A Gauguin Dream

“Damn it Nicky, I told you if I caught you cheating on me again, we were through. You come home with some bitch’s lipstick all over your underwear and try to make up some lame ass excuse.  Get the hell out of my life.” Mercedes, his wife threw his duffel bag after him as he stumbled off the porch.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he headed for the bus station. Nicky had just enough cash for a locker and a couple of drinks. No job, no wife, no prospects, but for some reason he knew he had the world by the balls. 

After taking his sketch pad from his bag, he stuffed everything into a locker. Palming his key, he headed for the men’s room. Stepping up to the urinal, Nicky glanced up at the graffiti. It read: “Your future is in your hand.” Up above it, it read: “Don’t look up here, the joke is in your hand and you are pissing on your shoe.”

Nicky smiled, like he knew something no one else could fathom. The smells dilated his senses, fresh garlic bread from a pizzeria. Street walker’s cheap perfume, after shave combined with sweat, above all greed and money. Strolling down skid row, steering clear of hustlers, pimps, and rip off artists of varying degree, he wanted to wet his whistle and sit and straighten his thoughts.

An oily haired Latino with a narrow tie and zoot suit tugged at his sleeve with whispered promises of a pussy paradise. Nicky didn’t put up enough resistance and found himself steered into this strip joint. Figuring it might do his libido some good, he relaxed.

He felt bad about losing his wife, but it had been coming for awhile. They’d been together for what seemed like forever. It hadn’t lasted two years. When they had moved to the big city, things had changed drastically. Nicky wanted to paint, it was what he breathed for. Mercedes couldn’t understand and had no faith in his capabilities. That was only a small part of their differences. The women were hot for him and he could never say no.

Mercedes was a preacher’s daughter. Her family stopped at the gas station he worked at every Sunday after services. The reverend would fill up his car, while Mercedes would head for the restroom.

Every Sunday he watched her from his peep hole. She had a fantastic body and from the way she lifted her dress and touched herself, he knew she was primed for love. Her hair was reddish blonde, thick and curly. Long legs and ripe grapefruit sized breasts. A sweet girlish face topped off her generous attributes. 

Nicky drew her with her hands inside her panties, a look of wanton pleasure on her face. From his sketch, he made a beautiful painting and showed to her. She was mad and embarrassed at first, but the painting was so erotic and flattering it aroused her. He persuaded her to come to his apartment and pose for him, at first clothed, then nude. Seducing her, they made earth shattering love every chance they got. Capturing her at the height of orgasm on canvas was what he finally succeeded at.

He continued to work at the gas station, the pay was lousy, but his fame spread. It was amazing the quantity of women that started using the restroom. Nicky painted, studied, and made love to Mercedes. They married after a short engagement. 

Her Papa had seen several of the paintings of his daughter and some of women in his parish. He thought it would be best for them to get out of town as quickly as possible. Besides, it would be unbecoming of the town’s minister to murder his new son-in-law. So, he married them and financed their move to a large city.

The love of women, their smell, their smile, their twinkling eyes, their walk, and their hidden curves all drove him senseless. Nicky painted them all in his mind. He wasn’t a Casanova or a Don Juan, but something attracted women to him. Maybe it was because he knew how to talk to them? Maybe they sensed his devotion and it drew them into his magnetic power? His looks were average, dark curly hair, an athletic body, not overly muscular. He could go the distance. He knew how to stroke a woman, her mind and body and put her at ease. They loosened up and wanted to confide their deepest secrets. Nicky took advantage of his charm every time he got the chance.

Painting was his life, capturing the feminine body on canvas. He studied all his favorite artists. Manet’s skin colorations, Toulouse Lautrec’s barroom women, Gauguin’s native beauties, Renoir’s exquisite faces, Degas’ ballerinas, Cezanne’s fruit, Van Gogh’s irises and sunflowers. Learning from them all, he still had one main problem, his dick kept getting in the way. His small brain took over sometimes. 

Words from a loud song broke into Nicky’s reverie and made him smile. “If she won’t do it her sister will.” The strippers had a small stage with a shiny brass pole to hunch and to hang on to. It was connected to the bar, so they could dance between customer’s glasses after their routine and retrieve tips. They bumped and boogied to ear blasting rock, stripping down to G strings and high heels. Shaking their money makers, they were mostly young with big titties and round asses, full of energy. Mostly working class dudes filled their strings with singles.

One lady in particular caught Nicky’s eye. She had long dark hair with beautiful amber highlights that whipped back and forth when she danced. Her body was superb. When she smiled, one gold tooth 

sparkled like a bejeweled vampire. Nicky sketched her face and body in half a dozen positions. Every time she danced down the bar, men stuffed both sides of her string. 

She slowed as she sidled past Nicky, trying to see what he was up to. He signed and folded his small sketch of her and slid it into her booty string. His other hand slid over her cute ass, copping a quick feel. The bouncer, a humongous black dude with a yard wide Afro headed his way, with head busting on his mind. The lady motioned him off and shimmied and wiggled on her way. 

Figuring he had broken a rule or two, the feel of her behind had left his hand on fire. Three or four skits later, the dark haired beauty was up again. She passed him a note asking him to wait for her until closing time. This was perfect for Nicky, seeing as how he had no money or no where to stay. The bartender hassled him once, for not spending more money. He gave him a drawing, which got him a couple of free drinks and no more trouble.

The dancer’s name was Chichi Martinez and she was a bundle of smoking hot chili peppers chased with raw mescal. 

“All the time I was hunching that pole, all I could think about was my little dog. I left it behind in Juarez. And you know what? You remind me of my little poochie, Peppi,” she confessed.

“Thanks, I think,” replied Nicky.

He had never felt so flattered. They picked up some chow mein and several bottles of Mad Dog, on the way to her place. As soon as they opened the door, everything went flying and she had her tongue down his throat. Nicky ran his hand up under her skirt and rolled her panties down past her ankles. Her bush felt like a scouring pad, all trimmed for exotic dancing. Chichi undressed him and mounted. She started riding like the Texas Rangers were in hot pursuit and she’d be free if she could cross the Rio Grande.  She gave him the pet name Wolfie, deciding he didn’t resemble Peppi at all.

They fucked and sucked in almost every conceivable position. Resting between orgasms for wine, Nicky staggered up and drew Chichi at length. 

“Wolfie, baby, stay with me, I’ll buy you paints. You can become a great artist like Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo combined.” 

“Thanks, Chichi, but I just lost one good woman and right now I can’t hurt another. I need to move around for awhile,” he replied.

“You lying sack of shit. You just want to fuck anything with a heartbeat and use painting as an excuse,” she said.

Nicky just smiled.

After two days of sex and art, the walls of her tiny apartment started closing in. They’d made numerous trips to the liquor store and Chinese joint. It was time to reenter the world. His prick had gone through the agony and the ecstasy more times than, Charlton Heston’s movie about Michelangelo. He gave her three of his best sketches. Chichi fronted him a ten spot. He used the dancer’s mint toothpaste and cleaned his teeth and gargled.

The azure sky was filled with purple bruised fingers groping the sun.  Nicky staggered back into the day. The sunlight hit his eyes like a cop’s interrogation torture lamp. His head throbbed and his tongue felt like it was growing green bologna fur fungus. As he took a breath of fresh air, a Santa Fe Chief locomotive blew by screaming its whistle. Feeling like he’d passed out in some alley with his mouth open and a wino had taken a piss in it for a cheap laugh. He finally got his brain strain together so, he could grab a couple of cups of java and some greasy eggs. Then he called an amigo.

Slick, his lifelong pal was a small time cat burglar that graduated from stealing manhole covers to various nefarious schemes. He’d done three years in the big house for getting stuck in a Radio Shack’s cooling system. Unfortunately for him, this was at the time of the big prison riots and some unruly inmates cut off three of the guard’s heads and set up a bowling alley with them. Slick had never come completely clean about what happened inside. His Uncle Tommy Keys had taught him to steal, before checking in to Club Fed for a twenty count. Their family motto was; “The night is friendly.” It almost always had been for Slick, until this little old lady caught him doing his sleight of hand and blasted a hole in his left testicle with a 32 derringer. 

“How are you? You old one balled horse thief,” Nicky asked.

“Where the hell have you been? I thought your nuts would have been hanging from the rear view mirror of Mercedes’ cousin’s pickup truck.” Slick replied.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, your wife’s hillbilly cousins. They are all hunting your ass like coon dogs.”

He thought about Mercedes’ inbred behemoth relatives, Jim Bob, Billy Bob, Jerry Bob, and the runt Curly Bob. “I don’t know why, she’s so upset. I gave her the best mustache ride of her life for two years.” 

Slick replied, “I was planning a vacation to the Jemez Mountains. You want to come?”

“Why not? First I need to stop for my bag and some paints and canvas.”

Jack of Jack’s Art Supply was to Nicky what Pere Tanguy was to Van Gogh. “Jack, I need oils, brushes, and enough canvas for a couple of months. I know I owe you, but I don’t have money right now and I need to blow town. I have a few sketches to add to my growing stockpile. Plus I’ll send you something you can sell as soon as I get settled,” Nicky explained.

“Fifty years in the business and I have never met a painter with more natural talent than you. I have waited all my life for you to come along, then you turn out to be a drunk and cocks man,” replied Jack. As he loaded a box with the supplies Nicky needed, he finished and hugged Nicky. “You just turn out the masterpieces and I’ll keep putting them up for sale.”

Leaving Jack’s, Slick and Nicky headed for the bank. Nicky knew Mercedes would probably have frozen all their assets, not that they amounted to much. Luckily, he kept a key to their safety deposit box on his key ring. He remembered they kept several hundred in there, just in case. 

The teller he spoke with informed him there was a flag on all their accounts. Nicky went to the personal banking department and signed in to wait for a banker. A young blond verified his signature and was about to buzz him into the inner office and then take him to the vault. Her supervisor, a gray-haired lady came over and whispered something to the blond.

“I’ll take care of Mr. Moon,” she said out loud. The woman appeared to be in her late forties, a little over the hill, but extremely well taken care of. If she’d dye her hair it would take at least 5 years off her appearance. She led Nicky into the vault. As she placed her key next to his, her breasts brushed up against his hand. This sent a tingle through them both. The lady looked him in the eyes and sucked in her breath. Nicky gave her his best smile, as she led him to a private cubicle. She opened the door and he entered with his metal box. He pulled her in behind him, the box forgotten. She started to protest, but Nicky was kissing her full and deep. Any questions about what was about to happen disappeared, as he cupped and massaged her fine ass through her silky dress, pulling her to him. She moaned as he pulled her panties to the side and with a feather like stroke erected her juicy clitoris and nibbled at her hardening nipples through the fabric. He guided her down onto the thick plush carpet and ripped off her lacy white panties. They split at the seams, but they were beyond caring. With her dress around her hips, Nicky let his tongue do its magic. The lady groaned and tugged at his belt and unzipped his fly and freed his stiff boner. Placing soft wet hungry kisses up and down his dick and then sucking greedily at the tip, she knew her business. Almost beyond ready, he mounted and worked fast, banging her head against the flimsy wooden wall of the cubicle, the harder he thrust, the more she liked it. She was so vocal, he stuffed her mouth with her shredded panties. They both climaxed together, wiping off, he checked his box. While she put herself back together.

Mercedes had beaten him to the safety deposit box. Every person in the bank, watched as they exited the vault area. Nicky waited for a standing ovation. The lady blushed right down to where her panties should have been. He made a quick survey of the women, always checking for future fornication prospects.

Nicky walked out of the bank. Slick sat there waiting for him in his Ford pickup, with a camper shell. He climbed in and they drove off, headed west and north. 

“What the fuck took you so long?” Slick asked. “I thought you were pulling a stickup or something. As much as I love you, I’m not going back inside without a damn good reason.”

“This silver fox jumped my bones in the bank,” he explained. “Can we find a gas station, I need to clean up?”

***

Up next:

Catfish McDaris

Relief

Matthew worked from home, taking tech support calls for an internet provider. His interactions with the customers on the other end of the phone were a studied performance, fancying himself a combination of Han Solo and Captain Kirk, his wry masculine voice resonated against the popcorn ceiling of his apartment. He took command. “This is Matthew. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Carla”

“Well, Ensign Carla, how can I help you?” 

“Um. My internet doesn’t work.”

“I can solve this problem in 12 parsecs. Restart your modem. Make it so!”

He ate dinner at the pub near the school. Some days, dinner at the pub would be the only time he left his apartment. He liked the waitresses, especially in summer. They wore short skirts and some of them didn’t wear bras. He sat alone at a picnic table on the patio. He stared into his phone, absorbed.

“You will love me, old son,” a cockney-accented female voice whispered, with it a spike of cold air hit his ear canal and the smell of mildew made him turn and look.  But there was no one. Must have been someone at another table. He took a gulp from the pint of beer in front of him and continued reading Star Trek fan fiction on his phone. 

The waitress dropped off his bahn mi in a plastic green basket. “Here you go, enjoy,” she smiled a perfunctory smile, looking towards her next task.

“Why thank you, fine maiden,” air escaped from Matthew’s nose when he spoke, “I will indeed heartily enjoy this sandwich.” By the end of the day, Matthew would grow tired from the cheerful mask he wore at work, and his shadowy side, the angry child, would make itself felt. He hated himself, hated the angry child, but it was familiar. He reverted to it unconsciously when he was tired.

A crow perched on the edge of his table. “Scram!” He dropped his performative voice, the word came out nasal and nasty. The subterranean river of rage that coursed through him, skimmed the surface. Matthew lashed his hand out at the crow. Another crow landed on his table, keeping itself just out of reach. “Get the fuck out of here!” The crows were undeterred by his hand flailing. In two hops they were upon his sandwich. One screeched in his face while the other landed atop his bahn mi bun. She fluttered her wings hard enough to catch air, clutching the bun in her long black talons. Pickled carrots, cilantro, and barbecued pork rained down onto the table and Matthew’s lap as the crow rose higher, eventually finding her ballast and carrying the bun away. 

“Uh! Did you see that?” Matthew stood from his seat but the other patrons ignored him. He brushed the food off his shorts and looked around for the crows. They had flown a few yards away and landed on the sidewalk. They took turns picking at his bun. Matthew walked over to them, not that he would eat the bun now, but he needed somewhere for his rage to go, needed to at least scream at these crows. Every time he got within a couple of feet, the crows picked up the bread and moved.  The further he got from the pub, the more he seethed, “I will stomp you out,” he said darkly.

He followed them up the sidewalk and past the apartments. The traffic noise and the pub’s music fell away. He heard the harsh squawk of a crow. It occurred to him that he had never noticed crow calls at night. There were fewer street lights and it was difficult to see crows in the dark. He followed the sounds of the crows to the edge of the schoolyard. He walked along the row of elm trees that lined the sidewalk, scanning the dead yellow grass and chain link fence. “That’s my nosh, innit,” came the same strange whisper again. The cold mildewed air crossed over the space tattoos on his bare legs. Away from the lights and noise of the pub he couldn’t trace the disembodied voice. A crow screamed. Matthew saw it. It was perched on the wooden sign that read, “Elliott Smith Waldorf. The little school under the elms.” It was pecking his bun.

“You little fuck…” Matthew began, but the words dropped away as Alukah materialized from the tree next to him. Her dense black hair enveloped her body, hiding her earth colored tunic. Matthew attempted to mask his surprise, “Ah. Hello. With whom do I…”

Two crows landed on either side of Alukah and dropped the bahn mi bun at her bare feet. Her toenails were black and the veins stood out on the thin skin. Matthew watched the crows transform their shape into two young girls in brown tunics, smaller versions of Alukah with long, shining black hair. “Are you aliens?” Matthew spluttered.

“Nah,” Alukah answered. The two girls stared at Matthew with illegible blankness. “You will love me, Guv,” she said again. She held him in her gaze, chin raised to look up at him.

“Why would I do that?” Matthew thought she was probably just a crazy homeless woman, but also she was kinda hot, in a goth hag way. He couldn’t really see her body under all that hair, but he could tell she wasn’t fat at least. He wouldn’t mind violating the prime directive for a little outdoor sex with a random weirdo. Though he’d have to get rid of the freaky crow girls. “Are you some kind of witch?” He hoped she would find this complimentary.

“I am the demoness, Alukah. These are my daughters,” she gestured to either side of her, “I am here to offer you relief, my darling.” 

“Relief from what?” He chuckled, assured that he was in control of the situation. He stared at her black lips. Was that lipstick or just the color of her lips?

Alukah raised her hands out towards Matthew. She arched her back and tilted her neck, as if ready to receive a kiss. Matthew moved closer, anticipating how her body would feel against his. Alukah cupped her hands around the back of his neck. She pressed her chest into his torso, her nipples so hard they drove themselves into the soft flesh between his ribs. 

Just as Matthew bowed his head for a kiss, Alukah’s long black thumbnails lengthened to dagger sharpness. Her nails sliced through his neck like baking twine through dough. It happened so quickly that Matthew’s tongue was still probing the air, seeking her mouth. His detached head slid forward on his neck and rolled down the front of his body. It lolled at the base of the elm tree Alukah had emerged from. Her daughters stepped aside to make way for it. His body stood there stupidly for a moment before collapsing at Alukah’s bare feet. 

“You have a good feed now, my little luvs,” she instructed her daughters. The two girls knelt down at either side of his neck and drank from the fountain of blood that rhythmically pumped out with each dwindling heart beat. They lapped like cats. The pooled blood soaked into their black hair and dribbled down their chins. 

As the flow of blood decreased, they cried out “More, more,” each in turn, their screechy scratchy voices bouncing off the brick school building.

“More, more, yes, mama will get you more shayna punims” she said absently.

Her daughters picked up the head and disappeared with it through a hole at the base of the elm.

Alukah stood over Matthew’s body, she closed her eyes and drew symbols into the palm of each hand. Matthew’s shorts unzipped themselves, his underwear rolled itself down, and his erect penis unfurled. Alukah straddled the body and sat down on it. “I said you would love me, ain’t I?” She laughed lustily with the lungs of an ancient smoker. Cobwebs and dust rattled around in her breath. Her matted black hair lifted off the crown of her head, cascaded over her shoulders and swept across his knees. His leg tattoos singed black each time her hair brushed over them.

She ground her hips in a circular motion and moaned. Her mouth opened in pleasure, revealing a black tongue and crooked teeth. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed hard as if she were administering cpr. Fresh blood spurted from his neck. She leaned forward and drank, slurping up blood. She raised herself up and hit his chest again, the sound of his sternum cracking made her laugh, “I ain’t drained you yet, geezer,” a fountain of dark liquid gushed from his neck. She leaned over it, drinking and moving her hips. Her black fingernails clawed at his shoulders, tearing the sleeves of his NASA tshirt and ripping into his flesh.

The grinding of her hips quickened, the slurping became more frantic until her body grew rigid and she let out a guttural moan of pleasure. She lay still, savoring the orgasm, shivered once, then said, “Blimey, you was tasty, guv.” 

Alukah dismounted from Matthew and stood over him, “I reckon that’s you sorted then.” 

Hung

Bending over the bathroom sink, Harold Miley splashed cold water on his face. He had vomited in the hall. But that could wait. Call 911, he told himself. Not that this was an emergency.

Becky was dead. Paramedics couldn’t do a thing for her. Except cut her down, he thought. Or perhaps the police would do that . . .  

The house would soon be packed with people. Beat cops. Detectives. Crime scene technicians. Medical Examiner. The detectives would ask him questions. Endless questions. Harold was in for a long night, long and emotionally draining. 

Having wiped his face with a towel, he deliberately avoided his haggard reflection in the mirror. Don’t go back in there, he thought. You don’t want to see her again. Once is enough. Make the call and wait for the cavalry. 

Harold exited the bathroom and stood in the hall just outside the master bedroom. He frowned at his phone. But he didn’t call. He wasn’t ready for the circus. Not yet. Not with so many unanswered questions throttling his psyche. 

Steeling himself, he reentered the bedroom and made a beeline for the window. He raised the miniblinds, unlocked the window, pushed it up. Mild night air rushed into the room, helping to lessen the awful stench. Becky’s bowels had evacuated when her neck snapped . . .  

Face twisted with anguish, Harold looked for a suicide note. He found it atop the nightstand on his wife’s side of the bed. She had used a blue ballpoint pen and a single sheet of yellow legal paper. Becky’s cursive script filled the entire page. It amounted to a confession and apology. The phrases “bad wife” and “selfish person” appeared repeatedly but there was no mention of her lover’s identity. 

Whoever the guy is, Harold thought, he’s in for one hell of a shock. He almost felt sorry for the bastard. Almost. 

Harold looked at the overturned chair beneath Becky’s dangling bare feet. It was an old straight-back chair she had gotten for a song at the flea market. She had sanded and painted the piece before relegating it to the laundry room. 

Harold returned the note to the nightstand, placing it beside Becky’s phone which he combed assiduously. Such a breach of his wife’s privacy had been all but impossible until now; she had guarded her phone with her life, never letting the damnable thing out of her sight . . . 

The vulgar text messages from an unfamiliar number—a burner, Harold reasoned, if the guy was married—were bad enough. 

But these were nothing compared to the photos. 

Dick pics. 

And the guy was huge.

No doubt, he had shown Becky a very good time. Harold could almost forgive her. Almost. She was entitled to pleasure, entitled to a level of satisfaction and fulfillment which he had been unable to provide with his comparatively diminutive member. 

Still, vows were vows . . . 

Harold studied her photos in search of a face but came up empty. He decided to dial the number. He wanted to hear the sonofabitch’s voice. He wanted to tell him that the affair was over, that Becky had gone off the deep end and killed herself, that he hoped the sorry motherfucker was happy. 

“Hey,” somebody picked up after the third ring. 

A male voice. Unmistakably familiar. 

Harold hung up on his next-door neighbor. 

***

Chuck was piddling in his garage. 

Good, Harold thought. He didn’t want to ring the doorbell. Last thing he wanted was an encounter with Chuck’s wife and/or kids. He didn’t want to be reminded that his neighbor was a husband and father. It would be easier that way . . . 

After taking the photo with Becky’s phone, Harold had retrieved the .32 from his nightstand drawer. The compact handgun was for home protection. He had tried to teach Becky how to use it, but she showed no interest. “Guns are like snakes,” she had told him, “and I’m scared of both.” Now, phone in hand, gun tucked between his belt and lower back, he crossed the small section of grass between the two houses and entered Chuck’s garage. 

His neighbor’s truck occupied half of the cavernous space. The other half was a makeshift workshop. Chuck was hunched over a table tinkering with an old-fashioned alarm clock. Restoring antique clocks was just one of the handyman’s side gigs. He also repaired fitness equipment and copy machines. A regular jack of all trades, Harold mused as he approached his neighbor who had yet to see him. 

“Chuck,” he stated bluntly. 

His neighbor jerked. “Jeez, man. You scared the hell out of me.” He put down the clock and wiped his grimy hands with a grimy towel. “What’s new, neighbor?” 

“Quite a lot, actually,” Harold said. “I want to show you something. Check this out . . .” 

Standing beside the table, he proffered Becky’s phone. Chuck regarded him strangely. 

“Go on,” Harold urged. “It won’t bite.” Then, “That’s right, asshole. Becky’s phone . . .” 

“Look, Harold, I don’t know what—” 

“You know Becky. My wife. Well, late wife . . .” 

Harold watched Chuck’s eyes, watched them fix on the photo of Becky hanging from the light fixture. The color drained from his neighbor’s face. He gasped audibly. 

The kitchen door swung open. Chuck’s freckle faced twelve-year-old daughter appeared. She was eating a Kraft single. “Dinner’s ready . . .” 

“Go back inside, Trish,” Chuck told her. 

“Mom said—” 

“Inside! Now!” 

No sooner had Trish shut the door than Harold pulled his piece. 

“Now wait a minute.” Chuck raised his hands. “Just calm down. Don’t do something—” 

“You fucked my wife!”

Chuck started to say something about calling 911 when the bullet ripped into his throat. He tried to plug the wound with his fingers. Gagging and sputtering, blood oozed between them. The second round bored into his gut, silencing him forever. He lay sprawled, leaking and still, on the concrete. 

Towering over his dead neighbor, Harold eyed a pair of heavy-duty hedge shears hanging on the wall. He walked over, grabbed the tool, and returned to Chuck. It was a gruesome affair, severing his neighbor’s cock, gruesome yet immensely satisfying. Blood was all over the place. The garage looked like a slaughter house. 

Harold sat on the smooth concrete with his back against the wall, torn between waiting for the police and blowing his brains out. 

Sirens cut the night.

A Bull’s Work

Busy with my army work and a couple of other needy cunts, I hadn’t seen my married bitch couple for several days, until she texted, begging me to fuck her again. The first time she had confessed that she wanted to be degraded and roughly used. Being Master Tark, their bull, I complied. And, please, she also begged, make her husband Danny squirm. Make him suck you. My dick strained against my jockstrap just imagining the two of them on their hands and knees.

I drove to the cunt’s house after my gym workout, where I had been lifting weights and noticing a few male and female bitches eye me up and down. I’ve got a hard muscular build, not just from army drills, but from years of regular weight training. I always wear form-fitting, wife-beater tops to display my muscles. My legs are pretty well-developed, too. 

I had told her to be ready for me, to kneel naked on the living room sofa cushions and lean over the back of it, her ass exposed for a good spanking, her fine round tits pressed against the back. I’m not obsessed with tits but I appreciate a good pair, especially when nipple clamped, which was going to happen to her tits eventually. Too much time had lapsed, and she needed a reminder of her position and function. As instructed, Danny her husband stood, stripped to his underwear in a corner. He had also been emailing me scenarios like he was some kind of movie director and I was an actor. He had a thing to learn: I was the boss and he was nothing more than a piece of meat that needed fucking like his wife. Face the wall and don’t look until I give you permission. Understand, bitch? Sir, yes Sir, he replied. 

I also instructed Kim the wife not to look at me or say a word unless I gave her permission. She said in the email that she had been a bad girl and needed a good spanking. How bad were you? I asked in a reply. What did you do? She said that she had wicked thoughts about a high school boy down the road. She wanted him to pretend she was his teacher and fuck her on the desk. She wanted to suck his cock and swallow his young load while he pressed her head against his groin and called her slut and cunt, just the way I did. She played with her pussy, pinching and rubbing her clit, until she came, fantasizing about the student sitting on her face, his hard young tasty cock down her throat. And then Danny walked in and when he saw the high school stud face fucking his wife, he fell on his hands and knees like a dog, whimpering. Wasn’t that a bad thing to imagine, daddy? Is daddy angry? she wrote? I prefer to be called Sir or Master rather than daddy, but to humor the horny slut, I replied in the same spirit: yes, daddy was angry, and his little girl deserved a good spanking.

When I entered the room, I didn’t speak. I admired her still taut body and firm ass, not bad for a mature cunt. She was forty at least. They had eighteen-year-old twins, a boy and girl, both away at college. And I wondered if one day I’d be fucking them as well, create a private bull-owned family. Just a fantasy. For now, what was real were the parents waiting to be used. I dropped my coat to the floor, then I began caressing her ass, fondling, tickling, pinching, running my fingers up and down her pussy. She was already moist. She moaned in expectation and pleasure and when I suddenly smacked her ass cheeks hard, four times in a row, she yelped, but whimpered thank you, daddy, thank you. Then I slapped those fine cheeks harder and harder.

“Daddy’s little girl’s been bad, hasn’t she? Answer me!”

She groaned with pleasure:

“Yes, daddy, your little girl has been real bad, daddy.”

“Daddy’s little girl wants a high school boy to fuck her, doesn’t she?” And I smacked her so hard across one cheek that even my hand smarted. She yelped like a dog.

“Yes, oh, yes, daddy.”

“What a fucking cockwhore, you are, just a horny housewife bitch, aren’t you?”

Her “Daddy” whacked her buttocks so hard, she cried out and my hand was stinging, and her flesh blazoned hot red. She began whimpering and crying and begging Daddy to stop, but Daddy, getting warm, just smacked her ass several times harder and harder, even thought of flogging the hot bitch, but decided there would be another time for that. Shackle her arms and legs, spreadeagled. I’d have to see how far she wanted to go. Get that high school kid to fuck her. The way she was wiggled her flaming red ass and moaned proved how much she enjoyed and needed the spanking.

In the corner Danny whimpered and even begged to be allowed to turn around. I pulled my black belt off my military fatigues, looped it in one hand, and approached Danny who stood about 5’9 to my 6’3. He had a narrow waist and nicely rounded ass cheeks and looked like he took care of his body.

“What did you say, bitch? Did I give you permission to speak?”

“No, Master Tark, Sir.”

Then without another word I whacked his ass hard and loud with the looped belt and he screamed out “Holy fuck!” Which almost made me burst out laughing. But he didn’t turn around, although he tried to cover his cheeks with his hands. I must remember to tie them next time. Leather wrist shackles would do the trick.

“Move your fucking hands, bitch.”

And he obeyed just in time for me to apply another resounding whack over his cheeks which immediately flamed. I dropped the belt and stood closely behind him, the fingers of one hand probing his asshole under his boxers. He flinched and seemed to fall back into my chest as if expecting to be embraced like a woman. I inserted two fingers in his mouth for him to suck and he noisily slurped on them as if he had been starving. Then I pushed the two fingers up his ass right to the second knuckle. With the other hand I reached around and grabbed a hold of his small but erect cock through the underwear and squeezed. He jerked and bucked as I finger fucked him, but releasing his pathetic dick, I grabbed him by the waist and pulled his body onto my fingers and probed faster, pushing a third finger in, as he writhed and moaned and begged please, Sir, please.

“Please what, bitch?”

That was all he said, please Sir. I fucked him a minute or two longer with three fingers, my own cock rigid as a telephone pole. I was ready to fuck him in the ass, but I hadn’t finished with Kim yet. Besides, I wanted him to pant and imagine how much more was coming to him.

I pulled my fingers out and ordered him to suck his ass juices off them, which he did hungrily. My fingers practically down his throat up to the knuckles he clenched around them as if he had been starving for that particular food. Thinking he had pleased me, he begged again: “please, Master Tark, Sir, may I turn around and watch?”

“First, lick my boots, cunt.”

I had expected resistance, but he fell to his knees and hunched forward like a dog and his tongue shot out to kiss the toe of my sand-coloured, army boots. He ran his tongue along the rim of one sole. I had a terrific urge to straddle his body and piss all over the wimp’s face, but decided to leave that pleasure for another time. My cock, proudly poking out of my fatigues, glistened with precum, as it always did, and I gave him permission to sit up and lick the tip of its thick rounded head. Not to take it in his mouth, yet, but just to pleasure himself with the taste of his bull’s cum. His tongue shot out and lapped at the piss hole leaking precum. I pulled away from his tongue, and leaned over to whisper in his ear:

“You want your bull to fuck you senseless, cuntboy?”

He looked up with tears of joy in his eyes.

“Oh, yes Sir, yes Sir, yes Sir.”

I ordered him to keep down on all fours like the dog bitch, but he could watch from the corner. And I turned my attention to his wife.

“You’re my private little cumslut, aren’t you bitch, just a whorish fuck doll.”

“Yes, daddy, please, please spank me. Been so bad, spank me.”

I slapped those cheeks six more times for good measure, hard, with my hand although one day she’d feel the belt also, then immediately stuck my fingers in her pussy: fuck, it was sopping wet! Pulling her hair back with one hand, I fingered her cunt with the other, eventually slipping my entire fist in her hot pussy as she pushed back as if she wanted to fuck my arm!! I stroked with my fist in and out and she cried out, “oh, daddy, daddy, please please.”

“You still want that high school kid to fuck you, bitch?”

She didn’t answer. But the murmurings, the panting, the groaning, the pushing back of her cunt onto my fist was answer enough. My cock was so fucking hard and huge it throbbed visibly and was ready to explode a geyser of hot white bull cum.

I turned her around on the cushions and lifted her legs around my shoulders. My cock reared like a stallion’s and I pushed between her pussy lips and rammed it home. I could feel the bulging veins of my shaft bruise against the soft wet walls of her cunt, and I jackhammered it furiously. She screamed out, and so did Danny, like I was fucking them both at the same time. I grasped her thighs and bulldozed her deeply; my balls pressed against her pussy as my cock bellowed its way home to her womb. It felt as if it were expanding wider and growing longer and reaching boiling point. My fatigues down to my ankles, my soldier’s tags dangling over her mouth as I pressed forward, her cunt muscles gripped tightly around my thick hard cock as she pushed up to meet every one of my down strokes, Danny’s saliva dried on my boots, I pummeled relentlessly, the cum boiling in my balls, aching to explode inside my bitch.

Then, fuck, without permission Danny crawled over to the sofa and with one hand touched my ass. I was so taken aback I pulled out of Kim’s cunt and turned around to face him, ready to give the disobedient wimp a powerful back hand just as my cum erupted. A heavy load shot out directly at his face, splashing over his eyes and nose and lips and his tongue sticking out. I couldn’t stop it, it just shot out in great streams of hot cum. My hand instinctively grabbed his hair and pulled him to closer, his mouth open.

“You fucking disobedient cunt! You’ll be punished for this.”

Then I rammed my cock, still hard and erupting down his open throat and pushed his head against my pubes and he gagged and bolted as if about to bring up what he had no choice but to swallow. 

Not the way I had planned it, but it showed me what Danny craved, what they both needed. And Kim just folded herself on the sofa and moaned, a strange smile on his face, her eyes open but glazed as if hypnotized. I knew I still had a lot of work to do.