Uschi! (29 page)

Uschi had mudball clots in her platinum blonde locks and her Alfred E. Neuman pubes mussed up enough to now look more like a hippie Ted Koppel. That rascally tenacious StarKist can of tunafish continued to remain embedded with a vengeance in her head. Fishnet stockings were now ripped in places and a dead crawdad as long as an index finger was caught in her garter belt. Besides all that she was looking extra fine, her personality and way she presented herself as sexy positive as always.

“How’s my favorite fuck artist doing?” she asked him. She spat into both of her hands and reached up to his head and started to finger comb his hair back into that snazzy psychobilly ducktail she found so attractive on him.

Denny put his fingers in his belt loops and worked at pulling his britches up to a more polite society acceptable height. “Right now I’m having me a socialist cunt of a lovely time making up my mind what I want more—air-conditioning, a shower, some good Mexican food, or lots and lots of lovely ice water.”

“Don’t you worry, best thing. I’m gonna get you all that and more as soon as can be managed.”

“Well, there is a one thing you can do for me right now.”

She continued to work at creating the ducktail, adding more of her spit and combing and molding it the way she wanted it to be. At last she and Denny’s hair arrived at the promised land; a rocking ducktail hairstyle was achieved. “And what’s that one thing I can be doing for you, best thing?”

He reached for Uschi’s slamming mammaries and unhesitantly inserted his face between them. “This,” he said when deep inside her anti-freeze and creamy peanut butter Ziploc bag tits.

And Denny Gleeth performed a head shaking and lips slobbering sputtering motorboat for their mutual pleasure. Uschi went to jiggling and giggling. Saliva and dirt and the flesh on flesh friction action came together to make a mud lubricating film between them. The grit that rubbed against his face and into her breasts only mutually enhanced the pleasure.

When finished, he rose out of her Sarlacc that swallowed Bobba Fett whole cleavage, his muddy face grinning large and happy. From the waistline down he was practically nothing but pulsing hard-on. “There, I needed that.”

“Best thing, you have no idea how good it does my flatlining heart to see you do something as rambunctious and uninhibited as that.” She spied the bulge in the crotch of his jeans. “Oh heavens, you’ll never be able to get along well with that stiffy in your drawers. Let me do an old fashioned to relieve the tension.”

Denny’s sexually naivete raised its head one more time. “Old fashion?” he inquired as Uschi was already undoing his jeans. They dropped and puddled around his feet. She noted his damp Fruit of the Loom briefs were to the touch the gummy texture of warm chicken fat. She yanked them down to around his knees. Some fresh morning air got on his dick and balls and made the skin tingle as if a low current of electricity was passing through them.

“Sugar cube, we—you especially—have recently been through and endured some most exerting activities. I don’t want you to feel obligated to do something you don’t want to do. We can put the more physically demanding stuff off to later. I’m more than happy to play it patient. Also, let’s remember we are outdoors. Don’t you figure whatever you are about to do to me and my penis is an activity best reserved for the indoors? We ain’t Tarzan and Jane. We can go somewhere more private and less nature positive.”

“What is this? A horny man actually trying hard to talk a willing big-tittied slut out of giving him sexual satisfaction? Best thing, your innocence and decency never fail to astound me. Now shut the fuck up, be Mark Hamill in
Corvette Summer
, and enjoy.”

Uschi put her hand on Denny’s dick and that entirely changed his attitude. All of a sudden he was wholeheartedly gung-ho for the operation. Her fingers wrapped firmly around his rod, and his teeth tightly clenched and the muscles in his neck stood out and his spine went rigid. Thinking for Denny became a lot less of a priority then.

The sweat and floodwater residue wetting him was plenty slick to work as a lube. Uschi began to pump him. She didn’t bother with asking if he cared for any ass treatment to go with his old fashioned hand job—just went right on ahead and gleefully inserted three fingers inside him and prodded his prostrate in the best imaginable way possible. His climax and release of fluids was prompt and very pleasurable.

“Inappropriate lambada dancing,” he commented in the afterglow.

She licked the raw human feces and cum off her hands while he put his underwear and jeans back on.

“What now?” he asked of her.

“We resume with our original vampire hunting goal.” Uschi gently picked Denny up in her arms and cradled him the same way big, gruff Glenn Strange would do a helpless village damsel in any of the latter post-Karloff Universal fright movies. Filmed over soured milk white eyes briefly aimed skyward to study on the position of the sun to help in judging which direction they should go. “Let’s head ’em up and move ’em out.”

The homemade zombie girlfriend took confident, powerful strides as she walked. Birds squawked their complaints as they were forced to scatter and take flight at her approach, then quickly quieted and returned to the patch they were scavenging once she had passed. She hit a few slippery spots now and then and cha-cha shoes threatened to slide out from under her. This made Denny nervous, but Uschi was always able to catch herself and correct her balance in time before any bad nonsense could happen.

By afternoon they came upon the horse. He was a big, muscular gelding roan with a black mane, and was grazing in the grass beside a tall juniper tree that was partially uprooted and now lying on its side; the exposed root system was contorted and misshapen like the complexion of some Lovecraftian creature. The horse was wet and mud-caked, obviously a fellow survivor of last night’s flood. Despite the unkempt appearance, the animal was clearly healthy and cared for. This horse was someone’s property, looked after and appreciated.

“I wonder what his meat and brains taste like?” a lips licking Uschi pondered. She was sunburned, her guacamole green coloring having turned a more wilted head of lettuce greenish-black.

“No, sugar cube, let’s keep his brain and everything else where it is for the time being,” said Denny. Uschi acknowledged his request to stop walking and set him down on the ground. “Let’s see instead if we can’t put him to work for us.”

Denny hated horses. He thought they were nothing but stupid and deathly dull things that came with unending and aggravating feeding, watering and cleaning up after responsibilities. But that didn’t prevent him from not knowing a thing or two about them. He was a Texas born and bred country boy, so, no matter how extensive his collection of
Jaws 2
trading cards and knowledge of the ’70s paperback cover artwork of Jeffery Jones, there was no avoiding during his childhood years having some experiences with the beasts pounded into his gray matter.

Denny approached the gelding cautiously and hands held out before him. Sweat was dripping off of him and the intense sun was burning the top of his head. The rolled cuffs of his jeans were growing even wetter from stepping through the soggy earth and water beaded blades of high grass. The soaked denim was starting to chaff his skin along the ankles.

The horse raised his head, his ears perked and eyes turned alert. He watched Denny gradually coming toward him and neighed.

“Whoa, boy,” he told him. Denny wasn’t afraid and he never faltered in his step. He actually had some confidence in his skills at this. “Whoa. It’s all right. Nobody wants to hurt you.”

There were cicadas off in the distance, in the trees that were still left standing. They reveled in the hazy heat and were loud with their insect chorus. It seemed like they and the flocking birds were the only ones enjoying today.

When he was close enough, Denny laid a hand on the side of the horse’s neck and stroked it. The fur was sun-warmed and oily with perspiration. The muscles beneath the skin felt as dense as concrete slabs. Perhaps because he advanced with no bridle in his hands or maybe the animal was just lonely and welcomed the company, he seemed content to allow Denny’s presence.

Uschi, however, was an entirely different story.

As she began to step forward, the horse’s senses became aware of the unholy energy that animated her and he certainly did not appreciate her presence. He reacted in panic, neighing at such an awful pitch it sounded more like a human scream than any cry a horse could make. He bucked and reared back on his hind legs, threatening them both with his shod hooves.

Denny tried to calm him. “Whoa! Whoa! We don’t need that!”

An unintimidated Uschi simply stepped up and took charge. She put her hands on the horse and pulled him down to all fours and halted the action. The horse shimmied from top to bottom in surprise at confronting such no arguing with power.

“This is not how a good boy behaves,” she informed the horse.

Denny resumed stroking the fur, combing it down flat and removing mud. He talked to the horse in a soothing and gentle tone. This went on for a spell. Gradually, the hostility was worn down and disposition improved.

After pulling his jeans up as high as he could make them go without unbuckling and unbuttoning, Denny Gleeth jumped and mounted the horse. He took him out for a test drive, walking him in circles at first, and then a short, brisk run. The roan gelding was agreeable with being ridden. He steered him back toward Uschi and offered his cadaver chunks delight lady a smile and a hand up. “How about,” he proposed, “we say fuck off to the walking and we Randolph Scott this shit for a while?”

She laughed and took his offered hand and was lifted, taking a seat on the horse behind Denny and scootching in close as could be. Her arms went around his waist and her fat dirty pillows mashed into his backside.

“You are so ninja killing cool,” Uschi whispered into Denny’s ear. “I love you so much.”

“Love you, too, crypt baby.” Denny put the heels of his Converse All Stars to the horse and they were away at a tail swinging trot.

Chapter Twenty-one

I
t was sometime past dusk before they finally stumbled upon a paved road. Denny used the horse’s longer mane hairs to steer him onto its shoulder, hooves clacking on the blacktop.

Uschi was the one to first spot the street sign cemented into the ground. “Hot-diggity-damn, good Americans, we’ve made it. This is Nyman Road. We’re not far now from where we need to be. Help me look for the old goat ranch tasty-fangy told us was in spitting distance of the vampire campsite.”

Not a split-second had passed after she spoke before a pair of bloodsuckers came bounding out of the heavy brush across the road and charged toward horse and riders. Both had lily-white skin complexions and fangs in their snarling mouths almost as scary as a diagnosis of stage four lung cancer. One of them was wearing a Dallas Mavericks jersey and the bottom half of him covered in only a disposable adult diaper riding low on his slim hips. The other was grossly fat, with a front butt blubber bulge as big as a lawn mower’s twelve horsepower engine going on between his belt buckle and the crotch of his off the rack at the big and tall men’s clothing store polyester slacks.

The gelding roan reacted to the sudden appearance of the fiends with the abrupt decision to hightail it from these whereabouts, and he didn’t need any passengers slowing him down. He bucked and sent Denny and Uschi flying off of him. Then the horse ran.

The nosferatu duo hesitated, standing in the center of the road and undecided on which prey to pursue. It didn’t look like the two bucked off people were going to be moving fast any time soon. A silent agreement was struck between them to go with the animal.

They turned on the supernatural speed and closed the gap between them and the galloping steed. They caught him by the hind legs, clawlike nails digging in and finding a fixed purchase in the skin and muscle. Eyes ballooning from the sockets and slobber spraying from an open mouth, the gelding screamed worse than he did when first meeting Uschi. Superhuman strength was employed to drag him down and have him fall awkwardly to the asphalt.

The one in the diaper assaulted the neck with his fangs and tore great, meaty chunks from it. A major artery was soon opened and hemorrhaged in a voluminous scarlet gush that washed over his happy face just as he was putting mouth over it and starting to sup. Polyester fatass slacks barehanded lacerated open the abdomen and made his way to the bleeding viscera. He went down on all fours and put his whole face inside the wound and suckled on the free flowing gore like a piglet at its momma hog’s teat.

A pack of lions taking down a gazelle on the African veldt couldn’t have done it any more quick and economical.

Uschi and Denny helped one another to their feet and attempted to collect themselves. About twenty feet away from where they stood, monsters feasted. The vigorous sucking and slurping eating sounds coming from the two of them were like nothing Denny’s ears had ever heard before. They totally put Uschi’s own brains chewing mouth music to shame.

“Huh,” said Uschi and picked road gravel out of the crack in her ass. “Welcome to Mutual of Transylvania’s Wild Kingdom.”

“Where in the wide world of professional amateur buttfucking did they come from?” wondered Denny.

Newbomb was the vampire in the adult diaper. He clothed himself in it not because of any bathroom control problems, but due to the simple fact that he enjoyed the feel of them on his skin and it as well gave him a distinct kinky delight to flaunt himself like this in front of others. His feet were bare and the dark calluses on the bottom of them were thicker than the soles on most shoes. He had the chiseled and shaved everywhere physique of a bachelorette party’s male stripper. His face was strikingly handsome the same housewife’s fantasy way as the male protagonist on the cover of a paperback romance novel.

Big and fat Van Valkenburgh wore along with his polyester slacks a wifebeater T-shirt and a preppy tennis sweater draped over his shoulders and knotted around the neck. His hair was long and in Rastafarian dreadlocks. In one of the back pockets of his slacks was a first edition paperback copy of
Murder on Location
by George Kennedy that he was about halfway through reading.