Emory Willets' cock smelled like shit.
Probably because he had not bothered to wash since that night be had fucked Wednesday Mallory in the Sleepwell Motel – that had been two weeks ago.
Now, Emory scratched his cock and ordered another Blatz. He was very good at scratching his cock, using a very sly method of scratching his cock when he was in public places like the Yahoo Bar.
He would pretend that his dentures had fallen out. Which was an easy thing to pretend because all he had to do was smile – and, plop, out went the old canine falsies.
Usually his dentures would clatter on the floor and collect dog-shit or old spittle. Then, Emory would casually bend over and pick up the old ivory chompers, pretend to look at them with disgust. And, naturally, to give the public the opinion that he was cleanliness-minded he would rub the dog-shit and old spittle off on the crotch of his trousers.
That was his sneaky way of scratching his cock – by rubbing his dentures against his shit infested crotch.
Of course, not everyone in the Yahoo Bar was fooled by this stupid game.
Prudence Meeker was not fooled. She was not fooled because she knew now that men liked to rub their cocks in private and in public. She had, to use a dumb-ass cliche, found out the hard way.
And, because she had found out the hard way, it had been terribly difficult for her to realize that she had the same womanly passions as Jacqueline Kennedy who preferred it Greek style, or Barbara Walters who learned to exercise her lips on something as hard as pebbles but which looked more masculine than Diogenes himself – or whoever the asshole was who swallowed pebbles thinking it made good roughage.
And, since Prudence found herself in that vulnerable position of self-discovery, it had been very hard for her to keep her urges contained.
Which was the reason why she was in the Yahoo Bar right now, getting bombed on Blatz and making an asshole out of herself.
She ambled up to Emory, sashaying her skinny us and holding her breath, hoping that it would do something big far her tits.
"Hiya, big prick."
Emory was stunned.
"Well, don't just stand there scratching your cock with your fuckin' teeth. How 'bout it, wanta do it?"
Emory was taken aback. He couldn't believe it. Twice in a span of two weeks he was being chosen as champion stud of Tweedy. All this at the age of seventy-nine! Who would've believed it… you?
"Come here, and let me scratch your cock. Give me those fuckin' teeth!"
Emory was flabbergasted as he watched his dentures being taken from his hand. He watched with buggy eyes as a pair of delicate, but very skinny hands opened up the dentures and placed them on the crotch of his coveralls.
"See, yer not the only one who can scratch your own prick with your own teeth. I can do it, too!"
Emory's knees wobbled. His varicosed legs shook. His heart beat fast. His cock erected, naturally – almost too naturally for a man seventy-nine years of age and who had last fucked his wife in the winter of '72 and before that a young heifer in the drought of '69.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Emory wanted to die with ecstasy. His prick! His teeth! Together they were going to make him come! His cock! His dentures! How many other men in this mundane world could have scratched their own cock using their own teeth – maybe the Indian rubber man, but even he couldn't do it while standing up.
Through a fog of Blatz beer, Prudence tried to focus on the bulge at Emory's crotch. Holy shit! Look at that! Did she… had she… was it true… that she had created such a huge erection?
She did. She had. And it was true. Too true to believe, as Ripley would say.
Prudence couldn't help it, couldn't help getting down on her knees on the old dog-shit floor and paying homage to what she had created with another person's teeth.
Zzzzzziiiiip.
People in the Yahoo Bar gasped. Especially the bartender for tonight – one Fallon Collier. "Hey! Hey! You can't give blowjobs in a bar!"
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
Emory turned towards Fallon. Toothiessly he said: "Thee's the one whooth doing the thucking!"
Fallon jumped over the bar. "Goddamn, Emory! Put your fuckin' false teeth back in. I can't understand a word your saying!"
Emory looked confused, pointed to his yawning mouth, pointed to his dentures, pointed to his cock, then shrugged as if to say: What the fuck can I do?
Fallon understood perfectly.
He grabbed the dentures away from Prudence as she was busy lapping and licking and sucking Emory's cock.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Now, Goddamnit, Emory!" Fallon said, short-tempered. "You know you can't get blowiobs in a bar! Why don't you and I go on down to the Sleepwell and get it on. Shit, I could get busted for this!"
Emory said: "Yeth, Mither Collier, but…"
"Goddamn, Emory! Put your fucking teeth in!"
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
Drool splattered on Prudence's head as Emory tried to align his gums with his chompers. Emory clicked his teeth together. "Click. Click. Gee, Mr. Collier… oooooohh… I jus' come here to enjoy my Blatz… and… aaaahhhh… and this here librarian lady come up to me and… oooohhhhh!"
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
Fallon grabbed Emory's shoulder straps, made his coveralls pull up tight against the old man's ass, made his zipper cut into the old man's cock sucked prick.
"Aaamhieeeeee! My balls! My cock!"
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Shut the fuck up, Emory, before you have to buy a new set of dentures!" Fallon's fist was inches away.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Now, you and this cocksucker get out of the Yahoo before I cut off her clit and smash your cock. D' ya hear me good, Emory?"
Emory heard good enough, or at least he heard good enough to kick the cocksucker at his feet in the crotch, which bowled her over backward onto the dog-shit floor. Quickly, he hurried over to Prudence.
"I-I's awful sorry 'bout kicking ya in the cunt, but I suspect we'd better mosey on down to the Sleepwell before Mr. Collier cuts off yer clit."
Emory's kind words helped to soothe Prudence's anger.
He helped her to her feet. "Besides, it'll be lot more comfortable for you to suck my cock in a bed, don't you think?"
Prudence looked sheepish again; of course, she deserved that kick in the cunt. She had acted like a cock-bunny slut in public. Made a complete asshole out of herself. Something that other people in the Yahoo Bar were too scared to do because of social mores.
They left the Yahoo.
And the Yahoo Bar returned to normalcy. Somebody put a wooden nickel in the juke box and Roy Rogers sang "Happy Trails to You" and couples got up and started doing the twist.
Reverend Manly was scratching his cock, a habit he had picked up at Texas Baptist Christian College when it was his turn to say grace before a meal of water and biscuits.
Now, he was scratching his cock because her was nervous. He was nervous because far the first time in six years of marriage he was sleeping alone, without the comforting warmth of a hot-fleshed wife lying next to him.
He had been alone now for three days and two nights. He suspected that something was wrong.
Elsa could have had an accident, been run off the road by a diesel while driving up to Lake Weed to see how things were going at Camp Humpachick before she and the reverend opened up their summer Junior High-Y camp.
Oh, stilt no! Elsa couldn't drive!
So maybe she ran into a rapist and she was in some alleyway in downtown Tweedy, bloody and torn and beyond redemption and repair.
Oh, Hell no! Sheriff Colby had fourteen deputies covering the one-acre township of Tweedy – surely one of them would have spotted a raped woman by now.
So maybe it was true what those boys had said down at the library. Maybe Harvey Grossman and Ferris Collier had come into his home and taken liberties with his wife.
Hell, no! Elsa wouldn't let them touch her with a ten-foot pole, let alone a twelve-inch cock, would she?
The reverend thought about his wife seriously now. Something was obviously wrong. When a man's wife has been missing for three days and two lonely nights – there was a wrongness somewhere, for sure.
Shit, the reverend wasn't stupid. God had blessed him with a brain. He'd get down to the bottom of this without arousing the community's maroon that something had happened to Elsa. Shit, he had already done a pretty good job of lying to Tweedy's Baptist folk about how Elsa had been plagued by morning sickness and she was vomiting all the time whenever he smoked his pipe or allowed gas to pass.
Reverend Manly slammed shut his Bible, concentrated on the problem of trying to locate his wife while he scratched his cock nervously.
He tried his best to recall what those boys had said while they were fucking Prudence Meeker. Something about how Elsa had really turned on when she was being fucked in the mouth… shit, let's see… oh yeah, getting fucked in the ass… and… er, sure! That was it! Something about how she loved to be tied up and roped and bonded!
His IQ of 99 was working overtime now.
So now all he had to do was find out what kind of person liked to tie girls up – because if it were true that Elsa dug something like that, it was only natural to conclude that she'd find him and find him fast!
Reverend Manly looked in the Yellow Pages under "rope".
He was directed to Grossman's Hardware and Saddlery Shop.
He dialed the number. Waited impatiently for the proprietor, one Eddie Grossman, to answer the phone.
One Eddie Grossman did not answer the phone. One Eddie Grossman's son Harvey answered the phone.
"Grossman's."
"Er… is this Eddie Grossman?"
"Hah, that's my pa. He's out fucking around somewhere. This is Harvey, his son."
"Oh."
"Well, come an – what's it going to be? A keg of nails? Some rope for the wife? You gonna order something, or is this just a social call?"
Reverend Manly choked back the urge to berate the asshole on the other end of the line. His voice sounded cool and pious. "Harvey, this is Reverend Manly, and…"
"Oh, hi, Rev. Jesus! If I'da known it was you, I wouldn't have talked so dirty. So, how's the missus?"
The reverend saw red. "Er, uh… she's just fine, Harvey. Gotta little mornin sickness, probably because…"
"Yeah, I know how them pregnancies go," Harvey interrupted. "One day they're tight, the next day they're bleedin'."
"Huh?"
"Well, Mr… what I mean, Rev, is – oh Hell, you know all 'bout the birds and bees and how it changes 'round a woman's whatchamacallit when they're heavy with a kid… you know?"
"Y-Yes… I guess I know what you mean, Harvey."
"Well, what's on your mind, Rev? You need some heavy nails for them crosses? Ha-ha."
"What crosses?"
"Uh, never mind, Rev. Well, thanks for the call, been real good shooting the shh…"
"Hold it, Harvey. I didn't mean for this to be a social call. What I wanted to know was where your father is."
"Oh. Jesus, come to think of it, I ain't seen Pa for almost three days and two nights. Last I heard, he was headin' down to the Sleepwell."
"The what?"
"The Sleepwell. You know, that meat factory on Jesuit Street. The little ten-buck motel where everybody goes for… er, you know, for fun and swimming."
"Oh. Well, thanks, Harvey… see ya at church next Sunday."
Three days is a long time for a person's hair to be held up by a hundred-pound counterweight.
It was also a long time for one wilty carrot and one black banana to remain firmly entrenched in a person's, or more particularly a woman's cunt and asshole.
Things were getting very sticky for Elsa Manly. She had been on pins and needles for seventy-two hours, wondering when Eddie was going to make his move and do something! Do anything – but don't leave her like this! Without pain! Without suffering!
"Pleasssh, Eddie!" Elsa mumbled, feeling the bite of the clothes pin on her tongue. "Hurt me! Abushe me!"
Eddie awoke from his slumber. He had an evening erection… or was it a morning erection? He yawned and ambled over to the draped windows.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Bright sunlight burned like balls of fire into Elsa's eyes. She closed her eyes to the agonizing sunlight. "Yesh! Oh, yes! Eddie! More!"
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Now darkness enveloped the room, the drapes shutting off the agonizing sunlight that had given Elsa momentary pleasure.
Then Eddie's voice cut through the shadowy darkness. Like an echo in a cramped commode. "You stink!"
Creepy crawly thrills of masochistic pleasure stung her spine, made Elsa sit up with pleasure. Now… maybe now… he was going to do something. After all, it was the first words he had said in seventy-two hours since her delicious torment had begun.
She waited anxiously for more humiliating words.
"Look at that shit and pin on the sheets! Whatta fuckin' pig! You're nothing but a sow-slut, Elsa! A FUCKING PIG!"
Yes! Yes! Yes! Horrible, almost indescribable pleasure was being derived from those nasty but beautiful things that Eddie was calling her.
"All right, you bitch. Now, I'm really going to show you how much fun pain is. Now, you re going to get the beating of your life!"
This was it! The utmost in torment! The paragon of pain! The epitome of eerie pleasure.
Elsa watched him with horror-filled eyes as he went to the closet. God, what was he doing in there? What sensuous instrument of painful pleasure would he extract from that closet?
Rustle. Rustle. Rustle.
Oh hurry! Hurry! Why was he taking so long rustling around in that gloomy closet?
Rustle. Rustle. Rustle.
"Aha! There it is," Eddie chortled. Returned to more "Mood Indigo" as he brought out a Wham-o slingshot, limbering up the huge rubber strings.
Stretch. Stretch. Stretch.
No! No! He wasn't going to do that horrible thing to her… was he?
"Do you know what horrible thing I'm going to do to you, Elsa?"
Elsa was frozen with fear. It was truly a trauma drama played to the hilt by one Jack-The-Ripper-type asshole and one Perilous Pauline.
Elsa shook her head, chose not to talk with the clothes pin in her mouth.
"Ha! Ha!" Eddie laughed maliciously, picking up a cherry tomato and loading the Wham-o slingshot as casually as David slayed Goliath.
The huge rubber strings were pulled whistling tight. Eddie took aim at Elsa's carrot-stuffed cunt. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow as he steadied his aim.
Elsa was stunned. Paralyzed by horror. Everything was so wicked, as awful, so devastating – she loved it!
Splat!
"aaaaiiiiieeeee! My cunt! My cunt! Ooooohhhhh, More, Eddie! Give me more!"
Splat!
"Ooooohhhhhh, huuuurrrrtttt meeeeee! Shoooooot my cunt!"
Splat! Splat! Splat!
Eddie laughed like one berserk ape. He was going bananas and a little mad, too. Now he was really into the game of S amp; M. Now, he was enjoying the full extent of nirvana-like pleasure of dishing out horrible pain.
Splat! Splat! Splat!
Emory Willets was on top.
Prudence Meeker was on the bottom.
They were fucking.
Had there been an innocent bystander in the room with them, he or she would have figured out that they were fucking because their loins were so intertwined and their groins were making groaning-like noises.
Slush. Slush. Slush.
"Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!"
"I'm fucking you! I'm fucking you! I'm fucking you!"
Boy, no kidding! When Emory was saying he was fucking Prudence. Shit, his cock was one helium hard-on. And it was the kind of hard-on that made squishy noises in her cunt because her fucking pussy was still tight and unlimber because she had only fucked two other men before Emory had finally given her a poantanging, as they called fucking in '28.
Squish. Squish. Squish.
Prudence was going ape-shit beneath Emory. And it was easy to see why. Because she had discovered how much fun fucking was. How much enjoyment there was to be had when she was had and had good. Ecstasy flooded her pussy about as bad as the flow of her cunt-oil.
"Fuck me! Fuck my cunt off! Oh, Emory! Give me a cocking! Pooooooo-nnntaaaannnnnnggg me!"
Emory tried his best to read her lips. And the reason he was trying to read her lips was because they were fucking on top of his hearing aid. And the reason why they were fucking on top of his hearing aid, of course, was because it had been whipped off his ear by Prudence when she had French-kissed his hammer, stirrup and anvil.
But did Emory give a shit?
Fuck no!
Hellfire, he was fucking as if God were gong to outlaw adultery tomorrow. He was fucking as if this were going to be the last fuck, of his life before God made him die of a heart attack for trespassing against the Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery Commandment.
Jesus! What a cunt! Emory couldn't believe it! Her pussy was so fucking tight – much tighter than Wednesday's whooooopppeeee hole. And much tighter and juicier than Elsie's armpit.
Slush. Slush. Slush.
"That's it, you motherfucker! Right there! Rub my clit with your big cock! Give it to me, baby! Pour on the meat!"
Emory couldn't read lips that fast, so he guessed that everything was ail right with Prudence.
Prudence was hanging onto Emory for dear life now because she could feel his cock pulsing and throbbing, deep, oh soooo deep, in her pussy.
She couldn't help it if all that cunt-juice was oozing out of her cock-filled ass, draining down to her asshole and drowning Emory's hearing aid. And she couldn't help it if her asshole had that caved-in feeling because she was trying to work her pussy-muscles a la a Pismo clam.
Such things couldn't be helped when a girl's hot to fuck. Thus, Prudence was no different than Pat Boone's mother, or Princess Anne and her hones, or Gloria Steinum, who got her rocks off on super-large Tampaxes.
Shit, Prudence was human. She was a human girl! And it felt damn good to feel like a homosapien female with a normal hot cunt!
As for Emory, he felt very tired and exhausted, but he couldn't stop in mid-fuck. He couldn't terminate this intimate introduction of old cock and young cunt without spewing good-bye.
So, he fucked faster, much faster than men twice his age could fuck. And anybody that was twice his age, of course, would have to be downright dead because that meant that they would have to be 158 years old.
Slush. Slush. Slush.
Dribble. Dribble. Dribble.
Dribble? Oh, God! Emory was coming! Prudence felt it first because she was younger and had more nerve-endings down there.
But she knew Emory was coming because something was flooding out of her pussy.
And it didn't drip like plain old cunt-juice. It dribbled like plain old cum.
Dribble. Dribble. Dribble.
Then Emory felt it. He was coming! A seventy-nine-year-old man was coming! Not even Justice Douglas could have done better. Shit, Strom Thurmond was a pushover when compared to a virile man like Emory Willets.
Emory couldn't believe how much ecstasy there was flooding his balls, then he couldn't believe that there was so much pain flooding his chest.
Pleasure and pain. Emory had never felt both at the same time – but it was there. One was in his cock and balls, the other was in his chest and head.
Emory didn't know if it was pleasure that made him dizzy, and he didn't know if it was pain that made him wheeze and grab his heart.
Emory didn't know, probably because he was dead. Dead in mid-fuck.