Jack and I had gotten away with the perfect murder, so why did I feel so shitty? And, as Jack had said, "The bitch deserved it!" She did, if anyone did, so why did I feel so shitty? The police were at a complete dead end, no closer now to solving it then they were last week. So why did I feel so shitty?

I just did, is all. Perhaps the fact that I don't go around killing people, whether they need it or not, as a general practice, figures in somehow. I'm funny that way about killing people. Even slimeball bitches.

I looked at the clock. Jack would be here in thirty minutes. I had time to get one more drink under my belt before I had to listen to his rah-rah bullshit again. His pep talk, so to speak. His, "We've got nothing to worry about, so relax, old fart. The cops are looking for a guy who doesn't exist. With DNA from a man who died ten years ago. So, lighten up, for crissakes, before you have a friggin' heart attack." I could hear it now and quote it verbatim if I had to.

If only I had resisted his usual jackass bullshit on that fateful day. But I was too fucking stupid, or too fucking horny! Horny! Yeah, for a piece of Malomar Twine!

Malomar Twine! What a woman! She made all other women, including my darling wife, Angie, look like Ben Franklin by comparison. Malomar was the epitome of feminine sexuality. The be all and end all, if you will. And I will!

She topped out at 5' 7" tall, with a set of sculpted, long legs on her that looked as if Michaelangelo had spent his entire life drawing them until he got it perfect. Add long, ash blonde hair and the bluest eyes you've ever seen to the mix and the picture's getting even sweeter to look at.

But don't stop there, no sirree, buddy! Put some nice breasts on that puppy. And not your run-of-the-mill boobs, either, but those kind of titties that make most men drool all over themselves just thinking how those beauties would feel like to the tongue. Picture, if you will, the most perfect breasts you've ever seen in any copy of Penthouse or Playboy, then triple it! Fuck, quadruple the equation.

While were on this add-to-it tack, put some wide, flaring hips on Malomar. Those hips the old time wives would say are built for child bearing. Or, as the old time men would say: Built for holding onto as you pound her beautiful fucking ass into the mattress.

Got the picture, fella? If not, friend, you need a blood transfusion. Stat!

Yeah, Malomar Twine. I'd secretly had the hots for her from the first day I laid my old peepers on her. Shit, I can't count how many times I thought of her while fucking Cindy. I would even squint my eyes and pretend it was Malomar's perfect bubble-butt ass I was doggy-style humping to beat the band instead of my wife's nice, but average-like little heinie.

But that was then and this is now. If only I hadn't listened to Jack on that fateful day. If only I hadn't such hots for Malomar Twine. If only I had listened to the little voice in my head that warned about cheating on the marriage. If only...

THE PARTY was in mid-swing and Cindy had asked me to refresh her drink, her usual rum and coke. I passed Malomar Twine on the way to the kitchen and, as always, felt that old stirring in the old crotcheroony.

In the kitch, I bumped into my old pal, Jack Spratt, as he fetched his wife, Loretta, a refill.

Yeah, I know, he's got a funny name. Rhymes with fat. And if Jack hadn't heard every possible fat and lean reference people can come up, well, he ain't heard a one. I approached him from behind as he was putting some ice cubes into a glass.

"Hey, Jack," I said. "You bartendering? I'll have a rum and coke, and while you're at it, throw in a Scotch on the rocks, splash of soda with a twist of carefully sliced lemon. And be quick about it, man, as I've got a big thirst comin' on." He spun around, grinning. That grin of his! Every time he laid it on me, I thought of a canary. Sometimes it was Tweety Bird. In Sylvester's big, old cat mouth.

"Yow, it's Artsy Fartsy," he said, then whispered. "The man who hasn't had a decent blowjob in six years!" Shit, I never should have told him Cindy hated oral sex and had performed it on me just one time, on our wedding night, six years ago. She had been way tipsy and way overfed. And, when I came in her mouth, surprising her, well, shit, she upchucked an entire meal all over my crotch. Filet mignon, roast potato, carrots and peas. Colorful, even on a groin area.

I would have stood for all the upchucking if Cindy had just kept doing that magical shit to me, but, as she put it, "That's it! I'm never doing that nasty thing ever again! See? It made me sick, Arthur." Hell, Cindy, throw up on me, I don't care. That's the reason showers were invented in the first place. Dontcha know?

"What's new, Jack, besides your neverending fascination with ball-busting me?"

"Relax, old top, just funning. But as to what's new... " He grinned, an especially wide one, even for him. Then he whispered in a very conspiratorial tone, "You know Malomar Twine? Sure you do, you fucking lech! Well, old crumpet, I've tagged her!" He grinned again, his eyes bright.

"Tagged her?" Sometimes I have a senior moment. Even at forty two. For some strange reason, an animal's ear was in my head. You know, where they tag them and let the loose in the wilds.

"Schmuck! I've been fucking her, old fungus! For weeks now. And you know all those perverted fantasies you have in your head about her? Well, fuck it, old twerp, cross 'em out and start all over! This bitch invented sexual heaven!"

As Jack grinned once more, I could see Malomar Twine out in the living room. She was conversing with that old, bald fart, Dexter Drake, the president of our town's only bank. While Malomar chatted at him animatedly, I could see old Drake had a small tent in his trousers. And his upper lip was covered in a shiny layer of perspiration. He also looked quite demented. And horny, if that's how staid bankers look when their excited about anything other than money.

And, I hate to admit it, but, even at this distance, I had the start of my own woody. She'll do that to a guy, even an ex-choir boy like myself. I shifted my eyes back on Jack. He was adding soda to my drink. I guess he was the barman, after all.

He handed me the drink. "You forgot the lemon, Jerk!" I took a sip. "But anyway, Jack, tell me more about this Malomar lie of yours. I'm all ears, Sylvester." This reference went over his head, as it should have, but he did correct the lemon oversight by quickly slicing a chunk off one and plopping into my drink.

"Well," Jack began. "I was on the road one evening and... " Jack stopped. Drake had just walked in, two stubby drink glasses leading him. He was obviously fetching a refill for Malomar. He had a look on his puss that said he had high hopes of making a small deposit this fine night in the First National Malomar Bank.

We both helloed old Drake and then Jack took me by the arm and led me out the kitchen's back door for some backyard privacy. I was eager to hear his tale.

"As I was saying, I'm on the road, right? Well, I come across sweet ass Malomar. With a rear flat, in fact. Anyway, to make it short, the brazen hussy says that if I can find it in me to fix her wheel, she'd find me in her! Just like that, but with a wink thrown in just to make it all the clearer.

"And, old foghorn, just to make sure even a dunce like me got her meaning, she ups and throws both arms around my neck. And plants one right on me! Right there on the fucking road."

"No shit?" My woody was saying hello to me again.

"No shit! Scout's honor and all. Well, of course I said OK. Who the fuck wouldn't? After fixing her flat, we went to her place. Nice apartment over on Kenway Street. Well, as you can probably guess, old curmudgeon, I was all over her ass! Like a fucking teenager who's just found out his girlfriend's titties are for real and are now available to him.

"Man, I groped her and pinched her and pulled on her and you name it, I did it. I hadn't been that fucking hot in thirty years, if even then." Oh, yeah, woody was talking up a storm at me. I could see Jack had a similar problem caused, no doubt, in reliving that first night with Malomar.

"And, old tire iron, if you think she's mouth-watering in a tight knit dress, well, baby, in the buff, holy mother of God, she'd raise the dick of a castiron statue!"

I saw through the kitchen window that old Drake had taken his deposit elsewhere and Malomar was now chatting amiably with another horny fucker, Charlie Payne, owner of Payne's Messenger Service. Payne kept shooting glances in the direction of his frowzy-looking wife, May, who was glaring at him from the sofa. Jack had said something.

"... figuring this could be a one-shot deal, I put her through the all the paces. I had her blow me, I ate her pussy, I fucked her missionary, then her on top, me from behind and a few new positions I think I invented on the spot. And, old fruit, I had to think of every fucking baseball game I'd ever seen, from Abner Doubleday's birth all the way to the present, just to keep from popping my cork too soon! It was tough as hell, I'll tell you!" I could imagine.

"She actually blew you?" I was now looking through the window and squinting my eyes to focus them on Malomar's luscious and pouty lips. Oh, man, I thought, her fat bottom lips would have me cumming so fast baseball wouldn't have a chance. I had new admiration for Jack's tenacity.

"Oh, yeah, old watch fob, and she deep-throated my old schlong, too! Right down to the fur! All eight inches of it! No shit! No lie! She gives new meaning to the term cocksucker! And, old nutsack, it was pure hell not to unload in that fucking lusciously soft mouth of hers! Pure unadulterated fucking hell!" I knew exactly what he meant. So did the insistent wooden thing now poking my trousers.

In case you're wondering why Jack uses so many old thing this and old thing that, well, the fucker has watched way too many Britcoms for his own good. Dumb fucker now thinks he was born in Liverpool and not Brooklyn, New York.

"And fucking her, old sot, is something else, too! I don't know what it is, but her pussy is different from your ordinary house pussy. It sucks on your cock just like a hot, wet mouth would, squeezing away at you and nibbling on it. Un-fucking-real, I'll tell you! It's like putting your dick into the hottest, wettest, grabbiest pussy your mind can conjure up. And when I finally let loose in her, man, she used her internal muscles to vacuum me dry! Un-fucking-real!" Like my If-I-Don't-Cum-And-Cum-Soon-I'm-Gonna-Make-You-Very-Sick woody was right now. Un-fucking-real!

Jack chuckled at me. "Yeah, old whippersnapper, I see your fucking tent! Shit, old codger, I think they can even see it from one of those space satellites! Shame, shame!" He grinned again.

"Blame your vivid tale-telling, Jack. And the fact that Malomar is now hotly whispering into Payne's left ear." I pointed toward the kitchen window. Jack looked and said, "I'll bet poor Payne's woodied up, too, right now. Look! He is!" Yep, Payne was, no denying it. He had a visible tent, a fierce one, on his right pant's leg. That Malomar! What chance did the Paynes of the world have against such a creature?

"I'll also bet, old pissant, every fucking guy in your house is on a woody. Shit, you should name this place, the way rich people name their second homes. You could call it Arthur's House of Wood!" He laughed. "No! Even better! Call it Chez Malewood! A lot classier, dontcha think? Like something out of an old English novel." Now I laughed. Chez Malewood, indeed. But I knew he had a point. I had seen more than one male in full tent tonight, no doubt caused by Malomar's mere presence.

Jack was back on his story. "Well, hoping she was real appreciative for my flat-fixing effort, I wanted to tag her again as a night cap, but she said she had to get up early. Which, in a way, while disappointing, meant I could get home, late as hell all ready, to the little lady I so loosely call wife. But Malomar told me she had enjoyed it and wouln't mind a rematch, her word for it. So, right then and there, we made a date for the very next day.

"Oh, her bed has a mirrored ceiling no less. What fun that is, I'll tell you. But anyway, I've tagged her six times since that first night. Each time getting wilder and wilder. The bitch is unsatiable when it comes sex. And downright animalistic. She yells, moans, groans and goes absolutely fucking ballistic when she cums! Ball-fucking-istic!

"She even likes to watch fuck films at the same time, something I've tried a zillion times to do with Loretta... to no fucking avail. Loretta thinks they degrade women! Fuck, so what? I loved degraded women. All men do! Don't you?"

I nodded. What else could I do? Besides, deep down I felt he had somewhat of a valid point. He continued his deliciously and woody-inspiring pornographic tale.

"And, although she's only twenty-six, Malomar has done it all. From anal to well hung black guy gangbangs! She told me she once had a thing she called a suckathon. She gave cum-swallowing blowjobs to sixteen guys in one night! When she was only fifteen! Her boyfriend of the moment wanted to share her with his gang of buddies, so he told her, to which she readily agreed.

"Yeah, old Kumquat, Malomar's a cum slut whore, but she's my kinda woman! Yours too, if your honest and up front about it. Tell me, wouldn't you just love to put this cock-loving whore's cunt over your head like a showercap?" He grinned at me and waited for my answer, which I knew, he all ready knew

"You know it, fucker," I said. "But unless you're now her pimp, I don't think my chances with her are too good. She looks like she'd prefer the outdoorsy type, like yourself." It was true to me. That's how I perceived myself. The nerdy type, who gets no closer to the Malomars of this world than a color photo in a men's mag.

"Pimp? That's an idea, old bumbershoot! But seriously, folks, if you'd like a shot at her, and I mean shot in the most slimiest and perverted way imaginable, I can set it up!" His grin seemed the widest it had been all night. His words, however, had me feeling excited and disoriented at the same time. Like someone who's just won a big lottery, but can't remember where he put the damned ticket.

"You can?" Sometimes I'm at a loss for words.

"Oh, yeah, old frump, just like that." He snapped his fingers. "You won't believe me, but Malomar has all ready agreed to shtumping you, old pentunia! Seems she likes the cut of your nerdy jib, whatever the fuck a jib is! She brought your name up herself, right after a good session of suck and fuck. We were talking about sex of all things new, ha ha, and she said she had a small sex crush on you. Said she always noticed how you stripped her naked with your eyes each and every time you looked at her." I think I blushed for I felt some heat around my neck, but if I did, Jack didn't comment on it.

"Seems she gets turned on by men with glasses who make passes at girls with nice asses. Her words... I swear. And she said she also gets real hot when a man idolizes her to such an extent he's at a loss for words. She loves, as she put it, being that kind of man's wet dream come true.

"She digs it when a guy fumbles with her bra and trembles just touching her, mumbling instead of talking. So, old nerdy type, all you gotta do when you're face to face and naked with her is just be your born and bred nerdy self!" He laughed. I tried to laugh, but only a dry chuckle came out.

"So, old fucker, you game?" Game? Hell, I'd eat a mile of Malomar's shit just to find out where it came from!

I agreed to it all and he said he'd set it all up and call me about the where and when. And, I swear, knowing that a rock hard woody at the time is no excuse, at no time did I even contemplate the consequences...

WELL, GOOD OLD JACK, that shit-grinning anglophile, was true to his word. Two days later found me, with a Scotch and soda with a splash and a carefully sliced lemon blending in the glass in my hand, sitting in Malomar's living room.

She had, as it is said, broken the ice by offering to make me a drink and telling me, as she put it, to just relax. "I won't bite you, Arthur... not just yet, that is!" She had giggled. A girlish and very feminine giggle. And the way that bottom lip of hers quivered slightly, well, I took a seat quickly, the better to conceal up my new trouser tent.

We had two drinks each and small talked our asses off, all the while my eyes giving me trouble. I found myself unwillingly, but also very willingly, staring at each part of her in turn, from her gorgeous barely concealed cone-shaped breasts to her shapely, oh so fucking shapely, legs.

And, each time my eyes would settle into a stare at any one particular delectable part of her, I'd find myself fighting to divert them somewhere else. Any where else, I wasn't choosy. And the somewhere else soon became my next stare target. Much to my embarrassment as I recalled her comment to Jack about how I stripped her naked with my old, bespectacled eyes. And how she had told him it wa each and every time I looked at her.

The overall effect Malomar had on me also had me stumbling over words in a way that reminded me of a nervous kid doing a recital of all fifty states' capitols in front of a large adult audience. "Now, Timmy, what the is the capitol of Indiana?"

"I know it, Ma'am, don't tell me, just let stand here sweating myself into a human puddle." Yeah, she had that effect on my ass. My Malomar-staring ass.

Well, anyhooha, the two drinks had fortified me and made me brassy enough to say, with a look-down-at-my-watch flourish tossed in for good measure and overall general effect, "Should we, uh, Malomar, get it to? I-I mean get to it?" What class! What savoir faire! What a shithead.

I had spoken the words as I stood up, my tent somewhat dulled by the two Scotches, thank you, God, and crossed the distance between us. I felt tottery on my feet and light-headed and it wasn't from the alcohol. It was the smell of her as I neared her, my stupid glass still in my hand, that had me feeling giddy. It was a light and delicate odor, magical almost, as if flowers now had stiffer competition than they could easily handle. It wafted up to my nostrils and filled my brain with images of harems and naked women.

Well, we got to it, all right. Immediately. She stood up and told me to undress her. I knew her dastardly plan! She wanted to enjoy watching her word-fumbling, hand-trembling, sweating and idolizing nerdo make a sweat puddle of himself on the carpet just before he gasped his last words and died, his woody tent eyeing the ceiling. Well, I thought, if that floats her boat, I'll more than oblige her.

Now, if I hadn't been forewarned by Jack, my normally idiot self would have amused her, indeed. But, with his words in my brain, I nerdied it up even more. I fumbled, I mumbled, I squirmed, I stuttered and made myself visibly tremble, all over and complete like. What a perfomance! I was Mr. Nerdo, personnified.

And she loved it. She giggled here and there and even laughed once. But not in a deprecating manner, oh no, more like as a fun thing, if you get my drift. She made me feel downright comfortable stripping her ass naked, which I secretely thanked her for. Then she stripped me down, with hands that spoke from great practice and experience. My 7-1/2" lollipop proudly pointed his indented cyclopian eye at her.

When I took her naked body into my arms and kissed her, our first kiss, I couldn't believe how it felt to me. Her lips weren't just soft and lovely and, as the poets say, sweeter than wine, they were beyond intoxicating. It was as if I was falling into her, my whole being and soul swallowed up by her, in a vortex, a whirlpool, of sublime ecstacy. I had never imagined a kiss could be like this, so heady, so mind-blowing, so luscious. So beyond the ability of words to describe.

Malomar, I reasoned with a brain turned to fudgy wonder, had to be a goddess. A goddess sent here to drive mere mortal men into an early grave just by kissing them. For her kiss, that one kiss, had reached into me with a magic, a magic unknown to humans, that went down to a depth in my very soul I didn't know I possessed. No man should ever fall in love with a woman from just one kiss, but no woman ever kissed a man the way Malomar Twine kissed. I was in love.

When we finally ended up in her big bed, after my living room gropings, fumblings, salivatings and many finger-fuckings of her hot, wet pussy, I looked up at the ceiling mirror over us and knew I had died and God had put me in charge of fornicating with Malomar Twine. Thank you, Big Fella!

After a myriad of hot, wet and sloppy French kisses, my first attack, so to say, on her ever-fascinating body, was a direct tongue and mouth assault on her vagina. After less than a minute of tongue actions I had just invented, with her squirming and moaning and holding my head, I knew I had found the fountain of youth. And it tasted like pussy. Ponce de Leon, eat your fucking heart out, pal! I got here first.

I hate for a time and heard her say, "Arthur, let's 69, I want to taste your nice cock at the same time as you suck on my cunt!" Just like that, she laid it on me real dirty-like and all. My dick got even harder, if that was at all possible.

Malomar told me to get on top of her and deep-throat mouth-fuck her while eating her out. Just that way. Oh, man, the head of my cock could now teach even a baby beet the meaning of the word red. With some pink and purple tossed in for added color.

Thus, as I used my recently invented pussy-eating techniques on her snatch, I mouth-fucked her, exactly the way a man fucks a woman in the missionary position with long, deep in and out strokes. Her mouth was more pussy-like than any woman's real-life pussy. Un-fucking-imaginable!