Margo, on the other hand, used her fingers without hesitation. I volunteered to provide a substitute. She shook her head impatiently, jacking off, watching. Watching her man get his ass plugged.
Matt was in trouble. In spite of prodigious effort, he couldn't stuff more than a quarter of his boffer in Jon's bruised bung. “This fuckin' queer is awful,” he grunted. “Tighter'n a vise. Gimme a cunt any time. I'm gonna pull out-”
Jon wriggled his butt in protest. He couldn't take it, but he couldn't lose it. Matt grinned, moving his rod up and down in short, jerking movements. Obviously he was enjoying the friction and I figured he'd come that way-and kinda compromise ream. Then the artist winked at Margo and me. As if that was a signal, he slammed forward abruptly, with all his weight behind the thrust. With that lunge he impaled Jon on his whacker.
Margo gushed, “You're wonderful.” She licked Matt's jumping balls as he fucked her husband. I got a kick out of watching the tycoon take his punishment, wondering if we'd have much difficulty reviving him later.
Matt rolled off, exhausted.
Now the cabin seemed unnaturally silent. All action was tactfully suspended until Jon lurched to his feet. He cleared his throat. “Would you folks mind leaving us alone for a minute?”
Beth, Ernie, and I exited, leaving Matt and the Rawlings alone, but not unwatched. I climbed on a chair to peer over the partition.
Jon and his conventional spouse, apparently, had found their ideal in my bearded buddy. Unashamed, they genuflected before him. Matt looked pleased, though flustered.
Naturally, the Rawlings didn't stop at kneeling. Dividing Matt's body into hemispheres, they each went halfway around the world. Jon took the prong that had just reamed him. Margo contentedly burrowed deep into Matt's huge, hairy keester.
At last Jon got his mouthful of Matt's gism. I saw him swallow. I saw him clasp Margo in his arms in the intimate husband-wife embrace that makes any third party an intruder.
Toward morning, after cordial farewells and invitations to visit Baltimore, I drove the tourists back to the Iowan. I tucked away four hundred and fifty dollars, less expenses. Don't think that Jon paid me for my services. He didn't. He just bought two of Matt Hammond's unique cock paintings.
X
When the Rawlings duly departed, they took excitement along with them. I worked off my energy polishing cuspidors instead of pleasuring cunnies.
Refusing to be hoggish, I shared the wealth. The next time I visited the cabin, I came laden with presents for my little staff of workers. Nylons for Beth, a pack of butts for Ernie, a puppet doll for Debbie. It was hard to find a gift for the man who had everything, so I just had the jalopy tank filled. Matt's gratitude was touching-until I explained that I'd have to be using the car temporarily. Till I sold a few more of his paintings or a lot more of his orgasms.
For a long week, I had to ring up “No Sale”. A motley assortment of monsters checked into the Iowan. Guys too old to get it up, ladies too fucking ugly to get anything. Ernie was about to get his job back. Then the stream started. Word-of-mouth did it. And it began quite inauspiciously.
“Thank you, son.”
I dumped the new guest's luggage on the rack, not even bothering to scratch my nuts or to appeal to his-their-baser instincts. I didn't think Mr. and Mrs. Endicott had any instincts, except to eat, sleep, and maybe fuck once or twice a year in observance of national holidays. He looked like a farmer on a jaunt to the big city. Sunburned, raw-boned, dressed in the height of Farmer's Almanac fashion. His wife made the ideal feminine counterpart. Fortyish, plumpish, and frumpish. Very much in Mr. Endicott's shadow.
In other words, I expected a thank you and a quarter. The thank you arrived on schedule, unaccompanied. Instead, Mr. Endicott coughed, hemmed, hawed, and murmured, “Are there any good museums in town, son?”
Golly! Art lovers! But museums? Who knew from such dreck?
Mrs. E. clucked shyly, blushing slightly. Mr. E. was more aggressive. Unblinking, he gave the password. “We're interested in paintings.” To emphasize that interest, he produced his billfold. Wrinkled billfold, crisp ten dollar bill.
“Yes, sir. I happen to know a talented artist.”
Mr. Endicott nodded. “That's what Jonathon told us.”
“Oh, do you know the Rawlings?”
“Yep. Met up with Jon and his missus back in Omaha. Real folksy, they were.”
Mr. Endicott stated his needs forthrightly. “I want young, juicy quim. If she ain't young, don't bother.”
Mrs. Endicott giggled. “Clint, you're terrible!” She poked her husband in the ribs and turned to me. “I don't care if they're ancient, long as-you know.”
I knew. Swerving to avoid a poke in the ribs, I suggested, “Long as they're long.”
“Long as they got cocks like corn stalks,” Mr. Endicott supplied. “Ruthie's cunt's like a grain-sorter. Rejects midgets.”
Revising my opinion of the Endicotts and of rural America, I nodded. “You won't be disappointed.”
“Fuck her now, son. Ruthie's horny.”
I hesitated. Not that Ruthie was ugly. She was kinda pretty, really. Frumpish but pretty. The sort of woman who looks much better naked, with a rod in her. But I still wasn't accustomed to husbands ordering me to screw their spouses. Basically, I'm bashful.
Endicott said, “Don't be afraid. You'll measure up, 'cording to what Jon told me.”
See what I mean by word-of-mouth!
I was confident that Mr. Endicott would have to go out to see a man about a tractor. However, he remained in the room, encouraging me. “G' head, son. I won't get in your way.
Shy, blushing Ruthie also encouraged me. By whipping her skirt off and dropping her bloomers. She sat on the bed, legs widely parted. Like Debbie's, her thighs were creamy and chubby. Her cunt was almost hidden by the clusters of cloudy, black hair surrounding it. I tickled the soft hair with my finger. The lips glared fire-red, coarse, urgently demanding action. Automatically, I pulled out my prong, dipping it over her damp opening. I dropped my pants; when they were at my feet, I mounted her.
You couldn't have wanted a more responsive cunt that Ruthie. Every thrust brought a complementary wriggle. She wasn't ashamed to solicit more action, convulsively bucking to draw an extra inch of prick into her. Raking my ass with restless fingers.
“Remember, I said I like 'em young. Very young.”
Before offering Debbie, I figured I'd better have a more definite statement. “Eighteen?” I asked, hopefully. Beth could pass for eighteen after a few highballs. Endicott didn't trouble to answer. “Seventeen?” I suggested, less hopefully.
Ruthie, who'd been adjusting her bloomers, joined the discussion. “I wouldn't let Clint play around with any grown-up tramp. Fourteen is the outside limit.”
“Fine!” I said, as if I meant it. “Fourteen and built. I'll be seeing you. Thank you, sir, madam.”
Fourteen and built! I didn't know a 14-year-old in any condition. Liquor couldn't take six or seven years off the obliging nympho. Why, even Ernie was 17. Ernie… Hadn't he been prattling about a girl friend? Jeannie, I think he called her. The reluctant young lady in the basement. The girl who demanded an engagement ring before cooperating.
There was a nice jewelry store down on Spruce Street.
I hated, to take time off for a trip to the cabin without a customer in tow. When I got there, I found that the natives were restless. Matt gruffly demanded one of the three C's: his Car, Cunt, or Cash. Beth wasn't demanding anything, but she looked somewhat mangy and hungry. The remedy was obvious enough, a couple of C's in her case: CoCk. Debbie sniffled sullenly in the corner. And the last of the inmates, Ernie, strutted around like a pimply pasha, grumbling about the idleness of life in the cabin. Translation: he had screwed the blonde to the point of no return. Now he sought new outlets. I took the kid aside.