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Son-in-law and wife in horny mixup with father in 1919 Montana.
I can tell this now. After all these years, I’m past worrying about rocks thrown through the windows by outraged neighbors. Most everybody who knew us then is pushing up daisies.
In 1919, Missoula was a beautiful place, an outpost of civilization in the huge wilderness of Montana. The wild west was not far away, either historically or in the street fights, saloons selling everything from Canadian bourbon to homemade, paint-remover whiskey, and the occasional cattle drives.
I made a living as a carpenter. There was money in it: the town was growing, and rich folk wanted new, big houses on Higgins Avenue. Life was good.
I got me a wife.
Better said, Maggie got me. Took me over from the get-go. Fiesty woman. Knew what she wanted.
She was a fine woman. Made herself classy dresses, even out of that cheap, patterned cotton from Salt Lake City. During the Great War, good, patriotic women were told to conserve cloth, but from the pulpit they were damned as immodest–with their hemlines a good eight inches from the ground. Maggie had a well-turned ankle. Favorite color was pink.
She wasn’t of a class to snare anybody from the University of Montana, though. Her mother took in laundry, and Maggie and her sister stole fruit and vegetables out of neighbors’ gardens and orchards.
Margaret Crazocek’s marriage choices were an assortment of barflies, out-of-work cowboys from the eastern plains, lumberjacks (who became barflies on the weekends),
She took me to meet her family. Her mother and sister were pleased to meet me–I had a job. Never met her father; he was “gone.” They never talked about him. I never figured out if he divorced Maggie’s mother or just lit out one night. Happened a lot in those days.
We talked about him only once. “Haven’t seen my father in six years. I don’t remember him.” I doubted that, but that was all she wanted to say about it, and since her voice was bitter, I let it lie.
We were married in church. Bought me a new suit.
We settled down to a life in which, besides getting up early and working late, I was getting sex without paying for it at Rosie’s Emporium, and I got home-cooked meals.
But that wasn’t enough for Maggie. She had plans. Kept begging me to switch to cabinetry. “Come on, Maggie, I don’t know that stuff. I’m a construction carpenter.”
“Sure you do. You’ve got all the tools out in that shed. You could make tables and chairs for the swells on 39th Street.” Her eyes flashed. “We could get rich.”
Maggie always wanted more, including in the bedroom.
In those days, decent women didn’t “do it” any way other than “proper”: the way God intended. But Maggie surprised me one night by rolling over, getting on her hands and knees, and hissing, “Okay, you big hound, get over here!”
Astonished–but damned horny–I mounted her and went to work. When I felt her gasp and tremble, I knew I’d got to her, and I went over the top and pumped a load of doggy. She wailed and moaned like a bitch howling at the moon.
I never thought her daredevil pranks would take us past what we did alone, but one night, right after I rolled off her, breathing hard, having a sweating fit on a hot summer night, she murmured something in my ear. “Harry, you ever wonder what it would be like to have another woman?”
Well, it wasn’t exactly in my best interests to mention that I didn’t have to wonder–I could remember well enough –so my answer had to be: “No, honey, I don’t need any woman but you.”
I thought I would get back something like, “Oh, baby, I love you so much,” but instead she whispered, “What if I was curious about what another cock might feel like?”
Now, back in those days, “cock” wasn’t a word any respectable woman would even know, much less speak, and when Maggie talked dirty like that, it really got to me. From our earliest days, when she growled, “Okay, let’s see you jam that big cock in me deep,” I was a goner; she could catapult me straight to the jackpot.
So when she mentioned curiosity about “another cock,” I got instantly horny–and I fucked up. (1) I was still floating in my own afterglow, and (2) her using that nasty word stoked my fires, so stupidly I answered, “Well, baby, I reckon you should get a chance to test a few.”
To this day I can’t imagine what possessed me to say that. I figured it was impossible; I mean, imagine “testing a few” men’s cocks. How was she going to arrange for that? Get a job at Rosie’s? Hell, I wasn’t about to go for that.
At the time, agreeing to let her “test a few” seemed like a safe answer. Like saying, “Yes, you can flap your wings and fly.”
One Saturday evening she was dressed to the nines, wearing her patent leather high-button shoes and that pink gown she made the week before. I thought I was in for something special, but over supper she said she was going out to find her a man to bring home that night. I choked on my coffee.
“I’ll gaziantep escort find me a man who wants to do it,” she said, getting up and putting on her hat, “and when we get home, I want you to put a blindfold on me.”
I gaped. “A blindfold?”
“Yeah. We’ll pretend I’m coming home, a burglar is in the house, and he rapes me. It wouldn’t be like I allowed it or anything.” She smiled. “I’d still be innocent.”
Craziest thing I ever heard. “Where are you going to find–
–The screen door slammed shut as she walked out. A short time later I heard my Ford Model T start up. It was the brand new model with the electric starter. Couldn’t miss that sound.
Maggie! She was such a flapper! I didn’t know she knew how to drive a car! I dropped my coffee, jumped up, and ran to the door, but she was pulling away down the street. Damn that woman!
Days later she told me how it went down for her: she drove back in the woods to what was called “The Bird’s Alehouse,” a place any honest cop wouldn’t know how to find. According to her story, she walked into the place, brushed off a couple of drunks who tried to paw her, and looked over the men in the joint. To hear her tell it, she sauntered over to a slender man sitting at one of the tables.
She described the guy as young, maybe 19 or so, and he didn’t look like the type to get mean–in any case, Maggie said she outweighed him, and I never doubted she could hold her own in a fight.
So she sat down with the guy, introduced herself, and right off the bat, he bought her a drink. She drank with him for a while, and they got into a little touching and pinching. Then she hit him with it: would he like to come home with her and have sex?
The guy was probably a student from the university or a delivery boy from the town. Anyhow, he went for the idea.
Then she added that her husband would be there. She told him I wanted to watch. That got me. She said I wanted to watch!
Okay, I wanted to watch, but more to protect her in case the guy got rough. I wasn’t eager to see some yahoo fuck my wife.
Anyway, she said she wrote down our address for him, told him to come on over, then got up and left. According to the plan, she was supposed to come home, get into the blindfold, and the guy would come over and fuck her.
That was how it was supposed to work. The first snag came when she ran out of gas. She might’ve known how to drive, but she didn’t know about checking the gas tank before she started out, and it was nearly empty when I got home that night. She had to get out and walk to the nearest gas pump, which was a long way from where the Model T stopped on her.
I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it, a big guy stood there holding a piece of paper. “This 52 Stoddard Street. Can’t see the number in the dark.” Deep bass voice.
Damn. She sent him on ahead. Where was she? “Yeah, this is 52. Come on in.”
He really was a big guy. Dressed in a red plaid shirt. Lumberjack, maybe. Surprised me that Maggie would pick somebody who could be a big problem if he got mean. I invited him in, and he sat on the couch, sprawled out like a big moose rug. His legs stuck out nearly to the far wall, his arms stretched out from one side of the sofa to the other. Big guy. Damn big. Made me think of a grizzly bear.
The coarse wool shirt fit him like it was his little brother’s, tightly stretched over the shoulders of an elk and a chest that belonged on a horse. His arms were as big as my legs, and his legs reminded me of the squatting struts of the Eiffel Tower in National Geographic Magazine pictures.
Where in hell is Maggie? I asked him if he wanted a drink. “Yeah. That’s real kindly.” I got him a glass of whiskey, and he tossed it down. “She be home soon?”
“Yeah. I can’t figure out what’s keeping her.”
He looked me over. “How you two getting along?” He smiled and held out his glass.
I thought that was an odd question, but on the other hand, any woman who asked a man to go home with her and fuck her while her husband watched likely had some problems at home. I refilled his glass, and he tossed it down.
“We’re doing fine.” I needed some sort of excuse. “She was just wondering”–How could I put it–“how it would be to have–you–at home waiting for her.”
“Damn,” he said quietly. He held out his glass. “Could I have another?”
What the hell. I filled his glass, and again he gulped it down. The guy was nervous, but who could blame him? Sitting down with the man whose wife you were going to fuck would be poison ivy up any man’s ass.
Might as well get the guy drunk. Might be easier. Especially if he starts getting rough. I filled his glass yet again.
I don’t know how long we sat there. An hour, maybe, and I was worried. Where in hell was she? I couldn’t sit there all night long, drinking with the guy who was going to score on my wife.
He kept asking me questions about our happiness and how we got along–natural questions in this incredibly weird situation, and I kept refilling his glass.
About the time he was three sheets to the wind, he complained about how hot it was. That suffocating, humid August night, I had to agree. Missoula could be uncomfortable in the dog days of summer.
Plastered, he started mumbling something about getting out of that hot wool shirt. He unbuttoned it and dropped it over the arm of the couch. With his shirt off, I got a good look at what Maggie had chosen.
Pecs like Mt. Rushmore. His belly was a cobblestone street of hard muscle. His arms made me figure he was probably a prizefighter. And that made me gulp. What was she doing sending home a stick of dynamite like this?
A knock at the door. Now who? I opened the door, and there was Maggie! “Where have you been? Why did you knock?”
“Your damned car ran out of gas, and I had to run all over town to find some gasoline! I knocked because I saw his car out in the street, and I don’t want to come in just yet.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Look, if he’s supposed to be a burglar, he’d put a black bag over my head so I couldn’t see.” She held up a black cloth bag. “Here. Put this on me, and take me in.”
“Maggie, he’s been here for about an hour. By now he’s probably too drunk to fuck.”
She sighed. “Then let’s get it over with.”
I led Maggie into the house, and the big man staggered to his feet. I cleared my throat. “Okay, you’re a burglar. And you just put this bag over this woman’s head because you don’t want her to see your face.”
The man looked at me stupidly.
“And now you’re going to rape her.”
“But–but what about your wife?”
I played along. “This isn’t my wife. I’m–I’m your burglar buddy. We both broke into this house to rob it, and now we’re going to get the woman.”
“I’m–a burglar? We broke in?” The guy was really drunk. I wondered if we might get out of this on a technicality: he might not be able to do it.
But no, he unfastened his suspenders and after a few tugs, he lowered his pants. The cobblestone street of his muscled belly led down to squared-off hips and–
Damn, what a cock!
That big sniffer could sense pussy five miles away, and it had scouted out Maggie. What I saw rising from his crotch made him hung better than anybody I ever saw. And his balls belonged on a buffalo. Maggie could get pregnant just looking at those things.
I took a deep breath. That cock would straighten Maggie out like a shishkebab, one of those Christmas tree cocks–tapered from a point like an arrowhead, spreading out down its hefty length to a broad base probably twice or three times as wide as his cockhead.
When I was in college, we knew a guy with one of those. We called it a “cheerleader” cock–the small, pointed head was perfect for easy, painless entrance, but pushed all the way in, it would stretch out the victim to screaming, ecstatic maximum! A dangerous weapon, it would ruin a woman for anything smaller.
God, was that guy ever a stud! He walked over to Maggie, took her arm, and led her to the bedroom. “Oh, please don’t rape me,” she said cutely, but he stopped for a moment.
“Naw, go on ahead,” I called after them. “She wants it.” I started to follow, but just then I heard another knock at the door. What in hell?? That was a night of big surprises.
I opened it, and there stood a kid wearing a University of Montana sweater. “Jim isn’t coming,” he said. “Just wanted to let you know.” With that, he disappeared into the night.
I stood there for a moment, blinking like I’d just been told to spell “Herzogovina.” The college kid Maggie chose at the honky-tonk had chickened out. What the fuck? Then who in hell is–
–Maggie cooed as she felt his cockhead nudge against her slit; it must have been a horny little tickle, nothing blunt and threatening, and he got in pretty easy. As I entered the bedroom, I saw she was naked–stripped down faster than one of the girls at Rosie’s.
She lay back on the bed, her big, pink nipples hard and jutting out like pencil erasers. Between her wide-spread legs, the big guy had started without me, and he started to push.
At first, she oohed and ahhed like she was getting an easy treatment, but a moment later, she went from whoopee to “oh, no!” and that big thing reamed out her pussy wider than anything I could show her. It had to hurt, but I’ll be damned if she didn’t blush like a fucking rose as he pushed deeper into her. She was on fire.
He was Johnny-on-the-spot for laying my wife, the bastard. Nothing like sex for clearing the mind of booze.
I gaped at them. At the base, his cock was about the diameter of my arm, and her cunt was getting a flare like a blunderbuss. With her agonized moan, he made it all the way–his big, furry balls slapped against her ass. He got her.
Then he went to work. He pulled that monster all the way out–her pussy retracted gratefully around it–then sank it in again, down to his balls. Maggie groaned as he stretched her out then backed out again. He built up his pace, fucking her crazy. Her cunt was gradually bigger and bigger the longer he plowed her, but Maggie was begging for it, eager for it, grunting and gasping the ancient song of fucking.
Damn, I was horny. He was right, that Missoula summer night was too hot for clothes. I pulled off my shirt and yanked down my pants.
Far from being “the poor wife raped by a burglar,” Maggie’s legs rose to wrap around his back, and her fingernails clawed into his ribs. He grinned in a fierce snarl, his teeth clenched as he plowed her.
Naked and stroking my cock, I knelt beside the bed, watching this big stud stretching my wife into someone only a fire hydrant could satisfy.
I had my doubts about the whole goddamned thing–if Maggie had been unsatisfied before, she was going to be impossible from then on. But I couldn’t move. Watching that big cock reaming out my wife was the horniest thing I’d ever seen. Turned me on hotter than doing her myself.
I admired the guy’s technique. Rather than squat down low and get in deep, he raised up a little, changing the angle so his cockshaft rubbed against her clit with every stroke–literally mashing against it at the wide, impossible base, and Maggie raved like a lunatic in an asylum. “Do it, you bastard! Deeper! Faster! Oh, God, I’m almost there!”
As he kept up the rhythm, she stiffened, straightened out like she stuck her finger in a light socket, and let out a loud, long, high-pitched scream. Damn, I never saw her cum like that.
Then he changed the setup. He pulled out, rolled her over, grabbed her hips, and pulled her up to her knees. Then he slid back in, getting her doggy-style. “Get ready, bitch,” he growled low and deep, “gonna breed you till you’re begging for it!”
He kept chugging and pounding her like he was getting paid by the stroke, and poor Maggie. She was rubber-band tight around his organ when he was in to the balls, but her cunt-lips were loose, sore-red, and quivering when he pulled back out.
Then the big guy got his gun. With another deep, bass growl, he stabbed her with quick, short lunges, then rammed the big thing in to the hilt, pushing powerfully with those strong legs, and from the look on her face, he took her to a whole new level.
She was cumming again, and I saw big spurts of white slime come slurping back out, slathering around his cock and dripping down onto the bed, staining her new linen sheets. And it lasted. Maggie froze like that, like a bitch locked onto her big wolf, her bag-wrapped head dug into the pillow.
It went on so long, for a moment I thought she might be dead–had a stroke or something. But then I saw the vein pulsing in her neck and her fast, shallow breathing. Maggie just got the fuck of her life.
Damn. For me it was going from bad to worse.
When he pulled out of her, drools of white cum leaked from her red, gaping cunt, and Maggie rolled over, spread-legged, relaxed as a corpse.
He got up from the bed and stood over me. “Hey, how ’bout another whiskey?”
Hornier than ever in my life, I got up and padded out to the kitchen. I was so keyed up, I dropped the glass and had to sweep up the shatters before anybody stepped barefoot on them. I was so aroused, trembling so bad, even sweeping was hard. I finally managed to pour him a big glass of bourbon and staggered back to the bedroom.
Maggie still lay on the bed. “Oh, you raped me,” she murmured from inside the bag, “you big burglar, you broke in here and–” her voice softened to a low song, “you fucked me.”
The man was looking down at her, but he turned back to take his glass of booze. Jesus Christ, his cock was hard again.
The shaft, that famous Christmas tree, was a tawny column sculptured with big, woman-pleasing veins and smaller bumps and ripples. The skin a little darker than the rest of his body made the pink cockhead look innocent enough–only about the size of my knuckle. But behind it was one of the pillars of Hell.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away. God, it was handsome! The little cockhead was pink. Her favorite color. And suddenly mine.
When I finally raised my eyes to his face, I saw him staring back at me, his eyes a little bleary, but burning into me, almost like I was looking into the sun.
I dropped my gaze back to his cock and spotted a big bubble of clear, syrupy pre-cum at the tip. I caught my breath. He’s turned on! By me!
My mind was running 45 throbbing miles an hour, right alongside my Model T, and I looked back up to his eyes again, and he smiled. “I’ll be damned, you li’l fucker. You want to suck it!”
“I want no such thing,” I sputtered, but he put his two big hands on my shoulders and pushed me down to my knees.
God, there it was. Huge. So big, so close up, I got scared. My head was a roaring confusion.
“Go ahead.” His voice was deep, commanding. In authority. The voice of a cop.
I reached out and wrapped my fingers around–God, my fingers couldn’t close around it! I had to use both hands! My heart pounded in my ears.
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