Jason Forbes
Lust in the Woods
I
The next time you kiss a twat, give a thought to me. I just got through lapping a muff juicier than any you've ever laid eyes on, buddy.
Jealous? Don't think it was easy. I don't mean the lapping. I mean meeting up with it. I had to drag my ass clear across the country. And suffer and suffer before I got my lips planted on it. Was it worth all the trouble? You tell me, after you've heard the whole dirty story.
It began with a leak. Not plumbing.
If you hafta take a mean piss, believe me, you're better off in the city. Out in the sticks, a guy never knows what'll happen. Honest! Like, for example, the time I unloaded in Mercer County, Iowa.
I can hear you ask the question. “What was a sophisticated stud like you doing in Mercer County, Iowa?” That's a tale too long to put between covers. Besides, my Parole Board would raise its fucking eyebrows. So we'll omit details that tend to incriminate me. I'll describe only the legal tidbits. If fucking and sucking and hailing and reaming are illegal, I'm giving up my goddamned citizenship!
There I was in this cornfield-or maybe it was a wheatfield. I can't distinguish one frigging blade of grass from another. The field stretched in every damned direction. The nearest town lay four miles behind me. My night's lodging could be under the next tree that hit my fancy. Long hours till nighttime. Long hours since I'd stowed that beer under my belly. Time to get rid of it.
Not a soul in sight. Since I had a natural sense of delicacy, I sought cover. A clump of bushes. Pissing in the middle of a field smacks of exhibitionism, whatever the fuck that means. I found the bushes. I faced them, unzippered, and pulled out my whacker. I directed the stream where it would do the most good-somewhere between the roots and the leaves. It had been a long, dry summer.
“Ma, there's a naked man making wee-wee.”
The unseen Mistress of Ceremonies was a fucking liar. I had my pants on. Chinos, shirt, and sneakers. The childish voice had come from the other side of the bushes. I tried to peer through, but couldn't see much. The stream zigzagged, dried up. I rezippered. Just as I turned away, I realized I had a companion.
She was too young, except for the most dedicated pervert. Not more than five, at the outside. A plump little girl with shining blonde hair, barefoot-wearing grubby calico. She looked up at me with wide eyes as if she'd never seen a 6-foot stranger. Before she could interrogate me on my urinary habits, or my country of origin, a voice called.
“Debbie, where are you?”
“She's here with me, ma'am. I think… Was that your mommy?” Debbie's eyes opened wider, but she wasn't talking. Maybe she was still reveling in her traumatic experience. The sight of a fat prick at the age of five can set a girl's libido spinning, if she knows what it is.
A figure appeared through a break in the bushes to the left of us. A figure! Also decked out in cheap cotton. Every girl with big tits should wear a dress two sizes too small, faded, outlining every good feature it tried to conceal. I could see the sharp tips of her nipples, dark spots on the sun-bleached material.
“I'm afraid I frightened your little girl, ma'am.”
“Debbie doesn't frighten easily.” The throaty voice was cool, almost remote. But her naked stare betrayed an interest far from cool and far from remote. Now she resembled her daughter. Same glossy blonde hair, same wide blue eyes. There the resemblance ended. Lush hips rounded the stripes of the cotton. Taut nipples faced me proudly.
She was worth a fucking.
Without thinking, I looked around me. Shrub, long grass, trees. Quiet. I could do it. I knew I could do what I wanted. One hand over her mouth, one under her dress. A quick screw on the grassy ground. How could she stop me? File a complaint with the sheriff? By the time she crawled to the sheriff, I'd be out of the county. No witnesses-except Debbie. That was a complication. Or was it?
I could hear myself warning. “You keep your mouth shut, unless you want what your mother got!” I'd give it to her anyway. Screw her young quim. Then there'd be no witness, no complication. If my stiff buzzer didn't split her arid kill her, I'd bash her head in. And silence her mother forever. Why not?
A good fuck is worth a murder.
The little girl's voice plummeted me back to reality. “Are you lost, mister?”
Lost. Lost between two nipples and a pair of round hips. For a minute, I couldn't answer. Debbie's mother mistook my silence for shyness.
“If you're lost and hungry-” she started, tentatively.
“That's it, ma'am. I'm lost-and very, very hungry.”
“In that case, you're welcome to come back with us. The cabin isn't far.”
I stammered confused thanks, hugging my luck. For the first time I noticed that the blonde had set a heavy pail down when she'd stopped to talk. A pail brim full of blackberries. I scooped up the pail and we started off toward the cabin.
Charming domestic scene. Little girl skipping through the woods. Big girl walking demurely at the side of her man. Man lugging pail, idly chewing sweet blackberries. Idly revising rape plans. I'd screw her in the cabin. No witnesses. Debbie would be sent out to play while mommy went in to play in the bedroom. If there was a bedroom.
Indoors I could take my time. Tie her up. Gag her. Ball her twice. Much better! And only five minutes before, I'd considered wasting my gism on a five-year-old muff. Not to mention double murder. Uncomplicated rape is cleaner than homicide.
It didn't work out that way after all.
The first thing I spotted in the cabin was a pipe. A man's pipe. Funny, my calculations hadn't included Debbie's father. Nothing changes rape prospects like the presence of a second man. Implied, actual, or threatened presence. I could picture my intended victim's husband as if his picture hung over the mantel. A laconic, raw-honed Iowan farmer with clumsy hands and feet. Jealous, slow-moving, and vindictive. In my mind's eye, I saw him clearly.
As if there were a mantel in that cabin. Fucking smelly hole, it lacked all the niceties. I mean, even for a goddamned backwoods cabin. The one room had been partitioned and darkened by a long length of unbleached cloth stretched from one end to the other at about the level of my forehead. The main half of the room served as living, cook, and washing quarters. Old-fashioned pump sink they must have imported from Appalachia. Tiny stove. Shelves holding staples, tools, and gewgaws. Rough oak table and a few chairs to match.
I could easily peer over the curtain partition. Milord and lady's sleeping quarters. Sagging bed, cot for Debbie, crate furniture. Clothes strewn on the bed; more clothes hanging from wall hooks.
The musty, hovel smell faded. My hostess had busied herself at the stove, and soon the aroma of beef stew tickled my nostrils.
“'Just ha' to heat up. We'll be eating soon, mister.
“I'm Doug Trent. That had slipped out unconsciously. Idiot tactics for a rapist to introduce himself by the name on his birth certificate. Remember that. It might save you up to ten years of self-recrimination. I forgot, I guess, because my plans had been altered by the pipe and the masculine clothes on the bed. And the picture that wasn't on the mantel that wasn't in the cabin. I had a new hunger to consider.
The tangy aroma of beef stew made me suddenly ravenous. Hungrier for food than for fucking. You might say my stomach was horny. I forgot when I'd eaten last. I barely heard the blonde's polite murmur. “My name is Beth Coogan.” If she neglected to add “Mrs.”, I failed to notice.
Then the three of us sat at the table and Beth dished out dinner. Chunks of good fatty beef and slices of good crusty bread. I wolfed down two portions. I stifled a belch, sipped coffee, and remembered that I came equipped with a prick. Satisfy one hunger and the other rears its head. That's why you find so many cathouses established above ground floor restaurants.