J Long: Three horny teachers

Her tits felt cold as raindrops splattered all over them. There was lots of tit-flesh for the raindrops to fall an. Because Frieda was now eighteen and a senior in high school. And she was just going into the next stage of growth for a Dudish County female: from little woman to big woman.

Paul watched the raindrops dripping off his sister's trim. He drooled, kept jackin' his cock, kept thinkin' about how good it was going to feel when he stabbed his prick into his sister's asshole.

He looked down at his prick.

It was ready. It was sixteen inches long.

Her asshole was not ready. It looked hardly bigger than a starfish's mouth. Like it would have a hard time shitting out a turd the size of a toothpick.

"Jesus!" Mark exclaimed. "Ya think you'll get all that meat into her whole?"

Paul nodded. "Looks a bit tight, don't it?"

Luke said: "I see Ma coming."

Frieda moaned. She moaned because her arms ached and her legs hurt and her asshole was being stretched by a cock that should have been in a mule's ass instead of hers.

"Aaaaiiiieeee! No, Paul! I'm tooooo tight! Aaahiieeee!"

Paul sweated. But you could hardly tell it because the rain was coming down too fast and it was washing away the smell of b.o.

Jesus! What a tight asshole! He'd never corn-holed nothing this tight in his life. Oh, he had corn-holed little brother Jethro once, but that didn't count because they were ages twenty-eight and ten… respectively speaking.

No, corn-holing sister Frieda was tots better.

Paul watched his prick bend, then bow, then threatened to snap. Finally the head of his sixteen-inch prick popped into the sliver-tight hole.

"Aaaaiiiieeee! Oh God! Oh Dear Lord! Make him stop! Pllleeeaaasseee!"

Mark was amazed that sister Frieda could actually make her asshole stretch that big. He watched, the rain making it difficult to see.

Luke said: "Yep, that's Ma com'n down the road. Com'n fast, too."

Paul moaned and groaned as he stuffed more prick into his sister's ass. Jesus Christ! Her asshole was tighter than hell! And it felt so fucking bumpy in there. Nothing like those chickens he fucked every night. The only thing that reminded him of chickens was the way Frieda was squawking and squealing.

"Aaaaiheeeee! No! Oh Dear Lord! Save me! Ooooaaaaiiiieee."

"Looks like you're almost alt the way in," Mark said, looking at Frieda's asshole gobbling up Paul's prick.

Paul lunged, like stabbing a pitchfork into a bale of hay, like jabbing his prick into Matilda his favorite hen.

Luke said: "Yep, it's Ma all right. And she looks madder than a hornet."

Ma? Madder than a hornet!

God, Paul didn't know what to do. He was caught betwixt and between. Between a rock and a hard place.

He wanted to pull his prick out of Frieda's ass, tuck his ten-incher back into his coveralls before Ma whipped his balls with forty lashes of the sapling broom. But then again, he had never fucked an ass before that belonged on a woman, a creature that had real live human tits on her chest instead of feathers; no, he couldn't pull his cock out now.

There was only one thing to do: hurry!

"Oh, Christ! Hurry, cock, and hurry! Oh, shit! She'll beat the hell outa my balls! Oh, hurry!"

"Aaaaiiiieeee! Oh God! Please do it easy!Oohhhhhhh! You're hurtn' me so bad! Oh God! Oh Dear Lord!"

Thunder crackled. Lightning flashed.

A car door slammed.

Raindrops kept fallin'.

Paul kept fucking, hurrying as fast as he could, shoving and jabbing and pronging his sister's asshole, wishing to hell now that it was Matilda he was fucking instead of his sister.

"What you boys doin' to my little Frieda!"

Oh, no! The wicked witch of the north was here!

Luke said: "Oh-oh. Ma's here!"

Mark jumped off the flatbed. Luke followed.

They cleared way for Mama Matthews as she wedged through them.

Paul hurried, then hurried faster. He was almost there! He thought about Matilda's cunt-nest, thought about younger brother Jethro's asshole. Then he thought about coming, 'cause thoughts about fucking real chickens and brother chickens always spurred him on to coming.

He started to spurt – or, rather, his prick started to spurt.

"Aaaahiieeee! You're tearin' me, Paul! Ohhhhhh Gooooddddd!"

Spun. Spurt. Spun.

Paul's head was back, his mouth catching Kansas rain while he poured jism into his sister's asshole.

Then his head pitched forward, the rain running off the back of his head like water off a chicken's back.

He felt dizzy when he shot the final spurt of cum, the one that usually made his balls droop because they had contracted so much, the one that usually signaled the end of a chicken-fuck, or a sodomy-job, or a sister-buggering.

Mama Matthews looked at the Bible in her hand. Couldn't believe that Paul's head had plumb knocked off the personalized nameplate.

God, how she could have used her broom right now. God, how she'd beat the shit out of Paul's balls to teach him never to fuck around with his sister's asshole again.

"Oh, Mama! I hun so bad!"

"Shut the fuck up!"

"But I hurt so bad! Am I bleedin'?"

Mama bent down, attended to Paul's head first before sizing up the condition of Frieda's whole. "Shit, no you ain't bleedin'. But I pray the Lord you were bleedin'. Just look at what you done with your sister!"

Most sisters would be very pissed if their brothers had made their asshole the size of a cunt while it was in labor, giving birth to a couple of Siamese twins. But Frieda was not mad at that moment, not vengeful or full of spite.

For one thing, she was unconscious.

For another thing, when she had regained consciousness and she felt cool rain running down her bleeding ass-crack and she heard thunder and saw lightning, she saw a very clear message, a God-sent spiritual telegram: LEAVE AT ONCE STOP HAPPINESS ELSEWHERE STOP NEVER COME BACK STOP SINCERELY STOP GOD.

Which was the reason why Frieda went to college.

Because she had to get away from eighteen bothers who wanted her to become a one-woman harem. Had to get away from a father who was looking forward to his retirement nights, sitting in a rocking chair with his incestuous daughter down between his knees sucking his cock.

So, Frieda left Dudish County in the summer of '61. She took a Bible, two gingham dresses, a pair of panties that were actually one of her brothers' cotton shorts cut down to size, eighteen pairs of hand-me-down coveralls and some Preparation H.

At first she didn't know where she was headed, like most girls today. She just kept going in accordance with that spiritual telegram.

First she headed east, then she took a circuitous train ride to Chicago, booked in the third-class section of the hobo department.

Somewhere south of Evansville, Illinois, she headed west because the hoboes had discovered she was a girl dressed up as a boy and they caught her pissing in a funny, unnatural position when she had thought they were all asleep.

She had escaped safely. The hoboes had not harmed her because she gave them fourteen pairs of chicken-gutted coveralls in exchange for keeping her hymen intact.

Going west, she went by extended thumb and just a little bit of thigh showing beneath the gingham hem. She was very careful about who picked her up.

If there was one man in the car, she refused to ride.

If there was one woman in the car, she accepted.

If there was no one in the car, she also declined.

Using that thumb, she hitchhiked all the way to L.A. Most of the trip was covered in a '48 Packard owned by the Trucedales, Solomon and Gracie.

Solomon was the man in the car, and Gracie was the woman in the car.

Solomon was also the husband.

Gracie was also his wife.

They were in love because they were on their second honeymoon. The first one having taken place thirty years ago, back in the thirties, the Depression years when many a poor wife sold her pussy next to her husband's pencil stand.