Frieda searched her husband's drawer. Staring from the left, she carefully lifted up his Fruit of the Looms.
Then she saw it. Saw what it was that her husband had put away this morning. It was a book. A book with a funny name. The Coach Eats Out.
At first Frieda thought it was simply one of her husband's coaching manuals. She had never heard of a sport called eating out. Maybe it was a mistake; maybe the publisher had meant to title the book The Coach Chews Out.
Because that was what Arnold did all day on the football field – made pimple-faced kids cry because they didn't hit hard enough, didn't run fast enough, didn't catch footballs like Lance.
But Frieda knew that what she had in her hand was not a coaching manual. Unless coaching manuals were now being published with covers that showed a husky man at a restaurant, with his head beneath a cheerleader's mini-skirt.
Frieda was shocked. Very shocked.
She had heard about books like… like this… this piece of garbage. Arnold wouldn't read this filth. Shit, why would her husband want to read about fucking and sucking when all he did when he came home was fuck and suck her, win, lose, or draw?
Frieda wanted to die. No, not because the book in her hand was pornographic, but because it was such a prime example of piss-poor writing.
And Frieda definitely knew something about writing. She was a graduate of St. Judas Aquinas College, class of '65. And she had graduated with honors in English. Which was a very good field to major in to be an English teacher. Which she currently was. Currently teaching English like a foreign language to a bunch of American kids.
Many people were surprised that Frieda had gone to college. In fact, most of the people in Dudish County were shocked. For one thing, Frieda was the first resident of Dudish County to go to college. And they were doubly shocked when she had graduated from college.
People had just expected other things from Frieda Matthews way back then. They expected her to fuck and suck a lot, just like her brothers.
They expected her to have sons that would also be half-brothers because her full brothers were always threatening to fuck her. They had expected her to a belly full of ripe ova just crawling with wiggling brotherly tadpoles.
Yeah, they had expected a lot.
And they were very disappointed.
Papa Matthews was disappointed the most. Shit, he had always considered little Frieda to be prime cunt, something that he could fuck around with once his nights as a chicken guard came to an end.
Of course, what kept Papa Matthews from putting his claws on Frieda was that fucking broom Mama Matthews wielded.
Once, Papa Matthews had thought about killing Mama Matthews. Because she was getting to be useless with each passing day. The hominy grits tasted like a bucket of oats. The buckwheat griddle cakes could have been used for doorstops. And his coveralls smelled like chicken guts.
And nothing was more useless than a Dudish County witch who protected her daughter with a broom and made pancakes that tasted like chicken guts.
Frieda, however, was very thankful for Mama Matthews' protection. Oh, there had been some close calls. Too close to want to be remembered.
Like the time her brother Abelard had cornered her in the barn. He had whipped out his prick and told her to suck it or he'd hang her fucking ass from the rafters.
That was one of the few times that Mama Matthews had not used the sapling brushes of the broom to prevent her daughter from being raped.
She had used the other end, the hickory handle end, to spear Abelard's asshole as he stood with his coveralls hobbling his ankles.
Then there was the time. Mark, Paul and Luke had cornered her in the back of their '52 Ford pickup. They were supposed to be going to church, and the rest of the Matthews clan was riding ahead in the station wagon.
And Frieda was on the flatbed an her back. She was spread-eagled, her arms and legs lashed down with her brothers' belts. And she was naked. Yen naked.
And Mark, Paul and Luke began drooling like thirsty mules when they had looked on their sister's pretty nakedness.
"Uuuuummmm!" Paul ached, rubbing the bulge at his crotch. Then there wasn't a bulge at his crotch because the bulge had become a prick and a pair of hairy balls as his coveralls, fell to his ankles.
"Hey, Paul," Mark said thoughtfully, chewing on a piece of straw. "I'm thinkin' I'll tan our asses if she catches us Frieda."
Frieda was scared. Very scared. She had never been naked in front of her brothers. And Paul's prick was only the third prick she had ever seen in her life. And it seemed like every time she was seeing a prick these days they were getting bigger and bigger and bigger.
Ezra Jubal's prick was only about eight inches long. And Abelard's looked a tad bit under ten inches. But Paul's prick, by far, was the biggest prick she had ever seen.
Paul's prick was a foot long.
Only it was soft.
Luke groaned. "Looks like rain."
Frieda didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say. She prayed.
Rain started to fall.
Paul was down on his knees, his hands jacking his cock.
Jack. Jack. Jack.
While raindrops kept falling on her head, Frieda squinted her eyes to see how big Paul's prick was getting.
Fourteen inches.
And, to Frieda, Paul's prick looked half-hard.
To Paul, his prick felt half-soft.
Frieda prayed some more. Prayed to God that Paul wouldn't put his hard cock into her cunt, or her mouth, or… no, not there, would he?
Luke looked up at the black clouds. "Looks like it's time."
"You thinkin' of fuckin' Frieda, Paul?" Mark asked, chewing the straw.
"Well," Paul answered, jacking his prick. "I'm thinkin' of giving her a cumholer. That away she won't get a baby in her belly."
Frieda prayed again, prayed that she would go deaf so she wouldn't hear what Paul was going to do to her virgin asshole. Prayed that a lightning bolt would kill her brothers dead. Prayed that she would be a bale of hay that the boys were simply taking to market so that it could be shipped to the Chicago stockyards and end up in some contented cow's four stomachs where she would be immensely happy.
Lightning struck too far away.
Thunder rolled over Dudish County.
Luke said, "I seen lightnin'."
"Well, come on, Paul," Mark exclaimed. "Hurry up and do your corn-holin', 'cause I wanta have Frieda suck my prick."
"Hold your fuckin' horses," Paul replied. "Takes a while for my prick to get hard for corn-holin'. You oughta know that."
Mark scratched his ass, looked around for another edible straw.
Luke searched the sky from east to west, "I hear thunder."
Frieda wanted to die. Wanted the good Lord to strike her with lightning and bum her up like a dry bale of hay that someone had thrown their lit Lucky into.
Her tits felt cold as raindrops splattered all over them. There was lots of tit-flesh for the raindrops to fall an. Because Frieda was now eighteen and a senior in high school. And she was just going into the next stage of growth for a Dudish County female: from little woman to big woman.
Paul watched the raindrops dripping off his sister's trim. He drooled, kept jackin' his cock, kept thinkin' about how good it was going to feel when he stabbed his prick into his sister's asshole.
He looked down at his prick.
It was ready. It was sixteen inches long.
Her asshole was not ready. It looked hardly bigger than a starfish's mouth. Like it would have a hard time shitting out a turd the size of a toothpick.
"Jesus!" Mark exclaimed. "Ya think you'll get all that meat into her whole?"
Paul nodded. "Looks a bit tight, don't it?"
Luke said: "I see Ma coming."
Frieda moaned. She moaned because her arms ached and her legs hurt and her asshole was being stretched by a cock that should have been in a mule's ass instead of hers.
"Aaaaiiiieeee! No, Paul! I'm tooooo tight! Aaahiieeee!"
Paul sweated. But you could hardly tell it because the rain was coming down too fast and it was washing away the smell of b.o.
Jesus! What a tight asshole! He'd never corn-holed nothing this tight in his life. Oh, he had corn-holed little brother Jethro once, but that didn't count because they were ages twenty-eight and ten… respectively speaking.
No, corn-holing sister Frieda was tots better.
Paul watched his prick bend, then bow, then threatened to snap. Finally the head of his sixteen-inch prick popped into the sliver-tight hole.
"Aaaaiiiieeee! Oh God! Oh Dear Lord! Make him stop! Pllleeeaaasseee!"
Mark was amazed that sister Frieda could actually make her asshole stretch that big. He watched, the rain making it difficult to see.
Luke said: "Yep, that's Ma com'n down the road. Com'n fast, too."
Paul moaned and groaned as he stuffed more prick into his sister's ass. Jesus Christ! Her asshole was tighter than hell! And it felt so fucking bumpy in there. Nothing like those chickens he fucked every night. The only thing that reminded him of chickens was the way Frieda was squawking and squealing.
"Aaaaiheeeee! No! Oh Dear Lord! Save me! Ooooaaaaiiiieee."
"Looks like you're almost alt the way in," Mark said, looking at Frieda's asshole gobbling up Paul's prick.
Paul lunged, like stabbing a pitchfork into a bale of hay, like jabbing his prick into Matilda his favorite hen.
Luke said: "Yep, it's Ma all right. And she looks madder than a hornet."
Ma? Madder than a hornet!
God, Paul didn't know what to do. He was caught betwixt and between. Between a rock and a hard place.
He wanted to pull his prick out of Frieda's ass, tuck his ten-incher back into his coveralls before Ma whipped his balls with forty lashes of the sapling broom. But then again, he had never fucked an ass before that belonged on a woman, a creature that had real live human tits on her chest instead of feathers; no, he couldn't pull his cock out now.
There was only one thing to do: hurry!
"Oh, Christ! Hurry, cock, and hurry! Oh, shit! She'll beat the hell outa my balls! Oh, hurry!"
"Aaaaiiiieeee! Oh God! Please do it easy!Oohhhhhhh! You're hurtn' me so bad! Oh God! Oh Dear Lord!"
Thunder crackled. Lightning flashed.
A car door slammed.
Raindrops kept fallin'.
Paul kept fucking, hurrying as fast as he could, shoving and jabbing and pronging his sister's asshole, wishing to hell now that it was Matilda he was fucking instead of his sister.
"What you boys doin' to my little Frieda!"
Oh, no! The wicked witch of the north was here!
Luke said: "Oh-oh. Ma's here!"
Mark jumped off the flatbed. Luke followed.
They cleared way for Mama Matthews as she wedged through them.
Paul hurried, then hurried faster. He was almost there! He thought about Matilda's cunt-nest, thought about younger brother Jethro's asshole. Then he thought about coming, 'cause thoughts about fucking real chickens and brother chickens always spurred him on to coming.
He started to spurt – or, rather, his prick started to spurt.
"Aaaahiieeee! You're tearin' me, Paul! Ohhhhhh Gooooddddd!"
Spun. Spurt. Spun.
Paul's head was back, his mouth catching Kansas rain while he poured jism into his sister's asshole.
Then his head pitched forward, the rain running off the back of his head like water off a chicken's back.
He felt dizzy when he shot the final spurt of cum, the one that usually made his balls droop because they had contracted so much, the one that usually signaled the end of a chicken-fuck, or a sodomy-job, or a sister-buggering.
Mama Matthews looked at the Bible in her hand. Couldn't believe that Paul's head had plumb knocked off the personalized nameplate.
God, how she could have used her broom right now. God, how she'd beat the shit out of Paul's balls to teach him never to fuck around with his sister's asshole again.
"Oh, Mama! I hun so bad!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"But I hurt so bad! Am I bleedin'?"
Mama bent down, attended to Paul's head first before sizing up the condition of Frieda's whole. "Shit, no you ain't bleedin'. But I pray the Lord you were bleedin'. Just look at what you done with your sister!"
Most sisters would be very pissed if their brothers had made their asshole the size of a cunt while it was in labor, giving birth to a couple of Siamese twins. But Frieda was not mad at that moment, not vengeful or full of spite.
For one thing, she was unconscious.
For another thing, when she had regained consciousness and she felt cool rain running down her bleeding ass-crack and she heard thunder and saw lightning, she saw a very clear message, a God-sent spiritual telegram: LEAVE AT ONCE STOP HAPPINESS ELSEWHERE STOP NEVER COME BACK STOP SINCERELY STOP GOD.
Which was the reason why Frieda went to college.
Because she had to get away from eighteen bothers who wanted her to become a one-woman harem. Had to get away from a father who was looking forward to his retirement nights, sitting in a rocking chair with his incestuous daughter down between his knees sucking his cock.
So, Frieda left Dudish County in the summer of '61. She took a Bible, two gingham dresses, a pair of panties that were actually one of her brothers' cotton shorts cut down to size, eighteen pairs of hand-me-down coveralls and some Preparation H.
At first she didn't know where she was headed, like most girls today. She just kept going in accordance with that spiritual telegram.
First she headed east, then she took a circuitous train ride to Chicago, booked in the third-class section of the hobo department.
Somewhere south of Evansville, Illinois, she headed west because the hoboes had discovered she was a girl dressed up as a boy and they caught her pissing in a funny, unnatural position when she had thought they were all asleep.
She had escaped safely. The hoboes had not harmed her because she gave them fourteen pairs of chicken-gutted coveralls in exchange for keeping her hymen intact.
Going west, she went by extended thumb and just a little bit of thigh showing beneath the gingham hem. She was very careful about who picked her up.
If there was one man in the car, she refused to ride.
If there was one woman in the car, she accepted.
If there was no one in the car, she also declined.
Using that thumb, she hitchhiked all the way to L.A. Most of the trip was covered in a '48 Packard owned by the Trucedales, Solomon and Gracie.
Solomon was the man in the car, and Gracie was the woman in the car.
Solomon was also the husband.
Gracie was also his wife.
They were in love because they were on their second honeymoon. The first one having taken place thirty years ago, back in the thirties, the Depression years when many a poor wife sold her pussy next to her husband's pencil stand.
The Trucedales, however, thought and acted very young.
At first, Frieda thought they were senile because they were always cooing around each other like pigeons, kissing when they could like pit-teenagers, and their faces won't so withered that they couldn't blush and become embarrassed like normal type lovers. Both had lots of hair. Both had lots of wrinkles. Both had varicose veins. Being old, they had a lot in common.
But they were a happy couple who had earned a lot of money making Geritol ads in Florida. But before that, Solomon was retired from his job as a bank toiler and Gracie no longer had to cook for those prune-faced hap in the Rocking Chair Retirement Home where she had cooked mush for twenty years.
But there was a night when the Trucedales changed. Changed drastically, haphazardly, just like it says in the Foreword to this book: outwardly normal, inwardly perverted.
It was ten miles west of Tucumcari, New Mexico, when the change took place, and Frieda saw the Trucedales for what they really were: Outwardly old, inwardly young and perverted.
Solomon was not the happy seventy-year-old man he appeared to be.
And Gracie was not the happy sixty-year-old woman she appeared to be.
Outwardly they were happy; inwardly they were happier because they had gotten their hoary hooks into some pretty young stuff. And boy, did they eat up on that young cunt.
They drooled over young stuff. Stuff like what was in the back seat of their perverted '48 Packard. The fluffy stuff that was curled in a ball against one of the armrests, using a Bible for a headrest.
Frieda had thought that they had stopped so that old fart, Gracie, could take a piss behind another McDonald's billboard. When Frieda rubbed her eyes and sat up, that was a natural conclusion to come to. Because she saw old fart Gracie pulling up her dress, exposing her knee-high nylons which were sagging to her ankles.
And, in the cloudy darkness, Frieda could make out Solomon's scarecrow body as he fucked around with his fly.
There was nothing unusual. Nothing that made Frieda fearful. So they were just two senile people who had cheerfully pulled off the road so they could, beneath a drooling McDonald's Big Wheel.
Shit, old people did think like that everyday. It's a natural cycle of life. You're born and you're on your back saying goo-goo and thinking your left ankle's a toy or a cloud; then when you're old, things never change because you're flat on your back and your feet are in a transom because the varicose is too bad and Father Simon is standing over you and you're saying good-good.
But the Truest and Jules were not acting like everyday old people.
Something looked unusual.
Because old fart Gracie was still holding up her dress like she was wadding through three-feet deep mud puddles. And she was minus her usual white cotton panties. And her pussy hair was very obvious, because it was eleven o'clock at night and threatening to rain, and Gracie's white pussy hair stood out like a white rabbit in a hutch full of black hares.
And there was something about Solomon that looked unnatural. Either his watch fob had come loose from his belt and was hanging halfway to his knees or he was so old and senile that he no longer had the energy to zip up his pants after peeing.
The latter case was true. Too true to believe.
What were they doing?
This was a public highway, not a road cutting through the midst of a nudist camp. God, what would the truckers say when they passed by with their guts full of No-Doz and their bellies full of Maxwell House and their eyes full of white pubic-haired rabbits and fob-like cocks?
Frieda closed her eyes. Opened them again. The Trucedales were still there in the same obscene, lewd condition.
Well, that wasn't really true.
Because now the Trucedales were only a couple of steps away from the depraved Packard.
The Trucedales had worsened their obscene, lewd condition. Or at least one half of the Trucedales had worsened. Solomon, the worse half of the Trucedales, had an erection!
God! He had a boner! A hard-on! A big corncob!
All those terms came back to Frieda in a flash as she remembered her eighteen bothers and what endearing terms they had for their hard-on, corncob boners.
Frieda wanted to run, wanted to thrust open the door and get the hell out of there. But it was too dark, and rain was beginning to fall, and she was naked.
Naked?
God, where were her clothes? Where had they gone? Her favorite gingham dress!
"Don't go looking for your clothes now, pumpkin," Solomon leered as he opened the door and let in cold air and rain.
"Yes sir," Gracie said from the other side as the wind coming in from Solomon side ruffled her dress and white pubic hair. "We just wanta have a little fun – isn't that right, Sol?"
Sol smiled. The gold in his teeth as bright as the lightning that flashed behind him. He entered the back seat.
Gracie came up on Frieda's backside.
Frieda shivered. Frozen with fear. Like a scaredy cat.
"Why, you look like you're frozen with fear, little scaredy cat," Solomon said.
"Oh, Solomon," Gracie teased. "Frieda isn't scared. Are you, Frieda?"
Frieda unfroze. Obviously there wasn't a hickory broom handy. Mama Matthews was a zillion miles away probably making the batter for tomorrow's doorstop pancakes. What would Mama do?
Frieda grabbed the Bible and raised it over her head, intent on chastising Solomon's white-haired head.
Gracie grabbed the good book.
A fight ensued.
While the fight ensued and the good book went from one hand to the other, Solomon started fucking around with Frieda's tits. Uummm, so unlike Gracie's tits. Frieda's were young and firm and hot to the touch.
No sag, no wrinkles, tits made of polyester.
Frieda screamed. "aaaaiiiieeee! please don't!"
And while she screamed, the fight over the good book ensued, and Frieda was in an awkward position for fighting. Her hands were up and over her head, clutching desperately to the Bible as that demon woman kept trying to grab it away from her.
And her tits felt as if they were being sucked off her chest as Solomon's lips covered her nipples.
"Please! Mr. Truesdale, stop that! Oooohhhhh, please!"
Then Frieda was toppling backward, and the Bible was gone from her hands, and Solomon was all over her body, his tweed jacket scratching her flesh.
And then darkness covered Frieda's eyes, obliterated the lightning and moon-streaked clouds as Gracie lifted up her dress and took a pissing position over Frieda's face.
"Mmmmggggffff! Mmmmggggffff!"
"Oh, don't scream so," Gracie implored, feeling the youngster's lips on her pussy. "We won't rape you. I just want you to eat my pussy cause Solomon can't stand the smell of old cunt. And Solomon won't hurt you, Frieda. All he wants is a taste of young cunt."
Frieda tried struggling but it was useless.
She prayed.
The pitter-patter, pitter-patter of raindrops beating against the depraved Packard resounded in her ears.
Then came an unnatural sound. Like the sounds the hoboes made in those freight cars when they sucked each other off.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Uuuummmmmmm!" Solomon moaned.
Frieda felt so dirty having her pussy cleaned by a person's tongue. No one had ever tongued her cunt before; no one had even thought about using their tongue to clean her cunt. Usually Mama Matthews handed her a washcloth cut from some denim coveralls and told her to wash between her legs until it was whistle clean.
Frieda groaned. Something felt unnatural about having a tongue in her pussy.
"Now, don't be scared, Frieda," Gracie whispered haggishly as she started the first cunt-grind against Frieda's face.
Oh, God! Frieda had never tasted pussy before. Not even her own. She had never had the urge to taste cunt like most American teenagers do.
The odor was powerful, somewhat oily. It was a taste that Frieda couldn't help but taste. Because Gracie was forcing more of her white-haired pussy against her lips as Solomon kept eating her pussy out, and everything felt so nasty and tasted so filthy.
Frieda tried to scream: "Mmmgggfff! Mmmgcgffff!"
And Gracie was going ape-shit on top of Frieda, loving the feel of Frieda mouth on her pussy. She edged forward, then came back. Her sixty-year-old cunt was on fire!
Solomon groaned. Young pussy! God, pussy that tasted like… like his mother's walnut meringue pie! Oh, God! It was a beautiful taste.
Frieda squirmed like a leapin' lizard. She couldn't believe what was happening to her. Her flesh felt hot and stuffy. Her mouth felt hot and stuffy. Her cunt felt hot and stuffed… stuffed with an old man's vile tongue.
Then her cunt didn't feel hot and stuffed. Cool air was on her pussy. Then the heat was back again, the heat that radiated from the lust-flushed face of a seventy-year-old man whose mouth was groveling in a pussy that tasted like freshly baked walnut meringue pie.
"Mmmggggffff! Mmmmggggffff!"
Frieda wanted to die. Something was happening to her body! Something strange and unnatural.
But it felt good. It felt tingly just above her peehole. It felt itchy-twitchy right at the top of her cunt where there was a pimple-sized bump that was driving her crazy now as Solomon's raspy tongue kept whipping that pimple-sized bump.
"Mmmmggggffff! Mmmmggggffff!"
Solomon had tasted a cunt while it was in the midst of a climax. Gracie's cunt always climaxed in the midst of his cunt eating and she usually went so crazy that he felt as if her cunt were drowning with water-like juices.
But this cunt was so different!
This was young stuff!
Walnut cream pie! Uuuuuum-hummmmm!
Good!
Gracie was moving as fast as her age: like sixty. She was pumping away like mad, moving her cuntlips back and forth, back and forth over Frieda's mouth.
"Mmmmggggffff! Mmmmggggffff!"
Oh, Dear Lord, stop this infernal pleasure! The heat was desirously suffocating! The pleasure in her cunt was like a plague, like a pox, like a social disease.
"Mmmmggggffff! Mmmmggggffff!"
Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
"Mmmmmggggffff! Mmmmggggfffff!"
Dear Lord! Save her from that horrible ecstasy that was eating at her pimple-bump. And that wonderful sponge-like pleasure that was invading then absorbing her ass.
Invading her asshole? A sponge?!
Oh, God! No! His tongue – his tongue was in her hole! Licking away the Preparation H. Frieda wanted to die. The Lord had not created assholes for men to eat. And oh, she was sooooo sore! No! Not there, Solomon higher! Return to the pimple-bump! Oh, please!
Solomon savored Frieda's asshole. Tasted the flavor of her ass! He had never tasted an asshole like this one before. Gracie's asshole wasn't like this. Was he so old that he couldn't remember what a young asshole tasted like?
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.
Gracie was beyond the planet of ape-shit now. It felt so good to have a young pilgrim such as this one sucking her cunt. Ooooohhh, that's it Frieda-honey! Right on the old cunt! Right on the old pimple-bump!
They were nearing a climax, coming to the end, sensing the finality of their midnight snack.
"Mmmmggggffff! Mmmmggggifff!"
"Aaaahiieeee! Frieda-hon! I'm cooommmiiinnnggg!"
Frieda hunched and squirmed and thrashed. Solomon's tongue was driving her asshole up a wall. She wanted to be in the same state of ecstasy as the old fart on top of her face. She didn't want his tongue corn-holing her asshole. She wanted his tongue in her pussy!
But Solomon corn-holed her asshole with his tongue. God! He couldn't remember tonguing a creamier asshole. There was so much cream on this young asshole. God! Was he so old that he couldn't remember how creamy Gracie's asshole had been when he was courtin' her in Topeka and they were at the Blue Bird Soda Shop and he had his finger in her asshole instead of her cunt because he didn't know any better?
Then Gracie fell forward. Of her own will.
And her tongue speared the pilgrim child's cunt on the first thrust. And, since Gracie had a cunt between her legs, she knew where the pilgrim child's pussy would be.
The pilgrim child had her first orgasm. Her first orgasm in her whale entire life. Which made her an exception because she was now eighteen, the legal age for having orgasms and voting and smoking and buying condoms and even marrying of her own free will.
Ali, what a wonderful age!
Gracie licked and licked and liked what she licked. Creating one climax after another for Frieda-hon.
And Solomon had licked Frieda asshole whistle-clean of the Preparation H, and he was wondering when her asshole would climax again so he could taste that delicious creamy deluge of her rectal passion.
Then Frieda had one last stupendous seizure, one last ecstatic epileptic fit, the grand maw of all orgasms.
"Aaaiiiieeeee! I'm cooommmiiinnnggg, toooooo!"