J Long - Three horny teachers

The Trucedales, however, thought and acted very young.

At first, Frieda thought they were senile because they were always cooing around each other like pigeons, kissing when they could like pit-teenagers, and their faces won't so withered that they couldn't blush and become embarrassed like normal type lovers. Both had lots of hair. Both had lots of wrinkles. Both had varicose veins. Being old, they had a lot in common.

But they were a happy couple who had earned a lot of money making Geritol ads in Florida. But before that, Solomon was retired from his job as a bank toiler and Gracie no longer had to cook for those prune-faced hap in the Rocking Chair Retirement Home where she had cooked mush for twenty years.

But there was a night when the Trucedales changed. Changed drastically, haphazardly, just like it says in the Foreword to this book: outwardly normal, inwardly perverted.

It was ten miles west of Tucumcari, New Mexico, when the change took place, and Frieda saw the Trucedales for what they really were: Outwardly old, inwardly young and perverted.

Solomon was not the happy seventy-year-old man he appeared to be.

And Gracie was not the happy sixty-year-old woman she appeared to be.

Outwardly they were happy; inwardly they were happier because they had gotten their hoary hooks into some pretty young stuff. And boy, did they eat up on that young cunt.

They drooled over young stuff. Stuff like what was in the back seat of their perverted '48 Packard. The fluffy stuff that was curled in a ball against one of the armrests, using a Bible for a headrest.

Frieda had thought that they had stopped so that old fart, Gracie, could take a piss behind another McDonald's billboard. When Frieda rubbed her eyes and sat up, that was a natural conclusion to come to. Because she saw old fart Gracie pulling up her dress, exposing her knee-high nylons which were sagging to her ankles.

And, in the cloudy darkness, Frieda could make out Solomon's scarecrow body as he fucked around with his fly.

There was nothing unusual. Nothing that made Frieda fearful. So they were just two senile people who had cheerfully pulled off the road so they could, beneath a drooling McDonald's Big Wheel.

Shit, old people did think like that everyday. It's a natural cycle of life. You're born and you're on your back saying goo-goo and thinking your left ankle's a toy or a cloud; then when you're old, things never change because you're flat on your back and your feet are in a transom because the varicose is too bad and Father Simon is standing over you and you're saying good-good.

But the Truest and Jules were not acting like everyday old people.

Something looked unusual.

Because old fart Gracie was still holding up her dress like she was wadding through three-feet deep mud puddles. And she was minus her usual white cotton panties. And her pussy hair was very obvious, because it was eleven o'clock at night and threatening to rain, and Gracie's white pussy hair stood out like a white rabbit in a hutch full of black hares.

And there was something about Solomon that looked unnatural. Either his watch fob had come loose from his belt and was hanging halfway to his knees or he was so old and senile that he no longer had the energy to zip up his pants after peeing.

The latter case was true. Too true to believe.

What were they doing?

This was a public highway, not a road cutting through the midst of a nudist camp. God, what would the truckers say when they passed by with their guts full of No-Doz and their bellies full of Maxwell House and their eyes full of white pubic-haired rabbits and fob-like cocks?

Frieda closed her eyes. Opened them again. The Trucedales were still there in the same obscene, lewd condition.

Well, that wasn't really true.

Because now the Trucedales were only a couple of steps away from the depraved Packard.

The Trucedales had worsened their obscene, lewd condition. Or at least one half of the Trucedales had worsened. Solomon, the worse half of the Trucedales, had an erection!

God! He had a boner! A hard-on! A big corncob!

All those terms came back to Frieda in a flash as she remembered her eighteen bothers and what endearing terms they had for their hard-on, corncob boners.

Frieda wanted to run, wanted to thrust open the door and get the hell out of there. But it was too dark, and rain was beginning to fall, and she was naked.

Naked?

God, where were her clothes? Where had they gone? Her favorite gingham dress!

"Don't go looking for your clothes now, pumpkin," Solomon leered as he opened the door and let in cold air and rain.

"Yes sir," Gracie said from the other side as the wind coming in from Solomon side ruffled her dress and white pubic hair. "We just wanta have a little fun – isn't that right, Sol?"

Sol smiled. The gold in his teeth as bright as the lightning that flashed behind him. He entered the back seat.

Gracie came up on Frieda's backside.

Frieda shivered. Frozen with fear. Like a scaredy cat.

"Why, you look like you're frozen with fear, little scaredy cat," Solomon said.

"Oh, Solomon," Gracie teased. "Frieda isn't scared. Are you, Frieda?"

Frieda unfroze. Obviously there wasn't a hickory broom handy. Mama Matthews was a zillion miles away probably making the batter for tomorrow's doorstop pancakes. What would Mama do?

Frieda grabbed the Bible and raised it over her head, intent on chastising Solomon's white-haired head.

Gracie grabbed the good book.

A fight ensued.

While the fight ensued and the good book went from one hand to the other, Solomon started fucking around with Frieda's tits. Uummm, so unlike Gracie's tits. Frieda's were young and firm and hot to the touch.

No sag, no wrinkles, tits made of polyester.

Frieda screamed. "aaaaiiiieeee! please don't!"

And while she screamed, the fight over the good book ensued, and Frieda was in an awkward position for fighting. Her hands were up and over her head, clutching desperately to the Bible as that demon woman kept trying to grab it away from her.

And her tits felt as if they were being sucked off her chest as Solomon's lips covered her nipples.

"Please! Mr. Truesdale, stop that! Oooohhhhh, please!"

Then Frieda was toppling backward, and the Bible was gone from her hands, and Solomon was all over her body, his tweed jacket scratching her flesh.

And then darkness covered Frieda's eyes, obliterated the lightning and moon-streaked clouds as Gracie lifted up her dress and took a pissing position over Frieda's face.

"Mmmmggggffff! Mmmmggggffff!"

"Oh, don't scream so," Gracie implored, feeling the youngster's lips on her pussy. "We won't rape you. I just want you to eat my pussy cause Solomon can't stand the smell of old cunt. And Solomon won't hurt you, Frieda. All he wants is a taste of young cunt."

Frieda tried struggling but it was useless.

She prayed.

The pitter-patter, pitter-patter of raindrops beating against the depraved Packard resounded in her ears.

Then came an unnatural sound. Like the sounds the hoboes made in those freight cars when they sucked each other off.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

"Uuuummmmmmm!" Solomon moaned.

Frieda felt so dirty having her pussy cleaned by a person's tongue. No one had ever tongued her cunt before; no one had even thought about using their tongue to clean her cunt. Usually Mama Matthews handed her a washcloth cut from some denim coveralls and told her to wash between her legs until it was whistle clean.

Frieda groaned. Something felt unnatural about having a tongue in her pussy.

"Now, don't be scared, Frieda," Gracie whispered haggishly as she started the first cunt-grind against Frieda's face.

Oh, God! Frieda had never tasted pussy before. Not even her own. She had never had the urge to taste cunt like most American teenagers do.