by Bobby Norman
With all that going on, it took a minute before she realized she was sore ‘twixt her legs. She saw the rusty color of dried and sticky blood smeared on the soft insides of her thighs and the scratchy thing impersonating a mattress. It was then she realized she’d been done to, and as bad as she was hurtin’, determined Mule was sportin’ more than a two-finger-and-a-thumber. She was horrified that the noseless, fat piece of shit sittin’ halfway across the room shoving patater into its face had stuck his weiner in her.
Mule’s gut jumped like a hog in a sack when he chuckled, nodded, and pushed another slice of patater in the hole. She felt bile rising in her throat, but, forgetting she was chained and nearly hanging herself again, hung her head as best she could over the edge of the cot and threw up on the floor. She was now officially a woman. Got that way by an old man. A fat one that smelled of pig shit and stinky armpits. With a hole in his head where his nose oughta been.
The next few days, Mule did to her whatever come to mind. He was somewhat limited by the length of the chain, but he seemed to have quite an imagination when it come to dreaming up ways to poke pussy. And with good reason. A thousand times over the years, he’d fantasized about stickin’ it in a human woman, but what with the hole in his face, he couldn’t even rent one by the hour. Even a used-up whore would go without before spreadin’ her legs for him. Being that he was getting older and uglier ever passing day, lived out in the middle of nowhere, and had no financial prospects to speak of, he hadn’t had a lot of experience with the opposite sex.
Well, that wasn’t quite right. Sex he’d had, and quite a bit of it. Just never with his own species. Smoke was actually his first adventure with a human female—he’d discovered it was all he’d hoped it would be and was intent on making up for lost time.
On the very first day she learned he had a tendency to bite, but trying to fight him off just earned her his huge, calloused hands clamped around her throat until her face turned blue, her tongue stuck out, and thousands of sparkly little lights twinkled before her eyes, then everthing went dark.
With her unconscious, he could probe and explore the wonders without all the bothersome squirming.
More than once she had come to, licked clean with painful whisker burns on the inside of her thighs. The source, not somethin’ she wanted to think about.
Ever time he come on her she fought like a turpentined cat. She woulda been a lot better off playin’ possum or gettin’ throttled into blessed nothingness. Conscious or not, though, he was having a great time. If he’d known a human girl could be this much fun, he’da caught one a long time ago. Hell, this one was so much fun, he was giving serious thought about snatchin’ up another one. Next time he was in town, he was gonna buy another chain, one a little longer, and keep a lookout for another human.
The girl was a lot better than a sow. He could pin her arms down and look her in the eye and see the fear and the pain. Couldn’t do that with a hog. He’d tried to get one of his favorites to turn turtle a couple of times, but discovered that sows was constructed to go in from the back while on their feet. Any other way, the angle was off and his doodle kept slippin’ out. A sow squealed and put up a struggle to get loose, but it wouldn’t actually what you’d call fight back. He even thought there was a couple of ’em that had learned to like it because when he went to mount up, they’d slip their tails out of the way and brace theirselves against the sty rails, grunt and get all wiggly in anticipation.
He liked to think so, anyway.
He laughed, jamming it inside his new plaything, knowing he had a lot more to give than she had capacity to receive. They were proof you could actually shove a quart’s worth of product in a pint-sized jar. It hurt like the devil, but she wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing how bad, and that just made him pound that much harder. With her size, age, and meager diet, she hadn’t developed a hint of tittie yet, but that didn’t stop him from pullin’ and pinchin’ on her little pea-size nipples in the attempt to create some. When he pulled on his doodle it got bigger, so he was determined to prove it worked the same with titties. He tried suckin’ on ’em, but with the floppy top lip he couldn’t get a secure lock, so he had to settle for licking.
She bit and spit on him and tried to push him off, but never made a sound, other than to cuss and make nasty, although believable and even probable assumptions about his mother and father. His aunt and uncle.
First thing in the morning, he’d have a go at her, then go outside and work for a while, come back in an hour or two later, eat a patater or somethin’, have another romp, and then go back outside. He had his way with her three or four times a day, but it vexed him she could take it. Ever time he was done with her, he wasn’t happy unless there was blood smeared on the head of his pecker. He even denied her food and water to wear her down, but that just seemed to make her madder. He told her he knew she thought she was better than he was but before he was done with her, nose or no, she’d learn the difference between master and slave and he’d keep it up until she hollered uncle.
“Hell, yeah,” she told him one time, ”I am better’n you, you ugly ol’ fart. I got a nose ‘n you ain’t.” That crack cost her a tooth, a busted lip, a swole-up eye, and an extra hard poking. He grabbed her by the hair, flipped her over on her knees, wrapped his left arm tight around her middle and his right hand mashed her head face down on the mattress, and rammed her from the back until she threw up. It wasn’t as good as a scream or beggin’ him to stop, but it’d do for a start.
One of his favorite tortures was to eat in front of her while she was near starving. One day he was gnawin’ on a piece of meat and she got smart-mouthed and asked him why he’d eat greasy possum when there was a pen full of fresh bacon and ham hocks not fifty feet from the front door. He shook all over and laughed at her like she was stupid and told her that just showed how smart she wasn’t. “Possums’s fer eatin’, pigs’s fer sellin’.”
***
On the fifth day, mellowed by half a jug of amateur-grade embalming fluid, Mule stood at the side of the cot, goin’ at her with nothin’ on but his smelly shirt. Smoke was hissing through her teeth because he had her on her all-fours, his big hands clamped tight on her hip bones, taking her from the back. He liked it like that because he could look down and watch what he was doing. He leaned forward, pushed on the back of her head, and blubbered something that sounded like “Bledown.” When she didn’t move, he slapped her in the back of the head and repeated, “Bledown!” She understood that he wanted her to get down, but at that angle, it hurt a lot more. When she didn’t do it, he hauled off and smacked her on the butt with the back of his hand. That hurt. It felt like her cheek was on fire.
She felt his body twist like he was getting ready to give her another and she dropped to her forearms and put her forehead on the mattress. It musta been what he wanted because it felt like his man part got a lot harder. Half a dozen more pushes and he pulled it out. He wasn’t done, though. Not by a long shot. He just wanted to keep it from goin’ off before he was ready. He was watchin’ it bounce when he noticed her other little puckered hole. Lookin’ at it, just sittin’ there, goin’ to waste, gave him an idea. He started running his thumb down the little gap between her cheeks. Thinking. Picturing. And if it’d been possible, grinning.
“Awright! Awright,” she squeaked through dry, parched lips. She’d figured where he was going even before he did. “It’s over, you win, I give up. I’m done. I’m broke, finished. I ain’t no match fer yer manliness.” Crocodile tears rolled down her pale, dirty little cheeks and dripped onto the bloodstained mattress. She looked over her shoulder at him. “I’ve learnt who’s boss. Please don’t hurt me no more. I honest t’ God believe yer tearin’ me apart inside. Please, Mista, you’re scarin’ me s’ bad I almost can’t stand it. You’re ‘bout more man than I can take and I promise if ya cut me loose, feed, and take care a me, I swear a solemn promise t’ God ‘n all th’angels in Heaven I’ll stay with ya’s long as ya live.”
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He flipped her on her back. The cot was only inches from the floor so he spread her legs, snugged up close, put his elbows alongside her hips on the mattress, and leaned over, his face three inches from hers. “D’ya mean it?” he blubbered. At least, that’s what she thought he’d asked. His hot breath was as foul as his face, and she was scared shitless he was gonna try to kiss her on the mouth.
She couldn’t nod her head fast enough. “Yeah, I promise.”
“If ya really mean it, you ‘n me’ll get married.”
It was hard to understand a lot of what he said but she got the gist of it. She just looked at him, unsure of what to do. She had it in her mind that what he’d been doing to her for five days and nights was what married people did, so what was he talkin’ about?
“Awright.”
Mule was beside hisself with joy. The courtin’ was over and he was gonna have a wife!
“Whada we do?” she asked.
“Make promises, I think,” he said, earnestly.
“I awready done that. I said I’d stay with ya’s long’s ya live.”
His face contorted with what she assumed was a smile. “Yeah…I guess ya’ did! Whadaya want me t’ promise?” He was so excited he looked like an ugly, two-hundred-and-ninety-four pound four-year-old. But a lot dumber.
“Bein’ married t’you’s more’n enough fer me,” she lied. It was hardly a way to start a healthy, trusting relationship.
His little bug brain, softened by victory and half a bottle of hearty alcoholic beverage, convinced him she was telling the truth, and gigglin’ like a fool, unlocked the chain clamped around her neck but stood between her and the door just in case she changed her mind and bolted.
As of that moment, they were Mr. and Mrs. Mule.
CHAPTER 4
Later that evening, during his second honeymoon poke and with him tanked up with enough inebriant to pickle an adult mastodon, Smoke whuffed out a lungful when he blacked out on top of her. Seeing her chance, she wraggled her top half out from under him, and by bracing her bony little shoulders agin the wall, shoved her new husband’s fat, drunk ass off the cot, thudding to the floor on his back. She stopped breathing when he started waving his arms around and raised one leg like he was trying to get up. Then he farted and passed out again. She took a second to catch her breath, and that’s when she noticed the big knife stuck in the table. Everthing else in the shack disappeared. It was all she saw. If it’d had arms and a mouth, it woulda been wavin’ and hollerin’ at her.
She stood up quick and fighting off a dizzy spell from lack of food, stepped to the woodpile stacked up next to the rough rock fireplace and picked up a hunk about a foot and a half long. She didn’t wanna take any chance he’d come to, so she got down on her knees, cocked the wood to the right with both hands, like she was about to swing an axe, and let her go, hard, alongside his right temple. Both his arms shot up, but then fell back. The only sign of life was a little trickle of blood from the gash in the side of his head and a blubbery, snottery noise comin’ out of his face.
Jumping to it before he could come around, she sat on the floor, braced her back against the edge of the cot, rolled him over on his belly, jumped up, and waggled the knife out of the tabletop. Then she picked up the hunk of wood she’d just conked him out with and laid it on the floor beside his head. She scooted around to the top of his head, sat back on her heels, jammed her knees up against the top of his shoulders, and pinched his head between her legs with his flattened face to the floor. Then she got a good grip on the knife handle and put the rusty blade’s pointy end on the neck bone where it fastened to the head bone. She picked up the firewood, gave the knife handle a good whack and then spider-monkeyed off a few feet, ready to bolt for the door just in case he come up bellerin’ and hollerin’.
But he didn’t.
By Jiggies! That did the trick! His gelatinous bulk had only given one quivery little shudder. She jumped back over, picked up the stick and whacked the knife again so hard that the handle was the only thing sproutin’ out the back of his head. In fact, she’d hit it so hard, the pointy end was stickin’ out the front of his throat just under his chin. There was even a nick in the wood floor. She stayed right there with both her hands wrapped around that hunk of wood, all cocked and ready to go. She didn’t trust the son of a bitch. He had to be playin’ possum.
But he wasn’t.
She couldn’t believe it had been that easy. She waited for him to jump up and come to kill his new bride who had just pounded a rusty knife through his neck bone.
But he didn’t.
And she was some little disappointed. Not that he wasn’t coming at her, but she’d expected, or maybe even hoped, he’d suffer a whole bunch on his way out.
No such luck.
She moved to his right side, braced her feet, one on the back of his head, the other between his meaty shoulders, and pulled out the knife. Then she turned his head over and jabbed the blade in the hole in the middle of his face where his nose oughta been and wiggled it around like a banger in a bell. Nothin’. Not a dang thing! Shit! Dead as a turd. Oh, well.
But even Mule would have to agree, she was good to her solemn promise to God and all the angels in Heaven—she’d stayed with him the rest of his life.
CHAPTER 5
Being that Mule was damned near three hundred pounds, Smoke knew she wasn’t gonna be able to drag his deadweight carcass out of the shack by herself, and she wasn’t about to leave it in the middle o’ the floor, swellin’ up, stinkin’, and drawin’ flies. Scrabbling around a shed out back, she come on a dull, rusty old hatchet with a cracked handle, and along with it and the knife, put ‘em to good use, slicin’ and hackin’ him down to manageable, draggable chunks.
Four sweat-drenching hours after Mr. Mule’s last foul breath, the recently widowed Mrs. Mule was settin’ at the table, blood-spattered and tuckered out, smackin’ her mouth, runnin’ her tongue over her greasy lips, puttin’ the finishing touches on what little Mule had left of the possum stew, a raw patata, and a plate of red beans, soppin’ up the juice with a moldy biscuit. Seventy-five yards from the shack, a hundred-year-old, hundred-and-fifty-pound mossy-back was pulling meat off what used to be Mule’s big butt. The turtle didn’t seem to mind at all that his dinner didn’t have a nose. Meat was meat was meat.
Smoke assumed that by being Mrs. Mule, she’d earned widder’s rights and took up residence in the shack. What with a roof that didn’t leak too bad over her head and no tellin’ how much worth of Mule’s ex-girlfriends gruntin’ out in the yard, she was living in high cotton.
The next few weeks slowly oozed one to another and Smoke was getting soft, eatin’ regular and sleepin’ under a roof. Until one morning it occurred to her that somethin’ was wrong. Bad wrong. Having more pressing matters of late, it’d completely slipped her mind. When it did hit her, she sucked up like she’d been doused with a bucket of cold water. Shortly after waking in the mornings, she was gettin’ sick, ever day as punctual as the sun’s rising. Then later she just couldn’t get enough to eat. The little mole-heads Mule had tried to pull off her chest and make into titties were finally puffing up, sensitive and sore, deep inside. She ran her hands low over her belly and felt the slight bulge. She used to be able to suck in her guts to where it looked like she didn’t have any. Rib bones and nothin’ under ’em. Not now. Just when she thought she was shed of that noseless bastard.
It was his! Had to be! Wasn’t nobody else. He was the only one she’d ever been done to by. She pictured her guts churnin’, twistin’ around like a dyin’ snake, forming into somethin’. She felt its sharp-clawed little fingers grippin’ on her ribs like it was climbin’ a ladder. She shoved hard on her belly attempting to push it out like a stubborn turd. She stepped out the door and squatted and pushed so hard her face turned a purply red. She climbed trees as high as she thought she could jump out of without breakin’ a leg, hoping maybe she could joggle it loose, like hockin’ up a loogie. All that got her was
blistery feet from climbin’ the trees and sore ankles from hittin’ the ground. Finally, too sore and too tired to climb another tree, she hobbled back to the shack, plopped down on the cot, and bawled her eyes out.
The weeks, and then months, following Mule’s sudden departure were hard on Smoke as her pregnancy progressed, but she was unaware of the drastic changes in herself, psychologically. Before Mule, she’d made her own way—mostly stealing and gulling the easily manipulated men who paid for her favors, and adding turtles, mud bugs, and fish to her plate when she could catch ’em—but it was different now. Before, she’d kill somethin’ without a thought ‘cause it was food, ‘cause that’s what they’s for; she neither liked nor disliked it, it was just the way of things. Now, she made the poor creatures suffer first. It started with the hogs, chasin ’em down and hackin’ their noses off before they’s even dead with that short-handled hatchet she’d hacked Mule up with, but she’d run out of them for some time now. When they were gone, she went back to her old staple of turtles, mud bugs, and the occasional possum. There were instances now, when hungry or not, she caught somethin’ and tortured it, slow, just to hear it squeal and thrash in pain, strugglin’, wide-eyed while it died. Smaller critters, croakers and water dogs, she squeezed to death, popped ’em with her bare hands, and then just threw ’em away.