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My GOD!
Veronica thought. But on she went, trying to turn the instructions into action.

“Dang, boys! I say she’s done got it down
pat!
” Helton celebrated, and after a few more strokes he pulled out, the gorged penis beating before her face.

“Don’t you want to—”

“Get a off a cock-hock?” he said. “Naw, girlie. I done
tolt
ya we ain’t gonna come. That’d defeat the
purpose.
”

This is CRAZY!
she screamed to herself. “I don’t understand!”

“We just need ya ta get us riled,” Micky-Mack said.

“We needs to be hornier than skunks in heat,” Dumar amended.

“’Cos, see,” Helton said, “it’s gotta be that our dicks are
all
cranked up fer later.”

Veronica peered at him with no comprehension whatever. “For…later? What happens…later?”

Helton stepped back to make room for Dumar. “Nothin’ fer you ta worry about, so’s don’t’cha pay it no mind. Dumar, git yer log in there’n try ‘er out.”

Dumar waited for her to pull her upper lip back and stick her tongue out, then—

“Eeeeee-yeah,” he grunted. “Dang shore better’n before.” He paused tentatively. “And, say, hon? Is it alls right if’n I pulled yer top back up and feel on yer titties whilse yer doin’ it?”

“Yeah, how’s ’bout it!” Micky-Mack exclaimed. “You got
dandy
titties!”

She pulled her mouth off long enough to frown at the revolting smell and say, “Oh, I guess—”

Dumar re-inserted himself but stooped over, peeled up her top, and began to fondle her breasts.

“Eeeee-HAH!” Helton railed. “Are they some milk wagons or
what!
”

Dumar began to sweat. Like the true redneck gentleman, he pressed her ears, pumping. “And—lemme see,” and then quite abruptly he slipped the entirety of his erection all at once into her mouth, half of which went well into her throat. “Dang if she cain’t deep-throat too, Paw!”

“Consider yerself
blessed,
Veronnerka,” Helton said in a tone nearly fatherly, “‘cos a gal with none’a what they call the
gag-reflex
is a blessin’ indeed.”

Micky-Mack was staring at the job, amazed. “Unc! Just
watchin’s
got me so sure-fire horny, why, my dick’s leakin’ pre-cum like a blammed
spigot!
”

“There ya go braggin’ again!” Helton roared. “Don’t take yer youth fer granted, boy!”

By now, Veronica’s oral resolve filled the compartment with the sounds of voracious fellatio.

“Shee-it, hon,” Dumar railed. “That’s dang near
perfect
technique.” He pumped a few more times, winced through some self-control, then pulled out. “Yeah. Theeeeeeeere’s the ticket. My dick is
fit
ta spit now, ready ta tussle shore as
shit
.” He flexed it a few times, as if to demonstrate something to her.

“My turn,” Micky-Mack trundled forward and got right to it. The larger erection shocked her when it slid inches deep into her throat, but there was never once the impulse to gag. Her mouth, in fact, began to engage in an intricate synchronicity with her head, and as uncomfortable as it was to simultaneously cup her tongue and keep her lip pulled back over her upper teeth, Veronica found very quickly that…

Wow. This is pretty easy.

“Good
Gawd,
girl!” Micky-Mack raved. “Alls a sudden, yer suckin’ dick like a
champ!
”

“The backwoods technique is it,” Helton said. “Make shore ya don’t ferget it, hon. It’ll serve ya well.”

Veronica just kept sucking.

“Ho, ho,” Micky-Mack murmured. He started getting twitchy. “Dang,
dang!
I mean, this is dead-solid the
best
blowjob I ever got.” He began to twitch some more. “Shit, ya know, Unc Helton? I’se just cain’t help it. The dick-suckin’s just
too good.
I’se gonna have ta git me my nut—

WHACK!

Micky-Mack toppled backwards with a wail; his penis
popped
out of Veronica’s mouth.
What happened?
she wondered but then she looked and saw the younger man cringing on the floor and holding his head.

“Gawd
DANG,
Unc Helton! What’cha clout me in the head fer?”

Helton’s indignation smoldered in his eyes. He pointed his ever-present finger. “Don’t’cha be a selfish little punk, Micky-Mack! We ain’t doin’ this fer our own pleasure! This is family
business!
”

The boy sat up, groggy. “That hurt like holy
hail,
Unc…”

“Then let it be a lesson to ya. Our friend Veronnerka’s helping us get our willies riled out’a the
goodness’a her heart,
boy! This ain’t a ruckin’ party—you’re savin’ up that cum fer a important
reason!
You understand?”

Micky-Mack shakily nodded. When he got up, he wobbled at first. “Yeah, I understand, “ he droned.

Dumar laughed. “These young kids. Gots no force’a will.”

“No they shore don’t,” Helton said, stuffing his erection back into his jeans, and then the other men followed suit. Helton smiled down at Veronica. “Thanks kindly fer torquin’ us up, hon. We’se gonna have to leave ya fer a short spell, but we’ll be back.”

This is so strange… Why would men only want partial blowjobs?
Veronica wondered as she wiped the appalling dick-B.O. off her lips. The men were all putting on their jackets.

Before they left, Helton paused at the big truck’s back door. “Oh, and feel free ta help yerself to some spaghetti. It’s made by that famous chef—
Boy-Ar Dee!
” and then he left and closed the door behind him.

Veronica just sat there, staring at the door.
I have a feeling this is going to be a long night…

— | — | —

Chapter 7

(I)

Portafoy awoke just as the clock struck twelve. The indentured 60ish African-American butler opened his eyes in the dark, then heard—

clink

And then:

A loud and rather rowdy
fart.

Oh my,
Portafoy thought, eyes going wide as silver dollars. He’d worked here well over twenty years—in fact it had been Thibald Caudill himself who’d hired him. The old man had said to Portafoy’s face, “What I need, boy, is a loyal, hard-workin’, yazzah-boss
buck
to run my house fer me. You interested?” Well, Portafoy didn’t care for the
boy
 or the
buck
references, or any of the other myriad racial jabs that sailed from the mouths of this white-trash-turned-rich family. (The little girl, ‘Becca, was by far the worst). But, hell—$500 per week? No
way
he’d turn
that
down. Nevertheless, for the entirety of his employ at the Caudill Mansion, Portafoy could recall not a single time when anyone had broken in.

clink

Then: another rumbustious fart.

And
then:
an unmistakably backwoods accent in the faintest whisper: “Fuck, Micky-Mack. Yer dang butt’s makin’ more noise’n a fuckin’ circus.”

“Shee-it, Unc. Cain’t help it. It’s all them beans I et. But…
dang!
This here’s a dandy house inside—”

“Shhh!”

Oh my…my, my, my,
Portafoy thought, then quite shakily rose in his pajamas. There could be no doubt: intruders were present. He grabbed the small revolver in the nightstand, then picked up the phone to call 911.

No dailtone.

And his cellphone was downstairs.

Portafoy gathered all his courage, then slipped out of the room into the very dark hall. Pistol in the lead, he took two steps, then stopped.

More voices: “She ain’t here, Paw.”

“You shore?”

“Checked every room, shore as shit.”

The voices came from the landing, which was just out of view.

“The black fella’s asleep in the room on the end. But the master bedroom’s empty.”

“Lemme check. But, wait. What about the girl?”

“Oh, we got the girl. Micky-Mack just took her down the stairs…”

The girl,
Portafoy thought with a pounding heart.
‘Becca.
He could hear the floor creaking from none-too-discreet footsteps. Several moments passed, then the housebreakers returned to the landing and proceeded down the stairs.

Were they kidnaping ‘Becca? Portafoy felt sworn to protect the girl, little foul-mouthed racist redneck
shit
that she was.
Be brave,
he told himself.
I might have to kill some men tonight…

Then, with resolution, he walked down the hall, turned toward the landing, and—

“Got’cha!”

A hand snapped out of the dark and snatched away Portafoy’s revolver.

Portafoy nearly lost consciousness.

A long-haired hillbilly in his ‘30s grinned in the subdued light. “Howdy. Ain’t no call ta be scairt.” He waved the gun in Portafoy’s face. “Come on down. We needs ta talk.”

Oh-oh-oh…what am I going to do?
The manservant took unsteady steps down. The vast, luxurious downstairs stood dark but he could see the bright white lights of the kitchen blaring.

More sounds.

First, a crunching, then someone said “Ahhhhh,” in unison with a spattering sound. The long-haired man urged him in.

Even in the midst of this calamity, Portafoy was indignant. A younger hillbilly, with mussed blond hair, stood up on his tiptoes,
urinating
into the kitchen sink—a
Kohler
kitchen sink. “Sir! Please! There’s a toilet just down the hall!”

The boy looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Dang. Sorry, sir. Couldn’t wait, ya know?”

The crunching sound encroached; Portafoy reeled at the mammoth of a man who stepped forward, eating out of a bag of Gourmet Sweet Potato Chips. “Howdy, sir,” he greeted with mushed chips stuck between his bad teeth. “Terrible sorry ta barge in like this.” The man must’ve been six-four, husky but with wide shoulders and plenty of brawn. He wore a tattered wool coat, old boots, and a floppy leather hat that had probably seen better days decades ago. A great bushy gray-blond beard consumed the bottom half of his face.

“Can I…help you?” Portafoy asked absurdly.

“‘S’matter’a fact, ya can. We’se lookin’ fer Marshie Caudill.”

Robbers, no doubt, and then some.
Portafoy did his best to assume the role of his authority in this house. “
Mrs. Vinchetti
is not available at the moment. She happens to be out of town.” A thought kindled. “I’d be happy to call her, that is if you’d kindly reconnect the phone line. Who shall I say is asking for her?”