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.
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.