Mongo’s getting pissed now. “Enough with mean. Is not mean, you are just pussy. When contest is over, you can return to being homosexual have butt sex with other man. For now, you do this and we win contest.”
I was poking the bear too much here, but something suddenly dawns on me. “Wait, you said ‘we win contest’. Are you saying that if I win, you get a prize, too?”
That creepy, child-eating grin swarms Mongo’s face. “Is something like that, yes.”
We stand there in silence, him grinning, me fretting. Finally, he reaches out a paw and yanks me toward the door. “Time to get moving before gangly whore wakes up.”
“Right, OK, let’s do this.” There’s not much conviction in my voice. I guess I’m doing it whether I want to or not.
The lights are still out, so Mongo must have some kind of night vision cameras in here. Danielle is snoring, clearly wiped out from her monumental orgasm. All I want to do is climb back into bed with her and return to our warm little meadow, maybe ride piggyback on her again. That was nice.
This is not.
I pull back the covers very slowly, exposing her bare skin a few inches at a time. If she wakes up, we’re sunk, and at this point, I just want to get this stupid challenge over with. And then I’ll pray I never see Danielle again because she’ll probably beat the snot out of me.
I get the blanket pulled down to just above her knees, far enough for the small amount of moonlight coming through the window to give me light to work. Danielle rolls onto her back and I freeze, terrified, hovering over her with a pair of scissors in my hand. I don’t move again for several very long beats, not until her mouth falls open and she starts to snore again. It’s a loud, rattling noise like a machine gun firing in short bursts.
I remember why this challenge with this girl might be a problem. She’s bald downstairs. Perfectly shorn. Handsomely landscaped. My Abe Lincoln has quickly turned into a Telly Savalas. I must have been so focused on performing the fuckhouse correctly I didn’t even notice.
I do the only thing I can think of — I turn tail and run out of the room. Mongo’s waiting for me on the balcony outside.
“Get back in there,” he says.
“Uh, we have a problem, meathead. She’s got no pubes.”
Mongo doesn’t even hesitate, like he had this already figured out. “You already put dick in slit. How you not know this? No matter. Is not problem. You have pubes, yes? Use them.”
I think about it for a second. “I guess that could work. But is it legal? Peter Oh’Tool specifically demonstrated cutting off the girl’s pubes.”
“Yes, yes, is fine. Pubes is pubes. Go back in now and finish. I want to go for pancakes soon. Getting very hungry. You will not like me when I am hungry.”
Oh, well, I’m sorry my moral ambiguity is putting a dent in your breakfast plans. I think that, but I don’t say it. He’s right, of course. I don’t like him much now, I can only imagine how he’ll be when he’s grumpy. Fuck it. Let’s do this.
I take a few quick breaths and place my hand on the doorknob. Gotta psych myself up for this.
I go back in, quietly shutting the door behind me. Danielle hasn’t moved and is still snoring. I sneak over to the room’s tiny bathroom and shut the door behind me. I pull down my boxers and stand in front of the mirror, staring at my pale form. Another deep breath before I start to cut, trimming away as much of my reddish-brown man growth as possible. The more hair the better to make this as effective as possible.
Once I have a sufficient mound sitting on the sink, I set aside the scissors and grab my dick. This is going to take some coaxing. I am most definitely not in the mood to masturbate right now, which for me is saying something. But as Peter Oh’Tool said, “You can’t apply the disguise without first applying the foundation.”
I push Peter from my mind and try to think of other things. I think of earlier in the evening. I close my eyes and try to find the same rhythm Danielle and I had before.
That doesn’t work too well. All I can think of is the pain in my ribs, the burning in my lungs, trying not to pass out. I dig deeper, trying hard to conjure up an image that will provide sufficient rigidity down south. After a while, a face pops into my head. She’s familiar, but I can’t place her at first. Not until I imagine kneeling in front of her. She’s wearing nothing but those tiny panties, dark hair swirling around her head as she looks down at me. The girl from the first challenge. Shit, what was her name? Chris? Swish? Dish? It was some kind of –ish name.
Tricia! That was it, Tricia. Man, what a babe. And just like that, I’m in the game. It takes a minute to get up to speed, but once I’m in the zone, we’re ready. I’m getting fairly close and remember I’m not doing this for my own pleasure, that I actually have a job to do here. I gather up my trimmings and head for the bedroom, weapon still in hand, still priming, nearing blast off.
Danielle is rolled onto her other side now, facing the window. This is actually perfect. I move around the bed and bend my knees, adjusting my aim. I again feel the twinge of guilt, of how wrong what I’m about to do really is, but I push it from my mind. Can’t deal with that now. Must soldier forward. I can’t afford to miss this opportunity. I’m behind in the game and I’ve got a huge Russian animal with as much (probably more at this point) desire as me to win this thing.
I try to expel the mental image of Mongo and focus on the mental image of Tricia while I line up the shot.
We’re getting closer. Almost time.
Danielle lets out a little snort-snore. She’s stirring. I’m still coaxing. I realize how loud my stroking sounds in the quiet room. I cinch my eyes closed and concentrate. Can’t lose it now. We’re so close.
Danielle clears her throat. She moves a bit. She’s waking up. Fuck.
Almost there. COME ON. HOLD! HOLD!
“Dennis?”
Danielle starts to sit up, propping on her elbow. All is about to be lost.
But at the last moment, it happens. We have lift off.
My aim isn’t great considering this is the first time I’ve done something like this. I’ve never used a woman’s face as a target for firing my spooge. The first stream is a little high and hits her in the nose. I quickly adjust and aim lower, shooting a rope of semen across her chin. That’s all I get. She puts her hands up and splutters, gagging. Some must have gotten in her nostrils. I feel really bad about that.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Danielle.”
She pushes her feet over the side of the bed and coughs. She drops her hands down for a second and I can see it, glistening in the moonlight on her upper lip and chin: the glue for my fake beard. I look down at the mound of hair in my hand. So much for stealth and the element of surprise. Might as well go for broke now.
“I really, truly am sorry,” I say, and I mean it.
She opens her mouth just as I toss the handful of pubic hair into her face. Some of it sticks. It clings to her lip and nose. A large tuft affixes to her chin. A lot of it gets in her mouth. If you want to be technical about it, she looks nothing like Abraham Lincoln. But the point of the challenge is not about mimicry, it’s more the spirit of the thing, I guess. She’s got a beard of crotch hair held in place by my baby batter, and that’s all that matters.
It also appears that quite a bit of my pubic hair is now coating her tongue. Shit, I definitely did not mean to do that.
Danielle gags and spits and stands. She’s even tall like Abe Lincoln and I wonder if we’ll get bonus points for that. She meets my gaze and I can see the fury in her face. The vengeance burning in her pupils, balls of fiery hatred glowing through the darkness, glittering in the moonlight. She’s transformed in that moment into a towering personification of danger. A spouting volcano of death.