Shotgun Wedding
By jmparisi
- 479 reads
"Hey baby, can you do me a favor?"
Anything for you, big man. You unzip and unleash the beast, and I watch
in inevitability. And I think to myself, as always, there should be
more than that there. Someone with such bravado and gusto can't be a
mere five inches, can he?
I bend over and ride shotgun. You crawl into my mouth and fire, trigger
happy. I don't feel a thing, just an aftertaste of aftermath, cum bath
regality, gripped firmly by the handle and squeezing until there is
nothing left in the chamber.
I'm your dentist, teeth marks intact.
I'm your therapist. Feel better?
I'm your plastic surgeon.
"You're such a big man, honey."
I smile, wipe my mouth and pop in a stick of gum. I lean back, quelling
the unreasonable desire that he will reach down my pants and return the
favor. But we're driving. He has to concentrate. Could have fooled
me.
I'm a damn good cock sucker. I should know. I've been practicing. Every
day for the past six months, that's all I've done. I wouldn't call it a
chore, just yet. But it does feel a bit like a job interview. I wonder
what he'd say if his parents' asked what I did for a living, and I
said:
"Sucking your son's five inch pecker."
I haven't even met his folks yet. I guess here in Kansas, it's
inappropriate to meet the parents with your face buried in their son's
lap. I barely even know their names. All I know is that they named
their son Dutch, so they can't be terribly spectacular. Who the fuck
names their son after a collection of people anyway?
We've been driving for 2 hours. And driving on a Kansas highway is
everything you could ever imagine it to be. Windows down, shotgun rack,
country music blaring, dust flying into your eyes, nothing to see for
miles. Driving time should have a relativity quotient along with it,
where in terms of interest, the time you actually FEEL like you've been
driving is increased or decreased based on some mathematical
calculation. Not that I feel like figuring it out. There just isn't a
lot more positive to think about while driving, well, in my case,
riding. I never get to drive.
I remember asking Dutch if I could drive - once. We were on our way out
to Wal-Mart, and he had just fixed the brakes. I had been wanting to
take the truck out for a ride, but was always petrified that I wouldn't
be able to stop. But now, that problem was rectified.
"Hey big man, what do you say you let me drive?"
"Naw, baby. You'd just hurt yourself."
"Oh come on, sugar. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."
"I said no, woman."
"Why not? It don't make you feel like less of a man, does it?"
Dutch weighs in at about 250, all fat. He waddles more than he walks.
But at that moment, as the words "less of a man" rolled off my tongue,
he flew to me like lightning and leveled me with what I think was a
right cross to the jaw.
There's no telling how long I was out. When I came to, my head was
throbbing, and so was my pussy. I look behind me and see Dutch, pumping
away at me. I put my head on my arms and sit silently, waiting for him
to finish. I'm just along for the ride, big man.
I'll ride shotgun with you. Crawl into my pussy and fire, trigger
happy. I don't feel a thing. Just an aftertaste of aftermath bloodbath
insanity, gripped firmly by the hair and squeezing until there's
nothing left in the chamber but man chowder.
The whole time, I can hear him muttering about how much of a man he
really is. I can't say I disagreed.
There's something to be said about a man who takes charge of a
situation that a woman just can't seem to resist. I can't place it,
really. Every time I wipe the blood off my lip, I smile. It's a
struggle for control, and he wins, every time, at least physically. I
don't mind that he's not too bright. He keeps me in my place. This, I
tell myself, is why I stick around.
He's all man.
I find myself drifting in and out of sleep. It's a warm day, and Dutch
never runs the A/C. I hate that intermittent sleep stage, where you're
asleep, but you're not. You start to have crazy dreams, where you're
falling, and it jars you awake because it feels so real. I feel a nudge
and it startles me. Was it real?
Fuck. It sure was.
"Baby, can you do me another favor?"
I spit my gum out and stick it to the vanity mirror. Still has flavor,
save it for later. Dutch is taking a lot longer this time, and he's
starting to get pissed.
"What the fuck are you doing down there? Taking pictures? I ain't got
all goddamed day!"
He pulls the truck over. "We ain't moving until you finish,
bitch."
There he goes, taking control. I can feel myself seeping through my
pants. You're all man, baby.
I start to suck harder.
"Ow! What the fuck?"
He pushes my head away. "What did I tell you about using your
teeth?"
He rears back and looks like he's about to slug me good. At that
moment, I just can't take it anymore and I start to moan. I stretch out
and my toes curl.
"YES! Hit me Dutch! Hit me HARD!"
Dutch just looks at me, with a stunned, befuddled look. It's a look he
carries most of the time, but this time, he's genuinely confused. He's
never seen me come. He's never cared to. And he doesn't quite know what
to do with himself.
"Hit me!!! Hit me you mother fucker! I NEED YOU TO HIT ME!"
He doesn't hit me. Instead, he just starts to laugh. He's laughing at
me. "You are one fucked up bitch, you know that?" He starts to put the
car into gear and I become blind with fury.
I reach behind me, grab the shotgun off the rack and fire it, all in
one smooth motion. I've never even fired a gun before, but for some
reason, it all comes to me, instinctively. Dutch's fat head disappears
in a puff of red mist. Blood, teeth, brain and bone all cover the
inside of the cab, the perfect marriage. My ears are ringing.
I'll ride shotgun with you. Crawl into your mouth and fire, trigger
happy. You won't feel a thing. Just an aftertaste of aftermath
bloodbath insanity, gripped firmly by the trigger and squeezing until
there's nothing left in the chamber but saliva and teeth. I'm your
dentist and your therapist and your plastic surgeon wrapped into
one.
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