Chapter 5

Having been thrown out of house and home by The Short Hairs and then finding, within a matter of hours, another place to stay, gave Anne and me the probably erroneous belief that a girl could get anything she wanted in this world merely by twitching her hot little butt in the direction of some horny man. It does hold true, but only in certain circumstances. The butt must be pretty, the man hungry.

Anyway, this time we'd been lucky. We were not worried about the next time. Throughout the day we dreamed about what we might do if we had money, which wasn't such a wild dream because we were very serious about selling the statuettes and expected to make a bundle from them.

At eight o'clock, we went to the coffee house where The Midnites were playing and somehow managed to sit through their three sets without getting bored. When they had finished for the night, we all went to a bar for a couple of drinks, then piled into a cab and went back to their hotel for the night. Anne and I were thinking more about getting the plaster casts made than we were about the condition that Sunny had placed on our staying there. Actually, I was more excited than scared by the whole thing.

The casting went well. Each of the four molds was perfect and my part was a lot easier than usual, since none of the guys wanted me to suck him off. All I had to do was get them erect for the casting. This speeded up the entire operation. We were finished in a couple of hours and even as the molds were drying on the table in the corner, Sunny asked the two of us to strip and lie down on the floor facing each other about three feet apart.

It was time to meet the condition.

Sunny and the rest of the group stripped off their clothes and arranged themselves around us. Sunny flopped to the floor behind me, nudging my rectum with his prick. The bass player, Pete, took up a position in front of me while the other two assumed similar positions with Anne.

Well, that's it. You can guess the condition. Fucked up the ass and cunt at the same time. Both of us! Neither Anne nor I had ever got it up the ass before. It was going to be a tight squeeze. The okay was given by Sunny and we began by wrapping our hands around the two pricks that were begging entrance. I would rather have had Pete in the rear and Sunny in the front, but that was Sunny's idea of fun. He would revel in whatever pain he could cause me.

Pete didn't take long to prepare. His medium-sized cock was straight as a pin in no time at all, but Sunny insisted he wait. The great organ in the rear had to be as hard as a rock in order to get up that tight canal. We were still preparing when I heard moans coming from Anne. Apparently, she had been invaded already and her partners were going to town, as they say.

But my agony was soon to start. Sunny lifted my right leg, then spread the cheeks of my ass until they stretched at the seams. I felt the head of his prick touch the tight anal sphincter. It bumped and my ass flexed automatically.

"Relax," ordered Sunny.

I relaxed. It bumped again. Again I flexed. Again Sunny ordered me to relax, this time digging his thumbs deeper in the crack to the very perimeter of the hole. He pushed.

"Aaaaaggghhh . . . shit!" I bellowed. This was it. His prick had stuck there. He was in. And how! I dared not move. But now, from the other angle, in came Pete. One easy jab and his slender, almost pointed prick slid into position inside my cunt. I had them both, and now the rocking and thrusting would begin.

Pete began immediately slopping in and out, sometimes missing altogether and skidding across my abdomen leaving a glistening snail's trail behind him. But Sunny had more of a sense of the dramatic. He flexed and wiggled only the head against the rigid wall of my rectum. He withdrew about a quarter of an inch, then reinserted himself. It felt like a massive wooden shit that couldn't make up its mind whether or not to take the dive into the toilet bowl. It hurt like fucking hell! But this was only the beginning. Sunny was only tantalizing. He had a lot more to come and had I known what was in his twisted mind, I would have high-tailed it out of there and found another place to sleep.

I felt Sunny's strong hand grip my hips. I knew something was coming, but no sooner had the thought occurred than it struck. All of it! Twenty feet of bone hard cock, two tons of Negro vengeance, three hundred years of abuse, anger and frustration. A thick black sword right up my ass.

The scream that exploded from my lips reverberated off the walls and rattled the eardrums of the others in the room. Anne cried out in sympathy and I could see her contorting her neck to make eye contact with me. Pete's puny, harmless organ froze and wilted on the spot. His eyes opened wide with concern. Sunny was heartless. He withdrew his cock and hammered it in again and again. I was splitting in the ass. It seemed as if my crack had opened halfway up my back. I was sure I would fall apart in two halves, but he still fucked on. That thick prick probed my bowels, drilled, screwed and bum-fucked me until the pain was so great I started to enjoy it. It was like one of those unbelievable toothaches that saps you of all your energy and leaves you floating in a sea of pleasure-pain. I was nearing that state, when, without warning, Sunny withdrew his rod and lifted himself to his knees. I turned to see what he was doing and suddenly his cock yawned and spat all over my face and upper body.

It was over. I had made it. I had a place to stay the night. I was sore. I was bleeding ever so slightly from the ass, but I had managed to get two or three seconds of enjoyment out of it near the end.

Anne and I went to the bathroom and rubbed our rears for several minutes before going to bed. I slept like a log!

As it turned out, we stayed with The Midnites for a week, during which time I was buggered four times, Anne twice. I was getting worried about it because of what Anne had told me once about what happens to homosexuals when they banged in the ass too often. Their assholes virtually fall apart and they can't hold their shit. But, fortunately, my asshole muscles still worked by the time we left and took a bedsitting room of our own.

The room was not exactly what we had been accustomed to. In fact, it wasn't much bigger than the bathroom in my parents' home in Toronto and it had only one bed, a small table and a hard wooden chair in the line of furniture. But it was about all we could afford on the money we had made so far by selling the plastic pricks. And anyway, it was great fun for a while.

We had to share the bathroom with six other people from four other rooms on our floor and it was situated right beside our room. Someone who had lived in our room before us had thoughtfully drilled a hole through the wall into the bathroom. One of our favorite pastimes was peeping through to watch the different assortment of roomers taking baths and going to the toilet. On our floor were a middle-aged couple, a young couple, an alcoholic and a young female student and each of them had some peculiar habit that he or she performed in the bathroom.

The middle-aged married man used to come in to the bathroom every Tuesday night with a mucky erection. He would wash it off carefully in the sink, sometimes taking as long as ten minutes to do it, then he would whack off into the palm of his left hand. With cold water and soap, he would wash the semen down the drain and then walk around the bathroom waiting for his old prick to go limp. When it did, he would piss, wash his hands once again and tiptoe down the hall to his room. Seconds later his middle-aged and slightly plump wife would tiptoe into the bathroom to begin her ritual. First she squatted on the toilet without touching the seat-I guess she'd heard stories about catching VD from community toilets-then she would insert the nozzle of a douche into her withering cunt and clean herself out. With a washcloth, she would wash her thighs, her saggy tits and her face. Then she would slump down the hall to her snoring husband. This happened every Tuesday without fail!

The favorite pastime of the young couple was communal showering. Twice a week at least, they would go through their unchanging ritual. She would enter the bathroom first, he would follow immediately and lock the door. They would remove each other's clothing one piece at a time. First, she would take off his shirt, then he would reciprocate by removing her blouse or sweater. His pants were next, followed by her skirt or slacks, her bra, his undies, her panties. Then, for a couple of minutes, they rubbed their hands over each other's bodies, in and out of the cracks, the balls, the tits, clit and prick. She would start the taps going and fiddle with them while he fiddled his prick up and down the cleavage of her round, tight little bum.

Of the two, she was by far the most attractive. Her extremely long, well-tapered legs met at the top in a high, firm rump. In the front she had just a hint of a pot belly which men find irresistible. About six inches below her perfectly formed navel, a liberal smattering of bushy hair began and extended down and around the precise slit of her cunt. Perhaps her most esthetic attribute was her breasts, which were small but magnificently shaped. So firm were they that they barely jiggled at all when she walked. Their brown nipples pointed to the ceiling and when she came out of the shower, they stood out hard and puckered so that even Anne and I felt a desire to suck them. Her angelic face was framed seductively by her Greek style hairdo which stood out from her head in large, unending curls. Her hair was blonde and appeared to be natural, and with her wide, innocent brown eyes, it made a rare and stunning combination. Her lips were a cocksucker's delight!

He, on the other hand, was less than plain-looking. In fact, he looked rather stunned-the kind of man I least like to fuck. Apart from his hollow, hairless chest, puny arms and legs and ratty hair, he had a weak, diminutive cock that hung with a violent twist to the left. I would guess that it hung at an angle of about forty degrees from the perpendicular. It was uncircumcised and almost black in color and when flaccid, looked more like a macerated cigar than a sexual organ.

When the water temperature was deemed suitable, they would climb behind the shower curtain and scrub each other up and down. They were only barely visible through the curtain, but from what we could see, they spent a disproportionate amount of time soaping and rinsing each other's sexual areas. First he did her, then she did him, then he did her again, then she did him again and so on until we used to wonder how they had any tissue at all in those areas.

When they finished showering, they would step out onto the towels they had carefully laid out in advance beside the tub and then the fun began. Their whole air in having sexual intercourse seemed to be to see how many different ways they could do it. I'm telling you, I learned a lot of positions from them that I had never even thought of before-positions that ordinary people could not possibly do. You see, she was double-jointed.

If I had to pick out one position that they used more than all the rest, it would be the one where she stood with her legs straight and her head down between her ankles. When he came up behind her, cock first, she would reach through and grab his ankles, then in one motion they would fall backward so that he was on the bottom. She, of course, was on the top, but with her head and her feet down at his feet. I don't know whether I've described it well enough, but it was one hell of a sight to see. His cock was inside her, that's for sure, but where it went, I don't know. I guess her cunt was double-jointed too. They would stay that way, making jerky movements and twisting this way and that until he finally came.

Another of their favorite tricks was to perform sixty-nine standing up. She would be hanging upside down with her thighs wrapped around his head. He would eat her out in this cramped position, while down below she would suck him off. When they had both come, they would straighten up and exchange long, succulent kisses, spitting the semen back and forth between their mouths. Of all the people I've seen fucking, they had to be the craziest.

But the funniest by far was the old drunk who lived in the room next to ours. His sex life consisted of only one thing-masturbation. Every night, without fail, he would stumble into the bathroom, stoned out of his mind, not even bothering to lock the door on most occasions, and point himself in the direction of the toilet bowl. When he managed to drag his soggy body that far, he would take another five minutes or so to get his fly undone and then beat his tired meat for a half-hour before the gunk came out. When he couldn't manage to drag himself that far, he would do it in the middle of the floor.

His method of masturbating was a riot. He was of the full-hand whacker school. He would grab hold of his cock as though it were an axe handle and start in beating the shit out of it even though it was still limp. This would cause him to slip off constantly and, when he did, his whacking hand would shoot off on a reckless tangent, cracking into the wall ahead of him or into the toilet tank. When this happened, profanities would roll out of his mouth like marbles. He would seize his abused organ with even more determination and smash away at it until his hand would slip off again and again collide with the wall. This went on for some time, until his cock decided to respond.

As middle-aged, drunken cocks go, it wasn't a bad-looking tool. But I felt sorry for it having to put up with this unending abuse. It seemed to ejaculate only in self-defense-to get the old derelict off its back. It certainly could not have enjoyed these nightly sessions, as indeed, I am sure the old man himself did not get much real pleasure out of them. When the gunk finally came, he didn't even seem to know it. He just kept bashing away at his semi-hard erection, spraying the white stuff all over the toilet and the floor.

When it was over for another day, he would waddle off to his room to drink the night away. Often he didn't bother to put his mucky prick away, but just let it dangle down the hall ahead of him. He never washed it off, so I can imagine what his underwear smelled like.

But, of the lot of them, the one that made me sick to my stomach was the young student. She-was a holy terror to look at with her pimples, her tiny parted teeth and her stringy hair, not to mention her boobs, which were all but non-existent and that repulsive box between her legs, which she kept tightly closed at all times. She was indeed a poor excuse for a female, as Anne used to say every time we watched her through the peephole. Not even to herself would she admit that she was female, would she allow even herself to gaze upon that grotesque patch of stinkweed and crab grass that grew wild at the base of her abdomen. She kept her thighs pinched closed at all times, except when she spread them just enough to allow the flow of urine. And even then she must have felt like a slut, because she kept her hand in her lap, palm up, while squatting on the toilet. She wouldn't even touch herself down there when she took a bath. Instead, she would sit in the tub for hours hoping to soak the scum away.

Only a blind man would offer up his cock to this monstrosity and even that was unlikely, for blind men have a keen sense of touch and she was untouchable. It was pretty obvious that a hymen still festered in that hole of hers and it would probably stay there for the rest of her miserable years on earth. The only sex she'd ever know was a slight whiff of scattered semen left behind by the old drunk.

So obnoxious to the eye was this creature that, in the end, both Anne and I stopped peeping on her.

So that was the crowd we lived with. Not the kind one would like to spend the rest of one's life with, but amusing for a short period of time.

We stayed there for a month or so, during which time our plastic prick sales went up tremendously. We were making about two hundred dollars a week at seven dollars a statue. People were buying them as book ends, masturbators, ornaments and conversation pieces. What had started out to be a wild kick was turning into a lucrative and very enjoyable enterprise.

As far as our love lives were concerned, well, don't ask me how, but I had struck up a rather deep relationship with Sunny during that month. We were going more or less steady, although I know that he was getting balled on the side quite often. I went out with him every weekend and sometimes during the week. Anne was still freelancing, as we used to call it. She was only getting cock once a week, but it was varied and she liked that more than a steady diet of the same meat day after day. By this time, we were casting four groups regularly which amounted to eighteen different models. We sold them with the man's name and the name of his group attached to each one. From those eighteen guys, Anne could pick and choose from week to week which one she wanted to fuck. Apart from that, she was getting it from strangers as well, so she wasn't doing too badly in the sex department.

Like I said, I was going pretty steadily with Sunny and in a period of three months I only got fucked by one other person-an American draft dodger. But I won't even tell you about that. It was too dull to warrant the ink.

What I will tell you about, though, is how Sunny and I finally broke up. It wasn't your average lovers' quarrel, that's for sure! In fact, it is indirectly responsible for this book, although you won't understand why until the end. This is what happened.

Over the weeks that I had been going with Sunny, I had gotten to know him quite well. He was an egotist who carried a grudge ten miles long and as thick as his skull. I would have to admit that I was intrigued by his tough, who-gives-a-fuck attitude. He hated almost everybody. As a matter of fact, I cannot remember him ever really liking anybody. Even the boys in his band enjoyed little more than an occasional cold smile from him. But they, like me, were fascinated by him. I guess it was just a case of wanting to be on his side.

Anyway, on several occasions, I saw bursts of anger from Sunny that really scared the shit out of me. And I don't mean just a bit of swearing and foot stomping. One night at the club where they were playing, he picked some guy up by the ear and snapped his eardrum. For some strange reason, the man never contacted the police.

Another time, when he got mad at me, he broke a bottle of beer and threatened to jam it up my cunt. Luckily for me, he had the presence of mind to realize he wouldn't have much to fuck if he did.

And all the time he used to talk about slitting women's cunts open like Jack the Ripper used to do, shoving hot pokers up their assholes, cutting off their nipples and drinking the blood, which he said would squirt out in fountains. Honestly, sometimes he made me shiver with horror, but for some reason I stuck with him. Not only that, he even got me started thinking about gruesome things like biting off men's pricks and eating their balls, putting broomsticks up their holes and all kinds of things like that. But I guess I've always had a bit of that buried in me somewhere. Remember? I told you that I've always wanted to cut open a man's bag and see what color his testicles are. It took Sunny to bring all of that to the surface.

One night we were walking around some deserted back streets after Sunny was finished playing for the night. I don't remember why we were doing that, but it was probably one of Sunny's weird ideas. He was forever making me do things that scared the piss out of me. But, come to think of it, that night there was something different about him, something stranger than usual. Maybe he planned it all.

We came to a narrow, pitch black alley and Sunny stopped me.

"Listen! There's someone in that alley."

I wasn't terribly interested, to tell you the truth. I was fucking petrified and I wanted to get the hell out of there. But just then a drunk emerged from the darkness. In his stupor, he bumped right into Sunny.

"Hey, man, you watch where you're goin', see?" Sunny pushed him hard and he tumbled backwards onto the sidewalk. Too drunk to know better, the little creep, who couldn't have been more than five-feet four-inches tall, tried to spit at Sunny, who loomed over him like a grizzly bear.

"Wah . . . washit, you big fuckin' nigger bastard!" he tried to say.

Sunny didn't say a word. He lumbered over to the drunk and picked him up with one hand. "I'm goin' to show you what nigger bastards do to boozed up whities." He threw the drunk back into the alley where it was dark and I could just make out his hand as it disappeared into his pocket. I knew what was coming and I tried to stop him, but he threw me off like a piece of paper. By placing his size twelve shoes on the guy's throat, he held him down as he ripped his pants down. What followed I could not believe! I was literally speechless for several minutes before finally fainting right there on the street.

The last thing I remember seeing was the blade of Sunny's switchblade as it sliced cleanly through the drunk's fleshy cock. Blood gushed out of a hole a quarter of an inch in diameter. The drunk passed out immediately and I followed in a few seconds.

When I came to, Sunny and I were in the back seat of a cab. Neither of us said a word until we entered the elevator at his hotel.

"If you say a word about this to anyone-even Anne-I will make you wish you hadn't. I will cut off your titties and shove them up your cunt. You understand that?"

I only nodded and whimpered, "Yes!" I was too scared to say any more. Sunny made me stay there for the night, but he allowed me to call Anne and tell her I wasn't coming home.

All night I lay beside this maniac without closing my eyes or relaxing one bit. He indicated to me that he would like a screw but I was not able. I wasn't able to do anything but worry. Images kept flashing through my mind-images of that severed penis, that fountain of blood, the end of the penis that came off in Sunny's hand, which he threw on the pavement and crushed.

The next morning, about seven o'clock, I requested permission to go home. After promising three more times not to tell anybody, not even Anne, permission was granted. But I didn't go straight home. No, some weird, magnetic force dragged me to the place where the crime had been committed. Much as I tried to talk myself out of it, I just had to see if the old drunk was still there; if his penis was still squashed on the pavement where Sunny had mashed it with his foot. I just had to see!

I took a taxi most of the way, then got out and walked. I would walk past the alley and take a few quick glances out of the corner of my eye, that's all. Whether the old drunk was still there or not, I would just keep moving. I didn't want anybody to see me looking suspicious. I walked down the street with my head up, trying to appear as though I had somewhere definite to go. The alley was just up ahead. The closer I got, the harder and faster my heart beat under my breast. Adrenalin charged through my body in currents and I could hear my own pulse.

Still trying to appear nonchalant, I stepped briskly up to the alley and shot a glance out of the corner of my eye. What would I find?

Nothing! The old drunk was not there. Perhaps he had been rescued and taken to the hospital. Perhaps right now he was sitting up cheerfully having breakfast in a clean white hospital bed. The only sign of Sunny's temper tantrum was a large pool of blood, but even that was not clearly visible because of the way the light was spilling into the alley. The blood was mostly in shadow. But wait!

In the second or two that it took me to pass the alley, I noticed that the blood was not just in a pool at this end of the alley. It had formed a trail that led deeper into the alleyway. I turned around and came back to the alley. Making out that I had dropped something, I bent over and pretended to search the sidewalk. I looked back up the half-lit alley and there, twenty-five feet back, slumped against the wall, was the old drunk. A single shaft of light crossed his face, the rest of his body was dimly visible. But that single shaft of light told me what I did not want to be told-he was dead!

I moved swiftly away from the area, muttering to myself in horror. At the next main street, I hailed a cab and went directly home to wake Anne.

"What's the matter with you, Susan, are you sick?"

"Yes, I'm sick, very sick!" We made coffee and I immediately forgot all of the threats and warnings Sunny had made. I blabbed everything to Anne, every gory detail.

Within one hour we were at the train station booking two tickets to Montreal, then we killed time in a restaurant until the banks opened. I would never have been able to get through that morning if it hadn't been for Anne. She was cool and calculating. She supplied conversation when my mind drifted back to that half-cocked corpse in the alley. She reminded me constantly that I had done nothing wrong and that I could not be held responsible for Sunny's aberrations. She encouraged me to look forward to living in Montreal and plaster casting our way to fame and fortune. She was a real gem and she kept me going until the banks opened, then things started to go better. With the tickets in our hands, our escape seemed more concrete as we sat in the coffee shop at the station and counted down the minutes until the train was ready to pull out.

Even though it is one hell of a long trip from Vancouver to Montreal, we did not bother to buy berths-they were too expensive. Instead, we got coach seats, which turned out to be quite sufficient since, during the whole trip, the train was never full. We had two seats to ourselves all the way. We swung the seat ahead of us around forming a little compartment that was more than comfortable.

"Tickets, please! Tickets!"

We were on our way. How exciting! We were leaving Sunny, The Midnites, the corpse and the police all behind. Ahead of us were Montreal, more cocks to fuck, suck and cast in plaster, more potential buyers and more night life.

We were deep into the Rocky Mountains when I finally fell asleep. I dreamed of the old Indian who had fucked Anne in the back seat of Shaggie's car at the beginning of the summer. It was a happy dream. I also dreamed of school and that was the first I had thought of it since we left Toronto. I'd have been in the university by that time had Anne not come over to my house on the afternoon of the last day of school and started talking dirty. I'm sure I would have been bored to tears there. I'm sure I would have turned out exactly the kind of person I least wanted to become. In spite of Sunny and the horrifying things that had transpired, I was far happier here in the train, running away from Vancouver, than I ever could have been living with my parents in Toronto and going to the snobbiest school in the country-the University of Toronto. Here, at least, I knew I was alive.

The trouble with middle-class people in this society is that they try everything in their power to avoid being free. They chain themselves to religious beliefs or to a profession or to a philosophy that only restricts their lives. They want to let someone else make their decisions for them, either God or the government or the boss of their company. They want to destroy everything that does not fit into their small scheme of things. Their attitude toward sex is a very good example of how they try to destroy things that appear to threaten their security. You see, if married men were to accept the fact that sex is really enjoyable and that they should fuck for the sake of fucking, then half the marriages in this country would fall apart. Because their wives, who were chosen for their good cooking, their companionship, their ability to have children, but not their ability to fuck for fun, would become unsuitable partners. In other words, if men dropped all the taboos on sex, they would drop their wives along with them. And women! Forget them! I don't think most women will ever be emancipated, because they just don't want it. It's a lot easier to live through and by your husband than it is to live through and by yourself. To most women, sex is just a means of exchange, with which they can buy security, attention, children and God knows what else. All I can say about these women is that it is a pity cunts were wasted on them. A couple of slabs of calves' liver would give their husbands just as much enjoyment.

There I go, making speeches again. You must forgive me, but where I am, there isn't much else to do. But I must tell you an incident that happened on the train.

When I woke up, Anne was no longer sitting in front of me. It took me a few minutes to wake up completely, but when I did, I left the seat and went to look for her. My first guess was the bar car, my second the diner, my third, the dome car. My third guess was correct. She was sitting right at the front of the dome car with a young boy who looked to be about thirteen years old. They were the only two there at the time.

"What are you doing?" I asked, coming up behind them. The boy jumped about two feet off the seat and swung around violently to see who I was. Anne merely smiled and told me to sit down in the seat across the aisle from them. I didn't have to ask any more questions, because as I took my seat I noticed the boy's sharp little erection jutting out of his fly. Anne apparently had been whacking him off when I came up.

"I'm beating his meat for him," Anne said coolly, taking hold of the adolescent organ and resuming her activity.

Because I was there, the boy wanted to stop and put himself away. He pushed half-heartedly at Anne's vibrating hand.

"No . ..I . . .I . . . "

But Anne would have none of it. She insisted he relax and enjoy the free ride he was getting. I watched with interest as the boy's young cock responded to Anne's experienced hand. From the look of it, it promised to be a good-sized prick. It was long enough already to tickle a girl's fancy, but it still needed that bulk, that thickness that separated the men pricks from the boy pricks.

Anne took a look around to make sure we were alone, then dove down and gobbled up the shiny new cock. She drew on it as though it were a drinking straw and tweaked the tiny hairless balls that dangled not too far beneath it. The expression on the boy's face was one of wild delight, a kind of silly grin that bent his mouth out of shape. His eyes squinted hard.

I gather it is more difficult to masturbate a young boy than it is a mature man, because Anne was whacking, sucking and beating for about twenty minutes before her youthful subject jerked his way through a clumsy climax. His body bounced spasmodically, his face contorted even further, a lungful of air gushed from his throat, and one small obsequious drop of semen appeared at the end of his burning penis. Anne picked it up with the tip of her tongue and held it inches away from the boy's face, then, like a frog eating a fly, she flicked it to the back of her throat.

"What do you think of that?" "Ahhhh . . . mann ..."

What a beautiful sight that was! The boy's first encounter with a female. He'd probably done it to himself many times in the privacy of the bathroom, but now to have it done by a woman was obviously the greatest experience of his young life. Anne and I were pleased at his response. He was breathless and shaky when he recovered from this orgasm of orgasms. He was too shy to say anything but, "Thank you," and finally embarrassment forced him to get up and leave the car.

We saw him many times after that, until he got off the train at Ottawa, but each time we met him, he just lowered his eyes and smiled a faint and bashful smile, then quietly excused himself and moved on.

Anne thought it was funny to be so bashful with the girl who had sucked you off, but that's what it's like to be an adolescent.

"When he gets back to his home town, he'll be a real mover," Anne observed, rather astutely, I think. "He'll be bragging about all the girls he's had during the holidays and all his boy friends will be very impressed. Little will they know that he was only whacked off once and at that he was scared stiff."

The rest of the trip was rather uneventful-through no fault of ours. We tried to get some action going aboard the train, but to no avail. All the men we were interested in were stuff-shirted pricks or married and scared their wives would find out. So our entertainment was reduced to a series of childish pranks.

Like sitting with our blouses open and our brassieres off so that every man who passed could get a good look at our breasts. Word seemed to spread around the train like wildfire, and at one point the conductor had to come to find out what had caused the unusually heavy flow of pedestrian traffic through our car. It was so bad that congestion had occurred at each end.

Or going to the toilet and taking off our panties, then sitting with our legs up and showing our cunts to the men who were sitting facing us. The two who got the best view were both married and traveling with their families. What they went through to get a good look, but not let their wives catch them, was excruciatingly humorous. One of them, the one who was staring up my skirt, even went so far as to burn a hole through his newspaper so that he could pretend to be reading when really he was drinking in every soft, brown detail of my vagina.

The classic one, the one that almost got us thrown off the train was the one that only Anne had the nerve to do. We were sitting in the dome car. Naturally we both had our purses with us and in Anne's was one of our sample plastic pricks. It was one taken from Stan's cock. Anne took it out when we were along in the car and started to masturbate with it. She had it right up to the hilt in her cunt when two old women-looked like grandmothers-came into the car. Wanting to get a good view of the landscape, they took the front seat, the seat just in front of and across from us. What they ended up getting a good view of was not just the landscape. Whether they smelled something or whether they heard the squish of the statuette going in and out of Anne, I don't know. But they did turn around and stare right up between her thighs at the pink plastic and the wrinkled, hairy box.

In unison, they let out a frightful shriek and bounded, as much as old ladies can bound, out of the dome car, yelling that they would have us thrown off the train. Luckily, we heard no more about it. We assume they would be too embarrassed to tell anybody what they'd seen. The old buzzards avoided us like the plague for the rest of the trip and we were just as happy that they did.

The remainder of the journey was consumed in dreaming about what awaited us in Montreal. I had managed to put Sunny and the poor old drunk just about out of my mind. That's my philosophy: "Don't look back!" If you do, you're likely to trip and fall. Always look ahead to where you're going and take each day and each situation as it comes.