Very unusual.
And very perverted.
At least some people would think that the way Beth got her rocks off was perverted, but then again most of those people were the types that would kick a three-legged dog while the poor pooch shit on their lawns.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Clinton Mallory was alone. He liked to be alone. He liked to be alone because that was the best time to jack off – when no one else was around and he could pull his six-inch, very normal-sized cock out and beat the living daylights out of it until gobs of sperm made his hand as greasy and slimy as the days he had to chum his grandmother's butter with Grandma Mallory saying: "Beat the shit out of that butter, Clinton, and you'll have strong muscles."
Clint Mallory had strong muscles – well, he had strong muscles in his right hand because that was the best hand to beat his cock with because his left hand usually held a fuck book…
But there were other reasons why Clint Mallory liked to be alone. For one thing he was a writer. Not a publisher writer, but a… er, well, a working writer who never got paid. He worked a lot.
He once wrote a four-volume work entitled: HOW TO WRITE SHORT STORIES.
That had taken him four years to write.
Now, Clint used HOW TO WRITE SHORT STORIES for a pillow in his little studio apartment because another four years had passed and he had accumulated many cryptic short notes from edition that basically said the same thing about his existence: Reject.
Another reason Clint liked to be alone was because that's the way he had been since Grandma Mallory caught him beating his meat and wiping up his cum drops with the doily that she had just finished for the church bazaar.
That had been when he was young and attending Tweedy High School.
Ah, those were the old days for Clint. When he was alone, but not really alone. Those days when he could walk down the high school hall ways and envision himself dating that girl or this one; when he could conjure up images of what was beneath the pair of toreador pants and/or those petticoated skirts and backward sweaters.
Yeah, whenever Clint got really lonely he would remember those days at Tweedy High School, like he was doing now.
His favorite memory was being replayed before his eyes. It was the time he had sneaked up on the roof and leaned way over the eaves so he could peer into the girls' locker room.
He was amazed at what he saw. So many asses and tits… and, gosh, he didn't know that their things were that funny!
There was his favorite wet-dream girl of his high-school career.
Rosalie Morales, a younger look-alike for her senior sister Tina. He loved Rosy's kind of body. Because it was so spicy to look at.
Rosy was undressing because she had to get into her bloomers so that they could go out and play field hockey. And young Clint Mallory was getting his sinuses drained as he leaned way out over the eaves and watched every wonderful bit of clothing coming off that tight, compact chili-pepper body.
He was upside down.
Rosy wore the sweater that was more like a fisherman's net wrapped around her chest and back and tits. Then Rosy was reaching around the side and unzipping her knee-length skirt.
Oh God, Clint wanted to die as he watched her bend over and remove the skirt.
He could see her panties!
It was the first pair of panties he had ever seen in his life.
Oh, he had seen panties before in those Sean Roebuck catalogues, but the ones in the pictures were always those white-cotton types that wouldn't or couldn't reveal a shadow of a hair. And besides, it was just too much work for his mind to envision what those models had between their legs for him to give his cock a decent hand-job – so he had switched to his grandmother's confession magazines where the lingerie ads really showed some spicy bits of lace.
But now he was seeing his first pair of live panties – well, the panties weren't really alive, but those heavenly asscheeks that wriggled and bounced like jello globes were certainly alive.
Rosy's panties were yellow – that he would remember for the rest of his life because they were such a contrast from her rust-brown tan.
And now she was turning his way!
Hair!
He could see hair where there was supposed to be hair on girls who had grown tits and cunt!
It was just a faint shadow of hair, just a dark discoloration near the crotch of those yellow panties. But he knew it was hair all right – because Rosy had a jagged tear where the elastic on one leg band had come undone and several strands of curly brown pubic hair were crawling down her thigh.
Oh God, things were looking up! The bra was next. Clint's mind burned with the image of those chocolate-brown titties heaving and looking like they were ready to burst from the yellow bra that Rosy wore.
Oh God, whatta sight!
Rosy reached behind her, had a difficult time with the catch on her bra because the catch had long ago been worn away because it was her sister's bra that had been handed down to Rosy, who in turn, would hand it down to her younger sister Regina, who now had a set of thirty-six-inch titties and was just about ready to wear a bra.
But Clint wasn't interested in older sister Tina who had tits the size of grapefruits, nor was he interested in younger sister Regina's lemon-sized titties.
What he was interested in was a set of titties that were more like oranges, big fat navel oranges that were very brawn and full-blown on a body that looked like it was ready to explode in so many sensuous directions at once.
Rosy finally unsnapped the safety pin that held up her frayed bra. She shrugged out of the straps, and her titties looked like they were struggling to get out of the double-D cups that had encased them, had held them prisoner for eight-long school hours.
Rosy breathed deeply.
God! Did you see that! Her titties! God!
Clint was sweating very hard, and he was thankful that he was hanging upside-down so that the perspiration was running into his hair and not into his shocked eyes. His cock was very hard, too, and it was driving into the tiled roof.
God, he wanted to get his muscular right hand on his cock, give it a few strokes as he watched Rosy dig through her locker half-naked. But he couldn't… he had to maintain a two-handed grip on the rain gutter. It was either that or being planted upside-down in the rose bushes two stories below him.
Rosy looked like she was whistling now, taking her Goddamn time getting her fucking panties off. She was acting very coyly. And Clint was getting all hot and panty as he watched every movement she made.
You Goddamn bitch! Get those panties off! Come on, get 'em off!
Rosalie whistled, ran a brush through her hair.
Get your fucking arm out of the way, Rosy! I can't see your tits!
Rosy was putting on lipstick now, her tits wobbling and jiggling very enticingly.
Clint went apeshit. He tried to re-roof the girls' gym using his cock for a hammer. Oh God, his prick was just killing him. And his balls – shit, they felt as swollen as Rosy's orange-sized tits.
Suddenly, Rosalie's ass was presented to Clint. Had her asshole been an eye he would have sworn it was brown. Had her cunt been a mouth he would have sworn it smiled vertically.
God! Look at that ass! Look at that cunt! Look at the hairs all 'round that pussy!
Then Rosy stood up, and the eye of her asshole and the mouth of her cunt were no longer expressing themselves to Clint. All he could see now was the crack of her ass.
Then she turned around.
And her tits looked like a freak Cyclopes – one born with two eyes. And her hairy pubis was like an upside-down triangle (well, from Clint's viewpoint, the triangle looked right side up). And her cuntlips must have been very heavy and full because they hung down from beneath the beard of her hairy triangle.