««—»»
They doused the fire and hit the road, Dumar driving and Helton still communicating expository details via long-winded and essentially passive dialogue. Veronica, in her shock, dismay, and fatigue, had fallen asleep, still handcuffed to the leg of the fish-gutting table. The truck lumbered on through the night, its dim headlights sweeping through winding, wooded roads as a low winter moon followed them through the trees. “It’s likely that Paulie ain’t there,” Helton rambled on, “on account I heard he don’t spend much time at the house. But that’s dandy, ’cos it ain’t Paulie we want just yet. It’s his wife.”
“Marshie,” Dumar said. “And we’se gonna snatch her—”
“—and have ourselfs a header,” Micky-Mack concluded.
“Yeah we is, and we’se gonna film it on that there fancy camera that our friend Veronnerka solt us, and then we’se gonna leave that movie fer Paulie ta see.”
Silence unfolded for several moments, but it was the antsy Micky-Mack whose incessant inquisitiveness broke that silence. “Dang, Unc Helton,” he began and rubbed his crotch. “Much as I love havin’ a nut…I don’t think I can get my bone up for it.”
“A head with a hole in it’s gotta be tough to get a stiffer for,” Dumar said.
Helton understood. “It’s a differ-kult thing ta conterm-plate, boys. That’s why when ya’s havin’ yer first header, concentration’s the key. Ya gots ta think hard ’bout all the great pussy ya fucked, and all the purdy gals.”
Micky-Mack seemed unconvinced, still rubbing his crotch. “Shee-it, Unc. My dick feels dead right now, like it knows it ain’t a natural thing to fuck folks in their heads.”
Dumar: “Don’t matter that some folks say a header’s the best nut they ever had, Paw. I ain’t gonna be able to get me no erection in a million years.”
“That’s why we gots ta tweak ourselfs a tad, get our dicks all feisty’n fit ta spit,” Helton said. “And I figure our friend Veronnerka can help us with that.” He peered down the dark ribbon of road ahead. “We’se close ta walkin’ distance now, so find a place ta pull over.”
Dumar did as instructed, but Micky-Mack squinted at his elder. “What’cha mean tweak ourselfs, Unc?”
««—»»
It was in grueling stages that Veronica awoke from her black sleep. She’d had the worst nightmare…
She saw only black, but did she hear…moans? Whistling? Did she hear someone say in redneck dialect, “Hot dang, that’s a dandy body on her…”?
Did she hear, “Shit, that’s good…”?
Or, “Fuck. My crane’s raisin’, no problem…”
She also had the sensation that something was in her hand. Something, warm, turgid, and tacky…
Finally, her eyes peeled open from the noxious sleep…
What in the name of…
Helton, Dumar, and Micky-Mack stood around her where she sat slumped against the truck wall. They all had their penises and scrotums out, and they were stroking themselves and staring down at her with salacious grins. Veronica’s eyes flicked to her free hand…
Micky-Mack had not his own hand but her hand wrapped around his penis. The penis was erect, large, and heavily foreskinned.
Veronica screamed.
The men winced at once. “There she goes again!” Dumar yelled, erection bobbing. Micky-Mack dropped her hand to cover his ears, and Helton roared, “God dang, girl! That scream’a yers’ll travel halfway ‘cross the blammed county. Gonna crack all the winders!”
“I knew it!” she yelled, “I knew you were going rape me!”
“Dang, Veronnerka,” Helton said. “I done tolt ya we’d never do nothin’ like that.”
“Please! Please don’t rape me!” she sobbed. “I’m a virgin! I have to save my virginity for when I marry Mike!”
“Simmer down, girl,” Helton pleaded.
“Yeah,” Micky-Mack said. “We’se just givin’ ourselfs a little tweak.”
“Gotta get our stiffers up,” Dumar added, “and—dang, hon—we didn’t have no idea you had such hot body.”
“Hotter than the lid on a pot-bellied stove,” Helton said.
Only then did Veronica notice that while she’d slept, these three perverts had raised her top, exposing her bare breasts, and they’d pulled her work pants and panties down.
“That’s some sure-fire gorgeous rib-melons on ya, Veronnerka,” Helton complimented, “and the dang purdiest slop-box I ever seed.”
“So don’t git mad,” Micky-Mack said. “We’se just admirin’ ya.”
“Admiring me?” she spat. “You were using my hand to masturbate with!”
Helton chuckled. “‘Tis funny how gals git their dander up over the littlest things.” He began stroking his penis again, and cradling his testicles. “All we need is somethin’…provokertive, ta gander, that’s all.” Another friendly chuckle, glancing to Micky-Mack. “See, I sent my nephew there to pick us up a girlie mag, and lookit what the dimwit brung back.” He picked a magazine off the floor, and showed it to her. The cover read SWISH FAMILY ROBINSON and showed a half-dozen young, muscular, and quite naked men standing cross-armed before a log cabin. They all sported erections of prodigious size. “As ya can see, the dumb-ass got a stroke mag fer homa-sexual fellas—got pictures in here’a fellas cornholin’ each other’n suckin’ peter! Damn, Micky-Mack, sometimes yer common sense is worth ’bout as much as a dixie cup full’a dogshit worms…and that ain’t worth very much, now is it?”
Dumar honked laughter.
“Aw, shee-it, Unc! I knowed we was in a hurry,” the boy retorted, “so I git to the magger-zine section with all the girlie mags’n I just grab the first one my hand lands on. Didn’t know it was for queer fellas. I ain’t never had much use fer girlie mags what with all the poon I bust. Shee-it, gals purdy much foller me down the damn street, and a lot of ’em I don’t even know. It’s ’cos word gits ’round, ya know?”
Helton frowned. “Word gits ’round ’bout what?”
Micky-Mack shrugged with nonchalance. “That I got the biggest dick in these here parts. What I need beat-off mags fer when ever gal in town’s standin’ in line ta sit on my giant cock?”
Helton pointed a finger. “Don’t’cha be braggin’, boy! Aw, shore, ya gots yerself a big pecker, but so did Tater Kline. ‘Member him? He had a dick on him a foot long, son, and he was always braggin’ ’bout it. God’s got ways’a gettin’ back at folks fer their sin’a pride.”
“Damn, Unc Helton,” Micky-Mack dismissed. “Tater Kline? Who’s he?”
Dumar honked laughter.
“I done tolt ya. God saw fit ta hang a foot-long pecker on him, so’s instead’a bein’ grateful, he up’n brag about it any chance he get. Pull it out in the damn bar, he would, doin’ parlor tricks’n shit. Flippin’ beer mugs, playin’ ring toss, flappin’ it around. So’s ya know what God done, boy? He just hauled back and laid on Tater a case’a the dick cancer, He did, yes sir! Then Tater had ta go the hars-spital’n get what they call a penectomy. It’s a operation. Dang doctor from India cut his dick clean off ta get rid’a the cancer. But ya know what?” Helton smiled with a nod. “Tater Kline never bragged ’bout his big dick never again.”