Chapter 38 Max

There’s something uniquely trashy about having sex with a girl in a cemetery. Then again, there’s always been something uniquely trashy about Betsy, so it’s a propos. Don’t get me wrong, I love her – in a way that’s totally unimaginable to most ordinary guys. Betsy’s white trash, without a doubt. That makes me, I guess, a white-trash lover. And I take my job very seriously. “Most guys would think fucking me here is gross or creepy.” Betsy swoons, buck naked and spread-legged against a tombstone, “But you like it! You like fucking me here, don’t you, Oliver?” Then she lets her hand nestle in her thick damp curls, their silkiness dully reflecting the dim yellow glow of the security lanterns blazing nearby. I can’t tell whether she means fucking her in a cemetery or in her hot pussy, because my brain is on fire with thoughts of porking her good. Porking her real good. “And here, too,” she clarifies. She slides a finger between her thighs and giggles. Her sudden gasp at the shock of her own stimulation makes my prick so hard that I could cut diamonds with it. God, she’s a tease. We’ve made love just about everywhere – car trunks, chapels, under tables, on top of bleachers, on sandy beaches . . . even at funerals. That’s where Betsy got the cemetery idea: her Aunt Noreen’s funeral, of all places. But considering Aunt Noreen had five kids by four different guys, what did I expect? Count me out, I thought at first. Too Poe. Who needs to roll around in freshly dug dirt, pale ass humping in the moonlight while screech owls rate your performance every five minutes with a bone-shattering caterwauling that makes you want to shit your pants? And the goddamn flowers aren’t even yours, either, but some other poor schmuck’s who’s lying under you, decomposing and wondering what the hell all the noise is up there. So at first I said – unequivocally, mind you, and with my flaccid penis showing nothing but the most sincere moral support – I said No. But I’d do anything to be with my Betsy. Who can resist those tits, that soft curve of belly, the golden brown curls that dangle happily around her heart-shaped face, those pale blue eyes, and most of all, that mouth? I love Betsy’s mouth. Kissing it, fucking it. Just touching her lips gets me hard. Always the sexual tactician, she brazenly does that thing she does where her lips lightly caress my cock, leaving a trail of her fuck-me red lipstick on my member, and my resulting erection nearly knocks her off her feet. Of course, being an opportunist, I pushed her all the way down and, without even a thought as to whether her sweet cunt could take it, plunged right into her moist opening. Deep. She groaned and spread her legs wide, giving me access and pulling me in. Her hips bucked wildly, meeting my thrusts, and I rode her, her yells and yips and yahoos (told you she was white trash) cheering me on even as I worried my dick would disintegrate from the friction. Too soon, earth shattering waves of release reverberated from my cock through my body, and I collapsed in a heap on top of her – spent, wet and happy. I had no idea whether Betsy got off or not, so to be on the safe side, with the last of my energy I slid my dick out and slipped my fingers in. Betsy’s an index-and-middle-finger-type girl, so I, being skilled in the arts of Betsy-fucking, started stroking her immediately – in and out, in and out. I kept the pressure going through the middle finger, just like she likes it, with my index there just to fill her up a little more. Harder and harder. Stroke, stroke, stroke. Then I did a little up and down, and she grabbed my hand and pumped against it. Betsy loves those fingerblasts. Next on the agenda would have been my tongue on her hard clit to send her over the edge, but her time had come, and so had she. Glorious Betsy goo doused my fingers in its richness, and I took the opportunity to kiss my way up from snatch to navel to tits to neck to those glorious red lips that started it all. The satisfaction in her grin did not escape my attention – she’d tricked me again in that slutty way of hers – and so I couldn’t escape playing a little graveyard Hide the Wienie. So we did, indeed, fuck in the cemetery. And it became a habit – a useful habit, as it turns out. Tonight she wants me to take her from behind while she bends over poor old Mrs Wannamaker’s granite marker. I used to feel sorry for the old lady and Mr Wannamaker, being as their tombstones suggested they had been simple folk in life, unassuming and definitely not sexually active. Their bearing witness to our sexual displays seemed almost blasphemous until I noticed Betsy’s legs were spread wide over Mr Wannamaker’s side of the plot. Do you know what people would pay for a money shot like that? Necrotic voyeur bastard. Anyway, here we are, Betsy in that pink number she always wears and me with my jeans down around my ankles, dick at attention, heart pounding. She pulls up her dress, bunching it around her hips so I can get a look at the goods by the eerie glow of the lanterns. I’ve been through this before, but my cock still throbs at the rank smell of Betsy’s excitement. One of my hands slips around her pale belly, massaging its way toward her soft mound. I rub Mr Dong – yeah, I named my own dick – against her wet slit (which is surprisingly hot) spreading her lips just a little with my girth. She kisses me over her shoulder, breathless. She whimpers as I pull Mr Dong away to help her position her hands just so on Mrs Wannamaker’s marker.