. . . Until he saw the bucket of squirming maggots and the transparent tubing beside it.
“We’re going for a lot of firsts here,” Von explained, fresh from a shower. They’d moved shooting to the spare bedroom and taken care to clean themselves up so Travis wouldn’t immediately be tipped off to the likelihood that his services would not be required if they were ever to make a sequel.
“We want to be the first to make a—” He paused, catching himself. “Movie . . . of this kind. We want to have a zombie spewing maggots on Sarah.”
Travis cringed. “I have to put those in my mouth?”
Greg almost laughed.
“No,” Von consoled. “Not in your mouth. That’s the good news, in a manner of speaking.”
Inevitably he had to be tied to a chair, too, once they told him the game plan. The truth was that Von and Greg had already had a few turns with Sarah on tape, so “forcible sexual congress” with her was pretty old hat by this point. They had Sarah really stretching—and spreading—her acting legs. Who hadn’t seen her ready and willing for all comers a thousand times before? The more spontaneous—and unlikely—the situation, the more eagerly she wanted it. Sarah Pensie having sex and not liking it, well, that was like an actor totally vanishing into a role. This was the magnitude of Sean Penn as Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High—method acting on a whole new level. They wanted Travis to have a go at her now for the sake of aesthetics, but not at the cost of the boredom of their audience. How could they possibly alter the predictable course of events? Guy finds weeping woman gagged and tied in spare bedroom. Guy unscrupulously rejects Samaritan impulses and uses her for quick gratification. Guy shoots load on the closest fetishistic body part to his stud missile—those alabaster buns or those silicone mountains. Wow, the wheel like you’ve never seen it before, no doubt about it.
. . . Unless there was some way to throw the audience a curve on the formula.
Greg, after a few objections, finally consented to feeding the tube into Travis’s urethra. Travis tried to make it a challenge, so Von smashed a beer bottle over his head and sent him to Wonderland again. He collected the shards for other uses as Greg enacted phase two. He plucked a single maggot from the bucket, and examined it before guiding it into the other side of the tube. It squirmed blindly, but aside from the movement it looked like something he’d have dug out of his nose in kindergarten. When it had advanced substantially in the tube he put his lips on it and exhaled.
Von looked up from his activities with Sarah and chuckled. “I always figured you’d give a world class blow.”
Greg shot him the finger. “Hey, do you want to do this?”
“I wouldn’t dream of ruining your time to shine.”
Greg collected another maggot and repeated the process. It was amazing what you could do on a shoestring budget if you just used your imagination and left some meat out to spoil . . . say, when you couldn’t quite fit the entirety of your hit and run conquest into the crisper.
When Travis at last awoke with the dull throbbing in his head somehow magnified, he was relieved to discover the tube had been removed. Something didn’t feel right in his scrotal sac per se, but Lolita was waiting for him to deliver the goods, tied down supine to the bed and gagged, so it would just have to be a problem for another day. He had a suspicion that blowing up her box with enough spunk to fill a tube of toothpaste would probably do the trick anyway. He gingerly maneuvered his way to the bed, wondering why Lolita had to make this harder than it already was by fighting him. He wasn’t the enemy. Did she not realize how many burgers he’d flipped just to save up the jack to buy her videos? These might not be the conditions he would have imagined such an encounter as this taking place, but he’d begun to feel entitled to it. Other than a shaved sack and half again as many inches, the boys in those movies didn’t have anything he didn’t, and probably hadn’t paid forty dollars for a volume of Gaping Anus, to boot. There seemed to be a pool of blood spreading underneath her, but he paid it no mind. She looked a little pale compared to the movies, but maybe it was a trick of the lighting. He gave up looking at her face and closed his eyes, latching both of his hands onto her tits as though to keep from floating off into outer space. The euphoria was so intense that a UFO could have landed on top of the house and it wouldn’t have registered with him.
Greg found a good angle with the camera.
“Remember,” Von warned Travis. “Pull out when it’s time.”
And less than a minute later it was time, because all the girlfriends Travis boasted about on the Internet had something in common—none of them actually existed. Quoth he: “I can’t hold it any longer!”
He pulled out and aimed for Lolita’s chest like the dudes in pornos always did. The first couple cubic centimeters were normal, if somewhat hesitant; after that, they were anything but. It was like a squeeze bottle with only a smattering of butter remaining which expels, tapers, jets, halts, and finally sprays haphazardly everywhere but where you intended. It was remarkably similar in texture to potato salad. The maggots mostly dribbled off the end of his equipment, but the first couple actually shot an impressive distance as though propelled down a water slide and launched up the mounds of Lolita’s breasts, writhing. Travis looked down in mute horror. The load had concluded, but one last maggot depended from his urethra, still squirming in the swollen orifice.
Travis yelped, and made pincers of his finger and thumb. He slid it out, groaning sickly. He pinched it too hard, cutting it in half, and flicked the pieces away. He turned away from the abominable sight and retched.
“Tell me you got that!” Von pleaded.
Greg gave the thumbs-up. “We got the whole thing . . . the money shot and him puking at the end like a total pussy!”
Von clapped him on the back. “Travis, you’ve been a real sport, my man, so we’re going to let you do her again. And no maggots this time, either.”
“The only catch is that you have to use her ass,” Greg added.
“No way, man,” Travis began. “I’m not—”
Von cocked the .357, and Travis reached for Sarah’s hips to turn her over real quick-like.
“No,” Von said. “Don’t turn her over. Just hoist her up some.”
Travis did, and closed his eyes. He could see where the blood was issuing from the plundered orifice, but he’d just ejaculated a clump of corpse-eaters, so no reason to get squeamish now. It took him a moment to re-harden, but you might say he was an old hand at masturbation marathons, and he was erect enough to go again.
He felt the gun at the base of his skull. “Keep going,” Von said.
Travis didn’t understand at first why Von would even bother telling him that—may as well tell him, Keep breathing there, bucko—until he felt searing pain across an inch of his dick.
. . . then another . . . and another . . . Each thrust opened another wound, what seemed like a thousand cuts concentrated in a horribly limited space. He could feel rivulets of blood coursing down his shaft, then dripping off his scrotum and down his thighs, spattering in dime-sized droplets on his feet. It was doubtful he would have noticed a UFO landing on the house at this moment, either.