Beneath the outward serenity of small towns run the same passions that we find in big cities and sprawling suburbia. Criminal acts are more apparent in the cities, but the same forces that drive urban man to crime and other excesses are at work in our small towns. Greed, lust, envy -- these are emotions common to all men, and every man has been touched by them to some extent.
Several of the characters in this book find themselves on a collision course with people who are motivated by greed and lust. Blinded by their passions, they are destructive to themselves and those around them -- particularly the innocent.
These are everyday people. Solid citizens of their community. Yet they are people trapped in their flesh and unable to control their baser instincts. They have given themselves over to the pleasurable. The profitable. The expedient. Are they so different from the rest of us?
THE TOWN SLUTS -- entertaining fiction, yes. But a story with an element of truth about the passions that we all must deal with.
The Publisher
Chapter One
Becky Jane Johnson hated taking dictation. She hated taking dictation because it meant that she had to stand in front of Wendell Rathers for at least half an hour while she jotted down orders to be filled, itineraries to make, greetings and salutations from the Rathers Wrench Company.
She never did understand why she had to take dictation standing up.
Wendell Rathers knew why he wanted his voluptuous secretary to stand up while taking dictation. Just like he knew he had to be sitting down, slumped in his executive chair, while he dictated to his voluptuous secretary.
Because Wendell liked to look at panties while he dictated the affairs of his wrench company. Like now, he could see that Miss Johnson was wearing lemon-yellow panties, very frilly around the edges, and there was just a tad bit of some kind of stain at the crotch. Wendell figured that she had gotten very hot and horny one night and couldn't get the stain out using Clorox; or she was very hot and horny now as she stood at the front of his desk taking dictation.
It was very amazing the way Wendell Rathers, president of the Rathers Wrench Company, could see his voluptuous secretary's panties. It was amazing in many respects. For one, it had taken a lot of money to pay for a custom-built desk that had all kinds of neat devices. For another, it was very expensive to have a mirror installed beneath the carpet and an electric door that would lift the rug like a trapdoor and allow the mirror to come up and out from beneath the desk.
Of course, the mirror could be tilted to many angles by the foot pedals beneath Wendell's desk.
He pushed the pedal and the mirror crept out from under the desk, almost hitting Becky Jane's ankles as she took dictation.
Ah, now Wendell could see up those miles of trim calves and sleek thighs all the way to her panties.
And double ah, because with another push on the pedal a magnifying mirror took the regular mirror's place, and allowed Wendell a very good close-up of those lemon-yellow panties with the cum or some kind of juice stain at the crotch.
Yes, that was a cunt-juice stain all right. Because it was very opaque-looking, yet still distinguishable.
Yes, that was pubic hair that made a shadow behind the cunt-juice stain at the crotch of those sexy lemon-yellow panties. Wendell knew it was pubic hair because it pooched out the crotch of those panties.
Becky Jane was very hairy around her pussy. Some of the strands of pubic hair had strayed beyond the tight elastic waistband, and Wendell could see that she had red pubic hair.
Wow!
Becky Jane Johnson was a true redhead. Wendell liked redheads.
He took his eyes off the mirror, and looked at the rest of the fuckable woman standing before him. What a beautiful, sensuous, edible woman.
As he dictated a letter to an irate customer that had complained that one of his monkey wrenches had split in half when he had hit his wife over the head with it, Wendell tried to imagine what those huge tits looked like on Becky Jane's chest.
It was hard to see her tits. Well, actually the outlines of her tits were easily made out. Shit, they had to be at least forty-inchers. Which naturally made her chest look outstanding to horny, blue-balled farts like Wendell Rathers.
But he wondered if she had big nipples. Wendell preferred his tits to be big with big nipples. Yeah, she had to have big nipples because girls with forty-inchers tend not to have small nipples.
Becky Jane felt very uncomfortable. She hated taking dictation. Not only because she had to stand up and take shorthand, but because her tits always made her shoulders slump forward with their cumbersome weight whenever she was in a perpendicular position.
She preferred the horizontal position. Like last night, when she had been very horizontal. Laid out flat by an ex-boxer named Buster "One Punch" Hyman.
Wow, what a cock. Wow, what a punch.
As she stood there listening to Wendell's sonorous voice, she remembered getting punched out by Buster Hyman and his big cock. His very big cock. The biggest cock that had ever fucked her.
And, for secretaries like Becky Jane Johnson, remembering how big a guy's cock was more important than asinine things like a guy's personality or his character. Yeah, he had a big cock all right.
Her cunt would never feel the same after getting fucked like she had last night. Christ, just thinking about that foot-and-a-half-long cock made her cunt-lips tingle, which produced more cunt-ooze, which naturally made a puddle at the crotch of her panties; which, of course, Wendell Rathers could see very obviously by tilting the mirror some more.
How could she know it was a foot-and-a-half-long cock that had fucked her last night? Because she had measured it -- things like that were very important to secretaries who are very lonely and who search for the biggest cock in the world.
She had taken the yardstick out and measured Buster's fuck just before he had fucked her.
And Buster had felt like crap when she had measured his cock. People had always been measuring him throughout his career as a prizefighter. Always putting his vital stats in the newspaper whenever he fought. Like the time, the fucked-u newspaper had matched his stats against Georgie "Two-Punch" Pike.
Arm reach: 42 inches. Full extended: 48 inches. Biceps: 16 inches. Flexed: 18 inches.
Hat size: 9. Inflated: 91/2.
And row he couldn't believe that Becky Jane Johnson, the sweet-looking babe he had picked up at the park when he was supposed to be jogging, was more interested in the size of his cock instead of his personality or his character.
"Gee, Buster, look how big your cock is. Wow, it's about a foot long when it's soft. Wow, how big does it get when it's hard?"
Cock: 12 inches. Extended, flexed and inflated: 18 inches.
Buster didn't care, he didn't want to be treated like meat on the hoof. He was a boxer with a heart, with something else that he wanted to offer to a woman other than a foot-and-a-half long cock.
"Shit, Becky, I don't care how long my prick is..."
"I..."
"Why? Is that all you think of me? That I'm all cock?"
"No! Of course, you're not all cock, Buster. You gotta nice set of lips. And I bet you can really eat out a chick's cunt, can't you?"
Buster shook his head. "Look, so what if my cock's only a foot long when it's soft. I mean, I just don't give a shit..."
"I don't care."
"Why?"
"Because I can just see your cock getting all hard and stiff. And then when you fuck me with it, I want to feel your jizz shooting into my throat instead of in my womb-and with a cock as big as yours, it'll feel like it's in my throat instead of my womb."
"Jesus Christ, Becky! No man's got a cock big enough to fuck all the way into a chick's throat."
"Wanna bet?"
Before Buster could answer, or laugh, or shrug, or say: "Hey, what the fuck are you doing?" Becky was devouring his soft cock. Not all of it, because she had never sucked on a foot-long cock when it was soft.
Buster gasped: "OOOOOOOOH GGOODDDDDD! CHRIST, WAIT A MINUTE!"
"Huh-uh," Becky moaned, running her lips teasingly all around the shaft before gobbling on the rubbery cockhead.
Buster couldn't believe it. Christ, he had picked up some pretty wild chicks when he was supposed to be jogging through the park. But Becky Jane Johnson was the wildest.
Nobody had come on stronger than she had. But then again, when a voluptuous-looking chick is jogging through the park wearing crotchless tight ski pants and a tight sweater with no bra on and eating a huge hunk of salami, it's very easy to see that she's hungry for something more human than a hunk of Genoa.
Now Buster watched her eat his salami. Oooooohh, God! Her mouth looked so bloated with cock. Her lips were nibbling on his loose foreskin, trying to unloosen the loose skin around his prick and make the whole prick stand hard and erect.
She was doing a very good job.
Buster's prick was rising fast and hard in her gobbling mouth. Shit, only four inches of his cock was outside her cocksucking mouth, and he knew that a lot of his prick had to be in that tight-sucking throat.
"Ooooooh, whatta cocksucker! Oooooh, whatta throat! Jesus Christ! Easy, Becky, easy! Shit, I'll shoot in your fuckin' mouth if you don't suck easier!"
Becky sucked easier. She didn't want his jizz coming into her belly via her cocksucking mouth. She wanted his jizz in her belly via her cocksucking pussy.
And besides, she had to slow down because there was about four inches of prime cock-meat that she couldn't gobble on because she had never sucked a foot-and-a-half-long cock. Oh, there had been plenty of foot-long cocks that she had sucked and fucked; and they were easy to munch on for a girl who's blown about eighty-four pricks in the last four years.
But this cock was enormous.
She stopped sucking, moving back on the cock very slowly, her mouth becoming a Hoover vacuum cleaner as her head raised up.
"Ooooooooh, God! Jesus! Your sucking's so good!"
Becky's mouth popped off the cockhead, and she took a good grip on the shaft to hold it upright, to make it stand very stiff and all so she could grab the yardstick and measure what her mouth had built.
Wow! An eighteen-inch prick!
Jesus! The guy wasn't human! No human had an eighteen-inch prick! Christ, how do guys get eighteen-inch pricks? Pull on it every hour? Do stretching exercises? God wouldn't dare bless a baby boy with a cock that would be eighteen inches when the boy became a man, would he? Becky was awed by the prick she held tightly.
It was like seeing the Empire State Building for the first time. Or the Egyptian pyramids. It was the eighth wonder of the world.
Buster grimaced. "Goddamn, Becky! You're squeezing the shit out of my cock!"
Becky nodded, smiled wryly. "Will it hurt when we fuck?"
"Nah, my cock's never been hurt when I fucked a chick."
"No, no, what I meant was, does it hurt the girl when she gets fucked by your prick?"
"Yeah, they scream a lot."
"Oooooooooh."
Buster was going to tell her that some girls had refused to sit on his prick for fear that it would feel more like an ass-backwards childbirth. And some refused simply because they knew after they'd fucked Buster's prick that their cunts would be too loose for any other man and they'd have to keep hounding Buster to fuck them. And some refused because they were fearful of heights, like standing on top of the Empire State Building.
He was going to tell her all that, but he didn't get the chance. He didn't get the chance because Becky's pussy was poised over his cock ready to scale the heights of his Empire State cock.
Then her pussy wasn't poised over his cock any more. Her pussy was plunging down very rapidly, and Buster could see his shaft bending this way and that as her cunt sat on his prick.
"AAAHIEEE! GOD! WHATTA COCK! JESUS I IT HURTS SO GOOD!"
Buster broke out in a sweat. Sweating like after hour-long workout on the punching bag. Perspiring like after an hour with the old medicine ball. But, whereas he usually felt pain when he worked out, he now felt pleasure as his cock was smothered by the hot, squishy flesh of a cunt that was being spread open by his prick.
"AAAIIIEEE! GOD! GOD! GOD! NO COCK'S EVERY BEEN THIS DEEP BEFORE! CHRIST! IT FEELS LIKE IT'S IN MY BELLY! OH GOD! IT HURTS SO GOOD! SHOVE IT IN!" Shove it in?
Christ, she had been doing all the shoving and pushing. She had been the one who wanted to fuck his foot-and-a-half-long cock. Christ, Buster was a counter-puncher, not a boxer.
Then he felt her cunt-lips snugging around the base of his cock, and his prick felt like it was fucking a tight, meaty toilet-paper tube instead of something that belonged between the long lithe legs of a secretary who craved eighteen-inch cocks.
Becky felt his balls nudging her asshole, and she knew that his cock was all the way in. God, it hurt all around her pussy, inside and out. And the agony of his cockhead as it throbbed against her womb, and all those other things that God had put into a woman's belly so that they could feel how good an eighteen-inch prick felt as opposed to the everyday, average-sized, ten-inch cock.
Yes, there was a lot of agony in fucking a guy with an eighteen-inch prick.
But it was worth the effort, the pain, the labor, the sweat and the agony. Shit, it was like childbirth where the woman screams about her pussy feeling like it was being ripped inside out, but once the task was accomplished, there was always that look of serene happiness.
Now Becky was very happy. Serenely happy.
And Buster was happy, too. Because now that the fucking had begun, now that she had forced the action, he went into his role as a counter-puncher.
He grabbed her asscheeks very hard -- oooooh, why did her ass feel like warm hot-cross buns? And he started lifting her up -- ooooooooh, why did her cunt feel like a warm greasy rubber glove that had been placed on his cock and was now being pulled off?
Becky shuddered as her cunt-lips gripped the barrel of his cock as she was raised higher and higher-seventeen inches higher with just the throbbing glans acting as a stopper for all the hot cunt-juice that threatened to pour from her pussy.
"AAAAIIIIEEEE! OH GOD! I CAN FEEL YOUR COCK THROBBING AGAINST MY CLIT! OH, PLEASE! JAM YOUR COCK INTO MY PUSSY! OH CHRIST, WHATTA HUGE PRICK! I CAN'T STAND IT!"
Buster's arms were running with sweat. His fingers felt like tense piano wires as he maintained his grip on her hot-bunned ass. He moved his hips in a clockwise circular motion.
Which tends to move his cock in a clockwise motion. Which tends to tease a chick's cunt as his glans throbs and moves against her oozing cunt-lips and erect clit.
Which made Becky hotter than hell.
It made her sweat a lot, too. It made her anticipate when he was going to shove his prick into her pussy after teasing her clit with the head of his cock.
"OOOOOOH, PLEASE! PLEASE! LET ME FUCK YOUR COCK! PLEASE DON'T TEASE ME ANY MORE! I CAN'T STAND IT! MY CLIT'S BURNING UP! OOOOOOH, PLEASE DON'T TEASE MY CLIT ANY MORE!"
But Buster was content to tease Becky with the clockwise motions of his cock. His arms were getting a very good workout.
"PLEASE! I CAN'T STAND IT! DON'T TEASE ME ANY MORE! FUCK ME! FUCK ME! I CAN'T STAND IT!"
So Buster didn't let her stand any longer. He let her go.
And her cunt came crashing down on his cock, smothering his prick in a pressuring ooze of meat and muscle, of sweat and sweet cunt-juice.
"AAAAIIIEEEEE! OH GOD! IT'S SO HUGE! JESUS CHRIST! YOUR COCK'S SO GOD DAMNED HUGE! I LOVE IT! IT HURTS SO FUCKING GOOD!"
Then, with Becky's hot cunt filled with his cock, Buster started into a counter-clockwise movement with his hips.
Which tends to move his cock around in her pussy like a baseball bat that a batter waves in the air before stepping to the plate. Only his cock wasn't a Louisville Slugger because it didn't have Babe Ruth's signature on the shaft, and it wasn't made of wood but, solid, blood-throbbing muscle.
Beck collapsed on Buster's chest, let her titties smash against the hard sweaty flesh of his upper torso. She couldn't believe how much pleasure was coursing through her pussy as his cock did magical things while it moved in a counter-clockwise motion.
Her clit was being rubbed raw. Her cunt-tube was being stretched by a cock that felt more like a bat. Her womb was being entered where no average-sized cock had ever entered.
She was, to say the least, getting fucked.
And she liked getting fucked. In fact, she loved getting fucked. Especially by an eighteen-inch cock owned by somebody who knew how to use his eighteen-inch cock to satisfy a woman's fuck-need.
Now Rocky's ass felt as if it had been placed in a vise, and her body felt as if it were in the hands of a master puppeteer who was making a puppet out of her flesh. She was being lifted up and down on that eighteen-inch prick, her cunt-lips being titillated with each eighteen-inch stroke.
Now Buster was really counter-punching, dodging his cock this way and that, slamming and bruising into the wet, hot hole of her pussy. And, as he lifted Becky up and down on his cock, he was jabbing his prick upward into the guts of her pussy.
"OH GOD! I FEEL SO FUCKED! JESUS CHRIST! FUCK ME! OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH, GODDDDDDD! I'M CCCOOOMMMIIINNNGGGG! CHHHRRRIIISSTTT! I'M CCOOMMMIIINNNGG!"
Buster could tell she was coming because her pussy was grabbing his cock, nibbling at the expanding glans, sucking hard on the shaft. And the noise of their fuck filled the room.
Squish. Squish. Squish.
And between squishes she was screaming: "FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"
Then the squishes were coming so fast and furious they sounded like on long squish.
SQUIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHH!
And she was in the throes of ecstasy, and her voice was becoming hoarse because instead of saying, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" she was saying, "FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!"
And through all the garbled noise that filled the room, Buster could hear the sounds of other people getting fucked in the studio apartment next to Becky's. Probably other secretaries getting their share of cock on a typical relaxed Saturday where they had nothing better to do than fuck cock and write letters to Mom and Dad telling them that they were going to get a raise and that they were good little girls.
Then the sounds faded because Buster's cock was now an enormous piece of meat. Now it was a bat that Babe Ruth couldn't lift. Now it was a Louisville Slugger that only Paul Bunyan, or Goliath, or the Hulk could autograph. And it was getting bigger because his balls had deflated somewhat because they had forced the cupfuls of jizz up into the massive shaft of his cock.
Now the jizz was at the tip of his prick.
"AAAAIIIIEEEE! CHRIST! YOU'RE GONNA COME! YOUR COCK'S GETTING SOOOOOO BIG! OH, JESUS! HERE IT COMES!"
Becky went crazy, went delirious, went insane as she fell that cockhead expanding her womb. Jesus! It was sooooo big!
And it was getting bigger as the cock-slit expanded and made the glans throb and shake. And as his cock throbbed and shook, it created quite a stir in Becky's tight womb.
"I CAN FEEL YOUR FUCKING COCK IN MY WOMB! OH GOD! FUCK ME! FUCK MY CUNT! FUCK MY WOMB! FUCK MY OVARIES!"
Inspired by such enthusiasm, Buster let go -- well, what really happened was his prick let go and shot a filthy wad of seed deep into her pussy, deep into her womb, scattering like birdshot and searching out that egg that wasn't there because she was on the pill.
And it wasn't because the way Becky fucked felt like shit. It was because of the tremendous pressure all that cum had put on his balls and cock when he had been fucking in and out of her tight hole. Now, like shit, lie was glad to get rid of all his extract.
And Becky was still crazy, insane and delirious. Shit, nothing had ever felt better! Nothing had ever reached her womb and shot semen that felt like birdshot as it searched out her egg.
"AAAIIIIEEEEE! JESUS! YOU'VE GOT SO MUCH CUM! KEEP COMMMIIINNNGGG! OH SHIT! IT HURTS SO GOOD! WHATTA BIG COCK! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUGKFUCKFUCK!"
Then Buster felt his cock shooting the last wad of his cum and he felt very relieved, very tired.
And Becky felt very fucked. And, as his cock shrank back to its normal foot-long size, all that birdshot and cunt-juice started dribbling out of her pussy, soaking his pubic hair with a mess of white and opaque fluid.
"Jesus! Whatta cock!"
Chapter Two
So that was what had made the moist stain on Becky Jane's lemon-yellow panties as she stood before her boss taking dictation, unaware that he was glancing at the electronic mirror and watching her cream her panties.
Wendell Rathers always had wet-dream thoughts when he looked at Becky Jane's panties. Panties like that -- the way they hugged her ass, looking like they had been manufactured with a stain at the crotch -- always sparked memories of the days when he used to fuck and suck every secretary that he had ever hired.
Of course, those were the days when he was a millionaire bachelor. When he was happy. When his only worries were: Would he catch syph or the crabs or the green weenie from a secretary who hadn't washed between her legs, or who had been fucking with a donkey, or worse, caught cooties from African-Americans?
And when that was the only worry that he had -- shit, any man would love to have worries like that.
God, the good old days. When he was a young executive on the rise in his father's wrench company. When he was a young executive with a constant rise in the crotch of his pants. And when all those bosomy, meaty-thighed secretaries would take care of the rise in his pants.
Like Carlotta Bender. Now there was a secretary. Couldn't type worth shit. Had fingers made for playing with men's cocks instead of inanimate things named Remington, or Smith Corona. Had a mouth that when it didn't have bubble gum in it was always filled with prick.
Carlotta was blonde. Sometimes she was brunette. Sometimes it was dish-water, reddish brown with streaks of gray. It all depended on the wig she was wearing.
Carlotta also had big tits. Sometimes they looked like honeydew melons on her chest. Other times like pomegranates. Other times like grapefruits. It all depended on whether she was wearing a bra or not, or whether the bra had falsie foam-rubber implants in the cups, or whether the bra was a see-through, cupless type.
Sweaters and blouses made a difference, too. Bulky sweaters cut low on her bosom were very impressive. Made her tits look very touchable, like a pair of tits wrapped in mink, warm and furry to the touch. Or the tight cardigan that made spires out of her tits.
Carlotta also smelled good. All over. Chanel on her ears. Ambush beneath each thirty-eight-inch tittie. Midnight between her legs, sprinkled liberally the dark and forbidden-looking hair of her pussy.
Carlotta also had smooth legs. She shaved them smooth. Like most girls who shave the hairs off their legs, or under their arms so that the aroma of Ambush lingered there instead of B.O., or off their pussies so that the aroma of Midnight would camouflage the smell of a cunt in heat.
Yeah, she was like all girls who shave their legs. Except she did it in the office. Yanked her gains right up on her secretary/receptionist desk and started hacking off the hairs.
Never started at the ankles either. She always started at mid-crotch, had the gall to lift up her crepe miniskirt and start shaving where her thighs joined -- which was a place most men called pussy, but women referred to as their money-maker (if they were a whore), or their baby-maker (if they were like the little old woman who lived in a shoe), or their forbidden paradise (if they were cloistered in a nunnery and weren't allowed to say four-letter words).
Carlotta referred to her pussy as a cunt. She knew what cunts were for. Cunts were for pissing when she felt like it and fucking when she felt like it. Both were natural urges.
And that was how Wendell Rathers had come to know Carlotta Bender. With her legs up on the reception desk, Gillette Track Two in one hand, and the other hand holding up a crepe miniskirt that looked more like a lei around her ass than a miniskirt she had bought in Oahu during her last secretary's vacation.
Wendell was shocked. Well, he had known that Carlotta was a hot-to-trot woman the day she had filled out her application form and wrote "meat-eater" under the category of hobbies. But he was shocked because this was the first day of work for her, the very first hour she had been on the job.
Wendell said: "Carlotta, may I talk to you, er, in my office?"
Carlotta spat out her Dentyne, put away the Gillette, stood up and straightened out the wrinkles in her crepe miniskirt and frizzy cardigan sweater.
"D'ya want me to take dictation?"
"Er, yeah. Bring your steno pad, please."
Fucking a pencil behind her Chanelish ear, Carlotta bent over and searched her desk for the steno pad.
Wendell liked the view of her bending over trying to find the steno pad. Because he had a very good mental image of her tits that looked like some gargantuan fruit, and he had already seen her cunt because the miniskirt covered her pussy about as adequately as a lei, and because she didn't own a pair of panties.
But this was the first time that he had seen her ass. Very nice ass. The type of ass that gay guys wish their macho partners had. The cheeks looked very ripe and firm. The meat on those asscheeks looked more like cushions that God had blessed her with so she could absorb all those ass-pounding fucks she enjoyed.
Then Carlotta said: "Ah, here's the little fucking bugger. Right on my desk. Shit, that's really dumb of me, don't you think, Mr. Rathers?"
Wendell didn't know if he was capable of thinking then. He had been so enraptured by that cushiony ass that thinking was beyond him. Just like his cock -- it was already beyond him, beyond the elastic of his shorts and making a very big wad-like bulge at his crotch.
Carlotta noticed his bulge. Because she always looked at men's crotches.
"Ya gotta hard-on, don't you, Mr. Rathers?"
"Huh?"
"Ya gotta hard-on, I said. Probably 'cause you saw me shaving my cunt and bending over and taking a real gander at my ass. Isn't that right, Mr. Rathers?"
Was that fight? Or was it wrong? Well, she was right that he had a hard-on. And she was right about shaving her pussy in the office and bending over and exposing her cushiony ass. But somehow things didn't feel right to Wendell. He felt wrong -- like she shouldn't be talking like that, or shaving her pussy in the office, or showing off her ass to the boss. Right?
"You're wrong if you think you gotta hard-on 'cause of my showing you my ass and shaving my cunt in the office."
"Huh?" Jesus, something was wrong here. "I don't know what to say. I think you're wrong about..."
"I'm fight. You're wrong. You have a hard-on 'cause you wanna fuck me. Or because you wanna see me chew your cock like I chew my gum. Isn't that fight, Mr. Rathers?"
Wendell was ready to say wrong; he was ready to shake his head.
He shook his head, but he said: "Right, but..."
"See, I'm right, Mr. Rathers. I knew I was right. It wasn't because of you seeing my ass or cunt that gave you a hard-on. It was because you wanted to fuck me, or you wanted me to blow your cock."
"But wait a minute, here. I'm..."
"Wrong," Carlotta cut in, adjusting one of her see-through bra straps. "So what's wrong with wanting to fuck or have me suck your cock? Right?"
"But..."
"Hey," Carlotta interjected. "I know what it is now!"
"I got it!" Carlotta blurted. "You wanted to fuck my ass! You're an ass man! So my ass did turn you on. Right?"
"You know how I figured you to be an ass man?" Carlotta interrupted again. "'Cause you're always saying 'but' a lot. Jesus, you don't have to be afraid that you're queer or something because you want to fuck my ass."
"But..."
"Come on," Carlotta said, taking him by the hand and leading him to his office. "No more buts. Put your mouth where your cock is. Let's hit the dirt road! Up the chocolate mountain! Shit, I haven't been buggered since my brother fucked my ass."
"What? Who fucked your ass?"
"My brother. What's wrong with letting your brother fuck you in the ass? At least I can't get pregnant that way. Right?"
"Yeah... er, I think so."
Now they were in Wendell's plush office. They were on the couch. Well, most of Carlotta Bender was on the couch because she had slipped out of the lei miniskirt and she had shucked the cardigan sweater.
Wendell was half on the couch and half off. He was also half hard and half soft, and he also thought he was half crazy -- or maybe she was half crazy. He had never met a woman like Carlotta, never seen a girl so blatantly truthful in all his life.
To a reverend, Carlotta would have been considered a very gross girl. For wearing perfume all over her body, and shaving her cunt hairs in public, and letting her boss see her asshole.
To a welfare worker, Carlotta would have been classified as one of those poor-white-trash mothers who greet welfare workers at the door in expensive Magnin dresses while her twelve kids live in a sloppy shoebox of a home.
To a rising executive like Wendell Rathers, Carlotta looked divinely delicious, grossly overrated as a secretary and grossly underrated as a whore.
Carlotta was on the couch on all fours, her tits swinging like hanging lemons. Her fingers were in her cunt, moving very blurry-like over her clit and the lips and all that hair. Her cunt made very sloppy noises as she finger-fucked herself.
Squish. Squish. Squish.
Then she did something quite shocking. Or at least a man of the cloth would have found it to be very shocking. Her middle finger, which had been in her cunt, was moving up from the front hole to the back hole.
And, as Wendell watched in awe, her finger went into the back hole, disappeared up her rectum as if her asshole were a mouth and it was chewing on her middle finger.
But Wendell knew her asshole wasn't her mouth because he heard her voice come from the other end of her body: "Jesus, Mr. Rathers! You act like you never seen anybody finger their own asshole. It feels... uh, kind of horny. You know what I mean?"
Wendell's prick lurched. His body lurched. He felt like the Hulk meeting the Lurch. He lurched because he had never seen a woman go bowling with her ass -- never saw a woman take a bowling-ball grip on her bottom.
The reason why she had a bowling-ball grip was very obvious to Carlotta. Because it felt kind of horny. And it also felt good to thumb-fuck her clit while her middle finger was in her asshole.
"Well, Mr. Rathers, aren't you ready to fuck yet? I see you still got your hard-on."
A chick would have to be Helen Keller to miss something as obvious as the tent that Wendell had erected at the crotch of his pants. Yeah, he had a hard-on all right. A big fat hard-on, the kind of hard-on made for fucking into something as tight as a hot chick's asshole.
While Carlotta maintained the bowling-ball grip on her two holes, her other hand found his zipper tab.
ZZZZIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPP!
BOOOOIIINNNNGGGGG!
The metal mouth of his zipper yawned open and out came something that did not look like a tongue. Unless tongues were now being made to look like blunt-headed spears with hair sprouting near the handle.
And speaking of handles, that's what Carlotta did with Wendell's erection. Handled it with care. Handled it as if his cock were made of china.
Then she became a man handler. Roughly stripping the loose foreskin up and over the meaty glans. Then re-stripping it again and again.
Wendell watched in amazement as her expert cock-handling manipulated all the loose flesh of his prick until none of the loose flesh was loose any more.
His prick was now brick hard, bone stiff, barrel big and ready to be blown.
Ready to be blown?
Yep, that's what Carlotta did. With amazing grace she was transformed from a man handler to a cock-cannibal.
Ooooooooh, that tongue! Those lips! That mouth! Those teeth!
Teeth?
"AAAAIIIEEEEEE! MY COCK! PLEASE DON'T BITE MY COCK SO HARD!"
Carlotta looked up at Wendell with her mouth full of prick. Then she didn't have the mouthful of prick, she had a mouthful of words: "All right, that'll teach you to quit fucking around and start fucking my asshole. You asshole-fucker -- I know guys like you. Scared to fuck a chick's asshole because you're scared you're gay. I know lots of guys like you. You'll love fucking my asshole. Now come on and move around behind me and shove your cock up my ass!"
Wendell didn't know what to do other than to do what she had said. No woman had ever talked to him like that. So, he moved around her, his pants hobbling his efforts.
The bowling-ball hand felt around his crotch until it found his cock. Which took about two seconds search. Then it gave his prick a couple more of those frigging strokes to make sure it was hard and ready to fuck her ass.
God! He was going to fuck her in the ass! Wendell couldn't believe it until he actually saw her gripping his cock and leading him to the upper of the two holes. And the hole looked so tight and narrow.
What was he doing?! This was crazy!
Nobody fucked their secretaries in the ass on her first day on the job. Blow jobs, he could see, but buggering? Sticking his cock up that tight tube of her rectum?
Wendell broke out in a sweat. His cockhead was perched against her asshole, ready to move forward, ready to penetrate the first asshole he had ever fucked. Oh God! What delicious sensations he felt all around the head of his prick.
He was ready now. Ready to shove forward with all his might. Ready to cram that delicious-looking asshole full of his cock.
But Carlotta beat him to the punch. Took advantage of his cowardly hesitation by ramming her rear end against his loins, which caused the following delicious sensations. His cock felt like it was fucking a fleshy keyhole, but the keyhole expanded around the taut glans of his prick before it accepted the acorn-shaped head. Then her asshole bit down just behind the groove of his glans, ready to nibble on his cock-shaft. Then her asshole nibbled on his cock-shaft, all seven hot and hard inches, until her ass-crack was filled with the hairs of his crotch and her asshole was full of seven inches of ass-fucking prick.
"OOOOOH, YOU BUGGER! YOU'VE DONE THIS BEFORE! YOU'VE FUCKED A LOT OF CHICKS IN THE ASSHOLE! YOU ASSHOLE! JESUS! YOU'RE PRETTY GOOD AT FUCKING ASSES!"
Crazy! Insane! Asinine! She had to be because Wendell hadn't done a fucking thing. He hadn't shoved his cock into her asshole, she had forced her asshole onto his cock. He wasn't shoving back and forth in her rectum, her rectum was jamming back and forth on his cock like a mare with her asshole in heat.
Wendell watched her ass moving back and forth on his cock. Wendell also sweated. Wendell was amazed. And to make things better, Wendell also heard erotic sounds and words as he watched and sweated and became even more amazed.
"Now, here's how an asshole can really fuck the shit out of a cock like yours. First, I'll muscle down and pretend your cock's a huge turd."
"AAAAAIILIEEEE! OH MY GOD!"
"Then I'll relax and pretend I farted you out. But here comes another big turd! So I gotta force this one out too!"
"OOOOOOOH! MY GOD! PLEASE WALT! OH GOD!"
"And another turd!"
"AAAAAIIIHEEEEE! OH STOP! YOUR ASSHOLE FEELS SO GGGOOOOODDDDDDDAMMMMMMNNNN GOOD! PLEASE DON'T GRIP MY COCK LIKE THAT -- I'LL COME TO SOON!"
"All right, all right. I understand. It's probably been a long lime between ass-fucks, right, Mr. Rathers?"
Wendell was as quiet as a statue. Because his body had become like a statue's. Stock still. Not wanting to move because he couldn't believe the incredible sensations that surrounded his cock. Couldn't believe that asshole-fucking was as good as cunt-fucking. Couldn't believe the way his balls felt as she played with them as if she owned them.
Playing with his balls?
While her ass fucked his cock?
"OOOOOOH, NOOOOO! EASY! PLEASE! GOD! DON'T DO THAT YET! I SWEAR I'LL COME! I SWEAR IT!"
Then her ass took off into fourth gear and her buns went into overdrive. She was really hauling her ass while she played with his swaying balls, toying with the hairy orbs.
Carlotta moaned, then groaned, then went back to moans because she loved getting her ass fucked by an expert ass-fucker like Mr. Rathers. He was really good. Probably a nine on a scale of ten. Probably in the top ten percent of all the asshole-fuckers in class. Probably a B-plus in Ass-Fucking II, a lower-division course taught to liberal arts majors about the inner workings of man's anatomical structure.
"GOD! MR. RATHERS! YOU'RE SO GOOD AT ASS-FUCKING! JESUS CHRIST! I CAN FEEL ALL OF YOUR PRICK IN MY ASS! AND YOUR BALLS ARE GETTING SO FUCKING UPTIGHT! ARE YOU READY TO COME?!"
Was he ready to come!
Shit, that mess leaking out of her ass wasn't the remains of some Ex-Lax she had eaten. The stuff leaking out of her asshole was very white, and gluey and sticky. So sticky that it stuck to the hairs on his balls before dripping to the carpet.
Was he ready to come!
When a man yells: "AAARRRGGGHHHHH!" and his prick is going spurt, spurt, spurt, what other conclusion could be drawn?
"OOOOOOOHHHHHH! JESUS! SHOOT THAT SHIT IN MY ASS! SHOOT IT HARD! OH GOD! I CAN FEEL EVERY INCH WITH MY ASS! GOD, I'M GOING TO USE MY ASS MUSCLES AGAIN!"
"AAAAAIIIHEEEEE! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD!"
And the reason Wendell had said, "Oh God!" three times was because Carlotta's ass muscles had gripped his prick three times, and thee times his cock went spurt, spurt, spurt while he moaned, "Oh God!" three times.
Then the last spurt was squeezed out of his cock like the dregs from a tube of toothpaste. Only it wasn't a hand that was squeezing the tube of his cock but an asshole that was very good at fucking pricks.
Wendell collapsed backward, and his cock sprang out of her asshole, which then sealed itself up like a clam.
"OOOOOHHHHH! JESUS! IT FEELS LIKE MY ASS IS FULL OF AIR!" Ffffaaaarrrrrrtttttt!
Chapter Three
Ramona Rathers looked at her tits. For the last three days she had been looking at her tits very carefully, lifting them up (they were very heavy tits to lift because they were thirty-eight-inchers) and trying to see beneath them (which was a hard thing to do because she had thirty-eight-inch tits that were very pointy and very firm).
The reason why she was looking at her tits was not because she was anticipating that one of her lovers was going to come over and start sucking them. Or that she had any babies who wanted to suckle at her nipples for three hours. She was looking at her titties because they were about to be exposed to national TV.
Ramona hoped that the nation would appreciate her tits. Because a lot of people in Weedley -- mostly guys -- appreciated her tits.
Bernard Drew, the milkman, had described her tits as: "Wow! Real bra-busters!"
Lance Peters, son of Ramona's best friend Eula Peters, called them: "Uuuummmmm, gooooood milkshakes!" He hadn't learned to say tit yet because he was only eighteen.
Kirby Mosher, Wendell Rathers' best foreman down at the wrench factory, always described Ramona as: "Super Boobs!"
Ramona wondered what the nation would think of them.
Then she remembered what Ricardo Franklin had called them when she had gone down to the television station and had exposed her titties to him. He had said that her titties were "... ah, er, just beautiful, Mrs. Rathers."
So that's what that fart had called them: "just beautiful."
What the hell was just beautiful?
Just beautiful didn't mean glorious, or divine, or superb. It was' like just ugly, or just simple, or just another set of tits.
Ramona had gotten very mad when W. Franklin, producer of many TV documentaries, had called her tits just beautiful. Because Ramona knew that her tits belonged on TV. Deserved to be shown on the boob tube in front of twenty million women who were concerned with breast cancer.
That was why Ramona had gone down to station KKKQ in the first place.
She knew that Ricardo was going to do a half-hour documentary on breast cancer and that for the first time on public broadcasting they were going to show millions of women how to examine their breasts for any warts, lumps, smears, scars, wounds, bruises and bites that might indicate the first warning sign of breast cancer.
Ricardo had been impressed when he had seen Ramona come into the plush offices of KKKQ dressed in a miniskirt and shoes. Yep, that's all, folks -- just miniskirt and shoes. Well, naturally Ramona had had the decency of mind to put on one of her twenty-thousand-dollar cheetah coats before she walked into the studios.
But once she was inside the air-conditioned offices, she had casually doffed her coat and asked the plain-Jane secretary to see Mr. Ricardo Franklin, head of Franklin Productions.
The plain-Jane did not have a plain blank expression on her face when she had seen how naked Mrs. Rathers' breasts were. They were totally naked, not a stitch of cloth, not a hint of a bra, not even a Goddamn band-aid to cover her taut nipples.
Ramona announced herself: "I'm Ramona Rathers. I would like to see Mr. Franklin about the television documentary that he's planning to do on breast cancer. I'm very interested in breast cancer and what I can do to help. Aren't you interested in the dangers to your breasts?"
Plain Jane was startled by the question. She glanced down at her tits. But because she had bumps for breasts and pimples for nipples, she couldn't see anything dangerous about her tits.
She punched a button. "Mr. Franklin, ah, er, Mrs. Rathers is here to see you about her breasts."
A harsh-sounding voice rasped back through the little black box. "WHAT?! WHO!?"
Ramona punched the intercom button. "Mr. Franklin, this is Ramona Rathers. My husband is Wendell Rathers, president of the Rathers Wrench Company. A company that happens to own two-thirds interest in KKKQ. I'm interested in seeing you. Are you interested in seeing me?"
"Yes! Why, yes, of course! Miss Doe, please send Mrs. Rathers in."
Ramona walked through a maze of carpeted hallways, then the door was opened to Ricardo Franklin's office. She walked in casually.
Mr. Franklin was not casual. He was flabbergasted. Astounded. Petrified, lust like his prick was getting as he saw all that prime tit-meat enter his office.
Nobody had ever walked into his office dressed in miniskirt and shoes. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Once George Parmidou, the great mime artist, had walked in bare-chested with a miniskirt on and no shoes. But that was because he was doing a parody on gay guys who walk around in drag. And besides, George was a guy -- or, at least Ricardo assumed he had a prick between his legs and not a pussy.
But Ricardo knew that this person who had walked into his office dressed in miniskirt and shoes was a girl. Experience told him that those thirty-eight-inch titties were real. At least they looked real to him -- because they looked very fleshy and bouncy and very suckable.
Ricardo's mouth watered as he shook hands with Ramona.
Ramona sat down. Pursed her lips. Elbows in so that her tits bazooooomed outward. Crossed her nyloned legs with a wispy sound. Allowed her perfume to overcome the Hai Karate that Ricardo preferred for his baby face.
Then she spoke: "Mr. Franklin. Let me call you Ricardo. Ricardo, I'm here on behalf of all those women who are concerned with these."
She hefted "these", those mammoth thirty eight-inch titties, and held them upward and outward so that Ricardo's eyes were filled with the hot vision of her tits pointing right at him.
"There are thousands of women walking around in America who don't know that they might have that dreaded of all dreaded diseases -- cancer."
"Urn-hum."
"That's why I would like to do your TV documentary about breast cancer. I would like to demonstrate to those thousands of women who walk around with that dreaded disease in these to show them what to look for, what to feel for, and how to cope with the fact that something horrible may be happening to these at this very moment. Don't you agree?"
He nodded, his head following the up-and-down movements of these, those wonderful titties that bobbed before his awed eyes.
Ramona uncrossed her legs wispily, puckered up her lips and advanced on Ricardo's desk. She leaned on the edge, her tit-ends brushing against several items on his desk -- her right nipple scraping against the gold-plated desk pen and her left nipple draped over the edge of his family portrait, like a meaty chunk of limp bologna that was obscuring his wife's face.
"And if you don't agree, Ricardo, there are other ways and other means for me to be more persuasive."
Ricardo glanced up from the left nipple that hid his wife's shit-eating grin. He looked into Ramona's eyes.
It was the first time that he had noticed the woman's face. He had been so completely enraptured by those naked breasts coming into his office that he simply had not looked at the other parts of Ramona's luscious body.
Now he looked at the other parts of Ramona's luscious body.
The face was very luscious. Lips that seemed to be forever puckering, as if they had been weaned on miniature pricks or big dill pickles. Eyes that glimmered beneath the radiant lines of Avon Eyeglow. Cheeks that were like polyester pants wrinkle free. A pert nose. Average forehead. A widow's peak beneath the fluff and curl of a hundred-dollar shag job. Ears that drooped slightly because of the ten-ounce gold earrings that were prick-shaped, pendulous things.
All in all, everything about Ramona's face was very exceptional. Except for her average forehead.
The tits were self-explanatory.
The miniskirt wasn't.
The miniskirt, now that Ricardo could see it in the wall mirror behind Ramona, was more like a bandanna given to a dress designer under orders to make it into a dress.
The dress designer had done a very good job with the bandanna. At least it covered up Ramona's asshole and pussy. Otherwise there just wasn't enough material to hide the meaty thighs that made wispy sounds whenever Ramona walked or sat or even stood still.
The shoes made Ramona a foot taller than her actual height. They were platform shoes, shoes probably designed by some eunuch podiatrist who probably felt that spike heels just weren't healthy for a girl to wear so he had come up with something more solid. Ramona's shoes were solid all right-made of cork heels and patent leather and little gold-braided straps that crisscrossed her trim ankles.
Now that Ricardo had surveyed the woman before him, he didn't want to move. Just wanted to stare at all that thigh he could see in the mirror and all that tit that was sprawled across his wife's face and toppling over his desk pen.
He picked up the desk pen, righted it so that the tip wouldn't scratch Ramona's tit.
"Well, Mrs. Rathers. You really have... well, you certainly have the qualifications for the job. But we already have a girl to do the breast examination. She's a trained nurse and..."
"Mr. Franklin. Er, Ricardo. I hope you remember who supported KKKQ last year during its annual fund-raising event. Who personally wrote out a check for ten grand so that shows like Handy Andy's Household Hints wouldn't be canceled. And, I hope you remember who put up the money for your series The Goulash Gourmet with that fag George Parmidou doing those stupid mimes of a French chef."
Ricardo nodded. Yes, he remembered where and from whom and for what all that money came from. The Rathers Wrench Company. Shit, nobody in the whole town of Weedley made a move without the Rathers Wrench Company either behind it or in front of it or a part of it or all of it. Shit, out of a town of twenty-thousand souls, almost half the adult population was employed or in debt to the Rathers Wrench Company.
So Ricardo nodded. His balls were over a barrel. There was nothing he could do. He had to let Mrs. Ramona Rathers' tits go on the air.
"Now, Ricardo, what do you think of my tits?"
"Oh, well, Mrs. Rathers. They are... all, er, just beautiful, Mrs. Rathers."
And that was why Ramona Rathers was in her dressing room looking at her just beautiful tits and applying just beautiful makeup to her just beautiful tits to make sure that they were more than just beautiful.
Ramona applied rouge to her nipples. Then Jergens Lotion all over her massive tits to make them look all shiny and glisteny when twenty thousand Weedley folks stared at them on the boob tube.
Chapter Four
Bernard Drew got a big hard-on as he watched the TV set. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Christ, it had taken him four month's wages, accumulated down at the Arrowhead Dairy where he worked as a milkman, to earn the Japanese TV set with the twenty-four-inch screen.
Now, his Japanese TV set with the twenty-four-inch screen was filled with the awesome sight of a pair of firm and thrusting tits.
At first Bernie thought he was seeing things. Thought he was imagining that it was some kind of joke, like maybe it was the head-on shot of the two Goodyear blimps as they mated in midair. Or maybe it was some ambidextrous quarterback for the San Diego Chargers who had flung two pigskins directly at the camera.
No! Those were tits on the screen. In vibrant, living, twenty-four-inch color.
Bernie knew they were tits because they didn't have the hard metallic look of a blimp, nor did they look like they were filled with helium. And they weren't like footballs because they didn't have Johnny Unitas' autograph near the seams. In fact, this pair of tits on his boob tube looked very familiar.
Had he seen them somewhere?
God! Those tits! Those tits were the same ones he had laid eyes on three weeks ago when he was making his Tuesday-morning milk run in the Belvedere section of Weedley.
Bernie knew they were the same tits because the left tit sagged lower than the right one. And the nipples looked very huge. Of course, the first time he had seen them they were hidden under a sweater made of cheetah fur. And there was only one woman in Weedley who wore cheetah fur sweaters.
Bernie's hard-on pulsed like crazy in his coveralls. Shit, he had just sat down to watch the Buffalo Bills playing the San Diego Chargers, and he was changing stations when that pair of tits had arrested his attention as if they were two Hindenburg's floating side by side.
Bernie' looked over his shoulder, saw that his wife Imogene was busy making chocolate-chip cookies in the kitchen.
Should he tell her what he was looking at? Should he tell her to come out of the Goddamn kitchen and take a gander at a pair of tits that were out of this world? Should he tell her to fuck the chocolate chips and come see what a pair of delicious-looking tits a woman should have -- the kind of tits that his wife should have?
No, he didn't dare.
Imogene was very sensitive about her tits. They were only thirty-sixes. And Imogene was very sensitive about any remarks that Bernie made about them.
Like their wedding night, when he had just finished fucking her mouth after he had just finished fucking her cunt after he had just finished fucking her ass, and he had asked in a very polite tone of voice if he could fuck her between her thirty-six-inch titties.
And Imogene had said: "What the hell do you think I am? A pervert? That's nasty!"
So Bernie had gotten very pissed. Because two of the reason why he had married Imogene were because of what she sported on her chest. She had very firm tits that were sensitive to his mouth but not to the adjectives that he used to describe them.
"But, Genie-baby, you gotta pair of fuckable tits. Really. I never fucked a pair of tits like yours. Come on, who's it gonna hurt?"
"You?"
"I mean my tits."
"Aw shit! Did it hurt when I stuck my cock in your mouth?"
"No. But I like to suck your cock. Besides that stuff you shoot out kinda tastes like crushed walnuts."
"Double shit. Did it hurt when I fucked your cunt?"
"No. But I like you to fuck my cunt. That's where you're supposed to fuck me, Bernie. Because my cunt's shaped like a hole. And my tits aren't."
"Bullshit! And I know it didn't hurt when I fucked your ass."
"Yeah, but I like you to fuck my ass. It feels... uh, different. You know?"
"Genie, how the fuck would I know what it feels like to get fucked in the ass. I'm not a fucking fag."
"Well, if you think getting fucked in the ass by a cock is perverted, then I think that your idea about fucking my tits is perverted. I just don't go for the idea of having all your stuff wasted on my tits. Your stuff is supposed to go inside of me somewhere. That's why your cock's shaped like... er, like a penetrator. And that's why a woman has a bunch of holes in her body; I mean, like if I had a hole in my armpit, I'd let you fuck me there."
"Huh? Genie, you don't make any fucking sense!"
"See! I knew it! I just knew we weren't made for each other. My mother said you'd be the kind of guy who was gabby and always wanted his own way. Oh, God, why'd I marry you! Why'd I say I do today?"
Bernie sighed as he watched Imogene, his wife of four hours, cry her fucking brains out because she thought he was a gabby guy who always wanted his own way.
Shit, how did she find out so soon?
Bernie sat up in his wedding bed, threw off the semen-stained sheets, and stared at his wife.
"So, Genie, you think I'm a gabby guy. Is that what you think?"
Between sobs, Imogene nodded her head.
Bernie grabbed her tits, twisted her tit-ends until she quit crying and was screaming her lungs out.
"AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE! MY TITS! MY TITS! YOU'RE HURTING THEM!"
"You bitch! So you think I'm a grabby guy, huh! Well, maybe I am. How's that grab you, you bitch!"
Imogene desperately grabbed Bernie's hands and tried to wrestle her nipples away from his greedy grasp. "OOOOOOH, PLEASE! BERNIE! MY TITS HURT! PLEASE LET GO OF MY TITS!"
Bernie smiled sadistically -- in other words his canine teeth became very prominent and the hairs on his body began to bristle werewolfishly. He twisted her tit-ends harder, and Imogene's nipples were filled with angry-red blood just like her face.
"YOU COCKSUCKER! YOU'RE HURTING MY TITS! AAAAIIIIEEEE!"
Bernie hurt them some more.
He grabbed as much of her tit-meat as his hairy hands could hold and his fingernails gouged deep into her firm titties.
"AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE! OH GOD! PLEASE STOP! MY TITTTIIIIEEEEEESSSSS!"
Bernie chuckled, laughed demoniacally, spoke in a Transylvanian tone of voice: "Are ya gonna let me fuck your titties now, Genie-baby? Or do I have to pull off your tits and fuck them separate from your body?"
Imogene opened her eyes wide. Oh God! Mother was so fight! She had mated a greedy man. A man who, had to have his own way. A man who was more like Hyde than Jekyll, more werewolf on moonless nights than when the moon was full.
Imogene shook her head, tears spilling out of her eyes and dropping like blood on his hairy paws. God, she didn't want her titties pulled off her chest.
Jesus! If he did that, she'd die. She'd be faced with going through life with a double mastectomy. With having to live without the support of a bra.
Could she possibly remarry then, after her former monster of a husband had ripped off her titties? What man with a normal breast fetish would want to fuck a freak woman who was titless?
"OH GOD! DON'T PULL OFF MY TITTTIES! GOD! GO AHEAD AND FUCK MY TITTIES... PLEASE DON'T PULL THEM OFF!"
Bernie smiled ghoulishly. "All right, you bitch! Lay down flat and push your tits together."
The bitch lay down flat and pushed her tits together. Imogene had become a bitch because she felt more like a fucking dog doing its master's bidding than wife who was willing to let her greedy husband fuck her tits under the guise of love.
Bernie stared at her thirty-sixer's as they were pushed together. Yum-yum. They looked delicious. Mountains of firm flesh that heaved as she breathed. Nipples that beckoned him to suck. A cleavage that looked like a super-long hairless cunt.
Bernie jacked his prick a couple of times. A couple of drops of cum oozed out of his piss-slit and he hipped forward, holding his drooling cockhead over the valley of that hairless cunt-like cleavage.
Imogene felt as if hot grease were being splattered on her tits. Oh Mother! Her husband, her greedy ghoulish husband who had not been fulfilled on their wedding night with the three holes in her body, was going to make a fourth hole in the middle of her chest.
Oh Mother!
Bernie's hairy asscheeks settled down on Imogene's belly. His cock spat out some more cock-cream into the warm valley of her cleavage.
Imogene looked away. Didn't want to see that cock make a cunt of her cleavage. Didn't want to see her husband's greedy prick as it slipped and slid between her pushed-together tits. Didn't want to see the cum shooting out the end of his cock on each breaststroke, the yeasty drops splattering over her chin and mouth.
Oh Mother!
Then Bernie started tittie-fucking his wife.
Oh God!
Oh Mother!
Those warm tits wrapped around his cock as he made the first stroke. They were wrapped around his prick because Bernie had put his greedy hairy hands on top of Imogene's and was making a virgin-like tight hole out of the cleavage of her tits.
"OH GOD! AAAARRRRGGGHHHMMMFFF! WHATTA SENSATION! JESUS CHRIST! WHAT A TITTIE-FUCK!"
Then Bernie's cock was sliding back and forth, back and forth so many times that Imogene's tits became chafed and hotter as Bernie applied more pressure on the outsides of her tits so that he could feel more tit-pressure on his bloated prick.
Imogene began to cry. Her tits were being abused. Her tits were being ravaged. Her tits were being raped.
Her tits no longer felt like breasts. They felt like two punching bags squeezed tightly together, a prick as big as a fist doing a fast one-two, one-two, left-right combination on her punching bags.
"AAAAIIIEEEEE! PLEASE, BERNIE! HURRY! MY TITS -- OH GOD! MY TITS HURT LIKE HELL!"
Bernie smiled. He smiled because he hadn't heard what his wife had screamed. He smiled because there was a delightful explosion taking place in his balls. It was the kind of feeling that felt supernatural. As if a fairy named Ecstasy were pumping jizzy joy into his asshole, and that jizzy joy had flooded his balls, and was ready to spread like Jergens Lotion all over the hot meat of his wife's tits as it sprang elf-like from his cock.
So, Bernie, who at the beginning of the tittie-fuck felt like a sane werewolf, now felt as if little leprechauns had crawled into his asshole, swarmed in his balls and were getting ready to make the leap from his cock-slit to find a home in the mountains of his wife's tits, or to settle down in the warm valley of her cleavage.
"GODDDDDD! I'M COMING! OHHHHHHHHH SHHHHIIIITTT!"
Imogene shouldn't have opened her eyes. Not when his cock had expanded because of the impetus of so many little elves, who were now parachuting from the tube of his cock and making an assault on her tits.
Especially when the balls of cum were arcing up and over her chin, her mouth, her nose and splattering like hot Crisco on her eyelids.
"AAAAAIIIIEEEEE! MY EYES! MY TITS! HURRY! PLEASE GET IT OVER WITH!"
Bernie thrust hard and fast.
Another huge spurt of cum was on its way.
Another wave of little people ejecting from his prick. But this time there wasn't as much urgency.
The second huge wad of yeasty, hot Crisco-like cum landed on Imogene's nose. And her nostrils were filled with the odor of crushed walnuts.
Imogene was stunned. Her face was a mess. Her tits were a mess. Her marriage was a mess. She was a mess, and her mother had warned her that she was going to be a mess. Her mother had told her countless times when little Genie was a child: "You made a mess! Look at that mess! You're just a mess! Whatta mess! You're just going to have to live with the mess you made!"
Imogene shook her head. But this mess on her face wasn't something of her own doing. This mess on her face was coming from a pair of balls that weren't a part of her. This mess wasn't hers!
Oh Mother!
"HURRY! OH GOD! HURRY AND SHOOT YOUR GRIMY MESS!"
Bernie's cook was losing its fire power. Now the shots of cum diminished in force and the trajectory of his shots had lowered to the point that Imogene no longer had to taste his walnutty cum because his grimy mess was landing on her chin and her throat.
Then the tittie-fuck ended.
Imogene gasped, couldn't get rid of the crushed walnut taste in her mouth. Couldn't get rid of that stuff that stuck like egg-white on her face. Couldn't do anything but lie there and watch Bernie as he wiped his messy cock on her nipples.
Christ, what had she married?
Oh Mother!
Now, as Bernie looked at his foreign-made TV set and watched a pair of titties fill the screen, he was reminded about the last time he had fucked Imogene between the tits.
Was it really four years ago?
Jesus, how time flies when you're having fun thinking about fucking tits like that pair on the screen.
Christ! Bernie relaxed, sagged in his chair, unzipped his pants and let his prick have some air before he started choking it with his fist.
He heard Imogene working in the kitchen, chopping up the walnuts to put in her five dozen chocolate-chip cookies.
Fuck her cookies!
He didn't want any fucking chocolate-chip cookies. He wanted to fuck something. Something like those tits on the twenty-four-inch screen.
Bernie's canine teeth felt numb. The hair bristled on his body -- on his spine, his hands, his asshole and in his ears.
He stared wolfishly at Ramona Rathers' tits.
Chapter Five
Lance Peters looked like a normal eighteen year old boy. He had about thirty obvious zits on his face and there were about sixty more pimples ready to break through his pock-marked skin.
His body was in between a lot of ages and years. He had a man's pair of feet in that they weren't going to grow any more -- so his feet were now size eleven and they were anxiously awaiting the rest of his body to grow up so they wouldn't feel so awkward when Lance called upon them to do difficult things like walking and running.
Lance had a normal eighteen-year-old's face. He had hair, a nose, and a pair of lips. Other than the thirty obvious pimples and the sixty ready-to-be obvious zits on his face, his facial features were remarkably bland -- as if Lance kept them that way intentionally.
Now, for the description that most women are interested in -- his cock.
Lance had a prick that was unusually large at the top, or at the bottom, depending on whether his prick was erect or soft. His glans was the size of a baseball when it was erect, naturally, and whenever the glans wasn't in use, it usually shrank down to the size of an under inflated tennis ball.
Right now it was a baseball because Lance had a batter's grip on his prick-shaft -- there was more than enough room to put two hands on his cock -- and he was ready to choose up sides.
Should he jack off lying on his back or on his belly?
Lance tried to remember which position he had used last.
Then he remembered.
The last time that his glans had been a baseball was not when he was jacking off his prick but when Ramona Rathers had seduced him into coming into her mansion, into her perfume living room, and had eaten his cock like a prick-hungry nymph.
Now, as Lance moved his hands up and down, up and down on his cock, he tried to remember what Ramona's lips looked like when they clung to his baseball-sized cockhead.
Oooooooooh, those lips had driven him wild. Nobody had ever sucked his cock before. Oh, there had been those times when he was much younger and his spine was very limber and he could bend over and suck his own cock.
But nobody else's lips had ever been on his cock. And God, having a woman sucking his cock was so unlike doing his own cocksucking.
For one thing, he didn't get a back ache.
Like he could just spread out all over Mrs. Rathers' luscious circular revolving couch and glance at all the mirrors that surrounded the room and enjoy the sight of Mrs. Rathers going down on his prick. Her mouth slowly nibbling and gobbling all of his cock-flesh.
Like he could just spread out his legs and give her more room for her cocksucking mouth and her fuck-hungry body as she ate his prick and fondled his balls and even rammed one finger into his tight asshole.
Like no one had ever done that to his balls and asshole and cock before.
It had been too good to believe. It had been a miracle.
Stilt, Lance wasn't even the regular newspaper delivery boy. That task had belonged to Harmon Hurlburt, his best friend.
And because he wasn't the regular delivery boy, Lance was unaccustomed to such things as porching the Weedley Weekly World News on people's doorsteps.
And that was how he had first gotten to know Ramona Rathers. Because the newspaper had been thrown errantly and Lance, being a perfectionist like his mother, had gotten off his Schwinn and had hand-delivered the paper to the door.
And just as he was about to drop the newspaper on the doorstep, Ramona had opened the front door.
She had greeted Lance with a smile and a miniskirt. That was all she wore -- a smile and a miniskirt.
Mainly because she had persuaded Ricardo Franklin into giving her the role of fondling her titties for all of America, and she had just gotten home and had just opened the front door just when Lance was not only dropping the newspaper on the doorstep but dropping his jaw in awe.
"You're not the regular paper boy, are you?"
Lance stared at those just beautiful titties, thinking to himself about how just beautiful they looked. He had never seen a woman's titties before. After all, he was only eighteen, and he had not learned about the mysteries of what a woman's body was really for. That would come later when he became a typical male chauvinist pig.
"Why are you staring? Haven't you ever seen a woman's tits before?"
Lance swallowed hard, tried to answer but couldn't. The only thing that formed in his mouth was spit and phlegm. His mouth couldn't possibly form words because fear and anxiety and eagerness and desire and stimulation were running up and down his spine, playing havoc with his prick, which in turn played havoc with the crotch of his Levi's.
"Didn't your mommy ever tell you not to stare at a woman's titties?"
Lance couldn't help staring. Couldn't help the havoc that played at his crotch. Couldn't help wanting to play with those sweet fleshy things that he would learn later on in life to call tits and jugs and knockers and bazooms, but which he now called sweet fleshy things.
"Gosh... gee, Mrs. Rathers. You really have sweet fleshy things."
Remarkable. Astounding. Such ego-boosting words.
Ramona was very pleased. After all, the only kind and encouraging words she had heard all day about her tits were, just beautiful.
Now her tits were being called sweet fleshy things!
She couldn't believe it. Ramona glanced down at her tits. Yes, the young lad was right. Her tits did look sweet and very fleshy and they were just beautiful tits, they were sweet and fleshy things that a young lad of eighteen wanted to get his hands and lips on because there was drool escaping from his mouth and his hands were nervously tugging at his belt buckle.
Ramona thought about fucking the boy.
But what would society say about her screwing a kid his age?
Shit, what the hell could society say when she and her husband owned three-quarters of the society of Weedley? Hellfire and balls of infernal flame -- the Rathers were the society of Weedley!
Thus, after twenty seconds of contemplation, Ramona came to the decision that she had every right to fuck the newspaper boy standing on her front porch with drool clinging to his chin.
"Have you ever fucked a woman -- I mean, a real woman like me?"
Lance was shocked. Fucking was something that only the boys in the clubhouse talked about. Ernie McGrew had told him that fucking was lots of fun. When asked what fucking was, Ernie had replied hesitantly: "Well, fucking must be good 'cause it sounds so bad. I figure fucking means something nasty like picking your nose in an elevator full of people."
So Lance, who had been sick the day that his junior high school gym coach had given a ten-minute lecture on sex education, was in the dark when it came to things concerning his erection with the baseball-sized glans and what to do about his hard-on.
But now Lance wasn't in the dark as much as he was in the twilight as the sun was setting behind him and the rays cast a golden glow on Ramona Rathers' tits as she stood framed in the doorway, lifting up her miniskirt with the intention of showing him her panties.
Lance got very excited. He had never seen a pair of panties when they were filled with the delightful goodness of a woman's ass and pooched-out pussy.
And Ramona was getting just as excited. She wanted to show Lance what a good-looking ass and pussy she had hidden beneath her panties.
Lance said: "Hey! Where are your panties? You're not wearing panties! I thought I'd get to see your panties!"
Ramona was as disappointed as Lance. She had forgotten her panties down at the KKKQ studio dressing room. So instead of showing him the outlines of her curvaceous ass and her pooched-out cunt as she stood framed in the doorway, she showed him her curvaceous ass and pooched-out cunt very blatantly.
Lance was shocked. He had never seen a woman's hairy pussy before. Oh, he could remember when Ernie McGrew had drawn him a picture of a woman's cunt in the dirt one day. But a real live pussy didn't look like a gash in the dust.
For one thing, Ramona's pussy had lots of hair. Ernie didn't put any hair on his picture cunt -- oh, Ernie had told him that he thought that there might be hair somewhere above the woman's pussy, but he didn't know exactly where.
Now, Lance knew exactly where a woman's pubic hair was. It was at the top of a woman's pussy, and it bearded about halfway down around the sides of the gaping, meaty slit. Gosh, he couldn't wait to tell Ernie.
And, for another thing, Ernie had simply drawn a slit in the sand, and he had pointed with his toe at the cut, telling Lance that that's where all the piss and babies came from.
But Lance knew now that Ernie had drawn a woman's pussy wrong. Maybe he was a bad artist, or a clumsy doodler. Because a pussy had an oval shape, and it wasn't just two lines that bulged outward at the middle and met on the ends. A pussy had flappy, floppy-looking things on each side.
And Lance could see that the floppy, flappy things could be stretched. Because Ramona was stretching them very wide apart, so wide that Lance thought her pussy would either split at the seams or else those flappy, floppy things were made of rubber.
Ramona pooched out her pussy, spread the lips as wide as she could without splitting the seams of her cunt.
"Did you ever see a woman's cunt?"
What could Lance say?
Oh sure, he'd seen one about three months ago. But it was made of coarse grains of sand and loose dirt.
Or he could say, very honestly, no. He had never seen a woman's pussy before. But he wouldn't mind seeing one now. Maybe even touch it if it didn't hurt, or bite, or stick to his hand like Silly Putty.
Lance shook his head. "Well, partly."
"Partly? Whatta you mean, partly? You've only seen half a cunt? A quarter of a pussy? What the hell do you mean partly?"
Lance started to sweat. Why was life so Goddamn complicated when you were eighteen years old and subbing for another newspaper boy and having to come up to a horny lady's doorstep just cause you threw the Goddamn paper into the rose bushes instead of on the porch?
"Well," Lance replied with a sigh of exasperation. "I saw one in the dirt before. But it didn't look anything like your... uh, your pussy."
"Jesus! Kid, you don't make any sense at all," Ramona replied, standing up straight and letting the miniskirt fall back in place. "Come inside and let a real woman show you what a pussy looks like and what it's for."
Lance didn't know what to do. His mother would kill him, just slay him if he got home late. And his dad would have done the same thing too, only he was a wino who had divorced his mother on account of he loved Julio Gallo more than his mother.
"Well, I don't know. I think..."
"I think you better get your fucking little ass in here and let me show you my pussy!"
Lance was taken aback. Only his mother had ever used that tone of voice with him. And he knew that Ramona wasn't his mom because his mom never went around pulling her flappy, floppy things wide open.
He reluctantly obeyed. Walked into the mansion with feet that felt like cement. With a cock that felt the same way, too, but he didn't know why. Probably had to do with seeing a pair of sweet, fleshy things and flappy, floppy other things for the first time in his life.
Ramona led him to the circular couch. The one that her husband had given to her on her fortieth birthday. A very special couch that had little mirrors that popped out of the armrests and two dildos that could spring out of the cushions when she pushed the right buttons.
Ramona made him sit down on the couch.
Lance sat down on the couch. His eyes were filled with luscious sweet things because they were only inches from his batting eyelashes.
Ramona couldn't believe it. What the fuck was wrong with kids these days?
No wonder there was a generation gap; kids couldn't express themselves well enough to communicate whether they wanted to see her pussy or her tits.
Shit, no inquisitiveness, not enough gung-ho curiosity.
"Now, I'm going to show you all of my pussy. Would you like that?"
Lance was very surprised by her lone of voice. So much like his mother's when she asked if he wanted some more peas, or if he had to go wee now, or did he wash his pee-pee real good.
He felt like answering Ramona as if she were his mother. But his mother never wore miniskirts that fit more like a band-aid around her hips. And his mother would never dare bend over and strip off the miniskirt so that she was standing hands on hips with her sweet fleshy things inches from his eyes and her flappy, floppy pussy-lips within arm's reach.
"But you're not my mother!"
"WHAT?"
Jesus Christ! What the fuck was wrong with these kids? Shit, didn't they know whit they wanted out of life? Didn't they know how to answer an adult?
"Look, kid. I asked if you wanted to see my pussy. No, not just the hairs around my pussy -- I meant really deep inside. You never know, you might like what you see."
But how was Lance to know if he liked what he saw? He had never seen a pussy before. Never seen tits like that before. Shit, it was only last year that the first hair had appeared on his balls, and it was only two years ago since his testicles had descended and he could call them balls because they hung in a loose sac.
Lance played it safe. He nodded his head. Maybe if he hurried and she hurried and showed him her pussy, then his mother wouldn't ask where he had been, or wonder if he was drawing dirty pictures in the sand with that nasty kid Ernie McGrew.
"Jesus!" Ramona exclaimed. "It's about time you showed me you have some balls! Christ!"
Ramona sat on the couch, leaned back against the armrest, threw one svelte leg over the back of the velvety couch.
Her finger directed his gaze to the hairs at the top of her pussy. The ones that Ernie had guessed were at the top of a woman's pussy.
"We'll start at the top," Ramona said. "See all this hair?"
Lance saw all that hair. There was lots of hair. Very curly hair that looked very bouncy as her fingers twiddled several of the curlier strands.
"This is my pubic hair. And here... uuummmmmm, is the hole where lots of goooood things go... and... uuuuminmmmmm, lots of gooooood things come out."
Lance nodded eagerly. "Ernie says that's where the pee-pee comes out."
Ramona was very surprised that the kid knew something about pussies. She continued, two hands now directing his gaze.
"And when I spread my pussy wide open... like this... OH GOD! JESUS! UUUUUMMMMMMMM!"
Lance nodded eagerly again. Gosh, pussies looked so red and... and meaty. And there was definitely a hole there, but he couldn't see the end of it.
The hole got bigger.
And bigger.
Big enough for a baseball as Ramona pulled her floppy cunt-lips aside and pointed at the center of all that juicy darkness.
"Here... here, is where the action's at, kid. Whatta you think so far?"
"Pussies look... uh, dark. Does it hurt when you open up your pussy like that?"
Ramona shook her head. "Uuuummmmmm, no. No, not at all. See how my hands go up and down. And my thumbs just rub and rub all over my cunt?"
"Is a cunt the same thing as a pussy?"
"Oh fuck!"
Lance knew he had said something wrong. Because Ramona's voice had sounded just like his mother's. Just like Mom when she had looked at the center of his sheets one day and had exclaimed: "Did you pee-pee in your bed last night?"
No, Lance had not pee-pee'd in his bed that night. He had awakened from a dream about pussies drawn in the sand, and suddenly it felt as if he were lying in mud. And when he woke up and looked down at the wetness at his loins, he knew that it wasn't mud because the mess his first ejaculation had created wasn't brownish but white.
Lance had been very scared that night. In fact, he had cried. For fear that he had broken something inside of him and all that pus was coming out of his pee-pee.
Then those huge tits were in his vision again instead of the thoughts about white mud and sandy pussies. And Ramona was wagging a finger at him.
"Hey! Jesus! You really don't know the first thing about fucking or sucking, do you?"
Lance wanted to cry. Was it so bad that he didn't know about fucking and sucking?
Gosh, her wagging finger made him feel like he hadn't done his homework, or that he had absentmindedly used the last of the toilet paper and his mom was sitting on the crapper, screaming: "God damn it, Lance, how many times do I have to tell you to tell me when you've used the last of the toilet papa?!"
"Hey," Ramona said. "Don't cry, kid. I mean, it's not your fault. I just wanted to show you my pussy 'cause I thought you were interested in pussies and tits."
Then perfume surrounded Lance, and Ramona's lips were all over his forehead and cheeks and eyes and mouth, kissing him just like his Aunt Mabel had done when his pet skunk had died and she was just as glad to have run over the fucking pest as he was sad that she had flattened out his skunk to something as thick as plywood.
"Uuuummnimm, I'm so sorry." Ramona gushed. "Here, let me see your hand."
Lance lifted his hand timidly.
Ramona grabbed his wrist, placed the palm of his hand on her right tittie, held it there to make sure that he could feel every mole, every hair, every heartbeat that was on and in her heaving tits.
Lance felt as if his hand were on top of a warm TV dinner that hadn't been unwrapped yet. It was a good feeling. Not hot to the touch, but certainly not cold.
In fact, her tits felt very good. Gosh, they were meaty and they would give whenever he sank his fingers into her tits. And those bumpy things on the ends -- Jesus, some parts of a woman's tittie were very soft and some parts were very hard.
Not like his cock. His cock could only be hard some of the time and soft some of the time. But it certainly didn't have a hard spot and a soft spot. It was either all hard sometimes or all soft sometimes.
This was a sometime when his prick was all hard. Gosh, it just had to do with feeling the hard and soft spots of her tits.
"Uuuuummmmm! Feel all of my titties! Uuuuuu, that's so goooooood!"
Lance smiled, really started to dig touching a woman's titties. Oh yeah, he knew what titties were for. Ernie had told him many times that titties were for sucking. Because Ernie spied on one of his neighbor's who had given birth to twins and he always peeked at her through the kitchen window to watch her babies sucking on her saggy tits.
Nah, old Lance, or rather young Lance, wasn't a complete dummy when it came to knowing what to do with a pair of hefty tits.
He took Ramona by surprise.
Her tits, too.
His mouth sucked hard on Ramona's right nipple as he moved his hand to her left breast so that he could find out what a tit felt like in his mouth while his hand made sure that certain parts of Ramona's left tit remained hard while other parts remained soft.
"UMMMMMM! GOD! YOU LITITLE FUCKER! SO YOU BEEN... OGOOGH! YOU'VE BEEN PULLING MY LEG ALL THIS TIME!"
Ramona hugged him with all her might. And since she outweighed him by twenty pounds, and because she had big tits that could strangle a man when he sucked them, she nearly choked him to death on her erecting nipple.
Lance squirmed, his face becoming British red. Gosh, what could he do? Her nipple was getting so big in his mouth. And he only wanted to suck her tits to see if any milk would come out so that he could see if it was like that powdered shit his mom always mixed with his milk.
But now Ramona had a tenacious grip on the back of his head. And she made sure that his lips were glued tight to her tits. Then she leaned back, and Lance flopped all over her warm, writhing body.
And Ramona was rubbing her thighs and hips and pubic hair and floppy, flappy cunt-lips all around that bulge at the crotch of his Levi's.
And Lance's cock was being bent double because it was in that sometimes state of being hard and erecting in the wrong direction -- down his pant leg instead of out his fly.
He groaned and squirmed, and tried to get his cock into a comfortable position by rubbing his prick against Ramona's writhing body.
Then his prick wasn't uncomfortable any more. His prick felt as if it were out in the open, out in the cool air where it could have room for the glans to grow as big as a baseball.
Then he realized what Ramona had done to his prick.
She had unzipped his pants and had relieved his prick of all that discomfort.
He tried to look down, or around, or through her tits, but her grip was too strong and his face remained plastered to her bosom. Sweat was running off his upper lip to join the drool that was coming from his mouth and cascading off that huge tit that was pillowing him to death.
Then there wasn't any more pressure on the back of his head.
"OH GOSH! OH GOSH! OOOOOOHHHHHH!"
Lance had said "Oh gosh" because Ramona had moved into another position while his body had frozen in fear above hers.
And with all the sweat and drool and juice that poured from his cock and the juice that poured from her cunt, the couch was like a bed of butter that Ramona could easily slide around on.
Her body had shifted around so that her feet and cunt were pointing toward the north end of his body, and her head was at the southern, and her hands were taking a batter's grip on his cock.
"OOOOOHHHH! PLEASE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
"MMMGGGFFFHHH! MMMGGGHHHFFF! MMMMGGGGHHHHFFFF!"
Lance couldn't understand her.
Why did she talk so funny?
And why was there a buzzing feeling all around his cock?
He looked south.
No! What was she doing!
She was eating his prick!
Oh, Mother would just slay him!
He quickly looked north, didn't want to see the sight of his prick being chewed off his body so that all he was left with was a bloody stump that all the boys in gym would laugh at.
He closed his eyes. He had never been so scared in his life. He braced for the pain that would come shooting up from his cock when it was amputated from his body by a woman surgeon who used her mouth for a scalpel.
He waited.
Waited for the blood-bursting agony.
But all he felt was a buzzzzzz on his prick.
And all he heard were the sounds of sucking. The same sounds Ernie had made with his mouth when he imitated his neighbor's twin babies sucking at their mama's saggy tits.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
Then the buzz turned into a different feeling. The kind of feeling he had when he dreamed about cunts being drawn in the sand by Ernie's big toe. The kind of feeling he got when he would play with his prick, give it a twirl and watch it grow big, then give it a whack and watch it grow soft.
But this feeling was more powerful. His balls felt tremendously explosive. And his prick felt very bloated, and he wanted to give it a whack to make it go down so that he wouldn't choke Mrs. Rathers on his embarrassing cock.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"AAAAAHHHHH! OH PLEASE! SOMETHING'S GOING TO HAPPEN! OH GOSH! PLEASE LET MY PEE-PEE GO! I PROMISE THAT I'LL NEVER COME OVER AGAIN! AAAAAIIIIEEEEE!"
Ramona's lips smacked deliciously as she took a slight cocksucking breather to see what kind of erection she had given the kid's prick.
"Wow! You're gonna be hung someday, kid!"
Hung?
They wouldn't hang him for putting his wee-wee into Mrs. Rathers' mouth, would they?
Oh gosh! Oh Mother!
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"OH PLEASE! I DON'T WANNA HANG! PLEASE STOP IT! I-OH GOSH, SOMETHING'S HAPPENING! I GOPITA GO PEE-PEE! PLEASE DON'T DO THAT WITH YOUR MOUTH!"
But Ramona kept doing that with her mouth, kept moving her cocksucking lips up and down Lance's prick-shaft. And her hands were joining the fun of keep-doing-that. Her hands were filled with his fine-haired balls, and she was jostling them around while his prick kept jostling around in her mouth as she kept doing that.
Slurp! Slurp! Slurp!
Lance was going crazy! He looked south again.
Oh gosh! Look how big his pee-pee had gotten! Oh Mother!
Then he looked north again, didn't want to see the sight of Ramona's cock-hungry mouth moving up and down on his cock-shaft.
Gosh, he didn't want to hang!
And he didn't want to pee in her mouth!
But he had to. Had to get rid of something that was threatening to blow his balls apart while thy were being jostled in her hands.
Then something came out of his prick.
And Lance made a nasty face -- like the lime in kindergarten when he had tried to hold back the shit that threatened to make a mess out of his Cowboy Bob jeans.
Now he made a mess out of Ramona's mouth.
But it felt better than taking a shit. It felt tremendously exciting! So exciting as all that sweet goodness came out of his pee-pee and poured into Ramona's slurp-slurp-slurping mouth.
"AAAAIIIIEEEE! OH GOSH! AAAIIIEEE!"
SLURP. SLURP. SLURP.
"MMMMMGGGGGFPPFFHHHHH! MGGGMMMMFFFGGGGHHHHHHHHH!"
Lance wanted to die a thousand deaths, but none of them by hanging. He wanted to die because the pleasure felt so good. His prick, felt soooooooo amazingly great, like nothing he had ever felt before.
SLURP! SLURP! SLURP!
Then it didn't feel good.
It felt very slimy and greasy.
It felt like his prick was now in the state of sometimes soft.
It felt like that time he had been awakened by the white mud that his loins had lain in after he had dreamed of a toe-etching done in the sand by Ernie McGrew.
And it felt very funny to have his prick being cleansed by something that felt much smoother than Kleenex.
He looked south.
Ramona was wiping away all the clingy, white, mud-like balls that clung to his sometimes soft cock.
Lance closed his eyes. Thought about hanging from an old oak tree with his mother standing in front of his swaying feet, saying: "Oh, why couldn't you have come home earlier!"
He looked south again. Ramona was still wiping away the jizz with her tongue -- only now she was licking his balls clean as a whistle.
Lance looked north.
Then he looked sick. Like the time he saw his skunk being rolled into an animal cracker by his Aunt Mabel's Corvette Sting Ray.
Chapter Six
Kirby Mosher was looking at the mouth of a starfish. Through a looking glass that had once belonged to his Aunt Emily before she had passed away while rocking in her favorite early-American rocking chair.
The rocking chair was very expensive and very well made. Said to have belonged to Jefferson Davis' nephew-in-law before the carpetbaggers stole the fucking thing from him. But after much searching, later, the Davis family had recovered the rocker intact -- except where some of the vandals had shaved off parts of the arm.
But three score and seven years later, it had ended up in the hands of Emily Davis, Kirby Mosher's very old and very rich aunt.
People had considered Emily to be very old because even her toes looked varicosed and because she was very senile. Like she always tried to make collect calls to Richmond, Virginia asking for a Mister Jefferson Davis.
But Aunt Emily's death only proved how well-built the old rocker was. If people so much as breathed on that old Confederate chair, it would rock and rock and rock. Like a lullabye. Like the ages.
Old Emily had simply died of old age while rocking in her chair, her carcass rocking back and forth, back and forth with each passing breeze.
And the first person to notice that she was dead was Kirby.
He had wandered over to see his aunt to use her phone. And since he used her phone every day, it was a week before it dawned on him that his Aunt Emily had not pestered him into making those long-distance collect calls to Richmond to talk to her famous uncle about what he was going to do about Sherman and his march to the sea.
At first Kirby was scared when he put his hand on her forehead, and the graying head of the carcass simply wouldn't budge.
Then he was embarrassed 'cause he had pissed in his pants. Because he had knelt down and looked at Aunt Emily. And the sight of Aunt Emily's eyes was simply ghastly.
And the rest of her wasn't too decent for public view either.
So Kirby knew she was dead. And he used her phone one last time to call the funeral parlor.
And it was almost two weeks before Aunt Emily's corpse could be laid to rest.
Then came the mortician's bill.
Christ! Seven thousand dollars.
Mr. Grimsly of the Happy Trails Funeral Home had solemnly explained to Kirby that his aunt's rigor was very mortis and that it had required putting the old lady into a coffin in the shape of a rocking chair instead of the normal four-thousand dollar, buried-in-a-box special.
So Kirby had reluctantly paid the bill. Well, it wasn't so much reluctance as it was niggardliness. Because it was the first time that so much money had flowed through his hands.
Shit, he hadn't known how rich Aunt Emily was. Christ, the rocker alone was worth a couple of thou. And the first stock certificates ever issued by Ford and General Electric and Lowry Organs weren't anything to laugh at.
But Kirby laughed.
Laughed because he had been a poor lazy son of a bitch all his life and now he was the wealthiest soul in Weedley. Well, that was debatable because some people still considered the Rathers to be A-1 in the number of greenbacks.
So, now that Aunt Emily was laid to rest, or rather sat to rest, Kirby relaxed in the rocker in his new home.
Of course, Kirby's new home wasn't exactly new. It had once belonged to Wendell Rathers before Ramona had urged her husband to build the Rathers Estate in the Belvedere section of Weedley because she needed about twenty-thousand square feet to do her yoga lessons.
So, Kirby was sitting comfortably in his two-hundred-thousand-dollar home, rocking in a rocking chair worth a couple of thou, watching his ninety-nine-dollar TV set with a ten-inch screen.
The reason he owned a ninety-nine-dollar TV set with a ten-inch screen was because Eula Peters, the famous interior decorator, had not returned from San Diego with the latest in modern decor and up-to-date appliances to fill out his thirty-room house.
So he sat in his dead aunt's rocker with a can of Hamm's casually switching channels with his toes. Kirby was very good at switching stations with his toes because he was a lazy asshole who worked hard at being lazy.
Which was a very easy thing for Kirby to do. Consider the fact that he could also pop the tops off Hamm's beer cans with his toes. And also the astounding fact that he could hold the can in a tilted position between the arches of his feet and guzzle the beer from a reclining position.
Which left his hands free to do other things. Like scratch at the crabs that infested his balls. Or pick the lint from his navel. Or scratch his left earlobe, the one that had runny earwax drooping from it like an earring.
Yeah, he was a lazy motherfucker. But that was probably because his mother was a lazy whore who didn't give a shit who fucked her cunt as long as they left a big tip so she wouldn't have to work at decent jobs like being a waitress at the Deserted Inn, or be a wrench inspector for the Rathers Wrench Company, or be unemployed like her ex-husbands.
Mother's name was Madeline Mosher. And since she was Kirby's mommy, she was older than Kirby. Like twenty-eight years older than her lazy asshole of a son.
Half the people in Weedley called Madeline Mosher "Maddy" for short. The other half called Madeline Mosher "that lazy asshole bitch" for long.
But neither the long or the short bothered Madeline. She was quite content being known as Maddy, or that lazy asshole bitch. Mainly because she didn't give a shit. About anything. Except the tips her customers left her after she had fucked their cocks high and dry.
Yeah, Madeline was a very lazy bitch. So, it was only natural that her only living baby was strong enough to avoid the quack doctor's coat hanger and weak enough to be a lazy asshole.
Thus, Kirby grew up in a lazy household. A household where dirty dishes were reused, and yesterday's leftovers were simply mingled in with that night's dinner. A house where guests and home-owner used the same towels and toilet paper. A house where the occupants were always on their asses and used their toes to grab whatever their fat bodies craved -- like Oreo cookies, or Camel cigarettes, or some Certs, or some toothpicks.
And that's why Kirby was in the midst of guzzling his Hamm's while holding the can with his feet. And while he was lazily drinking his beer, he was astounded by what he saw on the TV set.
A set of tits.
A very big set of tits.
And then he heard a very familiar voice. And the familiar voice was saying: "...now, in order to check for those bumps or warts that may be cancerous, please do as I am doing. Lift your tit up. That's right, girls. Now, press against the base of your tit. Does it feel lumpy, like your tit was made out of Polish sausage? Or does it feel like my tit? Very warm and soft, yet very firm and smooth."
Kirby belched, the Hamm's foaming in his mouth.
That was Ramona Rathers' voice! And that had to be her tits!
Kirby gasped as he watched a pair of carmine-finger nailed hands massage those huge titties that filled his ten-inch screen.
Then Kirby was pissed. Shit, no decent woman should ever show her tits on TV. Balls o'fire! His mother may have been the laziest asshole bitch in town, but she still had enough energy to put her clothes on in front of him.
Christ! Who did that woman think she was? The tit empress of Weedley? Balls! Her stilt stunk just like everybody else's! Just because she was the richest bitch in Weedley didn't give her any right to expose her titties to the whole community.
Then Kirby leaned back in his easy chair and scratched his erect cock with his hands.
And it was about that time that Eula Peters came in, followed by a lot of men in white.
Kirby nearly stilt in his pants when he saw those men in white because they had solemn expressions on their faces and looked strong enough to lift him and the early-American rocker to the nearest asylum.
"W-What do they want, Eula?"
Eula smiled. "Oh, they're just the Bekins guys. I just purchased all the necessary items in San Diego that'll make this place look... look like... well, hell -- it'll look almost as good as the Rathers mansion."
Eula showed the men where to unload the furniture. And since Kirby was such a lazy asshole, the strong-armed Bekins guys carted him and the rocker to one side of the room while they brought in a piano in the shape of a manta ray, a couch with armrests and cushions made of sharkskin, oyster-shell ashtrays, paintings of Dover Beach, and little starfish knick-knacks that were nailed into the ocean-blue walls.
Kirby was amazed. And flabbergasted. He had hired Eula Peters to redecorate his home in a style befitting his personality.
But he wasn't any Goddamn fish or beached whale!
Jesus! He had paid Eula Peters, world-famous interior decorator, to make his home fashionable to his taste. But what she had envisioned for his taste was an aquarium instead of Early American.
What the fuck was all this? Sea World? Charlie Tuna's castle? Moby Dick's rumpus room?
"WHAT THE FUCK IS ALL THIS?! I WANNA LIVE IN A HOME! NOT A FUCKING FISH-BOWL!"
Eula got angry. Rich people knew when she was angry because her stiletto heels would make little woodpecker holes in their rugs. And she would flick her cigar ashes all over their furniture.
But this time Eula was super-pissed because she was drilling dynamite-sized holes into the sea-green rug and fucking hot ashes on the sharkskin couch.
Christ! For ten thousand dollars, what the fuck did he want? A round chair with a square cushion? A desk that had a bunch of erotic gadgets on it?
"What the fuck did you expect for ten thousand dollars, Mr. Mosher?"
"A home! Christ, this place even smells like seaweed!"
"Don't mind the smell. That's only the mussel and barnacle odor that's on the starfish knick knacks."
"WHAT!? OH, JESUS CHRIST!"
"Look, Mr. Mosher, I'm America's best interior decorator. You were a very particular problem for me. In fact, I'm thinking of charging you twenty grand for this job."
"Bullshit! That's a bunch of bullshit! You're just taking advantage of me because I'm a lazy asshole who don't know nothing about the finery of life!"
"Well, I can't argue with that, Mr. Mosher. I know you don't know a damn thing about sophisticated luxury."
Kirby fumed, put on his shoes so that he could walk across the sea-green rug that was seven inches tall in some places and flat as a board in others. He huffed and puffed over the ocean of wavy rug.
"Sophisticated luxury, huh? Is that what you call this fucking aquarium? Christ, I feel like I'm drowning in salt water! Jesus!"
Eula shook her head. Couldn't believe that an idiot -- granted a rich idiot -- would not understand the color combinations and the complementary accessories of her creation that she called: Ocean Indigo.
Shit, it had taken her three months to come up with this original design. Days turning pages of the TV Guide to find out when the next Jacques Cousteau special was on. Hours talking to sailors and old salts and ancient mariners in San Diego where she had picked up the necessary information to create Ocean Indigo.
With a series of taps against the oceanic rug, Eula breathed in heavily, they exhaled her anger: "Just what is it you want, Mr. Mosher? Something that truly expresses what you are? Something like a Lazy Susan for a couch? Or how about a couple of stuffed dead hobos for doorstops! Because if I truly designed something befitting you, Mr. Mosher, I would have to call it Early Lazy Asshole!"
Kirby was stunned.
Jesus! It was the first time that somebody had actually come out and declared him to be a lazy asshole. Which didn't seem fair to him, especially when he feared that others knew he was a lazy asshole.
Kirby sat down on the sharkskin couch. "But why," he asked in a repentant tone of voice, "did you design this?" Eula watched Kirby's arm as he pointed to everything around him.
"Because I love the ocean, Mr. Mosher. Because I like to fish. And to eat fish. Fishing is peaceful and relaxing. The ocean's peaceful and relaxing. The smell of brine and barnacles and..."
"Just a second," Kirby interrupted. "That's everything you like. What about me? Ain't I supposed to like something too?"
"Well, of course, Mr. Mosher. What do you like most of all?"
"Well... uh, nobody's every really asked me what I like most of all. That's kind of a general question, don't you think?"
"That's why I designed Ocean Indigo. Because you're like most men. You don't know what you like. So I made up your mind for you."
Kirby shook his head, anger making him want to wring Eula Peters' neck with his feet, but confusion helped contain his urge to put his foot in her mouth. "Well, I don't like it! It stinks. Like fish. I don't like..."
"Then tell me what you do like, Mr. Mosher. I bet you you're such an indecisive creature, that you don't know what you do like and what you hate and what you love..."
"That's a lie!"
"That's the truth!"
"A lie!"
"The truth!"
"All right, God damn it! I'll tell you what I like!"
"Tell me!"
"I'd like to fuck your cunt! I'd like to cram my cock into your fucking mouth! I'd like to ram my prick into your ass until it comes out of your fucking ears! I'd like to shove these barnacles and mussels and starfish into your pussy 'cause you said you like fish so fucking much! There! How's that for licking something? Huh? How 'bout it, fish-lover? Whatta ya say to all that?"
God, what could she say to all that?
No man had ever propositioned her quite like that before.
God, there was something so macho about the way he said he'd like to cram his cock into her mouth and cunt and shove spiny things into her asshole 'cause she liked fish so much!
Eula looked embarrassed and red, as red as the clingy dress she wore that clung to her tits and hips like Saran Wrap. Then she could tell her dress was clinging like Saran Wrap because of the way Kirby was looking at her taut tits and tauter hips.
He had that look of a he-man, hungry for pussy. Desire was in his eyes. Passion in his breath. Ecstasy in his expression.
God! No man had ever propositioned her so crudely before and looked at her so crudely before. Like he looked very capable of shoving his cock in her three holes -- no, not at the same time, but at different intervals... and without coming.
Eula started to back away from Kirby.
Kirby kept advancing.
Kirby had changed. It was a slow metamorphosis. Like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. But it had all happened so fast. As if his transition were taking place on super-fast film.
Kirby knew why he was changing. He had not fucked a woman in three weeks. And, in the last three weeks, he had been so caught up with being a rich man and redecorating his home and getting settled into his role as a wealthy man that he had not had the time for fucking or sucking or beating or jacking.
And now, Eula, to his desirous eyes, looked very good. Very ravishing. Like bait for Jaws.
He tried to imagine what her tits would look like as he trapped her in the corner of the room where the whale-patterned wallpaper met the porpoise patterned wallpaper.
And all Kirby could see were her tits. Tits that looked very firm and proud as they made crinkly mountains of Eula's red crepe dress.
Eula tried smiling. "Now, surely, Mr. Mosher, you don't think I'd fall for an old line like that... do you? Huh?"
Kirby nodded, ready to spring to his right if she dodged to her left. "Fucking-A right! I can tell you're one of them artsy-fartsy bitches who gets turned on by words like fuck and suck, cock and cunt."
Eula retried smiling. God, how did he know? How could a crude lazy asshole like Kirby Mosher know that words like fuck and suck, cock and cunt, made pudding out of her pussy, made her tits scream to be unwrapped from the Saran.
"Oh, but you're absolutely wrong," Eula said fearfully, ready to jump to her right when Kirby lunged at her. She knew he was going to lunge because he looked like a water buffalo in heat, like a panther with his balls on fire, like a great white shark that ate pussies for dessert.
"Bulishit, Eula! I can tell you like fucking and sucking. Shit! Look at your tits! I betcha your tits are all hard and ready to be sucked. I betcha your pussy's just like pudding right now -- ready for me to eat. I'll even betcha your asshole's tingling right now."
Eula cringed with desirous fear, or fearful desire. How did he know! How did that lazy asshole know that her tits were hard and hot, eager to be sucked?
How did he know that her pussy had made a gelatin-like mess of her sea-green bikini panties?
How did he know her asshole was tingling?
No, that wasn't true. Her asshole wasn't tingling. Her spine was tingling -- an itchy twitchy feeling that ran along every vertebra, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and also the few hairs on her asshole.
Oh God! She wanted to be fucked so bad, yet she didn't want to be fucked so bad.
Shit, why did she have to be a woman and have to hold back all that wanting for cock? Why couldn't she be like other normal women who spread their housewife cunts for their husbands, or their boyfriends, or for the Roto Rooter man?
"Come on, Eula," Kirby snarled as his hands were within reach of her titties. "What's it gonna be? You want me to eat your cunt and stick my tongue into your asshole before I fuck your brains through your mouth? Or you want me to suck your titties while my cock's fucking your pussy?"
Eula cowered against the wallpaper porpoises.
What should she do?
What could she do?
Oh God! Decisions, choices, alternatives and options!
She decided to gasp. Because Kirby's hands were on her hot taut titties and he was feeling all those delightful things that he said her titties would become -- suckable, edible, chewable.
"OOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!" she gasped.
"See, you fucking smart-ass bitch! I knew you'd love it when I got my hands on your tits. Betcha can't wait for me to get my hand underneath this artsy-fartsy dress and fuck around with your cunt?"
Oh God! What to do: There was still time to run over to the whale-patterned wall and make her escape.
But... oh God, the feelings in her tits were driving her crazy. His hands were making her tits feel like Pillsbury buns warm and hot and edible.
Then his hand sneaked under her dress.
And Eula spread her thighs, stretched her sea-green panties so that he could feel how much cunt-juice was on the crotch.
"YOU FUCKING BITCH! JESUS CHRIST! YOUR CUNT'S BURNING UP! FEEL THAT! JESUS CHRIST! YOUR CLINT FEELS LIKE A FUCKING SWAMP!"
"OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH!" she gasped.
Kirby pinned Eula in the corner, his hands on her hips beneath the crinkly crepe dress, pulling down her sea-green bikini panties.
He held the frilly lace like a triangular gauze curtain between their faces. "Look at that shit on the crotch! Look at that! Christ! It's nearly black around the crotch while the other parts still look piss green!"
Eula nearly died.
Nobody had ever described her panties like that! Nobody had ever described how she felt so crudely. She couldn't believe the wonderful sensations that were running up and down her spine, making her asshole tingle as much as her neck.
The sea-green panties drifted to the ocean-blue rug.
The crinkly crepe dress was lifted higher and higher.
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
And Kirby took a good look at her pussy.
"MOTHERFUCKER! LOOK AT ALL THAT FUCKING JUICE COMING OUT OF YOUR CUNT!"
Eula didn't want to see how much juice was dripping out of her pussy. She didn't have to look because she could feel those rivers of pussy-juice coursing down her thighs to puddle like pudding on the sea-green panties that lay on the ocean-blue rug.
"OOOOOOHHHHHH! GODDDDDDDD!"
"God ain't going to help you now, you bitch!" Kirby smirked as he lifted the red crepe dress.
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
"MOTHERFUCKER! LOOK AT YOUR TITS! LOOK AT HOW FUCKING HARD YOUR NIPPLES ARE!"
Eula shook her head. She didn't want to see how hot and hard her nipples were. She didn't want to see because she couldn't, even if she had wanted to see. Kirby had lifted the dress so that it had draped over her head and her ears were filled with the crinkle, crinkle, crinkle sound of her red crepe dress.
"OOOOOOOHHHHHHH, GOD!"
Kirby surveyed his handiwork. There was a lot to survey. Like the mountains that were her tits. And the slight chuckhole that was her navel. And the furry forest of her pubic hair. And the valley of her cunt.
He licked her hot nipple.
"AAAIIIEEEE!" Eula said with muffled voice beneath the crinkly dress that was draped over her head.
He licked the other nipple.
"AAAAAAIIHIIEEEEEE!"
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
Now Eula didn't have to try to hide because she was hidden. Her eager expression, her lips that drooled with the hunger of wanting to suck cock, her eyes that had wanted to see how big his prick was before she sucked it -- all were hidden by the crinkly crepe dress as it tented like a parachute over her head.
Now she would not be betrayed. Now she could be fucked and sucked without showing him how much she wanted to be fucked and sucked. Typical woman.
"OOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!"
Kirby smacked his lips against her tits. His mouth had made a droolly mess of all that tit-flesh. His little love bites and snakey tongue were doing amazing things to her tits.
And Eula could feel those amazing feelings in her tits. Her nipples were as hard as granite. And her tits felt more like Grand Tetons than something that she tucked into her double-C Maidenform before she went to work every day.
"OOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!"
Kirby's tongue was moving down her tits. Heading south, hacking wet snail halls on the path to her pussy. Yeah, she had seven ribs -- easy to count as he tongue each bony ridge. And yes, she had one navel that was relatively clean of lint and dust. And yes, she had numerous cunt hairs that would have taken hours to count.
And yes, she had one pussy. A hot pussy. A pussy that pissed lots of cod liver oil 'cause she liked to eat fish.
"AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE! OOOOOHHHHH, GODDDDDDDDDDDDD!"
He tongued her cit.
"AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE! OOOOOHHHHH, GODDDDDDDDDDDDD!"
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
He tongued in the hole that his cock was going to be going into.
"AAAEEEEAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH! AAAIIIEEE!"
Now Kirby had a hard time holding onto the firm cheeks of her ass.
Eula was shoving her cunt at his tongue, bouncing her ass against the whales to the left and the porpoises to the right.
Kirby licked up to the cut, then down to the asshole, gathering fishy juices at the top and letting them drip off his tongue at the bottom.
"OHHHHJIH! SHHEEEEEIIIIITT! MY CLIT! MY CUNT! MY ASSHOLE! AAAAAIIIIEEEEE!"
Then he repeated the tongue-wash -- clit to cunt, to asshole.
"AAAAIIIEEEEE! MY CLIT! MY CUNT! MY ASSHOLE! OOOOOHHHHHH!"
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
Then again -- clit to cunt to asshole. Like a chant. Like musical chairs. Like Tinkers to Evers to Chance.
"AAAAAIHIEEEEE! MY CUT! MY CUNT! MY ASSHOLE!"
Then there was silence. An ominous silence. And Eula sweated underneath the red crepe dress that fit over her head like a parachute shower cap.
Oh no!
Fumble. Fumble. Fumble.
Oh no!
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
Eula knew it was coming. She just knew she was gonna get it now. Somewhere out there, beyond the red crepe of her parachute shower cap, his cock was exposed, hard and eager to fuck her. She could feel it in her bones.
Then she felt the bone in her cunt.
"AAAAAIIIIEEEEE! OH GOD -- FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK ME!"
Kirby slammed his cock into her eager cunt, felt the lips of her pussy slide past his shaft as he rammed it home. Felt her pussy pooch out toward him, eager to embrace his eight inches of prime cock-meat.
"AAAAIIIIIEEEEE! FUCK ME! FUCK MY CLIT! FUCK MY CUNT! FUCK MY -- OH NO! NO! I'VE NEVER BEEN FUCKED IN THE ASS BEFORE! AAAAAIIIEEEEE!"
Kirby made a moist mess of the crinkly red crepe dress where he had tried to kiss where he thought her mouth was, trying to shut her up so she wouldn't scream when he slammed his cock into her asshole.
And Eula's face was covered with sweat and Kirby's saliva that leaked through the crepe. And her asshole felt bruised and no longer tingly as she felt his cockhead banging against her shit-hole, trying to make her rectum into a cunt.
"AAAAAIIIIEEEE! PLEASE! SHOVE IT INTO MY CUNT! NOT MY ASS! PLEASE! NOT MY ASS!"
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
And as the crepe dress crinkled, her asshole wrinkled in writhing agony because Kirby had managed to get a toe-hold, or rather a glans-hold on her shit-tube.
Then he lunged forward, up and in.
And Eula tried to backpedal up the porpoise side of the wall, but her sweaty spine slipped and she toppled against the whales and slammed down on his cock.
"AAAAIIIIIEEEEEE! MY ASS! OH GOD! MY ASS BURNS! MY ASS BURNS!"
Aspirins? Why the fuck would she want aspirins now?
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
Slush. Slush. Slush.
Kirby's face was just as sweaty as Eula's now as he shoved all the way into her wrinkly asshole.
Eula was close to fainting and farting at the same time. Oh how her ass burned as Kirby's prick tried to make a womb out of her lower intestine.
Kirby withdrew slightly, seven inches slightly. With only one big fat inch of his cockhead still embedded in her asshole. He couldn't believe how tight her asshole gripped his cock. And every time she moved, her asshole would writhe around his cock.
He shoved into her ass all the way again. He knew it was in all the way again because his balls were big enough to slap against the wall that braced her ass from behind.
"AAAAAIIIIEEEEE! OH TAKE IT OUT! PLEASE! MY ASS IS BURNING UP! IT HURTS! PLEASE! AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE!"
Kirby kept shoving in and out of her asshole. Kept fucking her rectum until he no longer felt his balls banging against the wall behind her because they had drawn up tight against his crotch.
Eula kept screaming because she knew he was going to come in her ass. She could tell because it felt like the head of his prick had become like a plunger. And she knew enough about pricks that when they became big and their heart-shaped heads began to pulse like mad, they were ready to spew out semen, or "jizz" as her ex-husband called it, or "nectar of the Gods" as her women's magazines called it.
Kirby felt as if his balls were going to explode, blow off bis crotch and volcano up his prick until his cock was spurting lava instead of nectar of the Gods.
"AAAAAIIIEEEEE! EASY! SHOOT EASY! PLEASE SHOOT IT EASY!"
Kirby wanted to laugh. But he couldn't because his cock-cream was spurting out of his prick. No woman had ever told him to come easy. Shit, how could a guy who was fucking a virgin asshole for the first time come easy? Coming easy was just too hard. And coming hard was just too easy.
Kirby came hard easily. Oh God, three week's cock-cream had been stored in his balls. And now his semen came out in spurts and spews, in gushes and rushes, in gobs and wads.
"AAAIIIIIEEEEEE! MY ASS! MY ASS! OH GOD! YOU'RE RIPPING MY ASS!"
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
Spurt. Spurt. Spurt.
Then one little spurt.
"Ohhhhhhh, God! Oh Kirby, my ass... oh God! My ass!"
Kirby collapsed against Eula's heaving body, his five-o'clock shadow scraping her hot tits, his sweaty hands limply falling off her ass to rest orangutan-like against his sides.
Then his cock oozed like a slug out of her pussy.
Plop.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Chapter Seven
It's a very shocking thing to be found with a jack-off gadget on your prick.
It was very shocking to Wendell Rathers. Nobody had ever seen his prick while it was encased in a rubbery tube that had all kinds of other tubes connected to the base-electrical wiring that could make the rubbery tube vibrate around his prick as another jolt of current moved the condom-like device up and down on his cock as the insides flushed with warm water.
It was so shocking to Wendell that his prick shrank. And the water that was pumped into his jack-off gadget came spilling out all over his lap and short-circuited the wires that made the thing vibrate and the wires that moved the artificial cunt up and down on his cock.
"AAAAAIIIIEEEE! SHUT IT OFF! GOD DAMN! SHUT IT OFF! MY COCK'S FRYING!"
Becky Jane Johnson didn't know what to do, didn't know what button to push. There were so many buttons in the panel that flanked Wendell's flopping legs.
She pushed a button. Felt something slam against her pussy as she was on all fours beneath Wendell Rathers' desk.
"AAAAIIIIEEEE! SOMETHING'S ATTACKING MY CUNT! MY CUNT!"
"MY COCK! PLEASE! MY COCK'S FRYING TO HELL!"
Becky didn't give a shit that his cock was frying to hell. And though the smell of frying pubic hair assaulted her nostrils, and even though the warm gush of soapy water was splattering her face, coming from the tube that had fallen off Wendell's prick, there was no way she could find any buttons to push.
Because something fat and big and banana-shaped was pushing against her clit-button. Indenting her lemon-yellow panties, right in the middle of the cunt-stained crotch.
Becky Jane scrambled forward, trying to move away from that banana-like object that kept slapping at the soggy crotch of her panties. But her forward momentum carried her too far forward. Her nose was singed by the flashing sparks that emanated from Wendell's burning crotch.
"MOTHERFUCKER! MY COCK! OOOOOHHHH, GOD! MY COCK'S ON FIRE!"
Becky coughed, moaned as that banana-like object followed her pussy in whatever direction her ass moved. She moved her ass to one side.
Accidentally pushed another button.
A mechanical hand came out from beneath the desk, scraped against Becky Jane's head as it headed for Wendell's frying cock.
The mechanical hand had a velvet glove on it. And the fingers were in a gripping position. It gripped Wendell's frying cock, suffocated the fire that smoldered at his loins. Began jacking off his blackened cock as he screamed: "AAAAAHIIIEEEEEE!"
And Becky Jane Johnson watched the mechanical hand jacking off Wendell's prick in its charred and shrunken state. She couldn't believe it! His fucking desk was a fucking and sucking machine. It was a deviate desk! Full of perverted drawers. Full of gross gadgets and degrading devices.
Like the device that had torn through the crotch of her soggy panties and was slamming into her cunt in a rhythmic manner.
"Aaaaiiieee! MY CUNT! SOMETHING'S IN MY CUNT!"
Becky slammed her ass against the other wall panel.
Pushed another button.
Accidentally.
A loudspeaker blared in the room as the lights dimmed. A voice spoke. A very erotic woman's voice that sounded as if she had been gargling with sperm.
"Oh Wendell. Feel my gloved hand on your big fat cock. Feel my hand go up and down, up and down on your prick. And I've got a big dildo here to shove in your ass. Here, take this and this and this. Oooooooh, I can't wait to suck your big fat prick. Can't wait to make your cock all hot so I can put out the flames of your passion with my hungry mouth."
What the fuck was going on here?
Becky Jane was astounded. Unbelievable!
The only thing she could believe was the dildo that was fucking her cunt as she was on all fours beneath Wendell's perverted oak desk. And she knew that was real because it reminded her of the dildo that her mother had given her on her twelfth birthday with the warning: "That's the only cock I ever wanna see in your cunt, Becky Jane. I don't wanna know you've been fucked by a man until you're ready to be fucked by a man. Meanwhile shove that into your fucking hot box and just thank me for keeping you from getting pregnant or catching syphilis."
"AAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEE! MY PRICK! GOD! MY PRICK'S BEING STRANGLED! STOP! OH GOD! STOP!"
But the loudspeaker voice didn't want his prick to stop being strangled.
"Oooooooh, Wendell. Your prick feels so good in my gloved hand. And what's this? Ooooooooh, your prick has such a big head! Here, let me squeeze your big prickhead!"
"AAAAAAAIHHHEEEEEEF!"
Becky Jane started to moan because the fucking dildo wouldn't let up. Wouldn't let her up so that she could get out of this fucking weirdo office. Because the eight-inch plastic prick was starting to buzz and vibrate in her pussy. And she liked the buzzing and vibrating except the fucking thing just wasn't big enough, not round enough. Shit, it was made for assholes not cunts.
Then, as Wendell flopped in his chair like a man being electrocuted, his knee slammed against three or four buttons.
First the gloved fist retracted.
Then Wendell couldn't struggle any more because his arms were shackled to the swivel chair. The metallic bonds clasped over his wrists and elbows were like stainless-steel claws.
Then his head was slammed back in the chair as the cushion slid up and away like an old-fashioned roll-top desk and three thousand suction cups were planted on his back, keeping him plastered to the chair.
Then Wendell knew he had had it. Knew that the buttons he had pushed were for those secretaries who wouldn't let him fuck around with them. And it was for those moments when he would coax those reluctant secretaries to sit in his chair to rest their feet and he would push those same buttons that kept them immobile, enslaved in a chair that did degrading things to their bodies.
Degrading things like the rubber cups that were attached to telescoping arms that came from beneath the seat. Two big rubber cups that moved like mouths, two rubber cups that descended on his chest and started sucking his breasts.
"AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE! OH GOD! STOP IT! HELP ME, BECKY!"
Becky didn't know what the fuck to do. The smoke at Wendell's prick had dissipated and for the first time she could see what was going on in front of her.
She was amazed.
His body looked like it was being thrust in a rocket chair, the skin and flesh pulled back under the force of seven G's.
And his arms were pinned to the armrests by shiny metallic shackles. The same type that were wrapped around his thighs and ankles.
And two plunger-like cups that were attached to a mechanical octopus were on his tits, tearing his Manhattan shirt to ribbons with powerful suction.
And then she couldn't look any more. Because the fucking dildo had started a circular movement in her pussy. A movement that revolved all around her cunt, touching all the slippery sides and brushing erotically against her cit.
Wendell's face looked as if it would have a perpetual grimace on it because of the suctioning power of those three thousand tentacle things on his back.
And his chest was being made to look like a pair of female tits as the rubber cups gripped his nipples tightly and started pulling them away from the surrounding flesh.
Wendell started to cry. Started to curse that fucking Eula Peters for having done the interior decorating of his plush office. He vowed revenge as he sat there helpless with his tits becoming two inches longer and that mechanical dildo trying to make a cunt out of his cock.
WHAT?!
No! No! No!
"AAAAHHIEEEEE! MY BALLS! THE FUCKING THING'S STABBING MY BALLS!"
Becky looked up, roused from her dildo fuck by the dildo fuck that was taking place a foot from her face.
God! A huge dildo had sprung out of the seat cushion and was jabbing into Wendell's balls.
Then she watched wide-eyed as a second dildo joined the first, a slightly smaller one that was half as wide but just as long. That one was meant for asshole. She knew it was meant for asshole because it had the same shape as the one in her cunt.
She watched the dildo slither into Wendell's ass, tearing through his slacks. She heard him scream.
"AAAAAIIIIIIEEEEE! OH GOD! MY ASS! MY ASS! MY ASS!"
Then the dildo that was sparring with his cock and balls began to spew warm enriched milk all over Wendell's bruised balls.
The dildo in his ass was jabbing in and out, in and out, in the same rhythm as the dildo that was jabbing in and out of Becky Jane's pussy as she knelt on all fours wondering what the fuck was going on.
Then the gloved hand came back into her view. Only it no longer had the fingers in a cock-grip. This time it gripped a puffy white towel. The mechanical hand began to clean up the enriched milk smeared all over Wendell's balls and cock as he writhed in agony.
Then something like Kaopectate was spewing out of Wendell's ass, making a moist mess of his pants.
"OH GOD! IT'S OVER! OH GOD! MY BALLS! MY ASS! OH GOD!"
Then the same feeling suddenly rushed over Becky Jane as she felt that dildo shoot jets of warm enriched milk into her cunt.
"AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE! OH GOD! THAT FEELS SO FUCKING GOOD! AAAIIIEEEE!"
Then she collapsed.
Wendell did, too. Because the rubber cups had retracted and the suction cups on his back had once again become a warm comfy cushion, and the shackles had slid back to become armrests once again.
"Oh mercy God!"
Becky Jane moaned. Bumped her head on the desk top as she back-tracked her way from underneath the desk. Careful not to push any more perverted buttons. Avoiding the mirror that still jutted from the secret paneling in the rug.
And, as her pussy passed over the mirror, she could see enriched milk oozing out of her cunt from the hole in her lemon-yellow panties.
Chapter Eight
Collie Flowers was seventy-two years of age.
He thought he was young. He also thought he was lucky. When a person's seventy-two years of age, death could come in strange ways. A nosebleed could drain them of their one pint of blood. Some oldsters just simply rolled over on their stomachs in bed and exerted too much pressure on their hearts. Others simply had coronaries when they got excited -- like at their birthday parties, or when someone remembers them and sends them a Valentine, or when they're thinking about what it felt like to fuck.
He was very lucky. Because he got to do what other old people only remember feebly, fucking.
Yes, he was very lucky.
Most seventy-two-year-olds have wrinkled skin, like parchment for flesh. Cullen did have a parched face, withered lips, sallow complexion and plenty of dead spots on the flesh of his cheeks.
But there was one place on his body that wasn't wrinkled. One special place tat was still as smooth as a cue ball.
That was his prick.
Cullen had always thought that somebody up there had always liked him because he was blessed with good health and a cock that should have looked more like an over baked worm than a hunk of bologna.
Now it was a hunk of bologna and it was in the mouth of Delilah Fitch, a ten-dollar hooker who always knocked a couple of bucks off the price of cocksucking because she liked old Cullen, which is what everybody in Weedley called Cullen Flowers.
So old Collie was flat on his back up on the training table, while Delilah was standing up on the bar of some dumbbells sucking his prick.
It usually took Collie about half an hour to come.
Delilah didn't mind, her mouth was used to sucking two or three different cocks for an hour and a halt depending on what she charged Weedley High School boys for a gang suck.
But now her mouth was moving up and down on Collie's cock.
And there were only ten minutes to go before she knew he'd come all over her face like the fountain of youth.
"JESUS! DELILAH, YOU GOTTA SWEET COCKSUCKING MOUTH! SHIT, YOU'RE WORTH THE FIVE BUCKS FOR SUCKING MY PRICK!"
Delilah nodded her head. Moaned: "Urn-hum." Shit, what else could she say when her tonsils were being shoved around by a seventy-two-year-old prick.
Collie wished he were a bit younger so that he could give a couple of hip hunches to help his ejaculation along. But the arthritis and rheumatism that made his joints squeak like a rusty gate made him forget such thoughts. Besides, only the young guys, the ones who shot their wads after four strokes in Delilah's mouth, would do such a thing. Always hurrying, scurrying, rush-rush-rush.
Shit, life was meant to take it easy. Just like Collie, as he lay there thinking about bow wonderful his prick felt in a chick's mouth. Just laying there and enjoying the sounds of Delilah's spit-wet lips moving languidly up and down on his cock.
Slush. Suck. Slush. Suck.
Every once in a while Collie would lift his gray-haired head and take a gander at his prick. To see if it was still hard and smooth as a cue ball. To see if Delilah was still sucking on his prick.
That's how people find out they're old. When little nerve endings in their flesh give way and little sensory cells simply die. That's why Collie had checked to make sure that there was enough blood pumping into his cock to keep it erect so that Delilah would be sucking on a bar of steel instead of a piece of cooked macaroni.
Collie sighed. Felt a slight tingling in his balls.
"AAAAAAAH, DELILAH! I COULD GO ON FOREVER!"
Delilah nodded. Said, "Urn-hum!"
But she really didn't want Collie to keep his hard-on forever. Shit, when she sucked a guy's prick for five bucks, she didn't expect him to take a lifetime to come. She decided to call it quits -- by sucking faster and harder on Collie's prick until her head was a blur above his loins.
"OOOOOOHHHHH! JESUS! IN THE OLD DAYS, I'D'VE FILLED YOUR MOUTH WITH JIZZ BY NOW!"
The tingling sensation in his balls slowly crept up to his cock. A pleasurable buzz surrounded the base of his prick, then moved on up until it made his cockhead quiver.
"OH LORDY! MY, MY, MY! OH SWEET MOUTH!"
And Delilah was putting everything she had into getting his seventy-two-year-old semen into her throat. Which meant her hands were on his balls, massaging them, fondling them, milking the sperm up into the shaft of his prick. Then her middle finger invaded his asshole, went past the hemorrhoids and prodded his prostate.
That did it.
Collie gasped. "OH SWEET LORDY! OH SWEET GOODNESS! MY, MY, MY! HERE IT COMES, SUGER-BABE!"
And sugar-babe was sucking the shit out of his prick.
The first spurt of semen came bursting out of his prick, smacked against her palate before gravity forced it down her throat.
Collie's eyes were bulging and his hoary-haired hands gripped the edges of the table as his jizz spewed out of his prick.
Another spurt. Then another.
"OH, LORDY, LORDY, LORDY! UUUUMMMMM! SWALLOW THAT SWEET GOODNESS! COME ON, PUMPKIN! SWALLOW THAT SUGAR FROM DADDY'S PRICK!"
Pumpkin (Collie's favorite term of endearment) was pumping her mouth up and down on his prick, sucking in the spurts of sperm as they made a white mess of her mouth. Some of the mess dribbled off Pumpkin's lips and down her chin. But most of the mess headed for her belly.
Collie finished coming, finished hurling his balls of sweet goodness into her mouth. And Pumpkin's sweet mouth popped off his cock.
Pop. Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
Pumpkin's tongue moved windshield-wiper-like over her lips as she cleaned off her face.
Collie's body sagged against the trainer's table. He felt dead. But then again, when a person's seventy-two years of age they always feel dead. And sometimes the only times they know they're alive is when they see themselves breathing.
Collie could see himself breathing because she was looking into the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the opposite wall, watching his scrawny chest moving up and down, up and down as it simulated heaves of exhaustion.
Delilah tucked the five-dollar bill between her pumpkin-sized tits. Gave Collie's cock a friendly pat as it shriveled back into its nest of white hair.
"See ya next week, champ. Keep it up."
Then she was gone.
And Collie was alone.
Mane with his thoughts.
Lately his thoughts had been more of companionship than that fucked-up kid he was supposed to train. What the fuck was his name? Oh yeah, Buster Hyman, a palooka ranked thirty-fourth in the heavyweight world of padded fisticuffs.
Christ, Collie couldn't believe he had forgotten the bomber's name. Which was another sign of old age. Names and places and former girlfriends and boxers were like the start of Scrabble in his head. And it always took two or three minutes before his brain could connect this name with that face and that pair of tits with that pumpkin.
After two or three minutes, a name and a face came to Collie. The name was Kid Carlisle, a light-heavy under Collie's, care way back in '34. Pretty good fighter. Good left jab, punishing right hand. Really good kid.
Another minute, and Collie envisioned the Kid in the ring with Lightning Willie. A black kid out of Harlem with dynamite fists and TNT for brains. Collie felt bad because he had urged Kid Carlisle to go out there and fight like a man in the tenth round.
Which is what a trainer's supposed to do. Give encouragement. Say things like: "GET THAT MOTHERFUCKER! KILL THE MOWER FUCKER! WHAT ARE YOU -- A FUCKING PUMPKIN!"
Except the Kid's face looked like a beaten marshmallow. And he had tomatoes for eyes. And an eggplant for a nose. And three lips because the bottom one was spilt so bad.
But the Kid was no pumpkin. He was game.
Only Lightning Willie with the dynamite fists was more like the hunter stalking a three-legged rabbit for game.
Yeah, Collie felt bad about Kid Carlisle. His face had looked like a fucking fruit going into the tenth round, and when it was over the Kid had ended up a vegetable.
Someone had once told Collie that the Kid was still in Philadelphia's Veterans' Hospital, a babbling idiot who could only remember what the sportswriters had called him after his tenth-round knockout: Kiddy Carlisle.
As Collie's body became frosty on the trainer's table, he recalled another name in another time in another place.
A Mexican kid. With some African-American blood in him. He had been born with the monicker: Lazarus Gonzales. Which Collie had changed just as soon as he knew that the Kid had the kind of punch to make him a contender.
Collie had re-dubbed him Loco Lazarus. But the sportswriters called him Goofy Gonzales. And the in-people in boxing circles in 1946 simply called him Speedy.
Because he was so fast. A left-right combination looked more like double lightning bolts. Foot work to do a roadrunner proud. The only drawback for Loco, or Goofy, or Speedy, was there was a lot of chicken shit in his soul.
Hated to get hit. Couldn't stand the sight of blood. One time Loco had even cried because the punching bag had torn apart under a series of double lightning bolts.
Collie was good to the Kid though. Good to him and good for him. Made him eat a lot of bulls' balls for courage. Made him look at lots of John Wayne movies where the Japs or Heinies were being crucified and beat to shit. Tacked up Boy Scout motto boards: Be prepared. Courage. Be brave.
Turned out that in the fight for the bantamweight championship, Loco Lazarus, who had beaten many an opponent senseless on his climb to fame, had revealed another peculiarity about himself that Collie hadn't known about.
Loco couldn't stand the smell of underarms. No, not his own, the other guy's in the ring. Especially when they went into the clinches.
So the opposing team knew about Loco's weakness. And they exploited it. And how.
They made sure Hurricane didn't get a rubdown before the fight. Rubbed four-day-old fish heads under his arms. And the only pre-fight instructions given Hurricane were: "Get the fucking kid in the clinches. Tie him up! Now get out there and fight like a fucking man!"
And Hurricane had fought like a man. But he didn't smell like one. Smelled like a carp, like salmon eggs and sturgeon roe.
Holy mackerel.
After the fourth round, Collie had thrown in the towel on behalf of his fish-drunk fighter.
Thus went another chance of being the trainer of another promising World Champion.
Collie sat up, heard the bones creak in his spine, felt his knees flop like rubber against the training table.
There was one last chance.
Buster Hyman -- Heavyweight Champion of the World. Yeah, sure sounded good.
Collie looked up at the wall clock that had hands capped with miniature boxing gloves. The boxing gloves were pointing straight up. As if in victory.
Where the fuck was the next Heavyweight Champion of the World?
Chapter Nine
Ramona Rathers was making her annual jog through the park.
She did it once a year. To show the community of Weedley that jogging was good for the tits and thighs.
It was spring, and the birds had already flown north from Galveston, or wherever the hell they went for their winter vacation, and they were very perturbed by a man who was up in the trees with them disturbing them while they rutted.
The man was Bernard Drew. He was perched like a vulture on a low-hanging limb of a sycamore, lying in wait for Ramona Rathers to jog and jiggle beneath him so he could rape the shit out of her titties.
Here she comes now.
Jog. Jog. Jog.
Jiggle. Jiggle. Jiggle.
Ramona looked very carefree -- as carefree as those mountainous tits that did earth-quakey things under her sweatshirt as she jogged down the path, listening in the nightingales chatter nervously because of the vulture in their midst.
Bernard drew in his breath like they had taught him just before be washed out of the 82nd Screaming Vultures. He yelled: "GERONIMO!"
Eula was explaining to Kirby that the waterbed was not a typical waterbed.
This waterbed was made of clear, tough, durable vinyl. And because it was clear enough to see through, Kirby was shocked at what he saw.
First, he saw the goldfish that swam playfully in his waterbed.
"Eula, you're pulling my leg. Don't ya think this has gone far enough?"
Eula shook her head. Lay down on the waterbed and scattered the herd of goldfish to one corner of the waterbed.
"Oh, come on, Kirby, don't be so mad. It only cost eight grand."
Kirby couldn't help being mad as he watched Eula spread her ass all over the waterbed, then roll over and talk to the fish encaged in their vinyl aquarium.
Why shouldn't he be mad?
Shit, in the last four weeks Eula had spent over half of his inheritance money. Christ, there was only about a quarter of a million left.
And what the hell was he left with? A house now called Atlantis. A living room that looked like the Sargasso Sea. Shit, he wasn't Captain Nemo living twenty-thousand leagues under the sea.
"Oh, Kirby, Lance'll love that fat one. We'll call that one Oscar. Isn't that a cute name?"
Kirby stewed, then brooded. This was love? How the fuck had he gotten engaged in the first place?
The answer was simple: Eula had threatened to tell the Weedley police that he had raped her if he didn't marry her.
And who the hell was Lance? One of her lovers?
"Who the hell's Lance? One of your lovers?"
"Oh, don't be silly, Kirby. Lance's my son. And you'll be his step-dad after we're married. Just think -- only a week to go."
Kirby had a million things to say. But he couldn't say them with his teeth gritted. Whatta mess he had made of his fortune. Whatta mess he had made of his fucking life. Better to be a lazy asshole than an instant rich stepfather. Christ.
He wanted to kill Eula.
Thought about it seriously.
Envisioned a great white shark named Oscar swimming in the waterbed as Eula spread her ass all over the vinyl.
Death was also on the mind of Becky Jane Johnson as she stormed out of the Rathers Wrench Company clutching a pair of torn lemon-yellow panties.
Whatta pervert!
Whatta fucking pervert!
Wendell Rathers was nothing but a fucking dirty old man who sat behind a dirty desk all day jacking off and looking at the crotches of secretaries.
Becky Jane had never felt so humiliated before. She had threatened to sue Wendell before she stormed out of his office. But he had been too busy repairing his charred cock to pay attention to what she said.
That motherfucker.
Creeps like that deserved to die.
Treating her like a piece of shit.
The nerve of him. Staring at her pussy while she took shorthand. Writing bogus business letters while her pussy was being spied on.
Who the fuck did he think she was?
Just an ordinary, off-the-street slut.
Shit, no! She'd show him. She'd knock his block off. Knock him clean out of his high-society saddle.
If only she had the money to hire a thug. Why couldn't she have been blessed with an Italian name and have a godfather like Marlon Brando? Then she'd show that dirty old man where to get off.
Then it came to her. A thug. Well, not a real thuggy-looking guy, but one who looked as if he could scare the shit out of Mr. Wendell Rathers.
The heavyweight guy. With the big prick. Buster... Buster Hyman!
Yeah!
Chapter Ten
Rapes are usually violent things. Usually judges give five to ten for first-timers because of the seriousness of the offense.
The rape of Ramona Rathers in the park was not a violent one. And the judge would have to be on LSD or just plain drunk to sentence Bernard Drew to five to ten for raping Ramona.
Because the attorneys for the defense would have had a cakewalk in proving that Ramona Rathers was a willing victim. Very willing.
First of all she had no business jogging without wearing bra and panties -- just sweat jogs.
Second, she had no right jogging in a section of the park that had been posted with warning signs that said: Beware of Rapists!
Third, there were no signs of physical violence. No bruises on her body, no chafe marks on her pussy, or her asshole, or her mouth.
Fourth, Ramona herself would testify that she had not yelled "Rape!" or "Help!" or "Fire!"
So it had not been rape at all when Bernard Drew had parachuted from the sky and bowled Ramona over and started tugging off her sweat suit.
And he had not even violated her physically at the start of the rape. Simply pulled out his prick and said: "I wanna fuck your tits! Boy, ever since your tits were on TV, I've been dreaming night and day of fucking your tits! And now I'm gonna fuck them!"
Of course, Ramona had been stunned by the suddenness of the attack.
Then she recovered her senses.
She nodded, even tried smiling.
"Ya mean, you don't mind me fucking your titties? You won't scream or report me?"
Ramona shook her head. As chairwoman of the Weedley chapter of Help Stamp Out Rape, she knew what she had to do.
First, be cheerful toward your rapist.
She smiled cheerily.
"Jesus Christ! I thought I was going to have to pull out my knife or something. Christ! Don't tell me you want your titties fucked?"
Second, try reverse psychology. Encourage your rapist. He wants resistance, wants you to scream and try to run. So encourage him.
"Uuuuuuuuummmmmmmmm! I can't wait for you to fuck my titties. And Christ! Whatta fucking prick you have!"
Third, be calm if the rapist does not believe you are being honest in your attempt to encourage him.
Ramona was very calm as she watched Bernard straddle her belly and shove her tits together to form a trough through which his cock could fuck back and forth.
"Oh God! Spit on my cock! Give me some lubrication, baby!"
Fourth, do what the rapist tells you unless it goes against your moral principles.
Shit, spitting on cocks wasn't against Ramona's principles. She spat on hi cock as it sawed in and out between her tits.
"Oh, that's it, baby! Now feel my prick slide through your titties! AAAAIIIEEEEE! OH GOD! WHATTA SET OF TITIES! Oh, you're such a beautiful creature, Ramona!"
At this point you will know you are getting along with your rapist by how he treats you. Does he compliment you on how your hairs looks? Or how your body turns him on?
"Oh, God! You're an angel! An angel with beautiful titties! Oh God! I love fucking your titties!"
Bernard heaved and gasped. His cock felt so Goddamn good. There were all kinds of sensations running rampant in his prick. Like that super delicious feeling in his balls. Like the tingling sensation that bulged in his prick. Like the feeling of coming all over a pair of delicious-looking titties that he had seen on TV.
Ramona lay passive.
Bernard became very active. He squeezed her titties tightly, his chin doubling as he watched his cock moving back and forth in the squeezed together valley of her slimy cleavage.
Ramona lay passive. She said nothing.
Bernard sweated actively. He said plenty.
"OOOOOOHHHHHH, GOOOOOODDD! YOUR TITTIES ARE THE BEST SET OF TITIES I'VE EVER FUCKED! OOOOOHHHHH, GODDDDDDD!"
Ramona lay passive.
Bernard's prick was acting up actively. He was ready to come. He could feel the jizz in his glans threatening to burst his cockhead. But he didn't want to come now. He wanted to keep fucking Ramona Rathers' tits forever.
But he came. Actively.
Ramona... still passive.
Bernard really enjoyed the feeling of splattering his prick-juice all over those titties that he mashed and mauled. His cum arced in the air, dropped on Ramona's passive face. And she took each dollop of jizzy juice like a woman should.
Bernard screamed: "AAAALIIIEEEE! AAAARRRGGGGHHHH! OOOOHHHH! HOT DAMN TITITIES!"
It took a lot of effort to get up from a sitting position.
Collie gave it all he had. He bunched up the stringy muscles in his thighs and sprang off the table.
"Oh Lordy! Oh my... aching... body!"
Then he took his first step. A hesitant, Mother-may-I type step toward the lockers. Pain gripped his ankles, made his varicose veins swell.
Another step five minutes later. Then another one three minutes later. Then walking became easier.
Collie smiled. Whew! He had made it to the lockers, and now he could get dressed and start his search for Buster Hyman.
He cursed... slowly: "Lordy... Lordy... Lordy! Where the Goddamn... fuck... is he?"
Now that his bones didn't screech as he moved, now that the old joints and sinews had warmed up to the notion that walking was possible, Collie got dressed as fast as he could. As fast as his seventy-two-year-old body could move.
Two hours later, Collie was dressed. He appraised himself in the mirror. Lordy! Hardly a new wrinkle on his face. Oh, maybe the crow's feet now looked like vulture claws, but that was to be expected when so many thousand skin cells die every year for seventy-two years.
Collie's clothes looked spiffy, too. Slacks that didn't hang low or sag or bag around his waist or toothpick-thin legs. An angora sweater that could no longer retain body heat for two reasons: One, it was full of moth holes and, two, a seventy-two year-old body doesn't generate that much heat in the first place.
Collie turned around, picked up his cane and walked to the door.
The door opened for him.
A girl was standing in the doorway with a glowering, murderous look on her face. She expressed indecision, confusion, anger and frustration. Tom by her emotions, just like her lemon-yellow panties.
"Where the fuck's Buster?!"
Collie shook his head. Jesus, she sure talked fast! He opened his mouth to give answer.
"Christ! The fucker's not here, is he?!"
Collie shook his head. Began to say, "Uh..."
"Jesus Christ! I want to see that motherfucker! And I want to see him now!"
Collie watched the lemon-yellow panties being waved in his face.
Christ, everything looked so fucking speeded up to him. He tried to think of an answer before she attacked him with another question.
He wanted to ask her why.
"What the fuck's wrong with you, old man? Shit, I asked you a question!"
Why was it so hard to say why? The word was on the tip of his tongue, and his mouth was moving as fast as possible, trying to open up and make an O shape so he could ask: Why?
"Look, fart, I don't have all fucking day! I need that motherfucker Buster to take care of this! Did you ever see anything as perverted as this! Somebody's gonna pay hell for it!"
Collie's head wagged back and forth, his eyes trying to keep up with the panties as they wagged defiantly in front of his face. His lower lip descended to form the bottom half of the O, but he was having trouble with his upper lip.
"Look, are you a fucking idiot or something? What's the matter -- can't you hear?"
Collie's upper lip stiffened. The why was almost there. Just a breath away from becoming a spoken word.
"W-Why?"
"Huh? What the hell kind of answer is that? Oh, fuck you, you stupid old man! I'll go find him myself. And when I do, there'll be hell to pay!"
The door slammed.
Collie started to sweat... slowly. Jesus! He felt so fucking exhausted. Like somebody had given him only a half-pint of blood to subsist on for the rest of the day. Christ, maybe it was Delilah's suck job.
His prick throbbed as he thought about fucking and sucking. His head throbbed, too. Because he had a headache. And headaches at his age made him feel like his brains had become cymbals and an epileptic drummer was beating the shit out of them.
The reason why Collie had a headache was because he smelled trouble.
Woman trouble.
The kind that gave boxing a poor reputation. The fucking cunts!
Lordy! What was it that he could think so clearly even though he had a set of cymbals for brains, yet he couldn't say what he was thinking. Like his lips were existing without his cymbal brains. Like his tongue just couldn't go through the motions of conversing.
Christ! Collie was at least thankful he could think, even though each thought felt like a jarring crash of cymbals.
He thought about Buster Hyman. He came to the noisy conclusion that Buster was out fucking around with women instead of training. Fighters were known to do that. And for a little piece of cunt, there went their fucking championship crown. Poof, gone, out the window, no more cheers, only the resounding crash of cymbals.
No! No! No!
Not this time. No, Lordy, no! Not as long as he could think and get his body to trudge and budge. Not as long as he had the will.
If there was a will, shit, there'd be a way.
Chapter Eleven
Eula Peters would have pissed in her panties if she had been wearing panties.
But she wasn't wearing panties. Well, she was wearing panties, but they weren't where panties should be worn. Her panties were on her head, one eye peering out one of the leg holes -- the left leg hole, Eula realized, because she could read the label on the waistband of her undies.
The reason she pissed not in her panties but on Wendell Rathers' swivel chair with all the erotic gadgets was because Wendell was sitting on top of his desk showing her his charred cock.
"YOU MOTHERFUCKER, EULA! LOOK AT IT! WHAT THE HELL'S IT GOOD FOR!?"
Eula swallowed a ball of fear that threatened to erupt from her throat like vomit.
She wanted to tell him that she didn't have anything to do with his charred cock. It was probably a defect in the machinery that she had helped to design. A small breakdown, a mechanical error. It had happened to his desk just like it happened to Fords or Chryslers when the brakes give out and a family of eight becomes a family of one.
But she couldn't talk because her mouth was full of cotton.
"You motherfucker, Eula! Jesus! I might as well kill myself! Slut, a man's got to have a prick, not a cooked weenie! Shit, do you know how much it burns when I piss? Do you know what it feels like to have your cock stuck in a blowtorch? Well -- do you?"
What could she say? Like most women, she didn't have a prick, didn't know what it felt like to have a cock... unless it was in her pussy. Then she knew what a cock felt like when it was in her pussy. But, Christ, there wasn't a prick growing between her legs! She didn't know what it felt like -- but how could she tell him that?
"Well, I'm gonna tell ya what it feels like, Eula. It feels like this!"
Eula watched Wendell punch a button -- the one she knew would produce a velvet-gloved hand that would jack off her cock, or rather, it would try and jack off something that protruded near her crotch.
But Eula was wrong. Or halfway wrong.
There was a velvet glove coming toward her crotch all right. Only it held a cucumber.
Eula squirmed. No! No! No!
But there was no escape. The metallic arms held her immobile. The shackles on her thighs and ankles felt cold and dreadful.
As cold and dreadful as the cucumber that was being thrust into her pussy.
"MMMGGGGAAAAGGFFFFIF! MMMGGGFFFGGG!"
Wendell laughed. "Tee-hee! Tee-hee! Oh, Eula, look at that fucking cucumber! It's jabbing the shit out of your pussy! Oh, wowee!"
Eula squirmed again. Useless. She might as well resign herself to getting fucked by the cucumber.
Slosh. Slosh. Slosh.
The cucumber became covered with lots of cunt-juice as Eula resigned herself to getting fucked.
Slosh. Slosh. Slosh.
The cucumber became covered with lots of cunt-juice as Eula resigned herself to getting fucked. The bumps on the skin of the cucumber rubbed against Eula's clit as it slammed and banged and fucked in and out of her pussy.
Wendell stopped laughing. He was getting an erection and it was hurting like a motherfucker as the scabs on his prick broke into smaller sections of scab.
"You whore! Oh God! My prick's gettin' hard! Oh God! My prick!"
Eula couldn't believe it. The fucking cucumber was driving her up a wall. She was gonna come! She couldn't help it. She had resigned herself to getting fucked, and now she was going to have to pay for her resignation. She was gonna come!
"MMMGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGGFFFF!"
Wendell knew she was coming! Goddamn, he didn't want her to come! He wanted her to suffer, to make her feel what it felt like to have her prick charred.
"YOU WHORE! YOU'RE ENJOYING IT! YOU MOTHERFUCKER, EULA!"
Another button went "click".
Two tentacle arms came into Eula's leg hole view. Oh God! The tittie-suckers were coming at her just like the movie poster that showed the Attack of the Giant Squid when they vanquished Waco, Texas.
But her tits weren't in Waco. They were on her chest, and they were being vanquished.
"MMMGGGFFFFF! MMMGGGHHHHFFFF! MMMMGGGGHHHHFFFF!"
Slush. Slush. Slush.
"THERE! YOU WHORE! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT? HOW DO YOU LIKE IT WHEN YOUR TITS ARE BEING SUCKED OFF YOUR CHEST?"
She loved it!
Her titties had never felt better as they were sucked off her chest. Oh God! She wanted to die from the delicious feelings of ecstasy that were coming from her clitand her nipples. Nothing had ever felt so good on her tits. Not Lance's mouth when he was in swaddling clothes. Not Kirby's mouth when he had a five-o'clock shadow. Oh shit! Her titties felt so good -- awful good!
Wendell watched Eula's eyes, or rather, her one eye. No! That wasn't a look of suffering in that one doe-like pupil! That was ecstasy! The fucking bitch was loving the fucking cucumber in her cunt and having her titties extended another yard.
"YOU FUCKING BITCH! YOU LOVE IT, DON'T YOU!? YOU LOVE HAVING YOUR TITTIES STRETCHED AND THAT CUCUMBER IN YOUR CUNT! YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"
Another button went "click".
Eula heard a whirring noise coming from the direction of her ass. She felt the seat cushion sliding out of the way and a thousand toothless mouths began sucking at her flesh like she had been born with a thousand tits on her back. And a thousand bawling babies were suckling at her thousand back titties.
Another button went "click".
Eula didn't hear a whirring noise coming from her ass, she felt a whirring noise enter her aching asshole, filling her ass with a whirring noise that vibrated against the walls of her rectum.
"MMMMMGGGGGFFFFFF! MUGGGGGFFFF!"
Eula opened her eyes. Saw the mad look on Wendell's face through the frame of the frilly leg hole of her panties. He looked very pissed. But she couldn't help coming! She really couldn't! A woman would have to have polio from the neck down not to be able to feel the delicious sensations of getting tittie-fucked, cucumber-fucked and ass-fucked.
Eula closed her eyes, those sensations were just too much to stand!
Wendell watched her brown eye close, watched the sweat drip from her eyebrow and emerge four seconds later beneath the elastic waistband of her panties before dropping to her tits.
The motherfuckin' whore! She loved every bit of it! Goddamn, he'd teach her a thing or two about what it felt like to have her prick charred and burned.
Shit, it just wasn't any fun for the degrader to watched the degradee having fun.
Collie found Becky Jane Johnson's apartment.
It had been very difficult finding out where she lived and what she did and who she did it with.
He was very thankful for that Lance Peters kid who always hung around the gym for doing most of the footwork.
Collie grunted as he climbed up the last step of the stairwell. His heart was beating very fast. But at least it was beating. And he felt better brain -- wise too. He no longer heard those cymbals crashing between his ears because the thought of what he was going to do to Becky Jane Johnson had overpowered all other thoughts.
Nobody was going to get in his way this time. He needed, wanted, would die for a title shot for Buster Hyman. Shit, Collie knew it would be his last chance and, if anybody was going to fuck it up, it would be him, not some two-bit slut that was probably going to drum up some fictitious rape charge against his boy for tearing her lemon-yellow panties.
Collie raised his cane. The boxing glove resting atop the handle of the cane jabbed thrice at the door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Collie waited patiently. He had all the time in the world to kill. If she wasn't home this time, he'd come back tomorrow. And he'd come back the day after that... until he found her at home.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Oh Lordy, no one was going to stop him from becoming the trainer of the next Heavyweight Champion of the World. Nobody.
He raised his cane to rap on the door again.
The door opened -- three inches. A Maybelline smeared eye peered through the three-inch gap.
"What the fuck do you want, old man?"
Yeah, what the fuck does an old man want at the age of seventy-two. Respect? Admiration? A new heart? The feeling that he was still useful, that he wasn't a piece of shit to be swept under the carpet of an uncaring society?
The bitch.
That's what Collie wanted to call her, but the words wouldn't tumble out. The syllables were stuck on his palate, even though they were fresh in his brain.
"JESUS CHRIST! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT? I MNI? GOT ALL DAY FOR AN OLD FART LIKE YOU!"
An old fart, huh? Just an old fart, stale and musty, about a two-second existence, then gone, poof, swept away like all the other bad odors of life. Like perfume, cheap cologne, crushed walnuts, fish oil and rank pussy.
Yeah, Collie knew he was right when he smelled trouble with this bitch.
The door swung open. The bitch stood there in see through halter and tight shorts that bulged near the pooch of her pussy -- evidence of lots of springy pubic hair.
"All right, you old fart! What the fuck is it? Come on, speak your piece! Don't stand there like a fucking doorstop!"
Doorstop, huh? What the fuck was a doorstop, something to keep precious doorknobs from banging into cheap plaster walls, something to fill space or a void.
Suddenly the old doorstop moved as fast as a flying fart. All the energy that Collie possessed exploded in rage -- vicious outrage.
The cane went up, the boxing-glove handle pointing victoriously to the ceiling.
The bitch saw the upraised cane. She laughed defensively when she saw the boxing glove go into offense.
The cane broke in two, just like Becky Jane's skull.
Collie gasped. His chest heaved. Suddenly he was breathing in cool air instead of smelling trouble.
Chapter Twelve
It is virtually impossible for a woman to remain passive while her tits are being raped.
Usually when an uneducated woman is being raped, she does very ignorant things. Like yell: "Rape!" or scream and kick and try and beat off her rapist you know, beat off as in trying to fight off.
An educated woman, however, will usually remain passive, trying to use brains for brawn, to out psych the rapist by asking him if he thinks violence is the answer to life's confusing problems, or if he was breech born instead of coming into the world head-first.
But, for a woman like Ramona Rathers, getting tittie-raped can prove to be one of those things in life that are disgusting when thought about, but downright fun when tried.
It had gotten to be downright fun for Ramona. After all, her rapist had called her titties luscious, really good fucking, the best set of tits in Weedley, etcetera, etcetera...
And for a bored, rich woman like Ramona, having her tits complimented in such fashion was worth the chafed raw feelings that her nipples had suffered.
And, besides, her rapist had not called her tits just beautiful.
So, now that the tittie-rape was over, and Bernard was standing up, Ramona touched her tits.
They felt very creamy because there was a lot of jizz on them. And they felt very warm because Ramona was in heat, and when she was in heat, it usually showed in her tits first, her cunt second, and her asshole third.
She also showed she was in heat by grabbing Bernard's slimy cock as he tried to stuff it back in his pants.
"Hey! You can't leave me hanging! Christ, I'm hotter than hell! Come on, I wanna suck your cock!"
Unreal! She had to be joking. Bernard smiled, decided to play along with her. Maybe she was mentally ill, or maybe a bearing had come loose in her head when she was very young.
Jesus! Didn't she realize that he had just degraded her titties! He had just abused her nipples. He had fucked her tits so hard that he was fearful that he might have bruised them, caused some cancerous growth to grow on those just-beautiful titties.
She couldn't mean what she had done could she?
"Hey, you mean that? You really wanna suck my cock?"
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
Christ! What the hell kind of answer was that? Ramona was licking the cum off his cockhead, her tongue scraping against his cock-slit before wrapping around his cock-shaft.
"Oooooooh! Christ, my cock's so sensitive right now!"
Jesus, it felt weird. His cock felt so fucking weird. His prick felt nerveless yet sensitive. His cock felt dead, yet alive. Bernard felt her mouth moving around on his cock, but nothing in the world could get his cock hard right now.
Ramona tried to get his prick stiff. Tried her best cocksucking methods to get his cock hard. She attacked his balls, grabbed the hairy ovals and fondled them.
Then she stuck a finger in his ass.
"AAAAAAHHHHHH! SHIT! I CAN'T GET IT UP! WAIT A FUCKING MINUTE!"
Ramona couldn't wait. She wanted his cock to get big and hard so she could relieve the itch in her cut, the tingle in her asshole, the hunger in her mouth.
But sucking his cock was like chewing on a nylon rope. Like sucking on linguini. It was useless.
Pop.
"You chicken-fucker! You fucking chicken fucker!"
Chicken-fucker? What the hell's that supposed to mean? That he was scared to fuck? That he went around hen houses at night? Or that he was scared to fuck chickens?
"Look, lady, I just raped you! You're supposed to act... well, you know... like you hate me or something. You're not supposed to call me names or anything."
"Chicken-fucker! Scared to get it up, huh? Shit, you fucking chicken-fuckers are all alike. You don't give a fuck what happens after you're finished shooting your chicken balls. Just like a Goddamn rooster doesn't give a fuck after he's finished shooting his chicken jizz!"
Bernard shook his head. He decided that he'd turn away, zip up his chicken cock and go home to Imogene to have dinner.
"Where the fuck are you going? Hey! COME BACK HERE YOU CHICKEN-FUCKER!"
Bernard felt like shit as he walked away from Ramona. Hell, she was right in one respect. She made him feel like a Goddamn normal guy instead of a full-fledged rapist. Christ! Why the fuck couldn't she have ended up hating him? Then maybe he wouldn't have to come to the park and rape another big-titted jogger.
Well, at least his wife was normal -- she hated him for raping her titties.
Slit, Ramona had to be a fucking weirdo for not hating his fucking guts.
The path to success sometimes has many detours on the road to glory.
Buster had always remembered that statement because it had a special meaning to him.
He had found that statement in a fortune cookie at a Chinese restaurant. He had just broken open the cookie and found the message that had inspired him to become the next Heavyweight Champion of the World.
Collie Flowers, who had been supervising what he should or shouldn't eat in the restaurant, was sitting across from him and he had smiled triumphantly when Buster had gotten the message. Christ, not being a very good cook and a worse typist, it had taken him two weeks to bake that fucking fortune cookie and one day to type the message.
Thus, the message was ringing in Buster's head as he jogged down the path to success which sometimes has many detours on the road to glory.
The birds were chirping happily, relieved that the vulture had found its prey, and they kept Buster company as he huffed and puffed his way down the sapling-lined pavement.
Huff. Puff. Huff. Puff.
Jog. Jog. Jog.
"YOU CHICKEN-FUCKER!"
Huff. Puff. Huh?
Buster stopped in his tracks. He heard the birds warbling and the saplings rustling and the sound of a woman in heat behind the mulberry bushes on his left.
He huffed and puffed over to the mulberry bushes.
He bent several limbs, peered through the leaves of the mulberry bush.
Jesus! A naked woman! And what the hell's she doing to her tits?
Oh, Christ! She's putting white suntan oil on her tits and talking about fucking chickens!
Buster felt uncomfortable as he watched the woman rubbing white suntan oil on her titties. He had never spied on a naked woman, while she rubbed Jergens Lotion on her tits.
Buster scratched his balls, felt his cock erecting.
The woman was lying down, on her back, spreading her legs and applying some of that lotion to her cunt.
Oh, Jeeezzzuuusss! Look at that pussy! Just look at how fucking wet and horny and hot her pussy looked!
Buster began to sweat. His cock began to drool... like his mouth.
Shit, if he had the fucking guts, he'd jump that chick and rape the shit out of her. But the warning sign posted on the perimeter of the park made him wary.
Ramona moaned: "OOOOOOHHHH! THAT CHICKEN-FUCKER! OOOOHHHHHH GODDDDD, I NEED COCK! CHRIST! DO I NEED COCK!"
Buster nodded. Yeah, oh yeah, did she need cock! He could tell she needed a prick real bad because her pussy was gushing juice and the bigger her cunt-hole was getting the more he liked it.
Jesus! Did he dare give her the cock she needed? The mulberry bushes rustled as he wrestled his cock out of his jogging togs. Christ, with an eighteen-inch prick it was like dropping anchor.
Buster dropped his pants, and his anchor slapped against his thighs. He gripped his cock, gave it several two-handed, left-right pumps to get it to come up hard and erect.
Ramona moaned again: "OH, MOTHERFUCKER! JESUS! GOD! MY CUNT'S BURNING UP! OH, CHRIST -- GIVE ME COCK!"
Buster got very itchy. He sure wanted to fuck that hunk of woman that was doing nasty things to her pussy -- like sticking her hands into that gushing meat and making more juice come out of that hot hole.
And her tits looked so fucking shiny in the sunlight. The nipples were erect. Just like her tongue, which looked like it was licking an imaginary cock.
But Buster didn't have an imaginary cock. His cock was anchor hard. And he wanted to jump out of the mulberry bushes and land between her thighs. Spread those juicy thighs apart and get a real close-up look at a cunt in heat before he dropped anchor in her portal of paradise.
Hell, from this distance he could barely make out her cit. And she was turning and tossing too hard for him to make out her asshole.
God, how he wanted to make out with her clitand asshole. He wanted to feel her beneath him, tossing and turning like she was doing now. He wanted to bite down on those suntan-lotion tits while his anchor widened her cock-hungry hole.
He couldn't stand it. He got ready to leap.
Anchors aweigh!
Kirby certainly didn't feel married. What he felt like was very hard to describe. He felt like an instant, rich, stepfather groom.
Christ, things were just happening too fast. He wanted things to slow down. Make life lazier.
Kirby played with his prick as he contemplated being an instant, rich, stepfather groom.
The instant rich part he could understand -- that was very uncomplicated. His rich aunt had died and she had left him almost a million dollars and a rocker worth several thou.
Yes, that was simple to understand.
The stepfather role was not simple to understand. First of all, he felt as if he had been tricked into marrying Eula Peters. But she had not only tricked him once, but twice. It was as if somebody had moved April Fools' Day to the middle of June.
And now, on top of taking care of a big spender for a wife and keeping up an aquarium for a home, there was also his stepson Lance.
Kirby felt very confused. God, how he wanted to be a lazy poor asshole again. At least then he'd be happy. He wouldn't have to provide Eula with all that money. He wouldn't have to worry about providing guests with aqualungs while they visited his home. He wouldn't have to worry about a eighteen-year-old instant stepson.
Kirby sat down on the sharkskin couch.
He smiled wryly.
Shit, and this was supposed to be his honeymoon night, and Eula hadn't returned from some Goddamn business appointment that she had made earlier in the week even though she knew that she was going to have to fuck him legally.
Worrying about Eula led him to worry about his stepson.
Shit, where the hell was Lance?
Jesus, something sure smelled fishy.
Besides not being able to cook or type, Collie was not very good at sewing. His fingers felt like lead weights as he sewed up two punching bags.
"Oh damn!" he cursed as he sucked the blood from his needle-punctured finger.
Collie stared at his finger. Thank God, the blood still looked red. Shit, his blood looked as youthful and energetic as the blood he had seen on Kid Carlisle's face.
Collie shrugged, didn't want to think about blood any more. But, it was hard not to think about blood after he had just killed two women.
Oh, that first bitch victim hadn't been any trouble at all. She had simply slumped to the floor. There was very little blood at all, in fact. The old boxing handle had hit her square between the eyes, and she had been kayoed before she knew what hit her.
Of course, the hard part about that first murder was stuffing the body into a huge Glad Bag and dragging it down three flights of stairs, out into the street, through the park, where Collie gulped... slowly. He remember what he had seen in the park as he was dragging the bitch home in a bag. And what he remembered made his brains clash like cymbals.
His boy -- Buster Hyman -- the next Heavyweight Champion of the World was breaking training! He was fucking a Goddamn hot-cunt whore who had the audacity to call Buster a chicken-fucker.
Shit, Buster was supposed to be training, getting his legs in shape, developing his lungs.
Christ! Fucking cunts! Shit, with them around, the only limb his boy was getting into shape was his fucking middle leg.
Collie sighed... slowly. He tried to forget the sounds that woman made as she ooohhhh'd and aaaahhhh'd her way through a climax. He tried to forget the sight of his Buster-boy shaking off his strong middle leg and jogging out of sight. He tried to forget the sounds she had made when he had hit her square between the eyes with the thick branch of a mulberry bush.
Now, that whore took a long time to die. And it was very messy. For one thing, the branch of a mulberry bush is not a very lethal weapon.
Collie had had to beat her about forty thousand times before she stopped struggling and screaming: "OH! THAT'S IT! BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF ME! HURT ME! YOU CHICKEN-FUCKER! HARDER...! OH MY GOD! NO, NOT THAT HARD! HEY! WATCH OUT! OH CHRIST! NO, NOT ON MY TITUES! YOU'LL SCAR MY TITIES! YOU CHICKEN-FUCKER! AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE!"
Collie couldn't help it. His best cane had already been broken. And hitting her with a mulberry branch was like trying to kill a chicken with a fly swatter. But even a chicken'll die if it's whipped forty thousand times.
Now Collie felt exhausted. The old bones in his body felt like old rubber. He drove home the thick needle again, then cinched the thread fight.
Arthritic agony racked his joints as he stood up and patted the two punching bags that he had just sewn tighter than a drum.
Chapter Thirteen
Delbert Farley was a man famous for solving unsolvable crimes.
He had once been a deputy sheriff in a small town called Weed or Weeder, or Tweedy, or something like that, and he had made his mark as a detective by solving the famous Trimble/Manning/Jerkovich murders.
Now he was taking time out from his regular duties as a Brinks armored guard to solve some very mysterious things that were happening in Weedley.
First of all, a man named Kirby Mosher had contacted him and told him about his bride being missing for one week and that he was getting a mite concerned.
Second, another man had mysteriously called him and told him that a woman's body could be found beneath a pile of wrenches. Then there had been the sound of a gunshot coining over the phone and the man's rasping voice mumbling: "M-My c-cock'll never be... the same."
Third, the people of Weedley were getting a mite concerned that Ramona Rathers had not been seen jogging, or showing her titties on TV, or attending the Thursday-night meetings of Help Stamp Out Rape.
Fourth, somebody in the personnel department of the Rathers Wrench Company had informed him that a secretary named Becky Jane Johnson had disappeared and they were wondering where they should send her group insurance form.
The key, Delbert realized, to solving the above-mentioned mysteries was finding Eula Peters Mosher.
Delbert had located the pile of discarded wrenches in the Rathers Wrench Company stockyard. It had taken him fourteen hours to remove each ten-ounce wrench until he found what he was looking for.
At first, he thought that it was a statue of Ethel Rosenburg as she sat in the electric chair. But Delbert was smart enough to know that they wouldn't dare let a sculptor into the death chamber to do a sketch of someone dying.
Approaching the scattered wrench pile from upwind, Delbert confirmed that the victim was Eula Peters Mosher. Of course, he had had to remove the panties from her head to make sure, but once he saw the ecstatic expression frozen on her face, it sure matched the color portrait that Kirby Mosher had given him -- the one where Eula was strapped to a deck chair smiling ecstatically while she held a fishing pole.
Thus, Delbert had found the missing wife.
And finding Eula Mosher in her condition made him think that she had been murdered. He had naturally suspected suicide at first. But then he realized that no woman could dump a forklift full of ten-ounce wrenches on herself and still have time to strap herself into a chair before the first wrench hit her -- nah, it was impossible. Besides, Delbert had gone over her employment record. Nowhere had she been listed as a forklift operator.
No, he suspected foul play.
The next clue proved to be the Rathers' maid. She had discovered Mr. Rathers in an upstairs bedroom with a bullet hole in his head and his hand on his very unusual cock.
When Delbert examined the body, things began to clear up. Delbert declared Mr. Rathers a victim of suicide.
As for Mrs. Rathers' whereabouts, Delbert figured that one out very fast. He had rounded up every acquaintance of hers and grilled them hard. Turned out she was leading a double life as far as he could tell.
And it was now obvious to Delbert that Ramona was the cause of her husband's suicide. That was the reason why he had self-immolated his cock -- the victim had wanted to leave a clue as to what was afoul with his marriage. Delbert figured that what was afoul with the Rathers' marriage was sexual incompatibility.
Then Delbert had put two and two together. If Ramona had driven her husband to suicide, he had probably murdered Eula Mosher.
Simple deduction. Logical. Elementary.
First, Delbert could see Mr. Rathers, who had discovered that his cock was sexually incompatible with Mrs. Rathers, trying to prove his masculinity with other women. Somehow Mr. Rathers had allowed himself to be lured into a very nasty set-up seduction scheme concocted by Ramona Rathers and Eula Mosher, who undoubtedly were in cahoots. Eula, after the seduction of Mr. Rathers had taken place, would then scream rape and Mr. Rathers would then be ruined, and Ramona would have to divorce him on the grounds of adultery -- which in the eyes of high society, was a lesser offense than sexual incompatibility.
Yes, it was all diabolical. Too diabolical to be true.
But the conclusive proof, the icing on the cake, was Mrs. Rathers and Mr. Rathers' secretary being missing at the same time.
Delbert had figured that Ramona was the type of sinister woman who would protect herself from any kind of double-cross scheme that Eula might pull in cahoots with Mr. Rathers instead of vice versa. So Ramona had encouraged Mr. Rathers' secretary to eavesdrop on the Eula Mosher/Wendell Rathers seduction scene.
And when the secretary saw a murder taking place instead of a planned seduction, she had gotten back to Ramona with the bad news. There was only one thing the sinister woman and the eavesdropping secretary could do. Make a run for it, go into hiding.
So, that's where Delbert was now as he summed things up for Kirby Mosher.
Kirby scratched his head. "Huh?"
"Don't worry, Mr. Mosher. The real murderer of your missing wife is Ramona Rathers and that evil bitch Becky Jane Johnson. Well, I've got to go now, police work never stops until evil does. And don't you worry none about them getting caught. I'm going to chase them if I have to go to hell and back."
Bang. Sock. Bang.
Collie smiled slowly. He smiled because Buster-boy looked like a million dollars as he beat the shit out of those patched-up punching bags.
Biff. Pop. Biff.
God! Look at those muscles ripple!
"Go... get em... k-killer!" Collie rasped slowly.
Buster slammed and punched, another left-right, left right. Then he shadow-boxed to the far end of the gym. Started in on the second punching bag as if it had only been a detour on the road to glory.
Buster heaved and wheezed. Shit, he sure had to hand it to old Collie. Gotta be the best trainer in the world. Still, who else would have come up with the idea of working out on two, punching bags.
And what inspiring words Collie had painted on the punching bags.
