Lucas Trimble couldn't fuck his wife any more. Not unless he wanted to shovel up six feet of dirt and violate a corpse. His wife had been laid to rest ten years ago; before that Lucas Trimble, the mayor of Weedville, had laid her ass every night except on her red days. Even on those occasions he had made her suck his cock.
Lucas Trimble was a cunt-hound. He demanded his cunt-meat like kings call for their meals. He just had to have a cunt holding tightly to his cock as he fucked the shit out of the woman who had offered him a piece of ass.
Now he had gone three weeks without pussy. He had called Connie almost every night, and she had told him that she was too busy, or she was on the rag, or she was going bowling over in Pattonsville. Lucas thought his balls were going to burst every day of those three weeks. But he had reverted back to his younger days when he was a very creative boy. He had stripped off the rolls of toilet paper in the three bathrooms of his house just to get to the cardboard tubes that the tissues were wound around.
Some axle grease smeared all over the inside of the tube, sprinkle a few drops of perfume that he had bought from the Avon lady, snip a few hairs from his head and paste them to the rim of the tube, and Lucas Trimble was ready to whoop it up.
He had slipped that toilet-paper tube over his prick – God, it was a tight fit, but it really helped. He gripped the outside of the tube, then started the age-old fuck rhythm.
He sure wished he had some pictures of Connie Ryan while that toilet-paper tube jacked like crazy over his cock. Then he had come, or was starting to come, and he gripped the cardboard cylinder too tightly.
The fucking thing was falling apart. His jizz was spewing out of one end of the tube, while the hairs were failing all over his sweaty belly. Shit, it was tearing right in half!
Christ, it was a shit-hole of a mess that Lucas Trimble held in his greasy palm. The Goddamn thing looked like the afterbirth of a mare that had foaled triplets.
Shit, three weeks without Connie Ryan's cunt.
He dialed her number, then slammed the phone down after fifteen rings. She wasn't home.
Lucas felt how stiff his prick was. He had to have cunt. And he was going to find some pussy – hairless, furry, or haggish, he didn't give a shit. He needed pussy.
They met in the alley. Elvira Schellenberg coming out of the Buckeroo Bar, her cunt acting like a cow-cunt in heat, drunk out of her mind, and screaming for cock.
Lucas Trimble was coming from the opposite direction, swearing that he'd pick up the first chick in the Buckeroo Bar and hunch-fuck her ass all the way across the state of South Dakota.
"Elvira!"
"Lucas!"
"What are you doing here? Why, you're drunk as a skunk!"
"Y-Yes, I…"
Well, here was the first chick he came across. He looked at Elvira. Jesus, was he had hard up? Yeah, he was.
"Elvira, my balls are killing me. I gotta fuck. How 'bout it?"
Elvira was stunned. It was dark, and she couldn't make out Lucas' face, and the alcohol fog just wouldn't clear up. Was he serious? If he wasn't, she knew she was.
"Fuck meeee!"
Holy hog-shit! Suddenly, though it was dark, Elvira Schellenberg looked like the most fuckable thing that Weedville had ever produced.
"Here?"
"Here!"
"Now?"
"Now!"
"Yaaahooo!"
They stripped, Elvira slipping out of her dress, weaving crazily, fat cucumbers crossing her mind.
Lucas shucked his pants, tossed them onto a garbage can.
Elvira's panties landed on top of his pants. Her bra – she wore one so that the kids in her class couldn't see her nipples, because it was obvious she didn't have tits big enough to see – was next.
She stood there in heavenly nakedness, her mind clouded with erotic thoughts of pricks and cocks. No more cucumbers, just big pricks, like the one Lucas was holding in his hand.
Lucas' ten-inch prick was half-hard, most of the blood still in the shaft. The tip drooped slightly, but it was soon rising, the slit in the knob opening up to spit out cum-juice.
"How do you want it, Elvira?"
"Dog-style, you mudder-fucker," Elvira slurred. The alcohol had reached its peak, and now the throbbing rush of lust-filled blood was making her dizzy.
She got down on all fours, her skinny ass weaving and wavering. Her asshole looked tight; her cunt looked like Lucas' coin purse, except with hair on it.
Shit, Elvira's pouting ass-cheeks were a damn erotic sight. It sure beat the hell out of fucking toilet-paper tubes.
He got down behind her and pressed his cock into Elvira's cunt-mouth. He shoved.
"Ooooohhh, shit, Elvira!"
"Aaaiiieeee!"
Lucas' cock was only halfway in. Sweat broke out of his face. His flesh felt clammy. His muscles ached as he tried shoving in the last five inches of cock that remained outside her tight pussy.
"Lucas! I'm a v-virgin!"
Virgin? Did she say virgin? Virgin as in V for vanquished? Lucas was astounded, stupefied. But his cock wasn't. It jerked and leaped about like crazy, twitching back and forth against her clit.
Elvira was quivering and shuddering like crazy. Everything about what they were doing was crazy. Fucking in an alleyway? A prim and proper schoolteacher on all fours in a dirty pig-slop of a alley, getting dog-fucked by his honor the mayor who couldn't believe that his prick was jammed into a virgin pussy until he saw the cherry-red blood oozing off his cock-shaft.
Crazy!
Now they really fucked like mad. Lucas overcame his surprise, and stabbed so hard into Elvira's cunt that she skidded across the gravel, her head shaved into an overturned garbage can.
Lucas fucked hard, withdrew fast, his prick hard and stiff and ready to come.
Elvira was moaning into the trashcan, her groans amplified and echoing around her ears. Fucking for the first time, fucking dog-style, fucking Lucas Trimble's ten-incher like it was the last time she was ever gonna fuck again.
She bucked her ass back against him. Lucas fucked forward. Their loins slapped together. Lucas' prick was growing to huge proportions. Elvira could feel it, honestly feel that monstrosity of a prick expanding her upper cunt like a carpenter's wedge.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fuck me!!"
"Aaaiiieeee!!" Lucas screamed. His balls were erupting, forcing the jizz into his cock. His prick was exploding, forcing his sperm into Elvira's hot, clutching pussy.
Her cunt felt like it was on fire, an itchy-type fire that consumed every inch of her cunt.
She grimaced, bearing down, her cunt-muscles clenching and unclenching.
Lucas kept spurting cock-cream into that delicious slit. Every ounce of spunk that he had stored in his balls shot out of his cannon of a prick.
"Oh, my God!" Elvira moaned. Then heard: "Oh, my God!" as it echoed in the garbage can. The stench was unbelievably bad, but the fucking prick jammed all the way to the end of her twat felt unbelievably good.
For Vance Manning, who had just stepped out of Boris Jerkovich's studio, what he saw was unbelievable. He stepped back into the shadows, watching Lucas Trimble pull his sperm-drenched prick out of Elvira's cunt.
That was his girl Lucas was fucking around with! He felt like establishing law and order in the alleyway, like pulling out his.45 Magnum and billyclub and start blasting and bashing away. But he suddenly thought of a better way to get revenge.
Connie was going to get her revenge, too. She was in love, truly in love with somebody, and not somebody's cock. But she knew it was an unrealistic love, and so did Tom Trimble.
Every time they could get together, they fucked or sucked, usually both, but after each sexual episode, the next chapter of their lives was just plain loving each other – tenderly, really caring about the other person's feeling.
So they both felt that they had to leave Weedville. And that was their problem. People would track them down. Hell, it was almost two hundred miles to the next state, and in South Dakota you couldn't make a move without someone seeing you. The fucking state was so under populated that people were a rarity.
So they discussed their problem, and Connie came up with a solution. She had been writing a diary of her life – of how this shit-hole of a town with its assholes for aldermen kept her as a mistress. And she had written down every exploit, every rotten carnal deed done to her luscious body.
Now she was planning to send copies to each man who had furnished her with clothes, food and a three-bedroom apartment in exchange for fucking her ass, tits, mouth and cunt.
That would take care of them. They wouldn't dare come searching for her if they knew what was hanging over their balls.
Maybe the people of Weedville would be outraged when the truth came out, but they would still elect him mayor – shit, he was the only one who knew anything about mayoring.
Hell, what a dilemma. And all they wanted to do was get out of there fast and start proving how much they loved each other. If only people wouldn't bug them.
Martin Seaman was a titty-fucker. No, not one of your usual everyday titty-fuckers – he really had to have two tits sandwiched over his cock before he could get his rocks off. That was why he really dug fucking Connie Ryan's titties. God, what a pair – huge, firm mountains of boob that could create a canyon of warmth ten times better than any cunt.
Martin was in bed. He was naked, fondling his cock. His wife was snoring beside him loudly snoring, like the zzzzz's of a drunken elephant.
Martin was reading a book. He liked to read books before he fell asleep. He thought he was quite a book-reader. The book in his hands was called Annie's hot fanny. It was a fuck book, or, as everybody else who had read it before it finally ended up in Martin's hands, "a real cock-grabber".
Martin didn't think Annie's hot fanny nabbed his cock. There weren't any titty-fucking scenes. Shit, he had had to read up to page thirteen before Annie was even kissed – no, not on her cunt, or ass, or even on her tits – just plain kissed on the lips. Fuck, shit, piss. Cock-grabber, huh!
Martin was disgusted. The fucking book was nothing like the cover. Hell, he got more thrills jacking off over the bra ads in the Sears Roebuck catalogue.
He got to page thirty. Finally a fuck scene. Annie was starting to give his prick a rise. But the Goddamn author was really getting with it. Shit, the writer wasn't even describing how cunts looked when they were stroking madly up and down on a cock!
Page fifty was another fuck scene. Annie was sucking a nigger's cock. Disgusting. A real turn-off. Why the fuck did all those modem fuck books have to have white chicks fucking niggers? Equal rights? Take a nigger to bed today?
Shit, his cock drooped down again. When the hell was Annie going to get her titties fucked?
Martin read on, getting to page eighty-five before some more skin-action occurred. Annie was looking through a peephole, watching two queen sucking each other's cocks.
Martin's prick not only was limp now, but it felt dead. Really disgusting. Every Goddamn fuck book always threw in a couple of scenes where fags were buggering each other. What ever happened to straight people like him? Who the hell were all those fuck-book publishers trying to impress?
Gay guys. Fuck 'em.
Shit, he was halfway through the book and not one scene had given his prick the full hard erection that he wanted.
Then on page 155, four pages from the end, there it was – a titty-fucking scene. Martin's prick jerked and throbbed. Well, it was about fucking time!
Annie's tits were, as the author described them, not tits but mammaries, and the prick that was shooting cock-juice all over those mammaries was called a masculine tower of strength that poured its vast resources all over Annie's bosom.
Martin couldn't take any more reading. He had just finished reading an inadequate sex scene about one of his favorite pastimes – titty-fucking.
Martin grabbed his eight-inch prick, ran his hands over the tip, then down the shaft. He needed titties. He wanted Connie Ryan's titties, but she had told him that she had lain too long in the sun and that her nipples were burned raw. No more titty-fucking for a while.
Martin sighed.
He nudged the huge form of his wife as she lay spread-legged, curlers on top of her head, mammoth tits inflating and deflating with each snoring intake of breath.
Martin had never titty-fucked his wife.
He wondered why.
His prick felt red-hot. Well, why not? Why not just titty-fuck his wife for the first time in twenty years?
Martin sat up, looked at his wife's face.
Ruddy cheeks, ruddier lips, flaring nostrils that seemed to balloon from her fat-cheeked face. It was a good thing her eyes were closed, because they wouldn't look so piggish had she been awake.
Martin gazed at his wife's tilt Christ, that was the reason he had married her. Her tits were huge – much bigger than Connie's.
Each titty looked like a football. And now that she was on her back, the footballs looked like they were two one-eyed heads that she had her arm cuddled around. But when Gladys Seaman stood erect, they looked like footballs, big footballs.
Why hadn't he tried to fuck her between the tits? Her boobs had turned him on when he was a spry youth of nineteen newly married to Gladys. And now, they still turned him on.
Quietly he unbuttoned her moth-eaten pajama top. There wasn't much cleavage now, because her massive tits were nestling on her elbows as they sagged away from her chest.
He lifted, yes lifted, her right boob. God, at least ten pounds of fleshy tit was in his hand. He looked at the nipple; it was bigger around than a short-stack pancake and it was very pinkish; her nipples looked peaceful, just like her fat, serene face.
He rubbed his thumb over the nipple. The fat nodule seemed to awaken. He rubbed faster. The nipple was budding out of the dark circle of her areola. It was filling with blood and becoming hard. Very hard. Like his cock was now.
His palms were sweaty as he tried to maneuver her monstrous tit towards his face. His moist mouth settled over the nipple, licked it, teased it. Oh, shit, he sure loved Gladys' tits!
He tried to wrestle her other jug into position as he got on top of her stomach, his weight resting on his knees.
Gladys grunted.
Martin stopped fucking around with her tits.
She snored.
Martin went back to fucking around with her tits. He was fondling both footballs now, both palms starting at the base of her tits and moving towards the nipples. Christ, he would have to have Paul Bunyan's hands to cover all that titty-flesh.
His prick bounced against her navel as Martin leaned forward, thrusting his face between her pressed-together tits.
He licked her left boob, bringing the nipple to erection. Then his tongue dipped into the narrow valley of her cleavage, moved up the mountain of her right tit.
The nipple was still wet, still erect, and this time Martin tried to shove his tongue hard against Gladys' right nipple, tried to force it back into all that mass of tit-meat. The nipple fought him hard, refused to retract, refused to budge against his pressing tongue.
Cooze oil leaked from his cock-head, filled her navel.
Martin grunted.
Gladys woke up, confused. Then she saw Martin's crewcut between her enormous tits, watched in bewilderment as his tongue raced back and forth between her two tits, licking and teasing one nipple, then the other.
Gladys' head moved back, and forth, watching Martin's head moving like a windshield wiper over her titties.
"Martin, what are you doing?" Martin grunted.
"Martin! What are you doing!?"
Martin didn't want to talk now. His lips were too busy on her tits. His tongue was too tired from the constant whiplashes he gave each nipple.
Gladys moaned. Whatever Martin was doing to her was feeling good. "Oh, Martin, I know what you're going. You're sucking my tits. Keep sucking!"
Martin's lips pressed down hard around her nipple, then moved with lightning speed to the other nipple. Why did Gladys have to have two tits? Or maybe Martin should have asked herself, why didn't he have two mouths?
Martin got up, just a little way because be didn't want to be too far away from those gigantic jugs. His forearms tensed as his hands bulldozed her tits towards the center of her chest. The nipples were now no farther than an inch apart, and they looked like two piggish eyes.
Martin devoured both nipples at the same time.
Gladys grunted, and her ass heaved high.
Martin was almost thrown off, but the pressure he was exerting on her tits helped to maintain his balance and he redoubled his tit-sucking efforts.
Both nipples were at least an inch long now, filling his cheeks as his arms ached from the constant pressure he had to exert to keep her knockers in place.
"Oh, Martin, you've got to fuck me. My tits are burning up!"
What Gladys meant to say was: "Oh, Martin, you've got to fuck me in the cunt, because you really have me aroused."
But Martin interpreted it as: "Oh, Martin, you've got to fuck my tits."
Martin let go of her tits, and the two ten-pound footballs fumbled from his grasp and slid back against Gladys' arms.
He scooted up her body until his prick lay flat against her cleavage. He hoisted her tits back into position – his favorite titty-fucking position.
"Oh, yes, Martin! Bring your cock up here so I can suck on it."
Gladys' red lips were only inches away from his hot prick. She closed her eyes, waiting for Martin to stick his cock into her yawning cavern of a mouth.
Martin didn't move; well, he did move – back and forth, back and forth, his prick sliding wetly through the valley of her boobs.
Several titty-fucking moments passed before Gladys realized that Martin's prick wasn't filling her mouth. His cock was just fucking back and forth between her huge jugs.
"I want to suck your cock, Martin. Give me your cock!"
Martin grinned, kept moving his prick through the delicious warmth of her caved-in cleavage. The thrills, the ecstasy that surged through his balls and cock were unbelievable, indescribable.
"Martin! Did you hear me? Give me your cock! I wanna suck it!"
Martin's ears shut off every sound except the noise that his cock made as it fucked faster and faster between Gladys' huge tits. He could feel that whizzing sensation whirling in his balls, that jizzy dizzy feeling in his loins.
But Gladys didn't have any similar feelings. She felt as if her tits were being ravaged, Martin held them so hard. There wasn't any passionate fervor racking her cunt. There wasn't any heady lust in her brain. There was just that raw feeling of Martin's cock as it fucked back and forth between her hand-held tits.
She tried to glance down past her double chin to see.
She couldn't see, because the first white-hot spatter of sperm hit her square across the eyes.
"Eeaaggghhhh!! Martin! You're coming all over me!"
Yessiree, Martin was coming all over her face, all over her chin, but most of all, all over her fat titties.
The mountains of her boobs seemed to earthquake in his hands as Gladys squirmed her huge body, trying to avoid all those rainfall shots of jism that drenched her face.
Martin screamed: "Aaheeeeh!"
Then he let go of her tits, and they bounced against the bed on both sides of Gladys' fleshy body.
He was in the midst of rolling over, grabbing for his pillow, listening to Gladys say: "Martin, that was disgusting!" when he thought about Connie Ryan's reason for no titty-fucking.
Sunbathing in the nude and her nipples were raw – said she couldn't titty-fuck because her jugs were sunburned. In the middle of October in South Dakota? Hell, it was colder than a witch's tit; which was what Gladys had become as she grabbed a broomstick from the nearby pantry and starting to whale all over his ass.
"You mother-fucker, Martin! Don't you ever fuck my titties again. That's perverted!"