J Long: The town sluts

The door opened – three inches. A Maybelline smeared eye peered through the three-inch gap.

"What the fuck do you want, old man?"

Yeah, what the fuck does an old man want at the age of seventy-two. Respect? Admiration? A new heart? The feeling that he was still useful, that he wasn't a piece of shit to be swept under the carpet of an uncaring society?

The bitch.

That's what Collie wanted to call her, but the words wouldn't tumble out. The syllables were stuck on his palate, even though they were fresh in his brain.

"Jesus Christ! What the fuck do you want? I didnt got all day for an old fart like you!"

An old fart, huh? Just an old fart, stale and musty, about a two-second existence, then gone, poof, swept away like all the other bad odors of life. Like perfume, cheap cologne, crushed walnuts, fish oil and rank pussy.

Yeah, Collie knew he was right when he smelled trouble with this bitch.

The door swung open. The bitch stood there in see through halter and tight shorts that bulged near the pooch of her pussy – evidence of lots of springy pubic hair.

"All right, you old fart! What the fuck is it? Come on, speak your piece! Don't stand there like a fucking doorstop!"

Doorstop, huh? What the fuck was a doorstop, something to keep precious doorknobs from banging into cheap plaster walls, something to fill space or a void.

Suddenly the old doorstop moved as fast as a flying fart. All the energy that Collie possessed exploded in rage – vicious outrage.

The cane went up, the boxing-glove handle pointing victoriously to the ceiling.

The bitch saw the upraised cane. She laughed defensively when she saw the boxing glove go into offense.

The cane broke in two, just like Becky Jane's skull.

Collie gasped. His chest heaved. Suddenly he was breathing in cool air instead of smelling trouble.

It is virtually impossible for a woman to remain passive while her tits are being raped.

Usually when an uneducated woman is being raped, she does very ignorant things. Like yell: "Rape!" or scream and kick and try and beat off her rapist you know, beat off as in trying to fight off.

An educated woman, however, will usually remain passive, trying to use brains for brawn, to out psych the rapist by asking him if he thinks violence is the answer to life's confusing problems, or if he was breech born instead of coming into the world head-first.

But, for a woman like Ramona Rathers, getting tittie-raped can prove to be one of those things in life that are disgusting when thought about, but downright fun when tried.

It had gotten to be downright fun for Ramona. After all, her rapist had called her titties luscious, really good fucking, the best set of tits in Weedley, etcetera, etcetera…

And for a bored, rich woman like Ramona, having her tits complimented in such fashion was worth the chafed raw feelings that her nipples had suffered.

And, besides, her rapist had not called her tits just beautiful.

So, now that the tittie-rape was over, and Bernard was standing up, Ramona touched her tits.

They felt very creamy because there was a lot of jizz on them. And they felt very warm because Ramona was in heat, and when she was in heat, it usually showed in her tits first, her cunt second, and her asshole third.

She also showed she was in heat by grabbing Bernard's slimy cock as he tried to stuff it back in his pants.

"Hey! You can't leave me hanging! Christ, I'm hotter than hell! Come on, I wanna suck your cock!"

Unreal! She had to be joking. Bernard smiled, decided to play along with her. Maybe she was mentally ill, or maybe a bearing had come loose in her head when she was very young.

Jesus! Didn't she realize that he had just degraded her titties! He had just abused her nipples. He had fucked her tits so hard that he was fearful that he might have bruised them, caused some cancerous growth to grow on those just-beautiful titties.

She couldn't mean what she had done could she?

"Hey, you mean that? You really wanna suck my cock?"

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

Christ! What the hell kind of answer was that? Ramona was licking the cum off his cockhead, her tongue scraping against his cock-slit before wrapping around his cock-shaft.

"Oooooooh! Christ, my cock's so sensitive right now!"

Jesus, it felt weird. His cock felt so fucking weird. His prick felt nerveless yet sensitive. His cock felt dead, yet alive. Bernard felt her mouth moving around on his cock, but nothing in the world could get his cock hard right now.

Ramona tried to get his prick stiff. Tried her best cocksucking methods to get his cock hard. She attacked his balls, grabbed the hairy ovals and fondled them.

Then she stuck a finger in his ass.

"Aaaaaahhhhhh! Shit! I can't get it up! Wait a fucking minute!"

Ramona couldn't wait. She wanted his cock to get big and hard so she could relieve the itch in her cut, the tingle in her asshole, the hunger in her mouth.

But sucking his cock was like chewing on a nylon rope. Like sucking on linguini. It was useless.

Pop.

"You chicken-fucker! You fucking chicken fucker!"

Chicken-fucker? What the hell's that supposed to mean? That he was scared to fuck? That he went around hen houses at night? Or that he was scared to fuck chickens?

"Look, lady, I just raped you! You're supposed to act… well, you know… like you hate me or something. You're not supposed to call me names or anything."

"Chicken-fucker! Scared to get it up, huh? Shit, you fucking chicken-fuckers are all alike. You don't give a fuck what happens after you're finished shooting your chicken balls. Just like a Goddamn rooster doesn't give a fuck after he's finished shooting his chicken jizz!"

Bernard shook his head. He decided that he'd turn away, zip up his chicken cock and go home to Imogene to have dinner.

"Where the fuck are you going? Hey!Come back here you chicken-fucker!"

Bernard felt like shit as he walked away from Ramona. Hell, she was right in one respect. She made him feel like a Goddamn normal guy instead of a full-fledged rapist. Christ! Why the fuck couldn't she have ended up hating him? Then maybe he wouldn't have to come to the park and rape another big-titted jogger.

Well, at least his wife was normal – she hated him for raping her titties.

Slit, Ramona had to be a fucking weirdo for not hating his fucking guts.

The path to success sometimes has many detours on the road to glory.

Buster had always remembered that statement because it had a special meaning to him.

He had found that statement in a fortune cookie at a Chinese restaurant. He had just broken open the cookie and found the message that had inspired him to become the next Heavyweight Champion of the World.

Collie Flowers, who had been supervising what he should or shouldn't eat in the restaurant, was sitting across from him and he had smiled triumphantly when Buster had gotten the message. Christ, not being a very good cook and a worse typist, it had taken him two weeks to bake that fucking fortune cookie and one day to type the message.

Thus, the message was ringing in Buster's head as he jogged down the path to success which sometimes has many detours on the road to glory.

The birds were chirping happily, relieved that the vulture had found its prey, and they kept Buster company as he huffed and puffed his way down the sapling-lined pavement.

Huff. Puff. Huff. Puff.

Jog. Jog. Jog.

"You chicken-fucker!"

Huff. Puff. Huh?

Buster stopped in his tracks. He heard the birds warbling and the saplings rustling and the sound of a woman in heat behind the mulberry bushes on his left.

He huffed and puffed over to the mulberry bushes.

He bent several limbs, peered through the leaves of the mulberry bush.