Jack Ketchum - Sleep Disorder

"And you can bet he won't be paying my rent anymore."

Fudd had his penis out already, which he often referred to as "John Henry" or "Mr. Meat Missile." He pressed it against her. "Fuck him and his mama's money. Coupla days and my next big score comes in. You and me, we'll be rollin' in green."

Clare sighed. Fudd rubbed her back on the couch, his firm touch banishing her stresses. "Now let's gander that ass," he said. He stripped off her jeans, propped her on hands and knees like convenient furniture. "Ooooo-eee, that's shore one humdinger of a butt, ain't it?" he complimented. "Gots to get me a taste of this little hole." Clare moaned at his next gesture: Fudd's tongue, by the way, was not particular about which orifice it tended, and as for her "little hole," it clenched in spasmodic pleasure, the likes of which she'd never experienced with any man, much less Roderic. In moments, Clare felt like a bitch in high heat. Then Fudd's own pants came down. "Here's somethin' to help you forget about that mama-rich wimp. Make way fer John Henry, yeah boy!"

Clare gulped as Fudd made good with his promise. His inordinately large cock slid right up into the slot of her sex, bulging her. Each stroke pushed away more of the memory of Roderic. "There ya go," Fudd said in somewhat less than the King's English. "Ain't got no reason no more to worry 'bout that creamcake, not with my cock up yer snatch. How's ya like that big rod plumbin' yer pipes, huh? Gots me a load of love juice I'se just been savin' fer this purdy thing. So how's about rubbin' them there balls whiles yer at it?"

"Oh, honey," she moaned. She reached under and fondled testicles which felt heavy as cue balls. She could feel blood vessels pumping in the large, intricate sac. "Stick it in harder."

Fudd obliged. Christ, his cock was so big she thought she could feel it in her stomach. "Yeah, just like that," came her hot whisper. "All the way in as hard as you can. I want you to fuck me till I can't see straight. I want you to fill my pussy up with your come…"

But the muse fell to bits when the phone shrilled. "You gots ta be fuckin' kiddin' me," Fudd complained mid-stroke. His penis withdrew, and slapped her on the bottom like a scolding hand. Oh, no no no , Clare fretted. The answering machine engaged: "Hi, this is Clare! I'm not home now so please leave a message — beeeeeep!"

No no no, please don't be …

"I'd do anything, darling," came Roderic's weepy, sniffly bumbling. "I would do anything for you."

Fudd hadn't much cared for the telephonic coitus interruptus, so he'd worked off his angst at the expense of Clare's physical real estate. Not that she'd objected: her orgasms ensued without abatement, and in a multiple fashion. What Fudd lacked in societal sophistication he more than made up for in cocksmanship, and with a prostate (judging by the volume of his discharges) that must've been bigger than a douche bag. He'd never elaborated upon his occupational pursuits, claiming simply to be a "salesman," though Clare sorely doubted the legality of whatever product it was that he "sold." He was muscular and brusk, and indelibly handsome. He was also very…enduring.

That night, though, Clare slept fitfully. Her sex was sore and full of enough sperm to fertilize China several times over, while an equal ration slowly digested in her stomach. She couldn't help but think of Roderic. He wrote poetry all day and doted after his mother, whose wealth — Clare once read in Forbes —topped mid-eight figures. Most every night he'd pick her up in his conservative-gray BMW and take her to the best clubs, restaurants, and shows. Each week, too, brought an array of gifts — jewelry mostly, the best kind — plus he paid her rent, bought her a car, and left nifty little envelopes full of cash under her pillow. This was not a bad life for a gal nearing the bad side of the hill. But…

She guessed it was his mother — crimped-faced, rouged and stick-thin. Eternally sarcastic. Often Roderic brought Clare back to the mansion (for romantic chats by the fire, snifters of Cordon Bleu, and, to the disappointment of Clare's libidinal system, pre-ejaculatory sex) and his mother would always present herself when they arrived, nodding curtly from the sitting room and offering some cryptic remark which always seemed discreetly rude. Such as "Good boys like my Roderic are easily taken for granted, missy," or "I hope you're taking good care of my boy." Fuck you , Clare would respond in thought and then offer a big bright smile for Mama Roderic. And always hovering at the old woman's shoulder was the omnipresent Dallas — the manservant — who looked about as cheerful as a WANTED mugshot. He never said a word, offering only blank glances and subtle scowls, and he always dressed in thuggish black leather: driver's cap, mitts, a long-tailed jacket. Clare wondered how much the old hag paid him to keep her ancient pussy stocked with pork.

But the implication was clear: Mama Roderic would overlook Clare's gold-digging so long as Clare took "good care of her ‘boy.’"

In all, Roderic proved a loving, compassionate, and very romantic man. He was bursting with spirit, and true spirit was one half of any real relationship. Unfortunately, he fell a bit short with regards to the other half: the flesh. He was slack-armed and fat, pallid as a fishbelly, and… Well, if love could be measured in inches, Roderic sported about four and a half of them. Not that it generally mattered, though; more often than not, the rich boy's loins gave up their seed well before any serious amalgamation of pudenda could be made. Sometimes, while necking, Clare would make the grievous mistake of brushing his groin with her fingers. "Ooooops," he'd announce and then display the starchy wet spot on his custom Italian slacks. On nights when they actually made it to bed, "Oh, darling, I'm sorry," he'd apologize for the milkish puddle on her belly. "You excite me so much I just can't help it." The same too for Clare's mystic fondness for fellatio. In eloquence, it could be said that Clare found delight in the application of her oral cavity to male genitalia, and in less than eloquence it could be said that she liked to suck cock. But why bother when said cock spent its seminal freight before she could even get it in her mouth? Roderic's own gestures at oral service proved equally futile. Was he trying to imitate a kitten lapping milk? God! How could any woman get hot for such a piddling technique? Which left her instead to counterfeit her orgasms and entreat herself of her finger later, or go home and call on her personal doctor. That is, Doc Johnson, who always made house calls provided the batteries were good.

No, after nine months, fine restaurants and moolah just didn't cut it, and the interminable scowls of Roderic's mother and her poker-faced sidekick only helped speed Clare to her decision. Besides, by then she'd met Fudd, and he knew how to fill the places that Roderic left empty. I have to move on, she determined. I owe it to myself as a modern, sophisticated woman to pursue my introspective well-being as well as my sociological and spiritual actualization, not to mention my sheer, unbridled delight for Fudd's beautiful, gigantic cock. Why couldn't Roderic understand? She truly hoped that he'd one day meet some nice frigid little blueblood and live happily ever after.

But some men, she knew — particularly hopeless romantics like Roderic — would pine away for years over a lost love. They became obsessive. They would go to…extremes.

Perhaps that's what scared her a little. There was something about poor little jilted Roderic, something deep in his eyes that made her feel haunted by his forlorn and desperate promise:

I would do anything for you.

"Hey, love-muffin?" Fudd had wakened, and was nudging her with something other than his hand. "Mr. Meat Missile's a-jumpin'."