by Kirk Alex
He fought it. Fought the old urge. You put the lid on it—for as long as possible. Pressure had a way of building—until you no longer had the emotional or mental fortitude to keep a lid on any of it—or even wanted to.
“Show her how it’s done, Pearleen.”
Pearleen kneaded the tension in his neck. Worked the lats. Squeezed and kneaded down toward the small of his back and Biggs reminded her to go easy in that area, because his back had a funny way of acting up.
She worked his buttocks and thighs, and Biggs was feeling fine and just about ready for more action. Of course the recording of the helpless cunt pleading and begging for the nightmare she was locked in the middle of to stop did its share of aiding and abetting in this respect. Every little bit helped—and should not be taken for granted. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.
CHAPTER 389
Cecil turned over on his back. Stared down at his cock, which had begun to respond. Pearleen stroked him gently.
“Want to go again? Want me to suck you off, Daddy?”
Cecil reached for his black medical satchel. Got a foot-long strap-on dildo out and had Pearleen attach it to her pelvis.
“What chu want me to do, lover? Put it in your ass?”
“Fuck you. I don’t take nothing in my ass. My asshole is for expelling waste only. It’s not a port of entry.”
“I understand.”
“You better. Fuck her in the ass. I want to watch you fuck that ‘inexperienced’ bitch in the ass. Give it to her.”
Pearleen did not waste time positioning the other girl into place. Had her on hands and knees. Pronto. Lubricated the dildo with saliva and began slowly to insert it, doing her best not to hurt her. Olivia gasped. The stripper advised her to shut up and take it.
CHAPTER 390
Biggs took his picture: of Pearleen reaming the other’s rear, and he was back looking inside the black satchel. Didn’t find what he needed. Checked inside the brown mini fridge.
Produced a thick, clear plastic bag, the type blood banks kept on hand, half-filled with deep red, bordering on purplish blood.
“Courtesy of Stella Storm.”
He uncapped the spout. Motioned to Pearleen to bring the dildo over to where he could pour blood on it.
“Hold it up. It matters that it’s done right. You want plenty of lube all over for a smooth ride.”
If the victims were sickened by this latest revelation, they, somehow, managed to keep their revulsion from surfacing. When he was through, Pearleen reinserted it into the other woman’s rectum.
“Give it to her, Pearleen baby.”
Pearleen got it about halfway in. Pulled out slowly and slid it back inside. Biggs braced the high yellow from behind, got a blood-covered finger inside her shitter. Subsequently substituted that for his groin, and drove it all the way in.
“Yeah. Nothing like it. Always wondered what it would be like to fuck my mother . . . just give it to her. Hell, others were doing it, why not me? Loony bitch died before I was old enough to do anything about it.”
He kept stroking. Pulled out. Shoved Pearl off of Olivia, and slid his own member inside the eighteen-year-old’s rectum. Thrust it all the way in. Stroked another twenty times, withdrew, got some saliva on it—let Olivia flick the head with her tongue, then let her lick his testicles . . . and work her way back to the “helmet.”
“Get more saliva on it, bitch. I shouldn’t have to remind you by now.”
He got back behind her and drove it between her cheeks. Held on. Pearleen was told to grab the camera and get ready to take a full shot of him drilling the waitress’s asshole.
“Want us both in this one.”
Pearleen chose a shot in front of Olivia, but Biggs didn’t care for the angle.
“You can’t tell that my cock’s in her butt crack from there. Move to my left, your right. See if that works any better.”
He then ordered Olivia to lie on her back, with her legs spread apart in a V. He nixed that one pretty soon as well.
“Wait. We can do better than that. I don’t want to waste exposures on this. We shouldn’t have to.”
He rose. Sat on the futon, and had Olivia join him there.
“Come over here. Sit on it. Reverse cowgirl.”
She stood, and walked over, but was not exactly sure she knew what he meant.
“Reverse cowgirl. Turn away from me. I want your ass up against my belly.” His groin was inside her rectum. “Spread your legs. Wide.” She did. “Wider. I want Pearl to be able to see that Trusty’s prick is deep in your culo. Your tight shitter is being given the drilling of a lifetime.”
He leaned his head slightly to the right, so that now both he and Olivia could clearly be in the shot. But wanted to make certain. It mattered. This would be the last exposure for this photo session.
CHAPTER 391
He had Pearleen kneel on the carpet, about four feet in front of them. Had to remind her to move the coffee table over to the left some.
“Your right. I don’t want any part of the table in the shot.” She did as told. “What are you getting? How does it look?”
Pearleen Bell nodded. “It looks fine.”
“What do you see?”
“Both of you are in it.”
“Can you see her cunt and asshole?”
“I see it.”
“Let me hear it. Want to make certain. This may be the best yet.”
“Cunt and asshole.”
“And my hard moose cock deep inside her tight shit-hole.”
“Yes. All of it.”
“And her legs spread apart.”
“The legs. Yes.”
“Only one thing missing.”
“What’s that?”
Pearleen was ready to take the shot upon his approval.
“Bitch isn’t smiling.”
“You can smile, Olivia. Let’s see that smile. Your whole face lights up when you smile. Don’t you know that?”
“Better smile, cunt. I don’t care how you go about it, but I better see a smile for this picture.”
It took a moment, but Olivia Duarte managed it. She was smiling. It was strained, and nervous—but at least it was a smile.
“Ready?”
“Whenever you say, Cecil.”
“Do it. Take it.”
She did.
He instructed her to put the camera on the coffee table, collect all the exposures and spread them out on same. He had her crawl over to where he and Olivia were, and resumed sliding his member in and out of her asshole.
“Just before I get ready to pop, I’ll pull it out and will want you both to share in the goo. Want you both to lap up the ball juice. Drain me for all its worth. Get ready for the eruption. It’s going to be a blast of white hot sperm like you’ve never seen before. The one a moment ago was a gusher. I expect this one to top Old Faithful at Yellowstone.”
He continued with the strokes. Driving it in all the way.
“See if you can lick her clit while this is going on, before I blast. Lick her.” He withdrew.
“Not coming yet. Want to make it go on, last. Lick Olivia’s asshole. Stick your tongue in there as deep as you can.”
Pearleen did so. “Now, stand up, and bend over. Stick your asshole up in Olivia’s face. Do to Pearl what she just did for you.” Olivia obeyed. “Lick her cunt as well. Lick it with relish. Lick it like you mean it.”
This went on for awhile. Biggs was enjoying himself. It made up for all the times he was locked away and couldn’t get his hands on cunt—dead or alive.
“Suck my cock, Pearl. Lick it with fervor; lick it to stay alive, whore. Both of you: get down there. Take turns licking: cock and asshole and balls.” Then he was back working away on Olivia’s rectum. Had his groin inside. Drove it home. Deep. They were vicious strokes. Suddenly, he withdrew with a yelp. Yelled at them both to open their mouths wide and get ready to drink cum. He shot it, up and down both faces, mouths, and chins. The spray kept coming. It was incredible. Had to do wit
h the chicken, blood, whipping; having the captives at his mercy. He shot white nutsack nectar inside those throats, covering tongues and teeth and lips.
“Fuck. Shit. Holy shit.”
He held their heads together, pressing hard with both hands, while running the helmet part of his groin up and down those lips and chins, making certain that every damned last drop had gone where it was supposed to: inside their insatiable jaws.
He dropped back against the futon, his physical being craving genuine respite this time.
CHAPTER 392
Ten or fifteen minutes later, he rose. Took a closer look at the photos spread out on the coffee table. Nice series to add to the collection. Felt pretty good about it, too.
He pulled two cans of beer from the mini fridge, pack of Ex-Lax. Handed each one a beer, two bars of the laxative. Had them chase the Ex-Lax down with the brew, while he sipped from a can of soda himself, grinning. There was a reason for it. The encore was about to take place. They would be excreting pretty soon. All that fecal matter would be drizzling out of their assholes. Beer out the cunt side, shit out the other hole. He wanted to watch it take place.
He shoved a fresh pack of film into the Polaroid camera. Had them walk down the hallway to the john, before they started crapping on his floor.
CHAPTER 393
It was evening and Rudy Perez’s brother Monroe was in the kitchen helping their grandma dry a few post-dinner plates.
There was the long-expected knock at the front door. Monroe didn’t have to open it to let the anxious Duartes go after him third-degree fashion concerning the disappearance of their daughter Olivia—but there he was, letting them in. After all, it was the polite thing to do. They’d been phoning ever since Olivia failed to come home two days and three nights ago, with questions that easily came across as accusations: Did Rudy elope with her? If not, why doesn’t he answer the phone anymore? Where was their daughter? What had Rudy done with her?
Monroe was not inclined to let them pull him into it: Rudy had refused to pick up the phone after the initial verbal attacks and had left him and their grandparents to deal with all the calls and badgering.
Not only was his brother in agony over Olivia’s disappearance, but he was simply sick and tired of being accused of something he was not guilty of.
A distraught Mrs. Duarte stood in the Perez living room with her equally worried husband Rafael, their oldest daughter Yolanda, and their next-to-youngest daughter Carla.
Mrs. Duarte was wringing her hands, fighting hard to keep her eyes from welling.
“She never came home from work Friday. That’s going on three days. There is no way to contact Mr. Jessup. According to the sign that was on his door, he’s out of town to attend a funeral.”
Monroe knew all that, and there wasn’t much to add to it. He had his arms open wide, motioning about the living room.
“As you can see, Mr. and Mrs. Duarte, she’s not here.”
What had made the entire situation so much more difficult for him all over again, was the obvious presence of Yolanda Duarte. This was totally unfair and nearly cruel. Why did she have to keep coming around? Why peck at his wounds? He’d never heal this way.
All right, he thought, I’m not good enough for you—so go find somebody who is. Don’t keep tearing my heart apart.
As for the parents, Monroe Perez felt for them. He understood, he understood far better than anyone gave him credit for. Only the next thing the woman’s husband said was like a punch to the face. He heard it, knew it was coming—yet there was no denying the sting of it. It stung plenty, and offended as much.
“Are you telling us your brother did not elope with our daughter?”
Monroe shook his head. Did not know where to go from here. What do you say to these people? Were they nuts? Rudy elope with Olivia?
“Where do you get this? Do you even realize how far-fetched it is?”
“What’s far-fetched about it? He got her to do it; more than likely pushed Olivia into it. Never mind that she has career plans, never mind that it goes against everything she has been taught.”
Rafael Duarte’s wife looked at her husband, made a gesture to try and calm him down, but the man was too worked up at this point and would have kept on, if an incensed Rudy Perez, as if on cue, hadn’t emerged from one of the rooms in the back. There he stood, glaring at the accusers.
The Duartes, feeling rather embarrassed, did not know what to think.
“What am I going to be blamed for next? The diner burning down? My brother’s telling the truth and has been telling you the truth every time you phoned. Nobody ‘eloped’ with her. Could be she ran off. Could be. Who knows? Too much pressure. Put on her by her family. If you hadn’t been so hard on her she wouldn’t be a runaway now.”
Mr. and Mrs. Duarte both responded with equal disdain at the insinuation.
“Our daughter is not a runaway.”
Mr. Duarte then held his hand up as a way for his wife to show him enough consideration so that he might speak his piece, sans interruption. His scrutiny, as the eyes remained fixed on Rudy and Monroe, was deep and obvious. Meant to put the brothers in their place and keep them there.
“Olivia would never just take off like a common runaway. Her family means too much to her. Her family is everything to her. To accuse our daughter of something like that is not only insane, but just plain disingenuous. Kids who run away from home to end up on Hollywood Boulevard like so much riffraff selling themselves for their next meal or the latest mind-bending drug do so because there is abuse at home, abuse and neglect, alcoholism and general dysfunction. To accuse Olivia of being a runaway is absolutely incomprehensible to this family—incomprehensible as well as insulting. It cannot be. No one runs away from a home where she is loved and treated with respect. There is no reason for her to be a ‘runaway.’ None.”
“Excuse me, senor,” Grandma Perez cleared her throat from where she remained in the kitchen. “You are welcome to see for yourself. Take a look around, search this house—since you do not believe my boys. My boys are good boys. They speak the truth. Please, take a look around.”
Monroe loved his grandma’s suggestion. “Exactly what I was thinking. Thanks, Grandma.”
Rudy seconded by nodding his head. “We have nothing to hide.”
Mr. Duarte leapt at the suggestion.
“We appreciate that.” And the trio, Mr. and Mrs. Duarte and Yolanda, spread out, checking various bedrooms, back patio area, backyard, garage, etc., only to reconvene soon enough in the living room, feeling far worse than when they began the search.
CHAPTER 394
Mrs. Duarte was wiping tears with a damp handkerchief. Yolanda, her eyes downcast, could not conceal her frustration. Unable to think straight or knew what to say. On the other hand, Mr. Duarte had yet to be entirely convinced or anywhere near satisfied with what was going on.
Rudy didn’t much care at this point if the Duartes were offended. Too bad if they were. They’d been offending his family for years. This was his first real chance to get some things off his chest. The confrontation with Yolanda that day had felt good and he’d been able to get a few things out that had been bothering him, but this was an opportunity to speak to the Duartes directly. They had been the main cause of his girl’s disappearance: the parents, and Yolanda; the parents mainly.
“You have to admit you put a lot of pressure on her—”
As expected, Mr. and Mrs. Duarte could not wait to cut him off.
“We have nothing against you, Rudy, nor your brother —” Mr. Duarte was gesturing again for his wife’s benefit; he needed to speak by himself. “We simply have to stress the importance of education with our kids. Without education a person cannot get very far in this world.”
They were singing the education song again, Rudy thought. What about the importance of taking care of your family? What about making a buck now, today, not tomorrow, and making mortgage payments and all that? Christ; he was sick of it. So sick of it, in fac
t, that all he could do was shake his head angrily.
“Doesn’t anything else rate with you people? What about all the other things that matter?”
Roe felt a need to come to his brother’s aide, and did so in a much calmer tone than Rudy was using.
“What my brother is trying to say is there’s more to life than getting degrees and making a lot of money. There’s more to it than a white collar and a three-piece suit.” Roe was clearly hinting at the yuppie sitting in a parked four-door European import in front of their house.
The parents of the missing girl were quick to react, trying to speak at the same time once again.
“You miss the whole point.”
Rudy was just as quick to jump back into the fray. He simply could not help it. Emotions ran raw all around.
“No, I don’t miss the point. The point is I love your daughter—only that don’t add up to much with the Duartes. I’m glad she run off. You had it coming.”
Mr. Duarte rebounded with harsh words of caution here. Just as angry and pissed as the one who claimed to love their daughter.
“You had better show some respect, young man—”
“No, sir. It’s your family that needs to be more respectful. You don’t come in our home and give us the third degree and accuse me of kidnapping your daughter—”
“That isn’t what I meant, young man, and you know this.”
Monroe could see that the wise thing to do would be to guide the parents out of the house, apologize to them, explain that Rudy’s guts were in knots simply because he missed Olivia so much.
Monroe Perez walked outside with Mr. and Mrs. Duarte and they chatted in civilized tones.
Right, Rudy thought, get them all the hell out of here, get them out of my sight. He found himself a beer in the kitchen. Cracked it. Took a pull. He walked back in the living room to shut the front door and saw the ballbuster standing there with a determined, skeptical look on her face. Yolanda.