J Long - Three horny teachers

"Oooohhh! That's it! Babeeee! I'm ccooommmiinnngggg!"

Coming? Frieda shook her head. Where was he coming from? What was happening? How could Betsy get pregnant so fast? How could her titties make milk so soon?

Then the last question was answered as Ezra pulled any from Betsy, took several steps back and two paces to the side.

And Frieda got a good gander at everything that had happened.

Betsy had milk on her face, all over her face. But now, Frieda could see it wasn't milk because it didn't drip as fast nor was it as thick.

Now, Frieda knew where that milky stuff had come from. Now, she knew that Betsy's titties weren't producing milk. They had simply gotten in the way of the drops that dripped off her chin.

Yes, now Frieda knew where that stuff had come from for sure. She knew she was right.

Ezra had choked her so full of cock that Betsy had thrown up the milk she had had for breakfast.

Poor Betsy!

Frieda searched her husband's drawer. Staring from the left, she carefully lifted up his Fruit of the Looms.

Then she saw it. Saw what it was that her husband had put away this morning. It was a book. A book with a funny name. The Coach Eats Out.

At first Frieda thought it was simply one of her husband's coaching manuals. She had never heard of a sport called eating out. Maybe it was a mistake; maybe the publisher had meant to title the book The Coach Chews Out.

Because that was what Arnold did all day on the football field – made pimple-faced kids cry because they didn't hit hard enough, didn't run fast enough, didn't catch footballs like Lance.

But Frieda knew that what she had in her hand was not a coaching manual. Unless coaching manuals were now being published with covers that showed a husky man at a restaurant, with his head beneath a cheerleader's mini-skirt.

Frieda was shocked. Very shocked.

She had heard about books like… like this… this piece of garbage. Arnold wouldn't read this filth. Shit, why would her husband want to read about fucking and sucking when all he did when he came home was fuck and suck her, win, lose, or draw?

Frieda wanted to die. No, not because the book in her hand was pornographic, but because it was such a prime example of piss-poor writing.

And Frieda definitely knew something about writing. She was a graduate of St. Judas Aquinas College, class of '65. And she had graduated with honors in English. Which was a very good field to major in to be an English teacher. Which she currently was. Currently teaching English like a foreign language to a bunch of American kids.

Many people were surprised that Frieda had gone to college. In fact, most of the people in Dudish County were shocked. For one thing, Frieda was the first resident of Dudish County to go to college. And they were doubly shocked when she had graduated from college.

People had just expected other things from Frieda Matthews way back then. They expected her to fuck and suck a lot, just like her brothers.

They expected her to have sons that would also be half-brothers because her full brothers were always threatening to fuck her. They had expected her to a belly full of ripe ova just crawling with wiggling brotherly tadpoles.

Yeah, they had expected a lot.

And they were very disappointed.

Papa Matthews was disappointed the most. Shit, he had always considered little Frieda to be prime cunt, something that he could fuck around with once his nights as a chicken guard came to an end.

Of course, what kept Papa Matthews from putting his claws on Frieda was that fucking broom Mama Matthews wielded.

Once, Papa Matthews had thought about killing Mama Matthews. Because she was getting to be useless with each passing day. The hominy grits tasted like a bucket of oats. The buckwheat griddle cakes could have been used for doorstops. And his coveralls smelled like chicken guts.

And nothing was more useless than a Dudish County witch who protected her daughter with a broom and made pancakes that tasted like chicken guts.

Frieda, however, was very thankful for Mama Matthews' protection. Oh, there had been some close calls. Too close to want to be remembered.

Like the time her brother Abelard had cornered her in the barn. He had whipped out his prick and told her to suck it or he'd hang her fucking ass from the rafters.

That was one of the few times that Mama Matthews had not used the sapling brushes of the broom to prevent her daughter from being raped.

She had used the other end, the hickory handle end, to spear Abelard's asshole as he stood with his coveralls hobbling his ankles.

Then there was the time. Mark, Paul and Luke had cornered her in the back of their '52 Ford pickup. They were supposed to be going to church, and the rest of the Matthews clan was riding ahead in the station wagon.

And Frieda was on the flatbed an her back. She was spread-eagled, her arms and legs lashed down with her brothers' belts. And she was naked. Yen naked.

And Mark, Paul and Luke began drooling like thirsty mules when they had looked on their sister's pretty nakedness.

"Uuuuummmm!" Paul ached, rubbing the bulge at his crotch. Then there wasn't a bulge at his crotch because the bulge had become a prick and a pair of hairy balls as his coveralls, fell to his ankles.

"Hey, Paul," Mark said thoughtfully, chewing on a piece of straw. "I'm thinkin' I'll tan our asses if she catches us Frieda."

Frieda was scared. Very scared. She had never been naked in front of her brothers. And Paul's prick was only the third prick she had ever seen in her life. And it seemed like every time she was seeing a prick these days they were getting bigger and bigger and bigger.

Ezra Jubal's prick was only about eight inches long. And Abelard's looked a tad bit under ten inches. But Paul's prick, by far, was the biggest prick she had ever seen.

Paul's prick was a foot long.

Only it was soft.

Luke groaned. "Looks like rain."

Frieda didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say. She prayed.

Rain started to fall.

Paul was down on his knees, his hands jacking his cock.

Jack. Jack. Jack.

While raindrops kept falling on her head, Frieda squinted her eyes to see how big Paul's prick was getting.

Fourteen inches.

And, to Frieda, Paul's prick looked half-hard.

To Paul, his prick felt half-soft.

Frieda prayed some more. Prayed to God that Paul wouldn't put his hard cock into her cunt, or her mouth, or… no, not there, would he?

Luke looked up at the black clouds. "Looks like it's time."

"You thinkin' of fuckin' Frieda, Paul?" Mark asked, chewing the straw.

"Well," Paul answered, jacking his prick. "I'm thinkin' of giving her a cumholer. That away she won't get a baby in her belly."

Frieda prayed again, prayed that she would go deaf so she wouldn't hear what Paul was going to do to her virgin asshole. Prayed that a lightning bolt would kill her brothers dead. Prayed that she would be a bale of hay that the boys were simply taking to market so that it could be shipped to the Chicago stockyards and end up in some contented cow's four stomachs where she would be immensely happy.

Lightning struck too far away.

Thunder rolled over Dudish County.

Luke said, "I seen lightnin'."

"Well, come on, Paul," Mark exclaimed. "Hurry up and do your corn-holin', 'cause I wanta have Frieda suck my prick."

"Hold your fuckin' horses," Paul replied. "Takes a while for my prick to get hard for corn-holin'. You oughta know that."

Mark scratched his ass, looked around for another edible straw.

Luke searched the sky from east to west, "I hear thunder."

Frieda wanted to die. Wanted the good Lord to strike her with lightning and bum her up like a dry bale of hay that someone had thrown their lit Lucky into.