Even in a loosely-fitting muumuu, even with forty-some odd years on her, Virginia looked svelte and trim and vibrant as she brought a freshly made Rob Roy to where I was comfortably ensconced on her silver chaise lounge. She waved her Schiaparelli eyelashes at me over the glass's rim as she tested the beverage, showing her perfectly capped teeth in a smile of approval, swaying to the Mantovani as she handed me the drink and lit a pair of cigarettes for us. She sat down at my side and placed an exquisitely manicured hand on my denim-clad leg.
"You're really going to Mexico, Lance?" Her voice was as smooth and furry as the trim on her bedroom mules.
"Day after tomorrow. It's all planned. The drink's good, Virginia."
"You're going to leave all this for dirty, dull Mexico?" she asked, and with her hand, smooth as a girl's, she gestured about at the elegance of her Knob Hill apartment. That hand was appreciably higher when it returned to my thigh.
"It won't be for long. And I told Roy I'd go, so I don't have any choice now. After all, he's my boss, or the closest thing a writer can have for a boss," I told her, and I mentally asked Roy's forgiveness for using his name in conjunction with that ugliest of four-letter words-boss.
Virginia's hand went higher, right up to the limp old heart of things. "What kind of a vacation can you have with your boss? You could have a much better time by spending two weeks right here in this apartment-or twenty years, for that matter."
"It's a working vacation, Virginia. You know, work? What your husbands did before you fucked them to death?"
"Lance, what a thing to say!" she said, but then she laughed, and though her hand was a like a girl's, her laugh was not. "Tell me, Lance. Were you always so direct in your language before you started writing those awful books? Never mind. I don't care, in fact I rather like it. I like everything about you, Lance. You're so ... direct."
"You like me because you think I'm horny from writing sex books, but I'm not. My hominess is all in my head, luv."
"I know better than that, Lance," she said, and used both her lovely, diamond-studded hands on my zipper. I sipped my drink, knowing she was in for a disappointment.
She made a soft little moan as she took it out, looking at it with reverence, as if that limp, cool sausage was the Washington Monument. "It's so beautiful."
"And so dead. Sorry dear, this is my night for drinking, not for fucking. I'm pooped. I've been doing too much one-handed writing lately."
"Lance, you don't masturbate when you write. I know you don't."
"Bullshit. You don't know me at all and you never will. You just want to add a writer to your stable of past lovers."
"I want more than that, I want all of you, forever."
"I am an occasional fucker, not even a lover, and if we're going to get on the subject of my being your lover again, I'd better go pack."
She clung to my leg, pushed me back on the lounge, looking wildly desirous and very determined. "Then let's just talk about fucking, dear, and you do the talking, because my mouth will be full for a while."
She bent over and began sucking me off, and I sighed and sipped my drink and lay back, trying to erase all my fictional cocksuckers from my brain, not an easy task. By concentrating strictly on the sensation of it, and by looking exclusively at how her rich red lips were wrapped around it, I could feel stirrings of life in my loins. She did too, and her breathing increased until her nostrils were whistling warmth against my balls, and her eyes were rolling up at me to show her abject gratitude for my small response. I patted her sixty dollar blonde-tipped head and she crooned her thanks, showed it better by nearly slobbering over my slowly stiffening cock. I decided to do as she wanted, to at least talk about fucking.
I closed my fingers in her hair and jerked her head about, saying, "You horny rich-bitch slut. Is this how you killed your husbands?"
"Mm-mmm! MM-MMM!" She replied, shaking her head violently making me just a little harder.
"Yeah, I know. You still say mine's the first cock you ever sucked. You wasted a lot of years, if that's true, because you're a natural born cocksucker. You're a whore that got lucky."
"Oh, you foul-mouthed bastard," she gasped, her eyes glazed with lust. "Tell me more. Tell me how bad I am."
"Shut up and suck cock," I said, and pushed her down again. You're filthy rich, and if it hadn't been for the breaks you'd be dead now, shot full of holes from syphilis and clap, burnt out in some sleazy Tijuana whorehouse. You're a nymphomaniac, Virginia, and every cent you have came from that stinking, hairy pussy that's had so many fucking cocks in it."
That really got to her. Without my laying a hand on her, she was hotter than hell. Her nostrils were flaring like those of a cow in heat, and her voice shook as she said, "My p-pussy's only had one real cock in it, Lance ... yours! Do you want to see it now? Do you?"
I sipped and shrugged and she began tearing at the folds of her muumuu and, hoping to keep my cock up, I started stroking it with my fist. I hadn't really thought about it, but I'd expected her to be naked under the voluminous Hawaiian gown, and this was far from the case. Muumuu discarded, she posed with one knee before the other, hands on hips, looking at me with hot expectancy as I gave her the coolest of once-overs.
In addition to the high-heeled, fur-trimmed sandals, she was wearing hose. Not the currently voguish panty-hose, but sheer black nylons, stretched taut by six black shirred garters that were a part of the black leather waist cincher that nipped her in. She had on a bra, too, one of those weird things I'd often written about but never believed existed, made of black leather, the cups serving only as platters to offer up to me the tits she'd kept young through transplants. Truly, her entire figure looked quite young, molded into fine shape by the garments and by the hands of countless masseuses, powdered and perfumed and pampered. Virginia had everything-money, intelligence, looks, adoration for me-and still I had to go on stroking myself to keep it hard.
"Is this what you wanted to see?" she asked with a grin, and cranked her knees apart in order to spread the fleshy lips of her pussy, yet another source of the cosmetic surgeon's income, and looking as firm and young as the rest of her. "Here's my nasty old hole, Lance. It's all yours. Kiss it, fuck it, stick a red-hot poker in it, do anything you want to with it ... it's yours!"
"Bring it on over here and I'll see if I can kiss it," I said, forcing a yawn.
She brought it, and I gave it but one swipe of my tongue before she started coming. One lick at her clitoris and she groaned, sobbed, arched away from me and grabbed at her crotch with both hands while she ground her hips and bared her teeth and had herself an orgasm, pouring out a torrent of desire for me through her eyes as she did. "Fuck me, fuck me," she cried, then proceeded to take on that task herself.
She spilt my drink in throwing herself astraddle on my lap, and as tight as the sutures had made her cunt, she got my cock inside her in less time than it takes to hit the space bar. She was working right away, hair tumbling down, tits bobbing, ass heaving, panting hotly to me all the while. "God it's never been like this with anyone! Jesus, what you do to me! You can't leave me, not for a week, not even for a day. I'm coming so hard I can't stop! Don't go to Mexico, Lance. Stay with me, let me take care of you, be my man, my cock, my everything. My toes! I can feel it in my toes!"
"Easy, old girl. Take it easy."
"Girls," she panted, her ass still flying, her hands still clutching. "Girls, young girls, any kind you want, I'll get them for you every time you want a change from me. And you can travel, you can have fantastic clothes and cars, you can write, write, write fantastic books, anything you want to, but just stay with me. Dear God, I can't give you up!"
I thought about it while she fucked me, I really did. I thought about it and sipped the remnants of my drink and decided that the best, most logical thing to do would be to take my vacation and then perhaps accept her proposition. It really wouldn't be bad at all. I did like her for more than just her money. At that moment, I was tempted to accept her proposition on the spot and sink back into a life of sybaritic ease, never to return to work. But I couldn't bring myself to do that. One more time I had to see if I could get it all together again by myself. I had to go to Mexico and redeem myself, and when I returned I would go to the luxury of Virginia's embrace no matter what. She'd accept me any time; her proposition would stand long after my prick did not.
Roy talked me into going to Mexico as a means of straightening myself out, and it didn't take too much talking because I was in a bad way. I am still in a bad way by some people's standards, but at least I'm able to work again, which is something. But, getting back to the subject, Roy talked me into going to Mexico. He was my publisher for the past six years, bringing me along from a steely-eyed, aspiring Hemingway who was making his living driving a cab, to one of the most prolific and imaginative smut writers around, beery-eyed, but making enough money to add to the comforts of three ex-wives. When I ran out of gas, when my pornography was simply dirty and no longer erotic, Roy guaranteed he'd work and bake the stale booze and nicotine out of my system at this house he'd leased in the town of Jajajic-pronounced Ha-Ha-Hic. It would be just the two of us, driving down in his Cadillac, and with the therapy of working in his garden and making repairs on his old adobe house, he assured me I'd be grinding money out of my typewriter again within two weeks. I believed him. I trusted him as a friend and contemporary, and I knew he could help me if anyone could. I wanted to get on my feet one last time, prove to myself that I could take care of myself, and then I'd be able to go to Virginia with head high, and let her take care of me for the rest of my years. I was grateful to Roy for the chance to save myself.
But when I got to his house in LA, the plan had changed somewhat. He said for a start, "We're not going to be alone on this trip, Lance." I merely nodded, trying to be as cool and enigmatic as Roy had always been as he went on. "Since neither of us speak much of the language, a translator is coming with us." I flashed on a nubile, olive-skinned beauty, sloe-eyed and Andalusia lisping, sitting comfortably between us while Roy drove, and Roy said, "His name is Kermit and he was a promising young writer until he dropped out a year ago to start a commune and raise sheep and organic vegetables. He'll be a big help to us." I nodded, smiling, thinking that the only help I'd get from a writer who'd failed would be a strong yen for the nearest bottle. "And Mark and Stormie Sales are going along. He makes skin flicks and she was one of his models before he married her. With them along I can justify the whole trip on my expense account and no one will have any out-of-pocket expenses to speak of." Hell, the only thing the Mexicans could get out of my pockets was lint, so I didn't mind at all having two more along to fill up the car, especially since one would be an ex-model. It would make things very cozy going down, and I smiled and lit up a cigarette. Roy said, "And at the last minute, my wife decided that Ivy and Junior could come along. It will be so good for them to see Mexico, and they'll be a big help in getting the house in shape. And seven people isn't too many for the big engine in the Caddy."
The addition of his son and daughter to our entourage was a bit much for me. I lost the cool that is not my forte' to begin with, and I said, "What about your wife? What about your dog and cat? I'm sure the trip would be good for all of them, and there's got to be a little more room somewhere in that Cadillac."
"Not with all the luggage," he said, and I excused myself and went to his bar.
At that point I was determined not to go. Head back to San Francisco instead, shack up with Virginia, and look forward to Social Security as the next money I'd earn my myself. I would thumb back if necessary, for anything was better than suffering through a two thousand mile ride in a Caddy turned into a Greyhound bus. But Roy helped me to several drinks, my luggage disappeared from the front room of his spacious house, and I later found myself firmly wedged in a comer of the back seat of the Cadillac, heading south at a high rate of speed in the company of near-strangers. Half drunk and half hung over, my ears were being shattered by the taped rock music that blared from the four speakers in the monstrous automobile, that machine which had as many gadgets and devices as a moon rocket, and almost as much power. Roy was cruising at a hundred and twenty per, which didn't add a thing toward starting me off on a relaxing vacation, since I am a Volkswagen bus man myself. Add to that the presence of all those people, sitting on laps, squirming, sweating, telling stories they thought were hilarious, making me devoutly wish I hadn't come. I retreated into my thoughts.
Virginia, Virginia, I should have stayed with you. There's no point at all in jaunting off to Mexico, especially in discomfort. I should be lying between your smoothly shaven legs, sipping scotch and looking out your window at the view of The City, feeding you the tired old pecker that you find so fascinating. Who needs to work, who needs to prove himself, when there are women such as you around?
Roy passed a car on a curve doing about ninety, startling me back from my thoughtful retreat. As futile as my life was, I silently cursed him for endangering it, and for burdening me with the centrifugal weight of the intruders in the back seat with me.
Junior, immediately next to me, was at sixteen years old a thinner, taller, incredibly more garrulous edition of his father. After grinding his elbow into my ribs and mashing my pelvis against the blaring speaker in the arm rest, he said, "My dad's really a crazy driver, man, really crazy. And you're one of his fuck book writers? Far out, man, that's really far out. I think I might be a writer, but I haven't decided yet. It'd be far out, man, to be a fuck book writer and put on all those people, and I know I could do it. I've been reading ... studying more than reading ... some of the fuck books my dad publishes. He said you were one of the best, once, and that's far out. I'd like to do what you did. Then again I might be an attorney because I'm very interested in finding legal ways to stop the war. What do you think about the war? Do you think...."
I wanted to tell him I thought nothing about the war, that all my thoughts were devoted exclusively to fuck books, all of which were written with frustrated little brats with sharp elbows like him in mind.
So Junior was 'studying' fuck books. That was a laugh. I knew exactly what he was doing with them; in my imagination, it was as clear as day....
Saturday night at the Woods', and Roy and Nell are serving drinks to a couple of sex writers before going out to dinner and a show. Liberated and enlightened as they are, Roy and Nell have no objections to their sixteen year old son joining them at the cocktail hour as long as he doesn't get drunk. He sips a rum and coke and does his best to monopolize the conversation.
"Everybody knows the war is nothing but a put on to save the rubber plantations that Michelin X owns. Heck, even the CIA is running a big opium operation in Viet Nam. It's all so pointless, but I sure hope it's going on when I'm of draft age so I can resist the draft. If it's over by then I'll be a sex writer for a couple of years because it's such an easy way to make a living and you can put people on with all those weird things that happen in those far out books you write. I've been studying your books and they're really funny, man. Nobody'd do the things they do in those books. Wow, weird people must buy those books. Have you got any new ones out lately? You do? IN your briefcase? Hey, far out. Could I have some to study while you lushes go out and drink your dinner? Hey, thanks. This one looks like it's far out."
In the bathroom then, with his little pecker in his fist, tongue lolling, Junior speed-reads: " ... despite myself I felt my part swell up and become stiff as she stroked it. At any moment I expected her to leave because I had failed her test by showing my lusty inclinations. But she kept pulling on my part until it reached its most elongated point-which, I judged, was seven inches. She then cupped her small hand over my testes and squeezed. 'You are powerful, you are strong,' she said in a hushed voice. 'You are very much a man. ' " Junior groaned and gave up his pecker long enough to flip some pages to another hot spot.
"Zelda lifted the panties to her mouth and licked the damp crotch as Vivian laughed and danced away with a fast spin that whirled her full skirt up to her hips, and the odor and taste of Vivian's panties filled the redhead with lust. Vivian danced up to the waiting tongue, dropped her skirt over Zelda's head, and straddled her upturned face. " Just short of a fistful of come. Junior quickly looked for yet another torrid sex scene.
"After Bill's first spurt, Vivian clapped her mouth over the head of his prick, but the second wad surged up so powerfully it forced her head back on her shoulders, and when her face came back on the rebound the next burst of come caught her full in the nose, filling her nostrils and splattering heavily into her eyes. With a passionate yelp, Betty clamped her full, hungry lips over the discharging shaft and held on, sucking. Jet after jet flooded her mouth, pounding against the back of her throat while the frustrated Vivian pounded on her back.
Betty ignored Vivian, gulping down the rich, hot come ravenously, unable to swallow it quickly enough. It filled her cheeks and spurted out through her lips, thick blobs of it dripping down her chin to Bill's furry belly...."
The book slipped from Junior's hand as he beat his meat faster, as helpless as the exciting fictional characters when it came to trying to stop. He starts to cream, and with each bursting ejaculation, he groans and pants. "Zelda! Vivian! Bill! I love you! You're all I want forever! Where are you? Why can't I meet people like you? Urrrrgh!"
CHAPTER TWO
Our crossing of the Mexican border had an unfortunately stimulating effect on Mark and Stormie Sales. In the close confines of the crowded back seat, traveling at two miles a minute, they engaged in a giggling, squirming wrestling match. Their high-spirited frolic was transmitted to me through the medium of Junior's elbow. The boy was blushing beet red as the giggling Stormie repeatedly jostled him. She was the instigator of the wrestling match, purposely trying to excite us three males in the back seat with her, succeeding with Mark and Junior, and only irritating me.
Her twistings in Mark's lap exposed her tits, for she'd chosen to wear as her traveling togs a short poncho and white satin hot pants. It was easy to see she'd worn no bra, and the burrowing fingers of her husband made it plain she'd worn no panties either. Mark was laughing and buzzing half-heard obscenities in her ear while he worked his finger through the leg hole of her pants; she was tittering and showing all she could of herself, rocking back and forth, one moment sitting upright on Mark's lap and the next bent over Junior's lap, so low that her long blonde hair was brushing the bulge in the boy's pants. Jostling her softness against the two of them, including me in her lipsticked smile and her eye-shadowed winkings, the glossily beautiful young woman was definitely trying to sexually arouse us all.
Her brazen antics disgusted me. Had she no sense of propriety? How did a woman get to be such a tease? How could she wear such boldly revealing clothes? And how in the name of God could she bring herself to act in those dirty movies that her husband starred her in, cavorting like a wanton whore, naked, playing the part of the nymphomaniac for the dubious benefit of millions of hot-eyed film fans? How did a girl get to be like that?
As Stormie allowed herself to be pulled into a deep kiss by her husband, her arms about his neck, her legs nudging Junior's, I used my fertile imagination to picture how it might have been between them when they'd first met....
"Okay, kiddo," said the fat, balding Hollywood producer. "You got the idea what I want?"
"Y-Yessir," said Sadie Policieszwecjsi, wide-eyed, scared half to death. "I'm to ... pretend I'm ... sort of playing with myself all the time the ... the camera is running."
"Yeah, and for thirty-fi' bucks, you pretend good, y'unnderstan'? Just like you was really friggin' yourself back home in Podunk."
"Peoria," Sadie murmured, trying to hide her eyes behind her thick brown hair, feeling just terribly uncomfortable in the skimpy blouse and too-short skirt they'd given her to wear. Peoria-how she missed it, and how amazing to miss it after all the work she'd done in leaving it for Hollywood and a career. Short of actually becoming a whore, she'd do anything to get back to Peoria. This, her first and undoubtedly her last movie role, proved how desperate she was. She uttered a silent prayer and went to stand beside the narrow bed, turned and offered a ghastly smile, and thought about going home.
The camera started whirring and, broke as she was, she thought about the money being wasted on the film. Any viewer could see that it was a falsely sexy film, that she wasn't even a pretty girl. Even if it was going to be a dirty movie, it was going to be a real one, with people paying real money to see it, and that was the shame of it all. Her father had always taught her the virtue of giving full value for a dollar, and he'd further taught her to do it right if she had to do it at all-a philosophy he himself had never been able to follow.
But no, mustn't think about her father, nor of anyone back in Peoria. She was safe, for there were no places in Peoria low enough to show films like this one. She was safe to go back home and marry and have a bunch of kids and no one would ever know about this degrading thing she'd been forced by poverty into doing.
"Get on with it," said the producer. "I ain't got all the film in the world, you know."
She almost snatched up her skirt and stuck her finger in her hole, but that would never do. She had to give them their $35 worth and put some real eroticism into this simulated act of self-abuse. It seemed like an impossible task, for the few times she masturbated had not seemed erotic at all. Like coitus, she supposed, masturbation was highly overrated.
Dutifully, she ran her palms up over her hips, dragging her skirt up to show the crotch of the bikinis they'd insisted on, and then looked down at her hands as they came up higher to fondle her breasts. It was better than looking at the camera. The camera wasn't all that bad, but the three grimly bored men behind it were too much to face. She made herself breathe a little harder and smile some more at what she was doing to herself, letting her pretended lust grow slowly and realistically. It might be possible to inject a little beauty into even a pornographic film.
"Okay, pop the buttons, kid, and let's have some skin."
She didn't pop them open, she undid them one by one, exposing her breasts in a provocative manner and pursing her lips as if they were so pretty she wanted to kiss them. They were pretty. Her breasts had always been her best feature, and now, cotton blouse wide open and her soft hands molding them into a thousand erotic shapes, they were prettier than she'd ever seen them before. Half impulsively, half for the sake of the film, she lifted one and brought the nipple to her mouth.
"Hey, that's good. Keep it up for a few seconds, honey," said the producer, and his enthusiasm made her flush with embarrassment.
She'd only meant to peck a kiss at it and then stop the sordid little act of autoeroticism, but now she actually had to suck her nipple and move her tongue all about its nubby, velvety texture, acting as if it felt exquisitely good. Surprisingly, it did feel good and the acting came easy. She rolled the ball of her nipple around with her tongue and looked slyly up at the camera, feeling a lovely triumph of pride, for behind the camera the three men weren't looking quite so bored. It felt so nice to be appreciated for whatever small talent she had, and she sucked and kissed and kneaded her soft, warm flesh ever more erotically, so stirred by now that she was feeling it deep in the pit of her tummy.
"Now see what you can do with the other jug, honey."
It startled her a little and then she figured out what he meant and turned her attentions to her other nipple. It didn't feel quite so nice as the left one had. To be sure in her comparison, she pulled and tweaked on her left nipple while sucking as sensually as she could on the right, and in moments she found that all of her sensory nerves were quite in order, that both of her lovely breasts were indeed highly responsive-to her administrations. The nipple on which she was sucking and biting and licking was just as hard and erogenic as the other that she was pulling and tweaking and molding, and she was wonderfully sensitive in both breasts. It was just the boys she'd let touch her there, those fools, who hadn't known the right way to get her to feel so gloriously alive.
"That's great with the tits, kid, but show us a little more now."
Gracious, she'd gotten so involved in exploring this amazing new sensitivity of her beautiful tits that she'd almost forgotten she was showing it all to them. She blushed in her vanishing modesty and, peeling off her blouse, saw that they had been enjoying it almost as much as she had. They were grinning-no, leering-and waiting expectantly for her next move, and just like her future movie theater audience, they undoubtedly had big fat erections from watching her. They were pornographers, perhaps, but nevertheless men, and as such, quite appreciative of an apparently aroused female. Apparently? Heck, she really was a little aroused, almost to the point of her simulated heat. Her lips and nose felt swollen and she didn't have to fake her heavy breathing, her nipples were standing up like little penises, and her loins felt all heavy and loose and open. She itched there, too, and she now rubbed it, quick and hard with the blouse before she tossed it aside.
"That's good, but tease 'em a little more before you get down to business, kiddo."
She teased the heck out of them. She looked straight into the camera eye, straight into the eyes of her viewers, as if to say, 'I'm so hot, come and get me,' and she twisted her lovely body this way and that and rolled her tits around with her hands and forearms and kissed and sucked them, grinding her lush thighs together and squirming her hips around as if the fire there truly was unbearable. Before, she'd been a little surprised at them wanting an ordinary looking girl like herself to be in the film, but now, seeing herself as the three pairs of glinting eyes were, she knew how lovely, how sexy she really was, and she knew the film would be a really fine one, for its type.
"Okay, already, so come off with the skirt yet."
Feeling a bit delirious, she worked too fast on the zipper, and her fingers fumbled at the job. But she couldn't slow down, and it would look good if she seemed so aroused that she just couldn't wait. When she bent over to shimmy it down over her hips, her tits swung out, feeling very heavy and full, and when she straightened up, sans skirt, another way of pleasing her fans occurred to her. She took her tits in her hands and squeezed hard, extruding the fully engorged nipples directly at the camera, and made a most convincing expression of mixed pain and ecstasy, both of which she could very distinctly feel.
"Mark, get a c.u. of that."
"Sure, Bernie, sure. Hey, this is gonna be one terrific flick. How about a c.u. of her sucking on those big tits, too? It makes her dimples show up real good."
Consent was given and the camera's eye moved closer, right beside the human eye of the very horny young cameraman, and Sadie smiled and gave him dimples and a show as she milked and sucked her big tits. If she could make him respond, there was no telling what she could do to her audience, all those thousands of lonely men who'd be masturbating for real as they watched her fake it. She was going at it good, and seeing the response in their eyes, when the producer interrupted them.
"Enough, already. On the bed now."
Her tits bounced nicely when she let them go and again when she sat down. Scooting her fanny across the bed, she dragged her panties down in back and then she reclined, knees up and out, and ran her hands about her inner thighs to her crotch. Her hands were trembling. her thighs very warm to the touch, her crotch amazingly damp, and she wished the camera at the foot of the bed could record all that. She'd only meant to caress her crotch briefly and then return to her tits, for they just itched all over with the need to be touched, but then her hands were trapped there as she had to close her legs very tightly over them. She couldn't help it. The sudden, seething itching there had to be assuaged. Rubbing and clutching at it, she rolled and arched and gasped on the bed, feeling the marvelous itching spread to all parts of her body and making her so gloriously alive she had to open her lungs and vocalize the soaring crescendo in her.
"Cut," said the producer from afar. "Don't get in such a hurry. I'll tell you when to fake it. " "I ... I don't think she is faking it, Bernie."
"Sure she is. Girlie. Hey, Sadie. Go back to where you just laid down."
"Wait a minute," said the cameraman. "I'm outta film."
With the end of the camera's whirring she was somehow able to stop the seizure of uncontrollable lust that had come over her. She lay still, panting, wondering, 'Good gracious, what was I doing?' The cataclysm she'd experienced had her badly frightened, even more so than the presence of the three men. Something had broken loose inside her and temporarily changed her into a different person, one that she didn't know if she liked at all. Could that have been an orgasm? But, no, for if women felt like that during orgasm they'd be doing it all the time. Whatever it was, she could still feel residues of it, and even though she was afraid of it, she knew she'd have to feel it again sometime under better circumstances.
The camera started again and she had to resume the erotic massage and it stunned her how close those cataclysmic feelings were to the surface. The crotch of her panties was all slick with moisture. Could her feverish vagina be that wet? She knew she'd come then and she didn't want to go on but she needed that $35 and she owed it to her fans, and so she arched up off the bed and rolled down her panties. They stuck on her wet labia and on her matted hair and when she plucked them free the cool air was so startling on her hot crotch that she had to reach down and cover it with her hand. She shoved her bikinis down with one hand and felt of herself with the other, all swollen and sopping from anus to clitoris. That latter organ was the source of all the mad itching, and distended twice its normal size, she was able to pinch it and squeeze it as she heaved about on the bed, panting uncontrollably and using both hands to grab at her hot, hot crotch.
"I've gotta zoom in on that," said the cameraman. "She's going wild."
"Get them pants all the way off, honey, and let's have a good shot of your cunt."
She couldn't follow his instructions. It was all she could do to keep her crotch pointed at the camera, so great were the racking convulsions that overcame her, and there was no way she could let go of herself, either to take her panties all the way off or to uncover her wonderful, beautiful, orgasming cunt.
"Hey, cut it out already," the producer loudly said. "Youz don't have to ackshully jerk off. You want I should get busted? Fake it, fake it."
But she couldn't stop for a moment or two, not until she'd reached one more big peak of the most intense pleasure imaginable, squealing, drenching her hands, thinking of all the men who'd be coming as they watched her do it. The peak came, beautifully, and even then it was hard to let go of herself and lie still, for the residual tingling and even the smell of her hot cunt had her longing to go on and on, thrilling millions of filmgoers with a display of continual orgasming that would go on for as long as there was film in the projector. Her cunt was leaking badly, the juices running down over her ass hole, and the portals of it now were equally as sensitive as her clitoris had been. She stuck two fingers in there and brought herself to another peak with wondrous ease and, eager to experiment now, found that even her well lubricated ass hole could be a source of grand, grand pleasure.
"Cut! Mark, stop the camera!"
"But, boss, this is really something."
Mark understood, and she framed her widely splayed cunt with both hands for him and let him record what her purplish red and sopping wet cunt looked like when it was orgasming.
"Yah, it's something I can't sell. So, cut already. This one belongs in a whorehouse, not a girlie show. Cut!"
The other man sniggered, "In a whorehouse, she'd be dead in a month, and I'd be glad to help kill her."
"What a film this'll make. My God!" Mark said.
Too breathless to speak, she smiled at him to thank him for his understanding as she kicked off her panties with her toes, digging her fingers deep into the sweating flesh of her inner thighs. Even there it felt good now! Unbidden, she rolled over and hiked her ass up in view of the camera, to show him and it and her cheering fans the lovely ass hole that had helped her to her last orgasm. Despite Bernie's wail of protest, she reached back between her legs and stuck her finger in it, and even the rough bedspread in her teeth couldn't muffle her cries of deep, wild pleasure. Her wet hair blinded her as she rolled over on her back again, and then, reminded of the sensitivity of her tits by their contact with the bedspread, she sucked and chewed on one while at the same time fingerfucking herself as deep and fast as she could, wishing she could scream at her clamoring fans to come right along with her, all over, just as she was.
The producer was screaming, first at her to get her to stop her fantastically beautiful performance, then at Mark to get him to stop her fans from sharing it with her. She was coming harder than any woman ever had before, and it had to be recorded, and she didn't care at all about the $35 when the producer slammed out of the motel room. She did care about the other man who came to sit on her bed as she writhed in ecstasy, for he placed his hand hands on her body. She knew what he wanted, which was to fuck, which for the first time in her life was what she wanted, but she couldn't allow that for it would ruin the film, her film, the one thing in her life that she had done perfectly. Sadie somehow had the presence of mind to pant to him that she was only sixteen and then he left too, in an even greater hurry than the producer, leaving only her and her favorite cameraman to somehow bring the film to a suitable climax.
She was bathed in sweat and completely drunk on sexual feelings when she realized the camera had stopped. Sobering almost at once, she glared at the flushed and blinking Mark and said, "All done?"
"Well ... I was thinking. I wondered if, well, if you'd like me to sort of ... help you some, Sadie."
"If you mean you want to do it to me, just forget that, mister. Why, the very idea!"
"No, no! I wasn't suggesting that I ball you. But if you wanted me to sort of go down on you a little, I would. I'd like to help you ... I'd just ... like to...."
"You mean...? Gads, how nauseating can you get? I'm leaving. You're probably out of film anyway.
"Well, as a matter-of-fact, I. A smile flickered at his lips. "I have a roll of my own film left. What do you say? You don't have to do anything but go on looking sexy for the camera. I'd do it all and I wouldn't do anything to get you in trouble. Okay?"
"Well...."It would be a great ending, weird as it was.
"Really, it'd make this the sexiest film ever, and I promise I wouldn't even try to put it in you."
"Well ... Okay."
In seconds he'd mounted the camera on a tripod and in seconds more she was smiling like a real sex goddess and transmitting to its prescient eye all the glorious sensation a woman felt when a worshipping man's tongue was licking and thrusting all around in her juicy hot hole, and at that moment she forgot all about Podunk or Peoria or whatever it was and knew the added ecstasy of having found her niche in life....
CHAPTER THREE
Day changed to night, and still we drove. Roy wouldn't let anyone else take the wheel, nor would he slow down. I was sure he was on pep pills, though I never saw him take any. Our only reliefs came when we stopped for gas at the one-horse Pemex stations where Kermit monopolized the can, or at the dusty restaurants where I ate meals that settled like lumps of clay in my fear-constricted belly. It was a terrible way to start on a nice, restful vacation. I guess I grumbled about it all, which I felt I had every right to do, and Mark took it upon himself to laugh at me for being uncomfortable.
I wanted to strangle him and I might have if he had not been fifteen years younger and thirty pounds heavier than me. As it was, I jibed back at him instead, though I'm sure most of my verbal sallies were far too subtle for a brain that was all wrapped up in himself and in his exhibitionist wife.
Even to this hardened old sex writer it was disgusting the way he played with his wife's tits and fingerfucked her as we drove, agonizing Junior with pubescent longings, and surely embarrassing poor Ivy half to death as she rode in the front seat, for she could smell and hear their public lust if not see it.
I wondered how any self-respecting man could get to be that way. The motives behind his libidinous, shameless actions had probably been born in his youth, nurtured through his adolescence, and come to full flower when he had met his flashy, falsely sexy wife. I let my imagination show me how it might have been....
"That boy," said Herman's mother. "Homer, he's gone and put another bathin' beauty pitcher on his bedroom wall. Tsk!"
"Lucy, they ain't bathin' beauty pitchers, they're pin-up pitchers. All the boys pinned 'em up in the barracks durin' the war. Even me, and I ain't ashamed to admit it."
"Well, you was a soljer and Herman's just a schoolboy and it ain't right. It just ain't right."
"Ah, they're harmless, Lucy, plumb harmless. Leave the boy be as long as he does his chores and stays outta trouble."
"But what if somebody should see 'em, Homer?"
"How? By peepin' in the window? We don't git no visitors away out here and what we do git don't come back here to the boy's room. He's lonesome for a gal and he looks at 'em. He don't use 'em to abuse hisse'f, I'm sure o' that. Now you go start dinner and I'll study this one here a spell and see if it should oughta be took down. Go on, scat, woman, 'fore I fetch you a good one up along side of the head."
Herman Sales' father studied the new picture on the wall while young Herman peered fearfully through the crack he'd left in his closet door. Herman peered hatefully too, for those cherished two-dimensional objects of his devotion were again being violated by another man's eyes, albeit his father's.
True, there were probably thousands of copies of these pictures of the lovely, warm, sexy women who dwelt on Herman's walls, but none of the copies were just like these. These special women were his, his alone. Their pictures were the originals, in Herman's mind, their features and bodies flesh and blood at times, sustaining him in his cold, mean little room. And now they were being shared by another man and Herman was powerless to stop it.
His father paused before Betty, Betty of the raven-black hair and the smirking smile and the super high heels and the most bizarre lingerie in the world, and when he hooked his thumbs in his belt and drummed his fingers on his lower abdomen young Herman closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and dug his grubby nails into the rough palms of his hands. But he had to look, even as the scalped pioneer man had to look while his wife was being raped by Indians. His father moved on to Rhonda, Rhonda of the titian waterfall tresses and the sensuous, longing . face and the incredible body that had, it was rumored, taken on the entire UCLA football squad, and when his father chuckled and shook his greying head, Herman wanted to leap out of hiding and spill his father's brains on the floor. His father continued on, plucking at the front of his Levi's, and stopped before Stormie, the big blonde New Orleans stripper. It got very much more serious with Herman.
He knew all about Stormie from her brief biography in Strippers on Parade, the fan magazine from which he'd clipped her picture. She liked doggies and kitty cats and children and she wanted a husband, not a boy friend, but she'd been unable to find one who d be a real husband to her because, obviously, of her fantastic body. With a huge bosom, with hips like water jugs and a tiny waist and fantastic legs and that long white-gold hair and her earthy, earthy face, all men wanted of her was her body. Herman could supply her with more, if he was older, if he wasn't saddled with school and chores and that fucking hog farm and his ignorant, ignorant parents. Someday he would, but just then it was all he could manage just to mentally protect this woman he was mentally married to.
Then abruptly his father turned away and went to his door, leaned out of it and called, "Lucy, what the heck are you doin', takin' so long?"
Faintly, her voice came back. "What is it now, I'm up to here in flour, Homer."
"Oh, never mind," he said. "Just hurry on up with supper."
He came back then and went directly to Herman's Bevy of Beauties, the montage he'd artfully put together comprising no less than twenty-eight girls, photographed in black and white, but nevertheless a breathtaking display of smiles and legs and breasts and hair and eyes, not to mention the most sophisticated lingerie on earth, direct from Paris, France, adorning them, making them even more lovely. Here Homer Sales cast another look over his shoulder, unbuttoned his soiled pants, took out his big old dirty old pecker and began jacking off.
It was the seventh time Herman had seen him do it, and far from becoming inured to it, it sickened him even more now. Yes, Herman masturbated regularly while looking at his women, but this was something else, that gnarled old hand wrapped so firmly about that immense, wickedly curved, veined, livid bull's cock. With Herman it was a pure, good thing, accompanied by sweet, pure longing; with his old man it was dirty.
From his vantage point Herman could see the old fart's eyes flicking over Marsha and Sally and Bottles and Trudy and Lupe and on and on as his fist worked more rapidly, as his grin threatened to drool. And then at the last minute, when Herman thought it might be all right, the filthy bastard walked stiff-legged to Stormie and beat his dirty meat harder and pulled out his snotty red bandana and creamed into it, and Herman silently wept.
Years later, when Herman had made his way to Hollywood and learned a good trade, he found out first-hand that the chicks who posed for skin shots were not exactly what he'd imagined them to be. Most had husbands and kids, some had aspirations for careers as models or actresses, none were lonely as the thousands of blurbs he'd read as a youth had indicated. He learned this too late, two years or so after he'd completed the photography course at Simmons Art School, a year after he'd finally gotten a job with Bernie Beadle, the biggest pornographer in L.A. The chicks, he'd learned to his great disappointment, were nothing but meat, a commodity as valuable to him as his lenses, and anything but lonely. It was too late then because he was twenty-four years old and without enough time or talent to pursue another career. And that was when he'd gone on the shooting with Bernie and the pig called Sadie Polcieszwecjsi.
She was meat, not the occasional filet mignon or lamb chop that made his work almost bearable, but the same old hamburger. Big ass, big nose, fat lips, mousy hair. On the good side, nice big tits, good skin color, and a dimple; he'd have to work around these things. And nervous? Jesus, this one was about to wet the 69 cent skivvies he'd bought her-another of the shitty little details that went with being a Hollywood Cameraman-and of course, Bernie was doing nothing to even try to calm her down.
The fat old bastard, how could he make so much bread from pandering sex and know so little about the people involved in it? An executive like him should be a leader, and an understanding one, and know better than to bring his cousins along on shootings and make his photographer run around and get cokes and coffee and 69 cent panties. But that was Bernie, the big jackass that paid him over seven bills a month, and who never got busted and who, as a millionaire, had to be respected. He forgot about Bernie and concentrated on his job-turning live hamburger into celluloid filet mignon.
The kid was almost crying when Bernie finished with his instructions, but surprisingly she presented a decent face when seen through the view-finder of his camera. It was a hand-held camera for this was a quickie, another rent-payer, not one of the studio jobs with the burnt out starlets that he so much more enjoyed, even though the rate of pay was just the same for him.
She did her thing, felt herself up a little, did a good job in taking off her blouse, and displayed tits that weren't at all bad and a facial beauty and expression that he really hadn't expected or seen before in her. Then she sucked her tit. Mark had seen this done a dozen or more times in the past, but always on instruction, always after a lot of kidding or arguing, never spontaneously. Had Bernie given her instructions beforehand to do this, or was it something she'd taken it on herself to do? Neither seemed logical, nor did the possibility that it was something that was a part of her regular masturbation when she was by herself. Well, it wasn't his job to worry about it, he only had to keep the pig in focus.
Bernie was really digging the way the chick was sucking her tit. He would, the dirty old man. When he instructed her to have a go at the other one, she did so with such alacrity that it started to get to Mark just a little. As well it might, for after all he was young and virile and bound to react in the presence of an obviously oversexed female. He couldn't help thinking that if she was this oversexed now, she'd be an incredible piece by the time she was fully mature.
This one was definitely not mature. Mark could tell this from the objectivity of his experience. She was probably under eighteen and Bernie should have detected this himself, but of course the old bastard had been blinded by her tits, on which she was really doing a job now. Mark liked tits too, but only when they were in proper proportion to the rest of the chick's body. He liked big tits on Junoesque women, and that made the stirrings in him for this girl all the more surprising for although she had big, showy tits, the rest of her just wasn't there yet. Knobby knees, narrow hips, a roll of baby fat around her waist, slouching posture, no poise-these things could be corrected, just as her hair could be bleached and her teeth capped, but it would take time, and the chances were she wouldn't make it.
The chances were she'd go back to Peoria and live out her life as the neighborhood celebrity, telling one and all about how she'd almost been a star, and squirting out kids on an assembly line basis. Or if she stayed in Hollywood the chances were that between the dope and the flesh rackets she'd never see twenty-one. There was a scant possibility she'd hit it big somehow, but that possibility was just as unreal as her apparent sexuality. She looked damned hot and her nipples were up real hard, but it was all as phony as the smiles on his pin-up pictures years before.
Odd, he hadn't thought about his collection for a long time, but now, watching this Sadie through the view finder, he could recall his vivid imaginations about the shooting sessions of years before that had produced his paper darlings. That was largely because this sensuous little bitch had the ability to get that same lonely and beckoning look in her eyes that he'd stared at for so long back in his bedroom on the farm, as if she was saying, I want you so bad, you'd treat me so good. Come and take me.' He'd always thought it was a very studied look and hard to learn, and now at last he just might be seeing a girl to which it came naturally.
He suggested a close up and Bernie agreed and she came across better than ever when he could focus in on that fantastically smooth skin, faintly agleam with perspiration even though it was cool in the motel room. By God, she was hot. He could smell it. He could see it very clearly in her eyes, and it seemed as if it was directed straight at him. No, that couldn't be. That was foolish wishful thinking, but the fact remained that she'd given him that impression, and if she could do the same thing to a far less jaded movie audience, she was worth a fortune.
He backed off and she took off her skirt on cue and, by God, he-was getting a hardon. Was it just him she was getting to or could Bernie and his cousin feel it too? And could an audience really feel it? It was hard to say, for his erotic confusion was rising as rapidly as his cock.
Blouse in hand, she rubbed her cunt. She did it quickly, almost as if by accident, as if her cunt was so hot that it had taken over the direction of her top-heavy little body. Shit, she could really move that body. Standing up, her motor was going all the time, and when she lay down on the bed it shifted into high gear and he had the strong urge to move his body with hers. His thoughts drifted back to the farm again, to one of the many times he'd laid on his bed and gazed adoringly at his girls. What was the big blonde's name? Stormie, that was it, as phony as it could be, but he had loved her, or at least lusted so strongly for her that it had seemed like love. And lying there on his back, pecker in his hands, looking at her and imagining that her fabulous body was on top of his, writhing, teasing him, never actually telling him she loved him, and rubbing her big, hot pussy all over his trembling young body, and coming. Hell, he didn't just come in those days, he creamed a quart, he shot his dumb little head off, he completely lost touch with reality as he beat his pud and made Stormie come to life.
Good God, the chick was coming. There was no question about it at all in his mind, though Bernie thought she was just putting it on, prematurely, to fuck up his picture. He'd made a goodly number of girls come before but he'd never actually seen them doing it, being too close to them at the time, and it was really wild. It made him want to be closer to her and yet he still wanted to watch it to its conclusion. It made him want to lay on his back, pecker in hand, and somehow coerce her into rubbing her little cunt, hugely orgasming, all over his body, from his eyebrows to his knees, but especially on his prick and on his mouth.
Bernie yelled at her to quit and go back for a retake and it was only when she'd suddenly come out of her orgasmic writhings that Mark realized he'd run out of film. He hastily reloaded, casting sidelong glances at her, and although she seemed so relaxed now as to belie her recent heat, he was still as aroused as ever. It made it hard to reload the camera.
He started shooting again and in moments her excitement had returned, as real as ever. She was really giving herself a going over now, and although it was as obscene as anything he had ever shot, it was pure eroticism for he well knew that obscenity and eroticism went hand in hand insofar as the skin flick fan was concerned. That was true as far as he was concerned as well, and true for even the most prudish person, as long as that person was honest. Sex was dirty. Objectively, cunts stunk and looked disgusting, and peckers were ugly and balls even more so. Oral sex was vile and anal even more so, and even in normal sexual intercourse human beings were turned into the grossest of animals. Yes, sex was dirty and the chick was a dirty little slut, when looked at objectively. But subjectively, when viewed through the eyes of a person as aroused as himself, the dirt was wonderfully good, something to be wallowed in and enjoyed to the very fullest, and this woman-child was utterly, utterly beautiful and he would die for her, given the chance.
He came as close as the lens would permit to capture it all, and to give himself the chance to rub his swollen cock on the foot of her bed. Bernie was yelling at him to cut and at Sadie to control herself, but of course neither of them could. She was leaking musky perfume all over the place and even the wet sounds of her fingers were doing things to him. He'd like to shove the camera right up her cunt and record all the really fantastic things that were going on in there. He'd like to crawl up after it and feel it in person. He'd like to be able to come as hard as she was, and then by God, he was, lying there between her feet, half strangling with the sensational feelings surging up from his loins as he came, shot, burst in his jockeys, biting his lip to keep from shouting out his love for her.
And then it was over. Ass-hole Bernie was shouting and slamming about, breaking the mood at least for him as his wonderful sexy woman went on coming without him, leaving him with the not inconsiderable pleasures of feeling his slowly deflating pecker being bathed in the sticky warm come that now soiled his shorts. It wasn't the intense joy he'd known before and that was good because he couldn't have stood too much of that, but it was good, so good, even better than lying atop some broad after he'd come and having to listen to her whining that she hadn't had enough.
And then Bernie was leaving, commanding him to go with him, and very astoundingly he was getting fired for not obeying the master's orders. It was absurd for him to leave this girl who had given him so much pleasure. And then Bernie's cousin was propositioning her, offering to pay her to let him put his dirty, dirty cock in her, and Mark was right on the verge of braining him with his camera before the girl adroitly rejected him with the truth about her age, and he left.
Sixteen years old. My God, the penalty for fucking her would be almost as bad as that for manslaughter, but they were alone then, the rapist had gone, and he was at last free to please his woman as only he could, gently, lovingly, totally unselfishly, repaying her for all the years of pleasure she'd already given him. He poured out his feelings for her through his eyes.
"All done?" she purred, returning his look, knowing how he felt inside.
"I'll never be done with you, Stormie. I want to help you to even more pleasure, dear."
"You want to fuck me? Oh, that's a fine idea."
She was so very ready, her gorgeous cunt all open and slippery, but he was far from ready. In fact, he was days away from being physically rejuvenated to a point where he could have another discharge. But he was mentally ready and so he said, "Oh, no. I wasn't suggesting I ball you. Not because you're so young, but because it'd be a sacrilege to put my big old cock in your adorable little pussy. I had something else in mind, " he said, and licked his lips suggestively, as he had so many times while looking at his bedroom wall.
"And I suppose you want to take movies of it and make me a big star."
"As a matter-of-fact, I do. I have one roll of film left and I could get a lot for it, half of which would go to you. Really, you don't have to do anything but lie there and go on acting like the sexiest woman in the world."
"But I am the sexiest woman in the world." "I know, Stormie. Can I? May I?"
"Do it, baby. Make me feel good."
He was so shaken that it took him a long time to set the camera up on the tripod, but once he started eating her cunt the time flew by. He made the most of it. Humping slowly against his cold wet shorts, he washed her from ass hole to clitoris with his tongue, nibbling and sucking and kissing every part of it and finding that it was all equally responsive to his avid tongue and lips. He expanded his precious time with her by looking to the future, seeing her immature body fleshed out and molded to perfection by his massages and by the most wonderfully bizarre clothing he'd buy for her, seeing her hair changed to a cascade of gold, her nose altered to a pert uplift, her teeth capped, her acne eradicated. He saw them in a house, richly decorated, hung with a hundred erotic pictures of her, and them in the movie room, viewing her latest epic while being joined, loin to loin. He saw this all while he felt her hot little body heaving and thrashing under his tongue and he was fully enjoying an internal orgasming he'd never known before, right up until the spring-wound camera stopped running.
"Good gracious, that's enough," she panted, pushing him away. "I just can't take any more."
"Did you like it?" he said with a grin, wiping his lips with tongue and then hand.
"It was ... it was just super. It was fantastic. I never knew ..."
"And there'll be more baby. Stick with me. I have plans for you. Big plans."
She sighed. She nodded and said, "I guess I should let you do it to me. After all, we are sort of partners now."
"Oh, no. A promise is a promise," he said. If only his pecker would get hard now.
"Well, you could if you really wanted to."
"I do. More than anything else in the world. But not now. Later. Now we've got to talk about your career."
He nervously fiddled with the camera while he told her about his plans. She had no objections, especially about the name change, and her only questions dealt with what sort of movies she'd be appearing in. Theater or stag movies, either were okay with her, but she wanted to know about them and about his equipment. He told her about it while focusing on her and when he did, her immaturity vanished and her sexuality returned.
She said, "I guess I should tell you I'm still a virgin, and I guess something oughta be done about that before I go on with my career. If you wanted to do something about it now, you could just start the camera going even with no film in it and it'd be sorta like rehearsing. Okay?"
"But I promised you I wouldn't ball you," he said, frantically hoping as he rubbed his limp pecker against a tripod leg, all to no avail.
"Oh, I couldn't hold you to that now," she smiled, holding out her arms.
It was indeed hopeless, and in desperation he was inspired to say, "Well, as a matter-of-fact ... as a matter-of-fact we could make a real bundle actually filming the breaking of your cherry. I can see a rape scene, maybe in a farmhouse, where this big brute of an actor comes in, in jeans and rapes you. Of course it'd have to be realistic and of course I'd have to be your cameraman, so you see, it'd be better if I kept my promise now and ... and didn't do it. You see?"
She looked disgusted but she bought it, and to console her, to keep her with him, to please himself most of all, he said, "But it sure wouldn't hurt to do a little more rehearsing now. I'd sure like to eat you some more, Stormie."
"Do it," she said, opening out her lovely, obscene cunt. "Start the camera going and just do it, Mark."
CHAPTER FOUR
We had crossed the frontier at Tijuana and headed east, encountering no customs check points at all as we paralleled the California and then the Arizona borders until we got to Sonata. There, in the middle of the night, we would have a welcome respite from the hurtling juggernaut while we obtained a car permit and showed the officials our tourist cards. I had looked forward to it for a long time, just as I had looked forward to the trip, and when we got there it proved to be a similar disappointment. The customs office was but a rude adobe shack, there was a line of at least a hundred Americanos waiting outside it, and it was windy and colder than hell.
For the most part, those in line were taking the inconvenience in good spirits, huddling together for warmth, laughing and joking, and passing bottles which I greatly coveted. Our party of seven was much like the others except that it was louder, thanks to the braying and surely impotent jackass Mark and his exhibitionist wife Stormie and the incessantly chattering Junior, doing his best to derive what warmth he could from Stormie. Roy was as unperturbed as ever, Kermit was valiantly ignoring the chill as he described the joys of organic farming to Ivy, and poor Ivy was politely listening to him while shivering like a dog passing razor blades. I felt sorry for her suffering and perhaps I felt a bit more, for she was a most attractive girl. She had long reddish hair, a piquantly pretty face, and a body that would have caused a galloping regiment of Pancho Villa's cavalrymen to stop in its tracks. Being much too old for a recent high school graduate myself, my motives were strictly-or almost strictly-chivalrous when I made a suggestion to her.
"If you're getting chilly, Ivy, you might get some shelter in the car while we wait in line." She turned a cool smile on me and said, "Why me?"
"Well, because you look like you're cold."
The smile grew patronizing and she said, "Being a woman, having a thin layer of subcutaneous fat with which men are not equipped, I am undoubtedly warmer than you. It would be more practical then for you to wait in the car while I hold your place."
Junior whooped and said, "Here she goes again, the women's libby in action. Why don't you leave that stuff at home, Ivy?"
Her look at him was purely malevolent, and her voice was chillier than the wind as she said, "And why don't you run off someplace and pick your pimples, Junior."
"Now, now," said their father, and that was all he said. Mark got the levity going again by goosing Stormie, and I politely excused myself, saying Ivy's suggestion was a good one, and headed for the bottle of scotch in the car. It was reasonably warm there and the whiskey helped, so that the only cold I then felt was the anger toward that snip of a girl who had turned my courtesy back on me with a nasty dig about my age. Women's liberationist indeed. I could imagine what sort she was....
Of the thirty or so women convened at the FEMME meeting, Ivy Wood was the youngest. The others, ranging in age up to about fifty, took turns in trying to put her at her ease before the evening's business would begin. Alcohol as well as conversation was employed, for the meetings always began with a cocktail hour. Ivy and the other two FEMME novices provided one center of attention and a lanky and flat-chested FEMME member called Jackie provided a second. Jackie was dressed in a very modish tailored pants suit, had close-cropped hair, was loud, wore no make-up, and swirled several ounces of straight whiskey in a crystal glass.
"Honestly, girls, it was a lot easier than I thought it would be. The hormones made me feel just great, and with the anesthetics they've got nowadays I had no pain at all, to speak of, when they performed the mastectomies and the hysterectomy. One minute I had those awful, heavy jugs on my chest and those fiendishly troublesome ovaries in my belly, and when I woke up I was freed of them, I was liberated. Of course, the plastic surgery will be more of an ordeal, but eventually I'll have a pecker that'll be almost as good as the real thing. Then won't I be the popular one, eh, girls?
"Really, I recommend it for any of you, not for sexual reasons, of course, but for reasons of being liberated. I have a damned good doctor, even if he is a man, and I could put in a good word with him for any of you. Anybody interested? Anybody want to see how far he's already gone in building me a peter out of a piece of rib and what was left over from my tits operation?"
There might have been several takers, Ivy not being one of them, feeling a little ill both from the booze and the conversation, but just then Sally Hoskins, FEMME chapter president, called the meeting to order. Two members escorted her to a place in the semi-circle of women that sat on the thickly carpeted floor before the president's dais. Sally was an attractive woman of about forty, one whom Ivy admired for her many charitable affiliations and for the contributions she had made both in her profession as a nuclear physicist and in her calling as a modern, liberated woman. It was Sally who had recruited Ivy into joining FEMME, and therefore Ivy felt the woman had a special interest in her. And if it wasn't for Ivy's admiration for Sally Hoskins, she'd have left, appalled by what the half man, half woman, Jackie, was doing to herself. Sally's gavel came down smartly and she spoke, her voice both sibilant and forceful.
"As you know, people, tonight's meeting of the Federation of Elimination of Men and Motherhood Everywhere was called for the purpose of initiating and installing these three young people who are seated before me, and therefore all regular business will be dispensed with. However, my attention has been inexorably drawn to a matter of such urgent nature that it must be dealt with post haste and forthwith and instanter. I refer to Jacqueline Kelly who has chosen to go against all FEMME advice and principles and take irrevocable steps to eliminate herself from the female race. Not only her actions but her influence I deem highly deleterious to our cause and I call at once for a show of hands by those who feel, as I do, that she ... he should be expelled from this organization."
Sally's hand went up, immediately followed by Ivy's and several others, but the majority of the women turned sympathetic eyes on the member in question. Jackie beamed around her at them, winking slyly at a few, and Ivy could not help but wonder if the looks she was receiving were in truth merely sympathy. Sally spoke again, hand held high.
"And, " she said, "let this expulsion vote also be a vote of confidence in me as your president."
The member's looks moved from Jackie to the opulent surroundings of Sally's house, and hands rose slowly in the air. At a sharp command from their president, half a dozen or more members rose and bustled Jackie, shouting and threatening and begging, out the door. Order had been restored, and Sally smiled, and Ivy felt the warmth of it.
"You three are girls now, but soon you will be real people, like us. You will not surrender your God-given gender but will add to it, providing a new dimension to your lives. It won't be easy, but nothing good is. You won't be expected to literally eliminate men entirely from your lives, for they do have a purpose in the scheme of things. You won't be expected to dwell entirely in the company of women, for just as some of us people enjoy the company of a cat or dog as a change, there are some who might now and then enjoy the company of a brother, an uncle, a father. These things are normal and expected, in moderation. You will, however, find a great deal of solace and pleasure in eliminating the traditional male and his petty, scheming, lusting attentions from your lives.
"Our second precept is the elimination of motherhood from our lives. It is a burden and a humiliation, and it is the place of the cow-like woman, not the intelligent one, to have to suffer through it. We advocate ovarectomies and hysterectomies for those in our inner circle, but as we saw tonight we certainly do not condone the removal of one of our finest, most beautiful assets, our lovely breasts, and insofar as the injection of male hormones into our bodies, this is the vilest sin against both God and nature."
A spatter of applause went up, led by Ivy, whose tears glistened in her eyes at these inspiring words, at the sight of that magnificent woman who was the key to her personal liberation and freedom. No, there would be no men in her life, no squalling children to drag her down, not even any sex. Good works, achievement, intellectual companionship with other people like herself, these were all the things any intelligent and modern person really needed.
Her applauding was halted by the two rather bulky members at her sides who had pinioned her arms, and she looked in surprise at the other two novices who were being similarly held. To struggle against these behemoths was useless, and Ivy relaxed, uneasy but trusting, to hear more of what Sally had to say.
"Let's start with the cute little blonde, people."
The blonde was cute. Ivy hadn't been able to help but admire her for her cute little figure before and wonder what were the reasons behind her joining FEMME. But she looked both pathetic and frightened now as she was led struggling down on the floor on her back. Ivy remained stoic to the girl's cries and protests, but she couldn't help but gasp when from the circle of members rose Sylvia, club treasurer, a small, wiry brunette, grinning as she buckled a big red plastic penis to her loins.
Ivy sat there stunned, too bewildered to even struggle, as the women holding the little blonde jerked up her skirt and ripped off her flowered white panties. Turning, she saw that the other novitiate was weeping, and this made her begin to cry as well. Of course the little blonde was pouring forth a deluge of tears but this did not deter Sylvia one iota as she knelt between her pretty, pinioned legs and buried her sharp, angular face in the curly tan hair of her crotch. The girl was screaming, undoubtedly begging her to stop, but her words could not be heard over the din set up by the howling mob of FEMME members. Sylvia did stop, but only to place her loins over those of the girl and shove and push and hump until the red plastic penis was halfway inside the girl and her cries could be definitely heard as pleadings for a halt to this awful initiation. Sylvia didn't stop. She humped and fucked like a man, or like what Ivy imagined a man might do, and so furious were her thrustings that in a little while the once trim, now totally disheveled blonde lay still save for her sobbings and the occasional twitchings of her tiny, ravished body.
Sylvia hauled herself up off the near lifeless body of the girl and as she did so another burst of applause went up as the women saw the trickle of blood that came from the girl's matted cunt. Weary from her exertions, Sylvia could only rise to her knees to unfasten the awful device strapped about her hips and thighs, and the blonde didn't have the strength to even try to escape when one of the two holding her came to help Sylvia off with it. This woman was larger than Sylvia by far, but the straps of the artificial penis were adjustable and the thing fit her equally well as it had her predecessor when she had it on. With it in place, she began to fuck the girl, and her more strenuous heavings soon had the little blonde showing signs of life once more, weakly pushing at her, kicking her little legs. And now, with the initial horror worn off, Ivy could see that the humping woman was deriving very real sexual pleasure from it all, grinning and sweating a little and mauling the little body under her with both hands, placing wet kisses on the slack little mouth. She worked faster too. Ivy could clearly see the muscles under the red pants covering that big, flaccid fanny contracting hard with each of her rhythmic thrusts until, after several minutes, her pace and her contortions were such that it was apparent to all that she was having an orgasm.
When she heaved herself off, the blonde moaned audibly and tried to cover her badly abused cunt with both hands, but even this comfort was denied her as she was firmly held by a pair of fresh members of the club, while the other woman who had been holding her strapped on the glistening, bloody plastic phallus.
When she was penetrated for the third time, the girl broke down completely and wept very loudly, beating at her latest tormentor with her tiny fists and flying hells, but there was no respite for her. It horrified Ivy, and then, far from being sated with all the horror she had beheld, she was horrified anew when she saw the little blonde's trim hips moving.
Her hips had been moving constantly during this latest assault, just as all of her petite body had, but now there was a marked change in the movement. No longer was she trying to cast that heavy burden from her; now she was moving with the woman over her, not against her. She was meeting each of the savage jabs with a sharp thrust of her own pelvis and she was using her arms and legs to insure that the heavily humping woman would not try to leave the embrace, though there was little chance of that, for the woman could be seen to be close to reaching a climax. Her cries had changed, too. They were just as loud, just as urgent, but there was nothing of the protest in them now as, sweating and heaving, her entire body contorting like a being possessed, she called out for more, more, MORE!
She came, shredding the woman's blouse with her nails, reduced to the state of an animal by the savage, relentless, repeated fuckings, and even when the woman had rolled off her it was plain she wanted more. The look on her face was that of a madwoman, like that of the worst opium addict smelling the drug he craved, while the three that had fucked her half out of her mind all looked smugly serene. But there were others that lusted for her and all it took was a few beckoning fingers and she was crawling off to join the nearest of those in the semi-circle of FEMMEs.
The pain stabbing in Ivy's head was from the pounding of the gavel as Sally called the raucously clamoring women to order, just long enough to say, "Only three and she's one of us. Now let's see how many it takes to show Miss Madelyn Wadham the true way."
Ivy knew Madelyn. They had talked many times prior to making their decision to join the FEMME group, and this would make suffering through her ordeal even worse. Madelyn was a tall, leggy, willowy redhead with a keenly inquisitive mind that combined with a cool nature had discouraged any boys from entering her life. Her cool nature was lost now as she was dragged screaming forward, the clothes shredded from her body to reveal barely ripe breasts and still adolescent hips, while from the crowd Agnes came forward. She was the club vice president, a slope-shouldered slattern of a woman with a reputation of having been a Women's Olympic hurdling contestant. She stripped as naked as the struggling, weeping Madelyn was, showing no self-consciousness about her minimal breasts and thick waist and bulging thighs, and as she grinningly started to strap on the plastic penis, a new din was set up from the assemblage.
"The bigger one! Use the bigger one, Aggie!"
She obliged her fans. When Sally Hoskins tossed from the dais a phallic device fully nine inches long and an inch and a half in diameter, she traded quips with her fellow club members as she strapped it on her lean, hard, muscular body.
When Agnes began to mount the weeping, pleading, writhing Madelyn, Ivy could no longer look. She could hear, though, and the mixed screams and laughter had the effect on her of forcing her to keep her eyes open in sheer panic. She saw a melee of feminine bodies, at the center of which was the willowy redhead panting and clutching and kissing and licking and begging for more, reduced by the torture into a receptacle for Lesbian sex, and she looked away from that. She saw Sally Hoskins, still presiding from the dais, all intelligence gone from her once noble face, grinning and staring at the source of the latest shrieks of torment, and she couldn't look at that. And she saw at her sides the two women who were holding her, barely interested in the debauchery before them, looking at her, licking their fat lips.
At this point Ivy said to herself, 'Please. I know there's no God, but if there's anybody up there at all, please get me out of this and I solemnly promise I'll be just as nice and sweet as I can possibly ever be to each and every man I ever meet.'
Still it went on. Still Ivy didn't look. When she did have to look, she was being dragged forward and Sally Hoskins was saying, "Only two for lovely Madelyn, and here she is, one of us. Want another, Mad?"
The tall, cool redhead had been reduced to even more of a shambles than the little blonde. On one knee, with one hand supporting her on the floor, the other over her tom cunt, she was trying to rise. Her translucently pale skin was marked in several places by bruises, already turning blue. Wet with sweat, the sheen had gone from her lovely long hair, but through its lankly hanging lengths Ivy could see that same grin, the grin of the madwoman that had been imprinted on the little blonde's face. More than anything else, she looked drunk, but it was sex, not alcohol, that had done it.
"More," she panted. "More."
Sally barked out a harsh laugh and stepped out from behind the dais. She lifted her skirt, revealing her loins bare of anything but very long black hair, matted, parted to show cuntlips which resembled nothing more than sliced liver. Holding these open, she said, "Come feast on this, and then you'll be one of us, to have all the dildo-fucking you'll ever want."
Madelyn somehow got her inebriation under control and half-staggered, half-crawled forward, falling to her knees before the haughty woman, clasping her about her thighs, and buried her face in that dank and fetid flesh. Ivy could hear her crooning, as if she actually liked it, and she felt quite ill. There was no doubt that Sally Hoskins liked it; the look on her face told that most clearly as she gazed about at her club members.
Her look fell on Ivy and she said, "You might spare yourself a good deal of suffering if you'd come forward now and lick my cunt, Ivy, dear."
"No, no, no!" The cries came from the others even before Ivy could say there was no way in the world she could do such a thing.
Sally silenced them with an upraised hand, the other being firmly on the moving head of the kneeling Madelyn. "She'd have to do it to all of us, girls. To get out of the dildo-fucking, she'd have to eat each of us till we came. Let's see a show of hands on it."
Before they could vote, the little blonde staggered out of their midst, a complete wreck, grinning, with a pale white penis jutting ludicrously from her bloodied loins. "I'll do it. Shit, I've eaten half the gals here already, " she slurred.
With the vote-and Sally's decision-deferred by this interruption, the blonde took Madelyn's place, but only after an argument put up by the redhead. The petite girl then performed cunnilingus on the FEMME president, but like Madelyn she was unable to alter Sally Hoskins expression by so much as a millimeter.
Despite herself, Ivy wondered if she could. Through the horror of it all, she couldn't help but reason that Sally thought more of her than she did the others, and think what a triumph it would be to somehow make this proud, intelligent woman come. It would be a weird triumph at best, one that she'd never even dreamed about before, but nevertheless she couldn't get the thought of it out of her head. It was like so many other things in her life, things she knew she shouldn't do but could not help thinking about doing and, in some cases, actually thinking about them so compulsively that in the end she did them, shameful as they might be. Yes, she just might do it, but the reward would be having to do the same to all the others, and the prospect of doing it to those female gorillas who were holding her was simply too much. And the reward after that would be the same as her other two initiates had gotten-mindlessness.
Even now they were showing it. They were both drunk on sex, drunk as could be, and Ivy saw that the penis sticking out of the blonde was in fact a double-ended dildo which Madelyn was groggily trying to mount while the club members cheered her on.
No, she couldn't do it, she would somehow resist even to the point of dying under the onslaught of one of those dildos, and when Sally Hoskins asked her again she firmly shook her head and said she was ready for any fate they had prepared for her.
Sally smiled and nodded and from behind the dais took out a black dildo, a foot long, two inches in diameter, and began strapping it on. Ivy began praying.
'Dear God, even though you are a man, forgive me for my past sins and deliver me from this evil. I'll always be good, docile, sweet, anything You made me to be. I'll always stay in line, coveting nothing, relegating what small intelligence I have to where it belongs, being good to everyone, including my little brother, never telling another lie in my life. Just spare me this one time. Please, God."
They dragged her on, and Sally Hoskins came to meet her, grinning like a satyr, waving the club-like dildo....
Junior came back to the car to tell me we were next, and I hid the bottle under the seat and followed after him into the appreciably warmer Mexican night.
CHAPTER FIVE
Heading south, finished with the rigmarole of international paperwork, Roy pushed that monstrous car even faster. Jammed in my comer of the back seat, at least I didn't have to suffer through the long agonies of watching potential head-on collisions approaching, but on the other hand it was terribly cramped and uncomfortable back there. Mark was in the other comer, snoring steadily, with his sleeping wife Stormie half on his lap and half on Junior's. The boy was sleeping fitfully, his head lolling against my shoulder, muttering and fidgeting and undoubtedly having wet dreams. In the front seat, Roy drove on like a runaway robot, with his daughter Ivy sleeping peacefully beside him, and Kermit still wide awake.
Kermit had occupied the roomiest spot in the car since the start, because at six foot six, he said, it was the only place where he could stretch out his long legs. That irritated me mildly because, although my legs aren't excessively long, they still like to be extended now and then. His long occupations of the few rest rooms we encountered also irritated me, but I had contained myself since he seemed like a pleasant enough young man with no axe to grind save for his predilection with his farming and his flock of sheep and his health foods. Until Ivy went to sleep, he'd been talking to her about his way of life since forsaking the typewriter for the plow, and with Roy being totally obsessed with setting a Los Angeles-Guadalajara speed record, Kermit turned to the only available source of conversation-me.
He lifted his Roman nose and said with a smile, "Do I smell whiskey perchance?"
"You sure do," I replied, reaching under the seat, glad to have a fellow tippler along. "Have a belt?"
He laughed. "No thanks, Mr. Boyle. I gave up alcohol at the same time I left the city for the good life. It ruins the system. It does as much harm as the meats and artificial dyes and preservatives that most people insist on taking into their bodies."
I took a nip myself and said, too defensively, "I just take a drop or two now and then when I'm a little cold, like now, or when I'm at my typewriter for long periods of time."
"You probably don't know it, but alcohol is a depressant, not a stimulant, and I'm sure you'd do much better at your writing if you drank something like rose hip tea."
The last thing I needed was a lecture on booze from a failure like him. I took another drink, lit up a cigarette, and tried to ignore him. That wasn't easy, for he immediately opened his window, saying that he couldn't stand the smell of cigarette smoke. The others didn't mind it; four were asleep, Roy was hypnotized by the road, and the shepherding health freak looked robust enough to go shirtless in a blizzard. Stubbornly freezing, I smoked my cigarette to the nub before putting it out, and still he kept the window down, explaining that he could still smell the smoke and was in danger of getting ill from it.
I hoped he'd puke all over the front seat, the inconsiderate son of a bitch. I really hated him for making me freeze, for hogging the only choice seat in the car, for monopolizing the damned toilets, and most of all for being so ridiculously young and healthy.
At least he looked healthy. Physically healthy, that is. There was no telling what kind of a sick brain might be housed in that robust body, however. I could only imagine how sick he might be within, just as I could only imagine what Kermit was doing inside those rest rooms while Roy, Mark, Junior and I waited in minor agony outside the locked doors....
Being next to the Cadillac's door and having long, uncramped legs, it was easy for Kermit to reach the gas station men's room first. He bolted it behind him and fell to his knees on the damp concrete floor to make the search of the wall that separated this foul-smelling cubicle from the adjacent women's rest room.
It had to be there. There was always one in these rest rooms, and he stifled a moan of frustration as the object of his search eluded him. Already he could hear the door to the women's being closed, the bolt being shot, and he took his hand from his crotch to grope the wall as well as look it over. A huge thrill went through him as he found it, the little hole that some traveling good Samaritan had bored in the wall, and as he stuck his eyeball against that hole, his hands were free to unbutton his trousers and search for his stiff pee-wee.
He felt like giggling in his delight at what he saw through the hole. Stormie had beaten Ivy to the rest room, and two feet away from the hole, she was wriggling her way out of her white satin hot pants, her golden fluff-covered loins directly on a level with Kermit's eye. Her beauty was incredible, the pale white flesh, the voluptuously smooth curves, the way she moved. He wished his tongue was a pencil, that he might slide it through that hole and tickle her sweetly, an invisible pencil so that she would have no inkling as to what was making her come.
Her hair swung forward as she bent to work the pants down to her knees, giving Kermit a scrumptious profile view of her heinie. He squeezed his pee-wee just as hard as he could as he caught a glimpse of hot pink through the golden fur when Stormie sat down, and still the best was yet to come.
Stormie looked around her little room, stupidly, completely unaware her privacy was non-existent, and now Kermit's excitement prevented him from breathing. He longed to be closer to her, he wished with all his heart that the porcelain bowl was made of clear glass, but then the hiss and the clatter of her wee-wee came to his straining ears and he was almost totally gratified. Slowly and carefully, he worked his fist over his pee-wee, feeling it in every cell of his body, keeping up the same steady tempo until at last the hissing clatter trickled to a stop and Stormie reached for the paper. Now he wished his tongue was a part of the roll of paper, in her hand, going between her outspread legs, drying the delicate fur and the dew-kissed lips.
Even the sound of the flushing brought him a thrill, and as she rose and began hiking up her hot pants, he silently whispered, 'Bye-bye, Stormie dear. I'll see you next time we're low on gas."
Ivy was even better. She looked around the little room with obvious distaste as she hiked up her skirt and bunched it around her girlish hips. Her legs were tanned, her flesh was firm, and best of all she was wearing panties. Kermit hauled down his pants to have complete access to his pee-wee as Ivy rocked her hips back and forth in working down her dear panties. She'd been wearing them for over twenty-four hours now and he looked forward with great anticipation to rummaging through the dirty laundry and finding them once they'd reached their destination.
She squatted and sat, and she looked down at herself as the clattering hiss began, obviously having an appreciation for erotic beauty that approached Kermit's. He stuck out his tongue and wriggled it lasciviously all the time she was whizzing, stroked his pee-wee and squeezed his walnuts. A heavy sigh was suppressed as she wiped the tight, brown bush, and Kermit blew silent kisses at her through the wall as she covered up with the panties he so coveted and smoothed down the skirt over her saucy little bottom. 'Bye-bye, angel-pants,' he silently said.
'Don't forget our date in Jajajic.'
Outside, the fools were calling to him to hurry up. Screw 'em. They only had to pee, and he had much more urgent business. He sat on the can and bent over his lap, going all loose and limber as his Yoga instructor had taught him, rhythmically bending, striving ever closer to his goal. It wasn't much of a target that he sought for, only four and one eighth inches of rigid flesh, but with his superbly supple and highly conditioned body, he would reach that goal.
He reached it with his tongue first, giving the small, glistening wet knob a warm swipe that he could feel down to his toes. He bobbed lower and succeeded in smacking a kiss on the end of it, completely ignoring the anxious rattling of the doorknob. Lower still Kermit bobbed, his vertebrae forming a cramped question mark, and with great pride he managed to clasp his pee-wee between his lips.
He sucked and licked, holding himself tightly with his forearms under his knees, his mouth salivating wildly at the intoxicating flavor of himself, his nostrils flaring widely at the rich perfume surrounding him. It didn't take long. It was only seconds before his walnuts gave up their precious juices, his pee-wee jerked in his mouth, and he was lapping up the life-giving protein from within his magnificent body, feeling so ecstatically healthy that he very nearly toppled from the toilet seat.
Humming, smacking his lips, he rose and buttoned his pants, inspected his handsome face in the mirror, combed his long, glossy hair. When he opened the door, he answered the scowls with, "Sorry I took so long. I've got a little case of Montezuma's revenge. "He sneaked back behind the gas station to pee on the ground, then went to join the ladies in the car.
Just before dawn there was a loud thump and a sickening swerve and I thought it was all over, that our trip would end with seven roadside crosses of the kind that Mexicans use not only to commemorate their dead, but also to remind speeders of their peril. But the car straightened out and continued to speed on, and when the badly frightened Ivy asked, Roy said, "A cow."
Just like that, as callous as could be, he'd destroyed property and taken a life and kept right on going. The six of us all felt badly about it, but to Roy it was no more serious than going over a bump. That incident and the whole terrifying ride had given me a new dimension on this man who I had always thought was gentle and placid. Perhaps he could be gentle and placid on the surface, but get him behind the wheel of a powerful car and he was someone I didn't know. I could imagine him at Indy, bribing his way into the time trials and wheedling his way to the pits....
Smiling, nodding, looking serene but seething with inner excitement, Roy sauntered past the overall clad mechanics busy tuning the Lotus-Fords and the Brabham-Chevvies and stopping by the oldest car in the pits. It was an Offenhauser roadster, with a coat of red lacquer that failed to conceal all the scars left from hundreds of dirt track races at hundreds of county fairs. There were only three mechanics here, one of whom was the owner driver, and Roy addressed his remarks to this grizzled veteran.
"Say, that's a fine machine you've got there."
"Usta be."
"Have you run in the time trials yet?"
"Yup."
"How did you go?"
"One-fifty-one point six-three. Not enough. Never is, at the old brickyard."
"Been coming here long?"
"Eighteen years. Never qualified once. Leavin' now for the Podunk two-fifty, but I'll be back next year."
"Before you go, uh, how would you like to pick up a fast fifty bucks?"
Suspicion showed clearly in the squinting eyes and he said, "How's that?"
"Oh, nothing at all, really," Roy said, forcing a nonchalant chuckle. "It's just that I've always wanted to take a turn around the old brickyard track in a really fine old machine like this. I'd pay you fifty dollars for it and I promise I wouldn't go over sixty. What say?"
The answer was no until Roy actually showed him the crisp fifty dollar bill he'd gotten new from the bank for just this purpose, and then the suspicion changed to greed and the man said, reaching out, "It's agin' the rules, but if you hung around till the others is done and gone for today, you could swing it. For another twenty bucks. I'd let you do eighty."
"Sixty miles an hour is plenty fast enough for me, " said Roy, and settled down to wait, trying not to show his impatience.
When he was at last strapped into the tight little cockpit, laden with cautious instructions, the big, big engine rumbling before him, Roy did not hold it down to sixty. Once out of sight of the pits, he kicked it up to well over a hundred, the feelings coursing through him more than making up for any broken promise. At that speed, he had plenty of time to pull over to the infield on the back stretch and park the car, quickly get out and breathlessly take his prick out of his pants. It was up hard, harder than it got with his wife, with his mistress, or with the pornographic books he edited for a living. With it in his moving fist, he made his way to the rear of the sleek beauty, where the gas tank was. Taking off the gas cap, he stuck his prick in the hole. It was loose fitting, but with the help of his hand by running his loving gaze over the graceful curves of that sensually beautiful red delight, he was able to come very hard in just a few seconds.
CHAPTER SIX
Somehow we made it to Guadalajara without crashing headlong into a busload of Mexicans or plummeting off the road and into one of the deep canyons that slice through that mountainous region of the country. It was shortly after midnight when we got there and little could be seen of this old and yet young city of which I had read so many beautiful descriptions. Downtown, I was surprised to see a MacDonald's hamburger stand, and even more surprised when Roy stopped the behemoth and announced it was where we would eat.
Inside, dining on tepid burgers instead of the gourmet Mexican food I'd been looking forward to, he laughed weakly and said, "I didn't realize it was so late. There are no other restaurants open, so we can talk and drink coffee here till morning."
"Why don't we go on to Jajajic, Pop?" Junior asked. "It's only another thirty miles."
"We have a new maid there that Dr. John Kilmer, one of the writers living here, hired for me while I was gone. She has the key to the house, but she doesn't know me, and I'm sure she'd be frightened half to death by a bunch of grubby gringos like us pounding on the door in the middle of the night. And we can't wake up John at this hour, and it would be hardly worth our while to check into a motel now. We'll just stay here till dawn and then drive on."
Captain of our land yacht or not, he was voted down by us as we rose in a body to protest this latest inhumanity he would have inflicted on us. Roy, red-eyed and weak from over thirty hours behind the wheel, was in no shape to put down this mutiny. With muttered words and a wave of his shaking hand, he surrendered command of his machine, and then it was our turn to torture him by refusing to drive the Cadillac those last miles.
We first saw lovely Lake Chapala by moonlight and it was the same subdued illumination that lit the small, old town of Jajajic as Roy wearily turned the huge car onto its cobble-stoned streets. Everything was dark and shuttered, including a little carnival that had been set up in the plaza, and the village seemed an unfriendly place for there were no houses to be seen. The streets were lined with narrow sidewalks and on the other edge of these were solid walls, relieved by barred windows and doors, but unbroken by driveways or front walks or yards, and most of the high walls were topped with either steel spikes or broken glass. The place looked like each square block was a blockhouse of a prison, and I didn't like it at all.
The others did. Junior was saying how far out and groovy it was to be back, Mark and Stormie were loud and excited about having a bed to romp in, Kermit was enthused about getting some exotic fruits in the morning, Ivy was eagerly talking about finishing the wall mural she'd started, and Roy was sitting rigidly upright again and smiling as he steered the monster over the cobblestones to the house he'd leased. He had told me it was costing him only fifty bucks a month and that it bordered on the luxurious, and when he parked before another section of prison wall, I believed the former but not the latter.
We beat on the prison door and rang the bell, not caring how much we scared Roy's precious maid, and presently we were permitted entry by a young, shapely, brown-skinned woman wearing a loosely fitting dress, a scowl, and a yard-long machete. Kermit then vindicated himself in my eyes by fluently explaining who we were and introducing Roy to the maid, whose name was Maria and who could speak only a few words of English, and the machete disappeared.
Behind that iron door and forbidding wall was indeed a lovely house. Tired and edgy as I was, I saw little of it beyond its ell shape, the spiral stairs that led to the top floor, and the outlines of tropical foliage in the patio. Maria lived in a small room on the long side of the ell, at the back of the house, and the longer room with bath was where Kermit and Junior and I would be sleeping. Roy called it the bachelor's quarters. Next came the kitchen, which was open to the patio, then came the master bedroom and bath where Roy would be sleeping, at the comer of the ell. Next to this, forming the short side of the ell, was a room with couches and a fireplace which Ivy would occupy. Up the spiral staircase was, I was told, the sundeck and the last bedroom, to be occupied by Mark and Stormie Sales. I really cared little about the sleeping arrangements just then, wanting only to be shown to a level platform that had no wheels or motor, and I settled into my bed with almost pathetic gratitude.
I was overtired, I suppose, and sleep did not come as instantly as I'd expected. I tried thinking about Virginia and all the pleasant luxury I'd left in San Francisco and was succeeding in getting drowsy when I was startled into full wakefulness by shouts from above.
"Whoopee! We're here at last! Let's raise some hell!"
I stood it for only a few seconds before I was as angry as I'd been at Roy's driving and then started towards the second floor racket. My nose stopped me. I detected a very characteristic aroma and turned toward where the cigarette end glowed in the dark, sniffing, wondering which of the young idiots in the party had the audacity to be smoking marijuana right there in Roy's house. I had to get six inches from the face of the smoker in the hammock before I believed my eyes.
"Roy! Do you know what that is you're smoking?"
He grinned, his weariness gone, and softly said, "Michoacan Black, just as good as Acapulco Gold. Want a hit?"
"Hell, no! I don't smoke that crap and neither should you. What if your kids came out now?"
"It'd be all right. There's plenty."
"You mean they know you smoke dope?" I asked, appalled.
"Mm-hm. Ivy turned me on and I turned Junior on, but so far, it hasn't done much for him."
"You started your own son smoking that crap?"
"That's right. Just in time to stop him from trying reds and yellows in school. Those are the really harmful drugs. Grass is beneficial, in my case, therapeutic. You should turn on to it. Take a number."
I had the hand-rolled cigarette in my hand before I could think, and then I said, "You had that goddammed stuff with us when we crossed the border? My God!"
"No, give me credit for my discretion, Lance. I have a little here that I bought in town. Jajajic is a big grass center. It comes from the State of Michoacan, just across the lake. That was why I was in such a hurry to get here."
"You're addicted to it and you needed a fix. Oh, Roy...." I said, truly concerned about him.
"For a writer," he said, and took another deep drag, "you're terribly naive at times. It's non-addicting. Smoke that number and you'll see."
I tried to argue with him but he'd have none of it. He just giggled and said he was too stoned to even care to discuss it. Finally I wandered off, terribly disappointed and concerned about my friend. I couldn't think of sleep then. From my luggage I got my Scotch and, wanting to be alone, went upstairs to the sun deck. I was wearing only my shorts, it was very pleasantly warm, and it was dark up there, being protected from the dim yellow street lights that gleamed below. I'd forgotten about Mark and Stormie, the original reason for my being up, until I heard them giggling.
Their bedroom was next to the sun deck and through its big window I could see two more glowing cigarette ends which told me they too were marijuana smokers. I was sure they couldn't see me so I continued to sit there, thinking about what to do about Roy, rolling the reefer in my fingers, looking down at the idyllically peaceful streets of the sleeping village, which was in fact a big narcotics center. Sipping my booze and wishing I'd brought a real cigarette, I had about reached the conclusion that it would be better to think about it in the morning, when the light went on in the upstairs bedroom.
I want to explain here and now that I'm not a Peeping Tom, nor am I an eavesdropper. However, I am a conscientious worker and an ardent researcher, and since my work involves writing about sexual experiences I have no qualms whatsoever about researching wherever and whenever I can. Therefore, I held very still and watched and listened through the big picture window.
They were sitting on the side of the bed, Mark quite naked and Stormie dressed as she had been on the trip, in poncho-blouse, satin hot pants, and knee length boots. On the night stand was a bottle of Bacardi rum and one glass, and in the ashtray two cigarettes smoldered, one filter-tipped, one hand-rolled. It was Mark who had turned on the light, and when he slipped his arm about the shoulders of his wife, he spoke loudly enough for me to hear.
"C'mon, baby. Let's make it."
"Honey, I'm tired," she said. "Let's wait till morning."
"How can you be tired? You slept halfway here."
"I had to sleep. Otherwise I'd have gone nuts the way Roy was driving. Does he always drive like a crazy man?"
Mark, exploring what had to be familiar yet magnificent breasts within her blouse, said, "It's a macho thing with him. That's a Mexican term that means the guy is supposed to be very manly and unafraid, and showing it all the time, whether it's getting in a bull ring or driving like a lunatic. I got another way of showing that," he said, snuggling closer, nuzzling his heavily mustachioed mouth at her little ear. "Let's do it." She yawned. "In the morning."
"Everybody will be up in the morning. And I'm horny now, you know what grass does to me.
"I know what it used to do to you," she said with a small sneer, and reached into his lap to pluck out his pecker.
It made me feel inordinately good to see that it was soft, not because the sight of soft peckers turn me on and not because my suspicions of Mark's incipient impotency were correct, but only because I was seeing a man more than a decade my junior, his hands filled with gorgeous tits, his lungs filled with aphrodisiac smoke, who was less virile than me.
"You know how to straighten that out," he said, grinning. "I need to come, baby, just once for all the times I made you come on the drive down here. C'mon."
"But I'm just reeking down there, and you haven't even given me time to wash."
"Yeah!" he said, his voice more eager than the little organ in her hand. "I bet it's really funky. C'mon. Lemme find out."
She sighed and stood up, and when he caught her hand and asked where she was going, she said, "To close the curtains."
"What for? Nobody can see us up here."
His words became unintelligible then as he slipped from the bed to his knees, gently cupped her plump, satin-clad buttocks in his trembling hands, and nuzzled his mouth about in her groins, which indeed must have smelt overripe from the long sweaty journey during which his finger had been probing there most of the way. Running her pale white hands through his long brown curls, she looked down at him with more of an expression of pity than passion. But when he looked up from his mouthings she flashed him a quick, sparkling smile and whipped the poncho off over her head.
As I had surmised, her breasts truly were magnificent. She was standing in profile to me and they were standing straight out from her. She had to stand a little sway-backed to balance their considerable weight. Their underswellings were very full and the uppermost slopes of them were upward turning, without even the faintest beginnings of a sag. They were remarkably creamy, looking as if fashioned of the most exotic white velvet, save for the nipples, large and as pink as a glowing pussy. With his mouth still moving against her crotch, he looked up at them with awe as she most sensuously fondled them, smiling winsomely down at him now, and still his penis remained limp and flaccid.
"You can unzip me now," she said, and at once his caressing hands went to the back fastener of her pants and pulled it down.
I expected him to haul the little garment right down, but he did not. With the waistband hanging loose, he caught the hem of a leg hole in his teeth and tugged, pulling it down a few inches, then working on the other leg hole hem with his teeth. He traveled all around her in this fashion, on his knees, hardly pausing to kiss that exquisitely smooth flesh he was exposing and casting longing, supplicant looks at her while she continued to fondle her breasts. Her look at him was indulgent and then more and more superior as he laboriously worked the hot pants lower and lower.
When he had it down to the tops of her boots I had almost a full view of her body, and it was a glorious one indeed. She was all woman. The sway back which compensated for her heavy bosom swelled out to perfectly join the exaggerated curvature of her back-thrusting buttocks, and the gentle protuberance this gave to her belly was in no way a detraction from her figure. I'd often written admiringly of women with stomachs that were 'flat as a boy's', but the long, gentle roundness of her belly was infinitely more womanly and attractive. Her thighs were perfectly sculpted to her buttocks, almost thick at the top and tapering gracefully down to the tops of her boots, which covered the fine flowing bulge of her bunched calf muscles. When she turned slightly toward me I saw that her navel was a long and luxuriantly deep indentation and that her pube, bulging provocatively soft, had been clipped close of its blonde hair so that the fleshy lips, the same color as her nipples, clearly showed. She was an utterly beautiful woman, platinum-haired, in the full blossom of perfect early womanhood, and despite my weariness and jadedness, I felt a bit of excitement stirring in me.
The man at her feet detracted from the eroticism of this woman sensuously caressing herself. He was groveling there by then, still using only his teeth as he worked the satin briefs over the heels of her boots, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. When he finally had them off he stood up with them dangling from his mouth, blinking, his penis amazingly still limp, and uttered words I could not catch.
She nodded and smiled, perhaps a little sadly, and said, "Yes, dear, you may, while I get your little toy."
She turned her back to me while rummaging through her suitcase, and I would have stared solely at the twin mandolins of her incredibly lovely behind had it not been for Mark's remarkable action. Quickly, he stepped into the leg holes of his wife's satin hot pants and slowly he drew them up his legs, and although he was shivering with the excitement of it, when he had them secured around his hips and the head of his penis pulled down through a leg hole, that organ was still soft as butter.
Wearing only the boots, she turned to face him, and now there was real malevolence in her smile as with her hands she exercised a short red velvet whip. I could hear the intake of his breath as he looked at it, then bent over with his hands on his knees and his head hanging down.
Her breasts swung heavily as she wielded the whip against his satin-clad posterior, not very hard, but enough to make him wince and softly gasp. With its velvet covering, the whip made soft thudding sounds that only they and I could hear, and as she administered a dozen or so expert blows of it, I thought I detected a slight swelling in the roseate bulb of flesh that protruded out of the bottom of her garment that he had donned.
"Had enough?" she said, definitely sneering now.
"Not near," he replied, his voice shaking, rubbing his abused backside, and got down on his knees.
She came around to face him and she prodded him with the little whip until he had bent back so far he had to support himself on the floor with his hands to keep from toppling over backward. Still she came on, heedless of the discomfort of his position, until the big globes of her bare bottom were resting on his chest, only her toes touching the floor, straddling him, with her cunt, sweating and surely more than pungent from his fingerings, firmly settled on his avidly working mouth. With one hand holding his hair like a horse's reins, she used the other to whip his chest and belly and loins behind her, again as if he was a horse, and now I saw a change in her.
With her capped teeth bared, her grin was hateful as she looked down at him. She put more weight on his cramped-back body and squirmed and mashed her cunt on his mouth. Without seeing where she was striking, she whipped him harder than before, causing her tits to jounce even more heavily, and now those big pink aureoles were contracting and puckering and the nipples at last standing up like bright tongue-tips. She was hot, whether from his cunnilingus or from her beating him, I did not know.
He had changed, too. There were faint pink weals across his hairy and tautly stretched belly and on his opened thighs, and now his prick was at last hard and long, held tightly pressed against his leg by the hot pants, and receiving its share of lashes from the velvet whip.
She was grunting and gasping softly, urgently, and from time to time glancing back over her shoulder apparently in an effort to fix the position of his cock in her mind, thus to punish him more accurately. I thought at first the sounds she was making were from her exertions, but then as she dropped the whip and grabbed him with both hands by his hair and squirmed her cunt very hard on his upturned face, I knew she was coming, and quite hard. She muttered words that I couldn't fully hear but that were insulting and obscene, and those, it seemed, were the final trigger he needed. Squirming his hips and thus deriving friction from the satin leg hole, not even touching his penis, he began to come too. It spurted at first, then ran down his thigh in a thick white rivulet as his arms collapsed under him, and under the weight of his squirming, gasping, orgasming wife until he was flat on his back on the floor, his legs bent under him at an impossible angle, looking dead, while Stormie wrought a few more peaks of pleasure from him by squashing her leaking cunt up and down his slack face.
She got up slowly, looked down at him with either pity or loathing, and when he stirred, she helped him to his feet, helped him off with her hot pants, and helped him into bed. With their light out, I sat there for a little while longer, thinking how I'd been partially right about him and his impotency but wrong about her and her exhibitionism, and feeling chagrined at having become aroused as I had been. Was my arousal because of seeing her magnificent body or because of seeing his masochism? It was too late to analyze myself; I went to bed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The seven of us all straggled awake at about the same time, somewhere in the middle of the afternoon. We broke our fast on quesadillas-melted cheese-filled tortillas-and fresh fruit Maria had bought at the nearby tienda, and marveled at how she'd washed and ironed our travel-stained clothing while We snoozed. We were all in better spirits, refreshed, warmed, in Mexico at last.
Roy led the way up the spiral staircase to the sundeck, which was living up to its name. It was, as California is advertised as being, good and warm, and from the parapet we could look down at all the life on the narrow cobble-stoned street that completely eradicated my first impression of Jajajic being a prison compound.
Strawberry and bread vendors, kids with wicker baskets of wares on their heads, plied the streets, threading their way through the remarkable docile dogs, the bicicletas, the old women with etched faces going to market, the buses, the chickens, the gringo cars. Aromas wafted up, stirring our sated mouths to watering anew, making us sniff to identify, and at times smelling remarkably like the marijuana that Roy had said was so prevalent there and that still appalled me. In the distance, church bells, roosjers, and burros blended to make a harmony rather than a city cacophony. The action in the street was slow, as if looking down into a human aquarium, and I could have sat on the parapet a long time if Roy hadn't decreed it time for sunbathing.
Being a big-league pornographer and a champion of personal rights, it was only logical that Roy was an advocate of nudism. Being a prude myself, and a rather flabby one at that, it was only natural that I resist, but this was hard to do in the general dis-encumbrance of garments that followed. I stripped naked with the rest of them-all save Junior, who retained his boxer shorts-and stretched out in the sunshine with them-all save Stormie, who had to preserve her fair, photogenic complexion and remained in the shade.
Presently, looking around at the others, I joined Roy in letting the warm sun and my advanced years lull me into a state of unconcern about my wrinkled hide, and in the somnolence of the bask I could look at the nude bodies about me objectively-or almost. Roy was like me, grayer perhaps but less paunchy. In Junior I could again see a younger Roy, if I chose to dwell on his lanky, spindly frame. Roy's other offspring, Ivy, had none of the sparseness of her father. She was nubile in every respect and nicely tanned, save for her hard boobs and the dark triangle about her loins. She looked better than she had before to me. Kermit, the son of a bitch, was a remarkable specimen of young manhood, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, quite at ease in the raw, a long piece of strength that was tanned all over. Mark looked almost equally strong, though more compact, though paler, and he showed no lack of confidence in displaying a body that was marred only by a strong taint of inner masochism. Nude, close, in the shade, I could look at Stormie's body at my leisure, and if I chose to, fantasize on what it would be like to lie with her. Truly, my imagination had not been in control the night before, she was magnificently equipped. Bountiful but not overly so, she combined the freshness and firmness of youth with the ripe succulence of maturity, and I daydreamed about that splendid body hovering about me in a hundred different erotic positions and wondered why I hadn't been to see any of her movies, until my prick was swollen under me and I had to look elsewhere.
My gaze fell on Ivy, half asleep, baking, nodding and murmuring unheard answers to Kermit's continuing spiel on the joys of pure, pure living, and as it turned out Ivy was the last person I should have looked at just then. I'd been struck before by the smoothness of her face, which impressed me more than her pretty features, and at the time I'd idly wondered if that firm, taut-stretched satin, rosy rather than ruddy under her tan, extended beyond her collar and down to the body that moved with such artless awkward grace under her clothing. Now, seeing that body immediately after grooving on Stormie's, my prick got even harder under me, and I sweated more. She was indeed as smooth all over as her face, which was unmarked by even so much as a smile line. There wasn't a trace of a stretch mark on that young, apparently unused body, not the slightest sag to her fine, apple-sized breasts, not a hint of flaccidity in her gracefully strong thighs, not the slightest thickening of the waist that connected her vee torso to her ripe hips. Stormie's ripeness was like that of a beefsteak tomato, carefully selected at the fanciest of markets, pampered to complete readiness on a shelf and served up on a bed of lettuce, ready to burst forth its juices at the touch of a fork, while the ripeness of young Ivy was like that of the tomato on the vine that retains a bit of green around its stem, and that you want to eat right off the vine. Stormie jiggled when she moved but Ivy did not, any more than a perfectly sculpted piece of flawless tan marble. When she got up to fetch us beer, acidly protesting that she was no serving girl, beads of perspiration showing like warm diamonds on her, even her crinkly brown pubic hair was tight, perfect, showing her sex and yet primly concealing it. She came back laughing, saying that her nudity had shocked Maria but that it had been good for the totally unliberated and too modest Mexican maid, and when she laid down beside Kermit again I found my excitement was gone, for who could become sexually excited at the sight of a pair of classical sculptures such as those two were. Avoiding another look at Stormie, I drank my good cold Mexican beer and went to sleep.
I thought I was just stiff when I woke up and it wasn't till I was in the shower that I realized I was pretty badly sunburned, a foolish state to be in at my age. I kept quiet about it, hoping the others were suffering as much as I, dressed, and went out on the patio to find that Mark had some usefulness in life. He'd whipped up a pitcher of Margaritas, not the acid green liquid that fires up my indigestion, but a smooth blend whose only bite came from the alcohol in it. I had a couple in the cool of the evening, Mark and Stormie and Junior and Ivy had both cocktails and pot, Roy had only pot, and the health fiend Kermit polished off a quart of straight orange juice. He said he'd tried it all, from grass to LSD, and got his kicks from natural highs now. He further said he did not disapprove of Roy's permitting his kids to have anything they wanted in the way of stimulants, a practice I found to be deplorable.
Variously stimulated, we walked through the streets of Jajajic to the Posada for dinner and entertainment. It was a charming old inn, with rooms in the front, a lush tropical garden surrounding the swimming pool, and in the back, next to the lake, the dining room and the bar. The food and wines were splendid, surprising me, and making up for the meals on the road we'd bolted down before the Cadillac's engine could cool off. Roy reestablished his place in my affections by paying the bill and I then adjourned with them to the bar, feeling just properly drunk, and so generally good that my sunburn didn't even bother me.
We arrived during a break in the entertainment and Roy grandly ordered whole bottles of brandy and liqueurs and mix to be brought to the table. We sipped and burped and looked around at the others in the bar, in creaking leather chairs, grouped around circular tables.
There were about half Mexicans and half gringos there, perhaps thirty people in all. There were honeymoon couples and second honeymoon couples and there were fortyish gringo broads with twenty-ish Mexican boys, plus some stags. Half a dozen Mexican boys occupied one large table in a comer, and four gringo women were at another table. Three of these were girls little older than Ivy, a cute little brownette, a roly-poly dumpling of a brunette, and a tall bucktoothed blonde, all dressed alike in the ugly little embroidered sacks that are churned out by the thousands in Tijuana. The fourth female at the table was a woman, a whole lot of woman. She was in her thirties, had gleaming blue-black hair, and a dark complexion, somewhat pockmarked. Her features were very patrician, a large Roman nose, a strong wide jaw, massive cheekbones, clear green eyes, and the most sensual of mouths. Dressed in a blue crepe pants suit and heavy, polished brown boots, she was a big woman, but I didn't realize just how big until she rose and started toward our table.
She was close to six feet tall and must have weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, with haunches like prize hams, breasts like casabas, and a protuberant belly that didn't detract one iota from her powerful aura of super femininity. In all my fiction I'd never imagined such a big, strong woman, and there she was in the flesh, obviously without a stitch on under the pants suit, bearing down on our table and, frankly, intimidating me already. She crushed our hands introducing herself as Eunice, the owner of the Posada, and when Roy told her he was a resident of Jajajic rather than a guest at her inn, she sent a waiter scurrying for a bottle of her special tequila and sat down with us. About then the band returned, and far from the romantic Mexican songs I'd expected, they blared forth with wild rock music, but even over that her strong contralto voice could be heard as she questioned and categorized us in turn. Her presence as the center of attention was making Mark nervous, and he took Stormie out on the dance floor. Kermit followed with Ivy, leaving Roy and Junior and me with the Amazon. First she pumped the information from me that I was a writer and then she proceeded to meddle with my life.
"A writer, eh? Hell, you're at the wrong table. Come with me and I'll introduce you to the Three Pigs and you'll be in like a bandit, while I sit here and jaw with your buddies and tell them what's what in little old Jajajic."
She left me no choice, getting up and pulling my chair from under me as if I was a woman, dragging me through the crowded dance floor and elbowing her way through the boys clustered about the table where she'd been sitting. In rapid Spanish she told the boys to vamoose, and they did, and I then met Cathy, the brownette, Yolanda, the dumpling, and Judy, the string bean. I was placed in a chair between Cathy and Judy, my drink was stuck in my hand, and I was left with the Three Pigs while Eunice returned to our table.
I resented it but there I was, so I made the best of it. I didn't want to be with those three juveniles who gushed about my being a writer and I didn't like having to lie to them by telling them I wrote men's adventure stories. I had to do that; these three on vacation from Houston weren't at all ready for the fact that they were in the presence of a hard-core pornographer. But they bought it and I began to relax and even enjoy myself, telling them tall tales and observing the flailing dervishes on the dance floor.
There was an aura of sexuality out there that I couldn't ignore, even though Kermit and Ivy, as close to being asexual as it was possible, dominated the floor. He towered over everyone else, moving like a smoothly oiled scarecrow, while she gyrated precisely before him, her tanned legs flashing under her short skirt, her hard breasts scarcely bobbing. Kermit was drawing a lot of looks from the middle aged women dancing sedately with their Latin gigolos, while the gigolos attention was being drawn to Stormie, oozing sexuality from every pore and standing out like the finest pearl among gem-stones as Mark spun her around for all to see. Braless, in a tie-dyed tank shirt that showed the bare sides of her tits, and wearing bright turquoise leather hot pants and matching boots, she had the boys who'd been at the Pigs' table rubbing their crotches and drooling. I wondered how many times Mark had come in those sexy shorts of hers, and then my lecherous attention was drawn to another girl on the dance floor.
She looked very young, maybe sixteen, with long hair the color of taffy flying out around her little head as she danced. Her eyes were sparkling bright, her nostrils flared, and her smile fixed and very happy. It was a pretty face, turned beautiful by the rapture she felt in her totally abandoned dance, and it certainly was a totally abandoned dance she was doing. She had soft leather boots on her flying feet and she was wearing a white silk dress of the kind Harlow made famous, low cut front and back, sleeveless, form-fitting, but very short. She was sweating and it clung to her immature figure, clearly showing she wore no bra. She didn't need one, for her breasts were very small. I could see her nipples as hard little buttons through the damp white silk, as well as the little white bikini panties that were snugged about her boyish hips. She was moving everywhere, constantly, radiantly happy, and I was ashamed of myself for thinking that each of the movements of her head and shoulders and arms and legs and hips were centered around her little cunt as the focal point, as the fulcrum for all her frenetic energies. I was ashamed of myself for staring at such a child and for my prick growing inexorably bigger, and I forced myself to look at her partner, a sturdy Mexican youth. He was sweating heavily, having a hard time keeping up with her wild movements, and he was staring at her with unveiled hunger in his eyes and I felt hot anger at him because he had the bulge of a hardon in his pants that he was thrusting at her with every beat of the drums.
"That little tramp," said Yolanda. "Just look at her."
"Who?" I said, trying to hide my blush in my glass.
"Her," said Judy, pointing at the naughty little brat and then, surprisingly, placing her hand on my leg as she continued. "Her name's Bebe and she's in here every night dancing every dance with the beaners. Guess how old she is. Only fourteen! And her mother lets her come in here and do that!"
"Her mother's a lush," said the seventeen year old Cathy, and took a swig of her Tequila collins. "Eunice told us."
Yolanda and Cathy had a secret joke and put their heads together to giggle and whisper, while Judy, her hand trembling on my knee, said to me, "I guess Bebe turns on a lot of guys. Does she you?"
"Definitely too young," I lied, smiling at the girl with the roving hand, and deciding that I might as well do a little exploring myself. I placed my hand on her leg, out of sight under the table, found it warm and smooth, and said, "I like them about twenty-one, blonde, prettier than Bebe, with a cute little Texas drawl."
Her hand fluttered up an inch and she blinked and nervously smiled. "I'm almost twenty-two."
"And time is fleeting," I said, reaching my little finger almost to her twat, and thinking that if all the girls in Jajajic were this easy, I'd be a physical wreck at the end of my vacation. I decided that the answer was in being more discriminating about those on whom I expended my energies, not that Judy was bad, but she did have bucked teeth and there was a mole on her left earlobe that I could have done without. But being discriminating was for the future and this was now and I made my words as smooth as the well-stuffed crotch of her panties under my pinkie as I said, "Your beauty, my dear, is timeless, but time waits for no man. As William Ernest Henley said, 'For death and time bring on the prime, of God's own chosen weather, and we lie in the peace of the Great Release, as once in the grass together.' "
"Oh, Gawd, that's just byootiful," she moaned, and rolling her eyes in the direction of her giggling girl friends, reached up and grabbed me so hard by the cock that I spilled my drink.
Long before I had learned the use of a little poetry, even if entirely inappropriate, goes a long way toward making a seduction, although in this case she was seducing me, something which has always been very good for my ego. "You wanna ... go for a walk in the garden?" she asked me.
I wanted to have another drink or two and observe the scene with Roy, and later ball her on a very comfortable bed, but she was so eager and I'll admit I was too, with her hand on my cock, with my dirty mind on the flying butt of the fourteen-year-old Bebe, and with my nostrils filled with the stench of good, sweaty sex which by then pervaded the entire swinging room. I leaned over to her and murmured, "I wanna make you feel good all over, little darlin'," and when I punctuated my words by lancing the tip of my tongue in her ear, she almost tore my cock out by its roots.
When we excused ourselves from the table, Cathy and Yolanda giggled and clucked like hens, and wading through the careening dancers the pain in my twisted prick was diminished by the press of the bodies in motion all about me. I was jostled at every step by elbows, tits and asses, one of the last being that of little Bebe, and even though the accident was accompanied by a look of total indifference on her part, it was enough to insure, for a while, the continued rigidity of my prick.
Outside, where it was quieter and we didn't have to shout, we had little to say to one another. As far as I was concerned, it had all been said, with only the place to be agreed upon, and as far as she was concerned, she was too hot to be able to speak. It was a kick to me, a real ego-trip, to be able to excite her so easily. When I pulled her against me as we strolled the garden path, she had to cling to my clothing to keep from collapsing on her passion-weakened legs. When I slid my hand down to her ass, the jelly-like substance of it went all firm and trembling and quivery. When I took her in my arms and kissed her, her eyes remained open to slits so she could look at me with a hot yearning that was so great that she seemed on the verge of becoming physically ill. Her passion excited me, I could see it so clearly in the white light of the moon and in the yellow light of the kerosene flares that flickered along the path. I wanted her very badly then.
"Where's your room?" I said through my kisses on her neck.
"We can't go there," she panted. "My friends might come back. And you said ... on the grass."
I hadn't made it on the grass since I was a youth, but I was feeling very youthful just then, and so we led each other, stumbling and clinging, off the path and into the shrubbery, where at the touch of my cupped hand on her crotch, she gave a little cry and collapsed on the soft grass, pulling me down on top of her. The music, raucous inside, now sounded as a steady and exciting beat in perfect rhythm with my throbbing cock, getting me even more in the mood for a thorough tropical fuck, one that we'd both remember through the winter to come. I tried to take her in my arms and kiss her passionately, tried to lovingly caress that long slim body with its sleek and youthful curves, but she'd have none of that.
"Hurry," she implored, "before I ... before I...."
"...Before you come? Baby, you'll have plenty of time for that. I'm going to love you up and down, kiss you from head to toe-and especially right here between your lovely legs-and make you come so many times you'll never forget this night."
"No!" she groaned, as I began to lower my head to where my hand was. She was so ragingly hot I couldn't understand her words at first as she got my neck in a hammerlock and wrenched me up again, clutching frantically at my cock. "No, I hate that. All I want is your thing in me. Hurry!"
Like a snake she twisted on the grass in dragging her panties down and getting one leg out of them, a chore which I'd wished to perform at a much more leisurely and erotic pace. I knew then she was a nympho, but still I was flattered that she'd picked me out of the herd instead of one of the younger, stronger Mexican studs. As I started to open my fly, her hand knocked mine away to scrabble furiously for my joint, and when in turn I tried to finger her cunt, she closed her legs and twisted away, apparently already on the verge of coming and wanting to wait, no matter how hard that was, until I was in her and we could make it together.
Inside my shorts, touching my bare flesh, her hand suddenly went rigid, paralyzed, and she choked and said, "It's so big."
Being of average size, I knew she was only flattering me, but nevertheless the flattery worked, for excitement flooded through me and I moved to cover her body with mine, murmuring, "It's just your size, baby, and I know how to use it."
I thought she sobbed, and then she said, "Put it in. I don't care how much it hurts. Do it. Do it before I ... before I change my mind."
"For goodness' sake, I don't want to hurt you," I said, trying to draw back, trying to go slow and insure that she really was as ready as I'd thought she was.
But there was no drawing back from her. We struggled, using my prick as a tug-of-war rope, and the pain I felt was such that she won. I realized that she really was sobbing as she forced the head of my cock in the portals of her cunt, and it was dry and sore, and so closed to me that the hairs around it were being pushed inside by this premature penetration.
In pain and in compassion, I panted, "Wait, Judy. You're not ready yet. Let me love you there, let me kiss you there."
"No!" she cried, and then estranged groan escaped her as she arched up under me and dug her nails in my ass, completing the most painful union I had ever known. It hurt her too, for she began crying in earnest, blubbering for me to go on, to fuck her no matter if it was tearing her up inside, and driving me on to frantic squirmings on her with her damnably sharp fingernails.
I was completely out of the mood of gratifying myself by then, but still there was a need in me to please her, to give her what she so desperately wanted, even though it was hurting her at every stroke. Perhaps she was a masochist, I did not know, but I really wanted to give her pleasure, and just possibly have some for myself if I could ever get her lubricated and get her nails out of my sunburned ass.
But it just wasn't a sexy thing at all and I forced vivid sensual images into my brain to make the situation erotic enough to enable me to at least hold my erection.
Instead of this blubbering girl beneath me it was Virginia, her cunt soft and gushy wet from repeated orgasms, deliriously panting her love for me and mouthing the obscenities that helped her along to still more climaxes. Instead of a tear-streaked face striped with lank hair, I was kissing Stormie's hot cunt, sucking her enormous clitoris even as she was sucking my cock, while Mark stood by, his camera in one hand, his cock in the other. Instead of this lanky frame, it was Eunice's voluptuousness under me, and she was burrowing her fingers up to my ass to trigger my ejaculation. And instead of this dull body under me, inert save for the contractions of her fingers, it was little Bebe, agile as a flea on a hot stove, squealing out her rapture and using every part of her youthful little body in throwing me her hot, tight, juicy little cunt. I could see the impish face, the elfin body as clearly as if my imagination had turned into reality, and wallowing giddily in my pedophiliac lechery I felt myself starting to come. Again Judy ruined it.
"F'Gawd's sake, don't do it in me! Jeez, I can't go home in a family way!" she squalled.
Hell, by then all I wanted was for her to go home, regardless of her condition. But, gentleman to the end, and even though she was at last beginning to get moist and a little comfortable down there, I heaved myself up and out to settle on her, grunting and gasping, and shoot a meager load against the hollow of her groin.
I lay there panting, wanting to curse her, my clothing now rasping against me like sandpaper, and I would have heaped imprecations on her head but she said in a most convincing way, "Gawd, how I needed that. Jeez, Lance, that was just terrific. I knew it would be just as soon as I found out you were a writer. Writers are such sensitive persons."
I kissed her and rolled off her and zipped up, and said, "I suppose you'd better be getting back to your friends. I'll just lie here a while and dwell on how lovely it all was."
"Yeah, I s'pose that it'd look better if I went back alone. So long, Lance. See ya later."
She wove her way through the bushes, hiking up her panties, brushing off her sleazy tourist's dress, and I lay there mentally kicking myself for having been led into the second bad start on my vacation. First Roy and his awful driving, then Judy and her terrible fucking, and this was supposed to be a relaxing, fun vacation. I was about to go in search of another saloon when a girlish giggle made me lie still.
"Roberto, for gosh sakes, wait till we at least get off the path." It was Bebe, I'd have recognized her voice anywhere, even though I'd never heard it before.
"No can do." The Spanish accented voice was strained and breathless.
"Cool it, man," she said amid the rustling of clothing and the shuffling of feet. "I want to fuck as much as you do, but not out here in the open. C'mon."
I could hear his heavy breathing as they padded past me, could see their silhouettes as she led him into the undergrowth, and I thought about slugging him and doing something about saving adorable little Bebe from her own immature desires, but I was considerably older and more tired than he, so I laid still and watched and listened.
They stopped a few yards away from me in a little clearing and I could hear his pantings and her gigglings as the little minx shamelessly stooped and opened his pants and took out his joint. She fondled it in both hands, still giggling, and he muttered in Spanish and leaned backward, clutching at his hair.
"Roberto, you've really got a far out prickie," she said, even though it wasn't at all. "Let's fuck."
Her head bobbed about the upward angling member as she whipped off her panties, and with them in hand like a little white hankie, she slung her arms about his neck and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. The music started from the Posada. It was from a jukebox, and until then I hadn't been aware that the band had taken another break. At the first heavy beat of the number, Bebe's arms tightened about his neck and, nimble as a little monkey, she was off her feet, slinging her tiny legs about his waist, and gyrating her cunning little sun-tanned ass about to feel for the penis that he had in his hand, poking up at her.
"Get it in, Roberto. Dammit, get it in!"
"No can do. No can ... ahhhh...."
Coincident with his sigh, she emitted a joyous little squeal, and began working her ass. But it wasn't really work to her, for work is a plodding, steady thing, and her movements were anything but that. If her dance inside had been wild, this one was totally insane. With her feet a yard off the ground, she made me at last understand the true nature of the frenzied rock dances performed by today's youngsters, swinging out in time to the distant music, her gleaming hair flying wildly in every direction, her locked ankles smashing his loins against her time and again, and all the while the center of her being working like a trip hammer over his hidden cock. In the moonlight I could see her smile glistening and the rapture in her eyes, and her voice was full of joy and life and freshness as she trilled.
"Stay with me, Roberto. Stay with me to the end of the number."
"No can do," he moaned, his swarthy hands on the little ass I had coveted, grunting as he slammed his loins against her, out of tempo with the music.
He might not have made it, so aroused as he was by the dancing in the Posada, but she kept right on going to the end of the drum-beating record, and when it was over she deftly slid down from her perch on him, took his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe her crotch, slipped into her panties, and was ready to go again.
"Thanks, Roberto. That was groovy. I'll see you later. I want to get back before they start the next set."
She left him standing wilted and swaying, watching her with stunned but adoring eyes as she skipped off in the direction of the music. I rose unnoticed by him and headed for home, wondering why I had been born so early.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the morning Maria served us up a light but filling breakfast of mangos and papayas and guavas, plus the less exotic local fruits that were no less exotically sweet. Mark made a pitcher of Margaritas which helped to wash it down, and I was by then feeling too mellow to accompany Roy on a sight-seeing business trip to Guadalajara. Junior and Stormie and Mark were going, and I'd stay there, I told him, and putter around his garden while Kermit and Ivy sunned themselves. Before he went, I asked him about Eunice.
"A very nice woman," he said. "A remarkable woman. She runs the place by herself since her husband died, and I guess she's sort of shacked up with Hector, the bartender. I understand he used to be quite a bullfighter before he lost his nerve."
"Interesting, but I didn't mean that," I said. "I was wondering how that great big Amazon was with you in bed, Roy."
"Lance, the only people that jump into bed all the time are the characters in your books, and speaking of books, I hope you get started on one today."
Chastened, I promised I would, but when they were gone I felt differently. Hell, people really did jump into bed all the time. I had, for one, and I was tired from it and didn't feel like gardening or writing. Defiantly, I went upstairs to be a sloth, took off my clothes, and lay down in the shade that Stormie had used the day before. Kermit and Ivy were there on a blanket in the sun. They'd been talking softly when I was on the stairs but had fallen silent on my arrival, and when my conversation was met with only cursory replies, I settled down to snooze.
In a little while, Ivy said, "Don't," and when I opened one eye a sliver I saw that he was playing footsie with her. Since they were both naked, it seemed a harmless enough thing to do, but the tone of her voice told me-it bothered her greatly.
Kermit chuckled and said, "Oh, don't worry. The old boozer's sound asleep." He placed his big hand on her small, tan, sharply curved buttock, and for a moment it quivered softly before it got as characteristically hard as the rest of her.
"Don't!" she said, shaking her hips to throw it off, and quivering all the more.
"I was doing a lot more than that last night, and you were loving every minute of it. Why so touchy now?"
"I was ripped on Margeritas and grass last night. Now I don't like being thought of as a mere sex object. Kermit, don't!"
"Relax and enjoy it. After all, you're a woman first and a libby second." His hand roved her back, very gently, though it was big and strong enough to crush her, and although she was perspiring lightly, there still appeared a fine freckling of goose-flesh that mutely attested to the fact that under her intellectual frost she was very much a woman.
Again she admonished him and tried to shake off his hand, again producing a jiggling of her body that hadn't quite been there the day before. This time, however, she was successful, or at least temporarily so, for he rolled away, chuckling, and I heard her tremulously sigh, in either relief or in disappointment. Kermit rolled back to her, a tube of something in his hand, and as he did I saw that his prick was up, not fully hard, and not at all the diminutive thing I had imagined it as being.
He straddled the back of her thighs and she tried for a moment to get up, but of course couldn't under his weight, and he laughed confidently and said, "Take it easy, Ivy. I'm just going to put some pure, organic cocoa butter on you. You might call me male chauvinist for it, but I don't want your lovely body to get burned. Relax, foxy woman, and let me work it in."
Now he simply ignored her weak protests, working over her as if giving her artificial respiration, but contradictorily, his slow pumping actions seemed to be taking the life out of her rather than restoring it to her. He would lather up his hands and then place them on her brown back and push, pressing the breath out of her, and then massage them down lower into the deep, sharply curved hollow of the small of her back, and repeat it. At first his strength alarmed her, I could see it in her eyes, but presently the lids drooped closed and her body grew visibly softer everywhere, under his strong hands and under his hard thighs, under his heavy balls and under his big cock that fit so correctly in the groove of her paler ass. Soon she lay so still and yielding to his administrations that I would have thought she was asleep, save for the very slight frown on her otherwise clear forehead and for the way her bright pink tonguetip was moving slowly about her pretty lips. And as he lulled her with his hands, he further hypnotized her with his words.
"I've asked myself what I'd feel for you if you weren't so beautiful, if your skin wasn't like burnished bronze satin and if you didn't have a figure that turns me on every time I look at you. I've wondered if you'd still get to me like you do if you were just an ordinary-looking broad with your same weird ideas about men and women, and you know what I decided?"
"Uh ... uh. . she muttered, in time with his heavy strokings.
"Turn over, foxy lady."
"Kermit, don't," she said, her voice a soft little whine as she did as he told her.
He began buttering her breasts, molding them easily despite their firmness and making her bite her soft underlip. His massive hands worked down to her sharply indented waist and he moved down to sit closer to her knees, looking like a giant towering over a semi-conscious child, and now he was grinning broadly and his prick was up hard and very big, the scarlet head of it throbbing directly over her pubic hair, which was no longer neat and tidy but sweat-matted and flattened so that pink tissue showed through it.
Still lower his big, slippery hands moved, their thumbs pressing deeply into her muscular belly, and Ivy got up on her elbows and tried again, but there was little conviction in her voice as she said, "Kermit, stop. At least not here. What if he should wake up?"
"Can't stop now, Ivy, not now that I've had a taste of you," he grinned, his thumbs now working in her wet pubic hair.
She tried to stiff-arm him like a football player when he swooped down on her, but the gesture was quite futile and when his puckered lips found their target and drew back, she gasped and arched up with him. He chuckled and did it again, several times, and each time he smacked a suctioning kiss on her clitoris, her gasp was louder and she came up even higher off the blanket. I didn't know if she was coming or not, and she probably didn't either.
His oily hands went down her thighs, making her squirm and twist and moan each few seconds as they closed on her legs, and then he was sliding his much more powerful legs between hers and easily separating them, and when he guided his cock to her cunt, she gave up any show of resistance and tried for a compromise.
"All right, Kermit. All right, you bastard, but for God's sake be quiet."
"I'll be quiet," he said with a grin, making her wince as he forced his big cock into her. "It's you that'll be barking like a bitch in heat in just a few more minutes."
That set her off and she began beating at his shaggy head, clawing at his back, and hissing out most unlady-like curses at him. It struck him very funny, for she was entirely at his mercy, and he began to laugh all the more, rolling her around like an animated rag doll while he took his leisure in sliding his cock in and out of her little body. Perhaps I misjudged her relative weakness or perhaps his laughter weakened him, but whatever, she somehow managed to roll them both over, off the blanket and onto the sun-baked red tile of the deck.
He screamed hoarsely when his back hit it and arched up on heels and shoulders so forcefully that in turn she screamed as his cock drove its entire length and more up into her internals. With no thought of chivalry or of his own pleasure, he quickly rolled them over again, away from the blanket, so that it was Ivy's back being scalded by the tile, and then it was her turn to scream in pain and arch off the deck. But his weight was too much for her to throw off, though she tried repeatedly, arching up with extreme rapidity, over and over, slamming her athletic little hips time and again against his big lean body in a frantic effort to keep her sun burnt buttocks off the hot tile. At last she succeeded in overthrowing them and in making him bear the brunt of the hot stone, and he yelped and she yelped as they rolled over and over, clear across the sun deck and back, bunching the blanket aside, fucking madly all the way.
By then their yelps were no longer of pain. I don't think they would have felt it if the sun deck was red hot. All their cries were from their frantic fucking as they rolled and humped and heaved, locked in each other's embrace, looking for all the world like a speeded-up movie, in 3-D, in color, and most erotic.
I guess their coupling lasted only a minute or so, but to them it must have seemed like an hour. They were so exhausted when they had at last come and come and come that they could only sprawl there panting, sweat pouring off them, not having the energy to feel the hot tile under them at all.
I lay there for a while, thinking about investing in a large, flat, hot rock for my doddering old age, and when I felt they were asleep I rose and tiptoed downstairs. I showered and dressed and brought them a quart of cold orange juice to revive them, which they received like a pair of punch drunk fighters. And then, feeling a bit horny as well as thirsty, I strolled toward the Posada to see what sort of game might be around in the afternoon. As ill fortune would have it, the Cadillac drove into view and stopped beside me. Foolishly I told Roy where I was going, whereupon Junior leaped out of the car at me.
"Hey, far out," he said. "Old Eunice said I could go swimming down there any time I wanted. She's even got trunks down there. I'll go with you. Did you hear they had another peace demonstration in Washington? I think that's outta sight. I'd like to go to one, maybe start my own. That'd be far out. I know one thing, they're not going to draft me. I'll go to Canada first. Ever been there? I hear it's a far out place."
He prattled on, and I tried to recall what I'd read about karate and kung fu and other means of smashing windpipes, and in the garden of the Posada I left him with a discourteous remark and headed for the bar. It was empty, save for Hector, the gutless bull-slayer, and a brace of middle-aged gringo tourists. I found Hector's presence to be disturbing for he showed signs of his cowardice, cringing a little from time to time, and thus reminding me of my own deficiency when it comes to facing large animals. The tourists were even worse, as exemplified by their loud conversation, which ran to questions such as, "Well, Ken, this sure beats working, don't it?" and to replies such as, "You better believe it, Max." I ordered a cerveza to go and headed for a stroll in the garden, hoping for nothing in particular but wistfully thinking about an encounter with little Bebe somewhere between Eunice's mangos and her papayas. As it was I almost collided with the Three Pigs, I veered off into the shrubbery next to one of the little whitewashed adobe casitas at the sound of their giggling and waited for them to pass.
Hovering there I heard someone humming from within and, my research needs being ever constant, I peeped in through the blinds to see what might be lurking. An acid taste filled my mouth at the sight of Junior, just a yard away from me, his spindly, pink-burned body naked, rummaging through a pile of bathing trunks. I was about to leave, even if it meant running into the Three Pigs, when the door behind him opened very silently and Eunice was there. She was wearing a long, loose robe of dark red which made her big body look even larger than life, and she toyed with its sash, twirling it in her fingers, as she regarded him. Her eyes were narrowed, calculating, and there was a derisive smile on her face as she stood there looking at his narrow back, moving her mouth with the slow ruminating action of a cow working on its cud. I inched closer so as not to miss a thing.
Junior still wasn't aware of her presence, nor of mine for that matter. He was happily going through the trunks, sorting through them to find a pair that could conceivably flatter his scrawny frame. The look in Eunice's eyes told me I'd been wrong about her. From the time she'd sat down with us the night before, I'd thought she was interested in Roy, but now it was abundantly clear that her desires were centered on Roy's son, that she was one of those vile pedophiliacs that prey on die imperfectly mature. Faint nausea gripped me at the sight of Junior in his innocence and her with that rapacious look in her eye, and I would have burst through the window of the little house and stopped her had it not been for my abiding distaste for young Master Woods.
The door behind her was already closed, and now she opened it an inch and slammed it hard, frightening Junior almost out of his wits and then striding toward him, the columns of her big, shapely legs flashing through the folds of her robe, and Junior whirled about, his back against the wall, holding up a pair of striped trunks before his naked loins.
Before he could do more than gasp, she was right in front of him, looming huge before him, demanding, "What's taking you so long? Don't you know the Three Pigs are waiting for you?" That was a lie, but he didn't know it.
"I'll b-b-b-be right there," he said, his back turning even redder than the Mexican sun had made it.
"Those trunks are much too big for a boy like you," she said, and snatched them out of his hands.
With his palms trying to conceal genitalia that was hardly worth hiding, he banged back against the wall, dodged to the left, almost knocking a lamp off a table, then to the right, groping for the pile of trunks. But Eunice was already there, and she brushed his reaching hand away, saying, "I'm sure there's something in here to fit a boy like you. Let's see...."
She went through them, tossing them onto the floor as she rejected each in turn, and Junior stood quaking, blinking and chewing on his lip and not breathing. He was wringing his hands in his consternation, and past them I could catch glimpses of his little pecker and his tightly sacked balls, all but hairless. His genitalia looked more shrunken from fear than small from immaturity.
He jumped back a foot when she whirled with some shorts in her hands, and she said, "Let's see how these look," and held them at waist level, advancing on him. She followed as he retreated, saying, "Hold still. These stretch trunks ought to fit you."
They were black knit, very brief, of the kind that weight lifter types are fond of, and although they looked too small they would surely stretch to fit even a fully grown man. He tried to keep his hands in front of his loins as she tried to hold them up to him, and a little hand to hand skirmish took place, with her brushing his hands aside, with him frying to retain his modesty. At last she resorted to words to win the battle.
"Dammit, put your hands at your sides. What are you trying to hide, anyway? I'm not going to bite you, Junior."
Quite miserable, he stood there clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides while she held the skimpy garment up against his loins, turning it back to front, shifting it about, saying, "They don't look it, but they'll probably fit. They stretch quite a bit, enough even to fit me. You see?"
With that she slipped off her sash and swept open her robe, and his eyes bugged out for she was nude under it, and I guess my eyes bugged a little too as I craned to see more of the voluptuous expanse of her heavy thighs and big olive-colored hips and the very hairy black triangle at her loins. His mouth fell open and his hands went before his pecker again as he stared at her, stretching the elastic garment to its limits across her loins, and saying with a smile, "If they'll fit a big woman like me, they'll surely fit a little boy like you. Put them on."
She quickly tossed them at his face, and when he reached to catch them it was revealed that his pecker was getting hard, the size of a man's finger starting to point at her. He quickly tried to hide it with the trunks, but she beat him to the punch, snatching them away again and then grabbing him by the wrist and derisively saying, "What's this? Is the little boy getting himself a boner? I guess that's to be expected from a pornographer's son."
"No," he protested. "No, I'm not, and don't say that about Dad."
"Why not? It's true."
"He's a p-publisher. He doesn't write that junk."
"A matter of semantics, but it's true enough you're getting a boner, little man. Tsk. And just from having a woman look at you. How creepy."
He was blinking back tears, and the flush on his face was now one part anger and one part embarrassment, plus the sexual excitement that I don't think he even recognized. I began to feel a little sorry for him, though not enough to go to his aid.
"Don't go calling me a creep," he mumbled. "All I want to do is get out of here and go swimming."
"Is that all you want?" she said, her voice lilting, and opened her robe all the way, revealing in addition to her big loins and sweeping hips, huge pendant breasts the size and shape of small watermelons with dark brown nipples as big as teacups. As he frankly gaped, she smiled and shrugged the robe off her shoulders, and naked as the day she was born, though incredibly more developed, she posed with one hand on her hip, the other idly caressing her enormous tits and swelling belly and shaggy black loins.
Looking at her he forgot all about his modesty. His hands fell open at his sides and with startling rapidity, his little pecker stood almost straight up at attention. It was at this point I seriously considered going to his assistance, freeing him from her perverted clutches and giving her a good talking-to in the privacy of the cabana, but her words and actions stopped me and I stayed where I was, with my beer as my companion.
Both her fists went to her hips and she shook her head and said, "Just look at you. You are a creep to get a boner without even being touched. You know that, don't you, Junior?"
"No. I-I...."
"You're a voyeur, that's what you are. You know what that is from reading your daddy's books," she said, as if a little peeping was a perversion.
"I'm not," he said, close to tears again, and again trying to hide his erection and back away.
She followed, bent forward so her big tits swung out, her eyes still on a level with his, and snapped. "You're a voyeur. I'll bet you peek at your mother and your sister, not to mention all the other girls you can. Maybe boys, too, for all I know."
"No, I don't look at boys!" he said, close to sobbing.
"But you do look at your sexy sister and it does excite you and you do play with yourself, now isn't that so?"
He was sobbing then, and his words were hard to understand as he covered his face and blubbered, "It's not so wr-wrong to ma-ma-ma-to play with yourself. I read that...."
"Yes, you read it in one of your father's dirty books!" she snapped. By this time she'd backed him up against the wall, and there she held him by his arm, very tightly, and said in a nasty, hard voice, "Junior, you've got all the makings of a pervert. Keep up reading that trash and peeping at your sister and masturbating all the time and you'll wind up being a damned fairy. Believe me, I know, I've seen it happen to a lot better men than you could ever hope to be. Or are you already a queer? Are you already jerking off your friends and sucking off your sister's boyfriends and letting those dirty writers put their big cocks up your ass?"
I resented the last part of her question mightily, for although I am a dirty writer I've never had a desire to bugger young boys, and the last one I'd even think about buggering was Junior.
She badgered him, saying, "Well? Answer me! Are you a queer or not, boy?" and he was sobbing loudly as he shook his head, his little body shaking, but his little prick still up hard. "Answer me!"
He shook his head, just as miserable as he could be, and at this simple confession her attitude changed by one hundred eighty degrees and she took him in her arms and clasped him to her big body, petting him and kissing the top of his lowered head, and cooing to him, "There, there, it'll be all right. Momma knows baby boy wants to be ever so good, but him just doesn't know how. Poor sweet baby with his little cockie-lockie, when all the other boys' are so big," she said in a cloyingly sweet voice, and reached down and took his stiff penis in her big, warm hand.
"Poor baby Junior, him just never had the chance to find out the right way to have fun with his little thingie, did 'urns? No. Tell Auntie Eunice, have you ever done it with a girl before? Hmmm?"
He shook his head, snuffling, and looking very adenoidal as his mouth came open and he began breathing very shallowly as she continued to fondle his penis.
"Mommie feels so sorry for her baby she just wants to hug him to death," she said, and almost did just that, wrapping her fleshy arms about him and making his eyes pop as she clasped him to her mountainous bosom. "Mommie wants to teach her baby boy all about girls, how naughty they can be and how nice they can be. Does him want to learn from his Mommie?"
"Y-Yeah," he stammered, still panting from her bear hug, and from the excitement she was stimulating in him with her expert hand.
"Say, 'Yes, Mommie,' like a good boy. Does him want to have lots of fun?" she asked, now holding the shaft of his penis in three fingers and rubbing the little head of it against her thick black bush.
"Yes, Mommie," he panted, ready to call her Abraham Lincoln if she'd requested it of him.
"He's such a good boy. Do you like Mommie's big old titties? Of course you do. Play with them, darling baby boy, touch them. Mommie likes that. So nice. Pick one up in your little hands and suck it, just like you were a little baby again. Harder, honey. Yes, girls just love to have their titties sucked on."
His mouth stuffed, he rolled adoring eyes up at her, not to confirm what she said was true, but in anticipation of whatever else she might tell him he could do to further his alfresco sex education. She made much over his nursing, switching him from one of her great bags to the other and telling him how good he was making her feel, and all the while working his prick around the very big lips of her pussy with one hand and using the other behind him, on his buttocks, alternately stroking them and pinching them to make him jump.
She spoke on, still in baby talk, but with increasing signs of a very real sexual excitement burgeoning inside her, even though his paltry love-making was most inept. "Baby's getting his Mommie so hot. Her pussy is getting all wet and good and she can hardly hold still. No, her baby won't be a fairy if he keeps this up. Want to see how hot he's making his Mommie?" she said, and when he nodded, she held him to her nipple with one hand and used the fingers of her other in her cunt, then brought them under his nose to make him smell her gash.
He blinked in surprise when she pushed a finger in his suctioning mouth, smiling at him and making him nod when she asked, "Isn't that yummy? Real men, they just love the taste of nice hot pussy, and Mommie's going to let her baby boy taste all he wants of it pretty soon. You'll like that," she assured him, and resumed moving his prick against her damp hair and her wet pussy.
Junior tried to pull his mouth away from her tit, but she returned him to it at once, saying, "Mommie hasn't had near enough of her baby's titty-sucking. Keep it up, lambie-kins, and then Mommie will show you how nice it is to kiss her pussy, and if her baby boy is as good at that as he is at titty-sucking, then he'll have Mommie so hot and bothered that she'll just have to make a big man out of him and let him fuck her."
She was already pretty hot and bothered. A rose-colored glow was showing through the tawny tan of her perspiration-dampened skin, and her features had lost their clear patrician look and were slightly swollen and much softer. Her smoothly rounded belly was pulsating in and out with her increased breathing, forming two deep creases above her navel and below it, her big buttocks were squirming against each other, and the nipples that she kept him so avidly sucking on were standing out as big as the first joints on her thumbs. I didn't know if it was his sucking her huge tits and her rubbing his pecker against her cuntlips that was doing it, or if it was the fantasy she was living through her smutty words, but whatever it was, she was showing she had a big heat in her to match her big size.
The boy was very hot too. All of the moisture glistening on the little head of his pecker was not from her cunt, and now when she thrust her pussy-wet fingers under his nose, he eagerly accepted them into his mouth with an expression of pure rapture on his pimply face. He was breathing so fast that his nostrils were flaring out like a bull's, but when he tried to pull away for a lungful of air, she hammer-locked him right back to his job of sucking.
Then a look of real anguish smote his face and he tried really hard to back away, pushing at her, pushing at her hand, but she held him even more strongly and spoke to him in a voice that was even more breathlessly aroused, urging him on, saying, "A little more, baby boy. Shit, you've got your Mommie so hot she's about to pee herself. Oh, baby, am I ever going to let you eat my pussy, and are we ever going to have a good fuck then."
Relentlessly she continued to rub his prick against her cunt and roll it in her fingers, and quite helpless to prevent it, he began to come. He shot very strongly against her loins, his come jetting into her fur and drooling down over her cuntlips, again and again, squirming frantically against the soft prison of her body, making helpless mewing sounds while she continued to hold him there, continued to jerk him off and squeeze more out of his balls and pump more out of his insides with a strong finger against his pulsing prostate. Unless I was badly mistaken, she was coming too, for now her ham-like buttocks were contracting rhythmically and there was that orgasmically breathless quality in her voice which belied the words she was saying to him.
"Junior! You creepy little bastard, don't you have any control? Don't you have any regard for me? For Christ' sake, is this the thanks I get for trying to be nice to you, for trying to save you from being a damned fairy? You little bastard, you're shooting all over me and I'm not even close to coming yet. I feel like killing you for that, I feel like cutting your balls off."
"Mommie, I'm sorry," he groaned, released from the hammerlock, only to be impaled by her finger burrowing up his ass, working any last bit of the white sticky come out of his prick and against her sperm-soaked shag. "Don't be mad. Please," he begged.
"Well, I am mad, God damn it, and I'm not about to stand here and see you have your kicks while I'm still horny as hell. Eat me."
"W-What?"
"Get down on your knees and eat me," she crossly explained. "Suck me off till I come, and if you do something right for a change, then we'll see about making a man out of you and teaching you how to fuck. Understand?"
"Y-Yes, Mommie," he said, intimidated by her stem demeanor and still eager to please.
"And you can knock off that Mommie crap," she said, "until you prove you're something besides a little twerp and a damned faggoty fairy that can't even control himself."
I am a sportsman-like person and I thought that was grossly unfair of her, but at the same time I am a keen observer of the human animal-especially the female of the species-and so I cast aside any thoughts of admonishing her in favor of my continuing research. I merely took a sip of my beer as she placed her hands about his gawky throat and forced him to his knees before her, consoling myself with the thought that youth must learn by doing, and knowing that Roy could afford any necessary psychiatric help for the boy from the proceeds of his smut business.
Once she had him on his knees, she gave up her hold on his throat in favor of a one-handed grip in his hair, and inching forward and thrusting out her big loins, she used two fingers of her other hand to separate her cuntlips. She did this daintily for such a big woman, careful not to taint her digits with the come that dripped, probably still hot, through her hair. Her voice was stem as she spoke to him but still I, the expert on such matters, could detect a most definite note of sexual arousal in it.
She said, "I know a little poem which you should memorize, Junior. It goes like this:
Those portions of woman that appeal to man's depravity are constructed with consummate skill and care.
What first appears to be a simple little cavity is really an elaborate affair.
There's the vulva and vagina and the jolly peritoneum, and the hymen which is sometimes found in brides.
Countless other little gadgets you'd just love if you could see 'em the clitoris and Lord knows what besides.
So isn't it a pity when we idle people chatter of the mysteries to which I have referred.
That in speaking of so charming and delicate a matter, we use such a short and unattractive word.
"Cunt," she continued, "is the word, and cunt is what you're getting a close-up view of, and cunt is what you're going to eat. You are going to lick and suck and kiss and eat all those parts of it that are in my poem, for two big reasons. First because it'll make me feel really good, good enough to come, if you do it right. And second, because it'll make a man out of you instead of the fairy you're well on the way to becoming. Understand?" With her hand in his hair, she made him nod his head. Then, "Eat," she said, and brought his face up into her big, hairy, come-drenched old snatch.
Eunice didn't give Junior a chance to explore with his tongue for the parts of her genital anatomy she'd so poetically described. She just rubbed his face all over it, forcing him down lower with the weight of her body as she obscenely half-squatted over him, holding him there lest he try to escape, which he was far too terrified to do. He rolled his eyes about at first, as if seeking help from me even though my presence was unknown, but in just a few moments his lashes were so clogged with his own come and her juices that he had to keep his eyes shut while she continued to mash and grind his upturned face in her badly leaking twat. I think she was coming very regularly then, for every few seconds her ass jerked, making her gigantic buttocks quiver like jelly, and she was smoothly rotating her Amazon hips in that awkward and yet oddly natural-looking posture, knees flexed, legs spread, loins all but obscuring his thin face.
"Mmm, isn't that good," she panted. "Oh, don't you just adore eating Mommie's big fat cunt. Ah, can you ever get enough of loving a woman up. Oh, baby, are you ever going to be a big, strong man after this. Shit, you're making me come, honey. Oh, my big, strong man is making me come so hard I just can't stop it!" she exclaimed, and proceeded to release her bladder, sending out a torrent of urine over his startled face, forcing him down still lower and moaning like a creature gone mad as she released her hold on his hair and used both hands to squash and mash her big, fleshy, hairy, piss-gushing cunt all over his face.
When he was flat on his back, legs bent under him in a manner that reminded me of Mark in the upstairs bedroom, she braced herself with her hands on his forehead and chest and heaved herself to her feet. Standing over him, straddling his face, her pussy continued to leak, dripping down on him. I thought he'd either died or passed out until she said, "You're such a man you're still making me come," and released still more urine, which struck him in the face, making him come sputtering to life; choking and spitting and trying vainly to roll away.
Rather disgusted with it all, I still would have stayed to observe the aftermath, even though his prick was quite, quite limp and he was obviously good for nothing more, which fact Eunice confirmed by dragging him to his feet and thrusting him toward the shower, saying she'd be busy and he should enjoy his swim now and perhaps, if he got better at eating her, she'd let him fuck her at a later date. I should have stayed, possibly, to bolster his deflated spirits, but I am a firm believer in the self-reliance of youth, and besides, my beer was gone and I was very thirsty.
CHAPTER NINE
That evening at dinner at the Posada was a tranquil one, largely because Junior had uncharacteristically decided to stay home with the textbooks he'd brought along. Roy, under the influence of marijuana again, was even quieter and more congenial than usual. Kermit was saying little and smiling a lot, while at his side, Ivy kept her head down, save for occasional shy looks at him, followed by guilty glances at her father. The flamboyant Stormie was pretty quiet too, in a sullen pique because Mark had imbibed too much that afternoon and was creating a nuisance of himself. This last I could forgive, since I had on occasion had too much of the spirits myself. And so I enjoyed the meal very much, the cocktails, the fine food, the wine, the after dinner brandies, and though I certainly did not try to monopolize the dinner conversation with my erudition, I did keep up an interesting commentary on a variety of subjects in order to keep up the festive mood. At meal's end, I was getting warmed up to my personal and checkered career as a bon vivant, a subject which has fascinated many a listener, when with yawns and apologies our little band of adventurers dispersed.
I could understand it. Roy wanted to go off and lose himself in his drug habit; Stormie wanted to chastise her drunken husband in private; Kermit wanted to take poor little Ivy someplace where he could again fuck her half to death. I adjourned to the bar, smiling cordially at Eunice, greeting Hector with warmth and an order for a double, and keeping a weather eye out for the Three Pigs.
Bebe, the expatriate juvenile delinquent was there, whipping her meager little ass around in a disgusting manner, clad in a green minidress that night with brightly flowered bikini panties, wearing her same look of rapture as she danced like a miniature tornado with one of the Mexican boys who was having quite a time adjusting the revolting stiff erection in his tight pants. Having properly categorized her as a little slut of an undersized, under aged, mindless nympho, I promptly ignored her.
Distracted, I did not notice the arrival of the Three Pigs until they were at my table, Judy leading the way and looking rather haughty and superior, Cathy and Yolanda close behind, still at their secret smirking and giggling. I was trapped. But feeling expansive, I invited them to join me, bought a round of the wonderfully inexpensive drinks, and began to entertain this new audience with the story of my life, thinking to myself as I did that if little Bebe could only hear it she'd realize how shallow were her dancing partners.
As I spoke, larding my narrative with colorful and sometimes true personal anecdotes, Judy's hand strayed to my leg. To keep the girl happy, I dutifully diddled her under the table, talking all the while and keeping an eye on the dance floor, feeling a fatherly compassion for poor little Bebe in spite of myself. I decided she was probably a good girl, though somewhat mentally deficient, and definitely in need of more guidance, if not parental, then at least from an older hand. I further decided the Three Pigs weren't too astute either, Judy being more interested in my half-relaxed cock than in my words, and Cathy and Yolanda still practicing their giggling. I entertained the thought of shocking them to wakefulness with some yams of very ribald nature, but thought better of it and continued with the abridged version of my life.
We had a couple of rounds of drinks while the dancing frenzy increased. The Three Pigs had but a few invitations to dance, while Bebe never missed a number, the little tramp, changing partners at the start of each new set, and between sets retiring to the garden to be pumped full of another load of Mexican come. It was about ten o'clock when Stormie stalked in, followed a few yards back by her reeling husband.
As usual, she stopped traffic. The women dancers glared and the male dancers made a path for her, all save Bebe's inamorata who was too sexually aroused to see anything but Bebe's twisting torso, and of course the mindless Bebe, who kept right on dancing. Even glowering, Stormie was a stunning beauty, in her boots, black velvet hot pants, and a pale silk blouse with cutouts that showed even more of her creamy white skin. She'd changed into it from her dinner outfit, and apparently while she was changing Mark had been adding to his load. Now, I drink, but if there is anything I can't stand, it's a drunk. I pride myself on being a gentleman, and a gentleman always prides himself on being able to handle his booze. Mark was obviously no gentleman, reeling about, sloppily grinning, calling out coarse greetings to people he didn't even know.
Being the gentleman I am, I rose, accidentally knocking over both my chair and my drink, and took Stormie by the arm as she was passing to invite her to join us. In doing so I tripped and fell, quite by accident, and was on the floor before realizing that Judy had taken my penis from my trousers.
Understandably, it caused a little commotion, and by the time I tucked it away and got to my feet Hector and Eunice were there, with every one looking our way and giggling and murmuring about the drunken Mark. To smooth things over I asked Stormie to dance.
"All I, need is another damned drunk!" she spat, and started to stalk off.
Mark caught her arm and slurred, "Hey, you can't talk ta my frien's like that. Dance with him, bitch."
Hector, the slim, Spanish-looking bartender, took Mark's arm and said, "No trouble here. I throw you out."
Eunice took Hector's arm and, laughing, said, "You couldn't throw out a stray cat, twerp. I'm the bouncer here, and these people are married and they're not going to cause any trouble, so shut up and stop making a play for the lady."
"I no make play," he said, looking hurt, showing the cowardice I'd seen that afternoon.
"Better not," Big Eunice snickered, and then I saw she'd been drinking too, "or she'll find out you can't do her a damned bit of good, twerp. Go dance with the cash register, nino."
Hector was about to go cringing off when Mark, ever ready to kick the fallen dog, clumsily grabbed him and slurred, "Whassa matter? Don't wanna dance with my wife?"
Hector looked at Stormie and his countenance cleared and set in more manly lines. I expected him to change his mind about leaving so ignominiously and jump at the chance to dance with the flashy blonde. But instead he bowed curtly to Mark and said, "Gracias, no. Only I dance with properly dress womans."
Then he started to go, but Eunice, taller by an inch and considerably heavier than him, wheeled him about by his arm and snapped, "Don't you talk to my customers like that. Get your skinny ass out on the dance floor and kick up your heels, or I'll boot your butt from here to the Guadalajara bull ring, you faggoty little Latin twerp!"
"Aw, take it easy on the kid," Mark laughed.
"I heard all about how Mex guys are shy when it comes to half naked broads. Here. I'll cover her up and then Pancho Villa the Second'll be glad to do a dance with her for us."
So saying, he grabbed the bright-banded serape which was our tablecloth and gave it a jerk, sending bottles and glasses and ashtrays flying, and tossed it to his wife, telling her to shut up and put it on and dance. The destruction of her property caused Eunice to rock back on her heels, and when she instantly recovered, she grabbed Mark by his shirt front and shook him, pretty hard, damned hard for a woman, but then she was a lot more than the average woman and it was just then that Mark was really seeing that.
Amid titters from the crowd, she let him go, grumbling, "Sorry. Lost my temper. Just keep in line, fella. Better get your wife out of here."
He swallowed hard and swaggered up to her so his chest was almost touching her big tits and said, "Oh, yeah? Who's gonna make me, that twerp?"
She raised a finger at him. "I will if you're not careful, little man."
He made a frightened face at her and said, "Gee. I'm scared."
"Watch it, sonny. I can do it," she said, nudging him with her very bountiful chest.
"Hey, listen at big momma." He sniggered around him at the crowd. "Sounds like she thinks she can take me by the ear and lead me outta here."
"One more snippy remark out of you, boy," she said, poking her finger in his chest, "and I'll do just that."
He had to take a deep breath before he could speak, because he was shaking all over and his face was red, redder than the alcohol had made it. And then he said, loud and clear, so all could hear, "Fuck you, big momma. Fuuuuck you." She had him by his ear in a trice, making him double over to one side as she led him out through the laughing, cheering crowd, and though he yelped and bawled, he made no move to break away from her hold.
Knowing what kind of guy he was, and having seen her in action with Junior, I was sorely tempted to follow them and see what I could see. But another scene was unfolding before me that might have more elements of surprise, so I stayed where I was and sat down at the denuded table.
It was Stormie and Hector I was looking at, along with everyone else at the Posada. While her husband was being ignominiously ejected from the bar, Stormie had somehow managed to drape the serape around herself so artfully that it looked as if it had been made for her by a seamstress. In that and her soft boots, with her translucently pale skin and honey-white hair, she looked like a Mexican goddess stepped down from the snowy peaks of Popocatepetl, but her demeanor was most demure and human as she shyly approached Hector. Straightening to his full height, in tight black pants and loose white shirt and with the broad magenta cummerbund about his slim waist, he looked far more like the bull fighter that he had been then the pet bartender he now was. And he acted like a Spanish grandee as he sedately bowed and took her hand to lead her the few steps to the dance floor.
The drummer hit a heavy beat, was silenced by a fierce glare from Hector, and right away the little Mexican rock band joined together in a tune that was strictly native to their country. They weren't quite with it at first, and I didn't see how anyone, even Stormie, could dance to it. She did, however, moving smoothly into Hector's arms and at once following the lead of his nimble feet, and perhaps her readiness inspired the band for their initial raggedness disappeared and soon the two electric guitars, the rock organ, and the drums, all amplified, were playing the sprightly, yet sedate, tune with sweet unison. The dance floor was cleared. Even Cathy and Yolanda stopped their giggling to watch as Hector wheeled and spun Stormie about the floor. The Mexican faces around me, especially the older ones, were smiling with what looked like nostalgia, and the younger couples were moving closer together, all silent, all fully appreciative of the way this international couple, the man dark and handsome, the woman fair and lovely, had so easily and gracefully united on the dance floor. I saw that Judy was quietly weeping, although smiling, and even I was moved by the beauty of them together, so much so that I forgot all about following Eunice and Mark, and even forgot to order myself another drink.
They danced for perhaps five minutes, though it seemed much shorter, all as smoothly and effortlessly as if they'd spent years whirling in each other's arms. The band, proving again that it had a little class, seemed to know just when to quit, and at its last beat, Hector bowed to Stormie, Stormie curtsied back, and he escorted her out the door before their highly appreciative audience could break into the applause the couple so richly deserved.
I excused myself and arose, clicked my heels to the trio of ladies and left the table, not to follow the handsome couple like some sneak of a voyeur, but to follow the dictates of my heart, as any true caballero would under those romantic circumstances.
I reached Bebe as the applause changed to murmurs, before the band reverted to form, sucked in my belly, bowed, and said, "The Senor respectfully requests the Senorita's presence on the dance floor."
Her dewy eyes blinked and her teeth sparkled and she said, "You wanna dance with me? Hey, far out, Pops. As soon as this set is over. See ya."
I left the horrid little idiotic mindless bitch of a nymphomaniacal whore, hoping she'd fill up with fertile, syphilitic, gonorrhea Mexican semen and burst, and by instinct found my way into the garden. Its peaceful moonlit tranquility did little to salve my jangled nerves, and to keep the stupid evening from being a total waste, I headed for my vantage spot of the afternoon, outside the cabana window, planning on some serious research into the troubled lives of two of the perverts I'd been forced into contact with, Mommie Eunice and Masochist Mark.
They were not present, but Hector and Stormie were, and with the memory of their shared intimacy on the dance floor so recent in my mind, I left to give them this moment of secret intimacy. A waiter was carrying a case of beer on the path, however, and after taking a brace of bottles from him, I thought better of departing and quietly returned.
They were standing in the middle of the little room, in fairly good light, and Hector was holding her gently by her elbows as they gazed soulfully at each other. Hector was speaking.
"No, she not the wife, not the girl friend no more, no se what she be to me. But Mark, he is your husband."
"I just work for him," she said. "Oh, and I sleep with him too. And you might as well know it, he makes love to me too, in his way."
"I know how you make love," he sadly said. "It is like you dance. Beautiful."
She shook her head. "No. I learned to dance from experts. I studied dance for years before I became what I am. I never did learn how to make love ... not until just now, out there. Out there, you made love to me as no other man ever has."
"That is my folly," he said, inanely reminding me of a nonsense record Roy and I listened to from time to time. "I canno make love in the bed no more. I think I can no even dance, until tonight."
"But you did dance, beautifully, and you could make love, just as beautifully. Oh, but there I go, talking like what I am, a tramp."
"I doan no tramp. I know beautiful. It is you."
"Then ... then make love to me. That is, if you want to."
"I want to, Estormie. But I can no. It is gone from me. First in the bool ring, then in her bed. It is gone. I am a nino again, the baby boy. I no good with womans no more."
"Well, you're not a fairy like she said. I can see that. All you need, maybe, is a little help. I'll help you, Hector, if you want me to."
"It is not the place of the womans to help. The mans, he do it all."
"Balls," she said, exhibiting the education she didn't get in dancing school. "Love-make that sex-isn't a one-way street. Amor no esta calle sentido. Entiende? The woman should do as much in making love as the man, and believe me, in my profession, I know what to do."
"Pero no! You are not the profession of the puta! Not you!"
"Yes, I am, Hector, but only a make-believe whore, only in the movies. But still, I know how to excite a man, maybe better than a real whore. Don't move except to touch me. I'll show you. I want to, Hector, because, just now on the dance floor, you made me feel more womanly than ever before in my life."
She knelt at his feet and he held his head between his fists as she opened his black gabardine trousers. It was a long fastening that held the fly closed and she worked at it meticulously, making sure it was fully open all the way before she reached inside, and looking like some psychedelic nun in the bright serape, working at the calling of her order, which was to excite, then please, men. She was very sober about it, showing no signs of outward excitement, although he was tearing his hair and gnashing his teeth, and it wasn't until she had his prick out that she said a word, and then I could detect her acting training in her voice, although I'm sure he couldn't.
"Oh, Hector. It's such a big one," she said, and indeed it looked pretty long, though slim, and quite limp.
"You mus' stop," he moaned. "This is no right for you."
"So, stop me," she said, mouthing the words against the organ she was fondling.
"Sangre de Dios, I do not even have the stren'th to do that."
Stormie laughed softly and said, "Then enjoy."
She took his prick into her mouth and as her cheeks caved in, Hector covered his eyes with his fists and shook his head despairingly, groaning, "Is no good. Will no work." She kept trying, sucking and undoubtedly using her tongue as well as she slid her frost-pink lips up and down the soft length of it. It seemed as if it was getting larger, but not by much, and it seemed as if Stormie was enjoying this act of supplicant giving, but only in a charitable way. Even with that penis in her mouth she had a beatific look on her face which still made her look like a nun, finding joy in sacrifice.
Slowly, very slowly, Hector's prick was getting hard as he stood there swaying, tearing his hair, looking like he wasn't enjoying it one bit. I felt guilty about watching this. I'd finished one beer by then and was seriously thinking of going to look for Eunice and Mark, but I didn't know which room they might be in, if they were still together. And then I was held there by Stormie reaching under the serape and scratching herself. It was just a quick movement and chances were that she simply had an itch, but still I had the feeling that Stormie, patient as could be with her cocksucking, was becoming aroused.
By then Hector was aroused, and it was surprising him. He was looking down with a stunned expression on his handsome face, watching as Stormie's lips had to open wider and wider to accept his lengthening, thickening penis. I'd thought he might have been faking his impotency in order to seduce her by playing on her sympathy, but now I saw that he'd been sincere. A tremulous smile and a faint look of pride showed on his face as he looked down at Stormie, her eyes shining, a flush of pink on her pale cheeks, managing to smile back at him even with his big cock in her mouth.
It was big by then, but I couldn't see how big because much of it was concealed by her more rapidly working mouth. Then he reached down and touched her lovely head with its halo of gold, just as tenderly as he'd held her on the dance floor, and he said, "I thank you so much. You have made me un hombre fuerte again. Come to me now. I show you."
She drew back and his prick started coming out of her mouth, and coming and coming and coming. She must have had it halfway down her throat, for when her lovely lips at last smacked together at the end of it, she was kissing a prick that was fully ten inches long. It was as straight as a javelin and not very big around, and the inordinate length of it was such that I could understand why Eunice had taken him from the bull ring to her bed. It must have been quite a challenge to her to emasculate a man with a cock like that, but she'd done it.
He helped Stormie to her feet and kissed her mouth, cock-warm and passion-wet, and as his long fingers probed ever harder on her serape-covered body, she groped with her hands for the long length of meat between them, as if she still couldn't believe the size of it. With his cock in her hand, it was she who drew back from the kiss, quite breathless and unmistakably hot now.
"Is it all right now, Hector? Should I kiss it some more?"
He smiled. "Is no more necessary you play the part of the puta. Now I undress you and you be the womans."
She stood there in the middle of the room as he disrobed her, bit by bit. The long cock that jutted out of his pants brushed against her as he moved about her, taking off her serape, her blouse, hot pants, and boots. He lightly kissed and caressed her as he did this, murmuring words in her ear that I unfortunately could not hear, and she kept turning her head to look at him with a mixture of fear and longing, and the fear showed through stronger each time she was compelled to look down at the big, long organ that brushed against her thighs and hips and loins.
It stayed hard while he was undressing, and now Stormie couldn't take her eyes off it at all as she stood where he'd left her, naked and beautiful and trembling, her hands clasped tightly in front of her golden loins. Smiling, he came to her and kissed her, and when she reached for his cock he took her hand and placed her arm about him, and slid his hand, very dark against her snowy skin, down to her loins. When his middle finger slid into the pink valley of her cunt, her hips came forward in little jerks to meet it, and again she reached for his cock. Once more her hand was turned away, and Hector spoke confidently and smoothly to her as he continued to slowly massage her clitoris with his fingers.
"I am all ready, but now are you, my angel?"
"Yes! I think so. I don't know. It's been so long...."
"We must make sure then, no? I make sure, just as I know the right moment to put down the cape and use the sword in the bull ring. Come, querida mia, I show you."
He led her to the couch and laid her down and had to help her open her legs, for now she looked very much afraid. When he placed his slender body between her ivory legs, I thought he was going to stick it right in, for it was still as long and hard as the swords he'd so often used in the bull ring. Apparently Stormie thought so too, for I could see her brace herself for the penetration. But instead he kissed her and, supporting his weight with one hand, used his other hand to guide the end of his cock up and down through the slit of her cunt.
"Go on," she panted. "I'm ready, Hector."
"I am not, dear one. You met me as the nino bartender, when in truth I am something else. I am a torero, an artist with the sword, but even more an artist with time."
"Just put it in. I know I can take it. I ..."
"Hush, my love," he said, still running the head of it up and down her slit. "I am the master now, and I know when the moment of truth shall come. When you are ready, when I am ready, not before."
"But I am ready," she moaned, arms slung about his neck, hips heaving under him. "I don't care how long it's been since a man was in me, I'm ready, Hector, I'm ready. Don't tease me."
"Is no teasing. Is waiting, preparing, and when the precise moment come, it is perfect."
"Do it! Get it over with! Please!"
"You know the corrida? When the sword go in, perfectly placed, the bool, he kill himself. He thrash and fight, and the sword, no longer held by the torero's hand, slash him to ribbon inside. Only the torero know the right moment."
"Now! Now! Now!" she chanted, thrashing about under him, still being denied.
"Si, now!" he cried, and plunged in his sword to the hilt.
She went as mad as any bull I'd ever seen, twisting wildly from side to side and simultaneously heaving up and down, crying out loudly and obviously coming very hard from the instant he'd impaled her. Unlike his practice in the bull ring, Hector did not let his sword do all the work. Grinning and panting, he matched her frantic heavings with deep, deep strokes and churnings of his own, and she kept on coming. Her elegant hairdo was a mess and the cunt that had been shown on a thousand movie screens was overflowing with her juices and squelching loudly, and still he drove on.
"Come!" she nearly shouted. "Come with me! God, I can't stand any more of this, but I can't stop."
"Never stop!" he exulted. "You forge my sword for me, and it fit you perfect."
"Fuck me! I love it! I love you! Never stop!"
"I never stop," he said between clenched teeth. "I always strong for you. I love you, too."
"Dear God, I can't get enough of it!" she cried. In their wild coupling, one of her legs had been thrown high in the air, over his shoulder, and now she kicked it higher and screamed, "I want it everywhere. I love your sword. In my behind, everywhere!"
He pulled out, just long enough for me to see a jet of white stuff come spurting out of that hose of his. His semen scored a bull's eye against her anus, marking the place where his sword made its second penetration, and then they came together, very heavily, for what seemed like a very long time.
I finished my beer and was about to leave, thinking they'd fallen asleep. Then she touched his cheek and he raised his head and she said, "Do you hate me for wanting it like that?"
"I love you, my Estormie."
"I wanted it that way, my love, just so you would have me in a way no other man has. But when it was in there, it was wonderful, just wonderful. Your penis-your sword is fantastic when it's in any part of me. I never knew it could be like this."
"My sword, it belongs to you. All parts of you are the sheath for it, always. With you at my side, I go back to the bull ring and you are very proud of me."
"No talk of the future, Hector. Only now matters."
They started talking too low for me to hear, and I left for another beer, thinking about giving Judy a break and fucking her. But I almost bumped into Bebe, wildly riding her latest dancing partner there in the bushes, and this put me out of sorts, so I headed for home and the leftover Margeritas.
CHAPTER TEN
I woke up feeling ill the next day. Junior was on his bed, fully dressed, reading his history book, with gratifyingly little to say. Mark and Stormie were on the patio, both looking haggard, and not speaking to each other. While I was forcing some orange juice down, Stormie apologized for inferring I was a drunk the night before, and said she was going horseback riding. She left, wearing very modest clothes for a change, and Mark fidgeted around, looking at his watch, then went to the upstairs bedroom and returned. There was a bulge under his shirt that looked suspiciously like a velvet whip. He said he was going for a walk, and I was left alone with Maria, who was scrubbing clothes. I poked my head in Roy's room and was almost bowled over by the smell of marijuana. Smiling serenely, he said he was editing a book. I declined his offer to smoke with him and suggested he get Junior out of the house and down to the swimming pool at the Posada, and left him for a nap upstairs. Kermit and Ivy were already there, talking softly as they baked in the nude. I laid down in the shade.
Presently Kermit sat up and said, "I'm going down to get some yogurt. Lance, can I bring you a beer?"
I remained silent, feigning sleep.
He came back with a spoon and a bowl and sat down on the blanket beside Ivy. At his casual command, she docilely rolled over, and he spooned yogurt into her mouth. She was tanner and she looked still softer than she had the day before, her eyes limpid and never leaving Kermit, her body having a blurred look about the edges that I found to be appealing. Kermit was a study in relaxation.
"You see," he said, "I told you, you'd like yogurt."
"It's not really bad," she softly said.
"You know how I like it best? Like this," he said, and slapped a spoonful of it on her left nipple. She gave a start but didn't protest, and laughing, he did the same on her right nipple, then in her navel.
She lay there blinking up at the sun and licking her lips, unprotesting, while Kermit proceeded to use his tongue to remove the fermented milk he'd so cavalierly slapped on her body. She obediently held her mouth open for the spoon when it was offered, and Kermit had himself another triple serving from the mounds and hollows of her breasts and belly. By the time he'd finished his fourth helping and the bowl was empty, Ivy was breathing faster and perspiring more.
He grinned down at her as he toyed with his fingers on her body, making her jump a little when he poked her here and there. His prick was half erect. He said, "I think it's time you had a little cocoa butter rubdown, luv."
She sighed heavily. "Whatever you say, Kermit."
He got the tube and came to kneel between her feet, and rather roughly opened out her legs. Grinning, he said, "Open up, foxy lady, and I'll turn you on."
"I don't know," she murmured, "but I think I already am."
Acting like anything but a woman's liberationist, she opened her legs still wider and flexed her knees up so that her crotch was completely exposed to him. Still grinning, he took his time about smearing the cocoa butter on his hands, and then began at her knees and worked the greasy stuff up along her inner thighs. She was hot right away, but he made her hotter. Droning on about the virtues of the pure, good life, he ignored her very apparent need and continued to slowly and thoroughly work in the butter as she lay there breathing ever faster, her hands closing rhythmically on the sides of her buttocks, mouth open, waiting, waiting. Her eyelids were fluttering and her nostrils were flaring and her head was rolling from side to side by the time his hands got to her loins, and there he continued to lecture her on his way of life while his big thumbs worked the cocoa butter into her labia that were already very well lubricated by the smoldering desire within her. He had to stop talking with he bent low, holding her legs even more widely apart, and tickled her clitoris with the very tip of his tongue, and as he did this, he used one of his buttered hands on his cock to raise it to a full state of erection.
She held her legs there while he eased his cock into her, and then she wrapped them around his slim hips and a look of great bliss came over her lovely face as he began to move. He kept asking her questions while he slowly fucked her: "You like fucking? It beats going to political meetings, doesn't it? Is my cock big enough for your cunt, foxy lady? Are you going to come as many times today as you did yesterday?"
Each of these questions were breathlessly answered in the affirmative, and each response brought a chuckle from him. Then he said, "I'm getting a wee bit tired. Let's roll over and you can do some of the work. After all, a libby like you wants to be on top of the man."
He rolled them over, careful not to come into contact with the hot tiles, and there he laid back and caressed her quickly moving buttocks while she moved her hips in a way that reminded me very much of the hedonistic little tramp, Bebe.
Sweat poured off her in torrents and still she went on, faster and faster, reaching orgasm after orgasm, mindlessly fucking there in the hot Mexican sun. Kermit continued to grin, sweating himself, although he was hardly moving at all, and when she was panting more with exhaustion than with passion, but still going strong, he rolled them over again and finished with a very strong pumping that dredged up a shattering orgasm from her that left them both lying limp and exhausted in each other's arms.
I rose to get a beer and, after thinking it over, left the house in hopes I'd run into little Bebe and have a little talk with her. I ran into Junior at the comer, sitting on the curb with his chin in his hand.
I clapped him on the back. "How's it going, pal?"
"Okay, I guess."
"I'm heading down to the Posada for a swim. Care to join me?"
"No, thanks, Mr. Boyle," he said with a shudder.
"We missed you there last night. So did old Eunice," I lied. "She was asking for you."
He rolled his watery eyes up at me and looked away, and I left him with a cheery word and continued on, feeling a bit guilty about having arranged for his father to get him out of his books and onto the street.
The bar at the Posada was all but empty of trade, and not unexpectedly Hector was absent from it, his post behind the bar being filled by one of the waiters. I had a beer and listened to the tourist talk: "I'll say one thing, Joe, this sure beats working."-"You better believe it, Bob."
It nauseated me, threatening to nullify the therapeutic effects of the beer, and I got up to go. At the door I encountered Judy, eyes cast down, lower lip out-thrust, looking quite melancholy about the face, but looking quite interesting about the body, which was nicely displayed in a pink gingham bikini sunsuit. On the spot, I decided to do something to cheer her up.
"Hi, foxy lady," I said, giving her a nice little pat on the ass.
"Oh, hullo," she replied, edging away.
"Care to join me in a drink?"
"I can't," she said, looking nervously behind her. "I'm with them. I gotta fetch them drinks."
"Cathy and Yolanda? Let them get their own, while we fly off on an adventure together. Let's go."
"I'd like to," she said in a whiney voice. "I really would, but I gotta do what I gotta do." Nothing I could say would change her mind and she kept avoiding my groping hands, so we parted there. But her attitude, always changing, bothered me, and I decided to do what I could toward finding out more about her and her friends through observation. I went out of the Posada and off the path, through the tropical shrubbery to the pool, where I could hear familiar giggling. Cathy and Yolanda were sprawled' in deck chairs there, empty glasses around them, and I was able to get just a few feet from them, behind a jasmine bush, and hear their every word.
"What the hell's taking her so long?" Yolanda said.
"Probably that gecky old writer guy. I think I saw him heading for the bar," Cathy said, draining the dregs from a glass.
"If she goes running off with him again, she's really going to get it. Worse than last night."
"I think she learned her lesson about feeling guys up under the table," Cathy giggled. "I just hope Eunice doesn't get mad because we made a couple lil ol' marks on Judy. Wonder what's keeping her?"
"Oh, that gecky long-haired faggot, prob'ly. She's prob'ly got him down at her house On Cinco de Mayo Street, making him go sixty-nine with gecky Hector," said fat Yolanda, dissolving both her and her pretty young friend with laughter.
"But what'll we do this afternoon without Eunice?" Cathy asked.
"Sheeyit, we don't need Eunice all the time. We had ourselves a ball last night without her, didn't we?"
"Hey, I'll say," Cathy said with a leer. "But what I feel like is havin' a ball right about now. My twat itches like it had Tabasco in it."
"It's the sun and the booze," Yolanda sagely said. "Hey, here comes the ice queen with the drinks. Let's go do it."
Cathy got up and pulled the obese Yolanda out of her chair and they left, curtly telling Judy to follow them, which she did, drink tray in hand, looking queasy as hell. I followed them to cabana number eleven, slipping from bush to bush with all the stealth of a wily though lecherous Indian. I jest, of course, for there is nothing of the lecher-or at least little-and everything of the scientific researcher in my observations of people at their games. My surreptition must be excused in the interests of clinically observing and fictionally reporting the aberrations of others, in hopes of creating better sexual understanding among the unfortunate few who are troubled with sexual problems. Only this, and nothing more.
The layout was the same as the cabana that Eunice and Hector used, with a shuttered window around back and a bush conveniently placed to hide me. The cabana itself was somewhat larger, with a kitchenette along one wall, and it was terribly unkempt, with clothes and bottles and jars and cosmetics strewn all over it. When I arrived at my observation--listening post, Cathy was already naked, rummaging through a suitcase, Judy in her sunsuit was on her knees, helping Yolanda off with the bottom of her blue sunsuit, the top of which was already on the floor. Cathy had a very good little figure, compact and trim for the most part, with a nice uplifting set of tits, a narrow waist, and good hips and ass and legs. Her belly, however, was just beginning to run to fat. Yolanda was fat. She was a round butterball, all over, from her bulbous tits to her belly to the medicine ball ass which she kept bumping against Judy's face as the slender blonde struggled to get her tight bottoms down.
"Boy, do I ever feel horny," Yolanda said, bumping the sad-faced Judy again.
"Wait till we get the hashish and the vibrators in us," said Cathy. "Then we'll really be turned on."
"Does anybody feel like a shower first?" Judy timorously asked.
They were all perspiring in the tropical heat, especially the obese Yolanda, and it was she who said, "Fuck that. We'll just be all hot and sweaty and stinky again. Judy, hand me my drink."
It was within Yolanda's reach, but the blonde had to take a few steps on her knees to get it for her, and I wondered at her subservience, both grudging and compliant. As Judy worked the blue gingham over Yolanda's grimy feet, the fat girl sipped and made a wry face.
"There's no booze in this."
"I guess it's mine," Judy quickly said. "I'm not feeling so hot, so I...."
"Fuck, what you need is a drink if you're not feeling good," said Yolanda with a wink at Cathy. "Cat, get the rum."
Cathy quickly brought a bottle of it, and though Judy protested at first, she yielded when Yolanda insisted and reluctantly tipped the neck of the bottle to her mouth and drank. Cathy held its end up and Judy gulped like a stranded fish, and when she was allowed to put it down her eyes were watering badly and she was coughing.
"Now you're up with us," Yolanda gloated.
"Strip off and let's have some fun."
Feebly insisting that she didn't feel at all well, Judy obediently took off her two-piece sunsuit. Her breasts were very high on her chest, and there was an ugly mark on each of them. Her waist was very long, her hips as slim as her legs. She had an odd, childish figure, but nevertheless appealing, save for the marks on her breasts which looked like bums.
As she was undressing, Cathy had dragged three chairs out from under the table and arranged them in a close triangle, and Yolanda had flopped down in one of them. With some difficulty because of her girth, she got her legs crossed in front of her, in a yoga-like position, fully exposing her short-haired cunt, complete with a clitoris as fat as the rest of her. She ordered Judy to sit similarly, and I saw for the first time the girlish little cunt I had fucked. Cathy bounced over, a briar pipe in one hand, three vibrators in the other, and she gave the other two a vibrator and sat down in the third chair, exposing a very pretty little cunt, just as Yolanda and Judy had done.
The vibrators were battery-operated 'facial massagers' of the kind I'd often written about and once tried to get a distributorship on. Conveniently shaped like a penis and constructed to vibrate abundantly, I'd foreseen their potential but had been unable to obtain a franchise on them, thus losing yet another fortune.
The pipe was filled with hashish, a stronger cousin of the dreaded marijuana, and this was lit by Cathy, passed on to Yolanda for her deep drag, and then on to Judy, who demurred, again saying she wasn't feeling well.
"Aw, bullshit," said Yolanda. "You already had your damned period last week, so don't give us that crap. Get with it or get the fuck out of here."
She puffed, but shallowly, and Cathy said, "Come on, kid. You know a little smoke always sets you straight and gets you all horny. Have a ball."
"You'd better," Yolanda ominously said. "I'd hate to see you thumbing your way back home."
Judy dragged deeply, with closed eyes, like the others had. It was passed around a few times with little comment, and by its third or fourth circuit, when the still air of the cabin was hazy with smoke, all three were toying with their individual vibrators.
Grinning, Yolanda and Cathy were running the buzzing ends over their tits, concentrating on their erect nipples, and Judy was describing circles about her navel with hers. All of them looked sloppily drunk, and I could see that of them, only Judy was fighting to maintain control of herself.
"God damn, I'm hot," said Cathy through a cloud of smoke, and ran the vibrating dildo down through the hair of her cunt.
"Then let's do it," Yolanda said, and giggling, parted the lips of her cunt with her fingers and pushed her vibrator up inside. She squirmed about, making her chair creak, and panted, "Stick yours in. Sheeyit, that feels groovy. Stick 'em both in, you horny bitches."
Cathy's was in, in a trice, making her squirm and pant and seeming to add ten hard years to her young, pretty face. Judy pushed hers in more slowly, but even so its entry made her flutter her eyelids and bite her lip. All three just sat there in silence then, passing the pipe, squirming on their dildos, and exchanging these looks.
With her lust showing in every pore of her fine body, Cathy was challenging them to be as beautiful and sexy as she was. Yolanda's look was terribly hot, too, but there was a glint of malevolence in her eyes as well. Judy did look sick now, breathing shallowly, swallowing hard, and looking feverish. The trio formed the most lascivious display of autoeroticism I had ever been privileged to see.
"Feelin' better, Judy?" Yolanda grinned. "Uh-huh," Judy said, not moving her lips. "Fuck, I've seen her hotter than that," Cathy panted. "Remember in Houston when we first picked her up? Fuck, you'd just have to stick your tongue out at her to get her this hot."
"Yeah, when she thought eatin' pussy was the greatest thing since sliced bread," said Yolanda, moving her vibrator in and out of her. "Now that she's on the eatin' end of it once in a while, it don't turn her on so much and she's gotta go off with some man when she can get one. How was that old fart, Judy? Did he even make you come once?"
She shook her head. "We didn't do nothing. I told you." I appreciated her protecting me like that, but I didn't need it.
"I'll bet," Cathy said, leaning over to pass Judy the pipe. "I'll bet he fucked you but he couldn't make you come like we do. He couldn't even make you as hot as you are now. You hot?" she said, and quickly reached down and grabbed the end of Judy's vibrator. She made Judy jump as she began to run it in and out of her blonde cunt, and then she stopped and said, "Fuck, she didn't even have hers turned on."
"Why, the goddammed ungrateful bitch," Yolanda said, heaving herself out of her chair to face her. Holding her dildo in place, she confirmed what Cathy had discovered and said, "Judy, you shouldn't have tried to fool us. You're gonna be sorry now."
"What are you gonna have her do?" Cathy said, jumping up herself. "Have her bum her boobs with a cigarette again?"
"No, I hate to have to leave scars," said Yolanda. "Judy, go get me the Tabasco sauce. Go on. Get it now or I'll throw you out just like you are and you'll have to hitch-hike home and pay for your rides by fucking every dirty Mexican that picks you up. Get it."
On the verge of tears, Judy got up and went for it, leaving Cathy and Yolanda standing in the middle of the triangle, giggling and rubbing shoulders as they stood working their buzzing dildos in and out.
Judy returned, bottle in hand, looking very frightened. She picked up her vibrator and sat down, and Yolanda said, "Now, put a little dab on your clit, kid. Just a little. That's it. A drop down lower. Right there. And now put another drop of the end of your dildo, Judy. Right. And now if it itches, scratch it."
Immediately Judy began scratching. Burrowing would be a better word for it. She looked as if she was trying to dig a trench through her crotch with the buzzing vibrator as her tool, and with the deadline for completion of the project rapidly approaching. Drops of her juices were flying as she used fingers and vibrator both in her Tabascoed cunt, and she didn't slow down as she lost her balance and fell off her chair. She screamed and Yolanda and Cathy giggled, and then she stopped work on her frantic project, and her long body stiffened and seemed to get even longer, cords stood out in her lovely neck and she showed all her teeth, and she made a sound as if she'd hit pay dirt.
"AhhhhhhhHHH!"
And then she was off again, digging as frantically as before and rolling around on the floor, knocking over a chair, bumping up against the others' ankles. She was quite beside herself, and Cathy and Yolanda took it all in, and Judy went through another of those grinding, wracking orgasms before Cathy said, "I think she's hot enough now."
"You hot now?" Yolanda called down. "You hot enough to really do a good job on us now?"
"Yes, yes, anything you want if you just make the fire go out, God, it's killin' me, it's killin' me."
"Fuck, it looks like you're really havin' a ball," Cathy said, staring, grinning, squatting lower to use her own vibrator to better advantage. "Isn't it any good, Judy?"
"It's wonderful but it bums so's I can't stand it," moaned the blonde, on her side then with one leg high in the air, and using both hands on the dildo again.
"Did that gecky old writer man get you this hot?" Yolanda asked, and squatted down beside her. "Was he as much fun as we are?"
"He was awful. He couldn't make me come at all," Judy groaned, obviously out of her head completely by then.
"I'd been thinking of going to her assistance, even though that is against my policy in making observations, but then I thought better of it, at least for the time being. I decided to wait and watch, for perhaps the girl was indeed a hopeless Lesbian and wouldn't want help from such an 'awful' man as me.
"AhhhhhhHHHH!" she said, again going very rigid and at the same time jerking all over. Then she lay still, too spent to move.
On orders from Yolanda, Cathy helped the fat girl prop Judy up in a sitting position against the wall. The blonde girl was bathed in sweat, her face slack, her hair plastered down over her face. Still masturbating with the electric devices, the pair used their free hands to pinch and poke and prod Judy to life again, and soon had her off on another delirious orgy of self-abuse. With her feet planted firmly on the floor, she was trying to climb the wall with her back, pushing herself up it with the vibrator for a foot or so, then sliding back down it, and now she had an expression of really insane pleasure on her distorted face.
"I think she's had about enough," Cathy panted, pretty hot herself.
"What about it, Judy?" Yolanda asked, pinching Judy's burned nipple and twisting it. "You had enough?"
"I dunno. I dunno. Not yet. No. AhhhhHHHH!"
"Fuck, I want some kicks too," Cathy pouted. "The dildo may be enough for her, but it ain't for me."
"Okay, let's cool her off and have our fun."
"With what?" Cathy giggled. "A fire hose?"
"Get that big bottle of 7-Up, Cat," Yolanda ordered.
The brownette brought it and the fat girl shook it up before she opened it and then held her thumb over the spouting neck of it. Though Judy deliriously protested, Cathy pulled the vibrator from her hotly spiced cunt, whereupon Yolanda shook the bottle again and sent its contents gushing and foaming up inside the sex-crazed blonde, causing her to emit another huge groan of ecstasy.
Yolanda-said, "Okay, that's enough of that, you. Our turn now, and you better do us good." Their dildos were discarded and Yolanda and Cathy turned to face each other, grinning lewdly, and Judy went to them on her knees. The blonde was still very hot, but not nearly so much as she had been. She looked as if she was teetering on the edge of losing control of herself again, as if she was holding onto her sanity by only a thread.
With but little direction from the other two, for apparently she'd been made to do this before, Judy moved around them on her knees, kissing and caressing their lower bodies while Yolanda and Cathy tended to each others' upper erogenic zones. As high as they were from that sinful drug, their entire bodies were one big erogenic zone. French kissing and feeling each other's tits and bellies and asses and arms and necks, hugging and squirming and writhing against each other, they panted and giggled and orgasmed together, with legs widespread so Judy on her knees under them had access to their leaking cunts. When they'd come so much they were too weak to stand, they tottered over to the couch and fell on it to continue their orgiastic embrace, and I stayed at my solitary vigil until they'd come dozens of times and the drug and the booze and the sex was at last wearing off.
Collapsed, Yolanda said, "Wild. That was wild."
"Fuck, yeah," said Cathy. "But not as good as when old Eunice is here. Maybe tonight...."
"Shit, don't you ever get enough? She's probably with that damned faggot! Hey, maybe we could get him and her both over here and make him do all sorts of things for us."
"Make him fuck Judy, she likes cock so much. Why don't you send her for some beers?"
"Judy, go get us some beers," said Yolanda. "And if you see Eunice, tell her to come on over."
Judy painfully hauled herself to her feet, looking drunker than I've ever been, and almost fell as she struggled into the little embroidered dress I'd first seen her in. "Where'sa key?" she slurred, swaying with her hand on the doorknob.
"Leave it open," Yolanda yawned, scratching her blubbery belly.
I caught Judy on the path, and she was so numbed by it all she scarcely recognized me. "Let's take a walk, Judy."
"Can't walk. Gotta go ... get some beers for my ... for my friends."
"Don't you think you've done enough for them today?"
She looked at me warily, her brain beginning to function again, and I said, gently as I could, "Judy, I saw everything that went on in there. Now let's take that walk and talk it over, because I don't think you're the same as those other two."
She was too weak to protest, and the tears that started flowing weakened her even further. I guided her through the streets of Jajajic and she told me her sordid tale.
Quite alone in the world, she'd met Yolanda in a Houston bar where Lesbians gather, though at the time she was so naive she'd thought it was just a working girls' cocktail lounge. Yolanda had bought her drinks, taken her home to meet her roommate, Cathy, and the two of them had smoothly seduced the neophyte Judy. She'd moved in with them and stayed drunk on booze or high on hashish or both at once for some time, and had been the recipient of a great deal of amorous Lesbian attention, especially from Yolanda, during this time. Judy had readily agreed to the vacation in Mexico, with all expenses to be paid by Yolanda, who'd been booted out of her family because of her incorrigible homosexuality and had been given a large inheritance to stay out. Once in Mexico the scene had changed, with Judy being forced to attend to the needs of the other two and being subjected to many cruelties, both petty and harsh, by Yolanda and the nymphomaniacal Cathy.
She mourned, "Hell, I gotta do it, even though I just hate it all now. I've been goin' nuts, and that was why I took up with you. If I didn't have me a man that night, I would a gone nuts, and I made up my mind to go with the first one who even talked to me, even though men don't really turn me on. They hurt, you know?"
"No, I don't, not having been with one. But what about Eunice? Is she a Lesbian, too?"
"I guess. But she don't go at it like Yolanda and Cat. She won't ... you know ... go down on anybody, but she likes to have it done to her. And she's got this dildo thing she straps on and then does it like a man should. That hurts too," she said.
She was walking with her legs apart, as if it hurt her then, and I asked her if her vagina was still sore.
"Not exactly," she replied, and cast her eyes down.
"Well, why do you put up with all of that?" I asked.
"Hell, I got to. I don't have any money, not even a dollar, and I don't talk the language and I don't know how I'd ever get home if she left me here, and besides, she's got my passport so I can't leave without her or I'll go to jail."
"Oh, nonsense. All you need is a tourist card to come into Mexico, and those can be easily replaced if they're lost. And we can drive you back to the border when we leave and there I'll give you the bus fare back to Houston. You don't have to even see those two again if you don't want to."
My stuff is back there. Hell, I'll just leave it. , Anything so's I don't have to see them again. Hey, you sure about all this, Lance?"
"Positive."
"Well," she said grimly. "I sure appreciate it. And if it means sleepin' with you, that's okay too, I guess."
"No, Judy. There's no need for that. My motives are strictly noble in this case," I said, with all the sincerity I could muster.
I could tell she didn't believe me, but that was all right, she'd believe it before the trip was over.
I turned down Roy's street and there lounging outside the pool parlor were five or six of the Mexican youths who hung around the Posada to try to pick up Bebe and any other females. By then I'd learned that news travels fast in towns like Jajajic and had surmised the boys knew of the homosexuality of the Three Pigs, which was the reason for their largely ignoring them at the Posada. I stopped, and in a combination of poor Spanish on my part and poor English on the part of Roberto, hired the six of them an errand. I gave them five hundred pesos-quite a lot of money, really-to go to room eleven at the Posada and pick up all of Judy's belongings. I explained that there were two drunken women there who would be glad to sort out Judy's things, and further said that these women were not only naked but very lonely, despite what they might say, and would greatly appreciate any sexual favors the boys might bestow on them. They left in a group at a good rate of speed, and I proceeded on to introduce the new member of our party to my host.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I directed Judy into Ivy's room and went in to explain my charitable act to Roy. He took it very well, even though it meant the already overcrowded car would be jam packed on the return trip, whenever that would be. He was again ripped to the eyeballs on the narcotic smoke and in that condition would have agreed to. a party of dinosaurs joining us. As I was leaving, he asked me if I'd noticed anything wrong with Junior.
"Now, what could possibly be wrong with a fine boy like that in surroundings like this?" I blandly asked. "An interesting land, warm sunshine, stimulating people around him, what more could he ask?"
"He's just been acting peculiar since yesterday," Roy said. "Not himself. Even now he's holed up in Ivy's room, listening to her tape deck rather than out having himself a good time."
I left at once, but before I could enter Ivy's room, a voice from within stopped me. It said, "AhhhhhHHHHH!", amid background panting and grunting, and it was all I could do to keep from breaking in and thrashing the boy soundly for once again doing his best to ruin my vacation.
Admittedly I was in a bit of a snit as I took a beer upstairs to lie in the sun and work out a plan for the return of what I considered to be my property, used though it was. Kermit and Ivy were still there in the afternoon sun, apparently asleep on the badly rumpled blanket, face down, baked to a rich nut brown, and so well oiled that they looked like smoked hams. I lay in a comer, sipping and thinking, and presently Ivy moved.
She tickled Kermit's foot with hers and said, "Are you awake?"
"I think so," he said, not stirring.
"And I think you need some more cocoa butter," she said, and briskly got up and got the tube, giving me scarcely a glance.
Returning with it, she straddled his thighs and began vigorously massaging it into his buttocks. It caused his body to move about with all the yielding suppleness of a water bed, while her moving muscles had her subcutaneous fat layer rippling like waves on a lovely sun-drenched pool.
He winced when she pressed down hard against the small of his back, and she said, "Relax and enjoy it, foxy man. I can't have your beautiful body getting burned. Feel nice?"
"Uh-huh."
"It feels nice for me, too. Do you feel my pussy massaging you? It wants you, my love, because you're such a beautiful, beautiful man. I wonder if I'd love you so much if you were homely. I guess I would, as long as you loved me like you do and as long as you had a cock like you do. Turn over, luv, and let me at it."
"I don't know if I can," he said, his voice sounding furry and weak, but he managed to do it.
She began buttering his balls and quickly worked up to his prick, which was soft but quite swollen. Smiling brightly down at his nearly closed eyes, she worked more butter into his loins and returned to his prick, which was just starting to get hard now.
"Hey, don't," he muttered. "It's sore."
"Oh, I can work the soreness out of that," she assured him, pulling it, squeezing it, stiffening it.
"Is that Lance over there? What if he should wake up?"
"What if he should? He's seen people in love before. Do you love me, Kermit?"
"Oh, God. More than anything else in the whole world, but...."
"I love to hear that from you, you adorable male chauvinist pig, and I love this cocoa butter. It tastes so good."
With that she slid down on his legs, bent over his big, fallen body, and took his cock in her mouth. She sucked it lovingly, clutching handfuls of his thighs and loins and belly and breast, and then using her hands in conjunction with her mouth until Kermit's cock was fully erect and he was breathing heavily and caressing her head with his hands.
As she straightened up and moved up and started to settle her loins down on his, he panted, "Honey, stop. I don't know if I can make it again now."
"A big vegetarian health fiend like you? Of course you can," she said, and her smile broadened as she held his cock straight up and settled down on it, wriggling her lovely soft hips until he was all the way inside her. She braced herself on his chest to move up and down, and at the top of her even strokes I could see the head of his cock peeping out from between her dewy wet lips. She looked so proud and so much in love, and he looked like he loved her as well, but in the half-reality of a dream world.
"Still want to marry me?" she said, moving all the time.
"Sure. Anything."
"And am I still the best fuck you ever had?"
"Sure. The best."
She stopped and looked more critically at him as he lay there, arms and legs out-flung, sweating, motionless, and she said, "You know, I think that diet of yours has something lacking. You seem so listless this afternoon."
"Nuts," he mumbled, "and cheese and fruits and wheat germ, they're all a man needs to keep healthy."
"Well, I need more than just a healthy man," she said, and fell over to the side, pulling the big, limp man with her with surprising ease.
She continued to roll, and he came with her, lifeless until she'd rolled them off the blanket and onto the hot tile, and the moment his back touched that burning surface he came fully to life, yelping and heaving and bucking under the laughing girl who maintained her seat very ably with her arms clasped about his neck and her heels dug into his flanks, spurring him on.
I rose and impatiently dressed, not caring if they did see that I saw them, but they paid me no heed and were, still leaping like some weird grasshopper on a hot griddle when I went below stairs.
"AaaAAHHHHHHH!" was my greeting at the door to Ivy's room, and I forthwith stalked off to the bachelor's quarters for a shower and a change of clothes, appalled at the hedonistic and selfish behavior of Roy's children.
When I emerged I found Roy on the patio with Stormie and Hector, Roy smiling benignly, from the hammock, the other two holding tightly to each other's hands and looked both troubled and happy. I got a beer and joined them.
Roy said, "It seems as if we'll have room for Judy in the car when and if we leave. Stormie's staying here."
"What do you mean, 'if'?" I said. "And what's this about your staying here, Stormie? Have you and Hector got something going?" I asked, as if I didn't know, though I hadn't realized it was quite this serious.
"We are in loave and we will stay together," said Hector, drawing an adoring look from Stormie. "Either here or in Estados Unidos."
"Fine, if that's what you want," I said. "But I hope you're not thinking of going back into bull-fighting, Hector."
"You must have read his mind," she said. "I don't want him to, but if that's the only way we can have each other, so be it. Hector, must you go back to that?"
"Would you have me go on meexing dreenks for borrachos Americanos?" he haughtily said, and added a hasty apology to me.
"There are other things you could do, and I'd be willing to do anything and live anywhere just to be with you," said Stormie, looking entirely sincere, and looking most becoming sans makeup and in an attractively modest dress.
Our discussion of their unsettled future was interrupted by the ring of the door bell, and I went to answer it before Maria could set aside her soap and scrub brush. I was taken aback to see Mark there with Eunice, and she breezed past me with Mark at her heels before I could detain them from what might be a sticky confrontation.
Eunice was even more imposing than usual, quite resplendent in a form-fitting black pants suit trimmed with silver, with a heavy silver chain about her waist, carrying a large, matching handbag. Mark was cringing at her side, wringing his hands, smiling sickly. He'd been limping a bit as he followed her in, and his long hair was tousled and looked from the rear as if it had been braided and only partially brushed out. From the front, I thought I could see traces of lipstick on his mouth, and I was almost sure his eyebrows had been plucked.
Eunice nodded at Stormie and said, "Tell her, Mark."
He nervously twisted his shirt tail and said, "Honey ... I mean, Stormie, we've got something to tell you. I mean, I have to tell you something. It seems as if, well, for business reasons, I've had a change in plans.
Mo ... Eunice and I were up all night-talking-and I saw that she had a lot of, well, talent. She's very photogenic-she showed me pictures of her-and she can act, and for business reasons, I've sorta had a change in plans...." His voice trailed off into a squeak, and he looked hopefully at Eunice. He was still twisting at his shirt tail, and from where I stood he had raised it enough to expose a bit of elasticized pink nylon of a kind that I had never seen used in the making of undergarments for even the best dressed male.
Eunice glowered at him and he cringed anew, and she said impatiently to Stormie, "What Mark is trying to say is that he's divorcing you, Mrs. Sales. I'm going to be the new Mrs. Sales and I'm going to be the new star in his film productions, which in the future will have a new kind of appeal to a new kind of viewer. I realize this is both a shock and an inconvenience to you and I'm sorry, but there's no place in his personal life for both me and you. Although, I might be able to use you in some of the films I'll be financing. We can talk about that later, alone. Right now we're willing to be very generous with you to give Mark his freedom with no trouble. Isn't that right, Mark? Isn't this what you want?"
He was sweating and wringing his hands so hard that his knuckles were cracking as he looked from the big, bovinely beautiful woman at his side to his beautiful golden wife, and when he couldn't find words quickly enough, Eunice nudged his leg with her purse. He looked down at it and she opened it just far enough for me to see an enormous pink plastic dildo nested in it, and Mark was answering before she even got it closed.
"That's right, that's right, everything she says is right and I'm sorry, Stormie, but this is just the way it has to be with us because Mommie and I are in love and we just can't help ourselves.
Right, Eunice, right? Did I say it right?"
"Right enough, babykins," she said, making him beam. "Now, what about the settlement, Mrs. Sales. God, I hate that name on me. I think I'll have you change your name to mine, Mark. Shit, let's talk about the settlement later. Hector, gather up Mark's things and take them to my house."
The slim Mexican man rose shaking his head. "No. I no long work for you. And Estormie, she talk about thees settlemen' now. You takes her casa and beeziness in Estados Unidos, she takes your casa and la posada here. Okay?"
Stormie said, "Whatever you say, Hector." Eunice put her fists on her hips and grinned. "You two've got something going too, eh? Okay. Fair enough. Shake on it now, I'll have my attorneys make it all legal."
She stuck out her paw, smiling thinly, and it was taken by the slender hand of Hector. The grip lingered, clung, and soon I could see their knuckles standing out white against their dark skins. As the smile faded from her face, that on Hector's grew, and after a long thirty seconds her knees buckled a little and she withdrew her hand from the clasp and strode out, with Mark right behind her, asking if she was all right and inquiring if he could carry her handbag for her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I opened some fine Mexican Champagne with which to toast the happy couple and, going to Ivy's door to see if Junior and Judy wanted to join us, I was greeted by a now familiar sound. "AaaAAAAHHHHHHHHUUUHHH!" Familiar as it was, it still upset me and I drank but one glass of the wine and left the house. Any scene of conjugal bliss was not for me, the word-weary and worldly-wise old pornographer.
I trod the cobblestones of Jajajic alone, as always, hardly noticing the quaint and picturesque about me and succeeding in ignoring the repeating scenes of young romance in blossom and old romance bearing fruit. A lover, a wife, children, these were things that were not for the likes of me. I was destined to go on like the wandering Jew, seeing all, reporting some, having many acquaintances but few friends, taking a wife now and then and a sweetheart when the need struck me, being ever alone, however, and not willing to trade my lot for any ivy-or mango-covered cottage filled with woman and children and love, useless love. A cup of strong waters, a comforting smoke of real tobacco, my trusty typewriter, these were the only material things I needed, and they were things that could really not be shared with anyone else.
It took me until the beautiful Mexican sun had set, but I walked off my melancholic mood. I could tell it was gone by the return of my appetite and thirst. And with a new spring in my old step, I headed for where it was all happening-the Posada.
I entered the dining room and took a small table by the door. Kermit and Ivy were across the room at another candlelit table and I had an impulse to join them, but they were gazing so very soulfully at one another over the fluttering flame that I didn't have the heart to disturb them in their bliss. Kermit was speaking animatedly as he held her hand in both of his, and Ivy was nodding at him from time to time and offering comments of her own, but neither took their eyes from the other, not even when their plates were removed and fresh servings of steaming hot food were placed before them. I remained alone, and liked it.
The waiter came by and I ordered a drink and asked what the evening's meal consisted of. "Criadillas empanizada," said he, "con sopa de ajo, ensalctda verde, judia haba, papas con queso, postre, y cafe, Senor."
It would have been impossible to offer up a worse meal. As far as I was concerned, in preference to garlic soup, green salad, lima beans, potatoes au gratin, fried bull's testicles, pastry and coffee, I'd sooner have supped on burro droppings.
Said I, "Nix. Bring me a T-bone steak, large, medium done."
"No can do," quote he. "El jove grande, " he said, gesturing in the direction of the devouring Kermit, "he eat now three beeg esteaks, and no more lef' in la cocina. How 'bout 'ambuergesa con queso, Franch frice, y coca?"
I rose, too irate at Kermit's gluttony to retain any semblance of an appetite, and left, ignoring the waiter's cry of, "Chreemps! We got chreemps tambien!"
Although my hunger had departed, my thirst remained, and I headed for the bar. Two of the Three Pigs were there, and I waved them a greeting, though they didn't acknowledge it, surrounded as they were by Roberto and his five friends at the comer table, no longer giggling but meekly smiling as the boys ordered more drinks, which Yolanda was quick to pay for.
I ordered a quadruple tequila, straight up, and before it could be brought to me there was Bebe at the door, wearing the same white silk mini I'd first seen her in, bright-eyed and sparkling and smiling as ever, even though she didn't have a dance partner. The band had been tuning up, and at her appearance the boys burst into song, a blaring discord that jarred me to the core. I was about to leave and head for the nearest cantina, displaced again, when she spotted me and came skipping, prancing, hip-swinging over to my table.
"Mr. Boyle, wherever have you been?" she gushed in her babyish voice. "Gosh, I've been looking just everywhere for you and I haven't seen hide or hair of you ever since you asked me to dance and I couldn't and I was so sorry for that."
"I understand," I said. "Why should you want to dance with an old fool like me when you have all your young Mexican friends? I mean, I don't know the dance steps nowadays. Of course, they look pretty busy tonight, and I suppose that's why you're here. Any old port in a storm, eh? Even an old, lonely, worn-out port like me that's not even marked on the maps any more."
My tumbler of tequila had come and thirsty as I was, I let it sit while I most casually took out a cigarette.
"I couldn't hear a word you said," she shouted in my ear, gesturing behind her at the blaring band. "I heard you write fuck books. Is that right?"
I recoiled and nodded before I could think, appalled at the frankness of this child, though Lord knows why I should have been, since she was even more obviously a neurotic little imp of a nympho.
She pulled her chair closer, so that her tiny little knee was pressing hotly against mine, and her breath was amazingly warm in my ear as she said, "Fuck books are all I ever read, and I'm going to be a fuck book writer someday. But gee, nothing ever happens to me like it does in the books. All it is with me is wham bam, thank you, ma'am, with most of them not even saying thanks. I was wondering if you'd give me some pointers."
"On writing," I said, inanely trying to strike a match against the palm of my hand.
"No, on fucking," she replied. "And on all the rest of it. Is that a regular cigarette you're going to smoke? Shame on you. Don't you know they're bad for you? Heck, you could die from them before you're even starting to get old. Here. Try one of mine."
She reached into her bodice with her hand, and I admit I reached in with my eyes. There was really very little to see, but somehow that small amount was one of the most rewarding observations I had ever made. I felt awed by the sight of those pubescent little titties which had had so many hands and lips on them, perhaps, but which still looked so virgin ally pure. My awe was confounded by the hand-rolled cigarettes she withdrew from that most charming place. Aghast, I said, "Marijuana!"
"The best Michoacan black. I get it from the sweetest little Mexican chick you ever saw, right here in town. Light me up, set me on fire, and tell me about fucking and sucking, Mr. Boyle. Can I call you Lance? Lance Boyle, what a perfectly groovy name."
"We can't smoke that stuff here!"
"Bet me. I do it all the time. They don't mind as long as you buy a drink now and then."
I trusted her or I was still too awed by her to resist, and there in the Posada I smoked my first number. I can't tell you what it was like, because I am too poor a writer for that, but I can tell you what we did and said after the two joints and my tequila were consumed.
We left the place and wandered into the garden, which had a special beauty I'd never seen before. She was clinging tightly to my strong, sinewy arm, very warm and wiggly, and when I forcefully drew her into my arms and kissed her she came willingly, and the warm breath that I'd felt in my ear was so very reminiscent of the sweetest, freshest, most beautiful cunt I had ever tasted that my cock sprang to even fuller attention.
"Let's climb that mountain," I said, "and fly on up to the moon, lay out a blanket on the hot rocks there, and fuck."
"Groovy," she enthused, nibbling at my lips. "But you can't talk on the moon because there's no air there, and I've just got to talk with you while we're fucking and things. I know a place where we can be alone that's much closer."
It was the place I'd seen Eunice and Junior and Hector and Stormie at ,their sex, and even more than the dance floor at the Posada, it reeked of rich human sexual odors. I took her there. I divested my pretty Bebe's cunning, stunning, doll's body of its every stitch, covering it with kisses and explaining as I went that my undying love for her might well make this the most shattering experience she'd ever had.
My cuddly angel child insisted on undressing me with her own two dimply cutie-pie hands, and when she saw the colossal size of my fully mature organ, stiff and proud as a flag-pole and making the peckers of her young friends seem puny indeed in comparison, she first blanched, then flushed.
"It's all right, sweetie-boopsy angel-pie," I assured her. "Daddikins wouldn't hurt his lovie boomper cuddly bunnie with his peepee for all the money in the world. Lie down."
"Who needs money with a thing like that?" she guilelessly inquired, keeping a snug hold on my magnificent tool. "Man, I hope I can take it all."
Her doubt had me concerned, for she was very petite, in fact, the smallest, tiniest, most childish, cutest, sweetest, prettiest, sexiest little tomato I'd ever had the chance to pop. With her interests in mind then, I carefully arranged her on the couch, cunningly curvaceous legs widespread, and got down on my knees on the floor with my face close to her lovely, gorgeous, sweet-smelling little cunt, just like a pediatric gynecologist would do.
Even when I opened out the delicate pink lips it looked disturbingly small, though it was a little hard to see clearly what with the way she was squirming all about and clutching at my curly locks and moaning for her Daddikins to hurry on. I thumbed around the exterior and probed about within the portals of that fantastically desirable doorway to the most heady pleasures that could possibly exist in the universe and still couldn't make up my mind if I could ever get my throbbing bull's cock into its tight, sweet, juicy chamber. And to give myself time to think, more than anything else, I fastened my lips about her surprisingly large and exquisitely formed clitoris and began sucking, licking, lapping, kissing, tonguing, nibbling, and biting. She responded by orgasming very sweetly, not once, not twice, not a thousand times, but constantly, with each peak higher than the last, and by calling out some of the most erotically obscene endearments that ever issued forth from the lips of a full-blown woman, let alone a mere child. I mutely returned her verbal adoration with my tongue in her tight, slick vagina and in her marvelously scrumptious anus, which in turn brought her to make solemn though feverishly delivered vows to remain at my side forever and always.
A man of forty had entered the bar that night, a man of thirty had knelt to suck her perfect little hot, wet cunt, and it was a man of twenty who rose, all but staggering under the weight of an organ immense enough to be included in scholarly medical tomes. She seized upon it at once, my pretty kitty-cat baby did, yawning her precious mouth wide and sucking it right in, and listening and heeding every word of breathless advice I gave her in that, her first lesson at sucking cock.
I came several times, though I never had an ejaculation as such, and then it was mutually agreed on by my priceless young jewel and me to have a go at copulation. The better to instruct my living, breathing, coming doll, I sat down on the couch and she straddled my lap, facing me, so both of us could see the first historic entry of my gigantic meat into her tiny, weeny, teensy, bitsy, hairless little cunt.
I have seen a lot of penetrations, many more than most people have, but that was surely the most fascinating, the most absorbing, the downright sexiest I have ever seen in all my days. (Although the one we effected this morning wasn't bad!) My gargantuan organ was like a wedge splitting a young, virginal tree. It was like a thick harpoon slowly impaling a wriggling brown trout. The entry was like forcing a log into a piggy bank, and yet there was no sense of force to it, certainly no pain on either of our parts, and only the deepest, most interesting, the most grooviest pleasure.
"Hey, far out," I contradictorily said when at last I was very far in.
"Outta sight," she more accurately said, looking down with the same keen clinical interest that had lit my eyes so often in the past, but never so much as on that most memorable night. "I've never felt so good, so filled up. Daddikins, you are the most, and now I know you're tired of lecturing and I also know we've got lots of time for more classes later, so if it's groovy with you, I'll take over."
"Far fucking out," I said, and settled down to let my fourteen-year-old life's companion do her stuff.
It may have been the music from the Posada or it may have been some heavenly rock band performing that featured such departed stars as Janis Joplin and Jimmy Hendrix, but in any event it had the heaviest beat and the gutsiest drive I have ever heard before or since, and since then I have become something else. an expert on rock music. Bebe performed well to it. My angel-child sweetie-boopsie, cuddly-bunny, dimple-darlin' cut loose and did a footless dance on me that would have been totally banned and completely unappreciated on the late great Ed Sullivan Show. I don't know how long it went on and I don't know how many different steps she did sitting on me like that with her feet a foot off the floor, but I do know that at its conclusion she was tired out for the first time since I'd known her. I was a little tired too, having shot several pints of remarkably hot come into her snatch until it had run out to add to the puddle she'd already made under my ass.
Still and all she wasn't too weary to dress and to assist me into my clothing, whereupon we left the room I shall always love and ventured out into the streets of quaint, picturesque Jajajic, with her clinging to my arm as if I was Jesus Christ, Superstar, himself.
I steered her in the direction of Roy's place with the intent of sharing our burgeoning love with my old friend-verbally, not physically. And when we drew up to the door, she yawned in a charming, girlish way and said, "Hey, this is where I buy my grass."
"I wouldn't be surprised at anything that went on here," I said, though it would have shocked me if she'd been correct, and I rang the bell.
Kermit answered it, naked, and it was some how gratifying to see my cupie-doll didn't even glance in the direction of his young, though small, prick. "Kermit," Ivy's sultry voice called from above, and he hastened back up the spiral staircase, saying, "Coming, dear. I'm coming." Without a pause I passed by Ivy's old room, even though the sound was again coming from within, that sound that had once, oddly enough, caused me pain. "AAAAAHHHHHHHUU-UHHHH! Uh, Uh, Uh, Uh, UH!" Now I only smiled, knowing that Junior's pimples and Judy's problems would clear up.
I paused at Roy's door and would have entered had it not been for the voices from within.
"Mi esposa, where you want it now?"
"Hector, is it still up hard?"
"For you, mi princesa, it is always muy fuerte! Where you want it?"
"My armpit, the left one. Oh, hurry!"
The bachelor's quarters were empty, but beyond it we could hear the unmistakable sounds of people in love, and since we too were in that state, my precious little strawberry muffin and me, we were drawn to it.
There in Maria's cramped quarters was my host, Roy, buck naked and being terribly energetic for his age, fucking the daylights out of Maria, our diligent maid, who had retained enough of her Catholic modesty to have kept her dress on, but who had lost enough of same to keep right on humping under him as we conversed.
"Roy!" I said. "You? With her?"
"Correcto!" he replied, in perfect Spanish. "But ... but what about your wife? Your kids?"
"Kids are fucking themselves silly," he panted, though not missing a stroke and thereby drawing my grudging admiration. "And Nell's shacked up with her art teacher. Me, I'm enjoying Mexico right up to the hilt. Who's your little friend?"
"My fiance'," I proudly said. "Roy, Bebe. Bebe, Roy. He publishes my books. But don't," I told her quickly as an afterthought, "get the idea that a publisher knows as much about fucking as a writer does."
"What about sucking?" she asked, wide-eyed and always eager to improve herself through learning.
"Oh, writers know infinitely more about that," Roy gallantly volunteered. "They're the biggest suckers in the world."
I smiled my gratitude for his kind words, my angel-child nimbly knelt and took a kilo of Michoacan black from under the orgasming Maria's bed, and we withdrew to alter the bachelor's quarters into a honeymoon suite.
