Jason Forbes

Lust in the Woods

I

The next time you kiss a twat, give a thought to me. I just got through lapping a muff juicier than any you've ever laid eyes on, buddy.

Jealous? Don't think it was easy. I don't mean the lapping. I mean meeting up with it. I had to drag my ass clear across the country. And suffer and suffer before I got my lips planted on it. Was it worth all the trouble? You tell me, after you've heard the whole dirty story.

It began with a leak. Not plumbing.

If you hafta take a mean piss, believe me, you're better off in the city. Out in the sticks, a guy never knows what'll happen. Honest! Like, for example, the time I unloaded in Mercer County, Iowa.

I can hear you ask the question. “What was a sophisticated stud like you doing in Mercer County, Iowa?” That's a tale too long to put between covers. Besides, my Parole Board would raise its fucking eyebrows. So we'll omit details that tend to incriminate me. I'll describe only the legal tidbits. If fucking and sucking and hailing and reaming are illegal, I'm giving up my goddamned citizenship!

There I was in this cornfield-or maybe it was a wheatfield. I can't distinguish one frigging blade of grass from another. The field stretched in every damned direction. The nearest town lay four miles behind me. My night's lodging could be under the next tree that hit my fancy. Long hours till nighttime. Long hours since I'd stowed that beer under my belly. Time to get rid of it.

Not a soul in sight. Since I had a natural sense of delicacy, I sought cover. A clump of bushes. Pissing in the middle of a field smacks of exhibitionism, whatever the fuck that means. I found the bushes. I faced them, unzippered, and pulled out my whacker. I directed the stream where it would do the most good-somewhere between the roots and the leaves. It had been a long, dry summer.

“Ma, there's a naked man making wee-wee.”

The unseen Mistress of Ceremonies was a fucking liar. I had my pants on. Chinos, shirt, and sneakers. The childish voice had come from the other side of the bushes. I tried to peer through, but couldn't see much. The stream zigzagged, dried up. I rezippered. Just as I turned away, I realized I had a companion.

She was too young, except for the most dedicated pervert. Not more than five, at the outside. A plump little girl with shining blonde hair, barefoot-wearing grubby calico. She looked up at me with wide eyes as if she'd never seen a 6-foot stranger. Before she could interrogate me on my urinary habits, or my country of origin, a voice called.

“Debbie, where are you?”

“She's here with me, ma'am. I think… Was that your mommy?” Debbie's eyes opened wider, but she wasn't talking. Maybe she was still reveling in her traumatic experience. The sight of a fat prick at the age of five can set a girl's libido spinning, if she knows what it is.

A figure appeared through a break in the bushes to the left of us. A figure! Also decked out in cheap cotton. Every girl with big tits should wear a dress two sizes too small, faded, outlining every good feature it tried to conceal. I could see the sharp tips of her nipples, dark spots on the sun-bleached material.

“I'm afraid I frightened your little girl, ma'am.”

“Debbie doesn't frighten easily.” The throaty voice was cool, almost remote. But her naked stare betrayed an interest far from cool and far from remote. Now she resembled her daughter. Same glossy blonde hair, same wide blue eyes. There the resemblance ended. Lush hips rounded the stripes of the cotton. Taut nipples faced me proudly.

She was worth a fucking.

Without thinking, I looked around me. Shrub, long grass, trees. Quiet. I could do it. I knew I could do what I wanted. One hand over her mouth, one under her dress. A quick screw on the grassy ground. How could she stop me? File a complaint with the sheriff? By the time she crawled to the sheriff, I'd be out of the county. No witnesses-except Debbie. That was a complication. Or was it?

I could hear myself warning. “You keep your mouth shut, unless you want what your mother got!” I'd give it to her anyway. Screw her young quim. Then there'd be no witness, no complication. If my stiff buzzer didn't split her arid kill her, I'd bash her head in. And silence her mother forever. Why not?

A good fuck is worth a murder.

The little girl's voice plummeted me back to reality. “Are you lost, mister?”

Lost. Lost between two nipples and a pair of round hips. For a minute, I couldn't answer. Debbie's mother mistook my silence for shyness.

“If you're lost and hungry-” she started, tentatively.

“That's it, ma'am. I'm lost-and very, very hungry.”

“In that case, you're welcome to come back with us. The cabin isn't far.”

I stammered confused thanks, hugging my luck. For the first time I noticed that the blonde had set a heavy pail down when she'd stopped to talk. A pail brim full of blackberries. I scooped up the pail and we started off toward the cabin.

Charming domestic scene. Little girl skipping through the woods. Big girl walking demurely at the side of her man. Man lugging pail, idly chewing sweet blackberries. Idly revising rape plans. I'd screw her in the cabin. No witnesses. Debbie would be sent out to play while mommy went in to play in the bedroom. If there was a bedroom.

Indoors I could take my time. Tie her up. Gag her. Ball her twice. Much better! And only five minutes before, I'd considered wasting my gism on a five-year-old muff. Not to mention double murder. Uncomplicated rape is cleaner than homicide.

It didn't work out that way after all.

The first thing I spotted in the cabin was a pipe. A man's pipe. Funny, my calculations hadn't included Debbie's father. Nothing changes rape prospects like the presence of a second man. Implied, actual, or threatened presence. I could picture my intended victim's husband as if his picture hung over the mantel. A laconic, raw-honed Iowan farmer with clumsy hands and feet. Jealous, slow-moving, and vindictive. In my mind's eye, I saw him clearly.

As if there were a mantel in that cabin. Fucking smelly hole, it lacked all the niceties. I mean, even for a goddamned backwoods cabin. The one room had been partitioned and darkened by a long length of unbleached cloth stretched from one end to the other at about the level of my forehead. The main half of the room served as living, cook, and washing quarters. Old-fashioned pump sink they must have imported from Appalachia. Tiny stove. Shelves holding staples, tools, and gewgaws. Rough oak table and a few chairs to match.

I could easily peer over the curtain partition. Milord and lady's sleeping quarters. Sagging bed, cot for Debbie, crate furniture. Clothes strewn on the bed; more clothes hanging from wall hooks.

The musty, hovel smell faded. My hostess had busied herself at the stove, and soon the aroma of beef stew tickled my nostrils.

“'Just ha' to heat up. We'll be eating soon, mister.

“I'm Doug Trent. That had slipped out unconsciously. Idiot tactics for a rapist to introduce himself by the name on his birth certificate. Remember that. It might save you up to ten years of self-recrimination. I forgot, I guess, because my plans had been altered by the pipe and the masculine clothes on the bed. And the picture that wasn't on the mantel that wasn't in the cabin. I had a new hunger to consider.

The tangy aroma of beef stew made me suddenly ravenous. Hungrier for food than for fucking. You might say my stomach was horny. I forgot when I'd eaten last. I barely heard the blonde's polite murmur. “My name is Beth Coogan.” If she neglected to add “Mrs.”, I failed to notice.

Then the three of us sat at the table and Beth dished out dinner. Chunks of good fatty beef and slices of good crusty bread. I wolfed down two portions. I stifled a belch, sipped coffee, and remembered that I came equipped with a prick. Satisfy one hunger and the other rears its head. That's why you find so many cathouses established above ground floor restaurants.

“Debbie, go out and play.”

My words-but I hadn't spoken. Debbie unhesitatingly obeyed her beautiful mother. Beth didn't waste a glance at me. She disappeared behind the cloth partition. On tiptoe, I could see across it. Beth was sitting on the bed. Wailing.

I crossed over to the bedroom side.

“Uh-Mr. Coogan-”

Her lips curled. “There's no Mr. Coogan.”

She stood up, raising her face to mine. I kissed her, rubbing my hands over her squashy boobs. Her lips were cool. She stepped back to unglue us.

“What about the kid?”

“Debbie'll stay out till I call her. What's the matter, hobo? Looking for excuses?”

I slapped her face hard, just for the pleasure of slapping her. On the down swoop, I ripped half her dress off. The top half. The tit half.

Beth's boobies plopped out, cushion-round, pale as milk. Bare tits make a chick look vulnerable. I felt like a bastard for slapping her. “I'm sorry, Beth,” I mumbled. My apologies were muffled. I hunched over to chew on them. I forgot I was sorry, forgot she was vulnerable. I bit hard on the soft, yielding flesh. Pinched the taut nipples till she screamed out in torment.

She was fast. Hot. Writhing. She writhed out of her torn dress, standing nude except for flimsy panties. She pulled down my zipper, grabbing my dick. Screaming louder. Like a seagull, like a bitch burning in agony. Inhuman. Only the words were human.

“Put it in me. Fuck me!”

Them's dangerous words to a hobo. They inflate the ego something awful. I had nine swinging inches of inflated ego.

“Get on the bed, cunt!” I pushed her forward. Beth lay flat on her back, nipples aimed at the ceiling. I rolled down her panties, muzzled her fuzz, and spread her legs wide.

Like certain other blonde nymphos of my acquaintance, Beth had a twat as delicate as a baby's. The lips went a light rose tint, the slit itself was narrow, virginal. You couldn't believe a stiff cock had ever stuffed it. The hairs around it were silky, girlish-and wet. She was dripping. She needed a fucking.

I dipped my finger into the honeypot. It came away gooey. I didn't stop to sniff it or fondle her or take my pants off. I mounted her, the head of my dong tight on the wrinkle.

“Want something?”

Beth twisted her body impotently, trying to suck my whang into her cleft. It's the best game I know. Making 'em beg for it. Nine inch stud-and the stud holds all the aces. A good stiff player can hold off his poker forever. Forever.

For….

Her clingy cunt was winning in spite of me, bathing the rim of my prong in its juices, drawing it into the cavern, holding it fast in a love vise, making it dance, making it quiver.

Cunt, you asked for it. I slammed into her-to the womb in one thrust and that was only the starter. I rammed her, hammered her with a merciless barrage of belly-battering lunges. Beth's screams were shrill; she was working up to her climax. Fuck her climax. I rode her without respite until my balls made their usual flutter, till I felt the cream racing, and I interrupted my groans for the useless warning, “I'm coming! I'm coming!”

Beth's lungs bellowed out the dirge of the short-changed female. To put her out of her misery, I groped for her clit and tweaked it. The little pricklike extension expanded and stiffened. I was going to lie down and lick it, but Beth started having her fucking, belated orgasm.

I like to watch a girl when she's coming. Lips apart. Eyes open, glazed, unfocused. I experimented. I jammed two fingers up her twat while she exploded. I revolved them in the gooey cleft. Wasted effort. I don't think Beth was even aware of my probing fingers. She just kept coming.

The whole lower half of my hand was whitish, wet, and slimy. How much of that mess was Beth's love froth, how much was my own gism? I'd need a computer to sort out that sticky problem.

Beth wanted a return bout. She wanted prick action. By a happy coincidence, I also craved action. My prong, however, was still shyly drooping. I hinted that a maidenly tongue would dispel the shy languor. I hinted in the nicest way possible. With one hand, I drew the blonde's head forward, with the other, I pried her lips open. Then I jockeyed for position till my labe was in her mouth and she sucked it.

It wasn't the first time she'd had dong in her mouth. Beth knew just where to concentrate-the sensitive skin under the head, the jumping vein along the middle. She knew how to make a limp prick a roaring hard-on.

I pulled out above, and crept in between her lower lips. Beth was ready to go off once I stuffed nine inches into her. I was suddenly in a tearing, fucking hurry. Her hips made me hurry. Her nails raking my ass made me hurry. With fast, staccato lunges, I banged the gism out of my system.

“I'll put Debbie to bed. You can stay, Doug.”

Yeah. The mattress felt lumpy. The air in this part of the cabin was fetid. But I'd be big-hearted, I'd overlook the disadvantages. Sharing a lumpy mattress with a nympho would be better than bedding under a tree, giving myself a hand job. Right?

Wrong! Wrong, you crazy bastard. A tree and a hand any time!

II

I fell asleep and dreamed of blackberries. Luscious blackberries, only they were creamy white, big as tits, with rosy centers. I was chomping them. And the little hard pits tasted best. Like nipples. Like Beth's nipples.

The blackberries slithered out of my mouth. Fell to the floor. The floor tilted upwards. The cabin shook.

The dream ended, but the cabin kept shaking. Earthquake-or had Mr. Coogan returned?

In the darkness, I could see nothing. I felt hot breath on my face. Someone was peering down at me. I could feel the bristles of a beard. Mr. Coogan? I tried to raise my arms. They were bound to the bedposts. My ankles were tied. I was spread-eagled on the bed. Alone. Where was Beth? What the fuck was happening?

The voice came, unexpectedly friendly.

“So you woke up! Buddy, I never seen anyone sleep like you do.”

I kept silent. Sweating. What does one say in those circumstances? “Pleased to meet you?”

“Thanks for your hospitality?”

“Untie me, you villain?”

Mr. Coogan got to the crux of the matter.

“You been fuckin' Beth?”

“No. I-”

In the darkness, a fist connected with my jaw. “Don't make the lady a liar.”

Beth's voice sounded cool, throaty, curiously disembodied now that I couldn't see her. “He fucked me three times. Made me-” A stinging slap cut short her catalogue.

“Get the kid outta here. Wait a minute.” The bearded man lit a lantern, and abruptly the room seemed ablaze with light. I could see now that the cords binding me were actually bits of rags expertly tied. The female touch. I was as jaybird naked as when I'd crawled into the sheets with Beth.

Undisturbed by the light, Debbie slept in her cot. The blonde bitch had slipped-on another faded cotton dress.

She was standing at the foot of the bed, eyes glittering. Beside her, a bearded giant poised about to spring. Mr. Coogan? Whoever the fuck it was, I was in trouble. “Wake 'er up!”

Beth obediently shook the little figure on the cot. Debbie stood up, blinking sleep out of her eyes. She hardly glanced at the bearded man, but she stared intently at me. If I was the blushing type, I'd have been brick-red or worse. The kid had seen my prick in the woods that afternoon. Now she could feast her eyes on the bush and balls that went with it.

The sight didn't seem to upset her. Maybe she took after her fucking mother. I didn't have time to ponder the ins and outs of heredity. The bearded man hunched over me, whispering, “Say 'suck it.'”

Without hesitation, I said it. “Suck it.” The words came easy. I felt like laughing. Either the cabin was enchanted or I'd wake up in a minute. “Suck it! Suck it!”

Debbie stepped forward. She didn't touch me. Eyes open, her tiny tongue darted out. She licked my peter. Hey! It couldn't be happening. I didn't want it. I didn't want a five-year-old cunt kissing my ramrod. Never trust a ramrod-even your own. I didn't want it, but just the wet lick of the kid's tongue was making it harden. If this was going to be my punishment, I could take it.

The bearded man pushed her away from me.

“Get her out of here!”

Beth bundled the pint-sized cocksucker off to the other side of the partition.

The bearded man spoke softly, even persuasively. “You un'erstand, I gotta protect myself. Like if you was t'make a complaint. I'd say I couldn't let you get away with forcing the kid t'suck you. You made her do it, didn'cha? I hafta make you pay for it, don' I?”

Whatever this bonzo had in mind wouldn't do Doug Trent any good. Whatever he had in mind involved stripping.

My jolly captor peeled his shirt off. He-man style. No undershirt… just thick, matted chest. A nice caved-in chest would have suited me better. Coogan or whoever the hell he was wasn't kidding. He dropped his pants. His thighs under his Jockeys were spread like twin tree trunks. He reached in to expose his whacker, handling it idly, as if the heavy foreskin tickled him.

Prick swinging, he towered over me. I was sure he was going to order me to suck it. Then what? No mouth could take a dong like that. He'd kill me. His hang hung at least seven inches, thick as a milk bottle. And it wasn't even hard yet. Sweat poured down my forehead.

His voice, unexpectedly, was gentle. “Don't be afraid. I like Cheat guys. I won't hurt ya-much.”

I wet my lips. They felt cracked, as if he'd whipped them.

“Look, lemme go. I didn't mean any harm. Honest! By morning, I'll be miles away. Please don't-”

He wasn't listening. He was pulling the belt off his pants. “Don' worry, kid. I don't aim for y' nuts.” He held the belt bunched so that he had about a foot-and-a-half of whip. He flicked it over my legs, then my chest. The pain was sharp, but not unbearable.

The blows came faster. They hurt more. The tip of the leather was probing fresh welts and connecting lower. I felt the lash on my thatch. Lower and he'd lacerate my buzzer. I'd taken the beating in silence, tasting blood on my tongue, biting off pleas for mercy. But now I howled in anguish.

My cries seemed to amuse him. Grinning, he sent the whip lower, below my balls, to my thighs. Then the torment halted abruptly, and he called, “Get in here.”

Beth crept in, flushed, her breathing raspy. She knelt on the floor, mouth open, staring at the bearded man's massive erection, moaning. He dropped the belt, still towering over me. His fingers touched the wounds, tentatively, as if he wondered how they got there. His other hand held his prick, pulling it.

The blonde girl shot forward, screaming, “No, Matt, don't do it. Fuck me!”

Matt took his hand off his prong to brush her aside. Beth landed in an outraged heap, half on the bed, half on the floor. Ignoring her, Matt flicked his fingers over his joint and started to spurt. Blobs of his cream hit my legs, hit the girl on the floor. He kept spurting.

Beth spouted a stream of curses. Still ignoring her, Matt contemplated his shriveling dick as if he wondered how that got there.

He started to undo the rags binding me to the bed.

“I didn't hurt ya,” he mumbled. “You'll be okay.” He tilted his chin toward the blonde. “That cunt sure hates t'miss out on a load! If ya want, you c'n fuck 'er.”

I didn't want to fuck her; I wanted to get out of the cabin. As if he read my thoughts, Matt grinned. “You won't wanna put your clothes on over those-” He hedged at the word wounds. “Anyway, where ya gonna go in the dark? Car's locked. Roads don't lead no place. Be smart, kid. Fuck 'er an' grab some sleep.”

Matt kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks, and climbed into bed. Whimpering, otherwise silent, Beth got in with us.

The bastard was right. Where would I go in the dark? I didn't relish the thought of clothes near my raw skin. I should as well slay put. What else could happen? Unless he'd wake in the night to cut my nuts off!

Matt was snoring already. Beth had stopped whimpering. She was feeling for my tool in the darkness. I didn't want to fuck her…just sorta fall asleep with my hand up her cunt. I reached out. She had gone to bed wearing the cotton dress. When I reached out, I didn't feel cotton. I felt silk. Silky thigh. Silkier fuzz. I fingered her twat. Beth released my hard-on so I could mount her. I screwed it into her lazily, then in a tempo that accelerated in spite of myself. I boffed her, rolled off, and heard myself snoring. Balling beats any sleeping pill.

No matter how rough the night, morning follows. A soft summer morning, some sun even penetrated the cabin. That was a cardinal error. Light made the hovel inexpressively shabbier. But the smell had improved. Frying bacon made me feel almost human. Human and alone in bed, with the sun pouring in. I bounded out and looked through the partition.

Matt was standing at the stove, shaking a skillet. Without turning, he said, “Sunny side up okay? It's the only way I know how t'make 'em.”

“Sunny side is fine. Where do I take a piss around here?”

I had joined him on the kitchen side of the cabin. Matt faced me grinning. “Just go outside. Anywhere'll do. Nearest neighbor's two miles, an' the girls drove t'town, shopping.”

Bare ass, I backed out of the cabin. When I returned, Matt was heaping food on the table. I put on my shorts and dove into my portion. We chewed our eggs and bacon in companionable silence. Only when we'd finished, Matt mumbled, “Sorry about last night, fella.”

“That's okay, Mr. Co-uh-you are Mr. Coogan, aren't you:

Matt grinned. “You think 'cause her name's Coogan-? Hey, you don't think I married her?” Matt guffawed at this unlikely thought. “Who would hafta marry her!” He stuck his hand out politely. “I'm Matt Hammond.”

We shook hands after I introduced myself.

“You from New York, Doug?”

I admitted it.

“Geez, I'd like t'see New York sometime. Guess I never will. I'm sorta stuck here. Suits me in a way. Got my work. Hirin' out to the farmers, doin' a bit of farmin' on my own. Got that no-good cunt. Got my own place.” His eyes shifted over the cabin as if it were a place to be proud of. He noticed my expression. “Not much of a place, but it's mine. I got my privacy. I c'n do what I want.”

Like beating guys.

Malt must have sensed those words on my lips, because he said defensively, “I'm not queer. I like fuckin' cunt. I tried everything, Doug. I sucked pussy. Once I let a queer blow me. An' I like t'whip a guy when he's tied up. Not t'hurt 'im. Jus' whip 'em an'jack off on 'im.”

I assured Matt that back East no one would consider such predilections queer.

“How did you come to team up with Beth?”

“Everyone 'roun' here knows Beth. She's got a hot box for big dick. Since she was a kid.” Matter of factly, Matt added, “I got a big one, a very big one.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

“Well, that's what she's after. She'll do anything to get it. Suits me,” Matt said, complacently. “She keeps the place clean, cooks, an' she's aroun' when I want her.”

Cozy arrangement. I hardly heard Matt, however. I was thinking. Trying to think. Not getting anywhere. To keep the conversation going, I asked at random, “Much action in this part of the country?”

The bearded man ruminated. “Not too much. This is farm land. Don't see many folks till y' get t'Prescott.”

Prescott, I knew, was the local metropolis. I had skirted it the day before on my way to the woods-and the cabin.

“How big is Prescott?”

“Plen'y big,” Matt answered, like a rural Iowan. “Population nearly 5,000. An' lots of folks come to Prescott. See, it's the county seat an' on the road to Des Moines an' Omaha.”

Transients. Visitors. Score one for Prescott. The information Matt gave me meant something. Only I didn't know what. Something. Something good.

“There a hotel in Prescott?”

“Sure.” His eyes lighted with a touch of local pride. “It's called the Iowan. Six stories. All the latest gewgaws. Just like in Des Moines.”

Golly! Six whole frigging stories. The Prescott Hilton.

I digested that tidbit and stuck my hand out.

“Well, Matt, it was great knowing you. Last night's forgotten. Thanks for the breakfast.”

Matt Hammond didn't take my hand. He stood for a minute like a bashful colossus. “Don't go, Doug. Stay aroun' a while. I won't do anything-”

You bet your sweet ass you won't do anything.

I allowed myself to be persuaded to stay a while. Reluctantly. Gleefully. You could bet your mother's adorable asshole-I wasn't going anywhere.

III

In back of the cabin, Matt had a neat plot of land cultivated. Growing tomatoes or broccoli or some shit. He showed it to me proudly and I made the proper noises.

There was something I wanted to see more than tomato plants. I wanted to see it in the even light of morning, out in the open. So I could judge it and make my plans accordingly. It was touchy, though. I couldn't just ask him to show me. What I wanted to see was Matt's boffer.

“Where do you bathe here, Matt?”

He pointed. “Stream jus'past those trees.”

“Feel like bathing?”

“Naw.”

“Well I do.”

“Okay, c'mon, I'll show ya.”

Past the trees, we clambered down a rocky incline. Hammond's private swimming pool flowed along grassy banks. The surrounding trees muffled even the chirruping of the crickets. Wonderful spot to take your girl skinny dipping. I let that fact register as I unbuttoned my shirt.

“Come on, Matt. Join me.”

He shook his head. Courteous and stubborn. “I don' wanna, but you go ahead.”

I didn't wanna either. Louder than I meant to, because I was impatient, I snapped, “Do me a favor, Matt. Take your clothes off.”

I knew, the way he complied instantly, unquestioningly, that Matt had the wrong idea. I didn't give a fuck. When I develop a plan, I cater to it. Plans don't come easy.

Without a word, Matt pulled off his shirt. He dropped his pants, stepped out of them, rolled down his Jockeys. “Shoes, too?”

“No, that's all right. How tall are you, Matt?”

“Bout 6'3”.”

He had enough wiry black bush for three. Enough cock for a pair of active studs. I'd seen stiff rods not nearly as long and as thick as his hang. Balls like grapefruits, swinging restlessly in a coarse sac.

“What do you weigh?”

“Geez, I dunno. About 230. What is all this, Doug?”

“Nothing-I was just thinking.” Planning. With my plans and that oversized hang. But Matt was doing some thinking, too. Where it hurt most. He tried to frame his words discreetly. “Look, fella, if you're queer, I don' mind. You c'n suck it. Is that it, Doug? You wanna kiss it?”

I disenchanted him with a curt “No!”

But a guy with a stiffening prong needs a lot of disenchanting. Matt's tool had begun to rise. I stared openly. That was an integral part of my plan, the fucking nucleus.

His rod reared up rigid, like a red arm jutting taut from under his belly.

“I got the biggest fucker in Mercer County!”

Don't hide your inches under a bushel. “Biggest in the country,” I amended.

Matt grinned. “An' I got the hottest fuckin'juice in the Country. C'mon, suck it!”

He gripped my shoulder, trying to force my head down.

“Sorry, I don't suck.”

Relentlessly gripping my shoulder, Matt grinned without amusement. “Whydja make me take my clothes off? Get me all hot? Suck it!”

Part of my plan was to keep Matt happy. And part of my plan was to keep on living. I compromised. “I never sucked a dick, honest! I couldn't start with that. I'll pull you off if you're horny.”

I put my hand over his velvety-smooth hard-on, jacking it vigorously. Deep in his throat, Matt growled. I could see where my plans needed revision or where I'd need a brand new jaw sooner than I expected. At the last moment, Matt's pisshole jammed tight on my lips and his grin faded. I was saved by the sound of the motor-Matt's car wheezing back from its shopping expedition.

He brushed me aside as easily as he had brushed Beth aside the night before. Through clenched teeth, he ordered, “Bring her here.” I caught my breath and crashed through the trees.

Beth had parked the old sedan and was starting for the cabin, Debbie trailing behind her. “Matt wants you.”

She handed the paper sack of groceries to Debbie, murmuring something. Then she followed me.

Matt was pacing the grassy river bank like an animal. His huge whacker shaking with every movement, eyes wild. He fell on Beth, tumbling her to the ground, clawing at her skirt. In a second, he had her in position, skirt bunched at her waist, panties down, legs high. He couldn't ram that club into a dry cunt. I knew that would be impossible.

I had miscalculated. Beth's legs were wrapped around his bulging shoulders. He was in her already. Now that his cock was soothingly sheathed, Matt's eyes were no longer wild. Beth's were. Wild, distraught, unfocused. Clutching at his bulk blindly to get more of his staff in her.

Brutally, he banged her. I watched the blonde's body shake under his lunges. The full length of his monstrous weapon had disappeared in her. Matt fucked like an animal. I'm libeling the animal. Watch a tomcat rutting some time. He'll pause to give the pussy an instant to enjoy it. Not Matt. He thrust forward in a frenzy of blurred hammer blows. Battering the receptacle under him. Fighting and panting to lose his load into the churning vortex.

He rolled off as soon as he squirted. He was grinning again, regarding Beth without expression. “G'head, Doug. Throw her a fuck. Let's see ya screw her. Otherwise, she'll be finger-fuckin' herself till tomorra.”

Beth thrashed on the grass, moaning. She was jacking herself as Matt had predicted. Between her fingers, rivulets of goo oozed out. Her come intermingled with Matt's.

I poked her. I didn't try to imitate Matt. Instead, I gave her a slow ride. Corkscrewing gently against the walls of her twat. Beth responded by climaxing one time after another. I stuffed her, pulled out most of the way. Then when I zoomed in for my last lunge, I poured out cream to soothe her burning cavern.

I was still in her, soaking my labe in her pungent juices, when the blonde started screaming. Not fuck me screaming-maternal, female screaming. The outraged mother. Matt had dragged little Debbie into the clearing. He was getting the kid to lick his cock.

“Make the toy all nice an' shiny,” he coaxed her.

“You leave her alone, you bastard!”

“She's just lickin' off your fuckin' whore juice,” Matt answered, calmly. “After she does me, she c'n start on Doug. How about that, boy! How about that!” He threw back his head, laughing. Beth took advantage of the diversion to grab her daughter and scurry toward the cabin.

“Isn't that kinda rough,” I said, not minding my own fucking business, as usual. “I mean, making the kid suck in front of her own mother.”

“Lickin' ain't suckin',” Matt mumbled. “Beth don't care a fuck about Debbie. She's jealous. She's jealous if anyone gets my prick. She'd be jealous if I gave it to her friggin' gran'ma.” The bearded man yawned. “Hey! I think I will take a swim after all.”

He took off his shoes and socks and dove into the water. I joined him. The water turned out to be unexpectedly icy, and Matt turned out to be a surprisingly expert swimmer. The narrow river didn't afford him much scope, but his strokes were incisive and graceful. Fast fuckers often make champion swimmers, just as divers are always blue-ribbon cunt lappers. Matt dove under, floated, came up grinning, shaking water out of his beard and his bush.

“How old are you, Matt?”

“Twen'y-three.”

Nearly two years my senior. I was afraid he might be even older. The younger the better-for my plans. In the saddle only young studs show real stamina.

Following the same train of thought, I blurted out another question. “How many times can you shoot, Matt?”

I couldn't blame him for looking at me equivocally. Such unkosher queries. Show me your ramrod-how many times can you come, kid? But I had to know. He had unloaded last night, and started snoring two minutes later. That wasn't promising. I had to know.

“You ask funny questions for a guy who don't suck cock,” Matt observed, judiciously. “There's a good reason.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like to put that whang to work for you. To fuck juicy cunts, two at a time, five at a time. An' get paid for it. Not fucked up blondes smelling of bacon grease. Society girls in ermine with pampered pussies no guy's ever been in before. Like to make 'em go down on it-anyone with a good set of gums and a bank account.”

“Y-you c'n get me all that, Doug.”

It wasn't even a question. The hicksville Hercules trusted me, believed in me. It was the ace card in my plan. That and his giant boffer.

Juicy cunts to fuck-blow jobs-guys to whip. The triple promise dazzled Matt and stiffened his fibers. The fibers of his fucker. It stood erect again, and Matt was jerking it.

A third question. An unnecessary one because I had eyes to estimate. “How many inches have you got, Matt?”

“Idunno.”

At least a dozen inches, at least a foot. More maybe. I grasped the thick raging poker, sorta measuring. Matt rubbed my hanging labe between hairy fingers.

“Let's pull each other off.”

He sounded like a fucking Boy Scout. I hate that pre-teen shit. I twisted out of the way, loosening my hold as Matt dropped my dick. His stiff whammer bobbed up and down as if it were jerking itself off.

I couldn't help it, I had to ask him. “Can you really get anyone to suck you off? A mouth isn't elastic like a cunt. Can you really get that schlang down a girl's throat?”

Matt flashed me a look of contempt. He flicked his fingers over his hard-on. I fell to my knees. My tongue darted out to touch the rubbery, smooth flesh of his bursting buzzer.

“Kiss it,” Matt pleaded. “I'm gonna come in a minute.”

I held his prong tightly, above the crown. The head was aimed flush at my lips. The pisshole fluttered open. A pearly drop of cream had already formed there. It kept fluttering open, like the jaws of a flounder. Like a whale. I knew I couldn't take it. I was holding a dick about to spurt; it would be an act of mercy to suck it, to put him out of his misery. But I knew I couldn't take it. Instead, I licked at the side of his prick, just as he started to unleash a torrent of gism.

Staring at the milky puddle on the grass, Matt shook another drop out of his reddened rod. “See,” he said without rancor, “I c'n shoot again pretty fast.”

That was no locker room exaggeration. If my plans depended only on Matt, I had nothing to worry about.

We put our shorts on.

“Matt, would you drive me to town later?”

“Sure.”

Great! We headed back toward the cabin. Buddies. I'd licked his labe, but I hadn't really gone down on it. We weren't lovers or any of that crap. I still had essential details to work out. Matt didn't realize it yet, but we were partners.

III

Prescott was the model of a Midwestern metropolis. Shady, tree-lined streets, no pressing traffic problem. Busy downtown area where you could buy a tie made in Paris or a tractor made in Michigan. Bars, theaters, restaurants-two of each. Skyscrapers. The Town Hall and County Courthouse, the 6-story Iowan Hotel with its motel annex; the red brick Prescott Office Building. All in all, a bustling heart-of-the-farmland community. To an Easterner's eyes, of course, a shithouse.

Matt parked the jalopy a block away from the hotel. I picked up my battered duffel bag.

“This is where I leave you, Matt. Don't forget to pick me up tomorrow morning. This corner.” Hand on the wheel, Matt nodded. “And Matt, go easy on Debbie, huh?”

He scratched his nuts elaborately, not deigning to answer. Then he was off in a cloud of Iowa gravel. I was on my own again. Sixteen bucks in my pocket, a cock under my Jockeys, and a plan in my head.

I swaggered into the Iowan.

The decor was tasty. Clean, muted colors; new, comfortable furniture; lots of flowers. The desk clerk tried to look busy. A beautiful chick sat behind the cashier's cage. So far, so good-except that I didn't see the one person I wanted.

I ambled up to the cashier's window.

“I'd like a single for tonight, honey.”

Silver-blonde hair, uptilted nose, black eyes carefully disinterested. She spoke coolly. “The desk clerk will be happy to register you.”

Yeah. I knew that. But she was prettier. Because she didn't say, “Sir,” I neglected to tell her that. I just nodded, with a perfunctory, “Thank you, ma'am.” You're gonna call me Sir, baby, I promised myself. Wait'll you have a good prick in you. Those cool black eyes are gonna glitter. Maybe. Right now I have more important things to do.

The desk clerk twirled his card file. “Yes, sir. We have a very nice room on the fifth floor. That's twelve-fifty. Will that do, sir?”

Sure. What's twelve-fifty out of a sixteen-buck bankroll!

I murmured, “Yes,” and held my breath for thirty seconds. The clerk scrawled notations on a fresh card. I added my name and the address of a cathouse in Jersey.

“Luggage?”

I pointed casually to my duffel bag.

The desk clerk sniffed. Then he rang a little bell. Tinkling music. The sound I was waiting for.

The bell, naturally, was used to summon a bellboy. What did you think I was waiting for, so expectantly? The fucking sunrise?

The bell had to be jangled again before the bellboy materialized. A pimply boy about 17. I could have hugged him. And don't get any ideas.

We went up on the self-service elevator. Room 56 was as neat and tasteful as the lobby. The bellboy put my bag on the luggage rack, adjusted the blinds, flicked on the light in the crapper. He didn't put his hand out. This was Iowa, not New York or Frisco.

“What's your name, son?” I asked, jingling tomorrow's breakfast money in my pocket.

“Ernie, sir.”

“I'm from New York, Ernie. Get many visitors from New York?”

“Oh, yes, sir. We get 'em from all over. Prescott's only seventy-six miles from Des Moines.”

Golly! I couldn't waste too much of Ernie's time. He might be needed downstairs to polish the cuspidors. Without preamble, I got to the nitty-gritty.

“Where does a stranger go for a piece of ass in Prescott?”

Ernie blushed redder than Matt's tomato plants.

“I d-don't know, sir.”

“Don't tell me you bellboys can't fix a guy up?”

This was one bellboy who couldn't.

“Gee, I didn't mean to embarrass you, Ernie. Travelers get horny-it's part of the rigors of travel. I mean both sexes. Didn't you ever get any propositions, kid?”

He blushed redder, shaking his pimply head like a pendulum. This rustic probably got 'em, but he wouldn't know a proposition from a corn stalk. Couldn't be better.

One further question and I sent the boy back to his duties. “How many other bellboys in this fleab-establishment?”

Ernie's blushes subsided. “I'm the only one, sir. There's no night man. Ol' Ted-he does odd jobs-Ted helps folks with luggage if necessary.”

Perfect!

Gravely, I handed Ernie one-seventh of my dwindling fortune. He pocketed the four bits, murmuring, “I hope you'll enjoy your stay, sir.”

“Thanks. Uh-last time I was here, years ago, Miss Peterson was the cashier. Know what happened to her?”

“No, sir. Miss Grant's been the cashier since I started working.”

“Dorothy Grant?”

“No, sir. Her name is Carla.”

The silvery blonde was Carla. Carla Grant. We have a date, you and me, Carla. I hafta do something about those eyes. Make em glitter. When I get around to it. Business first.

My preliminary business had been accomplished within three minutes of registering. I'd found out there were plenty of transients at the Iowan. Plenty of potential customers. And only one bellhop. Tomorrow or the day after, there'd be a new one. Doug Trent, at your service, sir or madam.

I spent the evening casing the joint, checking up on arrivals as if I held stock in the corporation. Business was fair at the Iowan. Four guests checked in while I sat in the lobby between 7:00 and 9:00 that evening. Plus motel arrivals.

Later I wasted another half hour roaming the corridor. There was one possibility. A middle-aged snatch who glanced at me three times between inserting her key in the door and opening it. Cordial glances. I could have started a beautiful friendship, but decided to wait until I had status. Until I was employed by the hotel.

On a limited budget, night life in Prescott was limited. Out of one bar, into another. Beer chased down by more beer. I don't object to listening to a bartender's troubles. But when troubles revolve around the price of corn, brother!

Back to the hotel. The lobby was shut up for the night, the clerk was dozing in a wing chair. Twelve-fifty rooms didn't run to air conditioning. I peeled down fast and stood under a cool shower. When I came out, the air in the room felt stifling. That fucking Ernie hadn't opened the window before adjusting the blinds. I flung open the window. A sultry breeze blew in. The view was sultrier.

A kindly architect had designed the Iowan roughly el-shaped. Standing at my window, I could see clearly into the room at the tail end of the el's downstroke. I guess that room wasn't air conditioned either. A guy stood at the window, like me, only he had his shorts on. Just in time, before I turned aside, he moved back. He was an ugly son-of-a-bitch, a shrimp with carroty red hair. But he had something I didn't have-company.

A girl was lounging on a chair about a yard or so away from the window: a redhead. I could see through the open slats of the Venetians. Wavy auburn hair falling in sleek folds to her shoulders. My view was foreshortened, but I could guess what she was doing: rolling down her nylons.

Abruptly she got to her feet. I could see clearly at crotch level, and her crotch was covered by a silk slip. There were hands on the slip. His and hers. Hey! How many hands do you need to take a slip off? Four. Four did it. I saw pink panties and wicked white thighs.

Then my view was obstructed. Fucking shrimp again. Standing at the window to pull down his Jockeys. What was he, anyway? One of those goddamned exhibitionists you hear about? Bare ass, he plunked himself down in the chair. Where was the girl? Dancing for him in the far corner of the room? Washing her twat in the crapper? No, she was back in my line of vision. Shrimp was drawing her to him. On his lap. Not on his lap, across his lap.

Standing on tiptoe, peering down, I could see the part of her body that wasn't stretched across the shrimp's lap, brushing against his naked cock. Her head hung down, the auburn hair like a concealing curtain. Her hair didn't hide her tits, however. If she had worn a bra, she'd discarded it. Her knockers were nude, nipples pointing downward. Two fine, fat tits hanging untended. The shrimp's energies were expended elsewhere.

I could see the seat of the chair perfectly. Now I could see her seat. The shrimp had stripped off her panties, revealing her lush, rounded bottom. That guy had no appreciation for a juicy, female posterior. Instead of tonguing it or fucking it, he was giving it a rhythmic whacking. She must have been a very naughty girl.

My eyes swiveled from her ass to her tits as he spanked her. A guy can get cross-eyed that way. Tits can bounce clear off a girl's chest that way. With each blow on her rump, her boobies bounced upward and downward. I couldn't see her lips, but her titties were talking. You could hear them say, 'More, please,” as they bounced upward.

He kept whamming her steadily. I could hear the slap of his palm-or maybe that was the slap of my own fingers on my whang. I could hear the redhead climaxing. That must have been pure imagination. The night air was quiet, ominously silent.

In the silence, the girl suddenly slipped off her boy friend's lap. End of Act One. Act Two commenced without intermission. She was on her knees, back to me. She was pulling on the shrimp's buzzer, drawing it to her. So she could suck it. It had to be that-so she could suck it. If you don't screw them instantly after you spank them, girls insist on going down on you. As, no doubt, you know.

I ached to give the redhead my joint to chew on. If she'd only turn so I could see better. I was rubbing away furiously, but an unobstructed view of her mouth would give my hand fresh impetus. Just as I silently pleaded for more cooperation, Shrimpo cooperated. Pressing forward to give her another inch, his body curved slightly and the cocksucking lady curved along with it. Now I could see his prick pumping in and out in fuck tempo. I could see her eyes shining with lust, her lips sucking in the flesh of the peter.

She was a lovely cocksucker. He didn't have to force her head down when he unloaded. She kept nibbling, swallowing automatically, bravely smiling. I applauded by offering a liquid tribute. My gism didn't fly across the courtyard to tickle her tonsils. It's that fucking law of gravity. My gism descended. Down to fertilize the wisteria. Wisteria require fertilization. I didn't just jack off, I did my bit for fucking Mother Nature.

IV

I should have told Matt to meet me at night. When he picked me up in the morning, I had only three things to tell him. “Gimme a loan. Come back tonight. Warn Beth to expect company-with pimples.”

Matt was a real buddy. Unflinching, he forked over two creased ten spots. I don't think there was much more where that came from. “I'll meet you here at eight, okay?” He added one last wistful query. “Beth's company-think I c'n BEAT 'im, Doug?”

Sure he could beat him. No contest. But I'd hate to see a clean-living kid like Ernie under the lash, getting soaked with Matt's spilled gism.

I loafed around town, ogling the hotel cashier at odd moments. Waiting for night time. Actually, I was waiting for the end of Ernie's tour of duty.

At six o'clock promptly, my prey left the hotel, dressed in street clothes. Ernie thought his day's work had ended. Unaware that his frigging career as bellhop had evaporated. Exit Ernie Pimples. Enter Handsome Doug Trent, at your service.

“Hey, Ernie!”

He recognized me. The free-spoken hotel guest. A tentative blush suffused his features.

“Gee, you sure steered me wrong, kid. I sorta got the impression there was nothing doing in Prescott. An' right away who did I meet but the sweetest cunt in the country!”

My arms described unlikely curves. Ernie got the picture.

“Beth's one girl who needs steady screwing. I don't know what she's gonna do when I leave here. Shame to think of that gorgeous pussy going to waste.”

Ernie summoned up his pimply courage. “I'd sure like to meet her!”

“Gee, I don't know, kid. Ever fuck pussy?”

I read his negative in the dejected slant of his head. Ernie looked up suddenly, “Never have. But a guy's gotta start some time.”

“Hmmm. Howdja like to start tonight? Can you get away?”

“Sure, mister. I live with my uncle. I can get away any time. Will she really let me-?”

“She'll let you.” I arranged to meet Ernie at eight, on the corner where Matt would pick me up.

Two hours to kill. I stepped in to tell the desk clerk I'd be staying another day. The cashier's cage was deserted, but Carla Grant walked through the lobby toward the exit. She must have just come out of the powder room. Her red lips had that fresh lipstick gleam. Her nylons had the precise fit of the well-adjusted garter belt. Her mini showed plenty of nylons. Her silver-blonde hair sparkled like sunlight on water. Her eyes remained frosty.

“Excuse me, Miss Grant. Can you recommend a place to dine?”

She looked me over from hairline to the tips of my loafers. Had she paused briefly to inspect my mid-section? I couldn't be positive. Carla spoke sweetly. “I would suggest the cafeteria at the Salvation Army.”

Is that a way to speak to a hotel guest? You'll be sorry, Miss Grant. When I set you on fire and withhold the extinguisher, you'll be fucking sorry. I lifted an imaginary hat and bowed as she swished past me.

I had time for a short chat with Ernie before Matt drove up. The kid had dressed for a social engagement, razor-sharp slacks, white shirt, tie and jacket. Christ! The day I lost my cherry I wore a lousy pair of jersey bathing trunks-around my ankles. But then, of course, Ernie had never prowled under the boardwalk at Coney Island.

Now that his big moment was approaching, the kid got slightly skittish. “I-is she young?” he had the goddamned crust to ask me. Christ! The first time I ever nudged nookie, I didn't ask if she was over-age, sober, or even if she was conscious!

Maybe at seventeen Ernie would find the blonde nympho too old for him. But then there was always Debbie. Or in a pinch, Matt Hammond.

My bearded buddy didn't seem too enthusiastic as we drove toward the cabin. He peered at Ernie doubtfully.

“You ever lay a broad, kid?”

Obviously cowed by the giant's sheer bulk, Ernie stammered, “N- n-not exactly. Jeannie let me see it.”

“Who's Jeannie?”

“A girl who lives in my neighborhood. We went to her basement last winter, the day of the big storm just before Christmas.”

“An' she gave you a present?”

Somewhat emboldened, Ernie recounted the thrilling details of his one boy-girl encounter. The usual one thing led to the usual other. “It was kind dark in the basement. When Jeannie let me pull her panties down, there was just enough light to see her. She has such a pretty pussy. It's all furry down there, but the slit sorta winked at me.”

Optical illusions didn't interest Matt. “Didja fuck 'er?”

“She wouldn't lemme,” Ernie admitted. “She's saving it up till she's engaged.”

“Why the fuck didn'cha get engaged to the muff?”

“Jeannie's only fourteen,” Ernie declared, virtuously.

Matt smacked his lips; and we damn near skidded off the road as he took his hand off the wheel to apply it to his fly. “Fourteen! I'd give my left ball to be in a basement with fourteen-year-old quim! An' what did you do? Say, 'Thanks for letting me look?'”

“I went all the way-almost. I put my lips to it. I stuck my finger in. Gee! Up to the knuckles! I rested my cock right up against it.”

“An' then?”

“An' then I got my rocks off. I couldn't help it,” Ernie sounded apologetic. “I came.”

“Fa Chrissake!” Matt had been jerking his pole, half in and half out of his fly. He was about to stow it away in disgust when he asked hopefully, “Did she have a good pair of knockers? Big tits?”

Ernie reverted to stammering. “I d-didn't get to s-see them. Jeannie k-kept her b-blouse on.”

Matt drove in injured silence.

Beth awaited her “company” outside the cabin. She'd put on a fresh dress; her hair was neatly combed. I tried to see her through young Ernie's eyes. A pretty blonde lady who was going to raise her skirt, spread her legs, and allow him to do what he wanted to do since his balls started to hang right. A very kind, willing lady. Ernie must have been feeling good. I know I developed a bone.

If the boy was tongue-tied, the lady didn't provide much conversation either. Smiling nervously, she carried the sleeping Debbie out to Matt's car. That would give us more scope in the bedroom quarters.

Matt produced a bottle of cheap liquor. Ernie gulped his, choked, sputtered, and valiantly tried another gulp. While we drank, Beth entered the cabin and slipped through the partition to the bedroom.

Matt pushed the kid toward the curtain. “G'head, never keep a lady waitin'.”

“Whaddo I do?” Ernie sounded younger than Debbie.

The bearded man grinned. “Get your rocks off. Fuck 'er dizzy. If ya have any doubts, ask the lady.”

Ernie disappeared behind the partition. Matt hoisted himself up on one of the rough kitchen chairs. He dropped his pants, kicked them aside, and pulled his cock out of his Jockeys.

Ernie stuck his head through the opening of the partition. He seemed to be fully dressed except for his jacket.

“Excuse me. One of you guys got a rubber?” As he enunciated the second “b” in “rubber", Ernie spied the imposing owner of the cabin. His quest for a condom forgotten, Ernie scurried back behind the partition.

“What are they doing?” I asked Matt, in the balcony.

“Beth's peeling her dress off. He's looking. Must be somethin' wrong with 'im. He's just looking. She's holding her tits out. He's givin' them a feel. He's suckin' her boobies. Jeez! Look at her legs go! She wants prick in there. Why the fuck don't he fuck her?”

His massive erection wagging before him, Matt charged into the bedroom. I followed. Ernie looked up, startled, like a guy caught raping his mother. Christ!

Nude, legs churning, Beth screamed, “Fuck me! For God's sake, fuck me!”

“When ya see a cunt creaming, give it to 'em,” he cautioned the bellhop. “If ya don't fuck 'em, their boobs'll bite ya back, some day!”

Matt pushed his poker deep into the honeypot, screwing the blonde in a fast flurry of lunges. He enjoyed having an audience. He grinned up at Ernie. “Give 'em a nice slow ride. Beth's yellin' her fuckin' head off to show how she likes it. Aincha, cunt!” He pressed into the balls, lifting her up, molding her body to fit his rampaging prick.

Ernie wasn't listening. He was watching the rigid foot of flesh sink into the overheated cleft, emerge shiny and slimy, submerge again. Without a trace of self-consciousness, bemused, he exposed his own hard-on and started to beat it. He towered over the rutting couple, groaning louder than Matt.

Gee, that brought back my childhood. First time I saw a man and woman in action, I jerked off too. I didn't have a ringside seat like Ernie; I had to watch from the doorway. And all through the performance I was worried. Ma looked so funny. I thought dad was hurting her. That didn't stop me from making a sticky mess on the floor outside their bedroom. I came too suddenly to catch my goo in a handkerchief.

Ernie didn't use his handkerchief. He sprayed hot boy cream haphazardly over the rutting bodies.

“You son of a bitch!” Matt thundered. His beefy thigh was splattered with Ernie's effusion. “You son of a bitch!” He vented his anger on the brimming box under him. It doesn't pay to show anger in the saddle. The angrier you are, the quicker you'll be dismounting. Within ten seconds, Matt was giving Beth up the snatch what Ernie had given him on the thigh. Only more so.

Two down and I was ready to go. I didn't insult the kid by giving a blow-by-blow demonstration. I merely warned him, “If you feel you're gonna come, please direct your stream elsewhere.”

Simultaneously, Beth and Ernie ordered, “Shut up and start screwing!”

The blonde's cunt was richly cream-lubricated. I sank in up to the pelvis and began banging. Beth had reached the point where a pinkie tautly extended would set off the fireworks. She gushed like a faucet. My cock came out lacy-white with her love froth.

Ernie wasn't as dumb as he looked. He knew-or maybe Matt told him-that an embrace is better without hampering layers of clothing. The boy had stripped naked. Without a glance at his well-wishers, he blotted his hot body against the blonde's battered flesh. Reverently, he fingered her furry gash, probing between the lips. By hook or crook or sheer cussedness, he located Beth's clit and refused to let go of it. He seemed fascinated by the way the little soldier stiffened. His pinching drove Beth to a frenzy. Panting between clitoral spasms, she whispered, “I can't take more of that. Fuck me, you bastard!”

The track may have been slippery. Ernie's dong slid into it. His body twisted-he nearly fell out-he pressed forward. Beth scissored her legs around him for anchorage. Their bellies plopped together with a wet, smacking sound. He boffed her.

With a good fuck under his belt, Ernie strode about cockily. “Any more cunts need a treatment?” he asked, trying to leer like a cad. Luckily, Debbie was safely tucked away on the back seat of the jalopy.

I put my clothes on. Ernie wouldn't miss me. He was boyishly jabbing his prong between Beth's tits, revolving the boobs counterclockwise. That could keep a kid quiet for hours.

I drew Matt aside the kitchen quarters. “Gimmee the car keys, Matt, I'll be going.” The bearded man wistfully contemplated the belt on his discarded chinos.

“C'n I wham him a few times, Doug? I won't hurt 'im.”

“Sure. Beat the ass off him. Feed him plenty of booze. Let him fuck till he's dry, even if you hafta go down on him. Anything-as long as he stays till tomorrow night. I'll bring the car back as early as I can.”

Matt tossed me the car keys. “I dunno what you're doin', but good luck, kid.”

I jumped in the car before I remembered the little girl on the back seat. My plans didn't include five year old charmers-yet. I carried her back to the cabin.

No one was aware of my entrance. Ernie and Beth were doing what they liked best. Matt stood over them, belt in hand. They looked set for twenty-four hours.

I sped back toward Prescott.

V

In the morning, presumably, Ernie was still in the cabin licking his wounds, or perhaps licking Beth Coogan. That might be okay for Master Ernie, but it was bad for the Iowan Hotel. No bellhop.

With a crisp “Good morning” flung toward the cashier's desk, I presented myself before the desk clerk-manager.

“I have a message from Ernie.”

It took the bastard just five seconds to read the scrawled sheet of ruled paper. Plus another three seconds to give vent to a suspicious, “Hmmmph!” Motherfucker! I'd sweated over that forgery for at least an hour.

Dear Sir:

I'm sick and can't come to work this week. Mr. Trent has lots of hotel experience and he is willing to take over for me. Please give him a chance.

Please hold my job open. I need the money to support my mother.

Yours truly, Ernest Jenkins.

“Strange, most strange,” the manager commented. Strange? The grammar? What did the prick expect from a bellboy?

It wasn't the grammar. “Most strange,” the old fart repeated. “Ernie Jenkins is an orphan. However! If Jenkins is incapacitated, we'll be needing a new bellboy.”

Admiring his choice of words, I glanced at my watch. Yes, young Jenkins should be goddamned incapacitated by now.

“It's quite unusual to hire a guest, s-” He hesitated over the “sir", and changed it to “Trent", I explained that I was no longer a guest. His manner altered as managers' manners always alter. “In that case, Trent, it's after nine. You should be wearing your uniform if you're on duty.” He turned toward the cashier's desk. “Miss Grant, please take Trent to the basement. He'll be working in Jenkins' place for a day or so.”

“Yes, Mr. Norvin.”

Carla led me down uncarpeted stairs to the basement.

“This is Ernie's locker; I guess you'll be using it.” She produced a brass key from a jangling key-ring.

“You're very efficient, Miss Grant.”

Her black eyes had no expression. Or was she smiling under those silky lashes? “I hope you're efficient, too. Those cuspidors are to be polished. Then, you'll get the stains out of this throw rug. When you hear the bell, of course, you run up to the lobby. That'll be Mr. Norvin summoning you. I take it you know how to handle an arriving guest.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“That's all then.”

“Except-Mr. Norvin said something about a uniform.”

“Of course. You'll find Jenkins' uniform in his locker. It should fit you nicely.”

Was this frigid cunt implying that Pimples and I had the same build! I'd show her! I opened the locker, took out the buff-colored bellboy uniform. Paying no attention to the cashier, I unfastened my pants and dropped them. I'd show her! I glanced up, just in time to see Carla's retreating bottom, halfway up the stairs to the lobby.

As I expected, Ernie's uniform was a couple of sizes too small for me. Tight around the crotch. I took off the pants, then slipped off my underpants before putting on the uniform. Better. My equipment was fully outlined by the material. The uniform pants were like a showcase, and I was the merchandise. True, I intended to peddle Matt's prong to horny hotel guests. But in every business you need a lure, right?

Business was stinko that morning. I polished cuspidors. I rubbed stains out of the throw rug. Toward noon, I escorted a guest up to his room. A salesman. I lugged up three bulging suitcases. He flipped me a quarter.

After lunch, I had real luck. I hopped for a couple from Philly. Then anteed up thirty cents.

In the afternoon, I dozed over the cuspidors. Novin's belly woke me.

“Miss Barrow is in four-o-eight, boy.”

“Yes, sir. This way, Miss Barrow.”

Miss Barrow was a chick about 30 wearing a mannish suit and sun glasses. Mannish. She had dyke written all over her in Gothic letters. Gray eyes, tight lips, no nonsense. In the elevator, I considered. My plans could be flexible. In a pinch I could peddle Beth Coogan.

The pinch never materialized.

In Room 408 I did the bellboy pitch. Luggage on luggage rack, blinds up and down, light on in the bathroom. Miss Barrow fished in her bag for a pourboire. That took a lot of fishing, because she wasn't looking at her bag. She was staring at my bag-I mean, my basket.

If every mannish suit meant Lez, tailors would go out of business, I realized, belatedly.

“I hope you'll enjoy your stay in Prescott,” I said, in my most ingratiating he-man voice.

Conversation was a mistake. Miss Barrow's eyes veered up from my crotch. “I didn't come here for pleasure,” she stated, crisply. “I have certain business to accomplish.”

Yeah? Well, I had certain business to accomplish, too. There was no reason why it couldn't be mingled with pleasure.

“Please excuse me, Miss Barrow. Would you mind very much if I use the bathroom? I gotta go bad.”

Without waiting for an answer, I sauntered into the crapper. Leaving the door open, I pissed into the bowl. Making as much noise as possible. She didn't come in to see how I was doing. Should I walk out bare ass? Or would that be too blatant? I covered up and stepped back into the bedroom.

Miss Barrow had exchanged her sun glasses for a pair of specs. Big gray eyes blinked behind them. “You have a spot on your trousers,” she observed.

There was a round, wet spot front and center. “I musta pi-uh-got water on 'em. Gee, the boys are gonna kid the life outta me if they see that. If I could only slip 'em off for a minute till the spot dries.”

She seemed to turn paler, then her skin flushed. The rosy touch of color on her cheeks was becoming. She looked suddenly younger. But she sounded older. Like a spinster schoolmarm directing one of her charges. “Go back in the bathroom. I'm sure the spot will dry quickly. I wouldn't want anyone to poke fun at you.” Sarcastic.

I stomped back to the crapper, peeled the pissy pants off, and draped a towel around my middle. When did that cunt last see a stud with his pants down?

“Thank you, ma'am. Sorry to be a nuisance. Please excuse my appearance.” I hitched up the towel slightly. “See, I'm not wearing underpants. I-”

Miss Barrow said nothing. She didn't seem to be listening. She wasn't even looking. I stumbled a step toward her and deliberately dropped the frigging towel. My prick didn't hang bashfully. It zoomed out to meet her. Erect, rigid, demanding. Because I knew I was going to fuck her.

The gray eyes should have been burning with spinster desire. They were icy and businesslike, as if they echoed the words her lips formed. “How much?”

I repeated the words, feeling like an idiot. An idiot with a hard-on.

“I asked, 'How much?' Isn't that the proper question? You're a hustler, aren't you?”

I preferred to think of myself as a middleman. Since it was my middle I was peddling however, the little lady with her hair in a bun was correct, technically. I would have given it to her for free, but I didn't like her attitude.

“Twenty bucks. It's worth it.”

“Spare me the sales talk,” she said. “You'd better take your clothes off.”

Now she stalked off to the bathroom. And came back bone naked. Beautiful. Her tits were kinda small, like a teen-ager's, very pale with wide, rosy aureoles. Flaring hips. Pencil-slim legs and juicy thighs with a rich nut-brown rug at the apex.

She inspected me as if she were searching for dirt at my ankles.

“Do you have a rubber?”

“No, ma'am; I have a 9-inch prick.”

“You'd better wash it,” she suggested, levelly. “Wash it?”

“Wash your penis. Come on.”

She took me to the bathroom. The naughty schoolboy led to the bathroom. Miss Barrow soaked a washcloth in hot soapy water and applied it to my penis. I mean, my fucking hard-on.

It felt fine. Maybe she liked to jack guys off that way. But when you shell out twenty bucks, you may as well get a fucking. When you have tits soft to the touch and cute little triangle, you deserve a fucking. Miss Barrow couldn't seem to clean up my cock to her satisfaction. Two more minutes with that soapy washcloth and it would be cleaned out altogether.

“How about you and me taking a shower?”

I thought my suggestion was sheer inspiration. Miss Barrow, however, countered coldly, “No frills, please. I want a straight-job.”

Where the fuck did she think she was, the beauty parlor? No wonder she was a spinster, no wonder she had to pay for it. No imagination, no frills, no nuttin' except what she called a “straight job.” She wouldn't let me touch her more than was absolutely necessary. She wouldn't have opened her legs if that wasn't essential.

Yet she finally revealed a hot gash, as pretty as any I'd ever seen. Ruby lips fluttered to welcome the kiss of the battering ram, the kiss that would make this cold fish a woman. I longed to tell her, Look, ma'am, opening special! I'll eat you out. I'll screw your cunt down to wet washcloth consistency. On the house! Just smile once. Act feminine. Tell me you want it. Say, “Fuck me.”

I left that spiel unspoken because the lady shifted position slightly. My prick made contact with her pussy. From then on, words were superfluous.

Probably due to lack of experience, Miss Barrow was slow on her hip movements, quiet. I didn't really know how I was doing. My whang was doing okay, but about my gray-eyed client? I looked into her eyes instinctively on a forward thrust. They weren't gray any more-getting banged brought out glints of green. The pupils were wildly dilated. Hair flowing loose, eyes green, Miss Barrow looked different. I was giving her a treatment worth every cent of the money. Fucking transformed her; I made the transformation complete by punishing her twat with the full force of my whacker.

She responded, screaming, climaxing, moaning. I gushed out a liquid diploma. I felt protective toward her. The brand new Miss Barrow was my creation-created by prick power.

There was no brand new Miss Barrow. When I rolled off, she slipped on a sensible dressing gown. And looked at me without expression.

The explanation was simply. My treatment had only temporary effects; she needed more potent stimulation.

“Miss Barrow, I have a friend who-”

“No, thank you.” Icily.

I tried again. With my famous, boyish, Doug Trent smile.

“Miss Barrow-Gee, I can't call you Miss Barrow. May I call you-?”

“I don't give my name to hustlers.”

Fuck you, Miss Barrow! Since I'd already done just that, I retired to the bathroom to take a leak and contemplate my navel.

When I returned, the lady was on the telephone. The conversation consisted of a discussion of Iowa real estate. I put on my uniform. I couldn't ask for money. I said, “So long, Miss Barrow.” She merely made an impatient gesture and resumed the phone conversation.

In the corridor I reached for a cigarette, and pulled a bill out of my pocket. Miss Barrow must have put it there when I went to the crapper. As rapists have learned before me, I discovered that even eccentric spinsters can have their good points. The bill wasn't a twenty, it was a crisp, lovely fifty!

VI

Don't think because I was rich I quit my job at the Iowan. On the contrary. I surprised Norvin by my willingness to work overtime. Wasted effort. There were no new horny arrivals, but Norvin found two more cuspidors for me to polish.

I drove back to the cabin, entering with all sorts of premonitions, none of them cheerful. However, I was greeted with a scene of charming domesticity. Matt and Debbie were eating supper in the kitchen. In the bedroom quarters Ernie and Beth were eating each other. It was hardly necessary to ask if Matt had gotten his licks in. The welts on the bellboy's body shone in the light of the lantern.

Ernie showed no desire to leave the delights of the cabin. He just wanted to keep on chewing the lotus. A day of hard labor among the cuspidors and Miss Barrow had tired me. I fell asleep on a blanket under the stars outside the cabin. Matt drove me to work in the morning and promised to call for me. Know any other bellhop accorded chauffeur service?

That second day turned out to be a let-down, although there were possibilities. A cute little chick checked in all alone. All fluffy and bewildered by the sights and smells of the big city. All home-spun and fresh from the meadows. Dewy and sweet and ripe for plucking.

I made like a bellhop and then went into my Miss Barrow pitch. “Excuse me, ma'am. May I use the bathroom?”

The breathless young rustic was dialing a number. She said without looking up, “Sorry, I'll be using the bathroom. Don't they have facilities for the help here?”

I gnashed my teeth, clicked my heels, and retired. As I closed the door, I heard her speak into the telephone. “It's me. Vicky. I just got here. So, what time is the orgy?”

Bewildered by the big city, huh? I gave my teeth an extra gnash of frustration. Imagine-an orgy in Prescott, and I wasn't even invited!

For an hour or two I moped. But that same afternoon I struck pay dirt. He was the antithesis of the fluffy, orgy-oriented rustic. New York from his cuff links to his East Side haircut. The tired businessman who craves relaxation-the kind only a juicy cunt can give a guy.

“Any action around this shithouse?” he asked me.

Carefully, I set his suitcase on the luggage rack. I wasn't Ernie. I requested only that he state his preference in hair shades. Both could always be prevailed upon to dye it.

He preferred a blonde.

Mademoiselle Beth will take care of you, sir. Shall I make an appointment for this evening?”

“How much?”

“Twenty.”

He took this without flinching.

“Plus expenses,” I added.

“What expenses? I got my own rubber.”

“I'll have to drive you out to see the lady. Gas is expensive.”

“He grinned. “O.K. You'll get your cut.”

In this business, you gotta be businesslike. In my best head waiter tone, I asked, “And would you like to see a performance?”

“I do the performing,” he said, gruffly.

After work, I drove him out to the cabin. Matt got twenty bucks-I called it the return of his loan. I got a ten spot for gas, et cetera. Beth got a cock up her cunny.

With plenty of cash in my jeans, I thought about spending it for a noble purpose. To make Carla Grant.

When I saw her the next morning, I acted subdued, murmuring, half under my breath, a “Good morning” that didn't sound too chipper. She noticed. Reluctantly, she stared at me and asked, “Is anything wrong, Trent?”

“No, ma'am. I'm just sorta tired.” I yawned prodigiously. “Didn't get much sleep in the basement.”

“The basement-?”

After driving the New Yorker back to the hotel the night before, I'd been too fucking tired to make the return trip to the cabin. So I bedded down in the basement, amid soiled throw rugs and cuspidors. It was okay. For a guy accustomed to sleeping in barns, it was damn near luxurious. But Carla seemed astounded.

“Surely there's no need for you to sleep in the basement.”

I hung my head, staring hopelessly at her crotch. Hopelessly, because her mini and panties were opaque.

“I can't afford a room, ma'am. I'm busted.”

In spite of herself, Carla murmured, “You poor thing! I didn't realize.” She bit her lip. “There's no need to be uncomfortable. Why don't you use one of the empty rooms:

“Oh, I couldn't do that, Miss Grant. It would be dishonest. My conscience-”

“Nonsense. I'll worry about conscience. You come with me.”

She led me to an empty room on the third floor. Miss Carla Grant wasn't all that unapproachable. I wasn't too gentlemanly. I let Carla insert the key in the lock, squeezing in a tit grope as she did so.

“You can use this room tonight.”

“I'm gonna use it right now. That bed looks too good to waste.” I opened my belt, dropped my uniform pants. “Pardon my informality, Miss G.”

She didn't have to pardon it. She didn't see it. I was alone in the room. Carla could retreat like an Austrian general at pivotal, pants-off moments.

As I stood, undecided and pantsless, the door opened.

“Excuse me, I didn't know this room was occupied! Oh, it's you, Mr. Trent.”

The intruder was Tessie, half of the Iowan's two-woman housekeeping staff. The prettier half. Soft brown eyes, soft brown skin, and curves distending her white chambermaid wrap-around. I hadn't seen much of Tessie, but she seemed like a good egg.

“Don't mind me, Tessie. I was just changing my uniform.”

“That's all right,” she drawled. “I've seen naked men before.” Tessie stared at me critically. “Don't you wear underpants, Mr. Trent?”

“No room. Pants are too tight, an' when you have a big cock like mine…”

“That worm?” Tessie giggled.

My prong stood up to see what was so funny.

“Call this a worm?” I pressed my fingers on the tender skin under the head to make it blood-red and angry. A weapon. Tessie stopped giggling. “Want it?”

“Wouldn't mind,” Tessie said, frankly. “But don't get all happy. I got the rag on.”

“Then suck it!”

Tessie shook her head. “I don' eat 'less I'm eaten. An' you don' wanna chew on a mess o' Kotex.”

“Pull me off, Tessie.”

“Sure you wanna come off that way? Big boy like you?”

Her cool brown fingers touched my erection, and the big boy got bigger.

“Wait a second, Tess.” In the bathroom, I let the water run in the sink, soaped up a fresh washcloth. “Use this.”

“Somethin' new?” Tess flicked the cloth over my whang.

At first she seemed inclined to giggle. Then she jerked me in earnest. Energetic strokes. Her fingers-the soapy cloth-fingers.

“Seems a shame, a good load down the drain. I'm gonna shoot in a minute, Tess.”

“You win, you bastard! Not bothering to rinse the soap off, Tess knelt and popped my tool into her mouth. The warmth of her throat drew my juice out. No time to pump in her. I unloaded.

“Thanks, Tess.”

“Don't thank me. I liked it. I always liked a salty white load. Now,” she added, matter of factly, “if you can get your pants on, I have a room to clean.”

A girl who swallows gism so nicely deserves something. I offered her a ten spot. “Here, Tess, buy yourself some nylons.”

She looked at me with hauteur reminiscent of Carla. “I don' take money, Mr. Trent.”

“Sorry.” I felt like a bastard. Under the circumstances, I felt like a double bastard.

Later I stepped up to the cashier's cage.

“I made good tips today, Miss Grant. Wou-Would you join me for a simple meal tonight? Maybe a hamburger. In the Salvation Army cafeteria, of course.”

Miss Grant giggled. Black chambermaid or white cashier, a giggle is a giggle. Her defenses were shattered. She looked human. But instantly she sounded like Miss Grant. “Sorry, I have an engagement.”

“If we change that for a charcoal-broiled steak and-”

“I have an engagement,” Carla repeated, in an icy tone of dismissal.

Undaunted, I murmured, “Gee, I'll be all alone in three-fourteen, tonight, thanks to you. All alone.”

She ignored that. Or did her eyelids flicker?

I grabbed a hamburger with greasy French-fried trimmings in the diner down the block. Then I hurried back to my room for the night.

All alone in 314. I wouldn't be alone long, I was sure of it. I even went so far as to splurge on a bottle of rye. Say she did have an engagement, a dinner date. By 9:00 or so, she should be able to break away. I took a quick shower, avoiding soapy washcloths. Only 8:30. I started on the rye.

It's very impolite to greet a girl bare ass-the first time. I put on a pair of Jockey shorts, that I didn't wear under my uniform pants. They felt kinda tight. Naturally. I had a hard-on.

“I-”

She'd come in timidly.

Hope I'm not disturbing you, Mr. Trent. I just wanted to make sure that everything was all right.

Everything's fine, thank you. Except-

Except what? She'd be quick on the uptake.

Except these shorts. They bother me. See, I happen to have this hard-on that won't go down.

Don't mind me. I've seen naked men before. That sounded familiar. I'd roll down my Jockeys. My bone would zoom out with a pop that also sounded familiar.

Sorry you have the rag on, Miss Grant. An' I wouldn't wanna chew on Kotex. So would you pull me off, please?

Who said I have the rag on! she'd protest, indignantly. I want it. I want that-that worm in me. In my cunt!

In your cunt? The rye blurred my speech, but I managed to blurt it out clearly.

In my cunt, Mr. Trent. It sounded better coming from Carla. Didn't you think I had a cunt? Wouldn't you like to see it?

I'd see it. She wouldn't let me touch her until she'd stripped naked. Then she'd reveal her innermost treasures. On my bed. Naked. Legs spread. The red lips of her twat yearning for the touch of my whacker. I'd grow two extra inches in her honor. I'd fuck her till she climaxed over the mattress, on the floor, on the ceiling. My balls would work overtime, producing endless gism for me to spill into her. I'd stop screwing her only to look into her eyes to see them glitter, to see the lust I had created.

I couldn't look into her eyes. A curtain of rye blotted them out of my memory.

I woke up at 4:00 in the morning. Sweating. All alone in 314. Miss Grant hadn't come.

I hadn't come either.

VII

It was a good thing I'd had a quiet night, because the morning was far from restful. Before lunch time we rented the Crystal Suite. At $47.50 a night, that was quite a coup for the Iowan. And a windfall for Doug Trent, Matt, Beth, and Co.

At first it seemed more like a pain in the ass than a windfall.

Our new guests signed in as Mr. and Mrs. Jonathon K. Rawlings, of Baltimore. Between the “M” of “Mr.” and the “s” of “Rawlings,” they grumbled six distinct times, separately and in unison. Their car had broken down-the hotel looked so gloomy-Prescott looked so dowdy-Mrs. Rawlings' furs felt oppressive-Mr. Rawlings' breakfast hadn't agreed with him.

Despite all the grumbling, they made an attractive couple. Rawlings was tall and trim, the distinguished tycoon type, about 30. His wife appeared to be several years younger. Having discarded her oppressive furs, she was a disturbing study in black and white. White linen sheath, black accessories, jet hair, very fair skin, heavily made up. The crimson slash of her mouth provided a touch of color. It was something to get disturbed about. I bet her lipstick tasted cool and pleasantly unwholesome.

In the elevator, Mr. Rawlings advised me, “Never go on business trips, son. One goddamned bore from Maryland to Kansas.”

Mrs. R. pursed her lips and murmured, “We're in Iowa.”

Her husband merely snorted, “Iowa,” as lesser mortals would intone Iowa-Schmiowa. Then we were on the sixth floor, and I conducted them to the Crystal Suite.

More grumbling, and a furtive look around for crystal-of which I couldn't see any either. I got them set. Mr. R. fished in his pocket. Mrs. R. disappeared into the bedroom.

“If there's anything else, please ring, sir.”

“Yeah, I'll do that.” Mr. R. produced a moderate bankroll and peeled off a fiver, which is pretty good peelings from a comparatively thin wad. “Doesn't that girdle bother you?”

“Girdle? Oh, you mean my pants? They're kinda tight. I'm built big.”

“Yeah? Let's see it.”

Gee, I didn't figure him for a fruit. A five-dollar tip earns a guy the right to a little cooperation. I unzippered and pulled out my poke. With a glance toward the bedroom, I held it up for him.

“I hand ten inches erected,” I exaggerated. “Wanna measure? G'head, you c'n suck it.”

Instead of moaning and panting and grabbing and sliding, Jonathon Rawlings threw back his head and shouted with laughter. Still laughing, he bellowed, “Margo, come here for a minute.”

Margo Rawlings drifted out of the bedroom like a black-and-white widow spider.

“He says I can suck on it!” The tycoon in pin-stripe seersucker was assailed by a fresh burst of laughter.

Margo gazed at my uncovered rod without smiling. “Jon, you're embarrassing the boy. Stop it.” She turned to me. “Don't think he wouldn't love to do it. Too bad with a weapon like that you don't like girls.”

“Who sez I don't like girls!”

I advanced on the lady, schlang swinging. Abruptly, it stopped swinging and started standing, as it often does when approaching ladies. The sight of an upright dong coming toward her didn't faze Mrs. Rawlings. In fact, I caught her winking. I wheeled around to face Jonathon. He winked twice as broadly. They were exchanging a fucking husband and wife wink, a signal. Triumphantly.

“Hey, what is this? Which one of you gets it?” Not sure of my ground, I must have sounded surly.

Jonathon was smoothly unctuous. “Does it make any difference? You're in good hands, son. Experts.”

He swooped down suddenly, planting his lips over the head of my whacker. Geez, I'm as broadminded as the next guy. Broader! But swinging on a joint in your wife's presence! Without asking permission! Well, I had sorta given permission without his asking. But geez!

As suddenly as he had swooped down, Jon straightened up, wiping his mouth delicately.

“I'm overdue at Farm Industries. Give her a good fuck, son. I'll see you tonight. Bye, Margo.” He kissed her hungrily, started for the door, and turned back. “What's your name, son?”

“Doug.”

He grasped the prong that had been in his mouth thirty seconds before. “Margo, meet Doug. I leave you in good hands.” Her hand replaced his on my peter, and I didn't hear him go out.

“Jon's a good cocksucker,” his wife said, affectionately. “But if he goes down on you, see that he swallows it. He has a nasty habit of spitting out gism.”

I promised to remain on the alert.

“I'm glad you didn't come in his mouth,” Margo murmured, still clutching my ramrod. “How long would I have had to wait?”

“No more'n fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes! I could never hold out that long.” She lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties. “I'm dripping.”

Goddamn it; she was spewing!

“Shall we remove non-essentials?”

Garters off, her nylons remained smoothly in place over slim thighs. “Elasticized,” Margo said, and demonstrated by snapping the elastic at the tops of her stockings. I tried it. Damn right! Elasticized. So were my fingers. They stretched from her thighs to her twat, inside it, deep inside it. Everything was elasticized-including the quim in question. Pulling hard, I managed to extract my finger. Pushing hard, I inserted a 9-inch substitute.

It was a fast fuck. Brutal pounding to stoke the coke into the furnace before we exploded, taking the bed along with us. After a gallop, you want to lie down in the pasture and chew on a blade of grass or a handful of titty.

Margo said, rather unsympathetically, “Run along, dear, and bellhop.”

“Can't I stay awhile?”

“No. I have things to do. I'll have to take a nap and make myself pretty.”

The only answer to that of course is, “You couldn't be prettier than you are now.”

Margo smiled mysteriously. “Thank you, darling. Please go now. Pretty as I am, I have to prepare for tonight. You, me, and Jonathon.”

I bowed to the inevitable and hitched my pants up.

“Dear,” Margo suggested, as I bowed myself out of the suite, “try to get a little rest before evening.”

I got plenty of rest. Automatically I performed my bellhop chores. At dinnertime, I wolfed down a hearty meal. The diner menu was short on oysters. I settled for a big plate of Yellowstones. Clams-steak-lime pie-coffee. I left the diner ready to tackle anything. Especially a nap. Sneaking back to my home away from the cabin, I made myself comfortable in Room 314. Strip-quick nap-shower. Since this was a formal social occasion, instead of putting on my uniform I wore chinos over Jockeys.

To shave or not to shave? My cheeks felt sorta bristly. Fuck it! A hint of male whisker would do Margo a world of good after life with her sleek, cocksucking hubby. It might even appeal to Jonathon. Cocksuckers like to think they're going down on brutes.

When party time arrived, I knocked at the door of the Crystal Suite. The Rawlings made me feel like a bellboy from Prescott. Unshaven, in chinos, while they basked in the splendor of impeccable evening dress. On the coffee table, there was a huge bucket with the largest frigging bottle of champagne nestled on the ice cubes. Professional curiosity made me inquire, “Howdya get the ice an' stuff up here?” I knew they hadn't called for the bellboy.

“I brought it myself,” the tycoon admitted, shyly. “We wanted to surprise you.”

Gee, I found that touching. It almost made up for their fucking chutzpah, expecting my services for a lousy finif.

Jonathon opened the bottle and did the honors. Good stuff, that champagne. Two glasses would mellow a militant. While I downed the second glassful, Jonathon took out his bankroll. “What do you get for an evening, Doug?” he inquired, politely.

Mellowed, I muttered, “I don't get anything.”

“Spoken like an officer and gentleman! Will this do?”

“Gee!” I exclaimed, like a bellboy. I hadn't seen a picture of Ben Franklin for a long time. That's why Jon's wad looked sorta puny. Underneath the hundred he gave me, there was another one and another. How many hundreds can a guy carry these days?

“Gee, I couldn't take a hundred dollars,” I said, casually slipping the bill in my pocket.

“You'll earn it,” Jon assured me. “Get those clothes off!”

I've peeled down in hundreds of bedrooms. In mixed company, too. But there was something uncanny the way those two stared at me. Svelte and soigne in their evening dress, sipping champagne as I rolled down my Jockeys. Naked, I scratched my bush, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Bend over,” Jonathon ordered. He pulled open my ass cheeks.

“What do you think, dear? Too hairy?”

“I think it's charming,” Margo responded.

I felt cool lips at my asshole. His or her lips? Impossible to tell. They both seemed to be hunched over to inspect my rear end. I'd have given a lot to know who had kissed it. I couldn't just come out and ask, could I? Strange how-when applied to your butt-masculine lips can't be distinguished from feminine. If you happen to know a rimming couple, try it. You'll be amazed at the similarity. No fair peeking, naturally. And if he has a mustache, the test is useless. If she has a mustache, I suggest you seek new friends.

In any case, it was an easy way to earn a hundred.

“You'll have to forgive us,” my host murmured, urbanely. “We're ass-prone.”

“I like to get my tits lost in a musty male asshole,” Margo confided.

“And I like to ream it,” Jonathon added.

Upon Jon's suggestion, we retired to the bedroom. Yawning, Margo kicked off her shoes. “One of you help me unzip, please.”

I helped her. The zipper extended from between her shoulder blades to her waist. I worked it so that by the time the dress fell I had a double handful of titty. Margo didn't believe in wearing anything under an evening dress. I didn't believe in it either. Her boobs were spongy, very soft. I squeezed them to suck them together. Whatever they had in mind for me, I'd get to chew on a sweet pair of knockers.

Margo moaned more than my tentative efforts warranted. Not only was she getting her tits licked, hubby was doing a fair job on her cunt hole. Margo's eyes rolled with that abandon you see only on girls who have tongues-plural, tongues-working on them. Jonathon abruptly stopped chewing. He tapped me on the shoulder.

“Muff-diving is a mug's game, don't you think so? I mean, the taste's great. But it seems so one-sided. Do me a favor, Doug, spear her for a minute.”

I slid my schlang into the moist slot, taking care not to go too far. I knew that to come now would be to short change my employers. I got my labe good and frothy, pulling out stoically.

“Excellent!” Jon squatted on his haunches. He took my hard-on in his mouth, delicately licking his wife's love juice. He wasn't really sucking, just cleaning off the pungent moisture. Rubbing his prong as he performed.

He sprang to his feet. “Delicious! Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get this fuck out of my system or I'll be useless all evening. Margo dear, shall we send the boy out of the room while I screw you?” Margo murmured something that sounded like, “Stop the acting and start the action!”

Jon smiled ingratiatingly. “Stick around, I may be able to use you.”

He mounted her dog fashion. His long thin prong vanished into the honeypot. I looked around for a way to make myself useful. Maybe having her tits nibbled would calm Margo down. She was screaming pretty loud now. But I couldn't move to perform this act of mercy. Jon was pulling my balls to the rhythm of his lunges. The Baltimore tycoon was a jabber. He'd jab his prick into her pussy, pull out, jab harder. No wonder she was screaming. No wonder my testicles had that roller coaster feeling.

Maybe he'd blow me while he was fucking. Or maybe she would. I tried to move away, to get my cock in the vicinity of a mouth. But Jon's grip was tighter than before; all I got for my pains was a near rupture. Then he loosened his hold without warning. His ass twitched and I knew he was coming.

Jon stuck three fingers into his wife's box. They came out nice and slimy. “Lick it,” he offered. Well, if he didn't have a gourmet palate, I did. Willingly, I licked the slime off his fingers.

“Excellent! You swallowed my gism. That makes us brothers.”

I hadn't thought of it that way. But I guess some of that slime was Jon's gism. Okay, brother!

“Since you've already swallowed my cream, you won't object to kissing my ramrod,” Jon suggested, cunningly.

Before I could dispute the gentleman's logic, Margo whined, “I want him to ball me.”

“You heard what the lady said. Sorry, Mr. Rawlings, I wasn't brought up right. I can't suck a dong while I'm screwing. Want to go out of the room while I ball her?”

“We'll all go out,” Jon decided.

Gallantly escorting Margo, each pulling one tit, we returned to the living room where champagne awaited us.

It was just like the fucking opera. Champagne during the intermission.

VIII

“You're sure you don't mind if I screw your wife, sir?”

Jonathon patted my arm. “That's damned considerate of you, brother. But let me show you something.” He spread Margo's legs, fondly ruffling her twat hair. “Did you ever see a prettier pussy? How can I deny such a pussy its pleasures? She needs big dick in there. Go ahead, Son, ram her.”

Even though he practically guided it in for me, I felt funny. “He's shy,” Jon said, half aloud. “Anything I can do to help? Want to see her going down on me while you ride her? Want me to rim you?”

“Yeah, rim me.” A guy who'll kiss another guy's ass deserved seeing his wife getting fucked. I stayed motionless in the saddle to give him time to crouch into position. I felt the stab of a taut finger in my bung, then the cooling lick of a hot tongue. As his tongue connected, my whang connected. I shot forward up to the womb and started a barrage of thrusts to let Margo know I was in her.

“Kiss my ass, you bastard. Eat it!” The tongue wavered, made a farewell lick, withdrew. Maybe I'd been too sharp. But a rimmer likes to be directed. “G'wan,” I pleaded, “rim it!”

Gee, he musta thought I said, “Ream it.” I felt hairy thighs pressed hard on me, strong hands tearing me open. Then, the sledgehammer. Jon drove it into my wet asshole without mercy. I shoulda known it. A nice clean rimming often degenerates into a reaming.

Relax! He was in me. I was getting it up the ass. In a lady's presence. The lady wasn't commenting, if the lady had noticed. The lady was fully occupied. Over nine inches of occupation. I relaxed my back muscles, concentrating on my big muscle. Taking a cock up the ass is manly-as long as you're fucking at the same time.

“Coordinate!” I yelled over my shoulder.

I poured out gism. I didn't feel myself coming, just felt the strength draining out of me. And felt Jon's jets of spunk burning my insides.

Pushing me aside, Jonathon kissed his wife tenderly. She returned his embraces with after-fuck devotion. As if they'd just fucked each other-without 172 pounds of bellhop between them.

“You were wonderful, darling,” Margo whispered.

“Thank you,” Jon and I responded, in unison.

“I feel so fulfilled. Two solid loads in me,” Margo purred contentedly.

Fulfilled, horseshit! I can take a hint when a broad gives it so broadly. She wanted those loads dry-cleaned before they evaporated. I bowed down to eat her box.

“Let's make it mutual,” I suggested. Too late! Margo already had a labe in her mouth. “Then you suck it,” I told the tycoon. “Muff diving's a mug's game. I can't eat unless I'm eaten. Down on it!”

“Suck it, you son of a bitch. I'm coming!” The words were muffled by cunt walls. Yet the last phrase, curiously, was echoed. “I'm coming!” Jonathon moaned. Sure, he could talk-his mouth was empty. He gave his load to Margo, then belatedly groped for my prong.

I raised my head from the honeypot. “No hand jobs!” But his fingers closed tightly on my hard-on and he pulled me off. Gobs of cream landed on the sheet. “Sorry about that, son,” Jon said, unconvincingly. On his hands and knees, greedily he lapped up the spilled gism. Margo was more practical. She knew every cock keeps a drop or two of residue. She went after it, chewing my soft dick till there was nothing left in it.

Champagne interlude.

IX

The Rawlings lay clasped in each other's arms and I felt sorta like an intruder. I reminded Margo of a semi-promise she'd made earlier. The worst they could do was dismiss me. I couldn't think of any verbal subterfuge, so I blurted out frankly, “Uh-remember you said you like to stick your tits up a guy's keester?”

Margo smiled happily. “Of course. I adore it. May I?”

“While she does it,” I said, to console him, “you can suck it.”

“No, you'd find that distracting. I'll tell you what-you get on top of me. That way we'll keep it in the family.”

Jon sprawled on the bed on his stomach. I climbed on top of him. Marge made it a triangle, delicately mounting me. I felt one soft tit rubbing against my hairy furrow. The other. Nipples make a quarter-inch penetration. Reamed by titty!

“Fuck him!” Margo goaded me.

It was so easy. My rod was lodged in the crack of Jon's ass. I found the rosy pucker of his bunghole and rammed it. My heaving butt was empty-Margo had withdrawn the fleshy stuffing. But as I fucked her husband, she climbed on me again. To rim me. Gee, that's how those two differed. Jon rimmed, then fucked. Margo tit-fucked, then rimmed.

Her tongue in my ass spurred me on to faster action. Too fast. She couldn't keep her position, but rolled off to watch us. Jon was already impaled by my buzzer; my balls flapped against his ass cheeks. I lifted his body to show her. “See, no prick!”

“Fuck him!” Margo shrieked. “Fuck him! Fuck him!”

“Jon's ass writhed impotently. Tight as a cunt, not as elastic, resisting. Resistance sweetened the plugging. I lashed into him.

“Hey! Go easy!”

That did it. He wriggled to escape the onslaught. Friction set my prick on fire. I pounded him mercilessly. “Kiss my ass!” I ordered Margo. She'd never get to it on time. My balls were unloading. I reached out blindly, pulled her hair, grabbed a tit, mashing it ruthlessly. I shot spunk down the slot under me.

“Darling!”

“Darling!”

Again they nestled in each other's arms, oblivious of the stranger. It was kinda late. I crept out of bed. “Guess it's time to go.”

“Of course-you're quite free to go,” Jon said. “Although we did uh-rent you for the evening.”

“I wouldn't wanna cheat you.” I tried to sound sarcastic. “If there's anything left undone-”

“There's lots left undone. You haven't fucked Margo's bottom. You never did get to suck me. We haven't pissed on you.”

I can see where that C-note wasn't really overpayment.

“We don't have to do all those things,” Jonathan continued. “I'm slightly exhausted. How about you, dear?”

Margo pouted. “You know I'm seldom exhausted. But the boy is anxious to go. Let's just finish off the evening and say good night.”

“Excellent.” Jon turned to me. “We'll just finish off the evening. You know, Doug, Margo and I are old fashioned. We pay well and expect full value. If we buy your services, when you leave us you should have no services left to offer. For instance, if you go out now and screw your girl friend, we consider it unfair. That fuck belongs to us.” Margo nodded her head in agreement.

Jon went on explaining pleasantly. “If we rent a young lady, we alternately fuck her and lap her till she cries uncle. One hardly expects a boy to cry uncle. But with a boy it's even easier to determine when he's given us full value.”

“How?”

“We jerk him. When he's dry-” Jon shrugged.

I didn't know how many loads I had left in me-if any. Whatever I had, they were entitled to. I advanced on Margo, holding up my limp tool for her. “Pull me off, lady.”

You'd be surprised how quickly the brunette had a bone in her hand. She rubbed it vigorously.

“Wait a minute. I think I can come. Lemme fuck it into you.”

“Of course, dear.”

I mounted her and gave her my fourth load of the evening.

Jon jerked my reddened whang automatically. Remounting. “I have an appointment to see Bailey first thing in the morning. If the car's fixed, we should be leaving right after lunch. Highway Fifty-four to Des Moines. Stiff already? That's pretty good, Doug.”

His fingers were pinching the sensitive underside of my weapon, making the vein jump. “Suck on it. Please, Mr. Rawlings, I'm gonna come in a second.”

He shook his head. “It's late. I don't feel like sucking.” But his fingers felt like beating my thumper. I dropped another load, in his palm, on the carpet. Jon wiped the mess off his hand onto the pillowcase. “At this rate you'll be coming till morning.”

“I think I'm dry now,” I mumbled. “Should we let him go?”

“No!” Margo was vehement. “I want to feel him spurt.”

I pandered to that unnatural feeling. Within a few minutes I spurted. I was resigned now. This was my mission in life-to keep spurting. The numbness in my dick seemed to spread all over. I didn't give a damn how many times they jerked me. Maybe I'd fall asleep while they were still pulling. Once I dozed off with my rod in a girl's mouth. But that girl was a lousy cocksucker.

Jonathon's voice seemed to come from far off. “You're a good kid, Doug.” He patted my shoulder. Margo kissed me on the lips. Sexy, though it was indubitably a good-night kiss.

I stumbled into my chinos and out of the Crystal Suite.

In the morning, I caught up with the old-fashioned, full-value couple as they were going out for breakfast. “Will you be leaving today, sir?”

“We expect to. Why?” Jonathon sounded brusque and tycoonish. Although silent, his dark-haired spouse looked expectant and ready to meet any indecent suggestion halfway, at least.

“I thought maybe tonight we could-”

“We don't go in for reruns,” Jon interrupted.

“Yes, sir. But you see, I have these friends. A couple. She's blonde, built, and gorgeous. He has fourteen inches.”

Margo squeezed her thighs together, right there in the hotel lobby. I'll tell you- I was embarrassed! Jon, however, continued on the brusque streak.

“We don't go in for professionals.”

“Professionals!” I squeaked, indignantly. “Beth and Matt aren't professionals.” I realize that the fusty old cabin would be an unlikely setting for the cream of Baltimore society. Even for kooks like the Rawlings. So I improvised.

“Matt happens to be a talented artist. He's a cock painter. Paints with his rod instead of a brush. Beth is his number one model. She's a nudist-but don't let that bother you.”

The front of Jon's impeccable trousers was unmistakably distended. “Hmmm,” he muttered. “Fuck it!”

“Fuck Beth and Matt?”

“No. Fuck Des Moines.”

The Rawlings were decked out in gear suitable for visiting an artist's studio. Margo had poured herself into the miniest of minis, virgin white, with not much above the waist either. Two slender, black shoulder straps matched her black stockings. Again, the only flash of color was her crimson lipstick. Tonight her dark hair was piled high, secured by an ebony comb sparkling with brilliants. In a word-devastating. She looked like a jet age Carmen.

Jonathon wore casual sport clothes. That bulge in his side pocket, I hoped, was a replenished bankroll. If it was his rod, during the day it must have got bent, not to mention weirdly elongated.

I had stopped in their suite for a cocktail, so we waltzed through the lobby together. Bellhops in mufti aren't supposed to mingle with hotel guests. But fuck the manager… if he didn't like it. As it happened, Norvin was away from his desk. Our exit from the hotel wasn't unobserved, however. Carla Grant must have been working overtime. She sat primly, murmuring a cool good evening to the occupants of the Crystal Suite, with not even a nod for their escort.

She didn't nod or say anything, just kinda glanced up at me. In that glance, I could feel she knew everything. Knew I was taking the Baltimore duo out to get laid, et cetera. Knew I was going out pimping. Or worse.

That goddamned Carla! She could make a guy's prick start to pound. And make his conscience pound even harder.

In the car there was no room for my conscience. We squeezed in on the front seat, me at the wheel, Margo jammed next to me, Jon next to Margo. Mrs. R. was in her element. One hand on his pants, one on mine, enjoying the scenery. Feeling wasn't enough, she had to switch on the car lights to see which dong was redder.

Whatever decision she came to was lost in the general hubbub. We had arrived at the cabin.

A stunning picture stood just outside the building. Portrait of a Lady Nudist. Only the picture was animated. I'd almost forgotten that Beth was assigned the role of nudist. She played her part to perfection. I'd almost forgotten that she had such tits-to-toenails talent. Silently appraising the competition, Margo greeted her coolly. Jonathon providentially had neglected to close his fly. His whang started out to meet the chatelaine of the cabin. Beth eyed it timidly. “Pleased to meet you,” she murmured.

“Allow me to introduce you to Mathew Hammond.”

A chorus of “How do you do” reverberated through the tumbledown dwelling. I stood back, proud of my buddy. Matt could have passed for an artist anywhere. His jeans were properly tattered, his T-shirt was artistically paint-bespattered, he was nude, but not where it mattered. (That is, he was barefoot.) With the casual air of a showman, he displayed his art works.

“Most ingenious,” Jonathon admired.

“The colors! Exquisite!” Margo sounded ecstatic.

“I understand you use a unique medium,” Jonathon hinted.

“Is it true that you paint with your penis?” Margo wondered.

“I don' know about that, lady,” Matt confessed. “I jus' dab paint on my dick an' go to it.”

Our blonde, naked hostess opened a bottle of wine bought for just this occasion. Chilled burgundy served in Dixie cups seemed almost festive. Jonathon accepted his drink, patting Beth's ass in a fatherly manner.

“Mr. Hammond, may we prevail upon you to demonstrate?” he asked, taking the words out of Margo's mouth.

Matt was willing, but prevail and demonstrate eluded the ignorant bastard. He looked puzzled until I explained in words of one syllable, “The folks wanna see it.”

Grinning, Matt unbuttoned his jeans and showed it.

“Magnificent,” Margo whispered, open-mouthed.

“Christ! You have enough there for a fresco,” her husband commented.

Matt didn't know a fresco from a flamingo, but he appreciated the awe-struck note in Jonathon's voice. Turning to face him, he said, “Thanks, chum.” The bisexual Baltimorean mistook those kindly words for an invitation. He reached out to stroke Matt's dangling paintbrush.

“Hey!” exclaimed the genital Giotto. “You wanna get your ass whipped?”

“Yes,” Jonathon admitted.

“Well I'm one guy who c'n do it!”

“Please!” Margo elbowed her way into the fracas. “Me first. You can ream Jonny later.”

Matt backed away in confusion. He had meant whipping by belt, not by buzzer. Only the staunchest heavyweight faggo would consider taking Matt's jumbo jujube up his keester.

To avert further dissension, I said, “Won't you show us how you paint, maestro?”

With Margo's invaluable assistance, Matt smeared streaks of purple and orange on his ramrod. Jonathon also insisted on helping. He “posed” Beth in a series of legs-open attitudes.

“What the fuck are you doin' with my girl?” Matt asked. His indignation would have been more understandable if Margo hadn't been hanging on his hard-on.

“Isn't she your model?”

“Yeah. But I don' need no model for this one.”

Matt whacked his whacker over a fresh piece of canvas. That painting was destined to remain unfinished. Margo requested a private audience with the artist. As Matt led her beyond the partition, she admonished gently, “Wash that gook off your prick, please. No orange and purple prongs for me, thank you. I'm conventional.”

The wet rag was put to use.

A new obstacle interfered with the culmination of a sweet courtship. Margo had glimpsed the bedroom facilities. “Please! I do want that cock in my cunt, but can't we go somewhere more-”

“More fancy-” Matt supplied.

“No. More spacious. There's hardly room here for Beth, Doug, and my husband. Unless we have a terribly cramped daisy chain.”

We agreed to take the show outdoors. Blankets spread on the grass under the stars, with a high-powered lantern for the benefit of the voyeurs among us.

First, we stripped in the cabin. Matt shucked his jeans and his T-shirt. Naked, his hard-on restored to its natural color-blood red-he helped Margo take her clothes off. He was unexpectedly gentle and his task was unexpectedly easy. Under her white evening mini, Margo wore only wispy panties and even minier tit cups. Rubbing his prick over the front of her panties, the artist uncovered her boobs and started to suck them.

Not consciously imitating his host, Jonathon also happened to be sucking titty. Beth's. Not one to stand idle, the blonde had insinuated horny fingers into Jon's fly and was holding his rod, as if weighing it.

Who thinks of the poor pimp at such moments? I had to take my own duds off. Bare ass, we trouped out to spread blankets. Then Matt spread Margo.

Margo squirmed to lure in the marauder. “Please fuck me,” she whispered.

The two couples were side by side on the grass, on the blanket. Fucking in close proximity, studs lose more than loads.

Again I felt like an outsider. Grabbing a tit here, an ass there. Waiting my turn, watching.

Finally, the boys dismounted, leaving the girls panting. I went out of the arena to take a leak, and came back, hard-on throbbing, ready to jab it into any hole. Debbie's, if need be. Matt and Jon accosted me.

“Jon's gonna lemme whack his ass!” Matt said, boyishly.

“Matt's going to let me suck it,” Jon confided.

Gee, that's great! Swerving away from the perverts, I threw myself down on Beth. She was nearer. I was in her as my weight descended. I started screwing.

Margo lay alone for a minute on her side of the blanket. Then she too welcomed a vaginal visitor. Matt or Jonathon, I supposed, barely glancing and not much caring. Margo cared, however. She was basically conventional; she liked to know who was boffing her.

“Who are you?” she asked, conversationally.

“I'm the bellboy at the Iowan,” a hoarse voice responded.

Margo's eyes met mine; her gaze wandered to where my staff was sheathed in Beth's cunny. “B-but that's impossible,” she stammered.

Nothing's impossible, lady.

Ernie had joined the party.

Margo didn't ask to see his identity papers. After a session with Matt, a normal-sized 17-year-old dick can be soothing. I gave Beth my juice and watched Ernie zoom his young load into Margo.

Beth stole off to piss or change Debbie's diapers or scratch her snatch in privacy. Margo stretched languidly, excess love froth dripping out of her cellar. As I prepared to muff dive without an umbrella, a tortured cry echoed from the cabin.

“Are those two fucking?” Jon's wife asked, in the midst of a yawn. “I do hope Mathew isn't trying to ream poor Jonathon. That husband of mine is congenitally over-optimistic. He'll never be able to take Matt's prick. Only a woman can!” She patted her cunt complacently.

I observed that my buddy would no doubt settle for a suck job and that Jon would no doubt be happy to oblige.

This failed to console her. “The dear boy has a habit of biting off more than he can chew,” she murmured. “Poor Jonny. Or should I say poor Matt?”

I figured I'd better run in to see what was happening.

In the studio-bedroom, I found the artist painting his most vivid canvas. Jon's hairy, nude body was criss-crossed with streaks of vermilion. They looked like blood for a damned good reason-Jon's was bleeding. Tied to the bed, he seemed comparatively relaxed after his ordeal. Nevertheless, he was shouting. “Please, Matt, please!”

Matt's belt lay on the floor where it had fallen. But the backwoods Picasso kept wielding his paintbrush, rubbing his stiff prong over the welts he'd just inflicted. Tremors passed from his thumper up to his torso and he had that I'm-gonna-shoot look.

“Please, Matt! Don't waste it. Come in my mouth!”

Groaning, Matt pressed forward, forcing seven or eight inches of blood-soaked buzzer down Jon's throat. He was poised to insert the remaining half-foot when dainty hands pulled him back.

“Let me suck it!”

Margo didn't have to ask twice. Matt took back his treasure and presented it to the lady. She couldn't have taken more than half of it with any degree of comfort, so presumably she was momentarily discomforted. It didn't take more than a moment, if that. Grunting louder than before, Matt unloaded. Margo fell back on the bed, across her husband's knees. Hot gism dribbled down her lips. She looked like one exhausted cocksucker. The morning after.

Jonathon offered an ever more pitiful spectacle. Still bound, thrashing weakly, thwarted. In that depressed state, he spied Ernie, who had wandered in to witness the action. “Be a good kid,” he pleaded, “come in my mouth.”

How can you refuse a guy when he's down. Ernie paused only to murmur naively. “Gee, I didn't know fellas did it.” Brushing past Margo's outstretched curves, he jabbed his standing tool between Jon's lips. In a burst of energy, the lady from Baltimore stood up. Delicately opening Ernie's butt, she proceeded to eat it.

I protested. “Hey, if you're in a rimming mood, my ass is much prettier.”

Margo stopped chewing; she regarded me coldly. “I am not merely rimming, Douglas. Can't you see that I'm helping my husband?”

Jon didn't need assistance. He gobbled Ernie's goober greedily as the former bellhop pumped with typical teen-ager vigor. Ernie moaned, “I'm coming!” as if he couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe that a male throat could bring him to orgasm. Finally, he withdrew, thanking Margo politely, staring at Jon in amazement.

Jon was smiling. Slowly, his lips parted and he started disgorging what looked like a triple load of boy cream. Highlighted by specks of saliva, down his chin, down his chest, in multiple rivulets. Margo had warned me once of his tricky penchant for not swallowing like a gentleman.

Ernie's expression hardened as his dong softened. “Hey! That's my gism!” he said, apparently recognizing his own product. “You fuckin' cocksucker! You're supposed to swallow it!”

He smeared his hand in the mess, trying to force his fingers into Jon's mouth, using his other hand to pummel him. I pushed the kid away with some effort. “Enough of that! He's taken plenty of punishment.”

Try to rescue a cocksucker! As I bent over Jonathon to save him, he twisted his head so that he was able to lick my labe. That wasn't on my schedule, but I hastily modified my agenda.

“Suck it, you bastard! If you spit it out, I'll beat the shit outtayou!”

Margo didn't rim me while I fucked it into him. She couldn't catch me. I like quick blow jobs. I gave Jon's larynx a fast battering, followed by the usual salty emission. He swallowed, all right. If your cock is down far enough, they have to swallow or choke. Ernie couldn't be expected to know that. He'd learn though, now that he was under our guidance.

Having taken on nearly a yard of cock at one end or the other, Margo was enjoying the outing. With wifely devotion, she asked Jon, “Was it good, dear?”

Jon considered before speaking. “Of course, I haven't actually tasted Matt's yet, but I'd say Doug here has the richest cream in this part of the country. Such body!”

Margo wagged a playful finger in my direction. “Naughty boy! Do you realize you haven't given me a proper load since I met you!”

Although I didn't have a load on tap, at least not near the surface, I bowed courteously. “My apologies, madam. You're welcome to it.”

The giddy brunette giggled merrily, trying to conceal her eagerness. She took my hang in her mouth. Three other schlangs, in various states of stiffness, were soon lined up, awaiting her attention.

The latter seemed mildly surprised to find his own wife's tongue adhering to his ramrod. He disengaged himself, whispering, “We can do this any night in Baltimore, Margie.” Aloud, he said, “It's been a delightful evening. I want to keep the memory of every hole fresh in my mind, so if you'll form an orderly line, please, I promise to leave no opening untended.”

No one cared to fuck up Jonathon Rawlings's memory book. So we lined up like cattle, including his missus. Jon worked his way down the row, performing the ritual slowly, as if he wanted to retain the taste, feel, and texture on his sensitive tongue. He lingered last and longest at Beth's round, white bottom.

Matt had expected a full-fledged rimming and must have felt somewhat disgruntled. In a surly voice, he boasted, “You ain't seen the freshest hole in the whole fuckin' set-up.”

“Meaning?”

Without answering, Matt stormed out to the secluded clearing where Debbie's cot had been moved earlier. He came back with the little girl cradled in his arms. Matt may have been immune to underage charms, but his oversized whopper was rising.

“Who's that?” Jonathon wondered.

“My kid sister.”

Debbie's sleeping togs consisted of a pair of cotton panties. Matt eased them down without waking her. He spread her chubby legs. “Don' look like much, but that's a hole, ain't it?”

Jonathon peered at Debbie's tiny, bald slit. He began to sweat, and the nitty-gritty rose to the surface. “C-could I lick it?”

He reached out to grope the unformed cunt, and at that moment Debbie woke up screaming.

Debbie's mother stepped in to slap the girl. The screams redoubled. Jon's pole lengthened. His tongue flicked out to moisten his lips and hung out taut for a licking.

Meanwhile, the tycoon hunched over the baby, ardently lapping her pudgy thighs, steering northward. He sucked in earnest, not missing a stroke as Matt set her down on the mattress. Suddenly, Debbie became quiet. Tranquilized if not bewitched.

Jon moved on to kiss Debbie's little bottom. His restless prick waved near the tiny slit. Perilously near. On it, I thought-Debbie, say goodbye to your girlhood. I'd underestimated Beth's fierce surge of maternal protection. To save her daughter from an almost certain spearing, the blonde valiantly offered her own services. Her appeal sounded familiar. “Fuck me,” she begged, subtly stressing the me, sitting on Jonathon's labe in a far from subtle manner.

The bearded man's dick had been turgid since his entrance with Debbie. He attempted to plug Jon without the use of a lubricant. He found a road block. “Whassa matter, queer, didncha ever have it? Hey, Doug, help me open this bastard!”

Murmuring a perfunctory, “Sorry,” Margo allowed my whang to slip out of her mouth. “Let me help,” she said. If her husband was maso-oriented, Margo had a full measure of complimentary sado components. Gloating, she helped tear Jon's ass open. The entry didn't look much bigger to me but, crushing resistant muscle, Matt screwed the swollen head of his schlang in.

Jon bleated like a pig in a slaughterhouse. “You'll kill me! You'll kill me!” He abandoned Debbie, abandoned Beth in mid-fuck. Mother and daughter added assorted cries to the pandemonium, and the walls of the cabin shook.

Displaying mature judgment, Debbie washed her hands of the perverted proceedings. She crawled back to her cot in the clearing. The solution wasn't so easy for her mother. Ruthlessly left to her own devices, halfway over the hill, Beth needed a helping hand. True, her hand revolved in her twat, but a nympho sniffs at fingerfucking. Ernie made himself useful. Not with his fingers.

Margo, on the other hand, used her fingers without hesitation. I volunteered to provide a substitute. She shook her head impatiently, jacking off, watching. Watching her man get his ass plugged.

Matt was in trouble. In spite of prodigious effort, he couldn't stuff more than a quarter of his boffer in Jon's bruised bung. “This fuckin' queer is awful,” he grunted. “Tighter'n a vise. Gimme a cunt any time. I'm gonna pull out-”

Jon wriggled his butt in protest. He couldn't take it, but he couldn't lose it. Matt grinned, moving his rod up and down in short, jerking movements. Obviously he was enjoying the friction and I figured he'd come that way-and kinda compromise ream. Then the artist winked at Margo and me. As if that was a signal, he slammed forward abruptly, with all his weight behind the thrust. With that lunge he impaled Jon on his whacker.

Margo gushed, “You're wonderful.” She licked Matt's jumping balls as he fucked her husband. I got a kick out of watching the tycoon take his punishment, wondering if we'd have much difficulty reviving him later.

Matt rolled off, exhausted.

Now the cabin seemed unnaturally silent. All action was tactfully suspended until Jon lurched to his feet. He cleared his throat. “Would you folks mind leaving us alone for a minute?”

Beth, Ernie, and I exited, leaving Matt and the Rawlings alone, but not unwatched. I climbed on a chair to peer over the partition.

Jon and his conventional spouse, apparently, had found their ideal in my bearded buddy. Unashamed, they genuflected before him. Matt looked pleased, though flustered.

Naturally, the Rawlings didn't stop at kneeling. Dividing Matt's body into hemispheres, they each went halfway around the world. Jon took the prong that had just reamed him. Margo contentedly burrowed deep into Matt's huge, hairy keester.

At last Jon got his mouthful of Matt's gism. I saw him swallow. I saw him clasp Margo in his arms in the intimate husband-wife embrace that makes any third party an intruder.

Toward morning, after cordial farewells and invitations to visit Baltimore, I drove the tourists back to the Iowan. I tucked away four hundred and fifty dollars, less expenses. Don't think that Jon paid me for my services. He didn't. He just bought two of Matt Hammond's unique cock paintings.

X

When the Rawlings duly departed, they took excitement along with them. I worked off my energy polishing cuspidors instead of pleasuring cunnies.

Refusing to be hoggish, I shared the wealth. The next time I visited the cabin, I came laden with presents for my little staff of workers. Nylons for Beth, a pack of butts for Ernie, a puppet doll for Debbie. It was hard to find a gift for the man who had everything, so I just had the jalopy tank filled. Matt's gratitude was touching-until I explained that I'd have to be using the car temporarily. Till I sold a few more of his paintings or a lot more of his orgasms.

For a long week, I had to ring up “No Sale”. A motley assortment of monsters checked into the Iowan. Guys too old to get it up, ladies too fucking ugly to get anything. Ernie was about to get his job back. Then the stream started. Word-of-mouth did it. And it began quite inauspiciously.

“Thank you, son.”

I dumped the new guest's luggage on the rack, not even bothering to scratch my nuts or to appeal to his-their-baser instincts. I didn't think Mr. and Mrs. Endicott had any instincts, except to eat, sleep, and maybe fuck once or twice a year in observance of national holidays. He looked like a farmer on a jaunt to the big city. Sunburned, raw-boned, dressed in the height of Farmer's Almanac fashion. His wife made the ideal feminine counterpart. Fortyish, plumpish, and frumpish. Very much in Mr. Endicott's shadow.

In other words, I expected a thank you and a quarter. The thank you arrived on schedule, unaccompanied. Instead, Mr. Endicott coughed, hemmed, hawed, and murmured, “Are there any good museums in town, son?”

Golly! Art lovers! But museums? Who knew from such dreck?

Mrs. E. clucked shyly, blushing slightly. Mr. E. was more aggressive. Unblinking, he gave the password. “We're interested in paintings.” To emphasize that interest, he produced his billfold. Wrinkled billfold, crisp ten dollar bill.

“Yes, sir. I happen to know a talented artist.”

Mr. Endicott nodded. “That's what Jonathon told us.”

“Oh, do you know the Rawlings?”

“Yep. Met up with Jon and his missus back in Omaha. Real folksy, they were.”

Mr. Endicott stated his needs forthrightly. “I want young, juicy quim. If she ain't young, don't bother.”

Mrs. Endicott giggled. “Clint, you're terrible!” She poked her husband in the ribs and turned to me. “I don't care if they're ancient, long as-you know.”

I knew. Swerving to avoid a poke in the ribs, I suggested, “Long as they're long.”

“Long as they got cocks like corn stalks,” Mr. Endicott supplied. “Ruthie's cunt's like a grain-sorter. Rejects midgets.”

Revising my opinion of the Endicotts and of rural America, I nodded. “You won't be disappointed.”

“Fuck her now, son. Ruthie's horny.”

I hesitated. Not that Ruthie was ugly. She was kinda pretty, really. Frumpish but pretty. The sort of woman who looks much better naked, with a rod in her. But I still wasn't accustomed to husbands ordering me to screw their spouses. Basically, I'm bashful.

Endicott said, “Don't be afraid. You'll measure up, 'cording to what Jon told me.”

See what I mean by word-of-mouth!

I was confident that Mr. Endicott would have to go out to see a man about a tractor. However, he remained in the room, encouraging me. “G' head, son. I won't get in your way.

Shy, blushing Ruthie also encouraged me. By whipping her skirt off and dropping her bloomers. She sat on the bed, legs widely parted. Like Debbie's, her thighs were creamy and chubby. Her cunt was almost hidden by the clusters of cloudy, black hair surrounding it. I tickled the soft hair with my finger. The lips glared fire-red, coarse, urgently demanding action. Automatically, I pulled out my prong, dipping it over her damp opening. I dropped my pants; when they were at my feet, I mounted her.

You couldn't have wanted a more responsive cunt that Ruthie. Every thrust brought a complementary wriggle. She wasn't ashamed to solicit more action, convulsively bucking to draw an extra inch of prick into her. Raking my ass with restless fingers.

“Remember, I said I like 'em young. Very young.”

Before offering Debbie, I figured I'd better have a more definite statement. “Eighteen?” I asked, hopefully. Beth could pass for eighteen after a few highballs. Endicott didn't trouble to answer. “Seventeen?” I suggested, less hopefully.

Ruthie, who'd been adjusting her bloomers, joined the discussion. “I wouldn't let Clint play around with any grown-up tramp. Fourteen is the outside limit.”

“Fine!” I said, as if I meant it. “Fourteen and built. I'll be seeing you. Thank you, sir, madam.”

Fourteen and built! I didn't know a 14-year-old in any condition. Liquor couldn't take six or seven years off the obliging nympho. Why, even Ernie was 17. Ernie… Hadn't he been prattling about a girl friend? Jeannie, I think he called her. The reluctant young lady in the basement. The girl who demanded an engagement ring before cooperating.

There was a nice jewelry store down on Spruce Street.

I hated, to take time off for a trip to the cabin without a customer in tow. When I got there, I found that the natives were restless. Matt gruffly demanded one of the three C's: his Car, Cunt, or Cash. Beth wasn't demanding anything, but she looked somewhat mangy and hungry. The remedy was obvious enough, a couple of C's in her case: CoCk. Debbie sniffled sullenly in the corner. And the last of the inmates, Ernie, strutted around like a pimply pasha, grumbling about the idleness of life in the cabin. Translation: he had screwed the blonde to the point of no return. Now he sought new outlets. I took the kid aside.

“Ernie, I don't like to see a boy like you wasting his talents on Beth. You should be humping dewy gash now that you're experienced. Wait till you get your prick in a virgin-you'll know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean right now, mister. Got any virgins who want it?”

“No. But you have.”

Ernie looked boyishly puzzled. How many virgins lurked in his closet? I had to remind him. “Don't you remember your friend in the basement? Jeannie.”

“Yeah…” I could trace the course of his memory, slowly percolating down from his thick skull to his crotch. Apparently, he had forgotten the teen-aged cockteaser. That's what living with a nympho can do: makes a guy forget basics. A cunt is like an eraser-among other things.

“What about Jeannie?”

“I think this is the right time of year for you to make a pitch. Girls her age put out in summer more than in winter. It's a biological fact. If you treat her right, in the proper surroundings. No basement, that's unromantic. I have an idea or two. First-will her parents let her come out and play?”

“I reckon.”

Before pitting Jeannie's cherry, we had to make the ex-bellhop presentable. That involved getting him dressed to begin with. He had acquired the disgusting habit of wandering around all day in soiled Jockey shorts, if not totally bare ass.

Bribed by having her clit kissed, Beth was prevailed upon to make like a housewife. The age-old drudgery of washing and ironing. She washed Ernie's cock and ironed his chinos.

Within an hour, we set off to find Jeannie Larson.

Ernie was instructed to invite the girl to a party, supposedly to be given by a mutual school chum. I parked the car down the block from the palatial Larson house. In the rear-view mirror I could see Ernie walk up to the porch. The door opened.

Soon my protege emerged. He came up to me, his scrubbed face grinning with pleasure.

“All set. She'll be ready in a minute.”

“Good. Are you sure you explained to her parents that the party might not break up till late, but there'll be chaperons and all that crap?”

“Yeah. I told her mother.”

“What about Jeannie's father?”

“She don't have a father.”

Good, I thought, prematurely.

“She has a stepfather,” Ernie added. “I don't like Luke Larson nohow. Acts like he's Christ almighty since he got elected Police Chief in Prescott.”

Christ almighty! That's what comes of employing a schmuck like Ernie as talent scout. I could see where we'd have one slam-bang party! Mr. Endicott would no longer have confidence in me. Fuck him! I'd drive the police chief's stepdaughter out to the cabin, feed her a Coke, keep her out of Matt's clutches, and speed her homeward.

The review of these somber alternatives was interrupted by the sudden appearance of the young lady in question. Jeannie was truly a girl in a million. All decked out in her party dress and ready less than ten minutes after Ernie called for her. Poor kid must have been eager for an outing. Shame to waste a pretty dress on a ride in a jalopy, with a Coke at the end of the journey.

Shame to waste Jeannie! She wasn't blatantly sexy, but she had what it takes to stiffen a labe. The girl-next-door type. Tiny, not quite as high as my armpit. Slender, with masses of curly chestnut hair framing an oval face. Smiling. Looking forward to a happy, wholesome evening. Good for a fucking. Couldn't her mother have married a goddamned barber!

Her manner was charmingly girlish when she said, “Hi, Mr. Trent. I'm so glad to meet you.” She slid into the front seat, neatly squashed between me and her boy friend. Conversation languished; I started thinking.

In one way, Jeannie was unlike other girls. She didn't ask one fucking question. Come to think of it, her conduct was more than merely unusual-it was suspicious, unnatural. Why didn't she ask about the party, about our destination? Ernie couldn't have told her much; she should have been curious, inquisitive. Jeannie sat, hands folded primly in her lap. Quiet. Expectant.

The frigging old car didn't hit a rut in the road. Actually, the ride was surprisingly smooth. But a change had occurred on the crowded front seat. A subtle change. If I were unconscious or dead or queer, I might not have noticed. Those girlish hands with the slightly bitten fingernails weren't in Jeannie's lap any longer. They had shyly crept one inch west of my zipper.

I was getting groped by an expert.

Abruptly, I realized why Jeannie didn't ask any questions. She knew all the answers! She knew what she was getting into. I wished I did! A few yards away from the cabin, we exchanged one brief look of understanding. With Jeannie, winks weren't necessary.

“You get out here, Ernie. I just want to show Miss Larson the scenery before it gets dark.”

Ernie seemed inclined to protest, but a girlish shove sent him sprawling out of the car. I drove on toward the river. I had a helluva lot to accomplish before darkness fell.

There was no time to lose. I parked haphazardly, shrubbery brushing the fenders. I cleared my throat and started, “Look, Jeannie-”

“Don't talk, mister,” she interposed, impolitely, “Just fuck it into me!”

XI

I gave her straight fucking, hard fast lunge banging. The walls of her cunt gripped my cock, hugging the life out of it. Draining the juice like a vampire. Holding me in the vise till my spurting gism sizzled into the cauldron.

I shook my schlang and patted her shoulder.

“Honey, you're wonderful!” I said it sincerely, with feeling. Feeling her budding teen-aged knockers. The girl squirmed in a spasm of acute embarrassment. “What's the matter, sweetheart? Didn't anyone ever play with your titties?”

Jeannie shook her head shyly. What kind of a pervert had she hooked up with? I opened the top buttons of her dress, she cooperated bra-wise. Her boobies were buttery soft and crushable. I squeezed them together to make a two-nippled mouthful, and ate them. The nipples jutted out firm and erect, but that gave my tongue no pain. I sucked, giving little bites-nips that bring the bloom of roses to a girl's aureoles.

Jeannie moaned, “Darling, I didn't know it could be so wonderful. My titties ache, but it's such a sweet ache. Now I wish you would-”

“Fuck you again?”

“No. Please let me suck your prick.”

The guy who started Jeannie off may have been a pervert, but he could write a textbook on girl training. Maybe one day we could collaborate. Because, honest, that was the next item on the agenda: a blow job.

She took it greedily and I kept feeding it into her. Full length swipes of her tongue over my whacker. Her strong teeth brushed against it for body. The warmth of her throat muffled the slapping sounds as I pressed my prong toward her windpipe. She sucked it.

A forehead feels so cool against a guy's overheated bush. I knew my wiry hairs were leaving marks on her, imprints, tattooing. “You're my girl now,” was the message, “my favorite cocksucker.”

“Suck it!” I sent it down deeper, pumping faster.

Closing her hand on my balls, groaning. “I'm coming!” I gave her my gism. It had no place to go but downward. My gism gushed out, coursing straight down her gullet.

“Thanks, kid.” I drove back to park outside the cabin. “Wait in the car; I'll be back in a minute.” I raced in to warn the others to get ready. Then I headed for town to pick up the Endicotts, taking Jeannie with me.

To keep Clint Endicott in a state of productivity, I took precautionary measures. I requested Jeannie to sit on the floor in back, lightly covered by a sheet of tarpaulin. She agreed without asking questions.

The last precaution was to see that Clint took the front seat. Ruthie, however, insisted on sitting in back.

“I like to stretch my legs,” she said, in her earthy way. “Give my box a good airing.”

It was a bumpy ride out to the cabin. Clint kept passing remarks in raw language. A girl shouldn't listen to that kind of stuff. That tarpaulin wasn't soundproof. Ruthie appreciated her husband's humor. Every so often she'd give out with a high-pitched giggle.

In the dark outside the cabin, I helped Madam out of the flivver. It was light enough to see that Ruthie's handbag was wide open and she was tucking her discarded panties into an inner compartment. It was light enough to see also that the tarpaulin had been thrust aside.

Ruthie took my hand, smiling gratefully. “I declare! That girl's a novice at lapping, but she's good at a clit. I'd like to take her home with me.”

Ernie lurked in the doorway. It would have to be Ernie.

“Where's Jeannie?” he demanded. “Who's this old bag?”

“I don't think I like you,” Ruth declared, shortly. She dipped her hand daintily into Ernie's Jockeys and simpered. “Well, a girl can change her mind, can't she?” Suddenly, the farmer's wife shrieked in feminine terror. “Who's this!”

“My name's Matt, ma'am. I'm the artist. You wanna see my paintings or fuck first?”

Pleased by the artist's perspicacity, Ruth unhooked her bra and eased down her garterbelt. “Don't be shy, Sonny.” She drew Ernie to her.

Generous, round boobs and a flaming red twat had altered Matt's perspective. “Whaddya want that prick for?” he mumbled.

Faced with an intimate quandary, a woman turns to a woman. “Don't sulk, dearie,” Ruth coaxed the nympho. “Tell me, how do you rate them?” Instantly, we let her do her own rating, dropping our below-the-belt coverings and allowing our prongs to stand up to be counted. Only mine dangled. I was wondering how Jeannie was making out. Giving that problem the consideration it deserved soon gave me a hard-on.

Ruthie didn't rate us; she passed out assignments. Squeezing Matt's erection, then Ernie's, then mine, she said in that order, “In my cunt. In the kitchen. Yours I'll suck, darling.”

Ernie grumbled, “Why do I hafta go out to the kitchen?”

I advised him to stick around. Not all kitchens are for cooking.

Ruthie insisted that we toss all the bedroom furniture across the partition. “When I play three-holes roulette, I need plenty of leeway.” Then she noticed a dust stain marring the alabaster surface of her jumbo, left knocker. “Dust licking squad!” Ruthie snapped, and we tumbled into formation.

Beth was chosen to do the honors: sucking, licking, and nipping left boob and right boob. Our resident nympho proved to be as handy around titty as young Jeannie was around clitty. Matt muttered darkly about scab labor. But even Matt fell silent when the paying guest thundered, “What am I paying you guys for!”

Matt jockeyed himself into position, his dong tight on Ruthie's red cleft, courteously leaving room for another.

Ruthie was basically a homemaker, adept at serving her menfolk, especially skilled at serving herself as a sandwich. “You better go in first,” she suggested to Ernie.

“I can't, ma'am,” Ernie said, with the respect due to such a pretty, vermilion twat. “Matt's there already.”

“Darling,” Ruthie cooed, coaxingly, “when the parlor is occupied, you must go in through the kitchen.”

“The kitchen? Can't we do it here, ma'am?”

“Shove it up my ass, stupid!”

Given specific orders, Ernie knew how to obey. He knew nothing about finesse, how to probe a delicate pink bottom, murmuring endearments. How to tickle the muscles tenderly until they relaxed and he could start fucking. Ernie simply started fucking. Fortunately, the ass receiving his attention was soft and willing and vastly experienced.

Later Matt asked Beth to bring out the refreshments. The home-made brew, a kind of oat brandy flavored with cinnamon, made me cough and retch in a corner. Ruthie smacked her lips, offering to pay for the recipe.

“I'll give you the formula,” my buddy promised. “No charge. Some things around here are free. Like repeats.”

It was not exactly a repeat. I took her ass, Ernie drew a nearby aperture, and Matt got his schlang sucked.

Then it was Matt on ass, me on twat, Ernie under tongue.

Then it was-then it was time to check on Jeannie.

Clint had taken the girl out of the car. “Darling, are you sure you wouldn't wanna come home with me?” Jeannie shook her head and kept sucking. Her refusal didn't faze the farmer. He kept pumping, crushing the girl to him as he came in her mouth.

“Jeannie has to leave now.”

Clint accepted this pronouncement understandingly. Probably he had teen-aged daughters. He turned his back politely to hitch up his shorts while she dressed. “Here.” He pulled two bills out of his pocket, not bothering to examine them. “Give her this. I wish I could give her more.” In the dark I can spot a fifty, a fifty smells different from a ten or a twenty. Two fifties have a truly distinctive essence.

“Bye, Jeannie.” Endicott stuck his paw up her skirt to feel her juicy cunt one last time. The dirty old man! I started the motor.

The girl was neither talkative nor, apparently, traumatized. When I pulled up near her house-not too near-she said, “Thanks for a lovely evening.”

“I hope to see you again, Jeannie. Uh-you're not gonna tell-” Her gray eyes stared at me blankly. The kind of stare that makes a guy feel like a heel. As a sop to my conscience I pulled out a fiver. “Here, buy yourself something.” The bill fell to the floorboards. I guess she didn't see it.

“Good-bye, Jeannie.”

“Hey!” Ruthie called, “You're needed. This dude's exhausted.”

The raw-boned rustic pleaded, “Goddamn it, son, take over!”

My buddy pulled out of Ruthie's cunt, wiped his dick with my shirt-tail, and begged almost tearfully, “Please, Doug! Explain to 'er-I can't jazz her ass and her twat simultaneously.”

Ruthie had gulped down one oat brandy too many.

“It's quite true, Mrs. Endicott,” I explained, as I undressed all over again. “Matt can't plug two holes at once till he has his operation. Once he has his operation, he'll be glad to oblige.”

“I can't wait. Ain't any of you bastards had that operation?”

“Not yet. The hospital's overcrowded. Ladies around here have to rely on the two-pronged pachyderm.”

“Well, get me one of 'em critters. That's what I'm after, two good prongs.”

“I have a fine specimen of a two-pronged pachyderm back at the hotel,” I murmured.

That got her going. We bundled her off to the car. Clint returned to the cabin to collect various paraphernalia, such as garterbelt, shorts, and depleted wallet. He jabbed a finger or two into the nympho, regretting aloud that he had no more potent jabber to offer.

When he had her laid out properly on her bed in the hotel room, I washed my hands of it. Until a bleary voice from the bed shrieked, “Where's that fucking pachyderm?” The screams redoubled. Clint and I looked at each other in silent commiseration. Silently we rubbed our pricks against Ruthie's hips till the friction forged rigid weapons.

The two-pronged pachyderm sailed into action. Since Clint was her lawfully wedded husband, he took the cunt side. I rammed it into her asshole. Unless you're actually two-pronged, this kind of balling can injure a guy. Clint kept slapping his dick against the membrane, hitting my dong in the process. No synchronization. I evened the score by trying to unseat him. We battled like two knights jousting with slimy lances. We came simultaneously. Ruth was the winner: she got herself a good fucking.

XII

Richer but no wiser after the Endicotts went back to their silo, I contemplated life in Prescott. Shit! What did I have to show for long hours of pimping, debauching minors, peddling my own prick? Money. Money and a hang that felt slightly ragged in the morning.

Money's great. What I wanted was Carla.

With the vice concession in Prescott in my hip pocket, at the rate I was going I'd buy the fucking hotel soon. The hotel and the cashier that went with it. All a meaningless daydream! Carla Grant would never place her cool cunt on the auction block. I knew that instinctively and realized that was one reason I loved her.

Loved her! I thought I had complications. I hadn't even met Alec Holmes and Company yet.

That dappled pleasure I owed to my hardy rustic clients, the Endicotts. Therein lies a warning to all unwary advertisers: word-of-mouth can make strange music!

The Alec Holmes Troupe selected the hottest day in midsummer to make its appearance. Things were slow in Prescott-in the hotel as well as at the cabin. Summer in Iowa takes the starch out of you. Your collar wilts. You have to take your shirt off. Your prick wilts. Even a shower doesn't help much.

That morning, my freshly laundered uniform had that slept-in look. Surrounded by dusty valises, Alec Holmes could have come from another planet. He was one of those fat guys who doesn't sweat. His pants kept their crease over his blubber. Alec's idea of country clothes was to substitute a striped tie for a solid. His suit-all ten acres of it-could only be Brooks Brothers. In a balding, oversized, conservative way, he looked almost dapper. Experience told me: This guy's New York through and through. My sixth sense told me: The bastard's a potential rival.

Later I wondered why I had that feeling. I think it was that heavy gold ring on his right index finger. Not that legitimate gentlemen don't tote heavy gold rings. Only I'd been admiring its twin in a Prescott store window. A link between us. A bond. Pimp, meet Brother Pimp.

He signed in for three adjoining rooms, explaining that his friends were having breakfast and would be in later.

In the elevator, I forgot about the ring and tried to guess which one he'd buy, if any. Beth? Jeannie? The artist?

Or maybe me.

I distributed their luggage in the three rooms according to Fatso's directions. Then I waited expectantly for the tip and the proposition. Mr. Holmes didn't seem inclined to furnish either. With an immaculate, square handkerchief, he wiped his forehead dry.

“How do you make a living in this shithouse?” he inquired, conversationally.

That could be interpreted several ways. For instance, shithouse could refer to the homey room, the hotel, the town, or the fucking state of Iowa. It could be taken many ways. I chose the wrong one. Somehow I got the impression he wanted to give me a blow job. How did that enter my mind? Certainly not through his demeanor. There was no hint of the cocksucker in Alec's manly stance. No, I blame it on that frigging ring.

I answered his question perfunctorily. “Oh, I manage.”

He grinned, upper and lower plates glistening. For the first time, I smelled more than bourbon on Fatso's breath. I smelled bread. Buttered bread. C-notes. Call it belated intuition.

Still grinning, Alec murmured, “You look like a capable performer. I'm good at spotting uh-talent. Any experience?

“Yes, sir. Lots of experience. I may be an amateur, but they tell me I'm a very capable performer.”

Fatso nodded without further comment. If they're shy, prod 'em. “Are you a producer, sir?” I asked, trying to look innocent.

“Yeah.” He looked me up and down-like a producer would.

“Stage?” I asked.

“Films. That's what I specialize in. Films.”

Mentally, I winged toward Hollywood. Malibu, palms, klieg lights. I was halfway over the Rockies when Fatso drawled, “I might be able to use you. See, I need guys-actors-who don't get shy in front of a camera.”

There's no such animal as a camera-shy actor. Any producer should know that, though I wasn't about to tell him. Fatso added softly, “The actors I hire gotta be hung.”

My plane crashed in the mountains! So it was to be just a routine suck job. Alec Holmes was just another faggo. Using the hoariest approach in the repertoire. I had some theatrical connections before I started on my travels, so I know all about it. Half the guys hanging around producers' offices are sniffing around actresses' cunts. The other half have their tongues out on the track of prick. Stage door Marys.

I played it naive because they go for that. “Gee, I'm not shy, sir. And I'm hung. Honest! I'd give anything to break in the movies. I could er-audition.”

“Yeah, maybe you'd better.”

I unzippered, and unreeled my equipment. “I have ten inches when I get it up, mister,” I confessed, bashfully. Fatso surprised me. He glanced at the merchandise, murmured a casual, “Yeah,” and walked to the window.

I let it hang out. Not at all happy with his reaction. To be rejected by a prickeater!

Prodding hopefully, I whispered, “Gee, I'm horny. Why don't we-”

Fatso's teeth flashed again. “You think I wanna go down on you?” He threw his head back, roaring. I felt like a bellhop from Prescott. And I thought I could spot them! Covering up, I headed for the exit. Fatso puffed after me.

“Don't be in such a hurry, kid. We have some talking to do if you're gonna work for me.” He looked out the window again, impatiently. “Where are those bastards?” he grumbled. “What time is it, Doug?”

Doug? I knew his name from the register. How did he know mine if not by word-of-mouth? The sure way to find out is to ask, but Holmes noticed the puzzled look on my face and spoke before I could frame the question.

“You are Doug, aren't you? Surely there aren't two hustling bellhops in this outhouse.”

“Endicotts or the Rawlings?” I inquired, gently.

“I don't know the Rawlings?” Fatso explained, “but the Endicotts spoke highly of you. We came directly from the Endicott farm. Me and my superstars.”

Me and my superstars sounded like a cigarette commercial. I was too proud to beg for enlightenment, but Holmes again noted my baffled expression.

“Fran and Davey-my superstars,” he explained, not without a trace of pride. “Told you I was a producer, didn't I? Fran and Davey are the best fucks in the business. We're touring now, looking for fresh settings, new material. You'd be surprised how hard it is-”

Before he could talk more shop, there was a tentative knock at the door. Fatso went to open it, greeting the two newcomers paternally. “You took your fuckin' time about it. C'mon in an' meet Doug.”

My theatrical connections had included an off-Broadway actress and a playwright who wrote entirely in monosyllables. Golly! I'd never been introduced to a real live porno performer. I had the average layman's expectations. A blonde with too much lipstick and a frilly pair of panties. A stud wearing black socks, garters, a smirk, and a hard-on.

So much for expectations. Fran and Davey looked like your next-door neighbors. The female superstar was a skinny kid, not much higher than my elbow. Wavy black hair down to her shoulders, dark eyes to go with it. Neatly applied lipstick.

At first glance, Davey seemed even less professional. He looked like an illustration from a textbook on sadism. Or like a caveman in sport clothes. Short and squat, hair-matted, with bushy brows above close-set eyes. He was about ten years older than his co-star, but judging from his vacant expression I wouldn't care to estimate his mental age.

After presenting his little troupe, Holmes resumed his plaintive description of their odyssey. “You'd be surprised how hard it is, Doug. We sorta planned on using the natural resources of the country.”

“You know what I mean. Sailors and barmaids on the Coast, cowboys on the plains, rustic backgrounds and personnel in the sticks.”

“You're not getting me to screw an animal,” Miss Fran insisted.

“Those fuckin' cowboys!” Davey muttered.

Holmes made soothing noises. “The sailors were quite cooperative, and so were the barmaids. We have plenty of footage. But, as Davey so rightly commented, those fuckin' cowboys!”

“Two inch hard-ons,” Fran dismissed them grandly. “They're not normal. They'd rather suck each other's prick than suck my cunt.”

I tried to explain that long hours on the range tended to divert some westerners' interests. But Davey interposed _with a dark scowl, “Fags, that's what they are. Wouldn't take it up the ass without buckin' up and down like broncos. Spoiled one take after another.”

“I have talent for you,” I promised. “Grade A, non-professional, non-temperamental talent.”

Fatso beamed. “That's what I like to hear, boy. You play ball with me, you won't be sorry.”

While he was in a cheerful mood, I described the cabin inmates. He heard me out with moderate enthusiasm. Fran idly gazed at her nail polish. Davey didn't seem to be listening.

“We'll rest up today,” the impresario decided. “If it's sunny tomorrow, we start shooting.”

“How about tonight?”

“yeah.” Fatso had no business answering. My question was directed exclusively to the diminutive female superstar. “Yeah. A nice little indoor domestic drama. Hotel guest-bellboy-husband. Gimme a minute to work out the details.” He grinned, happy to be back in harness. Beaming at me, he said, “Bet you're excited, getting into the movies.”

Getting into the movies, balls! All I wanted to do was get into the half-pint superstar.

XIII

The day of my debut as an actor, I sweated over a flurry of hotel activity. A party of yokels arrived, long past the age of dalliance, but just at the age when they had to have chewing tobacco. I got my ass sent out on errands. And a whole dime tip for my efforts.

Meanwhile, I was trying to prepare for my new career. Just how does a porno performer prepare himself? Abstinence before appearing on camera would seem like a sensible rule. It was too late for that, however. I pulled on my whang for luck. Examined my teeth in the mirror. Smiled, and decided my left profile was more soulful. Gee, I'd have to remember that when I was boffing Miss Fran.

How would it feel to do it with a camera trained on my partner's box? I came to the conclusion that I would simply ignore the camera. It was Fran's snatch. Let her worry about it.

I dashed out for a bite of dinner before show time, wondering if there would be rehearsals. Carla was just tidying her desk as I left the hotel. I hesitated. If I'd asked her to dinner, she'd have accepted. I felt it in my bones. Let Alex Holmes fuck himself. Or let him fuck Fran, while Davey ran the camera. A hamburger shared with Carla would be worth ten careers.

Then I thought of the disjointed, bedraggled group at the cabin. Matt and Beth. Ernie, Debbie. They weren't much, but they depended on me. A guy has to look after his responsibilities, right?

There was a further consideration. Two of them, to be technical. Fran's lips. How would they look with my cock coming at them? Petulant? Dreamy? Vulnerable? Parted?

I dined alone that evening.

After dinner, I dressed carefully before going up to Alec's room While dressing, now that curtain time was approaching, I realized that a porno actor needs no preparation. My prick stood plank-stiff already.

“You horse's ass!” the producer greeted me, affectionately. “Wanna screw up my scenario? You're supposed to be a bellhop.”

Alec's rudimentary plot outline had slipped my mind in the course of the day. “Can't I just act like a bellhop and fuck her in chinos?” I demanded.

Alec, however, was a stickler for details. I had to scurry down to my cubbyhole and crawl back into my discarded uniform. When I returned, Alec flung the door open. “That's better. C'mon in.”

I had to hand it to Fatso. He really was a producer. Out of a perfectly ordinary hotel room, he had produced an intriguing stage set. Portable floodlights illuminated the bed, a strip of carpet, the dramatically outlined window. You felt that something thrilling was about to happen. Something worth recording.

The girl on the bed helped foster that illusion.

Fran was obviously in her element. On stage. Ready to do what she did best. Ready to emote. To get fucked. She sat up in bed, demure among the pillows. Bare-titted. Her boobs were like vultures. Red-beaked, pointed, hungry. Under the covers I knew she was naked down to her toenails. I wanted to forget the scenario. Just dive in and bang her. That's the bellhop's role in a nutshell.

One glance at the other occupant of the room and I even forgot Fran momentarily. What scenario had Davey the caveman wandered out of? He was dressed in-or peeled down to-a pair of skin-hugging bathing trunks. Plus the male porno star's stigmata: black socks with garters. He looked like something washed up on a beach after an orgy, covered with hair instead of seaweed. Being a true man of experience, he seemed vastly disinterested.

I turned to Alec. “I'm the bellhop. Fran's the hotel guest. I take it he's the outraged husband.”

“We changed the plot. Davey's gonna be a cat burglar.”

“In that get-up?”

“Saves time,” Davey grumbled, kindly. “You can't waste a lotta footage showin' a stud takin' his clothes off.”

“He's a cat burglar in Miami,” Alec supplied, impatiently. “Now that that's settled, let's get started, huh. Here's the story. Fran is all alone in her hotel room. She's sorta hot and she frigs herself. Then she remembers the bellboy. She calls for room service. You come up-and she gets serviced. Now you step out, — Doug. In just forty seconds I'm gonna pan to the door. In forty seconds, you come in, and take it on from there. Okay, Fran.”

I had just enough time to glimpse the dark-haired girl reach for her twat with one hand, the telephone with the other. I went out into the corridor. Forty seconds later, I made my debut on film. Looking like a bellhop, feeling like a fool, walking with a fat hard-on.

Foiled! Fran had cunningly readjusted the covers.

This was a silent epic. So it was surprising to hear the girl on the bed sing out in clear, almost realistic tones, “I thought you'd never get here. Please fetch me my bag.”

For the benefit of lipreaders among the masturbators who would one day applaud Boffed by the Bellhop at smokers throughout the nation, we had to improvise dialogue. Since I was, after all, more or less a card-carrying bellhop, that part came to me easy. “Yes, madam,” I improvised.

Then I made a mistake. The muff had ordered, “Fetch my bag.” Being a bellhop, I looked around for a travel bag. “Her handbag, stupid!” the cameraman-director-producer growled. “It's on the dresser.”

I fetched milady her fucking handbag.

Simpering prettily for the camera, Fran extracted a comb and a mirror and started to comb her long tresses. Neither the hand that holds up the mirror nor the hand that holds the comb can pay much attention to keeping sheets in place. The sheets became artfully disarranged, and Fran's knockers artlessly peeped through.

I realized that with that wealth of attraction on display, Eric's camera was trained on me. “You see bare tits, bellhop,” our director directed. “React!”

I hammed it up like a stock company Hamlet. Rolling my eyes, licking my lips, scratching my nuts. All wasted after the first ten seconds. The camera was back where it belonged. On Fran.

From the rhythmic motions of her hand under the covers, she was either combing her thatch or finger-fucking herself. Future audiences and I were left in doubt for only a quarter of a minute-although it seemed longer. This wasn't a suspense story.

I looked on in rapt admiration. The bush getting the public beauty treatment was luxuriant, forest thick, and silky. It didn't need a comb. It needed roving fingers. Mine. I reached out to stroke the shining rug.

“Smile, bellhop!”

Automatically I smiled. It's tough being an actor. You have to sublimate your emotions, curb your natural inclinations. In real life, would I smile at such a time? Horseshit. I'd dive in there and nuzzle. Maybe chomp a little. But, smile? Never.

The camera is a cruel mistress and a mean inhibitor-or whatever it is that causes inhibitions. I obeyed instantly. I smiled. And when the camera, speaking through Alec, ordered, “Drop your pants,” I dropped them.

One thing I like about my inhibitions: when my pants are down, I lose them. That's a great advantage for a porno performer. A lens focused on your jock, after all, presents a challenge. You have to make it look its best for all the folks out there. I held up my erection, squeezing it gently, while Alec covered all the angles.

Before I succeeded in squeezing out an orgasm, Alec had swiveled to my co-star. Fran was registering a bevy of emotions, none conflicting, all indicating desire for a stiff prick up her twat.

Fran's dialogue was explicit. “Fuck me!” she demanded, in six breathless letters. That may or may not have been in the scenario.

About to obey the command of a lady, I found myself elbowed aside by a whale of an elbow. Our director-cameraman-producer shrewdly realized that more than a verbal direction would be needed to keep me off the bed at this point. Ignominiously cast aside, I finished my strip act while Alec hovered nearby, his back to me. Davey's dictum was accurate. No footage was wasted on mere stud stripping when there was a cunt to concentrate on.

Close-ups! If the lens had an extension, that extension would be doing my job, deep in Miss Fran's pussy. After a variety of shots had been taken, I got the nod from Alec. At last I had the chance for an unimpaired view of the twat all the fuss was about.

A twat. Pale rose in the midst of the foliage. Faintly moist, as delicate as Jeannie's. Soft, pulsating. The cunt lips were as vulnerable as Fran's lips. Finding himself faced with that sweet flesh swaying under his power impels a guy forward. That's when he starts fucking or raping. Don't blame it on sex drive or animal instincts. Blame it on vulnerable labia. Rosy flesh yawning non-resistant and helpless and cloying before him.

I mounted her. Cleared a path with my dong through the forest, poised at the gates, and girded for the invasion.

I clean forgot about the camera. As I started to ball her, I kept hearing a voice in the distance. Alec direction. “You're going too fast-too slow-speed it up-take it easy.” Directions handed out haphazardly, not really meant to be heard, much less heeded. Foreplay can be directed. The telephone bit, the action with the comb, a tit-squeeze-“Hey! Watch it, bellhop, you're hiding her nipple!”

Although she had heatedly requested the pleasure of my prick in her pussy, Miss Fran wasn't overly responsive. She enjoyed only two orgasms-both vaginal and recorded in fullcolor close-up. Her relative languor made me angry. Righteous anger is an invaluable adjunct to fucking. I got it out of my system by boffing her ruthlessly. If you didn't happen to see my ass twitching, you might not suspect I was unloading.

Alec suspected.

Vaguely, I heard Fatso order, “Pull out. Pull out, you son of a bitch!”

His indignation was unfeigned. I had broken a cardinal rule of porno production. Every epic must show a girl inserting finger, candle, or chair leg, depending on exigencies of plot and circumstance. And regardless of plot and circumstance, a stud's first load must not be squandered on twat, tongue, or cupped palm. Cream should be seen gushing freely, unhindered, in the open.

Futile cries of “Pull out, you bastard!” continued to accompany my squirting. Fuck the director! I wouldn't pull out if he offered me a long-term contract with residuals. A screwed cunt needs that soothing gism. Only a heel would deny it. Anyway, I like to stay in till I'm limp; otherwise I feel short-changed.

End of Reel One.

Picture the coffee break. The two stars contentedly bare ass. The porcine director mentally counting his profits. The caveman lurking in the wings in his socks and garters, awaiting the call to action. Stir your cloddish imagination. Would a lousy cup of coffee be appropriate? Champagne, a vintage wine, perhaps a dash of absinthe for flavor. Sly glances exchanged among the happy company, with an especially warm glance between male co-star and female. Languorous mewing from the latter. “Darling, you were wonderful. Meet me after the performance. We'll put on our show.

Give your imagination a two-week vacation. There was no vintage wine, no absinthe, not even coffee. The sly glances were mostly at wristwatches. Alec spent nearly an hour adjusting his camera while the happy company stood by, glum and idle. You couldn't say Davey was lurking. He sprawled in the most comfortable easy chair, periodically snapping his garters. One more snap and I jump him, I promised myself. But I'm a law abiding citizen. Davey kept snapping, and I kept inching toward Fran.

“Places everybody.”

We took our places. Davey, in his avant garde, cat burglar regalia, bounded up to the window ledge. Fran and I resumed our horizontal position. Before the camera started whirring, my schlang started stirring. Nature before art.

Davey became the center of attention. A guy bent on burglary who discovers there's better loot to be grabbed. The camera turned briefly on Fran below the waist and above the dimpled kneecap, just to make sure that the audience got the message. Then to make sure that the burglar received the same message, he had to exhibit his receiver. Pulling down his trunks, with the vacuous grin he wore on all state occasions, Davey unveiled it. He wasn't in heat yet. But you could tell that the cunt who won that cock was due for a bumpy ride, if not an internal hemorrhage.

In order to keep the plot churning, Fran and I had to play deaf, dumb, and insensitive to vibrations. The burglar crept toward us with the stealthy approach of an elephant in sneakers. Crept up till he hovered over us, putting me out of my misery-and out of camera range-with a realistic right to my jaw.

That left poor Fran utterly defenseless, prey to the thief's lust and to Alec's shouted directions. She emoted like a seasoned trollop trouper, but Davey gave a truly bravura performance.

The grizzled genital giant proved to be a slow riser. Gazing at a naked cunt didn't seem to give him a hard-on. I perched on the sidelines at the foot of the bed while he hunched over the supposedly terrified lady. This wasn't going to be eligible for the Academy awards, yet it was fabulous acting. You could swear Davey was a real-life rapist, Fran an unwilling victim. When he bent over her, she tried to put her hand over her silky triangle in a pitiful gesture. Davey simply stuck his paw over her hand, blunt fingers tearing her legs open. Fran's delicate twat in its tender beauty. The rapist speared two fingers between the quivering labia. Probing her cunt, he forced her to handle his ramrod. The immense whacker had started to stiffen. Fran kept stroking it till the poker stood rigid. A foot of throbbing flesh, thick as my fist, big enough to start the girl dripping.

Davey posed, the tip of his labe resting flush on Fran's box. She seemed to be struggling. To evade the monster or to welcome it? Following Alec's directions or her own inclinations? You couldn't be sure from the sidelines.

At that crucial point in the action, Alec called out, “Hold it.” One of the lights had blinked out. Only a director would notice. During the enforced intermission, our burglar realized he lacked an essential item of his calling.

“Hey! I forgot my mask!” he exclaimed.

“No one's gonna look at your face,” Alec assured him. “Anyway, your fans'll recognize you, mask or no mask.”

Davey wondered aloud, “How the fuck would anyone recognize me?” When the question remained unanswered, he dropped the subject, lit a cigarette, and helped Alec with the uncooperative light. In a few minutes shooting continued.

They took up precisely the same position as before, Davey just barely in the saddle. The guy couldn't have been human. With his stiff rod poised on the honeypot, he looked up for the director's signal. Alec gave him the go-ahead sign that Fran's snatch had long since given.

“Take it slow,” Fatso ordered.

“Take it slow,” I echoed, silently, “you'll kill her.”

The camera practically touched their bodies; and I was so close, my breath damn near clouded the lens. The swollen head of Davey's organ slowly disappeared into the narrow cleft. Thanks to a kindly director, Fran was accorded a few seconds respite, a moment to accommodate the monstrous intruder. Davey showed steel-spring control. He slid in millimeter by millimeter.

I thought Fran couldn't take it. Half stuffed, she began churning, grinding her hips, screaming. Shrill, incoherent, her cries resounded, “Give it to me! Fuck me!”

“Fuck her! You're torturing the kid!”

Davey kept up his own pace. I stepped forward with some half-ass idea of offering assistance. Beating him up. Sticking my finger up his ass, making him stop the torment. Alec elbowed me backward and Davey resumed the slow motion balling. He must have been human after all. The last three inches of his inflated thumper went in with a swoop, maybe in spite of itself.

Now Fran reverted to the primeval. Stuffed to the gut by Davey's treetrunk, impaled, she shivered and shrieked like a seagull. Eyes glazed, unseeing, lost to rapture, legs revolving, fingers blindly clutching his hairy body. In to the hilt, belly to belly, he held himself motionless.

“Ride her. Fuck her.” Even Alec sounded excited.

Davey gave Fran a plodding, methodical fucking, like cavemen must have given to caveladies. In to the womb, then out, leaving only an inch or two as a deposit. His long pole glistening with slime. He sheathed it into her pussy, withdrew, sheathed it. At the last minute, the tempo accelerated. Without the customary signs of warning, I knew Davey was coming.

Without the command from the director, Davey pulled out, shaking his dick toward the camera. A heavy jet of gism spurted out. Another. Davey remained absolutely expressionless. I couldn't fathom the bastard. At least if the son of a bitch were grinning! At least if he enjoyed interrupting a fuck to show his cream gushing. That would be understandable, queer but understandable. I hated him.

“That just about wraps it up, kids. Now for a fast finale. Bellhop, you wake out of your stupor. One on each side of the lady, you shake hands like gentlemen and-” Alec spoke rapidly, but not rapidly enough. I heard every word, “-like gentlemen and then you take a quick swing on it.”

I called an emergency, unilateral, actor's strike.

“I'm not taking that worm in my mouth!” Not on film. Not in front of a lady. Not that worm.

Davey ignored the innuendo and acted more friendly than he had since I met him. “Gee, Doug, ya gotta! That's a very good finale, two studs suckin'.” I remained adamant and Davey remained friendly. “We all do it. See, if there were two girls, they'd be suckin' each other, one on each side of me or whoever the stud was.”

I shook my head stubbornly. “Geez, I hate fags myself, but there's nothin' queer about kissin' prick for a finale. It'll Only take a minute.” Davey played his trump card. “Why, I don't even have a hard-on,” he said, after examining himself briefly. Then he turned to Alec. “What do we do afterward? Tell him.”

Alec said evenly, “For la creme de la finale, you chew on Fran's tits. One each.” I surrendered.

“Big day tomorrow.”

Fuck his big day tomorrow. It was still early. I had a bottle of rye in my closet and there might be some gin left. Enough to toast my new colleagues and help along a friendly discussion among fellow workers. In my room after lights out.

I tapped on Fran's door, then on Davey's. They accepted my invitation with a giggle and a grunt, respectively. I rushed down to my room to wash out the glasses and put on my pajamas. Whistling as I rinsed.

Filming was over but the evening had only started.

XIV

I apologized for the missing ice cubes.

Fran tucked in the folds of her dressing gown. She hoisted the glass to her lips, her little finger crooked delicately but not ostentatiously.

Pouring fresh drinks for my guests, I had to bite back the question: How did you get into the movies? Under the circumstances it would sound too much like the classic: How did a nice girl like you become a prostie?

Fran was perceptive. She guessed at my unspoken question. Or maybe she just liked to talk about it.

“I'll bet you're wondering how a sweet girl like me broke into the profession.” She glanced at Davey, glowering in his corner. “Ever since I was a tot, I loved acting. When I grew a little older, I found something else to love.” Another glance toward the caveman.

Davey had stopped glowering. He was smiling fondly, not grinning. Smiling. As if what he felt for Fran was more than the easy lust of a rapist on camera. So Davey was susceptible. Who would have thought it! The cocksucker.

“I grew up loving a good fuck,” Fran explained, just in case I couldn't put two glances together. “How can a girl combine love of acting and love of fucking?” Fran posed a rhetorical question. Obviously she had achieved the winning combination.

“It took a little time. I lived in St. Louis, you see. Everything takes longer in St. Louis. First, I modeled and did some amateur dramatics. Then, I was lucky. A folio of my pictures caught the eye of the sweetest man in the business. Alec.”

That wasn't precisely the adjective I'd use to describe Fatso. Fran, however, assured me that he deserved every kind word in the dictionary.

“I owe a lot to Alec. He's not like other producers. He pays cash and he doesn't bother his actresses.”

“Or his actors,” Davey appended, solemnly.

“He's got a perfectly lovely wife back in Montclair.”

“That's a town in New Jersey,” Davey proffered, with the air of a conjuror.

“Alec's a real producer, an all-around man. He does the photography, thinks up stories, chooses the setting, finds the talent. If our films weren't silent, he'd compose the music. He knows how to take an ordinary girl like me and make her a superstar,” she said, without blushing.

“You're not ordinary,” I inserted, automatically. Now that I looked at her, I couldn't put my finger on any extraordinary features. Except those vulnerable lips and that vulnerable vulva. With unusual perception, for one of my forthright nature, I saw the girl filtered through the eyes of the producer. She radiated one quality appealing to any male viewer. Cock-vulnerability. What prick could resist it?

“My hair's not exciting. I'm not the frilly, false eyelashes type. Yet, after he saw my folio, Alec predicted that certain men would respond to my uh-”

“Any man would respond to you,” I responded.

“Balls. I know my limitations. I'm not like Davey. Every female flips for Davey.”

Davey replied to this compliment with a reaction typically Davey. His stubbly cheeks were suddenly suffused with color. Helpfully, he explained, “She means I have a big putz.”

Our party wasn't proceeding according to schedule. In order to keep the cunt talking and to account for my rising ramrod, I asked a leading question. “Tell me, Fran, as a performer do you have to obey all the director's orders?”

“Am I versatile? You can't get far in this racket unless you do a little of everything.” Fran patted her hair complacently. “My fans like to see me in different positions. Only I refuse to fuck animals. And I hate Lesbians.”

“Do you feel that way too, Davey?”

“Nah. Lezzies aren't too bad once you're in 'em.”

Fran interrupted Davey's reverie to expound on her subject. “A girl has to be versatile. Like if I was working in an office, I'd be filing and typing and running the mimeograph. This way I take it in the cunt, in the ass, between the tits, or what have you.”

I knew what I had all right. I tried to conceal it by busying myself with the liquor supply again.

“Tonight was my debut, you know,” I offered shyly, to my leading lady.

“No kiddin'!” Davey interposed. Why the fuck did I have to go and invite Davey!

“Were you nervous your first time out, Fran?”

Fran giggled. “I was too busy to be nervous. I was the only girl in a cast of thousands-it seemed like thousands. Alec called it The Baby-Layer. What a god-awful title. See, I played a babysitter. Babysitter, baby-layer. We shot that right out in the suburbs of St. Louis, in the cutest little frame house. Alec rented it just for the evening. The house and the owner and the baby.”

“The house and the owner and the baby?”

“Yes,” Fran explained, “the whole cast was non-professional. The owner of the house took part in the production. I think he was a widower or his wife was away that night. And he lent us the baby because a baby was essential since I played a babysitter. Anyway, he wasn't really a baby; he looked about seven, maybe eight.

“Alec was very clever. He didn't have too much cash then. So he got together a group of guys who were going out whoring. He told them if they'd help him out, he'd help them out, and it wouldn't cost them a penny. Sometimes it's better to use amateurs, they're more realistic in the clinch.

“I put the kid to bed, then I went down to the living room. I was supposed to be sort of restless, alone in the house with nothing to do. I sat on the couch with my legs up, rubbing my thighs together. You know-the horny heroine bit.

“Then came the invasion. The men were supposed to be a motorcycle gang, looking for gas or something. They burst into the living room, lugging in a Honda for realism. And of course I had to take them on, one after another.” Fran yawned artistically. “It's the basic plot, nothing imaginative, but it was wonderful training for a beginner. And the fellows were all considerate. They didn't try any tricks. No more than two at a time. The finale was adorable-”

A deep-throated growl from Davey interrupted Fran's narrative. Shocking manners. Or perhaps he'd heard the story before. I turned to the lady, dripping gallantry to counteract the caveman's boorish behavior. “What was the adorable finale, honey? Close-ups of your cunt?”

“Oh, no,” Fran answered, seriously. “Alec had done the close-ups much earlier. For the finale I was stretched out on the living room floor, alone again, after the gang was through with me. Then the little boy I was sitting for crept in. He looked so cute, his pajamas falling, his little prick hanging out. You should have heard Alec direct him. Why, the boy's own father couldn't have been more impatient. He tried to get the kid to mount me. But at that age boys are clumsy-American boys, I mean. So I sucked it for him.

“I love to go down on little boys,” Fran admitted, without gushing or blushing. “They're adorable. They're-”

Davey displayed even worse manners. Indecorously and indiscreetly, he provided a further diversion. Halting the speaker by making speech impossible. Davey's pajamas weren't falling. Wide-open, but not falling. He looked more aggressive than adorable. The most timid bank clerk looks aggressive when getting his prick licked, unless he's imbibing one simultaneously. Evidently, Fran found the brute adorable. She kept sucking.

Davey was the first to break away. He covered his bone with an acre of striped pajama pants and actually simpered. Now I was glowering. I judged it best to ignore the entire disgraceful episode since I hadn't been invited to participate. Gnashing my teeth when no one was looking, I said, “I'm glad your first performance went smoothly.”

“No complaints,” Fran agreed. “Though when the shooting was over, the owner of the house started to get obnoxious. That's my pet peeve. Ugh!” She hunched her slim shoulders and wriggled her nose in disdain. “When a guy thinks just because we've acted together he has special privileges.”

Warning received and duly noted! But that bastard Davey seemed to be under the impression that he had special privileges. From what I'd just witnessed, Fran was laboring under the very same delusion. I let it slide. They were my guests, right? Still, I couldn't feel real hostlike toward Davey. It hurt me to see the pervert smirking back in his corner.

“What about you, Davey? What did you do when you started out in the biz? Multiple suck jobs?”

He reminded me of Matt. Like my buddy at the cabin, he had such a sunny disposition. Davey was never more polite than when he was being insulted. The fact that the insults were way over his noggin accounted for only part of his good humor. Underneath the grisly exterior, in spite of his lack of social acumen, Davey was a thoroughly good guy. Aware of this for the first time, I was tempted to pat the lug's shoulder. But I avoided all equivocal gestures. Not with that cock!

Apparently the gentleman was engrossed in recalling the details of his premiere porno appearance. Before I pulled out paper and pencil to prod his memory, he spoke up. “Wuzn't a single suck job in the whole shootin' match.” Unexpectedly, he turned to the lady for confirmation. “Wuz there, Fran?”

Fran murmured an answer. I wasn't paying attention; the significance of Davey's query had dawned on me. “Did you play in Davey's first porno?” I blurted.

Fran threw out a careless affirmative. Davey was more eloquent. “You bet your broad butt she played in it. Fran's been in every fuckin' movie I ever made, 'cept Browned in the Barracks. That wuz all guys,” he added, quite unnecessarily.

Fran looked the way I want my wife to look on our honeymoon. Ready to die for the cock that was teasing her. Sounding as if she meant it, she poured out the magic words from the vortex of her delirium. “Now, Davey! Now! Fuck me!”

No millimeter by millimeter pussyfooting. Davey slammed his erection into the furry slot and started hammering. He slid so haphazardly into the saddle-moved so fast-that I wasn't sure he was truly in her till he was halfway over the hill and she was screeching in ecstasy.

If this was a test of staying power, Davey failed dismally. Ninety seconds later he rolled off her. I wouldn't say he'd flunked, though. Not with the echoes of Fran's mewing ringing in my ears. Mewing! All it takes is the right tomcat.

Fran smiled at me affectionately.

“I thought you don't like a fella to take special privileges after the shooting is over.”

“It's different with Davey and me,” Fran said, after a moment. “We're like brother and sister.”

“Like brother and sister, huh?”

“Why shouldn't we be like a fuckin'brother and sister?” Davey, the helpful purveyor of miscellaneous information, grunted. “Wears brother and sister.”

XV

Incest is sinful only when those who benefit most directly start to talk about it. There's no more compulsive chatterer than a girl fresh from fucking her brother, uncle, first cousin, poppa, or grandpa. That's why so many hard-working, hard-screwing fathers are right this minute planning prison riots. Men are almost as talkative, being naturally boastful. One glaring exception is the son who balls his mother-regularly or on a single impetuous occasion. I never yet heard a live-action motherfucker declare himself.

When Davey blurted out the awful truth, Fran laughed nervously. Batting her eyelashes at low speed, she whispered, “I guess you think I'm terrible, Doug.”

“I don't think you're terrible. I think you're kinda cute.” I spoke jauntily, but I was as nervous as Fran, or more so. Davey-just Davey-was bad enough. Davey the Number One Brother and Lover was a formidable rival. “I have nothing against incest,” I assured the sere wed-up siblings. “Some of my best friends are perver-perverse in their inclinations.”

Fran stretched contentedly. “I'm glad you're not like some strait-laced motherfuckers. We can talk to you. You're one of us.”

Technically, I wasn't. True, I had a sister. But I'd never touched her.

“I never touched her till she had hair on her cookie,” Davey declared, virtuously.

I admired his restraint with what enthusiasm I could muster. Fran, however, amended her brother's statement. “Davey's six years older than me. He was fourteen, I was eight when we started.”

“Gee, did you have hair on your cookie at eight? That's phenomenal!”

“I had hair there when he rubbed his fuzzy bush on it,” Fran giggled. Then she threw her arms around her favorite relative. “Isn't he gorgeous! You don't know how comforting it is for a growing girl to have a prick available whenever she wants it. Who needs sex education!” She wagged her finger at Davey. “For months all he'd let me do was blow him ”

They proceeded to forget my presence and indulge in one of those dreary family arguments. Hadn't she given him his first blow job the day after Thanksgiving? How long had he made her suck him before he screwed her? Was she still cherry on her ninth birthday? Or had Davey plucked it during the preceding Christmas week? Every fuck they shared had some festive connotation.

I stilled yawns while they squabbled. A triumphant exclamation from Fran made me sit up. “Davey darling, I remember distinctly! You didn't peddle me to Red and Kevin till the day they took Aunt Helen to the hospital. That was on a Good Friday.”

“Good Lord! Davey, did you really peddle your own sister, a nine-year-old girl?”

“Red and Kevin were my best buddies,” Davey protested.

“Red was a doll, a real clit worshipper. I never thought much about my clitty till I met Red. Kevin was altogether different. A fast ride, and back to his homework. Anyway, Davey gave me a dime each time I was with them,” Fran added, loyally.

“They seldom paid more than a quarter,” Davey said, with a trace of righteous indignation. “An' how many times did I hafta shell out carfare to bring 'em!”

I soothed the ruffled ruffian by assuring him that he was indeed one brother in a million.

“All that precious training-sucking Davey's tool when he was a boy, makes me go down for youngsters even today,” Fran mused, aloud. “If only Davey were younger.”

“I wish she'd fix her hair,” Davey grunted, in retaliation. “I dig blondes. It's my weakness.”

Impasse. Fran refused to bleach her hair. Davey couldn't get any younger. Bravely, they carried on anyway.

We had scraped the bottom of the booze barrel. When my next yawn came, I made no effort to stifle it. Davey, with logic known only to Davey, interpreted this as a groan of passion. He patted my shoulder sympathetically. “G'head, kid, you c'n screw 'er.”

“Big day tomorrow,” I observed, to the ceiling. I demurred… not out of squeamishness. Not economy, either; I could afford a quarter. Honest, I wasn't all that eager. Jacking off while Davey had boffed her deadened my appetite and left me deflated. Let that serve as a warning! If solitary whang-whacking doesn't grow warts on your fingers, it'll weaken you and thin out your cream and make you unfit for normal relations. So drop it. Right now! Drop it!

Weakened though I was, I bowed to persuasion. “Just a quickie,” I promised. But though Davey had been off in ninety seconds, it took me three minutes. Meanwhile, back at the cabin…

Back at the cabin the aborigines were sunk in after-fuck apathy.

Luckily it was my day off from bellhopping. I rode up to my little band of loved ones before breakfast. In the hazy morning light, I recognized a familiar figure facing the bushes at the side of the shack. Matt… mingling his piss with the dewdrops.

“Pray for the sun to come out, Matt. If the sun comes out, our ship comes in. A brand new career. The kind of work you like best, this is it, boy. Gold, Glory, and Cash!”

Matt seemed uncharacteristically skeptical.

“You do a lot of talking, Doug, but what do you produce?”

“I didn't produce Margo for you, did I? Or Ruthie?”

He could counter only with a feeble, “Yeah, but-”

“Yeah, but! But now I'm not producing. We're a step upward, all of us. We have a real producer. A genuine, professional producer.”

Mollified, Matt asked, “He got any good stuff for me?”

Ignorant, unlettered bastard, my buddy confused producer with procurer. I tried to explain the difference, but had to abandon the attempt. In Alec's case, the dividing line was too flimsy. An unimaginative stud like Matt wouldn't appreciate the fine points until he met Alec. And Fran. And the camera.

In the kitchen quarters, Beth was cooking something oily, with pimentos. She looked at ease and at peace with the world, which is more than you can say for the average nympho. But how many nymphos share a cabin with Matt and Ernie?

Remembering Davey's predilection, I suggested that Beth touch her hair up.

She patted her shining gold tresses. “No one's platinum these days,” she said, complacently. “I'm keeping my natural shade.”

“I didn't say dye it, darling. Comb it.”

She tossed those fucking golden curls till they were in danger of sizzling in the frying pan.

“Don't do it for me. Just for a friend of mine. A lad with twelve inches and only one fault.”

“What's that?”

“He has no sense of time. Once he gets himself in a hole, he stays there. An hour… ninety minutes.”

Beth's grasp of arithmetic was astounding. She added up 12 and 90, and the sum was reflected in her eager eyes. Alec would like her. She'd be a natural. I could see how she'd appeal to guys immune to Fran's charms. The perfect contrast.

My special protege, Ernie, also needed a pep talk. He had that bright-eyed, sassy look of a stud who funnels his gism into the proper channels. No hand jobs for Master Ernie. Except for a few livid welts scattered on his chest, back, and thighs, you'd never suspect he shared the cabin and channels with Matt.

“Get your drawers on, Ernie. Guests are expected.”

Ernie reluctantly searched for his Jockeys. I regretted giving that order. Alec might want to use him in his natural state. Well, how long does it take a red-blooded kid to drop a pair of Jockeys?

When the little group was gathered round me, I exploded my bombshell.

“We're gonna be in the movies!”

“What's playing?” Beth wondered. “I haven't been to a show since April,” Matt offered. “Movies gimme a headache,” Ernie mumbled. With a group like that, you have to be super-explicit. “We're not going to the movies, we're gonna be in the movies.”

Three puzzled expressions remained puzzled. I started again, speaking slowly. “The movie is gonna be made here and we-are-going-to-act-in-it.”

Matt frowned. “What're you talking about, Doug? We don't know how to act.”

“You know how to fuck, don't you?”

His brow cleared. “Y' mean the movie'll be like the ones I used to see in the penny arcade in Des Moines? What the Butler Saw; The Naughty Floradora; and like that.”

“The cinema has come a long way since then, Matthew. Now the butler isn't peeking; he's participating, screwing.”

“Then this friend of yours, the producer-he's a real producer, huh? Like Charlie Chaplin?”

“More like Hitchcock. You'll see. Now do you all have the picture?”

Matt nodded. Beth was still engrossed in mental arithmetic. Only Ernie required further elucidation. He had never visited the penny arcade. I outlined the essential situation. “My friend's bringing a chick for you. While you ball her, he'll take your picture.”

Now that he finally understood, the ex-bellboy was too excited to consider mundane matters like fees and salary. This made me so excited that I kept on prattling to keep him happy.

“The girl-Fran-is practically a virgin. Big dark eyes, hair like liquid coal. And a cunt! Why, her clit alone is famous on two continents. Bite her clit right and she'll do anything for you. She sucks, too. Hey, I almost forgot. Her specialty's chewing on young cock. She'll frig you to a frazzle.”

Ernie made a pitiful try at nonchalance. “Sounds pretty fair for a virgin. She won't be no virgin when I'm done with her. If I decide to give it to her.” The mask fell abruptly, along with his Jockeys. “Do you really think she'll like me, Doug? I'm so fuckin' horny! I'll bite her clit for her. I'll lick it. I'll sever it. I'll swallow it.”

He accompanied each hopeful verb with a base-to-tip swipe on his standing schlang. More verbs, and he'd wipe up a puddle.

“It's impolite to masturbate in mixed company, junior. Save it for Fran.” He stopped in mid-stroke.

I figured I'd better apply brakes to the others also, before they got delusions of grandeur. So I explained that we were, after all, only supporting players. We were expected to do only what Mr. Holmes directed us to do. He was the guiding expert, the genius who knew who should fuck who-and how.

Ernie boyishly boasted, “He may be a genius, but he can't tell me how to jog pussy.”

Poor Ernie was wrong there.

I sprayed out a hail of last minute orders. “Keep Debbie out of the way. Clean up the cabin. Absolutely no interim quickies. Wear fresh underwear.” And one vital warning: “Stay nearby. I'll be back with the others in an hour or so. Sun's out now, so we should start shooting as soon as we get here. Nobody leave the place.”

Ernie nodded sullenly. “Don't worry. None of us is goin' anywhere.”

There he was very, very wrong!

XVI

I had to go back to the hotel to pick up the filming crew.

It seemed that every time I started on a journey destined to end in an orgasm, I met up with Carla. She was just returning from an early lunch when I ran into her. Usually the briefest contact with Carla made me want to abandon whatever project I was working on. This time, a new angle occurred to me. Why not invite her to join us?

Hello, Carla, I would say. I'm just off to the class in amateur dramatics. Care to come with me? We welcome new members, especially pretty ones. We're playing outdoors today. The sun's hot this afternoon-maybe it'll melt some of that ice crust. Maybe it'll warm your twat. No, I'll do the warming. I happen to be carrying my adjustable sun lamp with me. It warms you and it comes with an automatic vibrator. Care for a demonstration?

The speech emerged as an innocuous “Good afternoon, ma'am.” Well, that's a beginning. A blundering beginning. Ma'am was a tactical error. I think that's what made Carla lift her uptilted eyebrows. “Have you finished cleaning those cuspidors, Trent?” she inquired.

Could I ask a girl like that to fuck for me-under Alec's direction yet!

“This is my day off, Grant-er-Miss Grant. I'm going to the movies.”

“How thrilling!”

Okay, cunt. Be sarcastic. Movies are thrilling, when you're on the right side of the camera. But you wouldn't know about that. Go park your ass on an ice cube.

My director, my co-star, and the Gorilla presently filed through the lobby and we proceeded out to the Holmes' limousine, a 1965 Impala. We burdened the back seat with equipment, including me and my equipment. Davey had grabbed the front seat along with Fran and Alec.

Fran was decked out in a slinky red travel suit with neat matching pumps and a bag big enough to hold a change of costume. I thought it was a shame to waste such a chic ensemble since it would be crinkled, creased, and removed as soon as Alec started clicking the camera. Unless he had evolved a revolutionary, new porno plot.

Alec drove smoothly, ignoring the scenery. “Tell me, Doug, these friends of yours-do you think with the proper direction they could play ignorant mountain folk?”

“Forget the direction! The terrain's flat in these parts, but don't let that fool you. Three barefoot mountaineers coming up!”

“Fine. I'm banking on this production. If I play it right, we're going to get wider distribution. Backwater Balling isn't going to be one of those porno potboilers.”

Sweating, I stammered a pertinent question. “H-how is this gonna be d-different, Alec?” I had a horrible presentiment that overnight he'd turned legit. Maybe that accounted for Fran's elegant duds and Davey's close shave. The projected title, however, sounded reassuring.

“I'm aiming for social significance, Boy,” Alec said. “Redeeming social values.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning those fucking Swedes have been getting away with mayhem I'm moving in on their monopoly. No one fucks in this epic unless he's got a damned good social reason. That way it's art and I may be able to book it on a reserved-seat basis.”

Davey didn't know about art, or anything else for that matter, but he piped up cheerfully. “I got a damned good social reason. I woke up with a fuckin' hard-on an' it hasn't gone down yet.”

“Good enough.” Alec took his eyes off the road to address the brains of the outfit. I listened avidly.

“As I planned it, subject to change once we get started, Fran plays an earnest young social worker. She visits a poor mountain family and catches them rutting like crazy. She's not accustomed to open-end fucking, being a sheltered, prim type. That reminds me-did you remember to bring those horn-rims, Fran dear?”

The prim social worker-to-be checked in her capacious handbag and nodded.

“Okay; so she sees them fucking and she disapproves or thinks she does. Then she runs to the next shack. Only in this one there's no mountain family, there's just Davey. Davey's a scholarly type, too. We indicate this by showing him writing.”

No horn-rims for Davey. Showing him writing might present a serious problem. Maybe I could teach him the rudiments while Alec parked the Impala.

“In fact, Davey plays a writer, a kind of sociologist chap on a field trip. The social worker comes in and tells him about what she saw in the first shack. He tries to explain to her that poor people do it all the time. While he's explaining, he gets hot and she gets hot and they screw, and there's our big scene. We'll work out the finale later. How do you like it?”

“Sounds great!” I'd seen the very same movie-minus the horn-rims-in a cathouse once, in South Philadelphia. But I couldn't willfully dampen Alec's enthusiasm. I had to help conserve his good spirits-at least till he spotted the inside of the cabin.

A sharp left at the by-pass. A few hundred yards down the dirt track, skirting lush shrubbery. Alec stopped short, the car wheels bogged in one of Matt's special treasures, his steaming manure pile.

We had arrived.

“Ah! the country air!” Fran breathed deeply, savoring the rustic fragrance. “Makes me want to sing-like in the shower.” She burst forth in a faulty coloratura. Till Alec extended an ungentlemanly elbow. And Davey sniffed angrily, muttering. “I smell horseshit.”

We hiked the short distance up to the cabin.

Fran seemed to be in a good mood to appreciate anything. She exclaimed, “Isn't it darling!” Davey reiterated his earlier diagnosis. Alec shuddered.

The inmates had heard our approach. They lined up at the door to greet us.

Okay, so they weren't sophisticated, city professionals. Fuck it! I was proud of the trio. Matt, every inch a stud, chock full of vitality. Beth, cuddly and cute and just as vivacious. Even Ernie, scrubbed and poured into clean jeans and T-shirt. Looking at them, you forgot their poverty, their abysmal stupidity. If you had eyes in your head, you reduced the threesome to basics. Good-working pricks and accommodating pussy. That's what made this country great. Shove your sophistication! Alec shuddered.

The shudder was directed at the surroundings, not at the welcoming committee. Alec glanced at them and found all three to be potential superstars. I could tell, the way he murmured, “Well, I might be able to use you.”

My friends conducted themselves in an exemplary manner considering that, in addition to their other failings, each was more or less a certifiable sex maniac. Beth shook hands like a lady. If her fingers grabbed loose balls on the downthrust-Davey's or Alec's-that wasn't her fault. I'd cautioned them to wear supporters.

Ernie was charming to the point of making you want to vomit. Fran's svelte city slickness dazzled him. In a daze he looked lovesick and kept unnaturally quiet.

Matt was even more quiet. In fact he was invisible; he had vanished. I never thought Matt would turn shy at meeting new clients, employers, and/or partners. There was no time to squander in lamenting my buddy's vagaries. I had to show Alec the setting, the cabin.

Alec shuddered, a shudder that made his previous shakings mere pallid rehearsals. With good reason. He had discovered the cock artist's canvases.

“Christ! What did this guy use for a paintbrush? His schmuck?”

I hadn't realized that our director was so discerning. Tactfully I advised him that some of Matt's primitive efforts were hanging in the best of places. Alec's rejoinder was crass, coarse, guttural, and unprintable in the Reader's Digest.

Davey was more susceptible to the avant garde. He gazed with rapt admiration at one of Matt's masterpieces, signed in the corner by the hand of the artist: Eggstasy by Mr. Matt Hammond. Eggstasy consisted of an irregular come stain encircled by rough, reddish slashes, with a series of brown dots on the border-the imprints of Beth's nipples. “Gee,” Davey said, “that's pretty.”

After a cursory inspection of the premises, Alec decided, “We'll hafta play it outdoors. What do you think, Fran? Hey, where did she disappear to?”

One boy missing. One girl missing. I went out to find them. In the bushes behind the cabin.

My arrival on the scene hadn't interrupted a love fest. Matt was zipping up his fly. Note the direction! He looked like the cat who'd just been swallowed by the canary. Fran seemed flustered and edgy.

“Matt's been showing me the neighborhood.”

Her disgruntled guide stalked off without a word.

“What's the matter with him, Fran?”

“He showed me more than the neighborhood-”

I grinned. “His superstar? These mountain men are built big, honey. It's nature compensating for-”

“Don't laugh, Doug. Please. If Alec sees what Matt's got, my brother is going to be out of a job.”

So what? My loyalties were on Matt's side. The buttered side. But I couldn't ignore Fran's appeal either. The poor kid sounded desperate.

“Please help me, Doug. This movie crap-it gives Davey and me the excuse to be together.” I greeted that one with skepticism. Fran was hardly the type for excuses, and Davey's excuse stood up above his balls. She tried a new tack. “We need the money real bad, Doug. What else can he do except drive that old laundry truck?”

I felt a timid tug at my biceps. “If you just keep Matt out of Alec's sight till we finish the shooting, I'll do anything you want.”

I wondered what I could want that she hadn't done already, except suck it. Fran was shrewdly considering Matt's wants, however. “I acted as if I found him repulsive. That was just acting. Any girl would love a session with that sledgehammer. Your friend Matt and I could have that session in private when the filming is over.”

No one would lose anything if I agreed to play it her way. I agreed to play it her way. We joined the group in the cabin.

“For the scene where the social worker stumbles in on the orgy, we need a coupla more females,” Alec ventured, after counting noses.

“The females have emigrated. Look, Alec, can I see you a minute?” We stepped outside. I told him I hated to offer advice to a genius, but- Why not change the scenario? Let Fran walk in on the orgy, only it'll be a mini-orgy. Ernie balling Beth, with Matt watching. That should be sexy, showing a guy watching two kids in action. And I suggest you keep Matt with his clothes on. For contrast. Anyway, Matt's kinda short on uh-talent.” Doug Judas Trent!

I concluded the revised scenario. “Then he spies Fran and tries to catch her. That's when she runs off and meets Davey. Et cetera, et cetera.”

Alec nodded. “Best we can do under the circumstances.” He summoned the company. “No reason why we can't start shooting immediately. If you gentlemen will kindly spread a blanket. Er-right here. Fine.” He went into his spiel, exuding special charm for Beth and Ernie.

“Now we're all friends here. We know what men and women do when they're alone together on a fine sunny afternoon. You two just do it, and everything'll work out great. Now why don't you get ready by taking your clothes off?”

Ernie cast a lovesick glance in Fran's direction. Beth began unbuttoning gingham-covered buttons. Matt growled, “Whaddo I do?”

Alec spoke like jovial Uncle Pimpo. “What would you do if you happened to see this lovely couple relaxing in the nude on a blanket?”

“Beth and Pimples? Whaddya think I'd do? I'd walk away fast. It's no treat to me, seeing 'em fucking. I seen it too often.”

“Then one more time won't hurt,” Alec said, suavely. “You just stand by watching. Try to pretend it's the first time.”

Beth had stripped naked. She made herself comfortable on the blanket and, this time sincerely, the director said, “Lovely!”

One foot on the grass, one on the blanket, our juvenile lead stammered, “I'm r-r-ready, m-mister.”

“Not quite. Just take your shorts off, sonny.”

In an agony of embarrassment, Ernie whispered, “I c-can't. I h-have a h-hard-on.”

He had passed the Course in Preparation for Porno Performers with flying colors. But Alec didn't tell him. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. Fran sped to the rescue. In tones used to send erections into orbit, she pleaded, “Darling, let's see it.”

Ernie showed it, wagged it, and waved it.

Alec breathed a sigh of relief. The sigh emanating from Fran's corner made me look at her twice. I'd forgotten her thing about youngsters.

Davey also looked at Fran. Sheepishly. Like a man about to cheat on his missus-I mean, his sister. Actually Davey's suggestion was logical. “Why don't we change the parts around, Alec?” He'd kept himself in check so far, but Beth's golden bush shining in the sunlight was too tempting for the blonde-prone caveman.

Fran seconded the motion. Ernie stuttered a third vote in favor. Of the interested parties, only the chatelaine of the cabin remained indifferent. Beth realized that eventually-inevitably-she'd have both strong cocks in her cunny. And Davey hadn't unreeled his yet.

Alec rejected the new scheme. “You guys crazy?” he scolded the sibling superstars. “Your fans pay good money to see you screwing each other, not fucking amateurs. Now, c'mon, let's get started.” He turned to the couple on the blanket-and found that the half with the prick was missing. “Where the fuck did he go?” Poor Alec wheeled around to face the brother and sister-and found that the prettier one had absconded.

“Fine time they picked to go to the bathroom!”

Alec's surly exclamation revealed shocking ignorance. He didn't know a fucking thing about rural plumbing facilities. And he knew less about Fran and Ernie.

Familiarity with the local outdoor fucking facilities gave me an advantage. I knew where the terrain was free of thorns and nestles. In the bushes just back of the cabin. That's where I found them.

Didn't I predict Fran's travel suit would get itself crinkled? The skirt was all bunched up and wrinkled. I didn't even see the jacket. Her blouse was open; if she'd been wearing a bra it would have been unhooked or shredded. She was kneeling before Ernie. He was yanking at her bare boobs as if he wanted to jerk them off. Holding tight and pulling, like a straphanger in a subway.

On her knees the superstar was superforming an act of superfellatio. When a girl has a ball in her mouth as well as the rod, that's super.

“Please lemme see your cunt,” Ernie begged. Some guys don't know when they're well off. Fran moved back to comply with the immature request, thereby coming perilously near to breaking the connection. Her hand was on the waistband of her panties when footsteps sounded behind me.

It was Alec. Young love and tasty perversions left him cold when he wasn't directing the action. Advancing toward the impromptu performers, he thundered hot curses.

Either Ernie wasn't used to being called “you fucking son of a whoremaster's asshole,” or he was fazed at having his fucking interrupted. With an incoherent cry, he fell backward, dragging his dong with him. The long movement, from Fran's larynx to the wide-open spaces, brought the boy's boffer to a boil. As we watched, aghast, gism poured out in torrents. Rivers of gism aimed at we innocent onlookers. All wasted, while Fran squirmed in frustration.

Our long-suffering producer groaned as the semen stopped flowing. I sympathized with poor Alec. It would have taken months to train the kid to perform that trick on camera.

XVII

Before you rent out a Polaroid and call yourself a producer, consider the schlemozzle that screwed up Alec that afternoon at the cabin.

After Ernie lost his load, he voluntarily retired from acting, though not from the action. When we trooped back to the blanket, we found Matt scanning the horizon, looking for-and not unlike-a raincloud. Davey and the blonde were otherwise occupied. He was showing her what boys have, only he had more of.

“Call that a prick?” Matt scoffed, having abandoned the horizon to kibitz.

“Fuck you!” Davey grunted.

“Fuck me!” Beth pleaded.

“Fuck youse all!” Alec exploded, his orderly porno world shattered. “Places everybody!” he commanded, and seemed to find comfort in the familiar phrase now rendered meaningless. “Places everybody!”

Cheated out of a certain salty effusion, Fran stood on the sidelines. Sullen, red-lipped, and just a little bit contrite. “What places, lover?” she asked Alec. “What's the set-up?”

“I'll tell you what's the set-up!” Alec paused for a moment to think of a good one. He failed ignominiously. “The set-up is balls over a barrel. My balls. We'll reverse the order of shooting. Start with the social worker and sociologist. If you and Davey don't mind getting your asses in focus.”

Superstar glumly regarded superstar. Like seasoned troupers they followed their director wherever he led them. Ten paces past the blanket. Under the nearest elm, I set up a table and chair. The sociologist's writing desk. Davey plunked himself down and began covering a blank sheet of paper with doodles.

Camera in hand, Alec was once more masterful.

“Okay, Davey's busy writing up cases. He looks through the trees and spots the social worker chick running toward him. Fran, you've just had a traumatic experience. You're dishevelled and breathless. You fall into his arms and-take it on from there.”

Sunlight, camera, action.

Fran made running an erotic sensation. Tits bouncing, skirt hiked up toward her navel. The interrupted session with Ernie had left her as dishevelled as the average social worker can get in a lifetime. Shooting may have started badly, but this was cinematic perfection.

Davey looked up from his doodling, peered through the trees, and stepped into the path of the runner. The two bodies met. Fran emoted, babbling her story with hammy gestures. Davey emoted, stroking her boobs with hamlike paws. Fran pantomimed fucking by gyrating her hips. Davey stood motionless.

“Go ahead, Davey, show her your sociology. Take it out,” Alec ordered. “Fuck her.”

“Yeah,” cried a voice from the bleachers. “Let's see ya fuck 'er with that shrimp stick.”

Matt and Davey were not destined to be buddies.

“I'm not playin' with that prick around!” Davey snarled, forgetting in whose cornfield he was standing.

“Clear the set! Everybody out! Except you, Doug.”

Matt stomped off, muttering, followed by Beth and Ernie.

“Okay, as we were. Take it out, Davey.”

In his shame, confusion, and embarrassment, the caveman sounded uncannily like Ernie. “I c-can't. Id-don't have a h-h-hard-on.”

Problems. Alec cursed in three mitte-European dialects. “Fa Chrissake! Somebody suck it for him!”

I tried to look busy untying a knot in my shoelace, which was superb acting since I was wearing loafers without laces. Fran stepped into the breach and into sucking position. She opened her brother's fly and began licking his flaccid labe. Davey pushed her away gently. 'Thanks, kid, but it's no use.”

Manfully, he turned to the director. “Put away the camera, Alec. I have a date.” Without another word, he strode off in the direction where Beth had been heading.

The only sound now was the whack of Alec's palm against his forehead.

“Don't fret, darling,” Fran consoled him. “We'll shoot tomorrow.” From behind a clump of hedges, Ernie was signalling frantically. Fran made more soothing noises. Still reassuring Alec, she walked, then ran toward the hedges.

After one more “Fa Chrissake!” the dejected director was speechless.

“Come on, sir,” I said, in my best bellhop manner. “You need a drink. I imagine Matt can rustle up some home-made corn likker.”

“Maybe he's got some fresh cyanide.”

I guided the poor guy back to the cabin. An hour later we were still sampling Matt's sour-mash stingers. Now Alec seemed buoyed up, but my buddy became downcast and bitter.

Staring at the worm-eaten walls of the cabin, he muttered, “I'm too fuckin' good-natured. Take strangers inta your home an' what does it get ya? I don't mind if they fuck aroun'-at least if they leave a little for me. That prick Davey! Not only grabs my girl friend! Talks like I was dirt! Hospitality!”

In his anti-Davey crusade, Matt found himself an ally. “You're absolutely right, Matt boy,” Alec declared, helping himself to another three fingers of bourbon. “That Davey should get his fuckin' ass whipped.”

Matt sat erect.

“Now you're talkin'. That's what I'd like to do to the queer. String 'im up an' slice up his butt with a belt buckle. Rip out his kishkes. Chop his balls off. Then fuck 'im.”

Recitation of this unlikely program restored Matt to his usual state of panting virility. His breath came in raspy patches. You could hear his blood thunder. His eyes glittered in the bourbon haze of the kitchen.

Knowing Matt, I was hardly surprised. Fatso's reaction, however, astonished me. Raspy breath, thundering blood, eyes all a-glitter. He swiped at the air to clear away the bourbon miasma.

Was my fat pal another hetero-homo-sado grab-bag?

No. He was a producer.

Alec's wife in Montclair could rest easy. Her husband didn't share my buddy's hobbies. He spoke to me in my capacity as unofficial assistant producer. “Why didn't you tell me your friend is a whipworm?”

“Did you once ask?” I countered, with dignity.

“Did I ask! Fa Chrissake, everyone knows flag fandangos are big sellers this season. Queer, straight, all kinds.” He turned to Matt. “Like to wave a flag, boy?”

“I'm as patriotic as the next guy,” Matt mumbled, defensively.

“Flag-flagellation,” I explained, till I remembered who I was explaining it to. “The gist of it is: Mr. Holmes would like to take your picture, beating the shit out of Davey.”

“Not so fast, Doug. He puts up a passable appearance,” Alec shuddered, involuntarily. “But if he does the flag bit, then opens his pants to pull out a peanut-they'll laugh me outta the business.”

Alec's key word had penetrated. “Did he say peanut?” Matt addressed me in my capacity as official procurer. “Tell the son of a bitch what I got! G'wan, tell 'em!”

Matt rubbed his hand over his chinos. There is nothing quite as obscene as a stud deliberately raising a hard-on to show other guys. It's so fucking show-offish. I was ashamed of my buddy in front of a gent like Alec.

Ignoring Matt's lewd gestures, the director ruminated. “Maybe I could show him doing the actual beating, for authenticity. Then at the last minute you can jump in, Doug, to do the reaming.”

I try to lead a quiet life. Yet, I seem to get these offers and assignments. Take it as it comes, come as it takes you. That's my philosophy. Matt didn't know from philosophy. He had achieved the height of his powers, unzippered, and held it up proudly.

“You bastard!” Alec barked at me. “Not you, Matt. You're okay. Super! You'll go far. Put it away now. Careful! Don't let anything happen to it.” The solicitous tone was notably absent when he turned to me again. “So he's short on talent, huh?”

“Well, I forgot.”

“Come on, before the sun goes down. Let's see what we can salvage.”

Matt adjusted his belt, Alec toted his camera. We went out to locate Davey.

Davey was in ecstasy-in Beth. They were doing it dog fashion on the grass within sight of the cabin. I had to admit that they made a well-matched couple. A study in light and shadow. Beth's body gleamed pale under the thrusts of the hairy truckdriver. She must have sensed we were there because she held up one hand with all five fingers raised. Then she made a fist and extended two fingers. Total: seven. I couldn't tell whose score she was keeping. His or hers. Either way, they were properly mated.

Alec watched them rut, appraisingly. “Next time I'm just gonna shoot what I see happening. When I see it, I shoot it. No more advance planning.”

Davey banged, came, rolled, grinned, and requested a cigarette. Beth didn't even blink at us. She curled up on the grass, sow-fashion, and fell asleep.

“Isn't she wonderful!” Davey demanded, aggressively. “Looka that cunt on her!”

Alec squinted down at Beth's cunt. Dripping lather shone in the sun, the wet blonde hair sparkled. “That shade's tricky to photograph,” the producer observed. “We might hafta apply some mascara.”

“Mascara! You wanna poison me?” Davey bowed down like a Gaullist over the sleeping beauty. “Mmm, I c'n suck it an' suck it an'-” He lapped up some of the excess froth. “I'm gonna marry this cunt. First I'm gonna wake 'er up the way she likes it.”

He tickled her twat hairs with his limp, reddened prong.

“You won't wake her up that way. Better let her rest while you're recuperating.” Alec was solicitous again. “Er-while you're recuperating, you can help me out.”

“Sure, Alec.”

“Good boy. I'm just planning a modest one-reeler. Nothing to it.”

“Me an' Fran?” Davey acknowledged his temporary shortcomings. “Look, Alec, maybe I better take a few minutes to recuperate.”

1440 minutes, I estimated. Davey's dick had the chewed-up appearance of a tool needing 24 hours of unbroken bed rest.

“This deal is so fucking easy,” Alec lied, “You don't hafta have a hard-on. I'm not using Fran for this one. It's just two guys futzing around. I call it Friendship.”

“Me an'Doug?”

“You and Matt.”

Basking in the glow of the multiple tumbles with Beth, the caveman might have consented to share the wide screen with his rival. With the best of intentions, Matt aborted that particular Friendship. The husky ex-farmer decided to enter into the ecumenical spirit. Beaming at Davey, he described his Very own scenario. Improvising, expanding, proud of his progress from artist to author-actor.

“See, we're buddies. Walkin' along, friendly, as shipmates. Then we stop on the road an' I ask you to suck my prick. You don't wanna, your gums hurt or somethin'. I don't go for excuses: I start punching. You fall like a sack of shit. That gets me real mad. I string y' up between two trees, pull off your clothes, an' wham ya with my belt. I'm not like some guys-queers who'll break your legs an' stomp on your spine for kicks. I'll just whip ya good an' solid. Then I'll fuck your ass for ya.”

Matt punctuated his recital by taking out his turgid thumper.

When you've got it, don't flaunt it!

Davey raced off in the direction of St. Louis.

Matt contemplated his erection with the sulky expression of the little boy thwarted. “Whassa matter with that guy anyway?”

“He's temperamental.”

My buddy had by-passed the stage where facile explanations are accepted with a smile, a shrug, a fastening of the fly. He let it hang out, stand up, shake two ways for emphasis.

“Temperamental, is he? My prick's got a mean temper, too. Goddamn it, Doug, you were the one who said, 'No quickies.' You promised we'd spend the afternoon balling. Everybody but me. Honest, I haven't come since seven fuckin' o'clock this morning. Suck it!”

“Please, Matt. How can you stand there and give away our secret! In front of a stranger!”

“Then lemme put it in your ass.”

Fatso insisted on remaining Matt's ally. “Let him, Doug,” he urged me. “The camera's all ready. You take Davey's part and we can still shoot Friendship. The second male lead isn't important-as long as I can get that whopper in focus.”

“In that case, you take Davey's part. I'll be the producer.”

Impasse. You'd think three guys could resolve their little problems without quarreling and without dragging in perversions. “Show him jerking off, and call it In Need of Friendship.” The allies vetoed my suggestion. Impasse, getting stickier, and in Matt's case desperate. That's what happens when you try to solve a problem without female assistance.

The Marines landed!

Fran hove into sight. Reeling. Something white dribbling down her lips; something that wasn't toothpaste. Ernie had been productive.

A sensitive, sensible girl like Fran require explanations. She saw the problem, liked what she saw, and solved it. On her knees before my buddy, she stuck out her problem solver. Her tongue gazed Matt's ramrod, testing. “I'd better just suck it,” she decided, “there won't be time to-”

Matt didn't give her time to change her mind or to count up to one or to exhale. He pressed his prong into her mouth and kept pumping till Fran's neck seemed in danger of snapping.

True to his word, Alec was shooting it as it happened. He had started the footage with Fran's timely arrival. Now he pleaded, “Make it a sixty-nine.”

34/2.

Matt's gism had already left his balls, made the long journey down the length of his labe, and squirted out to clog Fran's windpipe. She squirmed, either to avoid choking, or to permit Matt's cream to make its movie debut. He held her head clamped down, keeping his poker in place. “Swallow it, bitch!” he ordered.

If you're thinking of starting a career as cocksucker, for money or pleasure, whatever your sex or persuasion, you can expect to hear that phrase repeated constantly. It's a poor return, I admit, for a good suck job. Or even a bad suck job. But what can you do? If a guy sends his cock to the cleaners, he wants to be sure he gets the full treatment. Including the wrap-up, the swallowing. Hence, the injunction, “Swallow it!” “Bitch” isn't strictly necessary. Use of the word indicates the superiority of the speaker. Shit; if he wasn't superior, he'd be doing the blowing.

After the blow job on camera, Fran and Matt went into a strip act. For the first time that day, Alec was enthusiastic. “This will revolutionize the cinema. First they have sex, then they take their clothes off. If that doesn't click, all we hafta do is run it off in reverse.”

“Looks like you'll get your sixty-nine after all.”

Matt stretched flat on his back, Fran on top of him, in a cozy position for mutual lapping. His tongue darted between her twat and her asshole. Less venturesome, Fran concentrated her energy on Matt's rising rapier.

“Fran's in fine form,” the director commented. “As for your friend, he's my new superstar. Terrific.” Alec prattled on happily while Fran and Matt wrote their own expert scenario. As you know if you finally did get around to renting that Polaroid, a 69ing couple simply will not respond to direction. Orders coming at them from above make them nervous. A nervous 69er is a potential biter. So Alec's direction per se was minimal. He just repeated occasionally, “Keep sucking, kids.”

They kept at it, and Alec kept smiling, and I kept raising the figure I'd demand for my buddy's participation. Abruptly, nature took its revenge. Writing finis to a spectacular production.

The sun went down, and the rain started.

Fran and Matt turned out to be sissies. When the rain came, they stopped coming. They scurried for shelter. At a more leisurely pace, Alec and I followed them to the cabin.

Luckily, Debbie had parked with the nearest neighbors. Her tender years would have won her but feeble protection, if any. Hell, a babe in a bassinet would have gotten herself goosed in that overcrowded cabin, if not impregnated.

In no time at all, the bare majority of the inmates had paired off. Fran with her youthful admirer, Davey with his blonde. That left two husky studs and one fat producer. The latter grumbled impatiently, “C'mon, the day's shot. Let's get back to the hotel.”

“Why don't you go, darling, and leave me here?” Fran suggested. “You could pick me up tomorrow or the next day.”

“Yeah,” Davey looked up from contemplation of his beloved's box. “I'll stay, too. Pick us up one day next week.”

Matt, the reluctant host, saw where the land lay. “Got room in the car for me, Mr. Holmes?” he asked, his heart and his voice breaking simultaneously.

Poor guy! I couldn't remember if Tessie was on duty, but surely one or two transients had checked in during the day. “I've got a girl for you, Matt,” I promised, like a Jewish mother. Considerably cheered, Matt joined us and we dashed out to the car. Leaving the lovebirds to experiment with the 472 known variations for friendly foursomes, and to devise 472 new ones.

Tessie the chambermaid was on duty. So Tessie did double duty, garnering generous overtime. Alec and I allowed Matt first crack. As we waited, watching, I suggested that the director schlep out his camera. But Alec declared loftily, “I'm on vacation.”

I hadn't seen the hippo in heat before. Neither Fran nor Beth ever managed to produce a bulge in the producer's pants. Now, staring down at Tessie… if he was wearing pants they'd be bulging prodigiously. What was the chambermaid's special allure, I wondered.

“I dig blacks,” Alec confessed, with the belligerent expression males assume when they're describing their preferences. “Jet black cunt smothered in a nest of pomaded pussy hair!” He smacked his lips. “Delicious! Black is more than just beautiful. Black is sublime. Black is where it's at, man. Why, my own wife back in Montclair is a nigger!”

The next day was not my day off. I sneaked out the side entrance, then had Matt phone the office to tell them I was taking sick leave.

“I spoke to some quim,” Matt reported, later. “She hopes you feel better 'cause you'll be busy tomorra. Somethin' about polishing somethin'. Oh yeah, an' she said next time you're sick, you can use the front door. Special permission. Gee, Doug, she sounded like a muff with a grudge against ya.”

Carla didn't like me enough to have a grudge against me. Let her do the polishing! The sun was bright this morning. Today I'd act my ass off.

The cabin door swung on its rusty hinges although no one answered our greetings. Matt wasn't alarmed.

“We never bother to lock the door in these parts,” he reminded me. “Who's gonna steal what? Once someone walked in an' left a dollar on the table. Mighta been charily. Or maybe it was for Beth. Lotsa guys-strangers-think she does it for money.”

We explored the grounds. Not a living creature on the premises. The only sound was Alec's grumbling. In single file, frowning, we returned to the cabin.

Matt was the one who found the letters. A sheaf of letters, ranging from the illegible to the ridiculous. All tucked under the pillow. Twelve sheets of paper, one separate letter to each of us from the quartet we had left the night before. I thought they'd spend their time balling. Instead, they were busy with ballpoints.

Mall passed out the correspondence, like Santa under the tree distributing Christmas presents. Some presents! I never read the messages addressed to Alec and my buddy. Those written to me were enough reading matter for the summer. The first missive started out forbiddingly:

Mr. D. Trent

Dear Sir,

I am eloping with the woman I love. You can keep my job at the Prescott. Fran and I aim to start a new life somewhere. Please don't try to trace us.

Ernest Jenkins

Beth limited herself to two unwieldy sentences:

Doug darling, I love you and Matt but I think I love Davey better, so goodbye and thanks for bringing him in my life, HI never forget you and maybe if you would a stuck around more I wouldn't be leaving.

We're going far away and never coming back and we're taking little Debbie with us, so please, Doug dear, don't try to trace us.

There were fewer crossed out words in Fran's farewell note. The message was the same though:

Wish us luck! I'm so happy! Ernie can give me what I've yearned for since my brother peddled me to his schoolmates' hot young pricks. Apologize for me to poor Alec. I'll miss him and I'll miss you, lover.

The four of us are going to stick together for a while. That way it's more convenient for swapping. One last favor, darling, please don't try to trace us.

Love and kisses, Mrs. E. Jenkins (soon, I hope)

Davey's blunt scrawl covered both sides of the page. As always, he offered helpful information:

Incest is a mug's game, kid. From now on, I'm strictly Beth's guy. I wouldn't think of screwing my sister unless Beth's got the rag on or something. Soon as it gets light we're picking up Debbie and starting out. Debbie is my new step-dawter. Goodbye, kid. Don't try to trace us.

Your friend, David P. Renfrew

P.S. Remind Alec to send what he owes us c/o Hotel Harrisburger, Harrisburg, Pa.

I wiped my eyes and forehead so I wouldn't have to look at the others. Alec appeared to be stunned. “My production!” he moaned, brokenly.

“My plans!” Matt groaned, unexpectedly.

I wondered what nefarious plans Fran had averted by fleeing. Matt's schemes, however, centered on another young lady.

“I had great plans for Debbie,” Matt informed us. “I was bringing her up like a father. Giving her a father's love. Just till shed sprout some hair on her-”

“Incest's a mug's game, Matt!”

Bereft of his superstars, Alec made a speedy recovery. “I guess you feel pretty low now, Matt,” he said, sympathetically. “Believe me, by tonight you'll forget those bitches, both of them.”

“Three of 'em, including Debbie,” Matt amended. “Did you say I'm gonna forget 'em?”

“Certainly. You're going to travel farther and faster than they ever will.”

“I am?”

“Certainly. There's nothing to keep you here. I'm taking you to New York. You'll be my Number One Superstar. I have contacts, son. Once you have a few movies under your belt, I'll send you out on housecalls. Every night-days too if you want. You'll be beating up the richest masos in the free world, balling the most glamorous chicks-”

“Gee, I couldn't afford anything like that. I-”

“They will pay you. You'll have everything-money, cars, fame. You'll live in a penthouse. Think you'd like that?”

“Yeah,” Matt sniffed, suspiciously, “but that penthouse-Is a penthouse like a sorta cabin?”

“Sorta.” Alec repressed a shudder. “In some ways it's even better. The view, for instance.”

Now that his big worm was hooked, the producer grew impatient. “Why don't we start right now? Pack your stuff-or better still, don't bother packing. I'll buy you a pair of pants when we hit Cincinnati.”

In another minute they would have brushed past me. All I'd built up that summer shattered. Forgotten; Left to molder in the bushes. Ungrateful bastards! Both of 'em, including Alec.

“What about me?” I shouted.

“Gee, Doug, you can't come with us. You got a busy day tomorra, polishing.” Out of a more sophisticated mouth, I would consider Matt's remark unmitigated sarcasm.

I could make excuses for my buddy. But Alec really hurt me. He spoke jovially, like Santa passing out presents. “Come on along with us, Doug. We'll drop you off at the hotel.” He dug his hand into his pocket. “I want you to know I'm grateful for all you've done, and once I'm back in New York I won't forget you. Please accept this token of appreciation.” His hand touched my hand and left something crinkly.

A finif!

They say a guy gets what he deserves. What did I do to deserve this? What had I done wrong? My initial mistake was taking that piss in Beth's company. Now, a minute ago, I'd made another one. A matter of pronouns. “What about me?” I'd demanded truculently. If you want to get something out of a guy, forget the me bit. Toss the ball into his territory, use the second person singular. You. You, you bastard. What about you?

Swallowing my pride along with my spit, I said, “Thanks for the token, Alec. I'd show you mine, but you've already seen it.” Forced laugh from Alec. No sound from Matt; eyes popping, he was watching me shred a 5-dollar bill into confetti.

I took a deep breath. “What about you, Alec? Running away with an empty camera? Leaving the hinterland unexploited? Whatever happened to the social significance porn-opera, Blackwater Balling?”

“With Matt's schlang under contract, who needs social significance?”

“That's not the point, Mr. Producer. If you'd stay in one place long enough, if you'd give me a chance, you'd have a production. A production to make Backwater Balling look like The Birth of a Nation. Balling looks good in a title. You could call it uh — Barnyard Balling. Barnyard-that's it, Alec! The heart of America. Bringing fucking back to nature!”

Enthusiasm is infectious. I found myself listening to my patter and believing it. “What have you got in New York, Alec? Dirty lofts and fucked-out whores? Here you've got everything. Perfect setting, farm animals, the big brute-”

“Hey, you talkin' about me?”

I assured Matt that the big brute referred to a certain sheep of my acquaintance.

Alec was impressed but inquisitive. “Who's gonna play the all-American farm girl, son? Tessie?”

“Not Tessie. A local product. A girl with four times Iran's potential, because she's twice as pretty and half her age.”

Alec's ears perked up; Matt's started wriggling.

“The girl I have in mind is photogenic, voluptuous, available, and fourteen years old. Her name is Jeannie.”

“Jeannie don't put out,” Matt mumbled. “Doncha remember?”

“I've had a long talk with Jeannie since then. I've been meaning to tell you about it.”

Matt weighed my statement and reached a verdict. “You're a tricky bastard,” he said, almost admiringly.

The nerve of that prick, calling me a tricky bastard!

It's always easier to fool an expert. Alec, the old conniver, was convinced instantly.

“You have yourself a deal, boy. If this Jeannie and Barnyard Balling work out, you'll get your share. Now,” he became businesslike, “how soon can you get her here? An hour?”

“Fifty minutes. But I'll hafta borrow your ear.” Leaving Alec the thankless task of discussing montages and camera angles with his new superstar, I started the motor. How could I lose? Either I'd produce Jeannie and cut in on a porno production. Or I'd take Alec's car and Highway 47 the direct route from Iowa to Mexico.

XVIII

I boasted I'd bring home the bacon in fifty minutes. The first forty-three were spent circling Jeannie's neighborhood, pondering. How could I get to see her without ringing doorbells? If this were a schoolday, the task would be easy. I'd wait outside the building with the parents and pushers. There's no school in Iowa in August, however. When I get elected, I promise to sponsor a bill to change that. Roaming around the streets all summer, a girl can get into trouble.

I couldn't accuse Jeannie of roaming the streets, but that's where I found her. Strolling along, two blocks from her house, looking wistful. Alone. I honked the horn.

Please! Let her he friendly. Let her stepfather he in bed with something lingering or terminal. Let her climb in the car and say, Take me wherever you want; I'll do whatever you tell me. Let her be photogenic.

Jeannie hopped in, no longer wistful. '“I thought I'd never see you again, Doug. Where are we going?” She snuggled a little closer. There was a smudge of dirt on her bare knee. I smeared the dirt with my finger, and was tempted to give hygiene a kick in the ass and kiss it. Jeannie snuggled closer.

“Take me wherever you want. I'll do whatever you tell me.

“Don't ever say such things, Jeannie. Words like that can be dangerous. I wouldn't hurt you, but you don't know about the next guy.”

Jeannie had her own answer to warnings. Adolescent, slightly nauseating, but inviting. She drew one finger across my lips, sealing them, and said, “Fucky-wucky.”

For a minute I lost control of the wheel. The car swerved to the side of the road. And my hand swerved from Jeannie's knee northward.

“Don't talk baby talk, honey. You're a big girl now. Mmmm, a very big girl.” The fleshiest parts of her thighs were developing. Undergoing the transition from baby fat to satin smooth adjuncts, leading to provocative girl hips. Mmmm!

“Do you get an allowance, honey?”

The question jarred her, but she snapped back into form that I've never forgotten. “Yes, I do, Doug. A dollar-fifty every week. Do you need money? I could let you have all of it. I haven't spent anything — ”

It wasn't the amount, it was the way she made the offer. I felt mushy and lender all over-not quite alt over.

“No, darling, I don't want your money. I was thinking you might need some. See, I know a way you can earn a year's allowance; in a couple of hours.”

“Is Mr. Clint hack in Prescott?”

“No.”

She had been reading outdated novels. I could tell by her next tremulous query.

“Y-you're not going to ship me to Buenos Aires?”

Not unless Alec planned to go on location. The Cash and the Gaucho. Instantly I conjured up a scenario. Once that hug bites, you find yourself doing it all the time, liven when your hand is resting one foot due north of a compliant kneecap.

“How would you like to be in the movies, honey?”

“Then you do want to ship me to South America!” Jeannie declared, knowingly.

Shit! I'd forgotten. White-slavers traditionally offer girls careers in the cinema while preparing the hypodermic, etc. So Jeannie was sceptical. Then she started giggling. Let her giggle-till she saw Alec's camera and met up with Mathew.

The two men hadn't been idle during my absence. As I rounded the curve that brought us within sight of the cabin, I threw up my arm to shield Jeannie. “Don't look, honey!” Taking the long cut, I dropped her off at the shack.

“You make yourself comfortable inside. I'll be right back.

Then I waded back to the horrendous scene of beastly action. Alec had already started filming. Matt Hammond in Barnyard Balling with a ewe. The unlikely threesome-ewe, Matt, and Alec stood right out in the open in the center of the; field, which somehow made it more sinister. Bestiality should be furtive;.

As the all-American farmer, Matt wore a flannel checkered shirt, hob-nailed boots, and a determined expression. The ewe was inscrutable. Alec was being persuasive, and failing.

“I don't screw no sheep,” Matt insisted. “I'll show her my dick, but that's as far as I go.”

“No one's asking you to screw her. Just uh, penetrate for one quick close-up.”

“Penetrate means go inta the slot, don't it? I don't hump no animal. Not for you or anybody.”

“Of course; not for me.” Alec's tone remained unctuous despite; provocation. “Not for me. For your art. For moviegoers everywhere.”

That clinched it. Matt shook his head stubbornly. “I don't fuck sheep, not while; my mother's got her eyesight. Knock on wood. She goes to the movies every Saturelay, regular.”

“Drop the perversiems. Drop the subject. Drop your p-I mean, put your pants on, Matt. We have company.”

Saved from a fate that probably isn't considered too bad in sheepish society, the ewe was led away by our producer. Only the-n I saw the little boy lurking nearby in the shadow of the hedges. He was the son of a neighboring farmer, no doubt the owner of the woolly, four-legged Thespian. A young gentleman with excellent manners.

“Excuse me, sir,” he tugged at Alec's sleeve. “Did you want Matt to fuck Gertrude?”

Beset by a multitude of problems, Alec snapped, “I thought you said heir name was Jeannie.”

Undaunted, the little shaver staled, “Her name is Gertrude. My sheep, that is. Gertie never objects if you thump her.”

Alec's brow cleared.

He bent down to assure; the farmboy, “We're all friends here, you can speak frankly. Tell me the truth now, did you ever put your prick into Gertrude?”

The little boy grinned at the silly question. So Alec came up with another. “Tell me, sonny, do you get an allowance?”

Before the young rustic could answer and make a goddamned fool out of the laws of nature, I hustled Matt off to the cabin.

“Jeannie's only a kid, Matt. We can't push her in front of a camera and expect her to rut. Spend a little time with her, prepare her. Go easy. If you get her to cooperate, we'll all be in that penthouse.”

“Yeah? What about her stepfather, the Chief?”

“Didn't you hear? He dropped dead yesterday. Right in the police station.” I lied fluently, inventing details and symptoms. “Don't mention it to Jeannie, the poor girl's heartsick. Maybe; you can cheer her up.”

“Okay, Doug. Where're you goin'?”

“See you later. I just wanna meditate.”

Meditate. Commune with forces greater than mankind. Gather sunbeams. Wander through the sun-dappled meadows. Watch that kid hump the sheep.

Too late. When I returned to the filming site, Gertrude was emitting a “Ba-aa” of inexpressible weariness. The little boy also seemed somewhat exhausted. He raised his drawers with a listless gesture. I was shocked by this evidence of deterioration. The lad lacked stamina. Why, when I was eleven…

“How many times did you come?” I asked.

“Only once.” The boy hung his head. “Gertrude really doesn't send me.”

Alec counted out two dollars in quarters. “Who or what does send you, sonny?”

“Bright Eyes.”

“What's that, a racehorse; or a nanny goat?”

“Bright Eyes is a ram,” the boy murmured, with dignity. “I can do it to Bright Eyes four lime's without stopping.”

“Fuckin' queer!” Alec handed over the quarters. “These are for you and your girl friend. And you forget what you did her today, or this movie'll play in your school auditorium the next time you have; assembly. Beat it!”

The mismated pair vanished down the hill. Alice gave me; the camera to hold while he rubbed his hands together, exultant. “We're doing all right, son. For two dollars I have a real classy curtain-raiser. Now for the main bout.”

We walked toward the shack. A little doubtfully, Alec asked, “This Jeannie — you're sure she knows what she's doing?”

“She knows what she's doing.”

“Well, if she's all you say she is, maybe I'll give her a private audition.”

“A far-out audition?”

“Not too far-out,” Alec said, in a tone meaning “Very!” What was I letting the kid in for?

“I thought you didn't bother your actresses, Alec.”

“It's no bother. No, honest, usually I don't screw around with the personnel. But for fresh fourteen-year-old I might break the rule. Nothing nasty. I'll just strip her naked, let her lick my asshole, bang her a few times.”

The roaring I heard in my ears was my conscience. I ignored it. Matt reacted differently.

My buddy and Jeannie were seated at the kitchen table. Debauching each other like crazy. Drinking milk. I presented her formally to the producer. Alec hid his enthusiasm under a bushel of phrases beginning with “So you're the young lady Mr. Trent was telling me about.” And ending with “If the gents will kindly clear out, I want to have a little talk with you.”

Matt and I waited outside.

“Well, did you prepare her?”

“We didn't talk much. We just-”

“Matt! Don't tell me you fucked her already!”

Matt wasn't amused. He stared at me grimly. “Don't talk like that about Jeannie. She's the sweetest girl I ever-Aw, you wouldn't understand. Anyway, I was starting to say, we just drank our milk. She's so fresh an' pretty. Sorta plain but pretty. Like Fran-only Jeannie's the real stuff. I wanna protect her an' love her an' love her up. I can't explain.”

Matt abandoned the attempt. Growling impatiently, lie demanded, “What the fuck is Fatso doin' with her in there?”

“Nothing far-out. He's stripping her naked. Letting her lick his-”

Matt didn't stay to hear the rest of the catalogue and never did find out if Alec preferred fore or aft oral attention. With a groan that sounded like Gertrude at her most berserk, he stormed into the cabin. Jeannie emerged immediately, obviously intacta. Matt followed, the strong and silent protector. Then Alec stumbled out, intacto, but shaking like a leaf.

The fat man whispered, “Look, Doug, I'll work the camera. You'd better attend to the directing. It's your scenario.” Translation: Matt had him properly buffaloed.

“Okay,” I gave my initial direction, “well start shooting in front of those bushes.” Jeannie and I led the way. “How do you like Matt?” I asked her.

“Very much. He seems kinda gruff. But I think, underneath, he's shy and very sweet.”

Shy and very sweet? Matt? What did he spike that milk with?

Cast and cameraman took their places in front of the bushes. Now what? Directing is easy-until you're in front of the bushes, directing. I cleared my throat and stood tongue-tied. Alec took over, competent, and careful not to look at his male star.

“Jeannie, you're a farm girl, out picking blackberries-”

Blackberries! That's how it all started. With a farm girl out picking blackberries. “Can't it be something else, like uh-lingonberries?”

Alec looked hurt. “I don't care if she's picking grapefruits, as long as we got her placed at the bushes. All right, Jeannie, you're picking them. Along comes the hobo. That's you, Doug.”

Hot under the collar, I nodded.

“Good. The hobo tries to molest you, so you run away and bump into the farmer. Mr. Matt. He protects you. Got it?”

For Backyard Balling, it didn't sound like much, but we got it. Alec started filming. Jeannie plucked imaginary berries from a bush, dropping them into a bucket Alec had picked up on his way across the field.

“Hobo!” I snapped to attention. “Creep up toward her. You don't see her clearly, that branch shields her. But you sense someone is there and you're beginning to get excited. Take it out, start watering the grass.”

Shit, I wasn't acting, I was playing out my fucking autobiography. Profile to Alec, facing the bushes, I pulled down my zipper.

“Close your eyes, Jeannie!” her stalwart protector ordered.

“That's all right,” Jeannie said gently. “I don't mind. Really. Please, let's get on with the movie, Matt dear.”

If I didn't see it, I wouldn't believe it. My buddy Matt melted by a casual dear! He stood back and let us get on with the action. I uncovered my dick and managed to get a few drops out. The combination of the girl watching and the camera recording stiffened it quickly. I knew I had a full-blooded erection when Jeannie gasped, most realistically.

Realistically and undirected, I started after her, caught her, and began to tussle. Now directions came flying from two directions.

“Take her clothes off, hobo.”

“You leave her alone, you bastard!”

Again, Jeannie saved the situation. “Please, Matt darling, I'm all right.”

All right? She was terrific! Panting on the grass, eyes wide, lips parted. Practically a virgin. It was my scenario, wasn't it? I played it my way, pushing her skirt up, gazing at her pink nylon panties. “Slow!” a disembodied voice commanded. Slow, very slow. I rubbed my whang over her panties, stretched them, stowed my hot meat under the nylon, on Jeannie's thatch. Slow, very slowly I started to pull down her panties.

Two boulders connected by a hunk of firmament fell on me. Matt the farmer had entered the action. Twisting the plot to suit him. Twisting my spine half out of commission. He drew his arm back to throw a punch that would settle the other half. I rolled out from under, like a hobo.

Matt took my place on top of Jeannie. Not like a hobo, not like the Matt I knew either. Gently. Even the strangled cry, “Jeannie!” was curiously gentle. The girl held out her arms in the eternal feminine gesture.

Their kiss was too intimate for any camera. Alec photographed it anyway. Matt's hands were where my prong had rested, on Jeannie's panties. He held himself back, restraint tearing his guts out.

Jeannie was a woman. She whispered, “Love me.” Jeannie!

When you hear a guy's soul crying out in the wilderness, what do you do? I looked on and felt ashamed because I was looking. Alec kept photographing. Jeannie stroked Matt's cheeks tenderly.

Then he stripped her naked. He sucked her young tits, dribbling a trail of saliva down to her navel. Prostrating himself before her, he tongue-worshipped her twat. It was the first time Jeannie had had her cleft lapped. Matt seemed gently surprised when his expert muff diving produced a chain of earthy orgasms.

Jeannie's body shook, her voice trembled. “That feels so good. Oh, please, don't make me wait. I can't stand it.” Her moans reached a crescendo, shattering Matt's self-imposed discipline. “Fuck me! For God's sake, please fuck me!”

Somehow, Matt wriggled out of his pants. Somehow, he mounted the trembling teen-ager. Somehow, her delicate cunt accommodated the rampaging monster. Once he shoved the huge head of his rod into the honeypot, Matt forgot to be gentle. With three inches of swollen labe distending her pussy, Jeannie started coming. With that, Matt stuffed her. Jeannie reeled under the impact, pleading for mercy. It sounded like mercy.

“M-more, Matt! Harder! Faster!”

Matt slashed into her, ripping her pussy with his whopping whacker, plunging deeper and faster in a flurry of belly-bursting lunges. Drawing red blood and screams that flushed owls out of the woods for a look-see. His bulk heaved as he poured his love into Jeannie. A flaming river of gism to soothe her insides and drive her into a fresh frenzy.

“Matt, I love you!”'

“I love you, Jeannie!”

Fucking is loving. It's more than pushing a girl's legs open, spearing a pussy, unloading. It's an act of union, uniting two strangers forever.

How the fuck was I supposed to know!

The sudden enlightenment made me more ashamed than ever. Angrier. I wanted to smash Alec's camera, then smash Alec. One look at the fat man deterred me. Even he'd been impressed by the act of love we had witnessed. He seemed subdued, and stared down at the lovers with a look of respect I'd never seen before.

“This has got social significance swinging. It'll sweep up every underground award in the industry,” he predicted.

Unaware that they were new superstars, Jeannie and Matt lay in each other's arms. I thought they were oblivious to the crass outside world of procurers and producers. However, when the latter started talking, they responded. “Golly,” Alec murmured, with blatantly false humility, “what this picture needs is a slam-bang finale. Like the hobo forcing the farm girl to suck him.”

“Jeannie don't do no sucking!” Matt snarled.

“With one exception.” Jeannie groped for his stiffening poker and popped it into her mouth with giant gulps and sighs of contentment.

Alec sounded more like the old Alec. Without turning away from the performers, he harangued me. “What do I pay you for, useless? Stop standing around looking soulful. Get into the action or get the fuck outta here!”

Under the circumstances, I had six choices. I could screw Jeannie's cunt or lick it or I could give it to her up the ass. I could ream Matt or make him suck me. Or I could stay alive. Cherishing my own skin above all others, I entered the action, more or less on the outskirts. You know, like when you join in with a blissfully married couple; you're non-essential and not really wanted, but you can make yourself useful on the fringes.

I stuck my finger in Jeannie's cunt, at the same time juggling whichever of Matt's balls she wasn't currently juggling. I rubbed her tits to keep her warm, I jabbed one finger into Matt's asshole to keep us all warm. I stroked Jeannie's hair and wiped away Matt's perspiration and jerked myself off.

Masturbation makes you so lonely. You feel yourself coming and there's no one to tell it to. In desperation, I yelled, “Alec, I'm gonna shoot in a second.” Alec made a short gesture. I swiveled my dick in that direction. As Matt came in Jeannie's mouth, I unloaded, giving Jeannie a hot cream facial.

The poor kid couldn't understand it. She thought she'd inadvertently spit out some of her lover's liquid tribute. Matt had the same erroneous idea. He fell on her tenderly, tenderly licking up my gism, under the impression that that sperm had the right to tall him Daddy. There's a lesson for snotty psychiatrists: swallowing spunk does not make a stud a cocksucker! Or, technically, does it?

No one fretted about technicalities.

Alec and I tactfully left the lovers alone on the grass. The impresario was rubbing even harder than I had. Only he was rubbing his hands together. “Get ready to move into a penthouse, boy!”

“I'm ready. Now we hafta tear those two apart and get Matt ready.”

“Let no man put asunder!” Alec thundered, portentously. “No rush, kid. I'm going down to Des Moines. I know a guy there.” He patted the camera. “I'm having fifty prints made. A hundred! I'm gonna have this production playing at smokers by Thursday.”

“I'll stick around here an' drive Jeannie home. Good luck, Alec.”

“Thanks, kid. I should be back by the end of the week. By then Matt'll be movable.”

Alec started off for Des Moines. I kept wishing him luck as the car disappeared. What I should've done was to shoot up his tires. Or better still, I should've plugged him in the belly. But the producer speeded unhindered on the road to Des Moines.

Sending me on the road to perdition.

XIX

Alec hadn't deserted us, unfortunately.

Telegrams started arriving.

SAW FIRST PRINT OF BARNYARD

MAGNIFICENT DOUBLE EXCLAMATION MARK

Then, the next day:

REFUSED FRIEND'S LARGE OFFER FOR

RIGHTS TO BARNYARD

MAKE THAT A DOUBLE PENTHOUSE

Then, later in the week, Alec's most memorable message:

BOOKED BARNYARD TONIGHT AT IOWAN ATHLETIC CLUB ANNUAL REUNION WHITE TIE AND JOCKEY SHORTS PREMIERE

That last telegram was called in after 8 P.M. I went about my bellhopping duties feeling sorta chipper. While I was lugging late arrivals' luggage, down in Des Moines, the Iowan Athletic Club members were admiring my hard-on.

Hotel business happened to be brisk that night. I kept dragging my ass down to the lobby and up to the rooms, with hardly a minute to glance toward the cashier's desk. I had just squired an elderly couple up to the Crystal Suite, and brushed away an errant tear in memory of the Rawlings. Back to the lobby. Uh-uh! That girl in the scuffed shoes standing near the potted palm was no transient. That was Jeannie!

Jeannie looking distraught. Christ! She couldn't be knocked up so fast. Not from Matt. That left me, Clint Endicott, and her first lover. Roulette was no comfort, I had to know. I approached her.

“Oh, Doug! You have to help me!”

Take it easy, honey. Uh-when did you miss your period?”

“It's not my period, it's Matt. He was supposed to pick me up tonight, but he sent a message. The flivver broke down. Please help me, Doug. Drive me out to the cabin.”

“Sure I'll drive you-Hey! Won't you be kinda late getting home? What about your mother, your stepfather?”

Jeannie flashed an enchanting smile. “Mother's visiting her niece. My stepfather is down in Des Moines attending some old reunion.”

Before my heart could start beating again, I forced out the question. “What reunion?”

“Does it matter? It's that silly Iowan Athletic Club he's always going to.”

The slender thread holding my sanity in check curled up and vanished. Of course it was silly. A silly old club with its silly old members watching a silly new porno. Barnyard Balling, starring local talent, notably the daughter of the Prescott police chief. Getting humped and taking a load of come between the eyes.

If Matt was a fast draw, he might survive. I didn't even have a gun. I didn't even have a suitcase-but I had to pack and get the fuck outta there. I had to move fast-and I was rooted to the spot. My feet were glued to the lobby carpet, while the rest of me shook uncontrollably. I felt my blood race up to the ceiling. Then the ceiling descended.

The next thing I heard was my name called in Jeannie's girlish soprano. At the same time, a pale hand stroked my forehead. Carla! Lost to me forever before I really found her.

The girls managed to get me across the lobby and up to my cubbyhole. “Please wait outside,” I heard Carla say, bossy as usual. “This is a woman's job.”

“Jeannie's more of a woman than you'll ever be,” I said testily, biting the hand about to feed me.

“How would you know? Just a minute, Trent-Doug-let's not squabble. Obviously you're in serious trouble. Care to tell me about it?”

Her silver-blonde hair was a potent inducement. Her hot black eyes were a further inducement. To mayhem. I had to put all that behind me, and put the state of Iowa behind me, or a bullet-proof vest in front of me.

“Thanks for asking, Miss Grant. I'd better not.”

“Is it as bad as that?” she whispered, with a husky catch in her throat.

Gee, I couldn't let her go away thinking I'd done something really bad. I tried to explain, but the paralysis that had gripped my feet in the lobby affected my speech. I could only croak out disjointed nouns. “Jeannie-buddy-movie-stepfather-police.” Who needs verbs!

Carla's black eyes slitted, then sparkled with understanding.

I think there's something you should know about Jeannie Larson,” Carla said, after a moment.

“I'm willing to learn. Uh-how come you know so much about Jeannie?”

“Prescott is a small community. I know lots more than you've ever suspected. A sympathetic woman gets to hear all sorts of things. I'll tell Jeannie you want to see her.”

The concept of Carla as a sympathetic woman was novel enough to occupy my mind until Jeannie tripped in. Her innocent face was puckered in concern-for Matt.

“Feeling better? I'm so upset about Matt. He's bound to wonder what happened to me. Hell worry.”

“Matt's gonna do a lot of worrying. Carla said there was something I should know about you, Jeannie. What is it?”

Jeannie looked genuinely puzzled. “Is there anything about me you don't know already?” she asked, only semi-coquettishly. “Unless-no, that isn't important.”

“Better tell me anyway. G'head, honey, you can talk while I'm packing.”

“Well, the only thing Carla knows that you don't is about me and Luke.”

Fa Chrissake! Juvenile confessions while the walls were tumbling. “Who's Luke?” I asked, to be sociable.

“Luke is my stepfather.”

I stopped packing.

I grabbed her wrists till the bones squeaked. “Tell me everything, Jeannie. If you ever wanna see Matt again, tell me everything.”

“All right.” She settled down to tell the story they all love to narrate. “It started with Ernie. I don't know if you've ever met Ernie Jenkins. He used to live in my neighborhood. Well, one time last Christmas we happened to be in my basement, and Ernie got fresh. In fact, he went as far as a boy can go-without really going. I wouldn't let him because I wanted to be engaged before I'd let a boy do it Ernie came and went. That night, Mother was away visiting her Aunt Bertha-no, that was the time she stayed with Uncle Victor and Aunt Frances.”

“Look, leave your relatives out of this. Just get to your stepfather.”

“I was about to. Well, I was alone in the house except for my stepfather. There was quite a storm outside. I put on my pajamas and got into bed. To bed, but not to sleep. Being with Ernie had upset me more than I realized. I felt a tingling down there. I–I used my finger. You'll think I'm awful, Doug.”

“Sure I think you're awful. Don't you girls ever think of using the floor lamp? Or a banana? C'mon, tell it!”

Unruffled, Jeannie told it. The old story. A finger's acceptable till the first cock swims into view. Most cocks make a finger look like small potatoes. Even Ernie's. So she gave herself a break-she used two fingers to fuck herself.

“Two fingers up my crotch dulled the ache. But in a way it made it worse. I couldn't stand it. That's when I screamed. Luke-my stepfather-came running in. He thought I'd cried out in my sleep.

“'You had a nightmare, Jeannie. It's all right now. I'm, here.'

“Before I could think, I denied the nightmare theory. Then his words sank in. He was there. With me. A man in his pajamas. A big lump of flesh under his pajamas. While I considered this, Luke made like a fussy father.

“'You mean you haven't slept yet? What's the matter, Jeannie?'

“I began to bawl. Tears were a relief, and it was a relief when he comforted me. He bent over me, arms around my shoulders. 'What is it, honey? Please tell me.'

“I threw Ernie to the wolves. Ernie could take care of himself. Eyes down, I started to talk. All the time looking at my stepfather. Not his face. His pajamas, where his-his hair made a dark shadow on the cotton. 'It's Ernie,' I blubbered. 'He t-tried to attack me.

“'Jeannie!'

“I went on, gathering momentum. I liked the way Luke reacted. I liked the way his fingers tightened on my shoulder. 'He took out his thing, dad. It was so t-tremendous. Like a baseball bat. Longer. He tried to-

“Luke interrupted. 'You're just imagining it,' he said. 'Probably dreaming. No boy's built like that. Anyway, Ernie is a nice kid. He wouldn't-'

“'He did!' I insisted. 'He tried to rape me. I can show you the bruises.' I started to throw off the covers, but Luke tucked me in and ran out of the room as if a ghost were running after him.”

Poor police chief. I felt sorry for the guy. He was pursued by the Fate running after all stepfathers with horny-growing stepdaughters and vice-versa. So far, Jeannie's narrative might get her into Juvenile Court, but all Luke Larson would get would be an award from the local 4-H Club. Unless…

“How long before he came into your room again, Jeannie?”

“Funny that you should ask… Carla asked the same question. I guess it was ten minutes later. 'Are you awake, Jeannie?' he said. This time he didn't put the light on. There was only the moon and the lamp left burning in the hall outside. He looked all shadowy, his hair very black, his face a white blob. I knew he had come in to do it to me.

“'Yes, I'm awake, dad.”

“'Sorry, kid, if I seemed angry before.' He didn't sound like my stepfather. His voice was soft, pleading, and the words were all slurred together. 'You're a big girl, Jeannie. You should know about those things. Like what a guy's got. Shouldn't be any mystery about it. Then you get crazy ideas about baseball bats, and you think a prick is a weapon to hurt you.'

“He opened his pajama pants and let his cock hang out. It was just a blob of white in the half-light. Luke switched on the bedside lamp. Without looking at me, he said, 'See, it isn't so terrible. It won't hurt you.'

“It was terrible-powerful. Thick… much longer than Ernie's. I wanted it to hurt me. I wanted my stepfather to stick it in me. In the light, it wasn't white at all. Rosy, except for the head that was so dark red it was almost purplish. It looked so velvety. I touched it.

“'If you play with a guy's pr-penis-it gets hard,' he said, in a tight voice I'd never heard before. 'Erect.' It was erect already, erect as soon as I touched it. I felt the flesh tingle; it made my fingers tingle; I started rubbing my stepfather's hard-on.

“"Don't do that, sweetheart. A guy can come that way. See, now it's ready for action. When it stands up like that, I can put it between-'

“He pulled off the covers and he had his hand between my legs. I remember I felt ashamed because I was dripping. But I opened my legs wider, and suddenly Luke fell on me.”

“Hallelujah!”

My exclamation startled Miss Jeannie. “What did you say, Doug?”

“I said, 'Hallelujah!' You've just saved the lives of three men, if you can call Alec a man. After this, if Matt doesn't make an honest woman out of you, I'll marry you myself.”

My equivocal statements abruptly interrupted Jeannie's narrative. She obviously wanted to continue, and pouted, “Don't you want to hear the rest of the story?”

“Honey, I can tell you the rest of the story, with dialogue. Your stepfather said, 'I'm just gonna put the head in.' And by the time you said, 'Do it,' he'd done it.”

Jeannie stamped her foot. “Carla told you!”

“No, Carla didn't tell me. It's masculine intuition. Don't be mad, honey. Someday you'll tell me all the details. How he fucked it into you. How the blood came. How he came. How you came. And how he came back the next morning.”

Jeannie's eyes opened wide. “But even Carla doesn't know about what happened the next morning.”

“Okay, here's a sample of masculine intuition. Your stepfather wandered into your bedroom, bare ass, or with that white blob sticking out of his pajamas. He said, What we did last night was wrong. Unfair to you, me, and your mother. I know a different way.' And he gave you a good hot load in the mouth, and you swallowed.”

Jeannie forgot to be miffed because I cheated her out of her dramatic revelation. She'd picked up bad speech habits from my buddy. “How the fuck did you know?” she asked, girlishly.

“How did I know it was a good hot load?” A guy's cream is always hotter in the morning. How did I know you swallowed? I remembered a certain session in the car, first time I drove you out to the cabin.”

“But however did you know he asked me to suck it?”

“Easy. I put myself in your stepfather's place. Poor guy! Here, is this so terrible?”

Jeannie giggled at the sight of my whang, and suggested wryly, “Give it to Carla.”

Out of the mouths of babes-

Into the mouths of ladies-

Carla Grant was pacing outside my cubbyhole. I said, “Thank you, ma'am, you've been most helpful. I'm sure Mr. Larson will be cooperative under the circumstances. Uh-Miss Grant, would you care to step in for a second?”

Three hours later, I moaned, “Why haven't we done this before, darling?”

Carla interrupted her mewing to answer, “Did you once ask me?”

That was last summer.

Luke Larson, our esteemed police chief, turned out to be a good guy, though a cheapskate. He bought the first print of Barnyard Balling offered to the public. But he demanded a substantial discount. We gave it to him, because Luke is a steady customer at the Cabin.

The Cabin is capitalized now. It's one of the showplaces of central Iowa. The first floor is a theater, devoted exclusively to Alec Holmes' Productions-I mean. Holmes-Trent Productions. The next eighteen floors serve as a hotel with fabulous maid service. Many of our friends, including superstars and ex-superstars, double as guests, maids, and bellhops.

Carla and I live on the twentieth floor-the Penthouse. Yes, the Cabin has a commodious penthouse. Carla and I are very happily married. That silver hair and the way shelf you think I'm gonna divulge my bride's intimate secrets, you're in the wrong book, buddy.

Talking about buddies- Now Matt wants to get married. Not to Jeannie. To Jeannie's mother. You see, Luke Larson divorced her. All those aunts and uncles and nieces she was forever visiting turned out to be a big-pricked stud in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Matt looks at it this way: “My prick's bound to be bigger. I'm sure I can get her to marry me. Then Jeannie'll be my stepdaughter. We'll be related. So I can fuck her whenever I wanna.

I try to discourage him.

“Incest's a mug's game, kid.”

The Nympho in 4B!

When Marty Green entered Gloria Braddock's apartment, there was only one thing weighing on his mind. Gloria.

There she sat, her supple body draped across the white satin sofa, wearing only a filmy negligee-filmy enough for Marty to see she bad nothing on underneath.

“Make yourself a drink, Marty.” She moved her arm, and her negligee slipped open for just a second. But it was long enough for Marty to get a quick glimpse of the fullness, the firmness of her breast.

Gloria looked up suddenly and ran the tip of her slick pink tongue across the surface of her lips. She brought her left band up to her right tit and cupped it gently, capturing her nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Slowly she rolled it back and forth as she waited for Marty to finish making his drink and come to her.

Content

Jason Forbes
Lust in the Woods

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX