Jason Forbes

Lust in the Woods

I

The next time you kiss a twat, give a thought to me. I just got through lapping a muff juicier than any you've ever laid eyes on, buddy.

Jealous? Don't think it was easy. I don't mean the lapping. I mean meeting up with it. I had to drag my ass clear across the country. And suffer and suffer before I got my lips planted on it. Was it worth all the trouble? You tell me, after you've heard the whole dirty story.

It began with a leak. Not plumbing.

If you hafta take a mean piss, believe me, you're better off in the city. Out in the sticks, a guy never knows what'll happen. Honest! Like, for example, the time I unloaded in Mercer County, Iowa.

I can hear you ask the question. “What was a sophisticated stud like you doing in Mercer County, Iowa?” That's a tale too long to put between covers. Besides, my Parole Board would raise its fucking eyebrows. So we'll omit details that tend to incriminate me. I'll describe only the legal tidbits. If fucking and sucking and hailing and reaming are illegal, I'm giving up my goddamned citizenship!

There I was in this cornfield-or maybe it was a wheatfield. I can't distinguish one frigging blade of grass from another. The field stretched in every damned direction. The nearest town lay four miles behind me. My night's lodging could be under the next tree that hit my fancy. Long hours till nighttime. Long hours since I'd stowed that beer under my belly. Time to get rid of it.

Not a soul in sight. Since I had a natural sense of delicacy, I sought cover. A clump of bushes. Pissing in the middle of a field smacks of exhibitionism, whatever the fuck that means. I found the bushes. I faced them, unzippered, and pulled out my whacker. I directed the stream where it would do the most good-somewhere between the roots and the leaves. It had been a long, dry summer.

“Ma, there's a naked man making wee-wee.”

The unseen Mistress of Ceremonies was a fucking liar. I had my pants on. Chinos, shirt, and sneakers. The childish voice had come from the other side of the bushes. I tried to peer through, but couldn't see much. The stream zigzagged, dried up. I rezippered. Just as I turned away, I realized I had a companion.

She was too young, except for the most dedicated pervert. Not more than five, at the outside. A plump little girl with shining blonde hair, barefoot-wearing grubby calico. She looked up at me with wide eyes as if she'd never seen a 6-foot stranger. Before she could interrogate me on my urinary habits, or my country of origin, a voice called.

“Debbie, where are you?”

“She's here with me, ma'am. I think… Was that your mommy?” Debbie's eyes opened wider, but she wasn't talking. Maybe she was still reveling in her traumatic experience. The sight of a fat prick at the age of five can set a girl's libido spinning, if she knows what it is.

A figure appeared through a break in the bushes to the left of us. A figure! Also decked out in cheap cotton. Every girl with big tits should wear a dress two sizes too small, faded, outlining every good feature it tried to conceal. I could see the sharp tips of her nipples, dark spots on the sun-bleached material.

“I'm afraid I frightened your little girl, ma'am.”

“Debbie doesn't frighten easily.” The throaty voice was cool, almost remote. But her naked stare betrayed an interest far from cool and far from remote. Now she resembled her daughter. Same glossy blonde hair, same wide blue eyes. There the resemblance ended. Lush hips rounded the stripes of the cotton. Taut nipples faced me proudly.

She was worth a fucking.

Without thinking, I looked around me. Shrub, long grass, trees. Quiet. I could do it. I knew I could do what I wanted. One hand over her mouth, one under her dress. A quick screw on the grassy ground. How could she stop me? File a complaint with the sheriff? By the time she crawled to the sheriff, I'd be out of the county. No witnesses-except Debbie. That was a complication. Or was it?

I could hear myself warning. “You keep your mouth shut, unless you want what your mother got!” I'd give it to her anyway. Screw her young quim. Then there'd be no witness, no complication. If my stiff buzzer didn't split her arid kill her, I'd bash her head in. And silence her mother forever. Why not?

A good fuck is worth a murder.

The little girl's voice plummeted me back to reality. “Are you lost, mister?”

Lost. Lost between two nipples and a pair of round hips. For a minute, I couldn't answer. Debbie's mother mistook my silence for shyness.

“If you're lost and hungry-” she started, tentatively.

“That's it, ma'am. I'm lost-and very, very hungry.”

“In that case, you're welcome to come back with us. The cabin isn't far.”

I stammered confused thanks, hugging my luck. For the first time I noticed that the blonde had set a heavy pail down when she'd stopped to talk. A pail brim full of blackberries. I scooped up the pail and we started off toward the cabin.

Charming domestic scene. Little girl skipping through the woods. Big girl walking demurely at the side of her man. Man lugging pail, idly chewing sweet blackberries. Idly revising rape plans. I'd screw her in the cabin. No witnesses. Debbie would be sent out to play while mommy went in to play in the bedroom. If there was a bedroom.

Indoors I could take my time. Tie her up. Gag her. Ball her twice. Much better! And only five minutes before, I'd considered wasting my gism on a five-year-old muff. Not to mention double murder. Uncomplicated rape is cleaner than homicide.

It didn't work out that way after all.

The first thing I spotted in the cabin was a pipe. A man's pipe. Funny, my calculations hadn't included Debbie's father. Nothing changes rape prospects like the presence of a second man. Implied, actual, or threatened presence. I could picture my intended victim's husband as if his picture hung over the mantel. A laconic, raw-honed Iowan farmer with clumsy hands and feet. Jealous, slow-moving, and vindictive. In my mind's eye, I saw him clearly.

As if there were a mantel in that cabin. Fucking smelly hole, it lacked all the niceties. I mean, even for a goddamned backwoods cabin. The one room had been partitioned and darkened by a long length of unbleached cloth stretched from one end to the other at about the level of my forehead. The main half of the room served as living, cook, and washing quarters. Old-fashioned pump sink they must have imported from Appalachia. Tiny stove. Shelves holding staples, tools, and gewgaws. Rough oak table and a few chairs to match.

I could easily peer over the curtain partition. Milord and lady's sleeping quarters. Sagging bed, cot for Debbie, crate furniture. Clothes strewn on the bed; more clothes hanging from wall hooks.

The musty, hovel smell faded. My hostess had busied herself at the stove, and soon the aroma of beef stew tickled my nostrils.

“'Just ha' to heat up. We'll be eating soon, mister.

“I'm Doug Trent. That had slipped out unconsciously. Idiot tactics for a rapist to introduce himself by the name on his birth certificate. Remember that. It might save you up to ten years of self-recrimination. I forgot, I guess, because my plans had been altered by the pipe and the masculine clothes on the bed. And the picture that wasn't on the mantel that wasn't in the cabin. I had a new hunger to consider.

The tangy aroma of beef stew made me suddenly ravenous. Hungrier for food than for fucking. You might say my stomach was horny. I forgot when I'd eaten last. I barely heard the blonde's polite murmur. “My name is Beth Coogan.” If she neglected to add “Mrs.”, I failed to notice.

Then the three of us sat at the table and Beth dished out dinner. Chunks of good fatty beef and slices of good crusty bread. I wolfed down two portions. I stifled a belch, sipped coffee, and remembered that I came equipped with a prick. Satisfy one hunger and the other rears its head. That's why you find so many cathouses established above ground floor restaurants.

“Debbie, go out and play.”

My words-but I hadn't spoken. Debbie unhesitatingly obeyed her beautiful mother. Beth didn't waste a glance at me. She disappeared behind the cloth partition. On tiptoe, I could see across it. Beth was sitting on the bed. Wailing.

I crossed over to the bedroom side.

“Uh-Mr. Coogan-”

Her lips curled. “There's no Mr. Coogan.”

She stood up, raising her face to mine. I kissed her, rubbing my hands over her squashy boobs. Her lips were cool. She stepped back to unglue us.

“What about the kid?”

“Debbie'll stay out till I call her. What's the matter, hobo? Looking for excuses?”

I slapped her face hard, just for the pleasure of slapping her. On the down swoop, I ripped half her dress off. The top half. The tit half.

Beth's boobies plopped out, cushion-round, pale as milk. Bare tits make a chick look vulnerable. I felt like a bastard for slapping her. “I'm sorry, Beth,” I mumbled. My apologies were muffled. I hunched over to chew on them. I forgot I was sorry, forgot she was vulnerable. I bit hard on the soft, yielding flesh. Pinched the taut nipples till she screamed out in torment.

She was fast. Hot. Writhing. She writhed out of her torn dress, standing nude except for flimsy panties. She pulled down my zipper, grabbing my dick. Screaming louder. Like a seagull, like a bitch burning in agony. Inhuman. Only the words were human.

“Put it in me. Fuck me!”

Them's dangerous words to a hobo. They inflate the ego something awful. I had nine swinging inches of inflated ego.

“Get on the bed, cunt!” I pushed her forward. Beth lay flat on her back, nipples aimed at the ceiling. I rolled down her panties, muzzled her fuzz, and spread her legs wide.

Like certain other blonde nymphos of my acquaintance, Beth had a twat as delicate as a baby's. The lips went a light rose tint, the slit itself was narrow, virginal. You couldn't believe a stiff cock had ever stuffed it. The hairs around it were silky, girlish-and wet. She was dripping. She needed a fucking.

I dipped my finger into the honeypot. It came away gooey. I didn't stop to sniff it or fondle her or take my pants off. I mounted her, the head of my dong tight on the wrinkle.

“Want something?”

Beth twisted her body impotently, trying to suck my whang into her cleft. It's the best game I know. Making 'em beg for it. Nine inch stud-and the stud holds all the aces. A good stiff player can hold off his poker forever. Forever.

For….

Her clingy cunt was winning in spite of me, bathing the rim of my prong in its juices, drawing it into the cavern, holding it fast in a love vise, making it dance, making it quiver.

Cunt, you asked for it. I slammed into her-to the womb in one thrust and that was only the starter. I rammed her, hammered her with a merciless barrage of belly-battering lunges. Beth's screams were shrill; she was working up to her climax. Fuck her climax. I rode her without respite until my balls made their usual flutter, till I felt the cream racing, and I interrupted my groans for the useless warning, “I'm coming! I'm coming!”

Beth's lungs bellowed out the dirge of the short-changed female. To put her out of her misery, I groped for her clit and tweaked it. The little pricklike extension expanded and stiffened. I was going to lie down and lick it, but Beth started having her fucking, belated orgasm.

I like to watch a girl when she's coming. Lips apart. Eyes open, glazed, unfocused. I experimented. I jammed two fingers up her twat while she exploded. I revolved them in the gooey cleft. Wasted effort. I don't think Beth was even aware of my probing fingers. She just kept coming.

The whole lower half of my hand was whitish, wet, and slimy. How much of that mess was Beth's love froth, how much was my own gism? I'd need a computer to sort out that sticky problem.

Beth wanted a return bout. She wanted prick action. By a happy coincidence, I also craved action. My prong, however, was still shyly drooping. I hinted that a maidenly tongue would dispel the shy languor. I hinted in the nicest way possible. With one hand, I drew the blonde's head forward, with the other, I pried her lips open. Then I jockeyed for position till my labe was in her mouth and she sucked it.

It wasn't the first time she'd had dong in her mouth. Beth knew just where to concentrate-the sensitive skin under the head, the jumping vein along the middle. She knew how to make a limp prick a roaring hard-on.

I pulled out above, and crept in between her lower lips. Beth was ready to go off once I stuffed nine inches into her. I was suddenly in a tearing, fucking hurry. Her hips made me hurry. Her nails raking my ass made me hurry. With fast, staccato lunges, I banged the gism out of my system.

“I'll put Debbie to bed. You can stay, Doug.”

Yeah. The mattress felt lumpy. The air in this part of the cabin was fetid. But I'd be big-hearted, I'd overlook the disadvantages. Sharing a lumpy mattress with a nympho would be better than bedding under a tree, giving myself a hand job. Right?

Wrong! Wrong, you crazy bastard. A tree and a hand any time!

II

I fell asleep and dreamed of blackberries. Luscious blackberries, only they were creamy white, big as tits, with rosy centers. I was chomping them. And the little hard pits tasted best. Like nipples. Like Beth's nipples.

The blackberries slithered out of my mouth. Fell to the floor. The floor tilted upwards. The cabin shook.

The dream ended, but the cabin kept shaking. Earthquake-or had Mr. Coogan returned?

In the darkness, I could see nothing. I felt hot breath on my face. Someone was peering down at me. I could feel the bristles of a beard. Mr. Coogan? I tried to raise my arms. They were bound to the bedposts. My ankles were tied. I was spread-eagled on the bed. Alone. Where was Beth? What the fuck was happening?

The voice came, unexpectedly friendly.

“So you woke up! Buddy, I never seen anyone sleep like you do.”

I kept silent. Sweating. What does one say in those circumstances? “Pleased to meet you?”

“Thanks for your hospitality?”

“Untie me, you villain?”

Mr. Coogan got to the crux of the matter.

“You been fuckin' Beth?”

“No. I-”

In the darkness, a fist connected with my jaw. “Don't make the lady a liar.”

Beth's voice sounded cool, throaty, curiously disembodied now that I couldn't see her. “He fucked me three times. Made me-” A stinging slap cut short her catalogue.

“Get the kid outta here. Wait a minute.” The bearded man lit a lantern, and abruptly the room seemed ablaze with light. I could see now that the cords binding me were actually bits of rags expertly tied. The female touch. I was as jaybird naked as when I'd crawled into the sheets with Beth.

Undisturbed by the light, Debbie slept in her cot. The blonde bitch had slipped-on another faded cotton dress.

She was standing at the foot of the bed, eyes glittering. Beside her, a bearded giant poised about to spring. Mr. Coogan? Whoever the fuck it was, I was in trouble. “Wake 'er up!”