There are few individuals who have not experienced an occasion when they were apt to question something about their own behavior. Deluged with a mountain of magazine and newspaper articles, books, and television programs dealing with various facets of human behavior, we are likely to sift through this information or that, trying to learn where we fit on the so-called curve of normalcy. Unfortunately, conflicting opinions and data leave us with lingering doubts.
And, as in this novel, when those doubts are brought into the open and challenged, concern over normalcy can lead one to take drastic measures. Such is the fate which confronts Trisha Randall, a young Navy wife from the south who finds her norm challenged by a relatively frank open-minded life-style in Southern California.
THE WIFE WATCHER provides a clue as to how Trisha Randall will resolve her dilemma. It is an entertaining story which may hold many valuable lessons for a large portion of our diverse population.
-The Publisher
THE WIFE WATCHER
This novel is a fictional creation and the publisher bears no responsibility for names of characters and/or places that may coincidentally resemble actual persons or places. All models photographed or depicted on the front cover are eighteen years of age or older. Copyright (c) 1976 by Greenleaf Classics, Inc. All rights reserved under original copyright. No duplication of any part of this novel is permitted without the express written consent of the publisher.
PRINTED AND BOUND IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
ISBN 1-55952-253-4
CHAPTER ONE
Fargo Langworth loved to watch wives getting fucked.
Like now when he was watching Wardell "Well Hung" Hoskins putting the old cockmeat to his wife Melba.
It was exciting to watch.
Very exciting.
Because it was in vivid color, the kind of brilliant color that would do the feathers of a peacock proud. And, there was sound. Fargo could hear every whisper, every sucking, smucking, plucking noise they made as they fucked away merrily.
Fargo leaned forward, adjusted his Sony TV set. Ah, that was better. Now he could hear subtle sounds like the obscene noise that Wardell's fourteen-inch prick made every time it entered Melba's frothy pussy. Now, he could hear her pussy froth some more. And Fargo knew it was the sound of a pussy frothing because he could see Melba's pussy opening and closing with every jerking thrust of her husband's prick.
Fargo leaned back, popped a can of Hamm's and played with his prick.
Ah, very interesting. A little variation in Melba's voice tonight. More impassioned and full of ecstatic vibrancy.
Fargo glanced at the calendar on the wall, saw where he had jotted Hoskins Fuck beneath the March 7th date. Shit, no wonder. Melba hadn't been fucked for two weeks. Shit, she was long overdue. Christ, Melba was a normal-type woman who had to have her monthly ration of cock just like every other normal, horny housewife.
Fargo envied Warden's prick. He guzzled some beer, felt cold drops of ale on his bloated prick-head. Jesus! He didn't want to look at his cock. Didn't want to be reminded of his prick. Because his cock wasn't hung enough, or big enough, or strong enough to do things to a woman's cunt like what Warden's prick was doing to his wife's pussy.
Fargo despised his eight-inch prick because it made him feel pretty fucking inadequate. Especially when he knew that the national average was eight inches-when a cock's soft and flaccid and unerect. And double especially when everyone knows the national average is well over twelve-inches when a cock's hard and solid and erect.
Fargo looked away from his shameful, less-than-double-handful of prick. He preferred to watch Wardell's bludgeon-like prick of fourteen inches make a sloppy fuck-pile of a mess of his wife's cunt as it moved in and out, in and out.
Fargo turned crimson. No, not his cock, his face. Shit, that was another thing about his inadequate eight-inch prick that was shameful. There was no way in the world he could ever fuck a woman for more than two minutes or for more than ten strokes, depending which came first, of course. Yeah, Fargo was simply one of those early climaxers, a man cursed by being born with an over eager eight-inch prick.
Shit! Fuck! Piss!
Fargo knew he wasn't normal. He knew that he wasn't a good fucker, because a lot of women he had fucked had told him that he couldn't fuck worth a rat's ass shit.
Like that fucking Annabelle Quigly from his hometown of Hackettsville. She was the first cunt to tell him that he couldn't fuck worth a rat's ass shit.
Of course, Fargo was only nine then. And Annabelle was eighteen, and she was used to getting fucked because she had eighteen brothers who had made lots of dry runs at makin' babies with Annabelle. And the only reason she had been stuck with Fargo on this occasion was because it was World War I and all the men in Hackettsville had been drafted and sent as one regiment to fight in the battle of the Marne under the guise of being doughboys who had promised to defend sisters and mothers that they had fucked once or twice.
And, since Annabelle was eighteen and very pretty, she was naturally attracted to pricks. Which makes sense for most American girls who are eighteen and very pretty. Even the small, wee prick she held in her hands was an attraction as they lay in the hay in the Longworth barn amidst the oinks of pigs and the moos of cows and the sounds of mules farting.
Annabelle was surprised that little Fargo had such a small prick for a nine-year-old boy. Shit, her brother Jubal, who was only seven, had a bigger prick than Fargo's.
"Fargo, don't ya eat any hominy grits?"
Fargo didn't understand. Shit, he was only nine and he didn't know which end of a mule to fuck yet, let alone what the hell to do with an eighteen-year-old, pretty girl who had fuzz between her legs and fucking on her mind.
"Nope. Why?"
"What'n hell's wrong with your ma? Shit, you tell yer ma that hominy grits makes big pricks. Sheeeeiiiiitttt, Fargo. All my brothers eat hominy grits, and look at how big their pricks are."
Fargo was dumbstruck. He didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to respond. Shit, he was only nine and he only had three hairs on his nuts, and his balls hadn't fully descended yet. And, hellfire, he'd never seen her brothers bare-assed naked before. And double hell fire, because if it was true what Annabelle was saying about eating hominy grits, then why the hell didn't she have a big prick?
"Annabelle, you eat hominy grits?"
"Shit, yeah. Gotta eat 'em, 'cause Pa makes all of us eat 'em."
"Then how come you don't have no prick?"
"HUH?!"
"How come you don't have no prick if you say you eat all them hominy grits all the time?"
"What are you, Fargo? Some dumb-ass rat-fucker?! How the hell am I supposed to have a prick! Shit, Fargo, women don't have pricks-women got cunts. Like mine."
"What's a cunt?"
"Oh, shit, Fargo! Ain't you never seen a calf being born?"
"Yep."
"Well that big ole crack that the calf comes out of ain't the cow's shitter, you know! That crack's the cow's cunt!"
Fargo blinked his eyes, perplexed. Oh, he had seen a calf-drop before, and he had seen where the calf had dropped from, and he had even noticed that gooey shit that came out after the calf already dropped. But nobody had told him that that was a cunt. Shit, he'd never even heard anybody say cunt before. V "Well," Fargo said, feeling uncomfortable because Annabelle had a firm grip on his cock as it stuck out of his coveralls, "is yer cunt as big as Daisy's, Annabelle?"
"Who the fuck's Daisy? Yer sister?"
Fargo chuckled. "No. Oh, no. Daisy's over in that stall."
Annabelle turned, rolled her eyes as she watched Daisy dragging her udders across the cow-shitted barn floor.
Fargo squirmed as Annabelle's fist grabbed his prick. It felt like his cock was in his pa's workbench vise.
"Aaaaaiiieeee!"
"Listen Fargo. Yer pretty fuckin' stupid."
The pain was awful. Fargo had never known that his prick could feel pain like that awful pinching pressure Annabelle was applying as her fingers gouged into his four-inch prick. He squirmed and sweated and tried to focus on Annabelle's face.
"Listen, Fargo. I'm gonna teach you about cunts and cocks, and all 'bout fuckin'. And you better listen, and listen up good. Because if you don't, I'm gonna take your daddy's shovel and pretend your prick's a gopher's head. And that shovel's gonna come right down, right here!"
"AAAAAIIIIEEEEE!"
God! Right here was right where she was gripping his reddening prick. Fargo couldn't believe it! He was only nine years old, and he didn't want to know about fucking and sucking yet, even though his older sisters always talked about it between Bible-reading sessions. No! He didn't want to know. Not if it meant pain. Not if it meant his prick would feel like a lopped-off gopher's head. Oh, God!
Annabelle smiled, eased up on his prick. "Ya listen good, Fargo, and you do everythin' I say. Got it?"
Little Fargo was in a bent-over position, a vomiting stance, only his hands weren't at his mouth to catch the bile that threatened to erupt from his throat but they were at his cock, making sure that everything felt all right.
Annabelle waited for an answer. But then she didn't wait for an answer because the little fucking kid was acting like his stomach was full of overcooked hominy grits and he was retching what he had just eaten.
Annabelle made him stand up.
Well, actually, her hand made him stand up.
In fact, any man would have stood up quickly because of the way Annabelle grabbed Fargo's tender little balls and started squeezing the cum out of them.
Fargo's eyes bulged. His freckles turned crimson. His lips curled. His face was a mask of agony. His asshole felt as if it were turning inside out.
His balls! God! His balls were being crushed!
He opened his mouth to scream, to scream in God's merciful name, to beg and plead with Annabelle to release his balls.
Annabelle watched that mouth open wide. She watched those eyes open wide. She knew agony when she saw it because sometimes grabbing a guy's balls was the only way to get their fucking attention. Shit, when a girl lives with eighteen brothers who only have fucking their sister on their mind instead of minding the chores like milking the cows and breeding the goats, then ball-grabbing is the only way for a woman to keep them in line.
Annabelle waited until Fargo's mouth looked as if it had sucked in fourteen flies out of the million that swarmed in flocks in the Longworth barn. Then, she attacked. Not the flies-Fargo.
She grabbed the back of his head as hard as she was grabbing his balls. And as she pulled him toward her, she moved forward.
"Oooooohhhhh, Fargo! Suck my tittie! SUCK IT, CHILD! SUCK IT!"
Fargo felt like a puppet-a puppet controlled by a drunk puppeteer. His limbs were scrabbling this way and that, his prick was slapping this way and that, his legs were rubbery just like his cock, and he wanted to shit with fear through an asshole that felt inside-out. Agony made him act like that, made him act like a puppet controlled by an epileptic puppeteer.
Fargo wanted to scream. But he was choking on tit while his balls were being squeezed to death.
No! He didn't want to learn about fucking and sucking-not if it was this painful!
His balls felt like the times he played mumbledy peg and the fucking knife had scraped his balls-only worse.
His balls felt like the time he was jumping up and down on the old birch log that bridged his daddy's creek and he had ended up straddling the fucking log-only worse!
"MMMMMGGGFFFFFF!"
How could he tell Annabelle to let go of his balls? How could he tell her that he had never milked a girl's udders with his mouth before?
God! What could he do?
Annabelle slowly released his balls.
"Mmmmmmm."
Her hominy-gritted breath was at his ear as Fargo's face was shoved against her tits. "You listen good, Fargo. Or the next time I swear I'll use yer daddy's shovel to cut off your prick and your balls if you don't do like I say. Got it?"
Fargo nodded as best he could. It was hard, though, because his face was surrounded by so much tit. "Mmmmm-hhhmmmmmm."
"Good. Now, keep suckin' my titties and play a little with my pussy, Fargo."
Play with her pussy? What was a pussy?
Oh, God! Fargo wanted to die. He'd never played a game called pussy before. But maybe it wasn't a game. Maybe it was a place on a woman's body!
Fargo desperately ran his hands up and down Annabelle's spine. He didn't know what a pussy was or where it was, but he was desperate, and his hands made desperate movements up and down her spine, then to her asscheeks.
Was that a pussy? No, couldn't be. His pa called that the shitter, but maybe, just maybe, woman called her shitter a pussy.
Fargo's finger entered her asshole which was something his pappy called a shitter and which he hoped women called their pussy.
"Fargo! Oooooohhhh, God! Fargo! That's it! Suck my titties! Fuck my shitter!"
Fargo's eyes opened wide. With a mouthful of tit, he looked up into Annabelle's sweating face. God! Women called their shitters shitters, too!
And she had said fuck! God, if this was fucking then fuckin' was easy. All a guy had to do was have a couple of fingers and stick them into a woman's shitter and then he could boast that he'd fucked a woman.
Fargo wanted to smile, but because his mouth was in an O shape instead of a U shape, it was hard to smile. Especially when Annabelle was trying to stuff more tit-meat into his mouth. Especially when the sweat was running off her brow and her cheeks and her chin and dripping onto his sweaty face.
Fargo blinked his eyes and continued fucking Annabelle's shitter.
"Aaaaaiiiieeee! Fuck my shitter! Fuck "my shitter! You little fucker! FUCK MY SHITTER! SUCK MY TITTIE! FUCK MY SHITTER!"
Now little Fargo was really getting into the groove of things. Shit, fucking was nothing. Fucking was so fuckin' easy it was like learning which end of a mule to feed. Christ! Fuckin' was like second nature-like learning to breathe, or making sure there were enough cornhusks in the outhouse so's a person could wipe their ass after shittin'.
"AAAAIIIIEEEE! YOU LITTLE FUCKER! GOOOODDDAAMMMNNNN! OHHHH!"
Fargo's finger was tiring. And his knuckle ached as bad as the time he had to play seventeen games of keepsies marbles to determined the nine-year-old champion of the Hackettsville Marble Invitational. But he kept fuckin' because he didn't want his fucking balls to feel like a dead gopher's head.
"Aaaaiiiieee! All right, you fucker! Now play with my pussy! Play with my pussy! Finger my pussy, Fargo! But keeping fuckin' my ass!"
Fargo's trembling left hand went into desperate search. He searched her shoulder blades. Moved to her face. Found her nose hot and sweaty Felt her pimples and the wart with the one hair on it beneath her right eye. Felt her angry words against his palm.
"MOTHERFUCKER! QUIT FUCKING AROUND WITH MY FACE! Aaaaaaiiiiieee! God! My tittie feels so good! My shitter-keep fuckin' my shitter! God! FARGO! HURRY-FINGER MY PUSSY!"
Fargo wanted to cry. Shit, he was only nine years old. And he didn't know anything about a woman's body. Oh, he knew now that women had shitters like guys did. Because he could smell the foulness of her fingered shitter and it certainly didn't smell any different than those times there weren't any cornhusks in the outhouse and he had had to wipe his ass bare-handed.
Then Fargo figured it all out. Women weren't the same as guys. Oh no! Gee! He had never really thought about it before-but it was true.
Women were built more bumpy in certain places than men. Like those things called titties that he had called udders. Why, damn right! Men didn't have titties on their chest. Remarkable. Shit, yeah! Men had hair on their chest and women didn't. Women didn't because women had titties sprouting on their chest instead of hairs. Simple.
And women felt softer than a man. Gee! Yeah, like Annabelle felt like silk while a man's skin felt like year-old watermelon rind.
And women didn't have pricks either!
Remarkable.
But ... but ... THAT WAS IT!
Women didn't have pricks just like they didn't have hairs on their chests, or rather on their titties. Men had hairs on their chests and they had pricks and balls between their legs. Women had tits on their chests, so ... THE PUSSY WAS BETWEEN HER LEGS!
Fargo's hand slapped Annabelle's cunt.
Thwack!
"AAAAIIIIEEEE! YOU MOTHERFUCKER! Not so hard! Christ! My pussy's hot like the hind end of a mule!"
Fargo soon discovered that a woman's pussy didn't feel like the hind end of a mule. For one thing, a woman had something that felt like a hole between their legs. But it didn't feel like a real hole because it wasn't really round. And sometimes he could find her hole and sometimes he couldn't because everything was so damned slippery. He pressed up high in her pussy, trying to find the elusive hole again.
"AAAIIIIIEEEEE! MY CLIT! Fargo! My clit! Ooooohhhh, Goddddd! Finger my clit!"
Fargo didn't know what to do. His hand paused.
Her clit? Oh, God! Where were all these strange-sounding things on a woman's body? The only thing that hadn't sounded strange was her shitter.
But cunt? But pussy? And now clit?
God! What could he do? He was only nine and he only had three hairs on his dull-aching balls and he was scared shitless that if he didn't find something called a clit on Annabelle's body, then she was going to chop up his testicles with his daddy's shovel!
Fargo moved his hand farther south, then farther east-towards his other shitter-fucking fingers. God, he felt and he felt and he felt and he waited and waited and waited for Annabelle to groan out that he had found her clit.
But Annabelle was silent. Well, not totally silent, because his finger was helping her bowels create a lot of farts as he fingered her shitter.
Fffffaaaarrrrttttt.
"YOU MOTHERFUCKER! You're makin' me fart! Finger my clit!"
Fargo stabbed blindly at the flesh that separated one stinky hole from the other, or her cunt from her shitter, or her pussy from her asshole-God! They were so hard to remember.
Fargo wanted to piss on the barn floor. Fargo wanted to run out of Daddy Longworth's barn and find Momma Longworth, tell her to fetch the shotgun and shoot Annabelle dead. He didn't want to have his balls separated from his body by this pappy's sharp shovel. It would be like those times he watched his pa killing all them cute gophers in the rutabaga patch-lopping off their heads with a sharp shovel.
"YOU FUCKER, FARGO! GODDAMN! DON'T YOU KNOW WHERE A CLIT IS?"
Ffffffaaaarrrrtttt.
Tears ran down Fargo's eyes. Salty tears dribbled down his cheeks and joined the sweat trickles that ran down Annabelle's tits, before they mingled on his lips as his mouth was smothered by her tits. He shook his head, instinctively feeling his balls and prick before they were guillotined by his daddy's sharp shovel.
Fargo's head suddenly felt like his balls had felt when Annabelle had squeezed the cum out of them. Only Fargo's head wasn't full of cum, it was full of tears, because the harder her hands pressed against his ears the faster the tears flowed.
Annabelle forced his head down ... way down south to that same place where his hand had been when he had luckily found her pussy without knowing that women called their cunts pussies. Or their pussies cunts. Or whatever.
"Look between my legs, Fargo!"
Fargo looked. Now he knew that what he had felt with his fingers only one minute and ten seconds ago was not a hole.
No sirreeee! No hole ever looked like that. Not unless holes came with meaty flaps that oozed with some kind of sweaty liquid.
No sirrreeee! The only hole Fargo had known, because he was only nine years old, were chuck holes and knotholes and the one manhole cover that was on Hackettsville's main street and, of course, gopher holes. God-no, he didn't want to be reminded of gophers.
"Open up my cunt!"
Fargo gingerly opened up Annabelle's cunt. God! There was a hole down near the end of the slit! But this hole, this cunt, this woman's pussy, whatever she had called it, felt so squeamish-like the times they had to gut the mule deers so they could have Christmas dinner and Fargo was always given the task of reaching into all that squeamish, gutted open mess to fetch the liver so his mom could make liver pie baked with three pounds of crushed walnuts.
Fargo couldn't believe it! A woman's cunt felt just like mule deer guts.
And that smell! Fargo sniffed the air around her cunt. Gosh! Walnuts-crushed walnuts! Yess-sirrreee!
Annabelle watched Fargo sniffing her walnutty, mule deer-gut pussy. She pooched out her cunt at him as if her brother Aaron was standing behind her, shoving the handle end of a pitchfork into her ass. Which was not an unreal metaphor because it had really happened.
"MMMMGGGGFFFFF!"
Fargo wanted to die! He was being suffocated- drowned by the dizzying stench of mule deer guts and crushed walnuts.
God! No! He was only nine years old! Old enough to know that it just wasn't right to try and crawl back into a cunt just like the one he had come out of. It didn't seem right.
God! What was Annabelle doing?
"Suck my pussy! Oh, God! Fargo! Suck my pussy! EAT IT ALL OUT! GET IT ALL, FARGO, BABY!"
Eat? How can a person eat when they couldn't breathe? How could he eat when he felt as if the guts of a mule deer had come alive and had become a huge mouth that was threatening to devour his face?
No! Fargo couldn't eat. Fargo didn't know how to eat pussy. Fargo didn't want to eat pussy that tasted like mule deer liver and crushed walnuts. God! He was only nine years old!
Annabelle was going wild. Going mad with what his nose was doing to her clit as she tried to use his face for an oversized prick. She tightened her grip on his ears, grasped his head as if it were an oversized corncob to wipe off whatever was on her pussy instead of her ass.
Then she went to town.
First bruising her" clit against his nose, and feeling sparks of heavenly electricity all through her flesh.
Then moving her clit against the bridge of his nose and thrusting her cunt-hole against Fargo's blubbering lips.
"Mmmmmfffffggggg! Bbbbbblllluuubb-beeerrrr!"
"God Fargo! Whatta cunt-eater! WHAT A FUCKIN' MEAT-EATER!"
Fargo felt faint. Air-he needed air! Not walnuts! Not mule deer liver! Just plain, old-fashioned, cow-dungy barn air! God! He didn't want to die. Not like this. Not when he was only nine years old.
Then there was air.
Aaaahhhhh.
Fargo was surrounded by the cool stench of cow shit and horse shit and pig shit-and nothing had smelled better to him in his nine years of existence.
He gulped in some more horse shit stench.
Then his head felt like a pair of crushed balls again as he was forced back to chewing mule deer liver and breathing crushed walnuts.
"Aaaaaaiiiieee! Oh, God! Fargo! Eat my pussy! Eat it all! Oh, God! Lick my clit! Stick out your tongue and lick my clit!"
Fargo stuck out his tongue. Stuck out his tongue like most nine-year-olds would do if they're forced to eat liver pie filled with three pounds of crushed walnuts. Yeeeechhh!
Annabelle shoved her clit against Fargo's stuck-out tongue.
"Oooohhhhh! There! Right there! Fargo! MY CLIT! LICK MY CLIT!"
Fargo licked. Gee, things weren't so bad when he licked a woman's clit. At least he could breathe-breathe a mixture of foul barn odors and the gut-wrenching aroma of crushed walnuts. But at least he could breathe. He licked her clit like crazy because Fargo liked to breathe.
"AAAAAIIIIIEEEE! Whatta tongue! Whatta goddamn tongue! Better 'n Pa's!"
Fargo's tongue moved rapidly back and forth, flicked this way and that, did twirls and whirls and swirls all over that pimple-sized bump that Annabelle called a clit that was on the northern end of her pussy cunt.
"AAAAIIIEEEE! That's it! I'm Ccccooommm-iiinnnggg! Keep tonguing my clit! Give me that tongue, Fargo! Keep it up, baby!"
Coming? Where was Annabelle coming too? From afar?
Fargo tried to glance up and see what kind of expression was on Annabelle's face. But he couldn't see past the linty locks of her that covered his eyes like a pair of Groucho Marx false eyebrows. And it was doubly hard to see because he had to stick out his tongue so far to reach that thing she called a clit that it was impossible to make his tongue stretch any farther while he tried to lean away from that walnut odor in order to see what Annabelle meant by coming.
"Iiiiiiiii'mmmmmmm cccccoooMMMMM-IIIINNNGGG!"
CHAPTER TWO
Fargo played with his prick while his mind played with images of Annabelle and her cunt/pussy/clit/shitter.
Fargo sighed. How many years ago was that? Let's see-World War I, about 1918, eighteen from seventy-three was fifty-five, add nine years to that: age sixty-four.
Whew. That was a long time for a man to feel inadequate about his eight-inch prick. Shit.
Fargo tried to get interested in what was happening on the Sony.
Wardell was pulling his fourteen-inch, very adequate, cock out of his wife's pussy and sticking it in about one inch lower into her ... into her shitter!
God! Melba was going to get her ass fucked! Jesus!
Fargo almost knocked over the can of Hamm's in his hurry to consult the little black book that lay on the coffee table beside him. He fumbled through condoms, dildoes, a copy of a fuck book titled Connie's Young Lover, some Ritz cracker crumbs, loose hominy grits-aha! There it was!
Fargo opened the black book, looked under H Let's see ... Hamilton ... Hippocrates ... Hoskins!
Yep, there it was. His finger moved to the right margin where a scrawled note said: Melba gets shitter-fucked for two hours on 2/28/73 at around midnight.
Well, shit! No wonder they were ass-fucking and shit-reaming now. Old Melba hadn't been rear-ended for about three weeks. And Melba Hoskins was the type of woman who couldn't satisfy the burning hunger in her ass.
No sirrreeee! Melba Hoskins needed her asshole reamed at least once a month.
Fargo remembered four years ago when the Hoskins had moved into their apartment and he had watched Melba go searching through the unpacked boxes, desperately trying to find her asshole dildo.
Fargo would never forget the look of supreme relief on Melba's face when she opened up one of the Tupperware bowls and found her favorite asshole dildo.
Jesus! That asshole dildo was something else. It was obvious that it was made for a woman's hungry, horny, hot asshole. Although it had a cock shape, it was bent in the middle-and it had little lewd things sticking all around the head, little flappy things that could really get into a woman's asshole and do a lot of sanitary reaming of her rectum.
In short, it looked like Cupid's stringless bow that had been gnawed and chewed on the end by a beaver-no, not a pussy beaver, one with buck teeth and a paddleboard for a tail instead of a pair of hot-ass buns.
And, up close, it looked like an enema tube that had been blown off at one end by a cherry bomb.
And, in an asshole, it was a vicious little thing.
Like it looked absolutely painful the way Melba had to force that asshole dildo deeper and deeper and deeper into her shit-chute. Fargo knew it was painful because Melba's asshole looked worse than her cunt, or rather, better than her cunt, depending if you were a pussy man or an ass man.
But, since Fargo was a pussy man who had never fucked any woman's ass with his inadequate, shameful, eight-inch prick, her asshole definitely looked worse than her pussy.
God! How could something four inches in diameter and two feet long possibly fit into a woman's shitter?
It was remarkable. Also astounding and incredible. For one thing, Fargo had later gone out and bought fourteen medical textbooks with plenty of anatomical illustrations of a woman's guts to see if there was that much rectum, or colon, or lower intestine, or, as he preferred to call it, shitter, for something two feet long and four inches wide.
Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere in all those illustrations was it possible for a woman's shitter to be straight enough to swallow an asshole dildo two feet long! It was physically impossible!
But what Fargo saw on the Sony that day defied all those color charts of twisting, bending colons. Jesus! It was amazing ... incredible ... nobody would believe it-not even Ripley!
But Melba had groaned and moaned and writhed and moved like her body was covered with flesh-eating ants-and the asshole dildo was going all the way into her rectum!
Fargo's eyes were as big as Melba's asshole, maybe bigger. Because now Fargo was watching Melba shit out her dildo, her asshole squeezing down on the synthetic cocky thing. And the asshole dildo oozed out, crawled out, slimed out. It was like science fiction. That thing coming out of her ass was alive! It was as if nature had gone awry, and Melba was giving birth to an ugly creature with her asshole instead of her cunt.
Fargo was going ape-shit. He wanted to scream, wanted to run outside and scream to the world that he was seeing something unbelievable. Better than a circus freak show. Better than watching that chick in Deep Throat do her thing. Better than watching childbirth. Better than watching Fay Wray getting fucked in the ass by King Kong. Better than the Blob fucking the Hulk and creating a baby monster big enough to devour Tallahassee.
It was unbelievable.
Then it became doubly unbelievable.
Look at that! Look at Melba's ass! God!
Because now that asshole dildo was crawling back into her asshole ... but Melba wasn't using her hands! No! She wasn't shoving an asshole dildo into her ass, yet it was going back in her rectum by itself. Yes! Readily!
Her asshole was like a mouth, like a vacuum cleaner with a starfish's mouth for a nozzle, and it was sucking that asshole-dildo back into her bowels.
No! No! No!
Houdini couldn't have done it! Could he? And if he could, would he? Would people have paid to watch Houdini make a rabbit disappear up her ass?
No! This was impossible! No woman-maybe not even a gay guy-could have that much control over the muscles of her/his ass! Could he/she? Would he/she?
Fargo began to sweat. He knew he was watching the ninth wonder of the world. He was watching something that no man had ever seen before-an asshole that could eat and gobble and chew of its own accord!
Who would have believed it?
Fargo closed his eyes. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it was a nightmare.
He opened his eyes. No! Her asshole was still alive. Her asshole dildo was still alive. Maybe it was an illusion, a mirage, a psychic event, a fateful foreboding of what happens when people use too much Preparation H and their hemorrhoids become monstrous things they can't control any more ... like rectal cancer or an asshole infection or some other dreaded disease with no end in sight.
But no! It was real all right. Because Fargo heard something that sounded very real.
Fffffaaaarrrttt!
No, God! No! There wasn't room for a fart! Her asshole was plugged wall to wall, end to end, back to front, top to bottom! No fart could possible escape around that thick asshole dildo! No!
Fargo almost fainted. He almost fainted because his prick was now eight and one-sixteenth inches long. And it was typically inadequate and over eager because his coveralls were smeared with jism.
It was then that Fargo realized that what he was seeing on his nineteen-inch Sony screen was very real. Because his ejaculation had cleared his head of any kind of erotic fog. Now he saw clearly. Now he heard very clearly.
Fffffaaaarrrrttt!
Now he was certain that what he was seeing very clearly was simply a woman who had mastered her asshole, who controlled her rectum just like her mouth. She was simply a yoga who, instead of swallowing strings and pulling them out of nasal passages, swallowed dildoes with her asshole and pushed them in and out like a cock. Yes, everything was very clear now.
Fargo shook his head of the memory of Melba's talented asshole. Then he was brought back to his present circumstances by the blaring noises coming over the Sony.
"Oooooh, Melba! How do you do that? God! Your asshole feels so fucking good! God, squeeze my cock again!"
Fargo watched Melba's face squinch up, watched it get wrinkly like a year-old prune, then he watched the effects of what she was concentrating on.
It was obvious she was concentrating on the hard-on that was buried a foot deep in her rectum. She was doing a very good job of concentrating.
"Aaaaaiiiieee! Your asshole's like a mouth! Squeeze my cock again! Squeeze the shit out of - my cock with your asshole mouth! OHHHHH, MELBA, WHAT AN ASSHOLE!"
Fargo watched Melba squeeze the shit out of Warden's prick, using her mouth-like asshole. Fargo was amazed, and he was envious. Not envious of Melba. But envious of Wardell. God! He wanted to bury his eight inadequate inches in Melba's ass. He wanted his cock to be an enema-shaped Cupid's bow and flush out Melba's waste system like Draino.
Fargo leaned forward, pushed the zoom button on the console. The camera whirred silently, moving forward, toward the joining of a fourteen-inch, adequate cock and a mouth-like asshole.
Another push of the button and Fargo was only inches away from the colorful vision of hemorrhoids and cock-veins, from specks of what Melba had eaten for dinner last night and from drops of pre-cum ooze that made Warden's prick glisten.
God! Fargo felt so close to that asshole, so near to that cock. It was as if he could listen to that cock glisten, as if he could see Melba's farts fight there way around Wardell's prick.
Ffffaaaarrrtttt!
Fargo sighed amidst another fart.
Jesus! He was ... oh, God, he had forgotten his age again! Fuck. Shit. What the hell! What difference does age make when a man gets his first few gray hairs, and his cock creeps to an erection instead of boinging to a hard-on.
Shit! There was a goddamn difference. And Fargo knew it. Being old meant a longer time to get hard. Being past seventy meant you couldn't fuck like sixty. And what the fuck-was it any fun when his age was getting close to sixty-nine. Christ, who wants to be in that position for very long.
Fargo played with his prick as he heard Wardell say, "Christ! You can make your asshole fuck like a cunt!" And as he heard Melba's cuntlike asshole mouth say, "FFFFFAAAAARRRRRTTTT!"
Fargo forced himself to look at his prick. The head drooped to the left. And there wasn't any pre-cum ooze. And he didn't know if there was a pulse in his prick or whether that was just the throbbing of his blood as it moved sluggishly in his temples.
Fargo scratched his head.
Five gray hairs floated down in front of his eyes, drifted lazily in front of his nose, then, like inflatable spaghetti strands, they landed on his lap, lost in the forest of gray hairs that surrounded his droopy-headed prick.
Fargo regretted being old. He didn't regret being rich, but he regretted being old. Shit, what was money-even fourteen million dollars' worth-if he couldn't buy youth?
No, he didn't mean purchasing an eighteen-year-old call girl who had decided to go into the mattress trade because she was tired of giving cunt and head to her boy friends and her girl friends or her pet friends.
No, he didn't mean buying youthful cunt.
What Fargo wanted to buy was time. Buy back all the years. Make the calendar turn backwards. Like February coming before January. And Monday before Sunday. Until the date was December 31, 1963. When he was young. And happy.
The reason he was young on December 31, 1963, of course, was because he was fifty-four back in '63 instead of being sixty-four in '73. Which makes a lot of sense, except to those people who don't think that age makes a difference, like most teenage girls of today who are willing to fuck young and old, big and bold, the dumb, the blind, the handicapped, jews and niggers, japs and chinks (which are usually hard to tell apart anyway-but what difference does it make as long as it has a cock?) as long as they had adequate cocks?
And the reason Fargo was so happy in the year of 1963 was because he had just sold the Longworth farm.
There was nothing wrong with a farmer like farmer Fargo Longworth, age fifty-four, selling his fifty acres of rich rutabaga land. Except that the price was in the fourteen-million-dollar range, or was it forty million? Who knows? Who cares? What difference could a couple million bucks make to a dirt farmer who had usually made a thousand dollars a year?
People around the Longworth farm were very envious of Fargo. After all, they were growing poor man's crops-like sugar cane and cotton and ! soybean. But they had a right to be envious. Shit, the Fargo Longworth success story would have made the Glen Miller story, the Al Jolson story, the Babe Ruth story look like a cartoon. Which they were anyway.
The Fargo Longworth success story was the best success story in modern history since a fag colonel in Kentucky, at the age of eighty-four, cooked up a batch of leghorn fryers.
The Fargo Longworth story began early in the summer of 1963 when President Kennedy, before he was shot, naturally, declared that cranberries gave women tit cancer and men rotten prostates.
The cranberry scare was like the spread of bubonic plague. Nobody wanted their titties to fall off or get hacked off, or be all lumpy and bumpy because of cranberries. Nobody wanted their assholes enlarged by gay proctologists under the nefarious practice of amputating one's prostate glands.
Shit. America was in a panic. But, after all, what would America be without their love of panic?
Women without titties!
Men without prostates!
Thousands of lobbyists, concerned with women's tits and men's assholes, stormed the White House and that other fucked up building next door-the one that passes American's fucked-up laws that tell people what to read and what to eat and when to pray and when to be concerned about tits and zits.
The lobbyists were supported by the bra manufacturers who didn't have enough aerodynamic engineers around (most of them were with the space program, some employed to figure out how to get man to the moon, the others figuring out how to design passive toys for children-like the miniature model of the Nike missile) to design a one-cup bra for the woman who had lost her tit to the cancer-causing cranberry.
And God forbid that a woman lost both her tits-because Maidenform and Playtex and Fredericks had not yet perfected the two-false-tit bra.
Yes, it was a very scary time.
And, Americans being what they are-cool courageous, ingenious under fire, devious during depressions, laughing during funerals-shit, leave it to Yankee ingenuity: they naturally chose, as a substitute for cranberries over the Thanksgiving holidays, the rutabaga.
And, since Fargo Longworth already had seventy-four moonshine stills hidden on forty acres of rutabaga land, he converted them easily enough into a factory that could supply America with canned rutabaga, rutabage wine, rutabaga jelly, frozen rutabaga, raw rutabaga, rutabaga cheese, rutabaga in every edible form that Fargo could devise.
People said that Euell Gibbons was Fargo's factory supervisor, but that simply was not true.
Thus, when Fargo had accumulated those millions of dollars, he realized that he was very popular, that people really enjoyed his company.
Even Annabelle Quigly, who was now a seventy-year-old call girl working the retirement home circuit.
Even Annabelle Quigly's bastard daughter Sarah, who was a fifty-year-old call girl working the rutabaga factory worker trade.
Even Annabelle's bastard daughter of a bastard daughter Sybil, who was a thirty-four-year-old whore plying her trade as a secretary to the Governess of Alabama.
Even Annabelle's bastard great granddaughter Agnes, who was a hundred-dollar, fourteen-year-old hooker in St. Mary's School for Future Nuns, sent there because her mother and her grandmothers were hoping that she wouldn't follow in their footsteps.
Yeah, Fargo knew they all wanted his money. Everyone of those whore-faced Quigly's. So he got the hell out of Hackettsville fast-well, as fast as his 1952 Studebaker could go. Which was about thirty-eight miles an hour downwind and downhill.
So, with a trunkful of dough, and four bushels of rutabagas for company, Fargo ended up as far west as the fucking stupid car could or would go-San Diego.
Fargo was pleased with San Diego. Who wouldn't be? Shit, it was a sailor town. And everybody knows where sailors go, so goes the nation's vices. Syph and swabs. Hot asses and cool rear admirals. Yeah, go Navy! Give them liberty and condoms!
Yeah, Fargo loved San Diego. He loved the Navy. He didn't like sailors in particular, but he sure liked Navy wives. Because Fargo soon discovered that while the boson's mate was beating his meat in a tin can near Pago Pago, his wife was having her cunt greased by a first-class torpedoman who'd just come in from a six-month cruise of beating his meat in a tin can somewhere near Pago Pago.
How did Fargo know all these things about sailors and their wives?
From Something called the Charade Arms.
Which was a Navy housing project that Fargo had sunk ten million dollars into.
It was a very unusual Navy housing project.
For one thing rent was only twenty dollars a month.
For another thing, there was free TV, seventeen Jacuzzis, thirty rumpus rooms, plenty of heated pools, condom vending machines and a drive-through Catholic church.
The Navy was shocked at first. Rear Admiral Thomas Winfield Markham, twice wounded in the ass during the retreat from the battle of Cum Fuk Dem, Vietnam, was very shocked.
Until he talked to Fargo.
Fargo told him how much he loved the Navy. How he always bet on them in their annual gridiron battle against those West Point fags.
Fargo showed the admiral the lobby of the Charade Arms where pictures of sea battles were very prominent. He showed him all the apartments where there were portholes instead of windows, where there were plenty of aquariums and aquatic-green rugs and Navy blue wallpaper. He showed him the recreation room where John Wayne movies played every Friday night, the Duke killing seventy-three japs who were armed with shit-coated bayonets, wooden bullets, fart-filled hand grenades because everyone knows chinks and japs fight like niggers and arabs, and that was why My-Lai massacres were very good things and beneficial because it showed the slant-eyes and the niggers and the arabs that they weren't the only ones who had fun bayoneting babies and gunning down old-lady spies.
Yeah, Fargo showed him everything except the hidden TV cameras placed in every room-some hidden behind portraits of John Wayne standing on the blood-drenched sands of Iwo Jima, some implanted in the anchors that were actually overhead lamps that hovered over Navy wives who fucked their boson mate husbands for six months, then fucked first-class torpedomen while their husbands were on a six-month meat-beating exercise somewhere near Pago Pago.
Fargo also knew that if he had shown Rear Admiral Thomas "Windy" Markham, his personal penthouse suite, everything would have been dumped overboard and Fargo would have been stowed away in the bilge compartment of some Navel stockade.
Because Fargo's penthouse suite was very unusual.
Like it had eighty-four Sony TV sets. Because there were eighty-four hot-ass tenants occupying, the Charade Arms whom he could reconnoiter day or night.
Like the suite had special vents that sucked the hot, walnutty odors from each of the eighty-four apartments right into Fargo's nose day or night.
Like there was a huge, twenty-by-twenty screen-a special Admiral Sight and Sound TV that had a view of the rec room where Navy people got together and talked about how many KIA's and MIA's and CIA's there were in a meat-beating exercise that ass-wounded admirals called the Vietnam war.
And it was on that twenty-by-twenty screen that Fargo Longworth watched the New Year's Eve party of December 31, 1963.
The first New Year's Eve party staged by the naval folks living in the Charade Arms.
It was a typical Naval party.
All the Old stiff-shouldered admirals wore whites, showing off their little bars and stripes on their stuffy left breasts.
All the old, slump-shouldered admirals' wives wore white gowns, showing off their varicose titties in slumping frilly cotton dresses that made them look like retired D.A.R. debutante queens.
All the enlisted men wore rented tuxedoes.
All the enlisted men's wives wore rented Frederick's gowns. With spaghetti straps and empire-length hems with little tassels that picked up lint and cigarette butts as they twisted and writhed, Watusied and strolled to a rock and roll version of The Halls of Montezuma.
Yeah, the party was a usual Naval Party-for forty-five minutes.
Then, at three hours and fifteen minutes before that special bewitching hour, when American men go crazy and grab a free feel of another man's wife, or daughter, or girl friend, the orgy started.
It was a typical Naval orgy.
Awash with sin and booze.
CHAPTER THREE
Virginia "Winnie" Markham was the one who started the New Year's Eve orgy.
Very accidentally, although Fargo suspected that it was very much on purpose.
Virginia was dancing with Boson Mate Walter "Big Prick" Paduski. They were dancing cheek to cheek in a dark corner of the rec room.
Since Virginia had forty-eight-inch tits, which also happened to be the number of years she had lived, her bosom was squashed very accidentally against Walter's good conduct medals.
And, since Walter Paduski was a tit man, his heart was aflutter like his purple-headed cock which was smashed against the folds of crepe material at Virginia's crotch.
There was a lot of air space between their cheek-to-cheek, tit-to-chest bodies.
On the twenty-by-twenty screen, Fargo saw them in profile.
The only places that their bodies touched was cheek to cheek, tit to chest, cock to crepe. They had normal-sized cheeks. They had abnormal-sized tits and cocks. Well, Virginia Markham had the oversized tits, of course, and Walter had the oversized cock.
Virginia was proud of her tits.
On sunny days, she would run down to the beach and lay belly-down on her Navy towel, get a tan for three hours, then leave. Then she'd hide in the woman's dressing cabana and watch all the surfer boys run over to where she had been laying down on the sand. She would watch them pull out their pricks and jack off over the two huge tit depressions that were left like love letters in the sand. She liked to watch men jack off. Especially when their pricks were jacking off in her mouth and she had a real close-up view of the action.
Walter Paduski, Boson's Mate, was proud of his big cock.
It was, for -an average-sized man, an unaverage-sized prick. Unless men were being born with baseball bats for cocks these days. Walter's cock was four whore hands tall or long or erect. In other words, if a whore had four hands and she wanted to jack-off Walter's huge prick, then it would be an easy trick. But, since most whores only had two hands, it was a difficult trick to get Walter to come in less time than if she had had four hands to do double the work in half the time.
But anyway that was why there was so much air space between their grinding bodies.
Fargo watched them as they shuffled off to a dark corner, their bodies writhing behind a potted palm. Fargo turned a knob on the master control panel that was secreted in the arm of his easy chair.
He listened to what they were doing via the microphone hidden in the potted palm.
"Oh, Walter! Let me unzip your pants!"
Zzzzziiiipppp!
"Ohhhhhh, Walter. Here, let me do that. Oh, my! It certainly feels huge ... OH, MY! Is that all of it? OH, MY! You certainly have quite a lot of ... OH, MY! You mean there's some more ... OH, MY!"
"Uh-hmmm. And you just wait, Virginia. As soon as I get hard, you'll love it, Ginny."
"Oooooohhhh, myyyyy! Walter! It's sooooo-"
"Uh-hmmm. It's 'bout halfway hard now, Ginny. Keep jackin' it. Christ, put both your hands on it!"
"But I do have both hands on your-your- oooohhhh mmyyyyyy!"
"Uuuuummmmm! Ginny! Come on, jack my prick! Christ-ouch! What the hell was that?"
"My ... my wedding ring. Sorry."
"Oh, shit, Ginny. Take the fucking thing off. God, look at my prick! Shit, look what you done to my prick!"
"Oh, my!"
"Ginny, for shit's sake! My prick's cut! You and your fucking dumb ring! What're you wearing your wedding ring for anyway?"
"Does it hurt?"
"What the fuck do you think! Would you like it if I took some brass knuckles to your clit?"
"Huh?"
"Christ! Look at my cock now! It's not even hard. Jesus! I'm beginning to think you're just a fucking cockteaser, Ginny."
"I-I'm sorry. I just never had ... er, felt a cock as big as ... as huge as ... oh, my!"
"Well, come on. Get it hard again! But take off your fucking ring."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"My fingers are too fat. And-"
"Here. Let me see."
"AAAAIIIEEE! My finger! Oh, God! My finger!"
"Shut up-goddamn! Ya want to have people know what we're doing?"
"God, my finger! I-I think you broke my finger."
"Oh, shit! This is fucking dumb. What's a little pain? How the fuck are we gonna fuck if stupid things like this happen all the time? Every year, the same old shit! Christ, you wanta fuck, don't you?"
"Sure. I just-oooooh, my finger!"
"Will you shut up about your finger. What about my cock? Look at my prick, Ginny. A man's cock is worth more than a woman's finger any day. Look at my cock. It's gotta fucking nick right here ... see it?"
"Oh, my!"
"No-not there, you dumb shit. That's where the piss and jizz come from. Get down lower and look underneath. Yeah, that's it. Get real low now. Do you see where you cut my prick?"
"W-Well, there does seem to be-but it doesn't look-oooohhhh, gooooddddd! It jerked! Your cock jerked!" "Christ, Ginny! What the hell's my prick supposed to do when a hot-fucking cunt like you is so close to my cock? Stand at parade rest?"
"Oh, my! It's sooooo ... sooooo-"
"Sooooo big and hard and ready to fuck! Now goddammit! Start blowing my prick, Ginny. I'm gonna die if you don't put your fucking lips on my prick. Can't you use your fucking mouth for something else other than talking."
"B-But you know I'm not used to sucking anything sooooo ... soooo big! Promise you won't, uh, make me gag?"
"I promise! Every year I promise! Now goddammit! Start sucking my prick!"
"Promise you won't ... you won't make me ... uh, eat your ... you know, that stuff that shoots out. That stuff'll make me gag ... promise?"
"Goddamn! I promise! I promise! I swear on a Bible! I won't make you gag, and I won't make you eat my cum! Not start sucking!"
"O-Okay ... hold still. God! It's jerking around so much ... I-I c-can't get my mouth on it-MMMMGGGGFFFF!"
"There! You cocksucker! Now suck my prick! Suck it! Goddamn ... no! Come back ... please! Don't stop now!"
"Yeeeeccchhhh! Something came out of it. God! Something came out of your prick!"
"Oh, shit, Ginny ... Jesus Christ! What the fuck's wrong with a little bit of jizz. Shit, you look like you ate a sour walnut."
"B-But ... it's so nasty-tasting ... really it is. It tastes so nasty! Please don't do that any more ... please!"
"How the fuck am I supposed to control my jizz-Jesus Christ! This is the worst fuckin' blow-job I've ever had. Christ, I'm going to find another admiral's wife who'll blow my-"
"NO! Please ... don't. Let me ... let me just jack it off a little more. Maybe ... maybe the cum'll shake loose ... then, I promise, I'll suck your cock real good."
"All right, Ginny ... don't cry. I'll let you suck my cock-but goddamn don't look so fucking squeamish. Shit, you'd think my prick was made of vomit or something."
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Ooooohhhh, God! Jesus Christ! Come on, Ginny! Go down on it! Goddamn, let me cram my cock down your throat-ooooohhhhh! That's it!"
"MMMMMFFFFGGGG!"
"Come on, Ginny! You can take some more of my prick-try, baby, try! Here-ooooohhhhh!"
"MMMMGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGFFFF!"
"Oh, God, Ginny! You're sucking half my prick. Now, come on, open up wider. Jeeeezzzussssss! Oooooohhhhh!"
"MMMGGGFFF! MMMGGGFFF! MMMMGGGFFF!"
Fargo couldn't stand it! Fargo was going ape shit; with the sounds of Ginny sucking Walter "Big Prick" Paduski's cock. God! He wanted to see what the fuck was happening behind that shitty palm tree. He did his best, tried his best, to envision what the hell was happening behind that misplaced palm tree.
Shit, Ginny had to have Walter's big prick halfway down her throat. God, was that possible? Walter had such an-oh, my-such a big prick! No, it was an impossible feat. No woman could possibly suck half his prick.
Unless ... unless ... that's it! Walter "Big Prick" Paduski had to be holding Ginny's head, forcing her to eat his cock!
Oh, God! Fargo wanted to see Ginny do the impossible. Fargo wanted it so bad-just a glimpse of Ginny's lips hugging a mid-shaft, just a hint of Ginny being strangled on Walter's fourteen-inch prick.
Fargo watched the screen. Every once in a while the potted plant moved and rustled. He heard what was going on behind the potted palm.
"Oooohhh, Giiinnnyyy! I feel like ccooommm-iiinnnggg! I wanta come so bad! Oh, God! I can feel the cum right at the tip of my ... oh, Lord! Oh, no! Oh, SSSSHHHHEEEIIITTTT!"
"MGF! MGF! MGF! MGF! MMMMMGGGFFFF!"
Rustle. Rustle. Rustle.
"Oh, baby! I can't help it ... aaaaiiieee! Oh, Lord ... God! Here's some more ... aaaaiiieeee! Oh, swallow it, Ginny! Swallow all of iiitttt! Aaaaaiiiieee! Oh, Jesus!"
Fargo's sweat stuck to his skin like a rubber suit. It was as if someone had slipped a giant Trojan Triple-X condom over his head-that's how hot and stuffy he felt right now as he tried to envision Ginny's face smeared with semen ... or was it seamen? God! He wanted that fucking palm tree to come alive and grow little centipede-like legs, so that it could move out of the way.
The palm tree moved.
Not like a centipede, but like a drunken wino.
The potted palm wavered, then toppled, then crashed to the floor.
People were shocked.
Fargo was shocked.
Admiral Markham was very shocked.
Greta Paduski, Walter's wife, was not shocked because she was too busy trying to unbutton the fifty-five buttons that held Admiral Markham's dress pants together.
People stopped dancing because of the commotion in the corner of the rec room.
Maxine Farnsworth, who was married to Hollis "Shaft" Farnsworth, an apprentice anchorman for the USS Voyeur, was very shocked at what Admiral Markham's wife was doing. The bitch had finally been caught! The fucking admiral's wife was caught red-handed with something that looked like egg on her face and her hands in the cookie jar-if Walter's asshole could be described as a cookie jar.
Maxine wanted to laugh, but it was very difficult to laugh because her right tit had flopped out of her evening gown. But at least her left tit was still covered-covered by Commander Buford C. Wingate's hot mouth that had lots of spit and slobber because the front of Maxine's gown looked more like a baby's bib than something she had ordered from a Frederick's catalogue for $10.99 plus tax.
Fargo was amazed at what he saw.
He saw Virginia Markham puking something that looked like soggy, gruely Uncle Ben's rice on a potted palm tree that no longer rustled or wavered but was dying from being fertized with vomit.
He saw Walter Paduski standing with his skivies around his ankles and his cock sagging limply with something that looked like mashed rice grains clinging to the head of his fourteen-inch prick.
Fargo also saw the crowd reaction.
He saw Admiral Markham stride over to the potted palm and look in disgust at his wife.
He saw Greta Paduski moaning like a bitch in heat, a mare with the hots, an ass with the fever, pressing Commander Wingate's face against her average-sized forty-two-inch titties.
He heard Admiral Markham chastise his wife.
"Goddamn, Ginny! That's an enlisted man! You fucking whore! You don't even have the decency to wait until I'm off to Pago Pago, do you?"
What could Ginny say?
She burped.
"You disgust me! Look at you! Your fucking dress looks like a second-hand condom! Stand up when I'm talking to you, whore!"
Ginny tried to rise, slipped a couple of times on slippery gruel, then managed to stand to a haphazard, rigid attention.
"Christ, Ginny! Couldn't you have waited another fucking hour! Shit, no! Every year you got to the first woman to suck or fuck! Every goddamn New Year's Eve! When are you gonna learn to act like other Navy wives?"
Fargo couldn't believe it! Every New Year's Eve? This was the Navy? This was why young men joined Uncle Sam's finest-to get blow-jobs from horny admirals' wives behind potted plants at New Year's Eve parties?
No, this couldn't be the pride of America defending our shores-never!
"Ginny! You're worse than a fucking Army wife!"
Ginny burst into tears. She couldn't help it-and her husband knew she couldn't help it.
For the past twenty years, he had made so many trips to Pago Pago, a yearly six-month cruise with nothing to do but beat the meat while the smoking lamp was lit until he could get to Pago Pago and buy some Polynesian pussy. So what was she supposed to do while he was in Pago Pago fucking writhing-waisted, bare-titted native girls who had grown up on a diet of bananas and walnuts and Navy beans-what did he expect her to do? Eat Navy beans and walnuts, then go bananas?
Commander Wingate came over and consoled Ginny. He liked to console Ginny. He grabbed her tit.
"Admiral Markham, I realize that we're about an hour away from the real battle of fucking and sucking-but does it make any difference? Shit, what's wrong with starting a little earlier this year, Admiral?"
"That's not how the fucking Navy runs things, Wingate! If every man beat his meat to his own tune, what do you think we'd have? A fucking mutiny! No-we fuck according to the book! And that's final! Now get my sick wife out of here before I give her forty lashes!"
Commander Wingate gulped. He saluted smartly and escorted Ginny out of the rec room.
Walter Paduski saluted as Admiral Markham turned his attention to him.
"And you-you're no worse than my wife. Your action shows what the hell would happen to the Navy if scurvy lots like you took matters into their own hands."
"Yes sir!"
"What do you have to say for yourself, Paduski?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I ain't got nothing to say ... sir."
"That's better. Now where the hell's your wife, Paduski?"
Greta Paduski heard the Admiral's booming voice. She started to tremble. It wasn't fair! Every New Year's Eve that fucking Ginny Markham would blow Walter at least an hour before the real orgy started. Then, when the shit hit the fan, the Admiral would take his vengeance out on her! It wasn't fair!
Walter grabbed his wife before she could run to the ladies' room.
"But it isn't fair, Walter," Greta protested. "It isn't fair!"
"Quiet, bitch," Walter hissed as he escorted her over to Admiral Markham. "What the hell's wrong with fucking the old man?"
"Because every year," Greta whined, "the same old thing happens. Ginny gets caught blowing your prick, then I end up fucking the old man. It isn't fair!"
"Will you be quiet, Greta. Shit, what the hell's unfair about it?"
"Because I don't ever get to suck your cock first! That's what isn't fair!"
CHAPTER FOUR
That first New Year's Eve party was very impressive. Very impressive. Fargo cherished the memory of that first New Year's Eve party.
For one thing, he had learned quite a lot about the Navy and its social structure. He learned that admirals' wives were old women who had the right to choose which eligible ensign or married torpedoman she wanted to fuck and suck.
Fargo also learned that admirals had the first crack over the enlisted men's wives. And he learned that his kind of social structure was very good for morale. Because it showed enlisted men that admiral's wives put their panties on one leg at a time. And it showed enlisted men's wives that admirals put their skivies on one leg at a time.
In other words, admirals and members of the brass were assholes just like everybody else in the world-their shit stank just like everyone else's, their farts were certainly no better, and they still pissed with their pricks or their pussies, depending, of course on their gender.
Yeah, it was a side of the Navy that wasn't seen on those recruiting billboards-those pictures of a grumpy old man wearing an old G.O.P. convention-type hat on his head with a scrawny finger pointing at male passers-by.
But what had impressed Fargo the most was the orgy itself.
Fargo had seen plenty of orgies before. He had, at one time, rented out the Ace theater for a night so that he could jack off by himself while he watched a film called The Blow-Job. Which was a fine film produced by a Japanese firm that used to produce monster movies that made kids think that all monsters were born in the South China Sea or Tokyo Bay instead of in Lake Tahoe or Walden Pond.
The film was called The Blow-Job because it was about a bank robbery where the bank robbers, twenty of them, were foiled in their attempt to rob Crocker Anglo by the tellers who had promptly stripped off their clothes and had promised to fuck the bank robbers if they promised not to steal the people's hard-earned money.
Many movie reviewers thought that the plot was very flimsy and shoddy, and that cute little, well-stacked bank tellers would not undress in public, let alone for bank robbers.
But Crocker Anglo and Bank of America, in order to get the people's trust and their money, refused to refute the accusations from the movie review board that ardently announced that tellers would not do such a thing in a million years.
There was such a rhubarb over whether the bank tellers would strip or would not strip in order to foil a bank robbery that all argument was finally put aside when Senator Phillip Buster of the Senate Finance Committee announced that many banks had hired ex-strippers and masseuses to man the over-the-counter jobs in order to prevent robbers from getting away with the people's money.
Senator Phillip Buster's voice was final. And all of America agreed wholeheartedly with what he had announced. So that's why when people walk into banks today, they're as much impressed with the amount of thigh and tit showing as the amount in their savings accounts.
But anyway, The Blow-Job was a very interesting movie. Many bank officials went to see it to try and understand the procedures for foiling a bank robbery by decoying them into fucking their ex-strippers and retired hookers who were doing a good job of impersonating bank tellers.
Of course, the bank officials were not allowed in the night Fargo leased the Ace theater. The only persons allowed into the Ace theater that night were the popcorn girl, one usherette who worked part-time as a college coed, and the projectionist who worked part-time as a cartoonist for Walt Disney.
The usherette escorted Fargo to his lodge seat.
The smell of buttery popcorn was in the air.
The projectionist rolled 'em.
The numbers went backward ... eight ... seven ... six, and so forth, only they were in Japanese, and since Fargo couldn't read Japanese or English, he thought they were merely flaws in the film.
The opening scene showed twenty bank robbers getting blow-jobs from eighty bank tellers while the bank executives, also naked, were taking pictures of the twenty robbers getting blown by eighty coed-looking girls, who happened to be coeds during the day but who picked up ten dollars for being extras in the movie, The Blow-Job.
It was exciting to watch.
The sound was great.
"MMMMMFFFFFGGGG!"
"SUCK ME YOU BITCH! KEEP SUCKIN'!"
"AAAAIIIIEEEE! DON'T BITE MY BALLS! PLEASE DON'T BITE MY BALLS!"
"YEEEECCCHHH!"
"GOD! YOU'RE COCK'S BIGGER THAN MY DAD'S!"
"GOD! DON'T YOU EVER WASH!"
"AAAAIIIIEEE! MY BALLS! DON'T BITE MY BALLS!"
"UUUUUMMMM, GOOOOOD!"
"EAT MY PRICK, BABY! EAT IT! OH, SHIT! I'M COOOMMMMIIINNNGGGGG!"
"M M M M M C G G G F F F F ! MMMMMGGGGFFFFF!"
"MY BALLS! WHERE THE HELL ARE MY BALLS?"
The color was great ... or at least Fargo thought it was great-looking color until he took off his Cornell Wilde sunshades and found out that it was in stark black and white.
But the black and white still looked great.
Especially when Fargo ordered the projectionist to stop the film.
The film stopped.
The usherette helped old Fargo out of his lodge seat, took his arm and led him up the stairs to the stage.
God! Fargo felt like a fucking flea amidst a jungle of crotches and ten-foot high cocks and luscious mouths that should have belonged to actresses who starred in movies about a fifty-foot woman who devoured Galveston.
It was amazing! Every drool, every speck of dandruff, every mite, and tick and burr could be seen in those wiry cock-hairs.
And those mouths-Fargo would never forget the look on one blonde who was winking at the camera while sperm was foaming on her mouth like rabies. She looked ... she looked so innocent ... like she had just entered Southern Cal and was naive about things like cocksucking, but knew a lot about jacking off pricks and fucking, which made her a typical, fresh out of high school cunt who hadn't yet tasted the wonders of higher education.
Fargo then went back to his lodge seat, ordered the projectionist to roll 'em.
The projectionist rolled 'em.
The next scene showed twenty robbers, or what could be seen of their bodies, being smothered by forty-three Southern Cal coeds, seventeen luscious UCLA Brunette's, sixteen Pomona College Mustangettes and four freshman cunts from St. Cecilia's.
Each robber had his face eaten by a pussy; or rather, each robber was forced to eat a pussy while he fingered two cunts, one in each hand while his cock was eaten by another pussy; or, to put it another way, one coed was smashing her hot cunt against his face while two coeds forced their cunts against the robber's three fingers while another coed straddled the robber's cock.
Fargo ordered the projectionist to slow down the film.
God! It was unbelievable! Those perverted people were fucking now in slow motion. Grimaces were constant and steady. Writhing motions took place at a snail's pace. Cunts were moving up and down like paralyzed yo-yos, or stuck elevators; in either case, they fucked very slowly despite the crude similes.
Moans and groans, grunts and screams were like long, drawn-out screeches.
Fargo had an erection that burst through his popcorn box. He couldn't believe it! Would anybody believe it? Christ, how many people were rich enough to rent out an X-rated theater and watch college coeds fuck in three speeds: slow, slower and slowest.
Fargo's fist was not in tune with what was going on the screen in slow motion. Fargo's fist was a blur. Popcorn was being repopped as kernels shot in the air, landing on cum stains from the patrons who were lucky enough to see the afternoon performance of The Blow-Job.
Fargo couldn't help it. He screamed: "SPEED IT UP! GOOOODDDAAAMMMNNN HUUUU-RRRRYYYY UP!"
The projectionist rolled 'em at high speed.
Then a higher speed.
And now those beautiful, sun-tanny Southern Cal coeds looked like their cunts were on fire, as if they had sat the business end of their bodies on a bed of sizzling-hot popcorn.
Now those St. Cecilia's girls were moving up and down like the agitators of a Kenmore.
Now those Brunette's looked like they had taken an injection of uppers-in their cunts. They were sizzling hot, racing up and down, their titties blurring and their clitties moving like little fingers suffering epileptic seizures.
Then cum was flying all over the screen.
Cum was flying out of that popcorn box instead of puffy little buttery kernels.
Fargo had never seen so much cum in his whole life. There was enough cum on that screen to put the Red Cross sperm banks out of business. Shit, there was enough cum in Fargo's palm to impregnate a whole barn full of cows and horses and pigs and some chicks.
Fargo rested as the second act came to an end.
He wheezed. After all, he was fifty-three, and he had not yet bought an apartment building where he could spy on fuckings as they took place here and now. That would come when he was fifty-four and he could look back to the night he rented out the Ace theater, the place that had inspired him to construct an apartment building where he could see Navy wives and admirals prove that they were assholes just like everybody else.
The second act began with dialogue.
"Do you men still want to rob our bank?" asked a cute Brunette lass as she wiped cumdrops off her chin.
Twenty robbers replied: "Yes!"
Then there was no more dialogue, unless moans and groans constitute dialogue. There was no more dialogue because the eighty coeds had to persuade the robbers that fucking their asses was more fun than robbing Crocker Anglo banks.
There was a quick cut to the next scene.
A huge asshole was on the screen.
And below the asshole was a cunt that drooled with cum.
It was obvious to Fargo that the asshole on the screen was a woman's asshole.
The woman's asshole on the screen opened and closed a couple of times, then the camera opened up and moved back to show the audience a pair of pendulous tits hanging beneath the cunt and a woman on all fours presenting her asshole to the assholes in the audience.
The only asshole in the audience was intrigued ... and excited. He was excited because he had never seen an asshole that close before. Oh, there was a couple of times when Fargo was just a kid and he had straddled the toilet seat with a mirror in hand. And he had shoved the mirror under his ass and tilted it so that he could have a good look at his shitter.
But this asshole on the screen was fifty-feet wide and forty-feet tall. And it looked fairly clean. Not like those times when the mirrors had shown Fargo that he had not done a good job with the old corncob.
Then something huge and throbbing attacked the asshole on the screen. The asshole in the audience was attacked by a pain that seized his chest. God! It was an agonizing pain, but it was an exciting pain also. It was agonizing because it hurt. It was exciting because Fargo knew why his heart was throbbing as fast as that gigantic prick that was invading the gigantic asshole on the screen.
The monstrous prick bent like a bow, and the asshole looked like a hairy cave that was collapsing in on itself.
Then the huge prick popped into the asshole.
And the asshole squirmed and writhed, opened and closed, before it started devouring the huge prick inch by hot and throbbing inch.
God! There was no end to that cock! It had to be fifty feet long and it was still coming from off camera!
Fargo felt inadequate, and his little, pathetic, eight-inch prick wilted like old lettuce.
More cock came from off camera. More cock and more cock.
How could that asshole take all that!
It was impossible! No woman could be comholed by a fifty-foot cock, not even if her asshole was forty feet-by-fifty feet.
But that huge asshole was taking more cock.
Finally a pair of huge balls appeared, and they smacked against the woman's hairy cunt.
"GGGGOOOODDDAAAMMMNNN! IS THAT ALL THE COCK YOU GOT!"
Fargo couldn't believe it! Was that all the cock he had! Christ, what else could a normal hot and horny woman want if it didn't come in gigantic sizes? Wasn't a fifty-foot cock enough for a woman's asshole these days? Christ, what the hell was wrong with America today?
Then the giant prick began to fuck the asshole.
The asshole began to fuck the giant prick.
Together, the asshole and the prick fucked each other.
And as the asshole fucked the prick, or the prick fucked the asshole, the cunt fucked the balls and the balls fucked the cunt.
"Squish! Squish! Squish!"
"Fffffaaarrrttt!"
Fargo's eyes widened. He had never seen a woman's asshole taking on a fifty-foot cock. It was like watching Minnie Mouse getting fucked by Paul Bunyan, It was like watching Goofy getting reamed by Babe the Blue Ox.
Fargo couldn't watch any more. He was disgusted-not by what he saw on the screen. But because he felt super-disgusted with his eight-inch prick.
From that day on, Fargo vowed he would never rent another X-rated movie house that sold stale popcorn and showed huge assholes getting reamed by fifty-foot cocks.
From that day on, Fargo decided that watching real humans fucking and sucking was a lot better than watching pieces of people fucking and sucking in close-ups and blow-ups and zoom-ins and cut-aways.
From that day on, Fargo declared that he was going to create an atmosphere where real people fucked and sucked, where he could enjoy watching them fuck and suck.
That was the day that the Charade Arms came into his brain like twenty-watt light bulb. That was the day that Fargo became a boob tube man. That was the day that Fargo no longer wanted to think about his inadequate prick.
CHAPTER FIVE
Trisha Randall was an asshole.
At least, other Navy wives considered her to be a grade-A asshole. For several reasons.
One, Trisha Randall hated war and killing and ships and violence.
Two, Trisha Randall loved her husband Shelton who was on his sixth-month meat-beating cruise to Pago Pago.
Three, Trisha Randall didn't dress in miniskirts that looked like cellophane nor did she run around bra-less or panty-less, or just plain naked while greeting the paperboy like all the other Navy wives in the Charade Arms.
Trisha Randall knew she was an asshole. She also knew she couldn't help being an asshole. It was like being born with a 36-22-37 figure-it just couldn't be helped.
So, all right, her tits weren't average-sized.
And her cunt was no big thing.
Trisha was an outcast, something that other Navy wives avoided like the plague. The only friend Trisha had was a six-foot Wave who came on as strong as a lesbian hurricane-Betty Jo Halsey.
There were several instances when Navy wives had tried to break the ice with Trisha.
The first time was when the Randall's had just moved in, and Holly Wentworth, Gracie Doolittle and Olivia Mumsey invited her over for tea and dildo.
Being from the South, Trisha accepted their invitations eagerly, thinking that tea would be wonderful, and she thought that it would be very inappropriate to ask what kind of cookies dildoes were.
The tea was wonderful.
The dildo cookies were not.
Trisha was shocked. She had wanted to run back to her apartment and have Shelton protect her. But Shelton was off near Pago Pago composing his fourteenth love letter of the day to his bride of three months while first mates and other seamen beat off or became very close bosom boson mates.
Trisha-didn't know what to do.
Those wives had seemed so nice and amenable. Oh, she had been somewhat shocked by their dress when she had first sat down-but they were dressed no different than the other wives who lived in the Charade Arms.
Holly Went worth was an ash-blonde who had streaks of black, or maybe it was streaks of blonde amidst the black hairs; shit, it didn't make any difference because Holly had dyed her hair so many times even she didn't know what color her true hair was. For confirmation, of course, of what her true hair color was, she would look between her legs, or her husband or her lover would look between her legs for her.
Holly was a very spicy-looking Navy wife. Miniskirt and maxi-bra-two essential items of her dress. The mini to show off her ass and the true color of her hair down there. The maxi to show off her huge, but average-sized, forty-one-inch titties. People in the Charade Arms considered Holly to be very normal because it didn't take much to raise the skirt and give her a fucking while she was tending to her potted plants in a bent-over position.
Gracie Doolittle, on the other hand, was very unlike Holly. Oh, people still considered her normal because she liked to suck cocks every other day, and sometimes even her husband's cock. Gracie loved her husband and she was very oral-minded. The Navy psychologist had told Gracie many times that she had cannibahstict instincts because of her remarks made during the Rorschach ink blot tests.
Gracie was wearing a crepe halter top that in actuality was an old bra that she had dyed blue to match her hot-pink shorts that were actually a pair of denims cut down to fit the size of her hot-pink ass.
Olivia Mumsey was the senior wife of the group. She was twenty-two. She was old for her age. She had married Herbie Mumsey when she was fourteen. She had married young because when she was young, she had looked old.
Probably because she had developed so early in life. Very early. Maybe too early. Her mother had been amazed to see pubic hair on her eldest daughter when Olivia was in the second grade. Her father had been very stimulated and amazed when he had caught Stanley Reamer, his helper in the arc welding shop, fucking his daughter between her thirty-eight-inch titties while she was in fourth grade.
No wonder Olivia had married so young. Because she was overripe and overdeveloped by the age of fourteen. And after Herbie Mumsey had fucked her rubberless during a summer hayride, Olivia had developed something called morning sickness and she had become very ripe belly-wise.
For giving birth to ten kids in eight years, Olivia was in remarkable shape. Her titties and her hips were not stretched out of shape, nor did they bear stretch marks from bearing six mental retards and two sets of twins, one set very blond, the other set with kinky black hair and big asses.
Olivia was not pregnant now.
People knew she wasn't pregnant now because the Navy department had issued birth-control pills to enlisted men's wives and to whores in every port. In that sense, the Navy felt it was helping to cut down the population of the world without bayoneting babies who if they weren't bayoneted now, would probably become some red Chinaman or South African and who would learn how to bayonet Yankee babies before they could grow up and bayonet the babies of the enemy babies that should have been bayoneted before growing up.
So there they were, three Navy wives who were eager to show Trisha Randall Navy life first-hand.
The first hand to point at Trisha Randall belonged to a proper Navy wife named Holly Wentworth.
Holly said: "Look. My husband wants to fuck you."
Trisha gasped. "WHAT?"
"Holly, you promised!" Grade interrupted. "You promised that it would be my husband who fucked her first. We all agreed to that!"
Trisha was astounded. Already she was beginning to feel like an asshole. Out of place and out of tune.
"Uh ... Holly, I-"
"Look, kid," Olivia calmly stated. "Don't worry. We'll get the right husband to take care of the itch in your cunt. The girls always fight about who gets who when new people move in. Don't worry, we'll take care of you."
Trisha shook her head. "No ... I-I don't need anybody! I've got Shelton! I've got a husband!"
Olivia tsk-tsked. "Tsk-tsk. You'll get over him real fast. Christ, don't you know he's out near Pago Pago beating his meat. And when he gets into Pago Pago, he won't have to beat his meat 'cause some Polynesian pussy will blow his brains out."
"No! Shelton wouldn't do that. He's my husband!"
Holly shook her head. "Boy, Trisha, you're pretty fuckin' dumb. But don't worry-stick with us and will make sure you only fuck cocks that are about the same size as Shelton's. How big is his cock?"
"WHAT?"
"Oh, come on, Trisha," Gracie said. "You can tell us. Besides, I'd kind of like to know what I'm going to be fucking when your husband gets back."
"Now wait a minute!" Trisha fumed. "Nobody's going to fu-going to ... going to make love to my husband except me!"
Olivia shook her head. Grade sipped her tea and lit a Lucky. Holly was exasperated.
Trisha was pissed. She stood up, hands on hips. "I love my husband! I love him! I love him! I love him!"
Olivia smiled forcefully. "Oh, Trisha, sit down and cool off. All of us girls love our husbands. Don't we, girls?"
Gracie nodded.
Holly slumped down in the couch, the miniskirt becoming more like a belt as it rode up to her waist. "Sure, I love Benjy. But I also love Herbie Mumsey and Calvin Doolittle. Shit, we all love our husbands!"
Trisha couldn't believe it. This wasn't happening! This wasn't like the teas she had enjoyed in Poplin, Georgia when the daughters of the KKK would have their annual summer tea at the Beauregard Mansion amidst the smell of magnolias and Southern Comfort-spiked tea.
Things like this just didn't happen in Poplin.
Why, the last scandal in Poplin was in the summer of '54 when Betty Jo Canebraker kissed a nigger in the woodpile. But scandals like that weren't common place, ordinary events. Besides, Betty Jo had been sent to a nunnery in Coral Gables and the nigger and his family had been used as fuel for the KKK bonfire rally.
And that's what Trisha wanted to do right now. Ban these Navy wives to a nunnery or burn them at the stake. Swapping mates? Measuring cocks? Loving strangers?
No! No! No!
"Now, listen, bitch," Olivia said menacingly. "Don't wag your fuckin' head at us. If you don't do what we say, there'll be a hell of a lot of shit to pay. We got ways to deal with asshole wives like you!"
"A-Are you threatening me to do-to do those awful things-"
"Fuck, yes, we're threatening you!" Gracie said icily. "The last high-falutin' Navy wife who didn't dig fucking eventually found out the hard way that fuckin' was fun. Right, Holly?"
Holly nodded. "That's right, Miss Sweet Cunt. I tried to resist for one week. Then I gave up 'cause the pressure was too strong. Man, some of those men had huge cocks and they sure hurt like hell when you're being raped for fourteen hours straight."
"WHAT!? No! You wouldn't!"
"Look, Trisha," Olivia interrupted. "Holly found out the hard way that she enjoyed getting fucked in the mouth and the cunt and the asshole-all at the same time. Just think, we're gonna make it easy on you to find out how much fun it is to get all that jizz-all at the same time."
Trisha spun on her heels. Her hand was on the doorknob. Her eyes were full of fury. Her legs were trembling. "I think you're all insane! I'm leaving here. And I don't want to hear any more talk about fourteen hours of rape and getting abused in three different holes-all at the same time!"
"Go 'head and leave," Holly smirked.
"I will!" Trisha replied defiantly.
Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.
No! The door! God! The door wouldn't open!
Rustle. Rustle. Rustle.
Sweat dripped from Trisha's forehead. Her palm felt clammy. Her heart sank in desperation. She turned around.
Rustle. Rustle. Rustle.
Trisha was shocked. On the floor lay one maxi-bra and one miniskirt, 'one crepe halter top and one pair of hot-pink shorts and one woman named Olivia Mumsey who had her legs spread wide and her cunt filled with something that Trisha would later learn was called a dildo instead of a cookie.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
Holly wanted to answer but to use her mouth would have meant that she'd have to leave Grade's big tit and she didn't want to stop sucking Gracie's tit because Gracie was shoving a dildo into her asshole.
Gracie wanted to answer, but-oooohhhh, Godddddd-her tits were being molested by Holly's mouth.
Olivia answered because her mouth wasn't occupied with anything-yet.
"Oh, we're just gonna fuck around with you for awhile, Trisha."
"But why?! Please! I'm ... I just think that what you're doing is awful. Please! I don't want to-mess around. Please let me go! I promise I won't say anything to anybody!"
"We just wanta see how big your tits are, and if you're cunt's clean enough to lick, and if you've been fucked in the asshole."
"WHAT?! God! No! I'm not going to let any of you do any of those things. That's perverted!"
Olivia smiled. "Then we're gonna find out if you like to play with pussies as opposed to cocks. Some Navy wives are like that, you know."
"Please! No more! I'm not like that! I'm married! I love my husband!"
Olivia smiled. "Then we're going to find out if you like to put a dildo in your cunt and one in your ass while you suck my pussy."
"NOOOOOO!"
Olivia smiled. "You'll get used to it. Most girls say no when they always mean yes. Shit, everybody knows that. Especially us. That's why we always come right out and say yes when Admiral Markham wants to fuck our assholes while we eat his wife's cunt."
"WHO?! Goddd! Please! Don't say any more! This is insane!"
Olivia stopped smiling. Olivia got pissed. And why not? She had a right to get pissed. She hated Southern girls because they were so fucking prejudiced and always acted like their shit didn't stink and they always said no-no-no when it came down to questions like: "Does your husband eat your shit?", or: "Did you ever stuff a balloon up a nigger's ass and try to blow it up?", and: "How would you like to pretend my mouth's a cunt and I want you to practice a French kiss?"
Olivia sat up, and the dildo angled into her cunt, scraping her clit. "Look, Trisha. Just pretend my cunt's a mouth and all you're, going to do is practice French kissing."
Olivia got to her feet. As senior wife, she ordered Holly to quit sucking on Gloria's hot tits, and she ordered Gloria to get the fucking dildo out of Holly's asshole.
"Goddamn it, Holly. Quit Sucking her tits! And Gloria! Quit shoving that fucking dildo up her ass. We gotta get down to business."
Trisha retreated. She hadn't like the sound of what getting down to business meant. It sounded very dirty to her. It sounded like the time Amos Dunbar, the Grand Dragon of the Poplin chapter of the KKK, had told her to get down on his knees and suck his cock. It sounded like the time Preacher Winslow had told her to get down on her knees and pray because she had gotten down on her knees and sucked a Grand Dragon's cock while Deputy Sheriff Homer Monroe had looked on when he was supposed to be looking for a black nigger who had lain in the woodpile with Betty Joe Canebraker.
Trish wanted to piss in her panties.
She did.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"You cocksucker!" Holly screamed. "Look at that piss! Goddamn, you pissed on my fucking rug! Oh, shit!"
Trisha's face turned red. From embarrassment. From fear. From the slap that Olivia delivered to her left tittie.
Slllllaaaappppp!
"AAAAIIIIEEE! MY BREAST! OH, GOD! MY BREAST!"
Then Trisha's right tittie turned red. Because most titties will turn red when they're slapped harder than Paul Bunyan would slap the Spanish flies off Babe's blue ass.
SSSSLLLLAAAAPPPP!
"AAAAIIIEEE! MY BREASTS! OH GOD! PLEASE DON'T HIT MY BREASTS ANY MORE!"
Olivia stopped biting Trisha's tits.
Olivia started kicking Trisha's tits because the naive Navy housewife was down on the ground, trying to roll on her stomach to avoid those hard-toed feet of Olivia's. But Trisha couldn't move. She couldn't move because Gloria and Holly were sitting on her hands, moving their cunts back and forth against her palms.
"AAAAIIIIEEE!"
Olivia stood defiantly over Trisha. Stood in a wide-legged stance directly over Trisha's face so that Trisha had to look up and see a cunt that Olivia had already described as a mouth to practice a French kiss on, but which looked very nasty and not like a mouth because lots of ooze was coming from her cunt.
"Now look, asshole," Olivia announced. "All you have to do is lick my pussy like it was a mouth."
Trisha was horrified as the cunt-mouth descended. No! Nothing looked as dirty and as evil and as nasty as that cunt that was descending on her face.
Trisha couldn't believe it! She had never sucked another girl's pussy. She wasn't like other American girls who worked as seductive babysitters and who went to pajama parties when they were sixteen and formed sixty feet of writhing daisy chain.
Trish gasped. Then she wished she had not gasped.
"Ooooohhh ... mmmmgggffff! MMMMGGGGFFF!"
Olivia smiled. God, it felt so good to have a chick eating her pussy out, mumbling words that echoed in her pussy.
"MMMMGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGFFFF!"
Olivia hunched her hips a fraction of an inch. Aaaaaaahhhh! Her clit was now on Trisha's nose. God! Olivia wanted to die! What feeling! What ecstasy!
Trisha also wanted to die. In fact, she knew she was going to die. In fact, if she didn't get a breath of air in ten seconds, she was going to die!
But then again, shit, why not? Why not just die! Wasn't death worth it-after all the humiliation that was happening now, with Olivia forcing her to scream words of protest into a cunt-mouth and Gloria fucking her right hand while Holly fucked her left hand?
Trisha vowed to die right there and then. That would show them. That would show these perverted women. Then, after she died, the San Diego cops would come and find her dead body, and they would know just by seeing the pubic hairs on her teeth that she had been suffocated by a vicious cunt. Then they would book Olivia and Holly and Gloria for murder one, send them to the women's correctional institute where they would probably commit murder two on some poor girl who had been given three years for sucking off a vice squad cop under interrogation.
Trisha prepared herself for death.
Then she gasped. Again.
No! No! No!
Trisha couldn't die now because she had been forced to take in air, forced to breathe the God-awful smell of crushed walnuts, forced to inhale because of something that was happening at her crotch.
Trisha thrashed. Trisha tightened the muscles of her thighs. Trisha tried her triple best to prevent those girls from opening up her legs and doing something nasty to her cunt.
No! No one but herself, naturally, and Shelton had ever seen her naked down there!
Gloria said: "Jesus! Look at that cunt! Would you look at that cunt! It's tighter than her asshole!"
Holly said: "Christ! Wait until my Benjy sees that pussy. Shit! He'll go crazy!"
Olivia said: "Quit fucking around and get the dildo into her cunt! Ooooooh, Godddd! That tongue! Goddamn, Trisha, what a tongue!"
Trisha said: "MMMMMMGGGGGFFFFF!" What she was trying to say was: "NO! Please! Don't! I don't want a dildo in my ... my! No! I don't want to say those words! I don't want to say cunt and asshole! No! I don't want that dildo in my cunt!"
Then Trisha felt the dildo. Felt the dildo in a place that's usually the most sensitive spot on a woman's body. Felt that seventeen-inch, average-sized artificial cock in a spot that makes women turn to mush and oatmeal, which is what most women think about most when they're turned on and their cunts are oozing something as mushy as Maypo.
Trisha felt the dildo in her asshole!
No! Didn't they hear! Didn't they know they were supposed to put that dildo in her cunt instead of her asshole. Tell, them, Olivia! Tell them that you said in the cunt, not in the asshole!
"MMMMMGGGGFFFFF! MMMMGGGFFF! MMMMGGGFFFFF!"
Olivia moaned, and" her cunt moved like a slug that had been given an injection of adrenalin, or two slices of liver that had been electrified; in other words, her cunt was wet and moist and meaty and it was moving all over Trisha's face-like an electrified slug.
Then Olivia stopped moving her pussy.
"Goddamn! Stick it in her cunt, you assholes! Stick the fucking dildo in her cunt, not her asshole, you assholes!"
"We tried," Holly said in exasperation. "But she's moving around so fucking much we just stabbed around until it went into the first hole."
Olivia spun around quickly, her cunt swiveling around on Trisha's face until her chin was at the north end of Olivia's pussy and her nose was at the south end. "Give me another dildo!"
Gloria gave Olivia another dildo. A very unusual dildo because it had two heads, not side by side, but one at each end. And it was very rubbery, much more flexible than the hard, plastic dildo that was in Trisha's asshole.
Holding the double-headed dildo like an ax, Olivia raised it over her head. Then she brought it down like she was splitting wood.
Only Trisha's cunt wasn't like wood because her pussylips didn't splinter off when the head of that double-header slammed into her cunt and was shoved deep, much deeper than Shelton's six-inch prick had ever gone into her pussy.
Trisha felt like a split rail. She felt like someone had taken an ax to her cunt. She felt as if her cunt was being wedged apart by the handle end of Paul Bunyan's ax. She screamed: "MMMMMGGGFFFFF!"
Gloria couldn't believe it. She watched with eyes as wide as that cunt that had been split apart by that gigantic dildo. God! How painful!
Holly felt the same way. She was very sympathetic. But she was also a hot-assed bitch. And everyone knows that hot-ass bitches would rather fuck a dead man than mourn over the loss of another human being.
Trisha wanted to cry. Wanted to scream. Wanted to transmit messages to Shelton and tell him to quit beating his meat in Pago Pago and come home and rescue her from this atrocious rape.
God, rape was so painful. And humiliating. And degrading. She couldn't understand why so many other women had talked about the pleasures of being raped.
The rape continued.
Olivia was bending down, keeping her cunt glued to Trisha's mmmffffggging mouth. And, as she bent over, Trisha opened her eyes and saw her first asshole from a distance of three inches. It was not a pretty sight. As far as assholes go.
Trisha closed her eyes, shutting off the awful sight of a woman's asshole three inches away. She wanted to shut off her ears to the awful sounds her cunt was making as the dildo moved back and forth. She wanted to shut herself off from the awful dialogue exchanged between Gloria and Holly.
"God?" Gloria exclaimed. "Look at her clit! You can barely see her clit ... here, let me open her cunt up ... ahhhhh! See it, Holly! Shit! Her clit's no bigger than a pea!"
"Look at her asshole!" Holly said. "Watch when I turn this vibrator on the dildo ... cripes! Look at her asshole! It's so fucking tight!"
Trisha couldn't stand it. She wanted to die right then and there, to be struck down by some God-sent lightning. This was so humiliating! So disgusting! And the things they were doing to her asshole and her cunt!
Buuuuzzzzzz.
No! No! No!
Trisha bore down against the buzzing sensation deep in her asshole. No! Oh, God ... her ass was burning up! Her asshole was on fire! Couldn't they see how inflamed her asshole was? Trisha bore down again, trying to force that buzzing dildo out of her asshole, trying to extinguish that searing flame with a gust of hot air.
Fffffaaarrrttt!
Trisha turned red. Just like her asshole. Just like her chafed lips-the ones on her mouth and the ones on her cunt. She was boiling with anger, seething with pent-up fury. Yet there was nothing she could do except lay there and get fucked. Which would be an envious position for most normal women these days.
CHAPTER SIX
Fargo felt just like his cock-numb.
Fargo's cock felt numb because he had been whacking it and jacking it and generally beating off for over an hour. A very strenuous task for someone sixty-four years of age who has bursitis of the left elbow, arthritis in the right, and asthma attacks that make his lungs wheeze between bouts of rheumatism.
Fargo's cock had a reason to feel numb.
But that was no reason for Fargo to feel numb. But he was. He was emotionally drained. Because he had happened to tune into room forty-four and had watched the scene taking place where three horny Navy housewives were making a monkey pile over a lovely creature named Trisha Randall.
Fargo had liked Trisha when he had first seen her.
Anybody who was generally normal and had a cock between his legs would have liked Trisha. Unless he was a girl, of course. But the first time Fargo had laid eyes on her, he had really liked her.
Trisha looked so innocent when she had signed the six-month lease and had given him twenty-five, hard-earned Navy dollars to pay for the first month's rent.
Fargo had wanted to say something to her that day, but the financial transaction had only taken five minutes ... and what could he do in five minutes' time? What could he say in five minutes that would have given him enough time to tell her that she was the prettiest creature he had seen since Annabelle Quigly? That she was the type of girl who set something off deep inside of him-something like TNT, or dynamite, or infatuation.
Infatuation?
Fargo shook his head.
Nah. Bah! Humbug! Hell, he was sixty-four, and he didn't have time for infatuation. Not even five minutes' worth of infatuation.
Fargo shook as he remembered that itchy-twitchy feeling that had made his cock go stir-crazy in his coveralls when he first saw Trisha Randall. It was a very odd, but familiar feeling. It was a feeling akin to holding back his piss for four days then letting go all at once-a sense of relief, but at the same time a sense of consternation because the stream of piss was hardly enough to fill forty thimbles.
And everyone knows that something's wrong bladder-wise if a person holds their pee-pee back for four days, then pisses out only enough to fill forty thimbles.
So, was that infatuation?
A mixture of fear and relief?
Yeah, Fargo had felt fear when he had accepted the money for the rent. He was fearful because he was not looking at the greenbacks in his hand but at the green front of Trisha's dress.
Trisha was wearing her Sunday finest that day she had come into his office to pay the first month's rent and sign the lease. It was a chiffony dress with a little bowtie stitched into the bodice, right where most of the other Navy wives would have had plenty of cleavage showing. And the chiffony dress, by Navy standards, was not regulation length-in other words, most Navy wives would have taken a pair of scissors and trimmed off the hem near mid-thigh or mid-crotch, depending if they were standing or sitting when they had done the alternation.
And old Fargo had been fearful of Trisha's perfume.
Wives like Maxine Farnsworth and Holly Wentworth smelled as fresh as whore's sweat. Wives like Ginny Markham and Greta Paduski smelled like armpits in heat.
But Trisha was different. She didn't smell like stale walnuts or fifty-four year-old pussy.
Trisha smelled like spring-that time of year when an old man's fancy turns to thoughts of innocent pussy and fresh cunt.
Trisha smelled virginy. She smelled clean and untouched by cock and unsmeared by cum.
Yeah, Fargo had been fearful all right. Fearful of what he wanted to do to Trisha Randall. Fearful that he might unzip his coveralls and ask in his kindest, most wavery voice if she would just suck off his prick and not laugh at his inadequate size.
But he had been too fearful of asking her for a blowjob.
Just as he had been too relieved.
Fargo felt relieved when she had cheerfully given him the money, said "thank you" in a melodious Southern Belle voice, then turned around and left his office.
Fargo had felt relieved then because, for the first time in his long and weary life, he had ejaculated without touching his inadequate cock. He had actually wet his pants with stored-up cum, without giving it a whack of a jack. Naturally, he had stayed behind the counter, feeling foolish as the cum dribbled down his coveralls. Feeling foolish and relieved.
Thus, Fargo figured that he had been infatuated with Trisha Randall the first time he had seen her. Because he had felt fear and relief.
But now ... well, now was different. Now he felt numb. He felt numb and dumb. Because he had watched Trisha getting dildo-raped and forced to eat pussy instead of cookies for tea time.
And Fargo had sat there like a dumb idiot watching Trisha get her asshole plugged with a vibrating dildo and her cunt raped by a two-headed artificial cock. But it was also exciting to watch.
Oh, Fargo could have done a lot to save Trisha's asshole.
He could have pulled the fire alarm, and room forty-four would have been flooded with fire-retarding foam.
Or he could have sounded mail call-that time of the day when he announced over the public address system that the mailman was here, then he would rush to his TV sets to see which wife had decided to fuck the mailman because her husband hadn't written to her while he was beating his meat somewhere near Pago Pago.
Like a dumb ass, he had sat there. Doing nothing.
Probably because Fargo was a nothing-doer, a man who had tried his best to do absolutely nothing for himself and his fellow man. But, like rutabagas, something usually made him do something in order to do nothing.
Fargo had gotten up from his chair.
He wanted to do something for Trisha Randall. He had wanted to save Trisha from those awful Navy wives who were going to make her into a raging, cock-hungry woman instead of letting her remain as a spring-fresh Southern Belle.
But Fargo really didn't want to do anything.
He was fearful that those Navy wives and their big-pricked husbands would find out about him, find out that he had been spying on their cunts and cocks for the past ten years. Then there'd be lawsuits and counter-lawsuits and he would be branded a menace of society and the judge would order the prison doctor to cut off his balls to spite his face-or some terrible punishment like that.
Fargo was ready to sit down again, having made his decision to do nothing. He would bear the pain of watching Trisha Randall getting ravished, just as she was bearing the pain of having one dildo stuck into her asshole and one stuck into her cunt while a hairy pussy was french-kissing her mouth using a clit for a tongue.
A fly buzzed overhead.
Fargo instinctively reached up, clapped his hands.
SLAP!
The fly landed on his knee.
THWACK!
The fly moved to his crotch.
SWACK!
"AAAAIIIIEEE! YOU LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER!"
The fly buzzed overhead.
Fargo moved as fast as his varicose legs could take him. They took him to one corner of the room to the other.
The fly buzzed, then stopped buzzing.
Fargo looked around. Ah! The little bugger-so there he was!
Fargo crept up on the fucking fly. It had landed on the control panel, on a red button marked FIRE.
SWACK!
CHAPTER SEVEN
A mirror is a reflection of life from which many things can be seen.
Those lines were supposedly written by a syphilitic old man who had lived near a pond somewhere in New England where he played with the pickerel and the pike because he liked to jack off in the wilderness instead of in a crowded Conestoga wagon or at socials like corn-husking bees.
Trisha remembered those lines because she had gone to college. And college was where students had to read a lot in order to become syphilitic-type creatures who wanted to grow long hair and live near a pond instead of joining ITT and having an affair.
Trisha remembered those lines because she had a mirror in her hands and there was water beneath her straddled legs. Not pond water, but it was just as blue because of a modern gadget called Tidy Bowl.
Trisha was crouched over the toilet seat, both feet on the ass-gasket, in a hunched-over position. The mirror was between her legs, and she could see the image of her bleeding asshole and her bleeding cunt.
"GOD!"
Naturally, even He would have been shocked at the reflection in the mirror.
Trisha wanted to faint. Her asshole looked like the chapped lips of an overgrown starfish's mouth. And her cunt looked worse. Her cunt felt worse, too, because, as most women and men know, or as everybody knows, a cunt has more feeling than an asshole.
Trisha dabbed her asshole with Preparation H. She grimaced.
Oh, if her mother saw her now she'd be shocked. Hell! If anybody from Poplin saw her now they'd be shocked. Then they'd be downright outraged. Whoever heard of sticking something other than corncobs up a person's ass? Shit, in Poplin, whoever heard of dildoes with tea?
Tears came to Trisha's eyes. Tears of humiliation and tears of pain. Her asshole and her cunt were burning with agony, but not nearly as painful as her singed soul.
Trisha got off the toilet seat, flushed the Kleenex down with the drops of blood, stood there momentarily watching the water swirl to the last drop before it gurgled its way to the nearest reservoir.
God! If only she could flush away everything that had happened in the last hour. If only the brain could be like a toilet-just flush away the bad memories. If only the pull of a handle, or the push of a pedal, depending if the toilet were old or new, of course, all memory of the way she had been treated at that ridiculous dildo and tea could be washed away.
But it couldn't.
Like the stains seen around the rim of the toilet, so did the horrible memory cling to her memory.
As most victims of rape would tell her-try to remember the fun parts of being degraded and hurt because if you only remembered the bad parts, then you'd probably end up frigid and only willing to suck your husband or your boyfriend or your brother instead of wanting to fuck them.
But the humiliation, on a scale of ten, would have scored at least a nine.
And the pain, on the same scale, would have scored at least a nine, too.
And give a zero for the amount of fun she had had.
So what score would she remember for the rest of her life? Only the nines. Only the pain and the humiliation.
Trisha cursed. For the first time in her life, a word had come to mind that expressed how much anger and outrage and indignation she felt.
She said: "Beans!"
* * *
Admiral Mark fucked in funny ways.
Some people would have called it unnatural ways, but usually those people lived in placed like Belview or Attica, or else they attended schools like Slippery Rock or M.I.T.
Admiral Markham, however, did not think that he fucked in abnormal fashion. Nor did he consider it old-fashioned, premeditated fucking.
There were many ingredients that Admiral Markham needed before he could get a good, old-fashioned, rousing hard-on.
First, perfume. A certain kind of perfume. One called Bushwacker and sold over the counter at most Long's drugstores. Bushwacker perfume always got his cock as hard as a yard arm.
Second, garter belts. A special kind of garter belt. Black was the only color considered sinful enough for his taste, but it also had to have little red ribbons attached to the hems. These garter belts could be had for $15.85 at Sears, but Admiral Markham had found a good set at a whore's garage sale in Pago Pago.
Third, panties. A unique pair of panties. They had to be wispy-so wispy that they could have served as a curtain for perverted priests who wanted to see lots of thighs from little girls who came to confession to tell the good friars that they had sucked their first cock and that they had not felt ashamed when they knew they should have felt ashamed because the good fathers had told them many times that it wasn't sanitary to touch a man's thing with their lips.
The panties also had to have a cute saying stitched into the crotch. A slogan like: Eat my shorts! Or: Have it your way! Or: Watch out, McDonald's!
Fourth, a cupless bra. The kind of bra that had the centers cut out so that it made a girl's tits look like they were held up by two cloth donuts, or two rubber life preservers, depending, of course, if the girl had a set of twenty-eight-inch titties or forty-eight-inch titties. The latter was much more preferable.
With these zesty ingredients, Admiral Markham was raring to fuck.
Ginny Markham was also ready to fuck. And, because she was married to a normal admiral who fucked in abnormal fashion, accordingly to those people who were prisoners at M.I.T. or students at Belview, she needed certain items to get her rocks off.
First, she needed a man with a big cock-as evidenced in chapter four with the Walter-Paduski-behind-the-potted-plant scene.
Second, she liked cologne.
Ginny preferred a brand of cologne called Essence of Groin. Essence of Groin could not be bought just at any cheap nickel-and-dime drugstore. Essence of Groin was sold under the counter at exclusive shops like K-Mart in the lingerie department.
Or, Essence of Groin could be bought from several Navy wives who lived in the Charade Arms, the wives who collected their husbands' and boyfriends' old jocks and wrung them out and saved the essence of those juices in old Avon bottles so they could be sold to wives of admiralty at the annual white elephant sale.
Third, Ginny liked to read fuck books prior to being fucked by Admiral Markham.
Ginny had just finished fingerfucking in the bathroom, and she had just put the bookmark between pages fifty-four and fifty-five of The Coxman and the Navy Wife, which was a fuck book that could also be purchased under the counter at K-Mart in the lingerie department.
Now, the Markham's were ready to fuck.
Admiral Markham was dressed to kill.
Ginny Markham was dressed to kill.
They were ready to engage in a fucking match that abnormal people call the battle of the sexes, but which, in reality, was simply a contest to find out who was going to fuck on top and who was going to fuck on the bottom. A contest seen in millions of American homes, usually on Tuesday nights.
Ginny usually chose the top because it was the dominant position.
Admiral Markham usually chose the bottom because he was the weaker of the two sexes.
Admiral Markham adjusted his garter belts, checked to make sure that his cock didn't make an ugly grotesque bulge in his wispy panties, and making doubly sure that his hairy nipples were very prominent in his cupless bra.
Ginny said: "Uuuummmm! You little twerp! You're wearing Bushwacker!"
The admiral replied teasingly: "And you-... uuuummm! Essence of Groin! So many of the other girls have told me so many times how that cologne really turns them on. God! I see what they mean! Oh, God! Ginny ... I'm so hot! Fuck me! Now that we're alone ... I feel so excited! God, take me! Hold me! Wrap your arms around me and never let me go!"
Ginny shook her head. "No, not tonight, Winnie. Tonight's Tuesday. Have you forgotten?"
"Oh, my gosh! No, Ginny, no! Oh, please ... don't let it be Tuesday night. I'll die! Please don't make me suffer ... oh, please!"
Ginny made a bitchy, butchy remark: "Shut your fucking mouth before I shit on your face, you asshole-bastard! Now, I'm going to go get everything ready, and when I come back, you'd better have that bra off and your legs spread. Got that!"
What could he do? It was Tuesday night-God forbid!-and he had completely forgotten. Admiral Markham nodded fearfully, reached behind him and unclasped his bra.
Ginny left for the kitchen.
Fear filled Admiral Winnie. He could hear Ginny open up the refrigerator, then came the sound of running water.
No! Not that!
Essence of Groin filled the Admiral's nostrils as Ginny walked back into the room holding a steaming bowl.
Admiral Markham tried his best to look demurely composed. He crossed his nyloned legs daintily, the sound of wispy nylon filling the air. He played Greta Garbo with his garter straps-adjusting them, his fingers betraying his nervousness.
Then Ginny spoke. Very butchy-like.
"Ooooohhhh, Winnie! I can't wait to make you suffer. Now turn around and get your ass in the air. You know the position, bitch! Hurry up so I can beat the shit out of your ass!"
Admiral Markham's massacred eyes went wide. He trembled. He knew the position and he did as he was ordered-after all, he was a Navy man through and through.
He rolled over slowly.
"You asshole-bastard! Take down those stupid panties!"
Admiral Markham hurried. Hurried as fast as his nervous fingers could hurry.
Rrrriiipppp!
No! That was his best set of panties. His favorite pair! His very best set. The ones that had the slogan: Turn the other cheek!
"Stupid asshole-bastard!" Ginny screamed in a bitchy/butchy voice. She saw his bare hairy ass through the huge tear that had split his panties right up the middle. "Now you're really going to get it!"
Ginny reached into the bowl. She grabbed a limp spaghetti noodle.
"Fifty lashes tonight, Winnie. Because you been acting so slutty lately."
Ginny raised the wet noodle high, aimed for Winnie's quivering asshole that was framed by the torn lacy edges of the rrriippppeeeddd panties.
"One!"
Whack!
"Two!"
Whack!
Admiral Winnie writhed. Suffered like a slutty bitch. God, he was in such a vulnerable position. Face down on the rug, his hairy nipples being bruised by the nap of the carpet, his ass being scorched by hot spaghetti noodles, his garter belts digging into his hairy thighs.
Pain! God, so much pleasurable pain!
Pain was everywhere-on his nipples, in his asshole. Pain was in his cock-probably because his normal-sized fourteen-inch prick was snagged by the garter belts.
A fresh noodle.
"Twenty!"
Whack!
"Twenty-one!"
Whack!
Silence.
What was Ginny doing? Why had she stopped? Did he dare turn around and see what he was doing?
No, he'd better not. The last time he had tried to see what she was doing, when she had not wanted him to see what she was doing, she had lashed his cock with linguini-ooooohhhhh, such memorable pain!
Winnie sneaked a peek.
"You peeked! You asshole-bastard! You peeked! Roll over, you slut-bitch! Now you're really going to get it! Roll over and let me see that fat cock of yours! Boy, is your cock going to get the shit knocked out of it!"
Admiral Markham rolled over and spread his legs. What else could he do? He was just a simple slut-bitch. He caressed his thighs and ran hesitant fingers over the tight garter belts. Oh, God! Would it be linguini again? Or matzo balls? No, matzo balls were Monday nights.
It was not linguini that landed on his cock.
It was not spaghetti.
It was not even Italian, but it had plenty of wop.
WOP!
"AAAAIIIIEEE! HURT ME! MAKE ME SUFFER! OH, GOD! HURT MY PRICK! HURT ME, EASY! OH PLEASE!"
Ginny hurt him easy all right. The first eggplant splatted against his prick, broke into a million pieces. She reached for another one, then another-shit, she had a whole bushelful of eggplants. Enough for a broadside salvo.
WOP! WOP! WOP!
"AAAAAIIIIEEEE! MY COCK! MY COCK! OH THEY'RE TOO BIG, GINNY! OH, GOD! IT HURTS SO GOOD! HURT ME GOOD! HURT ME EASY, GINNY!"
Ginny hurt him good all right. She smashed an eggplant on his balls, watched the fruity juice run down his thighs, pooling beneath his shredded panties.
WOP! WOP! WOP!
"AAAIIIEEE! MY BALLS! YOU'RE KILLING MY BALLS! OH, HURT MY BALLS, GINNY! EASY!"
Only thirteen eggplants left.
Ginny heaved and fired, used the two-fisted, overhand dunk shot to make a creamy mess of his garter-belted crotch. Used a side-armer to smash an undersized eggplant against his writhing asshole. Fired one submariner against his taut glans.
Delicious cum-or at least it looked like cum-was shooting in salvos from his cock. The Admiral couldn't stand the ecstasy. Couldn't stand the pleasurable pain that was bombarding his loins and groin between groans and moans. Couldn't stand up at all the next day for the burial at sea that he was to perform on the USS Nixon, for a sailor who had died of hemorrhoids while on a cruise to Pago Pago. So he had performed the ceremony from a sitting position, wondering how he was going to get eggplant stains off a set of garter belts that he had purchased from a whore's garage sale in Pago Pago.
* * *
Fargo played the tape for the third time in the last hour.
He was puzzled. Puzzled by Trisha Randall as he watched her crying in the bathroom. Doubly puzzled as he heard her muttering to herself.
"Oh, Shelton ... I'll kill them. Hmmmm? Maybe the Navy Grievance Committee. No, if what they said was true about the admirals and the other officers-I'll go to the cops! Sure! I'll tell them everything. Oh, Shelton ... what am I gonna do? I can't stay locked up in this place forever ... oh, Shelton!"
Fargo felt very sorry for Trisha.
Not sorry through and through, though, because he was a man, albeit an old one, but still he was a man. And besides, it was very difficult to feel total sympathy for a woman while she was naked and her tits looked so edible and her cunt looked so tasty and her asshole looked so bruised.
Fargo wavered. He didn't like to feel two emotions at once. Dumb and numb. Fear and relief. No man did. But, God, he felt like putting his arm around Trisha and consoling her. Yet, he also felt like putting his arm around Trish and grabbing one of those hot-looking titties.
Fargo snapped out of it-put the two clashing emotions aside.
Because, here on instant replay was the part that intrigued him the most. He paid special attention to Trisha's face as she wrote a letter.
God! He wished he had a camera placed over the writing desk. From, his present vantage point, he couldn't see to whom the letter was addressed.
Fargo leaned closer to the Sony. He was trying to make out the letters, but it was useless. It was useless for two reasons. First, the letters were minuscule and looked like chicken scratches. Second, all letters looked like chicken scratches to Fargo because he couldn't read or write. In any language.
Fargo cursed ... in English. He sure wished he could read those chicken scratches.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Holly scratched her cunt.
She often did that when she was either in heat or having her period. But tonight, it was for a different reason. Tonight, she scratched her pussy because she had just had her physical this morning and the cold-fingered Navy doc had confirmed her worst fears: she had crabs.
Greta Paduski watched Holly scratch her crabby cunt. Greta scratched her pussy also. Greta did not have crabs. Greta had a case of hot cunt because Walter Paduski had taken his "Big Prick" on a six-month meat-beating cruise to Pago Pago and she was wondering what Navy man was going to help her from missing Walter's big prick.
"Will you cunts stop scratching all the time!" Olivia said, much annoyed. "You'll get crabs or somethin' if you keep scratching your cunts. Besides, we gotta find out what we're going to do with that Randall bitch."
Holly smelled her fingers. "How long's she been holed up in her apartment?"
"Almost three months," Greta answered. "You'd think she'd have to come out for air, or for shopping, or for some fuckin' or suckin'. Jesus, she's pretty abnormal if you ask me."
Olivia's long fingernails tapped on the formica table top. "I don't think so. I think we're going to have to do something drastic to get her out of there and start circulating her cunt among our husbands."
"But Walter's not here," Greta whined.
"Fuck Walter!" Holly said.
"That's what you'd like to do, Holly," Greta said spitefully. " 'Cause your old man's only got an eleven-inch prick and Walter's got a good steady fourteen inches, and-"
"You whore!" Holly cut in angrily. "Benjy's cock would be about fourteen inches if you hadn't been such a fuckin' hog at that Halloween party and chewed off about three inches of good prick. You're nothing but a fuckin' cannibal, Greta!"
Olivia rolled her eyes, tapped her fingers impatiently on the table top.
"Me-a cannibal!?" Greta replied hotly. "What about the time you almost chewed off Walter's balls. Shit! He's still got a scar right near his asshole! You're just a fuckin' squirrel-always collecting nuts with your fuckin' mouth!"
Holly stopped scratching her cunt. "Squirrel, am I!" She stood up. Pointed a finger at Greta's tit accusingly. "Shit! Did you ever see the teeth marks on my Benjy's asshole! He's got big canine teeth marks all 'round his asshole! Teeth marks that could only come from a fuckin' buck-toothed cannibal!"
Greta stood up, brushed away Holly's longer-fingernailed hand that was jabbing at her tit. "You animal! You vulture! I've seen the way you lick up after Walter's taken a piss-trying not to miss a fuckin' drop of his beer piss! You're nothing but a fuckin' piss-drinker!"
Talons were raised. Vulture versus squirrel. Cannibal against piss-drinker.
Olivia stood up between the two bitches who were ready to scratch each other's eyes out. She grabbed their tits, one in each hand. She twisted hard ... then harder ... then so hard that the cannibal was screamin' for mercy and the squirrel howled like a castrated baboon.
"You stupid sluts! Every goddamn time we meet to talk about what the fuck we're going to do with that Randall bitch, you two cunt-mouths start makin' like Friday night at the fights!"
Holly rubbed her tit.
Greta rubbed her tit.
Olivia made them apologize to each other.
They went back to scratching their cunts.
Olivia sat down. Her lingers tattooed the table top again. How to get that fuckin' Randall bitch out of her fuckin' apartment ... hmmm? No way. But there had to be a way ... just some way to get everybody into that Randall bitch's apartment so they could rape her for fourteen hours and make her act normal instead of like an asshole. Maybe, just maybe, bust down the damn door and let loose with the cannibal and the vulture.
Suddenly ... very suddenly, Olivia's eyes brightened. "That's it! I got it! I know how we break into her apartment. The landlord! We'll get the fuckin' key from the landlord; we'll tell him that we think someone's been murdered in the Randall apartment ... or something like that."
Greta brightened also ... which was unusual because her IQ was about fifty-four. "That's great! But how do we get somebody to murder her before we get the key from the landlord?"
Olivia's eyes were dull daggers. "You stupid shit! Whatta ya got-shit for brains! It doesn't have to be a murder. Maybe an accident. Anything! As long as it's convincing enough to the landlord to let us in."
Holly laughed. "You're right! Beautiful! Then once we're in, Benjy can fuck the shit out of her. And we'll all get a crack at Trisha's husband."
Olivia stood up, a smile beaming like a beacon. "Let's go get the landlord, girls."
Molly stood up. "Let's go!"
Greta stood up. "What's the landlord's name? I've never seen him."
Stunned, they all sat down.
Greta was right. They had never met the landlord. Oh, they had seen the maintenance man, some old fart who looked so fucking rundown and who was always fixing their TV's. But they had never seen the landlord of the Charade Arms.
Who was he? Where was he?
* * *
Hunger does strange things to people who are starving.
Some become cannibals-a la Greta Paduski. Some eat little mice they find in cupboards, little dead mice who have died from eating dead humans because they were so hungry and who were now going to become a delicious meal for a starving human being who would probably die in two weeks from eating gangrenous mice.
Trisha Randall was dying of hunger. And it was doing strange things to her. She hallucinated a lot. She dreamed funny dreams. She dreamed about the first time Shelton had come calling on her in Poplin, Georgia. But somehow, the dream was very foggy and confusing. Events were out of sequence, movements were jerky and epileptic-like.
Shelton Randall was twenty-four in the dream. And Trisha was thirteen. See how unreal dreams can get?
Trisha dreamed about making love to Shelton on the porch during tea time. She dreamed about sucking his prick and tasting pekoe. Then his prick turned into a dildo and he was forcing the dildo into her pussy from a dog-style position. But her pussy suddenly became an asshole-probably because, anatomically speaking, a cunt and an asshole are so much alike. And the dildo hurt her asshole. Made it bruised and bleeding. Then the dildo faded and the image of her bruised asshole was flushed away by the sounds of a toilet regurgitating while He watched (He being you know who).
Trisha blinked her eyes.
She licked her lips. They were chapped. Dry. Parched.
Her stomach grumbled-grumbled as in gripe.
She stumbled in the pantry. She stared red-eyed at the can of unopened Cisco. God! Could a person live on lard for three months?
Trisha didn't know. Trisha didn't want to know. What Trisha wanted to know was when she was going to get out of her self-made prison before she died of starvation, or because she ate gangrenous rats.
Then she sucked up some courage. Redoubled her vow never to step out of her apartment until Shelton return from Pago Pago and rescued her from those perverted Navy wives who were doing sadistic things like leaving sizzling-hot chuck roasts outside the door, or fanning the aroma of baked walnut pie beneath her door.
Trisha went to the desk. She would try again. Quickly she jotted something on the stationary, folded it until it resembled a paper airplane.
She went to the window and launched number three-hundred and thirty-two. The wind caught the paper airplane, and Trisha's heart leaped with hope. But before it could drift down, the paper plane was snagged by a fishing net that came from above and to Trisha's right.
Trisha leaned out the window and looked up.
Olivia was naked, as usual. She was leaning over the balcony, retrieving the paper airplane from the long-handled fishing net.
Trisha watched her read the message. She saw Olivia smile wickedly.
Then came Olivia's voice cackly voice: "Nice try, asshole. But, when the fuck are you gonna learn? Christ! You gotta come out sometime, bitch-face. And when you do, there's gonna be lots of cocks wanting to fuck your tight cunt. Why not make it easier on yourself and come out right now? If you come out right now ... I promise, I'll have the guys eat you out before they fuck you."
Trisha shut the window, closed the drapes.
She cried ... for the ninety-first day in a row.
* * *
People said that Rear Admiral Elmo Numbwalt fucked anything that had a hole.
That was not true.
Rear Admiral Elmo Numbwalt fucked hairy holes, or as it's known by its generic term: cunts. The Rear Admiral fucked as many cunts as he could proposition, or purchase, or purloin.
Now, because he had been a failure at propositioning and purchasing and purloining, he was back fucking plain holes with no hair.
Oh, he had tried fucking toilet paper tubes, but that always seemed so fucking impersonal. And he had tried fucking flank steak that had been rolled into something that looked like a meaty toilet paper tube; but, shit, with the price of meat (like the price of whores these days), it was out of sight and too heavy on the old pocket book.
So now Rear Admiral Elmo Numbwalt was fucking a Heavenly donut.
Which were only seven cents apiece for the glazed kind. Or seventy-five cents a dozen. Which is a pretty cheap fuck even if you were poor.
Admiral Numbwalt had an even dozen donuts. Because that was all that he could stack up on his prick-one donut for every inch of cock that he owned.
To help him get real hot and bothered, Admiral Numbwalt was looking at pictures of his wife masturbating. They were very good pictures. Some were even in color. Others were black and white Polaroid's. He liked the black and white photos because, somehow, things pornographic (like the picture of his wife trying to stuff a rolled flank steak into her cunt) always looked better in black and white.
So now he had a picture of his wife Elsie fucking flank steak while he had twelve glazed donuts stacked up on his twelve-inch prick.
The Admiral gripped the donuts, held them steady while he moved his cock back and forth, back and forth, through the holes of the twelve donuts.
God! What ecstasy! Oh, how heavenly!
Admiral Numbwalt perspired, his eyes becoming blurry until he wiped away the sweat that gathered on his eyebrows.
Oh, shit!
There was no way he could hold twelve donuts steady with one hand, wipe away the sweat with the other, keep his eyes on the black and white photo as he moved his cock in and out of all those delicious Heavenly glazed donuts.
He stopped fucking his donuts.
He thought for a moment.
He thought for two hours.
He came up with a solution.
He put the donuts on the kitchen table, stood them up on their sides. Next, he got his heaviest book ends and placed them against the donuts to help prop them up. Then he placed the photo of his wife masturbating between the salt and pepper shakers-just inches away from where his cockhead would be once he speared those twelve donuts.
Ah, everything looked great.
Now to get his prick back into all those donut holes. It was like threading a needle. Only his cock was much bigger than a needle. As most girls know.
The Admiral stood up on tiptoes, gave his limber prick a couple of jacks. Now, he was ready. His cock was just hard enough to jam through all those Heavenly donut holes, yet it was still soft enough that the fucking donuts wouldn't fall apart once he'd put the meat to them.
Slowly, his cock entered and speared three donuts, the fourth and fifth and sixth donuts passed agonizingly over his taut glans. Three more glazed donuts, then, finally the last three were finally fucked.
Now, just bring the hands down and hold onto the book ends to keep the fucking donuts in line.
Careful now. Great! All set!
Shit!
Double shit!
Admiral Numbwalt was so fucking angry he could have shit red bricks. Where the fuck were his glasses? How the fuck could he see the photo of his wife making it with a banana when he had 20/2000 vision.
"MOTHERFUCKER!"
Carefully, gingerly, tenderly, the Admiral beat a slow retreat out of those dozen doughnut holes. Once free, his cock drooped ... just like the Admiral's ardor for wanting to have a good time jacking off on his wife's picture while he used donuts for her cunt.
The Admiral looked for his glasses.
He found them on the end-table.
Now, back to those fucking-hot donuts.
He gave his prick fourteen whacks.
Now, his prick was more than ready for those greasy donuts.
Everything looked ready. His wife looked ready. The donuts looked ready.
Slowly, tediously, the Admiral stuck his cock into nine donut holes.
Oh, God! No! Some of them were breaking apart! No! Please!
When the last donut passed over the Admiral's taut glans, and he looked down to check the damages done to the donuts, he was disappointed in those stupid, fucking donuts.
The ones in the middle were the worse off. They looked ready to split into million of little donut crumbs.
Admiral Numbwalt looked at the photo of his wife. God! Elsie looked so fucking good! Damn the donuts! He'd fuck them until they broke! He'd fuck them until they were nothing but crumbs and tidbits.
The Admiral couldn't help it. His balls were just too uptight. After all, he had just gotten back from Pago Pago after six months of beating his meat with old toilet-paper tubes and leftover flank steak. And he had not gotten his usual Polynesian pussy because he had had to fly back to the States because his wife Elsie was going blind because of some sort of social disease.
Poor Elsie. She had been a good fuck. Couldn't cook worth shit, but she sure knew how to fuck.
Admiral Numbwalt stared at the photo of his wife. Yeah, what a good-looking cunt. And the more he stared at the picture of his dead wife, the more his cock expanded and the more his balls became uptight.
Finally, he couldn't stand it. He had to fuck something!
The first thrust of his hips ripped the two middle donuts in half. And the twelfth donut was threatening to rip. But he couldn't stop. His cock felt great! His balls felt over swollen! He had to keep fucking though because everything felt too heavenly!
He fucked harder and harder. He pressed against the book ends, forced those donuts to crowd around his prick-forced them to bulge ... then split ... then tear even though they were two weeks old and considered hard enough be used as doorsteps.
No! No! No!
The Admiral was fucking like a madman. His hips were writhing and his thighs were banging against the edge of the table. The first spurts of jizz were starting to leap from his prick-and those fucking donuts had chosen this time ... this point in time ... to collapse!
God! Look at that!
Sperm-white and frothy, as it usually is-was jettisoning out, landing on his dead wife's Polaroid cunt.
More sperm came out because there was more pressure which forced more sperm to come out because there was more pressure which forced more sperm to come out because-so it goes ... or comes ... or ends ... or whatever.
No! No! No!
The donuts were breaking up! Those fucking Heavenly pastries were in chaos!
Then the photo of Elsie was starting to curl, and his dead wife looked as if she were trying to rise from her horizontal position.
No! He couldn't stop to straighten out the photo-not now! His cock was shooting out jizz! He couldn't stop in mid-donut fuck! A man can't change horses in midstream ... could he?
Three more donuts crumbled. And only six were left to give him the feeling that his cock was surrounded by his dead wife's cunt.
No! Elsie! Stand up! Er, no, lie down! Don't curl up on me! No!
Now Elsie's photo was splotched with so much jizz that it was curling up like a Dead Sea scroll, curling up into a fetal position.
Now there were only two donuts left to fuck-no, make that one.
And then there were none.
And the Admiral was fucking air instead of his dead wife's cunt-nothing but air. And the shots of jizz were moving sluggishly out of his cock-hole. Not spewing out strongly, not spurting out powerfully. Just kind of lingering at the end of his cock like sleepy slugs ... or slugs that had been given Miltown instead of Ortho.
Admiral Numbwalt collapsed-like the donuts. And his prick thwacked against the table top as his chest slithered and slid on top of the greasy, glazed donut crumbs and the sperm-wet picture of his rolled-up wife.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Damn! Damn! Damn!
"H-Hello," The Admiral answered breathlessly, cautiously.
"Hello, is that you Numbwalt?"
"Y-Yes, who's this?"
"Olivia-Olivia Mumsey. How come you sound so breathless and cautious? You been beating off on those fucking toilet paper tubes again?"
The Admiral gulped fearfully. "No ... no ... well, not exactly. I was just doing some ... er, some deep knee bends. Gotta try and do my best to keep fit while I'm in mourning. You know how it goes."
"That's a bunch of rat-shit, Numbwalt," Olivia answered in exasperation. "Look, the reason why I called is because we're calling an emergency meeting of the social activities board. So forget about fucking Elsie and those goddamn toilet paper tubes and get your ass down to the rec room. We're meeting in ten minutes. Got that?"
The Admiral gulped, said: "Got it." Then he mumbled goodbye.
Olivia's farewell was a click in his ear.
CHAPTER NINE
Usually the meetings of the social activities board were festive occasions. Gossip about who was fucking who and with what and for what reason. Tea and dildoes were plentiful. And the dress was usually casual-pressed jockstraps for men, cellophane panties for women.
Tonight's meeting of the social activities board, however, was not festive.
Tonight's meeting was festering. Festering with angry remarks and boisterous voices. Chaos, again, was in the air. Things were running amuck, as they usually do when people try and act outwardly normal and inwardly fucked-up.
Then the gavel came crashing down on the formica top of the head table. And the chairman of the social activities board-Lieutenant Commander Marcus Bellino-screamed for order.
"Goddammit! Everybody shut up! Jesus Christ, you'd think we were nothing but a bunch of animals with no sense of order. Now, everybody knows the problem-so let's hear some logical solutions. Who wants to speak out first?"
"Me! Me!"
"Goddammit, Ginny! You always get to go first!"
"Goddammit, Olivia! Ginny deserves to go first. She can talk lots better than you ever did."
"Go fuck your face!"
"Don't you just wish!"
"Huh?"
Whack! Whack! Whack! Went the gavel.
"MOTHERFUCKER!" said the owner of the gavel. "Animals! You fucking cunts and animals! Shit, let's do this sensibly, logically. We'll do it the Navy way. Everybody ready?"
Olivia Mumsey, Ginny Markham, and several other Navy wives grumbled at first. Then they stopped grumbling and held out their fists.
Marcus said: "One potato, two potato, three potato, four. Out goes you!"
Thus, using the time-honored Navy way of deciding fate, it was left to the last potato to air the grievance of the group. The last potato remaining was Olivia Mumsey.
Olivia smiled proudly. "It's like this, Marcus. That Randall bitch is still in her fucking apartment, and she won't come out. Her husband's going to be home in about a month, and if she doesn't start cooperating, none of us girls will be able to suck his prick."
The Navy wives showed their reaction to Olivia's remarks.
"That's telling them, Olivia!"
"Keep it up, Olivia! Tell 'em that women got rights too!"
"Sic 'em, Olivia!"
"Yippppeeeee!"
"Huh?"
Olivia smiled proudly again. "We've decided that something drastic's got to be done. We've got to give up the siege and go on the attack! We're gonna break the bitch's door down!"
Again the crowd reaction:
"Yeah!"
"Yippppeeee!"
"Huh?"
"That's right-break down the doors! Give the bitch her due!"
"Attack! Attack! Attack!"
"Tora! Tora! Tora!"
Marcus fiddled with the gavel nervously. Things smelled rotten. The odor of mutiny was in the air. He looked to his right for comfort and guidance-from last year's social activities board chairman.
To his right, dunking a glazed donut into a cup of hot pekoe tea, was Rear Admiral Elmo Numbwalt who was very calm and very cool-just like the Navy war manuals ordered him to be while under fire and beating a quick retreat.
Marcus whispered: "Jesus Christ! These bitches want blood. What do you think we ought to do, Elmo?"
Elmo swallowed a mouthful of doughnut, patted his lips dry, then spoke in an reassuring voice: "Tell 'em that Navy Housing code, ordinance 2043-B, distinctly states that all occupants of Navy houses, if living there of their own free will, shall maintain a clean and orderly yard, they will pick up their own trash, dispose of the feces of animals in a healthy place, and they shall not steal nor vandalize a neighbor's door."
Marcus tried it. Tried the ordinance 2043-B tactic.
"Don't give us that bullshit!" Olivia said rebelliously, raising her fist high. "And tell Admiral Numbwalt to stick ordinance 2043-B up his left nut! Fucking shit! Numbwalt doesn't maintain a clean yard, and he's got dog shit all over his apartment! And look what he did with his own fucking door-broke the fucking thing when he kicked Elsie's ass through it!"
Numbwalt was stunned, then he lost his composure. Hastily he swallowed the last of the glazed donut, then he rose to the occasion. Shit, his authority had definitely been challenged. Now, he was ready to put on the gloves, ready to duel with Olivia Mumsey.
"Olivia!" Admiral Numbwalt screamed, standing at rigid attention so that his five-foot frame cut a very imposing figure. "You're an insubordinate bitch! I'll have you put in the stockade if you don't clean up your fucking act!"
That did it. The crowd was cowed, and everyone was very fearful for Olivia because they knew the stockade was where uncooperative housewives were sent for discipline, usually in the form of whippings and hanging from yard arms and going without cock for seven days.
The crowd quieted down. Oh, most of the women wouldn't have minded the whippings or the yard arming tactics. But going without cock for seven days? Even Satan would have been more merciful than doling out punishment where a cunt starves without a steady diet of cock-meat.
But Olivia rekindled the crowd's frustration. She baited the bears. She rallied her troops once again.
"Admiral Numbwalt-I think you're bluffing!"
The crowd gasped-almost in unison, except for Gracie Doolittle who was the one who was always saying: "Huh?"
"Oh, no!"
"Oh, my!"
"Poor Olivia!"
"Gosh, now the Admiral's going to do something rash!"
"Huh?"
Admiral Numbwalt bristled. His anger was somewhere in his throat, threatening to spew out in a venomous stream of nasty and incoherent words. He was ready to give vent to his fury, air out his irate steam, let go all his frustrations on the voluptuous, insubordinate woman who had challenged his sense of macho. He was ready now. His nostrils flared as he sucked in air, ready to expel it in words of outrage.
Instead, the glazed donut stuck in his throat ... made him gag ... and wretch and cough.
"Cough. Cough. Cough."
Olivia smiled proudly. "See ... he's choking on the truth! Aren't you, Numbwalt! You can't stand it because I know how you killed your wife! And you can't stand me knowing why you killed your wife either!"
The crowd gasped, then regasped.
"Cough. Cough. Cough."
"Go get 'em, Olivia! Tell us why the old man killed his wife!"
"Yeah! We wanta know why he murdered his only wife!"
"Yeah! More! More!"
"Author! Author! Author!"
"Cough! Cough! Cough!"
Olivia stepped into the limelight ... proudly. "He killed Elsie because she had caught him fucking a-" Then came a long pause, to let the words hang very thrillingly, like over a suspenseful cliff.
The audience was on the edge of their seats, hanging on every word, hanging from that stupid simile in the above mentioned paragraph about being thrilled while dangling on the edge of a cliff. They couldn't wait for Olivia to continue.
"Come on, Olivia! Don't keep us in this rotten suspense!"
"Yeah! Tell it like it is! Let it all hang out!"
"Huh?"
"More! We want more!"
"Author! Author! Author!"
Like a lot of excellent fuck book writers, Olivia maintained the suspense until just the right moment.
One hour passed.
The crowd went into bedlam (no, not Bedlam, New Jersey), into a milling melee of maniacal madwomen. Typical. They were no different than the Romans at Calvary, playing dice and using some soothsayer's robe for the stakes. They were no different than Charger fans when the Buffalo Bills come to town and run roughshod over those guys with fairy-like lightning bolts on their helmets and who play football about as well as Liberace in drag. They were like vampire Roller Derby fans ... out for blood. In plain simple terms, they were like you and I at the Jones' orgy next door.
Another hour passed.
"Cough. Cough. Cough."
The women were going crazy, as they are apt to do when the pressure's too much of a burden to bear. They started taking off their clothes (the ones who had attended the meeting with clothes on instead of just cellophane panties) and they were throwing their bras at Admiral Numbwalt.
And Admiral Numbwalt was still choking on the crumbs of a glazed donut-aghast as huge maxi-bras pelted him, stoned him because the crowd's true nature had come to the fore and they were willing to throw stones because they felt they were without sin.
"Cough. Cough. Cough."
WHACK! WHACK! CCCRRRAAAKKK-CCCKKK!
Ah, shit! The fucking gavel just broke in half, and Marcus didn't know what the fuck to do. He couldn't remember what the manual had said about crowd control or being attacked by kamikaze bras. Yet, he too, was about to lose his head.
"Goddammit, Olivia!" Marcus screamed above the din of peeling bras and milling people. "Tell us! Goddammit, I can't stand it!"
Olivia smiled ... very proudly. She raised her hand for silence.
The crowd hushed itself.
"Hush ... goddammit!"
"Ssssshhhhhh!"
"Quiet! Let's stifle ourselves!"
"Huh?"
Then silence ... painful silence. Oh, every once in a while somebody would gasp because 'the silence was so dreadful. And every once in a while somebody would fart. But nobody paid any mind to the fart because their attention was focused on an asshole.
The asshole said ... very proudly: "Admiral Numbwalt killed Elsie because she caught him fucking a-TOILET PAPER TUBE!"
At first everyone was stunned. Toilet paper tube? No! Nobody fucks toilet paper tubes-at least not any more. It was incredible! Unbelievable! Absurd!
"That's absurd!"
"That's incredible!"
"Dastardly!"
"Are you sure, Olivia?"
Olivia raised her hand again. And stunned the crowd again. Because what she had in her fist was first-hand evidence of Admiral Numbwalt's absurd and incredible deed. Olivia held a very worn-out-looking toilet paper tube that looked as if it had been used as a rolling pin to flatten out cookies made of walnuts and semen dough.
"There's your evidence! Look at this fucking toilet paper tube!"
Everybody looked. They were shocked at the idea of a grown man putting his cock into something as lifeless as a toilet paper tube when he was married to a fine fuckable woman like Elsie who was now in her grave because she had tried to leave a room without opening the door.
Admiral Numbwalt couldn't believe it. Everyone was looking at him as if he were a pervert-but what could he do? Would they have believed the truth about that toilet paper tube. That he was going to surprise Elsie on her seventieth birthday by greeting her at the door with a toilet paper tube on his cock in the hopes that he'd remind her that his cock had not gone to waste?
No ... they wouldn't believe that. Would they?
The crowd didn't give him time to tell the truth.
Because the wraps of normalcy were thrown aside, along with the discarded pressed jocks and cellophane panties. And everyone was letting Admiral Numbwalt know about their true feelings.
Ginny found four or five bras to use as ropes.
Holly Wentworth found several jocks to use for a gag.
Olivia watched everything very proudly. See how pride can bring the downfall of admirals and other famous incorruptible? Like Tricky Dicky and Whacky Jacky?
CHAPTER TEN
Fargo had his cock in hand-his eight-inch, very inadequate prick. His temples ached-ached with agony and with exhaustion. It had taken every bit of his energy to carry Trisha Randall's body up three flights of stairs to his penthouse suite.
Now, he looked at her.
She was beautiful! God! He wanted to touch her, to feel the weight of her titties in his hands. Did he dare?
Of course, he dared. Shit, it was getting to the end of this story, and if he didn't hurry up and start into the titty-fucking scene, he knew he'd be sorry.
Trisha was on the couch, her eyes closed because she was unconscious, her legs wide open because Fargo had positioned them that way.
She was dressed in a housecoat, a very floppy robe. And the belt of the floppy robe had come loose. God! Fargo could see just a glimpse of her tits. They were so scrumptious-looking, daring him to suck and nibble the nip. Did he dare?
Of course, he dared! This was the fucking last chapter in his life, and if he didn't start doing some really raunchy fucking now, he knew that he'd never appear in another J,H. Long book, that J.H. Long would be told by some fucked-up fuck book editor to make sure that all the characters fuck and suck all the time.
So, Fargo was ready to fuck Trisha.
For the first and last time.
He was going to fuck her between the titties, spew his sperm all across the firm-flesh mountains of her tits.
He moved forward. Undid the sash that held her housecoat together. The housecoat parted-parted as easily as if he were opening the pages of that fucking right-wing newspaper, the San Diego Evening Tribune.
Fargo gasped.
Her titties were just beautiful! Just like her face. Just like her navel. Just like all of her. Because now Fargo could see every millimeter of her nakedness -well, that's not really true. Fargo couldn't possibly see every bit of her nakedness because that's called dramatic license; or, in other words, dramatic license is simply something that writers get for using a vehicle when they take their tests for the local DMV or Highway Patrol or local Crossing Guard. Thus, in reality, Fargo did not see all of her naked all at once. He could only see half of her naked-or, at least, that half that faced him when she was naked. Or whatever.
But Fargo was no dummy. He knew that her backside was just as naked as her frontside. Or was it? If he couldn't see her backside because she was lying supine did that mean she was naked all over?
Fargo thought about that. Then he didn't want to think about it any more because he knew he didn't want to be killed off in the last chapter of this book. He wanted to be a fuck book character live the kind of normal life that other fellow Americans live.
Thus, Fargo became a fuck book character.
He started in on her tits. He figuratively devoured her tits. First, the right tit. There was so much titty to suck. And he wanted to suck her titties two at a time. He wanted to suck her titties night and day. He wanted her to grow another titty so he could have triple the fun. He gathered up her titties; or, in other words, he took a firm grip on her titties and brought them together so that her nipples were only inches apart.
Then his mouth covered her nipples in one gulping, saliva-drenched bite. Probably if Trisha had been awake she would have enjoyed having her titties sucked two at a time. Which would have made her no different than most American women who really dig it when their tits are sucked in tandem. Except those who had been crushed by breast cancer, of course, and who have had one or both titties lopped off by some palsy-fingered breast specialist.
But Trisha was not awake. Her mind was blank. Made that way because of the knockout punch that Fargo had delivered when he had been caught sneaking in her apartment. Oh, she had tried to resist him, or course. But, as they say in the fuck books, resistance was useless. She had been too weak to put up an adequate defense. Probably because she had been living on Cisco and fried mice for the last two weeks.
Thus, because she was not conscious, she was not aware of what was happening to her titties right now. If she had been conscious, of course, she might have screamed: "My Titties! My Titties! My Titties!"
Then, Fargo would have naturally assumed that his dentures had turned on her titties, and he would have redoubled his tit-sucking efforts.
And, since, Fargo was now imagining himself as a real tit-lover, a true fuck book character, he did redouble his tit-sucking efforts. He spat out his dentures. And he gummed the living shit out of her titties!
God! Fargo had never had such beautiful titties in his mouth before. He wanted to spend an eternity with her titties, honoring them, cherishing them, adoring them, kissing and caressing her titties for months on end or for the duration of eternity. Or, whichever came first, naturally.
But there was so little time. Fargo knew there was only about ten pages left to his existence. He had to fuck her titties now or be eternally forgotten.
He stood up.
He marveled at her titties as they shined with spit and looked very sore and red from where he had gummed all around her tatu-tipped nipples.
He unzipped his fly.
ZZZZZIIIIPPP!
God, his cock was aching with bloated cum and leftover piss. He gave it a few whacks to make sure it was in good working order-after all, he was sixty-four years of age and getting older with every passing minute. And when a person's sixty-four years of age, time is always being counted in minutes instead of months.
Fargo hurried as best he could. His temples ached. His legs felt very weary. His hemorrhoids hurt. He drooled a lot. He knew that his body wasn't in prime condition, but he just had to fuck Trisha Randall or else he would be totally out of character.
The more he hurried, the less he accomplished. Things were very frustrating. He bent over to untie his white-buck shoes. God, the arthritic agony was like firebrands in his spine. He unrolled his socks very slowly, maintaining the same precarious, bent-over position. God! The rheumatism shot through every joint in his body except the one that didn't have marrow running through the core. That was the only joint that didn't ache. In fact, that was the only thing on his body that felt half-assed great, that felt as if it were really worth a goddamn.
Fargo straightened up, listened to his spine snap, crackle and pop. He was sweating. Beads of perspiration were running down from his hairy scalp, spilling into his sunken eyes.
Agonizingly he straddled Trisha's body. Got his knees on either side of her. Ambled up toward her face, his cock spilling as much juice as his overworked sweat glands.
He sat on her ribcage.
Then he looked down.
Oh, God! Fargo couldn't believe it! His titty fuck was so near at hand. And her tits looked so fucking ripe to fuck. In fact, her titties looked as sexy as her cunt-probably because Fargo was so old-fashioned and considered titty-fucking something that only hippies did because they didn't want to give each other crotches or their mouths.
Fargo's hands trembled. Slowly, his sweaty palms encircled her titties. Brought her hot and wet titties together until a very deep and pussy-like (hairless, of course) cleavage was formed.
Fargo stared at the long valley formed by the pressure of two mountainous breasts being smashed together.
Now he was really ready to fuck her titties.
There was sure enough lubrication on her titties. Shit, there was so much drool and sweat and pre-cum cockjuice on her titties that Fargo knew his cock wouldn't make squeaking noises when he titty-fucked her.
The first tit-fuck stroke was agonizingly pleasureful. Fargo had felt nothing like it. With those titties wrapped around his prick, it was easy to see why big-titted girls were so popular.
Fuck! Shit! Piss! Could chicks like Twiggy and Cher give titty-fucks like this. Fuck! Shit! Piss!-NO!
Fargo thrust and thrust and kept thrusting. Jesus, he was going out of his fucking mind with ecstasy. He was going out of his fucking skull with the pleasure that surrounded his inadequate cock.
Fargo looked down at his unaverage prick. Shit, now it didn't look so bad. The glans was ripe and swollen. The cock-slit was oozing pre-cum all over those semen-wet tits. Shit, his balls felt as if they were going to explode-literally explode, as if some hard-hat miner had crammed a tone of TNT up his ass to get to the fucking mother's load.
"OH, LORDY! LORDY! LORDY!"
Fargo's mind reeled. His balls made slap-slap noises as they slammed against, the base of Trisha's tits. His cock made sluicy noises as it rammed and re-rammed through her held-together cleavage.
Sweat dripped off Fargo's face like a wrung-out Tampax, like sweaty walnuts being shoved into a garlic press and prime walnut oil was being squeezed out.
Oh, God! Fargo knew he was ready. He was ready for the final come. He couldn't believe it-so much ecstasy and passion and walnut oil and cockjuice and squeamy, squishy noises. This was fucking! This was fucking at its A-l best!
Then came the climactic moment. For both this story and for a neat-o, keen-o fuck book character named Fargo Longworth.
Just as the jism was ready to spurt from his prick. Just as his balls were getting ready to release the second load of frothy cum. Just as his asshole caved in because it felt like some miner was shoving a ton of TNT into his ass tunnel. Just as he was on the verge of coming.
Something else happened.
It wasn't his prick that exploded.
It was his heart.
And, instead of being -in the grips of passion, Fargo felt as if his chest had come to grips with a Kodiak bear, or a homosexual Sumo wrestler, or an over affectionate boa constrictor.
Fargo gasped. And the last thing he saw as a fuck book character was his climax spewing out of his prick just as blackness descended on him.
* * *
Trisha Randall awoke with a shock.
Then she wished that she had not awoken with a shock.
In fact, Trisha Randall wished that she had never awakened.
At first, she thought it was some sort of ghastly wet dream. Conjured up by some deviant, masturbating sorceress. But, no-everything was quite real. Everything Trisha saw was quite real.
Trisha saw death.
In the person of Fargo Longworth. A person who, because of death, had become a thing. A fuck book character who had reached the end-an ending that was most suitable for Fargo because there could only be a certain amount of pages and chapters and asterisks in a person's life before the last page is read and consumed by a reader who gets his rocks off by reading about titties being fucked by an inadequate prick like themselves.
Trisha also saw red. The kind of red spots chicks see when their titties feel as if they had been placed in a garlic press that still smelled of stale walnut oil.
"AAAAIIIIEEEEE! MY BREASTS! OOOOOO-HHHHHH!"
Trisha couldn't believe how sore her titties were. She gingerly ran her fingertips over every place that felt sore. Which happened to be all over.
Besides the soreness, she felt something else. She felt something sticky and icky on her tits.
Reality dawned on her.
And if reality can dawn on a person, then conjecture can also be on the horizon.
Trisha conjectured that the icky, sticky stuff was the junk that came from a man's prick.
Naturally, Trisha was not totally unfamiliar with jism. After, all, what girl is? She had touched cum before.
But Trisha cried because this was the first time that she had ever felt cum on her titties. And she really boo-hooed when she thought about how all that white creamy shit got there in the first place.
After all, the evidence was quite clear.
There was a man-who was now a corpse if you want to put it crudely-on her titties. And it was obvious that the cum had come from his prick because his cock was stiff with rigor mortis and a couple of so-called hesitant drops of semen still clung to the cock-slit.
Pretty damaging evidence in anybody's fuck book.
Trisha cried some more. She had been abused. She had been treated like an everyday whore. But worse, her depravity had been committed by a dead man.
Trish tried to rise, tried to get away from the ghastly sight of seeing eye-to-eye with a dead man.
She struggled, really struggled.
Fargo's body toppled over. And his body bounced a couple of times on the rug before it remained motionless, frozen forever in a position that was so degrading, so foul, so grotesque that it defied description.
And, since average people don't like to read about how a corpse is described in their local newspapers, the following descriptive account is for the three hundred thousand necrophiliacs in America: Fargo's eyes, as Homer would put it, were sightless. Fargo's face, as Howard Cosell would tell it, lacked all significant signs of life. Fargo's prick, as J.H. Long, would write it, was as stiff as the rest of him,
Trisha wanted to wretch. But it was hard to wretch and cry at the same time. She tried her best; but the gagging of her retching was overpowered by the gasps of her sobs.
No! No! No!
Trisha turned away from the ghastly sight.
But she was greeted by another equally ghastly sight. Only this ghastly sight was still alive and in brilliant color.
Trisha rubbed the tears away from her eyes. She put aside the thought of Fargo Longworth's dead body just as everybody else in the world would. She couldn't believe it! She couldn't believe that one living room could have that many TV sets. And what she doubly couldn't believe was all those filthy scenes on every screen. It was like going to the swap meet and every stall was a peep show.
It was freaky.
Trisha blinked. But it did no good. It didn't help-all those people were still on the screen, still fucking and sucking and having themselves a ball ... or two ... and some even three.
Then she recognized those perverted people on the screen.
HER NEIGHBORS! PERVERTS ALL! SIN MOST OBDURATE!
God! There was Holly Wentworth licking what looked like mayonnaise off her lips. Very runny mayonnaise.
There was Grade Doolittle getting ass fucked by-no! She was getting ass fucked by a gavel! A gavel was fucking Gracie Doolittle's asshole!
Would anybody believe that?! Nobody got fucked by a gavel! Not even in the ass! No! Gavel's were for restoring order! Gavels were for toastmasters, not assholes!
And there! There was Olivia Mumsey, and she was waving something very defiantly, yet very proudly, in the air. Waving something that looked like-A TOILET PAPER TUBE! Or, what looked like the remnants of a toilet paper tube.
But why? Trisha was mystified. Why would anyone keep old toilet paper tubes?
Before she could give due consideration to toilet paper tubes and ass gavels, she was shocked at the sight on the Sony TV screen in the lower-right-hand corner.
There was Admiral Thomas Winfield Markham! Or, at least, Trisha thought that the woman in the picture looked like good old Winnie.
Oh, no!
OH, YES!
It was Admiral Markham!
And he was daintily stepping into garter belts and panties!
Trish shook her head. Disbelief and more disbelief left her confused and awe-struck and just plain numb with old-fashioned shock.
Admirals wearing garter belts? Filmed orgies? Titty-fucked by corpses? Eating fried Cisco and dead mice?
Trisha looked at all that filth on the screen.
She thought about what's his name; er, Shelton Randall, her only husband. She imagined him beating his meat in a tin can parked somewhere off Pago Pago anxious to get his beaten meat into some Polynesian pussy.
It wasn't very hard to imagine her husband doing something like that. Not after seeing all this depravity on all those TV screens in living color.
Yeah, maybe Olivia and Holly and Gracie were right. Maybe she was an asshole for being the only one different then the rest of the people living in the Charade Arms.
She could certainly see the difference now.
Shit, everyone was balling and sucking and fucking.
Double shit, because she was here with a fucking dead-beat corpse while the rest of the world was getting its meat beat by garter-belted admirals and Heavenly doughnuts and battered toilet paper tubes.
Trisha sighed.
She realized something very suddenly. Very suddenly because there were only about two more paragraphs of a story about people that were food for thought for a society who craved fuck books; or something to that effect.
Trisha realized that her husband had to be beating his meat because he wouldn't want to be the only non-meat beater in the whole crew. And it was probably true that he'd be anxious to get his cock into some Polynesian piece of pussy.
Shit, there was only one thing she could do.
The only thing any normal asshole would have done.
She decided to become a normal person-just like all those people fucking and sucking on the screen.
She left the room, knowing that it was a new beginning for her, a fresh start. Or was it only ...
