Some fast talk about an O.R.G.Y. survey opened up the producer. He readily saw the publicity advantages of a movie of his being the subject of such a study. When he was hooked, I casually led around to Randy Beaver.
After a bit of hemming and hawing, during which I kept dangling the survey possibility in front of him, he finally admitted Randy was in Iowa working with a director in his employ named Lancelot Twitchcock. “He’s shooting a really high-class art film,” the producer told me. “Sex and symbolism, know what I mean?”
I said I knew what he meant and that I was impressed. It sounded like this was just the film for the O.R.G.Y. study. He bought it. He wrote me a letter of introduction to director Twitchcock, telling him to co-operate with me fully. That night I was on my way to Inferno.
Which is how, kidlets, I ended up a knadlach in the tar soup. . . .
But I felt more like a doughnut being dunked in yesterday morning’s reheated coffee. The temperature of the steaming tar was about that of a sauna bath. It wasn’t intolerable, but each time I was lowered into the tub, it hit me like a shock wave.
Strung up on the rail alongside of me, Randy was also being dipped. We were immersed perhaps a dozen times before being carried, two men at each end of the two poles, to where the crowd was waiting with the feathers. Behind us, I could hear Twitchcock yelling as he and one of the crew were lowered into the vat.
“Chocolate-covered poontang!” The man called Julius ran his eyes hungrily over Randy’s well-tarred body. He guffawed. Then his hands followed the route his eyes had taken, leaving behind them a trail of embedded feathers. A woman detached herself from the crowd, flung a handful of feathers in Randy’s sticky-black face, and righteously hauled Julius away.
The pair were replaced by other feather-muckers. With their first few flings, my skin began to prickle. By the time they were finished, I was itching from head to toe. I could have qualified for the A&P’s meat counter: Large Family-Size Thanksgiving Special—Unplucked Turkey—175 lbs3 !
Finally, Randy and I were hefted by the poles again and carried out of the graveyard. We were toted across the prairie for about a mile. Then they set us down.
Still hitched to the rail hand and foot, I looked up to find the yahoo the others addressed as Pete looming over me. “You’re gettin’ off easy,” he informed us. “Let this be a lesson to you two. Inferno’s a clean town, and we’re keepin’ it that way. You people just find some other place for your fornicatin’ ’sides our cemetery!”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in your lousy graveyard!” I assured him.
“Next time we find you there, that’s what you’ll be!”
He slashed the ropes binding our hands and feet and nodded to the others to pick up the rails. A moment later they were gone.
Randy and I were alone. The tar was hardening. She found a stick and started frantically scraping her skin with it. I followed her example. We had to get those feathers off before they were firmly embedded and the itching drove us crackers.
“My ass!” Randy exclaimed.
It was bristling with feathers. Julius’ enthusiasm, or someone else’s? No matter. I came to her aid; I set about plucking.
Chunks of tar-goo came away with the feathers. I scraped the rest of the gook off her bottom with the stick I’d found. When I finished, the plump cheeks gleamed impressively between the dingy gray-on-black of her back and legs. A bun to remember!
“One good turn . . .” Randy decided. She yanked at the feathers embedded in my groin.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry: But it’ll be worse if you wait. The tar’s caking. And this is the most sensitive area.”
I know.” I jumped as she tried to be more gentle and inadvertently tickled my genitals. My phoenix started rising from the tar-ashes.
That makes it much easier.” Randy noticed it standing at attention.
She was right. The tar was now flaking away easily under the enthusiastic ministrations of her fist. Labradors aren’t the only lucky dogs!
Facing her, I began plucking feathers and scraping tar from her breasts. Areas of creamy flesh appeared. Her tar-shrunken nipples sprang free and flowered; her grip on me tightened spasmodically.
I squeezed_Randy’s high, large, solid breasts, each in turn. The tips hardened. Moistening my fingertips, I traced the outlines of the softer pink aureoles, cleaning them thoroughly of the last flecks of tar. She gasped; her chest filled with air; the sharp nipples swelled; her fist loosened to allow my own swelling response.
“What about you? Here?” I dropped my hands to the tar-tangled muff above the juncture of Randy’s wriggling thighs.
“There’s a lot of tar there.” Her voice was husky. “It’s going to take some doing.”
“Then maybe you’d better lie down and stretch out so I can get at it more easily,” I suggested.
She let go of me and settled to a horizontal position. Even half-covered with tar, her outstretched body presented a titillatingly erotic vista. When I knelt over it she reached out and reestablished her grip. There was really no need; erect, white, and throbbing, it had been peeled clean of the sticky black stuff; still-—what the hell—I didn’t discourage her.
With the other hand, Randy pulled the feathers from my chest. Her nails scraped at the tar matting the hair around my flat nipples. Between that and the rhythmic movements of her fist, I felt lust mounting inside me like pressure building up in a boiler.
Plucking at the feathers covering the tensed muscles of Randy’s feverish thighs, I could feel the heat emanating from her bottom as she squirmed. As I peeled away the hardening tar from the butter-soft flesh of her inner thighs, she moaned and licked her lips. Her red tongue picked up some of the tar on her face, but she didn’t seem to notice.
I bent to kiss her, to capture that tongue. The tip burned with the tar as it dueled with my own tongue. The acrid aroma mingled with traces of her perfume and the pleasant warmth of her breath to provide a bittersweet thrill that made me linger over her moistly clinging mouth.
Her groin had gotten the worst of the tar-and-feathering. Even after I’d removed most of the feathers, it was still caked with tar. The glop had really congealed. I’d dig my fingertips into it and come away with little gobs of the stuff. The hardest part was throwing the globs away; they clung stubbornly to my hands.
I knelt between Randy’s knees, bending to the task. I dug a narrow trench in the natural groove there, and her clitoris strained free of the tar. As I flicked flakes from it, she began to pant uncontrollably.
Her cheeks tensed, her body arched. Luscious girl-breasts struggled for air. Her sex-fulcrum reached skyward, clitty erect and pulsating. Her clenching fist had me vibrating like a tuning fork.
“I can’t wait anymore!” Randy’s sharp nails dug into my shoulders, urging me to scramble over her. “Put it in me!” she begged.
Easier said than done. Tar still partially barred the entrance. I battered it with iron-hard, steel-tipped lust, through the outer crust, into the viscous mass. Probing through the thick gook, I located the target.
I plunged home. Feverish legs locked around my neck. Randy’s'hotbox swallowed the length of me with a thrilling suction.
“That’s it! . . . All of it! . . . All the way! . . . Ahhhh! . . .”
Tar forgotten now, I was pumping like an oil-well drill run amok. The flexing of her inner muscles provided a variety of tactile thrills. When I switched to a rotary motion, she bucked like a speared tigress, then spun her bun into a grinding circle so frenetic that I had to slap it to slow her down.
“Screw . . . prick . . . pussy . . . cock . . . cunt . . . Fuck! . . .”