Family Tradition

by Edward Lee

  Shee-it yeah!” Esau celebrated. “Grandpa Ab’s gonna love me! I’se makin’ his favorite dessert! Vomit Cobbler!”

  “So what I do with this skinny bitch now?” Enoch asked. “Just kill her?”

  “Yeah, might as well. “in’t good fer much else. No meat on her, just like that bitch ya brung me from the girlie prison.” But as Esau loped back to the table, he jerked a gaze. “I thought you said you weren’t gonna fuck her.”

  “I dang didn’t,” Enoch assured.

  “Then what’s all that blood running down her skinny legs?”

  Enoch took a look, and sure enough, streaks of blood were running down the insides of Mavis’ thighs.

  “Weren’t me,” Enoch attested.

  Esau cracked his hands together loud as a stropping belt. “Hot DAMN!” he yelled. “Is this dang perfect or what? The stringbean bitch is havin’ her period!”

  Enoch scratched his beard. “Why’s that perfect?”

  Esau’s eyes beamed. He jogged to another bucket, withdrew a still-flopping one- pound lake trout. “It’s Grandpa Ab’s favorite thing in the world! Pussy-poached fish! Hold her down, brother! And spread her legs!”

  Enoch wedged the girl’s stick-thin legs apart, while Esau inserted the fish all the way up into her vagina. A wet crunch resounded; the girl flinched. “Dang,” Enoch remarked at the sudden ooze of blood. “This here skinny one was cherry.”

  “You don’t say?” Esau replied. “And you just popped it—with a trout!”

  It was a hell of a way for a girl to lose her virginity. Once the trout was inserted—and still flopping—Esau pinched the labial lips shut with one hand, and with the other—

  “Stop it!” Bess shouted. “You sick redneck FUCKERS!”

  —he picked up a heavy-duty hand-grip stapler.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” Bess screamed.

  Clack! Clack! Clack!

  Esau stapled those labial lips shut. Mavis, now stupefied by shock, flinched at each hard, metallic clack.

  “Put her back up on the hook,” Esau said. “We’ll let her hang fer a few days, let that fish suck in all that pussy blood. It’ll be poached perfect time she’s dead. Then I’ll serve it up with some linguini and marinara sauce.”

  Enoch hoisted Mavis back up, then lay the lash between her wrists over the stall hook. “There ya go, Slim,” he said.

  Bess’ senses swam in turmoil. “What the FUCK is wrong with you crazy backwoods psychos!” she screamed from her own hook.

  “We’se just providin’ our fine grandpap with the viddles he most likes,” Esau explained. He looked at her. “It ain’t nothin’ personal.”

  Nothing personal! They stripped her naked, hung her off a hook, and cut a rent in her abdominal wall! What could be more personal than that?

  Bess would find out in a moment more.

  As Esau approached, Bess tried again to kick out, but by now, between the sheer horror and the depletion of electrolytes, her efforts were inadequate to say the least. Her big legs just slogged forward, harmlessly.

  The bearded grin homed closer, then the dirty hand reached out. Then—

  Bess screamed.

  —then the hand reached into the cut in her abdomen. It reached in deep, fished around, then began to withdraw.

  When the hand withdrew, it pulled with it the long gray-pink ropes of her small intestine, twenty feet and then some. Soon, off of one arm, Esau cradled a veritable roll of Bess’ innards.

  Bess just stared, paralyzed and numb from the horror.

  Esau tugged a bit more, extracting Bess’ stomach and duodenum. “Yeah, we can make some great haggis out’a that. And with the rest of the gut—”

  He raised the great roll of small intestine like a prize.

  “Shit sausage! Another one’a Grandpa Ab’s favorites!”

  He cut the stomach off with bone shears, then carried the roll, as if carrying garden hose, to another table. Meticulously, then, with small pieces of roast string, he tied crimps into the intestine at eight-inch intervals, setting the stomach aside for later tendings. “Yeah,” he proclaimed. “Ain’t nothin’ like a fat girl’s gut to make the best shit sausage! Hot links here we come!”

  Bess watched as the dirty rube slowly fed the roll of her own intestines into the pot of boiling water.

  “Twenty minutes and then we’re there! It’s better than bratwurst!”

  For whatever reason, Bess had a funny feeling more was in store for her.

  And she was right.

  Esau, first, dragged over the plastic bucket of fileted fish, then the bushel basket of vegetables. Closer, now, Bess was able to see that the baskets contained peeled and quartered white onions, shallots, potatoes, and wedges of fresh cabbage.

  Esau stuffed the fish filets and the vegetables into the deep pit of Bess’ abdominal cavity. When he was finished, Bess’ belly stuck out round as a medicine ball.

  “There it is. All full up now, huh? Like a stuffed turkey!”

  In spite of the absolute insanity, some segment of Bess’ psyche managed to think: I’ve just been stuffed with fish and veggies….

  “Come on, Esau,” the brother complained. “Hurry it up, will ya? I’m gonna miss Big Papa Pump and the Macho Man!”

  “We’re all ready. Git the drum, the big one.”

  The question as to how long a human being could live without an intestinal tract soon became moot. Bess, all 240 pounds of her, was flopped into a 300-gallon industrial drum. A bucket of salt and a half bucket of black pepper was dumped on her head. “Yes sir-REE!” she heard Esau exclaim above. “We’se gonna pressure-cook the bitch!”

  As the last of Bess’ energy ebbed away, the metal lid was placed atop the drum then sealed securely with a hammer. A sensation of revolving, then, as the drum and its still-living contents was rolled several yards and then placed in the fire-pit to cook.

  ««—»»

  “Too bad you didn’t buy a boat with a head, Bobby Boy,” Ashton chuckled. He stood at the bow, peeing a high arc into Lake Sutherland’s still, crystal waters. “You’ve left me no choice but to urinate in public.”

  “I also should’ve bought a boat with an ashtray.” Bob, sitting aft, flicked his cigarette butt into the water. “And a garbage can too.” He emptied a bucket full of empty beer bottles over the side.

  “Don’t deface God’s Green Earth. Look!” Ashton pointed mockingly to the shore. “There’s an Indian chief crying!”

  Ashton and Bob brayed laughter. The laughter echoed across the lake like a cannonade.

  Fat, drunk, and obnoxious, the two brothers sat in the brand new 17-foot SeaRay, anchored in the middle of the lake. For the past several hours, they’d been dropping their eel-pots loaded with clusters of Zebra mussels, and so far…

  They’d not caught a single Crackjaw eel.

  So now they sat waiting—and drinking—hoping to find the right spot.

  Ashton wiped sweat off his brow. “Whew! It’s hot—”

  “And so am I,” Bob said. “I’m so hot I could pull train at the hot-tub club.”

  “Don’t start talking that shit,” Ashton said, lighting up a La Corona. “I’m horny enough as it is.”

  “Brother, I need to be held down hard and fucked like a pig, I’m telling you.”

  “What are you complaining about? At least you’ve some hot cock waiting for you back at the ’Bago. Is Carol hung?”

  Bob nearly inhaled his next sip of beer. “Are you kidding? Every night I feel like I got a french bread stuck up my ass. And when I’m blowing her, I practically need a shoe horn.”

  Ashton gritted his teeth, wincing. “Oh, man. Don’t talk like that. It just makes me hornier.”

  “I still can’t believe Sheree doesn’t know. When are you gonna tell her you’re gay?”

  “Never. She keeps the house clean and I need her. She’s great furniture. No way anyone’ll accuse me of being gay. Arm in arm with a former porn star?”

  Bob cracked open two more cold bottles of H
olsten. “Yeah…but what about sex?”

  “I get around it. For all the time she’s been living with me, I think I’ve actually fucked her three times. When she’s hot to trot I give her the old line about being too stressed out from work. I generally just ask her for blow jobs…and I pretend it’s Leonardo DiCaprio.”

  “Ha!” Bob belted. “Now that kid’s got an ass I wouldn’t mind getting my beard in!”

  “Ha!” Ashton belted.

  “Yeah, but you know, a woman’s got her needs,” Bob pointed out.

  “Oh, I know she picks up guys behind my back.” Ashton chugged his Holsten. “That’s fine with me. I get what I want out of her, and she gets what she wants out of me. I bought her a Beemer, gave her a credit card. She’s happy. I don’t care if she picks up guys at bars and fucks them in the car. And me? When I need a stiff dick up my ass, or a pair of balls across my nose, I get a room at the Sheraton and call Pauncy’s Escorts.” Ashton tapped cigar ash into the lake. “As long as Sheree’s around when I need her to be seen with me, I’m happy. So what if she’s a gold-digger? Carol’s a gold-digger too, ya know.”

  “Tell me about it. Those injections cost a fortune, not to mention the twenty-five grand for total-body electrolysis,” Bob griped. “Her second set of implants cost forty-five K—best plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. The same guy who does all the movie stars. He also shaved her adam’s apple. No scar at all.”

  “You’ve got the best of both worlds. Ain’t no way anyone’ll think you’re gay when you’ve got her arm around you.”

  “Damn straight. And, Christ, she’s hung. She tossed my salad like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Ashton winced again, errantly rubbed a hand across his crotch. “I told you, don’t talk like that. It’s killing me!”

  Bob leaned forward, grinning like an imp. “She’ll handcuff me to the bed on my back, pushes my knees back damn near to my shoulders and butt fucks me so hard it feel like a piston going in and out of my ass. Then she’ll suck her cum out, spit it in her hand, and slap me in the face with it.”

  “You bad bitch!” Ashton proclaimed.

  “Then she’ll jerk me off onto a dinner plate and make me suck it up!”

  “You whore!”

  “That big hard cock goes so far up my ass it feels like she’s fucking my stomach. You should see her in her biker outfit. The chains, the hat, the whole nine yards. Then she pulls that big cock out of the leather pants and waves it at me, her balls going up and down like yo-yos. Brother, it’s a sweet sight.”

  “DAMN you!” Ashton snapped, grinding his teeth in angst. “Fuck it! Who’s going to see? That redneck kid? The FUCK if I care!” Ashton stood up at the bow again only this time he wasn’t pissing into the lake, he was jerking off into it.

  “Careful you don’t yank it out,” Bob laughed.

  Ashton’s entire face looked squeezed shut as he steadily pumped and pumped each and every of the five inches nature gave him. Images filled his mind like dark, sooty smoke: images of stiff, veined cocks sliding into his tonsils, sweaty balls slapping his chin, and Leonardo DiCaprio belly down and waiting for him. Yeah, I got some Titanic for you, bitch… Ashton’s blubber jiggled beneath the Christian Dior short sleeve shirt as his body tremored, and next his sperm was dribbling into the lake.

  “Damn, I swear the lake just went up an inch!” he laughed. He zipped back up, wiped his brow again with his shirt sleeve. The boat rocked when he sat back down.

  “Look!” Bob pointed to the shore. “You hit the Indian in the eye!”

  “Remember the Little Big Horn? Pay-back’s a bitch!”

  Ashton and Bob brayed laughter.

  A little later, they grabbed the plastic buoys and pulled up the eel-pots.

  All empty.

  “Damn it!” Ashton griped. “We’ve been out here for hours and we haven’t caught one damn eel.”

  “Maybe that dirty redneck kid was jiving us.”

  “How could he be jiving us? You saw that box of eel he had in the bait shop.”

  “Well then we must be doing something wrong. He said the south side of the lake and—” Bob checked his compass.

  “Oops.”

  “What?” Ashton asked.

  “The bezel was turned around. We’re at the north end of the lake.”

  Ashton and Bob both brayed laughter.

  “You may be a Microsoft genius and I may be the best chef in the country,” Ashton posed. “But you know what?”

  “We don’t know dick about fishing!”

  Bob revved up the Evinrude outboard while Ashton fetched more beers from the cooler. The boat picked up speed and began to head for the other side of the lake.

  “Hey, Bobby?” Ashton asked, emptying his coffee can full of petite cigar butts over the side. “You think Sheree has any idea that Carol’s really a man?”

  — | — | —

  Chapter Eight

  Carol’s cock marauded Sheree’s vagina, fucking her so hard it felt like a plunger trying to clear a drain. Sheree came three more times during the action which must’ve comprised a world-wide record for sexual positions within the confines of a recreational vehicle.

  Carol had come twice herself, the first a warm flood of sperm into Sheree’s sex, the second a last-second pull-out. “Here you go, baby,” Carol whispered, short of breath. The gorgeous uncircumcised cock glistened (Sheree could smell herself on it), the big nuts bunched up tight under the root. “Let me shine up those beautiful tits for you.” The sperm felt hotter this time, jet after jet looping onto Sheree’s tingling breasts. Afterward, the two of them lay back on the floor, absolutely exhausted, as Carol’s slim hand smoothed the semen around on Sheree’s tanned skin like some kind of exotic lotion.

  In the afterglow, Carol explained her particular plight. She wasn’t gay nor straight, nor did she consider herself “bisexual.” Instead she referred to herself as a “sensualist.” Any pleasurable sensation she would pursue. She’d always felt more feminine than the opposite; hence, the modifications to her physique. Hormones, implants, permanent hair removal, oro-facial surgery, but unlike many “trannies,” she had no desire whatever to “complete” the process. “I like my cock,” she revealed. “I love sticking it in people.”

  And she could “stick” it well. In the tidal wave of sex that accounted for all of Sheree’s adult life, these few hours with Carol had unleashed pleasures that Sheree had never conceived of.

  The best lay of my life, she thought, is a beautiful woman…with a cock.

  Perhaps some lingering male phermones explained Sheree’s instant attraction, some exuding oxytocins in the sweat. Whatever the reason, it hardly mattered. Carol was one joyride of flesh Sheree hoped to get on again for a long time to come.

  Her pussy felt deliciously sore; it felt like a fat tenderloin cored and stuffed. She lay against Carol, their skin sliding over each other’s sweat. Carol’s hand continued to glide idly over the spermy sheen which lacquered Sheree’s breasts.

  “So you’re telling me you never thought Ashton might be gay?” Carol asked, and lit a cigarette.

  “No, I mean—” Sheree thought about it. “He’s always acted kind of swishy, you know. And he never wants to—”

  “Fuck,” Carol finished. Her shining cock began to deflate between the immaculate, tanned legs. “And let me guess. He mainly asks for head?”

  “You got that right. But sometimes I’m so horny I’ll even settle for him…but it never happens. It’s always ‘Oh, honey, I’m so sorry but I’m really tired,’ or ‘I’m not in the mood, there’s a rumor that a Times reviewer is coming to the restaurant tomorrow night.’ That sort of thing. Now I know the real reason.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t have told you,” Carol confessed. “Should’ve minded my own business.”

  “Oh, no, I’m glad you told me Ashton’s gay,” Sheree insisted, then took a drag off Carol’s Salem. “Forewarned is fore-armed. I don’t care. As long as I’m driving my BMW down Fifth Avenue and shoppi
ng at Nordstrom’s any time I want.”

  “You’ve got the right atittude, and so do I,” Carol clarified. Now her finger dawdled over the slit of Sheree’s sex. “Everything’s a trade-off, and I guarantee you they both know it. They’re both still in the closet so that’s why they need us. You’ve heard them in public—always joking about all the pussy they’ve busted. Christ, if Microsoft ever found out Bob was a hot-tub bottom, they’d fire his fat ass in two seconds. But every time Gates throws an office party, there I am with Bob. Same with Ashton. He’s paranoid that the other chef’s in town think he sucks cock. So that’s why he’s got you. I don’t mind being used as long as I get what I want.”

  “Me either,” Sheree concurred. Her mind drifted a moment, back to previous slew of orgasms. “How did you meet Bob?”

  Carol giggled. “At The Porthole. It’s a members-only gay club downtown. They got a ‘back room,’ if you know what I mean. The first night I saw Bob, he was back there doing an ass-bang. Had a leather bag pulled over his head and a rubber ball in his mouth, tied down to rings in the floor, spread out like a fat starfish.”

  “You’re kidding!” Sheree nearly squealed at the preposterous image.

  “Nope. There were ten of us back there that night, and we all helped ourselves and went back for seconds. By the time we were done, we must’ve pumped a quart of cum up his butt.”

  “No way!” Sheree squealed.

  “Yes way. And that’s not all. Not only is Bob a hardcore bottom, he’s also a jizz freak and a half.”

  “A jizz freak?”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s in the back room two, three times a week, blowing twenty guys in a row and swallowing every drop. That’s what he was doing second time I met him, just standing in line and sticking my dick down his throat. I was only about halfway done then but I still looked pretty good. But this guy was a cash machine so I put the make on him hard. After we got together, he sprung for a better set of implants and pays for all of the injections. That’s big money, and I sure can’t afford it. With Bob, I’m made in the shade. And if he ever dumps me…” Carol didn’t finish.