He would have to be very careful.
By the time he had reached the desired limb which would give him the best peeping position into Connie's bedroom, he was gasping for breath. Then he was gasping for lust
Connie Ryan was in bed all right. And she was naked all right in the same position that Boris Jerkovich had dreamed so many times. Except that there was a husky, hairy, naked man on top of her, his cock drilling her cunt.
That was something Boris never dreamed about. It had been almost a quarter of a century since he had seen a cock fucking hard and fast into a woman's cunt. That had been his own cock fucking hard and fast into a Cossack woman's cunt.
Boris blinked his eyes. That man! It was Lucas Trimble, the mayor of Weedville! His honor was fucking Connie so fast that his cock looked like a blur to Boris as it pounded greasily into Connie's pussy.
He watched as Connie's arms and legs wrapped spider like around Lucas' bunching, hairy back. His ass was taut as the sweat flew from the tense muscles of his ass-cheeks.
Connie's mouth was agape. Her eyes were closed in ecstasy. She writhed her body beneath Lucas' heavy weight, her tits scraping across his heavy chest.
'Fuck me, Lucas. Christ! Give me your cock! Your prick's the best in town! Oh, whatta cock! Whatta cock! Whatta great fuckin' cock!
Aaaiiieeeee!!'
Then Lucas was bellowing like a stuck pig 'I'm cooomming! Coommmiieeeee, I'm coommmminnnng!
Eeeeeaaaggghhh!!'
Connie's eyes shot open in disbelief: Lucas' cock had swelled to immense proportions, and it was spreading her cunt-lips wide open. Never before had a cock so big ever fucked her cunt so wide open.
Leaves were rustling and the limb was creaking as Boris tried to steady his camera in one hand and pull on his prick with the other. Shit, it was at least fifteen feet to the ground. He had to hang on!
'You mother-fucker, Lucas! Fuck me!' Connie screamed as the spurts of jism blasted into her clutching cunt.
Lucas' spine was strained as he arched his back, his toes digging into the sheets, his face covered with sweat, as he shoved his cock as far into her sweltering cunt as he could. The creamy cock-juice was exploding from his prick, wads and wads of ecstasy-filled cum pouring from his spewing prick-head.
Then he collapsed onto Connie's chest, his chin nestling gently against her boob. Connie moved her body languidly, bathing in the afterglow of such a sweet and sweaty fucking. Her thighs moved slowly up and down on the outside of Lucas Trimble's hairy legs.
Cum was dribbling out of her pussy, escaping from around Lucas' huge cock and running in whitish rivers down the crack of her ass. Ah! It was such a good feeling to be fucked as many times as she had been fucked this night.
That night had been almost fifteen years ago, yet it seemed just like yesterday for Boris. He remembered climbing down from that oak tree, dragging his weary body home to his studio. He had developed the photographs, and was amazed at the sight of Connie being pinned to the sheets by the mayor of Weedville.
Since those fifteen years, Boris had improved on his camera techniques and his method of peeping. On his own time, which he had plenty of he developed a periscoping, camera one that would enable him to stand at ground level and through a system of complex convex mirrors, watch all the action in Connie Ryan's bed with her and her fuckers unaware of the camera lens that wavered outside of her bedroom window.
Within those fifteen years, he had captured on film such carnage and perversion as to put Rome to shame.
Boris reached for the photo album above the sink. It was a thick as Gideon's Bible. On the first page, pictures of Connie Ryan, hands on hips, bedecked in white cotton panties and Junior Miss bra.
As Rods flipped through the pages, he remembered each moment that he had photographed Connie and her fuckers.
There on page four was Lucas Trimble fucking Connie Ryan from the man behind position.
There on page thirteen was Reverend Worthington getting his prick into Connie from the missionary position.
Page twenty showed Connie sucked avidly on Jason Moresby's cock the cum dribbling down the shaft as her lips pursed hungrily around the knob.
Page forty-two showed Connie getting her asshole reamed by Coach Crowley as she kneeled before him, her mouth caught in mid-scream and Coach Crowley's ruddy lips opened in mid-moan.
Page fifty showed several color shots (Boris had just found out about color film) of Martin Seaman titty- fucking Connie. She was on her back, both hands shoved against her pussy. Martin was sitting on her stomach, his hands pushing together Connie's huge tits as his hard-on bounced against her chin. Connie's face was covered with cum, and her red tongue was snaking out to catch the sperm drops that clung to her lips.
Now, on this lonely Monday night, Boris sadly pasted in the color prints of Connie and her newest lover a piss-ant youth who looked as if he didn't know what his cock was for.
As Boris studied the pictures, he noticed something different in Connie's face. Her eyes were sparkly. Her face looked soap-scrubbed clean and there was just a tinge of peach color to her cheeks. She was smiling in every shot she was smiling!
Boris realized that in all the other photos Connie never smiled. In all the other pictures with all her other male 'friends' there was a look of wanton lust. But now, as she fucked the kid, there was a look of wholesome ecstasy on her face. Was she in love?
No! No! No!
She couldn't be in love; Boris didn't want her to fall in love. She had no right to be in love, just as he had no right to love her. What?
Boris in love with Connie Ryan? Suddenly, Boris realized that he was in love with Connie. So what was wrong with him being in love with the woman he cherished above all other women in Weedville?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Coach Crowley was an ass man. He had been an ass man ever since be drilled that hole through the wall of his private locker room so that he could see right into the girls' locker room on the other side.
And being an ass man, his swarthy flesh was flattened out against the wall of his locker room, his eye peering into the peephole looking for foxy young asses.
Mother-fucker! Will you get your scrawny ass out of the way, Elvira!
Elvira Schellcnberg was standing right in front of Coach Crowley's peephole, directing the girls in the proper way to towel themselves dry.
'I've noticed,' Elvira said in lesson-voice number thirty, 'that many of you girls do not know the proper way to dry your bodies.
Coach Crowley snarled; his prick was getting impatient. Goddamn, Elvira! He had a class to teach. Shit, his boys were out on the football field doing calisthenics, and he had to get his ass in gear.
'Will you hurry the fuck up, Elvira!' Oh-oh, he had almost said it too loud.
'Now, girls, always dry your upper torso first. Then your legs, Then your face. Uh, the last thing you should dry. er, to be sanitary and so you won't spread germs with your towel is, er, between your legs.
The girls tittered.
Marcia Moresby, who was standing behind the bare, nubile bodies of four of her classmates was moaning. She had already toweled her face, then her big tits, then her trim thighs, and now she was really drying herself off between the legs. She was running the soft towel like a shoeshine cloth through her cunt and ass, holding the ends of the towel from the front and back.
Elvira moved away.
Coach Crowley rubbed his hands in glee. 'Now, come on, girls,' he whispered hoarsely. 'Let's see those asses move! Come on! Move those hot asses!'
