"Dog Lover_s Diary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kepple Horst)

Chapter 5 "Wedding Night Blues"

June 9, 1971

Dear Diary: Do I ever have some hot news to write about!! No longer am I Miss Polly Oliver! It's Mrs. Harold Himmler from now on, or at least for the time being. And, even bigger news, Wally Baxter called from Los Angeles and said he may have something for me!!!

Well, first things first. How'd I ever get hitched up with old Weird Harold? It wasn't easy, really. As you probably gathered, he and I had a pretty strange relationship. But that was only because I couldn't stand the sight of him.

Anyway, it seemed the worse I treated him, the better football he played. Last season, his final season as a senior, he went absolutely wild on the playing field. God! Could that dude ever break bones! I swear, you could hear the knees knocking together in the offensive back-field all the way up in the stands when Weird Harold took the field. There was talk about outlawing him because of unsportsman-like conduct, but then he got nominated for All-City, All-League, All-National teams and the protests kind of blew away. His last home game he fractured a line judge's spine when he disagreed with a close call. The local paper, the 'Langousta Times-Crier', said the judge deserved what he got.

It was kind of sickening watching the big ape go berserk for old Langousta High, knowing as I did, what a total wimp he was off the field. It was pathetic, too, how pleased he was that college and pro scouts were calling him up all the time, trying to get him to sign up. I never even paid his career the slightest bit of attention, not until the night the Rams made him a solid offer.

Talk about keyed up! Old Harold was really feeling his oats after the big phone call, let me tell you. We'd had this date to go to the Drive-In and when I saw him like that, right away I told him I had a headache and didn't want to go.

That brought the moron down in a hurry. I let him wheedle and whine for fifteen minutes straight before I consented to accompany him. Mom said for us to have a good time. What a laugh! The Drive-In was playing a double bill of "Deep Throat" and a real sleeper, "Teen-Meat Orgies."

Just Mom's cup of tea.

Well, Linda was just starting to do her thing when Harold, unable to control his joy any longer, burst out and told me about the Rams. I sat there and stared at him like he was an insect. But, for once he was oblivious. Bouncing up and down on the seat like a ten-year-old kid.

I got this urge, you know, to really lay it on him, make him push a pizza around the parking lot with his nose or something. "That's wonderful, Harold!" I cried in my best Annette Funicello voice, scooting over next to him in the seat.

The bozo was so goofy he didn't even notice. He acted like it was only natural that I'd warm up to him, the soon to be famous football star.

Dog-shit! I nuzzled my tits up against his huge chest and nibbled at his hairy ear lobe.

"Oooh! That Linda sure can suck!" I groaned in his ear.

"Uhh… yeah," he said, looking up at the screen and seeing it for the first time. Moist lips were diving down over arching pink cock.

I squeezed his tit muscles. "Hey, Harold… how'd… how'd you like me to do that to you?"

"Huh?" he said, totally stunned, his ears burning red against my lips.

I groped his coiled fire-hose of a cock.

"Ooh…" he groaned.

"Wouldn't you like me to suck it a little bit?" I cooed.

"Uhh… gee, Pol…" he said, knowing full well that he was treading on uncertain ground, that my mercurial temperament could, at any second, turn cold and unwilling. "Do you really want to?"

I kneaded his prick into life. It surged down his pants-leg and throbbed against his thigh.

"You don't want me to see it!" I pouted, letting go of his huge cock-head.

"Uhh… no, that's not it at all, Pol," he stammered, clawing at his fly with both hands. "Here… see!"

He yanked the stiff joint from his crotch, waving it about for me to see. Goddamn! Was he ever hung! Like a gorilla for real. The head looked like a boa constrictor's, wide and flat and oozing creamy stuff from the slot. His shaft was pink and thick and unused looking, like a baby's, only huge and swollen. The up-curving shaft stuck lewdly from his fly; the hot bulb bobbed an inch or two from the steering wheel's horn button. It made my jaws ache just to look at that thing.

"Can I touch it?" I asked in the husky tones of Annette.

"Wow, sure, Pol!" he exclaimed, kind of scooting over closer to me.

I reached out and took it in my hand. The bozo shut his pig eyes and clenched his teeth. "It's so hot!" I squealed in delight, giving it a quick flip through my fist.

"Ooh, God!" Harold moaned, unable to keep his hips from shifting.

I worked my thumb over the velvety folds of his nerve bundle, making him really start to squirm. "Do you like that?" I asked in mock astonishment.

"Wow, yes!" he cried.

I gave him a few more long, wringing strokes. By the time I was done, I had the cretin wheezing and his pre-come was dribbling down over the back of my hand.

"I've never done this before…" I lied apologetically, "so if I do something wrong, you'll tell me, won't you?"

Harold, his beetle brow sweating, upper lip curled back from his teeth, nostrils flared, just nodded vigorously. His big paw of a hand came down on the back of my head and pressed hard, forcing my mouth in the general direction of his cock-head. That pissed me off no end, so after making a big deal of moaning and groaning while I brushed his velvety dome against my lips, I opened my mouth, took his prick cap inside and bit down on it hard. I mean chomped!

You should've seen that ape sit up straight! Like someone had slipped him an electric enema. His pig eyes were clamped shut and his face was all screwed up with pain but he didn't dare complain for fear I'd change my mind and let go of his tumescent dick.

"Does that hurt?" I asked through clenched teeth, shaking my head like terrier with a rat!

He couldn't speak. He just shook his head "no." His hands were strangling the steering wheel.

His pre-come didn't taste too bad, not as good as doggy spunk, but I'd had worse from Wally Baxter. I decided to get the show on the road. I let go of his dick head and looked up at the screen, sliding the shaft through both my hands. "Let's see… uhh, yeah," I said, pretending to take a lesson from the ascended mistress of cock-sucking. "Well, here goes nothing…" I said.

I opened my mouth as wide as I could and let my drooling tongue lash over his pud-cap and nerve bundle, lubricating the way for my throat.

Then I took him in. And I mean took. Like a pro, a fifty-year-old hooker. I shoved the head past the back of my tongue and swallowed him whole. My lips dove down over his shaft, clear to the coarse hairs at the gross root. I didn't gag once!!

Then I let it all slide out from between my tightly closed lips. "How was that?" I asked breathlessly.

"Ohgodohgodohgod…" Harold mumbled. Before he could collect his thoughts. I swallowed him again, twisting throat about his shaft, making tongue vibrate against his balls.

His orgasm was on its way. I could feel the tell-tale shifting motion of his nuts, the flexing of his dick tendons. Giving him one more juicy thrust for good measure, I tore his already wriggling cock from my mouth and held it aimed straight up.

"Uhnff! Uhnff!" Harold snorted, eyes shut, hips snapping, cock spitting white strands of splooie almost high enough to touch the head-liner.

That goon could really send up a gusher! Hot sperm flopped all over his original equipment wood steering wheel and dash board, obliterating the odometer, the speedometer, the oil pressure and generator gauges. Long, ropy streamers of the stuff clung to the windshield and turn signal lever, to the knobs on the radio and the rear view mirror.

Weird Harold snuffled and quivered for the longest time, deep in a joyous swoon. When he finally came around and looked at the awful mess he'd made of his car's interior, and his still flexing cock in my hot little hand, he moaned and mumbled something I couldn't quite make out.

"How's that, Harold?" I said loudly.

"M-marry me, Pol. Please!" he croaked, flinching like a gutless puppy.

"Let me think about it," I said, surprising myself even more than poor Weird Harold. "Why don't you mop up this… mess? I have to go to the ladies' room," I informed him, showing him a glistening gob of pearly squirt nestled between my first and second knuckles. I held my hand far away from my body as I slid out of the car, as if the goop were something not only perfectly hideous, but alive as well.

I didn't give him my answer that night. I had to talk to Tara first. I stalled the bozo without any trouble, changing the subject and stimulating his interest at the same time by asking him how I compared to Linda Lovelace.

The dumb asshole really started blushing then, but he had the gall to ask: "Wow, how was it for you, Pol?"

"I nearly puked," I told him. "Don't you ever wash that thing?"

That put the bastard in his place.

Tara and I had our pow-wow the next morning before school. I told her what'd happened and when she stopped laughing she said, "Marry the creep!"

I figured my old pal had been hitting the aerosol spray for breakfast.

"You're not serious," I said.

"Shit, yes, I am!" she exclaimed. Her blue eyes looked more alive than they had in weeks. The freon propelled aerosol shortening she'd been snorting really put a glaze on her peepers. I swear you could fry fish on her corneas.

"What're your plans for the future?" she demanded.

"You know… modeling, Hollywood," I told her.

"And what's a little marriage to a rich real estate broker's son gonna hurt any of that? Huh? You tell me."

"God!" I said, "You are serious!"

"Sure!" Tara put an arm around my shoulders. "Think about it, Polly. All his daddy's money… and when you get the itch to move on, guess what?"

"Divorce."

"Yasss, yasss, and alimony, baby," she chortled. "It can't hurt your career to be momentarily married to a great violent bullock of a football star… not with the TV coverage he's going to be getting in the fall… Monday Night Football, Howard Cosell, Frank Gifford…"

"Jesus! But I'd have to sleep with it!!" I cried, shaking my fists in her face.

That seemed to take some of the wind out of her sails. Then she was beaming again. "According to state law, sweet-cheeks, you'd only have to do it once…"

Suddenly it didn't seem so bad. I mean, it didn't seem good, but the idea didn't make me gag like at first. I looked at Tara and grinned,

"I'll ask the folks."

I needn't write anything about how my Mom felt about the proposal. I think the shock of it was what killed my Pop. He was too stunned to even put up a show of protest.

So, Dear Diary, I guess I was destined to be a teenage bride. The Bride of Frankenstein. Weird Harold and I had one hell of a wedding, though.

His dad got a special deal on the upper floor of a funeral home over on Ardmore, the Little Chapel of the Burnished Prawn. What with all the limousines pulling up in front, it looked like a Mafia chieftain had bitten his last linguini. The booze and food were great. Jack-in-the-Box did the catering, along with Cut-Rate Likkers.

My Mom ran around like a chicken with its head chopped off, shouting,

"Isn't it wonderful? I'm so happy!" to no one in particular. My Pop stood in a corner, getting stiff-ass drunk, his face kind of olive green. Mr. Himmler, the land baron, was a squat barrel of a man in an orange and blue plaid sports coat, maroon bell-bottom slacks, white leather shoes with lots of tiny pin holes in them. For a wedding present he gave us a five bedroom, split level home over in the creek development. Mrs. Himmler looked like the mummy unwrapped. Pasty pale face, hideous auburn flip wig. The only time a life-like expression came over her sour puss was when her hubby jumped up on the buffet banquet table, and started singing "Zip-a-dee-doo-dah" while dancing and making his toupee swivel round and round on his head. The expression was one of pure horror.

About half way through the actual ceremony, the L.S.D. tab I'd taken for a pick-me-up started letting-me-down. And I began to get antsy about the 'culmination of the contract', or in plain English, Harold's big pud in my twat. I'd told myself long ago that I'd never let him get a piece of my ass and I hated like hell to go back on that solemn promise. I remember looking up at the giant asshole as he mumbled the sacred oath.

He looked like a cartoon gorilla in that tuxedo, all sloppy drunk and it was barely one in the afternoon.

While the ceremony was interrupted briefly for my Mom to rush in and mop up my husband-to-be's drooling chin ("Isn't it wonderful?"), I looked back to my bride's maid for moral support.

The lewd wink Tara gave me helped get me past the official mumbo jumbo.

Then it was time for more drinky-poo, and scads of Jack Tacos and onion rings, and then the wedding pictures. I didn't get a chance to talk to her until most of the guests had staggered out, stumbled into their cars, and roared off towards the nearest freeway on-ramp.

"You look great!" Tara cried, real tears running down her apple cheeks.

It was hard as hell taking a piss in that wedding gown, let me tell you.

"Uh-huh," I said, trying to keep my veil dry.

"I got a present for you," she said, taking a brown paper wrapped box from behind her back. "Hey, you didn't have to…" I said.

"Oh, yes I did!" she protested. "After all, I got you into this mess …"

"What?" I asked, not understanding what that had to do with a wedding gift.

"You'll see," she said, handing the box to me. When I started to rip off the paper, she said: "No! Wait till later. Wait until tonight, just before you go to bed…"

I still didn't see what the big deal was, but I agreed to do as she asked.

Harold's dad got us a special deal on a honeymoon suite, too. A whole weekend at the Bide-a-Wee Motel in the magnificent foothills overlooking Interstate Super-highway 5. Just the sight of the diamond-tufted, Magic Fingers equipped, circular bed sent me into hysterics. When I saw the mirror on the ceiling I started bawling like a baby.

Harold didn't know what to do. He was two-thirds zonko on all the Jack Colas and Creme de Menthes he'd guzzled. He kind of stuttered and rushed to the door, then rushed back, then back to the door. "Hey, don't cry, Pol," he finally said. "I'll be real gentle with you…"

God, did I ever wish I was some place else when that creep sat down on the bed next to me and put his ape arm around my shoulder.

"Don't be nervous, Pol," he whined through his nose.

The asshole had the biggest boner of his life stretching the hell out of his rent-a-tux. I wanted to die. I wanted to scream. I wanted to puke.

And I jumped up from the bed and ran into the bathroom and did just that.

"Are you alright?" Harold asked, a safe distance away.

I could hear his fly unzip and the rustling of his shirt tails as he whipped his eager cock. "I'm fine now." I said, lying. "Uh… could you hand me that present from Tara."

I was just playing for time, hoping that the cretin would pass out before it was put-out time. He handed me the box and I closed the door and locked it without thanking him.

Here I was, a girl who'd gladly let dogs of all sizes and breeds unload their ducts in my cunt, actually physically sick at the thought of letting my husband do the same thing. If he really was a gorilla, I thought I could've actually enjoyed it. Maybe I could close my eyes and pretend.

Even to me it sounded horribly pathetic. I took my anger and frustration out on brown wrapping paper. When I saw the illustration on the box, my heart skipped a beat. When I read the garish, red and blue label, I could've jumped for joy. Tara, my savior!!! And I understood what she'd meant by saying it was her fault, implying she had a duty to me. A duty to save my sweet little cunt!!!

I tore open the box, and there in all its life-like, hair rimmed, flesh coloured, vinyl glory was the 'Phony-gina'. Satisfaction guaranteed or triple your money back. Lordy, lordy, lordy. I picked the thing up and was amazed at the silky, real skin texture of the lips and tube, the crispness of the swatch of Dynel pubes.

"Come on out, Pol. I'm already in bed," Harold called.

"Just a second, honey," I said, reading the operating instructions frantically. The artificial cunt sort of hung in this harness thing right over your mound. It fit real snug up against the lips of your twat so there was no tell-tale gap. I ran the sink's hot water tap and, when the steam was really billowing, following the instructions, I filled the hollow plastic pussy lips and the double walled cunt tube with hot water. There was this little bulb thing that got taped to your armpit.

It made the whole thing tighten and flex. like a real twat, and it also controlled the flow of a special 'Phony-gina lubri-cunt' that was included in the package.

The only thing I worried about was the angle of the tube. I'd seen lots of pussies up close, and explored them with various long, wiggling parts of my anatomy, and the tangent this fake cunt took was absolutely out of the question. It sort of snaked up over the top of my mound, over my tummy, angling in the direction of the ceiling. I tightened up the clear plastic straps and prayed to God that Harold knew as much about cunt as I knew about Quantum Mechanics.

I slipped into my rose pink peignoir, my Mom's wedding present, and checked myself out in the bathroom mirror. The "Phony-gina" bulged out between my thighs more like a false cock than a pussy. No matter how much I hunched over it looked pretty damn obvious.

"Ohh, Harold-lover," I called in my best imitation of Sandra Dee, aroused-but-frightened. "Are the lighty-poos on?"

"Yeah. Do you want me to turn them off or something?" he asked, puzzled.

Then it sank in to his thick skull… all the Doris Day movies he'd seen as a pre-teenager… "Wifely Modesty", it was called. The shy bride baring for the first time to any man her nubile and willing body.

Ho-hum. "Wow, just a sec, Pol. I'll hit the switch," he shouted, bounding from the bed.

Then the springs creaked again and he asked meekly, "I can leave the night light on, can't I?"

"Is it very small?" I asked crankily.

"Oh, yes!"

"Alright. Are you ready?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Here I come," I said, hitting the switch on the bathroom light and then opening the door. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the dark.

"Do you want some help?" he asked, the bed creaking.

"No! Stay there, I'll come to you," Sandra Dee cooed. By squinting, I could make out the outline of the bed. I could just see his face sort of grinning at me from the pillow, and then things got better and I saw the great tent his cock was pitching in the centre of the round bed. Ham actress that I am, I played the scene to the hilt.

"Hey! Who's that in bed with you?" I demanded.

"Huh?" Harold said. "Oh! Just a friend."

"Show me," I said, walking to the side of the bed.

Harold peeled back the covers and unveiled his mammoth organ. He laughed a moronic, heh-heh-heh laugh.

"Ohh, darling!" I gushed. "You'll kill me with that thing!"

Heh-heh-heh.

I slipped under the covers beside him, my skin crawling at the touch of his clammy body next to mine.

"Aren't you going to take off that thing?" he asked, turning on his side, his big gorilla hand sliding to squash my tit.

"Ooh, not tonight. It's too soon," I cooed, pretending to enjoy his clumsy nipple twiddling. That explanation, 'Wifely Modesty', seemed to satisfy him again. I had a real winner there.

"God, I love you so!!" he half-coughed, half-grunted, his hands trying to shove my tits in under my armpits.

"I'm so glad," I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster under the circumstances, and re-routed his paws to the artificial part of my anatomy.

That really gave the bozo a charge. His hands struggled to get in under the nightie, ripped it in the process, and then I felt his fingernails on my naked thigh.

"You're so beautiful!" he cried, squirming in closer to me so that his big, hot pud-cap nudged my kneecap. "Oooh!" he whimpered as I took hold of his cock. "I washed it," he said contritely.

"Uh-huh," I said non-committally, having no intention of bringing my mouth anywhere near it ever again.

His hand slid over more and then, blissfully, I couldn't feel it any more. I could sort of vaguely feel the weight of it, but there was no sensation of being mauled.

"Oh, golly!" he croaked, his pud doing push-ups in my palm.

I guessed he'd got a feel of that wonderful imitation pubic fuzz. I gave the bulb a quick nudge. Under his untrained, inexperienced fingertips, 'my' clitoris swelled up like a pencil stub.

"Goll-ee!" he exclaimed, running his finger down the steam heated crevasse. "It's so hot!"

I nudged the bulb again and rewarded his spatulate finger tip with a trickle of 'Lubri-cunt'. I nearly cracked up laughing right then from the way he sucked in his breath at the feel of the warm, perfumed safflower oil.

His finger squirmed lower, pushing aside the swelling vinyl cunt-lips, searching for 'my' hole. When he was in the general area. I let out a real crazy, wild woman moan, flipped my hips, and gave the bulb a hard squeeze.

"Oh, baby…" Harold nasalised, as the plastic opening puffed out, enabling him to cram a finger inside the slippery, hot tube.

This was the touchy moment. If he didn't realise anything was wrong now, he never would. God! Only a complete nitwit would believe a chick's cunt felt like that!

"It's so tight!" the complete nitwit groaned, jerking his finger around.

His prick was oozing all over my thighs and I figured it was time to get the show on the road. Time to consummate the marriage. I started groaning and moaning like a collie in heat, making his finger flying and out of my 'cunt'.

"Oh. I knew you'd be like this," Harold whined, a peculiar cringing tone to his voice.

Then he startled the shit out of me by ducking his head in under the covers and heading right for the sloppy vinyl cunt. He must've got the idea from a-as he called them-"Prono Flick." I was scared his hands would rub over the straps and he'd catch on to the game, so I locked my thighs shut, stiffened up like a board, and told him that I wasn't ready for anything so risque as cunt-lapping, that he had to realise I had feelings, too, that it'd take time for me to really loosen up to him.

The cretin swallowed the bull-shit instead of the plastic cunt, and came out from under the covers. I got him all wheezing again with a few quick pud tugs and some absolutely wacko whinnying.

"It won't hurt. I promise," he said, lurching into the saddle of my crotch.

I felt like saying: "You're damn right! I won't feel a thing!" But I kept my trap shut. I was just glad he wasn't grinding that fire-hose into my real cunt. Jesus! The weight alone was enough to kill. He kept groaning, "Oh, baby… Oh, baby…" over and over like a stuck record, his hand fumbling, trying to stuff cock head in the slick hole.

The idiot couldn't manage it, so I reached in between my buns and gave his crank a yank in the right direction. He sucked in air between his clenched teeth when his pud-cap made contact with steam heated orifice.

It must've been a real thrill for him. He was so excited he could barely get his hips going. I felt sort of embarrassed for him. It was weird laying there with the old thighs spread, having some gorilla trying to hump you when you can't feel a thing. I decided to really lay it on him, make him squirt pronto.

"God! Take me!" I shrieked, spreading my thighs so far apart that my knees touched the bed. "Fuck me good!"

Harold's butt started grinding then, and he was really panting up a storm, screwing the hell out of that 'Phony-gina'. I was kind of scared that it wouldn't hold up under the kind of wild rutting abuse he was heaping on it, but actually I had nothing to fear. Later, when I re-read the guarantee, I saw that the same model was used in bovine artificial insemination.

I egged Harold on, talking dirty to him, telling him how great his pud felt, how it was ironing out all my wrinkles, trash like that. He was huffing and puffing like he was going to bust a gut and I was giving the control bulb these frantic squeezes, so the cunt swelled and shrank, fluttered, like a real cunt about to orgasm.

"Hump me!!" I screamed, throwing my thighs around his waist and mashing the bulb as hard as I could between my arm and the side of my chest. I could feel the whole unit sort of jerk every time I hit the bulb and I prayed it-wouldn't split a seam and send hot water all over the bed.

Those powerful, vise-like pulses were the last straw as far as Harold's will power was concerned. He snorted and snuffed, pumping and pawing the sheets, as he unloaded his balls into the artificial cunt.

"Oh!" I cried. "Ohhhhh! Yes! Give it to me!!"

I couldn't help but think what a kick Tara would've got if she could've watched my performance. It was a good thing it was real dark in the room so I didn't have to keep a straight face when I told him how great it was. He sort of moaned, real satisfied like, and rolled over. He was asleep and snoring almost instantly. I slipped out of bed and into the bathroom where I removed the wonderful device. I didn't throw it away, even though I knew that I could beg off screwing him indefinitely with excuses about: being sore, not to mention the usual headache, backache, and nausea, because it held such happy memories for me.

Some wedding night, huh?

The really great thing happened a few weeks later, when Wally called me up and told me his company was going to be looking for a very special girl about the time I graduated. It was a job in TV, doing commercials.

He said he was sure I'd get the job if I'd come down and give it a try.

I told him I'd be there with bells on.

He was kind of surprised about my marriage and asked if I was sure my hubby would approve.

I laid it right on the line to old Wally, told him Harold could shove it to his ass if he didn't like it, that I'd divorce him so fast his head would swim.

Then we said goodbye and the really hard part started. The waiting until graduation.