"Juicy piece" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brown Heather)

CHAPTER NINE

I didn't know where to go but back home. I wanted to bury my head under the pillow and just sleep, letting the jism drain from my mouth and cunt and asshole until I could wake up with sufficient clarity to sort out the significance of all that had happened to me today. It was the second successive time I slept an unknown number of hours, waking up in a timeless limbo.

When I awoke, my nose instantly told me that a bath was in order, the musky scent of over-ripe cum filling the air with its peculiar pungency. In the bathtub I slid down against the porcelain, letting my naked body totally relax as the warm water did all the work, making my tired muscles feel buoyant, and lapping relaxing against the outer folds and ridges of my aching pussy and asshole.

I took the end of the rubber tube extending from the faucet and dreamily stuck it in my relaxed cunt, feeling the warm water rush over the raw tissues of my fuck-canal. As the water coursed up my pussy, my cunt-walls automatically began to expand and contract, proof that my pussy was so horny that it would respond immediately to any stimulation, regardless of what it had been through. Somehow I felt pleased by my spasming pussy as I looked down at my now-cherished cunt and thanked God for giving it to me, grateful for the ease with which I could take on the biggest of pricks.

Suddenly my sex-drenched reverie was shattered by the ringing of the phone in the next room. I thought about letting it ring until it stopped, but then it occurred to me that perhaps there was a reason for answering it. Although I had lost track of time, and wasn't sure of the date, something in the back of my mind reminded me that it was approximately the day for the latest issue of Honey Pot to hit the stands, my column at last available to a spiritually needy public. It occurred to me that perhaps it was Shark on the phone, calling me after he had read my column. I thrilled at the opportunity to stand up to him with the word of Christ, as I jumped out of the bathtub and flew wetly to the phone, watching the water drop from the droplet-speckled bush of my cunt as I picked up the receiver and breathlessly said hello.

I expected Shark's characteristic snarl at the other end and was paradoxically disappointed when I heard an inoffensive whisper at the other end say, "Go answer your door."

"Who is this?" I asked.

"Go answer your door."

"No one's knocking," I protested.

"They've already been there," the voice whispered. "Go."

The effect of the increasingly eerie voice was hypnotic. I found myself dropping the receiver and doing as I was told, going to answer a door on which nobody had knocked.

I threw open the door and looked straight ahead at nothing, thin air separating me from the rest of the hall. I started to turn and go back to the phone for further instructions from the commanding, disembodied whisper; however, as I did, I glanced downward and saw a piece of white paper. I picked it up and anxiously read it.

"I'm in trouble. Only you can help. No time to explain more. Meet me right away at the thirteenth floor of Creel Building. M.S.," it said in the terse literary style of a telegram, but scrawled in a wretched hand which looked vaguely familiar to me.

I rushed back to the phone to see if I could wring any further information out of the voice, but when I got there, all the receiver emitted was a sardonic "heh, heh," followed by a click and the subsequent buzzing drone of the dial tone. I tried to sit down and sort out my reeling mind, but I couldn't stay put, striding around the living room as I racked my brain for an answer to this dilemma of strange occurrences and even more mysterious familiarities.

But then in a blinding flash it struck me like a round-house right from the middleweight champion of the world that God has sent this message to me. The piece of paper was a sign… like the burning bush of Biblical fame! I would immediately go tote destination specified in the note and find this poor, miserable M.S. I would embrace M.S. and he or she would be made to want to live again, made emotionally whole again, even as I, a spiritual cripple, had been made whole. I raced from the apartment, not even bothering to close the door behind me, certain that God would protect the material things of my life while I kept my appointment with a miracle.

It was only when I arrived at the Creel Building that the total irony of what was happening hit me. The Creel Building was where Shark's sleazy publishing empire was located, and as I got in the elevator, it hit me that the thirteenth floor was where Honey Pot was housed.

"Oh, my God!" I blurted as I stood in the hallway of the thirteenth floor looking straight at the door to my own office, "this trail is leading me right back to where all started!"

Some unseen force pulled me toward my office, and as I opened the door and almost fell inside, my sight immediately fastened on a white rectangle on my desk, the second note I now realized I had been expecting.

"I'm on the ledge," it said in its bizarre handwriting. "Outside the window of this office. Come save me. Or I'll jump. M.S." After the signature there was a clever little line drawing of a stick-figure sailing off a ledge.

I didn't hesitate a second as I leaped from my desk and sprang to the open window. I poked my head out and saw that the ledge only ran one way, extending from a corner on my right. I would have to step around instead of straight out to keep from falling, a tricky maneuver that I performed fearlessly, knowing that nothing could happen to me while I was under the influence of the Lord.

Teetering on the narrow ledge, I searched in vain for the smoggily vanishing light of day. Down below I could hear the rush-hour traffic starting to rev up, meaning that I had gotten here just at 5:00. An instantaneously noxious cloud of smog billowed up to where I was located, making the air so bad that I had to fight to keep myself from sneezing myself into oblivion. I was completely blinded by the acrid yellow gas and starting to despair, when suddenly it paid an unexpected dividend. I distinctly heard someone cough in the distance.

"M.S., is that you coughing?" I called. "This is Madame Fellatio."

"Yes, yes," a male voice hacked more than spoke. "Christ, this smog is killing me. This fucking city is getting worse every day. I may die up here from the fumes before I get a chance to jump."

"I'm coming to save you," my voice rang. "Just hold on."

"It's a trick," he called to me. "You're trying to trick me."

"No, no, I swear it!" I cried, groping eagerly forward despite the fact I was still half-blind from the smog.

"Then prove it."

"How?" I pleadingly asked.

"Take off your clothes. Strip! Come to me naked. Show you have nothing to hide," he commanded.

"And if I don't?" I tested him.

"I'll jump… and my blood will be on your hands!" he yelled.

Doing the only thing that was morally defensible, I steadied myself against the stone wall of the Creel Building and began undoing my clothes, stripping as fast as possible under the precarious circumstances. The buttons to my blouse came free and a chill wind hit the cleavage of my tits as I pulled it from me, tossing it into the air and watching it float like gossamer in the wind. My bra came off next, sliding over my head and sailing away like miniature parachutes, my fully exposed tits falling springily free, the nipples already puckered into hardness in the chilly twilight.

As I stood with my bare tits thrusting free, I suddenly had to stop to get a hold of myself, the surging rushes of blood that had coursed to my naked tits and spasming cunt practically capsized my balance, the horny flush that consumed my sex organs sending my lust-warped senses reeling.

A quick shove of my hand down my waist and a swipe across my cunt told me that I was absolutely gushing, the thick dew of my pussy coating my fingers. I struggled to regain my balance, my center of gravity shifting inexorably to my cunt as I felt super-human strength start to pulsate from my loins.

Recharged with power from the moist scent of my pussy, I undid my skirt and removed it from around my waist, swirling it into the sky so that it flew like a giant suede bird.

Now I was left only in my panties, their crotch dripping wetly from between my pussy-juice drenched thighs. I looked down at my panties, their soft, pink fabric disappearing into moist obscurity at the triangle of my cunt. My matted pussy hair and engorged pussy-lips bulged against the fabric, making the clinging translucent panty cloth into a second skin as it stuck to my cunt while I rubbed my open hand lovingly over the mound of my power. I could feel the lather of my pussy juice seeping through the useless shield of my panty-crotch, bubbling up between my fingers as I rubbed my cunt and massaged the swollen nub of my clit into a throbbing frenzy.

It was a trick to get out of my panties, but it was worth it as the man on the ledge kept hollering, "I want to see it all!" making me certain that I had no alternative but to please him to the maximum in order to save both his body from being crushed on the pavement and his soul for Christ. As I painstakingly slid my bent leg out of my panties, feeling the elastic rub against my bare flesh, I perceived myself as having ascended to a new spiritual plane, the last of my restraints gone with the last item of my clothing, which now drifted gaudily away in the breeze.

Totally naked, I turned towards the location of the voice and started making my way towards it. "I am coming," I announced in a strong voice, pressing my hand against the drooling gash of my bare cunt for strength. "I am coming to you, M.S., with nothing between us, with nothing concealed. I am as naked as the day God put me on this earth."

The twilight air seemed to support my tits even better than my bra had as they shone like headlights from my chest. My cunt continued to foam under my eagerly pressing hand, making me briefly wonder if its wet flow might eventually make me slip and fall, so abundant was the pussy juice dribbling down the inside of my legs.

"M.S.," I called, "are you there?"

"Yes, over here," he replied, and for the first time I could see him, although he was just a form, the carbon monoxide still filling the air hiding his features. "Are your clothes off?"

"I am totally naked," I answered matter of factly.

"I can't see," he complained. "This fucking smog. This town is getting to be more of a garbage pail every day."

"The Lord will provide," I replied to his complaint, pressing my cunt with my open hand for inspiration.

"Describe yourself while you come closer," he said in a strong voice, as though he had just been inspired himself, "Tell me about your tits."

"They're big and firm," I virtually sang, like an angel on high, bringing my hands up to touch them, my fingertips immediately fondling my springily erect nipples. "My tits are like succulent, ripe melons, waiting for you to squeeze and suck them. My nipples are like strawberries. They're standing straight out like two big, red lumps. The wind is making them as hard as rocks."

"Your cunt, your cunt," he demanded excitedly, "tell me about your pussy!"

"It's foaming," I crooned, obediently dropping my hand to the call of my cunt. "The pussy juice is lathering like thick, rich suds. I'm rubbing it like shampoo into my cunt hair, spreading it all around. My fingers are everywhere, now, all over the hair of my pussy, working the lather in. The curly, brown hair goes all the way from the insides of my thighs to the lips of my pussy, and halfway to my navel. Every strand of it is sopping wet from my sticky rubbing. You'll love to eat it. Your cock will shudder when it slides through my pussy-lips. My cunt is going to fuck you so well."

"Your ass," he croaked. "Tell me about your ass!"

"Yes, of course," I caroled, putting a hand around to my cheeks and pushing a stiff finger into the clenched hole of my ass, feeling the ridges pucker around my knuckle. "My ass knows how to fuck, too. It's spasming now, horny for your cock."

With each word I was moving closer, his face slowly coming into focus as I sought to make out his expression and ascertain some sort of identity.

"Now can you see my body?" I cried. "Can you see my tits straining toward you, my aching pussy yearning for your hard, stiff cock?"

But the answer was not the wildly appreciative yes I had expected, or anything even approximating it. It was a short, snapping sound of only two syllables, but its impact on me was as profound as if it had been a roar.

"Heh, heh," the man at the end of the ledge cackled, the brief phonetics shooting at me like cracks of a rifle.

Suddenly it occurred to me where I had heard that nasty-sounding laugh before. But it wasn't associated with just a single individual. Father Marmelstein… Agent Marmelstein… and Shark! They all had that treacherous laugh.

And the note. M.S.? Did it stand for Melville Shark? Or Marmelstein Siblings? Maybe there were two of them out there. Or all three of them huddled somewhere near the far corner of the building.

In my blizzard of uncertainty I looked down for the first time since I'd walked out on the ledge. I quickly saw that a crowd had assembled in the street thirteen floors below us, watching my every move as they contemplated the apparent spectacle of my impending suicide.

The beam of a searchlight suddenly began piercing through the darkening skies, heavy rain clouds moving in with the twilight. Abruptly, the searchlight's hot glare burned against my bare skin, briefly highlighting the front of my naked body, bathing my tits and cunt in its glow.

"Now I see you," the man on the ledge hissed in a voice that suddenly sounded all too familiar. "I see everything you've got, boobie."

My mind chugged to get my reasoning process restarted, but the commotion below was now becoming too loud to let me think.

"Come down immediately," a voice blared through a makeshift p.a. system, "or we're coming after you."

It didn't seem like a very sympathetic approach to attract the interest of a potential suicide victim; however, since killing myself was the last thing on my mind, I didn't give it a second thought. But the true implication of the remark from the p.a. system suddenly and astonishingly became clear when a blast of orange light flickered from on top of a nearby building. The explosion of gunpowder sent a high-powered sniper's bullet thudding into the wall three inches from my left ear, as the blast that had propelled it echoed in the canyon of buildings.

"They're shooting at you!" the man on the ledge cried, sounding strangely triumphant.

"Why?" I pleaded.

"Because an FBI agent called the local police before you got here and told them he had infiltrated a subversive organization and had just gotten a tip that a guerilla terrorist was going to bomb the Creel Building, using a secret escape route along the southern ledge," he spat rapidly, this time leaving no mistake about the triumph in his voice.

"Marmelstein!" I gasped.

"The priest or the G-man?" he replied nonchalantly.

"The G-man…" I said, just getting two words out before I had to duck another rifle shot.

"Come to the end of the ledge, quick," he urged. "I have a place where you won't get shot. They're only looking for you on the south ledge."

"Thanks," I said, momentarily forgiving his prior offensiveness in gratitude for the promise of safety, no matter how tenuous. But as I inched along the ledge, keeping my back to the wall and splaying my uplifted arms against the wall for balance, making my tits and cunt a perfect target for the sniper, something suddenly came to me.

"How did you know about the priest and the G-man both being named Marmelstein?" I blurted, just as his strong hand reached out and grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me so dizzily around the comet of the building that I squeezed my eyes closed to defend my senses and half fainted.

As my head cleared, I realized that as soon as I opened my eyes, I would be face to face with the answer to the enigma that had been surrounding me lately. Marmelstein… Marmelstein… Shark, the names peeled through my mind. Then, suddenly, the noise stopped, and in the quiet of my brain the answer materialized.

"The Marmelstein brothers are really the same person," I blindly accused, recalling the newspaper story about the abduction of the real priest, Father Coughlin, whose place Marmelstein had obviously taken. Father Marmelstein's long, face-obscuring beard… Agent Marmelstein's ski-mask… all the things wrong with the set-up of the last few days came together in my brain. "And that person is you… Shark! M.S. is none other than Melville Shark!"