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Sometimes A Great Notion In A Small Town Passes By
by Count of Shadows
© 2000 by W.  S.  Dean



"Now thet don't make a lick of sense."

"What's that, Pardee?"

Pardee nodded his head.

"Oh.  What part on it don't?"

Pardee frowned at his companion. "You ain't got none yerself if ya can't see it, Keats."

Keats squinched his eyes up tightly.

"Oh, sure.  I see it now."

"Hell.  It ain't what ya see out there on thet sidewalk.  It's the whole gottamn thing."

Keats opened his eyes wider.  He turned to Pardee. "Well, mebbe, they's just friends is all, Pardee.  Mebbe, he feels sorry for her."

Pardee spit a brown stream of tobacco juice to his right and wiped his mouth with a stained shirt sleeve. "He's feeling a damn sight more'n just her sorry."

Keats' mouth fell open. "Gottamn...you mean they's..."

"Don't make a lick of sense," Pardee repeated.

Across the street, Mary Ellen Duwalter looked up and over her shoulder.  She grinned. "They're talking about you again."

His strong hand patted her shoulder. "Not me.  Us.  Couple of old perverts.  They ought to be ashamed."

She laughed. "I suppose they can't figure out how we manage it, Rank, and it confuses them."

Rankle Pipers slowly turned his head to look at Pardee and Keats.  Without smiling he slipped his hand down over Mary's shoulder and cupped her right breast.  He flexed his fingers around it. "We manage it just fine," he half-shouted.  He brought his hand back up to the handle of Mary's wheelchair and continued to slowly push her along the sidewalk.  Mary pretended to be shocked but couldn't contain her giggle.

"You know what confuses them really is how a beautiful young woman like you," Rankle said later as they rested under the shade of a park tree, "can stand spending so much time with an ugly, washed-up nobody like me."

"Maybe I just like the way you fuck," she shrugged.

He laughed and touched her lips. "You got a dirty mouth, Mary.  And I'd be the one to know how well you can use it, too." He stepped back and looked down at her.  He liked the way the sunlight dappled her blonde hair and her simple Summer dress.  His eyes barely glanced below the hem where her legs were propped up on the wheelchair's footpads.

"Don't," she said softly.  She tilted her head. ‘They used to do things, didn't they?"

"What? Sorry, I was watching the sunlight."

"Your other women.  They used to what? Wrap their legs around you and pull you tight.  Dance naked with you?"

"Honey..." Rankle lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke.

"I don't care what confuses those old yokels on their porches, Rank.  What confuses me is why you're strapping yourself to a..."

"Mary..."

"...to a cripple.  To a woman whose legs might as well be...I don't know...dead meat."

Rankle kneeled down beside her.  His eyes flicked from side to side then he slid his hand up her left leg, caressing.  She looked at him, her expression shifting back and forth between contempt and puzzlement.

"I used to dream," he said, still running his fingers along her calf. "I used to dream of being able to touch a woman's legs." He shook his head with a sad smile. "I was always ugly, you know.  I mean as a kid, a boy.  Pushed up face and eyebrows that grew all thick and across my forehead.  I mean, look at this nose.  A snout."

Mary's hand settled on his cheek. "It's all right."

"No, it's not.  Never will be either.  Hell, I've had plastic surgeons laugh at the very thought of fixing me up.  It'd take millions, they said.  Not dollars.  Years."

She made her eyes grow colder. "Knock that shit off, Rank."

"Well," he began, "if a butt-ugly guy like me and a never-walk-again babe like you can't mess around with a little self-pity, what good are we?"

They laughed.

Rank stood and looked down at her. "Race you to the nearest bedroom," he growled.

She grinned mischievously and bumped a wheel on top of his foot. "Careful," she said. "I cheat."

He hopped around holding his foot for a moment, making her giggle, then began pushing her wheelchair home. "You," he said. "I better get you home, you're dangerous out in public."

"What ‘til you see how I can be in private."

"Oh, I know all about that."

Later, her strong hands gripped the hanging bar over the bed and she pulled herself up the shaft of his cock, then slid back down again.  His fingers caressed down her taut forearms, let them drift along her shoulders and then further down to her full breasts.  His thumbs rubbed over her hard nipples as she continued to pull herself up, let herself down.

"You like this don't you?" she murmured, lolling her head.

He grinned. "Bet I do.  Not every woman can fuck and give a double hand job at the same time."

"Hand job? Oh, you mean the bar? Maybe I'll just stop that and let you do the work for a change." She let go and settled down on his chest, kissed his face.

His hands gripped her hips and began lifting her, raising his hips to keep his cock buried deeply inside her. "Amazing," he whispered.

"What is, baby?"

"You don't even close your eyes when you kiss me."

"Dammit!" She pushed herself upward to look into his face. "Ugly isn't how you look.  Ugly is what you do.  What you are.  And you're not ugly."

"They teach you that in physio-therapy?"

"Do you want to talk, mister, or fuck?"

"Can't we do both?"

"Maybe but not on this subject."

"What then?"

"Oh, we could talk about how good your cock feels inside me."

"It does.  Feels like I'm fucking a velvet pussy."

"A very wet velvet pussy."

"Your pussy."

"Ummmm, yes.  Mine." She suddenly laughed loudly.

"What?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"Why not?"

"This.  Right now.  This.  And that I love you and love me.  It's a reason."

"Good one."

They both laughed even louder.

The laughter spiraled out the open window and made the two walking men pause and look toward the small house.

"What're they laughing about ya think?" Keats asked.

Pardee hitched up his pants and shook his head.

"So, do you wanta or what?" Keats laid his hand on Pardee's arm.

"Down by the river, ya mean?"

Keats nodded.

Pardee grunted. "You got that new Penthouse magazine, ya say?"

Keats nodded eagerly. "You can look at it while I suck ya.  I don't mind none."

Pardee mulled it over.  He nodded, then turned for one last glance at the small house they'd passed and shook his head. "Nosir.  Not a lick of sense," he said quietly.

© 2000 W.  S.  Dean

Authors live for feedback!
If you enjoyed this story, send comments to
W.  S. Dean

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