Goon

by Edward Lee

  No.

  Trace hair lined the groove, littered with dinkleberries. Her anus looked like an empty eye socket, complete with lashes, and it was no secret that she hadn’t been very thorough about wiping after her most recent Number 2. Now Straker was pitted against a paramount effort to see how long he could hold his breath and perform cunnilingus at the same time.

  “Aw, sweetcakes! How selfish of me!”

  With this remark, she offered some attention herself, attention of the oral persuasion, settling forward like a white manatee and taking his entire scrotum into her mouth at once. She sucked his balls like a bag of gumdrops, yet his penis felt dead. Dead meat. The head of a turtle trying to retract back into its shell. Soon he would be history’s first man to sport internal genitalia.

  Eventually, she liberated his scrotum with a wet smacking noise. “How’s that for a ball-suck, honey? Hmmm?” Then she took the dwindling strip of flesh that was his cock wholly into her mouth.

  Straker squeezed his eyes shut. Concentrated. But—

  Nothing. Dead.

  “Come on, sweetcakes. Get this love-stick hard for your baby.”

  Straker could fabricate no manner of imagery sufficient to stiffen his “love-stick.” Her mouth sucked it out like a piece of taffy—a very small piece of taffy—and soon the Captain of the State Police Violent Crimes Unit realized his full dilemma. If he did not rise to the occasion, she’d more than likely be offended and, hence, not inclined to be forthcoming with what she knew about Goon or his manager. This, after all, was the real reason he was here. And what would Melinda say if he failed so totally?

  But that thought—just that mere name: Melinda—rolled through his mind like fine brandy in a snifter.

  I’m going to do this, he resolved. I’m going to go the extra mile and prove to her that I’m not a candyass!

  And resolve he did. He bravely redirected his cunniligual efforts, riding like the Six Hundred into the Valley of Death.

  “Ooo, sweetcakes, that’s good,” she abruptly praised. “Thought I was losin’ ya there for a minute, but—hot damn—you eat box lunch with the best!”

  Box lunch, indeed. He was going to make this a Thanksgiving dinner. He was going to make this mammoth of a woman have an orgasm if it killed him. And as for his own responses…

  Melinda, he thought.

  Now that was the ticket. Just think about her, he commanded himself. Think about Melinda…

  Kissing Melinda…

  Touching Melinda…

  Putting your arms around Melinda…

  Making love to Melinda…all…night…long…

  Straker’s cock came alive in Ghoula’s garbage-sump mouth. “Mmmmm,” she responded. “Mmmmmmmmmm!” Soon she was fellating the whole thing, from hilt to glans, all six-and-half mighty, strapping, woman-killer inches. Simultaneously, the Captain lapped and lapped and lapped, until the weight above him began to flex, squirming in unbridled delight. Melinda, Melinda, Melinda, he thought over and over and over. Fibrotic cysts be damned! Yeast and stink and butt-pimples—kablooey! Straker’s tongue became the Warrior of the Apocalypse, fearless now on this treacherous hunting ground. It bravely licked and sucked and laved, striding ever onward to victory. Even the dinkleberries caused not a flinch. Not even the poop smudges nor hair-fringed rectum itself. Like a trooper, Straker conquered all, and soon she was coming like an 18-wheeled Peterbilt with no brakes. “Aw, sweetcakes!” she paused long enough to exclaim amid squeals and moans and even shrieks. “Aw, aw! Awwww!” She gasped, then screamed. “YES! YES!” she wailed in brass-horn tenor…

  And came right in his face.

  Her bulbous ass-carriage flexed off a few more spasms, then settled down along with her moans. With her orgasm came a veritable flood of vaginal fluids. Pee in my face why don’t ya? Straker thought, but even with the flood he was not dissuaded.

  Next, though, she very adroitly returned to her ministrations. The nightstick of his passion was tightly swallowed whole, then catered to in expert fashion. But as his thoughts flittered on, it was not the Fabulous Ghoula so nimbly sucking his dick.

  It was Melinda…

  And with that thought…

  Straker strained, then popped enough semen into her yap to fill a shot glass. Drained as he may have been via today’s multitudinous releases, Straker came long and hard right down the Fabulous Ghoula’s throat. I hope she likes egg-drop soup, he thought and just kept coming. One spurt after the next, right down the hatch.

  “Mmm, Christ,” she said, smacking her lips when the jizz show was done. “You shoot a big nut, sweetcakes.”

  “Yeah,” Straker replied.

  She turned around, then lay beside him in bed. “Well, now I guess it’s time—”

  Straker assembled all of his potential play-acting talent, and… cuddled up right next to her. That’s what women wanted, wasn’t it? To be shown affection after the moment of crisis? He snuggled close, then even held her hand.

  Her face screwed up. “What the hell are you doing?”

  The query caught him off guard. “Well, I—I-I’m trying to be, you know… Affectionate.”

  “Oh, you’re a hoot!” she replied and laughed like someone on Hee-Haw.

  Straker blinked in confusion. He was halfway there now, but he still had the second half of his duties. He had to hit her up with questions about Goon and his manager.

  “That was really a great time,” he feigned. “Now I thought we’d just snuggle up.”

  She belted out another piglike guffaw. “Hate to tell you this, sweetcakes, but the only thing you’re gonna snuggle up with tonight is the parking lot.”

  Straker blinked again. He didn’t get it. “What, uh, what do you mean?”

  “What I mean is this. It’s time for you to get the fuck out.”

  “You’re…you’re kidding me?”

  “You got five seconds to haul on your duds and be outa here, pal. I’ve gotta drive to Lexington in the morning, and that’s a three-hour haul, and I gotta be ready to wrestle an 8 p.m. card.”

  Straker stood up, naked, uncomprehending. “I see, well… If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few quick questions before I leave. See, I need to—”

  The bed creaked. And it was a terrifying thing to behold as this monstrous woman got up. Hair frizzed out, gaps where teeth should be, and a physical frame comprised of layers, stacked like flapjacks, on two legs.

  “This is my hand,” she said, raising her big, meaty paw. “And this is my hand in your hair.”

  “OW!” Straker yelled as she grabbed him by the hair and gave a good hard twist.

  “And this…is a door.”

  She opened it, giving his scalp a final torque, then shoved Straker into the parking lot.

  Straker staggered up to stand outraged, humiliated, and buck naked. He cupped his genitals as his clothes flew out the door.

  “Wait! I need to know about—”

  The door slammed, loud as a gunshot.

  Unbelievable. All that work, he thought, for nothing. And work was right. It was no picnic having that big pimply kiester in his face. He clumsily pulled his clothes on in the quiet parking lot, then shuffled off.

  Well… At least I tried, he reasoned. He’d definitely gone the “extra mile” for the sake of the investigation, so Melinda certainly couldn’t fault him for that. But the mere thought of her name, now, made him edgy. Extra mile or not, she’d probably give him a boatload of shit for striking out. And there was something else too, wasn’t there?

  Melinda…

  Though he’d never admit it to her, he could admit it to himself. Right now she’s fucking Slick Dare. She’s been changing this guy’s oil for hours.

  Straker was jealous. He couldn’t help it. And the imagery made him seethe: Dare’s big mitts all over her flawless body, his cock in her. That pompous, bleach-blond motherfucker’s probably come in her five times by now.

  ««—»»

  “Shit,” Dare muttered. “Can’t come.” />
  Melinda sighed, wincing, as Slick Dare rolled his tanned, sweat-sheened body off her. The rolling-pin-sized penis drew out of her with an audible click. Then he sat up on the bed and swigged a watery gin and tonic.

  The massive shoulders shrugged. “Sorry, baby. Just one of those things, you know. Must’a drank too much tonight, can’t get the gun off.”

  Melinda leaned up, quelled her outrage. That asshole humped me for over an hour… Even her pussy was sore.

  Dare looked at his phony Rolex. “So look, baby. I can’t get a nut tonight, so why don’t you take off, huh?”

  Astonishing. Men. What selfish, arrogant cads. This is it? The dead-dick piece of shit can’t come, so now he’s kicking me out? She did her playacting best to comfort him, rubbing his shoulders, a coo in her voice.

  “Oh, don’t worry, we can try again later.”

  “No can do, baby. Gotta get some sleep. I have to drive to Lexington in the morning. That’s a three-hour haul, and I gotta be ready to wrestle an 8 p.m. card. I don’t want to be rude but—let me put it this way: Get the fuck out.”

  Now Melinda’s outrage came unquelled. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She got up in a tizzy, put on her panties, her denim skirt, then stopped and glared at him.

  “You got dirt in your ears, babe?” Dare asked. “I need you to beat feet.”

  Melinda snapped. “Beat feet? How about I beat your ass!”

  “Come on, don’t get bitchy now. You ringrats are gonna have to learn that you can’t have it your way all the time.” He swigged more of his drink, resonating his arrogance. “Let me tell you something—women stand in line for me. They get in fights over me. I did you a big favor just by letting you touch me. But the party’s over now, so you gotta shag your ass out of here.”

  That was it. She’d had it. She was mad. “Well let me do you a big favor, Slick,” she offered, then sauntered over.

  SMACK!

  She laid her palm across his face so hard his drink flew out of his hand and he fell off the bed.

  “How do you like that, dickhead?”

  Dare shook the shock out of his head, squinting up at her in disbelief. “Are you crazy? I’m the most successful professional wrestler of all time. You don’t just slap someone like me. You’re just a stringbean little ringrat. I could kick your ass in my sleep.”

  SMACK!

  The second blow was harder. Dare stumbled, dizzy, as he rose from the floor. “You’re going to the hospital now, bitch.”

  Melinda knew she shouldn’t be doing this, she could blow her cover. But even she had her limitations for abuse. As Dare rose, she did a quick spin, then sunk a perfectly executed karate kick into his belly. Dare bent over, groaning like a just-gelded walrus. And when he looked up—

  THWACK!

  —she drove an equally perfect palm-heel right into his face. His nose broke with a crunch. Dare mewled and went down again.

  “You wanna fuck with me, Wonder Boy? Come on. I’m waiting.”

  This was just too much fun. Dare teetered up again, his nose leaking blood, his eyes crossed. He launched a misguided fist, which Melinda ducked effortlessly. She spun again and had him in an armbar—a real armbar—then hurled him into the wall. He came at her again only to receive yet another karate kick, this one to the right cheek—THWACK!—then another to the left—THWACK!—which sent a tooth flying across the room. Lastly, and she figured appropriately too, she jumped, turned, and twisted in mid-air, and drop-kicked the invincible Wonder Boy square in the chest. Dare sailed across the room, cleared the dresser, and crashed to the floor.

  Melinda paused to fix her hair in the mirror. Dare sidled over, moaning.

  “Want more, Wonder Boy?”

  “No,” Slick Dare groaned, his mouth gushing blood.

  She knelt down in front of him, grabbed his white-blond hair and twisted. “I’m tired of fucking around with you goddamn wrestlers. I want information, and you’re gonna give it to me.”

  His eyes crossed as he peered at her. He spat out another tooth. “Information. What the hell… You’re a ringrat.”

  “No I’m not, hammerhead. All you need to know is that I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer them. Then I’m going to leave and you’re not going to say a word about it, right?”

  Dare very unwisely paused, so she pressed her thumb into the middle of his broken nose. Dare howled.

  “This is crazy, I’ll have you arrested!” he’d bloodily objected.

  “No, asshole, you want crazy, this is crazy,” she corrected him, then quickly grabbed his hand and—crack!—broke his pinkie. Dare barked in pain. “And this?” she said. “This you might want to call real crazy,” and with that she wrapped her long sleek legs around his neck and squeezed on a head-scissors.

  A real head-scissors.

  She lay back laughing as he flipped and flopped, her thighs pressuring down against his trachea. “I want to know about Goon, so start talking.”

  Dare palms slapped the carpet until she took the scissors off. When he could move, he desperately slid his butt into the corner of the room. “Please, no more…”

  “Tell me about Goon.”

  His face screwed up in utter incomprehension. “Goon? He’s just a heel. I don’t know nothing about him, nobody does.”

  “You can do better than that,” Melinda encouraged him, then hauled him belly-down onto the floor, straddled his back, and treated him to a chin-lock—a real chin lock.

  He bucked under her, growling in pain. This was supposed to be business, not pleasure; nevertheless, Melinda’s vagina throbbed like a pent-up cock, seeping through her devil-red panties. The violence just…turned her on so much. She couldn’t help it. Her nipples distended like sparkplug ends, and her entire body seemed to swell in prickly heat. Don’t kill the asshole, she had to remind herself. When she climbed off, Dare went slack. She nudged his head with her foot. “I’m waiting, Slickie. Tell me about Goon, or I’ll wear your ass out.”

  “Goon,” he mumbled, bloodying the carpet. “What the hell do you want to know about him for?”

  “Don’t piss me off unless you want a sleeper hold—a real sleeper hold.”

  He flopped over, his face like a busted cherry pie. “I— Jesus. Goon? Shit, nobody knows much about him. He’s a flake. Nobody’s ever even seen him without his mask on. I—I don’t know anything about him…”

  Melinda shrugged, her bare breasts surging. “I need to see him, where does he stay? Quick or it’s Sleeper time.”

  “No!” Dare pleaded, red spittle flying. “Goon, Goon, let me think— Shit! What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know where he and Felander stay.”

  “A-a mobile home! He stays in a mobile home! His manager drives him to the arenas.”

  “Yeah, Felander, and the Winnebago. I know that, Slickie. But where?”

  Dare picked his terrified brain for answers. He looked a sight now: his white-blond hair sticking up in spikes, his bald-spot showing. And that big deflated dick laying limp in his groin like a rubber full of pudding.

  Then he began to cry.

  He began to blubber like a baby in this total defeat. The 12-time heavyweight champ had met his match. “Please don’t hurt me anymore!” he blubbered. “Please don’t! I got no idea—”

  Melinda pinched his cheeks together. “When you first came to DSWC, Felander was your manager. Shortly thereafter, he picked up Goon too.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but Felander dropped me a few weeks later,” Dare struggled to explain. “He dropped Ghoula and Rod Stimmons and all of his heels. He just wanted to concentrate on Goon, I guess. It didn’t make sense.”

  “Some things don’t. But for the short time Felander was carrying you and Goon, what did they do? Where did they go between cards?”

  Dare was sobbing openly now, a 243-pound bronze baby. If he was wearing diaper, he’d have shit in them. “Honest to God—I don’t know!”

  “I guess we’ll skip the sleeper and
get right into the figure-four, huh?”

  “Noooooo!” Dare sobbed.

  “Maybe if I broke your legs, you’d want to talk a little more.” Melinda got up. This was such a charge: seeing the Wonder Boy cry and beg and plead. Just the thought of punching him up or cracking those sturdy shins like broomsticks made her so wet she was dripping in her panties.

  “I think Goon’s in trouble with the law,” she explained. “That’s why Felander keeps him out of the circuit motels and drives him to the cards in the mobile home. He’s hiding Goon. But there’s an oddity about Goon that I’ve discovered. At least once a week, he has to…go someplace. There’s something he needs that has to be kept hidden, and Felander has to take him to this place on a regular basis.”

  Dare wept into his hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What place?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just some inconspicuous location. When you were still with Felander just after he picked up Goon, did you stay in the mobile home too?”

  “Fuck no,” Dare responded. “I gotta quarter-million-house in Charlotte. I stay in the motels during the cards, and I drive my red Corvette to the arenas. I’m successful. I’m a licensed pilot. I own a string of gyms. I don’t need to shack up in some goddamn Winnebago to save money.”

  “So you’re telling me you’ve never been in Felander’s mobile home.”