Archive Note: There were two chapters labeled 'Ten' in the original pocketbook and that error has been faithfully reproduced in the following text.
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Introduction by Dale Gordon, Ph.D.
What is the psychological effect of war on society? There are many viewpoints and many theories. Things to be considered are the effect of war on society as a whole, including the changes in economics, military strength, defense ability, patriotism, emotional hysteria, etc. In the smaller picture of these psychological factors which make up the whole, the effect on the individual involved in the battle conflicts, the fear and apprehension that intimidates his family, the emotional separation that interferes with the relationship between a man and woman; and the effect of war on an individual who has to return to a normal, everyday society after being involved in man-to-man arms conflict that is a battle of wits, cruelty, and force simply to stay alive.
The rehabilitation of a soldier from conflict to a peaceful, materialistic society is a problem that most people try not to think about. But what of a man who is trained to be wary twenty-four-hours a day? The least noise, movement, or shadow might possibly take his life the next instant. When returned seven thousand miles to a formerly familiar-yet entirely different-environment, does a trained soldier suddenly forget all of these things which have become instinct to him? Does he suddenly become a peaceful, docile person concerned only with "will the Giants win on Sunday?" But over and beyond these problems which beset every returning soldier, what of the man who has become a disabled veteran? What of the young man who has experienced all the forms of battle and has left not his life but part of his body on foreign soil? What hidden emotional scars does he possess? This is basically the plot of The Virgin and the Veteran by . Mr. Kyle apparently has an inexhaustible supply of sociological problems which confront our complex society today, and he uses the modern fictional prose, often called a "factual novel," to explore these questions.
Supposedly, the U.S. is a peaceful nation dedicated to the principle of freedom. However, in the twentieth century, with over two-thirds of it gone, there have been only thirteen years, and seven of these were during the Great Depression, that a foreign soil has not been occupied by U.S. troops. What, who and where are the consequences of this military force? In 1944, many months and deaths before the end of World War II, Herbert Hoover said, "Older men declare war. But it is youth that must fight and die. And it is youth who must inherit the tribulations, the sorrow, and the triumphs that are the aftermath of war."
Although the U.S. has not officially been at war since 1945, official figures state that over 88,237 men have died while serving in the U.S. military forces since that time. Official figures are always rather vague and they have no actual meaning to the average person, but these official figures would be the same if Orlando or Springfield or the city of
Niagara Falls were suddenly to become missing from the map of the U.S. However, this is not quite true, for the majority of these deaths were of young men of draft age. Relating these figures to the correct percentage of the average age of young men in military service, it would be the same as if every young man of draft age in a city the size of Philadelphia were to suddenly die. This, however, is not the total loss in a war, for many more men are injured than are killed. Since the beginning of 1950 there have been more than 286,600 men, again young men of draft age, that have been injured during service in the armed forces. Admittedly, many of these wounds were not of major significance, but then again, many were! Of the abovementioned casualties, over 183,000 have occurred in Vietnam. Because of the nature of the conflict in Vietnam, a guerilla war, a higher percentage of these injuries are crippling or involve loss of limbs or various parts of the body.
Recently, a report was circulated to the newspapers about how great morale was in the amputee section in a Saigon hospital. It is admirable that after a man has lost part of his body, his morale is good. But the important question is, how high does his morale remain when he is put back into the mainstream of life? Particularly, life in a society which places-a premium on youth, vigor, physical fitness, and where everyone strives to be one of the "beautiful people." Does a man's outlook remain cheerful when there are no other buddies in the same condition, or does he become bitter, nasty and egocentric, thinking only of himself?
With these thoughts in mind, perhaps it is a little easier to understand Johnny in The Virgin and the
Veteran. But Johnny is a special type of amputee: Johnny has lost his testicles, which inturn means the inability to procreate. Although many disagree with Freud concerning sex being man's basic drive, no one would disagree that the desire to survive is basic in human nature. And thus we are returned to the theory of the sex drive. Each man searches for immortality, but there are few that are chosen to be great. However, all men may achieve immortality by producing a lineage. Certainly this ability to produce children is a form of security for the attaining of immortality. But when this security is suddenly taken away, and seemingly without cause, what devastation does this wreak upon a person?
Many years ago Franklin D. Roosevelt said, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." This inspired a nation. However, more neuroses are based on fear or anxiety than any other cause. Sometimes this anxiety may be real and sometimes neurotic (an anxiety in regard to a danger we do not know) or it may be a combination of both. In Johnny's case we are presented with both. The fear of war and what it can do to mortal man and the neurotic fear of loss of sexual prowess which symbolically means death.
The story of a man losing his sex organs as a result of a war wound is not a new story. Certainly Ernest Hemingway made it a topic of polite conversation when he wrote The Sun Also Rises in 1926 after the Great War, the war that was going to end all war. And each succeeding war has produced similar stories of this type. Therefore, the story does not seem any more shocking than our society's lack of a solution to the psychological problems resulting from war. What is so shocking is that everyone knows that the basic problem is created by war, and yet we continue to have wars with an alarming regularity.
Before the twentieth century began and the U.S. had lost over 600,000 men and more than 1,160,000 men had been injured in war, Oscar Wilde summed up the theory of war:
"As long as war is regarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination. When it is looked upon as vulgar it will cease to be popular." Mr. Kyle says much the same, in a much more erotic and dramatic manner.
-Dale Gordon, Ph.D.
CHAPTER ONE
She didn't need to pull the stop cord. After four weeks, or perhaps it was five, the bus driver knew. In any case, she was usually his last passenger because the end of the line was only a quarter of a mile past Aden Lane. Today he went a few feet past the stop because the rain had left a puddle.
"Thank you," Nola murmured, and stepped to the ground, her right arm firmly wrapped around the sack of groceries.
"See you Monday," he called.
She turned to give him a small appreciative smile. He was a nice-looking young man. Then the smile faded. Nice-looking young men belonged to another world, one she had abandoned some time ago. With the bus gone, she felt the loneliness. A block away, past the nearly open fields of weeds was her house, set back from the path. There was no real street, no sidewalk at all. And no neighbors. The end of the world. She walked along the path, trying to control the natural swing of her smoothly flared hips, the groceries clutched so her ample breasts could not sway nor bounce. At the gate she noted that the grass had been roughly cut and the shrubs trimmed.
It was a hopeful sign, but she already understood enough to ignore hope in most forms. With Johnny most things changed from day to day, most things having to do with his unpredictable mind. She went through the gate, along the brief walk and up the four steps to the little porch. The door was unlocked, and when she entered the house, he was standing at the window where he had watched her approach. He leaned heavily on the cane, and this threw his broad shoulders askew. "Hi," she said.
"You're late," he returned her greeting.
"Stopped for groceries," she said, rattling the sack. "And some Vodka."
"Fix me a drink," he said, and pivoted, organizing his feet so he could move to the leather chair. It was surrounded with magazines. From the covers slinky, big-breasted women leered at the world. The titles were brash, Paris Nights, Babydoll, Bubble Babes. Nola walked through the living room, the little dinette and to the kitchen. She pawed in the sack and found the quart of vodka. With a knife she peeled the plastic seal, then twisted the cap. From a cupboard she took a tall glass and then four cubes of ice from the refrigerator. The beer was all gone, she noted. Without measuring, Nola poured at least two ounces of the clear liquor in over the ice, then added water. She heard the thump of his cane tip and the drag of his left foot. Without turning, she held the drink up and back by her left shoulder. His fingers were big and very warm touching hers as he took the drink. Then she felt the cane, riding firmly between the cheeks of her bottom, pressing intimately, frighteningly. The heat of his big body was all around her, and she could hear him swallow. Nola quivered. The shape of the approaching weekend was clearly established.
"Going to have one?" he demanded, exhaling strongly through his nose. "N-no, I guess not."
"Have one. I like you better when you relax."
Nola shrugged and again went about the task of making a drink, lighter than the one she had poured for him, with more water. When she tinned, his was already half gone and she raised her glass in a mild salute before sipping. His big hand came out and cupped under her right breast, squeezing, rolling, hurting her slightly.
"Oh, Johnny, n-no," she sighed, making no move to avoid the intimate grasp. "It's been such a hectic day. I'm so tired!"
"Hectic day!" he snorted. "Sitting on your can typing 'dear mr. jones, yours truly, michael gold-farb, shyster'. Five trips in the morning to bullshit with the other girls, two to the can and lunch with the pimple-faced office flunky. What about me and this?" he asked, tapping his left foot.
"I know, Johnny," Nola murmured.
The hand holding his drink went around her shoulders and he pulled her roughly toward the front room. Inside, she stiffened, but her feet didn't dare hesitate. At the old sofa he swung around and sat down heavily, laying his cane on the floor where he could reach it easily. His freed arm went around her hips, the fingers folding under the small curve of her belly, pushing down to press the hidden mound of her mons veneris, and lower, to the soft division of her vagina lips. He chuckled. Then his arm moved and his hand went up under her modest skirt. The fingers moved slowly up her tapered thighs, finding the tight leg of her panties and intruding under the seam. At the back. She trembled as the fingers snugged under and between the cheeks of her bottom and found the soft warm secrets which were secrets no more. Nola gulped her drink, fighting the panic. His middle finger was into her now, and digging at the wet, the sensitive cunt. Nola closed her eyes, tried desperately to close off her mind. There would be no stopping now, she knew, and there was no escape. She finished her drink and twisted to set the glass on the end table. This let his hand go high and hard, and she gasped as two huge fingers went deep into her quim. His other hand went up under her skirt and spread across her ass, holding her while he fucked her with his ruthless fingers.
"Johnny, Johnny!" she breathed a useless protest. Then he pulled her down into his powerful arms, his mouth wiping wetly across hers and down the smooth roundness of her throat. He turned her under him and hunched, and she could plainly feel the bulge and nudge of his cock because her brother had a very large prick, even for a man of his size.
She lay back while he unzipped her skirt and snaked it down over her long straight legs. He raised her left leg and stared heavily at how her firm nate bonded and exposed the fringe of chestnut hair that grew from the delectable contours of her underbody. His fingers went under her panties again, and he felt of her moistened cunt as if he had never known one before. He parted the lips and pressed her clitoris, causing her to twitch, which caused him to laugh. Then he felt down and under to her anus and rubbed it as if it were itching him. He chuckled again as he saw her face, eyes closed, mouth clamped in determination. Suddenly, his hand grasped the crotch of her panties and jerked. Obediently, she shifted her hips so he could remove her panties. In the end it was the same and it saved buttons, snaps and fragile garments to not resist his strength. He would leave her stretch-top stockings on. There was nothing, he had told her once, as goddamned ugly as a broad's feet, and anyway, legs looked fucking great in hosiery.
She lay half-naked under his eyes, his hands petting the soft whiteness of her lower belly and legs. Nola knew what she looked like to a lusty man; before Johnny there had been other men, nice men with hot eyes and restrained hands, at the beach, at dances and on the tennis courts, adoring her nearly perfect body, worshipping her patrician features and proclaiming their love, real love, with voluble insistence. No more. Only Johnny, now tweaking the hair above and around her quaking cunt. Not tweaking, jerking, to make her flesh twitch and her lips jerk with tiny gasps of sharp pain.
Finally, he started to undo her blouse and Nola sat up. He removed her light suitcoat, and she finished unbuttoning her blouse. He removed that. He breathed very loud against her face, and Nola threw her head back, letting her shoulder-lengh bob shake out in soft waves while she kinked her arms to unsnap her brassiere. When it was loose, Johnny gathered her big globular tits in his hands and pressed them together, rolled them apart and thumbed the dark purple nipples centering the dollar-sized aureoles. Naked, Nola lay back again, her body stretched like a corpse for him to enjoy. Through slitted eyes, she watched him strip.
He was a beautiful man by any standard, she understood. His crisp, half-wavy hair was the same color as hers. His face was rugged and strong. His deeply set blue eyes were interestingly lined, and his nose was straight, not wide and finely-nostriled. His mouth was like hers only broader, and his teeth were perfect. A strong shadow lay over his cheeks and chin because he was a morning shaver. As his shirt came off, the beauty of him was dimmed. The ugly red scars began just below the nape of his neck and went zig-zagging down his broad back, as if some inspired modern artist had applied a furious, scarlet brush. There were nineteen separate wounds; he had made her count them more than once. Fourteen showed above the belt line, including those on the backs of his arms.
Now he grunted to his feet. He could stand and even take a few steps without the cane unless he bumped something or lost his balance. He stood before her and unsnapped his belt, running his zipper down smoothly. His trousers fell open and he palmed them and his shorts down in a single gesture. Nola's spine tightened, and her heart pounded.
From the heavy hair of his belly and groin, his cock stood out, a thick seven inches. From the beginning, he had made her measure it at least twice a week as if he feared some metabolic failure might occur. Stepping awkwardly out of his restricting trousers, he managed a stance above her, his right hand stroking his rigid prick into throbbing distension. This was the moment he liked, she knew. He seemed enchanted with the feel of his huge organ in his fist, and he caressed its foreskin and pole-like shaft with obvious ego. Ego, she supposed, he deserved because where his balls had been, there now hung only an empty, wrinkled scrotum. They had sewn the sac back together but the Army's finest surgeons had not been able to repair the shattered testicles.
Nola tried to find herself. She could feel her tongue because it seemed too thick for her mouth. She could feel her tits because they still ached from his rough handling, and no power, no disgust nor any degree of agony had ever stopped the nipples from turning flinty when Johnny's cock was aimed and stroked at her. The rest of her was somewhere below, numb, tingling with fear and an excitement that had nothing to do with her mind.
"Get me another drink," he said. "One more for you, too."
"All right," Nola agreed and got to her feet. He spatted her ass and chuckled at her prancing step.
She made two heavy drinks. When she came back, he was lolled out on the sofa, his halfback legs sprawled, his prick working slowly in his fingers. The broad head had seemed to swell and harden; the skin gleamed with tension and the coronal ridge stood high and threatening. Nola could not look entirely away from it. She handed him his drink, and balancing her own, she started to sit down.
"Stand up," he commanded. "Do me a little dance and warm it up, sis. Cold cunt is worse than Limey mutton!"
"Please, Johnny, no!" Nola breathed. "If you want-"
"I want you to start shaking that ass, that's what I want!" He doubled and swooped and before she could step back, his cane cracked across her thigh. Nola gasped, another bruise there had hardly healed. As the cane raised in threat again, she stepped back, holding her drink in a trembling left hand. She planted her feet apart, and with revulsion for what she did, began to roll her hips. Instantly, her body responded. Her tits began to sway and shake and her abdominal muscles rippled. Her hair flew in soft, easy, flowing, motions and she could feel the bob and quiver of her nates. She drank, dribbling slightly on her chin.
Now she felt her own gyrations in her belly. Her back-arch deepened, causing her thighs to show strong cords. Her cunt seemed to pout, and the dark red lips nearly opened. She rolled and twisted with something less than either professionalism or enthusiasm, but when her brother caught the rhythm with his loudly snapping fingers, she tried desperately to turn her lewd gyrations into something graceful. She drank, again dribbling. The Vodka burned going down, and she prayed that it would soon numb the pain in her head. Then Johnny's cane came out and tapped her hip, and she turned slowly, shuffling her feet in a mild dance step until her back was to him. Again he tapped her back and she began to bend, leaning forward until her tits hung free of her rib cage, and her ass went up in rounded hillocks. She clamped her jaw, knowing what was coming next.
It wasn't the tip of his cane because that was made of brass, three inches long and tapered to the rubber button. It was the handle, curved and blunt at the tip. It nudged between the cheeks of her ass, petted her asshole with its hand-polished curve. Then it slid under to press its round shape into her cunt, spreading the lips, sliding in the notch to bump her clitoris. Her hip motions speeded, her tits snapped fleshily, the nipples making dark blurs.
Then the cane changed, and the handle hooked up into her hairy mons veneris, and Johnny jerked. With a wail of pain Nola tumbled back into her brother's naked embrace.
Some things were elemental, but she never really knew what he would arouse himself to do to her. Tonight he held her and pressed her back, his kisses dampening her neck and chin, his body rolled against her so that his prick pulsated against her heaving belly. His other hand fondled her tits, flopping them from side to side almost as they had swung in her brief dance. He pulled them, milking the firm forms to a hard cone and pinching the nipples when no drop of essence appeared.
Nola whimpered, louder than the agony, because she knew he liked her to be responsive to the pain he inflicted. And presently he tired of her tits and slid his hand down her torso to her cunt. Roughly, he dragged her leg up and draped it over his thigh. She felt the cooler air in her sweat-moistened crotch, then the hotter fingers digging in her tender tissues. Love and kisses night, she thought, and it was always the hardest to bear.
Her clitoris burned under his touch, sending hideous streaks of sensation through her taut body. He rubbed too hard and too long in the same place, and the fire became pure agony. She writhed. He sent two fingers into her vagina, sometimes three, because he seemed obsessed with its bigness and he adored hurting her. The two fingers plunged in, screwed themeselves around to feel the sensitive inner walls, then slid out and up to smear her clitoris with the ooze of her body.
Helpless, gripped in a vise between revulsion and pure animal sensation, Nola lay back and closed her eyes, her upraised arm settling slowly and inevitably to his scarred back. She existed, caught close in the arms of a lusty man, finger-fucked with brutal male callousness, her belly burning with the vodka and her cunt aflame with undeniable response. He was grunting now, surging against her, and with no volition she could name, her other hand went to the monstrous club of flesh rolling on her belly. The touch sent new sensations through her. She explored the blood-filled head, the hot rolls of foreskin lying in tight lethargy around the thick shank. She finally closed her hand around the shaft, weighing the flesh, feeling of its corded strength.
Johnny chuckled. By then he knew exactly when her defenses began to crumble. She fought, squeezing his cock as hard as she could, but only fucked into her hand with obvious delight. She constricted her belly, hoping futilely to break the chain of fire from his fingers to her womb. The building orgasm only augmented. Again she whimpered. His bristly chin was slowly scraping the skin of her neck, the sharp stubble bit like a thousand flames and cause her face to flush.
It was impossible to lie still. Her hips were chained to the tempo of his fingers, her asscheeks tightened and softened, raising and lowering her cunt around his coursing digits.
"Getting to you, sis?" he asked with a guttural laugh.
"Oh, Johnny, Johnny! For God's sake, fuck me and get it over with! Oh you dirty bastard, you rotten, stinking fucker, fuck me!"
"Sure," he said, but changed nothing. She began to twist and hump then, out of her mind with passionate need. He wasn't going to screw her until he was ready, until she lay a shattered wreck from cumming in endless spasms on his fingers. Her hand at the nape of his neck gripped the strong, thick column. Her fingers around his prick became gentle and persuasive, as if it were her throbbing cunt that circled and slicked the huge organ. Nola began to curl, to lift inside and close tightly, longing for the bigness and filling, the rippling thrust of the flesh knob in her hand. And then she cried out in total defeat, the burst of color was mingled with the beating drum, and he went senseless with passion as her orgasm exploded. She stilled, only the uncontrollable vibrations of ecstasy moving her stiffened body. And still Johnny did not alter his caresses. She felt the first wave of cum subside and the second build with tumbling speed, like endless waves bursting over a placid beach. She thrashed, rolling her head, and the fingers seemed to swell and elongate until they filled her cunt. She made him wince by scratching his cock with her fingernails, then her fingers petted and loved the irritated flesh because she loved and needed its ruthless promise. She hardly realized that now her legs were spread and raised in urging strain, that her tits barely shook, so pumped with blood were they. As the waves subsided, she discovered she was lying with her mouth open, her tongue half out, in the complete grip of marvelous sensations that threatened to strip her bones of flesh. Still his fingers moved, but now she was unable to cum again, and the moving forms in her were only milding irritating. She turned her face to his chest and let her legs slowly settle, one across his thigh, the other stretched out in tapered weariness. Her fingers around his prick felt nothing, merely formed around the tremendous shape. Nola wanted to die.
He left her. lying there and raised himself with the help of the cane. She heard him go into the kitchen; he would fill the glasses with ice, using the fingers that had just left her debilitated cunt. Subconsciously, she counted the double gurgling as he over-poured the vodka. It didn't matter. Tomorrow was Saturday and they-or she-could sleep herself sober and perhaps into some grotesque forgetfulness.
He put the ice-cold heel of the glass on her belly. Nola gasped and opened her eyes. Then she smiled. "That looks spiked," she said.
"Drink it," he growled.
He let her sip twice before he reached down and fastened his left fist in her disheveled hair. He pulled her forward and slapped her moist mouth with his cock, left, right, then bumpingly between her lips. There was no evasion possible, nor did she care very much. She let her mouth slide around the straining knob, laid her tongue to the tip to taste the tiny drop of oozing fluid. Her hand came up to hold the shaft where it departed his hairy groin. She let him fuck himself with her face by forcefully directing her head with his handful of hair. Slowly, Nola's mind adjusted itself. Saliva oozed, filled her mouth around his pistoning cock and trickled from the corners of her lips at every withdrawal. She felt subtle changes in her crotch, as if her organs understood before her mind admitted anything. She began to work her lips, feeling the rolls of foreskin, the sebaceous nubbins, the pulse of the coronal ring. As her head began to move, forward and back, the grip of Johnny's hand in her hair relaxed. He chuckled, but she was abruptly past caring.
There was something about sucking his cock that separated her from him, and herself. Her eyes focused on the straining of his belly under the layer of curled hair. She wanted to feel his empty scrotum, but she did not want the cuff on the side of the head such affront always brought. He was beginning to respond; she saw him brace with the cane and strengthen his hunching. His prick filled her mouth, coursed from lips to the back of her throat. She sucked lightly, using her tongue to tease the puffed-under form of his glans.
He was panting, hunching, jerking in and slowly dragging out. Nola closed her eyes, and instantly, her cunt began to throb. She wanted to swallow the whole man, feel him down and down, through her throat to her belly and then on out the wet, gaping mouth of her hungry cunt.
When she felt his cum approach, she put both hands to his hips and squared him to her face. The first jerk sent a needle of jism along her tongue and halfway down her gulping throat. The second spurt coated her tongue, the third gushed and filled her mouth with fiery slime. She held his prick with her lips barely behind the head, and his jerks slowed as the tide diminished. He staggered back, popping his cock from her lips. She swallowed drily, for there was no jism. A sick cry escaped her lips as she dragged her mind back from the hypnotic void.
With a shaking hand she picked up the glass from the end table and drank deeply. Johnny was wiping his cock on her panties. He tossed them aside and swung around to sit at her side, his hand going to her still pulsating tits.
"You're learning, sis," he laughed. "Three years ago I'd have drowned you! But I've got to say, you're the best prick-sucker I've ever known, and that puts Saigon airstarts in big, old second place! Hey, how about some food? I'm hungry."
"All right," Nola said, rubbing her aching forehead. "Shall I put my clothes back on?"
"Why? This is Friday, isn't it? Maybe we'll make a real weekend out of it."
As she struggled to her feet, she looked down and saw his cock, again as rigid as a pole and only slightly more scarlet around the head from her lip service. She drank again, took his glass and went to the kitchen for another sense-dulling libation. The quart of vodka was half gone.
When the potatoes were frying and the pork chops simmering, Johnny sat her on the sturdy kitchen table and fucked her, bracing his unsteady stance by holding her ankles like wheelbarrow handles. The oilcloth was cold on her back at first, but soon warmed with the friction of his pumping. Her cunt took the lunging flesh, gripped it, milked it and slowly found its fire. She stared up at the cracked plaster ceiling, her mind rolling from nothing to nothing, her belly unable to decide whether its heat was from the vodka or the pistoning prick. She glanced occasionally at her brother's face framed between her tits. He was watching how his cock soared in and out of her quim. His neck muscles were tight, his muscular shoulders tense. She could feel the dangling scrotum flapping at her asshole. His grip hurt her ankles. The huge prick made slurping sounds in her cunt, and the angle of his rutting left her clitoris standing high and untouched.
Nothing mattered to Johnny. She was just a body, a sleek, lithe female shape, open if he said so, bending and quivering when he lunged.
The hideous spell was broken for Nola. She heard the sputter of the potatoes, the hiss of the chops. She wanted the rest of her drink, sweet stupidity in a glass. He was charging now. She could feel the head of his cock thumping high in her gut. His pelvic bone was mashing hers, hair to hair, bruising bone to aching flesh. Cum, brother. Hunch and bump and grunt. Cum, brother, and let your poor, sweet brain imagine your sterile cock is flooding my quim with jism. Hurry, brother, because the potatoes will burn and the chops need turning. She tried to help, and the twist of her hips provided the proper tension. In orgasm, he let go of her ankles and began to squeeze great handfuls of her spraddled inner thighs. Then he staggered back against the sink counter. Nola closed her legs and sat up, staring at his softening cock and his heaving belly. Then she rolled to her feet and took a spatula to the potatoes and the chops. After that, she finished her drink and stood, head down, eyes unfocused, while Johnny told her what a lousy fuck she was.
Eventually, she put a table cloth over the table her ass had recently quit and they ate. She dropped a hot flake of potato, and it bounced down her naked belly and lay in the furred nest formed by her thighs and sagging belly. She felt nothing; her head whirled from the vodka; her nerves failed with fork and knife. The real, real drunk feeling came, and she giggled softly, delighting in its shrouding darkness. Johnny's obscene words about her lifeless ass and her burned dinner became a distant mumble. She heard his chair scrape and felt the quiver of the kitchen floor as he caned himself erect and thumped to the front room. Nola pillowed her head on a forearm and lapsed into the sweet suspension between insanity and darkness.
She was very drunk and very tired. The cooling stove across the kitchen warmed her back. Her hanging tits and relaxed thighs were covered with goose bumps. Fucked out, boozed and forgotten. No, not forgotten. Eyes closed, she raised her head, waiting for the brain spin to reverse. Her mouth was terribly dry and she was slightly sick at her stomach. Not forgotten. It was hardly an hour past dark, and she guessed it couldn't be more than eight-thirty. Not forgotten, because Johnny intended to make a weekend of it.
With nearly superhuman effort, Nola raised to her unsteady legs. She pushed her chair back, nerves screaming at the scrape. Turning, she lunged for the stove, gasping when her left hand touched the still-heated surface. With a barely controllable hand, she reached for the frying pan. The chop grease had cooled and solidified a bit. She ran her middle finger along the pan bottom, gathering a large gob of brownish grease. This she stared at with glazed eyes. Then she kinked her hips and smeared the grease deep between her buttocks, deliberately pressing the lubrication into the pucker of her anus. It smarted saltily, but she ignored the superficial annoyance. Not forgotten. Even if she passed out before, the pork grease would save her asshole. Nothing could save her soul.
CHAPTER TWO
She awakened at four in the morning. She was no longer drunk, and Nola immediately knew that she was lying on the front room rug with a blanket tossed over her. The house was dark, So he retained enough sense to turn off all the lights. She stirred, and her instant distress told her he had had her around the world, as he laughingly called it. Nola climbed to her feet and tip-toed to the bathroom between their rooms. His door was closed and she softly shot the bolt before she turned on the light. Idle precaution, he could smash the door with either of his huge fists.
She was covered with red welts. Belt marks. She sat on the toilet and wept with the agony of her rectum. Quietly, she washed her bottom and her crotch. There were several teeth marks on her inner thighs and what seemed to be a blood blister on the left labia of her cunt. The two monkey bites on her tits were below the most daring neckline she owned. Sometimes he showed such marvelous understanding. Nola daubed and massaged, finding many places that were sore if not marked. Finally, she turned off the light and entered her own bedroom. In bed, she relaxed gradually, finding comfort almost as painful as her bruises. She lay, staring up, her mind struggling to maintain its threatened sanity, her body trying to forget its abuse. She had to stay strong and sane because she was all Johnny had left in the world.
At first, it hadn't seemed that way. After months in an Army hospital, long letters and a few sterile reports from the medical staff, Nola had been surprised at how strong and handsome Johnny had been. He was still in a wheelchair and walked only with the help of a nurse and crutches. But he had been laughing and kidding and seemingly so very happy to see her that Nola began to doubt the medical reports.
The day she had gone to Letterman General Hospital to bring him home, her huge handsome brother had, in front of his buddies, checked the solidity of her thighs against the proposition that she'd have to push his wheelchair up and downhill, San Francisco being what it was. Nothing could have embarrassed her that day because she was taking Johnny to the only home they had, her three-room apartment on Divisadero Street. It was only two floors up, and there was an elevator. He would have the bedroom and, because she worked, she would use a sofa-bed in the front room. Later, when he was ambulatory, they would rent a larger apartment. They had planned to do a lot of things later.
The first week had been wonderful, unhandy, but wonderful. He had seemed content and only had one or two bad dreams. He drank a lot of beer, read three newspapers and watched color television. They had had a party, and he'd seemed quite fond of one of the girls who worked in the same legal office as Nola did. With her usual efficiency, Nola had absorbed the burden of a crippled brother without any conscious effort. She helped him exercise his slowly enlivening legs and she massaged his brutally scarred back with Army salve. It was during his first return to the hospital for an official checkup and new X rays that the Surgeon General had requested Nola to visit his office while Johnny was being checked out. He was a nice man, middle-aged and just short enough on formality to put her at complete ease.
"How has he been, Miss Banner?"
"Oh, fine, just fine! He's getting stronger and more able to help himself every day." Gleefully, Nola had reported the details of their first week together, ticking off her daily nursing aids as well as their delightful social progress. When she was through, the doctor looked away and put his fingertips together and almost frowned.
"Then it is time to explain to you, Miss Banner, exactly how your brother has been hurt. And perhaps forewarn you against any relapses which are bound to occur in cases like his."
"I don't understand, doctor. He seems so happy and so certain he is going to walk shortly and be as strong as he ever was."
"What he thinks is not the ultimate, Miss Banner. To be perfectly frank, I voted against releasing him to your care when the matter came before the board of review. I felt that the Army was much better prepared to handle his condition than an unmarried sister could be. However, I was outvoted. The fact that you seem to be managing all right is encouraging. But again, not the ultimate, Miss Banner."
"You frighten me, doctor. Is there something I don't know about my brother's disabilities?"
He nodded. "He was struck by an exploding mortar shell. He lay in the mud, fully exposed to all sorts of secondary bombardment for a day and a half. His back, when the medics picked him up, was shredded-Hamburger Johnny they called him in the Da Nang field hospital. He had serious concussion, though his helmet saved his skull from positive wounding. Nothing, Miss Banner, saved his genitals. Your brother is only half a man now. He can never become a father. In short, his testicles were destroyed, thereby ending his powers of reproduction. With this type of thing, a psychological upset is bound to occur sooner or later. The trauma is devastating to a man even far older and less virile than John had naturally been."
"Oh dear, the poor, poor darling!" Nola had gasped. "But of course I wouldn't have known-couldn't even have suspected. But I'm sure this isn't all there is to life, and he is very level-headed. Oh dear!"
The doctor had raised his hand. "Commendable attitude, but again, not the ultimate, Miss Banner. I said his testicles were gone. He suffered absolutely no damage to his penis, nor to the nerves and muscles of his penis. In short, he is capable of normal sexual intercourse, and the desire to do so without the capability of reproduction."
"But, I thought the testicles were the controlling factor-"
"A common misunderstanding, Miss Banner. Eunuchism, either deliberate or accidental, falls into two classifications. If the reproductive system is damaged after the individual arrives at manhood, with subsequent understanding, shall we say, of the sexual desire and the physical substantiation, the loss of the testicles does not, in most cases, affect the course of desire nor the fulfillment of that desire. In fact, desire and demand often increase, at least for an unpredictable period of time. If the male is rendered impotent at an early age, the psychological trauma is complete. I'm sure your brother does not fall into the latter classification. In short, he is still a man in every degree short of the ability to impregnate a female."
"Oh dear! I'm not sure I understand what all that means."
"I'll try to make it brief. Your brother has experienced physical injuries from the top of his head to his heels. We found some symptoms of battle fatigue, which in former, less sociological years, was termed shell shock. He seems sound or we wouldn't have released him from Army custody. However, he has suffered a massive trauma in the loss of his full manhood.
He now possesses the capability to desire and satisfy a woman, but not to fulfill man's surrogate immortality-the production of offspring. This is psychological dynamite, Miss Banner. This single failing can often upset a hundred other mental attitudes, and it certainly acts as a nucleus of thought. In other words, it seldom leaves the patient's mind and it acts as a springboard for nearly every required thought or action. Do you understand what I am saying?"
"N-no, doctor."
Patiently, he went through his analysis of her brother in the simplest terms possible. Her horror and pity had grown by leaps and bounds. Not quite, but almost, he told her that her brother could, with no particular warning, become unmanageable in many respects. His parting plea was that if Johnny showed even the slightest variation from his then pleasant and peaceful attitude, she was to notify the surgeon general without an instant's hesitation.
The variation had come a few days later; it had not been slight, nor had she an instant to notify anyone. They had had a small party. Carrie, the girl whom Johnny had liked so well; Frank, a delightful young man who Nola liked very much, and some beer and music and a few hands of canasta, at which Johnny could not be beaten. Carrie and Frank had left at eleven. Johnny had been sitting in his wheelchair, finishing his last beer while Nola cleaned the dishes in the kitchen.
The expensive, well-oiled wheelchair did not squeak. She hadn't even known he had wheeled into the kitchen until his parted knees locked her legs together and his big hands closed possessively around her hips. She couldn't even turn, though she twisted her head to peer back and down at her brother. His cock was out and stood straight up through his unzipped fly. His empty scrotum lay out, as if placed over the thick chestnut hair growing from his groin. Nola had gasped. She had felt a score of rigid pricks during her high school and college years, she had even seen two or three in the final moments of escape from making out that had gone too far for her moral upbringing, but as she stared at her brother's monstrous, blood-filled organ, her only emotion was pity and her only consolation was the surgeon general's warning. Johnny's face seemed unchanged except for a spot of flame in each blue eye. But he would not let her body turn in his hands.
"Johnny!" Again she tried to turn. "Let go of me!"
"That Frank," he said. "He ever fuck you, sis?"
"What? Of course not! Whatever is the matter with you?"
"He wants to. But he isn't going to make it because you belong to me! I'm hot for your ass, sis, and now's the time. Goddamn it, stand still or I'll belt you one!"
She hadn't screamed. She had gripped his wrist and tried unsuccessfully to release their vise-like clamp on her hips. She had kinked and pushed, and the wheelchair had moved back, causing her to stumble because his hands pulled her so hard. She had swayed, stepped, then gone to her knees, and to her horror, Johnny had come out of the chair and fallen over her back. She felt his cock jab at her bended bottom she had hurt her knees on the linoleum, and her breath came out in sudden spurts of wordless terror.
Her first sane thought was that she hadn't known how really strong he was. One hand and forearm, looped under her belly, held her, the other ripped her skirt up and her panties down. She felt the cool air, twisted, and in so doing, positioned her ass exactly so his jutting cock slipped between the undercurve of her nates and plunged brutally into her virgin vagina. The pain was instant the shock one she did not expect to survive. She felt the huge intrusion as a battering ram, plowing up her un-trammeled sex, spreading, distending and filling her with furious fire.
"Johnny, Johnny!" she had cried, but his rushing breath was her only answer. She could not, dared not, move. His cock was in so tight she could feel the hair of his groin tickling her numbed buttocks. He held her with both arms, his cock merely churned, the head seeming to grow to cantalope size against her cervix.
Her tears were instant, her senses scattered under the ruthless attack. She smelled her cunt, opened wide after twenty-five years of careful closure. She felt his fingers, pressing and exploring her crotch, flipping the lips, roughing the clitoris. She bucked and writhed, and the cock began to move, nearly out, painfully in, and as her strength began to wane, the sensation altered. She had stared at the pattern of the linoleum with eyes so wide they burned. She had tried to kink and turn herself to stop the sensations, but this seemed only to intensify them. Then he had begun to feel her tits, and she was horrified at how he tore at her blouse and jerked her brassiere up. She was even more terrified at the undeniable pleasure of his ungentle fingers on her throbbing tits.
He had suddenly changed his attack, and Nola had not understood. His stroking had speeded; his force had increased, and with every thrust her knees had skidded forward on the linoleum. A dull ache beat back after each of these new plungings, and somehow, the ache and the sensations mixed so that Nola was hard pressed to keep from groaning. She then had no way of knowing why he suddenly relaxed, lying on her back like a ponderous animal. She could feel the whole length of his cock throbbing in her scraped and stinging cunt. His hand had ceased to worry her clitoris, and her bared tits hung in loose weight. Then he released her entirely and struggled back and up. Cold, completely stunned and shocked beyond her weirdest nightmares, she had fallen sideways to the floor, and the last thing she remembered was the deep chuckle Johnny expended.
Remembering was hard to stop. Nola fluffed her pillow more from nervousness than discomfort and stared into the night. She could hear the strong purr from Johnny's throat; Vodka and the unrecountably many times he had used her body had put her soundly to sleep. That night, too, though there had been only beer and the single rape of her maidenhead. That night, as tonight, he had left her on the floor when his lust was done.
She had crawled to her feet and felt blindly for a paper towel to blot the unblottable blood from her agonized sex. She had staggered to the telephone bench in the hallway and put a shaking, finger-jerking hand to the receiver. Call the police-my brother has raped me. Call the surgeon general-my brother has gone crazy. Call God-what have you done to me?
"Easy, Nola Banner. I exploded a Viet Cong mortar shell behind his back. I cracked his brains, shredded his back and nipped his balls off at the roots. I sent him home to you a sick man with the goodness stripped off his mind and his eyes wild for the shape of you. Quit bitching, woman, I dm God, and because he's your brother, and you're all he's got. He can never have a son, never stand too straight, never think whole again. If you believe you're hurt, remember my Son. He gave His life for deliberate sinners. Stand up, woman, and tell me Johnny Banner is a sinner, an evil man, a rapist, a despoiler of sisters. Startd up and condemn him to a Hell he can not understand.
Oh, God, I'm sorry, sorry. But I hurt so badly" here. And what about tomorrow? How will he be tomorrow?
He was fine. He kissed her cheek and patted her ass and had asked her how she'd slept.
"I didn't sleep at all, Johnny," she had murmured, cracking breakfast eggs in the pan.
"Ass hurt? I didn't really think you were a virgin, sis. Going to tell the Letterman sawbones I hung it in you?"
"N-no, Johnny."
He had chuckled. "They sure as hell tried, but they didn't knock old Johnny out of the box, did they? You going to work today?"
She had slowly shaken her head. "I don't feel well, Johnny."
"Come in! It will stretch a mile before it will tear an inch!"
"It isn't that. I just feel bad ... about you and about me."
"Incest, huh? Horseshit. Everybody is somebody's sister. I just happen to have a good-looking sister with undeveloped talents. Hey,I'm getting a hard-on just thinking about! You want to see the hair of the dog that bit you? Come on, take a look, sis. The sooner you get acquainted with it, the sooner you'll like it."
"No, Johnny!!"
He had reached so quickly she hadn't been able to evade his hand. She had fallen half across his lap, the wheelchair skidded back to the wall, and it stopped with a lurch. He had hunched his rigid cock up between her tits and fondled the cheeks of her ass through her robe and underpants. When she turned her face up to his, he seemed to be staring clear through her at some memory buried beneath the floor. "Johnny?"
He had slapped her then, his massive hand nearly knocking her across the kitchen. She had crouched, face in her hands, weeping with agony that far surpassed the pain of her face. She heard him slot the toast and start the toaster. She smelled the odor of burning eggs, and the coffee pot was boiling furiously. With great effort she had climbed to her feet and moved about, preparing breakfast in a stunned lethargy.
She wasn't really convinced until noon of that terrible day. She tried to talk about what he had done, but he answered her questions with obscene words and leering laughter. His mind seemed unattached to reality, as if unable to understand her concern. She mentioned God and morals and respectability.
"God is a silly old joker, sis. Morals are the bullshit the politicians prate about right before they ship you to a rice paddy in Vietnam. Respectability is the name of the game that keeps the whorehouse rent paid, and what's with all this crap, anyway? I told you last night that you belong to me, and that's the end of it! Come here!"
"No, Johnny, n-no!"
He had flown into a rage. His wheelchair had sailed across to where she huddled in a chair, and he had jerked her out and hurled her to the floor, kicking her ribs with his right foot. Then he had leaned down and ripped her blouse away. While she lay stunned, her tits lolling out in pulsing bulbs, he had opened his zipper and taken out his cock. After a minute, she could not stand the sight of the rigid monster, so she had turned her face away. She couldn't believe how she felt. Had he been ugly or deformed or physically helpless, she might have hated him. But he sat there, her handsome brother, recovering from the frightful mauling he had suffered, stroking his prick at her and leering. He was sick, she knew, terribly sick, and she was his sister. What use, she had asked herself, to send him back to the Army hospitals? They had had him for nearly nine months and sent him out like a frightened, confused animal. If his wounds were healing, then it stood to reason that love and patience and constancy would heal his mind. Psychologies, traumas and isms were words for uncaring people. She cared, and the more she pitied him, the more she loved him. Nola had been positive that once Johnny was sure somebody in the world loved him, for his deficiencies as well as his magnificence, he would change.
Lying now in the cold loneliness of predawn, Nola realized that everything had changed except Johnny. The first month had been the worst. He met her at the door nightly when she returned from work, and the variety of his attack depended entirely upon his mood. Sometimes, he was gay and laughing, and she could stall his lust by being gay and merry and drinking a beer with him. At other times he was surly and cruel and ripped at her clothes the moment she entered the apartment. It seemed to Nola that he spent his days planning new degradations, new gymnastics. He had fucked her in the hall, bent over every piece of furniture in the house, in her sofa-bed and on his double bed. He had hurt her several times by sitting in a tub of hot water and bouncing her on his cock until her vagina was pumped so full she could hardly stand the strain. Before and after these weird sessions, he demanded that she fondle his cock, kiss it and take it in her mouth. Within three weeks he had discarded the wheelchair, largely she had been sure, because of the exercise he got wrestling and fucking her.
Now she writhed in bed, remembering with helpless shame the moment of her total defeat. She had come home tired and frightened and tense with the certainty that this night would be no different than all the others. He had been in one of his gender moods. He kissed her warmly and his hands on her tits and buttocks were caressing. He had even asked her something about her work, an interest she should have suspected, for he had given up concern about everything outside the apartment except what he could view on the television.
Always seeking the slightest sign of softening in Johnny, she had joined him with a glass of vodka. There were to be steak, mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts for dinner. He had suggested that she take a hot shower and change into something more comfortable, and Nola had been so tentatively elated, she had agreed. She had hardly lathered her lithe body before he came through the shower curtain, naked, his cock at its usual upright angle and his hands groping for her sleek, succulent body. Still hopeful, at least for tenderness and some sign from him that he knew she was a woman, she had soaped his scarred body and tolerated his prick slapping her wet and lathered body.
Then he had made her stand on the shower sill and bend forward while he rammed his cock up between her thighs. She had felt his slippery prick slide high and hard, and his body slapped to hers as he rutted, one hand to the curtain rod for bracing. She was wet and warm, and for some reason not as terrified as she usually was when he fucked her. And suddenly his cock seemed bigger, longer, hotter than ever before, and Nola had an orgasm, the first she had ever experienced from her brother's lust. It so shocked her she nearly collapsed.
"Hey now!" Johnny had grunted.
Oh God, no, no!" she had wailed. "I didn't mean-"
To her surprise it had angered him. His hands closed on her tits, jerking them painfully. His cock, rammed hard in her quaking cunt, thrust even deeper as he cursed her senselessly. Then with no warning he reared back, dragging his prick clear of her tingling quim. Before she could protest or twist away, he had sent it up her rectum, wedging, ripping, plunging. She had screamed, and together they had fallen to the shower floor. There, with the water beating down on them, he had fucked her in the ass, not in passion, but cruelty. And she had cried and moaned and suffered so terribly, she had nearly fainted. She had been sure the fury of his cum had ripped her bowel, and after he had left her, she lay under the shower, panting, squirming and weeping. The thing he had done to her bottom was unspeakable; she was very sure she would never forgive herself for the orgasm still burning in her cunt.
But she had forgiven herself that relaxation, because it happened again and again, as if the broken barrier released a flood of sensation she could not control. She tried not to let him know, but orgasm made it easier to tolerate his insatiable lust. There was always that one bright and ecstatic moment amid the terror, the agony, the shame. It was never anything she anticipated, it merely happened.
Nervous, half-sick, confused, she had lost her job in the lawyer's office. There was money because she had saved some, and Johnny's check from the Government was steady. They had no friends because of his unpredictable temper and her fear. And when the Army doctors, pleased at his remarkable recovery, released him from weekly checkups, Nola had suggested they move from San Francisco to some small town. He had merely shrugged, and they had moved to Cranden, a thousand miles from San Francisco. His case had been transferred to another military hospital, and Nola found another job. Not only did the extra money help, but it kept her out of Johnny's hands for at least eight hours a day.
No, she thought, weeping softly in the dark, Johnny had not changed. He was still cruel, still ruthless and always insatiable. He had gained ten pounds, and his legs were stronger. He drank constantly, cursed her vilely and laughed at her tears. She was his housemaid, his cook, his nurse and his whore.
About herself, she did not know. Somehow, her love for Johnny had trapped her in a hell too hideous to describe, but every time she contemplated some drastic, freeing action, her heart refused to succumb to logic or escape. There were countless times she hated him with all her will, then she would see his brutally scarred back, and he would show her his empty scrotum. She always realized that what she had started, she had to finish. Nothing he could do to her was one tenth as terrible as what had been done to him, and she was all he had. And inside her misery was the faintest glow of hope; someday something would snap, and he would be her brother, Johnny Banner, once again. To survive, she simply did not think too much.
CHAPTER THREE
Johnny left the house at ten minutes to nine. Going down the front steps, he was pleased with the slight springiness of his legs. On Aden Lane he turned east, walking along the dirt street with only a trace of limp. Cool, man, he thought. The motherfuckers said I'd always be a gimp, but I knew better. Another month and he'd be ready for the high hurdles.
He walked steadily, turning once more when he came to a crossroad. From there, he could see the house. It was a nice house, painted a soft green, and the yard was well kept. Approaching, he noted the open doors of the double garage. One space was empty, the other held a Falcon sedan. She was home. His cock tightened, felt good hanging in his pants, rubbing as he walked. He left the road and walked along the row of Italian cypresses grown close together like fence posts. When he had gone a few yards, he stopped and peered at the back of the house.
Presently,, she came out, carrying a wicker basket piled high with wet clothes. Just like last Monday morning. Only this Monday she was dressed in a pink cotton dress that exposed her bare legs several inches above the knees. He could see her tits jiggling under the loose bodice. Her blonde hair was neatly coiled he knew, because, she always did it up before she took the girl to school. Her routine had been easy to figure. On Mondays she loaded the automatic washer on the back porch, then hustled her daughter into the Falcon for the trip to school. She always returned at five minutes after nine. It generally took her five minutes to change into her washday clothes, then at fifteen minutes after nine, appeared with the first load of washing ready to be hung.
Her ass was great, he mused. He watched her bend, shake out a garment and pin it to the line. Bend again. He could almost see how the cheeks tightened and spread. A white shirt. Johnny hated the man to whom the shirt belonged. He had all that good cunt and the jism to make it slippy. He had two kids, a girl of maybe ten and another of four or five. He had a nice home, two cars, a family. He had balls. With balls, a woman didn't care how big or small a man's cock was. She humped and thumped and hugged him close when he popped, so the jism would go right up and puddle in her womb. Even good-looking babes like this one liked to be bred, liked to roll her ass so the bulge of her belly told everybody her old man had balls.
She was standing back now, surveying the line of clothes. The kink of her hip was sharp, throwing an interesting turn to her ass. Johnny's fingers worked. Now, man. Why wait another week? He glanced back at the road. Not a son of a bitch in sight. Way out on the outskirts of town. He chuckled and stepped between two of the cypresses. She turned and reentered the screened-in porch. When he got to the back door, she was pouring soapflakes into the second load of wash. He knocked.
When she turned, he saw how really pretty she was. Her skin was slightly tawny, her eyes were dark. A brunette blonde.
"Yes?" she queried.
"Your load of rock, lady. Where do you want it dumped?"
"Rock? We didn't order any rock. Are you sure you have the right address? I'm sure my husband didn't order any building material."
She came forward and opened the screen door. She smelled clean, like soap. Her tits were heavy and spread. Johnny's left hand moved like a darting snake, and he grabbed a handful of soft belly-fat. She gave a short scream, then clamped both hands around his wrist. He squeezed with all of his power and twisted her down. Her mouth opened, nothing came out but a gasp of agony. The cotton dress flew high, baring her straining thighs. He looked right at her cunt, a big dark shadow under her nylon panties. She's no fucking blonde at all, he said to himself. A bleach job.
He hit her on the jaw with his right fist. Her head snapped back, then lay on one shoulder. Her body became a limp weight, still and heavy. He stepped into the porch area and set the little brass bolt. Then he grabbed the phony blonde hair and dragged her to the kitchen door. Inside, he also set that door lock. Then he reached down with both hands, and with a spreading, ripping motion, tore her cotton dress from throat to hem. The tawny skin of her belly showed the hard, red marks his first grip had left. Her tits kind of bunched in the loose brassiere. She had a deep bellybutton, and the black shadow of her cunt hair was bigger than he'd imagined. His blood pounded hard in his ears, and the rush of his breath was harsh. But there was something else to do first, he knew.
He ignored the dining room and the nicely furnished living room. Down the short hall, he came to the open door of the nursery. The little girl was cowered in one corner, her eyes huge, frightened, her lips trembling with fear. Sure, he thought, be scared, kid.
"My mama!" she wailed. "You hit her! I saw you hit her! I want my mama!"
"Don't we all! Now, you stay in here and don't open your goddamned mouth, or I'll fill it so full of prick you'll choke, get me?" She started to cry, and he walked to the windows, checking them for casing locks. They were all locked. On the way by, he leaned and smacked the girl with the back of his hand. Then he left the room, securing her with the ugliest snarl he could generate.
Using her now-loosened hair again, he dragged the unconscious woman down the hall to an empty bedroom. With very little effort he lifted her to the bed and stripped her brassiere and panties off. Holding her thighs up and apart; he stared at her cunt and let his prick harden in his pants. She was a doozy, he admitted. Her pussy was almost purple where the lips curled in together. He could see the wrinkled line of her inner labia, the higher puffed ridge would be her clit. He liked the way the hair grew in such profuse layers as to nearly blacken her skin. It also grew in an interesting whorl around her dark pink asshole. He let her legs flop down and quickly stripped off his trousers.
"Look at that one, baby," he growled. "Biggest one you ever saw, isn't it? Never mind the balls, baby. They are buried somewhere in a rice paddy, if the leeches haven't got 'em by now. Hey now!"
"Oh God!" came her awakening gasp. "My baby, my baby!"
Johnny loomed over her, staring down into her dark eyes. "You scream, and I'll stuff your kid's elbow up her ass, baby! You just got one way to go. You lay there and fuck and like it, baby! I'll say where and when and you coo like a pigeon, see?"
She was staring at his cock so he stroked it once or twice to show her its size and temper. Then she looked up at him, blinking back some slowly building tears. One hand crept down to lay spread over her cunt, the other moved across her tits, depressing their softness. He liked the way her belly rose and fell with frightened breaths. He liked scared women, and this one was properly terrified.
He wrenched her knees apart until she groaned wih the strain. Then he fell over her, his hand slapping hers away so he could jab at her cunt with his half-bursting prick. She started to twist and struggle and he sunk his fingers into her tits and turned them in opposite directions. The cry from her lips was like that of a trapped rabbit, then she stilled, least his fingers rip her flesh from her rib cage. His prick caught in her cunt, and he sent it home with a single, lunge. Her shriek made his lust expand. Her thighs tried to expel him and only succeeded in pressing hot and strong to his rooting hips. Each time she tried to turn or ease away, he stilled her with a furious thrust of his cock, and after a minute, she lay still, eyes clinched, mouth clamped, and he fucked her violently, straight through to his first vicious orgasm. As his back curled and jerked, her eyes opened in new fear. He snarled, knowing very well she thought he was pumping her full of jism. Even after his cum had faded, he humped and thrust, turning her face to a dead-white mask of fear. Then he lay heavily on her, resting, and her hands went to his chest in a firm pushing.
"You-you'll make me pregnant!" she gasped. "Please-let me up, let me wash! Oh God, mister! Do whatever you w-want! Just don't hurt my baby, and please, let me t-take care of myself!"
Johnny chuckled and raised from her vibrating body. His prick slipped free, half-expelled by her frantic constrictions. She put one hand to her raped organ and he laughed again as a look of surprise crossed her face. "That's right, baby. No jism. You're home free. Just call me Johnny no-balls. Feel, you fucking slut, and if you so much as grin, I'll kill you!"
He guided her hand under the root of his cock. Her fingers hesitated, then with slow, deliberate movements ascertained that his scrotum was nothing more than a dangling flap of skin. He waited, but her only reaction seemed to be one of total relief. Her eyes closed, her muscles relaxed. His fury at her sudden indifference was huge.
He lay beside her, pressing close, his half-hard prick lying on her belly and he began to finger-fuck her with slow, deliberate intent. He found her clitoris tight and swollen, and he used his fingers as if it were a labor of love. She twitched several times and finally covered her eyes with the back of her hand, and Johnny grinned. What he wanted to do was tear her sex out by the roots, but what he did was pet and press and flip until her toes began to curl, slowly, significantly. Once he tested the nippies of her breasts with a wet, firm tongue, and they were hard.
His technique in her cunt was ten years old, the slow insertion of two fingers and the even slower withdrawal, wiping her oozing wetness up to smear around her clitoris. Back seat make-out, he thought, and she was fighting a losing battle. She began to stir, first only one foot, then her free hand suddenly gripping. He watched her belly gradually speeding its rise and fall under the weight of his stiffening cock. A small moan escaped her lips, and she tensed, as if she knew she had revealed a hated sensation. Still he masturbated her, and presently she let her knee turn out. His own excitement augmented, but it had nothing to do with his prick.
"You want to be fucked, don't you, bitch?" he muttered. "You hate my guts. I belted you, and fucked you, and for all you know, I've clapped your ass and still, you want to be fucked! Feel it, baby? Feel the fire running up your spine? I can feel it, baby. I know when your quim spasms and your meat hardens! Never had it so good, have you, baby? A big man with a big cock and no balls to worry about. Just prick, a mile of it up your snatch and no after effects. Raw meat, no rubber, no diaphragm, no pill. Just fuck, fuck, fuck, and never see him again. Turn over!"
He rolled her over unprotestingly, and dug his fingers down under and into her cunt from the back. He lifted, making her groan, but she came to her knees, head hanging down, tits swinging, her ass upraised to his deeply plunging fingers and their alternating pressure to her clitoris. He put the ball of his thumb to her asshole and though her head jerked, causing her bleached hair to shake, she did not try to twist away. After a few moments, he kneeled up behind her and thrust his prick into her now flowing cunt. She did some comfortable shift of her knees, and when he began to stroke into her, she pumped back. He parted her buttocks with his palms and pressed them back only to repeat the spreading.
He dropped a big ball of saliva from his lips and thumb-smeared it into her rectum. It knotted and winked under his thumb and he felt a fresh tension around his coursing prick. Aha, you slut, he thought. You either never had it there but always wanted it, or you've had it up your bunghole and need it again. And when she let go and began to groan and twist, he snarled and fucked her harder. Her head began to shake and bob and her shoulders dropped so her ass could form a sharper, hunching bend. He knew when she had orgasm because her belly convulsed and little tensions seized his cock. He laughed. She seemed to be coming apart at the seams, and her asshole relaxed so his thumb nearly popped in. He hauled back, his cock throbbing but not quite hard enough. As its gleaming length slipped from the hairy sleeve, she fell sideways, gasping and moaning through clenched teeth. He got off the bed and stood leering at the agonized woman, his feelings somewhat soothed by her surrender, but his lust had only begun.
"You-you horrible, dirty beast!" she spat at him.
"Why? Because I got you, baby? Because you found out that balls don't matter, only the dick? Learn something, bitch! Balls don't make a man, do they? Sit up and suck my cock, you fucking bum!"
He seized her arm and jerked her to a huddle on the edge of the bed. One big hand pinched her jaw, forcing it open, and he stuffed his cock into her mouth so deep she nearly gagged. Her eyes rolled; her nostrils flared in a search for breath. He held her face on his penis until in desperation, she began to mouth and tongue it. He let go of her jaw and felt her throat, tensing and moving as she sucked his tingling cock. She had done it before, he was sure. Did she swallow her old man's jism, or did she catch it in a Kleenex or let it spurt down on her big tits?
"Like that, don't you, bitch?" He slapped her off of his cock, and when she fell over on her side, he mounted her from behind, his orgasm coming only seconds after his prick was buried in her quim. It was good but he hadn't really wanted to cum. When he got up, she didn't turn or look at him. Again his rage soared; she didn't care what he did to her, or what he didn't do. He was only meat, harmless, sterile meat. The more he fucked her, the better she liked it, and her liking it had left him stripped of vengeance. Then, above the whirr of the washing machine on the back porch, he heard a small, stifled whimper.
She was standing in the doorway, small hands clutched tightly to her tear-streaked cheeks. Her eyes were wide, her stance a stiff forward leaning, as if she were frozen by what she saw.
"Well, well," he said. "We've got a non-paying audience!"
The woman's naked body coiled like a spring, and she leaped from the bed, mouth agape at the horror of the situation. She fumbled, trying to cover her nakedness, trying to find some way to hide. Then she took a step toward the child and Johnny slammed her back to the bed with a swinging forearm. Instantly the child shrieked and ran to her mother.
"Now, now, baby!" the woman moaned. "It's all right, all right! Now, do as mother says and go back in your room. It's all right! Oh God, you poor darling! Please, Mary, do as mother says. Go back to your room and close the door!" She tried to force the little girl to go, but the crying had turned to near hysteria, and Mary clung to her mother's neck with all her strength.
And Johnny knew exactly what to do to make the woman suffer.
He silenced the child simply by closing his left hand around her neck from behind. The woman screamed and let go of her daughter to claw and beat at Johnny's hand and wrist. He put his other hand to her face and pushed her back on the bed, at the same time flinging the coughing, gagging girl across the room to crash against the wall. Breathless, she crumpled to a heap, squirming as she fought for air. As the naked woman leaped again, Johnny caught her, and with snarling glee, half paralyzed her with a sledge-hammer fist to the middle of her back. She sagged, trying to scream, mouthing words, and finally she folded in helpless agony.
He turned to the child, his prick again up-angled with fresh inspiration. He picked her up, thrilling to the feel of her nearly limp body, and he ripped her tiny panties off with ruthless fingers. Draping her over one arm, he stared at the little bottom and at the neat buttonhole of her vagina. He thrust a forefinger into the slit, feeling the flesh give way.
Blood surged instantly. He licked his lips as the scarlet fringe grew around his digging digit.
"No, God, you wouldn't-you can't!" She's a baby-barely four! Oh, please God, strike him dead, dead, dead! Oh, my baby!"
He kicked her in the belly as she started to rise. The girl had regained her breath, and she was screaming, her arms nailing uselessly, her legs kicking. He flipped her, his hands wrapping around her waist, pressing shortening her cries with the pressure. Swinging around, Johnny managed an awkward squat, and with the gasping mother's horrified face barely a yard away, he jammed the tiny crotch back to his jerking cock. The head seated but would not enter the bleeding slit. He screwed the child around, grunting at the impossible entry. Then he held the child, her crotch distorted by the pressure, and looked at the wailing woman. She was suffering now, he knew. Her body jerked like a chicken just relieved of its head. She could not take her eyes away, but her face lost every human semblance. And then she fell forward in a total faint.
Johnny stood up, flexing one leg at a time. He wanted to laugh and gloat, but she was senseless. He tossed the little girl to the bed, debated forcing his prick into her blood-smeared vagina or her tiny, puckered anus, but somehow, the game had lost its excitement. The girl was curled into a tight ball, crying with the tempo of a fire siren.
He stood for nearly a minute, looking down at the destroyed mother. His blood raced with the victory of having taught her about men with no balls. At last he had made somebody pay for his mutilation, and the only shadow on the moment was the certainty that he could not let her live to scream her horror to a fucking cop.
He leaned down, poised his big right hand, then swung it in a crushing chop. At the moment when the heel of his hand snapped the woman's neck, he had orgasm, dry, jerking, ecstatic, meaningless.
Reading about it in the morning paper, he was glad he hadn't bothered to squash the little girl. She had not uttered a single word between the time her older sister returned from school to the last second before press time. Anyway, killing kids was a Viet Cong first act.
Nola read the newspaper, black with indignant headlines, a half-dozen times. A mile from her front door on Aden Lane, a man, or hopefully some men, had committed heinous rape, murder and child molestation. There were no clues, no fingerprints, no cane marks in the surrounding earth. Nothing said Johnny did it. Johnny couldn't have done it. He had never left the house, other than to play at lawn and shrubbery clipping. He couldn't have walked a mile. He wouldn't have even known where the house was.
She could remember exactly how he had been last night when she came home from work. There were five cans in the garbage, his normal daily consumption. The girlie magazines had been spread around the living room. He had worked a crossword puzzle and checked off his favorite television programs. He had fucked her twice before nine o'clock, and her fingers could remember no undue swelling, as his prick often showed when he had spent a frenzy in her body.
And when all these negatives were repeated a score of times, Nola reverted to her instincts. He was Johnny Banner, her brother, and he was incapable of committing such horrible crimes. Whatever he did to her was between them. She was his sister and therefore, dedicated to his getting well. She belonged to him; he had said so a dozen times, and she had never disagreed. She even believed that his cruelty and sexual sadism were personal things, reserved for her because, from their childhood, she had held a special place in his consciousness. Just as he held a very special place in her heart. Not Johnny. Just coincidence. Murder and rape occurred in every city, large or small. She permitted her natural naivete to assist her logic. She denied him nothing. Why would he rape and murder a woman ten years her senior with her body a willing dummy to his most bizarre desires?
For a week she followed the newspaper accounts, watching the crime leave the front page and return to the smaller reports in the back sections. She even read the speculations by editorial writers-an itinerant from the highway, four miles west, a madman wandering the land, a sex fiend not yet yet tabbed by the police. Cranden's unsolved crime, and unless a miracle occurred, likely to remain a mystery for endless years.
Once or twice, because the television news spotlighted the crime for a few days, she had remarked to Johnny about the horrendous event. He had been a bit interested but no more so than about other news items, and he had never shown any pet-tishness about discussing it.
Gradually then, drugged by her own misery and complete subservience to her brother's lust and desires, Nola let the matter of rape and murder slip from her concern.
Because even as she organized their strange existence, she lost the ability to organize herself. She kept house and cooked their meals. She carried the washing to the laundromat on Tuesdays and ironed each Wednesday evening, either before he took her clothes off and played his various games with her unresisting body, or after, when he drowsed from too much vodka and all the lust he had expended. They lived like recluses, partly because Johnny wanted no outside friends and Nola was afraid to cultivate even moderate intimacies. Her job was a simple matter of typing, filing and minding the incessant telephone in an attorney's office, and her movements, at lunch or shopping or going to and from work were at patterned as if cased in iron.
There were three or four people who smiled at her. The man at the liquor store where she bought beer and Vodka, the lady who checked out her grocery list in the supermarket three nights a week and the bus driver who brought her home each night. Nola looked at people without seeing them, and she was never aware of anyone looking at her.
But she was becoming acutely aware of herself. In the beginning she had been unable to understand her bizarre investment in her brother. One thing had followed another with such rapid, headlong succession that panic and near hysteria had been her only reactions. Her faith in ultimate victory had been her bulwark against insanity. But now, there were times when she could not even define ultimate victory.
Terrible fantasies afflicted her, one brought on by the fact that the mailman thought she and Johnny were married because the few bits of mail they received came under a single name, Banner. With what she thought was sensible logic, she weighed the matter. Of course, she loved Johnny, but it was a peculiar, one-sided, sisterly love, except for the fact that she had learned to fuck him back, even when he was in one of his cruel moods. She could, by drinking some and closing her eyes to his face or his hands, imagine all sorts ol weird things. She tested herself by trying to masturbate in an effort to experience those delectable moments of pure passion, but after some moments passed, she lay in her bed, weeping at the inadequacy, the sense of loneliness. She felt doubly trapped, first by the massive sickness of her brother which had sunk her into a nearly inescapable morass, and then by her own inability to control her physical responses.
Secretly, she bought some books about sex and morbid psychology. These she read going to and coming from work or at lunch time, plain paper wrappers covering the book titles. All she learned was that all forms of mental and sexaul gymnastics were possible, and probably admissable, providing one performed the incredible sex acts with a legally and morally constituted partner. The sum total of her reading was almost too much to bear. The passages and illustrations made her cunt twitch and her tits become hard, and at these times, all she could think about was Johnny's huge, insatiable cock.
Gradually, she began to admit to herself that she liked to be twisted and turned and fucked until she was raw. She knew better than to show Johnny her physical reactions, because if he thought she was even slightly responsive, he became enraged and brutal. He wanted her passive and suffering; she learned to have her orgasms with no muscular contractions whatever, and she preferred the times he bent her over a chair and fucked her from the rear. She could hide her facial contortions and mask her cum by timing it with his thrustings.
The massive problem, no matter the small delights and little pains, was that she could not reach Johnny. Any attempt to talk seriously about anything, their living conditions, the past or the war that had crippled him, wound up being nothing more than acid exchanges of obscenities and ridicule. Twice she tried to bring up their childhood, and he slapped her senseless for mentioning their deceased parents. While she lay bruised and weeping on the floor, he tore her slacks off and fucked her in the ass with a dry prick and finished his rage by pouring a half can of beer on her bare bottom. Thirty minutes later, he turned off a basketball game so she could see one of her favorite musical programs on television.
Buffeted by these furies and rejections and vacillating moods, Nola had learned to live by the hour, so dedicated to the strange and unpredictable animal that was her brother, she could not relinquish even one of his insanities.
CHAPTER FOUR
He walked across the room, pivoted and walked back, then he stood in front of Nola and did a quick, shuffling dance.
"Oh, Johnny, that's wonderful!" Nola cried. "No more cane! Oh if only those terrible scars on the back of your legs would fade away, you'd be as good as new!"
The grin on his face stiffened. "Now, you know a fucking sight better than that, sis," he growled. "Anyway, you can stop bitching about the cane marks in the carpet!'
"It's wonderful, Johnny!" she insisted, and before she realized what she was doing, her arms went around his neck, and she kissed his cheek. She was deliriously happy for several reasons. Now that he could walk without the cane or even a marked limp, he might even go out past the front gate. She had suggested it a number of times but he had always growled a negative about being a flat wheel.
"I've been practicing," he said, laying one big arm over her shoulders.
"You're getting well, you're getting well!" she breathed.
He chuckled. "You ever think I wouldn't?"
"No, Johnny, no! I've always known you'd get well. It was just that it seemed so very long!"
She started to move away to fix their Sunday breakfast, but his arm tightened, and he crushed her to his chest. She heard the telltale rush of breath through his nostrils, and the fingers around her shoulder became suddenly painful. She looked up at him, apprehensive, as she always became when his unpredictable desires enlivened. "Johnny, we-we've got to talk," she murmured.
He hunched down, and his lips came hard and hot on her neck. "Talk?" he mumbled against the soft white flesh. His hips lurched, and Nola felt the rigidity of his cock through the folds of his house-robe. She hadn't been sure of what they could talk about, but she knew it did not matter. His left hand was slipping over the sateen sleekness of her buttock and his mouth was waxing greedy at her throat. Sex at nine o'clock in the morning wasn't new, but it somehow didn't seem appropriate on this revelation day. And it wouldn't be gentle nor even slightly pleasant, she thought. Nice things only enraged Johnny, as if they represented a form of mockery he could not tolerate. Now he swung her around and pulled her to the sofa. She was a little surprised at how very steady his stance and movements seemed. But then, he had admitted practicing without the cane. He pulled her across his lap and opened her housecoat. As he ruffled her tits, she let her arm tighten slightly across his back.
"Like a cow," he agreed. "The Viet wogs keep their cows fresh by fucking them with a stick about once a month. That's all I have. A stick!"
"No, Johnny! Oh, if you'd just quit thinking about it-quit hating! Darling, there's so much in life-without children! Oh, I'm sure if you'd just try, just relax-"
"Maybe I'd grow a new set of balls?" he demanded. Then he laughed, and his hand went down under the frill of her shortie nightgown and his fingers, three huge, hard, curled hooks, dug into her cunt. She gasped, then her legs moved out to ease the pain, and he hurt her vagina with his strength, hooking as if to tear her pelvic bone out and up. Her head snapped back as the agony shot up and through her belly. He pinched the always swollen labia and dug with a fingernail at her clitoris as if it were a scab to be removed. Writhing and panting, Nola cried inside. She dared not protest, somehow, did not want to. If torturing her gave him pleasure, she had not the will to refuse his brutality nor the courage to withstand his violence without enacting the agony he wanted from her.
Between pains, words shot through her mind-sadist, masochist, brute, madman-and equally, madwoman. She saw them as characters jerked from the most tragic of Greek tragedies; a beautiful girl lying in the cradle of her brother's arm while he abused her flesh and wounded her most private parts. Then the pain became too great and she rolled against him, moaning.
"Johnny, no, Johnny! You're k-killing me!" she wailed.
He pushed her off of his lap, and she hit the floor with a thud. Leaning, he stared down at her half-naked body, writhing on the carpet. His face was drawn with hate, but she knew it was not for her. Catching her breath, she raised a hand to one of his. He seized her wrist and thrust her hand in the front of his robe. Her fingers closed around the pole-like form of his cock, and for Nola many things changed.
She frigged him slowly, letting her mind revolve around the hard throbbing, the pulsing length that seemed to grow in her hand.
Laboriously and without interrupting her expert caress, she came to a sitting position between his knees. He sat hunched forward, his eyes turned the smoky gray-blue she had come to recognize as one of his most dangerously distant signals. She had never known where his mind went while she fondled and sucked his penis, and she supposed the same smoke occurred when he fucked her. Sometimes he would go on and on through one of his juiceless cums, only to end with a snarl and generally a fresh bruise on her soft flesh. Now she knelt up and began to jack him off, her thumb riding the top of his cock, her four fingers sliding along the thick urethral tube, from the flap of his scrotum to the soft rounds of his under glans. Her other hand crept up and lay lightly against his face, and as her own excitement grew, she leaned forward and kissed his mouth.
Caught in the mire of her own sensualism, she began to shrug off her housecoat, one shoulder at a time. When it lay on her back-bended legs, she dragged up her shortie gown and tucked the filmy hem under the press of her throbbing tits. Not once during this denuding did her fingers abandon his white-hot prick. She shuffled her knees apart until her cunt hung down, partially open amid the bushed thickness of her crotch hair. The odor of her cunt-she often bathed without washing it because Johnny liked the smell of her-came up and it was as heady to Nola as it was to Johnny. Still not seeing her, he reached down and curled his middle finger into her vagina, gentle now, searching petting, sloshing the hot flesh wetted by her pumping glands. She fucked the finger, matching the undulations of her hips to the intensifying stroke of her firm fingers.
"Johnny, Johnny!" she breathed. "Oh baby, fuck me now! Fuck me until I scream with pain and can't stand it another second!"
Suddenly he stood up out of her grasp. His cock thrust out from his hairy groin in vicious stiffness. Looking down at her, he dragged the long sash from his robe, snapping the tassle fringe as he dragged the band of cloth through his left fist. Then he moved like lightning and his right hand caught her wrist, pushed it to the other, and with the speed of a rodeo performer, he bound her two hands together, tying the wrists so tightly the throb in her hands was instantaneous.
"What-Johnny, what are you going to do to me?" she cried.
He dragged her. Once she tried to turn and get her feet under her, but he jerked her and she spun, her bottom riding hotly on the rug. At the door to the kitchen, he stooped and lifted her, throwing the end of the sash over the seven foot door. The loose end he tied around the door knob on the other side of the door. To obtain enough sash for the knot, he hoisted her feet a full six inches off the floor. When he let go of her, she hung like a slaughtered pig, her shoulders nearly pulled from their sockets, her back a smooth ripple of distended muscles. He spun her back to the door, and as she cried, her tits lifted, parted and jiggling with the struggles of her agonized body.
"Johnny, Johnny!" she pleaded.
He cursed her in Annamese. His eyes had gone almost totally gray: his mouth was like a slash in a granite block. She knew where his mind was then. It had happened before but never with the violence of now. He had skipped back and back and was once more in the jungles of Indochina. He had never once talked about the war nor himself, but in moments of sheer hate he had often cursed and blurted obscenities about the Cong. And as she stared at him, her body stretched to almost unbearable distension, she knew who she was. She was a dark-skinned Viet, a village whore, a wife and perhaps a mother of uncounted Congs. Her eyes widened with pure fear; he was taking off his robe, and his hands shook with rage. He leaned and snapped some Annamese words at her. She had no idea what he demanded, nor could she reply. Desperately, she put her heels to the door and found a tiny ledge where the panels ended. It wasn't much but it took a slight pressure off of her shoulder joints and she could draw a full breath. Sensing how near to death she was, Nola's mind worked furiously.
"That's all, Sergeant Banner," she said. "Take her down!"
He turned his head a bit and his mouth worked. "Fuck you, lieutenant! This cunt knows were they have the mortars planted, and I mean to get it out of her ass!"
"Johnny-"
He stepped forward and clutched straight into her cunt. His fingers skidded slightly, then gripped flesh and hair. His hand twisted and pulled, and her ass came away from the door a full foot as she screamed and kicked out at him. He laughed. "Look at her piss, lieutenant!"
Held so, Nola had no power. She urinated through his hand, and the desperate flow dropped noisily to the dinette floor. She couldn't think; she couldn't scream. It seemed as if her entire crotch was clamped in the bite of a giant clam. Then his grip slipped, wetted by her helpless ablution. Right and left he spanked his hand dry across her tits, and this pain was even worse than the first. Wailing now, unable to plead nor form coherent words, Nola closed her eyes and tried to die. He was laughing now, his frenzy building to some peak. Once more she tried to find the molding ledge but her own mine had splashed and trickled and the heels of her bedroom slippers were as slippery as if they'd been greased.
Suddenly he seized her ankles and raised her legs up, folding them almost to her tits. He shuffled a step forward, then sent his prick deep into her piss-wetted cunt. It hurt, every inch of its lunging, but his lift of her feet eased the strain on her back and shoulders. He crushed against her, breathing madly, spreading his heat around her like a smothering blanket. He fucked up, not in, and each hunch of his powerful hips hung her weight on the thin sleeve of her vagina. He turned, twisted, as if trying to drive his cock through her flesh at unnatural angles. He spread her legs, and her toes touched the door above shoulder level. Then he pushed his head forward and bit her nose. She felt the skin break and she screamed. He opened his bite and spat into her face, saliva and blood blurred her left eye.
She prayed for his cum; no matter his durability. Like a normal man, so had her books said, there had to be an interval between coitus. He might let her hang, release her ankles and let her suffer in peace. Then he dropped her ankles onto his shoulders, and his hands went down and under her sharply folded ass. His fingers dug, pulling her buttocks apart until she thought the skin would tear. His cock went out of her cunt and came raging back, entering her stretched anus with a rush. The angle was wrong and she felt her rectum tear and her bowel displace as his prick, rigid and burgeoning, coursed up and up. Her shoulders hurt so terribly she couldn't raise her head. His face was close, in his lunging his forehead bumped hers, knocking her head back against the oak door. His cock beat in and up, slamming her ass to the panels and the small ache in her belly turned to a gigantic agony. In vain she tried to feel, tried to find one sensation in her grotesquely-raped asshole to compensate for the pain. Her cunt was numb, battered to insensitivity, her ability to twist and arrange herself to his furious sodomy was dead. Then she heard him begin to grunt and with any remaining strength Nola had, she gritted her teeth and lapsed into tortured waiting. His orgasm was hard and quick. He staggered as his legs relaxed. Her heels dropped, sliding down his sweat-moist torso, and from her ruptured rectum came foul and well-churned excretia. Nola closed her eyes and tried to die again.
She awakened in the bathtub, the water was cold, and it lapped at her chin because her head was down. Her first thought was that he had finished his fury by trying to drown her. Then she saw the milky color of the water, and her groping hand found the half-melted bar of soap on the tub bottom. Her skin below the water level was wrinkled, and coarse. It was sometime after mid-day, by the weak sun coming through the bathroom window. She graoned and sat up, feeling every strained muscle in her body. The sash lay on the floor in three segments. He hadn't been able to untie the knots around her wrists, pulled iron-hard by her struggling weight, so he had cut the cloth bond. Wracked with agony, Nola automatically pulled the rubber plug from the drain. Somehow the gurgle of draining water was comforting. She shivered as the lowering water exposed her wet skin to the air. When the tub was nearly empty, she replaced the plug, and with a trembling hand, turned on the hot and cold to mix a stream of warming water. As the warmth attacked her chilled body, her head began to function.
What had she done, she wondered, that had set him off? She tried to remember. He had been cruel, and she had tried to direct his temper by playing with his cock, then there had been a minute or two of sweet quiet, of syrupy sensualism and monstrous shame; Nola remembered her wail of passion "-fuck me now! Fuck me until I scream with pain and can't stand it another second!"
A word, a cry, a split second of unknown meaning had turned him into a raging maniac. Even now her shoulders would not work too well. She petted her bruised cunt and felt of her lacerated anus. What had happened after she had fainted, she did not know. But there were red marks on her tits and belly, and a bruise along her ribs. Horrible, hideous, unbelievable. But when he had wearied, he had put her into a probably warm tub of water, as if he understood how terribly he had hurt her. Once the beast had fled, the man had been quick to return. Nola started to cry, her love for Johnny was almost too overwhelming to bear. Then she heard a sound at the door, and it was he.
"You okay, sis?" he asked, smiling, as if she'd only had one too many vodkas. He was fully dressed, and his beautiful hair was brushed.
She nodded. "Start a pot of coffee, Johnny. I'll be there in a minute."
"I had to fuck up that sash," he said. "I guess I tied you up with the wrong kind of knot."
Again she nodded. That was the thing; he always remembered every detail of his maniacal lapses. And like now he seemed to think she had enjoyed his tortures as much as he had enjoyed creating them. She sighed as he went to the kitchen. She had some material, and a little later, when her fingers regained their agility, she'd sew up a new sash. As she climbed from the tub and began to towel her throbbing, aching body, she decided she was hungry. Maybe he'd start the bacon frying, too.
Going to the kitchen, she hesitated to stare at the door from which he'd hung her. And as she remembered now, she was abruptly flooded with unreasonable emotion. He had put her in the tub, but he had also cleaned the dinette floor where she had fouled it in distress. When she entered the kitchen where the first sizzle and smell of bacon was coming from the pan, he turned and laid his arm over her shoulders.
"Take over," he said. "There's a ball game on the TV in thirty minutes."
"I'll bet a buck on the Giants," she said, turning the bacon.
"My sis. Hot pants for every loser she can find!"
He walked six blocks toward town before he boarded the bus. He moved steadily and without limping to a seat halfway to the rear. There were people, men and women, and outside the houses and cars and more people of Cranden went about their affairs as if he did not exist. He didn't exist. He was a fragment, a leftover, a ballless hulk of compacted hamburger. He sat down and looked at the back of a woman's neck two seats forward. Stupid fucking cunt, he thought. Her hat would have been a good hen's nest, upside down. Her hair was dyed, he was sure. Red hair, black cunt with droopy lips, and below, a dirty asshole. He looked out the bus window at the beginnings of downtown Cranden. Stores with furniture, clothes and bicycles. He saw a little girl with a short skirt and long straight blonde hair. His cock jerked.
If he could get his prick in her, she'd never like another man, balls or not. Like the blonde cunt back of the house. She'd liked his cock ... until he tried to shove it up her daughter's ass. His breath speeded. There was something about the feel of firm young flesh that was like nothing else in the world. There was something about the way they cried and squirmed and kicked that excited him. Baby-raper. He chuckled soundlessly. After the mill they'd put him through, he had a right to go any way that pleased him.
He wasn't sure what pleased him. Sometimes, when he tried to think ahead too much, he became dizzy. It was better to just do what occurred to him and not worry about what came next because something always did. Suddenly he got up and left the bus with some other people. His legs worked fine, and he was sure no one knew how cut up they were.
He didn't think much about Cranden, nor much about Idaho. The sun was warm and the air clear. The shop windows weren't very interesting until he came to a special one. It was a toy shop. One window was full of dolls in frilly dresses, and there were little tea sets in cardboard boxes. The other window was full of ... Johnny stood staring at the plastic guns and the green war toys. They were very realistic, and he squinted his eyes at a rocket launcher. There were helmets and machine guns and little jeeps with mounted fifty-caliber machine guns. Then he saw the mortar. It stood about a foot high, and the two-inch muzzle was beautifully supported on perfect replicas of deadly hardware. There was a rack beside it with toy shells. The sale sign said the mortar spring would throw the toy missiles fifty feet. Johnny's eyes blurred and his temper choked in his throat. And where, he thought angrily, do they sell the little fuckers a new set of legs or a sheet of skin for a back or a set of balls'?
He walked to a corner and turned, not seeing too clearly. The store fronts thinned and became smaller. One-horse town, forty steps off the main drag and you were in the sticks.
Then from a small building set by itself in a rather overgrown lot a woman came out and went to the awning crank. Johnny slowed as she began to wind down a rather frayed canvas overhang. She was slim and not too young. Her hair was cut short, showing a slightly corded neck. A not-much broad in a skirt and blouse but there was a certain excitement to the strain of her arms as she twisted the crank. Satisfied, she rubbed her palms together and looked both ways on the deserted street. Then she entered the store. When he got there, Johnny turned in after her, hardly seeing the buttons and patterns and balls of yarn in the small front windows. It was cool and dusky inside. He closed the door behind him and walked to where the woman stood at the end of a short counter.
"Good afternoon," she said. "May I help you?"
There seemed to be a small back room but he sensed no other person in the building. On the counter there was a rack of colored zippers, at twenty-nine cents a plastic sack. He pointed.
"I need a black one of those," he said.
"Oh, isn't there one in the rack? Dear me! They sell so fast. Wait a moment, I have some stock here." She turned and fingered across the face of several boxes on the shelves behind the counter.
She reached up with both hands for one and Johnny hit her just above the kidneys. She seemed to collapse in segments, settling to the floor in an angular heap. He went to the front door and set the heavy night lock, then he turned the dangling sign from Open to Closed. After that he dragged the woman, face down, arms trailing, into the small back room. The feel of her ankles in his hands was good. His cock began to thicken. In the room was a cot, a sewing machine, several dress racks and some storage shelves.
He knelt and finished raising her skirt. She had thin legs and a small round ass. He pulled her panties down and put his fingers between the cheeks, feeling the heat of her body in the snugness of her crotch. Her cunt was a tight slot in deep black hair.
He spread the resistless labia and felt for the hot wet. It was hot but not squishily wet like he preferred a cunt. She stirred as he fingered in her vagina. He slipped off his left shoe and brought it down on the back of her head with tremendous force. The thud brought his prick on up, and he watched her flatten out on the floor in limp surrender. He put his shoe back on and opened his fly. His cock was quickly taken out and he stood over her, stroking it with building pleasure.
He disregarded the cot and picked the body up to drape it over a table partially covered with dress patterns and oddly cut pieces of orange cloth. The woman's legs hung long and lean, the feet turned as if the ankles were broken. Her ass looked better, he thought, up and half bent. He had to squat slightly, but getting his prick into her cunt was quick and satisfying. He fucked a little, lossening and wetting the dewlaps. Then he unzipped the back of her dress and found the brassiere snaps. There was a round mole on one shoulder blade. He slipped his hands under her slender chest and felt the small soft tits. They were loose and the nipples were big. He just held her and fucked, ignoring how the puffed and blood-filled head of his prick snubbed up into her inadequate depths. Every few strokes, he reset his feet to ease the strain on his legs. The smell of her disturbed sex was good, and his prick seemed to expand to twice its normal size.
Then his fingers around her chest became sensitive. He pressed the tips half through the ungirlish tits and a chuckle escaped his slavering mouth. She was dead, he knew, because there was not heartbeat under his left hand. He had instant orgasm, rutting, grunting and hating the woman for giving up so easily. He pulled his cock out of her and grinned at the way her cunt remained open. Like the tube of the toy rocket, gaping, ready for some fucking little bastard to drop in a plastic shell, guaranteed to pop back out and sail fifty feet.
As he always did, Johnny stripped out his prick two or three times with nearly bruising fingers, but not a spot of moisture rewarded his efforts. His prick was slick and sticky from her cunt. He wiped it on her skirt and stuffed it back into his trousers.
"What a lousy bitch," he said aloud. "Couldn't hustle a fuck in a U.S.O. latrine. Shit."
He went to a door and opened it cautiously. It opened out onto a weed-grown yard. Beside the door were some cardboard boxes and a garbage can. Then he saw what looked to be an abandoned well. It had a low stone rim and some weather-beaten posts marked the place where a short rope was tied on a crossbar, ends frayed. He looked around, and the nearest building had a brick wall with no windows on his side. He stooped and went out to the well. The plank cover was half rotten. He moved it and looked down many feet into black nothing. The fetid odor of sour earth drifted up. He spat down and heard no sound of receiving water.
He carried her body out and dropped it headfirst into the blackness, panting with sudden excitement as the sound of her body hitting the bottom came as a hollow crunching thud. He replaced the well cover and went on to the back of the lot. There he stepped over a failing fence and headed back toward town on an unpaved alley. He felt good, but he was disappointed. Her skinny ass had been a nothing fuck, but he could still hear the way her body had hit the bottom of the well.
He was drinking beer and watching television when Nola came home. Now, he thought, there is a real ass, but he didn't go after her. While she was making him his usual Vodka and water, he went to the bathroom. Standing in a constricting curl, he worked his swollen foreskin and inhaled the odor of the dead woman's cunt with great savor. He remembered how her back had sagged when he'd hit her, and he could still hear the crunching thud. He urinated copiously, chuckling at the tingle of his urethral eye. Bumped it right against the underside of her fucking stomach, he mused. The best fuck she'd probably ever had, and she hadn't felt a thing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Nola stared at Johnny as if he'd grown two noses. He sat, stirring his coffee, a strange relaxation softening his face.
"I didn't know you even knew I wore clothes," she said.
"Aw, come on, sis! Anyway, since my legs got better and I've been taking little walks I see people. Why don't you go downtown-wherever town-is-and get yourself some new clothes. There's money, and I don't think you've bought a new dress since we left 'Frisco, have you?"
"No, Johnny. But I have clothes. I don't need new dresses. We n-never go anywhere."
"That's got to change, too," he said with an exaggerated wink. "Hell, I haven't seen a goddamned movie since I left the hospital. You buy a new dress, and we'll go to a show before you cut the price tag off. Would you like that, sis?"
Her mouth dropped open in shock, then a small smile broadened her lips. "Oh, Johnny, yes, yes, yes!"
"Say no more, kiddo," he told her. "It's about time we came back to life."
Clearing the table, she dropped a plate. Her mind was like a summer cyclone, twirling, flitting, unable to rest. She wanted to jump up and down and cry; she had not quite the courage to say it had happened, but she was sure it had at last begun to happen. She moved to the dinette and peeked in at her brother. He was sitting quietly, reading the Cranden Bulletin. She began to count the things.
He hadn't laid a hand on her since she'd come home from work. He had asked her quietly, with a smile, for his vodka. He had smacked his lips over the small filet mignons, which had cost a dollar and forty cents apiece. Then had come the bombshell about the age and seediness of her clothes. And before she had even begun to recover, he had mentioned the theater, his words about "coming to life" still echoed in her ears. Nola began to cry, but from happiness, not sorrow.
Well, of course, she thought. All along she had carried it in her mind that it would happen suddenly. But anything different would be suddenly. Perhaps he wasn't completely cured, but he was on his way. His legs were fine now, she was certain. And obviously his tremendous recuperative powers were now concentrated on his mind. A rush of plans came to her brain and she told herself, no, no. Let him find his own way back into normal levels. To push him or to attempt to guide him might well cause him to revert. She giggled through her tears. Her Johnny was getting well, and she had won.
She did not count what she had lost because with him climbing out of the swamp in which he had so long wallowed, she had not lost anything. But, she assured herself, she would have to be careful. She had been fooled before by a seeming spell of normalcy, only to have him exhibit a vicious, lustful inversion, more terrible than the last. But her hope lay now, not in his pleasantness, but in the awareness of her and their hermit-like life. Never before had he even mentioned expanding their existence. She had a gleeful image of herself on Johnny's arm, entering the lobby of a theater. He was so tall and handsome, and people would stare. They'd sit together, both eating popcorn out of the same box and they'd murmur about the movie and maybe laugh together. Her brother was getting well. He was beginning to think like other men, like she remembered him before Vietnam.
And this thought gave her slight pause, a moment of premature apprehension. When he was well, what would she do? She saw herself alone, with Johnny gone off about his own life. Even now, as happy as she was, her belly felt empty and abandoned, and her tits ached for hard fingers and tweaks of pain. She would have to learn how to talk to men all over again. She would have to learn to say no, even though she lay quivering and desiring in a man's embrace. Nola quivered.
She saw herself in wild embrace with a faceless man. She felt his hand on her big, excitable tits, and one low on her back, maybe even to the rounds of her ass. She would squirm in protest, and the low hand might get under her skirt, creep up her thigh and send its fingers to any one of her private places. Could she lie with a rigid cock against her belly and not be forced to unearth it from a man's trousers? Would it be possible to deny fingertips creeping over her flesh to find her pulsating clitoris in the high wet press of her cunt?
Suddenly Nola found herself breathless, leaning over the sink, her tits hanging weightily, her hips softly writhing. She felt wet between the legs and hot behind. She opened the vodka bottle and took a short straight drink from the neck. The shape of the bottle in her mouth increased her panic. She pursed her lips and swallowed. The liquor hit her belly like a bomb and she turned, her eyes trying to see through the walls to where Johnny sat. For a moment, she was tempted to strip naked in the kitchen and rush in to plump her trembling body across his lap. A moan of agony escaped her lips.
Somewhere along the way, she had become two women. One was now elated over the nearness of victory, the other squirmed with lust, as compelling as the need for breath. Nola clenched her fists and hung on. She had saved Johnny, but he had destroyed her. No matter. Until the job was done and he was once more a man among men, she had neither the right nor the real desire to think about herself. Later she would set about repairing Nola Banner's life. For now, act as if what he did or did not do was exactly right. And be careful, Nola, be very, very careful.
For a moment she thought her heart was going to break, then she stroked her hair with the stiff brush and fought for calm. In the mirror she could see Johnny at the door, his naked body a magnificent thing in the subdued light of her bedroom. His prick was up, but not fiercely. It hung out in a heavy arc, the scarlet head half-covered by the ample foreskin. It had been too much to hope for, she told herself, but in any case, he seemed calm and unfrenzied. Perhaps it was habit. He had fucked her once, and sometimes twice, every day for months; like her own quivering, revolted sex, his probably demanded relief.
"I thought you said good night," she murmured.
"I know. I was in bed and got to thinking."
Nola tensed. She had never heard him qualify his lust before. Four hours before she had told herself to act as if what he did or did not do was exactly right. She put the hairbrush on her dresser, and with a swift, animated movement, shrugged her filmy nightgown up over her smoothly-brushed hair. She looked at Johnny in the mirror and at her own nakedness. She hated her huge, almost grotesquely out-thrust tits, yet she loved to have them rolled and tip-sucked and lightly bruised. She saw how her belly flexed with each breath, and she felt every nerve and organ in the flat loveliness. Because of the light, only the top fringe of her pubic hair showed. Then he was moving to her and she stood, waiting for obscenities and sweet relief from the hungriness of her cunt. His arms closed around her, and his big palms filled with her tits. His prick lay down, pressed into straining in the soft valley of her ass cheeks. Be careful, Nola, very, very careful.
"Are you sure you want me tonight, Johnny?"
"I'm sure."
"I thought-you didn't touch me like you usually do."
"Do you hate me for what I do to you, sis?"
She sighed. "N-no, Johnny. I couldn't hate you no matter what you did. Not in the beginning, but I guess I need you now as much as you need me," she decided to say.
His chuckle was deep, almost an animal growl but not an angry animal. He moved his body and his cock heated her bottom with its friction. His hands were pulling at her tits but not with their usual disregard for her sensitivity. In sudden, private distress, she tipped her head back onto his shoulder. She wanted him to kiss her, but kissing was something he seldom did unless his mind had already decided to hurt her. He kissed her now, wiping a moist caress along her temple. "Ohhh," she breathed through open lips.
His right hand dropped downward, smoothing her flesh until it curled under the tip of her belly. She twitched as his fingertip found her stiffened clitoris, and briefly she was afraid. Then the sublte, rubbing came, and it was a lover's touch. Lost in delighted amazement, Nola leaned back while Johnny adeptly finger-fucked her, not deep, not roughly, but with a skill and deliberation she did not know he possessed. Nola shuffled her slippered feet apart and arched to his manipulations. The momentary shadow of defeat she'd known when she'd seen him at her back now faded. There was a difference in him. Even his skin felt softer and warmer to her back and while she could hear his breath, it did not have the furious hiss she knew so well.
Slowly, she let her hand creep back between them, and with a small twisting hunch, she freed his cock from the greedy crease of her ass and caught it in eager fingers as it bounded up. He maintained the space between them so she could frig him tenderly, and as the huge shaft filled her hand, she began to pant with building excitement. His finger in her quim was maddeningly marvelous, and she let her hips wander in lazy urging to his caress. She wanted desperately to be fucked, but the sweetness of this new ecstasy was too wonderful to stop. She thrilled anew as Johnny fucked up gently into her awkwardly twisted hand, letting the head of his thundering cock bump in the small of her back. Suddenly, she wanted to be a foot taller so she could tuck his prick right up her asshole and go on like that forever, feeling his pole sliding and rippling, while his finger fired her cunt to impossible heat.
"Oh, Johnny, Johnny!" she moaned. "It's so ... so wonderful!"
His lips moved against her hair. "You dirty, rotten, fucking slut, you prick-loving bitch!"
"Yes, Johnny!"
Chuckling, he swung her around and carried her to the bed. The blow she expected did not come, and he surprised her again. As she sprawled, he went to his knees, and uttering a low growl, his face went into her open crotch with hard insistence. She felt his lips on her juiced vulva, and his tongue licked firmly at her clitoris. Supported on her elbows, Nola stared at his bobbing, pressing head. He had never before done this, and as his tongue and salivating revived the acute passions his finger had begun, she controlled the urge to protest. Why, she did not know, but this weird and wonderful kissing did not seem quite manly to her unsophisticated mind, then she controlled herself, accepting the exquisite caress as part of Johnny's new mind. And within seconds her eyes closed and she began to roll and lift her hips to the devastating friction. He seemed like a hungry animal, but not vicious. She heard him swallow the fresh flow of her cunt fluids, and his hands, now pressing her inner thighs wide apart, worked excitedly.
"Johnny! It's going to m-make me c-cum!" she panted. "Oh God! Johnny, don't stop, don't stop! Oh Jesus, Johnny, I'm c-cumming!"
Her head fell back, straining her throat. Her mouth opened, sucked in air, expelled it in gusts and sucked in again, and the streaks of gouging ecstasy were almost more than she could bear. For a few moments while he licked the lips of her cunt and kissed the throbbing clitoris, she lay as if clubbed. Then she opened her eyes and he was standing over her, his prick so stiff it stood nearly straight up. With a cry of need, she sat up and took it in her mouth, letting the head float on her tongue as she vibrated her lips around the sleek, hard shaft. It had a strong taste, as if it had just been plunging in her cunt, but she was so unnerved with desire she paid no attention. After a minute, she ceased to fear the smash of his palm to her head, or perhaps his knee swiftly raised to her solar plexus, as he had done several times. He had never minded her sucking and mouthing, but under her eyes and his, his inability to complete the orgasm by flooding her throat induced anger. Now, although she wanted the flavor and filling of his prick, she remembered that tonight was not like other nights. And when her hands on his thick thighs felt the tensing and his cock jerked, she gave a cry and fell back on the bed, drawing her legs up and kicking her heels out. But he didn't fall onto her and finish his fuck in her quaking cunt. He fell beside her and rolled her into his embrace, fitting her over him, his cock lying stiff and hot and wet between her spraddled nates. Crazy with passion and shaken with the nonsexual joy of his strange pacification, Nola reached back and placed the head of his cock to her asshole. Maybe for the first time, she thought, she could test this erotic intrusion for delight and satisfaction. He had fucked her in the ass many times, but always with such brutal ruthlessness, the weak-ly hovering suspicion of possible pleasure had been frightened away by pain and lacerating force.
Now she raised her ass and held his cock and then, with gasps and squeals of anticipation, lowered her posterior, using her own saliva as a lubricant. He chuckled and screwed his hips, and Nola closed her eyes, concentrated on relaxation. When his prick passed the sphincter and triggered her softening, she had to fight to keep from urinating on his chest. Then he held her and forced his penis up and up, and with a small shriek of insane need, she sat, hard. The huge prick in her bowel seemed to be made of red hot steel. She folded forward, grinding her tits to his hairy chest, her lips to his. He curled his spine and sent his cock deeper, then with a rolling undulation, he fucked her to quick orgasm, and she did not let him know. In the half-minute of clarity following her violent cum, she felt her butt seem to split, the flesh distended to impossible circling. She rubbed her cunt on the hirsute mound of his pelvis and she groaned with ecstasy, trying to expel his prick like a gigantic turd and inhale it like a breath of solid air. The fire around her anus was unbearable, the feeling of raw sex was exquisite, and most wonderful was the sense of being opened, filled, pummeled and rammed. Her fingers clawed at his shoulders, pleading, harder, deeper, thicker, and she screwed herself down and around with spastic fury. Abruptly, his ass came up off the bed and Nola snapped erect, sitting high above him, impaled upon his thumping, urging penis. She felt a familiar ache high in her belly; before it had been frightening because the head of his cock had seemed to be too huge, too deep, too close to vital wounding. Now she thrashed her arms and tossed her head and had a brain-chilling orgasm around the pains.
It came two days later, like a huge, steel-knuckled fist that sprang from the printed page to pulp her senses. Her name had been Agnes Tiller, and she had operated the small dressmaker's shop behind which her clubbed and raped body had been found. She had been a widow of thirty-eight and one of Cranden's most popular residents. Friends had missed her for two days-the shop had been closed and there had been no reason to suspect foul play, even if her absence was unusual. Then the gas company's meter reader had seen two rats trying to get into the abandoned well. He had approached and discovered the plank cover slightly out of place, and Agnes Tiller had been found.
Cranden was a case of mass hysteria. Two murders and two rapes in less than a month, and a little girl who still only screamed gibberish. No clues, neither a fingerprint nor a hint of who the sex fiend was. On and on, editorials decrying the laxity of mental institutions. Paragraphs of speculation about the evil man who haunted Cranden's streets. Warnings to women about locking doors or answering doorbells if they could see and did not know their visitor. Police promises, and an immediate increase of surveillance around schools and public places.
It had apparently happened three days before. Nola, her hands clenched around the newspaper, tried to remember. One, two, three, and a streak of agony went through her when she realized that while Agnes Tiller's body was turning cold at the bottom of a thirty-foot dry well, she, Nola Banner, had been experiencing the most joyful night of her life. Yesterday she had bought the dress. Tomorrow evening they were going to the theater. She had not a bruise on her body, and if their physical lovemaking had not stopped, it had sweetened and tenderized and become so acutely exquisite she could hardly believe her happiness.
Again she stared at the rather sterile photograph of Agnes Tiller. She was thin, badly-groomed, and her hair was cut like a boy's. She had been nearly forty, the town's most innocuously pathetic figure.
And that night Johnny had made such tender, consuming love, her senses had nearly departed. He had not said a rough or obscene word, except in the grip of overwhelming passion, and he had left her warm, thoroughly fucked and melting with love at his new attitude. Not Johnny, Nola said to herself. She repeated it twenty times during the afternoon, but when it came time to board the bus for home, she was still listing reasons it could not have been Johnny.
At the front door she hesitated, to steel herself against losing her composure. Then she entered. He was sitting in front of the television, a beer can balanced on the arm of his chair.
"Hi," she said.
"Enter, said the spider to the fly," he returned with a smile.
She tossed the afternoon paper to his lap. "Somebody did it again," she said. "Town's in an uproar."
"Yeah. Been getting it on the news since four o'clock. That guy, whoever he is, has certainly got the town terrorized."
"Poor dear. She didn't look like much, apparently. The man who killed her must have had a sour taste in his mouth."
He opened the paper and sipped his beer while he read the huge black headlines. Nola removed her little hat and her gloves, her eyes searching for even the slightest change of expression on Johnny's face.
"Oh," he said, looking up. "I peeled some potatoes. Mash 'em, huh? Pork chop gravy is the living end."
"You're a dear," she remarked. "I'm hungry as a goddamned wolf, that's what I am!"
"Vodka?"
"Yeah. Check came from the Veteran's Administration. We're fat. Hey, the guy really bounced that broad around, didn't he?"
"They'll lynch him if they ever catch him," Nola said.
"Probably the Methodist minister," Johnny said, and spatted her bottom as she headed for the kitchen and the vodka.
Not Johnny, Nola assure herself. He was getting well.
Some time toward morning, she awakened with a start. Again, she was warm and well fucked and her bottom was only a little smarting from the gleeful spanking he had given her for running out of vodka. Not Johnny. But if it was Johnny, what would she do?
And she started to cry, because no matter about two dead women and a hysterical child, no matter the fury of Cranden nor the name of the crimes, Johnny, so near to total recovery, had to have his chance. And she had to have hers. She had to know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that what she had suffered and what she had become was not a wasted breeze in the cottonwoods. She went back to sleep and had a bad dream.
CHAPTER SIX
One step inside the door Nola stopped, frozen with shock. Sitting at Johnny's knee was the biggest, blackest dog she had ever seen. He seemed to be laughing, but that was only because his massive jaws were open and his huge tongue lolled out in easy panting.
"My gosh!" she exclaimed.
"Hi. Meet Freddy. He answers better to 'hey you' or 'C'mere boy,' he has fleas and will probably eat us out of house and home. Go see the lady, Freddy. She's the chief cook and bottle washer for this bivouac, and if she doesn't like you, give up!"
The big dog got up, loomed even bigger. He came over and permitted Nola to pat his head. Then he licked her hand. "H-hello, Freddy," she managed. "Boy! Are you a moose!"
"I gave a guy ten bucks for him, including a leash."
"What kind of a dog is he, Johnny?"
"Company dog. Company for me all day. We went for a walk this afternoon. He chases sticks and thinks there's a rabbit in every bush. We get along fine."
"That's good, Johnny. You're alone too much. He just kind of surprised me, at first." And terrified me, she did not add. She took a few steps and Freddy followed close, his wet nose touching her hand, his huge shoulder leaning against her thigh when she stopped. Johnny grinned.
"He likes you," he decided. "Real man-type dog, that one. He laps up beer like a master sergeant."
"Is-is he housebroken, Johnny?"
"Better'n that. He won't wet a bush or leave a pile in his own yard. Sails over the front fence like a scared deer. What's for dinner?"
"Knockwurst and baked beans."
"Make a lot. Hey, boy. You like knockwurst and baked beans?"
While she poured two stiff vodkas, Freddy poked her bottom with his nose and sniffed at her skirt hem. Quivering with illogical fear, Nola carried the drinks in and gave one to her brother. She sat on the hassock, and Freddy lay down, covering her feet and the lower half of her calves. He was warm and she could feel his breathing.
In desperation, she patted his head testily. He sniffed and turned, wetting her hand from wrist to fingertips with his monstrous tongue. She would, she was sure, get used to him, and for no amount of money in the world would she have protested Johnny's right to a dog, or protested any right, because in the past few weeks, he had improved steadily. She was sure he had, even though their skin to skin relations had not lessened nor changed.
Even Freddy was an example of Johnny's broadening interests, she thought. With a dog, one had to extend a hand and exchange emotions. Johnny had not yet shown any lasting curiosity about things outside his immediate world, but that would come. He was not shy nor apprehensive in the presence of the few people they came in contact with, at the little sandwich shop they stopped in after the theater, or in the few stores he sometimes visited for socks or a book. He just seemed not to know they were people who wanted to be friendly. Now she was curious to know whether he had deliberately sought out the man who had sold him Freddy, or had he been some chance passerby during one of Johnny's daily walks. She didn't ask; lately he had been volunteering more information about his many hours of loneliness each day. Each night for some time, Nola would lie in the quiet night and list the things she counted as positive signs of Johnny's improvement. Freddy had to be one of them.
He was a quiet dog, at least seventy-five pounds past puppyhood. They talked about seeing to his shots for distemper and rabies, and about running some tests with commercial dog foods to see what suited him, and Nola promised to have a serious conference with the butcher about scraps and bones. Big bones. Further, it became obvious that Freddy was used to a house and people. When Nola finally got up to start dinner, he was right at her heels.
"Don't bother the cook, boy," Johnny told him, but Freddy didn't understand. When she tied on her little apron, he was standing, his ears half up, watching her. That wasn't good, Nola thought, because it was Johnny's dog and Johnny resented rejection in any form. But it was only the first day she philosophized, and Freddy would soon find out who his master was.
Getting dinner in the small kitchen wasn't easy, because every time she turned from the stove or the sink, Freddy stood like a giant. He was too big to push aside, so she walked around him. He smelled a little doggyish, and she had a vision of any single person trying to give the dog a bath.
She and Johnny had two knockwursts apiece and Freddy had five in five gulps, finished the baked beans, two pieces of buttered French bread and a half quart of milk. This, after standing by the kitchen table, his nose level with the table top, his eyes following every mouthful either of them took. He made funny dog-like sounds and was amusing, but Nola was glad when Johnny took him back to the living room with coffee. What cheered her most was the boyish, one-sided conversation she could hear while Johnny discussed the proper program to watch. He said things and asked Freddy questions, and Nola's heart began to sing at this abruptly revealed side of her brother's nature. The mood lasted the entire evening. After the eleven o'clock news, their normal time for retiring because Nola had a day of work ahead of her, Johnny was going to let Freddy out.
"I'd take him on the leash if I were you, Johnny. This is only his first day here. I don't think he'd get lost but he might try to go back to his former home or just take a half of a night's hike."
"Okay." Johnny went to the kitchen where the stout leash hung from a nail. He was a little late coming back, and when he did appear, he was carrying his cane. "I may need an anchor if he gets me off balance," he said. "We'll be back after a few minutes. You going to bed?"
"I think so, Johnny."
"Okay. Come on, boy. Let's go find us somebody's grass!"
She heard them come in. There had been no discussion about where Freddy was to sleep, but Nola had just supposed he would sleep by Johnny's bed, or on the fuzzy throw rug in front of the sofa, already a favorite place for dog-flopping. She felt very good about Freddy, even if his size and always slavering mouth did chill her insides.
Yet he was obviously good therapy for her brother. Johnny had had half his usual number of drinks, laughed and played with the dog, and had made none of his usual prepassion remarks to her. Now the house was quiet and she could almost see Johnny, lying with one big hand over the edge of the bed, his fingers tangled in the long ears of his new buddy. New interests, new outlooks and a new buddy. And someday, a new horizon, and perhaps, a new girl. At times Nola wanted it desperately for Johnny; at other times she quivered with personal fear at the thought of Johnny turning his eyes to another woman. She knew, however, that he would never be completely well until it happened.
Suddenly, she tensed. It came again, the short, insistent sniffing at the bottom of her door. Then a soft whine, and a moment later, the unmistakable scratch-scratch of a big dog paw. Quickly her first fear of Freddy resolved itself. He was a huge animal, and as she had entered the door that evening, he had been sitting by Johnny's knee. She had not only stared into his oddly laughing face but she had seen the rest of him in one quick appraisal. His cock had been gigantic, a hairy shape, not unlike a massive black cigar, bobbing as his panting shook his belly.
Now a dozen memories assaulted her. He had followed her at every step in the kitchen, tongue lolling, eyes alert. He had shown her his huge, slick, black balls many times as he turned or lapped at his pan of milk. During the evening, lying on the rug, he had always made sure his huge penis was lying free of his weight, where he could swipe at it with his tongue when the fancy struck. Perhaps, she had thought, it was only because with Johnny, she was constantly sex conscious, but now she realized that Freddy's gigantic cock had frightened her as much as had Johnny's prick that afternoon six months ago when he had approached her from behind in his wheelchair. She trembled.
He was at her door, sniffing her woman odor, scratching for admittance. He couldn't get in unless she opened the door, which she had no intention of doing. But the second fear was very real. Freddy was obviously going to be a permanent fixture in her life, and he was Johnny's dog. As confident as she had become about her brother getting well, she clung to bitter memories of his swift ability to change from sweet to frenzy. "No, no, Johnny wouldn't let him!" she breathed aloud. Then she clamped her palm over her mouth because Freddy whined a bit louder and scratched harder.
Nola slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom. Softly, she opened the door into Johnny's room. He was purring, soundly asleep. She glanced at his door to the hallway and it was closed. He had not wanted Freddy to sleep in his room. She backed out, closing the door and then her own door to the bathroom. After that, Nola stood staring at the door where Freddy still sniffed and scratched.
Maybe, she thought, he's still hungry. Perhaps he is only lonesome. It might even be possible he wanted to go out again. She tried to think of something she could do to quiet him short of opening her door. Finally she went back to bed and lay, quivering and afraid, more of the things she thought about than any certainty. After another thirty, terrified minutes, the sniffing and scratching ceased. For another hour she could not sleep because of a new horror.
If Johnny had been his usual self, and they had entered into their normal pattern of making love, stripped to their skins, if Freddy had been watching, his big nose sniffing the strong odor of sex, what could have happened? She hated herself for believing that her brother might well have been moved to further Freddy's uncanine interest. But the hideous fright would not subside. Finally she slept in exhaustion.
"Johnny, can't we go into my bedroom or at least shut him up in the kitchen?" Nola pleaded, turning her head so she could see Freddy lying on the fuzzy rug at their feet. She lay over Johnny, his cock a long, hard promise against her hip, his encircling hand feeling her tightly-squeezed buttocks. As much as she wanted to be fucked, she was sure that had his prick been the thickness of a pencil, she could not have relaxed her vagina enough to accept it. Her body seemed frozen with fear and behind and below her, Freddy's panting sounded like soft threatening laughter.
"Take it easy, sis," Johnny murmured in her ear. "He's only a dog. He doesn't know pussy from pianos! Relax, honey, forget him."
"But Johnny-"
She pressed her cheek to her brother's chest and tried to forget that Freddy was staring right up between her trembling legs. She let her hands wander over Johnny's muscled shoulders, and she began to writhe against his belly-feeling the way his prick moved and throbbed against her. The screaming fears she had known the night before while Freddy had scratched and sniffed at her door came back; they had never really left her and she had made fifty errors in her typing during the day, spasmodically jolted by some acute flash of inner vision.
Now Johnny was beginning to arrange her. He held her hips and pulled her higher as his own body snuggled lower, and she felt his cock nudge into her vulva, its bloated head like a baseball, spreading and nesting in the dry softness of her quim. Then it began its slow slipping. With an uncontrollable sigh of delight, Nola wriggled down onto the familiar heat and filling. Her clitoris, already swollen by his earlier petting, touched the hairy solidity of his pelvic mound and she came unzipped. Her knees went out and onto the sofa cushion to straddle and brace, and when Johnny's hand went back to her ass, molding and spreading the cheeks, she could not hold them tight. His middle finger found her anus and the pressure made her jerk down on him with instant frenzy. Life slowly returned to her tits, and they swelled between her chest and his like pneumatic globes, the nipples shrieking with pleasure at the hirsute rub from his hairy broadness. He began to fuck up into her with all the strength of his healed legs, and Nola moaned in building ecstasy and fucked back with all of her strength.
Gradually, the good mounted to a nearly unbearable peak, and although she remembered Freddy with a corner of her mind, she couldn't seem to care. The sofa squeaked its usual hymn of accompaniment, and the rush of breath through Johnny's nose was in sweet tempo. She was about to ask him to thrust his finger in her asshole when he did it in his own desire. Nola cooed; they were so perfect together now, so precisely atuned to each other's lust. The word in her mind had a different connotation than before. Lust. She screwed herself down on his prick, thrilled to the high throb of its plunged head, and then raised her ass in a shuddering jerk.
Best of all, when she felt orgasm tightening to leap, she could tell him now. "Ooh, Johnny! It's coming, its coming!" she husked.
He chuckled and did the several little twists they'd found always helped to finish her, and she strained her thighs apart to provide the tensions that helped him. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she whispered.
"Cum, you fucking bitch," he murmured back, and then she tumbled over the blue into the exploding void, her howl of ecstasy a small quavering death-wish as his prick thumped rhythmically in her convulsing quim. "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny!" she moaned, in total collapse. Then came the glee, the silly giggles, the laughter from him as they lay in fiery afterglow. His cock softened in her cunt, his finger departed her delightfully irritated asshole. She started to unload, and her hand slipped from the sofa cushion, tipping her lethargic body as she tumbled to the floor. Her bottom thudded to the carpet; more laughter.
And then Freddy stood up, and before Nola could gasp and twist, his nose was in her cunt and his tongue was lapping, hard, wet and rough in her crotch. "Oh, my God!" she shrieked and tried to scramble up. Johnny's hand, suddenly hard and gripping in her shoulder, hurled her back. "Johnny!"
"Aw, let him clean you up," he laughed. "Doesn't it feel good?"
Her legs snapped together, forcing Freddy's head up. She twisted, turning her ass to the dog, then realized how stupid that was. Her mind seemed stunned, her cunt still tingled from his brief assault. But when she tried to turn back up, Johnny's hand was too painful in her shoulder flesh. And Freddy's nose was quick to her ass, his tongue digging at the slightly soiled ringlet of her anus. "Oh, no, Johnny!"
He let go, laughing throatily now. Nola leaped to her feet, backing away from Freddy, who now stood sniffing and slapping his tongue in and out of his mouth as if the quick taste had been to his liking. Nola shuddered. His huge cock was hanging, but there was an inch of scarlet tip thrusting from the short-haired foreskin. With a cry of fright and agony, she wheeled and ran to her room. Through her terror a stark truth cut deep into her heart. Johnny had almost let Freddy take her. He had laughed at her distress and hurt her shoulder. Tears of fresh frustration coursed down her cheeks. All of her work, all of her hopes and the beginning taste of victory had nearly been ruined in ten terrifying seconds. Nola fell to the bed and cried furiously.
The sniffing and the scratching continued and Nola stood, both palms pressed to her ears, certain she was going out of her mind with fear. It didn't matter that Johnny had laughingly apologized. It made no difference that Freddy had paid little or no attention to her when she had returned to the living room wearing a protective panty girdle of tough elastic under a light, wool skirt. Now was now, and while Johnny slept like a man pole-axed, Freddy was again at her door. And tomorrow was followed by more tomorrows, in endless order. Nola lowered her hands and tried to think.
She could maybe poison Freddy. She had no gun, and the thought of trying to thrust a sharp carving knife into the huge, hairy throat was impossible. More terrible was the kind of rage Johnny would loose on her if he even suspected she had plotted Freddy's death. As she had in the beginning, Nola constructed weird and drastic schemes to correct what seemed to be an uncorrectable situation, and again, the answer was the same. Johnny was the important one, the sick one. It was he who needed protecting and encouraging. In just two days he had opened his ironclad heart to a big, responsive dog, his first real sign of affection for something or someone other than himself. With an audible sigh Nola swept plans for violence from her mind. No, she admitted, Freddy had to stay. What she had to do was figure out some protection for herself. Some clever something that would keep Freddy from her, especially when she was so completely and nakedly exposed in Johnny's arms. Something that would quiet the huge beast and prevent him from putting thoughts into Johnny's easily inspired mind.
It was a matter of odor and taste, she was sure. As Johnny had so brutally remarked, Freddy didn't know pussy from a piano. Perfume? She shuddered. Too much perfume or cologne made her latent hay fever active, and Johnny had often remarked the 'stink of a French whore.' Some secret formula-her skin crawled as she thought of annointing her body with advertised solutions that were guaranteed to keep cats and dogs from furniture, shrubbery and wherever else they weren't wanted.
Feed him something with his new dog food that would reduce or even destroy his natural urge for sex. She had heard saltpeter had that effect upon men, but she had no concept of what might work with big, energetic dogs. She might call a veterinarian and inquire about a drug or something. She sat down on the bed, entranced by the progression of ideas, not ignoring Freddy's presence at her door, but suddenly not so apprehensive. Her mind raced on.
If there was no drug to dull a dog's sex urge, there might be something like a salve or a fluid to use in secret that would make any physical sexual manifestation a painful, impossible thing to stand. This excited Nola and she tried to think of what was in the medicine chest that could be used. She thought of menthol salve but its odor would be revealing. Johnny was no fool. When her mind exhausted the medicine cabinet, she mentally moved to the kitchen. The spice rack, and her first thought was red pepper. She giggled. She could almost see Freddy, his penis on fire from an application, humping around the house looking for a place to lie down so he could lick his stinging cock, and after one lick, turning to fire at both ends. Then Johnny would notice the dog's discomfort and take him to the vet's. She turned cold. Something, but not as drastic as red pepper.
Then she remembered something she had once heard about in school when she and some girl friends had gone to watch a horse show at the St. Francis Riding Academy. One of the girls had asked how they trained show horses to walk around and run and jump with their tails standing straight up. Another, wiser girl had provided the answers: during training, the underside of the horse's tail was painted with a ginger solution so that if the animal dropped his tail in an ordinary horse fashion, the ginger burned the animal's rectum. It was completely effective without leaving permanent burns or after effects.
Nola sighed. Of course, ginger and something, maybe cooking oil. Then she was faced with how and where to apply it. That didn't seem too difficult, even if it did entail some unpleasant moves. She'd make a small dish of the solution and keep it in a cupboard over the sink. It would take her fifteen seconds during her nightly fixing of Johnny's vodka to touch a finger in the solution, stoop and pat it on the hairy end of Freddy's prick. If he so much as showed a scarlet tip, the ginger would sting him instantly. So he licked it off, but the fire would certainly last until bedtime. She looked at the door.
"I'll fix you, you big overgrown son of a bitch," she murmured.
CHAPTER SEVEN
All day she had worried about what she would do if by chance the little touch of ginger became instantly burning. Launched on an expedition of cleverness, she deliberately did not buy Johnny's vodka.
"Damn it, woman," he muttered. "There's hardly a sniff left!"
"Vodka doesn't smell. Drink beer."
"Fuck beer! I've been drinking it all day."
"Well, it will be at least an hour till dinner. Why don't you go down to the corner and hop the bus? You'd be back within forty-five or fifty minutes. Johnny."
"Shit. Well, all right. C'mon, Freddy. Let's go get us a booze, huh?"
"You can't take him on the bus, Johnny. Leave him. I'll feed him and keep him quiet until his lord and master returns."
"Okay. And don't let him chew the goddamned paper. He's got hot nuts for the sports section, the big fink."
Freddy sniffed and whined at the door after Johnny left, then he came into the kitchen. Nola was ready. Steeling herself, she dipped two nervous fingers into the solution she had made that morning and then she stared at the big dog looking back at her hungrily. She patted his head with her dry hand. Then she leaned down over his back and her stiffly held fingers went under his belly. The shock of his furry body under her arm was oddly disturbing. She felt, and when she missed because she could not see, his huge cock in the palm of her hand was terrifying. It was almost as large around as Johnny's and the firmness was surprising. Gripped with some alien emotion, Nola tapped the ginger solution to the nearly closed end of the soft foreskin. Then she straightened up, unreasonably frightened by what she had done.
Then, to her horror, Freddy reared up, something he seldom did. And his paws came forward to press on her chest. Had it not been that her ass was against the sink counter, he would have knocked her down. His mouth, always open, opened wider and his tongue snaked out and licked her face. She turned and tried to push him away. Then she saw his cock. It was jerking and shaking, and a full inch and a half of thumb-thick red tip, pointed and sleek and gleaming, was pushed out of the hairy foreskin. She stared, as much surprised by the erotic thrusting as she was by the fact that he seemed not at all aware of the ginger. His hind legs shifted and his back assumed a peculiar curve, and she almost screamed as his hips moved in definite hunching.
"My God!" she husked. "Down, Freddy, down, down, down!"
He hunched another time or two, and in panic Nola groped for the dish and thrust all four fingers into the oil and ginger. Her fingers snapped to her palm as she reached, and she almost screamed as she wrapped his darting prick in her hand. Freddy's tongue snapped into his mouth and his jaws closed for a moment before the tongue whipped out at her face again. She stood, stunned and frightened, her hand feeling the hot thrust of his prick as he hunched into it. A coil in her belly sprang loose. Her senses reeled with a headiness she could not stop. The spearing prick slipped in and out of her grip, the oil only increasing the lewd feel of the distending organ. Nola jerked in spastic shock, and this pushed the stretching foreskin back so that she held a full four inches of Freddy's cock in her hand. He was hunching faster now, his head lowering as some sensation tensed his back. Again Nola tried to twist away but she could not make her hand release the monstrous organ. She started to sob, and as she looked, she saw the small eye at the tip of Freddy's prick ooze a yellow-white drop.
Her other arm came up, hand pushing at Freddy's heavy chest, then with no volition, it slipped around his neck and curled over the taut spine. Crying, fighting for her wits, Nola held him and speeded her masturbating hand. The feel of the thickening flesh was like a strong drink, and as her own cunt began to twitch and writhe, she wailed against Freddy's neck and firmed her grip as she intensified the caress. He was whining and snuffling now and his saliva dripped to her shoulder, making a wet spot on her blouse. He kept shuffling his feet, trying to dig his rear paws into the linoleum so his hunching could become a more violent rooting. She felt his cock begin to swell as she knew dogs' cocks always did. Nola closed her eyes and for a moment, seemed to feel the expanding shaft in her cunt. It was a devastating image, and she wanted to scream at her own bestiality. Then Freddy was pushing harder and his foreoaws curled over her shoulders.
She heard her blouse tear. She gasped and strained at his pressure against her, and his cock pistoned in her grip almost in rhythm to the thud of her heart. Then he began jerking, and the needle sharp spurts of jism shot up and struck her blouse, one, two, three short spews.
Petrified, Nola screamed. His cock dropped out of her nerveless hand, and Freddy's tongue slapped his jaws in satisfaction. He dropped to all fours, his bloated prick hanging nearly to the floor, like a tired sausage, only thicker. Nola crouched, her hands raised as if they were contaminated with indescribable filth. She turned away and dashed them into hot water, wringing them with hysterical force, weeping furiously as she recognized the degrading thing she had done. Without drying her hands, she dashed for her bedroom, ripping off her soiled blouse on the way. Shaking so badly she could hardly manage the snaps, she put on a clean blouse. When she went back, peeking around a casing first, Freddy was still a menace. He lay on one side, licking his cock, and it was still a hundred times too big to crawl back into his belly, she thought.
Wailing over the trap she had created then fallen into, she tasted the ginger and oil. No ginger flavor rewarded her experiment. It was obvious that the oil had, since morning, completely degenerated the ginger's bite. Hypnotized by impending doom, Nola watched Freddy wash and soothe his cock, now a bit smaller but still out at least three inches. She prayed. She thought perhaps his prick would shrink faster without the tender applications of his tongue so she hurriedly poured his dish full of the dry dog food he seemed to like. He heard the rattle and got up, looked at his benefactress and began to eat.
When the thump of Johnny's feet sounded on the front porch, only a slim, pointed tip thrust from Freddy's enveloping foreskin. He went to greet his master and Nola leaned against the sink counter, a half breath from collapsing in a faint.
Now the sniff and scratch meant something else. Nola sat up in bed, strangely cold, then amazingly flushed. Her distress was a deep ache in her belly. He had reared up and tried to hump her twice while she washed dishes, and only a wet dishrag to his jowls had gotten him off of her back. There had been another time in the front room when he had locked his strong forelegs around her knee and coiled his back in two or three short hunches against her foot before she could dislodge him. Johnny she was sure, had not seen the brief performance. But it was evident to Nola that she had definitely taught an old dog a new trick. It hardly seemed reasonable that her one mistake had created a habit with Freddy, but it seemed that way. She was not only the chief cook and bottle washer, she worried, but also chief masturbatress.
Then she had a swift flash of the big darting prick moving in her palm. She could hear the pant and slosh of his breath and tongue on her shoulder and feel the way his paws tried to pull her to his jerking body. Hating the memory, she could not help following it through to the point where the distended scarlet prick spit its musky jism to her blouse. Thinking about it made her twitch in belated evasion.
Then she sat on the bed, head down, trembling with the peculiar excitement that seemed centered in her belly. She felt the tips of her tits tingle and she was suddenly moist between the legs. It wasn't, she told herself, that she needed a fuck, or that Freddy represented any erotic dream. It was just that Freddy was very male and very huge, and his animal need had been very poignant. She unconsciously flexed the fingers of her right hand, remembering exactly how those fingers had explored and caressed Freddy's curiously inhuman prick. Moaning in the grip of some irresistible desire, Nola got up and moved to the door. Then she slowly opened it, and Freddy wedged his nose in the proffered space and levered his way in. She patted his head, the doggy smell of him was fuel to the slow fire of excitement building in her chest. He stood, licking her hand.
What she had expected him to do she could not name. She was clad only in one of her regular shortie nightgowns. She moved. Freddy sniffed, then pushed his nose into the soft hair of her crotch, and his tongue whipped out and to the upper rounds of her moist cunt-lips. Nola gasped and pushed her hips forward, moving her feet to open a space for Freddy. She put both hands down to his head, and he licked at her cunt with steady interest, not as if he were sexually inspired but as if her pussy were made of sugar candy.
"Oh, dear God!" she panted, writhing down to her knees. His head followed, his tongue now finding its way to the opening of her quaking vagina. Slowly, as if her muscles had turned to jelly, she leaned over him and her hands went down and under his belly to find his prick. She was shocked and confused; his prick showed no growing firmness, and the little red tip was not in evidence. With thumb and fingers, she followed the thick cigar shape back until it became a half buried tube of muscle in his underbody. Then her fingers found his balls and because balls had been nearly a constant topic of conversation between herself and Johnny, she felt them with some awe. Freddy did not seem to care for that and shifted his hips. His tongue abandoned its lick at her cunt and slapped her belly as his head came up to nestle almost under her left arm, his fur a soft titillating warmth through the filmy material covering her pulsing breast.
She sat back, piqued by his seeming indifference. He kissed her neck and face with his drooling tongue and she felt terribly ashamed of herself. Then the curious excitement returned and she sat up on the bed, pulling his head into the hot V of her spread thighs. When his tongue again sought her cunt, she leaned back, raising it and opening it with her own trembling fingers. "Come on, Freddy!" she panted. After a moment of attention, she again leaned forward and felt for his prick. It had neither changed nor come to life. She squeezed it and tried to roll the foreskin back but this only made Freddy shift and silently protest. Near to tears at the failure of her obscene handling, Nola stared down at the huge black shadow in the nearly dark room. It was a matter of smell and taste, she was sure, but maybe he needed to see too. She rolled back and snapped on her bed lamp, blinking as did Freddy at the brightness. Nothing seemed to change for Freddy, but as Nola saw herself, crotch spread, cunt hair gleaming with his saliva, she quivered in need. "Oh, damn you, dog!" she whispered, then another idea came.
She scrambled off the bed and went to her hands and knees on the rug, moving so her broad, high ass was barely under Freddy's nose. He sent his tongue to her crotch, and she shivered with delight as he licked her cunt and asshole with some vigor. She waved her ass and levered it up, pushing back. The tongue was wonderful and it thrilled her but it wasn't really what she wanted. Turning, she again felt of his prick and a fresh fever came over her as she discovered the red tip, now peeking from the short-haired sleeve. She tickled it. And suddenly, Freddy reared up and clamped his forelegs around her rib cage, just behind her arms. He humped and shifted and the hunching began. The huge cock was to her face in an instant and the red tip had become a darting, ominous point and with a cry of fright, Nola opened her mouth, and the cock went in almost far enough to choke her.
The taste was strong, animal, and the feel of her lips around the hairy, straining organ was terrifying. She could feel the sleek cock moving back in her mouth in growth. Freddy was gripping her hard, his paws snagging in her nightie, his body shaking hers with humping. Using one hand, she pushed his hips so the cock slipped from her mouth. With dog blindness, he sought to find the hot wetness of her mouth again. In fright, Nola awkwardly bent her wrist and made a sleeve of her hand. Apparently, it satisfied Freddy but only increased his hunching. Nola wailed, fear once again clouding her mind. She felt trapped, bowed down, her body gripped by Freddy's huge forelegs, his hindquarters surging and pushing. His cock was now out its full length, she thought, a thickening six inch rod of tempered steel, jutting from the expanded sleeve of his dog prepuce. And suddenly. she could stand no more of her own lewdness. With a furious jerk and twist she managed to slide from under Freddy. Spinning, she leaped for the bed, thinking to cover herself. Freddy thought otherwise and his huge bulk reared and closed over her back, his forepaws like angular pincers around her waist. She could not move except to twist, and then his cock jabbed and jabbed into her crotch, and she let out a tiny shriek as the pointed prick speared her asshole and slipped down to ram into her cunt like a bolt from a crossbow. There was no evading the rigid rod, and she could only twist to spare the ripping of her vagina. Then he was completely in her and his haunches began the furious, fluttering moving, his prick only an inch or two in her lightning-shattered quim. The pain was unbearable. Nola thrashed and wailed and tried to tear his paws from around her waist. Freddy growled through his rapid panting, frightening her even more. She slowly let her weight sag, her tits rolling apart on the bed as Freddy hauled her harder to his under belly. It was not like she had guessed because his surging prick did not touch her clitoris nor could it feel her need. She felt it begin its dog-swelling and she tried to find some delightful, easing sensation to offset the high pain. There was none, only fear and disgust and the certainty that if she tried to fight him away he'd crush her neck with his slavering jaws. She sobbed softly, waiting for the end, and when it came, she shuddered, feeling the sharp spurt of his jism in her numbed cunt. She lay very still, listening to Freddy break his panting to slap his jaws and clean up his drool. Then, as if he had a date in another city, he reared away from her. She had one brief twinge of sharp sensation when his swollen prick popped from her cunt, leaving her with a grotesquely empty feeling.
For a minute or two Nola lay face down, half off the bed, stunned by her own return to reality. Her body and mind seemed to join into one overwhelming misery, and when she finally rolled over and looked at Freddy, now lying on the floor licking his receding cock, she nearly vomited in self-revulsion.
And she had done it all, she told herself, from the first stupid anointment of his cock with her ineffectual solution of oil and ginger, to this final idiocy of going to her hands and knees. But despite this self-analysis, she could not escape the inhumanly powerful excitement Freddy created in her flesh. She rose from the bed and opened her door. Freddy seemed to understand that the game was over, and he lumbered out with his head swinging weightily.
Nola went to the bathroom and washed his smell away. Then she filled her seldom-used douche bag and flushed his semen into the toilet. After that, gripped by some rebellious feeling she did not understand, she finger-fucked herself into sharp, exquisite orgasm and went to bed.
Johnny moved to the wall switch and turned on the light. Freddy lay on the fuzzy rug, his hind leg raised so he could lick his cock. It had not quite relaxed. It was obviously very tender from the way Freddy soothed it, and there was no doubt in Johnny's mind as to what had caused the noises in Nola's room that had awakened him. Anger tightened Johnny, from his bare feet to the top of his tousled head.
Only one thought seared his mind; Nola had let Freddy fuck her because he had balls. They gleamed in the light, sleek, boldly black and a badge of total maleness. Johnny sat down, draping his cock over the edge of the chair. It didn't matter that he was hung heavy and had a nearly untiring backbone. He had taken his sister over every hump he could imagine, from straight forward fucking to sodomy while he beat her bowed back with his belt. He had given her every thrill a man could give a passionate woman-except one. For that thrill, the hard spurting sensation of male jism in her hungry cunt, she had turned to a dog.
Or had she sucked Freddy off. He had long ago discovered how Nola delighted in mouthing and licking his prick. He had also noticed, with some private agony, how she swallowed and worked her throat after he had cum, as if the dryness of his orgasm was a monstrous disappointment to her. It didn't really matter what she had done with Freddy, he decided. His anger grew and the horrible, twisting frustration was back again.
Then Freddy got up and went to the front door, looking around at Johnny expectantly.
"Wait, boy," Johnny said in a low, tense voice. He got up and went to his bedroom, donned his clothes, then tip-toed to the kitchen for Freddy's leash. On the way back to the living room he stopped at a kitchen drawer and took out a saw-edged paring knife which he thrust into his belt.
Freddy whined in animal gratitude as Johnny snapped on the leash and let them both out the front door. Out through the gate Freddy raised his hind leg at the first bush and urinated, his tongue lolling out in the pleasure of relief. But Johnny did not take him back to the house. He led him down Aden Lane, across the main avenue that led to town, then along the other end of the poorly-defined street. When they came to the stone wall that surrounded a nearly abandoned estate, Johnny stopped. Slowly he wound the leash around his right hand until there was barely a foot of it left to Freddy's collar. Then with a great grunt, Johnny heaved and began to twist. Freddy yelped as his neck was lifted, then as Johnny swung like an Olympic hammer-thrower, Freddy's yelps turned to strangled gasps.
As he pivoted, his huge shoulders straining to get the ninety pound of kicking dog airborne, the fury mounted in Johnny's brain. With fury came overpowering sadness at what he was doing. Freddy was kicking, trying to jack-knife himself free of the strangling collar. Then, with a cry of anguish, Johnny took a step and slammed Freddy to the stone wall with all of his strength. The thud was ominous. Freddy fell to the ground, not even kicking.
Before he could lose his fury, Johnny knelt and cut Freddy's balls from his body with one vicious stroke of the paring knife. Holding them in his bloody hand, Johnny ground them to a squishy pulp and hurled them over the wall. Still blind with hate and fury, Johnny seized Freddy by the feet and pitched the body over the wall with a final grunt.
He walked back to the house, his bloody hand swinging stiffly at his side. He wished he'd saved Freddy's balls. He had a new flush of anger as he thought about stuffing them in Nola's cunt. Then he knew that this idea was purely childish. No anger, no ruthless vengeance would change the brutal fact that he had no balls, and though he was unable to identify with Nola's seeming need for them, he could not forget that he was not a whole man and never could be.
He stopped at a garden hose in the yard and washed Freddy's blood from his hands and the paring knife. He felt terribly alone and abandoned. His sister had deserted him for a mongrel dog, and now he didn't even have the dog for comfort. Nor, of course, did she, he realized.
He stood on the porch and looked out into the night. His big fingers handled the knife as if the handle were hot. He thought about killing Nola; he skipped that and thought about killing himself. One sweeping thrust and it was all over. No more frustration, no more remembering, no more silent anguished weeping in the night.
Then the anger returned and he went on into the house. They just thought they had him in a ball-less corner, he told himself. He was still a ton of man, and fuck them all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He wasn't anywhere, she discovered, unless he was in Johnny's room. Nola put on the coffee pot and got out the rasher of bacon. Then she went through the house again. No Freddy. She peeked out the back door, then the front. The house seemed frightfully empty; even in a day or so, she had grown used to his big lumbering presence. She poured his dish full of dog food, then went to the door of Johnny's room. Ear to the panel, she tried to hear the big, even breathing, different than Johnny's. Then she knocked.
"Breakfast in ten minutes, Johnny," she called. "Let Freddy out so I can feed him."
There was a silence, then the door opened and her brother stood there, naked, disheveled and cold-faced.
"Freddy won't be needing any breakfast," he said.
"W-why not?"
"Because he's dead."
"Dead? Oh, Johnny! How-"
"I killed him last night. He turned out to not be just a dog."
Nola felt her senses reel and her muscles turned to water. She stared at her brother, trying to read his mind through the hard glaze over his eyes. How, she did not know, but he apparently knew everything. Nola dropped her eyes and turned away.
"I-I'm glad he isn't here, any more," she murmured.
"I don't happen to give a shit whether you're glad or not, you dog-loving slut!"
"Please, Johnny! I couldn't help it! He was so-so big, so overpowering!"
"He raped you?" he sneered.
She nodded. "I let him in-he was so restless. He raped me."
His laughter came like a crash of thunder. His hand came out and caught her throat, and she was jerked in, hard against his naked body. Her nailing hand touched his cock, now rigid. Helpless with fright, she did not even protest when he began to rip her robe and nightie away. She had never felt his fingers so hard and talon-like. His face, now drawn into a snarl of rage and hate, was ashen. When she was naked, he hurled her to the floor, bruising her hands and knees and toes with the fury of his strength. Head down, body quivering in anticipation, Nola waited. Then she screamed as the heel of his bare foot caught her between the cheeks of her ass. The kick lifted and rammed her forward, her head thumping the oak chair where his clothes were draped.
"Johnny, Johnny-"
"Shut up, you fucking bum," he snarled, then he was on her, his hands twisting and gripping and bringing her to him. She felt his cock at her anus then she screamed again as he forced it in with one flesh-splitting lunge. There was no evading the bludgeon. Her shriek of mortal agony went unheeded. Then he was holding her waist, squeezing so hard she could barely breathe, and his cock in her tortured rectum began to piston, almost as fast and ruthlessly as Freddy's prick had charged her cunt. There was not an iota of tenderness in Johnny's attack. He made no move to find her tits, no effort to ease her when she jerked. His prick made harsh thrashing sounds, driving her lacerated anus in, dragging it out in burning distension. Then with his cock buried so she could feel his hairy pelvic board against her nates, he twisted. She heard him slide his belt from the loops of his trousers. Only he didn't use the soft end, the first blow down over her back ended with a cutting agony as the belt buckle clanked with the force of his blow. Nola screamed, her shoulders coming up to arch her lower back away from the bitter pain. His hips hunched and she snapped back into a bowed position to escape the ram of his cock. Her body shook with strain. He seemed to find a rhythm, three long hard strokes with his massive cock was followed by another lash from the whistling belt, then he rammed three times more and struck again. Crushed with pain, Nola could only cry and gasp, and finally she could stand no more. Her arms gave way and her face went to the carpet. She wanted to fall but his cock was so deeply impaled, so unbendingly determined she could not unhang her ass from it. She tried to faint, but her mind was one great rolling image of Freddy's swollen cock and her brother's iron-jawed face. Her asshole was a ring of fire, now stretched and torn, lubricated by her shit. Her cunt was gripped to itself like a frantic fist, and her tits swung and flopped as if they were filled with lead.
Grief and pain mingled, she settled into a well of agony and waited.
The waiting seemed endless. Johnny's cock had turned to a club, not in passion but in rage. It swelled and thrust, reaching deeper and destructively deeper, and the fucking sounds grew wetter and more obscene with every undulation of his tireless hips. He was, she thought, going to fuck her to death, or into some crippled, ragged devastation. Numbed with pain, her mind began to seize on thoughts. To Nola, there was no mystery in her brother's fury. There was no doubt that he had loved Freddy with a pure manly feeling, intensified by his sojourn in loneliness. There was little doubt that Johnny loved her in his own peculiar way. In one fell swoop, he had been betrayed by his dog and his sister, and the brutal coursing of his prick in her battered bowel seemed proof of the fact that he had also lost faith in everything but violence. Weeping, she matched the stake in her asshole with her own jabbing conscience.
"Johnny, poor Johnny!" she husked through pain-slackened lips. Then she discovered the belt had ceased to stripe her back. His hands were again gripping her waist, and his strokes seemed erratic. His breath was inordinately fast, and the head of his prick seemed less ball-shaped. She tensed for the cum, the final bursting. She felt it strike, then Johnny fell over her back, his body a crushing weight before it slid sideways and collapsed to the floor. His cock, swiftly limp, lay in a foul half loop in his thigh.
"Johnny! My God, Johnny!"
He wasn't dead. She could see his chest and belly rising and falling, and his eyes were open, staring at nothing. Nola groped for his pulse. It was steady, if weak. She patted his cheek, but he did not respond. She called to him and there was no response. He seemed dead, but he was alive. Terror-stricken, Nola got to her feet and instantly, her bowel relieved itself, soiling down her thighs before she could reach the bathroom.
"A doctor, a doctor!" she repeated to herself, but before a doctor, the Herculean task of eradicating all signs of Johnny's fury.
Hobbling, waddling, ignoring the agony of her cut and welted back, Nola washed her brother's prick and his soiled crotch, and with strength born of desperation, she managed to get him onto his bed. Repairing herself was an equally arduous task. When the bedroom seemed in order, she again tested his pulse and his breathing, her fright having settled into trembling apprehension.
"Johnny? Johnny, it's Nola! Oh, Johnny, can you hear me?"
He nodded. His eyes blinked and he sucked in a huge breath.
"Sis?"
"I'm here, Johnny, I'm here! What happened, baby?"
"Don't know. Just balcked out, I guess."
"I know. Nearly an hour ago! Oh, Johnny, just be quiet there. I'll go get a doctor just as quick as I can, Johnny!"
"No," he said, with stronger breath. "No. I'll be okay. Just let me rest."
"But, Johnny-"
"Shut up. I'm okay, sis. You'll see. I'm okay, do you hear?"
"You listen," he said, pointing a finger between her eyes. "I spent all the goddamned time I'm ever going to spend in a hospital, with every asshole sawbones who's got a curiosity, punching and picking and fiddling with me. All right, so my legs don't work too good. But they didn't work at all eight months ago, and if I whipped it once, I can whip it again. No, sis. And if you get smart and write a secret letter to the VA, I'll break your back, understand?"
"But, Johnny, I'm sure you had some kind of a-a stroke! Maybe it wasn't bad, but you-we ought to know! I'm so sorry, Johnny. It was all my fault, too! I got your blood pressure up so high-"
"How about shutting your mouth for a change? Is there any beer? Come on, sis! It's been three days, and I'm doing fine."
She brought the beer, her wits still shaken from three days of nervous fluttering. It had been a bizarre three days, and she was exhausted, as much from nervousness as from waiting on Johnny hand and foot. His legs were sensitive, and he could move them on the bed, but they caved in when he tried to walk, the muscles seemingly detached from his will to use them. She had not dared leave him, and for even the hour it had taken to replenish their foodstuffs, she had worried herself half sick. And there had been some other times, neither pleasant in themselves nor promising.
He had made her fondle his cock, and suck it to orgasm the day following his collapse, just to prove that the failure in his legs had not affected his body. There had been no talk about Freddy, nor about the instant circumstances of his illness. She suffered his bursts of temper, his vile curses whenever something displeased him, and his pettishness about her being at his side except when he slept.
To Nola, he seemed in exactly the same condition he had been when she had first brought him home from Letterman Hospital-except that his old rages and temper tantrums were now edged with fresh bitterness.
She suspected that the strange paralysis was more extensive than he admitted. He moved oddly in bed, as if certain muscles in his hips and torso were slightly affected. But he was adamant about no doctor, either local or in any way connected with the government.
Despite his scoffing, she blamed herself. She had been so careful for so long, then with victory in sight, she had succumbed to the crawling, numbing spell of her own sensuousness and Freddy had tripped her into a situation beyond her apparent control. Sick with self-hate, she tried hard to regain a semblance of her earlier organization. Again, her own mind, her own body and her total intent were dedicated to her stricken brother's recovery.
"Johnny, what are we going to do?" she asked, as he sipped the ice-cold beer with a voluble smacking of his lips.
"Do? What do you mean?"
"Baby, we've only got so much money! I've been off work for three days now. We need my salary. I've got to go back to work, Johnny, but I can't leave you alone. Not for a while yet, at least!"
He grinned. "So get me a seventeen-year-old nurse with big tits."
"If I get you a day nurse, she'll be seventy and ugly as a cabbage," Nola said pettishly. "But, seriously, Johnny. Maybe we could get a day nurse, five days a week, for fifty dollars and board. It won't be for long, I'm sure, because your legs are going to be all right. That would leave thirty-five dollars of my salary, and with your check, we could make it until you can manage alone. Darn! I wish we had your old wheelchair!"
He closed his eyes and turned his face away. "Screw it. I said when I got out of that goddamned chair that I would never sit in one again. No wheelchair, sis, and that's that! Okay, if you can find a day nurse, maybe it's the best way out, at least for right now."
Her name was Monet and she was half white and half Nez Perce Indian. She was hardly five feet tall and sturdy, with a round, smiling face and her coal-black hair braided and coiled on top of her perky head. Monet had spent three years in practical nursing, and she would work eight hours a day for a dollar an hour and board. She was no reservation girl, and she was a high school graduate. Her white uniform was almost a mini-skirt, exposing her fat knees and smooth brown thighs three inches above the knee dimples.
Johnny promptly dubbed her Blanket-ass.
"Never had it on a blanket in my life," she told him merrily.
"Under, then?" he had demanded.
Monet had shrugged. "In the wintertime, I guess. You want some more coffee?"
"No. Give you a choice. Help me into the living room so I can watch TV or bring it in here."
"Squaw no movum furniture. Movum man."
Because Nola had helped him dress before Monet had arrived that morning, he swung his legs, draggingly, over the edge of the bed. Monet stooped and gave him her blocky shoulder. When he came to his feet, she was of small, string stature, considerably below his chin. His hand on her upper arm found solid flesh, not fat, and he could see the near-white of her scalp through her carefully combed and twisted hair. Looking down the neck of her uniform, he could see only the slightest bulge of her small tits. He leaned on her heavily, dragging one foot then the other. He didn't doubt that she could have picked up his two hundred pounds and carried him to the living room sofa. Finally there, she let him sit while she bunched the cushions to get his head up.
"Channel four," he said.
"Channel seven," she said. "As long as I have to sit here and watch it, too, I get a vote."
"Flip you for it, Blanket-ass."
"Deal. But we use my quarter, Mr. Banner!"
"Call me Johnny. Where's the quarter?"
She hiked her skirt up high enough to reveal her stocking top caught in a garterbelt snap. Tucked between her velvet skin and the stocking was a small, snap-top purse. This she opened and from it took a quarter.
"Some bank," Johnny remarked.
"Well, I have another one, but things get wet there. Call it!"
"Heads."
"Channel seven," she remarked and returned the quarter to the purse and the purse to her stocking top.
Johnny chuckled. "I thought Indians were supposed to say Ugh and be dumb."
"You and Custer," she quipped, turning on the television. "Your sister says you've had a mild stroke. She's sure pretty."
Staring at her back while she tuned the set to sharpness and fiddled with the volume, Johnny noted the strong back and the broad, fully rounded bottom, and for some reason, he liked it all. She had been warm and strong under his arm, and she was almost the same exotic shade of brown he had found he liked in Vietnam. Suddenly he wanted to fuck her but he didn't know how to start. He waited, surreptitiously watching her out of the corner of his eye as the morning program filled the room with lilting music and fast talk from the program guests.
He thought he knew exactly what had happened to him, that swift second as his cock had jerked in Nola's asshole. He had felt the pain in his head and the electricity streaking down his back. He'd had similar, smaller pains in his head for many, many months, and they had generally left him morose and somewhat weak. No doctor, he had spent many months in government hospitals, hearing, witnessing and secretly fearing. He had had a stroke and if Nola termed it mild, bully for her.
And he had not insisted that she suck his prick the next morning to test his middle segment. He had done it first to see if her experiences, with Freddy, and the day before with him, had left some emotional barrier, and his second purpose had been to see if orgasm and the strain of sex would kill him. Nola had shown no reticence, and his head had not ached at all.
Now he was sure that he was as good as ever, sans mobility of his scarred and susceptible legs. He looked again at Monet, and his cock jerked with inspiration. He could envision her body, short, almost plump, with skin as soft as silk and hot as sunburn, and her pussy shrouded with stiff, Indian hair. Her tits would be smooth, flatly conical pads with a black nipple pointing out and up. He knew she was twenty-six. She'd never had it on a blanket but maybe under one in cold weather, and her other bank got things wet. Johnny's nostrils flared. Not yet, but soon. He didn't want to scare her off and have Nola replace her with a nurse of seventy, "as ugly as a cabbage."
He wondered if she could guess how big his prick was. She certainly wouldn't know he had no balls; Nola would have failed to mention that, even though she had given the little Indian girl a reasonably accurate history of his past problems. He had a quick picture of what she would do and say when he skinned out a thick seven inches and aimed it up between her short fat thighs. By God, he mused, her smart mouth might not be so smart. He chuckled.
"I missed that. What's funny, Mr. Banner?" Monet demanded.
"I'm psychic," he replied. "I laugh at jokes that haven't even been told."
"I'm psychic too," she said. "That was a poolroom chuckle!"
'Sorry about that."
"Practical nurses get used to things. Indians get used to things. I guess women in general get used to things, Mr. Banner."
"I told you to call me Johnny."
"Do you like this program, Johnny?"
"Not particularly. Anyway, I've got to make the John."
Monet turned the television dial to channel four.
Then she got around to his side and started him up off the sofa. Once more she was a strong brown crutch under his arm, and they began the slow drag to the bathroom. There, he supported himself between the door casings.
"Okay? Can you manage, Johnny?"
"If I couldn't?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake!" she muttered and with adept fingers, unbelted his trouser and ran his zipper down. "If all you have to do is urinate, you'd better sit down anyway," she said. "Keep you from spraying all over with those unsteady feet."
"You could hold it for me," he said, grinning.
She giggled. "I bet I could, but you sound too anxious! Go ahead. Knock when you want me to come get you."
"Two minutes."
Clutching his failing pants with one hand while he used the other to crutch himself on the washbasin, Johnny slid his feet forward.
Certain that he could make it, Monet closed the door. She had been correct about sitting down, even to urinate. He sat there, his cock draining, his eyes staring at his deceptively strong-looking legs. Up and zipped, he moved laboriously to the door and knocked. The door almost opened under his knuckles, and the Indian girl was again under his arm.
"You were peeking," he accused her.
"Known in the trade as a preliminary survey. It isn't only important that a nurse keep her distance, it's important that she know just how much distance to keep?" At the sofa she again bunched his pillows and lifted his legs around into a comfortable resting position. "You are pretty badly chewed up, aren't you, Johnny?"
He nodded. "Tune the tube, you've got a ghost."
She fine-tuned the picture, then lowered the volume. "It was your dog, wasn't it, Johnny?" she queried, turning.
"What was my dog?"
"The one I read about in the paper-the one the caretaker found in the old Hemingsfer estate. With his head crushed and his testicles slashed off. Big black dog."
Johnny met her eyes, his surprise well in hand. "What makes you think he was my dog, Blanket-ass?"
"There are black dog hairs all over the rug. There's twenty pounds of dog food in the kitchen closet, and a big food dish. But there's no dog. It's none of my business, of course."
"Right."
She sat again on the hassock and watched the dull program. She didn't look apprehensive nor nervous; he wondered what she was really thinking about. He was sure she had put one of her big black eyes to the keyhole while he was pissing and getting put together again. Two minutes later, she had remarked about Freddy-and his missing testicles. The anger began in him again. He wanted to reach out and grab her, to hurl questions and wrench the answers from her. Then he remembered that she was a nurse, hired help while he was so completely helplesss. And she was a very interesting female despite her unprettiness. He held on to his temper, satisfying himself with half-formed promises.
Before the day was done he decided that he needed her very much. He couldn't even get to the kitchen for a drink of water or a beer. She served him a nice lunch and then gave him a hard time for three hours over gin rummy. He liked her smart mouth. Her quips and slightly acidic remarks were a constant challenge to his wits, and her laughter was quick, jolly and unreserved. At four-thirty she went into the kitchen and prepared some salad base and a pot of peeled potatoes so that when Nola came home at five, the first problems were solved. He hadn't even noticed that during the day she had kept the small house tidied, but Nola observed the neatness at once.
"Oh boy! I think I've got something going here!" she laughed, sliding her arm around Johnny's shoulders. "How'd he behave, Monet?"
"Ha! They'd have run him off the reservation for being a cream puff! Just fine, Miss Manner. I think we are going to get along just fine. Oh. Tomorrow I'll bring some snake oil my grandmother used for every ailment a buck could generate. I'll rub his legs down good. May I quit when he's able to chase me around the house?"
Laughter. Johnny narrowed his eyes. She was very, very quick.
CHAPTER NINE
The snake oil was in a bulbous clay jug with a hand-carved wooden stopper. It sat on the cocktail table, its small, brightly painted legends extending completely around the jug's fat middle.
"What's it made from?" Johnny demanded.
Monet did not even turn, her hands spreading the folded sheet on the sofa. "Snakes," she replied, as he were slightly retarded.
"What's it supposed to do for me?"
"Loosen up your legs. Revive muscles. Make you feel good. With my help, of course," she added, flexing her short fingers at him. "Well, ready or not-"
"Right through my damn pants?"
"Of course not. Here." She helped him up and tuned him so he could sit down on the sofa. Then she steadied him with her shoulder and unbuckled his belt, her fingers unzipping him with their usual speed. "Oh, my gOsh!"
Johnny chuckled, holding her close with one heavy arm. He had deliberately dressed that morning without shorts. As his trousers fell open, the long, meatily thick arc of his prick hung whitely from his dense pubic hair. Even as Monet stared, he flexed some muscles and his cock jerked. Monet was still for a moment, then as if forcing herself out of a trance, she turned and pushed him back. As he sat down, she knelt and pulled his trousers off.
"Smarty," she murmured. "You wore shorts yesterday."
He watched her expressionless face as she sat at the end of the folded sheet and arranged his right leg before bending his left at the knee and removing his sock. She was looking straight into his crotch, and he thought there was no doubt that her training made her completely aware of how balls looked-and how a scrotum devoid of balls looked. Monet reached for the little jug, removed the stopper and poured a little puddle of the clear oil in one palm. Then she turned her hand and smeared the substance along the underside of his leg. Then she smacked her palms together and began to massage his leg, starting at the juncture of his leg and torso. Her hand was less than an inch from his prick. Her fingers were very strong, almost painfully so, as she began to find and strip his thigh muscles, from high to low. She didn't hesitate until his cock began to thicken and straighten.
"Oho!" she exclaimed, holding her pressure in his muscles.
"What did you expect, Blanket-ass?"
"N-not that," she murmured. "I saw how you were cut-Hey, I want my mama!"
Johnny laughed. "No balls, no threat, huh?"
Her head tipped in a partial agreement. "Oh Johnny, I'm sorry! I mean, I'd have been a little more careful if I'd guessed you-you could respond! And can you respond!"
"Give you ideas, Blanket-ass?"
She giggled. "Not yet, but by the time I get these legs rubbed down, b-brother!"
"Get rubbing, time's awasting!"
By then his prick was well up, needing only the touch of a hand to turn into a straight up and out column of solid fire. He watched Monet, her face seemed not to change, but her hands on his oily thighs were slightly less firm and a little bit shaky. After a moment, his unattended cock began to relax a little because her massage was vitally effective and because she uncovered some deep sore spots with her fingers. That he was torturing her, he fully understood. She either wanted to do something with his organ or run from it, and he thought her legs were too short for much running. When she had properly mauled his leg, she shifted and applied oil to the other one. His backbone twitched at the slick and enveloping caress of her palms. The odor of the oil was strangely sweet, and what had been amusement to Johnny became something more intense. It was all he could do to keep from stroking his prick. The feeling of need, to stretch and comfort his foreskin and let his cock develop to its fullest, was powerful. But he waited. Monet suddenly wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. Then her two hands closed around the calf of his leg as if she were hanging onto a tree limb in a swirling torrent.
"You're a rat," she breathed.
"Are you about through with that fiddling around?"
"No," she replied. "I'm just getting started!"
She picked up the jug and puddled another spoonful or two into her right hand. Then, to his surprise, she leaned forward and gripped the middle of his prick with her dripping hand. After puting the jug down, she put her left hand to his cock, and his blood began to pound as the soft warm sheathing enveloped his penis from hairy root to thumping, blood-tight tip. She did not move toward him nor shift. She massaged and frigged his cock, rolling the foreskin back to coat every tiny crevice. Then he gasped as one group of gentle fingers went down and under and began to oil the ugly flap of skin where his testicles should have been. Now Monet was slowly jacking him off, her long smooth stroke varying in pressure as she moved from tip to root and back again.
"Say no when it gets too close, Johnny," she murmured.
"No," he lied.
Monet stood up, eyes burning down at him like latent coals. Her arms were oddly cocked so her oily hands would not soil her white uniform. Abruptly, she turned and went toward the bathroom. Johnny was a long way from orgasm, but he was even father away from joviality. His legs were hot from toes to groin, relaxed but somehow alive. The massaged-in oil was not just oil, he could feel some small smarting and penetration. And then the same little firings began to assault his prick. The irritation was suddenly intense, and he watched his cock jerk and twitch involuntarily, and the scarlet head turned a dark reddish-purple. The veins lying under the white foreskin pulsated, and then for the first time since Vietnam, he felt his scrotum begin to react. He wanted desperately to frig himself, but he could hear Monet and the sound of running water in the bathroom.
To Johnny's surprise, he seemed gripped in the throes of some marvelous sensation that not only burned hotly around his cock but was emanating from his legs, as if they had become sexually alert. He found himself panting, not with passion but with acute impatience. He started to reach for his throbbing cock, unable to wait any longer.
"No, Johnny! Don't get the oil on your fingers!" Monet warned from the door.
His jaw dropped at sight of her. She was stark naked from head to toe, her smooth, brown skin molded into Rubenesque roundness. She had taken down her hair and unbraided it, and it lay in thick black curtains around her shoulders, a few strands hanging over her small, blackly pointed tits. Her belly was slightly curved, and under the roundness, her pubic mound was thinly-hazed with curly black hair. He saw the top of her closely slotted cunt. It looked almost childish in its pressing. Now she walked around the sofa, and he would have not believed her ass was as perfect as it was. Out of her clothes, she was still short and sturdy, but the mobile planes and bulbs seemed precisely placed and balanced. She came to his side and stood, looking down at his furiously distended prick. He put an arm around her and filled his palm with the cheek of her solid ass.
"You're a rat, Johnny," she whispered.
"You said that before."
"Can you really fuck?"
His chuckle assured her.
"I'm glad, Johnny. I liked you-a lot the first time I saw you. I'm sorry about your balls, but a knocking-up I don't need, anyway!" She giggled as she sank down and lay alongside him, supporting her head on her palm so she could look at him. She made no attempt to kiss him, so he kissed her. That semed to satisfy her unexpected shyness and she closed down into his embrace, panting softly and pressing her warm body to his. He turned and his cock slapped to his hip. His hand at her ass became claiming, pulling, molding, pressing the fat cheek to its partner. His guts knotted, his cock ached wih strain. She wasn't a tenth as much to see as Nola, but somehow the brown of her skin and the savage, sensuous look of her was getting to him. He felt primitive, and he wanted to fuck her very much. And now the heat and tingling from his legs crept up and enveloped him, and he rolled hard to Monet straining his cock to her similarly heaving belly.
He put his lips to the tips of her small tits; he opened his mouth and milked them into ebony hardness. The brown flesh was solid and tasted oddly sweet. Excited more than he had anticipated, Johnny began to smear wet kisses, licking slightly over her shoulders and neck and Monet groaned softly and writhed against him. Now his hand at her ass curled under, and she raised her leg to throw it over his hip. His fingers moved under into the snug warmth and he found her cunt, oozing moisture from its firmly compressed lips. He opened them with a forefinger and instantly, Monet's hips hunched at him. Her clitoris was long and thin and seemed to harden under his touch.
"Get it in, in, Johnny!" she husked. "Fuck me, baby, fuck me!"
To him, the side embrace was awkward and they shifted one to the other, dragging flesh on flesh. His legs were slick, his prick thoroughly lubricated and when Monet reached down to seize his penis, he kinked his hips and she put the head of his cock snugly into her quim. The heat was instantly unbearable and with a slow, muscular contraction of his belly, he slid his organ inch by inch into the hot, wet sleeve. He had a flash of thought about the length of his cock and her possible capacity, but she was squirming now, screwing herself forward with no gasp of distress from her lips. The oil was great, he thought, and when his prick was hilted in her vagina, he began to feel her secret muscles working around the fiery column. She was wriggling and hunching as if to loosen and set herself, and her nipples, now harder than ever, dug delightfully into his chest. By then, he had managed to get both arms around her and an ass-cheek in each hand. Despite her plumpness, she felt ridiculously small in his embrace, and his cock seemed to be swelling until it threatened to burst her body. He began to fuck with furious deliberation, screwing in, dragging way out, until the tip of his cock was nearly unnested, then way in, to hold his back arch and let her feel the total weight of his lust. Monet gave small moans, her throat seemed constricted, her breath came in short, animal panting. Her own arms were now closed tightly around his chest, and her fingers dug and raked at special moments, flattened and pressed at others and told his horribly scarred back just what she wanted him to do. One message came when the tip of his middle finger found her anus. Her hips thumped him, her upper leg raised as if to open her crotch. He pressed and deformed the firm little pucker, then broke through as it gradually relaxed under his insistent caresses. And when it opened for his fingertip, he thrust inward a full two joints. Monet yelped, but it died away in a gurgling, and her buttocks snapped around his fingers.
"Oh, Johnny, I like that, I like that!" she rasped.
"A mile from home," he whispered, surprised at his own huskiness.
"That's what you think!" came the mysterious counter.
And presently, straining for the orgasm that seemed so near and yet remained just beyond his summons, he began to feel the snake oil. It was over its first fire and now seemed to flow in ecstatic currents around his lower body. His prick became supersensitive, he felt each ripple, each grip and twitch of Monet's animated cunt. He could not seem to get enough of her to work the exquisite sensations into a solid, spewing ecstasy. He extended his finger into her asshole, working it around, feeling through her soft inner tissues the pump and surge of his distending lust, and he played with rhythms and unscheduled twistings. His back tired, and his belly seemed tied in cast-iron knots, but he could not reach the edge of the purple, nor seem to get past the flaming scarlet. He wanted desperately to change positions, to roll her to her back and off the sofa, to turn her up and let her chubby hunching ease his strain, but he could neither hesitate in his fucking nor waste a moment in rest.
If Monet had orgasm, he did not know it, unless the small sharp yelps at unpredictable intervals were significant. Her cunt never ceased its struggle to swallow his prick, and her odor was increasingly strong, as if she had become a dozen passionate women with belching glands.
"Goddamnit!" he finally gasped, and her faintly mocking laughter bubbled against his throat.
"Don't knock it, b-baby!" she said. "It took fifty rattlesnakes to make that jug of joy juice!"
"Monet, my back is busted!"
"We can rest," she whispered. "It won't go away, Johnny!"
"Unclamp, then, Blanket-ass!"
She brought two beers and a towel. Her cunt was moist, the hair around it matted with oil and body fluids. His prick stood high and its purplish head gleamed with distension. But his legs only felt alive. He could not control their direction nor did the tingle seem to help. He used his left hand to hold the beer, his right arm curled around Monet's shoulders so his fingers could pet her vibrant tit. She held her beer in her right hand, her left slowly and delightfully frigging his swollen cock.
"That snake oil bit. Does it always work that way?" he asked.
She shrugged. "I don't know, baby. Grandma says yes, yes, yes, to anything you ask about it. I never tried it before, to tell you the truth. And as long as truth is in order, I haven't even been fucked in five years!"
"Whaat?"
"Never mind why. Finish the beer, huh? I'm burning up!"
"I ran off and left you about a dozen times, Johnny."
"Five years accumulation of sludge in your crankcase, eh?"
"No. Two inches more cock than any woman deserves! God, you must have terrorized some girls before you lost your knockers!"
He scowled, then he relaxed his angery tenseness. He had lost his knockers. Somehow it wasn't as bad for her to mention it as it had been to pretend with Nola that it had never happened. He looked down at the little brown girl, his mind a bi unsteady about her. He took the last gulp of beer, and she gulped hers with equal haste.
"How now, brown cow?" he asked.
She slid out of his curled arm and stood up. Then with great deliberation, she uncorked the jug and poured a few drops on her closely pressed, stubby fingers. Lifting one leg a little, she reached, and before Johnny's eyes, smeared the oil between the cheeks of her ass, with a moment of significant hesitation as she worked some into her asshole. What was left on her fingers she daubed on the head of Johnny's instantly responsive prick.
"My legs," he said. "I don't think I can get up on you, Blanket-ass!"
"Didn't think you could, Johnny. But I can get down on it, okay. You just sit there, honey, and Monet will do a Nez Perce rain dance that the reservation tourists never saw!"
At first, he was sure it was never going to go into her anus. He held her waist with one hand and his prick with the other, trying to control the painful bend and its slippery nesting. Then Monet began to turn and tip, to twist and jiggle-and suddenly, her rectum opened and surprised them both. She jolted down, her gasp of excitement a long drawn out hiss as his prick shot up into her.
Johnny winced. It seemed to him that his cock was peeled and the screaming fire of her bowel was bathing raw flesh. Now she began to screw herself down on his jutting organ and as her nates came to rest on his bare thighs, she turned and patted his cheek.
"Up the bunghole is punishable by death among my people," she said. "Kill me, baby, and make it good!"
He tipped her. She anticipated his intention and drew her legs up until her knees were hard to her plump belly and her ass a broad, brown bended pair of spongy pillows. He spooned around her and began to fuck into her asshole as if he were possessed by a hundred devils. He gripped her waist, feeling with one hand for her seemingly fattened tits and with the other to her oily, oozing cunt. She put one arm up and back, her fingers curling around his neck to pull him into her. Her ass humped and pushed back, her flesh turned to fire against his belly. He had flashes, his cock thumping against her constricted internal convulsions, his prick distending her asshole into a straining circlet. He felt small things, like the exquisite agony of his half-torn foreskin and the foul wetness on his cock.
It took Johnny a full half an hour to cum, and his foremost thought was that the world surely misunderstood rattlesnakes and grandmothers who said yes, yes, yes, to everything. Dazed, he lay firmly snugged to Monet's nates, resolving never to call her Blanket-ass again.
She was strangely pensive after a bath and lunch. They cuddled together on the sofa his hands moving with lax fingers on her tits and shoulders, charmed by the texture of her velvety Indian skin.
"How come five years?" he asked.
"Johnny, when your legs are good again, would you follow me up any street?" she countered his query. "Don't answer. I'm a half-breed. I'm short and fat and flat-faced. Indian girls are a dime a dozen in this country. Despite grandmother, snake oil doesn't cure everything. I won't go back to the reservation, and those bums from the reservation I wouldn't have. So, five years and no cock."
"So, five years and no cock, but something! You and your smart mouth and bouncy bottom are really something."
"Sure, something. You know anything about Indians, Johnny?"
"Now, yes! Yesterday, nothing."
"It is a tribal affront for a woman to go into betrothal as a virgin. Among Indians, the man is king, god, and you name it, and he must not be put to the task of busting a maidenhead and lousing up his betrothal night by having to comfort a wailing squaw with a bleeding ass. The custom of the marriage stick among Indians is older than finger-painting on the cave rocks. At the full moon preceding her betrothal, the village women throw a clatch. Much singing, slapping of hands and the initiation ceremony. The squaws, young and old, sing and dance, and the bride-to-be shivers. At a certain point in the festivities, the naked bride-to-be is required to squat on the marriage stick, thereby splitting her maidenhead. The blood is allowed to dry on the phony cock and there is more singing and dancing, while the ex-virgin is trying to be happy with a roll of oiled willow leaves stuffed in her twat so her maidehead won't heal closed."
"Weird and wonderful," Johnny admitted.
"But true, baby. Now it also happens that among Indians, particularly since the white man evinced an interest in Indian curios, the old boys who fashion the marriage sticks have decided they are artists and creators. My older sister sat on one that was eight inches long and two inches thick and covered with not-too-finely carved Indian symbols! White eye sure screwum up Indian babe! The something you're curious about is a marriage stick, which does as well for Monet Fat-bottom as it does for Mollie Greentree. Well, hell, it's better than nothing and it never gets the clap or knocks you up!"
"Weird and wonderful," Johnny repeated. "What is?"
"You. Hey, have we enough snake oil for tomorrow?"
Monet giggled. "Sure. And if not, cooking oil, two drops of turpentine and a pinch of soapchips will do the same job! That's easier than catching fifty rattlesnakes and squeezing their livers, I promise!"
"Tomorrow bring your marriage stick. That I have to see!"
"Okay. How do you feel, Johnny?"
"Find out for yourself. You've got fingers."
After a moment, she growled. "One buck not even half spent!"
Because her cunt and asshole were slightly sore, she sucked him off then beat him five games in a row at gin rummy.
CHAPTER TEN
While she poured the vodka, Nola fought to ignore an inner sense of wrongness. Not wrongness for Johnny because he seemed calm and unperturbed. But it had seemed to Nola that during the brief moments when the Indian nurse had said good bye for the day, there had been nearly a conspiratorial understanding between her brother and Monet. There had been some laughter and a quip or two about his inability to beat her at gin rummy. Nothing to put a finger on, but the uneasiness made Nola nervous, and she nearly dropped Johnny's drink.
"Thanks, sis," he said when she brought him the tall glass. "Turn that TV down, if you like. Kind of gets on your nerves when it's so loud." He sipped his drink and stretched his legs by twisting his hips. "Good day at the office?"
Nola blinked. He had seldom before even evinced an interest in her work. "Oh, the usual. How'd things go with you and Monet today?"
"Great. She's a gas, really. Lots of laughs. Takes care of me like I was the big baby I am." He pointed to a little clay jug on the fireplace mantle. "That's her grandmother's snake oil. Gave me a rubdown with it today, and my legs feel great. Boy, are her little stubby fingers strong! Made me yell a couple of times."
"Oh Well, I'm glad you get along well with her, Johnny. It takes a big load off of my mind. And she keeps the house so neat! She's kind of an odd little person, isn't she? I wonder if she's ever been married?"
"Nope. She told me quite a lot about Indians. Little things. She may never get married. She doesn't want to hitch up with an Indian, and she says she's too fat and ugly to get a white man, so to hell with it. I have a hunch she'd make a beter fat and ugly wife than half the good-looking chicks in town. Sure as hell knows how to take care of a man!"
Then Nola knew what her uneasiness sprung from. She was jealous, not of the round little Indian, but of her service to Johnny. In just two days, she had managed to move in and usurp Johnny's dependence upon Nola, and he didn't seem to even notice his shift of allegiance.
"Did-did she give you a bath?" Nola asked.
"No. You can help me tonight. She said the longer the oil is allowed to soak in, the better. Funny-smelling stuff."
Nola sniffed. The odor was all over the house, and to her it smelled exactly like the girl's locker room at college. While they listened to the news, she invented pictures of Monet giving Johnny's legs a rubdown with "-her little strong, stubby fingers." Without his trousers, that was certain, since no pair of shorts ever made could completely hide the length and girth of Johnny's penis. She also doubted that Johnny could submit to thirty or forty minutes of fingers, stubby, strong and theoretically dedicated to therapy without getting a little horny. She wasn't even able to think about it without getting the strong tingling in her belly. Nola could imagine the things Monet had thought, toying with a big handsome man whose half hard cock lay only inches way. No intention of marrying an Indian, and too fat and ugly to get a white man. But jolly fat and ugly, as Nola thought about her, not so very fat and not so very ugly. Nola suddenly wanted to cry.
Throughout dinner she kept waiting, and nothing rewarded her anxiety. Johnny did not lay a hand on her, nor make any acidic remarks about her big tits or prominent bottom that always preceded his sexual attentions. Perhaps, she thought, it was due to his immobility and his worry over his legs. She deliberately managed to stand close or walk by him within arm's length, but he didn't seem to notice. He did seem to laugh a lot, and this only proved that Monet had left him in a relaxed and happy mood. To Nola relaxed and happy meant that she had somehow reached Johnny's unpredictable consciousness. In her own experience, the only way to reach her brother's unpredictable consciousness was to lull him into passivity through sex.
And when she helped him undress prior to giving him a bath, Nola was barely able to contain her heartbreak. Johnny's cock hung in swollen testimony, the foreskin puffed, the head distended by abuse. His body was mildly coated with oil that made his skin as soft as her own, and possessed a subtle gleam. Because it was something she had done before, Nola took his prick in her quivering hand, feeling its oily sleekness. Johnny did not protest. He passed his hands under her robe and fondled her angrily throbbing tits.
"What happened, Johnny?" she asked in a subdued tone.
"Only a bum kisses and tells," he chuckled.
"Johnny, Johnny!" she wailed, going to her knees between his parted legs. "Don't you know how much it means to me? Do you think I-or any woman-could go through the last few months and not end up either hating you or loving you? Loving you not only as a brother, but as a man?"
She felt him tense. "I'm not a man," he growled.
"Oh, you foolish darling!" Nola exclaimed and her mouth came open as she leaned to take his swelling prick in her lips. There was only a faint oily taste; she closed her eyes and loved his cock with all the adeptness of her tongue and mouth.
In her mind she had strange visions. The hot delight in her lips nudging and spreading Monet's Indian cunt, opening her little fatness and snuggling deep. She could hear Monet's gasps and little moans, and she could see how the brown body must have writhed and humped. And the big hands that now rested on her shoulders would have pressed and fondled Monet's, down her back and to her ass, because Johnny loved to handle an ass, even fuck it with his eager fingers. Nola shuddered, her soft sucking and licking speeding as she thought in positive agony. Presently she released his prick and lay her cheek to his inner thigh, idolizing the rigid club of flesh so close before her eyes.
"Johnny, I can't stand it!" she suddenly blurted.
"Oh, shut up, will you? So I fucked the broad! And I'll fuck her again tomorrow. That's got nothing to do with us, and you know it. If I fucked a dozen broads, it wouldn't take anything from you! Prick is prick. It's the balls that count and without jism, not a fucking thing I do with you or any other babe means a goddamned thing!"
His words were like knives in her heart, but she was too stunned to protest or try to explain her feelings. She sat up straight, her fingers weighing and testing the stout root of his cock, then creeping out to gently pinch and deform the ponderous head. Her cunt leaked so, she could feel the wetness between her legs. Her nerves sang with want, and her mind seemed somehow only an extension of her vagina. Trapped by the bitch animal that lurked under her tawny skin, Nola raised her eyes to her brother and smiled wistfully.
"I guess I get-carried away, Johnny. Did you like her?"
He shrugged. "First Indian babe I even hosed," he said. "It was interesting. Once I got it in good and tight and she got going, it was pretty good."
"Everything. Do you do everything with her?"
"Everything Nope! We didn't take a bath together!"
He clung to a towel rack while she climbed into the tub, her body trembling with anticipation. Standing with her tapered legs well apart, Nola leaned and supported Johnny with her hands under his hairy armpits. Then, one by one, he lifted his legs and plunged them into the warm water. He slid off the edge of the tub, twisted and sat down, Nola's feet straddling his hips. With no mirth at all, he leaned forward and put his mouth to her crotch, his tongue slipping between the lips of her cunt to find and titillate her already-vibrant clitoris.
Nola sighed and kinked her knees to open herself for the delightful pressure of his kiss. Her heart sang; he was intimate and tender, and perhaps he hadn't lied about his indifference toward Monet. She felt his hands at her ass, working the cheeks apart then together, feeling their firmness and the tight valley between them. Looking down at the bob and turn of his beautiful head, Nola let her senses reel into the exquisite sensual headiness that seemed not unlike an anesthesia. She rolled and relieved her tits with her own fingers, and as Johnny's tongue began to build an irritation, she strained downward as if to force her sex entirely into his throat. After a moment or two, she decided he was going to suck her off. The prospect was exciting, demanding and Nola cooed with pleasure. When his finger touched her anus, she wriggled, wanting that too, and he sent his forefinger into her rectum with familiar agility. Now she began to pant and twist, urging her sex to his mouth, bobbing her bottom on his deeply inserted digit. Her knees became quivery and she steadied herself against the wall. Tipping her head back, she fucked her brother's face with calculated fury, her tits popping and snapping with the movement of her body, her mouth coming open as if she wanted to scream her passion to the ceiling. Then her left hand went to his head, holding him tight to the pulsating flesh while her massive excitement hovered at the edge of cum.
"Ooh, augh-ugh!" she gasped, and her cunt seemed to gather, wring itself and exploded into the cavern of her brother's mouth. Her legs gave way, and she folded down into his embrace. Madly, she fought his lips with hers, tasting herself while the orgasm thumped and faded into heavenly after fire.
She found his prick with her unsure fingers and Nola melted down on Johnny with shudders of ecstasy.
"Hey, baby, you were hot!" he said in her ear.
She could only nod. "Aren't I always, Johnny?"
"Sure, but not just like you are now! Hey. I'll bet my talking about Monet-Did you think about her while I was sucking?"
She didn't want to, but she had nodded before caution controlled her emotions. "Yes, yes," she breathed. "Oh Johnny, you said many times that I b-belonged to you. Well, you belong to me, too, baby! Oh God! But all I could think about was how you looked when you were making love to her-maybe how she looked, humping and twisting and sobbing while you f-fucked her! Oh, Johnny, if I'd only been here to see it! Am I a terrible bitch, Johnny?"
"Moderate bitch," he replied with a chuckle. "My prick is about to blow up! Do something good with it, baby!"
Eagerly, inspired by his declaration of need, Nola gathered herself above him, her knees up under his arms, her bended ass waving and fluttering just high enough to let his cock kiss and indent the rounds of her spraddled ass. His hands went to her buttocks, cupping and controlling and he hunched up enough to bury the head of his organ in her cunt. She understood. Long ago, he had told her about the furious tensions, the magnificent control the Vietnamese girls exercised in the squatting position. Even a flaccid cunt, weary from endless pricks, became gripping and animated when the woman bounced on folded legs. Now, her thighs tugging, her belly tight, she lowered her ass until the water warmed her skin. She knew it was going to hurt her vagina to fuck under the surface because the twisting, undulation movements turned his prick to a pump piston, but she was so hot, so excited that the impending pain seemed almost like a delicious promise. His prick perked straight up into her quim and her ass-cheeks touched his nearly lifeless thighs. It felt so good, Nola could only shudder. Then she began to bounce, and the water formed in small choppy waves around them.
Johnny made a face and grunted, "Yeah!"
Nola clung to his neck to emphasize and increase the tempo of her bouncing. Never loose, her cunt now seemed locked around his distending cock, and she could count the flattened rolls of his foreskin as they coursed in her sex sleeve. It was good, but in a sustaining way because in such a position her clitoris thrust out from her vulval flesh, uncaressed except by the slap and heat of the bathwater. But it was enough, combined with the deep vaginal filling and the overwhelming passions in her mind, to make her body vibrate like the bass pipes of a perfectly played organ. Once more Johnny brought her to cum with his finger, screwing and plunging in her rectum, feeling the soft walls, the hotly constricting sphincters. Abruptly, she raised up and off of his cock, balancing on the thin line of orgasm. It urged and pressured and hesitated long enough for her to move so his prick, as rigidly there as if it were imbedded in concrete, tried to displace his fingers, or join them, Nola prayed. Cock hand, everything up her asshole. Johnny withdrew his finger from her anus and his cock oozed in before her shocked nerves could react. With a cry of victory, Nola dropped her weight and came blazingly as his cock shot up her ass. Johnny gasped and hunched, and his orgasm was like whole new fuck, extending her own cum until they lay in the water like two exhausted cuttlefish.
"Water's getting cold," Johnny complained, after a minute.
Nola sat up on his cock, it was not hard but it lay like a constipated turd, filling her rectum, giving her the delightful feeling of being full. Twisting, she turned on the water, leveling its temperature with hot and cold. Then she let her feet slide back so she could rest her belly on his and lay her cheek to his shoulder.
"This is the way I love it, Johnny," she said. "You and me and all the wonderful things we do together. I don't care what my name is-I don't care about your balls. Of course I want your legs to get well, but you'll never know how much I feared the day when they were strong enough to walk you away from me!"
"You're a nut," he decided.
She giggled and wiggled her ass. "Hot nuts, huh, man?"
Later, lying dreamy and satisfied, the wonderful passions still tingling her body, Nola wondered at herself. For the first time she had virtually told her brother she was in love with him, not as a sister, and now she tried to understand what she had said. It had taken jealously of another woman to crystallize her own feelings. She had been afraid, her mind full of visions of how Johnny might succumb to the little Indian girl.
To Nola, love meant only the maintenance of the status quo. Secretly she did not believe Johnny's legs would ever return to normal or even to the beginning stages of repair they had enjoyed the night he had fucked so hard, he had had a devastating stroke. In another secret compartment of her mind she also didn't believe Johnny could ever fully change his manner of life or his inability to rationalize her or the world around them.
To her private horror, she admitted these things, despite the months she had spent in deepest personal degradation to effect his cure. Or had she really adored the sacrifices she had made? The nerves in her ass purred with content, her tits lay like happy balloons on her chest. What other sister in the world would have succumbed to Johnny's brutal sexuality? What other woman, sister or not? She shuddered. Had he taught her anything at all other than the mechanics of fuck? More realistically, she thought, he had just triggered a natural phase of her sensuality, one that matched his in every extreme even though it flourished in an emotional garden that was patently feminine.
Finally faced with the nature of her confessions, she began to think differently about her brother. It had been the doctor at Letterman who had suggested that Johnny might be suffering from a brain concussion and massive psychological trauma. Nola had no proof of Johnny's mental weakness. It had been her private fears that had momentarily associated him with Cranden's rape-murders. The matter of Freddy was objectively understandable. He had been sure she had entered into some erotic play with the dog. Had it been another man, he would have been equally angry. A man he might not have killed, but Freddy had only been a dog. As Nola justified Johnny's actions, her own personal sense of guilt began to relax. Without understanding how, she leveled herself with her brother. He did things, and she did things, and tonight they had done things together in the bathtub in perfect harmony with each other's mental and physical desires.
And she had no intention of giving up her acknowledged love to a half-breed Indian girl. Then, because her body and mind still vibrated to unrestrained lust, she began again to think about how Johnny and the nurse had looked that afternoon, and her cunt increased its pulsations and her tits revived their points. Thoughts of love and tenderness faded behind the bold images of obscene beauty, and her blood raced with vicarious cum.
CHAPTER TEN
On the way out, Nola had stopped at his side. "Johnny?"
He had turned his face up, smiled weakly and winked. "Don't worry, sis," he had said. "You cured me last night!"
"Five. I'll be here exactly at five, Johnny."
"I'll be waiting for you baby," he had promised.
Now he sat in his favorite chair listening to Monet clean up the breakfast dishes and straighten out the kitchen. He looked down at his left hand. The fingers wouldn't wiggle. He could bend his wrist, but the fingers wouldn't wiggle. His right hand was fine. The pain was gone at the base of his skull, and he had half a hard-on just remembering they way Monet had thumped her oversized handbag on the mantle when she'd arrived a few minutes before eight. He inhaled deeply and tried not to think about his left hand. Presently Monet came in bringing a third cup of coffee. She set it on the cocktail table and stood, smiling at him.
"How's your legs, Johnny?"
"You talking about the two outside ones or the one in the middle? All three are present and accounted for, sergeant!"
"Joker. My ass was sore all night."
"Pavement is always rough until traffic wears it smooth. Well, let's see it," he said, nodding toward her handbag.
"I don't know. It makes me feel something like the Witch of Endor!" She went to the mantle and retrieved her bag. It opened with a snap, and she came back, not removing the dildo until she was standing directly above his knees.
Johnny blinked. He had visioned her private marriage stick as a crudely carved replica of a medieval phallic symbol. In his hand, the right one, it was something else. It had obviously been formed from a tree branch. The head was a closely carved and polished burl, clubbing slightly beyond the sleek girth of the branch itself. The cock shape was at least nine inches long and as thick as a slim woman's wrist. At the base the branch formed a small twist, and there was a handle large enough for a fist to grasp. What sent his nerves into tangles, though, was the small leather sack containing two stone-like weights that resembled balls. The sack was crudely tacked around the cock, at least seven and a half inches from the head burl. Even an Indian cunt liked the idea of balls, he thought, useless as these were. He managed to turn his left hand up and smacked the heavy device into his dead left palm.
"Wow!"
Again, Monet fished in her handbag, coming up with a square box. She opened the box and showed him the contents. There were seven or eight rolled condoms. "I roll one on to slick it up and keep the stink out of the wood," she said. "And I use a little Crisco, or something, because the gimmick is for fun, not frustration. Weird, huh?"
He didn't know what to say that wasn't nasty or derisive. It gave him a peculiar feeling to look at the thing. The wood was stained, and there were fine cracks along the cock shaft, as if it had been very wet many times and had shrunk while drying. The burl was neither sharp nor blunt, but it had no real resemblance to a human glans. It was simply a knot of unforgiving wood, dedicated to only one purpose, the distension of a hungry cunt. Mere thought of the desires that required such a club caused his prick to thicken and stiffen in his trousers.
"Say something, Johnny," Monet demanded. "Well," he decided,"-let's get the show on the road!"
"The legs. Hadn't I better rub them down first?"
"Whatever you wish."
She found the sheet where she had folded it away on a top cupboard shelf and spread it on the sofa. While she worked, Johnny opened his trousers and worked them down around his thighs, his cock standing in relative inadequacy beside the shape of Monet's dildo. His left fingers bothered him; they weren't something he wanted to talk about at the moment, but he knew Monet would discover their helplessness before the day was over. When she came to help him to the sofa, he could see her excitement, and she giggled tensely when his prick waved and bobbed.
"You better doctor this thing up," he said, handing her the wooden prick. "We might want to draft it into service in a hurry!"
She fondled it in her brown hands. "I-I only brought it along to show you, Johnny. It's only a friend in need, and I don't need it with you, baby!"
"Dress it up, damn it!"
He sat stroking his prick as she rolled a condom on the dildo. She sleeked and stretched it, turning the wooden head and shaft into a monstrous obscenity. Then she went to the mantle piece and came back with the snake oil. With loving fingers she coated the rubber skin until it gleamed, then she laid it on the cocktail table within easy reach. Johnny reached for her and she folded down to him, her fingers finding his prick with their oily tips. He unbuttoned her uniform, and she slipped out of it, baring the brown contours of her sleek body. While she frigged him, he took down her hair, then began to peel her panties.
"What's the matter with your hand, Johnny?" she asked, gripping his left wrist.
"The same matter that makes rubbing down my legs a waste of time, Monet. It went kind of dead this morning around daylight."
"Oh, please, no!" she wailed and turned against him, her body vibrating with sudden anguish.
He held her, his mind more interested in her lush warmth than in the fingers she gripped and kissed. He felt down her back and to her nates, plump and firm, and then he finished rolling the nylon panties over them. Some sense of urgency afflicted him, and he thought it was desire to get his ramrod into the passionate Indian girl. He twisted his left hand from her fingers and curled the wrist around her shoulder, as if to prove it was not helpless. She wriggled around and straddled his hips, sending his cock into her open and moistly ready cunt with one smooth slithering of her hips. She began to fuck him with wave-like ripples of her chubby body, her face close to his, her hands gripping his shoulders for bracing. He put his right hand to her bottom and filled it with the hot, quivering flesh and it suddenly occurred to him that if his right hand became like his left, he could not feel flesh nor shape nor passionate movements. He touched her anus, already working in tempo with her milking cunt. He entered it with a greedy finger, and her moans against his cheek were instantaneous.
His prick, still tender from their furious fucking of yesterday, seemed massive and searching as a snake. He twisted and hunched, savoring every new sensation, each sharp excitement. He wanted to fuck her forever, not because he felt any emotional attachment to her, but because the sheer ecstasy of feeling seemed to mean very much to him. He tried not to cum but her body began to suck the pleasure from every portion of his straining frame, and it gathered, bunched and hurled itself into her gulping cunt so violently it left him breathless and turned Monet into a trembling, gasping blob of fire.
"Good, good, good! Oh Johnny, I'm hot, so very hot for you!"
His finger in her rectum moved, stretching and probing and it set her hips to rolling and tensing again. He turned his head and looked at the dildo on the table, but he dared not try to reach it with his useless hand. He had lewd visions of surprising her with the club while his cock still lay heavy in her cunt, throbbing with lethargy born of complete satisfaction.
"Screw me there," she murmured, lifting her ass so his cock slipped free of her cum-flushed cunt. "Now! Fuck me in the ass, Johnny. I love it-but it was something I could never do with the marriage stick! I tried smaller things but they were cold and hard and hurt me. Not like your cock, Johnny. Fuck me there, baby!"
He hadn't thought he could, at least for a minute or two, but her breathless pleas and the huge loveliness of her taut bare ass brought his prick to swift erection, and it entered her rectum with only a little urging. She yelped and screwed herself down on it with grotesque hunger.
Nola didn't need to hide. There was no one in the neighborhood to spot her looking in the front room window, and it was instantly and painfully obvious that neither her brother nor the naked little Indian girl spraddled over his hips with his index finger in her asshole would give a window even one casual glance. Nola stared, fascinated by the obscene pair, quivering with a surge of emotion she could not understand. She had left them less than thirty minutes before, but they looked as if they'd been making love for hours. She saw it all; the jug of snake oil, the monstrously frightening but somehow intriguing dildo, and Johnny's rigid gleaming cock sliding in and out of Monet's hairy body.
A wail of anger escaped Nola's lips, but she could not move to dash in and surprise them, nor could she tear her eyes away. She was suddenly wet between the legs and her tits promised to burst from her brassiere. It took a great effort to drag in breath through her constricted throat. It was horrible, ugly, lewd and vicious, but as Nola watched, the erotic beauty of it became more compelling than she could resist.
She was surprised at how sexy, how smooth and how animated the chunky girl appeared, her legs spread wide so her prominent bottom appeared to nearly split on Johnny's sleekly sliding prick. She was not just fucking him, she was being screwed, and the squirming bodies, the hunching hips and grasping arms remarked the building of their passion with lovely clarity. She knew Johnny; when his face grew grim, and his muscles stood out like steel cords, she knew he was ready to cum. The Indian girl's plump body beat down, squirmed and lifted to beat down again, and she was making squeezing motions with her short, fat thighs. Their rhythm together broke, and now they were humping, holding, ecstatically riding the peaks of sensation so graphically Nola could feel her brother's cock swelling and distending in her own weeping cunt.
Then she watched Johnny cum, stunned by the fury of his hunching and the violence of Monet's response. The Indian girl seemed inspired to frenzy as she absorbed his prick to the napping empty scrotum then writhed and twisted as if she wanted to tear it off and wear it in her cunt forever.
Near to fainting with exquisite desire, Nola watched them fall quiet, but not rest. She saw them speak brief words together, then Johnny's finger in Monet's asshole began to jiggle and plunge as if it were feeling for some particular sensitivity. The girl raised her ass to the finger and shudders moved her plump flesh from thigh to neck. Then she raised very high, and Johnny's prick popped from the dark, wet mouth of the distorted vulva and Nola almost shrieked with vicarious delight as the white shaft with its beautifully scarlet head nudged into Monet's asshole and went sliding in without a struggle.
Blind with want, Nola staggered back from the window. She turned, almost waddling because her vagina seemed to have swollen and extended until it felt like a softly-spined burr between her thighs. She moved to the front porch, shaking so badly she could hardly hold her handbag to find the door key. She wanted to urinate, to fart, to do anything that would provide a tiny physical incentive to her hovering orgasm. Being as careful as she had the nerves to be, she fitted the key and with equal caution, opened the door. Monet was sitting up on Johnny's cock, giggling and squirming. Johnny lay back, smiling, his right hand down to her cunt with flipping fingers. Both turned at the same time, Monet's mouth open as if she were in pain, Johnny's smile turning to a quizzical frown. Nola closed the door behind her and moved across the room. Monet started to unload from her impalement, but Johnny's hand closed in the plump roll around her waist, holding.
"Join the club," he said to Nola. He hunched up hard and the Indian girl winced, then she tried to push up and away. "Stay put," Johnny commanded. "She wants to watch, or she'd have come through that door screaming like a banshee!"
Nola felt like sagging. Close now, she could smell sex and the oil and the faintly foul odor of Monet's disturbed rectum. She could almost touch Monet, but her instinct was to close down and join the meshed pair, not strike nor scratch nor curse. "Go on, Monet," she husked. "I-it was beautiful! Hideous but beautiful!"
"I'm s-sorry, Miss Banner!" Monet gasped. "You-you don't care? I mean...."
"He's my brother, not my husband," Nola said. "Who he fucks is his business, and what I do is mine!" She fell forward on her knees, one hand going to Johnny's belly, then sliding down to where Monet's black bush met his brown groin. The other went around and her fingers closed around her brother's thick cock, moving up to where it was solidly imbedded in the expanded hole between Monet's nates. "Go on!"
Monet giggled. Johnny began a slow upward undulation, and Nola's fingers turned to fire as she felt the flesh working and watched it deform and work again. From some sympathetic cranny of her mind, or perhaps just plain excitement, Nola leaned forward and kissed Monet's small tit, pursing around the nipple, nibbling the black berry. Monet's arm came out and closed over Nola's shoulders and drew her into an awkward, trembling embrace. They clung that way until Monet started to gasp and moan as the huge shape in her asshole began to jerk and pulsate with Johnny's cum. Nola cried out and fell forward, her mouth seeking to displace her fingers, fondling and feeling in the hairy shadows. She couldn't think, she couldn't plan. Her whole being wanted to crawl into the sweet forest and feel the bump and squirm of the two straining bodies. She had her own brutal cum when Monet began to pet and rub her face and neck, cooing soft words of encouragement and love.
Nola sat up, her eyes glazed. "What-what animals!" she exclaimed, then she laughed. Johnny laughed and Monet abruptly twisted down and kissed Nola full on the lips. Instantly shocked, Nola met the hot mouth with hesitancy, then with total abandon she hugged the Indian girl and returned her kiss with strange fervor.
No one seemed disposed to explain anything.
The fever of sex pervaded all three of them. Monet washed and powdered Johnny's exhausted cock, and Nola stripped to her tawny skin, eliciting ohs and ahs from Monet as her huge lush tits and fully fleshed ass were exposed.
"My God, you're beautiful! No wonder Johnny-"
"No wonder Johnny and I have made love together, eh, Monet?" Nola queried, stretching her lithe body so its tinted and shadowed delights were fully displayed to the Indian girl's wide eyes. "I guess that's why I came back instead of going to work! I knew he'd fucked you yesterday, and I didn't want to get shut out, I suppose. And the idea of Johnny and you together.-.what's that?"
Monet explained about the marriage stick. "It's a little crude I admit, but when you don't have a man-"
"Or you have one who is fucked out," Johnny laughed. "Try it, sis. Faint heart never won the turkey shoot!"
"It's so-so big!" Nola stammered, turning the huge dildo in her quivering hands. When she turned it down, aimed at her slightly open cunt, it seemed even larger. Monet giggled and leaned into the curl of Johnny's left arm. She raised one chubby leg and opened her crotch. The lips were now folded out slightly, and the vulvar openings were dark and swollen. She, too, was washed and powdered but the smell of hot female was very strong. Nola looked quizzically at the brown girl and then understood Monet's nod. Like an Alice in Wonderland, Nola put the knobbed dildo to the moist dark cunt and pressed. Monet giggled, and with her stubby fingers opened her cunt and seated the device firmly in her vaginal channel. Nola pushed and Monet squirmed, and the oiled shape moved in, distending the inner labia into a tight circle. Excited beyond her imagination, Nola put a palm to Monet's belly as if to feel the expansion and displacement of her organs as the marriage stick disappeared. Monet's raised leg kicked farther out, and her ass hunched forward until the artificial cock was buried to the leather sack of simulated balls.
"All right!" she panted. "Fuck me, Nola! Close your eyes and fuck me with every twist and turn you know a man should use! Oh, Jesus, Johnny! It f-feels just like yours!"
Nola didn't close her eyes. She couldn't because the lewd stick working in the hot wet flesh was pure untrammeled beauty. Even Johnny turned, looking down as the dildo began to move Monet's belly as if the brown bulge were a sack of puppies. She threw her head back, gasping at the force and speed of Nola's manipulation of the dildo. When Nola saw how the finger of Monet's clitoris was not being touched, she put a thumb to the pulsating organ and timed it with the thrust and turn of the stick cock.
Monet began to wail, her mouth chattering, her tongue whipping around outside her full lips as if searching for some responsive sweetness. Then, with a shriek of ecstasy, Monet raised her ass and rotated her pussy in frantic circles.
"Bingo," Johnny said with a chuckle. "Wow, what a hot slot!"
"Wasn't it b-beautiful, look at her flowing!"
Monet lay quietly, panting in short distress, and from her cunt, oozing around the rubber-coated club, came many trickles of nearly clear fluid. The drops ran down under the dildo and flowed into the tightly pressed crack of her plump little ass.
Frantic with need, Nola took the false prick out of Monet, and with no hesitation, rammed it straight up her own cunt. It hurt, it stretched her, it seemed about to split her in half, but she pushed it home, squirming and hunching, then sat with it imbedded. The shock of what she had done to herself drew her face into a tortured mask. It was Johnny's hand that gripped the handle end, and it was strong and brutal and almost more than Nola could stand. She tipped back on the hassock, her elbows barely positioned to support her shoulders, and she opened very wide while Johnny fucked her with the monstrous device. Her tits, already swollen with passion, juggled and rolled as he bottomed the dildo and moved her ass by waggling the handle from side to side.
Nola thought it was not the same. The feeling of being bloated was wonderful and the charge of the knobbed end was thrilling, turning her belly from hot to cold then to hot again, but her clitoris was as Monet's had been, high-standing, vibrant and very uncaressed. She was about to gasp for help when Monet went down on her knees and bent awkwardly over Johnny's plunging hand to put her pursed lips to Nola's hungry clit. Nola groaned and humped up, and she lay in quivering strain until the thundering pole in her cunt and Monet's biting lips became one magnificent cock, belonging to a giant whose only intention was to tear her body and beat it to an ecstatic pulp. Her orgasm surprised her, and she half fell from the hassock, jerking like an epileptic and crying words so sweetly foul they burned her mouth in sympathy with the exploding flames in her pummeled belly. Monet picked her up in her strong bare arms and they hugged while the passion they had shared puddled and became a boiling pit in which they wallowed senselessly.
The only sad note was Johnny. His laughter was quick, his eyes were like flashing lights. As the two women hugged and kissed and exchanged vital fingerings, his cock got hard again, and he crawled over them, thrusting his prick into first one hole and then another. And it wasn't until mid-afternoon, exhausted, sore from constant friction in her cunt and asshole, first from Johnny and then from the cum-oiled marriage stick, that Nola became aware of her brother's limp left hand.
"Johnny, oh Johnny, what's wrong with it?" she wailed. "Monet! His fingers don't move!"
"I know," Monet said.
"Don't worry about it," Johnny growled.
Only then did Nola see them. Johnny sat, his long legs spread and stretched out from his seat on the sofa. His cock lay like a weary, legless animal over his soiled thigh. Monet, the dildo deep in her dark underbody, was curled, the handle of the device thrusting back from under her ass in lewd presentation, and Nola herself was crouched over Johnny's groin, his right hand in her crotch, her tits lolled on Monet's hip. Three barely human creatures, so gnarled and twisted with frenzied passion they could only react to further and more drastic sex. And lying uselessly, palm up on the sofa cushion, was a big-fingered hand, strangely pale and listless.
With a scream of panic Nola fell forward, her lips pressed to the broad palm. The reward for her fright and pity was Johnny's other hand, moving the dildo from Monet's weary cunt to Nola's. While she wept, he fucked her strongly, and after awhile, the hand under her kiss was oddly formed of huge fingers, each seven inches long and knobbed. She was sure then, that she had lost her mind complete-ly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When she went in to awaken Johnny at seven-fifteen the following morning, he was already awake. He sat on the edge of his bed, his robe a loose, poorly adjusted tent around his slouched frame, His left arm lay out at his side, almost as if it weighed too much for him to arrange comfortably. His right hand rested on his knee, and Nola stared at it with mounting horror. It looked precisely as his left had looked the previous day, the fingers curled and dtrangely claw-like.
"Johnny? Are you all right?" she asked. "Is something wrong?"
He looked up and smiled one of his crooked, sardonic smiles.
"I'm fine," he said. "Help me to the bathroom, sis."
He raised his right arm and put it over her shoulder, but it was only the kink of his wrist that gripped. It was all Nola could do to get him up on his feet, and then she had to hold him because there was no stiffness in his legs, and he could not control his knees. She virtually carried him to the bathroom, then stood outside in the hallway, terror turning her flesh to ice. The several small thumps and muttered curses that came through the door only sufficed to cement her fright.
When he knocked, she opened the door, and he was on his hands and knees. Nola screamed, then rushed to help him up. It was nearly more than she could manage, and the trip back to his bedroom left her breathless and trembling.
"Johnny, you've got to let me call a doctor! My God, Johnny! Be reasonable! You're sick, honey, terribly sick."
"Shut up. I'm okay. You know how I feel about doctors, and that's that! Anyway, I'll be all right after a few days. I whipped it once, sis, and I can whip it again. Just bring me my breakfast today. Monet can take care of me from there on. Cut out that bawling before I belt you one!"
"Y-yes, Johnny!"
"Fortunately Monet arrived a few minutes early. Seeing Nola at work in the kitchen, she came bouncing in and curled an arm around her.
"How are you this morning, honey?" she asked, her voice an intimate husk. "Hey! What's with the tears, Nola?"
"It's Johnny! Some time last night-Oh, Monet, he can't use his right hand this morning! And he just curses at me when I t-talk about a doctor. Oh what are we going to do, Monet?"
"Wait. Let me go see just what happened."
Nola shuddered. Monet was no doctor, but she had had a great deal of experience around invalids. And no matter how hard Nola tried to convince herself, Johnny was an invalid. More so, she guessed, than in the beginning because his path now seemed downhill. She made a mess of breakfast, her mind leaping from pain to pain, from guess to hope. When Monet came back, her face was expressionless. She shook her head and shrugged her square shoulders.
"I think he had another little stroke last night or this morning. It doesn't seem to be thrombosis or any vascular failure like I've seen. It's more like neuro-muscular deterioration. Oh gee, Nola! I know so little. Only a doctor could really tell. Don't you think-"
"Yes, I do! But Johnny just has a fit whenever I mention a doctor."
Monet shrugged. "So screw him! Call a doctor anyway! There's a big veteran's hospital in Boise. They'll have him in a special care ward in a jiffy!"
Nola looked away, her eyes seeing repeated and accented visions of Johnny back in a hospital. She remembered the many bitter stories he had told her about lying like a chopped vegetable while the Army doctors pondered and treated and hoped there was something they could do with his mutilated body. Foremost in her mind, because she knew nothing about his true physical condition, was his probable mental degeneration once he went back to the hospital. She shook her head.
"Help me give him his breakfast, Monet. Maybe we can both talk to him after he eats. I know he'll have to be fed. He couldn't hold his toothbrush or brush his h-hair, this morning."
Monet patted Nola's shoulder. "Cheer up, honey. We can take care of him. He's not in much shape to fight back, really!"
He fought back with cheerfulness and laughter, taking a bite of egg-soaked toast from Monet, then a piece of crisp bacon and a sip of coffee from Nola. Occasionally one or the other would try to ask a question, and he shrugged answers or ignored them completely. When breakfast was over, Nola mentioned that she would not go to work that day. "I'd just make a million mistakes and probably get fired, anyway."
Johnny chuckled. "And anyway, we have more fun at home, huh?"
"Oh Johnny, I'm so worried!" Nola wailed, when Monet took the tray back to the kitchen.
He swept the covers away with his still-mobile right fist. The sight of his big prick, standing straight and rigid and pulsing hit Nola like a ruthless fist. He lay there, bare from mid-thigh to the top of his head, his flashing eyes and slow smile the same as she had always known them. If there was any difference in him, it was in his hands, lying quietly at his side instead of reaching for her trembling body. Pity, helplessness and a desire to show him her love welled up and joined the secret longing the sight of his lovely cock had brought to focus in her own sex. With an animal cry she fell forward, her mouth closing over his prick as if she were starving.
Monet entered the bedroom, stopped abruptly when she saw Nola sucking the huge hard-on, then slowly moved to stand behind the hunched figure. Then she leaned down and put both hands under Nola's belly, feeling her way into the robe and under the filmy nightgown. Nola, vaguely aware that Monet had returned, shifted her hips, and she felt the soft, eager touch of the Indian girl's fingers at her quim. A wail of unnatural excitement escaped Nola's mouth and became a soft, saliva-wet sound around Johnny's cock. A morbid headiness attacked Nola; somehow, worry, anguish, concern and terror bubbled up and settled back into a furious sexual demand. The feel of Johnny's prick in her mouth was like a powerful pain-killer and she rolled the flesh, tasting its faintly salty goodness, teasing the small curves and sensitive places as if to impart her sudden happiness to her brother.
An almost childish certainty came to her-as long as Johnny could support his delightful cock and gasp and grunt as she made lewd love to him, he was still Johnny. The thick shaft in her fingers was strong and real, the heat of his skin was thrilling. And then she discovered that her ass was rolling and that Monet's adept fingers had parted her cunt to tease her clitoris into rigid thrusting desire. Hands. Johnny's cock in her throat, small intent fingers gathered under her writhing crotch, her tits now thumping with ecstasy as she deformed them on Johnny's thick thigh.
Nola forgot about hospitals and doctors and limp hands, and her whole being crawled up to enliven her tongue and throat, now so hungry. She formed a round circle of her pursed lips, and her head moved up and down, closing around the middle of his cock and dragging out with ever-increasing pressure until the soft layer of head flesh around the hard core inspired her to plunge down again. Back and above her, the heat of Monet's body came in quivers, and Nola shifted her ass again, to give her hunching hips more room to play. She slid one hand up and forward, feeling Johnny's chest. It rose and fell with his building passion. Under the haired curves of his muscles, his heart beat hard and fast. Then she found his neck and discovered that his head was beginning to move from side to side, as if the avidness of her sucking were too acute to stand.
His response nearly drove her wild. She curled more, fucking Monet's fingers, translating the ecstatic pressure to her brother's prick. And then she felt the root of his prick thicken in her fingers and the glans fatten and harden in her lips. She also felt his cum, and let her own join in the writhing frenzy of his belly. It thudded in her mouth, and as she had always done, she swallowed as if jism were there, pulsating her sucks to the tempo of his cock. And not until he was still, except for the nasal rush of breath through his nostrils, did Nola realize that his orgasm had been strangely docile, and that only his cock had thumped. The usual rise and hunch of his hips had not occurred. Dazed, suddenly remembering the underlying tragedy of her brother's condition, she raised her head.
"Y-your hips," she murmured. "You didn't-"
He raised his right hand and gently cuffed her chin with the back of it. "But you sure did!"
"She surely did!" Monet laughed. "I was fine until she started to cum! I damn near pissed my pants when her quiff started to pump and bite. Oh hell! Let's strip down and get with it!"
"All right now, Johnny?" Nola asked, trying to smile.
"Charging, baby! What a life! All I have to do is lie back and get it!" He wriggled so his softening cock slapped back and forth.
Nola let her hand slip out and curl under his splayed buttock. Deliberately, she dug her well-manicured fingernails into the splay. He didn't even wince, and she bit her lip and stood up. Monet was already half out of her uniform.
"Closer," Johnny husked. "I want to see it real close!"
Nola stood, her quivering nakedness seeming very obscene to her but somehow, very exquisite. Monet held the huge dildo in her right hand, rolling a fresh condom over it with her left fingers. She stood so Johnny could feel her low, plump ass with the back of his hand. When the rubber sheath was stretched and smoothed, like a lewd pink-white skin over the brutal knob of the marriage stick, Monet opened the jar of face cream Nola had brought from her bedroom. She thrust in two brown fingers and brought out a thick glob.
"Bend over honey," she giggled. "Let mama loosen you up."
"Close, now," Johnny demanded.
Nola leaned over slowly, feeling her throbbing tits swing free as she braced one hand to the bed beside Johnny's immobile legs. She parted her feet, her legs stiffening to raise and lift her ass to Monet. Then she held her breath, caught strangely in apprehension and equally, poignant physical fear. She felt Monet's bare arm go over her back, then the cool kiss of the creamed fingers. Carefully, Monet spread the lubricant in the secret nest, slowly letting her fingertips press into Nola's asshole. The touch sent quivers through Nola, and she caught her breath at the illicit contact. Monet sent her fingers in until her folded third knuckle stopped the intrusion, then she began to work the sphincter ani, stretching, spreading and screwing her two fingers as if to ream the delicate aperture to giant dimensions. Nola fought the urge to clinch her anus around the plunging digits: she wanted to fart and maybe to shit, but the furious sensations made her want to be fucked there even more. Now Monet was massaging the flesh above and the flesh below the relaxed aperture, as if to soften the resistance.
"Hurry up and stick it in her ass," Johnny rasped. "Hurry!"
Nola moaned and sent her left fingers back under to her cunt. She held it open, feeling the near to bursting clitoris with her middle finger. Then she saw Monet's bare legs move behind her own. The feel of the greased dildo was terrifying. It spread her bended cheeks, snugging between their muscular rounds and the semi-pointed tip indented her anus; it would never go, no matter how much Johnny wanted to see it up her ass, and instantly Nola wanted it to go in and in and up and up, no matter how much pain it caused.
She could hear Monet's breath coming in excited pants. Nola waved her ass and tried to relax. The dildo pressed, and it was then she realized just how huge and unforgiving the marriage stick really was.
"Oh God! Oh, Monet, be c-careful! Oh, my ass, my ass!"
"Give it to her!" Johnny demanded.
Nola shrieked then chopped it off with her teeth in her lip as Monet screwed and shoved the bludgeon in. Then it seemed to choke. Nola's asshole felt like fire, her buttocks ached at the spreading. "Wait, wait!" she pleaded.
"Fuck her with it!"
"You all right, honey?" Monet asked. "Jesus, you ought to see!" She turned Nola a bit. "Look in the dresser mirror, Nola!"
Raising and turning her head, Nola stared. She saw herself folded almost double, her perfect ass high, and from her rectum, now only a perforated dimple, thrust the half-buried dildo. It made two valleys in her nates, and below the grotesque shaft with its false balls and twisted handle, her cunt hung low and wet and open, as if the intruder had crowded her pelvic containments beyond limits.
Behind her lewdly entered ass, Monet stood, her fat body half-crouched and her face shoved close, as if to inhale every detail. And behind their obscene bodies, Johnny lay, his eyes burning into the madly entered rump. Her rump. Nola could feel the monstrous knob, filling and straining her rectum. Her cunt throbbed, her tits swung stiffly, so bloated were they with passionate blood. And then the pain seemed to spread and disappear, and she convulsed her belly, trying to feel more of the huge spear.
"All right, all right!" she painted. "I'm ready, Monet! Fuck me with it. Unless I scream, go deep, baby!"
Monet's hand stirred the dildo, then pressed. Shocked by the movement, Nola found she had to straighten up to receive it in her contorted torso. Then she closed her eyes, overcome with brutal passion. She felt it hurt her as if it were spreading and shredding her bowel. But the fire was so exquisite, so excitingly compelling, she could only moan and pant through clenched teeth. Thoughts of what she permitted, of Johnny's warped cruelty in demanding that she submit and Monet's eager manipulation of the marriage stick, combined to flood Nola's brain with delicious shame and agony.
Then she thought of nothing as the greased dildo began to course and stroke in her ass. It moved her insides, pistoning, and she felt pumped, blown full of fire and strangely sucked as the long device retreated before Monet shot it in again. Nola groaned, her head began to roll and her ass fucked back, controlled by the excruciating thrust, hard, unforgiving and ruthless. She manipulated her cunt, pinching her clitoris, digging into her constricting vagina with furious hunger. Then she felt her cum approaching and her knees began to buckle. The tensions tightened, the dildo grew enormously, and with a cry of sweet surrender Nola collapsed across Johnny's legs, her own stiffened and spread, her ass fucking the bodiless giant in her rump.
"Stop, stop!" she panted. "Oh, Monet, baby, t-take it out!"
"Leave it in her ass," Johnny laughed. "Turn her so I can see better!"
"Yes, yes. Leave it-leave it in," Nola pleaded, Oh, my God, it's b-big!"
She pushed back, turning her face to her brother. He was leering oddly; then the leer turned to a crooked smile. Monet was standing, her eyes closed, her legs apart, fucking air with slow, intensely lewd undulations of her plump ass. Nola put out one hand, and with grouped fingers entered the dark scarlet lips in the moist black hair.
"Aaugh-ha!" Monet gasped and her cunt spewed Nola's, fingers out as the violent orgasm burst in her pumping belly.
Nola stood with her legs well apart, trying to be comfortable with the marriage stick's handle sticking straight down from between her weary buttocks. Her stance was an awkward arc, her cunt was distended, drooling, half-open. She let small motions flutter from her tits down to ease the growing agony in her bowel and to please the fire in her vagina.
On the bed, Monet was rolling and humping down on Johnny's revived prick. He lay flat, arms uselessly out, his face a mask of pure animal pleasure. His cock waved and twisted in Monet's quim as if on a ball joint. There was no movement of his hips and no tensing of his legs. So violent were Monet's fucking movements that her tit tips scraped and tickled Johnny's chest, and her belly slapped on his. Her hands gripped him convulsively, and her fingers dug and raked his flesh. Once he turned his head and smiled sleepily at Nola, licked his lips and let his eyes close again in placcid lust.
Nola turned and waddled from the bedroom, bracing her battered body against the wall when she reached the hallway. Restrained tears, of pain and mental anguish, trickled down her cheeks. She bowed with difficulty and took hold of the dildo handle. She tugged, writhing to help the expulsion. The slide of the long column made her groan with hurt and good, and then she had to twist and jerk it to free her numbed anus of the head knob. Her asshole seemed to suck in cool air; her belly twitched with relief. Holding the fouled device, she moved to the bathroom. Through the door to Johnny's room, she could hear Monet croon and laugh, and then the deep chuckle from her brother and indistinct words.
Nola sat on the toilet a long time before her shocked body could evacuate. She held her head in her hands and panted, vainly trying to think, instinctively afraid to remember, and unwilling to give up trying. Then she looked at her watch and it wasn't even noon yet.
She stripped the condom from the dildo and flushed it. Then she gently washed her soiled body with warm soapy water and a most irritating washrag. She was drying herself when Monet appeared at the door, her rounded belly heaving, her brown throat pulsing with the race of her heart.
"My God, Nola!" she wailed, and they closed in a tight embrace.
"I'm so-so afraid!" Nola cried. "He seems to be just-just wilting before my very eyes!"
"No, no," Monet murmured. "He's just tired, baby. Christ, he's blown his wad three or four times since breakfast. He's all right. I think he's sleeping now. Oh, you poor, poor darling!"
Nola winced as Monet's petting hand sent a cautious finger to her swollen anus. "It's all right. It was what he wanted. It'll be f-fine in the morning."
Monet laughed drily. "I hated so to do it to you, Nola. Then I popped my gun twice while I did it! Oh, Jesus. Let's make some coffee and lace it good with something tough! My nerves are shot!"
Arm in arm, they went to the kitchen, their naked bodies making sex sounds as thighs and tits rubbed and smacked. Nola put on the coffee. Then as if they were both motivated by the same emotion, they leaned against the sink counter and embraced, breasts and bellies close, hands moving as if freshly charmed by the feel of soft, hot flesh.
Johnny was not asleep. He lay flat, his body strangely relaxed but acutely able to feel. He was very sure he was dying. He had already grown used to the constant pain in his head. It shifted from just above his right eye to just above his left, then it slid to the back of his skull. Every time it went to the back of his head, some small segment of his body tingled and went dead. He didn't have to test it to be sure it went dead. He could feel it die, and then it became slightly cold, as if a hunk of ice had been held there a long time.
He couldn't remember how long ago he'd been hurt. He wasn't even sure of how he'd been hurt, but it had something to do with mud and pain and a big noise. He looked up at the ceiling. Still cracked. His eyes rolled, and he saw the table and the chair and the door through which they'd gone. They hadn't left him. They couldn't live without his prick. He smiled inside. The memory of his beautiful sister bent over while Monet worked the big phony cock in her asshole was sharp and pleasant. He could feel his prick now, thick, lazy and tingling from its rigid romp in the Indian girl's wild cunt. The revenge of the redskin; fuck the white man to death and run away with his prick snapped off in her clutchy cunt. Good fuck. He rolled his eyes down and his cock was making a tent of the sheet. He opened his mouth to call, but his throat was tired. He sighed. They'd be back. They couldn't live without his prick. He'd taught them both that balls weren't everything. In fact, balls weren't important at all. He closed his eyes, thinking about his cock, standing up there at attention like a good private. Funny joke. Like a good private. He wondered if it would stand up after he went to sleep. He thought it would because his back was tired.
CHAPTER TWELVE
They checked him constantly, Monet's sure fingers at his pulse and her little thermometer finding no variations whether she tucked it under his arm or slipped in his mouth as he slept. Nola knew he was sleeping because his slightly nasal purr was regular and deep. The fact that his cock remained high and rigid despite his sound sleep seemed proof that he was merely tired-but not tired enough, they decided.
"What a man," Monet remarked, almost giggling. "You know what he's going to want the minute he wakes up, don't you?"
"I wish it would go down," Nola said. "Gives me the quivers, standing up like that!"
"Well, there are some things we could try," Monet said. "But I don't know why we should. It sure isn't hurting anything, and it's kind of cute! If it were anyone else but Johnny, I'd say it might be a strain on his heart. But its going along at a steady seventy-one to seventy-three. Don't worry, Nola. I think he's going to be all right. Would you feel better if I stayed tonight? He's pretty heavy to handle alone, to the bathroom and all. If I went home I'd worry about you, and if you stay alone, you'll worry about him. Might as well worry together."
Nola was delighted and told Monet so. They sat around together and talked, and Nola broke one of her private vows by explaining her relationship with her brother over the past few months. Monet sat with wide eyes and a mouth slack with surprise. Oddly, to Nola the story didn't seem as bad put into words as it had seemed in her mind.
"I don't really know how it all happened," she finally admitted. "Johnny seemed so sick, so different than he had been when we were growing up together. I'm sure he wasn't in love with me or that he even thought about me very much. He just said I belonged to him, and that was that. One thing led to another. And after awhile-I guess I didn't mind too much. He was getting better, and I was geting used to-sex."
Monet got up and came to stand beside Nola, her arm around her. "Don't blame yourself, Nola. God! I don't think I could have argued with him, either. Anyway, I'd sure have traded you my silly marriage stick for him! All of that man and not a chance of waking up some morning with your belly full of papoose!"
"But he isn't your brother!" Nola wailed, looking up at Monet.
"Just like you aren't my sister, either," the Indian girl breathed, and her hand went down from Nola's shoulder to the big, round warmth of her tit. Then she leaned down, and her lips closed firmly over Nola's, spreading and nibbling as her tongue slipped between Nola's teeth. Momentarily, Nola resisted, then her own lips softened and kissed back, and her worry was quickly blanketed by a new, demanding kind of heat. Her hand crept out and slipped up under Monet's loosely buttoned uniform, following the soft quivering flesh of her inner thigh until it merged with dark crisp hair and the hot moistness of her quim. A flash of shame made Nola want to cry out and escape the hideous instant, then the moment was no longer hideous, and her only sound was a moan of passion into Monet's mouth.
"My room," Nola breathed.
"Shall I get the marriage stick?" Monet asked softly.
"No. No, just be with me, Monet!"
Facing each other in her bedroom, they both slipped out of their skimpy clothes, donned carelessly after Johnny had fallen asleep. To Nola, the smooth brown flesh was almost delicious enough to eat, and when their bodies came together in hard embrace, she tipped them both to the bed. They fell kissing, legs quickly intertwining, breasts deforming one against another. They hugged to breathlessness, as each wanted to become one with the writhing, straining other. Nola closed her eyes, feeling her pubic mound hairily kiss Monet's, and the subtle contact sent thrills of eagerness through her body. It was not like loving Johnny, and she had no other comparison to make. The illicit nature of her desire for Monet made it all the more compelling. She dropped one hand behind the girl's broad bottom and felt the soft nates, molding them and displacing them as her brother had often done to hers. She put a finger to Monet's anus, testing the rubbery flesh around it, teasing the swollen pucker as she thought of her finger as a long, slim, hungry prick.
Then Monet, who was the strongest, rolled Nola to her back and like a fat, scrambling crab, he reversed her body, straddling Nola's so that her spraddled bottom hovered over her face. Nola's mouth was barely below the slightly open cunt, and she raised her head to kiss deep into the sexily acrid nest of quaking flesh. At the same moment she felt Monet's kiss, centered by a darting tongue, enter her own sex. Sensation seemed to course around and around the tongue-meshed pair, and from one straining body to the other, the building tensions were perfectly matched. Nola licked and nibbled, and her eyes, wide open, did not focus but merely devoured the brown pillows above with quick concentrations on the smooth valley with its dark brown rosebud.
She put her palms to the cheeks of Monet's ass and pressed and pulled the moons to enjoy the erotic shapes she created. Her own thighs, pressed by Monet's hands, spread and spread until her hips seemed likely to disjoint, then she began to hunch to the rhythmic lash and plunge of Monet's tongue. When she felt a wriggling finger at her anus, Nola followed suit. And as her finger entered Monet's rectum, the beauty of the intrusion made Nola groan with ecstasy. She seemed completely one with the Indian girl, her tongue like a slithering prick, her finger searching and savoring the secret muscles that gripped it spasmodically. At her cunt another slithering cock kept battering the sensitive tissues, and own anus milked greedily at Monet's deep finger.
Their orgasms came quickly, Nola's slightly ahead of Monet's. To Nola, the cum was blindingly total, as if her whole body were constricted bv a mighty fist, squeezing the fire and ecstasy down and down to burst from her cunt into Monet's gulping throat. Then, while the tensions snapped and whipped, she felt the firming around her own tongue, and she sent it so deep into Monet's cunt, the thrust made her neck muscles complain. Then they lay, each rotating her ass in slow, ecstatic circles, cooling the sex fire with soothing motion.
They played erotic games with each other until five, then discovered Johnny was awake. He seemed cheerful and they made much fun of his seemingly perpetual hard-on, and the three of them had a vodka, Nola and Monet taking turns fondling his cock and holding his drink so he could sip it. It was so exciting that Nola was sure he was much better.
It took them both to get him to the bathroom, and then he couldn't urinate through his massive erection; when they seated him, his cock stood up between his listless thighs, and it was too adamant to be tipped down, even if he could have relaxed enough to piss. It was funny to everybody but Johnny.
"Goddamnit. My bladder's busting! Monet, you're a nurse. Isn't there some way to limp it?"
She flicked the head with her middle finger. He grunted, but his prick only jerked. "Well, maybe I can ease it another way," she said, kneeling between his outstretched legs. She put her hand down and under his ass, and Johnny gasped as she inserted a finger in his rectum.
"Hey, damn it!"
"Be still," Monet told him. "Maybe I can massage your prostate into easing up. It's the valve, you know. Anyway, doesn't it feel a little good?"
Nola stared with strange misgivings while Monet plied her educated finger in Johnny's rectum. His cock jerked and seemed to get harder and stiffer, then Monet took a firm grasp of it and slid the whole of his foreskin forward to nearly cover the puffed glans. And after a moment, his prick began to soften, and when it was limp in Monet's hand, she turned it down, massaging deeply until his urine suddenly gushed into the toilet. Despite the measure of exhaustion she had found in Monet's arms, Nola felt her blood hasten as she watched the incredible scene. The odor of his urine was boar-strong, and her nostrils interpreted the acrid smell as something more erotically fragrant. When he was washed and brushed, they lifted him between them and headed his dragging feet back toward bed.
Before they had him tucked and propped for dinner, his prick had regained its rigidity with a seeming vengeance. Everything was still funny, despite the sense of underlying tragedy that kept flooding Nola's belly with nausea.
They prepared dinner and hand-fed him; he had a remarkable appetite, and Nola searched for any sign that he was holding his own, if not yet improving. She thought he looked so handsome and strong that it seemed impossible for him to be any other way. And there was always the undeniable virility of his prick, either making a pyramid under the sheet or waving stiffly when one of them fondled it.
"That crap had better cease," he laughed, when dinner was cleaned up, and they sat having coffee, Monet's mug-warmed hand going to the root of his cock to caress the point of sturdy departure from his underbody. "Who's first tonight"
"You, Nola," Monet suggested. "I haven't seen you on it, honey. But don't take it all! Leave some for me, because after watching, I'm going to need it!"
They exchanged understanding glances, and Nola removed her housecoat. She wasn't sure she wanted to mount her brother with the Indian girl watching, then she was flooded with desire to be watched. Standing by the bed, she flexed her arms and back, swirling to send her huge breasts jiggling, swaying from side to side. On impulse she reached down and picked up Johnny's hand, holding it to her cunt so he could feel the hot wet lips as she worked her flared hips in excited hunching. She knelt then and used his dampened hand to smear her own moisture on the tips of her throbbing breasts.
"Get well, Johnny, get well!" she whispered. "Try hard, Johnny because without you, I'll just die!"
He chuckled, the deeply genuine sound she knew expressed his pleasure more than any word he could utter. Then with glance at Monet, Nola swung up and over her brother's body, as if he were a pony. Her straddle was well forward of his cock, her cunt lips kissed his high abdomen, and she wiped herself on his hairy flesh while he devoured her lewdness with burning eyes. She crawled forward, and he raised his head, his tongue running out for first sweet contact before she could adjust herself for his full, open-lipped kiss. With two fingers, she held her labia open, and with the other hand she held Johnny's head in hot contact with her cunt.
"My God, my God," she breathed. "Oh, Johnny, do you w-want it this way, or shall-"
His head wanted to drop away, so she let it rest on the stacked pillows. When she met his eyes, they were different than she had ever seen them before, almost sad and certainly less blue. "Monet?" he said, a question in his tone. "Yes, Johnny."
"Beat it. Leave us alone, will you? I mean well, who wants an audience when he's fucking his sister? Please now. Go have a beer or tickle yourself with the wooden cod. Just leave us alone for a few minutes, will you?"
Nola's heart swelled until she thought it was going to burst from her chest. He had spoken in a low voice, vibrant with emotion, and now his face looked softer than she had ever seen it. She twisted and met Monet's eyes, her own slightly wet with the surge of love his words had created. To Monet's questioning look, Nola nodded.
Without a word Monet turned and left the room, pausing at the door for a longing look at the tableau on the bed.
Nola inched back until his cock touched the small of her back, then she bowed down and kissed her brother with feathery lips. So close she could see the fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the tiny veins in the whites of his eyes. With gentle thumbs she straightened his eyebrows and petted his forehead.
"We have to trim the darned old hair in your nose, soldier," she said. "And will you need a shave in the morning!"
"Take the pillows away, sis," he said. "My head is too high. Then raise my arms up and fold them above my head. It makes breathing easier and I expect to need all the breath I can get. Those tits, kind of get down and fuck me a little with them, will you, baby?"
He smiled, taking away the peculiar tension of his words. Nola turned, pivoting her cunt on his belly as she traded ends. Then she backed until her mammary globes hung on each side of his prick, and she swayed her shoulders, slapping his organ with the soft but weighty rounds, the nipples dragging on the lightly haired juncture of his legs and body. Holding her back in tension, she put her palms to her tits and caught his cock in their hot press, the flesh billowing around the sturdy shaft and distended head like modeling clay of alabaster white. Slowly then, she began to raise and lower her shoulders, feeling his foreskin roll to the movement of her tits. She sent down a little farther and by ducking her chin, managed to deposit a large blob of saliva on the very tip of his prick. When she raised, the slippery wetness spread with the brush of her flesh. She stared down, fascinated, hypnotized by the lewd deformation of her flesh around his. She could almost feel his eyes caressing her ass and the hanging rolls of her labia; her heart wept for his inability to touch and finger her. Her body ached for his touch with almost as much longing as she knew he felt. Her mind raced with memory, each as strong as the head of his cock, darting through her tits like a small scarlet animal peeking from its burrow. Torn between sadness for how things were now and how wonderful they had been just a few days ago, she let her emotions pile until orgasm shook her in unexpected frenzy.
"Johnny, oh, I'm cumming, I'm cumming! Johnny!"
She let her tits fall away from his prick, and she pressed her fluttering lips to the pulsating acorn of flesh. Then she slowly turned around again and rested for a moment, her face close to his. He chuckled in her ear.
"Remember how you yelped the first time you saw it, sis? What I did was dirty, I know, but I had to do it-like you have to scratch no matter if its a starch thread in your shirt collar or a spider! I don't know-I never did know why it had to be you, baby. Lately I haven't been thinking too much, just remembering and feeling. Fuck me, Nola, and make it good! I can't help you, no matter how much I want to help. Tear it off at the roots, baby!"
"Johnny, are you all right" she quavered.
"I'm fine, baby. And I'm going to be better, count on it!"
"Yes, my darling, of course you are! We did it together, didn't we, and we can do it again. Oh God, how I love you, Johnny!"
She reached back with her hand then and gently took hold of his penis. It was like a heated iron in her grasp, the stiffness of it delightfully frightening. She scrooched, playfully knocking the head between cunt-lips, then between the sharply bended nates. She wanted to tuck it into her asshole, but her cunt seemed a void, and her belly cried for filling. Slowly she moved and lowered his organ, and then she nested it, in her vulva. She had done it many times before, but now there was no enthusiastic hunch from her brother, no brutal jab to hurt and thrill and start her quivering with anticipation. She jerked her ass down, feeling the quick entry, the plug-like core of meat, separated from her greedy flesh only by a thin layer of fire and friction.
She rolled her hips, starting side tensions and pressings before she began to screw herself down on the irresistible pole.
"Fuck me, Nola, and make it good," he had said. "Yes, Johnny," she whispered. "Oh, God, yes, Johnny!" He stirred slightly, and she flailed her tits across his chest and closed her eyes, totally submerged in unthinking passion. Her back curled then, and she came down on his cock with all of her weight. The bed creaked, and his hips bounced up, almost as if he had willed them to her underbody. She felt the head of his cock snubbing deep in her vagina, and she convulsed her belly, trying with every inner muscle to caress and thrill the filling cock. Then she began to fuck him, raising her ass with a slow twisting, lowering it with every fiber of her body writhing as if to peel the skin from it and make raw the billions of eager nerves. She confined her undulations to the lower half of her body, holding her belly to his in solid contact, with only the jelly-like quiver of her tits to caress his chest.
Her breath speeded as the tensions she was sending down around his prick began to rebound and claim her nerves. She had sweet, familiar visions of his cock rippling in her cunt, the delicious shape of his foreskin and coronal ridge distending and cavorting in her aching sleeve of lust. She tried strange changes in her rolling and bottom bobbing, herself controlling the tiny pains and saccharine flashes, fucking him as he had never fucked her. She moved blindly, thinking only of sensation and fulfillment. As her satisfaction mounted, she became certain that his cock was swelling, growing longer, thicker and frighteningly hotter. She clamped her teeth and fought the approach of her cum; Fuck me, Nola, and make it good, she let the words bound around in her mind, each repetition as exquisite as the turmoil in her cunt.
Then an ugly, selfish thought came sneaking through the building blue. To bring her this mad, all-absorbing passion, God had seen fit to take Johnny's testicles. How long had it been? Eight months, nine now, and that was a critical period. Later, when he was happily resting, she would have to tell him how blessed she had been, despite his inner rages, to have never been afraid of the spurt and creep and fertilization of his jism. Now she let gratitude and speculation slip from her mind, to be replaced by pure ecstasy. His cock was gigantic, like the trunk of a tree or an elephant's foot, plunging in and out of her cunt with strange animation.
She hunched down harder and felt his prick thrust up. She felt the movement in his thighs, the heavy lift, the turning under her belly. For a moment she was afraid, then she shut her eyes and let her soul sing with happiness. She felt his hands come down to her shoulders, the fingers spread and smooth her flesh as she remembered his delight in her softness. "Johnny, Johnny!" she wailed and tried to melt her body into his, but it wouldn't melt; his prick kept swelling, filling her cunt to near bursting. She winced with the ecstasy as the elongating member jolted high and thumped against her convulsing womb.
Now his hands crept down her back and curled with strong possessiveness around the cheeks of her ass. She felt his lips on her forehead, and they were mobile, warm, caressive. It was nearly time, she thought, because the root of his cock was thickening and throbbing when it came up for the final stretching of her vagina. She tensed, trying to increase the grip of her labia, trying to milk his prick for that last expansion.
"Now, Johnny Now?" she cried, raising her head to adore the slack-mouthed gasping she knew he would be enduring. Then she screamed.
His mouth was slack, and his tongue, hanging loosely from his lips, was very still. There was no breath hot on her face. Nola screamed again, and then she gave a spasmodic twitch and leaped up and away. Johnny did not move nor speak, and when she looked, his cock was a limp, shriveled nothing, lying down between his flaccid thighs. It was neither moist nor sticky, as if it had never known the channel her love had flooded for him. She stood, half crouched, her eyes so wide they hurt. And while she looked, a brown body came as a stubby ghost, stooping low, doing quick things with adept hands. Then the body slowed to a timeless creeping and twisted.
"He's dead, honey," Monet said, and they both cried.
