Ranee and mums thought that Angel would fall eagerly into their net when she saw Ranee's bait. But Ranee had his ego dealt a shattering blow when he discovered that his pride and joy was too late ... and too little. Angel was soft and round and blonde with apple red cheeks and as American as blueberry pie, so maybe that was why she thought a Chinaman had what she'd never been able to find in America. Anyway, she was determined to look and find out. As Joseph Nuttin pointed out in his book Psychoanalysis and Personality, " ... the sexual impulse in man can ... dominate his point of view in all his social relationships if there is no resistance to its satisfaction." A truism Angel finally understood too late when she let greed and desire overcome prudence.
CHAPTER ONE
I was just bringing Alice Smith-Jones' finishing school pussy to a climax when the phone rang.
I thought to myself that hell would be something like an eternity of fucking interrupted by a goddamn telephone call!
I ignored the jangling for as long as I could by making the bedsprings in my rented pad groan and creak as I pumped my rather well-hung loins hotter and faster over the smooth and dimpled thighs of Alice.
My prick was practically making butter in the deep, tight, slippery cunt I had been enjoying for twenty or thirty minutes, and I didn't want to lose my edge. Alice didn't want to lose hers, either. I could tell that by the way the lips of her fat, greedy pussy kept opening and closing around the root of my tool, like the gills of some starved fish.
"AAAaaarrrgggg," Alice managed, as a kind of mad counterpoint to the blistering demands of the phone, "doonnn't stoppppp!!!"
I didn't want to stop, and I gathered the silly bitch could figure that out for herself from the way my balls were slapping her asshole with every thrust. They were damp sounding slaps, too. Her happy cunt had been running like a faucet for the last five minutes!
But the phone kept bugging me, and so with a dull grunt I pulled the receiver over the enormously swollen cones of her titties-she was in a Wonderland of passion, poor Alice-and the curly cord got slightly entangled with one of her nipples, clasping it like a pincer, but giving Alice something to be thankful for during the interruption.
"Ranee? This is your mother."
"Yes, mother."
"You must come home at once."
"But I'm coming here, damnit."
"You're what?"
I put the receiver down to the panting wound of Alice's mouth. It must have sounded like a hungry panther from the other end.
"Ranee-do you have a girl with you?" Mother asked, suspiciously.
I grinned. "Would you worry if I said I had a boy?"
"Remembering your father, nothing would surprise me."
"It might be a boy next time, mother," I said, still grinning, but feeling my huge cock stiffening crudely in the velvety, warm socket of Alice's patient twat. No boy's buttocks or mouth could ever match that. I knew from experience.
"Ranee, I have no time for your philosophizing. You must come home."
"When?"
"How long will it take you in your car?"
The Lancia Flaminia was fast. "Four hours," I said.
"I mean if you start now."
"I couldn't possibly start this instant, mum-love. Let's say six hours in all."
"Let's say five."
"You drive a hard bargain, Vona."
I heard her old familiar, motherly chuckle at the other end. "I'm sure your tart-of-the-day is getting driven by a harder bargain. You didn't pay her anything, did you?"
"Bother," I said.
With the phone back on the shelf by the bed, I resumed work.
Alice was not the predatory animal mothers envision their sons being entrapped by. As a matter-of-fact, Alice was homely in the extreme, except for her body. It reminded me a bit of the old photographs I had seen of Vona in the Ziegfeld Follies, blousy-hipped and a little too sequined, but withal, quite wonderfully fuckable. With her horn rims off, she looked like a poor waif from a Hogarth print-or an unfinished Giacometti. Sorry if I keep making literary, artistic, theatrical, historical, and philosophical comparisons. But it's all Vona's fault. She insisted that I be tutored, prepped, and Ivy-Leagued all the way. And over-education, as either Pope or Dryden has told us, is a thorn without a rose.
"Christ!" Alice Smith-Jones announced, pulling her legs up until her knee-caps were filling my armpits. "Fuck me GOOD!!"
The dumb bitch.
Fucking her good was what I had been doing, steadily, for twenty minutes now, but hyperbole is the gift Venus gives to the passionate. And hubris, I suppose, is left for the male. It was, after all, my fully erected, thoroughly blood-gorged, fist-headed cock that was making the tunnel of Alice's quaint cunt bum with a gem-like flame. But her doxy spirit was riding high now, and I could tell it by the thumb-sized condition of her clitoris. How well I remembered its little pea shaped tip when first I felt her up. Ah, how her lust lay dreaming! But now her clit was a fang, her pussy a tight tiger's mouth of greed.
I must admit that I was having my fun, too.
Alice had a good smell about her. That made me wonder again why someone didn't bottle such essences. Two lines, say. Male and female-and perhaps something for the kids in the twilight zone. From Eau de Cunnilingus, to an Ambrosian Smegma.
Horsing around in Alice's delightfully sappy cunt was the perfect way to crown my weekend, although it was going to be slightly anti-climactic-for me, not Alice. Earlier in the week, I had enjoyed the same close combat with Sherril, her erstwhile roommate, and a proofreader at Harpers. She had been the main course, really, and Alice came in as a kind of slippery-sherbet second.
While merrily pumping Alice's deeply grooved slit, I closed my eyes and remembered once again how her roommate's educated cunt had felt. Like a hot brick oven with my knockwurst thrust in its flames up to the cuds. Something crude and perverted about Sherril-the way she gritted her perfect teeth and grunted like a stevedore as the meatus of my prick pounded her womb. Real juicy poontang-and hair around her pussy like the main of a wild, sweating horse. Much more to my liking than Alice Smith-Jones. But, at the moment, sweet Alice was the port in the storm.
"Aggggg-!" Alice said, appreciatively. "Uraghhhhaaag!!"
She was coming around the mountain again, and the big, hot balloons of her buttocks were bouncing on my knees like bags of honey. Her pussy had a cute way of sucking and nipping in the dead heat of her spasms, and I let the whole column of my cock settle to the bottom of her vagina, like a submarine settling to the bottom of the Sea of Japan in an old war movie. One with John Garfield as a radio operator from Brooklyn. Sometimes, in the morning mirror, I see a little of Garfield in myself. I've always wondered how he was hung. Somebody, somewhere, must know.
Alice was sending down depth charges now. Her multiple orgasms were going off one after the other, jarring my big prick with each explosion. Her tongue was out of her mouth, almost touching the tip of her nose. I could feel her juices wetting my balls like calf slobber.
I waited until her last vibrations were fading, then I started fucking her again, ignoring the grainy moans spilling up from her throat and lungs.
Her eyes came open in a wild, myopic stare.
"What are you doing nom!?" she demanded.
"Coming," I said, hosing down the corners of her cunt with a torrent of sperm.
She gagged all over again, pointed her toes in different directions beyond the naked curves of my working buttocks, and climaxed violently.
She was a madcap, all right.
"Ranee," mother intoned, exactly six hours later, "you're late."
"But I made somebody happy today-and I may not pass this way again. Her name...."
"You mean you made yourself happy. And what could possibly be more cynical than selfish charity."
We were chatting-or bitching-in the library of the large French Provincial house that my late grandfather had built back in the thirties. I think grandpa had in mind some kind of baronial existence a la Plantagepet kings-an eternity of great parties and mistresses-and the noblesse oblige of creating one cuckolded husband after another (Vona has told me, on drunken occasion, that I take after my grandfather in the stud department.
I had only just arrived, and the pistons in my Lancia Flaminia were still hot.
Vona's regular companion-the famed attorney, Otto Sigwald-was lounging in a leather chair behind us, idly perusing a copy of Evergreen Review. His legs were crossed, and the little spring in his pince-nez was gripping the tip of his nose, making his nostrils flare erotically.
"A disaster, my dear," mother was saying, striding up and down in front of the stained French windows like a re-run of an old Laurette Taylor flick. "They found a holograph."
"A hole in what?" I said.
"A will, you ninny. All written in longhand-probably with a goddamned quill, or something-and nothing is ours!"
"Are you talking about grandpa's loot?"
"What else, the ungrateful bastard!"
I glanced at Otto Sigwald, but he was faintly licking his lips over a cartoon.
"Grandpa left every penny to some little hillbilly from Arkansas," mother was going on, endlessly, "the will says she's his daughter. God, the old fart must have spawned like a salmon! I've never heard of her. Angel Dunne, no less!"
"From Arkansas?"
"I swear to Christ! She'll be here tomorrow."
"To collect?"
"Not if I can help it!"
It was on that strong, negative note that Otto put down his reading matter. He removed his pince-nez with a slow sweep of hairy fingers.
"You can't help it, Vona," Otto sighed. "In this state, a holograph will is valid."
Mother, in her imperial rage, is classic. A Medusa in a Maiden-Form Bra, an Amazon with a fourteen-inch jade cigarette holder.
"Angel Dunne can be stopped!" mother howled.
"And how do you propose to stop her?" Otto reasonably inquired.
A grin spread mother's thrice-lifted face into a cherubic mask of glee. "Ranee," she husked, triumphantly.
I wasn't amused.
"How?" I asked.
"How, indeed," mother grinned.
I, of course, remembered Alice Smith-Jones-and deduced how.
"Look, Vona," I groaned, "I know I'm everything you taught me to be-a sly rake, a crafty liar, a gifted conversationalist...."
"And he fucks like a Trojan!" mother cut in, giving Otto Sigwald a broad, Vaudevillian wink.
"Only what I choose to fuck," I almost shouted, making the heavy timbers above us shake with my Thoreauian principles.
"Don't be an ass," mother snapped. "Or would you rather spend the rest of your life driving a used Ford!"
It was a telling point.
I settled into a morose silence so that Vona could begin the second stage of her assault upon my nerve endings.
"From what I can gather," she purred, "Angel Dunne is from so far back in the sticks, she'll have bear-grease on her hair. Nothing in the world but a simple, artless child of eighteen. With any luck at all, she'll be a virgin. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Ranee?"
I used my index finger to make a listless circle in the air, one of those whoop-dee-do things.
"For the life of me, Ranee," mother hissed, "I don't see why you choose to go from libertine to prig in one afternoon. What's one more hump to you, of all people!?"
I took a breath. "It's not a hump we're talking about, mums. It's marriage. You don't think that even a corn-fed cunt from Arkansas is going to hand over all the bags of gold just because I plowed her once or twice! Hell, she can buy an army of big pricks with grandpa's money."
Mother's eyes twinkled proudly. "None as big as yours, my dove. I'm convinced that you could win an Academy Award if they ever...."
"The point is well taken," Otto said, in what turned out to be a non sequitur. "Miss Dunne might be impressed by a roll in the hay, but the money is still hers. Ranee will have to marry her."
"No used Fords," mother whispered, encouragingly. "Just remember that!"
Vona appeared in one of her old Schiaparelli gowns for dinner, as if already trying to gain some sympathy for the role she could have to play if ever she found herself in reduced circumstances. The truth of the matter-and I was good at guessing these things far in advance-was that mother and Otto had obviously been doing some plain and fancy fornicating between the time I talked to them, and the time we sat down in grandpa's dining room. The point is, Vona simply grabbed the first rag available-the same way Angel Dunne had probably grabbed her only dress off the nail behind the bathroom door when she heard of her holographed inheritance.
Like everything else about grandpa's house, the dining room had been built with Wagnerian proportions, so that the smallest bon mot echoed like a rifle shot in an underpass.
"Darling," Vona purred at Otto, who was sitting a dozen chairs down from her, discreet as a monkey in a tux, "would you care for some clairette de die-or would you prefer beer?"
I knew by that bitchy interrogation that everything had not gone well for mother in the bedroom. When Otto stems the tide of her frequent passion, she can charm the ears off an elephant. But woe betide poor Otto if he gets his rabbity little balls off before mums is foaming herself!
I never knew what Vona saw in Otto Sigwald anyway, except for the free legal advice she could ferret out of him between bouts in bed. God knows, she had told me all of his faults in technicolor detail. His prick, for example, reminded mother of a very small Vienna sausage (one too unambitious to get canned) and Otto was a jabber. Too often, mother said, having intercourse with Otto was like riding a jack-hammer through a hail storm, except that half the time, Otto's tiny penis was soft as a noodle.
Dinner was served by Clawkins in a fog of Vona's discontent. The old manservant had been retained from the days when grandpa was still running things. The nicest aspect of Clawkins-aside from his perfect, Continental manner-was his buttoned-lip fidelity to the House of Carey. My grandfather could have slaughtered a platoon of kindergarten children and walked around nude with little bloody pricks and pussies clustered like vine leaves in his hair, and Clawkins would have been as impeccable in his service as ever.
It was possibly the knowledge of such loyalty that prompted Vona to continue opening the little cans of worms concerning Otto's sexual shortcomings, even as Clawkins was forking the mandarin duck onto our plates.
"Have you thought of seeing a doctor, Otto," mother cooed, from her end of the table. "I hear they're doing wonderful things again these days with goat bladders."
Otto's ears reddened, avoiding her eyes.
"What do you suggest, Ranee?" mother insisted, curling her horny voice into a sneer.
I shrugged, knowing exactly how this little game would have to end. "Testes serium? Stimulation of the hypothalamus, and pituitary Siccacells?"
Mother looked lost in thought. "Wasn't I reading something in Reader's Digest about shots in the buttocks?" she hummed.
"Implantation of testosterone," I explained, casually. "I think the same article mentioned something about putting a dab of dimethyl sulfoxide on the glans meatus. Makes for an instant erection-at least on rats."
"There you are," mother sang.
"Or you could send Otto to a Mr. Fred W. Van Gassel, in up-state Oregon. He's built a box of some kind that shoots you with electric volts-recharges your batteries, as they say. I think the government is investigating, so best hurry."
"Go pack, Otto," mother grinned.
Clawkins was just making the rounds with a mushroom casserole when Otto stood up, napkin clenched.
"Am I to understand, Vona, that you find me physically lacking?"
"Only when you screw, dear."
Otto's thick upper lip trembled. His sad tragedy, I realized once more, was that he loved Vona. Even if he had come into the autumn of her life-too late and too little.
"Have you two thought of looking into extenders?" I offered, helpfully.
Otto glanced at me bleakly. "Extenders?" he echoed.
"Yes. You know, one of those non-toxic, natural looking prostheses. You can even get them with veins and pores, I hear. Increase your size from two to six inches, or even more."
Otto sat down.
"When-is your birthday, Otto," mother sighed. "I'll leave one on your pillow, with a pink bow around it."
It was a touchy subject, but I felt particularly dutiful toward Vona, now that the specter of Angel Dunne was upon us.
"What about oral gratification?" I asked, more or less throwing the subject open to a round-table discussion. "Surely Otto's tongue is potent."
"Stick out your tongue for Ranee," mother said.
Otto agreeably ran his tongue out for three or four inches. It looked like a slab of rare roast beef, very juicy, thick.
I kept getting mental pictures of Alice Smith-Jones' wide, warm cunt. I tried to picture Otto Sigwald's rosy tongue rammed up between such a hairy maw. I succeeded, and found it moderately exciting.
I leaned over my plate to catch Vona's eyes. "Have you been holding out on me, Mother?" I demanded, huskily.
Otto rolled his tongue back in with a satisfied little smile.
"It isn't the same," mother countered. "Not to a connoisseur!"
"How would you know?"
Otto asked, suggestively.
"Yes, mums," I joined in. "How would you know?"
"Your father," Vona snapped. But there was a curious twinkle in her eyes. "Before he was blown to pieces in his private jet, he used to do things to me with his tongue. He fancied himself a real artist in that way, simply because he had spent a summer on the French Riviera in his youth."
"Where?" Otto stammered.
"How would I know? I suppose somewhere between Juan-les-Pins and...."
"No, I mean where with his tongue, my sweet!?"
"Oh. Well, all over, dear. He was anal, mostly. It always felt to me as if somebody were, pushing a wet goldfish up my rectum."
"No fun at all?" I asked.
"Damn little. But sometimes-after your father had had a few too many vodka martinis, for example-he could get quite gymnastic in the other place. But he had such a narrow, thin, pointy little...."
Mother paused, her eyes narrowing.
"Otto ... could I see that just once again, please?"
Otto proudly rolled out the red carpet of his tongue again, like a little boy with a new ball bat.
Mother and I both looked again. It was a very remarkable example of that most unusual collection of muscle and mucous membrane the human animal is capable of extending out from his jawbone. In Otto's case, the tip of his tongue was a full two inches across, and much thicker back toward the root. It looked rough and bubbly on the surface, like a cheap grain of pink sandpaper.
Even before I looked, I knew that Vona's grin was spreading to her earlobes.
Something new had come into her life.
And Otto's!
They barely made it through the meal. By the time Clawkins set the small square of Williamsburg Sponge Cake before me, Otto and mums were half-way up the stairs-like young lovers heading for a hayloft.
I-finished my dessert alone, then wandered into the library again to read a book. I was just turning a page of Catullus when Clawkins appeared again, holding his nose characteristically aloft.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but there's a young lady at the door. She says her name is...."
"Angel Dunne," a piping voice finished for Clawkins. "Howdy-do!"
Clawkins and I both stared at the Mary Poppins figure shouldering her way through the library door. She was a petite thing, with a circle of straw on the top of her head, from which hung one red ribbon. Her tawny-blonde hair fell in rather interesting, if unfashionable, cascades to her shoulders. Her dress was calico or something, her shoes Sears and Roebuck, and she was holding a tin suitcase with a cowboy belt tied around it.
But she was pretty-with apple-healthy cheeks, a full, sensuous mouth, and a pair of most promising milk-fed titties.
I knew at that moment how Don Juan must have felt when eyeing all those country girls around Valencia and Cadiz. There is nothing quite so delicious to a youthful roue as feeling you are in the presence of virgin territory!
I snapped the Catullus closed, and came across the library, shooing Clawkins back out the door with one hand while grabbing Angel Dunne's suitcase with the other.
"Shall I inform your mother?" Clawkins managed, before the door was shut in his face.
"No!"
Angel watched as I locked the heavy oaken doors. She had a blissfully trusting expression on her lightly freckled face. Her blue eyes looked guileless as a baby's.
"You weren't due until tomorrow," I gushed, offering her a seat on grandpa's heavy leather sofa where, a couple of hours before, Otto had been stoking is libido with magazine erotica.
I watched with a tightening in my throat as Angel settled her lean, almost boyish hips on the edge of the sofa, and folded her hands in her lap. She was a picture of rusticity. A Post cover by Norman Rockwell. But beneath all that calico and quaintness, were a pair of flour-sack bloomers and a darkly fuzzed honeypot of country cunt. And after a season of Swathmorish, top-drawer pussy, I was entranced by the idea of something more pastoral.
It was all I could do to keep my big prick from sticking out like a stallion's. At that, I had to cross my legs after sitting down beside her.
"I hope I'm not too early," Angel Dunne breathed, "but the bus got here early. I forgot there was a time change. It's only seven o'clock back in Turbandale, Arkansas. You can put me up, though-can't you?"
"You bet. Oh, I'm Ranee Carey. I suppose I'm your brother, Angel."
Apparently, Angel hadn't considered the reality of that fact. She flushed prettily.
"Gosh, you don't seem like my brother. I got six of them at home."
"Indeed?"
"Uh-huh. There's Rubin, Floyd, Henry, Leroy, Oscar, and Willy. Course, .they're only half-brothers. Our grandpa didn't have anything to do with them. Willy is my favorite."
My eyes kept wandering to the two stunning bumps between her shoulders. Her breasts looked something more than bite-sized. A little like small cow udders, in fact. Even under the busy print of her sedate blouse, I could make out the corking fullness of her nipples.
I didn't know how fast to move with this. But I was under charming orders from Vona to capture Angel Dunne's heart. I wasn't at all sure that affection can be measured in prick-inches, but if not, it was going to be a glorious kind of failure, if failure it had to be.
I moved my arm gingerly over the back of the sofa, allowing my fingertips to settle on her little, rounded shoulders. I let my fingers touch her with the most fragile of pressures ... subtle as a surgeon exploring brain tissue....
"You wantin ' to fuck?"
My heart almost leaped through my nostrils!
My fingers retreated as if scorched by flames.
"I-uh-beg your pardon, Angel?"
She was grinning sweetly at me. "The way you locked the door and sassed the hired help awhile ago. Then the way you hustled me over here on the sofa and snaked your fingers up on my shoulder. And the way you been staring at my zonks...."
"Zonks?"
"My titties. You haven't took your eyes off of them once, reckon. Willy calls titties zonks. He says I got whopper-zonks."
"Whopper zonks," I echoed, numbly.
"Course, I figure they wouldn't seem so whopperish if Willy didn't keep sucking on them night and day."
"Night and day," I wheezed.
Angel nodded briskly. "Not much else to do in Turbandale."
My equilibrium came tottering back. My hand slipped down over one of her fabled zonks. I squeezed the pulpy firmness of it, making it into a melon in the palm of my hand. The erotic contact immediately turned my cock into stone!
"About fucking you," I breathed, huskily.
Angel grinned again, and put her hand over between my parting legs. She felt up and down the horse-sized bulge, and her face fell a bit.
"Anything wrong?" I insisted, proudly.
"Guess Willy spoiled me some, that's all."
"You mean his is bigger, for Christ's sake?"
"And longer. Uh-huh."
CHAPTER TWO
I've always been amused by H. L. Mencken's definition of love: the delusion that one woman differs from another.
It's the same fanciful dilemma one faces when being enraptured with the vaginal opening between a female's legs. Each time one faces that cave of primeval mystery, one is certain that there is only one hole in the world. That hole.
And yet, what is it but a yawning trench of pliable flesh, some chubby, some skinny, some narrow, some deep, some hairy, and some bald as eggs. Pussies are as varied as snowflakes.
But rationality melts before passion.
When Angel Dunne unzipped my fly, my prick came horning out like a fist. Seldom has it been as stiff as it was at that moment. The meatus was like an avocado, the shaft like a giant stalk of celery. Fruit for her lips and pubis. It was as if Alice Smith-Jones never existed. The casual plumbing I had given Alice's ductile gap was nothing compared to what I now longed to do with Angel Dunne. And, paradoxically enough, the little slur she had given my size only made me that much hornier.
I wanted to fuck the memory of corny Willy out of her!
At the moment, however, I was content to let her fondle my large prick, just to get the lay of it. She had both of her hands around it, attempting unsuccessfully to make her fingers meet her thumbs. Impossible. It would take a steam-fitter's hands to completely grasp the turgid circumference of my tool-and so far, that un-likely situation has not occurred.
But girls keep trying.
"Lordy," Angel whispered, hotly, "Willy ain't got you beat my much!"
"It's all a matter of technique, anyway," I explained, defensively. "That's much more important than size."
Tell it to Otto, I thought.
Angel inched her eager fingers up and down the enormity of my peter. She felt the thick erectile muscle which ran from root to glans, she lightly traced each bulging vein, teasingly tickled the plow-shaped sides of the meatus. It was heavenly!
Then she bent her head down until her tawny-blonde hair was spilling over my thighs. I felt the warm, spongy tip of her tongue licking softly against the urethral slit at the end of my penis. Under such lactation, it throbbed wider open-a cyclop's eye of lusty visions. She tried, then, to insert her tongue into that un-likely slot. I groaned gently, and spread my legs further apart, thus inviting her to feed on all of my eleven inches at once.
She got the message, and lowered her ovaled mouth halfway down over my prick, roving with her cute tongue until every possible pore had been soothed and aroused into a satyr's mad stiffness.
"Suck it, honey," I breathed, sliding both of my hands up to the nape of her neck, and persuasively guiding her movements. I wanted to hear her sucking it, too, as well as feel it. I suppose there is a little of the saliromaniac in all of us, but the urge to defile is always stronger when the female is something of a stranger. After all, I had done nothing more as yet than cup one of her fine tits-and here she was, slurping greedily between my legs already!
I was glad she was not a female to shy away from a well-hung male. I have had the bitter experience of seeing otherwise willing lambs balk in terror from the colossus of my erected cock. But, agreeably enough, Angel did not fall into this tiresome category. Not by a long shot. She was a cocksucker born to the art. I got a rather erotic picture of her performing fellatio on her half-brother, Willy. I could see them in a corncrib on a rainy afternoon in Arkansas, his long country boy legs splayed obscenely apart, his slack mouth chewing on a twig of straw while Angel devoured his eighteen-inch hard-on.
Such pornographic fancies made my own prick grow another shameless inch in her mouth.
When I felt the sperm beginning to boil in my testicles, I pulled her reluctant lips up from their feasting.
"I'd rather come inside of you," I whispered.
She nodded, then fell back once more to lick my stiff prod from base to tip, just to make sure it was as real and solid as it seemed.
"Take off your clothes," I suggested. "We can fuck on this nice leather sofa."
She was all for that. We unbuttoned and unsnapped and unzipped in a little duet of salacious sounds. I was faster, and finally stood at the end of the sofa as naked as sin, my totally erected penis sticking out from between my legs like a loaf of hot French bread.
Every falling garment revealed the all-American wonder of Angel's body. Her skin glowed with health, toned to the exquisite texture of chamois and silk. Her tits swung heavily but firmly together, making the softest of little slapping noises. Her nipples had become erected during the brief session above my balls, and now they tipped the coned peaks of her breasts like prize strawberries destined for the palate of a gourmet.
But it was the hallowed ground between her thighs that turned the final gristle and muscle in my penis into stone. Turned as she was in profile to me, I could see two large, pouting pubis mounds lightly crested with the same tawny-gold hair of her head. Those twin hillocks actually stood out an inch or two from the general swelling area of her labia majora, like two thick lips pursing almost together, but wet and deep between.
With pleasure, I pushed her down lengthways on the sofa, urging her firm young legs as far apart as possible. The cranny between her thighs opened in a hot yawn, pink as a valentine, but much too small looking to take even the head of my proud rod.
Appearances are deceiving.
No sooner did I get on my knees between her honied legs than her pussy seemed to draw my stiff knob into its gap like a magnet pulling at a bar of iron. My cockhead went between the crenelated lips of her cunt with a lewd, sucking noise.
J was over her on all-fours, in the same position from which I had satisfied Alice to her toes, but my hips were lifted high, so that only the head of my prick was buried in Angel's slit. Yet, I could feel her vaginal muscles already working to drive me deeper.
"How much do you want of it?" I whispered from above her, looking down into those amorous blue eyes.
"All of it I" she moaned, giving me a wink of honest ruttiness that simply stiffened my meat all the way up my spinal column.
I lowered my hips, inching my cock up the sultry tunnel of her vagina until my balls were crushed all the way against her buttocks.
She had a most amazing pussy!
Not only did it expand like a glove opening out for a finger, it tightened at the same time, holding my penis in a passionate grip of sheer lechery. I could feel the head of my prick smothering the entrance to her womb. I was into her so far that the fluff of pubic hair around her cunt formed a circle at the root of me.
No female in my memory had been able to take so much prodding without a whimper.
Taking a deep gulp of air, I began to hump my new-found friend with what poets have called reckless abandon....
In the end, neither of us was satisfied.
There was something helpless and yearning about the way I horsed my proven masculinity over and over into the scupper of her sex. I labored as monotonously as a raga player, my sweating loins rising and falling in a solid litany of passion. But the deeper I plowed, the more accommodating her pussy became, until I felt as if I might as well be fucking a snow bank.
There was no end to her. No finis written in a gurgle of spasming lust, no splat of juice against my balls, no teeth clenched in ecstasy.
But I knew she enjoyed it-in much the same way a high wire trapeze artist enjoys a half-hour in somebody's porch swing!
When I unloaded my venery inside her body, it was I whose teeth were clenched, I who gurgled with bliss transcending joy.
Then, lying across her, panting with exhaustion, I felt her tweak my left ear between nimble fingers, the way one might tease a puppy who has romped childishly after a bone, and come back empty-jawed.
It was, of course, the ultimate insult.
And the ultimate challenge.
"Your Willy must be a humdinger," I allowed, grudgingly.
"He isn't always," Angel admitted, earnestly. "But he's better on Saturday nights when he's full of corn-likker."
I sighed. "Can he do what I can't?"
"Come again?"
I smiled. "No, just come, Angel."
"Oh, that. Sometimes. Used to I could do it every time. Pop-off, as Willy says. He used to make me pop-off even with his finger. But not now."
"You like big ones, don't you?"
Her eyes danced wickedly. "I sure do. I wonder what a Chinaman has got ...?"
"She wants to know what a Chinaman has got, mums," I reported. "She knows what I've got." Vona was reclining in the middle of her bed. Otto was on the chaise, his tongue contentedly swollen in his mouth. It was high noon of the following day. Angel was, I assumed, still fast asleep in the East Wing where I had finally deposited her after a most unusual night of constant screwing. You see, I hadn't given up on the initial encounter in the library. My pride wouldn't let me. Instead, I had taken my Excalibur prick into the final jousts-but all in vain.
Fuck as I might, I couldn't make Angel spasm. The mind does boggle....
"And I thought the little whore was a virgin," mother groaned, illogically.
"In a sense, she's completely innocent," I said, studying the bulges of mother's huge breasts that hovered just under the silk sheet. "She thinks nothing of sex. No hang-ups, no Puritanical guilt."
"She's hung-up, all right," Mother snorted. "She's addicted to stallions, from what you've told me. There goes our fortune!"
"Don't be so damned pessimistic. The main thing is to keep Angel occupied. She likes me. She might marry me yet. She certainly didn't hesitate to let me fuck her."
"I hear there's a subtle difference, Ranee," mother quipped. "Otto, what do you think?"
It required a few painful seconds before Otto was able to move his tongue into a speaking position.
"Pamper her," Otto whispered. "Give her a Chinaman."
"And where do you propose we rent a Chinaman?"
Otto worked his tongue over the consonants. "China."
"I've never heard of anything so silly! "
"Certum est, quia impossible est," I murmured, quoting Tertullian as best I could remember. "Speak English," Mother said.
"I believe because it is impossible, mums. Perhaps if we took Angel on a world tour, exposed her Arkansas mind to the varied flesh pots of the earth-at her expense, of course-I might have a better chance to woo her."
"We?"
"You and Otto, Angel and me. We'll make Hong Kong our first stop."
"I thought I knew you, Ranee. Is there something unbiological in all this?"
I grinned. "Of course, mother. It's Leibniz's Principle of Sufficient Reason. Time, space, causality...."
"Speak English, damn it."
"Very well. Simply give Angel all the cock she wants."
"Smorgasbord, " Otto whispered.
"Not only that, but make a concentrated search for the biggest penises in every country we travel through. Sate her pussy-and wait for the reverse effect."
"Which is-?"
"Love, not lust. That's the unbiological part. I'll be there when she needs me."
"How romantic!"
"That's the basic idea, after all, mums."
Vona mulled over the possibilities, then demanded a point from me. "You promise to stick to your duty, Ranee?"
"My duty is to Angel," I vowed. "And I'll be happy to stick to her like glue."
Mother grinned, and settled down under her silken sheet like a courtesan of the old school.
"I wonder," she breathed, hoarsely, "just how much a goddamn good Chinaman is hung!"
The very next day we booked passage for Hong Kong on the HMS BROWNING.
We even managed to talk Angel into discarding her tin suitcase and cowboy belt for a sturdy piece of Samsonite.
With all the pussy-peddling I intended to make her do, she would at least need a sure change of panties!
CHAPTER THREE
It wasn't the good ship Lollipop, but it turned out to be a most finger-licking good dreamboat. For almost everybody.
I didn't take at all seriously my promise to Mother to restrict my sexual curiosity and talent to Angel, at least not until we got to Hong Kong.
That was the point, I felt, when the game with Angel should really have its beginning. And so with that artistic license as a guide, I left Angel to her own considerable devices, and went about the decks on a bloodhound's scent for fresh-water pussy.
I certainly wasn't long in finding it.
There was a Mrs. Tingly on board, but it was not so much the questionable voluptuousness of that pillar of Iowa that I found absorbing, as it was her twin daughters, Vanessa and Clarissa. They had indeed been made from the same marvelous mold, trimmed with honey and ivory accessories, and I quickly got into the dangerous habit of meeting them on the third deck for tennis. Both of them played tennis exactly as if they were writing sonnets, both laughed with the same thrilling peal of sweet, energetic juvenility, and both of them filled out the tight white blouses in a manner most Hollywood.
Daily, my fingers grew more sweaty around the hard, phallic handle of my racket, and daily my game grew worse.
More than once I awoke in the middle of the night in my slightly swaying bunk, my hand firmly grasped around the base of my engorged penis, with the same wild dream still flowing through my head. In that dream, the Tingly twins and I were once again on the third deck, but naked now, and moving in some slow, erotic dream of a novel game. I was swinging at the bouncing globes of their golden tits with the stiff racket of my prick, now hitting, now missing. But each time I was fortunate enough to feel the tip of my tool bobble against a firm, fat nipple, a shudder of pleasure would go through me.
Wet dreams are such wasteful hobbies!
In my waking hours, I thought of nothing but getting one or both of the girls away from the eagle-like guardianship of their mother. And it was to that end that I enlisted the partnership of one of the stewards. He was a particularly fanciful young stud from Liverpool, replete with a mod accent and a David Niven mustache. He agreed to run interference for twenty American dollars, payable in advance. I didn't think it polite to inquire about methods. I really didn't give a damn if he harpooned the old sea cow.
For another ten dollars, I was given permission to use the steward's own private quarters.
Using my own room was much too unpredictable. When Vona wasn't using Otto's tongue, she was using my stateroom. She had that irritable habit all mothers have, of bursting into my private lair unannounced as sudden death. I didn't relish having to look up from between two pairs of twin legs at an opportune time gone sour.
Thus, the steward's room.
The twins, I'm happy to say, were as much for the escape from their mother's arms. I passed the message to them over the tennis net on Thursday, and at ten o'clock the following morning, as I paced the steward's room like a bull in heat, there came a light tapping at the door.
I opened it on the double delight of both Vanessa and Clarissa, twin conspiratorial smiles telling me that everything was going to be fine.
I locked the door the second I got them inside, and poured three healthy libations of brandy.
Here, my two prizes differed. While Vanessa tossed off her drink like a man, Clarissa sipped. I don't know which attitude I found more charming-but Vanessa definitely seemed the more likely of the two for a quick seduction. And I certainly didn't have time to prolong my agony.
I maneuvered Vanessa to one side of the room, and squeezed into a chair with her. The flash of her warm thigh brought my blood to a simmer, and a glimpse into the half-buttoned gap of her blouse brought my penis into a bolt upright position. Vanessa did the proper thing, then. With a light giggle, she let her left hand drop over the obvious bulge at my crotch, then proceeded to squeeze me in a most compelling way.
Relatively sure of one piece, I let my attention shift momentarily across the room to the other.
Casually enough for the circumstances, Clarissa was still sipping at her brandy. But her eyes were riveted to the moving fingers of her twin sister, and I could see that a heated little rivalry was already starting. That couldn't have suited my purposes better, of course. The thought that they might actually fight over me, was exactly the kind of aphrodisiac I wanted. My cock throbbed so stiffly that Vanessa's fingers rippled under the vibrations.
That was enough for Clarissa. To my delight, she rose from her chair and came across to us, pulling her blouse out of her skirt with both hands.
"I'm horny, too, you know," she snapped.
I was glad that twins operate on the same currents. What one must have, the other must have. I only wished that I had been like an Indian god-double-pricked!
Vanessa had the advantage, and she wasn't about to give it up. I felt her fingers working at the zipper of my fly. To facilitate matters, I got out of the chair and stood in front of her. She worked much faster that way, and in seconds my mighty prick was out stiff and proud in her hands.
"Let's all get stripped!" Clarissa said, behind me. I knew that she was playing some kind of weak ace with that one, and the truth was that I would have been perfectly content to let her sister suck on my tool for the next few minutes. But one can't be selfish in these things!
I dutifully stripped, and the three of us ended up in a large bouquet of nude flesh in the center of the room. I had never been less disappointed in my life with pussy on the hoof. It was going to be like having two desserts.
I stood between them, using each of my eager hands to cup the furry cracks between their legs. Both of their pussies were pleasantly plump, but Vanessa's was wetter, and the Venus mound seemed thicker. It made me wonder if Vanessa had not had considerable more experience at this sort of thing than Clarissa.
But oddly enough, Clarissa seemed the more aggressive of the two, now that she was naked. She rubbed the points of her breasts against my shoulder until her nipples were hard and demanding. I couldn't resist the temptation to crane my mouth down and taste one of them. It was fat and warm as a baby's thumb against my tongue, and I stroked it lovingly, tenderly, then used the edges of my teeth to bite gently around the rosette.
Such licentious use of the tongue turned Clarissa on. She lifted herself on her heels so that I could get more of her swelling goody between my lips. I swallowed a mouthful of her creamy young tit, sucking it so far up into my throat that I could feel the point of her erected nipple tickling the roof of my mouth. She hummed inside like a bee!
It was Vanessa's turn to seek attention.
Both of her hands circled the horsy stiffness of my penis, holding on to it like an oversized candy bar. She began pulling me toward the steward's bed, making little panting husks with her voice.
I could only wonder if the Tingly girls were always this nymphomaniacal. If so, Iowa had to be a swinging place for young males of my appetite.
In order not to lose the best of two possible worlds, I clapped both palms under the firm buttocks of Clarissa, and lifted her off the floor. Then I allowed myself to be pulled toward the bed, prick-first. My mouth was still clamped around the ever-expanding cone-and-nipple of Clarissa's tit, roiling and worrying with the sides, tip, and surface of my tongue.
The three of us fell on the bed in a wonderful kind of tangle. My hands slipped off Clarissa's buttocks and up into the silky thatch of hair covering her luscious pussy. I got two fingers into her without any trouble, and rotated them in the sappy warmth.
At the same time, I felt a tongue avidly licking on the head of my penis. Vanessa, I presumed-not that I gave too much of a damn. At such moments, the tongue of a moose would have been just as welcome. The proof of pleasure, after all, is in the pudding. And speaking of puddings, the thawing hotness of Clarissa's cunt was driving me into the wildest kind of rut. I wanted to fuck her blind-and I got an instantly erotic picture of her spraddled on the bed in smoked glasses while I plundered her lathery pussy for hours.
Suddenly, Clarissa did a little pirouette on the bed so that her well-fingered cunny was yawning above my face while her tongue was sharing the task of getting my prick licked. Now both of them were working on it, one on the base and the middle, and the other on the glans. Two sultry tongues lapping all over my eleven inches!
It was only fair that I should do the same for them. Clarissa was already in position, and all that was required to urge Vanessa to follow suit was a pat or two on her lewdly lifted buttocks. She backed her hips up over my face in a duck-wagging motion until I had not one feathery slit to kiss, but two. Again I was given a most unique opportunity to study the pussies of identical twins-and again I was struck by nature's little paradox. Their twats were quite different.
It was uncontestable that Vanessa had been fucked more often than her sister. The hairs of her pussy were like thick, wild whiskers growing far back from the slack, thickened lips. I could see deep into her vulva, and the scarlet trench had quite obviously known more than one large and thrusting penis. Her clitoris was larger, also-and sticking out like the tongue of a pink Christmas bell.
On the other hand, Vanessa's pretty sister had the kind of untried little cunt that can drive a man mad with lust. The hair was finer, the lips thinner, the vulva closed more tightly, although my fingers had already brought a coral blush to the inner lining, and a slick rheum from her Bartholin glands glistened there.
I couldn't decide which to lick first.
Some primitive taste for depravity made me put my tongue into Vanessa's twat first. I shoved it in to the root, loving the way the scratchy hairs tickled my nostrils and chin. Vanessa had obviously had this kind of treatment before. She squirmed with pleasure, and performed a kind of squatting action over my face. My nose then became buried in the crack of her buttocks, while my tongue licked the walls of her vagina.
Not to discourage Clarissa, I put my fingers back to work on her tender slot. I lodged three of them up to the second knuckles, then rubbed her clitoris with my thumb. The dear child started coming almost immediately!
I waited until Clarissa was reaching the height of her spasm, then I pulled my tongue from Vanessa' pussy, and rammed it solidly up the throbbing rift belonging to Clarissa. My tongue might as well have been an eight-inch prick. Clarissa threw back her head with an eerie little squeak of agonized joy, and covered my chin with a flood of her spunk.
I kept my tongue madly working inside of her until the muscles of her randy pussy seemed to collapse and fold. Then I drew my tongue out, gave the frothy pubis one or two fond laps, and went back to eating Vanessa.
But the more experienced twin was longing for something more solid than a tongue. Now that her sister was more-or-less out of the action, Vanessa knew that she could have my hard tool to herself-and she didn't intend to waste my sperm by sucking it down her throat.
Vanessa pushed her debilitated sister aside, and swung her libidinous pussy around over my stiffly aroused penis. She used one hand to guide the head of my cock between the well-lubricated lips of her cunt, then she sat down over my loins and drove my eleven inches straight up her vagina.
The noise we made at that joining was a naughty, loud slurp. But it was nothing to the noises that followed.
Vanessa did all the work. She pumped, jerked, circled, swayed. She loved the size of my prick, and gloried in trying to make me enjoy her pussy as much as possible. Her robust hips pleased me more than I can describe. Sparks of lust shot through me like tracer bullets. She was making herself come in a wild masturbatory ritual which relegated me to the role of a human dildo. She might as well have been screwing a fence post.
My eyes became hypnotized by her ovaled, bobbing tits. They bounced in front of me like headlights, the nipples pink as plums and out an inch-and-a-half from the peaks. I couldn't resist reaching up with both hands and holding to the tip of each hot nipple, squeezing them between my thumbs and index fingers wantonly. Droplets of milky goo were soon running down into my palms.
Such extra-added teasing brought my doxy to an overflow. Her pussy climaxed with a blind clutching at my whole penis. She throbbed and shuddered through a multiple orgasm, then collapsed over my chest in a heap.
I patted the sweaty warmth of her buttocks, and drove my middle finger into her anus to the first knuckle, diddling her until she moaned and rolled away from me.
By that time, Clarissa was ready for it again.
I thought it more sensible to leave Vanessa to her dreams. Instead of inviting Clarissa into my arms on the bed, I escorted her to the steward's armchair on the other side of the cabin. There I arranged her nude charms to the best advantage for a thorough fucking. Unlike her brazen sister, Clarissa's narrow slit was a stranger to organs the size of mine. That very knowledge, of course, made my prick just that much stiffer. I burned with a lust to feel my cock up her winsome pussy, right to the balls. I must admit that the thought of spoiling such a choice semi-virgin made me much happier than I would have been with the most licentious French whore. Such is the male animal, veritas!
I posed Clarissa the way a sensitive artist arranges the items of a still life. Her legs spraddled up over the arms of the chair, just so. Her sassy young boobs bunched together like mellow fruits. Her arms behind her head like wings. And I even parted the silken cat-whiskers of her cunt so that her orifice looked like a grinning mouth.
And then I fucked her.
To say that Clarissa took my eleven inches without complaint would be to gild a rather doubtful lily. She bleated on the first thrust of only four inches, and continued to bleat until the pain choked off her breath and a roaring flood of savage pleasure replaced her agony.
I clapped one hand over her mouth to make sure her future joy remained inward, and pressed my advantage by balancing my entire body-weight on the balls of my feet, leaning forward until my cock was up her twat to the fullest.
Then I began the slow, remorseless pumping that always turns a morning virgin into an afternoon whore. No pussy on God's green earth can fail to wax greasy and fat when being fed an enormous prick-one enormously large and enormously stiff. And Miss Clarissa Tingly was no exception.
I had her grunting like a sow in less than ten minutes.
She had only one fault. The more I fucked her, the less attractive she became. It's odd, I know, but some extremely plain females-like Alice Smith-Jones, for example-can somehow transform themselves, in the heat of copulation, to rare beauties. Nature imbues their otherwise pallid cheeks with a Rubenesque glow, makes their eyes sparkle as if the irises had been bathed in champagne, and turns their mousy little mouths into voluptuous beakers from which one longs to suck sweet syrup.
But pretty little Clarissa became a witch of pure lust as I stoked her pussy. Her eyes rolled, her mouth hung slack, her nostrils flared. In short, she forgot all about being a flirt, and became a bona fide harlot.
I fucked her anyway, of course, making her come over and over before shooting her vagina full of boiling sperm.
I left the Tingly twins in the steward's cabin. For all I know, he found them there on his return, frozen into some perpetually erotic tableau-legs apart, nipples elongated and pointing, tongues long and dripping.
I strolled back to my own cabin and met with a scene that was as unpleasant as it was unsurprising.
Mother was having a violent scene with a stranger.
Since Travis Chote will come back into the narrative, I think it only prudent to give you a description of him. In a wild kind of way, he was very much like Angel Dunne-or what Angel might very Well become with money. Expensive tastelessness! He was a small man with a large rump. My first glimpse of him through the cabin door made me think of a large, fat rat dressed up for a Truman Capote costume ball. He wore a shaped knee-length coat of natural wolf, with a mammoth collar. With that, he wore a single-breasted knicker suit in bright wool tartan, a large-brimmed, high-crown, brushed fur-felt hat, and a pair of hand-tooled Western boots.
To say the least, he looked madly gay. Like a rich San Antonio queer pawing over jade cowboy belt-buckles in Neiman-Marcus. Only in this case, Travis Chote was pawing over mother-at least over the defensive words she was shoveling at him concerning Angel.
"She's as innocent as the day is long!" Vona was insisting. "I'm sure Angel would never dream of making advances to a stranger!"
Travis Chote's beady little eyes were blazing. His fortyish face was a maze of angry wrinkles.
"And I say she did, madam! She deliberately seduced my valet."
Mother snorted. "You call that cowboy a valet? For a goddamn horse, maybe!"
"Jake is an extremely capable young man!"
"I'll just bet he is!!"
I stepped into the cabin, but neither of them saw me. In the corner, I could see Otto smiling and paring the perfect nails of his hairy hands. He seemed content to be merely a spectator. I stared meaningfully at Otto, but he merely lifted his busy eyebrows at me, and grinned some more.
"I could go straight to the Captain," Travis Chote hissed. "And if you don't keep that little hussy tied up, I certainly intend to!"
With that, Angel's accuser turned on his booted heels and ran smack into me. He clung to my hips, and stared straight up into my eyes.
"Oh, dear-mercy-uh, HELLO!"
I smiled down at him.
His hands fluttered on my waist for a moment, then he staggered past me, trailing a heavy odor of cologne after him.
I let my smile continue on toward Mother. "Trouble?"
"That hideous little faggot!" Mother gasped. "He had the nerve to march in here and demand that Angel stay away from his lover!"
"A cowboy?"
"It could all be very embarrassing," Otto chuckled.
"You can always laugh, Otto," Mother snapped, "but you don't know how much trouble a fairy can be when crossed. I remember one time in the Follies...."
"Never mind the Follies," I said. "Tell me what happened. And who was that character?"
"Travis Chote from Houston. Oil, I suppose. He's got a beautiful cowboy with him, and naturally when Angel saw Jake in the bar...."
"Where are they now?"
"In Angel's room. Ranee, maybe you can see...." Mother stopped, her eyes glazing over again with fresh irritation. "And just where in the hell have you been! You were supposed to be...."
"Sorry, mums, but I thought you and Otto could handle Angel for at least an hour. I need some breaks, now and then." I smiled. "Besides, our plan was to feed her little pussy, wasn't it?"
"Not with kept studs of rich queens!"
"It takes all kinds for. Angel. She's not particularly selective when it comes to...."
"I suggest you go break it up," mother snapped. "Maybe the cowboy wouldn't like that. Angel is his spread, at the moment."
"Who said anything about the cowboy! I think you should go settle things with Travis Chote!" Otto chuckled, evilly.
"Look, mother. If you think I'm going to screw that old auntie just to keep peace on board...."
"Sacrifice is good for the soul. And it wouldn't be the first time for you, darling. Do you think I've forgotten Freddy Bradshaw?"
"That was different, damn it. I was only nineteen, and I was flunking French!"
"That's too bad," mother smiled. "What's one more little shipboard romance for you. Travis Chote might round out your education."
I glanced balefully at Otto, and in a mad moment of comic inventiveness, he slid his oversized tongue out at me-and pretended to lick an imaginary vagina.
I started out the cabin door.
"And wear something sexy," mother trilled after me. "Are your Acapulco beach-pants cleaned and pressed?"
I made a quick trip by Angel's room. When the coast was clear, I bent down and took a fast peek through the keyhole. All I could see was two large naked feet hanging several inches off the end of Angel's bed. The feet belonged to a male, and it was obvious from the position they were in that Angel was the one on top. I watched the big feet move lubriciously up and down for a few seconds, then went on my way.
I figured that Angel and her cowboy would be at it for some time. Yessir, I shore figured it thataway.
I found Travis Chote with a lot less trouble than I had hoped. He was in the ship's bar, sitting alone at the end of it, moving a swizzle stick slowly around the insides of a pink lady.
I sighed, then walked across the room and slid up on the stool beside him. He turned tragic eyes upon me, then his whole face was transformed into a wreath of happiness.
"HELLO there," he cooed.
I smiled.
"Mother tells me that you've been having a little trouble with my sister."
He gulped, and fluttered his Texas eyelashes at me. "Well, I wouldn't say it was anything terribly important," he gushed. "At least not something that couldn't be talked over, and...."
"Your place or mine?"
His cheeks turned the same color as his pink lady
"Well, I-I-my place will do fine!"
As we swung off the bar stools, I felt his damp little paw patting my buttocks.
I only hoped he didn't expect a sixty-nine-or, as Freddy Bradshaw had once put it: a little soixante-neuf to keep me from feeling too much like a wicked and silly old whore, darlings....
CHAPTER FOUR
Travis Chote turned out to be a much more interesting homo than I had been led to believe.
Which only proves, I suppose, the dictum that instinct is the mother of pleasure. I say that because I enjoyed the next hour in Chote's overly expensive stateroom, and came away feeling that my intellect had been enlarged right along with my libido. Not that he succeeded in making me queer. But there is something to be said for the Greek way, particularly if you are on the receiving end of it.
When we first got into his cabin, I was amused by the fact that he performed the same little ritual that I had performed for the Tingly twins. He poured me a healthy drink. Whereas I had been content to feed my two prize pussies a bit of moderately-priced brandy, Travis Chote served me a glass of excellent Haut-Barsac. I sipped the white wine and strolled around his room, waiting for him to make a classic move.
He made one, but it was hardly classic.
He invited me to look into his trunk of goodies.
"I've been collecting erotica for years," he announced, glancing up at me with the sly grin of a born bibliophile. "In fact, it's the purpose of this trip. A dear friend of mine in Hong Kong has put me onto a possibly mint copy of a Sixteenth Century version of the Ecclesiazusae. Familiar with it?"
I had to admit that I wasn't.
"One of Aristophanes' most erotic plays. Horribly mutilated through the years by puritan censors of Western Civilization, but they say the original is enough to singe anybody's ears. I'm prepared to go as high as ten thousand dollars."
By this time he had the leather bound trunk open, and he was hauling out manuscripts, pictures, scrolls, and booklets. He tossed one at me. It was entitled Puttana Errante by Pietro Aretino, and the whole thing was in Italian. But it had a series of old steel engravings which left nothing to the imagination. I kept coming back to one of them which pictured a rather frumpy young girl being screwed simultaneously in the mouth, ass, and cunt.
"Interesting, isn't it?" Travis Chote hummed.
"The Puttana is all about the education of a whore."
I thought of Angel, and grinned.
"Very bad engravings, I'm afraid. But this one is much classier."
With that, he shoved another book at me. It was bound in morocco leather, with brass bindings and silver clasps. It turned out to be something I did recognize-an English edition of The Adventures of a Flea, with excellent dry point etchings. In one of them, a very well-hung young grenadier of the French Dragoons was licking the spread pussy of a thoroughly titillated girl. The detail of the etching made my prick begin to rise boldly.
I stood beside the trunk with my wine glass in one hand and the naughty book in the other. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Travis Chote was staring with joy at the nice way my penis was coming along. I expected him to reach out and feel it through my pants, but he didn't. Instead, he reached deep into his magic trunk, and came up with the kind of pornography that can make any red-blooded American boy horny as rose bush.
It was one of those badly printed cartoon booklets, the kind we used to have peddled to us by bald-headed old men in pool halls. This one had as its main characters Alley Oop and Betty Boop. There they were in the jungle, doing things that no respectable cartoonist would ever dream of letting them do. Alley was hung like an elephant, of course, and the head of his prick looked like a bowling ball. In the first drawing, Betty Boop was licking on Alley's meat with a tongue as large as a cow's, and in the next picture Alley had his big dong between Betty's pretty legs so deep that her eyes were sticking out like light globes. Some fifteen to twenty pages later, they were still fucking, this time in a green tree house, while a dozen slavering monkeys licked at both their buttocks.
My prick was up stiff as a mule's now, straining painfully against the zipper of my fly.
I tossed the booklet back into the heap, and stretched. At the same time, I spread my legs wide apart and thrust my pelvis forward just enough that Travis Chote could have rubbed his nose against my hard-on, if he had chosen.
He chose, happily enough, to unzip my fly instead, and dig inside with both hands.
I put my fists on my hips and let him pull my king-sized prick out of its lair.
There is no experience quite so satisfying to the true male as the delight reflected in a fairy's eyes when a banquet is set before him. And lucky Travis had a whole feast in front of him.
I watched, grinning, as his nostrils circled the head of my penis, sniffing for the illusive odors of his own lost manhood. Then his sharp little tongue came out, moving fast as a hummingbird's. Soft, wet, furry laps of his tongue brought my prick up into its final phase of stiffness.
"Your balls," Travis wheezed, frantically, "oh, God, how I do love balls!"
To satisfy him, I had to drop my pants down to my ankles. He cupped both my balls in the palms of his hands, and weighed them for size.
"Bigger than Jake's?" I whispered, cuttingly.
Even if they hadn't been, Travis Chote had learned never to argue with a trick-in-hand. His head bobbed up and down like a puppet's.
"Bigger," he agreed, helplessly, "bigger and better!"
And to prove it, he began to lick on them. It was a maneuver that required an acrobat's grace. He dipped his head from one side to the other, writhing and twisting his pursed lips until he had covered every inch of my testicles with saliva.
I was primed for anything by then.
He stood up and began to climb out of his clothes. I stood patiently waiting while his large rump came into view. When he was stripped, he climbed up on the bunk close by, and lifted his shining white buttocks up at me. At the same time, he reached back with both hands and pulled his anus apart like an old inner tube. I found myself gazing at a big, hairy ass that looked as if it had been repeatedly kicked by muddy cowboy boots. And perhaps it had.
"Fuck me, please!!" he husked.
I decided it was high time to collect the bill.
"Do you promise to leave my sister alone?" I demanded in a voice that was just a tone below a threat.
His voice came back at me in a hissing wheeze. "YES!"
"And do you further promise to let that cowboy lover of yours screw my sister any time she gets the itch?"
"OH, GOD YES! HURRY, PLEASE HURRY!"
"And do you promise to get your friend in Hong Kong to line me up with some first-class oriental pussy?"
"ANYTHING-GOOD JESUS, POKE ME WITH THAT BIG THING!!!"
I hate to see a grown fairy cry, so I aimed the blunted head of my cock straight into the maw of his backdoor, and rammed it in up to the balls.
He let out a high, jet-stream of pain, then ecstasy. I could feel the glans of my prick pushing stiffly against his prostate, milking it. He loved it. His rectum seemed to expand with a warm softness, making me feel as if my dick was thrust up a fruit jar full of warm liver.
"FUCK ME, YOU SAVAGE!!!"
I fucked him by my favorite method. I balanced all my weight on the balls of my feet, and put some 185 pounds of muscle into every murderous plunge. I've made girls bite their tongues half in two with pleasure from such expert plowing, and Travis Chote was every bit as appreciative as the most wanton pussy on record.
He moaned and groaned and wept crocodile tears as I ravaged in and out of his slack old gap. On each out motion of my cock, several inches of his flabby anus came sucking out around the head of my penis, only to be driven back in all the way to his bladder.
He came like a squealing pig, and fell forward on his hands and knees. I wasn't quite ready, so I continued screwing him in his new position, holding his ass up into position with both my hands. It was a little like fucking a whore who had been amputated at the waist, but I made do.
In a few seconds, I unloaded a fresh supply of sperm into his faggoty bowels. I thought I would never stop ejaculating-which makes me wonder again where a male gets all that gism. Only an hour before I had flooded Clarissa Tingly's hot young pussy with a gallon of it....
When my stud service was over, Travis Chote was far from satisfied.
He had to suck on me, he said.
I remembered a very appropriate quotation from that old lavender boy, Oscar Wilde, and as I zippered my limping, swollen prick back into my pants, I delivered it to my new playmate.
"There's only one thing worse than not getting what you want-and that's getting it. If I let you eat me now, you won't have anything to look forward to in Hong Kong."
His eyes brightened at once. "May I have it again in Hong Kong?"
"That depends on what you do for me. Remember?"
"I'm sure my friend can help us out on that!"
"One other matter, Mr. Chote...."
"Call me Travis, honey."
"Okay, one other matter. My sister needs some attention, too. You told me I was better hung than your cowboy, didn't you?"
"Yes, definitely-although Jake is a real stallion."
"My sister likes them big. I want your friend in Hong Kong to help her out-say, a Chink prick as big or bigger than mine."
"Lord, you're asking for a lot."
"I've got a lot to give."
Travis grinned and gingerly patted the still considerable lump under my zipper. "You certainly do, sweetie. Personally, I can take Chinese males or leave them. Wouldn't your sister settle for a nice, well-hung English sailor. I have a little black book...."
"Maybe some of that later. But she's a little hung-up on the idea of a Chinaman's dong. A big one."
Travis sighed. "Women," he breathed, scornfully.
I left Travis Chote and wandered back toward my cabin. On the way I passed a long-legged cowboy with long, blond sideburns and a flushed hollowness to his cheeks.
Jake, no doubt.
I made a final detour to Angel's cabin, and found her stretched out nude on her bunk.
"Have fun?" I asked.
She gave me a lazy cat-grin of satisfaction. "You want know what he told me?" she whispered, huskily.
"I can't wait."
"He told me that he could hang six horseshoes on his prick."
"And could he?"
She grinned again, and opened her legs for me to see. Again, I was amazed at the capacity for Angel to take a man of any size. Her pubis looked like two big muffins not quite pushed together. I could see the deep slit of her vulva, and it was a dark pink, wet and slick with sperm.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and used my fingers to pull the lips of her pussy apart.
"Ummmmm...." she purred.
I knew that it was no good pretending that either of us were anything but beasts.
I stood up and started unbuckling my pants.
For the remainder of the trip, I had to go through elaborate dodging patterns to escape the tireless efforts of Travis Chote to get my cock into his rump again. In a bid to get myself off the hook, I steered the Liverpool steward Travis's way. I knew that for a few good American dollars, the steward would have fucked his way through a nursery. As it turned out, my stratagem couldn't have worked better. Not only did Travis shell out money enough to buy the male charms of the steward, he found himself on the (pardon the pun) sucker-list for every hustler on board. The list included all the ship's officers, six more stewards, a whole gaggle of sailors, and a fourteen-year-old cabin boy whom Travis loved to lick all over like a gumdrop.
With Travis preoccupied, I found myself free to divide my time between Angel, the Tingly twins, and an elegant lady in the tourist class section who loved for me to turn a freshly uncorked champagne bottle upside down in her cunt, then lap it (the cunt) dry. She was going to the Orient, she told me, to forget an unhappy love affair with a shoe salesman from Atlanta, Georgia. I was glad to help her forget.
As for satisfying Angel's gargantuan needs, I found a god-send one evening in the ship's steam-room. His name was Gregory Styliano Kareskovllopolus. He was a Greek merchant of indeterminate middle age, a chest like a woolly rug, and a prick between his bowed legs that looked like the forearm of an Olympic weight-lifter.
He was glad to service Angel for hours at a time.
The only problem with Kareskovllopolus came when we finally hoved into Hong Kong's Victoria harbor. The Greek bastard wouldn't let Angel out of his stateroom. By my calculations, and later breathlessly confirmed by a loin-bruised Angel, Kareskovllopolus had screwed her for about eight hours on that farewell night. She said that it was like being in bed with a giant, feathered penguin, one that had the cock of an Arabian stallion. Angel hadn't minded that, of course, but the trouble was that Kareskovllopolus insisted upon stuffing himself while en flagrante delicto with a special horde of Greek food and drink which he had smuggled on board. From Angel's Arkansawerish descriptions, I was able to learn that her Greek satyr had eaten a pound or two of Kalamaraki-tenderized squid to those of my readers who are still on the hamburger and catsup circuit-and washed it down with giant mugs of Ouzo: a blistering mixture of French Pernod, Javanese arrack, and Turkish raki.
Poor Angel vomited almost more than she spasmed!
I had to importune the Captain to get Angel out of the clutches of Kareskovllopolus, and even then he came out on deck with only a soiled towel wrapped around his meaty thighs, yelling at Angel that he would smother her with drachmas if she would consent to be his wife.
The Captain was not amused, but it was too damned late for him to do much about the faint stench of scandal mums had so successfully managed to keep scentless.
Travis Chote was even more thankful to get off the boat. It seemed that the fourteen-year-old cabin boy had warmed into a prodigious hustler, indeed. The last blowjob administered by Travis to the lad's eternally ready prick had cost him a cool forty bucks-and the price was rising!
We had to take a launch from the boat proper because of the congested condition of the harbor. Over a hundred years of British organizational genius had not been able to clear out the hundreds of bat-winged junks and stinking houseboats. And the docks were no better. Chinese coolie crews in their baggy trousers and conical straw hats swarmed around us with offers of everything from taxis to whores. God knew we had enough of the latter in tow!
Travis's lanky cowboy managed to push a note with a telephone number into my hand as we were crawling into a taxi. Later, as our bags were being unpacked in the Hilton, I gave the number a try. "HELLO, Ranee!"
"About that friend of yours," I said.
"You are a horny young scamp, aren't you," Travis cooed. "And where are you and your enchanting mother and sister and ... who is the rather furry creature with the pince-nez?"
"Otto."
"Yes, well where are you mad creatures holed up?"
"At the Hilton."
There was a snobbish gasp. "That garbage dump!? You should have stayed with me at the Marco Polo-Peninsula Court! Lovely smoked duck and camphor tea!"
"About your friend," I sighed.
"You naughty brat!" Travis sang. "I know what you've got on your mind-but remember what you promised me in exchange."
"Sloppy seconds."
There was another peal of wicked laughter from the old faggot, and his breath came back into the receiver like steam. "Actually, my friend is with the British Crown Office. A dear old thing, but you won't have to worry about him. He's strictly a watcher."
"A voyeur, eh?"
"I suppose, if you want to get technical about it. But Regie is a perfectly harmless old thing. He'll just sit there in his tweeds and rub his mustache while people do the wildest things in front of him."
"Can he take care of me and Angel?"
"Well, fixing you up with some silly Chinese floozy won't be of any great difficulty, but finding a really man-sized Chinese male for your overly fastidious sister...."
"When can I meet this Regie?"
"Tonight. Tell me, dear, do you prefer your tarts a bit on the plump or skinny side? I'm told by my British sailor friends that the girls from the Kowloon Province are the best bet in bed. Something going back to the Japanese invasion. Apparently the Japs taught their grandmothers a thing or two about positions that have been handed down like priceless heirlooms."
"A Kowloon girl will do fine."
"And remember-Regie gets to watch, and I get to...."
"Only if the two of you round up a Hong Kong bull for Angel."
"We'll do our best!!"
After talking with Travis, I found Angel in her room and told her the good news.
"Lordy," she breathed, rolling her eyes heavenward, as if Buddha himself had answered her prayers, "if they only knew what I was up to back in Turbandale!"
"Don't get your hopes up, Angel," I warned, gently. "It's a common fact that Oriental males aren't as well hung as, say, Greeks. And if you're expecting anything the size of your Willy, then you may as well forget it."
"Maybe you're wrong, Smarty," Angel grinned. "Have it your way."
Her grin backed up all the way to her earlobes. "I intend to!"
I was tempted to offer a poem for Angel's Zen meditation, something about a butterfly attempting to light on an elephant's back, but I thought her Western pragmatism would have to work itself out in other ways. But one thing I was certain of, if there was a coolie stud to be found then Travis and his fey Britisher had better hustle him out of the bamboo woodwork. I didn't want her to go away from Hong Kong with the feeling that her scrappy young pussy had been cheated out of a mystical experience.
After dinner at the Hilton, I tucked mother and Otto away in her bedroom and rented a walla-walla, or water taxi motorboat, to get Angel and me to the ornate hotel where Travis was staying. Actually, it turned out to be a kind of Holiday Inn with chopsticks. We were led across beautifully kept gardens and little bridges, all lighted by torches, to an outside elevator that carried us right to Travis's suite of rooms.
Jake The Cowboy met us at the door. I was a bit startled to see that he had changed into what were obviously Travis Chote's conception of proper party togs. Jake wore skin-tight gold lame jeans, a purple shirt with pink orchids embroidered into it, and a pair of white, ostrich-hide boots. It was almost more than he could do to keep the butch image intact.
"Howdy," Jake said.
There would be, I realized, a corner of a foreign land that would forever be Travis Chote-or his influence.
Angel gave Jake's long and lonesome body a hungry once-over, and swept by him. I half expected her to give him a husky grope en passant, but she managed to restrain herself.
There were other people in the room, including Travis himself and a rather urbane looking character whom I took to be our high-class procurer. He also looked like a bad Raeburn-one painted in the grand manner, but with old and cracking varnish. At any rate, Travis brought him toward me with one arm looped with school girlish enthusiasm around his friend's waist.
"Ranee, you must meet Sir Reginald-as the Queen calls him. To us, he's known simply as Booplesl"
Sir Reginald's moose-like countenance blanched a bit at the Yankee crudeness of his sister-in-sin, but he managed a brittle, toothy smile for me. His large yellow teeth looked like tombstones beneath the thatch of his British mustache.
"Juh-do!" Booples wheezed, sticking a large, damp hand out, with pinky finger raised.
"About the girl for me," I said, keeping the Ugly American image intact for Sir Reginald.
Booples and Travis made a pair of resigned faces, then Travis pointed in the direction of a pink sofa over in one corner of the room. On it was a very young, very Oriental girl of about fifteen. Or at least she looked fifteen to me, although it's difficult to tell with Orientals. I wondered what street comer she had been grabbed off of, because despite the fact .that she was dolled up to the teeth, there was something basically white-trash about her, or yellow-trash, if you will. But I hadn't let that unique quality prevent me from finding Angel's pussy enchanting, and the truth of the matter was that I was bubbling over with curiosity about the nature of the Chinese female's anatomy. Somehow I couldn't get the old myth out of my boyish head that an Oriental cunt is slanted crossways! The closest I had ever come to researching the matter for myself was once in prep school when seven of us had gangbanged the daughter of our Morean laundress. If the little slut had been a virgin, perhaps it would have been possible to tell about the original configuration of her puss, but she had been letting truck drivers and master sergeants screw her since she was twelve, and I recall that by the time I got into the saddle, her twat resembled the mouth of a rather old and smelly camel.
The girl on the sofa looked infinitely more promising.
"What's her name?" I asked.
"Lord, who knows," Travis said, distastefully. "Call the silly minx Wu-wu. "
Before starting over to get acquainted, I inquired about a male companion for Angel.
"That's Booples' department," Travis hedged.
The Britisher rubbed his mustache in embarrassment. "Bit of a sticky wicket, actually," he mumbled. "I have one of my dearest friends working on the matter. It isn't easy, you know. Frightfully risky business, going about with a tape measure."
"It was part of the bargain," I said, darkly.
Travis managed a weak grin. "Couldn't we just start off with a simple little orgy, dear?"
The idea appealed at once to me, but I'd be damned if I'd let Travis know it.
"How simple?" I said.
Travis almost rolled over with joy. "Well, I had something with the four of you in mind. Jake and Angel, you and Wu-wu."
"Are you going to sit in the bleachers with Booples here?"
"How did you guess!"
I grinned. "You will give me a few minutes to get acquainted with Wu-wu, I hope."
"Take all the time you like, dear boy. Would you care for some saki wine? Wu-wu and Jake have already had enough to float a flotilla of sampans. They say it has an excellent aphrodisiacal effect."
"I'm horny enough as it is."
Travis nudged his courtly pal in his tweedy ribs, so much so that Booples' pansy mouth cracked open in another toothy grin.
I strolled over to where the Chinese girl lay curled temptingly on the sofa. She was wearing a black dress of the Cheongsam variety-slit up the side to well above her thigh. It was high-necked, but that only served to emphasize the subtle curves of her small, firm breasts, and the material was so sheer that I could already see the bulbs of her nipples poking out like robin's eggs.
I didn't know exactly how to begin, having never made out with a Chinese whore before; but even if I had to eat it with chopsticks, I intended to satisfy myself. I just hoped her little honeypot was long and hot enough to take what I fully meant to shove up it.
"Good evening," I said, for starters.
She giggled, and looked at me through slanted eyelids that had been painted a brash turquoise. Her lashes were long as the legs of tropical beetles.
I put my hand on her rump, and that made her giggle again-only this time she opened her mouth wide enough that I was blinded by the gold and silver inlays of her front teeth. I patted her ass with a slowly pressurized kneading of palm and fingertips, feeling just how firm she was down there. Surprisingly enough, she was plenty firm. I resisted the urge to slide my fingers into that slit up her thigh, but I could already feel my prick beginning to harden to a stone club.
"Care to fucky-fucky?" I whispered, feeling stupid but optimistic.
That really got to her funny bone. She not only giggled, but her tiny hand fluttered up to cover her collection of inlays. Her shoulders shook with j convulsive merriment.
I had the distinct feeling that she didn't know what the hell I was saying. I glanced over my shoulder to see what Angel and Jake were up to. Happily, Jake was well on his way to joining his Texas-sized talent with Angel's salacious need. They were on the thick rice-mat carpet in the middle of the room, and Jake had his hand under Angel's skirt, up to the elbow. Jake's oversized twanger was showing a hard-on through his tight gold lame jeans, and Angel was stroking it with just the tips of her fingers.
I directed Wu-wu's attention to the interesting spectacle, and patted her warm little rump again.
She giggled once more, and pulled one of my hands up between the slit of her dress.
To my delight, I discovered that she didn't have a damned thing on under the slinky garment. I found my fingers caressing a well-developed, plump little pussy that had barely a hair on it. There is definitely something about a hairless pussy that can bring out the deepest lust in a male. Don't ask me what it is, unless it's the age-old desire to screw one's baby sister!
I forced my hand well between her legs, so that I could really feel her charms. She opened her thighs dutifully, even expertly, letting me rub and squeeze and explore her hot cunt all I wanted. I got a finger between the lips of her sex, and inserted it in a rotating motion all the way up to the second knuckle. Her pussy felt like a raw oyster to me-slick and slimy and wonderfully lubricated for fucking.
By now my cock was hard as steel.
I took her hand by the wrist-making her giggle-and pulled it down so that she could feel what a big pacifier I had for her. Her giggling continued until she tried to wrap her tiny hand around my prick. Then her giggles died in a gasp. I watched her slitted eyes open to the size of Carol Channing's! They got even larger as she inched her fingers up and down the eleven inches of boldly stiff meat.
I could feel her pussy pulsating in the palm of my hand. The pubis seemed to swell with heated excitement.
"Now do you want to fucky-fucky?" I grinned, wickedly.
She couldn't have understood me better that time if she had spent a decade at Berlitz! She moved her thighs hard against my cupped hand, and I could feel her juices running already!
I slipped my other hand inside the front of her dress and played with the firm, round balls of her little tits. They were small, but perfect. I admired very much the remarkable size of the nipples. They seemed like giant, hard thimbles that had been stuck into a pair of soft bowling balls. I couldn't wait to suck on them!
I began to work the black dress over her head while she yanked at my belt buckle.
Travis and Booples were enjoying the game the four of us were playing. Their heads were moving back and forth like avid fans at a champion tennis match. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw that Jake had already gone me one better with Angel. She was naked as a fig, and Jake was down between her legs, licking on her spongy young pussy like a dog.
That seemed like an excellent way for me to start the party with Wu-wu.
When her creamy yellow body was absolutely naked on the pink sofa, I pulled her legs apart and ran my tongue over her navel and tummy.
She gave one hoarse little giggle, and pushed my head down over her slit.
It didn't occur to me to wonder if what I was suddenly eating was slanted crossways or not. It was Hong Kong poontang, and that was good enough for me!
CHAPTER FIVE
Wu-wu's small, graceful legs were wrapped tightly around my neck when she finally spasmed. I had my tongue up her pussy to the roots, licking and sucking the meaty tissues that had probably been sucked and fucked a thousand times before by soldiers and sailors the world over.
But her cunny was all mine for the present, and the heat boiling up from the matrix of her sex was overpowering and damn delicious.
I swallowed her juices until her orgasm was fading away like a light in a deep fog. Then I let her pussy rest for a few seconds while I kissed her legs all over. Then I moved up to her swollen tits and started sucking their firm cones. Her nipples were hard as rubber, and I made a little game of flipping them back and forth under my tongue.
That sultry game turned Wu-wu on more than having her slit lapped. By the time I had completed a good minute of eating her boobs, she was holding on to me by the ears and grinning like a clown.
"Now!" she panted, savagely. "Fucky-fucky!!"
I glanced at her, and saw that half of her attention-and inspiration-was coming from what Angel and Jake were doing in the middle of the room. I glanced then toward the rice-mat, and grinned. Jake was buck-naked and very much on top of Angel. His lean, cowboy buttocks were moving up and down like pistons as he horsed a large and horny prick in and out of her passionate cunt. What made me the tiniest bit envious was the size of Jake's balls. I'd never seen such a pair of cods on a male before. They hung down from the root of his cock like grapefruit, and on every downward plunge they bounced lewdly together.
It was obvious that Wu-wu was wanting some of the same.
I stripped out of my clothes under the slobbering stares of Travis and Booples-and Wu-wu-and stood at last with my pike straining stiffly out from between my legs.
Wu-wu played with my own not inconsiderable balls for a few seconds, then leaned forward and sucked on me until the head of my prick was a purple mushroom of passion.
"Let's join the gang, honey," I breathed, raggedly.
With that, I scooped Wu-wu up in my arms and carried her over to the marathon sex-match in the middle of the floor. Neither Jake nor Angel paid the slightest bit of attention to us. Angel's head was thrown back, her mouth open, her eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. I knew the look. She always looked a little pig-stupid like that when she was feeling good between the legs. And Jake was working like a trooper to make her come.
I put Wu-wu down butt first beside them, and fell between her willing legs like a football player making a game-winning tackle. Her brazen young pussy took my over-developed prick without a whimper. I began to fuck her heatedly. My buttocks rose and fell in an interesting counterpoint to Jake's bucking hips. In the background I could hear the heavy, excited breathing of our audience.
Both Travis and Booples were going out of their gay heads watching two horny young studs screw pussy.
I knew that Travis, for one, would not be eternally satisfied to remain a spectator. Sooner or later he would insist upon substituting his mouth or his ass for one of the girls' twats. I just hoped he would be content to let Jake and me have our fill of cunt before he got too meddlesome.
Angel was getting her rocks off. I could tell by the low gurgling coming from deep in her throat. Jake heard the warning sounds, too, and he doubled his pumping exercises to make her orgasm as good as possible. It was almost too good for Angel! She crab walked her legs up over the small of Jake's back and hung on to him like a leech, fucking him even harder than he was managing to fuck her.
They shot off together, and continued to grind their loins at each other until both of them were gasping with a joy that bordered on convulsions.
Jake rolled off of Angel, letting his big, wet prick slop out of her pussy, dribbling come. Angel was down on his penis in a flash, licking the bloated head of it with sharp, slapping sounds of her tongue. At the same time, she cupped both of his large balls with her hands and massaged them like a housewife squeezing oranges in a supermarket.
Jake lay on his back with both his arms outstretched and his lanky, hairy legs lewdly apart while Angel sucked his prick back into a workable condition. He didn't even have the energy to look up at her pussy, although she had turned her body around so that her freshly-fucked hole was hanging open-lipped above his mouth.
The sight of those two lust birds brought my own cock into its final stiffness, and with a few more savage plunges into Wu-wu's steamy slit, I climaxed. My first blast of sperm must have punctured Wu-wu's lungs! I kept coming, one lusty torrent of gism after another, until the thrill of it all triggered Wu-wu's overheated ovaries, and she followed suit by spasming violently.
"Mix it up!" Travis groaned huskily from his corner. "MAKE IT AN ORGY!!"
"It should be systematic, old chap," Booples said, almost primly. "Why don't you go direct the dear things?"
The challenge must have brought out hidden artistic ambitions in Travis. In seconds, he was hovering over our four naked bodies, giving us directions like Eric Von Strohm at his worst.
"Ranee, dear," Travis snapped. "Put your lovely head between your sister's legs and eat her pussy!" For once I was willing to follow directions. It took a little maneuvering, but I finally sandwiched my shoulders over Jake's abdomen and pulled Angel's soaked cunt down to my mouth. Despite the fact that Jake had unloaded both his horsy balls into her, I found myself sticking my tongue into the warm, velvety softness of her vulva, and licking like a madman! Angel squirmed with pleasure, and wriggled her buttocks until I stuck my middle finger into her anus as deeply as I could, then she settled into a little purring coma of ecstasy, and I felt her clitoris begin to erect itself into something extremely suckable, too.
"Stop licking on Jake's prick, Angel," Travis cooed, "and suck on Wu-wu's tits, instead."
Having no inhibitions whatsoever, Angel did exactly as she was told. She pulled the Oriental whore into position and began to tongue the perky, dark nipples of her firm young breasts. Wu-wu, of course, giggled at all that, but the sound was one hundred percent pleasure.
"Suck Jake, Wu-wu!"
Wu-wu's small, grinning mouth seemed much too small an opening to take a prick as large as Jake's, but apparently she had had much practice in the art of fellatio. In one lascivious gulp, half of Jake's mighty tool disappeared into the ivory and yellow column of her throat, making Jake open his legs wider than ever.
"Hmmmm...." Travis breathed, tapping one finger slowly against his soft, round jaw. "I think to complete things, Jake should get a finger or two into Wu-wu's pie box!"
Jake was already in the process of doing just that, feeling out blindly until his large hands were covering Wu-wu's smallish buttocks. Then he found her hairless, slippery slit, and rammed two fingers into it up to the second knuckles.
"Oh, God," Travis groaned, appreciatively, "my kingdom for a camera!!"
We held our action filled positions for several long minutes, filling the room with sucking, slurping noises until one after the other of us began to edge toward orgasms.
I was helped along when Travis noted that my oversized twanger was momentarily unattended. I'm not at all sure that he hadn't planned it that way, but just as I was getting Angel in the mood to spasm, I felt a warm, hungry mouth moving up and down on the stiffness of my penis. I knew that it was Travis sneaking in on a bit of the fun, and very subtly I began to fuck his queer mouth by lifting him a few inches in the air with the pumping movements of my hips.
After a while, things began to happen on their own. That's the wonderful part of all-out orgies. Nobody needs a blueprint to discover what is fun, and what isn't. Modesty goes flapping out the window on the wings of the devil!
With or without Travis' inspired direction, we crawled and twisted into new positions until mouths and pussies and pricks and tits were serviced in a round-robin of lust. At one point I found myself in the enviable position of having one mouth sucking my cock and balls, and another licking in and out of my asshole-while at the same time I ate somebody's pussy, pinched somebody's titties, and tickled somebody's nuts!
While I'm being so clinically objective about the matter of orgies, I should point out that another kind of physical miracle takes place-in the male, at least. The hard-on becomes the first weapon of defense. The phenomenon is commented upon at tiresome length, if you recall, in some of the novels of Henry Miller. In such situations, Miller tells us, a stiffened prick-particularly a very large one-can remain in a tumescent state for hours, literally fucking everything put before it. It can also be sucked and licked and jacked and tickled and fondled for hours without beginning to lose the terrific solidity required of it to give pleasure to others.
Jake and I both kept our pricks rigid during the whole of the next hour's ritual. This was not only a boon to the girls, but an absolutely heavenly treat for Travis. He sucked on both of us until his jaws ached, and when he finally crawled back to where Booples was smoking mint-flavored cigarettes, observant eyebrows arched, Jake and I were still stallion-sized in the penis category-and roaring like bulls after the funky cunts of Angel and Wu-wu.
The final phase ended with the girls on their hands and knees and Jake and me giving them both a trade-off version of the dog-fuck. Getting into a hot pussy from the back is an erotic treat of no small thrill. It is the way, anthropologists remind us, that man first screwed-the only really natural way for homo sapiens to make it together. The prick goes in deeper that way, and teases the female's clit better. At any rate, there was damned little complaint from Angel and Wu-wu on the ancient method, and the little variation of trading off in mid-fuck made them enjoy it all the more.
It so happened that I was dicking Angel when I got my rocks off. The only gentlemanly thing for Jake to do was to finish off in Wu-wu's sassy little slit-and that he did, coming so violently up her Oriental cunt that the poor girl farted like a suddenly punctured balloon.
When the evening was over, Booples had still not fulfilled his end of the bargain; to wit, bringing in some well-hung coolie stud to fuck Angel. But I suppose optimism and gall is what has kept the Empire intact, because he offered nothing but glowing promises.
"Don't worry about it, my boy," Booples shrugged, cheerfully, "I'll give you a ring tomorrow afternoon. I'm sure my contacts can come up with something. I'm absolutely positive that your sister won't be totally disappointed in her initial visit to the Crown Colony."
"You're a brick, Booples," I said.
He fluttered his mustache, and beamed.
To satisfy one bit of curiosity, I cornered Travis on our way out and demanded some kind of explanation of his tweedy friend's remarkable isolation from the marrow of life.
"Doesn't he suck, or anything?" I asked, getting right down to the essential facts.
"Booples?" Travis echoed. "I told you, precious. The silly queen is nothing but a watcher-but he works hard at working up very watchable events. Don't worry, if I know him, he'll think of a gala occasion to watch you having your kicks again. He thinks your prick is most remarkable."
"God save the Queens," I said, grinning.
"Bless!"
I think that a proper footnote to the evening would be what happened when Angel and I got back to the Hilton. Christ, if she wasn't still itching. She made me come to her room and have some rice wine with her, all as a prelude to one last, summarizing screw of the day.
I fucked her on a little bamboo-wicker chaise in one corner of her room, with tall Chinese candles sputtering in the faint breeze that blew through the open windows. It was almost romantic, and I labored long and tirelessly to bring Angel to the kind of deep vaginal orgasm she loved. With her head thrown back, and her white tits bowling up at me in the half-light, I was reminded of two characters in the one erotic Far East novel I had ever read-the infamous Jou Pu Tuan. The male character was The Before-Midnight Scholar, and his wife was called Noble Scent.
I had put quite a bit of scholarship into fucking Angel: all the tricks in the book, in fact. And when it was over, the noble scent rising from the stretched and foaming lips of her pussy was quite spermatic in nature.
I left her on the bamboo altar, legs apart, scarlet cunt gaping and wet, and went back to my own room to enjoy the sleep that comes to the proud warrior after a day's work well done.
The following day meant a morning of recuperation. Even Angel wanted to rest up for Booples' call. She was sure that it would bring to fruition her fondest dream. So, after a breakfast with Otto and mums, Angel and I set out for Repulse Bay, on the south side of the island.
It was the perfect place to come to terms with a body whose nerves have been twisted into carnal knots the night before. The charming bay is enclosed on three sides by hills that seem green as billiard tables, and the soft white sand is washed clean every few seconds by very blue, very clear water.
We lay at poolside of the deluxe Hong Kong Hotel-Repulse Bay, then had lunch in a tea-room decorated with lacquered screens and colored parrots in gold cages. Once recovered from the activity of the night before, Angel kept up a constant patter of conversation. She told me all about the first time her brother Willy had tricked her into going out to the bam. Fortunately, we were sitting at a rather isolated table, so that nobody but one small Chinese waiter heard anything that was said. For my part, I sat through the long monologue fortified by one brandy Alexander after another, smoking English ovals, and staring at a point just a few inches above Angel's hairline.
Her brother Willy bored the shit out of me.
It's not every man who likes to hear about the successful exploits of a better-hung stud than he. In fact, I thoroughly hoped that Willy was having to put that big twanger of his into cows and knotholes, now that Angel was out of his clutches.
Early in the afternoon we took our rented car back to the Hilton, and I caught sight of Otto standing in the lobby staring into a newspaper. A big, black cigar jutted from one comer of his mouth.
When he saw me coming toward him, he folded the newspaper and clamped down on his cigar a little harder.
"No damned living with that mother of yours," he spat, huskily, as I approached. "The second I let her out of my sight, she takes off with some limp-wristed Limey bastard."
"Was Travis with them?"
"You mean that faggot from...."
"Yes."
"Damn right. One thing I don't worry about. I don't worry about either one of them sticking their tongues into...."
"Did they say where they were going, Otto?"
He snorted an answer. "No. But they gave me some damn telephone number for you to call.
Some damn place called Victoria Peak. Can I go?"
I smiled. "I can tell by the question, Otto, that mums doesn't want you to come along."
"But goddamn it, I ... "
"Why don't you have some drinks in the bar, Otto. Find yourself some company."
"I wouldn't screw a Commie Chink gal if you put her butt-first on a silver platter. No sir, not me!"
"What was the number, Otto."
He fished a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, and handed it over, cross as a puppy that had been spanked and sent to the dog-house without supper.
I excused myself from Otto, and found a phone booth. Putting a call through in English in Hong Kong is a little like Nixon trying to call the moon, but I finally made contact. Travis' voice came crackling over the wire.
"Ranee, sweets, where on EARTH are you?"
"Still at the Hilton. What's up?"
"A fun-filled afternoon for you and Angel. Take a cab to the Peak Tramway, and get off at the second stop. You can't miss Boon-Boon's house."
"Whose?"
"Boon-Boon Sen Paw-the dear man who is selling me the Ecclesiazusae of Aristophanes. You know."
"Yes, I forgot your literary interests. Second stop, you say?"
"Quite. And for heaven's sakes, don't bring that furry creature with the pince-nez with you. I'm too Hellenic to enjoy watching hairy Neanderthals wallow in sex!"
"I'll give Otto your regards. By the way, what's mums doing there?"
"Your mother and I have become the closest friends. Isn't that simply the final irony. I told her what was in store for you and Jake, and she insisted on a little of it herself."
"You mean mums wants a woman?"
That remark brought a high, tittering laugh from Travis. "How recklessly naive of you, Rancy-pooh! Of course she doesn't want a lez-at least not yet! But who said you were having a woman today? Lord knows that you and Jake pretty well explored that dead-end street of dubious pleasure last night."
"Your opinion. And, look, if you're planning a little gay orgy or something...."
"Don't worry your butch young head, darling. I can't tell you any more at the moment than the fact that you will be thrilled pink by what we've planned. It was all Booples' and Boon-Boon's idea, too."
"I suppose I should feel comforted?"
"Just get your lovely bod over here-and don't lose that big, wonderful doo-dang of yours on the way."
"And you say I can't miss this Boon-Boon's pad?"
"Utterly impossible. It looks like a cross between the Taj Mahal and somebody's out-house.
I think there's a green flag flying somewhere on it with a yellow crab. Ancestor's emblem, or some such Oriental nonsense. Hurry!"
Angel and I left Otto brooding in the lobby of the Hilton, and took a cab to the tramway. It's really a funicular railway, and it rises so steeply that you get the impression all the houses along the way are about to teeter down the mountainside. We both kept our eyes open, and at the second stop we had no trouble at all in spotting the big white monstrosity which obviously belonged to a very rich Chinese merchant.
"Lordamighty," Angel breathed, staring up at the enormous failure of a house, "it looks like a country toilet back in Arkansas."
"And a little like the Taj Mahal," I added, drily.
We were met at the door by a Chinese servant, and ushered down thickly carpeted hallways filled with porcelain urns the size of hogsheads. Our ultimate destination turned out to be a library filled with thousands of books and scrolls. Travis, Booples, mums, and a creature that had to be Mr. Boon-Boon were in one comer of the room poring over four or five opened volumes. Travis saw us first, and came forward like the idea-man in a French whorehouse.
"HELLO, you two! Come meet Boon-Boon!"
Travis led us up to the wizened old man who was dressed like Fu-Manchu's grandfather-in one of those long silken kimono-type gowns, with arms folded together under the sleeves. His head was shiny and bald-polished as an ivory Easter Egg by Faberge-and a long, waxed mustache fell all the way down to his collar.
His eyes, to use a trite Oriental term, were inscrutable.
Boon-Boon bowed to us, and we bowed to him. Booples, who had brought up the rear, made some machine-gun fire conversation with Boon-Boon, in Chinese dialect, and indicated to the old man just who Angel and I were.
Boop-Boon grinned, nodded, sucked his rotting teeth, and brought one of his gnarled hands out of hiding from the kimono. He gestured in the direction of some sliding paper-and-teak doors, and shot back some Chinese to Booples.
Booples glanced at me with his gentle grin. "Mr. Boon-Boon has arranged something for you and Jake-and also something for Angel. Your treat is waiting for you beyond the sliding doors-and your sister's treat is waiting for her in the Shingu-wanchi Prayer room."
"Prayer room?" Angel and I both echoed.
"Yes. Perhaps you've heard of the Cantonese Punti-the native people of that area. They've been farmers for generations, very simple and hardy folk who take life, death, love, lust, pleasure and pain all on a very religious level. They still live in what could only be called primitive conditions within a walled shrine dedicated to the god of land. One interesting thing which few Westerners know about the Punti, is that the males of the caste all seem to be well-endowed, anatomically speaking. Something about the strain of rice grown, or the rare breed of blowfish they shred into their secret recipe for suklyaki-apparently the diet works on the male adolescents of the village like weekly injections of testosterone proprionate. Makes their penises grow astoundingly large and thick-and dozens of centimeters long."
"Just how long is that, you reckon?" Angel breathed.
Booples glanced at her casually. "Anywhere from twelve to fourteen inches, my dear. And on a boy of seventeen, that is a most awesome sight."
"How old is the one I'm...."
"Twenty, actually. And you mustn't be alarmed, Miss Dunne, if the young man takes his work very seriously. As I told you, it's a religious ritual with them-all going back to the worship of the male lingam."
"The which?" Angel asked.
"The prick, my dear," I clarified.
"Lordy-yes!"
"One of the servants will show you to the Prayer Room, Angel," Booples sighed. "And do enjoy yourself...."
Boon-Boon clapped his hands, and a servant appeared. He slipped Angel's hand into his own, and led her like an erotic doll from the room.
"Don't we get to see any of what goes on between Angel and her Punti stud?" I asked, hopefully.
Booples grinned. "Of course, dear chap. You don't think I'd pass up the opportunity to watch such a performance, do you? We'll see it all on closed-circuit television-and your sister and her farmer will be none the wiser."
"You're a sly one, Booples."
"Thanks to Mr. Boon-Boon, whose taste in voyeurism is almost as complex as mine!"
As all of us took comfortable seats in the library, one of Boon-Boon's servants moved a Hokusai scroll-painting aside, revealing a color television set. The same servant twisted knobs, and presently the screen was filled with the picture of a room in another part of the house. The room was completely draped in what looked like Persian carpets. A few smoking pots of incense were placed here and there, and in the center of the screen, sitting on a small ivory bench, was a thin, young Chinese male in a black robe. His head was shaved except for a round tuft right on top, and in one ear he wore a heavy brass ring. As Orientals go, the young man wasn't at all bad looking-a kind of Dustin Hoffman with epicanthic eyes.
"Isn't this MARVELOUS," Travis hummed, leaning forward a little in his chair to study the young man on the screen. "I hear that what he has under that robe would be enough to turn the Pope gay as a Christmas goose. And we're going to watch him do it with Angel, and all in instant-color!"
"Lordy," mums said, grinning at her joke, and casting me one of her more lascivious winks.
"Fortunately, the room is small," Booples explained. "That means that the camera will pick up everything while still remaining motionless. It's concealed in the forehead of an image of Buddha, by-the-by."
At that point, Angel came into the picture, blissfully unaware that she was being watched by six pairs of curious eyes, from afar.
The young Cantonese farmer stood up and bowed to Angel, then he made motions for her to take off her clothes. As she willingly complied, her stud knelt before the camera-idol and made his absolutions with a series of hand-pats and rolling eyeballs.
"Prayin' fer a tight pussy, I'll bet," Jake husked, irreligiously.
"Hush-up!" Travis hissed.
We all watched as the young man stood up again from his kneeling position, and let the robe fall from his thin, bony shoulders.
Travis, Booples, and mums all gasped.
And even I had to inwardly admit that it was the biggest, longest goddamned dong I'd ever seen!
"Jesus-jumpin'-on-the-water," Jake groaned. "Ah ain't seen a horse-prick like that since I used to handle mares at a stud farm."
"HUSH!"
The Chinese farm boy's cock was indeed oversized for his legs. It looked as if somebody had hung a big jellybean between two toothpicks. The boy seemed innocently unaware of what he really had.
"Put a pair of tight jeans on him," Travis wheezed, "and he could make a fortune on Forty-Second Street."
"On any street, love," Booples sighed.
Angel was naked now, and she looked quite fetching as a sudden star of screen and TV. The cones of her very suckable young tits seemed swollen more than usual, and the perky nipples pointed out and up, as if invisible threads were pulling them toward the ceiling.
With unabashed need, Angel rubbed one of her hands between her legs as she stared at the huge prick hanging between the legs of the young Punti. It was still limp, but Angel was quick to do something about that. With her other free hand, she grabbed it somewhere along the middle and pulled it out like one of those huge German sausages. For a moment or two it looked like a dick-by-Dali, limp as one of his famous watches-but in seconds it was filling with blood, pulsing and rising into stiffness.
"God, can you imagine being screwed by that!" Travis moaned, letting his lewd yearnings overcome his decorum. "It would be like driving a taxi-cab up your rectum, then having somebody open both the doors!"
We were all too absorbed by what was beginning to take place on the screen to listen to Travis' erotic ambitions. Angel was on her hands and knees now, paying homage to her own religion-pricks! Wantonly, she was licking the big coral-tinted knob and running her fingers up and down the innumerable inches she was fated to enjoy.
Even one as devoted to cock-sucking as Angel could never hope to get such a loaf of hard meat into her throat. The poor girl did give it the old hillbilly try, though. She opened her mouth wide enough to take a lunchbox sideways, and we all sat in stunned, admiring silence as almost half of the Chinese stud's whopping penis inched into the nearly lipless oval between her nose and chin. No use. With only that much big prick in her mouth, Angel could do nothing more than stare bug-eyed and cheek-flushed. The size of his meat had her tongue pressed to the bottom of her mouth like a lead boot!
"I hate to see one like that wasted on beginners!" Travis hissed, smoldering with jealousy. "If I were there, I'd take it down to his fortune-cookies even if it opened up my appendectomy scar!"
"Ten will git you one, old Angel can fuck it, tho," Jake challenged, gallantly.
Travis craned his neck around to give Jake a withering stare, then tittered when he saw that his handsome young cowboy companion had a hard-on himself.
Jake wasn't the only one. Just watching Angel make-out with a dick that size had vaulted up my own prick until it was straining stiffly against my fly. I intended to watch the blue-movie on the screen just long enough to see if Angel could make her pussy swallow that monster, then I was all for barging through the paper-and-teak doors to see what Boon-Boon had cooked up for Jake and mums and me. Voyeurism hath not the charm to soothe the savage beast in me, thanks!
Angel finally gave up on sucking the farmer's tool. She began to make rather primitive gestures to indicate she would be much more satisfied to try it with her cunny. The gestures were simple ones: she pointed at the horizontally hard penis, then pointed at her pussy. Even Nanook of the North could have understood that message!
The Chink made some gestures of his own, indicating that Angel should sit down on the edge of the ivory bench, and hoist her legs as wide apart as possible. The camera angle couldn't have been better for us if Andy Warhol had been filming something by De Sade. Angel's spicy young legs stretched in a great wishbone of lust when she pulled them apart, and the gap of her wet, scarlet cunt literally screamed for a prick.
Her stud knelt in front of her so that the head of his enormous cock tickled the edges of her vulva, then he put his hands around her waist and gently pulled her forward.
Think of a python trying to crawl into a kitten's pink and yawning little mouth, and you will have some vague idea of how the Punti's penis looked as it stretched Angel's vagina wider and wider apart.
Truth to tell, it was by far one of the more salacious sights my comparatively experienced eyes had seen. The deeper that Chinese prick moved up in the tunnel of Angel's hungry pussy, the wider her legs stretched. At last it was impossible for Angel's arms to push her thighs apart, and so the young farmer took over the operation himself. He wrapped his hands around Angel's ankles and forced her feet as far apart as humanly possible, at the same time feeding his giant, solid prick into her twat right to the balls.
I had grown accustomed to seeing Angel toss her head back like a satisfied sow when her slit was gorged, but with that arm of meat up her hole she not only tossed her head back, she stuck her tongue out to the root and clenched it hard between her teeth.
That farmer-fucker hadn't so much as twitched his hips, and already Angel was coming so hard her tits were vibrating.
It was all I could stand to watch.
My own cock was stiff as petrified wood.
I glanced around at Jake, and saw his big bone pushing out under his jeans like a fist. I motioned toward the paper-and-teak doors, and he grinned sinfully. We were both on our feet in a flash, with Boon-Boon shuffling along behind us like some demented old whore.
Our host slid the doors open and we stepped into a small room filled with dozens of glass jars with insects buzzing madly inside them. There were only two other items in the room: a pair of highly lacquered chairs with dragons carved all the way around them.
"What the hell," Jake husked, raggedly. "Where's the pussy and women?"
Boon-Boon made a few airy gestures at the glasses of insects, and rattled off some Chinese.
"Allow me to translate, boys," Booples said, coming into the room behind us. "Mr. Boon-Boon wants you to experience the Joy of the Transcendant Truth Permeating the Universe."
"What the shit is that?" Jake spat.
Booples' eyes glittered. "It's having those two big pricks of yours licked and sucked in a most unique way."
Jake pointed a large finger at the rows of glass jars. "By them goddamned varmints?" he yelped.
Booples flushed with pleasure. "By Coleoptera, yes. By the largest, hungriest specie of Oriental Beetle known to man. Mustard they will lick off, and ordinary mayonnaise they will suck off. Care to drop your pants?"
CHAPTER SIX
"Ain't no mother-fucking beetle gonna suck my cock!" Jake roared.
Booples smiled at me. "And what about you, Ranee? Are you equally squeamish?"
I smiled right back at him. "I've always wanted to be permeated with truth. I'll try anything if it feels good. Will it?"
"It's the closest to heaven you will ever come, dear boy. And I do mean come."
"Then bring on the beetles."
Boon-Boon clapped his tireless hands again, and a couple of servants came in to take care of our needs. Jake was still reluctant, so I alone took my place in one of the dragon chairs. This, of course, was after I had dutifully dropped my pants to my ankles. And I must say that seldom has my prick been at a stiffer stand. I knew that what Mr. Boon-Boon was offering me in the way of novel sex had to be something preciously handed down for centuries in his family-and only a fool, or a cowboy like Jake, would turn it down without a try.
"You don't have to worry about the coleoptera biting you, or anything unpleasant like that," Booples promised. "These particular insects have been carefully bred over the years under Mr.
Boon-Boon's watchful eyes. They have no cerci, fangs, teeth, beaks, or pincers. They have only raptorial jaws, modified into tubular, blood-sucking organs-and they have been conditioned to crave mustard and mayonnaise...."
While Booples was delivering his dime lecture on the love-life of a hypermetamorphic hesperoctenes, one of Boon-Boon's servants was laving one side of my erected cock with generous globs of mustard, and another servant was gently slapping mayonnaise on the other side. When they were through, my eleven inches looked like a weird hotdog, heavily seasoned.
"Bring the biggest jar there is," I grinned, leaning back in the chair and giving Jake a broad wink.
A servant brought a jar full of swarming greenish-gold beetles over and handed it to Mr. Boon-Boon. Apparently, he was the expert in the matter of application. One end of the jar had been covered with a tightly stretched piece of rubber with a slit down the middle. It was this end that was placed over the bloated head of my prick, so that my stiff tool slid through it easily-and up into the stormy thrashing blizzard of ravenous beetles.
The hardness of my cock held the jar upright between my legs, and I watched as my globby penis was quickly covered by sucking, licking little mouths-hundreds of them!
I remember having read a cheap, slutty novel once when I was about fourteen. In it, the degenerate hero-a sex-crazed Marine lost in the jungles-kept finding himself tormented by horseflies the size of his thumbnail. On an erotic impulse, the character spread the last of his K-ration chocolate bar over the head of his dick, and let the flies have a feast. I can remember that reading about such a vile, lewd experiment had made my own young cock swell like a balloon.
Now I was living such an experience!
The beetles were down to the skin of my prick now, licking and sucking with their hungry, furry little mouths and sending the most carnal thrills through my loins. A whole mad bouquet of them were concentrating on the meatus of my throbbing meat, rapidly titillating me to a violent orgasm.
"Go ahead and come, dear thing," Booples breathed above me. "The little rascals have also learned to adore sperm!"
Just the suggestion triggered the explosion in my balls, and I ejaculated so thunderously that the first thick gluts of semen rocketed a dozen wriggling beetles to the top of the jar and left them sawing their legs in the muck.
At the taste of healthy American-boy gism, the tiny monsters went wild, not allowing my prick to lose even a fraction of its stiffness. They wallowed in the river of nectar flowing down the sides of my tool. They grinned and lapped and licked and kicked their legs in happiness-and the veins in my stimulated prick swelled like lungs.
As I got well on my way to a second glorious climax, Jake joined the fun.
"Gimme whatever it is that makes them varmints suck!" he husked, pulling his pants down to the top of his boots, and allowing his man-sized cock to stand out between his legs like a barber pole.
The same ritual was enacted for Jake, and in seconds a jar of hungry beetles was inverted over his penis, and he was getting the kick of his life.
Jake threw back his head and grinned from ear to ear. "Man-oh-man!" he gurgled. "I ain't had a blowjob like this since I was in the United States Navy!!"
I could see the beetles crawling thick as hops over Jake's violently erected prick. They particularly seemed to like the big valentine of his glans meatus. There must have been two hundred of them fighting to get a chance to suck some part of it.
Jake came almost at once, letting out a whinny like a mare in heat as his sperm blasted hot against the sides of the jar. Just as had happened with me, his cock remained stiff as stone, and the beetles went to work on it again, hungrier than ever.
The next thing I knew, mums was bending over me with a leer.
"Fun, isn't it?" she breathed. "I've been having it done to myself all morning long!"
I was too full of pleasure to even answer. The beetles were getting me to my third orgasm, and with a grunt I let my balls unleash another ropey deluge of spunk....
When it was all over, I was weak as a kitten, but very contented. I was also amused to see that the beetles had grown to almost twice their original size. Their green-and-gold bodies looked bloated-filled to capacity with mustard, mayonnaise, and spermatozoa.
Booples and Boon-Boon had enjoyed the spectacle to the hilt, but oddly enough, Travis was miffed by the competition.
"Disgusting little creatures," he grumbled. "If anybody ever puts them on the market, we'll all be ruined!"
After the beetles blowjob was finished, I pulled my pants back over my swollen penis, and returned to the television set. I wanted to see how Angel was getting along.
She and her Punti stud were still at it, and I could tell from the obscene position they were performing intercourse in that they were nearing the end of the proverbial book.
Angel's head and shoulders were resting on the ivory bench, and her legs and hips were up in the air. She was being held by the feet, like a wheelbarrow, and the young farmer was fucking her with a steady, relentless rhythm. His big prick was oily now with the glistening liquids of Angel's multiple orgasms, and although her vulva was bleeding just a bit, he was getting every inch of it into her with each thrust.
But somehow I found that the scene wasn't as thrilling as it had been.
After all, I had just been to the mountaintop myself.
We didn't get back to the Hilton until almost dusk. For once, Angel had received enough sex for one day, and it took mums and me both to get her into the elevator and back to her room. I undressed her and put her into a warm shower. But I couldn't resist the opportunity of prying open her exhausted pussy just once to see the damage. The inside of her vulva looked like a stomped watermelon, and her clitoris was still as large as a giant pimento.
It occurred to me that perhaps we had gone too far. The jump from pricks of my size and Jake's size to a Cyclopean monster like that farmer's was asking too much even for a twat as ambitious as Angel's. The real trouble, I realized, was now she would demand something even bigger.
And where on the face of the earth was one to be found!?
I had sudden, uncomfortable visions of Angel forsaking us all to go live the life of a whore in the Cantonese Punti's walled city.
Mums would never forgive me for that!
I left Angel in a frozen position in her shower, and went back to my room. I had not been there more than a few seconds when the phone rang, and Otto's drunken voice came slurring over the wire.
"Gotta ask you sommin," Otto managed with his whiskey-thick tongue, then corrected with "gotta tell you sommin, mean...."
"Otto...."
"Gotta show you sommin, by God!"
"Where are you, Otto?"
"Downstairs. Bar. Drunk as shit, boy."
"I'll be right down."
I made that promise a little wearily. The truth was that the abandoned afternoon at Boon-Boons had left me almost as weary as Angel. Those damned beetles had sucked the energy out of me.
But I did go back downstairs, on the assumption that Otto had been drinking for hours to forget how temporarily unwanted he was-and I thought the least I could do was lead him back to his bed and tuck him in.
I was surprised when he met me at the entrance to the bar with a big possum-eating grin on his drunken face. His large, hairy paws clasped my shoulders like hooks.
"Gotta let you shake his hand, boy!" Otto wheezed.
"What are you talking about, Otto?"
"Him, damnit!"
I looked in the direction of where Otto was furtively pointing, and saw a very tall black man perched on a stool near the end of the bar. He was wearing a white turban, and he was sipping something that looked like a vodka gimlet.
"Who is he?" I naturally inquired.
"His raw-uh Highness, that's who," Otto buzzed. "He's from one of those little jock-strap countries somewhere in South Africa. One of those places they just made into a nation, or some-such-shit. His name is Prince Swbabi, but that ain't what I'm trying to tell you...!"
"What are you trying to tell me, Otto?"
"I'm trying to tell you follow that black bastard to the john the next time he-oh, Christ, there he goes! Tear out after him, boy!!"
I was literally pushed in the direction of the Men's Room by Otto. I certainly didn't need to go, or want to go, but Otto drunk is Otto stubborn.
Following a strange man-white or black-into a latrine is more in the line of Travis and Booples. But in I went, shouldering up to where the seven-foot so-called Prince was taking a leak.
And then I saw what Otto had wanted me to see.
It made the Punti's prick look like Cupid's!
The dong the Prince was holding casually in one of his long-fingered hands was as black as a crow's wing-a big, thick, uncircumcised snout of dark meat!
I'm afraid I was staring at it when the gentleman cleared his throat at me.
"Sorry," I breathed, flushing to my hairline.
"It is quite all right," Prince Swhabi said, in a British accent that was even more correct than Booples'. "I have quite often been the object of attention from white men while urinating. In my country, we pay no attention to such things. But the white man is different, is he not?"
The way he said the matter made me smile. I nodded at him, shaking my own inferior penis beside his horse-pissing prodder. "I suppose Freud would say that the male in Western Civilization suffers as much from penis envy as the female," I grinned. "I remember it was that way in the locker rooms when I was in school."
"Ah, you are an American then. I have just met a most unusual citizen from your country. He, too, seemed amazingly curious about the size of my penis. The thought even occurred to me that he might be one of those perverts your Freud makes such a fuss over. You know, males who like males."
"Otto? You don't have to worry about him."
"Then you know the gentleman?"
"Yes, my mother and my sister and I are traveling with him. I can assure you that old Otto is normal as huckleberry pie."
"As what?"
I grinned. "Let's just say that Otto's interest in the size of your-uh-i-if your anatomical uniqueness, is purely in the cause of research."
"You put it curiously, but I must say that I am fascinated. You Americans are almost as morbidly interested in such relatively unimportant matters as the Russians-as Dr. Novarko, in particular."
"Should I know him?"
"Probably not, since it is more than improbable that you Americans have not reached the level of such scientific inquiry as the Russians in this particular matter. Dr. Novarko is in charge of the Academy of Physical Anthropology at the University of Moscow. He is doing an African study on the genitory apparatus of the negroid male in South Africa. He has an amusing little theory that the Negro genitals of males are disproportionately larger than those of their white brothers. He is presently interviewing and measuring in the villages of the province I rule-the Tika-Waudi tribesmen."
Things began to get very much clearer for me. "Did you discuss all this with Otto?" I asked.
"Odd that you should have guessed that. Yes, as a matter-of-fact, your friend seemed inordinately curious about the work of Dr. Novarko. Incidentally, I'm afraid your Mr. Otto is slightly inebriated. He's been drinking something he termed a double-zombie all afternoon. Fourteen of them at last count, I believe."
Poor Otto's head, I thought, was going to be in the same shape as Angel's pussy by morning!
"Tell me, your Royal Highness, are you staying long at the Hilton?"
"As a matter-of-fact, I'm leaving tomorrow. My private jet flies out of the Kai Tak airport at noon. I must be back in Tika-Waudi by tomorrow night. I'm only here on official business."
"I see."
Since the prince had not yet horsed his big black prick into his pants, I stole one more memorizing glance at it, then zipped up my own fly.
"Would you do me and my mother the honor of having breakfast with us, your Highness?" I asked, boldly.
He smiled, and made a slight bow. "That is very kind of you, young man. At what time?"
"At your convenience."
"Excellent. Shall we say at six?"
"In the morning?" I breathed, helplessly.
"It is the habit of my people to arise with the birds, even in foreign lands. But of course, if that is too early...."
"Not at all. Mother and I will be there!"
Back in the bar, I scooped Otto off his stool and got one of the waiters to help me cart him to the elevator. As we rode up, he lolled his head from side to side, fighting off the jazz-band noises in his head.
"You see it, boy?" he slurred, hoarsely. "You see that goddamn hunka coon dingus-you see-you know what-I was thinking...."
"I'm way ahead of you, Otto," I said, patting his bald head affectionately. "Besides, Springtime in Africa can't be as bad as the travel bureaus claim...."
Mums was still up. She was in bed in one of the dozens of see-through French peignoirs she had brought along in the four steamer trunks. She was reading Valley of the Dolls, and she was somewhere in the middle of it. She had been somewhere in the middle of it for months.
When I settled on the corner of her bed, she slid her chic half-lensed horn rims down to the tip of her nose and patted my hand.
"Did you and Angel have fun today?" she asked, making the tone more motherly than necessary. "Never mind that, Vona. You owe me a favor." Her eyebrows rose in little dark moon-rims. "I do. For what, pray tell?"
"For talking me into getting involved with Travis Chote."
"Oh, that. Well, I should think you would be grateful. Look what he dug up for Angel. If that Chinese sex-machine didn't satisfy her, then nothing...."
"You're missing the point, Vona. Now Angel is going to want something bigger and better. And I think I've found it for her-but you've got to help."
Mother's eyes narrowed warily. "How?"
"I want you to pour on the old charm for a new friend of ours. And don't worry, he's not Oriental."
"Thank God for that. I loathe yellow skin."
"How would you take to black?"
"Skin?"
"Every inch of him."
Mums licked her lips rapidly. "Just how many damn black inches are we talking about?"
"Fourteen or fifteen, give or take a...."
"Forget it!"
Her hands were fluttering all over the bedspread, so I calmed her by holding her wrists.
"You're missing the point again, sweetie. You don't have to bed down with the guy, just charm him into inviting us aboard his jet."
"He's going somewhere?"
"Yes, back to Africa. He's a Prince."
Mums looked skeptical. "A prince-of-a-fellow, or...."
"No, darling, a real Prince. Turban, stars-and-garters and the whole bit."
Mother grinned, then frowned. "When do I meet him?"
"Early in the morning for breakfast, but...." She was pushing me off the bed, and leaping out. I watched her head for one of the steamer trunks that had been banked over in one corner of the room. She opened it and began throwing out clothes.
"Garbo," she muttered, ruthlessly. "Two will get you four, all the hell he knows about American women is what he's seen in old Greta Garbo films. Grand Hotel, Camille, Ninotchka...."
"Mums, he's a Prince, for Christ's sakes. He's more sophisticated than that. He's not wearing tiger-teeth around his neck and an old Neville Chamberlain bowler!"
Mums ignored me with a grand sweep of her hand. "Don't tell me about Africa," she snapped. "I was in the Belgian Congo right before the War-and they were just getting around to showing stuff with Barbara La Marr and Warner Baxter in the leads. My guess is that Garbo is the hottest thing going!"
There is no arguing with mums when it is an idee fixe. So I didn't bother trying. If she wanted to turn the head of Prince Swhabi as a femme fatale out of the thirties, then I damn sure couldn't stop her. But I could watch the bizarre ritual from the relative safe bastion of her bed.
Mums pulled out the garments she would need, and piled them beside the trunk. She had brought more costumes than the Queen of England on a World Tour. First, she threw down a black cloche hat, the kind under which Greta Garbo and Jean Harlow sucked their cheeks through a thousand films; then she added to that a Spanish Gypsy blouse, a pair of silk culottes, and her gold wedgies. I've always hated mums in her culottes, those informal trouser-like things having leg portions that are full and fall together to simulate a skirt. I always thought she looked like Mary Pickford with a weight problem.
Next came the furs.
Shylock couldn't have given the various pieces of fur a better going over. Before she got to the bottom of the trunk and at the one she wanted, she had tossed over her shoulder a fortune in dead animals: a silver pointed fox, a lustrous black lynx, a full-length maxi mink, and an ocelot cape trimmed with chinchilla. What she chose to wear was a wrap-around leopard from Somali.
The last thing she fished out of her endless well of la haute couture was a pair of California sunglasses with enormous lenses smoked black as tar, and a ten-inch ivory cigarette holder.
Then she turned to me with a scornful grin. "If that doesn't turn the silly coon on, then Lady Godiva riding a dildo won't do it!"
"You'd better get some sleep, mums," I sighed, rising from the bed and starting across the room.
"Don't be a ninny!" she puffed. "It's going to take me hours to get on make-up!"
She caught me at the door. "One other thing I've got to have."
I groaned. "What is it-a pair of pink Afghans?"
"You're close. I want you to run out someplace and buy me a box of violet-tinted, gold-tipped Sobranie of London cocktail cigarettes. This is British Hong Kong, so don't let them give you any lip!"
Dressing mums for a kill is, at best, a safari into the deeper mysteries of Woman.
I picked her up at the crack of dawn the next morning, and I must say that Greta Garbo never looked lovelier.
If mums had had a dozen Max Factor artists at work on her gallant old mug, she couldn't have looked better. And when we stepped out of the elevator downstairs, every head in the place turned.
The Prince was waiting for us in a private dining room, and even before I could begin to make introductions, mums was sweeping toward him with one arm stretched out for him to kiss.
Having been bred at Oxford (a fact neither mums nor I knew about at the time) the prince dutifully took the proffered hand, kissing it lightly.
"My son tells me that you are the most fascinating man he's ever met," mums cooed as she allowed the Prince to settle her culotted hips into a chair.
The Prince smiled. "A lack of experience in the young often leads to confusing molehills with mountains," the Prince whispered, modestly.
Mums managed a good-natured laugh, but one that went a little dead on the last tinkle. I could see that she was annoyed.
"Perhaps not everybody has had your opportunities," mums said, a bit icily.
"I'm sure that they haven't," Prince Swhabi murmured, taking his own chair.
I tried to kick mums under the table, but she barged on, her hackles up at being bested by a black man.
"What I had in mind, of course," mums hissed, "was the fact that in really democratic countries young men must rise by their own bootstraps. They don't have life and luxury handed to them on the sweating backs of the downtrodden proletariat!"
Oh, Christ, I thought.
The Prince arched an eyebrow, and his handsome black face became very sober. "I can assure you, madame, that in Tika-Waudi, the natives are very happy with their...."
"Damn basket-weaving? I'll just bet they are!!"
"It is only when outside agitators come in that...."
"Jerks like you quit raking in the profits!"
The breakfast was a disaster, and I hustled mums back upstairs even before she had finished what she kept insisting on calling "a poor working-woman's fodder"-despite the fact that the Prince had ordered a sumptuous souffle for three.
Back in her room, I tore into mum's idiotic performance.
"Goddamnit, you were supposed to be Greta Garbo-not Emma Goldman! You've really fucked up the chances of getting Angel together with...."
"Ask me if I care! No big, black buck know-it-all is gonna...."
We were both interrupted by a tapping on the door, and a small Chinese boy handed me a folded piece of heavy white paper. When I opened it, I saw that it was embossed with the coat-of-arms of Prince Swhabi. I read it, whooped with joy, then read it again out loud to mums.
"My dear Mr. Carey: I must say that I found your mother charming, as well as bold. And I couldn't agree more with her views on dialectical materialism and the historic-sociological analysis of bourgeoisie economics. Would you please be my guests in Tika-Waudi for as long as you like? The jet leaves at noon. "
"My God," mums croaked, "he's a pink black-panther!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Prince Swhabi's private jet landed some several hours later in the capital of the province of Tika-Waudi. We were met at the isolated strip by a big black limousine and four jeeps full of black soldiers in rather garish uniforms. The way they stomped their right feet and brought their hands up in flat-palmed salute revealed just how much the military rituals of the small African state owed to the British and the Belgians.
The prince and the rest of us were whisked off through the downtown area of the capital to the palace. The route was directly through the open markets, and both mums and I lost count of the number of wild and contradictory odors which assailed our nostrils. I do remember wood smoke, incense, goats, garlic, sewage and hair oil. And there was also an almost definable scent of sex in the air-and not a very pleasant perfume, either. I, for one, was reminded of the time I got very drunk on screwdrivers and woke up the next morning with my nose buried in the thighs of a very fat, very badly fucked whore with red corkscrew curls on her cunt.
But Angel seemed to find the pervasive aromas as enticing as the oils of Araby.
"Smells like Turbandale on Saturday night," she said, simply.
Once we got to the palace, we were put up in grand style. Grand for Tika-Waudi, that is. Otto and I were bunked together in a room the size of a bus station, with tiger skins on the floor and crossed spears on the walls. Mums and Angel were put into a sunlit suite of rooms near the Prince.
After we had once again unpacked, we all had tea together down in a large sitting room on the main floor.
A bevy of white-uniformed black servants scurried at our commands-or those of the Prince-and I noticed that Angel had her eye on one in particular. He was built very much like the Prince himself, as were many of the natives; that is, he was almost seven feet tall, and his skin was so black that it had bluish tints to it. I wondered if under his snow-white trousers he was hiding a dong as large as the Prince-and apparently Angel was wondering the same thing. Every time the young servant passed, Angel's eyes seemed riveted to his crotch.
When I was able to get Otto aside, I pumped him for information.
"I saw you talking in the back of the jet to Angel," I whispered. "Did you tell her about the Prince?"
Otto grinned like a wizened elf. "You mean about that big twanger of his?"
I nodded, and Otto's grin expanded.
I didn't have to ask if Angel was interested. Anyway, I didn't have the time, because at that moment the Prince was tapping me on the shoulder.
"I have suggested to the ladies," he said, crisply, "that they might like to go shopping in the market. Some of my soldiers and servants will accompany them. While they are thus occupied, Mr. Carey, I was wondering if you and your friend would like to meet Dr. Novarko."
"The Russian?"
"Yes, he's headquartered in one of the office buildings behind the palace. I am sure that he is back by now from his daily trips into the outlying villages. I thought perhaps you might find the results of his experiment interesting." The Prince narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a suggestive whisper. "Besides, my young friend, there is something I would like to discuss with you concerning your mother."
"Mums?"
"Of course. I find her a most charming widow, as I told you in my note."
I could feel Otto bristling slightly beside me, and felt a bit sorry for him. Out of the frying pan and into the fire! But it was his own fault-he should have known that mums would have been safer in the hands of homosexuals than in the horny hands of a black stud like the Prince.
We agreed to the trip, and as soon as we saw Angel and mums off for their shopping spree, the Prince led us through a series of passageways to the back of the palace, then across a sward of courtyard to a small, whitewashed building.
When we entered, we found a small man with a very black mustache hunched over a desk piled high with graphs, statistical data, and line-drawings of extremely large male genitals.
Dr. Novarko glanced up at us in irritation, then smiled grudgingly when he saw that we included the Prince in our number.
"Dr. Novarko, may I present some friends of mine," Prince Swhabi said. "This is Mr. Ranee Carey, and a friend of his, Mr. Otto Sigwald. They are interested in your work."
The Russian made grunting sounds, like a small, trained Siberian bear, and stuck his hands out at each of us. Then he seemed to remember something of far more importance than the social amenities. He turned and snatched up a Polaroid color picture from the desk, and held it up for the Prince to see.
"Ziss is my find for the day, Your Highness," Dr. Novarko growled, in a voice thick with accent. "One of the young men of the Vulupa Village, six kilometers from here."
We all looked at the photograph, and we were all impressed. It showed a very tall, very black young man of about nineteen, standing with his legs slightly apart and his hands placed flat against his hips. He was totally naked, and the huge dark pipe of his penis hung almost to his knees!
"Zee biggest yet!" Dr. Novarko breathed, proudly.
Prince Swhabi smiled, and handed the picture back to the Russian scientist. "I must congratulate you, doctor. But I think you will find speciments among my people which will rival even that one-and very likely surpass it."
The Russian's eyes grew round and covetous. "But where!?" he gasped.
"In the northern hills of the province. I say hills, but that would be misleading by your European standards. The hills I am talking about are hills of sand. The nomad villages of the Tessawali tribesmen is in a country utterly devoid of resources: no water, no wood, no grass, no growing, living thing. Except the Tessawali themselves."
"And they have large genitalia?" Dr. Novarko asked.
The Prince smiled. "My grandfather was a Tessawalian himself. There is a legend about the God Recher which explains this phenomenon to the satisfaction of the villagers. It seems that the God fell in love once with a maiden from the Tessawali tribe. The father was a very jealous, protective chief, and in order to keep his daughter's virginity intact, he buried her in a deep, cool well in the middle of the blazing desert. Recher would not be stopped from enjoying the soft and tempting glory of the young girl, however, and in the middle of the night he crept up to the well and by miraculous powers given to him caused his penis to grow some twelve feet in length. He was thus able to send his throbbing organ down to the bottom of the well, where he enjoyed the maiden's willing charms the whole night long. Out of gratitude-and perhaps as a sap to his conscience-Recher granted to the male members of the Tessawali the gift of very large and very long genitalia. I know it all sounds like the most witless kind of primitive mythology to your Western minds, but I can assure you that every villager believes it-and the proof is in the pudding, isn't it?"
Remembering that black-stallion cock the Prince had dragged out back at the Hilton urinal, I was convinced!
"I must make ziss expedition," Dr. Novark wheezed. "I must see for myself!"
"It is a three-day journey," the Prince said, calmly. "But the truth is that I have been intending to visit the Tessawali myself. I could arrange a much more comfortable safari than would be possible if I did not go along."
"It would be my honor to have you accompany me in a quest that is so valuable to the development of Russian science," Dr. Novarko bullshitted.
"Then it is done."
The Prince turned to me, his voice more oily than ever. "And I would be most gratified if you and your friends could come, too. I assure you, the discomfort will be minimal. I should not want you to think that Africa is still the place you have always imagined it to be from those silly Tarzan pictures."
"I'll talk to mums about it," I said, remembering her dopey idea about Garbo being all the rage in the Dark Continent.
"We shall prepare for the expedition immediately, then," the Prince said.
As we were walking back toward the palace, the Prince managed to get a few more private words with me, while Otto and Dr. Novarko walked ahead of us.
"This sister of yours, Mr. Carey. I noticed that she seemed quite interested in one of my servants at tea-time."
I smiled. "You don't miss a thing, do you, Your Highness."
"Not when it comes to the desires of women. Although I am not myself married-yet-I am very much attuned to the little sexual and romantic nuances of females about me. I was wondering, would your sister care to become better acquainted with Kok?"
"Kok?" I echoed, amused that the name sounded exactly like the slang term for penis.
"Yes. He is the son of my uncle. In our small way, we practice a kind of nepotism. Cousins and nephews and nieces...."
"Pardon me, Your Highness, but that reminds me. I've seen nothing but male servants around the palace."
The Prince smiled understandingly. "Yes, it is part of our religion. But I can assure you, we have hundreds of lovely young Tika-Waudi maidens about. Would you like to meet one of them?"
"I'd love to."
"And your sister and Kok...?"
"I don't think Angel would exactly fight the idea, sir."
We all had brandy out on the balcony of the palace-all of us, that is, except Dr. Novarko, who insisted upon vodka-and when mums and Angel came back from shopping, we all retired to our rooms for a nap.
"What the hell is going on," Otto snapped, the second we were safe in our own privacy. "Is that coon trying to get into Vona's panties?"
I shrugged. "You'll have to ask him that yourself, Otto."
Otto's bald little head turned pink as lobster. "But you saw that thing he's swinging! We can't let him goose your mother with that!"
"Don't be jealous, Otto. I'm sure mums can take care of herself."
"But I meant for him to use it on Angel, damnit!"
"Yes, that was my original plan, too. But you know how head-strong royalty can be. And we are guests, Otto."
I thought Otto was going to cry. He went to one corner of the room and buried his face in his fat, hairy hands and remained in that position until I dropped off into a just sleep.
When I opened my eyes again, darkness had fallen over the face of Africa. Moonlight filled the big room, and the savage spears glinted on the walls. Otto was snoring in the bed opposite me, so I got up very quietly and tip-toed to the door. I peeked out into the hall, caught sight of one of the uniformed guards, and motioned for him to come to me.
"Would you take a message to the Prince for me?"
The guard nodded.
"Tell his Royal Highness that I am ready to meet a maiden."
The guard didn't even blink-which made me wonder if maidens weren't served to the royal guests the way Englishmen serve crumpets.
After the guard was gone, I hurried back and took a quick shower, dabbed myself with cologne, put on white slacks and white shirt, and as a last-minute inspiration, borrowed one of Otto's fancy ring-ties.
Otto slept through the whole thing, blissful as a baby who has cried himself to sleep over spilled milk.
When the tap finally came on the door, I was ready.
The guard had returned, but he had no maiden with him. Instead, he handed me a small white card on which a room number had been casually scrawled.
"The west wing of the palace, sir," the guard said, politely. "You will find what you have asked for in the room indicated on the card."
"Thanks."
The guard gave me one of those snappy, open-handed salutes and went back to his post.
I found the west wing of the palace more by instinct than anything else. Call it sexual instinct, the migratory sense of the horny male.
I passed a number of rooms that looked exactly alike until I came to the one with my name on it, so-to-speak. I didn't know whether to knock or not, but finally I simply twisted the swan-shaped handle of the door, and barged in.
The room was lovely, but empty!
The windows were drawn with white silk draperies, and instead of regular Western-style furniture there were a dozen or so squat, ottoman-like pillows scattered about. A couple of thick, perfumed candles burned at the top of tall, brass tapers.
I stood there for a few seconds with egg on my face until I heard the slippered shuffling of feet coming from one side of the room. I turned just in time to see a hunchbacked dwarf waddling in my direction. He was black as the proverbial ace of spades, and his white eyes in his dark face looked as large as eggs. His robe was made of the same material as the silk drapes, and cut a bit too long for him.
"Good evening, sir," he lisped, rubbing his stubby black hands together like a merchant about to sell me a cheap suit. "I am at your service-yours and the service of his Most Holy and Righteous Defender of the Lions of Tika and the Eternal Doves of Waudi."
I presumed he meant the Prince.
"I was looking for a girl," I said, hopefully.
The hand-rubbing got very intense. "Yes, of course, sir. It is for that purpose I have been sent to you. Won't you have a seat-the gold pillow is for you."
He hobbled a few feet ahead of me, and indicated that I was to sit down on the largest of the ottomans. I did so, and he placed himself in front of me, smiling and bowing, like a waiter ready to take my order.
"Would you prefer to look the maidens over one at a time, all at once, naked or clothed, dancing or walking, or none of the above?" he rattled, idiotically.
I stared at him. Then I had to grin.
"What's the specialty of the house?" I said.
He understood what I meant perfectly, and he gave me a sly wink.
"May I suggest that young sir begin with a virgin of fourteen for the first course, then perhaps later sample something of more prime quality?"
I rubbed my hands. "Excellent," I husked.
The dwarf bowed, then shuffled off again in the same direction from which he had appeared.
He disappeared through a small door, and I sat in perfect silence for a few seconds. Then the door opened again, and here came the dwarf, this time leading a very young black girl by the hand. For the life of me, I could think of nothing but Bert Parks parading a Miss America candidate around the stage in Atlantic City!
"This is Yolinga," the dwarf said, presenting the girl to me, and making her pirouette for my approval by twisting one of her hands like a ballet master.
The girl was beautiful. Her skin was not the same ebony color of most of the natives I had seen in Tika-Waudi. Instead, it was cinnamon brown, and the highlights on her smooth young face were light topaz. She had on a diaphanous little gown that covered almost all of her body, but had an exciting way of hiding nothing.
I could see the firm cones of her little titties, spiked with the darker aureoles of her nipples. And between her thighs I could make out an even darker area, where the newly budded hair of her pubis barely covered the sweetness of her virgin pussy.
My prick was already getting stiff!
The dwarf made her do about three more pirouettes, then glanced at me for my approval. I nodded, and he bowed again before disappearing.
The girl then came toward me, using an almost pathetic slinking movement of her hips. It was obvious that she had been trained for a number of years in the art of being a courtesan. She knew all the tricks, she just wasn't too adept as yet at employing them.
I had only the dwarf's word that she was a virgin, but it certainly seemed likely that she was. The Prince probably kept a fresh supply of such tasty little females for just such occasions as this. And I was more than happy to be an occasion!
I patted the edge of the gold pillow, and she settled her little dark hips very close to mine. Even before I could touch her, she had made the first advance. A harlot in training doesn't stand on formalities.
She put both of her hands on the bulge along the side of my leg, and began to very gently tease my prick into getting violently erected. The size of it didn't seem to surprise her, or frighten her-and then I remembered that I was in the land of overgrown genitalia. If she had seen a penis at all in her lifetime, it might very well have been one longer and thicker than mine.
She had me groaning a lot in only seconds, and I was delighted when she began to expertly work the zipper of my fly downwards. When she slipped one nimble little hand inside my shorts, I lifted my hips so that she could more easily pull out my hard cock.
Out it came, head first!
I don't like to brag, but if there is anything more praiseworthy about my dick than its size, it is the shape of the meatus. A perfect helmet of pink flesh, and one that any number of panting female tongues have loved to lick and kiss.
My little black passion-slave was no exception to that joyous tradition.
She bent her head down low between my opened legs, and shot her pointed tongue out in a series of thrilling attacks on the swollen knob of my prodder. I still had not touched her, and I kept my own desires in check until she had thoroughly covered the head of my cock with the warm latherings of her saliva.
Then I pushed my hand between her legs to feel of her cunt.
I was surprised to find that the hairs on her tender young pubis were very thick and oiled-like horsehairs. My penis throbbed in her mouth, just thinking about how much fun it would be to feel the bristles of her pussy rubbing salaciously against the probing head of my peter.
I began to fondle her pear-shaped tits with just the tips of the fingers of my other hand. It was like kneading fresh dough-chocolate dough with cinnamon and other spices mixed in. I knew her boobs were spicy, because not only was I squeezing her tits, I was smelling them through the thin gauze of her dress. She had been taught very carefully about how to use perfume, and my nostrils responded readily to the musk and myrrh of her body. I rubbed my nose against the little nipple-heads that coned her breasts, making them harden into succulent buds. Then I licked at them through the thin cloth, teasing each nipple in a novel way that made them swell to an even more tingling erectness.
In the meantime, her constant sucking and licking had brought my penis to a perfectly vertical position. My glans meatus was in full bloom, the erectile muscle running up the underside of my cock grew as thick as a hemp rope, and my balls were clamoring for an all-out fucking of her virginal little slit. A slit, incidentally, which was growing hotter and wetter by the second as I rubbed the palm of my hand into it.
She sensed what I wanted-even if she had learned it from ancient Indian and African sex manuals-and she danced briefly away from me, so that she could divest herself of her flimsy costume. I took the welcome opportunity to do a little divesting of my own. By the time my little brown-skinned Lolita was naked, so was I.
I am more fortunate than most young men my age. In such situations, I don't feel an ounce of moral compunction, not a jot of conscience. The idea that I was about to rupture the maidenhead of a fourteen-year-old virgin-and do it with a prick of ungodly length and strength-bothered me not a whit. In fact, I looked forward to it, as if little Satanic bells were tied to my pointed, satyr's ears.
The girl had a few more teasing tricks to perform before we actually fucked. She made gestures for me to lie down on the softly carpeted floor. I did so, stretching both my arms and legs out into a cartwheel of masculine desire-and availability. My stiff tool stood up from my loins like a tower of lust.
The girl then maneuvered herself into a most interesting position-one which couldn't fail to titillate a male. She straddled me by sitting with her buttocks on the upper part of my legs, thus facing me and thus pushing her pussy up snugly against the root of my prick. In such a position, she was able to wrap both her thighs tightly around my erected cock, so as to give the amusing optical illusion that it was her organ!
It is incredible how powerfully stimulating that little trick became to me. I lay there, with her tiny feet on either side of my head, gazing down at her small, naked body that seemed to have an enormous white prick jutting up from between her legs. It reminded me of one of those crazy bi-sexual Hindu gods-Vishnu or Siva-who is both male and female, both lingam and yoni, and who seems a remote echo of a more distant epoch in man's sexual development. It both simplified and intensified the pleasure of sex, making eroticism as natural as a bath in sunlight.
And then my young seductress began to stimulate me even more. She brought her fingertips to the column of my hard prick and started a testing ritual that turned my already bloated glans into an ugly mushroom of lust. Her fingers danced over my penis with feathery lightness: she literally played my prick like a big flute of passion!
I allowed her the game for as long as I could stand it, but when the vesicular squirts began to signal an orgasm, I pulled her forward and pushed her over into fucking position. She responded willingly enough-but if she had known what incredible pain would accompany the plundering of her tight young pussy, she might have fought me off like a Bengal tigress.
In my excitement to penetrate her vulva, I lost control of my usual finesse for fucking. I rammed and jabbed the head of my cock between the moist but barely parted lips of her cunt, making her yelp with pain. That irritated the animal in me, and I clapped one hand across her mouth and proceeded to work again in peace and quiet. Just getting the tip of my prick into her vulva stoppered her little hole like a big Irish potato corked into a perfume bottle!
I could sense the terrible constipation of her vaginal tunnel as I forced a few more inches into her. It was as if her pussy had become a rectum, and in some mad, acid-trip manner was attempting to ingest the massive turd of my penis!
I thrust and lunged again, feeling her pussy grow both hot and bloody. The constriction of her vaginal walls felt deliciously good to me, and I yearned to get my dick right up to the mouth of her adolescent womb.
How maddeningly delightful it is when you are young and horny and hung, to find yourself mounted on a girl of fourteen, your prick lodged to the point of no return in her sappy cunt, fucking her with tons of lust and not one ounce of affection!
My third thrust woke her deepest pain by tearing through the fragile skein of her maidenhead, dragging that curiously modest piece of nature's handiwork into the very matrix of her throbbing hole.
The pain was blinding for her. She jerked under me like one of Candide's sweethearts with an ape's teeth in her ass. But as with that French fool's girlfriends, my little whore was enjoying her pain to the brim. She jerked again, and made muffled screams against my masking hand, but at the same time, she wrapped the calves of her little legs over the back of my own legs, and began a movement that could only be classified as fucking-in-return.
I knew then that I could add her to my ever-growing list of satisfied customers!
In a few more moments of constant thrusting, my whole hellish prick was sheathed in her pussy. I could feel the horsy hairs of her African twat tickling my balls!
After that, I simply fucked her without letup until both of us were reaching the kind of mutually wild explosion that male and female were designed for.
Her spasms were youthful and prolonged, and even when the last pulsating throbs had ended in my swollen rod, she was still riding far out on wings of raw pleasure. I gilded those wings a bit by sucking up into my throat the puffed cones of each of her swarthy breasts, and holding them gently clenched between my teeth while my tongue lapped away at the nipples.
When both of us were thoroughly sated, I crawled off of her lithe body. My rogue-prick came slurping from between the scarlet lips of her pussy with such difficulty that she moaned with pleasure.
No sooner was I on my feet than the dwarf reappeared with a goblet of dark wine. I drank it down gratefully, then sank buck-naked again on my golden pillow.
"Bring on the dancing girls," I commanded, huskily.
And he did.
Later, I learned of Angel's evening of debauchery. It was spent in a room full of mirrors, she told me-mirrors on the walls and the ceilings. She said that the only piece of furniture in the entire room was an enormous gold bed in the shape of a swan, with white satin sheets on it.
"And you and Kok in the middle of it?" I asked. Angel made a little soft humming noise in the bottom of her throat, as if remembering every inch of the young black servant's penis.
"I never did anything half that bad with a colored man before," she confessed, guiltily. "I bet we was at it for three, going on four hours."
"Was it big enough for you?" I sighed.
Angel grinned. Then she held up both of her hands, measuring a width of thin air just like the fisherman who is trying to explain about the big one that got away.
I burned with jealousy. "Come on, damn it," I breathed, "Nobody has got a prick that big!"
"All I know is, Mr. Smarty," Angel snapped, "that it hurt my hind-end."
"That's what you get for being idiotic enough to let him cornhole you, baby."
"Who said he got in the back door? It was so long when he got it in the front that I thought it was gonna come out my poop hole, honest to God."
Once an Arkansas Traveler, always one.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The safari that Prince Swhabi mounted for our benefit was no small affair.
Although we all rode in air-conditioned jungle trucks, we were the only ones allowed such luxury. Over one hundred natives accompanied us, and all on foot. First went the native hunters, trotting briskly and keeping a lookout for wild animals. They were followed by servants carrying rifles, ammunition and personal luggage. Other natives carried cameras, food, and taxidermic supplies while ten laden asses brought up the rear with us, all bearing tents and other camping equipment.
I was unlucky enough to find myself in the same truck with Otto and Dr. Novarko. Otto was in a blue funk because mums was riding up ahead with the Prince, and Otto was sure that with every mile of desert crossed, the Prince was getting one more finger into mums' twat.
And riding with Dr. Novarko was no picnic, either. In fact, I was more than a little sure that he was the biggest drunk this side of the Volga-at least when he was not hunting big pricks. And even when he didn't have his tape measure in hand, cocks seemed to be the one topic of conversation he felt happy with.
Between pulls on his big flask of vodka, the Russian gave us lectures on the superiority of Soviet Socialistic Science-and assorted anatomical giants he had measured.
"Is common belief," Novark grunted, "that the penis of the Negro is bigger and longer than that of the white man. That includes males of Soviet Socialistic Republics. This view is an old and stupid one. As long ago as 1775, Blumenback referred to this matter because he ran into some Ethiopian natives in Europe. But Gudoski and Voskelmitoveff have since proved that iss not so."
"Russian scientists?" I ventured.
Dr. Novarko nodded his head in brisk affirmation. "Da, and they prove that the males of the Soviet Socialistic Republics iss much bigger."
"Then what are you galloping all over Africa for, if I may ask?"
The Russian flushed with momentary confusion, and took another deadly swing on his flask. "Because," he wheezed, "the work of science is never done!!"
I smiled, and spent the next hour or so gazing out the window, watching the antelopes play. But finally, curiosity got the best of me.
"Are you trying to tell me that there's a Russian bum alive who can hold a candle to that thing the Prince has swinging?" I blurted, in contempt.
"Iss no question! In Ukraine and North Caucasus alone, there iss plenty of proof of such Russian accomplishments!"
I knew the old goat was lying, but trying to argue with a Russian is like debating a stone wall. Still, my stubborn, Yankee curiosity couldn't deny me one last question.
"Just how big is the biggest Russki tool?" I insisted.
The big phony started pulling his hands apart in the air, just as Angel had done.
"In inches, damn it."
"Sixteen, maybe more."
"Bullshit."
"Iss like a bull, da!"
I finally got the truth out of Novark. It seemed that the idea of big pricks had not originated with the Russians at all, but with the Germans-and with the Nazis, in particular. The drunker Novarko got, the more he revealed about the dreadful concentration of the Nazis with creating a superhuman race. Among all the brutal medical experimentation the SS carried on in such places as Dachau and Buchenwald were attempts to turn human beings into mutational monsters. One of their quack programs included the dream of creating a special category of males with genitalia of enormous proportions. And Novarko insisted that in a private memo captured by the Russians when they entered Poland, Hitler was said to have been insisting that his scientists create the Body Beautiful.
"After zee war," Novarko explained, "Hitler expected to be able to have his grand moments all over again-and enjoy all those parades and speeches that had made the Germans look so good in the early days at Nuremberg. And he wanted a special corps of young Nordic males with beautifully proportioned bodies and penises of enormous sizes to be able to march in the sign of the swastika, to show the world how much superior the Teutonic races were."
"How did the scientists expect to do that?" I asked.
"By using Jewish children-young boys-to experiment on. At Dachau, for example, they gave such boys weekly injections of testosterone proprionate. When a young male is in the pre-puberty stage, such massive doses of hormones can make his penis grow like a weed."
"You mean it worked?"
"Too well. We captured photographs. But the experiments did not end with the Jews. When that mad-dog Adolf made the mistake of invading the great Soviet Union of Socialistic Republics, he found that the young Russian males were already better endowed than his full-grown Panzer soldiers. And so he took some dozen of the better examples back to the camps in Central Europe, and shot them full of testosterone. And ziss accounts for Ivan the Glorious!"
"Who?"
Novarko beamed. "Dorogobuzh Mozhaisk Ivanovitch Rzhev Joseph Schmstzehvivlshig! We call him Ivan, for short."
"And he's got sixteen inches?"
"Give or take a teeny centimeter, da."
I had a sneaky feeling that there was more to Novarko's work than he was telling me-that, perhaps, the Russians had simply taken up where the Nazis had left off. After all, who knew what kind of memos Stalin and his booted followers had written in regard to the day when husky Russian specimens might march naked in a May Day Parade down Fifth Avenue!
I didn't get the chance to pump Novarko for additional information, however. Seconds later, he was so drunk on vodka that he had cuddled the flask in his arms, and was rocking back and forth singing to himself a Russian lullaby, snorting all the while with deepest sentimentality.
The rest of the trip into the interior of Tika-Waudi was a real drag.
It got hotter as the countryside got plainer. The trees disappeared and the blistering sand and flat prairie stretched ahead of us for what seemed an eternity. It was only at night that things cooled off enough for us to step outside the air-conditioned trucks. And even then, my mind was on nothing but cool drinks and fanning myself with leaves. But nature will have its way, even in the heart of darkness. I know because I came across Angel on the First evening. She was allowing herself to be fucked by one of the native supply carriers. I found them behind one of the trucks, in the grass. The seven-foot black stud was pumping up and down between Angel's happy white legs, while she dug her fingernails into his back. It was too dark for me to see the size of her playmate's tool, but judging from the way Angel would bring her teeth up to bite into his long, dark neck, it must have been something to write home about.
We reached our destination at the end of the third day, and I somehow felt that we had come to the end of the earth. I half-expected some Victorian figure in a soiled white jungle outfit to come staggering from the pile of little grassy huts of the Tessawali village, and mumble: "Dr. Novark, I presume...."
Instead, we were met by Travis, Jake, and Booples.
"Oh, Jesus H. Christ," Otto groaned, seeing Travis Chote approaching our truck with his matronly grin wide under a pristine pith helmet. "As if I didn't have enough goddamn headaches. How the shit did HE get here!?"
I had to grin at Travis' ingenuity. I just hoped he hadn't made the long trip on account of me. I had no desire to be wined and dined around the world-to say nothing of chased-by a queen like Travis.
"HELLO there!" Travis sang, coming up to the truck I was in, and drumming his jeweled fingers on the window. "We thought you'd never get here!!"
I got out of the truck and shook Travis' limp hand. "And what are you doing here, for God's sake?" I insisted.
"Jake and I got restless-and Booples was due for a vacation from that silly old desk of his in Hong Kong...."
"So you just put your finger on a map, and up came Tessawali, eh?"
"SOMETHING like that, beautiful!"
"Now tell me the truth."
Travis sighed. "The truth, you lovely young stud, is that I decided life was not worth the bother without the company of somebody like you. I must admit that sometimes I feel like an old Susan Hayward re-run-crying tomorrow, and all that crap-but I just had to see you again, darlings." Then he lowered his face into my ear, and whispered sugarishly, "I had to see you if to do no more than suck you by the light of an African moon!"
"You're an incurable romantic, Travis."
"That's what my psychiatrist said! Then he tried to cure me of what I get romantic about. But I quit going to him when I found out he hung out in the same bars I did. Silly old thing was making more Freudian slips than Valentina!"
"How did you get here?"
By the time I got that question out of my mouth, both Booples and Jake had ambled up. Jake was dressed in a fringed, short-sleeved Western buckskin jacket, wheat jeans, and orange, snakeskin cowboy boots. Booples still had on his tweed suit, and sweat was pouring down his dignified face so much that his walrus mustache looked like a clump of rotted lettuce leaves.
"We got here, old boy," Booples wheezed, "on a series of aircrafts, rickshaws, steamboats, taxis, pigmy-paddled flatboats, mules, and walking caravans-the like of which would have floored even Marco Polo. Why on earth I let Travis talk me into all this...."
"He's exaggerating," Travis grinned. "Actually, when I discovered that you had left Hong Kong without us, I bribed a very cute bartender in the Hilton into telling me all. It seems he overheard a most interesting conversation between your furry friend Otto, and a certain Prince Swhabi. I can always put two-and-two together and get sixty-nine! So I charted a helicopter and flew to the capital of Tika-Waudi. Your expedition had just left, so we flew on ahead. The helicopter is parked over behind all those huts, and the natives haven't taken their eyes off of it. I really believe they think Booples and I are goddesses, or something!"
"The natives are interesting creatures," Booples admitted.
Travis chuckled. "Booples is talking about how they're hung. I personally have never fancied dark meat, myself-but I had a sister back in Dallas once, and he simply went ga-ga over anything darker than beige. Miss Slave-Trader, he called him...!"
At that moment, the Prince, mums, and Angel came up in the sweltering heat. A phalanx of soldiers surrounded Booples, Travis, and Jake. Anybody else would have been worried or outraged, but Travis and Booples merely grinned at the ebony, muscular young soldiers-and giggled.
"Who are you, and what do you want here?" the Prince demanded, sternly.
Between Travis' lisping gushings and my calm interpretations, the Prince was finally convinced that three more Americans (he never got it straight that Booples was British) couldn't damage the expedition too much. Besides, he was utterly fascinated by the news that Travis was wealthy enough to rent a helicopter.
"May I ride in it sometime?" Prince Swhabi asked, like a young boy ogling a friend's new bike.
"Anytime, Your Royal Highness," Travis purred.
Novarko had come up just in time to hear that part of the conversation, and he seemed outraged at how easily the Prince could be lured away from his dignity by obvious capitalistic ploys.
"I vas a helicopter pilot in zee War," Novarko growled.
"Yes, darlings, and I'm sure you were just wrecked when the Treaty of Versailles put you back behind the plow."
Novarko turned the color of a Red Star. "Vas zee GREAT War!" he roared.
Booples grinned. "He means the Franco-Prussian, dearie."
"Or the Battle of Hastings," Travis suggested, cattily. "Or maybe he was the one we saw cruising the Turks on the Sixth Crusade-you know, the one who kept yelling at the Sultan's eunuchs get you, diddy-giddy!"
Booples giggled. "Maybe he was the one who did Theobald of Navarre behind the pyramid." , "I certainly hope not. That was the bitch who wouldn't let any of the rest of us have sloppy seconds!"
With that, Novarko exploded in a string of blistering oaths. Fortunately, none of us knew Russian, so it sounded like a verbal tone-poem by Shostakovich, and nothing more.
"What's the matter with him?" Prince Swhabi said, innocently, as Novarko stomped back off toward the huts of the Tessawali. "Personally, I didn't understand a word that was said."
I must admit that I was grateful for that. I had already gathered that homosexuality among the Tika-Waudi was literally unknown, and despite the Prince's stint at Oxford, I suppose nobody ever played knees with him.
But with Booples and Travis in the camp, it did make one wonder if the cultural patterns of the Tessawali would ever be the same again!
When the Prince had satisfied himself that Booples and Travis and Jake were friends of ours, we proceeded on up to the village. We were met by a delegation of the Tessawali elders, and some of the younger tribesmen.
A description of the Tessawali is absolutely necessary at this point-for those of you who like your details accurate and documented. First of all, they were almost completely naked-seven feet of black muscle, hairless chests, long and narrow skulls, and arms that could reach across a billiard table-length ways!
The only articles of clothing they wore were brass rings in their noses, silver rings around their ankles, copper rings around their wrists, and gold rings around their pricks. At least it looked like gold, glinting there in the sunlight against the nigrescent color of their skin. The gold rings were actually little twisting harnesses of metal that looped around the entire length of the individual penises like snakes, and held them out in a horizontal position-as if they were enjoying a perpetual hard-on on a grand, community scale.
The Prince had earlier explained to me why the Tessawali wore their genital anatomy in such an odd position. He said that the tribesmen believed that the God Rechar-the one who gave them such dongs in the first place-would be angry if he looked down and saw that they were not proudly displaying them to best advantage!
I suppose that made sense.
Sensible or not, Angel and mums were both staring at the prominently jutting tools with all the interest of starving men gazing at a banquet table; Booples and Travis seemed less interested-which made me wonder if they, like Sir Walter Scott's stag-at-eve, had not already drunk their fill!
The eldest Tessawalian came forward, and bowed to the Prince.
"Venumbo-radaveelume grchee poohoombe-sut, vebee, " the old man.
The Prince smiled, and replied with the same kind of mumbo-jumbo. Then he talked to the elder at some length, while the rest of us continued to stare at the strange natives-and particularly at the way their dorks were being advertised. I was amazed to see that the cock of the old leader was still every leader was large and youthful looking as the youngest of the tribesmen, although his pubic hair was gray as the temples alongside Booples' ears.
When the Prince had finished talking to the elder, he turned to us-and to Novarko, who had grudgingly come limping back into the fold.
"The old man says that he will be glad to display to us the pride of the tribe, but the young warrior is now off in the bush, hunting jaguars. But he should return by dusk. In the meantime, we can refresh ourselves with cold meat and native drink."
Dusk was a long time off, and by the time it finally arrived, I had learned a great deal more about the interesting sexual customs of the Tessawali. Their mores were enough to make Margaret Meade's bloomers drop! It seemed that the females of the tribe were held more-or-less in common. Any male who got the urge to fornicate, could do so at any hour of the day or night-and with anybody's wife or daughter. For a girl to say no was unheard of. Rather reminded me of some of the sorority girls I had known back in the States!
At any rate, a girl was sent to me-hot meat to enjoy, I suppose, along with the cold meat and drink-and when dusk fell, I had not only fucked her four times, but had allowed her to fit my prick into one of those golden harnesses. That really turned her on, and we were well into our fifth sex session on a straw mat in her hut, when Travis stuck his head through the door and ground his teeth in jealous rage.
"I WONDERED what you were up to!" he pouted.
Since I had my boyish cock well into the throbbing womb of the black girl beneath me, I was in no mood to parry insults with Travis.
"Go away," I husked, not breaking rhythm in my constant pumpings in and out of the well-lathered young pussy at my disposal.
"All right," Travis snapped, "but you're missing the piece de resistance of the trip. That young warrior is back, and he and Angel are about to entertain everybody in the big ceremonial hut. Come one, come ALL!"
"I'm coming here, thanks."
And I did? after another five minutes of prolonged ecstasy on the part of my dark-skinned playmate. I should mention here that the Tessawali males were not the only ones endowed with sexual magic. The god Rechar must have thrown in a little extra pzazz for the females-to make them better able to demonstrate their appreciation for the big pricks granted their lovers, brothers, and husbands. That extra something was concentrated in the vaginal-muscular control the Tessawali female exhibits at the moment of climax.
It felt like a couple of lumberjacks had grabbed my cock!
Her pussy muscles rippled up and down the length of my spurting penis, squeezing here, relaxing there, riding general herd on a stampeding roar of pleasure that started at the coccyx of my spinal column and rode rough-shod up the xylophone of my thirty-three vertebrae.
This time, it was I who had to moan-and I did so even more passionately as her naked little heels kicked me over and over in the buttocks as her own spasms swarmed through her loins.
All in all, it was an experience worth any number of elephant tusks.
When I did finally wind my way to the large ceremonial hut, I was not disappointed by the show which Angel was putting on with the native stud who was unquestionably the pride of the Tessawali. Since their little fornication was being performed in front of the Prince and the elders, and under the thatched holiness of the ceremonial hut, there was no thought of immodesty. But I must say that to the eyes of an ordinary outsider, Angel and her beau would have presented the ultimate in erotic shock.
When I walked into the tent, Angel was just spreading her legs apart on a little grass bed in the center of the room. She was naked except for two little pieces of blue string tied around the base of each of her nipples. I learned later that the blue symbolized water, and water connotes flood, and flooding suggests what the well-fucked pussy is capable of. Auto-suggestion on the primitive level!
Angel never looked more tempting. The three-day trip from the capitol of Tika-Waudi had given her a slight tan on the face and shoulders, and this coppery darkness served to emphasize the whiteness of her breasts and loins.
She had also recovered enough from all that mad screwing with the well-hung Chinese farmer back in Hong Kong that her pussy was as full of hot nectar as an untouched honeycomb.
And the fellow preparing to dip into that honey was one helluva big bumblebee.
His name was Yawbu, and he was the most magnificent specimen of African masculinity it is possible to imagine. Black as velvet from head to foot, he seemed well over seven feet tall, with that odd, oblong, almost pointed skull of the Tessawali. Like the other males of his tribe, he wore a brass ring in his nose, three or four silver rings around his ankles, and some copper rings around his wrists. He did not wear the coiled gold ring around his prick-not at the moment, that is-because his unbelievably large penis was in a state of full erection, and nobody has that much gold!
I got a particularly impressive view of Yawbu's organ because when I came into the tent, he was standing sideways, facing away from Angel. At first I thought he was holding a paddling oar between his legs, and then I saw that the enormously thick, disgustingly long thing was growing from his loins. I could only stare at it as the first white man must have stared at the pyramids. It certainly seemed one of the wonders of any world.
I circled around and took my seat next to mums and the Prince. Then I took another look at that big cock.
An elephant's snout would come close to describing it, I suppose, particularly considering the fact that Yawbu was not circumcised. But let's say, an elephant holding an ostrich egg sucked up into the end of his snout!
I leaned my lips up to mother's perfumed and ringed lobe.
"Jealous?" I whispered.
Mums shot me a withering look, then hissed into my ear the admonition that I was not witnessing what the French so gaily term an exhibition, but that Angel was about to become an ad hoc member of the tribe.
"Some initiation rite," I grinned.
By that time, Angel had her legs spread to perfection. We all momentarily tore our eyes away from the gigantic black prick sticking out like a Harlem traffic cop's arm, and looked at Angel-and particularly at the tufted little furrow between her legs which was about to be rent and sundered.
But I, perhaps better than anybody else in the hut, knew the capability of that seemingly innocent slit. I had seen it swallow the Chinese dong, and it would require only a bit more grunting and gasping to make it take Yawbu's mighty tool.
There was one quality which Yawbu's prick had, however, which Angel had not yet encountered. Aside from the mythic size of it, it was as hard as stone.
I learned subsequently that the Tessawali males had borrowed the trick of super-hard-ons from some traveling jadoo Indian magicians. A matter of breathing and concentration. Every fiber of energy and strength is directed into the penis, with the result that if put into a vertical position, one could throw ten-pound horse shoes at it!
I didn't know the degree of Yawbu's erection as I looked at Angel's cunning young cunt. All I could see was the winking pink meat between the long, narrow slit of her pubis. And all I could think of was how hungry she must be to have it filled with something really prize-winning.
Apparently, Angel had been rehearsed in her part of the odd drama which followed. After she had provocatively opened and closed her legs a few times, she got to her feet and approached Yawbu. He had not moved from where he was standing. His legs were wide apart, his hands were clasped behind his back, his face was sober as a mask, and his big prick was sticking straight out in front of him, blue-black, a bit shiny with sweat, and stiffer than steel.
Angel made a few silly little hand-movements, something approximating prayers, I supposed, and then she dragged a small stool up and positioned it in front of Yawbu. It was only when she climbed up on the stool that I saw what was to be attempted: a standing, mid-air penetration.
Yawbu still had not moved, but Angel was taking the necessary steps leading to the lunge. She balanced herself by placing her feet as widely apart as possible, then with the fingers of both hands she pulled open her pussy, making it into a wide, red, grinning mouth.
That was Yawbu's cue.
His long, black arms came around and slapped hard into the firm roundness of Angel's buttocks. He literally lifted her up onto the head of his mighty prick, and jabbed her down on it-much as one might jab a thick piece of paper down on a sharp spindle.
The sound of that heroic cock being sucked up into Angel's extraordinary pussy was something not even the god Rechar could imagine!
Yawbu did not stop jamming Angel's tremulous buttocks downward until his tool was buried all the way up her vagina. Then he released her completely.
The sight which followed has to rival the Indian Rope Trick!
The only thing holding Angel up off the ground, away from the stool, was the size, length, and stiffness of Yawbu's prick. It was as if somebody had run an axle through Angel's pussy. The whole weight of her body had no effect at all on weakening the erection of her mate.
"I do not believe diss!" Dr. Novarko gasped, from the back row.
"You'd believe it fast enough, honey," Travis purred from the other side of the hut, "if that big joystick was stuck up your fur-burger!"
As for Angel, she was having no trouble at all in believing what had happened-and what was going to happen-to her. She had her head thrown back, and her hands on her hips. The swollen nubs of her nipples were full of blood and life, and they were pointing both north and south. Her legs were loosely lapped over the black buttocks of Yawbu, and his round balls were pushed up snug against the stripe of her ass.
"Do it," Angel's grin seemed to say, "let's do it, Mr. Sambo!"
CHAPTER NINE
"Extraordinary," Booples said, the following morning at breakfast. "I really think Angel outdid herself last night. And I must say, she certainly impressed the Russian. He wants to hold some kind of international match, he said."
The Prince looked up from the pile of browned rice and wren's eggs in front of him, and made an inquisitive face at Booples. "Match? What kind of match?"
"A sex one, Your Highness. Your friend Novarko seems to have some mad idea that one of his countrymen has a priapus which outdoes even Yawbu's-one which no woman alive could possibly take."
"There's always us, dear," Travis said, dreamily.
"Angel certainly gave a good account of herself last night," mums put in, gallantly. "I'd like to know the name of any damned Russian who could beat it."
"Ivan the Glorious," I said.
Mums glared at me, but the Prince seemed interested in the subject on more abstract terms.
"I wonder if it would be possible to stage such an exhibition-as long as it did not have political overtones?"
"Even a fart has a political overtone to a Russian," Travis hissed.
"Possibly," Prince Swhabi admitted, "but it might not be necessary in such a case as this-particularly if the match were held in some neutral country. Some seat of pleasure. Some decadent atmosphere. Some nest of vile perversion and sin."
"I'm afraid Washington D.C. is out," Mums grinned.
The Prince took her seriously, and patted her hand as if he had insulted everything from Lincoln's beard to the Coca-Cola Bottle. "Oh, no, my dear-I had in mind Paris, France."
Travis was in a bitchy mood, and said: "Couldn't we make it Marseilles. I love sailors!"
"I think it's all a very interesting idea," Booples joined in, "if you can get the Russian to go along with it. I doubt seriously if Angel would give any trouble to anybody about the matter."
"There is one small problem," the Prince said, gravely. "I cannot allow myself to travel to Paris as the Prince of Tika-Waudi. It would be necessary for me to travel incognito, and therefore none of my regular resources will be available. Doors would be automatically shut to me everywhere. I was wondering...."
"Don't give it a second thought," Travis insisted, waving one of his limp hands to and fro. "We can all stay with Vivian. She has a country house-damned near a chateau-about ten miles from Paris. She'd be delighted to have us, the old dear-but hide your sons and daughters. It depends on which side of her slab she gets up on in the morning as to whether she's a bull-dyke or a Messalina."
"She sounds like an enchanting creature," mums breathed.
The Prince put his fingertips together. "Then it's settled. Should we send someone to inform Novarko and Angel?"
"Where are they, by the way?" Booples asked.
I knew the answer to that one. "Angel and Yawbu decided to have a little refresher before breakfast-and Novarko asked if he could watch again. Apparently, nobody ever told the Russians that seeing is believing."
Under ordinary circumstances, convincing Novarko of such a proposition would have been impossible, I'm sure. But when it was put on non-political terms, and nourished with a half-dozen full glasses of vodka, he warmed to the idea like a trooper.
He agreed to meet us one month from that day-in Paris. And he promised to have Ivan the Glorious in tow.
"But you must remember that Ivan iss good boy. Farm boy. Not used to fine food, good drinks, American capitalistic whores. Ivan will be along just to prove a point!"
"Or try to prove a point," we insisted.
We danced nimbly around the subject, I suppose, but in fact we were talking about the convexity, concavity, and capacity of Angel's pussy.
And speaking of Angel, we had a great deal of difficulty in prying her away from tribe-life among the Tessawali. She had warmed to the idea of being screwed ritualistically by Yawbu's big, black thingamajig, and mums was tempted by the idea of leaving her in the jungle-a kind of nymphomaniacal Holly Golightly-but I thought Angel deserved better of us than that. Besides, there was nothing to prevent her from one day walking out of those jungles, and laying claim to the fortune grandpa had so recklessly bestowed on her.
And neither mums nor I wanted that kind of disaster.
To soften Angel's departure from the prick-of-her-dreams, however, the elders of the tribe presented her with a life-sized, scale-model replica of Yawbu's mighty tool. Another custom of the tribe. The dildo (because that is exactly what it was!) was made of a dark, ebony wood, rubbed soft and shiny with coconut oil. They even gave Angel one of the twisted golden rings to keep it in.
Angel assumed that nobody knew it, but the common rumor was that she rode all the way back to Tika-Waudi with that blackjack stuck up her naughty young crack, well hidden though it was under her panties and skirt. If true, she was one well-fucked chick by the time we reached the palace.
We stayed on under the hospitality of the Prince for a few more days, while Travis made all the necessary arrangements for us to bunk up with his friend in Paris. A regular snow storm of cables and telegrams flew back and forth between Travis and his erstwhile female pal. At one point, Travis was ready to chuck the whole deal.
"That shallow, pompous, aging bitch...!" he roared, crumpling a cable to bits. "She wants to motor through the Rhine Valley, and wonders if we wouldn't like to meet her in Baden-Baden!"
But only a day later, Travis came into the dining room with a smile as wide as the Thames. He was holding another cable between the fingers of both hands, as if a dove had brought it from the lap of God. "Isn't she a dear," he purred. "Vivian has agreed to postpone everything to receive us. We can leave for Paris as soon as the birdcages and hatboxes are packed."
"I really should be bustling back to Hong Kong, you know," Booples offered, but without conviction.
"You do," Travis snapped, "and I'll blow up Parliament."
"But the Russian isn't coming to Paris with his prize stud for another month."
"So much the better," Travis hummed, glancing around at all of us with an eye that was just a little less jaundiced than a mad steer's. "I'm sure that Vivian will have all kinds of wonderful goodies planned for us. She's such a brick when the chips are down."
Flying to Paris in Prince Swhabi's private jet was a luxury. It was a bit like zooming out of a hot nest of nettles and into a cool patch of clover. I had only been to Sin City once in my life-and that was a shaky summer with mums when I was sixteen. All I could remember about the experience was paying a bellhop some forty American dollars to get me a whore. She turned out to be hell-and-past forty, and I was almost too scared to get a hard-on, but she did have on a pair of black, lace-knit stockings, and that charged my adolescent hormones up enough so that I crawled on and horsed her around for five or ten minutes. Such joie de vivre you can't imagine....
But now we were arriving in high style, and my hormones needed no black lace to stir them. I knew what I wanted. I think that, aside from myself, Angel was the most entranced. To her, Paris was one big postcard. Dirty, of course. Odd, I suppose, but to a male, Paris is a woman-something of a sensuous, perfumed, willing whore. But to a woman, Paris is male-equally sensuous, smelling of sex, and eager to perform. The Eiffel Tower is Paris with an erection!
We landed at Orly, and were met by a trio of black limousines, but no hostess. We were to be whisked at once to Vivian's chateau, some ten miles outside of Paris.
Angel made a wail of protest.
From somewhere, Angel had conceived the idea that she was merely another tourist. The second she caught sight of one of the Cityrama double-decker buses, she wanted to be guided past all the major sights-the Montmartre, Sacre-Coeur, Arc de Triomphe, Palais de Chaillot, Notre-Dame, the Bastille and the Conciergerie. You name it.
"Absolutely not," Travis trumpeted, riding like a siren over Angel's protests. "I will not be carted around Paris like a freshman from Yale while five-inch hearing discs blare canned information at me about the glory that was Montparnasse!"
And that seemed to settle that.
We arrived at Vivian's estate well after dark, and there was a fairy-tale atmosphere about the gray, old chateau etched against the deepening blue sky. Torches lighted the way up the horseshoe shaped drive that was measured off by ancient statues of cupids and satyrs and virgins-at-the-spring. The chateau, Travis informed us soberly, had been built in the first part of the 18th Century-and the Marquis de Sade himself had once spent a weekend there.
"His ghost has even been seen here," Travis insisted, his voice too precious and affected for words.
"What was he doing?" Angel asked, awe-struck.
"Jacking off," I said.
Vivian met us at the great front door. We had been prepared somewhat for her by some lengthy, lurid, and photoplay-magazine type stories of Travis. She was from Texas, too, originally, but her family's money was so old that she had long ago given up the task of impressing folks with it. In fact, from looking at her, I got the impression that she had long ago given up, period. She certainly wasn't trying to impress anybody. She met us at the door in a faded housedress of am uncertain vintage. Her hair was an explosion of ringlets, as if her hairdresser was an expert in shock treatments. Her lipstick was the wrong shade and too heavily applied. Her breasts were too small and too high. Her hips were too wide and too large.
Both Travis and Booples insisted that she looked ravishing.
She led the rare mob of us into the barn-like foyer, then down a canyon of a hallway to a room the size of a stadium. It was cluttered with rococo furniture of various Louis periods, and the walls were swarming with portraits and garden scenes of naked and near-naked ladies swinging in the swings of Versailles.
Servants with-so help me God-powdered wigs brought us some Chateauneuf-du-Pape and caviar-smeared crackers. It was somewhere during my second cracker that Vivian made her first of many overt moves.
She began to wink at me-broad, lascivious winks that one might expect over the footlights in a house of Burlesque. I knew full well what was being asked of me, of course, but I thought it might add some tone to the proceedings if I played out the part of the innocent American boy, and so I returned every heated wire with a smile that would have done justice to the barefooted boys of Winslow Homer.
That began to get on Vivian's already jaded nerves, and before long she sent Travis around to hurry things along.
"She wants to screw you, darling," Travis confessed, rather sadly.
I grinned. "Don't tell me you've turned to pimping."
He made another face, even sadder. "You don't have to rub it in, Ranee. There isn't a soul on the face of earth I'd do that for-except Vivian. I owe her any number of favors. She's really an old dear, and I suppose if you can stomach sex-with-a-woman, she's quite an artiste in bed."
"She looks as if she's had enough experience."
"Oh, go give her a thrill, you heartless young beast. It may be like putting it into the mouth of a walrus, but I'm sure you'll survive the ordeal. And I can assure you that life will be a lot more pleasant for all of us if Vivian is not frustrated in the little things."
I grinned. "Now you've really insulted me."
I don't consider myself perverse by nature-not when it comes to making the world a happier place for the occupants. It was, I told myself, strictly a charitable streak that made me slip away from the others at one end of the room, while my hostess slipped away at the opposite end. We were a bit like lovers escaping a boring, masquerade ball. But if I had been pressed on the matter, I would have insisted that I was merely paying the bill for all of us.
Vivian was collecting early, and I was the one with the hard cash.
She picked me up in the hallway, and we hurried up a grand sweep of stairs to her bedroom. She chattered all the time we traveled, and her voice sounded a little like flat Chablis poured over rocks.
"I've just been rotting in this house ever since Jacques left," she informed me.
"A friend of yours?"
"Not exactly."
"Your chauffeur, perhaps."
"Sort of. But he was only seventeen, if you want to know the damned truth about it. But over here, that's grown up. Do you know the best part of the French culture?"
"Victor Hugo? Truffles?"
"No sexual generation gap, that's what."
I found that mildly interesting. We were just passing down a carpeted hallway, and coming to doors that were bound on either side by slightly bowing alabaster maidens with round, white, smooth rumps.
"Tell me about the gap that isn't there," I said. "Only too glad to, honey," Vivian purred, pushing open the doors so that both of us could enter her web. "I didn't have any idea such a thing could be so widespread-but it's simply one of their things over here. You know, like the babies drinking wine, and little business men liking poetry and poets, and all that. Very French idea."
"What is? Exactly."
"Affairs like the one me and Jacques had. Isn't it marvelous to think that the President of France was probably fucked by his piano teacher? I mean, things like that just stagger the imagination. I mean, they don't happen to our Presidents!"
"Does Jacques aspire to the French Presidency?"
I asked, soberly.
"That little horny bastard? Don't kid yourself!" I noticed that Vivian was taking off her clothes, so I began to take mine off, too. She stopped when she got her bra off, and lit a long French-sized cigarette. I couldn't help but notice that her breasts were very large, but a little saggy. I did like the shape and length of her nipples, though. They were almost like clothespins, and I imagined that one of her favorite pastimes was having them sucked. Somewhere in the sexual folklore of my mind, I seemed to believe that nipples could be made to grow by the constant nursing from a grown man's tongue. Nice bit of pseudo-science, anyway-and it was making my pecker grow stiff as I stripped.
"Jack is what I called Jacques," Vivian was saying, holding her cigarette at the end of two long, lean fingers poised between the two lean, long nipples of her tits. "I used to make him wear blue jeans and white bucks, and a T-shirt that belonged to one of my nephews-with Corpus Christi Junior College stamped on the front of it. I enjoyed the idea that he might be an ordinary American boy-say, the next-door-neighbor's son-and I had invited him over to help me move a chair or a bed, or something."
"Odd," I said, but still feeling my own prick groaning harder against my fly.
"Sick, maybe. But not half as sick as the way I used to feel when Jack was fucking me. Do you know that I used to pretend I was all kinds of people when he was doing that to me. Now you figure such a goddamned crazy thing out. Once I pretended that I was Martha Washington."
I smiled, patriotically. "And who was he?"
"I didn't think about Jack being anybody but Jacques. He was just a well-hung, horny young boy in white bucks screwing Martha Washington's cunt."
"Anybody else?"
"Plenty of others. Madame Curie, once. And Helen Keller, for some reason, three or four times. Jean Harlow, Susan B. Anthony, Gloria Vanderbilt-and once, Mary Queen of Scots, after her head had been chopped off!"
"Necrophilic."
"Don't worry. I asked a psychiatrist friend once about it-and he assured me that I was simply re-encountering the sins of my collective American cultural past, in the total Jungian sense."
"Sounds simple enough."
"But then why did I always feel as if I'd been sandpapered all over when Jack was through? Don't get me wrong. He fucked like a dream. In fact, as it turned out, I didn't close the generation gap for him at all. He had had that done to him when he was fourteen when he was visiting an Aunt or something in Cannes. He told me all about it."
"And where is this Jacques, for whom I presume I am substituting this evening?"
"In school in the South of France. His father is my attorney. It's all full of intrigue and passion. Hurry, honey, I'm already undressed."
And indeed she was.
It was as if Dr. Frankenstein had attempted a Venus in his laboratory. Aside from those sow-like tits which she had exposed to me at the very first, I was now treated to the complete effect of her prurient nudity. In the center of her flared and wrinkled hips was the largest patch of hair that ever covered a pussy. She looked like a werewolf down there, and the rubbery, mismatched lips of her vulva hung a bit slackly open-pink to red in tone. The size of her cunt was impressive, and I had a quick, pornographic vision of her young Jackques with his whole head up inside her slit, a brave boy in the lioness' mouth.
I have explained to you before, dear reader, my infatuation with the sluttish bodies of unattractive ladies. I have also hinted that I prefer to think of my interest as charitable. It is easy for a young and handsome man, like myself, to find pleasure in fucking a beautiful young girl with rose-petal skin, perfect legs and breasts, and a pussy like a narrow, deep cornucopia filled with honey. But it is quite another thing for the same kind of male to find joy in wantonly, heroically fucking an ugly pussy and an aging face.
It is the kind of philanthropy I do best.
Vivian was either not aware of my depth of self-sacrifice, or she was too impatient to polish polite phrases. Even before I had my shorts off, she was arranging herself on the bed. She had learned a long time ago that it is impossible to enjoy the art of copulation without a good supply of pillows. She had three behind her, and two under her-one for each buttock. The pillows in the latter capacity were very thick, round jobs, and they served not only to cushion her butt, but to lift her pelvis up and out, showing off her meaty puss to the fullest possible advantage.
I crawled over my lady love with a most extraordinary hard-on. My prick found her throbbing cave of heat, and we were joined in a very quick act of recognition. We both knew what we wanted, so without a single whispered word or caress, we began to fuck like apes....
CHAPTER TEN
Killing a month with Vivian turned out to be a drain on the most imaginative resources of all of us. Not even Travis had warned us of the leviathan hunger of the woman in regard to sexual variety and experience. Lewd, concupiscent, and venereal are no mere adjectives when describing Vivian.
She became to us like some ancient American eagle, her wings hoveringly outstretched to shoo us all toward one nightly pleasure after another, and her strong beak set to snatch up the best spoils for herself.
I never knew her to fail at that, either.
Out of a score of riotous and erotic episodes, I've chosen to tell you one. In a sense, I've employed poetic license, just as Rabelais might have done, to concoct the general mood and atmosphere of a typical evening with Vivian, rather than to stick to regimented facts. You won't complain, I don't think.
This particular evening started with dinner at one of the small, expensive clubs in Paris. Duck livers and all the trimmings. We moved on from there to a series of night clubs in the dangerous Montmartre district, with Vivian leading us like some shrill, Lesbian Pied Piper.
For the sake of convenience, we had paired again. It was mums and Otto, Jake and Angel, Vivian and me, and Travis and Booples. Prince Swhabi was not with us on this particular evening, due solely to the fact that a week before, he had taken up with a red-headed whore he met on the Champs-Elysees. He had been spending most of his nights in her small apartment, having convinced her that he was an ex-patriot leader of a militant protest movement in America. He hit on that harmless lie only after he discovered that the prostitute loved to fuck Revolutionaries-and, in fact, had worked overtime at it when De Gaulle was in power.
So, sans Prince Swhabi, the eight of us followed the inventive lead of Vivian through numerous flesh-pots of Paris. It was Travis who tired first of the banal routine.
"Really, Viv-can't we do something more exciting than this," Travis moaned. "I feel like a visiting English teacher from Kansas!"
"We could go to the Carte Rouge," Vivian offered, glancing at me for approval.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Everything. You name it."
I frowned, and made a game of a second's deep thinking. "Fuck movies," I said, at last.
"In color," Vivian said.
"Exhibitions," Booples said. "You know how much I love...."
"Any kind you care to buy," Vivian shrugged. "I remember once that somebody wanted an eighty-year-old Duchess and a sixteen-year-old Arab street urchin. They got it."
We were all sitting at a round table in a smoky bistro when the idea was broached, and for the next few minutes we indulged ourselves in an orgy of suggestions about the almost mythical place called Carte Rouge.
"Incest," Mums suggested. "Mothers and daughters, Fathers and sons, sons and sons, brothers and sisters, daughters and fathers, sons and mothers-and so on!"
"Pedophilia," Travis grinned. "A closet full of dirty old men licking between the legs of little girls-and boys, of course, providing I'm one of the dirty old winners."
"Algolagnia?"
"Scopophilia?"
"Gynecomania?"
Vivian grinned, and stared across the table at the handsome young Jake, who was sitting with one hand inside Angel's blouse, toying idly with one of her fully erected nipples.
"What about you, Jake?" Vivian husked, softly. "What would you like to do in a house of profligate pleasure?"
Jake grinned, like a very youthful Gary Cooper. "I reckon I'd like to see Angel here get fucked by a horse."
The idea was not without a certain amount of rustic imagination, but in a civilized company such as ours, we expected it to be dropped like a bon mot, and passed over. It would have been, except for Angel herself.
"Lordy, I'll bet that would be fun," she breathed.
"For the horse, perhaps," mums corrected, or amended.
"I've heard of call-girls and call-boys," Travis grinned, "but I've never heard of call-horses! What do you suppose they have on tap-Arabian stallions that snort steam? What is the dong of one of those things, anyway? You should know all that technical stuff, Jake."
Jake's fingers seemed to be working overtime inside Angel's blouse. His smile was slack. "I've seen 'em anywheres from fifteen to eighteen inches on hard. Big around at any point as a roll of toilet paper, too."
"My God," Booples whispered. "How the mares must love it!"
"Go out of their cotton pickin' brains for it," Jake nodded. "I've seen mares in heat rub their pussies so hard against fence posts they bled buckets. Once they get one of those horse-cocks up their poots, you can't break 'em from wanting it. Like breakin' a dog from sucking eggs."
"It would be a good finger exercise for you, kid," Otto said to Angel, shifting his cigar around in his mouth with a great deal of oral satisfaction. "If that Roosian stud is half what Novarko says he is, you could stand all the pre-final cramming you can get."
"My kingdom for a horse," Booples said. "And I'd put my pounds and shillings on Angel."
Angel looked yearningly at Vivian. "Could they scare up a horse at that place?"
"A Shetland, perhaps. I seem to remember something about one that was trained to screw with a great deal of finesse. However, that might have been in Hamburg. There was a circus, or something. I do remember that the girl had the signs of the zodiac tattooed in various places over her body. The joke was that the pony fucked her somewhere between Pisces and Sagittarius...."
The Carte Rouge turned out to be a Disneyland of Sex. And since Vivian was practically a charter member of the club, we were given VIP treatment-on a cash-at-the-door basis. The building consisted of four stories. The first two were connected by a grand staircase from the Bourbon era, and anybody who paid at the door could wander at will on the first and second floors. The top floors, however, were connected only by elevators-and it cost extra to go to either of them.
Food and drink on the first floor, dancing on the second, plain fucking on the third-and on the fourth, the rarer forms of perversion and diversion.
We all had drinks to begin with. They cost like hell, but since Travis had gallantly offered to pick up the tab for the entire evening, none of us complained that the champagne had been spiked with ginger ale, and the canapes were endless mutations of Spam.
The Carte Rouge was indeed a cosmopolitan place for the defenders-and pursuers-of liberty. Or, as Booples wryly put it:
"Give me Libertinism-or give me Death!"
"You shall very likely find both here, darling," Travis cooed, "if you don't keep your eyes off that charming lumberjack in the comer. I think it must be Scandinavian right down to the testicles. Wouldn't you just love to twist those blond curls all night? Boops, how does one say soixant-neuf in Danish?"
All of us seemed to have some very fixed ideas about why we had come to the Carte Rouge. Mine still hung above me like a Damoclean sword-on a thread of film.
"I want to watch a dirty movie," I told Vivian, who was busy licking the salt from the rim of her gimlet glass, making quite an obscene job of it-lapping and grinning at the same time.
"I'll find out for you," Vivian said.
She disappeared through a sea of shoulders and heads, and triumphantly returned with two beautiful young people in tow. The young man-boy, actually-was eighteen, with quick, dingy, bedroom eyes. He was tall and pale, with full, modified French-hippie hair. He would have looked innocent, except for the rather sullen drift of his mouth, a drift which told anybody who cared to look that he had tasted all the fruits of passion, and sucked the pulp of most. The girl was even more strikingly youthful and fresh than the boy. She, too, was in the neighborhood of eighteen-but her eyes had a serenely youthful look. A look of fourteen, or even thirteen.
"Meet the stars," Vivian grinned, pushing the two new bodies at me. "Philippe and Fayette. They will be glad to run their latest work for you, upstairs. In a private room. Just the two of them and you. Do you prefer Comedy or Tragedy, dear? Pantalone's wagging prick-or the tom breast of Iphigenia?"
I shrugged. "I have a choice?"
"Of course you do, precious. I looked over the catalogue. You can see something along the lines of a French bedroom farce-something called Madame Ovary-or you can see a modem adaptation of Les Liaisons Dangereuses."
"Didn't Roger Vadim do that?" I asked.
"Not this version, he didn't. But don't take my word for it, see for yourself."
"This way, monsieur," the girl said, slipping one of her hands into mine.
On the way up in the elevator, I found out some very interesting facts about the two stars of the erotic epic. Both of them were philosophy students at the Sorbonne, and they acted in blue movies for pocket money. Since it was perfectly obvious that they were going along with me to be more than projectionists, I asked what additional money they picked up by appearing as in-the-flesh celebrities at their own movies.
"The house pays us," Fayette said, casually. "We make the movies on the Left Bank, but a different agency hires us to make appearances here."
"Maybe I'm jumping the gun," I grinned, "but what do you do-exactly?"
"Anything. Everything. Sometimes we just sit and hold hands. Sometimes we recreate live what is going on on the screen. Sometimes we participate in orgies. Sometimes with men, sometimes with women. Sometimes both. There is nothing that Philippe and I will not do, since we take the normal existential view of sex."
"And what, my friends, is that?"
The boy cleared his throat of eighteen years of ennui. "It's the belief that everything is absurd-including the sex acts."
"Even the orgasm?" I asked, pragmatically. "Especially that," the girl said. "The climax is the final testament to sadness. Haven't you read Sartre and Camus?"
"Yes, but apparently out of context. Do you mean that you two can fuck and suck and never crack a smile?"
The girl did smile at that. "Oh, no, we never said that. As a matter-of-fact, I have one of those giggle-box complexes that turns on the second I feel a finger anywhere on my body. And from the moans and shrieks coming from the various sound tracks of my various movies, I can only believe that I am thoroughly caught up in some form of physical pleasure at the duration of the sex act. Ephemeral though it certainly is."
The elevator had deposited us on the fourth floor by this time, and Philippe and Fayette led the way down a long, narrow hallway to one of the rooms. It seemed as quiet as death to me on the fourth floor, and I asked if we were perhaps the only ones around.
"Oh, no," Fayette assured me, "most of the rooms are full-but a special attraction of the Carte Rouge is that it provides rooms lined with cork. Absolutely soundproof."
We entered a room, and Philippe shut and locked the door behind us. The room was small, angular, and well appointed. There was a large screen at one end, and a projector at the other. Arranged so that you could recline while you viewed, three or four comfortable sofas invited immediate attention.
As if by some prearranged signal, all three of us undressed. It was done without the least bit of erotic interest on the part of my two companions.
I must say that I was more than casually interested in what Fayette's dress, bra, panties, and hose concealed.
Fortunately, I was not disappointed. I had been so dutifully caught up in screwing Vivian of late, that I had forgotten what a marvelously tempting piece of pussy a young thing can be. And Fayette was something of a paragon in that department. Her breasts were as firm as little toy footballs, and the rosettes and nipples were set at the very peak-ends. I am sure that the sly young wanton had touched up her nipples with either lipstick or rouge. They were as pink as little Christmas bells, and seemed almost too heavy for the delicate cones upon which they rested.
All of Fayette's young body was perfection. Not an ounce of fat anywhere on her, including her lean, boyish hips. The saffron tuft of pubic hair was an almost invisible fringe over the full lips of her pubis. Those lips were not only full, they were permanently extended and corrugated, hanging open a bit like flappy, tattered curtains. A pussy that looks like that is one that has been fucked so many times it is virtually shapeless. I was not at all disappointed by the fact that Fayette was something less than a classic virgin. If anything, the fact that she had been steadily screwed for several years made me hornier than ever to give her one more brutal balling.
By the time I was out of my clothes, my cock was as hard as brass. I sat down on the edge of one of the sofas and let my hard-on show to anybody who cared to look.
Both Fayette and Philippe were interested, but I couldn't tell whether their interest was clinical or physical.
Philippe dropped his pants and shorts to allow me a solemn view of his enormous, soft prick. Perhaps it was because he was tall and thin, but the size of his tool was almost disgusting. In its soft state, I could see the thick, bulging veins running up and down the column, as if ready to feed the flat, hammer-like head into instant arousal.
After nothing more than a cursory glance at my own throbbing dick, Philippe went behind the projector and began to click buttons and push knobs.
"Would you like some company?" Fayette said, huskily, coming right up to the sofa and pushing her pelvis out at me. I got a whiff of a peculiar, musk-lavender odor. It seemed to draw me right over between her legs-which she had accommodatingly opened-and I found myself sniffing up and down the crack of her pussy. The odor was stronger there.
"Mousse de Chene," Fayette whispered, softly. "In ancient Egypt, it was put into the tombs of the Pharaohs. It smells a lot like ylang-ylang, bergamot, citronella, and faintly like sassafras."
"Faintly like cunt," I whispered back, grinning. I moved my nose so deep into the odorous trench of her pussy that her pubic hair tickled my nostrils.
I was still smelling her twat when Philippe darkened the room and made the movie come to life on the screen.
I pulled Fayette down on the sofa with me, putting my head down between her legs once more just to smell that nice stuff again. She let me get a few good sniffs in, then pulled me up gently by my hair.
"Watch the movie," she begged. "This is one of my best."
I put my hand between her legs, so that I could play with her pussy while I watched. She seemed as suddenly disinterested in what I was doing with her vulva as I was interested. One glance at the rapt expression in her liquid eyes told me all I needed to know. The image of herself on the screen was more real to her than the body I was trying to arouse.
"Look," she insisted, her voice growing suddenly hoarse and distant. "Look...!"
I looked-and saw a screen filled with colored light that slowly resolved itself into a landscape. The cameraman had obviously been under the direction of a would-be Cezanne. The landscape was harsh and geometrical, but into the flat world of color came a lithe, white, naked figure of a girl.
Fayette, of course.
"I weighed five more pounds, then," she whispered at me, while my fingers dug slowly upward in her unresisting cunt. "You can tell by the buttocks-wait, I'll turn in a second-see. See the difference...?"
I could feel the difference, in a way. The half-melons of her ass were warm against the exploring tips of my other hand. I caressed the velvety texture of her skin, and ran one finger just along the chasm of her parted buttocks, fighting off the desire to put my nose into that cleft-and smell for thyme.
The cinematic Fayette continued her romp on the screen until she collapsed in a cluster of soft, green grasses. At that point, the camera moved in with all the relentless lechery of an Elder spying on Susannah.
Fayette had fallen just right-legs wide apart, tits lifted and full, mouth open in a pleasing little pant.
The camera moved closer and closer. It finally captured the epitome of the erotic close-up. The folds of Fayette's youthful pussy began to resemble a stratum of pink lava, around which grew a thick chaparral of hair. The careful observer could even make out the nicely formed clitoris, rising like another, pinker promontory from the upper part of the meaty chasm. To add the final touch to the mock-landscape, the camera nosed in to catch the little hot trickle of glandular juice bubbling just within the vulva.
It was obviously that juicy, odorous nectar which attracted the next actor in the film.
It was not Philippe.
It was an ordinary housefly-the common Musca domestica. And quite a hungry little bastard he was, too-hungry and crudely curious. He landed on Fayette's thigh, then proceeded to crawl quickly up into her pubic hair. It took him some time to negotiate that interesting forest, but he was rewarded at last by climbing up on the musky ridge of the left lip of her vaguely yawning pussy.
I was reminded of all kinds of things, of course-including Boon-Boon's trained beetles-but one almost forgotten treat came literally winging its way back into my mind. It concerned a country cousin of mine whom I had visited once at the tender age of fifteen. Despite the fact that I was from the city, I had not learned some of the more rural perversions that were practiced by my cousin, Henry. But he was quick to show me one of his favorites the first time we took a bath. I'm sure that the more sophisticated of my readers have never had a country bath, so I will describe the procedure swiftly: you boil the water in buckets, and carry it to a tub. Our tub was located in the barn (we both bathed in one tub) and the homemade soap we used attracted the largest, greenest flies in the world.
Henry had long ago learned how to have fun with them.
When we were in the water, with our bony, fifteen-year-old knees pushed up against one another, Henry caught three or four of the larger flies and pulled their wings off.
I noticed that his husky young prick got hard as stone during the process-and the head of it rode up out of the water like some pink, bloated lily-pad.
"Get yours hard, too, dummy," Henry advised.
I did as I was required, and when both our glans meatus were like islands rising out of the water, Henry distributed the crippled flies. I can't tell you how bawdily stimulating it was to have those hairy-legged monsters crawling all over the head of my cock. I came like a pistol!
Now, watching another fly crawling naughtily into Fayette's pussy, my prick became as stiff as any adolescent's.
I watched, dumbfounded, as the fly completely disappeared and seemed to remain submerged forever. The camera did switch once or twice to show the dreamy and blissful expression on Fayette's face. She loved having a fly up her cunt, tracking up the walls of her vagina, and wandering like Cortez into the very heart of her love-canal.
It finally occurred to me to get some pertinent information from one who should know.
I slid my mouth up to Fayette's hot ear lobe. "Was that a trained fly, baby?"
"No, mon chere. In fact, I killed the poor thing by coming. I washed it all the way up into my womb, I think. I could feel it struggling for a few minutes, titillating me even in its death throes. I don't know what finally happened to it. Perhaps I shit it out."
"Nice thought."
"As nice a thought as any other. Didn't your Walt Whitman say something about the heavenly aroma of the armpits...?"
"He was just avoiding the issue, probably." Fayette nodded, gravely. "I know what you mean. Did you know that you can't lick a man's balls without smelling at least a little bit of shit and sweat?"
"No, I did not know that."
"And it becomes a part of it, a conditioned part. I like it, myself. And I love big balls, too. That's one reason Philippe and I work so well together. I've seen larger things between a man's legs, but I've never seen anything like the size of Philippe's balls. Whole handfuls. But I will tell you a pathetic little secret."
"Tell me."
"Philippe can't come."
"Can't he?"
"No. In a way that makes him star-material for work like this. I mean, he can fuck for hours. Days, I suppose. I remember once we worked with Pierre D'Locques-do you know him?"
"Only slightly."
"A genius-but a perfectionist. He made Philippe and me do a scene eighteen times once. We were supposed to be Fallen Angels, screwing on a foam-rubber cloud. I was exhausted by the time we were through-exhausted from having orgasms, I mean-but Philippe still had every bit of his hard-on. God, he's a human dildo...."
She was feeling my balls by this time, so I encouraged her with a continuation of the topic absorbing us both.
"Could you like a man without balls?" I insisted.
"That's not a fair question."
"Why not?"
"Because I've never met a man without balls. It's like asking me if a tree makes a sound falling in the forest, if there is nobody there to hear it fall. We're asked questions like that all the time at the Sorbonne. I hate them."
"Perhaps you should change your major from philosophy to-uh-Show Business."
"I would lose all respect for myself. Mon, your balls are very large and warm, too. May I lick on them while you watch the movie?"
"Suit yourself."
"Would you like to eat me while I do it?"
"Do you think I can do that, and still see the movie?"
"I think so. It's been done before. I know a position...."
She got into the position-which really was quite inventive. It consisted of her lying on her side, with her legs hammer-locked around my neck and her buttocks hunched low. It made a sandwich of her pussy.
We were in an involved tangle, but a nice one. Her tongue rapidly licked my nuts-making them swell and throb. And my tongue repaid the compliment by retracing all the steps that damned fly had enjoyed.
The story on the screen now included Philippe.
His role seemed to be that of another naked faun. He did a few very suggestive things with a little reed flute, then joined himself to Fayette in the green grass.
They proceeded to perform a rather conventional fuck, it seemed to me. The flick was saved from the commonplace by a series of elaborate camera angles which featured the slapping weight of Philippe's big balls, and the oozing suck of Fayette's vagina. The fact that the film was in color added a great deal to its lubricious impact. The pouting, oval lips of Fayette's pussy, clasping Philippe's large prick like a toothless mouth, were exactly the color of raw hamburger. Philippe's oversized balls, on the other hand, were as brown as shoe-leather, but prickled with tributaries of blue and red veins.
Fayette seemed to be coming all the way through the movie. I remembered what she had told me about Philippe's satisfying capacity to fuck for hours, and that heightened my own enjoyment of both what I was seeing on the screen and what my tongue was doing in the hot, sappy darkness of Fayette's willing cunt.
The camera caught the flow of liquids out of Fayette's pussy. They gushed and slid like tears out around the stiff tool screwing her-silver and mother-o'-pearl. Fortunately, I could taste the same elixir wetting my tongue, and along with it, a pronounced increase of activity on Fayette's part. She gave up licking my balls, and started sucking my prick with enormous, grunting sobs of pleasure.
She was in the canine position almost before my tongue was out of her hole. I was only too happy to oblige her perverted taste. I glued my loins behind her buttocks and thrust my erection as high up her boiling slit as I could manage. I made her almost swoon with ecstasy.
Then Philippe joined us-in a unique way.
He stood in front of Fayette, then turned with his buttocks facing her, bent over, and reached back with both hands to spread his ass wide apart.
Fayette began to lick his rectum with all the joy of an anilingal nympho.
I was still pumping merrily away when Travis came tearing into the room. He seemed very excited about something. I could tell because he was waving his arms like a bandmaster. I got him somehow confused with the images on the screen. And no wonder: Fayette was waving her legs in the air, flowing like the Nile.
"It's Angel!" Travis yelped. "Angel and that goddamned horse! I told her!!"
"Call an ambulance," I panted, shoving my prick like a piston in and out of Fayette's exemplary crack. "Maybe you can save the horse...."
It seemed funny at the time.
ELEVEN
We buried Angel in the National Cemetery of Pere Lachaise, somewhere between Oscar Wilde and Gertrude Stein.
It was a bright, cloudless day-just the kind made for picnics back in Turbandale, Arkansas-and Angel looked quite pretty in her little pink and silver casket. There was one small scene at the tiny funeral parlor. It seems that Travis got into a heated argument with the pansy in charge of rendering the body viewable. Travis held out for a coiffure a la Chinoise, on the rather doubtful theory that Angel had been happiest in Hong Kong-while the pansy hairdresser for corpses insisted upon doing Angel's tawny-blonde tresses in a coiffure a la zazzera-a style worn originally by ancient Romans and revived in the 15th century by fashionable Venetians.
"Makes the poor dear look like Nero in drag," Travis huffed.
I had no objections, if Angel didn't-and judging from the placid smile on her waxen face, she was still thinking of that Ultimate Orgasm, one that not even Willy had been able to give her. But one which she had found on the fourth floor of a French whorehouse, more or less in the arms (or forepaws) of a Clydesdale stallion.
Actually, I'm sorry that I missed it. It would have made a touching, melodramatic page in the memoirs I one day intend to write-when I am old and fucked-out. As uninspiring as Angel seemed for a dramatic role, she became, for those few mad moments, the Bernhardt of the horse world. And I understand that she gave the Clydesdale a real trot for his money. But all I really know about the episode, I owe to the garrulous nature of Booples.
He was all too ready to tell it, once we got ourselves seated under a sidewalk cafe umbrella, with a bottle of vin mousseux between us.
"Angel was absolutely marvelous," Booples purred, pushing back the edges of his wine-tinted mustache, like a Prussian colonel thinking of naked Belgian babies. "She not only wanted to have a treat herself, but she wanted to put on a show for the rest of us. She certainly didn't want to disappoint us. Of course, one aspect of the matter which had never occurred to me, was that they would be fully prepared for any such contingency. What I mean is, they had a list of horses one could order from-as if one were selecting champagne. Quite clever and cute of them, too. On one side of the menu were female horses...."
"Mares, dear," Travis insisted.
"Yes, quite right. Mares-and with charming names like Almira, Cordelia, Ethelinda, and Musidora. The mares were for men to select-and it was just our luck not to have been in the place a week before. They said six American sailors-all farm boys and drunk as lords .on absinthe-rented a golden chestnut Palomino named Peggy, and copulated with the lucky little thing until it was neighing like a Wagnerian soprano."
"Tell Ranee about the stallions," Travis said.
"I was getting to them. On the other side of the menu, they had the male horses listed. All kinds of exciting big studs-Trotters and Pacers and Morgan horses and Arabian stallions with flanks as black and slick as glass. They even had the sizes listed, if you can imagine such indelicate advertising. Angel, of course, insisted upon choosing the pick of the litter-a stallion named Orval, a Clydesdale from Lanark county, Scotland. Its great grand-pappy was a Dutch stallion brought in from England. Stout as a tank, with heavy fetlocks, white markings. A beautiful creature, but horny as a monk in a nunnery-and a penis that not even Europa could have taken."
"To get back to Angel," Booples continued, "she selected Orval, and he was forthwith brought up from the stables they keep behind the Carte Rouge. He was brought up in a service elevator, and led into the room like a prize trooper. And he was, too. Proud as punch of his ability to fuck, no doubt. And he had that thing swinging between his back legs like a spiked club from a medieval torture chamber."
"Wasn't Angel afraid?"
"On the contrary, she clapped her hands when she saw Orval. Kept calling him Willy."
"Christ."
"And then the show began. With Angel stripped naked, and her legs tied apart, Orval knew just what was expected of him."
"We were never quite sure," Travis interpolated, "just when Angel passed from that romantic realm of jazzing with joy to the shadow of the Grim Reaper."
"The Grim Raper, in this case. I've never seen a horse enjoy itself so much. It had that dong all the way up Angel's fissure. And it came inside of her, too. it must have been like pulling both triggers of a blunderbuss. Orval's balls were the size of coconuts."
"Yes, Booples is telling the whole truth-but what he hasn't told you is what happened at the autopsy-the postmortem."
"The necropsy, dear," Booples sighed.
"They cut Angel open and found her lungs full of sperm. Horse come, if you please. Can you imagine the sheer ecstasy her lusty young heart must have known, beating like a broken dove's wing as gallons of stallion sperm blasted hot up her titillated cunny."
"It killed her, however."
Travis made a disbelieving face. "Nonsense, the child died in a spiritual trance. She was carried up to heaven like that transvestite, Elijah. I could almost see her in my mind's eye-flames and smoke belching out of her hot pussy as she rose like a missile. I'm sure she's gone on to bigger and better things."
"That great-hard-prick-in-the-sky," I said.
"Precisely!"
At that point, we were joined by mums and Otto-and Prince Swhabi. He had his whore in tow. She was a flaming gold blonde, a bit jowly and overpainted, and absolutely stinking with jasmine and kuphi. Mums and Otto had gone directly from Angel's interment to a jewelry shop where mums celebrated our good-sad fortune by buying herself a ten-thousand-dollar gold and lapis lazuli bracelet. She was wearing both it and a radiantly flushed smile as she and Otto settled themselves in and signaled the waiter for more glasses.
"We've decided that it's up to Vivian to uphold the honor of the free world," mums said, grinning nastily. "Since it was her idea to take all of us to that den of delicious iniquity-where we lost poor, dear Angel-then it should be her job to finish what Angel had started."
Travis stared at mums with disbelief. "Not another horse?"
"No, dear. I was speaking of the Russians. Dr. Novarko will be arriving next week, and if he's true to his word, he'll have Peter the Great with him...."
"Ivan the Glorious, mums," I corrected, smiling.
"Whatever, then."
"I think that's a marvelous idea," Booples purred. "What does Vivian think?"
"She's at home at this minute-practicing on bedposts."
I left them on that note by silently stealing out of my chair. I think Prince Swhabi's whore was the only one who really noticed-and that was undoubtedly because she had been feeling me up under the tablecloth.
I do hate to disappoint a lady, but then Swhabi was perfectly able to take care of his own poontang-and I had a much more deserving young thing in mind to fuck. She had walked by the table only seconds before, and now she was standing at the end of the street, adjusting a stocking and flirting with me out of the corner of carnal eyes.
I saw in that simple series of gestures everything old William Blake had seen in a grain of sand.
Eternity.
Or one afternoon of hot pussy, which is considerably better!