by Paul Beatty
Quickly Virginia was down on her knees unzipping Annette's bellbottoms, pulling down her drawers and kissing the pubic hairs of her cunt and the lower half of her stomach, pushing her backwards towards the commode. Annette sat down, and Virginia stuck her head between Annette's thighs.
Annette lifted her thighs slowly and leaned back on the toilet, looking up at the white indirect lighting and listening to the plane, thinking about Marie in the John, Willie at the Gumbo House, watching the golden-headed bitch goddess suck between her legs.
She brushed her hair with the tips of her fingers, held her tightly around the head, and wrapped her tanned brown thighs close around Virginia's head.
It was a nutty sight to witness, Annette sitting back on the John like that and Virginia down on her knees, head down, licking the top, sides, bottom of Annette's cunt, feeling her fat round thighs, and trying to get a finger up Annette's ass. It didn't work. She got so carried away, she bent down even further and stuck her tongue up there instead.
Annette let out a sigh that the ground crew could have heard.
(MEANWHILE)
Max and the Governor were deep into their game: five-card stud. The Governor was ahead. Ace-deuce-trey spread.
Susan B. was into her own thing: sipping Scotch, downing them quick, and blowing boo like nobody's biz.
Afterfacts sat in the corner reading the Scriptures: trying to get Jezebel's tricks straight with Salome's head. His wife, who was the quiet type, sat playing footsie with Pancho under the table.
While the Cuban aide copped nods: Dreams of future glories, El Topo's gories, raced through his head—a thousand revolutionaries, all white in red.
Estavanico strolled past the card players, the Governor and Max and said, "All systems Go," half winked at Susan B., ignored the others and, like a quarterback returning to the huddle, eased back to the ladies' room.
Either it was the hashish, the American-grown marijuana, or the stogie which he had just dispensed with; whatever it was, it made him think twice. He could have swore that the white-haired mongrel was down between Annette's big thighs instead of Virginia Dare. He felt the black cat bone in his pocket, rubbed his John de Conqueror root around his neck, and clutched a hound dog's tooth in his left palm.
Annette looked up at him and smiled. Her eyes motioned. From just looking in her eyes, he could tell she was fly. Virginia kept reminding him of the bitch of Bucharest for some strange reason, maybe it was because she was down there on her knees, her tongue up Annette's asshole, her two forefingers squishing around in Annette's cunt, her head resting on the fine brown thighs.
Estavanico felt his nuts get tighter; his blood was at the boiling point, his insteps ached, he was so carried away his head began to spin. He walked over to the commode and opened his fly. His joint popped up, bounced, stiffened, aimed at Annette's rosy sexy lips.
Like a pro from the backwoods, Eve in cahoots with the snake, Annette took in five of his ten inches and juiced it around. She moved her head back and forth, kept her eyes closed for a moment dreaming of dill pickles with gristles and cucumbers made of flesh, feeling the head of his member on her tonsils, the foreskin on her tongue and the roof of her mouth, and bit down softly as a hot liquid slowly oozed out.
Estavanico looked down at her little girl's face, a smile on his lips, checked out Virginia who had caused Annette to get one discharge, and rubbed both their heads. He dropped his pants to the ground, leaned in closer to Annette, she still continued to work his Johnson and saliva his joint. Virginia dug the action and knelt down behind him. She started licking his asshole, squeezing his balls and fingering her pussy all at the same time.
Estavanico felt like Damballah in the body of the Pope being worked over by nuns who were love machines.
He continued to rub both the broads' heads, pulled Annette's wig off, exposing her naps, and pulling Virginia's stringy hair. She looked like a witch. But he was feeling good inside; all down around his knees, he could feel his blood rushing to his temples, drop down around his shoulders and swell in his stomach. A fart escaped from his asshole. Virginia inhaled deeply and swallowed hard, her tongue still up his ass, her hands on his balls. Looking down at Annette's rosy lips, his joint jerked, got hard as a railroad torch, and he came in her mouth.
Annette felt the hot fluids sputtering down her throat, the foreskin on his member become more sensitive as it wiggled like a ramjet—really to her delight. Even Virginia could feel the pressure being released because his asshole tightened, the cheeks of his ass grew taut as the pressure behind the hot blast—which exploded in Annette's little girl's mouth—caused him to drop a one-inch turd, which Virginia swallowed like it was a Hershey.
Max had already lost five games to the Governor and had tired of hearing him telling fuck stories, about this time and that time and how he had turned queer. His thoughts were in the John, as visions of ninety thousand thirteen-year-old pussies floated outside in the sky. The reefer had done its job.
Reverend Afterfacts had drunk so much port and smoked so many reefers he'd fallen asleep with his hands inside his wife's drawers, dreaming of fair-haired, big-titty women and himself with a dick so long and nuts so big that they had to be transported by a dozen freight cars or four Jumbo Jets. Bitches coming to him from all over the world just to have a connaissance and kiss the head of his Johnson. Faggots and sissies, lesbians and dykes, sending him poison-pen letters because people now wanted to get straight—forget about makes.
His wife looked over at him; he sat smiling in his sleep. Slowly she removed his hand from her crotch, it smelt ofjism and dried-up come. She excused herself from the table and went to see what was happening in the rear of the plane.
Suddenly Afterfacts' dream changed drastically. He was back in Kenya. His Swedish wife lay on the bed, taking on natives one after another. He moaned in his sleep and laid his head down on the table.
The bantam rooster came over and pecked in his ear.
Without really realizing it, he got out his blade and cut the rooster's throat.
Wings fluttered, chicken legs spread, the rooster ran all over the lounge, blood gushing from its neck—crazy, wild, frenzied: a chicken without a head.
Susan B. wasn't really superstitious, but this little act gave her the shits.
Her period came on the spot; she rushed to the ladies' room, trying to cover it up.
The Governor had dropped the cards. His dick had gotten hard. He ran around the table, dodged the headless rooster, tackled Susan near the ladies' room and stuck his head between her thighs.
She wasn't wearing any drawers, had gotten that bad habit since living on N ew York's Lower East Side (where brothers and P.R.s were grabbing broads in the Park), so he had the upper hand.
Her snatch tasted of blood, urine and salt and water. His tongue worked around her thighs, licked her stomach and tickled the edge of her asshole, before he smacked her snatch and caressed her thighs.
The Mexican and the Cuban dug the action, slapped palms, and signaled each other. They took off for the cockpit.
Susan B., so drunk, and now fucked around, laid there and moaned.
Afterfacts woke up with a fright, then dug the sight: Susan B. on the floor, the Governor's head between her big fat thighs, her legs around his back, and she whimpering. The sight of the rooster almost gave him a fit; its head on the table, eyes condemning him, the rest of the body over near the cockpit door. He dropped his pants, looked around for his wife, charged past Susan B. and her cunt-chaser, running for his life.
Max was too excited to do anything for a minute. He sat, frozen to his seat, smoking a reefer so fast, looked like he was doing a cancer ad. His mind returned to Annette getting up, Estavanico passing through the aisles, Virginia disappearing, then to the preacher's wife's last appearance. Put it all together, something definitely smelled fishy.
Action and reaction all around him, but still he hadn't budged. The reefer had him floating. His mind was into digging a trillion young cunts
, not a single one a nun—in spite of what the Governor had tried to signify.
Finally he went over to the bubble gum machine, dropped in a couple of slugs, got two jawbreakers and sat chewing the cud.
Back to the John: Virginia lay stretched out on her back, romping and stomping, her shapely tan thighs around Estavanico's behind, his hands caressing her flat ass, squeezing, pushing and pulling like a gorilla gone wild. Annette sat on Virginia's face, moving her bottom slowly back and forth while swapping kisses with Little Stephen, the navigator—Estavanico's monicker.
Virginia felt hot all over: goose pimples broke out on her flesh, chills went up her spine, warm blood surged down around her loins and swelled her head (she had the big head) as she worked her hips slowly up and down. She felt Stevie's ten inches up to the hilt, sloshing around in her hole, working the corners and walls overtime, the head of his member banging against her womb.
She slipped her tongue in and out of Annette's cunt and licked her behind, cleaning out her ass—the chocolate butter—slipped it back inside her cunt and played around her clit, the juices spasmodically discharging all over her mouth. Her arms were wrapped around Annette's big spade ass. It felt so good to Virginia she refused to come up for air.
Annette's eyes were closed. She was still busy swapping spit with Estavanico, feeling the top of his joint rubbing V's clit, while she kissed him in the ears.
The preacher's wife got so excited she almost fell out on the floor. She dropped her skirt and her drawers, took off her blouse and literally crawled on the floor to where the three were working out.
Actually she was strung out on oral sex, being from a cold climate—sweetened in Sweden, if you will—but she didn't know where these people's heads were at, save for what she dug.
She laid her big Nordic body down next to Virginia—her head near V's ass, her ass near V's head. She jackknifed her legs, exposing muscular legs and firm round thighs, then eased them open, and at the same time shoved a hand underneath V's legs. She clutched Stevie's balls and squeezed gently.
He stopped kissing Annette—still working out atop V—long enough to see who it was. He couldn't go for some faggot playing with his balls. He nodded that was all right.
The preacher's wife smiled up at him, showing ruby red lips. She moved her head further under V's thighs while Steve, as best he could, maneuvered V's ass atop the bitch's breasts. V felt thighs next to her shoulders, a leg rubbing against her ears. She continued to work her tongue up in Annette's young but well-greased cunt, and dropped her right hand over to her side. She felt the preacher's wife's big round luscious thighs and got hotter than exploding dynamite. She came in jerks and spasms, while Steve was really working out. He hadn't had a hot pussy like this since Tricia sneaked him up to her quarters. He busted his nuts, feeling the tongue working around the bottom of his member taking care of his Johnson while he worked it in and out of V's sloshing cunt.
V was working with her fingers, starting with two, built up to three, inside of the preacher's wife's hole, feeling her big thighs on her arms opening and closing, and still working her tongue inside Annette's box. She felt the fluids.
Virginia's body, without her control, went into tremors. She swished her ass up and down atop the preacher's wife's huge breast, feeling the tongue up her ass and working around her cunt as Steve's dick moved rapidly in, up to the hilt, back out to the lips, over and over and over again constantly, making her discharge in rapid succession. She shoved her thumb up the preacher's wife's cunt, her index finger up her asshole. Her whole body felt like it was turning to liquid, melting or something, and she wanted the world to realize and experience her thing too.
The preacher's wife worked, twisted and moved her ass from side to side, shook her hips up and down, down and up, meeting the jabs of V's thumb and finger working in counterpoint in her core and up her ass. Blindly, Virginia's tongue searched and explored every crevice and hidden place inside Annette's cunt, feeling the liquids oozing in her mouth, her nose up Annette's behind, still working out.
Annette wasn't feeling no pain either. You can bet your sweet ass on that, honeychile, sugarpie, whoever you are; she was working with Steve, swapping spit so thick it felt like peach syrup, running her hands up and down the length of his body while he played with her breasts, rubbed her brown thighs, and tickled her clit.
By the time the preacher got to the door (the headless rooster following him into the room), they were into a polyrhythmic motion that would cause the most advanced musician to go into retirement.
His wife's head was hidden by Virginia's fine thighs, but he felt like he was bobbing up and down. As her ass moved up, her head moved down; and as Steve Estavanico, who was mounted atop, made his deliveries and came back for strength, Virginia's hips came up to meet his stabs. Annette was moving her ass from side to side, slowly at first, then going round and round.
When the Reverend walked in the door all four of them had spent, but Annette and Steve and his wife were still hot. And Virginia—now that I think of it—felt like a bitch just out of heat. Slowly her legs stretched out on the floor; she maneuvered Annette's ass away from her face and took her thumb and forefinger out of the preacher's wife's crotch. Steve worked her slowly up and down until he was sure her load was spent. She lay sighing, moaning low on the floor.
Rev Afterfacts didn't know whether to get mad, glad, punch someone or laugh the whole thing off. He felt in his pocket, found a snort rag, stuck it to his nose and got a sniff of some coke. He checked out the rag, slowly unbuttoned his grey-striped pants, dropped his frock coat on the floor, and crawled on all fours directly to his wife's hole.
He realized that once she had eaten some pussy and sucked a little dick, she was ready to fuck straight up for at least an hour or more. He couldn't understand that part of it, but it was no big thing. He was crazy 'bout her big legs, her big wide hips, the fat firm breasts, in spite of the fact that her face was so ugly. She was worse than just ugly, her face was mint, and looked like she had been beaten by a ton of bricks. But he loved her just then—some.
Steve got up, his member sticking straight up in the air dripping a little bit, while Annette joined him and rubbed it in her hand. They stood over near the commode. Steve started laughing at the preacher; he looked so funny, crawling across the floor in a white-on-white shirt with frills, and a red bowtie. His black ass exposed his Johnson, almost touching the floor, stiff as a stick.
Annette got excited. Slowly she was falling in love with Steve. He was such a hoochie-coochie she didn't know what to do. She pulled on his joint and it stiffened and bounced a couple of times; she lifted her legs and tried to climb up on his hips.
Steve helped her. He held her under the knees, put his hands under her buttocks, leaned back against the wall and slipped his dick in her hole. Annette screamed, let out a sigh, moaned a little bit, then worked slowly up and down, feeling it seemingly all the way up in her chest around her throat, and defiantly inside her stomach.
Rev Afterfacts dropped the coke on his ol' lady's pink-lipped, thick pussy, rubbing it slowly around the lips like a mother cleaning off her baby's ass. When he was finished, he bent all the way down and gave it his official salute. This consisted of running his tongue around the lips five times slowly, between the crack of her ass twice, and slipping his tongue inside her cunt, working up near the upper part of her cunt four times, the bottom part four times, dead center eight times, making all the changes and slowly taking his tongue out, massaging the cunt with his goatee, slowly, then faster, then kissing it fully on the lips. This accomplished—which took up at least twenty minutes—his wife swooning, sighing softly, crying joyfully to herself, clutching his head and helping him in his ritual, he straddled her body, pulled on his eight inches and dropped two balls of sperm on her stomach. She immediately rubbed it all over the lower half of her body, twisting and shaking her hips, close to a state of delirium as he waited, sticking his big left toe up her cunt and working it around, her thig
hs closing in around it. He knelt and shoved his joint in her mouth. She sucked it for three minutes, working her head back and forth slowly, then rapidly, while he played with her right breast, leaning forward as best he could and shoving his finger up her ass.
This accomplished, they fucked for the next twenty minutes—the usual way.
She lifted her hole up to the ceiling, come dripping out of it—looking like silver nitrate oozing from a rubber baby doll—her pink lips all red, the flesh all chapped, as he crawled slowly towards it between her big round thighs and slipped it in. It went in so easily Rev Afterfacts knew all body fluids must control the universe, turn the forces around and make changes on the ground. He slipped it slowly in and out, his wife coming forward to meet his thrust, working in counter-motions now, both sighing and hollering, yelling words of good loving in each other's ears. They worked out so good together, not losing their strides, silently and noisily and even and smooth, Virginia got jealous and stomped out of the room. She carried her clothes in her hand.
The headless bantam rooster, not dead yet, followed after her. She almost tripped over Susan B. who was sitting Indian-fashion on the floor, with the Governor's head between her thighs, drinking a glass of Scotch. V wasn't shocked. She knew they constantly got together—anytime either of them were scared, and most of the time they were. Both of'em were so superstitious, for crying out loud, they got shook if they couldn't find their shadows on an overcast day.