J Long - Three horny teachers

Now, the Amazon bitch moved too fast for Sam. She managed to duck the first overhand right.

Sam couldn't believe it. The fucking bitch was faster than slippery shit! He struck out with a left jab.

People playing blackjack regretfully were getting annoyed.

"Jesus Christ! Hurry up and deal!"

"Holy cow! I come here to gamble, not watch Saturday night at the fights."

"Hey! How much are aces worth again?"

Biff. Crack. Crunch.

Jesus! Sam looked at his knuckles. They were bleeding. Then he looked over the edge of the blackjack table. Jesus! Her face was bleeding from a cut upper lip, a gash over one eye, and a nose that was pointing to her right ear.

Manny Schwarz ambled over to Sam's table.

He picked up the house phone. "Yes sir."

"Clarence, got another flat-broke girl who's gonna work for us. She's at Sam's table. Get her in shape for the Kiwanis guys coming in on the four-fifteen flight."

Room twelve was a mess.

It smelled like a nut factory – where nutty people crushed walnuts with their size twelve feet.

It looked like a garage sale that had been hit by a tornado.

A tattered vanilla shirt had taken the place of a lampshade. Southern Comfort bottles were sitting in various chairs – some upside down and empty, other upright, going stale because their caps were strewn all over the floor.

A man's pair of pink boxer shorts lay over the New Testament.

A woman's pair of white cotton panties with a yellowish stain at the crotch were on the dresser, right next to an opened tinfoil packet that had a picture of a Trojan soldier's head on it.

The bed was rumpled.

Two people were making more rumples in the bed.

Rumple. Rumple. Rumple.

"Oooooohhhh, Archie! I never knew fuckin' felt like this!"

Then the sheet slid off the bed, and Hazel reached for another quarter on the nightstand. She knocked over an ashtray, then her glasses fell off the edge; finally she got the quarter into the box labeled: Swedish Massager.

The bed hummed and rumpled.

Rumple. Rumple. Rumple.

"Aaaaiiiieeee! Oooooh! Archie! God! Archie! Fuck me again… and again and forever!"

Archie gasped. Archie was tired. Archie's cock ached. But it was still hard. Archie couldn't believe that his cock had been hard for the last – God, had it been two hours or three? Shit, be didn't know!

Archie sighed, felt Hazel's pussy sliding up and down on his cock. Maybe it was the fucking Trojan rubber that kept his prick hard – made it more insensitive to the tight clamminess of Hazel's pussy as she fucked up and dawn, up and dawn, wheezing her Southern Comfort breath all over him.

Archie sweated. Archie moaned! That fucking bitch-hag had called him Archie for four hours now, and he felt as if he had been christened Archie Bunker.

"Aaaahheeee! Archie! I'm coooommmmiihnnnggg again!Oh, God! I'm gonna ram your prick all the way into my cunt! Oooohhhh, Archie! Archie fuck fuck! Archie fuck-fuck! Archie fuck-fuck!"

Archie Fuck-Fuck! No, God damn it his name wasn't Archie Fuck-Fuck! Who the hell would call their kid Archie Fuck-Fuck?

"Aaaarrrrcccchhhhiiiieeee! Oooohhhh, aaaarrrrccciihhiiiieeee! Arrrrcccchhhhiiiieeee ffuuuccckkk!"

Archie Fuck-Fuck couldn't believe it. His cock felt so Goddamn sore and abused, yet he was ready to come. His cum was on the verge of spilling out of his prick for the fourth time in the last three, four or more hours – how the fuck did Archie Fuck-Fuck know! Shit, he didn't even know his name any more!

"Cum, Archie, cum! Ooohhh! Aaarrrccchhhiiiee! Arrchiieee cum-cum! Archie cum-cum! Archie cum-cum!"

Armadillo. Archie Bunker. Archie Fuck-Fuck. Archie Cum-Cum. Did it really make any difference? Shit, he was so fucking drunk on Southern Comfort, so fucked out by a hag who was making up for lost time, that Armadillo Fuck-Cum didn't give a shit what she called him any more.

Why did cum taste so nasty? Arnold's cum always tasted nasty. And there was no difference when it came to swallowing cm from an ex-gaucho either. Frieda was sick of cum. Sick of swallowing a sickie's cum as he poured it down her throat in surges that felt like dollops of Milk of Magnesia.

Frieda was a mess.

A cummy mess.

Cum was on her face. Cum was on her tits. Cum was on her cunt. Cum was on her asshole. To say she was overcum would have been a poor pun.

Frieda glanced to her right.

Eddie Caruso was dressing, slicking down his hair with Murray's Pomade. He was whistling "Granada". He saw Frieda looking at him in the mirror.

"I am a good fucker, eh, Senorita Higgins?"

Senorita Higgins rolled her eyes in dismay. If a man were judged on how, well he fucked by how many times he could come on a woman's clit and asshole, then he was a good fucker.

"Yes… yes, you are a good fucker."

"Better than Senor Higgins?"

How the hell did that spic know so much? The mother-fucker! The Goddamn, Mazola-skinned, macho-fucker knew everything about her! And what pissed Frieda the most was that he knew it so smugly. Look at that fucker preen before the mirror. Look at him comb the hairs on his cock. Look at him admiring his big hefty balls. The fucker!

But was he better than Senor Higgins? Shit no! At least Arnold didn't parade his prick in front of her face all day. At least Arnold fucked her without smugness and an ego that was as big as Argentina. The fucker! The smug fucker with the Latin lover's mug!

"No! No, you don't fuck as good as Arnold! You just fuck! You're nothing but a big cock! You don't give a damn about love, except for the love you have for your sick prick!"

Eddie was stunned. At first.

Then he was outraged. He'd show that bitch that she was a fucking hot bitch. He spun around, began to jack his prick while he looked at her spread-eagled body on the bed.

Anger was in his eyes. Anger was in his fists.

Jack. Jack. Jack.

Hatred was in her eyes. Hatred for what was in his fists.

Jack. Jack. Jack.

Eddie huffed and puffed. His hand was a blur on his cock – his long lengthy prick felt like a rubber hose in his outraged hands.

Frieda smiled smugly. Watched his limp prick flop and droop.

"What's the matter, fucker? Can't get it up? Come on, fucker! Get it up! Get your sick prick up and fuck the shit out of me, and watch me hate every fucking moment of it! Come on, fucker – beat your meat! Beat it to death, baby, 'cause it looks deader than hell!"

Eddie looked at his prick. His prick did look dead. It wouldn't rise, wouldn't leak pearly drops of Latin cum, wouldn't twitch or jerk or throb. It even felt dead, like his prick wasn't part of him, wasn't his any more. No! No! A man needed his prick. Eddie needed his prick or he wasn't a macho gaucho. He needed his prick or he'd be unemployed, and he'd have to stand in those long unemployment lines hoping to find work as a fucker.

No! His cock was dead to the world, useless to him, useless to all those women who cherished the thought of being fucked by the great Eddie Caruso.

"Carumba! You WITCH! You've cursed me!"

Frieda's laughter followed him as he bundled up his clothes and left room thirteen forever.

Frieda kept laughing until her sides hurt. Then her laughter died out. The silence was overwhelming. Thoughts of dying were overwhelming.

"hey! Hey! Somebody untie me!"

Sunday mornings for most Americans means a day off. To go to church or mass, then a picnic at the park, early dinner, some boob-tube show starring a man with a bionic prick, then bedtime.

This April Fool's Day Sunday was not a typical day for many Americans. Especially the gringos who were in Vegas.

On this particular day there were many fools in the casinos, and there were other people who were not everyday fools but who were fooled nonetheless by the everyday fools.