Summary: using past-life regression therapy, a man remembers fucking countless famous blondes, including Pamela Anderson, Barbara Eden, Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, and Jean Harlow.
AN: you should watch Girl Can’t Help It. Also, why is nearly every photo of Barbara Eden on the internet like 320×240 and too pixelated to drive a golf cart? The pervert dads of the world have failed to preserve her legacy. Bigfoot’s existence rests on higher-quality photographs.
The man sits on the hypnotherapist’s couch.
He’s handsome, but gaunt. Affected. His cheeks are hollow. Shadow-eviscerated. Exhaustion hangs over him. He has run a great distance from a thing with a long stride, and can run no further.
Sleepless eyes glance around. Checking the door; checking the window. Escape routes. Fingers drum on the armrest. He crosses his legs. Uncrosses them. A sudden noise provokes a twitch. Every nerve is razored sharp.
Can hypnotherapy cure his nighmares?
Nothing else has.
* * *
When his therapist enters the room, a shout of terror lunges partway up his throat.
“Good morning, Randolph,” Sydney Sweeney says, sotto voce. “I’ll be hypnotizing you today.”
She lifts a finger to her mouth, and traces it along a smile’s crimson bolero. Randolph shivers. His throat constricts.
Sydney steps commandingly to the center of the room. His fearful eyes watch her movements. Her hair is cut and side-swept into bangs. Her body is heavy-fleshed and voluptuous, an hourglass with a lot of extra minutes. When she jerks to a halt, mouthwatering amounts of flesh still shift forward for an extra half a second, as though her ample assets obey their own laws of physics.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she purses her lips. “Why is a world-famous actress working as a therapist? This would sound hella stupid if someone wrote it in a story, right?”
He doesn’t nod yes. Doesn’t dare.
“Ah, but this isn’t a story, is it?” Sydney looks smug. Her hands push sharp dips into the flesh of her broad birthing hips. “It’s real life, which doesn’t have to be realistic. It’s already real by definition. So there’s nothing unbelievable about me being here, is there?”
“I suppose not,” he says.
“Of course there isn’t,” she clasps her hands together at waist-level, straightening her arms. Her balloonlike chest is trapped and squeezed within those arms, causing her boobs to explode forward.
A cold finger of sweat traces a pathway down his neck.
“Now, let’s discuss the problem that brings you to my clinic,” Sydney leans forward into his space.
“Your…mmm…phobia.”
A foot slides out of her dress. His stare snaps down onto it. The foot resembles an icepick, incongrously small and pale inside an open-toed slingback, lethally aimed at his heart.
“You suffer from a pathological fear…” Sydney whispers, studying him with a gaze that’s fire to his ice. He cannot endure her stare. If he had secrets, he would divulge them all in a single lungful of air. “A fear that haunts your every waking moment, and most of your sleeping ones.”
She takes a step toward the couch. A shaved and stockinged leg cuts out of the slit in the dress, pulling her body behind it.
“…in short, you are afraid of blonde women.”
As she comes closer, his fingers start anxiously tap-tap-tapping on the armrest.
Pink lips curl in amusement. “Yes, you are terrified of blondes…” Hints of teeth flash through her words. “…particularly blondes with big breasts.”
She stalks toward him with surprising grace, considering the obscene amount of fuckflesh freighted up top in her bra. They bobble like cannonballs.
“The mere sight of a blonde woman causes you to FREEZE! UP!” biting the fucking words off, as if in preparation to his devourment. Step after step, distance shrinking, heartrate increasing, he wills himself to faint.
She speaks again. “And if one of them speaks to you, your heart accelerates until it’s pounding your skull like a trip-hammer.”
Sweat pours from his face as she slinks and sways into his space. Her footfalls…they’re like a drumroll to a firing squad.
“If a blonde woman were to ever touch you…”
Sydney slides a braceletted hand forward, and lays it on his wrist.
“…You expect that your heart would simply…stop.”
Her fingers lace through his. His face tightens in a rictus of fear. A vein in his neck throbs.
He’s under her shadow. She leans forward, letting him see into her blouse. Mammoth-sized tits—as big as Harlem boxing gym speedbags—wobble ponderously inside her neckline, stretching the fabric’s limits. He can hardly bear to look.
“….And that sucks! I feel so bad for you!” Sydney laughed, looking amused at his attempts to shrink back, because there isn’t any back to shrink to. He’s pressed flat against the couch, as if trying to escape the blonde sex goddess by vanishing through the upholstery.
Now she’s practically crawling all over him. Hands all over him. Legs kicked up onto his. Climbing into his lap like a huge purring cat.
Sydney sits crossways on his legs. Her mammary-laden blouse bulges terrifyingly into his face. He can’t take his eyes away. Her entire body seem about to slide out the front of her dress and go plop into his lap.
“The regression school of hynotherapy suggests that this fear of blondes.” She trails a finger down his, her lacquered nail going flickflickflick on his shirt buttons. “…was induced by a traumatic experience you had in a past life, which you cannot now remember.”
She reached into her blouse—into the wall of smothering dark breasts—and retrieves a pendant on a gold chain.
“With hypnosis, we can retrieve the memory, and integrate it into your persona.”
She hoists the pendant out of her tits. It’s shiny with sweat, but when she holds it in front of his face, it dries.
“Watch the chain,” she says. “The curve. The glide. Take a deep breath, and let it out. Nice and easy. Focus on your breath. The way it feels. Don’t hold it in. Just breathe. Become like the pendant, and swing.”
Although her hand doesn’t appear to move, the pendant is now in motion.
His eyes dart, tracing it. Left-right-left-right. Short, glittering arcs, metal stabbing glints of fire into his eyes.
He’s fascinated. Enthralled. He forgets his fear in the pendulum’s swing. Forgets everything…even who he is. His gaze curves with it, ignoring the huge boobs behind it, framed by a cascading spill of platinum blonde hair.
Left-right-left-right.
He becomes sleepy.
“Feel yourself relaxing,” the voice now seems to come from the pendant. “Feel yourself growing calmer. You are in a safe warm place, Randolph, and nothing can hurt you while you’re here with me. Close your eyes. It’s just you, your breath, and the chain…”
Blissed out, he closes his eyes with a sigh.
The swinging pendant still exists, gliding in the darkness. Its swing cuts a solid triangle of light, like windshield wipers raking sheets of rain from a view of a clear open road. A road he can walk down.
A road to a golden land, a lost Elysium that he cannot see but seems to call from over the horizon…
“I will count back from ten,” Sydney’s voice wefts through the dark. “And you will start to walk. It’s as easy as breathing, Randolph. Let go of everything, and walk forward. Ten…nine…”
It happens long before one.
The arc of the pendulum blurs to soft milk, and something seems to pulls him forward. He is standing, walking, journeying. He has no name, no belongings, no identity. He’s a vector point. He has direction and velocity, but nothing else.
He’s not walking back to the past.
He’s running.
Chapter 1: Pamela Anderson
1999—The Viper Room, LA…
Night fell on the Sunset Strip. In the The Viper Room, it made no difference. Here, it was always the same hour, the same unending moment—the part of your life you either most want to remember but can’t or most want to forget but won’t.
Day and night alike, the walls dripped with neon, crawled with shadow, pulsated with bass. Wall-mounted focus lights sketched out depraved vistas of sin and debauchery: smashed glass, spilled whiskey, stained leather, glinting coke spoons, bare and sweaty skin.
He was in the bathroom with his cleaning bucket, making his third pass of the evening, idly wondering who owned this joint now. Johnny Depp? Belphegor? Satan himself? Didn’t matter—he still got paid three bucks an hour to deal with LA’s crap.
Literally deal with LA’s crap.
He grimly wiped up puke, piss, and drug residue, hearing hard rock music pounding through the wall—Guns ‘n’ Roses. Pearl Jam. Selloutica.
And then…
“FUCK TOMMY LEE!”
The bathroom door was kicked open.
A beautiful woman stormed in, fists swinging angrily at her sides, mascara tears running blackly down her face, an enormous blonde swirl of hair trailing behind her like a jet fighter’s afterburners.
“FUCK THAT LYING CHEATING ASSHOLE!” Pamela Anderson banshee-shrieked into the mirror. Her audacious fake tits bounced even more than they did in that red swimsuit. No network TV censors in The Viper Room, he thought.
Pam ignored his presence. She rummaged through her purse, found a little Ziplock bag, and proceeded to rail cocaine right off the formica countertop.
snaaaaarrrffff!
He winced. He’d just cleaned that bench.
“I HATE MEN SO MUCH!” she sobbed into the fragments of white powder. Then, looking around furtively, she began dabbing the coke-crumbs up her nose too. “THEY’RE ALL BASTARDS! EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM! EVEN THE ONES WHO AREN’T BORN YET!”
He coughed shyly. Her head snapped around. Blazing lioness eyes flashed within her peroxide mane.
“And who the fuck are you?” she barked, hands on her hips.
“Nobody.” He put his hands in his pockets bashfully. “Just the cleaner, ma’am.”
“Oh.” Pam’s lacquered nails drummed a coke-rapid tattoo on the sink. When he tried to leave, her wrist zoomed out, and caught him. “Wait. Don’t go. How old are you, kid?”
“Eighteen.”
“Boss! Do you have a girlfriend?”
He thought of Sandi, and wondered if she counted. Dad says she’s just using me to skip the guest list. “Sorta. Her name’s Sandi.”
“Is it now?” she stared haughtily at him. “Have you ever cheated on Sandi, kid? With the March 1997 Playmate of the Month, let’s say?”
He admitted that no, he had not had that particular experience.
“Give yourself time,” her laugh was as cracked and shiny as the mirror she fixed her makeup in. “You men are all cheaters waiting to happen. They’ll even cheat with some stringy haired flat-chested bitch who thinks she’s all that and a bag of chips just because Hef wanted a brunette on the March cover.”
“Sorry,” he murmured, hands in pockets.
“Aw, forget it.” She turned her back in a sulk. He popped a boner as he checked out Pam’s ass. Her flared denim jeans were tight enough to diagnose a rectal polyp. He wondered how she got her asscrack into them each morning. A shoehorn? A punch-press?
“Pam…” Stupid words zipped straight from his erection to his lips without making the briefest of pit stops in his brain. “I loved you in Barb Wire.”
Incredibly, this seemed to hit something vulnerable inside her.
“Huh?” Her eyes softened, becoming Bambi-soft. A fragility appeared there. She frowned, scrutinizing him. “What did you say?”
He hasn’t seen Barb Wire. “Er, you had real…um…energy in that movie. And chemistry.”
She snapped fingers. “Energy and chemistry! RIght on! That’s exactly what I was going for! Glad at least somebody got it!” Suddenly, she was sizing him up. Her voice had a brittle, manic coke-edge. “Tell you what. I’ve got a piece of shit husband I’m looking to get even with…”
She lunged for him, huge hard breasts jolting forward under her slip dress.
“…and you’ll do.”
Pamela Anderson unclasped the strap holding the sheer mesh slip-dress to her body, and it slid from her flesh in a shrapnel-storm of glittering sequins.
His jaw dropped.
She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Pam’s naked body was sinewy and muscular, yet full of figure. The body of a woman who liked to fuck—and get fucked—with bone-breaking force. She was as imposing as a Greek goddess under the Viper Room light fixtures—the living avatar of a city that wasn’t just going to hell, but taking the HOV lane there.
His first impulse was to worship.
His second impulse was to kneel and kiss her feet.
His third impulse was to take his cock and pound a hole to China straight through her body.
His fourth, fifth, sixth, tenth, and sevenhundred-and-twenty-second impulse ran along similar lines to the third.
He reached for her tits, but those big bolted-on tits were suddenly too close to grasp. They were pressed against his chest, and her face was pressed against his.
Their bodies writhed together, twisting like snakes. Frantic hands tore and lashed his back. Pamela Anderson kissed him ferociously, relentlessly, her face seeming to coil and wrap over his. Her mouth was a high-performance car, metal bodywork fluxing at the moment of impact. As her coke-dry lips wrestled him to submission, a hand reached into his pants, and found his penis. It twitched eagerly inside her fingers.
“Only God can judge me,” she poured a hot wind of words down his throat while jerking him off dry and hard, her hand wrenching frantic pleasure from his erection.
He had a sudden absurd image of God in Monty Python and the Holy Grail saying Pam, thou art a whore!
He moaned into her face, hips swaying against her wriggling fist, looking into eyes that seared with fire. The lines of her awesomely beautiful face formed a geometry of lust, madness, energy, all of it converging on him in a fell rite. This was the Viper Club, the place where it was Walpurgis twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and the air was always ripe for dark magic.
“I want you on top of me.” Pam’s fist squelched in his pants. “Break me in half.”
He fumbled with his fly, got it open, and felt his penis tumble forward heavily. Her hand was still gripping it. Her fingers were strung with a spider’s web of glistening pre-cum as she pulled them off his cock.
Then Pamela Anderson was down on her knees, sucking him off.
gwakk-gwukhhh-shlukkkahh
Her cheeks bulged out with his throbbing cock as it plopped and rolled around her mouth, a spasming iron bar. Then her arms wrapped around his ass, pulling him forward. His cock squeezed wetly down her throat, curving down like a banana toward her guts.
SCHLOOCK!! her pursed lips were now directly against his body.
Ohmyfuckinggod! He blinked, unable to believe how much of his cock had just vanished inside Tommy Lee’s wife. The world was streaming away, blasting off, corroding in a riot of color and noise, as her lips kissed lipstick into his crotch.
shluckshluckshluckgwahhhk!
Outside, he heard that new band Queens of the Stone age on the stereo. It was that song with a title he couldn’t remember, where the dude just lists all the drugs he’s on. Sandi dug it. Fuck Sandi, he thought, as Pamela Anderson’s blonde coiffure swirled around his crotch.
Pam blew him until he was about to cum, and then yanked her lips off his crotch. He felt cool air swirl around his moist penis. Pink lipstick was slathered across the shiny shaft like graffiti.
Somehow, she’d gotten her skintight jeans off.
Somehow, she vaulted her muscular ass onto the cocaine sink, sliding foward, thrusting her muff in front of his face.
No underwear, because why would you wear underwear as Pamela Anderson?
Her shaven and arousal-moist clam was splayed in front of his face. Transparent fluid ran down the inside of her thigh, shining like a molten diamond under the lights.
He climbed up onto the bathroom countertop with her. Ninety percent sure he was living in a wet dream, but that just made him more desperate to get his money’s worth before he woke up in a tangle of soaked bedsheets.
He straddled hot and wriggling body, aimed his cock at her pussy, and drove it in. Wetness. Heat. Tightness. Her hips arched, thudding wetly against his. It felt like fucking an electric coil. Her pelvic muscles soon had his prick in a deathgrip as he fucked her raw on the coke-powdered countertop.
Schlurping his prick in and out, he locked eyes with her again. Pam groaned orgiastically, her lips sagging in a pant…and then they snaked forward, latching onto his once again. They kissed. Two becoming one, while their hips became one in a less romantic sense.
Plap. Plap. Plap.
The world swam away in a tsunami of ravenous hot tanned flesh. Pam’s overwhelming feminine essence deluged over his body and mind—her mouth, her tongue, her pussy, those huge hard silicon hooters pounding against his chest like metallic buoys, just as violating as the hardness he was pounding into her.
He fucked Tommy Lee’s wife until she screamed.
Until he screamed.
Until they both screamed.
They thrashed in squirting release, bellowing simultaneously orgasms into each others’ faces, driving and pumping and spraying from their rutting crotches. Squirt and sperm pooled along the countertop, chasing its way to the edge, then dripping into the drain.
Once he’d blown his load into her sodden pussy, she gripped his shoulders and rudely tossed him aside. He hit the tiled floor of the bathroom. “Oof!”
“Hahahaha!” Pammy cackled insanely, rooting around in her handbag. “Now we’re even!”
With cum gushing out of her pussy in a river, she hauled out a Nokia 9000 cellular flip phone, and dialed with quick vengeful stabs of her fingers. Her call rang twice and was answered.
“Yo babe. What’s the drama?”
“Tommy Lee! YOU PIECE! OF! SHIT!” she gleefully bit short the words, like each one was firewood hacked by her tongue. “I just fucked this random kid in the Viper Room! He’s not even famous! How do you like that?”
Tommy sounded hurt.
“What? Aw, babe! Look, let’s talk about this!”
“Too late! He just busted in me, you pathetic cheating loser!” Pamela Anderson snarled. “He fucked me better than you ever did! How do you like that?”
Tommy’s voice became low. Dangerous.
“Babe, put that kid on the phone. I wanna tell him something.”
He shrank back a little as the voice of the Crue’s drummer was thrust into his ear. Out of idle curiosity, Is Tommy legally allowed to own guns again yet? Asking for a friend.
“Hey, kid,” Tommy said. “Listen, I know this is hard to hear, but you gotta wake up. Snap out of it. Come to your senses! Do you hear me, Randolph? You’re asleep and you need to—”
* * *
“—WAKE UP!”
He jerks out of the trance, his cock throbbing in his pants, his breath pounding like a locomotive.
Sydney Sweeney sits crosslegged in his lap. He’s aware of the voluptuous derriere pancaked flat, pressing across his ragingly hard dick. The pendant is still in her hand. It’s no longer swinging.
“You had sex with Pamela Anderson in a past life!” she squeals, clapping with girlish glee. “That’s such a mood!”
Then she shook her head.
“…But I wouldn’t say the memory was particularly traumatic, would you?” She chewed a lip. “We need to go further. Deeper. Whatever made you afraid of blonde women must have happened earlier than that.”
The pendant starts moving again.
He crosses his eyes, focusing on the glide. Back and forth.
“I’m going to count down from ten again, Randolph.”
She counts. Each number is a knot untied, loosening something in his subconscious.
He stares as the pendant curves through space, seeming to part reality like a curtain. His eyes unfocus, the room blurs, and chasms of darkness sweep out from the slashing cuts of the pendant.
“Breathe in…breathe in…”
His feet fall directly down beneath his body, into a huge dark space. He falls, but not far.
Finding his balance on the road beneath, he walks in wonder toward the end…
* * *
Chapter 2: Barbara Eden
1966—Malibu, Santa Monica…
It was his stupid friend’s fault.
Steve’s foot skidded in the sand as he threw the frisbee. The plastic disc was meant to go down the beach. Instead, it zoomed out sideways, veering toward the tents pitched under the bluffs.
They watched in horror as it whipped through an open tent flap.
A woman scream’s knifed across the sand.
“OW! Whoever threw that, show yourself right now!”
He grabbed Steve’s shoulder. “Not groovy, man! You hit a chick!”
“Yo, I gotta split!” Suddenly, Steve was full of reasons to leave. “I just remembered I told my dad I’d mow the lawn, dig it?”
“But shouldn’t we…”
“No time, brothaman! My dad will flip his wig if I forget. I’m off the scene, dude!”
He watched Steve sprinting for the hills, Grateful Dead-length locks trailing behind him, not even bothering to pick up his surfboard or flower lei necklace.
And so he went to the woman’s tent alone to say sorry for the frisbee.
* * *
It was her.
The genie from the lamp.
He saw her on NBC every Saturday, after Flipper and before Get Smart—his family’s brand new RCA CTC-11 was the envy of the neighborhood…the picture was 19 inches wide, and in color!—but never like this. On the show, she wore the fetishistic harem outfit that had so scandalized his mother.
You should see her now, mom. She’s showing more than just her belly.
Barbara Eden was completely naked. She sprawled on a beach towel, wearing only a smile and a tan.
Not in the lamp.
Not in anything else.
He goggled in horror at her fat heavy tits. The mature hangers hung pendulously down her chest, capped by the thick dark plugs of her nipples. He wondered what they would taste like in his mouth. Her long shaved legs were crossed, obscuring the fork of her crotch—he didn’t dare look at her pubic area, but it seemed to glisten, and he didn’t see any hair. She must have been swimming, or suntanning or something. Her amber skin glowed, like metal screaming in a forge.
“Well…?” she smiled wildly and toothily.
He stood before her in the tent, awkward and frozen. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He’d never seen a woman naked before, except for his mom, and she doesn’t count, even though she was kinda hot.
“And you are the young man who attempted to murder me, I presume?”
Such a head-trip, hearing her voice without a crackling TV speaker in the way.
“Sorry, ma’am. It was my friend who threw the frisbee.”
“Was it now?” She reclined further back, her body sinking into the sand. Fascinating things happened on her bare-nippled chest as she did so. Her boobs threatened to slide into her armpits.
She showed no shyness or awkwardness. She just spread out her arms, giving him a good look at her abundant middle-aged flesh.
“He ran off. I thought I’d…you know…apologize.”
“You think an apology makes it better?” she sulked, her feet arching elegantly in front of him. “The frisbee hurt me!” She pinched skin on her ribs. “Look! I’m bruised!”
He gulped, hardly daring to look at the mark on her sternum below one erect nipple. It seemed very faint, but he didn’t dare point this out.
“Um. Can I kiss it better?”
He cringed as soon as he said it. Ugh, you sound like such a square. Silence stretched out miserably. The expression in her warm hazel eyes did not change.
Then Barbara nodded once.
“Yes.”
He was so ready for no, that he actually heard a no. “Right on. Sorry, ma’am. I’ll just get going.”
Sighing, she snapped a finger. “Excuse me? I said yes, I want you to kiss it better.”
Barbara uncrossed her bare legs, exposing her shaven cunt. The smile darts across her face again.
“And while you’re at it, kiss the rest of me.”
His jaw fell open. Psychedelic!
Awed, he unknotted the board shorts around his waist. His penis jutted out, a hard pole of fuck-flesh. It seemed to throb for her pussy, seeking Barbara’s depths like a compass needle divining true north.
She laid a finger on her pudgy vulva area, wetly squeezing and manipulating her pussy lips. Things squish, and shudders palpitate over his skin.
“Kiss me…” the smile arches up. “…Master.”
Nothing has sounded so good and so true as that word.
He hunkered down, crawling for her on his hands and knees. He plunged his face into her sopping gash, slurping and sucking. He found her clit. It throbbed with frantic arousal against his face. She was ripe and ready and tasted wonderful, and he was not one to abstain.
Lunging into her, he buried his head between her legs, sucking and slurping until his face is so wet that it looks like he’s been eating a Dahl-sized peach.
“Oh! Oh! OOOOH!” her cries modulated upwards, becoming trills.
The tent echoed wetly with his tongue and her cunt. Two sets of lips, devouring each other high on the Malibu Dunes. He ate out her pussy until she squealed, hands thrashing ecstatic patterns over the sand.
Barbara orgasmed hard. Her legs scissored shut around his skull, gripping his head in her thick and soft thighs. Heavy jiggling MILF flesh squeezed against his ears. He felt more than he heard her scream in climax.
“OOH! OOOOHH AHHHHH!”
His face was swallowed by her spasming, squirting, fat cunt. Shudders run through her, coruscating down her muscles. The thigh-lock around her
Barbara’s tits were now slapping together hard, impacting with violent clapping strikes. Sweat-drench, muscles outlined in her neck, her voluptuous body rocked under his thrusts. He buried his face in those amazing boobs, motorboating her as he planted his cock in her cunt like a flagpole. They’re even bigger than mom’s…
His penis surged, dribbling a strand of pre-cum onto the sand.
“I wanna do this all day,” he said, gripping handfuls of her.
“Don’t write checks you can’t cash!” She leaned forward, her fingers trailing over the back of his neck.
He mounts her slack, drooling cunt, and fucks his prong into her gooey depths. SCHLAAAAPPP! A trilling note of pleasure surges from her, as his cock fills her like a sheath.
He fucked her moist pussy. Barbara looped her motherly thighs around his back, steering him, controlling him, giving him little heel-taps to control his tempo. Faster. Slower. Just right. He felt sweat rolling down her pale thighs as he spiked and thumped his dick to the root inside her quim.
PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!
Her body surged in orgasm.
“Ughh!! AHHHH!” Barbara broke their kiss so she could squeal lewdly, rolling her slurping hips through her immense climax. He felt her ass leave the beach towel, lifting him skyward as she humped her pussy up onto his dick.
I wonder how close I am to cumming. I don’t even feel anyth—FUCK!
His balls tightened apocalyptically. He lunged down, matching and countering her strokes, fucking her flat against the sand as thick blasts of sperm gushed through his shaft.
Splurt! Splurt! Splurt!
He pinned her luscious legs to the sand, flooding her with squirt after squirt. Her eyes widened as he gripped her wrists, spreadeagling her flat, filling her to overflowing.
She didn’t let him rest. In seconds, they were fucking again.
This time, Barbara was on top. Her pussy swallowed his cock, lewd liquid sounds cascading out as he fucked her soft rubbery bubble-gum depths. He felt the sand dunes resculpt themselves beneath his churning ass, as they fuck-wrestled like horny teenagers.
Her big matronly ass landed on him, humping him like a bitch in heat. Sweat ran down her neck. Dripped from her dangling swinging tits.
Plop. Wet liquid hit his eye, making him blink. He glanced up, saw that her mouth was hanging over. Her tongue hung out over his face, like a dog’s.
“Master….” she didn’t say it. She breathed it.
Lived it.
He gasped, arched, and thrust with his hips, grabbing and pulling her voluptuous suntanned flesh down onto him, accelerating their fucking ot a frenzied pace. She orgasmed again. Her slurping pussy convulsed in fresh spasms. A wet patch was spreading across the towel from between their lewdly slapping crotches.
As soon as the spasms stopped, she was back at it, humping down on him aggressively. The air in the tent stank with over an hour of nonstop sex. He could almost see sweat beading on the canvas from their depraved fucking bodies.
“Oh! Oh! AH! a hand flew in front of her mouth as she had yet another orgasm.”Uhhh” his fat cock was turning her guts inside out. Contractions rolled through every muscle in her body. Arms wrapped around her body, lips on her salty tasting skin, he felt them wash over her curvy figure. The pulsations of her crotch went on and on. It felt like a jerking hand was summoning cum from the base of his balls.
He spiked upward again, shooting cum inside her.
Barbara howled as his sperm flooded her for the second time. Her muscular sweaty back arched and her head tilted back, curling in release. Her tits jolted like oversized avocadoes, bouncing sweat drops onto his face.
“Aaah…! Ooooh…!” Barbara’s voice broke mid-syllable, gliding off down her throat as her pussy gushed.
They rested.
And then fucked a third time.
And then a fourth time, for luck.
Hours later, he was still humping the insatiable blonde MILF. He saw the sun setting on the Malibu dunes, driving points of fire onto the waves.
Barbara was real magic.
A groovy, far-out, totally psychedelic fox.
I’m gonna be late. I’ll miss I Dream of Jeannie tonight.
Then he bent forward, dropping his hips down into her. Slick squelching sounds poured from beneath his pummeling shaft.
In a manner of speaking.
Barbara Eden’s mouth brayed and her hips chewed relentlessly against his crotch as his cock slapped into her hot depths. Waves of intense sensation coursed through them.
…and just so we’re even, I’m gonna make her miss me even more.
She screamed. Her pussy gushed as yet another orgasm ripped through her body.
And the screams echoed in his ears, sounding like words…
WAKE UP…
* * *
“Another repressed memory of sex with a blonde!” Sydney says. “But I don’t understand. That was a good memory!”
His mouth hangs open, his tongue lolling free.
He has blown a huge load in his pants. She stands up off his lap. “Ew,” she brushes a froth of ejaculate off her dress. “Do we have to?”
She rests the Mount Olympus-sized globes of her boobs on his shoulder.
“I think we need to look deeper for the traumatic event.” She draws out the pendant, and sets it swinging again.
“Shut your eyes, and breathe…”
* * *
Chapter 3: Marilyn Monroe
The Farralone, San Fernando Valley—1956…
When his father had offered him as stakes in the big blind Texas Hold’em Game, he thought dad was joking.
When Marilyn Monroe accepted, he thought she was joking.
But as the river card was turned, the tension around the table seemed to crank so tight you could play Misirlou off it. Then, with a triumphant sneer, Marilyn flipped a pair of face-cards. Groans and damns chorused from around the table. She had won with a king-high straight.
Marilyn smiled, and blew a dust-devil of smoke into the table.
“My hand, Darren…”
And she pointed at him with a diamond-inlaid lorgnette.
“…And I get your son for the night.”
What? He blushed, cheeks stinging. Everyone around the table was looking at him. Nobody was laughing or even smiling, except one.
Marilyn.
He glanced at dad, who shrugged.
“I honor my bets,” his dad said as the dealer raked the chips. “Go with her, kiddo. I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe.”
His protests fizzled out as Marilyn stood up from the table, looping her arm around his. Her skin was soft and warm.
Not large, she had a distortive effect on reality. When she was in the room, you did not look anywhere else. When she spoke, you did not listen to anything else. Marilyn seemed to pull the fabric of everything her way, a bowling ball on the world’s trampoline.
“I’m feeling tired,” her Rouge Diabolique painted lips whispered in his ear. “I need a gentleman to take me to bed.”
He nodded, an erection already distending the front of his prep school slacks. Her big full breasts were smooshing against his shoulders, flowing like warm water balloons. Her nipples existed like hard pebbles against his skin.
“Let’s go.”
“Excellent.” She steered him away from the tables, to the terrace outside.
Side by side, they stepped into the moonlit darkness. Marilyn walked with a hip sway, throwing her ass out from side to side like she was clearing a path for herself. He accompanied her with a drunken stumble, even though he’d had just one Singapore Sling all evening.
The Farralone was a desolate, Gomorrhean kingdom of the fallen. A place to sin and a place to be damned. He wanted to go to heaven when he died, but Frank Sinatra’s hilltop redoubt made the alternative seem pretty nice, too.
The 8000 square foot mansion had gardens, terraces, and a pool. Silver pools of moonlight argentified the crests of distant mountains.
You often saw Dean Martin there, and Errol Flynn, and Mickey Rooney. Quite the rat infestation. All of society’s rich and shameless were drawn to the Chairman’s all-night poker games that ran and ran and ran, burning on a fuel of fortunes and greed and avarice.
As they crossed the pergola, he saw Sammy Davis Jr lying on the ground, eyes closed. He could have been sleeping, but for a white woman’s head was bobbing over his crotch.
A white woman giving a negro a blowjob? He goggled in horrified shock, but Marilyn did not even look down. He wondered what taboos she hadn’t seen broken, what lines she hadn’t seen crossed.
Instead, her eyes were on his face. She nibbled her lip. The bottle-blonde queen seemed to be anticipating the bites she’d take out of him. Planning every toothmark, down to the smallest, the littlest.
Their feet kept a measured pace through spotlights and shadows, under bougainvilleas. A wolf’s call echoed from the hills. It was late. Sinatra liked to run the joint clockless. Guests gambled more—spent more, lost more—when time was kept slippery and loose.
“Do you like to play cards?” she asked him.
“Yeah, solitaire,” he said lamely. “That’s a cool game.”
He accidentally tripped on a jutting ground tile. He stumbled, panting. He was soaked in sweat. Desperately nervous.
“Babydoll,” Marilyn said, “if you don’t wanna talk, don’t talk.”
“Oh, no, I can talk. Cards! Yeah, I love cards! What’s your favorite card? I mean, what’s your favorite card game?”
She rapped a gloved finger on his nose, silencing his babble. “And by that, I mean I’d prefer it if you don’t talk. Believe me, honey, it ain’t your forte.”
They were at her bedroom door.
She started unbuttoning his shirt. “Don’t worry, though. We’ll find something that is.”
She started undressing him. A maid saw what was happening in the hall, and her eyes went huge and white in her dark face. She clapped a hand to her mouth.
Marilyn pushed him into the bedroom, then onto the bed.
Her Chanel No 5 hit his nose and drew a garotte tight around his mind as they kissed. She wrapped arms around him. Somehow, she’d reached behind her back, and undone the zipper of her Dior backless dress. The dress slid down, exposing oceans of trembling pale cleavage.
He couldn’t decide whether the Dior fell off Marilyn, or if Marilyn fell out of the Dior.
She pushed forward. Shockingly heavy pear-shaped breasts lolled out in space, landing on his heaving chest. He felt her erect nipples needle at his skin as she pulled down his pants, smiling a demure smile. She had such an economy of movement to her. She seemed to have every gesture choreographed and memorized, while he was hardly aware of what was happening.
She flung his dress slacks away, and fondled his bulging erect penis and testicles with a gloved hand. His balls contracted in the cold air, sewing themselves tight around the Raphe suture.
Her blonde head drove into his lap. She blew him so hard that his ankles started to sweat.
He writhed and moaned, his cock thudding and pulsing in her mouth. The sight of her bare shoulders parked over his trembling crotch—blissful white marble and then the shadowed darkness of her pits and dangling cleavage—meant his sperm leaped out with explosive suddenness.
“I’m cumming…”
He squirted his load into her mouth. Gasps. Pelvic lunges. Bolt after bolt of jizz.
Rubbery contractions of his prostate pushed out ropes of thick viscous sperm until Marilyn’s cheeks bulged.
She swallowed his massive load—her beautiful throat flexed just once as she gulped down his release in a single porridge-thick blob…but then went back down, and didn’t stop sucking. She nursed on his half-flaccid penis like a teat, sucking it back to hardness.
Once he was raring to go in her mouth, her lips slid off. A strand of saliva or cum glistened in the silvery light.
She straddled him with her hips. Her thick thighs split, exposing a meaty pussy, capped with a neatly-barbered chevron of blonde. Oh wow, he thought. She actually dyes her pussy hair, too.
This woman was a revelation.
“You’re a stallion.” Marilyn said, as she lowered her crotch onto his. His stiffly jutting penis split her vulva lips, pushing inside her wet and clenching channel.
Then she dropped her hips. “…but you’re my stallion. Never forget it.”
Sploitch! A moist, eager noise squelched out as she dropped her heavy hips onto him, taking his penis to the balls inside her, swallowing it with a heady lurch. Her cuntal tube wrapped eagerly around him, a grip that crawled and slithered. Like fucking a pool of oiled-up snakes.
She rode him from the top, first slow, then fast. Gently, then hard. Tenderly, then greedily. Hungrily, most of all. A woman with the most voracious mouth in the world, several feet beneath her more famous one.
Plap! Splatt! Plopp!
He gripped the shelf of Marilyn’s ass as it humped up and own, bouncing wildly and thumping down with piston-like shocks against his crotch. Bedsprings rang and sung with each lewd, moist twist and screw of her hips. She was all muscle and tension, and her sinew was deployed like a piston on his trapped body. Up. Down. Up down. PLOP! CLAPP! SLOOPP!
Gasping, he felt a hot trickle of pussy juice chase down his shaft, dripping from his balls, and itch against his asshole. The scent of her arousal filled the air, as choking and hallucinatory as her smoke had been at the poker table. Her boobs shot up and down, whipping like windsocks. Her mouth flexed in orgasm…once…twice…
He was perhaps a minute away from cumming again when…
“GET OFF HIM, BITCH! HE’S MINE!”
The door exploded open, light from the hall flooded across their naked bodies, and suddenly there was another woman on the bed with them.
She punched, slapped, and scratched at Marilyn.
“TAKE THAT! AND THAT!”
She shoved hard. He felt Marilyn’s wet pussy get ripped stickily off his cock—shluuuurrrrppp!—as her whole body went spinning off his. And another woman took his place, thick white thighs straddling his hips.
Dazed by light and by lust, his first thought was that there were two Marilyns. Then he blinked his eyes sharper, and thought that this was a caricature of Marilyn.
Sitting on top of him was a Fleischer Brothers parody of Marilyn Monroe.
His hands found her tiny waist, marvelling at how absurdly small it was—he could enclose it with both hands. Her huge tits and ass jolted and flopped—obscenely fat mountains of flesh seemed to jiggle pendulously, too heavy to even bounce properly.
There was a curse from the floor beside the bed.
“Stay there, hussy!” the woman yelled. “Where you belong”
“Jayne? What are you doing here?” Marilyn wailed from the floor. “I though I had you blackballed from the club!”
“I fucked my way back in!”
The new woman lunged down, rapaciously kissing him, it clicked who this was.
Not long ago, he’d gone to see a movie. It had been full of that degenerate but weirdly insistent negro “rock and roll” stuff the pastor was always banging on about on. He’d taken some bitch on a matinee date, and she hadn’t even repaid him with a handjob afterward, and he’d had to jerk off in the car.
But it had possessed a hella curvy woman main actress? She almost melted a hole in the screen with her intensity.
It’s her! The star from Girl Can’t Help It!
This woman was a Marilyn clone who sought to be holier than the Pope. Marilyn with all the dials turned to 11.
Marilyn had big breasts. This woman had bigger ones. Marilyn had a narrow waist. This woman’s had an almost alarming wasplike thinness. Her lipstick was so red that her crazed smile seemed to drip blood. Her hair was so blonde it shrieked like comet ice burning in the atmosphere.
As the woman lifted up her meaty hips, and aimed his jutting cock at her shaven slit, he was struck by the fact that she wasn’t half as compelling as the actual Marilyn Monroe.
Jayne Mansfield was the epitome of more is less. Marilyn was a soft voice that commanded the largest rooms. Jayne Mansfield was a shout, a roar, a scream. Momentarily arresting. But listen for too long, and you simply go deaf.
And yet…
As her cunt mounted him, as her obsessively greedy eyes clamped down on his face beneath a lust-crazed spill of blonde, as her loose, lewd pussy sucked up his jutting cock and socketed down on his crotch—SMACK!—he realized something else.
Imitation-brand Monroe pussy was still better than nearly any other pussy on Earth.
Her cunt was an inferno, spreading devastating pleasure through his loins as she burned against him. Her ass cheeks rippled powerfully as they seemed to suck at his essence like an unstoppable vortex of meat. He watched his big organ spear in and out, throbbing harder and harder.
“Fuck me!” her fierce lips howled as her colossal fuck-globes cannonballed up and down. “Fuck me, like you were fucking her!”
Marilyn groused in defeat on the ground.
“You really want everything of mine, don’t you?” she sulked, rubbing a bruise on her cheek. “Well, guess what, bitch! You can have him! He was a crap shag, anyway!”
Ouch. He screwed up his eyes, humiliated.
Strangely, the insult triggered his orgasm. His penis lurched in Mansfield’s well-worn twat. He gasped as his orgasm stabbed through him, blinding and almost painful in its suddenness.
His cock belched a spewing river of jizz into Jayne. She clenched her glutes, drawing more and more seed out of him. His load splattered copiously against her walls.
Jayne howled in avenged triumph as his teenage cock pulsed and kicked in her guts, wracked by nerve-wrenching orgasmic spasms.
“Enjoy my sloppy seconds, you try-hard!” Marilyn yelled, crying. “You have no style, no taste, no class!”
“I’m the new and better you! You think you can beat me? Wake up!” Jayne roared in triumph at Marilyn Monroe. “WAKE UP!”
* * *
“…but these aren’t traumatic memories at all!,” Sydney squalls, stamping her foot like a petulant child. Her fat jugs bounce and slosh, almost leaping out her top. “I just don’t understand! What am I missing here?”
He lies slack-jawed on the couch, fear forgotten, cock throbbing at the center of a gigantic wet patch that has spread over half his jeans.
Sydney leaps onto him, teeth clenched.
She whips out the hypnotising pendant so fast she almost seems about to strangle him with it.
“The trauma’s still there. We’re going deeper! DEEPER!”
* * *
Chapter 4: Jean Harlow
San Gabriel Mountains, California—1932…
They passed the HOLLYWOODLAND sign hours ago.
He did not know why Jean Harlow was driving him into the mountains, alone.
Doubtless she had her reasons. He just wished she’d share them.
Not that he had the courage to ask the serenely smiling woman behind the Ford Model T’s steering wheel anything. Not where are we going, not why are we going there, not even am I safe with you.
He had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t like the answers, though.
A set-builder’s apprentice on the main MGM back lot, he was so used to obeying requests from capital-T Talent that he’d said yes without reflecting on how odd the request was. How suspicious.
But now he didn’t feel suspicion.
Fear was a more appropriate word.
He’d heard tons of smoke-break gossip about Jean.
Sex parties. Cheating. The fact that her husband had committed suicide after discovering he’d shared his wife’s pussy with half the men and women in Hollywood.
Some stories went even beyond that. That she was a demon in human form, and had sacrificed her husband in a black magical rite.
He shifted anxiously, staring at the road blurring beneath them.
Am I the next sacrifice?
The lonely mountaintops could many secrets.
Jean just stared blissfully ahead as the car ate road, climbing ever higher. She wore a high-waisted empire dress, cut an opened up like a halter on the front. Oversized tits leaped thrillingly up into space as the car hit potholes. The dress hugged and snatched her curvy figure, like the Hollywood seamstresses were spiritually groping her with fabric as they couldn’t do with their hands. Her breasts were big and full. Her waist was small, belted high on her hips, and swooped down into a mouth-wateringly thick derriere that strained the stitching on her rayon skirt.
Gulping, dry-mouthed, he did not know how to talk to this woman.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” he said at last.
Jean nodded once, still smiling, still very distant and stiff. She didn’t even look his way. Did I even speak those words? Or just think them?
She had lost a husband. He was dead. She was still smiling, still acting, but with a strange distant stiffness. As though she was sinking deeper into the performing arts.
Watching, he saw her pretty face, sitting like a spectral imprint on the side window of the car. She looks like a ghost. As though she has died herself.
Or soon would die…
His flesh prickled as they chased a winding path to the mountaintop, rising high above the landscape. Huge shapes lunged and warred against cloud-fired sheets of sky, and soon they’re riding on top of these giants, the car finding improbable paths up the mountainside.
The air was thin and cold. The sun, paradoxically, felt savagely hot. A lash on his skin.
High on the slumping shoulder of one mountain, she let the Model T idle, and then shut the engine off.
Jean popped open the door, and got out. Her big well-fleshed buttocks wobbled,
“I hope you remember the way back down,” she brushed her petticoats flat, breasts-ajiggle. “A Dumb Dora like me always forgets those details.”
He got out with her, waiting to learn why they were hear.
Jean began saying things that seemed hugely important, yet were difficult to keep track of. In the glacier-bright sunlight and thin mountain air, her words seemed to waft in and out of his brain.
“My husband is not dead, boy. He is still with me. In fact, he is right here.”
She unfastened her petticoats, and raked a hand through her Mary Pickford hair.
His throat violently clenched as her deliriously white flesh exploded into view.
God, she was pretty.
Curves and curves and mroe curves.
“He is staring at me,” she winked. “Making sure I don’t cheat. And I won’t. I’m a bad doll, but not bad in that way.”
Her cone bra pushed her jugs into fascinatingly arabesque shapes. She unhooked it, and clasped her breasts to her chest with two cupping hands.
“He knows, that I am…well, a woman, and I have a woman’s needs. But there are ways those needs can be satisfied without…marital infidelity entering the situation. Don’t you agree?”
His ears flushed red. He nodded. Then shook his head. He couldn’t remember what answer might be appropriate.
His mind was full that her hourglass figure, swaying and jiggling in front of him.
And then Jean let her hands go. Her luscious breasts dropped, two huge waterdrops rolling down the windowpane of her chest and stomach. Was the air thin up here? Or has he just forgotten how to breathe? Lightness kicked against his head. He felt like he was about to faint, or float away…
And her voice seemed to echo against the vastness of the sky.
“I want you to put it in my other bad girl place.”
With a switchblade-fast smile, she spun, lifted up her skirts, and wriggled her pale heavy butt at him. Her ass cheeks were big and broad and heavy and deep. Seemingly big enough to swim inside.
She dropped her dress and petticoats, easing them down her abundant hips.
The darkness of her asscrack slid into view.
Jean sunk her pretty lady’s hands into those obscene, wanton masses of flesh. Digging in. Fondling herself with lewd circular motions. Flesh pooled around her fingers like pudding.
Smiling over her shoulder at the stunned boy, she pulled her ass cheeks apart.
They gaped, flesh stretching with the elasticity of rubber, exposing a deep and perfectly-barbered cleft of sweltering dark skin. Her pussy slit opened as her hands pulled, and her arsehole seemed to dilate in a wink.
Ready to be fucked.
He inhaled deeply, desperate for clean air, smelling her cunt and ass instead.
His Fullerton classmates have bragged about doing scandalous acts with whores and even some God-fearing girls—buggery and sodomy and nefandousness and whatever it’s called. Something beyond sinful. Irredeemable. A deed that would send you straight to hell—straight to the bottom of hell—where the devil would bugger you himself with a cock that was on fire.
Shuddering, penis almost bursting out of his pants, he refused to believe it would work. His prick wouldn’t fit into that tiny puckered hole, would it?
His friends had just been telling lies. They’d never done it with anything except their own right palms.
But then there is a bottle of engine oil in her hand. She swung that same hand behind her bottom, put the nozzle to her ring, and shot a quick squirt of heavy cold oil into her anus.
She’s using engine oil as lubricant!
“Fuck me right there,” demure lips curved. “Fuck me in the place where I shit from.”
She said shit! Mystified, he unzipped, and placed his cock at her nether entrance. At least I’m not being sacrificed on an altar. But somehow, this deed seemed even more barbaric and horrible.
His thick cock flexed at the entrance to Jean Harlow’s fat bottom. It bent slightly, then found the road of leaking oil, before popping inside.
It felt so, so wrong.
Her tight bowels felt hot and itchy-dirty and rubber-textured. A slippery tube that flexed to accomodate his pecker as he gaped it open. He slid his hips forward until his cock vanished inside her pucker and his plump balls throbbed against her drooling slit. She moaned. Her muscular thighs flexed as her precious white bottom was violated.
As he thudded moistly into the deepest point in her guts, he unbalanced, and hastily grabbed handfuls of her body for support. Her high overripe breasts slopped through his hands, leaving him holding her belly. Her abdominal muscles tensed with excitement. He felt her breath—a fast shallow pant.
His cock throbbed in her bowels. I don’t believe this.
This is too wrong and good to ever happen to anyone, me least of all.
With her moans filling his ears, he did not thrust or fuck in and out. He just left his penis inside her asshole, fat and swollen.
“Fuck me,” she wailed, bending over.
His cock was thrashing, his balls tight, his entire reproductive system desperate to shoot its load into this interesting new pussy. He started pistoning his hips into her big butt, making it wobble with each heave in and out.
Plap! Plap! Plap!
Then sweat and lubricant began to overwrite the sound with a slippery dirty wet fucking noise.
SCHLOP! SCHLOP! SCHLOP!
As he humped, her cheeks flew apart and then collided with each other, rippling with sweat as he bummed her. Glancing forward, he saw the side of Jean’s beautiful face was pressing against the Model T’s bonnet. The car’s leaf springs absorbed his thrusts, rocking softly. Her pleasure-open mouth was reflected in the cherry red metal.
Her breath gained a rougher edge as his hands slipped down to her bulging hips, grabbing handfuls of fat, buggering her hard and fast. “Ohhhh! Fuck me! Fuck me hard!
The curvy actress breathed filthy words against the car, words he tried to up to. The lewd and moist noises of skin slapping against skin echoed off the mountaintop, serenading an uncaring Hollywood.
CLOPPP! CLOPPP! CLOPPP!
You you couldn’t get that sound on RCA VIctriola. The music of Jean Harlow’s fat ass would play for his ears only.
With one side of her pretty face resting flat against of the shower wall, and her big butt getting fucked, she seemed utterly animal-like. Beads of sweat were eating away at her makeup. She seemed to sink deeper in a filthy sewer stew of her own piglike pleasure. This was what she did. Who she was. The movies? She did those for money. An actress pretending to be an actress. This was her.
Clasping hands onto her pumping hips, fucking her dirty shithole, hearing her lungs suck and her fat swinging boobs clap against her sternum, he had a realization. He was seeing the true Jean. The one that few others had seen—possibly only her husband, Howard Hughes, her MGM chief Louis Mayer (if you believed another rumor), her father (if you believed yet another), and whoever else had climbed her metaphorical or literal mountain.
His skinny body fucked and humped, too hot under the glaring sun, suddenly freezing when the searing wind blew. He slapped her lewd, ponderous mass of assmeat, scything to the bottom of her puckered anus, dick vibrating against spongy soft resistance. Utter delirious joy, measured out every second and every inch.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Why had he thought this was impossible? It was easy.
Jean spiked her hips back, rocking her beefy hindquarters onto him. She wriggling her big peach of an ass, nearly wrenching off his cock at the base with each squeeze of her rectal muscles.
“AaaaaAAAAHHHHH!”
Jean Harlow screamed out in abandon, voice blaring from the mountaintop like a judgment day trump. Her body jiggled as a tsunami of pleasure washed out from her convulsing asshole.
“OOooooOOOOHhhhh! I’M GOING TO…!”
The groaning blonde tilted back her head, her fine teeth flashing. and her eyes closed in absolute ecstatic surrender.
“…CUUUUMMMINNG!”
In space, no one can hear you cream.
Head reeling with altitude dizziness, he felt bolts of female ejaculate pulsing against his legs. Squirt! Squirt!
It had been some time since his last breath. He tried to suck in air, but suddenly couldn’t.
Her orgasm crushed him like a tin can.
Eyes bulging, he was gripped by waves of contractions spewing out from her anal chute, like a thousand fluttering butterfly wings. He couldn’t get out of her. Her pussy gushed and squirted as he rode her ass like a bull. Desperately, he screwed his cock deeper and deeper in her tight hot anal tract, feeling spasms gnawing against his erection as though it was a windsock flying in a gore-red sky woven of blood and thunder.
She howled to the mountains. Her climax rolled on and on and on, eternal as the scarp they were fucking on, and he felt every unendurable spasm. He didn’t cum. He wasn’t sure how.
The woman screeched against the car, fogging up the window, her climax finally settling. “Don’t stop,” her voice had subsided to a whimper that the wind ripped to pieces. “Make it happen again.”
God help him, he obeyed.
Snatching abundant handfuls of her hips, using them to guide her ass, he resumed buttfucking the most beautiful girl in Hollywood. He thrust his hips up into her warm clenching guts, planting his full length into her dirty rear hole. Little jerks of excitement jiggled through her ass and hips like tornadoes.
He couldn’t hold out any longer.
Hands pawing her breasts, he ground his cock into her, gasping as his own release began to rise.
The mountain he’s thrusting up her shithole was no longer a mountain.
It was now a volcano.
Eruption.
The dark squelching morass of her asshole was blown wide open by his throbbing cock as it exploded in climax. A huge rope of sperm sprayed from his piss slit, plastering her anal chute before being overlaid by a second and a third.
As jets sprayed into her, black widow’s hips jackhammered back onto his, and her brown star gaped before his cock like curtains opening. His load flooded into her, triggering a second orgasm. Her knees knocked together, and he watched her fat breasts trembling around the sides of her back.
“AHHHHHHH!!!”
He ejaculated copiously. Cum-ribbons shotgunned out of his dick, slathering her yawning shithole in white.
Somehow, he found himself still fucking her, even though he had just cum seconds ago. The slab of his rock-hard erection was just raw nerves and depravity, speeding along the jizz-flooded trench of her asshole. His fat balls made loud, disgusting cracks as they smacked her cunt lips. Jizz was whipped to a froth, and splattered to the ground between their rutting hips.
Jean’s second orgasm was followed by a third—a series of concussive firecracker spasms rippling down her back, and then caressing his moist shaft like eager fingers. Jean’s dark-painted mouth arched in a suppressed, silent scream.
He paused, worried that he’d hurt her. But then she viciously stomped back on his foot, snarling.
“Don’t stop! More!”
Then she was hungrily back to getting assfucked. His prick speared through her. He watched the soft contortions of her face as she was buttfucked, fascinated by the way her obscene anal meat wobbled and sloshed around the brutal hard thrusts he was planting into her apple-shaped bottom.
“Oooh!”
She dropped her curving hips lower as she squelched onto his pummeling shaft, riding him hot and slow. Her hot and flustered pussy squirmed against his thighs, leaving moist sticky trails. Gripping gripped the bodywork, she used it to slam her hips backward. A lever, to move his Earth.
Seven inches of thick boycock thumped into her ass. A hundred-forty pounds of woman crashed into him. Hard to tell who was more devastated by the impact.
“Ohhh! Aaaahhh!” her narrow waist writhed like a snake as she felt him twisting like a snake, ready to spray a hot load of venom up inside her.
He lunged deep, rocking her forward onto the balls of her feet, and let go.
He blasted and blasted. He felt so much sperm rushing from his cock to her ass that the squeezes hurt his prostate. He was giving her everything…holding back nothing…would it be enough?
Enough to do what? Enough to save my life?
He finished ejaculating, and pulled out.
They separated with a messy cummy release of sweat and bodily fluid coming unstuck. Their skin seemed almost glued to each other. His flaccid dick detached from her well-fucked ass with a sticky tugging sound. SCHLORP!
For long minutes, they panted. There was no breath to be caught up here, high on the mountains. Jean sprawled against the car, drooling a snail-trail of saliva down the metal. He sat, watching his splooge tumble from her asshole in thick clotted gouts, as dense as half-set jelly.
Then she went for him, her stare lust-wild, her broad naked hips wriggling.
With surprising strength, Jean Harlow flung him down. “OOF!” His naked cock flopped pathetically, a defeated flag flapping in the wind-torn mountain air.
And here’s where it happens, he thought.
Where she pulls out a knife, and cuts out his dripping heart. A sacrifice to Beelzebub or Baal or whatever black deity gives Hollywood’s Laughing Vamp her powers.
But she didn’t kill him.
He felt strong arms pushing back against his thighs, splaying his skinny white legs wide apart. Cold mountain air stung his trembling ass.
But he was only cold for a second.
Jean Harlow’s head dived between his legs, and dipped from view beneath his jutting penis. He couldn’t see her, but he felt her hot depraved breath washing over his own fetid assflesh.
“I love doing this to men,” she murmured, blowing hot wind into his asshole.
Gasping, he felt her wet tongue teasing his balls…a tickling sensation like a sneeze, gathering pressure and moving…oh God…
Straight down.
Disgusting. Foul. Sickening.
This was too far.
She traced moisture over his taint, and then gripped his asscheeks, pulled them wide apart, and drove her tongue inside his pucker.
It split him. Pulsed through him. Her tongue felt as huge as the garter snake his father once killed with a rake in their backyard, a swelling huge serpent.
Her massive-seeming fleshy tongue that flooded into his ass like a hot, twisting key rammed into his most sacred lock. His mind stubbornly insisted that he was taking a massive, bowel-clogging shit. It couldn’t process the fact that this woman’s tongue was all the way up his asshole.
He rocked back, staring at sky, lifting his legs over his head as she pressed in. His eyes bugged in disbelief as the richest debutante in Hollywood devoured his butthole with ravenous hunger.
Visible only as a bobbing blonde crest—zigzagging beneath his re-erecting penis—the glamorous star swirled her tongue down his shit-chute, flicking and lashing, using her curving tongue like a knife and a whip and a hot firebrand. He couldn’t tell if he was experiencing pleasure or pain…divine rapture or Inquisitorial agony…completion or death…
His balls twitched. His cock jerked. A drop of pre-cum slipped out of the drooling glans, going plap on his pale and quivering belly.
He moaned, his rectal sphincter relaxing before fingertips and painted lips and a viciously-jabbing tongue. Her panting breaths still poured over his nethers, making his balls shrink like shivering wrinkled walnuts. Everything was flowing like paint, becoming unreal. A fantasy world, like that Stokowski-Disney cartoon…
“Ah! Ah! Ah!” his fully erect cock jerked in space, trailing pre-cum as he humped the air. One of Jean’s marble-white hands reached up to masturbate it. It pulsed in her grip.
Deeper.
Relentlessly, Jean jacked him off while lathering his ass with her tongue, ramming her beautiful face all the way into his gooch. He was moments from cumming. Seconds.
Maybe she didn’t need a knife.
Maybe she was just fucking him dead.
Deeper.
His eyes bugged out when it happened.
With precise timing, her tongue suddenly stabbed impossibly far forward, like the Spear of Longinus, piercing him to the firmament, and the cosmos exploded with stars.
Deeper…
Screaming, he felt his cock lurch and erupt. Ropes of sperm torrented up into the sky, firing out of him like bright flashing bolts of sunlight.
DEEPER!
The voice came from the wind, from the moon, from the mountains themselves. It boomed through creation, resounding like the voice of CC B DeMille’s God…
“NO! THIS ISN’T THE RIGHT MEMORY! WE HAVE TO GO DEEPER!”
* * *
The man in the chair screams, torn asunder by nightmares.
“AAAAAHHHHHH!!! NOOO! NOOOOO!!!!! MAKE IT STOP!!!!! AAAHHHHH!!!!!”
“Yes!” Sydney squeals at fever-pitch excitement, heedless of his pathetic state.
He seems to have aged 20 years. His hair—which was black just a minute ago—is now snowy-white. Multiple orgasms have almost broken his mind. Cum has actually rolled all the way down his thighs and is going drip drip drip into his shoes.
“You’re having your breakthrough!” she yells. “Don’t run from the moment! Integrate it!”
He screams so loud that the windows rattle. Sydney grabs his shirt and rattles him back and forth.
“INTEGRATE!” she yells at the terror-stricken man. “BECOME WHOLE!”
Then it ends.
His screams rattle away. His eyes unfocus and grow sightless. The furious energy inside him ebbs, as though a circuit is now shut off.
His head flops back onto the lounge.
Frowning, Sydney checks his pulse.
“Oh, fuck! Dr Feldstein! It happened agaaaaaaiiiiinnn!”
A heavy middle-aged man with nasty Catskill comedian eyes lumbers around the corner.
“Sydney, you dumb slut, don’t tell me you killed another one. That’s the third this month!”
Sydney climbs off the dead patient’s cum-splattered lap, stamping her foot in exasperation.
“It wasn’t my fault! We were in the middle of a breakthrough! I took him all the way back to the 19th century!”
The doctor gestures at the dead man. “What happened?”
“I made a mistake!” Sydney cries. “How was I supposed to know he worked for PT Barnum’s traveling circus, in the freakshow? And that he was required to groom and wax the Bearded Woman? She was blonde, apparently. Who knew? I brought those repressed memories back, and…well…his heart couldn’t cope!”
The doctor sighs, and gently pinches shut the patient’s eyes.
“You know what this means, you useless bitch? A spanking. Get in my office. Now.”
He walks away, leaving Sydney alone..
She turns to the camera, and shrugs with a sitcom smile.
“I guess there are some secrets we’re better off not knowing, huh?”
Then she skips a beat.
“…and who am I talking to right now? I’m in an empty room! None of this makes sense!”
She skips off, ass wiggling in anticipation of the doctor’s spanking.
THE END
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