J Long: The town sluts

Now Rocky's ass felt as if it had been placed in a vise, and her body felt as if it were in the hands of a master puppeteer who was making a puppet out of her flesh. She was being lifted up and down on that eighteen-inch prick, her cunt-lips being titillated with each eighteen-inch stroke.

Now Buster was really counter-punching, dodging his cock this way and that, slamming and bruising into the wet, hot hole of her pussy. And, as he lifted Becky up and down on his cock, he was jabbing his prick upward into the guts of her pussy.

"Oh God! I feel so fucked!Jesus Christ! Fuck me! Oooooooooohhhhhhhh, Goddddddd! I'm cccooommmiiinnngggg! Chhhrrriiissttt! I'm ccoommmiiinnngg!"

Buster could tell she was coming because her pussy was grabbing his cock, nibbling at the expanding glans, sucking hard on the shaft. And the noise of their fuck filled the room.

Squish. Squish. Squish.

And between squishes she was screaming: "Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

Then the squishes were coming so fast and furious they sounded like on long squish.

Squiiiiiiiiiissssssshhhhhhhhhh!

And she was in the throes of ecstasy, and her voice was becoming hoarse because instead of saying, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" she was saying, "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!"

And through all the garbled noise that filled the room, Buster could hear the sounds of other people getting fucked in the studio apartment next to Becky's. Probably other secretaries getting their share of cock on a typical relaxed Saturday where they had nothing better to do than fuck cock and write letters to Mom and Dad telling them that they were going to get a raise and that they were good little girls.

Then the sounds faded because Buster's cock was now an enormous piece of meat. Now it was a bat that Babe Ruth couldn't lift. Now it was a Louisville Slugger that only Paul Bunyan, or Goliath, or the Hulk could autograph. And it was getting bigger because his balls had deflated somewhat because they had forced the cupfuls of jizz up into the massive shaft of his cock.

Now the jizz was at the tip of his prick.

"Aaaaiiiieeee! Christ! You're gonna come! Your cock's getting soooooo big! Oh, Jesus! Here it comes!"

Becky went crazy, went delirious, went insane as she fell that cockhead expanding her womb. Jesus! It was sooooo big!

And it was getting bigger as the cock-slit expanded and made the glans throb and shake. And as his cock throbbed and shook, it created quite a stir in Becky's tight womb.

"I can feel your fucking cock in my womb! Oh God! Fuck me! Fuck my cunt! Fuck my womb! Fuck my ovaries!"

Inspired by such enthusiasm, Buster let go – well, what really happened was his prick let go and shot a filthy wad of seed deep into her pussy, deep into her womb, scattering like birdshot and searching out that egg that wasn't there because she was on the pill.

Buster screamed: "Aaaarrrgggghhhh! Oh shit! Oh Shit! Oh Shit!"

And it wasn't because the way Becky fucked felt like shit. It was because of the tremendous pressure all that cum had put on his balls and cock when he had been fucking in and out of her tight hole. Now, like shit, lie was glad to get rid of all his extract.

And Becky was still crazy, insane and delirious. Shit, nothing had ever felt better! Nothing had ever reached her womb and shot semen that felt like birdshot as it searched out her egg.

"Aaaiiiieeeee! Jesus! You've got so much cum! Keep commmiiinnnggg! Oh shit! It hurts so good! Whatta big cock! Fuckfuckfuckfugkfuckfuck!"

Then Buster felt his cock shooting the last wad of his cum and he felt very relieved, very tired.

And Becky felt very fucked. And, as his cock shrank back to its normal foot-long size, all that birdshot and cunt-juice started dribbling out of her pussy, soaking his pubic hair with a mess of white and opaque fluid.

"Jesus! Whatta cock!"

So that was what had made the moist stain on Becky Jane's lemon-yellow panties as she stood before her boss taking dictation, unaware that he was glancing at the electronic mirror and watching her cream her panties.

Wendell Rathers always had wet-dream thoughts when he looked at Becky Jane's panties. Panties like that – the way they hugged her ass, looking like they had been manufactured with a stain at the crotch – always sparked memories of the days when he used to fuck and suck every secretary that he had ever hired.

Of course, those were the days when he was a millionaire bachelor. When he was happy. When his only worries were: Would he catch syph or the crabs or the green weenie from a secretary who hadn't washed between her legs, or who had been fucking with a donkey, or worse, caught cooties from African-Americans?

And when that was the only worry that he had – shit, any man would love to have worries like that.

God, the good old days. When he was a young executive on the rise in his father's wrench company. When he was a young executive with a constant rise in the crotch of his pants. And when all those bosomy, meaty-thighed secretaries would take care of the rise in his pants.

Like Carlotta Bender. Now there was a secretary. Couldn't type worth shit. Had fingers made for playing with men's cocks instead of inanimate things named Remington, or Smith Corona. Had a mouth that when it didn't have bubble gum in it was always filled with prick.

Carlotta was blonde. Sometimes she was brunette. Sometimes it was dish-water, reddish brown with streaks of gray. It all depended on the wig she was wearing.

Carlotta also had big tits. Sometimes they looked like honeydew melons on her chest. Other times like pomegranates. Other times like grapefruits. It all depended on whether she was wearing a bra or not, or whether the bra had falsie foam-rubber implants in the cups, or whether the bra was a see-through, cupless type.

Sweaters and blouses made a difference, too. Bulky sweaters cut low on her bosom were very impressive. Made her tits look very touchable, like a pair of tits wrapped in mink, warm and furry to the touch. Or the tight cardigan that made spires out of her tits.

Carlotta also smelled good. All over. Chanel on her ears. Ambush beneath each thirty-eight-inch tittie. Midnight between her legs, sprinkled liberally the dark and forbidden-looking hair of her pussy.

Carlotta also had smooth legs. She shaved them smooth. Like most girls who shave the hairs off their legs, or under their arms so that the aroma of Ambush lingered there instead of B.O., or off their pussies so that the aroma of Midnight would camouflage the smell of a cunt in heat.

Yeah, she was like all girls who shave their legs. Except she did it in the office. Yanked her gains right up on her secretary/receptionist desk and started hacking off the hairs.

Never started at the ankles either. She always started at mid-crotch, had the gall to lift up her crepe miniskirt and start shaving where her thighs joined – which was a place most men called pussy, but women referred to as their money-maker (if they were a whore), or their baby-maker (if they were like the little old woman who lived in a shoe), or their forbidden paradise (if they were cloistered in a nunnery and weren't allowed to say four-letter words).

Carlotta referred to her pussy as a cunt. She knew what cunts were for. Cunts were for pissing when she felt like it and fucking when she felt like it. Both were natural urges.

And that was how Wendell Rathers had come to know Carlotta Bender. With her legs up on the reception desk, Gillette Track Two in one hand, and the other hand holding up a crepe miniskirt that looked more like a lei around her ass than a miniskirt she had bought in Oahu during her last secretary's vacation.

Wendell was shocked. Well, he had known that Carlotta was a hot-to-trot woman the day she had filled out her application form and wrote "meat-eater" under the category of hobbies. But he was shocked because this was the first day of work for her, the very first hour she had been on the job.