God, after seeing Eddie pound away at Marcia's cunt, after remembering that passionate plea echoing across Lake Weed, she needed a cucumber. Now!
Fuck the test papers!
Fuck the siren song at Lake Weed!
Fuck Eddie Beasly!
Fuck Marcia Moresby!
Fuck the cucumbers, because after having seven straight shots of Scotch, Elvira declared that she was not going to shove another Goddamn vegetable into her cunt. She was going to be normal like everybody else – she was going to fuck a man!
Vance Manning.
Just as soon as the Bills-Chargers came was aver, she was going to call him up and plead – no scream, like that passionate voice at Lake Weed – for him to fuck the shit out of her.
Vance had seen lots of assholes die before, but not like this one. This corpse was white as hell, naked as hell, and cum or something jizzy-looking was leaking from the limp cock.
Shit, he'd better call the cops. What was he saying? He was the cops!
Vance leaned down. Yeah, the old man was deader than a sock. He started to stand up, when he noticed the pictures scattered all over the studio.
He picked one up. He gasped. His prick lurched.
Connie Ryan, that's who it was, almost bare-assed naked. Rut she was too young-looking. Then Vance spotted the photo album.
He picked it up. His balls churned.
Christ, he was starting to come before he had gotten to the end of the book.
He couldn't believe his eyes.
Then Vance walked out of Rods' studio, he was a different man than the asinine clown that had barged in on a dirty old man who shot filthy pictures. Vance not only was going to be number-one asshole of Weedville, but he'd have everybody begging to kiss his number-one ass. For once, Vance Manning felt like he was the king of shitville.
CHAPTER NINE
Coach Crowley literally pounced on his wife when he got home that day. Shit, his balls were so uptight from remembering Marcia Moresby's hot ass sashaying around in the girls' locker room that he now knew what it felt like to have a case of "blue balls".
Delia had been washing dishes when Coach Crowley walked in through the kitchen door. The smell of roast beef wafted from the oven. The sports page was already set next to his plate on the table.
But he didn't want to read about the Buffalo Bills getting killed by the San Diego Chargers fifty-two to nothing. He didn't want to eat any of that two-dollars-a-pound roast beef. He wanted to fuck… now!
"All right, woman, let's get it on," Coach Crowley grumbled, unzipping his pants and dropping them to the linoleum.
Delia, a hefty mammoth-titted women, cursed softly. Shit, she didn't want any part of fucking Coach Crowley now. She had had a hard day. Her feet hurt, her arms pained her, the agony that spiked into her spine was pure torture.
There had been a ton of laundry; she had waxed every inch of the kitchen floor; she had picked up the dog-shit that her neighbor's basset hound had deposited on both front and back lawns.
"Samuel," Delia implored beseechingly, "I have a headache."
"You won't have a headache after you see what I got ready for you," Coach Crowley said as he jammed his cock against her ass, shoving her cotton print dress deep into her pantied ass-crack.
"Please don't, Samuel. I'm exhausted."
"Come on, Delia. You won't be tired when I haul your ass on the table and put the meat to your cunt."
Delia tried to rinse off the roast pan, but Coach Crowley's cock was digging harder and harder into her ass-cheeks, making her fleshy tits wobble in her bra.
"Come on, Delia. Let's fuck. Now!"
Delia knew she couldn't get out of performing her wifely duty. When Samuel Crowley got a hard-on, and when his balls were swollen with lust, some woman was going to get her ass fucked off.
"All right, Samuel, all right. Just take it easy."
"Come on, Delia, we ain't got all day. Get your ass on that table and spread wide."
Delia undid the apron, turned around to face her husband.
His face was sweating like a tenderloin cooked at high heat. He was holding his cock, the slit in the prick-head aimed right at her. A drop of cum appeared before Coach Crowley gave his porker a good shaking, the slimy sperm-drop falling on the freshly waxed floor.
"Shit, Delia, can't you see how hot I am?"
Delia nodded, lifted up her dress and dropped her panties.
"Please do it easy, Samuel. It really hurts when you dolt too hard."
"Yahoooo!" Coach Crowley shouted when he glimpsed Delia's hairy brown twat. "Boy, I can tell you're more eager than I am. Just look at your cunt oozing juice!"
Which wasn't true at all. Delia's pussy was as dry as the Sahara. Her cunt-lips weren't even open yet. She wasn't hotter than her husband, and she sure didn't want to fuck at five o'clock dinnertime. Christ, they should be feeding their faces instead of their lusts.
"Do we have to do it on the kitchen table, Samuel? That always seems so… so disgusting."
Coach Crowley sneered, jacked his prick a couple of times. "Delia, when people are as hot as we are, they fuck all over the place. Now come on, get on that fucking table and spread!"
Delia resignedly got her ass on the table – the fucking table – and spread. She was on her back, her ass pooched over the edge, her thighs spread so far apart that one knee touched Coach Crowley's dinner plate, the other his sports page.
Laid out wide like she was, Coach Crowley was drooling and more white cream was flowing from his prick-hole. Shit, she sure wasn't any Marcia Moresby. Delia was a hefty chunky woman whose best assets were her cooking and her tits.
"Ooooohhh, Delia, you hot-cunt woman! Here I come, ready or not!"
Delia Crowley was not a hot-cunt woman, at least not today, and she definitely wasn't ready to have her hefty ass fucked off by her swarthy, sweating husband.
Coach Crowley seemed to jump between her widespread thighs, guiding his prick into the heat of her pussy. He looked down, getting his rocks off at the sight of his bulging cock-head pushing Delia's puffy cunt-lips.
"Please, Samuel. Do it easy. It really does hurt when you do it hard!"
Samuel did it hard, really hard, getting all of his two hundred fifty pounds behind the heaving shove of his hips. His cock bent slightly then straightened out as it shot deep and him into Delia's dry cunt-hole.
"Aaaaiiieee!! Oh, Samuel! You're hurtin' me! Please dolt easy! Don't do it hard!"
Coach Crowley grinned at Delia. Grinned lasciviously. "Aw, don't feed me that horse-shit, Delia. All women like getting fucked hard and [missing text]."
"Please, Samuel. Do it easy."
Coach Crowley was withdrawing his prick, getting ready for the next cavalry charge into her pussy. Bugles seemed to blare and the sound of someone screaming could be heard somewhere behind the back of his mind. Hog-fucking shit! It sure felt good to ram and jam his cock into a tight, hot cunt!
"Aaagggghhh!" Delia moaned. Christ, his cock was killing her. She didn't want to fuck, didn't want to have his prick in her cunt, just didn't want to be penetrated to the womb by the thunderous dong that filled her cunt when Coach Crowley was coming. The whole fucking neighborhood knew when Coach Crowley was coming. He was bellowing like a boar getting its nuts crushed by a vise.
"Aaarrrrggghhh!! Oh, fucking Lord! So good! So fucking good!"
Delia was writhing in pain, her thighs slapping Coach Crowley's hunching hips with sweaty slaps. Shit, it felt as if Coach Crowley were trying to stuff a football into her cunt – lengthwise. But at least be was coming, spurting the final drops of jizz into her cunt.