“I live off of Ashton,” Sheree admitted. “Because he’s pig-shit rich and a great lay.”
Ashton and Bob, to no surprise, brayed laughter. Sheree and Carol rolled their eyes at each other.
More bad jokes from up front cursed the trip: “Have you heard about the teacher who was fired for being cross-eyed?” “She couldn’t control her pupils.” “What do you give sick birds?” “Tweetment.”
Sheree considered suicide as an alternative to this—Ashton, she knew, was a supreme asshole, but in league with his brother? He was ten assholes. At least the “trip” wouldn’t last forever. Eventually she’d be back at the luxury suite, driving her Bimmer, spending Ashton’s cash where and whenever she saw fit, and even copping a stray lay now and again. Sure, she cheated on Ashton; he was too busy braising rosemary racks of lamb and flambeeing Divers Scallops in Gingered Sesame Sauce to keep a total track of her. She remembered the last guy she’d picked up, at the Four Seas bar in Chinatown. Looked like fuckin’ Gary Oldman with long hair and tattoos, and a pound of potatoes in his pants. That pound turned to two or three once she’d gotten him back to the motel. It was so big even Sheree’s porn-seasoned pussy about exploded when he stuck it all in. She came once a minute for an hour, felt damn near retarded when he was finally finished. Sheree was actually blowing spit-bubbles on the last round, then he pulled out, jerked the rest of it off, and whipped her face with lash after lash of hot cum.
Few and far between, though; Sheree knew she had to be careful in such ventures. She had a lot to lose. Not just three-hundred pounds of fat jackass but the car, the joint, and the cash.
She sighed to herself, then flicked a momentary glance at Carol—long tan legs crossed in the tight denim skirt, tits bulging in the skin-sucking tube-top. Carol’s blond hair shimmered almost perfect white over the cherubic naughty-girl face; Sheree recalled the lezzy scenes she’s done with Savannah and Zoe and Rachel Ryan when she’d been a blonde, and it occurred to her just then that she wouldn’t particularly mind parking her pussy firmly over Carol’s mouth. Just a fleeting fantasy. Up front yet another bad joke resounded: “What do you call a rabbit with fleas all over him?” “What?” “Bugs Bunny!”
The men brayed laughter as Carol and Sheree winced. It was a coincidence, then, when Sheree, after another appraising look at Carol’s impeccable body, thought, I wonder if Carol cheats on Bob… Carol reached forward, tapping Sheree on the knee; she passed Sheree a quickly scrawled note, which read: I cheat on Bob any chance I get. Do you cheat on Ashton?
Sheree took the pen and piece of paper, and wrote FUCK yes!
Carol shrieked in response.
“What’s going on back here?” Ashton asked, his eternally fat face glancing back at them. “You girls having some fun without us?”
Don’t I wish, dick-wad, Sheree thought. “We were just laughing about your great jokes. Tell us another one, honey.”
Ashton grinned in sheer pride. “If you insist. What does a dog do that a man steps into?”
“What?” Carol asked.
“Pants.”
Bob brayed laughter so hard the Winnebago rocked. Carol and Sheree wanted to die.
“I know it’s funny, but don’t laugh too hard, girls,” Ashton said next. “Because, guess what? We’re here.”
««—»»
Bob had taken a narrow and poorly marked road a ways past Port Angeles—Sheree had spied a badly painted wooden sign, which read Sutherland Lake. It was only minutes later that Bob was maneuvering the girthy Winnebago and its laden trailer through heavily wooded roads that seemed more like hiking trails. Fog sifted through the trees, condensation seeping down from the mountains.
“No wonder nobody knows about this place,” Sheree commented. “Who’d drive through all this shit just to fish?”
“And that’s our good fortune, sugarplum,” Ashton replied. (Sheree’s face creased when he said sugarplum.) “The fewer people who know about this spot, the better—for us.”
Carol’s mammoth breasts swayed when she leaned up between the two men and peered out the windshield. “This looks—this looks…funky,” she articulated. “Are you sure there’s a lake back here?”
“A big lake, baby,” Bob said. “Why don’t you girls stick with what you know: looking pretty. Let the men do the navigating.”
Sheree yanked Carol back by her tube top…before she could put her hands around Bob’s fat neck. Another minute, though, a crude wooden sign popped up, its enameled letters informing: GREAT FISHIN’ 1 MILE! BAIT SHOP! TAKE THE PULL-FERRY!
“See, schnookems?” Bob countered to Carol. “You saw the sign. Good fishing coming right up.”
“Yeah,” Sheree posed, running a finger across her chin. “But what’s a pull-ferry?”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Ashton said. “I hope they’ve got a water hook-up for the Winnebago.”
“And electric,” Bob added.
Soon the giant vehicle pulled out onto a long coast road, lining the shore of a broad, spacious lake. “This is it!” Ashton whispered in a hot breath.
Bob: “Yeah, but where’s this bait shop? Where’s the trailer grounds? We need electric to keep the brew cold.”
Then another sign popped up: TRAILERS AND RV’S WELCOME. HOOK-UP CHARGE $5 A DAY. COME ACROSS TO THE SHOP TO PAY.
“What the fuck?” Sheree pondered. “Come across to what?”
“They mean come across the lake,” Ashton speculated. “To the island.”
He pointed now, and they could see it: the heavily forested island tiny in the distance, like a fat, green clot floating in the lake. Abruptly, a clearing opened, with water hoses flanked next to electric hook-up. PARK HERE, a sign announced. $5 A DAY FOR ELECTRIC, $5 A DAY FOR WATER. $5 A DAY FOR PARKING. TAKE THE PULL-FERRY ACROSS TO PAY.
“Those five-dollar charges are racking up,” Carol noticed.
Ashton grinned over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, hon. Bobby and I got it covered.”
“I guess that’s the pull-ferry,” Sheree surmised. They parked near a rickety dock and crude gravel boat ramp. A red Ford Explorer sat parked further down. The “pull-ferry” was nothing more than a rowboat connected to a pulley system of thick rope which stretched all the way to the island.
A wooden sign informed: PULL-FERRY FEE $5.
Ashton chuckled to his brother. “Think we can afford it, big guy?”
Bob pulled out a choke-wad of cash. “Aw, gee, I don’t know! I guess we better go back home!”
Sheree frowned at the laughter which was now obligatory.
The Winnebago literally rocked when Ashton and Bob got out; Sheree thought of two cows being pushed off a cattle car. Her eyes, however, felt snagged to Carol’s ass as she climbed out. A big perfect swervy ass filling up that tight denim skirt. Sheeze, Sheree though through a prickly flush. Two pinpoints of heat speared her nipples. If I was a man I’d want to fuck her hard in the dirt… She got out behind Carol, cruxed by the sudden kindle of lust. Sure, in the porn business, Sheree had licked more pussies than the average kindergarten kid had licked lollipops, and so much hair pie had sat on her face she thought she was a fucking park bench. But it was all for the show, all for the camera and the billion-dollar-per-year industry of men jerking off in front on their tv sets. Personally, Sheree wasn’t into women (she was into cock). Her mind drifted back to previous Hollywood boyfriends and suddenly her birth canal grew slickened at the constant recollection of touch, handsome men slapping her down and fucking her hard. Chicks didn’t do it for her.