She opened her eyes again, just a peek: they were still at it, fucking their lives away. How did they do it, those porno guys? How did they just keep drilling away, endlessly, with such hot little tramps servicing them, and not lose their control? Were they just that disciplined — true sexual athletes? or were there many many takes, or even (she shivered at the thought) many many cocks on hand? On and on Mullet Guy plowed, showing no signs of slackness, while the girl’s pussy had become a funky, frothy mess . . . Sherry’s own cunt began aching with every thrust. She burned to feel all of that magnificent prick inside of her, cupped her pussy and burrowed fingers between her wet lips. Oh God, the ache, the emptiness . . . For one weak instant she was desperately tempted to go find Neal — not to make up or to please him, just to use him, just to exploit his big cock and scratch her itch. No, never . . . she wouldn’t do that. But oh shit, how she wished she had something — a dildo, a vibrator, carrot, cucumber, anything.
Now the camera angle changed — she watched the man’s fingers kneading into the girl’s descending butt, leaving bloodless white handprints when he let go. God damn it to hell, it all looked so damned good. So good. Her fingers were strained and tired, cramping even — but she couldn’t stop.
To have a man like that — oh not Mullet Guy with his medallions and his sleazy grin — but to have a man equipped like that, with that much control. To have him right now, with her, in her. Better: to have him with her, fucking seven bells out of her, and to have Neal know it. Now that was a fantasy. Now every thrust, every penetration had new delight as she imagined his powerless, anxious face . . . Perhaps he’d be just outside the door, listening, unable to interfere . . . Or maybe he’d be watching, his puzzled and desperate expression only spurring her on as this other man, this giant stranger stabbed her relentlessly with his huge tool, while she moaned and sighed and wriggled against him, loving his heated breath against her back, and his possessive hands on her ass, and the heat of his immense dick filling her belly . . .
Eyes open: now he was on top. It was incredible, just in-fucking-credible. The camera was in way, way close, and he was pulling his length and girth almost completely out of her sopping pussy, and then slowly sliding all the way back in. All the way, every single inch of him, up to his balls. He was disappearing in her, the lucky little bitch.
Sherry whimpered and looked at the night stand. Oh why the hell didn’t she get with it? Why couldn’t she be a proper twenty-first century woman and own a damned dildo? Vanessa probably had one, probably had several.
Cigarettes. Lighter. Can of Coke — better not try that.
Remote control?
Yes. It was long and narrow and it was there, in her grasp. She snatched it up, turned her eyes back to the screen in time to see the man’s pace increasing, his big balls slamming against the girl, his ramrodding cock bathed in clinging girl cum. Sherry gasped aloud as the slender instrument touched her pussy; her breathing came in fits and starts as she shifted downward on the bed, trying to raise her cunt to accommodate the makeshift dildo. An inch of it in — lovely. Another inch, oh so nice — the little rubber buttons rubbed her clit!
All the way in, all the way in, yes just like him, just like his monstrous, merciless cock was sliding all the way into her . . . ooohhh Jesus Mary and Joseph . . . all of it, every last bit, you son-of-a-bitch! Oh god yes, every fucking inch!
Mullet had pulled out now, he was jacking in the girl’s face. Every vestige of delicacy, femininity, prettiness was drained from her — she shuddered and grimaced before his tremendous cockhead, her hair a mess, her make up smudged, mascara running, lipstick smeared all around her gaping mouth . . . His hand wrenched a tangle of her hair, held her head still, made her look, forced her to want it. It was absurd, preposterous, thoroughly sexist — the girl waiting in the office, responding to the pathetic advances of a slimeball, now being humiliated, subjugated, facially raped. But oh god, it looked good, and Sherry couldn’t stop plunging the device, in and out, in and out.
She came like a freight train: long and slow and steady. Chills swept over her whole body just seconds before the man’s cock spat its thick spume onto the girl’s cheeks and lips. Her pussy clenched and contracted around the remote and a fire spread through her chest as the girl accidentally caught a huge spurt of cum in her mouth. Her weary, cramped fingers were bathed in a surge of juice, while the man slapped the girl with his deflating dick, and wiped its slimy head against her cheeks. She shivered and sighed, long and unsteadily, the last gut-wrenching spasms resounding through her from head to toe, while the shaken girl took the dying monster between her untidy lips, to milk out its last drops.
She lay there a long time, trying to decide whether to be relieved or ashamed. When the ticklish process of extracting the remote control was completed, she decided that — however weird that had been — she had nothing to be ashamed of. If there was a real willing dick in the house she would have fucked it instead. If Neal wasn’t man enough to provide her with pleasure, then damn it, she’d provide her own. Hell, she’d find someone who would provide it — every single fucking inch of it.
At the very least, she’d never have to fight him for the remote again. It was now unquestionably hers, she thought, as she casually touched its sweet little buttons to her tongue.
***
The soft pads of footsteps in the chilly hallway. A groaning creak; he winced. He’d forgotten about that board.
He tried the knob gingerly: locked. He frowned, tapped the door with only his fingernail, but steadily.
“What?” came a harsh whisper, eventually.
“Open up,” he whispered back.
“What do you want?”
“Come on, open up!”
Footfalls within. The door opened a crease, painfully slowly.
“What?”
“Christ, did you hear her?”
“Yes, I heard her. You shouldn’t be listening — go back to bed!”
“Lemme come in a while.”
“No.”
“Aw come on, you said no last night!”
“Josh! It’s too quiet tonight! Dad’s not in there snoring, Mom might hear us –”
“Just for a little while. Come on, please?”
She sighed, opened the door wider. He passed into her room silently. It was crazy, but she had the toughest time saying no to him.
December Twenty-fourth
Everyone in the Ford home arose late the next day. Even Neal, the proverbial early bird, did not awaken until nine thirty, though the couch was horribly uncomfortable and his neck painfully stiff.
One reason for the tranquilized condition of the family was that they had all enjoyed gratifying and powerful orgasms the night before.
Sherry of course was completely spent after her solo flight: beyond doubt, the most fun she had ever had with a piece of video equipment.
Neal recovered sufficiently from his furtive wank in the bathroom that evening to coax another cum from his prick around one o’clock — a cum inspired, in roughly equal proportions, by the porn channel, memories of Melanie, and a torrent of guilty, half-suppressed thoughts about his daughter’s milk-filled breasts.
Of course, another reason for the Fords’ late rising was the weather. It had remained bitingly cold all night long, even with the heat going. And the light which managed to penetrate the blinds and curtains throughout the house was feeble and dim. At first Neal had thought the den clock must be wrong — that steely, gunmetal gray outside belonged to the sky of six o’clock, not half past nine. Upon arising at last, he peered out the window into the backyard, stopped rubbing his neck, and whistled.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.
Everything was white. Bright, glistening white. It had actually snowed.
Amazing. Oh, it wasn’t much by any standards. Just a light frosting. Still, he hadn’t seen snow of any kind for nearly fifteen years. He loved the look of new snow — it always made everything look so clean and fresh. It took him back to his childhood in Indiana. For a long while he just stood at the frosty window and drank it in.
So . . . the weather man had been right, for a change. He remembered the conversation he had with Nessa last night — it came swimming back to him through a wave of indecent fantasies. Wouldn’t she be thrilled when she awoke? Automatically, he wondered what Melanie thought of it, how she must look at her window, how cozy it would be to be standing behind her there, stroking her hair. How lovely some lazy, late morning sex with her would feel, with all that cold whiteness just outside . . .
A noise on the stair distracted him. Improbably, it was Josh, his six-foot-four frame stumbling about like one of the living dead. He halted at the entrance to the den, and one-upped Neal by exclaiming, “What the fuck?”
“Well said,” Neal laughed. “It’s snow.”
The boy yawned and scratched his nuts.
“This is Florida,” he offered.