Chapter 6
Nan floated dreamily down in the elevator and drifted out of The Towers in a warm fog of sexual euphoria. As the glass doors clicked into place behind her, she was hardly aware of the soft chuckle that drifted from the speaker grille.
I may have just died and gone to heaven, she thought as she stood on the sidewalk, seeing nothing, allowing the warm Southern California breeze to waft up beneath her minidress to dry her still-moist, bare pussy. Her romp with Mary on the furry couch had been singularly satisfying for two reasons, Nan decided. First, it had been absolutely blissful, and second, she now felt as if she were physically and psychologically closer to Mae Gail Jetty.
And it was so very important for her to capture that great lady's real character and makeup before they were forever entombed in the stuff of mythology. All the good she did must not be allowed to completely submerge the rest of her being. And neither, Nan decided, must the memory of any of her early peccadilloes be permitted to taint the good things of Mae Gail Jetty.
In order to decide how much to reveal in print, Nan first had to see the woman's memoirs and films. And to see them, she first had to get the key to the Jetty mansion. And in order to obtain the key, she must... Bitter, sick humiliation washed over her and she nearly gagged. But, she decided, what must be must be. Turning, she began the short walk to her car. And instantly froze.
Leaning against a lamppost near Nan's car and failing miserably to be inconspicuous, was Aaron Stemfelder, cur extraordinary and curse of the journalistic world.
So! The Telegram was onto the story of Mae Gail Jetty, and it had assigned its most tenacious and least-principled reporter to the job. The long, skinny, lazy bastard hadn't even the courage and determination to dig up his own yarn-he much preferred to ooze along in Nan's wake until the proper moment, then step in, seize the dirt, and blast the Jetty memory to smithereens.
How much Stemfelder knew or guessed, Nan couldn't know, but she was sure as hell not going to give him any more without a fight. Turning on her heel, she marched away from her car and down the sidewalk. Glancing in a store window, she could see the reflection of Stemfelder shuffling along behind her at an indiscreet twenty paces. The rat doesn't want to play ditchit, she thought, so I'll have to lose him another way.
Ducking quickly into a women's shop next to an alley, Nan marched straight through the shop and into the restroom at the rear. Since she was in a John, she took advantage of the appliances, then looked for a bolt-hole. Sure enough, there was a delivery entrance onto the alley at the side of the small stockroom. Opening it, she stepped into a typical box-and-garbage-can-strewn alley and let the door click shut. As insurance, she stayed close to the wall and jammed a tall wooden box against the outer doorknob. There, she decided, that'll hold him while I go around a few blocks and sneak back to my car. Then she turned and for the first time discovered she'd stepped into a blind alley.
Caught like a stupid little rat in a trap... impaled on her own blithering incompetence. Ever since she'd begun this assignment she'd been walking headfirst into self-made stupid situations and here she was again, hung out to dry. This time, worst of all, she'd fouled up and made herself appear stupid in a duel with another newspaper reporter. And, she decided, she really was stupid.
Her mental self-flagellation was halted by the appearance of an elongated shadow at the open end of the alley. Stemfelder had caught onto her gambit more quickly than she would have believed. Now what? She couldn't just mosey out of the alley past him, whistling a merry tune. He already knew what a dumb little broad she was. Frantically, she reached for the store's doorknob. Locked, naturally. Then she saw it.
Near the rear of the alley stood a huge wooden beer barrel with piles of wooden crates alongside it. A wooden lid was on top of the barrel which looked big enough to hold Nan. Now if only it wasn't full of trash... She ran to it, climbed the boxes alongside, raised the lid, and peered in. Thank heaven it was empty save for an untidy pile of discarded clothing at the bottom. Sliding her legs over the barrel's rim, Nan dropped in.
Peter Dingle knew he had lived through another night of besotted bliss and was awakening, because he was aware of light passing through a knothole and his cock was beginning to stiffen.
For nearly twenty years, since he'd given up the pretense of being a mere mortal and had given himself over to the delights of a daily quart of wine, Peter Dingle had slept every night in this same beer barrel and had greeted each new day with a self-satisfying masturbation.
During those two decades he had neither toiled, nor had he been cold sober. Also, he'd not bathed, had changed clothes only once that he was sure of, and had never shaved or had his hair cut. In fact, all he had done was to occasionally move his barrel from one alley to another when it became painfully apparent that either the police or the Salvation Army had discovered where he was holed up. Both had been after Peter Dingle for twenty years, and he was certain both had a price on his head.
This morning was no different than any other and it could be no different. At exactly 11 a. m. sunlight entered a knothole in the side of his barrel, awakening him. He would jack off for approximately seven minutes, cum explosively through the knothole, take a short nap, then leave his barrel long enough to swipe or panhandle a quart of wine. That was the ordained order of things and that was exactly how Peter Dingle liked things to be.
In two decades there had been but one worthwhile variation. On that delightful occasion, an uncertain number of mornings ago, a tomcat had been passing his barrel's knothole just at the moment of truth and had been whitewashed into shrieking flight. Ah, no matter. That was another time, in another alley. This was today, and he was here, and his swelling cock awaited proper attention.
Stroking it, he let himself fall into creative reverie. What fantasy should it be for today? The queen of Spain? The fat lady in the circus? The sexy midget? Yes, that was it. The sexy midget. No such creature existed, of course, but Peter Dingle and his imaginative cock liked to think so. A true living doll, tiny, perfectly proportioned and with a cunt desirous of being filled. Yes, that was the perfect one. His mind built an image of her and his fingers wrapped gently but firmly around the shaft of his cock. This will be a classic jackoff, he told himself dreamily as he began to pull slowly upon his staff of life.
Then everything fell apart at once. There was a terrible shaking and rattling of the boxes next to Peter's barrel-so shocking that he broke his rhythm. As if that weren't bad enough, the cover of his barrel was suddenly and unceremoniously lifted and the barrel moved slightly as somebody first looked in, then entered.
It was one of those rare moments that pass in extreme slow motion, so that each nuance is transmitted from the eye to the brain. Peter's hand never left his cock, and his mind came only halfway out of its fantasizing. But he cast one eye balefully upward. There, suspended in midair above his head, drifting slowly down toward him, was a cunt. He hadn't seen one in twenty years, but Peter's memory was fairly sharp on such things, and, by the Great Horned Spoon, that was a cunt if ever he'd seen one. To port and starboard of the delightful, muff-covered crease were creamy thighs, and above all billowed what appeared to be a green parachute.
Could he, indeed, have died during the night? Had he crossed the Styx all unbeknownst and entered into his final reward? Unlikely, he decided. The female apparition descending toward him had the proper holes in the proper places, and he was sure they wouldn't have in the sort of hell reserved for him.
So this must still be earth, and Peter Dingle must still be alive. And for some reason, the Almighty was answering the prayers of inconsequential little Irish winos this particular morning. Peter had no idea why this female of the species with the bare snatch had been dropped through the lid of his barrel, but he wasn't the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth, or a gift piece of ass in the reasons.
"Thank you, sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Peter muttered, crossing himself. At the last instant he remembered to toss in a postscript of thanks to St. Patrick, then he reached up and let his hand enfold the descending cunt and bottom just above his head and guided it toward his madly throbbing cock.
The cunt and its surrounding hairs were soft, warm, and moist, exactly as Peter Dingle had remembered them. The lips were so moist that his middle finger slipped between them with no difficulty at all as he guided the creature downward. Heaven be praised, as he lowered the cunt into his bailiwick, it was followed by a sexy midget. This was, indeed, a day of complete miracles. A day to rival cumming on a tomcat. She was perfect. Tiny, beautiful, round, small-waisted and big titted. He sat her sideways on his stomach just as she was preparing to let out a scream of shocked outrage, which he saw coming, and clapped his hand over her nose and mouth.
"Whoa, there, m'love," he croaked obscenely into her ear, taking a tiny nibble at the lobe. "God's gifts aren't to balk at being accepted."
A look of sick terror crossed the tiny creature's lovely face and her eyes bulged hideously, as if she were about to vent her gorge at the sight, sound, and odor of Peter Dingle. That, in fact, was what Nan was about to do, but he quashed the idea when he peered through his knothole and whispered, "So that's what it's about. You're being chased. Softly, now, m'dear. He's at the far end of the alley, but he's coming in. Stay very, very, still, and he'll never suspect you're in here with old Peter Dingle."
A wine-soaked individual he might be, and most wretched of God's creatures he certainly was, but Peter Dingle was no idiot, and he put two and two together with amazing alacrity. What it added up to was that this lovely little leprechaun on his lap, and whose pussy he was massaging, was being chased by the cur in the alley and that he, Peter Dingle, was in the agreeable position of being able to offer sanctuary in exchange for nookie.
"Ah, my dear child, 'tis one of Satan's own dark demons, that creature that's pursuing you," Peter purred, his voice assuming the well-oiled tones of an expert in retirement and his finger moving about, exploring the delightful recesses of her cunt. "But you needn't be fearing him. We'll see that you stay nice and safe. Just slide about here, m'love and make yourself comfortable." Reluctantly removing his hand from her cunt, Peter softly took her knee and passed it over his head, so that she sat facing him. As he did so, her delightful love nest winked invitingly at him, and his cock bucked and snorted in anticipation.
Why me, God? Nan screamed in the silent cavity of her mind. How and why can this be happening to me? The shock had overwhelmed her when she realized the heap of filthy rags at the bottom of the barrel had come to life, so that everything else to this point had come as something of an anticlimax. The hand grabbing her cunt, the finger entering it, the unbelievable, overwhelming stench at the bottom of the barrel, the filthy hand that smelled of unwashed genitals clapped over her mouth, the rasping voice from the hideous, white-bearded face opposite her, then the smooth invitation to share the monster's safety had been rapidly descending shocks.
Now this. Her leg passing over his head and his red-rimmed eyes gazing rheumily at her cunt, then finding herself being adjusted onto his lap again. She was had, and she knew it.
No escape. The rat was in the trap once again through blind stupidity, and Nan knew once again her cunt was going to be the supreme victim of her ignorance.
"Now then, m'love," the ripe old one cooed, "you most surely don't want to make any noise and let that creature out there know you're in here with old Peter Dingle." He removed his putrid hand from her mouth and Nan remained silent, taking in great gulps of air, "I thought not," he said, putting both hands under her bottom and lifting her. "There, now, that's better, isn't it?" As he lowered her, Nan felt her cunt being invaded by a cock that, since she couldn't see it in the dark, was made huge by her imagination. And it was big. Peter had built it by hand and he had built well. Too well. A sheet of white-hot pain shot up Nan's cunt, past her womb and fairly ripped a screech of agony from her throat.
"Whoop, there, m'love, softly," Peter grated, releasing her bottom to clap his hand back over her mouth. Having been suddenly dropped, Nan fell all the way, driving Peter Dingle's huge cock past the hilt into her protesting pussy.
"Mmmmmmmrrrrnnnnnneuuuff," she silently bellowed as Peter's hand dammed up her mouth and kept the scream in. Since the pain couldn't escape through her mouth in the form of a scream, it vented through her asshole in the guise of a long, drawn-out, moist fart.
"Aaaaaaaahhhhhh," sighed Peter, "that's much better." With that he uncovered her mouth again and unbuttoned the front of her dress. "What's needed is a little frosting on the cake."
Nan sat quietly gasping, impaled on the monstrous cock of this obscene little old barrel-dweller, undecided whether she most wanted to vomit or die in agony at the pain of his root forcing its way into her womb. And now his hands were pawing at her dress and her bra-scratching and digging at her breasts, which suddenly came free as her bra was unhooked. As her pink-tipped pleasure mounds bounced out of her dress, Peter Dingle grabbed the closest one, raised it to his lips and sucked the nipple hungrily into his mouth. At the same time, his great cock, which had been at rest since it invaded her, bucked deep inside Nan, triggering nerve endings she didn't know she possessed, and which, together with the nerves in her breasts and the fact that her cunt had just been lovingly eaten, sabotaged her.
Both nipples shot straight out, one to be gripped by Peter Dingle's pinching fingers, the other to be nipped by his broken, yellowed teeth. At the same time, Nan's hips, working against her will, tried to rotate. Stop, goddamn you, she screamed in the mind at her traitorous breasts and cunt. Stop it this instant! There can be no pleasure in being raped by this obscene, inhuman slug of a thing. But her breasts sneered at her and went on enjoying being tweaked, sucked, and bitten. And at that moment her treacherous clitoris joined with her womb and hips, as the little member again rose from its foreskin, demanding its fair share of the booty.
"Uuuunnnnhhhhuuuuunnnnnhhhhh, uuuunnnnhhhh," Nan moaned in rhythm with the suction on her nipple and the throbbing of Dingle's cock deep within her and the more violent rotations and gyrations of her hips and ass. Dingle glanced out his knothole and removed her nipple from his mouth long enough to warn her to be still, that Stemfelder was still in the alley, but that he was rapidly losing interest.
Nan froze at the memory of the emaciated bastard who had pursued her straight onto the cock at the bottom of the barrel. For an instant she was half tempted to cry out for help and have Stemfelder rescue her from her impalement. But she knew she couldn't. To Nan being seen like this would have been even more humiliating than being forced upon Peter Dingle's peg.
And besides, her pussy, still half hungry from its eating, was at the point of totally sabotaging her. Under Mary's mouth, it had learned to pucker, to kiss while being kissed, and now it was experimenting with Peter Dingle's cock as it had toyed with Mary's tongue. First the lips of her cunt, then the whole passage, clear to hex; womb, was puckering around the big cock it enfolded, and sucking and fucking it deeper and deeper into her.
The lips of her cunt worked at the base of his cock and pulled his pubic hair, forcing his balls to scrunch up. Further down within the recesses of her, Nan's vaginal passage quivered and undulated like the sensuous gullet of a love serpent, playing with every inch of Dingle's long shaft, while at the head, the tiny opening of her womb contracted and expanded in rhythm with the lips of her cunt, nibbling maddeningly at the head of his cock.
"Oooooofffff," Dingle muttered. "Gently, girl, gently. I'm not as young as I once was. You'll kill me for sure. I can't fuck you back. Damn you, you little wench, your cunt's biting my cock off."
At that moment, thankfully for Nan, Stemfelder gave up in disgust, assuming she'd given him the slip and, in the heat of drink, wandered off in search of a bar.
Nan's cunt and breasts could no longer tolerate this soft, secret, quiet licking and dicking. They had to be fucked properly and they had to have it right now. Pulling back from Dingle she got his cock halfway out of her cunt and drove it back in once, twice, a third time.
"Oh, my God, lass, you're a real one, aren't you?" Dingle chortled, checking his knothole to make certain Nan's pursuer had given up the chase. "Well, then, m'dear, let's you and me give it a real fuck, shall we?" he said, backing all the way out of Nan, taking dead aim and driving his cock home with all the force of twenty years of wine-soaked masturbating behind it.
"Aaaaarrrrrrggghhhhhh," Nan screamed, as the swollen head of Dingle's cock shot the full length of her vaginal passage and tried to violate her uterus. "Sssstttooppp. Yoooouuuu'rree kiiillliiinnnnnnggggggg mee!" she howled.
"Nothing of the sort, old darlin'," Dingle cackled, pulling back and sliding his cock in and out just at the lips of Nan's blazing cunt. "Nothing of the sort. Just gettin' things well oiled for the fun to come." Placing his hands on Nan's ass, he slowly pulled her to him again, burying his cock in her without as much speed this time.
"Uuuuunnnnnggggghhhhh," she moaned, as her cunt again took up the task of slurping away at his cock.
"My sentiments exactly," Dingle said. "Now brace yourself, love, 'cause I'm ready to stop playing and start fucking."
Having declared his intentions, Dingle set about carrying them out. Gripping the cheeks of Nan's ass, he commenced a rhythmic humping, pumping and jumping, his cock slithering slimily the full length in and out of Nan's cunt, which fought furiously to foil its flight time then gleefully gobbled the whole great, globular gland at its next appearance.
Nan's hips and ass forced their way into the act with a slow, steady gyration that set Dingle all aquiver as her grasping cunt rolled this way and that, setting every nerve in his ruined old cock tingling. The two of them fucking in rhythm was more than any beer barrel was meant to bear, and it began a motion all its own, dancing first this way, then that, adding to the sensuous delights within.
Dingle's hands dug convulsively into the cheeks of Nan's ass again and again, and in desperation she gripped the barrel's staves with her fingers and toes, not daring to touch the repulsive old creature, but needing something to hang onto as she fucked him and was fucked to the quick by him.
Then one of his fingers probed between the cheeks of her ass and found the all too recently violated hole lying deep within the pale globes. His finger toyed at the edge of her asshole as his cock slid in and out, in and out of her cunt. Suddenly, without warning, he jammed his finger past the opening of her asshole and his cock rammed to the hilt so that his balls slapped the backs of her thighs all in one convulsive motion.
"Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhh," Nan screamed, as she convulsed like a frog touched by the wires from a battery. Her sudden leap, together with the torque of Dingle's drive was too much for the barrel, which gave up trying and-tipped over backward.
Suddenly Nan was flat on her back, with Dingle lying full on top of her, his finger jammed up her ass, his cock buried in her cunt and one of her breasts sucked halfway down his throat. His cock bucked as he rotated his hips, and her hips echoed the motion. Then the barrel joined in, rolling slowly first to port, then to starboard, accenting Dingle's every thrust and Nan's every parry. From slow gyrations, their tempo increased as the increased torque of the moving barrel drove Dingle's dangling dong deeper, ever deeper, into Nan's tortured, but desirous cunt.
Dingle got a second finger into Nan's asshole alongside the first one and her gyration increased. Suddenly she was on top, as the barrel rolled clear over, and it was she who drove with her hips and her torn ass, forcing Dingle's dick deeper and deeper into her slurping, smacking cunt.
Something was happening within Nan that was completely new to her. She'd had an orgasm a short time before under the educated lips and tongue of Mary, but this was something else again. Dingle's great cock was building a load of passion in her belly that fairly threatened to blast the top off her head when it finally came. And lord, how she wanted it to come. Digging her feet into the floor of the barrel, she bore down with all her might and weight, and Dingle responded by thrusting up at her, so that the top of the root of his cock slammed against her clitoris and it screamed for more and more and more.
The barrel rolled over again, putting Dingle back into the driver's seat. That old sot knew his stuff, and drove with an authority unseen in the Western world since the heyday of the great, boozy lechers of the Roman empire.
And yet again the barrel rolled, giving Nan command of the situation. But only for an instant, as she shoved her cunt around Dingle's cock. The barrel was now operating on its own initiative and it continued to roll up the alley toward the dead-end wall, giving Nan and Dingle a perfect ride, with one on top, fucking like mad, then the other on top doing the fucking. Fucking and groaning and building incredible backlogs of orgasmic passion, Dingle and Nan fucked up the alley in the slowly turning, tumbling barrel, with first one fucker and the other the fuckee, then with the tables turned.
The barrel hit the back wall of the alley and started back down toward the street at a tangent, gaining speed as it went, due to the natural slope of the alley toward the street, so that Nan and Dingle had to fuck with increasing speed during their brief times on top, in order to get maximum benefit out of the barrel's help.
Their speed and excitement only increased the barrel's speed, so that when it bounced off one wall of the alley and went spinning away in the other direction, Dingle's cock crashed into one wall of Nan's cunt and his teeth ripped at the nipple of her breast, giving them both sensations of sexual strangeness unknown before to man and only vaguely dreamed of by gibbons and such other free souls.
Nan felt orgasm welling within her as the barrel slewed around again and shot across the alley. Her cunt hung onto Dingle's cock for dear life as they rolled and tumbled together, and her heels dug into his ancient ass, further locking their bodies.
"Yaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhoooooooooo," Dingle yelled at the top of his lungs, as his huge cock pounded her cunt to tatters. "Ride 'em, cowboy. Here we go, little lady, here I come. Watch the top of your head."
"Iiii'mmmmmmm cooooommiiinnnngg!" Nan shrieked, doing it. At that moment the barrel, slewing, struck a wall dead on, and the twisting, driving motion forced its lid off and its passengers out the top, to lie shuddering in orgasmic unconsciousness on the pavement in the warm California sunshine.
Centuries later, Nan came to. Dingle's fingers had withdrawn from her asshole, his mouth had dropped her breast, and his cock, moments before a monstrous shaft, was slithering softly out of her cunt as it shrank. She became aware of the warm air wafting over her bare ass and breasts, then of the concrete pressing against her thigh. Then she got her first clear look at Peter Dingle, the grinning bundle of rags lying close beside her. She was horribly sick. Hauling her cunt away from his shriveling cock, she rolled over and vomited.
As she staggered to her feet and groped for her purse just inside the barrel, she heard Peter Dingle cackling. "By God," he said, "that's one no goddamned tomcat can equal."
Staggering blindly down the alley toward the street, Nan heard scraping sounds behind her. Peter Dingle had reerected his barrel and crawled back inside to await another gift from heaven or whatever else life and wine might bring him.