CHAPTER SIX

Yep, as I went through the next few years I'd watch Rod's career and now and then our paths would cross and there'd be a hot time in the old town, whatever town or city it was. Ever get fucked in a New York taxi? It's wild, especially if you do it on the day before Christmas Eve, with the streets a true madhouse, cars blowing and honking and having fender benders all around and people screaming and banging on the sides of the cab at pedestrian crossings and big trucks passing in the other lane and the drivers doing double takes as they look down and see two people naked from the waist down screwing like minks in the back seat. And the driver saying, through his mugger guard, "You fuckers get me busted you pay the fine," and Rod yelling, "Drive fast, Mac."

"Drive where?" he yelled back. A nice Jamacian boy, with that beautiful sing-song accent.

"Anywhere," Rod yelled. "Just drive and give us a few thrills."

"If I were in that back seat I'd be getting enough thrills," the driver said, almost rear-ending a car as he watched me do my thing with one leg hanging off the edge of the seat and the other thrown up along the top of the back of the seat and me full, stuffed with cock and champagne.

"It's Christmas," Rod giggled, drunk out of his skull. "Let's let him smell my finger for a thrill."

"Since it's Christmas, let's let him come into the back seat," I said.

"Ruby Gore," he said, using my old name, "you're rotten clean through. You're a pervert."

I closed my cunt muscles, bent my body and almost broke his hard cock. "And you love it."

"Arrrrrrrrg," he yelled, coming and jerking and pumping as I laughed and let the goodness flow and had my come. I was dressed in a gold lame dress with a simple upswept hairdo and a set of earrings which had set someone, and I'll get to that later, back a few grand. They dangled and banged against my cheeks just like Rod's balls dangled and banged against my ass.

Whenever I met a man who would make me a good husband, he already was. Rod was married again, to a tobacco heiress. She was down in the islands screwing rich buddies and Rod was doing his thing in Madison Square Garden, packing them in. I was in New York for a week of guest shots on the biggest talk show and wowing them. The network vice-presidents were going crazy because no matter what I said it came out sexy. Well, you know me. "Let's give him a Christmas present," I said.

"Hey, buddy," Rod called, through the little speak-window, "the lady wants tb give you a Christmas present."

"You're Kitsy McRae, aren't you?" he asked, looting at me in the rear view mirror.

"He didn't recognize you until you took your clothes off," Rod yelped, sending himself into a convulsion of laughter. "You want sloppy seconds, Mac?" "You're kidding," the driver said. "Pull over and let me have the wheel," Rod said.

"Oh, shit." I could tell the driver was torn between lust and sanity. Putting a mad man like Rod, drunk out of his mind, behind the wheel was crazy. But it had become a challenge to me. I purred and arched a little and he almost ran into the sidewalk in his haste to park. Cars blew and honked and pulled around with a roar of engines and Rod was waving them on and playing bull fighter with them, waving his red jacket at them. He got in the front seat and this nice Jamacian boy, about twenty, I'd guess, got in the back seat and went suddenly shy. I was reclining. My dress was up around my waist. My working end was exposed, my cunt wet with Rod's come.

Rod jerked the taxi away from the-curb and gave a wild cowboy yell as he forced drivers to slam on brakes and yell. I said, "Merry Christmas." The driver looked at me and gulped and reached out and put his hand on my leg. "Miss McRae…" he gulped.

"You'd better hurry, before that sonofabitch wrecks your cab," I said, reaching out and starting to do his pants, finding a weapon of good size and admirable hardness inside there.

Rod swerved and threw the driver atop me. I latched onto him, one arm around him, the other down between us, fingers clasping his hard cock, guiding it to the general area of my cunt where, because things were so slick and because a woman is bulk that way, It just naturally found its way to the glory hole and drove in, "Do you dance the samba?" I asked the driver.

He grunted as he lunged and pinned me to the seat. I had to repeat the question. He looked at me, shook up thinking I was either crazy drunk or cold to ask a social question ^at a time like that. The car was jerking and banging along, engine roaring fearful clashes of gears, shouts and horns from all sides as Rod hogged the street and dared the fates and New York's maniac driver population. "Yes, Miss McRae," he said, finally, pulling Ms cock out and driving it into me. "Fuck me in samba time, then," I said.

"Ah," he said, grinning. He began to twist his ass and hum and I matched and we did a dance of pure lust on the back seat, with my legs wide open to take his rather nice cock and my body loving all of it and the car jerking and stopping with a screech of tires which threw us into the floorboard. Then the car was moving again.

"You missed a beat," I whispered, driving my ass up to get his cock seated again. He moaned, close, wild, his cock sliding in and out on the leavings of Rod's come. He took up the rhythm, but forgot to hum. I took up the tune and we came together in rhythm to music and as I was squeezing the last drop of come out of him and loving the feeling in my cunt, having had a nice one, I said, "Merry Christmas," and the car banged into a new Lincoln from the rear, throwing us hard against the front seat and banging Rod's head on the windshield to leave a neat little dent there with fracture cracks radiating out all around the point of impact.

"Madre mia," the driver yelped, plucking up his pants as he leaped out, buttoning the waist as he tugged Rod out of the driver's seat and laid him full length on the pavement. He did it so fast no one saw that Rod was driving. I let my dress drop into place, felt come ooze out of me, wet the inside of my thighs delightfully, and I put on an act of frantic concern for poor Rod.

Well, we split the bill, not repair-a new cab for our friend-and he was happy and I told him, "Shit, I don't care if you brag about screwing Kitsy McRae, darling." I told Rod I thought it was good public relations. I was building my reputation as America's sex queen, and I didn't think it would hurt to let it be known, although Rod was sure that only fools would believe the driver, that Kitsy wasn't too proud to put out for the common man.

Frankly, he was a lousy lay, that cab driver. No imagination. Hung up. I've had people take seconds and be so turned on that they'd fall down and eat the leavings, I mean, clean the come out of my cunt and sent me into heaven with some inspired eating, but that cab driver, all he did was crawl on, go wham wham and come in me.

Carlo was one of them. One of those who liked taking seconds because he said that a woman's cunt is creamier and nicer when it's lubricated by semen. I met Carlo in Rome.

Now here's how I got to Rome. I mean Rome, Italy. Not Rome, Georgia or some shit.

After I met Rod at the Miss Mountain Flower Festival, I went back home. The summer was nearly over. All the little local beauty contests had been held. There was the official Miss America thing coming up and I was working on a talent, with Pearl's help. Meanwhile, I was doing the hash slinging bit at the seafood cafe and telling my friend, Julie, all about how it was to fuck Rod Hensley, who was on her jukebox and whom she loved.

Believe me, old chums, it was a comedown. I mean, you try going from head of the table and a loaned convertible and bugging around over the state being ogled and oohed at and walking like a real queen down the victory ramp with the spotlights on you and then come back and start slinging hash for quarter tips. But a girl has to eat, and as I've said, those contests paid off in a few nice clothes, a loaned convertible and college scholarships.

But we had lots of time for work, Pearl and me. And there was good old Bill, who was getting so that he could actually fuck for two minutes without coming. Bill had his shortcomings, and to me shortcomings in a man are premature ejaculations, but he was all I had except for Pearl and I got a little tired of her cockless body and her playthings.

I got so bored that I actually went up to college to look it over. I took the college test thing and just barely passed it, I mean, I couldn't have gotten into a big state school I was so low in score, but I could get into a couple of smaller schools. But I looked around and saw teeny-boppers. Shit. Boys who thought the big deal was to have long hair and look like refugees from a Salvation Army grab bag and who thought that smoking grass was the ultimate in sophistication. Shit.

Not for me. I kissed the idea of college goodbye, went back to work with Julie and practiced my dramatic recitation for the talent part of the official Miss Cape County thing.

Now I'm going ^o skip over this very rapidly, because I don't like to dwell on failure. I mean, you get into the real establishment when you start with that fucking Miss America thing. You're up against gals who have had singing and piano and dancing all their lives. Our big mistake was that Pearl thought I'd gained enough poise to take the fucking thing honestly. I mean, she said, "Look, I don't think you can screw your way to this one, honey." So we played it straight, I went to the county contest and did my thing, read my dramatic recitation, won the bathing suit division and wasn't even a-runner-up. I mean, I bombed out. Well, you know what Miss America looks like. Miss Sweet Pants of any year. Sometimes not even pretty, just glowingly healthy, with more ass and legs than I'd like to have. I'm the trim type and Miss America is full blown. I'm the slinky type and Miss America is straight forward and All American girl shit. It was a mistake from the beginning.

And I felt like doing the suicide bit. I even considered, as that fucking, endless winter dragged on, marrying Bill Murphy and trying to teach him to come inside me instead of on my muff in eagerness. I considered college again. Then, with Spring coming, I decided against another year of campaigning in local contests around the state. I'd had that. I wrote to Rod and he said he'd help me get a job in Nashville. Nashville? Oh, shit. Who wants to go to Nashville? I'd been to Puerto Rico and seen the jet set at play. I wanted New York, Paris, and all the goodies. I was holding a few hundred bucks I'd saved and I was packing for New York when the Congressman called.

"Ruby," Julie gasped, dragging me away from a table where I was clearing dirty dishes. "It's the Congressman."

I went to the telephone. "Little lady," His Honor said, "I've been thinking about you." Oh, shit. I wasn't in the mood for a man who couldn't get it up. "How ' would you like to go to Rome, Italy?" "I might like that fine," I said.

"You're going to represent our great state in Rome, Italy," he said, giving it the campaign speech treatment "I don't doubt for a minute that you'll bring us honor."

Well, he talked on and I got more and more hot about it, because the bastard was serious. There was this new beauty contest, going into competition with Miss World and all those others. It was called, he told me, Miss One World and, although it was a true international effort, he said the Reds were trying to take over and use it for propaganda purposes. He said the Communist countries were sending all their best, movie star? who weren't internationally known and like that, and he wanted me to go over, win and show the world that true beauty was a capitalist monopoly or something. Shit, I didn't care about the fucking politics.

I quit my job right then, leaving poor Julie to clean up. I drove like fury, I still had the loaned convertible, and dashed into Pearl's and yelled, "We're going to Rome, Italy."

His Honor was sending a member of his staff to help us, to tell us what it was all about, and to go along with us to help the country girls in the big city. She arrived the next day, bearing cash for a new wardrobe. She was over forty, well preserved but severe looking, her hair pulled back in a simple bun, her clothes sensible, her Phd. degree from our state's largest university. Her name was Ms. Vivian Maples. She used the power of the Congressman's office to put a real crowd of state reporters into the city hall for a press conference and she made a speech about this little girl, from humble beginnings, fulfilling the great American dream by rising to the heights of beauty and talent. She laid it on and the reporters took pictures and there I was, in all the papers and on T.V.: Miss Mackerel, Miss Mountain Flower, Miss Long Leaf Tobacco, etc. etc. And soon to be Miss One World. She sounded so stuffy and cold that I didn't think I was going to like her until, after the press conference, she grinned at me and said, "I also have a B.S. degree. B.S. for bullshit."

She wanted to know all about me. I reluctantly took her to my humble beginnings, my home. Juby was out of jail and Ruf was home trying to get rid of some bad flashbacks from some Florida Sunshine, an inferior grade of LSD. He saw Ms. Vivian Maples and said, "God, Ruby, you've brought Vanessa Redgrave!" He was flashing and out of his skull, but Ms. Viv, as we began to call her later, thought that was real cute and took a shine to old Ruf. He was laying around in a tight bathing suit and showing off all his muscles.

"That wonderful boy is your brother?" she whispered to me. "That's old Ruf," I agreed, "He must accompany us," she said.

I shrugged. "You wanta go to Rome, Italy, Ruf?" I asked. "Why not?" he said.

"It will show that it's a down to earth, grass roots family effort," Ms. Viv explained. "He's so, uh, earthy. Know what I mean?" "You got the hots for him," I said.

"Ruby," she gasped. "One of the first th'ngs you must learn is that a lady doesn't use vulgar language."

"So you don't have the hots for him," I said. "No matter to me. He might come in handy to carry luggage or something."

You talk about a wild scene. Wow. We flew over on one of those 707's? You know, the big ones before the really big ones, which I don't like. I mean, if I'm going to die in a plane crash, I'd like to have my pieces mixed with, like, maybe eighty people instead of a couple of hundred, so I don't fly the jumbo jets a-tall. Bnt that one from Washington city to Rome was a nice one, and Ms. Viv let me and Pearl sit together while she sat with Ruf, who had been hand dressed by Ms. Viv, I mean, she'd bought all his clothes. He looked great with a shave and a haircut and neat clothing and he wowed Ms. Viv with an imitation of Gary Grant from an old movie saying, "Vivian, Vivian," like Gary Grant used to say, "Judy, Judy." But Ms. Viv didn't have the hots for my brother.

We had this suite of rooms, four of them, in a regular palace. I mean it had marble floors and-gold facets in the king-sized bathrooms and all this old, beautiful furniture and old pictures on the walls and connecting doors. Ms. Viv didn't have the hots for old Ruf, but she put him on the end, then her, then me and then Pearl. I took a nap, tired from the plane ride, and woke up to hear old Ruf sounding off in the adjoining room. I knew those sounds, snorts, grunts. He was fucking and he was in Ms. Viv's room. I giggled and went to sneak a peek through this big, old fashioned keyhole and saw that Ms. Viv finally had the hots for old Ruf, fore and aft, because she was kneeling over him sixty-nine, his big old cock in her mouth, and she was sucking it like an ice cream cone and Ruf was doing his bit by gobbling her cunt and I had a good view and they were so interesfed in each other and it was night and there was not much light, just a little one by the bed, that I opened the door and went in and watched.

I got the delicious trembles watching, because Ruf had learned a lot since I'd tried him. He was no longer just a wham bam thank you mam lover, but liked eating and all that. I sat down in a big soft chair and felt like playing with myself, but didn't. They got tired of eating each other and Ms. Viv crawled on Ruf and rode him. I had a beautiful view of Ruf's cock stitching up and down into Ms. Viv's ample bottom, and when she fell down on him, moaning and crying, and I saw Ruf's cock burst and pump into her, I clapped my hands and they sat up like a shot and said, "Who, who?"

"Don't mind me," I said. "I was just curious about who was killing who. You two are noisy fuckers." "Ruby?" Ruf said. "Kitsy," Ms. Viv said. "I was just auditioning Ruf." "Is that what you call it?"

She very calmly took up a corner of the sheet and wiped her cunt. "I happen to know that one of the female judges from Norway like dark, strong, young men."

"Ms. Viv," I said. "You're not suggesting that we cheat to win this contest."

"Darling," she said, smiling sweetly and toying with Ruf's lax man pole with one hand, "we're going to do anything necessary to win this contest. It wasn't just for your looks that the Congressman picked you."

"Well," I said, "now that we understand each other, I'll leave you two alone."

"Thank you, dear," Ms. Viv said, and I went out, looking over my shoulder to see her fall down and start to put new life in Ruf's member with her expert tongue. "Don't use him all up," I said. "Save some for that judge from Norway."

"Don't sweat it," Ruf said. "There's plenty to go around."

God, those Italian men. I mean, like wow. Some girls talk about Frenchmen being sexy, but give me the Wops every time. They know how to eye a girl. They can fuck you with their eyes better than any men in the world and when one of them gives you a love pinch you know you've been pinched. We went out walking and I got a few looks and a pinch or two in crowded places and then we went over to the-hall where the contest was to be held and it was a big mother.

There we met Carlo. I didn't know until later that it had all been arranged in advance by Ms. Viv. Carlo was a minor figure in the Italian movie industry and one of the judges. He was about thirty, darkly handsome, tall, very smooth. He spoke English with only a trace of an accent and his hand on my arm spoke another language. It waited on nothing else, that message. Even wlbile we were doing the polite chit-chat bit he was rubbing my arm and telling me he was going to bed me. I was willing.

'To know you better, as a contestant," he said, "may I take you to dinner?" "Sure," I said.

We ate in a little place which Carlo said tourists didn't know about. He said it served the real food of Italy, not the fancy Americanized dishes like pizza and that shit. I ate some cheese pasta at his suggestion and it was great and had a few snorts of a good red wine and then you can bet we didn't waste any time. "I will show you my home," he said. "Suits," I said.

It was on a river and it was a wild pad and smallish. But rich. He was apparently making a dollar, and I found out how later. I was wearing something slinky and one piece without underwear. My hair was up. I had on a pair of cheap earrings. I mean, just onyx and pearls. Nothing fancy. I was wearing the natural look, little make-up. Inside his big main room there were soft lights and music, and they started as if automatically when "we went in. He served me a frozen thing with rum in it and sat next to me.

"You are my first choice of all the contestants," he said. "Why, thank you, Carlo. I'm so pleased."

"It is not, however that simple," he said. He was leering at me and I took the ball. I don't believe in beating around the bush.

"Carlo," I said, smiling at him. ''I'm a simple girl. If you Want something in exchange for your vote for me, just name it." "Ah," he said. "A realist."

"I guess I am," I said. "I'm going to be an actress, you know, and I need a start. I figure this Miss One World thing will do it. So I'm willing to pay any price." "Any price?"

"Yes," I said. "You wanta start now?" I was ready. He turned me on something fierce and I was dying to find out if the Italians were as sexy as they seemed. "Where's the bed, honey?"

"Ah," he said, rising. I stood up, too. He reached out suddenly and grabbed the front of my dress and like to tore my shoulders off ripping it down.

"Goddamn, you stupid bastard," I yelled, the dress falling to the floor to leave little Kitsy standing in the buff. "That dress cost five hundred dollars."

"Poof," he said, shrugging off five bills just like that. He reached for me. I guessed it was worth it, because I was going to have one sure vote and there'd be others who'd listen to this big movie man. Then the bastard hit me. I mean, he hit me in the gut, his fist doubled. He didn't give it the full treatment, because if he had he'd have ruptured my spleen or something, because he was a strong bastard. I gasped and yelled and doubled up and he slapped me and my head rang and then he grabbed my arm and twisted up behind me and I stood on tiptoe because the bastard was about to break it. Oh,.shit, I was hurting. I mean, he hurt me bad. I was screaming and cursing and trying to stand tall enough to not hurt and he pushed and shoved me toward the bed and threw me down and slapped me and then I got mad. I mean, I don't mind a little rough stuff. I've told you that, but this was going too far.

"You don't have to be so goddamned rough," I shouted. "Don't worry, I will not bruise me."

"You touch me again, you dumb wop sonofabitch and I'm going to kill you," I said, my arm aching and my gut hurting like hell.

He slung his hand at me, trying to connect with my face and I ducked. I mean, I grew up with two rough boys. I mean, if you'd put this wop movie maker and old Ruf in a room and say sic 'em, you'd have nothing left of the wop but a little greasy spot and I'd learned to defend myself a little. I ducked his slap and rolled off the bed, landing on my hands and knees and scurrying away from a kick he aimed at my ass and then I was on my feet and I surprised him. Instead of moving away, I moved in. I moved in fast and low and then, when I was right up to him and he was about to shove me, I brought up my knee, hard. Wham. Right in the jewels. The wop doubled up and grunted and his face was white and he was straining and then he started crying and I was hurting so bad I kicked him in the face with my foot, turning it sideways so I wouldn't break a toe. I had on fancy, heavy high heels and he went over backward, his nose smashed and bleeding.

I guess I went a-little crazy, because I'd never had a man treat me that way before. I started kicking and hitting him as he cowered there and he was sobbing and moaning and holding his ruined jewels and not offering to defend himself.

I tired myself out and hurt my fists hitting him. I stopped and stood back, breathing hard and sobbing. He sat up and looked at me. There was a smear of blood on, his upper lip. He smiled. "In the closet, darling."

Jesus Christ. I'd just ruined him and he was calling me darling. "I'm getting out of here, you crazy sonofabitch."

"I've hurt you," he said, "you must hurt me in return. It is the law of the jungle."

I couldn't figure that one. "Look in the closet," he said.

Well, I'm just a country girl in Rome, Italy. These wops have strange ways. I went to the closet and opened the door and saw the goddamnedest assortment of things I've ever seen. There were whips and big belts and like that. There were switches and handcuffs and ropes and like that.

"I like the big belt with the studs," he said, limping over, taking off his clothing. He kissed me tenderly on the shoulder. I was a little leery of him, but he didn't offer to hurt me. "Let me get this straight," I said. "You knocked me 129 around so that you'd make me mad enough to beat you with this fucking belt?" "Ah," he said.

"You're nuts," I said. The belt was leather and it was studded with soft little tufts of suede. It was sort of heavy, but big and fiat so that it wouldn't leave cuts or anything. "You want me to beat your ass with this?" I asked.

He nodded, and he was panting. He was naked now and I hadn't ruined him after all. I decided then and there that I'd practice more, because the knee lift I had for him should have smashed his balls, but they were intact and his cock, a good, big one, was hard.

"I don't dig this shit," I said. "You try to lay one lick on me again and you'll lose your balls for sure."

"Come," he said. He fell down onto the bed. I stood beside it. What the hell. Ms. Viv said do anything to slick the judges and win. I gave him a whop with the belt and he squirmed. It was wierd. I let him have another and he cried out, but not in pain. The sonofa-bitch was lying on his stomach and screwing his hard cock into the bed with each lick. I shrugged mentally and laid it on him and he started moaning and crying and saying, "Oh, mama, please, mama."

It takes all kinds. Those were about the same words old man Worth used when I was walking on him with needle sharp high heels. So I figured that Carlo was just a crazy old man like Worth and I did my bit, beating the shit out of him, all over his ass and his back and his legs and when he rolled over his cock was hard and it was oozing passion juice.

"Once or twice, lightly, here," he said, indicating the soft flat skin over his hip joints. I hit him there a few times and he was moaning and saying, "Oh, please, mama."

"Look," I said, because I was getting sort of hot, looking at him all heated up, even if it was from being whipped, "are you gonna fuck me at all?"

"Ah," he moaned, reaching for me. He pulled and guided me. I straddled him. His belly and legs were red from the whipping. His cock was creaming and hard. He wanted it in me and I wanted it in me and I sat on it, driving it damned near up to my liver the first sitting, taking it with one swift, downward, hard plunge. I was cockfull, I used him. I ground my cunt on him and felt his hardness way up inside and I came like a rocket.

He rolled me off and crawled on, his cock still hard. He put the fallen belt back into my hands. I didn't know what he wanted. He made motions, showing me. So while he topped me, I reached up over his shoulder and beat his ass with the belt. I discovered that the harder I hit the harder he fucked me and I was steaming and hot and I didn't think I could ever get enough of his cock. I beat the shit out of him and with each stroke he'd sob and cry and moan and then drive two or three quick, hard thrusts right into my throbbing, fire-hot cunt.

We started down the home stretch and I was beating him as fast as I could to make hilt-deep and lightening fast raids into my soft cunt by his cock and he screamed and moaned when I went, starting a come which lasted about five minutes and was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to me. I mean, when I came, my whole body came, and my cunt almost bit his cock off throbbing and biting it and then he cried out again as I struck him and the point of the belt went down on some of the licks and hit my thighs and the pain made my climax peak and peak again and then I deliberately started hitting myself and him together and his come was flushing out and filling me and we were sobbing and crying and fighting and coming like the world was going to end and this was the last glorious fuck. I mean, whee.

I still don't like much pain, but that was a wild one. And we were both completely spent when it ended. And I rubbed him with soothing stuff and he cooed and then he did something which sent me up the wall. He was feeling better, his red patches fading where I'd whipped him, and we were lying side by side.

"Now I will clean you," he said. I thought he was going to go get a wash cloth or something, but he went down between my legs and began to lick the come which had run out of my twat, and he'd come a quart or so. I thought that was sexy, because it'd never happened before, I mean, a man cleaning my cunt after he'd fucked me with his mouth. I lay there and soaked it up and he licked and sucked and then I tightened my muscles inside and sent out a little flood of come and he lapped and licked it up and begged for more. I came.

Then I went home, success one judge closer. And that was not the last I was to see of Carlo.