Of course, Ramona had been stunned by the suddenness of the attack.
Then she recovered her senses.
She nodded, even tried smiling.
"Ya mean, you don't mind me fucking your titties? You won't scream or report me?"
Ramona shook her head. As chairwoman of the Weedley chapter of Help Stamp Out Rape, she knew what she had to do.
First, be cheerful toward your rapist.
She smiled cheerily.
"Jesus Christ! I thought I was going to have to pull out my knife or something. Christ! Don't tell me you want your titties fucked?"
Second, try reverse psychology. Encourage your rapist. He wants resistance, wants you to scream and try to run. So encourage him.
"Uuuuuuuuummmmmmmmm! I can't wait for you to fuck my titties. And Christ! Whatta fucking prick you have!"
Third, be calm if the rapist does not believe you are being honest in your attempt to encourage him.
Ramona was very calm as she watched Bernard straddle her belly and shove her tits together to form a trough through which his cock could fuck back and forth.
"Oh God! Spit on my cock! Give me some lubrication, baby!"
Fourth, do what the rapist tells you unless it goes against your moral principles.
Shit, spitting on cocks wasn't against Ramona's principles. She spat on hi cock as it sawed in and out between her tits.
"Oh, that's it, baby! Now feel my prick slide through your titties! Aaaaiiieeeee! Oh God! Whatta set of tities! Oh, you're such a beautiful creature, Ramona!"
At this point you will know you are getting along with your rapist by how he treats you. Does he compliment you on how your hairs looks? Or how your body turns him on?
"Oh, God! You're an angel! An angel with beautiful titties! Oh God! I love fucking your titties!"
Bernard heaved and gasped. His cock felt so Goddamn good. There were all kinds of sensations running rampant in his prick. Like that super delicious feeling in his balls. Like the tingling sensation that bulged in his prick. Like the feeling of coming all over a pair of delicious-looking titties that he had seen on TV.
Ramona lay passive.
Bernard became very active. He squeezed her titties tightly, his chin doubling as he watched his cock moving back and forth in the squeezed together valley of her slimy cleavage.
Ramona lay passive. She said nothing.
Bernard sweated actively. He said plenty.
"Oooooohhhhhh, Gooooooddd! Your titties are the best set of tities i've ever fucked! Ooooohhhhh, Goddddddd!"
Ramona lay passive.
Bernard's prick was acting up actively. He was ready to come. He could feel the jizz in his glans threatening to burst his cockhead. But he didn't want to come now. He wanted to keep fucking Ramona Rathers' tits forever.
But he came. Actively.
Ramona… still passive.
Bernard really enjoyed the feeling of splattering his prick-juice all over those titties that he mashed and mauled. His cum arced in the air, dropped on Ramona's passive face. And she took each dollop of jizzy juice like a woman should.
Bernard screamed: "Aaaaliiieeee! Aaaarrrgggghhhh! Oooohhhh! Hot Damn titities!"
It took a lot of effort to get up from a sitting position.
Collie gave it all he had. He bunched up the stringy muscles in his thighs and sprang off the table.
"Oh Lordy! Oh my… aching… body!"
Then he took his first step. A hesitant, Mother-may-I type step toward the lockers. Pain gripped his ankles, made his varicose veins swell.
Another step five minutes later. Then another one three minutes later. Then walking became easier.
Collie smiled. Whew! He had made it to the lockers, and now he could get dressed and start his search for Buster Hyman.
He cursed… slowly: "Lordy… Lordy… Lordy! Where the Goddamn… fuck… is he?"
Now that his bones didn't screech as he moved, now that the old joints and sinews had warmed up to the notion that walking was possible, Collie got dressed as fast as he could. As fast as his seventy-two-year-old body could move.
Two hours later, Collie was dressed. He appraised himself in the mirror. Lordy! Hardly a new wrinkle on his face. Oh, maybe the crow's feet now looked like vulture claws, but that was to be expected when so many thousand skin cells die every year for seventy-two years.
Collie's clothes looked spiffy, too. Slacks that didn't hang low or sag or bag around his waist or toothpick-thin legs. An angora sweater that could no longer retain body heat for two reasons: One, it was full of moth holes and, two, a seventy-two year-old body doesn't generate that much heat in the first place.
Collie turned around, picked up his cane and walked to the door.
The door opened for him.
A girl was standing in the doorway with a glowering, murderous look on her face. She expressed indecision, confusion, anger and frustration. Tom by her emotions, just like her lemon-yellow panties.
"Where the fuck's Buster?!"
Collie shook his head. Jesus, she sure talked fast! He opened his mouth to give answer.
"Christ! The fucker's not here, is he?!"
Collie shook his head. Began to say, "Uh…"
"Jesus Christ! I want to see that motherfucker! And I want to see him now!"
Collie watched the lemon-yellow panties being waved in his face.
Christ, everything looked so fucking speeded up to him. He tried to think of an answer before she attacked him with another question.
He wanted to ask her why.
"What the fuck's wrong with you, old man? Shit, I asked you a question!"
Why was it so hard to say why? The word was on the tip of his tongue, and his mouth was moving as fast as possible, trying to open up and make an O shape so he could ask: Why?
"Look, fart, I don't have all fucking day! I need that motherfucker Buster to take care of this! Did you ever see anything as perverted as this! Somebody's gonna pay hell for it!"
Collie's head wagged back and forth, his eyes trying to keep up with the panties as they wagged defiantly in front of his face. His lower lip descended to form the bottom half of the O, but he was having trouble with his upper lip.
"Look, are you a fucking idiot or something? What's the matter – can't you hear?"
Collie's upper lip stiffened. The why was almost there. Just a breath away from becoming a spoken word.
"W-Why?"
"Huh? What the hell kind of answer is that? Oh, fuck you, you stupid old man! I'll go find him myself. And when I do, there'll be hell to pay!"
The door slammed.
Collie started to sweat… slowly. Jesus! He felt so fucking exhausted. Like somebody had given him only a half-pint of blood to subsist on for the rest of the day. Christ, maybe it was Delilah's suck job.
His prick throbbed as he thought about fucking and sucking. His head throbbed, too. Because he had a headache. And headaches at his age made him feel like his brains had become cymbals and an epileptic drummer was beating the shit out of them.
The reason why Collie had a headache was because he smelled trouble.
Woman trouble.
The kind that gave boxing a poor reputation. The fucking cunts!
Lordy! What was it that he could think so clearly even though he had a set of cymbals for brains, yet he couldn't say what he was thinking. Like his lips were existing without his cymbal brains. Like his tongue just couldn't go through the motions of conversing.
Christ! Collie was at least thankful he could think, even though each thought felt like a jarring crash of cymbals.
He thought about Buster Hyman. He came to the noisy conclusion that Buster was out fucking around with women instead of training. Fighters were known to do that. And for a little piece of cunt, there went their fucking championship crown. Poof, gone, out the window, no more cheers, only the resounding crash of cymbals.
No! No! No!
Not this time. No, Lordy, no! Not as long as he could think and get his body to trudge and budge. Not as long as he had the will.