Jack Ketchum - Sleep Disorder

"Please, please don't do this to us, Clare!" Roderic pleaded from the imported flagstone steps of the great house.

Us , Clare thought. Thirty years old and still living with his mother. Jesus!

His voice called out nasal and forlorn behind her. "I'd give anything for you!"

How many times had she heard that in the last nine months? Big deal! She wanted to shout. Can't you take a hint? There's nothing I want from you! Instead, she turned.

"Look. It's not working out," she said.

He looked befuddled.

"What are you talking about? Things are great! You said you'd many me!”

“Oh, Roderic, I did not," she lied.

Early on, eight long months ago, that was exactly what she'd said. At thirty-one, she wasn't getting any younger. And Roderic had millions. Or, rather, his mother did.

"I'm sorry. I just can't see you anymore."

He went utterly vapid. "Is it…another guy?"

"Of course not!" she lied again. How dare he accuse her of sleeping around!

Anyway, Wardell wasn't just another guy. He was everything Roderic wasn't. Strong, handsome, assertive. And hung like fucking Dillinger.

She opened the door to the 300ZX — a birthday present from Roderic — and slid in.

"But what about Paris?"

She'd considered it. Paris might be fun. Except that Roderic's mother was going, too, and so was Fudd — the old lady's hoodlum manservant.

To hell with Paris. Wardell would be taking her to Cancun anyway after his next big score.

"Roderic, forget Paris. Our relationship is over. Get it?"

Obviously he didn't. But Fudd did. The guy was lurking by the side of the house in his long leather jacket, stacking a cord of firewood, dividing each round cut with one of those automatic log splitters. And the look he shot her said he'd be happy to split her neatly down the middle too. If anything, Fudd was loyal.

Mama apparently got the message, too. Clare could see her disdain pouring through the sitting room window.

Goddamn crinkled old weirdo.

Hell, they were all weirdoes.

"Darling, please, come back inside. We'll sit by the fire, I'll open the Louis XIII. Please!"

For God's sake, he was crying now.

"Please, I—"

"I know, Roderic. You'd give anything for me. No, thanks." She slammed the door and started up the car.

"Tell me!" He was sniffling outside the window. "Tell me what I can do to prove my love for you!"

Go play in traffic , she thought. How about that? You romantic putz .

She pulled out of the driveway. In the rearview mirror she saw him fall to his knees in Shakespearean anguish, his mother coming through the double oak doors and down off the porch to comfort him. Fudd glaring.

Poor Roderic , she thought. The man just didn't have a clue.

Wardell did.

She'd just walked into the apartment and already the deft, strong hands were unbuttoning her blouse, his tongue roving her mouth in greeting.

"You break the news to the wimp?"

She nodded. Now that it was over she felt a little guilty.

"God! He was devastated. I'm surprised he didn't take back the car." His hands shucked off the blouse and pawed her naked breasts. "He can't take back the car. He put it in your name for chrissake, remember? The dumb little creamcake asshole."

"Well, you can bet he won't be paying the rent anymore."

Wardell had his penis out already, which he often referred to as "Papa Fuck" or "Mr. Meat Missile." Wardell was not subtle.

"Fuck him and fuck his mama's money. Couple days, my next big score comes in and we'll be rollin' in it. Gimme that ass, babe. Over here."

He stripped off her jeans and led her onto the couch, got down on his knees and began those oral preludes which never failed to grease his skids. His tongue was not particular about which orifice it tended. It tended each and it tended well. In moments she was lost in raging heat.

It launched her into another world — a great big wet wonderful tongue world where she was the queen and sensation was her daily homage. The cleft of Clare's ass became a playground, and Wardell's tongue was the troupe of kids swinging from the monkey bars. It was hard to think of butt-licking with any notion of sophistication; nevertheless, Wardell proved a master, wielding his skills with a brazen expertise. His hot tongue laved, and prodded, licked and titillated, drew sloppy, wet swirls about that sensitive little starburst.

"Like it when I lick your asshole, huh?"

Clare staked to the couch with her feet pinned backed behind her ears, could fathom no response to her lover's less-than-urbane inquiry. Instead, she moaned and sighed, then abruptly shuddered when—

"But now I think I'll have me a taste of this here pie."

— his tongue re-navigated itself to a northerly direction. Her anus, evidently, was but an appetizer; now it was time for the entree. Clare whined at the avalanche of feeling, a sudden spike of swoony, pulsing pleasure which staked her hips fast to the couch. Her pussy felt separately enlivened, a furred, pink-blushing icon which reveled at the worship of its congregation — in this instance, Wardell's mouth. His tongue slid hard up and down over the olive-sized clitoris; his mouth sucked the free-flowing fluids out of her pussy like fruit juice from a straw. He sucked so intensely that Clare thought the delicious suction might actually relocate her uterus to the couch cushion.

"Ooo, you big hot wonderful love-tongue, you!" she wailed. "Eat my pussy till I'm cross-eyed!"

But, of course, she already was cross-eyed. She was stupefied, enraptured, enfrenzied. Currents of pleasure speared her ass to the couch. Her clit felt plugged into a wall socket as she moaned her bliss to an empty ceiling. Her first climax erupted with the impact of a five-ton wrecking ball striking a dam. The dam broke, and out gushed its reservoir. Her pussy pulsed like a cock coming, like a great big throbbing dick shooting wild plumes of sperm…

"Here's a little something to help you forget that mama-rich dickhead, honey."

This, of course, was a meiotic — it was not a little something. Clare often thought of Wardell's crotch as a Burger King: Home of the Whopper. His cock was a masterpiece, a thing of mystic beauty while at the same time frightening because of its size.

He flipped her to hands and knees and, with no further overture, buried himself in her.

"I dare you to think about him with my dick stuffed up your snatch," he said.

And she couldn't. Not with Mr. Meat Missile prodding the bulb of her cervix. Not with Papa Fuck plumbing the deepest regions of her womanly hole. She reached down under him and fondled testicles which felt as large as cue balls.

What a fuckin' man! she thought.

Machinelike, his cock pistoned in and out. Each stroke quaked her, retracted her sex and beat the air out of her lungs.

"Oh, yes," she moaned. "Yes! All the way in as hard as you can!"

With a snide grunt, Wardell obliged. To Clare it felt as though Wardell had just unreeled another three or four inches of hard cock into her slot. It was an excruciating mix of pain and mind-boggling pleasure. His cock was coring her like an apple.

"Uh-huh," Wardell promised. "I'll be bustin' my baby a big nut up this cooze. Honey, I'm gonna crank a load in you so hard my spunk'll be squirtin' out yer nose. You'll need the biggest hanky in the world."

Then—

Mid-stroke and midway to the gate for both of them, the telephone rang.

The answering machine kicked in. "Hello, this is Clare, I'm not home right now so please leave a…"

"Jesus Christ, you gotta be fucking kidding me," Wardell said.