Heather Brown - Juicy piece

Moving on quickly from the disturbingly arousing Indian Rubber Man, it occurred to me that there was something very erotic about the atmosphere here, almost as though the distorted bodies of the freak were, in addition to their apparent religious significance, a strange cry to lust. Perhaps the lust itself is the ultimate religious experience, I thought in an instant rationalization as I took a step forward and discovered that my pussy was uncontrollably full of sticky juice and that just looking at these freaks had started my cunt flowing.

I got so involved in looking at them that I'm afraid I gawked as I studied every freak on display in the show. My pussy spasmed and gushed with each new revelation of human deformity, my thighs wallowing in the gushing reaction from each distorted twist of flesh and bone. But the fat lady and the dwarf, the Indian Rubber Man, the pinhead, the geek, and the Human Pincushion notwithstanding, the picture was incomplete as there were two factors obviously missing – the tattooed man, and the poor armless and legless R.Q.

In order to find my troubled correspondent, I walked up to the Indian Rubber Man and asked, "Do you have a girl working here with the initials R.Q.?" hoping he would recognize her from the limited description of her I had at my command.

He mumbled something in reply, but I couldn't make out a word of it because he was mumbling into the crotch of his loincloth. I was just getting ready to approach the Human Pincushion, when suddenly a man I hadn't seen before approached me from behind. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but I couldn't put my finger on it because he was wearing a purple ski-mask. Before I had time to puzzle over it, he pulled out a billfold, quick flashed a badge at me, and returned it to his pocket within seconds.

"What's this?" I blurted.

"Shhh," he hissed, and then whispered, "Marmelstein of the FBI. We've got this place staked out for violation of the Mann Act… white slavery as the great unwashed call it. We're waiting for some overt evidence to develop so we can knock heads without a warrant."

"Why are you wearing that mask?" I asked for some reason.

"I don't want to take a chance on anybody recognizing me," he said. "My picture's been in People magazine for receiving a heroism medal for burning out a militant gang of senior citizens who'd barricaded themselves in a rest home and taken the nurses as hostages."

"Oh," I said, still breathless from this sudden development. "You know, isn't this a coincidence, I just met another man named Marmelstein the other day. He was a priest."

"Oh, yes, that's my brother, Rick. We're all very proud of him," he said tersely. "Now that we've got my credentials settled, what about yours?" he asked officiously.

"What do you mean?" I asked, totally perplexed, unaware of the necessity of proving who I was while in the everyday act of attending a freak show, even if I did happen to encounter a G-man in front of the Human Pincushion.

"Don't try to hide anything," he warned, "it'll only be held against you later when it comes out you didn't cooperate with the Bureau. Now stop withholding information and tell me about R.Q. What is her full identity? Come clean and we'll go easy with you."

"That's all I know about her, believe me, just her initials," I explained.

"Yeah, sure – R.Q., that's all you know. There're only about a thousand people in the metropolitan area with the initials R.Q. and you happen to show up here looking for one of them," he hissed bitingly. "Come on, there must be something about her you know that you're not telling."

"I can't think of anything," I responded.

"She wouldn't happen to be without arms or legs?" he snapped accusingly.

"Come to think of it, she is handicapped… er, exceptional," I said, "but that could be just a coincidence."

"Stop covering up," he snarled. "Her name's Rhonda Quigley, she's a minor, and they're using her as a Goddamn quadriplegic whore. All we have to do is catch her in the act with somebody sticking their big you-know-what up her cookie and we'll have the goods on these scum."

For some reason his rough way of talking excited me, and when he started talking about the "big you-know-what", my lips automatically formed the syllables for "big, hairy cock", recalling the image from R.Q.'s letter of the tattooed man's snakelike prick reaming out the helpless teenager's thighless cunt.

"What's that you said?" he snapped, glaring at me like I was fresh shit.

"Nothing… nothing…" I stammered, mortified that I had been caught.

"You said, and I repeat, 'big, hairy cock'. You can't fool an agent by remaining silent. We're trained in lip-reading from the first day we join the Bureau. It assists us in tracking down deaf and dumb subversives, of which there are more than you would ordinarily expect, a handicap not necessarily making a person into a patriot despite the excellent care they receive in this country," he hissed at me, withering my ability to stand up to him. "By saying what you did about the big, hairy you-know-what, you reveal that you do know what's going on in this den of iniquity. I must warn you now that unless you fully cooperate with me, I may have to hold you for concealing information and obstructing justice. Now come with me, you're going to help me catch these degenerates in the act."

I was so intimidated by his dominant air of authority that I would have gone with him even if he hadn't specifically threatened me and pulled me along with him by the wrist. The fact of the matter was that I was more than just intimidated by him, I was mesmerized, hypnotized by his stark, authoritarian masculinity.

Within seconds we had left the main tent, and Agent Marmelstein was pulling me towards a much smaller tent perhaps fifty feet away. Through the canvas we could see that only a single light burned inside it, showing the silhouette of someone's head bobbing up and down, their open lips apparently superimposed over the shadow of the tent's center pole. However, when I peeked between the flaps at Agent Marmelstein's urging, I saw that the pole wasn't a pole at all; the lips were sliding up and down on a long, stiff cock, the teenage face of their owner a blurred piston as her mouth did its sucking work on the swollen prick.

"What's happening?" Marmelstein asked impatiently.

"She's sucking his prick," I answered, being too startled to stop and refine my language.

"With no hands?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes," I answered. "His prick is standing straight up in the air. She's just going up and down on it with her mouth and that's all. If you listen, you can hear her slurping."

"I may know sign language, but I can certainly hear as well as you can," he snapped back at me. "Now you're sure she's not using her hands to suck his prick, right?"

"Yes… yes…" I stammered.

"And she doesn't have her legs wrapped around him, right?"

"Yes… yes."

"Then we can bust 'em," he said ferociously.

"Is there a law against blowing someone without using your hands?" I asked, totally perplexed.

"Just let me interpret the law, if you don't mind," he snapped. "Now shut up and get in there."

"What… why?"

"I need an impartial witness for the federal prosecutor to feed to the jury, or some pinko defense lawyer will get these perverts off scot-free. So get in there and do your patriotic duty," he ordered, literally shoving me through the entrance of the tent.

The naked man lying on the cot jumped when I burst into the tent, but he couldn't flee because the girl sucking his thickly erect cock didn't move. Her wide, round eyes registered surprise and fright, but her body refused to respond accordingly. I quickly saw the reason why when I realized she had no arms or legs, the lump of a naked body propped between the man's heavy legs, her white tits squashing helplessly into the well of his thighs, while his arm snaked over her back and his huge hand nestled between the spread cheeks of her legless ass in the moistly hairy gap of her pussy.