Part II King XX

Chapter XX: The Tiniest Unborn Party of the Century

This novel contains graphic scenes of sex, some involving minors, rape and forced sex.� It is purely a fantasy, not a depiction of real people or events.� It is intended as a satire of politics and our modern culture,� both funny and stimulating.

By Hauteone

Four lovelier companions would be hard to find.� Three could easily match my long-legged stride up the sidewalk through the busy cul de sac toward the white pillared mansion brightly lit ahead of us.�

Poor Piglet, with her short legs, was no match for Claire, Donna and Loyola.� The last time I'd walked this street, the crowd was much more upscale.� No men in tuxedos or women in fancy evening growns tonight.� This was a middle class, mostly less attractive crowd converging on the mansion.� Claire and Loyola looked a little out of place in their tight skirts and high heels.� Athletic Donna in her comfortable, if tight, khaki shorts and tennis shoes looked like she was there to lead the fitness class and puffing Piglet looked like one of the students she was there to teach.

"Guys, guys, wait for me," she said.

"Okay, Piglet, I'll drop back and let you catch up," I said.

"You don't fool me one bit, Mr. Surecock," Piglet said. "You just want to drop back so you can admire our butts."

Piglet could hardly have been more right.� I'd plundered all four of these asses many times, but I never tired of admiring them.� Piglet's apple bottom filled her tight slacks very well.� Claire's ample, high-set rear end on thin, coltish legs swayed enticingly mounted on spiked heels.� Loyola's bouncing buns stretched her lavender skirt to reveal every crevice of her derriere.� She looked like a wet dream from a downtown office job who'd slinked out in the night to meet her lover. Her feet clicked confidently in gold, flashing high heels that matched her belt and she wore one of� her trade-mark, low-cut diaphanous floral blouses that made her breasts bounce as provocatively as her butt did.

Donna was more discrete in her dress, but I'd noticed that since she moved to my house and joined the harem, she was showing a little more skin these days. Maybe she felt the need to compete. Tonight she had her blouse tied up just below her breasts to show off her flat, delightfully muscled stomach and her tan, muscular legs rippled convincingly even in the early evening mixture of golden fading California sunlight and just flickering street lights. She had her hair tied in a tight pony tail and� it was hard to miss the brown holster and gray gun anchored to her hip.

She was there on business this night.� She was there to protect me and find her brother's killer if she could. Her face as a mask of hard set determination.

Claire was present because she--better than anyone else--could identify her almost husband, Buckner or Belial, whatever he was calling himself these days. She was the most skittish of the group.�

Loyola could identify some of her former Republican Party benefactors and perhaps, open a few doors for us if we needed them opened.� Piglet?� She was there because...� Well, it had something to do with the "porn harlot of the century missing the last Porn Party of the Century" and not wanting to be left out of the next one if it should happen again. Mostly, I agreed to take her because she always lightened the mood and made everyone laugh and who couldn't use a few more laughs in this day and age.

The crowd was raucous but orderly as it moved toward the mansion's front door.� There were some "Death to Obama" chants as a few of the more right-wing attendees got closer to the mansion and a few carried anti-Sotomayor signs, but generally there was a party atmosphere and people seemed in good spirits.� They willingly accepted pamphlets and directions from men and women standing along the periphery.

"This is an Andy and Barney crowd," Piglet said.

"Yes, most people here here look like they stepped off the streets of Mayberry," Claire conceded.

I looked at her with puzzlement.

"What, you don't think we got old Andy Griffith reruns in Minsk when I was growing up?" Claire responded.

Claire always knew how to amaze me.�� "Well, if you saw him in A Face in the Crowd, I guess you know he played Glenn Beck's twin," I said.� "Beck can't sing," Claire said.

I was going to respond, but thought better of it when I saw the grimace on Donna's face.

"Ugh, Blackwater," she said.

Two uniformed guards with automatic rifles stood at the front entrance to the mansion checking people as they entered.� Their bored indifference was reassuring to me, but Donna and Loyola were both on edge.

"Those bastards, getting their noodles sucked by very young girls in Iraq," Donna said.� "They make me sick."

"And don't forget the young boys," Loyola said. "Prince Eric is going to have a lot to answer for when it all comes out in the press.� And it will come out."

The guards noticed Donna's holstered weapon and stopped her before she could enter.�

"I am a licensed security agent accompanying my client to this event," she told the guards.� "I have a permit for the gun."

"Guns aren't welcome here, miss," one of the guards said.

"Well, you two have guns and I noticed a machine gun on the roof," Donna answered sarcastically. "What's the diff?� We're all here for the same thing.� To protect our clients."

"Miss, if you are getting uppity with me..." one of the guards said threateningly.�

Loyola stepped forward.� "Back off, soldier," Loyola said.� "These people are all with me."

The Blackwater guard stopped instantly and stood at attention.

"Sorry, Miss Arroyo, I didn't notice you standing back there," he said. "All of you come in."

"I am impressed, Loyola," I said when we were safely inside.� "I didn't know you still carried so much weight among the Republicans and their sycophants."

"The memo on my defection obviously hasn't made it to all levels, yet," she said with a smile.

"Still, if that guard didn't notice you, Loyola, he's obviously one of the Blackwater contractors who gets his noodle sucked by young boys," Piglet commented.

"Biggest bunch of cowardly pussies that ever lived," Donna said.

"Amen to that, sister," Loyola agreed.

The last time I'd been in this mansion nearly a year earlier, I was there for what an anonymous invitation I received after returning from Minnesota just before the Republican convention called "the Porn Party of the Century."� This night, the ballrooms and corridors were more brightly lit.� The ceiling in the main ballroom where I'd watched nude pornographic trapeze artists perform was visible, not darkened.� Smoke hung in thick clouds above us, however.� This was obviously a crowd that hadn't gotten the memo about the health risks of smoking either.

"Okay, remember what I said," Donna told us.� "We don't get separated."

"These people scare me," Piglet said.� "I'm not going anywhere."

In the front of the main ballroom, a speaker I didn't recognize was answering a question from the crowd.� "Looks like we're going to lose on this Sotomayor thing," the speaker said into a microphone that amplified his voice so much, he was almost unintelligible. A smattering of boos and hisses swept through the crowd.� "I know, I know," the speaker said. "It pisses me off, too, but we have to get organized for the really big battles on health care later this summer.� The Democrats are going to be adjourning from Congress and returning to their districts for town halls.� We need to be there in force to disrupt those meetings so we can't have an intelligent debate about health care reform."

One elderly woman near the front of the crowd to the right side of the stage was wailing.

"I want my country back!" she screamed.

"Yes, and madam, if I may call you that, we will get the country back," the speaker said into his statically crackling microphone.� "We need to defeat this health care bill."

"I mean, can't those liberals see what they've elected and put in our used to be our white house?" the woman continued to wail.� "He's black!� He's black!� Don't they see that?"

"Yes madam, and we had hoped to grow the Republican party by driving away the Latinos and Negroes," the speaker said.� "Unfortunately, some of them are taking offense at that and our base has grown tinier and tinier."

"When we were kids in the South," the woman cried,� ignoring the speaker, "it was totally okay to lynch people with that shade of brown.� And now one of them is in the whites-only house and a dark-skinned Mex might sit on the Supreme Court.� Might has well just call them the Supremes."

"Oh brother," Claire whispered.� "These people are fucking nuts."

"Hang around with them for a few days as I have and you'll want to renounce your humanity," Loyola commented.

"I've been with them for five minutes and I'm ready to leave for Jupiter," Piglet whimpered.

"If we get socialized medicine, they'll use it to kill all the old folks," the speaker was yelling. "No more grandpa. No more grandma."

"We got to stop that Obama, dude," yelled someone behind us. "He's coming to our house with a machete and he's gonna chop off my great grandma's head."

"He's more than just a terrorist," someone else cried.� "He's a serial killer."

"All the unborn babies and the old folks, too,"� screamed someone else.� "And he's not even a citizen of the USA.� What gives him the right?"

"This is getting ugly," Donna said, "and we're not likely to learn anything useful from these idiots.� Let's head up stairs and see what we can learn there."

Donna's surveillance teams had searched the mansion more than once since her brother's death.� For the most part, it was unoccupied, though nicely furnished.� County records showed that an offshoot of the Republican Party owned it and that it was used for events and temporary residents that the party wanted to house in the Los Angeles area.� Donna had uncovered evidence that Buckner stayed here when he was in town and that the house operated as a west coast "C" Street when GOP congressmen came to town.� They'd confide in one another their marital infidelities with sheep and other farm animals and other GOP bigwigs would tell them anything they did was okay because God had seen fit to extend power to them.

Buckner quite obviously moved in these circles and Donna hoped that he--or someone associated with him--might show up at the political rally we'd heard was taking place here.�� I was a little fearful of what Donna might do if she actually got Buckner in her gun sights.� She'd loved her brother and evidence indicate Buckner had him killed to cover up SOB activities in California.� I had no doubt that Buckner couldn't rely on Donna's normally high professionalism to protect him if he should find himself suddenly uncovered by her.

Donna was all business when it came to her trade, and more than once I'd seen her take down bigger men than Buckner.� I didn't envy his position as one of Donna's targets.

We made our way through the increasingly angry crowd to head for the sweeping stairway to the upstairs salons.� Signs with arrows pointed the way.� "Upstairs to the Bum Rush Room," one sign read.�� Another informed us the "GOP Thunk Tank" was two flights up.� The "Sexual Healing Workshop" was on the third floor.� We ascended cautiously.

�

Outside, a wisp of smoke floated through the still assembling crowd almost unnoticed. She was a woman who would never attract attention in any crowd, waif thin and mousy in a gray, shabby dress, and stringy blonde hair.� She floated unchallenged past the Blackwater guards, through the ballroom and toward the sweeping staircase.

A woman listening to the ballroom speaker's attack on socialized medicine stepped backward and bumped into the floating wraith.� She turned to face the person who bumped her and froze in place when she saw the reed-thin, white face that confronted her.

"Oh my god," the woman said. "I am so sorry Miss..."

"Tell no one," the wraith hissed.� "Say anything and die."

"But I didn't realize you were alive, I mean, that you were here." the threatened woman said.

The wraith stretched out a bony, clawlike hand and grabbed the woman by her throat.

"I warned you bitch," said the wraith.� "Another word and I puncture your esophagus ."

The woman sputtered and grasped at the hand clutching her throat, then stepped back to let the wraith pass.

�

Upstairs, I and my four female companions clung to each other as we wandered through the mix of people passing from salon to salon.�

"Let's go check out the Bum Rush Room," Donna suggested.

We were all feeling like we were in a bad Pink Panther movie, any of the ones starring Steve Martin.� "I fear what might be in there," Piglet offered.

We opened the door to be confronted by the bare raised asses of thirty, fat-assed white men.� Behind each disgusting butt, women with rubber gloves stood poised to insert fingers and more up the men's rear ends.� Minnesota Congresswoman Michele Bachman stood near the front of the room offering direction.

"Girls, now remember, you want your commentator puppet to feel somewhat comfortable as you manipulate their vocal cords," Bachman was saying.� "You all have been given men with Buddha butts or Samurai Saggers like Rush so you can experience the feeling of what it is like to manipulate a real nationally syndicated right-wing talk show host."

"Oh boy, this is really bad," Piglet whispered. "Worse than I imagined."

"I want all of you girls to insert your hand all of the way up your puppet butts and practice saying Feminazi,"� Bachmann continued.� "Say it slowly at first and manipulate your butt puppet to mouth the words with you. Enunciate.� Enunciate."

One woman in back raised her hand and Bachmann called on her.� "Yes, I was wondering if a squeezing the tube or testicle sack through the tube strategy was more effective?" one woman asked.� She had her hand wrist deep up her puppet's ass.

"Good question," Michele said with a smile.� "We prefer--and most commentators including Rush--prefer a squeeze-and-pull-technique.� No sudden jerky movements unless of course you want to manipulate your commentator to a sudden climax which they certainly appreciate as a reward for excellent performance."

"I should have told you about this," Loyola whispered to me.� "All of the fat-ass, white right-wing commentators have women puppet masters like this to make sure they stay on point and mouth correctly the party's positions on important issues."

"There are no male puppet masters?" I asked, incredulous at what I was learning.

"Of course not," Loyola said, laughing.� "The bible forbids homosexuality."

"Oh, of course," I said.

"Jeez, some of those butt puppets have asshole acne," Piglet said.� "That's just so gross on so many levels."

"Aren't there any right-wing commentators with normal sized asses?" Claire said.

"Let's see, Rush, HandJobby, Beck, O'Reilly," Loyola thought.� "No, it pretty much goes with the territory.� Big ass, big stupid mouth.� Big hand up big ass manipulating big stupid mouth."

I did notice that several of the women had large hands for their size. Loyola informed us the right-wing commentators preferred oversized hands.� One student withdrew her hand suddenly with a loud "phoomp" sound that reverberated around the room.

"It echoes all of the way from the puppet's empty heads," Loyola explained.

One of the guides near the back of the room where we were standing took notice of us suddenly and asked us to assume a position behind one of the fat-ass butt puppets.� Donna shook her head negatively and began backing away toward the door, still not sure she was really witnessing the tableau before us.

"No, we were just...leaving,"� she said.

Once back in the bustling corridor, we looked at each other in disbelief.

"Oh, there's a lot more I could tell you about how the GOP works," Loyola said.� "But let's go up stairs to the 'GOP Thunk Tank' and I thunk you'll get a better idea.

We climbed another flight of stairs to get to another salon where we notice a bunch of what looked to be mongoloid children writing feverishly on large chalk tablets.�

"Sarah Palin hopes to get Trib or Trap or whatever the fuck his name is in this group he gets older," Loyola said.

As the kids at the first table finished writing, their tablets were scooped up by runners and taken to another table occupied by mentally challenged, but older workers.�� This process would be repeated several times

"I think we have a winner," a man in a gray suit near the front of the room intoned into a microphone.�

He paused for a moment and then read off a card he'd been handed.

"Okay, folks, the premise is, 'Obama has a dungeon in the basement of the White House where he tortures animals,'" said the announcer.

A crowd of people in the audience applauded.� "And the believability qualifying criteria is that the dungeon is located in the old bowling alley Obama turned into a basketball court," the announcer said.� More and wilder applause ensued.

"Now are there any criteria we could add to give this premise more traction?" asked the announcer.

"I know," said someone in the audience.� "Obama pitches the animals through the basketball hoop."

"No, I'm afraid that is one even the party faithful won't believe," said the announcer.� "They saw Obama throw out the first pitch at the All-Star game."

"I know. I know." said another member of the audience. "Obama is good friends with Michael Vick."

"Works for me," said the announcer.� "Vick and Obama are both black.� They could be friends..."

"And they stage dog fighting shows," said someone in the audience.�

"Yes, and Obama fed his kids to the dogs," added another voice.

"I am afraid we'd have to reject that," the announcer said.� "Although the majority of our party base believe blacks do practice cannibalism, they are less likely to believe that blacks would share meals with their pets.�� Also, we have the problem that more members of our party base attend or view favorably dog fighting so we have to be careful not to portray dog fighting negatively."

"There's a positive side to dog fighting?" I whispered to Loyola.

"This is how GOP political theory is formed," she explained.� "The intellectually challenged come up with the craziest, most retarded policy premise possible.� The bigger the lie, the better because they know how their base will respond more favorably.� Then, other policy wonks refine the base idea to make it even more unbelievable to give it better traction."

"This is crazy,' I said.

"You don't come up with 'mission accomplished in Iraq' in a vacuum," Loyola sighed.

"But I mean, I guess, I...Obama's kids are in the newspapers constantly," I said. "Surely, people would see those pictures and see the lie that they'd been fed to dogs in the White House basement bowling alley, which, by the way, is still a bowling alley.� The basketball court is outside."

"You're talking about people who never read, period, much less newspapers," Loyola explained. "How many times has Obama's real birth certificate been published in the press?"

"I get your point," I said.�

�

The wraith wandered up anb down the hallways.� It flitted like a ghost between the salons, stopping only occasionally when someone gasped in recognition.� Always when confronted, she gave the same cold-beyond-measure stare and flitted away on gangly knee-knocking legs.

�

"So you decided to come after all," Gloria announced to the audience when we entered the "Sexual Healing" salon.� An overflow crowd almost prevented us from entering.

I'd known that Gloria and her friend Chelly were leading a sex clinic in the city this night, but I hadn't expected them to turn up here.

"Ladies and gentleman, let me introduce my boss, Brad Cocksure, the well-known pornographer, "And I see he's brought some of his 'women' with him.� Claire is a girl I've worked with before in my movies and Piglet is one of the hardest core hardcore women I've ever worked with.� Donna is, I believe, Brad's security chief, and Loyola, well all of you who have attended Republican events in the past know Loyola.� I hear she's recently joined the dark side."

There was a smattering of applause mixed with boos and hisses. I noticed, for the first time, the crowd was made up mostly of women.

"Yes, folks, they are liberals, Democrats, no less, but they know not the errors of their ways," Gloria said. "And we must be gracious hosts."

"Yes, yes," said another voice on the opposite side of the stage, "They are our guests and I am sure they could teach us about sexual healing as they are active in the 'business' as they say."

It was Gloria's co-host, Chelly Malkan, the well-known conservative Asian-looking commentator from Philadelphia, who always crunching up her face and eyes into a caricature of kookiness. Gloria and Chelly had long been friends.

"Yes, Brad, could you pull out your cock and show it to the crowd," Gloria continued. "Most of the women in this group have only gotten small cox from their GOP husbands."

There were a few titters and a smattering of applause again.

"My lover, my gardener, is Hispanic and a Democrat and he has a big cock," one women in the audience said.

"Oh, Tamara, you are just so lucky," Chelly said. "But Brad here,� is, well, on another scale all together.� Won't you show them, Brad?"

I looked at the four women who had accompanied me for guidance. They gave me that "what do you have to lose" look.

"Democrats always could use new converts," Loyola volunteered.

I reached in and pulled out my cock so that everyone in the room could see.� There were gasps and screams.

"That's Democrat cock?" one woman said. "What have we been missing?"

"Our boys are out pumping one another," another woman near me said. "And this is what the liberal females are getting to engorge on? Life is not fair."

"Brad here is not only a big cock, he's quite the cocksman," Gloria said. "Would you mind screwing one of the women in our audience just to show them, Brad?"

"Oh, none of us could ever handle anything that big," one woman said.� "I mean, we're not used to it."

"Do I have any volunteers who would like to ride Mr. Cocksure?" Chelly said.

"Now just a second, I'm not so sure I want to go that far..." I started to say.

Loyola stepped forward, grabbed my cock and started pumping it vigorously to full size.� The screams and gasps were more widespread now.

"Come on girls, you see now the real Mr. Cocksure," she said.� "Surely, you will want to take advantage of the opportunity for the ride of your life."

"Loyola, what are you doing?" I said. I started to pull away.

"Stop, look at their faces," Loyola whispered to me. "You've terrified the shit out of them.� No one is going to volunteer now they've seen you at full size. GOP women are fraidy pussies."

Gloria was still calling for volunteers.� Chelly was trying to stir up the crowd as well. A few minutes passed before Gloria started to put an end to the offer.� She was just about to close down the auction when there was a voice calling out from the opposite side of the room.

"We'll do it," a sparkling female voice called out.

A beautiful, thin middle age blonde tugging an equally lovely teenage girl who seemed the spitting image of her emerged.� Her freckles instantly gave her away.

"Lori?" I said.

"Hi Brad, I wasn't sure you'd remember me," Lori said.

"How could I forget," I said.

"Perhaps, I should explain," Lori said, turning to the crowd.� "My name is Lori Jenkins. Brad and I attended the same schools when we were kids.� When I was about 15, I went to Brad's house to see what a really big cock felt like. I did so with great fear and trepidation at the invitation of Brad's sisters who were pimping him out.� When I tried it out, it was amazing, but feared he was so big that he 'broke' me way up inside.� My boyfriend at the time got jealous and even threatened to beat me and poor Brad here."

"He never really got the chance to beat me," I said. "Other girls stopped him. That experience, however, built a lot of word-of-mouth exposure for my services."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," Lori said. "My boyfriend wasn't so kind to me, which is why we're no longer together.� But the experience with Brad did open me up to new experiences.� Thereafter, I was a 'size' queen.� Men had to be of a certain size to satisfy me. I married badly, however, like most GOP women. I went for more money rather than more manly. I figured if I had the money, I always could pay for the manly, not that I have found anyone to compare with Brad."

"And you're willing to let Brad, here, fuck you in front of all these people," Gloria asked.

"Eventually," Lori said.� "But first, I want him to fuck the bitchiness out of my daughter, Cilla, here. She's of the same age and attitude I had when I first met Brad.� I'm determined she get exposed to big cock early so she doesn't make the same mistake I did and settle for small cocks."

She pushed her daughter toward me. "This is Priscilla," Lori said. "Do whatever you want to her."

Priscilla was a pretty, spoiled looking girl who studied my cock with a mixture of fear and loathing.� She had Lori's pretty freckles and was her same slight body type and wore a short, school girl skirt.

"Mom, what are you doing?" Cilla protested.� "I don't want to do this."

Lori grabbed her daughter by the back of her hair and drug her to the table near the front of the room.� She forced Cilla back on the table and raised her skirt to reveal her daughter's clean white panties.

"Do this as a favor to me, Brad." Lori said.� "She's a cheerleader. She's spoiled.� She is a walking wet dream to the boys in her rich suburban school.� Teach her what you taught me."

I walked to the table and looked down at the teen dream stretched out in front of me.� Her gorgeous blue eyes were locked solidly on mine in fear and expectation. Her long, blonde hair splayed temptingly beneath her head.

"Lori, are you sure?" I said.

"Never more sure," Lori said. "I want this.� And she does?"

"It's okay, sweetheart, I'll be gentle, especially if this is your first time," I told Cilla.

Suddenly, I look of defiance crossed Cilla's lovely freckled face.

"Yes, I am a virgin down there," she told me. "But you'll find I am not my mother.� I can't take everything you've got to give. And you won't break me."

"Since, an early age, she's practiced with tubular veggies," Lori said. "I warned her this day might come."

I looked at my four lovely companions in the audience. Three, Claire, Piglet and Donna seemed to be rooting me on. Loyola looked a bit sad.

"Who could have figured that even at a Republican political event, he'd run into somebody he fucked before?" Loyola told Piglet.

"You could take Mr. Surecock to Mars and he'd find someone he fucked before," Piglet laughed.

I ripped open Cilla's blouse and began fondling her modest, but firm teen breasts.� She began moaning low and slow and with her hands, spread her luxurious hair out more broadly on the table.

"That feels good, Mister Cocksure," Cilla said. "Are you gonna do bad, bad things to me?"

"If you wish," I said. "What do you want me to do?"

"Like maybe you could come in my hair," she cooed, rolling provocatively on the table and throwing her bare legs around my shoulders, "then run it all over with your hands and mix the semen in."

"If you wish," I answered.� This hot little minx was really starting to turn me on. In the distance, drums pounded.

"Then maybe you could piss on me," Cilla said.� "Momma has seen your movies and she's told me me that sometimes you piss on the girls you fuck.� You piss in their mouths and let it drip on the floor. And you piss in their hair. Is that true?"

"Sometimes, I do that, yes," I said. "Is that what you wish."

"Yes, I think I'd like that," Cilla said. "But before that, before anything else, I want..."

"Yes, Cilla, tell Brad what you want," Lori cheered on her daughter.

"I want it in my hot, teen ass," she said, rolling over on her stomach.� She pulled her white cotton panties down to reveal one of the loveliest teen bung holes I'd ever seen.� "I hear from Mom that you really like to poke girls back there.� Is that true?"

"Lori, does she know what she's asking for," I asked her mom.

"She knows what she wants," Lori said. "Don't forget that she's been practicing with vegetables, and I mean big ones, and she has this silly notion that she wants to save the front hole for Mr. Right."

"Okay, if that's what she wants," I said.� With two saliva-moistened fingers, I opened her bunghole wide and was surprised by how rubbery it was.� "Good gracious, girl," I told Cilla.� "You have been practicing back here."

I thrust my cock into her back door like Elliot Ness at a speakeasy. She shuddered hard and screamed.� An exclamation of fear and joy echoed through the crowd of female onlookers. I could tell Cilla was in pain with the first few thrusts, but gradually, she became more comfortable.

"That's no veggie, Mr. Cocksure," Cilla called back to me through matted, sweaty hair that covered her face so I could not see her look of utter contentment.

""No dear," Lori told her daughter. "That's no veggie." Lori began frenching me deeply as I pounded her daughter's ass.

"Harder, Brad," she told me between breaths. "You won't break her."

I suddenly caught on to Lori's motivation.� I had to live with the reputation of the guy who "broke Lori Jenkins up there" when I was a kid.� But Lori had carried the reputation of the girl I "broke."� She was determined her daughter would be better prepared.

"Oh Brad, I told her from the time she was little that I'd had you up there in me once," Lori whispered to me as I pounded Cilla's ass. "I told her you were a great porn star.� And once, I had you in me, even if just for a minute or two.� I'd watch your movies with her and hoped that some day we'd have this opportunity.� I brought Cilla here when I heard Gloria was speaking, hoping you'd turn up or that I'd get the chance to meet you again.� And it came true. Prayers do get answered.� When you are done with Cilla, I want you to do the same dirty things to me. Fuck my ass. Piss in my hair, if you wish."

She kissed me hard and long almost to the point I fell out of Cilla's rubbery asshole. "Mom, you are in the way," she said, kicking back at Lori.� "You'll get your turn."

Lori backed away, but continued to hold on to my piston pumping cock, moist with fluids from her daughter's ass. Now that she had it, she wasn't about to let go.

"Do you get the impression," Loyola said watching the festivities unfolding in front of her, "that we've just added two more members to the harem."

"Less cock time for us," Piglet said. "But Lori and Cilla are sure pretty."

"That's true," Loyola agreed. "But I'm not into girls the way you are. I like cock."

"Don't forget, Brad," Cilla called to me.� "Finish by coming and pissing in my hair. That is sooo dirty."

"Okay," I shouted back to her. I was in a hot fervor now and the cheering crowd was hard to hear above.� I pulled out of her ass and went to the front of the table.� I jammed my cock into what I perceived from the sweaty mass of hair to be her accepting mouth and throat.� I jerked spasmodically and ejected what seemed a gallon of viscous white goo in her mouth.� She swallowed greedily.� When the spunk was spent, I released a torrent of vile yellow fluid that coated her face, lips and hair, just as she wished. She smiled and accepted the yellow rain nearly drowning her.

Lori bent down to kiss her daughter full on the lips.� Cilla spit a mouthful of cum and piss back into her mother's mouth. "See, mom, I did you proud, right?" Cilla said. "No one broke me."

'Yes, dear, you were great," Lori said. "I never imagined we'd do this in such a public arena, but you have to strike when opportunity knocks.� Now get up, you silly bitch.� It's momma's turn to fly."

The crowd was clapping and screaming thunderously.� I became aware once again of the audience as my senses began to return slowly.

"What's with these Republican bitches, Loyola?" Claire said. "I just don't get it.� They spend their time trying to preach abstinence to teens.� Don't screw around, they say. Don't dress provocatively? Yet here they are applauding a porn star who just ass fucked a teenager. What hypocrisy?"

"Not to them," Loyola said.� "What they preach to the poor unwashed masses they never practice in their personal lives. You have to learn that's how the haves think, or thunk, if you will, and the product is the bullshit they preach to keep the have not masses in check."

"But it's not right," Claire protested.

"Oh it's perfectly right," Loyola said. "Right wing and their wing nuts. Now watch, after Brad finishes with Lori, they'll all line up for their turn. The damn has been broken."

�

Outside the "Sexual Healing" salon, the wraith circled menacingly, preparing to enter.� Just as she opened the door, Chelly Malkin stepped forward and caught the thin, gray apparition by its bony arm.

"You don't understand, Chelly," the wraith said. "I am here from the SOB's to kill Cocksure.� You're my friend. Let me go. After what that bastard did in Saudi Arabia, I must kill him."

"In due time, Annie," Chelly said, "but not until I get my turn. Then he's all yours."

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