by Edward Lee
Splap!
The formidable aggregation of "Chest Pudding" landed right in Ida's left eye.
"Close!" Nale barked. "But no cigar!"
The girl, with an understandable expression of disfavour, scooped the matter out with a curled index finger and flapped it away.
"Shee-it," Balls muttered. "Almost got ‘er in there."
"Balls, let's just go," Dicky implored. "This shit's grossin' me out, and, ‘sides, we gotta long ride ahead'a us."
"Yeah, guess'n yer right." Balls shook his head, chuckling, at the phlegm-pelted girl. "It's a good thing she ain't standin' in a steel drum 'cos by the time this here party's over, she'd be belly-deep in hock."
Balls' comment had been overheard by a cocky, gaunt redneck who stood hunch-shouldered. He had severely bucked teeth and hair like that Carrot Top guy only brown. "You thank so, Led Zepplin?"
Balls smirked at the implication about the length of his hair. "Yeah, I do, toilet-brush."
Buckled teeth showed through a grin. "Just you watch... "
This gentleman's effort to disgorge some suitable wares came louder and longer than anyone yet. It sounded like someone trying to pull-start a boat motor that wasn't quite turning over. Nale informed, "Billy-O's no slouch—he's won four times in the past. Seems he's always got himself a cold or the flu or some shit."
"Ya don't say?" Balls replied.
Now, Billy-O's cheeks were stuffed as a squirrel's full of acorns. He eyed the seated girl twenty feet away with the focus of a dart player. The stuffed cheeks seemed to throb, then he slowly leaned back, held a moment, and shot his head forward:
Kuuuuuuuuuuuuur-HOCK!
It could've been an ice-cream scoop full of brown yogurt that launched from Billy-O's mouth. He'd lined up straight and wisely put a high angle on it, and his follow-through?
Perfect.
The shivering wad fell right smack dab into Ida's mouth.
The crowd roared in applause. Ida, eyes thinned in disgust, leaned up, moaning. The mass just sat there in her cranked-open mouth, and just as she was about to spit it out—
"There's no hooch if'n ya do that, girl!" Nale warned. "You know the rules. Ya gots ta swaller it."
Poor Ida's shoulders slumped. Her eyes squeezed shut so hard, her face reddened. Then—
gulp...
More applause rose in the yard.
Nale nodded in pride, and happily turned over half the pot to Billy-O. "Good job, son. See ya next week."
"Yeah, man!" The skinny cracker pocketed his winnings, then strode rather bow-legged toward a none-too-pleased Ida. "Now I'se gonna have me my blowjob! Git ready, Ida! Here comes dessert!"
All the boys gathered round to watch...
Nale walked back to the ‘Mino with Balls and Dicky.
"Hard workin' boys deserves ta let off some steam," the elder man said.
"Dang straight," Balls agreed.
"‘Course, there was that one time when we'se caught a squatter gal millin' ‘round the yard stealin' corn, so's we tored her clothes of'n slapped her up some, then each fucked her'n afters that we slapped her up some more'n each gave her one in the tail."
"Only proper. Any gal who steals deserves ta git the blocks put to her," Balls pitched in.
"Yeah, but after we'se was all done puttin' some spunk up her dirty ass... you know what we done next?"
"What's that, Clyde?"
Nale smiled grimly. "We tied her to the chair."
Dicky looked perplexed, as he often did. "Tied her?"
"Shore did, and what else we did is we forced her mouth open with a wooden peg"—Nale clapped and hooted—"and then we all just took ta hockin' in her mouth one after another fer a good half hour, we did. I'll tell ya, boys. That was fun. Then ‘fore we let her go, we each fucked her one more time, and ya know what? That squatter gal never stole corn from me again."
"I'll bet she didn't, Clyde!" Balls joined the man's laughter.
The idea appealed to Balls, very much so. And to Dicky? Well, not so much.
Nale's tone took on a serious edge. "Fun'n games aside, boys, you's both be careful after ya drop off yer run. Ever now'n then coupla creekers other side'a the line'll wait till a runner's offloaded his hooch'n picked up the cash, then they'se'll try ta bushwhack 'em on their way out."
Balls grinned. "Ain't no one gonna bushwhack us, Clyde, 'cos if'n they do?" He pulled up his shirt, showing the old Webley .455. "They'll whistle when the wind blows."
"I like fellas who're prepared ta git tough when they'se gotta." Nale winked. "See you boys tonight."
Dicky still looked a bit pale as he and Balls approached the car. "Shee-it, Balls. We didn't need ta stay fer that shit. ‘Member, after we git back from this run, we'se gonna hit that guy Crafter's house."
"Relax, Dicky. We got it all covered. I kind'a enjoyed that Hock Party—good, clean fun, ya know? Shee-it. When fellas in the city git together, they watch fuckin' football on TV. Cain't think'a nothin' more boring than that. And ya know what else? When that last loogie fell in the ‘ho's yap... I don't mind tellin' ya I got a bit hard."
Dicky stared. "Jaysus... "
They double-checked the tarp covering their load, then started to get in the car.
"Hey!" a voice whined. "You fellas! Wait up, will ya?"
Balls and Dicky turned to see Ida scampering down the hill after them. Her overalls looked polka-dotted with phlegm. She carried a pint-jar of moonshine with her.
"Aw, what's she want?" Dicky complained.
The stalwart girl caught up, huffing, and asked, "Kin you fellas give me a ride to town?" and, of course, she'd pronounced the word ride as "rad."
Balls peeked down into a formidable cleavage. "Well I don't see why not."
"Ain't no way, girl!" Dicky complained. "You ain't gittin' in my damn-near mint condition 1969 El Camino all covered with hock!"
Balls' right brow rose. "He's got a point there, hon," he said to her. "But now if ya throwed them snotty overalls in the back and rode nek-it, then that'd be fine."
Ida sighed. "Awright... ," and she began to peel off the sullied garment.
Dicky and Balls got in.
"Shee-it," Dicky griped. "What'cha go'n do that fer? She probably stinks worse'n a dog's ass."
"Aw, that ain't very neighborly of ya, Dicky," Balls replied with some mirth. "But I wouldn't mind havin' me a gander at her tits'n cooter, ya know?"
"Shee-it... "
Balls whispered, elbowing his friend. "And just ya watch. Ten ta one I talk her inta givin' us each a blowjob."
"I don't want my dick in her mouth, Balls. It's dirty as a cat box."
Balls chuckled. "Dicky, yous need ta relax. We got time ta make our run and hit Crafter's house aaaaaaaaaand get blowjobs from this alkey hosebag. Bet'cha I kin talk her inta it." He slapped Dicky on the back. "Life's fer livin', man! Ya gots ta go with it."
When Ida slid in next to Balls on the ‘Mino's long black bench seat, she did indeed smell something roughly akin to a dog's ass. But what she was sporting in addition to her nudity were two pleasingly distended breasts and nipples like pink baby pacifiers. Yet there was something else rather distended about her as well.
Her stomach.
"Thanks, fellas," she obliged and quickly closed the door. Her hands trembled as she unscrewed the jar of clear liquor and took a good hearty chug. Then she leaned back, sighing. "Aw, fuck, yeah. That hits the spot... "
Balls marveled at the physical proof of the girl's fecundity, not that he knew what fecundity meant. "Well, dang, girl. I'd say you shore as shit got yerself a bun cookin' in that oven down there."
"Aw, fuck, I know. Somebody preggered me up fierce'n I don't even know who," she replied. "Figgure I'm four or five months... " Her breasts vibrated nicely when Dicky turned over the big 427 and got on the road. "Just what I fuckin' need, huh? At least my food stamps'll go up. Gots me three crumb-snatchers already."
Now Balls was gazing appreciably at the amble outgrowth of black thatch between h
er legs.
Her hands shook a bit less now, when she took another hit off the jar and smacked her lips. Balls thought oddly of all that high-octane alcohol mixing with that skinny dude's hock and semen...
Dicky leaned over behind the wheel, shooting her an alarmed glance. "Say, honey, you ain't supposed ta be drinkin' if'n yer knocked up, ya know? It fucks the kid up whiles he's growin' in yer gut."
Ida cast back a look of skepticism. "Aw, that ain't nothin' but a bunch'a what my mama used ta call codswallop. She drank ‘shine whole time she were pregnant with me, and I turned out all right."
Balls shot Dicky a quick smile.
"You don't mind if I sort'a... feel yer belly, do ya?" Balls asked next.
Ida frowned, then shrugged, letting the liquor take the edge off her need.
Balls smoothed his hand over the stretched, white stomach and popped-out bellybutton. That's what I'se call a belly FULL'a white trash, he thought. In his demented mind's eye, he saw himself fucking her hard as someone plungering a toilet, trying to bop the little critter's head with his knob. I'd give it a face full, I shore would. He wasn't sure but he thought he could actually feel the blood in her belly beating. Next, he asked, "Well, hon, ya know that's a damn fine set'a jugs you got hangin' on ya. How's 'bout if I have me a feel?"
"Shore, go ahead," she said with no interest in the least.
Balls plucked the meaty, pink nipples, then squeezed. The breasts cumulatively felt like hot water balloons. "If I, like, sucked 'em... would milk come out?"
"Oh, yeah, it don't stop when you're pregnant all the time," she informed.
"Well... how 'bouts if I take me a suck?"
Ida rolled her eyes. "Aw, go ahead. You's are givin' me a ride, after all."
Dicky frowned aside as Balls leaned over and planted a lip-lock on the left areola. When he applied some hard suction, the papilla swelled up like a salty gumdrop, and then—
There she blows...
Hot milk eddied out and filled his mouth. Was it his imagination or did it taste like it had been cut with moonshine? He switched back and forth, letting it all trickle down his throat. South of the belt, things began to stir.
I got me a load ta bust, he realized, and then he unbuckled his jeans.
"What'choo thank yer doin'?" came her immediate objection.
Balls answered in complete honesty. "I'se whippin' my dick out so's you kin suck it."
"I ain't doin' no such thing!" Now she was getting nasty. "What kind'a girl you think I am, anyway?"
Again, Balls answered in complete honesty. "You're a creeker fuck-dump who lets twennie rednecks spit in her mouth fer a pint'a hooch. In others words... you're a whore."
"Yeah? Well, whores get paid, asshole, and I don't see no money in yer hand," she sniped back.
Balls didn't like to be called asshole. That's what his father had called him damn near every day of his life.
He tapped her in the head with the blackjack, which put her lights half out.
"Find a clearin', Dicky," he ordered. "And pull ‘er over. Ain't no splittail calls me a asshole'n gits away with it."
"Aw, come on, Balls," came Dicky's wearied reply. "Just push the ‘ho out the car'n let's go."
"Nots till we put a ruckin' on the bitch. Now... Pull over."
Dicky groaned to himself and slowed the ‘Mino. Meantime, Balls sucked a nipple into his mouth, waited till more milk flowed, then bit down hard. Half-unconscious, Ida shrieked. Balls chewed alternately, as if on tough steak, then, for formality, he let his front teeth clip down on the inverted nub of navel. The girl sort of vibrated from the pain. Balls was trying hard to bite the nub clean off but he never quite got there.
The Camino chugged into a small clearing off the road.
"Just leave her here'n let's git on our run," Dicky practically begged. "You've rucked her up enough."
"Shee-it," Balls muttered. He opened the door, grabbed a handful of greasy hair, and dragged her out of the car.
Here we go again, Dicky thought to himself. He watched Balls drag the girl into the woods until they disappeared.
(VI)
It was the most satisfying dream of his life...
At first.
As the Writer lay back naked on the bed, the activity commencing about him could only be called a "Seven-Girl Tongue-Bath." Hot tongues and sucking mouths ranged his flesh. Any errant glance showed him beautiful bare butts in the air, breasts in his face, swollen nipples brushing his lips. Wedges of smooth white flesh shifted all around him as these voluptuous servitors constantly traded positions to lave every square inch of his body—er, almost every square inch. His groinal area was deliberately neglected, to only incite him more.
What a great dream, he thought in the dream.
"Okay, girls," spoke a hot, syrupy voice. "Let's really work him over now... "
Bedsprings squeaked as his group of lovely attendants changed positions yet again, but this time it seemed as though they were assigned locations, and as this ensued, the Writer noticed Beatrice, Anita, Nyna, and several other of Mrs. Gilman's working stable, along with last but not least, Nancy.
Fuck, the Writer thought in a rare departure from his avoidance of profanity. Beatrice sucked his tongue. Two more girls sucked each of his nipples. Hot hands pulled his knees back toward his shoulders, and next thing he knew his right testicle was in Anita's mouth, while his left was being suckled by Nyna. A sixth girl slowly and very wetly laved his anus, and Nancy...
Sucked his dick.
It was Naked Twister, and the Writer sufficed as the mat.
Somewhere, a clock struck midnight...
And beyond the window... a wolf howled.
Every sensation of pleasure that his physicality was capable of feeling was stimulated and, hence, let loose. It built up from the Writer's brain to his groin, making him abstract that his penis was something like a Super Giant oil pool that had just been tapped. One eye managed to glance between both of Beatrice's sensational breasts just as Nancy was pulling an upstroke: the Writer's penis was so stuffed with lust-driven blood that it looked alien, it looked so much bigger than what he was used to seeing that he thought, Where did THAT hoagie come from?
Then Beatrice adjusted her position to suck his tongue more intently, and the view was severed. It was just luxuriant pillows of flesh now...
I'd like to see D.H. Lawrence write about THIS...
The sucking grew more precise at every area, save for his penis. Nancy had withdrawn the Mouth That Would've Launched a Thousand Ships. Though the Writer couldn't see, he could feel, and what she was doing now was clear: she'd made a tight ring with her thumb and index finger and had taken to stroking the spit-lubricated shaft with a finesse that seemed to draw every nerve-charged sensation in the Writer's body slowly to the vicinity of his groin. A handjob, he thought, executed with the adeptness of Dali's brush-strokes in SUEZ, or the prosecraft of Gore Vidal... Then, an even more titillating sensation blossomed at the very tip of his member. Holy smokes, that's good, he thought. Whatever it is.
"Time to take his business," Nancy announced next and began to shuck that spitty "ring" up and down much faster.
The Writer's entire body clenched; he was at the brink—one more shuck—then—This makes aesthetic celibacy worth it!—he was there.
That's when he heard a sound that seemed suspiciously similar to an old aquarium pump. Two and two were put together quite quickly, and in a lurch he pushed Beatrice off and looked down appalled to see Nancy slipping the vacuum tube to her Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System several inches into his penis just as his ejaculation unloosed. Sperm filled a foot of the tube in one second, then the machine continued to suck. Beatrice sat on his neck to pin him down, while Nancy chuckled in a manner that was witchlike. She kept the tube in long after the Writer's orgasm had ended. Clicking was heard next, as if someone had turned the machine's motor to High, and then the Writer trembled in place, feeling more than mere sperm being hoovered from his reproductive tract.
"Yeah, now we're gonna take all'a this fucker's business," and all the girls laughed after that. Quite like witches.
The tube was kept in place for what seemed hours, and finally, when he was let up—amid still more echoic, witchlike cackling—the Writer looked down in the most abject horror and saw that the tube was actually dozens of feet long, and full of blood and pinkish testicular pulp.
Oh my God! Oh my God! the Writer lamented, and when he reached down to feel his scrotum, he found himself holding an empty sack...
That's when he woke up.
So convincing were the details of this dream and the clarity of its imagery that the first thing he did once his mind started clicking was reach down to his scrotum. Thank God, he thought when his testicles were still in evidence (not that, as a celibate, he actually needed them for anything). Then he groaned, thinking, What a TERRIBLE dream! Obviously it was just a spurt of Neo-Freudian symbology. The more desirable the woman, the more effectively her desirability emasculates men, he knew. A drifting hand told him with some distaste that the dream had been of the "wet" variety—his first in years.
