What was this? Why were they painting trees?
One girl seemed younger, slimmer; she scarcely had any pubic hair at all. The third girl’s bosom jutted. She was more developed, more curvy and plush.
“Get that shit off,” said the youngest.
“What?”
“Your clothes, shithead,” said the third.
“The wifford wants you ready,” Melanie added.
“The what?” Martin asked.
“Just shut up and get your clothes off.”
Strangest of all, Martin obeyed these commands. The pink moon beat down on him, glare in his eyes. Next thing he knew he lay sprawled on the thatchy forest ground. The girls converged. Their hands ran all over him. His erection throbbed as if to burst, pulsing with his heart. All Martin could do was lie back and cringe.
No, no, he thought. This was perverse. These girls were teenagers, he was a thirty eight year old man. And Melanie, for God’s sake…
It’s got to be. It’s got to be a—
“That’s right, asshole,” Melanie said. “It’s a dream.”
But that knowledge did not legitimize the wrongness of this. Lust felt stuffed into his head; his entire body throbbed with it. Without preamble, Melanie straddled his face. “Eat it, peow,” she said. “Stick your tongue in it.” Martin tried, but couldn’t. She was keeping it too far away. She laughed, touching herself. Her thighs clenched against his head.
And the other two girls… What were they doing? Martin couldn’t see, but he felt rough, swirling sensations. They giggled with their work. As Melanie brought herself to orgasm, little daubs touched his penis, his testicles—though the contact was insubstantial, Martin thought he might explode.
“We’re initiating you, peow,” one of them said, giggling.
“We’re making you ours,” said the other.
He realized then what they were doing.
They were painting him. They were painting him with whatever they’d been painting on the trees.
This was crazy. They were just girls. Martin easily had the strength to overpower them, but even the thought of that weighed him down more. He felt as though roots had emerged, had lashed him to the pulpy ground.
“Poor little lamb must be thirsty.”
“Give him a drink, Melanie.”
The three girls shrieked laughter—a mad, clicking, witch-like sound. Then Melanie began to urinate into his face.
The hot stream inundated him. He gagged, eyes squeezed shut as their laughter rose. Is she going to piss forever? he thought.
Martin wasn’t used to this kind of humiliation, even in dreams. He thought how wonderful it would be to lurch up, shrug them off. Yet his hate collided with his paralysis and broke apart, as though any thought of rebellion weakened him further.
“Bet he’s not thirsty now.”
“Look at his cock! Let’s cut it off!”
Martin’s heart raced.
The girls scurried away. Suddenly, a curvy shape blocked out the moonlight. Martin could only move his eyes. They roved up the figure, up sleek white legs, over a bushy pubis, over breasts and nipples. Then to the face: Maedeen’s.
Yes, it was Maedeen, the shopkeeper. She was grinning, looking down at him with her hands on her hips.
She straddled him at once. “Fok, peow. You are wreccan now.”
Martin shuddered. She traced his cheek with a nail that felt inches long and sharp as a pin.
“You belong to us.”
She inserted him into her sex, which seemed inordinately hot. As she rode him, she looked up to the moon, whispering words he’d never heard. Her bare hips pounded him, her breasts bobbed. Despite the sensation, Martin wanted to throw up. The three girls crawled forward to watch, still giggling. The third pressed her palm over his mouth—she pressed down hard. Then Melanie, her pink face floating above him, pinched his nostrils shut.
Martin lay frozen. They were killing him, but he couldn’t budge. Each time he thought his lungs would burst, Melanie released the pinch on his nostrils, gave him a second to breathe, then pinched them closed again.
“You can play, Melanie. Just don’t kill him,” Maedeen said.
“Let’s cut him up while she’s fucking him!” enthused one girl.
“Let’s cut off his balls when he comes!” suggested the third.
Martin felt buried in terror. Melanie continued to pinch and release. The palm pressed harder against his lips. The youngest girl began slapping at his testicles between Maedeen’s colliding strokes. Their laughter smothered him like a tarp.
But something was happening. Martin’s eyes bulged in the pink light. He felt death sliding close. Melanie was giving him less air. The younger girl squeezed his testicles so hard he thought they’d split as Maedeen’s sex gulped his erection. He could see them only in mad glimpses, in blurs. Their nails seemed heinously long, like talons. And their faces… Their faces…
“Every night, peow. Every night we do whatever we want with you.”
But the words seemed sunken now, a black rattle. Maedeen’s voice barely sounded human.
And her face—
My God—
—her face didn’t look human at all.
—
Chapter 17
I can’t, the words seemed to loll in the dark. You’re special.
Melanie awakened, frowning. A slant of sunlight lay across her eyes from the gap in the curtains.
I want to, but I can’t. You’re too special.
She’d slept like a bag of rocks. It only took a moment to remember last night’s embarrassment. Zack must think I’m a slut. She couldn’t believe how forward she’d been. She’d initiated everything—she’d practically dragged him to the bed. It had been great at first. Melanie had made out with a lot of guys in the past, but this had been different. It seemed they were on the bed for hours, just kissing and touching each other. You’re so beautiful, he kept whispering. Then everything had fallen apart as quickly as it had started.
She’d never gone all the way before. She’d had plenty of chances, she’d just never really wanted to. But with Zack… After a while, their petting had wrung her out. She could feel her own wetness seeping, and his own arousal was plain each time she ran her hand across his crotch. The sensations that swelled in her made her feel like a tightly wound wire. A few more twists and she would break. She skimmed off his T-shirt and ran her hands over his muscles, his strong back and chest, his abdomen. She wasn’t afraid, she was ready. She took off her own top. Her breasts felt hot. Then she unsnapped her jeans, began to slide them down, and—
Zack got up. He was putting his T-shirt back on.
“Zack, what’s wrong?”
He stared at her. He looked hurt. “I can’t,” he said.
“Why?”
“You’re special.”
Melanie’s embarrassment flared. He couldn’t have picked a worse moment. She was naked from the waist up and her jeans were halfway down, and now he didn’t want to?
“I want to, but I can’t. You’re too special.”
She pulled her clothes back on. “I’m sorry, Melanie,” he was saying as she fled the little basement. He came up the steps after her. “You don’t understand!”
I understand, all right! She’d almost been crying as she’d scurried off into the woods.
Special. You’re too special.
Hadn’t Wendlyn and Rena said that she was special?