So they discussed their problem, and Connie came up with a solution. She had been writing a diary of her life – of how this shit-hole of a town with its assholes for aldermen kept her as a mistress. And she had written down every exploit, every rotten carnal deed done to her luscious body.
Now she was planning to send copies to each man who had furnished her with clothes, food and a three-bedroom apartment in exchange for fucking her ass, tits, mouth and cunt.
That would take care of them. They wouldn't dare come searching for her if they knew what was hanging over their balls.
Maybe the people of Weedville would be outraged when the truth came out, but they would still elect him mayor – shit, he was the only one who knew anything about mayoring.
Hell, what a dilemma. And all they wanted to do was get out of there fast and start proving how much they loved each other. If only people wouldn't bug them.
Martin Seaman was a titty-fucker. No, not one of your usual everyday titty-fuckers – he really had to have two tits sandwiched over his cock before he could get his rocks off. That was why he really dug fucking Connie Ryan's titties. God, what a pair – huge, firm mountains of boob that could create a canyon of warmth ten times better than any cunt.
Martin was in bed. He was naked, fondling his cock. His wife was snoring beside him loudly snoring, like the zzzzz's of a drunken elephant.
Martin was reading a book. He liked to read books before he fell asleep. He thought he was quite a book-reader. The book in his hands was called Annie's hot fanny. It was a fuck book, or, as everybody else who had read it before it finally ended up in Martin's hands, "a real cock-grabber".
Martin didn't think Annie's hot fanny nabbed his cock. There weren't any titty-fucking scenes. Shit, he had had to read up to page thirteen before Annie was even kissed – no, not on her cunt, or ass, or even on her tits – just plain kissed on the lips. Fuck, shit, piss. Cock-grabber, huh!
Martin was disgusted. The fucking book was nothing like the cover. Hell, he got more thrills jacking off over the bra ads in the Sears Roebuck catalogue.
He got to page thirty. Finally a fuck scene. Annie was starting to give his prick a rise. But the Goddamn author was really getting with it. Shit, the writer wasn't even describing how cunts looked when they were stroking madly up and down on a cock!
Page fifty was another fuck scene. Annie was sucking a nigger's cock. Disgusting. A real turn-off. Why the fuck did all those modem fuck books have to have white chicks fucking niggers? Equal rights? Take a nigger to bed today?
Shit, his cock drooped down again. When the hell was Annie going to get her titties fucked?
Martin read on, getting to page eighty-five before some more skin-action occurred. Annie was looking through a peephole, watching two queen sucking each other's cocks.
Martin's prick not only was limp now, but it felt dead. Really disgusting. Every Goddamn fuck book always threw in a couple of scenes where fags were buggering each other. What ever happened to straight people like him? Who the hell were all those fuck-book publishers trying to impress?
Gay guys. Fuck 'em.
Shit, he was halfway through the book and not one scene had given his prick the full hard erection that he wanted.
Then on page 155, four pages from the end, there it was – a titty-fucking scene. Martin's prick jerked and throbbed. Well, it was about fucking time!
Annie's tits were, as the author described them, not tits but mammaries, and the prick that was shooting cock-juice all over those mammaries was called a masculine tower of strength that poured its vast resources all over Annie's bosom.
Martin couldn't take any more reading. He had just finished reading an inadequate sex scene about one of his favorite pastimes – titty-fucking.
Martin grabbed his eight-inch prick, ran his hands over the tip, then down the shaft. He needed titties. He wanted Connie Ryan's titties, but she had told him that she had lain too long in the sun and that her nipples were burned raw. No more titty-fucking for a while.
Martin sighed.
He nudged the huge form of his wife as she lay spread-legged, curlers on top of her head, mammoth tits inflating and deflating with each snoring intake of breath.
Martin had never titty-fucked his wife.
He wondered why.
His prick felt red-hot. Well, why not? Why not just titty-fuck his wife for the first time in twenty years?
Martin sat up, looked at his wife's face.
Ruddy cheeks, ruddier lips, flaring nostrils that seemed to balloon from her fat-cheeked face. It was a good thing her eyes were closed, because they wouldn't look so piggish had she been awake.
Martin gazed at his wife's tilt Christ, that was the reason he had married her. Her tits were huge – much bigger than Connie's.
Each titty looked like a football. And now that she was on her back, the footballs looked like they were two one-eyed heads that she had her arm cuddled around. But when Gladys Seaman stood erect, they looked like footballs, big footballs.
Why hadn't he tried to fuck her between the tits? Her boobs had turned him on when he was a spry youth of nineteen newly married to Gladys. And now, they still turned him on.
Quietly he unbuttoned her moth-eaten pajama top. There wasn't much cleavage now, because her massive tits were nestling on her elbows as they sagged away from her chest.
He lifted, yes lifted, her right boob. God, at least ten pounds of fleshy tit was in his hand. He looked at the nipple; it was bigger around than a short-stack pancake and it was very pinkish; her nipples looked peaceful, just like her fat, serene face.
He rubbed his thumb over the nipple. The fat nodule seemed to awaken. He rubbed faster. The nipple was budding out of the dark circle of her areola. It was filling with blood and becoming hard. Very hard. Like his cock was now.
His palms were sweaty as he tried to maneuver her monstrous tit towards his face. His moist mouth settled over the nipple, licked it, teased it. Oh, shit, he sure loved Gladys' tits!
He tried to wrestle her other jug into position as he got on top of her stomach, his weight resting on his knees.
Gladys grunted.
Martin stopped fucking around with her tits.
She snored.
Martin went back to fucking around with her tits. He was fondling both footballs now, both palms starting at the base of her tits and moving towards the nipples. Christ, he would have to have Paul Bunyan's hands to cover all that titty-flesh.
His prick bounced against her navel as Martin leaned forward, thrusting his face between her pressed-together tits.
He licked her left boob, bringing the nipple to erection. Then his tongue dipped into the narrow valley of her cleavage, moved up the mountain of her right tit.
The nipple was still wet, still erect, and this time Martin tried to shove his tongue hard against Gladys' right nipple, tried to force it back into all that mass of tit-meat. The nipple fought him hard, refused to retract, refused to budge against his pressing tongue.
Cooze oil leaked from his cock-head, filled her navel.
Martin grunted.
Gladys woke up, confused. Then she saw Martin's crewcut between her enormous tits, watched in bewilderment as his tongue raced back and forth between her two tits, licking and teasing one nipple, then the other.
Gladys' head moved back, and forth, watching Martin's head moving like a windshield wiper over her titties.
"Martin, what are you doing?" Martin grunted.
"Martin! What are you doing!?"
Martin didn't want to talk now. His lips were too busy on her tits. His tongue was too tired from the constant whiplashes he gave each nipple.