-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Чарльз Буковски
-
- Женщины
-
- Стр. 411/501
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
My
cock
was
hard
,
throbbing
,
pushing
against
my
pants
.
"
You
know
what
a
man
likes
,
"
I
told
Iris
.
We
finished
our
drinks
.
I
took
her
by
the
hand
into
the
bedroom
.
I
pushed
her
on
the
bed
.
I
pulled
her
dress
back
and
got
at
her
panties
.
It
was
hard
work
.
Her
panties
got
caught
on
one
shoe
,
got
hooked
on
the
heel
,
but
I
finally
got
them
off
.
Iris
’
s
dress
was
still
covering
her
hips
I
raised
her
ass
and
pushed
the
dress
up
under
her
.
She
was
already
wet
.
I
felt
her
with
my
fingers
.
Iris
was
almost
always
wet
,
almost
always
ready
.
She
was
a
total
joy
.
She
had
long
nylon
stockings
with
blue
garters
decorated
with
red
roses
.
I
put
it
into
the
wetness
.
Her
legs
were
raised
high
in
the
air
and
as
I
caressed
her
I
saw
those
slut
-
shoes
on
her
feet
,
red
heels
jutting
like
stilettoes
.
Iris
was
in
for
another
old
-
fashioned
horse
fuck
.
Love
was
for
guitar
players
,
Catholics
and
chess
freaks
.
That
bitch
with
her
red
shoes
and
long
stockings
-
she
deserved
what
she
was
going
to
get
from
me
.
I
tried
to
rip
her
apart
,
I
tried
to
split
her
in
half
.
I
watched
that
strange
half
-
Indian
face
in
the
soft
sunlight
that
filtered
weakly
through
the
blinds
.
It
was
like
murder
.
I
had
her
.
There
was
no
escape
.
I
ripped
and
roared
,
slapped
her
across
the
face
and
nearly
tore
her
in
half
.
I
was
surprised
that
she
was
able
to
get
up
smiling
and
walk
to
the
bathroom
.
She
looked
almost
happy
.
Her
shoes
had
come
off
and
were
lying
by
the
side
of
the
bed
.
My
cock
was
still
hard
.
I
picked
up
one
of
the
shoes
and
rubbed
my
cock
with
it
.
It
felt
great
.
Then
I
put
the
shoe
back
on
the
floor
.
When
Iris
came
out
of
the
bathroom
still
smiling
,
my
cock
went
down
.
Not
much
happened
during
the
rest
of
her
stay
.
We
drank
,
we
ate
,
we
fucked
.
There
were
no
arguments
.
We
took
long
drives
down
along
the
shore
,
ate
at
seafood
cafes
.
I
didn
’
t
bother
with
writing
.
There
were
times
when
it
was
best
to
get
away
from
the
machine
.
A
good
writer
knew
when
not
to
write
.
Anybody
could
type
.
Not
that
I
was
a
good
typist
;
also
I
couldn
’
t
spell
and
I
didn
’
t
know
grammar
.
But
I
knew
when
not
to
write
.
It
was
like
fucking
.
You
had
to
rest
the
godhead
now
and
then
.
I
had
an
old
friend
who
occasionally
wrote
me
letters
,
Jimmy
Shannon
.
He
wrote
6
novels
a
year
,
all
on
incest
.
It
was
no
wonder
he
was
starving
.
My
problem
was
that
I
couldn
’
t
rest
my
cock
-
godhead
like
I
could
my
typer
-
godhead
.
That
was
because
women
were
available
only
in
streaks
so
you
had
to
get
as
much
in
as
possible
before
somebody
else
’
s
godhead
came
along
.
I
think
the
fact
that
I
quit
writing
for
ten
years
was
one
of
the
luckiest
things
that
ever
happened
to
me
.
(
I
suppose
that
some
critics
would
say
that
it
was
one
of
the
luckiest
things
that
ever
happened
to
the
reader
,
too
.
)
Ten
year
’
s
rest
for
both
sides
.
What
would
happen
if
I
stopped
drinking
for
ten
years
?
The
time
came
to
put
Iris
Duarte
back
on
the
plane
.
It
was
a
morning
flight
which
made
it
difficult
.
I
was
used
to
rising
at
noon
;
it
was
a
fine
cure
for
hangovers
and
would
add
5
years
to
my
life
.
I
felt
no
sadness
while
driving
her
to
L
.
A
.
International
.
The
sex
had
been
fine
;
there
had
been
laughter
.
I
could
hardly
remember
a
more
civilized
time
,
neither
of
us
making
any
demands
,
yet
there
had
been
warmth
,
it
had
not
been
without
feeling
,
dead
meat
coupled
with
dead
meat
.
I
detested
that
type
of
swinging
,
the
Los
Angeles
,
Hollywood
,
Bel
Air
,
Malibu
,
Laguna
Beach
kind
of
sex
.
Strangers
when
you
meet
,
strangers
when
you
part
-
a
gymnasium
of
bodies
namelessly
masturbating
each
other
.
People
with
no
morals
often
considered
themselves
more
free
,
but
mostly
they
lacked
the
ability
to
feel
or
to
love
.
So
they
became
swingers
.
The
dead
fucking
the
dead
.
There
was
no
gamble
or
humor
in
their
game
-
it
was
corpse
fucking
corpse
.
Morals
were
restrictive
,
but
they
were
grounded
on
human
experience
down
through
the
centuries
.
Some
morals
tended
to
keep
people
slaves
in
factories
,
in
churches
and
true
to
the
State
.
Other
morals
simply
made
good
sense
.
It
was
like
a
garden
filled
with
poisoned
fruit
and
good
fruit
.
You
had
to
know
which
to
pick
and
eat
,
which
to
leave
alone
.
My
experience
with
Iris
had
been
delightful
and
fulfilling
,
yet
I
wasn
’
t
in
love
with
her
nor
she
with
me
.
It
was
easy
to
care
and
hard
not
to
care
.
I
cared
.
We
sat
in
the
Volks
on
the
upper
parking
ramp
.
We
had
some
time
.
I
had
the
radio
on
.
Brahms
.
"
Will
I
see
you
again
?
"
I
asked
her
.
