And.she was no creampuff.
She could take it.
Anywhere he gave it.
She snatched up his cock and waved it. The prong sprang forward.
Out and up.
Strutting like a fighting cock.
She hawked the head down her throat once more. Ate away the dregs of his last coming.
The dick jammed below her belly.
Slick underside of Constance’s haunch tickled as Arturo Mondragon Bourbon’s cocktip bounced back and forth between her cunt and her bung.
The balls swayed as they hung.
Then the twanger tipped into her front.
He began to rut.
The edges of her cunny stung.
She dropped her chin to her chest. Her tongue tolled forth and hung.
He pawed her tits as he syruped words into the mouthpiece of the telephone.
Droning on and on, wheedling deal after deal as he sent his pricktip home.
Constance felt the cockmeat quest deeper.
Drilling her to the bone.
Filling her froufrou with rivulets of rutsweat. Lathered ladyjuice caked the length of his stake. Constance’s cunt quaked.
Arturo patted the ends of her boobs.
Suckered them aimlessly in the sides of his mouth as he listened thoughtfully to the long-distance litany of monstrous problems of peculiar complexity. The blood in his erection increased in density. The size engorged to immensity.
Constance chattered wordlessly as the man’s blind (tick took control. She whirled like a spreading wildfire in the wind.
Din of orgasm ringing in her ears.
Sears of pain in her groin as the spear savaged her insides with tear after tear.
Arturo hunched his shoulders.
Threw his head back.
Flipped his eyes up and stared into the back of his brain.
As his dick drained nacreous sludge into Constance’s rawhide cunt.
The goo spilled over the rind of her froufrou fruit. Scum syruped between the crack of her ass as Arturo maneuvered fast.
He had his prick up inside her ass.
Pumped fast.
Erection returning as if he were automatic. Crack after crack into her rump.
He jackknifed forward over Constance’s haunch and peered through the telescope as he simultaneously spoke and lucked ass. He gauged the boob size of several Mediterranean Messalinas slinking along the surf line.
“What’s the matter?” Constance whispered. “Aren’t there enough tits for you right here?”
“Fucking gringuita bitch. You don’t never innerup me when I yam een conference.
Don you fucking laugh at me. Shut your sistersucking face. Theese ees is no something funny!”
Then Arturo snapped the telephone from his face. He gripped Constance about the waist.
Pulled her higher onto his cock.
Yanked her head back by her hair. Pulled it taut.
Gave her a shot with his knuckles on her chin. Tore her head to the side.
Pummeled her again.
“Unh.”
“I’ll get you for that,” Arturo spat.
“What?”
He smacked across her face.
“What on earth is that for?”
“Because I am your husband. And I will be king.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I talked to that ambassador man. That knight boyfriend of yours-”
“That was before-”
“But you see him now.”
“At parties-”
“Balls! He said to tell you he sends his best. His best right up your ass!”
“Ungh. Arturo. I’m telling you. If you hit me one more time when I don’t want you to, I will cut your face to shreds with my fingernails.”
“And he says that know he is no fucking knight no more. He is a lord! You don’t fucking think I don’t fucking know what the fuck-fuck-fuck that means. I know you whore for the lord!”
“Arturo, please-”
“My wife-she a slut. She a fucking whore. Puta. If! yam king, I can have you killed for even looking at another man. But you tuck him-”
“No-”
“I know you luck him all the time. But in this tucking gringo country they have laws to protect you tucking cunt criminals. I can’t do tucking nothing to you that I should do.”
“Do it to yourself from now on, your majesty. I’m gone.”
“So he really was a good screw, huh?” Veronica said. “Too bad about that temper.”
“So I did have an affair or two. Shit, Veronica. He was out banging every rotten slice of cuntmeat he could buy.”
“And he gave you a divorce?”
“It was my claim-abuse-at first. Then things got worse. The prick countersued, saying I was a prostitute from the first and entrapped him into marriage. Said it was fraud on my part.”
“Fuckingchrist. And him a fake king. Who won?”
“Well, no one. It was settled out of court. I guess if anyone won, the lawyers did.”
“All Jewboys, I bet.”
“Veronica-please be a bit more open-minded. Yes, coincidentally the attorneys involved did happen to be Jewish. But mine was a woman.”
“You fuck her, Constance?”
“You tease. If you didn’t have such tight little titties, Veronica, you’d never get away with half the foul things you say.”
“And who’s this private dick sucker supposed to be anyway?”
“He comes most highly recommended to me. He is apparently sensitive to the values people like us hold in our hearts and minds.”
“Can’t believe that. Are you gonna check him out? I mean, before you hire him for sure?”
“There is a minor task I have in mind that will assist him in proving his worth, Veronica.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going to set him to a little matter that has come up pertaining to some of my pearls.”
“You mean the pearls you-”
“Those are the ones I have in mind. After all, it’s the season for the charity ball.”
Chapter III
“Leather and lace,” the man mumbled to himself without a trace of irony. He patted the mask of chamois hide and needlework frippery that decorated the face of the sculptured bust of a Roman Venus that stood on a pedestal just inside the peachmarble foyer at Charity House.
“They get one look at this Halloween outfit,” he said bemusedly, “and it’s an open-and-shut case as far as the police are concerned.”
His voice echoed unexpectedly loud.
He shrugged.
Laughed.
Gave Venus a hug.
Peeked under the mask.
Looked about to make sure no one else was within sight. Bussed Venus’s cheek.
He then laced the marble face with a quick French kiss. Licked up underneath and into the nostrils of the Goddess of Love.
“Too bad this tootsie stops just below the neck,” he muttered. “I’d like to get a mitt on some marble tits.”
“Pardon the wait,” Constance’s voice crystallized behind him. “I see you like the statue.”
“The mask. I like the mask. Dame’s got not such a bad mug on her, either. But I like that mask.”
“Try it on?”
“Oh, no. I don’t go in for any of that kind of stuff. Not for real. But I like to sorta read about it though sometimes.”
Constance drew her breath in deeply.
Held it.
Her tits popped up from between the padded lapels of her hand painted silk kimono.
Edges of colored nipples were seen.
There was rounded titflesh as smooth and pure as the marble from which the Goddess of Love had been chiseled. The man chucked his chin thoughtfully. Felt the bristle he had not shaven off again that morning scrape across his finger.
“Look before you leap,” he peeped.
His head seemed to clear abruptly. “I don’t know why I said that. Must be a habit.”
“I know what you mean,” Constance said, extending her hand. “Restraint is always a virtue. Anything unleashed can mean trouble.”
“Ask any masochist about restraints-that what you call the ones who like to be tied up?”
“Tut-tut.”
The man peered back at the pert nips that peeked at him out of Constance’s cleavage. Took her loose fist.
Shook her wrist.
“Pleased to meet you,” Constance said. “Me too. Which one are you?”
“Pardon?”
“You the rich bitch or the little witch?”
“Excuse me?”
“In your books. There’s usually two nifty numbers. One dame’s real cold-calculatingly manipulative. The other gash just makes hash of the arrogant male romantic interest through her naive, offhand sexuality.”