Carl Van Marcus - Lady Disk jockey

“In Texas, they call what you got snappin’ turtle pussy,” Bob said, bending to kiss her. “The best kind. I can’t take much more of that . . . so here goes, honey!”

Savagely he began to fuck her. The room was filled with the wet sluicing sounds of his thick rigid cock plunging into the moist warm well of her cunt and the smacking of his balls on the smooth and lewdly spread cheeks of her tightly clenching ass. Sally Sue clung to her new husband and felt another surge of fire in her loins.

And then he was gasping as a river of heated cum poured from his long-denied testicles through the ballooning head of his cock and into the surging depths of her vagina, like jets of live steam. He filled her tight cuntal passage, and she felt the wild jerking of his cock in her tender flesh. And then the gushing of his cum through the hair-lined lips of her pussy to stain the bedsheets. Bob tried to move off her but she clamped him with arms and legs, refusing to let him free until finally his penis was so soft within her trembling young body that she could no longer feel it.

As he lifted his lean frame from hers, she saw the thin, cobweb strings of his cum stretched from the now deflated head of his flaccid penis to trail hot and moist over her sweat glistening thighs.

Finally exhausted, her mate rolled onto his back, breathing deeply, unevenly. Sally Sue did the same. There was a deep ache up between her thighs, but Bob had finally — if crudely — given her what she’d needed for so long!

She thought that she would be such a good wife to him that she could curb his sometimes-foul mouth . . . and change his ideas about sex. Like taking his penis into her mouth . . . Oh God, that was unthinkable!

She’d heard vague stories about girls who did it — some of whom even liked it — but she could never imagine herself in such a position. Why would a man even think of something like that?

It was absolutely beyond the satiated bride’s imagination as she drifted off to contented sleep, cuddling against her husband, who was already snoring.

One good thing about the DJ job, Sally Sue thought as she moved through the crowded cocktail lounge with her microphone, was that it kept her so busy she had no time to think of her troubles. She had to keep talking off the top of her head, leading guests into saying things that would be good for a laugh, making friends for the sponsors. She responded eagerly to the challenge and tried to push into the back of her mind the bad points, like the finger-fumbling drunks who took advantage of her, pawing her while she was doing a 90-second interview that couldn’t be interrupted. She had disciplined herself not to feel the lewdly crawling hands, never break the smooth line of her repartee, never strike back. There was always a bouncer close to move in if somebody got really rough. Sally Sue felt it was just part of the job she had carved out of nothing for herself, and she must submit to the humiliation. She learned to take half a step back and sink the spike heel of her boot into a man’s foot, making it appear accidental, and put him on crutches for a month.

She jollied with the patrons of Jacques’ Trap with an eye on her chronometer. The Sally Sue Bennett Show was timed to the second. Now she had eighty-seven seconds to feed a long-play tape to the Sony eight track player and beat it across the parking lot to Rosie’s Pizza Parlor and rap with the teens.

She liked them better than the geriatric grabbers in the cocktail lounge, even if she couldn’t really understand a lot of their language. Much of what she could understand shocked her until she finally realized they weren’t being obscene when they said something like “ Fuck! ”

It was their argot , the language of the underground, and for some reason, not one of them had ever used any obscenity when they were on the air. She never had to hit the bleep button with the young boys and girls. But once they were off the air and rapping between themselves, the four letter words flowed. Sally Sue had hardened herself to it and no longer blushed.

“Now you all stay tuned in and turned on to the Sally Sue Show! I promise we’ll knock off the chatter and lay some smooth music on you for the next hour. Not a word! Promise!”

The raven-haired girl scampered up the steps to her tiny studio, punched buttons on the console and heard the soothing music of Mantovani flow. Fine! For an hour it would be interrupted only by the required station breaks. No commercials.

As far as live air went, she was through for another night. She still had to tape fifty minutes with the teen set at Rosie’s, but that would be broadcast later, sounding like it too was live and direct. All she had to do was get it on, then drop the long play reel on the Sony. When the station was ready, somebody would hit a switch and she’d be back on.

Slung from a shoulder strap, her mini recorder smacked hard against her swinging hips as Sally Sue Bennett slipped out of the rear door of the club and into the pizza parlor, her nearly bare breasts bouncing. She hated to expose herself this way to the teenage boys, but there was no time in her schedule for a change into a more modest costume than the cocktail lounge demanded. But, she thought, she could always take care of herself with the teens. Most of them were her friends, and the girls dressed a lot sexier than she did, with see-through blouses and micro-mini skirts that were hardly wider than a belt . . . and now some of the more daring had completely discarded panties for G-strings. Sally Sue felt almost overdressed, even in her own scanty attire. Once she had found herself wondering what the younger generation was coming to and then laughed when she realized she was dating herself, even though she was still a couple of years from thirty.

“Time do fly fast,” she muttered.

Sally Sue was greeted with shouts and whistles and a multitude of frantically waved invitations to join various groups at the trestle tables or in booths, and with her genuinely friendly smile waved back to let them know she’d stop for a short rap all around. But the rich aroma of thin crusted pizza and minestrone soup assailed her flaring nostrils, and she realized she’d had nothing to eat for twelve hours and was ravenous. Well, that would have to wait — seeing the hour, she knew she had work to do or she’d face a ten cent lecture from Harold Eaton when she showed up at the teakettle station in the morning. Sally Sue loved pizza loaded with everything and could eat a huge amount without putting on an ounce.

Terry Claff intercepted her before she’d taken a dozen steps. He was a ruggedly handsome boy of about fifteen with a tongue almost as smooth as Sally Sue had trained her own to be. He had longish but not shaggy, dark brown hair and melting that suggested Latin blood. He had a broken family and ran on sheer guts or. as Bob would have bluntly put it — on pure bullshit! Somehow he had acquired forged credentials which said he was old enough to work nights in a place that served drinks. Starting as a busboy, Terry had quickly worked his way up to waiter. Sally Sue knew the handsome youngster never got to bed before three in the morning, yet was hiking to school at seven. She recognized in him the same savage need to be his own person that she felt.

She was aware that the broad-shouldered youth, just coming into his maleness, wanted her, and she tried to slide out from under his desire.

But the beautiful divorcee found it hard to keep her eyes from the bulge that formed in his tight jeans every time she came into the restaurant. It had been so long since Bob left her with no warning. There had been no arguments. He had just packed up and left with the fat old bag in one of the most expensive cars in the world, taking with him what had to be one of the most magnificent penises ever grown.