J Long - Neighborhood wives

That was bow Connie reacted to the way Marvin had positioned his cock at the doors of libidinous cunt. That was the only way she could react because she couldn't move her pussy any when Marvin shoved and let out a shriek like a castrated banshee!

"Aaaiiiee! Oh, Connie! My Goddd!"

Blood and pussy-juice and pre-cum had been plungered out of her pussy the moment Marvin had put all his one hundred and eighty pounds behind the force of his shove up her cunt. It was a tight fit. An uncomfortable fit for Connie because his upcurved cock had scraped along the topside of her pussy like a D amp; C performed by a paraplegic gynecologist.

Marvin ticked away happily, feeling all that juicy pussy just grabbing his cock sucking the Karma from his curvy prick.

Connie lay there and took her fucking like a man. She couldn't believe the horrendous amount of pain that his cock forced into her cunt. Everytime he shoved into her tight snatch, she had the natural inclination to bring her legs together – after yearn of training, it's very herd for most girls to open their legs in public when they've been taught just the opposite – trying to force his cock away from her pussy.

Naturally, that did wonderful thin to Marvin's cock and to his macho ego. Yeah, his cock knew that it was in a hot piece of pussy and his mind knew that Connie really dug fucking, otherwise why did she create more cock-to-cunt friction everytime he plowed into her?

On every outstroke, Connie gave a sigh of relief. But the strokes going out were so fast and furious that she couldn't tell if his cock was coming or going, and that's why her sighs sounded like one continuous moan.

"Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!"

Marvin loved it. Shit, he knew she loved it. Just listen to the way she takes to fucking. Like a goose takes to a gander.

"Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!"

Oh, wow! Marvin wanted to tell her that he really did love Connie – loved the way she fucked, loved the way her cunt clung to his upcurved cock as he fucked into her, loved the way she said oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh everytime he withdrew his prick.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her, but there was no time. His cum was coming. The wads of jizz had been contained too long, and now they were crawling out of his balls, up the bulgy pulsing thing that led to the slit at the end of his cock.

And that slit was up somewhere in the midst of her hot and tight womb, ready to spit out his seed like a pitcher spews out his chaw.

Spit. Spit. Spit.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!"

More cum, more jizz, more semen, more white gooey crap fired out up his upcurved cock and splattered her virgin womb.

"Aaaaiiieeee! Marvin! Your cock's so big!"

See! What did Marvin tell you! She was hot as a pistol. Hot as hell. She loved fucking and be loved to fuck her – God, maybe he did love her!

Marvin was going to say he loved her, but the cunt felt so jizzy great that all he could manage was, "AAARRRRGGGHHHHH!"

Then it was over. Done now. Finis.

And Marvin's one hundred and seventy-five pound body – he had lost three pounds in sweat and another two in cum – collapsed on Connie.

Connie grunted. "Ugh!"

"What'd you say, Connie?" Marvin whispered lovingly, rubbing his eight o'clock shadow against her sweaty breasts.

"I hate you! You beast! You pig! That was awful! I hate you!"

"I hate you! I hate you!"

"Marvin? Marvin! What the hell's wrong with you?"

What? Where the hell was he? Marvin felt for the tuck-and-roll, but his hands gripped wet sheets. Christ, he was in his house, in his bedroom, in bed, next to his wife whom he had only fucked once in fifteen years of marriage.

"Oh, shit," he groaned. "I was having a nightmare."

"Oh, okay," Connie said sleepily. "Good night."

Marvin wanted to tell her about his dream, wanted to scream her awake and get her to listen to what he had to say. So he said it to her, not in a scream because that might wake her up and really get her pissed, but in a whisper.

"You bitch, Connie. In fifteen years of marriage I only fucked you once. That's unbelievable! Unfair! You bitch. Can I help it if I've got a crooked cock – huh?! Can I help that! Shit!"

Marvin reached over and grabbed a pack of Luckies off the nightstand. He lit up. He sat up. He thought.

Someday, some way, somehow he was going to find a woman who could appreciate his crooked, upcurved cock. Shit, no man could be that unlucky.

The happiest couple on Sophocles Street were the Marples, a young couple that had quaint, old-fashioned ideas of living like Orson Marple mowed the lawn, cleaned the chimney, repaired the car and fucked around only with his wife. And like Ethel Marple cooked dinner, kept house, and clipped out sales coupons and only fucked around with Orson.

Yes they were a happy couple, or maybe they were only happy because they were the only ones with a sense of normalcy on Sophocles Street. They were unlike that unemployed Herbert Marcuse and his wife Marcie who lived two doors down from them. They sure as hell weren't like the niggers who lived next door – Christ, Orson didn't even know which fingers to stick into a bowling ball. And Ethel sure didn't act like that Miss America whom, Rachel Lindsay – for one thing Ethel didn't have tits like her nor did she keep a dummy in the house.

The only ones they usually visited was that Armenian couple – well, really only a half an Armenian couple, because Connie Balakian was half-Welsh, half-Apache but that was all right with the Marples because they weren't prejudiced.

The only times the Marples weren't happy was when they had to go to work. Orson always left home promptly at six-fifteen in the morning, Huxley tweed suit on, attache case in hand – the typical Madison Avenue executive look.

The only problem was Orson's official occupational title was Supervisor of Sanitation Engineers, Crew Ten – which in plain old-fashioned language meant that he was head honcho of fifteen garbage-trucking niggers. But, being as he lived in a fifty-thousand-dollar home in a well-to-do middle-class neighborhood on the north side of Waco, Texas, shit he couldn't very well tell all his friendly neighbors that he was a garbage man. So he told them that he was a meteorologist for IGY.

If Orson was embarrassed over what he did to bring the bacon home, Ethel always got twice as red when she told everyone that she was a fashion coordinator. Of course, everyone believed her because she was always dressed so nice.

When she'd leave at six-thirty, she'd have on her trim, well-tailored Dallas original design which was usually a dress that she bought for $1.95 at Woolworth's and added some lacy trim, a couple of extra big buttons, a couple of frills here and there to make it look like something that had to be specially ordered from Texas' most progressive city, Dallas.

Well, that was the image everybody had of Ethel as she left her home in the mornings – which she was off to another busy fashion day at the office. When in reality, Ethel would take their Ford Ranchero station wagon, park it at an Exxon station on the south side of town, change into denim shirts and Levi's and catch the first bracero bus to the Wild Pecos Prune Ranch where she would work for ten hours as the prune ranch's fastest prune packer.

But, overall the Marples were happy, even though they had to put up within five-day role so that everybody around them thought that they had a sense of belonging to the Sophocles Street society.

But today was Saturday, and Orson had finished trimming the Bermuda lawn, Ethel had just cleaned out the garbage disposal, and they were in the shower together acting more like teen-agers with the hots than people who had been married for five years.

Ethel was on her knees, bits of shower spray stinging her face. In her mouth was Orson's cock. In her hands were Orson's balls. She was so faithful to Orson that she had never had another man's cock in her mouth or another man's balls in her hands.