by Jeff Gelb
His only regret was that it didn’t last longer, but there was no way he could hold out. He warned her that he was imminent, but her response was to take him deeply into her mouth; when he filled it with his semen she unhesitatingly swallowed it all.
Afterward she snuggled against his side, and he forgot all about the oversoft bed. He still didn’t sleep in it, however; her hands kept moving on his body, and after a while he was ready to go again. This time he did take longer, and after another intermission and a third performance, he fell asleep.
He awoke to a banging on the door. “Cindy Ann!” he heard Mrs. Reardon calling. “Cindy Ann, y’up? Answer me, girl!”
Groggily, he moved to shush the girl, but he was too slow. “I’m rahtchere, Ma,” she called back. “We’ll be raht on out, y’hear?”
From outside the door, he heard a long, drawn-out sigh, followed by the sound of feet clumping away. He groaned, covered his face with his hands. “Christ!” he muttered. “Now your mother knows you were here all night! Jesus!”
“Well, a-course she knows,” Cindy Ann said. Still naked except for the G-stringlink panty, she was distractingly beautiful in the pallid morning light. “She sent me in here, after all!”
Yet again he stared, his suspicions welling back up. “What?”
She smiled, kissed him. “Don’t matter none, Rahn,” she told him, her voice conspiratorially low. “You jus lissen to me, do what I tell ye. Now, when we go down to breakfast, ol’ Martha Jean, she’s a-gonna be after you. You jis say no, an’ y’say it lahk y’mean it! Then, after you eat, you skedaddle! Don’t you lissen to Ma tellin’ you ’bout no phone. That ol’ thing don’t work and never has. She done rigged it up to buzz so’s the fellers ’ud think it did!”
He scowled. “What in hell are you talking about?” he demanded. “Why would she do that? She—”
“Rahn,” she said in a near whisper, “Ma put the rocks on the road down thar so’s you’d whang yer car into ’em. Ye ain’t the first feller to come lookin’ for an antee-kwee shop what ain’t here!” Her face became very serious. “But you’re a-gonna be the first one t’ leave, if’n ye do what I tell you! And if’n ye do, mebbe ye might wanta have a little talk with th’ sheriff! I cain’t take this stuff no more, Rahn. I ain’t like Martha Jean, I jis don’t lahk it!”
A little chill ran up his back in spite of the warmth of her still-close body. “What’s going on here?” he growled.
“Rahn,” she said patiently, “Ma don’t get her money by sellin’ no hawgs! She gets it from a-robbin’ fellers like you!”
She drew a little closer. “And the fellers, well sir, they ain’t in no shape to go tellin’ th’ county sheriff ’bout it! No sir!”
He began visualizing Mrs. Reardon waiting outside the door with dagger or pistol, and he questioned Cindy Ann on the Reardons’ methods. She might, he told himself, be a part of the plot; she’d certainly kept him distracted all night. But if she was, why say anything about it now?
She looked down, seemingly embarrassed. “Don’t you worry ’bout it,” she said. “Jis ’member what I tole ye. Ye gotta say no to Martha Jean!”
He heaved himself out of bed and began dragging on his clothes. “I assure you,” he said, “there’s no problem with that!”
In spite of his assurances, she groaned. “That’s what the last feller said!” she cried. “Jis exactly! You ain’t a-gonna lissen, you ain’t a-gonna believe!” She jumped up and stood with clenched fists. “I’m a-gonna hafta show you! You looka here, Rahn; you look here and you’ll see, you’ll see what’s a-gonna happen if’n ye don’t lissen!” With that, she jerked down the little G-stringlike affair and tossed it aside. The menstrual pad Ron had believed it concealed was not there. She threw herself down on the bed and spread her legs wide. Her pubes were high and heavily haired; the lips were very obvious, as if swollen. “Look!” she demanded, pulling at them with her fingers.
“This is hardly the time,” he said dryly. “And I must say, I’m not really in the—”
“Look!” she hissed, opening herself more widely.
He did. At first, what he was seeing didn’t make sense; he thought perhaps she had some sort of disease. When it did, his eyes almost started out of his head.
She’d pulled both sets of her vaginal lips open; both were larger than might be expected, but Ron hardly noticed that. What captured his attention were the teeth.
Bright white, each one half an inch long or more, recurved like a snake’s teeth and serrated like steak knives, there were four rows of them, one row lining each inner and outer vaginal lip.
“Now you kin see what we are!” Cindy Ann spat. “Martha Jean’s built the same way, and so’s Ma! You believe me now, Rahn?” Tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “The las’ feller didn’t, and Martha Jean, she cut him all up! I don’t wanna—”
Ron had taken a few steps backward. “Christ. Christ,” he muttered. “Jesus, I can’t—my God! Vagina dentate, I’ve heard of it, I thought it was just tales. I—”
“I only killed one feller,” she went on, her eyes pleading. “Jis one. I tol’ him no, I tol’ him I’d make him happy, but he tore off my panty and he forced me—I didn’t mean to, I didn’t!”
Ron was standing near the door by then. “Not possible,” he said, addressing himself. “A trick, a fake. Can’t be. How could the mother get pregnant? How could the girls be born? Can’t be, it just can’t.”
“If’n the man squirts quick, we can get pregnant,” she said tearfully. “Martha Jean had a li’l boy a couple years back. Ma killed ’im. When he come out, her lips was turned all inside out!”
He started back toward her, reaching out as if to touch them, to prove to himself he was being tricked. “No!” Cindy Ann cried, closing her legs. “No, they’re pizen! Y’cut y’seff on ’em, even jis a little, and it’ll make ye so’s you cain’t move at-all!”
He couldn’t believe this either, but even so he pulled his hand back. His head was swimming; a sense of nightmare overtook him. He rushed to the door and began fumbling with the wooden latch.
“No, wait!” Cindy Ann cried. “Wait! Don’t let ’em know you know! Rahn, I don’t know what they’ll do!”
He couldn’t hear the warning. The door opened; headlong he rushed out and down the stairs.
And almost ran right into Martha Jean, who was evidently waiting for him.
“Well, g’mornin’, Rahn,” she purred. She was wearing a thin shortie nightgown, and it was evident that that was all she was wearing: Her nipples and pubic hair were quite visible through the sheer material. She reached for him. “We oughta find us a place where we c’n sit and talk for a while,” she murmured. “Without Ma or my li’l sister!”
“No,” he muttered. He started to pass her, but she stepped in front of him. “No, I gotta go, I gotta—”
But she pushed closer to him. “Now, Rahn,” she said, her tone teasing, “I know mah li’l sister! She might’ve showed you a good time, but she don’t wanta do it raht. Now me, I’m not lahk that! You jis come ’long with Martha Jean now, let me—”
He began backing off. “No,” he told her. “No!” He held out his hands, palms first. Tousling her hair, an exaggerated expression of lust on her face, she continued to push her body closer to his.
Ron continued to back off, trying to ward her off with his hands. He couldn’t have imagined being in a situation like this: A stunning beautiful and very obviously unarmed woman advancing on him amorously, and he was terrified.
Eventually, he could back up no more; his back touched the stair banister, his heel hitting the first step. Martha Jean came on, cupping his face in her hands, kissing him, pushing her tongue into his mouth, straddling one of his legs with hers. Looking down, he saw that her nightgown was pushed up to her hips, and he could see that her vaginal lips were spread in an unnatural fashion, like the jaws of a mantis or a spider, sideways, and that they were resting against his thigh…
Panicked, he pushed
her violently away; she staggered but quickly regained her balance. Her hands on her hips, she glared at him. “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded. “You act lahk you’re skeered o’ me!” She cocked an eyebrow at him, and a suspicious look crossed her face. “Cindy Ann ain’t been a-tellin’ you no silly tales, has she? She does that sometimes, she—”
“Look,” he told her, desperation obvious in his voice. “I have to go, I really do, I—”
She smiled again, as if she’d decided that it was impossible that Cindy Ann had exposed their secret. “Aw, yer jis shy!” she declared. She came forward once more, trapping him on the stairs.
As he frantically looked around for a way out, he remembered the cracked banister support. With some vague idea of using a piece of it as a club, of threatening her with it, he reached down and grabbed it, jerked at it.
But, cracked or no, the hard oak did not give way. Paying no attention to what he was doing, Martha Jean pressed close to him; still yanking at the support, he lost his balance and sat down hard on the steps. Seizing the opportunity, she slid onto his extended leg, again pushing her nightgown up, again exposing her genitals. He heard his pants tear, then felt a sharp biting pain in his thigh.
He let out a screech; Martha Jean grabbed his neck with both arms, and he immediately felt his leg going numb, felt the numbness spreading rapidly upward. With all his strength, he jerked once more on the support. This time it came loose in his hand.
He didn’t even look at it; he knew he had only a fraction of a second to get her off him. Without thinking, he jabbed it at her, as hard as he could. He heard a thud and a ripping sound.
She grunted loudly and stopped moving. Ron looked at his own hand, by now growing numb, and saw that the banister support had split, leaving one end tapered and sharp. His wild thrust had buried it in her lower abdomen, and blood was gushing out around it.
“Oh…” she muttered, looking down at it. “Oh…ye kilt me, you…” She looked up at him with the expression of an injured child. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she slid off his leg, sprawling on the floor in front of him.
Ron could see that she wasn’t dead, that she was breathing still. He struggled to get up. He could not; his legs felt like they were coated with lead. His arms were equally rigid, as was his neck. He could move only his eyes.
Hearing the sound of running, he turned them to the side. From the other room, Mrs. Reardon appeared; she stopped short, and her hands flew to her mouth.
“Oh, my Gawd!” she screamed. “Oh, my Gawd, Martha Jean, Martha Jean!” Babbling, she rushed to her daughter’s side. “Oh, Gawd! Gawd! He done kilt you, he done kilt you!” Her eyes wild, she turned to glare at Ron. “You son of a bitch!” she hissed. “I’m a-gonna cut you up in little pieces, one little piece at a time!” She grabbed the wood, ripping it out the girl’s belly; in her rage, she didn’t notice how her daughter’s body spasmed.
But then she was stalking toward Ron, the stake in her hand, a manic look on her face. He could not doubt her intentions, and he was absolutely helpless to do anything about it. Almost idly, he wondered how much of it he was going to feel.
As she came within a yard of him, he heard Cindy Ann’s voice. “No, Ma!” she was yelling. “No, you let ’im be!”
Mrs. Reardon glanced up. “You go t’ yore room,” she snarled. “I’ll have a word with you later, girl! And you c’n put that there thing up; we won’t be a-needin’ it none!” She came on, raising the stake, ready to make the first stroke.
A deafening explosion roared in Ron’s ears; he saw Mrs. Reardon go flying across the room. Behind her, more blood stained the carpet; she regained her balance long enough to stare beyond him—apparently at Cindy Ann—in disbelief. A huge red stain was spreading across the front of her dress. She crumpled to the floor, just a few feet the now-still body of her other daughter.
Ron couldn’t move his head, but he saw Cindy Ann come walking past him, tears covering her cheeks and an ancient-looking bolt-action rifle in her hands. “I’m sorry, Mommie,” she whimpered. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t letcha. Not no more. Not no more…” She dropped the gun and fell to her knees, her body racked with sobs.
Quite a while later, she regained enough of her composure to turn her head and look at Ron. “It’s a-gonna wear off,” she said. “I dunno how long it’s a-gonna take, ’cuz I dunno how much pizen Martha Jean got inta your laig thar. But it won’t kill ye, Rahn.”
She was right, but it took several hours; several hours during which he had little choice but to lie there on the stairs and think about the unbelievable things that had happened in this house. Cindy Ann stayed with him almost the entire time, watching him and avoiding the sight of her dead relatives.
His head and neck muscles were the last to feel the effects of the paralysis, and they were the first to come out. As soon as he could move his mouth, he tried to speak.
“Sorra,” he mumbled, his tongue still thick. “Sorra it hadda be dis way.”
“T’warn’t your fault,” she told him.
He lifted his arm experimentally, laboriously. “Know dat,” he answerd. “Wha cha wanna do wit’ the—uhh…”
“Don’t care. Bury ’em, burn‘’em. Don’t matter none. They’s daid.”
“Mayee we oughta burn…whole…fucking house down!”
She shook her head. “Cain’t. I gotta live here.” Putting her face in her hands, she started to cry again.
“Fuck that,” he said, beginning to get a little movement in his legs now and talking more clearly. “You’re coming with me, back to Knoxville. Get yourself a real life, by God!”
“Cain’t,” she repeated. “Rahn, ye done seen how I am! T’ain’t natcheral! I c’n make a man happy, but I cain’t do it raht, cain’t have no babies ner nerthin’!”
He grinned at her. “Cindy Ann, in all the time we were talking you never asked me what kind of doctor I was. I’m a goddamn dentist. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to pull teeth!”
Abuse
Matthew Costello
There was just a scattering of guys in the theater. Always just a scattering, each one picking his own little island of seats, all those empty seats with just one man slumped down in the middle.
And what a theater. What had this place been before? An auto-parts store? A Lightning Lube place? A Kentucky Fried Chicken?
Billy Pratt looked for his own bank of seats. He heard someone snoring, he saw the outlines of heads, heard a cough, someone clearing his throat. Billy sat down, expecting the guy to hawk a louie into the air.
It was that kind of place.
The action had already begun on the screen.
There was a blonde, so good-looking she could have been some goyisher jock’s prom date, a sweet virginal thing keeping her thighs locked together, the creamy white flesh crazy-glued all nice and tight.
It will be better if we wait, Tom, she’d coo.
While Tom’s balls began to glow with a burnished blue.
Yeah, this blonde looked like that, her sweet blond hair and cherry-red lips. Now she was opening those lips, sticking out her tongue, a human viper, tasting the air before chowing down on some short hairy guy’s meat puppet.
Billy Pratt settled down in his chair. He unzipped his jacket. He watched the blonde work, in the dark, watching the giant screen. No little video, this was a head with a mouth the size of a Volkswagon bug.
Billy was alone, away from everyone, everything.
He reached down and felt the outline of his stiffening cock through his pants.
He didn’t think, then, of the strange dichotomy, the weirdness of “The Uncle Billy Show,” Billy and his Amazing Time Shack, the weird and wacky world of Uncle Billy’s TV pals: Cave Boy, Two-Headed Girl, and Marco, the evil if ineffective magician from the future who liked to make bad puns.
He didn’t think of his show, the kids who watched it, the ratings (slipping, God, slipping so fast and who the hell knew why?).
The blon
de locked her blue eyes right on the unworthy object of her amazing ministrations…a premier blowjob being wasted on one ugly son of a bitch.
Billy heard a cough, the hum of the heating unit, pumping out smelly hot air.
He was alone.
The cop coughed. It sounded like a nervous tic. But it was a signal. The cough alerted his partner, the kid, that they had one.
Sergeant Walter Bruno had bitched when they told him what the hell he had pulled for duty.
“Shit,” Bruno said in the Day Room. “This is fucking lower than fag baiting.”
Though he had done that, too. Sure, he had logged hours milling around the men’s rooms down by the train terminal and the airport, making cow eyes at guys who seemed to take just a bit too long to shake their pee-pee. The only plus of queer hunting was that he got to play baseball with their heads.
But this—this was shit. And to make things worse, they gave him a young punk, Collins, for a partner. Kid couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.
Bruno looked over a Collins. He could see his eyes reflecting back the glow of the screen. What the hell’s the matter, kid? Never seen a blowjob before? Shit…
Bruno coughed again. Collins turned to him.
Bruno nodded.
Think we got a live one, the nod meant. Collins sat up in his chair a bit. Bruno tilted his head in the direction of a guy sitting off to the side.
Collins’s dark head nodded back.
Now Bruno would have to watch the guy instead of the show, looking for the telltale signs of someone choking the chicken, greasing the pole, playing flapjack with the old one-eyed snake.
Catch the fucker, and maybe kick his ass for being such a jerk-off…
The blonde didn’t finish the guy off. No, she stopped, leaving his cock hard, glistening with wetness and maybe a trace of her red lipstick. Then she stood up.
