Aztec Gold

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Aztec Gold Page 4

by Charybdis Childe


  He was sitting in Ma’s Ice Cream Parlor, enjoying a coney island and a malted milk, when she walked by the plate glass window on the plank-board sidewalk outside. Russell just about choked on his hot dog, snorted malted, as he got a good look at the girl. The land might’ve been flatter than the devil’s pancake all around, but this blonde was anything but.

  Tall and slim, with long, smooth limbs bronzed by the sun, the young woman’s breasts bulged out the front of her gingham dress like twin hams under tablecloth. Obscenely huge, heavy boobs that jostled and jiggled all the more provocatively as she strolled by the window, temporarily blotting out the sunshine, except in Russell’s heart. Her pale blue eyes briefly met his widened-to-accommodate eyes, and then looked away.

  Russell flat-out gawked, like every other man, woman, and child in the restaurant, and on the street, and in the town. The Rainmaker had seen some big tits in his day – from windblown Oklahoma to the dusty Texas panhandle up to the bone-dry river bottoms of Nebraska – but he’d never, ever seen a pair like this before. The seams of the girl’s dress seemed ready to pop and unravel with every ripe, delicious double-jounce, thin cloth somehow not tearing at the twin, unfettered nipple points that jutted out from the titanic ta-ta’s.

  Russell’s eyes bounced right along with those amazing breasts. Until the pretty blonde girl carried them out of sight, but certainly not out of mind. He turned to the wizened old sodbuster sitting at the table next to his and asked, “Say, who was that young lady just walked by?”

  The wrinkled old farmer blinked, setting his wandering eyes back in their sockets. “That was Britta Lindgren,” he said, wiping drooled chocolate sauce off his chin. “Biggest set of jugs outside a dairy farm.”

  The Rainmaker grinned, his mouth watering like he meant the clouds to do, and now the girl.

  By the 4th, a group of desperate farmers and townspeople had agreed to pay for Russell’s services, half upfront, half on delivery. He stated that he’d already done some preliminary surveying, and determined that the best place for further pluviculture analysis and experimentation was Henk Larsen’s farm just on the outskirts of town. He didn’t bother mentioning that his surveying had consisted entirely of finding out that Britta Lindgren was Henk’s nineteen-year-old cousin, who’d lived with the Larsens since she was five.

  Henk was suspicious, downright hostile. But the other farmers convinced him, and Russell drove his silver Studebaker and rainmaking equipment out to Henk’s place and went to work. He sized up the land and the sky and the wind, the few wispy clouds that ventured out into the searing heat. Striding around in Henk’s arid fields and taking notes, measurements, a studious look on his handsome mug.

  And when there wasn’t a crowd of apprehensive men and curious kids watching his every move, he scrutinized the weather charts and almanacs, scouted out a crop duster for hire. And studied, up-close, the fine, chest-blessed form of young, blonde Britta Lindgren; whose clear blue eyes no longer looked away when they met Russell’s.

  “You’ll really take me away from this godforsaken place – to New York City!?” breasty Britta beseeched Russell, in the back of Henk’s barn. “Honest!?”

  Russell smiled, flashing all twenty-eight of his natural teeth and four falsies (replacing the other originals that were scattered about various barroom floors and hay lofts across the country). He’d been spoon-feeding the heavy-titted teenager sugar-sweet tales of his adventures in the big cities, and now he gripped her brown, blonde-fuzzed arms and gazed into her sparkling eyes with all the sincerity he could muster.

  “You bet I will, sweetheart. Why, someone with your obvious … charms, deserves to be seen and appreciated by more than just a few hicks in the sticks.” Russell licked his red lips, eyeing the twin globes almost bursting the front of the girl’s white summer dress, begging to be explored. “Honey, you’re too big for a place like this.”

  Britta clapped her hands together and squealed, her skin tingling under Russell’s firm, warm grasp; Russell’s eyes lost in the shivering tan depths of her cleavage. The hot sun beat down on the pair of them, no shade behind that decrepit barn except directly beneath Britta’s balcony. Russell slowly moved his head forward, and touched his lips to hers, his hands sliding lower down her arms, thumbs brushing up against the swollen sides of the girl’s boobs.

  Britta impulsively threw her arms around Russell’s neck and mashed her mouth against his, her brain dizzy with the promise of freedom, her body buzzing with the prospect of first-time release. She excitedly chewed on Russell’s lips, hungrily consuming what the Rainmaker was selling.

  Her awesome breastworks bounding up against his chest knocked Russell breathless for a moment. But he quickly recovered, wrapping his arms around the built babe and meeting her thrashing pink tongue with his. Her tremendous tits were hot and huge and soft against his heaving chest, and his cock flowered up in his flannels like a corn stalk after a spring shower, pressing hard and insistent into Britta’s warm belly.

  They were both sweating, breathing heavily, urgently kissing and frenching one another, Britta inhaling the man’s musky aftershave through her nostrils, Russell the busty doll’s sweet perfume, the wet perfume between her legs. He grasped her shoulders and shoved her back, breaking mouth contact, but not chest contact. He smoothly slid her dress off her shoulders and pulled it down. The gasping girl stood with her arms at her sides, as the thin cotton caressed the mountainous tops of her breasts, crested the jutting peaks, then plummeted down the breathtaking spherical descent to her waist.

  Russell gaped at the sun-browned hills of paradise, mesmerized by their beauty. They were as richly tanned and smooth as the rest of the girl, attesting to her obvious irrepressibility, their bronzed nipples sprouting hard and thick as pumpkin stems from hand-spanning areolas of a slightly darker hue. Round, silk-skinned, unblemished melons that hung overripe for the picking from the slender, supple vine of Britta’s body.

  The Rainmaker swallowed dry, unable even to conjure up any spit in the presence of those magnificent breasts. He sucked hot air into his lungs and closed the two inches between his shaking hands and the Rushmoric boobs. Britta yelped with pleasure, Russell with delight, as he touched the warm, stretched skins, clasped and squeezed the velvety-smooth, overflowing flesh.

  His sweaty hands fell short of his grasping ambition, however, because the girl’s tits were just too large for one man to fully handle. But he did his best, groping the fresh, pliable meat, thumbing and then rolling the inch-long rubbery nipples, basking in the heated glory of the teenager’s twin miracles of nature.

  Heaving up the spilling bottoms of her jugs and locking his elbows into his sides, he bent his head down and pushed her breasts up and was just about to take a pull on a hardened nipple, when someone said, “I thought you was after water, not milk?”

  Britta’s mams jumped along with the rest of her body in Russell’s hands. They cranked their heads sideways – to look at Grun Torsten, Henk’s simple-minded farmhand. The lanky, redheaded work-shirker was peeking around the corner of the barn, staring bug-eyed at Britta’s Russell-cupped udders.

  Britta turned red as Grun’s hair. She yanked up her dress and ran away around the opposite side of the barn. Leaving Russell embarrassingly empty-handed to explain.

  On the 6th, the Rainmaker put on a real show for the locals out in a fallow field. Setting ablaze bonfires and setting off explosions – to coax the clouds. At the end of it all promising rain, soon. And that night, delivering. Just shortly after he’d stepped out of the crop duster he’d used to sprinkle the promising clouds with his ‘secret chemicals’.

  It started as a trickle, at midnight. By one, it was pouring. Coming down in big, fat, wet drops and soaking into the thirsty ground. Drumming on the rooftops and rattling against the windowpanes, music to people’s ears. Silver in the clouded moonlight; a hundred times more valuable.

  Russell reunited with Britta behind the barn. After he’d made sure the rest of the farm family and anima
ls were bedded down for the night, the wonderful rain lulling them into pleasant dreams. He found the topsy girl standing out in the storm with her head tilted back and her arms outstretched, golden hair streaming down her back, cotton dress flush to her lush body. Her boobs heaved under the thin, saturated material, nipples nosing right through.

  Russell grabbed her in his arms and rained moist kisses down on her damp, slender neck, her dripping chin and wet lips, drinking in the pure, sweet dewiness of the girl. She shuddered like the thunder, and he pushed her up against the slick, weathered boards of the barn and filled his hands to overflowing with tit, urgently kneading the succulent flesh. She whimpered when he tore her soaked dress apart; moaned when he gripped her bare, brimming breasts as best he could and swam his tongue all over her shining nipples.

  He licked one dripping spigot, then the other, swirling his tongue all around the engorged nipples, revelling in their rubbery taste, the pebbly texture of her rain-dappled areolas. Always working and working the thick mass of her tits.

  She twisted her head from side to side against the barn, her water-washed body and breasts surging with electricity like the low-hanging sky. Then she reached down under her manhandled ledges and clawed the Rainmaker’s pants open, pulled his divining rod – hot and throbbing in her hand – out of his underwear.

  Russell groaned from around a mouth-filling nipple, thrilling with the feel of the girl’s soft, stroking hand on his cock. He really chewed on her meaty tit-caps, ruggedly hefting her hooters. Then he slammed the mammoth mammaries together and swiped his tongue across both pointed peaks at once, rain dancing off the trembling tops of the fleshy canopies. He licked and sucked and groped for as long as he could. Until the girl’s insistently tugging hand triggered a storm in his balls, steam in his dong.

  He kneed her legs apart and plunged like lightning inside of her, deep into her inner wetness; bursting the dam of her desire. She cried out with all her roiling heart and soul, her breasts heaving like buoys on a churning ocean in his sweating hands. The force of his pumping hips splashed her up against the barn over and over, making her head swim, flooding her body with a liquid heat.

  He was lost in a sea of lust himself, frantically fucking, fondling her, filling his salivating mouth and slippery mitts with wet-nurse nipple and wet-dream breast. His soaking, stroking cock surging with molten semen that knew only one all-out release.

  They gushed their ecstasy together, bathing one another in their steaming juices. The warm rain washing over them in shimmering waves.

  Henk Larsen watched from behind the tool shed, dick in one hand, axe in the other. Beady eyes burning bright in the jungle rain of the night with the lust and rage of the man who’d vowed to be Britta’s first.

  And when his exhausted, exhilarated cousin finally gathered her sodden dress together over her plundered treasure chest and ran for the house, he oozed around the shed and in behind Russell, using the rain as cover. He brought the axe up over his head. Then crashed its sharp, gleaming blade down onto Russell’s skull. Cleaving it in two.

  Henk buried the body in some brush ten feet away from the bank of the trickling creek that bordered his property. Some townsfolk wondered where the Rainmaker had gotten to. While Britta could only bitterly swallow what she was now sure were the con-man’s empty promises. But the farmers didn’t care – they had their rain. And more rain.

  All through May and into June. By late June, the fields were flooded, the struggling crops drowned.

  It rained just about all summer long. And by early September, the normally docile rivers and creeks were dangerously swollen, filled to their banks with ugly, brown, churning waters.

  Henk Larsen was crossing the short wooden bridge over the creek and onto his land the night of the 7th, the surging water making the bridge tremble. He was almost to the far bank, when it suddenly gave way upstream, earth and brush and trees sliding into the raging current in a crumbling shelf.

  A wall of water welled up over the bridge and slammed into his Model T pick-up. The truck shimmied sideways in the rushing tide, the man inside gripping the wheel and watching in horror as the body of Russell Jameson slithered down the broken bank and slid into the angry water, bobbed up and rode the crest, landed with a jarring thud against the cab of Henk’s pick-up.

  The terrified farmer stared at the split skull gleaming ethereally in the sheet lightning, its jaw chattering with the torrent of the current, calling to Henk out of the pounding rain. He scrambled to the other side of the cab, clawed the door open, and jumped out. Right into the cold, muddy, charging, debris-choked water.

  Britta attended Russell’s funeral only. Along with other well-endowed women from other States who brought with them children bearing more than a passing resemblance to the man; truly attesting to his ‘seeding’ ability. Britta was five months along, herself.

  And when they finally laid the Rainmaker to rest in the moist earth, the sun was shining. Not a cloud in the sky.

  Much Ado (About Nothing)

  by Sue Williams

  Night Of The Bear

  by Garrett Calcaterra Silya clutched the brown hair on Varick’s chest, using it to gain leverage as she thrashed atop of him. She was skinny, but strong, and one of the few girls he’d been with who could take the whole of him inside her. Part of it, he knew, was the aphrodilium coursing through both their veins; it enhanced sensitivity, somehow turned pain into pleasure. Varick’s chest was bleeding where she’d clawed him and torn tufts of hair out, yet the sensation only added to the euphoric energy radiating from his loins.

  He bit at one of the pale breasts in front of him, hooking the nipple between his eye-teeth. She gasped and clutched her legs and pussy tighter around him. He groaned and his hips started thrusting upward, in sync with her lunges. She grabbed to his chest tighter and hooked her toes under his thighs, all the while gripping him with her legs and riding him like a bull. All the way up his shaft she’d slide, to the tip of his cock, then slam down onto him again, never letting him pull out of her.

  When she came, it was violent: her stomach muscles convulsed, stretching the skin taut. It always set him off. Even as she stiffened and her eyes rolled back into her head, he grasped her waist over her ribs; the muscles inside her contracted around his cock in pulsating waves like she was having a seizure; her knees drove into his kidneys; her fingernails gouged chunks of skin from his chest. He grabbed her ass with his meaty hands and drove up into her with three great thrusts.

  Her scream, his deep growl, the slapping of their moist skin together with each collision, echoed off the stone walls of the cellar-like room.

  When the white euphoria faded from Varick’s eyes and he could think again, Silya was slumped onto him, her head rising with each monstrous breath he took. He was still inside her and could feel warm liquid draining into his fur – partly his own seed, partly her plentiful juices. Gods, she’s good, he thought, wishing once again he could convince her to leave this place with him. Every time he brought it up, though, she’d just say, our place is here, my big stupid bear. He wasn’t stupid, and she knew it, but everyone else thought so; that came with the turf being as big as he was and employed as Silya’s hired muscle to boot.

  A sudden pain shot through Varick’s head, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The marks on his chest stung, he realized, and his breath came in short gasps. The phone in the corner started ringing, compounding the pressure building behind his eyes. Varick had a vague recollection of it ringing while they’d been fucking.

  ‘Silya. Silya. The phone’s ringing.’

  Varick lifted his head and shook her, but she didn’t respond. His breath became tighter, and a sickening feeling filled his stomach. He slid out from under her and laid her gently onto her back. He felt her unmoving chest, shook her again, saw the blue hue of her lips. A cramp arced through his side and he cried out, partly in pain, partly from the realization that Silya was dead. The phone was still ringing in the corner. He lunged off the bed mat to snatch
the receiver.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Varick? Don’t take the aphrodilium. It’s tainted.’

  It was Dardanio, Silya’s associate. ‘Too late,’ Varick gasped, his chest getting tighter. ‘Silya’s dead.’

  The line was silent for a moment before Dardanio responded. ‘Alright, you have a vitropine kit. Get it.’

  Varick crawled back toward the bed mat, the receiver still in hand. He swatted away the spent aphrodilium syringe from where it lay on the floor and dug through their pile of clothing until he found the silver metal box. He dropped the phone receiver to open the case and prep the shot. Once the syringe was full, he pointed the needle upward and pushed the plunger until it started to squirt, then picked up the phone again.

  ‘Alright. Just stick it into her heart?’

  ‘It’s not going to do her any good, you oaf! Do yourself. We’ll take care of her afterward.’

  ‘Right.’ Varick dropped the phone. He’d done this a dozen or more times on customers who’d overdosed, but his head was swimming right now, his blood beating in his ears. Spittle was dribbling down from the corners of his mouth into his beard and he knew he was about to lose control. He let himself fall to the bed mat beside Silya and raised the syringe with both hands. He put both thumbs over the plunger and drove the needle down into his chest.

  Lightning pain seared through his body. His back arched impossibly and he screamed as his vision went red. Some time later the voice on the telephone brought him back to his senses.

  ‘Varick…Varick?’

  Varick yanked out the needle protruding from his chest and grabbed the phone. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Good. Now get dressed. You have to get Silya to a virilis demon.’

 

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