Blue Collar Man

Blue Collar Man

A light drama by Bill Pratt.

A Purely fictional story about Martha Stewart’s phony groundskeeper. I have no idea whether or not she actually has a groundskeeper. None of this ever happened, or ever will, to my knowledge. It’s entirely for yuks, mostly my own, as I laughed like hell the whole time I was writing this piece of shit. I have nothing against the inimitable Ms. Stewart—in fact, I find her strangely attractive, as many men secretly do.

Christ, but it’s hot…

His head itched madly with the power of the noonday sun blazing against his golf-cap, and Sammo briefly put
a hand on the back of his scalp to rub it, somewhat alarmed at the temperature there. Dull anger rose, along with an impulse to turn his eyes skyward, to shake his fist at the glowing, nuclear yellow orb that hated him so much, but he did not; once its rays hit his eyes, he knew he would surely throw up.

Heat exhaustion, that’s what I’m getting, heatstroke, what am I doing out here why would she…

With a trembling sigh, Sammo straightened the spade in his callused and labor-worn palms, lifted the blade and struck down into the flower bed, really putting the weight of his rangy arms behind the blow.

A hidden stone checked the blade’s descent. There was a sharp, metallic ring, and Goshdamn if the bulb at the end of the handle didn’t nearly smash his teeth in when the tool leapt away from his grip. As it was, Sammo’s lip stung and went numb. He knew it would swell—how little or how much remained to be seen. Further frustration built in his guts, growing hot and bitter like the spices of a cheap taco from a wetback’s catering truck, only a billion times worse, and a real belch (ham sandwich, not tacos) boiled out of his throat in conditioned response.

Sammo backed away from the soon-to-be flower bed, scanned the line of trees on the other side of it and judged the whole area would be in at least a dappled shade within forty minutes. Since the old lady never gave a fuck what he did as long as his tasks were done eventually and well, he chose to leave it go till then, and come back. Before the end of the day, he swore, that flower bed would be turned, by the Christ.

Sonofabitch, Sammo thought, looking at his reflection in the scratched and scarred mirror. His lower lip had swelled as the day wore on, and on top of it all, there was the suggestion of a small, rice-grain abrasion near the right-hand corner of his mouth. It was a good thing the old lady never paid him a lick of attention; she’d maybe dismiss him for it, thinking he had herpes or whatnot. Sammo looked into his own eyes—tired!—and made ready for bed. The toothpaste made the scrape on his mouth tingle, and it was all Sammo could do to keep from rubbing his tongue against for the comfort it would give. Instead, he pawed through his meager medicine cabinet, looking for something, anything, that he could put on the wound so that it would heal faster, hurt and itch less.

What’s the name of that shit they whine about on the TeeVee? Neowhatsis? Christ, I don’t have that! his mind yammered in near panic. The cheap taco feeling began to rise, and Sammo quickly reached for what he did have, two Alka-Seltzer dissolved in a toothpaste-rimed bathroom glass. Chugged it, his belly heaving, throat screaming to slam shut with the ghastly flavor of the nostrum, chugging all the same, a ripping belch his reward, and he did, really did, feel better. He knew the over-the-counter drugs would work on him as he slumbered just fine, thank you very much, and that’s when he spied the familiar, green-capped, white plastic bottle that had given him comfort in the days of yore; a pink smiley-face there to let little Sammo know his owies would be all right: Bactine. Grinning at last, Sammo quickly flipped the lid on the green cap, let fall a drop or three onto a swatch of toilet tissue (I remember this smell) and applied the moist part of it to his lip.

It stung, and Sammo did what he shouldn’t have, he gasped and drew into his throat an invisible cloud of sweet but unbelievably harsh Bactine fumes right down into his lungs where he lived. Sammo coughed mightily, and a rope of phlegm flipped out across his lower lip, over the stingy blemish, sticky and warm and absolutely disgusting. Angrily, Sammo wiped it away with the tissue, and now he could taste it, the Bactine was in his mouth, Christ it’s awful, spitting now into the toilet before he swallowed that shit.

And to bed and the old lady’s house soon enough.

They filmed her rotten show on the premises these days, and there was a whole hour and a half where he was to make himself scarce that no one should—by mistake or intention—get him on camera. She doesn’t want people to know there’s a nigger working on her property, Sammo thought grumpily. But again, he had to admit that if the show were his, he’d think a good long piece about showing his like to the country at large, too. TeeVee time is, he also had to admit, expensive. Not that I’d look this way if I had my own show. But I sure wouldn’t dress like that snotty bitch, and why don’t she get a friggin’ haircut? God of Christ, every time you saw her commercials on the TeeVee, she looked like a sheep dog with the bangs hanging in her eyes like that. And who the hell did she think she was? A soccer mom? Driving that thyroidal, oversized piece of shit SUV around town and the property alike as if she really had others to do for. No wonder the old man had left…

The flower bed was finished yesterday, and on this day, he had to weed out the others ringing the south end of the house, repair the sprinkler heads there, and check on the rock-garden (sinful oxymoron, that), mow the north forty, rake it all, and clean out the scumballs in her Highness’s hot tub, which he would do first.

Shit.

Sammo was eating the last of a pear he’d packed in his lunch and before long, saw the crew people leaving one at a time in their expensive, arrogant autos. They didn’t hang around long because the old lady didn’t seem to give a fiddler’s fart for their company, and he had to agree with her on that point. Sammo nearly pitched the pear stem into the grass, thought better of it, and absently put it into the pocket of his baggy green workpants, all the while staring across at the little guest the old lady had had on the show. She was a pretty little thing, he decided, brunette and fresh out of some tin-shit community college somewhere, all the same, what the hell had she done to merit National Television Airtime? Christ, the woman wrote a book about noodle salad. Noodle salad, and that’s what the old lady had brought her on the show to talk about and teach white folks to make for their own get-togethers, a big, heaping bowl of it no one in their right mind would eat, let alone taste if they were sure the hostess who made it (after watching the show) wasn’t paying attention, Sam Hill, it looked like a pile of vomit and smelled worse, when a man has to get right down to the truth.

Noodle salad. Shit like that wouldn’t even make a decent slug of compost, Sammo thought, then recalled the sterile taste and odor of last night’s Bactine for no reason at all. He hoisted himself up off the gazebo bench and went toward the shed for the hot tub tools. Sammo spared a glance at the noodle girl getting into her car—an SUV, he noticed grimly—and looked away quick. It wouldn’t do to have a hardworking black man staring at a white woman who invented recipes for noodle

(vomit)

salad.

Good thing she’d trucked in this dark Illinois soil, Sammo nodded silently. It was one of the few times he congratulated the old lady on anything. The soil in the beds was rich, loose, reminding him in an odd way of a chocolate fudge cake he’d always loved as a kid. The bleeding-hearts were coming up aright nice, he saw, and pinched away two tiny little worms that were making a move toward the delicate blossoms, pink and invitingly rich with color and life. He was right next to the house, near a guest bedroom window and had been for twenty minutes or more when he heard a door on the other side of the wall slam with authority. This happened from time to time—over the last eight months, Sammo had learned it was wise to ignore this kind and type of thing; the old lady often threw fits of rage where sparks flew from her cold, reptilian eyes and made the meek run for the hills in jig time. Sammo kept digging, breaking through last season’s roots, then heard something hit the floor with a clink. And curiosity got the better of him.

Carefully, so that he would not attract attention, he rose with the intent of peering through the blinds. This was one of a half dozen or more bedrooms the house held; on the other end of the house was the kitchen, and many was the time he’d seen the old lady sitting there alone, sipping what he took to be tea (coffee seemed too vulgar for the old lady) and looking over what he was sure were papers that meant added millions for her considerable bank accounts.

And by gosh and by damn, if there wasn’t a suit in the room there, shucking off his pants along with the rest of his duds, stripping so quick and urgent it seemed like the man was afire and trying to get out and away from the burning garments, though there was not so much as a lick of flame in evidence anywhere about him. A gold-buckled belt was still looped through the trousers, and Sammo guessed it was this that had clinked against the hardwood floorboards. Soon he was naked—naked! His whitebread dick standing at half-mast, perhaps five thin inches, his sack longer and slung far lower than his dick ever would be. The fella was uncut, and Sammo entertained comparisons of this guy’s prong to a mashed Twinkie snack-cake. Shaking his head at that, Sammo chuffed out a small snicker at the sight of the fella as a whole: hair carefully blow-dried, but sweating at the temples, black socks and glasses still in place. Whoever he was (all them people looked the same to Sammo), he lay back on the single bed and began to pump his rod, eyes closed, breathing deep and raspy. Sammo wished for a camera, the better to blackmail this turd with.

The door to the bedroom opened, and here came the old lady, still dressed in her soccer mom duds, carrying, of all things, a video camera and tripod. At the sight of it, Sammo glanced around. He knew he should get the hell out of there, but he was screened in by a well-grown violet bush from all sides. Between his green work clothes and brown skin, he was as invisible as a Green Beret on recon.

So he stayed.

The old lady set up her camera in a dexterous flash and had that little red light on the “record” button glowing just as nice as you please. She looked over at the meat-jerker and smiled that pixie smile known the country wide.

“Pull that thing for me,” she encouraged with her customary throaty candor, moving her lips as little as possible. “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

The meat jerker looked up at her and the camera, startled. “That thing on?”

“Of course,” she replied and folded her arms critically. The smile was still there, which was a good (thing) sign, and Sammo only barely managed to stifle a laugh at the way his lower lip quivered a touch.

She said, “But you better get that fucking thing up. I save this stuff.”

His dick wilted a little. “You do? For what?”

“Don’t you worry about it. You’re starting to piss me off, and this was your idea.”

Meat-jerker pushed his glasses up on his nose and curled his sock-clad toes a bit. “I didn’t know you wanted to film us…I thought, I mean, I thought we were gonna…you know.” He tried a grin of his own. It didn’t work, and the old lady’s slipped a notch.

“If you’re not going to cooperate,” she murmured, and reached for the cord to unplug the camera.

“No!” the meat jerker protested. “No, I…I will. Please. Martha. Tell me what to do.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and grinned. It was a chilling thing to behold because the stretch of her lips held no humor. “All right. Get that withered pole up. And you’d better have one fuck of a load stored in those balls. If you need help, just say so, and I can step in.”

“Ooooh—that sounds good,” he purred ridiculously. Sammo grinned. This was no man, and still that pencil dick was limp in his well-manicured fingers, stretching like loose banana taffy. If it were me, he thought, I’d…

The old lady nodded, hit the pause button on the camera and stepped out of the room. Immediately, Sammo crouched and began to dig in the dirt furiously, all the while listening close for the sound of the old lady coming back into the room or out into the yard. He hoped to toasty Hell she was inclined toward the former. Presently, she returned to the room. Sammo rose once again, and peered carefully between the blinds. The camera was going again and she was tying a blindfold across the fella’s eyes—his glasses were off his head at last—and told him not to move from that bed, but to “pick up that Goddamn cock and get to work.”

He did, and the old lady, satisfied, started to unbutton her pink, oversized shirt. The meat jerker moaned, “But I wanted to see your body.”

“Forget it. Not this time, Hank. But if you’re good, you can touch me—someday.”

“Ohhhhh,” Hank groaned and began to pull pud. Now it was growing, purple veins interlacing its length, the visual texture of the foreskin reminding Sammo of a badly healed roadrash scar.

Sammo turned his attention to the old lady. She had her shirt entirely unbuttoned, but the titties were safely encased in a strong, white cotton bra. Her belly was flatter than he’d reasoned it would be, though there was, he had to admit, a nice little roll of flesh above her navel as she lifted first one leg, and then the other to remove her flat, sensible shoes. The shirt hit the floor, and the old lady used her toes like gripping fingers to lift it up and onto the dressing chair. The maneuver was a casual one, but fraught with such sensuality that for his own part, Sammo gasped a bit and felt a stir in his balls, a small electric charge not unlike the static shock one gets from walking across a carpeted room on a cold winter afternoon and touching the door knob.

He looked at her feet: beautifully shaped and gloriously arched, each toe capped with a nail polished a deep brown-red. The bra came off after she’d deftly unhooked the rear works, and there were the titties, not big, but full and wide on the woman’s chest, each capped with inch-long, thick, brown-red nipples—the same color as her toenails.

Which did it for Sammo. With a “what the hell” mental shrug, Sammo fished his cock out of his baggy pants. The 11-inch, pickaxe-handled rod smacked into the side of the house as it sprang free, and at the sound, Sammo’s eyes went wide, sure the old lady had heard it. His heart was crashing madly in his chest, and the first stroke of his fist nearly sent him over the edge, but Sammo squeezed the base and looked at the jackass on the bed, which brought him down a notch or two. Better. And he stole a glance at the old lady.

She was entirely nude now, and to his surprise, her thick pubic bush was not the dark color he’d have guessed, if forced. The hair was ochre, he supposed—not brown, but by no means blonde. It lay somewhere in the no man’s land between the two, and for Sammo this was a real treat. He supposed that there was likely no other woman on the planet whose fuckbush was that particular color. And it figured, because there was no other woman in the world quite like Martha Stewart, by the Christ.

She went to the bed and kneeled across Hank’s lower legs. All Sammo could see was her ass, and it was a full one, but for some reason it was the upturned soles of her feet that caused the blood to really wash into his mammoth cock. He stroked it with fervor, yet tried not to move too much so that he would miss nothing. Martha was bent over Hank, head roughly above his crotch doing what Sammo probably thought she was. Hank squealed a little and dragged his legs out from under Martha, at last spreading them like a bitch. Martha moved aside, and now Sammo could see, Martha’s head bobbing up and down on Hank’s cock, her right hand pulling and twisting his pink, jawbreaker-sized balls cruelly. Hank made a move for the blindfold, and Martha’s head shot up. Still jerking the cock, she snarled, “Touch that fucking thing, and I’ll tear your sac off!” For good measure, and to show she fucking-A well meant what she said, she tugged the balls sharp and hard, and Sammo grinned with eyes slitted in admiration. Hank yapped and nodded, breathing like a man going to the electric chair on Sunday.

“Good,” Martha grunted, and bent over the cock. She went to work with a will, stroking, sucking, pulling those balls, now and then letting her right hand wander to her pussy, parting the lips, diddling. Sammo noticed that the inside lips were long and flabby, like beef strips. He liked that, and kept stroking his own dick, amazed at how incredibly hard it was—like a stove length of hickory sheathed in heavy, hot rubber. He imagined putting it to the hilt in Martha’s puckered, tan asshole, the asshole that was laid bare before him, to cram it in and feel the silken asslips of the old lady milk his cock, his big black iron cock from Hell that would at last blow a load into her secret tunnel and she wouldn’t walk right all the next day and the one after that, maybe, all thoughts and consideration of noodles or salad gone from her mind completely, the only thing in her world at that time and place being the long deep plunge of Sammo’s undeniable manhood…

Hank was bucking and shuddering, moaning so comically it nearly ruined the mood: “Eh-h-h-h-h-ohhhh—cumming! I—Martha, I’m gonna c-c-cummm, gonna let loose in your beautiful mouth!”

“Like fuck you are,” she growled, popping her lips off that prick. Her fist flew along the sad length of Hank’s empurpled shaft, his toes curled, scrotum puckered and the whole of his scrawny frame shook like someone had rammed a 220 volt line up his ass. He made a sound like Roger Rabbit saying “please” to Eddie, lips peeled back in a toothy grimace and what do you know—a respectable geyser of his hot cum bellowed out of the piss hole, flipping up and over Martha’s hand like thick grease. Sammo could see Hank’s balls tighten some more; he was sure one of the little fuckers had crawled back home, for he could no longer discern the one on the left at all.

Hank made little screamy shrieks of air come out of his lungs while Martha pulled and squeezed the dregs of his load out of the meat-tube. At last satisfied there was no more to be had, she sat up.

And began licking the cum from her hands, greedily swallowing.

She was in full view of Sammo, and he figured this was it. His own sac tightened, and he let blazing blast after blast rocket out of his cock onto the side of Martha Stewart’s house. He could hear the wet slaps of weeks of pent-up dicksnot roaring out of him in hose-like jets. He did not whimper like Hank had, only stared directly at Martha busily eating cum not ten feet away from him, and felt a strong pride in his control and manliness. That done, she ate the rest of the load off of Hank’s lower extremities, smacked her lips and put her pink shirt on, tits jiggling delightfully, nipples straining at the material.

“Clean up, and get the hell out of here,” she said to him with a toss of her head. Amazingly, Hank had a grateful smile on his face when she walked out of the room.

Pussy, Sammo thought with a sneer.

Sammo replaced his own cock, which had not softened much, and eyed the mess he’d left on the siding of Martha’s house with some alarm. There was one hell of a lot of his crud sliming its way toward the ground, slightly yellow, reminding him of fish eggs, for some mad reason. Carefully, Sammo wiped the ooze away with his handkerchief, gathered up his tools, and quit that side of the house. Later on when he watered this portion of the yard, he would be sure to rinse the grisly residue of his guilt from the vinyl siding.

Just in case.

It was good for him that he had. Just as Sammo was getting the mower gassed and oiled up to trim the north lawn, the old lady came up behind him, had probably combed the entire estate in search of him and would have surely seen the large load of spunk frosting her house.

“Sammo?”

He turned around. “Yes?”

“Is the hot tub all cleaned out? I want to use it today.”

“Yes, Miz Stewart. Got the works all ready for you this morning. She’s clean.” He thought, I have seen you eat cum from a pantywaist’s nuts, you lovely, slutty bitch.

She smiled a little. “Good. Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

Sammo watched her go, dressed again, but wearing a pair of thin sandals that gave him tantalizing flashes of the soles of her feet.

“My good banana,” he marveled, and whistled, low.

The hot tub. It was inside a slightly elevated enclosure made of wooden lattice that was, at this time of year, completely covered with thick, green ivy. Knowing what he knew now about Martha’s habits, Sammo assumed that she would be quite nude while enjoying the soothing, bubbling waters. Too damn bad it would be nearly impossible to approach on the sly, he mused, actually rubbing his chin. Perhaps she’d frig herself off after the Hank episode, and that would be a sight he wouldn’t want to miss—

The pump. If she left the pump on while she was in the tub, he could get close, and take a peek inside because it made one hell of a racket and bubbles to boot. Sure, it was risky, but who cared? It had to be tried.

Sammo quickly finished with the portion of the lawn he’d been assigned, cleaned up the mower, all the while keeping a sharp ear out for the sound of the pump, which was located near the back of the house. With those bubbles on, the old lady might not be able to hear someone coming up silently. Just in case, he brought along a long-tined lawn rake, so that it would look like he was on his way to a specific task. Martha seldom asked him questions, and in fact, today was the first time in long weeks she’d said anything to him.

The pump was on. That likely meant the old lady had the bubbles going aright nice in there, and Sammo marched straight over to the hot tub enclosure. As he got closer, he heard the strains of some uppity classical music piece coming from the place; there was a stereo system built into the enclosure, and he hadn’t banked on that being pressed into service, but it was the better for his plan. Coming up from behind, Sammo carefully scrutinized the enclosure, trying to determine where the growth of the ivy was thickest. He decided the eastern portion was his best bet, stepped forward, and peered in.

Martha was inside, but only her head and neck were visible above the swirling waters. A gentle mist of scent, like Catholic incense, breathed lightly through the ivy into his nostrils while he searched around the deck of the tub itself. There, not four feet away, were Martha’s sandals, the perspiration impressions of her beautiful feet pressed into the leather, her pants, shirt and undergarments all neatly folded.

Undergarments. Sammo wanted those panties, wanted to put them to his nose and breathe deeply of Martha’s pussy cream, her female essence, to pull his cock and stroke another load right on to the damp crotch of them. He wanted that.

Sammo’s eyes narrowed and turned thoughtfully to the house. He was not allowed in there when Martha was gone, but again, it seemed worth the risk, and now that Hank was gone, it should—should—be safe. Silently as he had come, Sammo retreated toward the house, a ravening boner growing in his pants.

The house. It smelled fantastic in here, all cloves and exotic oils, carefully waxed and polished wood, the banisters gleaming. Passing these, Sammo imagined Martha sliding down them, nude, leaving a snail-trail of cunt-lube behind sparkling, sinking into the wood, preserving it. He thought this, imagined it, but did not stop to sniff the wood because it was impossible that anything like it had ever happened.

From room to room, searching for hers, looking, Christ, this house is big, why does one person want to live in a house like this? And tripping on it at the last, it overlooked the lawn where the hot tub enclosure was, good, I can watch, but stay out of sight, that woman’s not stupid, and if she can see me, she will.

Into the closet, looking for a hamper, and there, in a huge set of racks and all along the floor were dozens of shoes—hundreds, some sandals, and some like the ones he coveted, with her footprints pressed into the leather. Panties. I want them, and into the bedroom bath, a hamper, open that fucker up, and (gasp) there they were, the very panties Martha had been wearing prior to sucking Hank’s cock for the cum that was in it. She wants cum? Pulling his rod out, iron hard and hot, he draped the smooth, cool material over his twitching shaft, making a sudden blurt of cum drool out of his cockhead onto Martha’s floor.

Sammo sniffed the panties, licked them, and the flavors he imagined exploded into his head, only a thousand times finer and more intense; sweet and womanly. For love of her feet, he staggered into the closet, got two pairs of her sandals—well worn, he made sure, but still in fine shape—mashed them against his pulsing dick and humped them, fucked those sandals for all he could, grunting, imagining with exquisite vividness that the sandals were her feet, and right before he came, he dropped them both and fired long, thick wads of his guycream into the cotton panties, bucking and grunting, asshole clenched to the point of a wicked cramp and this time, he did squeal, way back in his throat, filling her panties with hot seed, you fucking bitch take that take that take that…

You fuckin’ who…re.

Suddenly ashamed and feeling exposed, Sammo rolled the panties up in a ball, grimacing at the hot jungle feel of his load in there, rolled them tight, and put them deep into the bottom of the hamper, replaced the sandals, looked out the window, and God of Christ, there she was, lying face down on the concrete near the hot tub, oiled, gleaming, and wearing only her panties.

Sammo groaned and got the hell out of there. The rest of the day, he avoided Martha like the plague or he would go nuts with desire again.

That night, at home, Sammo wondered if he wasn’t going crazy. He toyed with the idea of leaving his job—he could not stand it now that he’d come to see his employer in such a new light. His balls ached from too much activity in one day—he wasn’t used to it, but Goddamn if the image of Martha Stewart eating cum off her fingers didn’t fill his vision every time—every single time—he closed his eyes. Needless to say, he got very little rest that night, and was really fucked up the next morning.

Which was Saturday. On those days, he normally stepped into the kitchen parlor where Martha left the day’s instructions for him. Not really wanting to, Sammo stepped inside, still early at 4:00 am, dark, and looked at the paper she’d written out the night before. All of the stuff there was routine; he really didn’t need any direction from her, but there it was. A suddenly evil thought crept into his mind, and he jumped as if goosed: why not go take a look at her sleeping?

Bad idea. Very bad. So, he took his shoes off, and slowly padded up the solid and well-carpeted stairs toward the room he had done a nasty thing in the day before. None of the doors were closed; he knew she’d be sleeping, because on Saturdays Sammo never saw her much before noon and then she would leave on God knew what errands rich, frowzy white women thought were important.

Creeping, please lord, don’t let there be squeaks or creaks in these stairs please, squeaks, creaks, squeakscreakssqueaksno,no,no…

Nothing. This home was serviced any time something even considered going on the fritz or conking out, so he needn’t have worried so much about the stairs, for the Christ’s sake.

Sammo peeked around the corner of the door—it was open—and looked inside carefully. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and there, by Gosh and by Damn, was Martha, lying on the bed—wearing a pink nightgown, he noticed glumly, for he’d counted on her being nude—her face turned away from the door. What was arresting about her posture was the fact that her damnably perfect, bare feet were in full view to him, the soles clean and pale in the early morning light. He stood still, admiring them, his eyes crawling greedy and slick along the swell of her full ass and back down her calves, breathing harder and shallower as the seconds ticked on past. Wondering just what the hell was wrong with him, Sammo took out his cock and began to fist it slowly, feasting his eyes all the while. Suddenly and without any fanfare, the evaporative cooler in the house kicked on, and a rush of cold, moist air clashed with the back of his scalp. Sammo stiffened, squelching a small yelp just in time, taken so totally by surprise that a low fart purred out of his ass—it made more noise than the cooler had, but Martha never so much as twitched. Sammo continued to masturbate, licking his lips and staring at her gorgeous feet, his cock throbbing at attention. Quickly, as his orgasm began to build and before he could stop himself from acting, Sammo crossed the room and stood over Martha’s exposed soles, his fist blazing along the turgid meatpole, aiming his ebony mushroomed cockhead at the balls of them both. When once his prickhead grazed the right foot, Sammo stiffened and sucked in his breath. Looking at her feet, he watched in amazed abandonment as hot gouts of his blazing sperm coughed out onto the soles, thick and rich, so hot he swore he could feel its heat radiating back at him, surely she would feel it and wake up, he should get the fuck out of here, but oh, Lord, this felt so good…

But he kept right on, pulling, milking the fiery juice out onto Martha’s heels, insteps, her toes, and it was all he could do to keep from turning her over in her bed, raking that pink nightgown up and shanking her to the hilt with his swollen prod in her pussy, yes, yes, oh yes in that beautiful fuckin’ pussy I saw yesterday.

His jelly ran off Martha’s feet and plopped onto the carpet, sacred now that it had touched her, had made contact with her stunning soles. There’s your load, he cried over and over in his mind. There’s your load, Martha, there’s your fuckin’ load, take it, it’s my gift, my load for you…

The spasms wouldn’t stop, and it felt like his eyes were doing their best to pop out of his head. Though he’d long since ceased to blow glue, his balls continued to twist and burn, trying to empty themselves of his manmilk to the point of arid dehydration. Sammo was aware that he was becoming lightheaded, and that wouldn’t do, he shouldn’t pass out here, no, not here, so he retreated from the room, dick still bobbing and slimy out of his pants, leaving Martha there, asleep and oblivious with the bottoms of her feet covered in Sammo’s sex snot.

Sammo shambled his way out to the garage while unsuccessfully trying to force his thudding penis back into his pants, it wouldn’t go in. The horror and shame of what he’d just done fell on him all at once like a giant, scary black bat, churning his guts and terrifying him utterly. There, in the dark and oil-smelling closeness of the garage, he pinched at his shriveled scrotum, stretched it trying to make room for his walnut-sized testicles so that they could descend again in peace and comfort. The skin of the sac burned with pins and needles and phantom beestings, and he whimpered at the pain of his returning circulation, cock still hard and staring up at him with one eye oozing a bit of cum left over from the scene of the crime. Another large fart roared out of his ass, and all of a sudden Sammo was aware that he didn’t feel very well. Knowing what was going to happen, he trucked over to the duck pond and barely made it; his breakfast came up in a wrenching glurt, spraying across the calm waters. He coughed and gagged, straining, spitting out a thin, yellow foam that steamed in the cool of the morning, disgusted by the sight of his suddenly soft penis still hanging out of his trousers and swaying beneath him while he crouched pathetically on his cold hands and knees.

I shouldn’t have done that I shouldn’t have done that, his mind yapped and yammered monotonously. There was dirt on his dick, and he absently brushed it away for fear of sand entering the piss hole. At last he tucked it away into his sweaty pants, and dragged a trembling hand across his lips, looking up at the house, expecting to see lights on in there, to hear Martha Stewart scream as she woke to find her feet covered in some unknown intruder’s sticky, nasty jizz, but long, paralyzing minutes crawled by and none of these horrors happened.

The whole day went by eventually, and it was the longest of his life.

For the rest of the week, Sammo did his best each morning to swear out fresh resolutions to stay away from Martha and her bedroom, and he was successful to a point. But none of the days went past where he did not find a pretense to be at the little flower bed near the window where Hank had pumped seed for Martha to eat. The things that went on in there were astonishing, but hardly surprising to him now: on Wednesday, Martha had enjoyed a long pussy-eat by one of her female aides. The sight was a joy, but Sammo kept his dick in his pants while watching, and he felt better for his regained self-control, which seemed to be returning as of old. He snickered when the other woman—a girl of maybe twenty-two, really—had tried to mount Martha in a hot “69” and Martha had growled, “Don’t even think about it, you whore.” The girl had given her a slightly amused, slightly wounded look that changed to alarm when she saw the expression on Martha’s face. “What do you think I am? A filthy rug-muncher, like you? Get to work on that box, or you’ll be collecting unemployment for the next five years at least, you understand?”

The girl’s face twisted in horror, and she fell to at once, using her fingers in such deft precision that Sammo felt sure she had done this before, Martha or no. Hell, she’d likely learned the skills of eating clam in college; that’s all women did there these days.

Martha’s orgasm was anticlimactic. She tensed somewhat and after a few beats, seemed merely to deflate slowly, a thinner version of the pixie-grin twitching at the corners of her mouth.

“Your turn,” she muttered to the girl. Martha slipped into a contented doze while the girl masturbated herself to a heaving, breathy but voiceless climax. Her big tits tossed and rolled, and it was a fine thing to see when she from time to time lifted one or other of the heavy globes to her mouth, sucking and licking the nipple. Sammo realized that most women with big titties did this while they frigged off, and he would never tire of the sight if he lived to be a billion.

Finished, the girl silently rose, gathered her duds from the dressing chair and left the room. Sammo thought Martha was quite asleep, but when a slow-moving right hand snaked down to that wonderful mound and parted the hairy lips, he decided to stick around a bit longer. His prick twitched, wanting to join in the fun but Sammo denied it this, content only to watch.

Martha toyed briefly with her beef-strip lips, squeezing them between the length of her first and second fingers. Her left hand slid up to her right tit and twisted the long nipple, making it grow and fill will blood to full, astonishing extension. A silvery line of drool made its way out of the left corner of Sammo’s mouth, but didn’t get far, because he absently sucked it back in. Soon Martha was plunging those fingers—three, then four, and damn near the whole fist—in and out of that hot snatch, moaning and pursing her lips, boobs rolling with their antenna-like nips pointing up at the ceiling.

“Oh—GOD!” Martha bellowed when her orgasm exploded through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, wrinkled her brow, and looked, for all the world, like she was straining to pass a good shit. Those wonderful toes, toes that had known the thick embrace of Sammo’s own seed, gripped and released the bedclothes in hot spasms, leaving puckers and peaked wrinkles in the cloth. This made Sammo moan at last, and before he could do anything stupid, he turned from the window and fled his hidey-hole for the day.

It must have been a week later when the inevitable happened. The day was fine, and for the past three days, Sammo had been remarkably able to stay clear of the bedroom window next to the flower garden. He knew he was missing some prime stuff, but he did not dwell on these thoughts long; it was a torture to do so. He was out back, on the gazebo having a sandwich and chips when suddenly a pair of sandals and a balled-up pair of panties flopped onto the table.

He recognized them immediately, gasped, and inhaled bits of mashed corn-chip down the wrong pipe. Coughing now, hot wind tearing back and forth across his throat, doing his level best to dislodge them chips, and suddenly there was a hand smacking him on the back. Sammo turned, eyes watering profusely and saw Martha there, grinning at him through the glimmering veil of his tears.

“Hey, there. Take it easy,” she said, companionably enough. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. Scared you, huh?”

Sammo nodded with quick jerks of his head and reached for the cold can of Big Red soda there on the table in front of him. He swigged, tried to get it down, and the bubbles met the salt in the chip crumbs, immediately burst into foam and closed his throat, making it worse for a mercifully brief moment.

“You—(koff)—you did, a little,” he managed to croak.

She made a slight, mocking yet good-natured bow. “Well, I’m sorry. All better now?”

“Gettin’ there, yeah,” he nodded, and sniffed. Sammo cleared his throat, swallowed twice, and glanced at the sandals and panties. He looked back at Martha.

“I see you recognize those, yes?”

There was no use denying it.

“Yes.”

“That’s the right answer. I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” she actually pinched his cheek when she said it. Martha sat on the bench beside him and looked frankly into his face. “I’ll bet you’re wondering how I found out you and these—” she nodded at the sandals and panties—“had become…acquainted.”

“The thought crossed my mind,” he muttered, fear growing inside him.

“Well, what you probably didn’t know is that my house is positively crawling with surveillance cameras, and they record nearly everything twenty four hours a day—except weekends, when no one from the show or outside of it is creeping around.”

Weekends. Oh, thank Christ, Sammo thought.

“It’s in this way,” Martha continued, “that I can be sure to keep all my new projects just that—mine. For instance, say I come up with an idea. It could be anything. Then six months down the road, I see a similar product on the market, knowing it’s mine, but wondering just how in the world it got out to the public without my say-so. Well, I look at the tapes, see, and when I notice someone poking around where they shouldn’t be—like you were two weeks ago—I know who the culprit is, and I can sue the ass off of them. You get the picture?”

Sue the ass off of them, Sammo thought miserably, and let his head drop between his shoulders. Nodded like a child in the principal’s office after school.

“Aww, now, don’t be like that. I’m not angry, not at all. I really do wish you would have seen me about this matter sooner, though.”

Sammo looked up. “You do?”

She moved in, eager, smiling. “I do. You see, when I reviewed that tape of the bedroom, I was enraged to see you in there pawing around in my things—I admit that. But when I figured out what you’d been doing, well…I understood. I’m flattered, and it’s soooo nasty, what you did to my undies. I saw that big, black cock you have, and realized—upon trying to unroll the panties you’d relieved yourself in—that there was a spectacular pair of balls slung underneath it. And now, I have proposition for you.”

This is where the ice gets thin, Sammo thought. Be careful.

She said, “In this business, I meet a hell of a lot of pencil dicks. A woman like me, she has to preserve a certain image to the world at large, but still has the normal needs and desires of anyone else. After a while, projecting that image makes me really mad, because I know that what the public—the paying public, mind you—believes, and what is real, are two different things. Entirely.”

Sammo nodded.

“I know you want to fuck me. At least, I hope you do because I think you do. Which is good, because there is such an air of nasty rebellion in the idea of having sweaty, nasty sex with a blue-collar-man. It fairly spits in the face of what people think I am, that I cannot resist. But in order to make this happen, you will have to come clean and tell me if you’ve ever done anything like this in my house before.”

Sammo felt the ice begin to fracture. He didn’t know what to do, but raw instinct told him it was better to tell the truth now than face her wrath later on. He knew he could run, but this woman was part demon. If he hid in the deepest cave of the Earth, she would find him.

Eventually.

So, Sammo took a deep breath and said, “I saw you sleeping one Saturday morning.”

“In my bed?” she asked in purr which made it hard to tell if she was being good-natured, or sarcastic.

“Yeah.” In spite of himself, his cock twitched.

“I see. Did you…do anything else?”

Sammo nodded. “Yes ‘m, I did.”

“And what was that?”

“I did what I did to your shoes, I played with myself while looking at you.”

“That’s all?”

He sighed. “No, it wasn’t. I came to you, on your bed, when I felt like I was gonna…well, you know, and I shot my sperm on…your feet.”

“Ohhhhh. Just…marking your territory, huh?” Martha leaned back, nodding, and smiled. She poked him with a friendly finger. “I knew you had a foot-fetish! You know, I’ve never met a man who did—or at least, one who admitted to it. Well!”

Sammo said, “It ain’t quite like that. I never really gave it much thought before, but when I saw you…”

Her eyes went flat and watchful. “Yes? Go on.”

“Well, see, I was diggin’ in the flowerbed on the south end, just after the show, see, and you and this fella name of Hank were in the room. I heard a door slam, and looked in to see if everything was okay, and then…”

“I completely understand. Did you like what you saw?”

Sammo nodded. “Yes. Except that Hank seemed to be…well, he wadn’t no kind of man, you see. Kind of a pantywaist, is what I mean to say. I-that’s all. But then came the time when you picked up your shirt from the floor usin’ only your feet and toes, well, I got real aroused, you know. All day long, I couldn’t think of anythin’ else. I lost control when you were out in the tub, and did what I did.”

Martha smiled again. “Oh, Sammo, you are a treat! I feel so…God, I don’t know…desirable, talking like this! You’ve confirmed some suspicions concerning myself that I’ve had for a long time. A long time.”

“I have?” Sammo blinked. This was going too easy, and his wind was up. There was only one way to see how this would play out, and that was to press ahead as if Martha wasn’t somewhat warped.

“Yes, you have, you dear man! I’ve known it for a long time—I’m a hottie! And what I want to do now is to go inside, into my bedroom and spend time with that huge cock of yours buried inside me. I have to tell you, I’ve never taken in anything as long as yours before, but we can try, can’t we? We can. And you’re not to dig in the dirt anymore, Sammo, that’s all over now. I’ll put you up in the house as my house man, and when people see you, there will be all kinds of wild thoughts racing through their heads, but no one will know for sure just what it is you do, and I’ll—oh!” Martha put a dramatic hand to her chest. “It’s what I’ve always dreamed about, a big, virile man in my home who wants me for my sexiness and who packs a cock like…oh!”

In spite of himself, Sammo began to grin along with her, dazed and amazed at the turn things had taken. A couple of minutes before, he’d seen nothing in his future but the long, cold bars of the local hoose-gow. But here—here and now, things were very different, indeed. And he would have delicious access to that coveted body. Sammo knew he’d enjoy the charade Martha was hinting at. Together, they would shit in the face of the conventions of every woman homemaker in the country, and anyone who’d ever scraped a heap of ghastly noodle salad from a buffet bowl.

Hand in hand, racing across the lawn, Sammo and Martha went to the house. She damn near pulled him up the stairs into the bedroom, kicked off the sandals she was wearing and threw herself on the bed. He moved toward her, loving that pixie-grin to death in this moment of bliss—probably the only time in his life he would ever know how a lottery winner feels when the numbers clenched in their sweaty hands are read left to right in their favor.

She lifted her legs in the air, those glorious feet on high, and Sammo embraced her legs, stroking the smooth skin of her calves and thighs. Martha cooed in delight and pointed her toes for his benefit, and, casting away the last of his inhibitions, he licked and kissed the soles of Martha’s beautiful feet with helpless hunger. Both were absolutely clean, and there was a hint of that Catholic incense perfume rising from them and into his waiting olfactory nerves, tingling him and hardening his cock. It stood out, massive and thick against his pants where Martha could see it; she chirped happily and rose to free the throbbing member with deft, cool hands.

“Oh, my, Sammo. My, my.”

While Sammo ate her feet, Martha stroked his heavy pole with her left hand. She lifted her shirt and pinched at the nipple there, twisting painfully and not caring a bit. Sammo bucked his hips, driving his cock through her fist and, sure she would begin to cramp from the awkward position soon, gently relaxed her legs. He reached down and lifted Martha’s shirt away, folded it once and put it aside, marveling at those titties on close inspection. Christ, they were lovely. After Martha had shucked away her shorts, fully nude, Sammo followed suit, lifting his own shirt off while she greedily stuffed his black, ravening cock into her mouth, all the while grunting and puffing with pleasure. It was a helluva thing to look down and see Martha Stewart’s mouth full of his tool, and before he knew it, a blurt of cum peeled out of the head and into her throat. Expertly, Martha swallowed without loosing a beat, bobbed her head some more, rolled onto her side and combed her slim fingers through that magnificent bush. Sammo could smell her pussy dampening and had to gently pull his swollen cock away so that he would not cum too soon.

Martha smiled with understanding and lay back on the bed again, parted her legs and began to rub her pussy in that purely feminine circular motion that drives real men wild. While she did that, Sammo brought her feet together against his cock tightly and began to thrust with desperation, feeling the soft soles caress him in a way he could never have imagined on that day with the sandals.

“That’s it, darling, do what you want to me,” Martha purred. “Come on, baby fuck my feet, fuck ’em, get that beautiful prick rock-hard for me. Yeah.”

Three times Sammo brought himself to the edge. Three times he backed away until at last he could take no more and crawled over to Martha, spreading her pussy and licking her womanhood, parting the juicy folds, driving his tongue, rasping it against her clit and swallowing her, downing her feminine essence, bringing it to his core where it would nourish him, body and soul.

“Oh Gawd!” Martha shrieked, pulling his face tight against her gushing quim. She mashed his nose, mouth and cheeks into her cunt, smearing his head around as an earth-shattering climax blasted through her pelvic region, puckering her asshole and arching her back.

While she bucked and roared, Sammo moved up and slid his pork inside Martha’s pussy all the way to the root and she shouted with the joy of it. He didn’t hesitate, but began pounding into her, 11-inch strokes probing her babymaker with blazing rapidity all the way to her cervix, to her very womb it went, in and out, the exquisite walls of her pussy caressing and stroking, kegels clenching him in a fury of spasmodic action and reaction as another blast of orgasm smote her whole being once, twice, three times and more. She screamed and kicked, digging hands, fingers and toes into Sammo’s muscular back, feeling his swollen balls slap mightily against the doorframe of her asshole, sweaty and gross and absolutely wonderful! Filled to the brim with this stunning cock, the tool of a man, a real man, for once in her life, feeling a real man.

Driving, plunging deeper still into Martha’s guts, Sammo felt his balls crawl way up high and the heavenly tingle snaked along the base of his thundering penile gland. He actually felt hot cum bring dumped into the tubes within, being forced along to the blasting point at his mammoth piss hole.

“Here it cums, Martha, here’s your load!” he grated through clenched teeth.

Martha looked into Sammo’s eyes and hissed, “Do it, Sammo. Blow your load! Oh you beautiful fucking man, pull that that cock out and cum, cum all over me!!!”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Yanking back, Sammo withdrew, the massive meatsword slurping out of Martha’s gaping hole, and he stroked it easily, shiny-slick with her sacred juice.

“Yeah, Sammo. Jerk yourself off all over my face, my tits, I wanna drink your fucking hot cum, give it to me shoot it now, FUCKING CUM FOR MEEEE!!!”

Sammo bellowed like an ox in the slaughtering pen, slick convulsions threw out roaring blasts of jellied semen to rocket out his cock white-hot, splashing across Martha’s face, her tits, her shoulders, her hair, all of her. Her tongue flew out, lapping at his arcing ballcream with slutty abandon, sucking it in, swallowing, tongue out again and begging for more. She grabbed his balls and squeezed, causing even larger jets of his sizzling seed to fly loose from his tubesteak, coating her breasts, mixing with her sweat, flying across the bed and smacking into the headboard.

And still it came right on, and Sammo, in a fit of lust, backed off and wrapped Martha’s feet around his gushing prick, fucking, finishing himself, dropping molten choad all over her thick bush. Feeling it, Martha reached down and rubbed her pussy briskly, rubbing Sammo’s cum into a froth, a foam of his DNA gravy, all the while howling as she did it. There was hot cum running down the insides of Martha’s feet and legs, all of which was connected to the head of that massive fuckstick by a thin, meaty web. Sammo gave it a good shake, and the sperm flew into the air as one last glurt poured out of his rod without shame or blame. Seeing this, Martha righted herself and crawled toward him, sucking the mushroomhead into her mouth and pulling the last bits of his slime into her throat.

That done, there was little else left but to lay beside the satiated television hostess and idly watch her eat the rest of his magnificent load from her gorgeous breasts. Soon, both were asleep in the arms of the other, their physical batteries charging for another go later in the evening.

Sammo was never happier from that day on, and no one ever questioned the nature of his “work” on Martha’s estate. But there were suspicious looks all the same; covetous ones from other women that Martha never tired of seeing. Once in a while she would share her Sammo with others of her sex, but those times were rare, and she was always on hand to greedily eat of his steaming gift of cum.

For that has always been Martha’s deepest desire: to have what others did not.

And so it remains.

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