Living between the Figgers and the Marcuses was an unmarried, but very happy single woman. Her name was Rachel Lindsay.
Rachel Lindsay was a rare woman.
If you were an optimist, you'd guess Rachel's height to be six feet. If you were a pessimist, you'd guess Rachel's height to be five and a half feet at the most.
In reality, Rachel was five feet even. But Rachel was one of those women who fucked around with reality and deceived all the men who eyeballed her voluptuous figure. She fucked around with her real height by wearing clogs, wedges, platforms, high heels, all kinds of pedestrian footwear that added inches and sometimes a foot to her real height.
On Mondays, Rachel wore her twelve-inch-high dogs because Mondays always felt so low to her that she thought that her tallest shoes would offset the lowly feeling by giving me height to her life.
On Tuesdays, she wore wedgies – shoes that made her feel as if she were sliding downhill as she walked – because they were so comfortable after those painful Mondays when she suffered from blistered corns.
On Wednesdays, platform shoes were her choice because the middle of the week was always the most stable to her. Thus, she wanted just a little height, yet she wanted her feet on a firmer ground.
Fridays (Thursdays were her days off), Rachel always chose patent leather high heels with such vicious-looking spikes on them that you could tell by the pock-marked sidewalks where she had been.
Being that today was Friday, Rachel was slipping into her six-inch spike-heel shoes. She was dressed to kill – slinky cocktail dress that showed so much of her tits it should have passed for a cheap J.C. Penney negligee rather than a hundred-dollar dress. Beneath the cocktail dress were black lacy bra, black lacy panties, black hose and garter belt. Beneath the black lacy things were a fully packed set of thirty-eight-inch titties, well-rounded hips, well-rounded asscheeks.
Jesus, she was dynamite in ebony, juicy in jet-black, a veritable madam, of the midnight.
Any girl would have been proud to have Rachel's explosive figure, but only a blind girl would have been happy with the kind of face Rachel had been ill-blessed with.
When men looked at Rachel Lindsay, they always started from the neck down. The reason they started from the neck down was not because she had the type of titties made for mashing and squeezing and sucking, and not because she had the type of ass for kneading like dough. It was because she had the type of face that would not only stop a clock but would turn the hands counter-clockwise.
Starting from the top, Rachel had stringy hair, the kind of hair that the more kinder souls called Afroish and modern, when in actuality it looked like she had stuck her finger into an electric socket and fried her hair in to a kinky case of the frizzies.
Beneath the frizzy hair was a long forehead that seemed to be interrupted by heavy dark eyes made heavier and darker by too much make-up. People were naturally drawn to Rachel's eyes because they were trying desperately to look past her long, thin nose that had suffered, at a very early age, cartilage damage when her nostrils were introduced to the wrong end of a hockey slick.
To her credit, she had average lips.
Lips that were not heavy and full, nor thin and narrow. Just a simple set of fuckerable lips that looked decently kissable.
Actually, the best way to sum up Rachel Lindsay's striking looks was that she had a whore's face on a Miss America body.
Now Rachel Lindsay was parading her Miss America body in front of the dresser mirror trying to undo God's facial handiwork by applying more make-up and mascara to her face. Next came a couple of dabs of Ambush perfume beneath her elephantine ears, and a couple of dabs on the pulsing vein that vampires eat up on. Now she was ready for her date.
She sashayed to the closet, brought out the old tire pump.
Let's see, tonight she had a date with – hmmm, oh yeah, tonight she had a date with George.
She went to the bedroom to fetch George, tire pump in hand.
She rummaged around in her closet and brought out a shoe box labeled GEORGIE.
She flipped off the lid.
Georgie's plastic face greeted her with a droopy wrinkly smile. She grabbed him by the ear and unfolded his balloon-like body. She spread him out flat on her bed and smiled.
"Hi, George."
Now for the best part.
George was on his plastic back, pans of his dummy body still full of air from the last time they had dated.
She grabbed his plastic prick – well, it was really a combination of human-like prick and air nozzle.
Oooaooooh, she couldn't wait to blow him up.
His plastic prick nozzle was only two inches long now which is about average size for most of the inflatable dummies that she ordered from a mail-order firm in Skokie, Illinois, that sent her catalogs weekly with the latest in dildoes, douche guns, semen perfume, plastic pricks and plastic life-size men with cocks bigger than those of real-life men.
She put the rubbery prick into her mouth and started blowing.
And blowing. And blowing. Christ! She really loved blowing cocks! Her cunt was running over with pussy juice. Her black panties felt more like a sponge in her crotch than an expensive piece of filmy, gauzy cotton.
She huffed and she puffed and she blew the man up.
Georgie's cock grew and grew in proportion to the rest of his inflatable body. God, what supreme effort it took; what lungs it took to blow up an inflatable man that could take up to 300 pounds of air per square inch. Hell, his cock alone had to take at least twenty pounds of hot gusty air per square inch – only the cock inches weren't square, they were round and firm and becoming warm with each wheezing breath.
Georgie's crinkly face was starting to shape up – he looked kind of cute with his painted on smile and Little Orphan Annie eyes.
Rachel stopped blowing Georgie's cock, capping her thumb over the end of his prick so that none of those precious air bubbles could escape from the huge cockhead.
Rachel always stopped when Georgie was half-full of air. Her lungs just couldn't give her enough wind power to bring Georgie completely erect. Her titties rose and fell, and she wished that she could get out of her black lacy bra with the super duper half-cups that had her nipples flopping over wiry cups.
Moving very quickly and with much experience, she managed to get the nozzle of the tire pump placed over the end of George's cock. Then she started pumping like mad.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
Now her lungs didn't ache; her arms did. But Georgie was erecting. Oh, Christ, was he coming to life – whatta handjob!
His cock went from eight inches to a foot to a foot and a half.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
Georgie's head was starting to bob.
His prick was now two feet long.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
One more whoosh.
Ah! Done now.
Rachel looked at Georgie. George looked at Rachel. It was love at first sight.
Here was a man who dared to look her straight in the eye and see what lust and passion lay beneath them. Here was a nun whom she could kiss with her average lips and who wouldn't scoff at her ski-lift nose, or her droopy ears, or her static electricity hair.
Rachel kissed Georgie, threw her tits at his plastic chest with the painted hair. She grabbed his balloony knee and gave her cunt a ride, feeling the plastic come into electric-like contact with her hot pussy.
Oh, God! What a hot date she was going to have tonight!
She sat Georgie up in bed, put a pillow on both sides of him so he couldn't topple over from the slight breeze that came from her bedroom window.
She stood near the foot of the bed, looking at her date seductively, brihging her arms in tight and bulging out her titties at him.
"What do you think, Georgie? Do you like what you see? Hmmmm?"
Long fingernails fiddled with the tops of the dress until one seductive shoulder was exposed.
"Would you like to see more, Georgie? Hmmm? Would you like to see the best parts of me? Like my titties and my belly button and my… oh, shame on you, Georgie. Shame on you for having such thoughts."
Another shoulder was exposed, and the dress fell like crepe bunting. Only the tops of her titties prevented the slinky material from falling to the floor.
Georgie was nonplussed.
Cleavage was beginning to show, more beautiful, bountiful tits were becoming exposed to Georgie's poker chip eyes.
"Do you like my titties, Georgie?" Rachel asked, her dark and heavy eyes batting at him. Rachel would have tried winking at Georgie but she knew that with the couple of ounces of eyeliner and eye shadow that she had on one eye there was always the chance her eyelids might get stuck together.
The cocktail dress slithered to the floor, sliding with a whispery sound to the linty carpet.
"Don't be shocked, Georgie. I always wear frilly things when I go out with men I really like."
Georgie smiled.
"I hope you don't mind if I take off my bra – oh, I know how you men like to take off a woman's bra and panties, but this one cost me $4.95, and we don't want to tear it, do we?"
Rachel spun around and faced the mirror, looked at George's reflection and smiled wantonly at him. She reached behind her and unsnapped the bra. It fluttered to the floor. Pretending bashfulness, Rachel covered as much of her titties as she could with her hands – which wasn't very much because she had small hands and big tits.
"Oh, please don't stare at my tits like that, George. You make me feel embarrassed when you look at them like that."
George refused to look away.
"Oh, all right. I suppose you've seen quite, a few titties in your day. So you might as well see all of mine."
Rachel turned around slowly. Well, she turned around fast enough that her titties were still moving with the centrifugal force of her about-turn. Her titties settled back into position as she confronted wide-eyed Georgie.
"Are they all right, Georgie?"
Rachel hefted her titties up, and there was a lot of tittie to heft. Although her hands were at the bar of her tits, the mass of her tit-meat sagged over her hefting hands. The only parts that didn't droop were her nipples – they were rock-hard, ready to be kissed and sucked.
Rachel's tits were kissed and sucked – no, not by lonesome George but by her gathering up her titties and force-feeding them into her mouth. Yeah, she had dynamite tits all right – any girl has a big, explosive chest when she can suck them herself. Twiggy she wasn't.
When her tits were all wet and glisteny from the frothy spit, Rachel let them hang where they were – which was down near the bedspread now because she was leaning over and unsnapping her garter belt.
"Oh, Georgie, I do hope that you'll like the rest of me."
Georgie seemed to nod as the bed sagged from Rachel's weight as she sat down on the edge of the bed and rolled off her sleek black hose.
It seemed to take years for the net stockings to be skinned off her legs. But Georgie waited patiently.
Rachel wasn't patient now. She was in a hurry. She couldn't help being in a hurry because the sensuous feel of the pet stockings being unfurled from her legs always gave her a turn-on. And sitting in such a scrunched-up position had made her garters dig into her thighs, which always gave her an extra zappy thrill. And the way her panties just dug into her cunt and hugged her asscheeks made her pussy more slippery, made her nipples harder and erecter, made her squeeze her eyes shut with the sensuous, thrilling feeling that engulfed her flesh.
With her ass brown-eyeing at George's imperturbable features, she skinned out of her panties. Then she turned around to show hint her cunt.
It was quite a strain to open her stuck-together eyes, but she managed, and now she looked at George with passion and hotness and eagerness and ardor and with her mascara running.
George looked ready. His two-foot cock was very prominent – any man with a two-foot cock would have a lot of difficulty hiding the fact that he was interested in fucking a hot and horny chick like Rachel Lindsay.
Goddamn, was she hot to fuck!
Shit, those droplets on the floor weren't her runny mascara – that splattery stuff was coming from between her legs. Yeah, her hot and horny cunt was oozing so much oozy cunt-juice that it was leaving tracks all over the carpet.
Goddamn, was she hot!
And now she had a man whom she was going to fuck, who would look her in the eye when she fucked him and who would not cringe at her face and who would keep fucking her as long a time as she wanted – or until his last dying breath.
She crawled to Georgie and straddled his legs. His balloon cock was immense and beautiful and ready.
She kissed the head of his cock, lifted up his prick by the shaft and planted many, many kisses from stem to stem, from top to bottom, from the tip of the painted cock-slit to the edges of the painted-on pubic hair.
"Do you like it when I such on your cock, Georgie? Do you like it when I run my tongue all over your little prick…" She knew it wasn't a little prick, but she didn't want to give Georgie a superiority complex – like this?
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Did you like that, George? Well, if you liked that, George, you're going to love it when I fuck you. When I get on tap of you and plunge that little cock of yours all the way into my cunt – and you better not come too soon or I'll bite your little balls off!"
Then Georgie was leaning forward as Rachel crawled up higher and centered his balloon cock into the core of her pussy.
She moved his cockhead back and forth against the lips of her cunt, back and forth against the erecting bud of her clit, back and forth against her clenching and unclenching asshole.
"Oooooooo, God! George! God! Whatta cock! Oh Christ! Please let me fuck your cock, George! Please!"
George didn't say anything.
Rachel came down from her sensuous high – in other words, she forced her cunt to come down over his two-foot cock. The rubbery head of George's prick bent curved and ballooned out all around the shaft.
But it was inside.
George's cock was inside her cilia!
George's cock was moving higher and higher into her pussy as Rachel squirmed her bottom and moved her cunt lower and lower onto his huge erection.
Goddamn. It felt so goooood to have a prick in her cunt. She wanted to cry out. She did.
"Fuuuuuccckkkk meeee! Fuck the living shit out of me! Fuck me, Georgie!"
Obscene squeaky sounds were coming from where George's two-foot cock had another foot to go before full penetration into Rachel's hot pussy.
Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!
Goddamn, whatta fuck! Rachel couldn't believe it! She was getting fucked by a two-foot cock – a huge prick that was shaped more like those old-fashioned sausages that are usually hanging from some Wop deli in New York's Hell's Kitchen.
Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!
Georgie's painted face was oozing with runny mascara. George's huge, belly button prick was coated with drops of runny cunt-juice. Georgie's painted belly button was shiny with the sweat that poured off Rachel's tits like a wrung-out jockstrap.
What an erotic sight!
Rachel knew it was an erotic sight because that was what she saw when she glanced over her shoulder and looked at the mirror and saw the ghastly sight of her cunt being wedged open by a two-foot cock.
Goddamn! She had swallowed up almost all of Georgie's prick. Keeping her eyes on the mirror, Rachel saw that there was only a couple of cock inches to go before her cunt ate the whole thing.
Rachel couldn't stand it. The ecstasy was too great. The dizzy feeling that stormed her pussy was too overpowering. She was helpless. She had to come. She began to come! She did come!
"Oh, George! My fucking God! I'm coming! I'm coming! Feel my cunt squeeze your cock! Did you feel that – Aaaaiiieeeee!"
Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!
Then she held tight to George as her climax tore through her pussy and ran rampant over her Miss America body and made her whorish face turn red with passion. She clung tightly to her fuck mate like a sailor clings to his Mae West. Georgie's head was moving in all directions, his body bouncing and ballooning out all over the bed.
Rachel kept hunching away.
Kept bouncing her cunt up and down George's two-foot cock.
Kept fucking his big prick deep into her pussy.
Kept fucking and fucking and fucking, until her cunt squeezed so tightly on George's cock that the air cap on the end of his prick came off and he started blowing hot air back into the woman who had given him life.
"Aaaiiieeeee! No! No! STOP!"
Rachel went ape-shit with frustration. She was just starting into her second orgasm. But the air was blasting into her pussy, and the more she clung to George's wet and slippery plastic body, the more gusts of wind were being pumped into her pussy.
She writhed and wriggled and clung and embraced – but George was deflating, pouring out jets of air into her lust-starved pussy.
His cock was shrinking.
His head looked like a shrunken prune.
His smile was a shriveled, crooked line.
His prick felt like a shrunken prune.
George no longer was a date, he was a prune.
Rachel started crying. Started sobbing because George was nothing but a wheezing, dying piece of deflated rubber that could no longer keep her lusts afloat.
"You motherfucker!" she sobbed.
Georgie's cock exited from her pussy like a slug retreating from Ortho.
"You motherfucking dummy!"