze with her saturated pussy.
CHAPTER THREE
Hellene Starger bit into her Big Mac. It was full of all the trimmings, just like she loved. She smiled across the small table to her boyfriend, Bobby Winslow. He was tall and thin, with blonde hair and a ready smile.
Hellene loved his big and wonderful cock above all and nothing in the world could compare with that, not even a quarter pounder; unless it was a better quarter pounder than he had.
They finished up their food and then went outside. There was a light drizzle on the land. Hellene tossed her brown hair, the same color as her father's, and said, "Let's go for a drive up to lover's lane."
The Winslow boy smiled. "You are just the kind of girl I like, Hellene. You have that hunger for cock which is insatiable."
"It runs in the family," she said with a smile.
"Just who else in the family sucks?" Bobby wanted to know, a sudden fire in his eyes and a huskiness to his voice.
"That's for me to know and you to find out," she replied, an amused smile on her face.
They walked through the light rain and the dying glow from the hamburger place to his car out back, on the blacktop. There was faint illumination from two high-power rooftop lamps, throwing slanting beams across the parking lot.
They got into his Dodge Charger. He started the motor and they turned out of the lot. He put his headlights on. They washed up across the building and other cars.
"It's a nice car," she commented, while also listening to raindrops pound on the hood and roof.
"Yeah. It's a seventy-two. But she rides like a whistle. Most cars start to give you some trouble after the first twenty-five thousand miles."
"I have a cousin," she told him, "who has a Volkswagon with a hundred-thirty thousand miles on it."
"You don't get many cars like that," he replied. They were moving up across the highway, into the higher hills above Jasper. The trees on both sides of the road were dark and grew down right to the gravel along the asphalt. They were dark green in the night air. And the wet roadway was glistening with the lights of the cars moving along it.
"My cousin," she said after a minute, "told me a Volks' can give you from a hundred-twenty to a hundred-fifty thousand miles, depending on how you drive it."
"A hundred-fifty thousand sounds like a lot of miles," Bobby Winslow commented. "Maybe in country driving. A hundred-twenty to thirty thousand sounds like more of what you'd get out of a car like that. I always heard them Kraut cars last."
"The most you can get out of an American car is around eighty thousand miles, if you drive it till the wheels and everything are about to fall off. That's with the average car. Though I hear the higher priced spreads last longer, like ninety thousand or so miles. Oldsmobiles are good. A Cadillac will last you a hundred thousand miles, maybe more."
They found a road leading off from the main highway and took it. They went slower. It was bumpy, a dirt track and full of curves, with the blackish-green sentries of tall pines all around.
He laughed in the middle of their climb up the slippery dirt curves. "What's the trouble, Bobby?" she asked, looking at him.
"I was just thinking. If your cousin bought himself a Checker Cab and painted it black, it might cost him six or seven thousand bucks. They don't last more than twenty years and you can get a quarter million miles out of them; almost twice what a Volks' will give you. They don't make many of them Checkers, maybe five or six thousand a year. But they sure last."
"They haven't got any looks," Hellene told him.
"That's true. But neither do the Volkswagens. Then again, they have the sort of look that is mildly fashionable. The Checker Cab looks like a box. But you can fuck more easily in it than in a Volks'"
"More easily than in a Dodge Charger?" she asked with a smile.
He grinned at her. "I wouldn't trade my car for a Checker just for fucking room." He took a bend in the road and went deeper and higher into the forest.
"I still don't understand why they don't buy more Checkers in the cab business. Instead, they put out a grand or two grand less or even three grand less and buy Impalas or Darts or some such car. They have to last fourteen months and in that time these cars get a hundred thousand miles or more put on them. This destroys the cars. Many of them are moving death traps and have to be sold to the junk dealer at the end of that time. A Checker Cab could easily last them thirty-five months. On a month-for-month basis they'd wind up paying more money for cars and repairs and they'd have to keep on going through the bother of getting new cars more frequently."
He stopped talking about taxis as they got to the top of the hill and came onto a large, grassy, rain and wind-swept field. He drove to the far end.
"We'll be nice and cozy here," he said.
He parked the car and killed the engine. Then he said, "Let's climb over in back."
He climbed over the back of the seat and so did she. They even bonked heads lightly and laughed. They sat down in the back seat and looked out the rear window, beaded with rain. It was starting to come down faster. The pitter patter of it on the hood and roof was almost sleep-inducing.
Winslow bowed his head and kissed Hellene lightly on her soft, parted lips. She responded, moaning beneath his warm demanding lips. Quickly, his kiss became urgent and demanding. He slipped his hand inside her sweater, over her naked belly and down into her jeans to slip beneath her bikini panties. Her legs parted. He probed at her warm, moist, cunt slit. And gently caressed the naked flesh.
Then he shoved his middle finger into her cunt. She moved her legs further apart as he began a slow, thrusting movement, sliding his middle finger back and forth through the slippery heat of her cunt.
She moaned more, their kiss turning into a long and unending clinch. Her knees fell open, spreading her vaginal slit wide. Hungrily, she kissed his lips, moaning with heated desire. Her cunt walls already soaked with tingling excitement.
Winslow was almost ready to go out of his mind as his finger slid back and forth through her hot slit. He stared down at the bulge in his pants.
"Ohh," she moaned, her widespread vagina lifting upward, his pleasure-giving finger sliding back and forth in her tingling slit. He finally pulled his finger out.
"Come on and get those clothes off," he said, starting on his own clothing. She nodded dumbly as her eyes came open and she began to shuck out of her blouse and jeans. Winslow undressed as fast as he could, wild with the sight, scent and thought of her. He had trouble getting his clothes off in the car. And he kept poking at her and touching her over various parts of her body, stopping to pinch and pat.
She laughed and pinched and patted him back. All this exertion and getting undressed in a hurry sent the blood rushing through his veins, and his heart to thumping faster. He was really randy by the time they were both naked and their clothes were either on the front seat or the bottom of the car.
He looked at her fine, young tits, so white, so firm, so fully packed. He gazed at her big, plump thighs, at her fine, fat, fuckable ass. At her wide, plump, well-furred pussy and his fingering desires grew and expanded into other areas.
His hungry mouth moved forward and then was on one naked breast and her tiny nipple was between his nibbling teeth. His hand returned to Hellenes wetly-heated cunt. He ground the tip of his finger inside her hole and his strokes became more rapid as she moaned. Her body began to vibrate. "Oh yes, harder. Do it harder. Harder."
"Anything you say, baby!" Winslow chuckled, his hotly sucking mouth still nibbling on her lengthening and hardening nipple.
Winslow viciously finger-fucked his beloved bitch, working her wetly-heated cuntal slit, trying to get as much of his finger into her as possible.
He caressed her naked, trembling tits and then his naked arms crushed her to him as his mouth searched once again for her sweetly responding lips.
Again, his outstretched finger returned to her cunt and plunged deep into her pulsing hole, exciting her more with his insistent caresses.
Trapped now by his finger and his kissing mouth, she lay back against the seat and moaned as the warmth of his lips seemed to sear her, as tingling sensations rippled up her spine.
He was like a wild stallion, and she was helpless to his desires and she loved every moment of that. The excitement continued to build up inside her body, as he continued stroking and caressing her sensitive flesh. Squeezing now and pinching at her already erected nipples.
She wished to speak, but the words stuck in her lust tightened throat as he rolled her hardened nipples beneath the palm of his right hand.
His outstretched middle finger massaged her wetly throbbing cunt and the heat of his breath blew against her breast as he moved his heated mouth down to lock on her reddened nipple.
She moaned as he sucked her sensitive flesh inside his mouth. And her head began flailing as she felt the contagious excitement of his greedily sucking lips. Hellene began to moan harder and stronger. Her moaning and the response of her young body was driving him wild and sending him up the wall.
Winslow pulled away from her. She opened her eyes to look and saw him leaning over the seat to get at the glove compartment in front. His naked ass was lying exposed over the back of the front seat.
She laughed. Then, being playful, she reached over and pinched his ass. He wiggled and shook and look back. "Hey, cut that out."
"What's the matter? You don't like it?"
"No." He got the Trojan he had been looking for and shut the glove compartment. He sat back down in his seat.
"Oh," she continued, "do you mean to say to me that only girls should be pinched on the ass?"
"This is what I mean to say. Girls' asses are made for it and not boys' asses."
Before she could answer, he was tearing the foil and putting the bag over his massive, bulbed head. "Here, let me do it," Hellene said, obscene fires already burning in her eyes.
She took it and began rolling it down along his reddish-blonde skinned cock, till all of the Trojan had been rolled out. Then Hellene hugged him and with great passion began to kiss him hard on the lips.
When her mouth parted from him, she found her lips quivering visibly, her nipples burning hot and hard, a fire through her cunt and belly and a froth of erotic sensations passing through the thought centers of her mind.
"Come onto my lap," Winslow told her.
"Oh Bobby," she moaned.
He put his hands on her waist, as she rose and in a crouch went over his skinny thighs and then straddled him.
Then he forced her trembling knees wide apart. Without pausing, he pushed her into a kneeling position over his up-thrust cock, her spread slit over his swollen cockhead. With one hand, he began to guide the thick and rubbery head of his rigid tool into the portals of her cunt.
Hellene tossed her head, and closed her eyes with a shudder of lust pounding up through her. She stiffened at the first contact of his pulsing maledom against the quivering edges of her cunt.
Winslow brought his hands behind her and dug his fingers into the ample white cheeks of her ass as he forced her tight, young, teenaged twat down onto his cock. It sank in and up. She moaned in delight as his rock hard manhood slipped up her tight, resilient passage.
He got most of it in. "It's so tight," she moaned, her eyes shut, her head up and to the side, her open mouth gasping, the long sweep of her neck exposed.
His arm muscles bulged as he tried to force her reluctant pussy further down on the upstanding spike of his malehood.
"Please, Bobby," she moaned, "no more. I can't fit any more in. You'll kill me."
"At least you'll be happy," he muttered from between clenched teeth. And then he said, "I am going to get this into you. All of it. I'm going to fuck you good. This won't hurt for long. It's just a little tight. But I can stretch it."
She said nothing as he snorted with the effort and beads of sweat covered his forehead. And then he had her all the way down. Her tender pussy feeling as if it was filled to the gills. It was almost like a large loaf of bread having been forced down her throat.
Her tight pussy had been stretched tighter still, his blue-veined prick having been forced all the way into her hair-fringed cunt. His face was now a mask of raw lust and sadistic pleasure. He held himself so that her pussy would get used to him.
"My prick is driving me crazy. I have to fuck you now Hellene."
The fires had been filling her too. "Yes, fuck me, fuck me. I need your cock," she exclaimed, her tits jiggling, her eyes wild with need.
He grunted as he forcefully pulled her naked hips down and thrust his pulsating penis into her helplessly impaled, squirming pussy. Since he was already in her he could not get much more in. He pulled out and then rammed on up into her again, burying himself all the way inside her heated flesh with a vengeance. There was no stopping Winslow now as his long, thick shaft filled her cunt, and his heavy testicles pressed against her naked anal crevice.
He sat immobile a moment, feeling her tight vaginal muscles nipping at him. With a guttural moan, he lifted her quivering breasts to his mouth and jumped his lips from breast to breast, sucking the soft flesh up into his mouth.
He flexed his cock inside her and along with his sucking, it caused a tremor. She was getting used to the meat now. Her friends laughed when she told them how she reacted to extra large cock. For a big girl like her to have such a small opening was indeed a strange fate nature had dealt out to her, along with a lust for cock.
Her tight cunt squeezed the pulsating presence of his rapacious cock. Then she groaned as he began to pull his lance outward till only the tip was buried inside her vaginal sheath.
Then Winslow slammed his long, hard cock back into her quivering, clutching pussy once more. She wiggled under the force of his impalement. She put her hands on his chest, as his fingernails dug into her fleshy buttocks; wedging her between his rampaging cock and his hands.
He again worked her shivering breasts and clamped his wet mouth over one of her quivering nipples, as he began a steady fuck rhythm in and out of her rippling cuntal sheath.
"Oh," she moaned in pleasure. Each stroke of his cock had widened her resisting passage and her lubricant had further greased the way for him. Her kneeling position did make her legs ache some. But even that was beginning to fade now, as greater lust flowed through her hotter and hotter body.
Her nakedly trembling body began to feel an alien pleasure at the fucking going on now.
Flames of carnal excitement coursed through her veins. Her vaginal juices were copiously flowing, lubricating her widely stretched flesh accommodating his thick shaft sawing in and out of her widespread thighs.
His rampaging penis was buried up inside her tightly clutching cuntal sheath, and his mouth was sucking at her trembling breast like a babe taking milk.
Chills of lust flowed through her submissively kneeling body.
She stared down at the slow, steady rhythm of his long, hard cock wetly skewering into her stretched cunt. It was the lewdest, most exciting thing she had ever seen.
She began twisting her naked hips over his lap. She moaned incessantly, lifting her weight up on her knees, experimenting with up and down movements till she established a steady rhythmic bounce that caused his rigid shaft to friction across her sensitive clit.
Faint mewling sounds bubbled up from her chest, her face contorted in passion. A light film of perspiration coated her forehead as her long brown hair swung back and forth across her face.
"It is so tight, so good," Winslow moaned. The tightness of her cunt muscles almost made him come. "Shit. Oh, your cunt is fantastic," he exclaimed in ecstasy, as his eyes flew upward and then shut.
"Oh, yes, more, harder, don't stop now," Hellene exclaimed. She rode his cock as if it were the best rodeo stallion and she an old, experienced bronco hand.
"Ride it bitch. Ride that cock." He snorted. His face was covered by a lewd grin. "Oh, you are a great bitch."
"Do it to me," she answered back, delighting in the fuck, riding that cock-stallion faster and harder. "Ball me. Fuck me. Stick it in harder," she gurgled in ecstatic glee.
Her obscene words drove her to a higher peak. He was tensed and driven to pull her buttocks apart, spread her anal crevice and then shoved forward at her rectum and buried his finger into it.
"Ooo," she moaned and then tightened and loosened her buttock muscles, feeling her anal ring nibbling at his probing fingertip. He pistoned his finger in and out to create a higher riding sensation in her.
Then, when she was high enough, he pulled his finger out and grabbed tight hold of her fleshy ass-cheeks. He began lifting them high before jerking her cunt down on his thick cock. Her fire-filled cunt spread wider to receive his beaver retriever, as it plunged deeply into the secret flesh.
A wanton pleasure had hold of her body.
Her leg muscles were working freely, moving without volition, as she bounced up and down on his pulsating shaft in a race for satisfaction.
She felt his mouth still on her fleshy, up-thrust breasts, moving from one to the other, and she closed her eyes as low moans of lewd delight rumbled in her throat. No other thought was in her mind except what pleasure she could gain from being impaled again and again on this delightful, long, and hard lance.
Winslow stroked his hardness up and down, in and out of her pussy. He struck with the longer and harder strokes that took him nearly completely out of her sucking, heated little pussy. Then he plunged into that gaping gap until he felt her widespread anal crevice press into his sperm-bloated balls. With a guttural moan he lowered his right hand and touched the tightened flesh of her ass-cheeks till he found the small puckering mouth of her moistened rectum.
Once more she experienced that strange sudden sensation and shortness of breath, as he penetrated her rectal opening with one sadistic thrust and felt the soft, rubbery flesh yield to his assault.
She moaned deep down inside her submissive masochistic pleasure. Her anal muscles nibbled at his finger as if to pull it deep into her twitching teenage ass-hole.
"Do it to me. Do it to me," she exclaimed, bounching up and down on his fine and hard manhood. Moans of delight erupted from her hoarse throat. Winslow smiled in satisfaction as his mouth again glued itself to her nipple. At the same time his long tumescence increased its tempo in and out of her heated cuntal sheath.
She felt this and began to shamelessly grind her buttocks back onto his fingers. Winslow methodically explored inside her warm orifice, sending newer and stronger sensations of delight through her body.
Hellene was hopelessly impaled between his pulsating prick deep into her quivering cunt and his fingers, shoved up inside her tightly clutching rectum. The thought made her squeal with lewd pleasure and Hellene began a faster twisting motion that rocked her back and forth, wantonly riding up and down on his long cock and hard, rigid finger.
His mouth became more frantic on her already reddened nipples, as he brought his free hand around to where his cock was sliding in and out of her tightly bouncing pussy.
She felt him fondle her soft, hair-lined lips, that were now milking his large shaft. She shivered with obscene ecstasy until her widening pussy seemed to gape in hungry desire, swallowing the entire length of his hotly throbbing cock, as he plunged up to the very core of her being.
"Give me more. Stick it to me harder. Harder, I say." Hellene moaned, her entire body wracked with the need for cock-bred satisfaction.
Her cunt was on fire, her ass-hole was shivering with the need and intensity of this ecstatic excitement.
Suddenly, he quickened his thrusts, hotter and deeper now, and the tormenting agony of pleasure caused her to thrash above him. Then she felt him rip his fingers from her ass-hole with a wet, slurping sound. And then his hands were pressing under her cheeks again, pushing her body up and down, hard, against his spearing cock, with pile-driving thrusts, as he sadistically reamed out her cunt sleeve.
"Oh. Fuck me harder. Sock it to me," she chanted, the insane passion driving her mind into an incandescent oblivion.
Winslow intensified his fucking still more, grinding hard and deep, his long, hard lance boring up into the hidden recesses of the young girl's womb.
His own lust was driving him crazy with the need to come. But she was not yet near her own climax. He did not want to blow his cool and shoot before she did, unless he could force her to orgasm. He began a deeper, convulsive thrusting, that only made his balls ache more.
Hellene was a mass of ecstatic heat. Her cunt blazed with delight, overpowering all other thought except for the magnificent shaft buried up inside her boiling belly.
She was only vaguely aware of his hand running over her buttocks like searing tongues of flame. His mouth working her tender titties. His frictioning cock reaming out her clenching insides.
This was the life for her. This was what she dreamed of at night, in her bed, while her fingers thrust wildly in and out of her needing cunt.
Then, suddenly, she heard his choked voice and felt his long, hard cock swelling even larger and heating up to a flaming high. The pleasure was more than she could stand. Her nerve-endings began shooting out a shower of fiery sparks. She was almost there, reaching for the screaming blaze of glory, when a surge of erotic energy sent her flying over the edge of sexual oblivion. She gasped and writhed on his swollen meat and then spent copiously, as her mind was treated to a series of phantasmagoric delights that came upon her in a sudden flood and cast her shivering into a deep ocean of sensual feelings, which were much too brief.
Incandescent red and green and fire and heat and shivers of multitudinous delight passed through and through her flesh and mind. She shivered with the jolts of these many sensations.
Winslow also came now. "Shit. Fuck. Scum. And fuck," he exclaimed, in that refreshing and varied vocabulary of youth.
"I'm cummmiinnnggg. Oh you tight little bitch. I am coming."
He snorted. like a horse and shoved his wildly ejaculating cock deep up inside her cunt. His thick gushing sperm spewed far up inside her still pulsing vagina until she was filled to overflowing, and a wet pool of blissful passion boiled down to her naked thighs.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Keep doing it harder." She writhed above him, trying to bounce up and down on his already wilting cock.
"Oh," she moaned, as she still danced about on him as if she had an electric wire up her ass.
Bobby Winslow was aware of this, though he still rode through the exploding green incandescence on a black and then a white background. All of these were dimly felt sensations that passed quickly before the eye or mind could register them sufficiently.
The two of them stopped shaking as if demons were possessing their bodies, as they slowed their fucking bit by bit. They were aware of the exhaustion in their limbs and the sweat running from their skins in vast rivers.
At last he opened his eyes and smiled at her exhausted face and disheveled hair.
She started to rise and get off. Slowly, he pulled out of her, then faster, his deflated cock slipping down from her pussy with a lewd, wet noise. Then he leaned back as she got off and slipped down on the seat next to him.
"That was a good fuck," he muttered.
"Yeah," she answered.
"Want something to drink?"
"You got liquor, Bobby?" she asked, looking at him.
"Yeah. There's Vodka in the pink lemonade."
"Pink lemonade?"
"Yep. My brother taught it to me. It's a drink he invented. He calls it Satan's Surprise. Two parts pink lemonade no, let me correct myself, two parts vodka to one part pink lemonade."
She sat up. "Well, get it for me."
He shook his head. "Sure."
He got up and again leaned over the back of the front seat and opened the glove compartment. Hellene giggled and began to pinch his ass.
He looked back and wiggled her hand off. Then he brought his right hand back to push her hand away before she could grab at him again.
"Cut that out. I don't like it." She giggled. "I do."
He had the bottle in his hand and sat back down, this time without even waiting to close the glove compartment. That could wait till later, when he was all dressed.
He handed Hellene the bottle. She looked at the pale pinkish liquid in the pint jar. The emblem and label said Gallo Thunderbird.
"This is a wine bottle," she said, looking at him, enquiring curiosity on her face.
"What did you expect me to bring it in?" He paused. "I can't hold it in my hand. So I washed out an empty jar of T-bird and then filled it with Satan's Surprise. Unscrew the cap. Drink up and tell me how you like it."
She smiled. "You put something in here."
"Just like I told you: two parts vodka, one part pink lemonade."
"Bullshit."
"No bullshit. It's the truth."
"You put something in here."
"I did not. What do you think I am, John McNamara?"
"He was a kid I knew in school a grade or so back. He would beat up on the younger kids or weaker kids his age and make them pay him protection money or bring him stuff to eat during the lunch period."
"Well, there was this kid, Irving Flanz. He was friends with an Italian kid Steve Sylvester. So one day somebody thought he was Sylvester and asked him how he liked spaghetti as a joke. Well, Irv told him he wasn't Italian, Sylvester was. So we used to kid Irv and instead of calling him Flanz, we'd call him Flanzio. Then someone said that sounded like Anzio. So we call him the Beachhead at Flanzio. And then someone said it was the Bitchhead at Flanzio. And you know how kids draw such things out, so in short, he became known as Bitchhead."
"Anyway," he had to stop himself from laughing, "Bitchhead had to bring McNamara things to eat for lunch. He would bring him a box of raisins every day and McNamara would sit there, like a gourmet, eating the raisins for lunch, while poor Bitchhead sat there and watched."
"But then McNamara began getting sick and suffering from the shits. He was wondering why this was happening and finally traced it to the fact that he got the shits from eating the raisins. He wondered if he had allergies. So he stopped eating the raisins.-But dear old Bitchhead kept offering them to him."
"John smelled a rat. So he checked with Bitchhead's friends and found out that dear Irv had been buying the raisins, putting them in a strainer, one of those hand-held small ones and lowered them into the toilet bowl to soak for a minute or two. Then he would bring them up, dry them out, put them back into the box, and bring them to McNamara the next day in school."
"I tell you, that poor Bitchhead got his ass beaten good. He never gave anyone raisins anymore and McNamara took his protection in money from then on."
.Hellene was laughing. She handed him the flask, "Here, drink and show me you aren't another Bitchhead."
"Okay," he said and unscrewed the cap. "I hope you didn't think me that low.. '
He took a long swig and handed her the bottle. "Swallow," she said, a giggle lilting her throat. He swallowed. "Open your mouth and let me look."
He opened his mouth and showed her. She took the bottle and wiped the mouthpiece. Then she put it to her mouth and began to reluctantly drink though she was surprised how good and strong it tasted.
"See," he said, "I didn't use any toilet bowl water." She almost gagged on that. Laughter welled in her throat. She pulled the bottle from her mouth and some liquid ran down her chin. She coughed and said, "Don't make me laugh while I'm drinking."
"Okay. I won't say anything." He averted his eyes. When she began to drink he looked at her again. She smiled around the bottle opening in her mouth.
"I guess it wasn't toilet water. I guess that must be the bottle I spat in."
She pulled it from her mouth. "Cut it out," she giggled, then she decided she'd had enough.
"Here, I don't want no more."
"You sure now," he entreated, with a smile.
"Oh, I'm sure alright."
Then he drank. She tried to make him laugh, but he just smiled around the rim of the bottle. Then he pulled it from his mouth.
"I have to drive," he announced. "This will just make me mildly high, but not destroy my capacity any."
He capped the bottle and bent over the back of the front seat to put it into the glove compartment, which he then closed. She began to giggle and pinch him on the ass again. This time he laughed and did not stop her, though he wiggled his ass some when she pinched and it stung.
He sat back down and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his rumpled clothes on the front seat. He offered her a Marlboro. Then he lit it and lit one for himself.
They sat there, smoking, filling the car with pungent smoke, watching the rain slant downward, needles of water cutting the night above the field. The drum on the roof and hood was almost hypnotic. It made them want to fall asleep and just nod off. But Bobby also felt erotic tinglings. He put out his cigarette in the door ashtray and said to her, "Hellene, darling of the sweet, soft lips, blow me."
She smiled, put out her cigarette and said, "Sure, stranger of the tall shoulders and the blonde hair. I'd love too. These lips are made for sucking, and here they go," she said with a laugh and bent her face over his crotch and the steady tingle, tingle in his balls increased.
CHAPTER FOUR
Joanne kissed Carboneau goodbye and then ran to her waiting cab. Passing her on the walk was old and grumpy Caleb Hall, an original elder citizen of the town of Jasper. He was also a gossip, a holder of old standards of morality, not a bad thing in itself, but in addition a meddler in things that should never have been his business.
A totally grumpy old man.
Joanne gave him a brief look, not bothering much with paying any attention to him. Hall noticed her. He had noticed her here before during his evening walks. And Caleb Hall of the sour and wrinkled face went for his evening walks, come what may. When it rained he had on his galoshes and carried his umbrella. Only the worst snow storms of winter kept him indoors. But when that snow plow came around, he was out, no matter how many degrees below the thermometer showed it to be.
He was a hardy soul, known by all, liked by few, hated by many. It was not a reputation he had come by easily. He worked hard at it and did not mind it at all that he was thought to be cantankerous, crusty, an old fool and a busybody. Cursed in private by many and in public by a few, who were thick-skinned enough to take his return wrath and a quick catalogue of their faults, failings and affairs in front of everyone with an ear good enough to listen. And there were many, who would listen, sly smiles on their faces full of the wickedness of the world.
She got into her cab and it drove away, without her thinking one second more of the things that had come to pass. She'd had some good cock today, and that was all that really mattered.
Caleb Hall had seen her many times, with many men. He knew her husband was a traveling salesman. Well, someone should tell him his wife is a whore. A no good slut, spreading for everybody and anybody on the face of the planet.
Caleb Hall inhaled the night air into his lungs. He loved it. The mission he now had to perform would bring him great credit in the eyes of the Lord, he was sure.
He stroked his chin. It was good to tell on the sinful, to let them suffer for their wrongs. Then they would not enjoy their shining days.
He thought a moment of the warning of his friend. Warren Olander, dead three summers now. Destined to spend the rest of his snowy winters, green springs, rainy summers, and dry leafy falls in the same hole until dust he became and to the earth he returned.
Olander had warned him that his big mouth might one day cost Hall his neck. But Hall had shrugged that off with a laugh, as he did now. Still, an uneasy stirring occurred at his back. The kind that made him want to turn around and see if anything or anyone was there. But he told himself not to be foolish and look back.
He thought instead of how he would call Mr. Starger and tell him all about what had gone on. He chuckled at the thought of how the man would react to the news that his wife was a whore. Maybe he knew already.
Caleb Hall thought of her and her short skirt. From somewhere he felt a tingle in his long dead manhood. The sight of those thighs, that chest, that slut's face, gave him hunger and purpose. He shook with need for her.
But he fought this down. That was evil. He wondered for a moment if that was the reason for his wanting to punish her. If he could not have good meat like that, then no one could.
But he called himself a foolish old goat for believing such psychological crap. There was nothing to that drivel. He crossed the street and came to the block on which his home was located. He was already planning his approach on the phone, if he found Starger in. He might not be in tonight. But Caleb Hall would keep on trying periodically, till he struck dirt. In a man such as himself the predatory instinct had been highly developed and he would not let go so easily.
As soon as the cab stopped in front of her house, she had money in her hand and paid off the driver, along with a generous tip. He thanked her, took a good look at her miniskirt covered legs and wished the hell he had something like that to come home to She would have fit just right in his bed.
She left the cab, exaggeratedly swinging her thirty-seven year old ass. The driver rubbed his suddenly semi-hardened manhood and then started the cab and drove off. He hoped his next passenger looked as good.
When Joanne unlocked the door and stepped inside, she heard sounds of laughing and horns and contestants on a local game show. She recognized it at once: The Object is Money, is what the show was called. The M.C. had a funny name, Jack Shimmerhorne.
Joanne wondered who the hell could be home at this hour, watching the TV She wondered which of the girls it was. When she came into the living room, she saw in surprise that it was her husband Tom.
His white-gray head of hair poked up above the back of the tan leather recliner in front of the television set. He had a cigarette in his hand and a beer on the coffee table to the side. It was an Olympic beer, the same brand he had been drinking for years.
"Why Tom," she exclaimed, "I didn't expect to see you home."
He leaned over the chair and swiveled his head around. His response was not very warm, considering that she had not seen him for nearly ten days.
"I had to stop over for two days. The season wasn't too good down in Utah." He looked at her getup. "I guess you didn't expect me. Where were you, prowling the bars?"
She lost her smile. "I don't like your tone of voice."
"Why, because I'm suggesting my beloved wife is a slut." He stood, picked up his beer, and sipped from it.
"I don't like your tone and of what you're accusing me. I'm no whore."
"Bullshit, Joanne," he spat. Then glared at her. "We both know what you are." He looked around. "Where are the kids?"
She was red in the face, hardly having heard what he'd said. His accusations were like sudden slaps. He repeated himself when she didn't answer. "Where are the kids, goddamit?"
"I don't know, goddamit," she spit back.
"That's just fine and dandy," he answered, setting the beer back on the coffee table too hard, sloshing some out.
"Be careful, you'll ruin the coffee table," she said almost automatically.
"Fuck the coffee table," he told her, getting angry. "What about this family, which you've ruined so nicely? The furniture means more to you than the kids."
Now Joanne really got mad. She threw down her handbag and stepped up to him. "Me," she asked, pointing to herself, her features exaggerated, as if she did not really know. "What about you? What about your neglecting them and going off to all parts of the country?"
His teeth clenched. "That's my job, goddam, whoring bitch."
"What about being a father? Isn't that your job too?"
"You're the mother. Your job is taking care of the kids."
"I have been taking care of them," she spat at him. "I have done the damned best job I could with what I had. Where were you when I needed you?"
"Working, that's where I was, you know bitch, making money. The green stuff you spend at the store. The green stuff that pays the bills and the rent and the food and the utilities."
He took some money out of his pocket and pushed it at her as if to illustrate. Joanne slapped it out of his hands. It went flying in slow, twirling paths across the room.
"Fuck you and your money. Money isn't everything. What about yourself? Can't you give of yourself? Those green pieces of paper," she pointed at the bills now on the floor, "they're your soul."
He looked goggle-eyed from her to the money and back a few times, almost as if he couldn't believe this was occurring and happening to him.
"You've run away from this family all the time. You've run away to work at road jobs. To be with other women. To not look at me." She bent forward at the waist, pointing to her chest as she emphasized the points.
"That isn't the hell true. That never was the hell true!"
"Sure it is. Where were you when we needed you? The Christmas Ellen broke her leg? The May when Hellene had troubles menstruating and we started to go from doctor to doctor? It started in May and went on and on. You just came home once and were hardly interested."
His guilty eyes shot back and forth, then he answered, "I had troubles. Business troubles. I was thinking about where I could make my next buck. Just for you and the kids. See." He raised a hand as if it was all painted in the air and he the instructor to point at the illustration.
"Bullshit," she spat, getting vicious, fire in her eyes. "You only cared about yourself. About the big, fat zero. About number one. Not us. Not me. Not the kids. No, never. You were the one. We were always second and third and in the end process last."
"You call me a whore. Well, your life has been that of a roadside tramp. Sleeping in different motels every other night. Having women. I'm no whore," she said pointing at herself, "but you're the original whore. If you had a skirt I'd tell you to go out and strut your stuff along Main Street."
He moved towards her and his hand rose and formed a crescent. Joanne moved back, her lower lip quivering, realizing that in her anger she had gone too damned far and that maybe now the chickens would come home to roost.
But the phone rang. A saving moment. She was thinking of thanking the lord. Starger turned his head to the phone in the hall and hovered there in indecision about whether to slap her face silly or go for the phone. And then the insistent ringing of the phone changed his mind.
He threw his hands down to his sides as if disgusted with her, his face mirroring the disgust. And as he did so, he turned towards the phone. She stood there watching his broad back go off. Once she had loved that back and that man. But no more. She wondered at how marriages can change from unions of love to vast tirades of hate and utter despair and sometimes even the ultimate act of murder.
Starger picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Is this the residence of Mister Starger?" an older cracking voice asked. Starger could almost hear him cackle with malicious laughter.
"This is the residence. And who are you?"
Starger asked, a bit of impatience showing in his voice, in no mood now to chat or be pleasant.
The man read this right away. And so old Caleb Hall sped it up, deciding not to stall and play, which in this case might result in the phone being hung up in his ear. And the resultant fun and games lost to him forever.
"Is this Mister Starger I am talking with?"
"You got it. What do you want?"
"I'm afraid I can't give you my name, sir."
"What is this? I think I'm going to hang up. I just got into town and I'm not in the mood for games. Call back sometime when my wife is home. She has more free time than I do. More patience. And maybe she'll want to play games with you."
"It is about your wife."
That was like a bolt from the blue. Starger was no longer blustery. He suddenly had all the patience in the world. "Go ahead, I'm listening."
"I don't know how to put this ... "
"I'm sure you'll think of a way."
"Well, let me say that I know your wife by sight. I also know her reputation. I was passing by tonight, when I saw her come from the home of one of her lovers. A man named Carboneau. Do you know him?"
"Yeah, Barcelona Bob."
Joanne heard his voice and froze. Her heart started to beat very fast. Starger's back had risen. His fist was clenching and unclenching at his side.
"Do you know about this man and my wife?"
"Only what I saw and heard. There are others. I don't know who yet. But I'll be glad to find out and call you in the future. I don't like to see a hard working man's wife running around behind his back. It's bad for the development of the family."
"Yeah, yeah. Thanks. Call me anytime." Starger hung up. He had listened to the voice long enough to know who it was. Old Caleb Hall., Busybody and troublemaker. But friend to many who need their coats pulled and set straight to the wicked ways of the world. And while Starger didn't like him, he had to admit he'd been of service tonight.
At the other end of the now hung up line, Caleb Hall dry washed his hands. He'd done another good deed for the day. He wondered what was happening and tried to imagine the fighting now going on. He licked his lips. Oh, how he'd love to be there now. Maybe one day he would call from a booth and then sneak up to the window of the house to listen in and see if he could catch a look.
Hall yawned contentedly. He'd go watch some TV now and then prepare for bed. It had been a good day all around.
Back at the other house Starger walked away from the phone very cold, his poker face almost, but not quite hiding the tension going through his body. The muscles on his neck and at the side of his face corded and uncorded.
Joanne instinctively knew something was wrong. She didn't expect it when the hand shot out and a stinging slap caught her in the face sending stars in front of her eyes. The blow made her stagger back and set off a ringing in her ears.
"Whore. That phone call," he pointed to the phone behind him, "was from a man who has seen you going with that piece of shit known as Barcelona Bob. He saw you with him tonight.
"It figures, bitch. You just came from seeing him. And maybe you thought you'd even get some cock from me. So I'd put my dick into a cunt that's probably still soaking in his sperm."
"You traveling whore, you piece of shit!" He stepped up to her and slapped her face again. She went reeling back once more. This time shaking her head and trying to get herself together so that she could answer him.
"No, it's not true," she stuttered. "I just went out for some fresh air. I swear it."
"More like fresh cock was what you were out after."
She began crying. "I swear that's some liar. Some malicious gossip monger."
"I am afraid not my dear wife. This is the real thing. It smacks too much of truth to be a he. While I'm out working you're out fucking. Giving away for free, what I pay for and took as mine with a ring and a marriage certificate.
"Well, I'm going to put a stop to it once and for all."
"Where are you going?" she screamed after him.
"I'm going to call your lover boy and warn him off. And he'll stay off. I mean that literally as well as figuratively. He'll stay off your case and off your belly. That is, if he values his balls."
"No, no," she ran after him. "Don't embarrass me because of some lie."
He shrugged her off and then when she went at him again, pushed her back, so that she went staggering onto the floor.
"You'd believe a lying, anonymous scandal monger, hiding behind the mask of a telephone, not daring to confront you in the light of day. But you won't believe your wife, part of your family."
"Bitch," he turned, with a mean snarl. "We haven't a family. We're just a bunch of people living under the same roof, coming and going as the spirit moves us."
He turned and went for the phone book. She still ran after him. "I beg you. Don't embarrass me in front of strangers."
"Bullshit! He's as much of a stranger to you as my cock is."
She tried to pull the phone book from him, growing more hysterical with each passing moment, glowing stars floating in front of her eyes.
"I'm not going to let you call."
He tore the book from her, turned her around and gave her a kick in the ass that sent her flying almost ten feet before she fell onto the floor and stayed there sobbing, her back moving up and down with her crying.
In disgust he threw the phone book down. "I need a drink," he said. "I can call this fuck a bit later on. He needs a rest after probably spending all day sticking it into every hole you have."
Starger headed for the kitchen cabinet, where he had some bottles. On the way there he had to step over her to get to the kitchen. He did so without missing a step.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hellene wasn't the only one to learn what life was about. At the home of Terry Schlesselberger, her sister Ellen was kissing madly on the couch in the living room, before a roaring fire, responding to the tongue in her mouth and also pushing away the hand that kept climbing up her leg and into her dress. She had decided one cock was not enough and snuck out of the house to see still another boy she knew. She was smiling, moaning deeply in her throat, and also fighting him off.
But her hands were weakening and also her will, which had never been very strong to begin with. And as she weakened his hand climbed all the way up her dress. He found she wore no panties, and knew suddenly that her protests had been false ones. She had come here for one thing and now, he would give it to her.
His fingers ran across her moist, scratchy hairs and pressed and pinched the plump mound meat beneath. His cock gave a little lurching growth. He shivered quite suddenly. Her legs came farther apart. Enough for him to feel her with no trouble at all.
His hand began to finger her pubic lips and then pulled them apart and touched her inner wetness. One finger went into her into a slow left and right corkscrew motion.
Ellen closed her eyes and a light smile covered her lips. This was so very good. She let him run a second finger up into her. Then her eyes closed and she sighed.
Terry began finger fucking her. But he did not continue it for too long. Already his lips sought hers. They began to kiss. When he shoved his tongue into her mouth Ellen began to suck on it with her lips, while her own tongue dueled with the tip of his.
His lips were glued to hers, till he pulled them away. His breath came fast and short. And his voice was hard and husky when he spoke to her.
"Let me take off your sweater."
She hesitated for a moment, without answering. He pulled his finger from her cunt, leaving a great emptiness, which made her sad. Ellen had allowed boys to take off her sweater before. But only special guys. People she admired and had dated more than a few times.
This was only her second date with Terry. When she cared he said his folks were out for the evening and they could spend it at his house, playing records. Being adventurous she went and she certainly wasn't sorry.
His fingers worked on her buttons and in no time he had them down and her sweater open to reveal small, but nice, braless tits. His mouth went to them. His lips began to kiss them hard, all around. He went from one to the other and back again. The feel of his hot, butterfly kisses caused Ellen to shut her eyes even harder and to turn her head from side to side on the couch.
She brought her hands down and by feel, rather than by sight, she pressed the back of his head down onto her tits. Terry was thrilled that his hp work was getting such a response. He immediately went into his tongue act.
The tip and sides of his tongue began to trace a wet circle around her right nipple and aureole. Ellen moaned at the sensation, tossing her head impatiently on the couch, wanting him to work the nipple itself. But Terry teased and traced tighter and tighter circles around her aureole and nipple, till he had covered the aureole with a tickling wetness and then started on the rapidly hardening nipple.
His stabbing licks were setting her to twittering in joy. She groaned as he switched his tongue to her other nipple, and then back again, going from nipple to nipple, in his quest for true titty joy.
At the same time his hands took hold of her nipples and he began to palpitate them in a rhythmic manner, which only added to the sensations flowing through her chest and setting her mind to vibrating with lust.
He let go of her long enough to lift her up and pull the sweater off her body. Then he threw it to the side and began once more to work her tits. She gasped and began to lift and let down her shoulders, as the upper half of her body twisted to the effects of his labors on her well-worked and well-licked tits.
Terry stopped this as he rose and with hunger in his teenage eyes, began to pull at her skirt. He had it open and asked her to lift her body, so he could pull it down and away.
When he got it off her legs, he also threw it to the side. And there she was. Naked as the day she was born, as the popular cliche goes. Her entire womanhood exposed to the hungering eye of high school youth. The flames of the fire caressed her soft flesh with gentle orange fingers and made enticing mysteries of the dips, hollows and curves of her youthful frame.
Opening her eyes she gazed at him, then at the fire. Her mussed hair lying piled about her head made her look like the princess of some fairy tale risen after a hundred year sleep from her cot of thorns.
She spread her thighs to show him her feminine pulchritude and then the pinkish wetness of her inner self. Terry licked his lips in hungering, needing and wanting her very badly in that moment.
He went and put on the radio. A local balladeer was singing his own creation. The haunting, "Rocky Mountain Misty Morning Dawn." As the music and words filled the air, echoing the dancing shadows across the living room walls and furniture, he went to her, shedding his clothing and exposing his fully risen quivering young manhood.
At last he stood totally naked by the couch, his cock in his hand. He gazed at the gleaming gray of the whites of her eyes. She was looking at his cock and her tongue was flicking in and out of her mouth, as she licked her lips.
He knelt down on the floor by her head. "Take me between your wonderful lips. Wet my whistle."
Ellen smiled her little cat's smile and lifted her head and then turned on a side. Her head came forward. Her mouth opened. And his cock sank two inches into the throbbing, wet, silkiness. He hissed as her lips clamped shut on his pulsating manhood and held him prisoner.
Without waiting he began to fuck forward and Ellen took the thrust of his cock and then moved her head back a bit before moving it forward to swallow his prick again. Then, as Terry held firm, her mouth began to piston, swallowing in and then letting him out. Her soft lips slipping over the heated flesh. She felt him growing longer and harder and thicker within her.
Feeling that, she used her tongue to lick at him. And this sent a chill of delights through his belly and into his heart. Ellen began to slurp on his cock.
That made him say, "Oh, oh," and throw back his head. His hands went to her head. He pulled it towards his cock, which she was so lovingly working with true high school enthusiasm.
But Terry did not want her to go on. He had another idea entirely. He put his hands on her face and pushed back, and pulled his cock from her beloved mouth, much as he hated to do so.
She opened her mouth, wondering why he was doing so, when both of them were enjoying this. She was hurt and was going to speak, when he said, "No more blowing. I want to fuck you."
"Do you have bags?"
"I don't need them," he said, bending to bring something out from under the couch. "I am going to fuck your ass," he proudly announced.
At that she experienced a sudden fright, and quickening beat of the heart. "No, I've never done that with any one. My ass-hole is still virgin."
When Terry heard that a thrill passed through him. "Oh boy, a virgin ass-hole. What a treat this is going to be."
"Please, please," she struggled to sit up. "You can't."
He looked at his hard cock and smiled. "I can. Now don't be a child. Sooner or later you're going to have to give up your anal cherry. Guys aren't going to go around taking no for an answer forever."
"I don't know." She was hesitant. A burning fire of excitement raced around in her belly. She really wondered what it would be like to get reamed.
Then she halting asked, "How ... do ... you ... do it?"
"Get on your hands and knees, with your big, wonderful ass raised in the air and pull your cheeks apart, so I can see your virgin ass-hole."
Ellen got up and turned and then bent, lifting her firm, plump cheeks apart to show him her shadowed groove, the darkish hairs growing along the whole length, her flaming slit below and then the puckered brownish rose of her ass-hole.
Terry got on the couch behind her in a kneeling position. He fumbled off the cap of the vaseline jar and then took some onto his fingers.
He began to rub it around and around on her anal opening. She closed her eyes and rested her face on the bed as Ellen felt a fire run though her ass-hole as the thought and feel of him working her this way excited her.
The touch of her ass-hole against his burning fingers sent his heart to beating faster. He was nervously licking his lips, needing her so badly.
He opened and shut his eyes and could hardly believe this was happening to him. He did not think it could be so easy with Ellen. But then, this is the way it goes. Sometimes the easiest things are the ones that seem the hardest to start with.
He got some more vaseline on his fingers. But this time began to corkscrew his middle finger up her ass-hole. She felt him coming and it felt only slightly uncomfortable.
Then his second finger was introduced into her, followed by his third. He repeated this and now had her well greased. He let the jar fall to the carpet and roll a foot or two.
Using the remaining vaseline on his fingers to grease his cock, it was already throbbing with his need for her. When his cock was greased enough he then took it in hand and said to her, "Pull your ass-hole apart some more and force your ass-hole down. Push down as if you're voiding. Do it. You'll understand in a minute."
Then he pressed his cockhead at the slight opening of her anal rose and pressed forward. She felt a funny sensation, as his cock pushed into her. He kept going till her ass-hole had swollen up around his cock and swallowed the head and part of the shaft.
Then she began to say, "I feel as if you are choking me." He stopped then.
"I am holding. You'll feel better in about twenty seconds."
He impatiently counted off the time, his cock aching for her bowels, his balls throbbing with the need of her flesh.
He barely waited out the twenty seconds and began to press forward, pushing his cock ever deeper into her. She hissed again, when he buried two more inches of hard shaft in her twitching ass-hole. He could feel her ass-hole rippling out and down in an attempt to press back the new and hard alien invader of this sanctified turf. It was this and the heat and the tight fit that added to the great sensations passing through his knobbed cockhead and his shaft into his crotch and down to his balls. But now her pains and uncomfortableness forced him to stop.
"I'm holding girl. It'll pass." She said "nothing, just concentrating on the large object pushed so deeply into her and she was sure it would now be pushed even more deeply into her.
As he delayed pressing forward the slight pain and the filling sensation left her body. It was replaced by the heat of a strange and new pleasure.
It was then, as her ass wiggled in the new found delight of the moment, that Terry pushed forward burying all of himself to the hilt in her. The tightness of her hot ass-hole had even squeezed some of the vaseline out of her cunt.
Her ass-hole was really working now, squeezing around and around him, as he pressed himself totally into her. She felt the heat in the ripple of her belly muscles. In the tingle of her tits. And the waves of delight pouring through her brain. She had never imagined so much delight could be held for one girl in one small moment, and was sure there would be more.
When Terry felt he had stayed long enough, he put one hand on either side of her hips and then pulled out till his cock was naked to the head. And then he began to go back in. She felt the sudden emptiness as he pulled out, aided by the down and out ripple of her ass-hole and then the slide as he filled her again, this time pushing aside ass-hole walls closing in again.
She gasped and brought her hands forward to hold onto the bed while her behind was reamed and she lost her anal cherry, and entered womanhood.
He was going out again, but faster this time. She knew each jab was faster and harder. But Ellen was beginning to get with it. She let her ass-hole go slack so that he could gain easier entrance. And then pushed out and down, while he was jabbing back into her.
His cock grew redder and harder. The gleam of grease and the slight browning, as the fuck progressed, were all the evidence of what was going on inside of her. She was on fire.
Terry dropped a hand to her cunt and began playing with her clit. She was shaking as he worked her this way and than ran his fingers into her quivering, hair-lined gap.
He stabbed harder still. She was moaning and throwing her head up. His stabbing became faster. A burning cock, ramming into and out of her madly rippling ass-hole.
She began to wiggle her hips. This rowed him around and around in her. His cock touched all parts of her, distending her rectum and colon walls in the process. The sensations for him were exciting and for her, maddening.
His head rotated left and right. Her head came up, her back rising some in the process. She twisted her face left and right. A gasping and a hissing escaping from her crooked, wetly gleaming mouth.
He fucked on, his balls swinging like heavy pendulums, smashing into her cunt and bouncing back. He felt the fires rolling about in him and knew that soon his sap would flow hot and white into her no longer virginal ass-hole tunnel. He fucked harder. The speedup in piston-jabs into her ass, sending more fire along his shaft and making his balls quiver with need.
The electric bursts of sexual sensations went up his belly into his spine and from there to his heating brain. Already, many colorful images danced on the dark screen behind his closed eyelids.
Ellen felt her whole ass-hole all the way up into her belly. The whole length was not only being savagely reamed, but also worked with a rare expertise in so young a lad. The hotness set off in her bowels filled her belly and cunt and tits with the lava fire of forbidden practices.
The temperature of her body was raised higher by the moment, as the fuck progressed. Her ass-hole continued to ripple down and fight with tightness and heat the advance of his hard lance and to aid the withdrawal. But it always lost the ground gained, as he rammed back in, harder and faster than before.
Ellen really began to wiggle her ass. The sensation was so stunning that Terry had to suck more air into his lungs and wiggle his head harder and faster. His fingers dug into her soft ass-flesh. He felt his balls coiling like tense springs, about to let loose their load. He felt the hum in his flesh as saturated waves of electron currents moved through his body.
The sperm in his balls began to boil. His body temperature rose and the sweat literally poured from him. His brain began to vibrate with the signals rushing up from his body. Incandescent clouds of yellow poured from some hidden source to flow before his eyes, disappear, and then be replaced.
Ellen too was humming with sensations and felt the point of coming drawing ever closer under his savage, but beloved pounding. She had never dreamed she would so love the loss of her anal cherry.
The scum now turned into a heavy boil in his balls. It flowed hotly around and then, as he pumped, he felt it rising, and rising. He was going to shoot!
And, as the thought struck, the scum rushed up his tubes and into his cockshaft and down towards the red hot cockhead. It shot in fast bullets of white. Her ass-hole reacted as if being touched by acid. She began to wiggle her ass and gasp.
"Fuck me harder. Fuck me. Fuck me."
And fuck her he did. Each jab going harder and deeper. His cock grew and spurted into her. She twisted on his meat. And then her rectum began to squeeze his cock in a series of giant up and down rippling motions, that squeezed his pole of flesh like it was a long dishrag.
She went over the brink in those spasms, her cunt giving forth with a mighty flow. And her mind traveled across the universe on the wings of pastel incandescent starbursts under her, over her, behind her, and in front of her, and then, as her sensations intensifies, through her.
She swam and whirled head over heels at the same time. It was a sensation unlike many she had experienced before and yet similar. Each fuck having a separate identity of its own.
Terry was not aware of her reactions. He was whirling and not even able to touch ground. His body was transfixed by the sensations of fire and sound that passed through him, over and over.
like her, he felt himself coming down from the high universe he had till then inhabited. His body felt freer and lighter and so did his spirit.
He was aware of her breathing and his cock still going in and out of her clutching body, almost as if by some magic control.
He felt his cock getting softer and shrinking and was aware of the crackle and warm orange glow of the fire beyond, in whose circle this couch and their bodies were locked.
He knew that very soon his mother and father were due to come home. He wondered with an amused smile and a shiver what they would think if they came in here now and saw this.
Then he opened his eyes and looked down at her white, sweating back, his cock still coming in and out of her ass-hole, the sweat pouring from both of them and the romantic mellow glow of the firelight. This was the kind of light to always fuck by.
Ellen slowly opened her eyes, blinking rapidly several times till the blurring in her field of vision died away. "How are you?" she asked him in a weak, staggering voice.
"Fine," he answered, still fucking. Then he stopped. "Did you like it?"
"Oh my, yes." He now told her he was going to take it out and for her to tighten up.
As he got it out, she looked back over her shoulder at him. "Can we go steady, Terry?" she asked, a big smile on her lips; bright stealth in her eyes.
For a guy who had just gotten one of the great fucks of his life and wanted more, there could be only one answer. "Of course, I'd love to."
He knew as he answered that there was an expression for this. She'd grabbed him by the balls. In the spiritual sense now. And probably, in future times, in the physical sense as well. Not once, but many times. Not only here, but in many places.
Or as another sage saying goes, the fucking you get isn't worth the fucking you get.
Of the fact that she had just fucked him, after her fucked her, there was no doubt.
Terry was just trying to figure out if it had been worth it. He had not yet reached a conclusion as she started to get up off the couch, and ask where the bathroom was.
After that fucking, nature was calling. And like E.F. Hutton, when nature talks, everybody listens.
Or as another great and nameless sage once said on an autumn long ago: when you gotta go, you gotta go.
CHAPTER SIX
Barcelona picked up the phone and was surprised to hear the voice of Joanne's husband. "What can I do for you, Mister Starger. A lube job?"
"I'd like to do a lube job on your cock, with sulphuric acid, you goddam hot pants from south of the border."
Mister Starger was beyond himself.
"Mister Starger," Barcelona exclaimed in shock.
"Mister Starger nothing, you goddam hot pants. You've been drilling my wife."
"Mister Starger. . . "
"Just shut up and listen," Starger cut in. "I've had a phone call about you and my missus. And if you don't take your hot little Latin hands off her hot little hometown pussy, I'll come after you.
"You think I go outta town and you can have the run of the land. Well, forget it. 'Cause I am going to do a tattoo on your ass." He slurred his words.
"Mister Starger," Barcelona said, "control yourself. You've had too much to drink. I suggest you take a snooze. And when that drunk is over, you'll feel better."
Barcelona had handled this wrong. "Why you goddam Spic!"
"Mister Starger. I do not like anyone call me that. I'm proud of my Spanish blood. My people have done a lot for the world."
"The hell with you," Starger answered, not slurring his words any more. "We could do without chili and tacos."
"Who told you this," Barcelona asked, trying to forget the slur, his heart beating, his cheeks burning.
"A nice old man. A nice old man."
"But Mister Starger, listen to me," he tried to say. Starger would not listen.
"I am telling you to stay away from my-wife, you Frenchified baboon. Stay away, or I'll ship you back to your wetback cousins."
"The hell with you, you souse," Barcelona answered, his temper now well stoked. "I didn't fuck your wife. My cock is only for the unmarried ladies."
He paused to catch his breath. The other man was breathing hard too. It was almost like two matadors waiting to fight one another and each waiting for the other to make the first move by coming out of his corner.
"I don't have to take such abuse Mister Starger," Barcelona finally said, coming out of his corner.
"Abuse? What the hell do you think I've been taking?"
"I sympathize with you, sir."
"Oh, do you now?" Starger paused. "Do you have any idea of how a man feels to have come home and then find everyone and anyone has been fucking his wife?"
"I assure you I wouldn't feel better. But how do you know it?"
"I know it alright. I know it by the look on her face. By the character of the woman I've lived with for so many years. By the source who told it to me."
"Who? Maybe he had the hots for her himself and when she refused to bed with him he decided to spoil you for her."
"I highly doubt it. He's much too old. And he's the kind who'd gossip. And no matter what his reason he'd not say it unless there was truth to-it. And I wouldn't tell you who he is. He wouldn't give me his name. But I recognized his voice and his method. It was as good as his signature or even as good as seeing his face."
Barcelona smiled. Starger did not have to tell him. He knew who it was.
Then Barcelona said, "You've only yourself to blame for this. If it's true. You're always away all the time and a drunken souse to top it all."
"Why you goddam sonofabitch. Who the hell are you to tell me this?" And then with a little thought, he asked, "How would you know all this-, unless you've been fucking my wife, and she told you?"
"The whole town knows it, you fool."
"How dare you call me a fool! You cocksucker!"
"Well, if she is screwing for others," Barcelona finally answered, all irritated and hurt to the quick, "you deserve it. She's a good woman, a hell of a lot better than you deserve, you souse."
"Oh, so you do have an urge for her in your crotch," Starger said, savoring some perverse satisfaction.
Barcelona felt certain disgust and guilt and anger at himself for having lost his temper, and points to this ass, and perhaps in some way having hurt Joanne. .
He banged the phone down and stalked off angrily. He went to get a beer. The phone started to ring. He ignored it. But when it became too insistent and wouldn't stop, he went on over.
"Yes, what the fuck is it?" he asked, all tensed up for a new round of verbal warfare. And even fist warfare if it came to that. He was mad enough to fuck the world up the ass.
But the voice on the line surprised him. "It's me, Joanne."
"What're you doing on the line, honey? He'll hear you and it'll be hell to pay. Don't you have problems enough without calling me with him in the house?"
"He's gone out in a huff. I'm just calling to ask what you said to him." Barcelona gave her a brief sample.
"My God. That was hot talk."
"What he said to me was pretty hot also."
"You know who did that? Caleb Hall. I saw him on my way out of the house to the taxi."
"That's what I figured. Someone ought to fix that old fuck's can, so that he never makes trouble for anyone anytime."
"They ought to. But no one will."
"Yeah, no one will," he echoed. "Listen babe, I gotta hang up. My head is swimming with ideas. I have to think all this over."
"Sure, I understand. Me too. I'm really shocked." She made kissing noises over the phone. And then she hung it up.
Barcelona kept thinking about Hall. He walked to and fro in his gas station, went out to fill a few tanks, came back. Got a beer. Was really steamed.
Finally he decided on some action. This was good pussy. That old bastard had really messed him up and ruined his life. Barcelona owed him.
"I'm going to kill that Caleb Hall bastard," Barcelona muttered. He brought his hand down hard on the countertop. Then he started to plan his assault. At first he wanted to use a knife on him or a gun. But he might get caught. Then again, he might get caught in other conditions also. Then he had an idea. He would torch the house.
Licking his lips, he went and got a five gallon gasoline can. He went and got a roll of toilet paper and a pack of scotch tape. Now he would wait. He would wait for deeper night to fall. The cover of darkness would hide him from seeing eyes. People would sleep and he would creep.
He went down the street and stepped into Pete Gondolfo's Diner for a steak and french fries. He had a beer with that. He ate quickly and forced himself to do so. He was not really hungry. But the thought of what he had to do made him nervous and when he was nervous enough, Bob Carboneau always ate and he ate well.
He was done and went back home. Too many people were out on those streets. He just had to let that hunger and anger for blood gnaw at him a bit longer.
He was like a wild man, not like a wild man, I should say, but a wild man. There were times when he thought of forgetting all about it. But then the burning for his enemy returned. The loss and wounds that had been inflicted were too great for Barcelona to forget or forgive and he was not a man to do so.
His teeth and jaw hurt so great was the tension building in him. He watched the news, saw stuff about the Syrian army getting newer MIG-23's. He saw there was a fire in Wyoming. A new scandal on Capitol Hill. The same shit all over again, only told in different versions and variations.
He took out a new pack of Kent filters, slit the cellophane and aluminum foil and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. He got himself a beer from the refrigerator and watched TV to kill time. He wanted to take a nap, figuring that would kill time best of all. But he was too keyed up to sleep. And he felt that if he went to bed, he might oversleep, not waking till morning.
He watched a rerun of Bewitched and felt it had really aged in the ten years since the program was filmed. Then he watched a program of Crosswits and an old Bonanza. That still retained some of its old flavor.
He looked at the wall clock. It was still much too early to act. How he hated the waiting. It drove him half mad. He had another beer, and then one more. He was starting to get dizzy. So he left the house to walk it off. He stepped into a bar to take a piss and stayed there for another drink. A rye this time. To steady his nerves. He was getting jittery.
He came home around eleven thirty and watched Johnny Carson. He liked the monologue and the comedy bits Johnny did with Ed McMahon. Barcelona always dreamed of being someone like Carson. He read somewhere that Carson was getting thirty grand a week, and maybe even more. He had wondered why. Then he saw some of the substitute hosts and the Mike Douglas and Merv Griffin shows. Or the other local talk shows. They all put you to sleep. None had that special atmosphere and personality Carson delivered with ease, each time he was on. Barcelona would not even watch the show the nights Carson wasn't on, except for those times when Rickles or Shecky Greene came on to host.
Yup, he realized, Carson was worth the money. Twenty million people watched him nightly. Jesus, that was nearly one in ten Americans. If he made each person laugh just twice or three times, that was worth a half penny a person at least. Multiplying that by twenty million people made him seem worth the inflated salaries he got. After all, he was a coast-to-coast star, doing an inflated job.
He looked at the paper. The late show was another Kojak. God, he was on all over and at all hours. It seemed as if Savalas owned the network.
Barcelona switched channels. There was a monster picture on. Some invaders from Mars. Twenty years old, with dated looking space suits, though they must have seemed the in thing when the picture was made. It was more like a comedy now. With no civilization having been found on Mars this picture seemed dated and irrelevant. At least if it had been made about some other planet there might have been some element of believability about it. But the solar systems secrets were now being probed and laid bare at an amazing rate. Though there was still decades of exploration ahead.
Barcelona shut the TV He paced the floor, then picked up a mystery by Matthew Eden. It was called Conquest Before Autumn. He began to read. It was sort of boring. Barcelona did with it what he always did with books he did not like much. He began to skim, stopping just for the interesting parts. The story was more talk than action and the talk not as interesting as some of the talk he had read in books. In two hours he covered more than two-thirds of the book. The fact that he was nervous made him less interested in the story than he might have been. But nothing could have saved that story. Towards the end he got to the part about the Russians trying to get their defense minister from a farmhouse in France. Where he was being held after being kidnapped.
The book started out with a resigned American Secretary of Defense being kidnapped and the Americans kidnapping his Russian counterpart. It had been a good idea. But badly developed.
Barcelona looked and saw that it was an English book. Mostly from experience he knew the English were dull writers, even if good plotters with nice character studies. They had sunk a far pace from the days of Dickens and
Thackery and Sir Walter Scott.
Barcelona threw the book aside. He would finish it some other time or maybe not at all. He had another book he wanted to read, Desperate Dames, a fuck and suck story, or better said, a stick and dick adventure.
He got the stuff, put it in the car, locked up the house and drove around. He liked it with the country air on his face like this, the feeling of a job running through the pit of his stomach.
Around two o'clock he drove to a spot five blocks from the house of his enemy, parked, got out, locked up and took his stuff from the trunk.
He had on plastic gloves, the kind you wear while painting and then throw away. He walked down deserted, tree-lined streets, with dark windows behind hedges and in some, lights. He came to the house he wanted. Opening the gate, he stepped inside and closed it. All very silently. He worked very well for a restless spirit. But the time he had been pressured into waiting for had calmed him down. There was a numbness inside, though there was behind it all a high electric hum in his ears; all his nerves telling him that he might be caught and they were waiting to explode into activity at the slightest signal of danger.
Barcelona looked at the house, a darkened fortress sitting there in the green, pungent night, oblivious to all danger. He looked at the houses to both sides, then at the street behind him and the houses across it. All were black and dark. He was alone. This was in his hands now. He licked his lips. This would tell him how good he was.
Barcelona felt a bit mad doing this. But he did not care. He had committed himself to it and would carry it through. He thought back for a second to his days in the army, when his captain had called him in and told Barcelona to go for officer's school. Barcelona had been reluctant to do so. His captain looked at his intelligence test and told him to reconsider. He said Barcelona was in that fifteen percentile of all recruits with the intelligence to make officer. Moreover, he had a stable personality, another thing needed along with intelligence and an ability to handle military matters, plus leadership qualities, all the things that separated men of the same intelligence and place Barcelona into a group, one out of every fifteen of all recruits, who could make it to second lieutenant.
Barcelona now felt sorry he had not taken the offer. He might have made quite a career for himself. Even getting promoted to first louie and maybe even captain.
He smiled and then went towards the house.
He went right and down the narrow alley between the two houses, with a high wood slat fence separating them. Barcelona looked up at the walls of the house. He unscrewed the cap from the five gallon can of gasoline and put that in his left breast pocket.
Walking down the side of the white frame house, he began to slosh gasoline out along the wall in an up and down slosh, going slow and steady. He came to the back of the house, stopping to adjust his eyes to the dimmer light, now that the streetlights out front were not illuminating back here. He saw a garden, neat and nice. He would even have liked to have rested there. But there was no time for that now. There was too much danger. He was a stranger preparing to create a orange tinted nightmare for this man. He smiled as he went around behind the house, sloshing his gasoline; his heart still beating evenly and a bit fast. But he was a man much in control. He liked this. How he would have enjoyed being a commando.
He came to the slanted doors set into the ground, if the owner wanted to go into the cellar. Barcelona went around that and continued with his gasoline. He was very niggardly with its outflow and when he got to the corner of the house, so that he could go around and down the other side, he still had well over half the gasoline left.
He went down the side a bit faster now. He listened to the night crickets in the bushes, going on madly as if there were danger about. They were beginning to bug him. They might not have any other night in any other place.
He took a deep breath. The night air was too moist. He reached the front of the house and poured his gasoline there. He poured a lot over the front door. Then he went around to the side he started on. He found that about a quarter of the gasoline was still in the can. So he covered that side of the house and the picket fence too, splashing wider areas.
He put the can down. He took the toilet paper and scotch tape from the side sack he carried. He unrolled the roll and laid it flat against the wall of the house, using the scotch tape to keep it in place. He unrolled ten feet at least. And then did the same lower down. He went toward the back and rolled out twenty more feet, stopping to scotch tape them. He was now running out of tape, but had plenty of toilet paper. It was rolled right over the areas that had been soaked with gasoline, it was time to set the fire and go. He licked his lips nervously. A car passed in the street. Its lights swept the houses on both sides of the street.
His heart began to beat faster, but as the car past, it returned to its normal rate. He took a deep breath and moved back with the roll of toilet paper, letting it out on the ground, while it was still attached to the wall from which it hung. He let it out loosely, so it would lie like a white snake on the grass, the sides touching, adding to the amount of material that would burn.
He did this out into the front yard, almost to the gate. He had let out about a quarter of the roll so far. He ripped it off and stuffed the roll and scotch tape he was holding back into his side canvas bag, that he had slung over one shoulder.
Now his heart was really beating strongly. This was it. He had to avenge his lover and he had to make it out of here safely, without being caught. Or his ass was one cooked goose.
His heart was speeding up. Barcelona blew out breath from his lungs. He was shaking like a madman now. The tension that had been building became a wild hum.
He ran back to the alley for the gasoline can. He could not leave that. It was evidence. He picked it up. Took the cap from his pocket, and sealed it shut. No excess gasoline from inside would pour out onto the ground or his clothes, to be sniffed and followed by police hounds.
He went over in a crouch and opened the gate and let it stay open. Then he went back to the toilet paper trail. He gazed around to make sure no lights had gone on in the houses on either side, put on by someone coming down for a drink of water or a look outside.
This was the moment of truth, when he'd be either proven a man or a nothing. It also took an element of luck to make it fight. He pulled out his BIC lighter and hit the flame and watched it flicker bright orange in the darkness. Then he touched it to the toilet paper.
It began to burn. In a wide, four inch swath. Slowly at first, then faster. The edges browning, the flames an inch and a half high. The flame orange-yellow. A sudden, small wind drove the flames down and across the paper.
It was time to be heading home. Barcelona rose and went to the gate. Pulled it open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. His heart was really beating now. The kind of beating a heart does when you are very, very scared. He could feel the blood move through his veins with every thump of his heart. Even into his heart and behind his eyes; almost as if his blood would bash them out of his skull.
He pulled the gate closed, but did not shut it, leaving it a few inches ajar and began to walk down the sidewalk, a little too rapidly, he told himself. He could hear his shoes on the sidewalk, each smack like thunder to his ears.
It seemed to him that everyone could hear it. He went faster still. He did not want to break into a trot like some fool. He was less than fifty feet from the comer. All he had to do was go around it. From far off, he could hear a police siren wailing in the night. That was all he needed. He shivered a bit and walked towards the corner.
He looked back. He could see the toilet paper still burning and the light, white smoke going up from it. The flames had almost reached the house.
Barcelona knew that in perhaps seconds the flames would race up to the strands of toilet paper attached along the house walls. Then the gasoline would go up like gunpowder. If any police car came around a corner and saw him his goose was cooked. He was fried, fucked and forgotten.
He had just gotten to the corner when he heard a light whoosh. He looked back and was shocked at the mammoth orange flames licking the sides of the house. He could just imagine them rushing along the alley and then around behind the house, down the second alley and to the front of the house.
He gave a shiver and a shake as he went around the corner. He just had to go faster. He could hear the crackle of the flames now eating into the wood. This was going much faster than he had expected and he was too close to the scene for his liking. He began to walk much faster, bordering almost on a run. His heart was beating so loud and so wildly it was almost as if that organ was attempting to punch through his chest. His head seemed to expand outward with every push of his heart.
He could almost not believe it was happening to him or that he had done such a thing. Barcelona never would have done this in the first place if he had known.
But now was too late to think otherwise. The die had been cast, to quote a cliche. He walked faster still.
Back at the house the flames burned in a circle along the stain of the gasoline. Old man Hall slept, in a second floor bedroom, unaware. But in the middle of this sleep, his dreams began to be disturbed.
He started to dream of warm places. The tropics, young maidens in grass skirts, dancing, swinging their enticing, chocolate brown hips. He began to get a partial hard-on, the best a man of his age could get. He now felt a glow and then a sudden rumble. The girls were screaming and no longer dancing. They were fleeing. He wondered why. Then a volcano grew out of the ground and began to rumble and spew lava and smoke. The smoke was the worst part of it.
With that he began to come to his senses. The smoke was still there. Then in shock, he sat up. Flames were lapping at his window. He shivered and went into a momentary numbness. Then he jumped from the bed, and with an incredible spryness for a man his age, started out the door and down the steps.
Halfway down he remembered that he had forgotten his teeth, but said to hell with it. New teeth he could get. But he had just one neck to give. And that neck was not going to be given for his house or for his country.
Across the street, a neighbor, Mrs. Lotte Pierce, could not sleep and had gone down to the kitchen for a past-midnight snack, though she knew this was not good for her digestion.
She saw a brightness through her window and wondered what made it so. Since she was not sitting in front of the window she did not see it. But she got up and then saw the circle of flames around old man Hall's home.
Her first reaction was to shriek, as her hands went up to her face. But she stifled this and rushed to the phone in the hall. Her slippers clip-clopping along. She put on the lights, shut her' eyes momentarily to avoid the searing brightness. And then opened one eye and then the other.
They teared a bit, but she dialed the operator nonetheless, hoping she wasn't making any mistakes. She didn't. She got the operator, Ida Mae Monston.
"Ida? This is Lotte Pierce. Fire over at old man Caleb Hall's place. Get the fireboys over here on the double quick." Before she could go on the phone line was disconnected. The dependable Ida Mae was hard at work getting those fireboys out. With their one truck hook and ladder company.
Ida did not have to ring long. "Hello, 86th Truck & Ladder Company."
She wondered a minute why if they were the only goddam truck and ladder unit in ten miles did they have to aggrandize themselves by giving it such a big name. They couldn't call themselves Unit I, she thought. But that wasn't what she said.
"That you, Floyd McManus?"
"Yup."
"Well, there's a fire over at old man Caleb Hall's place. Get the lead outta your ass and move on over."
"All the secrets he has must've gone up in flame," McManus laughed as he hung up.
But even as he was doing so, he was yelling at the others to get their asses out of their bunks and to move it. Men slid down the railing bar from the second floor to the ground floor, where the fire engine sat in the open door, looking at the warm and peaceful night.
It would not be so warm and so peaceful for long.
Barcelona heard them coming from a long ways off. He had put a few blocks between himself and the fire since. And he had run the last block, no longer giving a damn, and too scared to care. He just had to get the hell away from there. That was all he knew.
He had stopped himself as he crossed the street and let his 'tired lungs suck in enough air. Now he was coming to a block half covered by a bushy lot. It was here he would dump his gasoline can. It had been like an albatross around his neck, all the way here.
He went off the sidewalk as he passed the last house on the block and into the lot and then disappeared into the bushes to find a good hiding place amid this greenery of blackness and thickness of chlorophyll scent and the stink of rotting refuse thrown away here by the careless citizenry.
It was lucky for him he had started to go into the bushes. For the wail of the fire engine racing towards this street became very loud. He heard it coming onto the block and rushed deeper into the greenery, tripping over a fallen log, he went sprawling onto the dirt, letting go of the can, which went flying. He hit the leaves and branches and crumply, soft earth, hitting with his hands, his chest, his knees, and the side of his jaw.
The air was pushed from him. And then the fire engine came down the block. He raised his head and turned it to look, as the fire engine swung onto the block. It sent a faint spray of yellow headlights across the lot, accenting and outlining the leaves in yellowish-green. And then, as the headlights passed, leaving the lot in darkness again.
Barcelona got up. He would leave the can where it was. It had fallen in enough cover. Now he dusted himself off. Those clothes would have to be washed, he knew.
He started out of the lot, noticing on the near horizon the rising flames. The sky above that spot shimmered in a vulcan red.
He sighed, feeling a little better, then he walked from the lot, back to his car.
Caleb Hall had rushed down the steps to the first floor and through the darkness, now shimmering with the reflected orange light of the flames all around, coming in through unshaded windows.
He ran to the front door and pulled it opened and then fell back. The door was also on fire. He cringed, fear making his heart race faster, his eyes revolve wildly in his head. The flames licked at him.
Neighbors were gathering in the street now. There were some shrieks of surprise and cries of anguish. Caleb Hall did not hear them. He rushed through the living room to the back door. Already smoke was filling the air. And in places the flames had burned through the outside walls and now exploded out of walls, through paint and around hanging pictures.
Caleb Hall made it to the back door and pulling this open, also saw smoke and flames. He screamed, scared for the first time. He ran to a window and pulled it open and again flames lashed at him. The glass was hot and burned to the touch. The frame was beginning to burn.
He ran from the back to the front. The living room was already filled with a thick cloud of smoke. He crouched and began to cough. He had not imagined it would be this way in a fire.
Again, he stopped. The open door beckoned. It was now wreathed in flames, the flames licking at the doorway. His house was ruined. But that did not bother him so much as the threat to his life.
He made one of those quick decisions. The kind we do not think ourselves capable of. But the kind we make every day when the times of crisis are upon us.
Hall closed his eyes and gave a little shout and ran. He punched through the light wall of flames; feeling the searing heat suck at him, and even singe his hair. But he kept on running, away from the grasping fingers of flame, away from his house. Off his front doorstep and along his walk.
He heard the cheer of his neighbors and their happiness that he had made it. He was halfway to the gate before he opened his eyes and stopped. He could not believe he had made it. He was so happy he could have kissed everyone and cried.
Neighbors were opening the front gate and pulling at him and taking him out onto the sidewalk. People pressed all around him, patting him on the back, asking how he was.
Those, who for years had just looked at him with a snigger, and thought him to be a meddling old bastard, now called him a good old boy.
He looked from them to his house, now a bright blaze, turning the early morning sky into premature day. When he saw that the hardened old man burst into a sob.
He had not cried since he was a boy. And now it poured from him and would not stop. Almost everything he had was in that house. The insurance would never cover his loss. It almost never did. He could just see himself living out his last years in a nursing home, burning away his money there, under control, no longer able to make trouble for anyone again. Being on the receiving end, like he was tonight.
He wondered where the hell the fire department was. like the police, they were never there when you needed them.
As if on cue he heard the approaching wail of the fire engine. He looked again at his house. They were too late to save it. Flames roared on the inside and outside. The old wood, now stripped of the protecting cover of paint, went up like dried paper. Flames shot from the roof. They shot from the celler too. There was a tearing sound, like old calico being ripped. Parts of the roof began to cave in.
Then the fire engine turned onto the street. The people shouted at the firemen to get a move on.
But Caleb Hall knew it was too late. Too late for him. He looked at the firemen. "Sonofabitches," he muttered under his breath, the tears continuing to fall across his wrinkled leather cheeks.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The tinkle of glasses, light chatter and the scent of good foods filled the air in the roadside diner. There was in the air the electric romance of a good evening to come. But only for some people.
The rest thought only of the long haul ahead. Long distance truckers have little else to think of.
Those long trips use up the subjects for conversation.
Harley Mungerforth and Joanne Starger sat at a booth in back, smoking, finishing their steak dinners, sipping their tall glasses of Olympic beer.
They had discussed the fire yesterday that burned old man Hall's house. Both knew she and Barcelona Bob were the prime suspects. She knew the police had probably counted her out, but not Bob. He had not called her and she hadn't called him.
He was probably afraid they might be tapping her line and she was afraid to call him for that reason or even to call from an outside booth, in case the police might be tapping his line. She had figured he was the one who did it and confided this to Mungerforth, who agreed. He called her earlier on to ask if she wanted to go out with him. Even if the police knew this, she decided to accept. They would find out about her anyway if they checked far enough and hard enough. And anyway, all they had to do was talk to old man Hall.
She had discussed this with Harley long enough, now in the lull to their conversation, they fell silent and listened to the talk of the two men in the booth next to them, both long distance truckers.
"Did you read the paper?" the man named Virgil asked his friend, called Kingston.
"Yeah."
"About Vietnamn?"
"No, I missed that part, Virgil."
"I read that there is lots of fighting there. The old government troops are in the jungles fighting with the old instruments from before the fall."
"I cain't say I blame 'em, Virgil. I was in 'Nam. An' I hate them communist mo'fuckers."
"Yeah, you ain't the only one. But I read the fighting is big. They say there are enough men in the jungles to equal two divisions and the communists got six divisions hunting for them and fighting with them. And two more to pacify the country and then they got two more to hold Laos and fourteen more in North Vietnam itself."
"It's just Vietnam, Virgil. No more north and south."
"Bullshit. That's just what them flunky politicans say. To me there is North Vietnam and occupied South Vietnam."
"You call it what you want. Those other people will call it what they wants. But that country is gone for good. It ain't gonna get free no how."
"Unless we help it."
"Grow up, Virgil. We ain't going to help it. We're just a bunch of weakling asskissers. Our president does something strong, them gutless cocksuckers in the universities are going to revolt and get all high and mighty about it."
"Come on, let's get out of here," Mungerforth said to Joanne, as he became suddenly tired of the diner. It seemed as if he had eaten too many meals in too many diners over his lifetime. He wondered if that ever happened to truckers. And if not, why it was hitting him all of a sudden. Maybe he was just temporarily sick of life.
He dropped money on the table to pay for the check and a nice tip for the waitress. But Mungerforth always paid a nice tip to the waitress. He had been a busboy and then a waiter once, in the early spring of his years. It had been a hard and harrowing experience, one which he never forgot and one which he did not care for anyone to have to repeat ever.
They went out to the blacktop lot at the side of the diner and got into his car and drove out to the highway.
"You don't look too good," Joanne said, looking at him, some concern showing on her face.
"I don't feel too good," he replied, showing her a rare honesty he showed to few others.
"Mama will take care of that," she told him with a smile.
"I certainly hope so."
"Are you doubting my talents?" she asked, a coy smile on her lips.
"I don't doubt them. Neither do I believe they can lift me out of my present slump."
"The successful Harley Mungerforth?" she asked with some surprise, her eyebrows arching, perhaps a bit too dramatically.
"Success is relative dear lady. When a man makes ten thousand dollars a year he compares himself with the men who make the same. He dreams of making twenty thousand and then looks, with something akin to awe at those making forty thousand a year."
"Now the man making twenty looks at himself as equal with others making the same, superior to those making less and with some dreaming at those making forty and something akin to awe at those making more."
"And when the man making eighty does badly he feels badly. He may be doing loads better than the man making twenty or ten, but for what he is used to it is nothing."
He looked sideways at her a second, to see if she knew what he was talking about. And she nodded to give affirmation that she understood. He put his eyes back on the highway and went on.
"Success, you see, is relative. It's whatever point a man says he is succeeding at. That depends on the man and where he is in life.
You must also understand that as a man goes up in the world he goes down also."
"I mean by this that when he makes twenty he may be a sudden success to all who are making ten and from whom he sprang. But when he makes twenty, he can suddenly buy better things. He moves to a new world, a strange new world. He suddenly makes new friends. He lives in a better, more expensive house or apartment, drives a better car, eats steak more often. He finds twenty is no big deal in his new surroundings."
"Suddenly he is mister average again, only at a higher level. He finds that though he makes and spends twice as much he is not twice as happy. He does not have twice as much."
"It's like with a car. You can spend twenty-five hundred or five thousand. If you spend twice the money it doesn't mean you're getting twice the car. Or twice the luxury features or looks or size and it won't last twice as long. You may be getting thirty or forty percent more, but not twice." It's the same with a salary. You find your rent may double. You are living in a newer building, the rooms are nicer, but not twice as much. You are in a higher income bracket and in a higher bracket you also pay more taxes."
"So you start to dream and you go up again. You make thirty grand a year, provided you are able to get that. And again you find yourself boxed in. It's nice money. But you can't buy a Caddy every year. You can't go to the Riviera every summer. You can't own a yacht. You're too rich to be poor, but too poor to be rich."
"I know I make more than that. I know the level at which a man is declared to be part of the upper classes by the IRS, starts at thirty-five thousand a year. But I am still not doing that great."
"If my farm gives me trouble, and it does, my income dips. If my book store is giving me trouble, and it is, my income dips. Luckily I have other businesses to put it into and my income does not suffer drastically. But there are times when it dips below that beloved figure of eight-five thousand; which folks around here believe I make. And around which they measure themselves. There are times when it will dip below eighty thousand."
"Oh," she said, suddenly a bit surprised, and shifting nervously in the seat, her estimate of him going down somewhat. But then he added.
"Not by much." Her estimate of him rose somewhat. And she also wondered a moment why all her heroes were troubled ones, but then he went on.
"And then, on top of all, things, come taxes. They generally take a third or more of my income." He gritted his teeth and did not speak, his face somewhat tense in the lights of the pale dashboard dials.'
They did not speak again till they got to his house, a palatial one-story, nine room structure on two acres of ground. It was reputed to have cost him over one hundred thousand dollars when he bought it and to be worthy over one hundred-ninety thousand now.
As they went up the driveway, he extended his left arm in a sweep of the house and grounds. "Real estate taxes on this place cost me over eight thousand dollars a year. Then there are water bills and all the rest. It just drives me up the walls sometimes."
She just listened without saying a thing. Harley Mungerforth was a man consumed by money. When he hit the automatic control and a motor arm began lifting the garage door, he said, "The gas bill on this car alone cost me over half a grand a year. Repairs, insurance and all the rest of that hell cost me another grand. I'm being stripped bare."
For a man being stripped bare he sure looked fully dressed to Joanne. She wouldn't have minded being Mrs. Harley Mungerforth and helping strip some of the money from his bank account into clothes for her and jewels for her fingers and bells for her toes, as the popular jingle has it.
They drove into the garage. He hit the switch, the door came down and they left the car and entered the house. She had been here often before. The thick carpeting, fine furniture, heavy chandeliers, thick with crystal, fine lamps, wall paintings and such did not make her think this was a man pursued by money problems.
They walked into the bedroom without speaking, knowing this was where they had to go, almost as if by some secret code. She began undressing as soon as she got into the bedroom and he did the same. They folded their clothes neatly over sitting chairs, going rapidly, but not too hurriedly, till they were naked.
Joanne went to the bed, pulled down the covers and got onto it. Mungerforth just stared at her awhile, with a wan smile on his lips.
"Don't worry hon," she said. "I'm going to make you happy. Very happy."
He nodded up and down, his shut lips wrinkling in a brief smile. Then he said, "Why don't I put on some music? You'll like it."
"Fine, why don't you?" .
He went over the record rack and looked around, taking out records, putting them back, till he had what he wanted. Then he turned to stare at her and licked his lips at her wonderful sexiness, before he turned back to the stereo and took the record out of its jacket and put it on the player.
Harley Mungerforth put on the stereo. He played a series of selections by Al Caiola and his magical guitar. He turned back to Joanne, lying on his bed in garter belt, stockings and nothing else.
"It's good to have you here like this, Joanne," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and looking so very tired.
"I'm glad to come whenever you call, Harley."
She sat up with a smile, her knowing hand going to his cock so she could grab his still flaccid manhood and bring it to tumescence.
Her knowing, glowing touch was all that was needed to bring a heat to his crotch.
She made her circled fingers and palm into a tube that stroked his hardening meat in an up and down, waving, motion. Mungerforth sighed. Joanne was such a lovely person when one got to really know her. He hoped he would never lose her and her knowing touch.
Joanne smiled and sat up. He saw she was going to blow him. Before she did that he wanted to kiss her. He would not do so after she blew him.
Grabbing her hair, he pulled her face towards him. Joanne smile a wet, open-mouthed smile his way. He felt her still working his cock, not letting go, being good to him while his lips glued themselves to hers and her tongue shot into his mouth to explore and probed. He jabbed at her tongue with his, then laved her mouth, as his tongue pushed hers back out of her mouth and began to slap hers left and right. The wet, slippery snakes slid and slipped off one another.
Then he pulled his mouth from her and looked down at his crotch, then at her. Joanne knew what he wanted and set about providing him with it.
Her head dipped and her hair fell forward over both sides of her face, as her soft, pink painted lips took him into her. He sucked air into his mouth when that happened. Then she swallowed two more inches and he had to again suck air into his lungs.
He pulled her hair away and lifted it up and threw it over so it would hang from the other side of her face and he could see her mouth and face as she worked his cock in and out of her mouth.
She opened an eye and looked at him, then a smile formed on the lips swollen wide around his cock. She gave him fast, hissing suckles and Mungerforth rose upward with a hiss and then settled down. As he did she again repeated the maneuver and he went up into the air with a hiss.
When he came down Joanne salivated to fill her mouth with slick liquid and began to run her lips up and down his tube of manhood in a steady pace, stopping at each downward jab to use her tongue to run around and around the head of his cock in her mouth.
Mungerforth began to exclaim, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ," as he wiggled around on the balls of his ass. It was a stunning beginning. Joanne loved his reaction to her mouth work. Her nipples were lengthening and she felt the warming glow between her legs.
Her hands did not move away from the cock they so lovingly held. One hand dropped to his balls though and she began to tug at the single, kinky hairs that grew from the wrinkled ball sac. Each pull sent a sting through his nuts and up into his cock. But in the state she had by then placed him in, each sting was transmuted into a wince of pleasure that served only to send him one level higher, at the same time making his cock harder, longer, redder, hotter.
Joanne felt the warm glow from her crotch rise into her belly and also race up and down her spine. It was a warmth that grew with the passing moments and did not go away.
The need for his cock, deep in her wanting cunt, was great. She vowed to give him thirty seconds more of oral happiness and then to let him out of her mouth.
With that in mind she began some vigorous sucking, speeding up, to get him larger, slowing down, so that he might not shoot all of a sudden. She suckled, twisted her mouth around it, used her tongue to flick at the end of his cock and to lick the pre-cum dew from the slit in the head.
And then she let him fall from her puffed, swollen, saliva-slicked mouth. He felt himself touching only empty air and her rising and getting onto the bed farther up, near the headboards.
As the pleasant cocoon of pleasure she had created for him, began to fade, he opened his eyes and looked down at his glistened, quivering cock, then at her. He knew now what she wanted, lying there with her legs spread and her gash glistening brightly and beckoning the weary traveler to enter between the portals and find joy and fulfillment in the slimy tunnel within.
Mungerforth got up on the bed and then on his knees advanced so that he was between her fleshy and ample thighs. Finding himself in position, he took his cock and moved forward bury the head within. She practically sucked him into her body when he did so.
Mungerforth was urged by her needing, grasping cunt to push in deeper, and did so, shoving three inches into her without stopping, and seeing she took this, giving her all the rest in a slipping slide.
He stayed a second to soak in the clutching, wet, heat of her meat and then began to pull out.
But her legs closed around him, her heels coming to rest on his cheeks. He was now in a cocoon of flesh, clutched at by her cunt, buried to the hilt in her meat, his balls resting against her twitching ass-hole.
Now he began to pull out, out, till only the tip of his cock was in her and returned in a long slide into her. She made a slight, "ooof," and took him. Then he did the same before beginning his steady piston-jab into her trembling and clutching body.
She took the jabs into her, sucking at his cock with her cunt, forcing her cunt muscles to squeeze at him and then let him out, still clutching with need.
He pulled out and then rammed back on in. Each time the slip and slide of his cock out of and back into her was like going through hot, clutching jelly. He felt her heels push in at him, as he slid back into her and then hold him, as he tried to get it all out of her.
Joanne put her hands on his back and pressed her fingers tightly into him. At the same time she began to wiggle her hips and a smile appeared on her lips pressed so tight.
He felt her wiggles and fucked up harder into her. He tried to spear as much cunt as possible in every jab. She loved it, her cunt clutching more frantically at his needing manhood.
His cock grew a bit longer and harder, quivering more. He felt a strong electric hum through his whole body. Mungerforth fucked on, eyes shut tight, his senses ultra-alert, listening to her breathing, feeling her cunt working him, and his cock spearing her crotch on each inward plunge. His fucking became faster. Her thighs clutching him into her, holding him and fighting his outward plunge and the unsheathing of his lethal and most beloved tool. He blasted back into her harder.
Mungerforth began to add a wiggle to his movements to row his cock around in her as he plunged in and out. She tightened her hold around him by clenching harder around his waist, crossing her ankles.
Her legs rowed up and down his back, leaving great red swaths. Her fingers dug into his flesh. Her hands rowed up and down his back. It was a moment of great and growing excitement for her. She began to throw her head left and right. Her belly rippled with the desires racing about in her.
Joanne began to come up as he plunged down, thus swallowing his shaft faster, adding to the friction of flesh rubbing against flesh, clutching even harder at him with her cunt. Wanting all of him in her.
She shivered with need. And Mungerforth breathed harder with the effort required to keep her body dancing on his cock, as it was. He was jamming that prick in and out as fast as his body and lungs would carry him. It was a hard and fast pace that took a strong toll of his body.
He felt her tits mashing up against his chest, flattening out, her hot, hard nipples burning through his flesh like hot coals. He was being squeezed into her body. Clutched by her flesh. Dug into by her fingers.
She kept on bashing into him, sucking his cock in all the way, and rowing those big, wonderful legs up and down his body, leaving swaths of red along his back. His balls were bouncing like mad against her ass-hole. They were rolling with hot scum, ready to charge up his tubes and into her needing, clutching cunt.
His brain was being raised to a high fever. The scum kept on reaching a boiling point within him. He was now going half mad with the sensations dancing in his brain. Mungerforth just had to shoot. He could feel the scum boiling now. About to let go. He pounded harder into her, wanting to end it once and for all.
Great, salty streams of sweat shot up from his glistening wet body and ran down his skin and across her digging fingers. She too was glistening with sweat. But Joanne felt nothing now. She was bashing and swallowing.
She wanted as much cock as she could get. Her temperature was rising and rising ever upward. It was like a great tidal wave of heated sensations.
She was starting to shake and shake. Her brain was in a purple froth now. She was throwing her head from side to side, sending her hair flying in every which way. Her face had turned into a rictus of passion. It was a passion which knew no end.
She was bashing herself up against his down coming body in a very hard and fast manner by this point. She was using her hands and arms to almost pull herself up into him. It was a passion that was wild and needing and consuming, which had her in its control.
She could have gone higher if not for the body that came down onto hers in the great periodic strokes of his fucking and threw her back onto the bed.
Her mouth opened and shut with the needs that passed through and through the both of them. Each sucking as much air into their lungs as they could get.
With a suddenness, like an unexpected bolt of lightning, his sperm exploded in a sudden ejaculation from his cockhead along the length of her cunt tunnel. It struck hard, fracturing into many ricocheting drops that sent her into a paroxym of furious grinding of her pelvis up against him. She had to get to the top and over now. His cock had grown inside her in that moment of spurting. And as it grew, her cunt wildly gripped and let go, gripped and let go.
She twisted like a demon on his cock and then in those moments of great wildness, came herself. She shot her load and covered his cock and danced ever more wildly, as flashes of incandescent purple and white alternated in sudden, swift explosions inside her skull.
She rose and fell back and rose and fell back. Her whole body was jolted by electric spasms. She moaned about the goodness of it, went speechless, then uttered a list of expletives. Then her head fell to the side. She stopped throwing herself about. Her legs opened like lotus petals, falling to the sides, letting go 'of him.
He felt a loosening of pressure, his prick shrunk some more. He slowed his fucking. His brain stopped whirling so much. Mungerforth became more aware of this world and less involved in the world he had been in.
At last his eyes fluttered open. Hers were still shut. He pulled himself from her. Then lay down next to her and watched and listened to Joanne, breathe. Her chest was going up and down with her flattened out tits the most eye catching part of her. Her face was serene after fucking, her hair mussed, in a dark halo around her head.
In a minute her eyes came open and she smiled to him. "Did you enjoy it, Harley?"
"Very much. And you?"
She said, "Mmmmm," then closed her eyes. "Very much."
"You're good for me Joanne. Sometimes I wish you were married to me and not to that guy who doesn't appreciate you."
She smiled. "Don't talk about such foolishness."
"Yeah," he mused wryly, his face going sad, "I guess that's all it'll ever be."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Barcelona hit the table in Chief Lavarr Stronge's office again. "Goddammit," he spat, "I wasn't there. I didn't do it. I don't know nothing about this old fuck." He pointed at Caleb Hall.
"Don't get so goddam excitable," Chief Strange told him.
Barcelona was quite angry. "And what is this about me and that Starger woman?"
"Her husband says you're the man. He says she's a hussy. But that's common knowledge. I confirmed what he'd been told by Caleb here," Stronge said it with a nod at the old man who seemed to have aged a lot in the past few days.
"I guess," Stronge philosophized, "that the deadliest trap a man sets is the one he sets for himself." He turned to look at Hall. "You remind me of a kid in a book I read when I was young. Of course you're no kid. "The Bad Boy of Babkins Ridge," it was called. It must be old hat by now. But then I loved it. That was a long time ago."
Stronge rose. "Listen, amigo. I am letting you go now. Be lucky this old coot didn't burn. What he lost though was most of his life savings. I guess you could say the Lord works slowly, but in strange ways. This man here has cost folks a lot over the years. I suppose many of them would have loved nothing better than to string him up by the hide."
"And then you came along one night and paid him for everybody. All the accumulated accounts settled in one night. Sort of a heavenly judge assessing him tens of thousands in damages."
"If I was one of them poetic believers I'd say you were the Lord's tool, and this was justice and you were possessed. But I'm not.
Being this is a small town and I'm dispensing small-town justice I'm going to level with you."
"I can't find a thing against you. If you don't slip up or confess and I can't come up with better than I have, then you're home free."
"But between you and me and the peppermint tree, we know you did it." Strange gave him a conspiratorial grin. Barcelona looked at him hard-eyed.
"And the folks out there know it too," the sheriff nodded up and down. "But they don't like this old fuck," he nodded at Hall, who sat and numbly watched, as if he'd gone suddenly senile and knew none of this.
"So you won't be too hated. Your life will go on. But be careful in your whoring with that Starger woman. Her husband is liable to buy a rifle and come get you. And that'll be for keeps."
Barcelona did not answer. "Is that all?" he finally asked.
"Yeah, that's finally all."
Barcelona walked from the sheriffs office, shot a look of deep hate at Hall. So deep, the old man winced. The Chief watched Barcelona leave.
"You going to let him get away with that."
"You bet, old man," the Chief said.
"Nothing to catch him on. Or the woman. As far as I can see she had nothing to do with this." The Chief paused a moment. "I guess you're just fucked, old man. Fucked and fingered."
Joanne Starger watched her son leave the house. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Out to see my girl."
"Will you be long?"
He shrugged, looking back. "Four or five hours."
"Then I shouldn't prepare lunch?"
"No, we'll be eating out."
Joanne shook her head up and down. "Good, fine." As her son walked off, she thought of how her husband had just walked off this morning, stalking away from the breakfast table and going off to get his packed bags and leave for another of his junkets. She couldn't say she was sorry to see him go.
The girls were now gone. Their boyfriends had come early for them. The house was free. She called up Bissick. He could come over. He asked her to make him a tall, cool lemonade. She had it waiting when he arrived.
He sat down on the living room couch, kissed her on the cheek, took off his shoes, put his feet on the coffee table and picked up his drink.
He sipped from it. Said, "aaah," kissed her again and said she made great lemonade. "What's with you and old man Hall?" he asked, glancing sideways at her.
She told him all about it. When she was done, he smiled. "What's new in the book business?" she asked, no longer willing to talk about herself.
He smiled, "Let me tell you about my line. When you hear about it your troubles will no longer sound as bad." He sipped again from his drink.
"Things stink. I used to own a mystery book club and so I tried to move hard and soft-cover mysteries. Secret agents, and that sort of shit. It was no go from the beginning."
"It was a disaster. Almost as much of a disaster as the gothics. All the genre categories are in bad shape. And no one knows why. I used to have a salesman who told me you can't go wrong with mysteries. They never die."
"That wasn't true with secret agent books. They became popular in the middle sixties with James Bond. But by sixty-eight, with all the crappy series on the market, they were beginning to die. And by nineteen seventy they were a dead issue on the market. Unless it was a secret agent story by a top writer you could not sell it to a publisher. I think that's when the market troubles started.
"Hope you don't mind my telling you all this. You're my shoulder to cry on."
"Not at all," she answered, knowing and realizing now, that as different as all these men were they used her to fuck and to cry on. The world of men was as confusing to her sometimes as the world of women had to be for men.
"In fact I think I've pinpointed the troubles of the market. It started with gothics. They were like a drug on the market. Women could not get enough of them. Then in sixty-seven they died. They just died. You couldn't sell them for three years. Then in seventy they suddenly came back. That Was the same year secret agent books died out."
"When the secret agent books came on the market the first time in strength, they knocked detective books for a loop. The detective books recovered, as the secret agents went down."
"I was selling my mystery book club about then. We didn't see the things as trends, just as seasonal fluctuations."
"Then, in seventy-one war books began to die. The stronger secret agent series began to die and the detective books too. It grew slowly, like a plague."
"By the winter of seventy-two detectives in hardcover were dying and this went for the big-timers too. Book clubs held back printings. You couldn't sell a detective novel. But you could still sell suspense. Then, in the summer of that year, it got better. Secret agents recovered. But not war books. I guess people were tired of Vietnam. That must have done it."
"In seventy-three you got a new phenomenon, mafia-avenger series. Every publisher must have done these clown books. You got all sorts of series. When the market for detective books, but not suspense, began to collapse again in the fall of that year, the series ' just ate into it."
"But these series, like the secret agent series of the sixties, were pure shit. They started to die slowly. You started to get an interest in books of the occult. Then historical novels."
"I think the detectives began to come back, when suddenly, the whole publishing business began to go on the blink. It began with hardcover. It usually does. I saw it in my store. It started in the spring of seventy-four. Then, by summer, it started to touch paperbacks. Neither I, nor anyone concerned with the matter gave it much thought. We're basically an entertainment line with highs and lows. I assumed like any trend it would last from a minimum of nine months to a maximum of eighteen."
"It was a funny line. Historical novels were flourishing. So was occult. Stuff on flying saucers, bestsellers. But then, they flourish in the worst of times. There was a surge in books about movie stars. The mafia books were still going strong. You could sell a lot of suspense. Quality sex novels were selling. But even here the fall was coming."
"By the fall of seventy-five hardcover should have been coming back. It wasn't. And then in the summer of seventy-five, all those horrible series began to die. I was sure it would have a bad effect on any recovery of the market. I expected a recovery in the beginning of seventy-six. Maybe it would be delayed a few months."
"But then hardcover did not get better. The market for series was totally dead. Suspense novels began dying. Paperback houses like Lancer, Award, Manor, Pyramid, and others floundered on the market."
"I found out the people I'd sold my mystery book club to, went under. My book stores sold less and less. I kept making excuses. It would be better the next year. It wasn't. There was a surge in science fiction. Then that died. It seems that when something gets popular in the movies or TV, it dies on the stands."
"I still don't understand you," she said, "I see books on the stands and people buying them."
The books you see on the stand are there maybe fouf weeks or more. They are weeded out and sent back to the warehouse. And then shipped someplace else. They're just not selling them. And if they're not selling, I'm not selling. And they don't buy from the authors, who suffer as much, if not more than the owners of the book stores."
"How long can you hold on?"
"Six, nine months. A lot of places are dying. A lot. Life ain't what it used to be."
"How about opening a grocery store?"
"They die too. And after being in the line I'm in, I can't see myself behind some counter selling pumpernickel."
"You've got a point there."
He bent towards her. "Hey listen, Joannie, I didn't come here for bullshit. I came because I know you're a chick I dig and want to be with to forget the cruel world."
She stood up and began to take her clothes off. "So let's start forgetting," she said with a smile.
He rose, a visible hard-on tenting his pants, drank the last of his lemonade. Then he put it on the coffee table and began to undress. He proved slower than she was. When his clothes were off, she was already naked, taking his clothes and putting them on the side, neatly folded.
Then he went to her, looking her body up and down. "I want you. Joanne. I want you on the couch."
"Okay," she said with a smile. He pulled her to him, kissed her on the lips and then his hand went to her cunt and touched it around and around, before he introduced two fingers up into her.
She knew he was hungry for her and liked that. She liked it that he was always after her and wanted to have a lot of sex. He was a hot blooded stud. The fact that she was making him so, only served to make her happier and randier for his cock.
"Love me, please," she said in a little girl voice. He smiled at her, almost in a fatherly way, she thought.
Then he said, "Lie down on the couch and spread those legs. I've got the strength of ten demons in my tongue and should be able to do a nice job there."
She lay down and spread her limbs, as he rose off the couch. One leg she put to the side so that it was half on the couch, half on the floor. The other leg she put on top of the back of the couch.
This left her raging red eye naked to his glance. The demons in her soul were already dancing. She felt a fine tremor down to her toes. It was a tremor she could not kick. It rose and fell like a barometer in her stomach, cunt and ass-hole. Her nipples tingled with the desire of the moment.
He sat on the couch, then bent sideways, resting an arm on the couch seat and letting his face fall between her limbs right above her muff. She saw only the top of his head and nose.
Then his tongue touched her. She shivered just at the thought of it. She shook like a dervish in heat. His tongue began to work her soft, furry cunt. His tongue licked around and around her pubic lips, matting down the hairs, making them thick and wet and glossy with the saliva of his good tongue.
She had her eyes shut. She was already humming with the tension of the moment. This was the best work she had ever gotten from Bissick.
He ceased his licking quickly enough and turned towards the better points of her gaping, red, eager cunt. His tongue now started on her pubic lips. They were plump and hot to the touch. She felt the sensations traveling through them and then the increase in sensations as his tongue began to lick up and down the length of her lips, first one, then the other. His tongue was like quicksilver, long and soft and hot. She gasped, opening her soft, moist mouth and throwing her head from side to' side. She wasn't even thinking any more, but merely reacting to the efforts of her lover.
From hp-to-lip he went, then back again. He continued to vary his movements to add a multiplicity of sensations to those traveling up through her cunt roots and into her brain to tickle her erotic enters. Bissick was wise enough to know that one movement against one point would deaden the center somewhat and result in a lower level of erotic pleasure sensations. So he varied and thereby reinforced the sensations traveling into her brain from other sex centers.
After a minute of this he stopped his licking. She' felt it and assumed his tongue muscles had started to give out. And he had stopped to give his tongue a rest. But he did not stop for long.
He was back at her pubic lips. He now began to nibble on the soft, succulent, pink flesh, nibbling on them the way a man would nibble on the earlobes of his beloved. Gently, yet with some sharpness and passion.
She loved it more than she loved the quicksilver licking of his tongue among her lotus petals of fleshy lustfulness. Joanne hissed. She gasped and twisted her body up and then fell back down. She felt him start now on her other pubic hp.
She began to make kissing noises as her lips kissed the air. She needed his cock so very much now, so very, very much. He was nibbling in small, light strokes from the top of her pubic lips on down. He was working her but good.
Joanne began to shiver with the waves of lust pounding and dancing through her. When he reached the bottom of her pubic lips Bissick began to climb back up with his fast working, experienced teeth.
He quickly changed his style to hp sucks. He would put his lips around her pubic lips and suck, then let go, suck, then let go, then move his lips down a bit lower.
The sensations, the sensations. She was shivering more and more. Her spasms moved outward from her cunt in concentric circles. They moved into her ass-hole and up into her belly. They touched her nipples and then her face. Joanne felt both her ass-hole and cunt sleeve undulate with the flames of satanic fire. She couldn't move and even felt breathing a bit difficult, so strong were the sensations passing through her body.
Bissick stopped these motions almost as soon as she reached this new stage. He lifted his face from her and seemed for a moment to be gazing into her loveliness, before he began to use his thumbnails on her soft, pink, pubic lips. He used them ever so gently, as so not to harm and cut her.
Moving along the edges of her now lust-swollen pubic lips, he scraped them lightly downwards with the broad edge of his thumbnails.
These sharp, thin lances of sensation that he stabbed into her tender flesh, made Joanne gasp and wiggle her hips. She groaned. She shuddered. She shook.
"Fuck me, fuck me, please," she begged.
But he was merciless. She would have to wait a while longer for his cock. Begging would do her spirit no harm. His nails now began to rake her pubic lip in an upward motion.
Going back over ground that had already been disturbed, made her shake even more. She had never known such delights as these. They were overwhelming. It was too much to behold. Never had she even imagined such things could be done to a woman or girl by a man.
Her flesh was more sensitive, the second time. She kept her hips grinding up and down, up and down. She was shaking like a leaf. It was almost as if she were drowning in a sea of pleasure, after some giant erotic dam had burst.
Bissick transferred his thumbnail to her other pubic lip. This was fresh territory. The sensations ripped into her with the power of a hundred trip hammer blows.
She tried to rise off the couch. She felt his hands pushing her down. The pressure was on her belly. It was a pressure without end. She went back down. But it wasn't over yet. This was a man hungry for nookie, a man who wouldn't take no for an answer.
His thumbnail reached the bottom of her twitching pubic lip. Now, he began to go upward. She gasped and sighed and hissed. But there was no end. It was a roller-coaster of sensual lust without limits.
Truly, not even the greatest sluts in history could have experienced such sensations, she thought to herself. The multiplicity of sensations, the unending flow, was almost too much. She was really getting out of breath now.
Now he pulled his face from her muff. It was time to work her tits. She was like putty in his hands. He may have had no more financial power. But he had power over her body. And that was all he wanted and needed. It was an urge almost as strong for him as sex itself.
His tongue began to lick her left nipple in back and forth slapping motions. He smiled as she responded. Then his face moved to her right nipple. He smiled as she responded. Then his face moved to her right nipple. He began to lick this too in a left and right flurry of motions.
He smiled as she seemed almost to lift up from the couch. But his hands pressed her firmly back. Now was the time to work her some more.
He put his lips around her nipple and began to deliver soft and suckling sucks to the nipple to make it longer and harder and to send even more sensations passing through her.
Her chest quivered with what he was doing. His mouth worked harder and delivered the sucks in flurries that came in waves. He transferred his mouth from her nipple to her other nipple and, after twenty seconds there, returned to the first nipple.
His hands moved up to her breasts and he began to squeeze them like palpitating timers working dough. He suckled and squeezed and then moved his mouth from breast to breast at the same time. It was exhausting work. But passion drove him on and on. There was no end to his lusting needs.
His hot lips now delivered flurries of butterfly kisses to her nipples, aureoles, and the rest of her breasts, sending fires through her chest.
Causing her to rotate her needing hips. He was making her good and hot. And he vowed to throw one of his best fucks into her.
Then Bissick stopped this too. Joanne sighed. She loved what he was doing, but it was becoming overwhelming, unmanageable, almost. She felt him positioning himself on the couch.
She was too far gone to open her eyes to look. But she knew when he laid his face down on her muff and put the palms of both hands, one on each inner thigh, down on her. She was being held open, wide open. The old lapper would now go to work and do his thing.
She felt his hot, experienced tongue go into her and lick the opening to her vaginal tunnel. Around and around his tongue went, rimming her. She hissed. His wetness and her inner wetness made it all so wonderful! Joanne loved this. His tongue was like his cock and a snake, all in one. It held the promise moreover, of moving deeper into her clutching, needing cunt tunnel.
The vision of his cock had been fading in her fevered mind, while he worked her cunt with mouth, nails, and hands. Now it was rising again in her star-studded heaven of visual delights.
Thousands of lights and shapes grew and died in the fervid, fevered field of her passionately aroused brain in milliseconds; too small to be recorded. She was barely aware of one set of sensations, when they died to be replaced by others.
It went on and on without end. She hungered for and needed more than she was getting. But his tongue kept on going round and round on the inner surface of her outer vaginal tunnel.
Joanne tried to rise, but was held down by the power of his hands on her inner thighs and by the power of his face over her trembling muff.
His tongue traveled from her cuntal tunnel to the trembling sentinel of her randy, stiffened clit. The man in the boat shivered as his tongue began to lash it left and right, up and down, bottom to top, sideways left and right.
She hissed and hissed. Her hips pushed up. He pushed down. Again, she pushed up. Again, he pushed down. She had not felt joy such as this in a long, long, time.
He kept on with his work. That tongue was so like quicksilver, she realized in those moments of great heat and need. It was so good it was fantastic.
Lashes of long, narrow, brilliant blue flew through her brain. They broke into twos and threes and disappeared off the dark screen of her erotic mind to be replaced by other lashes of brilliant blue and then by starbursts of blues and more starbursts.
The colors changed and changed again. The brilliant blues became washed out to be replaced by the throb of red and then dusky orange. The flames in her cunt became the brilliantly hued flames penetrating and rippling through her brain.
Then his mouth was lifted up and away from her cunt. It was no longer working her soft, sweet clit. His cock was hard and eager. Ready to go in her.
Joanne shivered with anticipation and delight. Fucking, sweet fucking! It was all so wonderful, so marvelous! So truly remarkable and lovely.
She imagined in her mind his hard, swaying member. Then, she felt him start to change position. He was going to plunge it into her. Her cunt began to shiver in response. This was the moment she had waited and lusted after.
The shaking began to get worse. Only now she couldn't hold it in anymore. She felt Bissick get over her. Her arms reached for him. Joanne pulled him to her also, opening her legs wide, making of her cunt art easy target, one that couldn't be missed, even by a blind man.
Her fingernails dug into his back. She felt him start to insert himself. The passion inside her was like a raging lion. She needed this cock, she needed it badly. It wasn't something she couldn't do without. If he died, she thought for one shocked moment, she would not be able to go on living, not without his cock inside her.
His cockhead touched the inside of her cunt. She shook like a spastic. Then he made a movement and three inches of sausage was buried inside her. Joanne could no longer wait. She heaved up, and all of him was buried within her. Her hungry, needing cunt had him in one plunge.
Now, she squeezed at him with her excited cunt muscles. His cock was caught in a tight fit. Her swollen pussy had him and held him. He began to pull out and back so he could plunge right back into her. She couldn't bear to see his beloved cock leave her hot, demanding hole.
She rose up with him. But Bissick was able to pull out faster than she could keep swallowing his hard meat.
Before she could feel a sense of disappointment, Bissick plunged back into her hard, needing pussy. She shook like a dervish. It was a damned feeling she had never experienced.
He pulled out again. She swung her legs around his waist to hold him in a clamp of steel. He was able to pull back, even with this.
His next plunge into her dripping, heated quim, was like a jolt from a mighty battering ram. It was the cannon of his cock enjoying her charms.
She shook like a stuck pig with his rammings. It was delightful. Her hungering cunt clutched and clutched at his firm manhood. She loved that hot, meat straightening out her insides.
His cock rammed up right into her very womb opening. It seemed about to smash through and plunge into her womb. But it never quite did. Instead, he continued his piston-jabbing into her frothing, fluttering cunt. Her cunt sleeve clutched and clutched at him like a hungry mouth without teeth. She chewed at that big hard cock, without ever stopping. His fine cock rammed through all opposition, plumbing the depths of her cranny and sailing on out again.
like a big brass arm striking a bell in a high tower, so did his cock plunge in and out of her, trying to strike the bell of her womb opening.
He was fucking the cunt out of her. Joanne thrilled to the fact that this was one of the finest cocks she had ever experienced. Fine cock, was great cock. She wanted him to fuck the living guts out of her. To keep fucking her wet, steaming cunt for the rest of her life. She knew it was impossible, but women can dream and lust for the cocks of tomorrow; at least she had his cock today.
Her legs around his waist pumped up and down, bashing her up into him. She was leaving big red marks all up and down his back. This did not matter. All that mattered was riding that big, red cock to glory and true fulfillment. So she rode it like a rider on a mighty steed, plunging home to win the Kentucky Derby.
She twisted, twitched, and fed on that cock. Her soul was filled with cock hunger. She knew then she was just a slut at heart. But that did not matter. All that mattered was getting that big cock in and out of her' as fast and hard as possible. It was cock she wanted and cock she was getting. Big and hard and hairy; always ready to run into her mouth, her cunt or her twitching, hungering, ass-hole.
Joanne began to heave up into him, as he came down into her. Their bodies smashed into one another, again and again. The mutual friction doubled by this action, created a greater heat in her cunt and in his cock. She felt his meat grow because of this.
She now thrilled to the feel of two bodies crashing into one another like rams butting heads. She felt his sweaty belly slap hers and slapped back.
She added a wiggle to her hips, going first this way and then that way. She was really moving that meat. He was beginning to breathe very heavily.
She was aware of the fact that her stud was being taxed very heavily by this fucking. Normally, she would have let up. But not this time. She put more heart and effort into the thing. She did not give an inch in her good work.
Her cunt was a hot sleeve that gripped and twisted and swallowed. She wanted him badly. That cock was so good. She wanted him to shoot his load into her. She wanted to get her rocks off. But she was not near her peak yet.
Joanne just concentrated on the hard pounding of his cock, thinking only of that and nothing more. She tried to envision it inside of her. A hard ram, smashing in, sliding out. Smashing in, sliding out.
It pounded up into her. It rode hard and fast, greased by the cunt juices flowing from her. She needed that big cock more than she had ever needed anything before in all her life. At that moment it was her entire reason for living.
She shook with fine tremors as the heat rose by several notches. It was now keeping her brain in a low boil. She sweated with the fever of this potent thing.
Suffering from fuck fever, her head whirled round and round. The colored lights appeared again and again. They were flashes at first, red and yellow; then, purple and white; then, single colors alone.
Her cunt was beginning to ripple around his cock. To massage like a whirlpool of flesh. In sideways and up and down motions. She squeezed her cunt muscles together, squeezing at the cock plowing furrows in and out of her randy cunt. She made it harder for his cock to move. But his instrument proved a mighty battering ram and one she could not hold for long.
She was wiggling her hips from side to side and pounding up and down, into him, meeting his incoming strokes. Gladly, she accepted the plunges of his bare hard tool, rippling and squeezing as it entered, and doing the same as it left. She slid down the pole of flesh on her backward strokes, off his cock. This again sent a counter friction along his cock and through her cunt.
Each of the inward and outward strokes irritated slicked flesh by the force of objects, each going in differing directions. Each stroke sent a fresh burst of electron-like energy into her cunt, and from there into her ass-hole. Both were burning up with desire and lust.
The desires and lusts of fucking machines. Of men and women who live for the day, but forget tomorrow. She knew now she was destined to be no more than a living penis receptacle for men. One who sucked and fucked her life away.
With a husband who was no husband, but merely a stopover stud. And a son who lived for pussy. And two daughters who probably also did the same; and who would one day also grow up to be very like their mother.
She wondered one second about Barcelona Bob and where he was and what his thoughts were. But then she forgot all about him, as the passions got her hotter and higher.
"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," she shouted, as she was brought close to the edge of eternity by his good stroking.
