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The Peculiar Case of the Porno Purveyor
by Brady Sutton © 2008


Porno Purveyor by Brady Sutton"Silence: Writer thinking"

The sign was taped to Marge Zymanski's front door, a nice door on a nice small house in a nice, quiet neighborhood in a nice small town.

Marge herself sat at her PC, fingers on keyboard, having moments ago typed "Cock'll Do, Will You?" the tentative title of the next porn tale intended for her erotica Web site,

She'd started the site to give eager writers a place to display their smut. She paid nothing. She charged nothing. She wrote most of the stories. She had 11 members, each of whom had to submit a porn story to gain membership, after which they could submit up to five pieces a month, in any form, as long as they were what Marge considered erotica.

She shared links with other sites and thus got plenty of hits, though not many returns yet. She'd gotten her definition of erotica, in fact, from one of those sites, a much bigger place with many professional connections and some excellent writers.

Marge aspired to such a place, where writers could become authors, could spread their erotic words around the world

She wrote at least one story a month. Occasionally two or three other members contributed something. All members could comment on fellow members' stories—civilly. Marge, a former English teacher, brooked no nonsense. She had dealt with unruly students. She could deal with rowdy writers.

Besides, she pointed out in each of her monthly e-mails, the goal was to write well and then sell,sell, sell! And constructive criticism was the key.

In Marge's case, she almost always started with the title. The "Cock" title had come to her when she'd heard Ernie, one her three chickens, crow at the morning light.

She kept three chickens because she was addicted to "My Three Sons," reruns of which she recorded faithfully. Why chickens? When one of her three kids asked that very question a while back, Marge had said in her best teacher's voice, "Why, because they're the things with feathers!"

Her child had then asked, quite logically, "Huh?"

Marge, still in teacher mode, explained patiently, "You'll understand when you get older."

Marge handled her chickens much as schools handled their children. When one chicken moved up or out, she got another chicken.

It started with Tim Considine, "Mike" on the show. When he quit and his last show reran, Marge killed the "Mike" chicken, plucked and cleaned him, fried him and served him with mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed corn, green beans, cornbread and apple pie a la mode.

She'd then adopted Ernie.

And so forth. It was a ritual—as was her fantasy of Fred McMurray when she masturbated. In her stories she invariably included a masturbation scene where the wanker fantasized about a movie legend.

So. "Cock'll Do." OK, how about this, Marge said to herself. Open with a hot scene involving her heroine, Norma, and Norma's married lover, Stan. Norma inadvertently damages Stan's cock during fellatio, and Stan yowls. He then berates and beats her. Not for the first time. But, Norma decides, for the last.

She cringes, apologizes, tells him it's all her fault. It's always the woman's fault. She obediently pours him a tumbler full of Wild Turkey with a mixer of five 10-milligram Valium tablets. Let dissolve. Serve.

Because she is becoming anxious, she takes two pills herself.

He's still naked when he crashes, making it easy for her when she decides to cut off his penis, which she minces and then mixes into her chocolate chip cookie batter. Stan loved chocolate chip cookies.

She tracks down her ex-hubby's pistol-grip hacksaw, cuts through Stan's skull (just like on CSI!), gently removes his brain, which she'll later have with eggs for breakfast.

She places the remainder of the corpse in her mother's room, which Norma has kept just as Mom did—messy as hell. The stink, she knows, won't last forever.

The man's wife, Arlene, comes looking for hubby; Norma's house is on Stan's Bible-selling route. Norma tells Arlene no Bible salesman has been by, and she'd swear to that on a stack of Bibles.

To make Arlene feel better, Norma invites her in for coffee and chocolate chip cookies, her own secret recipe, she says. Arlene, her feet giving her fits, agrees, primarily so she can get off her dogs and plant her ass in a nice soft chair.

Norma brings out a large tray atop which sit two large cups and a pile of cookies. The cups contain coffee.

The two dig in, Arlene at one point saying she's never tasted better cookies. What's your secret, she asks. Oh, just a little something you've probably had before, Norma responds. But you know the thing about secrets.

The two women get along famously—and soon Norma has broken out the Wild Turkey, 101 proof. A few shots and they were laughing, exchanging stories about the men in their lives, Norma's divorce, Arlene's solitary sex life, sex per se.

Norma suddenly says with a slur, "Jus' a sec. I gotta show you something."

She staggers down the hall and into what Arlene presumes is her bedroom. Minutes later she returns with a long, tapered device with a bulbous head. She flicks a switch, and the thing buzzes. She places it to Arlene's cheek, and Arlene flinches, then returns.

"Wanna try it?" Norma asks. "I got another one."

"Well, you gotta show me," Arlene responds. "Stan don't let me do those things."

Soon both women are in Norma's bedroom, on Norma's king-size bed, both naked, all four legs spread, two vibrators pressed against two needy clits, all four buzzing to beat the band.

Norma, fantasizing about the man who starred in "Son of Flubber," starts begging a shaggy dog to mount her.

And then the real smut begins. She'd figure out the climax later.

Marge typed a few lines, thought about toning down the grue just a tad—maybe—then glanced at the clock in the corner of her computer. Her three little darlings, ages 16, 13 and 10, would be stepping off the school bus any time now. Time for her to get dressed.

The writer and entrepreneur—who described herself on her website as a cheerful, pink-cheeked woman of 37, buxom at 5-3 and 145 pounds, with bold if not bounteous breasts and smallish pink, always-erect nipples, curly red hair kept long on top and shaved down below, thick but curvaceous legs, a voluptuous ass and a generous sexual appetite—always worked naked.

She donned a boysenberry blouse that kept her areolae hidden but made clear the audacity of her nipples; a wrap-around skirt in buttercup that hung slightly below the knees; and gold t-strap sandals.

Marge, who always awaited her precious ones on the small front porch, was only feet from the door when it came crashing in, missing her perky nose by inches.

Marge stood dazed as three of the town's five police officers rushed in, one holding the town's battering ram. The others grabbed her arms and propelled her face down to the floor, causing her skirt to ride up in an unseemly manner. She felt the cold steel of handcuffs bind her, as well as the cold hands of a cop slapping at her thighs, encouraging her to spread 'em.

The bastard, Pauly Petersburg, whom Marge knew only as a policeman of unsavory reputation, also managed to sneak a hand up her already-rucked-up skirt. When he touched her bare pussy, Marge jerked, giving the appearance of humping his hand.

"Keep your hands to yourself!" Marge yelled, turning her head in an effort to give the groper the evil eye.

The offender was out of sight, but Marge heard from near the door, "We'll have none of that, Petersburg. You're already on probation. You want to stay a cop in this town, you'll quit feeling up the suspects."

"Sorry, Sarge," Marge heard Petersburg respond. "It was an accident. I swear."

"Well, the next 'accident' gets reported to the captain, and you'll soon be working at Sloppy's Rib Joint mopping up sauce. OK, guys, let's get her on her feet."

Two cops pulled her up and turned her to face the sergeant. His name was Billy Burwinkle, but most townsfolk, when not calling him Sarge, called him Ed. No one knew why, and Ed refused to discuss it.

"OK, Marge, first, you have the right to remain blah blah blah blah. OK? You know all that crap. So. You're being charged with three counts of distributing obscene material via a members-only smut club on the Internet, said smut club called

"We do have a warrant to search your home and seize anything that looks like evidence. Uh, I left the paperwork at the station, but we really have one. Honest.

"Bud, would you escort Ms. Zymanski to your patrol car and hold her there until we can search and seize? All right, people, spread out!"

People, being the sergeant and the asshole Petersburg, began spreading out.

"Wait, sergeant!" Marge yelled. "Can one of you go next door and tell Etheleen to get my kids? They'll be home from school any time."

"Sure thing, Marge," Sarge said. "Now you two head for the car."

Marge did as told, followed by Cpl. Bud Wadd, aka "John C. Wadd." At the vehicle, he opened the back door and helped her scoot in, hindered as she was by the cuffs. Her skirt slid up slightly, and she saw Bud's eyes flash at the sight of her milky white thighs.

Bud climbed behind the wheel.

"Oh, Bud," Marge said when they were seated, "what's going on? Who is doing this?"

Bud turned, faced her.

"It's that new U.S. attorney, Bernice Ligamento. She replaced Ernie Nevermore. You knew Ernie. You know he died, right?" "But why me? I don't even have that many links and almost no pictures."

She paused.

"And what about you? Does anybody know you're a new-rotica member? You know I'll never say anything, but ... "

"Ligamento just wants to go after the number one perv, she said. And that's you. She may be running for attorney general or something and thinks this'll give her a leg up."

"Speaking of leg up," Marge said as demurely as she'd tucked in her skirt, "I haven't had a chance to tell you how much I enjoyed that last story you did. You have to tell me how you learned so much about sex clubs and S&M."

"When I was in Indy I did some undercover work in those places. We were looking for drugs, so we had to really look everywhere.

"Speaking of stories, yours are always extremely, uh, hot, if you don't mind my saying so. I've thought about calling you, telling you how much I like your writing. But then I just went through a messy divorce, and I haven't lived here that long, so ... "

"First, thanks. I never get enough. Compliments, I mean. And you know you were my first member. I made the e-mail sound as if it were going to the whole erotica world, but it was really just to you. I saw your poems in the paper. Very, very good. I just had a feeling you would be great at writing about sex."

Marge watched Bud smile and blush.

"You know, I think that when people don't have sex partners, sex means more to them, and that comes out in their writing. So are you working on anything now?" "Oh, sure. It's a little close to home, but it just felt right. It's really coming easily."

Bud ducked his head and blushed again.

"But when you see it, I don't want you to think it's autobiographical. I've never done anything like in the story."

"Now you've got me intrigued. Give me some hints."

Bud raised his head, stared out the side window.

"It's about a cop. You could guess that, right? He picks up a woman for shoplifting, cuffs her, just the way you are, and heads for the station. She begins moaning in the back seat, he says what's wrong, and she says the handcuffs are really turning her on. Huh? the cop says. Could you stop? the woman asks. For what, the cop says.

"Anyway, after a bit they have wild sex. He tells her he's letting her off with a warning and takes her to her home. She hugs and kisses him and tells him she wants to fuck him again. He says we'll see. Then he drives off, smiling, and not till later does he realize that she's stolen his handcuffs, and his baton, which they had used for sexual purposes."

As Bud told the story, Marge became more and more aware of the handcuffs. Of her naked pussy beneath the buttercup skirt. Of her rigid nipples rubbing against her boysenberry blouse.

"Uh, Bud," she said, beginning to rub her legs together, feeling that delightful pressure on her clit, "shouldn't we be heading for the station? Or somewhere?"

Bud looked at Marge. Marge knew she was flushed. She saw Bud look at her stiff nipples, her bold if not bounteous breasts. Her chest is beginning to heave. Her legs are opening and closing like horny scissors.

"Uh, yes, I think we should."

He pulled away from the curb and headed not toward the station but toward the woods that surrounded their town.

"Bud, you think you could use some, uh, research? You said you'd never dont that, right?"

"That's right. You're right. And right now it's just all in my head."

"How about this?"

Marge began moaning. She wriggled her voluptuous ass on the seat. She squeezed her legs together.

"Officer, these handcuffs. They're ... so tight. This has never happened to me before. They're really ... ooh, they're really turning me on. I'm getting so ... wet. Would you please touch my pussy, sir? I can't. My hands ... "

"I'm sorry. That's illegal, ma'am. I'm an officer of the law. Sure, I'd love to rub your pussy. Lick it. I'd love to bend you over the hood of my police vehicle and ... and ... perform several acts that in this state are against the law."

"But where are you taking me? Are you taking me to the woods? Where no one can see us? Are you going to violate my ... rights?"

Bud, driving slightly above the speed limit, had taken them off the road and was moving deep into the trees.

"Ma'am, I just realized I have to search you. People can hide the most dangerous weapons in the unlikeliest of places. I'll have to ... examine you very closely. For that we'll need privacy. You wouldn't want oglers, now, would you?"

"Oh yes, officer. I mean, no, no oglers, but yes, please examine me. Very closely. I stole so many things, and hid them in so many places."

Bud suddenly pulled the car into a spot among thick, leafy trees and slammed on the brakes. It was, Marge concluded, plenty far from prying eyes.

Bud was out of the car in a trice, and in two trices was pulling Marge from the back seat. He was surprisingly rough ... which aroused Marge even more.

He tugged her forward, turned her and pushed her back until her ass was hard against the car. He stepped close, pressed himself against her, grabbed her face in both hands and mashed his lips into hers. Then he stepped back.

"This is a thorough body search. The handcuffs will remain in place throughout. I have the right to search any part of your body. For example ... "

Bud seized the top of Marge's boysenberry blouse and ripped it down the front, buttons popping left and right. He pulled until Marge's breasts were fully exposed.

"Nothing concealed here," he said before taking a breast in each hand and squeezing, emphasizing the pert pink nipples, which he sucked and licked, head moving to and fro. Marge sighed, seized his head and held it hard against her.

But she was not strong enough to hold him there, and in a jiffy she was facing the car, pushed until her cheek was on the hood.

She felt Bud pull on the handcuffs. They were secure, loose but secure. Then Bud was pressing her hands together, and between them she felt Bud himself, or at least his erect cock, thrusting through her palms as if they were her pussy.

"Handcuffs, check," she heard Bud grunt.

She took hold with one hand and let him fuck that. With her other hand she tried to locate his balls. But before she could do anything more than grope, Bud had pulled away.

"Spread your legs, please," she was told. She spread them. "Wider, please." She went as far as her wrap-around skirt would allow.

"This won't do." Up went her skirt, and she felt the breeze buffet her hips, naked ass, thighs and, between them, her glistening pussy lips.

"Now, farther, please."

Farther she spread herself, as far as she could. Touch me, she whispered to herself. Fuck me.

"A traditional place of concealment, we've determined, is a woman's vagina. Have you hidden any valuables there, ma'am?" The official tone in Bud's voice made Marge's wide-open cunt overflow, pussy juice running down her thighs.

"Uhnnnhh .... "

Marge had begun humping the side of the car, rolling her hips, desperately needing something hard against her clit.

When Bud's cop-roughened hands began stroking the insides of her legs, she began rubbing her naked nipples against the hood. Up his hands went, down, up, down, each time a little farther up. Marge bent her knees, reaching for his hands with her cunt. She just knew his hands were soaked by now from the flood gushing from her pussy.

"We'll begin the vaginal search as soon as I have my prophylactic protection in place," Bud said. Oh, Marge thought, he's putting a rubber on his huge cop cock! God, how she wished she could put it on with her mouth. She'd practiced so often with bananas!

Marge was sure she couldn't get any wetter.

Then Bud's big cock touched her pussy lips, and it was as if a dam inside Marge had burst. Nectar, nectar, everywhere.

She tried to get her knees onto the hood, anything to spread herself wider, to give Bud complete access.

"Please, please, do it now!"

But Bud seemed under control. "Entry will commence now." Slowly his cock slid into Marge. "Mmmmmmm, everything ... uh, everything seems to ... to be in or ... order."

He was losing it. He wanted to ram his cock all the way into her, deep, hammer her, pump that prick in and out until they were both overcome with come. Marge just knew it.

She wiggled her hips, pushed back, getting him a little deeper.

"Careful, ma'am. No sudden movements please."

And then he drove his cock so hard and fast and deep into her that she was sure she'd faint.

She could feel his big, thick, hard cop cock touching everywhere. Then his fingers were on her soaked clit, rubbing, rolling, wreaking havoc. And all she could do was lie there and be fucked well and hard, constrained and yet free to revel in the pulsing pleasure of his fingers and prick taking her to a place she'd only dreamed about.

Hard and fast, hard and fast, and deep, deep, deep.

When she came she squealed, squirmed, squeezed her cunt hard on Bud's cock. He kept pounding. She came again almost immediately. And then again. It was as if she were on one long orgasm adventure, and Bud was driving.

She was still coming, flowing, when Bud filled herwith his cum. Shot after shot of sweet, sticky semen.

Neither had ever reached such a peak, and neither was aware when they both slid off the car, both still twitching in post-orgasmic spasms.

Regaining some awareness, Marge and Bud looked at each other and smiled.

Marge then shook her head and said, "Bud, that was quite a story, but you know that by now it's a cliche. The cop and the dame, one way or another, fucking each other into next week. You need a twist."

Bud averred as how he was working on that. He'd come up with something, he assured her.

"And, hey," she responded, "am I going to jail or anything over new-rotica? This is all crazy, you know."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you," Bud said, giving his forehead a gentle smack. "You probably don't know Ligamento's aide, Louanne Creatano. Turns out they have a relationship outside of work. And they can really fuck, let me tell you. Ligamento is surprisingly attractive when her face is stuck in Louanne's twat.

"I know because they also love movies—of themselves. And somebody somehow got hold of a few. Don't ask me who. But by the time we get back to your house, the charges—and Ligamento—will be dust in the wind. Ligamento apparently is going back to private practice.

"And you can just tell people you were helping your friendly police force in a test of its emergency hostage-crisis equipment.

"And you'll have a new door up before you go to bed tonight."

"Crazy," Marge said. "But Bud, for future reference, I'm always eager to help my friendly police officer test his emergency equipment."

Then she snapped her fingers. "Oh yeah. And don't forget to work on that story premise. The cop thing has really gotten old."

© 2008 Brady Sutton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Brady Sutton likes to write, which he does a lot because he has no job. Any employer willing to hire a man who will spend his work time dreaming up stories rather than performing actual labor can reach Brady at or (Salary negotiable)

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