by E. Coli
In a dark, tired third floor flat in the tangled underbrush of upper Manhattan's unnatural steel jaws lay a six foot two-hundred pound mass of heaving, heated air. The shades were drawn and the old school TV was off. The brand new bulb in the socket of the end table lamp was as cold as the sun on a Christmas morning in Vladivostok. Police sirens, ambulances, fire engines - a parade of public servants - were muffled by the merciless humming and clicking of the two-speed fan at the back of the roach infested room. The mother of neglect ruled the place like a powerful dictator, subjugating all to obey its stagnant whims. Down on the floor on the worn out mattress painted with dust and stain, he rubbed the stubble on his chin and breathed as evenly as an iron lung. He was a cornered man, and obsession was eating him alive, one finger at a time. It had gnawed at his fingernails and gobbled them up, working its polluted way slowly and steadily to his fearful blood soaked heart.
He thought of her when his eyes were open and long after they had closed. He just knew he'd be thinking about her after he had died, the maggots forming a pretty picture of her warm smiling face and the earthworms singing a song to Her glory and kindness. He painted pictures in his mind, dirty pictures that he knew would never come true. He watched her peel off her flower print dress, wet with sweat from the summer heat that made her that much more arousing. He saw her mammoth bundles of maternal adipose plunge through the cold air to press themselves hungrily against his dour mouth. He felt her tremble and force herself firmly onto him.
Sleep was no escape. He dreamed about her and he watched his fantasies come alive from the corner of the room. Coming out of it was always a depressing job, so waking seemed almost a useless task. Years ago, he'd thought about killing himself. He would never have had the nerve before, when he had led what most consider a normal life. Now suicide was a practical alternative to the diurnal misery he called his life. His only stay of self-execution was the possibility of an alternative better than death. And that was what he pondered now.
He considered sending her a letter, but he knew that was a foolish move, one that would make him seem like even more of an empty rube. He'd written her before, had never received an answer. He'd sent roses and candy and jewelry and poetry and perfume, even a plate of lovingly made home cooked fried chicken which in retrospect must have died and gone to chicken Hell while still in the mail. All the tokens of his passion were returned unanswered, except for the empty plastic container of fried chicken. Perhaps mashed potatoes with pork chops would have been a better choice. He'd considered forgetting about her, but he'd tried that too many times. Yes, he'd worked at that first, before he'd lost his wife and kids. Before he'd failed his family and lost his job where they'd called him a "nut job". Indeed, no matter what he thought of, no matter how unrelated it all was, she poked her head in from behind a fat, grandmotherly satin curtain and called his name. He thought of his love, living in that house with the man and his boy. He thought of the way she moved her full, divinely formed buttocks, like paisley whales in heat. And he couldn't stand it anymore. So he collapsed into sleep.
She stood at the door, dressed in her everyday Five and dime dress but looking sexier than he thought anyone could. Her eyes smiled at him through the dark lights of the outer hallway. A basket full of fruit was in her arms, freshly wrapped, no doubt by she herself. "I never thought you would come.", he said, finally, terrified and flooded with a frightful hope reserved for cancer victims in hospice. She hurried to the lamp by his bedside. "You need some light in here. You'll go blind, sitting in this dark apartment!" She said the word 'apartment' with the characteristic Victorian-like snobbery that made his testicles tingle. And light filled the room as she clicked the plastic switch under the shade. "There!", she said. "Isn't that better?" "Yes. Yes it is." "And look. I brought you some fruit. I'll bet you haven't had a good home cooked meal in weeks." She pushed her soft, brown curls from the blate of her forehead and smiled benignly into his eyes. "Months", he corrected. Speaking was a tedious chore when her kindly face was there to awe him. He gazed at her, overwhelmed with feelings of love and devotion, a full appreciation that made him know they were special together.
"I thought so!", she said triumphantly. She marched to the kitchen, pasty face and boufant held high.
"No, please. Sit down and rest your feet. You must be tired, having traveled this far."
"Oh, no!", she exclaimed. "On the contrary. I'm all hyped up seeing you!"
"Don't I get a kiss hello?", he asked, finding his nerve and then shrinking back as if he'd just stuck his dick in a crocodile's mouth, having imagined for a momemt that it was an angel.
"Of course! How are you?" She ran over to him, threw her warm arms around his shoulders, and planted a big kiss on his open mouth. "Now let me fix you..." The words "something wholesome and home cooked" were eaten and swallowed as he grabbed her waist and pulled her into his mouth. Her brief, muffled protests soon gave way to sighs and an intense, wet deepness. He wrapped his rough tongue around hers and dug his nails into her waist with an animal spirit he hadn't felt since his soul had traveled to this world. He helt her hips angle up into his and he gently took her breath into his lungs.
"I haven't been able to do anything but think about you."
"Why, that's so sweet."
"But it's true." " I'm here now and everything is all right. I'll do whatever you want me to. Just name it. Whatever joy you require I will find a way to provide." He thought of the man and the young boy that lived in her home and wanted to ask her - no, warn her - about them. He wanted to tell her to leave them for a loyal paradise he would build in her name. Yet he said nothing, fearing it might destroy the sweetness of the moment.
"I think you need a good, hot meal", she said, pushing herself away from him. No! He pulled her close again, closer, and began caressing her warm rump. "No talk", he breathed. "Tell me. Tell me you love me. Tell me you need me, and then show me how with all your secret thoughts."
"Now that's just silly. Of course I do! Why, you're sweet and kind and ..." The cups of her brazier dropped. Cool air ran like a stream of chilled ice water over a yoke of snow peaked mountains in the frozen food section of your local grocery store. Nipples as big as the end of a grown man's thumbs quivered and expanded with every one of the entranced woman's breaths, like the petals of a flower opening in time lapse sequence. He gazed at them, amazed. Not even his obsessive imagination had prepared him for the sight of these twin lovelies. Every curve, every point, was perfectly formed, a combination of symmetry, original beauty and pink fire . His mouth moved down about them, not in the silly motion of a hungry man wobbling in two pieces of fat and cleavage, but like a frightened teenager meeting up with a respected fantasy. Lipid warmth and a trembling, growing heaving set the fantasy into place. Beads of sweet, salty sweat and a quiet meadow of soft, pliable skin fucked his lips and finally forced their way into the soft insides of his hot, hungry mouth.
She was underneath him on the floor now. "Oh!"
"I need to be inside you", he gasped hoarsely. Body temperature, moistness, the feel of raw skin like the insides of their cheeks played across the tips of his soiled, sensitive fingertips. White endocrine saliva dripped slowly over his hand and wrist. A fertile tumescence rubbed sloppily against his tensed over knuckles. He could hear the full woman's breathing become desperate, enhanced, regular. Her panties slipped off with some trouble. The awkwardness of obsession made him into a clumsy adolescent. He hoped she would not offer to remove her underthings herself.
"Do you really think this is a good idea?" she asked somewhat coyly. "No talk", he managed in a broken whisper. Her panties were off and discarded on the floor like the husk of shucked corn. The dress was easier. Finally, she lay on the coarse, dirty living room rug looking like a slab of tender pink meat waiting to be kneaded, salted and ultimately fertilized with his exclusive tenderizing seed. But it was more than just the slab he adored, the subject of obsessive dreams and commitmet. Hefty, full and robust, her skin was a pale white dotted sparsely with an occasional mottled mole: a gift from God to remind him of her essential humanity. Her welcoming womanhood seemed to smile at him with a sincere happiness. A tear of joy dripped casually over the keenly sewn elegance. The man wanted to ask her to take his pants off but before he knew it, they had magically undone themselves. He glanced down at himself and saw a worshipful readiness in his engorged shaft and the glans that glistened with a godly dew. Blood pounded inside his groin like steady vulcan hammers. It wasn't so much the gnawing of his sex as it was the supernatural base of his obsession. He tore gently into her opening like a hungry boar taking food from a trap. His skin felt relishment at the temperature and drive of first penetration. A sudden, feminine grunt raised his fever, and he tried to push himself up into her uterus. Zoftig thighs wrapped around contracted buttocks tight as Christmas presents never meant to be opened. He heard her suck in a gust of air and knew by instinct that she was savoring the pungent odor of their mingling wet selves. The noises coming from between them, those he and his friends had once long ago called "pussy farts", were voices of joy calling out from estrogen heaven. He strained his ears to savor their animal singing, but the mounting groans and accelerated wheezings of his partner began to drown them out. He moved in closer, putting one hand between their bodies so he could caress the plump, sweating warmth of her rhythmically twisting belly. It was a belly made for his white seed. He reached his other hand over her back, where he used his nails to gently scratch her shivering skin and cruelly fondle her quivering spine. "I have to get home", she whispered in between a set of violent pelvic trembles. As a response, he pushed himself even more deeply into her womb and moved his hand from her back. Smoothly, it brushed over her perspiring pelt and latched it's digits onto her swollen female shaft. She wasn't going anywhere. He would make sure of that! From deep inside, from the center of the source of her sex, he felt an aggravated throbbing. It reached closer and closer to the rim of her moistened walls. He massaged her nubble of paradise faster and with an agressive deliberation, and felt an approaching tightness invade his own groin. Distending himself forward, he tried to enable the tip of his engorged brawn to reach that point that each man tries for but never knows. Her muscular contractions were coming hard and fast now. The power of the woman's sex! He could swear there were strong, little fingers behind her walls, squeezing and masturbating him in private ways that only he could know. They stroked his shaft and suckled his glans with the skillful, steady rhythm of an experienced whore. Up, up, higher, until the large white woman's withins clasped down on his hysterical battering ram like a red hot iron vice forcibly trying to squeeze the seed from his distended testicles. Sweet excitations made his waist quiver. A clawed hand grabbed the back of his neck, pushing it down into a wide open mouth. She sucked his tongue in a frenzied fit of muscle and saliva, all the time moaning his personal name. Another hand caressed his neck, then the sides of his ribs, finally laying it''s fervent fingers on the bottom of his scrotum. She let go of his tongue and moved it into his ear, A soft. almost operatic voice whispered shakily into his ear. "Darling...I'm going to cu...cu...cummmm!" At once, a gentle middle finger found it's way up into his body. The stroking motions of endearment along the base of his prostate planted an insane motion in the center of his gut. He felt her pelvis ram itself against him like a speeding Peterbilt smashing non-stop into a ten mile high cement wall. Mucus waters rolled over their groins and buttocks, matting their public hair and further entangling the thick, mammal strands. Tongues caressed, fingers moved, lungs strained, and a pair of genitalia screamed like a crazed living thing in the middle of a long lost night.
And then there was only silence. And a wet, empty bed and a miserable man waking from a visit to heaven. Always just a visitor, never home.
A sun of sorrows rose up behind a fog that had settled over Manhattan during the evening. Morning rush hour had yet to begin, but the all nighters could be seen staggering blindly among the streets. He gazed over the misty blocks of dank brick apartments, built at a time when people didn't have time to think because they were fighting to dan hard. He looked out the kitchen window and saw her reflection in the glass instead of his own. The urge he had to crash through the pane was just barely averted by an unwanted, inborn need to continue. It was not nature but obsession that drove him to endure survival. The endless nights and mournful days sapped most hope but left just enough at the bottom of the misery glass so that things would remain the same. And in a sudden instant, the sun crossed the clouds and the mist and blinded him with joy. A Final Solution, he thought in capital letters. He would go to her. Yes, she could return his candy and flowers and gifts of Jovian adornment, but how could she refuse He himself? Nature, no, the laws of physics, told him that would be impossible. Of course! The mail was impersonal. Perhaps she had even been insulted. Never mind. The power of his presence, the bottomless depths of his passion and the cosmic intemsity of his love for her would naturally put her in her rightful place. She could ignore the U.S. Postal service but she could not overlook the Laws of the Universe! He would take a plane at once.
During the flight, reality settled in and doubt snuck up behind him to kick him squarely in the ass. He was wracked with nervous apprehension. Here he faced the torment of a man gone to face his greatest fear. Every stewardess he saw looked like her. Every big-titted, brown haired passenger was her or her distant cousin. Every woman who walked down the aisle might be her and so made his groin quiver and his skin seep sweat. And through it all, he knew the Truth, that they were not her, and it was only fear he was afraid of.
Fear be damned! Happiness - his happiness - was just around the corner. Or maybe the next puffy cloud. This happiness no stranger, no wife or best friend, could or would ever know!
He rented a car at the airport in Charlotte and bought a road map at a 7-11 four miles up the road. He'd thought of calling first but knew this had to be done face to face, no choices, no excuses to back away. The part of him that hoped for rejection sat up curiously as he eyed the road map. Either the town had dissolved into thin air or he had gone prematurely insane! Shaking fingers moved down the thin lines of microscopic towns on the Rand-McNally index. Maury...Maxton...Mayfield...Mayodan...where was it? He checked again and again but still no luck. Maybe the town wasn't on the map. After all, it was a very small place where everyone knew each other, and an easy one to miss, too, if you didn't know the prettiest, hottest piece of ass in the universe lived there. One thing he did know. Charlotte was getting on his nerves. He had to take action somehow, so he decided he'd just drive. He pulled off of Ashley Road and onto Interstate 85, almost hitting another car as he moved out of the acceleration lane into traffic. Straining his memory and almost kicking himself for not realizing before that he would need a better map, he lit a cigarette and concentrated. He did know, although he wasn't sure how, that the town was just off of Route 49 near Jackson Hill. He fumbled for the map and felt the car swerve into the next lane. Yes, Jackson Hill. From the looks of it, the town was about 100 miles from where he was. And again, with the awesome prospect of success in the heady air and the hope of failure on his rancid breath, he lay back and rehearsed his lines.
The thing about line rehearsals is that life isn't a play that way and the lines always change. She almost never says what you expect her to say. Planning out a conversation is a fruitless thing, and sometimes it could make a bad thing even worse. Still, a good idea of what might happen would probably help a little bit. But what was it that was going to happen? He had decided to do something no man wants to do. He had chosen to face his fear. It was perhaps a fear greater than death: that of Rejection. The first steps - leaving his wife and family, killing and eating the family dog - were the easy ones. He was just running away then. But to take the line of greatest resistance and confront yourself without running away? Not many men had the balls. He sighed nervously but felt proud.
Time moved too quickly, even at the minimum speed limit of 45 miles an hour. It hadn't even gotten dark when he saw the sign and then the cutoff not a mile later. He hesitated briefly and then swerved the car onto the neglected Farm-to-Market road. Dust and gravel kicked up against the underframe of the rented Ford, throwing out a cloud of blue-gray smoke and paint scratching rock behind him. He counted every tree he passed, and wanted to count the leaves, too. This part of the country was unspoiled, so that the thick woods formed a leafy canopy over the old road. It blocked out the late afternoon sun and made the day look darker than it really was. Not until six or seven miles later did a sharp edge of sunlight cut the windshield. He made no effort to shield his eyes. He only squinted tight, as if there was a filter underneath the surface of his eyes. And eventually, the road curved and the glare became just a bright hole where the canopy dissipated close ahead.
He drove into the town quietly, his eyes wide with wonder. Rarely is a new place just like you expect it to be. Foreign places, when you finally get to visit them, turn out to be nothing but disappointments when you learn they're just regular places with pretty much regular people living regular, ho-hum lives. But this town held none of that expected disappointment. It was just like he'd wanted and expected it would be. Main Street looked just like Main Street in a small town should look. There were side-streets named Elm and Maple and Oak and Beech, and each one were lined with the trees they were named for. There was a dusty old barber shop with three old men getting haircuts. An old, brown-haired mutt out snoozed front, stealing the shade. His leash was tied to the red, white and blue barber's staff. Further down the street was a Sheriff's office, just like the ones in the old TV movies. A small, sandy haired boy - maybe five or six - was bouncing a pink Spalding against the wall of the old building. With each bounce, the ball seemed to get just a hair closer to the thin window pane with the word "Sheriff" decaled onto it. For a momemt, he thought there was something vaguely familiar about that boy. Well, no. His own boy lived in a split level house in Greenwich, Connecticut, with a new Daddy and a freshly painted white fence.
Sliding up on the right, not a block away, was a real live Country Cafe. A black and white sign in the window said: BEST COFFEE IN TOWN. He had no doubt this was true. Quietly, he coasted in front of the shop and cut the engine. He peered gingerly past the pink weaved curtains in the store's smudged front window and saw a long row of empty stools capped in stringent red plastic. They were like women in a beauty parlor, all being identically processed by official hair dryers. Nevertheless, he was sure that Norman Rockwell would have had trouble canvassing a better portrait of Americana. The cafe' was a blind romantic's dream, a politician's heavenly tree stump that guaranteed solemn gullibility. When he walked inside, even the little bell that rang when the door closed issued down home images of peace, gazebos and the Star Spangled Banner.
The stool was as real and uncomfortable as he hoped it would be. It swiveled in the way that he knew a real small-town American stool would. And the girl from behind the counter who strolled lazily up to him was as pretty and perky and strangely innocent as the book of unwritten laws said she had to be.
"Hi stranger.", she ventured with a good-natured smile. "What can I getchya this fine 'fternoon?"
"A cup of coffee. Black. Please."
He wasn't used to talking. His throat ached when he spoke the words.
"Just passing through?", she asked. The flavor of the place told him she wasn't so much nosy as she was just plain friendly. Dimples on her chin and cheeks perked up as if he'd made her young day. "Er-yes. Just passing through. I'm a - er - tie salesman. I sell ties, that is. Feel like I've been on the road forever." He managed a smile that was insincere. If the girl noticed she did a good job of not showing it. He felt the shakes coming on and began to wonder if he should have ordered the coffee. "Well, you jes' relax and I'll fix you right up." She tossed him a smile that would make grandmothers smile and teenage boys cum profoundly without having to even touch themselves. She turned away and walked over to the pot of coffee that brewed on a green tangy counter at the back of the store. He didn't notice that her hips moved like sweet raspberry syrup.
"You know", she called out conversationally from the back of the counter aisle, "ol' Floyd could sure use some new ties. He'd never admit it, you know, but I truly think he does. Them bow ties he wears went out of style decades ago but he keeps on wearin' em. I guess nobody has the heart to tell 'im, though. Maybe you can sell him some ties, ya think?"
"Well, I'm - er - just about out of ties right now. That's where I'm going now. To refill my tie supply. Maybe next time, though." He grinned nervously. "Besides", he said, "if your friend is happy wearing bow ties, there probably isn't anything in my repertoire - er - collection, that I could offer." She smiled at him again, nodding her head just slightly like that of an innocent plastic puppy dog on a rear dash window. He managed another grin himself. He knew he'd never be passing through this place again.
The house, like the rest of the town, looked like it was plucked out of a documentary on small town America in the mid twentieth century. It was an old two-story frame. It's green paint looked new and only peeled in a few corners. No aluminum siding for this baby. There was an attic instead of a third floor, and a sleepy wood porch out front with a rocking chair any grandma would be proud to die in. A light spring breeze wandered down from the trees and kissed his cheek like a gentle virgin. The rocker moved slightly. This was the Final Hour. The man was nowhere in sight. The boy was probably at school. He hoped he was right, because the man had a gun and the little boy had a big mouth. No matter how things went, though, he knew he would not be staying long. As he rang the doorbell, he felt the porch screech under the heels of his old patent leather shoes. The wind's kiss became invisible. He straightened his tie. The shuffle of feet inside the house became clearer and more audible. The doorknob clicked and turned. His heart pounded hard like a pornstar jackhammer with too many steroids. The door opened. And the mighty sun shone down on her face. / She was an angel that had come down from heaven to borrow a few cups of flour and a little sugar, too. Why, oh why did God have to give man the capacity to love so deeply and so permanently?! "Can I help you?", she smiled. She didn't know him!
"Yes." He grinned nervously. His grin was not quite false but unbelievable just the same. And then the actor forgot his lines and spilled out the truth. "Did you get my letters? My flowers? My candy? I didn't know because I never got an answer. My life's been a living hell, just not knowing one way or the other." Tears drooled out of his eyes and he took off the locks and broke down completely. He had no choice. "I wanted to kill myself after a while because I was without you. I was without you all the time. I dream you, eat you, I breathe you. I look at an old wino lying in the gutter and I see your face smiling up at me like a warm, welcome home. If you think I was upset, you should have seen the wino! I didn't know what to do anymore but I knew I had to do something or I'd end up a heap of dry bones in a lost New York, or worse yet, alive somewhere. I got sick and tired of letting things go as they were, always alone, always unanswered. Do you know what it's like to love someone so much that if you don't have their love you don't care about eating or sleeping or looking at beautiful strangers in the subway? I don't know if you do but I'll tell you what the worst part is: having to go to sleep at night. Because you can't really go to sleep and get any rest. You keep waking up ever half hour. Thinking of her. Of you. Of the way you move your head, the things you might say to me if you just gave yourself the chance to know me so maybe you'd feel the same way. It's exquisite, I'll tell you, and I wish these feelings would make up their minds: go away or love me back! Please, let me in. Let me just talk to you for a while. I want you to talk to me too, to let me know how you feel." The iron anvil released some of it's pressure from his skull. The ranting monkey hung by his tawdry, invisible apron strings and took a loud, smelly shit. "Please...Bea."
She was neither alarmed nor pleased. Nor surprised. Many strange men had shown up on her porch speaking similar words, although admittedly this one smelled a lot worse than the others. He was also handsomer. She looked at him with an expression of maternal care. Big blue eyes broadcasted sympathy and warmth. And underneath, what? Passion? Maybe.
"Why don't you come in?". Her voice was shrill and throaty. She may have been a blues singer if she put her mind to it.
"Is...is 'he' here?", he managed.
"Who? Andy? Why, no. He's off somewhere. I couldn't tell you where, though. That man would lose his balls if they weren't attached.. Come in, come in."
She took him by the arm and gently led him inside. The place was just what he'd expected, no known, it would be. Classic Early American. Pine scented cleaner permeated a dust rag on one end table. Odors of home-cooked meals were ingrained in the pores of the walls. He might have been in heaven. "Now sit down and let me get you something hot to eat. I've got some delicious homemade soup..." "No. Thank you." He set himself down in a cushion of a maroon armchair and looked at her. Control, up till now fickle and elusive, was finally returning. "Please", he begged, "sit down. I've got to talk with you."
"Why of course." she said. "Whatever you like."
He lay the full length of his spine into that of the chair and sighed. She really was the most beautiful woman in the world. The dull clothes she wore were unable to hide the subtle curves or the huge, shapely breasts that tremoloed underneath like reverb on an amplifier. He watched her ample bosom rise and fall like the salty tide. Hugh, thick nipples cast themselves proudly up from the sea, starfish hungry for sunlight and asking for his hand to take them closer to God. The soft white skin of her smooth belly pressed against the middle of her skirt and made his captain grow hard and brave.
"I want you. I want to take you away from this place. I want to be your master and your slave. Do you understand? I want to be your worshiping man."
"But I don't want a slave!', she exclaimed, almost haughtily.
"Anything you want", he interjected. "I'll be anything you want. So long as I can be free to taste you and share our spirits and mingle our souls forever." She looked at him in what seemed to him was disbelief. It was as if she believed she wasn't worth anything like this. He saw this and walked over to her. Taking her face in the soft palms of his hands, he caressed her smooth brown curls with the tips of his fingers. Then he planted a lovers kiss on her full, open lips. The power of the kiss, so intense, needed no caressing tongue, only a tender suction of the lips and the mutual caress of their breath. He let his hands fall onto the lips of her buttocks and pressed his hungry digits into the skin and flesh that was close to her spine. Like a nervous lover, he opened his eyes and looked at her face. Her eyelids were gently shut. Her lips were slightly open, waiting to receive his host.
"Oh, no. Please don't stop.", she breathed quietly into his face. Her voice was earthy, weak from the feeling he was kindling inside her. "Nobody...nobody ever..." His insides, it must have been a part of his soul, the part that fell in love, screamed in triumph. "Take a chance and win!", they said to him joyously. He saw her eyes open and look into his. "Everything's OK", he breathed. "Everything's just great." He reached down and gently peeled off the top of her drab green dress so that she wore nothing but a drab green flower print apron. In front of him were the fullest, softest, whitest breasts known to man. He pushed his strained mouth over a turgid, blood- warmed nipple-areole combo and sucked with a gentle ferocity. The skin of her huge gland pressed against his clean-shaven cheek. He could feel her moving the tender monstrosities over and against the minute stubble on his face. He heard the moans emanate from her chest before they reached her throat and exited her mouth with a fothy trembling sound. They were rich and deep, thick as molasses and warm as sunshine. He cupped his mouth over hers and sucked her pleasure gasps into his chest. He wanted to suck her soul into the fabric of his blood. How could a woman be so passive and yet so sexy?
Time was a dimension that faded and went away. Like a voyeur, he found himself removing her granny smith apron. It slipped off easily, and he felt proud. Laying her down on the rough hewn rug, his groin stretched and pulled itself out at the sight of the woman who wore no underthings. He strained himself into her, but could not close his eyes. The heavy, rhythmic breathing of the soft, full woman's body he was inside of hypnotized him. In a fit of ecstasy, he slid his penis through to her cervix and cried out in an uninhibited fit of joy. They screamed together like two beasts mating in the forest, giving in to instinct but still filled with love. Hands caressed parts that were no longer private but shared. A thick-walled pressing held on to sanity by a slowly breaking thread, and a mad, howling penis was sucked into a warm cavity which could have, but did not, give him life. Thrusting thighs mixed and entangled. Skillful tongues exchanged rough, desperate embraces. Precious fluids mingled and spread over two shades of skin. Fingers probed dark canals where heat was made and private secrets lay. And two different bodies hot with instinctual desire melted into each other.
Suddenly, he felt a tight, squeezing sensation inside his lover's hefting mound. Her moans became louder, then transformed into screams of frantic release. The feedback of the intense pleasure he felt stirred a force that began at the base of his groin and stretched out into his thighs, his stomach, and then his chest. She poured and pounded her lily-white crotch against his own damp entanglement, and he felt her soft buttocks squeeze themselves tightly against the dripping tips of his own buns. A racking, psychotic sensation of pain and pleasure shot through her and into him. Together they shook uncontrollably. As she released a yell from her frantically heaving chest, he felt something inside his body draw his balls high up into his groin. He thrust his gnarled staff to it's limit and felt it fill with steaming, ready semen. Bea closed her shivering thighs tightly over his buttocks, screamed, and raised her belly high up into the air, lifting his abdomen with hers. The womanly power grinding and thrusting underneath him stretched out and clamped over his body like a living piece of steel. He curled his toes, slammed his mouth against hers, and ejaculated powerful spurts into the open, accepting body that knew no word other than his name.
The tender, post-climactic caresses and loving coos he expected never came. Instead, he heard the unexpected sharp click behind his ear. He turned his head and reluctantly welcomed the sleek steel muzzle of an abnormally long shotgun. What had been such intense pleasure just moments ago drained into a desperate fear that recognizes the first name of Death. Underneath him was a dead lover with a heart exploded by hormones. Above him was the all-powerful shadow of Andy. At his side, staring freckled faced and wide-eyed, was the little red haired boy. "What do you think we ought ta do with him, Pop?", he said in a rough, high-pitched voice skewered by thin drops of phlegm. "Don't rightly know, Opie. But it sure seems to me that this here stranger just killed our Aunt Bea." Andy looked emotionlessly into the miserable man's eyes. "Can't figure out what the two of them were doin' down there, both their clothes off and all. What do you make of it, Ope?"
"I don't rightly know Pa. I never seen nothin' like it before. Maybe they was playin' a game o' somekind." He cocked his head, confused. "You ain't gonna kill him, are ya?", Opie asked.
"Sure's you can bet this here's Mayberry, I'm gonna splatter that poor boy's brains all over your aunts nice, new rug."
Oh, wow!", Opie chimed, excitedly. "Neat!"
"No. Please don't" whimpered the stranger. Andy shook his head good-naturedly, smiled a matching row of perfect, straight teeth, and pulled the trigger. The man's face lost its expression and cracked in two like a rotten coconut.
The patrolman stood in the cold, New York rain and looked down tiredly at the man on the ground. He was dead. "I don't know, Lieutenant. I heard noises down here - sounded like a couple of kids hanging a goddam cat or something. I turned off from West 110th and saw this guy lying naked on the pavement, playing with himself and yelling at the top of his lungs. Sounded like he was saying something about bees. Next thing I know, he gets real quiet, like someone was holdin' a friggin' gun to his head. Then his head splits in two, just like that, and he dies. There ain't no more bees in New York, Lieutenant." The plainclothesman looked sadly at the ground. He put his arm around the patrolman's shoulder and sighed. "No, Bates. You don't understand. He was talking about Aunt Bea.
