by Layla Wolfe
Since public awareness grew after the discovery of dead bodies—and dead dogs, since invariably there were dozens of them or their bones throughout the property—people had been rushing to the cops to report mill perpetrators and save dogs. Heaven was over the rainbow with joy. She had started her online law school, helped by the likes of Tanner and Slushy, and in her few moments of spare time she painted her landscapes. Tuzigoot promised to hire her as their only construction lawyer at the Citadel.
She was all I’d ever wanted in a wife. We’d been married in Vegas, unable to take much time away from the shrooms—or the cabin for that matter. Slappy of course came with us, leaving Crybaby to handle everything. Sock Monkey and Gunther from Puppies Behind Bars made it out. If Heaven were to spend one night in town with her brother, you wouldn’t believe the dishes and general crap that piled up. It was as if men simply didn’t see the mess. I used to clean my condo when drunk just to give myself something to do. Now it was as if I didn’t even see the frozen Atkins beef merlot box on the kitchen floor, or the jigsaw puzzle pieces Mickey Finn kept knocking off the dining table with her wagging tail.
Slappy was here to stay. After the accidental group text regarding Heaven’s ass, his wife Chloe had begun to see things in a different light. I gathered there had been many such incidents involving his admiration for female body parts. After losing the baby and Slappy’s retirement from the armed forces, they had never really gelled again, found a new path to follow together. Really, since Slappy had lived with me for so long, the only change was that Chloe put all his crap in a storage unit. Slappy had some shit shipped to our cabin, mostly a big screen TV that took up one whole wall of his bedroom, an NRA plaque, and a trophy for shooting wild turkeys that named him the Biggest Gobbler of Beards, 2012. I gave him the tribal bow and arrow he was accustomed to passing out on top of back in my condo days. It comforted him.
Slappy was banging hell out of the swinging glass door to the kitchen. “Cap’n, Cap’n sir!” he yelled. He even shook me by the shoulders, causing me to rattle all the glasses I already held. “You’re not going to believe who I just met!”
Putting a hand to his chest, Slappy looked wistfully at a snowy tree branch. He even began to sing a Queen song. “’Love of my life, don’t leave me. You’ve taken my love, now desert me.’”
I bashed on past him, and he followed. “Still upset about Chloe?”
“Not Chloe! Tracy! I just met the love of my life, and she said she’s spoken for by someone else!” He practically pressed his nose to the bay window. “See? Right there, talking to Tobiah. Ah, what an ass. What a shapely rack! I don’t know which one of these burly bruisers I’m going to have to fight for her love, but I’m willing to do it. She said she’s not married. But spoken for!”
“Oh God, no, Slappy!” I yelled as I poured the armload of glassware into the washer. It was beyond time to run it through a cycle, but I just slammed the door mostly shut. “You don’t want to get involved with Tracy. She’s the last one you want.”
“Why, Cap’n?” Hands dangling, Slappy pleaded like a kindergartener who wanted juice. “She’s the only one here who isn’t an old lady or a lamb, and she’s banging hot!”
I had to use a tray to carry more than five glasses, I already knew. I emptied the overhead cabinet, jamming the glassware upside-down onto the platter. “Slappy. I hate to tell you, but—”
“Darling!” cried Heaven. She also bashed the kitchen door open. She came like the madwoman I loved—sincere, eager to please, worried about everyone other than herself. “Your brothers are complaining that the eggnog doesn’t have enough rum in it. Do we have another bottle?”
“Yeah,” I said, almost ashamed that I knew the answer. Rum had been my thing back in the day, and now it didn’t even register with me. “In the pantry. Hey, can you believe this jackpatoot? He wants to blow a hole through Tracy.”
Heaven gasped. “Seriously, Slappy? Do you know what you’re getting into?”
Slappy held his palms wide apart. “Why? What’s wrong? Is she psycho or something? A malignant sociopathic narcissist?” He had been talking to Darcy Bard too much.
Heaven made a lip fart and continued on to the pantry. I jerked my head in the direction of the party, and bumped the door open with my ass. We were assailed by the clanging chanting of the vinyl Knoxie was currently spinning. As we passed his DJ station, I saw he had displayed Beat Your Breasts by the Ovarian Sisters. Roman, a former rock star himself, was arguing music theory with Knoxie, waving an LP cover at him.
I told Slappy, “You don’t want to go there, my friend. You’d be crashing the most intense and renowned ménage that ever existed.”
Slappy gaped. “Ménage?”
“Prospect!” yelled Ford. Former prospects had regaled me with stories of the feats they’d been forced to undergo. I kept watching and waiting with bated breath for Ford to send me into the desert with no food. Like Maddy’s brother Speed, I dreaded being forced to beg from an orgy of Furries—actual people dressed in actual wolf and fox costumes, doing it in the middle of nowhere. Speed had thought he was hallucinating from lack of food.
“Hurry your ass up!” bellowed Ford. I’d considered him a good friend before becoming a prospect, but now, I wasn’t so sure. “People are dying for their Christmas punch!”
It was funny—the way this burly, swarthy Prez yelled “Christmas punch” was frightening. It was rumored he’d murdered his own father, the first Prez, in the desert near Phoenix. Only a former member named Turk was witness, and he’d started his own club in western Arizona.
“Here!” I shouted, hustling the tray full of glassware to the table. One by one I stacked them mathematically, precisely as a soldier would. Almost as quickly, hands reached to grab them.
Duji shouted, “Where’s the fucking rum? Who made this eggnog, a fucking Mormon?”
His wife Dominique tried shaking him by the shoulder. “Sweetheart. This isn’t good for your heart. Drink punch instead.”
Duji shrugged her off and yelled some more. “This stuff is weaker than the eggnog at the farmer’s market!”
“More scorpion bowls!” blathered Funkhauser.
Meanwhile, Slappy was rattling my arm. “Tell me about this fucking ménage!”
Lytton perked up at the mention of “ménage.” “Who’s having a fucking ménage?”
I told Lytton, “Tracy, that’s who! Get this guy. He’s hot for Tracy.”
“Whoa, ho, ho!” shouted Lytton and Ford simultaneously, as fraternal twins would.
Ford said, “Don’t let Tobiah hear you say that.”
Slappy enquired, “Why Tobiah? What’s he got to do with it? He doing her taxes?”
At this, everyone roared. Some guys even doubled over, leaning on the table for support.
The brothers gasped at each other. “Doing her taxes!”
I roared along with them, as a normal brother in arms would, not a lowly prospect. I even ladled myself a glass of the punch. Ford’s phone must’ve buzzed, because he raised it to look, still wheezing with humor.
However, his face darkened right away. “Wolf again,” he told Lytton.
“Wolf Glaser?” asked Faux Pas, his French accent thick and fluid. “Did he ever extract himself from that plane crash in Bogotá?”
“Wolf was in a fucking plane crash?” asked Slappy. He turned to me. “Who’s going to make our fucking compost?”
I was more concerned about the plane crash. I asked Ford, who wasn’t answering Wolf’s call, “Why did his plane crash?”
For the moment, he didn’t regard me as a prospect. “It was one of those twin engine Cessnas, and Wolf loaded it with eleven-hundred pounds of coke.”
I guffawed. “Hell. Even I know that’s way too much weight. Is he OK?”
Ford shrugged. “As far as I know. His next plan was to stuff a bunch of shipping containers with the blow.”
Faux Pas said, “Not a bad idea.”
Ford’s phone dinged, and he read a tex
t. “Not normally. But Wolf just texted, HELP. All in capital letters. HELP. I’m stuck inside a shipping container in Cuba. HELP. It’s a hundred and fifteen degrees in here.”
Everyone looked blankly at each other. Only Duji moved to glug more rum from the new bottle into his mug. It sounded like a very dire situation, but it wasn’t my place to say. Everyone seemed to be waiting for Ford to make a move.
Standing on tiptoes, Ford craned his neck to see over and into the crowd. He waved and shouted through the funnel of his hand. “Fox! Get your ass over here!”
“Fox speaks Spanish,” said Duji before loudly inhaling his refreshed drink.
Faux Pas added, “He was a lawyer in Taos before having to go undercover and becoming one of the globe’s best sicarios.”
Speaking of hitmen, I wanted to ask whatever happened to Santiago Slayer after being knocked off the train’s roof by a stray coconut. But someone was sliding their palms into my back jeans pockets, squeezing the globes of my ass. I was glad I wasn’t holding any more glasses.
“I have my blindfold,” whispered Heaven against my neck.
My dick lengthened and stiffened, and I had to raise my hand like a kid in class to ask Ford, “Can I take a short break?”
Ford grinned and lifted his chin in approval. “Go for it, prospect,” he allowed.
“Come, darling,” she said. “Eat my pussy while I’m blindfolded.”
I didn’t need another word of encouragement. I grasped her hand and led her back inside the house just as Fox Isherwood emerged from the crowd, ready for a mission to Cuba, I supposed. But would he make it in time to extricate Wolf from his fiery cage?
“I really want to fuck,” Heaven admitted as we rushed through the kitchen hallway toward the staircase, “but I want to make you work for it first.”
“Work for it?” I echoed. “That’s hardly work.”
“That’s one of the ten thousand things I love about you, Town. You’re a hard-working man.”
“Well, when the end result is worth it . . . “
Love of my life, don’t leave me. We had forged so much together. We were adopting a two-year-old boy coming from Russia next month. Ford had given us the cabin as a wedding gift. Shroom business was booming, thanks in part to Crybaby’s dogged pursuit of sales, Heaven’s creative propagation of new strains.
I couldn’t see how life could get better. But it proceeded to do just that in the next hour.
Heaven
I knew no old lady, especially the old lady of a prospect such as Town, was supposed to interrupt in any way, shape, or form. I just couldn’t help myself any longer. It had been a whole three days since we’d fucked. What with decorating, cooking, and shopping for the children’s gifts, I had been bone tired at the end of each day. Then of course harvesting and packaging the new strain of shrooms. Now I was raring to go. Our toddler was arriving from Russia soon, so there’d be precious little time for even the more mundane aspects of keeping house. Ivan would keep us on our toes.
I dragged my husband—my husband!—upstairs to our room. Crybaby, not knowing we were on an op sanctioned by the Prez himself, tried to shout, “Hey! Didn’t you get another one of those sheet cakes with igloos all over it?”
My husband just yelled back, “Later, Crybaby. Later.”
Once our bedroom slammed, I withdrew the blindfold from my cleavage, handing it to Town. But he was much too slow, with his lopsided grin. I whipped it back and put it on myself!
“I see what you’re doing,” Town said slyly I could hear him taking off his vest and thermal shirt beneath it. I automatically reached out to feel his silken chest, as smooth as butter, with just the right amount of chest hair.
“What am I doing?” I teased, ever so innocent.
The clanking of his metal belt buckle told me he was stripping off his jeans. Yet I remained clad. “You want me to lick that clit of yours until you splash me in the face.”
I felt myself blush. I had actually “squirted” Town last time. I had to google this unbelievable thing, but yes, it was a true phenomenon. I was mortified that at the moment of climax I’d felt like I somehow peed his face! But the reality wasn’t half as embarrassing.
“No!” I protested, wrapping my long arms around his shoulders to hold him close to me. I adored feeling the ridges of his tough scapula muscles, and the long, ropey trapezius. But today, I ran my palm down the hard slopes of his six-pack, unable to linger long before diving straight down to entangle my fingers in his bush. “I want a strictly sensual experience. I want to suck your big pole without my sight.”
“Oh!” he murmured, please of course. “If you say so. Though you know I can’t last long with your mouth—ah!”
In the twinkling of an eye I was on my knees. I expertly yanked the last pants leg from him as I gobbled his rod. Oh, the sandy-smooth feel of his glans against the roof of my mouth! When I squiggled the tip of my tongue in his slit, talk about squirting. My thumb, running the length of his undercock, felt the pulsating of precum bursting its way up the channel.
I shoved his butt against the edge of the mattress and increased my ministrations. I could tell by his groans, how he lunged his hips, how that channel throbbed against my thumb that he was right—he would not last long. But how I loved worshiping him like this! It was so far from the lewd, unfeeling acts I’d been forced to perform with Orson. I did not equate the two in my mind.
I remembered how Brighten would tell me the pain that comes with sinning is just the result of our conscious choices. God didn’t visit retribution upon sinners—we did. Now there were some of their fundamentalist teachings I could use in my everyday life. God cried for Israel’s suffering, for Job, for humanity’s misery. He gifted us with the choice to act independently, leaving us free to mold the conditions of our own reality. This could be a freedom or a curse!
I sped up my worship at Town’s monstrous cock, lathering his pole with my saliva, squirming my tongue back and forth against the jizz channel. Pausing only to suck a hard ball into my mouth. I was a cocksucker deluxe, and I didn’t hold back my own moans.
“Ah, woman,” panted my husband. “Woman woman, you are too fucking much. Ah, God. I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come in your—”
Just in the nick of time, I stood ramrod straight. I pointed at what I believed to be the head end of the bed. “Get up,” I commanded, as I stripped my warm merino wool sweater from my torso and squirmed out of my skirt and leggings. I heard him oomphing as he walked his way up to the headboard. But I had something different in mind.
Jumping to the bed, I clung to the headboard and waggled my ass. I was finally over calling it my fanny. Town leapt to the task at hand, promising needlessly, “I’ll be gentle, my angel.”
Waggling my fingers between my thighs, I eagerly sought his big member. “No need, no need,” I said, like a harried shopkeeper.
He placed his big, shiny prepuce against my opening, but he was hesitant. “I don’t want to remind you of . . . ”
We knew he meant the tortures of Orson Ream, but I was so far over that. “It’s you, Town, not Mr. Ream. I know it’s you. It’s you and your giant cock. I’m stretched out enough now to take you.” I blew hair from my eyes. “Take me, god damnit!”
He eased his way inside my passage. My muscles clutched at his meat. It was quite attractive to me how well-endowed my husband was. For the first time ever, I could marvel at it and admire it. Orson had been less endowed, so Town and I had worked tirelessly to stretch me out without pain. “You know,” Town grunted, “taking you like this, like a dog, like a fucking wild bear, it just—”
I slapped my ass with a naked palm. “Take me, Town! I’m not kidding! Just take me and shut up!”
So Town did.
Gyrating and swiveling his muscular hips, he bore down into my core. Ecstasy pooled around my uterus, fingers preparing to clamp down on my innards. Town hungrily plugged me with his mammoth phallus, each stroke more heedless, incautious, just unrestrained lust.
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I splayed my fingers and held them between my thighs, a V containing my bulging clit, the muscles of his stiff boner. Town was wider and longer than I’d ever felt him, but I could accommodate him. With my pussy reflexively clutching at him, he stroked into me with short, constant pants. I could tell his inner mind was shutting down, lasering his focus onto my body, then just certain parts of my body, and then just one.
He came with many blasts, loads blowing deep inside my inner cunt. I squeezed and milked his cock with my buff inner muscles. Twitching and jerking inside me, he finally panted again. His puffs of breath rolled up my spine, cooling me down. I massaged the powerful limb with my fingertips between my legs. Now his whole body twitched and jerked.
“Ah, no!”
“Too much?” I teased. I looked over my shoulder as though I could see him.
“A bit,” he panted.
As much as I hated to, I fell away from him, twisting so I landed with my ass on a pillow. Only then did I strip the mask off. Good God in an evil world, Town was ripped. The way the late afternoon sun flowed in the window really hit up the ridges and valleys of his torso. He’d been so much more active since recovering from his surgery. He was like a new man—or the same man I loved more than life itself, if that makes any sense.
He collapsed alongside me, too. “That was amazing,” he panted, “fucking a stranger.”
I took false offense. “What? I’m not good enough for you?”
He took me seriously. “What? Oh, no! That’s not what I meant at all!”
Giggling, I kissed the edge of his mouth. “My gimpy shitbird,” I said, using army lingo, “you are the only one I want to fuck.”
