Every town has its village idiot, and Weedville was no exception. The townspeople of Weedville were happy with the idiot that lived amongst them – after all, they could always point to the village of Pattonsville, which was about an hour's ride on a hobbling mule down the road from them, and scoff at their village idiot.
Pattonville's chosen sloth was a man named Tom "Thumb" Rentzler, a reformed sex pervert. Just three years ago he would go ambling down the streets of Pattonsville with his prick hanging obscenely from his fly – on Sunday no less. Now, after constant talks with Pastor Lids, be had agreed to a compromise.
On Sundays, he would go ambling down the streets of Pattonsville with his fly down and his thumb sticking out from where his prick should have been. Now, all the ladies of Pattonsville were relieved; although some of them secretly wished that old Tom "Thumb" Rentzler would pull out his fourteen-incher to show their husbands what a man's cock should look like.
Yes, Weedville was lucky, or at least they thought they were lucky. Their village idiot was a man named Rods Jerkovich, the town photographer.
Boris' studio lay sandwiched between Martin Seaman's Buckeroo Bar and Jason Moresby's grocery/hardware store.
On this Monday evening, Boris was inside, in the back, developing his latest photos.
The red light was on. And his frail old hands dipped into the cleanser, deftly lifting up a photo of Connie Ryan sucking on somebody's prick. Rods was naked, except for the moth-eaten socks that no longer had the elasticity to hold them up higher than his ankles. Moving as fast, as his seventy-two-year-old bones would allow, he rummaged through his frayed shirt that hung from a peg.
Boris found his wire-rimmed glasses. Put them on. Glanced at the recently developed photograph. Holy shit!
Connie Ryan was sucking some young kid's prick. Jesus, the kid had a good-sized cock, on him, and it was oozing cum – he knew it was cum because it didn't froth like spit and it was oozing out of the corner's of Connie's cock-filled mouth.
Quickly Boris developed another print. God in Heaven! Connie was on top of the young kid's cock, her cunt poised right on the taut prick-head ready to slide down… or had she just raised up? Boris didn't know, but he moved faster now because he knew the answer would be shown in the next developed photo.
Aha! Connie's cunt was moving down on the boy's prick. The kid was grimacing, as if he were in pain. Connie was her usual self – hair cascading over sweating shoulders, tits at rigid attention, thighs taut as they squatted over the boy's loins, cunt dribbling hot juice.
Boris didn't know the boy, but he knew that as soon as the kid turned eighteen and came in for his senior pictures, he would learn his name.
That was how he had first met Connie.
It had started exactly seventeen years ago when Connie was a hot-cunted senior at Weedville High.
She had come to him for her senior picture; all the seniors came to Boris Jerkovich for their senior pictures because he was the only person in Weedville who knew the first fucking thing about a camera.
Boris remembered that day fondly. It had changed his whole life. It was an autumn day, and Connie had entered his studio wearing her sweater on backwards, black and white bobby soxers, three lay era of petticoats beneath a very frilly dress, white cotton panties and a stiff Junior Miss bra. Now how did Boris know what she was wearing beneath all her 1955 apparel?
Well, he knew because he had cut a hole through the dressing-room wall. He had gotten the idea that year because the senior class had decided to have their pictures taken in formal-looking graduation caps and commencement gowns. So naturally Rods had ordered one appropriate graduation attire for everybody to pose in.
His first senior girl had been Elvira Schellenberg, a pony-tailed, acne-faced, young-looking scarecrow who insisted on putting on the cap and gown instead of just slipping it over her clothes and having her blouse collar show through.
So Boris had her dress in a storage room that happened to have a termite-eaten hole through which he saw his first piece of ass – Elvira Schellenberg's scrawny ass – and his first set of tits since the winter of '35.
Thereafter, every senior girl that had used his storage room for a dressing room was spied upon by Boris. In one month he had seen ten young, and some hairless, pussies that pranced about in front of his bulging eyes.
The month of October proved to be one helluva hard-on month for Boris Jerkovich, and he couldn't wait to see the pussy of the eleventh girl – Connie Ryan.
And that was how Boris knew what Connie Ryan was wearing beneath that frilly yellow dress. He had watched from his spyhole as she unbuttoned the dress, letting it slither to the floor and faint a chiffon cloud around her ankles. Then came the three layers of white petticoats, one after another billowing downwards.
Connie stepped out of the mountain of frilly chiffon and billowy petticoats, completely unaware of the one brown eye that gazed at her trim, firm thighs. She reached behind her and unbuttoned her sweater, peeling the woolen garment from her lithe-looking arms. She looked around, then decided to hang it from a nail that was three inches to the right of the eye that stared at her.
God! Boris could smell her cheap perfume, could see right down into the heaving cleavage of her tit-filled bra. His palsied hand found the zipper of his fly.
Zzzzzziiiipppp!
God! Had she heard him? Did she knew that he was on the other side of the wall, unzipping his pants and pulling out the lanky piece of meat that was his cock?
Christ, his hand stunk with the odor of fizz. He hadn't played with his prick since he was a Russian teen-ager on the steppes of his former motherland.
The cleavage moved away from him. Connie was looking around for the cap and gown. She looked all around the storage room. Then hands on hips, her toe tapping against the hardwood floor, she called out: "Oh, Mr. Jerkovich, where's the cap and gown that I'm supposed to wear?"
Boris was in seventh heaven. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Quickly he positioned his camera where his eye had been. He set it on automatic timer so that it would snap pictures of Connie Ryan's lithe teen-age body in white cotton panties and stiff Junior Miss bra every ten seconds.
Click.
"What did you say, Miss Ryan?"
Connie raised her arms as if imploring heaven for help. "Where the hell is that cap and gown I'm supposed to wear?"
Click.
"Oh, I have it over here. I'll bring it right in."
Click.
"Just hand it through the door, Mr. Jerkovich. I don't want to see you looking at me now and gettin' funny ideas."
Click.
Boris smiled as he carefully thrust the gown through the crack in the door entrance.
Click.
Later, Boris Jerkovich developed six photos of Connie clad in her white underwear. Then he started jacking off, his erection slowly rising to full hardness. Of course, he never did come; the last time he had shot any juice out of his prick was in the winter of '47 when he was in Siberia trapped in a logger's cabin with a lonely Cossack wife.
Still later, he had made over a hundred prints from those original six, and he had pasted them up all over his dark room, where under the eerie red light he could pull on his old prick and hope that someday he could come again.
Then came the day three years after those senior pictures, when he was admiring Connie Ryan's body and his hand was jacking like lightning on his cock that a brainstorm appeared out of nowhere. If he could take pictures of Connie like that, what if he sneaked around and photographed her completely naked in the bathroom or in her bedroom?
That very same night, he lumbered out into the darkness, camera in hand. He found out that Connie had moved out of her parents' house and was living in one of the most expensive apartments in Weedville, shelling out almost eighty bucks a month for a three-bedroom rental.
He scouted around for an hour. Then be finally figured out how he could do it. There was a sturdy oak tree that grew past Connie's bedroom window. The light was on in the bedroom, and her window was opened slightly. He would have to be very careful.
By the time he had reached the desired limb which would give him the best peeping position into Connie's bedroom, he was gasping for breath. Then he was gasping far lust.
Connie Ryan was in bed all right. And she was naked all right – in the same position that Boris Jerkovich had dreamed so many times. Except that there was a husky, hairy, naked man on top of her, his cock drilling her cunt.
That was something Rods never dreamed about. It had been almost a quarter of a century since he had seen a cock fucking hard and fast into a woman's cunt. That had been his own cock fucking hard and fast into a Cossack woman's cunt.
Boris blinked his eyes. That man! It was Lucas Trimble, the mayor of Weedville! His honor was fucking Connie so fast that his cock looked like a blur to Boris as it pounded greasily into Connie's pussy.
He watched as Connie's arms and legs wrapped spiderlike around Lucas' hunching, hairy back. His ass was taut as the sweat flew from the tense muscles of his ass-cheeks.
Connie's mouth was agape. Her eyes were closed in ecstasy. She writhed her body beneath Lucas' heavy weight, her tits scraping across his heavy chest.
"Fuck me, Lucas. Christ! Give me your cock! Your prick's the best in town! Oh, whatta cock! Whatta cock! Whatta great fuckin' cock! Aaaiiieeeee!!"
Then Lucas was bellowing like a stuck pig: "I'm cooommmmiiiinnnngggg! Coonnniieeeee, I'm coommmininnnng! Eeeeeaaaggghhh!!"
Her eyes shot open in disbelief: Lucas' cock swelled to immense proportions, and it was spreading her cunt-lips wide open. Never before had a cock so big ever fucked her cunt so wide open.
Leaves were rustling and the limb was creaking Boris tried to steady his camera in one hand and pull on his prick with the other. Shit, it was at least fifteen feet to the pound. He had to hang on!
"You mother-fucker, Lucas! Fuck me!" Connie screamed as the spurts of jism blasted into her clutching cunt.
Lucas' spine was strained as he arched his back, his toes digging into the sheets, his face covered with sweat, as he shoved his cock as far into her sweltering cunt as he could. The creamy cock-juice was exploding from his prick, wads and wads of ecstasy-filled cum pouring from his spewing prick-head.
Then he collapsed onto Connie's chest, his chin nestling gently against her boob. Connie moved her body languidly, bathing in the afterglow of such a sweet and sweaty fucking. Her thighs moved slowly up and down on the outside of Lucas Trimble's hairy legs.
Cum was dribbling out of her pussy, escaping from around Lucas' huge cock and running in whitish rivers down the crack of her ass. Ah! It was such a good feeling to be fucked as many times as she had been fucked this night.
That night had been almost fifteen years ago, yet it seemed just like yesterday for Boris. He remembered climbing down from, that oak tree, dragging his weary body home to his studio. He had developed the photographs, and was amazed at the sight of Connie being pinned to the sheets by the mayor of Weedville.
Since those fifteen years, Boris had improved on his camera techniques and his method of peeping. On his own time, which he had plenty of, he developed a periscoping camera, one that would enable him to stand at ground level and, through a system of complex convex mirrors, watch all the action in Connie Ryan's bed with her and her fuckers unaware of the camera lens that wavered outside of her bedroom window.
Within those fifteen years, he had captured on film such carnage and perversion as to put Rome to shame.
Boris reached for the photo album above the sink. It was as thick as Gideon's Bible. On the first page, pictures of Connie Ryan, hands on hips, bedecked in white cotton panties and bra.
As Boris flipped through the pages, he remembered each moment that he had photographed Connie and her fuckers.
There on page four was Lucas Trimble fucking Connie Ryan from the man-behind position.
There on page thirteen was Reverend Worthington getting his prick into Connie from the missionary position.
Page twenty showed Connie sucked avidly on Jason Moresby's cock, the cum dribbling down the shaft as her lips pursed hungrily around the knob.
Page forty-two showed Connie getting her asshole reamed by Coach Crowley as she kneeled before him, her mouth caught in mid-scream and Coach Crowley's ruddy lips opened in mid-moan.
Page fifty showed several color shots (Rods had just found out about color film) of Martin Seaman titty-fucking Connie. She was on her back, both hands shoved against her pussy. Martin was sitting on her stomach, his hands pushing together Connie's huge tits as his hard-on bounced against her chin. Connie's face was covered with cum, and her red tongue was snaking out to catch the sperm drops that clung to her lips.
Now, on this lonely Monday night, Boris sadly pasted in the color prints of Connie and her newest lover – a piss-ant youth who looked as if he didn't know what his cock was for.
As Boris studied the pictures, he noticed something different in Connie's face. Her eyes were sparkly. Her face looked soap-scrubbed clean and there was just a tinge of peach color to her cheeks. She was smiling – in every shot she was smiling!
Boris realized that in all the other photos Connie never smiled. In all the other pictures with all her other male "friends" there was a look of wanton lust. But now, as she fucked the kid, there was a look of wholesome ecstasy on her face. Was she in love?
No! No! No!
She couldn't be in love; Boris didn't want her to fall in love. She had no right to be in love, just as he had no right to love her.
What?
Boris in love with Connie Ryan? Suddenly, Boris realized that he was in love with Connie. So what was wrong with him being in love with the woman he cherished above all other women in Weedville?