There on page thirteen was Reverend Worthington getting his prick into Connie from the missionary position.
Page twenty showed Connie sucked avidly on Jason Moresby's cock the cum dribbling down the shaft as her lips pursed hungrily around the knob.
Page forty-two showed Connie getting her asshole reamed by Coach Crowley as she kneeled before him, her mouth caught in mid-scream and Coach Crowley's ruddy lips opened in mid-moan.
Page fifty showed several color shots (Boris had just found out about color film) of Martin Seaman titty-fucking Connie. She was on her back, both hands shoved against her pussy. Martin was sitting on her stomach, his hands pushing together Connie's huge tits as his hard-on bounced against her chin. Connie's face was covered with cum, and her red tongue was snaking out to catch the sperm drops that clung to her lips.
Now, on this lonely Monday night, Boris sadly pasted in the color prints of Connie and her newest lover a piss-ant youth who looked as if he didn't know what his cock was for.
As Boris studied the pictures, he noticed something different in Connie's face. Her eyes were sparkly. Her face looked soap-scrubbed clean and there was just a tinge of peach color to her cheeks. She was smiling in every shot she was smiling!
Boris realized that in all the other photos Connie never smiled. In all the other pictures with all her other male "friends" there was a look of wanton lust. But now, as she fucked the kid, there was a look of wholesome ecstasy on her face. Was she in love?
No! No! No!
She couldn't be in love; Boris didn't want her to fall in love. She had no right to be in love, just as he had no right to love her. What?
Boris in love with Connie Ryan? Suddenly, Boris realized that he was in love with Connie. So what was wrong with him being in love with the woman he cherished above all other women in Weedville?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Coach Crowley was an ass man. He had been an ass man ever since be drilled that hole through the wall of his private locker room so that he could see right into the girls' locker room on the other side.
And being an ass man, his swarthy flesh was flattened out against the wall of his locker room, his eye peering into the peephole looking for foxy young asses.
Mother-fucker! Will you get your scrawny ass out of the way, Elvira!
Elvira Schellcnberg was standing right in front of Coach Crowley's peephole, directing the girls in the proper way to towel themselves dry.
"I've noticed," Elvira said in lesson-voice number thirty, "that many of you girls do not know the proper way to dry your bodies.
Coach Crowley snarled; his prick was getting impatient. Goddamn, Elvira! He had a class to teach. Shit, his boys were out on the football field doing calisthenics, and he had to get his ass in gear.
"Will you hurry the fuck up, Elvira!" Oh-oh, he had almost said it too loud.
"Now, girls, always dry your upper torso first. Then your legs, Then your face. Uh, the last thing you should dry. er, to be sanitary and so you won't spread germs with your towel is, er, between your legs.
The girls tittered.
Marcia Moresby, who was standing behind the bare, nubile bodies of four of her classmates was moaning. She had already toweled her face, then her big tits, then her trim thighs, and now she was really drying herself off between the legs. She was running the soft towel like a shoeshine cloth through her cunt and ass, holding the ends of the towel from the front and back.
Elvira moved away.
Coach Crowley rubbed his hands in glee. "Now, come on, girls," he whispered hoarsely. "Let's see those asses move! Come on! Move those hot asses!"
Hot asses, cold asses, wet asses and dry asses swam before Coach Crowley's eyes. Some of the young chickens had hair between their legs. Some had bumps for tits, others were more like humps. By far, Marcia Moresby had the best set of thirteen-year-old tits he had ever seen. But he didn't give a hog's shit about her tits-he wanted to see her ass. Shit, Marcia-baby move that towel and turn around.
Marcia turned around, the towel moving back and forth across the plump mounds of her ass-cheeks. Shhiiiitttt! Coach Crowley was getting more than an eyeful of nubile ass. Hog shit! He was getting a good gander at her asshole.
Fucking God! He couldn't believe it. Marcia's asshole was as clean as the whistle that dangled from his neck. Shit, her asshole was made for fucking.
Come on, Marcia hot-ass, chickie-babe, spread those ass-cheeks, bend over, drop a bobby-pin and bend over to pick it up.
Clink!
His dreams were coming true! There was the bobby-pin that had come loose from her long blonde hair. SSSSHHEEIIITTTT! She was bending over, just like he wanted her to.
Mother-fucking shit! He just had to pull out his prick and give it a few tugs. No man could resist a sight as erotic as that: Marcia s ass spread wide as she bent over to pick up her bobby-pin.
Coach Crowley's cock was up and ready, in his hand and ready to burst.
Hog shit! No!
Double hog shit!
Don't get up yet, Marcia! No!
I haven't even stroked my cock yet. You mother-fucking teasing little bitch!
The ass was disappearing from view and Elvira was walking towards the peephole. Shit, it was like looking at beauty, then the beast.
Coach Crowley zipped up his pants angrily. Frustration and pent-up fury showed on his jowly face. He picked up his clip board and cinched up his cleats. Those mother-fucking boys of his were really going to run their asses off for him now.
He headed for the football field.
Delbert Fancy's balls felt as if they were ready to fall off. He had just gotten through fucking his wife Winona and had jumped into the '56 black and white Chevy that everybody in Weedville knew was the only cop car in town.
He stepped on the gas, then came to a screeching halt in front of the police station which was located next to Jason Moresby's grocery/hardware store.
The time was seven-thirty. Shit, was he going to get his ass kicked. He was an hour and a half late.
He opened the door.
He was greeted by a Thom McAnn in the balls as Vance Manning leveled him to the floor with a swift kick. Now, Delbert's balls felt as if they were up his asshole.
"Aaijieeeh"
"You mother-fucker! Where the hell you been? Don't you know the Buffalo Bills are playing tonight? Stupid shit!"
Delbert cowered, then crawled to one corner of the ten-by-ten office of police headquarters. He couldn't talk; his hand was still trying to locate his crushed balls.
"You been fucking that fat pig wife of yours?"
Delbert nodded.
"Ever going to do it again?"
Delbert didn't understand. Do what again? Fuck his wife or be late? He shook his head no to save his life.
Vance hitched up his belt. "Don't ever be late again. Or next time I'll kick your balls up your ass.
Delbert nodded fearfully. Shit, his balls felt like they were in his butt now.
Vance spun around and left. He slammed the door behind him. He was really pissed. Shit, he'd be lucky if he got to see anything at all of that black bastard plowing into those chicken-ball Chargers. Fucking shit, the score must be at least fifty to nothing!
He headed up the street. It was dark. Shit-kicker music wafted from the juke box of Martin Seaman's Buckeroo Bar.
Vance walked down the street as if he owned it. Hell, it was no Fairfax Avenue, but at least there was something that he could be king of. Weedville was his town, and nobody was going to tell him how to run his town.
As he passed Boris Jerkovich's photography studio, he stopped.
What the hell was that?
There was a light that flickered on and off in the back someplace. A red light.
There it was again.
Burglar. It had to be, 'cause the sign on the door said
CLOSED.
Mother-fucker, so Weedville had its criminals, too! And here all this time Vance Manning had thought that the only fuss in Weedville was when Coach Crowley took a bat to some kid's ass out on the football field.