by Lee, Edward
Dumar waited for her to pull her upper lip back and stick her tongue out, then—
“Eeeeee-yeah,” he grunted. “Dang shore better’n before.” He paused tentatively. “And, say, hon? Is it alls right if’n I pulled yer top back up and feel on yer titties whilse yer doin’ it?”
“Yeah, how’s ’bout it!” Micky-Mack exclaimed. “You got dandy titties!”
She pulled her mouth off long enough to frown at the revolting smell and say, “Oh, I guess—”
Dumar re-inserted himself but stooped over, peeled up her top, and began to fondle her breasts.
“Eeeee-HAH!” Helton railed. “Are they some milk wagons or what!”
Dumar began to sweat. Like the true redneck gentleman, he pressed her ears, pumping. “And—lemme see,” and then quite abruptly he slipped the entirety of his erection all at once into her mouth, half of which went well into her throat. “Dang if she cain’t deep-throat too, Paw!”
“Consider yerself blessed, Veronnerka,” Helton said in a tone nearly fatherly, “‘cos a gal with none’a what they call the gag-reflex is a blessin’ indeed.”
Micky-Mack was staring at the job, amazed. “Unc! Just watchin’s got me so sure-fire horny, why, my dick’s leakin’ pre-cum like a blammed spigot!”
“There ya go braggin’ again!” Helton roared. “Don’t take yer youth fer granted, boy!”
By now, Veronica’s oral resolve filled the compartment with the sounds of voracious fellatio.
“Shee-it, hon,” Dumar railed. “That’s dang near perfect technique.” He pumped a few more times, winced through some self-control, then pulled out. “Yeah. Theeeeeeeere’s the ticket. My dick is fit ta spit now, ready ta tussle shore as shit.” He flexed it a few times, as if to demonstrate something to her.
“My turn,” Micky-Mack trundled forward and got right to it. The larger erection shocked her when it slid inches deep into her throat, but there was never once the impulse to gag. Her mouth, in fact, began to engage in an intricate synchronicity with her head, and as uncomfortable as it was to simultaneously cup her tongue and keep her lip pulled back over her upper teeth, Veronica found very quickly that…
Wow. This is pretty easy.
“Good Gawd, girl!” Micky-Mack raved. “Alls a sudden, yer suckin’ dick like a champ!”
“The backwoods technique is it,” Helton said. “Make shore ya don’t ferget it, hon. It’ll serve ya well.”
Veronica just kept sucking.
“Ho, ho,” Micky-Mack murmured. He started getting twitchy. “Dang, dang! I mean, this is dead-solid the best blowjob I ever got.” He began to twitch some more. “Shit, ya know, Unc Helton? I’se just cain’t help it. The dick-suckin’s just too good. I’se gonna have ta git me my nut—
WHACK!
Micky-Mack toppled backwards with a wail; his penis popped out of Veronica’s mouth. What happened? she wondered but then she looked and saw the younger man cringing on the floor and holding his head.
“Gawd DANG, Unc Helton! What’cha clout me in the head fer?”
Helton’s indignation smoldered in his eyes. He pointed his ever-present finger. “Don’t’cha be a selfish little punk, Micky-Mack! We ain’t doin’ this fer our own pleasure! This is family business!”
The boy sat up, groggy. “That hurt like holy hail, Unc…”
“Then let it be a lesson to ya. Our friend Veronnerka’s helping us get our willies riled out’a the goodness’a her heart, boy! This ain’t a ruckin’ party—you’re savin’ up that cum fer a important reason! You understand?”
Micky-Mack shakily nodded. When he got up, he wobbled at first. “Yeah, I understand, “ he droned.
Dumar laughed. “These young kids. Gots no force’a will.”
“No they shore don’t,” Helton said, stuffing his erection back into his jeans, and then the other men followed suit. Helton smiled down at Veronica. “Thanks kindly fer torquin’ us up, hon. We’se gonna have to leave ya fer a short spell, but we’ll be back.”
This is so strange… Why would men only want partial blowjobs? Veronica wondered as she wiped the appalling dick-B.O. off her lips. The men were all putting on their jackets.
Before they left, Helton paused at the big truck’s back door. “Oh, and feel free ta help yerself to some spaghetti. It’s made by that famous chef—Boy-Ar Dee!” and then he left and closed the door behind him.
Veronica just sat there, staring at the door. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night…
— | — | —
Chapter 7
(I)
Portafoy awoke just as the clock struck twelve. The indentured 60ish African-American butler opened his eyes in the dark, then heard—
clink
And then:
A loud and rather rowdy fart.
Oh my, Portafoy thought, eyes going wide as silver dollars. He’d worked here well over twenty years—in fact it had been Thibald Caudill himself who’d hired him. The old man had said to Portafoy’s face, “What I need, boy, is a loyal, hard-workin’, yazzah-boss buck to run my house fer me. You interested?” Well, Portafoy didn’t care for the boy or the buck references, or any of the other myriad racial jabs that sailed from the mouths of this white-trash-turned-rich family. (The little girl, ‘Becca, was by far the worst). But, hell—$500 per week? No way he’d turn that down. Nevertheless, for the entirety of his employ at the Caudill Mansion, Portafoy could recall not a single time when anyone had broken in.
clink
Then: another rumbustious fart.
And then: an unmistakably backwoods accent in the faintest whisper: “Fuck, Micky-Mack. Yer dang butt’s makin’ more noise’n a fuckin’ circus.”
“Shee-it, Unc. Cain’t help it. It’s all them beans I et. But…dang! This here’s a dandy house inside—”
“Shhh!”
Oh my…my, my, my, Portafoy thought, then quite shakily rose in his pajamas. There could be no doubt: intruders were present. He grabbed the small revolver in the nightstand, then picked up the phone to call 911.
No dailtone.
And his cellphone was downstairs.
Portafoy gathered all his courage, then slipped out of the room into the very dark hall. Pistol in the lead, he took two steps, then stopped.
More voices: “She ain’t here, Paw.”
“You shore?”
“Checked every room, shore as shit.”
The voices came from the landing, which was just out of view.
“The black fella’s asleep in the room on the end. But the master bedroom’s empty.”
“Lemme check. But, wait. What about the girl?”
“Oh, we got the girl. Micky-Mack just took her down the stairs…”
The girl, Portafoy thought with a pounding heart. ‘Becca. He could hear the floor creaking from none-too-discreet footsteps. Several moments passed, then the housebreakers returned to the landing and proceeded down the stairs.
Were they kidnaping ‘Becca? Portafoy felt sworn to protect the girl, little foul-mouthed racist redneck shit that she was. Be brave, he told himself. I might have to kill some men tonight…
Then, with resolution, he walked down the hall, turned toward the landing, and—
“Got’cha!”
A hand snapped out of the dark and snatched away Portafoy’s revolver.
Portafoy nearly lost consciousness.
A long-haired hillbilly in his ‘30s grinned in the subdued light. “Howdy. Ain’t no call ta be scairt.” He waved the gun in Portafoy’s face. “Come on down. We needs ta talk.”
Oh-oh-oh…what am I going to do? The manservant took unsteady steps down. The vast, luxurious downstairs stood dark but he could see the bright white lights of the kitchen blaring.
More sounds.
First, a crunching, then someone said “Ahhhhh,” in unison with a spattering sound. The long-haired man urged him in.
Even in the midst of this calamity, Portafoy was indignant. A younger hillbilly, with mussed blond hair, stood
up on his tiptoes, urinating into the kitchen sink—a Kohler kitchen sink. “Sir! Please! There’s a toilet just down the hall!”
The boy looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Dang. Sorry, sir. Couldn’t wait, ya know?”
The crunching sound encroached; Portafoy reeled at the mammoth of a man who stepped forward, eating out of a bag of Gourmet Sweet Potato Chips. “Howdy, sir,” he greeted with mushed chips stuck between his bad teeth. “Terrible sorry ta barge in like this.” The man must’ve been six-four, husky but with wide shoulders and plenty of brawn. He wore a tattered wool coat, old boots, and a floppy leather hat that had probably seen better days decades ago. A great bushy gray-blond beard consumed the bottom half of his face.
“Can I…help you?” Portafoy asked absurdly.
“‘S’matter’a fact, ya can. We’se lookin’ fer Marshie Caudill.”
Robbers, no doubt, and then some. Portafoy did his best to assume the role of his authority in this house. “Mrs. Vinchetti is not available at the moment. She happens to be out of town.” A thought kindled. “I’d be happy to call her, that is if you’d kindly reconnect the phone line. Who shall I say is asking for her?”
The great man roared, while the other two cackled with him. “You gotta hail of a sense’a humor, sir! Naw, there’ll be no phone calls. But, shucks, that kind’a alters our plan.” He looked to the long-hair. “Guess the girl’ll have to do, son. Let’s have a look.”
“Micky-Mack?”
The brash blond man hitched up his zipper at the sink, deputed himself into the next room, then reappeared, pushing along a chubby teenaged girl with hair dyed bright as Kool-Aid Pink Lemonade and a long nightshirt that read HANNAH MONTANA! Her eyes looked more infuriated than afraid, even with her hands tied and some nylon stockings knotted through her mouth.
“‘Becca!” Portafoy exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
Her face reddened in rage as she gruffed something through the gag, but then the blond man who’d relieved himself in the sink took the gag off, and at once, in a tight, high-pitched backwoods accent, she bellowed, “Does it fuckin’ look like I’m all right, you stupid”—and she used the N-Word.
Silence closed over the room.
The large man’s brows shot up. “Young lady, lemme tell ya somethin’. Only the worst kind’a hill-trash use that there word. Decent folks don’t make no slurs regardless of a person’s race, their color, or even their creed.”
“Aw, fuck yew, ya big bearded hillbilly fuck!” the girl yelled. Inflamed eyes shot to the cocky blond man. “And this pervert was rubbing his crotch against me and feeling my tits!”
“Ain’t much ta feel, girlie, hate ta say.”
“Aw, fuck yew, ya stinky cracker! All’a yas!” Next, the eyes shot to the indentured family servant. “Portafoy! Shoot these pieces’a shit with your gun!”
Portafoy faltered. “Regrettably, Miss ‘Becca, this other gentlemen here took the gun away from me.”
The girl hurled more invectives, starting with “Why yew stupid”—and she used the N-Word. “Only the dumbest”—she used the N-Word—“in the world would let some redneck steal their gun! What fuckin’ good are ya? A house”—she used the N-Word—“who’s got his gun took away!”
The long-hair chuckled, arms crossed. “Some mouth on the little beast.”
“Shore is,” the big man said, “but we’ll’se see what we kin do ’bout that a right quick.”
The girl heaved and blared, “Yew-yew-yew—aw, fuck yew, you dog-dick! You hillbillies are so poor ya gotta eat the fuckin’ corncob after ya wipe yer dirty ass with it! When my stepfather hears about this, he’s gonna kill yew! He’s in the Maff-ee-ah—I know ’cos my Mama tolt me!—and he’ll throw all your redneck asses in a wood-chipper!”
The three intruders laughed, then the big man said, “Your stepdaddy, huh? Paulie Vinchetti.”
“Yeah, yew fuckin’ turd burglar! I’se kin tell just by lookin’ at yew! Yew suck each other’s dicks!”
More chuckles, then the big man said, “Ya know, boys. Turns out I’m glad we get this ‘un instead’a Marshie. I reckon it’s time we go.”
The girl shrieked when the blond man started to hustle her toward the back door. Portafoy, without even thinking, leapt forward and pushed the blond man away, then stood in front of the girl.
“Sir?” the big man asked, incredulous. “What’cha think yer doin’?”
“I’ve been in this family’s employ for a long time, sir, and I am bound to protect this girl when she’s in my charge. I’m prepared…to fight.”
More chuckles. Then the girl rallied, “Yew tell ’em, Portafoy! Yew fight these fuckers! ’cos if’n yew don’t, my stepfather’ll drop your”—and she used the N-Word—“ass right into a fuckin’ wood-chipper!”
Again, silence.
The big man cleared his throat. “Sir, I admire a man who’ll fight fer what he feel it’s his duty ta fight fer. But now, if’n ya do, you’ll just wind up gettin’ yer butt whupped, and we don’t want that. Our fight ain’t with you, it’s with this Paulie fella.” He frowned at the girl, then shook his head. “And this chunky little trash-mouth here? You shore you wanna fight fer her?”
Portafoy considered the reasonable question.
“And go ahead’n tell me I’m wrong, but I’d bet the back’a my balls she been callin’ you that ugly word fer a long time. Ain’t I right?”
Portafoy sighed, answered in the affirmative, then stepped aside.
Th girl screamed her outrage. “Yew fuckin’ coward”—she used the N-Word—“piece’a shit! Yew fuckin’ yellow-ass”—she used the N-Word—“no-good, no-balls”—she used the N-Word—“motherfuck!” and then, finally, the blond man put her gag back in, threw her to the floor, and dragged her kicking and flailing out the back door by two handfuls of her bright-pink hair.
“Wise choice, sir,” the big man said. He took two small glasses from a cabinet, then, from another, pulled out a fancy liquor bottle that read LOUIS XIII on it. “Here, take a nip,” and he filled the glasses and passed one over. Meanwhile, the long-hair was filling plastic bags with food.
Portafoy and the big man each shot theirs back neat, but the big man’s brow twitched. “Don’t barely taste like nothin’. This what rich folks drink?”
Portafoy realized just then that he’d been serving the same brandy to white people for years and years, yet this was the first time he’d ever been offered any. It seemed to melt down his throat. “It’s $500 a bottle, sir, and…delicious.”
“Well, you can have it. Me, I’ll take corn liquor any day.” He gently turned Portafoy around and began to tie his wrists. “I gots ta tie ya up but don’t worry none. It won’t be tight. Figure you’ll be able ta git out’a it in a hour or so, then you just call the police’re do what ya gotta do.”
“I appreciate your consideration, sir.”
“Aw, don’t think nothin’ of it.” Next, he tied the servant’s ankles, then he picked up two more plastic bags off the floor that hung heavy with whatever filled them. Some kind of pilferage, evidently.
The big man winked. “Just you take care’a yerself now, and, again, I’se terrible sorry to roust up yer night like this,” and then he grabbed the other bags and began to follow the long-hair out.
“But, sir, I beg your pardon,” Portafoy said. “What…what are you going to do with the girl?”
The big man laughed. “After what she call you, do you really care?”
“Actually, no, sir, I don’t,” Portafoy admitted, “and I do hope you have a pleasant evening and wonderful holiday…”
(II)
It’s about time! Veronica thought when Helton loudly opened the back door to the truck. He had a great big grin for her. “Tolt ya we wouldn’t be long.” He set down several plastic bags, and then—
Veronica’s heart surged with joy.
—he pulled out the handcuff key.
“You’re letting me go!” she rejoiced. “Oh, Helton, I knew you were a nice guy
!”
He unlocked the cuff hooked to the metal table. “Aw, shore. We’se’ll let ya go”—he took her arm and led her toward the front of the truck—“just…not yet.”
Veronica’s joy collapsed.
What now? What? she thought.
Helton sat her down in the front passenger seat, and he cuffed her right hand to the door handle. “You’ll be more comfortable up here,” he said. Then: “All right, fellas,” he called out behind him,” then—SWOOSH—he pulled the jury-rigged shower curtain across the back of the front seats.