"Class," Elvira announced with a shaky voice, "I think it's time we left."
"But we just got here!" Johnny Locker said, wiping snot on his jeans. His head was turned in the direction of that seductive woman's voice. Since he was the youngest in his class, Johnny had never had a hard-on, and didn't know what his wee-wee was for, other than "to eliminate all the bad germs from your body," which was the way his mother had interpreted pissing.
When Eddie heard Elvira's gravelly voice telling the class that they had to go, he said "Shit, come on, Marsha. Get your ass out of the weeds. Miss Schellenberg says we gotta leave. And will you quit moaning! Shit!"
Elvira hustled the thirteen eighth graders onto the bus.
And as the doors hissed closed, she heard one last: "Fuck me harder, Tommy! Shove it in my ass!" coming from all the way across the still waters of Lake Weed.
The class tittered, she started the bus, and Eddie had stopped Marsha from moaning by thrusting her head into his lap and watching her suck his cock.
CHAPTER FIVE
Vance Manning was a forty-eight-year-old asshole, who was also, the sheriff of this shit-hole of a town called Weedville. He was a huge man; normal-sized doorways always gave his shoulders trouble when he ambled through them. His hair was starting to thin, which was something he wished would happen to his bulging waistline.
Vance knew he was getting fat; it was getting harder and harder to buckle on the bullet belt that held his five-pound, pearl-handled.45 Magnum, a weapon that Vance called "Law". To provide equal weight for the other side of his belt, lest his pistol slide down to his tree-trunk of a thigh, he carried a billy club, a weapon which he referred to as "Order".
Thus, for the twenty-eight years that he had been a peace officer, he had always warred on crime with "Law" and "Order" on his side.
Vance Manning was the kind of cop who believed in cops, believed they had the right to bust unruly niggers over the head. Vance was a believer in walking tall and stomping niggers, hippies, pushers and pimps. Of course it was such a belief that had led to his severance from various law-enforcement agencies throughout the nation.
The FBI had at one time trained him to be an infiltrator. Vance liked the sound of that title. And he had learned to become a spy buying an Afro wig, wearing dirty shirts and jeans. Why he had even gone so far as having "peace" and "love" tattooed on his bulging forearms. Then he was sent to an Oakland commune, which accepted him eagerly especially when he showed them how much marijuana he was carrying.
Of course, there came the inevitable day when Vance Manning was discovered as an infiltrator.
It had happened when some hippie jerk-off was cursing LBJ for maiming those friggin' Orientals in Vietnam, for napalming innocent, naked kids.
Shit, Vance didn't give a damn for those yellow fuckers. Oh, some of their chicks looked all right, but Christ, some of those chinks looked like slope-headed coolies with their pigtails cut off.
When the hippie leader had finished his rousing speech, everyone was on their feet, praising him, screaming out their love of peace and friendship and brotherhood.
To get in on the act, Vance had bellowed: "Yeah, fuck that warmonger LBJ! Shit, if I were him, I'd kill anybody who wanted to start a war!"
An hour later, he was no longer a FBI infiltrator. A day later he was no longer aFBI agent. A week later he was in L.A. swinging a nightstick in the Wilshire district.
His beat then was the rough and tumble world of Fairfax Avenue. Shit, he busted heads, stomped hookers, bullied pimps, and even billy clubbed a Mexican pusher to death.
In one 'week Fairfax Avenue no longer had drunks sprawling in gutters, and because there were no sidewalk bums, the young punks who rolled them disappeared. There were no more black hookers pushing their pussies and tits out at honkies driving black Cadillacs. There weren't' any more two-bit pushers trying to palm off nickel bags of grass to wild-eyed hippies.
No, Fairfax Avenue was clean of scum, as long as Vance Manning paraded up and down the sidewalk.
Then there came the day, in the wee hours of the morning, when Vance Manning spotted a goddamn white hooker in front of Woolworth's. Shit, he knew she was.a goddamn whore because her mini-skirt showed half her ass, and she was standing straddle-legged as if giving her cunt air to breathe.
At first he couldn't believe it. Vance thought the word had gotten out that he was head honcho of Fairfax Avenue. Shit, he'd fix that whore's cunt for good.
He backtracked and circled the block. He cut through an alleyway that he knew would give him a banzai attack on the hooker from behind. He'd catch that fucking hooker and show her who the hell owned Fairfax Avenue.
Vance spotted her standing brazenly beneath the street lamp, her miniskirt flapping in the breeze, her white ass-cheeks exposed. He sneaked up on her. Twenty feet, ten feet, now only a billy club's distance away.
Swack!
The billy club caught her right over the head, and the hooker slumped to the sidewalk. Vance knew no one had seen what had happened. Shit, he had cleaned up Fairfax Avenue so good that curfew for crime didn't start until the stores opened, and that was still a couple of hours yet.
He dragged the hooker into the alley, toppled over a trashcan. Garbage was strewn all over the alley. Vance grabbed the hooker's limp form and placed it over the trashcan, face down, stomach over the groaning tin container, ass sticking out in the air.
Vance laughed. Shit, it was the first time he had seen a hooker with a whistle-clean asshole. He grabbed a good handful of ass-cheek.
He unbuckled his belt, and "Law" and "Order" lay in a heap in the stench-filled alley. He unzipped his pants and brought out his snakelike cock. Shit, his meat was like a limp extra-large Farmer John sausage. He vigorously jerked on his prick, his pudgy hands moving the foreskin over the knob.
Cum oozed from the slit at the top, of the cock-head. He gazed at the hooker's asshole. Yeah, this fucking hooker was gonna get it right in the ass. Shit, Vance was going to shove all ten inches of his fat meat right into, that tiny crapper. It was just too bad that she was unconscious, because he wanted to hear her scream bloody murder when he fucked all of his fleshy cock into her butt.
Vance spit on her asshole, the spittle dribbling down into the slit of her cunt. Then he spit on his cock. He ambled forward, placed one hand on her ass-cheek, guiding his prick to the tight ring of her bung.
The cock-head lay against her asshole.
Vance shoved.
Christ, her asshole was tight!
Shit, his cock was hard!
Fuck, his cock was bending as it met resistance, but her asshole was gradually widening, opening up like the mouth of a starfish.
He shoved harder. Shit, he couldn't believe the ecstasy building in his balls.
Another lunge and another inch of hot, hard cock meat disappeared into the tight shit-hole.
"Aarrrggghhh!" Vance moaned, his voice echoed in the alley, startled rats scurrying for cover.
Fucking shit! His prick was almost all the way into her snug ass. He shoved, the muscles of his hips tightening as they furnished the power to shove all of his prick into the asshole.
Oh, Christ! What a god damn good feeling. His prick was buried balls-deep into the tightest ass he had ever fucked. He could feel the rough edges of her bung rubbing and scraping against the supersensitive tissues of his cock-tip.
Vance pulled his cock out halfway. Blood appeared on his cock-shaft, bright-red drops clinging to the pulsing cylinder of his prick. He shoved forward, then back again.
His balls felt as if they were ready to burst they were so goddamn tight and snug against the base of his prick.
His cock felt enormous it was one of the best hard-ons he had ever sported. The tip was ballooning upwards and outwards. Cum was whirling in his balls, inching towards his piss-hole.