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

CHAPTER SEVEN

My office was just like I'd left it, embalmed in time because of Shark's stinginess about hiring a regular janitor. (I suspected that the old woman who came in to supposedly clean the place once in a blue moon was probably some relative of Shark's… perhaps his mother.) The roaches had started a regular colony by now on my blotter, and didn't bother to move when I walked in and interrupted them.

Thinking kindly of the roaches as just some more of God's wondrous creatures, I let them be and turned my attention toward the reason why I had come up here – finding the perfect letter to answer in person. Only then would Madame Fellatio be sanctified.

It was funny, but the closer I came to realizing the potential of her ability to spread the word of Christ, the more I identified with that fictional character, coming to think of myself more and more as Madame Fellatio instead of Eugenia Saunders. I was certain God intended for me to truly become Madame Fellatio.

I riffled through a stack of letters, glancing at one and then another in my quest to find exactly the right one. Finally, after over an hour's reading, I found the one I wanted, and read and re-read it with glee.

"Dear Madame Fellatio: I don't know where to begin, but for my own good I'd better start someplace quickly because due to a childhood accident I haven't any arms or legs and am writing this with a Bic pen clenched between my teeth."

"Oh, don't think I'm complaining about my handicap. At the special school I went to before I dropped out after the eighth grade, they always used to tell us kids not to think of ourselves as handicapped, but as exceptional. And I guess that's true, because how many people do you know who have no arms and legs? No, what I'm writing you about is my father. He's the reason I'm not in that special school anymore, because he pulled me out and took me on the road with his carnival where they show me off like a freak, but Daddy keeps all the money. My mother never would've let him do it, but he waited until she was sick and had her put in a mental asylum before he did this to me."

"The thing about it is, I guess I wouldn't mind the carnival so much, even though I know the people pay fifty cents to see me because I'm supposed to be a freak, if all I had to do was sit up there on the pedestal my daddy made for me to rest on. But that's not the half of what I have to do. Because it wasn't more than a week after we joined the carnival that Daddy discovered there were people who would pay more than fifty cents to do more than just look at me."

"The reason I wrote to you, Madame Fellatio, is that my daddy reads your magazine, and I've looked at it when it's lying around and noticed that people write you about a lot of, well, different things having to do with sex. Madame Fellatio, the reason these men are willing to pay my daddy sometimes over ten dollars is that they think it would be a big thrill to fuck someone with no arms or legs."

"Now, I'm eighteen, and although my arms and legs might be missing, I'm plenty normal inside, and I've got special yearnings just like everyone else. The accident that cost my limbs certainly didn't do anything to my pussy, and I've got a great big juicy one, with big, full red lips and a lot of brown curly hair around it and everything. (In fact, the tailor has to make the crotches on my costumes special so the kids brought into the carnival by their parents won't see any of my spreading pussy hair.) What I'm trying to say is that I've got urges just like anyone else my age, and a lot of times I'm off in outer space daydreaming about a hot, throbbing cock stabbing up my cunt and my pussy starts sopping as normal as you'd want to see. But, Madame Fellatio, I'd like to choose who fucks me, not just have it be a bunch of strangers who don't give a hoot about my feelings. If you want to get right down to it, I guess I want the man who fucks me to be in love with me. The way it's been, sometimes I think these men are only willing to stick their stiff cocks in my pussy because I don't have any arms or legs. I wonder if they'd like me so much if I had arms and legs just like everybody else."

"Lately things have been getting worse because there's this one man that money's no object to and he's been making my father rich buying up all my favors. There've been a lot of complaints lately from the carnival management because I've been off fucking with this man when I should have been on display. I'm worried about it, but Daddy says he doesn't care because if it comes down to it he says he can make more money off selling my body."

"This one man I'm telling you about isn't a regular customer, but a member of the carnival. He's the tattooed man, and he's so covered with tattoos of fire-breathing dragons, snarling mountain lions, Marine Corps insignias, serpents, naked women, and American flags that his cock and balls are even covered with them. When his prick is limp, it's impossible to make out what he has tattooed on it, but when it's standing out stiff, like it always is thirty seconds after he's got my costume off and is slobbering over my defenseless cunt, you can see what's on there is a perfect drawing of a striking snake. There are blue and green scales starting at the root of his prick in his balls that go all the way along his shaft until they change into the fiery knot at the end of his cock that's fixed up like a snake's head. When he moves that monster toward me, I feel like a rattlesnake is going to burrow inside my cunt, wounding my pussy with its poison fangs until I'm full of venom."

"There's nothing I can do about this man, no way I can get away from him. He picks me up like I was nothing more than a big chunk of meat and hoists me over the straining pole of his colored cock and then pushes me suddenly down on it, impaling my cunt on his standing lance. He fucks me by moving me up and down with his hands, using me to jack off with as his prick rams higher and tighter by the second inside my spasming cunt, its cruel head pounding brutally against the mouth of my womb and making me wonder what I'd do if he ever makes me pregnant. He just finished sticking his big prick up my defenseless pussy, and as I write this, I can feel his cum coating the walls of my cunt, dribbling out from my aching gash and pooling underneath me so it sticks to the stumps where my legs used to be."

"Still and all, I probably wouldn't be taking pen in mouth to write you unless something more hadn't happened to me. Ever since we came into this state, going from town to town with the carnival, a guy has been following the show. He turns up in every town, pays his fifty cents every night to get in, and spends the evening just standing there watching me. He's very shy, but finally I got him to talk when neither my father or the tattooed man were around, and he told me he was following me because he's in love with me. I don't know whether to believe him or not. Although this is what I've been dreaming of my whole life long, I've never actually had to deal with it up till now, and I'm not sure of what to do next. To give you an idea of how unusual this relationship with this young man is, I've never even seen his cock, although, believe me, I've fantasized about it plenty and imagine it as long and pink and graceful, envisioning that it's his stiff prick sliding up my foaming cunt when the others are fucking me."

"Anyway, this guy is getting more insistent because he says he's got to get back to his hometown and this barber college where he's a student, and he wants me to go with him. I don't want to rush things, but he says we could just go for a weekend and I could meet his folks and he could take me to a dance his barber college is having. Should I say yes to him, Madame Fellatio? I'm not so sure how I'd manage on the dance floor, although he assures me that everything would be all right because he'd lead."

"This is so urgent I can't wait for an answer by mail or in your magazine. If you could only spare a few minutes of your time to talk to me in person. The carnival will be in your city by the time you read this. Please come by and see me. I don't think you'll have much trouble finding me – I'm right between the fat lady and the Human Pincushion – and I'll give you back the fifty cents you'll have to pay to get in at the door. Thanks for caring, R.Q."

I got so excited reading the letter I couldn't contain myself. When I had finished, I noticed that my hand had uncontrollably slipped up my skirt between my legs and my hand was intuitively massaging the folds and slit of my cunt, my fingers swimming in the sticky residue of the dog-jizz that still filled my pussy.

I could just see that poor, armless and legless girl stark naked, her much-abused cunt flexing in defenseless openness as a tattooed brute violated her by stabbing his stiff prick between her nonexistent thighs. In my mind the exploiting cock was the tattooed prick she'd described in her letter, a sexual snake spewing its venom inside of the poor, girl's cunt.

The thought of it made my pussy so wet that I finally had to get up and go into the dingy little cubicle that Shark furnished as the only bathroom in the place, and sit down on the toilet seat, parting my legs so I could cram a grimy towel between my quivering thighs and wipe the big load of pussy-juice and dog-sperm from my throbbing cunt.

When I was finished, I threw the ruined towel in the overflowing trashcan and walked directly from the bathroom to the door, bypassing my office in my eagerness to find the shockingly exploited and vulnerable R.Q.

I took the elevator downstairs and when I got on the street noticed that the sun was now up and there were people outside and the day was officially beginning. I went to the nearest newsstand and bought a morning paper to search for an ad for the carnival so I could find its location.

I found the advertisement for the carnival in the amusement section, however before I did, an item a few pages before it caught my eye. "Priest Abducted," the headline said, and below the story told of how an unidentified intruder had come into the rectory of my neighborhood Catholic church, overpowered the priest, and fled him up and locked him in the closet. When I first glanced at it, my immediate reaction was that it served that closet nonbeliever Father Marmelstein right. But when I looked at the story more closely, I saw that Father Marmelstein wasn't mentioned at all. It was Father Coughlin, who hadn't passed away at all, who had been abducted. The article went on to say that the police and church were at a loss to explain the incident because nothing had been taken. The only clues, the article said, were that a passer-by had seen a disheveled-looking woman coming out of the rectory in a rush during the time was Father Coughlin was tied up in the closet, and that some mysterious stains had been found in the rectory which the police lab was in the process of analyzing.

The whole thing was eerie, but I didn't want to think about it. After giving the article a third scanning, I rapidly flipped the pages of the paper until I came to the entertainment section so I could find the ad for the carnival. When my eyes finally lit on it, I breathed a big sigh of relief, anxious to have something to think about that would put the strange business about the church out of my mind.

The carnival was located in the shabbiest part of town, down by the river adjacent to the stockyards. Unfortunately, there were more cows in the stockyards than people patronizing the carnival, a ratio to which the ripe smell in the air attested. The natural seediness of the carnival took on an almost grotesque glow when combined in my senses with the stench of cow manure, the whole enterprise seeming to have been conceived in sleaziness. Of all of this tackiness, the freak show was the worst example, a crude tent, the entrance to which was presided over by a fat man hawking tickets for fifty cents yelling, "See the freaks for only four bits! Only ones a their kind in the entire world!"

I got in line and paid my money, being shuttled inside by an oily-looking fellow at the door who looked at the customers as though they were the ones who were the freaks, which was rather paradoxical since he appeared to have two noses.

The lighting was terrible inside the tent. Two or three naked lightbulbs dangled from the canvas ceiling, their power emerging from a struggling generator that sputtered just outside the entrance flap. In the gloomy light, the horseshoe of freaks which dotted the edge of the shabby tent took on an almost holy cast, as though they were religious figures of special spiritual significance, the most martyred of saints.

I walked around the tent slowly, looking at each of them individually while I searched for R.Q. There was the fat lady, her enormously puffy thighs oozing doughily out of the spangled tights she was wearing, a coarse suggestion of her scraggly pussy hair poking out of each side of the tautly strained satin crotch. At her side an especially misshapen dwarf, with feet and hands seeming to emerge from his bull-neck, was being passed off as a midget named Mr. Littlebit, supposedly married to the fat lady. Next to them the Indian Rubber Man was busily contorting himself. He was naked except for a turban and a strip of cloth around his waist as he bent his head between his legs and locked his ankles behind his back while his face pressed to his crotch. As he did this, behind me I could hear one teen snicker to another, "I wonder if that guy ever blows himself." Immediately I conjured a mental image of the man in the same position with no loincloth, his erect cock stabbing all the way down his throat so that I could see his balls bobbing against his chin from my vantage point.

Moving on quickly from the disturbingly arousing Indian Rubber Man, it occurred to me that there was something very erotic about the atmosphere here, almost as though the distorted bodies of the freak were, in addition to their apparent religious significance, a strange cry to lust. Perhaps the lust itself is the ultimate religious experience, I thought in an instant rationalization as I took a step forward and discovered that my pussy was uncontrollably full of sticky juice and that just looking at these freaks had started my cunt flowing.

I got so involved in looking at them that I'm afraid I gawked as I studied every freak on display in the show. My pussy spasmed and gushed with each new revelation of human deformity, my thighs wallowing in the gushing reaction from each distorted twist of flesh and bone. But the fat lady and the dwarf, the Indian Rubber Man, the pinhead, the geek, and the Human Pincushion notwithstanding, the picture was incomplete as there were two factors obviously missing – the tattooed man, and the poor armless and legless R.Q.

In order to find my troubled correspondent, I walked up to the Indian Rubber Man and asked, "Do you have a girl working here with the initials R.Q.?" hoping he would recognize her from the limited description of her I had at my command.

He mumbled something in reply, but I couldn't make out a word of it because he was mumbling into the crotch of his loincloth. I was just getting ready to approach the Human Pincushion, when suddenly a man I hadn't seen before approached me from behind. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but I couldn't put my finger on it because he was wearing a purple ski-mask. Before I had time to puzzle over it, he pulled out a billfold, quick flashed a badge at me, and returned it to his pocket within seconds.

"What's this?" I blurted.

"Shhh," he hissed, and then whispered, "Marmelstein of the FBI. We've got this place staked out for violation of the Mann Act… white slavery as the great unwashed call it. We're waiting for some overt evidence to develop so we can knock heads without a warrant."

"Why are you wearing that mask?" I asked for some reason.

"I don't want to take a chance on anybody recognizing me," he said. "My picture's been in People magazine for receiving a heroism medal for burning out a militant gang of senior citizens who'd barricaded themselves in a rest home and taken the nurses as hostages."

"Oh," I said, still breathless from this sudden development. "You know, isn't this a coincidence, I just met another man named Marmelstein the other day. He was a priest."

"Oh, yes, that's my brother, Rick. We're all very proud of him," he said tersely. "Now that we've got my credentials settled, what about yours?" he asked officiously.

"What do you mean?" I asked, totally perplexed, unaware of the necessity of proving who I was while in the everyday act of attending a freak show, even if I did happen to encounter a G-man in front of the Human Pincushion.

"Don't try to hide anything," he warned, "it'll only be held against you later when it comes out you didn't cooperate with the Bureau. Now stop withholding information and tell me about R.Q. What is her full identity? Come clean and we'll go easy with you."

"That's all I know about her, believe me, just her initials," I explained.

"Yeah, sure – R.Q., that's all you know. There're only about a thousand people in the metropolitan area with the initials R.Q. and you happen to show up here looking for one of them," he hissed bitingly. "Come on, there must be something about her you know that you're not telling."

"I can't think of anything," I responded.

"She wouldn't happen to be without arms or legs?" he snapped accusingly.

"Come to think of it, she is handicapped… er, exceptional," I said, "but that could be just a coincidence."

"Stop covering up," he snarled. "Her name's Rhonda Quigley, she's a minor, and they're using her as a Goddamn quadriplegic whore. All we have to do is catch her in the act with somebody sticking their big you-know-what up her cookie and we'll have the goods on these scum."

For some reason his rough way of talking excited me, and when he started talking about the "big you-know-what", my lips automatically formed the syllables for "big, hairy cock", recalling the image from R.Q.'s letter of the tattooed man's snakelike prick reaming out the helpless teenager's thighless cunt.

"What's that you said?" he snapped, glaring at me like I was fresh shit.

"Nothing… nothing…" I stammered, mortified that I had been caught.

"You said, and I repeat, 'big, hairy cock'. You can't fool an agent by remaining silent. We're trained in lip-reading from the first day we join the Bureau. It assists us in tracking down deaf and dumb subversives, of which there are more than you would ordinarily expect, a handicap not necessarily making a person into a patriot despite the excellent care they receive in this country," he hissed at me, withering my ability to stand up to him. "By saying what you did about the big, hairy you-know-what, you reveal that you do know what's going on in this den of iniquity. I must warn you now that unless you fully cooperate with me, I may have to hold you for concealing information and obstructing justice. Now come with me, you're going to help me catch these degenerates in the act."

I was so intimidated by his dominant air of authority that I would have gone with him even if he hadn't specifically threatened me and pulled me along with him by the wrist. The fact of the matter was that I was more than just intimidated by him, I was mesmerized, hypnotized by his stark, authoritarian masculinity.