Sleep Disorder

'Oh, yes,' she moaned. 'Yes! All the way in as hard as you can!'

With a snide grunt, Wardell obliged. To Clare it felt as though Wardell had just unreeled another three or four inches of hard cock into her slot. It was an excruciating mix of pain and mind-boggling pleasure. His cock was coring her like an apple.

'Uh-huh,' Wardell promised. 'I'll be bustin' my baby a big nut up this cooze. Honey, I'm gonna crank a load in you so hard my spunk'll be squirtin' out yer nose. You'll need the biggest hanky in the world.'

Then—

Mid-stroke and midway to the gate for both of them, the telephone rang.

The answering machine kicked in. 'Hello, this is Clare, I'm not home right now so please leave a…'

'Jesus Christ, you gotta be fucking kidding me,' Wardell said.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

No, no, no, thought Clare, please, please don't let it be…

'I'd do anything, darling,' Roderic said, his voice drippy, weepy, sniffly, and disgusting. 'I'd give anything for you…'

Wardell hadn't much cared for the telephonic coitus interruptus. So he'd worked off his lack of amusement at the expense of Clare's physical real estate. Not that she objected. Her orgasms ensued without abatement, in multiple fashion. What Wardell lacked in sophistication he more than made up for in cocksmanship. Other than that, she knew next to nothing about him. He'd never elaborated on his occupational pursuits, claiming simply to be a 'salesman,' and Clare never asked what he sold — though she doubted its legal status. He was muscular and brusque and incredibly handsome. Also very…enduring. And for her, right now, that was enough.

That night, though, she slept fitfully.

Roderic consumed her dreams. Roderic, who wrote poetry all day long and doted on his mother — whose wealth, she had once read in Forbes, ran to the mid-eight figures — who would pick her up in his conservative gray BMW and take her to the best clubs, restaurants, and shows, who would bring her gifts each week — jewelry, mostly — pay her rent, buy her a car, and leave delightful little cash envelopes beneath her pillow. Not bad for a girl nearing the far side of the hill, but…

…she guessed it was his mother. Crimp-faced, rouged, and paper-thin. Eternally sarcastic. He'd bring her home to the mansion sometimes for 'romantic' little chats by the fire, snifters of Cordon Bleu, and — disappointingly for Clare — pre-ejaculatory sex, and his mother would always be there when they arrived, nodding curtly from the sitting room and offering some cryptic remark like 'I hope you're taking good care of my boy,' or 'Good boys like my Roderic are easily taken for granted, missy,' always calculated to be discreetly rude. Fuck you, Clare would think, and offer up a smile instead. For Mama.

It was no way to live.

To make matters worse, Fudd was always there too — about as cheerful as a mugshot. Never saying a word, all black glances and subtle scowls, skulking around in black leather driver's cap, mitts, and long-tailed jacket. She wondered how much the old hag was paying him to keep her ancient pussy stocked with pork.

The implication was clear: Mama Roderic would overlook Clare's gold-digging as long as she 'took good care' of her 'boy.'

It was difficult, and it wasn't. On the one hand, Roderic was a loving, compassionate, romantic man. He was also fat and slack-muscled, pale as a fish belly, with a small, pathetic weenie that tended to give up its seed long before any serious amalgamation of genitals could be made.

Once while necking she had made the mistake of brushing his groin with the tips of her fingers. Oooops, he'd said. And showed her the wet spot on his custom-made Italian slacks.

On nights they actually made it to bed, he would usually have to apologize for the milky puddle on her belly moments after getting naked. 'You excite me so much I just can't help it,' he would tell her. There was no point sucking a dick that had spent its freight before she could even get it into her mouth. So that was out. And his own oral gestures proved equally futile, usually like a kitten lapping milk.

Which left her with her finger.

No. After nine months, restaurants and cold cash simply didn't cut it anymore — and Fudd and Roderic's mother coming with the package as they so obviously did only hastened her decision.

Besides, by then she had met Wardell. Who knew how to fill all the places Roderic left empty. I owe it to myself, she thought, as a modern woman, to pursue my spiritual, sociological, and personal well-being. As well as the gigantic cock.

Why couldn't Roderic understand? They simply weren't right for each other.

She didn't wish him any harm. She truly hoped he'd meet some frigid little blue-blood one day and live happily ever after. But…

She knew that some men would pine over a lost love for years. Become obsessive. Go to…extremes.

She hoped that wouldn't happen here. But maybe that was what scared her a little. Because there was something about poor little jilted Roderic that haunted her. Something deep in his eyes and in that forlorn, desperate promise of his…

…I would give anything for you.

Please Roderic, she thought, whatever you've got to give, take it elsewhere.

'Hey, love muffin.' Wardell had awakened and was nudging her with something other than his hand.

It was an excellent distraction, and Clare was grateful. She provided a welcome silo. Her mouth. All that burgeoning cock inside her, the glans big as a baby apple.

'God, woman! You sure can suck good peter! Get it, sugar! Suck all that red-hot pecker-snot right out of that cock!'

Quaint.

But she did. Slipped a pinky into his ass to prod the overlarge prostate as his testicles jettisoned yet another copious ration of semen. And, at exactly the same moment, thought of Roderic

Jesus, Roderic! Go away!

I'd give anything for you.

That goddamn promise. What did he mean?

What would he give?

His fortune? His inheritance?

His life?

Jesus Christ, she hoped not. She didn't think she was ready for that at all. Definitely not. But you had to think about it. Was the crazy little sonofabitch going to try to prove something?

Was Roderick suicidal?

Nah.

Even if he was, there'd be Fudd and Mama to tie him down for six years if necessary. Until he got over it.

No problem.

Except that he phoned every day. Luckily, he tended to do that while Wardell was out, taking care of his 'salesman' duties. But she started to hate the sound of her phone ringing.

Please come back darling, darling please, please, we were meant to be together, I would give anything in the world for you darling please… Good god!

Clare would never answer. But his calls were crowding her answering machine.

And at night he haunted her dreams.

Roderic in a tub, his slit wrists leaking cloudy red. Blue-faced in his BMW in a closed garage. Gunshot, poisoned, hanged by the neck.

His mother made scowling cameos. Shadowed by leather-clad Fudd, gloved hands opening and closing into creaking fists. 'You take good care of my boy, missy,' the dream-crone nattered.'…you take good care of my boy, good care of my…'

Each nightmare ended the same. Roderic's corpse, the black mouth opening wide, filled with pus and maggots, the death-rattle voice. 'I'd give anything for you.'

Wardell became the vehicle of her oblivion. She resolved to fuck and suck the little twerp right out of her