Ruined Merchandise E-Book

Alexis Williams

• Herausgeber: Taboo Pulp Press
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

We know you're going to just read the free sample preview anyway. You should. This book is hot. A trashy, sleazy, *full-length* (100+ Pages) post-censorship erotic novel. But, if you really want, here's the briefest of excerpts:
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"Boy," he said, "I ought to kill you... raping this little girl."

"No, Uncle Charlie," she said, pleading. "He didn't rape me. I let him. I wanted to see how models and gigolos do."

"Get out of here, and get to bed, right now," he ordered Luke. "I'll deal with you tomorrow, you ungrateful scamp. This is the thanks I get for taking a trashy fool like you into my home. Now, get out of my sight before I kill you!"

Frightened out of his wits, Luke ran pell-mell from the loft without even waiting to put on his clothes. He just grabbed his bulky old overalls and fled down the ladder into the darkness.

Uncle Charlie turned from watching the boy depart to a contemplation of naked Hilda. His root, she could plainly see, was standing up. In spite of her terrible position, Hilda felt herself wondering what it would be like, and really, she had to admit, wishing she could see it. Charlie, because of the darkness of the loft, had no idea that his cock was showing or that Hilda could see it.

"You common little whore!" he said vigorously. "I ought to beat you within an inch of your life.

Do you know what your Aunt Pauline will say when she hears about your sin? You've disgraced our home. You've sinned before God and man. You shall rot in hell for this, for the Good Book says 'Thou shalt not commit adultery!' "

"Uncle Charlie, I... "

"Shut up," he said, drawing a meaty hand back as if to hit her in the mouth. "You filthy child. I'm gonna take you back in the house and tell Pauline. She can deal with you. I'll take care of Luke myself in the morning. I'll horsewhip him right in front of everybody up at Bart's store, and then I'll run him off from here."

Hilda leaped upon Uncle Charlie. "Please," she begged, "don't beat Luke. It was my fault. I'm the one who wanted to know about them models and gigolos. He was just showing me. Please, don't beat him or send him away."

Leseprobe

Ruined Merchandise

Alexis Williams

Copyright © 2017

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

So, the guy had paid out his ten dollars. He was entitled to some semblance of a screwing, but Pati knew he was ploughing in unfamiliar ground. Probably the first piece he ever had, she thought. Well, a couple of loops at the top of the hunch, and he'll blow his rocks right out through the head of that rubber. She wondered idly if the contraceptive was GI issue. Those goddamn things were as thick as inner tubes. Jesus, a guy would have to be a kid to get his nuts off with one of those rubber tires wound around his dick.

She had judged him well. He was beginning to heave and gasp for breath, and while he fucked with his eyes closed, Pati always kept hers open. It was a matter of good business practice. You got to watch the mark. If he tries to back off and make it last longer, then, by Christ, you pour the pussy into him so close he has to come right now. Shit! At ten bucks a trick, a girl is damn lucky to make a living.

Pati wished to God he wouldn't pinch her ass so hard. Might make bruises, and nobody wants to screw a banged-up old broad. Maybe nobody really wants to fuck an old broad, period. But for ten bucks... why, hell, that's almost as cheap as jacking off, and it gave the young draftees away from home for the first time a whole lot to swagger around and talk big about back at the bar racks.

As the kid became more heated, she could feel his dick throb inside her pussy. There was, admittedly, a great deal of cock room inside her ancient snatch, but it still had some discernible sides, and any dick over seven and a half inches soon found out about the bottom. This guy was about a six-incher, she computed. Really, she hadn't taken the time to look at his cock for size when they were getting started. All she wanted to know was: Is the damn rubber in place? Those goddamn Army doctors and chaplains, always warning the kids about the danger of VD in a whorehouse. Shit and fuck elephant style! A whore is damn careful not to put herself out of business with the clap or especially with the big S. But these kids would screw anybody, and they brought more VD into the cathouses than they ever took out.

Well, it wouldn't be long on this one, Pati figured, twisting an eye up to catch the clock which was on the dresser. He was already losing his rhythm. He was hunkering up over her pussy, and wiggling spastically and in a totally disorganized way. Pati bit as tightly as her cunt muscles would contract. Let's get this baby back to his mother.

Pati was tired as hell. It was a Saturday night, and she had fucked... well, hell... was it twenty-one or twenty-two guys? Not that fucking a great many men in a single night would be such a chore. It wasn't, really. Most of them did little more than stick it in, hit it two or three licks and shoot their load. It had been... God, beyond recollection... since Pati had felt the slightest stimulation from one of her customers. She could put up a great fake if the occasion called for it. But what the hell? This kid wouldn't know a female orgasm from a pile of pelican shit. And besides, who's gonna carry on any great shakes over a ten-dollar trick? Now for fifty... oh, for fifty... but that was a long time ago. Not as long as those hundred-dollar nights! All with one man, and back when a hundred was a calcimined shit-pot full of money. But hell, it was tougher all the time.

The kid was pawing up her back, and trying, she thought, to get down on her tits. "Wait a minute," she said, "you fuck for ten, but that titty sucking--it's an extra five in advance. You can't do it now, because we can't stop here and start over. Just go ahead and screw. You're almost ready. Then, if you really want some ninny, it'll be eighteen bucks and away we go again!"

The kid didn't have the dough, and she was glad. These hard-cocked babies bored the piss out of Pati. Soldiers were the last ditch against starvation. No sure-enough whore with an ounce of self-respect or belief in the goodness of her own cunt would touch one of them with a ten-foot pole, if it wasn't a business emergency. The truth, as Pati remarked in high dudgeon to herself as often as she thought of it, was that whoring might be the oldest profession on earth, but that it was en route to certain extinction.

"How in the name of Jesus Charist can a decent whore make a living? Shit and fuck elephant style! The goddamn high school kids and housewives and the good sisters in the churches are fucking us flat out on our asses. I tell you, by God, there ought to be some kind of federal law to protect honest people from these scandalous amateurs. By God, they're fucking in junior high school now. It just ain't right!"

Then Pati would begin to deplore the poor men of the world: "Do you know the average Joe Good Guy... you know, the simple slob who comes home after work and mows the yard and cooks out on one of those bug-infested grills... never gets a proper piece of pussy? Hell, these wives started out fucking as kids, and they never learn a shit about it. No wonder the guys are swapping around. Wives! Hell, there's not one good screw in a carload!"

The kid quivered convulsively and rammed his root all the way home. Pati was thinking about what the hell she was going to have to eat when the night was over, and whether she ought to fix it herself or go out some place. But as she felt his hot come slosh into the innards of her cunt, she hunched herself up as high as possible and gave the ten-buck mark a double twisting, two-time bang.

This was Pati's pet maneuver, and one which she claimed to have invented, and further, that she was the sole satisfactory practitioner of the art. "Hell, that thing is a real ball milker!" she would say. "When I put it on a guy like I mean it, his dick spits up enough juice in one retch to overpopulate the world. Shit and fuck elephant style! That's fucking!"

The kid wanted to let his tool soak a while, but Pati wasn't having any of that. "Listen," she said pushing him off, "you can throw your shovel on the truck and move out. You're loaded, sonny boy!"

"Yeah... Yeah... " he stammered. "I just wanted to let it rest in there for a minute."

"Huh--huh!" Pati said, shaking her head. "This is just like riding in a taxi. When you get to the end of the trip, you get out. If you want to sit there, then the meter has got to be running. Lay another five on me, and you can stick it back in there and let it soak 'til it gets soft. But no fucking! Just soaking for another five."

There wasn't much use to discuss the point. The kid's tool was already halfway down and falling rapidly. "Go in the bathroom and get that thing off," she said, jerking her head in the direction of the john. "Don't sit down on the seat, and don't milk your cock down and dribble on the floor. I don't like to walk around in a puddle of come when I go to take a crap in the middle of the night."

As inelegant as it may have sounded, Pati had unwittingly revealed one of her personal adjustments to the trade. All her ablutions were performed in the middle of the night after the last paying customer had zipped up his fly and gone back to where the hell ever he was supposed to be in the first place. "Jesus," she would complain. "I haven't had a pleasurable fuck in twenty years. It's always hurry or slow down; never like I might want to do it. So, by God, I'm gonna take a crap on my own time--as slow as I want to. After all, everybody's got to have something."

The kid came out of the bathroom. His dong was drooping, and Pati could tell with great certainty that he now wished to God he hadn't shot a ten-dollar bill on a wornout old whore. His conscience, probably pricked by some good Baptist upbringing, was beginning to eat on him. He kept his eyes on the floor as he began to dress. Suddenly, Pati was sorry for him. There had been a time, way back when... well, no matter...

"Listen, kid," she said kindly. "You're a good lay... a real good lay. You really know something about how to make a girl catch fire. Hell, I wish to God I could have a whole night to screw with you. But you know, I just work here, and business is business. But, I can tell you... you're a horse-cocked plenty good fucker!"

Gone was the regret. Horse cocked! And a real know-how guy! Hey, that was a big deal from an old gal like this.

"Oh, thanks," he said, with real gratitude shining in his bright, young eyes. "I never thought I was much good at it."

Pati was about to ask him if he had ever had a piece of pussy before, but that would spoil it all. "Oh yeah, you're really good," she said instead. "Come back again sometime. Maybe I could find a day off, and you could teach me some of the stuff you know. Where you from?"

"Georgia," he said. "Vidalia. It ain't a very big town. Lots of tobacco and farm stuff."

"Well, when you get back down to Vidalia, you tell 'em old Pati said that in thirty years of fucking, you're just about the best I ever had. See how that fits on 'em!"

"You mean... thirty years? God, I wasn't even born when ..

"Naw, kid, you weren't born. Why, hell, you hadn't even been thought of. Vidalia, huh? Farm country?"

"Yeah," he said, buttoning up his shirt. "You ever been on a farm?"

"Sure," she said absently. "Sure, I been on a farm, but that was a long time ago... "

* * *

Hilda hated the farm. It was hot and soggy in South Georgia in August, and 1933 wasn't the best year anywhere, especially in the cotton business. Of course, Hilda didn't know about the cotton business, and cared less. What she did know was that somehow her Daddy had died, and her mother had run away with somebody, and that she was left all by herself. Twelve was too young to make it alone and too old not to realize what had happened to her. She was bitter about her mother, whom she regarded as a whore, and who, she was certain, would roast forever in the searing fires of hell when Judgment Day rolled around. She was grieved about her Daddy, who had been a good man, but, like so many others, totally unable to cope with the deepening depression. Dying was the good way out for him.

So Hilda, a small town girl but certainly not a farm lass, found herself a hardly welcome guest in her aunt's home on a miserable cotton farm just outside Uvalda, Georgia. God, how she hated the place!

There was nothing but work and sweat and church going and the stink of the animals. In her mature life, thirty years later and hundreds of miles away from Georgia, Hilda could smell the horseshit from the bam lot every time she awoke in the middle of the night and found a breeze blowing across her bed. Horseshit was a way of life in Georgia, and she hated the whole works.

"Hilda, you're your mother's child," her aunt would say. "You know what weakness can do. If your mother wasn't so weak, you wouldn't be here living off charity, which, God knows, we can't afford. But we're Christian people. We love the Lord, and we're gonna let you stay with us and try to teach you the way of salvation. But you gotta work and you gotta pray for God to guide you away from being your mother's daughter. You got the weakness. Only the Lord hisself can keep you from going like your mother.

"And you gotta work. We can't have no idle hands here. You got to show the world that your mother ain't living in you. You got to work harder than anybody to make up for what your mother done to us by putting one on us when times is so hard. Yes, praise God, you got to work and pray for God's deliverance."

To Hilda, it seemed unlikely that God would give a damn about whether she worked and prayed or not. She thought it was reasonable to assume that God didn't care what happened to her, or He never would have put her on that damn farm. And what kind of a one-way bastard would God be to blame her for what her mother had done? Hell, she just didn't buy that crap, but she kept her mouth shut and did her chores with as little enthusiasm as possible. Auntie believed in rewarding a job well done with a new and unusually more hateful assignment.

But at twelve, it is impossible for one to be either sick or sad all the time, and, notwithstanding the impossibilities of life, one will find a way to some semblance of happiness. Hilda did, indeed, find happiness on the farm, and the discovery was a two-pronged effort. The first phase was mental; the second, emotional and physical.

Under the mattress of her bed was Hilda's most cherished possession: A copy of Liberty magazine, with a story about models and how they lived and made all that money in New York. Golly, they didn't wear hardly no clothes, and there was always the handsomest man holding onto those models' arms! Golly, these guys all had mustaches like Clark Gable. Like as not, she'd never see Clark Gable in the movies because her folks never had time or money for frills and gew-gaws like picture shows. And Auntie... good God! She thought Satan himself was the executive producer of every movie made, including the only one she had ever seen, an old-time silent epic, The Ark. Noah was screwing his son's wife, and, by God, Noah would never have done nothin' like that!

Like most good and solid, practicing Baptists of her tent, Auntie believed every word of the Bible from Genesis to Revelations and wasn't the least disadvantaged by the fact that she had never read any of it.

Hilda pored over the magazine, a present from Luke Shields, the hired hand. Luke was eighteen, and the only difference between Luke and the guys in the state pen at Atlanta was that those in the pokey knew when they were gonna get out. Luke worked like a galley slave under the Christian ministerings of Hilda's aunt and uncle. He stole the Liberty magazine from Bart Lipscomb's store, and when he didn't see any pictures of cowboys or speedy cars, he gave it to Hilda.

She read and reread the piece on New York models. She puzzled over much of the text, but managed to figure out that the men in the pictures were something called "gigolos."

What could it be? Like a banker, maybe? They all looked as rich as four feet up a bull's ass. (An expression learned from Luke who said it without profane intent. It was very rich four feet up a bull's ass.) Or maybe they were some sort of big city preachers. They looked very dignified. But Hilda doubted this. They also looked happy, and Hilda had never seen a happy preacher except when he was railing about the terrors of hell. Talking about hell made a preacher a hell of a lot happier than thinking about heaven.

Well, it was a desperation move, but one which was called for. "Auntie," Hilda asked after supper when there was maybe a half-hour of resting before they started praying. "What is a gigolo?"

"A what?"

"A gigolo?"

"God have mercy," Auntie said, raising her eyes in a plea to the deity for assistance. "You get in the house this minute and wash your mouth out with soap. It's a sweatin' crime! That's what! A sweatin' crime! How can you even say such a word? But then, you're your mother's daughter, and blood will tell. Now git!"

Hilda was stunned. What the hell could it mean? And she still didn't know what a gigolo was. But whatever, it must be something good. The men who were gigolos looked better than anybody she had ever seen, and what's more, Auntie didn't like them. Yeah, they had to be the greatest ever!

The next day, Hilda was dispatched at dusk to the barn where she was to extract as much milk as the tired old cow would give. In reality, the cow should have been mercifully dispatched to whatever reward comes when one's udder is shriveled and one's tits are drying up. But even an old cow is better than none. Hilda hated the touch of those tits, and the cow didn't seem to like it either. But both succumbed to the pressure from Auntie. As Hilda entered the barn, she saw Luke sweeping up some shit, and shoveling it into a wheelbarrow.

"Hi, Luke," she said.

"Hi, Hilda," he answered, looking at the pooched-up thrusts which her young breasts were making in her jumper. "Whatcha been doin?"

"Nothin'," she answered, setting the pail under the cow, and moving the stool to where she could operate. "Been readin' that magazine you give me. Say... what's a gigolo?"

Luke wasn't informed, but he was reluctant to confess his ignorance. He didn't answer right away, and Hilda relieved him by going on. "It's what them fellers are what runs around with them models. You know, all dressed up and everything."

The world of models was aeons away from Luke, but the implication of sex was not. Instinctively, he knew that models who showed their bare asses had to be evil women, and them guys, well, shit, they had to be, too. Bet they got all sorts of pussy.

"Uh, I tell you," he said, kicking a horseturd with the toe of his rude shoe. "A gigolo is... uh... well, do you really want to know?"

"Sure I want to know," she said. "Why not?"

"Well, it's a little hard to explain," he said. "Like as not, I wouldn't have time to get done before they'll be looking for us for supper. Tell you what, though," he added, as a seeming afterthought. "If you'll slip out tonight after they all go to sleep and meet me behind the horse bam, I'll tell you all about how them fellers do."

"God a'mighty!" Hilda croaked. "They'd kill me."

"Well, it don't matter to me, none at all," Luke said, "but I thought you wanted to know what a gigolo is and what he does."

"I'll be there," she said. "Wait 'til you see it dark, and then give me eighteen or twenty minutes."

"I'll be waiting," he said, flashing her a smile revealing a mouth full of white, even teeth. Then he ran his hand down inside the bottom part of his bib overalls, and slowly and deliberately hoisted his cock up and down. Hilda watched, fascinated, and wondered if this had anything to do with gigolos.

Almost before the flickering lights had winked out, Hilda could hear the reassuring snores from Auntie and Uncle's room. With clear consciences purged by the daily practice of a stringent self-denial, the two were always asleep long before Hilda could quiet her mind down and feel at peace enough to sleep. Tonight, though, she was not concerned with sleep. She wanted to get out to meet Luke.

CHAPTER TWO

Gosh, how her flesh tingled. I bet this is the very way them models feel when they're about to go out with a gigolo, she thought. Dang, I wonder if Luke is gonna tell me or show me, or maybe both. Wonder if he'll try to stick that thing of his in me? God, that would be a sin! But, hell, them models don't let sin worry them. Hell, I bet they have a great time. At least they ain't stuck in the mud and horseshit down on a broke-down Georgia farm. If I had my druthers, she thought, I'd druther be a model than anything in the whole world. I betcha I'd get a gigolo all my own, too.

When the even snores and exhalations convinced her that her kinfolk would sleep the sleep of the righteous until first light she crept slowly and silently out of bed, and made her way stealthily through the house until she was on the back porch. She had to be damned careful, because there was a mess of pots and wash tubs, and she could easily have fallen into one of them. But her meticulous care paid off, and she made it to the barn lot without mishap.

Had the moon not been shining to light her way she could have found it with little trouble. The strong, unmistakable odor of horseshit permeated the atmosphere. Cowshit has little odor but horseshit... whew!

She skipped along the path and finally came to the corner of the horse barn. Here she stopped to listen. Luke ought to be there waiting, she thought.

"Psst! Hey! Over here," he called in a stage whisper. "Be careful, and don't make no noise."

"Huh, I ain't gonna make no noise," she said. "Now, how about that gigolo? Tell me!"

"Let's go up in the barn loft," he said. "Then I'll tell you."

"Tell me here," she demanded.

"No, I ain't. You got to come up in the loft and lay down. That's the way them gigolos work."

"Why've I got to lay down?"

"Goddamnit! Do you want to know about them models and gigolos, or not? I ain't got all night to argue with you."

"Okay," she agreed. "Go ahead and lead the way. I'll follow."

When they got up in the loft, Luke pointed to a broken bale of hay which he had apparently spread around to make a comfortable place for them to learn the evil facts of New York life. "Here's our place," he said, and sat down. Hilda was a little uncertain, so she remained standing.

"Now," he said, matter-of-factly, "if you want to be like the models, you start off by taking off your clothes... every last stitch of 'em, right down to your skin."

She was dumb enough, but not that dumb. Nevertheless, she played it to the idiot level. "Why do they do that?"

"Hell, that's the way them gigolos like it."

Hilda hesitated, and Luke reached up and pulled her down on the hay beside him. "Listen," he said, "you want to know about this or not? You can't act like a model with your clothes on. Now take 'em off!"

"I guess it's okay," she said.

"Of course, it's okay. Let me have your hand." In the semi-blackness of the loft, with only splintered rays of the moon seeping through the cracks to provide illumination, Hilda gave him her hand.

Holding her hand, Luke unfastened the shoulder straps of his overalls, and pulled the bib down to his waist. Then, he thrust her hand inside his pants. Instinctively, she recoiled when her fingers came in contact with his fully erected penis. Hilda had seen a few pictures, and one real one, but never had touched one before.

"Don't be afraid," he urged. "Take it in your hand. Hold on to it. That's what a model does."

Hilda grasped his tool, and felt a hot trickle of magic juice flow out the end and down over her hand. This was something new, but somehow she knew it was connected to models and gigolo action, and that it wasn't urine.

Under his urging and instruction, Hilda began to pull the skin up and down on his root, and she noted that it was at least as big around as a hoe handle, and, God knew, near 'bout as long. "How long is this thing?" she asked.

"Not but eight inches," he said, "But it's a good one even if it is small."

"Yeah, that is kinda small," Hilda said, thinking about the hang-down under the bull out in the pasture of the next farm down the road. "If pulling on it is what a model does, what does a gigolo do?"

"I been trying to tell you," he said. "Get your clothes off, and I'll show you."

Well, playing with a rock-hard cock, and talking about gigolos, and the mere fact that she was feeling of forbidden fruit was sufficient to cause Hilda to decide to go all the way, and to hell with the consequences, if any. She released her hold on his dick, and began to take off her clothes. Although she was a few weeks shy of eighteen, she was a well-developed girl, and as her skin became visible, Luke leaped to his feet and stripped off his clothes so that they were both naked.

Luke reached out with his two first fingers and began to trace a circular pattern about her knobby little breasts. Little or not, they arose at once under his stimulation, and Hilda was possessed with a strange desire to take a hold of that tool again.

She let her eyes pierce the darkness in an effort to see the tool. But it was obscured in the shadow, and she couldn't make it out. "You want me to hold you again?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said in a choking voice. He circled her body in his arms, and pulled her firm flesh against his tensed muscles. She could feel that tool poking into her belly, and she wasn't surprised nor dismayed when Luke reached down with his left hand and shoved it in between her legs.

Before she could get used to the idea of his hot cock resting between her finely chiseled, milky thighs, Hilda was utterly amazed when Luke came down on her lips with a heavy kiss, which, it seemed to her, he was trying to rub in. Anyhow, he moved his mouth about in a rotary fashion on hers. She tried to do the same thing back, when she felt--Good God! Luke had stuck his tongue in her mouth! Now, she wasn't really upset, because as a child of the depression she had learned long ago to share chewing gum and suckers even with the Negro kids in South Georgia. So, sucking on Luke's tongue seemed a pretty nice thing. He seemed to like it, and when she shot her own tongue into his mouth, his knees twitched.

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