DOA III

by Bentley Little

  “I’m sorry. I just can’t see you anymore.”

  He went utterly vapid. “Is it... another guy?”

  “Of course not!” she lied again. How dare he accuse her of sleeping around!

  Anyway, Wardell wasn’t just another guy. He was everything Roderic wasn’t. Strong, handsome, assertive. And hung like fucking Dillinger.

  She opened the door to the 300ZX—a birthday present from Roderic—and slid in.

  “But what about Paris?”

  She’d considered it. Paris might be fun. Except that Roderic’s mother was going, too, and so was Fudd—that old lady’s hoodlum manservant.

  To hell with Paris. Wardell would be taking her to Cancun anyway after his next big score.

  “Roderic, forget Paris. Our relationship is over. Get it?”

  Obviously he didn’t. But Fudd did. The guy was lurking by the side of the house in his long leather jacket, stacking a cord of firewood, dividing each round cut with one of those automatic log splitters. And the look he shot her said he’d be happy to split her neatly down the middle too. If anything, Fudd was loyal.

  Mama apparently got the message, too. Clare could see her distain pouring through the sitting room window.

  Goddamn crinkled old weirdo.

  Hell, they were all weirdoes.

  “Darling, please come back inside. We’ll sit by the fire, I’ll open the Louis XIII. Please!”

  For God’s sake, he was crying now. “Please, I—”

  “I know, Roderic. You’d give anything for me. No, thanks.” She slammed the door and started up the car.

  “Tell me!” He was sniffling outside the window. “Tell me what I can do to prove my love for you!”

  Go play in traffic, she thought. How about that? You romantic putz.

  She pulled out of the driveway. In the rearview mirror she saw him fall to his knees in Shakespearean anguish, his mother coming through the double oak doors and down off the porch to comfort him. Fudd glaring.

  Poor Roderic, she thought. The man just didn’t have a clue.

  Wardell did.

  She’d just walked into the apartment and already the deft, strong hands were unbuttoning her blouse, his tongue roving her mouth in greeting.

  “You break the news to the wimp?”

  She nodded. Now that it was over she felt a little guilty.

  “God! He was devastated. I’m surprised he didn’t take back the car.”

  His hands shucked off the blouse and pawed her naked breasts. “He can’t take back the car. He put it in your name for chrissake, remember? The dumb little creamcake asshole.”

  “Well, you can bet he won’t be paying the rent anymore.”

  Wardell had his penis out already, which he often referred to as “Papa Fuck” or “Mr. Meat Missile.” Wardell was not subtle.

  “Fuck him and fuck his mama’s money. Couple days, my next big score comes in and we’ll be rollin’ in it. Gimme that ass, babe. Over here.”

  He stripped off her jeans and led her onto the couch, got down on his knees, and began those oral preludes which never failed to grease his skids. His tongue was not particular about which orifice it tended. It tended each and it tended well. In moments she was lost in raging heat.

  It launched her into another world—a great big wet wonderful tongue world where she was the queen and sensation was her daily homage. The cleft of Clare’s ass became a playground, and Wardell’s tongue was the troupe of kids swinging from the monkey bars. It was hard to think of butt-licking with any notion of sophistication; nevertheless, Wardell proved a master, wielding his skills with a brazen expertise. His hot tongue laved, and prodded, licked and titillated, drew sloppy, wet swirls about that sensitive little starburst.

  “Like it when I lick your asshole, huh?”

  Clare staked to the couch with her feet pinned back behind her ears, could fathom no response to her lover’s less-than-urbane inquiry. Instead, she moaned and sighed, then abruptly shuddered when—

  “But now I think I’ll have me a taste of this here pie.”

  —his tongue re-navigated itself to a northerly direction. Her anus, evidently, was but an appetizer; now it was time for the entree. Clare whined at the avalanche of feeling, a sudden spike of swoony, pulsing pleasure which staked her hips fast to the couch. Her pussy felt separately enlivened, a furred, pink-blushing icon which revealed at the worship of its congregation—in this instance, Wardell’s mouth. His tongue slid hard up and down over the olive-sized clitoris; his mouth sucked the free-flowing fluids out of her pussy like fruit juice from a straw. He sucked so intensely that Clare thought the delicious suction might actually relocate her uterus to the couch cushion.

  “Ooo, you big hot wonderful love-tongue, you!” she wailed. “Eat my pussy till I’m cross-eyed!”

  But, of course, she already was cross-eyed. She was stupefied, enraptured, enfrenzied. Currents of pleasure speared her ass to the couch. Her clit felt plugged into a wall socket as she moaned her bliss to an empty ceiling. Her first climax erupted with the impact of a five-ton wrecking ball striking a dam. The dam broke, and out gushed its reservoir. Her pussy pulsed like a cock coming, like a great big throbbing dick shooting wild plumes of sperm...

  “Here’s a little something to help you forget that mama-rich dickhead, honey.”

  This, of course, was a meiotic—it was not a little something. Clare often thought of Wardell’s crotch as a Burger King: Home of the Whopper. His cock was a masterpiece, a thing of mystic beauty while at the same time frightening because of its size.

  He flipped her to hands and knees and, with no further overture, buried himself in her.

  “I dare you to think about him with my dick stuffed up your snatch,” he said.

  And she couldn’t. Not with Mr. Meat Missile prodding the bulb of her cervix. Not with Papa Fuck plumbing the deepest regions of her womanly hole. She reached down under him and fondled testicles which felt as large of cue balls.

  What a fuckin’ man! she thought.

  Machinelike, his cock pistoned in and out. Each stroke quaked her, retracted her sex and beat the air out of her lungs.

  “Oh yes,” she moaned. “Yes! All the way in as hard as you can!” With a snide grunt, Wardell obliged. To Clare it felt as though Wardell had just unreeled another three or four inches of hard cock into her slot. It was an excruciating mix of pain and mind-boggling pleasure. His cock was coring her like an apple.

  “Uh-huh,” Wardell promised. “I’ll be bustin’ my baby a big nut up this cooze. Honey, I’m gonna crack a load in you so hard my spunk’ll be squirtin’ out yer nose. You’ll need the biggest hanky in the world.”

  Then—

  Mid-stroke and midway to the gate for both of them, the telephone rang.

  The answering machine kicked in. “Hello, this is Clare, I’m not home right now so please leave a…”

  “Jesus Christ, you gotta be fucking kidding me,” Wardell said. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

  No, no, no, thought Clare, please, please don’t let it be...

  “I’d do anything, darling,” Roderic said, his voice drippy, weepy, sniffly, and disgusting. “I’d give anything for you…”

  Wardell hadn’t much cared for the telephonic coitus interruptus. So he’d worked off his lack of amusement at the expense of Clare’s physical real estate. Not that she objected. Her orgasms ensured without abatement, in multiple fashion. What Wardell lacked in sophistication he more than made up for in cocksmanship. Other than that, she knew next to nothing about him. He’d never elaborated on his occupational pursuits, claiming simply to be a “salesman,” and Clare never asked what he sold—though she doubted its legal status. He was muscular and brusque and incredibly handsome. Also very... enduring. And for her, right now, that was enough.

  That night, though, she slept fitfully.

  Roderic consumed her dreams. Roderic, who wrote poetry all day long and doted on his mother—whose wealth, she had once read in Forbes, ran to the mid-eight figur
es—who would pick her up in his conservative gray BMW and take her to the best clubs, restaurants, and shows, who would bring her gifts every week—jewelry, mostly—pay her rent, buy her a car, and leave delightful little cash envelopes beneath her pillow. Not bad for a girl nearing the far side of the hill, but...

  …she guessed it was his mother. Crimp-faced, rouged, and paper-thin. Eternally sarcastic. He’d bring her home to the mansion sometimes for “romantic” little chats by the fire, snifters of Cordon Bleu, and—disappointingly for Clare—pre-ejaculatory sex, and his mother would always be there when they arrived, nodding curtly from the sitting room and offering some cryptic remark like “I hope you’re taking good care of my boy,” or “Good boys like my Roderic are easily taken for granted, missy,” always calculated to be discreetly rude. Fuck you, Clare would think, and offer up a smile instead. For Mama.

  It was no way to live.

  To make matters worse, Fudd was always there too—about as cheerful as a mugshot. Never saying a word, all black glances and subtle scowls, skulking around in black leather driver’s cap, mitts, and long-tailed jacket. She wondered how much the old hag was paying him to keep her ancient pussy stocked with pork.

  The implication was clear: Mama Roderic would overlook Clare’s gold-digging as long as she “took good care” of her “boy.”

  It was difficult, and it wasn’t. On the one hand, Roderic was a loving, compassionate, romantic man. He was also fat and slack-muscled, pale as a fish belly, with a small, pathetic weenie that tended to give up its seed long before any serious amalgamation of genitals could be made.

  Once while necking she had made the mistake of brushing his groin with the tips of her fingers. Oooops, he’d said. And showed her the wet spot on his custom-made Italian slacks.

  On nights they actually made it to bed, he would usually have to apologize for the milky puddle on her belly moments after getting naked. “You excite me so much I just can’t help it,” he would tell her. There was no point sucking a dick that had spent its freight before she could even get it into her mouth. So that was out. And his own oral gestures proved equally futile, usually like a kitten lapping milk.

  Which left her with her finger.

  No. After nine months, restaurants and cold cash simply didn’t cut it anymore—and Fudd and Roderic’s mother coming with the package as they so obviously did only hastened her decision.

  Besides, by then she had met Wardell. Who knew how to fill all the places Roderic left empty. I owe it to myself, she thought, as a modern woman, to pursue my spiritual, sociological, and personal well-being. As well as the gigantic cock.

  Why couldn’t Roderic understand? They simply weren’t right for each other.

  She didn’t wish him any harm. She truly hoped he’d meet some frigid little blue-blood one day and live happily ever after. But…

  She knew that some men would pine over a lost love for years. Become obsessive. Go to.... extremes.

  She hoped that wouldn’t happen here. But maybe that was what scared her a little. Because there was something about poor little jilted Roderic that haunted her. Something deep in his eyes and in that forlorn, desperate promise of his...

  …I would give anything for you.

  Please Roderic, she thought, whatever you’ve got to give, take it elsewhere.

  “Hey, love muffin,” Wardell had awakened and was nudging her with something other than his hand.

  It was an excellent distraction, and Clare was grateful. She provided a welcome silo. Her mouth. All that burgeoning cock inside her, the glans big as a baby apple.

  “God, woman! You sure can suck good peter! Get it, sugar! Suck all that red-hot pecker-snot right out of that cock!”

  Quaint.

  But she did. Slipped a pinky into his ass to prod the overlarge prostate as his testicles jettisoned yet another copious ration of semen. And, at exactly the same moment, thought of Roderic.

  Jesus, Roderic! Go away!

  I’d give anything for you.

  That goddamn promise. What did he mean?

  What would he give?

  His fortune? His inheritance?

  His life?

  Jesus Christ, she hoped not. She didn’t think she was ready for that at all. Definitely not. But you had to think about it. Was the crazy little sonofabitch going to try to prove something?

  Was Roderic suicidal?

  Nah.

  Even if he was, there’d be Fudd and Mama to tie him down for six years if necessary. Until he got over it.

  No problem.

  Except that he phoned every day. Luckily, he tended to do that while Wardell was out, taking care of his “salesman” duties. But she started to hate the sound of her phone ringing.

  Please come back darling, darling please, please, we were meant to be together, I would give anything in the world for you darling please... Good God!

  Clare would never answer. But his calls were crowding her answering machine.

  And at night he haunted her dreams.

  Roderic in a tub, his slit wrists leaking cloudy red. Blue-faced in his BMW in a closed garage. Gunshot, poisoned, hanged by the neck.

  His mother made scowling cameos. Shadowed by leather-clad Fudd, gloved hands opening and closing into creaking fists. “You take good care of my boy, missy,” the dream-crone nattered. “…you take good care of my boy, good care of my…”

  Each nightmare ended the same. Roderic’s corpse, the black mouth opening wide, filled with pus and maggots, the death-rattle voice. “I’d give anything for you.”

  Wardell became the vehicle of her oblivion. She resolved to fuck and suck the little twerp right out of her brain. And that was fine until, exhausted, she eventually fell asleep. There he was.

  “I’d give anything…”

  One morning Wardell was in the shower, whistling “Love Me Tender,” when the phone rang. Clare snatched it up.

  “Roderic, stop calling me!”

  “Clare, please,” he whined. “Talk to me. Listen, I want you to come over.”

  “No!”

  “Wait! Don’t hang up! Listen to me. Mother and Fudd have gone to Paris for two weeks. We’d have the whole place to ourselves. Please!”

  “I don’t want to come over. I don’t want to ever see you again!

  Get it?”

  “Buh-buh-but... I love you! At least tell me why—”

  “You’re fat, okay?”

  “I’ll lose weight.”

  “You’re pale as an albino.”

  “A tanning booth—I’ll buy one.” “You’ve got no muscles.”

  “I’ll join a gym. I’ll start working out. I promise.” This was going nowhere. No choice, she thought.

  “You come in ten seconds flat, and you’ve got a little dick!”

  Cruel, sure. But Jesus, what could you do?

  “A sex therapist. I’ll go to a sex therapist! And I’ll get one of those penile implants and…”

  She was going to scream. She knew it. “Because, darling, I’d give anything for—”

  Suddenly the phone was snatched away. Wardell stood there buck naked and dripping from the shower, his dick bouncing like a springboard.

  “Look, you little creamcup fuckhead. Don’t ya call here no more, understand? I’ll kick your ass so hard your balls’ll pop out your ears. I’ll come over to that fancy mansion and burn it to the fuckin’ ground and piss on the ashes and bury you up to your neck and shit on your goddamn head and when I’m done blowin’ a nut up your mama’s tired old ass I’ll bury her right next to ya and shit on her too. You take my message, dickbrain?”

  God, Clare hoped so.

  Wardell slammed down the phone.

  The next day Wardell’s “big score” came in. They flew to Cancun that evening. A month in paradise. Clare expected to work on her tan but it quickly became apparent she’d be working on her libido instead. She didn’t mind. Wardell’s cock was a boom that never lowered, his balls a veritable sperm factory that remained in produc
tion round the clock.

  The nightmares stopped.

  And so did all thoughts of Roderic. She realized that one night with Wardell’s cock stuffed so far down her throat she was wearing his balls like sunglasses. Indeed sex had proved her release. And it was a release she couldn’t help but pursue.

  If variety was the spice of life, then each day and each night of their vacation offered Clare another bellyful of ripe red peppers. And, to stretch the metaphor to its absolute limit, Wardell was never reluctant to pour liberal volumes of cream into Clare’s coffee. Where does it all come from? She wondered… And best of all, Roderic was gone. Out of her mind.

  Forever!

  Wardell had to leave a week early; a sudden “business deal” had arisen. A “customer” had an interest in his “product.” Clare lounged on the beach all day. Each night, in bed, she masturbated well into the night. All she could think about was her lover’s interminably stiff cock, the plumy hot balls, her thoughts forever and solely of Wardell and his earthly love for her. Getting fucked by Wardell was akin to dropping a box of Godiva into the lap of a chocolate addict.

  Clare left Cancun four days early.

  On the flight back she was so antsy to see him she could hardly keep her hand out from under her skirt. Once she got into the cab, she didn’t try.

  His car was there in its parking space. Bags in hand, she dashed into the apartment.

  “Wardell? Honey?”

  No reply. “Love-muffin’s home.” She dropped the bags and ran into the bedroom. Stared.

  And shrieked.

  Wardell lay sprawled on the bed, his face a dark shade of scarlet.

  “Parachute cord’s the best.” Fudd emerged from the corner, leather-capped-and-gloved. “Piano wire’s too messy. And nylon’s unreliable. Last broad that dumped Roderic, I was doing a job on her with nylon, and the damned thing snapped on me. It got ugly.”

  Clare could see the deadly ligature sunk deep into her lover’s throat. His face had swollen to a queer balloon, strangely distended. “You should listen to your messages,” Fudd said. “The old lady’s

  not happy, let me tell you.”

  He stepped forward and she screamed. Last broad that dumped Roderic, I was doing a job on her...