Heather Brown - Juicy piece

"There's nothing I can do about this man, no way I can get away from him. He picks me up like I was nothing more than a big chunk of meat and hoists me over the straining pole of his colored cock and then pushes me suddenly down on it, impaling my cunt on his standing lance. He fucks me by moving me up and down with his hands, using me to jack off with as his prick rams higher and tighter by the second inside my spasming cunt, its cruel head pounding brutally against the mouth of my womb and making me wonder what I'd do if he ever makes me pregnant. He just finished sticking his big prick up my defenseless pussy, and as I write this, I can feel his cum coating the walls of my cunt, dribbling out from my aching gash and pooling underneath me so it sticks to the stumps where my legs used to be."

"Still and all, I probably wouldn't be taking pen in mouth to write you unless something more hadn't happened to me. Ever since we came into this state, going from town to town with the carnival, a guy has been following the show. He turns up in every town, pays his fifty cents every night to get in, and spends the evening just standing there watching me. He's very shy, but finally I got him to talk when neither my father or the tattooed man were around, and he told me he was following me because he's in love with me. I don't know whether to believe him or not. Although this is what I've been dreaming of my whole life long, I've never actually had to deal with it up till now, and I'm not sure of what to do next. To give you an idea of how unusual this relationship with this young man is, I've never even seen his cock, although, believe me, I've fantasized about it plenty and imagine it as long and pink and graceful, envisioning that it's his stiff prick sliding up my foaming cunt when the others are fucking me."

"Anyway, this guy is getting more insistent because he says he's got to get back to his hometown and this barber college where he's a student, and he wants me to go with him. I don't want to rush things, but he says we could just go for a weekend and I could meet his folks and he could take me to a dance his barber college is having. Should I say yes to him, Madame Fellatio? I'm not so sure how I'd manage on the dance floor, although he assures me that everything would be all right because he'd lead."

"This is so urgent I can't wait for an answer by mail or in your magazine. If you could only spare a few minutes of your time to talk to me in person. The carnival will be in your city by the time you read this. Please come by and see me. I don't think you'll have much trouble finding me – I'm right between the fat lady and the Human Pincushion – and I'll give you back the fifty cents you'll have to pay to get in at the door. Thanks for caring, R.Q."

I got so excited reading the letter I couldn't contain myself. When I had finished, I noticed that my hand had uncontrollably slipped up my skirt between my legs and my hand was intuitively massaging the folds and slit of my cunt, my fingers swimming in the sticky residue of the dog-jizz that still filled my pussy.

I could just see that poor, armless and legless girl stark naked, her much-abused cunt flexing in defenseless openness as a tattooed brute violated her by stabbing his stiff prick between her nonexistent thighs. In my mind the exploiting cock was the tattooed prick she'd described in her letter, a sexual snake spewing its venom inside of the poor, girl's cunt.

The thought of it made my pussy so wet that I finally had to get up and go into the dingy little cubicle that Shark furnished as the only bathroom in the place, and sit down on the toilet seat, parting my legs so I could cram a grimy towel between my quivering thighs and wipe the big load of pussy-juice and dog-sperm from my throbbing cunt.

When I was finished, I threw the ruined towel in the overflowing trashcan and walked directly from the bathroom to the door, bypassing my office in my eagerness to find the shockingly exploited and vulnerable R.Q.

I took the elevator downstairs and when I got on the street noticed that the sun was now up and there were people outside and the day was officially beginning. I went to the nearest newsstand and bought a morning paper to search for an ad for the carnival so I could find its location.

I found the advertisement for the carnival in the amusement section, however before I did, an item a few pages before it caught my eye. "Priest Abducted," the headline said, and below the story told of how an unidentified intruder had come into the rectory of my neighborhood Catholic church, overpowered the priest, and fled him up and locked him in the closet. When I first glanced at it, my immediate reaction was that it served that closet nonbeliever Father Marmelstein right. But when I looked at the story more closely, I saw that Father Marmelstein wasn't mentioned at all. It was Father Coughlin, who hadn't passed away at all, who had been abducted. The article went on to say that the police and church were at a loss to explain the incident because nothing had been taken. The only clues, the article said, were that a passer-by had seen a disheveled-looking woman coming out of the rectory in a rush during the time was Father Coughlin was tied up in the closet, and that some mysterious stains had been found in the rectory which the police lab was in the process of analyzing.

The whole thing was eerie, but I didn't want to think about it. After giving the article a third scanning, I rapidly flipped the pages of the paper until I came to the entertainment section so I could find the ad for the carnival. When my eyes finally lit on it, I breathed a big sigh of relief, anxious to have something to think about that would put the strange business about the church out of my mind.

The carnival was located in the shabbiest part of town, down by the river adjacent to the stockyards. Unfortunately, there were more cows in the stockyards than people patronizing the carnival, a ratio to which the ripe smell in the air attested. The natural seediness of the carnival took on an almost grotesque glow when combined in my senses with the stench of cow manure, the whole enterprise seeming to have been conceived in sleaziness. Of all of this tackiness, the freak show was the worst example, a crude tent, the entrance to which was presided over by a fat man hawking tickets for fifty cents yelling, "See the freaks for only four bits! Only ones a their kind in the entire world!"

I got in line and paid my money, being shuttled inside by an oily-looking fellow at the door who looked at the customers as though they were the ones who were the freaks, which was rather paradoxical since he appeared to have two noses.

The lighting was terrible inside the tent. Two or three naked lightbulbs dangled from the canvas ceiling, their power emerging from a struggling generator that sputtered just outside the entrance flap. In the gloomy light, the horseshoe of freaks which dotted the edge of the shabby tent took on an almost holy cast, as though they were religious figures of special spiritual significance, the most martyred of saints.

I walked around the tent slowly, looking at each of them individually while I searched for R.Q. There was the fat lady, her enormously puffy thighs oozing doughily out of the spangled tights she was wearing, a coarse suggestion of her scraggly pussy hair poking out of each side of the tautly strained satin crotch. At her side an especially misshapen dwarf, with feet and hands seeming to emerge from his bull-neck, was being passed off as a midget named Mr. Littlebit, supposedly married to the fat lady. Next to them the Indian Rubber Man was busily contorting himself. He was naked except for a turban and a strip of cloth around his waist as he bent his head between his legs and locked his ankles behind his back while his face pressed to his crotch. As he did this, behind me I could hear one teen snicker to another, "I wonder if that guy ever blows himself." Immediately I conjured a mental image of the man in the same position with no loincloth, his erect cock stabbing all the way down his throat so that I could see his balls bobbing against his chin from my vantage point.