Joe Georgia burst through his hovel door, cast aside his desert lobster trap line, and whipped out his willy for a well-deserved wank.
But the wormy semi dropped from hand as morning light, streaming through the kinky fronds on his pubis, alit on a familiar strawberry mound.
“Crows ‘n coonhounds!” he hollered in rustic style, “If ‘t’ain’t Anna Ax’nput’!”
In very deed, catatonic on his burlap hammock was the Grand Dame of Dicks her own self, our Mewsy Stone. And boy did she look a sight.
The cumcraver-cum-soulsaver was worse for wear, having been Exposed to the elements without her customary, shall we say, facial treatments.
Mewsy stirred in her sleep, and rolled squishy side up. The nunnish cockblock still clapped her loins, but she was otherwise quite nekkid.
Now, Genius Joe had great professional respect for Anna and deep love for his sweetie Fung, but he could not tear his eyes off them titties.
“Right tuckered she is,” he murmured to himself, “Outer ‘n’a stuck buffalah. Wouldn’t do n’harm to squeeze out m’milk afore seeing to ‘er.”
Joe set to maintaining himself while taking in the headlight show. It was all quite innocent – but Mewsy had a ruthless nose for bone.
The redolence of his male arousal tickled her hoo-ha through the veil of slumber. She pulsated stickily like some primitive undersea thing.
Mewsy came to and opened her eyes. Lah! Was she yet dreaming? A pair of walnuts in a pruney marble-sack still bounced merrily before her.
“Mmm…” she let out mistily, “Why Joe, I’ve never seen this side of you.” (She was referring of course, to the under-side of his scrote.)
“Forks alive!” cried the genial bumpkin, hands scrambling fruitlessly to hide his skinflute, “Whizzeroo, Anna, I thought you was in yer Zs!”
“I’ve never been more awake,” she uttered huskily, eye-fucking him without shame. One must remember she was forty-one days unpoked.
“Get this thing off me, Genius,” she grunted in a super sexy way, “And I’ll squeeze you out like a pastry bag on wedding day.” She advanced.
“Well now Anna, I kin bust yer lock off,” he stammered, backing away and covering up with a scrap of gingham, “But as fer the rest’f it…”
Unluckily for Joe, desert lobster traps lay across his path. No sooner had he fallen tush-over-topknot than the Sex Panther was astride him.
“GET IT OFF!” she hissed. Then, in the kittenish tones that evoke ‘The Maid Distressed’ in aroused hillbillies of Joe’s vintage: “P-please?”
Joe Georgia was a chivalrous type, and handy too. Quicker’n a medium-length fart he’d got the cage pried off. The Barracuda was unleashed.
The prize courtesan of Marigold &Sn. crouched over him in naught but the outfit Gawd gave her; it weren’t Joe’s fault he popped another bo’.
“Get in there,” she rasped, indicating the now-visible area which was demarcated by a radically lighter skin tone. “I won’t tell you again.”
Genius Joe just about fell out the end of his own dick. Instead, he reminded them both: “M’jacko here’s ‘sclusive prop’ty o’th’Lady Fung.”
“That warms my heart,” she grinned through gritted vagina dentata, “But right now something else needs warming, Joe. And it needs it bad.”
“Aw, suga’knuckles,” he coaxed, wriggling, “Y’don’ wan’n ol’ codge like th’Genius. Why’n’cha go drain yer udders w’some big-ball bull?”
(Truly the dear fellow HAD seen octogenarianism come and go, but the machinery still chugged admirably, and anyway Mewsy valued Experience.)
“Fine!” she exploded, reddened with sun and female lust, “Mother always said we shouldn’t expect from others what we can do ourselves.”
She got hold of his wizened honeysuckle and sucked it into her starving cootch like an airplane door ripped open at ten thousand feet.
He was powerless beneath her. Mewsy’s ever-formidable lovemaker, tightened now by arid celibacy, had the tenacious jaw-hold of a mongoose.
‘Twas all a man could bear. Poor faithful Joe, seeing there was only one way out of his predic’, started in begrudgingly to pondle and fump.
“I get me n’relish out o’ this here ‘rangement, Anna,” he stated, firmly. “Y’all know I been compelled into this, an’ consent WEREN’T givt.”
“Shut up and f- me!” Mewsy barked with uncharacteristic restraint. (Perhaps the soaped-up mouths of the Sisters still whispered at her ear.)
It really WAS perfectly innocent. But one could understand how Finch-Marie, entering at that very moment, might have taken it otherwise.
“Ah,” she said softly, setting down her groceries, “I’ll return in, oh, let’s say, two and half minutes? Won’t that be sufficient, Joseph?”
“Milk-fed Melons on a Hot Wet Day!!” Joe’s most vile oath came tumbling out, “Finchie! Baby ’tweren’t mah’ntention! I jus’ done fell in!”
“Yes, dear, I know,” said Finch-Marie in a tone of the noblest gentility, “I may not be a cis-ter but I know how the binky-bonk works.”
[Here, Dear Reader, we implore you not to judge La Stone for what she’s about to do; venereal starvation makes wolves of fieldmice.]
“Nearly done,” Mewsy said without turning to the woman she’d dethroned. She lifted one finger, as if to signify being on an important call.
With renewed vim she jammed at the hapless cack, and presently climaxed so shrilly that a swarm of befuddled bats erupted from the rafters.
A spicy silence now simmered. Mustering her tattered dignity, Mewsy unlocked her ladybox and, standing, let what was left of Joe fall out.
The predatory gleam faded from her eye. Awaking from her wang-madness, she beheld her wronged friends. Honest tears joined her perspiration.
“Finch,” she began damply, “Joe. You’ve suffered an unforgivable injustice at the hands of my lips. You deserve, at least, an explanation.”
But her little sand-burnt foot faltered, and Mewsy collapsed headlong, scattering produce, desert lobster, and a splatter of ooze all round.
“Don’t help me up!” the still attractively fit traitoress muttered weakly from among the cukes. “I’ll no longer rely on your kindnesses.”
The others watched wordlessly as Mewsy struggled, her bare flesh pressing into the wire jaws of desert lobster live traps. It was in vain.
Unable to right herself, Mewsy delivered her address like an odalisque: propped up on her side on the bare floor with a cage for a cushion.
“How far I have fallen,” she began. “From the Toast of Barebones to the Mistress of Scorpions.” [“Desert lobster, please,” Joe interjected.]
“I was lost when I fled Triolay. I left my life behind – not to mention a couple of finger-lickin’ firelogs.” (She winked, despite herself.)
“For a time, among the Sisters, I thought I felt the Hand of The Holy Ghost touch me – but even He couldn’t fill my gaping she-pit.”
“Still, I Believed. One of the Sisters took me into her confidence. We became… lovers. Her name was Muriel. She was aflame with Holiness.”
“She did all manner of homosexuality to me. We even did that scissors thing people say doesn’t work. It does. But pleasure was short-lived.”
“Muriel had the gift, you must understand, of speaking with Him. He told her my fur-lined fanny, which had brought us such joy, was spoilt.”
“So she lovingly bound my bits, and together we braved the desert on a Spiritual Exploration of Temptation and Undercarriage Purification.”
“The SETUP was rough and long. Muriel was relentless; in her hands my chastity was a scalpel used to cut away the filth of my fleshly need.”
“My frustrated lust drove to me the Edge. But, even high on superpressurized estrogen, I knew something was off when we reached the cliff.”
“We were facing a black abyss – supposedly a portal to the underworld – but I saw something I knew like the back of my masturbatin’ hand.”
“Jutting over the drop was a tree stump – the very stump that Tybalt had carved with our two names nearly [Mewsy coughed gently] years ago.”
“This was no mystic spot. We stood on Old Condom’s Bluff, where many a schoolpal’s virtue (and, indeed, my own) had met its messy end.”
“Only then did I recall the strange grimacing face I’d glimpsed through Tybby’s gams the first time I choked him down – in this very place!”
“It had been twisted with rage. So awful was the image that to this day I conflate it with feeling Tybs jiggle my clavicle from the inside.”
“The face had been Muriel’s. I knew this in an instant, just as I knew, with peculiar ovarian instinct, that I was in terrible danger.”
“It had all been a gay ruse to drive me dotty. And now, citing some elaborate psychosexual backstory, Muriel was pointing me over the edge.”
“The insane look I’d taken for Kristjan passion while we were lesbing was now revealed to be plain old secular demented rage. I feared it.”
“Using acting chops honed finely in the mirror of my vanity at Triolay, I played along – while subtly looping my cincture around the stump.”
“There was no time for a woman’s dithering. I cast my body into that inky void as one might toss away a soiled product of feminine hygiene.”
“I executed the coup de théâtre with a great declaration of Sacred Lust. Even now I cannot say if, in my erotic misery, I hoped to survive.”
“But the rope tethering my iron sponge-prison held. I hung limp in the dark, and listened. Had I duped her? A car approached. Voices!”
“The unmistakeable drawl of Purchase Collier, my partner in some really nasty Schmutz, tickled my throbbing vulva. I ached to call to him!”
“Caution stayed my throat while Mumcu squabbled with Purch. Then came a voice more hateful to me even than that of my would-be assassiness.”
“Regatta C.! Was it not enough that she’d made me a cuckquean? Had she now come to mock my disgrace? And was Tybalt with her? I had to see.”
“With core strength that has been described as unusually well-developed for a nun, I swung myself toward the cliff face and clung to it.”
“I inched upward til I could peer over the lip. There was Purchase. There were Muriel and Regatta locked in a too-predictable tongue-joust.”
“There, even, was the young stranger who had gone soft in my snooch. But where was Tyb? Had he truly forgotten me for that walking mammary?”
“Something hardened in me then. I didn’t know – don’t know – what brought that carload to the Cliffs of Entropy. But I was theirs no more.”
“I untied the rope and began to pick my way downward. Above me Purchase called out my name, hopelessly. My own tears rusted my cruel panty.”
“I huddled in a cave, tormented by sexy night terrors, til dawn. Then I climbed down to your palace, Joe, here in the shadow of the Bluff.”
“I stand broken before you. [She had risen during the account.] Finch, I ravished your man without mercy or shame. He is utterly guileless.”
“Joe, to constrain another into a nonconsensual sexual encounter is unspeakable violence. I’ve wronged you today with my carnivorous poon.”
“I can’t ask forgiveness. I ask only for a forgotten rag, so that I might hide my extravagantly nude bushel as I wander out into the world.”
Mewsy staggered toward the door, covering – rather unnecessarily, it must be said – what she could of downstairs navel and lush carmine nip.
“Bugwash!” bustled Finch, laying courgettes out on the sideboard. “Land’s sakes. I’m not letting any meat of mine out with a tan like that.”
“But Finch,” Mewsy burst into a theatrical weep, “You couldn’t possibly think of keeping my slice around – not after what it’s done to you?”
“Of all the notions! Pumpkin pie-pan, if I disemployed every strumpet who wanted a piece of the Genius I’d have an awfully slim stable.”
“Oh Finch!” Mewsy carried on, “What a dear woman you’ve been to me. How can I ever-” But Finch menaced her with zucchin’ on her twatmouth.
“Mind, fit yours round his ever again I’ll shave your head and sell you for parts and I won’t be sorry,” Finch said with impeccable diction.
Mewsy understood. She’d been given a chance at a fresh start. And, deep in her gut, Mewsy felt the old Schlangenlust begin to smoulder anew.