J Long: Neighborhood wives

In Betty Ann's case, Professor Wellington was shoving his prick in and out to the beat of a Sousa march, and her pussy felt as if a hundred-piece band were stomping on her pussy as it paraded back and forth across her clit.

And as is usual with most horny American girls, when something is stomping that many times and with that much force over their clit, all painful though and sensations are diminished and they really get into the beat of things.

And being as Betty Ann had a normal, sensitive cunt, she didn't want to be out of step with that huge cock that was plunging so staccato-like into her pussy. She picked up the rhythm real fast, no novice was she when it came to keeping her cunt in tune with the cock that beat back and forth in her cunt.

Ah, what sweet music – the squish, squish, squish of a rhythmic cock fucking in-out, in-out, of a hot pussy.

Ah, what sweet rapture – like a duet that had been playing for centuries, they fucked as if they had been made to fuck each other.

Now, no one could keep score with the fast and furious fuck pace they set.

For an old man of fifty-nine to fuck at sixty strokes a minute was amazing, incredible, awe-inspiring.

Not only was Betty Ann amazed and awe-inspired, but she felt incredible sensations that emanated from the fourteen-inch, fifty-nine year-old cock that was fucking in and out of her pussy – sensations that made her hair stand on end, made her clit elongate, made her tits not only perspire, but peak upwards, made her throat feel warm and her ass hot, made her mouth open like a blowfish that was trying to learn the English language in order to say, "More! More! More!"

And, since Betty Ann was no blowfish, but a simple Texas girl who had suddenly become a regular meat-hungry, cock-grinder, she said, "More! More! More! Give me more cock! Ooooooooh, the way you fuck! Harder! Deeper! More cock! I need more cock!"

Thus, out the window went all those future Texas boy friends and regular-sized pricks who would have felt disappointment anyway but not having any friction around their pricks when they fucked a hole that was made more for trains than cocks.

Out the window went all those staid inhibitions, and voiced moral lessons that she had learned when she was chosen head choirgirl for the Episcopal Church of God and Saints.

But, also, out the window was Dean Jubal Mathis, who was peering in the window and making man-made snowflakes as he ejaculated in torrents, his hand flying over his cock and his cum flying in hailstones against the windowpane.

The reason Dean Jubal Mathis was out in the cold and dark, jacking off like a lust-crazy monk, was because he always stopped by the rented cottage to see who was fucking whom and with what.

Such knowledge helped him when he had to negotiate with many of the professors when they came before him for their annual salary review. Never mind that he was ninety years of age; the board of trustees for Waco State College had a lot of faith in the old geezer for getting the best professors in the land to work for slave wages, and they always renewed his contract and always gave him a hefty raise because they also knew that Dean Jubal Mathis had the goods on them, too.

Dean Mathis smiled Scrooge-like when Professor Wellington had pulled his cock out of that delicious pussy and started coming like a wildcat oil well all over Betty Ann's tits and heaving belly. Smart young man that professor – he wouldn't get caught in any paternity suit like some of those dumb-ass Waco State football coaches.

Dean Mathis put his cock away, which was relatively easy because he had a normal sized six-inch prick. He zipped up his gray flannel pants. And before walking away from the snow-white window, he took one picture of the scene inside of the cottage. That's how good he was at getting people by the short hairs – the blackmailing practice had taught him a lot about cameras and photography.

All those meetings in the cottage were flow behind Mrs. Betty Ann Wellington. She had aged since that cottage affair – she was now twenty-one and she had changed a lot.

For one thing (er, maybe two things) her tits had grown another inch. Whether it was because of drinking so much milk – she was a Pat Boone fan – or because so much jizz had caked on her titties over the past two years, she didn't know. But now she sported a hefty pair of forty-fives.

For another thing, her cunt no longer had the elasticity it once had whether it was because she had been fucked hundreds of times by a cock fourteen inches long and seven inches in diameter or whether it was because she had given birth to ten-pound twins (ten pounds apiece, that is), she didn't know either. But now she sported a pussy that felt more like a sewer manhole.

But all those things were behind her – in the past, in the by-gone days, in the yesteryears.

What was in front of her now was a drooling, wrinkly, prune-faced old geezer named Jubal Mathis who was getting ready to fuck her with his six-inch prick – it was the price that Professor Ivan Wellington had decided to pay in order to get back the three hundred prints that the Dean had made of that infamous night in the rented cottage.

The arrangement was simple. Dean Jubal Mathis would get to fuck Betty Ann in return for the prints. But, as it turned out, what that smart old fart had meant was that there would be one print exchanged for every piece of ass he got off Betty Ann.

Well, tonight was the eighty-seventh time that Dean Jubal Mathis would get to fuck Mrs. Betty Ann Wellington.

Shit, only two hundred and thirteen fucks to go.

Basically, advertising people are a scurvy lot. They have to be because in the rat-eat-rat world of jingles and plugs and one-liners nobody gets to the top unless they have a venomous soul.

That was why Virginia Fowler – er, Ms. Virginia Fowler – picked such vermin types as Haskell Baskins, Cooper Morton and Wally Bendix.

Because they were men who could mind-fuck all of America into buying refrigerators that churned out chocolate ice cubes, cars that had two fenders and twelve pounds of chrome, have-it your-way hamburgers that were made of decomposed cardboard.

Yeah, they were the emperors of the advertising empire of flashing billboards and prime time commercials.

Each of them was a specialist.

Haskell Baskins was an artist who had put in four years at Leavenworth for counterfeiting admission tickets to the Roller Derby championship.

He looked like an artist lost, bewildered, befuddled and bearded. With a gauche nose, pastiche eyes and a complexion that resembled burnt umber, Haskell Baskins struck most people as an artist.

Those who were dumb enough to ask Haskell what he did for a living were directed to his left ear which supported a number ten, Made in Lebanon, original horsehair paintbrush. And if they still didn't get the hint, they were directed to his artist smock that looked like the apron for a short order chef at a pizza take-out.

But he was the best quick sketch and advertising artist in the field, and that was why Ms. Virginia Fowler had hired him.

Cooper Morton was an idea man. Had he been a cartoon character, he would have been readily identifiable by the lightbulbs that always flashed over his head.

But given two seconds' notice, Cooper Morton could come up with the best of the brilliant ideas.

He was the one who had made Pat Boone more famous for drinking cow juice than for singing Bernadine. He was the one who foresaw Mark Spitz modeling Bike Jockstraps. He was the one who conjured up that fat old sex symbol Jane Russell to do those bra ads – because he knew the young chicks were going without bras these days and the only ones who really needed them were saggy old ladies, aged twenty-eight or higher.