by Edward Lee
“Well, yes,” and she was disturbed by how effortlessly the lie arrived. “My friend Sonia and I want to cook out on the grill tonight, so I need to get some fresh fish. Then someone mentioned the Fish Boys so I thought they’d be a good bet.”
Clonner shrugged. “Aw, well, they do bring in a good fresh catch, I’ll give the pair’a morons that.” His stump waved toward the front door. “Just go on down the road a half-mile, then turn toward the lake on Zadok Spur it’s called. Go on a spell, there be the shack.”
Bingo! Hazel thought. “Thanks very much, Clonner.” She tried to pay her tab but the old man wouldn’t hear of it. “Yer cash is no good in my bar, sweetie. But just you do me a favor if’n ya catch up to Clayton’n Shot Glass.”
“Sure, Clonner.”
“You tell those two beer-soaked, do-nothin’ bums that it might be nice, just once, fer them ta actually pay their blammed rent like ever-one else in the world!”
“I’ll do that, Clonner. See you soon.” Hazel smiled at him then left the bar.
The shift from morning to early afternoon brought more heat and humidity; it came in waves. Shouldn’t have had those beers, she thought at once. She was already buzzed, a feeling she didn’t typically like. Nevertheless, each step she took down the road brought a refreshing excitement to her. Clayton Martin and Shot Glass Brown... Would they really prove to be Peter Pan and Snow White? And if they were...
Why wasn’t she afraid of the prospect?
She found the turn-off, the oddly named Zadok Spur, in less than ten minutes. Here, though, the asphalt ended, leaving a narrow road even muddier than Horace’s. When she thought of walking within the forest’s fringe, one step told her it was useless. Evidently the land here lay very low; last night’s showers had turned the forest’s carpet of leaves and detritus into swamp. To hell with it, she consigned. Mud washes off, and she took off her flipflops and marched unfazed through the slop. She didn’t care how dirty her feet got, anyway. The rest of me just might be a whole lot dirtier in a little while...
More excitement welled, however unspecified. Sweat drenched the Mark Twain T-shirt now, to the extent that it stuck to her chest like a wet veil. Nerves squirmed in her nipples which had distended a half-inch, and between the heat and the considerable walking, her shorts worked up tight into the cleft of her buttocks. When the mud-trench of a road broke, she felt woozy...
There sat the aforementioned shack, just off the shore with the flat glass of Lake Sladder shimmering nearly as far as she could see. From the shack, a ramshackle pier extended, while a decrepit boat sat still in the water, heaped with nets and fishing rods; animal pelts hung up on a two-by-four frame. Well here they are, Hazel thought, ankle deep in mud. The Fish Boys. In only minutes she’d have the answer to her question...
Her feet schlucked as she approached. She glanced at the shack’s small windows and—
What’s that noise?
She heard a sound like a vacuum cleaner, though by the looks of the place, and her impression of its tenants, she couldn’t imagine much housekeeping going on here. A awful stench blew into her face from a garbage can just beyond the porch; Ugh, she thought, looking it, for it contained piles of fish heads along with the heads of possums, squirrels, and other mammals. A wooden door stood open, from which the machine-sound emerged. Great design, she thought in sarcasm, for the shack had been erected below a slight rise before the shoreline; the excess rainwater from the woods had clearly entered the teetering building at one end.
BUY YOR FISH HEER, read an incredulous painted sign. MUSKRAT, POSSEM, WOODCHUK - CHEAP.
Hazel felt no hesitation when she stepped onto the facsimile for a front porch and entered the shack without knocking.
The vacuum sound deafened her. It was a disaster of a domicile: busted recliner chairs sitting askew, a warped table full of empty beer cans, a television with a coat hanger for an antenna. Various wires looped from the ceiling; a dented refrigerator, a microwave with a crack in the window, and a hot plate comprised the kitchen, while pots and pans dangling from the ceiling. The only true lamp in the place sat on the counter, but it was shadeless. A fat, brown-haired man was opening the fridge for a beer. He had a beard. Clayton, Hazel realized. Clonner’s nephew. He went to the counter and began the grisly task of fileting some skinned animal the size of a dachshund. A second man busied himself at the opposite end of the shack: tall, wiry, stubbled-faced and sunken eyed. His long hair was the color of a dirty sheep. Walter “Shot Glass” Brown... Indeed, Hazel had seen both men fileting fish at the tavern yesterday. Shot Glass paused to chug a can of beer, then returned to his noisy duties, for he was the one behind the deafening sound. The shack’s far end dipped enough to form a low spot which had accumulated an inch of water on the floor. Unmindful of the possibility of electrical shock, Shot Glass tramped boot-footed through the water, wielding a two-foot-long clear plastic tube an inch in diameter; this tube was connected to a long, black hose stuck to a machine that looked like an engine analyzer at a gas-station, only very old. The man was vacuuming up the water that lay in the dip, the shack’s crude sleeping area, she could see, for two ratty, steel-framed beds occupied the nook. Mattresses lay sheetless and stained.
Hazel merely stood there, looking around.
“Yo! Yo!” Clayton, the fat one, yelled to his partner. He set down his bloody fileting knife. “Shot Glass!” He banged a pot on the makeshift kitchen counter. “Turn that dang thing off!”
Shot Glass looked up amid the siphoning cacophony; water slurped loudly into the tube. He noticed Hazel standing there, then flicked the machine off.
“We’se got company,” Clayton said.
Shot Glass set the nozzle aside, then tramped out of the water. He peered, weasel-faced. “Who’re yew?”
Hazel crossed her arms below her bosom. “Clayton, Walter, a.k.a. Shot Glass–the Fish Boys, huh? Nice to see you again. And just so you know, I didn’t file rape charges yesterday, but I did tell some people I was coming here now. So if I, say, disappear, the police will know where to come. Keep in mind, there is still a death penalty in New Hampshire.”
Both men looked at each other, narrow-eyed.
“But that was some job you guys did on me yesterday. The foot-fuck especially.”
“Clayton, what’s she talkin’ ‘baout?” Shot Glass asked.
Hazel snapped, “You stupid redneck dimwits!” then she pointed to a cluttered shelf on which sat two plastic faces: Peter Pan and Snow White. “If you’re gonna rape a woman half to death, at least have enough brains to hide the evidence!”
The shack stood silent several moments, Clayton and Shot Glass at a loss for words. Clayton gulped, and...was Shot Glass nervous when he went to the refrigerator for another beer?
“So...,” Hazel began. “Here we are, and since I’ve just told you that I never filed a police report, what does that tell you two think-tankers?”
“Eh?” asked Shot Glass.
Clayton scratched his head.
Hazel sighed. “You guys know what carte blanche means?”
“Eh?”
“Cart...what? ” Clayton inquired.
“Free pass?” Hazel continued. “Consensuality?”
Shot Glass swigged more beer, frowning. “We durn’t know what yew’re talkin’ ‘baout.”
“For shit’s sake,” she muttered. “Listen, I have some problems—some psychological problems. They have names, for all the good they do. One’s erotomania. Another is chronic transitive paraphilia. One doctor even said I was sexually pathological. It means I have destructive sexual fantasies that are severe enough to cause detriment to my life. I don’t expect you guys to know what any of this means since you both probably dropped out of school in the fourth grade—”
“Try seventh, there, missy!” Shot Glass cracked as if offended.
“‘Bout the same here,” Clayton twanged.
“Wonderful,” Hazel groaned. “But here’s something you can understand. I’m sick in the head. Sick a
s in sexually sick. I have fetishes and fantasies that exist on an obsessive level.”
Shot Glass’s face seemed to lengthen in contemplation. “Yew mean yew’re, like, nympho?”
“Yes!” Hazel celebrated. “You finally got it!” She peeled off the moist T-shirt, bearing sweat-misted breasts erect with the most obvious anticipation. Then she stepped out of her shorts. “Any time now. It should be pretty clear to you two dopes that I’m ready, willing, and able.”
Chuckling, it was Clayton who lifted her up by a hand to her crotch and the other to her armpit.
“On the bed,” Shot Glass directed. “Guess we didn’t tune the bitch up good enough yesterday.”
Clayton slammed her down on a dirty mattress. Springs squeaked. “Think of me as an all-you-can-fuck buffet,” Hazel panted. “Do anything you want.”
“Anythang?” Clayton asked, taking off his smudged jeans.
She flinched when Shot Glass pinched her labia. “Just don’t kill me or cut me. Oh, and— please—no foot stuff.”
The men roared laughter. Clayton, pantsless now, sat on her stomach, his groin reeking. He cleared his throat, then let a wad of phlegm splat between her breasts.
“Thar’s some ripe chest-peaches, heh, heh, heh!” Shot Glass remarked.
“Yeah, and I’se gonna fuck ‘em fierce,” Clayton promised. He lay his erection in her modest cleavage, then pressed both breasts together. He began to hump. Hazel felt the mucous-slick organ slide back and forth. Meanwhile, Shot Glass was working two, three, then four fingers into her drenched vagina. When the thumb nudged in and all the fingers closed to form a fist, Hazel bucked in a crest of agonizing pleasure. Shot Glass pistoned the fist back and forth while traversing clockwise and counter-clockwise, and when he pinched her clitoris—quite hard—Hazel came in a series of clenching, eruptive spasms. She shrieked when the fist pushed in deeper. The bed rocked. Then the great weight of Clayton lifted as he raised his penis up, stroking the slick skin. He quickly leaned forward, put his gorged corona right against her nostril and—
“Here’s some nose drops for ya...”
—ejaculated with force. Most of each jet of semen shot right down the nostril till she gagged, hacked, and then could feel it sliding down the back of her throat. Clayton tapped the rest off against her lips.
“Kind’a like blowin’ yer nose backwards, huh?” the fat man reveled.
“Ee-yuh,” Shot Glass agreed. “And I done got the dirty whore off already.” He shimmied his hand out of her, wiped it off on her face, then said, “And haow’s this fer an ideer?”
Shot Glass moved away as Clayton dismounted her. Hazel lay squashed on the atrocious bed, stomach sucking in and out. More, more, her thoughts pleaded. Her fingers stroked her aching, thumping sex. “Set ‘er up, Clayton,” Shot Glass ordered next, but what was he doing? Clayton man-handled her to a sitting position, while he himself sat right behind her, and vised her neck in the crook of his elbow. “Aw, yeah!” he hooted. “That’ll really fuck the bitch up!”
Hazel flicked her eyes to the right— What’s he doing? —but all she saw, very briefly, was Shot Glass take another swig of beer and smack his lips. Then he disappeared from the edges of her vision.
“Ee-yuh, this’ll likely put some zing in her day...”
Hazel clenched at the loud, abrupt sound: the scream of the vacuum pump being turned back on. Clayton’s hand slapped across her mouth, then her eyes shot wide when Shot Glass reappeared holding the long clear nozzle at the end of the vacuum’s hose.
“Let’s see what this does ta her nipples, eh?”
Hazel’s back arched when the nozzle was applied to her right areola. The instant contact was made, the nozzle’s rim sealed against her flesh and the motor’s whine doubled from the resistance. She watched half in terror and half in fascination as the clear tube sucked her areola out an inch, then an inch and a half. When it seemed that the motor would burn up from resistance, Shot Glass took to turning it on and off, on and off, over and over, the pressure sucking the nipple out, then releasing. Hazel squirmed in the bed from the delicious pain.
“Hot damn! Would ya look-it that?” Clayton yelled.
“Ee-yuh siree,” Shot Glass commented after turning the machine off. “En’t thet dandy ta look et?” He removed the nozzle to reveal Hazel’s molested nipple, which had now been sucked out to something the size of an unshelled walnut, only raging pink. “Yew could hang yew’re hat’n coat on it,” and then the machine’s deafening whine resounded and the process was repeated on her left nipple, on and off, on and off, over and over.
Now both nipples stuck out similarly, gorged with blood.
“Do her pussy now,” Clayton suggested.
“Wait a minute, time out,” Hazel roused enough from her sick daze to object. “That’s a bit much, I’m afraid.”
Crack!
The impact of Shot Glass’s hand across her face slapped half of her consciousness out of her.
“Yew said anything, ” he reminded, and then once again the vacuum was turned back on. Now Clayton pulled her knees back to her shoulders, to protrude her vulva. All that filled Hazel’s head was that mad, deafening sound...
The nozzle’s rim sucked right up tight against the opening of her sex. At once the pink labia was pulled taffy-like into the tube. Both men stared in glee at her crotch. All that nerve-charged, hypersensitive flesh seemed to fill the first inch of the nozzle as though the suction were drawing her vagina inside-out up into the tube. On and off, the switch went amid Clayton and Shot Glass’s dark laughter. On and off, on and off...
After several minutes of this Hazel was nearly convulsing—two inches of her vaginal flesh—the vaginal metus, might be the proper term—had been sucked up into the tube. The machine’s insane whine rose and rose as more and more resistance was met, and again Hazel began to climax, this time via the most perverse means of her life. When three inches of metus had been drawn out, Shot Glass shut the machine off.
“Dang!” Clayton exclaimed of the visual effect. “That plumped her pussy up fierce, it did!”
“Ee-yuh, shuh did.”
Gog-eyed, Hazel looked between her legs; her labia appeared swollen, like the lips of a boxer who’d just lost the fight. The demented activity had trebled the blood supply to this tender area, leaving it to throb in a viscous tingle.
Shot Glass chugged more beer. “Heh, heh, heh. ‘S’one tough cooze this tramp’s got.”
Clayton twisted the still-protruding nipples till Hazel yelped. Then he ran fat fingers through her deep-red pubic hair till they found the marauded labia and began to diddle with it.
“Shore is fun fuckin’ with gals.”
‘’Specially sick pups like this ‘un heer,” Shot Glass added, unbuckling his trousers. He manipulated several pillows beneath her rump, while Clayton remained sitting behind her. Her cross lay stuck between her breasts by semen and mucous.
Shot Glass knelt between her legs. “Ee-yuh, only one thing a fella can dew with a pussy plumped up like this’n that’s fuck it.”
The erection looked a good eight inches, uncircumcised. He peeled the abundant foreskin back, then ran the dome up and down the folium of her sex. “Shit, the bilge pump got this sick bitch so horny she’s leakin’ like a sieve,” he said.
You can say that again, came the panting thought. Now stop toying with me and FUCK me...
He banged his cock in hard to the balls, then began to hump her with vigor. Hazel’s vagina felt effervescent from the previous suction, as though the pump had generated new webs of nerves. Shot Glass pulled his cock all the way out, then banged it all the way back in, over and over and over, until the bed was rocking so violently it must’ve been close to collapsing. Incredulously, though, the man maintained his fornication with one hand on his hip, and he swigged beer from the can in his other hand.
Joggling, Hazel winced up. She had to ask, “If all you drink is beer, why is your nickname Shot Glass? Seems to me you’d drink shots...”
> His face was twisting up as orgasm impended. “Eh?” Balls slapped the bottom of her elevated ass. “Waal, yew’ll see.” He winked at Clayton. “Choke the hose-bag up some—git some spark in her. Just be keerful ya durn’t kill her—”
Hazel gagged when both of Clayton’s meaty hands clamped her throat and squeezed. This again, she thought in the most despairing delight. At once she grew dizzy and dim-visioned. The cock continued to bang in and out. Each time Hazel’s consciousness began to blacken, Clayton’s grip released enough to bring her back a moment. Her head lolled and her tongue stuck out through a droopy smile. Her sex was being plundered now; it was squirming around the piston-rod of resilient flesh. All the while, the higher and higher she got, the combination of rising sexual sensations merged with the effect of decreased oxygen to the brain producing a heroin-like euphoria. For the third time, she began to climax hard...
Her consciousness fell into dead space; the black-out seized her, lingering. Through cracks in the lightless curtain of her soul, she saw her father peering at her, in tears...
She revived as if rising from a tar pit. When her eyes reopened she saw nothing at first. Her heart was missing beats but eventually corrected itself. When her vision finally focused...
What’s he...doing...now?
The scene formed in front of her. She remained on the bed, her ass propped and legs spread wide. Shot Glass remained kneeling between them, though he’d withdrawn his erection and was now frenetically masturbating...
“Aw, fuck, theer! Theer she goes!”
Clayton giggled manically behind her.
Shot Glass did not spend himself on her belly as she thought he would. Instead—
Oh my God...
—he was carefully masturbating into the object of his namesake: a shot glass. Hazel watched with incredulity at each white spurt that fired into the tiny glass.
“Uuuuuuuuuh...Ee-yuh...”
When he’d finished, his cock fell away limp. He held the shot glass up for her to examine.