The thrust was so brutal he could not have failed to succeed. When Robin settled moaningly down there were at least five inches of adult cock engorging her girlish shit-pit.
"Oooooh, it hurts!" she cried. "It hurts so gooooood! Go ahead and slam me again."
As a psychopath, Chinga's natural competitive urge veered off into vengeance. When somebody challenged him he was ready to nail their ass to the wall.
Even when they were ten-year-old girls and he was fucking them in said orifice.
As for myself, I didn't care whether Robin enjoyed what was happening as long as it made smoke come out of Chinga's ears. As long as the nasty edge of his personality that made him dangerous was honed, I was satisfied. Let the little whore have her ass-fuck it was fun to watch.
Who knew? When I thought the situation was under control I might even join in. I'd just rubbed my thighs together and my pussy was squishing.
"What's going on, Angie?" the awakened Chuck asked.
"Chinga's fucking Robin in the ass. She already took him in the mouth and pussy," I brought him up to date.
"I knew there was something in the offing," he declared. "I was having wet dreams, and I woke up with a hard-on."
"Let me see it," I impulsively requested.
He readily pulled it out from under the covers. Obviously proud of it, he had a right to be – even if it didn't have a strand of hair, his cock was long and hard and straight.
"Mmmmmmm," I said, tenderly stroking it. "Why don't you fuck your sister in the cunt while she's getting it in the ass from my old man?"
"She's not my sister!" he complained. "I just know her, that's all."
"Excuse me," I apologized. Damn it, I just couldn't stop confusing Robin and Chuck with my own kids, Anita and Bobby.
"Now what is it you want me to do?" he asked sulkily.
"Fuck Anita – I mean Robin – fuck Robin in the pussy while Chinga's cornholing her," I blundered through another Freudian slip. "I've never seen what your cock looks like in her hairless cunt."
"Wait until he's in her to his balls," the kid answered like he'd shared his classmate's two most intimate holes with a grown man before. "It's easier to slip inside that way."
I didn't dispute him. In spite of my age, a marriage of several years, and several messy affairs, I suspected that at ten little Chuck may have been around far more than I.
So I temporarily turned my attention from his slender hard-on and reunited my gaze with the sight of Robin's ass being filled with inch after inch of Chinga's ramming phallic pile-driver.
During my interlude with Chuck, Chinga had made brutal progress. The child he was cornholing was sobbing with pain.
But, of course, she never told him to stop. Pain and pleasure were synonymous with this little sex-machine.
"Get the rest of it in," she pleaded through her tears. "Shove the rest of your cock inside my ass."
Chinga did it with a fiendish cackle. The son of a bitch was really looking to fuck the kid to death if he could.
When he lunged, his cock spurted forward in her catsup-rimmed hole. I could hear the head skid all the way from the depths.
When he lunged again, it was gone. His cock was no longer in view. He was fucking the ten-year-old girl's ass to the hilt.
"Now," I urged Chuck. "Slide under there and slip your prick into her pussy."
He did it immediately. Slipping between Robin's knees, Chuck ignored the half-hearted swats from Chinga and worked his slim cock up against her hairless pussy. Then it was in, she squealed with delight, and he was fucking her.
The sight of Robin double-humping was too much for my libido. Miss Turner's, too. We grabbed each other and started sixty-nining between the beds.
Up above, Chinga yowled as his cum started to flow. Then Chuck squealed as his cream began to spurt.
Although I wasn't up there on the bed to see it, I'm sure that Robin's fuck-holes overflowed immediately. There was no other explanation for the steady stream of jism that now trickled from the bed onto the sixty-nining bodies of Miss Turner and I. Naturally we licked up every drop.
Chinga was through ass-fucking his nymphet and was now proclaiming the availability of his still-stiff cock to the rest of us. "Hell," he recklessly babbled, "I'll even fuck the boy. I don't guess that at that age there's much difference between assholes."
I looked up and saw the silhouette of his cum-dripping hard-on. It looked eerie against the flickering light of Johnny Carson's face.
Then, a split-second after I heard the sharp explosion, the light cracked and shattered into a smoky rectangle of darkness. A flying bullet had obliterated the television screen.
"We've been fired on!" I shrieked. "Everybody find cover in case they shoot up the place and ask questions later!"
We scurried like rats under the beds. Even Chinga seemed scared shitless.
While we were scrambling to safety, a few more shots ruined a few more items of motel furniture. Then there was ominous silence.
"Come on out with your hands up," a familiar voice abruptly shattered the dangerous calm from a loudspeaker outside. Even over the tinny amplifier I recognized the pompous inflection.
"Roy Parker!" I blurted aloud.
"We've got you surrounded," he continued. "There's no way out. If you're not out in a minute, we're shooting to kill."
CHAPTER NINE
I figured it all out in a painful flash. We had made an enormous circle and we were back in my home county. The reason the suburbs surrounding the bank had been so familiar was that they, were undoubtedly the ones I used to live in.
"Which side do you think it is?" Chinga whispered to me from under the other bed.
"The cops," I glumly replied without even thinking about any alternative. "Roy Parker's the one with the bull-horn."
"That doesn't mean anything," Chinga insisted.
"What are you talking about?" I hissed impatiently. "The last seconds of our lives may be ticking away and you're arguing about whether Roy Parker is a cop."
"I know he's a cop," Chinga hissed back, "but he could also be moonlighting."
"You're getting paranoid," I dismissed his contention, unwilling to ponder such incongruities when I was on the verge of being ventilated by bullets. "Come on, stop fantasizing, and let's decide what we're going to do. We don't have much time yet before we give up or die."
"Makes no difference to me," he breezily flipped, "I was born dead."
"Put a lid on that psycho bullshit," I snapped. "There are innocent kids and a schoolteacher in this death-chamber along with us, and I'm sure they're not impressed with your outlaw fatalism."
"What difference does it make?" Miss Turner undermined me. "Let the big gorilla do his macho thing in peace. We're all going to be killed, anyway."
"Then I plan being the last to die," I retaliated at their apathy.
"Then you're going to wave the white flag at the pigs just to save your skin?" Chinga asked incredulously.
"No, you jerk!" I spat. "But I'm not going to just lie here waiting to become a Swiss cheese either."
"We could shoot our way out!" he enthusiastically suggested, his voice brimming with characteristic instability.
"I like your spirit, hon, but right now what we need on our side is brains not bullets," I gently put him down. "I'm going to try and make a deal."
"You've got just over ten seconds left," Roy Parker droned over the loudspeaker. "I'm going to go into the final countdown. If we don't hear from you, you're dead."
Jesus, the bastard actually sounded bored. Could it be that our bloody demise was such an inevitability?
"Ten…" Roy began to count, "nine… eight…"
I was beginning to wonder if there was any use in even making the effort. Parker sounded like he already had us buried.