My three horny teachers

M

CHAPTER ONE

Frieda Higgins was dismayed at what she found in her husband’s drawers. No, it wasn’t his cock, because she wasn’t looking in those drawers. She was looking in the drawer of his bureau, the one that had white athletic socks to the right and neatly pressed T-shirts in the middle and forty pairs of starchy Fruit of the Looms to the left.

She had been searching through his underthings, because she wanted to find out what he had put there last night after he had been in such a fucking horny mood.

Frieda wanted to see what could have caused him to act so… so perverted. Arnold had never acted so… so strangely in their five years of marriage.

Usually when he wanted to fuck, he would be very forthright about it. No foreplay, no caresses or nuzzling noses that other happy housewives get from horny husbands. Usually when Arnold was horny and itching for a fuck, he grabbed Frieda’s right tittie with his left hand and her cunt with his fight.

Which usually made her feel like not fucking him because he never nuzzled noses with her, or whispered sweet nothings, or creepy-crawled his hand surreptitiously up her thighs.

Shit, the last time Arnold Higgins had acted truly romantic toward his wife was when she had put too much starch in his Fruit of the Looms and it made him feel like he was wearing a plastic girdle. And Frieda had started to cry in order, to make Arnold feel sorry for her.

Arnold felt more than sorry for his wife. He kissed her… on the lips. Which was very rare for Arnold because it meant a show of affection, a little weakening of the old macho heart. Then he did another sweet thing. He touched her right tit… with his mouth, instead of gripping her tit like a football which he usually did when he wanted to fuck Frieda.

But that sweet, romantic moment had happened almost four years ago. And, since that time; now that Arnold had come to the realization that marriage meant that he could fuck his wife anytime that his cock got hard, he had forgotten about things like kissing and caressing and foreplay.

He was, in essence, no different in his lovemaking than in what he did for a living. Arnold was a coach. A very good coach.

Coach Arnold Higgins was the kind of coach that even coaches want to be.

Like he was a real go-getter. Any boy who didn’t put out for him 100 percent got his ass kicked.

See? Just like the way he loved his wife. If Frieda didn’t put out 100 percent for him, she got her ass kicked.

Like he loved winning and hated losing. Every time his team won, he celebrated by fucking his wife’s cunt. Every time his team lost, he fucked his wife’s ass.

Frieda wished his team’s won-lost record would read something like oh, oh and four. Which in the eyes of sports buffs meant a won-lost record of no wins, no losses and four ties. Then she wouldn’t get, her cunt fucked when he won and her ass fucked when he lost.

Maybe if his team tied, he would settle for a kiss from his wife. Or something gentle like a titty-fuck. After all, Arnold had told her many times that tics were like kissing his sister. Whatever in hell that meant.

For one thing Arnold didn’t have any sisters.

And Frieda wasn’t too sure he was the type of man who had a mother. Oh, Arnold had told her that his mother was a very good mother, even though she had died of syphilis a year after he was born. But Frieda wasn’t so sure.

No mother would want a son who could be such a sonofabitch all the time. No mommy would claim as her own flesh and blood a man who acted more like King Kong in heat than an understanding, foreplaying human male.

As Frieda searched through the pile of stacked and folded T-shirts, she couldn’t help but think about her marriage to an ape. After all, even Faye Wray would have thought about how much trouble she was in when King Kong had her in his grips. Because marriage to an oversized monkey instead of a human can be a constant problem for a wife who thought marriage was for humans.

Frieda thought about Arnold.

She regretted marrying Arnold.

She felt sorry for herself.

But so did her mother. Frieda’s mother had always felt sorry for Frieda. For one thing, little Frieda Matthews her maiden name before she started engaging in conjugal relations with an ape was the eighteenth Matthews child in a family of nineteen kids.

But Mrs. Matthews always felt sorry for Frieda because she was the only girl. Most mothers would feel sorry for their only daughter, especially if they had had to nurse eighteen sons. And there were so many complications being an only girl with eighteen brothers, seventeen of whom were older than her.

Take the case of hand-me-downs.

What the hell could her older brothers give her when she ins in junior high school and needed clothes and Papa Matthews only made forty-eight dollars a week guarding chickens down to Dryadale’s Cluck Cluck Egg Ranch?

Their hand-me-down jockstraps?

Ring-around-the-collar T-shirts?

Their coveralls that had chicken guts splattered near the crotches because their old man wanted them to fool around with hens instead of high-school chicks?

Yeah, Frieda had a right to be felt sorry for — which was exactly the way her mother had phrased it. Because Frieda’s mother was stupid and she had never finished junior high school. And she had never finished junior high school because Papa Matthews had knocked her down and raped her before knocking her up. Mama Matthews had told little Frieda many times. “You got plenty of right to be felt sorry for, Frieda. Now, come on and help me hang them coveralls on the clothesline.”

But the wont times for little Frieda were in high school. High school in Dudish County, Kansas, started in seventh grade.

That usually being the time little girls became little women. And by the time half of the little women hi Dudish County became seniors in high school, they also became other things. They could become pregnant of their own free will; or they could became pregnant of not their own free will. In other words, Dudish County was famous for three things.

As a stopover for the Southern Pacific railroad cars that trudged through town, a hundred miles long, in order to drop off mail and deliver water to the three hundred and four Dudish County residents.

As the barley basket of the world.

As the nation’s leading county in illegitimate pregnancies as the Dudish County doctors termed it, and the highest incidence of venereal disease in females as the Dudish County Mental Health Department called it.

So, when little Frieda attended high school, the hallowed halls of good old Sherman High were always filled with the horrible screams of girls getting raped or the ecstatic moans of girls getting raped; all depending, of course, on whether they chose to be raped of their own free will or not.

Take, for instance, Betsy Hogarth.

Betsy was Frieda’s best friend. She was Frieda’s best friend because she was Frieda’s only friend.

They had gotten to be friends like most eighteen-year-old girls get to be friends. Because they had something in common. They talked about fucking and sucking. Wondering what it would feel like. Would it hurt, would it make them pregnant if they sucked a cock, etcetera, and etcetera.

Betsy was a lot bolder sex-wise than Frieda though. Betsy was bolder because her body looked much bolder than tiny little Frieda’s.

For one thing Betsy had hair on her pussy. For two things she had tits that didn’t have that unbalanced, caved-in falsies looked like Betsy’s tits were an eyeful, real big eyefuls. Put the three things together and it’s a pretty bold appearance for a eighteen-year-old virgin who wondered if sucking cocks could get her pregnant.

Thus, Betsy learned at an earlier age than Frieda that sucking cocks did not mean she would get pregnant.

Because Frieda had watched Betsy suck Ezra’s cock behind the water fountain one day.

It was a very interesting scene. Especially for Frieda. Because she had never seen an erect cock in her life. Oh, every once in a while she had seen one of her eighteen brothers with an erection — but they usually hid their boners, as they called hard-ons back then, under a tented blanket that moved up and down mysteriously like a magician’s cape.

Frieda was shocked at how big a cock could get.

Many questions came to mind. Things like: how a cock gets hard? Was it full of air? Or full of piss that had backed up somewhere? And why did they have to get hard? Could a soft cock get a girl pregnant faster than a hard cock? Could a get pregnant if all she did was suck on a cock like Betsy was doing now?

Frieda watched Betsy suck Ezra’s cock. It was a lucky thing she had been late to school today; otherwise she would not have stumbled onto this scene.

Frieda thanked her mother, for the first time in her life, for making her shy home to help take down the coveralls from the clothesline, which had made her late for school, but which had enabled her to watch Betsy’s mouth move up and down on Ezra’s hard cock.

Frieda gasped.

Betsy looked… look… so horrible! Her eyes were bulging out. And her petticoats were showing. And her knee-high sacks were getting soiled as her knees scrabbled around in the Kansas dirt while she sucked Ezra’s prick.

Frieda got scared.

Betsy looked so horrible! Like she wanted to scream or moan or vomit or something. That huge prick looked like it was choking her to death. Betsy’s face reminded Frieda of her only Barbie doll which had been pumped full of air by her eighteen brothers, who had attached the nozzle of bicycle pump to her favorite doll and watched the head blow sky-high.

Frieda put down her social-hygiene book and crept closer to the awful, horrible scene. Ezra had his back to her. But every once in a while Frieda could glimpse Betsy’s horrified face between his legs.

Then Frieda found out why Betsy looked like she was choking and gagging and threatening to vomit.

Because Ezra’s cock was choking her and gagging her and making her threaten to vomit.

Ezra had jammed her mouth full of his prick and his hands were making bicycle handles out of her ears.

Now, Frieda heard what Betsy was saying.

“MMMMMMMMGGGGGGGFFFFFFFHHHHH! MMMMGGGGFFFFHHHH!”

Ezra’s laughter could be heard above the sound of the drip, drip of the water fountain that had gone dry in the duster of ’33.

“Ha-ha! Suck it, babe! So! Ouch, God damn! Ya wanted to know about cock-sucking, babe! Well, now ya know! Ha-ha, ha-ha!”

Frieda gulped, wondered for about two seconds about trying to help Betsy.

But then she saw where Betsy’s hands were as Ezra shifted slightly.

Her hands were on his balls!

Betsy knows what balls feel like!

Oh, gosh!

Balls were another thing that Frieda had often wondered about. Oh, she had tried to catch a glimpse of one — or would it be two? — of her brothers’ balls, but the Matthews family had some very hairy genes, and all the boys had pubic hair that looked like a lady from Topeka had hung a black mini-stole over the peg of their pricks. Thus, it was very hard to see their balls because they were so fuzzy-wuzzy.

But now Frieda could see Ezra’s balls very clearly. Well, not as clearly as she wanted, because Betsy’s hands were in the way. But when Betsy stuck her finger into Ezra’s asshole, she could see more balls than she had ever seen before in her life.

Again, life’s questions bothered Frieda, just as they would bother next year’s crop of eighteen-year olds who would become nineteen and wonder if they could get pregnant sucking a boy’s cock.

Why did men have balls? What was in them? Didn’t it hurt when they sat down or rode horses? Why were they called balls and not eggs or ovals?

Life at age eighteen, especially for a girl, and double especially when you’re an only girl amidst eighteen brothers, can be very troublesome.

But Frieda thanked God for giving her a friend like Betsy who would know what balls felt like and whether she would be fat and heavy nine months from now because she had sucked a boy’s cock.

Frieda watched Betsy’s hands. It didn’t seem right to Frieda that Betsy should stick her finger in a boy’s asshole.

Why did she do that? Didn’t it hun? Didn’t it stink?

Na, it didn’t hurt, because. Ezra’s remark about getting his asshole finger-fucked was quite the contrary.

“Oh, so! Yeah, that’s it! Finger my ass while I feed ya some more of my cock!”

Frieda felt funny watching her best friend getting pregnant and dirtying her finger in a boy’s asshole. It just didn’t seem right somehow. Maybe they ought to be doing that kind of thing somewhere else. Mama had told her many times not to expose her privates in public, to always cross her legs union she were wearing overalls or bloomers or unless she was in church.

But Ezra was showing his privates in public. His balls and big cock were blatantly exposed. As blatantly exposed as Betsy’s bold tits.

What!?

What was Betsy doing? No, Betsy, no!

Films couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Ezra had bent over, with his cock still in Betsy’s mouth and her finger still in his asshole, and he was unbuttoning her blouse.

“MMMMMMGGGGGGFFFFFFHHHHHH! MMMMGGGGFFFFHHHH!”

That’s it, Betsy! Tell him you’re not going to show him your privates. Gosh, hurry, Betsy, tell him. Oh, no!

Ezra stood up, proudly holding her bra in one hand and her blouse in the other.

And now Frieda saw Betsy’s bold titties between Ezra’s spread apart leg, his balls swinging freely a Betsy’s hands tried to cover her tits.

“PUT YOUR FUCKIN’ FINGER BACK IN MY ASSHOLE OR I WON’T LET YA SUCK MY COCK!”

Frieda was awed. Betsy’s hands were reluctantly leaving her tits and moving towards his asshole.

And Ezra bent over again. And his hands held Betsy’s titties. Well, they really didn’t hold her titties like most country boys would do when they had a milking contest. He mauled Betsy’s bold titties instead of milking them.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGGFFFF!”

Frieda wanted to get her thick social hygiene book and cold-cock Ezra while his back was still turned towards her. She wanted to save her friend from being embarrassed by showing her titties off in public.

But Frieda didn’t dare.

Ezra was too big. And besides his best buddies were the Matthews boys — all eighteen of them. And Frieda knew that the only reason why her brothers hadn’t fucked her like they fucked those Cluck Cluck hens was because the handle of Mama’s broom was made out of solid hickory, and the brushes of solid sapling branches.

No, she could only watch her best friend’s tits being mauled in public.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF! MMMMGGCGFFFF!”

“Ooh, what a set of titties, Betsy! Ya got better titties than Penny Austen!”

Frieda knew Penny Austen. Penny Austen was a senior last year and a mother of twins this year. She was voted most popular girl at Sherman High School last year. She had always had big tits which tended to many girls at Sherman High popular. But when she got pregnant, her tits had gotten as big as her belly and some of the senior boys were heard to say that she had gotten knocked up in three places instead of one.

Frieda chewed her lower lip as she watched Ezra maul Betsy’s titties while hunching his hips at Betsy’s face. Frieda wondered anxiously what was happening on the other side of his body.

Then, Frieda was amazed.

Milk! Milk was coming from Betsy’s titties!

Oh, gosh, she was pregnant already!

Frieda watched closely as something white and milky-looking dripped on Betsy’s big bold tits and smeared Ezra’s mauling hands.

“MMMGCGFFF! MMMGGGFFF!”

“OOOOHHH! THAT’S IT! BABEEEE! I’M CCOOOMMMIINNNGGGG!”

Coming? Frieda shook her head. Where was he coming from? What was happening? How could Betsy get pregnant so fast? How could her titties make milk so soon?

Then the last question was answered as Ezra pulled any from Betsy, took several steps back and two paces to the side.

And Frieda got a good gander at everything that had happened.

Betsy had milk on her face, all over her face. But now, Frieda could see it wasn’t milk because it didn’t drip as fast nor was it as thick.

Now, Frieda knew where that milky stuff had come from. Now, she knew that Betsy’s titties weren’t producing milk. They had simply gotten in the way of the drops that dripped off her chin.

Yes, now Frieda knew where that stuff had come from for sure. She knew she was right.

Ezra had choked her so full of cock that Betsy had thrown up the milk she had had for breakfast.

Poor Betsy!

CHAPTER TWO

Frieda searched her husband’s drawer. Staring from the left, she carefully lifted up his Fruit of the Looms.

Then she saw it. Saw what it was that her husband had put away this morning. It was a book. A book with a funny name. The Coach Eats Out.

At first Frieda thought it was simply one of her husband’s coaching manuals. She had never heard of a sport called eating out. Maybe it was a mistake; maybe the publisher had meant to title the book The Coach Chews Out.

Because that was what Arnold did all day on the football field — made pimple-faced kids cry because they didn’t hit hard enough, didn’t run fast enough, didn’t catch footballs like Lance.

But Frieda knew that what she had in her hand was not a coaching manual. Unless coaching manuals were now being published with covers that showed a husky man at a restaurant, with his head beneath a cheerleader’s mini-skirt.

Frieda was shocked. Very shocked.

She had heard about books like… like this… this piece of garbage. Arnold wouldn’t read this filth. Shit, why would her husband want to read about fucking and sucking when all he did when he came home was fuck and suck her, win, lose, or draw?

Frieda wanted to die. No, not because the book in her hand was pornographic, but because it was such a prime example of piss-poor writing.

And Frieda definitely knew something about writing. She was a graduate of St. Judas Aquinas College, class of ’65. And she had graduated with honors in English. Which was a very good field to major in to be an English teacher. Which she currently was. Currently teaching English like a foreign language to a bunch of American kids.

Many people were surprised that Frieda had gone to college. In fact, most of the people in Dudish County were shocked. For one thing, Frieda was the first resident of Dudish County to go to college. And they were doubly shocked when she had graduated from college.

People had just expected other things from Frieda Matthews way back then. They expected her to fuck and suck a lot, just like her brothers.

They expected her to have sons that would also be half-brothers because her full brothers were always threatening to fuck her. They had expected her to a belly full of ripe ova just crawling with wiggling brotherly tadpoles.

Yeah, they had expected a lot.

And they were very disappointed.

Papa Matthews was disappointed the most. Shit, he had always considered little Frieda to be prime cunt, something that he could fuck around with once his nights as a chicken guard came to an end.

Of course, what kept Papa Matthews from putting his claws on Frieda was that fucking broom Mama Matthews wielded.

Once, Papa Matthews had thought about killing Mama Matthews. Because she was getting to be useless with each passing day. The hominy grits tasted like a bucket of oats. The buckwheat griddle cakes could have been used for doorstops. And his coveralls smelled like chicken guts.

And nothing was more useless than a Dudish County witch who protected her daughter with a broom and made pancakes that tasted like chicken guts.

Frieda, however, was very thankful for Mama Matthews’ protection. Oh, there had been some close calls. Too close to want to be remembered.

Like the time her brother Abelard had cornered her in the barn. He had whipped out his prick and told her to suck it or he’d hang her fucking ass from the rafters.

That was one of the few times that Mama Matthews had not used the sapling brushes of the broom to prevent her daughter from being raped.

She had used the other end, the hickory handle end, to spear Abelard’s asshole as he stood with his coveralls hobbling his ankles.

Then there was the time. Mark, Paul and Luke had cornered her in the back of their ’52 Ford pickup. They were supposed to be going to church, and the rest of the Matthews clan was riding ahead in the station wagon.

And Frieda was on the flatbed an her back. She was spread-eagled, her arms and legs lashed down with her brothers’ belts. And she was naked. Yen naked.

And Mark, Paul and Luke began drooling like thirsty mules when they had looked on their sister’s pretty nakedness.

“Uuuuummmm!” Paul ached, rubbing the bulge at his crotch. Then there wasn’t a bulge at his crotch because the bulge had become a prick and a pair of hairy balls as his coveralls, fell to his ankles.

“Hey, Paul,” Mark said thoughtfully, chewing on a piece of straw. “I’m thinkin’ I’ll tan our asses if she catches us Frieda.”

Frieda was scared. Very scared. She had never been naked in front of her brothers. And Paul’s prick was only the third prick she had ever seen in her life. And it seemed like every time she was seeing a prick these days they were getting bigger and bigger and bigger.

Ezra Jubal’s prick was only about eight inches long. And Abelard’s looked a tad bit under ten inches. But Paul’s prick, by far, was the biggest prick she had ever seen.

Paul’s prick was a foot long.

Only it was soft.

Luke groaned. “Looks like rain.”

Frieda didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. She prayed.

Rain started to fall.

Paul was down on his knees, his hands jacking his cock.

Jack. Jack. Jack.

While raindrops kept falling on her head, Frieda squinted her eyes to see how big Paul’s prick was getting.

Fourteen inches.

And, to Frieda, Paul’s prick looked half-hard.

To Paul, his prick felt half-soft.

Frieda prayed some more. Prayed to God that Paul wouldn’t put his hard cock into her cunt, or her mouth, or… no, not there, would he?

Luke looked up at the black clouds. “Looks like it’s time.”

“You thinkin’ of fuckin’ Frieda, Paul?” Mark asked, chewing the straw.

“Well,” Paul answered, jacking his prick. “I’m thinkin’ of giving her a cumholer. That away she won’t get a baby in her belly.”

Frieda prayed again, prayed that she would go deaf so she wouldn’t hear what Paul was going to do to her virgin asshole. Prayed that a lightning bolt would kill her brothers dead. Prayed that she would be a bale of hay that the boys were simply taking to market so that it could be shipped to the Chicago stockyards and end up in some contented cow’s four stomachs where she would be immensely happy.

Lightning struck too far away.

Thunder rolled over Dudish County.

Luke said, “I seen lightnin’.”

“Well, come on, Paul,” Mark exclaimed. “Hurry up and do your corn-holin’, ’cause I wanta have Frieda suck my prick.”

“Hold your fuckin’ horses,” Paul replied. “Takes a while for my prick to get hard for corn-holin’. You oughta know that.”

Mark scratched his ass, looked around for another edible straw.

Luke searched the sky from east to west, “I hear thunder.”

Frieda wanted to die. Wanted the good Lord to strike her with lightning and bum her up like a dry bale of hay that someone had thrown their lit Lucky into.

Her tits felt cold as raindrops splattered all over them. There was lots of tit-flesh for the raindrops to fall an. Because Frieda was now eighteen and a senior in high school. And she was just going into the next stage of growth for a Dudish County female: from little woman to big woman.

Paul watched the raindrops dripping off his sister’s trim. He drooled, kept jackin’ his cock, kept thinkin’ about how good it was going to feel when he stabbed his prick into his sister’s asshole.

He looked down at his prick.

It was ready. It was sixteen inches long.

Her asshole was not ready. It looked hardly bigger than a starfish’s mouth. Like it would have a hard time shitting out a turd the size of a toothpick.

“Jesus!” Mark exclaimed. “Ya think you’ll get all that meat into her whole?”

Paul nodded. “Looks a bit tight, don’t it?”

Luke said: “I see Ma coming.”

Frieda moaned. She moaned because her arms ached and her legs hurt and her asshole was being stretched by a cock that should have been in a mule’s ass instead of hers.

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! NO, PAUL! I’M TOOOOO TIGHT! AAAHIIEEEE!”

Paul sweated. But you could hardly tell it because the rain was coming down too fast and it was washing away the smell of b.o.

Jesus! What a tight asshole! He’d never corn-holed nothing this tight in his life. Oh, he had corn-holed little brother Jethro once, but that didn’t count because they were ages twenty-eight and ten… respectively speaking.

No, corn-holing sister Frieda was tots better.

Paul watched his prick bend, then bow, then threatened to snap. Finally the head of his sixteen-inch prick popped into the sliver-tight hole.

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! OH GOD! OH DEAR LORD! MAKE HIM STOP! PLLLEEEAAASSEEE!”

Mark was amazed that sister Frieda could actually make her asshole stretch that big. He watched, the rain making it difficult to see.

Luke said: “Yep, that’s Ma com’n down the road. Com’n fast, too.”

Paul moaned and groaned as he stuffed more prick into his sister’s ass. Jesus Christ! Her asshole was tighter than hell! And it felt so fucking bumpy in there. Nothing like those chickens he fucked every night. The only thing that reminded him of chickens was the way Frieda was squawking and squealing.

“AAAAIHEEEEE! NO! OH DEAR LORD! SAVE ME! OOOOAAAAIIIIEEE.”

“Looks like you’re almost alt the way in,” Mark said, looking at Frieda’s asshole gobbling up Paul’s prick.

Paul lunged, like stabbing a pitchfork into a bale of hay, like jabbing his prick into Matilda his favorite hen.

Luke said: “Yep, it’s Ma all right. And she looks madder than a hornet.”

Ma? Madder than a hornet!

God, Paul didn’t know what to do. He was caught betwixt and between. Between a rock and a hard place.

He wanted to pull his prick out of Frieda’s ass, tuck his ten-incher back into his coveralls before Ma whipped his balls with forty lashes of the sapling broom. But then again, he had never fucked an ass before that belonged on a woman, a creature that had real live human tits on her chest instead of feathers; no, he couldn’t pull his cock out now.

There was only one thing to do: hurry!

“Oh, Christ! Hurry, cock, and hurry! Oh, shit! She’ll beat the hell outa my balls! Oh, hurry!”

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! OH GOD! PLEASE DO IT EASY! OOHHHHHHH! YOU’RE HURTN’ ME SO BAD! OH GOD! OH DEAR LORD!”

Thunder crackled. Lightning flashed.

A car door slammed.

Raindrops kept fallin’.

Paul kept fucking, hurrying as fast as he could, shoving and jabbing and pronging his sister’s asshole, wishing to hell now that it was Matilda he was fucking instead of his sister.

“WHAT YOU BOYS DOIN’ TO MY LITTLE FRIEDA!”

Oh, no! The wicked witch of the north was here!

Luke said: “Oh-oh. Ma’s here!”

Mark jumped off the flatbed. Luke followed.

They cleared way for Mama Matthews as she wedged through them.

Paul hurried, then hurried faster. He was almost there! He thought about Matilda’s cunt-nest, thought about younger brother Jethro’s asshole. Then he thought about coming, ’cause thoughts about fucking real chickens and brother chickens always spurred him on to coming.

He started to spurt — or, rather, his prick started to spurt.

“AAAAHIIEEEE! YOU’RE TEARIN’ ME, PAUL! OHHHHHH GOOOODDDDD!”

Spun. Spurt. Spun.

Paul’s head was back, his mouth catching Kansas rain while he poured jism into his sister’s asshole.

Then his head pitched forward, the rain running off the back of his head like water off a chicken’s back.

He felt dizzy when he shot the final spurt of cum, the one that usually made his balls droop because they had contracted so much, the one that usually signaled the end of a chicken-fuck, or a sodomy-job, or a sister-buggering.

Mama Matthews looked at the Bible in her hand. Couldn’t believe that Paul’s head had plumb knocked off the personalized nameplate.

God, how she could have used her broom right now. God, how she’d beat the shit out of Paul’s balls to teach him never to fuck around with his sister’s asshole again.

“Oh, Mama! I hun so bad!”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“But I hurt so bad! Am I bleedin’?”

Mama bent down, attended to Paul’s head first before sizing up the condition of Frieda’s whole. “Shit, no you ain’t bleedin’. But I pray the Lord you were bleedin’. Just look at what you done with your sister!”

Most sisters would be very pissed if their brothers had made their asshole the size of a cunt while it was in labor, giving birth to a couple of Siamese twins. But Frieda was not mad at that moment, not vengeful or full of spite.

For one thing, she was unconscious.

For another thing, when she had regained consciousness and she felt cool rain running down her bleeding ass-crack and she heard thunder and saw lightning, she saw a very clear message, a God-sent spiritual telegram: LEAVE AT ONCE STOP HAPPINESS ELSEWHERE STOP NEVER COME BACK STOP SINCERELY STOP GOD.

Which was the reason why Frieda went to college.

Because she had to get away from eighteen bothers who wanted her to become a one-woman harem. Had to get away from a father who was looking forward to his retirement nights, sitting in a rocking chair with his incestuous daughter down between his knees sucking his cock.

So, Frieda left Dudish County in the summer of ’61. She took a Bible, two gingham dresses, a pair of panties that were actually one of her brothers’ cotton shorts cut down to size, eighteen pairs of hand-me-down coveralls and some Preparation H.

At first she didn’t know where she was headed, like most girls today. She just kept going in accordance with that spiritual telegram.

First she headed east, then she took a circuitous train ride to Chicago, booked in the third-class section of the hobo department.

Somewhere south of Evansville, Illinois, she headed west because the hoboes had discovered she was a girl dressed up as a boy and they caught her pissing in a funny, unnatural position when she had thought they were all asleep.

She had escaped safely. The hoboes had not harmed her because she gave them fourteen pairs of chicken-gutted coveralls in exchange for keeping her hymen intact.

Going west, she went by extended thumb and just a little bit of thigh showing beneath the gingham hem. She was very careful about who picked her up.

If there was one man in the car, she refused to ride.

If there was one woman in the car, she accepted.

If there was no one in the car, she also declined.

Using that thumb, she hitchhiked all the way to L.A. Most of the trip was covered in a ’48 Packard owned by the Trucedales, Solomon and Gracie.

Solomon was the man in the car, and Gracie was the woman in the car.

Solomon was also the husband.

Gracie was also his wife.

They were in love because they were on their second honeymoon. The first one having taken place thirty years ago, back in the thirties, the Depression years when many a poor wife sold her pussy next to her husband’s pencil stand.

The Trucedales, however, thought and acted very young.

At first, Frieda thought they were senile because they were always cooing around each other like pigeons, kissing when they could like pit-teenagers, and their faces won’t so withered that they couldn’t blush and become embarrassed like normal type lovers. Both had lots of hair. Both had lots of wrinkles. Both had varicose veins. Being old, they had a lot in common.

But they were a happy couple who had earned a lot of money making Geritol ads in Florida. But before that, Solomon was retired from his job as a bank toiler and Gracie no longer had to cook for those prune-faced hap in the Rocking Chair Retirement Home where she had cooked mush for twenty years.

But there was a night when the Trucedales changed. Changed drastically, haphazardly, just like it says in the Foreword to this book: outwardly normal, inwardly perverted.

It was ten miles west of Tucumcari, New Mexico, when the change took place, and Frieda saw the Trucedales for what they really were: Outwardly old, inwardly young and perverted.

Solomon was not the happy seventy-year-old man he appeared to be.

And Gracie was not the happy sixty-year-old woman she appeared to be.

Outwardly they were happy; inwardly they were happier because they had gotten their hoary hooks into some pretty young stuff. And boy, did they eat up on that young cunt.

They drooled over young stuff. Stuff like what was in the back seat of their perverted ’48 Packard. The fluffy stuff that was curled in a ball against one of the armrests, using a Bible for a headrest.

Frieda had thought that they had stopped so that old fart, Gracie, could take a piss behind another McDonald’s billboard. When Frieda rubbed her eyes and sat up, that was a natural conclusion to come to. Because she saw old fart Gracie pulling up her dress, exposing her knee-high nylons which were sagging to her ankles.

And, in the cloudy darkness, Frieda could make out Solomon’s scarecrow body as he fucked around with his fly.

There was nothing unusual. Nothing that made Frieda fearful. So they were just two senile people who had cheerfully pulled off the road so they could, beneath a drooling McDonald’s Big Wheel.

Shit, old people did think like that everyday. It’s a natural cycle of life. You’re born and you’re on your back saying goo-goo and thinking your left ankle’s a toy or a cloud; then when you’re old, things never change because you’re flat on your back and your feet are in a transom because the varicose is too bad and Father Simon is standing over you and you’re saying good-good.

But the Truest and Jules were not acting like everyday old people.

Something looked unusual.

Because old fart Gracie was still holding up her dress like she was wadding through three-feet deep mud puddles. And she was minus her usual white cotton panties. And her pussy hair was very obvious, because it was eleven o’clock at night and threatening to rain, and Gracie’s white pussy hair stood out like a white rabbit in a hutch full of black hares.

And there was something about Solomon that looked unnatural. Either his watch fob had come loose from his belt and was hanging halfway to his knees or he was so old and senile that he no longer had the energy to zip up his pants after peeing.

The latter case was true. Too true to believe.

What were they doing?

This was a public highway, not a road cutting through the midst of a nudist camp. God, what would the truckers say when they passed by with their guts full of No-Doz and their bellies full of Maxwell House and their eyes full of white pubic-haired rabbits and fob-like cocks?

Frieda closed her eyes. Opened them again. The Trucedales were still there in the same obscene, lewd condition.

Well, that wasn’t really true.

Because now the Trucedales were only a couple of steps away from the depraved Packard.

The Trucedales had worsened their obscene, lewd condition. Or at least one half of the Trucedales had worsened. Solomon, the worse half of the Trucedales, had an erection!

God! He had a boner! A hard-on! A big corncob!

All those terms came back to Frieda in a flash as she remembered her eighteen bothers and what endearing terms they had for their hard-on, corncob boners.

Frieda wanted to run, wanted to thrust open the door and get the hell out of there. But it was too dark, and rain was beginning to fall, and she was naked.

NAKED?

God, where were her clothes? Where had they gone? Her favorite gingham dress!

“Don’t go looking for your clothes now, pumpkin,” Solomon leered as he opened the door and let in cold air and rain.

“Yes sir,” Gracie said from the other side as the wind coming in from Solomon side ruffled her dress and white pubic hair. “We just wanta have a little fun — isn’t that right, Sol?”

Sol smiled. The gold in his teeth as bright as the lightning that flashed behind him. He entered the back seat.

Gracie came up on Frieda’s backside.

Frieda shivered. Frozen with fear. Like a scaredy cat.

“Why, you look like you’re frozen with fear, little scaredy cat,” Solomon said.

“Oh, Solomon,” Gracie teased. “Frieda isn’t scared. Are you, Frieda?”

Frieda unfroze. Obviously there wasn’t a hickory broom handy. Mama Matthews was a zillion miles away probably making the batter for tomorrow’s doorstop pancakes. What would Mama do?

Frieda grabbed the Bible and raised it over her head, intent on chastising Solomon’s white-haired head.

Gracie grabbed the good book.

A fight ensued.

While the fight ensued and the good book went from one hand to the other, Solomon started fucking around with Frieda’s tits. Uummm, so unlike Gracie’s tits. Frieda’s were young and firm and hot to the touch.

No sag, no wrinkles, tits made of polyester.

Frieda screamed. “AAAAIIIIEEEE! PLEASE DON’T!”

And while she screamed, the fight over the good book ensued, and Frieda was in an awkward position for fighting. Her hands were up and over her head, clutching desperately to the Bible as that demon woman kept trying to grab it away from her.

And her tits felt as if they were being sucked off her chest as Solomon’s lips covered her nipples.

“PLEASE! MR. TRUESDALE, STOP THAT! OOOOHHHHH, PLEASE!”

Then Frieda was toppling backward, and the Bible was gone from her hands, and Solomon was all over her body, his tweed jacket scratching her flesh.

And then darkness covered Frieda’s eyes, obliterated the lightning and moon-streaked clouds as Gracie lifted up her dress and took a pissing position over Frieda’s face.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGGFFFF!”

“Oh, don’t scream so,” Gracie implored, feeling the youngster’s lips on her pussy. “We won’t rape you. I just want you to eat my pussy cause Solomon can’t stand the smell of old cunt. And Solomon won’t hurt you, Frieda. All he wants is a taste of young cunt.”

Frieda tried struggling but it was useless.

She prayed.

The pitter-patter, pitter-patter of raindrops beating against the depraved Packard resounded in her ears.

Then came an unnatural sound. Like the sounds the hoboes made in those freight cars when they sucked each other off.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

“UUUUMMMMMMM!” Solomon moaned.

Frieda felt so dirty having her pussy cleaned by a person’s tongue. No one had ever tongued her cunt before; no one had even thought about using their tongue to clean her cunt. Usually Mama Matthews handed her a washcloth cut from some denim coveralls and told her to wash between her legs until it was whistle clean.

Frieda groaned. Something felt unnatural about having a tongue in her pussy.

“Now, don’t be scared, Frieda,” Gracie whispered haggishly as she started the first cunt-grind against Frieda’s face.

Oh, God! Frieda had never tasted pussy before. Not even her own. She had never had the urge to taste cunt like most American teenagers do.

The odor was powerful, somewhat oily. It was a taste that Frieda couldn’t help but taste. Because Gracie was forcing more of her white-haired pussy against her lips as Solomon kept eating her pussy out, and everything felt so nasty and tasted so filthy.

Frieda tried to scream: “MMMGGGFFF! MMMGCGFFFF!”

And Gracie was going ape-shit on top of Frieda, loving the feel of Frieda mouth on her pussy. She edged forward, then came back. Her sixty-year-old cunt was on fire!

Solomon groaned. Young pussy! God, pussy that tasted like… like his mother’s walnut meringue pie! Oh, God! It was a beautiful taste.

Frieda squirmed like a leapin’ lizard. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Her flesh felt hot and stuffy. Her mouth felt hot and stuffy. Her cunt felt hot and stuffed… stuffed with an old man’s vile tongue.

Then her cunt didn’t feel hot and stuffed. Cool air was on her pussy. Then the heat was back again, the heat that radiated from the lust-flushed face of a seventy-year-old man whose mouth was groveling in a pussy that tasted like freshly baked walnut meringue pie.

“MMMGGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGGFFFF!”

Frieda wanted to die. Something was happening to her body! Something strange and unnatural.

But it felt good. It felt tingly just above her peehole. It felt itchy-twitchy right at the top of her cunt where there was a pimple-sized bump that was driving her crazy now as Solomon’s raspy tongue kept whipping that pimple-sized bump.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGGFFFF!”

Solomon had tasted a cunt while it was in the midst of a climax. Gracie’s cunt always climaxed in the midst of his cunt eating and she usually went so crazy that he felt as if her cunt were drowning with water-like juices.

But this cunt was so different!

This was young stuff!

Walnut cream pie! Uuuuuum-hummmmm!

Good!

Gracie was moving as fast as her age: like sixty. She was pumping away like mad, moving her cuntlips back and forth, back and forth over Frieda’s mouth.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGGFFFF!”

Oh, Dear Lord, stop this infernal pleasure! The heat was desirously suffocating! The pleasure in her cunt was like a plague, like a pox, like a social disease.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGGFFFF!”

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

“MMMMMGGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGGFFFFF!”

Dear Lord! Save her from that horrible ecstasy that was eating at her pimple-bump. And that wonderful sponge-like pleasure that was invading then absorbing her ass.

Invading her asshole? A sponge?!

Oh, God! No! His tongue — his tongue was in her hole! Licking away the Preparation H. Frieda wanted to die. The Lord had not created assholes for men to eat. And oh, she was sooooo sore! No! Not there, Solomon higher! Return to the pimple-bump! Oh, please!

Solomon savored Frieda’s asshole. Tasted the flavor of her ass! He had never tasted an asshole like this one before. Gracie’s asshole wasn’t like this. Was he so old that he couldn’t remember what a young asshole tasted like?

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

Gracie was beyond the planet of ape-shit now. It felt so good to have a young pilgrim such as this one sucking her cunt. Ooooohhh, that’s it Frieda-honey! Right on the old cunt! Right on the old pimple-bump!

They were nearing a climax, coming to the end, sensing the finality of their midnight snack.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGGIFFF!”

“AAAAHIIEEEE! FRIEDA-HON! I’M COOOMMMIIINNNGGG!”

Frieda hunched and squirmed and thrashed. Solomon’s tongue was driving her asshole up a wall. She wanted to be in the same state of ecstasy as the old fart on top of her face. She didn’t want his tongue corn-holing her asshole. She wanted his tongue in her pussy!

But Solomon corn-holed her asshole with his tongue. God! He couldn’t remember tonguing a creamier asshole. There was so much cream on this young asshole. God! Was he so old that he couldn’t remember how creamy Gracie’s asshole had been when he was courtin’ her in Topeka and they were at the Blue Bird Soda Shop and he had his finger in her asshole instead of her cunt because he didn’t know any better?

Then Gracie fell forward. Of her own will.

And her tongue speared the pilgrim child’s cunt on the first thrust. And, since Gracie had a cunt between her legs, she knew where the pilgrim child’s pussy would be.

The pilgrim child had her first orgasm. Her first orgasm in her whale entire life. Which made her an exception because she was now eighteen, the legal age for having orgasms and voting and smoking and buying condoms and even marrying of her own free will.

Ali, what a wonderful age!

Gracie licked and licked and liked what she licked. Creating one climax after another for Frieda-hon.

And Solomon had licked Frieda asshole whistle-clean of the Preparation H, and he was wondering when her asshole would climax again so he could taste that delicious creamy deluge of her rectal passion.

Then Frieda had one last stupendous seizure, one last ecstatic epileptic fit, the grand maw of all orgasms.

“AAAIIIIEEEEE! I’M COOOMMMIIINNNGGG, TOOOOOO!”

CHAPTER THREE

Frieda looked at the first page of The Coach Eats Out.

Oh, God! Those words in that powerfully written, foreword! How awkwardly phrased; yet, so true, oh so true!

Outwardly normal.

Frieda shut the book, didn’t want to be reminded of that horrible Tucumcari night when it had rained for forth minutes and she had climaxed during thirty of them while she was in the back seat of a degraded Packard with two outwardly normal elderly people.

Her asshole tingled. Her cunt-lips quivered. Her pimple-bump throbbed. Just a mild orgasm from the thoughts of what that perverted, outwardly normal, retired couple had done to her before they dropped her off in Flagstaff because they were headed north to Sun City.

Frieda shivered… like her pimple-bump. She stopped her clit from throbbing. She finger-fucked her pussy, drawing her legs up and spreading them widely. Lewdly.

Oh, God! She hadn’t fingered her cunt since her college days. When she was dating a boy named Arnold Higgins, the boy who had picked her up hitchhiking outside of Prescott, Arizona.

She had broken her mile of thumb on that ride. But what the hell? At least he had only been one man. What could one man do if she sat way over on her side and kept a good eye on where his hands were?

The car was air-conditioned because it was a Lincoln Continental. And it had all kinds of whirring, power-packed gadgets. Like electrically controlled tilt wheel, power radio antenna, humming reclining seats, and driver-controlled door locks.

Frieda had never been in a Lincoln Continental before. But she sure learned fast about all those buttons that were on Arnold’s side of the car.

Like he made the seat recline so far back that it was mom like a tuck and roll bed. And he made the wheel tilt up and away from his body so he could get his cock out without honking the horn or getting it jammed between his belly and the steering wheel.

Frieda had kept a keen eye on what he was doing — then she frantically tried to get the hell out of his luxurious car.

“Please… I’m a virgin.”

“So?”

“I am! Believe me! I’ve never done anything like this.”

“You ever seen a cock like this?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, shit. You got any brothers? Or a daddy?”

“W-Well, yeah, but…”

“Then you must have seen their pricks before. That is, if you’re normal.”

“Well, I-I have, but…”

“Did you ever touch their pricks?”

“W-Well, I-I guess you could say…”

“Then touch my cock. What’s the difference?”

“D-Do I have to?”

“Ya wanta ride in air-conditioned luxury to L.A.?”

“Well, sure, but…”

“And you don’t wanta be picked up by no rape-horny marines, or same hot-cocked truckers — shit, you don’t know what the hell you’re gettin’ into when you go hitchhiking round the country with no suitcase and just a Bible.”

Frieda nodded her head. “Well, I don’t…”

“Well, I do! Look, I’ll pay you for it. Stilt, where I’m going they pay for everything. Pussy, cars, new jocks… everything. How’s about it? Twenty bucks for a blow-job. Sound all right to you?”

Frieda shook her head, held lightly to her Bible, remembered that spiritual telegram: HAPPINESS ELSEWHERE.

Was this happiness elsewhere?

A Lincoln Continental that converted into a harem on four wheels at the push of a button?

Earning twenty dollars for blowing a stranger’s prick? Well, at least his cock looked clean.

“Well, come on! I’m offering you twenty bucks to blow me and a free ride to L.A. You taking it or not?”

“Well — yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, let’s not get too cock-hungry. Shit, you’re about as eager to suck my prick as a whore with chapped lips.”

Frieda nodded. Ran her tongue aver her lips. They weren’t chapped.

“Jesus! You gotta pretty long tongue. Bet you been sucking cocks all your life. Well, come on, get your head down on my prick and I’ll start her up, and we’ll make it to L.A. before it starts to rain.”

Frieda put her head down. His prick looked so huge. It just didn’t seem natural for God to create mouths to be so small for something so huge. And if He had wanted girls’ mouths to suck cocks, why didn’t He give them a bigger set of lips? Either that or make smaller pricks.

“Christ, just start sucking on it! It ain’t gonna kill you.”

Frieda wanted to die. Yet, she wanted to go to L.A. And if she sucked hit cock, maybe that would be enough for him. Maybe he wouldn’t want to fuck her virgin pussy if she drained all that stuff from his system.

She went down on him.

Arnold thrust up at her, thrusting his cock deep into her throat on the first jab. Of course, it helped that his huge hand was on the back of her head, shoving down while his hips were thrusting up.

“GOOODDDDAAAAMMMNNNN! IT’S BEEN TWO DAYS SINCE… THE LAST BLOW-JOB! OH, CHRIST! BABY! SUCK IT! SUCK IT LIKE YOU’RE STARVED FOR COCK!”

Frieda’s face turned blue. Her throat hurt. Her stomach turned over. Her eyes bulged. Oh, God! She was gonna heave! She was gagging to death on a huge foot-long cock!

Frieda said: “MMMMMMMM!”

Which was a funny way of saying: “AIR! I NEED AIR!”

But Arnold Higgins knew what Frieda needed. Shit, he knew about chicks like this. Tried to act like poor white trash, pretended to be drifters instead of rich girls running away from home so they could go out and blow cocks without Daddy knowing about what they were doing.

Yeah, Frieda looked like the typical, outwardly normal, rich girl who posed as a vagrant, a hippy girl, as a love child so she could feel she was a renegade, a maverick from society.

Fucking stupid cunts.

But all Frieda cared about was air. Oxygen for her lung, for her lung. Air. that precious commodity that everyday people take for panted. Then the hand on her head was puffing her up by the hair, and air, precious air, was sucked into her lungs around the huge cock that was in her mouth.

“MMMGGGFFFF! OH GOD! THANK YOU! I SURE NEEDED — MMMGGGFFFF!”

See! Arnold knew it! Just knew that this kid probably had some rich old man who probably made money hand over fist in cotton, or oil, or silver, or bonds, or encyclopedias.

He knew it because she had said thanks for sucking his cock. Thanks to him for offering her a ride on his cock and to L.A.

Arnold brought her head back up, felt air-conditioned coolness all around his cock as she sucked in precious air.

Jesus! What a cock-sucking rich bitch! Shit, she loved sucking pricks! Arnold could tell the girls who dug sucking his prick — because they all acted like this one, thankful, always saying mmmmggggfffff!

He shoved her down on his prick again, brought her back up again.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! GODDAMN COCK-SUCKING MOUTH! OH GOD, GO DOWN ON ME!”

Arnold shoved her head all the way down, felt her nose rubbing against his crotch hair, felt her chin against his balls, felt her screaming mouth all over his throbbing cock.

“MMMGGGGFFF!”

Arnold was ready to come. Because it had been two days since the last rich bitch had sucked his prick. Some little whore tramp out of Albuquerque who said she was running away because she was four months pregnant and didn’t know which boy in Dudish County was the father.

Betsy… Betsy, or Hobo, or something like that.

Arnold came. Very hot gushes of pent-up sperm shot out of his prick in huge spurts.

“MMMMMMMMMGGGGGGFFFFF! MMMMGGGGFFFF!”

God, it was the first time Frieda had tasted a man’s cum. It was bland, like Mama Matthews’ pancake batter. But it wasn’t as hard as those doorstop griddle cakes. This stuff was churned up, frothy and bubbly, and it was icky enough to make her retch because it felt like a bland snail crawling down her throat.

“AAARRRGGGHHHH! SUCK IT, RICH BITCH! SUCK MY FUCKIN’ CREAM!”

Arnold looked down. Saw a huge pool of icky stuff on his lap. Christ! He didn’t know he had so much cunt in his life.

Wait a minute!

Oh, fuck!

Oh, shit!

That was cum! That was… yes!

And that was how Arnold had come to the startling discovery that this vagrant, rich bitch was not a vagrant, nor was she rich, nor was she a bitch. Because only rich bitches and plain old horny girls know how to suck a cock without gagging and retching and heaving stuff.

Arnold was stunned.

Frieda was sick. To her stomach.

Arnold was taken aback, then he was just plain taken by this little fluff of femininity that he had just picked up outside of Prescott, Arizona, thinking that she was just another hot-cunt, hotter-mouth chick looking for cock and a ride to L.A. In that order.

“Hey, you really don’t know how to suck cocks, do you?”

Frieda gasped, cleaned her lips with the hem of her gingham. “I-I… never done something like that before.” Arnold was very surprised. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Whew! For a while there I thought you were gonna say nineteen.”

“Why? What difference would that have made?”

“Well, if you were only eighteen, then I could understand why you threw up while sucking my cock. But being as you’re eighteen… wow! And you say you never sucked a cock before! Wow!”

Arnold was so surprised at Frieda being eighteen and never having sucked cock that he asked her what else she had never done. Turned out to be quite a bit. Like she had never been fucked before.

Or ridden in an air-conditioned car. Or seen the ocean, or a big city, or happiness.

“Christ, kid. You make me feel awful. Shit, I wish. Hey, wait a minute! There is a way I can help you, kid. You ever thought about going to school?”

“I been to school. Went to Sherman High School — No, no! I mean like college.”

“College? Who goes to college?”

“Oh, shit. Ya gotta lot to learn, kid. And I’m gonna see that ya learn it. Shit, they’d have to let you into my school. ‘Cause if they don’t let you enroll, they’re gonna be without their star defensive linebacker. Yes sir, kid! You’re going to college!”

So, Frieda went to college.

Shit, where else could she go?

And she was forever thankful to Arnold Higgins, the star middle linebacker for St. Judas Aquinas.

She learned a lot at St. Judas Aquinas. She learned Latin. She learned French. She learned to orient herself to a campus that was eighty square acres and teeming with rich bitch girls who looked for cock between classes.

She learned to cut mid-term exams by telling her professors, with tears running down her cheeks, that her father had just died and she just wasn’t up to naming the zillions of bones in a human skeleton for her anatomy class.

She learned to live in the dorms, and eat dorm food, and watch dorm girls eat each other because they were so hungry for meat because the dorm cafeteria only sewed something that all the dorm kids called mystery meat. Which was usually left-over bread pudding that had been allowed to harden for three weeks before the dorm cooks could call it Spencer steak, or Swiss cut, or Salisbury meatloaf.

She learned that a square root was not the beginnings of a corn stalk that could grow oblong corn kernels.

She learned to grammatically split infinitives.

She learned that a man could speak with pebbles in his mouth and talk to the ocean at high noon.

She learned that it was improper grammar to use a preposition to end a sentence with.

Yeah, Frieda learned a lot about life, and a lot about English in particular. Which was why she had married Arnold Higgins, because he showed her so much of life. And which was why she was an English teacher at Thomas Dewey High School, teaching English as a foreign language to kids who were more interested in football as taught by one Arnold Higgins.

CHAPTER FOUR

She had a nose in the middle of her face, with jaw lines that seemed to surround her cheeks so much so that her eyes were like a beautiful pig’s. And she had enormous tits that didn’t sewn to sag nor were they very big. After all, she loved to have her tits fucked, but not by just any prick of her own choosing.

Her hands reached out of their own accord. She reached his prick and gave it a couple of shoves. He moaned distressingly. The balls were heavy and big. She touched his balls, her hands coming into delicious contact with them, and as her left hand felt around and through his balls, her tight hand was busy at his head, before moving his hairy nipples and landed parachute-like on his fat navel to his big hulking cock.

“FUCK ME!” she whispered throatily, using her voice. “FUCK ME NOW!”

Then he fucked her. He creased her stomach so she was in a bent-over pretzel position and he gave his cock to her pussy from behind, wedging spade-like into her cunt.

Enough! Atrocious! Disgusting!

Who the hell could understand what the hell was happening in the first four paragraphs of The Coach Eats Out?

Frieda couldn’t. The only sentence that had made sense to her was: “FUCK ME!” Jesus! So this was why she was teaching English to her kids at Thomas Dewey — so they could understand trash like this!

It was terrible, a mockery of the English language. It was downright pornographic.

Frieda skipped to page forty-two of The Coach Eats Out.

His prick rose as if it did not have a conscience.

HUH?

It raised its mushroomed head and stared with its one eye at the cheerleader’s eighteen-year-old, nearly hairless pussy.

WHAT?

The cheerleader snorted in her breath. Her thighs clapped.

Snorting breaths? Clapping thighs? OH GOD, NO!

Coach waddled like a duck op his knees into the V of her unclapped thighs. He held his prick with his hand then, with a sadistic smile, his cockhead rubbed the door-like lips of her cunt. Her cunt was eager, because it puckered outward on itself.

OH NO! JESUS! NO! Unclapping thighs and self-puckering cunt-lips!

The coach’s cock moved itself back and forth in the large grip of his knuckled fingers. The cheerleader’s cunt opened up involuntarily of its own accord much like a clam would do when it is put in the refrigerator and is allowed to die slowly.

NO! Self-moving cocks and dying clams! GOD! NO!

The coach ambled real close to the cunt that lay between the pretty cheerleader’s bent thighs. He was ready, was she? She was because her thighs reached out and grabbed, then anchored around the waist of the two-hundred-and-eighty-year old man who breathed somewhat quietly. Her cunt wetted its lips with a smelly ooze that filled the room with the smell of rotten fish guts.

Frieda wanted to die! Die because of a fictitious cheerleader who had to lived a life with bent thighs and whose cunt smelled of rotten fish guts, yet was capable of wetting its own lips.

Coach, or Coach Rollins as the others named him, missed the first time. But he got to fuck her on the second spearing of the cheer-leader’s breathless pussy, shoving under her cunt before it straightened out and gave her clit the rubbing it deserved. The cheerleader’s thoughts were scrabbled with poisonous darts of ecstasy. She thought about how the cock, which was in her pussy very deep, was so much fun and better to fuck than the black cock that belonged on the hoary thighs of Mr. Johnson, whose only esteemed position at school was one of being a prolific English teacher. She laughed.

SHE LAUGHED? OH GOD! NO!

Smirking her lips downward, she chanced to see the coach’s ripe balls which lay beneath his cock like two baked walnuts that were covered with a slight furring of nebulous hair.

NO! Smirking her lips downward! Is that facially possible? And nebulous hair. NO! JESUS, NO!

The cheerleader could not see the spunk on the spewing lips of the coach’s cock as it ejaculated involuntarily deep inside the twisting core of her womb. It felt happy. But because she could not see the spunk that spit out of his cock, the pretty, diminutive little cheerleader could have imagined what that semen appeared to be while it flooded her own pussy and started creaming around the outside edges of the skin where it could escape from his cock.

Somehow, some way, Frieda was starting to make sense of the nonsense in The Coach Eats Out. Somehow the author, a writer with the dubious name I.C. Cum, was getting to Frieda. Getting to her pussy and making it drool and cream and open up like a dead refrigerated clam.

“Oh, God! This is silly! I couldn’t possibly… be… oh no!”

But Frieda was turned on by the Coach early out. She knew she was turned on because her cunt was soaking in the middle of a lot of cunt-juice while she envisioned a fictitious cock that had lips that spewed spunk because it was all very happy. Or horny. Or whatever.

No! It was impossible! Her cunt wasn’t a clam, and her thighs weren’t bent, and she didn’t have the clap. No! Absolutely not!

But there was a tingly feeling in her cunt. And her nipples had it stiffened. And Frieda felt itchy in the crotch, like she had dandruff on the wrong set of hairs or something. Or whatever.

She scratched her cunt. Ooooohhhhh!

She tickled her cunt. Aaaaahhhh!

“Oh, Lord! I haven’t done this since college. Oh, God!”

Frieda couldn’t help it. Her cunt seemed to be burning up. Cum had put it on page fifty-two. Her cunt felt clammy as if the lips that dwelled near the opening to her twat had been fried and baked in a lusty oil.

GOD NO! Her pussy-lips felt just like that! Just like they had been fried and baked in lusty oil by I.C. Cum. They were burning up!

Frieda couldn’t believe it! That asinine I. C. Cum had put the fuck-urge into her pussy. That dumb ass writer with his screwed-up images and stupid grammar was turning her on.

Frieda spread her legs very wide. She turned her eyes away from the book and looked between the V of her legs into the mirror opposite her.

NO! NO! NO!

It was a clam! Her cunt was a clam that was puckering open on itself!

OH GOD! UNBELIEVABLE! Those I. C. Cum images were stuck in her mind! No!

She needed something to distract her. Get her attention away from mixed metaphors and illogical sentences.

The phone rang. Thank God!

“Hello!” Frieda screamed.

“Jesus! You don’t have to yell, Frieda!”

Frieda took a deep breath. “Oh, it’s you, Bernice. I-I’m so glad you called.”

“Hey! Is that any way to greet your best-buddy teacher? Oh, it’s only you, Bernice. What the hell kind of greeting is that?”

“I-I’m sorry, Bernice. I… well, I was just caught up in a book and…”

“What kind of book?”

“Oh… uh… well, something for the kids to read.”

“Oh.”

“Oh what, Bernice?”

“Oh, just wondering if you thought about going to Vegas with me and Hazel. We’re gonna have a great time.”

“Well, I don’t know yet, Bernice.”

“What is the matter? Anyone gettin’ in your way again?”

“No… well, yeah, he is. You know he’d never let me go with you girls to a place like Vegas.”

“Hey! By the way, where is the old jock?”

“He’s at the game.”

“What game?”

“The football game.”

“Frieda, there isn’t any football game tonight. We’re in the middle of April. Baseball season… you know?”

“What?!”

“Oh-oh, I guess I shouldn’t have said anything. Uh, well, I’ll give you a call tomorrow about the Vegas trip. Bye, Frieda.”

Click.

What? No football game? Baseball season? Where the hell was the old jock?

The door slammed. The old jock was home. From God knows where.

Frieda heard him put his coaching jacket away in the closet. Heard him fart once, then come ambling down the hallway, leaving a litter of cleats, sweat socks, jock, and jersey behind him.

By the time he reached the bedroom door, he was naked and he was shocked.

Frieda was naked!

And her cunt looked so juicy — at least from what he could see in the mirror. And trough the V of her legs, he could see her face. She was scowling.

“Where have you been, Arnie!”

“What are you doing, Frieda!”

“Never mind what I’m doing! Where have you been!”

“Never mind where I’ve been! Why are you naked!”

“What’s wrong with being naked? You’re naked, too!”

“But I’m a man!”

“Huh?”

“I said I’m a man!” he repeated gruffly.

“Arnie,” Frieda said, staring daggers at her husband’s turned back. “You know we’ve been mated for five years, and for five years I still don’t understand you. I think we have a communication gap.”

“That’s ’cause you’re a woman.”

“What?!”

“Which means you oughta put something on when I’m not home because you’ll invite rapists into the house!”

“Oh, hell! Arnie, girls don’t invite rapists into their homes. That wouldn’t be rape then. That would be…”

“Hey! What’s this?” Arnie picked up what should have been beneath forty pairs of neatly pressed Fruit of the Looms. “Goddamn, Frieda! Where the hell did you find this!”

“Uh… in… in your drawer. I-I was just curious… and…”

“You pervert! Don’t you know women shouldn’t read stuff like this!”

“Now, wait a minute, Arnie, I…”

“So that’s why you’re naked! You fucking perverted wife! Did you get real turned on, huh? I bet you did, you and that filthy mind of yours!”

Frieda shook her head. What was it that made her feel like she was talking to the monkey instead of the organ grinder? She tried bridging the communication gap again.

“Arnie! I’m not perverted just because I read your silly, little…”

“Then why is your pussy wet! Huh?!”

“Because the book sort of turned me on, but…”

“It turned you on! It looks like you gave birth to a piss-pot! Look at those sheets! Oh, Jesus! Look at that cunt-juice!”

Frieda flushed. What could she say? Tell him yes that she had given birth to a piss-pot? Jesus, he wasn’t making any sense; yet, she felt perverted. It was just like that Goddamn book — irrational as hell but it still made sense.

“Arnie, please! You’re embarrassing me!”

“You embarrassed! Hah! How can a perverted bitch like you feel embarrassed? Shit, what you need is this! ‘Cause it’s the only kind of language you really understand!”

Frieda was aghast. Her husband was giving her the finger, the bird, the old middle finger held sky-high! God! That was the last straw!

Frieda started to get up angrily.

Arnie pushed her back down, then rammed his sky-high middle finger into her cunt.

“I knew it, you bitch! You’re no better than those, fucking cheerleaders at school. Always prancing around hoping they’ll get their cunts eaten. Well, I’m not going to eat your box right now, you pervert!”

Frieda shook her head. God, his middle finger was so Goddamn deep in her cunt! And now he was wiggling it, tickling her cunt and cunt-lips, getting her pussy all hot and juicy.

Frieda couldn’t help it. She didn’t want her pussy to get hot and juicy, but nature’s most powerful instinct, the urge to fuck, was instilling passionate sensations in her writhing body. She tried to be coherent, logical, and cool.

“I-I, aaaaahhhh, God! I-I don’t want you to… aaaaiiiieeee… eat my cunt!”

“Why?”

WHY? God, Frieda couldn’t understand what he was saying! Arnie just didn’t make any sense!

“How the hell… aaaaiiiieeee… should I know why?!”

Arnie finger-fucked Frieda’s cunt, his middle finger disappearing all the way up her cunt, along with his pointing finger and the one he picked his princess with.

“I’ll tell you why you really want me to eat your cunt! Because you just read The Coach Eats Out, and you just found out about eating pussy! And now you want me to eat your cunt!”

Frieda shook her head, tossing her long blonde hair back and forth on the wet sheets. His finger was driving all logic out of her mind. She couldn’t think. The pleasure of having her pussy fingered like that was just too much to overcome.

“AAAIIIEEE! OH GOD! HARDER!”

“See! You fucking bitch! You read one book about pussy-eating and your dirty mind’s filled with a tongue in your cunt! So okay, bitch! You want my tongue in your hole? Huh? Well, show me how bad you want it!”

Frieda squirmed. God, so much juice was coming out of her pussy. Christ! How was she supposed to show him that she was in heat, that she wanted to have his cock in her cunt instead of his tongue.

She tried shaking her head, but would he understand that what she was trying to say was No! No! No!

“Yeah, you hot-cunt bitch! Look at the way your head’s shaking! Look at the sweat on your face! I know how much you want my tongue right hoe!”

Anile jabbed at Frieda’s cunt, roused the little bugger to rigid erection. Her gash was so juicy that his nose-picking finger slipped a couple of times and landed too low in her fuck-hole.

“PLEASE! OH GOD! PLEASE, ARNIE!”

Arnie laughed. The bitch! She was begging for his tongue! Pleading far the coach to eat her, out!

Well, he was ready. His tongue was ready. His lips were ready.

He ate her out.

“OOOOHHHH GOOODDDDD! ARNIE! OH GOD! OH NO! STOP! PLEASE… AAAAIIIIEEEEE!”

Arnie’s cheeks, the ones on his face, wallowed between Frieda’s thighs, his tongue licking and swiping and swirling all around her hairy pussy.

Arnie usually didn’t eat out his wife; but lately he had been getting some practice with Yvonne Mandell, the head song leader at Thomas Dewey, and she had proclaimed often enough that he was the best cunt-eater in the whole school.

To Frieda, Arnie was the best cunt-eater in the whole world! It had been so long since a tongue was fucking around with her pussy. God! She couldn’t stand it!

Arnie had a big mouth. God had blessed him with a big mouth so he could eat the shit out of cunts like Yvonne Mandell, and Cherry Whittaker, the head cheerleader. He also had to have a big mouth for his coaching duties — yelling at zit masked boys to get their fucking asses in gear, or screaming for them to turn in their gear because he had caught them in the shower fucking each other’s uses.

And used his big mouth well.

Frieda died a thousand deaths as her friend ate her cunt with his well-like mouth.

“AAAAUIIEEEEE! ARNIE! OH GOD! TONGUE MY CUNT!”

Arnie tongued her clit.

He loved tonguing cunts.

Oh, Frieda’s cunt wasn’t really long enough to give a real wash job. Not like Suzanne, the head majorette. Now, she had a real doozy of a cunt. The kind that Arnie could chew off and there’d still be enough cunt left for her future husband to munch on.

“AAAAIIEEEE! MY CUNT! OH, ARNIE! UCK MY CUNT! PLEASE!”

Arnie moved lower.

His tongue scraped over the meaty lips of her cunt.

Frieda didn’t have a bad tasting cunt. It probably wasn’t bad-tasting because she washed it so Goddamn much until there was nothing left of the walnut shell. Not at all like Vivianne’s cunt.

Vivianne Kringle’s cunt had a definite odor and a distinguishable taste. Probably because she was only a freshman girl on the pep squad, she sweated a little more and practiced spreading her cunt-lips because she was the only girl on the pep squad who could do a back-flip while holding onto her ankles. Which was probably the reason why she had been the only freshman girl to make the pep squad.

“OOOOHHHH! ARNIE! I’M CCCOOOMMMIIINNNGGG!”

Arnie tasted his wife’s cunt-juice as she was coming.

Shit, Frieda’s cunt-ooze wasn’t mushy, nor did it have a heavy flow. Not like Penny Krakow’s pussy when it was in the middle of an orgasm.

Shit, Penny Krakow was not only the most popular pom-pom girl but she had the most popular pussy far the boys to eat.

Locker-room rumor had it that Penny’s pussy flowed so heavy that the boys often wondered if they were eating her cunt on her off days.

“AAAAIIHEEEE! OH GOD! ARNIE! STOP! PLEASE STOP LICKING MY PUSSY!”

For once in his life, Arnie listened to his wife.

He stopped eating her pussy.

He stood up, looked down.

God, her cunt was glistening readily. Like those fraternity hazing days when a piece of liver would be tied to a string and the pledges were ordered to swallow it. Yeah, you guessed it, they’d always yank on the string after it had been in the pledge’s belly for a couple of minutes.

But anyway that’s what Frieda’s pussy looked like right now. Like slices of raw red liver that were covered with frothy spit. Only it didn’t have a string on it. Because if it did have a string on it, that would have meant Frieda was on her off day, and Arnie would not have eaten her pussy like he had just finished doing.

Arnie licked his lips.

“There, that’ll teach you! What’s for dinner?”

CHAPTER FIVE

Bernice Hudson was a respectable, normal lesbian.

The girls at Thomas Dewey respected her as both a coach and as a lesbian.

Bernice’s psychiatrist, Ms. Cantrell, had reassured Bernice that her hunger for pussy was a normal hunger. Dr. Cantrell had told her in psychological mumbo-jumbo that her condition was commonly known as “Vaginal Deficiency”. Like vitamins — or lack of such.

It was a common, normal malady found in sexual psychopaths, socially maladjusted individuals, a few rapists, the Mandan Indian tribe, and the majority of lesbians.

The disease was first founded by a poet who lived in the times of Archimedes and Ajax, when people believed that Atlantis existed. The poet’s name was Sappho. Sappho had no first name or last name, just Sappho. Because in those days people only had one name — like Socrates, or Homer, or Diogenes. Which is why people of today, when confronted by something confusing always mutter: “It’s Greek to me.”

Like most poets, Sappho was unhappy.

Dr. Cantrell was very familiar with the works of Sappho. She had once cruised the Mediterranean in the hopes of finding Sappho’s island — the legendary Lasbot.

Dr. Cantrell and her thirty-four associates were an impressive sight.

They enjoyed the Mediterranean sunshine, and her associates found that working braless was practical and economical and suitable for the occasion. And on the first night, they also discovered that working panty-less was just as comfortable as letting their titties go free.

On the second night, however, the thirty-four comely associates with their free-swinging titties and bushy pussies found out that Dr. Cantrell, once she had ditched her pith helmet and safari jacket and her Marine leggings, was a woman!

Of course, Bernice had known from the beginning that Dr. Cantrell was a woman.

It was on her first visit to Dr. Cantrell.

It was the first time Bernice had ever been on a shrink’s couch.

It was the first time that Bernice had ever been asked to strip naked and lie down on a shrink’s couch with the shrink taking notes on the condition of her cunt and doing Rorschach ink-blot tests by dabbing indigo on Bernice’s tits and pressing them against a blank piece of paper.

After a hundred talks with Dr. Cantrell, Bernice was convinced that she was a normal lesbian.

Not a butchy-type lesbian — the kind that sat in the baritone section of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir gazing upon the cute sopranos.

Not the swishy-type lezzie — the kind that bumped titties with other girls in a crowded elevator, then dropped her purse and came up with her head snagged under some secretary’s mini-skirt.

Not a regretful-type lezzie — the kind that went out with guys, ate pizza with them, then went home and finger-fucked themselves while looking at dog-eared pages of Playboy, or Jaguar, or Coronet.

Not the Ms.-type lesbian — the kind that loved to rip bras off innocent co-eds in the name of liberty and the pursuit of happiness, then throw them on roaring bonfires and jump up and down, titty-to-titty with other cohorts, chanting: “Sisters unite!”

No, Bernice was a normal lesbian. She dated other lesbians. Bought candy and flowers for the ones she dated frequently. Like Yvonne Mandell, Dr. Mandell’s adopted daughter.

What happened to be head song leader and who could do some amazing splits and jumps and twirls with or without the hindrance of bikini panties.

Now, Yvonne was sitting in Bernice’s coaching office. Sitting beneath two huge portraits — one of Susan B. Anthony and the other of Lucretia Mon.

Ms. Anthony looked very stem in her suffragette doily cap.

Ms. Mon looked very capricious in her red and white bloomers.

Ms. Mandell looked like the most edible piece of pussy on the Thomas Dewey campus.

Bernice put down her whistle, took off her warm-up jacket. Propped her Congress tennies on the set of field-hockey plays that littered her desk.

“Yvonne, I don’t know what to do about you. I’ve seen you making eyes at all the kids, especially that curly-haired prick — what’s his name again?”

“Y-You mean — Marshall Even?”

“Yeah, that prick! Look, do you want me to tell your mother about who you been fooling around with?”

“Oh, no! Please, Coach Hudson! Please don’t do that! If she finds out I’ve been going out with boys, she’ll kill me! She might even send me back to the orphanage!”

“What?! You’ve been going out with that prick, too!?”

Yvonne gulped. Oh, God! She had made another boo-boo. The tint boo-boo, of course, was when she had been in back of the tool shed with Marshall Even. They had been in back of the tool shed because they were going to fuck each other and they had the decency to do it while out of sight of the other students in their respective seventh period gym classes.

And that was when Coach Hudson had gone back to the tool shed. Because that’s where they also stored the field-hockey sticks. Bernice had heard them through the paper-thin walls. And she had been outraged.

“What the hell is going on back there?” Bernice scampered out and around to the back of the tool shed.

She had turned crimson. The sight was too shocking to be true!

Yvonne Mandell was holding… holding that nasty-looking thing! That disgusting prick was in her hands! And something was drooling from the tip of that snake… spit! It was spit! Not pre-cum!

That fucking Yvonne had put her lips on the prick!

“YOU LITTLE FUCKER! GET AWAY FROM HER! GET THAT THING BACK IN YOUR FUCKING PANTS! AND KEEP IT THERE BEFORE I CUT IT OFF!”

Naturally fear, was on Marshall’s face — it was quite evident. His mouth opened to make mock protest, sweat dribbled off his forehead; then he cowered, withdrew, shrank — just like his prick.

He stuffed his cock back into the pouch of his jock, pulled up his gym shorts and said: “See ya, Yvonne.”

Yvonne wanted to wave good-bye, but her arm now arrested by something that felt more like a shackle than a human grip.

“You little turd! Yvonne, I oughta beat the living stilt out of you! Christ! Look at your mouth — it’s disgusting!”

Yvonne tried to look at her mouth, couldn’t, so she ran her tongue over her lips.

“Stop that, you cocksucker! Put that tongue back where it belongs! Oh, Jesus! Yvonne! What am I gonna do with you? You never seem to learn, do you?”

Yvonne gulped; her mind zoomed back to where she was now. Sitting in Coach Hudson’s office. “Oh, I’m sorry, Coach Hudson, what’d you say?”

Bernice rubbed her eyes in exasperation. Jesus! When was she gonna do with Yvonne? How the hell could she save this edible piece of pussy from acquiring a taste for cock? God, if she lost this one to the taste of prick, it would make the fourth girl this semester.

Bernice tried the old scare-’em-with-pregnancy routine.

“You know, Yvonne, you’re pretty fucking stupid. Shit, that kid could’ve gotten you pregnant or some thing.”

Yvonne pouted. “From sucking his cock? Gosh, Coach Hudson a girl can’t get pregnant when she sucks pricks. Besides, I’m safe. I’m on the pill.”

“WHAT?!”

Yvonne gulped. Oh, God! Boo-boo number three today. But she couldn’t help it! Coach Hudson just scared the living shit out of her! God, just look at her.

Congress tennis shoes-size ten. Baseball capsize eight. No bra, size forty tits. With bra size forty-one tits.

Bernice was a lot of woman in all the right places. Hell, just sizing her up would take a lot of time.

Yet, in many ways, Bernice was beautiful. Take her hair — worn short so it had a lot of bounce when she showed girls the nifty trick of a three-on-one shot-on-goal in field hockey. Take her eyes — dark and brooding, eyes capable of giving the come-on sign or the caution light. Take her lips — very full, and rich, and creamy. Take her tongue, that muscle in her mouth that could strike fear in any girl when it was deep in her cunt, reaming out her pussy like a rubber coat hanger.

In many ways, Bernice Hudson was not beautiful. Take her hands — creepy hands that would make a girl’s flesh crawl as they mauled her tits, or her cunt, or her asshole. Take her tits — huge and stupendous, too big for a mature woman to suck an, so they were usually forced upon naive and innocent chicks like Yvonne. Take her pussy — raw, red and muscular, able to bite and nip. A young girl’s tongue, or tit, or clit.

Take her or leave her, Bernice Hudson was beautiful in an ugly way.

That’s what Yvonne faced now as she looked past the propped-up tennies and sucked up enough come to stare Coach Hudson eyeball to eyeball.

“What did you say, Yvonne?” Bernice asked in a steady voice, controlling the rage that ran through her clutching fingertips — fingers that gripped a thick volume of Sappho’s Ode to Lesbos. “Did you say you were on the pill?”

Yvonne looked at her petite feet, at her pretty white cotton socks, over to the left where her eyes settled on a little figurine of Gloria Steinem holding a burning bra in an upraised fist.

“YVONNE! LISTEN TO ME! GODDAMN IT! ARE YOU ON THE FUCKING PILL?”

Yvonne snapped out of her wandering. Oh, gash, she didn’t want to be here. She walked the floor to come alive, turn into a monster, devour her, swallow her and send her to the boiler room where she could be boiled in hot water far the irreparable sin she had committed.

“Yes, yes,” she whispered, crossing her legs and swinging them to and fro, wondering when the floor would become a monster.

“All right, you little fucker!” Bernice exclaimed, setting down Sappho and planting her Congress tennis show into the floor and rising to her flail six feet. “Who was the mother-fucker who gave them to you?”

God! She couldn’t tell Coach Hudson who gave the pills to her. She’d get killed. Coach Higgins would kill her if she told anybody that he’d given her a year’s supply of his wife’s birth-control pills. Jesus! Hurry, floor! Eat me! Eat me all up!

“YVONNE! GODDAMN, I’LL CUT YOUR CLIT OFF IF YOU DON’T TELL ME!”

Yvonne’s eyes opened wide. Cut off her clit! No! Coach Hudson wouldn’t do that… would she?

“YOU’RE DAMNED RIGHT I’LL CUT OFF YOUR CLIT!”

Oh, Jesus Christ! How she wanted to be a little piss-ant and run around the floor until she found some nook or cranny to get down to that fucking boiler room before Coach Hudson found her and cut off her clit.

Yvonne’s eyes searched left and right. Ah-ha! There’s a cranny!

Then a size-ten Congress tennis shoe covered the cranny.

Then a creepy hand was on Yvonne’s gym blouse, undoing the buttons.

Then Yvonne got very scared. Her titties started aching three seconds before that pair of monstrous hands clutched her taut tits in a death grip.

“AAAAAAIIIEEEE! STOP! YOU’RE HURTING MY TITTIES! OH, PLEASE! DON’T! THEY’RE TOO SENSITIVE!”

Bernice twisted Yvonne’s nipples ogre-fashion. “You mother-fucking cunt! I’ll teach you to suck a man’s ugly prick! I’ll teach you to answer me! Here, how’s this feel?”

Yvonne gasped. She no longer could look down at the monstrous floor in search of nooks and crannies because the monstrous normal-lesbian coach was eating her titties ogre-fashion, her lips chewing and biting on her sensitive nipples.

Tears came to Yvonne’s eyes. Oh, God!

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! PLEASE! OH, GOD! MISS HUDSON! STOP! OOOOHHHH! YOU’RE HURTING MY TITTIES! PLEASE! YOU’RE CHEWING THEM OFF! AAAAIIIEEEE!”

Bernice drooled. Her mouth also drooled. So much fine tittie. So much delicious young tittie. Oh, sweet little! She had to have Yvonne’s titties! Her hunger had just started. Her appetite for tit-meat soared.

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! PLEASE! OH, GOD! I’LL PROMISE I’LL NEVER SUCK A MAN’S COCK AGAIN! AAAAIIIIEEEE!”

The tittie-chewing stopped.

The ogre lifted her head, gazed angrily at Yvonne with fiendish eyes. Clammy hands maintained an agony-filled grip on the young girl’s tits.

“OOOOHHHH! PLEASE! MISS HUDSON! LET GO OF MY TITTIES! PLEASE!”

Bernice shook her butch haircut. “Tell me, Yvonne. Tell me who gave you the pills. Then you can walk out of this office with your titties intact.”

“Oh, God! I-I can’t tell you. M-Miss Hudson. He’ll kill me for sure!”

“WHAT?! A MAN GAVE YOU THOSE PILLS?! A PRICK DID IT?!”

“AAAIIIEEE! MY TITTIES! MY NIPPLES! STOP! OH, GOD!”

Bernice took out her anger on those thirty eight-inch tits. Why not? They weren’t hers. Shit, they didn’t even look like… hers. Hers had droopy nipples, not like these pert things that were turning an angry red under the brutal treatment her maniacal hands were giving them.

Bernice let go of Yvonne’s tits.

Yvonne let go of the arms of the chair. She slithered to the floor, and her hands administered first-aid to her bruised and battered titties.

“Oh, God!” Yvonne moaned. “My titties I’ll never feel the same. Oh, God! They’re so bruised!”

Bernice watched the cock-seeking whore slither on the floor. The fucking cunt!

Bernice’s tennis shoes squeaked as she spun around and went to her locker.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

She opened the locker, lifted up a stack of Amazon and Batwoman comic books until she found what she was looking for.

Yvonne was stunned.

At first, because Coach Hudson had her back to her, Yvonne thought she was puffing on a field-hockey helmet. She saw the leather traps as they joined at the back of her short-bobbed hair.

Then Bernice turned around, marched towards Yvonne.

No! No! No!

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

That was when Yvonne realized that it wasn’t a field-hockey helmet on Coach Hudson’s head. From the back it had certainly looked like a field-hockey helmet. But from the front it certainly didn’t look like a standard-issue field hockey helmet.

Unless they were purposely making field-hockey helmets for unicorns to protect the horn that spiraled out from the middle of their foreheads. But field hockey wasn’t played with unicorns or horny-headed polo ponies.

Unless they were introducing a new line of helmets for girls who wanted to play night hockey with coal-miner hard hats.

It was hideous!

It was ghastly!

It was beastly!

Almost the exact words that had been inscribed on the package when Bernice had purchased her dildo helmet three years ago at the local head shop: Hideously exciting! Ghastly pleasurable! Beastly paradise! The new and exciting carnal cranial delight! Buy your Head Job now while the demand lasts! Sizes four through ten.

Bernice loved the fear she saw on Yvonne’s face. Shit, it was a face they all made when they saw her put on the Head Job.

Yvonne scrambled to a far corner of the office. “Oh, please, Coach Hudson! Whatever you’re going to do — don’t do it! It looks ghastly!”

Bernice smiled butchily. “Well, Yvonne, you said you liked cocks. Do you like mine?”

Then, awareness came to poor Yvonne.

Yes, that’s what that thing looked like!

It wasn’t a horn off a unicorn, and it didn’t shine like a coal-miner’s hard hat.

It had to be a cock! A cock to be worn on a person’s forehead, so that person with the dildoed sinus would have something other to do when they were eating pussy.

Of course. Naturally.

Oh, God! No!

“Oh, yes, Yvonne. Unless you tell me who that pill-pusher is, I’m gonna get on top of you and eat your cunt while my cock fucks your asshole. Or else I’m going to get on the bottom and eat your asshole while my cock’s fucking your cunt. What’s it gonna be?”

What’s it gonna be! Did she have a choice? Jesus!

If Bernice, took the top position, that would mean that hideous-looking forehead prick would.

What should she do? God — decisions, decisions, and decisions!

“Get your fucking shorts off!”

“While you’re deciding, the least you could do is get your fucking shorts off.”

“Oh… oh, yeah.”

Yvonne scrambled to her feet, hooked her thumbs into her lavender gym shorts and pulled them down. God! Should she take the tongue in her asshole or that head-aching cock?

“Now get down on the fucking floor.”

“Huh?”

“While you’re trying to make up your mind, get down on the fucking floor so I can eat you out.”

Yvonne lay down on the floor. Oh, Jesus! That forehead cock would feel so cold in her ass; yet, that tongue would feel so squeamish. Oh, God!

Which one?

Bernice got naked.

Bernice got on top.

Bernice got to eat Yvonne’s pussy while her cranial cock made up the young girl’s mind for her.

“AAAIIIEEE! OH, GOD! MY ASSHOLE! TOOOO BIG! MY GOD! YOU’RE KILLING MY ASSHOLE! OOOHHH! TONGUE MY CLIT! TONGUE MY CUNT! SUCK IT, COACH! OOOOHHHH, GODDDDDD! MY ASSHOLE HURTS LIKE HELL!”

Bernice’s six-foot amazon frame came up and over Yvonne’s sweaty body.

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! MY ASSHOLE! MY ASS-HOLE! IT’S TOO BIGGGGG! OH, GOD! OH, JESUS! NO! NOT YOUR CUNT! NO, I CAN’T EAT YOUR… MMMMGGGGFFFF! MMMMGGGGFFFF!”

Hummmmmm.

Hummmmmm? Who said: hummmmmm?

Oh, God! Her asshole was coming alive with something that was vibrating the sensitive tissues of her shitter as her cunt was being chewed and licked and sucked by an ogre with a unicorn’s forehead.

Yvonne wanted to die. Of the following:

She could have chosen to die from the hairy cunt that had descended very rapidly on her mouth. Because breathing was very important to the young naive girl. But breathing was now very difficult because it was like being stuffed to the tonsils with moldy walnuts.

Or she could have chosen to die from a bleeding asshole. Because something big and huge and cold as stainless steel was humming happily in her shitter, causing her lower bowels to emit embarrassing noises between grunts.

Or lucky Yvonne could have chosen to die from the ecstasy that was oozing out of her cunt, dispelling in gassy cloudbursts from her asshole, or regurgitating moistly from her cunt-filled mouth.

She chose the last way to die because it was the most pleasurable. In fact, it was the most pleasurable thing she had ever felt, rather the two most pleasurable things she had ever felt.

First there was pleasure in her asshole. It resided in all the sensitive nerves that clustered at the opening to her turd dispenser. And those nerves were proving to be indispensable now because without them she would never have discovered how much ecstasy and passion and juicy joy there was in getting her asshole named by a brainy cock.

Second, there was pleasure in her pussy. Her cunt-lips, and more particularly her clit, also had sensitive nerve tissues scattered here and there. They were scattered here and there because it seemed wherever Bernice’s tongue touched, another nerve came alive and sent a pleasant sensation conning trough her erogenous zones.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF!” Yvonne said.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF!” Bernice said.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF!” Yvonne repeated.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF!” Bernice reiterated.

Such meaningful dialogue was repeated for ten minutes and thirty-two seconds. Bernice knew it was ten minutes and thirty-two seconds because the miniature battery in her cock-head had a lift span of only ten minutes and thirty-two seconds.

Now Bernice had to rely on another head-strong method of keeping Yvonne’s asshole titillated. She nodded. Nodded again. Nodded many times. Her cock-head beat a fast tattoo in and out of Yvonne’s asshole.

No more hum jobs; just head jobs.

“MMMMGGGGFFFF!” Yvonne moaned.

“MMMMGGGGPFFF!” Bernice groaned.

They were like lesbian snakes the way they twined around each other. They were like gay eels wrapped up in each other. They were like Sappho mummies wrapped for all time.

Then the climax came. For Yvonne first because her asshole was suffering from so much pleasure.

Bernice could tell that Yvonne was coming. The girl was hunching her hips wildly, and Bernice’s mouth was stuffed with lots of delicious, pussy. Pussy was coming out of her ears, there seemed to be so much of it.

Bernice nodded.

Yvonne couldn’t believe the sensations that were bursting like TNT in her asshole: she couldn’t believe the potent power of that dancing dynamite tongue in her cunt. God! She felt like a walking time bomb, an unwrapped, walking time bomb going off at this very moment.

Yvonne’s cunt tingled, then erected — gobbled up by Bernice’s pussy-hungry mouth.

Yvonne’s cunt juiced and oozed — swallowed up by Bernice’s cunt-starved mouth.

Yvonne’s asshole stretched and warped — Bernice nodded.

Then it came.

The ecstasy to end all ecstasies.

It started in her tits, made them grow hard like the cock-head fucking her asshole. It wound its way like a lesbian snake into her cunt, made it grow as hard as that helmet with a cock for a rim, and as slippery as an eel. Then it ended, as nature intended, in her ass.

Bernice nodded.

CHAPTER SIX

Hazel was shy, reticent, quiet and flat-chested.

Qualities that do not turn on the local mailman, or the neighborhood bus driver, or the rapist meter man.

Hazel was quiet because of her occupation. She was a librarian at Thomas Dewey High School.

Hazel was also quiet because she was nearing her fortieth birthday. She was shy because she didn’t want people to know she was on the shady side of thirty-nine, and she was reticent about being thirty-nine because she wished desperately that her bust size was as large as her age.

Hazel had many gray hairs intertwined with her brown hair. Some people said Hazel had gray hairs because of her occupation.

Others, like Madeline, Hazel’s beautiful friend, said that Hazel had gray hairs because she shouldn’t wear, her hair in a French twist, that it caused too much of a stain on what few brown hairs she did have.

But Hazel knew it was her occupation that made her shy, quiet and gray-haired. Because, as a librarian for Thomas Dewey High School, site felt important and needed, and was acknowledged by the kids whenever she said: “SHUSH YOUR MOUTHS!”

Her job was very important — at least it was to Hazel.

There were many worries, and so many huge responsibilities. Such as knowing the alphabet so she could file library index cards. Such as picking up old lunch sacks, and broken pencils, and used rubbers that she found on the four reading tables. Such as worrying that the kids were abusing her books.

Like the time she found the pages of the Joy of Sex all glued together with Elmer’s, or something icky that made all the pages stick together.

Careless kids! Book abusers!

Hazel, as mentioned previously, was also flat-chested.

She had always been flat-chested. Ever since she was a little girl. It wasn’t worth the effort for Hazel to put on a bra, not when her nipples were her tits. But she made sure that the kids at Thomas Dewey High could see that she wore a bra because it was only proper that librarians be prudish and not form unions, or join liberation fronts, or Women’s.

A sense of propriety and manners and staid grace proper terms to describe Hazel Turnbow.

The kids knew she was proper because she wore a different dress every day. Well, actually only the girl kids noticed that Hazel wore a different dress each day because they were gossipy kittens who had yet to learn how to be catty.

Hazel’s dresses were remarkable. For one thing, she always wore white cotton socks with whatever dress she had picked for that particular school day.

Once, Cherry Whittaker had noticed the white socks. Which was a rare occasion because Hazel’s dresses looked more like curtains that skirted the floor. And Cherry had directed the other kids’ attention to the white socks: “HEY! Hazelnut wears white socks!”

Hazelnut had blushed. Which also was a rare emotion. The only other time Hazel had blushed was when she had seen a man’s prick.

She was a virgin then, just like she was now. And she had seen a man’s prick through some rather impressive books of knowledge.

It was the day that she had found some kid abusing Roget’s Thesaurus. The kid’s name was Eddie Boyle, and later on in life he would be a great artist — the same artist who would create a statue of a huge stainless-steel rocket.

Eddie Boyle was showing his artistic talent by underlining all the nasty words in the thesaurus; words like fellatio, labia, circumcision, hysterectomy, hemorrhoid and prepuce.

Hazel had nabbed him, grabbed him by the chin and whisked him off to the Dean of Boys, who would spank his ass and come all over Eddie’s belly while the poor kid was in a bent-over position.

Hazel then returned to the library and returned the book to its place on the reference shelf.

She walked down the aisle surrounded by huge, formidable-looking textbooks. She stopped, then made a partition between a Rand-McNally Road Atlas and a pocketbook entitled: How to Learn Polish in a Day.

She was ready to stuff the thesaurus into the open slot when she saw her first prick.

It didn’t look at all like those penises in the medical textbooks three shelves down from her. There were enough distinguishable characteristics on that cock, however, to make it appear like a penis — but it sure didn’t look like any of those medical drawings.

Oh, there was a glands on this cock, but something gross had happened to it. It was inflated, balloonish and big. And it must have been full of milk instead of air because something creamy was leaking from the tip.

No, this cock didn’t look like that anatomical sketch.

And the stalk of this cock was in direct proportion to the bulging, balloonish head; but there were so many veins, or arteries, or capillaries on the shaft that it looked like an old man’s varicose arm instead of a middle leg.

Hazel blushed. Because it had taken her about three minutes to figure out what that thing was on the other side of the aisle.

It was definitely a cock!

Because Hazel could hear Yvonne Mandell call it a cock.

“OOOHHHHH! I’M GONNA SUCK YOUR COCK TO DEATH! OH, GOD! LOOK AT YOUR COCK! LOOK AT WHAT’S COMING OUT OF YOUR COCK!”

“Shush! You want Miss Turnbow to see what we’re doing?”

Oh, Miss Turnbow was going to shush them all right. Hazel had her finger at her pursed lips, ready to shush them clear out, of her library. But what they were doing now stopped her.

GOD! No! Yvonne, no!

Hazel watched with startled eyes as Yvonne’s lips touched that varicose cock. It was so nasty!

No! No! Get your lips away! That’s vile!

Hazel’s glasses fell from her awed face, dangled like a necklace against her chest. God! Hurriedly she put tern back on, quietly moved the Rand-McNally Road Atlas an inch to the left.

Look at her! God!

Yvonne was a despicable sight. She was absolutely naked! Even her cunt! Also her tits. Naked all over. In the buff everywhere!

And she was naked here in Hazel Turnbow’s library. Hazel’s home, her castle, her retreat, where Hemingway had taught her how to survive a shark attack when she had a marlin lashed to the boat, where Vonnegut had made a pilgrimage to a chuck-steak factory, where Holden Caulfield picked his zits.

No! Sacrilege!

“MMMMMMGGGGGGFFFFF!”

“Shhhhhhh! Yvonne, you want that old bitch to hear you?”

“Mmmm!”

Hazel’s glasses fogged up again. More gray hairs.

Unlike those curly ones that Yvonne spat out between sucks on a man’s bloated cock.

Hazel couldn’t believe what she was seeing! This didn’t happen in books — at least not in her books! If it had, Hazel would have burned the infernal pages a long time ago. Nothing passed her censoring eyes. Not the Hardy Boys, or Nancy Drew, or the Hulk.

Anything that reeked of flesh, or smelled of sin, or tasted of perversion was dawned — removed from the library list and sent back to the. National Council of Librarians with a serious recommendation that they burn the books at a certain fahrenheit.

But this!

This reeked of flesh — the odor of perverted, demented, foul, crushed walnuts was in the air, pervading the minds of Gorki and Greene and Godwin who were up on the shelf opposite the cock-sucking couple.

The smell of sin was heavy in the air. It lingered, then searched out dictionaries and word-finders and periodicals and Reader’s Guides. The smell of sin was everywhere! As musty as the books on every wail.

And the taste of perversion was like walnut that had turned green in Hazel’s mouth. She swallowed hard, moved the walnut-sized lump down her throat.

Beasts! Perfidious souls! Children of the damned!

Yvonne said: “MMMMGGCGFFFF!”

“Goddamn it! Be quiet! That fuckin’ old spinster will hear us!”

Hazel gulped; the walnut settled in her belly. Spinster? Was that what they were calling her now? Spinster? Old woman? Virgin hag? Whatever happened to Hazelnut?

Hazel shook her head. No! She wasn’t a spinster or a virgin hag. She had had plenty of men in life.

Once, she had a blind date with Jarvis, the hick kid who was interested in medical books and anatomical sketches. In fact, that was how Hazel had become interested in a library career — through her date with Jarvis at the Macon County Library For Whites Only.

Yvonne looked so dreadful now to Hazel.

She looked so… so devilish, so tainted and abused.

Letting a man put his prick in her mouth. Letting a man feel around with her tits. Letting a man guide her hand to his asshole.

Depravity! Sin most obdurate! Multifarious perversion!

The little girl was actually… actually… putting her finger… her clean, untamed finger into that man’s… his… God! No! His… his RECTUM!

Hazel wanted to faint. It was so stuffy in hr library. It was so reeking hot in her library. Her dress felt like wilted cardboard that stuck to her bony hips and nippled tits. Her pandas felt like wet mosquito netting. Her socks drooped. Her bunions hurt.

She had never seen anything so perverted in her life!

And Yvonne looked… God! She looked like she wanted to finger the man’s dirty asshole while his filthy prick was in her mouth!

Then the man’s hips were moving back and forth in continuous, unbroken thrusts. His prick appeared foamy with spit every time Yvonne’s cock-sucking lips released his cock. Then all the foam was pushed back against the pubic hairs as the man thrust his prick into Yvonne’s hot mouth.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

God! Animals! Unhousebroken!

The walnut bile rose in Hazel’s throat once again. Jarvis was talking to her in her lust-shredded mind. His head was buried in a thick book called Sexual Behavior in the Human Male and he was reading from the chapter entitled: Ejaculation.

“If the penis has been stimulated to the degree that erection is at its peak, the testicles will produce sperm. The sperm will travel up a series of tubes situated in the prostate gland, moved upwards in continuous streams until it reaches the glands. From hence, the sperm will spew out, and fertilize the nearest ova.”

Hazel opened her eyes. Very wide. No… that man wasn’t going to do that in her mouth — was he? Was that possible? But there wasn’t any ova around. The sperm was meant to fertilize an ova, not a girl’s mouth!

There weren’t any ova in a girl’s mouth!

No! Ejaculation into a girl’s mouth was against the laws of Nature and of God. Were they that ignorant? Were kids, like Yvonne and whoever that ten-inch erection belonged to, that ignorant that they didn’t know where a man’s sperm was supposed to go?

God! That’s why there were libraries and books and pages and pages of knowledge about life and what to do with it.

“MMMMGCGGFFFF! MMMMGGGGFFFF!”

Foamy spit no longer backed up to the pubic hair. Something white and sticky was backing up to the hairs that surrounded the base of the man’s erection.

It was white, so Hazel knew it had to be sperm. She had never seen sperm before in her life, but from books like Moby Dick she knew that sperm oil was white. Like ambergris.

And because it was sticky, it pasted to Yvonne’s grinning mouth as she licked the tip of that evil erection, cleansing it of all the sticky mess.

Hazel’s walnut bile was betwixt her throat and her tongue.

The sperm on Yvonne’s tongue was on her way to her belly.

Hazel slapped a hand over her mouth, like all the kids did when she shushed them with an indignant finger to her pursed lips.

But it was hard to shush Hazel because she was expelling the walnut bile, vomiting the hamburger with lettuce, cheese and tomato on a sesame seed bun that she had had for lunch.

CHAPTER SEVEN

They were all looking forward to their Las Vegas weekend.

For different reasons.

Frieda Higgins was looking forward to going to Las Vegas because she wanted to get away from her husband… forever, if that’s how she felt after thinking about her marriage while she played Bingo and the slots.

Bernice Hudson was going to Vegas because of Frieda.

Bernice had always wanted to eat out Frieda’s pussy because Frieda was a Goddamn good looking woman. Besides, she had found out who that prick was that had given Yvonne a year’s supply of birth-control pills. Which, coincidentally, would also be a good excuse for eating out Frieda’s cunt — because Frieda would be like fucking a wife who was married to a coach who ate out high-school pussies like Yvonne Mandell. Especially if Bernice told her about her husband’s extracurricular activities.

Hazel Turnbow was going because she wanted to find out about life outside of a textbook. Oh, that disgusting scene in the library, the one where Yvonne Mandell had sucked Coach Higgins’ cock, was truly disgusting. But it had also done something to Hazel. Something that was not disgusting.

After Hazel had discharged that McDonald’s hamburger, she had gone home that day and discovered a discharge that had came from the other end of her body.

Hazel’s panties were not a very pretty sight when she had gotten home that day. They were halfway into the hamper when she had noticed why her panties had felt like mosquito netting for the rest of that afternoon. Because there was something pasty-yellow an the crotch of her white cotton panties.

At first, Hazel was scared. Cancer? Ben? Jaundice?

Then she had realized what that yellowish discharge was. Her vagina had prepared itself for the entrance of a man’s… God! She didn’t want to think about it!

No, it wasn’t right! Hags and spinsters don’t have hot cunts! That’s why they were ineligible for the game of fucking. Because women like Hazel had not been brought up like the Yvonne of the world.

That was the reason why Hazel was on her way to Vegas. For a spree. For a lark. For one weekend where the smell of sin would be deep in her nostrils, where the odor of crushed walnuts would make her dizzy with passion.

In simple words, Hazel Turnbow was determined to get fucked. To see if that had been the cause of that yellow discharge that had soiled her soul and her white cotton panties.

So now they were still four hours away from Sin City. And the bus seemed to be crawling as it sputtered through the desert.

Hazel glanced at her reflection in the window. She saw bleakness and grayness and a tainted soul.

“Hey, you want something to read, Miss Turnbow?”

Hazel turned to the woman next to her. Hazel was surprised that Mrs. Coogan, the wife of the janitor of Thomas Dewey High School, was an ardent reader.

God, life seemed so full of surprises today; like when she had first boarded the bus with Frieda Higgins, and they were going to sit next to each other because they could convene about books and literature and life in general. But an Amazon wedge had separated her from Frieda. The wedge’s name, of course, was Bernice Hudson.

“Hazel,” Bernice had said. “Why don’t you keep Mrs. Coogan company? She looks like the type that cries on long bus trips.”

Hazel had kindly obliged, and she had settled her spindly frame next to Mrs. Coogan’s bulky body. Thus, their Mutt and Jeff bodies were in the first bench seat of the bus, right in front of Bernice and Frieda.

Hazel smiled at Mrs. Coogan. Watching her reach into a laundry basket that the fat woman called a purse. Watched Mrs. Coogan search through four bags of Fritos, three cans of Metrecal, until her fat hands extracted a skinny paperback book.

The pudgy hands offered the book to Hazel.

Hazel said: “Thank you.”

Then Hazel said: “OH, GOD!”

Mrs. Coogan turned in her seat slowly and looked at Hazel. “Somethin’ the matter, Miss Turnbow?”

“Where did you get this filth! Mrs. Coogan! This book…”

Mrs. Coogan smiled toothily. “That book belongs to Emory. You know Emory, don’t you? Fine man. Does real well on the wages he makes workin’ longside teachers like you, Miss Turnbow.”

Hazel blushed… again. “Well, Mrs. Coogan, I’m not a teacher. I’m a librarian. And as a librarian…”

“I know you’re a book lady, Miss Turnbow. That’s why I brought them books along. So you can read them to while away the hours.”

Hazel was about ready to issue forth another complaint. Oh, God! Why try? Everyone was doing it, so the kids said. Nothing wrong with letting it all hang out. Different folks with different strokes.

Hazel decided to join the rat race of human life. She glanced at the title of the paperback: The Librarian’s Hot Fanny.

Hot Fanny!

No! Hazel wanted to see! How could a librarian own a fanny? It had to be a typo, an inadvertent error on the editor’s part, or the proofer’s or the writer’s.

But then Hazel read the foreword as forward. She shook her head in defeat. The forward read like backward English.

The Librarian’s Hot Fanny is about a librarian whose fetish is hidden behind the stacks of normalcy. She is a woman driven to a magnificent obsession, she needs men! And not just anywhere… but on a special place in her body!

Hazel wanted to cry, to scream, to tear her French twisted hair all apart and become a witch in Macbeth. Babble, babble, toil and rabble.

Hazel looked at Mrs. Coogan again, was on the verge of telling the obtuse woman with the triple chin that she wasn’t in the mood for reading The Librarian’s Hot Fanny.

But she saw that the fat woman was busy eating Fritos and reading The Coach Eats Out.

Hazel shook her head. Sin City wasn’t four horns away — it was in her hands, and it would probably take her about four hours to read about a librarian who had an itchy asshole that only the scratch of a cock could put it out. At least that was the opening line of Hazel’s first experience with a pornographic novel.

Oh, Bernice could have tried the old “Here, Frieda, let me rub your chest ’cause you look so tired” routine. But that was an old-fashioned lezzie line.

Once in a while that old routine could be heard in the women’s head down at the Greyhound Bus depot, or in a Macy’s dressing room, or at Campfire Girls rallies.

But Bernice was an old hand with, some new tricks up her sleeve.

Like the photograph she had up her sleeve.

The photograph that she had taken through a nook or cranny in the floor of Coach Higgins’ office.

It had taken a lot of effort to get that photograph. Shit, she had had to stand up on some fucking-hot boiler pipes, steadying a Polaroid camera in one hand while the other braced her Amazon body. Naturally the ceiling was a floor on the opposite side — a floor where Yvonne was on her stomach getting her asshole plugged by Coach Higgins’ prick because she had forgotten to start on those birth-control pills that he had given her.

Bernice smiled. She looked at the beautiful body that sat next to her in the bus.

God, look at those luscious lips. Frieda’s lips were made for sucking tits and tits. Frieda had lezzie lips for damn sun-full, carmine-colored lips. As if they were on the verge of saying: Sappho sells sucks at the seashore.

And her face looked so angelic. With eyebrows that were pencil-thin, a peachy complexion, sparkling eyes; radiant cheeks.

Jesus, if Bernice were a guy, she’d have an erection right now. She would have pulled out her cock and started whacking like crazy just thinking about how those lips would suck the shit out of her cock.

What the hell was she saying? Christ! She wasn’t a fucking prick! She was a woman ’cause she had less hair and no balls and a cunt for a prick. Beyond that, though, there wasn’t much difference between her and a man.

Bernice watched Frieda hungrily.

Frieda was having a difficult time going to sleep.

For one thing the bus was very old, and it had just been down to Tijuana not for a tour of Mexico but for repairs. So it rattled and rolled with every curve and sloping and hill.

For another thing, she was thinking about Arnold. And what he had said to her during dinner after he had just finished eating her pussy.

“Frieda, there’s another football game this Friday. Then we got another one Saturday. So most likely I’ll be with the assistant coaches for all of Friday night. Hey! These peas are really good! Why don’t you take in a Disney movie or something?”

Frieda wondered if he had noticed her silence throughout the meal. Probably not. He had eaten so Goddamn many peas that they were probably going to come out of his ears instead of his asshole. And he was never one for listening to her in the first place.

The last time he had probably listened to her was when she had said: “I do.”

Shit! That had been five years ago!

Frieda tossed and turned fretfully as the image of Arnold’s pig mouth filling up with peas to his asshole plagued her drowsy mind.

“Here, Frieda,” Bernice said, tapping her on the shoulder. “Go ahead and put your head on my shoulder. I don’t mind.”

Frieda smiled, said: “Thanks, Bernice. Oh, God! I’m so tired and my back aches. You wouldn’t mind rubbing my back for a second, would you!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Las Vegas is a one-way turn off. It’s meant to be that way. Once there, there’s no turning back.

That’s why Vegas is in the desert instead of in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. People feel very lonely in the desert, so they cluster together like ants, like wolves, like prairie chickens. And they do strange thing in the desert.

Many people hallucinate in the desert. They see water just yonder, a veritable oasis of palm and pond. Or they see Orange Julius stands and Mrs. See’s candy stores. People see all kinds of things in the desert.

But when people come to Las Vegas, which is smack dead — or would it be alive? — in the middle of the desert, they see lots of things that don’t exist.

Like nickels turning into dollars, silver changing to gold, Volkswagens becoming Cadillacs.

They also see tots of free things that are very costly in the long run. Free golf, free meals, free women for men, and free men for women, free air. These things are free in the desert.

It’s when people are in the green-felt jungle that things get expensive.

And nobody rules the green-felt jungles better than the owners of Tinker Toy town. They’re the true dictators of the dollars. The emperors of a nickel and dime domain. The lords of loose change.

They know their business inside and out. For one thing, they’ve got the odds in their favor. It’s like betting Columbus the world is flat. It’s like wagering that a eunuch has balls.

But the most important factor is the human one. The itchy-twitchy feeling men and women, child and babe, all have in common.

Greed. Greedy dreams.

That’s why there are so many shoeshine boys at the Las Vegas airport. Because they just put the last of their watermelon wages on the square bones with black eyes and done crapped out.

That’s why there are so many free-lance hookers in Vegas. Because they were flat on their backs inside the air-conditioned tinkle palaces; and now they’re in one-hundred-twelve-degree heat working on their backs so they can get bus fare home to hubby and the kids.

No one’s unemployed in Vegas. People are either rich or poor, but never unemployed. The rich work at taking money from the poor, and the poor work at giving it to the rich. Everybody’s working all the time.

It’s also a town of regret.

Regret is very easy to play.

See the armadillo-shaped man from Amarillo with the vanilla shirt on. See the armadillo’s skinny Texan wife. See him point his fat cigar in her scrawny face and say “I told ya to get the fuck out of here, Emily! I knew I would of got a cherry on this machine if you hadn’t showed your falcon face ’round here.”

Regret is everywhere in Vegas.

At the poker table, regret is in the hands of a dentist from Cleveland who’s folded his cards and asked in his kindest voice if he can just peek at what the other guy had.

Regret.

At the blackjack table, regret is seen on the Chinese lady’s face, the one who’s got a sunshade hat on that looks more like a wok than an Easter bonnet, and she has an inscrutable smile on her face that tells the dealer. I knew I should’ve taken a card. I knew I should’ve taken a card.

Everybody plays regret because people with loose chap in their pocket love to play it. They’re money masochists.

Guy’s who clear ninety a week on their unemployment checks show their eagerness for playing regret when they’re only an hour’s drive away from Vegas and they’re already saying: “Well, I brought lots of money, and I know I’m gonna lose ’cause the house has got the edge, but I’ll have fun losing.”

Which, to Las Vegas pros, is called logical regret.

At least that’s what Manny Schwarz called it. He’d seen it enough times.

He’s seen it just yesterday in fact.

When a busload of Optimist Club members pulled into his Tinker Toy Casino full of good cheer and good booze.

And Manny had heard them say very raucously: “Got money to burn, Lennie. Gonna have a great time. Don’t care if I lose ’cause I’m gonna have a great time.”

“You got the right idea, Elmer. Nothing’s more fun than betting the big bucks. Shit, if you win, you’re lucky and you had fun. And, shit, if you lose, it was fun bettin’ the big bucks. Besides, we gotta have fun ’cause the cunts aren’t along this trip anyhow.”

Manny had heard the same talk too many limes. Shit, there was a time when Manny Schwarz regretted lots of things in his own forty-two years of hard living.

He regretted the time he had shipped in fifteen black whores from Cleveland to entice the Los Angeles black bucks to spend their money at the Tinker Toy Casino.

Then when he saw those L.A. spades coming in and spending their watermelon wages on ten-cent crap tables, he’d just about shit.

Then he did shit, because he saw where those blacks had totaled ten grand worth of Tinker Toys.

Shit, that’s when being a smart fuck really helped.

Manny had done some quick thinking and some quick hustling. He finally landed a labor contact for twenty blacks to be shoeshine boys at the Las Vegas air terminal.

Christ, in another ten years, those black bastards’ll be cleared of their debts.

And Manny regretted the time he had tried to cater to the chink, trade. The fucking slant-eyes who memorized cards, and prayed to Buddha for another seven to come up on the dice.

That was when the Tinker Toy Casino had gone in the red to the tune of fifty grand. Shit, the slopeheads had Buddha on their side. Jesus Christ.

Shit, after those two drastic enterprises, Manny Schwarz used his brains to think of better enterprises.

That was why he welcomed teachers and wealthy Arabs to the Tinker Toy Casino.

Teachers he wanted because most of them were unionized as they were a passive lot and they always went ape-shit when they found out about life as the greedy people lived it.

Arabs he welcomed because they were fucking fools. And, besides, he was a natural enemy of theirs anyway so he always tried to soak then, any way he could.

Like the time Alladah, the sheik who was rich enough to own the four biggest condom factories in America, blew three million American dollars in a game of Old Maid.

And that was why Manny Schwarz was second at sizing up teachers and Arabs.

In a glance he could tell if they liked women or boys, asses or mules, hand-jobs or blow-jobs, threesomes or foursomes, etcetera, etcetera.

Yeah, like those two teachers that were registering at the desk right now. The one looked like a coach, or a former Charger football player; hell, she was definitely lezzie.

As for the other one, the good looker; shit, she looked like hot frustration, probably having, man trouble, probably didn’t like the lezzie’s hand on her ass as she registered, probably looking to get away, to find happiness in the desert.

Yeah, like that one haggard-looking, scarecrow framed teacher that tagged along with the lezzie and Miss Frustration. Shit — probably sinning for the first time. Give her a couple of shots and she’s off to the fucking races. Give her a couple of strokes and she’s foot-racing her lover to an orgy. Give her a couple of fucks and sucks and dirty books, aid she’s back with the human race.

Manny picked up the house phone.

A voice said: “Yes sir.”

“Clarence, round up Pixie Delight for the lezzie in number fourteen. Get Eddie to take care of Miss Frustration in thirteen. Then send a bottle of Southern Comfort up to the witch in twelve.”

CHAPTER NINE

Eddie used to be one sick gaucho from the pampas of Argentina.

Eddie was considered sick because of his sexual behavior.

Eddie had been considered a gaucho, because that’s what Argentineans call their cowboys.

Eddie used to know the pampas like the back of his hand. Which was the reason why he was sexually sick so often — because no matter where he was on the pampas, Eddie would find something to fuck or get something to suck off his cock. Some of those things even had two legs, and names like Conchita, or Rosita, or Juanita.

The “ita” suffix in good old Espanol means little — like little Concha, or little Rosey, or little Juan. Which was why Eddie Caruso was sick, because he liked to fuck around with little Conchitas.

Which, in Espanol, means a little women.

Conchita meant prime eighteen year old pussy. Conchitas meant a voluptuously curved, coffee-colored piece of pussy that beat the hell out of fucking, prime Argentine beef.

Conchita was cute. Even when she sucked Eddie’s prick.

Of course, Eddie Caruso was a very young man when he had allowed Conchita Esperanza to suck his prick. He was thirty-eight. But because he had Latino blood running through his veins, he would look young even when he was sixty-eight because Mexicans and Spaniards, Nicaraguans and Argentinians, who all look alike anyway, always look young and full of fucking sprite — especially the men.

As for the Spanish women, usually by the time they were twenty-one they were ready for retirement.

But that was why fucking Mexican maidens at ages eighteen or nineteen was considered fashionable because those maidens looked like wonton instead of little girls with little pimples. Conchita had big tits. And they were very firm.

Which was very rare considering that she was a very old eighteen. Her tits were held up by a bandanna, then they were held up by Eddie’s hands because he had untied the bandanna and thrown it over his shoulder, careful not to remove his prick from Conchita’s sucking mouth.

“MMMMFFFFGGG! MMMMFFFFGGGG!”

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! AAHHHHOOOORRRRAAA! MUUUUCCCCHHHOOOO!”

Which translated meant: “MMMMFFFGGGG! MMMMFFFFGGGG!”

“AAAAAIIIIEEEE! I’M COOOOMMMMIIINNNGGGG! NOW! TOOOOOO MUUUUCCHHHH!”

But because Conchita did not understand English and because the Seventh Day Adventist Church in Mainnion, Utah, had not sent their missionaries down to her sector of the pampas to teach her English. As a foreign language yet, the only thing Conchita could understand was what was in her mouth at the moment.

A big huge prick.

It was a big, huge prick, banana-shaped and bulging with blood and other Latin goodies — such as jism, or spunk, or yen which in Espanol means cum.

And Conchita was getting paid to suck this banana-shaped prick. In advance. Not every eighteen-year-old maid of the pampas gets paid in advance for sucking banana-shaped pricks, for the Conchita considered herself very lucky three pounds of beef jerky that she gripped in her right hand for payment of what she was holding in her left and sucking with her mouth.

Eddie released his bolos, grabbed Conchita by the can and yanked her mouth hard against his groin.

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! AAAAHIIEEEE!”

God! Maria! His cock had never been sucked like this before! His prick was on the verge of coming but because he had so much romantic and lusty blood coursing through his system, Eddie Caruso knew better than to feed this old maid her duly-earned sperm.

Eddie held back his cum.

His balls slapped against her slobbery chin.

“MMMMMMGGGGGFFFFFF! MMMMMGCGGGFFFF!”

Conchita prayed to God that Eddie would hurry up and cum in her mouth. She couldn’t wait to run home and tell Papa about how much beef jerky the gaucho had given her for sucking his banana-shaped prick. Her papa would be so happy — so would her eighteen brothers and sisters who would gobble up the three pounds of beef jerky with nary a gracias.

Conchita sucked hard. Ohhh, his prick was almost there. She could feel it in her old bones.

Eddie knew he was almost there, too. Ah! Sweat was running down into his eyes. His balls felt like beef jerky. His prick felt as hard as the stainless-steel crucifix that dangled against his red gaucho shirt. His asshole tightened or, rather, he tightened his asshole.

“AAAAIHIEEEE! AAAAIIIIEEEE!”

Then he was coming! Yen! Mucho yen!

And Conchita was so happy, so delirious with thoughts of sharing three pounds of beef jerky with her eighteen brothers and sisters and her bachelor father.

“OLE! AAAAIIIIEEEE!”

The first spurt shot out of his cock, and it splattered Conchita’s tonsils before settling on top of the guacamole that she had had for breakfast.

Mother spurt, then another, then one long continuous stream of yen shooting from his cock.

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! AAAAHIIEEEE! AAAAIIIIEEEE!”

Eddie nearly fainted. The sun broiled his head. Diablo whinnied as he finished his task of making little Diablos in Angeilca’s womb. Conchita licked his banana cock — Eddie’s not Diablo’s.

Eddie sighed. He felt good. Macho. Mucho macho. And why shouldn’t he feel mucho macho? He was no different than any other gaucho in Argentina who dined on barbecued bull balls and fucked little girls who were too old for their own good.

For Eddie, fucking a eighteen-year-old Argentinean was not considered sick — not at least in Argentina.

Actually no one considered him sick until he arrived in America at the age of forty-two with seven thousand ball-less bulls so that people in Natchez could eat Spain.

No, he had not learned what it meant to be sick until he was branded as a sick man by a psychiatrist in Detroit who was doing research where Eddie was employed at the time — making self-destructing Fords.

The psychiatrist was doing a research paper on the sex lives of people who worked in automobile factories.

When Eddie had told him about his escapades on the pampas, the psychiatrist had recommended that he see a psychiatrist.

Of course, back then, Eddie’s English was no better than his command of Apache, so he had a difficult time communicating back in those old days.

Now, of course, his English was as good as George Wallace’s. And he wasn’t a burden on the government’s welfare program because he was gainfully employed as a fucker for the Toy Casino.

Eddie liked his job as a fucker.

For one thing, telling people that he was a fucker was no worse, to his way of thinking, then being called a sick man.

For another thing, he got lots of tips and no social diseases. Because the women he fucked were either filthy rich or wholesomely clean.

Like the woman in room thirteen.

He had watched her undress.

She looked yew clean.

She did not look very rich because there was a slight tear near the crotch of her panties. And her left bra strap was held up by a safety pin. Two good signs of not being rich — because rich people never wear underwear.

But when the panties were taken off and the bra removed — ooh, she looked very delicious.

Eddie touched her and put perfume under her armpits. Good, no hair there.

He watched her put perfume on the hairs of her cunt. Um, lots of hair there!

He watched her put perfume behind her ears. Carumba! What a fucking hot bitch, she was!

Of course, Eddie did not know that she was a fucking hot bitch… yet. Because he wasn’t in the same room as Frieda Higgins.

Eddie Caruso was standing behind the, two-way mirror that gave him a sweeping view of the bed, of the four walls, of one nightstand, of one standard New Testament, and of one luscious looking frustrated wife who would soon become one fucking hot bitch of a client.

Frieda moved into the bathroom.

Eddie moved to his right, slid open a secret wall paneling.

He gazed at Frieda as she sat on the toilet doing some tinkling.

Tinkle.

Eddie cursed. The fucking maid had left the big bar of soap right in his line of vision so he couldn’t see Frieda’s cunt as she sat spread-legged on the john doing her tinkling. That Goddamn black maid! Jesus! This happened every time he watched a fucking hat bitch pining in the bathroom.

And it always happened in room thirteen. Shit, in all the other rooms, the cleaning maid always left a fresh bar of soap on the toilet tank instead of in the soap holder which was sunk into the tiles of the shower stall.

Shit, Eddie wanted to break the tinted plastic backing off the soap-holder, reach in and removed the soap so he could get a clear view of Frieda Higgins as she pissed.

Goddamn! He had missed her tinkling!

Frieda unrolled her toilet paper, ripped off several toots.

Her hand disappeared behind the bar of Ivory White, and Eddie vowed that he’d fuck that black maid’s dirty asshole!

He stepped to his left and watched Frieda start to dress.

Holy Carumbas! Time to get moving!

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Melinda looked into her compact mirror to make sure her lipstick wasn’t crooked and that her nose didn’t shine and that her false eyelashes weren’t falling off.

She put the compact back into her purse, checked to make sure all the other items were ready and available.

“Hmmmmm… dildo… double-dong… Vaseline… douche bag… condoms…”

Yep, everything was in its proper place, now all she had to do was wait for Bernice Hudson to open up the door so she could start entertaining her Las Vegas style.

Melinda knew that it would be a long time before Bernice came to the door. She knew that because she had spied on the six-foot Amazon while she was taking a crap and reading. Sappho’s Ode to Lesbos.

Melinda brushed the lint off her cocktail dress. She checked to make sure that there was enough cleavage showing. There was much cleavage showing because she was wearing her favorite dress — well, it really wasn’t a dress, it was the costume she wore in the Marseilles show in the Follies Lounge downstairs.

The costume consisted of one square yard of crepe material.

About two square feet of the material was used for the halter, which was indicative of how big her tits were.

The other square foot of crepe was slung around her hips, hiding her crotch from sick men like Eddie Caruso who drooled at Melinda during her Marseilles show.

God, Melinda was so happy when Pixie Delight had phoned in sick today. And she was doubly happy when Manny Schwarz had grabbed her, thinking that he had one of the chorus girls instead of the star of the Marseilles show.

What a break!

Melinda smiled. Christ, if her agent knew what she was doing now, he’d fuck the shit out of her. But, hell, she couldn’t help it! It had been a long time between women — Fuck! It had been almost two years since she had been with a woman, two long yearn without feeling titties or clitties.

And two years for a hot-to-trot bisexual like Melinda was just too long to go one-sided. Melinda as dying to fuck the shit out of Bernice.

Dying to grab the Amazon’s huge tits, dying to have Bernice go down on her.

The door opened.

Melinda was shocked.

Bernice was startled.

Melinda had been shocked because she was not familiar with what Bernice was wearing on her head — it didn’t look like something Dior would dare design — yet. Because it resembled a huge prick, and beneath the prick, where a pair of balls should be, were two very startled eyes.

And the reason Bernice was startled was because she had been expecting Frieda Higgins instead of this scrumptious-looking piece of Sappho delight.

And the reason why Bernice had on her Head Job was because she had come to the decision that she was going to make a frontal attack on the reluctant Frieda. It had been bad enough riding four hours in a cramped bus with Frieda’s head on her shoulder. And it had been bad enough riding up in the hotel elevator tit to tit with Frieda. It had been so bad that Bernice was ready to rape the Goddamn hotel maid if she had wandered into her room a minute ago.

But this delectable woman didn’t look like the hotel maid. Not with that frilly costume on. And not with tits like that, or legs like that, or a face like that.

Melinda pretended not to notice Bernice’s phallic forehead… “My name’s Melinda. Melinda. Can I come in? I heard rumors that you were lonely for someone like sue. How ’bout it? Wants get it on?”

Did she want to get it on? Did Bernice Hudson want to do dirty nasty, lesbian tricks with this babe? Do eunuchs have balls? Does Superman screw Lois Lane?

“Holy shit! I think I hit the jackpot! Come on in!”

Melinda went in with a swaggering, ass-swaying motion that made Bernice drool. God, if she were a man, her cock would have sprung a leak a long time ago! If she were a man, she’d have raped this fucking cunt!

Stilt! Why not? Women loved to be raped all the time!

“Look… what’s your name? Oh yeah, Melinda. Look, Melinda, let’s not beat around the bush. I wants eat you… I wants put my cock into your asshole while I eat you. You dig?”

“Oh, wow! Honey, you do come on strong, don’t you? Oh, wow! I dig! How do you want me?”

“On the bed and spread ’em wide!”

Melinda sank on the waterbed, going crazy with the itchy-twitchy feeling that ran through her loins. She was so fucking hard up for a girl. So fucking hard up for a woman to make love to her siliconed tits and siliconed hips, and all over her body, even between her legs — where she felt real hard up.

Bernice stood over Melinda.

“Melinda, I’m going…”

“Please, call me Mel. I need a woman to call me Mel! God! It’s been so long between women. Usually I have to fuck and suck so many guys that their cocks make me sick! Oh, God! I can’t wait for a woman to make love to me!”

“Yeah, well… okay, Mel. Listen, Mel. I just wanta tell you I’m really hard up, too… well, if I hurry too much and come too soon, well, you know how those things go.”

“Oh, Jesus! Just hurry! Suck me! Suck me all over!”

Bernice sat down beside the luscious creature, ran her hands up and down the goose pimply flesh of her thighs, deliberately avoided her crotch, deliberately moved to the bandanna bra.

The bandanna bra slid away, and Bernice gasped. “Oh, God! Kiss them! I can’t help it if they’re false — my agent made me do it! He made me put silicone in my titties!”

Bernice wanted to kill Melinda’s agent, wanted to find his cock and cut it off. He was no different than any other man who treated women like toilet paper used them, then threw ’em away, used some more, then threw’em away.

But silky soft hands soothed her anger. Bernice moaned as Melinda undid the buttons on her bowling shirt, reached inside and cupped her titties.

“Ooh! Mel! Jesus! That feels so good!”

“Then please do the same to mine! I still have lots of feeling in my tits.”

Bernice rubbed Melinda’s rubbery tits.

They felt like tits.

They smelt like tits.

They melted — like tits do when they’re in an experienced lesbian’s mouth.

Bernice went ape-shit as her tongue made wet circles around Melinda’s nipples. God! What beautiful false tits! Poor girl! She probably had to have her tits sucked twice as hard because of the insensitive silicone.

Bernie sucked twice as hard as usual.

“OOOOHHHH! MY TITTIES! SUCK ‘EM, BABE! OOOOHHHH SUCK ‘EM, BABE!”

Bernice shifted the cock at her forehead to one side.

Melinda stopped her.

Melinda grabbed the false cock.

Melinda licked the false cock that unicorned from Bernice’s forehead.

Bernice looked up, watched Melinda’s sensuous tongue flick once, twice, then thrice against the knob of her prick.

Oh, God! Look at that tongue! God! What a long tongue! Only women had tongues like that — so smooth and delicious-looking and ooh, sooooo gentle! Not like a fucking slobbery man’s tongue that was caked with tobacco and felt like a rasping file.

Bernice went back to her task of tonguing Melinda’s false titties as Melinda licked her false cock.

This was true love! This was how it should be! Two women completely honest and open, loving and licking, lapping and lost in the heat of honest-to-goodness passion.

Bernice’s cock quivered as her head shook, because her tongue was doing whirling-dervish whiplashes on Melinda’s rubber tits.

Melinda’s tongue flicked left and right, up and down, trying to follow the movements of Bernice’s rubber cock.

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! OOOOHHHHH! PLEASE! BERNICE! GO DOWN ON ME! GO DOWN ON ME! IT’S BEEN SO LONG SINCE A WOMAN’S GONE DOWN ON ME!”

Bernice’s tongue moved south, like the birds and ducks and mallards, her mouth migrating to the feeding station of Melinda’s navel, found the navel unappetizing, then moved to the border of crepe material that hid Melinda’s pussy.

God! Bernice couldn’t wait! She was like a hen in heat! Like a duck who wanted to fuck! With that crepe border lay a pussy that would be hot and hungry for Bernice’s pecking lips.

Melinda groaned: “God! HURRY! TONGUE ME! SUCK IT! GO DOWN ON ME! HUUURRRRYYYY!”

Bernice wanted to hurry, but she also wanted to savor the Sappho delicacy of this creature spread before her. Shit, there was lots of time before her tongue roosted, or, rather, rooted in Melinda’s pussy.

Sure, Bernice was hot. But teasing was half the game. Chasing was half the fun.

She teased Melinda — tickled her navel and her false tits.

“AAAAIIIEEEE! HURRY! OH, GOD! I WANT YOUR MOUTH ON MY — AAAAIIIIFFPR! YES! SQUEEZE MY TITTIES! OH, YEAH!”

Bernice chased — moved her hand from beneath Melinda’s hips to her ass, then stoic a few feels of the woman’s hot asshole.

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! HURRY! OH, GOD! I WANT YOUR MOUTH ON MY — AAAUIIEEEE! YES! FINGER MY ASSHOLE! OH, YEAH!”

Bernice teased Melinda’s false titties and chased her real asshole.

Then it was time to go down south.

It was time to roost in the nest of Melinda’s cunt.

Bernice peeled the crepe material down, moved it southward, slowly, teasingly.

Hair!

Ooooooh, rich, luscious pubic hair. So soft and downy. Unlike man’s hard and coarse curls that reeked of cooked walnuts.

Bernice held her breath, took a good grip on the crepe material. Her forearm tensed.

RRRRRIIIIPPPP!

God! Look at that! A beautiful prick! So soft and feminine. So unlike — “WHAT?! MY GOD! YOU’VE GOTTA PRICK, MEL! OH, GOD!”

Melinda said: “Huh?”

CHAPTER TEN

The Tinker Toy Casino was its usual self — noisy, greedy, brimming with people, some in tuxes, some in swimming trunks, and some inebriated.

Like Hazel Turnbow.

Whose floor-length black dress smelled as if it had been laundromatted in Southern Comfort.

Whose bonnet tilted on her slightly-gray head like the glasses that were ready to drop off her nose.

Whose only comfort in a lonely motel room had been antebellum in taste.

Hazel swigged the bottle of Southern Comfort, gazed blurry at the rows of slot machines.

People in the casino thought she was an epileptic seamstress, she was weaving so badly.

And she had been weaving quietly on the steps leading down into the den of unity for ten minutes. They seemed like ten hours. She finally made up her mind.

She was gonna have fun! Fuck those who say librarians can’t have fun! Fuck ’em! She was a human being who had a right to have fun just like any other greedy person. Who said only pretty girls have fun? Miss Clairol? Well, fuck Miss Clairol, too!

Who said only horny Marines have fun? John Wayne? Well, fuck him too!

Rrrrriiipppp!

Jesus fucking Christ! Her first step into the den of fun and she fuckin’ tore her dress. Well, fuck her dress, too!

Rriiippp! Rrriiippp! Rrriiippp!

Hazel threw the tatters of her black dress to the air-conditioned breeze. Like confetti. Like New Year’s. Yeah, fucking New Year’s!

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

Hazel blinked her blurry eyes. Didn’t they know it was New Year’s? What the fuck were they staring at?

Hazel stumbled three steps down, recovered shakily with a grip on the handrail. What the fuck were they looking at?

She turned around slowly, tried to see what celebrity had walked through the door.

There was an armadillo-shaped man from Amarillo wearing a vanilla shirt walking through the door.

“HEY! HEY, ARCHIE! ARCHIE BER… YA OLD FART!”

The armadillo looked around, didn’t see Archie Bunker no where. He turned to the lady in the tattered dress. She was pointing a wavy finger at him. He felt embarrassed as the wavy finger prodded his navel and a bottle of Southern Comfort was shoved under his double chin.

“C’mon, Archie! First your gonna show me how to gamble. Then… we’re gonna fuck. It’ll be my first time I ever did it.”

The armadillo was astonished. It was the first time that a woman had ever picked him up. It was strange — like the boot being on the other foot. He had picked up enough strange pussies in his life. But balls o’ fire! This hag was picking him up.

He looked around — Emily was still in the ladies’ room. Shit, what was there to lose?

He looked at Hazel. God — there was plenty to lose!

Jesus Christ! The woman was drunk on — sniff, sniff, and sniff — on Southern Comfort. And look at the way she was dressed! Christ, she looked like hell warmed over. It looked like she had bought her dress at a confetti factory instead of at Woolworth’s.

“Well… come on, ya fart! Let’s move on! Come on, get your fuckin’ ass in gear! Let it all hang out! Yes sir.”

Then he was being gripped tightly by a siren who had been soaked in Southern Comfort and who was leading him to a row of slot machines.

He couldn’t believe it!

“Hey, just a fuckin’ minute here, sister! You’re…”

“I ain’t your sister, fart-face. If I was your sister, I wouldn’t let ya fuck me… understand?”

What the hell was going on here? He had come to Vegas for fun in the sun. For a little dice-rolling and twenty-one and keno. But shit, now he was getting rolled by a drunk-crazy hag with a twenty-one-inch chest and everything was not peachy keen.

He looked around for a security guard.

Hazel looked around for her purse. “Goddamn! I forgot my purse… Ya got any money… Archie?”

“My name’s not Archie!”

“Ya got any money anyway?”

“Look you’re drunk. And I’m not gonna lend any money to — Hey! Get your Goddamn hand outta my pocket! Hey! Lady!”

Hazel’s hand wormed and squirmed in the man’s tight pocket. Jesus Christ, man’s gotta have some money someplace. She felt around — keys, something wrapped in tinfoil. Fuck! Where the hell’s his loose change?

“Guard! Guard!”

People in the casino glanced casually at the commotion near the slot machines. Then they went back to their greedy business of playing illogical regret.

Hazel hiccuped as she rummaged around in his pockets. Jesus! What the hell’s this?

“Hey, Archie! What the hell’s this? Ya got a salami sandwich in here or somethin’? Jesus! It’s a big ‘un!”

The armadillo blushed. Christ — people were gonna stare. He could feel their eyes on him. He looked around. Balls o’ fire! They weren’t staring! What the hell was wrong with them? Didn’t they realize that a maniac woman was robbing him now, picking his pocket while she molested his prick…

WHAT!?

“Get your hand off my prick! Goddamn! We’re in a public place! You fucking weirdo!”

His prick? That salami thing was a prick? Hazel felt foolish. She also felt giggly drunk. His prick! She was feeling a man’s prick! Ooooooooohhhh! She couldn’t wait to tell people that she had finally felt a man’s prick!

She was just about ready to scream to the people in the casino that she had finally felt a man’s prick when the man’s prick did something funny.

“Ooooooohh, God, lady! Please — you’re giving me a fucking hard-on! Aaaaahhhh, shit!”

A hard-on? God! Hazel Turnbow — Hazel Turnbow, Miss Virgin Hag Librarian — was turning on a man, giving him a hard-on!

Hazel waved drunkenly, smiled drunkenly, felt Archie Bunker’s cock drunkenly.

“Ooohh, please, lady! Please let go of my cock!”

Hazel shook her head slowly. “Ooh, Archie! Archie! I-Is that… really your prick? Feels jus’ like a salami… an’ how come it’s bleedin’ now?”

Archie didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. He had never in his life been raped in public, or been so manhandled by a woman before. Now, he knew what all those women libbers were fighting for — so people wouldn’t be treated like sex objects, so they wouldn’t be fondled and caressed in busses or planes or in public places. He wanted to die. His cock wanted to die — but her fuckin’ hand was doing a Goddamn good job of keeping it alive and well, and hard and throbbing, while it leaked lots of jizz into his Levi’s.

“Ooooooh! Please, lady! You’re humiliating me! Please don’t do that with you — AAAaaaahhhh!”

Hazel couldn’t believe it. She was turning somebody on! She was turning a cock on with what she was doing with her fumbling hands. She backed tile armadillo up against the bank of slot machines, began molesting him, raping his cock with her fumbling hands.

The Southern Comfort gave her more encouragement. She farted.

The dizziness in her head gave her more courage. She was up on tiptoes, whispering to him about how she was gonna rape him.

“Archie… I’m gonna rape you! Come on, Archie… go up to my room. ‘Cause if ya don’t, I’m gonna pull out yer salami right here and chew it off!”

“Guard! Guard!”

People turned their heads, couldn’t believe that the rich Texan from Amarillo was so niggardly that he wouldn’t let his wife have a couple of nickels to play the slots. Jesus Christ! They hoped the old lady found his wad and blew the whole Goddamn thing.

Eddie liked walnuts. Especially American walnuts. They smelled delicious when they were warm, and they tasted delicious when they were hot.

His nose followed the scent of baked walnuts.

Ah! It was coming from here… right here, where there was mucho hair and a clitty-looking thing was hanging out.

His nose sank into the meaty aroma of baked walnuts.

“OOOOOHHHHH! GOD! PLEASE DON’T! NOOOOOO!”

Eddie lapped up the flavor of crushed walnuts. Uuuuummmm.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

“PLEASE! OH, GOD! PLEASE! DON’T PUT YOUR TONGUE — AAAAIIHEEEE!”

Eddie put this tongue there — right in the midst of where all that heady crushed-walnut smell was coming from.

He spread the meaty lips open. Very wide open. Deliciously wide open. He took a deep lungful of walnuts. Then he looked at what he had spread wide open.

Naturally it was a cunt.

Naturally it was a wide-open cunt because Eddie Caruso had both hands holding the outer cunt-lips as her inner cunt-lips oozed with saliva and the beads of fresh cunt-juice. What a fucking hot bitch she was! No woman could resist his tongue, or his hands, or his hot-fucking cock.

Oh, Senorita Higgins had resisted for about ten minutes, but after that she was like any typical fucking hot bitch woman. Eager for tongue. Eager for sucking and fucking.

Eddie’s head moved in on her splayed pussy-lips. His tongue came out, licked all around the hairy lips. Then darted in and flicked her clitoris.

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! OH, PLEASE! STOP! PLEASE! AAAAIIIEEEEE!”

Eddie stopped. Allowed her cunt four seconds to recover from his Latin tongue. Then he went back to work.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

“NO! NO! NO! NOT THERE! OH, GOD! NOT THERE! AAAAIIIIEEEE!”

Eddie liked putting his tongue right there. Oh, not that right there had the right kind of smell. It didn’t smell like walnuts right there. Right there was actually a wrong place for a tongue to be. Some people actually refused to go down on a woman’s asshole. But Eddie was a reformed sickle, and he didn’t mind pulling hairs off a woman’s asshole using his teeth for tweezers.

“AAAAAIIIIEEEE! STOP! STOP! STOP!”

Eddie shook his head. Not because he was telling her that he was going to stop eating her asshole. But because he had a tight grip on a very curly strand of pubic hair that fought the pressure of his yanking teeth.

“AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE! OH, GOD! THAT HURTS!”

Now, she had a hairless asshole, and Eddie went back to work.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

Frieda vas going out of her mind. She was fit to be tied. Which she was.

She struggled against her bonds. But it was useless. Useless to struggle against the ropes that were fled to the four corners of the bed, useless to fight against the tongue that was invading her asshole. Useless to fight the cock that was swinging around in her direction as his tongue pivoted in her pussy.

“NOOOOOOO! NO! GET YOUR COCK AWAY FROM ME! NOOOOO!”

Eddie went back to the crushed-walnut smell. Maria Sangria! Her cunt tasted sooooo good. He had never tasted a walnuttier cunt than this one. It even looked edible. And it looked especially tight.

Eddie squirmed on top, of Frieda’s now struggling body. The gringo lady could struggle all she wanted to — but Eddie knew that the four bolos would hold tight. Shit, he hadn’t been on the pampas for nothing. He was a gaucho at heart, and a fucker at first sight.

Frieda groaned. God! That cock! It was so big! And it was coming towards her face. She avoided the first thrust, the cock stabbed into her left ear.

Then the cock was rising, ready to plunge towards her face again.

Frieda dodged again. Too high… luckily.

Eddie kept bunching his hips. Shit, he knew his cock would find the mark some day. If not today, always manana. He raised his loins, jabbed down again. No, too law.

Frieda gasped. Her neck strained. Her titties were mashed flat by Eddie’s belly. God! Another cock attack!

Frieda ducked. Or she tried to duck, but it was impossible to duck into the downy pillows, or into the mattress.

The cock found its mark — her closed mouth.

Eddie smiled. He knew his cock was somewhere near her mouth, because he could feel lipstick on his taut knob — which indicated how sensitive his Latin cock-head was.

He lifted his head. “Do not bite, Senorita.”

Frieda shivered. His voice sounded so menacing. As menacing as when he had opened her door three hours ago and announced that he was going to fuck her and eat her and do sickie things to her body because she was Miss Frustration and he had been paid to fuck her.

Frieda had tried her best to get him to leave. She had even tried to push him out the door. Rut her hands had slipped on his flesh because his naked body was covered with Mazola.

Then there had been the struggle.

The Bible that had bruised his head. The lamp that he had fired back at her. His insane laughter as the bolos whirled around his head. Then the scream of agony as the luggage bag slammed into his balls. Then her scream of agony when he had kicked her in the pussy. Then his screech for mercy when she had a mouthful of his ankle. Then the dull agony as the bolos came crashing down on her head.

But now, something monumental was crashing against her head. Frieda opened her eyes and kept her mouth shut. God! Those weren’t bolos coming down on her eyes — those were his balls! She knew they were balls because they were hairy and they lay between a man’s cock and his asshole. And she didn’t want to see his asshole because it looked so foul. Then she didn’t have to see his asshole because her eyelids were crushed by his bob-like balls.

God, she wanted to scream. But she knew the instant she opened her mouth, he would… No! Oh, God! She wouldn’t open her mouth! No matter what he did to her, she wouldn’t open her mouth!

Eddie lifted his head. “Open your mouth!”

God! He had said it in that same menacing tone of voice. But if she opened her mouth, he would stick his prick in, and then she’d have to suck his cock because he would be raping her mouth. No! She would not open her mouth. She’d die first.

“Do you want to die, Senorita?”

No, Frieda didn’t want to die, but she didn’t want to suck his prick. Because if she sucked his prick, she’d want to die afterwards, die of shame and humiliation for being mouth-raped, and tongue-raped, and having her asshole violated by his finger.

His finger! In her asshole!

God, she wanted to be two women now. Because she felt like dying twice.

His finger was in her asshole! In her asshole! Where nothing had ever been — except… Oh God! She didn’t want to think about brother Paul and his big cock and the day he had corn-holed her ass.

“Aha! Senorita! You have been… how do they say? You have been corn-holed before, cunt?”

How did he know? No! This was pure humiliation. Beyond belief!? Was he that experienced that he could tell a woman’s asshole had been violated almost ten years ago? God, if he knew thing like that — what else would he know about her body? Frieda wanted to just die.

Eddie wriggled his finger in her asshole. “Senorita… you have a very big… asshole. Don’t you think?”

Think!? How could he ask her to think at a time like this! When his fingers were scraping her insides out.

His fingers!? No! Not one, but two… no, make that three fingers were in her asshole!

Frieda was ready to gasp, ready to scream out that she wanted to die. But then she remembered that she would die after that cock came zooming into her mouth. She clammed up. Tensed her body. Braced her flesh against the humiliating things he was doing to her.

“Senorita… your asshole is very tight now! Uuuuummmm! Make it tight for me again, Senorita.”

Frieda immediately relaxed while she was being raped. No! No! It was madness! His fingers, four of them, were deep in her ass. And his teeth were nipping at her cunt. And more fingers were playing with her pussy. And his hairy belly was smashing her tits. And his cock was smashing against her trap-shut mouth. And his balls were smeared with Maybelline eyeshadow.

And she was supposed to try and relax!

God! Frieda was like all girls who imagine what it would feel like to be raped. But this was beyond imagination. Relax while being raped? Easy humiliation? Stay calm while being ravaged? Degradation with a smile?

It didn’t make sense.

“Senorita, someday you will open, your mouth and suck my cock.”

Someday!? No! Rapes weren’t supposed to last that long — were they?

Oh, God! She’d starve to death before anybody found their corpses. And what kind of scene would that be for the house detective who discovered Eddie Caruso’s body in a state of rigor mortis draped over her cement-hard corpse. What would people think?

God, Frieda didn’t want to be found like that. Arnold would just slay her if he found her corpse like that.

Frieda decided to open her mouth.

“Hit me!”

“Lady, if you want a card, just motion with the cards in your hand — just scrape them against the felt, and I’ll give you a card.”

“Fuck you — I said hit me!”

“Jesus! Lady, you got a foul mouth. Look, there are other people playing here, and maybe they don’t like…”

“Tell ’em to go fuck their thumbs! Now, hit me, cock-sucker!”

“God damn it, lady, don’t get me riled. I swear, I’ll…”

“Here, sit on this, fuck-face!”

Sam “Quick Hands” Adams looked in disbelief at what the Amazon woman had slammed on his blackjack table — a dildo! A big dildo that was attached to a helmet. He was astonished. Then he was crimson. In thirty years of dealing cards at the Tinker Toy Casino, no one had ever been more offensive than this bitch.

Not even back in the summer of ’63, when an armadillo-shaped man from Amarillo had thrown a fit because he had a pair of twos and forgot to take a card. Shit, the armadillo was so fucking drunk that he thought he had busted with a count of twenty-two. And naturally a fight had ensued, and Sam had lived up to his name of Quick Hands.

The armadillo had moved very slowly. Too slowly for the lightning-like punches that made his armadillo head retract into his squatty body.

Now, the Amazon bitch moved too fast for Sam. She managed to duck the first overhand right.

Sam couldn’t believe it. The fucking bitch was faster than slippery shit! He struck out with a left jab.

People playing blackjack regretfully were getting annoyed.

“Jesus Christ! Hurry up and deal!”

“Holy cow! I come here to gamble, not watch Saturday night at the fights.”

“Hey! How much are aces worth again?”

Biff. Crack. Crunch.

Jesus! Sam looked at his knuckles. They were bleeding. Then he looked over the edge of the blackjack table. Jesus! Her face was bleeding from a cut upper lip, a gash over one eye, and a nose that was pointing to her right ear.

Manny Schwarz ambled over to Sam’s table.

He picked up the house phone. “Yes sir.”

“Clarence, got another flat-broke girl who’s gonna work for us. She’s at Sam’s table. Get her in shape for the Kiwanis guys coming in on the four-fifteen flight.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Room twelve was a mess.

It smelled like a nut factory — where nutty people crushed walnuts with their size twelve feet.

It looked like a garage sale that had been hit by a tornado.

A tattered vanilla shirt had taken the place of a lampshade. Southern Comfort bottles were sitting in various chairs — some upside down and empty, other upright, going stale because their caps were strewn all over the floor.

A man’s pair of pink boxer shorts lay over the New Testament.

A woman’s pair of white cotton panties with a yellowish stain at the crotch were on the dresser, right next to an opened tinfoil packet that had a picture of a Trojan soldier’s head on it.

The bed was rumpled.

Two people were making more rumples in the bed.

Rumple. Rumple. Rumple.

“OOOOOOHHHH, ARCHIE! I NEVER KNEW FUCKIN’ FELT LIKE THIS!”

Then the sheet slid off the bed, and Hazel reached for another quarter on the nightstand. She knocked over an ashtray, then her glasses fell off the edge; finally she got the quarter into the box labeled: Swedish Massager.

The bed hummed and rumpled.

Rumple. Rumple. Rumple.

“AAAAIIIIEEEE! OOOOOH! ARCHIE! GOD! ARCHIE! FUCK ME AGAIN… AND AGAIN AND FOREVER!”

Archie gasped. Archie was tired. Archie’s cock ached. But it was still hard. Archie couldn’t believe that his cock had been hard for the last — God, had it been two hours or three? Shit, be didn’t know!

Archie sighed, felt Hazel’s pussy sliding up and down on his cock. Maybe it was the fucking Trojan rubber that kept his prick hard — made it more insensitive to the tight clamminess of Hazel’s pussy as she fucked up and dawn, up and dawn, wheezing her Southern Comfort breath all over him.

Archie sweated. Archie moaned! That fucking bitch-hag had called him Archie for four hours now, and he felt as if he had been christened Archie Bunker.

“AAAAHHEEEE! ARCHIE! I’M COOOOMMMMIIHNNNGGG AGAIN! OH, GOD! I’M GONNA RAM YOUR PRICK ALL THE WAY INTO MY CUNT! OOOOHHHH, ARCHIE! ARCHIE FUCK FUCK! ARCHIE FUCK-FUCK! ARCHIE FUCK-FUCK!”

Archie Fuck-Fuck! No, God damn it his name wasn’t Archie Fuck-Fuck! Who the hell would call their kid Archie Fuck-Fuck?

“AAAARRRRCCCCHHHHIIIIEEEE! OOOOHHHH, AAAARRRRCCCIIHHIIIIEEEE! ARRRRCCCCHHHHIIIIEEEE FFUUUCCCKKK!”

Archie Fuck-Fuck couldn’t believe it. His cock felt so Goddamn sore and abused, yet he was ready to come. His cum was on the verge of spilling out of his prick for the fourth time in the last three, four or more hours — how the fuck did Archie Fuck-Fuck know! Shit, he didn’t even know his name any more!

“CUM, ARCHIE, CUM! OOOHHH! AAARRRCCCHHHIIIEE! ARRCHIIEEE CUM-CUM! ARCHIE CUM-CUM! ARCHIE CUM-CUM!”

Armadillo. Archie Bunker. Archie Fuck-Fuck. Archie Cum-Cum. Did it really make any difference? Shit, he was so fucking drunk on Southern Comfort, so fucked out by a hag who was making up for lost time, that Armadillo Fuck-Cum didn’t give a shit what she called him any more.

Why did cum taste so nasty? Arnold’s cum always tasted nasty. And there was no difference when it came to swallowing cm from an ex-gaucho either. Frieda was sick of cum. Sick of swallowing a sickie’s cum as he poured it down her throat in surges that felt like dollops of Milk of Magnesia.

Frieda was a mess.

A cummy mess.

Cum was on her face. Cum was on her tits. Cum was on her cunt. Cum was on her asshole. To say she was overcum would have been a poor pun.

Frieda glanced to her right.

Eddie Caruso was dressing, slicking down his hair with Murray’s Pomade. He was whistling “Granada”. He saw Frieda looking at him in the mirror.

“I am a good fucker, eh, Senorita Higgins?”

Senorita Higgins rolled her eyes in dismay. If a man were judged on how, well he fucked by how many times he could come on a woman’s clit and asshole, then he was a good fucker.

“Yes… yes, you are a good fucker.”

“Better than Senor Higgins?”

How the hell did that spic know so much? The mother-fucker! The Goddamn, Mazola-skinned, macho-fucker knew everything about her! And what pissed Frieda the most was that he knew it so smugly. Look at that fucker preen before the mirror. Look at him comb the hairs on his cock. Look at him admiring his big hefty balls. The fucker!

But was he better than Senor Higgins? Shit no! At least Arnold didn’t parade his prick in front of her face all day. At least Arnold fucked her without smugness and an ego that was as big as Argentina. The fucker! The smug fucker with the Latin lover’s mug!

“NO! No, you don’t fuck as good as Arnold! You just fuck! You’re nothing but a big cock! You don’t give a damn about love, except for the love you have for your sick prick!”

Eddie was stunned. At first.

Then he was outraged. He’d show that bitch that she was a fucking hot bitch. He spun around, began to jack his prick while he looked at her spread-eagled body on the bed.

Anger was in his eyes. Anger was in his fists.

Jack. Jack. Jack.

Hatred was in her eyes. Hatred for what was in his fists.

Jack. Jack. Jack.

Eddie huffed and puffed. His hand was a blur on his cock — his long lengthy prick felt like a rubber hose in his outraged hands.

Frieda smiled smugly. Watched his limp prick flop and droop.

“What’s the matter, fucker? Can’t get it up? Come on, fucker! Get it up! Get your sick prick up and fuck the shit out of me, and watch me hate every fucking moment of it! Come on, fucker — beat your meat! Beat it to death, baby, ’cause it looks deader than hell!”

Eddie looked at his prick. His prick did look dead. It wouldn’t rise, wouldn’t leak pearly drops of Latin cum, wouldn’t twitch or jerk or throb. It even felt dead, like his prick wasn’t part of him, wasn’t his any more. No! No! A man needed his prick. Eddie needed his prick or he wasn’t a macho gaucho. He needed his prick or he’d be unemployed, and he’d have to stand in those long unemployment lines hoping to find work as a fucker.

No! His cock was dead to the world, useless to him, useless to all those women who cherished the thought of being fucked by the great Eddie Caruso.

“CARUMBA! YOU WITCH! YOU’VE CURSED ME!”

Frieda’s laughter followed him as he bundled up his clothes and left room thirteen forever.

Frieda kept laughing until her sides hurt. Then her laughter died out. The silence was overwhelming. Thoughts of dying were overwhelming.

“HEY! HEY! SOMEBODY UNTIE ME!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sunday mornings for most Americans means a day off. To go to church or mass, then a picnic at the park, early dinner, some boob-tube show starring a man with a bionic prick, then bedtime.

This April Fool’s Day Sunday was not a typical day for many Americans. Especially the gringos who were in Vegas.

On this particular day there were many fools in the casinos, and there were other people who were not everyday fools but who were fooled nonetheless by the everyday fools.

Take the everyday fool coming out of Madame Pompadour’s Beauty Parlor. The fool’s name was Hazel Turnbow. And she was not foolishly drunk.

She was beautiful.

Her hair was in stacked swirls, every strand sprayed to stand-still perfection. Her eyes were sky-blue because she was minus glasses now and wore tinted contact lenses. Her face was radiant — made that way by a truly remarkable war on ugliness.

Hazel’s war on ugliness began early Saturday morning. When, using one quarter that she had borrowed from that fool Archie Cum-Fuck, she had struck fool’s gold — a twenty-five-thousand dollar jackpot!

Hazel was ecstatic. Then she became foolishly beautiful. She had gone to the best dress shops, the best coiffures, the best rebuilt body shops in all of Vegas. Shit, she had the best of everything now.

Her tits were completely rebuilt. The chassis was pumped full of silicone and now she had tits that looked like headlights instead of Volkswagen bumpers. Her ass was a classy reclamation project in itself. Now, when she walked in gold patent-leather shoes, men adored her from behind as much as in front.

She was a woman! Foolishly so.

Hazel Turnbow had made a complete turnabout. She couldn’t believe it! She couldn’t wait to tell Frieda and Bernice about her jackpot, about her forty-two-inch tits, about her padded ass.

Hey! Bernice was right over there, standing in the corner talking to that man who was wearing a dingleberry Kiwanis Club hat.

Hazel nearly stumbled in her six-inch heels in her hurry to show Bernice what a foolish body she had. Then she stopped. She watched the man tuck a five-dollar bill into Bernice’s halter top. Then Bernice was taking the man’s arm and walking towards Hazel.

Hazel smiled, started to wave… but she was astonished.

Bernice’s face looked as if it had been beaten by a hundred rubber cocks! God! And Bernice looked so slovenly. And she sounded so… so foolishly lifeless because Hazel heard her talking to the man as they passed her.

“Look, fella, I really dig the rough stuff, too. For another ten bucks… you can hit me, anywhere. My tits, my belly, my cunt… anywhere you want. How ’bout it?”

Bernice! Don’t you know who this is? It’s me, Hazel! Hazel Turnbow! Remember me!

Then Bernice and her john were walking away from Hazel, and she watched Bernice put her hand on the man’s ass and fondle his ass-cheeks.

God! Bernice was a whore! No!

Another fool was Arnold Higgins.

Arnold had felt foolish as he finished fucking Yvonne Mandell on Friday. And he had felt doubly foolish after fucking Cherry Whittaker on Saturday.

And Saturday night he had felt like the world’s worst fool. When he had read Frieda’s note telling him to go to hell for one weekend, that she knew she was being made a fool of by a husband coach who told her a bunch of lies about football played in baseball season.

Arnold felt like a fool then.

And on the drive over to Vegas, he had had lots of time to think about foolish, trivial things like death and love and marriage and life in general.

For a fool, he came up with some nice conclusions. He loved Frieda, even though he had treated her like shit. But he couldn’t help treating her like shit, because everything he loved he always treated like shit. His football players he treated like shit. His golf clubs he treated like shit. His coaching manuals he treated like shit. The only things he didn’t treat like shit were girls like Yvonne Mandell and Penny Krakow.

For the world’s worst fool, Arnold finally figured out that those things he treated with manners and kindliness and friendliness he hated — like the neighbor kid who was always pissing beneath his mailbox, like Bernice Hudson and Cherry Whittaker.

Now, he didn’t know what to think as he barged into room thirteen ready to tell Frieda he loved her, that he loved everything that he treated like shit.

But the blood emptied out of his head when he saw Frieda unconscious on the bed, tied down in spread-eagled fashion by four bolos.

He didn’t know what to think in his foolish state of mind. Somebody else had treated Frieda like shit — that was very obvious because she had cum drying all over her body. But did that mean she was in love with the guy who had treated her like shit?

Arnold bent down, gave her mouth to mouth, which was his way of kissing his wife.

Frieda moaned, aroused from her dream of being a princess and being kissed by a toad. Her eyes blinked, her arms ached, her tits hurt. No, toad! Not now — I’m a princess and I want to go home to Prince Charming. Get away! You’ll give me warts! Stop it!

Frieda’s head tossed left and right, but the toad lips followed her, nuzzled her cheeks, her ears, and her eyes.

Then she opened her eyes and stared at the toad.

“ARNOLD!”

“Who’d you expect? Prince Charmin’?”

THE END

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