“I like to stretch my legs,” she said, in her earthy way. “Give my box a good airing.”
It was a bumpy ride out to the cabin. Clint kept passing remarks in raw language. A girl shouldn't listen to that kind of stuff. That tarpaulin wasn't soundproof. Ruthie appreciated her husband's humor. Every so often she'd give out with a high-pitched giggle.
In the dark outside the cabin, I helped Madam out of the flivver. It was light enough to see that Ruthie's handbag was wide open and she was tucking her discarded panties into an inner compartment. It was light enough to see also that the tarpaulin had been thrust aside.
Ruthie took my hand, smiling gratefully. “I declare! That girl's a novice at lapping, but she's good at a clit. I'd like to take her home with me.”
Ernie lurked in the doorway. It would have to be Ernie.
“Where's Jeannie?” he demanded. “Who's this old bag?”
“I don't think I like you,” Ruth declared, shortly. She dipped her hand daintily into Ernie's Jockeys and simpered. “Well, a girl can change her mind, can't she?” Suddenly, the farmer's wife shrieked in feminine terror. “Who's this!”
“My name's Matt, ma'am. I'm the artist. You wanna see my paintings or fuck first?”
Pleased by the artist's perspicacity, Ruth unhooked her bra and eased down her garterbelt. “Don't be shy, Sonny.” She drew Ernie to her.
Generous, round boobs and a flaming red twat had altered Matt's perspective. “Whaddya want that prick for?” he mumbled.
Faced with an intimate quandary, a woman turns to a woman. “Don't sulk, dearie,” Ruth coaxed the nympho. “Tell me, how do you rate them?” Instantly, we let her do her own rating, dropping our below-the-belt coverings and allowing our prongs to stand up to be counted. Only mine dangled. I was wondering how Jeannie was making out. Giving that problem the consideration it deserved soon gave me a hard-on.
Ruthie didn't rate us; she passed out assignments. Squeezing Matt's erection, then Ernie's, then mine, she said in that order, “In my cunt. In the kitchen. Yours I'll suck, darling.”
Ernie grumbled, “Why do I hafta go out to the kitchen?”
I advised him to stick around. Not all kitchens are for cooking.
Ruthie insisted that we toss all the bedroom furniture across the partition. “When I play three-holes roulette, I need plenty of leeway.” Then she noticed a dust stain marring the alabaster surface of her jumbo, left knocker. “Dust licking squad!” Ruthie snapped, and we tumbled into formation.
Beth was chosen to do the honors: sucking, licking, and nipping left boob and right boob. Our resident nympho proved to be as handy around titty as young Jeannie was around clitty. Matt muttered darkly about scab labor. But even Matt fell silent when the paying guest thundered, “What am I paying you guys for!”
Matt jockeyed himself into position, his dong tight on Ruthie's red cleft, courteously leaving room for another.
Ruthie was basically a homemaker, adept at serving her menfolk, especially skilled at serving herself as a sandwich. “You better go in first,” she suggested to Ernie.
“I can't, ma'am,” Ernie said, with the respect due to such a pretty, vermilion twat. “Matt's there already.”
“Darling,” Ruthie cooed, coaxingly, “when the parlor is occupied, you must go in through the kitchen.”
“The kitchen? Can't we do it here, ma'am?”
“Shove it up my ass, stupid!”
Given specific orders, Ernie knew how to obey. He knew nothing about finesse, how to probe a delicate pink bottom, murmuring endearments. How to tickle the muscles tenderly until they relaxed and he could start fucking. Ernie simply started fucking. Fortunately, the ass receiving his attention was soft and willing and vastly experienced.
Later Matt asked Beth to bring out the refreshments. The home-made brew, a kind of oat brandy flavored with cinnamon, made me cough and retch in a corner. Ruthie smacked her lips, offering to pay for the recipe.
“I'll give you the formula,” my buddy promised. “No charge. Some things around here are free. Like repeats.”
It was not exactly a repeat. I took her ass, Ernie drew a nearby aperture, and Matt got his schlang sucked.
Then it was Matt on ass, me on twat, Ernie under tongue.
Then it was-then it was time to check on Jeannie.
Clint had taken the girl out of the car. “Darling, are you sure you wouldn't wanna come home with me?” Jeannie shook her head and kept sucking. Her refusal didn't faze the farmer. He kept pumping, crushing the girl to him as he came in her mouth.
“Jeannie has to leave now.”
Clint accepted this pronouncement understandingly. Probably he had teen-aged daughters. He turned his back politely to hitch up his shorts while she dressed. “Here.” He pulled two bills out of his pocket, not bothering to examine them. “Give her this. I wish I could give her more.” In the dark I can spot a fifty, a fifty smells different from a ten or a twenty. Two fifties have a truly distinctive essence.
“Bye, Jeannie.” Endicott stuck his paw up her skirt to feel her juicy cunt one last time. The dirty old man! I started the motor.
The girl was neither talkative nor, apparently, traumatized. When I pulled up near her house-not too near-she said, “Thanks for a lovely evening.”
“I hope to see you again, Jeannie. Uh-you're not gonna tell-” Her gray eyes stared at me blankly. The kind of stare that makes a guy feel like a heel. As a sop to my conscience I pulled out a fiver. “Here, buy yourself something.” The bill fell to the floorboards. I guess she didn't see it.
“Good-bye, Jeannie.”
“Hey!” Ruthie called, “You're needed. This dude's exhausted.”
The raw-boned rustic pleaded, “Goddamn it, son, take over!”
My buddy pulled out of Ruthie's cunt, wiped his dick with my shirt-tail, and begged almost tearfully, “Please, Doug! Explain to 'er-I can't jazz her ass and her twat simultaneously.”
Ruthie had gulped down one oat brandy too many.
“It's quite true, Mrs. Endicott,” I explained, as I undressed all over again. “Matt can't plug two holes at once till he has his operation. Once he has his operation, he'll be glad to oblige.”
“I can't wait. Ain't any of you bastards had that operation?”
“Not yet. The hospital's overcrowded. Ladies around here have to rely on the two-pronged pachyderm.”
“Well, get me one of 'em critters. That's what I'm after, two good prongs.”
“I have a fine specimen of a two-pronged pachyderm back at the hotel,” I murmured.
That got her going. We bundled her off to the car. Clint returned to the cabin to collect various paraphernalia, such as garterbelt, shorts, and depleted wallet. He jabbed a finger or two into the nympho, regretting aloud that he had no more potent jabber to offer.
When he had her laid out properly on her bed in the hotel room, I washed my hands of it. Until a bleary voice from the bed shrieked, “Where's that fucking pachyderm?” The screams redoubled. Clint and I looked at each other in silent commiseration. Silently we rubbed our pricks against Ruthie's hips till the friction forged rigid weapons.
The two-pronged pachyderm sailed into action. Since Clint was her lawfully wedded husband, he took the cunt side. I rammed it into her asshole. Unless you're actually two-pronged, this kind of balling can injure a guy. Clint kept slapping his dick against the membrane, hitting my dong in the process. No synchronization. I evened the score by trying to unseat him. We battled like two knights jousting with slimy lances. We came simultaneously. Ruth was the winner: she got herself a good fucking.
XII
Richer but no wiser after the Endicotts went back to their silo, I contemplated life in Prescott. Shit! What did I have to show for long hours of pimping, debauching minors, peddling my own prick? Money. Money and a hang that felt slightly ragged in the morning.