"Goddamn, Tom! Fuck my cunt!"
Tom felt her cunt as his gaze remained on that portion of his prick that was still outside Connie's butt. Her cunt was, wet, hot, getting hotter and getting wetter. Tom had never felt her cunt when it was dry; it always seemed to be wet and ready for his cock.
"Now, grease up the rest of your cock, Tom."
"W-With what?" Tom asked.
"Goddamn, Tom! With my cunt-juice!"
Tom greased up the rest of his prick with her cunt-juice. Now the shaft looked as if it had been carved from wax, his prick was so shiny and glisteny.
"That's it, Tom. Now, before you shove it in, let me relax my asshole. When you feel it start to relax, start shoving!"
Tom shoved hard, and another inch of cock disappeared into the tight ring of her asshole.
"aaaii ieee!! N-Not-yet, Tom!"
Tom shoved again. Shit, all the time he had been obeying her instructions, he had acted like an automaton, like some robot. Shit, he wasn't made out of nuts and bolts. His prick had started to get that tingly feeling, his balls had started to squinch up against his crotch, his asshole had tensed – shit, it was only human nature for a red-blooded man not to be kept on edge when his cock was gripped by something as tight and snug as a woman's asshole.
It was almost as if Tom suddenly realized that there was no way in hell that any man would have stopped in mid-fuck, especially his first ass-fuck. Although he had tried his best to stop his lunge forward, that swirling feeling deep in his balls had overcome his senses. He had to stuff her ass full of his cock, get it all in as fast and as hard and as furiously as he could. Jam it in, then pull it out, then jam it in harder than the first time he lunged.
"Aaaiiiieee!! You mother-fucker, Tom!"
"You mother-fucker, Tom."
Elvira stood up as stiff as a board. She had just picked up a ladybug to show her pupils when Connie Ryan's blood-curdling scream carried over the shit-green waters of Lake Weed and resounded like a Chinese gong in Elvira's ears.
"What the hell was that?" Eddie Beasly asked from his nestling quarters of cattails and marsh as he stopped fondling Marcia Moresby's naked titties. Eddie parted the cattails. The rest of the class was standing on the edge of the lake, peering across to see what or who had made such a horrible sound.
Elvira couldn't believe her ears.
"My ass is burning up, Tom!"
Christ, she had to believe her ears now. Holy cow, someone was fucking someone else in the ass! The voice obviously was a woman's, Elvira surmised, so it must be some guy screwing in some woman's – God, she had heard about such things, but she couldn't believe that human beings could… or would… or should have intercourse like that!
The cattails sprang back into place, and Eddie went back to pawing Marcia's right tit with his left hand, while his right hand was three knuckles deep in her pussy. Marcia never heard Connie Ryan's ten-flied scream; she had been too far gone in her own world of feelsies.
Eddie wriggled his fingers in Marcia's tight box. Moisture, and more moisture dribbled down his wrist and across the watch that he had stolen from Marcia's father's store.
"Class," Elvira announced with a shaky voice, "I think it's time we left."
"But we just got here!" Johnny Locker said, wiping snot on his jeans. His head was turned in the direction of that seductive woman's voice. Johnny had never had a hard-on, and didn't know what his dick was for, other than "to eliminate all the bad germs from your body", which was the way his mother had interpreted pissing.
When Eddie heard Elvira's gravelly voice telling the class that they had to go, he said: "Shit, come on, Marcia. Get your ass out of the weeds. Miss Schellenberg says we gotta leave. And will you quit moaning! Shit!"
And as the doors hissed closed, she heard one last.
"Fuck me harder, Tom! Shove it in my ass!" coming all the way across the still waters of Lake Weed.
The class tittered, she started the bus, and Eddie had stopped Marcia from moaning by thrusting her head into his lap and watching her suck his cock.
CHAPTER FIVE
Vance Manning was a forty-eight-year-old asshole, who was also the sheriff of this shit-hole of a town called Weedville. He was a huge man: normal-sized doorways always gave his shoulders some trouble when he ambled through them. His hair was starting to thin, which was something he wished would happen to his bulging waistline.
Vance knew he was getting fat; it was getting harder and harder to buckle on the bullet belt that held his five-pound, pearl-handled.45 Magnum, a weapon that Vance called: "Law". To provide equal weight for the other side of his belt, lest his pistol slide down to his tree-trunk of a thigh, he carried a billyclub, a weapon which he referred to as: "Order".
Thus, for the twenty-eight years that he had been a peace officer, be had always warred on crime with "Law" and "Order" on his side.
Vance Manning was the kind of cop who believed in cops, believed they had the right to bust unruly niggers over the head. Vance was a believer, in walking tall and stomping niggers, hippies, pushers and pimps. Of course, it was such a belief that had led to his severance from various law-enforcement agencies throughout the nation.
The FBI had at one time trained him to be an infiltrator. Vance like the sound of that title. And he had learned to become wary – buying an Afro wig, wearing dirty shirts and jeans. Why he had even gone so far as having "peace" and "love" tattooed on his bulging forearms. Then he was sent to an Oakland commune, which accepted him eagerly – especially when he showed them how much marijuana he was carrying.
Of course, there came the inevitable day when Vance Manning was discovered as an infiltrator.
It had happened when some hippie jerk-off was cursing LBJ for maiming those friggin' Orientals in Vietnam, for napalming innocent, naked kids.
Shit, Vance didn't give a damn for those yellow fuckers. Oh, some of their chicks looked all right, but Christ, some of those chinks looked like slope-headed coolies with their pigtails cut off.
When the hippie leader had finished his rousing speech, everyone was on their feet, praising him, screaming out their love of peace and friendship and brotherhood.
To get in on the act, Vance had bellowed: "Yeah, fuck that warmonger LBJ! Shit, if I were him, I'd kill anybody who wanted to start a war!"
An hour later, he was no longer an FBI infiltrator. A day later he was no longer an FBI agent. A week later he was in L.A. swinging a nightstick in the Wilshire district.
His beat then was the rough and tumble world of Fairfax Avenue. Shit, he busted heads, stomped hookers, bullied pimps, and even billyclubbed a Mexican pusher to death.
In one week Fairfax Avenue no longer had drunks sprawling in gutters, and because there were no sidewalk bums, the young punks who rolled them disappeared. There were no more black hookers pushing their pussies and tits out at honkies driving black Cadillacs. There weren't any more two-bit pushers trying to palm off nickel bags of grass to wild-eyed hippies.
No, Fairfax Avenue was clean of scum, as long as Vance Manning paraded up and down the sidewalk.
Then there came the day, in the wee hours of the morning, when Vance Manning spotted a Goddamn white hooker in front of Woolworth's. Shit, he knew she was a Goddamn whore because her mini-skirt showed half her ass, and she was standing spraddle-legged as if giving her cunt air to breathe.
At first he couldn't believe it. Vance thought the word had gotten out that he was head honcho of Fairfax Avenue. Shit, he'd fix that whore's cunt for good.
He backtracked and circled the block. He cut through an alleyway that he knew would give him a banzai attack on the hooker from behind. He'd catch that fucking hooker and show her who the hell owned Fairfax Avenue.