Chapter 15
They took the path train to Jersey City, going under the river in what had once been called the Hudson Tubes. Mugsy's bar was three blocks from the end of the line; it was a grubby-looking establishment with a dirty front window and a large cluster of high-powered motorcycles parked along the curb and on the sidewalk.
A juke box was playing when Elvira led Peter, Hamp and Wiffie inside. "Hey, gang!" she called out to the motley crew assembled in the dingy room.
"Elvira! You horny chick!" The source of the bellow came toward them; it was a gangling, greasy-haired man of twenty-eight or thirty, on the lean side but with wiry muscles in the bare arms that extended from his sleeveless denim jacket. "You old cunt, you!" he said as he tickled Elvira's crotch through her tight-fitting jeans.
"Horse, I want you to meet Peter, Hamp and
Wiffie," Elvira said. She waved back and forth from the cyclist to her friends. "Kids, this is Horse, leader of the gang. He's got the biggest rocks in Jersey City. That's why they call his gang Horse's Balls."
"I got the biggest cock, too, baby," the leader said, pressing his bulging groin against the girl. "Don't forget to tell 'em that."
Elvira laughed. "I'll bet they'll be seeing that soon enough."
Horse led them all to the bar and waved to the bartender, who immediately poured five beers. "Drink," Horse told them as he handed a stein to each of his guests. "It's on the house. Right, Mugsy?"
The bartender frowned, but then nodded affirmatively, shrugging his shoulders.
Horse told a group of grimy cyclists around a table to make room, and they did so, some girls sitting in the men's laps to free three chairs. Wiffie sat on Hamp's lap and Elvira on the knees of Horse; Peter was saddled with a heavy-bosomed chick in faded denim coveralls who had shit embroidered across her chest. She was half-drunk and apparently high on some drug as well, and paid little attention to Peter once she had plopped down on his skinny thighs.
Elvira chatted with the Horse for a while, gossiping about old friends. Peter, Hamp and Wiffie looked on, feeling a mixture of uneasiness and boredom. Then their eyes widened as they watched Elvira unzip Horse's dungarees and draw forth what must indeed have been the world's most gigantic cock.
It was absolutely stupendous in size. It was at least nine inches long in its flaccid state, with a thickness of perhaps one and a half inches. It seemed to be jointed in two places, as though three normal pricks had somehow grown-together to make one giant-sized model. And as Elvira caressed its baseball-like tip, the super prick began to swell even larger, finally reaching out a good twelve inches, and achieving in diameter at its thickest point.
"I don't believe it!" Hamp's jaw hung open in amazement.
"Christ!" Peter breathed, unable to tear his eyes from the monstrous organ.
Wiffie said nothing, merely staring at the prick in hypnotic fright. There was something radiantly evil about a tool of such great size; it was as if Horse had acquired the penis of Satan himself.
"Let's show 'em how it works, Horse," Elvira said with a chuckle as she got off his knees. She headed for a door leading to the back of the building, and Horse, his prick bobbing before him, walked along behind her.
Peter boosted the glaze-eyed girl off his lap and followed eagerly, and Hamp and Wiffie, after a questioning look passed between them, rose and went along. They had come this far with Elvira; somehow it would seem rude to turn away from their new friend-and from Peter-now. They both felt certain, however, that whatever was about to happen in the backroom of Mugsy's bar would be thoroughly distasteful. Without words, they shared-and knew they shared-an awareness that Elvira, Peter and the freakish Horse were leading them into a new phase of their life together.
The backroom contained an ancient, battered pool table and a shielded bare bulb suspended from the ceiling; nothing more. There was an open door leading outside, and Elvira, saying curtly, "Wait here," went through it and disappeared.
Horse leaned against the pool table, his organ extending stiffly from his fly, and a slow grin spread over his lean, rat-like face. Peter, Hamp and Wiffie waited in silence, looking uneasily at one another and out into the darkness where Elvira had gone.
She returned only moments later, and she was leading a huge and very bedraggled looking St. Bernard dog, grasping the thick ruff about its neck and coaxing it softly. "It's a female," she said as she closed the door. "Hangs around here all the time, and Horse keeps saying he's going to screw it someday. Now's your chance, Horse. I promised my friends I'd show them a wild time today, so how's this for starters?"
"Sure, baby. Why not? You want to call the crowd?"
Elvira opened the door to the barroom and called out, "Dog show, gang!"
"Dog show!" the words swept around the room and everyone smiled and stood up eagerly. It was something familiar but unusual, apparently; a very special occasion. The cyclists and their girls picked up their beers and crowded toward the backroom.
Soon the room was packed, and befogged with the heavy smoke of pot and tobacco. Elvira locked both doors, and with the help of two of Horse's cronies, hoisted the bewildered St. Bernard onto the pool table. The dog stood quivering, turning her head in all directions to eye this rabble of humans who were suddenly so attentive to her.
Horse, meanwhile, had shed his boots and trousers. Wearing only the sleeveless denim jackets with the swastika on its back, he now leapt onto the table beside the dog, clasping his hands above his head boxer style as the crowd cheered and whistled.
Elvira produced a tube of lubricant from somewhere, and passed it up to Horse, who squeezed a gob onto his fingers; he bent and gripped the dog's broad haunches between his left thigh and upper arm, and began to smear the jelly onto the flaccid cunt lips of the massive bitch. When she struggled forward out of his grasp, whining in perplexed discomfort, he gestured to the closest cyclists, and they grabbed the dog by all four legs, holding her in place. Another whipped off a wide, metal-studded leather belt and looped it about the dog's muzzle.
Horse finished his preparations on the quivering St. Bernard, who could now only switch her hips nervously. Her tail tried to curl between her legs, but Horse held it aside. Wiffie and Hamp watched a dribble of urine fall from the frightened beast's genitals.
Now the grinning Horse spread lubricant on his monstrous phallic knob and along the vast length of the organ's shaft. The crowd was hushed as he went to his knees behind the helpless animal, grasped his shiny prick in both hands and angled it toward the dog's vagina. He drew his hips back and hobbled closer, then thrust forward abruptly. The bulbous cock head struck and stuck at the opening, and when he tried to plunge it in, grabbing handfuls of hair on the dog's flanks and jerking her torso back against him, it was in vain.
The St. Bernard whimpered and writhed, but was held fast, and Horse continued to strain forward, his organ reddening, sweat breaking out on his brow.
At last he gave up. "The fuckin' dog's too small," he muttered, clouting the animal across the hindquarters.
"They're always too small," one of the cyclists called out. "What you need is a cow!"
The crowd laughed, but the laughter died rapidly when it became obvious that Horse was about to try again.
Picking up the tube of lubricant, he slathered his fingers again, and coated his cock more heavily. But when he applied a gob to the trembling bitch, his target was higher-the puckered ring directly below her tail. He plunged two fingers in, causing a violent shudder and a squeal of pain.
Horse smiled grimly, his lips drawn back from yellowed teeth. He stood up now, and bent over the dog's broad back, positioning his prick's head against her anus. Sinking his hands into her ruff for a firm grip, he pushed forward slowly and steadily.
The dog's tissues resisted at first, but finally gave way to the pressure. The head and perhaps three inches of shaft sank out of sight.
The dog's front legs gave way, her chest and head thudding to the felt of the table, and the motion pulled Horse off balance. But he responded with a new thrust of his hips, his bent legs straining, and the huge organ was driven in another six inches.
Blood began to seep from the raw-looking ring of flesh that gripped Horse's cock. The dog's quivering had stopped, and its eyes were closed. Horse lunged again, gaining another two inches depth and perhaps an inch of circumference, as the fullest thickness of the shaft began to enter.
"Fuck it to death, baby!" one of the girls called, and with that the gang began a rhythmic clapping.
All their eyes were fixed on the grisly point of contact between their leader's gigantic tool and the St. Bernard's torn, tortured anus. Their faces were twisted by leering, insane grins.
Hamp's expression could only be described as stunned, but his eyes too were fastened on the gory spectacle. Wiffie was covering her eyes and pressing her face to Hamp's shoulder. Her body shook with heavy sobs. "The poor dog!" she whispered. Hamp heard, and slid his arm around her waist, but still seemed compelled to watch.
Horse plugged away at the half-conscious animal beneath him with powerful strokes, his penis now moving in and out of her bowel to the extent of several inches, gradually gaining new depth on the forward lunges. Blood flowed more heavily now, smearing his abdomen and matting his pubic hair. From behind him, one could see between his thighs to where the red fluid dripped from his bulky, low-slung balls, to puddle on the worn felt of the table.
Suddenly a new spasm shook the dog, and its hind legs collapsed. Horse fell with it, still embedded, and jabbed his prick forward in a series of rapid lunges, his face contorting with climax.
As he pulled out, the St. Bernard's body twitched once, eerily, and a strangled growl came from its throat. Then her whole form seemed to slump and shrink a little, and the onlookers knew she was dead.
Horse wiped his flaccid organ with a T-shirt which one of the cyclists proffered. He tossed this bloody trophy to a chick near the table, and in return, tore off her blouse and used it to mop up the blood that covered the front of his lower body. Then he took his trousers from another cyclist and sat on the table's edge to put them on. Two of the girls worshipfully put his boots on his feet.
"Let's go ridin'! " Horse bellowed as he stood up. A roar of agreement went up, and the gang surged through the door to the barroom, heading outside.
Peter, Hamp and Wiffie hung back. "Pretty grim, huh?" said Peter; but there was a glint of excitement in his eyes.
"Revolting," Hamp muttered. He turned away from Peter to embrace Wiffie, who was still sobbing.
Elvira stuck her head in then, and called, "Come on, dammit! We're goin' for a ride!" Peter followed her immediately.
"Wiffie.. . ? " Hamp said. But she could not or would not answer; she stood trembling in his arms, her hands pressed to her face.
She let Hamp guide her through the empty barroom and outside, where four of the cyclists waited, their bikes rumbling in readiness. Peter was mounted behind one of them.
When Elvira grabbed Wiffie's arm and began to pull her toward the closest motorcycle, Hamp tried to protest. But his words were drowned by the roar of the machines, and Wiffie seemed willing to be led, and to be pushed onto the seat of the bike, behind its long-haired, bare-to-the-waist driver.
Resigned, Hamp straddled the bike next to her, and when Elvira had climbed on behind the fourth cyclist, they roared off into the night.
The careening, deafening ride was merely frightening to Hamp, and his worry was increased as he looked ahead at Wiffie, who still appeared numbed by shock and was only holding on loosely to the belt of the cyclist before her. At every turn, he expected to see her thrown from the speeding bike.
Elvira rode closest to Hamp, and she appeared to be building to an orgasm as she clung to her driver, her thighs grasping the seat tightly, her eyes closed, her hips grinding slightly to rub her crotch into the leather saddle.
Perhaps twenty minutes later, the cycles swung off the highway onto a dirt road. Here all four moved side by side, as clouds of dust billowed behind them. They came soon to a battered shack in a grove of trees. The other cycles were parked in deep grass beside it, and flickering dim light shone through the open door and a single glassless window.
Hamp put his arm about Wiffie as she dismounted, and she looked into his eyes with an expression of mournful resignation as they followed the others inside, to be greeted once more by the smells of dirty bodies and burning pot.
Most of the men were in various stages of undress. Some had stripped completely, while others had merely taken off their trousers or let their cocks pop out of their open flies. The girls had stripped from waist to ankles, for the most part, and were either being fucked or working up to it.
Horse was kneeling in front of a tall, long-haired girl, his face buried in her crotch. He was licking and sucking furiously, and his right hand gripped a soggy tampon which he had apparently pulled from the girl's cunt.
Elvira immediately shed her sweater and jeans and went into a corner with the cyclist who had brought her to the shack. She put her arms around his neck as he literally tore her bra from her body and unzipped his fly, poking his penis past the sagging leg band of her worn panties and into her juice-filled cunt.
Hamp and Wiffie looked on, struck dumb by the immensity of the orgy which surrounded them. Then Hamp whispered, "Come on. Let's stay outside."
As they turned back toward the door, Horse looked up from his girl friend's bloody cunt and called out to them. "Hey, where are you two goin'? Come join the fun."
"No thanks," Hamp called back. "I'm afraid this is a bit too wild for us."
"Your friend seems to be enjoying it," Horse retorted, waving toward Peter, who was being blown by a dark-haired girl dressed in black vinyl. Peter's eyes were closed, and his hands were clasped beneath his balls as he pressed his loins against the face of the gurgling, prick-swallowing girl.
Hamp and Wiffie didn't reply. They went outside and walked around to the rear of the shack, where Wiffie collapsed against Hamp's chest and began to sob again as Hamp gently stroked her hair.
"It's so horrible!" she moaned. "Especially what they did to that poor dog!"
"I know." He took her face in his hands and lifted it so he could kiss her lightly on the lips. "I wish I knew where we were, so we could get a bus or a cab or something and try to get home."
Suddenly they were interrupted by a wild-eyed cyclist who was obviously high on some drug. "Come on inside, man," he slurred, grabbing Hamp's arm. "You take my chick and I'll borrow yours."
"No thanks." Hamp pulled away.
"Look, man, I said I want to trade chicks. Now don't tell me you don't want to fuck my chick."
"I said no thanks."
"That's not nice, fella." The cyclist's eyes had taken on an evil glint, and he now spoke softly and distinctly, spitting out each word in a vicious tone. "We're all friends here, buddy. We share and share alike. You should have figured on that when you came along."
"I guess we didn't know what we were getting into," Hamp said politely, hoping the hophead would give up and go away.
"like shit, you didn't!" In one motion, the cyclist yanked a motorcycle drive chain from the belt loops of his trousers and whipped Hamp across the face with it. Hamp lurched back, his face bleeding profusely, and Wiffie tried to grab him as he tripped and fell to the ground.
"Leave him alone!" Wiffie cried. The cyclist was now swinging the chain lariat-like above his head. "Out of the way, bitch," he hissed.
Wiffie didn't move; she was rooted to the ground with fear. The cyclist stared at her for a moment, then reached out and grabbed her arm before she could draw it away. He squeezed it till Wiffie cried out in pain. Then he threw her to the ground and moved in on Hamp, who was groggily trying to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve.
The cyclist kicked him in the stomach, and Hamp curled up in agony. Then the maniac kicked him again, and this time the tip of his boot slid between Hamp's thighs and hit his balls. Hamp cried out, but his scream subsided to a moan as the cyclist kicked him in the head, knocking him unconscious.
"Sorry about your boy friend, baby," the man muttered as he stalked toward Wiffie, who was back on her feet a few feet away, her eyes wide with fright, her feet still unable to transport her from the horrible scene. "I'm going to fuck you, kid. I'm going to put my big greasy cock in your tight little cunt and fuck you till your juice turns to motorcycle oil and your tits swell up like tires."
He unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock, then cast off his denim jacket to reveal a sweaty chest, hairless, with a tattoo reading God Sucks. He made a lunge for Wiffie and forced her to the ground, pushing her skirt up and trying to wrench her panties down her legs. Wiffie held her knees together and screamed.
The madman drew a knife from the pocket of his jeans. He pressed a button on its side and a blade snapped out from the case. Slowly and carefully, he slipped the tip of the blade beneath one of the leg-bands of her panties.
"Lie still," he told her. "You take it real easy, or you'll get your clit cut off. Do you hear me?" Wiffie obeyed, trying to keep her body from shaking with fright. She wept in tiny, almost inaudible sobs as she felt the blade sever the crotch of her panties and then move away from her organs and up to her throat.
"Hold still, now," he said again. "Just relax and enjoy it. You look like the kind of chick that could use a good screwing."
He spread her legs with one hand and knelt between her thighs, then fell forward to ram his prick into her vagina in a single rending stroke. He fucked hard, fucked her so that she cried out in pain again and again. He forced her lips down on hers and pushed his tongue into her mouth. He tasted of garlic and cigarettes, and Wiffie almost retched as his tongue raped its way past her teeth.
Finally he grunted and stopped his fucking motions, apparently having reached a feeble climax. "Wasn't much of a fuck, was it?" he said as he pulled his soggy organ from Wiffie's vagina. "It wasn't much of a fuck at all. Well, what can a guy expect from an uptight chick like you?" The cyclist got up and pushed his penis back into his trousers, zipped his fly and spat on the ground. "So long, baby," he said as he walked off.
Wiffie lay still, sobbing, then rolled over so that she could bury her face in the grass as she wept. After a while she felt a hand on her buttocks. She looked up and saw Hamp, his face disfigured by a long gash which was coated with congealed blood and dirt.
"Are you all right, Wiffie?" he asked in a solemn voice.
"Oh, Hamp!"
"Jesus Christ," he moaned suddenly. And with that he buried his face in his hands and wept with long, body-racking sobs.
"I'm sorry, Wiffie! God! I couldn't even protect you from that punk!"
"It's all right, Hamp." Wiffie turned on her side and began to stroke his head, trying not to touch the gash.
They lay there for perhaps half an hour. Finally they managed to get up, and headed out across open marshland until they reached a two lane paved road. In time, a truck came by and the driver, seeing the disheveled and bloody couple at the roadside, took pity and gave them a lift to Newark, where they took a cab into Manhattan and to the apartment.