!ADULTS ONLY! Killing Malomar Twine!

Then, the guy in the ceiling mirror winked at me! As if to say, "I know what you're doing, you dirty pig, you're fucking her, no mistake." And I was, no mistake. And she was, no mistake. And then the guy in the mirror looked as if he was about to cum, for he was dizzy looking, with glazed-over eyes.

And then he was gone because I had closed my eyes, pressed Malomar to me, and unloaded so intensely I thought my dick had melted in her cunt. I yelled. She yelled. We yelled individually and in unison. And we moaned the same way. And we thrashed together until all the strength left me and I felt like a human puddle in the center of the big bed. With an audience of two floating above us and mimicking our every move. Minus my puddling. And, curse me, I never thought of Cindy, not even once. I was, to coin a term, Malomarized.

* * * * * *

MY MALOMAR FUN went on for a few more months, adding Jack to the equation and making it a hot threesome. Oh, what fun the three of us had! Picture in your mind, if you will, every conceivable position available to three people, one woman and two men, and we did it. With a few new positions Jack had read about in some sex book. And we did our slap and tickle get togethers over and over, as our little ménage à trois was now on a once a week basis.

Anal sex was added early on and even piss-swallowing by Malomar. I had never pissed in a woman's mouth before, had never even given it a thought, if truth be known, but I found it to be sexually stimulating. But, for you out there who feel that's just too-too much, I'll leave further details untold. Suffice it to say, I learned to love it. But I think it was more Malomar's spell over me than anything else.

It's funny, but my marriage didn't suffer at all by my many Malomar dalliances. If anything, it got better! I was now fucking Cindy with much more gusto than I had in years. And, now that I had Malomar in real life, I didn't have to imagine her while driving Cindy through the mattress. I had, in essence, the best of both worlds. A seemingly happy marriage and great sex. I just didn't have the two worlds rolled into one happy package. But, have cock, will travel! And the trip between the worlds wasn't that long to make.

Then, as it has been said many times before, the fucking roof caved in . . .

* * * * * *

IT ALL STARTED with a visit from Jack. He looked as worried as hell and, instead of politely asking me to mix him a drink, he insisted on it. He needed one badly he said and told me I was ". . . gonna need one, too, old sock!" His state of mind now had me worried, too. What the fuck was it? Did he have cancer? Had he caught his wife with another guy? With a woman? I was anxious to know, so I made the drinks in record time.

"What is it, Jack?" I asked, wanting to know, but a little afraid to know.

"It's Malomar, old thimble." Did she have cancer? I nodded for Jack to continue.

"The fucking cunt bitch is blackmailing me, old twerp!" He had spat out the words and I knew I had never seen him this angry. Blackmail? Malomar? No way. Love goddesses didn't go around doing such nasty earthly things.

"How? What . . . ?" I didn't get the chance to finish.

"And you too, old nerdo. She has photographs and films, God fucking damn it, of you fucking her, me fucking her, the two of us fucking her . . . that motherfucking little cunt!" I stood there shell-shocked, spilling my drink.

"And she says she wants $50,000 . . . from each of us or, well, you can imagine the rest." Jack plopped down into the sofa, also spilling his drink, and looked as if all the air had gone out of him. He sighed as he looked at me. I didn't know how or where to begin. So I began rather stupidly.

"Malomar? My Malomar? Our Malomar? That Malomar?" Christ, I did say stupidly, didn't I? Jack stared at me as if looking at the world's biggest fucking dodo. I also felt like it.

"Yeah, old fucking schmuck! Malomar, your Malomar, my Malomar, that low-life blackmailing cunt Malomar. Fifty thou, from each of us, in cash, small bills, or it's kaputsville for the two of us. That fucking Malomar!" At least I now knew which Malomar! Jack sighed again. I went ahead, trying for less stupid on my part.

"Well, Jack, let's not panic. It's a problem, ergo, there's a solution. Somewhere. We could pay her off, get the negatives and the tapes, or whatever she has, and burn the fucking things. Problem solved, though we're both a bit poorer. But we can afford it. Look at this way. So it comes to about two grand a fuck, so what? She was a great fuck!" I grinned at him, knowing my stupid was still flying high. Jack sighed again and looked at me, a rotten look on his face as if he had just sniffed a skunk's ass and found it expectedly quite distasteful. He finally spoke.

"A man, a plan, a canal, Panama!" Huh? I thought.

"Huh?" I said. It now seemed as if my old anglophile Jack was ready for the fucking loony bin. Someone make the call! Quick, before he hurts someone!

"It's a palindrome, old kiwi dick, it reads the same forward as
it does backward. The fucking word boob is one, too. And that's what the two of us would be, from front to back, going and coming, if we paid up. We'd never be certain she gave us all the shit and, when the money ran out, bingo! Here comes Malomar for another shot at the boob boys." I saw his point even though I didn't really want to. I had a bad feeling in me as to how this was going to go.

"So what do we . . . ? I started to say.

"We kill the fucking cunt! Kill her dead! Chop her the fuck up and mail her ass to seventy-two foreign post offices. With no return addresses. Or grind her greedy little soul in your backyard wood chipper. Or melt her in acid. I don't give a fuck which method. Don't care a hairy rat's ass. You choose. I'll even do the dirty deed, if you don't have the stomach." He sounded serious, which scared me no end.

"Jack, you're talking crazy. We'd end up in jail, with me servicing some big, black dude named Banger while trying to look good in a dress. We'd never get away with it, Jack. Right?" I hoped he would agree, but I had my doubts.

"Wrong, old frog fucker, we would get away with it! You're forgetting, old snot, I'm the county coroner. When they bring her in, I'll issue an autopsy report that'll have them not only spinning their wheels, she'll be in the cold case files faster than you can say blackmailing cunt!" He grinned at me. An evil grin, if ever there was one.

"And," he continued. "I'll even give them some sperm DNA from a hobo guy who died ten years ago. After I kill the cunt, I'll squirt his sperm into her snatch. They'll believe it was rape and go looking for a rapist who doesn't exist." I had a question.

"Jack, I don't know diddly shit about DNA and all, but how come you have this hobo's sperm on hand if he died ten years ago?" If I was going to be a party to murder, at least I should try to cut off a possible killer's mistake at the pass.

"When he came in, I saved it! Then, to play it safe, I destroyed all our records on the guy. As far as the world goes, John Harvey Hanratty no longer exists!" Hanratty? Why the fuck did he have to make the guy seem human by naming him?

"You saved it? For ten years? What the fuck for? Just in case you had to murder someone and needed a hobo patsy? Talk to me, Jack!" I had to know, in case this was one of your typical murderer's gaffes coming down the pike.

"I saved it, old fruitcake, because I wanted to see if I could get away with it. You know, just pushing the limits, testing the official boundaries. Call it an experiment, a learning thing. Aside from you, old snot, I had no one in mind to do away with at the time. As I say, just fucking around. At first, I just toyed with the idea. Then one day, I said fuck it, let's see if my theory holds water. And it did, no one knows the fucker ever existed." He took a sip of his drink, and then peeked at me over the rim of the glass. "Except you and me, old apricot."

Well, old Jack was right about it. If anyone could get away with a murder, it was Jack. As county coroner, who better to doctor an autopsy? Shit, he could easily turn it into homicide by a maniac male monkey, complete with banana peel weapon clues. It looked like it would be a cinch to pull off, but I didn't want to rush into things. Those gaffes, you know.

I said. "Let me think on it, Jack, OK? It needs some real careful thought. I mean, you're talking murder here, which is not a simple thing to execute and not leave some kind of evidence. Fibers, hairs, who knows what else? The cops may seem dopey, but that's a trick they use, look stupid while solving the crime. Throw the fucker off the track and give him a false sense of security. Think about Colombo, Jack, for Christ's sake. And, man, old chum, I'm fucking allergic to prison. I'd break out in terminal hives. We . . . I . . . should at least sleep on it, you know?" I looked right at him. I knew I had sounded a wee bit panicky, but he was as cool as a fucking refrigerated cuke, just grinning at me in that weird way of his.

"Hey, no prob, old turnip! Think it over. Take your sweet ass time. Then, we'll kill the bitch!" He grinned again. I felt sick and empty inside. He scared me. He was too damn cavalier about this whole murdering someone thing. And that grin of his didn't help make me feel none too secure, either.

* * * * * *

I DON'T KNOW HOW, don't want to know how, but Jack did it, so he said. I believed him and, even if I hadn't, the newspaper article made it quite clear: Malomar, my Malomar, our Malomar, that Malomar, was quite dead. Raped and killed by person, or persons, unknown. The police chase was on, with clues they said they now had that would lead to an early arrest. The DA, some schmuck in an ill-fitting suit, was quoted as saying, "While we don't know exactly who did it, we do know all about him. I expect he'll be in custody real soon." The subtle reference to DNA hadn't escaped my notice.

Poor Malomar. And poor me. I now lived my life in constant fear, expecting any moment to hear a bang on the door that said, "Sonny, get out your prettiest dress. You have a date with Banger tonight, in cell three, 9:00 p.m. Don't forget to wear your bright red lipstick!" Oh, yeah, I was scared shitless and witless.

Jack on the other hand, looked happy, if not giddily relieved, about the whole horrible affair. He kept telling me to lighten up, old this or old that. Before you have a frigging myocardial infarction, old this, and we have to bury your sorry ass in your sweat, which we sure now have plenty of, old that.

I tried my level best, if you could call it that, to be brave and pull it all together, but being party to my first murder took its toll. And Jack knew it. Then, to help me along, so to speak, and prop my sorry ass up, he said what I needed was some shock therapy. And he said he had just the shock to jolt me back to normal. He invited me to his cabin in the woods for a weekend of fishing.

I was there now, a drink in hand. He was mixing one for himself.

"Listen, old bean, Malomar's dead. Dead! Fucking up now ain't gonna bring her dead ass back. Is it?" I shook my head, not knowing what else to do. "So, old fucker, to get you back to a semblance of normality, what say we watch her fucking videos of us in all our naked ass glory? Eh?" What? He hadn't destroyed them all?

"Jack, I thought you . . . "

"Yeah, old biscuit, I did. All but one. Our first threesome, as it turns out. And, in case you forgot, it's hotter than fucking holy hell! And, old whiskbroom, before you say or ask anything else, let me just say, that we, old muskrat, are not even on the B list of suspects! No one but you and I know we knew her in a sexual way. No one! Believe me, I can see all the files on the case any time I have a mind to." He grinned at me.

I was starting to feel those murderer's errors were beginning to crawl out from every piece of woodwork in the cabin, but I knew expressing any doubts would fall on Jack's deaf ears and be poo-pooed away. The fucker grinned again.

"Now, Chauncy," he said. "Go hit Play on the fucking VCR and let the show begin, old chummy!" Again with the fucking grin! But what the fuck, I thought, why not? And if truth be available, I was curious to see Malomar again, even if it was just an image on an RCA TV screen. It's sick to say, but I missed her. So much I was willing to watch a corpse have sex with two ass holes.

The movie started and there we were, all three of us, naked and as alive as alive can get. Poor Malomar. But she was a bitch, after all, so I forced myself to pay immediate attention to the technical qualities of the film. They were excellent. The picture of us was as clear as can be. Christ, you could even discern each hair on Malomar's unshaven pussy. That pussy! What a waste to take that magical thing out of this world.

There was Malomar, deep-throating Jack's fat cock here and there, her eyes wide open and staring right into his pubic hairs. She once told me she preferred having her eyes open, unlike some gals, because it added sexual excitement to it all. She sure did look sexually excited as he swallowed him whole hog, super-sized head and all.

And there was me, Mr. Nerdo,
right behind her, my cock buried
deep in her snatch, working my
ass like a porno pro. While I
fucked her, she was moaning all
around Jack's cock, sounding as
if she had found there was a
heaven hidden in his pubes. Jack Spratt

This fucking scene, pardon the pun, went on for quite some time before Jack and I changed positions. I was now moaning my fool head off as Malomar lunched on my prick, her eyes open as if to see what went into the meal.

A time later, we changed again. Malomar crawled on top of Jack, facing him, and told me, "Put your cock in my ass, Arthur, I want to feel you both at the same time!" The film me obliged her and the real-life me now watched her getting double-fucked and obviously enjoying it immensely. Her screams and yells told me that much.

Malomar shouted she was cumming now and then and, at some point, Jack came with a loud whoop yell. I soon followed suit, but more gentlemanly sounding, or perhaps more nerdy-like. Take your pick.

The film then went white and I assumed it was over, so I started to get up to eject the tape, but Jack said, "Hold on, old whisker, there's a little more. She's edited the damned thing!" I sat back down and waited.

The white turned into another picture of us all and there was Malomar, on her knees before Jack and me, her head thrown back and her mouth wide open, her tongue hanging out. She had her tongue's sides pushed in. It reminded me of a cup-like receptacle. A tongue cup, if you will. Jack and I were beating our dicks ferociously, and I now remembered the scene as I watched it unfold. It played out on the screen, reinforcing my memory of it all.

I came first, putting the head of my cock against the edge of her tongue cup and shooting my load into it. I filled the cup up and watched as some dribbled out of the tongue's edges and fell to the floor.

She showed her mouth to us both so we could see the sperm, and probably for some perversity in her, because she knew it was being filmed. I now watched her swallow it all. Greedily, if that's the word.

Jack soon followed suit, dropping a large-blobby style cum ball in her tongue cup at first, and then following it up with what looked like to be at least a quarter cup of cum.

I watched, fascinated, as his cum streamed out of him and puddled into her tongue cup, sloshing over around the sides. Malomar did her mouth display trick again and promptly swallowed Jack's entire discharge with an audible gulp. She smiled at the camera as she looked up at us and said, "Thank you, boys, thank you. That was delicious!" She looked ravishingly beautiful. In spite of the cum that was now drying on her chin.

There followed a quick scene in which she stood up and took turns kissing us as we fondled her all over. Then the white appeared again and Jack threw me a nod of his head that said, now moron, now you can kill the VCR.

I did just that . . .

* * * * * *

THINGS WENT SWIMMINGLY after our little cabin fishing trip.
I was more relaxed and resigned to it all. I no longer feared the knock on the door, but the idea of it was still floating around in my brain somewhere, sitting on a back burner, so to speak.

Then the shit hit the fan once more!

The police had made an arrest in the Malomar rape and murder case, one Phillip Oscar Hanratty. They had the man dead to rights, the article said. His DNA was a perfect match.

And the sorry sucker had no alibi for the time in question. And, if that don't beat all, he was seen just a few blocks from Malomar's apartment complex on the night of her killing. The DA delightedly refered to the case as a slam dunk!

Well, I almost shit a brick! I called Jack, and he knew what I was calling about even before I had said word one. Not wanting to talk on the phone, we arranged to meet at Carlyle's Bar & Cafe in an hour. I got there forty-five minutes early! And ordered one helluva triple Scotch, splash of soda, carefully sliced lemon. I was half in the bag when Jack arrived, and he looked chipper as he grinned his usual fucking grin at me.

He ordered a drink sent to our table and, when the drink was in his hand, he said, "Hee hee, old cohort, looks like we have a small problem!" No shit, Sherlock! What clued you in? "But it's only a problem in appearances, not in reality, old worrywort." I started to say something, but he raised a hand to silence me.

"It seems, old moose droppings," he began, "our particular Hanratty had a long lost twin brother, and an identical one at that. Ha ha! That's why the DNA matched. Who knew? The fucking dumb ass hobo! This new Hanratty, at least new to us, is seventy-five, goes fucking in and out of dementia, and he's a hobo just like dear old brother John." He paused to take a sip. He appeared very calm. I was a mess inside. Murderer's gaffes were now seeming to be everywhere to me.

"Well, old asswipe, it seems the new Hanratty came into town looking for the old Hanratty with the idea of patching up a family squabble going back to the first water. He never found brother Johnny, so he told me." Huh? Whu . . . ?

"You spoke to him?" I couldn't believe my ears. Killer's gaffe, anyone? We got 'em right here, no waiting! I must have looked, to coin a phrase, slighty wild-eyed to Jack, for he now spoke softly to me as if remonstrating to a recalcitrant child.

"Calm down, old pip, so I spoke to him . . . so fucking what? My job, you know. He's a rundown old fart and, speaking medically, I don't give him more than a few more months to live. Along with the DT's, his in and out Alzheimers, he's got advanced stomach cancer. Inoperable, by the way." He took another sip and looked direclty at me. And he was grinning. Of course.

"And, old frypan, here's the fucking corker! He says he just might have killed her, because he remembers killing someone that night, so why not her? Now, old toenail, ain't that just something? It seems the Hanratty clan was born to serve us well in our time of greatest need!" This time he laughed, one of those guffaw-type laughs.

I couldn't help myself, the circumstances being so strange and all, plus the booze in me, so I laughed with him. My usual Mr. Nerdy laugh. But I had a question.

"Tell me, Jack, what will they do now with this new Hanratty?" I couldn't live with myself if they put this old coot in jail, out of his head and half dead already, or not.

"Ah, old lardass, he won't even go to trial. He's way too demented to participate in his own defense, and too sick to serve any time. Oh, he'll be locked up, for sure, but in one of those old folk's type hospital jails. In a strange way, old marshmallow, we did him a favor! He just might suck a few more weeks out of life than he could out on the streets. So, buck up, old bucko, stiff upper lip and all. Eh what, old bean?"

He picked up his glass and pushed it toward me in a toast.

"Here's to the Hanratty boys, we couldn't have done it without 'em!" Feeling the liquor hitting me quite suddenly, I pushed my drink out, found his for the clink, and said, "Here's to Malomar Twine, wherever she is!" Jack grinned.

Clink!

The End.
"From my mind, to your mind!"