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| ***BIO*** KARL KOWESKI: I'm a 31 year old displaced Chicagoan, now living on top of a mountain in Alabama for reasons that involve a woman. I was the lead singer/banjo player of the now defunct country/punk/disco band The Screaming Shits. Now I just work in a machine shop and write articles for porno mags. |
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| © 2006 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| A Piece of Amish Ass |
| by Karl Koweski |
| Before the divorce, the ex and I would drive the forty five minutes to Mennon, an Amish community near the Tennessee border. It was something to do. We’d pick one of the grim looking clap board houses and buy a jar of molasses or a bushel of peanuts off one of the sullen primitives.
Last Saturday I found myself piloting the horseless carriage along the narrow streets of Amish country. Something to do, I guess. After an aimless cruise, I pulled into a dirt driveway leading up to a southern gothic house. I had no use for boiled peanuts or freshly harvested honey. Maybe I wanted to affront an Amish families’ black and white fashion sensibilities with my lime green and turquoise Acapulco shirt. Maybe I was bored with the stereo and wanted to engage in conversation people who abhorred my adherence to electricity. I noticed a horse in the barn so I assumed someone was home. I glanced around. The utter lack of wires and cables connecting the house to civilization was disconcerting. Like seeing a satellite dish mounted on the mud roof of a grass hut. Then there was the silence. No hum of an air conditioner, no strains of canned laughter from some bullshit sitcom. I knocked on the door feeling as though I were trick or treating in a time warp. I waited. Through the window I could see cereal boxes and a two liter of soda. Maybe these were some of those progressive Amish types. Finally, the door opened and a young woman poked her head out. Seeing me, a smile spread across her face, an oddity considering most people without running water in my estimation didn’t have a whole lot to smile about. She stepped out onto the stoop. We exchanged greetings. I checked her out, subtly, as well as I could. The only visible flesh was her face. She didn’t look a day under eighteen, but not many days past it, either. Blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, full lips. Everything else was obscured by the long black cassock she wore. We stood there a moment sizing each other up. She glanced over my shoulder looking at my Mustang the way I might look at a stealthy bomber parked inside my apartment. “What kinda machine is that, mister?” She asked. “Mustang machine, baby.” “Really? Always had a hankerin to ride in one of them.” “Well, if your daddy don’t mind, I’ll take you for a spin.” “Ain’t got no daddy here, mister. And my man’s gettin liquored up with the boys on the south side.” Mennon had a south side? How urban. What sort of Amish gangs roamed the south side? Did they graffiti cows? No matter. I invited her for a ride and she accepted. She grabbed a sexy crocheted shawl and wrapped it about her shoulders before jumping into the passenger seat. “Where to?” I asked. A dumb question, but it’s one of those facts of life, the sort of lines I used to separate a woman from her slacks in the modern world just weren’t appropriate in a land where chastity belts and butter churning ruled the day. “Anywhere as long as you drive fast.” And drive fast I did. Coming around the corner at the end of her road, I almost side-swiped a donkey. The bearded owner of said donkey showed his ire by raising a fist at me and calling upon god to smite me. “What’s your name?” “Biddy.” She didn’t ask my name nor did I offer. I liked being called mister. Conversation veered toward the weather and how the crops were fairing. She sat primly in the passenger seat with her hands on her lap. It occurred to me I wasn’t going to fuck her. Ordinarily, I’m a font of confidence, but when I put my hand on her knee and she demurely removed it, I knew no amount of self esteem would lead me to the promised land. When she asked to take her home I readily complied without even casting about for a blow job. First thing we noticed pulling into her driveway was the mid-sized carriage tipped over on its side, back wheel spinning idly. A quarter horse, bit and tackle still clamped about its head, paced the pasture. Biddy’s husband laid face down in the yard. “He dead?” “Nah, mister, just drunker than Cooter Brown. Passed out is all, probably won’t wake up til late. Wanna come inside? I got some lemonade if you’re thirsty.” I thought about asking if she had anything with a higher alcohol content. Seeing her man, dead to the world and getting ate up by chiggers, made me think twice. Also, the way she was looking at me, she had something else in mind to quench rather than thirst. Once inside, she took my hand and guided me straight to the bedroom. The bedroom looked like a Victorian flea market. A brass bed dominated the room, the mattress piled high with what looked to be six generations worth of quilts. Biddy, untied her bonnet and unleashed at least a yard of blondish brown hair, half of which were split ends. I removed my Cub’s cap, shrugged off my shirt and waited ten minutes for Biddy to unfasten, unclasp, unbutton and undress, until she was down to her bra and panties. Or the Amish version of bra and panties. Seeing me trying to stare through the fabric covering her snatch brought a blush to her face. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m not use to doing this before sundown. Fact is, mister. I’m not use to doing this at all.” “Well, baby” I said, yanking down my pants, “I guess you’re in for an education, then.” She trembled like a new born fawn as I laid her down on the monkey pile of quilts. Her breathing accelerated as I straddled her. My cock stood straight up like an exclamation mark, exclaiming I’m gonna get laid! She twisted out of her bra the way a magician might escape a strait jacket. Smooth skin, pale as buttermilk, her breasts lolled, areolas almost transparent, nipples large and blunt. I sucked a nipple bringing a gasp. Her hands fluttered, not knowing whether to push me away or pull me closer. I worked lower, kissing down the inverted V of her rib cage, licking the soft down on her navel. I eased my hands up her soft thighs, around the luxurious curve of her hips. I slipped down what a grandmother might consider panties. What greeted me was the hairiest bush I’ve ever seen. A thatch of mousy brown pubes curlicued six inches off her mons venus. I ran my fingers through the bird’s nest until I lit upon her pussy lips already swollen and moist. I needed both hands and all my fingers to part her hair and spread her distended lips. The moment I flicked my tongue across her clit, Biddy leapt a foot off the bed as though she’d been goosed with a turkey leg. “What are you doing, mister?” She spread her legs further apart. I kissed her pussy, tonguing her clit. “Oh don’t stop.” And I didn’t. I rested my forehead against the pillow her pubic hair provided and went tongue crazy, licking and sucking and nibbling at her snatch. It took some doing just to work a finger into her tight pussy which excited me no end. It had been my rotten luck up until this glorious day that every woman who ever deigned to fuck me possessed a cunt three times too large for my equipment. Her pubic hair collected moisture like a dewy spider web. A mixture of cum and saliva leaked down her ass crack. My face buried in her pussy left my hands free for spelunking. With one finger wedged in her pussy, I subtly moved my free hand around her ass. I gripped her ass, grinding her pussy against my mouth. As she raised up, I eased my middle finger into her ass, up to the first joint. She gasped in surprise. I kept my finger stationary. Her weight and the undulation of her hips quickly worked my finger deeper, until it hit knuckle. Pressing against her vaginal wall, my fingers in both her orifices massaged the membrane between. Biddy did everything except sing a gospel hymn. She grabbed two handfuls of my hair and pressed me against her sopping wet pussy until I thought I needed gills to breathe. She climaxed hard. And for a moment, I thought she was speaking in tongues, but then realized she was just talking Amish which is a mixture of English and eighteenth century southern slang. My face glazed with her juices, I reared up and kissed her. She didn’t turn away as many modern-minded women often did. I crawled up her body and placed my cock against her sealed lips. She looked at me as though I were crazy, but in a worshipful way, the way the apostles might have looked at Jesus if he break danced on water. I looked at her, looked at my cock, looked at her and waggled my eyebrows. “What do you expect me to do with that, mister?” “Put it in your mouth for starters.” “And what does that do?” “Well it makes me feel pretty damn good.” “Don’t you pee out of that thing?” “Not when it’s hard. Now quit being greedy and get to sucking.” She grimaced, closed her eyes and opened her mouth. I suspended myself above her in the push-up position and eased my cock into her mouth. I stopped well short of dropping my balls on her chin, knowing if I gagged her, I could kiss off getting a blow job. Of course, I overestimated myself. She closed her lips around my cock. I waited a moment... expecting, I don’t know what. Suction? The flicking of her tongue? Her teeth clamped down hard on my dick and I howled in pain. I instinctually tried to yank free, but I was stuck in her bear trap of a mouth. I suppose it was the tears streaming down my face that convinced her to unhinge her jaw. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong? I’ve never done this sort of thing before.” A quick inspection of my cock showed that Biddy had a mean over bite. “We could try something else,” she said. “I know something you’d like. Something all the boys love.” Her hand enclosed my wounded cock and firmly though gently began stroking me. Up until now, I scoffed at the thought of hand jobs, believing if I wanted a hand job, I could just as easily prime the pump, myself. Biddy set out to prove me wrong, stroking my shaft like a butter churn, snapping her wrist with each change in direction, flexing the considerable muscles in her palm. Within two minutes she was on the verge of coaxing the white flower from my tower of power. She raised an eyebrow when I pushed her hand away. “Not yet,” I said. “Doesn’t it feel good?” I told her it felt too good. I didn’t want to tell her that I couldn’t consider her a conquest without actually penetrating her pussy with my cock. She seemed to understand, maybe not the Clintonian guidelines by which I viewed sex, but she understood enough to recline on her back and spread her legs for me. Kneeling between her legs, jabbing uselessly at the virgin forest of pubic hair, I was reminded of the old joke about the guy who had pubic hair longer than my cock. I didn’t laugh then. I certainly wasn’t laughing now. I was vaguely aware of time passing by. I plunged into her pubic hair and searched for her sweet spot. I had a lot of area to cover. Her pubic hair began just south of her belly button, came down, around and back up to her lower back. After several exploratory jabs I hit wet flesh. I penetrated further. One, two, three inches and she was officially fucked by the main man (me). I used a mole on her inner thigh to get my bearings in case I should flop out (I almost always overestimate my stroke) and got to humping. Biddy bit her lower lip. Her eyes squeezed tight. Her fingers ran along my tensed arms, across muscles that have never pushed a plow or raised a barn. Like a woman combing her hair, I counted out fifty strokes and stopped, intending to change positions. I grabbed her waist and bent backward pulling her on top of me. She seized my wrists. “What are you doing, mister?” “Goddammit.” This was getting to be like fucking a virgin without any of the advantages. “Switching positions.” “There’s different positions?” “Trust me.” Once on top of me, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. I eased her awkwardness by placing her pussy a couple inches above my navel. I bucked my hips, driving myself inside her, with the last of my strength. Watching her titties flop in supersonic hump drive, I didn’t last long. At the penultimate moment, I pushed Biddy off and crouched over her. She stared at the head of my cock with a mixture of confusion and revulsion. Then I shot my load across her face and chest. She gasped and froze as I pumped my spunk in streaks across her cheek, mouth, neck and tits. Once every drop of go juice was expelled, I tipped my imaginary hat and thanked her. I gathered my clothes and dressed. As I let myself out of the bedroom, she still hadn’t moved, or even breathed. Outside, the first thing I noticed: Her husband was gone. The second thing I noticed: My fucking car was gone. Son of a bitch. I stood there. The front of my pants were glued to my cock. I wondered before the advent of electricity, what did the Amish do without? |
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