It is virtually impossible for a woman to remain passive while her tits are being raped.
Usually when an uneducated woman is being raped, she does very ignorant things. Like yell: "Rape!" or scream and kick and try and beat off her rapist you know, beat off as in trying to fight off.
An educated woman, however, will usually remain passive, trying to use brains for brawn, to out psych the rapist by asking him if he thinks violence is the answer to life's confusing problems, or if he was breech born instead of coming into the world head-first.
But, for a woman like Ramona Rathers, getting tittie-raped can prove to be one of those things in life that are disgusting when thought about, but downright fun when tried.
It had gotten to be downright fun for Ramona. After all, her rapist had called her titties luscious, really good fucking, the best set of tits in Weedley, etcetera, etcetera…
And for a bored, rich woman like Ramona, having her tits complimented in such fashion was worth the chafed raw feelings that her nipples had suffered.
And, besides, her rapist had not called her tits just beautiful.
So, now that the tittie-rape was over, and Bernard was standing up, Ramona touched her tits.
They felt very creamy because there was a lot of jizz on them. And they felt very warm because Ramona was in heat, and when she was in heat, it usually showed in her tits first, her cunt second, and her asshole third.
She also showed she was in heat by grabbing Bernard's slimy cock as he tried to stuff it back in his pants.
"Hey! You can't leave me hanging! Christ, I'm hotter than hell! Come on, I wanna suck your cock!"
Unreal! She had to be joking. Bernard smiled, decided to play along with her. Maybe she was mentally ill, or maybe a bearing had come loose in her head when she was very young.
Jesus! Didn't she realize that he had just degraded her titties! He had just abused her nipples. He had fucked her tits so hard that he was fearful that he might have bruised them, caused some cancerous growth to grow on those just-beautiful titties.
She couldn't mean what she had done could she?
"Hey, you mean that? You really wanna suck my cock?"
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
Christ! What the hell kind of answer was that? Ramona was licking the cum off his cockhead, her tongue scraping against his cock-slit before wrapping around his cock-shaft.
"Oooooooh! Christ, my cock's so sensitive right now!"
Jesus, it felt weird. His cock felt so fucking weird. His prick felt nerveless yet sensitive. His cock felt dead, yet alive. Bernard felt her mouth moving around on his cock, but nothing in the world could get his cock hard right now.
Ramona tried to get his prick stiff. Tried her best cocksucking methods to get his cock hard. She attacked his balls, grabbed the hairy ovals and fondled them.
Then she stuck a finger in his ass.
"Aaaaaahhhhhh! Shit! I can't get it up! Wait a fucking minute!"
Ramona couldn't wait. She wanted his cock to get big and hard so she could relieve the itch in her cut, the tingle in her asshole, the hunger in her mouth.
But sucking his cock was like chewing on a nylon rope. Like sucking on linguini. It was useless.
Pop.
"You chicken-fucker! You fucking chicken fucker!"
Chicken-fucker? What the hell's that supposed to mean? That he was scared to fuck? That he went around hen houses at night? Or that he was scared to fuck chickens?
"Look, lady, I just raped you! You're supposed to act… well, you know… like you hate me or something. You're not supposed to call me names or anything."
"Chicken-fucker! Scared to get it up, huh? Shit, you fucking chicken-fuckers are all alike. You don't give a fuck what happens after you're finished shooting your chicken balls. Just like a Goddamn rooster doesn't give a fuck after he's finished shooting his chicken jizz!"
Bernard shook his head. He decided that he'd turn away, zip up his chicken cock and go home to Imogene to have dinner.
"Where the fuck are you going? Hey!Come back here you chicken-fucker!"
Bernard felt like shit as he walked away from Ramona. Hell, she was right in one respect. She made him feel like a Goddamn normal guy instead of a full-fledged rapist. Christ! Why the fuck couldn't she have ended up hating him? Then maybe he wouldn't have to come to the park and rape another big-titted jogger.
Well, at least his wife was normal – she hated him for raping her titties.
Slit, Ramona had to be a fucking weirdo for not hating his fucking guts.
The path to success sometimes has many detours on the road to glory.
Buster had always remembered that statement because it had a special meaning to him.
He had found that statement in a fortune cookie at a Chinese restaurant. He had just broken open the cookie and found the message that had inspired him to become the next Heavyweight Champion of the World.
Collie Flowers, who had been supervising what he should or shouldn't eat in the restaurant, was sitting across from him and he had smiled triumphantly when Buster had gotten the message. Christ, not being a very good cook and a worse typist, it had taken him two weeks to bake that fucking fortune cookie and one day to type the message.
Thus, the message was ringing in Buster's head as he jogged down the path to success which sometimes has many detours on the road to glory.
The birds were chirping happily, relieved that the vulture had found its prey, and they kept Buster company as he huffed and puffed his way down the sapling-lined pavement.
Huff. Puff. Huff. Puff.
Jog. Jog. Jog.
"You chicken-fucker!"
Huff. Puff. Huh?
Buster stopped in his tracks. He heard the birds warbling and the saplings rustling and the sound of a woman in heat behind the mulberry bushes on his left.
He huffed and puffed over to the mulberry bushes.
He bent several limbs, peered through the leaves of the mulberry bush.
Jesus! A naked woman! And what the hell's she doing to her tits?
Oh, Christ! She's putting white suntan oil on her tits and talking about fucking chickens!
Buster felt uncomfortable as he watched the woman rubbing white suntan oil on her titties. He had never spied on a naked woman, while she rubbed Jergens Lotion on her tits.
Buster scratched his balls, felt his cock erecting.
The woman was lying down, on her back, spreading her legs and applying some of that lotion to her cunt.
Oh, Jeeezzzuuusss! Look at that pussy! Just look at how fucking wet and horny and hot her pussy looked!
Buster began to sweat. His cock began to drool… like his mouth.
Shit, if he had the fucking guts, he'd jump that chick and rape the shit out of her. But the warning sign posted on the perimeter of the park made him wary.
Ramona moaned: "Oooooohhhh! That chicken-fucker!Oooohhhhhh Goddddd, Ineed cock! Christ! Do I need cock!"
Buster nodded. Yeah, oh yeah, did she need cock! He could tell she needed a prick real bad because her pussy was gushing juice and the bigger her cunt-hole was getting the more he liked it.
Jesus! Did he dare give her the cock she needed? The mulberry bushes rustled as he wrestled his cock out of his jogging togs. Christ, with an eighteen-inch prick it was like dropping anchor.
Buster dropped his pants, and his anchor slapped against his thighs. He gripped his cock, gave it several two-handed, left-right pumps to get it to come up hard and erect.
Ramona moaned again: "Oh,motherfucker!Jesus! God! My cunt's burning up! Oh, Christ – give me cock!"
Buster got very itchy. He sure wanted to fuck that hunk of woman that was doing nasty things to her pussy – like sticking her hands into that gushing meat and making more juice come out of that hot hole.
And her tits looked so fucking shiny in the sunlight. The nipples were erect. Just like her tongue, which looked like it was licking an imaginary cock.
But Buster didn't have an imaginary cock. His cock was anchor hard. And he wanted to jump out of the mulberry bushes and land between her thighs. Spread those juicy thighs apart and get a real close-up look at a cunt in heat before he dropped anchor in her portal of paradise.
Hell, from this distance he could barely make out her cit. And she was turning and tossing too hard for him to make out her asshole.
God, how he wanted to make out with her clitand asshole. He wanted to feel her beneath him, tossing and turning like she was doing now. He wanted to bite down on those suntan-lotion tits while his anchor widened her cock-hungry hole.
He couldn't stand it. He got ready to leap.
Anchors aweigh!
Kirby certainly didn't feel married. What he felt like was very hard to describe. He felt like an instant, rich, stepfather groom.
Christ, things were just happening too fast. He wanted things to slow down. Make life lazier.
Kirby played with his prick as he contemplated being an instant, rich, stepfather groom.
The instant rich part he could understand – that was very uncomplicated. His rich aunt had died and she had left him almost a million dollars and a rocker worth several thou.
Yes, that was simple to understand.
The stepfather role was not simple to understand. First of all, he felt as if he had been tricked into marrying Eula Peters. But she had not only tricked him once, but twice. It was as if somebody had moved April Fools' Day to the middle of June.
And now, on top of taking care of a big spender for a wife and keeping up an aquarium for a home, there was also his stepson Lance.
Kirby felt very confused. God, how he wanted to be a lazy poor asshole again. At least then he'd be happy. He wouldn't have to provide Eula with all that money. He wouldn't have to worry about providing guests with aqualungs while they visited his home. He wouldn't have to worry about a eighteen-year-old instant stepson.
Kirby sat down on the sharkskin couch.
He smiled wryly.
Shit, and this was supposed to be his honeymoon night, and Eula hadn't returned from some Goddamn business appointment that she had made earlier in the week even though she knew that she was going to have to fuck him legally.
Worrying about Eula led him to worry about his stepson.
Shit, where the hell was Lance?
Jesus, something sure smelled fishy.
Besides not being able to cook or type, Collie was not very good at sewing. His fingers felt like lead weights as he sewed up two punching bags.
"Oh damn!" he cursed as he sucked the blood from his needle-punctured finger.
Collie stared at his finger. Thank God, the blood still looked red. Shit, his blood looked as youthful and energetic as the blood he had seen on Kid Carlisle's face.
Collie shrugged, didn't want to think about blood any more. But, it was hard not to think about blood after he had just killed two women.
Oh, that first bitch victim hadn't been any trouble at all. She had simply slumped to the floor. There was very little blood at all, in fact. The old boxing handle had hit her square between the eyes, and she had been kayoed before she knew what hit her.
Of course, the hard part about that first murder was stuffing the body into a huge Glad Bag and dragging it down three flights of stairs, out into the street, through the park, where Collie gulped… slowly. He remember what he had seen in the park as he was dragging the bitch home in a bag. And what he remembered made his brains clash like cymbals.
His boy – Buster Hyman – the next Heavyweight Champion of the World was breaking training! He was fucking a Goddamn hot-cunt whore who had the audacity to call Buster a chicken-fucker.
Shit, Buster was supposed to be training, getting his legs in shape, developing his lungs.
Christ! Fucking cunts! Shit, with them around, the only limb his boy was getting into shape was his fucking middle leg.
Collie sighed… slowly. He tried to forget the sounds that woman made as she ooohhhh'd and aaaahhhh'd her way through a climax. He tried to forget the sight of his Buster-boy shaking off his strong middle leg and jogging out of sight. He tried to forget the sounds she had made when he had hit her square between the eyes with the thick branch of a mulberry bush.
Now, that whore took a long time to die. And it was very messy. For one thing, the branch of a mulberry bush is not a very lethal weapon.
Collie had had to beat her about forty thousand times before she stopped struggling and screaming: "Oh! That'sit!Beat the shit out of me! Hurt me! You chicken-fucker! Harder…! Oh My God! No, not that hard!Hey! Watchout! Oh Christ! No, not on my titues! You'll scar my tities! You chicken-fucker! Aaaaaiiiiieeeee!"
Collie couldn't help it. His best cane had already been broken. And hitting her with a mulberry branch was like trying to kill a chicken with a fly swatter. But even a chicken'll die if it's whipped forty thousand times.
Now Collie felt exhausted. The old bones in his body felt like old rubber. He drove home the thick needle again, then cinched the thread fight.
Arthritic agony racked his joints as he stood up and patted the two punching bags that he had just sewn tighter than a drum.