The Haunter of the Threshold (15 page)

“Ho boy!”

“Yew see thet?”

Hazel’s anus dilated, and she blew a veritable
plume
of sullied urine out of her bowel. It
vaulted
from her in a way that made her think of a water cannon.

Peter Pan giggled. “Baby, looks like you’se just shot a fuckin’ quart’a piss out’cher ass TEN FEET!”

Great...

Snow White clapped. “I’se seed a lot’a gals blow piss aout thur butts in my time, but nevuh
thet
far! Naow’s time tew empty huh belly as well, eh?”

“Only fittin’,” and then Peter Pan knelt beside her in the fashion of a wrestler. He put her in a headlock, forearm about her forehead, as she remained straining on her knees. “Now if’n ya
bite?
I’ll crack yer purdy neck, ya hear?”

“Bite...what?” she mumbled.

“And dun’t yew ferget,” added Snow White, “whut we’ll dew to yew’re pregnant friend. I’ll stick a boat-hook up her pussy and drag the baby aout by his nose, ya heer?”

He and Peter Pan guffawed.

Hazel knew the score when Peter Pan isolated two dirty fingers and pressed them to her lips. She opened her mouth, then said fingers slid in and pressed hard against the back of her tongue.

The vicious pressure took her by surprise; her gag-reflex responded like a thrown switch. Her belly prolapsed, then—

Uuurp!

She vomited up a great, caustic well of urine. It sounded like a bucket of water being upended. Her assailants cackled. Then the fingers jammed back deeper and pressed—

Hazel’s stomach spasmed and splattered another gust of hot, food-flecked urine into the dirt. Her eyes spun in her head, and her abdominal muscles cramped. “No more, please!” she sobbed—

Uuuurp!

Back the fingers went, past her tonsils this time, to trigger another release.

“That’s a good girl,” cooed Peter Pan.

“This shuh beats hail aout’a watchin’ TV.”

It had to have been some very obscure recess of her psyche that allowed Hazel to contemplate: Of all the times she’d been violated—and had
invited
that violation...

THIS was the most grievous.

“I curn’t BELIEVE what I’m seein’–no suh! This sick bitch is playin’ with huh-self whilse yew’re makin’ huh
puke!
” Snow White railed.

After another gust, bile dangled from Hazel’s lips and spots swam before her eyes. Had she heard him correctly?

Oh, yes...

When Peter Pan’s fingers jammed back yet again, Hazel realized her right hand had come up between her legs to coddle her clitoris.

“Might as well just empty the bitch...”

Hazel convulsed through several more go-rounds. In a grand finale, then, the fingers pressed down harder than ever and, this time, didn’t let up. A frighteningly large wet spot of urine and bits of food carpeted the dirt before her. Her belly pumped and pumped and pumped and Hazel gagged and gagged and gagged. She’d long since given over to dry-heaving, yet still the invading fingers persisted. She hacked, wretched, bucked, and flopped. Nothing was coming up now, yet the fingers wanted more. When they finally withdrew several minutes later, Hazel believed she’d been just one spasm short of throwing up her stomach.

Wracked, cramping up, and dizzy to incognizance, she rolled over, wheezing, after Peter Pan at last released her. This sociopathic abuse of her body left every nerve in her body buzzing in raw lust. She lay in the great stain of her own piss and vomit, and masturbated openly.

Peter Pan chuckled. “Any other gal’d be scared shitless but this ‘un’s horny as a mare!”

“One of a kind,” Snow White remarked but pronounced “kind” as
conned.
Hazel played with her clitoris, slipping it between her fingers like a watermelon seed as Peter Pan seemed to marvel at her distended nipples.

“Pinch them harder!” she panted.

She half-shrieked when he obliged, twisting the areolae as if they were wood screws. Hazel’s ass clenched, she bucked, then came convulsively. In the “afterglow” she lay in a near-paralysis, as if run over.

Snow White was rummaging through her little purse. “She shuh en’t much for money. En’t got but twenty piddlin’ dollars on huh.” He stuffed the bill in his pocket, shaking his masked head.

“Do I look like a fuckin’ ATM?” she snapped at him.

“She’s got huh-self a lotta spunk, I’ll give huh thet.”

“Yeah, man.”

“What’s this heer?” Snow White asked and removed a small bottle of Pond’s.

“It’s hand lotion, Einstein!” Hazel yelled.

“Don’t get smart,” but, of course, Snow White pronounced “smart” as
smot.

“Reddy-head taken everything we give huh, and she still en’t beggin’ for huh life.”

“So’s I guess that can only mean...,”

Peter Pan sealed Hazel’s mouth closed with an open palm, then pinched her nostrils shut with two fingers.

Her eyes bugged; she mewled into her closed mouth. Peter Pan’s chuckles grew darker and darker as her vision dimmed. She flopped in the dirt like a pinned frog. Her lungs expanded...

They’re killing me. For real this time.

The chuckles grew echoic as Hazel’s consciousness faded to black.

Had she died? She felt sinking very quickly, falling down an endless hole in the ground...

A faceless voice very far away whispered:
Hazel, my child, I
adjure you...

Her breath whistled when the hands came off her face. She hacked and sucked in air simultaneously, shuddering. But—

But—

A monstrous pressure–an
obscene
trespass–begat her first scream in earnest.
What IS that?
She heard more chuckles like some sound-effects trick that turned each utterance into a hundred, along with...

Along with a sickening wet
schlucking
sound. Something huge was pumping in and out of her vagina to the extent that she thought she was having a baby in reverse.

“Take a looky, reddy!” Peter Pan guffawed.

A hand jerked her head up, forcing her to look down between her spread legs. At the same time she smelled the absolute worst stench of her life.
He’s not—He’s not really—

Snow White sat between her legs. He’d removed one of his boots; hence the stench: the appalling odor of a big unwashed-for-days redneck foot. He’d smeared the hand lotion over it, she could only guess, and now had most of his entire foot stuck up into her vaginal barrel.

“Theer ya go, ee-yuh!” he celebrated. “Theer ya go...”

schluck, schluck,
schluck,
went the sound.

The atrocious thing pumped in and out of her, at times broadening her vaginal lips to a stretched pink rim.

“Nothin’ like a good ole foot-fuckin’ ta break a sassy gal’s starch!” Peter Pan hooted.

schluck
,
schluck,
schluck

“Ee-yuh, ee-yuh,” Snow White grunted. “En’t foot-fucked me a bitch in...”

“What?” Hazel yelled. “A fuckin’ coon’s age!”

The rapists burst out laughing.

“Come on,” Peter Pan egged on. “See if’n ya can get it all the way up her.”

The horrendous foot flexed inside, then Snow White raised his ass off the ground and—

“Eeeeeeeeeeee-YUH! Thar she goes!”

When the foot slunked into her all the way to the ankle, Hazel, very understandably, shrieked.

And then down came Peter Pan’s hands to seal her mouth closed and pinch her nostrils shut again.

schluck
,
schluck, schluck

Her convulsions redoubled. She heard a distant buzzing in her head, then once more her lungs began to expand. The chuckles flitted about like bats far away.
This is it,
came the calm thought through the appalling subventions. The cross on Hazel’s sullied bosom felt like a red-hot ingot over her heart, and as her life began to descend into unutterable darkness she pleaded,
I’m know I’m not worth saving,
God, but could You at least know that I’m sorry for my sins?

Her brain de-oxygenated, the effect of which hit her like a potent opiate, and even as her mind went totally black, she knew she was masturbating, knew even that she’d climaxed at the immediate point of de—

Turmoil. Pandemonic commotion. The hands flew off Hazel’s face. She yelped in a breath when the foot was yanked out of her plundered vagina like a lollipop pulled from a greedy toddler’s mouth. Hazel shivered in near-death as her lungs siphoned in air. What was happening? When she managed to lean up, an intense white light burned in her eyes.
The light at the end of the tunnel of
Death,
she thought for sure, but then why were her attackers still present? Snow White and Peter Pan seemed charged into panic, swearing under their breath. “Haow yew fuckin’ like thet?” “Come on, we gotta git!” Frantic footfalls pounded the dirt, then their manic silhouettes fled into the trees.

I must still be alive,
Hazel presumed.

Very slowly, her vision began to clear. Evidently the foot-game had been going on a while, for the sun had sunk lower. That’s when she realized that the intense white light in her eyes was actually a pair of headlights on a vehicle.

A huge, wide-shouldered shape approached, then lifted her up.

“Holy Moses, yew all right, miss?” came a genial yet heavy voice.

Hazel simply lay limp in arms that felt secure as metal rails. “I, I—,” was all she could say.

“Don’t’cha worry. Them men’re gone,” the thick northern drawl told her and then she felt herself being carried a short distance and placed in the passenger seat of what she thought must be a pickup truck. Her rescuer disappeared a moment, then returned with her purse and scant clothes. He placed a blanket over her. When he got behind the wheel, Hazel was finally able to say, “Thank you. You saved my life.”

His form looked fuzzy. “Aw, naow, I doubt they’d’a kilt ya but they was rough customers, all right. I’ll tell ya, though, if that one fella was doin’ what it
looked
like he was doin’...well, I almost wish I could’a kilt them myself.” A pause. “Lotta evil folks in this world, it seems.”

Hazel hugged herself beneath the wrap as the pickup pulled away. Had God answered her prayers, or had it merely been luck? Finally her vision came back sufficiently to make out details of her rescuer...

I don’t believe it...

It was the brawny man she’d seen taking out the garbage. The “woodsman.”

“You must be one’a the gals stayin’ up the Wilmarth place.”

“Yes,” she blurted. “My name’s Hazel Greene.”

“I’m Horace Knowles. Growed up ‘raound heer.” He shook his head, which was topped by think, straight-black hair down to his collar. “Some’a the best campin’ and hikin’ you’ll evuh find in our area.” The peaceful drawl sounded checked by anger. “Then ungodly stuff like this happens. It could drive tourists away. Curn’t ever understand why some folks are just so...
bad.
”

So evil,
Hazel thought spontaneously. “Oh, but my friend and I aren’t really tourists—her name’s Sonia, by the way. We just came up to meet her fiancé. He inherited Henry Wilmarth’s cabin.”

“I only met Professor Wilmarth once. Very nice man, and it’s a dag shame what happened...”

“Yes...”

“Well, best not think’a that. ‘Specially after what’choo been through. Won’t take but twenty minutes to git yew to the county sheriff’s.”

Hazel rubbed her stomach beneath the wrap; it still ached from the forced-vomit contractions.
County sheriff’s...”
Don’t bother, Horace. But if you could drive me back to the cabin, that’d be great.”

Only now did she note the rest of his face: chisel-jawed, dark-eyed, whiskers.
He’s a redneck Adonis,
Hazel thought. But Horace looked alarmed by her comment. “But, miss, you
was
raped, weren’t ya?”

Buddy, the shit those animals did to me make your typical rape
look like babies blowing bubbles.
“Yes, but I’m not really comfortable reporting it to the police. It’s impossible for me to give a description; they were wearing masks.”