She had a nose in the middle of her face, with jaw lines that seemed to surround her cheeks so much so that her eyes were like a beautiful pig's. And she had enormous tits that didn't sewn to sag nor were they very big. After all, she loved to have her tits fucked, but not by just any prick of her own choosing.
Her hands reached out of their own accord. She reached his prick and gave it a couple of shoves. He moaned distressingly. The balls were heavy and big. She touched his balls, her hands coming into delicious contact with them, and as her left hand felt around and through his balls, her tight hand was busy at his head, before moving his hairy nipples and landed parachute-like on his fat navel to his big hulking cock.
"Fuck me!" she whispered throatily, using her voice. "Fuck me now!"
Then he fucked her. He creased her stomach so she was in a bent-over pretzel position and he gave his cock to her pussy from behind, wedging spade-like into her cunt.
Enough! Atrocious! Disgusting!
Who the hell could understand what the hell was happening in the first four paragraphs of The Coach Eats Out?
Frieda couldn't. The only sentence that had made sense to her was: "Fuck me!" Jesus! So this was why she was teaching English to her kids at Thomas Dewey – so they could understand trash like this!
It was terrible, a mockery of the English language. It was downright pornographic.
Frieda skipped to page forty-two of The Coach Eats Out.
His prick rose as if it did not have a conscience.
Huh?
It raised its mushroomed head and stared with its one eye at the cheerleader's eighteen-year-old, nearly hairless pussy.
What?
The cheerleader snorted in her breath. Her thighs clapped.
Snorting breaths? Clapping thighs? OH GOD, NO!
Coach waddled like a duck op his knees into the V of her unclapped thighs. He held his prick with his hand then, with a sadistic smile, his cockhead rubbed the door-like lips of her cunt. Her cunt was eager, because it puckered outward on itself.
Oh No! Jesus! No! Unclapping thighs and self-puckering cunt-lips!
The coach's cock moved itself back and forth in the large grip of his knuckled fingers. The cheerleader's cunt opened up involuntarily of its own accord much like a clam would do when it is put in the refrigerator and is allowed to die slowly.
NO! Self-moving cocks and dying clams! GOD! NO!
The coach ambled real close to the cunt that lay between the pretty cheerleader's bent thighs. He was ready, was she? She was because her thighs reached out and grabbed, then anchored around the waist of the two-hundred-and-eighty-year old man who breathed somewhat quietly. Her cunt wetted its lips with a smelly ooze that filled the room with the smell of rotten fish guts.
Frieda wanted to die! Die because of a fictitious cheerleader who had to lived a life with bent thighs and whose cunt smelled of rotten fish guts, yet was capable of wetting its own lips.
Coach, or Coach Rollins as the others named him, missed the first time. But he got to fuck her on the second spearing of the cheer-leader's breathless pussy, shoving under her cunt before it straightened out and gave her clit the rubbing it deserved. The cheerleader's thoughts were scrabbled with poisonous darts of ecstasy. She thought about how the cock, which was in her pussy very deep, was so much fun and better to fuck than the black cock that belonged on the hoary thighs of Mr. Johnson, whose only esteemed position at school was one of being a prolific English teacher. She laughed.
She laughed? Oh God! No!
Smirking her lips downward, she chanced to see the coach's ripe balls which lay beneath his cock like two baked walnuts that were covered with a slight furring of nebulous hair.
NO! Smirking her lips downward! Is that facially possible? And nebulous hair. NO! JESUS, NO!
The cheerleader could not see the spunk on the spewing lips of the coach's cock as it ejaculated involuntarily deep inside the twisting core of her womb. It felt happy. But because she could not see the spunk that spit out of his cock, the pretty, diminutive little cheerleader could have imagined what that semen appeared to be while it flooded her own pussy and started creaming around the outside edges of the skin where it could escape from his cock.
Somehow, some way, Frieda was starting to make sense of the nonsense in The Coach Eats Out. Somehow the author, a writer with the dubious name I.C. Cum, was getting to Frieda. Getting to her pussy and making it drool and cream and open up like a dead refrigerated clam.
"Oh, God! This is silly! I couldn't possibly… be… oh no!"
But Frieda was turned on by the Coach early out. She knew she was turned on because her cunt was soaking in the middle of a lot of cunt-juice while she envisioned a fictitious cock that had lips that spewed spunk because it was all very happy. Or horny. Or whatever.
No! It was impossible! Her cunt wasn't a clam, and her thighs weren't bent, and she didn't have the clap. No! Absolutely not!
But there was a tingly feeling in her cunt. And her nipples had it stiffened. And Frieda felt itchy in the crotch, like she had dandruff on the wrong set of hairs or something. Or whatever.
She scratched her cunt. Ooooohhhhh!
She tickled her cunt. Aaaaahhhh!
"Oh, Lord! I haven't done this since college. Oh, God!"
Frieda couldn't help it. Her cunt seemed to be burning up. Cum had put it on page fifty-two. Her cunt felt clammy as if the lips that dwelled near the opening to her twat had been fried and baked in a lusty oil.
GOD NO! Her pussy-lips felt just like that! Just like they had been fried and baked in lusty oil by I.C. Cum. They were burning up!
Frieda couldn't believe it! That asinine I. C. Cum had put the fuck-urge into her pussy. That dumb ass writer with his screwed-up images and stupid grammar was turning her on.
Frieda spread her legs very wide. She turned her eyes away from the book and looked between the V of her legs into the mirror opposite her.
No! No! No!
It was a clam! Her cunt was a clam that was puckering open on itself!
Oh God! Unbelievable! Those I. C. Cum images were stuck in her mind! No!
She needed something to distract her. Get her attention away from mixed metaphors and illogical sentences.
The phone rang. Thank God!
"Hello!" Frieda screamed.
"Jesus! You don't have to yell, Frieda!"
Frieda took a deep breath. "Oh, it's you, Bernice. I-I'm so glad you called."
"Hey! Is that any way to greet your best-buddy teacher? Oh, it's only you, Bernice. What the hell kind of greeting is that?"
"I-I'm sorry, Bernice. I… well, I was just caught up in a book and…"
"What kind of book?"
"Oh… uh… well, something for the kids to read."
"Oh."
"Oh what, Bernice?"
"Oh, just wondering if you thought about going to Vegas with me and Hazel. We're gonna have a great time."
"Well, I don't know yet, Bernice."
"What is the matter? Anyone gettin' in your way again?"
"No… well, yeah, he is. You know he'd never let me go with you girls to a place like Vegas."
"Hey! By the way, where is the old jock?"
"He's at the game."
"What game?"
"The football game."
"Frieda, there isn't any football game tonight. We're in the middle of April. Baseball season… you know?"
"What?!"
"Oh-oh, I guess I shouldn't have said anything. Uh, well, I'll give you a call tomorrow about the Vegas trip. Bye, Frieda."
Click.
What? No football game? Baseball season? Where the hell was the old jock?
The door slammed. The old jock was home. From God knows where.
Frieda heard him put his coaching jacket away in the closet. Heard him fart once, then come ambling down the hallway, leaving a litter of cleats, sweat socks, jock, and jersey behind him.
By the time he reached the bedroom door, he was naked and he was shocked.
Frieda was naked!
And her cunt looked so juicy – at least from what he could see in the mirror. And trough the V of her legs, he could see her face. She was scowling.
"Where have you been, Arnie!"
"What are you doing, Frieda!"
"Never mind what I'm doing! Where have you been!"
"Never mind where I've been! Why are you naked!"
"What's wrong with being naked? You're naked, too!"
"But I'm a man!"
"Huh?"
"I said I'm a man!" he repeated gruffly.
"Arnie," Frieda said, staring daggers at her husband's turned back. "You know we've been mated for five years, and for five years I still don't understand you. I think we have a communication gap."
"That's 'cause you're a woman."
"What?!"
"Which means you oughta put something on when I'm not home because you'll invite rapists into the house!"
"Oh, hell! Arnie, girls don't invite rapists into their homes. That wouldn't be rape then. That would be…"
"Hey! What's this?" Arnie picked up what should have been beneath forty pairs of neatly pressed Fruit of the Looms. "Goddamn, Frieda! Where the hell did you find this!"
"Uh… in… in your drawer. I-I was just curious… and…"
"You pervert! Don't you know women shouldn't read stuff like this!"
"Now, wait a minute, Arnie, I…"
"So that's why you're naked! You fucking perverted wife! Did you get real turned on, huh? I bet you did, you and that filthy mind of yours!"
Frieda shook her head. What was it that made her feel like she was talking to the monkey instead of the organ grinder? She tried bridging the communication gap again.
"Arnie! I'm not perverted just because I read your silly, little…"
"Then why is your pussy wet! Huh?!"
"Because the book sort of turned me on, but…"
"It turned you on! It looks like you gave birth to a piss-pot! Look at those sheets! Oh, Jesus! Look at that cunt-juice!"
Frieda flushed. What could she say? Tell him yes that she had given birth to a piss-pot? Jesus, he wasn't making any sense; yet, she felt perverted. It was just like that Goddamn book – irrational as hell but it still made sense.
"Arnie, please! You're embarrassing me!"
"You embarrassed! Hah! How can a perverted bitch like you feel embarrassed? Shit, what you need is this! 'Cause it's the only kind of language you really understand!"
Frieda was aghast. Her husband was giving her the finger, the bird, the old middle finger held sky-high! God! That was the last straw!
Frieda started to get up angrily.
Arnie pushed her back down, then rammed his sky-high middle finger into her cunt.
"I knew it, you bitch! You're no better than those, fucking cheerleaders at school. Always prancing around hoping they'll get their cunts eaten. Well, I'm not going to eat your box right now, you pervert!"
Frieda shook her head. God, his middle finger was so Goddamn deep in her cunt! And now he was wiggling it, tickling her cunt and cunt-lips, getting her pussy all hot and juicy.
Frieda couldn't help it. She didn't want her pussy to get hot and juicy, but nature's most powerful instinct, the urge to fuck, was instilling passionate sensations in her writhing body. She tried to be coherent, logical, and cool.
"I-I, aaaaahhhh, God! I-I don't want you to… aaaaiiiieeee… eat my cunt!"
"Why?"
Why? God, Frieda couldn't understand what he was saying! Arnie just didn't make any sense!
"How the hell… aaaaiiiieeee… should I know why?!"
Arnie finger-fucked Frieda's cunt, his middle finger disappearing all the way up her cunt, along with his pointing finger and the one he picked his princess with.
"I'll tell you why you really want me to eat your cunt! Because you just read The Coach Eats Out, and you just found out about eating pussy! And now you want me to eat your cunt!"
Frieda shook her head, tossing her long blonde hair back and forth on the wet sheets. His finger was driving all logic out of her mind. She couldn't think. The pleasure of having her pussy fingered like that was just too much to overcome.
"Aaaiiieee! Oh God! Harder!"
"See! You fucking bitch! You read one book about pussy-eating and your dirty mind's filled with a tongue in your cunt! So okay, bitch! You want my tongue in your hole? Huh? Well, show me how bad you want it!"
Frieda squirmed. God, so much juice was coming out of her pussy. Christ! How was she supposed to show him that she was in heat, that she wanted to have his cock in her cunt instead of his tongue.
She tried shaking her head, but would he understand that what she was trying to say was No! No! No!
"Yeah, you hot-cunt bitch! Look at the way your head's shaking! Look at the sweat on your face! I know how much you want my tongue right hoe!"
Anile jabbed at Frieda's cunt, roused the little bugger to rigid erection. Her gash was so juicy that his nose-picking finger slipped a couple of times and landed too low in her fuck-hole.
"Please! Oh God! Please, Arnie!"
Arnie laughed. The bitch! She was begging for his tongue! Pleading far the coach to eat her, out!
Well, he was ready. His tongue was ready. His lips were ready.
He ate her out.
"Oooohhhh Goooddddd! Arnie! Oh God! Oh no! Stop! Please… aaaaiiiieeeee!"
Arnie's cheeks, the ones on his face, wallowed between Frieda's thighs, his tongue licking and swiping and swirling all around her hairy pussy.
Arnie usually didn't eat out his wife; but lately he had been getting some practice with Yvonne Mandell, the head song leader at Thomas Dewey, and she had proclaimed often enough that he was the best cunt-eater in the whole school.
To Frieda, Arnie was the best cunt-eater in the whole world! It had been so long since a tongue was fucking around with her pussy. God! She couldn't stand it!
Arnie had a big mouth. God had blessed him with a big mouth so he could eat the shit out of cunts like Yvonne Mandell, and Cherry Whittaker, the head cheerleader. He also had to have a big mouth for his coaching duties – yelling at zit masked boys to get their fucking asses in gear, or screaming for them to turn in their gear because he had caught them in the shower fucking each other's uses.
And used his big mouth well.
Frieda died a thousand deaths as her friend ate her cunt with his well-like mouth.
"Aaaauiieeeee! Arnie! Oh God! Tongue my cunt!"
Arnie tongued her clit.
He loved tonguing cunts.
Oh, Frieda's cunt wasn't really long enough to give a real wash job. Not like Suzanne, the head majorette. Now, she had a real doozy of a cunt. The kind that Arnie could chew off and there'd still be enough cunt left for her future husband to munch on.
"Aaaaiieeee! My cunt! Oh, Arnie! Lick my cunt! Please!"
Arnie moved lower.
His tongue scraped over the meaty lips of her cunt.
Frieda didn't have a bad tasting cunt. It probably wasn't bad-tasting because she washed it so Goddamn much until there was nothing left of the walnut shell. Not at all like Vivianne's cunt.
Vivianne Kringle's cunt had a definite odor and a distinguishable taste. Probably because she was only a freshman girl on the pep squad, she sweated a little more and practiced spreading her cunt-lips because she was the only girl on the pep squad who could do a back-flip while holding onto her ankles. Which was probably the reason why she had been the only freshman girl to make the pep squad.
"oooohhhh! Arnie! I'm cccooommmiiinnnggg!"
Arnie tasted his wife's cunt-juice as she was coming.
Shit, Frieda's cunt-ooze wasn't mushy, nor did it have a heavy flow. Not like Penny Krakow's pussy when it was in the middle of an orgasm.
Shit, Penny Krakow was not only the most popular pom-pom girl but she had the most popular pussy far the boys to eat.
Locker-room rumor had it that Penny's pussy flowed so heavy that the boys often wondered if they were eating her cunt on her off days.
"Aaaaiiheeee! Oh God! Arnie! Stop! Please stop licking my pussy!"
For once in his life, Arnie listened to his wife.
He stopped eating her pussy.
He stood up, looked down.
God, her cunt was glistening readily. Like those fraternity hazing days when a piece of liver would be tied to a string and the pledges were ordered to swallow it. Yeah, you guessed it, they'd always yank on the string after it had been in the pledge's belly for a couple of minutes.
But anyway that's what Frieda's pussy looked like right now. Like slices of raw red liver that were covered with frothy spit. Only it didn't have a string on it. Because if it did have a string on it, that would have meant Frieda was on her off day, and Arnie would not have eaten her pussy like he had just finished doing.
Arnie licked his lips.
"There, that'll teach you! What's for dinner?"