The drive to Denton the next day took us about an hour. It was a warm October day, the temperature well up in the seventies. My appointment with the breeder was at ten o'clock, and we had allowed for plenty of time.
Helen had taken my suggestion and not worn a bra. As I watched her at the wheel, I could see how the material of the jersey she was wearing hugged the firm shape of her breasts. The least little rocking motion of the car caused them to bob deliciously.
I had worn a skirt and blouse, and had taken a cardigan sweater to look a little bit more dressed up than for any other reason. I was bare-legged with only loafers on my feet.
Helen looked much more casual, and could have been mistaken for my younger sister than what was actually the case. She hummed a tune whenever there was a long pause in our conversation.
The farm was located a few miles outside of Denton and was known as the Ho-Ho-Pony Estates. A big sign bearing the name was positioned near the long dirt driveway leading to the main buildings, and we could see some horses and conventional sized ponies grazing in the pasture on either side.
A tall, lean Texan greeted us when we pulled into the compound. He was wearing a battered hat which shaded a rather weather-worn face. I noticed though he was clean shaven. He wore levis and didn't tuck them inside his boots.
"Mornin' ladies," he hailed us. Noticing the camera hanging from my shoulder as I got out, he said, "You must be the lady from New York, be you?" he asked.
I nodded. "I'm Beatrice Starr," I said, "and this is my sister, Mrs. Smallwood."
He tipped his hat. "Pleased to meet you. I be Hack Raver, the foreman here. The owner, Mr. Cunningham, is tied up at the moment but'll be here presently," he said, looking us over with undisguised interest. "What you can do, if you want, is walk around the place for yourselves. Or I can take you."
He waited to see what we might choose to do.
"I imagine," I said, looking around, "we could do that, just walk around by ourselves until Mr. Cunningham is free."
"Whatever you ladies want, I'm at your service," he said, tipping his hat again. "Them new ponies is over in that barn, there." He pointed to a low, one story building that was probably the newest structure in the compound.
Helen nudged me as we walked toward the new barn. "Why didn't you want him to show us around?" she asked. "Did you see that bulge in his pants?"
I hadn't noticed, but Helen was always alert to such things. "He's too eager," I said. "I'd rather wait for Cunningham." We looked back. The Texan was standing there watching us. He took the little-finger side of his hand and made a move at the "bulge" Helen had noticed as if to adjust it.
We walked into the barn. The ponies were tied in small stalls on either side. They were quite small for ponies as I had, of course, anticipated. I judged them to be roughly the size of a St. Bernard or Newfoundland dog. They were amazingly sleek and clean looking.
I walked down along the stalls slowly, thinking there wasn't much in the way of an interesting picture to be taken there with nothing but rear ends facing the camera.
One mare was in heat. She had thrown her tail straight up, and the hole was opening and closing rhythmically. Each time it opened rather violently, and I could see into the pink vastness of what was beyond.
I looked into some of the other stalls, wondering if the stallions had been gelded. It appeared that many of them had been.
One chestnut-colored male pony obviously had not been touched. He was straining at the ropes securing his neck, tugging backward, and pawing at the floor with one front hoof.
Glancing down, I noticed his thing was out stiff and hard. I gulped. It almost touched the floor. He underwent some kind of reflexive action with it, bringing it up from the floor and whacking it resoundingly against his belly. It seemed then to slowly shrink except for the head, collapsing accordion-like.
In my experience looking at animals it occurred to me that of all animals only the members of the horse family seemed to have things that anywhere resembled a man's. I looked around to see if Helen had been watching and was surprised to see that she was not even in the barn.
"Helen?" I called instinctively.
Walking out into the compound, I saw that Helen was nowhere to be seen. A few chickens lazily picked their way here and there a step at a time, but not much else was happening. Were there no stable boys around, I wondered? Whatever activity was pursued on the place, I decided, must happen somewhere other than where I could see it.
"Yo, Helen!" I yelled.
A likely place to begin looking for her seemed to be an old fashioned gambrel-roofed barn directly across from the pony stables. I had to walk up an incline to enter this barn. The massive sliding door had a much smaller conventional type door in it which I opened easily.
Inside it took me a few moments to adjust to the semidarkness but I could hear voices and the sound of laughter immediately. The voices seemed to be coming from directly overhead. I strained to look above me but saw no apparent stairway or opening in the ceiling.
I walked back farther into the barn, past some heavy farm machinery that appeared to have been parked there a long time. There wasn't much space to squeeze past, and a lot of the equipment had protruding parts that caught at my sweater.
About two-thirds of the way back, I noticed a ladder propped up against an open trap door in the ceiling. Carefully stepping up each rung, I stopped when my eyes reached the level of the floor above. It appeared to be a hayloft.
Hauling myself up onto the floor, I began to crawl towards the front of the barn in the direction of the voices. I was moving closer to the sounds when I recognized the laugh as belonging to Helen. The other voice was Mr. Raver's.
The hay was piled high in front of me and seemed insurmountable. I found a low spot all the way over on one side and crawled up over it. Soon I was able to see just what the two of them were up to. A tiny window illuminated the scene.
Helen was lying down on the hay on her back with her head pointed toward my vantage point. Raver was seated at her feet and were he to have lifted his gaze one inch would have been looking right at me.
Raver evidently had been telling a few Texas jokes.
"Go on," Helen was saying. "You Texans like to brag, I think. Everything's not that big here."
"Well, now, ma'am, most everything that's real Texas is. 'Course we got a lot of foreigners in the state now, and what they bring in with them, I can't vouch for, but if it's home grown Texas, you can bet it's mighty big." He turned toward her.
She was teasing him. I could see her rolling her body slightly. She raised one knee and rocked it from side to side, and I saw him look down at what she must have been revealing at that moment.
I could see his neck reddening. "Now, ma'am," he swallowed. The bulge in his levi's began extending way to one side and then ballooned outward. He loosened his belt with one hand and got up on his knees. "I'm just gonna have to prove it to you, I guess."
He tore open the fly, and his thing bounded out. I saw Helen sit up suddenly, and was conscious of a sharp intake of my own breath. It was huge. Bigger than any man's I had ever seen. I felt a slight burning sensation in my vulva.
He moved forward on his knees closer to Helen, and I stared, transfixed by the thing as it bobbed up and down.
"Get a feel of it," he urged, reaching for her hand. "It's all Texas beef." Her hand seemed so tiny as she clasped it about midway along its length.
"Gosh!" she breathed. "I didn't think." She stammered for a second or two. "It's just so big," she finally said. Her hand moved down along it, squeezing it occasionally as a housewife might squeeze fruit at a market.
She stopped at the base and began moving her hand up it again. "It's so smooth. Jack's is bumpy and veiny," she told him. When she reached the apple-shaped head at the end of it, she gave it a particular squeeze. Raver let out a shriek of pleasure.
Spurred on by the effect of her squeeze, she leaned forward and began showering the end of it with kisses.
"Now, ma'am," he gasped, having difficulty with his breathing. "Don't you want to try this out 'fore it all goes to waste."
She was placing her tongue on the end of it now. I noticed the sac containing his testicles pull up and almost disappear into the base of his penis.
"Ma'am!" he cried out, pitching forward.
She had just placed her mouth around the swollen head when I saw his whole frame convulse abruptly. He closed his eyes and grabbed at her hair, his body apparently racked with spasms.
He was coming! I hadn't realized it because it had happened so soon.
Helen was gulping spastically. Much of the end of his tool was well inside her mouth. Poor girl. It was probably pumping into her faster than she could swallow it.
When the last of it had gone down her throat, she fell back gasping for breath. Still on his knees, Raver, too, sat back on his heels, his face turned upward, eyes closed, his chest heaving. The massive instrument had softened and somehow it seemed less formidable.
"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am," he said after a minute, "but never play with a loaded gun. No tellin' just when it'll go off."
"Oh!" Helen was still gasping. "Oh! There was so much. Do you always come so much?" she managed to ask between breaths.
"That's real Texas cock, ma'am," he said almost in a matter of fact tone.
She sat up, her breathing gradually returning to normal. Picking up the fallen piece of meat, she lifted it in a way that suggested she was testing its weight. "Gosh!" she exclaimed. "Even soft, it still must weigh a ton."
I suspected that Helen was far from satisfied. It had never gotten anywhere near the place that counted. If the throbbing in my own pussy was any indication, she must still be quite hot.
Fishing around in my bag, I looked for something I could stick between my legs and squeeze. I found a plastic roller for setting hair that for some reason had been dumped there. It was a fat one with holes along it and seemed to have some give to it.
I placed it between my thighs up against my throbbing crotch and squeezed on it, at the same time working my thighs forward and back, first one and then the other. It was better than nothing. In the meantime, I kept my eyes glued to the scene in front of me.
Helen had moved forward and though I could not clearly see, it appeared she was pushing the soft head of his penis into her vulva. Her shorts were lying on the hay to the side.
"Wup!" she snorted. "He's still oozing from the last one. At least I'm getting a little bit of it." She reached forward to where it joined his body and grasping it, pulled forward compressing her fingers at the same time.
Evidently a lot of come had remained inside because both suddenly blurted out laughing.
"Good to the last drop," Raver said.
It had begun to swell again. The couple became more agitated as it rose once more into the air. The thing seemed fatter this time, and redder. Helen lay back in a near swoon in anticipation. Raver moved forward over her placing his weight on his hands.
Because of its length, he had to raise his butt high while she placed the end of it at the precise spot. I could see his buttocks tighten as he began to thrust it forward. As it packed in I heard Helen groan, and I felt as if I were suddenly sharing the thrill of its entry into her.
From what I could see, most of it had gone in, too. Raver had settled into a quick in and out movement and had reached up under her shoulders with his hands where he held her tightly. He seemed to be trying to stuff as much of it inside her as was possible. I had never seen a man drive so hard.
Helen had wrapped her legs around his body and was responding to his thrusts by pushing upward. She was going to find out now, I thought, that size means something after all.
With all the activity going on, they had managed to turn clockwise about a quarter of a circle so that now I commanded a view of that marvelous machine as it jammed away at her. It appeared that several inches had yet to go on in.
I was still squeezing the roller between my legs and began to feel the first tug at my innards as the pleasureful sensation began to build inside me. It was taking a hell of a lot of energy to get myself off this way.
Helen had begun making the little clipped whines she was prone to utter as her orgasm approached. When the last one trailed off into a long sigh, I knew she had come.
Raver's testicles did that same melting action up into his groin that I had noticed before. He suddenly slowed his pumping and collapsed on her, convulsing spasmodically.
As my own climax arrived, I had to place a palm tightly over my mouth to avoid giving myself away. Having worked so hard to get it, the jolt left me utterly debilitated, like an athlete out of shape, and I wanted to sink miles into the hay.
I must have slept for awhile, for when I became conscious of my surroundings again, it was very quiet in the barn. I sat up and looked over where Helen and Raver had been, and they were no longer there.
Crawling along the floor, I reached the trap and climbed down the ladder. In a moment I was outside. Hearing voices inside the pony barn, I entered it to find Helen, Raver, and a man I presumed to be Cunningham engaged in conversation.
"This must be your sister," the man said, breaking away from them and coming toward me. He was rather a pudgy man, but well-dressed, and spoke with a soft drawl.
"Good grief, Bea!" Helen exclaimed. "We thought maybe you had run off with a hired hand."
"Only hand around here I know is Hack," I said, winking at her, amused at myself for making her blush.
"Yes indeed, ma'am," Hack said, "and I'm at your service." He seemed pleased as pie with himself.
Cunningham began telling us then a little of the history of his operation. It seems he had crossed a small Icelandic stallion with an unusually small Shetland mare he discovered at a carnival. He then bred the progeny with other Icelandics breeding back only those ponies that held their small size.
"That Shetland is the true prototype," he said. "Bought her for only twenty-five bucks from the carny guys, too. Been selling these for forty times that," he said proudly.
I was busily taking down everything in a little notebook I carried as we strolled past the stalls.
"The Icelandic gives them that clean look. Don't smell as much, either," he informed us. "You take a Shetland into a house, it'll smell like a barn right off. A Shetland'll bite, too. Can be mean. These ponies," he said, extending his arm in an arc, "are as gentle as a lamb."
I asked him about pictures, and he went into one of the stalls and untied the pony occupying it. With just a hand on its neck he guided the pony out. He walked back towards the open barn door to the sunlight.
"See that?" he asked. "Don't need a halter. Kids can ride without a saddle, too. Just grab hold of the mane." He clutched a bunch of the beautiful white hairs then let them go.
"They're just adorable," Helen said, stroking the pony's flank.
"Here," Hack said, lifting Helen by the waist and placing her on the pony's back. I noticed his hands run up over her breasts as he released her.
"Won't she be too heavy for him?" I wondered.
"Oh, I don't guess she weighs that much," Cunningham said. "I wouldn't ride him regular," he added.
We had come outside, and I took a few pictures of the pony with Helen seated on him. I took some more of her leaning over feeding him some sugar. Cunningham and Hack seemed to enjoy that pose as Helen was quite generous in revealing her charms. I took some head and shoulder shots of Cunningham alone.
"Tell you what," Cunningham said. "Why don't you take a pony home with you for a few days. Then you can get some good pictures of the animal around the house."
It seemed a good idea. Readers would want to see pictures of ponies in a domestic setting since he was advertising them as house pets. I looked to see Helen's reaction.
"Could we?" she asked, evidently pleased at the idea. She leaned down, throwing her arms around the pony's neck. "Would you like to come and stay with me for awhile?" she cooed.
"I didn't have this particular pony in mind for that," he said rather sheepishly, "but I suppose it'll be all right."
"What's wrong with this pony?" I asked, curious.
"He's not gelded, is what." Seeing the confusion in our faces, he went on. "He's not cut."
"Well, Mr. Cunningham," Helen said almost with indignation in her tone, "I know what gelded means. What difference does that make?"
"Thing is," Cunningham continued, "if any of you ladies come around," He blushed at the term. "If it's that time of the month, I mean. This pony being inside the house and all, he may get a little aggressive."
I could see the realization of what he was saying sink into Helen, and the gleam start building in her eye. She shot a quick glance at the animal's genitals. There wasn't much of a penis to be seen, but the testicles hung like two eggplants side by side.
"Well, we'll just put him in the garage," Helen said, the problem solved as far as she was concerned.
"Let me get you a halter and some grain, ma'am," Hack said, going back into the barn. Helen followed him inside.
"If you have a back yard he can graze in, you don't have to grain him but once a day," Cunningham told me, practically reading my thoughts. "They've been toilet trained to go only when they're standing on grass, but you have to take them out at least three times a day. Otherwise it's not like a dog. They really let loose," he cautioned me.
I had visions of great floods in the living room and huge piles on the kitchen floor. Suddenly it didn't seem like such a good idea, but I knew that changing Helen's mind now would have been very difficult. It was her house.
I asked him for the names of some local people who had purchased his ponies and had been keeping them as house pets for awhile. If I could contact them I might get a slant on a long-term situation.
He gave me the name of a man in Highland Park who had bought one of his first ponies, a mare.
"Beautiful animal," he said. "Had glass eyes, too, which is rare."
"Glass eyes?" I asked.
"Blue eyes, Miss Starr. Beg your pardon. Just an expression," he said. He was thumbing through an address book.
I jotted that down under the heading of local color and then laughed at the unintentional double entendre I had created. Another man, he said, a garage owner who lived on a lonely farm the other side of Fort Worth, had purchased several stallions over the past two years.
"Might be something there," he suggested.
"Man likes them that much to buy more than one."
"You used the word lonely. What did you mean by that?" I asked him.
"Creepy place," he replied. "I delivered the first pony, myself. House was kind of run down, shades all drawn, miles from any other farms. Lots of animals on the place, but just this one fellow living alone. That's what I meant."
"Many people prefer the company of animals to humans," I said. "It's not so strange. How many did he actually buy?" I asked.
He did some mental recollection. "Four," he said finally. "He bought the last one this past summer."
"And all stallions. No mares or geldings," I repeated. "Does he keep them all in the house?"
"Can't say," he shrugged. "Haven't been out there since, and the fellow never says much when he's here."
Helen and Hack came out of the barn, my sister leading the pale tan animal by a lead rope hooked to the halter. Hack carried a small pail of grain.
"Keep him for a few days," Cunningham said to Helen. "Maybe you'll want to buy him." He watched Helen as she and Hack walked over to the car. We followed them over. "They make nice presents, too," he commented. "We also have regular ponies and horses," he added.
He seemed to be more interested in Helen than in his sales pitch, for after the pony had climbed in upon the back seat Helen had bent over to hand-feed the animal and was presenting her rear end to us. I could just imagine the effect on a man of that plump little butt in the hotpants.
"Well now, ladies," Raver drawled. "No reason you've got to run off, is there?" I could see what he was thinking. "Lots more to see around here." He moved in close to the car, appearing to be assisting her with the pony. It looked to me like an excuse to touch her.
Sure enough. He must have worked up a half erection and pressed it against her because she reacted as if she had been tipped with an electric cattle prod. "Uh, Hack! I mean, Mr. Raver. What else is there to see?" she asked.
"We've got some beautiful Arabs here," he said, pronouncing the word as if it were Ay-rabs. "Them's awful nice," he drawled, making it sound as though we were really going to be missing something if we turned him down.
"Perhaps you ladies would enjoy some refreshments, a sandwich," Cunningham suggested, having no idea what the two of them might have been thinking at that moment. "Come and join me in the kitchen and we'll see what there is." He made a motion to accompany him.
"Why don't you go, Bea," Helen suggested. "I'd really like to see the horses." Her pretended ingenuousness was almost convincing.
"By all means do what you really like, Sis," I said, laughing. "I'm a trifle thirsty, anyway. Have you got a cold beer?" I asked Cunningham, throwing my camera and sweater on the front seat.
We separated then, Helen and her longhorn Texan walking off in the direction of one of the other barns, and Cunningham and I strolling over to the house.
"Your sister," he said, "is a very pretty girl. But then, so are you."
"I'm glad you added that," I said, not really being very interested. He was a short man, pudgy, with fat little fingers that had rings on a few of them. The sort of man I never, ever had a desire to make it with. Invariably, though, the type always had ideas about me.
The farmhouse had a large, old-fashioned kitchen which the owner had modernized very little. The plumbing fixtures looked new, although I noticed a hand pump at the sink. Outside of the cabinetry, though, much of what I saw could have been there a hundred years ago.
I was surprised then when he told me the house had another kitchen, much smaller and completely modern, on the other side of the dining room. The kitchen we were sitting in was just for show, he said, and to satisfy his feel for antiquated Americana, as he called it.
"Everything in here is just as it was styled in 1880," he said, "which was the year the house was built. Everything works, too." He went over to the sink and started pumping water. "From a well. No chlorine." The flowing water looked somehow clearer for him having said it.
He walked over to the large wooden ice box and lifted the top. "Fresh ice, delivered every other day." He pulled out two bottles of beer and put them on the table where I sat. From inside the bottom section of the box, he brought out a partially picked carcass of a chicken and a strange looking mold of butter.
"Now, some bread," he said, reaching into a tin bread box. He took out a partial loaf of what was undoubtedly home made. "Made with unbleached flour," he said. He brought two mugs and an opener and sat down. "Now we eat."
He opened the beers and poured their contents into the mugs. Quaffing a healthy draught, he urged me to do the same. The beer was foamy and cold but tasted good. I had been thirsty, and it was hitting the spot. I drank greedily.
I watched the pudgy fingers tearing at the chicken. He ate with much enjoyment in what he was doing. A real gourmand, I thought. He kept urging me to dig in along with him. I sliced off a piece of bread. Cutting it in two, I made a half sandwich with the chicken and butter.
He seemed pleased and got up to fish out two more beers from the ice box. "This is excellent beer, don't you agree?" he asked.
"Yes. It is good," I said, drinking some more.
"A friend of mine brings it to me from Czechoslovakia. Twelve per cent," he asserted. He stopped eating for a moment and looked at me. "As you can see, I like good food," he remarked. "I love to eat." He said it in a way that made me cross my legs instinctively.
I was beginning to feel a little woozy from the beer. As he ate, he appeared to be drinking in more and more of me. He gazed at my breasts for a long time, and I could feel the nipples tightening under my bra.
"Shall we see what the others are doing?" I suggested, rising from my chair.
"Oh, no!" he stated abruptly. He got up fast and took my arm. "I mean let's stay a moment more." He wiped some butter from his chin. "Surely there is time. Please. Sit down," he urged.
"I really think I should be checking on my sister," I said. He was somehow too insistent. I wasn't quite sure what he had in mind, although I was certain he would make a pass.
Standing up quickly as I had done had made me quite dizzy.
"Then one favor before you go. My Victorian Room. You must see my Victorian Room. I have a room in my house, Miss Starr, which is an authentic reproduction of the most opulent interior in all London during the eighties." He took my arm again.
Perhaps it wouldn't do any harm to humor him, I thought. He was obsessed with such things as furnishings to the point where his sex drive might have been completely sublimated. I felt fairly confident I could handle his passes when and if they came. "Oh, very well," I said rather reluctantly. "For just a minute."
I followed him through the house to the main hall. A carpeted staircase went straight up to the second floor. He went over to a set of double doors near the bottom of the stairs and motioned me over close to him.
"Real double pocket doors," he said. "Notice the brass fittings." He opened both doors simultaneously, sliding them about a foot to each side. "After you, Miss Starr," he said, motioning at me to go on in.
I entered a very plushly furnished room. Red velvet drapes hung from polished brass rods across the windows. On the floor was a brilliant Persian rug. A large carved wooden bed occupied the center, and over it stretched a brocaded canopy. It was lovely. I heard the doors close behind me.
"Why this is a bedroom," I said, surprised but nonetheless affected by the surroundings.
"Yes," Cunningham said. He sighed and walked over to a closet. "Here," he said, handing me what looked like a silk nightgown. "Put this on."
"What!" I cried.
"Put it on. Please," he emphasized.
I turned and walked over to the door. "Unlock these doors," I demanded. "Mr. Cunningham, I want you to unlock these doors immediately."
"You might as well do as I ask," he said calmly. "I'm not going to hurt you, you know."
"I know what you want to do," I told him.
"Do you?" he asked, suggesting that perhaps I had been mistaken.
I turned toward him, folding my arms across my chest. "Well, suppose you tell me just what it is that you want to do."
"I want to eat your pussy."
My arms dropped suddenly and I gaped forward at him. I could feel an imaginary hand clutching at my vulva. The fat little son of a bitch was actually making me hot.
He was wetting his lips. "I haven't eaten any in so long, I can taste it," he said, holding out the nightgown again.
If that was all he wanted, maybe it wouldn't be so bad, I concluded. The thought of the pudgy little man's body lying on top of me was another matter entirely. I don't know what made me do it, the beer or the room or watching Hack Raver that morning, but I reached out and took the gown.
My next thought was where to get undressed. Was he going to stand there and watch me, I wondered?
He walked over to the same closet and began undressing himself, facing the inside of the closet. Something about his matter of fact way of taking his clothes off set me wild.
I took my loafers off with my feet, unhooked my skirt and zipped it down. It fell and I stepped out of it. I noticed he hadn't turned around. He had taken his pants off and was carefully hanging them up.
Unbuttoning my blouse, I removed it and went to work on the bra, turning my back on him in the process. The bra off, I noticed the nipples and surrounding area had turned rock hard, I rubbed hard at them in an effort to relax them, but the rubbing only seemed to make them worse.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw he was entirely naked. He must have been wearing something before to hold in his stomach for now the belly on him seemed enormous. He was reaching for a robe.
I got out of my panties as fast as I could and I noticed they were wet down there. Some of it had dried already. Pulling the gown down over me, I got up on the bed and hid my eyes with my forearm, waiting for whatever was going to happen.
I could hear him moving softly around the room, and thought I heard the lid to a jar being screwed off. The suspense was getting to me, and I had to reach down and touch myself.
His weight on the bed made it creak. He moved my legs a little farther apart as he shifted himself into position.
"This is going to feel cool at first," he said. Instinctively I removed my arm and look down. He held a jar of cream or something in one hand, and with the other was evidently preparing to gunk me up with whatever it was.
He slapped the stuff on gently and began working it in. It was cold at first application, but slowly began to heat up until the whole area there glowed. It had a faint fruity odor.
Suddenly, he grabbed me by both hips, and I felt his mouth close over me violently. His head was nodding like a nanny goat as he ran his lips and tongue up and down the gash. He was salivating like crazy, and I thought it was going to be more than I could stand.
I began to shriek and grabbed at his hair, thinking I was actually going to pull some of it out. I tried to roll over on each side and close my legs, but he was too strong.
He had managed to work my clitoris out and was sucking on it, pushing his face back and forth into the rest of it. I was screaming now and dug my heels into his waist, kicking at him for all I was worth.
Changing tactics again, he shoved his tongue into my vagina and began a vigorous in-and-out thrusting, his nose pushing at my clitoris. He had extremely well-developed tongue muscles.
Feeling myself reaching an orgasm, I knew it was going to be a shattering one. I was clutching his head tightly now, my heels braced against his hips. My back began to arch involuntarily as my body tensed. My mouth gaped wide, and I lost the power to focus my eyes.
It came with a rush.
Great undulating waves of warmth flowed through me. One, two, three, four… five… six. The intervals lengthened. If the feeling would only persist indefinitely. I ran my fingers through his hair.
He was sucking now, sucking deep draughts, long and slow. There wasn't going to be anything left of me, I thought. When he was done, he lay his head on my thigh and gasped for each breath, his face a raw-looking red.
As the hot blood began to flow back into my vulva it tingled. I wondered what he was going to do. If he had wanted intercourse, I would have let him do it. It didn't matter now. Not many men had ever brought me to such a climax.
He sat up quietly. "I want you to know I loved your cunt," he said, still breathing hard. He put a hand on my leg. "I want you to come back. Please. Will you promise to come back sometime? And your sister. I'll eat you both. Anytime you feel you're ready for Joe Cunningham."
I told him I would be happy to return. The pudgy man looked almost pathetic standing there in the robe. I asked him if he didn't like it the regular way.
"My only scene," he said, shaking his head. "My only scene is eating pussy. I was kicked by a horse years ago and it left me impotent. There's not much else I can do."
"How did the horse kick you?" I asked him.
"Next time you visit perhaps I'll tell you," he said. "Don't tell many people that story." He bent over the bed and kissed me lightly on the vulva. "I'll leave you now. Hope you like the pony." He opened the doors and went out.
I dressed quickly. Helen was waiting for me at the car with Hack Raver.
"You look happy," she commented. "Want to tell me about it?"
I glanced at Hack and blushed. "Later, Sis."
We got into the car. Helen gave the pony a pat and waved at Hack. "So long, Texas," she called out.
"You ladies know I'm always at your service." He was grinning widely and fingering at his groin.
On the way home we chatted very little. Helen was obviously happy with her adventure. I was pleased as well. The old sadness that sometimes lurked in the background seemed far away.
We pulled into the drive and walked up to the door.
"That's funny," Helen said. "I don't hear Clyde."
"Maybe he's asleep," I suggested.
She unlocked the door and went inside. I watched her go from room to room, even checking the basement. It didn't seem possible he could have gotten out. She gave up and slowly walked back into the living room. I was afraid she was going to cry.
"He's gone, Bea. Clyde's gone." She shook her head slowly from side to side. "Where?"