The trouble with living in Jersey is that long ride home.
We had a cozy five room stucco job, all mortgage and no backyard. Within commuting distance, like the agent said. What's a ninety minute drive when you're a newlywed in love.
Those first few months I had a hard-on sixty-five miles long. From Madison Avenue all the way to Acton Heights. All the way home to my wife. Marcy.
Marcy on my mind every fucking inch of the bumper to bumper road. I could see her hungry eyes, black, black hair. Soft thighs still juicy with smooth baby fat, the way I liked them. Her almost virgin cunt. Christ, if it was sixty-seven miles, I'd shoot in my fucking pants.
Those early days I'd yank my zipper down before I got out of the driveway. Once I thought-this'll be a treat for the old ladies if she's having them in for tea. But she never did. The only one who saw my standing cock was Marcy.
My topless housewife, I'd call her. Marcy knew what a guy like me looked forward to at home.. A well-cooked meal? Yeah-afterward. She'd come to the hall to meet me, always quick on spike-heeled shoes. Stripped naked except for a little cocktail apron. Pointed tits bouncing. She'd push back her hair and sigh, as if she'd just had a tough hour at the stove. I knew damned well where she'd spent that hour before I came home. Under the shower and in front of her mirror. At the dressing table, perfuming her fragrant snatch and maybe stopping to twit her clit. Making herself more beautiful for me.
I stood with my uncovered prick planted out, jumping.
"We're home, honey."
She curtseyed, salaaming to her master. A quick courtesy peck at the tip of my pecker. Then to her feet, jamming her apron against my rod, her lips to mine. I kept one arm around her shoulder and used the other hand to churn her rounded ass. Under her crotch and upward. That apron had all the fucking panties beat. No obstruction. My hand dipped down to spread her cleft. Moist already. Then up from the cunt to tickle her luxuriant bush. I like to find a forest there. Very thick, very silky-like Marcy's. My fingers were making patterns in her thatch.
But she wanted more.
We managed to crawl to the bedroom.
"I like to watch a man disrobe," Marcy had confided the first time I fucked her in a bedroom. "Disrobe" was the word she used; that cunt had class.
I decided to give her a show. She sat naked on the bed, hugging her milk-white tits. I made a big production of taking off my jacket, even though my really big production number was already on display. I opened my belt, let my pants slide to the floor. Only when I stepped out of them I realized that the bitch was halfway up the hill. Sprawled now on the bed, legs apart, rosy pussy winking in the light.
"Now, Monte! Now!"
My jockey shorts got tangled on my upright joint. I didn't have time to pull them all the way down. I jumped on the bed, shorts around my knees, rough shirt pressing on Marcy's silken flesh. I guided the head of my prick into her luscious hole. Jabbed it in to the balls. I wanted to tear through those wet and juicy walls, lacerate the fucking womb. But I stopped on a dime, holding rigidly still. A trick that runs in my family.
Her hips began to grind. Then her voice rose, pleading, begging, screaming. "Give it to me, Monte. Do it! Fuck me. FUCK ME!"
I took pity on the lady.
Grabbing a handful of heaving tit, I began to fuck her like a lady should be fucked. I pulled nearly out, felt her muscles tighten, begging for it. Then I jabbed it in to the hilt and started a barrage of thrusts. Halfway through, she screamed once, twitched, lay back impaled. She'd made it.
When she got her rocks off it always sent needles up my cock. I tried to hold off. "Take it slow, you bastard," I told myself; but my prick was deaf. It kept making sure lunges on the drenched track till my balls flapped helpless, emptied. My hot cream raced through and I thought it made a record steaming up her twat.
Great! But all too soon those sixty-odd miles became a chore. Not so much the driving. The coming home. Little things. Irritating little things that told me, "The honeymoon is over, Mac. Now there's just the rest of your life to get through. Somehow." Sweet thought.
After we'd been married for a month, Marcy found a cookbook. A leftover from our wedding gifts. She started wrestling with the pots as if she were doing me a favor. Any wrestling to be done, I wanted it between her hairy gash and my stiff eight inches. But she was making a career out of tasty pot roasts and puff pastry.
Coming home after an expense account lunch, who thought of food? My prick was hungry though. At first, I'd find her in the kitchen, topless, flushed. Cute as hell, and too busy stirring sauces to kiss a guy hello. I'd have to jab a finger up her twat, suck her heavy titties till the nipples stiffened. Then she'd drop the stirring spoon. Drop her apron. Drop to the cool linoleum floor. Legs open. Panting. Cunt lips spread to welcome the battering ram. The sauces burned. Sometimes even the saucepans. Screw the pans! That linoleum was cold on my ass.
A nice warm rug for the kitchen floor was the first home furnishing I bought on my own.
The cooking jag was bad enough. There were other signs that our honeymoon was sliding to a close.
Marcy used to like to watch me shed my clothes. She seldom wore much around the house. But before we were married, like any guy, I got a bang seeing those shoulder straps come down. The plopping around of an unhooked bra, and then the plop as two firm breasts swung free. I liked to see the way she held one leg forward taking off her panties, doing a delicate bump that shook her ass as the pants fell below her mound. Naked except for stockings and high-heeled pumps, she looked more nude than naked, more lewd than luscious. Marcy preferred stockings elasticized at the top. No garters, no garter belt. I loved to roll down her hose, hands hot on the insides of her thighs.
I was the one in the family who Wore garters. On request. She'd given me a dozen pair. Black garters, black silk socks. It was fun to strip in front of her. A guy likes to know he's appreciated. She'd coo when I flung off my t-shirt.
"Like hair, honey?"
I'd nuzzle her till my wiry chest hair left mark's on her white tits. I'd hide my cock and pull out my balls, letting them hang like tangerines below my jockey shorts. I'd show my butt, then listen to her squeals when I allowed my rigid prong to hit the air. She'd squeeze her lovely titties together. The squishing sound was like applause. When I stooped to pull off the gartered socks, she'd beg me to leave them on. So I fucked her with my socks on, stag movie style.
As time went on, she barely looked. Except when I let my pants fall in a heap. Then she'd nag, "That suit just came from the cleaners," or "Don't expect me to press those pants." For old time's sake, I kept on my socks. Then one night she wailed, "Walking in your socks gets them full of dust. Then you dirty the sheet." How can a guy perform when he knows that with every bang he's dirtying the fucking sheet!
Minor irritations.
What really screwed me off was Marcy's attitude toward my friends. I liked everybody. In bed. Marcy had more old-fashioned ideas.
Take Gloria. I'd been humping Gloria in the office since the day I got the job. She was a sweet-tempered broad, not so young but mighty cooperative. Close-cropped black hair, a pouter-pigeon breast, shapely legs, and no ass. She'd screw upon request and never made demands. Tacitly it was understood that all who'd made her-and that meant everyone from the President to the shoe shine boy who came in on Fridays-all were expected to give her a chance at their girl friends, wives, or sisters. She was the sweetest-tempered lez I'd ever met.
I figured I owed Gloria at least an introduction to my wife. Boffing the old lez while she chewed on Marcy's muff might help kill a Sunday afternoon.
Marcy indignantly refused.
Then there was Hank.
Hank had been my buddy since college days. Crew-cut, heavy-chested, and flat-assed, he looked a little like Gloria. He was a smooth-talking guy, hep, very loyal, and definitely no lez.
Well there was that time when Marcy found us together in the car. Pants down. Hank was giving me a super, buddy-buddy blow job while I frigged his well-developed rod.
I stopped frigging to wave hello to Marcy. With exquisite manners, Hank allowed my jumping cock to slide out of his mouth. Massaging it gently, he murmured, "How'dy' do?"
Marcy flounced off. Indignant again.
Ever since then she'd labeled Hank a queer.
After the Gloria-Hank fiascos. Marcy refused even to discuss 3-and 4-way deals.
Something had to be done.
My honeymoon-is-over disappointments simmered till one night when I came home from work.
Marcy was in the kitchen, chewing gum, too busy to notice me. Flour smudges on her cheeks and on her shapeless housedress. I'd just left Gloria at the office, aching her heart out because I couldn't produce a cunt for her to lap. That afternoon I'd phoned Hank asking him to postpone his visit because my dear wife didn't want queers in the woodwork.
It was too much.
My upright peter began to sag.
I spoke up loud and clear.
"I want a divorce."
She swallowed her frigging gum.
Marcy left the food congealing on the stove. She ran upstairs, but not to bawl.
I gave her a little time, then followed her up. She was stretched naked on the bed, as if to say, "See what you'd miss, you schmuck!" Seductively, with sure whore-knowledge of how to please. Bullet breasts reaching upward. Pussy neatly parted to catch the light. My balls were cramped with that gooey ache I kinda like. Nature's message that it's time to screw.
I ignored the message.
"Time we had a talk."
Gingerly. I sat at the edge of the bed, kept my hand from straying, and talked.
"You're a good kid, Marcy-"
Purring like a pussy, she guided my hand over her furry snatch.
"No, listen to me, kid." It had to come out now, before my whang crept in. "When I got married, I was hoping for uh-a more varied life."
"Varied?"
"Like my parents."
"Parents?"
Marcy was a great cunt for repeating words. "Yes, parents. My father and mother. You remember them. The husky guy at the wedding. The broad in the leather see-through dress."
"And their sex life was so wonderful?"
"Wonderful. Let me tell you about it."
CHAPTER TWO
Telling Marcy was unexpectedly easy. Even before I started I knew that we should have had this out before.
Since I was old enough to peek through keyholes, I told her, I wanted my married life, my sex life, to be free and easy. On the pattern laid out for me by two experts-mother and dad.
My father was one of Broadway's wonders. Even today the name Joshua Barnes on a playbill means a top-notch production. He started banging my mother when she played the barmaid in New Slut in Town, his first big hit. He was a ripe eighteen, she was two or three years younger. They got married during the party celebrating the 100th performance. And I was born while mother's understudy was playing performance number 211. At eight shows a week, figure that one out.
We lived in a fine old mansion up in Westchester. Between the acts, when mother wasn't screwing in her dressing room, she liked to crochet. Every fucking chair in that house is covered with a sample of her work.
My room was on the third floor, the only bedroom in that wing. The other rooms were empty or used for storage. Our servants bedded down in a separate wing.
I really had privacy those days. Half the floor. The only times I remember mother coming up were occasional nights when she was leaving for a party. She'd float into the room, imperiously, dripping chiffon, covertly watching to see what effect her cleavage had on an eleven year old boy.
It had an effect. My mother's boobs were by-words from Broadway to L. A. Seeing that hot crease between the swelling mounds always sent my pecker up. When she bent down to kiss me, the powdered nipples winked good night.
Alone in that wing I had plenty of room to jack off. And plenty of privacy. I've always pitied guys who had to beat their meat under the bedcovers. Or run in the bathroom to whack their pokes.
"You still in there, Jack?"
"I'm coming right out. I'm coming! I'm coming-catch the flying goo!"
None of that for me.
I could roam the wing, my hard-on flapping. Press it against cool walls. There was an old rug in one of the store rooms, woolly, half-unraveled. I used to lay on it, spread-eagled, bare-ass, jerking my stiff rod tight against the nap. Imagining it was like a furry cunt.
Usually when I felt I was about to shoot I'd hold a handkerchief under my dick to catch the streaming gism. The sopping rags I'd throw in an unused umbrella stand, also in ones of the store rooms. There they'd be undisturbed for months. Once I tipped over the stand and counted eighty-seven scum-stiff cloths.
That privacy was invaded in the nicest way.
One morning I noticed dad going down the third floor stairs. That made me wonder why he had come up; I knew he hadn't been in my room. Maybe I was afraid that he'd discovered my unique method for stuffing umbrella stands. Anyway, I prowled around. The store rooms looked the same as usual. The change was in the room adjoining mine, an empty room. Only it wasn't quite empty now. Square in the center of the floor, a mattress was spread out. Except for a small table lamp, it was the only furnishing.
I thought-we're getting a new servant or one of the old ones is changing rooms. The idea didn't appeal to me at all. But I didn't mention the matter or ask any questions. Which proved to be good tactics.
That night I stationed myself at my door. In the dark. It must have been after ten when I felt rather than saw a burly figure pass my room to slip into the nearly empty room. That was dad. By instinct or vibrations, I knew it was dad. Two minutes later, another figure. In the pitch black, I couldn't see a frigging thing. But I could hear heavy footsteps trying to be cautious. Then more footsteps and a fleeting-hint of shadow.
After that, silence.
I waited for what seemed like half the night-and may have been a quarter of an hour. I crept out of my room, kneeled at the mysterious door, eye to the keyhole. And saw nothing. There was a slender line of light at the bottom of the door, so I knew that the lamp was lit. I heard vague, muffled sounds, so I knew the room was occupied. But the wily bastards had plugged the keyhole.
The next morning, Sunday, I woke up with a roaring hard-on and started to show it who was boss. But first things first. More important than my aching meat just then was my aching curiosity.
I examined the adjoining room. Mattress, floor lamp, nothing else. What did I expect to find? In the back of my mind, I think I was looking for evidence of great debauchery-like two or three come-soaked handkerchiefs. Rather clever, in a half-assed way. At least, for an eleven year old.
By accident I found the key. Looking for my best sport coat, which I never found on school day mornings, I moved every hanger on the closet rack. Then I forgot my sport coat because I spotted a little circle of light. A smooth-bored hole in the closet wall. And that closet wall was the wall of the room next door. It was at eye level. I pressed my eye to the fissure. Could I be looking into a closet? No, it would be dark. Unless the closet door was open. Was there a closet in that room?
Just the thought of finding out gave me a sudden bone. It beat tight against my pants as I stepped into the other room. No closet. Now that I knew where to look, I found the other side of the hole without difficulty. How much would I be able to see into that room?
I tore a page out of a magazine on my bureau and then tore that page in half. Using spit, I pasted the two bits of paper to the wall, several feet apart. Then I scurried back to my closet. One piece of paper had fallen; I could see it on the floor. The other was still held in place. I could see the colors clearly and could even distinguish a few of the block letters printed on the bottom of the page.
All I had to do was wait till evening.
I waited, eyes glued, prick at the ready.
Nothing.
Whoever was using that room was taking a night off. All I had to show for my vigil was another come-drenched handkerchief.
The next night I was luckier.
I alternated between my slightly opened door and the closet peephole. At the door I heard nothing, saw nothing. But the next time I checked the peephole, I knew I was set for-the night.
My father was in the lighted room. I saw him clearly enough to detect the smear of cigarette ash on his bathrobe.
Why did the sight of my father waiting impatiently there in his bathrobe make my young pud shoot out erect? My father was a good-looking guy.
Dynamic, kind of rough, he packed heavy weight.
At the time I spied on him that night, he must have been 29, three or four years older than I am now. Taller than I and much huskier. Mostly muscle with some excess flesh from sitting at his producer's desk.
Before dad had time to finish his cigarette, another figure padded into view. My breath came fast. This was Olga, our cook-housekeeper. She was a stout Austrian cunt with apple-cheeks and neatly braided hair. Only now her long blonde hair hung down below the yoke of her nightgown. Hair down, nightgown. Already I was beating my rod. How much does it take to send a youngster off.
Olga smiled up at dad, not like a cook at all. He bent to kiss her and I saw her tongue dart out. Her fat hand was in the front of dad's robe, and when they broke away from their love-kiss I saw that the robe was open. Olga was jerking dad's tool as I was jerking mine.
Dad had a funny build down there. His cock was big and thick, immense now that I saw it stand. But his crowning glory was his gleaming set of balls. They were very light in color with just a few delicate hairs around them although my father was a hairy bastard. They swung gracefully like ballet dancers slightly out of step because one hung maybe two inches below its friend. They were each the size of the Spanish orange I used to have for breakfast on special days. So big they made his stiff wang seem small.
Olga seemed as impressed as I because she squatted down to take them in her mouth, licking at them the way I'd lick at an orange before peeling it. Dad's throbbing prick beating against her cheek must have bothered her because abruptly she stopped licking the heavy balls. And started sucking the impulsive prick.
Dad watched her work, then he moved so that he could touch her shoulders, her nightgown. It was a button-down job and he had to unbutton quite a few before he was able to force one of her tits out to the light. If his balls were like oranges, her boobie was like a watermelon. A white melon, stark white except for the dropping center which was as rosy and as wide as the head of the dick she was eating.
Olga's naked breast excited dad as well as me. He backed away so that his wet ding slid out of her mouth. Then he pulled her to her feet, undid more buttons, and sent the nightgown forgotten to the floor. She wore nothing underneath.
The first naked woman I had ever seen. Her legs were mountainous, dead-white, and beautiful. Curving up to wide and fleshy hips. Her naked breasts were huge, lusciously pale against the darker flesh of her neck. And darker than the hair that framed her face was the wide raised clump of her mound. I thought of the woolly rug I used at jerk-off time and thought-dad's gonna stick his prong against that tuft and cover it with goo. That's what fucking's all about.
Dad had other ideas. His eyes were on her jutting tits. Then his hands, kneading them together, making one round springy mass above her belly. Then he allowed them to fall in place so he could bathe them with his tongue.
Somewhere along the way I had lost a load. With my toe I picked out the slimy come on the closet floor. My prick was up again and dad was still busy with Olga's boobs when I realized that someone else had joined those two.
I don't know who I was expecting, mother or the cop on the beat. But it was a distinct surprise when I saw that the newcomer was Vinnie. Vincent Carducci, the son of mother's former dresser at the theater. When Mrs. Carducci died, we had taken Vinnie in. He did odd jobs around the house in exchange for his keep. Never odder jobs than I saw him do that night.
Vinnie was a tall boy-dark-haired, very thin. Dad had given him a suit of clothes for his fifteenth birthday, a few months before. I think that was the only decent clothes he ever owned. That night he wasn't wearing a fine suit. He was barefoot, bare-chested, and wore a pair of faded jeans.
Dad gave Olga's heavy tits a rest and made a gesture toward the boy. Quickly, Vinnie shucked his jeans, and his hard-on leaped to view. Except for the narrow tuft above his dick, Vinnie's body was free of hair. That dick was exactly the length, thickness, and color of a frankfurter. But Olga didn't seem inclined to steal a bite.
Either she didn't go for unproven boy prick or she was holding out for the thicker one she had just sucked. In any case, Olga was acting coy. She backed away from Vinnie's touch, refusing even to glance at his thin shaft which was bobbing up and down like a fishing pole.
Dad was intent on having his own way. He picked her up as easily as if she were a portfolio of play scripts. Unceremoniously, he dumped her on the mattress. Good old dad! The way he had her placed, her hole was directly in a line with my peephole.
Yes, Olga had a hole. I thought that the fucking ground was to be her curly thatch. But as she lay sprawled on the mattress, legs opened wider than my closet door, I noticed the rosy crack in between.
Dad stage-managed beautifully. He whispered something to the cook. Something that made her smile dreamily and nod her head. Then he dug his finger in her cunt. That slit looked so narrow, yet my father's finger disappeared, signet ring and all. Dad wagged his finger hidden in the blonde as if he were churning butter. When it was good and wet he drew it out. Vinnie was hovering by. Dad grabbed him by the nuts, practically pushing the shiny staff into the yawning hair-lined sheath.
The boy fell on her, fucking without finesse. In with a swoop, then short staccato thrusts. His slender white ass heaved as he kept grinding into the twisting flesh. Dad watched, smiling benevolently, pausing now and then to tweak Olga's tawny nipples or to slap Vinnie's rump when he could catch it on the run. I thought it was charming of my father to give a lowly orphan boy first choice.
But dad wasn't really a charming man. As Vinnie's lunges became even more rapid, dad bent over as if intent on catching the boy's first groan. He must have heard what he was waiting for, although no sound reached me. As if on signal, with muscular arms he yanked Vinnie away from Olga's pliant curves. Pingg! The boy's wet and reddened pole jerked out.
How could my father be so cruel?
Olga's plaintive cry carried even to my post. "Put it back, cuntlapper! Fuck it back!" she screamed.
Vinnie's plight was more pitiful. Heaving now from mere momentum, his short-changed rod was fucking empty air. Dad extended a lazy hand and put the boy out of his misery. Two long jerks, base to head, base to head, and Vinnie's prick emitted jets of cream. On the mattress, on Olga's white tits, a pool of it in my father's hand. What a torrent of the stuff. The boy must have been saving it up since the night before.
My own cream spurted out the same time Vinnie lost his load. I could see it shining pale on the closet floor. I dipped my finger in the mess, popped my finger in my mouth, then swooped down for more. My come tasted good, nourishing. Like warm milk poured on oatmeal. Saltier, of course. Slightly acrid, musty. Maybe that was the dust from the closet floor.
It had grown quite dark in our bedroom at Acton Heights. All the time I spoke, Marcy had not uttered a word. We were lying now side by side and I knew that for the last twenty minutes she had been finger-fucking herself. I lit the lamp to watch her busy finger working in her gash, stopping only to tweak her stiffened clit. When she took a break, I plugged the gap, promising three or four fingers worth very soon. Absently, I licked my finger to inhale the fragrance of her steamy love juice.
She murmured dreamily, "All that gorgeous come from your eleven year old prick. All that gorgeous cream wasted on the floor."
I told her not to cry over spilled cream, assuring her that the machine was still operating well. While she was in that sentimental mood, I aired another grievance.
"If you're so wild about my 'gorgeous come,' why didn't you ever swallow it? If only I could-Lord knows I've tried! That's where Hank has it over you cunt. Try to catch him waste a drop. Any cocksucker worthy of the name for that matter."
In a purple tone Marcy hadn't used for months, she whispered, "Give me another chance, Monte love. Give me the cock you jacked that night. Shove it down my throat. I'll swallow every drop."
Her lips were parted, teeth shining, ready. I jammed it in to the hair.
"Suck it, baby! Suck!"
No lady-like pecks and nibbles. I banged against her darting tongue, fucking her throat as if it were a cunt. It felt like a cunt. She choked and gagged at my fleshy hardness and made little futile moves to free herself. Which only made me mouth-fuck harder. She kept one slender hand near her mouth to jerk me as I passed in and out, But I was going only in and in and in.
The other hand was restless on my balls, juggling, stroking, pulling them, tugging at the loose sac as if it were as elastic as her gash. Then her roving fingers found my asshole and she stuck one in, making quick corkscrew fucking motions. My cock fucked by her tongue and my bung by her finger, I couldn't hold back. She was going further than I thought a finger could I go when one-two-three, I unleashed a flood of gism down her throat. More hot thick sperm squirted out. Then another jet.
She gasped for breath. Swallowed. Her finger twisted up my ass. Another spurt. The creamy stuff was dribbling down her fucking lips. I pulled my sagging pecker out, then licked at her mouth and lips for a long taste of my own pungent come. Delicious.
Marcy thought so too.
"To think I used to spit it out. Monte, if ever I fail to swallow it again, promise me you'll f-I mean, promise me you won't fuck me for a week. Er-did you get to see your father shoot that night?"
"Huh? Oh, my father-Of course I saw him fuck. This is what happened-"
CHAPTER THREE
Vinnie getting his gun off was like the first act curtain in the sex show being played before me. Dad opened up the second act by shucking off his bathrobe. Since his back was to me, I was treated to a close full view of a magnificent manly ass.
Olga on the mattress had the front view, and found it even more enticing. Her huge tits were still decorated with blobs of Vinnie's sperm. Unmindful, she reached between her thighs and drew the lips of her quim open to reveal again the hot red slash.
My father went into action. He mounted her as r tenderly as if he were bucking an eight year old. Olga's fleshy legs threshed about his moving hips. Deliberately he aimed the thick head of his swollen dick into the narrow pussy slit. He pressed forward once, and that movement eased the full length of his throbbing rod into the well-oiled orifice. He continued to drive his prick down the venus track. Then abruptly he drew the reins.
Features blurred, contorted with lust, the blonde cried out, "Don't stop! Ohhh! Please!" Stubborn in the saddle, dad refused to budge. Vinnie had been busily feasting on the stalled mare's milky tits, no doubt imbibing his own gism as he licked their satin surface. Now he had to press a hand over her mouth before her screams brought down the house.
Body churning desperately, her blunt fingers tore Vinnie's hand away so she could vent to one last shriek.
"Fuck me! Oh, God, don't stop! FUCK ME!"
Dad's kind nature made him love the sound of cunts begging for what he had to give. With Olga's screams ringing pleasantly in his ears, he gave. His movements started up again. First a jog, then a trot, then full gallop. His slimy hard-on thundered in and out faster than I could see. Faster than I could jerk my aching tool.
The orphan boy was learning fast. As dad continued his masterly stroking, Vinnie forced open Olga's mouth and jammed his long pecker between her lips. Dad's head bobbed up and down as if he were nodding approval. Then by Olga's writhing and by the expression of pure delight on her face I knew that she was coming. One fearful lunge by dad, the master timer, Balls swaying, a convulsive jerk of his massive ass told me that at last he was spraying his burning sperm into the red-hot cavern.
My third wad hit the closet floor.
Vinnie was last man out. Sucking my father's man-cock in her snatch Olga hadn't really worked on the boy-prick in her mouth. She lay back languorous after dad's exertions, and once again the poor orphan's ramrod danced helplessly in the air.
Dad's horny hand reached out. I thought he was being an unnatural father. Quick to jerk off a stranger. While his legitimate son lost load after load-alone.
I was maligning father. His hand had reached out only to get a good grasp on Vinnie's throbbing peter. Instead of jacking it, dad squatted down to suck. Young prick that I was, I realized that if my father was a master fucker, he was also a peerless cock-sucker. Ecstasy made Vinnie quite handsome as he rammed his whang down dad's willing throat. When dad sprang to his feet there was no trace of Vinnie's gism to be seen, and the young boy's limp cock hung fire-red.
From her mattress vantage point, Olga had been watching avidly as I. Mingled love dew dribbled down her crotch. Gorged with Vinnie's gism, greedy dad crouched down to make a hasty dessert of the honey from Olga's box.
The three rested for a minute, and I leaned exhausted against the closet wall.
Then dad's trusty prick was rampant again and the sluttish cook panted eagerly for another ride.
Dad began the third and final act by lovingly turning her over on the mattress. Olga's round bottom shone pink tinted white. Dad caressed the fleshy cheeks, then dipped a finger in her brimming quim. He plucked it out well lubricated, then inserted the same finger in her rosy asshole.
Olga made a token "No" which even I knew meant "Yes."
Again dad mounted her this time entering where his finger had been. The first sharp pain eased off, and she rocked to get dad's joint deeper in her back crevice. He was flat on her now and I couldn't see his prick at all so I knew he had it in her to the root. Muscular thighs jumped as he began to pump.
Olga's bottom bounced against his belly; his own hairy ass heaved at an even faster clip. I heard dad call out to Vinnie, then I saw the orphan bending over the figures made one by their fuck. Vinnie grinned as if he couldn't believe his good fortune. As well he might for he had been granted the privilege of fucking dad.
A lick of spit on his long peter, and Vinnie had already mounted him. The boy's shaking cock jumped the track, veering blindly over the hairy crack of my father's ass. Ass-fucking Olga without missing a stroke, dad moved his hand to guide Vinnie into his narrow entry. Then he was properly fucked. Vinnie had had months of orphanage training before we took him in our home. Now he showed his talents, ramming his young cock up the bung. He lunged forward as if he wanted to reach Olga by tearing his prick through dad's body. As if he were trying to force his untamed boy-whang into dad's ass, through his guts, and out through my father's pisshole so that he could unite with the fucked-up blonde.
Dad loved it as much as Olga loved having a heavy prick shoved up her delicious asshole.
At last the heaving trio fell on each other, spent. The pool of come I'd dropped on the closet floor was so deep that I thought I'd have to take time out to hunt up a pair of galoshes. But suddenly the light went out. I could see nothing. That was the end of the performance that night.
"Oh, Monte, your father sounds so groovy!"
Marcy was rhythmically stroking my dick. Her hands full, her eyes glowed.
"And Olga too. And that orphan boy." She hesitated. "I-I guess your mother never used that room."
"Well, never with my father. They had a perfectly good bedroom for husband-wife screwing. But mother had her moments up there too-"
CHAPTER FOUR
Mother was a famous star. Usually dad produced her shows. He even chose her stage name, Verna Vail, and that's the name she is known by. Verna's made half a dozen films enjoyed by millions of cheering fans. Naturally that doesn't include her stag movies which were never released commercially and were seen only by her lovers and other organized groups like the Rotary Clubs.
In her legit appearances there was always one scene where she stripped to bra and panties, or just panties, trying unconvincingly to act as if she hadn't done it eight or nine thousand times before. That strip scene became the Verna Vail trademark. None of her far-off fans enjoyed it more than her masturbating son Monte.
Before I ever saw mother with her legs up I knew that she was a swinging cunt. I don't remember how I found her diary or when. I know I didn't understand all of it. Part was enough. I can recall some excerpts verbatim.
"We shot the jailbreak scene today in front of Precinct 41. Afterward I gave the boys a private reception in my dressing room. The least I could do in return for their cooperation. I received them one-by-one, then two-by-two. Forty husky pricks, and not one had the courtesy to remove his gun belt before screwing."
And a later entry:
"Had another bull today. He performed beautifully.
But sometimes I think men are better."
That was written from our place in the country. If I hadn't surreptitiously read mother's diary, I would have missed the significance of one of her early appearances in the room upstairs.
A short time after I discovered the fissure in the closet and the fissures in Olga, there was a newcomer in our Westchester household. The first time I saw him, I recoiled in fright. He was a hulking gorilla-like guy with mean little eyes.
This terrifying male was one of mother's mysterious acquisitions. His name was Oscar. He was totally deaf and dumb. And mother planned to make him our butler. Dad finally convinced her that an Oscar at the door would make a forbidding impression. So mother, who was strangely adamant about keeping Oscar, insisted that he be retained as a general factotum. When he worked at all, the big guy assisted Vinnie, thus becoming Westchester's first houseboy's houseboy.
Getting to know Oscar was to love him. Really. His unfortunate appearance hid a surprisingly docile nature. Kind and gentle, he used to help me with my homework when it wasn't beyond him. He was the one who took me for haircuts, to the ballpark on Saturdays; he was the one who met me in the school yard when the weather was bad.
Now that he enjoyed good food and a warm bed, Oscar's appearance improved slightly. He became less frightening, filling out so that his face was less craggy and more jolly. In spite of the improvement, even today when I hear the word bogeyman, I think of poor Oscar.
The docile ape-man came to our house just as the weather turned cold. He was snoozing in the garage on a freezing afternoon in December when mother first used the third floor room.
I was in my room wondering if I should jack oft now or wait to see if I had any luck at night. Or both. Then I heard mother's clear contralto from the stairs.
"So good of you boys to ask for my autograph," she gushed.
She passed my room. There were other footsteps.
I heard mother try one door, then another, till she opened the door of the room adjoining mine. I was at the closet keyhole in time to see her expression of surprise and delight when she realized that she had found the ideal place for her purpose.
Verna Vail was then about 26, at the very peak of her fabled beauty. She was rather short and slender, but she possessed that larger-than-life quality found in some actresses. A room graced by the presence of Verna Vail glowed with her radiance and with her magnetism. Her hair that year was flame-red, a perfect frame for her classic oval face and lustrous sloe-gin eyes. Now those eyes glittered with an unmistakable light. She knew she was going to get fucked.
"Do come in, boys."
"Thank you, Miss Vail."
"Thank you kindly, ma'am."
They were speaking in conversational tones; I could hear every word clearly. I could see them clearly too. The two autograph hunters were college boys dressed in chinos and windbreakers, carrying books. They were about the same age, 18 or 19, but quite different types. One was a husky blond, aggressive, capable of taking care of himself in any situation. His companion was dark-haired, taller, on the homely side. He was blushing, staring in awe at the famous Verna Vail, eyes like a shy, friendly puppy.
Mother carelessly dropped her mink on the floor. Raising her skirt, she sat on the mattress.
"Now if you darling boys will give me pen and paper, I'll be delighted to give you my signature. A very personal inscription for each of you."
She underscored the word personal by raising her skirt again. And raising it again.
Judging by mother's position, knees and skirt well up, I knew that the boys had a view they would never get from the first row balcony. If they would only look. Both of them were busy tearing sheets from their notebooks for the promised Verna Vail inscription.
In the act of handing mother pen and paper, the blond boy glanced down. My view was obscured by his stocky body, but I knew what he saw by the way he goggled. Mouth open, words suspended on his lips. The piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Automatically, he stooped to pick it up-and collapsed, his bulging eyes glued to some central point between my mother's glossy thighs.
His shy friend stole a look. They were different types, those two, but the bulges in their pants were like twins.
"What's wrong?" mother asked as they stood tongue-tied.
"J-j-just-uh-" For a young man who looked capable of handling any situation, the blond boy was acting as if he'd never seen a cunt. By this time I was sure mother wasn't wearing panties. I twisted around till I nearly got a splinter in my eyeball, but my view was still obstructed.
"Oh! What you boys must think of me!" Mother pretended to become aware of her immodesty. But her lust won out, and she abandoned that role suddenly.
"Haven't you boys seen me in Arabian Nights #69? I showed everything in that."
It was hardly likely that the lads had viewed that stag epic filmed when Verna was a budding 14-and the boys were in their pre-jerk-off years.
"N-no," the hardy one admitted.
"Well," Verna sailed into the narration, "in that one I played an innocent maid kidnapped by two burly sex-crazed brutes. They carry me off to any empty room and then-"
"Yes-and then?" Both healthy college boys were gasping, swollen pricks beating under their distended pants.
"Then those brutes-they really weren't brutes, just lovely sexy sports actually-then they raised my skirts, tore off my clothes."
The blond was first to lose control. His hands were on mother's skirt, tugging, tearing.
"Wait, impulsive," she cried indulgently. "This material tears easily." She undid the waistband snaps, raised her body, and allowed the boy to strip the skirt away.
Verna Vail turned sensuously on the mattress, and now my view was unimpaired. At last I saw my mother's gash. Her slit was most adorable, the most narrow crack tenderly flanked by lacy films of hair. Her thighs were snow-white, smooth and naked, for her stockings ended at the knee. Her raised love cushion was fragile, as elegant as her tiny slit. The boys stood transfixed.
"What have we here?" mother chided wickedly, her hand already at the blond boy's fly. He watched immobile as she tugged at his shorts, extracting a steel-stiff prick.
"What's your name, dear?"
"Marshall."
"How lovely. Marshall." She rolled the name on her tongue. "I'll bet you've pleasured many girls with this." She was stroking Marshall's noble wand with professional gusto.
Gathering aplomb, the blond boy countered, "I've done O.K.," and with that fell on mother, smothering kisses on her immaculate snatch.
The perfect hostess, Verna sat up to set her other guest at ease. The black-haired boy was blushing, blinking, panting. Like a virgin in a whorehouse-which just about described his present situation.
"This cunning little swelling tells me what you're thinking," mother crooned. With the ease that comes of long experience, she had his zipper down and his hard-on freed from the tight obstruction of his shorts. Expertly, she pulled the skin back and forth admiring the jagged, heavy overhang.
"And your name, sweetheart?"
"Hymie."
"And you still have this?" She worked the lengthy foreskin back and forth. "How quaint." Then she nodded judiciously at the two stiff cocks standing at her gate. "Something tells me you darling boys are going to be uncomfortable all day unless-"
"Yes," she whispered demurely, still jerking Hymie's rod. The timid novice at love blushed furiously and stammered.
"P-please, ma'am-"
"You may call me Verna," mom conceded grandly, pulling at his quivering tool.
But Hymie now was hopping up and down, grabbing at Marshall's shoulder to steady himself. Half moaning, he croaked, "Ma'am--Verna, I'm c-coming"
"You fucking hard-on" mother shrieked, furious that her burning cunt had been denied his soothing juice.
Too late! A jet of heavy milky fluid spurted from Hymie's tortured taper, hitting Marshall square in the eye. With unbelievable speed, mother opened her pocketbook, took out a small glass vial, and held it under Hymie's dripping penis. With her other hand she jerked the spending pecker. Another spasm shook the dark-haired boy, and the vial was nearly full of his hot rich spunk.
Calmly now he looked at mother.
She held the vial to the light. "For the rhododendron," she murmured. "Didn't you know? Male sperm is like mother's milk for plants."
Mother was lying. There wasn't a rhododendron nor any other living plant in the house. I wondered if she drank the stuff as a night-cap. Or smeared it on her face to keep that smooth complexion.
Now she comforted the crestfallen Hymie, promising him he'd soon be good as new. She bid Marshall desist from nibbling at her treasure lest he disgrace himself prematurely too. His staff was so rigid, suffused with blood, that I fancied I could see the cream already racing through the jumping vein.
"We'll move upstairs," Verna Vail conceded, standing up to permit the boys to remove her blouse. And bra. I marveled at the lavish display of titties. Supple, white, deliciously round, the heavy globes were capped by jutting spunky nipples.
"One for you, and one for you," mother awarded them fairly. But first you must make yourselves as nude as you've made me."
The floor was soon littered with discarded chinos, shirts, and jockey shorts. The boys had their tongues out for the promised goodies. Mother stood between to present them each a tittie while she gently frigged their dicks.
They sucked till their saliva dribbled down her boobs like gism. Then Marshall decided he'd like to run his prick between the beauties. Mother lay flat on her back on the mattress. Marshall straddled her, his heavy thighs tickling her love mound while he inched up slowly. When his stiff pecker found the valley, he started pumping as if he were fucking the rounded breasts. Hymie hunched over them, tongue on mother's nipples. His darting tongue kept hitting Marshall's racing peter, and Marshall wasn't heard to complain. One time Hymie's pulsing equipment waved in mother's face, just below her mouth. Automatically, she grabbed the bit between the teeth.
Very observant for a callow tit-fucker, Marshall saw this and exclaimed, "You suck?" He pressed forward so quickly that Hymie was thrown on his ass. Then the blond boy shoved his dick into mother's hungry mouth. She sucked voraciously, then let it slide out. Grasping it tightly at the base, she admired the long cock's wet stiffness.
"Put it in my cunt to absorb the flavor," she suggested.
Lucky Marshall shifted position so that he could ram-it into mother's gash. Reluctantly he pulled it out, brimming with fragrant love juice. Mother devoured the gourmet tidbit.
Hymie became more venturesome. While Verna gladly blew his buddy, he knelt to try the taste of muff. Almost as soon as his tongue-and mouth and half his nose-went in, he was rewarded with a spray of priceless honey. Mother's orgasm came as Marshall rewarded her with a mouthful of nourishing hot cream. She swallowed daintily, every jet, every drop, and kept sucking until the .boy's limp and happy whang slid out.
Ashamed of having deprived mother of his sperm, Hymie was now ready to atone. Mother made him wait till Marsh was quite restored. Then she shocked and thrilled the unsophisticated lads by showing them her asshole. They had, of course, before admired her plump and dainty bottom. Now the pink porcelain cheeks were pulled open to reveal the delicate rosebud entry. The boys expressed their admiration by attempting to storm the unguarded bastion with their upright henchmen. Their two hard pricks slapped together, and I thought the buddies would come to blows.
Mother shook her head and clucked. Her compromise was just and fitting. "You've never had a cunny, darling, have you?" Shyly, Hymie shook his head. "Then you shall have my cunt. And you-"
She turned to Marshall, but he was already forcing the head of his shaft into mother's back entrance.
She frowned and groaned and twitched as the stud made slow headway up the narrow track. Hymie opened the lips of her cunt, preparing to charge.
Mother did all to relax her tight rear muscles, already enjoying the brutal friction caused by Marshall's relentless rod. By then Hymie was deep in her well-oiled crack, fucking away without restraint or let-up.
Hungrily, Verna sucked both cocks into her body. She moved in a frenzy that made me dizzy at my post. Two heavy clubs working in her at once were like heaven. All she needed was a third-a stiff pole injected into her mouth. I would have been glad to contribute my pud. Before I could make my offer, the boys' banging rods, separated only by a slender membrane, had already sprayed their gism. Fore and aft.
Marcy sighed. "Quite a pair, your mother and dad!"
"Quite a pair," I agreed. "And more active now than ever."
"Promise me you'll get a guy to give it to me up the ass while you screw me."
"Darling, do you really want that! I promise." Mentally I went through my list of available ass-fuckers, until Marcy spoke.
"What did you mean when you said you wouldn't have understood something that happened in the room upstairs unless you had read Verna's diary?"
"Oh, that? That involved poor Oscar. I'll tell you-"
CHAPTER FIVE
Now that mother had discovered the room upstairs, there was constant traffic to and fro. Marshall and Hymie, the autograph hounds, made frequent visits. Then they took offense one day when mother tried to jam 16-inch dildoes up their boyish asses. They never returned after that.
I'm sure mother didn't miss them; there were so many others. Actors, actresses, ushers, usherettes, the doorman of the apartment house down the block, his wife, their children. The cop on the beat. All dragged up to cavort in the room upstairs, under my watchful eye.
Dad also got good use out of that mattress. By luck or by pre-arrangement, he never used the room at the same time mother did. His assortment of partners was varied. Olga, Vinnie, dad's luscious secretary, her boy friend, models whose faces I recognized from magazine ads. And the cop on the beat. I often thought that Pat, the cop, could have been spared those stairs if mother and dad would only use him at the same time. But they never did.
At Christmastime, our cook, Olga, asked permission to have her niece visit for about a week. My parents raised no objections, and two days later Olga bustled off to meet little Susie's train.
Susie was a dewy-eyed girl fresh from the corn fields. After her long train ride she was wan and exhausted, and looked wistful when Olga made her greet us upon their arrival. Her shabby farm clothes were ill-fitting and looked out of place up in Westchester. I was nonplussed because, at 13, she was slightly taller than I. So, I shook hands, and promptly forgot that she was in the house.
On Christmas Day, mother and dad were too drunk to climb up to the room I loved to watch. On the next day, they were too hung over, that night I had to send Oscar out for visual aids, adult magazines paid for out of my childish allowance. I got my money s worth, tossed a wad of scum-cloths into the umbrella stand, and went to bed. Little dreaming that before I went to bed again I'd see a show worthy of Farouk-or whoever that prick was who got his rocks off watching fuck exhibitions.
It started as usual by the sound of muffled footsteps, followed by voices. This time, mother's.
"Here we are, precious. Isn't this lovely?"
I couldn't distinguish the voice that answered with a soft murmur. But a quick dash to the closet told me that mother's companion this time was Susie.
A transformed Susie. Cone was the wistful look, replaced by an air of shining expectancy. Gone were the awful clothes. Replaced by nothing. On the way to the room, Susie had worn one off mother's old wrappers. But when I saw her, she was bone naked. Such an improvement!
Susie's tits were hardly rounded yet, just dainty decorations on her young girl chest. The little nipples were pale pink and seemed fragile, as if air-brushed on. I wanted to caress her mound with its thin line of curling hair. Susie's legs were sturdy with plumply round thighs and hips that promised wonders of delight some day. Soon.
In other words, a very fuckable young gash.
Since she betrayed no hint of modesty, naked in mother's rather imposing presence, I guessed that those two had been alone before.
Mother wore a housecoat, Verna Vail style. A hostess garment for intimate soirees. It was in a shade of green especially suitable for her flaming hair. Long-sleeved and transparent down to the knee where the filmy material was doubled, trailing off to a long imperial train. It was a glorious shmatta for cock-teasing.
When Susie admired it, mother smiled and took it off. All she wore underneath was a garter belt, and that apparently just for the hell of it. For she wore no stockings, and the straps dangling unanchored from the belt looked like so many long hanging black pricks.
Mother directed the girl to lie on the mattress. This gave me the opportunity to spy her hidden slit. I had to peer with all my might. Susie had an adorable pussy, the crack a faint line among the down. Mother examined the innocent muff with a knowing smile.
Then Verna's hair tumbled over her lush breasts as she undid her garter belt and slid to the mattress almost on top of the naked girl. Obeying Verna's orders, Susie played with the older woman's boobs, squeezing them in her little fingers, kneading the unprotected nipples.
"Sit on them!"
The innocent girl squatted till her pliant pussy was directly over mother's erect nipples. Rocking up and down, Verna gave me an outstanding show of nipple-fucking. Penetration was impossible. But the effect on Susie was astounding. She was breathing heavily, twisting with the thrill of soft tits against her snatch. Emitting grown-up woman sounds.
"Like that?" Mother's voice was husky.
"Oh, ma'am, it felt so good. Your titties are so lovely. I get such a warm feeling in my little cunt." The darling child stumbled over the word.
"Your gorgeous cunt!" I wanted to shout. "You get a feeling in that sweet little snatch. Like the feeling in my pud that's making the gism jump."
Not aware that she had made my gun go off, Susie went on. "I get such a good feeling in my little cunny." Mother held her close. Then like a mother, she slipped her finger gently in the dear girl's gash.
Susie soon grimaced with pain.
"Darling, haven't you been trying as I told you? A little deeper every day. You must practice with your finger."
Mother kissed the girl's index finger, then guided it into her cunt. Very slowly, she insinuated the inner lips apart.
Again mother kissed the girl's wet finger.
"Now you must do the same for me-that is, if you want."
"Oh, yes. Please." With gusto she threw herself on mother, jabbing her cunt-wet' finger into mother's hairy crease. Mother beamed when she noticed that Susie had jammed a finger into her own sweet cunny at the same time.
Before they'd been properly plugged, there was a discreet knock at the door. Actually I had heard nothing, but surmised that there'd been an interruption by the sudden de-cunting of Susie's busy fingers. Mother seemed more pleased than annoyed. She threw her discarded hostess gown over the girl, and padded naked to the door.
It was Oscar, our hulking number two houseboy.
He was dressed in his usual work clothes. After a disinterested glance at Susie, he turned to mother so that he could read her lips. Mother in all her naked beauty didn't seem to excite him. I guessed that he had seen-and had-her many times. Apparently this visit had been planned. Mother chided him for being late. He ignored her remarks if indeed he understood them. I had the impression that he was anxious to be dismissed so that he could get back to the cellar. He'd been installing shelves there since lunchtime, and standing reading mother's lips, he swung a claw hammer in his hand as if he wished he had a nail under it.
Mother had another occupation in mind for Oscar that afternoon.
"Your costume is in that package. Don't waste any time." Mother's tone was crisp. She had pointed away out of my line of vision. Oscar moved in that direction until he was lost to view. My attention swivelled back to Susie. But the draped hostess gown covered all her budding treasures.
From the way her eyes began to bulge, I knew that she was seeing something interesting. I waited breathlessly. Then Oscar stepped into view.
Oscar as a bashful pirate.
Funny. And not so funny. At first he wore that sheepish look that all men have when forced to don a costume. Almost any costume. Very quickly, the sheepish look faded because it wasn't that kind of costume at all. He looked menacing. Frighteningly authentic.
For mother's puzzling charade, Oscar paraded as a Barbary pirate. Amazing how effective those few bits and pieces were. Just bits and pieces. A bright bandanna clumsily tied around his head. Thick pirate boots. A wide, brass-studded belt. And a huge scimitar hanging between his legs.
Oscar was as hairy as a chimp. His great swinging rod and loose-hanging balls were like red interruptions in that six-foot mass of hair. He awaited mother's orders. Not ashamed to stand naked where it mattered in front of the young girl, hardly aware of her.
I thought-here's where mom goes into action. Just the cock she's living for.
But mother demurely led the docile pirate to the mattress. She shucked the covering off poor Susie, and cooed, "See what I have for you." I didn't know who the fuck she was talking to, but she ended, "-if you're a good little girl."
Shy again, Susie huddled on the mattress.
Oscar looked more menacing than before. A predictable change came over him as he towered above the virgin's naked splendor. He was making hideous grunting noises which meant that he was excited. His powerful whang had lengthened and stood straight up by now.
Mother handled it freely, generously offering the noble wand to Susie. Reluctant, terrified Susie.
"Silly child!" Mother was impatient. "You'll have to hustle plenty to get a putz like this." She turned appreciatively to the pirate. "It is big, you crazy bastard!"
Now I realized that mother was making a gift of Oscar, giving him to the girl on the mattress. There wasn't an altruistic bone in Verna Vail's body. Why should she deny herself the pleasure of a good fuck? Pass it along to an inexperienced cunt.
The diary. I remembered the entry in mother's diary. The very first. Entry in the diary and in mother.
"Twelve years old last month, I feel like a woman today, dear Diary. Bob Jennings caught me in the dressing room when I went to meet mother after the show. He plays the Arab pirate. He locked the door, lifted my dress, opened his pirate pants, and-oh, dear Diary, I'm ashamed to say he took my cherry. Fucked me blind in fact. That big rod working in my little cunny. Sheer murder! Brutal rape that's what it was, brutal violation of an innocent child by a sex-crazed beast! We have a date tomorrow morning."
So mother was recreating her early happy days by a phantasy fuck. Offering another girl to another pirate. Young as I was, I understood perfectly, and wished that brass-studded pirate belt would fit me.
Mother slapped the frightened virgin twice. "Ungrateful little cunt!" Abruptly she changed tactics, gently caressing the whimpering girl, while the pirate hulked nearby, docile, waiting, his prick firm enough to use as a hat stand.
Susie stopped whimpering. Mother sprawled over her, giving her a taste of the tongue in the box. Then mother stood up.
Susie's eyes were shut. "Please, ma'am. That was so wonderful. Please, ma'am."
"You silly girl! I am weak and feminine," mother lied. "Here is a man whose tongue is magic. Won't you let him-"
"Please."
She didn't give a damn who worked on her. She wanted a good roving tongue in her awakening dark hole. Mother gave the nod to Oscar. He stood dumbly.
"Suck, you bastard!" He read her lips and turned from one to the other as if puzzled over which cavity required service. Mother pushed him down over Susie. Taking the fresh cunt-lips in his hand, he opened her wide, gazing with delight at her virginal beauty.
He began to suck.
The loosely-tied bandanna fell off the pirate's head as his tongue penetrated Susie's tender cunt. Her thighs began to thresh and her innocent childish features tightened with lines of lust.
Abruptly the giant lumbered to his feet. Mother, who knew the signs, determined after a glance at his quivering prick that he was at the stage when he must fuck. Or shoot in the air.
With tender care, Mother wrapped her white fingers around the throbbing rod. Stooping, she bathed the tomato head with her tongue. "So delicious! Wouldn't you like to try it, dear?"
Susie had loved getting her slit eaten. But at the sight of Oscar's bulging tool, she shied away like a frightened colt. Nothing could force her to open her lips. Oscar would have thrilled at the thought of his stiff cock tasted intimately by such a darling girl. And would have smashed her teeth if necessary to let her have that taste. But now he wanted more-a more secret hole.
By mother's reaction to the child's refusal, I gathered that unknowingly Susie was altering the scenario, ruining the recreation of the scene de scribed in the diary. Verna Vail had sucked the actor-pirate's cock in that dressing room years before. She wanted Susie to nibble on the present pirate now. Thwarted, mother turned to Oscar, beat her fists on his matted chest, shouting, "Fuck her. Don't wait. Fuck her now!"
I couldn't really tell which came first, mother's command or Oscar's downward thrust on the body of the helpless girl. He was a man ready to fuck and nothing could have held him back. No orders were necessary to spur him on. The docility of his nature was lost forever. He'd sniffed cunt, and that was enough. He poised to stick the tiny gash.
How could it be done? She had such a narrow hole. I'd marveled that even mother's slim finger went in. But even the head of the pirate's rapier was like a fist. He'd tear her open! Kill her!
I remembered watching dad fuck Vinnie's ass. Vinnie was thin, his ass was slender, his bunghole almost invisible. Yet dad had speared him without too much trouble. But Vinnie was a boy. And the head of Oscar's prick, slapping against the cunt-lips of the girl, was so wide. Thicker even than my father's massive joint.
The right way to open up the shivering cunt was to stick it first with a boy-sized rod. Like mine. I had the proper rod. I was about to volunteer my services by shouting through the peephole when "Use this!" mother called. Keeping a vise-tight grip on Susie, holding her down, mother tossed a tube of grease to the man. He smeared some on his throbbing poke, making it shine and seem an even more dangerous weapon.
He mounted the girl.
Half-fainting, Susie allowed him to force the swollen head into her cunt. She panted and moaned in agony. But already the fresh tight quim was working to accommodate the ruthless foe. Stretching. Swallowing. Part of the ravaging prick had already disappeared, painfully absorbed into the valley of love.
But soon the ravager was blocked. Halted by the stalwart 'guardian of the piece,' Susie's hymen.
Oscar looked up directly into mother's eye, as if to say, "Hold her tight now. This is gonna hurt."
Mother was crooning into the girl's ear, but her fingers were bands of steel compelling the innocent to submit to the will of the pirate.
With a fearful lunge the relentless prick broke through. Brutally, he tore the tender maidenhead. Susie's shrieks were pitiful and shrill. Blood dripped from the ravaged crack, staining the mattress, soaking into Oscar's heavy bush. Mother swooped down like a vulture for a hasty taste of the rare fluid.
Poor Susie's features were distorted by pain. Oscar held his position stolidly, cock all the way in, completely oblivious to her piteous, half-smothered cries. As if he were making a concession, the rapist leaned forward to bite one of the uncovered little titties. Helpful mother patted Susie's tangled hair and caressed whichever young tit wasn't then between Oscar's fangs.
Gradually, the pain subsided. The flow of blood had stopped. The sharp torn-apart feeling in the girl's pussy must have let up because she seemed suddenly more relaxed. At just that moment, Oscar resumed fucking. Almost pulling out, then jabbing the full length of his long dick into her burning gash. It disappeared this time, all of it. He was fucking her with the same free to-and-fro movements that Pat the cop used when he was screwing mom, or that dad used when he was pumping into Pat.
Susie was quiet now. Non-resistant. Then suddenly she moaned again. I could tell the difference. This was a moan of pleasure, encouragement. I knew her pussy must be wet now, lubricating the giant prick that was slamming into her.
Faster, faster he rammed her.
Her hips banked up. The pirate fell on her with thrusts that seemed to shake the room. This will surely kill her, I thought. Even if she's opened up, the force of this bastard's lunges will tear her insides out.
Susie opened her mouth. I thought she'd cry for pity. And this time, fuck it, I'd rescue the poor cunt. But only one word escaped her lips, repeated over and over, louder and more lewdly with every repetition. "More, more, MORE!"
The pirate cork-screwed into her with more and more and more until he gave her everything. His ass twitched so repeatedly that I knew he must be squirting torrents of hot gism into her opened cleft.
Well fucked, Susie hugged the hairy fucker.
Mother's appetite was whetted by the rich taste of cherry juice. She threw herself down to lick the dregs of spunk and cunt juice from Susie's contented snatch.
Susie lay back purring, dreaming probably of all the future fuck meetings that would be held in her juicy cunt.
Mother's altruistic moment had come and gone. She examined Oscar's thick limp Johnny, and now she wanted it for herself. Verna Vail knew the way to restore a man's powers. Susie watched while mother sucked him. As soon as Oscar's whang was at the ready, Susie shyly opened her legs, pulling at the lips of her twat. Mother jabbed an elbow into the greedy girl's stomach, and settled back to get fucked.
Oscar mounted her, shoved the head in, and started a rhythmic stropping.
Ex-wistful, ex-shy, ex-frightened Susie was jealous. She stared at the comforting prick she would like to have working in her own box. Her curly hair tumbled in her eyes. She pushed it back and watched. As I watched. Licking her lips. Green-eyed with lust.
When Oscar shot sperm into her hot pussy, mother generously offered Susie a taste. The girl spurned the invitation. Instead, she imitated Verna, bending to suck at Oscar's drooping shaft.
He was slow now. She had to nibble, taste, peck, nibble, suck. He pulled out and suddenly let fly a stream of piss drenching both lovely ladies and everything else' in his path. Susie hardly noticed. As soon as the piss subsided-even while a few yellow drops still ran-she had the head of his dick between her lips again. Relieved by the piss, Oscar was soon able to achieve a bursting erection. He slammed it into Susie, banging his cock through to the hair. Fucking without let-up until his hairy ass jerked, and Susie had another soothing infusion of wonderful thick cream.
Counting on her fingers, mother insisted that the fucks be evenly distributed. "Two for you, two for me."
But Oscar's docility was past. His prick hung, very limp, terribly fuck-reddened. He was finished for the afternoon and anxious to get back to his shelves in the cellar. Mother's nostrils flared, hot on the scent of spunk. Oscar pulled away from her grasp. Blindly he picked up the first thing handy-the claw hammer-and shoved the handle deep into her cunt.
That's when dad walked in.
His eyes roved around the room. The pirate naked except for boots and a two-inch belt. The cook's niece sprawled, legs opened wide, on the mattress. Mother on the floor, the hammer protruding from her snatch.
I never saw such fury in dad's expression. He muttered curses then plucked the hammer from mother's unwilling pussy.
"No wonder I can never find a fuckin' hammer in this fuckin' house!"
CHAPTER SIX
Marcy jumped up, tits bouncing.
"Can we go there now?"
"Go where, honey?"
She looked at me as if I were very dense.
"To Westchester. Susie. The pir-Oscar-"
"That was a long time ago, dear. Susie's grown up now. Anyway, there was a real tumult in Westchester that New Year's."
"What happened? Did your father join the party?"
"Worse. Oscar and the girl eloped. Olga couldn't face Susie's parents back in Iowa. So she took the easy way out. Ran away with Vinnie. Mother and dad stalked around like ghosts. But then there was a new Hollywood deal on for Verna Vail and a new Joshua Barnes production trying out in Philly. So that closet of mine didn't do me much good."
"Poor Monte." My wife was sympathetic and seductive. More seductive when she pouted, "Darling, promise me you'll find me a pirate with a 10-inch scimitar. A lovely young virgin...."
Such simple requests. I promised to fill those orders. Then I did a little on-the-spot filling.
Once tempted, Marcy was a nagging cunt, constantly after me to provide those promising diversions. Since I had talked my ass off getting her interested, I couldn't complain.
But it's damned complicated trying to produce another Oscar, a wide-eyed Susie, another Verna Vail, or even a versatile stud like dad.
Two hot possibilities let me down.
Those look-a-likes, Gloria and Hank, were both in the hospital with similar complaints. Gloria had one tit practically severed by a sharp-fanged bull dyke. Hank was almost ball-less, the lower one lacerated by a far-out queen.
Marcy stopped cooking altogether, and neglected to wear even her cocktail apron. She'd meet me in the hall, nude and more gorgeous than ever, hoping I'd brought home a carload of strays. And all I could produce was the same eight inches, no less, that she'd seen since our first date.
We were saved by the bell-the doorbell.
The bell ringer was the little wizened guy from the delivery service toting a packing case four inches shorter than he was.
"I've got this package for the folks next door. Crane."
"The house next door is empty."
"No more t'ain't" the toothless old geezer insisted. "See?"
The long box was marked, "Hold for Arrival." I signed for the package and went in to tell Marcy the good news. We had neighbors. Marcy was radiant with excitement. Before she could catch fire, I damped her down.
"Look, honey, they're just a name on a packing case. He may be a tobacco-chewing old fart with halitosis. And I can just picture Mrs. Crane. Garden club type with lotsa chins and a glass eye."
Only slightly dampened Marcy mused, "Halitosis isn't all that terrible. Then again, they might be swingers. I see Mr. Crane as a strictly executive type guy. With one of those gorgeous cocks that just shoot and shoot. And Mrs. C. is going to turn out to be so attractive. Do you think they'll like us?"
Marcy was already busy at her dressing table, making herself more attractive than the imagined Mrs. C.
We were mate-swapping with a packing case.
But Marcy was so right.
The Cranes moved in four days after the arrival of the package. As I was leaving the house, I caught a glimpse of silver-blonde hair shining in the morning sun. Mrs. C. She was bustling about giving crisp orders to the moving men. One disappeared into the new house. The other moving man was standing in the driveway, scratching his stubble. Mean-looking ox. The blonde pointed to an immense crate. Ox-face heaved it up, balancing it on his shoulder and supporting it with one beefy paw. His other hand--amazing how tricky the early morning light can be-I could have sworn his right hand was under her dress.
I went to work.
And came home. Marcy wasn't in the hall to greet me. Or in the kitchen. I raced upstairs.
The bedroom was dark but the door was open. I put on the light. There was a flurry on the bed, like a carload of mice scurrying away from the light. Half with raven black hair. Half with silver blonde.
For the past few days, Marcy had been wearing her cocktail apron for me at coming-home time. The apron was on the floor. Marcy was mother naked. Our new neighbor was fully dressed, but her blouse was up around her neck. And there was no sign of a bra. I got a brief flash of lush tit, like in an old French movie. A flash that sticks in your gut, but nothing you could reach out for. I was reaching out anyway, for a handshake or a tit nip or something. But before I could take three steps into the room, the tall blonde was on her feet. Disheveled but covered. She patted her blouse, patted her hair, and looked as if she just might pat Marcy's wriggling rump.
"How do you do?" she asked in tea-party tones.
"Aah' dja' dew?" is what her question sounded like.
An English cunt! I dug that Mayfair accent. I grinned and felt good all over. Because I really like the English. They're so different from the way we used to picture them: frigid, aloof, keep-a-stiff-upper-lip-and-no-sucking. Actually, they're the easiest cunts to make. They have the cuddliest pussies. And what we call "perversion" they call "such mahvelous fun, dahling!"
Mrs. C. and I shook hands gravely while Marcy slipped into a robe. My blushing bride was flustered and considerably relieved when Marge Crane murmured that she must fly-and flew.
"Not one question. Please, not one!" Marcy looked at me accusingly, as if I were the one caught with a bad case of lesbianus interruptus.
"Honey, I haven't opened my mouth," I protested. "And talking about open mouths, wasn't that yours I saw working on the limey's tits?"
Marcy was on the verge of tears. I took her in my arms.
"Nothing to be ashamed of sweetheart. Honest! I was glad to find you girls together. It's a great beginning if we're going to be friends next door. You do want to widen your outlook, don't you, honey?" Marcy nodded. "It was getting so nice and wide," she wailed. "Oh why couldn't you come home late for a change, damn it!"
I promised that I would be home late every night that week. Slightly cheered, Marcy resumed preparations for dinner while I kibitzed.
I speared a cocktail shrimp, dipped it in the seafood sauce, and nibbled. "What'd she come here for? Borrow a cup of sugar?"
"Just to be neighborly, smarty. I was about to light the oven. I was wearing the apron-just the apron-like I used to. Remember?"
I remembered. The memory brought on a 15 minute orgy of boob-bitting, pussy probing, and prick pinching that ruined two saucepans and made me forget about Marge Crane. Till later.
"So you were wearing the apron when Miss England popped in."
"Mrs. England," Marcy corrected. "Well, we talked. You know what girls talk about. Cooking, girdles, husbands."
"All the minor inconveniences. Did the subject of fucking come up?"
"Not right away, silly. Well, we exchanged recipes. Then the conversation got around to bras. Poor Margo has a simply awful bra bill."
"But a simply lovely bra fill."
"Very funny. She says she spends a lot of money on bras. Well, then uh-she admired my breasts, and we uh-compared. Like you told me boys do."
I'd never compared my breast with another boy's. Ever. But I got the point.
"Naturally, we went upstairs," Marcy continued. "I couldn't just keep her sitting in the kitchen."
"Not when the bed is in the bedroom. And upstairs she gave you her recipe for stuffed pussy?" Marcy grinned. "No, darling. She gave me a mouthful of ripe tittie. Aren't you jealous?"
"Not when I have these to bite."
I bit Marcy's hard nipples the way she likes them bitten.
But I was jealous. What's a pair of juicy tits in your mouth when another pair has just walked out the door. Elusive. Cold as silver, hot as metal. Beautiful, flashing hastily covered. Heavy. Heavy ripe bobbies. Too heavy for Marcy. They needed a man's mouth, those heavy English tits. My mouth.
Next afternoon there was no answer when I phoned Marcy. Maybe they were rubbing twats in the bedroom. Squeezing each other's naked tits. Sucking. I tried again. No answer. Then I was sure the two cunts were locked together. Cursing, I sweated.
That sweat was expendable; my wife and our new neighbor were sixty-odd miles apart.
I pushed the telephone to the edge of my desk and fanned out papers. In a few minutes I was putting the finishing touches to the new Gem Soap ad. The one that showed the smooth-skinned redhead, radiant after her first honeymoon screw, telling the world she owed it all to Gem Soap. Bill Porter in Lay-outs had slipped a paste-up into the Gem file. It showed the same redhead with her legs up, some guy's cream deposit oozing from her snatch down her ass. Bill had penciled in a caption. "I just adore that precious lather!"
I was on my way to return the paste-up to Bill when the buzzer sounded. I had a visitor. A Mrs. Crane.
Marge sailed in, serene in bulky tweeds and superbly coiffed silver hair. She refused a drink, accepted a cigarette and sat back crossing her legs. Heavy tweeds kill figure-watching. But those acres of silver stockings were great for a leg man. They were dyed to match her hair, and they made a dazzling presentation case for long, long lovely legs.
She smoked for a minute then said "It's so veddy pleasant to find we have neighbors like you and your charming wife."
"Why, thank you. Same here. Marcy and I are looking forward to meeting Mr. Crane."
"That will be soon." She smiled, showing sharp gleaming teeth. "Only this morning Chum said-"
"Chum?"
"Chumley. My husband. Chum said, 'Marge, dears, we must-' "
Before she could tell me what the old boy said, the phone rang. Marcy. Breathless. "Honey, she's coming to your office. Margo. Be nice to her, darling. It's important." In my best professional tone, I assured her, "Your order has been received, sir. We'll give it most special attention."
Turning to the blonde I blurted out, "How come your husband calls you Marge, and to my wife you're Margo?"
Her lips raised in a frosty smile, my visitor purred, "Marge for the boys. Margo for the girls. Saves complications."
I nodded knowingly, but my mind wasn't on it. Marge-Margo had sounded just like Verna Vail then. Verna in her AC-DC mood. Very encouraging.
"You were just telling me about Chum...."
"Oh yes. Dear Chum. Chum suggested that we must have you and your charming little wife over soon. We do so want to be friends. Chum and I are very active members in a most delightful international club. But we don't have any er-affiliates here in the States. Yet."
"What kind of a club is that?" I asked.
Marge batted her eyelashes, a minimum batting, but enough.
"Just an intimate social group. People one wants to know socially, informally. We have had some lovely meetings. Intimate groups, y'know."
All I heard was that "intimate," and I hung on to it like a buoy. I told the stunning blonde that my wife and I hadn't joined any clubs. We'd been so busy since our honeymoon. I even managed to summon up a boyish blush when I said "busy."
"But we certainly would be interested in joining. Marcy and I are anxious to meet people, broaden our horizons, so to speak."
"How chamingly you put it." Marge suddenly whipped out a leather notebook, a gold pencil, and a pair of glasses. She was now the prim, efficient professional. "Just some information, if you please. Name and address I have. Occupation?"
"Well, you may have noticed the name downstairs. Stauffer and Smith, Advertising. I'm a J. E. here. That's junior exec. What does Chum do?"
She wasn't pleased by the counter-questioning. "My husband is in night clubs." That sounded cushy. Marge went on, "I was in the theater. Gave up my career when I married."
"Really? I played stage bits before I went to college. My father's a producer. Joshua Barnes. Perhaps you've heard of him."
"How utterly!" She did everything but clap her hands. "Of course I'm familiar with his work."
I was positive that she didn't have the least fucking idea who old J. B. was. But the name was filed away for future reference. Her enthusiasm when I mentioned that Verna Vail was my mother was unfeigned.
Enough of name-dropping. She wanted to know how tall I was, my age, weight, and distinguishing marks. All I wanted was a cozy three-some or foursome. A chance to watch someone screw my wife. Or a chance to screw this English muff. But she made it sound like an application for Who's Who.
We got down to brass tacks. At least, the questions got tackier.
"I'm sure you'll excuse a rather personal question, Mr. Barnes. What do you want most out of life?"
"Plenty of cun ... ah ... plenty of contentment."
"I see. And what represents contentment for you?"
"Screwing cu-I mean, success in uh-business."
"Very good. Would you say, Mr. Barnes, that you have a satisfactory sex life?"
"Yes, satisfactory. Of course nothing's so great that it can't be improved."
"How true. How often do you-?"
"Fuck? Oh, I beg your pardon."
"I've heard the word before, Mr. Barnes."
The cunt sounded like a census-taker. I was beginning to get riled.
Just to see her reaction-and keeping it as accurate as possible-I told her calmly, "I fuck my wife once a day. She gives me five blow jobs a week, sometimes six. I can't estimate how many times I eat her box. Put it down as once a day. Outside, I get laid, oh maybe once a month more often in summer." The blonde was unruffled.
"Do you enjoy relations with your own sex?"
That notebook fazed me. I threw out a flip, "Why not?"
"Why not indeed!"
That's when I realized how much Marge was enjoying this inquisition. She was sedately rubbing her thighs together. I would bet her cunt was wet by now. I longed to see. Her thighs were hot, but her set smile was still frosty. And it was very late.
"Many more questions?"
"About 50, I should say."
"That all?" At least she wouldn't be asking me to describe every fuck I'd ever engineered. Or maybe that would be one big question-Please describe your feelings every time you've fucked. Tactfully, I suggested that Acton Heights was ninety minutes away. She stood up abruptly. And accepted my invitation to drive her home.
Through the Lincoln Tunnel and well into Jersey, we talked about traffic, the London theater and the price of eggs. Then the questioning resumed, and with it the discreet thigh-rubbing that told me Marge loved her work. I was going to end up as a long case history in the club annual if there was a club annual.
We were approaching the outskirts of Acton Heights when I told her about my breast fetish (I liked to bite them) and my morning problem (I woke up with a hard-on). Plum Tree Park was deserted at this late dinner hour. I drove to the empty parking place near the observatory.
I kissed her. Her tongue was hot and eager. I pressed my hand over her tits.
"No. Please!"
Apparently the cunt hadn't listened when I de scribed my fetish. Politely, I moved from the forbidden boobies downward. The silver nylons felt cool. I hit the thighs. Soft, yielding, juicy.
"This is an automobile Mr. B-Monte."
What did they use cars for in England? Driving? Where did they fuck?"
I found the crotch band of her panties. The hair around her slit. This icy blonde really gave me a reaction. I was about ready to go. She was impassive, not stopping me, not really cooperating. At least she could have worked my zipper. With one hand I pulled down and showed my hard-on.
"You asked me to describe myself, sweetheart. Isn't this worth a thousand pictures? Kiss it."
She didn't kiss it, but I pushed it in her hand. She held my meat, stroking it gently. Her fingers were thin and very strong. My lingers were stronger. I tickled the soft hair surrounding her twat. Wet as I knew she'd be wet. I entered her cunt. Wet, tight, delicious. I scraped my fingernails against the walls of her cunt. Throbbing. I felt it suck my finger in. Demanding. While she jerked my rod faster now, as if she meant it, I pushed my fingers deep in her slot. Listening to the music of her panting I found her hard little clit. I tweaked it till she moaned.
She was giving me the fastest hand job since that summer camp counselor. But he was used to jacking off two at a time, and claimed a world record. The English twat was better, faster better. It felt so good-I wouldn't have time to fuck her. Maybe-she was bending down her head-maybe she would suck. Suck or fuck or jack it, I was coming. Take it, you cunt, take it. Suck it. Jerk it. I felt the gism leave my balls, make the eight inch journey "Take it. I'm coming! I'm-"
Pow! My first jet hit her tweed skirt. Eyes glazed, she kept on jerking, gathering a steaming load of gism in her hand. My finger was still in her cunt. I rammed her with it as another stream landed on her hand and skirt. She twitched frantically and I knew she was coming.
One thing about tweed the come stains didn't show at all.
I drove her home in silence. Depressed as I always am when my talents are wasted. I leaned over to open the door for her, and asked sadly, "Any more questions?"
Again the census-taker she said, "I don't believe there are any more questions, thank you." She left the car scum-stained skirt billowed out.
Still depressed I parked, found my keys, went home.
Marcy was in the hall bubbling impatient. "Slowpoke hurry. Margo just called. They want us over. Tonight."
Marcy dressed as if we were going to a party, instead of just going out to have one.
I was proud of her, though. Her make-up was subdued; she looked soft and very feminine. The , dress she wore removed any latent doubts. Clinging material that emphasized every girlish curves and slipped off like a dream. The skirt was short enough to show four inches of velvety thigh. If that wasn't enough for Lord Chumley, fuck him.
I wore dress-up chinos. They didn't show a frigging inch of my thigh, but they slipped off easy too.
On the way over, between houses I began to have my doubts. What was I letting my wife in for? Chum might turn out to be a first-class son of a bitch, a mean fucker, or worse, a two-inch hard-on. And poor Marcy was clutching my arm in anticipation.
Frosty hot-cunt Mrs. C. opened the door. My heart sank another notch. She looked lovely but she was decked out in elaborate lounging pajamas. I know all about lounging pajamas. Sexy, but bastards to creep into. Try from the waistband, the cloth tears. To work your way up from the bottom you need arms like a gibbon.
-The house was freshly painted, decorated with cool English restraint. Marge led us directly, to the living room where a man was hunched in an armchair, downing a drink.
I liked Chum Crane immediately. He was eight or nine years older than his wife, about 33. Nose partly hooked, partly squashed, a man's nose. Thick sensitive lips-which might mean that he lapped cunt or licked beer foam. His eyes were nice. Shrewd and friendly. When he stood up to greet us, I saw that he was shorter than I and much heavier. Slightly bulging waistline, fat rump. He came, or lurched, forward for a handshake, and I knew that besides being friendly, he was very, very drunk.
I couldn't register Marcy's reaction. After all, she was the one who was going to get fucked. Arm in arm with our pajamaed hostess, she seemed calm and vaguely aloof. This was very much unlike her; maybe she was absorbing it from the limey twat.
We had a quick drink. Then still arm-in-arm, the two girls went up to look at furniture and clothes and things. I wondered if this evening was going to be all girl-girl, boy-boy. There was some unfinished business I'd like to resolve with Marge, in her. Chum poured another hooker of scotch.
"You're cute." He reached up and kissed me on the lips.
You're cute too, but let's not rush it. I fished around for a delaying tactic. "Uh-you don't sound English...."
"English!" he snarled. "Don't give me that English shit. I was born forty miles from this fuckin' hellhole. Passaic, New Jersey. On Melrose Avenue. Such a nice neighborhood."
"I thought you were English. I-"
"Can that English crap. I spent six asshole weeks in London. And look what it got me!" His arm waved in the direction Marge had taken.
While he poured another drink, I started again. "Your wife tells me you're in the night club business."
This gambit worked. His expression softened. He handed me a tumblerful of scotch.
"Yeah. I'm in night clubs. Build 'em up. Sell 'em. Move on. Not a bad business," he admitted complacently. "Loot's O. K."
"And I believe your wife had quite a stage career."
"Career, my ass. She typed play scripts, shilling a page. And fucked for every agent on the row." He lurched a little closer. "You're cute."
"Thanks. She's quite attractive isn't she?"
Again his expression softened. "You shoulda seen her when I latched on to her. She was 17, 18. Built." His arms described lush, improbable curves in the air. He sighed. "That was seven fuckin' years ago."
"Well, she's still a very desirable woman."
"Yeah," he agreed without enthusiasm. "But gimme that cunt who was in here a minute ago." His arms described the same wide arcs.
"That cunt goes by the name Marcy Barnes."
"Nice name."
"I'm Monte Barnes."
"That's a nice name, too. You know, you're kinda cute."
He pecked at me again, casually, wetly. I wondered if he was going to be in any condition to screw. I also wondered what the fuck the girls were doing upstairs. Is a guest justified in going up uninvited to see if his wife is sucking the hostess? These little problems in etiquette bugged me.
I decided to give them one more minute. In the interim I asked my host a question. "Please don't think I'm rude, but how come a boy from a nice neighborhood in Passaic gets tagged with a deal like Chumley?"
"Chumley!" he spat it out as if it were an obscenity. "Just call me Charley. That's what I answered to back on Melrose Avenue. Charley Cranowitz." He stared up pugnaciously.
"Nice name," I offered soothingly.
Chum smiled, all anger melted. "We're gonna be buddies," he murmured "real buddies."
"One last question Charley. Y' see, I had a little talk with Marge. She was telling me about that international club...."
"Club-schmub. If you can call it a club my pussy-rubbing wife is president, treasurer, and fuckin' membership committee. In my work I travel. Right? So every place we move Marge is on the look-out for new cocks an' stuff. Gang games. That girl likes variety."
"And you?"
Chum grinned less drunkenly than before. The added liquor seemed to be sobering him up. "I like variety too. Who doesn't? Take you, you look like a good all-around guy."
I started to assure my new buddy that I was very good, very all-around. We got the same idea simultaneously. The zippers were noiseless. Our words jangled together in the quiet room.
"Kiss it," Chum ordered.
"Suck it," was my polite request.
Two fat circumcised pricks were out to take the air. Hanging limp just waiting for the signal to stiffen up and do their duty.
The scion of Melrose Avenue had one of those roundish jobs that don't get too long when erect. A wide head almost white, and a thick shaft like satin. We compared. A draw. His was fatter, mine was longer. We handled each other's to make a proper comparison.
I thought-O. K. Marcy, honey. Here's the answer to your dyke tit-rubbing. Stay up there till both your cunts run over. We guys have our hands full right here.
Of course that's when the ladies made their appearance. Guys can cover up much faster. Pull the zipper up and everything's kosher. As long as you don't bend the bone when you're stowing it away.
Marge had cunningly slipped into something more grope-able. A dress like Marcy's. We stood around sipping another unwanted drink. Then our hostess must have noticed the bulge in my chinos and the corresponding stretch in Charley's pants. Marge took over like a master-sergeant, dousing most of the lights pushing my wife toward her husband, and stationing herself in position at my right.
Charley threw out the first curve. A fast paw aimed at Marcy's tits. I did some preliminary exploration around the blonde's plunging neckline. She helped by unzipping her dress which descended like a stripper's. In the half-light she stood statuesque in bra and panties. I zoomed in for a close-up of soft titties showing just above the bra. The bra itself was lacy and whorish and worth looking at. I was ready to unhook it, being a notably skillful unhooker.
"Rip it off!" she urged me.
No wonder she had a big bra bill! But since she asked for it Gladly, lady! With a tug and a pull, I ripped the straps and cups away from her body. First time I'd ever done the tearing-off bit by specific request. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was hoping Mr. C. wasn't accustomed to this caper-Marcy's bras cost money.
The great lady of the English theater was naked from the waist up. Her tits didn't have that upward curve that drew my saliva every time I undressed Marcy. The blonde's were perfectly round jutting out proud and haughty. If they could talk, they'd say, "Bite me." I hunched over them to give those proud tits the sucking they'd missed in the car. Classic stance: mouth on tit, left hand on back of her head, right hand on the long slim leg roving upward.
Her sweet titties weren't proud at all. They were cool and soft and yielding. Marge's half-naked body exuded its own perfume. Subtle, intoxicating. I sucked up a lather, worked on the nipples till they stiffened. My right hand found her pussy. Warm, wet, inviting. Like most English pussies cuddly.
Copy-cat Charley was performing as I did. He had Marcy stripped entirely naked. And I was sure that she loved it.
I pulled down Marge's panties.' Her fur-piece was unusually luxuriant. I said, "This I hafta see in the light." Groping I found the switch and turned it. Curious, my wife and buddy came over. It did my heart good to seem so friendly. Charley's fingers were stuck up her snatch; she held his stiff prick in a love grip. They took a look at the sight I was admiring. But being kinda used to it, they were less enthusiastic.
The silver hair had come down, flowing about her shoulders. The hair of her bush shone pure golden. She looked hard-soft, unreal, a goddess. Metallic. To me the effect was breathtaking. When I spoke it was in a raspy whisper.
"Let's get the fuck upstairs."
Marge led the way. I should have let my host proceed me. But he and my wife walked in tandem. He was just about in her by the time they approached the staircase. And walking in back of Marge was a pleasure. Her wide bottom glittered like silver.
The bedroom was masculine obviously Charley's. Virtually no decoration, but the bed was a decorator's item. A miniature club house for intimate group meetings. Gang games. Charley and I stripped down and climbed in with the ladies.
Before the springs stopped vibrating, Marcy was cozy between Charley's legs, blowing like crazy. His machine was as stiff as mine was and my darling wife ate it like she was used to it. That made me so damn proud. I encouraged her by announcing, "My wife is the best cocksucker in all North Jersey." That set the blonde off. You know how cunts are, can't stand rivalry.
Marge grabbed my long pole, giving it the old Hong Kong special. Jerking me daintily she licked my balls with real appreciation. One, then the other she took them-in her mouth whole-and my balls make a mouthful. From the loving attention she gave to the right one the low hanger, you'd think that ball was an orphan. When my balls were well bathed, she took my pud, every inch of it with the enthusiasm of a born prick eater as they say around Buckingham Palace.
Now Charley twisted over so that he could lap at Marcy's cunt. I could tell that she came right away. The Soho swinger wasn't shy about shoving her hairy muff in my mouth.
We shifted around. There was plenty of room on that bed. Charley was making a main course of Marcy's gash chewing deep in the walls of the lovely wide-open slit. I was giving our hostess a taste of hot American prick, managing at the same time to grab ahold of my wife's pointed boobies. With another push I was able to suck them. Marcy's tits tasted even better while she was being eaten by Charley. Maybe the way .the other cunt's tongue worked me over had something to do with it.
Marcy was coming like a bastard, eyes goggling with pure lust. She was about to come again when Charley mounted her and started slow pumping motions. It was the first time I had ever seen her getting fucked. She looked vulnerable and wanton at the same time. Helpless under Charley's heavy bulk. Defenseless, possessed by his strong-willed iron rod. Shameless as his stroking satisfied the dark cravings of her grinding, fire-hot womanness.
As I watched the blonde got on top of me. I shifted into position for a good long screw. Her pussy was well-oiled. The head of my cock was instantly sucked into the wonderful vortex. Like Charley, I started with slow pumping motions; then I sank it in to the womb and kept going.
Charley and I were working so close together that occasionally our thighs slapped together. Once he looked up, and we exchanged a friendly wink. Like real buddies.
After spraying gism right and left, we rested. Marcy kept frigging Charley's limp prick. Behaving like a pig. I felt like pulling my tongue out of Marge's lovely pink crack so that I could really tell her off. But I let the kid have her fun.
Sedately she sat on our kind host's upright joint, and got another fucking for her trouble. Instead of just letting me eat her box, the blonde had to offer unnecessary suggestions to her husband. Like "Let the darling rest a while," or "Faster. Can't you see she's about to go off?" I hate nags. Poor Charley, with a wife who wouldn't let him ball another twat in peace. No wonder he called her "back seat fucker."
We rested. I felt drowsy. We all felt drowsy. The bed was so comfortable....
I must have slept for half an hour. As I woke up in the semi-dark someone was gently hitting me with a truncheon. Around my mouth, my closed lips. A hard truncheon, springy at the tip. Rubber?
I opened my eyes. Charley was squatting over me, straddling me playing his thick stiff prick around my cheeks and mouth. My lips fell open. And I got the full length of his whang down my throat.
"Thought that would wake you. C'mon, you lazy son of a bitch. Don't you want to see the girls put on a show?"
His own hard-on bobbing up and down, he grabbed me by the balls, and with a firm hold on my putz he took me down the corridor to his wife's room.
That bedroom was more ornate, with colors chosen to make a silver-blonde look more silver-blonde. An attractive brunette wouldn't do too bad there either. The big central decoration was the same. Sprawled in the middle of the bed-arena, the girls were wrestling, not yet aware of our presence.
Marcy was squirming, writhing in total surrender and loving it. The blonde pulled Marcy's thighs apart, parting the twat hair. Gently with little rippling movements, she ran her fingers over the little open gash. But not into it. Then, eyes flashing, she started to pinch the naked bottom before her, jiggling the pink-white flesh to make it wobble. Pinching lightly, then roughly, till my wife winced and panted. The blonde bent to kiss the flesh she had tortured, planting wet kisses on Marcy's jutting ass-cheeks.
Then they moved till their lips met, tongues darting, voraciously tasting. Boobs jammed together, crushed and rubbed together; hairy mounds throbbing together. Their lips parted, descending to rubbed and bruised nipples.
Slowly, tantalizing the blonde slipped her fingers down Marcy's crotch to the cunt. Slowly working it open. Marcy reciprocated. Legs entwined, sprawled in lesbian rapture, they finger-fucked each other. Making wild fucking motions with their hips, forcing in their quick fingers like stroking cocks. Slapping each other's twats in abandon. Harder, faster. Till their cunts spurted love juices freely, and each had her dizzying climax.
After that all-woman fuck my wife emerged victorious. Now she gave commands, and how she loved it!
"Kiss my clit!" Marcy ordered, knowing that her silver haired slave would obey her.
Gratefully, the blonde put her mouth in my wife's snatch, seeking the sensitive little knob-like extension. Gently, very gently, she started to kiss it.
"Margo! Bite it!" Screams from the lovely commander.
The blonde's teeth hit the sensitive surface. Marcy's legs churned in a fit of sheer pleasure. Shrieking, "Hurt it, Margo! Crush it!" Marcy was rocking, hugging her own tits, squeezing the bruised nipples. Another scream. "Bite my clitty!" And her slave pressed down, viciously clamping sharp teeth on the clit, drawing cries of pain and release from Marcy. Coming, Marcy sprayed the blonde's face with sweet cunt juice. The girls sank back sweating and panting.
"A work-out like that heats up my asshole." Charley had slipped out of the room during the performance. Now he was back, bearing a long rubber dildo. He thrust the wicked instrument toward me.
"Be a god kid," Charley pleaded. "Shove it up my ass."
He climbed on the bed, while the girls sat up watching. On his hands and knees, fat ass arched out and upward, he said, "G' head, kid, I can take it."
"Take this instead."
I climbed on the bed, positioned to mount him. If he wanted his ass plugged, I had the right plugger. A dab of spit, and I pulled the heavy cheeks wider apart. I rammed the head of my prick in his tight crevice.
"Fuck me easy, kid!"
Fucking's not easy. You're wrong, Charley boy. Fucking's not easy! Fucking's jabbing your dick in a cunt, up an asshole. Fucking means shoving it in hard, then really working. Fucking means plugging and plunging and tearing and hurting.
His ass was tight as a twat and as clingy. I rutted him really in anger. Think of using a dildo when a man's rod is hard and ready! I thought-Here, take this for your fuckin' substitution! And I screwed his big ass without mercy.
"Try getting this from a dildo! Charley, I'm coming!" I gave him a stream of my gism, a gift to warm his cool belly.
"You sure can fuck," he said in sincere appreciation.
He turned around to show me a putz all set to conquer. "But can you take it?" my buddy asked, smiling.
Wife-like, Marcy resented this slur on my manhood.
"What do you mean can he take it? Of course, my darling can take it! Monte you show him."
So I had to prove my talents.
I lay flat on my stomach, Marcy stroking my shoulders. I felt the weight of his body descending, his thighs banging on mine as he mounted. I didn't ask for an easy fuck. He didn't give one. His wide flaring head tore my ass open. Then he rammed all his thick peter in me. My ass was burning and bursting, He started to pull in and out, screwing. Soon his cock expanding inside me felt warm, restful, soothing. Filling. Fulfilling. I wished he could go further, deeper. My ass heaved up to meet him, hitting his balls, hungry for action. Now he was fucking me faster, thrusting forward as I heaved up, begging. I felt the cream race through his moving poker. I tightened my muscles to prolong the performance. A tremor shook my ass, whole body.
"I'm coming, kid. I'm coming! Take it!"
He sent hot cooling juice deep inside me.
Charley and I fell asleep as the cunts resumed sucking.
Marcy woke us, suggesting a nightcap. We chose, odds and evens, for partners. I won the silver-haired hostess. Charley screwed Marcy, saying, "I'm a happy-go-lucky guy. Fuck the losses!"
"Like it, honey?" I asked my weary wife as we stumbled home in the morning.
Marcy answered primly, "Darling, my horizon is broadened."
CHAPTER SEVEN
The morning air was as crisp as peanut brittle. I was heading out of the driveway when I noticed Charley waving frantically.
"Do me a favor, kid. Marge has the car, and I have an audition set up this morning. Willya give me a lift to the club?"
He directed me to his business address, actually only a few minutes out of the way.
Charley's night club on the Shore Road looked deserted and rather pathetic. A sign painter stood outside, about to climb the ladder, while his assist ant hovered around him wielding paint cans. We went into the building, past an empty checkroom, down a flight of steps to the night club proper. An intimate cellar club. Not too many tables. A tiny bandstand. A middle-aged man lugged in a wooden crate. Other cases stacked along one wall contained glassware. Charley looked at them lovingly.
"Expensive stuff. By the time the invoices come due, I'll be on my way to Kansas City. Provided I can unload this shithouse."
Charley spoke to the guy who was now unpacking a crate. "Did that French cunt show up?" She hadn't. He explained that for the band he used local talent. "But my soloists gotta be the best. Big tits."
"And of course you audition each one personally."
"You bet your sweet cock I do. Where is that frog slob? Supposed to be here at 10."
At one minute to 11, we were still waiting. I was going to be real late that morning. But I had to stay. I'd never been present at an audition, even one of dad's sock-the-talent-to-me orgies.
At 11 sharp, Mademoiselle Arlette made a dramatic entrance, blowing a kiss to the sign painter outside. She was a compact doll, with a carefully careless hair-do that almost hid her piquant little doll face. Mademoiselle was wearing a dress that reminded me of my favorite undershirt. A comfortable loose-weave that reached down to my balls. Arlette's high fashion special hung just about to where her balls would be if she were a hermaphrodite. Which she wasn't.
She didn't speak a word of English; Charley didn't know French; I interpreted. Charley stared at her outflying tits.
"Tell her she's hired. And tell her I expect fringe benefits."
I told Arlette that the job was hers and that she was a very lucky girl, the boss liked her."
She interpreted that better than I told her. In a fit of artistic temperament, she stamped her pretty foot.
"Dites-lui que je suis la chanteuse la plus bien connue de Paris."
"Zat mean she fucks?" Charley asked.
"The lady says she's the best known singer in Paris," I told him.
"Shit on that! Tell her, her twat is part of the deal."
I translated, "He says-there'll be occasional overtime."
"Zut, alors! J' suis pas poule comme les autres!"
"Zat mean she fucks?" Charley asked impatiently.
"She says she's not like the others." But my buddy was dispensing with his interpreter. Elaborately, he scratched his nuts and rolled his eyes.
Mademoiselle Arlette flashed fire.
"Screw off, mister," she spouted non-Parisian phrases. "Fucking's extra."
The interview with the bi-lingual broad then went smoothly. Salary was discussed and it was agreed that for a flat rate her services would be available to all, including the sign painter.
Another crisis developed when we lined up for action in order of rank: Charley, me, sign painter, assistant, crate unpacker. The crate man claimed seniority, and there was some ugly talk of calling his union. Finally a compromise was reached. He was allowed fourth position, before the painter's assistant.
We fucked the lady in an orderly line-up. A lovely slit, although frankly I've had tighter. By the time the end man was ready to climb in the saddle, we had to squeeze to dry her. She dripped, squirted, and oozed out an enormous puddle-white stuff streaked with a puzzling cinnamon color. Who's the guy with the fancy gism? I wondered. Never did find out, but Charley claimed the sign man stuck a brush in when we weren't looking.
As the date set for the opening of the night club approached, we saw less of Charley. Marge came over often in her gold and silver splendor. We ran through all the girl-boy-girl gimmicks and invented two new ones. Occasionally, Charley would drop in, late, looking wan and haggard. He'd watch, then pick one of us for rather preoccupied screwing. Afterward, he'd apologize, "Wait till the fuckin' opening is over."
We expected to be on hand, cheering, at the opening. Charley pleaded with us to delay our first visit to the joint.
"Openings are kinda hectic. Things get screwed. Give it a week. I want everything at its best when you two come around."
So, we waited a week. On the following Saturday, we drove along Shore Road. The sign I had seen started was spanking fresh, with letters a foot high: THE BOTTOMLESS PIT.
Marcy turned to me. "Strange name for a night club, isn't it?"
Strange night club.
The checkroom chick was not a chick, but a competent gentleman in a snazzy tux. "Chum dahling loves to make innovations," Marge had said. Innovation number one.
We went down the flight of stairs to the night club floor.
"So that's why he calls it "Pit," Marcy commented. "But it really is a short flight."
At the foot of the stairs, we saw why he named it "Bottomless." Nearly every table was taken. Besides the waitresses, Marcy was about the only female in sight. The waitresses were real attention-getters, stunning, every sweet one of them. If they had been ugly, they would have merited a bit of attention anyway. For the waitresses' costumes explained the name of the club. Above the waist, the costume was ornate. Long-sleeved, high-necked jersey with frills and things at the neck and tit. Below the waist, the costume was-non-existent. There wasn't any costume. No jersey, no frills, no bottom. Bottomless.
Innovation number two.
Six nearly nude waitresses circulated. The whole seemed more than the sum of their parts. Six asses equal an even dozen round, curved ass cheeks. Six mounds together make, say, eighteen inches of curly hair. But those tray-toting lovelies seemed to have cornered the world's supply of asses, cluttering the smoky room with lovely pink rump. Bouncing juicy girl ass flesh and the beauty of rich uncovered mounds. And legs. Long legs, shapely, firm and smooth. Hot thighs leading wickedly to where G-strings would be if those gorgeous creatures wore G-strings. No G-strings, no panties, no stockings, no shoes.
I liked the innovation.
"Glad you could get here."
Charley advanced on us, dapper, proud of his success, and friendly as ever. He shook my hand and squeezed Marcy's left tit. Personally, he steered us to a choice table.
"Just as well you waited," he said when we were seated. "The opening was frantic. A customer dropped his glass, and one of the girls cut her big toe on it. Wasn't used to waiting on tables barefoot. Then two tit men threatened to break the place up. Headaches!"
I told Charley how much I liked the Bottomless Pit and how much I was looking forward to seeing and hearing Mile. Arlette.
"You won't be hearing her," he said curtly. "Decided we wouldn't have a band here. A little innovation of mine. No music. No floorshow, except-"
The lights were dimming, and the purple spot focused on the tiny stage. Suddenly the spotlight went out and the cellar room was plunged in total darkness. In the hushed, expectant atmosphere all that could be heard was the happy moaning of one of the waitresses. I thought I could see two figures make their way slowly to the platform. Then the spotlight blazed and the audience gasped. Two showgirls were standing motionless on stage, Mademoiselle Arlette and a curvy redhead. They wore long, voluminous skirts, waist to ankle. Nothing else. Topless. Bare arms, bare shoulders, very bare boobies. The sight of four jutting tits electrified every tit-a hungry spectator. The act was sensational.
From my seat practically on stage, I could see that both entertainers had well-developed and well-bitten boobies.
"Yeah, I know," Charley said ruefully. "Those are Margie's marks. She won't leave 'em alone. Eight bottomless waitresses she can suck where it won't show, and that Soho slob has t' pick the star turns!" The girls were still standing motionless on stage, drawing applause for their lavish display of tits.
"Is that all they do?" Marcy asked naively.
Charley guffawed. "Well, sometimes there's an extra chore."
"Did you say eight waitresses?" I asked. " 'Cause I've been exam-uh-looking and I see only six."
"Well, sometimes the waitresses have an extra chore too."
I wouldn't call Charley's place a clip joint. There was no cover, no minimum. True, seltzer was three bucks a glass. But the glass was large and, under the circumstances, three bucks was cheap.
"How do the 'chores' run? Expensive?"
Charley was cagey and let that one slip by.
"I'm surprised you don't have some lez customers," Marcy commented.
"There's one over at the bar. In her dress tux. But we discourage them. Trying to keep this place tidy.
No fist fights."
The stage show over, the house lights were on again. Marcy seemed to be obscenely overdressed.
Our waitress brought fresh drinks and a breath of fresh pussy, practically in my armpit, as she served them.
I was surprised at the general decorum. No apparent gropings now that the lights were on. Except for the gentleman at the next table who was quietly jerking off, hand in pocket, there was no sign of sex activity.
"Where?" I whispered to Charley. He gestured downward.
"Excuse me, dear. Charley is going to show me the men's room."
This was more like a "pit." We descended a long narrow stairway to the sub-cellar. Here were the personal dressing rooms, executive offices, and 50 dollars-a-throw cribs.
"We couldn't make it less than fifty," Charley explained, less reticent than he had been on the night club floor. "Guys expect to pay more for a lay than for a bottle of seltzer. You hot to tear off a piece?"
I was waiting for that. "There's a little blonde, about 5' 3", cute ass."
"Jeannie." Charley knew his stock. "I'll send her down. Use my office, kid. There's a fresh sheet on the bed."
"Bed?"
"I like plenty of room. No fuckin' couch in my office!"
We were now at the door marked, "Mr. Crane." Charley tried to open it, using his key without success. "Locked from the inside." He twisted the knob, pounding on the door.
"One minute!" came a flurried girlish whisper.
"'arf a mo'!" came an irate cockney growl.
The door flew open. A kittenish bottomless waitress, hastily adjusting her top, peered out. "Oh, Mr. Crane. I couldn't help it--"
Throwing her head back, the statuesque lady boss whined, "Can't we have two minutes fucking privacy?" Marge, topless and bottomless, looked well-satiated, like the canary who had eaten the pussy. Which she had. She slipped on an evening gown and trotted upstairs to count the receipts.
Charley showed me where he kept the sheets. "I'll tell Marcy you got diarrhea," he said. While he went to summon the blonde waitress who had caught my eye, I made the bed.
There was a discreet tap at the door. Jeannie tripped in. She was a pretty little thing, plump and vivacious. With the loveliest thick bush, wide hips, and a delicately tinted pink bottom.
"There's just one thing I'd like you to do for me-" I started.
"I can guess," Jeannie chirped pleasantly, and she proceeded to prove that she was right. Without hesitation, she pulled the long-sleeved jersey over her head, setting free two stark-white tits. They tasted of Jeannie's sweet freshness, someone else's gin-and generally breasty.
On the bed I traced a pattern with my tongue down from her nipples, belly, navel, hair-piece. Blonde curls curved delicately around her honey-pot. I hate to fuck with half my clothes on it's like an insult. But that bow-tie was beyond me. So I slipped off my pants and shorts and apologized.
"Use watcha got, honey," the waitress murmured. "I ain't complaining."
So, I used it.
When I climbed off and wiped my dick Jeannie said, "Look, honey, I'm off on Mondays....
I filed her name for future reference.
And planned many more Saturdays at the night club. And Tuesdays and Fridays and Wednesdays and Thursdays.
We saw how the bottomless half lives on Saturday, the 23rd of the month. After that, developments moved fast.
On the 25th, we were robbed.
On the 26th, Charley announced jubilantly that he had sold out to a syndicate at an enormous profit.
On the 27th, the Crane house was dark.
By the 29th, two events: The fuzz raided and closed the Bottomless Pit. And we received a cheery card from Kansas City.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Reaction set in. It seemed like years since we'd been together, just the two of us. I hinted than an evening alone might be a pleasant novelty. Marcy was having the same reaction. She fell in my arms when I lovingly made the suggestion, throwing poor old Charley clear off balance. He had been sucking my cock at that tender moment. Reluctantly, Charley took off, and my wife and I were alone.
Alone at last. For old-fashioned boy-girl, cock in cunt screwing.
Marcy put on her short nightgown. That bit of fluff cost two weeks' salary and was worth it. Pink silk makes most girls look younger. When Marcy came to bed in that nightgown, barefoot, without make-up, she could have passed for a 12-year old virgin. One with big titties and a woman-sized rug.
And so to bed. Me and my fuck-happy virgin. I tore off her nightgown with none of the respect due to two weeks' salary. She looked delicious. She smelled delicious. She tasted delicious. I was head over heels in love with her. And ready to give her a good rutting.
"Darling, I hear a noise downstairs."
"You hear my prick, pounding at the gate."
"No really. Listen!"
I didn't hear a frigging thing. The way I was holding her my cock jammed against her belly, hands cradling her head, she couldn't hear anything either.
Then we both heard. And saw them.
Burglars. Like wedding guests they walked into the bedroom. Not really like wedding guests. Not with the weapons they packed-I mean their revolvers.
There were three of them.
Marcy and I kept our cool. What Jewelry she had was having its monthly resetting. Her furs were insured. We had some good furniture, but I couldn't see these lugs carting out couches. Unless they had a van waiting. There was a C-note stashed away for an emergency, but neither Marcy nor I could ever find it.
So what could three enterprising burglars hope to achieve at Barnes Manor?
The leader was polite for a burglar. He waltzed into the room apologizing, "Sorry to disturb you." Marcy asked the classic, "What do you want!"-which they ignored. I leaped out of bed nude, just to show that I was active. And to make a protest also classic, "Now look here-!"
But they were looking and laughing. My hard-on had gone down, but still they were laughing. One of them jeered, "Your fly's open Mac." Then a cool revolver against my cool midriff seemed like a good inducement to retreat.
All three were staring at Marcy as if they had never seen a bed with a naked woman in it. While they stared, motionless, I sized them up.
The leader was a broad-chested tough about my age. His number one henchman, a little guy, looked mean and wiry. He was older. The other thug lagged behind as if slightly embarrassed by the whole episode. A husky kid on the right side of twenty.
The wiry henchman spoke first. "Looka the little lady. All set t' get screwed." He was a shrewd one. "Ain't it a shame! Her old man's gonna be uh-incapacitated."
That worried me. Three bastards with guns could do a lot of damage. The leader brought out a length of rope and in a minute I was expertly trussed up.
I glanced at Marcy to see how the poor kid was taking it. She was patting her hair, lying back on the pillow languorously. Damn cunt! I was afraid of having my balls shot off, and she was looking forward to getting fucked. By the three of them. Women know how to anticipate those things.
I had been wondering how much I had in my wallet and what the hoods intended to do with me. I hadn't even considered that they'd want to ball the luscious tidbit on the bed.
Taking advantage of their delay in applying a gag, I blurted out, "You're not going to fuck her?"
"What're you, her pimp?" the little guy chided. The leader was more forthright.
"Actually, I believe we shall," he declared unctuously. "At least I shall."
I twisted under the rope making a token effort to break free, and incidentally to get a better view. "Three of you! Why must there be three of you!" The wiry wit answered, "One t' fuck her, one t' keep her down one t' hold his balls."
Marcy shivered with excitement which they interpreted as fear.
"Don't be frightened lady. You're going to love this," the leader comforted her. He threw back the blanket, exposing her completely, then opened his fly to expose himself.
"Please! Please-" No one heard the urgent words that followed. "Please-put it in me."
The leader thought he was taunting her when he boasted "See how nice and hard it is for you!" He swivelled around to face me. "This big enough for your girl friend?"
The prick standing up from his pants was fairly thick, but about half my length. Just a skimpy appetizer for my "girl friend." Maybe the wart just under the head of his dick might tickle her.
He burgled like a gentleman, but didn't screw like a gentleman. Marcy was denied the least foreplay. The pervert didn't even touch her tits. Didn't drop his pants. Simply took his pecker out and went into her.
Wiry held her down as if that were necessary. Anyway, he enjoyed doing it. The young guy, the one they called Dom, stood back watching, aiming his revolver at me haphazardly when he remembered to aim it. The leader rammed her without a wasted motion.
"Next!"
Wiry took his place. First slipping off his pants and lowering a pair of lavender shorts they would have been ashamed to peddle down on Lexington Avenue. He was a little guy, not taller than Marcy, with spindly shanks and a narrow ass. But his ramrod was a jumbo. Funny how those shrimps are fitted with he-man equipment. He took his time nibbling Marcy's boobs, even pecking at her navel. I thought he might go down a notch or two to the old bean-bag.
But suddenly he mounted her, pushed in hard, and proceeded to pump into her.
Marcy was twitching with lust. When Wiry saw she was getting her rocks off he worked my favorite caper. He pulled nearly out to make her sit up and beg for it, leaving the head of his whang in her twat as a kind of deposit.
I got the picture by now. For this bastard, the less pleasure he gave her the more he loved it. I tried to get the message across to Marcy. "Cool, baby. Make him think you hate it." Try to reach a cunt with throbbing pussy! Teased and aching with an ache that can be eased only by a heavy fucking, Marcy screamed, "Don't stop! Please do it! Do it!"
He held pat, slapping her hips, driving her to a frenzy. She tried to force her cunt down on his long peter while he kept her at a measured distance. Grinning. I liked to play it that way myself. But watching this frigging creep deny her the benefits of a sustained fuck set me sweating. I bit off the words, "For Christ's sake, fuck her!"
Even Wiry couldn't hold out longer. As if he hated to do it he lurched forward. Driving his rod into her with a thrust that made her teeth rattle. Marcy's expression blurred and melted. With one animal cry, she exploded.
"Dom!"
The third guy looked bashful. He prepared for his duty by opening his pants and holding them at half-mast, as if ashamed to strip in mixed company. The schmuck had nothing to be ashamed about. Maybe not as imposing as the schlong that had done its work before him. But capable of a satisfying screw. He fell on Marcy tenderly, bit her nipples, and mounted her.
His pants and shorts flapping about his ankles, Dom started banging. His wide ass heaved as he pushed in and out like a dynamo. Marcy came again, clutching his hair, pressing him into her, screaming. He tried to pull out as he'd seen Wiry do it. But his young cock couldn't resist the sucking warmth of pussy. His teeth leaving marks on her boobies, the kid gave her a thorough fucking.
"Now we oughta make 'er suck."
The leader approved his henchman's suggestion. His prick was limp now, with an uneven hemline, the wart hidden by foreskin. He thrust the blind meat between Marcy's lips.
Again she muffed the play. Delighted at the dainty morsel, my wife nibbled with unmistakable relish. But those hoods were not out to give pleasure. Wiry muttered disgustedly, "This quim loves it." At once, the leader backed away, taking his toy with him.
"Cock's too good f her," Wiry decided, pausing to think of an alternative. I thought he might declare that cock was good enough for me. Instead, he rapped out, "Le's make her suck ass if she's so queer f suckin'!"
The leader approved enthusiastically. Dropping pants and shorts, he turned his back to her and bent over. Presenting a fleshy ass, hairy and replete with pimples, which he made much wider when he gallantly spread the cheeks for her.
Belatedly, Marcy was learning. She moaned a "Please" that sounded heartrending. Only I recognized that desperate syllable. The last time I had heard it was when she pleaded, "Please, let's try the Caribbean this winter. Please."
The hoods were still lousy on interpretation. Wiry pushed Marcy's head into his Chief's opened butt. Her tongue flicked out to the red asshole. My wife adored a manly back opening. She regretted that I had only one to give her. She knew well how to tickle the sensitive ass muscles. The tickling inflamed the husky burglar. His prick jerked upward and stiffened. He began to jack it. Marcy worked on him, rimming with gusto. If they'd had the decency to let me screw her as she ass-tongued, the darling girl would be in ecstasy. But what can you expect from a fucking burglar?
The leader's excitement began to affect the others. They forgot their revolvers and their unspoken edict against giving Marcy pleasure. Instead they lined up, asses out for the refreshing tongue treatment.
The leader ruined a fine bedroom rug with his hot gism. Then Wiry spread his narrow ass, but with less appreciation. While Marcy serviced that blase little bastard, young Dom hopped about in an agony of anticipation. When his turn came he bent nearly double. Hungrily, Marcy licked at this pungent crevice. He guided her hand to his quivering ramrod, and she jerked him off to the rhythm of her tongue in his gyrating asshole. His thick cream gushed in a puddle alongside the other.
Surreptitiously, Marcy licked off her fingers.
The only real damage that night was inflicted on our bedroom carpet. Our marauding trio filled their pockets with a selection of junk jewelry and a few bills from my wallet. Cheap at the price.
They zipped up their pants and left. The leader bid a suave good evening, and Wiry followed him silently out. Dom, who hadn't said a word during the whole frolic shyly whispered, " 'bye ma'am, and thank you kindly."
The house was very quiet now.
"Like it, honey?"
Did I have to ask? Marcy was exhilarated, perking over with after fuck cheer. She snipped open the ropes and cuddled in my arms.
"Why did we ever lock our door!" she exclaimed. "They were so groovy. Especially that odious little man. And," her eyes misted, "the young one they called Dom."
""What about the other guy? The big boss?" Marcy sneered, "How did he ever get to be Chief?"
I explained that gang leaders were not chosen according to the size of their cocks. Not in this hemisphere. I started to dial the police number.
"Oh, no!" Marcy snatched the receiver out of my hand. "If we do anything to upset them, they'll never come back."
"You like a little rape job, don't you, honey?"
"I wouldn't exactly call it rape," Marcy weighed her words judiciously. "That boy. Dom. So cute. They have such strength at that age."
It Was up to me to prove that a doddering old guy of nearly 25 could manage to hold his own.
I managed.
Only a few days after the big heist, we were without neighbors. The Cranes, according to Charley's card from Missouri, were opening a new night spot. "The Topless Tower."
Kansas City was too far for commuting.
Worse, Dom the bashful bandit had set Marcy off on a youth kick. We still got along fine. But she was beginning to wear little girl bows in her hair. Afternoons, she'd stand on the curb watching the students pile out-from the Acton Heights Boys High School.
Marcy liked to save her surprises for when I came home from the office. When my resistance was low, and I was ready for anything. I had my suspicions that morning. She was too sweet, even-tempered, even before coffee. After the shower she held my cock while I was pissing-a sure sign that she was horny or planning mischief.
I returned in the evening, a little early. Directly to the kitchen. No one there, though the lights were burning. There were two new bottles of rye on the table.
I tiptoed up to the bedroom. The bed was neatly covered. And the carpet was also covered with a spread sheet, my wife, and her boy friend. I recognized Marcy at once by the twat hairs but had to peer down to examine her lover. My close-up examination didn't stop the rutting. He was too busy poking. And she was cheerily churning.
The boy with his prick in the jam-pot looked hazily familiar. Calvin-of Octon Heights Liquors delivery.
I watched the performance of fucking. This was an unforgivable outrage! Taking a 16 year old lad, if not in my bed, in my bedroom. And rye at $7.95 a bottle!
I emitted an injured, "How dare you!"
He looked up from Marcy's tits, saw me and lost color. He almost pulled out in confusion. But Marcy screamed "How dare you!" with much more conviction.
The boy had a whang with plenty of power. Marcy came twice before he squirted her insides. I looked him over to see if there was anything for me. There wasn't. Cal had a fat cock, but the rest of him was good only for delivering liquor. I don't mind screwing boy ass. But flat pimply cheeks kinda deter me. I slipped him a tip for the bottles, and sent him off to the showers.
Now that she'd experienced baby prick in her pussy, Marcy was rather lethargic. I said, "Wait twenty years, then you'll really have a yen for young peter. But if you do want one in the meantime, would you please look for one with a rump made for humping?"
Absent-mindedly, Marcy murmured, "Like my brother Bruno."
"Your what?"
Marcy blushed. And then it came out. She had a brother. I thought I'd met her whole fucking family. Pa Hedren, Marcy's ineffectual clod of a father; Ma Hedren, her dried-up twat of a mother; Alice, the stuck-up prude she called sister. They'd told me that Alice was the only Hedren child except Marcy. Not that you could ever think of Alice as a child. She was born looking as if she lived in Philadelphia. Her husband was the type who uses his cock strictly for pissing. They had a daughter, Ellen, the flower-girl at our wedding.
And now the Hedren family secret was revealed. Marcy had a brother.
"Bruno is the black sheep of the family. We don't talk about him. He left home not long after I met you."
I didn't want his residential history. "What does he look like?"
"Well, physically he's attractive if you like big husky brutes. He had a thing about me," Marcy admitted guilelessly. "He used to creep up behind me when I was ironing. Grab a feel of my ass in passing. Or try for my breasts. Real brotherly."
"Ever show you a hard-on?"
"I've seen him in shorts when he was uh ... excited. But he never actually showed me. I would have fainted or something. Remember, darling, in those days, my outlook was limited. It was even before you started to ram me."
When I asked her how old Bruno might be, Marcy counted on her fingers. "I'm 23. He's about 30."
"Would you like to see him again? Like me to look him up?"
The new, liberated Marcy clapped her hands together, eyes shining.
"He's such a mean stud. Bruno, my black sheep brother. Oh, darling, would you really let him fuck me!"
CHAPTER NINE
There was only one Bruno Hedren in the phone book. I jotted down the address. West 48th Street, a short hop across town from my office.
This caper deserved some planning, beginning with a reconnaissance trip to the 48th Street block. It looked like any other street on the west fringe of the theater district. High-stooped tenements, lofts, bars, and dusty schlock stores. Bruno's was one of the older houses, with an assortment of snotty kids playing on the steps. Near the outside mailboxes, the row of bells was almost at eye level. I could read the nameplate: HEDREN-3rd FL. FRT.
I looked up. Not a thing to be seen at the third floor front windows except torn shades and grubby curtains. Directly across the street there was a bar. I kept that item in mind.
Next morning, I phoned Bruno. Rehearsing my patter. "You don't know me. I'm Marcy's husband. Remember Marcy? You used to goose her over the ironing board." Or I could start off, "Is this Mr. Bruno Hedren? Congratulations, you just won a contest. First prize: one juicy cunt. Your sister's cunt in fact."
The answering voice was thick with sleep, suspicious. I dropped the rehearsed spiels and blurted out, "This is Monte Barnes. I have a message for you from my wife-Marcy."
I thought I could hear him suck back his breath. There was a soft grating sound, nervous fingers scratching unshaven cheeks. Then, silence.
"Hello-"
"Yeah. What's the message?"
"Marcy would like to see you. Uh-after I've seen you first."
"When?"
"Tonight."
We made it for eight that night. I suggested the bar across the street. He vetoed that as if the little bar was the neighborhood leper clinic. O. K., his apartment suited me fine.
I finished work much earlier than I thought. By six o'clock I was patrolling West 48th Street. I was kinda jittery. After all, I was on my way to see a bad tempered black sheep with incest on his mind. Seeing him in order to pimp for my darling wife, and make all his rosy incestuous dreams come true. Also to get a good look at his ass.
I needed a drink. Jensen's Bar across the street looked friendly. At least the door was open. Inside I inhaled the invigorating aroma of fresh beer and stale piss, mingled with pungent fumes of pot drifting from a couple entwined in one of the back booths. I downed a double rye and signalled for another. And another for the trip across the street.
After that, I was ready for the pisser. I went in, unzipped, and unloaded. I was still pissing when I realized that the figure in the shadows near the urinal was a woman.
I have perfect manners.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I murmured. "This happens to be the gents' crapper."
"Fuck you."
She stepped out of the shadows, near enough to get wet if I made a half-turn.
Lord, she was ghastly! Witches were burned for less. The old lady's hair was stringy, three or four un-likely shades, and with spit curls yet. The spit was still foaming. She wore a grayish blouse, shapeless over her hanging tits. The skirt had the puked-on look that Paris wasn't featuring that year. If she'd worn stockings, I knew they'd be falling down-but she wasn't wearing stockings. Just fat legs laced with ropy veins. Her eyes were mean and shifty, but that may have been the effect of last week's mascara dripping into them. Some of her lipstick was on her lips, some on her chin, and two bright dabs decorated her two front teeth. The Beast of Jensen's Bar was either a youthful 90 or a dissipated 55.
"Fuck you!" she repeated. "This is my territory. I'm Cleo, sweetie."
Her simper was worse than the rest of her. I zipped up.
But Cleo wasn't losing a customer. "You're real cute, dearie," she whined, treating me to a close-up of all four teeth. "For you, fifty."
Fifty. Somehow that made her less repulsive. It was a choice of Cleo or a pack of cigarettes. I had a full pack on me-hut never before had I tried out a cunt in a men's room. I counted out four bits and backed her up against the washroom wall. She lifted her skirt above her clump. I went in for a feel.
Weh ist mir! The lips of her twat hung like elephant ears. I was ready to chalk off the coins to bitter experience, but the old bag was crooning about my beautiful joint. Then it was out and she began to pull it. So I sank it in and banged away.
We had the place to ourselves. Only two guys came in, and they were queers gnashing their teeth at the sight of my busy cock. By keeping my eyes shut, I managed to blot her out of my mind so I could keep it hard and keep screwing.
Suddenly the place smelled even worse than before.
"What the-"
"I can't come," my over-age Venus admitted proudly. "So t' show my fuckin' appreciation, I shit."
Sure enough, a mess of brown turd spread on the dirty broken tiles. I couldn't help but feel a bit touched by her token of appreciation. Curious, too. When Cleo turned to accost a newcomer at the urinal, I stooped down to get a sample of her appreciation on my finger. I popped my finger in my mouth.
It tasted like shit.
I rinsed off with rye.
Then I went across the street.
I was an hour early. But too impatient to cruise around. If I drank any more, I'd have to go to the men's room and-Fuck it! I rang Bruno's bell.
I didn't wait to find out if the bells worked. The street door was open. I climbed two flights, turned right, and knocked at apartment 3F.
I could hear muffled sounds. A scream. "Please, daddy!" That child's cry was followed by a snarl. "Daddy has t' discipline you kids." Then, nothing.
Was I interrupting a painful domestic scene? The kids being punished for some infraction. Their mother tearful as she watched. Hey! It was the first time I'd considered that there might be a Mrs. Hedren. Somehow, I hadn't visualized black sheep Bruno with a wife. Mrs. Bruno....I pondered that as I knocked again.
From the dead quiet, I knew that someone was just inside the door, listening. The door stayed shut. After rapping again, I tested by whispering hoarsely. "Marcy."
The door opened.
A big guy stood there. Powerful enough to crush me between his clenched paws or scissor a heavyweight between those massive thighs. Bare thighs. This guy was naked except for a rumpled pair of boxer shorts. Slightly hunched, like an animal moving in for the kill. He reminded me of Oscar. But where Oscar was gaunt, Bruno was upholstered in solid flesh. Gentle Oscar deceptively had the appearance of an ugly, vicious hulk. This one was far from ugly-handsome as hell, really. But instinctively I knew that the viciousness was deep-rooted. And I wanted to see it mounted on Marcy.
I said the magic word. Marcy.
My brother-in-law's expression softened. "Yeah. Marcy. Look, I got my kids in there." He gestured from the cluttered foyer to a closed door. "Jus' givin' them the fuckin' tannin' they deserve."
I was already in the apartment. Bruno didn't discourage me when I followed him. He opened the door he had indicated. A bedroom. A room that smelled of dust and fear.
Two kids were in the room. Rooted together near the unmade bed. Not aware of my presence, not even whining. Eyes on daddy Bruno. They were beautiful kids, a boy and a girl. I remember thinking-their mother must be gorgeous. The girl was about ten. Wearing only a pair of cheap rayon panties. Her chubby little body was perfectly formed. Pink-white, soft as feathers. Her face was all eyes, round, blue, very frightened eyes. Curly honey-colored hair fell nearly to her unformed tits.
The boy was slightly older. About as old as I was when I had my closet-peeking jag. He was blond too, a crisp crew-cut. His eyes were as blue and as round as his sister's, but he was making a boy-scout effort to be brave. He wore a pair of cotton jockeys, about as big as my jockstrap.
After a minute I realized that the two kids were tied together. A length of rope bound his wrist to hers, her ankle to his.
Suddenly I looked at their father, wishing he'd give them a good beating. One glance at Bruno reassured me. He was pulling a belt off an old pair of pants. The opening of his boxer shorts was wider. I could see his thatch, as dark and thick as his mane of straight black hair. He raised the belt, smiling. I knew he had forgotten I was there. Or didn't care. When he spoke, his words were mumbled, meant for no ears but his own.
"A good fuckin' belting. No kids o' mine gonna grow up with a fuckin' neuroses."
That's what he said-neuroses.
Exactly what neuroses were to be avoided by a hiding administered by a nearly naked parent? Bruno wasn't talking. And I wasn't about to ask. The mood was hardly conducive to psychological chitchat. Bruno's black eyes flashed as he raised the leather belt. I could see his ramrod jump under his rumpled shorts.
Three things happened at once. Heavy leather thudded on tender naked flesh. Sharp bleats of anguish and pain sounded in the room. Part of the thrasher's half-stiff cock crept out of his shorts. I saw the whip expertly wielded. I saw the brutal tip flick the helpless bodies. I saw the lasting, sucking kiss of the whip, welts springing full-born on flawless baby skin.
I saw Bruno's rigid prick. All exposed now. Rock-hard, pulsing, bobbing up and down furiously in rhythm with the whip. A magnificent hunk of meat, thick as the beaten girl's wrist, red as the welts on her tortured body. The head was as big as a fist; it looked almost unnaturally smooth, polished, like marble. The rest of the shaft-coarse, a vessel of evil.
Bruno seemed to be a vessel of evil. Lost to the piteous cries for mercy. Oblivious of his hard, full cock waving obscenely in front of his children. Intent only on beating, whipping, making bloody the cowering boy and girl before him.
I watched the show. For all his sadistic fury, Bruno was crafty enough to direct most of the blows on the girl's panties, the boy's shorts, where the bruises would be less noticeable.
He halted briefly, mopped his streaming forehead. Passing in front of me without seeing me, he picked up another length of rope. This he tied around their slender waists, binding them together tightly face to face. His naked upright peter touched them both indiscriminately.
Now that they were bound to his liking, he pulled their flimsy underwear down. Their young bottoms were unveiled to taste the lash. The girl's was white as porcelain, adorably round and smooth. Her brother's was less round, very white, with a tracing of down at the crack. I was sure their father's, still hidden under his shorts, was a beauty.
Bruno belted their tender asses without mercy. I longed to seize the whip, send it flying, raise bleeding welts on the lovely helpless flesh. "Here's a present from your Uncle Monte!" And make them scream till they fell unconscious on the floor.
Before I could request a guest shot, Bruno undid the ropes at their waists.
I knew the torture was not over. I knew the culmination as if I had witnessed many beatings. How could it be anything else? Bruno was breathing as loudly as they were weeping. Hoarse breaths that set his body shaking, his whang quivering. He moved closer to his victims, prodding them with the hated leather, deliberately pressing his giant prick against their inflamed skin.
I hen he moved back and aimed a final blow. At the same time, and for the first time, he touched his own hard-on. The most casual graze, as if flicking off a speck of dust. That touch was enough. The belt dangled limp-and his cock spouted gism. Thick whitish cream, as coarse as the skin on his rod. Healthy jets, all directed squarely on the children. I could almost see the sperm dance on the blonde girl's cheeks. Stoically, the boy wiped it out of his eye. There was a blob on her little upturned nose, a blob on his chest, more was coming from their father's powerful tool.
If I had had the imitative to take my clothes off, I could have drowned them in it. That was the first time in years I shot in my fucking pants.
Unbound and very quiet, the children stumbled out of the room.
Bruno seemed surprised to see me. He colored faintly, mumbled something, and looked around for a bottle. He helped himself to a giant swig, wiped his mouth with his elbow, and passed the bottle to me.
I looked at the label and shuddered. But the whiskey tasted fine.
My brother-in-law stretched. He twisted his lips into a half-smile, looking quizzical, as if to ask, "Did you like it?"
I said, "Nice place you have here."
We spent a few minutes passing the bottle. I heard the kids creep out, the door closing softly. Then we got down to business.
"How's Marcy?" He managed to sound like a kid preparing for his first lay. Quite a feat for a beautifully-built sadist I had just seen spray his own kids with his fuck cream.
"Tell me about Marcy."
I told him. Told him that she wanted to see him, was aching to see him. I hinted that she was going to be very, very cordial. I casually mentioned that we were always looking for good sincere friends to add to our circle. Our intimate circle.
He got the point, but didn't quite understand. Before he could ask questions, I said, "We didn't know you were married, Bruno. I'm sure your wife-"
That opener was quenched as fast as it was raised.
"My wife's a fuckin' ball-breaker."
He looked at me shrewdly, as he had been for the last few minutes. His eyes asked, "What's in this for you?" But he said nothing. Instead, he put his hand in his shorts.
"A fuckin' ball-breaker. See?"
He was standing near an end-table. Hands in his shorts, he pulled out a mean-looking set of testicles, moving so that he could lay them on the table. As big and hairy a pair of balls as ever was put on a table.
"See? Broken!"
They didn't look or feel broken. They looked rough and they felt springy, pulpy, fat and sweet. I weighed them, patted them, brushed them, and stroked them.
"You a cocksucker?"
Out came the prick. He had to hunch over to spread it flat on the table between the springy balls. Like meat on display at the butcher's counter. Prime cut. For sale or rent. Price-loan of one cunt. On terms to be arranged.
For a man of 30, Bruno recovered fast. I'd seen his gism flow a few minutes before. Now his labe was as hard as mine. The shaft was smoother, less coarse than it looked. The red rim around the head was spongy and pulpy like his balls, but harder. He had an unusually big pisshole. I kept opening and closing it, wondering how it would feel to fuck a man's pisshole. Once when I had the hole open wide as it would go, I applied my tongue. Felt hot in there.
"You are a cocksucker," he commented noncommittally.
"I have indulged," I admitted. "But I prefer uh-frankly, I prefer to fuck ass."
"Geez," he straightened himself. "I have a fuckin' tight asshole. Never had it there. Even for money. Honest!"
The son of a bitch knew how to play his cards. O. K. Tit for tat.
"Must run in your family. Take your sister Marcy. Cunt as tight as a nine year old virgin. A stunning twat, but tight!"
Defeated, Bruno turned around and dropped his shorts.
An ass! He had an ass that would make a butch queen sell his mother. And make the mother strap on a fucking rubber cock! Big and soft and firm and hairy. His asshole puckered as if crying out for cock. My cock. Sometimes an open cunt seems to wink at you. Bruno's spread ass leered.
I reached out to jab a finger where my prick would go.
Zoom! The fucking shorts were up, Bruno was facing me with a smile.
"So when am I invited to see that sister of mine, huh?"
CHAPTER TEN
We invited Brother Bruno to dinner later that week. An informal family meal. Very informal.
Marcy had pestered me for every detail on our meeting on 48th Street. I was detailed, all right, but not entirely accurate. According to my version, Bruno was panting for a bout with his sister. That part was no exaggeration. I reported that for a notorious black sheep, I had found him to be relatively subdued. Again, no great exaggeration. After spraying his brats with his hot come, Bruno had been comparatively subdued. He had stripped for inspection, I told Marcy. His equipment had passed muster. And he had bought me a drink. All pleasant understatements.
My wife was a practical girl.
"Did you fuck his ass?" she inquired bluntly. I had to shake my head with the proper angle of dejection.
"Did you suck him off?" Same dejection.
Marcy was sympathetic.
"Don't fret, darling. If he wants to creep into this box, he'll bend over."
That was consolation indeed. I did want to see him bend over. Almost as much, I longed to watch him screw Marcy's lovely twat. More than that. I was tempted to let him tie her up. Take turns with him lashing her naked tits and bottom. But Marcy might raise some bourgeois objection, a hang-up from her lamentably conventional childhood. So if her brother had been hankering for an old-fashioned screw, let him be content with that.
I had seen my brother-in-law decked out only in his rumpled shorts. I was unprepared for the scrubbed, neatly dressed gentleman who rang our bell. With his button-down shirt and striped tie, he might have passed for a Madison Avenue fag. Until you looked above the shirt and tie. The hot man-man look on his rugged face was unknown in the wide realm of faggotry.
We ate pot roast and puff pastry, Marcy's specialties-before she gave us a sample of her other specialties.
Watching them together was fascinating. They were like close strangers. Same jet hair, same deter mined chin. They spoke to each other politely, haltingly. I noticed Bruno's hand, held back, folded in his lap, when he really wanted to use it to grab her ass.
To break the ice, I thought maybe we should drag out the ironing board. But no ice breaker was needed in the clinch. Without being touched even once, Marcy was getting hot. Her boobs jiggled enticingly under her thin dress. She kept crossing, uncrossing her legs. Her skirt kept riding up over the top of her stockings, showing her creamy thighs. Bruno stared as if he never saw thighs before, never saw a flash of nylon panties.
He must have seen her half-undressed in all those years at home. From what I gathered, Bruno had lived with Marcy and their parents until shortly before I married her. Then he'd gone out to make an honest woman of his long-time whore, the mother of those beautiful kids. He'd been living in the same house with Marcy when she and I had our first dates.
Had he spied on her when she'd come home and get undressed, the feel of my cock still warm in her snatch? Could he tell that she'd been fucked?
Women who have just had a good stiff prick in them are the worst cock-teasers of all. Had she given him a glimpse? Something to jerk off by?
He wouldn't jerk off tonight.
"Marcy," I told her, "that frigging skirt won't stay down."
On signal, she stood up.
Cock-teasing like wild. And she hadn't had a prick in her for at least twelve hours.
"You're so right, darling. Bruno, you won't mind if I slip it off? We are brother and sister, after all."
He didn't mind. Zip. Off. Her panties were gossamer, flesh-toned, a shade darker than her glowing flesh. I had chewed her mound a thousand times, and I raised a bone just looking at that charming mound through the flimsy nylon.
Bruno responded gallantly. "These fuckin' pants kinda ride up my crotch." And when Marcy smiled complacently, her brother opened his belt and let his pants fall. He wore a fresh pair of rumpled shorts. His stiff, beating rod created a few new rumples.
Now there was a pause. Monte the Matchmaker piped up, "Why don't you show Bruno the rooms upstairs? I'll uh-I'll lock up here."
Marcy murmured, "Good idea."
Bruno followed her up. Just before he left the room, he turned back and winked. Now I felt I had a brother. More than a brother, a-What do you call a guy who's going up to fuck your wife?
I planned on giving them five minutes. Time to feel each other up and crawl to bed. Something was wrong with my watch. The fucking minute hand wasn't moving. One minute. Two. Two and a half. Time! I raced upstairs.
He had her panties off, her bra unhooked, about to fall. Marcy was naked except for high-heeled pumps and sheer stockings. Rosy red in the glow of the one lighted lamp. The light bathed her pale tits, making them deep pink. Bruno's hot darting tongue looked black. Forked. Evil. The vampire poised to suck out her juices.
Bruno's cock was out, jammed against his sister's belly. He was dressed-undressed-exactly as before. Striped tie, neat shirt, socks tight on bulging hairy calves. Shorts wide open. His fingers were pressed into her arms, leaving marks almost black in the lamplight. Then she shifted slightly, raising his lips from her bitten tits to jab his tongue against hers. Their tongues rubbed sparks in the heat of their locked mouths. She snuggled closer. Now his paws were squeezing her mushy boobies. Marcy sighed and dropped her hand to her brother's wide thighs. Slowly she raised her hand to grasp his prick. Higher, above his shorts and under his shirt, to rake his chest with restless fingers.
They broke away so that Bruno could strip completely.
He looked as if he were fighting desperately to keep from shooting his load in the air. I always hated the thought of a drop of wasted gism. But it would be delightful to see his jets of cream spill over Marcy's face. We could lick it off together.
Bruno held himself in check. He begged her to squat down over his hard-on. Marcy was flushed. I knew she craved that immense prick as much as he was eager to plug her twat.
Down she went on her hands and knees. Bruno kissed her dainty bottom now in his face. This was it. Roughly, he swung her pussy into position over his monstrous cock. Instinctively, Marcy pushed her legs back. Now he clamped her wet twat down. On target. Over his throbbing tool.
The bastard was fucking his sister.
Bruno was a one-shove man. A relentless push sent his giant rod in to the hilt. Marcy sank in ecstasy, impaled on her brother's mushroom-headed stick. They fucked.
Their beautifully matched bodies glistened with sweat. In furious fuck rhythm they slapped together, clinging like suction cups. One fearful lunge sent her off, and I knew she was starting her first brother-sister orgasm. In silence. Bruno was sensitive to her cunt spasms.
"Like it, honey?" Damn the bastard, he sounded like me.
My wife licked her lips, eyes unfocused, all her life-force concentrated on her fucked pussy. Her voice sounded far-off, uncontrolled. First a whisper, then a scream of lust.
"Fuck. Shove it in me. Harder. Push it harder! FUCK!"
Bruno rammed her with vicious animal thrusts.
Marcy threw her head back, screaming.
"Kill me! Tear me open! Give me that cock! More!"
Then she couldn't get out a fucking word to save herself. I positioned myself in front of her and banged my prick against her shivering lips. She took it greedily, so I pushed forward to send every inch down her throat. My darling was at her best now, sucking her brother's staff into her twat, avidly feasting on my heavy balls.
Bruno was taking it slow now. He watched her eat me. Skillfully, he managed to raise up on his knees. Now he was fucking her dog fashion. Both hands held her ass. He began to screw with faster movements. All his bulky strength pressed forward as if he wanted to ram his whole body into her welcoming cunt. It almost seemed that she was fucking him, swallowing his prick, forcing him further and further into her hot, yielding hole.
Bruno responded by pounding her mercilessly. She sucked me in spasmodic jerks. My prick slid out of her mouth. I pressed it across her cheek. I felt the burning tremors of her slim body as she came. At that moment, Bruno groaned, "I'm coming! Mmmm-" and I felt the force of his outburst shake her body from her wet pussy to her brimming mouth. Shaking even my pushing cock as her brother withdrew.
Marcy shoved her fingers up her cunt. They came out rich with Bruno's fresh cream. She massaged my joint, smearing on her brother's come. I had time only to pop it in her mouth again before I shot.
We stumbled off to the showers. Then lay damp, together, on the bed. Relaxed. My hand met Marcy's across her brother's matted chest. I never felt closer to her than at that instant, separated by 180 pounds of solid flesh.
Very solid flesh. I moved to give myself a handful of heavy ass. Bruno winced.
"You owe me something, brother."
He grumbled, "Aah, fuck that stuff!"
My intention in a nutshell. Young Bruno had a lot to learn. He was shy about getting his ass plugged in the presence of a lady.
"Don't be such a baby," Marcy sounded exactly like a girl admonishing her kid brother. "You have a lovely ass, Bruno dear. If I had a gorgeous prick like Monte's, there's nothing I would rather do than hump it."
"Yeah, if you did the screwing, I wouldn't mind. Ouch!-"
I had my forefinger planted between the muscular cheeks. Instead of relaxing, Bruno automatically tightened his muscles. That made it harder for me to jerk it out. I raised my finger to inhale the fresh aroma of sweat and shorts.
One thing was Sure. Bruno hadn't lied. His ass was virgin territory. How come? Hadn't the lug ever gone to summer camp? Or did he have trouble making friends at school? That such an ass could have, lived and breathed for thirty years, unplugged, was beyond all reason. I was ready with the remedy at once.
Bruno was sweating.
"Gimme a break. Hold off. I just wanna-" And there he was, busy again, reneging.
"O. K., kid?" he asked Marcy unnecessarily. It was amazing how those two understood each other. At "O. K.," her legs were open; and as soon as she spread them, Bruno crouched down to eat her muff. All the force of his body was behind his tongue as it probed, licked, sucked, devoured the delicious cunt still wet with his come.
The rear view was better. Bruno on his knees, head down between Marcy's legs. His huge butt arched out. Perfect set-up for fucking.
I was about to mount him at last when he suddenly moved her body. His tongue found my wife's rosy asshole. Marcy was especially sensitive to the flick of a skillful tongue at her rectum. I could sense, her reaction before a word was uttered.
"Fuck me there, darling," she pleaded languorously. "That feels so good. Now shove your dick up my asshole."
Bruno's rugged face lit up as if he had been granted the keys of the kingdom. Hugging his luck, he pulled his tongue out of her ass to kiss her tenderly on the lips. Then with only a dab of lubrication, he jammed the head of his swollen whang into her narrow back entry.
Marcy screamed once in pain and pleasure. Her brother gave her a minute to relax and accept his rigid offering. Then he swooped in, shoving the full length of his throbbing rod into her grateful ass. As he pumped, Marcy emitted soft moans, whispered endearments.
I hadn't realized how much she enjoyed a good ass-fuck. Rocking and bucking, she encouraged the stud to faster movements. Watching her body quiver with her third-or fourth-orgasm, it was impossible not to shed a sentimental tear. I always had a soft spot in my heart for seeing Marcy with a cock up her ass.
As soon as she came, she stuck two fingers into her cunt. She drew them out, beckoning to me. Then she guided my fingers into where hers had been. Always ready to oblige, I jabbed my fingers into her wet cavern. Deep. Immediately, I felt Bruno's thrusting prick. He was fucking her ass, and his every movement could be felt in her throbbing cunt. Only a thin, stretched membrane separated my fingers from his rampaging rod. The sensation was eerie.
Almost like jerking him off. Jerking his tool, wearing thin wet rubber gloves.
I wanted to tear the frigging membrane apart, rip it open so there would be no division between Marcy's ass and cunt. Then I could suck her twat, dig my tongue deep enough-and reach land. Reach Bruno's cock before he exploded into her. His gism would bathe my tongue and her ass and cunt at the same time. A noble fuck!
As I envisioned this, Bruno shot his wad.
Marcy and her cuntlapping brother seemed refreshed by their latest exploit. I was happy for them, but I had no intention of letting him get away with his ass intact. I'd fuck it or Bruno bowed to the inevitable. He threw himself on his stomach, ass out for me. "Fuck it easy!"
I treated my brother-in-law like an honored guest. I used vaseline, which is really such a bore. The wiry hair around his asshole tickled my prick. I wished his ass was on backwards so that he could have the thrill of watching it getting screwed.
I mounted him and went in, Bruno-style. One swoop, like tearing off a bandage. One thrust, and he knew how it felt to have eight inches working in him. Lucky bastard! He gritted his teeth and took it. I kept my cock nested in him so deep that my balls were jammed tight against the hairy crack. The balloon cheeks under me got bigger-blocked my vision-filled the room. The room was choked with those two hairy arcs. Matted mountains split in half by a steel-hard poker. The way any guy's ass should be.
I grabbed two handfuls of hard ass flesh. Then I began to stroke. Like fucking honeymoon cunt. Bruno was getting used to the feel of a cock in him. He was very quiet now. Inert as I worked in and out. Then-the change that I was hoping for. His muscular body twitched. Tentative churning motions, like a twat beginning to enjoy a rape. Hips banging, his ass heaved upward to meet my thrusts.
He made vague sounds. "Mmmmm-" If Marcy wasn't there, he'd be begging for more. Yelling, "Fuck it into me! Fuck it harder! Make me feel it in my ass!"
I complied with the implied requests.
I looked up to wink at Marcy. Her attention was rapt on my lunging peter. She was loving the sight of her brother getting it up the ass.
"Let me suck you off while you're fucking him," Marcy demanded unreasonably.
"Suck on mine," Bruno pleaded, his voice muffled by the pillow.
We shifted to our sides so that Marcy could kneel at the side of the bed and take Bruno's ramrod in her mouth. I had been reaching under to hold it while I screwed him. Burning hot and rigid as a plank. Marcy took it whole. Seeing her darling lips sucking her brother's tool set my blood racing through my peter. I knew it would be soon.
"His piss-hole. Tongue his piss-hole!"
Marcy allowed Bruno's whang to slide out of her mouth. She flicked the leering, over-sized piss-hole open with her fingers.
Soothingly, she said, "I know, darling. It's luscious. So smooth and warm." Then, aware that he was about to shoot, she stuffed his treasure back between her lips. I pumped faster and faster to synchronize. Bruno's ass banged up hard as he started to come. So hard that I didn't have to move a muscle. He was fucking my dick and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. Or wanted to do about it-except squirt thick cream deep, deep into his heaving ass.
Fuck over, I glued my lips to Marcy's. She was an adoring, tactful wife. Having swallowed most of her brother's load, she left a residue of his hot gism in her mouth. I could taste it, swallow it. In return for her thoughtfulness, I suggested that she try to imbibe some of the salty juice I had deposited in Bruno's asshole. Pleased with my suggestion, she thrust his legs up and applied her tongue. I could trace the play of Bruno's muscles as he strained to eject some of my cream.
Marcy licked her lips appreciatively.
"I wasn't able to get much. But it was superb. Richer than when it's straight from your cock, darling. Muskier. How shall I describe it? More body to it, I think."
The "body" could be only the hot juices of Bruno's churning insides. Intrigued by Marcy's report, I bent down to practice what I'd preached. Bruno helpfully swung his legs up, and I kissed his ass greedily, anxious for a taste. Again he worked his muscles to eject the precious fluid. A sizeable blob squirted from the duct. I could hardly recognize the taste of my own come. As Marcy had observed, it was muskier, richer. I thought I detected a hint of blood.
I loved them both so much then.
Bruno lay back, well fucked and sucked, one thick arm around each of us. After some hesitation he admitted, "That was a good fuck, Monte. I kinda liked it. Never thought having my ass plugged could be such fun." Suddenly boyish he confided, "I'd like to fuck my own ass. Stick my own dick up there."
"Why, that's easy," Marcy murmured. "There's this little man in East Orange."
"No, no," Bruno interrupted. "I don't want no guy in East Orange. I want the feel of my own schlong up the bung."
"That's what I mean silly," Marcy explained. "This man, Pete Harker, has a charming shop just off Main Street. Tobacco, curios, and dildoes. He'll make an impression of your lovely tool. When it's hard, of course. Then he'll make a life-size dildo. Every mole and vein reproduced. Shove that up your ass and it's the nearest thing to fucking yourself." Marcy was a woman. We couldn't make her understand that there was a subtle difference.
Anyway, this Pete Harker stuff made me wonder. Just how much of a swinging cunt was this twat? I knew hep guys swinging all their lives who'd never even heard of Harker's dildo emporium.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bruno's visits were frequent and usually welcome. He provided three useful additions to our happy home: his prick, tongue, and ass. Except for these goodies, he was sometimes a bore.
He got into the habit of proposing to Marcy. I remember the first time I heard him beg shyly, "Marry me. Please marry me." I happened just then to be plugging his big asshole; while I boffed, Marcy sat nearby buffing her toenails. It was impossible to determine which of us he was addressing. In either case, acceptance would be unfeasible.
If he meant me, he quickly dropped the proposition. But he kept pestering his sister with offers of marriage and other improbable schemes.
Then, there was always the fear that his sadistic tendencies would find expression on our innocent pelts. I have a sneaking tenderness for a good whipping. Marcy had never declared herself pro or con. But neither of us especially longed to be a victim.
One morning, Marcy and I woke up to find ourselves bound together at wrist and ankle. Our naked friend and brother was standing at the side of the bed, the tip of his joint extending five inches over the bed, a belt in his raised hand.
"Excuse me, I have to get to work early," I said with what force I could muster.
He dropped the belt, looking sheepish, and swallowing his pride allowed us to suck him. I was nibbling his balls when he gave Marcy the creamy reward for her gallant duty. Then I had to submit to a blow-job because my wife dearly loved taking on cock while her mouth was still half full of fresh spunk.
I was late at the office, but at least arrived without bruises. Next time, we might not be so lucky.
Another sore point with Bruno was the question of his wife and Children. The unmentionables. I had given Marcy a laundered version of my meeting with her brother on West 48th Street. Since then, she had a healthy feminine curiosity about her sister-in-law, niece, and nephew. And of course she thought of squaring our intimate circle.
Bruno steadfastly refused to comment. Marcy found this galling.
Then one afternoon he called my office. Could I take the children for a day or so? He had to go out of town on business. And his wife was on a "visit"-for which I instinctively translated, "is in the Women's House of Detention."
Marcy was delighted when I told her I was bringing home little Lora and Allan. She said that she would spend the afternoon preparing things to make them feel at home. I thought--one good leather strap should do the trick! But I said nothing.
The children were touchingly excited and on their best behavior in the car. To them, Acton Heights was deep in the country. They expected cows and chickens on our lawn. Instead, they found their loving Aunt Marcy.
My wife was in her mercifully brief maternal stage. She cooked a nourishing dinner featuring buttered carrots, and for dessert oatmeal cookies. Golly! I couldn't take more than a day of this.
Maternal Marcy got the brats ready for bed. Insisted on undressing them, bathing them, and tucking them in. I sat it out in front of the T.V. Eventually, she hobbled in, damp with bath water.
"Got them set for the night?"
She brushed my question aside. "Monte, did you ever realize how interesting, how downright sexy a budding child can be?"
Christ! What had I started when I broadened this cunt's horizon!
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I've just bathed the darlings. Lora has the body of a little angel. I never knew that a slit could be so tight."
"What did you do, slip her a dildo?"
"No, silly, a soapy finger."
"What about Allan? Did you soap him up too?"
"He's adorable. Going to be a real he-man. He has a cute little pecker. Got a little erection when I soaped him."
"I'll bet he did. Where are they sleeping? They're a bit too old to bunk in together."
Marcy looked astonished. "Naturally not together. Allan's in our room. I put your things in the guest room. With Lora."
"Marcy! Are you back on the youth kick? That delivery boy was young, but Allan-your own nephew-is a baby."
"He's not a baby at all. He's nearly 12."
"I shall sleep with Allan," I declared firmly.
"So you can have him suck your cock?"
I started to protest that this was outrageous. Could a 12 year old really do a good job? Come to think of it, why the fuck couldn't he? Then Marcy shot out some pertinent questions. How about those cozy hours I spent at the closet peephole? Did I consider myself a baby then? Or was I capable of doing my bit? The only honest answer was, "Hmmm, I get the point. Exactly! And Allan was older now than I was during those jerk-off months in the closet.
What about little doll-like Lora? She couldn't have hair on her cookie yet. I'd never touched a bald mound-except one professional stripper, and hers was bristly. Would Lora's be smooth? Exciting? If I spread her legs, would I feel impelled to fuck her? Could a little girl like Lora take a man-sized prick?
I asked the expert. "Can a little girl like Lora take a prick?"
Marcy considered before speaking. "She'll need a little training. Honestly, I don't know what her mother's been thinking. Such an upbringing! She'll need the full year's course before she's ready. Finger, pencil, candle."
That night we compromised on the sleeping arrangements. When the girl was asleep, I carried her to her little brother's bed.
Early the next day Marcy began her lessons to prepare Lora for womanhood, or at least to stretch her cunny. I took Allan to the ball game. I watched him munch popcorn. Come now, is this kid going to be your wife's next lover?
Soon after dinner, impetuous Marcy brought things to a boil. Her voice from upstairs called me in to the bedroom. I thought-I have to screw early tonight. My mistress must be in bed by 7:30.
Marcy had the kids in their underwear. She was stripped down to bra and panties.
"We're all having our baths," she said in a falsely jovial voice. I started undressing slowly, feeling clumsy and foolish. Marcy unhooked her bra and shook two big tits in Allan's face. His eyes bulged. Lucky little bastard.
"The bath's ready, children. Who's first?"
Lora shyly allowed Marcy to strip off her rayon panties. Almost in spite of myself, I stared. Like a little boy without a pecker, Lora had no curves where curves ought to be. Except just a hint of hips and a cute little ass that jiggled as she ran off to the bathroom. Marcy went to supervise. Left alone, we menfolk stripped without embarrassment.
Very soon the girls were back, Marcy bare-ass, Lora wrapped in a towel. Allan was goggling at my wife, just as the girl in the towel was straining her eyes in my direction-at crotch level.
Just to make sure that the kid got a good look at my limp dick, Marcy said softly to Lora, "See the little dolly. Just as I told you."
Gravely, Lora whispered, "It's like daddy's."
"Now Uncle Monte will tuck you in."
Uncle Monte, with his little dolly swinging, stepped forward. Uncle Monte, feeling like a potential child murderer, tucked in, naked little Lora. Deliberately, I put my hand on her hairless cookie. No reaction. "Tickle, tickle." She began to giggle girlishly. I tickled her toes, under her knees, right up to her snatch.
She was such a little thing, soft, nice to tickle. I estimated that my prick, hard, would extend from her crotch halfway up to her neck. Or maybe, when it was really stiff and thick with running fuck juice.
Just for the hell of it, when she was at her giggly peak, I tried to stick my finger up her baby twat. I couldn't get in past my fingernail, and she had abruptly stopped giggling.
Good night!
Now for Allan's bath.
The boy was allowed to soak alone for a minute so I could talk to his Aunt Marcy.
"Look, honey, I'm just not in a child-murdering mood tonight. Maybe if she were two or three years older. Sure, who wouldn't want a brand-new snatch! But this one-"
"Ellen would suit you."
"Look, matchmaker, your niece Ellen is a very dull little girl, like her fucking mother and father."
"You said Susie was a dull little girl."
Susie. Susie and the pirate. She was on the reserved side, until she got her legs open and a good stiff prong in her. I remembered how much I wanted to screw her those days. I wondered how it would be to lay Ellen, open her up. Keeping it in mind, I changed the subject.
"Are you actually planning to seduce that poor boy in there? Do you really need a 12 year old prick when I'm always glad to give you mine. If you ask in a nice way. Hmmm?"
Marcy skipped lightly out of my arms. "Darling, I'm always glad to have it. No, I'm not going to seduce him. For his own good. If I give him a taste of pussy now, he'll be miserable till he has it again. And who can he get in the next year or two?" Faultless logic.
"Anyway," Marcy smiled fondly at me, "you've accustomed me to something bigger. So I won't seduce him, but I will just grab a bite."
That took place when Allan was sleeping. Marcy tip-toed in, pulled down the sheet, and covered his little pecker with her lips. The scene looked touchingly domestic. Like a mother bestowing a fond peck on her child's big toe.
But the kiss was prolonged. Very prolonged. I realized that Marcy was sucking, really giving a blow job. I moved closer. Marcy looked up and let his cock out of her mouth to show me. I've seen smaller ones on some unfortunate men. Allan took after his father.
"IF-I stop now, he can get a neurosis," Marcy whispered, and resumed sucking. Psychology evens things up nicely. The boy took sadistic lashes to avoid a neurosis. Now he was having his prick sucked for the same reason.
My wife stood up, contented. "The darling boy shot. Very salty. Thinner than I'd expect; he must be pulling it like crazy."
On the threshold I looked back. Eyes open, Master Allan was wide awake and grinning like a pasha.
Watching my wife cavort with young Allan made me more eager to try Lora. But with nagging reservations. Bruno would consider it good clean fun. But if I did anything to the girl, her mother would surely have me up for murder. Or worse. Like womb-tearing.
"Leave it up to me." Marcy was in fine spirits, with a dose of salty sperm down her gullet. In the morning, I thought, she'll feel differently.
That Sunday passed slowly till bedtime. The children's bedtime. I kept stealing glances at little Lora. She was sweet as an angel, happy in our charming family atmosphere. So fragile and delicate. Someday she'd have a cock in her white body. A plunging rapier cutting through her insides. I kept stealing glances and getting a wicked hard-on.
Marcy bustled in. "I just got Lora under the cover. Now I'm going to suck off Allan. Are you going to give him a chance to eat you?"
"I'm not in the mood, honey."
"Too bad. It would be such a plus experience for the little darling." She tripped off to make Allan happy. Soon she was back. "Still grumpy?"
"I'm not grumpy. I just feel like fucking."
Marcy brightened. "Well, come on, sweet."
To our bedroom. Marcy switched on a lamp. There was an obstruction on the bed. Lora. Lora asleep, blonde curls tumbling over her placid, pink-white face.
"The light won't disturb her," Marcy said in conversational tones. "Nothing will. I slipped her a pill in the cocoa."
I looked aghast. Marcy assured me that it was just a harmless sleeping pill.
We undressed. Marcy turned down the covers and gently removed Lora's panties. Such a smooth little body. I wanted to feel my cock against that velvet skin. My prick was stiff and ready. I got into position at her feet, opened her legs, and applied my tongue to the little slit. She stirred in her sleep. I stroked her round thighs, then closed her legs and pressed my hot dick on her little hairless mound. It was soft, slightly rubbery, inviting to a roving cock. Just a soft crease disappearing into her crotch. I kept myself centered and pressed forward. Up her belly, between her unformed little' tits, to her neck. My stiff whang touched her cheeks, her mouth, her eyelids. I slid back to rest my joint on her baby mound. The feel was good, soothing. I reached for her hands stretched out in sleep. I pressed them to my peter, holding them there, her little fingers tight on the sensitive underside of my rod. I rubbed over her mound, swinging back and forth, like fucking. So good! So fucking, fucking good!
Marcy jabbed a finger up my ass, and that did it. I had all I could do to keep from falling on the kid and crushing her. A thick wad of my cream hit her directly on the lips. It dribbled down as if she'd just had a mouthful of prick. I was still shooting-hitting her fingers, her chin, her little mound.
I climbed out of the saddle. Marcy licked the last drops of spunk from my drooping joint. "That was such a wonderful flow, darling," Marcy admired. "Look, she's covered with it!" My sticky come was all over the little body.
Marcy gathered up the biggest blob from around the girl's mouth. She spread Lora's legs, and applied her come-smeared fingers to the narrow cunt opening.
"I'm so proud of you, darling. You didn't actually screw her. But yours is the first love offering in her sweet little cunny."
It's inevitable. Stick your fingers in a 10 year old twat and you want to try for 13.
Getting in Marcy's niece Ellen became an obsession. Even luring her into our house was a tricky proposition. Lora had fallen into our laps; we had to sweat to get Ellen. At least, Marcy had to sweat. I was suspect in the eyes of my in-laws-except Bruno. Someone had noticed a bulge in my pants at the wedding. Since then, I was labelled, "that sex maniac."
Marcy's sister would never have allowed her dear daughter Ellen to sleep over at our house. Not if "that sex maniac" was in it. So Marcy went to see her, dressed like a widow and weepy. She sobbed that I was away on a long, long trip, and she was lonely. There was the usual femme chit-chat and dickering. But who was a match for my Marcy! Her womanly wiles were as developed as her womanly snatch. Finally, she convinced her sister to lend her Ellen. "With that sweet girl in the house I won't be lonely." So Marcy came home with a package.
A package. I hadn't seen the girl in nearly a year. I expected something like Lora, doll-like, undeveloped, with maybe a few short hairs on her pussy. Ellen was a self-possessed young lady, neat, slightly shorter than Marcy. With curly chestnut hair floating down her shoulders. Delicate features and warm eyes flecked with amber. Softly curved tits and the generous hips of a lady. Sweet, innocent, virginal. But was she available?
"The trip was cancelled." My thespian talents, in mothballs all those years, gave that line the proper pizzazz. I was the tired exec, crushed because he had to return home to wife and virgin.
Ellen was impressed. "Poor Uncle Monte! Did it mean so much to you?"
Not so much that your young cunt won't console me.
We played it slow and easy. Having a confederate like Marcy was like being a burglar with a locksmith for a moll. Within 24 hours, she was making a preliminary report on the terrain.
"Monte, she's lovely. We've been trying on clothes and things. Ellen is stunning. Not full-blown and gorgeous like me. Delicate, budding." Marcy sighed.
I knew the signs. "Honey, have you been in her twat already?"
Marcy crossed her heart. "Honest. Not even a finger. She says she has a boy friend. Someone at school. But she never lets him do anything. Not that she wouldn't love it. At her age, an innocent date in the afternoon means using a candle at night."
"So now what?"
"Now she has to see us screwing. That should set her off. Either that or stag movies."
How could we get her to watch us fucking? Drill a hole in her closet? Then lure her to the closet, dash back to my room, mount Marcy, and go to it? A possibility. But the closet in the room we gave Ellen didn't face our bedroom at all.
The movie idea was better.
Our choice of film must be made carefully. Should I keep it in the family, show one of mother's old epics? Marcy suggested that I choose one different. "The heroine should be like Ellen herself. Someone she can identify with." More fucking psychology. But she was right.
Besides peddling made-to-order dildoes, Pete Harker rented films and projectors. I drove out to his shop in East Orange. A woman was in the display room, hunched over a counter. I meandered over to the back quarters.
Pete was there, measuring a guy. The customer stood with his pants open, showing a roaring hard-on. A big guy, red-faced and red-pricked. With deft impersonal probing, Pete got the measurements. He quickly drew a sketch of the upright peter.
"Thank you, sir. Very good likeness. It should be ready by Thursday. Our special filling?"
"Yeah." The customer stood contemplating his rigid prong. "Do me a favor, Pete. Send in Clara."
"His wife," Pete whispered as we left the hard-on and returned to the front of the shop. The woman was now pacing the floor, her boobs hanging down to her waistline. Pete told her she was wanted.
"Nearly all of them are ready for screwing after a fitting," Pete explained. "That guy's a good customer."
Already we could hear Clara moaning.
"What's the special filling, Pete? Real gism?"
"Naw. Gism y' gotta use when it's fresh. I have my own concoction," he declared with pride. "Same consistency and taste as come shot from a healthy prick. Recipe's a secret. But the special is really special. Best fuckin' champagne on the market. They say when they press the button an' get a champagne squirting, it tickles the cunt like a bastard!
"This guy's a steady customer. Orders a new implement every time he goes on the road. I like a guy who shows consideration for his missus. Clara split the last one open, shoving it up a sailor. Uh-that's confidential."
I promised I wouldn't tell, and watched him at his work. For a minute, Pete pored over the sketch of the customer's cock, erasing, extending the lines two inches down, one across. "Y' gotta make 'em bigger or they claim it ain't their prick. Say you're cheating on the rubber."
Clara and her husband drifted in, smiling after their two minute rutting. Hand in hand, they left the store.
I told Pete I was looking around for a film. "Watcha have in mind?"
"Something suitable for a nubile virgin. Explicit but not showy."
"I gottcha." He rummaged among stacks of films.
"Virgin, huh?" He pulled out a can of film. "This'll show 'er what a cock looks like. It's called Marooned. Beautiful scenery. Shot on an island in California somewhere. These four sailors are shipwrecked, see? On this fuckin' island with nothing to do but screw each other an' suck."
Reluctantly, I told Pete that Marooned didn't sound suitable.
"O. K., take this. Burning Flesh. Entire production filmed in London, England. Big S-M seller. Big fuckin' cast. There's this horny schoolmaster, the girl students, the boy students, a fuckin' whip, an' a nice pack o' matches. It's kinda clean in a way. I mean, he's got the cocks lined up on one side, cunts on the other. Whips 'em and screws 'em, and then sets fire to a twat for a finale."
"You mean that he actually burns a pussy?"
"I think they use dry ice. But those English are so fuckin' realistic. Y' c'n swear y' smell burning cunt." As an initiation into the joys of sex, Burning Flesh wasn't all that promising.
Pete was patient. He pulled out another round can of film. "This y' gotta see. Animal Farm. A technical masterpiece. I wouldn't screw ya. The opening's a little slow. Gang o' fuckin' kids teaching chickens t' peck at their privates. But, shit, when it moves to the barn! There's this beautiful milkmaid horny for horse cock. Wait till y' see the pulley arrangement they set up t' bring them together on target."
My face told the story. Pete found another film can.
"This is it, Mr. Barnes. You said a virgin, right? This here Fanny's First Kiss is made for a deal like that. Shows this fuckin' virgin on her way to her first screw. Kinda mushy, but it's a pretty good fuck."
Pete's taste was impeccable. I paid for Fanny's First Kiss and a few harmless reels to open our film program. Like Motoring through Yellowstone Park and planting the Flag on Mt. Everest.
That night we offered a special treat for our dainty houseguest. Dutifully, she admired our trip through the national park, although we were mysteriously out of camera range. The film was old and choppy enough to be authentic. The mountain climbing film was almost entirely as white as the screen. Ellen stifled a yawn, but said, "Oh, goodie," when Marcy the projectionist announced the next selection. "And this is Monte and me on our honeymoon.
It wasn't. This was Fanny and her stud on their honeymoon.
The opening shot showed the hero, fully dressed, pacing up and down, trying to look soulful.
"People in the next cabin," Marcy explained. Actually the setting looked like, and was, a seedy room in a west side fleabag; but Ellen wasn't very observant.
The hero looked up, thunderstruck. He went to open the door ... to a girl who had obviously come for screwing. Before she said hello, she demurely slipped off her stole and the blouse underneath it. The stud took up the usual stance-hand on tit, other hand on bra strap. Fanny looked reluctant and struggled for nearly ten seconds before she allowed him to unfasten the bra. Even on that old grainy film you could see that her heavy boobs were already covered with hickeys. After adding a few, the stud got down to business.
The screen was filled with the close-up of a zipper and Fanny's hot little hand on the fly. Abruptly, the lights went on and the projector whirred to a stop.
"I forgot," Marcy stammered, "t-that couple in the next c-cabin were-" She didn't have to go on. We looked at Ellen. Her expression was like Marcy's when I played hard to get with my staff resting on her twat lips.
"Please, may I see the rest of the film?"
Marcy nudged me and I slipped out to give the girls a chance for a conference. To give Marcy time enough to allow herself to be persuaded. Soon I was called back to the living room.
"I believe Ellen dear is mature enough to witness this expression of love," Marcy said with a straight face.
On with the film-the expression of love.
I should have sat on the couch alongside Ellen. An avuncular pat on the thigh. A testing finger to see if her cunt was wetting on schedule. Instead, I reluctantly stayed put on the armchair.
If you read lips, Fanny's First Kiss was a weird expression of love. The usual endearment, directed somewhere off camera, was, "Whadda y' want us t' do now?"
"Zis where he screws me?"
Slowly, tantalizingly, as if the first couple to fuck on film, the performers stripped. Fanny was a well-built girl with swinging hips, a fat ass, and legs that opened automatically. The stud must have been called to work when the regular man didn't show up. With his equipment, he'd have to do some fancy fucking to make her know she was getting it. But Ellen was impressed. I thought-this must be the first prick she's ever seen. If this makes her catch her breath, wait till she sees my real-life, nice to touch rod.
The movie stars had retired to a lumpy bed. Fanny's legs were up in the air. The stud had planted Fanny's first kiss directly on her twat. Now he was pushing his peter in past the saliva. In the semi-dark, I could see Ellen slowly move her body, gyrate her hips in fucking motions.
The stud cocked his ear, obviously listening to an off-camera order. Probably, "Slow up, we have a quarter reel to go." The performer obeyed orders. He pulled nearly out and rested as if taking a break for coffee. But Fanny really wanted it. She began to buck in spasms of outrage, trying to force the cock deep in her cunt. The movements were wild and abandoned-not a gesture according to the scenario. The scenes of that cunt in torment were real Academy Award caliber.
Ellen openly displayed her reaction by unconsciously repeating the churning. And when the stud got back into action, the poor girl practically fucked herself in the semi-darkness. Enough of the fucking flickering fuckers! I jumped up to show her the real thing But Fanny's first kiss-and 2000th fuck-had come to a sticky end. Marcy kept the-projector running, the lights out. When she turned the switch, a minute later, Ellen's chair was empty. She had slipped out of the room.
"Good sign," Marcy observed complacently. "Gone to change her drawers."
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next step on the agenda was the re-enacting of the stag movie this time to star, in person, those two renowned fuckers, Monte and Marcy Barnes.
My leading lady and producer planned this step after consultation with the audience of one, Ellen. I got the first inkling that something was brewing at dinner. Ellen, who was usually gay and talkative, was utterly silent, eyes on her plate, eating very little. Later, Marcy made a puzzling suggestion.
"Darling, why don't you move the wing chair up to the bedroom? For years I've thought we should have a wing chair."
No sense arguing with the cunt. I lugged up the high-backed chair.
"Where do you want it?"
"In the corner."
The ceiling sloped down in that corner of our bedroom. It was shadowy, just a fucking little dark corner. The last thing it needed was a wing chair. Facing the wall yet!
"O. K. All set. Now what?"
Marcy smiled sweetly. "Now you can take your shower."
I showered, padded back to the empty bedroom. Took a quick count of the bills in my wallet.
"Hi."
If I jumped another inch, my skin would be standing besides me!
"What the fuck!"
Marcy's head appeared over the back of the wing chair, looking perky and damned well satisfied.
"Visibility is excellent," she smirked. "That was two twenties, two tens and a single you counted."
"Spying?"
"Testing."
I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of asking what the fuck she was testing. Instead, I said, "I'm going down for a night cap," to which she answered, "Take your time, sweetie."
The explanation came when I climbed up a few minutes later. My wife met me at the door, flustered. "Ellen's in there," she whispered tersely. "Huddled in the wing chair. Darling," she urged me, "do it good. Fuck me with feeling. That girl's whole future depends on it."
Man, I never felt such a fucking sense of duty!
Marcy had left one lamp burning. We undressed, and I kept stealing glances at the wing chair. The back was high enough to hide her. The shadows were so deep there I couldn't see her. But I felt amber eyes trained on me. It was a good feeling, really. Marcy and I enjoyed playing to the gallery. We undressed more slowly than usual. Most times, I'd be in bed with a hard-on, yelling, "Come on, fuck the curlers."
Tonight it was you-unbutton-my-shirt, I'll-unzip your-dress. Like ham actors, we started by playing to the audience. Then we forgot the footlights. The play held all our interest. I helped Marcy take off her panties, then turned to the wing chair to show Ellen a prick standing at strict attention. I thought I noticed her eyes glint in the shadows. No doubt an optical illusion. But the sound of her now raspy breathing was no fucking illusion.
I kissed Marcy's boobs and tweaked her nipples. I patted her thighs and started her purring. I tried a tongue in the twat and came out dripping.
"Fuck me!"
What that any language for a 13 year old to hear!
I shoved my rod in her hairy pussy. Revolved it in rhythm to her throbbing. Marcy clutched me and pressed me to her. I chewed on her tits and fell forward. I swooped into her cunt like an eagle-and gave her a merciless rutting.
I couldn't tell who did the screaming. Surely some of it came from the wing chair. We kissed and put out the lamp, still locked together. A figure crept past, covertly panting. Ellen making her exit.
Before falling asleep, I murmured, "Won't this frustration give the kid blue balls?"
"It'll do her good, darling. Tomorrow she'll ask for a fucking."
The following day it looked as if she'd ask for no more than an aspirin. Or maybe permission to cut short her visit. The poor kid was pale, jumpy, unhappy. We dined that night at dirge tempo. If Ellen was totally silent, Marcy wasn't much better. She was protective toward the girl, but to me she seemed sort of resentful. Was I doing something wrong? Maybe she wanted me to start screwing on the kitchen table. Then she'd complain that I broke her best china.
Fuck it! From now on I'd eat at the diner. The one down the hill where they made such good coffee. A hot cup of java would hit the spot right now. Why not? I slammed the door hard on the way out.
When I returned, the house was dark and quiet.
Maybe the girls went out for coffee. I went upstairs, lit a cigarette, and started peeling. I had my shorts off, in my hand, when the girls made their entrance. Marcy barging in grandly, with her timid niece in tow. Both in pajamas.
Such perfect timing! I balled up my shorts, holding them over my cock, not too carefully. Instead of exulting-this is it! I thought-where did she get those snazzy pajamas? Marcy went to bed properly naked, or maybe in her shortie nightgown. Little girl pajamas weren't her style at all. Yet they suited her fine. She and Ellen looked like sisters. Of course, that's where she got them. From Ellen.
Marcy was propelling her forward. The girl took one step toward me. Faltering, her mouth working, trembling.
"I-I-" Another inch forward and I held her. Stroking her silky chestnut hair, anything to keep her from bawling.
"C'mon, kid. Stop crying. Everything's going to be fine. Nothing to-"
The sobbing stopped abruptly. Ellen's slender body stiffened. She moved back slightly. I thought-here's where she says, "Oh, what must you think of me?"-or some such shit.
But this was Ellen, and there was a strain of Marcy in her. She had moved back to give herself room to point effectively. She pointed a finger and said accusingly, "It-it looks different!"
The finger, naturally, was directed at my crotch, where a prick was hanging limply. I forgot that Ellen had started on the top. The cocks she had seen, the stud's on film and mine last night, were standing up stiff and ready. What a blow to her girlish libido to see a man's meat dangling dejectedly!
"That's the way they come, honey. I mean-they're different when you come. But they're like this uh-before and after. The change occurs when a man is excited. Like if I was to hold you tight and kiss-" I held her tight and kissed her.
She was cuddly and soft and willing. I unbuttoned her jacket buttons. Her titties were cool white beauties. I sucked them till the nipples stood up hard, and I jammed my own hard-on against her.
As if I were continuing a lecture, I said, "You see the effect?"
Eyes glittering, she made a most adept pupil. "Yes, I see," she whispered. "How beautiful!" She tightened delicate fingers over my shaft, right under the pulpy head. Squeezing. "So big and beautiful!"
"There's a way to get it bigger."
I opened her pajama pants and they fell. Her legs were slim and very white. The raised mound was a treasure. I like a thick hairy bush. Ellen's was more delicate. The hair was curly, the finest spun silk. "Once it touches hair, it gets bigger."
I rubbed my stiff prong against the silk, and damned if it didn't get bigger. Hunched over her jutting tits, I let her feel the hardness tight against her soft belly. She was moaning already, almost crooning, stroking my hair, happy.
She opened her mouth to speak, and I stood straight, erect, to face her. Man to woman.
"Are-are you going to put your penis into my vagina?"
"Look, honey, if we're going to be pals, don't use that kind of talk. You want me to do it?"
Her young fresh face was radiant with affirmation. For the first time since the old motel days with Marcy, I carried a woman to bed. She was light and slender, but her clinging arms were woman's arms, clutching me nearer to her, trembling.
I spread her thighs to admire her tender young cunt. Here too the hairs were silky, and the slit was so narrow that I had to hold back my thrusting finger.
"Can you?" Her voice was a tremulous whisper. "Can I what, sweetheart?"
"C-can you put that big thing in my vagina?"
"You make it sound like a fuckin' clinic!" I didn't mean to be gruff and to scare her. "Look, honey, it's a big cock, but a woman's cunt can take it. We just have to be careful. It's going to hurt. Just at first, Ellen. Sure you want it?"
I knew damn well she wanted it.
Her slim body was shaking, pleading for it.
"I know it will hurt, Uncle Monte. But I want it. I want you to do it."
"Say, 'I want you to fuck me.' "
"I want you to fuck me."
"I want you to fuck your prick in my pussy."
"-to fuck your prick in my pussy."
Those words don't mean a fucking thing till you hear them from a 13 year old virgin under you.
"It'll hurt when I break your cherry. After that, you're a woman. You'll enjoy a lifetime of fucking." Ellen threw herself into my arms, kissing me with the passion of a woman. It was more than stoically accepting pain. She was embracing it, demanding it. She knew that my massive rod would sear her tender slit, tear her membrane apart without mercy. But she wanted it, yearned for it.
"Fuck me, Monte," she whispered girlishly. Tear my cunt. Fuck me."
"I don't want to hurt you." Marcy gave me the vasoline I hadn't used since the first time I plugged Bruno's asshole. She massaged some of the grease on the head of my prong, getting it ready for the long trip ahead. I dipped into the jar and smeared the stuff into Ellen's hairy gash.
I got on my knees between her legs. My breathing sounded loud in the hushed room. Marcy and Ellen were motionless and quiet. My wife was holding the girl's hand tightly, imparting courage. I ran my fingers lightly up Ellen's thighs, right up to the cunt. Holding my cock in my hand, I lowered my body down onto her.
Goodbye, girlhood. Now you're gonna get it.
My prick was nestled in her crotch and I murmured little broken phrases, ready to press forward. Her voice was stronger now, without a trace of fear. "Put it into me."
I parted the lips of her twat and pushed the big head of my cock into her up to the membrane. Pushing firmly but not hard enough to break it. Her greased snatch was already moist with her juices. I glanced down at her slender, pliant body under me. I had the urge to push down on her with all my weight, lacerate her. Instead I braced myself for the one thrust that sets the blood and desire spilling.
The fucking maidenhead was tough, but my iron-bar was tougher. I gave the one solid lunge that was needed, broke the obstruction, drove straight into her.
One good loud scream of pain. A flow of blood dripping on to my peter. Then she smiled shyly, but triumphant. The worst was over. She wanted a good fuck. Now she could enjoy it.
Ellen was a natural. Most cunts would be moaning. She was swaying, moving her body in fuck motion, the pain and blood already forgotten. Already enjoying the sensation of having her cunt stuffed with cock muscle. I was fucking her now with long, slow strokes, the full in-and-out treatment. I'd pull nearly ' out, leaving the head in her throbbing pussy, then push all the way in till our bellies slapped together.
She was sighing, arching upward, straining to get more and more of it. Her arms reached around me and she grabbed a handful of ass. Marcy had been helpfully jabbing her finger into me. Now she gracefully withdrew it. Ellen clutched my ass, squeezing, pressing me to her with every thrust. And that made me thrust faster and deeper.
Again she screamed, "I-I feel funny! Ohhh!" The cries were shrieks of delight. I knew she was coming. She bounced on the bed, mouth open, screaming. Trying to get more of my prick as she enjoyed a luxurious orgasm. Her hot juices were bathing my prick in a flaming cauldron. In to the hilt, on top without moving, I let her come.
When the torrent abated, she was begging me to fuck her.
"Do it! Jam it into me."
That would usually be my signal to make her really crouch down and plead for it. Keep her little cunt hungry so that her whole life would be just the need for it.
Marcy was silent, but I looked up and read her expression. "Don't be cruel this time. Give it to her."
So I gave it to her. All she wanted. Every beating inch of my rod, I slammed it into her. Her supple twat muscles closed over my prick like a vise, and now I was doing the groaning.
Groaning and lunging into the tight sucking crevice. A few more strokes, her legs wrapped around me. My body shook, one last tremor. I felt myself coming. One last lunge so she'd never forget it.
"Take it! Take it! I'm coming!"
I shot hot cream deep in her belly. And squirted and squirted. Her hungry cunt lapped every drop and loved it.
I rolled off, and Marcy's soft arms held me. "Lover, you were simply magnificent."
Ellen languorously whispered, "Do it again."
I didn't feel like explaining. Marcy told her that men need a short rest between bouts. Ellen looked dubious. And hungry.
"Darling, I know how you feel," Marcy hugged her. "Your little cunny is throbbing for it."
Ellen nodded eagerly.
"Well, dear, men are weak. We must give Monte a moment to recuperate. Meanwhile, I know just what to do for you. You see, if I kiss it there, it will be so soothing and restful." She hissed the sibilants through teeth sharpened by desire.
"No." Ellen was not to be deterred. Greedy, well filled, now empty, she wanted only to be filled again. She grabbed my reddened tool, squeezing. "I want it. I'll die for it!"
That's the difference between a cunt and a cock. A cunt will die for it. A cock will kill for it.
I would be ready very soon. But I had to come to bat for Marcy, even after that men-are-weak bit. "Sweetheart," I told Ellen, "when a prick isn't available, girls can manage together. Didn't you girls at school rub pussies?"
Ellen shook her head blankly. Marcy mouthed the word "retarded."
"Let Marcy show you." To start her off, I jabbed my finger up her moist snatch. Now she lay back, legs wide open, ready for anything, for a blowtorch to be inserted. Marcy's tongue was more soothing than a torch, but it also set off sparks flaring.
At first the girl was lethargic. Then she began to grind her hips, enjoying the warm sensation inside her. Marcy's head was in Ellen's crotch, her black hair tumbled mop between the girl's thighs, her lips firmly between the girl's twat lips. "Oh, it's heavenly. More! Oh, Marcy!"
Marcy stopped abruptly.
"Darling, there's a way that makes is so much more exciting. I'll show you." She lay flat, drawing the slim figure over her till they were in the 69 position. Again she thrust her tongue into the girl's hot box. Now Marcy's womanly cunt was directly over the sweet, girlish mouth. Ellen hesitated a minute. Then she tilted her head slightly upward. Her lips were jammed against my wife's hairy muff. Ellen's pink tongue appeared between her opened lips-then she started to chew.
Having a probing tongue in her gash set Marcy off in a fury of writhing movements as if she wanted to swallow the girl whole. On her part, the once reluctant Ellen was eating her aunt voraciously.
They twisted, wriggling, squirming, tossing in spasms that forced their crushed tits to joggle against their sweating bellies. Lapping, chomping, chewing their open hungry snatches. Forgetting everything except their bodies. Until they lay back, dripping and panting.
"She has an amazing capacity for absorbing," Marcy informed me. "Do you know, I couldn't get a trace of your come in her. Truly amazing!"
"Honey, if you really want a taste of it-"
"Darling, you're so good to me!"
My rod had come to attention during the cunt-to-cunt sucking. An extra tongue just then would have made me ecstatic. Now I had the reward for my patience. Marcy leaned over my thighs, kissed my balls, and started to nibble.
"Can you suck a cock as well as a pussy?" Ellen was wide-eyed at this new revelation, observing her beautiful Aunt Marcy. "Oh, please, may I?"
I'd cut off my prick rather than do a mean trick like switching mouths in mid-blow-job. Even though the thought of ramming my hard-on between Ellen's dainty lips was intoxicating. Marcy was an understanding and generous woman. She allowed my wet staff to hit the air, and when she could catch her breath, offered, "You try it."
Ellen had already parted her lips to receive me. I was a little angry at the arrogant little cunt, cutting Marcy off like that. My whang was stiff to the bursting point, the head swollen gigantic. I pushed it in. Then, instead of letting her get accustomed to the first prick in her mouth, I shoved it all the way down her throat.
She gagged helplessly, eyes wide, tears falling. She would have choked if I hadn't pulled back, out of danger. I moved out of her warm mouth altogether to give her a chance to recover. But she was a glutton for punishment. She pressed her head over my nuts so that my balls nuzzled her cheeks, my cock jumping against her closed lips. Rocking her smooth skin against me. Then again her tongue shot out to bathe my balls and prick in her sweet saliva. Panting now to have it, she opened her mouth, and I rammed it in deep. But not deep enough to hurt her. Bravely, she took another fat inch, then began sucking.
Marcy made do with my asshole, a second choice often preferred by the knowing. She liked the healthy earthiness given of by a man's broad ass. Especially when he's heaving, sending his cock down the throat of another. This time, Marcy was more delicate, probing gently the sensitive rim of my bottom, while Ellen glutted her throat with my ramrod.
Worked at both ends by those two playful lovelies, I couldn't hold off more than a minute. I shot out my gism in silence, flooding Ellen's throat with my fury. She gulped helplessly. When I pulled my whacker out, some of my cream oozed out with it.
Marcy and I took a long husband-wife shower.
Ellen was still in the bed. When we came back, she asked in a humble, little girl voice, "Before I go, could you do it once more? Just once more fill my cunny."
So humble I couldn't be angry.
I rumpled her hair. "Look, honey, you don't have to leave. Sleep in here. You're welcome. But the next go is strictly for Marcy. Don't forget, we're married."
She looked at Marcy with venom. "Fuck you," she mumbled, and took off for the guest room.
"See me tomorrow," I called after her. I turned to Marcy who was sitting up giggling. "We're going to have our hands full with that one!"
Marcy smothered a giggle. "Can you blame her?"
She squeezed tight on my joint, the way I taught her. For the rest of the night, I had my hands full with Marcy.
In the morning, I administered to Ellen. She was fresh and lovely in the morning, and ready for screwing. And the next morning and the next and all day Sunday. She was insatiable, never really satisfied until her awakened slit was well filled-and then she yearned for the next plugging.
Belatedly, I asked, "Don't you want to save it for your husband?"
"You're my husband!" Maybe not a husband, but I was certainly more than an uncle.
Marcy began to fear that Ellen would become promiscuous. But our house guest assured her, "Oh, never. As long as I have a prick in my pussy, I'll never be promiscuous."
Her visit went on, past the original two weeks. I began to get desperate. "How about pimply-ass Calvin?" I asked Marcy. "Think he would go for her?"
"Calvin's very selective," Marcy said primly, "He balls only seductive older women."
I begged my old buddy Hank to take the young cunt off my hands. "You fool," he yelled, "don't you know? If you open them at that age, it's like starting an avalanche. Let her join the army. Or rent her a room near an army camp." Helpful slob.
On dragged the visit-two weeks, a month, two months, the whole fucking summer. She ignored her parents' letters, calls, and telegrams. I tried to be brutal, but when she'd whimper, "I want your cock in me, Monte, I need it," what could I do? Tell her to fuck herself?
Labor Day came. School was about to reopen. At last we became more firm than her parents.
Tearfully, she left. We promised that she could come back for a week-end. The house was quiet, ours again. Marcy and I enjoyed each other blissfully.
On Friday, the doorbell rang again. Without warning. And there she was again. Flushed and happy, she was never prettier. By some trick of the light, she even looked virginal.
"I have the most wonderful news to tell you!"
I thought-Great! She got the football team back home to screw her!
Ellen looked into my eyes, unblinking. In a voice husky with pride, she uttered the two ugliest fucking words in the language:
"I'm pregnant."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Marcy! Do something!"
"Very well. I'll need a scalpel."
Marcy was efficient and ready to be helpful, but her zeal was wasted. Ellen had already made her decision. The dear girl was stubborn as only a spoiled brat can be stubborn. She was determined to have her baby and keep it. I had no personal objection, but I cringed when I thought of her parents. Under the best of conditions, they didn't like me. If they knew I'd knocked up their daughter, they'd see that I did a stretch in the new prison at Trenton. And they say jailbirds are murder on child rapists.
My immediate concern was to get the girl out of reach of her parents. I mulled that one over. There was that jovial doctor on Coney Island Avenue. But he didn't wash his hands, and anyway, Ellen wanted a delivery not an abortion. There was the Home for Unwed Mothers. But I didn't want any kid of mine to come out in such an atmosphere. Then too, a stay in that Home would kill Ellen-no men were ever allowed there.
The solution came along with the mailman.
I received a card from my old buddy, Charley. The Cranes were now dazzling San Francisco. "Looks like we'll stay here a while," Charley had written. " 'The Cave' is packing them in nightly. A little innovation of mine. The waitresses are neither topless nor bottomless. In fact, the waitresses are waiters. But girls are available."
It was all so easy. Charley would take Ellen. With his good care, and Margo's, she would flourish. Later, there'd be a good job open for her. Ellen was girlishly enthusiastic after I explained about the Cranes and the fine employment opportunity. Once in Frisco, she could communicate with her mother, without providing a return address. Automatically, they would search Haight-Asbury for her. While she'd be having morning sickness in Charley's cellar.
We sent an SOS to Charley. He answered like a buddy. Before the day was over, we sent Ellen packing.
One obvious thing remained to be done. Marcy and I had to get our asses out of range of the proud grandparents-to-be. As soon as they put two and two together, they would be heading for Acton Heights-surely with a shotgun.
Our hideout had to be accessible to my office, not too expensive. While I pondered, Marcy whispered, "Westchester."
Westchester. Back in the bosom of my family. An excellent suggestion. Going there would really serve a double purpose. It would keep us under wraps, but mobile. And it would give the new, liberated Marcy a chance to get to know my parents.
I phoned dad. He said of course we were more than welcome. But he sounded harried, preoccupied, somehow different. I told him we'd be up for the week-end, figuring that the week-end would stretch for as long as necessary.
Deep down, I feared that this was going to be one helluva week-end. We would need a dash of wholesome diversion. And dad's tone had made me uneasy. I decided to take an unscheduled run up to Westchester before we moved in on them.
On the way, I stopped at West 48th Street to make sure we'd have a diversion. Before seeing Bruno, I went across the street to the bar for a quick one. And a quick piss in the men's room. Cleo, the Scourge of Jensen's Bar, was still in business. At her old stand beside the urinal. Her fusty skirt was up, some old guy's cock was in her pussy, and I watched the whole performance before flushing. Then I dashed out in time to avoid a solicitation.
Bruno was home alone and glad to see me. As we dressed afterward I invited him and his family to spend an old-fashioned Sunday up in Westchester. Maybe we'd finally get to meet his wife.
"I'll be there," my brother-in-law promised. "I dunno about my family. We'll see. Jeez, that kid of mine, Allan's giving me trouble. Never used to. Now I caught him trying to make Lora suck him off. And only yesterday he had one of the young cunts in the building behind the stairway. I jus' don't know what got into him."
I agreed that such precocious behavior was disturbing. No doubt little Allan had developed a fucking neurosis.
The ancestral mansion in Westchester was unchanged. The same antlers in the baronial hallway. The same family portraits, including the celebrated one of mother as a bare-tittied Juliet. Only the maid was different from the hot-eyed cunt I remembered from last year. This one was sullen and insolent, and looked like Ellen would look six months from now. Very pregnant.
Dad strode out of his den, hand extended. As soon as I saw him, I breathed a sigh of relief. My fears were unfounded. He was healthy and vigorous, more like a matinee idol than producer. I estimated that he was still good for thousands of lusty fucks, with luck, tens of thousands. But he did appear to be slightly flustered.
"Casting, casting!" he explained ruefully. "You know what it takes out of me."
"Is there to be a new Joshua Barnes production, dad?"
"Not immediately. I'm casting for a new maid housekeeper. Such a fucking chore! Have to let Karen go. She's the quim who opened the door for you. The girl with the new Joshua Barnes production." Dad winked, and it felt very, very good to be home.
"How's mother?"
"Fine. Your mother's in the kitchen."
I felt a sudden lump in my throat. Darling mom, aging gracefully. Domesticated at last, messing around with pots in the kitchen. I stole back to surprise her.
There was a cold puff of air near the kitchen. I looked in. The door of the refrigerator gaped open. A man with a visor cap sat perched on the table. The cap band read RAWSON REPAIRS, same as on his jacket. His pants and shorts were down on the linoleum. And so was mother, her knees planted firmly beside the fallen clothing. Verna was giving a most efficient blow job. The repairman's swollen dick shot up 'and down her mouth like a piston. He was helping by pushing her head back and forth in quick fuck rhythm. I stepped into the hallway outside to give them five minutes.
When I walked in, the repairman was at the refrigerator. Mother ran forward to hug me. Her lovely eyes were lustrous with tears. She tilted her chin toward Mr. Rawson.
"Oh, darling," she whispered to me, "I weep when I think of our dear old ice man. Every morning he'd come promptly at 11. And that man could really deliver. Now I have to make an appointment to get the repairman. And they make a fuss if you insist on him daily."
Poor Verna. Beautiful Verna. She was no longer in her first youth, but she could have passed for 25. Since she had a charming, strapping son of just that age, she claimed 32. Her skin was glowing, rich as honey. Her figure was as exciting as Marcy's. And her talents, as I'd seen, were still untarnished.
We had such a pleasant reunion in the kitchen. Mr. Rawson gallantly offered, "Look, folks, I'll go out if you wanna-" Mother obliterated him with a look, and we went to join dad in the drawing-room.
In the passageway, a boy passed us, nodding politely. My memory joggled, did a halt in consternation. It couldn't be. Couldn't be!
"Mother-that boy. He looked like the ghost of Vinnie. You remember Vinnie, the son of your old dresser. We took him in. Then one day he ran away with what's-her-name-Olga...."
Again Mother's eyes misted with tears. "Yes," she said, her golden tones faltering, "that was Vinnie. Vinnie the Second, son of the boy you remember. You-you'll find this hard to accept, Monte darling." She pressed my hand piteously. "You see, once long ago, I was unfaithful to your father. I-I sinned with Vinnie. The boy you saw now is the fruit of our illicit union."
"And dad keeps him here?"
"The dear boy keeps himself useful." Mother smiled sadly. "There are so many ways a boy can be useful."
The next day, Marcy and I arrived for an indeterminate stay chez Barnes, Senior.
I was very proud of my handsome parents, of the affectionate, easy-going way they made us feel welcome. Dad hugged my wife and promised to show her his personal collection of theater programs and mementos.
Mother, who was seldom effusive to females, even lovers, cooed, "My dear, you're simply lovely!" I realized that the last hectic months had made a change in Marcy. She was more subtly sexy, provocative, alluring. And how well she knew it!
A spacious bedroom had been prepared for us, lavishly decorated in the theatrical manner. There were more mirrors on those four walls than in our whole fucking house back in Jersey.
We settled in, then took our kind host and hostess out to lunch in the best restaurant in upper Westchester. Hot duckling and icy martinis, lots of martinis.
Well-fed, slightly high, I voted for a nap before dinner. Marcy came up with me. We got in bed in our underwear, too drowsy to do anything. Being a well brought up chick, Marcy wouldn't dream of wearing a bra in bed. We nuzzled close sleepily, her bare tits soft against my chest. We drifted off.
I woke up nearly two hours later, reached over for Marcy. She must have crept out while I was dozing.
The house had that late afternoon quiet. I couldn't find Marcy downstairs. The brand-new maid, hired only the day before, was kinda hazy, confusing my Mrs. Barnes with dad's Mrs. Barnes. So I told her, "Never mind. What's your name, honey?" After a little pause, she confessed that she answered to Augusta. Definitely not the Augusta type, or even Gussie. She was a cute little blonde, reminiscent of Jeannie at the Bottomless Pit. Before I could find out all about her dreams and aspirations, Gussie had swished out hot on the trail of a dust mop.
At loose ends, I wandered around the downstairs rooms. Then suddenly I thought of my little room in the attic. Years since I'd been there. I took the stairs two at a time, then stopped short at the door of my old room. No doubt it had been put to some use. It might be occupied. Maybe by Vinnie the Second. It might now be a maid's room. That blonde, Gussie, might be in there at this minute, changing her dress or finger-fucking herself or something. I thrust open the door and walked in.
The room was empty.
A wave of nostalgia hit me in the gut. Everything was as I had left it years ago. My hand-carved ship model on the high chest of drawers. The old bookcase. The narrow bed with the patched blue and white coverlet. The dog-eared stack of nudist magazines on the desk. Unchanged.
I opened one of the bureau drawers at random. There was a small, neat pile of handkerchiefs. Not many. I'd been hard on handkerchiefs. Three-quarters of them ended up stiff with gism in the umbrella stand. Gee, the umbrella stand! Hadn't thought of that useful relic in a long time.
I he handkerchiefs, the umbrella stand, and, of course, the closet....
The closet!
They'd probably plugged the peephole long ago. Or had they? Easy to find out. I stepped into the closet, and pushed aside a few old jackets to get to the far wall. One fell off the hanger. I stooped to pick it up. Gee, the floor was definitely warped. All those pools of wet come.
The peephole was still there. I glued my eyes to it, feeling like that snotty 11 year old long ago, with his hot prick and busy hands. Then I goggled like an eleven year old!
The room with the mattress was occupied.
Marcy was already having in-law trouble.
Dad was screwing her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
This was the pinnacle of infamy, plumbing the depths of iniquity. A breach of all good taste and civilized conduct. Grounds for divorce or, in better times, a trip to the dueling field. Dad had some fucking nerve humping my wife. At least he could have had the courtesy to invite me to join them.
I was no eleven year old now. I could have stormed into the room without knocking. But to leave the closet would mean missing a minute of a masterful exhibition of rutting.
Stark naked, they made a spectacular twosome, dad's heavy, tanned bulk poised on Marcy's pale, slim body. He slammed into her, bull-like, aggressive. Massive thrusts that she welcomed by rolling. I'd seldom seen Marcy so frisky. She buckled and clutched, heaved and gyrated to get more of my father's pricking peter.
Her legs were curled tautly around him. Now her pink toes were wriggling counter-clockwise--Marcy's secret signal that she was beyond mere rapture.
I thought I could hear squishy sounds of their prick-in-pussy fucking. I thought I could hear their hoarsely whispered endearments. I'm damn sure I heard Marcy's screams of fulfillment.
Dad responded to those screams man-fashion, by giving her something to scream about. His staying power was fabulous. He could slow up at will, pull back, stroke, and start the cycle over again endlessly. His favorite variation was the corkscrew gambit. The thick head of his dick in her pussy, he would push just an inch or two deeper. Then holding the base of his shaft in one hand he'd make cunt-stretching, revolving motions that set the screams resounding. The friction must have been terrific. I swore I'd try it-if he would give my wife back to me.
Just as in the old days at the peephole, I found I was holding a handful of hard-on. I pulled on it gently to shield it from any drafts that might develop, but careful not to really jerk it.
Dad was making lunges that swung those big balls of his like a fucked-up pendulum. The last lunge was carried off with a flourish-a 45 degree twist of the prick-and dad fell tight against his daughter-in-law.
I should have burst in just to show dad that after all I was the husband of that dainty morsel under him. In spite of myself, I couldn't move. It would be heartless to intrude on their tender after-fuck moment. Eyes down, fingers deliberately plugging the peephole, I bit my lips fighting to control myself. I was creaming, damp with emotion.
Screw my emotion. I banged out of the closet, out of my room, to the door adjoining. Outwardly calm, I stepped forward.
The fucking couple had shifted position. Dad was on his knees facing Marcy. His hands dug into her rounded thighs. His head was in her snatch; he was licking her pussy. Marcy, facing the door, saw me. She waved a coy, giddy greeting. Then all her attention was sucked downward, to her well-tended twat. Dad was an accomplished cuntlapper as well as an elegant fucker.
But for once I didn't watch the performance. There was a major, incisive distraction. My emotions were under control now, but my creaming was damn near like coming. Intent on his high-flying muff-diving, dad wasn't aware of my presence. But I was aware of dad-more aware of him than I'd ever been in all my young life. From the doorway I had a full, head-on view of the most magnificent bucking ass on the planet. My father's. Half a fucking ton of it. Heavy and round, hairy and soft. Most of it white against the deep tan around it. Heaving and pulsing, mountainous over the swinging balls below it. The most alive ass ever! An arrogant ass demanding a taming.
An ass that needed a fucking.
I stripped without losing sight of it.
This was a room furnished now for one purpose. Much improved since my salad days in the closet. The old mattress had long been discarded. The new one must have been specially constructed. It was not built for a bed, but for a room. More like a carpet. Great for screwing. Nice and bouncy. One wall was covered with mirrors. Along another, hooks were meant for clothing.
I dropped my clothes on the edge of flooring not covered by mattress. Then I moved in on daddy.
A dab of spit on my prick, and I mounted him. My thighs pressed his powerful hairy thighs. My belly was made for his ass cheeks-they met, kissing like lovers. I tore open the heavy ass under me. And I fucked him.
Before I had all of my dick well into him, I realized that dad had known what I was up to. A father knows. Without losing contact either with Marcy's snatch or my prick, he shifted position, lying comfortably flat on his stomach. The shift was actually helpful, because with his movement I maneuvered forward, jabbing my dong in his ass to the balls.
Dad was a wonderful father. He was the only guy I ever fucked who didn't plead, "Go in easy," or some other snivelling nonsense. He was essentially a realist. He knew that a prick that fucks nice and easy is good for hand-jobs or old ladies.
After a minute in the saddle, I knew that dad had kept up his gym training. His ass muscles were developed like Mr. America. He had the knack of holding a cock in him rigid, like in the grip of a cunt that just flooded.
I kept riding my father like a bronco. Even Marcy had dislodged his tongue from her pussy in order to get a better view of us screwing. She watched the beautifully integrated father-son movements. "Monte," she shouted, "this is your hour of glory!"
It was dad's hour of glory as well. His ass took the pounding like a trouper. He heaved upward for it till there just wasn't any more to give him. I spread his plugged ass even further, and tried to jam my balls into the opening. And all the time I was thrusting, thrusting. Blood or sweat in my eyes. The room swimming. His ass heavy, heaving, fleshy.
Dad wriggled. His tight muscles relaxed enough to permit me to make a lunge that tore the steaming gism out of me. Spilling jet after jet of hot cream into him, I fell against my father. Lay tight against his broad, sweaty back, panting.
"Assholes!"
The word was like a thunderclap heard from a distance. I felt a current of air, sensed a figure poised over me.
"Balling your own father!" Verna, in her deepest tones of Greek tragedy.
"Balling your own father!" she repeated as I rolled off him. "Without a thought to your poor mother."
I was out of the trance, refreshed, ready for anything. Ready even for Verna. She was half-in, half-out of a housecoat of feathers, net, and rhinestones. Auburn hair hung smoothly over one shoulder. On the other shoulder, she-steadied a timid-looking cocker spaniel.
"Mother," I pleaded, "forgive me. It was a moment of madness."
"Don't apologize, darling," she flashed the Verna Vail smile that dazzled millions. "Nothing mellows your dad like a proper fucking."
To prove that the fucking had indeed been proper, my father held out his arms, trying hard to sound mellow. 'Come, Verna dear, join us."
With a dramatic flounce, mother hung her housecoat on the hook nearest to her. Dazzling bare-ass, she draped herself on the mattress. Daintily she opened her legs, parting her twat hairs.
"Josh," she whined in a plaintive voice that made me want to kiss her and comfort her. "I told you this hound was homosexual!"
She had placed the frightened looking spaniel on her white flesh at crotch level, and was doing her damndest to lure him into nibbling her pussy.
Mother's twat hair gleamed a vivid orange, several shades lighter than her ruby mound muff. As she wrestled with the recalcitrant puppy, her cheeks flamed, and from head to snatch she looked fiery. "Perhaps the bright color scares him."
"That's as may be, dear. But I never shall dye it," she sounded decisive. "To do so would be an act against nature."
Aghast at seeing a lovely cunt spurned, ignored, and rejected, Marcy spoke up. Turning to mother, she started, "You know, I'm quite at a loss what to call you. Mother sounds so damn formal. Mrs. Barnes is confusing-'
"Call her anything," dad interrupted, "as long as you don't call her Hildegarde Pulvermacher."
"Hild-"
"That was her name when I met her. Back in the Ozarks."
"Naturally you must call me Verna," mother stated grandly, aiming a sharp one at dad's balls that would have incapacitated a weaker man.
"Verna," Marcy repeated. "Verna, please excuse a personal observation. I must tell you. I've been admiring your charming cunt since the moment I saw it."
Mother accepted the compliment with a gracious inclination of her head. "These so-called men are good for nothing, like this damn fag dog. I did suggest that Vinnie should pop in later. But till then...." Verna sighed.' She lay prone on the mattress in a pose blatant with invitation.
My wife accepted the invitation. Dad and I saw a muff-rubbing contest that sent sparks flying up toward the ceiling. The spaniel fled to the ledge outside the window. The girls took turns spanking each other's bare bottom, then moved in for some serious sucking.
The two pale shapely figures made a sight to delight a man's senses. Their elegant cunts locked in fervent tongue rapture. Dad and I frigged our limp cocks, and soon they were standing up throbbing. "If we can get them to turn over on their sides, then we'll enter through their assholes."
Dad's point was well taken. We were just choosing, Black or Red, when the door opened without warning.
The intruder was Gussie. She gazed on the far-out domestic scene before her with an aplomb that bespoke long, faithful service in a cathouse.
"Begging your pardon, sir. There's a young lady downstairs asking for Mr. Barnes."
Dad was staring impatiently at the blonde maid, ignoring her message. In a stern, no-nonsense tone, he thundered, "Augusta, re-read your contract! Within this room at all times, you play it bare bottom!"
"E-excuse me, sir," the blonde stammered. She slipped off her skirt and her panties.
One look at her mound convinced me. The sight of her ass cheeks confirmed it. "Your name isn't Augusta," I accused her, "you're Jeannie, the bottomless waitress."
She blushed as pink as her asshole.
"Why do you call yourself Augusta?"
"When I answered Mr. B's ad, I used my girl friend's references. Her name is Augusta. Please don't hold it against me. This job has it all over waiting on tables, et cetera. Salary's higher than Equity minimum. Three squares a day, my own room, and a woman comes in to do the heavy cleaning."
She had removed the rest of her clothing, giving my hard-on a hard-on.
"I remember you vaguely," she admitted, "you were the john queer to screw with his shirt on. Price is the same, sweetie," she confided in a sibilant whisper. "F' you, jus' fifty."
Dad's hearing was as sharp as his rapier. "Kindly re-read your contract, young lady. All the fucking you do here is covered in the one paycheck."
I promised a tip for special attention. That made her grin with pleasure. Then I dipped into the honeypot. Whatever she'd been doing since leaving the night club hadn't hurt her. Her twat was as springy as ever.
Jeannie liked a no-holds-barred ramming, her cunt stuffed with solid muscle. I tickled her womb with my poker. She even murmured, "Thank you, sir, for the stuffing." When a girl is polite, I'll do anything for her. I stuffed her and crammed her and rammed her.
"Your old man's better!" A loud taunt meant to inflame me. I knew what the pig was after. She had come twice while I banged her. Now she wanted to make it a trio. "I'll give it to you, greedy quim bastard," I said silently, stroking, "till it squirts out of your fucking navel!" I kept pushing upward, and I think I opened up new territory within her. But I didn't break through to her navel. She had her third explosion, in fact we shot together.
She lay stretched out, juices dribbling out of her twat, soaking through the mattress. Half-out, tits chewed, cunt banged up pulpy. Ready for a two week vacation.
"Mister, I've been fucked!" was all she could mumble.
I saluted.
Marcy leaned forward to scoop gism out of Jeannie's gash. Not to taste-just to clear the decks for a routine inspection. 'This girl's clitty is barely developed," Marcy announced her findings. "It must hinder her sex life drastically. I can hardly find it, much less grab it and bite it."
Mother screamed like a seagull in torment. "My dear! You must never have your clit bitten! Tweak it or suck it or twit it. Biting destroys the nap!"
Marcy accepted this advice in silence, obviously unconvinced. Whatever comment she may have offered was stilled by the sudden arrival of young Vinnie.
He flew into the room, heading for my wife like an arrow. To save time he had stripped to essentials before climbing up to the attic. Since the stair carpet was slightly threadbare and patchy, house slippers were the only essentials. His nude body was just like father's. Same thin legs and dangling red frankfurter prick. I believe his young thatch was more luxuriant, but it was hard to make a comparison.
With a hasty bow to the assemblage, he jabbed his pecker into Marcy, .choosing her mouth instead of her cunt lips. Knocked quite breathless by the sudden intrusion-and certainly speechless-my wife wore an expression of bewilderment. Mother patted her hand kindly. "Don't be upset, darling. It's all in the family. Vinnie dear is Monte's half-brother."
When Marcy attempted to acknowledge the introduction, Vinnie growled succinctly, "Keep sucking!" His cock was soon of the proper consistency, and he moved out of her clinging mouth down to a fresh opening. Marcy got on her hands and knees. Vinnie stroked her smooth ass. Then, dog-fashion, he fucked her.
I was hoping she'd find a young boy to screw her, a lad with an ass I could plug during or after. Vinnie wasn't the solution. I found his heaving posterior repulsive, not much wider than my forearm. The spaniel found it more to his liking. While Vinnie hunched over his humping, the dog ran from the window ledge to rim him. Vinnie must have thought it was Verna, because he kept yelling, Deeper, ma. Deeper!"
As the boy-girl-dog threesome concluded, a voice was heard from the doorway.
"The maid service here is impossible!"
I looked up and stared unbelieving. Hardly hearing Jeannie who muttered, "You try it one day, dearie."
The girl in the doorway was gorgeous. Chestnut hair and amber eyes glinting. She should have been making some lucky guy happy-or having a baby in Frisco.
Ellen!
"Ellen! Aren't you in Frisco?"
"Apparently not. I've been here for an hour. The maid said she would send you right down." Ellen's eyes swept over the tangled rabble on the mattress, as if trying to distinguish the maid among us. She gave up, and chirped in a burst of enthusiasm, "I have the most wonderful news!"
"It was a false alarm?"
"No. I changed planes and directions at Tulsa. I simply had to come back," she pouted. "You forgot to kiss me goodbye."
"Who is this lovely young lady?" dad asked, his cock standing rigid before him.
"This young lady is the mother of your forthcoming grandchild."
"Suh!" he exclaimed, assuming an accent he deemed fitting. "This honuh exceeds mah fondest wishes. Ma'am, may ah kiss you?"
Ellen raised her dress and lowered her panties. Their kiss was a magnolia special. They soon settled down to tasty fucking.
Marcy forgot mother's advice now, reunited with her favorite clit biter. With passion, she begged the threshing figure, "Bite it! Chew my clitty!" Ellen's lips were pressed on dad's as he stroked her. To get her teeth under Marcy's clit would be a scientific production. Before we could work out an arrangement, mother insisted that she be heard once again.
"Child," she said earnestly to Marcy, "heed the advice of a mother. Your clit is a precious appendage. Use it wisely. For instance, screw my ass with it." This gambit was unknown to Marcy. But Marcy was the willingest cunt for new gambits. She daintily rode mother's asshole with a stiff, probing knob of a clitty. We all enjoyed the bout of ass-clitty fucking. Vinnie had taken dad's place on top of Ellen. Even he climbed once out of the saddle to add his applause to the others. We cheered the performance, and sank back exhausted.
Restless in the room's sudden quiet, I made an interesting discovery. Not forgetting to include myself, I counted pricks and pussies. Mother, Marcy, Ellen, Jeannie; dad, Vinnie, Monte. "We're one cock short here!"
In the midst of-the murmur that arose upon that pronouncement, mother ordered imperiously, "Vinnie, go at once, and don't come back without Eustace!" She prodded her younger son mercilessly, "No arguments now. Shake your ass! Fetch Eustace!"
"Where," I asked, "is Eustace?"
"I keep Eustace in my bedroom." Cozy! "In my stocking drawer, actually."
That's all we needed at this orgy-a fucking midget!
Mother's pink twat looked so cute, winking in that surrounding of orange hair, that I just had to lie down flat and tongue it. She sighed appreciatively, and I went in for more.
Suddenly, I got a nasty jolt. A mean, mean whang shoved up my asshole without the least warning pressure.
"At least you might ask before you leap," I admonished the unseen fucker. "Oouch! Hey, this is an ass, not a canyon!"
No answer.
"Fuck you, mister!" I shouted. Angrily I twisted around, but that bloated prick stayed put in me. He wouldn't pull out. I reached over to pull him out. I pulled-and nearly jerked my arm out of its socket, along with Eustace.
Eustace was a dildo. A foot and a half of a dildo. The opening that could take all of Eustace would be found only in a circus.
"Do you use Eustace often?"
"Not in myself," mother simpered. "When I have a cock inside me, I like to know there's a man behind it."
"Does this model come with a filling?"
"Don't call Eustace a model. Of course he gives off a squirting. Don't you see the button?"
"Tell me, mother, is it true that champagne pleasurably tickles a cunny?"
"Horseshit!" mother answered. "Only one juice gives pleasurable tickles. That's the cream of any man from 7 to 70!"
Marcy looked up with wonder.
"You mean you've had a 7 year old shoot sperm inside you?"
With motherly pride, Verna nodded. "Yes, Vinnie here was very naughty." She gazed at the thin lad fondly. "Boffed mother when you were only seven, didn't you, precious?"
The boy was now relentlessly riding poor Jeannie. Without turning his head, he grumbled, "Shut up, ma. Cantcha see I'm fucking!"
I looked at the rude kid with new interest. Screwing his mother at the tender age of seven showed an admirably venturesome character.
We linked arms in a circle to contemplate each other's navels, and were about to choose partners for leap-frog when a familiar voice pleasantly sounded.
"Anybody home?"
The ruddy newcomer was none other than Bruno. He had brought Allan and Little Lora with him. Their entrance must have been made while we were bowed in contemplation, because all three were sensibly bare-ass. Their clothes, on hooks next to Ellen's and mother's, looked touchingly forlorn and dejected. But there was nothing forlorn about our nude reinforcements. Especially Bruno.
His massive hard-on jutted out bull-like, above balls almost equally massive. Female murmurs arose all around him. The girls formed an orderly line after a moment. But Bruno had eyes only for Marcy. They kissed and fell, kissing, together.
As he prepared, however, to mount her, young Allan spoke up with defiance. "Dad, you're just a one-woman man. Screw, screw one twat makes daddy dull boy."
Nonplussed, Bruno dismounted. "You're right, son." He rumpled his boy's hair with affection, and by the time he looked away, a new slit had been presented for his delectation. Ellen was the lucky recipient. She fucked for her second uncle.
Meanwhile, Allan shot forward as from out of a cannon. He stood legs apart before Marcy, his pecker proudly extended for servicing. Marcy sucked while Lora pouted.
I was astounded at the change in Allan's honey haired sister. The months since her visit to Jersey had wreaked havoc. She looked jaded already, dissipated' as only a 10 year old going on 11 can look dissipated. Her tits were still unformed, but hickeys had swollen the nipples. The marks on her little mound appeared more like dried-come stains than mosquito bites.
Dad was drooling for her, but hesitant.
Bruno reassured him with a charmingly benign nod, the paternal go-ahead sign.
"Little girl, would you like to play with this toy? See, it's nice and shiny. Just for you. Go ahead, dear, touch it." Dad was very good at the dirty-old-man patter.
Lora yawned. "I have the rag on. "You'll have to stick it up my ass tonight, dearie!"
Dad fell back.
Bruno looked up from his clinical observation of the movements of his mammoth prick in Ellen's soothing pussy.
"Don't listen to her. That's just talk she picked up from her mother."
"Just where is her mother?" Marcy asked the question so often repeated.
"Downstairs. Paying off the taxi guy." Bruno grinned. I was a coupla bucks short. She should be up in a few minutes."
But the minutes stretched into an hour-without Mrs. Bruno.
After dad had made Lora ready for any roving sailor, we drifted into a lazy, comfortable arrangement. According to age, sex, and inclination. There I was, back with Marcy. Dad again straddled mother. Ellen and Vinnie discovered each other. Lora and Allan no doubt re-discovered each other. Jeannie and Bruno said hello and fucked.
Dad and Bruno, side by side, got into a dispute about the size of their balls. We all measured by touch, and couldn't reach a decision. Mother decided by taste, weighing and chewing all four-one at a time of course. Her verdict was fair and most carefully considered.
"Bruno's balls are bigger, rounder, really more of a mouthful. But if it's scrotum you're after, Josh remains the wonderful boy that I married. Only a rhino's hangs lower or is more elastic."
Both men were pleased. Dad was even elated. He insisted on stretching his sac, distending it like rubber. Climbing on Bruno's shoulders, he attempted to place his balls so that one hung down from each side of Bruno's thick neck. The attempt was a failure-by a hair-but somehow the jolly cavorting turned into a serious tussle.
Before their circle of cheering admirers, dad and Bruno enjoyed a gutsy 69. Each displayed male-sucking adroitness, unsuspected but truly unbounded.
Bruno stood up, complaining that dad's come was a mere trickle. I considered, at this stage, that the trickle was a fucking miracle. Since Bruno demanded consolation, I consoled him. By jabbing my limp cock in his mouth and unleashing a torrential wetting. Bruno swallowed every drop. He observed cheerily, "Whatever they say, hot piss is more satisfying than seltzer."
Night had long before fallen.
The mattress was sodden and no longer springy.
Thinking of overtime, Jeannie murmured something about a late dinner.
Bruno took this as a hint that the hour for leaving was upon us. I was gratified by his devotion to my parents. In almost one breath, he made appointments to see them. Mother was invited to his apartment for cocktails the next day at 4. At 6, he'd meet father in the athletic club steam room.
Gently disengaging himself from Vinnie, pulling his prick out of the boy's asshole with a pop like a muted champagne cork, Bruno prepared to leave us.
As he plucked his shorts from under Verna's housecoat, there was a commotion in the doorway.
I don't remember what I was doing at the moment. Wait, that's when dad was taking a second helping of Ellen. Lora was rimming Vinnie's sore asshole. Young Allan was eating my Marcy. Jeannie's elbow jabbed at my side with each stroke as she fucked herself with the top half of Eustace. Oh, yes, that's when I was screwing mother.
Bruno interrupted all the activity by announcing, "Here she is now! May I present Mrs. Bruno?"
Bedraggled skirts already raised above her waistline, she advanced toward us. Imparting to the overheated room the fetid odor of stale scum-bags. And worse.
"Hi ya, folks! Who's first?"
It was Cleo, the Scourge of Jensen's Bar on West 48th Street.