My graduate school program consisted of a very small cohort of students, numbering only eight. I was the only swinging dick among them. The girls had each come from vastly different lifestyles than I and none of them were easy on the eyes. For the most part, my female classmates were all heavily involved in the college partying scene, which caused me to reject them outright as complete wastes of skin.

Once I had fully matriculated into graduate school, I chose not to engage myself in any significant degree with my female peers, as their bar-hopping habits were abhorrent to me. Furthermore, since none of the bland girls were worth a scrump, I found that there was absolutely no point in interacting with them at all so I actively avoided all social outings with them and focused solely on academics. Much to my dismay, however, my self-seclusion proved abrasive toward the small, family-like atmosphere of my graduate student cohort. Soon, conflict was at hand and I had several private meetings with my professors where my reclusive behavior was called into question. One professor of mine postulated that the graduate program was not the "right fit" for me, as he noticed that I was rather asocial in regard to the homely women. Another professor encouraged me to demonstrate more respect toward the ideas of my "colleagues" and referred to me as an "irreverent ass," as I typically ridiculed my female peers for exhibiting inexcusable idiocy during class.

Under the threat of getting booted out of the graduate school program for demonstrating continual indifference toward my feminine colleagues, I reluctantly began attending the local bars with them in attempts to smooth out the turmoil and assume the status of a team player. This experience consistently lead to the same result of me sitting at a sticky bar table for a few hours while everyone around me became increasingly louder and more boisterous as their inhibitions faded with each sip of alcohol. I did not need a liquid boost for my self-confidence or a beverage for an emotional anodyne, so I consequently found myself striving to have fun in other ways while attending the local bars with my cohort of wallflowers.

One of the more entertaining bar endeavors that I partook in involved doing karaoke covers of popular rap songs from the early 1990’s. It was quite stimulating to flow over Digital Underground beats from "The Humpty Dance" or Tone Lōc’s "Funky Cold Medina" with a bar full of Hoosiers bobbing their heads to the rhythm of the music. After one of my more theatrical performances of "The Humpty Dance" (complete with three drunk chicks behind me chanting "do me, baby" during the chorus), the bar MC summarized my exhibition by announcing over the speaker system, "He’s really white but I’m telling you, that guy’s got soul!"

Toward the end of the summer, I became a barroom regular where I often rapped karaoke jingles for the drunken hoards of Indiana natives. I typically received standing ovations, complete with hoots and hollers, for my stunning wigger demonstrations. Little did I realize at the time, my karaoke gigs garnered the attention of several wanton housewives over the summer months, one of whom took a quick liking to me.

While performing the chorus of "Funky Cold Medina" one night, I took notice of a white trash milf who was sitting in the front row of bar tables that surrounded the karaoke machine. She was seated with a female friend but had not entertained any conversation with the other woman during my entire performance. Instead, the attractive milf had her eyes deadlocked upon my crotch. Wherever I moved across the small dance floor, busting out Tone Lōc lyrics into the microphone in my hand, the woman’s eyes would follow. With the closing of the ditty, the woman finally broke her concentration and started to consume me with her gaze. She seductively moved her eyes all over my body with a smirk perched upon her lips.

In short order, I found myself sitting next to the middle-aged woman, talking with her about what she wanted to do to me if we were all alone. She told me that her name was Lacy and that she was having problems finding a decent man who still had all of their teeth and maintained employment of some kind. Lacy avowed that she was quite horny most of the time but had little resources for which to curb her hungry appetite for male flesh. Twenty minutes later into the conversation, I was driving back to her place.

When we finally reached Lacy’s trailer, it was just after two in the morning and my groin was swollen with anticipation of what was to happen next.

"Park over there across the street," Lacy directed me. "I don’t want any of the neighbors seeing me bringing men home from the bar again."

I followed Lacy’s instructions and stashed my car in the shadows along a nearby doublewide. Upon entering her shanty, I was amazed at the level of filth that such a trailer could contain. There was half-eaten food items strewn across the kitchen area, a garbage can overflowing with discarded items, and outdated magazines littering the living room area. There was not one interior door found inside the trailer, just dingy sheets hanging across the thresholds. I didn’t bother asking Lacy what she did for a living. It was clear that she was on the Obama plan.

Despite her dirty living conditions, Lacy maintained her personal appearance quite well. She had a very pretty face and styled, bleached blonde hair. Lacy’s body was of average quality, but certainly far better than any graduate student whom I was forced to associate with day after day. And, other than her southern drawl, Lacy was, in general, an appealing woman who was definitely worthy of a poke.

I wasted no time getting down to business with my newfound bar treasure. My pants were on the floor before Lacy could sit down on her couch. And as soon as she had her top unbuttoned, my greedy hands were cusping her breasts from behind. During our primordial make out session, Lacy and I rolled onto the unkempt floor of her living room. While we did so, we shed each other’s clothing like two rabid animals clawing at each other in a passionate frenzy. After we rolled around naked amongst the crumpled newspapers and Wal-Mart mailing advertisements, Lacy sat up on the floor and leaned her back against the couch. I lurched over the top of her and spread Lacy’s knees apart, revealing her ruffled lips.

Lacy had the biggest bear trap of a pussy that I have ever witnessed. Her bat cave was so big that it could have easily passed a cantaloupe without so much as leaving a stretch mark. Just as the tip of my spear was making an effortless plunge into Lacy’s snapper, my nostrils were hit with a waft of spoiled salmon. I had previously probed many fish fillets in my years of promiscuity before Lacy but never had I before witnessed such stank as what I had suffered during that particular moment. The odor assault upon my olfactory glands was horrific. It was so offensive that I momentarily wondered if there was a dead animal hidden somewhere in the couch that I had previously overlooked. Just the same, before I could make a premature evacuation out of the stinky flytrap, Lacy grabbed my buttocks and forcefully pulled my pelvis into her, effectively enveloping my hesitating woody deep inside her putrid vulva.

I forcibly closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing through my mouth to avoid the curdling fish smell from permeating into my nostrils. Suddenly, I was pleased to realize that Lacy’s polluted chuff box felt quite nice, the carrion stench and worn out meat curtains notwithstanding. My cunt crawler resumed its firmness and I suddenly went to work, doing pushups into Lacy’s moldy muff as she sat against the bottom of the couch. Moment later, I forgot all about the bacteria that was infecting my schlong and I focused instead on the pleasureful sensations that were radiating through my body.

I drilled Lacy’s grimy garage for several minutes before I felt the familiar sensation of swimmers seeking to escape my urethra. While enjoying the throes of delving deeper into Lacy’s dank orifice, I felt the slight pressure of a finger tapping upon my shoulder. I cranked my head around and surprisingly viewed a young boy standing beside me. I was shocked to the core of my being and immediately ceased thrusting into the trailer trash whore.

"What.. what’s wrong?" Lacy asked, opening her eyes and looking at my face. She quickly noticed her toddler son standing just inches away from our nude, entangled bodies.

"That not daddy," the boy whimpered with impaired enunciation.

Holy fuck! I thought to myself. This is totally not cool.

"Stewart! What are you doing out here? Get back to bed, now!"

"But that no daddy," the young lad repeated, pointing at my naked backside.

Lacy twisted around my arms to get a better look at her son. "Stewart, listen to mommy. You need to go back to bed. I’ll talk to you in the morning about this, okay?"

"Stewart need ice cream," the boy replied. He pointed toward the kitchen area. "You weren’t there."

It then became apparent to me that the crotch dropping was not right. The boy was clearly retarded to some extent.

Lacy nodded her head. "Yes, that’s right. Mommy had to go outside for a little bit. But I’m home now and I need to spend some time with my new friend. So go back to bed. Now."

"But Stewart need ice cream—"

"Stewart! Now!"

The boy turned to walk away, balling up his hands and bringing them to his eyes. He sniffled and murmured while moping back to his bedroom behind one of the dingy bed sheets that were hanging above the open doorframes. Before entering his bedroom, Stewart turned around again to face the two naked adults wrapped up on the floor. "It stinks, mommy!" he said, clenching his nose with his fingers.

"Stewart! Don’t make me get up!"

With the issue of the last warning, the brain damaged child scurried away inside his bedroom, leaving me once again alone with his skank mother.

"I’m so sorry about that," Lacy said to me, wrapping her legs tightly around my waist as if she was forbidding me to leave. "Can we finish what we started?"

I was so completely shocked about what had occurred that it never donned on me to withdraw my twat tingler from Lacy’s soured nook while the imbecile child was talking to her. The entire time that Lacy had spoken to her retarded son I was frozen in mid-coitus with my cooter clogger stuck inside the trailer trash milf.

It took a few seconds for me to regain my comfort level enough to resume pumping. But when once I did so, I went drilling for oil. By this time, however, Lacy’s vaginal muscles had considerably relaxed to the point that she was gaping. Even the massive girth of my nut nuzzler was no match to fill up the huge space that had developed between her legs. I pounded Lacy’s pleasure hole to the point of exhaustion, trying to come to an explosive discharge inside her spacious sugar walls. My efforts were seemingly futile, as boning Lacy’s broadened pink was like throwing a Twinkie down a hallway. Nevertheless, I pumped on, partly motivated to prove to myself that no pussy would ever dominate me and partly in attempts to empty my gonads as quickly as possible as to avoid any further awkward moments involving Lacy’s retarded son.

While frantically slamming my sperm spout into Lacy, the white trash whore dug her fingernails into my back and shouted, "I’m coming! I’m coming! Ooooooh, I’m coming!" With Lacy still quivering from her tremendous climax, I offered her a cum douche, spurting my load schlong secretions inside her gaping canal. With my nuts completely emptied, I withdrew my withering meat pole from Lacy’s smelly slime pit and rolled over onto my back. Although I had every intention to flee the trailer after I had blown my wad, I just couldn’t muster enough energy to do so. The night had caught up to me and I quickly fell asleep on Lacy’s living room floor right where I lay, entirely spent.

I woke up the following morning to the sound of a knock on the trailer’s front door. I was still naked and lying on my back in a dried puddle of Lacy’s cunt juice, now crystallized into the filthy carpet. Just as I was about to sit up to investigate the knocking sounds, a man came strolling across the living room floor and approached the front entrance. Through my groggy eyes, which were still encrusted with buggers from my catatonic slumber, I watched as the man opened the door and let inside the trailer a second individual. Both of the men began speaking to each other, interspersed with laughter.

"God damn, Jimmy, what stinks in here? Peuwee!"

"Oh, that’s that cunt wife of mine and her stinking puss. She’s done brought home another guy from the bar again."

The visiting friend gave me a once over while covering his nose with his shirt. "This guy here looks a little younger than them other ones did," he commented about me in a muffled tone. "Looks to me like she’s been robbing cradle."

"Yeah, no doubt."

"He’s sure got some dick on him though. Look at that thing!"

"He needs it, Ron. I had that bitch riding bowling pins a couple three weeks back. Did I ever show you that tape we made?"

"Hell no I haven’t seen no tape," the friend laughed.

As I stirred fully awake, I rolled over to my stomach to better conceal myself from the mens’ wide-eyed stares and nervously waited for them to go about their business. They continued to comment about Lacy’s whorishness as her nude body lied sprawled out on the couch and then made their way into the kitchen area. Moments later, one of the men shouted, waking up the trailer park girl whom I had boned to sleep just hours before.

"Hey, Lacy! Get up!"

Lacy jerked her head upward. "Wha- What is it?" she asked in a weary tone, her eyes half open.

"Ron and I are going out back to burn some trash. You need to get yer whoring ass up off that couch and fix Stewart something to eat."

Lacy reached for some pillows to cover her bare breasts from the onlookers and then scanned the cluttered floor for her clothing. "Oh, okay," she mumbled.

"And you need to get in there and take care of them sheets too," the man continued. "Stewart done wet the bed again."

The two men cackled to each other and walked out the back of the trailer, leaving me alone with Lacy once again. As soon as the screen door slapped closed, I jumped up and frantically searched the floor for my pants. "Who the hell was that?" I asked Lacy, as I located my trousers and stepped inside them.

"Oh, pay them no mind," Lacy replied, as she began getting dressed. "That’s just my husband and his loser friend is all."

I paused zipping up my pants and gave Lacy a stone-faced glare. "Your husband? You’re married?"

Lacy nodded her head. "Well, we’re really separated but still living together."

"And he was here the whole time last night while we were fuckin?"

"Of course he was!" Lacy asserted. "I can’t be leaving my little Stewart home all alone when I go out meeting men, now can I? Just what kind of mother do you think I am?"

I shook my head in disbelief while pulling my shirt over my torso. "Just what’s wrong with your son anyway?" I asked the barfly.

"He’s got some sort of brain damage or something," Lacy replied as she finished getting dressed. "The doctors aren’t altogether sure what’s wrong with him. I smoked a lot of meth while I was pregnant so they think that might have something to do with it."

"That’s just lovely," I stated, pursing my lips together into a mocking expression of sympathy. I then swiftly went for the door. "Well! It was nice meeting you, Lacy. Have a good one!"

I jumped off the porch of the trailer so fast that I bruised my heel when I landed on the hard ground. After I made it back to my car, I quickly drove home and rushed into the shower. It took nearly an entire bar of soap to clean the crusty cum from off my schlong and to douse the smell of Lacy’s stench trench that followed me home and clung to my clothes. While putting my soiled clothing into the washer that morning, I resolved to never again have sex with a married woman. At least not while her husband was home.

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Kathy Davis

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