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Please, God. Just let me die…

The pancake breasts and ground-pork majora of the chicken lady seemed like as beautiful as a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit model compared to this. A clitoris the size of an acorn hardened against his tongue, beyond which occasional careless delvings revealed clusters of fibrotic cysts.

“Yeah, sweetcakes! You are one hot tongue-fucker!”

 
Straker did not appreciate the compliment. He gasped in momentary relief, though, when she suddenly inclined herself off his face. At first he thought she was done, but then a deeper horror assailed him when he noticed that she was merely traversing her position. “Let’s take a drive down Route 69!”

Let’s not,
Straker thought. Now her feedbag buttocks settled monstrously on his face, his nose pressed into a rank abyss. “Let me give ya some workin’ room back there, huh?” she was kind enough to offer, and with both hands reached back and parted the gelatinous rump.
Let me die,
he thought again. But that would be the easy way out. The bottom of her vulva drooped now, a pair of rooster wattles, and the highest scope of his vision showed him the collided moons of her sagging, white Sasquatch caboose, highlighted by tiny red butt-pimples you could use to play connect-the-dots. But this was a vision of heaven when compared to that opened crevice of ass-crack. Straker imagined Bosch-like visions of hell, beaked demons shouldering from the puckered rictus to pull off strips of his living flesh and clip off extremities like carrot-ends. Yes, this woman’s ass-crack was truly a vision of hell. Gilles de Rais would flee in horror. Even Satan himself would wince. That pitlike pink-brown starburst of an anus. Had Straker ever seen anything scarier in his life?

No.

Trace hair lined the groove, littered with dinkleberries. Her anus looked like an empty eye socket, complete with lashes, and it was no secret that she hadn’t been very thorough about wiping after her most recent Number 2. Now Straker was pitted against a paramount effort to see how long he could hold his breath and perform cunnilingus at the same time.

“Aw, sweetcakes! How selfish of me!”

With this remark, she offered some attention herself, attention of the oral persuasion, settling forward like a white manatee and taking his entire scrotum into her mouth at once. She sucked his balls like a bag of gumdrops, yet his penis felt dead. Dead meat. The head of a turtle trying to retract back into its shell. Soon he would be history’s first man to sport internal genitalia.

Eventually, she liberated his scrotum with a wet smacking noise. “How’s that for a ball-suck, honey? Hmmm?” Then she took the dwindling strip of flesh that was his cock wholly into her mouth.

Straker squeezed his eyes shut. Concentrated. But—

Nothing. Dead.

“Come on, sweetcakes. Get this love-stick hard for your baby.”

Straker could fabricate no manner of imagery sufficient to stiffen his “love-stick.” Her mouth sucked it out like a piece of taffy—a very
small
piece of taffy—and soon the Captain of the State Police Violent Crimes Unit realized his full dilemma. If he did not rise to the occasion, she’d more than likely be offended and, hence, not inclined to be forthcoming with what she knew about Goon or his manager. This, after all, was the real reason he was here. And what would Melinda say if he failed so totally?

But that thought—just that mere name: Melinda—rolled through his mind like fine brandy in a snifter.

I’m going to do this,
he resolved.
I’m going to go the extra mile and prove to her that I’m not a candyass!

And resolve he did. He bravely redirected his cunniligual efforts, riding like the Six Hundred into the Valley of Death.

“Ooo, sweetcakes, that’s good,” she abruptly praised. “Thought I was losin’ ya there for a minute, but—hot damn—you eat box lunch with the best!”

Box lunch, indeed. He was going to make this a Thanksgiving dinner. He was going to make this mammoth of a woman have an orgasm if it killed him. And as for his own responses…

Melinda,
he thought.

Now that was the ticket.
Just think about her,
he commanded himself.
Think about Melinda…

Kissing Melinda…

Touching Melinda…

Putting your arms around Melinda…

Making love to Melinda…all…night…long…

Straker’s cock came alive in Ghoula’s garbage-sump mouth. “Mmmmm,” she responded. “Mmmmmmmmmm!” Soon she was fellating the whole thing, from hilt to glans, all six-and-half mighty, strapping, woman-killer inches. Simultaneously, the Captain lapped and lapped and lapped, until the weight above him began to flex, squirming in unbridled delight.
Melinda, Melinda, Melinda,
he thought over and over and over. Fibrotic cysts be damned! Yeast and stink and butt-pimples—kablooey! Straker’s tongue became the Warrior of the Apocalypse, fearless now on this treacherous hunting ground. It bravely licked and sucked and laved, striding ever onward to victory. Even the dinkleberries caused not a flinch. Not even the poop smudges nor hair-fringed rectum itself. Like a trooper, Straker conquered all, and soon she was coming like an 18-wheeled Peterbilt with no brakes. “Aw, sweetcakes!” she paused long enough to exclaim amid squeals and moans and even shrieks. “Aw, aw! Awwww!” She gasped, then screamed. “YES! YES!” she wailed in brass-horn tenor…

And came right in his face.

Her bulbous ass-carriage flexed off a few more spasms, then settled down along with her moans. With her orgasm came a veritable flood of vaginal fluids.
Pee in my face why don’t ya?
Straker thought, but even with the flood he was not dissuaded.

Next, though, she very adroitly returned to her ministrations. The nightstick of his passion was tightly swallowed whole, then catered to in expert fashion. But as his thoughts flittered on, it was not the Fabulous Ghoula so nimbly sucking his dick.

It was Melinda…

And with that thought…

Straker strained, then popped enough semen into her yap to fill a shot glass. Drained as he may have been via today’s multitudinous releases, Straker came long and hard right down the Fabulous Ghoula’s throat.
I hope she likes egg-drop soup,
he thought and just kept coming. One spurt after the next, right down the hatch.

“Mmm, Christ,” she said, smacking her lips when the jizz show was done. “You shoot a big nut, sweetcakes.”

“Yeah,” Straker replied.

She turned around, then lay beside him in bed. “Well, now I guess it’s time—”

Straker assembled all of his potential play-acting talent, and… cuddled up right next to her. That’s what women wanted, wasn’t it? To be shown affection after the moment of crisis? He snuggled close, then even held her hand.

Her face screwed up. “What the hell are you doing?”

The query caught him off guard. “Well, I—I-I’m trying to be, you know… Affectionate.”

“Oh, you’re a hoot!” she replied and laughed like someone on Hee-Haw.

Straker blinked in confusion. He was halfway there now, but he still had the second half of his duties. He had to hit her up with questions about Goon and his manager.

“That was really a great time,” he feigned. “Now I thought we’d just snuggle up.”

She belted out another piglike guffaw. “Hate to tell you this, sweetcakes, but the only thing you’re gonna snuggle up with tonight is the parking lot.”

Straker blinked again. He didn’t get it. “What, uh, what do you mean?”

“What I mean is this. It’s time for you to get the fuck out.”

“You’re…you’re kidding me?”

“You got five seconds to haul on your duds and be outa here, pal. I’ve gotta drive to Lexington in the morning, and that’s a three-hour haul, and I gotta be ready to wrestle an 8 p.m. card.”

Straker stood up, naked, uncomprehending. “I see, well… If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few quick questions before I leave. See, I need to—”

The bed creaked. And it was a terrifying thing to behold as this monstrous woman got up. Hair frizzed out, gaps where teeth should be, and a physical frame comprised of layers, stacked like flapjacks, on two legs.

“This is my hand,” she said, raising her big, meaty paw. “And this is my hand in your hair.”

“OW!” Straker yelled as she grabbed him by the hair and gave a good hard twist.

“And this…is a door.”

She opened it, giving his scalp a final torque, then shoved Straker into the parking lot.

Straker staggered up to stand outraged, humiliated, and buck naked. He cupped his genitals as his clothes flew out the door.

“Wait! I need to know about—”

The door slammed, loud as a gunshot.

Unbelievable.
All that work,
he thought,
for nothing.
And work was right. It was no picnic having that big pimply kiester in his face. He clumsily pulled his clothes on in the quiet parking lot, then shuffled off.

Well… At least I tried,
he reasoned. He’d definitely gone the “extra mile” for the sake of the investigation, so Melinda certainly couldn’t fault him for that. But the mere thought of her name, now, made him edgy. Extra mile or not, she’d probably give him a boatload of shit for striking out. And there was something else too, wasn’t there?

Melinda…

Though he’d never admit it to her, he could admit it to himself.
Right now she’s fucking Slick Dare. She’s been changing this guy’s oil for hours.

Straker
was
jealous. He couldn’t help it. And the imagery made him seethe: Dare’s big mitts all over her flawless body, his cock in her.
That pompous, bleach-blond motherfucker’s probably come in her five times by now.

««—»»

“Shit,” Dare muttered. “Can’t come.”

Melinda sighed, wincing, as Slick Dare rolled his tanned, sweat-sheened body off her. The rolling-pin-sized penis drew out of her with an audible click. Then he sat up on the bed and swigged a watery gin and tonic.

The massive shoulders shrugged. “Sorry, baby. Just one of those things, you know. Must’a drank too much tonight, can’t get the gun off.”

Melinda leaned up, quelled her outrage.
That asshole humped me for over an hour…
Even
her
pussy was sore.

Dare looked at his phony Rolex. “So look, baby. I can’t get a nut tonight, so why don’t you take off, huh?”

Astonishing. Men. What selfish, arrogant cads.
This is it? The dead-dick piece of shit can’t come, so now he’s kicking me out?
She did her playacting best to comfort him, rubbing his shoulders, a coo in her voice.

“Oh, don’t worry, we can try again later.”

“No can do, baby. Gotta get some sleep. I have to drive to Lexington in the morning. That’s a three-hour haul, and I gotta be ready to wrestle an 8 p.m. card. I don’t want to be rude but—let me put it this way: Get the fuck out.”

Now Melinda’s outrage came unquelled. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She got up in a tizzy, put on her panties, her denim skirt, then stopped and glared at him.

“You got dirt in your ears, babe?” Dare asked. “I need you to beat feet.”

Melinda snapped. “Beat feet? How about I beat your ass!”

“Come on, don’t get bitchy now. You ringrats are gonna have to learn that you can’t have it your way all the time.” He swigged more of his drink, resonating his arrogance. “Let me tell you something—women stand in line for me. They get in fights over me. I did you a big favor just by letting you touch me. But the party’s over now, so you gotta shag your ass out of here.”

That was it. She’d had it. She was mad. “Well let me do
you
a big favor, Slick,” she offered, then sauntered over.

SMACK!

She laid her palm across his face so hard his drink flew out of his hand and he fell off the bed.

“How do you like that, dickhead?”

Dare shook the shock out of his head, squinting up at her in disbelief. “Are you crazy? I’m the most successful professional wrestler of all time. You don’t just slap someone like me. You’re just a stringbean little ringrat. I could kick your ass in my sleep.”