Dripping, Kasha could only look back at him.
At the same time, Dumar passed his father a rather large revolver—in specificity, a British-made and century-old Webley .455 whose uniqueness existed in the fact that it was a rare automatic revolver. The antique weapon had once belonged to a lowdown, wife-beating local creeker, Archerd Conner, who’d died wretched in the early ‘90s. Conner’s son, Tritt Conner, whose nickname was “Balls,” had then properly inherited the weapon but he’d died a while back amid some controversy in the woods near a closed hospice for priests with terminal illnesses. Dumar had lucked upon the relic for chump-change at a Crick City pawn shop.
But be all that as it may, Helton took the impressive gun and pointed it right at the girl. “Get ’em right off.”
Wobbly-kneed, and sobbing, Kasha took off her clothes.
The three men’s jaws dropped.
“Holy FUCK,” Micky-Mack said.
“That is some body, ain’t it?” Dumar posed.
Helton remained essentially speechless.
The nude woman gleamed in the sun; the previous urinary void left her hair hanging like oiled strings and the dark pubic tuft a nest of glistening jewels. Wet skin radiated keen as a flash of sunlight on a lake. Just then she could’ve been some Siren of the New Dark Age, the Gleaming Goddess of Piss and Shining Desire.
Her breasts stood out in utter, incontestable preeminence.
Micky-Mack and Dumar winced at the marveling sight. “Gawd dang, Paw. Her bod’s even finer than Veronnerka’s. This is tough!”
“I don’t think I ever seed a body that hot in my life,” Micky-Mack groaned and began to stroke his now fully erect member. Dumar did the same, and it should be mentioned now that after gustily emptying their bladders, neither man had zipped back up.
Helton had no choice but to rub his crotch and perhaps mumble a frustrated curse under his breath. “I know it’s tough, boys, but that’s what separates good men from crackers. We ain’t crackers. Crackers got none’a what they call morality. We bust our nuts in this bad-tempered bitch’s box just fer talkin’ down ta us, then we ain’t no better’n Thibald Caudill hisself. So you boys just git them peters back in yer pants where they belong.” He winked. “You’ll be needin ’em later.”
With reluctance and more than a small amount of muttering, Micky-Mack and Dumar obeyed their elder.
“But now that leaves you, missy.” Helton tapped the gun barrel against his palm.
Kasha shivered where she stood, the cool air not only causing the shiver but also fascinatingly puckering the stupendous nipples as the urine began to dry. “What-what-what,” came the accented stutter, “you going to do?”
Another squeal as Helton roughly shoved her toward the cow.
“Hot damn!” Micky-Mack wailed. “Unc’s gonna up’n make her suck that cow’s dick!”
WHAP!
Helton’s big booted foot to Micky-Mack’s behind sent the boy straight to the ground.
“Gawd DANG, Unc Helton!”
“When you was peein’ on this splittail ya must’a peed yer brains out with it!” Helton roared. “You see a dick on that cow? For land’s sake, boy! A cow don’t have a dick! Only bulls have dicks!”
Dumar honked laughter.
“Aw, shit, Unc,” Micky-Mack complained through his embarrassment. He got up and rubbed his rear. “Cows, bulls, how the hail do I know?”
“Ya don’t know much, I’ll’se tell ya that. Now just you shut up’n watch me administer proper punishment to this here uppity bitch.” Helton’s fist in Kasha’s hair dropped her to her knees. He urged her face very, very close to the face of the subdued cow.
Most prominent were the ropes of repugnant mucus hanging off the animal’s lips…
“See all that snot’n slime’n such hangin’ there?” he asked of Kasha.
Kasha stared in mute horror, so Helton pinched her cheek hard.
“Do ya?”
“Yes, yes!” she sobbed.
“You’re gonna eat it. You’re gonna eat it all.” Helton paused for effect. “Then we’ll let’cha go.”
Kasha screamed.
“And if’n ya don’t eat it…” He put the gun to her head.
“Holy moly, Paw. That shore is some punishment!”
“Hot damn!” Micky-Mack approved.
Helton, of course, wouldn’t really kill her if she refused, but that possibility became moot when, hitching sobs, Kasha leaned shudderingly forward and—
“Aw, jiminee!”
—began to suck all those snot-ropes off the cow’s lips. Helton’s hand in her hair assisted in guidance. “Ya missed some, hon—and, ooo—right there, don’t ferget that ‘un hangin’ out the nostril,” and as the instructions drew on, Kasha completed the dismal task.
“Good, good,” Helton approved.
Dumar and Micky-Mack applauded.
Cross-eyed, Kasha straightened up on her knees. It was apparent, however, that during the brow-raising process, she’d merely kept the mucilaginous residue in her mouth, as her cheeks appeared stuffed.
“Shame on you! There ain’t no spittin’ out here. Ya do a job, ya do it right. Ya gots ta swallow…”
The girl’s eyes could’ve launched from her head at this conveyance of information. The end of the pistol barrel was re-introduced to Kasha’s head, then—
gulp
She swallowed.
More applause from Micky-Mack and Dumar.
Reeling, she looked up. “There! I do this dirty thing! So you let me go now, right? Like you promise?”
“Well, no, hon, that weren’t the deal,” and then Helton turned in a slow circle and he counted aloud, “Let’s see, one, two, three, four, five. You still got five more cows waitin’ on ya.”
Kasha shrieked as Helton’s big fist in her head dragged her a ways to the next cow. On her knees, she visibly convulsed as she sucked off the snot and slime, reeled with a hand to her belly, and swallowed. The third cow went similarly but during transport to the fourth—
urrrrrrrrrrrp!
—she vomited.
“Don’t worry ’bout that none, missy,” Helton assured. “We’ll git’cha filt right back up,” and then came the fourth cow.
The fifth.
And the sixth.
“Now that’s doin’ the job right. And I hope ya done learnt yer lesson.” Helton wagged his finger. “Treat others like you’d want ’em ta treat you.”
Kasha’s face had turned bleach-white. She continued to shudder in the aftermath of this most diverse late-morning snack. “Now I go, right? Right?”
“Why, shore, missy.”
But after she got up, she froze, looking off. And then?
She released a rejoicing, whistle-high squeal.
“Look! Look! You darty farks! You piece of shit redneck garbage creek people! Here come a man to save me! A man with a gun!”
Helton, Dumar, and Micky-Mack all took simultaneous and very concerned glances in the direction that the girl indicated.
Indeed, a man with a gun—with a long rifle—seemed to be jogging toward them, a dog following close behind.
“Over here! Help! Help!” the girl jumped and bellowed. “These men do horrible thing to me! Kill them!” and she pronounced “Kill” as keel.