Chapter 9

The snake oil was in a bulbous clay jug with a hand-carved wooden stopper. It sat on the cocktail table, its small, brightly painted legends extending completely around the jug's fat middle.

"What's it made from?" Johnny demanded.

Monet did not even turn, her hands spreading the folded sheet on the sofa. "Snakes," she replied, as he were slightly retarded.

"What's it supposed to do for me?"

"Loosen up your legs. Revive muscles. Make you feel good. With my help, of course," she added, flexing her short fingers at him. "Well, ready or not-"

"Right through my damn pants?"

"Of course not. Here." She helped him up and tuned him so he could sit down on the sofa. Then she steadied him with her shoulder and unbuckled his belt, her fingers unzipping him with their usual speed. "Oh, my gOsh!"

Johnny chuckled, holding her close with one heavy arm. He had deliberately dressed that morning without shorts. As his trousers fell open, the long, meatily thick arc of his prick hung whitely from his dense pubic hair. Even as Monet stared, he flexed some muscles and his cock jerked. Monet was still for a moment, then as if forcing herself out of a trance, she turned and pushed him back. As he sat down, she knelt and pulled his trousers off.

"Smarty," she murmured. "You wore shorts yesterday."

He watched her expressionless face as she sat at the end of the folded sheet and arranged his right leg before bending his left at the knee and removing his sock. She was looking straight into his crotch, and he thought there was no doubt that her training made her completely aware of how balls looked-and how a scrotum devoid of balls looked. Monet reached for the little jug, removed the stopper and poured a little puddle of the clear oil in one palm. Then she turned her hand and smeared the substance along the underside of his leg. Then she smacked her palms together and began to massage his leg, starting at the juncture of his leg and torso. Her hand was less than an inch from his prick. Her fingers were very strong, almost painfully so, as she began to find and strip his thigh muscles, from high to low. She didn't hesitate until his cock began to thicken and straighten.

"Oho!" she exclaimed, holding her pressure in his muscles.

"What did you expect, Blanket-ass?"

"N-not that," she murmured. "I saw how you were cut-Hey, I want my mama!"

Johnny laughed. "No balls, no threat, huh?"

Her head tipped in a partial agreement. "Oh Johnny, I'm sorry! I mean, I'd have been a little more careful if I'd guessed you-you could respond! And can you respond!"

"Give you ideas, Blanket-ass?"

She giggled. "Not yet, but by the time I get these legs rubbed down, b-brother!"

"Get rubbing, time's awasting!"

By then his prick was well up, needing only the touch of a hand to turn into a straight up and out column of solid fire. He watched Monet, her face seemed not to change, but her hands on his oily thighs were slightly less firm and a little bit shaky. After a moment, his unattended cock began to relax a little because her massage was vitally effective and because she uncovered some deep sore spots with her fingers. That he was torturing her, he fully understood. She either wanted to do something with his organ or run from it, and he thought her legs were too short for much running. When she had properly mauled his leg, she shifted and applied oil to the other one. His backbone twitched at the slick and enveloping caress of her palms. The odor of the oil was strangely sweet, and what had been amusement to Johnny became something more intense. It was all he could do to keep from stroking his prick. The feeling of need, to stretch and comfort his foreskin and let his cock develop to its fullest, was powerful. But he waited. Monet suddenly wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. Then her two hands closed around the calf of his leg as if she were hanging onto a tree limb in a swirling torrent.

"You're a rat," she breathed.

"Are you about through with that fiddling around?"

"No," she replied. "I'm just getting started!"

She picked up the jug and puddled another spoonful or two into her right hand. Then, to his surprise, she leaned forward and gripped the middle of his prick with her dripping hand. After puting the jug down, she put her left hand to his cock, and his blood began to pound as the soft warm sheathing enveloped his penis from hairy root to thumping, blood-tight tip. She did not move toward him nor shift. She massaged and frigged his cock, rolling the foreskin back to coat every tiny crevice. Then he gasped as one group of gentle fingers went down and under and began to oil the ugly flap of skin where his testicles should have been. Now Monet was slowly jacking him off, her long smooth stroke varying in pressure as she moved from tip to root and back again.

"Say no when it gets too close, Johnny," she murmured.

"No," he lied.

Monet stood up, eyes burning down at him like latent coals. Her arms were oddly cocked so her oily hands would not soil her white uniform. Abruptly, she turned and went toward the bathroom. Johnny was a long way from orgasm, but he was even father away from joviality. His legs were hot from toes to groin, relaxed but somehow alive. The massaged-in oil was not just oil, he could feel some small smarting and penetration. And then the same little firings began to assault his prick. The irritation was suddenly intense, and he watched his cock jerk and twitch involuntarily, and the scarlet head turned a dark reddish-purple. The veins lying under the white foreskin pulsated, and then for the first time since Vietnam, he felt his scrotum begin to react. He wanted desperately to frig himself, but he could hear Monet and the sound of running water in the bathroom.

To Johnny's surprise, he seemed gripped in the throes of some marvelous sensation that not only burned hotly around his cock but was emanating from his legs, as if they had become sexually alert. He found himself panting, not with passion but with acute impatience. He started to reach for his throbbing cock, unable to wait any longer.

"No, Johnny! Don't get the oil on your fingers!" Monet warned from the door.

His jaw dropped at sight of her. She was stark naked from head to toe, her smooth, brown skin molded into Rubenesque roundness. She had taken down her hair and unbraided it, and it lay in thick black curtains around her shoulders, a few strands hanging over her small, blackly pointed tits. Her belly was slightly curved, and under the roundness, her pubic mound was thinly-hazed with curly black hair. He saw the top of her closely slotted cunt. It looked almost childish in its pressing. Now she walked around the sofa, and he would have not believed her ass was as perfect as it was. Out of her clothes, she was still short and sturdy, but the mobile planes and bulbs seemed precisely placed and balanced. She came to his side and stood, looking down at his furiously distended prick. He put an arm around her and filled his palm with the cheek of her solid ass.

"You're a rat, Johnny," she whispered.

"You said that before."

"Can you really fuck?"

His chuckle assured her.

"I'm glad, Johnny. I liked you-a lot the first time I saw you. I'm sorry about your balls, but a knocking-up I don't need, anyway!" She giggled as she sank down and lay alongside him, supporting her head on her palm so she could look at him. She made no attempt to kiss him, so he kissed her. That semed to satisfy her unexpected shyness and she closed down into his embrace, panting softly and pressing her warm body to his. He turned and his cock slapped to his hip. His hand at her ass became claiming, pulling, molding, pressing the fat cheek to its partner. His guts knotted, his cock ached wih strain. She wasn't a tenth as much to see as Nola, but somehow the brown of her skin and the savage, sensuous look of her was getting to him. He felt primitive, and he wanted to fuck her very much. And now the heat and tingling from his legs crept up and enveloped him, and he rolled hard to Monet straining his cock to her similarly heaving belly.

He put his lips to the tips of her small tits; he opened his mouth and milked them into ebony hardness. The brown flesh was solid and tasted oddly sweet. Excited more than he had anticipated, Johnny began to smear wet kisses, licking slightly over her shoulders and neck and Monet groaned softly and writhed against him. Now his hand at her ass curled under, and she raised her leg to throw it over his hip. His fingers moved under into the snug warmth and he found her cunt, oozing moisture from its firmly compressed lips. He opened them with a forefinger and instantly, Monet's hips hunched at him. Her clitoris was long and thin and seemed to harden under his touch.

"Get it in, in, Johnny!" she husked. "Fuck me, baby, fuck me!"

To him, the side embrace was awkward and they shifted one to the other, dragging flesh on flesh. His legs were slick, his prick thoroughly lubricated and when Monet reached down to seize his penis, he kinked his hips and she put the head of his cock snugly into her quim. The heat was instantly unbearable and with a slow, muscular contraction of his belly, he slid his organ inch by inch into the hot, wet sleeve. He had a flash of thought about the length of his cock and her possible capacity, but she was squirming now, screwing herself forward with no gasp of distress from her lips. The oil was great, he thought, and when his prick was hilted in her vagina, he began to feel her secret muscles working around the fiery column. She was wriggling and hunching as if to loosen and set herself, and her nipples, now harder than ever, dug delightfully into his chest. By then, he had managed to get both arms around her and an ass-cheek in each hand. Despite her plumpness, she felt ridiculously small in his embrace, and his cock seemed to be swelling until it threatened to burst her body. He began to fuck with furious deliberation, screwing in, dragging way out, until the tip of his cock was nearly unnested, then way in, to hold his back arch and let her feel the total weight of his lust. Monet gave small moans, her throat seemed constricted, her breath came in short, animal panting. Her own arms were now closed tightly around his chest, and her fingers dug and raked at special moments, flattened and pressed at others and told his horribly scarred back just what she wanted him to do. One message came when the tip of his middle finger found her anus. Her hips thumped him, her upper leg raised as if to open her crotch. He pressed and deformed the firm little pucker, then broke through as it gradually relaxed under his insistent caresses. And when it opened for his fingertip, he thrust inward a full two joints. Monet yelped, but it died away in a gurgling, and her buttocks snapped around his fingers.

"Oh, Johnny, I like that, I like that!" she rasped.

"A mile from home," he whispered, surprised at his own huskiness.

"That's what you think!" came the mysterious counter.

And presently, straining for the orgasm that seemed so near and yet remained just beyond his summons, he began to feel the snake oil. It was over its first fire and now seemed to flow in ecstatic currents around his lower body. His prick became supersensitive, he felt each ripple, each grip and twitch of Monet's animated cunt. He could not seem to get enough of her to work the exquisite sensations into a solid, spewing ecstasy. He extended his finger into her asshole, working it around, feeling through her soft inner tissues the pump and surge of his distending lust, and he played with rhythms and unscheduled twistings. His back tired, and his belly seemed tied in cast-iron knots, but he could not reach the edge of the purple, nor seem to get past the flaming scarlet. He wanted desperately to change positions, to roll her to her back and off the sofa, to turn her up and let her chubby hunching ease his strain, but he could neither hesitate in his fucking nor waste a moment in rest.

If Monet had orgasm, he did not know it, unless the small sharp yelps at unpredictable intervals were significant. Her cunt never ceased its struggle to swallow his prick, and her odor was increasingly strong, as if she had become a dozen passionate women with belching glands.

"Goddamnit!" he finally gasped, and her faintly mocking laughter bubbled against his throat.

"Don't knock it, b-baby!" she said. "It took fifty rattlesnakes to make that jug of joy juice!"

"Monet, my back is busted!"

"We can rest," she whispered. "It won't go away, Johnny!"

"Unclamp, then, Blanket-ass!"

She brought two beers and a towel. Her cunt was moist, the hair around it matted with oil and body fluids. His prick stood high and its purplish head gleamed with distension. But his legs only felt alive. He could not control their direction nor did the tingle seem to help. He used his left hand to hold the beer, his right arm curled around Monet's shoulders so his fingers could pet her vibrant tit. She held her beer in her right hand, her left slowly and delightfully frigging his swollen cock.

"That snake oil bit. Does it always work that way?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know, baby. Grandma says yes, yes, yes, to anything you ask about it. I never tried it before, to tell you the truth. And as long as truth is in order, I haven't even been fucked in five years!"

"Whaat?"

"Never mind why. Finish the beer, huh? I'm burning up!"

"I ran off and left you about a dozen times, Johnny."

"Five years accumulation of sludge in your crankcase, eh?"

"No. Two inches more cock than any woman deserves! God, you must have terrorized some girls before you lost your knockers!"

He scowled, then he relaxed his angery tenseness. He had lost his knockers. Somehow it wasn't as bad for her to mention it as it had been to pretend with Nola that it had never happened. He looked down at the little brown girl, his mind a bi unsteady about her. He took the last gulp of beer, and she gulped hers with equal haste.

"How now, brown cow?" he asked.

She slid out of his curled arm and stood up. Then with great deliberation, she uncorked the jug and poured a few drops on her closely pressed, stubby fingers. Lifting one leg a little, she reached, and before Johnny's eyes, smeared the oil between the cheeks of her ass, with a moment of significant hesitation as she worked some into her asshole. What was left on her fingers she daubed on the head of Johnny's instantly responsive prick.

"My legs," he said. "I don't think I can get up on you, Blanket-ass!"

"Didn't think you could, Johnny. But I can get down on it, okay. You just sit there, honey, and Monet will do a Nez Perce rain dance that the reservation tourists never saw!"

At first, he was sure it was never going to go into her anus. He held her waist with one hand and his prick with the other, trying to control the painful bend and its slippery nesting. Then Monet began to turn and tip, to twist and jiggle-and suddenly, her rectum opened and surprised them both. She jolted down, her gasp of excitement a long drawn out hiss as his prick shot up into her.

Johnny winced. It seemed to him that his cock was peeled and the screaming fire of her bowel was bathing raw flesh. Now she began to screw herself down on his jutting organ and as her nates came to rest on his bare thighs, she turned and patted his cheek.

"Up the bunghole is punishable by death among my people," she said. "Kill me, baby, and make it good!"

He tipped her. She anticipated his intention and drew her legs up until her knees were hard to her plump belly and her ass a broad, brown bended pair of spongy pillows. He spooned around her and began to fuck into her asshole as if he were possessed by a hundred devils. He gripped her waist, feeling with one hand for her seemingly fattened tits and with the other to her oily, oozing cunt. She put one arm up and back, her fingers curling around his neck to pull him into her. Her ass humped and pushed back, her flesh turned to fire against his belly. He had flashes, his cock thumping against her constricted internal convulsions, his prick distending her asshole into a straining circlet. He felt small things, like the exquisite agony of his half-torn foreskin and the foul wetness on his cock.

It took Johnny a full half an hour to cum, and his foremost thought was that the world surely misunderstood rattlesnakes and grandmothers who said yes, yes, yes, to everything. Dazed, he lay firmly snugged to Monet's nates, resolving never to call her Blanket-ass again.

She was strangely pensive after a bath and lunch. They cuddled together on the sofa his hands moving with lax fingers on her tits and shoulders, charmed by the texture of her velvety Indian skin.

"How come five years?" he asked.

"Johnny, when your legs are good again, would you follow me up any street?" she countered his query. "Don't answer. I'm a half-breed. I'm short and fat and flat-faced. Indian girls are a dime a dozen in this country. Despite grandmother, snake oil doesn't cure everything. I won't go back to the reservation, and those bums from the reservation I wouldn't have. So, five years and no cock."

"So, five years and no cock, but something! You and your smart mouth and bouncy bottom are really something."

"Sure, something. You know anything about Indians, Johnny?"

"Now, yes! Yesterday, nothing."

"It is a tribal affront for a woman to go into betrothal as a virgin. Among Indians, the man is king, god, and you name it, and he must not be put to the task of busting a maidenhead and lousing up his betrothal night by having to comfort a wailing squaw with a bleeding ass. The custom of the marriage stick among Indians is older than finger-painting on the cave rocks. At the full moon preceding her betrothal, the village women throw a clatch. Much singing, slapping of hands and the initiation ceremony. The squaws, young and old, sing and dance, and the bride-to-be shivers. At a certain point in the festivities, the naked bride-to-be is required to squat on the marriage stick, thereby splitting her maidenhead. The blood is allowed to dry on the phony cock and there is more singing and dancing, while the ex-virgin is trying to be happy with a roll of oiled willow leaves stuffed in her twat so her maidehead won't heal closed."

"Weird and wonderful," Johnny admitted.

"But true, baby. Now it also happens that among Indians, particularly since the white man evinced an interest in Indian curios, the old boys who fashion the marriage sticks have decided they are artists and creators. My older sister sat on one that was eight inches long and two inches thick and covered with not-too-finely carved Indian symbols! White eye sure screwum up Indian babe! The something you're curious about is a marriage stick, which does as well for Monet Fat-bottom as it does for Mollie Greentree. Well, hell, it's better than nothing and it never gets the clap or knocks you up!"

"Weird and wonderful," Johnny repeated. "What is?"

"You. Hey, have we enough snake oil for tomorrow?"

Monet giggled. "Sure. And if not, cooking oil, two drops of turpentine and a pinch of soapchips will do the same job! That's easier than catching fifty rattlesnakes and squeezing their livers, I promise!"

"Tomorrow bring your marriage stick. That I have to see!"

"Okay. How do you feel, Johnny?"

"Find out for yourself. You've got fingers."

After a moment, she growled. "One buck not even half spent!"

Because her cunt and asshole were slightly sore, she sucked him off then beat him five games in a row at gin rummy.