J Long: Neighborhood wives

But then, again, Cooper Morton would have gotten nowhere in the rodent world of big-time advertising without the help of his fellow rat, Wally Bendix. Cooper came up with the ideas, Wally put them into motion.

They were like Mutt and Jeff, the Katzen-jammers, the Siamese twins – inseparable.

It was Wally who had gotten Pat Boone to drink those eighteen glasses of milk by getting down on his knees and cleaning specks of dogshit that clung to Mr. Boone's white buck shoes.

It was Wally who got Mark Spitz to pose in that jockstrap by giving the kid twenty-thou an hour – Wally knew the kid was half-Jewish – and it was Wally who saw how disappointing Mr. Spitz looked in that jockstrap – so he had wadded up a whole box of Kleenex to stuff into the little pouch to give the Olympic champ a little more ooomph down there.

It was Wally who coaxed Jane Russell out of that Hollywood retirement home by seducing her ninety-year-old body and telling her repetitiously that she was gonna be a star.

Yeah, they were the dynamic duo, and now that Haskell Baskins had joined the team, they were ready to start their latest campaign. They couldn't wait to start, couldn't wait to get out of the blocks and start tackling this new assignment given to them by Ms. Virginia Fowler, head of Fowler amp; Daughter, which happened to own the nation's largest franchise of Chinese laundries, the nation's second largest manufacturer of thimbles, and which held controlling interest in Okay Oil Company – the nation's biggest greasers.

Now, the three brain boys' interest was being controlled by Ms. Virginia Fowler. It was only natural that she held their attention, because she was sitting in her empress throne, dressed in ass-hugging hot pants, a halter top that looked more like a see-through bra.

In other words, Ms. Virginia Fowler was a very sexy woman. And she was rich. And she was a bitch. And that combination can literally scan the hemorrhoids off chicken-stilt assholes like Haskell, Cooper and Wally.

Everybody knew she was a bitch because of the way she looked. Shock-red hair, dagger-green eyes that were accentuated by pencil-thin eyebrows that seemed to arch over her hypnotizing eyes like pitched tents, an aquiline nose that only smelled trouble, thin lips that had a lot of sheen and glistened with oily lipstick that tried to make her lips look full and sensuous but which still appeared very thin, an obstinate chin that no man had chucked.

Yeah, she had a bitchy-looking face.

As for her body, that was an animal of a different stripe. The ends of her russet-colored hair stopped at the tops of her titties – very large and firm titties, made larger by the daily massages given them by fourteen Lesbians-in-waiting, and made firmer by the constant suck jobs given them by the fifty-four gigolos she kept around the mansion like so many ashtrays.

No woman had a better set of titties – not even Jane Russell in her prime.

She had a pinched-in waist – it had to stay pinched in because she always went to bed at night wearing a special Korean-made corset that had seventy-two stays and which took her fifty-three minutes just to snap on.

And legs – God, she had legs that wouldn't quit. Legs that seemed to stretch on forever. She was as leggy as any Vogue model – you know, those girls who look like they were born hanging from the rafters so that two-thirds of their bodies were all thigh and knee and trim ankle.

As for her pussy – well, that was yet to be seen. Anyway, that's the picture that Haskell, Cooper and Wally got as they sat around the round velvet-covered table waiting for Ms. Fowler to give them the necessary details on their latest rat-fuck job.

They waited for what seemed like an hour for her to speak – they waited that long because several of the Lesbians-in-waiting were trimming her toenails, lighting her Tiparillo, adjusting her empress chair, massaging her titties, spraying perfume in the air, doing all the normal, everyday junk that all women dream of having done to them.

Then she spoke – very bitchily.

"Listen, cocksuckers… and listen good!"

They were shocked… but since they were also cocksuckers, they listened good to Ms. Virginia Fowler.

"Here's what I want. Okay Oil is being lambasted by half the environmentalists in the country. I want to better our company image. And I want it in keeping with the Bicentennial celebration. You cocksuckers got that?"

The cocksuckers nodded their heads in unison.

"I want it middle-class, something folksy, keep it low-key. I don't want a Goddamn line written about Okay Oil discovering ways to beat the summer heat in order to save precious fuels. I don't want a nation wide commercial about how we've got Jose Gonzales digging for oil using his ass for a shovel out in some fucked-up place like Sudan. Got the message?"

The cocksuckers got the message. They started to rise in unison, but that bitchy voice halted them, scared the living shit out of them so bad that they had to reseat themselves.

"And another thing, cocksuckers. You want any pussy, booze, a sauna, a half-and-half – every thing's here at the Okay Ranch. So make yourselves comfortable – but you've got five hours to come up with a good ad campaign. Now get the fuck out of my sight."

The cocksuckers were out of sight as fast as a fart dissipates in a wind tunnel. They headed for their rooms – er, suites.

In Haskell's suite, he found a sweet young thing named Bobbie Jo Gunderson. A very sweet thing. And Haskell had a very sour expression on his face. How did Ms. Virginia Fowler, Ms. Oil Empress herself, know that he liked to fuck teen girls.

Well, in reality, Bobbie Jo Gunderson wasn't a twelve-year-old girl. She was eleven, but she was passing nicely for twelve because she was just growing ripe little titties in places where most woman have their titties flowing. And there was just the sign of fuzz all around that slit that older women call cunts and pussies.

Haskell sighed. How was he to think when his personal fetish, his bag, his thing, was so near at hand? God, and only five hours to come up with a nation-wide advertising campaign.

What to do first?

Why, of course, he'd do his thing first.

Just a little quickie.

"Yes," Bobbie Jo said in a timid, shy voice. "I fuck like a mink. That's what you were thinking, huh, Haskie honey? You were wondering how you could get your eight-inch cock into this little hole."

Haskell looked at that little hole that she was pointing at. Yeah, it sure looked little – like it was the world's tightest cunt.

Oh, God! He was drooling on the Persian carpets! But, wait a minute. How did this twelve-year-old vixen know he had an eight-inch cock? Shit, his artist portfolio didn't have any self-portraits in it. How did she know?

She knew because Ms. Virginia Fowler had told her so. And Ms. Virginia Fowler knew because of her contacts with the man himself – the President of the United States. And she knew that he could find out the cock size of any man who resided in America. Shit, everybody knows that the President of the United States is the smartest man in the world – he just has to know everything about everybody.

Haskell unzipped his pants, gave his eight-inch cock a few reluctant tugs before doffing his smock and the rest of his clothing. Well, might as well go ahead and rip off a five-minute quickie – then he'd bit the palette and conic up with those neat-o, keen-o sketches.

But for now, the only thing that came up was his neat-o, keen-o cock as it stretched out to its full eight-inch length.

Bobbie Jo approached him and lay down on the Persian carpet, pointing to her pussy. "And I know how you like to fuck dry cunts too, Haskie honey."

God, what a precious, but very precious, twelve-year-old cunt. She was like a wet dream come true. Oooooh, look at that tiny slit that his eight-inch cock was going to be introduced to.