J Long: Neighborhood wives

Orson smiled, gave his cock a few tugs.

"Here, Orson," Ethel playfully chided. "Let me do that for you." She grabbed his cock and tugged him gently to the side of the bed.

Oh, no! He didn't want Ethel to start sucking his cock and making him go through that wet scene in the shower again. No way. Not this time. They were going to fuck – and he was going to do his best to make sure Ethel fucked his cock instead of sucked it.

Naturally, Ethel didn't want to put her lips on Orson's prick because somewhere in the back of her brain her father's Protestant voice rang crystal clear. "Re to love your husband, Ethel – but do not lust for him."

Was cocksucking lustful? Well, of course cocksucking's lustful. That was why whores charged so Goddamn much money for it. That was why porno movies always showed it. That was why the Bible was against it. Sure it was lustful, but then again Ethel loved her husband so much that she didn't mind doing whatever lustful thing he wanted her to do.

And Orson loved Ethel so much that he never wanted to violate her pureness by letting lustful thoughts like cocksucking or assfucking or dry-humping enter his mind.

That was why Orson moved his cock away from Ethel's gripping hand. That was why he knelt on the bed and got ready to fuck his lovely wife in God-inspired missionary fashion.

Ethel moaned, "Ooooooh!" when Orson's cockhead touched her cuntlips. Then she said, "Aaaaaahhhh!" when the first couple of inches of his cock slid into the guts of her pussy. Then she gasped, "Wow!" when all his six-inch prick slid home, balls-deep, clear to the bone, in to the hilt.

Orson couldn't believe how much heat and moisture and meatiness was gripping his cock as he felt his balls nuzzling her juicy asscheeks. Ethel was so perfect for him – her pussy was always so lovingly hot and comfortable and homey. Christ, it never felt like he was fucking his wife when he was fucking his wife. Fucking his wife felt too heavenly even though it was noisy and sweaty and smelly and hairy and so unlike anything lovely.

"Oh, more, Orson. Give me more!"

See, even the way she talked had such a romantic quality, such intimacy, such love. No, it wasn't fucking that he was doing. It was, to Orson, the act of getting very close to the woman he loved.

Never mind that the stench of hot cunt was filling the room – to Orson, it was the draft of love. And those hairy, greasy cuntlips gripping his cock as he slid away – oh, no, to Orson, they were clingy peach halves that had been covered with fur. And that slushy, squishy, squeaky noise that came from the direction of his cock as be forced his prick into her cunt was like a musical elixir, champagne music, bubbly and frothy like a Lawrence Welk polka.

And for Ethel, fucking was not at all like what her mother had told her it would be: "It'll hurt like all hell broke loose. Then again, sweet Ethel, it all depends on how you're built down there."

No, all hell didn't break loose when Orson fucked her so lovingly. It was like heaven, like having somebody pour Jergens' baby lotion all over her body and rubbing in oily love. Yeah, that's what she felt when Orson gave her cunt a good reaming with his bloated cock.

And now that bloated cock had added a fraction of an inch to the taut, plum-shaped glans.

"Oh, Orson, your love for me is so huge! You feel so deliciously good inside of me! Give me more, Orson. Please!"

Orson gave as good as he got – which is only fair, considering they loved each other mutually.

Whenever he shoved into Ethel's hot pussy, her hot pussy would shove back at him. And somewhere in the middle they met – or rather, they were grinding away at their crotches so hard that their pubic hairs were mingling and his cock was being eaten alive by a cunt that loved every inch of his fucking.

"Ooooooh, Ethel! My God! I love you – feel how much I love you!"

Oooooooh, God! Could Ethel feel how much Orson loved her! Christ, she'd have to have a numb cunt not to feel his big prick growing and enlarging and erecting even harder as he slammed and thrust and barreled his way into her pussy. And Ethel knew he was going to shoot his jizz – well, her mind didn't tell her in those exact words. What her mind told her was that all the sweet love of her husband was coming out for her. Which made Ethel return her love. She fucked Orson like she had a Goddamn vibrator stuck in her ass – shoving and twisting her cunt like a tornado around his prick.

And Orson felt her pussy. Boy, did he feel her pussy just oozing and lightening up with all that delicious love juice! And that made him fuck his wife faster… and harder… but more lovingly.

Ethel was screaming out her love for Orson, couldn't keep it in her soul, had to voice those words that have broken many a spinster's heart and countless eternal triangles, "I love you, Orson! I love every inch of you, Orson!"

And Orson was going to say the same thing, but he couldn't. His eyes were bulging out, his forehead felt as if it were in a sauna, and what he felt the most was what was happening in his prick. He was coming! Coming with delicious exudations of love! Corning with aromatic fervor! Coming with creamy-hot jizz that spewed out of his prick in torrents.

The first splatter of love raced out of his cock and Ethel screamed, "I love you, Orson! More, give me more of your love!"

Orson gave her more. Lots more. Stilt, there was so much love stored up in his balls he could have started his own harem. He gave her another taste of his loving cum – another rip-roaring torrent of pasty-white ball-juice smashed into Ethel's over loved cunt.

Ethel went bananas. Her thighs were riding high on his haunches, getting him to come as close to her as any man has ever been close to a woman. And her cunt was going wild with wetness, creamy with the dreamy shots of love potion that Orson kept feeding her hungry, hairy maw of a cunt.

Another shot heard round the world of ecstasy and passionate love – jizz good old-fashioned, ever-loving jizz streaked out of Orson's cock like it was shot out of a cannon. And Orson was so close to Ethel now that he felt as if he would become one with her.

Ethel shuddered when the insides of her lovable pussy felt that ball of jizz being shot into her ravenous cunt. She couldn't help feeling it because her hand was on his balls, helping him to squeeze out more love juice, more of that same sticky, white goo that foamed and spewed from his cock.

God! Orson hurled his last shot of jizz into Ethel. God! He was so thankful that he loved Ethel.

And Ethel felt the same. Thankful that she loved Orson. Loved him like no other woman could love the man who had so much love stored up in him.

Now, as Orson's cock became wiener-limp, and Ethel's cunt contracted as if releasing the afterbirth – they separated soggily and lay in each other's loving arms.

Of course, being normal, they only had one problem. They were so full of love for each other that every once in a while they wondered if their mate loved them.

People think that people who choose to be professors of poetry are queer. Well, that's not true at all. What is true is that all Texans think that people who choose to be professors of poetry are queer.

'Cause, first of all, everybody in the Lone Star State has a hard time reading – oh, they can make out what their oil wells are doing on the Dow Jones index, and they can read the box scores of the Texas Rangers, but when it comes to Petrarchan sonnets and Spenscrian stanzas and odes and dirges and wordy things, well, they just think it's dumb-ass queer.

And that's what most of the people on Sophocles Street thought about Professor Ivan Wellington. The only ones who didn't think he was queer were the Marples, but that was because they were fairly normal.