House of Holes

Dune Visits the Midway

Shandee was standing up on a balcony on the midway, shaking her hips self-promotingly. She had white boots on and a small green cloth of Ka-Chiang hanging like a flag from her pussyhole. Out in front Krock was calling, “Forty to slap the pretty ass, sixty to spank it. Forty to slap, sixty to spank.” Dune, strolling by, saw Shandee and immediately got in line for her. He paid and was given a pair of blue quilted oven mitts. “I’m going to slap that girl’s happy ass,” announced the man in line in front of him.

It was a long wait, in through a red door and around a series of small turns that led through a maze of plywood baffles painted black. Finally, Dune reached a small private room with a velvet curtain in it. Shandee was there — or part of her was. He couldn’t see her face or upper body because she was leaning forward through a hole in the curtain that went around her waist; only her legs and bottom and pussy hanky were visible.

Dune sat down and said to himself, Will anything ever look as good to me as this girl’s wineglass shape looks to me right now? Probably not.

“Shandee, baby,” he called quietly. “It’s me, Dune. How goes the search for your one-armed mystery man?”

Shandee’s voice came muffled from the other side of the curtain. “No luck yet,” she said. “Lila wants me out working on the midway while Dave sows his oats. She says I have to wait because Dave has a superlarge penis and he needs a little more time with it before he has to give it up.”

“Too bad for him, he’s missing out on you,” said Dune. “Have you been going with anyone else?”

There was a thoughtful silence, then Shandee said, “Ruzty’s paid a few calls.”

“That sweet smiley kid with the accent?”

Shandee sighed. “It’s embarrassing because whenever we finally get down to a little kissing, Dave’s arm starts thrashing in his bag like a bad puppy. I put him in a drawer, but he starts thumping to get out.”

“I can sympathize,” said Dune, lightly stroking the back of Shandee’s knee with his oven mitt. “You’re so damn pretty I can barely swallow my own spit. And I can only see the lower half of you.”

“That’s sweet. Have you been well?”

“Oh, I’m rattled and cranky and horny,” said Dune. “But I do have something that will be of interest to you.” He tucked a scrap of paper into one of Shandee’s boots. “It’s the number of Dave’s hotel room. Four thirty-four.”

“Wow, thanks, Dune.”

“And now, before my time runs out, I hope you’ll let me slap or spank your ass.”

“Sure, that’s what it’s for,” said Shandee. “But wear the mitts, and don’t spank too hard. Some guys spank me too hard.”

Dune blew on her ass and rested both his mitts on it for a moment. “Shandee, honey, I’ll spank you so soft you won’t even know it’s spanking, I’ll spank you real tender, and you’ll know it’s me, because I’m really just touching your ass with a man’s gentle touch and showing you how much respect I have for it.”

“That’s nice,” said Shandee.

“And can I kiss your ass, too? And worship it?”

“Yes, you can kiss and worship my ass.”

He bent close and kissed, closing his eyes, and then he whispered, “And can I pull out your hanky and stick one pinky finger in your pretty pussy? I know I’ll find true peace if I do.”

“If you do that with your pinky, Dune, they’ll cut it off,” said Shandee, putting her knees together. “Look up on the wall above you.”

Dune glanced at the long, bony row of dried fingers that were nailed there. Then he noticed a small blood-stained chopping block in the corner. It was not a pleasant sight.

“Damn savages,” said Dune. “It’s almost worth it, except I play guitar and keyboards. Can’t they make an exception for an old friend?”

Shandee shifted her weight fetchingly, considering. “Krock is a stickler,” she said finally, “but you’ve been so helpful, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Pull out the cloth of Ka-Chiang, and I’ll push some fresh juice from my cunny for you.”

Dune breathed. “Oh, that would be a welcome treat.” He pushed an oven mitt into Shandee’s upper leg, softly, and palmed her left asscheek. Then he thumped the asscheek a little on one side, so that she jumped and her elegant flesh shimmied. He pinched her thighs gently three times and tugged on her hanky till it fell out. “Now let me see your pussy cry,” he said.

Shandee was wet already; she arched her back up and pushed. Dune saw a tender shining weep of wetness that brimmed over her slit and leaked down one leg.

“Oh, my glory!” Dune said, losing control. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d flung off an oven mitt and slid one pinky finger knuckle-deep into her velvet draperies.

There was a bonging sound and a commotion. A disembodied male arm leapt up, twirled once in the air, and seized Dune by the wrist. Krock hurried in and grabbed the knife. Mischa set out the chopping block on a towel. “Dune, why did you do it?” said Shandee, full of disappointment and concern.

“I forgot myself, I’m sorry,” said Dune, disengaging the viselike fingers of Dave’s arm. He turned to Krock and Mischa. “Now hear me out, guys. I play keyboards and guitar, and to be honest I’d rather lose my pecker for a little while than my ability to make music.”

That statement got Krock’s attention. “Daggett,” he said into his communicator, “tell Lila that Dune has verbally agreed before witnesses to lose his pecker.”

Lila was pacing up and down in front of her desk when Dune was led in. “All right, Mr. Pussyfinger,” she said firmly. “Just for that bit of defiance, we’re going to do a switcheroo on you.” She opened a door.

In walked Marcela, the art critic, in a black slip. “Hello,” she said, with a nervous smile.