J Long: Three horny teachers

Frieda Higgins was dismayed at what she found in her husband's drawers. No, it wasn't his cock, because she wasn't looking in those drawers. She was looking in the drawer of his bureau, the one that had white athletic socks to the right and neatly pressed T-shirts in the middle and forty pairs of starchy Fruit of the Looms to the left.

She had been searching through his underthings, because she wanted to find out what he had put there last night after he had been in such a fucking horny mood.

Frieda wanted to see what could have caused him to act so… so perverted. Arnold had never acted so… so strangely in their five years of marriage.

Usually when he wanted to fuck, he would be very forthright about it. No foreplay, no caresses or nuzzling noses that other happy housewives get from horny husbands. Usually when Arnold was horny and itching for a fuck, he grabbed Frieda's right tittie with his left hand and her cunt with his fight.

Which usually made her feel like not fucking him because he never nuzzled noses with her, or whispered sweet nothings, or creepy-crawled his hand surreptitiously up her thighs.

Shit, the last time Arnold Higgins had acted truly romantic toward his wife was when she had put too much starch in his Fruit of the Looms and it made him feel like he was wearing a plastic girdle. And Frieda had started to cry in order, to make Arnold feel sorry for her.

Arnold felt more than sorry for his wife. He kissed her… on the lips. Which was very rare for Arnold because it meant a show of affection, a little weakening of the old macho heart. Then he did another sweet thing. He touched her right tit… with his mouth, instead of gripping her tit like a football which he usually did when he wanted to fuck Frieda.

But that sweet, romantic moment had happened almost four years ago. And, since that time; now that Arnold had come to the realization that marriage meant that he could fuck his wife anytime that his cock got hard, he had forgotten about things like kissing and caressing and foreplay.

He was, in essence, no different in his lovemaking than in what he did for a living. Arnold was a coach. A very good coach.

Coach Arnold Higgins was the kind of coach that even coaches want to be.

Like he was a real go-getter. Any boy who didn't put out for him 100 percent got his ass kicked.

See? Just like the way he loved his wife. If Frieda didn't put out 100 percent for him, she got her ass kicked.

Like he loved winning and hated losing. Every time his team won, he celebrated by fucking his wife's cunt. Every time his team lost, he fucked his wife's ass.

Frieda wished his team's won-lost record would read something like oh, oh and four. Which in the eyes of sports buffs meant a won-lost record of no wins, no losses and four ties. Then she wouldn't get, her cunt fucked when he won and her ass fucked when he lost.

Maybe if his team tied, he would settle for a kiss from his wife. Or something gentle like a titty-fuck. After all, Arnold had told her many times that tics were like kissing his sister. Whatever in hell that meant.

For one thing Arnold didn't have any sisters.

And Frieda wasn't too sure he was the type of man who had a mother. Oh, Arnold had told her that his mother was a very good mother, even though she had died of syphilis a year after he was born. But Frieda wasn't so sure.

No mother would want a son who could be such a sonofabitch all the time. No mommy would claim as her own flesh and blood a man who acted more like King Kong in heat than an understanding, foreplaying human male.

As Frieda searched through the pile of stacked and folded T-shirts, she couldn't help but think about her marriage to an ape. After all, even Faye Wray would have thought about how much trouble she was in when King Kong had her in his grips. Because marriage to an oversized monkey instead of a human can be a constant problem for a wife who thought marriage was for humans.

Frieda thought about Arnold.

She regretted marrying Arnold.

She felt sorry for herself.

But so did her mother. Frieda's mother had always felt sorry for Frieda. For one thing, little Frieda Matthews her maiden name before she started engaging in conjugal relations with an ape was the eighteenth Matthews child in a family of nineteen kids.

But Mrs. Matthews always felt sorry for Frieda because she was the only girl. Most mothers would feel sorry for their only daughter, especially if they had had to nurse eighteen sons. And there were so many complications being an only girl with eighteen brothers, seventeen of whom were older than her.

Take the case of hand-me-downs.

What the hell could her older brothers give her when she ins in junior high school and needed clothes and Papa Matthews only made forty-eight dollars a week guarding chickens down to Dryadale's Cluck Cluck Egg Ranch?

Their hand-me-down jockstraps?

Ring-around-the-collar T-shirts?

Their coveralls that had chicken guts splattered near the crotches because their old man wanted them to fool around with hens instead of high-school chicks?

Yeah, Frieda had a right to be felt sorry for – which was exactly the way her mother had phrased it. Because Frieda's mother was stupid and she had never finished junior high school. And she had never finished junior high school because Papa Matthews had knocked her down and raped her before knocking her up. Mama Matthews had told little Frieda many times. "You got plenty of right to be felt sorry for, Frieda. Now, come on and help me hang them coveralls on the clothesline."

But the wont times for little Frieda were in high school. High school in Dudish County, Kansas, started in seventh grade.

That usually being the time little girls became little women. And by the time half of the little women hi Dudish County became seniors in high school, they also became other things. They could become pregnant of their own free will; or they could became pregnant of not their own free will. In other words, Dudish County was famous for three things.

As a stopover for the Southern Pacific railroad cars that trudged through town, a hundred miles long, in order to drop off mail and deliver water to the three hundred and four Dudish County residents.

As the barley basket of the world.

As the nation's leading county in illegitimate pregnancies as the Dudish County doctors termed it, and the highest incidence of venereal disease in females as the Dudish County Mental Health Department called it.

So, when little Frieda attended high school, the hallowed halls of good old Sherman High were always filled with the horrible screams of girls getting raped or the ecstatic moans of girls getting raped; all depending, of course, on whether they chose to be raped of their own free will or not.

Take, for instance, Betsy Hogarth.

Betsy was Frieda's best friend. She was Frieda's best friend because she was Frieda's only friend.

They had gotten to be friends like most eighteen-year-old girls get to be friends. Because they had something in common. They talked about fucking and sucking. Wondering what it would feel like. Would it hurt, would it make them pregnant if they sucked a cock, etcetera, and etcetera.

Betsy was a lot bolder sex-wise than Frieda though. Betsy was bolder because her body looked much bolder than tiny little Frieda's.

For one thing Betsy had hair on her pussy. For two things she had tits that didn't have that unbalanced, caved-in falsies looked like Betsy's tits were an eyeful, real big eyefuls. Put the three things together and it's a pretty bold appearance for a eighteen-year-old virgin who wondered if sucking cocks could get her pregnant.

Thus, Betsy learned at an earlier age than Frieda that sucking cocks did not mean she would get pregnant.