Bob was nearly in tears.
“This is crazy! Where could she be?”
“Don’t worry,” Sheree tried to console. “We’ll find her. We… Well, we were both pretty fucked up.” She declined to tell him about the “Bebo” LSD. “We, uh, drank a lot. She’s probably still buzzed. I’ll bet she just wandered off.”
Bob didn’t seem convinced.
“What are all these shacks?” he queried. “They’re covered with brush. It’s almost like they’re hidden out here in the woods.”
“I don’t know,” Sheree said, but she had to admit, something about the row of long shacks disturbed her. Many of them were windowless, or only had windows high up toward the roof. And, from somewhere, she thought she smelled—
“You don’t think Carol…”
“No, Bob, I’m sure she didn’t go into any of those shacks,” Sheree retorted. “I told you, she’s drunk. She just wandered off in the wrong direction.”
“Yeah but…” Bob sniffed. “Is it me, or do I smell some damn good barbeque?”
“I smell it too,” Sheree admitted, walking on. “It’s probably a smokehouse or something. That fat redneck kid, he said he was a chef. Ashton’s his hero.”
“Fuckin’ Ashton,” Bob muttered. “I knew that coming out here was a dumbass thing to do. He got his goddamn eel but…I lost Carol!”
Bob began to blubber outright; Sheree patted his shoulder. “Stop worrying. We’ll find her.”
They walked on. Their footsteps crunched. Sheree could see the dual beams of their flashlights cutting into the darkness ahead. But suddenly—
A louder crunch resounded, then a noise as if Bob—or someone—had grunted
—and all at once, Sheree could no longer see the dual beams of their flashlights sprouting ahead. There was only the single beam of her own.
Stricken, she glanced madly around, aiming the light. There was no sign of Bob anywhere!
“Bob!”
No reply.
Her light whipped all around. “Bob! Where are you?”
But there was no Bob—anywhere.
“To hell with this,” she whispered under her breath. She began to run back to the pier as fast as her sneakered feet would permit. “Gotta get back across the lake! Gotta get Ashton!”
But when she got back to the pier…the pull-ferry boat was gone.
««—»»
“That’s a good, fine girl,” James complimented. “I’d do it myself, of course, if it weren’t for this blasted bad disc in my back.”
Upon instruction, Rochelle had cranked the pull-ferry back ashore, whereupon she and James had gotten into the boat, and now she was, with more than a little exertion, cranking in the opposite direction, toward the island. James sat anxiously in the stern as she worked the crank.
The scenery didn’t help.
Rochelle’s petite bottom jutted out as she continued cranking the boat across the water. James couldn’t stand the moon-lit vision, and in the next moment he’d released his boner from the front of his pants.
“God, my nose hurts,” Rochelle muttered, cranking. Her back to him, she couldn’t see what he was doing. But then she glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, for God’s sake!”
“I can’t help myself, sweetheart,” James confessed, masturbating openly. His balls flopped up and down as he jerked the shaft. “Your beauty sets me ablaze.” His pulse rose; sweat broke out on his brow. He looked sheepishly at Rochelle. “Please, hon. I’ll only need a minute. You don’t mind stepping out of those shorts, do you?”
Rochelle sighed, her shoulders slumping. She let go of the crank, then slid the white shorts off. “Such a fine, wonderful girl,” James said to himself. He squeezed drool out of his cock, rubbed it around the glans. Next he was on his feet, knees wobbling, and he was parking his wet dick into Rochelle’s vagina from behind.
“Now,” James breathed. “Keep cranking…”
Not a happy camper, Rochelle got back on the crank; all James need do was stand there grasping her hips. As her upper-body went up and down, her lower body fell into a sufficient sexual rhythm.
“Yes, yes,” James muttered his pleasure. He began to stroke back now, amplifying the union of their genitals.
“Be careful, Mr. James!” she shot over her shoulder. “You’ll tip the boat over!”
James didn’t hear her. “Okay, my darling little thing! Now!”
“Now
“You know,” James pleaded like a child.
Rochelle couldn’t have frowned with more disdain. As James’ penis continued to slide back and forth, Rochelle began to urinate.
Rochelle kept cranking
Closer, closer. James’ hips pounded her rump. And when he thought again of that fat stooge Morrone lying dead, James shuddered and went rigid, rising on his tiptoes. At the moment of his orgasm’s first spasm, he pulled a trifle too hard on her hips and—
—Rochelle’s hand slipped off the crank, and the crank flew up and hit her square…in the nose.
When she collapsed forward, James remained standing, his climax, regrettably, not yet complete. Rochelle, in dire pain, squealed on the boat’s floor, her hands clasped to her face. “It hit me right in the nose!” she shrieked, blood trickling.
Primal instinct compelled James to jerk off the rest. Thin jets of semen landed on Rochelle’s back.
Shorts off, face bloody, cringing in pain, and lying in her own urine, Rochelle cried like a baby. Her fingers daintily touched her nose. “It feels like a rotten tomato now!” she wailed.
Spent now, James exhaled, greedily stroking the final sensations out of his softening penis, which he eventually put back into his pants. He licked his hand, tasting the girl’s ambrosial urine.
“It
When she turned around in the moonlight, James had to chuckle. Her nose, indeed, looked like a squashed tomato. “There, there, dear. It’ll be all right,” he said.
“No it
