BOYS DON'T QUEEF: Part Four By Zuiderzee (zuiderzee@yahoo.com) Two trashy teen Tomboys turn truculent--tryst & tussle TV tourist to transcendence m,f,f(?),1st,size,rough,va,viol,interr. Disclaimer: This here's meant for them growed-up folks what don't mind havin' a tale of sinful goings-on told to 'em. Amen. The switchblade was real. It was sharp. She held the weapon and positioned her body like one who'd gotten into more than one duel. This newest tomboy dropped her yellow eyes, letting her burning, Lesbian-Betrayed gaze fall squarely on my stirring, snaking package. Those eyes seemed filled with boiling piss. I had a semi-erection tenting my motorcycle pants. My balls tightened up a little, reacting to my new emotional state which was one part fear, one part agression and one part sporting pleasure. Again I was under attack by some Yobbo, at much closer quarters than when the motoring rednecks had shot at me yesterday. Heightwise, she stood about 5'11''. Her clothes were bulky, but she wasn't Tempest's weight--likely 40 lbs. shy, and medium build as opposed to Tempest's thick bones. I glimpsed her standing nips under her shirt. Son of a bitch! This was the rebel cyclist who'd been fleeing from the convertible and its load of riled rednecks yesterday. I just hadn't gotten a close look. I'd been too busy getting Beanpole to wipe his piss off my own motorcycle to think of much else. Fighting Lulubelle off would have to be done quickly and cleanly. I was worn out from humping the hefty Lud and hadn't had a bite to eat. I'd polished off the remainder of an iced tea from the trailer fridge, but that was all she wrote as far as wetting my whistle. It was shady inside the trailer, the light uncertain and uneven. The open door threw in a cube of sunshine in which Lulubelle stood poised, puffs of noxious nicotine rising from the two cigarettes clamped in her lips. THe skin around her eyes and forehead was clean, but her nose and lower face was a mask of road dust; she must have torn off a pair of goggles, likely a bandana--her hair was a fright-wig. The slender switchblade, another 50's era relic, but still intimidating, twisted in her practiced grip as she got ready for a slashing thrust. She was no dunce with the blade. But no genius, either. Her next attack went wide and she withdrew with a zig-zag of the narrow blade, going for my hand. That too, missed. What she didn't know was that I had video-game trained reflexes along with years of Hollywood weapons training. Oh yes, Lulubelle might have had the coordination to play pinball with a lit cigarette in one hand, but how could that compare with 24 bit technology? And no matter how many rolling barrels that jagged-edged big brown ape rolled at me, I could jump over them and keep on coming. This bitch was no gorilla, more of a mean chimp. And brother, I know chimps pretty much firsthand. I'd been in Hollywood a few years back, on the set the day the late Wade Ralston had been mauled by a "tamed" chimpanzee. "Just Like Magic" wasn't a bad TV series, and I got plenty of fan mail from my two appearances. It was one of those shows where grown-ups (in this case stage magicians), just couldn't do a damn thing right and precocious kids were always there to criticize and/or give sympathy to the adult bunglers. The co-star, Ralston, played an 19th century magician, Prof. Quigley W. Quigley, who'd been magically transported (another adult goof) into the modern age by one of his sister's descendants. Quigley W. Quigley was an older gent, dapper and talkative who chided the dysfunctional Fixx family with whom he now lived. With me so far? Trapped in this time, Quigley had to adapt to changes which he hated and always tried to fix with his unpredictable magic wand. The way he talked about his wand's powers rhymed with how I was boasting about my cock at the time, but I had better luck with my results than him, despite his experience. Every episode, the damned thing would backfire on him-- POOF! "Oh, Horsefeathers!" I still say his line now and again. Episode #43, "Monkey's Uncle", looked funny on paper and during rehearsal, but when "Fizzy" the chimpanzee was introduced to the cast, I knew we were in Dutch. I was only 11 at the time, but a big 11. And Fizzy, a 3 year-old chimpanzee scared me. From experience, I trusted Torn Ives, the animal trainer from when I worked with his parrots on a car wax commercial. Splat! Uh-Oh, we need Sly's Slide-on Car Wax! Fizzy was so-named for his spitting, slurping schtick, but as Wade's takes with Fizzy wore on, Fizzy started to foam. And then boil over. In costume, Wade was on his 11th take and the animal trainer was having a hard time keeping the ape settled down. Wade had been holding the little black-haired menace in his arms, delivering his lines while I stood by with my arms crossed, playing the part of his arch-nemesis, Nestor (in temporary age-regression). I delivered my lines with admirable panache, even incorporating the body language and vocal stylings of Eldon Bascombe, who is still alive at the age of 98 and probably has nightmares of that episode. "Quigley, you fool!" I had intoned, throwing back my head, "You'll need more than 'Horsefeathers' if you plan to foil me again!" Fizzy reached up, took hold of Wade Ralston's face (which perhaps he thought was a chessboard) and began to move the pieces. Ralston howled, but his being a career funny man lessened the urgency of his situation. Blood began to show through Fizzy's grasping, tearing fingers and only after an agonizing minute during which the taping continued did the distracted, chuckling trainer realize the show's co-star was in real trouble of being defaced. Bad! Fizzy--BAD! "Jesus, Mr. Ralston...I'm sorry!" Torn Ives got Fizzy off and tranquilized while Wade lay on the floor screaming. Blinded (but only for a few days) Ralston recuperated in a Beverly Hills hospital, never to work on that "God-Fucking-Damned, Sent from Hell, Son of a Bitch, Shit-Stinking, Up your Asshole" show again. Thanks, Fizzy. I got some bucks from those episodes and got to make out with the chick who played the Fixx's loopy cousin; Yoga-crazed, navel-baring Daisy. But that is another story. Lulubelle struck me as another chimp. It would be dangerous to drop my guard with her under any circumstances. Her mood could turn ugly in a trice and she could do some real damage. She was not tame. She might look absurd, but as I knew from the permanent scars on Wade's face, holding a beast equipped with both nimbleness and persistence was a calculated risk! She looked every bit as mean and frantic as old Fizzy and even seemed to have his teeth--or some of them. She didn't have a chance against me under normal situations. Her only edge was she'd come onto the scene ready to fight, while I had been preparing to go another round with "Lud" and introduce her to titty-fucking, super-stud style. The man-hating mulatto spit one of her cancer-sticks at me, remarkably keeping the other in place. The fire-tipped missle tumbled past my ear as I ducked. She'd been aiming for my eye. "You Salopbastard--" She said in a vile mixture of French and English. THis was one of her favorite curse-words. Then the switchblade began its first well-directed slice, top to bottom. I saw it coming. Miss. A rapieresque lunge, fit for a musketeer. Missed again. The tapering tip jumped up, going for my chin. Another frustrating miss. "Salopbastard--I cut you good this ti--" "Big talk, Lou! Diseur de riens!" "Fuck--!" I counter-attacked, seizing her wrist in my left hand, intent on twisting it. The burning cigarette in the corner of her mouth was plucked out in a trice between ring-crusted fingers and the reddish tip brought down on my left hand. Not quite! The fresh Yarborough cigarette left a dirty brown dot on my wristwatch. Smudged, the glass bore up to the hot ash and effectively snuffed the smoke as if it were a tray. The other Yarborough was somewhere on the floor, but she couldn't get at it. All around us, the trailer shook and lurched as was only natural. Tempest looked on, not quite dumbly, but unlike those Hollywood stories, she didn't try to get between the rivals for her affection and wind up killed. She was saying something, but I didn't have time to listen. If I beat her, I had a chance of screwing her. That meant I couldn't mess her up too bad. Tempest had a relationship with her and it would be self-defeating to unload real brutality on her, alienating me from Tempest who just might forget our bond in favor of one she had forged over a longer time with this tough chick. Her knife hand was forced down, the grimy wrist twisted until the slender, spring-loaded dagger dropped to the floor. I kicked it under the fridge, neatly avoiding her other arm which I barely caught. "Simmer down, Wild One!" I held her no longer than I needed to, forcing her away before I could sprain her arm. I was tiring. Lulubelle had real muscle. I had to see her naked. She looked back at with with a look of utter hatred and outrage. Then that look shifted to one of relieved gloating. Did she think after all that she'd won? She bent in a flash, whisking a dark gray object from her left boot. It was in her hand and aimed at me in a nonce. A miniature automatic pistol, reminiscent of the one carried by a certain Limey spy was cradled in her grimy fingers. She aimed for my face and pulled the trigger. This is it, I thought, knowing I couldn't dodge. But I didn't yell like a fucking jerk, either. Nothing. The miserable tear-gas pistol had misfired, probably grit had gotten into the works and jammed the trigger. Thank God for small favors. "Fuck!" she said again, trying to fire the gun with mounting chagrin. Keeping that arm thrust out and the useless pistol pointed at my eye, she dug into her jacket pocket and fished out a cannister of mace. She had just flipped up the guard that protected the button from accidental discharge when I knocked it out of her rage-trembling hand. The mace fell with a clatter. Keeping the useless gun trained on me, she dug into another pocket and brought out another gun, a wimpy .22 pistol. It looked real, but this one was a revolver. She had neglected to cock it. "Don't be stupid, Lou." Tempest probably couldn't see past my body at what the mean mulatto was doing. Using the hand with the tear-gas automatic to cock the hammer of the .22, she lost just enough time for me to close the gap and get in close. The .22 went off with an ear-raping crack, making us both shut our eyes in reflex. A tiny puff of smoke clouded the interior of the trailer. With its single round spent, the starter's pistol was thrust at me barrel first, almost gouging my cheek. Then the hand holding the tear-gas gun came down on my shoulder with real force. The butt end of the unreliable Frenchman's pecker banged my collarbone. Tempest screamed when the gun went off, but stayed where she was. Adrenaline spiked my system and I wrestled with Lulubelle again, turning her around as I brought her arms behind her back. My legs were parted for balance and the mulatto, sensing this, bent her right leg back, going for my nuts with her heel. My knees slammed together, trapping her foot. Then her head flew backward, but I withdrew quickly, avoiding a bloody nose. My bulging package ground into her derriere. I got her to drop the guns, keeping only the tear-gas automatic. Lulubelle disgorged a stream of Francophonic filth and fought away, leaving a reek of effluvium which was not roadkill and whiskey, but bacon, ketchup and fries and domestic beer. "Why doncha take it outside, skunky?" I let go, half-hoping she would take the hint. Instead, the mulatto whipped a length of chain from around her neck and flailed it madly at me. If she didn't have a wrist-mounted flame-thrower, knee-darts and a rocket- pack, I would be disappointed. The flying silver links drove me back and her next blow was aimed at a piggy bank on the kitchen counter. The blow shattered the ceramic swine, spilling not pennies and nickels, but a Korean War era Colt .45. She let the chain go. Lulubelle snatched the gun, mindless of the scraping shards and worked the slide. She fired one shot, letting sunlight stab down through the hole in the trailer's roof. At least she was sporting with a true killing weapon. "LOU--WRATH AND JEALOUSY ARE SIN!" Tempest yelled over the commotion. "Now you get your ass out, faggit!" She lowered the gun and aimed just as I pitched the tear-gas pistol in her face, spoiling the bead she'd drawn on me. Rushing her, I used the heel of my fist on her chin, once, twice. Her teeth clicked and she feel back, pulling the trigger again, sending a round high and wide with a muzzle flare that lit the gloomy interior. This shot made a hole in a window. I grabbed the gun, mindful of the hot barrel, forced it into Lulubelle's side, snatched her by the collar and marched her out. Clyde Andrew Sugar, aka Sugar Candy stood outside with a rifle. He had it firmly clutched in his huge hands, ready to shoot, but with the barrel tilted toward the sky. His clean-shaven, sunburnt face showed every year of his seven decades. "Don't care who done the shootin'--heave that G.I. piece into the truck!" My ears still rang from the series of close-quarters pistol reports, but I heard. Like Tempest, he wore weathered overalls as part of his outfit, and must have weighed twice as much as her, despite the fact he was the shortest of all of us. Wanting to end the nonsense, I tossed the .45 onto a blanket in his open truckbed. He drove a 1960's 3 ton flatbed truck, a bulbous Diesel monster painted industrial green. "I's gonna puddown thissere gun-raw-full...now don't neetherya commence to resumin' yar riff-raff!" Sugar Candy went on. "L'Esperance, ya'll lost this fight, now skeedaddle!" Actually a pretty name, Lulubelle L'Esperance. Lulubelle was still unsteady on her feet. The pulled punch came close to a knockout blow, enough so that she stumbled ahead of me a ways and sat down heavily on a picnic table outside the trailer and next to the Camp Sunshine office building. She sat with her head sagging in her hands, smirched with powderburns. Sugar Candy put on a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. He looked at Lulubelle first, then at me, seeing the big bulge in my motorcycle pants. Tempest followed us outside a moment later and came up behind me with an arm around my waist. "Dang and blast you young folk with yer newfangled fornicatin' and yer preversions!" Sugar Candy shook his head discontentedly and stowed his deer rifle in his truck. "I'm s'posin' this feller here's th'one'ts got the mote-E-sickle't need's fixin'." "You suppose right. Busted throttle cable." "Shit...on that Jappy rice-burner I seen lyin' in the grass next to the stair-steps. I kin get that gawd-damned thing t'runnin'. Jes' gimme'n hour." "I can wait. Ain't had my vittles yet, nohow. I'm a growin' boy, ain't I?" I said, giving Tempest a husbandly hug. I had fucked her out from under the half-breed, beaten her and was feeling a little like a king. "All that feudin' gimme'n appy-tight," I said, "How's for a passel of coffee an' cornpone?" The mulatto, finally recovered enough to see straight, gathered up her goggles and bandana, arranged them on her head and went to her own bike. "Ah, Lou! Don't carry on so, we'un's here's fixin' t'make us a right fine breck-feast!" Hurt, Tempest let go of me and tried to chase Lulubelle down, but got only a cloud of dust and a string of Gallic gobbledygook in answer. "Lou ain't never turnt down vittle afore this...he's a raggler can-o- sewer." Remembering her stink, I laughed. "You could say that." Behind her goggles, Lulubelle shot me that old "you haven't seen the last of me!" glare and disappeared. "Guess I was plenty stern with...Lou." I said, hitching up my pants. "He'll be back, I know he will." Tempest said, surprising me. Sugar Candy rummaged for his tools in the cab of his truck, shot me a look that said, "Let her find out for herself" and shut the door. "Lou's war friendly when first we met...but she's a Can-Ah-Dan, and that country-land up North is a place of wickedness and shame." Tempest reamed her ear daintily with her small finger, likely trying to ease the pain on her ravaged eardrums. "She come down here to fight them Nitchie-Injun-Canucks." Nitchie would have sufficed. If she had fared as poorly against them as she had me, she was in for a drawn-out campaign. Well, she had considerably less ammo for that fight now. Lulubelle had likely kissed Tempest, indulged in heavy petting, but had not revealed herself as a girl, making Tempest an unwitting Lesbian. Interesting. Sugar Candy got a more than fair $100 for his repair job on my motorcycle, but couldn't help me with the gasoline. And he wouldn't disgrace his truck by loading my "Jappy Rice-Burner" onto it. I took the .45 Colt back, now having two automatics at my disposal, not counting the pathetic tear-gas gun Lulubelle had abandoned. I unloaded it, gave it a quick cleaning and oiling, checked it for action and smiled when it worked perfectly 20 times in a row. Then I reloaded it, packing the tear-gas pellet carefully back in. The .22 starter's pistol was spent. I couldn't go back to Big B's, but Sugar Candy told me about another roadhouse/gas station down the road 20 miles and if that wasn't possible, there was a sort of vehicle graveyard between here and there with gas tanks for the picking if I wanted them. Fed, I loaded Tempest onto my bike, giving her the helmet. She wrapped her thick arms around my waist, now and then rubbing my crotch in lingering fascination. She'd told me about a favorite waterhole of hers close to the junkyard and I wanted a few more turns with her. Yes, I was definitely liking this tomboy more and more. The dusky dike with the motorbike was out there somewhere, but now I was safely armed and had proven I had balls. But Lulubelle was a tough cookie herself--one of those tough teen lesbos who kick-started their vibrators and rolled their own tampons. There was the flickering hope she would be more cooperative when we met again. I brought both guns with me, stowing them in the cargo spaces on the bike. My cock stiffened in my pants and my balls bulged. This wasn't going to be a comfortable ride, but with Tempest's giant tits pressing into my back the whole time, it wouldn't be lonely. * I turned the bike off the highway where Sugar Candy said, almost missing the dirt road which had hand-made ROAD CLOSED-BRIDGE OUT signs guarding it. Weaving around the barriers, I continued down the tree-choked path, accelerating to jump the three-foot wide, five-foot deep rut that cut the crumbling dirt road like a trough. OVer a rise was an area that looked like a quarry, but the flat bottom was filled with cars. How they'd got there, I never knew, but they were clustered among young trees and weeds in blues, yellows, whites, reds, grays, greens and faded shades that defied designation. We dismounted and stretched. I took a minute to hide the bike from sight of the road behind a small delivery van and then rejoined Tempest in the shade of a sycamore. We got to laughing and grab-assing and to my undying delight, she picked me up off the ground in a bearhug which fired my recuperating ribs, but sparked so much of a spirit of frolic in me, I forgot the pain, and actually enjoyed it. No girl had ever picked me up before, or tried. Still acting silly, I got down and did some more grab-assing and then jumped on her back and rode her around on the grass between the cars, her easily bearing my weight as I reached over her shoulder to tweak her jogging jahoobs. She ran around like that for 15 minutes, still energetic, going around corners in the place I hadn't seen before. Then, as we went downhill on the gently-sloping ground, I saw it. Oh, NO FUCKING WAY! I said to myself as I saw the outlines of the giant, familiar vehicle come into view. I had heard tales of this outlandish wheeled billboard, but had never seen it. Amid the outdated, inoperable vehicles in the sequestered hollow was-- The OSSIE/METZGER WEENIE-MOBILE!!! 1959 version. It had gone missing, hijacked between cities on a rainy night. Well, here it had wound up, surrounded by trees and junked cars in a near-inaccesible graveyard in Old Lower Appalachia Minor. The tires had gone to hell, but the long, wide, luxury car that formed the rolling platform upon which the curved weenie rode was in fabulous shape considering the years. And that weenie. That immense, smooth, ruddy, suggestively canted-up weenie. Perhaps thirty feet long, the fiberglass frankfurter was higher at the rear than the front which was grinning with windows. Street legal, the Ossie/Metzger Weenie-mobile had danced in the imaginations of countless children in the Great Lakes area who could only cross their fingers and hope that this big, pink weenie would roll into their neighborhood some Saturday bringing to them beef by-products, sulfates, nitrates, phosphates and Freudian, phallic implications. "What'ds all that mean, Creed?" "How much did I say out loud?" "Oh, purty much all of it." She played with the strap of her overalls, giving her stupendous left breast some room to roll around. "This is the Weenie-mobile. It's funny...that's what some of the kids would say when I skateboarded in the neighborhood. They'd call me the Weenie-mobile." "It do bear a certain ray-semble-ants to ya...." Tempest rubbed my crotch. I was instantly inspired. My cock swelled in my pants and I unzipped my jacket and threw it over my shoulder. I walked around it, finding the door which was not, to my soaring horniness, locked. The interior smelled a little musty, but it was clean. Kitchen clean and the faint odor of garlic lingered in the still air that probably hadn't been disturbed in decades. The boys at Lamour Jr. High and at Polk as well might talk about getting to various bases in cars and vans and what have you with their girlfriends, but none of them could claim to have had sex inside a gigantic cock wagon. I laid my jacket on the narrow floor of the weenie deck and helped Tempest inside. I left the door open, hardly supposing the windows would fog, but vainly imagining. Of course, I was no stranger to her body, but she'd never really seen me fully aroused. She was about to find out now. "You want to...tell me...about Lou?" I asked between thrusts of my massive erection. I was ten minutes into boffing her, still content to swive the hefty hillbilly gal in the boy-on-top configuration. I was deeper in her than I'd been last night, pushing nine inches in on the utmost, but keeping to conservative six inch prods for the most part. My corn-fed conquest made love with little wrinkles of worry creasing her sweaty brow. I could see deep into her mouth as she swooned and left the dark pink cavern yawning. She had a chipped tooth I hadn't noticed before. I'd have to be careful if I got her to suck me. The load in my big balls was just about ready. My thrusts and her reaction to them made the unique vehicle around us shift and rock. Aged suspension systems creaked and boinged and bounced and the fiberglass phallic shell hopped like a happy weenie is supposed to. The designers who put this wagon together had in mind a travelling kitchen, not a bedroom. I would have loved to have hotwired this mobile and driven it back to my home town, honking the horn at everyone waiting outside school. But the battery was undoubtedly dead, all the rubber parts rotted and I hadn't seen a road good enough in this dell to drive it up to the main highway. "Now?" I asked, referencing my initial question. I prodded her cervix, levering the firm ring of muscle far inside her with twists and turns that drove her wild and pleasure and pain. "Not...right now!" Tempest let out a deep, pent-up breath as her third orgasm came on. Her work-built muscles tensed, betraying their power. Thighs bigger around than mine clasped my body and her big feet drummed the floor. Fresh pussy juice ran from her crammed insides, waxing my working cock in hot, clinging fluid. Big hands clutched at her stiff nipples, making the great pink nubs look dangerously close to rupturing. If she'd had milk in her jugs, I would have come instantly at the first spray on my face. As it was, I lasted another twenty minutes and then gave my all, letting go of two ounces of boy-cream into her and onto her quivering belly, filling her deep navel and splattering her giant breasts. I crawled over her and kissed her madly, thinning the curds of scum into a fine, warm film between our mashed abdomens. Then she queefed. Through the mass of wet pubic hair and freshly-released sperm came a deep, gyno-burp that echoed in the empty interior of the Weenie-mobile. It lasted two seconds and was followed by another smaller noise that fizzed wetly and went silent. SSSPPLUCK! PPPPPHHHUT! Tempest covered her red face with her hands. Her first queef, I guessed. "I'm a little sore, Creed. You bettah gimme a chance to raw-copper-eights fore'n you bring your member to my loins...." "I hear you," I said, getting up onto my knees to straddle her chest and give her our first titty-fuck. "This is fun, too. Trust me...." There was a guilty look on her face along with her smile as she pressed her jugs together around my driving cock. Now, she had a much closer view of my cockhead as it pushed to nudge her chin again and again. The wide-open piss-slit was beaded with pale amber pre-cum which I talked her into tasting. In ten minutes, she was kissing the purple helmet as it came within range of her lips and as I slowed my pace, she closed her mouth around the dome and sucked experimentally. SMAK--SLUP--HOUP When I came, I splattered her face, but caught some on my hands as well when her eyes were gummed shut. We were both crying out in primal joy, thrusting against each other in a sauce of body fluids. I felt her strength when I rolled her over onto her side. Our blissful eyes met in the heat. Then she moved, mounting me, but keeping my cock snared in her hand as she slowly milked what post-orgasmic liquid I still had in my system out. Those heavy tits of hers swayed and juddered as she bounced on my groin, using her buttocks to pump the next load of seed into the cannon. "We can continny this later...I gotta cool off!" Tempest walked funny all the way from the Weenie-Mobile to the creek. On the way I passed any number of newer cars that I could snake some gasoline from. It was odd to find newer cars in a place designated a graveyard, and of course, a vehicle as rare as the Weenie-Mobile out here was a definite mystery. She dove in with a terrific splash and paddled around in the cold mountain creek, washing away two of my cum-baths and getting those relaxed nipples beautifully erect once more. I slid in, ruefully watching the effect of cold water on my equipment. We held each other, one leg in her crotch and one of hers in mine in an effort to get close. "Ain't yer folks nor nobody else never bought ya' a Sunday-gone-to-meeting- dray-uss?" I asked. "We can go fetch one upta Big B's latter on..." Tempest moved against me with her smooth, wet skin. A shadow with a fuzzy head fell over the water and a smell that wasn't in any assortment of air fresheners hit us. "Oh, go away, Lou," I said, looking up at her, "Cain't you see we'uns wants to be 'lone?" There was a click. I thought she'd dug up another automatic, but this hand cannon had a barrel like a flashlight that holds D batteries--four such batteries. FUCK. That's a flaregun she's got-- I broke from my hold on Tempest and ducked as deep under the water as the shallows would allow. Over my back, I felt a flash of firey heat as though I'd backed too close to a barbeque. TOOOOOF! SPLASH! The flare seared and boiled, having just missed the two of us. Bubbles and evil-looking smoke rose from the water as the flare burned below the surface like a deep-sea salvagers cutting torch. The air stank of hot fumes. Any notion I had that Tempest was merely breezy disappeared in a moment. A formidable figure, even in her nakedness, Tempest burst from the water first and threw a punch at Lulubelle even as the mulatto cracked the gun and fed in another orange flare that looked like a gigantic allergy pill. "Is you plum crazy-mad, Lou? Puddown that thar stove-pipe-gun--!" "He give you fuck now, hien?" Lulubelle snapped the action shut. "You said yar feud was with the Nitchie-Injun-Canucks!" "Un changement, cheri. Now I duz diff'rint!" The mulatto tried to shoot around Tempest, angling the barrel and smiling evilly, trying to draw a bead on me. "I will keep monsieur warm in your absence--!" "Jealousy is a sin...violence is a sin. You told me you was a turnin' away from the ways of the Devil." "The father-parson he say LUST is the sin, too! What he doin' with you inside Le Grande Zob--" The rest of the question was in a French I couldn't follow. "Don't you say them words in this land. This country says I can make happiness one of my pursuits!" "Maudit Pays--!" Lulubelle tried to shove Tempest aside. Tempest wouldn't be budged. Lulubelle; starved, drunk, confused and generally unwilling to wallop a girl she still had feelings for, didn't put up much of a fight. Tempest shoved and shouldered and kicked and hammered with her fists, beating Lulubelle into a turtley crouch and then kicked her flat out, knocking the flare gun away. Then Tempest mounted Lulubelle and grabbed her arms, pinning them even as her pendulous breasts swayed inches from the mulatto's hate-curled lips. Tempest's jugs looked like blockbusters threatening to drop on target. Lulubelle started in with her usual Frenchy obscenities, making various references to me in unflattering terms, terms which Tempest drowned out with her own surprisingly loud voice, somewhat defending me. "Lou...you is given over to wickedness!" Tempest delared after a ten minute verbal bout during which the mulatto talked herself out and started to choke with exhausted sobs. Tempest slapped the other tomboy's face and climbed off, going back to the Weenie-mobile for her clothes and boots. "When we gets our Ay-cooter-ments on, we'uns is gonner chew the fat!" A truce was called. Tempest and I dressed, not looking at one another. She was in an odd mood I didn't really understand. My stomach flipped-flopped when it was finally laid out that Lulubelle, aka Lou, was not male, but female. The tale of their meeting and "courtship" was so Yobbo Country strange, I couldn't believe anybody outside Old Lower Appalachia Minor following the logic. I kind of got it, but accepting the truth only made Tempest look painfully stupid and Lulubelle a super-pervert/criminal/psycho-bitch. I figured the most honorable thing I could do was leave. We left Tempest to cool off by the creek while Lulubelle and I got on our bikes and made for a place she called, "Honey-Child's". It was not part of Big B's, but the bee-themed name might have been an attempt to cash in on the other establishment's popularity. Perhaps it was owned by the same man. We didn't go directly there. Lulubelle accelerated, zipping ahead. I gunned and followed only to have her perform a number of reckless stunts calculated to send me off the road. Copying a stunt from a movie, she gave her bike the gas and the brake with equal gusto and smoked the winding road with burning rubber, leaving black, greasy skidmarks on the cracking asphalt. I slowed, pulling off the highway at another dirt path. She followed, accelerating to launch a kick at me from the left side. We found ourselves in a clearing the size of a big-league baseball field. I was sick of her bullshit, and trusting to what the Hollywood stuntment had told me, I baited and eluded her, giving her a taste of her own medicine. When she realized she couldn't best me, she changed her attitude and shut down her wheels with a savage series of movements. I copied, parking my bike, ready to get moving again if she was trying to decoy me into approaching her on foot. Little of the gallon of gas I put in yesterday remained. No more games. I'd take her damned bike if I had to. Sucking me off was a strange way to show good faith, but my brief dip had not washed the Eau de Tempest off my body; she wanted all of what remained on me, even if she had to lick it away. What followed, I have already described in detail as I begun the tale. I surprised her with a fresh load of boy-cream and she gagged on the spurts, hauling her head away as more jets painted her face, neck and chest. She got up shakily, feebly pushing my hands away as I tried against better judgement to help. You're just gonna hafta turn her around, I recall the deputy saying, just turn her around. When she fished into her leather jacket, I got ready for another hateful assault, but this dip was only to bring out a small flask. She opened it and quaffed greedily, swallowing everything in her mouth with a series of glugs. "Now, faggit, we get your fucking gasoline." * To make a long story short, I got what I needed and returned alone to the car graveyard to pick up Tempest. "LUD! HEYO, LUD!" I called up and down the lot and the creek, but there was no answer. Fresh hoofprints, perhaps those a pony or mule were with the heavy imprints of her boots along with those of another person in smooth-soled shoes. Why hadn't she waited? There was no sign of a struggle. * Tempest wasn't in her trailer when I raced to Camp Sunshine. I pried up a window sash and got in the office building and searched around. Nothing. Her trailer was neat, but she wasn't in it. The day was wearing on. She was at Big B's or en route. I didn't know whether to stay here or go looking, hesistant of the convertible full of rednecks that were likely to take potshots at either Lulubelle of me if we came near the place. I didn't want to run into Beanpole, either. * Taking a tremendous chance, I went to Big B's and hurried into the Beekeeper's Shed where I picked out two new shirts, a pair of pants suitably loose for my basket and a pair of low boots. Ducking into the changeroom, I stripped, laying my motorcycle outfit on the seat inside the cubicle. There was no one else in the store when I entered except the lone clerk at the register who seemed to recognize me. I was admiring my reflection in the changeroom's narrow mirror when I heard an insect buzz in my left ear and a tap on my right shoulder. Suddenly weak and faint, I slumped, arrested from falling by-- Too out of it to think, I felt another sting on my back, stiffened and saw darkness rush up to swallow me. * I came to, dressed and with nothing missing. Wrong! My silver, gray, black and etc. motorcycle suit, boots, gloves and helmet were gone. I tried to get up from the seat where I was slumped, dizzy and drained. I felt hot marks on my back and shoulder. The $100 I kept in my sock was still there. My wallet, cellphones and the guns were in the motorcycle cargo boxes. Fighting to my feet, I staggered to the register, slapped down money for the clothes and dragged out. "Keep the change," I said in a slurring voice. "Somethin' wrawng, brother?" The startled clerk asked. "Just the memory of a shocking experience...." * I saw myself in the parking lot, fighting off three grown men. No, that wasn't right! Someone, I had a very good idea of whom, had stolen and donned my cycling suit, equally fashionable with the helmet. Lulubelle. She had a Bowie Knife in one hand, the flaregun in the other and was making a mess out of three rowdies; the Evigan Boys, plus their cousin, Jake Wilkes. All three wound up in the hospital after her berserk attack. The older Evigan brother, Bobby Joe, had his knee, upper arm and chin cut to the bone. Little brother, Billy Joe, had his nose broken. Jake Wilkes, who'd rushed in to even the odds, got his jaw smashed and three teeth knocked loose when Lulubelle swung the flaregun around in a scything punch. Then she shot their convertible with her flaregun at point blank range through an open window. They'd had the top up and the furious flare burned the interior like a bonfire. Then she bolted. It was like watching myself in a movie. "Get him--get that fucker!" someone yelled. A minute later, her motocycle roared on the other side of the road and she was gone in a noxious cloud of industrial-age slate blue. * Whatever she was going to do to the Nitchies, she had warmed up nicely on the Evigans and their cousin. Cars grumbled into life in the parking lot of Big B's and the chase was on. * More interested in getting my suit and helmet back than getting into a scuffle with Lulubelle L'Esperance now, I hung back as the more powerful of the quartet of cars took the lead, leaving two pickup trucks and a roadster in its smoky wake. Ultimately, the chase was more of an exhibition of local outrage than anything else, a demonstration against her brand of hooliganism vs. theirs. * With that trouble still brewing, I once again pulled in at Camp Sunshine to wait for Tempest. It was unusually dark. Lightbulbs had been broken or unscrewed in several lamps, casting the place into a patchwork of shadows. I took the old Army Colt .45 from the bike and tucked it into the waistband of my new pants. There was trouble. I could almost smell the fumes from Lulubelle's bike. If she'd brought trouble here, Tempest could be in dire straits. Quietly, I approached the Office, having left the front door unlocked. I drew the gun, feeling for the light, assuming if the mulatto was here, she was behind the door. Not this time. My hand fell across another hand in a leather glove. "Bon Soir, faggit." The light went on, revealing Lulubelle in my suit, the helmet under her arm, the flaregun barrel an inch from my eye. "Your move, Miss L." She tossed the flaregun away, letting it fall on the couch. I lowered the .45. in another string of seconds, I removed the clip, flicked out the bullets with my thumb which dropped on the floor and slammed the empty clip back in, setting the gun on a nearby table. She shut out the lights. "Why did you lie to Tempest?" "You no have to worry 'bout her. It's me you talkin' to now!" I stepped in close and made a clutch for her neck. She made a choking sound and stumbled. Play acting. "Cut the bull-" A miniature lightning bolt flared blue in the dark. The stun-gun she'd used on me before. "Strip, Mr. Hollawood. We come clean." When I told her I was naked, the lights came up again. "On your knees, faggit." Lulubelle had used the Bowie Knife to cut the crotch of the cycle pants along the seam, opening it in an eight inch long divide. She'd done this earlier on, I'd supposed and gotten rid of any underwear. Her pungent cunt was revealed in all its stubbly glory. She hadn't shaved, but had trimmed the hair close, perhaps two weeks back. In all my years of porn-perusal, I had never seen female anatomy quite like hers. Lulubelle had a jumbo-sized clit. It was easier now to think she'd managed to dupe Tempest into thinking she was a boy if she had been brave enough to put her hands between Lulubelle's legs with her denims on, let alone her panties. The partially-hooded, mostly exposed she-cock jutted out a freakish three inches. Her labia majora was bulbous, full-looking and the lips generous. Lulubelle had put the helmet on and lowered the opaque visor. She wore the gloves and still held the stun-gun at the ready. No wonder she liked tooling around on that motorcycle; it was her personal vibrator! Tilting her masked head downward and looking past the meager bumps of her bust, Lulubelle used one hand to pull the sliced leather crotch-seam wide. I had my mouth on it before she could finish. "Now, suck on my--AH!" She was lewdly exposed, the rest of her body dressed in my clothes, her identity hidden, ambiguous. This was the closest I'd come to actually giving another male a blowjob, despite Pete Schumaker's poetic hints. My tongue went crazy, part python, part hummingbird, part cat, flicking, stabbing, lapping, wetting down the pink organ as it rose and pushed away from its root. Lulubelle's body writhed in the suit, making the leather creak and grunt from her shins to her shoulders. Behind the helmet, her head lolled left and right. She lost her balance as I continued, adding more suction, drawing the semi-erect clit to full mast and pushing the prepuce back with my teeth and tonuge as she'd done with my cock. Falling forward onto her collarbones, the lower edge of the helmet dipped and slid as Lulubelle approached orgasm. She threw the stun-gun away carelessly and rubbed both of her breasts under the jacket, not pulling the zipper down to air them. Faltering, she went through another orgasm and moaned and screamed under the helmet, the noises muffled as though she was wearing a gag. On her third orgasm, her cunt was dripping and her clit poked turgidly out an additional quarter inch, fattening into a penis a baby boy might have. It had a glans, conspicuosly without a pisshole, and divided along the underside to meld into her vaginal opening. I didn't miss when she grunted, "FUCK ME!" under the visor. Taking her to the bedroom of the office, I laid her down on the covers, turned on the 3 way bulb to its lowest setting (30 watts--quite dim) and joined her on the bed, my gigantic cock oozing threads of precum and painfully stiff. Without removing any of the suit, not even the boots or helmet, I knelt down between those legs, parted them wide and slid into her. You're just gonna hafta turn her around. Turn her around, that's all. From 3:45 to 5:01 on the digital clock on the bed, I fucked her, delighting to her elephantine pussy farts which sounded like a section of bassoons warming up for band rehearsal. She queefed on the thrusts and on the withdrawals, queefed in cowgirl and doggystyle and kept right on blasting trapped air from her sugarwalls when I hammered her in the standup mode. The helmet banged against my face and finally, she took it off. Her face was drenched with sweat, her eyes shut tight. How many orgasms she had screamed into the hollow of that helmet, I'll never know. She held me with gloved hands and locked booted feet behind my back. I shot my last load into her, watching it ooze down the pantlegs of the suit, running over silver, black and gray fabrics. Then, I took her to the shower and cleaned her like she'd seldom been cleaned. Latent queefs barked in the wet-walled confines of the stall as we clung naked to one another, her small breasts with their glass-cuttingly stiff nipples raked over my pecs. I laughed at the numerous plastic bandage strips that covered her skin like bumper stickers. I felt at the square patch at her hip crest. A contraceptive patch, probably stolen. Or maybe a nicotine-fighting patch, I found two more on her back. She had no tattoos or piercings. Just scars and lots of them. She let me brush her teeth which I found somewhat erotic. That mouth was roomy, but she wouldn't let me kiss her on the lips, ducking away every time I tried to plant a smooch. Cum continued to ooze from her slit and would for a while, that was typical. Like a hunger-shrunken stomach, her snatch emitted pussy-burps for a while then went quiet. We had a surprise waiting for us when we got back to the bedroom. Tempest was naked, her lower body covered by the sheets she had pulled back while Lulubelle and I showered. Those huge round breasts were starkly shadowed above the white border of the bedsheet. All three of us exchanged serious looks. No matter what had happened that day, the rest of the night was for sleeping. My curiosity about the arrangement of our three bodies in the bed was decided by Tempest who beckoned me with her right arm and Lulubelle with her right. There was no mention of the fracas at Big B's and there wouldn't be. Sliding in, I found those sheets deliciously cool against my skin. I rolled, kissed Tempest goodnight only to find Lulubelle doing the same. The mulatto gave me a "you first" look and waited her turn. As I gave Tempest her settling-in-for-the-night kiss, the lightbulb popped and went out. I got comfortable listening to Lulubelle work her lips on Tempest's. Far off in the distance, cars and trucks roared on the highway, headlights went on. Above, the sky reddened, purpled, went to deep blue and then star-pocked blackness. And under this roof and under these covers, three formerly restless souls at last forgot yesterday, forgot today, forgot tomorrow and dreamed. THE END zuiderzee@yahoo.com