by Edward Lee
Clayton giggled slobberingly into her ear. “See? That there’s why they call him ‘Shot Glass...’”
“I’m like thet coffee, yew know? Chock Full’a Nut. ”
The shot glass was almost full to the top with sperm.
“Heer ya go, reddy-head. Open up.”
Hazel’s eyes crossed at the prospect. “No way. That’s ridiculous. You can’t possibly expect me to swallow that much cum.”
Whap!
All of the air in Hazel’s lungs vaulted out. Shot Glass had pile-driven his fist straight down into her solar plexus. At the same time, Clayton had reapplied his asphyxiating grip to her throat.
She flopped fishlike on the bed, face bluing. It had been fun before but now it was excruciating. She couldn’t breathe.
Shot Glass’s voice sounded as though it was coming from the end of a long echoic tunnel. “Curn’t believe the sass’a this ‘un, eh?”
“Dag straight. Ya do a bitch a favor, then she talks shitty to ya.”
“Curn’t have that, new-sir.”
Clayton released the grip; Hazel turned limp as wet rags on the bed, wheezing.
“Naow,” Shot Glass addressed her. He held the shot glass forward. “Yew were sayin’?”
Aw, jeeeeeze... Hazel craned her head back and opened her mouth. Both men chuckled as the shot glass was tipped, and nearly an entire ounce of semen was poured into her mouth. Nauseated, she let it sit there, dreading the inevitable, then she counted to three in her mind and swallowed.
“Yew’re welcome,” Shot Glass sniggered.
“Look at it this way, red. Ya just got free lunch.”
Both men climbed off the bed.
Exhausted and still out of breath, Hazel could only remain sitting up in the filthy bed, staring at them. Shot Glass, limp dick dangling, went to the refrigerator for still more beer. Clayton looked all the more ludicrous: fat, dirty, and without pants. He thunked toward the back door. “Be’s right back. I gots ta pee.”
“Me tew,” Shot Glass said and for a moment moved toward the door as well. But then he stopped on a dime.
“Wait a sec’, Clayton. What’re we thinkin’? Why we goin’ aoutside when the toilet’s right heer? ”
He pronounced toilet as “tur-let.”
Hazel’s face seemed to wither, and by now, she didn’t even have the energy to object. Shot Glass knelt up to her on the mangy bed. He slipped the flaccid cock right into her mouth. Hazel squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for his void, but instead, he held off, and called out, “What jew doin’, Clayton? Come on.”
“Huh?”
Shot Glass waved him toward the bed. “Get right up heer next ta me’n get yew’re willy in her yap. Let’s double-fill the bitch. Both the same time.”
Fat, stupid, and pantsless, Clayton hesitated. “Aw, shee-it, Shot Glass. I don’t know. My dick stuck in there right next ta yers? Sounds kind’a queer, don’t it?”
Shot Glass frowned. “En’t queer if’n it’s a gal’s maouth we’re pissin’ in!”
Clayton shrugged, gut roll hanging. “Guess yer right,” and then he knelt right up next to his partner and slid his penis into Hazel’s already burdened mouth. Both men began to giggle as the whizzing commenced.
Dual hot jets fired into the back of her throat. Hazel put the whys and wherefores out of mind, to solely concentrate on her task. Her throat worked desperately, machinelike, to swallow the urine in enough time to make room for more. She strained forward, not daring to think what might happen if she regurgitated, or simply hacked on them.
“Theer, ya go, theer ya go,” Shot Glass kept saying, fist to hip, pissing away. “Seems a waste ta piss in the lake when we’se got a perfectly good gal’s breadbasket ta pee in.”
“I hear that!” railed Clayton.
They pissed for several minutes more, Hazel managing to swallow almost all of it. Yesterday had been nothing compared to this. Just how much in liquid volume could they possibly put in her? And worse, exactly how much piss could a 105-pound woman drink before her stomach burst?
When she thought she would die, the dual jets abated. The men withdrew, chortling, leaving Hazel to sit spread-legged, pot-bellied, and filled to rupturing with atrocious, sloshing heat.
“Tune ya up enough, did we?” Shot Glass asked, grinning as he reached for yet another can of beer.
Fuck, Hazel thought.
“Now do our laundry’n git this placed cleaned up,” Clayton yapped, then both of them roared laughter.
Why on earth did I ever come here? she asked herself, then plodded off the bed. Her stomach did indeed audibly slosh as she trudged back to the “kitchen” and dazedly put her shirt and shorts back on. I’m out of here and I’m never coming back...
“Have a nice day, sweetie!” Clayton bid, yuckling. “‘Member ta put on a happy face!”
“Shuh ya durn’t wanna stick araound?” Shot Glass blared. “Yew know. We could cuddle some, hold hands’n read poetry.”
The shack nearly rocked from their laughter. Hazel staggered toward the door, stupefied. It was some inner-sense, however, that halted her at the entry. She coughed, blinked, took a deep breath. I need to get all this piss out of me, her mind wandered but at the same time her eyes had roamed to the can-littered table. Next to an opened bag of potato chips rested a travel book, New York City for Dummies. Also, in the dip of a corroded couch cushion was another book, Fodor’s Guide to Mexico City.
This didn’t sound right. She pointed to the books. “So you guys travel, huh? You guys?”
Both of the men looked at each other as if concealing some secret satisfaction. “Aw, ee-yuh,” Shot Glass affirmed. “I’se goin’ to Mexico City’n Clayton heer’s goin’ to New Jork.”
Hazel peered at them in spite of her exhaustion. “Travel much, do you?”
“Waal, new, en’t never traveled to speak’a. But we figgure why not? Hard-workin’ dudes like us? Weer entitled to a vacation.”
Hard-workin’ dudes...“Mmm. How peculiar,” Hazel murmured.
“What thet, missy? Sumpin’ wrong with us goin’ on vacation?” Shot Glass snapped.
“You guys just don’t strike me as traveling types. And you’re best friends, presumably.”
“So?” Clayton demanded, holding a beer. He still had not put his pants back on.
“Since you’re friends,” Hazel conjectured, “I would think you’d travel together—”
“What, you sayin’ weer homos? ” Shot Glass tested her.
“For God’s sake!” Hazel exclaimed. “Neither of you have traveled before but one’s going to New York and the other to Mexico City? Why those places, and why not together? It just seems...odd to me.” The only thing more unlikely was the lowbrow barmaid, Ida, getting ready to go to Sao Paulo, of all places. This wasn’t adding up.
Shot Glass’s patience was ruffling. “Odd, huh? Waal I’ll tell ya, only thing seems odd to me is yew still standing theer. We just bilge-pumped yer tits’n pussy and then put enough piss in yew ta fill a kiddie pool.”
“Yeah,” Clayton moronically concurred. “Best you git-cher ass out’a here, ‘less’n we decide to do a real job on ya.”
Hazel’s volition told her to move toward the door at once—to leave... She even saw Clayton errantly rubbing his cock, which suddenly looked half-hard again. If these two scumbags get their dicks up again...I know exactly where they’re gonna put them...
Nevertheless, her feet remained where she stood.
She put a hand to her nauseous belly, then looked back at them. “I need to know how to get to a place called the Gray Cottage.”
Silence.
Shot Glass froze mid-sip. Clayton slowed playing with himself as he peered at her.
“En’t never heerd’a no Gray Cottage,” Shot Glass told her with a sharp smirk.
“Me neither,” Clayton gruffed, oddly defensive.
“Bullshit,” she retorted. “You know what I’m talking about. What is it with people around here? The barmaid at the tavern says
the place doesn’t exist, while two other people I talked to say they’ve heard of it but don’t know how to get there, and now you two jokers say you’ve never even heard of it. But it does exist; I know that for fact.”
“Oh, dew ya naow?”
“Yeah . It’s supposed to be up on Whipple’s Peak someplace, where all that mist is. You guys live here, you must know of a trail that leads to it.”
Shot Glass flapped his hand. “Aw, it en’t up on Whipple, it’s way over at Mount Washington—”
“Oh, so you have heard of it,” Hazel challenged, and when he’d told her that, she received the immediate impression that he was deliberately giving her false information.
Why?
The dilapidated room grew tense. Shot Glass rubbed a fist in his palm. “Yew sassin’ us again, girlie?”
“Yeah!” Clayton demanded. “Sounds like youre’ gittin’ too big fer them whory britches. Want us ta loosen ’em up a tad fer ya?”
“Yew ask tew many questions, reddy-head, and it’s gettin’ my dander up. So why’n’chew get aout’a heer afore I kick you in the cunt so hard yew’re fuckin’ ovaries slide aout’cher nose?”
“What is the big deal? ” Hazel insisted. “All I’m asking for is a little help finding this place. Shit, it’s the least you could do.”
Shot Glass’s neck stiffened as his eyes leveled. “What’chew mean by thet? ”
Hazel sputtered. “For fuck’s sake! I just let you two animals use my body for Pervert Party Central! All I’m asking for is a favor! Tell me how to find the Gray Cottage!”
“Oh, so we owe yew a favor, huh?” Shot Glass mocked. “Waal, then...Clayton!” he snapped. “Hold her up!”
The fat one had already slipped behind, and in a second he’d chicken-winged her. She shrieked when he pulled her elbows so close they touched.
“All right!” she screamed. “I’ll leave! Let me go!”
“Heer’s yer favor, missy—”
Fwump!
Hazel’s body jerked up when Shot Glass kicked her right in the crotch, punter-style. Clayton didn’t let go when the impact drove her feet off the floor. Then the pain set in...
Had he broken her pubic bone? She could only pray that the violence didn’t burst any organs or cause internal bleeding.
“Heh, heh, heh. Think yew larnt yew’re lesson ‘baout askin’ questions thet en’t yew’re business?”
Half-doubled over, Hazel drew her gaze up to see Shot Glass standing tall and snide, arms crossed. She took note of his hand...
Another one...
He wore a scarlet-stoned ring.
Her voice ground like gravel. “What’s that ring you’re wearing?”
Shot Glass’s face drew seams when he stared closer. “I’se durn’t believe this! We just warnt the bitch not to ask questions, so what she dew?” Shot Glass bellowed: “Ask another question!” He reached up and grabbed the light fixture hanging from the kitchen ceiling, then—
He shattered the unshaded bulb against the counter-top, then...put on a black rubber glove.
Hazel began to squeal and kick, but the effort was useless; Clayton only tightened his grip on her elbows. Shot Glass pulled her top up, then, with the gloved hand, squeezed her right breast. The nipple remained distended from the suction machine.
“Don’t you dare!” she screamed. “Don’t you—”
Zap!
Shot Glass meticulously touched both of the broken bulb’s lead-stems to Hazel’s swollen nipple. After the zap there was a crackle.
She flopped upward from the shock, which felt more like the impact of a two-by-four than an actual shock. Though the contact lasted only a second, her legs agitated involuntarily. The entire right side of her chest throbbed in a strange sensation of tingling, burning, and numbness.
“One more time fer posterior sake,” Clayton urged. “Like my daddy used to say.”
Even in her horror and unrelieved agony, Hazel couldn’t help it: “That’s posterity, you dogshit-for-brains, useless fat vagabond—”
Zap!
crackle...
The second jolt zapped her left nipple. Hazel howled.
“What’chew think, Clayton? She larn’t huh lesson?”
“Yes, yes, I have!” Hazel wheezed.
“Naaaaw...”
The third jolt kicked her feet a yard off the floor and bent her spine forward like a pretzel. Shot Glass had reapplied the bulb’s 110-volt lead-stems this time to Hazel’s crotch...
She fell limp in Clayton’s arm’s, vibrating in the aftermath.
“Had enough, reddy-head?”
Hazel, barely cognizant, nodded.
“Durn’t come ‘raound heer no more. Weer sick’a yer red-hairt pussy’n sass. Clayton?”
Hazel’s heels dragged against the floor as she was moved out to the porch, stood up limply at the step, and pushed.
She bowled forward, staggered, then fell— splat! —into the sea of mud that made up the driveway. She landed face-first.
“Heh, heh, heh—Yew think little missy’ll be back tomorrow?”
“Shore hope so! We’se can have tea’n crumpets!”
Nothing particularly sentient occupied Hazel’s mind at that moment, only her awareness of her outrage and her pain and her stupidity. Just one coherent thought sparked: I’m SO LUCKY to be alive... Mud-spattered, she eventually teetered to her feet, then cupped her aching crotch with her hands. Her nipples sizzled in a low, steady pain. Then she groaned when she remembered that she was still full of beer-piss. She staggered away down the drive, Shot Glass and Clayton hew-hawing laughter behind her. When she took a final dismal glance back, she saw that Clayton, too, wore one of the crude, crimson rings.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, her thoughts droned with each imprecise step. Flipflops long gone, her bare feet eventually schlupped their way off the driveway to the paved, secondary road. She paused when her heart skipped a few beats, then managed to pull herself back from a probable fainting spell. When more awareness sparked, she bent over right on the road’s shoulder, jammed two fingers down her throat, and forced herself to vomit. Gushes of urine flew out—more than a few. I must be the only woman in history to vomit up redneck piss TWO days in a row...
When it was all out, she staggered on, then turned onto a wooded nook which led down to the lake shore. Next thing she knew she was trudging into the cold, raw water to let all the horrendous filth of the day wash off of her body.
I asked for it, and I got it, she thought. No one to blame but myself. She took her shorts and top off in the water, rung them out and rinsed them over and over. When she came back to shore, she examined herself for physical damage. Fortunately no bleeding was in evidence between her legs, and no marks from the shock through her shorts. Her breasts were another story, though. The suction machine had been bad enough, but the electric jolts left them twice as swollen, with a minute burn-mark on either sides of the areolae. Thank God, she spared the final thought, then rung her clothes out as best she could, re-dressed, and went back to the road.
She knew what had compelled her to go there: her sickness, her paraphilia—triggered by the disappointment of missing her chance with Sonia. I don’t even remember getting it on with her. I must’ve done it in my sleep...
But what had urged her to ask questions, questions that only irked her detestable assailants further, to the point of molesting her, of beating her, electrifying her?
Too many things were brewing now. These odd rings, commonplace rural folk anticipating trips to Sao Paulo, Mexico City, New York? And Frank’s uncharacteristic absence and bizarre behavior. Then the problem still remained: was there really an ancient stone cottage up on the mountain? Hazel felt certain there was. So why can’t I get a straight answer from anyone?
A half hour of walking revived her. The pain receded somewhat, but by now her senses sharpened. She could’ve been maimed, critically injured, or killed, she knew, yet somehow she’d escaped those fates and was now walking home as though noth
ing happened. And that’s what I have to act like when I’m back at Henry’s cabin, she knew. Like nothing happened...
The day bloomed beautifully before her: flawless sunlight beaming through a cloud-free sky. The dizzyingly tall trees on either side shimmered in luscious, shifting greens. Birds sang en masse. Before long she was actually smiling as she limped along the road, but the smile faded when her cellphone rang and she saw that it was not Sonia but Ashton.
Just what I need... Why didn’t she want to answer it? She liked Ashton but...She let the voice mail get it, waited a moment, then listened: “Hazel, it’s me again—big surprise. I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to answer the phone but...Anyway, call me back, will you please? I’ve probably left a half a dozen messages since you left; I just want to know that you’re okay. I suppose I’d be worried to death but I just spoke to your father and he says he talked to you yesterday.” A long pause on the line. “I just...miss you. Oh, and I wanted to tell you about your father’s new church; I had a look at it this morning. It’s beautiful, and, well, you know, your father’s a little bit hurt that you haven’t been there yet—”
Oh my God! Hazel thought. If it’s not my dad making me feel guilty, it’s Ashton!
“So why don’t we plan to do that when you’re back from this trip, okay? It would make your father very happy...Anyway, uh, I hope to hear from you soon, and I love you—”
That was enough for Hazel; she put the phone away. Now is not the time for some guy to be telling me he loves me, and then she immediately thought of Sonia...and continued to curse herself for not even being able to remember what had happened between them last night.
When she’d made it back to the cabin, she felt frantic to wash. Quiet, she thought, for Sonia was napping. The ceiling fans were blowing, and the shades had been pulled down over the open windows, leaving the place grainy in half-dark. She stripped off her clothes, then snuck to the shower cubby. She pumped the cumbersome shower, the cold water raising gooseflesh. Perhaps it was a subconscious endeavor to punish herself by not heating the water first. Teeth chattering she lathered herself, scrubbed hard, then rinsed off but it was necessary to repeat the procedure two more times before she felt clean. Obsessive-compulsive, she half-joked to herself; she even scrubbed her tiny cross and then actually splashed Listerine on it. Forgive me, forgive me, came the aimless thought, and then she wilted when she looked down at her wet, naked body: the abused nipples still protruding from the suction machine, and her aching sex swollen and over-tender from the vicious kick, compliments of Shot Glass. Bastards...Pieces of shit... But of course she’d only wound up getting what she’d asked for.