Rachel Archer has compiled a remarkable document about psycho-sex that we've called Mother Taught Him How. The theme is one that reoccurs frequently when one encounters a man who has been almost totally destroyed by his mother ... and her insatiable craving for his body. Yes, the oldest taboo of all ... incest. In the closest union possible, Mother literally taught him how ... to do everything sexual ... and to kill, in the name of purity and right.
That this mother's son finally grew up to be a Reverend of the Holy Word only put him in a position where many frustrated young ladies would throw themselves at his purifying feet. Little did they know what he thought of their sordid plights. Now that the Reverend J. Farny Kanabb has eventually had his day in court, and is firmly relocated in a quiet little protective institution with absolutely no chance of being allowed to commit any more of his purification rites, Miss Archer is totally free to tell his complete story, exactly as she had wanted to do all along.
As she constructed him, the Reverend Kanabb is a religious fanatic driven by the ghost/memory of his sexual-partner mother to purge all sinners of that hell-fiend Satan ... through sexual excess ... just like mother herself liked him to treat her when he was just a little boy. He has no idea of murder and is convinced that God himself asks him for the soul of the sinner.
Each lush victim he selects is minutely pleasured in every possible aperture, with J. Farny enjoying himself during each grisly event. He follows the explicit orders of the lustful phantom/mother which appears to him, killing male pursuer and female lover alike ... even very special animal pets....
The Reverend Kanabb is a fine preacher and a well-respected man in the community. Everyone idolizes him and he covers his crime so well no one suspects him.
His fight against the devil coincides with his little fight against over-population. There is no one who can stand in his way ... except Mother ... and the ever present memory of the incestuous copulating that meant everything to him ... and keeps him fighting steadily on the side of the Lord.
A truly important manuscript to add to the remarkable Rated X collection from Surrey House, Inc. You will find the Rated X books, along with their companions, the Surrey Collectors Series and the HIS 69 gay titles at your favorite adult bookstore or newsstand each and every month. Serious collectors of strictly adult reading will want them all, side by side on their private book shelves for definite re-reading and ready reference.
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CHAPTER ONE
The Rev. Mr. J. Farny Kanabb sallied forth that evening with a hymn of praise to God in his heart and joy in his soul. He was on his way to rescue another precious, straying lamb from the clutches of that Hell-fiend, Satan.
He did not know his religious-fanatic, sex-mad mother had bequeathed him conditions susceptible to an obsessive-compulsive psychosis containing powerful homicidal tendencies.
"Your sacred duty in life is to rid the world of sin, J. Farny!" she had screamed at her seven-year-old son as she sucked on his little pecker.
"I will teach you to recognize all manner of sin, J. Farny!"
She taught him to fuck her in the ass.
"The black forces of sin must be stricken from all the earth, J. Farny!"
She taught him to sixty-nine.
"The evil sons and daughters of Hell-fiend Satan must be destroyed, J. Farny!"
She taught him to fuck her in the cunt.
"Destroy, J. Farny! Destroy! Destroy! You are a child of God, J. Farny! A soldier of the cross! You must conquer Satan, J. Farny! You must destroy sin!"
On his twelfth birthday they took her away in a strait-jacket; slobbering, sex-crazed, raving for him to conquer Satan and destroy sin. Soon thereafter she died, evading her attendants at the asylum long enough to electrocute herself by hunching her cunt against the back of the visitor's-lounge TV set, left open by the repairman. The featured program at the moment of her death was a male gospel quartet singing Lord, I'm Coming Home.
Many months passed before J. Farny survived the shock of seeing his sweet darling Mommy dragged from him like a rabid animal. He never did survive her grisly mixture of demented religious fanaticism and insatiable incestuous sex.
Therefore his exuberance, as he sallied forth that evening, stemmed from the knowledge that he was again about to do battle with the forces of evil-- exactly as his Mommy had taught him to do.
He wondered absently if he would miss the succulent little boys and girls, and the other pleasures of the flesh, when he succeeded in stamping all sin from the world. Of course it was possible a world purged of evil would afford more and better of the same.
Oh boy! He'd like that!
Perhaps he should take another wife and forsake his battle against sin. Fear touched him. Another wife meant separating from Zelda, the Parsonage. housekeeper. He did not want that. Forsaking his battle meant no more frenzied sessions of sin-purging. He did not want that, either. So a second wife was out of the question.
Separating from Zelda was unthinkable. Zelda was the best cocksucker in the world. She could suck a cock like a cocksucking genius. J. Farny pondered the term "cocksucker" in relation to Zelda, wondered if, out of respect for her expertise, it shouldn't be cocksuckeress, or maybe cocksuckerette. Anyhow, boy, was she good. Not always as willing as when the Board of Deacons first hired her as Parsonage housekeeper, but good, nonetheless. Never as willing any more, J. Farny reflected, as before someone had given her that male baby monkey, which she pampered and perfumed, gave the run of the house when he wasn't there, and called Peter the Great. Mental pictures of Zelda's hot, ripe lips squirming greedily around the hard shaft of his sex-meat sprinkled J. Farny's skin with trickles of lust.
Praise the Lord!
Zelda hadn't objected to any sex-form he suggested, including fellatio and anal-coitus, when she first came to work at the Parsonage. Now, more often than not, she objected to it all. J. Farny wondered about that big goddamn monkey.
"You horny, hypocritical son of a bitch," Zelda whined when he took her more than five or six times during any one fuck-session. "One of these days you'll screw me to death. Don't that goddamn cock of yours ever go down?"
Sex-glutton, Zelda called him. Beastly, insatiable sex-glutton. Zelda didn't understand. Nobody understood-- nobody but his sweet darling Mommy, a vision of whom he carried with him always in the forepart of his mind and who came at his request, or when she chose, to walk with him in council on his never ending battle against sin. Mommy always understood, J. Farny told himself comfortingly. Always, always.
J. Farny had long ago accepted the fact that, in his struggle to purify the world, he would sooner or later encounter Satan face to face.
That Satan, now. Boy! He was another matter entirely. The horned, spike-tailed bastard really knew how to get at a man-- when J. Farny permitted him to hang around, which wasn't often.
Take that little Susan Wallace thing, for instance. Satan knew he struck a nerve when he needled J. Farny on that one; grinning fiendishly as he hammered away, refusing to depart until J. Farny rushed at him holding aloft the small gold crucifix he wore around his neck.
"You killed her," Satan had cackled shrewdly. "I like that, J. Farny. You're my boy. Why not give up this silly one-sided fight and come be an Evil Spirit for me? You're doing my work anyway."
J. Farny's mother sped swiftly to the very front of his brain, glared in bitter hatred at the Devil.
"Pay no attention to anything the sly Hell-fiend has to say, Sonny Baby," she said to J. Farny.
"I won't, Mommy," he said primly and slipped the gold crucifix from about his neck. "There's nothing Satan can do for me."
Again Satan chuckled. "Work for me, J. Farny, and I can show you lots of little Susan Wallaces you can kill."
"I didn't kill her!" J. Farny screamed. "I was purging her of sin, as Mommy taught me to do, and she died!"
"Ah yes, I remember now," Satan said. "Twelve years old, wasn't she? You fucked her in the ass and she died of shock-- among other things. That's correct, isn't it, J. Farny?"
"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away!" J. Farny had cried in a loud voice. "Blessed be the name of the Lord!" And that's when he had rushed at the Devil holding up the gold crucifix, his mother chuckling approval as the Devil vanished.
The crucifix was the fastest way to get rid of the Evil Tempter. Sometimes J. Farny used holy water he stole from a Catholic Church, and sometimes he used the Bible, but he liked the crucifix best.
J. Farny hated Satan for needling him about Susan Wallace. But he hated him anyway, regardless. A man of God was supposed to hate the Devil, and J. Farny was a man of God, he was. Never in his life had he committed a wrong.
Certainly there was no wrong when memory of Susan Wallace's hot, soft little body gave him an erection, like now, as he walked through the northern residential section of Cramer to purge another dear soul of sin. He was forced to shove a hand in his pocket and hold his hard cock to one side so passers-by would not notice the huge bulge.
J. Farny ran the tip of a purple tongue over purplish lips in anticipation. From the pulpit several nights ago he had gazed out over the congregation, espied the shy, intelligent face of Karen Sebollo. At once a flash of intelligence from his mother told him the girl reeked with the filth of blackest sin.
Later that night, at the Parsonage, after he had fucked Zelda three times in the cunt, over her tearful protests corn-holed her twice, then clamped her head in his massive hands and made her give him a lingering, delicious blow-job, the image of J. Farny's mother came to him with a decision. He was to save Karen Sebollo from the fiery pits of eternal damnation. He was to purge the girl of all sin.
J. Farny had watched the Sebollo house till he knew the habits of the girl and her family, along with the safest routes of access and departure to and from the general area. He had left his car parked several blocks away near a small, neighborhood shopping center, and now, as he neared the Sebollo residence, he had each minute tactic painstakingly planned to the smallest detail.
What kind of Soldier of the Cross would he be to leave the success of an engagement up to chance?
After circling the neighborhood as a final precautionary measure J. Farny moved swiftly and unseen down the alley, ducked through the high board fence where a board was missing, then slunk in a half crouch along the hedge row that brought him to the rear of the Sebollo home. From his coat pocket he took a pair of tough, transparent plastic gloves and drew them on. Sixty seconds later he quietly closed the window through which he had entered the house. He stood there in the darkness of the room, relaxed and breathing easily. He had complete confidence in his ability to do battle with evil, plus unshakable faith in the rightness of his holy mission. Now to locate the girl.
He made no special effort to be quiet as he moved about the house. Karen's mother-- lovely creature!-- was hospitalized with a minor kidney infection. Her father was a trial judge in night court. Karen Sebollo should either be watching television in her father's study, or having an evening snack in the kitchen. She was neither. J. Farny found her sprawled belly down on the floor in the front room pouring over a movie magazine.
Karen Sebollo was slender, shapely for her age, and very blonde. She paled at the sight of J. Farny. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream. Then she recognized him.
"Reverend Kanabb!" She sprang to her feet. "I-- you startled me. I didn't hear you come in."
J. Farny chortled gleefully and slammed the hand holding the cake of soap wrapped in a handkerchief hard against the girl's temple.
Karen Sebollo emerged from the aching daze of semi-consciousness to find herself stark naked on her parents' bed, wrists securely bound in front of her. Beside the bed stood the Rev. Mr. J. Farny Kanabb, whose church her mother sometimes made her attend. An icy chill crept over her heart. Except for a snug fitting pair of plastic gloves, Rev. Kanabb was also naked.
J. Farny stood looking down at the girl, stroking the throbbing length of his enormous cock. Its single aperture was clogged with oozing seminal fluid, which also covered the bulbous, blood-bloated glans with a glistening sheen. His great rubbery mass of foreskin concealed and exposed the glans in unison with his stroking. The soft white figure of the naked girl, with its pink-nippled, young-girl breasts; warm, inviting young-girl thighs, at the top of which only a thin spray of blonde fuzz hid the treasure of the young-girl cunt, filled him with maniacal eagerness to cleanse all taint of sin from the young-girl body.
Praise the name of the Lord!
Karen Sebollo stared at the hairy-chested, muscle-bulging form of big Rev. Kanabb, her mouth and throat parched with fear. She knew what he was about to do. Her introduction to erotic intimacies with the opposite sex began when she hesitantly submitted to the urgent demands of Tommy Watkins shortly after her thirteenth birthday last year at summer camp. But she'd submitted only once; had too greatly feared the biting pain for a second sweaty encounter.
A powerful, mysterious force drew Karen's eyes repeatedly to that member of Rev. Kanabb's anatomy he would do it to her with. Her soul cringed. She wanted to scream but feared the strange and terrible look in his eyes. Enormity of the monster he stroked so lovingly paralyzed her. Tommy's had been slender and no longer than her middle finger. Rev. Kanabb's was long, thick....
J. Farny felt satisfied with the anticipatory preliminaries of stroking himself while feasting his eyes on the girl's tender nakedness. It was now time to purge her. He mounted the bed on his knees, seized her legs and yanked them apart, then knocked aside the instinctively protesting gesture of her tied hands.
"Reverend Kanabb," the girl managed in a strangled, raspy voice. "Why are you doing this?"
"To drive the sin from your body," J. Farny snarled. "You want to burn in Hell throughout eternity?"
At that moment Karen Sebollo recognized the strange and terrible look in the preacher's eyes. She shuddered as one freezing, whimpered in terror.
J. Farny traced the head of his throbbing cock down over her fear-taut belly. Oozing semen left a glossy trail across her flesh. It resembled the track of a snail. Again the girl shuddered in chilling, gut-crimping terror. Stench of her fear-sweat in J. Farny's nostrils multiplied his excitement. He was in his glory. He relished the girl's terror. It proved the forces of evil were losing the battle. It showed his sweet darling Mommy he was a true Soldier of the Cross.
J. Farny seized the girl's rib cage in both hands and moved his mouth to capture a pink-nippled breast. The flesh between his lips was soft and sweet and he nipped it sharply with his teeth. The girl jerked in pain and whispered, "Please don't be cruel, Reverend Kanabb. Please don't hurt me."
J. Farny gave no heed. He was past heeding anything save the screaming urgency inside his brain to obey his dead mother in the manner she had taught him.
He dropped his torso down atop the girl, his broad bulk almost concealing her beneath him. To muffle the screams sure to come-- they always screamed, these young ones-- he clapped a palm over her mouth. His superior weight rendered her struggles useless. Down between their loins his free hand gripped his cock a quarter-inch behind the glans. He swiped it about her crotch, the end of his prick brushing against her silken girl-flesh in quest of the vaginal opening. He found it; so small it was hardly an opening at all, but he found it.
Exultantly J. Farny gathered his muscles, bucked his hips brutally against the girl's open straddle, rammed the thick bludgeon of his rigid sex-meat deep into her young cunt, ripping through delicate tissue and sensitive membrane, tearing through tender flesh; grunting and gloating with satisfaction at her pain-bulging eyeballs, her blood-congested face, her scream of mortal agony thwarted by his smothering palm. It was only fitting she suffer in being sanctified from evil.
The girl went limp, fainted, shrank even smaller beneath him, blessedly unconscious to the additional torture of squirming male hips that pounded his huge member deeper and deeper till it snugged tightly to the hilt in her ravaged young belly. He held his cock there, giggling in perverted joy while he waggled his hard prick around inside her to his satisfaction before he began fucking into her with quick, powerful lunges.
Mommy, Mommy! his brain sang triumphantly. Look at me, Mommy! This precious lamb of God is being saved from the clutches of Hell-fiend Satan, Mommy. I'm purging her of sin as you taught me. I'm destroying sin, Mommy.
In J. Farny's mind the image of his darling Mommy materialized near the head of the bed.
Fuck her, Sonny Baby, the image said. Fuck her good. Ram it all the way up to her gizzard. Fuck her the way you used to fuck me when you were a little boy. Destroy all the sin she's got.
J. Farny beamed at this encouragement and smiled at his Mommy, wishing he could fuck her again.
I can't fuck her as I fucked you, Mommy. You've got the best cunt in the whole wide world.
Are you sure?
I'm positive!
How can you be so certain? It's been almost thirty years.
Fucking you, Mommy, darling, is something I will never forget.
J. Farny fucked the girl beneath him twice in rapid succession. She never moved a muscle of her own accord. Following his second orgasm he relaxed his weight down against her inert form, rested a couple of minutes before hauling his big cock from her mangled vagina with a self-satisfied chuckle.
He rolled her face down on the bed then, asshole banditry the next phase in purging her pure as the driven snow.
J. Farny loved round-eye; his mother had made sure he developed a true appreciation for anal-fucking. With his thumbs he pulled the girl's buttocks apart, stared in rapt wonder at the tan pucker of her anus. It looked so tight! His tongue lashed out in erotic excitement to wet his purple lips. Assholes always fascinated him-- especially those he was about to pack solid with his hard meat.
Mommy, Mommy, see what I'm about to do. I see, Sonny Baby. Show mother what a lusty little man you are.
Will I ever get to fuck you in the ass again, Mommy?
Not now, Sonny Baby. Right now you must fuck the girl.
Yes, yes, Mommy! The girl! The girl!
He threw Karen Sebollo's legs wide apart, stretched out eagerly along her back, fumbled between her buttocks till he stationed the tip of his prick against her anal sphincter, then commenced thrusting hard and fast in lustful determination, his excited giggles filling the room.
Excruciating pain of the massive foreign object boring relentlessly into her rectum, bursting blood vessels and rending flesh, at one point raised the girl to the level of semi-awareness, but a mighty thrust into her behind ruptured her colon and the additional pain knocked her back into the black pit of merciful unconsciousness.
J. Farny fucked her in the ass with ball-tingling zest, meaty face aglow with pride. Occasionally he raised himself to look down at the coupling, relishing the sight of his thick prick pistoning in her anus. The girl was tight-- so tight his cock ached with ecstasy; and good-- so good when he orgasmed he gnashed his teeth and growled like an angry bear.
He broke their connection gradually, savoring the delicious pull of her tight nether passage, which clung to his sex-meat as though reluctant to release it. He was sorely tempted to sodomize the girl a second....
Her blonde head rested sideways on the bed and his eyes fell on the moist, pink fullness of her lips. Again he turned the girl, who flopped over to her back as limber as a rag doll. He hesitated, trying to decide, asshole or cunt-- Sonny Baby.
Yes, Mommy?
Do it to her in the mouth, Sonny Baby. Give her a head-fuck.
J. Farny looked startled. He well knew the hint of grim authority in his mother's tone.
Yes, Mommy, he said docilely.
His mother was right, as always. His balls ached for a head-fuck and his cock was still flint hard.
J. Farny swung around on the bed till he knelt back of the girl's head. What a sweet mouth! What a sweetly enticing mouth! No doubt his cock would stretch it some, but Mommy wanted him to have this head-fuck-- and now he wanted it even more. He leaned forward, adjusted his loins above the girl's face, depressed his cock and worked the blunt end of it past her parted lips and between her teeth. Her mouth was delicious. He quivered with lust.
To hold her head back at an acute angle, to spring her jaws wide enough for his huge prick to pass through her mouth and batter its way into her esophagus took some doing. But he did it, knowing from the start he would succeed.
Mommy, Mommy!
I'm here, Sonny Baby.
Am I doing it right, Mommy?
Exactly right, Sonny Baby. Exactly.
He fucked the girl with uncommon zeal and vigor, driving his blunt instrument to the limit of her throat with merciless thrusts of his loins, aware her upper teeth were rubbing a raw streak along the underside of his cock and not caring. His jouncing testicles drubbed against her forehead in silent discord as they exploded. J. Farny grunted violently, his plundering meat vomiting gooie yang into Karen Sebollo's defenseless throat.
The Rev. Mr. J. Farny Kanabb withdrew his prick from the girl's gullet, the hymn of praise and glory to God again in his heart and joy once more in his soul. He knew through positive knowledge Karen Sebollo was forever freed from the canker of sin and the horror of the Hell-fiend's taint. Now she could go through life....
J. Farny noted her stillness, watched for her breathing, felt for a heartbeat. He found nothing. Karen Sebollo had already gone through life. She was dead.
After dressing quickly he carefully inspected the room for any chance clue that might lead to his identity (the Devil was a cunning adversary), paused briefly at the door for a last look at the naked, murdered child on the blood-soaked bed, then made his way out of the house.
On the street once more his spirits soared even higher because of a job well done. It was a beautiful night. It was an exceedingly beautiful world. How sweet it was to be alive, to live the good life, to fight the good fight-- and win!
He strode jauntily in the direction of his car, happily humming, "Rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hiiiiide myself in thee."
Before going directly to his car on reaching the neighborhood shopping center he stepped into a phone booth outside the drugstore, thumbed in a dime and smiled serenely as he listened to the unctuous voice of Dial-A-Prayer.
CHAPTER TWO
On awakening, Zelda Griswald looked vacantly about for a moment before remembering where she was. Waking up in the Parsonage was different each morning, somehow. If the Board of Deacons ever found out she lived here, instead of coming to work each day, they'd probably feel obliged to raise holy hell. But J. Farny could talk them out of creating a stink. He could persuade them to do anything. She looked at the empty place on the bed beside her. J. Farny had risen at dawn, cheerfully whistling "Nearer, My God, To Thee," and gone into the kitchen where, she knew from past experience, he would devour no less than a dozen eggs, a pound of sausage, toast as fast as the toaster could brown the bread, and two pots of coffee. On mornings after he'd been out visiting sick and shut-in members of his congregation the night before he always had a ravenous appetite-- the gluttonous, sex-crazy sonofabitch.
Yet she was always grateful for J. Farny's visitation nights. He pestered her less, and slept like a newborn infant on his return to the Parsonage. On the nights he stayed home he fucked her like a madman all night unless she managed to stop him, and when he finally did go to sleep it was one yowly, sweat-stinky nightmare after another. And yet, paradoxically, she looked forward to the nightmares. She was convinced J. Farny would sooner or later say something during a nightmare that would betray his knowledge of her little niece's gruesome murder. Not even her sister Mary knew that on the night little Susan was raped to death she, Zelda, had seen through an alcoholic haze a great hulking figure she felt certain was Rev. J. Farny Kanabb scramble out a window of the Wallace home. It was unthinkable that Rev. Kanabb had murdered Susan Wallace, of course, but Zelda was so determined to know for sure she had finagled her way into the Parsonage as housekeeper by taking an oath to never again touch a drop of intoxicating liquors, and by fucking half the members of the Board of Deacons.
For the moment Zelda Griswald paused in her thoughts about J. Farny, the Board of Deacons and her dead niece. She preened herself feline fashion, then reclined on the bed, coral tips of her enormous breasts thrusting upward aggressively. Why couldn't a woman suck her own teats, she wondered. She would enjoy sucking hers no less than many men had, or the way Peter the Great seemed to. But if a woman could suck her own teats, perhaps Nature would have designed the man so he could suck his own cock. Zelda frowned. That, somehow, seemed to complicate things, though she wasn't sure how. It was too much for her and she gave it up. But she really loved to suck things; hot, hard, throbbing male pricks in particular.
All except J. Farny's. She hated that motherfucker worse'n God hated sin. J. Farny was a sadistic animal who went around with a twenty-four-hour hard-on. Zelda wondered if his cock stayed hard while he was in the pulpit roaring against evil. Probably. She seldom saw it limber and he stuck it into anything hot and hollow and expandable. Most of the times he took her she endured without protest; some of the times she even enjoyed, but when he rammed his huge sex-club up into her rectum, more often than not she was unable to contain herself. If it wasn't that she had loved little Susan so....
Zelda smiled as the angry cluttering of a monkey ran through the house. Peter the Great was voicing his dislike for J. Farny. She had trained the animal to hate him, just as she had trained it to love her. She wondered what J. Farny would say if he ever learned she indulged in sex with the beast, that Peter the Great gave her infinitely more pleasure sexually than he ever did.
Actually, Peter the Great was the best lover she'd ever sexed it up with. That monkey prick of his drove her into a frenzy of mindless lust, and she shivered deliciously at the memory of how he launched her from one orgasm to the other with cunt-numbing frequency till she was forced to break their coupling or lose her mind. Flesh of her vagina grew turgid, moist, and she wished J. Farny would leave for the church immediately, damn it.
Peter the Great had been trained from his third week, and loved to watch her take a shower; went into a prancing dither every time she did, knowing when she finished they would fuck. Zelda derived tremendous satisfaction from observing his nervous sexual anxiety while she prepared for them to copulate. She would undress with aching slowness, removing each garment as though she were in a trance. Then, naked, she would mince and priss around the excited animal till his manicured nails beat a rhythm of lust on the floor. She would stop this cavorting after a time, stand with legs together, cup Peter's chin in her hand, and bring his muzzle up snuggly against her crotch; and hold her breath in suspended bliss as the animal's trained tongue squirmed its way into her labia and cuddled around her clit. She could rarely endure this for more than half a minute before her female juices gushed forth in orgiastic release, Peter lapping her twat like a starving thing.
"Like it, you wonderful darling?" She always petted the monkey when he finished tonguing her, then she'd lead him by the hand into the bathroom so he could watch her shower. After the bath she would get on hands and knees on the floor and they played, frisking and wrestling, till Peter could stand it no longer. He would mount from behind, his long, quivering penis sticking out from its skin housing like an angry pink lance-- then heaven would descend on Zelda as the lance was driven into her belly.
She never would forget the day the monkey first fucked her face to face, just as a man. At first the going was a bit awkward, but once she understood Peter's intention she put a folded pillow under her ass and swung her knees wide and far back. That was the day she discovered Peter the Great was a tireless fucking machine. Her mind had grown sodden from countless flaming orgasms, and her lust fluids, along with an amazing amount of monkey jism, soaked the bed when she worked her way from beneath the still hunching animal.
Zelda stretched luxuriously, face wreathed in the warm glow of remembering. With her beauty, plus a ripe, matronly figure, men never had been hard to come by, but none had ever gratified her to the veriest depths of her being the way Peter did. She sent a hand to her straddle and slipped a finger into the smoldering moistness of her cunt. She was hot enough to fry. She needed Peter! Into her eyes sprang tears of indignation because she could not go get the animal at once. If that hoggish sonofabitch in the kitchen would quit shoveling sausage and eggs into his maw and get out of the house....
At that moment J. Farny's great bulk heaved into the bedroom. His bloated face, with its purplish lips, mucky eyes and broad, flanged nostrils, was cast in lines of peace and contentment-- which somehow seemed out of line with his unzipped fly and ponderous hard-on. It bounced jerkily before him with all the aspects of a maliciously evil divining rod. Zelda cringed inside her skin when her eyes focused on the rigid sex-meat. Then she sighed submissively. The quickest way to get rid of the holier-than-thou old satyr was to do exactly as he wished. Things always went smoother after that, anyhow.
"You look wonderful this morning, dear," she beamed. "So athletic and robust. And you didn't have a single nightmare last night. You should visit your sick parishioners and shut-ins more often. Perhaps you could sleep as soundly every night."
"I wish there was a way," J. Farny said wistfully, thinking of the joys the Lord had blessed him with as he had purged Karen Sebollo. What a shame the Lord had seen fit to call her home to Glory while she was being purged. Yet he, for one, never questioned the oft mysterious ways of the Lord. What finite mortal could possibly hope to understand the decisions of Infinite Intelligence?
"Maybe if you went to see Madame Ulster ... "
"A crumby assed fortune teller?" J. Farny loosed a harsh bray of laughter. "You think a dumb, crumby assed fortune teller could keep me from having nightmares? HAW!"
"Well," Zelda ventured cautiously. "She might have some ideas as to how your war against sin will turn out."
J. Farny chuckled fulsomely and, without knowing why, a chill blew across Zelda's heart. If he ever discovered she was the dead Susan Wallace's aunt....
"Who needs to be told that?" he asked. "I know how the battle will turn out. I'll win, of course; that's all there is to it."
Zelda felt the chill again as J. Farny maneuvered himself to the side of the bed and thrust the hard roll of his cunt-churn at her face.
"Suck it," he said hoarsely. "Suck it till my balls grow dusty."
A wave of relief washed over her. She was sure she had seen what she called the "asshole hunger" look in his eyes, and had been about to reach for the jar of Vaseline kept constantly in the headboard of the bed. But he wasn't after anal-coitus this time, so she reached for his prick instead. She squeezed it, pondered it briefly, hating it and the man grown to it with all her soul. But her true emotions she kept well concealed.
The image of J. Farny's mother stuck her head out of the darkness in the back of his mind and glared at Zelda.
"She's all right, Mommy," J. Farny said aloud. "Zelda is the best cock-sucker in the world."
Oh God, Zelda thought, scrambling off the bed. I hope the sonofabitch don't begin yapping to his dead mother again.
"Sit down on the edge of the bed, dear," she told him. He complied almost absently and she got to her knees, stifling her hate and struggling against the impulse to lock her teeth onto the head of his dick and bite down with all her jaw-power. Wonder what sort of sermon the two-faced bastard could preach with the head of his cock bit off. Then she recalled her true purpose for being here at the Parsonage. If little Susan....
"Suck it good," J. Farny panted harshly. "Gobble it all the way."
Zelda's lips wrapped around the end of his prick and one second later she slid the hot wet sheath of her mouth so far down her jaws were sprung alarmingly. To a chance observer it would have looked as though a fleshy stump protruded from her stretched lips. She almost jerked her head free and gagged when his glans battered its way deeper into her throat from pressure of J. Farny's hands behind her head. She sensed her saliva was mixing with the dried juices of another female and wondered who the woman had been.
"Eat me, baby, eat me," J. Farny crooned.
She palmed his balls and tickled with a forefinger that sensitive area between the back of his scrotum and his asshole. Her jaws spread wider, her neck swelled, and the entire length of his huge cock vanished inside her head. Of a certainty Zelda's expertise in the art of fellatio was beyond question that of a master, rendered so because she liked to suck dicks. Not J. Farny's, just dicks in general. She drew his scrotum forward till it nestled beneath her chin, tightened the elastic rings of her throat around the forepart of his cock and was suddenly bobbing her head in a blur of motion.
J. Farny's testicles exploded. He squealed long and keen, like a castrated pig, from the raw ecstasy of the orgasm, loosed a massive, fluttery fart and began panting like a stalling steam engine.
"Dear, sweet Jesus!" he whimpered toward the ceiling in a dither of lust. "Dear sweet little boy Jesus!"
Zelda kept her head moving at top speed till the last drop of J. Farny's load had spewed into her gullet. Another man she would have kept sucking; would have tried to bring him to a second orgasm with the same hard-on as a matter of pride, but this no good....
J. Farny sighed mightily when Zelda severed the coupling and crawled back upon the bed.
"You better get to the church," she told him. If she didn't get him out of the house he'd have that prick in her again, somewhere, in five minutes. "If you don't, the phone here will start ringing and I'll be answering it half the day."
J. Farny stood and closed his fly. She was quite right. A certain element of his parishioners, mostly elderly women, usually found an excuse to call him each day, and if they didn't locate him at the church they always called the Parsonage. He preferred not taking the calls here at the house. He moved toward the bedroom door, singing, "When the roll is called up yonder ... "
Zelda watched him go, feeling almost ill with relief. She remained motionless till she heard his car pull out of the driveway, then bounced from the bed and peeped through the curtained window to make sure he drove off. The instant his car vanished she dashed from the room to the Parsonage's screened-in back porch, where Peter the Great stood munching a banana in the be-ribboned, artificial, flower-decked cage she'd had built for him. The monkey, which had turned out to be a considerably larger animal than anyone expected, chittered happily as she unlatched the cage door.
Cunt twitching with eagerness, Zelda led the way back into the bedroom, Peter at her heels. She whipped her gown off over her head as they entered and threw it in the corner. Her usual procedure was to disrobe slowly, then let Peter watch her shower, but this morning she was too aroused sexually to indulge in these preliminaries.
CHAPTER THREE
She swung around and sat down on the very edge of the bed, legs wide apart.
"Come to Auntie Zelda, Petey-petey." She patted her cunt and motioned for the monkey. "Auntie Zelda needs a sucky and a fucky and then she must go see Madame Ulster on some very important business."
At the first summons of her hand, the monkey, whose physical development was beginning to evince signs the animal was probably a gorilla instead of a lesser simian, scampered forward and squatted between Zelda's thighs. Zelda spread her labia. The well-trained monkey thrust its muzzle against her cunt, its long snaky tongue reeling out.
"Hlyeeeee!" The sound hissed from Zelda's slack lips like escaping steam. She flopped back on the bed, eyes rolling wildly as the animal commenced to lave and suck and nudge her vagina with obvious relish. Each time Peter the Great's tongue slithered up into her cunt she was attacked anew by waves of bliss and she shrieked with joy. He was driving her out of her mind! Her breasts heaved. Her belly bucked. She shrieked over and over when the lust-bomb exploded in her lathering cunt and spread delicious shock waves down along her thighs. Peter the Great lapped hungrily at the female fluids flowing down into the cleavage of her buttocks.
She sighed ecstatically when final remnants of her orgasm dwindled, but did not stop the monkey from licking her cunt. After a time spent in dreamy reverie she craw-fished to the center of the bed. Now came the part of their lovemaking that really sent her into orbit. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Petey's blow-jobs; Heaven forbid! but the way he fucked her, well....
"Come Petey," she cooed. "Come up on the bed with Auntie Zelda."
The animal knew his duty well. In a single leap he was between her thighs again. The bed rocked crazily from the sudden weight increase.
Another instant and his rigid, red monkey-prick, surprisingly long and thick for an animal barely three feet tall, darted into her cunt. Peter commenced to fuck her rapidly, monkey eyes dim and vague with lust, and Zelda began grinding her hips, moaning and screaming as spasm after bone-jarring spasm racked her without mercy. These spasms repeated in such rapid succession she often never knew where one stopped and the other began.
Nothing in the world could fuck like her Peter the Great.
At last she shoved him away. She had to. Otherwise he would fuck her for hours, bless his friggin' little heart, and she'd have been groggy as dumb-Dora for a week. It had happened.
"You can have it again soon, my Petey-petey," she crooned, rolling off the bed. "Maybe today, if that big-dicked hypocrite with the perpetual hard-on stays away from the Parsonage." She clasped the monkey's head in her hands and planted a wet kiss between his beady little eyes. "Back to your play-pen now, little darling, while Auntie Zelda visits Madame Ulster."
Ex-whore Madame Ulster's real name was Mitzy Green. She was twenty-six, six feet tall, and had her narrow frame been less well-fleshed she would have been revoltingly scrawny. As it was, she was exceedingly slender-- a fact further accentuated by her height, with enormous, cushiony breasts.
From age fourteen through twenty-two Mitzy Green had hustled the dock workers over on the bay. Then one of her regulars, whom she let have it at half price because he reminded her of a childhood dream of Santa Claus, told her how his sister out on the west coast created for herself a mint via the fortune telling route. Mitzy pondered the story several days, scraped the calluses off her round heels, took a douche and moved away from the waterfront, becoming Madame Ulster. Now, four years later, she too was well on her way to having her own private mint-- using information gleaned from persons seeking their fortunes told to operate a cozy little blackmail racket.
Madame Ulster did not keep Zelda Griswald waiting long in the ante-room when she arrived. The Parsonage housekeeper was the most superstitious human being she had ever seen. She had known Zelda as an alcoholic whore on the waterfront in the old days, and there was something about her that smelled to Mitzy Green like a big haul, but Mitzy couldn't pinpoint the nerve center. Perhaps she could use information Zelda had confided to squeeze Reverend J. Farny Kanabb of a few dollars. But hell! Goddamned preachers never had any money.
"And how are you this afternoon, Zelda dear?" Mitzy purred in her best professional voice. "You look too hale and hearty to have been boozing it up again."
"Naw, god." Zelda came up with a lop-sided grin and flopped into a chair. "Nothing that good can happen to me again. At least not yet. Sometimes I crave a drink so bad I get sick-- but I can wait."
"Nothing yet, huh?"
"Not a thing. And last night he slept like a baby. He went visiting sick and shut-in members of his congregation-- so he said-- but I know he went fucking somewhere."
"You seen today's paper?" Mitzy fired up a cigarette.
"I never read the papers."
"Ever listen to the radio, or catch any TV newscasts? All three carry the story."
"Story?" Things were moving a bit too fast for Zelda. "What story?"
"Another one of those Susan Wallace crimes. Some fourteen-year-old kid named Karen something-or-other. News claims a sex-fiend is loose in Cramer."
"Was it like-?"
Mitzy nodded. "Exactly like your niece's murder. The girl was torn up like she'd been fucked by a stallion. Whoever did it must have a king-size jock."
"J. Farny has," Zelda gritted through wooden lips, her cheeks flushed with anger. "He's got the biggest prick I've ever seen on any man, and you know I've seen plenty."
"I didn't know he was heavy hung," Mitzy said, making no attempt to conceal her interest. Aside from an unwholesome opinion of the opposite sex in general, the only legacy from her days of whoredom was a weird, perverted sexual appetite which, more often than not, was impossible to appease because of its repulsive nature. Even so, appeasement required the employment of a large cock, and if Rev. J. Farny ... "He really has a big one?"
"Let him shove it up your ass and you'll think you're being fucked by a telephone pole."
"Hummmmm. And he hasn't said anything during one of his nightmares that would let you know he killed your little niece?"
Zelda shook her head, color returning to normal. Perhaps one of these nights she'd get pissy-assed drunk and cut the sonofabitch's throat while he slept. It was worth thinking about, even if she knew she'd never do it because she lacked the nerve.
"Next time you drop by I hope to have something to show you," Mitzy said. "I expected it to be in today's mail."
"Expected what?"
"A battery powered, transistorized, mechanical dildo. If it's anything like the advertisement then it's a whiz. Perhaps it'll be here tomorrow."
"Look into the future, Madame Ulster," Zelda blurted suddenly in agonized tones. "Tell me when I can get something on that slimy bastard that'll send him to the electric chair."
Mitzy looked at her old hustling buddy steadily, the most ignorant human being she could remember having ever met-- Zelda actually believed she could look into the future-- and knew when Zelda called her Madame Ulster it was time to get busy at fortune telling. She shook her head sadly.
"I can't help you today, dear. I'm too wrought up. I can't relax." She didn't particularly like blow-jobs, but any old port in a storm, satisfactory or not. She untied the sash of the ankle-length dark robe she wore during business hours and let it fall open. Under it she was naked. She never doubted old simpleton Griswald would take the bait once more, as she had dozens of times in the past. "However, if you'd care to help me try to relax ... "
"Yes, yes," Zelda's voice quivered. "I'll do anything for some news." Already she was on her knees at Mitzy's feet, leaning forward, mouth searching for the fortune teller's nipples. She found them, sucked at the enormous breasts avidly, first one and then the other until Mitzy clasped her face in both hands-- the signal for Zelda to go lower. She did, licking as she went. Mitzy rose, spread her feet wide apart and leaned her tall frame back against the desk. Zelda followed on her knees, shoved her face into the ex-whore's cunt and lapped like a starving beast until the tall woman gave a muted whinny and sagged, standing slumped over and quivering as female fluids spurted from her cunt at an angle that sent them out and down over the front of Zelda's blouse. Only then did the kneeling woman pull her lips from the other's clit.
Zelda shot to her feet, face alive with eagerness. "Are you relaxed, Madame Ulster? Is there anything coming through? Can you tell me something from the future about that goddamn friggin' preacher? I've got to know. He may find out I'm Susan's aunt and-- and--" Mitzy allowed a vague, remote expression to steal over her face. Her eyes focused somewhere in outer space. In a sing-song whine she began to chant, "In three weeks ... in three weeks ... in three weeks."
Zelda's face lit with purest joy. She bent swiftly and kissed Mitzy's cunt. "Oh, thank you, Madame Ulster. Thank you, thank you, thank you...." She was still repeating it when she snatched her purse from the desk and dashed out.
Mitzy grinned crookedly after she had gone. "Poor stupid, superstitious bitch," she marveled. "No wonder all the guys on the waterfront used to call her Give-it-away Griswald. She's dumb as they come and that takes talent."
"It's horrible," the Rev. Mr. J. Farny Kanabb said with appropriate pathos in his tone. "Imagine; a child like that. What did the paper say her name was?"
"Sebollo," old Luke Booker, church janitor, wheezed. "Karen Sebollo. Daddy's a judge in night court. Police say it's a heap like that little Wallace girl's killin' here a while back." Booker peered cautiously around with rheumy eyes, as though he expected the killer to be hiding somewhere in J. Farny's office. "Hope he don't get to likin' bigger girls," he continued in a worried tone. "He might get atter Grace for sure one of these nights."
"Ummm-- yass," J. Farny managed, surprised. Grace Booker was the old janitor's kid sister, though twenty-five if she were a day. But she'd be a prime fuck if looks were any criterion. Grace Booker also had class. J. Farny had often wondered what Zelda would do if he took another woman home for a few quick fucks.
"'cordin' to the paper, police say they ain't got nary a clue to who did the killin', but they figure on arrestin' him what did it real soon like. What you reckon makes 'em say a thing like that now? It don't make no sense."
The police! Swift rage mounted in J. Farny. He shuffled some papers on his desk till the aged Luke Booker disappeared down the stairs leading to the basement. The police! Satan's front line assault force. The Evil Tempter's shook troops. Always trying to neutralize the work of the Lord, always trying to maneuver him, J. Farny, into a position where he'd be powerless to continue his great struggle against sin-- that's what the police were, Satan's uniformed lackeys.
But he, ole J. Farny Kanabb, was cunning. And he was sly. And relentless.
Praise God!
The Lord was on his side; and if God was with him, who could stand against him? Aye, agents of Hell-fiend Satan were everywhere, but with the Lord and his sweet darling Mommy....
Did you call, Sonny Baby?
I was thinking of Satan's front line troops, Mommy; the police. They seek to determine why the Lord called the Sebollo child home to Glory. We must be wary of them.
Agents of the Hell-fiend they are, J. Farny, his mother spat viciously, appearing in a seat used by visitors and across the desk from J. Farny. At sight of her his broad, meaty face shown with an inner radiance.
Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, he crooned in an ecstatic dither. My sweet darling Mommy. You're so beautiful my eyes hurt when I look at you, Mommy.
Pshaw now, Sonny Baby. You'll turn a woman's head.
Mommy, I'd rather turn you on the bed. He paused, burst into coarse guffaws at this oafish play on words, and thwacked his thigh. All at once he stopped, blanched to the pallor of death and broke into a servile whine, Mommy, Mommy, when will you let me fuck you again, Mommy, darling?
Before she could reply brisk footsteps approached and Rachel Nordquist, church secretary, stuck her head in the door. His mother vanished and for one blinding instant of maniacal rage J. Farny wanted to kill Rachel Nordquist.
"Oh!" she gasped at sight of her minister's ashen countenance. "Reverend Kanabb! Are you ill? Can I get you something?" She rushed to his side, got a tingle in her loins and through her vagina when her hand felt the hard muscles under his coat as she unnecessarily grasped his shoulder. He was so powerful, so masculine, so virile-- and with no woman to share the burden of his great work! "Please! Are you ill; you're so pale."
"I'm fine, Rachel," he said, shuddering back to reality. "Perhaps a touch of heat, nothing else." He wanted to wail his disappointment because he yearned to fuck his sweet darling Mommy and she had left so quickly. His stupid damn secretary....
"Reverend Kanabb," she said. "There's a man here to see you concerning the death of that poor little Sebollo child. He's from the police."
"The police?" J. Farny asked innocently. "What could I tell him of the child. I never knew her. Tell him to come in, please."
"My visit is purely routine, Reverend Kanabb," City Detective Al Martinez smiled after he introduced himself. "A girl friend of Karen Sebollo's said the dead girl came here to church occasionally. Would you remember her?"
"I'm afraid not," J. Farny replied with deep concern. "She may have attended here-- there are so many, you know-- though Miss Nordquist has said nothing about the girl being a member of my congregation, in which case I'm sure she would have. Do you have a photograph of the girl?"
Unfortunately, Detective Martinez did not, though the murdered girl's mother, released from the hospital early because of the tragedy, had promised him one.
"Then I'm afraid I can be of very little help," J. Farny said, voice quivering with sincerity. "I'm so sorry. Is there some other way I might be of assistance?"
Martinez, a swarthy man of slight build and less than average height, was touched by Rev. Kanabb's impassioned offer, and wished by Jesus he could think of some way to profitably involve the preacher in this hunt for the sex-fiend. A man as powerful and influential as Rev. J. Farny Kanabb would be an asset to almost any undertaking in Cramer.
Al Martinez was not a professionally trained career detective. His job was a political plum as reward for having done a superior job as ward heeler for the present city administration at election time. It was Martinez's nature to be a little awed by such magnetic, vigorous personalities as J. Farny's, but he was proud of his job-- it beat selling shoes all to hell-- and he was tough, stubborn and tenacious as a bulldog. He meant to see Karen Sebollo's killer brought before the bar of justice if he had to work day and night.
After the detective left, J. Farny sat staring uncertainly at his big hands on the desk. He could not decide if the reason Martinez had given was the real reason for his coming to the church. Was Martinez's visit merely routine? J. Farny was smitten by mild self-anger over the possibility he might have overlooked something at the Sebollo home the night before. He knew he had not, but one could never be too cautious with the Devil's agents. Living constantly on the battle front in his great war against sin was trying indeed, but the Lord expected no less of such a seasoned, battle-tempered warrior, and Mommy, God bless her, had trained him to be a Soldier of the Cross, so....
J. Farny started violently. Again an oily chuckle came from behind him and this time he spun around in his chair to face the opposite direction. Satan stood there, spiked tail curling from under his ankle length cape, dry-washing his hands, a diabolical smirk on his evil face.
"Martinez didn't learn anything, if that's what you came to see about," J. Farny blurted angrily.
"Ahhhh, come now, J. Farny, ole buddy-buddy. You know I'm not here for that. You've got it all wrong, podner. The police don't work for me. They believe in all that law and order crap. Besides, what do I need with the police when I've got you on my side?" Satan roared with laughter. J. Farny's face paled cotton-white with rage.
"Only thing is," the Devil continued, "I want to hear you say you're on my side. It takes that to make it official. Why don't you speak the words, just say you'll be an Evil Spirit for me, and I'll furnish you with more work than you'll ever get done."
"Beware the Hell-fiend, Sonny Baby!" J. Farny's mother cried, appearing to one side of Satan. The Devil gave her a sour look, pointed a taloned finger at her, J. Farny heard "FffffttZUP!" and she vanished. The strong odor of fire and brimstone filled the room. Terror touched J. Farny Kanabb.
"Where's Mommy?" he wailed. "What did you do with my Mommy?"
"Now don't get your bowels in an uproar, ole buddy-buddy," Satan soothed. "She'll be back shortly. I couldn't do without her any more than I could you, so don't worry. She's not harmed."
"You're trying to imply that I already work for you," J. Farny pouted. "But I don't work for you, and I don't intend to work for you, either.. Not ever. So you might as well stop pestering me. I'm a Soldier of the Cross, I am; in the Army of the Lord. So there!"
"Awwwww-- bullshit!" the Devil snorted derisively. "You'll work for me before it's over and you'll like it."
"You can't make me, you old meany!"
"I don't have to make you. You'll come to me as a matter of course. I'm just anxious, that's all. But I'll get you in the end. In the end-- Ha! Ha! Get it? I'll get you in the end, ole buddy-buddy. Maybe like you got the little Sebollo girl in the end. How'd you like to have this run up your ass?" Satan threw back his cape. J. Farny stared at the giant cock coiled against his belly. The coil straightened toward J. Farny. It had a snake's head: Eyes, mouth, fangs and all. The eyes glittered with evil malice. A forked tongue flicked at J. Farny. J. Farny bleated in terror.
"Mommy!" he whimpered. "Help me, Mommy!"
Satan closed his robe. His cock vanished. This had remarkably restorative effects on J. Farny. He jerked open a desk drawer, snatched out a pint whiskey flask half full of holy water he stole regularly from Cramer's leading Catholic Church, and lunged from his chair, dashing water from the bottle at the Devil. Satan made an obscene noise with his mouth at the distraught J. Farny, chuckled oilily and disappeared. J. Farny returned to his chair, cached the holy water and wiped large globules of malodorous sweat off his brow, then lifted his eyes to a picture of Christ hanging on the wall and raised his hands in supplication in a manner the ancient Job might have employed.
"How long, O Lord," he bellowed in his best Sunday morning pulpit voice. "How long must thy servant endure the bitter scourge of Hell-fiend Satan? His cunning is the cunning of ten thousand depraved geniuses and his tongue is sharper than a needle's point. He rends the flesh of my soul, O Lord; he singes my spirit with the flame of his evil. How long, my Lord and my Redeemer, must thy faithful Soldier of the Cross submit to the vile taunts and barbs of the Fallen Angel?"
In her cubby-hole of an office across the church Rachel Nordquist shook her head in tender sympathy when she heard J. Farny's sanctimonious praying. Poor, dear man. What a noble defender of the faith. If only there were some way she could assist him in his struggles. If only there something she could do for him. Her face flushed scarlet as she reminded herself of what she'd like for Rev. Kanabb to do to her. Or rather, do with her.
With effort she forced her attention back to the typing she must finish before quitting time. The city of Cramer was not exactly a Mecca for unmarried ladies of twenty-eight; especially those who were religious minded, worked as church secretary and had a semi-invalid father crippled by rheumatism. But tomorrow was her day off, Rachel told herself, and tomorrow morning she could indulge in her one sinful, lascivious luxury. Tomorrow morning she would lay abed and imagine what would happen if Rev. Kanabb were there in bed naked with her. A strange peacefulness settled over her as J. Farny's bellowed praying ceased.
Again J. Farny swiped smelly sweat from his face, straightening with a heavy sigh. Life was seldom a couch of roses, at best. For the Christian Soldier it never was.
Sonny Baby? The whisper barely reached him.
Yes, Mommy? J. Farny looked around. His mother stood near the door. He gave a glad cry. Mommy, Mommy, the Hell-fiend ...!
Don't let him alarm you, Sonny Baby, she said soothingly. He cannot overcome. God is on our side. But the Hell-fiend is ever cunning and we must ever be wary. His agents are everywhere, as thick as leaves in summer, and all determined to stop you from destroying sin. Your secretary is one of these, Sonny Baby.
Rack-- Rachel Nordquist?
She must be purged, Sonny Baby. There is no other way.
J. Farny nodded. It was the first time his Mommy had selected someone to be purged this way. Usually she did it while he was in the pulpit preaching.
I'll take care of it tonight, Mommy, J. Farny said with enthusiasm. With Mommy making selections outside the pulpit perhaps there would be more purging, more action at the forefront of the battle.
Praaaaise God! Praaaaise His Holy Name! Let the battle cry of victory resound through the land. Hallelujah!
J. Farny bounced up and down with joy in his swivel chair like a youngster astride a wooden merry-go-round pony imitating a galloping horseman.
His mother swelled with pride. Her face shown. Her eyes sparkled with approval at J. Farny's eagerness to thicken the fray.
Mommy, Mommy, J. Farny stopped bouncing. You didn't tell me last night when I asked you when I could fuck you again, Mommy, darling.
Soon, Sonny Baby. Soon.
In the ass too, Mommy? Like old times? Just like old times, Sonny Baby. And I'll suck you-- Right!
-- and you'll suck me-- Right!
-- and after, we'll go in the kitchen and have hot fudge sundaes, won't we, Mommy?
That's exactly right, Sonny Baby. Exactly.
J. Farny clapped his hands and bounced some more, gurgling and chortling, a thick rope of saliva drooling from one corner of his liver-lipped mouth down over his shirt front.
Goody, goody, goody. Oh, you're the best Mommy in the whole world. And the prettiest, and the sweetest, and the everythingest that's good. Can we fuck now, Mommy? Let's fuck now.
Not now, Sonny Baby. Mommy didn't say now. She said soon. Don't forget. Tonight you purge Rachel Nordquist.
She vanished.
J. Farny's cry of despair and disappointment ricocheted off the office walls.
CHAPTER FOUR
Deep night had fallen over the city of Cramer. The thin blade of a sickle moon had not yet risen in the black sky. J. Farny moved silently toward the Nordquist home in the darkness, a song of praise and glory to God in his heart, and joy unlimited in his soul. In a matter of minutes he would again be locked in battle with Evil-- ahhh, how sweet to be on the side of victory. Ah, there it was. Wasn't it? Yes, there was the Nordquist home now.
"Why-- Reverend Kanabb. Good evening, sir." Ancient Joe Nordquist answered J. Farny's knock almost instantly, and stood there peering up into J. Farny's face while J. Farny silently berated himself.
At some point during the afternoon he had lowered his defenses a few seconds and the Hell-fiend had gotten through, causing him to forget that Rachel's father would likely be present when he arrived to purge the daughter. Joe Nordquist rarely left the house. His aged joints were so crippled by rheumatism he could barely hobble, and that he did stooped over. He moved back from the doorway.
"Come in, come in, Reverend Kanabb. Come in." His raspy old voice had a slight quiver of age to it, but it nevertheless brimmed with honest welcome. Visitors were rare at the Nordquist home, and Joe Nordquist was never far from lonely. J. Farny entered, waited for old Joe to close the door, then proceeded into the front room and sat down in an overstuffed chair opposite the sofa.
"Rachel ain't here," the old man said, hobbling with four-inch steps toward the sofa. "Tomorrow's her day off. He! He! But I reckon you know that, and she went shoppin' downtown tonight so's she wouldn't be goin' tomorrow." He fixed J. Farny with a jaundiced eye. "It is Rachel you come to see, o' course." Nobody ever came to the Nordquist home any more simply to see old Joe.
"Only a small matter," J. Farny said, trying to decide whether to go or stay. Then his mother peeped up over the edge of his mind.
Old men are steeped in sin too, Sonny Baby. Her voice was tight with conviction. You're a true Soldier of the Cross, so get on with the Lord's work.
"Yes, Mommy," J. Farny said aloud, tremendously relieved the decision had been made for him.
"How's 'at?" Joe Nordquist looked startled. "You speakin' to me, Reverend?" The thing he saw in J. Farny's eyes right then more than startled him. An unnameable fear traced a thin, chilly course along his crooked spine. "You feelin' awright, Reverend?"
J. Farny cackled joyously, sprang to his feet and began stripping off his clothes.
Old Joe Nordquist gaped, at first in disbelief, then in swiftly mounting alarm.
"Reverend Kanabb! What you aimin' to do by-"
"I'm going to purge you of all sin." There was a sinister, malicious quality in J. Farny's voice as he drew on a pair of tough plastic gloves. "Then you'll belong to the Lord and forever be free of Satan's stain." He waved his long, thick cock threateningly at the petrified oldster. "I stick this up your ass like this--" he flexed his hips exaggeratedly, "-- and you're on your way to Glory."
"Reverend Kanabb!" Joe Nordquist gasped, horrified that this minister of the gospel, who had the respect, esteem and admiration of the community, should comport himself in such an untoward manner. "Reverend Kanabb, you're crazy!" Then he got another look at the thing in J. Farny's eyes and knew he had uttered a very truth.
"Off with the clothes, old one," J. Farny said not unkindly. "Purging you with them on would be like showering in a raincoat." He took the old man by the arm and his voice hardened. "Quick now! Move!" His slight shove pushed old Joe off balance. In his suddenly vast impatience-- his prick burned like fire and his nuts throbbed-- he ripped the crippled old man's clothes off. Joe Nordquist's feeble attempts to resist were knocked aside. In seconds the old man was as naked as at the moment of his birth. He wailed in pain and fear when J. Farny hauled him roughly to his feet. Gut chilling terror of J. Farny's enormous cock ploughing into his rectum lent speed to his movements and in spite of the excruciating pain from his brittle old rheumatic joints he jerked free of J. Farny's grasp and hobbled with surprising alacrity across the room, by chance heading toward the kitchen.
J. Farny followed leisurely, savoring the small chase, assured by experience victory would be all the sweeter, and for some minutes allowed the old man to believe there might be a possibility of escape as they pantomimed a grisly dance about the kitchen table. Then J. Farny became bored with the game. Joe Nordquist squawked in terror when the big Reverend Kanabb closed in swiftly and seized him by the nape of the neck.
The next thing he knew he was being held bent over the kitchen table, cooking oil running down the cleavage of his scrawny buttocks.
"Corn oil," J. Farny giggled happily, thoroughly enjoying himself, then chanted "use corn oil when you corn-hole; always less cholesterol-- Hey! How do you like that, huh?"
Joe Nordquist clenched his eyes and prayed in silent desperation.
After J. Farny finished slopping oil over his genitals he set aside the bottle of oil and tried to spread the cheeks of the old man's ass with his thumbs, in the manner a man breaks a peeled orange in half, but Joe Nordquist clenched his buttocks, held them firmly together.
"For shame," J. Farny snickered. "Is that any way to help me cleanse your soul of sin?" He raised a huge balled fist, used it like a sledge hammer, and brought it down with brutal force in the center of the old man's spine. Joe Nordquist flattened out limp against the table top, stunned by pain and shock, and this time offered no resistance to J. Farny's thumbs.
J. Farny's purple, obscene tongue lashed out to swipe around his purple lips and his heart pounded in mad excitement at sight of the old man's anus.
Glory be to God on high! Glory! Glory! Glory!
His anus looked so tiny. And so dainty! It winked coyly in the unaccustomed light and J. Farny shivered from the ecstasies to come as he stationed the knob of his cock against it.
Oh Lord, our God and our Redeemer, we thank thee for the blessings we are now about to receive.
Joe Nordquist screamed a quavering, hopeless scream of blinding agony when the great greasy tube of male sex-meat that was J. Farny's cock plunged smoothly up his ass. Spots flashed crazily before his eyes. He struggled against the fiery pain in an effort to breathe.
J. Farny gnashed his teeth in a paroxysm of lust and barked out short sounds of delight at the tight, hot clamp of the old man's colon around his cock. His own asshole blinked excitedly as he commenced a long, deep flexing of his loins, withdrawing his cock to the nub, gliding it back to the limit each time, paying no attention to the mindless gobbling of old Joe Nordquist, whose withered old body was saturated with paralyzing pain.
This was the Lord's work, it was. J. Farny was destroying sin the way his sweet darling Mommy had taught him to destroy sin, and if that destruction caused some pain and discomfort-- why, it wouldn't last long. It never did.
He fucked the old man in the rectum happily, nodding and smiling to himself on occasion as he watched the thick, veined stalk of his rigid cock piston into the other's asshole. This was as it should be-- exactly as it should be-- a Soldier of the Cross purging a hapless victim of Hell-fiend Satan from all his sins.
Joe Nordquist rolled his wrinkled face against the table top, unable to concentrate, a strange numbness stealing over his body. His prayers for rescue were not answered, nor did he expect them to be. His only hope of deliverance from the flaming, white-hot stake being sawed rhythmically back and forth in his asshole was the arrival of his daughter Rachel. All at once the sawing into him from behind increased in tempo.
J. Farny's balls tightened up against his crotch and he loosed a tremendous growl of achievement as they exploded, gushing the old man's nether throat with slimy yang.
"Ayiee," J. Farny gasped as the goodness of purging the old man rolled over him in ecstatic waves.
Bless God!
He relaxed, eased backward, the move deceiving Joe Nordquist once more into thinking he might have a chance of escaping. He flung himself sideways away from the table, jerked himself off J. Farny's cock and scrambled blindly away, his pain-sodden brain unable to point him in any specific direction. As it was, he headed for the small pantry.
For a moment J. Farny regarded the old man in benevolent amusement, then selected the heavy bladed butcher knife from the rack beside the stove, and leisurely sauntered toward the pantry. He giggled furiously when he reached it. In a mindless frenzy of desperation to escape, the old man sought to hide behind the mop and broom. J. Farny plucked him up, whirled him about, and stabbed him in the ass expertly with his enormous prick. Joe Nordquist no longer had control of his vocal organs. He gobbled insanely; gobble, gobble, gobble.
J. Farny eased the two of them down to their knees, the old man's buttocks couched solidly into his loins, his hard cock to the limit up the old man's rectum. When Joe Nordquist continued to gobble, J. Farny struck him savagely across the rear of the neck with the unsharpened back edge of the butcher knife. The blow was not hard enough to kill instantly, but it crushed some of the nerves along the old man's spine that led to the two huge nerve centers at the base of the skull. Also, the vertebrae connected with the neck joint received a jarring blow.
A massive quivering seized Joe Nordquist. He vibrated violently, injured nerves and spine taking over control of his body. About to strike with the knife again, J. Farny stayed his hand, waves of delicious erotic raptures spreading throughout his powerful body, the sensations caused by the dying quivers of the helpless old cripple impaled on his cock. Swiftly a second orgasm surged through J. Farny, this one of such intense ecstasy he howled like a timber wolf, the howls terminating in short bursts of barks and yelps as he flung his head about, lust-glazed eyes staring vacantly. When the seizure faded Joe Nordquist was still in death, but J. Farny's hand holding the butcher knife was yet raised, so he whipped it down, sharp edge first this time, and the heavy blade bit deep into the old man's neck. Twice more the knife arched, bit through the neck, and the head fell off.
J. Farny sighed contentedly, deciding against another fuck. Rachel would be home soon and he must yet purge her. He moved backward on his knees, pulled his cock out of the headless corpse with savoring slowness. What a tight asshole! Maybe just once more-- The girl, J. Farny, his mother prompted inside his mind. Don't forget the girl, Sonny Baby. She may be home any moment and she is contaminated with Satan. She must be purged.
Yes, yes, Mommy! Yes, yes! J. Farny could not miss the note of command in his mother's tone. Rachel must be purged of her sins! She may be home any moment and she must be purged!
J. Farny scrambled up from his knees and tried to pull the pantry door shut on the revolting horror he had created, but the door closed on one of Joe Nordquist's ankles and would not shut completely. J. Farny did not bother to move the foot. His mother's urgent reminder rang in his head, so he left the foot sticking outside the door.
He had time to wash the blood off his naked body before Rachel Nordquist returned home, but time for nothing else. He was crouched behind the heavy drapes of the doorway leading from the living room into Rachel's bedroom when the front door opened and she entered.
"Reverend Kanabb!" she gasped sharply in surprise as J. Farny emerged from behind the drapes. Her jaw sagged at sight of his large, hairy muscular figure, his enormous erection thrusting up and out in front like some weird sort of fleshy periscope. "Wha-- Wha--" Slowly the packages tumbled from her arms. Was not this what she had always wanted, was always dreaming would happen, had always prayed for? Her one brief encounter with sex had taken place at college eight years ago. Since then she had been secretary to Rev. Kanabb and, over the years her dreams of sex, her curiosity about it, and her willingness to engage in it had all become so bound up with handsome, domineering J. Farny that each was synonymous with him. In a blazing flash of revelation she saw him standing there naked as the answer to all her prayers.
Without thinking further she flew across the room and flung herself into his arms. J. Farny traced his big hands over her head, clamped them around her neck in a moment of uncertainty, then she was pushing herself against him, smothering his broad, hairy chest with frenzied kisses and tearing at her clothes with both hands while backing him into her bedroom.
When they pitched down onto her bed she was more naked than he, for he still wore the transparent plastic gloves and she wore nothing but the strong aphrodisiacal aroma of adult female in fierce lust-heat. When J. Farny's broad nostrils caught the scent they flanged into great rings of flesh. Karen Sebollo had not possessed the titillating odor, and of course Joe Nordquist had not. Zelda did sometimes, though rarely any more. J. Farny likened it unto the essence of a Heavensent perfume from the Garden of Eden. It destroyed his indecision in regards to purging Rachel Nordquist immediately. Instead of getting it over with quickly he would prolong the process. In the meantime....
Rachel clung to his neck, gasping, her full breasts mashed against his chest, moving her legs apart as he swung his muscle-padded body over between her thighs. Her vagina was steamy hot and amply lubricated by her lymphatic secretions. Vapors of lust rose from her crotch. She started, whined, when J. Farny pushed the great bald knob of his cock into her labia and against her cuntal opening. Over and over through her mind ran: Thank you dear Lord sweet Jesus for making all my dreams come true.
"Eeeeeeeeyah!" she shrilled as her hips seemed pried apart, her abdominal area stuffed to bursting as J. Farny's massive cock slid to the very hilt into the seething heat of her belly. Breath hissed from her lips. Dear Lord sweet Jesus....
J. Farny commenced to fuck into her with measured strokes. She bit his neck and moved her trembling lips around over his face, fastened them on his, her tongue darting into his mouth, her eyes opening and closing in a paroxysm of blissful emotions as his big cock pistoned rhythmically into her body. Spasms of unimaginable joy broke over her in waves. These spasms were not entirely erotic in nature, but were born of a sudden recognition of what had, and was, actually happening to her. Since her return from shopping things had taken place with such lightning-like speed she had been somewhat dazed. But not any more. She was catching up with events and her soul sang with a happiness wild and free. A rich, throaty purr of feline contentment came from her lips. She began experimenting with hip movements, was soon matching J. Farny's rhythm with a counter-rhythm of her own.
J. Farny pushed his cock in to the last millimeter and held it there, moving it around, feeling it expand and enlarge her, and also feeling her inner cunt muscles nibbling on it. Rachel groaned in an agony of passion, tonguetip flicking about her lips to keep them moist. J. Farny slid his hands down under her buttocks, hefted them, weighted them so that they flowed around his hands. She began whining in a delirium of lust as she moved her lips over his face, unable to keep them in one spot. In a sudden increase of passion she bucked and twisted under him in masochistic fury, swinging her legs up to her shoulders as though she wanted him to drive her through, to stake her to the bed with his sex-staff. He straightened up from her, leaning at an angle, and held her under the cheeks of the ass, pulling her behind off the bed so that her hips were higher than any other part of her body. He hammered into her again and again with his plundering cunt-churn.
"Ayeeeee!" she squealed. "Ohhhhh, darling, darling!" She squealed some more, gasped repeatedly, then the sounds became one and gradually merged into filthy, vulgar, obscene words heretofore scarcely entertained in thought, but now torn from her lips as she strove to express what she felt, not knowing it was inexpressable. Her sex-starved, affection-starved body was a live animal, squirming and straining. She opened her eyes one second, looked at him in smoldering lust, then clenched them tight as though his marauding cock forced her to do so by the enormity of the sensations it produced.
J. Farny could feel his third climax of the evening approaching. He yearned avidly for relief. He needed to cast off the load of sperm already collected in his balls again.
Rachel gave a loud, piteous whimper and J. Farny knew she would soon be coming also. Rachel knew this too. Her loins were aflame. Her upraised thighs tingled with a peculiar, semi-numbing ecstasy; the roaring holocaust of the lust-bomb, which had been burning on a slow fuse for eight long, sex-hungry years, was about to go off in her belly.
When J. Farny's big cock triggered the lust-bomb, Rachel went a little mad, screaming and fighting under him, clawing his back with both hands, beating the air wildly with her legs. Her inner-cunt clamped down around his prick like a wonderful meat-vise. She caught his face, thrust her tongue into his mouth, pushing it in deep and lashing it around inside.
He bit her tongue viciously and felt her noiseless scream, rumbling thunder in his balls ready to crack loose. He ground into her with all his might, drove his cock into her farther than ever before, and it brought tiny mewls and snorts of lust from her lips. The dam inside him burst a second later and he gritted his teeth savagely, sobbing, salvoes of liquid fire glutting Rachel's womb with such force and heat her eyes flew open to stare dumbly about.
Due to her limited experience with sex she could not be positive, but there had always lurked in the back of her mind the belief that participants of the sex act repaired to the bathroom for various and sundry reasons when that act was completed. However, as she lay couched snugly under J. Farny's big frame, she now assumed this belief to have been wrong. J. Farny never gave her a chance to much more than catch her breath before he once more went into action, his huge cock probing amongst her secret places with delicious enthusiasm. She was speechless with joy at the thought that J. Farny's appetite for her was so large. Again she began matching his loins' action, and shortly they were pawing and snorting and whining as they lurched and lunged over another sweaty summit of exploding emotions, their genitalia fused in orgasm.
Rachel never expected any respite this time. Nor wanted one; or got it. She had barely emerged from a pink fog of ecstasy when J. Farny was fucking into her again, seemingly with greater vigor and gusto than ever.
And so it went hour after hour, each filled with fabulous, soul-satisfying orgasms, some so violent and powerful in intensity she would scream and beg and babble incoherently, while J. Farny kept right on fucking as no man of normal sexual posture and appetites could have done. But at last he extracted his cock from her lathered cunt with a slurpy sound, grunted in satisfaction and rolled to one side, eyes closed, relaxing a minute or two before he fucked her a few times in the ass. He giggled silently. Father and daughter the same night, by golly. Not a bad score, if he did say so. Perhaps the time would one day come when he could go sin-purging each night. Oh, how he loved to purge people of their sins and rescue them for the Lord.
Praise Jehovah's Holy Name!
CHAPTER FIVE
When J. Farny first crawled from her saddle Rachel could neither lower her legs or bring them together, which bothered her not one iota. Tonight was unquestionably the most fantastic night of her life and she cared little for anything but the wonder of J. Farny's love and the awesome magnificence of the rapturous relationship they had begun; had been working at these past several hours.
After two or three tries she was able to get her body straight enough to swing her legs over the side of the bed. She glanced back at J. Farny. The poor, wonderful darling was dozing off to sleep. She licked her lips-- her mouth was cotton dry-- and glanced down at the big puddle of overflowed male sperm and excess female fluids. The puddle was at least ten inches across and was very, very slowly being absorbed into the mattress.
Rachel rose stiffly, went to the chest of drawers at the other side of the room, returned with a thick terry cloth towel and spread it over the lust-stain. Boy! She bet their's had been the longest, wildest, the most inexpressably fabulous love session ever. She remembered the stream of profanity that had spewed from her lips and blushed profusely in shame. She saw no moral wrong in her copulative marathon with J. Farny. Any wrong incurred would be set aright tomorrow when he asked for her hand in marriage, which she was positive beyond any and all shadow of doubt he would most certainly do. But for her to burst forth with such a stream of putrid obscenities offended the sanctity and defiled the wholesome purity of their love.
She glanced at J. Farny again, face aglow with a mixture of pride-- every unmarried woman in Cramer would turn green with envy when it was announced she would become Mrs. J. Farny Kanabb-- respect and adoration. He lay face down on the bed, apparently asleep, or perhaps only dozing, the glossy glans of his great instrument sticking at an angle from under his hip. Rachel shook her head in wonder, thoughtful eyes on the end of his penis. Was it true? Had it actually happened? Mercy! Did she really have a hole in her body that big? No mind. She'd loved every minute, every second of their union, and looked forward to more. But right now she must have water. Her mouth felt parched and gritty.
Sated with lust, in a cozy, delicious cocoon of sexual satiation, she made her way on tremulous legs toward the kitchen and the pitcher of ice water she kept in the refrigerator.
She had finished half the second small glass of cold water when her eyes focused on the stream of crimson liquid-- could it be red paint?-- that had crept into the kitchen from under the pantry door. Next she saw the human foot protruding through the crack in the door. What on earth???
She reached the pantry in three swift strides, threw back the door and snapped on the light. Air swooshed into her lungs for the scream that died aborning when J. Farny spun her about and seized the slender white column of her neck in his powerful, thick-fingered hands. Raw, horrified shock wreathed her face, stunned non-belief filled her eyes for one fleeting pinpoint of time before a blinding brilliance blazed across her brain and as Rachel Nordquist she ceased to exist. She never heard the dull plop from inside her neck, which had ignited the blinding brilliance as it snapped like a dry stick in her recent lover's savage grasp. She sprawled on her back, large eyes round and bulging and staring at the ceiling when J. Farny dropped her to his feet.
His triumphant giggle filled the kitchen. Again he had thwarted the schemes of Hell-fiend Satan and won the battle. Again he, J. Farny Kanabb! had conquered evil. Ahhh, he was the sly one, he was. Slyer than the sliest fox was ole J. Farny; Hee! Hee! Hee! By Godfrey he'd show 'em, he would. The time would come when the Hell-fiend and all his forces of evil would flee for their lives at the mere mention of his name.
He stared down in thoughtful petulance from his hard-on to the dead girl. She might have had the courtesy to wait at least long enough for him to fuck her in the ass. It wasn't fair, that's what it wasn't! Him with an aching hard-on and she ups and-- Hummmmm. What was to prevent his partaking of her round-eye anyway. Nothing; that was what was to prevent it, and so....
Rachel's corpse flopped pathetically, like the inert mass of dead meat it was, when J. Farny turned it with his foot, tongue swishing about his liverish lips in excitement. He kicked the lifeless legs wider apart, knelt between them, pulled the non-resisting buttocks wide and stared spellbound at the anus. It was not puckered as he expected, but was slowly expanding, preparing to disgorge.
J. Farny gaped in awe and reverent exultation, wondering what rare mystery was unfolding for his discovery, not aware of what any mortician worthy of the title could have told him: If filled to capacity, the colon of any new corpse will evacuate itself within minutes after death due to the total relaxing of all muscles. But in his ignorance J. Farny did not know this. To him the occurrence was an inexplicable phenomenon of great magnitude, which he found steeped in tremendous erotic excitement. He was actually panting; hassling as a dog does after a long, fast chase, when he pitched forward and aligned his body along the back of the still warm corpse. Then he saw it wasn't at all the remains of Rachel Nordquist he was about to corn-hole, but his own sweet darling Mommy. A wonderful, glorious joy spread throughout his being. His spirits soared on flights of rapture. His soul sang.
Mommy, Mommy, are we really going to fuck like we used to? And then have hot fudge sundaes?
At once he commenced to buck his hips in wild abandon, pounding them against the corpse's buttocks with such force it scooted into the blood that had drained from old Joe Nordquist's headless body. As he kept pounding the corpse kept moving, easier now because of the slippery blood, and before long half the kitchen floor was smeared a gruesome scarlet, this streaked here and there with human excrement. J. Farny fucked like the madman he was, the nauseous odor of fresh blood mingled with that of feces affecting him not at all.
"Mommy, Mommy, it's so good, so good, so good," he crooned aloud as he fucked. His eyes were closed, his expression one of serene majesty. Suddenly he squawked, startled by the brutal force of the orgasm fucking Mommy always afforded him, grabbed the dead girl's hair and chewed his tongue, eyes protruding far beyond normal in their sockets as his disgorging prick pumped charge upon charge of sperm into the rectum of his lifeless partner.
After shivering to a gradual stop he extracted his hard sex-meat and got to his feet, sighing luxuriously. Mommy had the best stuff in the whole world, no question about it.
He showered leisurely, dressed, and three-quarters of an hour later let himself out of the Nordquist residence, blithely humming, "Oh, How I Love Jesus."
As was usual after a successful purging (tonight's had been especially successful, and another victory over Hell-fiend Satan), J. Farny felt that old familiar urge when he saw the phone booth on the way to his car. How wonderfully comforting to a battle scarred Soldier of the Cross was the voice of Dial-A-Prayer when-- He ground his teeth in quick, impotent rage. He did not have proper change to operate the phone! He wondered if the Evil Tempter had anything to do with it. Satan doted on those little, seemingly insignificant things that could cause so much damage when they multiplied. But no matter. When he reached the Parsonage he'd phone Dial-A-Prayer and God's Thought For The Day! That'd show the Hell-fiend a thing or two, by gum.
CHAPTER SIX
Madame Ulster, still Mitzy Green to a very few long-time confidants who remembered her from the waterfront days, paced the floor of her sumptuous apartment in a quandary. Despite her height of six feet-- barefoot-- and her narrow frame, nature had endowed her with sufficient curves, planes and angles in the conventionally acceptable places so that her figure was one to give any man the drools. Yet as she stalked back and forth over the long nap virgin wool rug it was not her figure that commanded attention, but her face.
Her brow was furrowed with a frown, she bit her lips in deep thought, trying to decide how much hard cash, if she finally decided on cash to bargain for, to ask of Rev. J. Farny Kanabb in return for telling him the Parsonage housekeeper, Zelda Griswald, had been little Susan Wallace's aunt, that Zelda suspected him of the child's murder, and had finagled her way into being Parsonage housekeeper in order to be nearby in case he should ever betray himself.
Possible repercussions of her treachery-- that dumb-assed Zelda did trust her-- bothered Mitzy not at all. The environ mental circumstances that early in life had given her the morals of an alley cat had also given her the ethics of a barracuda. Whatever happened to Zelda was little old Zelda's lookout, Mitzy told herself. All she wanted for the information was a few thousand measly dollars. But this could be quite a sum for a preacher. Members of the ministerial profession were known to be somewhat less than wealthy, with most of its individual members carried by the Credit Bureau as notoriously unsound credit risks. If Kanabb did not have, say, five thousand dollars of his own, chances were even a man of his influence and social standing couldn't borrow such a sum without embarrassing questions being asked.
And yet, oddly, efforts to decide on a figure to ask in return for her information was not the basic, funda mental root cause of Mitzy's quandary. Her real problem was whether to ask for money, or to bargain with Kanabb for use of his big genitals; him attached, naturally, that Zelda had told her about.
A hot flash of lust washed the length of Mitzy's long body. She hugged herself as though freezing. It had been so long since she'd had a partner who would submit to her own favorite sex-form. So miserably goddamned long that....
Just as environ mental circumstances had given Mitzy alley cat morals and barracuda ethics, her years of harlotry had given her a number of twisted sexual hungers that mere conventional sex and its more common variants could in no wise appease. Ergo: Mitzy Green found sex partners difficult to come by.
When Rev. Kanabb learned of Zelda's relationship to the murdered Wallace child, and the true purpose behind her being at the Parsonage, he might do anything, especially if Zelda's suspicions were true, but Mitzy told herself she could not be concerned with possibilities-- unless they became realities that affected her personally. She had her own row to hoe; had been hoeing the friggin' thing, alone, as long as she could remember, and this was exactly the way she wanted it now that more and larger sums from her little blackmail ventures were being fed into various hidden bank accounts.
It was precisely this recollection of her financial status that swung her decision in favor of blackmail sex with Rev. Kanabb rather than blackmail money. The money she would forego-- this time. She needed sexual relief a whole crying goddamn lot worse than she needed any five thousand dollars. However, if Zelda's accounts of her life at the Parsonage with Kanabb were true, Mitzy knew sex with the preacher did not necessarily have to be blackmail.
Yet for her kind of sex it probably would.
Even so, if Kanabb turned her down flat she could resort to that fantastic dildo she had received in the evening mail yesterday. Since she had used the devise only once she could not be positive, but that dildo just might be the answer to all her prayers as far as sex was concerned.
"You're not getting me in that goddamned contraption again!" Zelda stormed. For one of the few times since coming to the Parsonage she had lost all control of her temper, but mere thoughts of that "corn-holing chair," as J. Farny called it and which he had devised, sent her into a rage. The last time she had been made to sit in the thing her asshole had hurt for a week.
J. Farny sighed in mock weariness, actually enjoying himself tremendously. Zelda lost her temper so seldom with him he, for some reason, got a peculiar, perverted joy from it. Besides, he knew she hated and feared the "chair" he had conceived and built, and which he made her sit in on occasion, and this knowledge, as he watched her expressions and listened to her protesting tirade, added zest and spice. The last time or two he'd bunged her in the chair, however, he'd had to put her in it himself. It appeared as if the same would be necessary this time.
He cuffed her behind the neck and the Parsonage housekeeper went stumbling head first, arms waving wildly as she tried to recover balance, across the bedroom to crash into the far wall in a dazed heap. J. Farny collected her naked form gently in his arms and, hard cock bobbing before them, carried her down into the Parsonage's full size basement, which the Board of Deacons had decreed was to soon become a playroom for the church's youngsters. Necessary construction had already been finished and much of the playroom furniture moved in.
The corn-holing chair was not really a chair at all, but a canvas sling suspended from a rafter by an arrangement of ropes and a low-ratio block and tackle. The sling had a large hole cut where the seat should be, and when J. Farny placed Zelda in it her entire buttocks area was exposed from the bottom. When he was sure she had recovered enough to maintain her position, he fetched an inflated air mattress leaning against the wall and slid it beneath the sling. Then he reclined on the mattress and worked his loins under the sling, his cock waving at Zelda's posterior threateningly. He reached up and let his fingers trail over the cleavage of her ass lovingly, "Take your hands off me, you sex-mad sonofabitch!" Zelda raged, now recovered fully but afraid to leave the sling. He would only force her back into it.
For an answer J. Farny goosed her in the anus with a finger, laughed when she squealed, and lay watching in delight as her asshole blinked furiously from his touch. Sight of it fascinated him. Assholes always did.
Zelda clenched her jaw, shook her head violently in helpless anger. That big cock of his would bust her open one of these days and ... "You know you don't want me to take my hands off you," J. Farny teased, knowing his attitude would only infuriate her more. "You like to be fucked in the ass. Why not admit it?"
"Animal! Beast!"
The words were uttered with great force, yet held the hint of total submission. Her hope was fading. What in hell was the use of resisting the motherfucker anyway? He'd do with her as he pleased, regardless.
J. Farny gloated over her helpless body. His cock was large and hot and throbbing. He regarded her asshole with even greater lustful hunger. Her body swayed a little in the sling as he prodded it again with a finger, then squeezed the spongy warmth of her buttocks in his palms.
Zelda's eyes were closed. She was white with fear and anger, yet subdued and saying nothing.
J. Farny's cock tingled. He held it in his hand, its heat like an aura of red-hot lust around his genitals. He swiped at Zelda's naked ass with it and the seminal fluid oozing from the single aperture made a slimy streak along her flesh. He reached up and ran his hands down the smooth lines of her back until they flared over the soft cushion of her buttocks. Her skin was smooth and slightly sweaty from the strain she was undergoing. He ran his fingers between her buttocks where a few fine hairs straggled and the skin was suddenly softer, more tender-feeling, as he drew near her anus.
For some minutes he played there, savoring each second, while she sagged, as though lifeless. Then he felt her relax completely, but she gave a piercing squeal as his finger penetrated and moved about inside her like some live animal. She gasped repeatedly as he dug his finger in further; cried out when he squeezed in another finger. Her head dropped back, rolled around to loll forward. She was panting as if from some strenuous exertion.
J. Farny moved his fingers around in her rectum, pressing out and up alternately in preparing her nether throat to receive the issue of his lust.
Zelda wiggled her ankles, wanting desperately to escape and knowing escape was impossible. When J. Farny took his time with her like this, she knew she was in for a long, thorough fucking.
Easier and yet more easily J. Farny's fingers slipped and explored in the yielding depths. His two fingers had easy access now and he thrust them in to the limit. His cock was flint-hard and bucked for action. In his loins fermented sharp spiraling coils of sensation of such intensity he felt he could wait no longer. He extracted his fingers.
"Get the two lines ready," he said thickly.
Despairingly she gathered into her hands the two ropes hanging down in front of her; the two ropes that were used to rapidly raise and lower the sling, and herself, at J. Farny's command.
Tears stung her eyes. She gripped her jaw tightly and pinched her lips against the pain to come.
J. Farny levered his cock straight up, readjusted his position till the glans was aimed directly at her anus inches away.
"Now pull the lowering rope," he muttered through tight lips.
His trembling cock battered into her when she obeyed. Zelda cried out piteously from the pain of the big blood-bloated end of his cock expanding her protesting flesh, but she knew better than to leave the sling.
"Down further," J. Farny gritted, meaty face a harsh mask of lust, his mucky eyes fixed and staring with purpose.
Again Zelda obeyed, whimpering in agony as the big meat-stake impaled her deeper. Her asshole felt as if it were on fire.
"Now hand me the ropes," J. Farny instructed, taking both in one hand as she gave them to him. Half the length of his cock was thrust into her asshole and shivers of sensation recoiled through his body as he ogled their connection. Sight of his prick in an asshole always made him quiver with lust. His loins were in blazing turmoil and his testicles ached with desire, but he wanted to prolong the bout for a while. Even so, he pulled on the same rope Zelda had earlier and she descended slowly, with a screech of agony, till her tough brown nether ring choked the very base of his cock. J. Farny took her rear in both hands and began to undulate his hips a fraction of an inch. Then he stopped and let her rest on his loins while he wriggled around inside her.
Zelda whimpered and sobbed and, to her stark amazement and disbelief, felt a strange, unanticipated tingling caress her body. She gasped in surprise at this unexpected response on her part-- but it was better to be carried away on a sexual tide. Already J. Farny's invasion of her backside no longer seemed as painful. Furthermore, it was producing in her those erotic feelings she ordinarily associated with conventional sex and she did not want to believe it was happening, but could not deny it.
She felt his hands clasping the fleshy rotundities of her buttocks so hard his fingers dug into her soft rear. Then he released her, grabbed at the two control ropes of the sling and began sawing them up and down. As a result of this she was lifted quickly in the sling eight or nine inches, then dropped back to his hairy loins, the guiding bar which kept her dead center with his hard cock in her rectum.
She heard him grunting and gasping; heavy masculine grunts that had a savage brutality about them. With the growing passion in her lower regions she felt a strange outgoing to J. Farny Kanabb, whom she was convinced more each day had killed her little niece.
She heard his gasping become a heavy whine of exploding breath as he sawed the control ropes more rapidly than ever, felt his body tense and his big penis throb angrily inside her, vomiting yang into her colon. She was beset by a strange sense of disappointment when he sighed heavily and relaxed away from her. Then he drew on the elevating rope and hoisted her free of her impalement, his huge cock coming out of her ass like the popping of a champagne cork.
He got to his feet, helped her out of the sling, and she leaned against him, the soft flesh of her hips and the sinewy mound of her belly joggling against his flesh and he, at once, felt the prickling of reciprocation stir in the long hard length of his cock.
He kicked the air mattress from under the sling and it skittered over the floor, coming to a halt against the legs of the ping-pong table. He led her toward the mattress slowly and she stroked his prick tenderly, as if she adored every inch of it. When they reached the mattress she motioned for him to recline on it on his back once again.
J. Farny stretched out, tensed his buttocks and jutted his cock massively toward the ceiling.
He hardened his buttocks and the life force of his insatiable desire flashed from his loins up along his penis like a jolt of electricity.
More or less dazed by her sudden, inexplicable lust for this man she hated, Zelda looked at him blankly. She ran her fingers softly up his tube of hot flesh, then swung herself painfully astride him, poising, arranging her vagina directly above his dick. She leaned forward, resting her hands on either side of his face while she positioned herself. Her knees brushed his ribs and then with a long, drawn-out sigh of deliverance she sank down.
Her head rolled on her neck and she felt giddy and out of control as his cock was swallowed into her vagina and she sank down till her buttocks met his thighs. Her movement was mechanical, dictated by the angle of his rod, and she rose and fell with a broken sob of relief. She began to squirm and skewer her buttocks on his thighs as she rode him. She rolled about on his body like a puppet crazed with human desire for the orgasm that seemed astonishingly slow in coming.
J. Farny, luxuriating as he could seldom find patience to do when fucking, brought his thighs up from the horizontal and contained her buttocks and hips in them. He reached down with his large hands and grasped her thighs, feeling their muscles flexing with her movement. This was the old Zelda; the Zelda he had known when she first came to the Parsonage.
Zelda's breasts swayed and bobbed over her heaving belly, and her mouth hung open under flared nostrils. Her hair swung across her face each time she descended and with her uprise she shook her head so that it swung away.
J. Farny tensed and relaxed his buttocks repeatedly and felt sensation tremble and palpitate all through his loins. He knew his second orgasm was not far off, and he dug his fingers into her thighs so hard they brought a whine of protest from her flaccid lips.
As she galloped on him Zelda tensed her loins, aching for the lust-bomb in her loins to explode. She could not much longer endure that yearning, bursting ball of flame inside her. She had to have relief.
She clasped his hips with her thighs and squirmed her bottom from side to side as she fell. She had forgotten the pain of her asshole. His cock was spreading and battering her belly, producing sensations so wonderful they hurt. Unless she climaxed soon she would die.
As she fucked it seemed as if she were drowning her past attitudes and feelings for J. Farny Kanabb in a vast lake of erotic sensation. He was no longer repugnant to her. It seemed that this moment was what she had always waited for, had always lived for; this moment when thinking was burdensome and the only thing that mattered was the rigid stalk of male sex-meat consuming her. If there were only this moment, it was all she had ever desired, this acuteness of sensation, this beyond-reality she had never experienced with any man before, including the one she now fucked so industriously.
In times past she had wondered what it would be that could tie her to a man so that she respected and revered him above all others. It was not physical beauty or intellectual strength. She had known both from time to time since her first days on the waterfront. Perhaps it was some animal force in the man-- whatever it was, Zelda Griswald suddenly realized with irrevocable certainty that J. Farny Kanabb had plenty.
These things moved through her lust-soaked mind fleetingly; unclear phantoms of thought more felt than anything else. In a maze of wild, swimming confusion in head and loins she heard J. Farny's breath growing ragged, felt his climax trembling. She hammered downward, concentrating everything she could on the long-veined cock down which she slid, and felt the lust-bomb within her shatter into a great conflagration as she moaned in a quivering delirium of lust that swirled her down and down and down....
After some seconds, during which all was darkness, she became aware that his powerful arms circled her and he fucked up into her, gasping and snorting in the throes of an orgiastic hurricane.
Then she flopped exhausted along the hot length of his strong body, realizing with a touch of delicious terror she had fallen hopelessly in love with Rev. J. Farny Kanabb.
CHAPTER SEVEN
J. Farny jabbed repeatedly at the button that summoned his secretary, Rachel Nordquist, to his office, and continued to get no response. Anger flared inside him. Hired help these days wasn't worth the trouble of giving them a job. The Board of Deacons paid Miss Nordquist an excellent salary; had voted her a comfortable raise at their last quarterly meeting, so why in the name of mud couldn't she show up for work on time? She'd had all day yesterday off and-- J. Farny stopped dead still, remembering. Rachel Nordquist wouldn't be having anything but days off from now on. He relaxed in his chair and for some time sat musing over how fortunate she was to have been called to Glory without suffering a lengthy illness or enduring the infirmities of old age. How thoughtful of the Master-- Praise the Lord!
How noble, how worthy the ways of the Savior, Amen!
J. Farny reached for the phone and dialed the number of God's-Thought-For-The-Day. It was a daily ritual he had adhered to for years. In his battle to cleanse the world of sin it was vital that he keep abreast of what God was thinking. He listened for a full two minutes to the ringing phone, a dark frown creasing his meaty forehead as it continued to ring, unheeded on the other end. This had never happened before! Could it be...? Was it possible that God was out? That He didn't have any thoughts for this particular day in history?
J. Farny replaced the phone slowly, cautiously, almost fearfully, resentful of the instrument and feeling the thing had betrayed him. He blinked rapidly in confusion, stared owlishly about, thoroughly befuddled. God couldn't be out! God wouldn't-- He glared in sudden vicious hatred at the phone. That was the culprit. The phone had refused to connect him with God's number. Satan-- It was the Hell-fiend, Sonny Baby. J. Farny heard his mother's voice as her image appeared on the other side of the desk. He has his little ways of trying to rile a person, but don't let him get under your skin.
I won't, Mommy! Oh, I won't! J. Farny blurted. Since fucking his sweet darling Mommy night before last at the Nordquist home he had been able to think of little else. Even his long and delicious fuck-session with Zelda yesterday in the Parsonage basement could not erase from his mind the supreme raptures of fucking his Mommy.
The Devil is ever at your heels, Sonny Baby, hoping you will make one little mistake. Never forget you're a true Soldier of the Cross.
I won't forget, Mommy. I won't forget. Not ever-- Mommy?
Yes, Sonny Baby?
When will I get to fuck you again, darling Mommy?
Hummmm-- I don't know. Was that really your cock night before last or were you wearing one of those dildo things?
It was me, Mommy. The real me. Honest! I couldn't lie to you, darling Mommy.
Show me, Sonny Baby. Haul it out like a good little boy and let Mommy see.
J. Farny leaped to his feet, whipped out his cock-- which had sprung up hard as stone the instant his mother appeared-- and flexed and jiggled his hips, brandishing his enormous cock like some oddly shaped war club.
See, Mommy, he panted, desperately eager for her approval. See my cock, Mommy? It's all mine, Mommy, and the same one I used to fuck you with. Can I fuck you again, Mommy? Right now?
At that moment, while J. Farny engaged in this macabre conversation with the image of his dead mother, Mitzy Green was entering the front of the church, a small tape recorder in one hand. She was a tiny measure piqued with herself for having decided to trade her information to J. Farny Kanabb for sex instead of five thousand pieces of that long green god everybody trusted, but all in all she was content to abide by her original decision-- arrived at after many hours of floor pacing. Besides, she must have sex. And soon!
She walked into the sanctuary feeling a good deal out of place, especially when she saw the group of some twenty early- and pre-teen girls clustered about the piano, faces the picture of innocent purity, young voices lifted in song.
Mitzy stopped, fidgeted uncertainly. Fuck a monkey! If she'd known she'd be faced with such as this she would-- A lithe, nimble-looking youngster with soft, intelligent features and a vivacious smile detached herself from the group and approached Mitzy.
"I'm Cindy Quzetta," she said politely. "Are you here to see Reverend Kanabb?"
Mitzy nodded automatically, unable to remove her eyes from those around the piano. For an instant she was seeing herself as she might have been years ago.
"Who-- who're they?" she asked, feeling self-conscious and pointing awkwardly.
"The Willing Workers choir," the Quzetta child said, seeming to glow from an inner radiance as she spoke the group's name. The small nubs of her little teats jutted up and out when she lifted her chest and continued proudly, "I'm President of the Willing Workers."
"Oh?" Mitzy said absently. "I-- uh-- can you show me where to find Reverend Kanabb?"
Cindy Quzetta could, and did, with an inbred courtesy that did her parents proud. She left Mitzy Green just outside J. Farny's office, which was fortunate. Mitzy entered upon a scene the fourteen-year-old Cindy might not have understood.
Mitzy didn't understand it herself. She only knew she saw Cramer's leading minister standing at his desk hunching an enormous cock at the empty air. She retreated hastily, cleared her throat and rapped loudly on the door, as though just arriving.
Her face flushed a passion-crimson. The cock on that man! Perspiration beaded her upper lip. What a fantastic cock! She wanted to cry aloud in her joy. Zelda said J. Farny Kanabb had an insatiable sex appetite and she hoped feverishly that Zelda was right.
In her excitement she kept rapping her knuckles against the door till J. Farny's meaty face appeared. Obviously the man had crammed the big wonderful roll of his sex-meat back out of sight at her first knock. The front of his trousers bulged alarmingly, though he seemed unaware of it. For a moment Mitzy thought he might explode with anger, but at sight of her the look in his mucky eyes gave way to one she had learned to recognize years ago-- the look of raw animal lust.
"May I come in, Reverend Kanabb?" Mitzy asked.
Seconds later she was seated across the desk from J. Farny, who panted with passion. His recent conversation with his Mommy on the prospect of fucking her again had him sexually aroused to a degree he had not imagined possible. His head ached, his eyes burned, his mouth was parched by a roaring, blinding need for immediate sexual relief.
And Mitzy Green, alias Madame Ulster, ex-whore from the waterfront turned fortune teller, read the Rev. Mr. J. Farny Kanabb like an open book, realizing with a pleasant shock she could get what she wanted from the man without disclosing her information, which she would hustle at a later date for a comfortable wad of geetus. Yet she must act quickly, even brashly, before the hypocritical sonofabitch across the desk cooled down. So she acted at once.
She rose to her feet, bringing the hem of her dress with her, and held it under her chin while she patted her great thatch of cunt bristles with one hand. The thatch was in full view. Mitzy never wore panties.
"Would you like to get that big cock of yours in this, Reverend Kanabb?" she asked boldly, holding him with her eyes.
"Who are you?" J. Farny's voice was a hoarse, lustful rasp.
"Madame Ulster, and I-"
"That dumb-assed fortune teller?"
"I tell fortunes, Reverend Kanabb. It's a living."
"Did Zelda send you here to see me?"
For no special reason Mitzy decided to tell the truth. "Not exactly, but she did let slip that you're a real he-man who knows how to act under a woman's skirts and--"
"Let's go!" J. Farny bounded erect. Sight of this tall woman's columnar thighs and available snatch had his senses in a spin. What difference if she told fortunes? He didn't give a damn if she told riddles for a living. All he wanted was a quick, merciful fuck.
"Go where?" Mitzy asked, spirits soaring. How marvelous if they could have absolute privacy. For what she had in mind they needed no less.
"Upstairs," J. Farny said. "In the loft-- my sanctum sanctorum."
This large room, which J. Farny privately called his holy of holies, had been a special gift of the Board of Deacons in deference to his growing fame as a sin-fighter, and was his retreat from the world. It was complete with a couch that opened out into a full size bed, bathroom, air-conditioning, refrigerator, even a supply of food in case he decided to spend the night in meditation.
"Come on!" J. Farny said impatiently, heading for the door. "Let's go. It's two flights up."
"You better wait till you hear my proposition." Mitzy pointed a forefinger at her cunt. "Before you get that root of yours in my belly there's something I want from you, something you must join me in doing." She dropped the front of her skirt back in place.
"Then what is it?" J. Farny demanded in a welter of erotic agitation. The damn woman wanted to fuck, didn't she? She'd strolled into his office, hauled up her skirt and patted her cunt, hadn't she? Then by damn-- "What is your proposition?"
After she finished telling him he fumbled blindly for his chair and fell into it, having heard but not wanting to believe, knowing he would comply with her revulsive request because he was in a physical and emotional state wherein he was fast going out of control. He had to accept. There was no alternative. With no little effort he again got to his feet.
"Follow me," he croaked, eyes lowered, somehow ashamed to look at the young woman he had so frequently referred to as a dumb-assed fortune teller.
On their way through the church to the stairway leading above, the Willing Workers choir put an extra measure of enthusiastic lilt into their voices at sight of Rev. Kanabb, and when his eyes sought out Cindy Quzetta and he nodded acknowledgment to her as Workers' President the child blushed furiously with pride and hero worship.
Thick, ropy slobbers of lust drooled from the corners of his liver-lipped mouth when he locked the door behind Madame Ulster. Despite the obscene thing he must submit to in order to fuck her, he would revenge himself by fucking her till she begged for mercy.
Mitzy placed her recorder on a table against the far wall and began removing her clothes in feverish urgency, indicating with a nod for J. Farny to do the same. When they were naked she moved a chair from near the center of the room and motioned for him to sit down on the floor. Then she pushed the "playback" switch of the tape recorder.
The music that rolled into the room was pure bump and grind straight from the heart of coochville, and Mitzy began the dance with her hands making sensuous motions that her body picked up. Then she caught the tempo of the music and began to swing her limbs and toss her hips about. The performance would have been fascinating beyond description if J. Farny had been ignorant of what was to follow. Even as it was, the dance held him spellbound.
Her long, reed-slender, perfectly molded body flashed and glowed under the ceiling lights. Each time she whirled her large teats, which sagged a little after too many years in a too snug bra, stood straight out like head lamps on an old T-model. Then she swirled by J. Farny and motioned for him to lie down. He did and she swirled away, but not before he got a face full of the raunchy fish odor of her cunt. Several times she whirled around his supine form, spinning round and round as she did so. But suddenly she stopped dancing, straddled his chest and stood looking down into his face. He stared up between the long, hot-looking thighs at her heavy-jawed cunt above, thinking this was one helluva way to pay for a piece of poontang. Then he braced himself, said "Praise God" silently half a dozen times, and clenched his jaw. He was ready. He hoped.
The urine trickled down at first, then spurted, then splashed over his naked body. Mitzy's eyes closed, her head lolled about, enveloped in a cloud of delight. J. Farny started to struggle to his feet, but the stream hit him squarely between his opened, liver-colored lips and he flopped back to the floor, strangled on piss. The piss sluiced down from the thick mat of cunt hair and splashed warmly over his body and face.
Once he got his breath, J. Farny closed his eyes and sealed his mouth tightly to prevent more of the salty fluid getting in his mouth. With his eyes closed he did not see the dark brown turd emerge from her asshole, and did not become aware of it till it squashed mushily onto his chest. Three more heavy anal loads were disgorged by her colon, landing on various parts of his torso. And then with a swift feline energy she smeared the lumpy yuhchtt over his body, shoulders, neck, face, and coated his scrotum and hard penis with the stuff. When she finished she paused, eyes bulging with lust, ropes of saliva streaming from her mouth, and surveyed her handiwork. Then, with the same furious energy she had exercised in smearing it, she began licking the foul stuff back from his body, pausing each few seconds to gobble down the shit her tongue had slurped into her mouth. This done, she swooped back to her self-appointed duty once more.
J. Farny's gorge stood in his throat; nauseous disgust, the urge to vomit, was a powerful force inside him, but to his stunned amazement, the powerful force was swiftly diminishing in strength. It became less powerful with the tick of each passing second. Briefly he wanted to cry out in protest, but when her tongue swiped at the feces spread over his nose and ears he felt a soundless click inside his loins that sent shivers of exhilaration streaking through his body. He still did not want it to happen, but saw no way of stopping it.
Mitzy shifted down his body, cheeks round with turd-lumps, and descended on his cock, the shit in her mouth offering a resistance that brought forth instant reaction in him. Her tongue probed and punched through the tightly packed shit in her mouth, which began a strong vacuuming action that made his asshole gnash in excitement.
She shifted again, never taking her mouth from his cock, and placed a knee on either side of his head and lowered her loins till they were in the classic sixty-nine position, her on top. For one splinter of a second J. Farny's revulsion returned and he all but swooned with disgust from the mixture of revolting odors that swirled about her crotch into his nostrils.
But Mitzy's gobbling at his cock grew frenzied and his feeling of revulsion passed. Globs of shit dribbled from her lips as she fought his rigid sex-meat. Her thigh muscles quivered. Cheeks of her ass shook like Jello as she brought the great raw gash of her cunt down against his face. Dutifully he thrust his tongue into the fleshy cavity-- and flew at it, slurping and lapping madly.
He jerked his face away, however; screwed his head sideways when his orgasm sledgehammered him mightily in the gut. He cried aloud hoarsely as white-hot bolts of jism roared through his cock. His breath stopped. For him time stopped. His need for sex after talking with his mother was so acute his sudden relief caused a blazing agony in the region of his prostate gland and he sobbed repeatedly while his gushing semen boiled into Mitzy's mouth and swirled among the turd-lumps of the feces packing her jaws.
Mitzy went into the holocaust of her orgasm as his faded and she snatched her mouth from his cock, whining and mewling and talking incoherently-- or her mouthings seemed incoherent to J. Farny. She kept coming so long, the seizure seemingly growing more intense, that he thought she was going crazy. And all the while she kept babbling, babbling, babbling something he ignored.
When she climbed off him and staggered weakly to the bathroom, J. Farny rolled to his side on the floor and curled into tight fetus position, tears streaming down his cheeks at the awful price he'd been forced to pay for a single blow-job. His body was smeared with streaks and globs of shit, his face was getting a stiff feeling from a film of drying female juices. He felt debased, degraded, and completely forgot about fucking Madame Ulster till she begged for mercy, as he'd promised himself to do. He did not even know when she finished dressing, collected her tape machine and quietly let herself out of his sanctum sanctorum.
Mitzy was tremendously pleased with herself-- and with Rev. J. Farny Kanabb. He was the best sex partner she'd had in years, and his active and complete cooperation had cost her absolutely nothing. She left the church humming a vulgar, waterfront ditty and envisioning the thick stack of greenbacks she would extract from the hypocritical sonofabitch later, when she told him Zelda Griswald wanted only a tiny bit of proof before accusing him of being Cramer's sex-fiend murderer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
J. Farny jerked bolt upright in bed, stared into the darkness big-eyed with terror, big body drenched with stinking fear-sweat. He didn't want to believe it even though he knew it was true. He pulled the chain that snapped on the bed lamp and looked around at the soundly sleeping Zelda-- Susan Wallace's aunt; sister of the little dead girl's mother, and she was here at the Parsonage as a Hell-fiend spy, hoping to get proof that he committed the crime.
There had been no crime! While he was purging the girl of her soot-black sins the Lord had called her home to Glory, that was all! Praise God!
During what J. Farny had at the time thought to be her incoherent yappings while in the throes of massive orgasm, Madame Ulster had betrayed Zelda's secret without knowing she did so. Just a few minutes ago, in one of those periods halfway between total awareness and sound sleep, J. Farny's mind had lent order to the fortune teller's crazy, chopped-up monologue and presented him with the truth.
This knowledge that Zelda was a Hell-fiend spy was what had jerked him awake.
Zelda?
A Hell-fiend spy? It seemed impossible.
Satan surely was working overtime to have infiltrated an agent so close.
J. Farny placed a big hand on his bed partner's shoulder and shook her gently.
"Zelda. Wake up, Zelda, and turn over here so we can fuck."
When he got no response he shook her again, with more force this time. Zelda groaned sleepily in protest, but rolled slowly over on her back, still more asleep than awake. Yet this was of little interest to J. Farny. She had turned enough so that he could get between her legs, which he did, and this was enough.
He braced himself above her on an elbow while his other hand went down between their loins. His thick fingers fumbled amongst the hairs of her pussy, which lay warp-jawed between her thighs because her hips were atwist against the bed and her legs unevenly spread. This particular fuck-posture caused J. Farny no concern whatsoever. He had fucked her in more awkward and ridiculous positions than this many times-- like that time he'd screwed her on her head in the bathroom, her fighting every second.
He opened her labia with two fingers and planted the knob of his cock against her cuntal orifice. He took his time. There was no hurry. The watch on his wrist said two o'clock, so they had plenty of time before daylight. And J. Farny wanted this to be a slow, leisurely fuck, because when Mommy learned of Zelda's double life she was sure to order her purged. This just might possibly be his final fuck-session with the Parsonage housekeeper. Because when Mommy said to purge her....
He squirmed his hips, applying small pressure at the same time, and felt the nub of his cock work its way into her body. His asshole cringed at the delicious sensations produced in his loins by the hot moist ring of cunt-flesh gripping the head of his cock. In addition to being a master cocksucker, ole Zelda was no slouch just for a common, straight-out, ordinary piece of ass. He squirmed his hips again, Zelda moved hers minutely in return, and a hefty length of his cock wormed into her belly. Another minute and their genitalia were coupled solid, the juicy channel of her cunt having swallowed his big cock entirely.
"Ohmmmmm." The sound drifted from Zelda's lips, a sound of welcome acceptance. Since their fuck-session down in the basement, when she had suddenly realized she was in love with J. Farny, honestly, sincerely in love for the first time in her life, she had wallowed in emotional turmoil. No amount of reasoning had been able to alter the way she felt, and at last she simply quit trying to argue herself out of it. Come what may, she had to accept the fact that her affection for J. Farny was growing by the hour.
And now, as his long, thick, wonderful rut-rod sneaked to the hilt up into her sleep-drowsy belly, this affection seemed so strong it might stifle her. What to do with Peter the Great she had not the vaguest idea. The animal was still a fantastic fucking machine, but one that no longer held its former status or fascinating appeal. In the mysterious way animals know things, Peter the Great already knew he was suddenly second best, and evinced his displeasure with a surly, threatening attitude. But with J. Farny snug between her upraised thighs, his ass undulating in erotic rhythm as his big sweet dick pistoned rapturously into her vagina, Zelda had no time to be concerned with the attitudes of a monkey. Perhaps she would give the damn thing to Madame Ulster, or call the city pound and have it put to sleep.
Her arms crept up around J. Farny's neck as their bodies did the sex dance. Her orgasm was swiftly mounting toward culmination and she closed her eyes in blissful repose to await its ecstatic assault when J. Farny's body vibrated abruptly in a short, hard quiver. He whinny-snorted like a rangy stallion. Another minute and he growled sobbily, slammed his cock the limit into her body and humped his back, the balls dangling down against her anus pumping her cunt full of gluey gray yang. At almost the same instant Zelda's loins exploded in climax and she cried out sharply, quaking all over as her scalding juices flushed around the hard male sex-meat glutting her secret places with semen.
They clung to each other, panting, after-kissing, small-hunching till the final vapors of the goodness faded, then J. Farny pulled his cock from her belly and rolled to one side. He heard a moment later that which he had been expecting to hear. Sonny Baby. Yes, Mommy.
It must be, Sonny Baby. Mommy knows best. That fortune teller who calls herself Madame Ulster also.
Madame Ulster must be purged too? Oh boy! I like that! After what she talked me into doing in the sanctum sanctorum I like that, sweet darling Mommy!
Now get on with the Lord's work, Sonny Baby.
Yes, yes, Mommy! The Lord's work! The Lord's work!
Zelda Griswald heard nothing of this conversation taking place inside J. Farny's mind. She lay fully relaxed, roguishly content with the through fucking she'd just received, suspecting nothing amiss till J. Farny seized her in both powerful hands and hauled her up beside him. His meaty face was inches from hers. She stared, surprised, into the depths of his mucky eyes. A warning scream sounded inside her mind.
"Zelda?" J. Farny's tone was so intimate it was cozy.
Zelda gulped without knowing why. "Yes, dear?" A nameless fear began to steal over her. "Zelda?" J. Farny said again.
"Yes?"
"What made you think you could fool a Soldier of the Cross, Zelda? Did you not know the Hell-fiend is no match for sly ole J. Farn?"
"Wha-- what are you talking about, dear?"
"Did you not realize ole J. Farny would learn who you are?" He threw back his head, giggled mightily.
Zelda slowly began to suspect the thing she had feared might happen had already happened, he knew she suspected him of Susan Wallace's death.
"Wha-- I don't know what you're talking about, dear."
J. Farny winked hugely at his mother, who had appeared in back of Zelda. His mother gave him a big conspiratorial smirk and winked in return.
"You know what I'm talking about, awright," J. Farny said grandly. He pulled her down face-up across his lap, large hands cuddling her neck.
Zelda shivered, again looked into his eyes, sensed the madness in their mucky depths, and desperately wished she were somewhere else.
"You know I'm talking about you being Susan Wallace's aunt, Zelda, about your believing I killed little Susan, and about you're being here at the Parsonage to spy on me for the Hell-fiend's agents, the police."
"No!" Zelda shouted. "Someone lied to you!"
"Like Madame Ulster?" J. Farny chortled.
Zelda was stunned by this revelation. Any hope she cherished died. Madame Ulster, whom she loved and trusted above all others, had betrayed her. What was the use any more?
"What will it be, sweet darling Mommy?" J. Farny asked aloud.
Slow and gently, Sonny Baby, his mother answered inside his head. This is not a routine purging, for Zelda is in league with the Devil; close cohort to the Hell-fiend himself, so let her die the death, Sonny Baby, slow and gentle.
"Yes, yes, Mommy. Slow and gentle."
Zelda looked at J. Farny during this one sided conversations, bulge-eyed with fear and not understanding. The big, thick-fingered, powerful hands of the man she had so recently come to love closed about her throat. Zelda panicked, began to thrash wildly.
"Looky, looky, Mommy," J. Farny chanted. "This Hell-fiend fears to pay the price."
Mommy chuckled suggestively. I'm sure she would rather you took the price out in trade.
J. Farny roared with gut-wrenching laughter at his mother's feeble-minded half-witticism and squeezed Zelda's neck. She stopped struggling. Her complexion grew an ugly violet, her eyes had begun to protrude from their sockets when J. Farny relaxed his grip and stroked her cheek and forehead lovingly.
"Mommy said slow and gentle," he murmured, lowering his lips intimately toward her ear. "Just be patient, little Hell-fiend spy."
Zelda struggled to articulate, but her larynx refused to function beyond a rusty croak.
"Won't she make a pretty corpse, though?" J. Farny inquired earnestly of his mother.
Very pretty, his mother replied. A prettier corpse than anything else.
Again J. Farny roared with laughter. Oh, wasn't his sweet darling Mommy the wit tonight? "Haw! Haw! Haw! A prettier corpse than anything else! Mommy, you just won't do!"
His mother laughed in jolly accord. A little more, Sonny Baby. Give her just a little bit more.
Thoroughly terrified now, Zelda listened to J. Farny's monologue, yet even then she did not fully realize what was about to happen to her.
You can put her in the quarry with the others when you've finished with her, J. Farny's mother said inside his mind.
J. Farny nodded, looking down at Zelda, caressing her face as in deep affection. "Yes, Mommy. But first I'll put her in the Parsonage deep-freeze to keep her around a while."
At this point Zelda began to understand she was about to die. She began to beg, tears streaming. J. Farny placed the heel of one hand under her chin, clamped her nostrils between thumb and forefinger, his other hand holding both hers over her head and pressed into the bed. Desperately she peeled back her lips in an effort to breath through her teeth, but J. Farny shifted his hand and covered her mouth completely. Again her face began to discolor. Her eyes were stark and wild, bulging with terror of death.
Easy, Sonny Baby. Remember now; slow and gentle.
Yess, Mommy.
Give her a taste of air.
J. Farny allowed one nostril to open. Air hissed into Zelda's tortured lungs. He permitted her to breath till she nearly regained normal coloring, and when he closed her nose again she exploded into maniacal struggles; bucking, flailing, kicking, which continued till J. Farny raised a mall-like fist and slugged her with pile-driver force on the off-side of her rib cage. The blow was accompanied by the whispered crunch of splintering bone. Zelda tried to scream. But J. Farny's hand held her mouth and nostrils closed once more, and her senses were spinning toward a bottomless void of blackness when again he released her nose. As she lay gasping across his thighs, fighting to get more oxygen into her burning lungs, J. Farny solemnly contemplated the ragged, ugly concavity made by his fist on the lower left side of her chest. No splinters of bone stuck through, but they pressed upward so hard they made startling white spots on her skin.
"Poor Zelda," he intoned idiotically. "Poor little Hell-fiend spy." His head flew back. He snickered with unrestrained joy. "What made you do it, Zelda? Didn't you know you couldn't win?" He withdrew his hand to allow her to answer. Zelda made one last stab at life.
"The police," she gasped, lying, biting her lips against the grinding agony of her crushed ribs. "I wrote a letter to the police telling them I suspected you of killing Susan Wallace."
"How's that for neat thinking?" J. Farny chortled aloud to his mother. "But City Detective Al Martinez has already been to see me and he said nothing of any such letter."
She's lying, naturally, his mother replied.
"She's lying naturally," J. Farny mused absently. "I always figured the only thing Zelda did naturally was fuck." Overcome with hilarity at what he believed to be great wit, he brayed with laughter; brayed harder when his sweet darling Mommy began laughing with him.
All right, Sonny Baby, his mother said at last. Go ahead now. Get on with the Lord's work.
"Finish it altogether, Mommy?" He licked his lips wetly with eager enthusiasm.
This part of it, yes.
Without further ado J. Farny released Zelda's hands and seized the back of her neck, his other hand forcing her mouth shut again, and closed her nostrils. He applied quick, brutal pressure from all sides, and this time Zelda did not stop when she went spinning down into the bottomless black void. Her last thought before total, final oblivion was, And I had to fall in love with this insane sonofabitch!
J. Farny held his death-grip for some time after Zelda ceased to move, then cast her body casually toward the foot of the bed and looked at his mother. She beamed at him, and approached, cooing and fawning in admiration and approval. J. Farny sat there cross-legged on the bed, steeped in a satisfied sense of well-being and glowing with pride some minutes after his mother vanished.
After a while he swung off the bed and stretched till his joints popped, yawning loudly. He was famished; hungry enough to eat a cow. His guts growled their demand for nourishment. There was always a plentiful supply of sausage and eggs in the refrigerator. But first he must stash old Zelda in the deep-freeze, as he'd told Mommy he would.
He carried Zelda's lifeless corpse into the kitchen under one arm, piled it unceremoniously on the table while he removed several dozen packages of frozen food from the twenty-seven cubic foot, chest-type deep-freezer to make room for her body, then laid her out on her back atop more frozen food. The enormous, bulging eyes stared up at him in grisly question when he finished. He looked down at her for a moment, recalling with relish her expertise as a blow-job artist. He was going to miss ole Zelda, he reflected, but the Lord's work came first.
He was about to close the freezer lid and prepare himself some food when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
He whirled. Within arm's reach stood the manicured, pedicured, perfumed and beribboned Peter the Great, glowering belligerently. J. Farny licked his lips in anticipation. He never had liked the goddamn monkey because Zelda had trained the animal to hate him, and now with Mistress Zelda gone....
J. Farny giggled explosively. "Mommy, Mommy, can I Mommy?"
Of course, Sonny Baby. Moses did to goats and sheep and burnt them on an alter to make a sweet savory smell unto the Lord. Go ahead, Sonny Baby.
J. Farny motioned to Peter the Great, tried to coax the suspicious animal closer. When the monkey refused, commenced to back away, J. Farny lunged, seized the beast by the shoulder. The monkey screamed angrily, tried to bite his hand, and began cluttering wildly in violent protest as J. Farny drew it to him, then encompassed the whole of its Simian head except the mouth in his huge, powerful hands. His hands clamped onto the monkey's head from above, fingers of both hands forking around the animal's neck. Again the monkey screamed in savage anger, tried to get traction for its feet on the polished floor so it could back away, its front paws closed around J. Farny's wrists. Another person would have cried out in pain from the animal's iron grip. J. Farny giggled happily-- and slowly began to close his hands around the ball of the monkey's head. Gradually he lessened the bulk of his hands from all angles at once and as the pressure surrounding the animal's head grew its cries changed from rage to distress to pain to terror.
It shivered violently, deficated violently, and violently thumped its body against the floor in gruesome rhythm as life faded. Then as if hit with a large electric shock, its four limbs shot straight out, thrashed wildly, crazily in all directions while the sound resembling eggshells being crushed came from the terrible vice of J. Farny's hands.
As he had done with its mistress earlier, he tossed the monkey's carcass onto the table and hurried to the refrigerator, so ravenously hungry his intestines snarled and spat for food. First, a dozen eggs. He loved eggs; dear delicious fruit of the hen's ass. Now the sausage. There was no sausage.
No sausage! Then bacon would have to do. There was also no bacon. No bacon!
J. Farny's fleshy, mucky-eyed face shivered into a tearful pucker. No sausage and no bacon? What in the name of mud was a man to do? He placed the carton of eggs on the table beside the dead monkey and....
Daylight had arrived by the time J. Farny pushed himself back from the table with an enormous greasy belch of satisfaction, his belly full of scrambled eggs and fried monkey rump. He probed among his back teeth with thumb and forefinger for an imprisoned shred of meat, thoughts busy on Madame Ulster. Tonight he would purge her; mere contemplation of which sent his spirits soaring heavenward. He meant to do a special job of purging that dumb-assed fortune teller for the unspeakable indignities she forced him to endure in the sanctum sanctorum. Purging her would be an incomparable joy, and he knew just how he would do it as he stashed the remains of the dead monkey beside its dead mistress in the freezer.
CHAPTER NINE
Some two hours later, showered, shaved, tonicked, J. Farny was about to leave the Parsonage for the church when the phone beside the door began shrilling.
"Hellll-O there," a sultry feminine voice purred into his ear. "How is my favorite holy man these days?"
"Grace Booker." J. Farny chuckled warmly. It had to be the church janitor's sister, whom he hadn't seen in weeks, for he knew of no other woman with a voice sexy as hers, or with enough teasing effrontery to call him a holy man. "And what is my favorite sinner doing this beautiful morning?"
"Troubled in mind and soul," she cooed with vast insincerity. "It's about a sermon you delivered some weeks ago-- about the inevitability of righteousness overcoming sin and evil. Do you remember it?"
"I remember it very well," J. Farny said. It was his favorite text, on which he based a sermon at least twice a year. "What was there about it that troubles you?" He knew the gay, shallow devil-may-care sister of old Luke Booker was not now, or had ever been, anything but bored by any sermon she'd ever heard, and he was curious to learn the real reason behind her call.
"Well," came the pouting purr. "It isn't something one likes to discuss over the phone; it's so personal, you know. Could I meet you at the church in, say, an hour?"
Without warning a suspicion concerning the true reason for her call blossomed full-blown in J. Farny's mind and his nuts tingled with erotic excitement. A moment later, after he agreed to meet her as she asked, he learned his suspicion was correct.
"Oh, Reverend Kanabb," Grace said breathlessly as though in afterthought just before he hung up. "Luke told me about your sanctum sanctorum."
So! J. Farny grinned hugely as he backed his car out of the driveway. Luke Booker's little sister Grace hungered for a joint of ministerial meat in her belly, did she? Well, old J. Farny would oblige. Praise the Lord!
Perhaps his exultation would have been less pronounced had he known the maroon Oldsmobile that began trailing him when he pulled away from the Parsonage was driven by Detective Al Martinez.
Martinez had not one single tiny shred of evidence that might even remotely connect Rev. J. Farny Kanabb with the inhuman sex-slayings of either Susan Wallace or Karen Sebollo. He simply had a "feeling" everything in regard to the crimes was not as it seemed to be where Cramer's most respected and popular minister was concerned. A well-trained, professional detective would have promptly discounted J. Farny as a suspect, but unprepossessing Al Martinez was not a professional in the strict sense of the word. He was an ex-shoe salesman (commission) who was intensely proud of his present job and was determined to make a success of it, regardless. On his life he could not have offered a valid reason for deciding to shadow Rev. Kanabb. He did it simply because of that "feeling" he had.
Even so, for whatever reason, he trailed J. Farny and saw the minister enter the church, closely followed by a fashionably dressed young woman with a figure that would give a dead man the stone-ache.
Inside the church J. Farny studied the startlingly beautiful Grace Booker, who sat across the desk in the chair his mother usually occupied. She sat with eyes downcast and fidgeted with her fingers purposely in an attempt to appear shy and self-conscious. J. Farny was not for one second deceived, and decided to take the bull by the horns.
"Would you like to see my secret sanctuary your brother told you about?" he asked without even a vague reference to her professed purpose for wanting to see him.
Grace Booker's ripe, lush breasts lifted in a deep sigh of eagerness and she raised her eyes, locked them with J. Farny's. An intangible lust-force arced the distance between them, and the office suddenly reeked with the pungent musk of female in fierce sex-heat. He stood up, tongue lashing out around his purplish lips, voice thick with passion aquiver.
"Let's go upstairs," was all he said. It was enough.
Once J. Farny locked the door behind them in his holy of holies, things became a flurry of clothes-jerking action. Grace was naked by the time he stripped off his garments near a small, sturdy table and turned in her direction. His tongue whipped out once more in lustful greed at sight of her nude body with the firm, high breasts, narrow waist, flaring hips, and his balls tingled at the cute, coy way her bushy mass of cunt hair worked above her flexing thighs as she walked barefoot across the floor toward him. Then she was in his arms, naked flesh pressed against his, the soft flesh of her belly capturing his hard cock angling up between them.
"Oh! Oh!" she panted in erotic hunger.
J. Farny kissed her neck, sucked at the tender flesh as his big hands roved up and down her spine, caressing her shoulders, reaching under her buttocks, cupping them and pulling them up into him.
Like Rachel Nordquist, Grace Booker had for years dreamed of being fucked by Rev. J. Farny Kanabb, and now that the dream was about to come true she was in a dither of excitement. She squirmed her cunt against the hairy, dangling mass of his balls, gave a deep, soulful sigh of rutting passion and shivered in anticipation over the joys to come.
J. Farny himself was in something of an emotional dither. Of late he had been so busy with the Lord's work he had not partaken of any fleshy delights for the pleasure they gave alone. With the exception of his revulsive encounter with Madame Ulster here in this very room, all his fucking for the past while had been in conjunction with sin-purging. This, now, was different. No purging was involved. This was to be a session for the joys of fucking alone and for no other purpose. Praise the Lord!
Grace Booker's flesh seemed afire as he coursed his fingers down over it, tasting its firmness, its glossy texture, its responsive trembling. She squirmed her body against his and he dug his fingers into her ass, gripping it so hard she squealed and bit his neck.
He swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed, placed her on it and stood over her, then bent down, caught her breasts and drew them toward him, elongating them with his hands. She groaned in a fury of passion as he knelt beside her, bent and kissed her fiercely, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and slurping it about.
He pulled his mouth from hers with a sucking sound and moved his head swiftly to take a pink nipple of one breast between his teeth. He sucked, worked at her breast, pulling as much solid flesh into his mouth as he could. Her nipples hardened under his tongue and she whined passionately, took his hand and pushed it down toward the thick mattress of pubic moss covering her cunt.
Still kneeling beside the bed, he moved down and raised her thighs, spreading them wide. Her lust-glazed eyes watched him with a deep look of concentrated passion.
"Kiss me down there," she mewled. "Suck my pussy."
J. Farny looked down at where the raw, pink flesh was held apart by his thumbs, then he moved down further and put his lips to it. Grace shrieked at the pressure of his tongue on her hot flesh. He began to kiss the moist, faintly saline-tasting flesh of her cunt, poked his tongue as high as it would go and whipped it about. She shrieked again, eyes bulging. He licked the insides of her velvety thighs, then nuzzled into her panting cunt once again, seized the firm little spur of her clit between his lips. It slipped and darted about inside his mouth.
Grace threw her thighs wide and wriggled and shrieked with tiny helpless explosions of lustful sound bursting from her lips. Her hands clenched and unclenched on the bed beside her, harrowed passion had her face warped into a mask of fiendish desire and her head flailed from side to side with jerky, involuntary movements. Her eyes closed, her mouth hung wide open, gasping as if she were starving for air.
J. Farny put his big hands under her buttocks and levered them upward to expose her completely, then shoved his face the limit between her thighs. Grace whinnied. J. Farny felt her anus blinking under a fingertip. He pushed the finger inside, frigged her gently with it as he lashed her cunt with his tongue.
"Ooooo-ahhhh! Ooooo-ahhh!" Her sobby moans assailed his ears; her moist, warm slipperiness assailed his mouth as his tongue sucked and delved. "Oooooo-ahhh!"
His great bludgeon of a cock was one big trembling rod of maverick sex-meat. He had to unload and unload quick, but when he drew his lips from her cunt in preparation to mounting her she caught his head, pleaded desperately.
"Don't stop now! For the love of god don't stop now!"
He bent again toward his task and her loins leaped to meet his face. Her crotch pressed and squirmed against it, her thighs clasped about his head and her heels applied firm pressure at the back, between his ears.
From Grace's mouth came a quivering continuous whine; her body twisted and thrashed in ecstatic torment. J. Farny was still feverishly anxious to get a dick in her belly, but the fury of her excitement was exciting him almost as much as if he'd been balling her, so he continued to suck and tug at her clit as he laved and licked her cunt.
He heard her loose a harsh, desperate gasp, as though she'd just given birth, felt her scrabbling on the bed, churning up the covers, then heard her give a low, guttural scream and sticky female fluids flowed out and around his face and wet his chin.
She continued to writhe and moan for some time after her climax and he continued to suck her gently.
"Mercy!" she at last murmured blissfully. "I was sure I'd die."
He moved up over her then; knelt astride her chest, and she reached up and took hold of his pulsating prick, which jutted forward between her breasts. She pressed it down a bit, then pushed the large cushions of her teats together, imprisoning his cock in the ravine formed by the soft, warm flesh of her mammary glands. J. Farny felt a tingling deep in his loins, in his bowels even, and moved forward again over her.
Her eyes glowed with lust fires as she reached up and took his cock in both hands, pulling at it till he leaned forward on his arms. Then she covered the flaming knob of the cunt-churn with the gossamer softness of her hot mouth.
J. Farny grunt-farted from the sudden deluge of erotic sensation that rolled over him.
She began to suck and lick, nipping from time to time, her eyes watching him with a look of furious passion. He raised to a semi-upright position and cupped her face in his hands, guided it lovingly, delicately, feeling her cheeks hollow and bulge rhythmically as she sucked his cock.
"Get rough with it." He ground his teeth in an agony of lust. "Suck harder!"
Instantly she responded with a tighter embrace from her warm lips. He felt his orgasm approaching the boiling point in his loins and he wanted to stab his cock up into her belly, but sight of her lovely, sexy mouth working on it overruled this desire for the moment.
He began to rock slightly on his knees as she sucked his prick. Her hands had released it now and she stroked his buttocks with them, trailing her fingers through the hairy crack of his ass and around his balls, producing sensations old Zelda had rarely achieved. She breathed heavily through distended nostrils, and he could feel her hips give small passion-jerks under him. Suddenly her long nails against his balls began drawing electrified, loin-convulsing streaks down the length of his scrotum. J. Farny squealed like a cut pig and shoved so hard his glans drove down against the entrance of her throat, and for a moment she appeared about to strangle for breath. But soon she was at his cock once again, gobbling harder than ever.
J. Farny squealed again, tensing his loins. He was about to come. Grace sensed this, sucked and licked with greater urgency than ever, the hot, clamping sweetness of her mouth jarring from his liverish lips grunts and groans of lust. He flexed his loins at her hard and held her face, looking into her eyes, which seemed locked with his in a strange visual voice.
Inside J. Farny the semen-dam cracked, burst, was rent asunder by a boiling avalanche of sensations. He stared down at her fixedly, owning her, subduing her under him, racked with passion. The boiling avalanche raced through him, thundered through his cock, bellowed and shattered out of him with merciless determination and a coarse, raspy scream of delicious agony splintered from his throat.
Grace would not release him till the last drop of her reward had been swiped away by her purling tongue.
Later they talked, moving naked about the room while J. Farny, to Grace's thorough bewilderment, whipped together a couple of hot fudge sundaes. Her appetite was not for food of this sort, yet she ate hers without comment when she saw how J. Farny wolfed his down.
Their passions, never far below the surface, were once more aflame when they finished and stood at the foot of the bed, embracing fiercely. There was no need for preliminaries; their previous tonguings served the purpose of these. Both were aquiver with excitement that at last they would be joining in old-fashioned, raunchy, down-home fucking.
Grace clung to his neck, thighs open against him, their soft flesh rubbing against his own. She bounced upward quickly and when she came down, J. Farny's cock was w-edged between the tops of her thighs.
He caught her under the rump, a buttock held cupped in each hand, and lifted her off the floor. She tightened her arms around his neck and hung there, bringing her thighs up on either side of him.
J. Farny moved quickly to the table beside which he had undressed, sat her on the edge of it, reached under her upraised thighs with a hand and guided his rod toward her vagina. He hunkered to adjust his stance, and when he straightened his cock plunged into her cunt to the hilt in one long delicious glide.
"Ah! Ah! Ahhhh!" she chattered in staccato-like gasps.
J. Farny felt the soft, hot flesh of her cunt close in on his lust-bloated organ. The walls of her channel were surprisingly tight, but Nature had her moistly prepared to receive him.
Panting, he pulled her right onto the edge of the table, withdrew and drove his cock back into her with a thrust that started at his toes and made his abdomen flop against her steamy crotch.
She gasped, clung harder to his neck, teats brushing against his chest, hair swaying across her face, touching his. She bit his neck, moved her trembling lips around over his face to fasten them on his, searching tongue soaring out in willing surrender into his mouth. Her eyes opened and closed in tempo with his fuck-rhythm as he bored up into her so hard it brought a twinge of pain to her joy.
J. Farny pressed in to the hilt, moved his cock around inside her, felt her inner cunt muscles munching on it as it expanded her channel. Then he began to fuck into her with a vengeance, groaning and panting and clasping her around the narrow waist in a furious bear hug, as if he meant to hammer his cock all the way through her body.
Grace groaned in an orgy of passion, completely at his mercy, for him to do with as he chose. Her head lolled about groggily, her eyes were rolled back in her head. The big prick pistoning in her cunt threatened to drive her crazy with the goodness of it.
J. Farny slid his hands under the cheeks of her ass, whirled her off the table in an ecstatic fury and waltzed around the room with her speared on his cock, jogging into her as he moved, feeling her rise and fall on his rigid sex-meat, producing in both that white-hot lust heat soon to glaze forth and consume them. She whined and snorted in a paroxysm of desire, rubbing her lips all over his face and pummeling him in the ass with her heels.
When J. Farny circled the room to the bed he flung her down on it, pitched down on top of her without breaking their coupling.
She screamed. Her cunt seized upon his cock and chewed on it in spastic gusto while her internal glands cast out scalding torrents of lust juices to douse his plundering penis, which suddenly exploded in orgiastic bliss.
"Hah!" J. Farny barked as he flooded her cunt with cum pumped from the overflowing fountain of his balls. "Hah! Hah!"
"Ooooo-ayieeee!" she cried, lunging, bucking, beating the air with both feet. "Darling! Darling!"
And they barked and snorted and cried aloud as they clutched and clawed and mauled each other, their inflamed sex organs fused in throbbing, gooie orgasm. When their seizure at last faded, Grace took J. Farny's face in both hands and looked up at him in soulful worship, tears in her eyes.
"How sweet," she sighed rapturously. "How wonderful it was."
"It still is," J. Farny grunted as he settled himself more securely into position.
He had just begun to fuck.
CHAPTER TEN
That evening at sundown Grace Booker luxuriated in a bathtub brim full of scented water, grooming her lush body-- which she not infrequently thought of privately as her survival weapon-- for another session with that wonderful J. Farny Kanabb. Her loins still tingled and her cunt twitched with prickles of excitement from the stud-horse fucking he'd given her earlier in the day.
What a fucking! What a fabulous, fantastic, unbelievably delicious fucking he'd given her on the heels of their first bout on the bed. For over four solid hours he had rode between her thighs, his big hungry prick probing among her vitals with such erotic expertise that with each of her numerous orgasms she had thought her breathing would stop. She had dreamed of J. Farny fucking her for so long....
J. Farny, the big old dear, did not know she would be at the Parsonage this evening, but he'd said that hussy Zelda what's-'er-name had stalked off the job in a huff and gone to visit relatives, and Grace had no intention of allowing him to forget her-- poor, wonderful dear; he needed a woman. Why else could he fuck for over four hours without letup? Even so, her prime cause for wanting to cement their relationship into something more permanent was the fact that J. Farny, this morning, had halfway promised to pay off her debts. And God Himself knew she was willing to put in a lot of sack time in any man's bed for a return like that.
If she weren't such a big sucker to every salesman who called, perhaps ... Goddamn creditors. They all ought to have their bag split and their leg run through it.
An hour later she had just donned her powder blue nylon mesh outfit when the doorbell began an insistent pealing. By holy Jesus, if that was a cock-eyed vacuum cleaner salesman, or some jerk aping a college professor's demeanor but selling encyclopedias, she'd ... "Yes?" she snapped when she yanked open the door.
The black plastic folder the meek-looking, undersized man held out for her inspection had in it a green card. The green card read Alfonso Garcia Martinez-- Detective; City of Cramer.
Grace wilted inside. "Yes-- yessir?" she gulped. She hadn't thought she could be arrested for unpaid debts, but apparently she'd been wrong.
"Miss Grace Booker?" Martinez asked, trying not to ogle. This chick was enough to give a man eye trouble. He'd thought of little else since seeing her this morning.
Grace nodded, gulping again, a chill creeping along her spine. Nor did the chill diminish in the least when Martinez explained he was working on the Susan Wallace-Karen Sebollo murder cases.
"Your name came up somewhere along the line, Miss Booker," Martinez said as she led him to a seat in the front room, "making it necessary to ask you a few routine questions." This was a lie. Al Martinez wanted to know what her connection with Rev. J. Farny Kanabb was without arousing undue suspicions. For a reason that to him was a profound mystery, each passing hour found Martinez more convinced Rev. Kanabb was in some way associated with Cramer's sex-fiend murders. As yet he had said nothing to anyone, not even his superiors, because he lacked proof, but if that proof existed he meant to find it.
"What sort of questions?" Grace Booker asked through wooden lips. Christ! She'd first thought this little runt's visit related to her mountainous pile of unpaid bills, but it was worse than that. The merest hint she could by some freak circumstance be connected with the ghastly sex-fiend murders filled her with quiet terror-- not that she could be justly accused or implicated-- but Grace Booker harbored her share of a phobia identical to that entertained by millions of her law abiding countrymen: Fear of all contact with established law enforcement authority. In Grace's mind, any and all contact with the police was extremely hazardous and to be avoided at all cost if possible. If not possible, then-- well-- one had to survive as best one could. And Grace had just finished attending to her main survival weapon minutes before the detective's arrival.
But she needed an opening of some sort to begin heringratiation. She couldn't just strip off her clothes, go to where the detective sat across the room and say: "Let's fuck. I want to stay on the good side of the police, and the best way I know of staying on the good side of a man is through sex, so let's fuck."
Then her agile female intellect devised a stratagem. She never wore panties, and the clasp holding up her nylon mesh skirt popped open at the flick of a fingernail in the right spot, so....
"I don't suppose you're allowed to drink on duty, are you, Detective Martinez?" She gave him her most vivacious smile.
He shook his head. "Where did you spend the morning, Miss Booker?"
She looked at him quickly. If it got out about her and J. Farny....
"I went to see the pastor of my church ab-- about a very personal matter," she said with contrition. Yet in a seemingly casual gesture she drew the hem of her skirt to mid-thigh and watched the detective's eyes begin to pop. Her heart leaped. He was prime. From the looks of the man there wasn't much of a fuck in him, but he was ready, anyway.
Martinez fidgeted in his chair and played with his hands, licking his lips nervously. If he could get in a cunt like her-- good God! This had nothing to do with the five hours she'd spent in Rev. Kanabb's church this morning, but somehow the matter didn't seem so urgent as it had five minutes ago.
"Then perhaps you'll join me in a cup of coffee." Grace rose to her feet, started toward the kitchen, but squarely in front of the drooling Martinez she let out a fair imitation of a terrified squeak as her skirt slipped down around her ankles. She stared at Martinez in mock terror and shame. Martinez stared, in lascivious disregard to all else, at the great bristling mane of her cunt couched hotly at the top of her lush thighs.
Then, abruptly, and inexplicably, and to Grace Booker's enormous relief, Martinez raised his eyes to hers and at the same instant both burst into hilarious laughter. A sigh quivered through Grace's seductive frame. The fish was hooked. The enemy had capitulated. Now to get on with her own special form ofingratiation.
When she crooked her finger at Al Martinez and swayed toward the bedroom the detective sailed from his chair as though shot from a cannon.
An hour later City Detective Alfonso Garcia Martinez maneuvered his way on wobbly legs out of the Booker house and toward his car. He floated on a gauzy pink cloud of satiated lust. His eyes were not exactly in focus. He wore a goofy grin on his face. Never in his life had he been so royally stayed with in bed and cursed the call to duty which was taking him from the succulent goodies offered by Grace Booker and her boudoir to the church pastored by Rev. J. Farny Kanabb. Previously he had decided, for a purpose he could not quite explain satisfactorily to himself, that he should keep Rev. Kanabb under surveillance for the next twenty-four hours, after which he would then decide whether to forget Rev. Kanabb as a possible murder suspect or take more positive action. Once he almost turned and went back into the Booker residence; his loins screamed for him to return, but a neglect of duty might also mean a return to the status of shoe salesman (commission) and this possibility drove him onward.
Grace Booker stood back from the window and watched the detective drive off. The little fart had been astonishingly good in bed, which was all the more icing on the cake, for she knew by his expression the police would now cause her no trouble at all over those old sex-fiend murders. She glanced at her watch.
Hot digitty-dog! Martinez had not stayed nearly as long as she'd thought. There was still plenty of time to go to the Parsonage and smear poontang all over J. Farny, the big old lovable bear.
All those goddamn debts staring her in the face....
Despite her four-hour fucking earlier in the day at the church and the more recent very gratifying shag at home, when she reached the Parsonage after walking the short distance from her place, her cunt throbbed madly from prick-hunger-- ministerial prick-hunger. She let herself in without knocking, wanting to surprise the sweet old big-dicked darling. It never entered her mind that she was the one who'd get surprised, violently and fatally.
And so it was that with eager heart and hungry cunt she tippy-toed about the Parsonage in search of J. Farny, failed to find him and decided, at last, since she had searched the rest of the house, she might as well search the kitchen. On reaching it she discovered at the end of the large food freezer a domestic catastrophe of such magnitude any housewife would have thrown a fit. A kitchen chair was piled high with packages of food, more packages were stacked on the floor, all of it had recently been frozen, more recently thawed.
J. Farny Kanabb! Of all the messy ... It just went to prove the correctness of an idea that had budded in her thoughts on the walk over here. J. Farny did not need that sleazy slut of a housekeeper and her freakish monkey around. He needed a wife! But what on earth could have caused anyone to remove all the food packages from the freezer in the first place? Grace moved around to the front of the freezer, jerked up the balanced lid, gaped down blankly at the staring, bulge-eyed corpse of that sleazy slut of a housekeeper and the remains of her freakish monkey.
Thick blackness swirled forth, smothered Grace Booker's senses and the scream of shock gathering in her throat died there as unconsciousness moved in and dropped her to the floor in a motionless heap.
She was never to know how long the black-out lasted. Total recall rolled over her with the arrival of consciousness and she scrambled to her feet in desperate urgency to phone the police-- and ran smack into the wide bulk of J. Farny standing at the end of the freezer.
He giggled.
"In the freezer!" Grace gasped, not connecting him with the frozen horror. "She's dead! Somebody--" Truth began to dawn. "Somebody-- Oh God, no!"
J. Farny seized her, pulled her hard against him, big hands laced behind her neck, thumbs crossed in front of her wind pipe; the perfect grip for strangling.
"Why?" Grace Booker recovered enough to gasp. "In heaven's name, why?" She looked into the depths of J. Farny's mucky eyes and learned why. He giggled again and snapped her neck neatly. He held her corpse up, cast about for a suitable place to fuck her one last time and found none.
But it wasn't vitally important. He could make up for it when he visited Madame Ulster after Saturday night prayer meeting services at the church.
He stashed Grace Booker's body in the freezer with those of Zelda Griswald and Peter the Great, and was closing the freezer lid when he heard Satan's chuckle coming from behind him. J. Farny turned confidently, completely sure of himself.
I got wise to that spy you placed here at the Parsonage, he gloated. Zelda Griswald is dead.
Ahhh-- yes! So I know. Satan replied. Quite a prize for you, ole buddy-buddy. And I see you've just put down another of my top undercover agents.
Grace? J. Farny could hardly believe his ears. Wait till his sweet darling Mommy learned of this stroke of good fortune.
I knew she was a Hell-fiend agent. His mother crawled from the slime of the back of his mind to the forepart of it. I was about to have you purge her, Sonny Baby. Good work.
J. Farny glowed with happiness. In fact, he was unable to whip up his customary hatred for the Hell-fiend-- but this wasn't forgetting, by gum, that a man of God was supposed to hate Satan, it wasn't. He glowered triumphantly at the Fallen Angel, his expression slowly dissolving into insolent disdain as he strode for the door. Satan would never learn to match wits with ole J. Farny Kanabb, haw!
After a brief and rather hurried service for Saturday night prayer meeting, when J. Farny pulled away from the church parking lot, headed for the home of Madame Ulster, and for the second time that day the same maroon Oldsmobile began tailing him.
Due to a hot radiator Al Martinez had arrived at the church late after leaving Grace Booker's home. He felt a little foolish for he still had nothing to go on as far as Rev. Kanabb being a criminal was concerned-- nothing but that "feeling" he couldn't shake. Ah, well-- after tonight he'd decide whether to continue on the preacher or begin from another angle. He yawned, slowed the Olds quickly when he saw J. Farny's car was the next up ahead. Damn! He'd have to be more careful. This case was costing far too much sleep for a man his age. Lack of sleep was probably the reason he'd also forgotten to check in at Headquarters on schedule. Then there had been that sweet, sweet work-out with the Booker dame, whom he meant to see again-- that could make a man forget anything.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When J. Farny parked his car several blocks from Madame Ulster's home and walked the rest of the way, Detective Martinez managed to keep the preacher in sight from the Olds, which he parked half a block up the street on stake-out when Rev. Kanabb disappeared inside Madame Ulster's house.
"Why-- why-- what a delightful surprise," Mitzy Green, in her Madame Ulster ankle length robe, said with dishonest sincerity when she answered J. Farny's knock. She wasn't at all sure she was glad to see Rev. Kanabb, or would ever need to see any man again for the reason she had visited him at the church. She was beginning to suspect the fabulous dildo she'd ordered and was just learning to use effectively might be the answer to all her sex problems, her weird tastes notwithstanding. The dildo was simply unbelievably fantastic, no two ways about it. Any man....
"I need a fuck!" J. Farny told her bluntly, shouldering his way inside. "Get your pants off." Since their repulsive session in the sanctum sanctorum he had pondered long as to what kind and measure of revenge he would take; not that it made much difference since she was to be purged anyway, but as yet he had come up with nothing satisfactory.
Mitzy Green closed the door and turned angrily on the minister she'd sexed it up with yesterday morning. The gall of the man! The very gall!
"Reverend Kanabb!" she grated through tight lips-- and pinwheeled ludicrously across the room from the blow of J. Farny's big hand, colliding with the sofa in a jumble of knees and elbows. The blow to the temple had dazed her only a little. She scrambled erect, was slammed down against the back of the sofa when J. Farny cuffed her on the shoulder.
"Reverend Kanabb!" she shouted, fear beginning. "Please! What is this?"
"I told you I need a fuck," J. Farny grinned. "Get your pants off."
Lessons learned during her waterfront whoring days came to Mitzy's aid. Stevedores and sailors had often played rough too, so she dr-edged up her most fetching smile.
"I don't have any pants on." She held him intimately with her eyes. "I never wear any; or have you forgotten?" This last was pushing the intimacy bit a little far, but she suspected this big, brawny, Bible-pounding motherfucker could get rougher than half a dozen waterfront bums and she wasn't taking chances. It was best she give him what he wanted so he'd clear out. She wanted to try out her new dildo again.
She worked herself out of the robe and J. Farny chortled, jerking off his garments, pulling on a pair of snug-fitting plastic gloves when he finished.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing to her dildo laying beside a clutch purse and the control unit on a small table at the end of the sofa.
She told him.
J. Farny boggled. "You mean it's a mechanical man?" It looked like a medium size mushroom on a very thin stalk attached to a peculiar, half size sanitary napkin and belt. "You mean that thing actually fucks you?" He had trouble believing.
"It works like this." Mitzy connected the almost invisible wire leading from the belt to the power supply in the clutch purse and picked up the small black plastic control assembly with its two buttons, one red, one white. She pressed the red. The mushroom-- a special balloon-- grew into the size of a large rubber prick, and kept growing till she released the button. She pressed the white button then and the gadget commenced a high frequency vibration.
"It's transistorized and works on magnets and air pressure and things," Mitzy said proudly. "And terribly expensive. But a woman can wear it anywhere and--"
"And fuck herself with it anywhere?" J. Farny blurted. "Even walking the street?"
"That's right."
"What about church?" he asked intently. "Even in church."
J. Farny's face went blank as he imagined each woman of his congregation owning one of these dildos, and wearing it some Sunday morning while he was lambasting sin-- what if they all got their rocks off at the same time? What a knock-down, drag-out Holy Ghost fit that'd be!
Praise the Lord!
However, he had come to Madame Ulster's this evening not to admire the latest in female fuck-gadgetry, but to get a fuck, plus revenge for the indignities this woman had heaped on him in his own holy of holies, and to do a bit of sin-purging, the all of which he meant to attack with no little relish.
"Why do you wear those gloves?" Mitzy suddenly asked apprehensively. There had been so many unsolved sex-murders of late, with the police never finding any fingerprints ... Dear God!
"Reverend Kanabb!" Her voice rose sharply in fear. "Why do you wear those gloves?"
"These gloves?" J. Farny replied in honest, well-meant camaraderie. "Why, I wear them to prevent the police from finding my fingerprints here after I finish."
"Finish?" Mitzy's voice was a dry, suddenly terrified whisper. She sat naked on the couch. He stood naked before it. Terror caressed her lovingly with icy fingers. "After you finish what?"
"Purging you of all sin," he said with warm eagerness, kneeling to bring his eyes level with hers and waxing enthusiastic. "My sweet darling Mommy said you had to be purged of all your sins so you'll be saved from the clutches of Hell-fiend Satan and will go home to Glory pure as the driven snow." His tongue came out and swished around his thick purple lips in vulgar emphasis to his dedication.
Mitzy Green shared neither his enthusiasm or his dedication. She felt only fear. The seamy life she'd led had given her an exceptionally low opinion of all men, and there was an additional something about this meaty-faced sonofabitch that made her think of worms.
"I-- I don't want to be purged," she whispered, fear still rising swiftly. J. Farny's mention of the police and his fingerprints, and those plastic gloves, were anything but reassuring. She made as if to stand.
J. Farny giggled and clubbed her with his fist on the side of the face. Her jaw bone made very little sound in breaking, but her face went lop-sided. He clubbed her with the other fist on the opposite side and again her breaking jaw made very little sound, but the flow straightened her face some. She gurgled in agony.
J. Farny rose, seized her hair and hauled back hard, pitching her slender figure headlong to the floor face down. Terrified beyond belief, Mitzy tried to rise; J. Farny was much too quick for her. He knelt between her thighs, facing her buttocks, and stunned her with a vicious slap to the back of her head. Before she could regain clear focus on reality he had the blood-bloated bald head of his cock pressing against her cringing asshole.
In all her years as a waterfront whore Mitzy had never allowed a customer to sodomize her, or engaged with one in anal-coitus. Many had tried asshole banditry with her, none had succeeded. She had always harbored a ghastly, blood chilling fear of some bastard's hard, merciless cock bursting through into her rectum and rutting blindly into her flesh. Yet this is exactly what happened when J. Farny grabbed her hips, elevated her posterior and stabbed brutally into her anal passage.
She could not cry out because of her smashed jaw bone and the attendant excruciating pain; this latter receding into the background somewhat before the awful, suffocating agony of J. Farny's thick, ribbed gut-wrench bludgeoning into her asshole. My God! My God! she screamed silently. What have I done to deserve this when...?
J. Farny stared raptly down toward his crotch, gloating, glorying at the sight of his rigid sex-meat vanishing into her anus.
Praise God! Bless His holy name!
J. Farny commenced fucking into her with short, quick hunches, for the first time realizing she could not articulate with her shattered face. He snickered slyly at this, reached forward and caught her arms, drew her hands back over her elevated buttocks and held both fast by the wrists with one of his. Force-fucking her in the ass was poor revenge, but perhaps a few more broken bones would dull the memory of the shit she'd smeared on him yesterday at the church.
He took one of her thumbs between his powerful blocky white teeth and crushed it slowly.
Wheeee! Now he was getting somewhere, to judge from the way she shivered and gurgled and tried to hump around on the floor. He guffawed impulsively, explosively, then crunched down on her other thumb.
Mitzy fainted. Blinding shock waves of stifling pain clobbered her into temporary unconsciousness. She revived when J. Farny finished crushing the fingerbones of one hand and began delightedly on the other. She promptly fainted again. When she regained consciousness a second time J. Farny had released her hands. They lay in front of her pain-blurred eyes, two broken, mangled nightmares extending from her wrists, fingers sprouting in all directions.
In back of her J. Farny corn-holed happily, humming a peppy spiritual as he watched his pride and joy work in her nether throat, balls swinging in counter-rhythm to his hunches and preparing rapidly to explode. When they did explode he clamped onto her hips and gnashed his teeth as though he were crushing her finger bones again, froth gathering at the corners of his mouth. After the final pleasure twinges of his orgasm faded he pulled his cock from her plundered, ravished anus with savoring slowness, relishing each fraction as it appeared. He was pleasantly surprised. For a shit-eater she wasn't a bad fuck at all.
Nevertheless, after he had risen to his feet and stood looking down at her mutilated, broken body he still felt that his revenge was incomplete. Then he laughed harshly. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of it before? An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. That was the Lord's way, so why not a shit for a shit?
Mitzy Green made no protest, offered no resistance when J. Farny flipped her over with a foot and squatted over her face, giggling fullsomely. When he rose to his feet again she pawed clumsily with her ruined hands at the large pile of putrid excrement covering her face. Gurgling sounds issued from her throat again.
J. Farny used his foot a second time and turned her face down once more. Then he gripped both her ankles in one huge hand, entwined the fingers of the other in her hair, planted a size thirteen foot in the small of her back and heaved upward with all his strength. Mitzy's gurgles of pain ceased the instant her spine snapped.
J. Farny pondered heavily some minutes before dressing. Only one fuck! And none this evening from Grace Booker, either. Thought of Grace brought to mind Mommy's instructions to carry Zelda to the Quarry. Tonight was as good a night as any for it, and he might as well include Grace and Peter the Great. At the door he turned to stare thoughtfully at the gruesome spectacle he had created. No, he decided, he would not include Madame Ulster with good ole cocksucker Zelda and the others. The fortune teller did not deserve their company.
He let himself out the back door humming the chorus of The Way of the Cross Leads Home. He entered the street near a light and was clearly visible, but Al Martinez, in his Oldsmobile half a block away, did not see him. Right then Martinez saw nothing. He slumped low behind the steering wheel, sound asleep.
Two hours later J. Farny stopped his car in the bright moonlight on the near-impassable weather-gutted road a few yards from the deep, long abandoned stone quarry filled with muddy water. He knew the place well, had used it numerous times before in the Lord's work. Next he hauled the staring, frozen horror that had been Zelda Griswald to the very edge of the quarry. Then he brought what was left of Peter the Great, but hesitated in placing the animal beside his dead mistress. Perhaps he should have left the little beast in the freezer. There was still no sausage or bacon at the Parsonage and fried monkey with scrambled eggs made a real toothsome dish. But he hated to separate Peter from ole Zelda, so he laid him down beside her. Grace Booker's corpse was the last to be brought from the car, though not the easiest handled. Rigor mortis had not yet taken over; the body had not been in the freezer long, so it retained most of its normal body heat, which caused it to be limber and difficult to handle.
J. Farny stood studying it after he'd placed it beside the other two, his cock springing to full erection and throbbing in angry protest against the restraints of his clothes. Grace Booker was as good a fuck as he'd ever had. She was still warm, too, and-- well, hell! She couldn't object. Wouldn't object if she were alive, so....
The better part of five nip and tuck minutes passed before he could get the corpse to hold a suitable position so he could squirm his hard cock into the non-responsive, lifeless vagina. From there on it was duck soup, although the fuck itself was not exactly unlike some sort of glorified masturbation, and he felt very badly indeed toward Grace Booker for having neglected to give him one last rousing fuck before departing for Glory. She wouldn't move. Not even when he squirted her cooling cunt full of his hot jism, and-- ah, well. Why was he so concerned over this one particular piece of nooky? Tomorrow was Sunday, and no doubt Mommy would select someone to be purged of sin and saved from Hell-fiend Satan during his sermon tomorrow morning.
After stowing his cock back inside his trousers, J. Farny brought several loads of heavy chains from the car and carefully weighted the three bodies, wiring the chains securely in place so the bodies could not slip free once they were in the water.
The moon was very bright, though hardly bright enough to read by had J. Farny found reading necessary during the funeral services that followed. He had the service memorized. Of his multitudinous duties as pastor of a large, thriving congregation, and as a Soldier of the Cross, with the exception of sin-purging, J. Farny liked funerals best; viewed them fondly as, well, send-off parties, sort of. One aspect of this particular send-off party, however, was bothering J. Farny.
He had never thought of himself as bigoted, or narrow-minded, or as a segregationist, but it just didn't seem right to include a heathen monkey while preaching the funerals of two fine souls like Zelda Griswald and Grace Booker-- even if ole Zelda had been a frontline Hell-fiend spy. Nor could he recall any instance in Scripture to use as a guide. Holy Writ was silent on the subject of sending monkeys off in a blaze of verbal glory to see St. Peter. Actually J. Farny could see no real harm it might do; St. Peter could always steer the critter toward monkey heaven and-- Wait!
Peter the Great wasn't a dead monkey. He was a dead part-monkey!
J. Farny laughed reproachfully at himself. He had eaten most of the monkey's rump for breakfast, and therefore Peter the Great, being only part-monkey, could not be whole-monkey, and a part not being a whole made Peter the Great a not-monkey, so whatever he was neither here nor there for the monkey was not a monkey and that was that.
Praise God for man's gifts of logic and clear reason!
J. Farny preached a quiet, forceful, moving sermon, wiped a tear from his eye and shoved the three weighted corpses into the water-filled quarry with his foot, scratched his ass and reflected that many a day would pass ere he found another cocksucker, or cocksuckerette, or cocksuckeress, as proficient as ole Zelda Griswald.
J. Farny drove slowly back to the Parsonage. He was well satisfied with himself and at peace with the world. On reaching home he at once phoned Dial-A-Prayer, listened to the unctuous balm several times, then dialed God's-Thought-For-The-Day. After learning what it was he went to bed and slept the sleep of an innocent babe.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Just as J. Farny was going to bed, in another part of the city, still only half a block from the murdered Mitzy Green's place in fact, Detective Al Martinez was coming awake from a nap he should never have taken. His body ached behind the wheel, his hip and knee joints burned from holding the same position so long. He stared groggily through sleep-bleary eyes at his watch.
Good God! Almost dawn! The house Rev. Kanabb had entered earlier was now dark as pitch and Martinez knew his bird had flown. Savagely he kicked life into the Olds and plunged recklessly down the deserted street. Damn a bunch of holy joe preachers and sex-fiend murder cases; Al Martinez was going home to bed! Tomorrow was another day-- or was it already Sunday?-- and he was beginning to regard himself as foolish for suspecting Rev. Kanabb of any wrong-doing in the first place. What he'd do, by God, providing he could get out of bed in time, was attend Kanabb's church for Sunday morning worship services and there, while Rev. Kanabb was delivering one of his famous sermons against sin, decide if he should keep after the man.
It was not until Detective Martinez was home in bed that he remembered he again had forgotten to check in to police headquarters. Oh, well, tomorrow, his day off, would serve as good. By not having to work he could phone in a more detailed report.
J. Farny woke up all atingle with zest for life. What a beautiful place God's world. Soon it would be better, purer. On Sunday mornings he was always filled with a strong sense of his sacred responsibility to purge humanity of all sin, and the unquestionable rightness of his holy mission on earth. He bounced from bed laughing aloud, wondering who his sweet darling Mommy would appoint to be purged this Sunday morning.
Some two hours later, while at his roaring best in denouncing sin and the practice of Hell-fiend Satan, J. Farny was mildly surprised to see the meek, unassuming face of Detective Martinez in the congregation. For one tiny split second J. Farny faltered-- what would a Hell-fiend agent be doing here now?-- then his sweet darling Mommy appeared in his mind and J. Farny forgot all else.
There she is, J. Farny, his mother spat venomously, pointing to sparkling-eyed, vivacious Cindy Quzetta, current president of the Willing Workers. That child could soon be lost to Hell-fiend Satan; therefore she must be purged, J. Farny.
Yes, yes, Mommy; yes, yes, J. Farny replied in silent joy. She must be purged.
Promptly thereupon he bellowed even louder in his vociferous diatribe against all manner of sin.
It was the first attendance of Al Martinez to the church pastored by the Rev. Mr. J. Farny Kanabb, but it was quite evident to the little detective that J. Farny's members loved him. The congregation was absolutely spellbound by the fire and vigor of the preacher's delivery, and the question occurred to Martinez whether the people came to worship God Almighty or Rev. J. Farny Kanabb. From the many effusive comments of adoration gushing forth as everyone single-filed out of the building to shake their minister's ham-like hand when services were over, Martinez suspected the latter-- which had nothing to do with his decision to forget about Kanabb as far as the sex-fiend murders were concerned.
As Martinez shook hands with J. Farny he felt a great weight lift from his shoulders, and experienced tremendous relief because he had not mentioned his ridiculous suspicions to his superiors. They would have scoffed at the idea of Kanabb being the sex-fiend and taken him off the case forthwith-- and rightly so, Martinez told himself.
Rev. Kanabb was Cramer's most popular minister, had a high social standing, was a powerful influence in the pulpit, and not a single one of the boys down at City Hall would dare point an accusing finger at the man without irrefutable proof of his guilt. Al Martinez did not have that proof, or any proof whatsoever. So it was best to forget about Kanabb and begin working from another angle.
Nevertheless, when Martinez finished shaking hands with Rev. Kanabb and made his way out of the building, he recalled the condition of Karen Sebollo's body when her murder was discovered and his gorge rose.
J. Farny smiled warmly as he invited Detective Martinez to visit the church again soon. He didn't know why the runty little Hell-fiend agent had attended this morning's services, but felt sure the man was departing as ignorant as he had arrived.
J. Farny looked back along the line of those waiting to shake his hand in leaving. The line was short. Soon everyone would be gone, except him and Cindy Quzetta, whom he was to purge. He had already informed the girl he wanted to discuss next quarter's Willing Workers' program, and she had been so stunned with joy at the signal honor of his invitation to the Parsonage that afternoon she was neglecting to return home for Sunday dinner. Even now she was downstairs in the Sunday School classrooms, waiting in a quivering sweat of excitement till time to go to the Parsonage. J. Farny's prick perked with erotic hungers as he thought of the girl's lithe, nimble body.
Praise the Lord!
The midday sun was high in the sky when Al Martinez left the church and drove across town to the restaurant he always patronized on Sundays because the fried chicken wasn't served by a goat-bearded southern colonel with denture breath. After a relaxed, leisurely meal frequently interspersed with coffee-cup refills and numerous non-poetic epigrams from a sweaty waitress who coined neither pearls of wisdom or glitters of brilliant thought, but on-the-spot mud-globs of bovine wit, Martinez felt like a different man. He was wondering if he should phone Grace Booker and arrange for a few Sunday afternoon pieces of poon when remembrance jerked him upright like an electric shock.
Damn, it to hell! Damn it all to hell! Now his ass was really in a sling. He had committed the unpardonable infraction of police procedure of having failed to check in for a twenty-four-hour period. He fought his way out of the restaurant booth and into the public phone booth just outside the restaurant door. Five minutes later he emerged from the phone booth stark-eyed, pale as death, and staggered as though suddenly blind for his car.
His heart sang a wild and fierce battle song of victory. He now knew who the sex-fiend was!
During his phone conversation with headquarters he hadn't managed to squeeze in a dozen words. But he had listened! Ooooh yes; and he had learned that the bodies of Rachel Nordquist and her father Joe had been discovered by a concerned neighbor; that Miss Nordquist had been Rev. J. Farny Kanabb's church secretary. Yes ... Yes ... it was the work of the sex-fiend. Why? Damn it, the modus operandi was the same; just as it was with that ex-doxy dame who had told fortunes for a living. Mitzy Green her real name was, but for the suckers she called herself Madame Ulster.
Martinez sat behind the wheel of his Olds in the restaurant parking lot half an hour before his nerves calmed to a point he thought he could trust himself in traffic. He hadn't revealed any of his information over the phone. He hadn't had time. The Chief had been too busy chewing him out, of relating the news of the crimes, and of screaming for him to get the hell off his lazy dukas and go out and goddamn it bring in the sex-fiend or the whole Department would be out hunting jobs, by Jesus.
Unable to restrain himself in his joy Martinez threw back his head and loosed wild gusts of cackling laughter.
Wait'll them snotty-assed FBI-trained career men down at Headquarters learned that he, Al Martinez, ex-shoe salesman-- Mr. Al Martinez if you please! had stolen the case right out from under the whole snobbish kit and kaboodle of them. His would be the fame, the glory, the credit.
There'd be nationwide newspaper coverage, radio and television interviews-- the whole works, and he'd get it all; every last smidgen of the credit for apprehending the sex-fiend because only he knew who the killer was. Only he had suspected Cramer's most influential man of God; only he had seen Rev. J. Farny Kanabb enter the dwelling of that fortune teller-victim last night. That "feeling" which caused him to tail Sex-fiend Kanabb in the first place had been right all along. For such aningenious piece of crime detection the city of Cramer would probably give him a medal. His heart skipped a breathless beat in awed reverence; maybe even J. Edgar Hoover....
Martinez was giddy with exultation and suspense when he left his car ten blocks from the Parsonage and walked the remaining distance as a precautionary measure. Headquarters rules said he must phone for reinforcements in making an arrest of this magnitude, but damned if he'd let any of the armchair Mike Hammers from Headquarters inveigle all the credit for themselves and freeze him out. This was his shining hour-- or soon would be.
Cindy Quzetta was in the back of the house in the kitchen preparing a tea tray for herself and her hero-idol-personal saint Rev. Kanabb when Martinez appeared at the Parsonage front door. J. Farny answered the door, bade Martinez enter, stood listening politely while the little detective denounced him as Cramer's hellish sex-fiend and multiple murderer and place him under arrest, then sledge-hammered Martinez in the temple with a balled fist and, minutes later, dumped him, securely bound and gagged, into a large clothes closet in the hallway near the bedroom.
Martinez regained consciousness to the cries of pain and the pleas for mercy of Cindy Quzetta, whom her hero-idol-personal saint had led to the bedroom and forced to undress, J. Farny undressing with her, when she returned from the kitchen with the tea tray.
"Please, Reverend Kanabb. I don't understand." She crouched naked on the bed. He stood over her, stroking his big erection. Cindy's eyes held a mixture of stunned surprise and stubborn non-belief. The child had not had the time, and did not have the mental capacity to absorb and assimilate this quick, horrifying change of circumstances.
"You don't need to understand," J. Farny gloated. "When I finish you'll be purged of all sin and free forever from the Hell-fiend's taint."
In the closet beside the bedroom a chill crept along Martinez's bones as he struggled against his bonds.
"I-- you-- us being naked together like this is what you preach against in church," Cindy insisted.
Martinez's chill grew when J. Farny answered.
"In church, yes, but here it's different. When I fuck you with this--" he swished his hard-on back and forth, "-- you'll go to heaven when you die."
He's insane, Martinez raged to himself. He's a lunatic; crazy as a goddamn bedbug drunk on fly spray. And I had to come blundering in here like a simple-minded....
"I don't want to die, Reverend Kanabb," Cindy pleaded.
J. Farny giggled, crawled onto the bed and reached for the cringing girl. She screamed thinly.
In the closet Martinez fought his bonds and raged like a maniac. Thirty seconds of freedom was all he prayed for. Only half a minute was all he needed. Kanabb hadn't even bothered to lift the .38 Police Positive from his shoulder rig, and by all the saints....
The piercing, agonized scream of Cindy Quzetta sliced through his thoughts.
The girl lay supine on the bed, J. Farny over her and between her legs, the hairy mass of his flesh in grisly contrast with her flawless, creamy-textured complexion. She stared about wildly in stark terror as his hand went down between their loins. A thrill shot through J. Farny when he felt the sensitive, tender flesh of her hairless young pussy. How wondrously sweet it was to be a Soldier of the Cross! He stationed the blunt end of his cock against her cunt, capped his free hand over her mouth, and pile-drived his hips forward, chuckling gleefully as the girl's eyes stood out in their sockets from the biting, tearing agony of his big prick bursting into her body.
Watch me. Mommy. Watch me purge the sin away.
That's right, Sonny Baby. Fuck her long and deep. Root it into her right up to the gills. It's all for the glory of God.
J. Farny's lunatic giggle filled the closet, and Al Martinez fought his bonds like a madman, knowing he must either escape or die along with Cindy Quzetta. The sex-fiend had never yet left a live witness. His struggles grew more violent; maniacal even, as he envisioned the ghastly remains of little Karen Sebollo. Just give him thirty seconds, dear blessed God, and....
J. Farny ogled the naked form of Cindy Quzetta twisting in agony between him and the bed; speared like an insect by his cock rammed up into her belly to the very limit. Unlike the Sebollo girl when he'd purged her-- as well as most of the other young ones-- Cindy had not fainted when the purging began. His tongue lashed out around his lips as he hammered into the weeping, terrified child, his balls building toward orgasm. Then his balls exploded.
The tightness of the girl's virgin pussy eased somewhat when made slippery by the abundance of slimy yang being pumped into it, but it was still tingling tight and J. Farny never even paused as his climax drifted into nothing, but kept right on pounding toward another. It arrived, gasping and snorting, and so did a third. It was during his hassle for the fourth that he noticed Cindy Quzetta had grown unusually quiet and still. Had he bothered to investigate he would have learned the child had died of massive internal hemorrhaging, though this would have meant absolutely nothing to J. Farny Kanabb.
Al Martinez had some time ago noticed he heard the ravished girl's voice no more, and continued to fight to break free. His wrists were raw and bleeding; so were his ankles, when he felt the cords binding his hands give slightly.
"Thank God!" he whimpered in feverish haste. "Oh, thank God!"
In the bedroom five minutes later J. Farny pulled the thick tube of his cock out of the expired girl's rectum and sat on the side of the bed picking his teeth with a fingernail and regarding the corpse with sudden disinterest. Why was it the young ones; the really good ones, passed on to Glory while being purged? But far be it for him to question the ways of the Master. It was just that he liked for them to move a little sometimes while he bored into their sweet little assholes. It added spice to the act; and erotic flavor. Hmmmmm. Wonder if that detective....
Tears of thanksgiving streamed down Al Martinez's cheeks as he scrambled erect in the closet. He almost shouted for joy. Now that goddamned insane sex-fiend preacher....
Martinez was in the act of reaching for his gun when J. Farny opened the closet door-- and reacted with incredible speed. Martinez was helpless before the onslaught of J. Farny's lightning swift attack, and before he could imagine it, found his position identical to what it had been several minutes ago-- bound hand and foot. His mind almost snapped in disbelief. He chittered and babbled incoherently, not comprehending. Or rather, comprehending all too well, especially when he saw J. Farny carry the naked corpse of Cindy Quzetta under his arm like a sack of wheat down into the Parsonage basement. With the child murdered he, Martinez, could expect no less. He began to cry; harsh, ragged masculine sobs of hopeless despair.
He was still crying when J. Farny returned upstairs and came to stand looking down at him.
To J. Farny it seemed odd such big sounds could come from such a small, scrawny runt as City Detective-Hell-fiend agent Al Martinez. He bet by golly Martinez would wiggle if he run his cock up the man's ass. HAW! J. Farny focused on his cock, still hard even after the several fucks he'd gotten from Cindy Quzetta, then centered his attention on Martinez, particularly his buttocks. Well, after all-- why not? The man had to be purged anyway, and any old port in a storm....
Martinez never ceased for an instant in making the harsh, ragged sobs while J. Farny carried him downstairs and forced him to lean over the ping-pong table. The detective did not become aware of what was in store for him till J. Farny tore open the seat of his trousers and undershorts. Even then he hesitated to believe-- till he remembered the report on old Joe Nordquist. Then he believed.
"No!" he croaked, face against the table. "Don't!"
J. Farny giggled and placed the Hell-fiend spy's pistol on the end of the table. Through the rent in the garments he stroked Martinez's ass.
"Don't!" the detective pleaded.
J. Farny pried the cheeks of his ass apart and squatted, the better to view the fascinating phenomenon of the man's asshole. For two or three minutes he stared in rapt, breathless enchantment at the deep brown, puckered ring. Once or twice his tongue flicked out and about like a purple snake. Once he pursed his lips and blew a tiny stream of air into Martinez's cleavage, then giggled hilariously as the puckered ring blinked in furious protest. He got to his feet, anointed the bald end of his cock with saliva, forced it between Martinez's cheeks, clamped both hands powerfully onto the detective's hips and began to hunch in merciless determination.
Martinez screamed from the searing agony of having his anus expanded to dimensions it was never meant to achieve. The scream triggered something in J. Farny's mind and suddenly he was not sodomizing Hell-fiend agent Al Martinez, but fucking his sweet darling Mommy.
"Mommy, Mommy," he crooned in delighted surprise. "I knew we'd do it again soon, Mommy."
Lay it to her, ole buddy-buddy, Satan chuckled from the other side of the ping-pong table. Sock it to her, nuts and all.
"You go away!" J. Farny cried at the Devil. "It's not decent to watch somebody fuck his mommy."
Satan vanished. J. Farny chortled. The Hell-fiend was showing him greater regard of late. He may soon even sue for terms to end their great battle. But, J. Farny told himself, he would be like a rock, would sly ole J. Farn. Satan must accept unconditional surrender or....
He fucked happily into Martinez's ruptured anus, smiling and beaming as he conversed with his sweet darling Mommy, heedless of the tortured wails and sobs, and prayer, pouring from the detective's wretched lips. After J. Farny orgasmed the third time without stopping, Martinez's mind rejected reality and he began to babble childishly and sing short snatches of nursery rhymes.
J. Farny's Mommy vanished.
He scowled, suddenly realizing that somehow, someway, Satan had substituted this scrawny little agent for his Mommy. But he'd fix that, he would. Nobody, not even the Hell-fiend, played tricks on him with his sweet darling Mommy. He'd show 'em, would old J. Farny.
With this he yanked his marauding root out of the blithely cooing and singing little detective's ass, snatched up the .38 police pistol from the end of the ping-pong table, and happily, with lip-smacking zest, beat Martinez's brains out.
Minutes later he surveyed the carnage he had wrought, thoroughly satisfied with himself. It had been a good afternoon's work. After church services this evening he'd take both Martinez and the girl to the abandoned quarry. Ole Zelda always liked more company. He glanced at his watch. He had just enough time to shower and dress and get to the church before tonight's services began.
An hour later he was in the pulpit raving and ranting against the wiles of Hell-fiend Satan when his eyes were drawn for the dozenth time to lovely little elfin-faced, fourteen-year-old Bridget Gleason, daughter of Earl Gleason, the Board of Deacon's most liberal-minded member. J. Farny could not understand what it was about the girl....
Sin, J. Farny! his mother snarled inside his head. That girl's soul is as black with sin as the fire-pits of Hell itself! She must be purged, J. Farny!
Yes, yes, Mommy! J. Farny replied in a voice unheard by his congregation. His thick, purplish tongue darted out obscenely to wet his thick, purplish lips. Yes, yes, Mommy, yes, yes, he continued in the silent voice of the mind. I'll make certain she gets purged this coming week.
