Basically, advertising people are a scurvy lot. They have to be because in the rat-eat-rat world of jingles and plugs and one-liners nobody gets to the top unless they have a venomous soul.
That was why Virginia Fowler – er, Ms. Virginia Fowler – picked such vermin types as Haskell Baskins, Cooper Morton and Wally Bendix.
Because they were men who could mind-fuck all of America into buying refrigerators that churned out chocolate ice cubes, cars that had two fenders and twelve pounds of chrome, have-it your-way hamburgers that were made of decomposed cardboard.
Yeah, they were the emperors of the advertising empire of flashing billboards and prime time commercials.
Each of them was a specialist.
Haskell Baskins was an artist who had put in four years at Leavenworth for counterfeiting admission tickets to the Roller Derby championship.
He looked like an artist lost, bewildered, befuddled and bearded. With a gauche nose, pastiche eyes and a complexion that resembled burnt umber, Haskell Baskins struck most people as an artist.
Those who were dumb enough to ask Haskell what he did for a living were directed to his left ear which supported a number ten, Made in Lebanon, original horsehair paintbrush. And if they still didn't get the hint, they were directed to his artist smock that looked like the apron for a short order chef at a pizza take-out.
But he was the best quick sketch and advertising artist in the field, and that was why Ms. Virginia Fowler had hired him.
Cooper Morton was an idea man. Had he been a cartoon character, he would have been readily identifiable by the lightbulbs that always flashed over his head.
But given two seconds' notice, Cooper Morton could come up with the best of the brilliant ideas.
He was the one who had made Pat Boone more famous for drinking cow juice than for singing Bernadine. He was the one who foresaw Mark Spitz modeling Bike Jockstraps. He was the one who conjured up that fat old sex symbol Jane Russell to do those bra ads – because he knew the young chicks were going without bras these days and the only ones who really needed them were saggy old ladies, aged twenty-eight or higher.
But then, again, Cooper Morton would have gotten nowhere in the rodent world of big-time advertising without the help of his fellow rat, Wally Bendix. Cooper came up with the ideas, Wally put them into motion.
They were like Mutt and Jeff, the Katzen-jammers, the Siamese twins – inseparable.
It was Wally who had gotten Pat Boone to drink those eighteen glasses of milk by getting down on his knees and cleaning specks of dogshit that clung to Mr. Boone's white buck shoes.
It was Wally who got Mark Spitz to pose in that jockstrap by giving the kid twenty-thou an hour – Wally knew the kid was half-Jewish – and it was Wally who saw how disappointing Mr. Spitz looked in that jockstrap – so he had wadded up a whole box of Kleenex to stuff into the little pouch to give the Olympic champ a little more ooomph down there.
It was Wally who coaxed Jane Russell out of that Hollywood retirement home by seducing her ninety-year-old body and telling her repetitiously that she was gonna be a star.
Yeah, they were the dynamic duo, and now that Haskell Baskins had joined the team, they were ready to start their latest campaign. They couldn't wait to start, couldn't wait to get out of the blocks and start tackling this new assignment given to them by Ms. Virginia Fowler, head of Fowler amp; Daughter, which happened to own the nation's largest franchise of Chinese laundries, the nation's second largest manufacturer of thimbles, and which held controlling interest in Okay Oil Company – the nation's biggest greasers.
Now, the three brain boys' interest was being controlled by Ms. Virginia Fowler. It was only natural that she held their attention, because she was sitting in her empress throne, dressed in ass-hugging hot pants, a halter top that looked more like a see-through bra.
In other words, Ms. Virginia Fowler was a very sexy woman. And she was rich. And she was a bitch. And that combination can literally scan the hemorrhoids off chicken-stilt assholes like Haskell, Cooper and Wally.
Everybody knew she was a bitch because of the way she looked. Shock-red hair, dagger-green eyes that were accentuated by pencil-thin eyebrows that seemed to arch over her hypnotizing eyes like pitched tents, an aquiline nose that only smelled trouble, thin lips that had a lot of sheen and glistened with oily lipstick that tried to make her lips look full and sensuous but which still appeared very thin, an obstinate chin that no man had chucked.
Yeah, she had a bitchy-looking face.
As for her body, that was an animal of a different stripe. The ends of her russet-colored hair stopped at the tops of her titties – very large and firm titties, made larger by the daily massages given them by fourteen Lesbians-in-waiting, and made firmer by the constant suck jobs given them by the fifty-four gigolos she kept around the mansion like so many ashtrays.
No woman had a better set of titties – not even Jane Russell in her prime.
She had a pinched-in waist – it had to stay pinched in because she always went to bed at night wearing a special Korean-made corset that had seventy-two stays and which took her fifty-three minutes just to snap on.
And legs – God, she had legs that wouldn't quit. Legs that seemed to stretch on forever. She was as leggy as any Vogue model – you know, those girls who look like they were born hanging from the rafters so that two-thirds of their bodies were all thigh and knee and trim ankle.
As for her pussy – well, that was yet to be seen. Anyway, that's the picture that Haskell, Cooper and Wally got as they sat around the round velvet-covered table waiting for Ms. Fowler to give them the necessary details on their latest rat-fuck job.
They waited for what seemed like an hour for her to speak – they waited that long because several of the Lesbians-in-waiting were trimming her toenails, lighting her Tiparillo, adjusting her empress chair, massaging her titties, spraying perfume in the air, doing all the normal, everyday junk that all women dream of having done to them.
Then she spoke – very bitchily.
"Listen, cocksuckers… and listen good!"
They were shocked… but since they were also cocksuckers, they listened good to Ms. Virginia Fowler.
"Here's what I want. Okay Oil is being lambasted by half the environmentalists in the country. I want to better our company image. And I want it in keeping with the Bicentennial celebration. You cocksuckers got that?"
The cocksuckers nodded their heads in unison.
"I want it middle-class, something folksy, keep it low-key. I don't want a Goddamn line written about Okay Oil discovering ways to beat the summer heat in order to save precious fuels. I don't want a nation wide commercial about how we've got Jose Gonzales digging for oil using his ass for a shovel out in some fucked-up place like Sudan. Got the message?"
The cocksuckers got the message. They started to rise in unison, but that bitchy voice halted them, scared the living shit out of them so bad that they had to reseat themselves.
"And another thing, cocksuckers. You want any pussy, booze, a sauna, a half-and-half – every thing's here at the Okay Ranch. So make yourselves comfortable – but you've got five hours to come up with a good ad campaign. Now get the fuck out of my sight."
The cocksuckers were out of sight as fast as a fart dissipates in a wind tunnel. They headed for their rooms – er, suites.
In Haskell's suite, he found a sweet young thing named Bobbie Jo Gunderson. A very sweet thing. And Haskell had a very sour expression on his face. How did Ms. Virginia Fowler, Ms. Oil Empress herself, know that he liked to fuck teen girls.
Well, in reality, Bobbie Jo Gunderson wasn't a twelve-year-old girl. She was eleven, but she was passing nicely for twelve because she was just growing ripe little titties in places where most woman have their titties flowing. And there was just the sign of fuzz all around that slit that older women call cunts and pussies.
Haskell sighed. How was he to think when his personal fetish, his bag, his thing, was so near at hand? God, and only five hours to come up with a nation-wide advertising campaign.
What to do first?
Why, of course, he'd do his thing first.
Just a little quickie.
"Yes," Bobbie Jo said in a timid, shy voice. "I fuck like a mink. That's what you were thinking, huh, Haskie honey? You were wondering how you could get your eight-inch cock into this little hole."
Haskell looked at that little hole that she was pointing at. Yeah, it sure looked little – like it was the world's tightest cunt.
Oh, God! He was drooling on the Persian carpets! But, wait a minute. How did this twelve-year-old vixen know he had an eight-inch cock? Shit, his artist portfolio didn't have any self-portraits in it. How did she know?
She knew because Ms. Virginia Fowler had told her so. And Ms. Virginia Fowler knew because of her contacts with the man himself – the President of the United States. And she knew that he could find out the cock size of any man who resided in America. Shit, everybody knows that the President of the United States is the smartest man in the world – he just has to know everything about everybody.
Haskell unzipped his pants, gave his eight-inch cock a few reluctant tugs before doffing his smock and the rest of his clothing. Well, might as well go ahead and rip off a five-minute quickie – then he'd bit the palette and conic up with those neat-o, keen-o sketches.
But for now, the only thing that came up was his neat-o, keen-o cock as it stretched out to its full eight-inch length.
Bobbie Jo approached him and lay down on the Persian carpet, pointing to her pussy. "And I know how you like to fuck dry cunts too, Haskie honey."
God, what a precious, but very precious, twelve-year-old cunt. She was like a wet dream come true. Oooooh, look at that tiny slit that his eight-inch cock was going to be introduced to.
Bobbie Jo spread her limber legs, gripped the sliver-like slices of her cuntlips and yawned open her pussy hole. Christ, the diameter of her cunt-hole was no bigger than his pinky.
Ooooooooh, was this going to be, fun!
Haskell was down on his knees, cock in hand. Then his prick was in her tiny hands and she was guiding him to her tiny pussy where a tiny drop of cunt-oil was winding down toward her tiny ass.
The head of his cock touched her cunt – oooooh! Her pussy was so tight – like fucking a miniature clam, a very dry oyster, the mouth of an angelfish see what an artistic imagination Haskell has.
Haskell shoved. But she didn't scream. She didn't groan and say weird things like, "Oh! It's too big! Take it out! Your cock's too big for me!"
No, she just lay there and watched his cockhead disappearing into the guts of her cunt like some snake crawling into a tiny gopher hole. Why, she didn't even cry, didn't even hunch her hips. What a terrific girl she was – so much more mature than her peers, more ladylike and demure.
Haskell's cock bent this way and that as it plunged deeper and deeper into her tight pussy. Sweat was pouring off his temples, off his forehead, off his bushy eyebrows.
He had never felt anything like it! Fucking Bobbie Jo's tight cunt was like screwing a stiff and stale donut hole. The grip of her pussy as he withdrew his cock to the glans made Haskell shudder and shake. And when he shuddered and shook, his balls shuddered and shook – until she cupped her hands around his hairy balls and stopped them from shuddering and shaking.
Oh, God! What a fucking lady! So helpful! Oh, God! He could feel the cum-urge starting, beginning near his balls and soon to end in her tight cunt.
It had to be cum that was oozing out of his prick because her pussy was too dry to manufacture all that ninny juice that was running out of her hole.
"I betcha you're gonna came now, Haskell baby. Oh, boy! I can't wait to feel your cock go spurt, spurt, spurt deep inside me! Hurry, Haskell! Spurt! Spurt! Spurt!"
What could Haskell do? His cock was being gripped by a cunt-like vise, and his balls were being palmed by a young lady who knew about things like petting and caressing a man's testicles.
So he spurted.
Spurt. Spurt. Spurt.
"G-G-God! Oh, God! My jizz is just coming all over!"
Damn right his jizz was coming all over – and now that nice and tight and dry cunt felt as wet as a Florida sponge, as dripping as fresh coffee grounds, as wet as rain.
Yet he had to come some more.
Spurt. Spurt. Spurt.
"Oh, God, Haskie baby! Do you feel all that jizz coming out of your prick! Just look at that gooey stuff coming out of my pussy! Look!"
Haskell looked, almost died of heart failure right in mid-cum. What a stinkhole of a mess! White gluey strings of his seed, his own manufactured cunt, was just sticking to that part of his cock that was sticking out of her cunt. Runny rivers of white cum-balls were trickling down from her tiny pussy to the tiny starfish mouth of her asshole.
Spurt. Spurt. Spurt.
"You sure have a lot of cum in your cock, Haskie baby! Boy, doesn't your cock feel good right now?"
It did feel good ten seconds ago, but now his cock felt dead, felt choked and exhausted and just had to come out of that pussy to take a Goddamn breather.
Haskell fell on his side on the Persian carpet. He didn't want to think, didn't want to move, didn't want to clean up the shitty mess he had made of the Persian carpet.
A voice blared from somewhere overhead. A crackly, intercom-like voice: "All right, cocksucker! You've had your fucking jollies, now start earning your Goddamn money!"