Louisiana Days

"The difference between fiction and reality? Fiction has to make sense."

Tom Clancy

***

I had lived through the era of free love and cheap dope. So in January 1976, when I moved to my newest town to resurrect my career and my life, I thought I knew all there was to know about sex. Problem was I really didn't know anything. Then, in my third month of unintentional celibacy, all that was about to change.

It was my second or third week at the Free Press paper when the big rape-robbery-murder trial began. The news clippings and the official word was that these two guys held up a clothing store, and raped the clerk on their way out. The owner had a heart attack during the robbery, so murder charges were tacked on.

The story in the Sunday paper the week of the trial was gory enough, but the stuff not in the story would have spoiled our readers' Sunday brunch - especially the part about bending her over the counter and packing her ass.

So, I managed to arrange my duties as courthouse and government reporter so as not to miss the good parts of the trial. On the third day, after jurors were seated, opening arguments delivered, and the incidental witnesses questioned the rape victim was whisked into court to provide teary testimony. I swear, even the defense attorneys were crying, ready to de-ball these two guys. In the front row during all of this sat an old woman, the mother; a skinny man of about 20, the victim's husband; and this enormous peroxide blonde with enormous tits, sister of the victim.

At lunch in the courthouse cafeteria, renown lawyer Preston Doucet, in town for a civil trial, was pontificating on rape defenses. The acclaimed law professor, U.S. attorney and alligator hunter said the oft used "she asked for it" defense only works when it's true... and he pointed to the Peroxide Princess: "Her, ten Hells Angels could gang rape her and get away with it. She's got this big `fuck me' sign written across her forehead."

Back in court after lunch, during a very tough cross examination, I kept noticing the Peroxide Princess consoling her brother-in-law: His face nestled in those huge tits and her hand in his jeans. Here is her sister retelling the most horrid moment of her life, and the Peroxide Princess is pulling on her husband's dick!! The testimony - and side show - got too gross for me, so I went out to the hallway to smoke a cigarette.

When the trial recessed for the day, I went to the paper and wrote my story, then hustled off to the Beau Sejour, a hotel, restaurant and lounge, so as not to miss the happy hour.

Anyway, there was Preston sitting in the bar, still pontificating to Jake, the paper's police reporter, and anyone else who would listen. After a drink or two, he asked us ill-paid newspapermen to dinner. There in the dining room were the victim, the husband, the sister and the mother. And I'll be damn if the Peroxide Princess didn't have her hand in the husband's lap. Preston, of course, noticed and went back to talking about rape.

Long before we had finished our mostly liquid dinner, the four of them left the dining room for the lounge, where a not so good band was playing Glenn Miller-type stuff. I poured the last of the third bottle of wine into my glass and toasted my dinner companions: "Gentlemen, I am about to get laid." I turned and walked into the lounge and asked the Peroxide Princess to dance.

Damn, she was big. I couldn't get my arms all the way around her, which didn't stop her from pressing her enormous tits against my chest and riding my leg. God, she was attacking me!

Before I go any further, I want to point out that I like Rubenesque women. Tits turn me on. All that warm, twitching flesh waiting to be enjoyed. Bellocq took dozens of pictures of Rubenesque whores, the most sought after ladies of The District. The Peroxide Princess may not have been the Belle of Storyville, but after a few drinks, the thought of being buried in all that flesh (OK fat) had my imagination in overdrive.

I will admit that she had beautiful blue eyes, which were appropriately big. They were highlighted by a pound of makeup, with another pound of rouge and lipstick. Her dress was white and ill fitting - there was no tent maker in the parish. Below the tits, everything was a barrel. Her hair was dried and dead, though the roots had been recently attended to. She wore short heels - an inch or two - but even then she had trouble walking on them, her fleshy feet overlapping the insoles and platforms.

Back at the bar I bought her a drink - both of us had already had much more than we needed for our purposes - and we stood at the bar for only a few minutes before we again hit the dance floor and again she was all over me, humping my leg. Before the number was finished I asked if she needed a ride home.

"Yes, let's go." (That may not have been her exact words but the sentiment was there. She wasn't very subtle.)

Suddenly, at just 10 p.m. we are in the parking lot, sitting in my 16-year-old TR3 with the top down - she probably couldn't have gotten in otherwise - and I leaned over to kiss her. She opened her mouth and just about devoured my face, then she grabbed my hard-on - which was quite. I got a feel of her big breasts, and started the car, which started the first time - amazing.

I never even asked where she wanted to go, and headed straight to my garage apartment. I swear, during the entire trip she pulled on my hard - through my suit pants because she was too drunk and her fingers too fat to make the zipper work in the dark. When I got to my house, I nearly flew inside. Now I got to see what those big tits looked like in the flesh.

God they were huge, and so was the rest of her. Enormous mounds of flesh that rippled as she walked. And, she was naked in seconds. It was dark, but I could see enough. Her skin had an ivory tone, and her bush was dark, full and glistening. Her lips were nearly red and her clitoris long. Her huge ass and thunderous thighs were nearly free of cellulite. Rubenesque, as I said.

As I knelt to pull off her panties I stuck my face between her thighs and nearly suffocated - that or drowned, I don't remember which. When I stood to lead her to the bed, she dropped to one knee and took me. Damn I could feel the back of her fucking throat and my balls were at her chin.

But I wanted to drink up all of her juices, and I pushed her onto the bed, and lost myself in her flesh (that was a heaven I have fantasize about again and again and again for the last 40 years!!), my tongue feeling its way through the wet pubic hair and licking her clit and reaching inside her. She pulled away and turned upside down and took me, 69. Now I was really lost, my head engulfed by her thighs. God, it was fantastic. I was sure I had died and gone to hedonist heaven.

Then she pulled away and softly said, "Fuck me." then louder "Fuck Me, then FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME."

This yelling stuff was something quite new to me, and I was going crazy. I knelt over and teasingly put my erection at her entry. I began to drive slowly in.

"FUCK ME FUCK ME," and she grabbed my skinny ass and pulled me in, "FUCK ME FUCK ME."

I gave her my all, pulled out and drove in again and again and again.

"FUCK ME FUCK." God, she was shouting so loud I was sure my land lord could hear her in the front house.

She was tight, not necessarily a surprise but a bonus.

And she shook. All that glorious flesh shook in wave after wave after wave, at first because of my pounding and then from her response... and she rocked and she pumped and the bed shook and the room shook and the garage shook and she shouted and she screamed and I just pumped and pumped, growing thicker and bigger with each thrust - if that were possible.

Finally I could hold it in no longer and decided to join the thought. I announced my coming: "FUUUCKKKKKK..."

She screamed at the top ofher lungs: "YES, FUCK ME. RAPE ME.. FUCK ME HARD. FUCK ME, NIGGER, FUCK ME." And then I came and she came for what seemed like an hour.

Absolutely exhausted, I sat up and lit two cigarettes.

After a few puffs, she gets up and starts rummaging through her purse, and - handcuffs! She quietly proceeded to handcuff herself to my goddamn bed, kneeling face down, hands manacled together on a bar on the bedstand. And she spread her cheeks.

She was too drunk to be very good at this but she felt all the emotions, and I was hard again in an instant. Gentleman that I am I did as requested and called her "bitch" and "slut" and "whore," and slapped her a few times, sometimes pretty hard, her letting out new cries with each wham.

But, the yelling. The yelling: "FUCK MY ASS, NIGGER. FUCK MY ASS, NIGGER," again and again. "YOU FUCKED MY SISTER, NOW FUCK ME." (How can you make this stuff up! By the way, my own ass is quite pink.)

I mean, I had never experienced anything quite like this, so ordered I and "fucked her ass."

I had had some experience with anal sex before, but not much. Her ass was tighter than her pussy, of course, and she yelled as I pushed in, trying to go only a little bit at a time. But in the midst of her screams, she called 'Deeper. Deeper. Those screams were more in the pleasure of pain than anything else. Her muscles flexed tighter, looser, and I was in another world. As far up her ass as I could drive, I finally exploded. By this time she had had two or three orgasms with me up her ass - in addition to the three or four before the handcuffs appeared.

About four o'clock, she told me where the keys were. I freed her and drove her home. During the drive, she really boosted my ego by telling me I was ALMOST as good as her brother-in-law. I mean, what can I say, almost as good as her brother in law???

The denouement.

Next time I saw her was six weeks later at an all-night restaurant. I was with this French woman I was banging at the time, Elisabeth the Blonde, and I wasn't quite sure whether to say hello, ignore her or what. My mother told me long ago that a gentleman never recognizes a woman first, so I decided to pretend I was a gentleman, again. She really looked ugly this time, by the way, but her boobs were still nice.

Elisabeth and I ordered and I went to the men's room, which was down the hall from the kitchen and the service window, just in front of the back door. (I really didn't have to go but you already knew that.) As I got up from the table I could see the Princess heading toward the kitchen. When I got to the hallway, she was there.

"I'm going out for a cigarette break," she said. "Care to join me?"

"I'm with someone, you know."

"This won't take long."

So, we stepped into the parking lot. We kissed, her devouring my face again, and I got another feel of those big tits but decided against trying to unhook her brassiere. As she was sober and there was at least some light between the dumpster and the air-conditioning compressor, she was able to work the zipper on my jeans, and was soon on her knees licking my balls and my shaft. I was already hard - I had been since I saw her in the hallway.

Then she took me. Her hands on my balls, she sucked in and out and in and out. I grabbed a branch of a nearby tree and hung on, trying to stretch my pleasure for as long as possible. She could feel my throbbing, knowing I was soon to explode and she moved off me for a second, and whispered: "All over my face."

The words had barely left her lips when I complied with her order. What seemed like a quart of cum shot across her glasses, in her hair and over her cheeks, and down her blouse. She took off her glasses and licked the cum off. She rose to give me a cum-filled kiss.

Then she left, leaving me in the rear of a greasy spoon diner with my pants at my ankles and a deflating dick sticking out in the air.

When I returned to my table, I told Elisabeth there had been a line in for the toilets. Then, the Peroxide Princess brought us our order: my cum still in her hair and on her blouse... and likely on our hamburgers, too.