Chapter 1
She didn't need to pull the stop cord. After four weeks, or perhaps it was five, the bus driver knew. In any case, she was usually his last passenger because the end of the line was only a quarter of a mile past Aden Lane. Today he went a few feet past the stop because the rain had left a puddle.
"Thank you," Nola murmured, and stepped to the ground, her right arm firmly wrapped around the sack of groceries.
"See you Monday," he called.
She turned to give him a small appreciative smile. He was a nice-looking young man. Then the smile faded. Nice-looking young men belonged to another world, one she had abandoned some time ago. With the bus gone, she felt the loneliness. A block away, past the nearly open fields of weeds was her house, set back from the path. There was no real street, no sidewalk at all. And no neighbors. The end of the world. She walked along the path, trying to control the natural swing of her smoothly flared hips, the groceries clutched so her ample breasts could not sway nor bounce. At the gate she noted that the grass had been roughly cut and the shrubs trimmed.
It was a hopeful sign, but she already understood enough to ignore hope in most forms. With Johnny most things changed from day to day, most things having to do with his unpredictable mind. She went through the gate, along the brief walk and up the four steps to the little porch. The door was unlocked, and when she entered the house, he was standing at the window where he had watched her approach. He leaned heavily on the cane, and this threw his broad shoulders askew. "Hi," she said.
"You're late," he returned her greeting.
"Stopped for groceries," she said, rattling the sack. "And some Vodka."
"Fix me a drink," he said, and pivoted, organizing his feet so he could move to the leather chair. It was surrounded with magazines. From the covers slinky, big-breasted women leered at the world. The titles were brash, Paris Nights, Babydoll, Bubble Babes. Nola walked through the living room, the little dinette and to the kitchen. She pawed in the sack and found the quart of vodka. With a knife she peeled the plastic seal, then twisted the cap. From a cupboard she took a tall glass and then four cubes of ice from the refrigerator. The beer was all gone, she noted. Without measuring, Nola poured at least two ounces of the clear liquor in over the ice, then added water. She heard the thump of his cane tip and the drag of his left foot. Without turning, she held the drink up and back by her left shoulder. His fingers were big and very warm touching hers as he took the drink. Then she felt the cane, riding firmly between the cheeks of her bottom, pressing intimately, frighteningly. The heat of his big body was all around her, and she could hear him swallow. Nola quivered. The shape of the approaching weekend was clearly established.
"Going to have one?" he demanded, exhaling strongly through his nose. "N-no, I guess not."
"Have one. I like you better when you relax."
Nola shrugged and again went about the task of making a drink, lighter than the one she had poured for him, with more water. When she tinned, his was already half gone and she raised her glass in a mild salute before sipping. His big hand came out and cupped under her right breast, squeezing, rolling, hurting her slightly.
"Oh, Johnny, n-no," she sighed, making no move to avoid the intimate grasp. "It's been such a hectic day. I'm so tired!"
"Hectic day!" he snorted. "Sitting on your can typing 'dear mr. jones, yours truly, michael gold-farb, shyster'. Five trips in the morning to bullshit with the other girls, two to the can and lunch with the pimple-faced office flunky. What about me and this?" he asked, tapping his left foot.
"I know, Johnny," Nola murmured.
The hand holding his drink went around her shoulders and he pulled her roughly toward the front room. Inside, she stiffened, but her feet didn't dare hesitate. At the old sofa he swung around and sat down heavily, laying his cane on the floor where he could reach it easily. His freed arm went around her hips, the fingers folding under the small curve of her belly, pushing down to press the hidden mound of her mons veneris, and lower, to the soft division of her vagina lips. He chuckled. Then his arm moved and his hand went up under her modest skirt. The fingers moved slowly up her tapered thighs, finding the tight leg of her panties and intruding under the seam. At the back. She trembled as the fingers snugged under and between the cheeks of her bottom and found the soft warm secrets which were secrets no more. Nola gulped her drink, fighting the panic. His middle finger was into her now, and digging at the wet, the sensitive cunt. Nola closed her eyes, tried desperately to close off her mind. There would be no stopping now, she knew, and there was no escape. She finished her drink and twisted to set the glass on the end table. This let his hand go high and hard, and she gasped as two huge fingers went deep into her quim. His other hand went up under her skirt and spread across her ass, holding her while he fucked her with his ruthless fingers.
"Johnny, Johnny!" she breathed a useless protest. Then he pulled her down into his powerful arms, his mouth wiping wetly across hers and down the smooth roundness of her throat. He turned her under him and hunched, and she could plainly feel the bulge and nudge of his cock because her brother had a very large prick, even for a man of his size.
She lay back while he unzipped her skirt and snaked it down over her long straight legs. He raised her left leg and stared heavily at how her firm nate bonded and exposed the fringe of chestnut hair that grew from the delectable contours of her underbody. His fingers went under her panties again, and he felt of her moistened cunt as if he had never known one before. He parted the lips and pressed her clitoris, causing her to twitch, which caused him to laugh. Then he felt down and under to her anus and rubbed it as if it were itching him. He chuckled again as he saw her face, eyes closed, mouth clamped in determination. Suddenly, his hand grasped the crotch of her panties and jerked. Obediently, she shifted her hips so he could remove her panties. In the end it was the same and it saved buttons, snaps and fragile garments to not resist his strength. He would leave her stretch-top stockings on. There was nothing, he had told her once, as goddamned ugly as a broad's feet, and anyway, legs looked fucking great in hosiery.
She lay half-naked under his eyes, his hands petting the soft whiteness of her lower belly and legs. Nola knew what she looked like to a lusty man; before Johnny there had been other men, nice men with hot eyes and restrained hands, at the beach, at dances and on the tennis courts, adoring her nearly perfect body, worshipping her patrician features and proclaiming their love, real love, with voluble insistence. No more. Only Johnny, now tweaking the hair above and around her quaking cunt. Not tweaking, jerking, to make her flesh twitch and her lips jerk with tiny gasps of sharp pain.
Finally, he started to undo her blouse and Nola sat up. He removed her light suitcoat, and she finished unbuttoning her blouse. He removed that. He breathed very loud against her face, and Nola threw her head back, letting her shoulder-lengh bob shake out in soft waves while she kinked her arms to unsnap her brassiere. When it was loose, Johnny gathered her big globular tits in his hands and pressed them together, rolled them apart and thumbed the dark purple nipples centering the dollar-sized aureoles. Naked, Nola lay back again, her body stretched like a corpse for him to enjoy. Through slitted eyes, she watched him strip.
He was a beautiful man by any standard, she understood. His crisp, half-wavy hair was the same color as hers. His face was rugged and strong. His deeply set blue eyes were interestingly lined, and his nose was straight, not wide and finely-nostriled. His mouth was like hers only broader, and his teeth were perfect. A strong shadow lay over his cheeks and chin because he was a morning shaver. As his shirt came off, the beauty of him was dimmed. The ugly red scars began just below the nape of his neck and went zig-zagging down his broad back, as if some inspired modern artist had applied a furious, scarlet brush. There were nineteen separate wounds; he had made her count them more than once. Fourteen showed above the belt line, including those on the backs of his arms.
Now he grunted to his feet. He could stand and even take a few steps without the cane unless he bumped something or lost his balance. He stood before her and unsnapped his belt, running his zipper down smoothly. His trousers fell open and he palmed them and his shorts down in a single gesture. Nola's spine tightened, and her heart pounded.
From the heavy hair of his belly and groin, his cock stood out, a thick seven inches. From the beginning, he had made her measure it at least twice a week as if he feared some metabolic failure might occur. Stepping awkwardly out of his restricting trousers, he managed a stance above her, his right hand stroking his rigid prick into throbbing distension. This was the moment he liked, she knew. He seemed enchanted with the feel of his huge organ in his fist, and he caressed its foreskin and pole-like shaft with obvious ego. Ego, she supposed, he deserved because where his balls had been, there now hung only an empty, wrinkled scrotum. They had sewn the sac back together but the Army's finest surgeons had not been able to repair the shattered testicles.
Nola tried to find herself. She could feel her tongue because it seemed too thick for her mouth. She could feel her tits because they still ached from his rough handling, and no power, no disgust nor any degree of agony had ever stopped the nipples from turning flinty when Johnny's cock was aimed and stroked at her. The rest of her was somewhere below, numb, tingling with fear and an excitement that had nothing to do with her mind.
"Get me another drink," he said. "One more for you, too."
"All right," Nola agreed and got to her feet. He spatted her ass and chuckled at her prancing step.
She made two heavy drinks. When she came back, he was lolled out on the sofa, his halfback legs sprawled, his prick working slowly in his fingers. The broad head had seemed to swell and harden; the skin gleamed with tension and the coronal ridge stood high and threatening. Nola could not look entirely away from it. She handed him his drink, and balancing her own, she started to sit down.
"Stand up," he commanded. "Do me a little dance and warm it up, sis. Cold cunt is worse than Limey mutton!"
"Please, Johnny, no!" Nola breathed. "If you want-"
"I want you to start shaking that ass, that's what I want!" He doubled and swooped and before she could step back, his cane cracked across her thigh. Nola gasped, another bruise there had hardly healed. As the cane raised in threat again, she stepped back, holding her drink in a trembling left hand. She planted her feet apart, and with revulsion for what she did, began to roll her hips. Instantly, her body responded. Her tits began to sway and shake and her abdominal muscles rippled. Her hair flew in soft, easy, flowing, motions and she could feel the bob and quiver of her nates. She drank, dribbling slightly on her chin.
Now she felt her own gyrations in her belly. Her back-arch deepened, causing her thighs to show strong cords. Her cunt seemed to pout, and the dark red lips nearly opened. She rolled and twisted with something less than either professionalism or enthusiasm, but when her brother caught the rhythm with his loudly snapping fingers, she tried desperately to turn her lewd gyrations into something graceful. She drank, again dribbling. The Vodka burned going down, and she prayed that it would soon numb the pain in her head. Then Johnny's cane came out and tapped her hip, and she turned slowly, shuffling her feet in a mild dance step until her back was to him. Again he tapped her back and she began to bend, leaning forward until her tits hung free of her rib cage, and her ass went up in rounded hillocks. She clamped her jaw, knowing what was coming next.
It wasn't the tip of his cane because that was made of brass, three inches long and tapered to the rubber button. It was the handle, curved and blunt at the tip. It nudged between the cheeks of her ass, petted her asshole with its hand-polished curve. Then it slid under to press its round shape into her cunt, spreading the lips, sliding in the notch to bump her clitoris. Her hip motions speeded, her tits snapped fleshily, the nipples making dark blurs.
Then the cane changed, and the handle hooked up into her hairy mons veneris, and Johnny jerked. With a wail of pain Nola tumbled back into her brother's naked embrace.
Some things were elemental, but she never really knew what he would arouse himself to do to her. Tonight he held her and pressed her back, his kisses dampening her neck and chin, his body rolled against her so that his prick pulsated against her heaving belly. His other hand fondled her tits, flopping them from side to side almost as they had swung in her brief dance. He pulled them, milking the firm forms to a hard cone and pinching the nipples when no drop of essence appeared.
Nola whimpered, louder than the agony, because she knew he liked her to be responsive to the pain he inflicted. And presently he tired of her tits and slid his hand down her torso to her cunt. Roughly, he dragged her leg up and draped it over his thigh. She felt the cooler air in her sweat-moistened crotch, then the hotter fingers digging in her tender tissues. Love and kisses night, she thought, and it was always the hardest to bear.
Her clitoris burned under his touch, sending hideous streaks of sensation through her taut body. He rubbed too hard and too long in the same place, and the fire became pure agony. She writhed. He sent two fingers into her vagina, sometimes three, because he seemed obsessed with its bigness and he adored hurting her. The two fingers plunged in, screwed themeselves around to feel the sensitive inner walls, then slid out and up to smear her clitoris with the ooze of her body.
Helpless, gripped in a vise between revulsion and pure animal sensation, Nola lay back and closed her eyes, her upraised arm settling slowly and inevitably to his scarred back. She existed, caught close in the arms of a lusty man, finger-fucked with brutal male callousness, her belly burning with the vodka and her cunt aflame with undeniable response. He was grunting now, surging against her, and with no volition she could name, her other hand went to the monstrous club of flesh rolling on her belly. The touch sent new sensations through her. She explored the blood-filled head, the hot rolls of foreskin lying in tight lethargy around the thick shank. She finally closed her hand around the shaft, weighing the flesh, feeling of its corded strength.
Johnny chuckled. By then he knew exactly when her defenses began to crumble. She fought, squeezing his cock as hard as she could, but only fucked into her hand with obvious delight. She constricted her belly, hoping futilely to break the chain of fire from his fingers to her womb. The building orgasm only augmented. Again she whimpered. His bristly chin was slowly scraping the skin of her neck, the sharp stubble bit like a thousand flames and cause her face to flush.
It was impossible to lie still. Her hips were chained to the tempo of his fingers, her asscheeks tightened and softened, raising and lowering her cunt around his coursing digits.
"Getting to you, sis?" he asked with a guttural laugh.
"Oh, Johnny, Johnny! For God's sake, fuck me and get it over with! Oh you dirty bastard, you rotten, stinking fucker, fuck me!"
"Sure," he said, but changed nothing. She began to twist and hump then, out of her mind with passionate need. He wasn't going to screw her until he was ready, until she lay a shattered wreck from cumming in endless spasms on his fingers. Her hand at the nape of his neck gripped the strong, thick column. Her fingers around his prick became gentle and persuasive, as if it were her throbbing cunt that circled and slicked the huge organ. Nola began to curl, to lift inside and close tightly, longing for the bigness and filling, the rippling thrust of the flesh knob in her hand. And then she cried out in total defeat, the burst of color was mingled with the beating drum, and he went senseless with passion as her orgasm exploded. She stilled, only the uncontrollable vibrations of ecstasy moving her stiffened body. And still Johnny did not alter his caresses. She felt the first wave of cum subside and the second build with tumbling speed, like endless waves bursting over a placid beach. She thrashed, rolling her head, and the fingers seemed to swell and elongate until they filled her cunt. She made him wince by scratching his cock with her fingernails, then her fingers petted and loved the irritated flesh because she loved and needed its ruthless promise. She hardly realized that now her legs were spread and raised in urging strain, that her tits barely shook, so pumped with blood were they. As the waves subsided, she discovered she was lying with her mouth open, her tongue half out, in the complete grip of marvelous sensations that threatened to strip her bones of flesh. Still his fingers moved, but now she was unable to cum again, and the moving forms in her were only milding irritating. She turned her face to his chest and let her legs slowly settle, one across his thigh, the other stretched out in tapered weariness. Her fingers around his prick felt nothing, merely formed around the tremendous shape. Nola wanted to die.
He left her. lying there and raised himself with the help of the cane. She heard him go into the kitchen; he would fill the glasses with ice, using the fingers that had just left her debilitated cunt. Subconsciously, she counted the double gurgling as he over-poured the vodka. It didn't matter. Tomorrow was Saturday and they-or she-could sleep herself sober and perhaps into some grotesque forgetfulness.
He put the ice-cold heel of the glass on her belly. Nola gasped and opened her eyes. Then she smiled. "That looks spiked," she said.
"Drink it," he growled.
He let her sip twice before he reached down and fastened his left fist in her disheveled hair. He pulled her forward and slapped her moist mouth with his cock, left, right, then bumpingly between her lips. There was no evasion possible, nor did she care very much. She let her mouth slide around the straining knob, laid her tongue to the tip to taste the tiny drop of oozing fluid. Her hand came up to hold the shaft where it departed his hairy groin. She let him fuck himself with her face by forcefully directing her head with his handful of hair. Slowly, Nola's mind adjusted itself. Saliva oozed, filled her mouth around his pistoning cock and trickled from the corners of her lips at every withdrawal. She felt subtle changes in her crotch, as if her organs understood before her mind admitted anything. She began to work her lips, feeling the rolls of foreskin, the sebaceous nubbins, the pulse of the coronal ring. As her head began to move, forward and back, the grip of Johnny's hand in her hair relaxed. He chuckled, but she was abruptly past caring.
There was something about sucking his cock that separated her from him, and herself. Her eyes focused on the straining of his belly under the layer of curled hair. She wanted to feel his empty scrotum, but she did not want the cuff on the side of the head such affront always brought. He was beginning to respond; she saw him brace with the cane and strengthen his hunching. His prick filled her mouth, coursed from lips to the back of her throat. She sucked lightly, using her tongue to tease the puffed-under form of his glans.
He was panting, hunching, jerking in and slowly dragging out. Nola closed her eyes, and instantly, her cunt began to throb. She wanted to swallow the whole man, feel him down and down, through her throat to her belly and then on out the wet, gaping mouth of her hungry cunt.
When she felt his cum approach, she put both hands to his hips and squared him to her face. The first jerk sent a needle of jism along her tongue and halfway down her gulping throat. The second spurt coated her tongue, the third gushed and filled her mouth with fiery slime. She held his prick with her lips barely behind the head, and his jerks slowed as the tide diminished. He staggered back, popping his cock from her lips. She swallowed drily, for there was no jism. A sick cry escaped her lips as she dragged her mind back from the hypnotic void.
With a shaking hand she picked up the glass from the end table and drank deeply. Johnny was wiping his cock on her panties. He tossed them aside and swung around to sit at her side, his hand going to her still pulsating tits.
"You're learning, sis," he laughed. "Three years ago I'd have drowned you! But I've got to say, you're the best prick-sucker I've ever known, and that puts Saigon airstarts in big, old second place! Hey, how about some food? I'm hungry."
"All right," Nola said, rubbing her aching forehead. "Shall I put my clothes back on?"
"Why? This is Friday, isn't it? Maybe we'll make a real weekend out of it."
As she struggled to her feet, she looked down and saw his cock, again as rigid as a pole and only slightly more scarlet around the head from her lip service. She drank again, took his glass and went to the kitchen for another sense-dulling libation. The quart of vodka was half gone.
When the potatoes were frying and the pork chops simmering, Johnny sat her on the sturdy kitchen table and fucked her, bracing his unsteady stance by holding her ankles like wheelbarrow handles. The oilcloth was cold on her back at first, but soon warmed with the friction of his pumping. Her cunt took the lunging flesh, gripped it, milked it and slowly found its fire. She stared up at the cracked plaster ceiling, her mind rolling from nothing to nothing, her belly unable to decide whether its heat was from the vodka or the pistoning prick. She glanced occasionally at her brother's face framed between her tits. He was watching how his cock soared in and out of her quim. His neck muscles were tight, his muscular shoulders tense. She could feel the dangling scrotum flapping at her asshole. His grip hurt her ankles. The huge prick made slurping sounds in her cunt, and the angle of his rutting left her clitoris standing high and untouched.
Nothing mattered to Johnny. She was just a body, a sleek, lithe female shape, open if he said so, bending and quivering when he lunged.
The hideous spell was broken for Nola. She heard the sputter of the potatoes, the hiss of the chops. She wanted the rest of her drink, sweet stupidity in a glass. He was charging now. She could feel the head of his cock thumping high in her gut. His pelvic bone was mashing hers, hair to hair, bruising bone to aching flesh. Cum, brother. Hunch and bump and grunt. Cum, brother, and let your poor, sweet brain imagine your sterile cock is flooding my quim with jism. Hurry, brother, because the potatoes will burn and the chops need turning. She tried to help, and the twist of her hips provided the proper tension. In orgasm, he let go of her ankles and began to squeeze great handfuls of her spraddled inner thighs. Then he staggered back against the sink counter. Nola closed her legs and sat up, staring at his softening cock and his heaving belly. Then she rolled to her feet and took a spatula to the potatoes and the chops. After that, she finished her drink and stood, head down, eyes unfocused, while Johnny told her what a lousy fuck she was.
Eventually, she put a table cloth over the table her ass had recently quit and they ate. She dropped a hot flake of potato, and it bounced down her naked belly and lay in the furred nest formed by her thighs and sagging belly. She felt nothing; her head whirled from the vodka; her nerves failed with fork and knife. The real, real drunk feeling came, and she giggled softly, delighting in its shrouding darkness. Johnny's obscene words about her lifeless ass and her burned dinner became a distant mumble. She heard his chair scrape and felt the quiver of the kitchen floor as he caned himself erect and thumped to the front room. Nola pillowed her head on a forearm and lapsed into the sweet suspension between insanity and darkness.
She was very drunk and very tired. The cooling stove across the kitchen warmed her back. Her hanging tits and relaxed thighs were covered with goose bumps. Fucked out, boozed and forgotten. No, not forgotten. Eyes closed, she raised her head, waiting for the brain spin to reverse. Her mouth was terribly dry and she was slightly sick at her stomach. Not forgotten. It was hardly an hour past dark, and she guessed it couldn't be more than eight-thirty. Not forgotten, because Johnny intended to make a weekend of it.
With nearly superhuman effort, Nola raised to her unsteady legs. She pushed her chair back, nerves screaming at the scrape. Turning, she lunged for the stove, gasping when her left hand touched the still-heated surface. With a barely controllable hand, she reached for the frying pan. The chop grease had cooled and solidified a bit. She ran her middle finger along the pan bottom, gathering a large gob of brownish grease. This she stared at with glazed eyes. Then she kinked her hips and smeared the grease deep between her buttocks, deliberately pressing the lubrication into the pucker of her anus. It smarted saltily, but she ignored the superficial annoyance. Not forgotten. Even if she passed out before, the pork grease would save her asshole. Nothing could save her soul.