Uschi! (26 page)

She removed his hands from the wheel and placed them on her big boobies. She assumed control of the steering, her hands settling on the seven and five o’clock positions on the wheel.

“I steer, you control the pedals.”

The motion of her hips completely controlled the pace of this fucking. She refused to allow this one to go the same way as what transpired back at the drug dealer’s trailer home. No
Bonanza
fueled premature finish this time. Uschi rode up and down Denny’s shaft at a leisurely gait, slow and steady. Quaint and loving. There wasn’t going to be no rush on this one. No hurry for either of them to cum. Enjoying every second of it.

Denny’s busy hands had slipped inside the nurse uniform’s latex and they now rubbed and kneaded her outstanding tits, thumbs flicking her hardened nipples. He buried his face in her hair and kissed on the back of her neck.

“If they were to make fucking like this a part of NASCAR, I might actually watch,” said Uschi.

The El Camino cruised steadily along, continuing to mind the speed limit and taking the curves in the road just fine. Pat Benatar was finished on the radio, and now it was Joan Jett and the Blackhearts rendition of “Crimson and Clover” going. Good tune, and an outstanding musical selection to snail’s pace copulate to.

Then all four tires blew out. As the car sharply veered into the oncoming lane, the wheel rims made quick work of chewing through the rubber and gouging out chunks of road asphalt.

“Holy rape gorilla!” cried Denny.

A shocked Uschi’s vaginal muscles suddenly constricted so hard and strong they almost snapped Denny’s up inside her tallywacker clean off. He screamed like a billy goat with its leg caught in a gopher hole, but still was thinking clearly enough to come down on the brake and remove his hands from her breasts and return them to the wheel. Together they steered the wounded El Camino to a stop on the gravel shoulder of the road.

The engine was killed. A few seconds were needed for everything to calm down. In time Uschi got out first, then Denny was next. He was getting along in a rather bowlegged cowpoke fashion.

“Are you okay?”

“No! Oh horse piss, no, I’m not at all okay. My dick has been pussy strangled.” Dork was hurting him so bad he had to leave things unzipped and hanging out. Bruising was already setting in and the discomfort so great it was like some nasty person with a personal hate toward him had gotten away with taking a metal cheese grader to his tender foreskin. He had to lean against Uschi so he could better stand up straight. “That’s one powerfully potent vagina choke hold you got, girlfriend.”

“Oops. Sorry.”

The El Camino stood on its rims with its undercarriage only inches above the ground. Fenders were battered and dented where tire fragments repeatedly smacked them. A slab of rear tire had been thrown into the exhaust pipe with a force great enough to bend it dramatically out of shape. With the key still in the ignition and driver’s side door wide open, they followed the trail of mangled Goodyear chunks to see what it was that caused such severe tire damage.

What they found was a homemade spike strip constructed from a flat garden soaker hose and hundreds of seven-inch or longer roofing nails driven through it. It was laid out across the width of the road with strips of duct tape employed to hold it down in place. All of it was heavily spray painted black so to better blend in with the blacktop.

“That can’t be good,” said Denny. “What we got here is a hillbilly speed bump. Somebody was bound and determined to stop all traffic coming through these parts. I wonder who did it.”

“It was them.”

He looked at Uschi. “Who?”

“Them.” And Uschi chin pointed to an area across the road.

There were two men in the trees. They wore no pants. They both descended from their arboreal roosts on strings of silk originating from their assholes. Around their relaxed sphincters were these spinnerets—busily working stubby, fingerlike appendages that helped reel out the webs their assholes made. Producing a spiderweb with the ass caused quite the noticeable moist noise, something like afternoon drunk Grandpa sloppily popping his dentures out of his mouth to fashion a toothy hand puppet so to amuse the grandkids with. When safely on the ground, they both puckered and pinched off the webs they rode.

They were Blink and Dash. They were healthy looking and in fit condition. Dash was the one wearing a Budman T-shirt and with dark and wavy hair done up in an
Eraserhead
haircut. Blink had a
The Greatest American Hero
white guy afro and was in a colorful Hawaiian party shirt. Both had on brown patent leather shoes that seemed less than ideal footwear for tree climbing and black socks with garters around the calves holding them up. Bare legs were hairy and reddish sunburned due to a long and pantless summer under the sun. Every now and then a breeze would catch hold of one of their shirttails and lift it up and reveal proof their parents had not believed in the practice of circumcision.

They had no eyes. Their sockets were round and shallow and lidless instead of a pair of eyeballs, they housed a cluster of little brown spiders to each hole. Quite the active arachnids, they would squirm and thrash inside the eye sockets like maggots at the bottom of a Dixie paper cup. Often one or more would crawl out and go wandering over the face, but eventually would return to a socket hole. The brothers were not blind; no sightless thing could move that sure and confidently as they did. Somehow the spiders must work as their eyes.

“I do declare,” said Uschi. “I believe these anything but bashful boys have been playing in the Zygrot-24. They are seriously hideous mutant freaked out.”

“What are you going to do about them?” asked Denny. His sense of decency and modesty had him learning to ignore the tallywhacker pain and putting away his junk and zipping up his jeans.

Uschi’s answer, “I’m going to do what any good zombie lass with a sassy attitude and mouth-watering humongous knockers that go all the way out into next week would do. I’m going to kill them up in a real inventively horrific manner, then indulge myself and eat on their brains. Sometimes the shit you got to do in this world is just that simple.”

Dash, standing alongside Blink directly across the street from Uschi and Denny, started things off. He turned, putting his backside to the couple, bent over to grab his ankles with his buttocks separating, and aimed his anus. He farty blasted from the ass a gob of webbing that cut like a cannonball through the air and struck Denny in the side of his face with much the same authority as a mule’s kick.

The impact of the hit slammed him backward several steps, awkwardly stumbling on the heels of his feet, and left him withering in new pain. The icky gob stuck to Denny as tenaciously as a heavy coating of honey and sealed one eye and half of his mouth shut. Dash executed another rectal discharge. This one targeted Denny’s raised arms and glued them down firm against his chest.

Blink came with his attack a moment behind Dash’s second gob. He spun himself around and pooted Uschi with his bunghole magic before she could launch any form of counter strike against them. A major flow of beaded like a pearl necklace web strands erupted from between his cheeks, a gooey and tacky as hot glue mess that twisted and tied around her in a neat cocoon.

This was some strong shit. Uschi struggled and fought, but the webbing would not play along and stubbornly would not relent under her strength. She got angry, snarling and growling and cussing and fussing. This was bruising to a Satan made girl’s ego, being caught in webs manufactured from some pantless freak’s hindquarters. “Come on, dudette,” she tried to encourage herself. “This is breaking shit. Next to killing folks and fucking your boyfriend this is what you do best. Get with it.”

But Uschi didn’t get with it. Finally the cocoon fully encased her like a concrete condom. She dropped to the ground, wrangled in and made docile.

Blink stepped in closer to put the concluding ass shots in on Denny. Entangling his legs in goo and incapacitating him quite nicely.

The brothers stood over their captured prey. The spiders residing in their grinning faces showing their delight by bubbling with action inside the eye sockets like the vinegar and baking soda lava in a fifth grader’s science class chemical volcano diorama.

“Congratulations, you two,” taunted Blink. “You have lost your privilege to live.”

“You’re both going to make excellent eating,” laughingly informed Dash. “The church is going to be rocking tonight.”

Chapter Nineteen

T
he situation was as grim as the malignant brain tumor that took celebrated film critic Gene Siskel from us.

The tailgate of the El Camino was dropped and Uschi and Denny were loaded into the back. Blink put himself behind the wheel and started the engine. Dash got in on the passenger side and immediately started to fuck around with the radio. Their bare asses stuck to the seat upholstery. Blink put the car in drive, but before lifting his foot off the brake he took hold of little Chewbacca and broke the adhesive hold that kept him stationed on the dashboard and tossed the plastic Wookie out the window.

“I wouldn’t wipe my ass with that sci-fi garbage,” he explained to no one in particular.

“I heard that,” agreed Dash. The radio was settled on an AM lite jazz station. Some Kenny G shit.

The El Camino was driven as fast as possible on its four rims off the paved street and onto a muddy and pothole generous dirt trail that went far into the wild and wooly frontier of the Mapache Thicket. As the sun was setting on the day and night was beginning to darken this half of the world, they finally stopped when arriving at a large clearing where the natives of the thicket were restless.

Dozens of torches were lit to illuminate the clearing. Jungle drums were being played at a fevered frenzy pitch. Savage women danced with an insane pagan abandon.

Denny and Uschi were removed from the El Camino’s bed and carried to the top of a sacrificial altar standing seven feet high and assembled from the same concrete and red bricks contractors commonly use to build backyard barbecue pits. From this vantage point they had a good view of what weirdness transpired here.

The jungle drums being played by men dressed only in grass skirts were actually emptied laundry detergent plastic buckets turned upside down and pounded on with sticks. The torches nothing more than Wal-Mart citronella candles tiki patio lighting stabbed crookedly into the earth. And the dancing girls were all nude but for shiny vinyl go-go boots. Every last one of them worked hard to get their groove on properly to the jungle drumbeat.

Good bodies to them, the dancing girls, certainly quality enough to cut it in the amateur model mail-in pages of
Hustler
. However, not a one of them in the group had titties going any bigger than a set of muffins and their bush hairs seemed unnaturally full and pronounced. Their sweat-slimed flesh glowed in the eerily flickering firelight of the citronella candles with a basted in melted butter sheen.

All of the dancing girls and men beating the buckets were without eyes. Instead of eyeballs inside their heads there were clusters of active little spiders.

All these freakified folks were going long and strong chanting incessantly over and over again. “Praise be Ga’Hantor! Praise be Ga’Hantor! Praise be Ga’Hantor!”

At the feet of the drummers and dancers, the ground was heavily littered in a varied menu of animal and human bones. Many were aged and sun-bleached white; a fair share of others were fresher and still had bits of desiccated tough flesh to them. All to a varying degree featured a coat of webbing stuck here and there. Pretty obvious some thing or things on this property were eating good and regularly.

“This looks nifty,” critiqued Uschi, staring out through the hole in her cocoon. “Like a Boris Vallejo cover to one of the better Gor novels. Or perhaps a bitching mural on the side of a van.”

Joining Uschi and Denny on the altar were Dash and Blink, standing on either side of a young brunette woman who wore her hair in a Suzie Quatro she-mullet style. She sat regally upon an aluminum lawn chair as if it were a throne and she the queen of this land. When the woman noticed the two prisoners had turned their eyes toward her, she looked down upon them with her spiders for eyes and smiled as joyfully as a cute Nazi cheerleader. Her teeth were perfectly straight and bleached white.

“I am Stompanato,” she informed. Her eyebrows were clotted with little brown spiders scampering through the hairs. “I am High Priestess of the First North Texas Church of Ga’Hantor. It is because of me the two of you are here tonight. Howdy.”

An unaffected Uschi fired right back at her, “And a fine and dandy how do to you and your own, cunt. How about you start explaining why you cared to have us here?”

The High Priestess stood and confidently approached. She was built like a ballet dancer, slender and long and muscled and supple. Go-go boots and nail polish the silvery color of chrome was all she bothered to wear. She was closer than the dancing women were, so Denny was treated to a more detailed view of her snatch.

That was no pubic hair she sported, but instead the prodigious inverted dark triangle around her sex was a ghastly concentrated congregation of a crawling thatch of well behaved and huddled in tight formation black widow spiders. Their small bodies a slick, oily black, and the red hourglass marking on the underbelly of their bulbous rear abdomens unavoidable to the eye. Their proximity to her vagina was practically a piece of high drama, brushing their dark, toothpick thin legs against the fleshy labia, teasing the sensitive clitoris with their venom filled fangs. The tampon string dangling out of Stompanato’s pussy only enhanced the gross tackiness.

“Ga’Hantor, the father of all us spider children, demands a sacrifice tonight. You two were fortunate enough for us to wander into our little trap. You shall be fed to our great and powerful god.”

Another evening thunderstorm was coming together. There was a thunderclap frightful enough to make even God flinch. The winds were picking up acceleration, the branches of the towering trees surrounding the clearing spiritedly swaying. Pellets of rain began to fall.