“You seriously wish I would’ve glued my pubic hair to your chin with my cum?”
“I guess you’ll never know, now, will you?”
I feel like I’m sleepwalking as I take off my shirt and unbuckle my belt. It’s like I’ve woken up in a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.
“Why didn’t you say something to me about this instead of running off to screw other guys? How the hell was I supposed to know what you wanted if you never bothered to tell me?”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you. It’s a husband’s job to learn these things about his wife. God, you’re dumb.”
“Can you even hear yourself talk? Do you have any clue how ridiculous you sound? A good marriage is built on a foundation of communication and trust. Not mind reading, you stupid tramp.”
Mongo impatiently snaps his fingers in my face. “Save marital spat for some other time. Right now, shut stupid trap and get on hands and knees.”
I do what he tells me, but I’m giving Carrie my best stink-eye. “You’re right about one thing, my dear. I was naïve. I can’t believe I didn’t know what a nasty whore you were until it was too late.”
She flips me off and slides in behind me. She grabs my dick, which I just now realize is hard as a rock. Just before she slides her tongue between my ass cheeks, I tell her, “One last thing, Carrie… Eat my shit.”
She responds by biting my scrotum.
Ten minutes later, she’s still going at it. My dick is beginning to get raw from Carrie’s stroking and my asshole is numb to the point that I can barely feel her tongue, which is not necessarily a bad thing. The way I feel toward her right now, I’m more than a little repulsed by what we’re doing, so much so that my guts are beginning to roll.
And what we’re doing is the rusty trombone, which apparently is a chick licking and blowing in a dude’s ass while stroking his member, thus creating the effect of playing a trombone. I’ll let your own imagination guess why it’s called ‘rusty’. I suppose in a perfect world of two consenting adults performing acts of love and sensuality for each other, this would be perfectly acceptable. Far be it for me to judge a person based on what I myself have done over the past week. But when you’re partaking in such activities without being a consenting party, well...
It makes me think of Danielle. And Pauline, maybe to a lesser degree, but still. And the sanchez chick. And then I feel even more guilty over the fact I performed a dirty sanchez on a girl whose name I can’t for the life of me remember.
“You about done back there,” I say over my shoulder.
Carrie pauses and says, “Waiting on you, fuckhead.” Then she resumes.
As soon as she dives back in, I feel pressure. It’s not external, but something deep inside. A rumble from within, like the demons I’ve been carrying with me have decided to wake up and make some noise. What I first thought was guilt and anxiety has turned to something more.
“Um…”
No one says a thing but Mongo grabs one of the cameras off a tripod. He moves to the wall like he’s getting out of the way. This should strike me as strange but I’m more concerned with the build up of pressure very quickly making its way from my innards toward my outards. Is that a word, outards? Fuck it, I don’t know and I don’t care. Something big is about to go down.
“Uh… Carrie?”
She halts her trombone playing and says, “What, are you finally going to cum so I can stop this?”
“Well, I’m not sure how to put this, but something’s coming, alright.”
Despite how much I hate this woman right now, there are still some things I would not consider doing to her, out of anger or spite or revenge or whatever. Things I would not do to any human being, because they’re just not right. Like farting in someone’s face. I would not do that on purpose because it’s just not kosher. And yes, I realize how hypocritical that sounds considering my recent history. I’m complicated, what can I say?
But I’m being completely truthful when I say I don’t fart in Carrie’s face on purpose. It really is an accident. She doesn’t see it that way.
“OH, YOU DICK!”
She jumps off the bed and wipes at her face, but I’m already past her and headed for the bathroom. Something dire is happening to me at this moment and I have very little time left. I race for the toilet and jump on the seat, ready to expel whatever it is that’s trying to blast forth from me, but Mongo is there, waiting in the bathroom.
“Dude, get the fuck out of here! I’m about to explode.”
“No, hold it in,” he says. “Bitch, get in here!”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? My colon is about to burst here. Get the fuck out before I –”
I don’t get further than that. Mongo smacks me in the chin with the back of his hand and I nearly careen off the stool. When I right myself, he’s in my face, pressing the blade of his huge hunting knife against my cheek.
“You are homosexual, show me ass control. Hold it in or I will make you wish you had.”
He turns to the door and yells, incredibly loud and right in my ear, “BITCH, GET THE FUCK IN HERE!”
Carrie appears in the doorway with a look of repulsion on her face.
“You prick, you splattered me.”
She’s wiping at her chin and I notice, amid the remaining stars in my field of vision from Mongo’s blow, three brownish dots on her forehead. I’m a little dazed and trying real hard to keep from shitting my brains out lest Mongo gut me like a fish, but I realize what those brown dots are. I don’t know what else to say other than a weak, “Sorry.”
Mongo points at me and says to Carrie, “Back on knees, whore. Time for blumpkin.”
A few minutes later, I’ve regained my bearings. During the time in between, Carrie assumed the position, took me into her mouth, and we both waited for Mongo to get the camera ready. When he pointed at us, Carrie began sucking and I let the floodgates open.
This is the blumpkin. Who the fuck comes up with this shit?
Like I said, it takes me a couple minutes, but I feel a little better, especially after I’ve filled the toilet with some of the most noxious stuff that’s ever come out of me. I wonder if I’m coming down with the stomach flu or something, then it hits me.
“Hey, Mongo, what was that pill you gave me back in the car?”
Mongo pushes a button on the camera, I’m assuming the pause button, and says, “Pill was Viagra. Drink was fast-acting laxative.” He punctuates this tidbit of information with a pleasant smile.
That would explain the raging torrent flowing from my ass, as well as the raging boner I’ve maintained through all this despite my revulsion. I look down at Carrie, who’s sucking away. She stops every few seconds to turn her head aside and gag, but she dives right back in again. I’m surprised at her conviction in seeing this through.
“Damn, Carrie, if you would have worked as hard at being married as you do at giving a blumpkin, we might have made it, you know?”
She looks up at me. Her face is a little green. She says, “When this is over and you pay me my share, I’m going to spend it on hiring Mongo here to torture you.”
Mongo says, “Shut up and finish.”
“I got news for you, Mongo, she could do this for days and I don’t think I’ll ever get off on it.”
“Only need one money shot,” he says. “Rest of this will be edited before sent. Just need enough footage and best shots we can get. Hollywood is tough business, you know?”
Carrie stops and looks up, but she’s kind of staring off into space, not at anything in particular. We all hold our breath for several seconds, listening, before a resonant rumble breaks the silence. But it’s not coming from my spent gastrointestinal tract this time.