Kin to Narcissus
With tears in his eyes, Clarence agreed and even began to dance about in the pouring rain. Trisha laughed happily, clapping her hands as they cavorted together.
"Come on. Let's get you into a warm bath," Clarence smiled when the first rumble of thunder announced itself.
"Um!" Trisha objected when Clarence pulled her sodden dress off of her.
"UM!" she cried out when he pulled her full slip from her body.
"Um! Um! Um!" she protested when he pushed her naked body into the warm bathtub.
"Really? You'll dance in the cold rain but got a problem with hot water?" Clarence asked the struggling woman.
"Aagh!" she protested vehemently when he dunked her head under the water.
Pulling her out of the water, he attempted to towel her dry. She made a mad dash for the front door. She protested in her odd grunting language when he grabbed her about her waist.
"Sweetheart, sweetheart, I'm trying, I'm trying to help you," he begged but she struggled mightily.
Putting Trisha's nightgown on her still very damp body did calm her somewhat. She even allowed him to seat her at the table. He kept an eye on her as he prepared a mug of hot tea for her. Liberally sweetening the strong tea with honey, he carried the mug into the dining room and placed the mug into her hands. Five minutes later, he helped her to drink the tea.
"Do do aw?" she asked when the mug was empty.
"Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I don't understand," Clarence admitted, feeling the sting of tears as his wife labored to communicate with him.
"Aw! Oot, do aw?" she babbled.
Clarence hired Mrs. Finnegan to mind Trisha; he needed to work. Tirelessly, he threw himself into his law practice. When he was not busy with clients, he was courting new clients. He would leave at daybreak and return well after dark most days.
And, each day, Mrs. Finnegan would give him a summary of their activities for the day. They sat in the parlor while Mrs. Finnegan read the Bible to Trisha. If the day was sunny, after the noon meal, they would sit in the rear yard. The neighbor, Mrs. Roebuck had recently purchased a Model T Ford and whenever they heard the automobile start its engine, Mrs. Finnegan would lead Trisha to the path so that they could watch Young Mister Peter drive Mrs. Roebuck to wherever it was that they went to. Both Trisha and Mrs. Finnegan would wave to Peter and Mrs. Roebuck and Peter would smile and nod but Mrs. Roebuck would pointedly look away.
And Trisha would echo Mrs. Finnegan's recital with her odd series of squeaks and grunts. Wishing them a good evening, Mrs. Finnegan would leave their home.
CHAPTER 2
The slam of a door brought Clarence back to the present day. He pulled his eyes from the now vacant picnic tables and benches that occupied the courtyard between City Hall and Turner's Drugstore and looked toward the closed door of the Mayor's Office. He could make out a shape approaching the frosted glass of the door.
"Enter," he barked when he heard the single rap against the frosted glass.
"Your financial report, Mr. Mayor," Gwendolyn Jefferson squeaked, voice barely above a whisper.
"Hmm? Oh, oh excellent!" Clarence smiled, holding out his hand for the two pages she held in her hand.
"That be all, Mr. Mayor?" Gwendolyn asked.
"No, no, have a seat. Here, have a seat," Clarence smiled, reaching around the attractive colored girl to close the door of his office.
She had a strong taste of sweat and musk. She squeaked, grunted and gasped as Clarence's mouth brought her to climax. With his finger, Clarence satisfied himself that Gwendolyn Jefferson did not have a hymen preventing his entry.
"This ain't the first man you ever frenched, is it?" Clarence chuckled as he thrust his cock into her mouth.
Her brown eyes looked up into his face as he held her head in place. He could not read the expression in her eyes; fear, revulsion, surrender? He did not care.
"No, this ain't first man you ever frenched," Clarence chuckled, hips jerking back and forth.
After a silent Gwendolyn left his office, Clarence looked out into the courtyard again. A leaf blew slowly along the barren ground and he watched the leaf's slow, skittering progress.
By the next harvest, some colored people had trickled into Falwell. Some migrant workers had gravitated up from the Mexico-Texas border. With the field laborers came some domestic help as well. Mrs. Roebuck managed to hire a young colored girl for her household chores. She also relieved Peter of his duties.
Some were scandalized when Mrs. Roebuck taught Ester Harris to drive the Model T Ford; bad enough Ester was a woman. But a colored woman driving was unheard of. The only people that would smile and wave as the Model T Ford puttered and clattered past were Trisha and Mrs. Finnegan and Mrs. Roebuck took to returning their friendly waves.
Clarence noticed the very attractive colored girl as she arrived to Mrs. Roebuck's one morning. Looking at the young woman's jiggling breasts, then admiring her posterior, Clarence thought of Betty Washinton. He felt his manhood jerk to full erection as he thought of bending Ester over the arm of his tall settee, thought of sodomizing Ester Harris.
That evening, Clarence left his office early. He marveled at the pale sunlight, the smells of autumn in the air as he walked to his home. When he reached Mrs. Roebuck's home, he paused.
"Miss Harris," Clarence asked as Ester let herself out of the rear gate of Mrs. Roebuck's garden.
"Yes sir? You Mister Thompson, that right?" Ester politely asked the large white man.
"Yes, yes, that's right," he smiled. "Miss Harris, I was wondering if you should perhaps know of any of your friends that would be willing to take on some domestic chores at my house?"
"Um, you, Mrs. Thompson, she wanting same um, help Mrs. Roebuck wanting?" Ester asked.
"Hmm?" Clarence asked.
"You know..." Ester said and waggled her tongue suggestively.
"Hmm? Oh. OH!" Clarence said, then gasped, realizing when Ester was asking.
"I, hmm, no, no, my wife, she, she just needs someone to sit with her, keep her secure in her home," Clarence said, heavy blush on his face.
Looking around, he leaned close to Ester. Ester leaned close, dark eyes appraising the large white man.
"Now, hmm, say, if they were to offer me those hmm, services?" Clarence whispered.
Dottie Turner was not beautiful by any stretch of the imagination. Her hair was an unkempt mop of tight coils. Her eyes were perpetually bloodshot, her nose was a flat, broad nose and her teeth were chipped and twisted.
But Dottie enjoyed sex. She enjoyed sucking a man's cock. She enjoyed getting fucked. And while not enjoying the act of sodomy, she accepted it without complaint.
But Clarence came home and caught Dottie slapping his wife for accidentally soiling herself. He saw the physical slap and heard the angry, demeaning words the thirty four year old colored woman used against his wife.
Antoinette Knight was a solidly built woman of twenty nine years. She tried to teach Trisha Gospel tunes and even tried to teach Trisha how to dance. Trisha laughed happily and clapped, very much out of syncopation, but happy all the same.
Spiritual hymns aside, Antoinette was a loud, vulgar lover. She cursed a blue streak when Clarence sodomized her. And while the loud, boisterous carnal activities took place, Trisha would sit, hands clapped over her ears.
"Um! Um! Um!" Trisha would accuse Clarence after Antoinette would take her leave of the Thompson home.
"Mm hmm," Clarence would agree.
"Harvest is over; we fixing leave on out of here," Antoinette told Clarence one morning.
No amount of bribery, pleas, wheedling would change Antoinette's mind. Sighing, Clarence paid the woman.
Mrs. Carmen Mantoya was a beautiful nineteen year old Mexican woman. Her English was rudimentary but it was good enough to request employment. She seemed to understand that she would be babysitting an adult woman.
The first time Clarence pulled his semi-erect cock from his trousers, Carmen's eyes nearly bugged out of her head. She sank to her knees and eagerly swallowed his growing manhood to the root.
The first time he pushed her over the settee in their parlor and sodomized her, Carmen screamed, cried and grunted, pushing herself back to take all that he had to give. In a mixture of Spanish and English, she placed her hands protectively over her very hairy pussy and told Clarence that her pussy was for her husband only.
Then she rolled onto her belly, draped over the settee's arm and demanded another sodomization.
"Um! Um! Um!" Trisha angrily accused Clarence as Carmen left their home.
"Um, um, um all you wish," Clarence snapped. "Allow me to sodomize you? Hell, allow me any sexual activity at all? I'll quit hiring these little whores, all right?"
Seven months into her employ, Carmen revealed that she was pregnant. She also revealed that she was leaving her husband for Clarence; she was in love with Clarence.
"I am married," Clarence firmly told the young Latin woman. "And I love my wife very much. So, you need to go back to your husband."
Carmen ran sobbing from the house. A few days later, Sheriff Nesbit paid a visit to Clarence's office and informed Clarence that Carmen had committed suicide. But Clarence had already hired Miranda Garcia, a twenty four year old Latin woman with a homely face and a beautiful body.
Someone recommended that Clarence run for Sheriff. He did and began taking his wife with him as he went, door to door, asking people for their votes. Many knew the large man as an attorney, a successful attorney. Now, with his door to door campaign, many also knew him as a compassionate, loving husband, caring for his beautiful but addled wife.
The race was called for Sheriff Nesbit. According to the poll workers, Sheriff Nesbit had received seven thousand one hundred and nine votes to Clarence Thompson's nineteen hundred and fifty four votes.
"You know? It is the damndest thing," Judge Vidner harrumphed as Sheriff Nesbit began his acceptance speech.
"What's that, your honor?" Sheriff Nesbit asked, smiling widely.
"Just wondering. If there are three thousand four hundred and fifty two people registered to vote in this great county of Ivermann, how exactly did you manage to accrue seven thousand, one hundred and nine votes?" Judge Vidner asked.
With four men from the Governor's office standing behind them, each holding a twelve gauge shotgun loaded with buckshot, the poll workers began the laborious task of counting the votes again. Before any vote could be counted, the name on the ballot was verified against the Ivermann County voter registry.
When all votes were verified and tallied, Clarence Thompson had retained his one thousand nine hundred and fifty four votes. And Sheriff Nesbit had received one thousand two hundred and six votes.
"Gentlemen, please take Marvin Nesbit into custody," Judge Vidner ordered and the four men from the Governor's office did arrest the loudly protesting man.
During the eight years he served as Sheriff, Clarence had three attempts on his life. And, each time it was just blind luck that saved his hide.
The first attempt, a torching of his home occurred when he and Trisha were in Tulsa, visiting a specialist. The esteemed doctor performed a series of tests but admitted he could do nothing for Trisha.
Pulling up to the charred remains of their home in their 1914 Pierce-Arrow, Clarence stared in stunned disbelief. Trisha looked at the burned remains for a moment.
"Daddy!" she shrieked and burst into heart wrenching sobs.
After the burning of their home, Trisha again reverted to the catatonic state, never speaking again. She would just sit for hours, staring at nothing. Clarence hired nurses to care for his non-responsive wife, feeding her, bathing her, cleaning her when she soiled herself.
The second attempt was late at night as Clarence sat in his office. He dropped a fountain pen onto the floor of the office and bent to retrieve the pen when a barrage of bullets shattered the large glass window and slammed into the wall past his desk. Crawling to the window, Clarence poked the barrel of his.45 over the shards of broken glass and returned fire.
The hail of bullets stopped and Clarence chanced a peek out into the street below. He saw two men racing away on foot and a third man lying in the street.
"Nuts to you," Nicholas Nesbit, younger brother and Deputy to Marvin Nesbit coughed, choking on his own blood.
The third attempt was carried out by Marvin, now out of prison. Clarence was stepping out of Sol's Delicatessen, billfold in one hand and box lunch in the other. Marvin stepped up, his.38 pointed at Clarence's chest.
"Hello, Sheriff," Marvin taunted and squeezed the trigger.
Just as Marvin squeezed the trigger, Old Man Dyers, drunk on blackberry wine, staggered in front of Clarence. Marvin's bullet struck Old Man Dyers in his head, ending the drunkard's hellacious forty six years' struggles with chronic inebriation.
Dropping his billfold, Clarence drew his.45 and put two slugs into Marvin's head. Silently, he vowed to God that Old Man Dyers would get a proper burial and Marvin's gravesite would receive a proper watering each day.
"After my second or third pot of coffee," Clarence said grimly, retrieving his billfold from the dusty ground.
Clarence kept both promises; paying for a proper funeral for William Dyers, even buying flowers for the funeral. And, each day, he would drive up to Marvin's gravesite, pull out his cock, and spray headstone and plot with a steady stream of urine. He kept that promise until one day when he saw that the grave had been freshly dug up and the headstone removed.
"Miss Nesbit asked we move him," Paul Upjohn quietly said. "Said she were tired of you watering her boy's grave."
"So, where is he?" Clarence demanded.
"Had him moved on to Broken Field, Kansas; where their family hails from," the man said. "Sheriff? You done had your fun, all right? Leave them be."
With a shrug, Clarence moved to the next space, where Nicholas Nesbit was interred. Paul Upjohn shook his head in disgust as Clarence unloaded his stream of urine onto Nicholas's headstone and grave.
"Sheriff? You are one mean son of a bitch, you hear?" Paul said, walking away.
CHAPTER 3
Apparently a mean son of a bitch was what the good people of Falwell wanted as a judge. After eight years of serving the good people as a tough but fair Sheriff, Clarence ran for Judge. As he was unopposed, he won handily.
In Clarence's fourth year of County Judge, Mayor Dick Smith was discovered with a naked underage boy in his bedroom. In a hurried meeting, Sheriff Logan, Fire Chief Simpson, Judge Vidner and Judge Thompson agreed that Mayor Smith would vacate the office of Mayor and would leave Falwell, Oklahoma.
"Hell, might want leave Oklahoma altogether," Fire Chief Simpson said, normally ruddy face looking slightly pale and sickly.
"Yes; might be best," Judge Vidner agreed. "Thompson?"
"Hmm? Oh, agreed. Perhaps New York would be more accommodating," Clarence suggested.
"No, no, I was thinking you might want to be Mayor," Judge Vidner said. "And, yes, New York might be a more suitable locale for that deviant Smith."
Running for mayor, his only opponent was Bob Fredrickson, Deputy Mayor for Dick Smith. Even though he had no knowledge of Mayor Dick Smith's private doings, Bob was assumed guilty by association. Of the now four thousand and twelve registered voters in Falwell, Oklahoma, Clarence Thompson received eighty three percent of the vote. In a move that surprised everyone, Clarence appointed Bob Fredrickson as his Deputy Mayor.
Trisha continued her near vegetative existence. Of the nurses that were willing to subsidize their income by being whores to Sheriff, then Judge Thompson, none were able to provide truly adequate nursing care to Trisha. And of the nurses that were able to provide the non-responsive woman with proper care, none were willing to be whores for Clarence Thompson.
In the Mayor's office, though, Clarence was able to hire clerical staff. He liked them young, subservient, and a little dirty.
"Let's be practical," Clarence mused. "A nice, proper young woman isn't going to hide under the desk and suck your cock while the Sheriff and the Fire Chief are sitting in your office."
"A nice, proper young woman isn't going to beg you to sodomize her right here on your leather couch," Clarence smiled, looking at the fancy leather couch Dick Smith had installed in the Mayor's office.
Myrna Abelman had been Clarence's first hire. Through the Brotherhood, Clarence knew that Jews were shifty people, money-hungry, patently dishonest. In short, they were not to be trusted. But Myrna had two things in her favor. She was a blonde with nice sized breasts and with a crippled husband, she was desperate.
"My Seth served his country during the Great War," Myrna sniffed as she unbuttoned her blouse. "Crippled in action, you know. But..."
The rest of Myrna's words were tuned out as her magnificent mammary came into view. Clarence cupped her large breasts in his beefy paws, pinching and twisting her nipples.
The new wheelchair was shipped all the way from Switzerland. Three City Hall Employees labored to design and install a ramp from drive to front door for Seth Abelman. And the American Legion held a pot luck supper once a month to honor Seth Abelman and other veterans of the Great War.
Knowing Clarence Thompson was a mean son of a bitch that could take all these extravagances away from her and from Seth, Myrna was an enthusiastic cock sucker. Myrna was a very willing recipient of anal sex. And when Clarence began to tire of her, Myrna did what she could to recruit new partners for Mayor Thompson.
"Oy vey. Like leading sheep to the slaughter," Myrna thought as she coached Gwendolyn Jefferson, the newest employee of Mayor Thompson's clerical staff.
"Better you should have died," Myrna thought of her husband's latest round of medical bills.
"Better I should die," Myrna thought as she watched Gwendolyn Jefferson leave Mayor Thompson's office, eyes downcast.
The colored girl sat at her desk. After a long moment of silently staring at nothing, the young girl seemed to snap out of her stupor. She grabbed a sheet of paper from a wire basket on her desk, read it for a moment, then pulled a single sheet of paper from her desk drawer and began typing.
"What are you doing? You ignorant girl; I swear. I don't understand why Mayor Thompson hires such fools. All of you colored people are such dullards," Nancy Finch stomped to Gwendolyn's desk and began to berate the young girl.
"What, Nancy, what is the problem here?" Myrna snapped, interceding.
"She is to type the incident report for the Broad Street fire; in triplicate," Nancy snapped.
"Hmm. And, where, may I ask, does it say that?" Myrna asked, looking at the incident report Nancy had placed into Gwendolyn's basket.
"It, it, its common knowledge," Nancy defended.
"It is not common knowledge. If it is not contained within the four corners of this page, it will not happen," Myrna snapped. "But let me guess. Had Miss Jefferson taken the initiative to create triplicates, you would have berated her for wasting carbon paper."
"It is common knowledge," Nancy insisted.
"Miss Finch, perhaps you should type the incident report, rather than attempting to have Miss Jefferson do the task that had been delegated to you?" Myrna ordered, thrusting the original paperwork into Nancy's hand.
"N----r," Nancy hissed, voice full of venom.
"I'd been happy do it," Gwendolyn assured Myrna.
Myrna did not think Gwendolyn was speaking of the duty Miss Finch had attempted to foist upon her. She had done it, had pretended to be happy to do it. And, going home and looking at the shell of a man her Seth had become had filled Myrna with equal parts anger and shame.
"The next report that comes to you? If it has 'NF' in the margin, please pass it along to Sylvie," Myrna gently suggested.
Myrna knew the first time Clarence, Mayor Thompson had sodomized Gwendolyn. The grunts, squeals and thumps were muffled, but still loud enough to be recognized. Nancy Finch even muttered 'that little n----r hussy' under her breath as the thumps became more pronounced.
The grimace of pain on Gwendolyn's face, the slight hitch in her gait announced to all in the small outer office that Gwendolyn had been treated roughly.
"I, I need use the facilities," Gwendolyn murmured, voice hoarse.
"Tramp," Nancy accused.
Gwendolyn paused at the door and stared hard at Nancy. Nancy returned the stare until Gwendolyn gave a small lurch and abruptly left the office.
When the door closed behind the young colored girl, Nancy used her compact to check that her lip rouge was meticulously applied and that her carrot orange curls were perfect. Then she stomped to the Mayor's door.
The thumps and grunts and squeals when Gwendolyn had been in the office had been somewhat muffled. Nancy's shrill demands that Clarence Thompson fire that little n----r this very instant was not muffled. The rest of Nancy's words denigrated into sobs. Myrna, Sylvie and Edna all shared a look when they could very clearly hear Nancy declare her love of Clarence Thompson.
A tearful Nancy stormed from the Mayor's office. Without asking permission from Myrna, Nancy left the outer office. Her heels could be heard clattering as she ran down the hall.
Sylvie, being the closest to the door leaned close to the door. Her eyes opened wide for a moment, then she busied herself with some papers on her desk. The inner office door was suddenly jerked open.
"Which desk was Nancy's desk?" Clarence demanded, standing in the door.
Wordlessly, Myrna pointed to Nancy's desk. A moment later, there was a rap at the outer door and Sheriff Logan entered the room. Clarence nodded with his head and he and the Sheriff disappeared into the office.
A moment later, Sheriff Logan exited, smiling widely. Clarence wore a smile until the outer office door shut behind the officer.
"Nancy comes back, she is to report to Sheriff Logan," Clarence said, voice hard. "Where is Gwendolyn?"
"Facilities," Myrna mumbled.
"She comes back, please send her to my office," Clarence ordered.
His wool trousers did not hide his erection very well. Myrna again cursed her husband's infirmed condition; how she wished she could quit this job.
Gwendolyn returned a moment later and nodded her head in resignation when Myrna ordered her to go into Clarence's office. Nancy did not return that afternoon.
In 1935, Deputy Mayor Fredrickson went on a junket to Washington D.C. and was gone for two weeks. During his absence, Gwendolyn Jefferson missed two weeks of work; she gave birth to a nine pound two ounce baby girl that she named Clarissa Jefferson. Upon returning to work, she was dismissed; it had come to light that she was telling everyone that Mayor Clarence Thompson was the father of her daughter.
CHAPTER 4
"Can't have a little colored girl running around trying to ruin my good name," Clarence thundered.
"No sir, no sir, sure can't," Sheriff Logan agreed.
"To be sure," Fire Chief Simpson agreed, nodding his large head in agreement.
After a long moment, Fire Chief Simpson smiled a knowing smile and asked, "But, how was she?"
"God damn but that girl loved to suck cock; like it was better than apple pie," Clarence laughed.
"Mm hmm," Sheriff Logan smiled.
"First couple times? Hated it, you know, in her back door," Clarence went on, thinking of Gwendolyn's well-formed dark brown haunches, her exquisite tight anus and hot anal sheath. "After first couple of times? Couldn't wait to get it in the rear."
"You know, I do believe the Fire Marshall's office is in need of an experienced secretary," Fire Chief Simpson suggested.
"Don't tell me you're already tired of Big Red," Sheriff Logan guffawed.
"Mayor? Is there room on your staff for that Nancy Finch again?" Fire Chief asked.
"Yeah, sure, send Big Red my way. I somewhat miss her sweet little mouth," Clarence smiled.
Suddenly, the hallway door of the Mayor's office burst open and Bob Fredrickson strode into the impromptu meeting. The man smiled a satisfied smile as he approached Clarence.
"Bob, how are you today? Was the trip productive?" Clarence asked genially, even though he was highly agitated at Bob's rude entry.
"Oh, informative to be sure," Bob smirked. "Did you know there is an express rail service that goes from Washington D.C. directly to Grand Central Station?"
"Hmm? No, no, I wasn't aware..." Clarence said, a slight feeling of discomfort beginning to form.
"And, of course, Colombia University? Your alma mater?" Bob went on. "Is just a short stroll from Grand Central Station."
"Yes, yes, I believe it is very close," Clarence agreed, seeing the interest on the faces of Sheriff Logan and Fire Chief Simpson.
"Well, while I was there, visiting my dear friend Dick Smith, you remember Dick Smith, I'm sure?" Bob said.
"Yes, yes, and how is..." Clarence asked.
"Well. He is well," Bob said. "But I took a little side venture to the registrar's office; did you know Colombia has original transcripts dating back to the beginning of the American Revolution? Their archives are truly amazing and so well preserved. Remarkable, just remarkable."
"Yes?" Clarence asked.
"And, do you know, as well preserved as their records are? They have no record of you graduating from their esteemed university," Bob crowed.
"What? That, there must be some mistake," Clarence insisted.
"In fact, there is no record of you ever attending any classes at Colombia at all," Bob stated.
"I, I do not, I don't understand," Clarence said, sitting heavily.
"Which, of course would mean that your occupation of attorney? Was fraudulent. Had anyone discovered that Clarence Phillip Thomson was not an attorney, was not licensed to practice law, but was instead a convicted felon that had done five years as an inmate in Stooker, Pennsylvania, convicted of assault and battery, armed robbery, and arson..." Bob concluded.
"Mr. Mayor?" Sheriff Logan said, voice hard.
"Yes?" Clarence wearily asked.
"I believe it might be best if you were to resign quietly," Sheriff Logan suggested.
"Yes, yes. I, I do believe you are correct," Clarence agreed quietly.
"Congratulations, Mr. Mayor," Fire Chief Simpson said, shaking Bob's hand.
Five minutes after Bob's arrival, Clarence stood behind his desk. Looking around the office, Clarence realized there were no personal effects he cared to burden himself with. Slipping his jacket on and straightening his tie, Clarence gave Bob a firm handshake and wished the man well. Sheriff Logan and Fire Chief Simpson both declined to shake Clarence's hand. Clarence stared hard at both city officials for a long moment.
"For all of the years we've served this community shoulder to shoulder? For all of the years we have called one another friend? You would not shake my hand in parting?" Clarence said, voice flat.
"For the many years you stood, looked us in the eye, and lied to us," Fire Chief Simpson said, voice hard.
"We are allowing you to leave with dignity. Accept that small favor and be gone with you," Sheriff Logan snapped, turning his back on Clarence.
Leaving his office through the front door, the same door Bob had used, Clarence sighed, looking up and down the empty hallway. Turning left, he walked to the large staircase and trod down the steps toward the front door. In the warm afternoon sunshine, Clarence looked around again, sighed, and stepped toward his 1933 Packard De Luxe Eight. With a final look at the courthouse, Clarence smiled a tight smile.
"Well, you fooled them, old boy," he said to himself as he started the luxury automobile. "Yes sir, fooled them a lot longer than you had any right to expect."
Pulling to a stop in front of his home, Clarence felt an incredible weariness engulf him. A man's home was supposed to be his castle, but Clarence's house was more a prison. And, at times, his building was more a mausoleum than a home.
The nurse looked up from her newspaper as Clarence entered the front door. With a disdainful sniff, the woman returned to reading the news.
"Mrs. Dubach," Clarence said. "How much is owed to you?"
"On Saturday, I'll collect nine dollars. Same as last week, and the week befor and the week..." the woman said. "Caring for an invalid patient is quite..."
"Here is your nine dollars; we'll not be requiring your services any longer," Clarence said.
"Very well," the woman sniffed again, accepting the offered money.
After Mrs. Dubach left the home, Clarence went and found his wife lying in her bed. She did not react when he greeted her. She did make a grunt when he softly kissed her on her forehead. Clarence did not know if this was a grunt of displeasure, of protest, or possibly even a grunt of happiness. A second kiss received no sound at all.
In the living room, he lifted the telephone from its cradle and jiggled the receiver until the operator came on the line.
"Yes, Operator," Clarence said heavily. "Tsuyösti. The Tsuyösti Sanitarium please."
Clarence was shocked when he felt a tear trickle down his cheek. A few moments later, a pleasant sounding male voice announced the name of the Tsuyösti, Oklahoma Mental Institution.
In the morning, Clarence fed his wife her breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon. He'd taken two slices of bread and grilled the slices in the bacon grease before slathering on some blackberry preserves. Trisha made a cooing sound when she tasted the blackberry preserves and Clarence actually laughed happily at her reaction.
She did struggle somewhat when he stripped her out of nightgown and diaper. Clarence was horrified at the appearance of her nude body; she was horribly atrophied and her skin hung loosely on her skeletal frame. Before sinking into her vegetative state, when she'd been able to feed herself, his wife had retained her lush figure. Now, she was but a shell of her former self.
Again, she struggled feebly when he bathed her. She calmed down when he wrapped her in a large towel, then softly brushed her beautiful blonde hair. He winced at seeing the threads of silver throughout the gold locks.
From Falwell City to Tsuyösti, Oklahoma was a five hour journey. The Sanatorium was a squat two story brick building in the middle of what had once been a lush and fertile valley. That fertile valley was now a filthy, grimy expanse of dirt. There was no town; the sanatorium was the only building in this area. In the distance, Clarence could see some silos, but there was no other structure as far as the eye could see.
Entering the building Clarence was horrified at the smell. Unwashed bodies, feces and urine competed to assault the nostrils. He could not fathom the noise level; people screaming, the sound of weeping, cackling laughter reverberated off the hard walls and bare concrete floors.
"Hi! You're Mr. Thompson?" a man dressed in startling white coveralls asked, smiling.
"No, no, name's uh, Smith. Dick Smith," Clarence said, backing out of the building.
He found a small diner ten or fifteen miles east of Tsuyösti and ordered a meal for the two of them. Gently, he fed his wife one bite of food, then took a bite for himself. He could sense the eyes of the patrons and the very heavy waitress watching their every move but ignored them.
"I, I'm sorry, Trisha. I, I know I failed you," he murmured as he fed her.
"But even so, I just, there is just no way I could have left you in that place," he said, swallowing his own mouthful of food.
She did not respond as he wiped her mouth. He smiled when her eyes flickered at the taste of the apple pie.
"Yes, yes, my little Trisha does have a sweet tooth," he chuckled, feeding her.
He asked for directions to a local feed store and the waitress smiled and pointed down the main road as she told him to drive two, maybe a little more than two miles and take the first left.
Shortly after three in the morning, Clarence arrived home, bone tired. Before entering his home, he unlatched the trunk of his automobile and retrieved a brand new shovel from the automobile's trunk. Cleaning the sod and dirt from the shovel, he then put the shovel into what used to be the tack room of the old stable behind their house.
Entering the home, Clarence stripped out of that day's clothing and walked nude to his bathroom.
"God damned dirt gets into every God damned thing," Clarence cursed as he washed his body.
He washed himself twice, then washed the tub, scrubbing the porcelain vessel, attempting to clean the dirt from sides and floor.
He again felt tears on his cheeks and he lay, still nude, on his bed. Silently, he begged Trisha for forgiveness.
"But there was no way I was going leave you at..." Clarence mumbled, trying for sleep.
Two days later, Clarence went to the office of Jerry Kuzan to arrange for the quiet dissolution of his marriage. Petitioning the Tsuyösti Sanatorium resulted in the facility mailing Jerry the records of an unknown woman that someone had left on the doorstep a few weeks earlier. The woman claimed to be the wife of former President Herbert Hoover.
"Well, Mr. Thompson, I rightly can't blame you for wanting this marriage set aside," Jerry agreed, shaking his head sadly as he read the unnamed woman's report.
Shortly after the trip to Tsuyösti, Mrs. Roebuck approached Clarence, stern look on her face. Clarence paused in his trimming the dead and dying grass of his front lawn and watched the woman approach.
"Marriage is forever," Mrs. Roebuck accused. "Marriage is until death do you part."
"Correct," Clarence agreed. "And, Mrs. Roebuck, my wife died several years ago. Her body did not have the wherewithal to join her mind, though."
He picked up the handle of the push mower again. He allowed a few tears to trickle down his dusty cheeks. Squaring his shoulders he again pushed the mower in short, savage strokes.
"If there is nothing else..." he stated, resuming his futile attempt to preserve his lawn.
"God is watching you," Mrs. Roebuck snapped.
"Oh, I believe He is far too busy watching you and your lovely colored girl pleasuring one another to pay me much mind," Clarence opined.
He chuckled as he heard the middle-aged white woman's gasp. When he turned, she was no longer in sight.
But it did seem that the visit from the widow Mrs. Roebuck was the catalyst for others to begin their subtle shunning of the large man they had once called Sheriff, then Judge, and more recently, Mayor. Even Myron Smith, the barber was not as effusive, as talkative when Clarence put himself in the man's chair.
It was a bitterly cold day in February of 1936 that Clarence Philip Thompson decided it was time he pulled up stakes and began anew. He'd had no means of income for the past few months, ever since quietly resigning his position as Mayor and in truth, there did not seem to be any opportunities in the near future. And, he lived in constant fear of a farmer plowing a certain field. He'd dug the hole so deep that he almost despaired of being able to climb out of the pit himself, but windstorm after windstorm had removed several inches of the top layer of dirt in Oklahoma.
Buying the Cadillac 355 was a stroke of luck; Sam Rosenbaum, the manager of Falwell City Bank had loaned Sol Fineman the money to purchase the automobile. Then Sol had died and Mrs. Fineman did not have the money to repay the loan. Nor did Mrs. Fineman know how to drive an automobile so Mr. Rosenbaum had no choice but to repossess the brand new automobile.
"Three...three thousand? Mr. Thompson, that, that is the finest piece of machinery Detroit has to offer," Mr. Rosenbaum spluttered when Clarence made a casual offer to buy the vehicle.
"And how much have you earned from having it on your lot, Mr. Rosenbaum?" Clarence asked.
"You, you are a thief, Mr. Thompson," Mr. Rosenbaum snarled bitterly.
"The same could be said of yourself, Mr. Rosenbaum," Clarence said, staring hard at the man. "Young widow Peggy Dillard?"
"That, her husband...fine, fine, three thousand," Mr. Rosenbaum grumbled.
The fact that his house was one of the few that had full indoor plumbing; kitchen and bathroom, complete with flush toilet helped the home sell quickly. After selling much of the furniture, mostly to Mrs. Roebuck, Clarence rented a room by the week from Sybil Farmer, a seventy year old widow.
"Hear you're thinking of moving on," Mr. Rosenbaum inquired casually as Clarence was in his bank, closing out the last of his wife's meager savings accounts.
"Mm hmm," Clarence said, carefully watching the young man that counted out the well-worn bills.
The young man had his hair darkened and slicked back. His mustache was likewise darkened and plastered down. It was a look that Clarence did not care for; he thought it made the wearer seem smarmy, untrustworthy.
"Any uh, any thought of where you might be headed?" Mr. Rosenbaum asked.
"Not particularly," Clarence said and accepted the cash from the young teller.
"See, thing is, I, I've got family in Nebraska? Chaftee, Nebraska."
"Chaftee," Clarence repeated, frowning at the odd sounding name.
"And uh, my Lydia, well, my cousin, he, he's not really my cousin by blood; his mother married my Uncle Joshua when Benjamin was about sixteen but he, he's asked for Lydia's hand in marriage and the cost of a ticket; well, train travel for a young lady? Not safe, just not safe I tell you," Mr. Rosenbaum hastened to explain.
"Chaftee, Nebraska..." Clarence again repeated.
He turned and looked into Mr. Rosenbaum's hopeful face. With a shrug of his shoulders, Clarence agreed to take Lydia to Nebraska.
Through her daughter Norma, Mrs. Fineman heard that Clarence would be ferrying Lydia Rosenbaum to Nebraska. Norma was heartbroken; Lydia and she had been the closest of friends since they could walk and now, just after turning eighteen, Lydia was leaving Falwell City, moving four hundred and twenty miles away.
"But, Darling, you, surely you knew at some time either you or her would get married, have a family," Mrs. Fineman soothed.
"Well, yes, but, Mother, she, she was supposed to marry Robby Miller and I would marry Seth Rosenbaum, but then he married that hussy Deborah and..." Norma sobbed, heartbroken.
Clarence was placing the last of his luggage into the cavernous trunk of his automobile when Mrs. Fineman approached him. He smiled an amused smile at the dumpy frumpy Mrs. Fineman as she hemmed and hawed.
"Oh, oh wait now. I, you want that I should take your Norma to Nebraska as well?" Clarence finally interjected, stilling Mrs. Fineman's circular manner of talking.
"Yes, yes, that, that's it exactly," the woman frowned. "My stars, but I do not look forward to letting my little Norma out on her own, but Mr. Thompson, there, there is simply no chance for, she would have no real prospects, no opportunities to find herself a good husband, have a family here in Falwell City, now is there?"
Looking at his trunk, already crammed full of his and Lydia's luggage, Clarence sighed. The automobile had a very roomy rear seat; they would somehow make do. With a grunt, he nodded his assent.
"Smile for the birdie," Mr. Rosenbaum cajoled the next morning.
"Lydia, put that tongue back in that head before I cut it off," Mr. Rosenbaum ordered after snapping the first photograph.
"Norma!" the man fussed as Norma stuck her tongue out and crossed her eyes, making a silly face.
"Come on, man, my teeth are drying from all this smiling," Clarence grumbled, causing Lydia and Norma to laugh.
The fifth photograph somehow wound up in a frame, sitting behind the long and high counter of the Falwell City Public Library. Mrs. Fineman would always point out her daughter to anyone who asked, but would have to be prompted to name the other two people in the photograph.
"Oh, that? That's her friend Lydia; she married Benjamin Silverberg you know. And the man; well, he was once the mayor of Falwell City; that's Mr. Thompson," she would sniff.
CHAPTER 5
Some roads were paved with a good hard surface and they made good time whenever they happened upon those roads. The vast majority of the roads, however, were little more than packed earth. For once, Clarence was grateful it had not rained in several days. Loose soil was difficult enough to drive upon. Loose soil that had been turned to mud would have been impossible to traverse.
For the first two hours of their journey, Lydia and Norma chattered non-stop with one another. Occasionally, they would attempt to draw Clarence into their conversations, but he was busy navigating their drive, a large map haphazardly folded about in his grasp.
The moment they were in Kansas, and a narrow strip of dirt and gravel road stretched endlessly ahead of them, Clarence relaxed and dropped the map behind them onto the floorboard between front and rear seat.
"So, Lydia, are you looking forward to marrying Benny?" Clarence casually asked.
"I, I suppose," Lydia stammered, then she and Norma giggled.
"You know what married people do, right?" Clarence asked, dropping a casual hand from steering wheel to Lydia's slim leg.
"I uh, I well, that is..." Lydia stammered, blushing hotly as she gazed at the large hand on her leg.
A hard dip in the road caused all three to bounce up, then slam back down to the leather bench. Somehow in the jolt, Clarence's hand went from upper thigh to directly over Lydia's crotch. At the sensation of the impertinent contact, Lydia clamped her legs together, to attempt to block any advances. However, this had the effect of trapping his hand against her sex.
"Mm hmm," Clarence murmured with approval.
"Mr., Mr. ThomspnThompson," Lydia hissed with great embarrassment.
"Yes?" Clarence asked, gently rubbing her furred cleft through skirt and light cotton slip.
"I, Mr. Thompson, that, you..." she stammered as his fingers diddled her quickly moistening folds through layers of cloth.
"Mm hmm?" Clarence asked, gently wiggling his hand to force her thighs apart.
Norma sat next to Lydia, her brown eyes bulging as she watched Mr. Thompson boldly touching her friend's crotch. Lydia panted, turning to her friend for help, for guidance, for assurance.
"Let's..." Clarence said, removing his hand from Lydia's crotch.
Lydia lurched slightly when his unwelcome touches ceased; she was on the verge of climax. Her relief was short lived and her consternation increased as Clarence reached down and hefted the hem of her skirt and slip up to her waist.
"Mister Thompson!" Lydia squealed indignantly as he exposed her light tuft of brown curls.
"Mm hmm?" Clarence asked, resuming his ministrations of her wet vulva.
"Mr. Mister Thompson," Lydia hissed, scandalized.
"Still got your cherry?" Clarence asked, pressing his fingertips at the entrance of her pussy.
"I, I, N...no," Lydia confessed as Clarence's fingers plunged into her depths.
"So, who got to pop your cherry?" Clarence asked as he finger fucked the gasping girl, his thumb caressing her bud of pleasure.
"Ro...Rob...Robbie, Robbie Miller," Lydia confessed, eyes rolling back as she climaxed forcefully.
"That little pantywaist?" Clarence scoffed. "Surprised he even knows what a pussy is."
"We, we, he said we was going get married," Lydia panted as Clarence's thumb continued to brush her clitoris while his two fingers continued to plumb her pussy.
"Mm hmm," Clarence scoffed again as Lydia squealed in a second orgasm.
She slumped against Norma when Clarence pulled his fat fingers from her folds. She had her eyes closed, but Norma watched as Clarence sucked his two fingers clean of Lydia's essences. She moved to pull Lydia's skirt and slip down, to give her friend some modesty.
"Leave it be," Clarence ordered. "In fact, why don't you show us your little cunny there, Norma? Hmm?"
"I, I will not!" Norma snapped.
"Oh my stars," Lydia murmured to Norma.
"Lydia?" Norma asked.
"Oh my stars. I, that, I've never, Norma, I almost wet myself," Lydia whispered urgently.
"Go on; let's see the goodies," Clarence ordered as he negotiated a series of twisting turns.
"I, uh..." Norma weakly said, flaming bright red.
Shutting her eyes, Norma wiggled her panties down her stubby legs; how she hated her short, pudgy legs. Then, kicking the scrap of white cotton to the floorboard of the large automobile, Norma hoisted her fleshy buttocks up off of the leather seat and bunched her skirt and slip up to her waist.
"Very pretty," Clarence complimented.
""Are you, Norma are you excited?" Lydia whispered into Norma's ear.
Norma could feel her folds becoming very wet as she humiliated herself.
"You two switch places; I want to play with that pretty little pussy," Clarence ordered.
"I'll go over; you wiggle under," Lydia ordered.
Keeping skirt and slip bunched up, Norma wiggled as Lydia used the dashboard to heft herself up and sidle across.
"You cherry?" Clarence asked as he gently traced a fingertip up and down Norma's sopping wet folds.
"No, no sir," Norma breathed heavily.
"Who? Not that little pansy Robbie Miller, hmm?" Clarence asked, wiggling his finger against her protruding clitoris.
"No, no, it, it was..." Norma panted as he thrummed his finger against her nub of pleasure.
"My brother Seth," Lydia informed Clarence as she sat, rubbing her own overheated crotch.
"Yeah? Then he went and married that little tease? Damn, what, what was her name?" Clarence laughed as he thrust one, then two fingers into Norma's wet sex.
"Deborah," Norma gasped out.
"Yeah, yeah, that little blonde shiska," Clarence smirked as he quickly brought Norma to a screaming orgasm.
"Oh!" Lydia squealed as she brought herself to orgasm.
"I, I hate her," Norma sobbed out, slumping against Clarence as he continued to diddle her pussy.
"Really? I pity him," Clarence stated.
"You, what? Why?" Norma asked, then cried out in orgasm again.
"Ever hear of the carrot and the stick?" Clarence asked, working his fingers from Norma's pussy.
"Yeah," Norma wheezed, trying to catch her breath. "If you want to make a donkey..."
"Deborah's the kind to keep moving the carrot further and further out of reach, then eats the carrot herself while beating the foolish jackass with the stick," Clarence stated. "Mark my words; he's already regretting marrying her."
"Huh!" both Norma and Lydia grunted, deep in thought now.
"Here, Lydia, taste your friend here," Clarence ordered, holding his two fingers out for the girl.
Lydia happily sucked Clarence's fingers while a wide-eyed Norma watched. Her eyes grew even larger when Lydia impulsively leaned over and kissed Norma. Just as her older brother had done, Lydia used her tongue in Norma's mouth.
When the shoulder of the road was wide enough, Clarence pulled over and came to a stop. It was a beautiful grassy stretch of fields, even as the grass looked decidedly brown. Opening the trunk of the car, Clarence pulled a cloth bag from the trunk and pulled out three sandwiches from Sol's Deli. There were also three apples and the three enjoyed a small picnic of sorts, sitting on the dry, crunchy grass.
"We're in....hmm, Eric County," Clarence mused as he read the map draped across the car hood. "So if we..."
"Mr. Thompson, I need, I have..." Lydia whispered urgently.
"There's an entire field right there, Sweetheart; no one's going to see," Clarence smiled.
It took a few moments, but need won out over modesty and Lydia did hoist skirt up, squat and let loose. Clarence had thought ahead and had a roll of Northern toilet paper for Lydia to sponge herself. Norma made use of the field as well. Both girls giggled and gasped as Clarence also watered the grass. Checking his watch, Clarence declared they'd wasted enough time; it was at least sixty miles to the next town.
"That's as the crow flies," he said. "The crow doesn't have to drive on these God-forsaken gravel roads."
The late afternoon sun was blinding them as they carefully negotiated the roads of the small town. Clarence cursed under his breath as a tractor slowly ambled along, dragging a very wide trailer behind it. Finally, he saw a sign for a motel and gratefully pulled into the parking lot.
"And, how about that?" he said, seeing a diner attached to the motel.
One look at the stern-faced woman running the counter, along with a large cross nailed to the wall behind the counter told Clarence what he needed to know. He rented two rooms for their stay. And, although he wanted a bottle or two of whiskey, something to wash the road dust from his parched throat, he knew better than to ask this woman where one might find such refreshments.
The very flirty waitress, however, was an excellent source of such information. Getting the room number for Clarence's room, Dottie made a quick phone call and whispered into her telephone. A moment later, she brought their roast beef dinners to their table and whispered that it was going to be twenty dollars for two bottles of Colton's best and Colton would bring it right up to Clarence's room after eight thirty that evening.
"Dottie waited and Clarence realized he was to pay Dottie for the hooch. He worked a twenty dollar bill from his billfold and she smiled as she made a show of sliding the bill into the cup of her bra.
After their meal, Lydia and Norma went to Room 202 and Clarence went to 203, right next door. Gratefully, he availed himself of the shower; he felt grimy after their long, challenging drive along the dirt and the gravel roads of Kansas.
The sun had set and the moon was slowly making its way across the sky. Clarence was on the verge of nodding off when there was a knock on his door. Clarence did not bother pulling his trousers on; if it was Colton he would not be offended by the sight of Clarence's pale and hairy legs. And if it was either Lydia or Norma, his trousers would be coming off quickly enough.
"Here you go; Dottie says you paid up front," a scrawny man smiled, revealing horribly tobacco stained teeth.
"That is correct," Clarence said, accepting the two half gallon bottles of amber liquid from the man.
"Who's there?" Clarence heard when he rapped on the door of room 202.
"President Roosevelt," Clarence said, adopting FDR's clipped manner of speech.
They were in flannel nightgowns that went from throat to ankle. Both garments had signs of long use but Clarence shrugged. He poured some whiskey into glasses and toasted their future which did look bright indeed.
After their second drinks, coughing, eyes watering, Norma was very receptive to Clarence's kisses. He soon had her nightgown unbuttoned to her waist, revealing her small breasts with large areolae and hard nipples. When he bent his head and began sucking forcefully on her left breast, the girl squealed in orgasm. It was she that unbuttoned the final two buttons and flung the garment to the floor. Her full briefs were shoved down her stubby legs and joined her nightgown on the motel floor.
Two swipes of his tongue along her puffy lips had her thrashing on his bed. Clarence sucked on Norma's nectar, enjoying the taste of her young pussy. He flicked his tongue over her clitoris until she shrieked and collapsed.
Turning, Clarence saw Lydia was already nude, furiously playing with herself. Her left hand squeezed her medium sized breast and her right hand clawed at her furry sex. Sensing his eyes on her, Lydia flopped back and spread her legs wide.
"And you, a betrothed woman," Clarence chuckled before gluing his mouth to her very wet sex.
Norma roused as Lydia keened in pleasure. Rolling onto her side, Norma rubbed her furry cleft as she watched Clarence pleasure Lydia.
Standing, Clarence removed his undershirt and boxers. Both girls were wide eyed as they gaped upon his rampant manhood. They then looked at one another.
"Odds and evens?" Lydia suggested.
"To five points," Norma agreed.
Clarence watched as Lydia counted, 'one, two, three!' and both girls held out two fingers. Norma was upset at losing this hand. Lydia was adept at reading Norma's mood and sensed that Norma would choose to hold out an odd number of fingers on the next go.
"Ha!" Norma crowed as she won by holding out two fingers again to Lydia's three.
Lydia smiled sweetly and easily won the next three hands. Norma was flustered and crowed triumphantly as she won the next hand. Lydia won the next hand, giving her five total points. Of course, Norma then wanted to play to ten points.
"No. Be a gracious loser," Lydia ordered, kissing her friend on the lips.
Norma huffed and pouted. Clarence drew his belt from his trousers and promised to give the girl something to pout about. A wide eyed Norma gasped that he wouldn't dare.
"My mother certainly gave no permission that you should discipline me," Norma gasped.
"She did not give me permission to fuck you either," Clarence pointed out.
"I, I, well!" Norma said, stymied by this truth.
Norma sat and watched as Clarence instructed Lydia on using her mouth and hands on a man's erection. While Clarence spoke, Norma listened intently. She should guard her teeth. She should waggle her tongue; she practiced waggling her tongue over her finger. She should bob her head up and down; again she practiced this odd maneuver on her finger.
"And, augh, I, here, here it comes," Clarence groaned and clamped his hand to the back of Lydia's head.
"Mm! Mmng! Owm! Mmng!" Lydia protested, struggling to lift her head.
Norma gasped as silvery white globules dripped from Lydia's gasping, protesting mouth. The white stuff looked thick as it slowly flowed from her mouth down the shaft of Clarence's cock. The substance puddled onto Clarence's pubic hairs and large balls.
When Clarence slumped back against his pillows, releasing Lydia's head, she popped up and screeched in disgust. She released her grasp of his manhood and scurried to the bathroom. For several long moments, they heard the running of water and heard Lydia spitting several times.
"Here," Clarence said, pouring Lydia some more whiskey. "This should take the taste out of your mouth."
Lydia grabbed the glass and drank deeply. She then coughed mightily as the whiskey burned her throat.
"It, it was that awful?" Norma asked while Clarence stood in the bathroom, cleaning his cock and pubic hair of his semen and Lydia's spittle.
"Was even worse than Aunt Connie's boiled turnips," Lydia complained and gulped the rest of her drink.
"You. On them knees," Clarence ordered, giving Norma a hard swat to her chubby buttocks.
She rose up onto her knees, fearfully watching Clarence's movements. Even when he forced her shoulders down to the mattress, she twisted her head and kept her eyes on the large man, on his large, slowly expanding cock.
"Mmng!" she grunted in her throat as she felt his slimy finger pressing against her nether hole.
"Here, reach back here and pull them pretty cheeks open, huh?" Clarence ordered.
"What, wait, what? What are you doing?" a slightly drunk Lydia demanded.
"Getting this sweet little hole ready," Clarence stated, rotating the greasy finger inside of Norma's rectum.
"Mmng, it, that, that just feels..." Norma croaked as a curious warmth began to churn inside of her belly.
There was a slight twinge of pain when he jammed a second thick finger into her rectum. That jab of pain was replaced by a sense of discomfort. That discomfort soon gave way to that odd warmth in her belly growing larger.
"Augh, I, no, no more, please," Norma gurgled as a third finger was forced past her straining anus.
When Clarence twisted the three fingers inside of her rectum, Norma gasped out then shuddered in orgasm. She squeezed her eyes tightly as she gasped, grunted and gurgled through the odd feeling.
"Aieegh! I, oh, oh jumping..." she screamed out when the blunt head of Clarence's cock pushed into her greasy rectum.
His hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the rest of her declaration. Waves of white hot pain radiated throughout her body, spinning crazily from her anus outward. She could feel his cock pushing into her, stretching her already stretched anus, his cockhead and foreskin rasping along her rectal walls. She shuddered and sobbed, protesting into his hand that it hurt, she wanted him to stop, she could not believe how perverted he was.
"Oh, oh yes! Yes! YYEESS fuck me!" Norma cried out as a powerful orgasm welled up in her guts then exploded into a billion stars behind her closed eyelids.
"Norma!" Lydia cried out, shocked at her friend's use of such a vulgarity.
Norma reached a hand down and frantically rubbed at her pussy. She again howled in orgasm as Clarence pounded into her weakening bowels. A moment later, Clarence groaned and pumped a stream of his seed deep into her guts. Shuddering, he tried to hold himself upright as he gasped to catch his breath. Norma continued to frig herself, then shuddered in orgasm.
"Oh my stars," Norma grunted as Clarence finally pulled his soiled cock from her raw bottom.
"Oh, that, oh!" Lydia screeched in disgust, seeing Clarence's soiled cock, seeing globules of semen dripping from Norma's stretched anus.
After one more drink apiece, Clarence sent Norma and Lydia to their room. He stretched out on the bed, still nude. With a smile, he drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER 6
Even though the map told them that Chaftee was but another forty seven miles, Clarence knew he simply could not drive another forty seven miles. Especially since much of the terrain was unlighted dirt and gravel roads. He pulled into the parking lot of a small motel and groaned out loud as he shut off the engine.
The rotund man behind the counter smiled and asked Clarence if he wanted one room or two. He stated he had a room on the second floor, had a big bed or there was one that had two double beds.
"The one with the one bed," Clarence decided.
The diner was still open and served a passable fried chicken dinner. After eating dinner, Clarence herded the two strangely quiet girls up the flight of outside stairs to their room. Inside of the clean, comfortable room, Clarence produced the already opened bottle of whiskey and they enjoyed a drink.
Finally Lydia blurted out, "Are, you, are you going to, to, up my bottom?"
"Absolutely," Clarence said, already working his belt loose from his trousers.
"I'll do it!" Norma quickly offered.
"Oh no you shant," Lydia said, her old competitive nature rearing its head.
Lydia was the prettier of the two. She was the slimmer of the two. She'd developed breasts first and her breasts were still larger than Norma's. She'd been the first to kiss a boy, had been the first to have sex with a boy, Robby Miller. And was the first to become betrothed.
"You can use your mouth on him," Lydia decreed haughtily.
Rehearsing in her mind what she'd heard the previous evening, Norma enthusiastically gripped Clarence's hard cock in her small hand. She kept her eyes on Lydia as she lapped at Clarence's manhood like it was a frozen ice cream treat on a stick. Opening her mouth wide, Norma swallowed Clarence's cockhead into her mouth.
She could taste his sweat, a slight tinge of urine and a bitter taste behind that as she pulled his member into her mouth. As she stroked the shaft of his manhood, that bitter taste increased. She reminded herself to waggle her tongue and bob her head up and down.
"Damn, but this girl is a natural born cocksucker," Clarence informed Lydia.
That bitter taste was flowing, crowding out all other tastes as Norma pumped his shaft, waggled her tongue, bobbed her head up and down. She swallowed the build-up of saliva in her mouth, swallowing that bitter flavor as well. Deciding to use suction to coax more of his essence, Norma hollowed her cheeks. She shut her eyes as a shudder of pleasure rippled through her.
- The historic event of Mayor Dick Smith's resignation due to his involvement with a minor stirred controversy in the 1930s dust bowl town of Falwell.
- During the trial of Mayor Dick Smith, Judge Clarence Thompson, known for his toughness, ensured a fair and just verdict, upholding the Kin to Narcissus principle of treating all equally, regardless of their Kin.
- The entire ordeal surrounding Mayor Dick Smith's fraudulent actions in the 1930s served as a reminder for JimBob44's generation about the evil that can lurk in positions of power and the need for accountability in these situations.
