Shit! He was coming!
Vance fucked as fast and as hard as he could. His strokes in and out of the hooker's asshole looked like a blur. Every spurt of sperm, every glob of cum that arced out of his prick sent him into fuck frenzy.
Vance collapsed over the hooker's back, and his motion knocked off the whore's wig.. "Uuuuhhh," the hooker moaned.
Vance smiled. With her asshole bleeding all over his cock, Vance felt like he was Superman, like he was Super cop of the world.
"Oooohhh," the hooker groaned.
Shit, when she woke up and found her ass still filled with his cock, Vance was going to show her another thing or two. He was going to have the fucking hooker blow his blood stained, shitty smelling prick. Oh, yeah, he would show her who the hell was the best flatfoot in the department!
The whore screamed when she came out of the fog-filled world of unconsciousness. Christ, she fell as if her insides were ready to burst, as if one huge turd had rebelled against the forces of nature and was trying to backtrack into her intestines.
"W-What the hell! Oh, shit! My ass! Goddamn, please… my ass hurts so goddamn much!"
"It should hurt, whore-face!" Vance growled. "'Cause got it stuffed with ten inches of meat. You like it, slut?"
"You son of a bitch!"
"Don't go callin' me no names, Ms. Whore!" Vance threatened; "Call me Mr. Manning, the cop who owns this goddamn Street!"
"Y-You're a cop? You son of a bitch!"
Vance had had enough disrespect. He stood up quickly, his cock jerking out other bloody asshole. As he reached for his billy club, the hooker kicked out her spike heel and caught him flush on the chin.
Vance fell flat-faced in the mess of wilted lettuce leaves and used kotexes that had spilled out of the trashcan.
He spun around, and came face to face with a.38 special.
"You son of a bitch!" the hooker screamed, one hand reaching behind her to feel her asshole. "You're gonna pay for this!"
It was the first time that Vance Manning had ever faced the business end of a gun. He was ready to shit in his pants-but he couldn't because they were still draped around his ankles.
Then the hooker bent down, gun still aimed at Vance's crotch, and picked up her purse.
"You mother fucker," she snarled. "I'm a police officer, undercover agent for the vice squad. You fuckin' pig, you're gonna pay for this!"
The badge that she pulled out of her purse and flashed before Vance's numb face made him fart in fear because he was too scared to shit. Now he felt like the world's dumbest pig.
Vance broke out in a sweat as he recalled that God-awful moment in his career. He always broke out in a sweat whenever he remembered his past. But now, he knew, with his latest job as sheriff of Weedville, there would not be any more sweating moments of horrible fear.
Vance tossed a Tootsie Roll into his mouth and squatted his ass into his swivel chair, propping his Thom McAnn's on the littered desk. He chewed nervously then he glanced at his watch.
Shit, where the hell was Delbert Farley, his deputy sheriff? Shit, if Vance had any goddamn say-so in running things in Weedville, he would have shit-canned Delbert three months ago. The fucking yo-yo was always late. And here it was Monday night, and Vance was looking forward to getting off at five-thirty so he could catch the Buffalo Bills pounding the chicken-shit out of the San Diego Chargers.
Boy, he sure admired the way those Bills played football. They played like men, like animals. A hard, kick the shit out of the enemy running game. No finesse or brains just ram that fucking pigskin right up the enemy's throat. Shit, that was the only way to play the game-hard and fast, hand off to the big black spade and watch him fuckin' pound away.
Shit, where the hell was Delbert? The game was going to start in half an hour.
CHAPTER SIX
Every town has its village idiot, and Weedville was no exception. The townspeople of Weedville were happy with the idiot that lived amongst them after all, they could always point to the village of Pattonsville, which was about an hour's ride on a hobbling mule down the road from them, and scoff at their village idiot.
Pattonsville's chosen sloth was a man named Tom "Thumb" Rentzler, a reformed sex pervert. Just three years ago he would go ambling down the streets of Pattonsville with his prick hanging obscenely from his fly on Sunday no less. Now, after constant talks with Pastor Luis, he had agreed to a compromise.
On Sundays, he would go ambling down the streets of Pattonsville with his fly down and his thumb sticking out from where his prick should have been. Now, all the ladies of Pattonsville were relieved; although some of them secretly wished that old Tom "Thumb" Rentzler would pull out his fourteen-incher to show their husbands what a Man's cock should look like.
Yes, Weedville was lucky, or at least they thought they were lucky. Their village idiot was a man named Boris Jerkovich, the town photographer.
Boris' studio lay sandwiched between Martin Seaman's Buckeroo Bar and Jason Moresby's grocery/hardware store.
On this Monday evening, Boris was inside, in the back, developing his latest photos.
The red light was on. And his frail old hands dipped into the cleanser, deftly lifting up a photo of Connie Ryan sucking on somebody's prick. Boris was naked, except for the moth-eaten socks that no longer had the elasticity to hold them up higher than his ankles. Moving as fast as his seventy-two-year-old bones would allow, he rummaged through his frayed shirt that hung from a peg.
Boris found his wire-rimmed glasses. Put them on.
Glanced at the recently developed photograph. Holy slit!
Connie Ryan was sucking some young kid's prick. Jesus, the kid had a good-sized cock on him, and it was oozing cum he knew it was cum because it didn't froth like spit and it was oozing out of the corner's of Connie's cock-filled mouth.
Quickly Boris developed another print. God in Heaven! Connie was on top of the young kid's cock, her cunt poised right on the taut prick-head ready to slide down, or had she just raised up? Boris didn't know, but he moved faster now because he knew the answer would be shown in the next developed photo.
Aha! Connie's cunt was moving down on the boy's prick. The kid was grimacing, as if he were in pain. Connie was her usual self hair cascading over sweating shoulders, tits at rigid attention, thighs taut as they squatted over the boy's loins, cunt dribbling hot juice.
Boris didn't know the boy, but he knew that as soon as the kid turned eighteen and came in for his senior pictures, he would learn his name.
That was how he had first met Connie.
It had started exactly seventeen years ago when Connie was a hot cunted senior at Weedville High.
She had come to him for her senior picture; all the seniors came to Boris Jerkovich for their senior pictures because he was the only person in Weedville who knew the first fucking thing about a camera.
Boris remembered that day fondly. It had changed his whole life. It was an autumn day, and Connie had entered his studio wearing her sweater on backwards, black and white bobby soxers, three layers of petticoats beneath a very frilly dress, white cotton panties and a stiff Junior Miss bra. Now how did Boris know what she was wearing beneath all her 1955 apparel?
Well, he knew because he had cut a hole through the dressing-room wall. He had gotten the idea that year because the senior class had decided to have their pictures taken in formal looking graduation caps and commencement gowns. So naturally Boris had ordered appropriate graduation attire for everybody to pose in.
His first senior girl had been Elvira Schellenberg, a pony-tailed, acne-faced, young-looking scarecrow who insisted on putting on the cap and gown instead of just slipping it over her clothes and having her blouse collar show through.
So Boris had her dress in storage room that happened to have termite-eaten hole through which he saw his first piece of ass Elvira Schellenberg's scrawny ass and his first set of tits since the winter of '35.