The Writer and the Freeks

I have decided to reveal all, regardless of the severe pressure being placed on me by agents hired (I strongly suspect) by Johnnie Canlick and the Freeks: the beautiful red-haired, green-eyed, lightly freckled Ginger Freek, 36, and her daughter Debby, 18, of similar appearance, if somewhat taller at 5'10". Two more cock-hardening, long limbed beauties would indeed be hard to find, to be fair.

However, I had issues with the pair. Both had a tendency to speak first and think after, assuming the latter took place at all. They were definitely not on anybody's charity list. Apart from collecting big bucks from insurance policies after the death of her husband, Ginger had decided to continue her coffee catering business. She had identified a niche in the high-priced end of the market and did good trade in her outlet in the local mall, selling premium quality Caribbean coffee grown high on the slopes of the Blue Mountains in Jamaica. Her daughter Debby decided not to go to college, preferring instead to be assistant manager in the shop.

These ladies habitually jogged at a leisurely pace past my house in the mornings. On one occasion, Debby had come to my door and rung the bell. I thought, as I gazed at her longingly, that my jerk-off fantasies, which were very detailed and strong, had been so powerful that they had somehow compelled her to seek the source of these mysterious energetic forces. But, no, she only wanted help to get her Mom back to their house, as she had stepped on a stone and twisted her right ankle.

I drove them both home and tried to cover my prurient intentions by being extra solicitous and, falsely, caring. It was all of a piece to me. Mother or daughter; daughter or mother; or mother AND daughter. But I couldn't very well hit on Ginger at this pain-filled moment in her life, could I? That would have exposed me for what I really was: a deep thinker. Oh, yes! Always thinking with the small head about being deep in hole.

So, adapting my approach to fit the circumstances, I decided to hit on Debby for a date. Hell, the bitch turned me down flat in the most demeaning, lip-curling, pompous manner, while muttering something about "dirty old men always wanting to rob the cradle and spoil innocence." I could have shrugged that insult off, but then, realizing her power, she proceeded to sit in a chair opposite me and, crossing her legs, she let flash a brain frying glimpse of sheer blue panties, followed by a steady state view of miles of alabaster thigh. Now that was unforgivable. "Say no and go, don't tease and fail to please," I thought indignantly.

I was her enemy thence forward. Suffice it to say that by one means or another, I acquired solid, and incontrovertible, proof confirming what I had always suspected: that they were extremely nasty, incestuous lovers of the worst sort, though, of course, hypocritically maintaining a church-going, book-club, apple pie Mom, and dutiful, chess-playing daughter façade to the public and, especially, to their espresso loving customers.

I, however, managed to obtain (praise God!) damning vidcam evidence of them entwined in an incestuous, sweat-drenched, passion-ridden episode of such disgustingly unsanitary and nasty proportions, that a fly on the wall, in grave danger of losing its lunch, lurchingly flew away from the scene. That wraps my case. Anything that can make a nastiness professional such as a fly, (whether common, or horse) behave in such a manner merely by watching is of world-class nastiness and front-runner for the gold medal in the nasty Olympics.

I confronted them and let them know they were going to be stars. Their story would be the inspiration for my next erotic novel, and the purely imaginary creative insertion of an incestuous red-haired mother/daughter team would add a nice touch of realism to the plot.

Thereafter, a series of most strange events took place. It seemed that all ailing cats and dogs in the County suddenly decided that my front lawn possessed some mysterious link to animal afterlife: they breathed their last there so often. I thought about calling the Guinness records people, but the problem was that I didn't keep any evidence. I could not store them away. I had to burn or otherwise dispose of their small corpses.

But, at last, all was out in the open, completely implicating the Mesdames Freek. I received a note attached to a rock which I found on my lawn, next to the morning paper. Kindly observe the insulting means of delivery: Stone Age technology, not HM postal service. It was a simple aide memoire, full of accusations (mostly true, but that's another matter):

To : The Criminal Re : Proposed Expose Msg: Scum of the earth, no, the universe. Lay off decent people. Rise off your arsebone and go earn a respectable living doing something worthwhile, you hog. You spied on us by having your fellow villain, posing as a home security expert, set up a secret camera in the basement of our home. Did you enjoy choking your needle while watching, eh? Oh, please, Gene, pretty, pretty, please don't destroy us. From: Ginger and Debby

Well, I may be a Hogg (Gene Hogg at your service), but I am no hog. And I cannot bear to see ladies in distress. Though, on reflection, I doubt if such a respectable appellation should be applied to the Freeks. But in deference to their plea for privacy, I will go this far. I shall accompany their story with a caveat that any resemblance of characters in the story to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. I don't know if that will satisfy them, though. I mean, how many mother/daughter look-alikes with red hair and green eyes are there? Sheet!

As to whether one should refer to them as bona fide "ladies," the reader can decide after perusing the narration. And I did NOT appreciate that snide remark about needles! Maybe I should call them just "women." And how, baby!!! Jeez, the long legs, the red hair (hence the temper and the intemperate note), the greeeeen eyes, the bubblebutts, the bullet nipples. The indecently elongated penis-clit of Ginger. Fukkit! But I'm getting ahead of myself; let's proceed with some order and decorum here, difficult though this may be, given the subject matter. It is most often best to begin at the beginning.

Johnnie Canlick Speaks?

Johnnie, a writer of minor accomplishments, was seeking to improve his ratings and, more importantly, his sales. As such, he was forced by circumstances to speak in public from time-to-time, a task which he hated with a passion as great as he felt when composing one of his erotic scenes of no redeeming social value. On the few occasions he had been cajoled into doing this unpleasant task, he had had to fortify himself to the gills before accepting his terrible fate and wending his unsteady way platform- ward. When I tell you that he had to smoke a bowl in the bong and knock back two neat drinks of Johnnie Walker Red to host a kids' birthday party, after days of pleading from his revered mother, you will understand his great aversion to anything even slightly resembling a lectern or a platform.

He was, therefore, much pissed-off after collecting his mail one morning and finding a letter from one Ginger Freek inviting him to address her ladies' book club the next Tuesday, and citing his dear mother as the person instigating the invitation. Ginger had already booked him and issued invitations on the strength of his mother's assurances that he would like nothing better than to perform this function as part of his civic outreach and as a "side issue," sell some books. His Mom, you see, was tired of being hit on for loans. Or, in reality, gifts, for they were never repaid.

For some strange unfathomable reason, Johnnie's mother seemed to have chosen the morning of the mail delivery to take a trip off the planet, perhaps to the international space station for all anyone knew. No 'phone call, no note, no e-mail, no personal visit, could elicit a response. "Strange, strange, passing strange," Johnnie thought. At first, he thought of reporting her as a missing person. Then the penny dropped, and he had a "wild surmise," as the saying goes. As a matter of fact, I am reminded of the often stated truism "No one knows better than Mom," or words to that effect.

And so it is that we have come to the Tuesday of doom, and Johnny, the mother-hater, is in bad shape. This is an opinion which is, however, not shared by the ladies. They were used to eccentrics, and so regarded Johnnie's staggering and reeling down the aisle on his way to the platform as a most creative way to make an entrance.

Many were thinking, as if with one accord, "Geez, what will these creative writers come up with next?" Well, the consensus was that one definitely had to admit that the man was also a fine actor who could have made a living on the stage. Imagine doing an Irish reel, and then pretending to slip and end up in a lady's lap and pretending to snore. Great acting, don't you know! They almost got their money's worth already.

However, when the lady in question pricked him with her brooch pin, and he rose skyward shouting, "Murder! Murder! Stinking bitch," before resuming his way to the gallows, some of his loyal fans began to wonder if the Irish reel might not have owed some inspiration to another Johnnie. As a matter, I was informed by one of the ladies present (with whom I had a relationship of no redeeming social value) that the very strong fumes from Johnnie's breath seemed to have had some effect on the brooch lady. She began acting noticeably out of character, removing her stockings from her endless legs and exposing a crotch of sheer lacy white panties (causing several lesbo clits in the vicinity to poke out of hood) and waving them around to cheer the "events."

Johnnie eventually gained the platform and promptly fell asleep with his head on the flat surface of the lectern to the wild cheers of those who had not been in the vicinity of the lap incident. They thought the "reel entrance" and the pretence at sleeping were all theater and of a piece.

When an official tried to awaken Johnnie, who could have passed for a corpse were it not for his snoring, he awoke and vocalized an amazingly fierce "HAI," instantly assuming a karate pose to counter this grave threat to his life. The official, frightened for her own life, issued a sudden, loud, ripping fart.

Jesus, the ladies, most of them, really LOVED this theatre. The bitch, ahem! the lady in question was always such an overly prim, annoying, pain in the arsehole, that some ladies were literally weeping with joy at her discomfiture. As she primly took small, mincing steps on her way off the platform, scrunched over to appear as small as possible, Johnny, for good measure, shouted an even louder "HAI" at her back and, in reaction to this unexpected and violent-sounding war cry, she boomed an even louder fart, followed by a machine gun series of smaller ones while dashing off the platform. Pandemonium reigned. The club leaders were already high-fiving each other to celebrate their wisdom in selecting such a dynamic speaker.

The farter hastily scribbled her resignation and gave it to someone, who advised those ladies rolling on the floor to resume their seats and listen up. Shit! I, as historian, can tell you that from all reports there was so much cock-stiffening (or Sapphic clit-sliming, for that matter) lingerie on display, that the room quickly became a voyeur's stinky paradise. Sheer yellow, light pink, orange, black, white cotton, light green, lacy fuchsia, thong, string... sheet! I could go on, and on, but I just remembered that I have to visit the bathroom, urgently; dirty pair of socks left on the floor, don't you know!

Well, here I am again; took me about half-an-hour to pick up and wash those socks. As the official finished reading her resignation, cheers and even (I regret to say) profanities rent the air. Johnnie, suddenly awakening from another nap at the podium, decided that they were still cheering the fart episodes and so, going with the flow, grabbed the microphone and magnified a humongous fart, which set off a new round of screaming mirth and sailor-on-shore-leave-like modes of expression. By the time order was restored, Johnnie's time was up.

Mrs. Ginger Freek (a widow) thanked him profusely for one of the best speeches ever delivered at the club, and remarked that his mother must be very proud of a son like him. His mother, beaming, decided to make it known to one and all than she had returned from her trip off the planet and shouted, "That's my boy, the hot writer. I told you he was a great speaker." She showed where Johnnie got his genes when the excitement caused her to blow out a disgustingly male-sounding fart. I was told that several ambulances had to be called to transport ladies to ER for treatment of all sorts of complaints -- from laughing sickness to hiccups. But I will not guarantee the accuracy of that report.

The strange thing, though, is that the secretary taking notes could not remember any specific thing to report. She did, at times, see his lips moving, and once seemed to hear something like "A whole roomful of stinkin', crazy, fucking bitches...," but she thought "Nah, he wouldn't say that, a big author like him. The crazy, fucking bitches are deafening me. Better go to the ENT tomorrow."

Johnnie Goes Freek

Ginger Freek invited Johnnie home for supper and, hungry as a lion with a huge thorn in the right forepaw, he accepted readily. She really did not have any great hopes of snaring him as a lover; because she had such freaky tastes, after her husband died during a mountain climbing accident, she only really trusted her daughter with her secret fetishes.

However, when she passed the bathroom where Johnnie had gone to take a piss and saw him sniffing with frantic, manic intensity at the gusset of her bloodstained panties (it was period time), she began to reconsider. Ginger nervously remembered that she had also pooped in them, and it was as if the thought had been intercepted by Johnnie because he turned the panties inside out and began to lick the messy deposit off the back panel. The panties she was wearing got slimy and wet very quickly as she remembered the very naughty games she used to play with her husband before he died.

Ginger called up her daughter Debby on the cell phone, apprised her of the possibilities, and ended by telling her to get her bloody, stinking, hairy, red-haired hole home right away. Debby had been playing chess at a friend's home, you see. Meanwhile, Johnnie had tugged out his rising schlong and was stroking and choking it while trying to suck the dried blood from a pad he had found in a waste receptacle beside the hamper.

"What on earth are you doing? That's so, so, nasty and very unacceptable in this house. You need to go to some bloody whorehouse and suck a whore's bleeding cunt, you disgusting man." The startling voice rang out clearly in the acoustically perfect cavern of the bathroom. It was Debby, who had just come home, and she had her camera phone AND was taking pictures. "I'm going to tell Mom and show these to my friends," the alabaster-skinned, green-eyed beauty declared.

As for Johnnie, the effects of the marijuana and the bottle of Scotch had lessened somewhat, and he began to plead fervently, if somewhat incoherently, with the girl not to ruin what was left of his career.

Debby did not answer. She ran off to show her Mom the pics. Both beauties headed for the bathroom where Johnnie lay dejectedly on the floor, a beaten man. He had enough presence of mind to know that he had fouled up royally that day. He knew the difference between farting and giving a speech, and so knew he had not addressed the gathering. And now this! If high school kids saw this, he was done for. He'd have to leave the County at least, if not the country itself. He slumped down further.

"Well, well, look at you, you nasty thing! You should be grateful that I am a considerate woman," Ginger intoned disdainfully. "But since you are such a freak, I've decided to help you on your way to hell. If you accept this, the pictures will not be exhibited outside this house." And so saying, she sidled up to Johnnie and jostled her wide, sexy, curvy, bottom against his nose and let out a squeaky, stinky fart which owed parenthood to her late night snack of prune juice and onion and cheese sandwiches.

Johnnie, who had secretly longed to be used this way by women all his life, was so startled that he held his breath at first. He dimly remembered a saying that people in the arts are always seeking something aesthetic, but don't know what until they find it. Well, he was now finding that he had found it.

Johnnie awoke from his reverie with a start and jammed his nose up to what he surmised was the actual arsehole zone while squeezing Ginger's belly almost painfully, in order to induce more farts. Ginger let loose a more robust fart than before, and this one went straight up the bugger's nostrils. He inhaled deeply, snarfing up the stink and marveling on the shapely arse jostling against his nose while he tugged and abused his Johnson.

Debby, seeing how matters were shaping up, had stripped naked, exposing her sexy, smelly, blood-drenched, red-haired pussy and her pale, white titties tipped with stiff, blood-engorged nipples. She barked, "Lie down on the floor, bugger, and seal your mouth to my arsehole."

Johnnie quickly stripped naked and assumed the submissive floor position as the girl mounted his face and jostled her arsehole to cover his mouth. Lost in fantasy, he loudly sniffed the stinky odours coming from between her legs as they assumed their positions, his rod standing firm and straight. All now became clear: these beautiful bitches were nasty freaks.

Ginger had a stained panty over her face, sniffing gusset and frigging clit in a daze. She stepped up and let a strong stream of yellow piss batter her daughter's face before the girl opened her mouth to catch the rest. She then turned around and, straining with a painful look on her scrunched-up face, jiggled her arse up and down before managing to release a putrid delivery of ass gas right into in her kid's gaping mouth. Turning back around, she continued to flout society's laws of the ideal parent-child relationship by rubbing her bloodstained, red-haired pussy on her offspring's innocent-looking face.

Far from resenting this disgraceful lapse in parenting ideals and reporting the matter to the relevant authorities, the beautiful teenager enthusiastically aided and abetted this shocking exhibition of incestuous lesbianism. While machine-gunning some wet-sounding stink farts down Johnnie's palate and down the bugger's throat, she stuck a wiggly finger up her mother's bloody hole, seeking to find the sweet G-zone amid the copious flow of menstrual blood and sticky red blobs, to send her darling Mom over the edge.

"OOOOH! Oh, yes, baby. GAAWDD! Yes, scratch, scratch, scratchit, darling! So sweeeeet. Tickle it, darling! Ohh, Lord, fukkitt, fukkit, bloody bitch. You mother-fucking, disgraceful, pussy-sucking lezzie whore! Geeeeezzzus, Macaroni Christ! That's it honey, YEESSS! Now, lip it, sweetie."

Debby, ever the respectful child, removed her finger from the cunt hole and jammed her open mouth over the protruding clit-cock; it was sticking out nearly an inch from the hood, the product of much masturbation and treatments with a vacuum pump. Ginger often frotted her daughter's clit with it when they were rubbing tribade- wise.

Debby resettled her self on Johnnie's mouth and let loose another smelly, watery fart in his gaping mouth. He loved being used thusly by this beautiful young girl in her prime and snarfed down the smelly wind emission with deep pleasure.

All three were now so hot that eggs could be fried on their skin. Ginger, in an incestuous, funky, daze, could only gape and work her mouth wordlessly as the fruit of her loins sucked and tongued, spit on, nursed on, and tongue-whipped the slimy clit-digit, alternating the sucking and tonguing very skillfully as she soaked up the female stink of her mother's leaking hole. Ginger began to tremble and whinny, shouting out her major purpose in life at that crucial juncture: "Wheeeeee! Wheeeeee! Nnnngggy! Nnnngggy! Ssssssssttttttt! Ssssssssttttttt! SUCCKKIT NOW, SUCKI, SUCCKI, SUCCKKIT, FUCK, Bay-bay-bayybeee, I'm there. Oh, jeesus, oh, criest, I'M KUMMMMINNNGGG! FUKKK, oh, SHIT."