like a carpenter's wedge.
'Fuck, fuck, fuck!Fuck me!!'
'Aaaiiieeeefl' Lucas screamed. His balls were erupting, forcing the jizz into his cock. His prick was exploding forcing his sperm into Elvira's hot, clutching pussy.
Her cunt felt like it was on fire, an itchy-type fire that consumed every inch of her cunt.
She grimaced, bearing down, her cunt-muscles clenching and unclenching.
Lucas kept spurting cock-cream into that delicious slit. Every ounce of spunk that he had stored in his balls shot out of his cannon of a prick.
'Oh, my God!' Elvira moaned. Then heard 'Oh, my God!' as it echoed in the garbage can. The stench was unbelievably bad, but the fucking prick jammed all the way to the end of her twat felt unbelievably good.
For Vance Manning, who had just stepped out of Boris Jerkovich's studio, what he saw was unbelievable. He stepped back into the shadows, watching Lucas Trimble pull his sperm-drenched prick out of Elvira's cunt.
That was his girl Lucas was fucking around with! He felt like establishing law and order in the alleyway, like pulling out his.45 Magnum and billy club and start blasting and bashing away. But he suddenly thought of a better way to get revenge.
Connie was going to get her revenge, too. She was in love, truly in love with somebody, and not somebody's cock. But she knew it was an unrealistic love, and so did Tommy Trimble.
Hell, she was thirty-three, he was thirteen. People at his age couldn't fall in love. People at her age had already fallen out of love so they couldn't just fall back in. Could they?
Yeah, they could fall in love. Because both of_ them felt that old magic feeling every time they fucked, which was about every hour on the hour for the past month. Every time they could get together, they fucked or sucked, usually both, but after each sexual episode, the next chapter of their lives was just plain loving each other-tenderly, really caring about the other person's feeling.
So they both felt that they had to leave Weedville. And that was their problem. People would track them down. Hell, it was almost two hundred miles to the next state, and in South Dakota you couldn't make a move without someone seeing you. The fucking state was so under populated that people were a rarity.
So they discussed their problem, and Connie came up with a solution. She had been writing a diary of her life of how this shit-hole of a town with its assholes for aldermen kept her as a mistress. And she had written down every exploit, every rotten carnal deed done to her luscious body.
Now she was planning to send copies to each man who had furnished her with clothes, food and a three- bedroom apartment in exchange for fucking her ass, tits, mouth and cunt.
That would take care of them. They wouldn't dare come searching for her if they knew what was hanging over their balls.
But Tommy was a different story. Shit, Connie could get five to ten for child-molesting, and at least twenty to life for kidnapping.
Tommy felt that even if they threatened his old man with spilling the beans about how and when he had fucked Connie, it would make no difference to him. He didn't have a wife, the others did. Maybe the people of Weedville would be outraged when the truth came out, but they would still elect him mayor-shit, he was the only one who knew anything about mayoring.
Hell, what a dilemma. And all they wanted to do was get out of there fast and start proving how much they loved each other. If only people wouldn't bug tern.
Martin Seaman was a titty fucker. No, not one of your usual everyday titty fuckers he really had to have two tits sandwiched over his cock before he could get his rocks off. That was why he really dug fucking Connie Ryan's titties. God, what a pair huge, firm mountains of boob that could create a canyon of warmth ten times better than any cunt.
Martin was in bed. He was naked, fondling his cock. His wife was snoring beside him-loudly snoring, like the zzzzz's of a drunken elephant.
Martin was reading a book. He liked to read books before he fell asleep. He thought he was quite a book reader. The book in his hands was called ANNIE'S HOT FANNY. It was a fuck book, or, as everybody else who had read it before it finally ended up in Martin's hands, 'a real cock-grabber'.
Martin didn't think ANNIE'S HOT FANNY grabbed his cock. There weren't any titty-fucking scenes. Shit, he had had to read up to page thirteen before Annie was even kissed no, not on her cunt, or ass, or even on her tits just plain kissed on the lips. Fuck, shit, piss. Cock-grabber, huh!
Martin was disgusted. The fucking book was nothing like the cover. Hell, he got more thrills jacking off over the bra ads in the Sears Roebuck catalogue.
He got to page thirty. Finally a fuck scene. Annie was starting to give his prick a rise. But the goddamn author was really getting with it. Shit, the writer wasn't even describing how cunts looked when they were stroking madly up and down on a cock!
Page fifty was another fuck scene. Annie was sucking a nigger's cock. Disgusting. A real turn off. Why the fuck did all those modern fuck books have to have white chicks fucking niggers? Equal rights? Take a nigger to bed today?
Shit, his cock drooped down again. When the hell was Annie going to get her titties fucked?
Martin read on, getting to page eighty-five before some more skin-action occurred. Annie was looking through a peephole, watching two queers sucking each other's cocks.
Martin's prick not only was limp now, but it felt dead. Really disgusting. Every goddamn fuck book always threw in a couple of scenes where fags were buggering each other. What ever happened to straight people like him? Who the hell were all those fuck-book publishers trying to impress?
Gay guys. Fuck 'em.
Shit, he was halfway through the book and not one scene had given his prick the full hard erection that he wanted.
Then on page 155, four pages from the end, there it was-a titty-fucking scene. Martin's prick jerked and throbbed. Well, it was about fucking time!
Annie's tits were, as the author described them, not tits but mammaries, and the prick that was shooting cock-juice all over those mammaries was called a masculine tower of strength that poured its vast resources all over Annie's bosom.
Martin couldn't take any more reading. He had just finished reading an inadequate sex scene about one of his favorite pastimes titty-fucking.
Martin grabbed his eight-inch prick, ran his hands over the tip, then down the shaft. He needed titties. He wanted Connie Ryan's titties, but she had told him that she had lain too long in the sun and that her nipples were burned raw. No more titty-fucking for a while.
Martin sighed.
He nudged the huge form of his wife as she lay spread-legged, curlers on top of her head, mammoth fits inflating and deflating with each snoring intake of breath.
Martin had never titty-fucked his wife.
He wondered why.
His prick felt red-hot. Well, why not? Why not just titty-fuck his wife for the first time in twenty years?
Martin sat up, looked at his wife's face.
Ruddy cheeks, ruddier lips, flaring nostrils that seemed to balloon from her fat-cheeked face. It was a good thing her eyes were closed, because they wouldn't look so piggish had she been awake.
Martin gazed at his wife's tits. Christ that was the reason he had married her. Her tits were huge-much bigger than Connie s.
Each titty looked like a football. And now that she was on her back, the footballs looked like they were two one-eyed heads that she had her arm cuddled around. But when Gladys Seaman stood erect, they looked like footballs, big footballs.
Why hadn't he tried to fuck her between the tits? Her boobs had turned him on when he was a spry youth of nineteen newly married to Gladys. And now, they still turned him on.
Quietly he unbuttoned her moth-eaten pajama top. There wasn't much cleavage now, because her massive tits were nestling on her elbows as they sagged away from her chest.
He lifted, yes lifted, her right boob. God, at least ten pounds of fleshy tit was in his hand. He looked at the
