She was the eighth wonder of the world!
She could actually talk in rhythm to the pounding thrusts that Harvey's cock was making deep inside her cunt.
Sweat broke out on Clint's face. His hard felt very clammy. His vision was blurring because his pupils were becoming cross-eyed with passion.
He couldn't stand it. Or, for that matter, he couldn't stand.
He slumped to the floor, desperately wanting to watch Harvey shoot his wads of sperm into Tina's clutching cunt, but the passionate fervor that racked his balls had gripped him and sucked him down to the floor.
And now all Clint could see was the wads of sperm that seemed to be flying from the head of his cock.
And his hand was a Goddamn white mess, as if he had smashed his fist into a can of Crisco.
And from outside he could hear: "I'm coooommiinnggg!You bitch!"
"More cock! More cock! more cock!"
And Clinton Mallory felt like a Goddamn asshole because he had missed the beginning of a fuck and the end of a fuck.
CHAPTER NINE
Clint sat up in bed, the sweat on his body the last reminders of his recent memory of Harvey Jennings fucking the shit out of Tina Morales.
He didn't want to jack off any more.
He didn't want to be alone.
He didn't want his cock to be alone either.
At the age of twenty-eight, Clint Mallory felt that he shouldn't be a virgin, that he should have been able to dip his prick into something other than a calloused right hand.
Shit, maybe something was wrong with him.
Maybe B.O. or bad breath.
Maybe chicks didn't like his clothes.
He got up and dragged himself to the mirror – the one hanging from the closet door.
The face didn't look bad. No scam, wounds, bleeding zits, runny nose. If anything, his face looked drab – like the ones rape victims always describe to the cops: "He was medium height. Avenge build. Masculine face. No… no distinguishing characteristics. Do you think you'll catch him?"
Clint eyed his flesh.
Yeah, avenge build, medium height. God, why couldn't he have some distinguishing characteristic – like an appendix scar, or a double navel, or warts for nipples. Why couldn't he have something unique?
He lifted his cock. Average size. Nothing particularly outstanding. Four inches limp, six inches hard. Circumcised like most clean guys today.
God, why couldn't he have a prick like Harvey Jennings?
Why couldn't his prick be longer, or stronger, or wider?
Why couldn't it have gnarls and moles, or even little bumpy things like he had seen on those well-hung guys on the marquee down at the Boom-Boom theater around the corner – the one that had a picture of a girl kissing a huge that was connected very subtly to some guy's hairy loins.
Shit, why couldn't his cock have a big X stamped on it?
He hefted his balls. A mere handful. Nothing to be proud of. Oh, there was hair on them, and they hung down instead of up, and they were in a wrinkly sac, and one ball was lower than the other one so that when he sat cross-legged it wouldn't feel like he had placed them in a vise.
But God, why couldn't he have big distinguishable balls, some jewels that would make his swimming trunks protrudes with something more than a four-inch cock when limp?
Clint wanted to cry when he looked at himself. The only thing that made him unique was that his right hand wore a size-ten glove and his left hand a size eight.
And, just like the times when he saw Harvey Jennings fucking the shit out of Tina Morales, he felt like he was in the middle. As if his whole life had no beginning and no end.
Shit. He was determined that there was going to be a beginning for him. He would start soon, maybe tomorrow, or the next day.
No, he would start right now. He would have a beginning or else he would have an end.
CHAPTER TEN
"One cheer, two cheer, what do we hear?"
"Bull Moose! Bull Moose! Mooseketeer!"
It was Tuesday night and Harrison Bussey took his place at the head of the dais amid the cheers of his fellow Moosers. Harrison was very happy. He doffed his moose antlers at his fellow Moosers, then began the evening's entertainment.
"Fellow Moosers! Tonight I have a special surprise for all of you. Tonight's entertainment will not be like last Tuesday night's."
"Let's hope not, Mr. Bull Moose!" came a voice from Harrison's left.
It had to be Delbert Digbee – because he had done an excellent job in giving his fellow Moosers some very spirited and entertaining Tuesday evening. And he dared anyone to outdo what he had done to entertain his fellow Moosers.
Shit, this year Delbert Digbee had the Goose A Moose benefit, where he brought in fourteen black whores from Cleveland (one for every Mooser) and they goosed the shit out of their black asses with ivory antlers.
And, since every Mooser there had to pay ten dollars for the pleasure of goosing a black stole, Delbert Digbee had raised one hundred and forty dollars for their annual Help A Black Kid fund.
And with that one hundred and forty dollars, they bought some nice Bibles to be shipped off to Watts in the hopes that those black kids wouldn't grow up to be like Cleveland nigger whores who allowed Moosers to goose their asses for ten bucks a shot.
Then there was the time that Delbert Digbee had presented his fellow Moosers with another choice bit of perversion. Delbert called it: Whose A Moose?
And far this particular game, he had hired a typical teen slut by the name of Blondie Blue from Saskatoon. Blondie Blue from Saskatoon was very famous because she had that special talent that enabled her to distinguish one man's cum from another man's.
Very extraordinary talent. Very extraordinary girl.
Delbert's rules for Whose A Moose? were simple. All the young Moosers would get their pricks blown by Blondie Blue until she had really gotten a good taste of each man's jizz.
Yes, Delbert Digbee had given his fellow Moosers some real lively entertaining Tuesdays in the year that he reigned as Bull Moose. And he knew that Harrison Bussey, the Bull Moose now, was just no match for him.
That was why he had interrupted Harrison and told him: "Let's hope not, Mr. Bull Moose! 'Cause we lost a good Mooser after that fucked-up thing you planned last Tuesday."
The fucked-up thing that Delbert Digbee was referring to was the stupid dumb-ass game that Harrison had thought up for last Tuesday's entertainment.
Harrison had dubbed last Tuesday's game: Moose, Moose, Who's Got The Moose?
And, in order to play, Harrison had erected a gigantic plywood glory hole that his fellow Moosers would have to stick their erect cocks through.
Each Mooser was blindfolded and he was told that he was going to be given a great blow job.
The object of the game was to figure out which blowjob was given by either Gloria Bloomer (a former Moose Girl of the Month) or Gigi Dubonnet (A Mooser's – one of the girls in the Moose Auxiliary that helped the Moosers stage perverted events like this one).
The first man was Ed Sneezley.
Shit, old Ed had been a Mooser longer than any other Mooser there, and he was also the club's first Bull Moose.
Shit, he was the Mooser who thought up Moosical Chairs – a simple game where all the fourteen Moosers pretended to be chairs and fifteen black whores from Cincinnati played musical chairs on their naked erect cocks.
Well, old Ed Sneezley stuck his eight-inch pecker trough the plywood board that had Harrison Bussey's glory hole in it.
But the real surprise that Harrison planned to throw on his fellow Moosers was that they wouldn't be sticking out their cocks to have them sucked by Gloria or Gigi. I was a surprise.
Ed Sneezley was very surprised when he felt the warm molasses being poured over his cock. Then he was very surprised at the length of tongue that seemed to wrap like a Chinese wan ton over his cock. Then he was even more surprised when a set of teeth came chomping down over the base of his cock and made him into a sexless Mooser.