No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 25

"Hell, no, you can't sing; shit, girl, you can't hardly dance," she laughed huskily, recalling the woman's clumsy attempts to entertain the customers. "You probably ain't much good at fucking either, seein' how much trouble you have keepin' Cletus on the reservation."

That last observation had been a purely gratuitous jab, she admitted to herself, but the bitch deserved it considering how she was fucking everything up now. She gasped and lifted her pussy to Archie's lips, letting her mind drift toward the sensual shores of sexual excess and responded to the telephone with increasingly disinterested detachment.

"You know exactly what I mean, Nadeen."

"'Course, he has, honey."

"Sure, I did."

"Mostly, while you were fucking Archie."

"That's getting a little personal, Nadeen; ask me something else," she sighed, putting an end to the woman's jealous interrogation, just as Archie's tongue swept the opening to her vagina.

"Of course me and Archie fuck every time we come to Memphis, you moron; you don't think I'm gonna pass up an opportunity to screw 'The King,' do you?" she answered with a chuckle.

She slid her foot under 'the king' as he lay on his belly between her legs, and sought his cock with her toes. She found him quickly and rubbed his massive length with her foot. He was rigid, rock hard with desire, and hungry for love. She could feel him drooling into her already sopping slit as she stroked him, and she moaned loudly just to twist the knife in Nadeen's back.

"Hmmmmm, Elvis, your big cock is so hard. Take it out and play me a tune," she mouthed toward the receiver, and she nearly laughed out loud when she heard Nadeen scream on the other end of the connection, "Shut up, you piece of shit," and the immediately following smack of a hand slapping flesh.

"I'll tell you the funny part, and then I really have to go, honey. Every time, after he finishes and he pulls his cock out of my pussy, his eyes get real funny looking, like he's gone blind or something, and he screams out as loud as he can, 'Elvis has left the building,' and then he passes out for fifteen or twenty minutes. Won't nothing short of setting his feet on fire bring him around after that."

"No, that does not mean he thinks my pussy's big as a house, you pathetic, jealous bitch. Now, you and Cletus find out where that Noble whore is hiding, or else."

Nancy broke the connection and tossed the phone on the floor by the bed. Butterflies were beating their wings against her insides, and she spread her legs wider.

"Momma," Archie asked, lifting his face from her loins, "what are you gonna do when you find her?"

"We're gonna do her ass, baby, just like you and me done all them others," she answered icily, as though the mention of the woman had extinguished her desire.

"I'm gonna choke her, then, while you fuck her?" Archie asked concretely, trying to visualize that concept.

"No, son, you're gonna fuck her, and while you're doing that, I'm gonna put a rope around her Goddamn neck and choke her till she stops breathing, and when that happens, you'll get to feel her pussy going completely crazy on your prick."

"That's what them other ones did, wasn't it, mom, when they had their pricks in your pussy, and me and Nadeen was choking them while they fucked you? They'd start shaking and jerking and jumping around up inside you. That's why you done so many of 'em, wasn't it?"

"That's right, son, they ain't nothin in the world like tha feeling of 'em jerkin' and squirtin' way up inside you, while their life's slippin' away, and they ain't nothin they can do about it but just keep fuckin,' an shootin,' an dyin'," she answered dreamily, like she was a million miles away and lost in her memories, and her voice trailed off at the end.

"What if she's still too small, momma, and I can't get it in her?" he asked, sounding worried, because he vividly recalled the cause of his earlier disappointment.

She looked at his anxious face for a minute, staring blankly, and then, she shook her head, sort of waking herself up, and she said, "Don't worry, darling, you'll get inside her, I promise. I'll make sure of that, even if I have to do the episiotomy myself."

"Do the what?" he asked.

"Never mind, you ask too many questions, son," she chided him gently. "Do you want to fuck your momma or what?"

"'You ain't nothing but a hound dog,'" he crooned happily, and he lapped her slit like a puppy to show her he meant it.

"Oh, Elvis," she squealed as he filleted her tender lips with the tense point of his tongue, "where's your wig, honey?"

"Ober dere," he mouthed around the taut projectile that he was using to dissect his mother's composure, and cut his eyes toward the gym bag on the table beside the window. "Go get it, and hurry," she gasped, and with great effort she pushed him away from her crotch while she still had the will to do so.

He scrambled off the foot of the bed and dove into the bag, rummaging around in its contents for a second or so, before retrieving his wig.

"Thank you very much," he mimicked poorly, shimmying his hips as he pulled the thick mop of black hair over his ears and centered it, more or less on his head.

"The cape, too, mom?" he asked doubtfully, as he pulled about half of a red satin cape from the bag and looked toward her tentatively for guidance.

"Sure, why not," she nodded agreeably, "long way to Graceland, son; no point to being half-assed about it now that we're here."

Her hot pussy screamed for attention, so while the boy costumed himself, she let her fingers drift into her wet slot and began masturbating. She watched him struggle and battled herself for the patience to let him do it himself, because she knew how much he enjoyed doing things on his own.

Archie whipped the cape with a flourish in the air over his head and let it settle like a collapsing crimson parachute around his shoulders. He quickly fastened the ties under his chin with a sturdy square knot and pulled it tight so it wouldn't come undone during his "performance." When he was satisfied, he spun around two or three times to test the flare of the cape, and undulated his hips to what his mother guessed was "Don't Be Cruel," but she couldn't tell for sure because his voice sort of blended the sounds of an exploding depth charge and a rake being drug through a bin full of bolts.

He wobbled to a halt after the fourth spin, grinning drunkenly at his mother while his equilibrium returned. When his head cleared, he grabbed the tails of his tee shirt where they were tucked into his pants, and, while he tugged his shirt, he yelled theatrically at the top of his voice, "Ladies and Gentlemens, its SHOWTIME!"

With that, the boy gave a mighty yank to his shirt and instantly discovered to his chagrin that some things are only to be done sequentially. The tee-shirt, to be sure, slipped up his trunk and over his shoulders easily enough, but as he extended his arms above his head, the tails of his shirt began collecting the voluminous folds of the cape like he was stuffing a jib into a sail bag, so that by the time his arms were straight up, he was pretty well trussed up in shirt and cape and couldn't do much more than wiggle his fingertips.

Nancy fingered her moist clitoris and watched his struggles with detached interest. Sooner or later, she reasoned, he would shuck the shirt and emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon, but, at the moment, all she could do was entertain the image of a giant, red, manta ray sucking a worm off the seabed. She giggled at his predicament and shook her head sympathetically, but she plunged two fingers into her hole in preference to lending the boy a hand.

Her prediction of ultimate success flirted with disaster as the boy's efforts succeeded in getting nearly the entire cape into the narrow body of the tee shirt. He wiggled helplessly, looking like a cock trying to escape a condom, while he tried to force the tiny neck opening of his shirt over his head and the cape.

She could see the impression of his face in the tightly stretched fabric. His lips were moving. Muffled, unintelligible sounds like "Mumpha, mumpha," were coming from within the wriggling cocoon, and she guessed that he had launched into a medley of unfamiliar Elvis tunes. She observed expectantly with all the patience she could muster, and finally, the boy's chin emerged, followed shortly by his mouth, nose and eyes. The neck of the tee shirt scraped across his forehead, sort of half-scalping him as it cleared his head. The elastic in the wig, with no head to grip, contracted, drawing the edges toward the center like a pussy snapping shut, so, by the time the boy had shed the shirt, the wig was perched on top of his head like a skunk trying to ride a beach ball, and his mother was hiding under a pillow to mask her laughter.

"Archie, Archie," she laughed softly, when she dared to lower the pillow and peek at him, "fix that damn wig, son."

"Uh, thank you very much," he responded automatically, because he was already busy with the removal of his pants, but he paused long enough to give the exaggerated sideburns a yank that was sufficient to get his head back inside the wig.

His trousers were less challenging, and, while she watched him, he lowered them to his knees gradually exposing the thick trunk of his manhood. She gasped at the sight of him, and her heart fluttered with excitement. This unselfconscious unveiling of his incredible penis never failed to thrill her. The boy bent to push his pants to the floor, and then, he stood, and as he straightened, his prodigious manhood lifted like the rising of some imposing drawbridge and projected itself toward her.

"God, Archie, you are a beautiful boy," she gushed rapturously, when the eye of his cock ceased swinging and settled its gaze on her breasts.

"Ah, hum, ah, thank you very much, ladies and gentlemens," the boy repeated, and he spun slowly on his heels to flare the cape again.

The effect was stunning, she thought, as her son's cock rotated back into her view with the crimson cape swirling like a wind blown backdrop behind it. The boy slowed the turn and his dick swung to the front, ponderously, like the boom on a jibing yacht, and she ducked instinctively to avoid being knocked overboard by that pendulous pole.

"Come here, son," she breathed huskily, reaching for him with both hands.

"You ain't nothin' but a hound dog," he sang in an off-key twang, and he stepped toward her hands.

She intercepted his cock as he approached the bed, clasping him to her lips with both hands like a hoagie sandwich she was about to consume from the middle out. She nibbled him with her lips, stroking his heated flesh with her tongue, and worked her way toward the head. Her tongue left a wet trail along his skin as she licked him. She reached the end and turned him gently so she could cover the tip, and she felt his thickening presence in her mouth. She stretched her lips into a straining oval to accept him, and took as much as she could manage, but his entry was incomplete and the attempt mostly frustrated him. She licked his cock head and plunged her tongue into the eye in quick little fucking motions, and she heard him singing.

"Let me cum on your blue suede shoes," he warbled pitifully and tried to shove his cock down his mother's throat.

"You want to fuck mommy?" she asked hungrily, dodging the thrust, and his wet cock slid along her cheek.

"Blue suede shoes," he chanted as though the words were the passwords to ecstasy.

"Go get the jar out of my suitcase, son," she told him, releasing his dick from her grip.

He raced to her bag and snatched up a small white jar with a screw top. He darted back to her bedside and handed it to her. She unscrewed the top, while he hopped expectantly.

"Do you want to do it, Archie, or do you want me to do it for you?"

Her words were soft and gentle, like the caress of a mother's hand on her baby's powdered bottom, and the boy rocked back and forth on his heels.

"You can cum on my blue suede shoes," he sang cryptically, but she understood his needs.

Mothers always understand the needs of their children. Instinct, intuition, familiarity, familial bonding; all those tender threads that nurture themselves in the womb, she could feel binding her to the boy as much as any natural mother could. After all, had she not, in her way, given birth to the boy that night when he first came to her? She planned for his arrival with all the loving enthusiasm of an expectant mother preparing a nursery, covering the walls and floor of his room with crisp, white sheets to signify the purity of his impending rebirth. She gave him wine at supper to soothe his nerves, and, as she took his slender hand in hers, leading him down the endless maze of dark corridors to his room, she told him of the mysteries of birth and adoption and of how the two could be combined to make a woman love a boy with all her heart. She undressed him and then herself, and, when they moved, their shadows danced on the walls in the light of the candles she had set. She whispered to him of the mother's love that had grown inside her like a baby since the moment she first saw his picture, and she made him feel her breasts that were heavy and full as though she was ripe with milk. She took his hand to show him where babies come from, and put it on her pussy. She nearly wept with love as she folded his little fingers into a fist and guided his slender arm into her depths. She gasped and moaned and nearly died of unendurable joy a thousand times as his tiny hand probed the vast cosmos of her barren loins in search of the meaning of life and of love. At the end, as the clock neared midnight and the last candles guttered out, she gathered the boy in her arms and whispered the secrets of how the father puts the baby in and how the mother takes it out. She held him to her breast, and with soft words convinced him that he could be both father and baby, and that he could put himself inside her for a while, and, when she took him out, he would be her baby and she would be his mother from then and forever. She asked him if he wanted her to be his mommy, and he cried and told her he had never had a mommy, so she laid him on the pure, white sheets and knelt beside him, licking his salty tears, and prepared him for entry into her world. His eyes widened with the wonder of his rebirth and redemption as she lowered herself onto his eager staff of life. She moaned as their union neared completion and slowed her descent, complimenting him on being such a wonderful baby. She accepted him totally and he filled her totally, and she rocked on his loins with the eternal rhythm of creation. She played her role with consummate skill and told him it would be a long delivery because he was a big baby and he was her first. She dallied in the delivery room, feeling his presence expanding in the pulsating heat of her birth canal, until her contractions began in earnest, and she sensed his moment had come. He gasped and "Oooo'ed" and his babies gushed into her womb in a scalding flood of cum. She hovered above him, receiving his love and returning it in kind with a hot flood that flowed onto him like warmed sweet butter. Then, she cuddled him, kissing his face with tender kisses until he opened his eyes, and she told him it was time. She lifted her hips carefully and let him slide slowly from her channel. He slipped from her womb and into her world, reborn in a slippery stew of seminal fluids that gushed from her uterus like the discharge of a phantom placenta. Later, after she cleaned him and wrapped him in a soft receiving blanket, he leaned his head against her breast and heard her croon to him, "Now, you're mine forever," and, at last, he knew love.

"Come here, Elvis," she said tenderly, and, when he came to her, she smeared his shaft with cream from the jar.

She creamed him with brisk, skillful movements of her hands, and did her best to avoid stimulating the boy. She knew she had been flirting with disappointment earlier, when she couldn't resist touching him with her lips, because his blunderbuss had a hair trigger that could be discharged with the slightest touch. That wicked, little, whore bitch, she snarled to herself as she applied another layer of numbing cream to the boy and remembered his humiliation in the Swimmer's Lounge, tricking him like she did, and talking dirty to him just so's he'd cum too quick. She managed her anger and glanced up at her son's innocent face. He was turned away, staring through the balcony doorway toward the gleaming, white edifice of Graceland. His lips were moving soundlessly as though he was miming another performance, and she worried that he might lack the stamina for an encore, so she abandoned his prick without touching the head and deposited a handful of the cream between her lips instead.

"There you go, King; you're all fixed up. Time to make the ladies happy," she giggled, and rolled away to position herself in the center of the bed.

"Ah, uh, thank you very much, ma'am," he said, actually sounding a little like Elvis, and he bounded around the bed to the foot.

She watched him from her back with her knees drawn up and spread apart, and, when he reached the end of the bed, she framed him between her thighs and waited while he wound himself up for the performance. He licked his lips like he was lubing them up for another song, but his eyes were gleaming, and he was staring straight at her cunt, so she knew she hadn't long to wait. They had made the pilgrimage to Graceland before, several times, and the ritual, once they arrived at that holy place, was always the same, so the boy's antics came as no surprise to her. He crouched at the foot of the bed, lowering till she could just see his eyes and the black mop of Presley hair. He bounced around on his haunches for a minute, and she heard a sucking sound as he filled his lungs with air. Then, suddenly, without warning, he leapt up onto end of the bed, just short of the space between her feet, and threw his arms out to his sides.

"Ladies and Gentlemens," he crowed, bouncing on the bedsprings excitedly with his arms extended, "les give a big welcome to the King of cock and roll."

He had grabbed the edges of the cape with both hands before he jumped, and as he stood, wobbling on the shifting sands of the bedclothes, the cape hung from his arms in a great semicircle that swept outward from his back like a pair of blood red wings. He waved his arms to maintain his balance, and the cape flapped with his movements. Nancy covered her mouth to hide her laughter, because she thought the wings and hair made him look like a goddam vampire bat with a two-foot stinger, and the observation nearly cracked her up.

He strutted for a minute, like a peacock displaying plumage, and then, he tried a shimmy on her, starting with his shoulders and working down to his hips. She watched in amazement as his twitching hips put his massive cock into motion, and she figured that the inertia would surely yank him off the bed. His cock swung to the side and banged his hip. It rebounded and swung to the other side, and she thought he was fortunate to be hard, or else his dick would have wrapped around his hip and smacked him on the cheek of his arse.

He shimmied and shook his butt, swinging his dick back and forth like a golfer practicing a tee shot, and being the trooper he was, he burst into song again.

"I'm gonna do you my way," he screeched, mangling a perfectly good song nearly beyond recognition, and she reached for him, waggling her fingers enticingly, while making a mental note to cut back on his sugar intake. "Come here, Elvis," she purred, "Your biggest fan wants to fuck you."

"Hmmm, thank you very much," he babbled because his repertoire of imitations was limited, and he dropped to his knees between her legs.