Bea has some unusual experiences 2.

The drive to Denton the next day took us about an hour.
It was a warm October day, the temperature well up in
the seventies. My appointment with the breeder was at
ten o’clock, and we had allowed for plenty of time.

Helen had taken my suggestion and not worn a bra. As I
watched her at the wheel, I could see how the material
of the jersey she was wearing hugged the firm shape of
her breasts. The least little rocking motion of the car
caused them to bob deliciously.

I had worn a skirt and blouse, and had taken a cardigan
sweater to look a little bit more dressed up than for
any other reason. I was bare-legged with only loafers
on my feet.

Helen looked much more casual, and could have been
mistaken for my younger sister than what was actually
the case. She hummed a tune whenever there was a long
pause in our conversation.

The farm was located a few miles outside of Denton and
was known as the Ho-Ho-Pony Estates. A big sign bearing
the name was positioned near the long dirt driveway
leading to the main buildings, and we could see some
horses and conventional sized ponies grazing in the
pasture on either side.

A tall, lean Texan greeted us when we pulled into the
compound. He was wearing a battered hat which shaded a
rather weather-worn face. I noticed though he was clean
shaven. He wore levis and didn’t tuck them inside his
boots.

“Mornin’ ladies,” he hailed us. Noticing the camera
hanging from my shoulder as I got out, he said, “You
must be the lady from New York, be you?” he asked.

I nodded. “I’m Beatrice Starr,” I said, “and this is my
sister, Mrs. Smallwood.”

He tipped his hat. “Pleased to meet you. I be Hack
Raver, the foreman here. The owner, Mr. Cunningham, is
tied up at the moment butšll be here presently,” he
said, looking us over with undisguised interest. “What
you can do, if you want, is walk around the place for
yourselves. Or I can take you.”

He waited to see what we might choose to do.

“I imagine,” I said, looking around, “we could do that,
just walk around by ourselves until Mr. Cunningham is
free.”

“Whatever you ladies want, I’m at your service,” he
said, tipping his hat again. “Them new ponies is over
in that barn, there.” He pointed to a low, one story
building that was probably the newest structure in the
compound.

Helen nudged me as we walked toward the new barn. “Why
didn’t you want him to show us around?” she. asked.
“Did you see that bulge in his pants?”

I hadn’t noticed, but Helen was always alert to such
things. “He’s too eager,” I said. “I’d rather wait for
Cunningham.” We looked back. The Texan was standing
there watching us. He took the little-finger side of
his hand and made a move at the “bulge” Helen had
noticed as if to adjust it.

We walked into the barn. The ponies were tied in small
stalls on either side. They were quite small for ponies
as I had, of course, anticipated. I judged them to be
roughly the size of a St. Bernard or Newfoundland dog.
They were amazingly sleek and clean looking.

I walked down along the stalls slowly, thinking there
wasn’t much in the way of an interesting picture to be
taken there with nothing but rear ends facing the
camera.

One mare was in heat. She had thrown her tail straight
up, and the hole was opening and closing rhythmically.
Each time it opened rather violently, and I could see
into the pink vastness of what was beyond.

I looked into some of the other stalls, wondering if
the stallions had been gelded. It appeared that many of
them had been.

One chestnut-colored male pony obviously had not been
touched. He was straining at the ropes securing his
neck, tugging backward, and pawing at the floor with
one front hoof.

Glancing down, I noticed his thing was out stiff and
hard. I gulped. It almost touched the floor. He
underwent some kind of reflexive action with it,
bringing it up from the floor and whacking it
resoundingly against his belly. It seemed then to
slowly shrink except for the head, collapsing
accordion-like.

In my experience looking at animals it occurred to me
that of all animals only the members of the horse
family seemed to have things that anywhere resembled a
man’s. I looked around to see if Helen had been
watching and was surprised to see that she was not even
in the barn.

“Helen?” I called instinctively.

Walking out into the compound, I saw that Helen was
nowhere to be seen. A few chickens lazily picked their
way here and there a step at a time, but not much else
was happening. Were there no stable boys around, I
wondered? Whatever activity was pursued on the place, I
decided, must happen somewhere other than where I could
see it.

“Yo, Helen!” I yelled.

A likely place to begin looking for her seemed to be an
old fashioned gambrel-roofed barn directly across from
the pony stables. I had to walk up an incline to enter
this barn. The massive sliding door had a much smaller
conventional type door in it which I opened easily.

Inside it took me a few moments to adjust to the
semidarkness but I could hear voices and the sound of
laughter immediately. The voices seemed to be coming
from directly overhead. I strained to look above me but
saw no apparent stairway or opening in the ceiling.

I walked back farther into the barn, past some heavy
farm machinery that appeared to have been parked there
a long time. There wasn’t much space to squeeze past,
and a lot of the equipment had protruding parts that
caught at my sweater.

About two-thirds of the way back, I noticed a ladder
propped up against an open trap door in the ceiling.
Carefully stepping up each rung, I stopped when my eyes
reached the level of the floor above. It appeared to be
a hayloft.

Hauling myself up onto the floor, I began to crawl
towards the front of the barn in the direction of the
voices. I was moving closer to the sounds when I
recognized the laugh as belonging to Helen. The other
voice was Mr. Raver’s.

The hay was piled high in front of me and seemed
insurmountable. I found a low spot all the way over on
one side and crawled up over it. Soon I was able to see
just what the two of them were up to. A tiny window
illuminated the scene.

Helen was lying down on the hay on her back with her
head pointed toward my vantage point. Raver was seated
at her feet and were he to have lifted his gaze one
inch would have been looking right at me.

Raver evidently had been telling a few Texas jokes.

“Go on,” Helen was saying. “You Texans like to brag, I
think. Everything’s not that big here.”

“Well, now, ma’am, most everything that’s real Texas
is. ‘Course we got a lot of foreigners in the state
now, and what they bring in with them, I can’t vouch
for, but if it’s home grown Texas, you can bet it’s
mighty big.” He turned toward her.

She was teasing him. I could see her rolling her body
slightly. She raised one knee and rocked it from side
to side, and I saw him look down at what she must have
been revealing at that moment.

I could see his neck reddening. “Now, ma’am,” he
swallowed. The bulge in his levi’s began extending way
to one side and then ballooned outward. He loosened his
belt with one hand and got up on his knees. “I’m just
gonna have to prove it to you, I guess.”

He tore open the fly, and his thing bounded out. I saw
Helen sit up suddenly, and was conscious of a sharp
intake of my own breath. It was huge. Bigger than any
man’s I had ever seen. I felt a slight burning
sensation in my vulva.

He moved forward on his knees closer to Helen, and I
stared, transfixed by the thing as it bobbed up and
down.

“Get a feel of it,” he urged, reaching for her hand.
“It’s all Texas beef” Her hand seemed so tiny as she
clasped it about midway along its length.

“Gosh!” she breathed. “I didn’t think.” She stammered
for a second or two. “It’s just so big,” she finally
said. Her hand moved down along it, squeezing it
occasionally as a housewife might squeeze fruit at a
market.

She stopped at the base and began moving her hand up it
again. “It’s so smooth. Jack’s is bumpy and veiny,”
she told him. When she reached the apple-shaped head at
the end of it, she gave it a particular squeeze. Raver
let out a shriek of pleasure.

Spurred on by the effect of her squeeze, she leaned
forward and began showering the end of it with kisses.

“Now, ma’am,” he gasped, having difficulty with his
breathing. “Don’t you want to try this out ‘fore it all
goes to waste.”

She was placing her tongue on the end of it now. I
noticed the sac containing his testicles pull up and
almost disappear into the base of his penis.

“Ma’am!” he cried out, pitching forward.

She had just placed her mouth around the swollen head
when I saw his whole frame convulse abruptly. He closed
his eyes and grabbed at her hair, his body apparently
racked with spasms.

He was coming! I hadn’t realized it because it had
happened so soon.

Helen was gulping spastically. Much of the end of his
tool was well inside her mouth. Poor girl. It was
probably pumping into her faster than she could swallow
it.

When the last of it had gone down her throat, she fell
back gasping for breath. Still on his knees, Raver,
too, sat back on his heels, his face turned upward,
eyes closed, his chest heaving. The massive instrument
had softened and somehow it seemed less formidable.

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” he said after a minute,
“but never play with a loaded gun. No tellin’ just when
itšll go off.”

“Oh!” Helen was still gasping. “Oh! There was so much.
Do you always come so much?” she managed to ask between
breaths.

“That’s real Texas cock, ma’am,” he said almost in a
matter of fact tone.

She sat up, her breathing gradually returning to
normal. Picking up the fallen piece of meat, she
lifted it in a way that suggested she was testing its
weight. “Gosh!” she exclaimed. “Even soft, it still
must weigh a ton.”

I suspected that Helen was far from satisfied. It had
never gotten anywhere near the place that counted. If
the throbbing in my own pussy was any indication, she
must still be quite hot.

Fishing around in my bag, I looked for something I
could stick between my legs and squeeze. I found a
plastic roller for setting hair that for some reason
had been dumped there. It was a fat one with holes
along it and seemed to have some give to it.

I placed it between my thighs up against my throbbing
crotch and squeezed on it, at the same time working my
thighs forward and back, first one and then the other.
It was better than nothing. In the meantime, I kept my
eyes glued to the scene in front of me.

Helen had moved forward and though I could not clearly
see, it appeared she was pushing the soft head of his
penis into her vulva. Her shorts were lying on the hay
to the side.

“Wup!” she snorted. “He’s still oozing from the last
one. At least I’m getting a little bit of it.” She
reached forward to where it joined his body and
grasping it, pulled forward compressing her fingers at
the same time.

Evidently a lot of come had remained inside because
both suddenly blurted out laughing.

“Good to the last drop,” Raver said.

It had begun to swell again. The couple became more
agitated as it rose once more into the air. The thing
seemed fatter this time, and redder. Helen lay back in
a near swoon in anticipation. Raver moved forward over
her placing his weight on his hands.

Because of its length, he had to raise his butt high
while she placed the end of it at the precise spot. I
could see his buttocks tighten as he began to thrust it
forward. As it packed in I heard Helen groan, and I
felt as if I were suddenly sharing the thrill of its
entry into her.

From what I could see, most of it had gone in, too.
Raver had settled into a quick in and out movement and
had reached up under her shoulders with his hands where
he held her tightly. He seemed to be trying to stuff as
much of it inside her as was possible. I had never seen
a man drive so hard.

Helen had wrapped her legs around his body and was
responding to his thrusts by pushing upward. She was
going to find out now, I thought, that size means
something after all.

With all the activity going on, they had managed to
turn clockwise about a quarter of a circle so that now
I commanded a view of that marvelous machine as it
jammed away at her. It appeared that several inches had
yet to go on in.

I was still squeezing the roller between my legs and
began to feel the first tug at my innards as the
pleasureful sensation began to build inside me. It was
taking a hell of a lot of energy to get myself off this
way.

Helen had begun making the little clipped whines she
was prone to utter as her orgasm approached. When the
last one trailed off into a long sigh, I knew she had
come.

Raver’s testicles did that same melting action up into
his groin that I had noticed before. He suddenly slowed
his pumping and collapsed on her, convulsing
spasmodically.

As my own climax arrived, I had to place a palm tightly
over my mouth to avoid giving myself away. Having
worked so hard to get it, the jolt left me utterly
debilitated, like an athlete out of shape, and I wanted
to sink miles into the hay.

I must have slept for awhile, for when I became
conscious of my surroundings again, it was very quiet
in the barn. I sat up and looked over where Helen and
Raver had been, and they were no longer there.

Crawling along the floor, I reached the trap and
climbed down the ladder. In a moment I was outside.
Hearing voices inside the pony barn, I entered it to
find Helen, Raver, and a man I presumed to be
Cunningham engaged in conversation.

“This must be your sister,” the man said, breaking away
from them and coming toward me. He was rather a pudgy
man, but well-dressed, and spoke with a soft drawl.

“Good grief, Bea!” Helen exclaimed. “We thought maybe
you had run off with a hired hand.”

“Only hand around here I know is Hack,” I said, winking
at her, amused at myself for making her blush.

“Yes indeed, ma’am,” Hack said, “and I’m at your
service.” He seemed pleased as pie with himself.

Cunningham began telling us then a little of the
history of his operation. It seems he had crossed a
small Icelandic stallion with an unusually small
Shetland mare he discovered at a carnival. He then
bred the progeny with other Icelandics breeding back
only those ponies that held their small size.

“That Shetland is the true prototype,” he said. “Bought
her for only twenty-five bucks from the carny guys,
too. Been selling these for forty times that,” he said
proudly.

I was busily taking down everything in a little
notebook I carried as we strolled past the stalls.

“The Icelandic gives them that clean look. Don’t smell
as much, either,” he informed us. “You take a Shetland
into a house, itšll smell like a barn right off. A
Shetland’ll bite, too. Can be mean. These ponies,” he
said, extending his arm in an arc, “are as gentle as a
lamb.”

I asked him about pictures, and he went into one of the
stalls and untied the pony occupying it. With just a
hand on its neck he guided the pony out. He walked back
towards the open barn door to the sunlight.

“See that?” he asked. “Don’t need a halter.

Kids can ride without a saddle, too. Just grab hold of
the mane.” He clutched a bunch of the beautiful white
hairs then let them go.

“They’re just adorable,” Helen said, stroking the
pony’s flank.

“Here,” Hack said, lifting Helen by the waist and
placing her on the pony’s back. I noticed his hands run
up over her breasts as he released her.

“Won’t she be too heavy for him?” I wondered.

“Oh, I don’t guess she weighs that much,” Cunningham
said. “I wouldn’t ride him regular,” he added.

We had come outside, and I took a few pictures of the
pony with Helen seated on him. I took some more of her
leaning over feeding him some sugar. Cunningham and
Hack seemed to enjoy that pose as Helen was quite
generous in revealing her charms. I took some head and
shoulder shots of Cunningham alone.

“Tell you what,” Cunningham said. “Why don’t you take a
pony home with you for a few days. Then you can get
some good pictures of the animal around the house.”

It seemed a good idea. Readers would want to see
pictures of ponies in a domestic setting since he was
advertising them as house pets. I looked to see Helen’s
reaction.

“Could we?” she asked, evidently pleased at the idea.
She leaned down, throwing her arms around the pony’s
neck. “Would you like to come and stay with me for
awhile?” she cooed.

“I didn’t have this particular pony in mind for that,”
he said rather sheepishly, “but I suppose it’ll be all
right.”

“What’s wrong with this pony?” I asked, curious.

“He’s not gelded, is what.” Seeing the confusion in our
faces, he went on. “He’s not cut.”

“Well, Mr. Cunningham,” Helen said almost with
indignation in her tone, “I know what gelded means.
What difference does that make?”

“Thing is,” Cunningham continued, “if any of you ladies
come around,” He blushed at the term. “If it’s that
time of the month, I mean. This pony being inside the
house and all, he may get a little aggressive.”

I could see the realization of what he was saying sink
into Helen, and the gleam start building in her eye.
She shot a quick glance at the animal’s genitals. There
wasn’t much of a penis to be seen, but the testicles
hung like two eggplants side by side.

“Well, we’ll just put him in the garage,” Helen said,
the problem solved as far as she was concerned.

“Let me get you a halter and some grain, ma’am,” Hack
said, going back into the barn. Helen followed him
inside.

“If you have a back yard he can graze in, you don’t
have to grain him but once a day,” Cunningham told me,
practically reading my thoughts. “They’ve been toilet
trained to go only when they’re standing on grass, but
you have to take them out at least three times a day.
Otherwise it’s not like a dog. They really let loose,”
he cautioned me.

I had visions of great floods in the living room and
huge piles on the kitchen floor. Suddenly it didn’t
seem like such a good idea, but I knew that changing
Helen’s mind now would have been very difficult. It was
her house.

I asked him for the names of some local people who had
purchased his ponies and had been keeping them as house
pets for awhile. If I could contact them I might get a
slant on a long-term situation.

He gave me the name of a man in Highland Park who had
bought one of his first ponies, a mare.

“Beautiful animal,” he said. “Had glass eyes, too,
which is rare.”

“Glass eyes?” I asked.

“Blue eyes, Miss Starr. Beg your pardon. Just an
expression,” he said. He was thumbing through an
address book.

I jotted that down under the heading of local color and
then laughed at the unintentional double entendre I had
created. Another man, he said, a garage owner who lived
on a lonely farm the other side of Fort Worth, had
purchased several stallions over the past two years.

“Might be something there,” he suggested.

“Man likes them that much to buy More than one.”

“You used the word lonely. What did you mean by that?”
I asked him.

“Creepy place,” he replied. “I delivered the first
pony, myself. House was kind of run down, shades all
drawn, miles from any other farms. Lots of animals on
the place, but just this one fellow living alone.
That’s what I meant.”

“Many people prefer the company of animals to humans,”
I said. “It’s not so strange. How many did he actually
buy?” I asked.

He did some mental recollection. “Four,” he said
finally. “He bought the last one this past summer.”

“And all stallions. No mares or geldings,” I repeated.
“Does he keep them all in the house?”

“Can’t say,” he shrugged. “Haven’t been out there
since, and the fellow never says much when he’s here.”

Helen and Hack came out of the barn, my sister leading
the pale tan animal by a lead rope hooked to the
halter. Hack carried a small pail of grain.

“Keep him for a few days,” Cunningham said to Helen.
“Maybe you’ll want to buy him.” He watched Helen as she
and Hack walked over to the car. We followed them over.
“They make nice presents, too,” he commented. “We also
have regular ponies and horses,” he added.

He seemed to be more interested in Helen than in his
sales pitch, for after the pony had climbed in upon the
back seat Helen had bent over to hand-feed the animal
and was presenting her rear end to us. I could just
imagine the effect on a man of that plump little butt
in the hotpants.

“Well now, ladies,” Raver drawled. “No reason you’ve
got to run off, is there?” I could see what he was
thinking. “Lots more to see around here.” He moved in
close to the car, appearing to be assisting her with
the pony. It looked to me like an excuse to touch her.

Sure enough. He must have worked up a half erection and
pressed it against her because she reacted as if she
had been tipped with an electric cattle prod. “Uh,
Hack! I mean, Mr. Raver. What else is there to see?”
she asked.

“We’ve got some beautiful Arabs here,” he said,
pronouncing the word as if it were Ay-rabs. “Them’s
awful nice,” he drawled, making it sound as though we
were really going to be missing something if we turned
him down.

“Perhaps you ladies would enjoy some refreshments, a
sandwich,” Cunningham suggested, having no idea what
the two of them might have been thinking at that
moment. “Come and join me in the kitchen and we’ll see
what there is.” He made a motion to accompany him.

“Why don’t you go, Bea,” Helen suggested. “I’d really
like to see the horses.” Her pretended ingenuousness
was almost convincing.

“By all means do what you really like, Sis,” I said,
laughing. “I’m a trifle thirsty, anyway. Have you got
a cold beer?” I asked Cunningham, throwing my camera
and sweater on the front seat.

We separated then, Helen and her longhorn Texan walking
off in the direction of one of the other barns, and
Cunningham and I strolling over to the house.

“Your sister,” he said, “is a very pretty girl. But
then, so are you.”

“I’m glad you added that,” I said, not really being
very interested. He was a short man, pudgy, with fat
little fingers that had rings on a few of them. The
sort of man I never, ever had a desire to make it with.
Invariably, though, the type always had ideas about me.

The farmhouse had a large, old-fashioned kitchen which
the owner had modernized very little. The plumbing
fixtures looked new, although I noticed a hand pump at
the sink. Outside of the cabinetry, though, much of
what I saw could have been there a hundred years ago.

I was surprised then when he told me the house had
another kitchen, much smaller and completely modern, on
the other side of the dining room. The kitchen we were
sitting in was just for show, he said, and to satisfy
his feel for antiquated Americana, as he called it.

“Everything in here is just as it was styled in 1880,”
he said, “which was the year the house was built.
Everything works, too.” He went over to the sink and
started pumping water. “From a well. No chlorine.” The
flowing water looked somehow clearer for him having
said it.

He walked over to the large wooden ice box and lifted
the top. “Fresh ice, delivered every other day.” He
pulled out two bottles of beer and put them on the
table where I sat. From inside the bottom section of
the box, he brought out a partially picked carcass of a
chicken and a strange looking mold of butter.

“Now, some bread,” he said, reaching into a tin bread
box. He took out a partial loaf of what was undoubtedly
home made. “Made with unbleached flour,” he said. He
brought two mugs and an opener and sat down. “Now we
eat.”

He opened the beers and poured their contents into the
mugs. Quaffing a healthy draught, he urged me to do
the same. The beer was foamy and cold but tasted good.
I had been thirsty, and it was hitting the spot. I
drank greedily.

I watched the pudgy fingers tearing at the chicken. He
ate with much enjoyment in what he was doing. A real
gourmand, I thought. He kept urging me to dig in along
with him. I sliced off a piece of bread. Cutting it in
two, I made a half sandwich with the chicken and
butter.

He seemed pleased and got up to fish out two more beers
from the ice box. “This is excellent beer, don’t you
agree?” he asked.

“Yes. It is good,” I said, drinking some more.

“A friend of mine brings it to me from Czechoslovakia.
Twelve per cent,” he asserted. He stopped eating for a
moment and looked at me. “As you can see, I like good
food,” he remarked. “I love to eat.” He said it in a
way that made me cross my legs instinctively.

I was beginning to feel a little woozy from the beer.
As he ate, he appeared to be drinking in more and more
of me. He gazed at my breasts for a long time, and I
could feel the nipples tightening under my bra.

“Shall we see what the others are doing?” I suggested,
rising from my chair.

“Oh, no!” he stated abruptly. He got up fast and took
my arm. “I mean let’s stay a moment more.” He wiped
some butter from his chin. “Surely there is time.
Please. Sit down,” he urged.

“I really think I should be checking on my sister,” I
said. He was somehow too insistent. I wasn’t quite sure
what he had in mind, although I was certain he would
make a pass.

Standing up quickly as I had done had made me quite
dizzy.

“Then one favor before you go. My Victorian room. You
must see my Victorian room. I have a room in my house,
Miss Starr, which is an authentic reproduction of the
most opulent interior in all London during the
eighties.” He took my arm again.

Perhaps it wouldn’t do any harm to humor him, I
thought, He was obsessed with such. things as
furnishings to the point where his sex drive might have
been completely sublimated. I felt fairly confident I
could handle his passes when and if they came. “Oh,
very well,” I said rather reluctantly. “For just a
minute.”

I followed him through the house to the main hall. A
carpeted staircase went straight up to the second
floor. He went over to a set of double doors near the
bottom of the stairs and motioned me over close to him.

“Real double pocket doors,” he , said. “Notice the
brass fittings.” He opened both doors simultaneously,
sliding them about a foot to each side. “After you,
Miss Starr,” he said, motioning at me to go on in.

I entered a very plushly furnished room. Red velvet
drapes hung from polished brass rods across the
windows. On the floor was a brilliant Persian rug. A
large carved wooden bed occupied the center, and over
it stretched a brocaded canopy. It was lovely. I heard
the doors close behind me.

“Why this is a bedroom,” I said, surprised but
nonetheless affected by the surroundings.

“Yes,” Cunningham said. He sighed and walked over to a
closet. “Here,” he said, handing me what looked like a
silk nightgown. “Put this on.”

“What!” I cried.

“Put it on. Please,” he emphasized.

I turned and walked over to the door; “Unlock these
doors,” I demanded. “Mr. Cunningham, I want you to
unlock these doors immediately.”

“You might as well do as I ask,” he said calmly. “I’m
not going to hurt you, you know.”

“I know what you want to do,” I told him.

“Do you?” he asked, suggesting that perhaps I had been
mistaken.

I turned toward him, folding my arms across my chest.
“Well, suppose you tell me just what it is that you
want to do.”

“I want to eat your pussy.”

My arms dropped suddenly and I gaped forward at him. I
could feel an imaginary hand clutching at my vulva. The
fat little son of a bitch was actually making me hot.

He was wetting his lips. “I haven’t eaten any in so
long, I can taste it,” he said, holding out the
nightgown again.

If that was all he wanted, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,
I concluded. The thought of the pudgy little man’s body
lying on top of me was another matter entirely. I don’t
know what made me do it, the beer or the room or
watching Hack Raver that morning, but I reached out and
took the gown.

My next thought was where to get undressed. Was he
going to stand there and watch me, I wondered?

He walked over to the same closet and began undressing
himself, facing the inside of the closet. Something
about his matter of fact way of taking his clothes off
set me wild.

I took my loafers off with my feet, unhooked my skirt
and zipped it down. It fell and I stepped out of it. I
noticed he hadn’t turned around. He had taken his pants
off and was carefully hanging them up.

Unbuttoning my blouse, I removed it and went to work on
the bra, turning my back on him in the process. The bra
off, I noticed the nipples and surrounding area had
turned rock hard, I rubbed hard at them in an effort to
relax them, but the rubbing only seemed to make them
worse.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw he was entirely naked.
He must have been wearing something before to hold in
his stomach for now the belly on him seemed enormous.
He was reaching for a robe.

I got out of my panties as fast as I could and I
noticed they were wet down there. Some of it had dried
already. Pulling the gown down over me, I got up on the
bed and hid my eyes with my forearm, waiting for
whatever was going to happen.

I could hear him moving softly around the room, and
thought I heard the lid to a jar being screwed off. The
suspense was getting to me, and I had to reach down and
touch myself.

His weight on the bed made it creak. He moved my legs a
little farther apart as he shifted himself into
position.

“This is going to feel cool at first,” he said.
Instinctively I removed my arm and look down. He held a
jar of cream or something in one hand, and with the
other was evidently preparing to gunk me up with
whatever it was.

He slapped the stuff on gently and began working it in.
It was cold at first application, but slowly began to
heat up until the whole area there glowed. It had a
faint fruity odor.

Suddenly, he grabbed me by both hips, and I felt his
mouth close over me violently. His head was nodding
like a nanny goat as he ran his lips and tongue up and
down the gash. He was salivating like crazy, and I
thought it was going to be more than I could stand.

I began to shriek and grabbed at his hair, thinking I
was actually going to pull some of it out. I tried to
roll over on each side and close my legs, but he was
too strong.

He had managed to work my clitoris out and was sucking
on it, pushing his face back and forth into the rest of
it. I was screaming now and dug my heels into his
waist, kicking at him for all I was worth.

Changing tactics again, he shoved his tongue into my
vagina and began a vigorous in-and-out thrusting, his
nose pushing at my clitoris. He had extremely well-
developed tongue muscles.

Feeling myself reaching an orgasm, I knew it was going
to be a shattering one. I was clutching his head
tightly now, my heels braced against his hips. My back
began to arch involuntarily as my body tensed. My mouth
gaped wide, and I lost the power to focus my eyes.

It came with a rush.

Great undulating waves of warmth flowed through me.
One, two, three, four…five…six. The intervals
lengthened. If the feeling would only persist
indefinitely. I ran my fingers through his hair.

He was sucking now, sucking deep draughts, long and
slow. There wasn’t going to be anything left of me, I
thought. When he was done, he lay his head on my thigh
and gasped for each breath, his face a raw-looking red.

As the hot b***d began to flow back into my vulva it
tingled. I wondered what he was going to do. If he had
wanted intercourse, I would have let him do it. It
didn’t matter now. Not many men had ever brought me to
such a climax.

He sat up quietly. “I want you to know I loved your
cunt,” he said, still breathing hard. He put a hand on
my leg. “I want you to come back. Please. Will you
promise to come back sometime? And your sister. I’ll
eat you both. Anytime you feel you’re ready for Joe
Cunningham.”

I told him I would be happy to return. The pudgy man
looked almost pathetic standing there in the robe. I
asked him if he didn’t like it the regular way.

“My only scene,” he said, shaking his head. “My only
scene is eating pussy. I was kicked by a horse years
ago and it left me impotent. There’s not much else I
can do.”

“How did the horse kick you?” I asked him.

“Next time you visit perhaps I’ll tell you,” he said.
“Don’t tell many people that story.” He bent over the
bed and kissed me lightly on the vulva. “I’ll leave you
now. Hope you like the pony.” He opened the doors and
went out.

I dressed quickly. Helen was waiting for me at the car
with Hack Raver.

“You look happy,” she commented. “Want to tell me about
it?”

I glanced at Hack and blushed. “Later, Sis.”

We got into the car. Helen gave the pony a pat and
waved at Hack. “So long Texas,” she called out.

“You ladies know I’m always at your service.” He was
grinning widely and fingering at his groin.

On the way home we chatted very little. Helen was
obviously happy with her adventure. I was pleased as
well. The old sadness that sometimes lurked in the
background seemed far away.

We pulled into the drive and walked up to the door.

“That’s funny,” Helen said. “I don’t hear Clyde.”

“Maybe he’s asleep,” I suggested.

She unlocked the door and went inside. I watched her go
from room to room, even checking the basement. It
didn’t seem possible he could have gotten out. She gave
up and slowly walked back into the living room. I was
afraid she was going to cry.

“He’s gone, Bea. Clyde’s gone.” She shook her head
slowly from side to side. “Where?”