fuckpuppies (1191 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: Disgusting Perversion
Rating: 1.73 on 22 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2008-03-31 17:14:54 EDT
Iverson and Meagle were the last ones to enter the whorehouse.
They had come down to Mexico with four friends, all of them living in the same dorm at UCSB. Iverson and Meagle shared a dorm room. They had driven half the length of the Baja Peninsula, two to a car, bypassing Tijuana for a town one of the guys had heard about on the coast of the Gulf of California.
"We gotta go to Valle de la Luz," the kid named Hanes had said.
Six of them had been crowded into the room shared by Iverson and Meagle. Hanes had been wearing boxer briefs made by Hanes, and Iverson found that hilarious. They were on their fourth bowl and Iverson had become wracked with laughter, eventually puking a belly full of Pepsi into a metal trashcan.
"Anything goes there, man," Hanes had said. "Anything. Drugs, babes, you wanna fuck somebody's grandma or some jailbait or a donkey with its head on fire or snort coke so pure it makes you feel like Christ with a ten-foot hard-on, if you got the cash, you can do it there."
When they finally arrived, Meagle had pronounced Valle de la Luz a shithole.
From a hilltop road leading down into the valley of light the town appeared very small, nestled in coastal crags overlooking the Sea of Cortez. There was jungle, and beach, and blue sky and bluer sea. There was a central square, with a tall church at one end and a hotel at the other. The church and the hotel towered over the rest of the town. A faded banner was hung across the hotel's top floor, the sixth floor.
¡Bienvenidos amigos americanos!
"Fuck me," another kid said. He had blonde hair so bushy if looked like a 'fro. "We're going to spend more time killing roaches than smoking 'em."
They went into town. Six young men in three cars. They got rooms at the hotel.
"Thirteen bucks a night?" Iverson was blown away. "God damn."
They bought some beer and drove down a beach road that was little more than two hard-packed ruts in the earth and started drinking. They swam in the sea and lay on the white sand like corpses.
There was an internet café back at the hotel featuring one much-abused iMac G3. Two of the guys checked their email, as did Iverson, who also went to Wikipedia and read a few scant lines about the history of the town until Hanes shoved him aside and started surfing free porn sites. A hotel underling in a red jacket hustled over to Hanes and whispered, "No cunting aquí, okay my fren'?" They tossed that line at each other well into the evening.
Sitting on a restaurant patio they gorged themselves on cheap enchiladas, huachinango, roasted chicken and tostadas. Hanes had asked, "What the Christ is watchanangle?" His roommate Torres had said, "It's fuckin' fish, you dipshit."
"There used to be mining back in those hills," Iverson said around a mouthful of chicken. "Now the town rents out climate controlled storage vaults. Pretty cool."
Hanes had looked over his shoulder at the low ragged mountains above Valle de la Luz. The sun had caught on them and was deflating, bleeding red-orange. "What the fuck did they build the town here for instead of closer to the beach?"
"Hurricanes," Iverson said. "They come up the peninsula and up the Gulf. This is safer. Sometimes they take refuge in the old mines, but that doesn't happen often."
"Man, I gotta swim," Meagle said. "I'm stuffed. It's either do something or fall asleep."
Back on the beach a few hours later, baked by weed and by the sun which had finally set, Meagle looked at his watch and said, "Okay. Time to fuck."
They drove into town, showered, changed clothes and met in the hotel lobby. Hanes sidled up to the underling in the red jacket and whispered, "Donde está cunting?" The underling chased them out onto the street.
There were five bars in town, and they hit all of them. There weren't many other tourists, but there were other foreigners, expatriates. A Canadian guy with a moustache that looked like pubic hair told them about the whorehouse.
They followed his directions to a ranch house a few miles up the coast. The moon was full, and very bright. They passed a fence with an open gate. There were half a dozen cars parked in a gravel lot. Two locals, three from California, a big pickup from Texas.
There was no indication that this was in fact a whorehouse. Hanes knocked on the door. It swung open. There wasn't a lot of light. The vestibule was golden haze and shadows. Somewhere deep inside the house Johnnie Ray was singing The Little White Cloud That Cried. A Mexican blocked their path. He was over six feet tall and covered in muscle turning to fat. He looked bulletproof. He was wearing a silver mask like El Santo. Between the mask and a pair of white Nikes he was naked except for a small metal cage fixed to his groin with a leather strap. His cock and balls were squeezed into the cage.
"Ju here to fock?"
"You bet your ass," Hanes said.
The man turned and gave them a beckoning wave. The strap around his waist was buckled at the small of his back and secured with a padlock.
"Holy crap," the kid with the blond 'fro said.
Iverson held back a moment when most of the others went inside. Meagle waited in the doorway.
"You coming," Meagle asked.
"Yeah..." Iverson said. "Sure. Just felt a little weird for a second."
"Probably cause you stuffed so much food down your throat," Meagle laughed. "But I bet you feel better real soon."
They followed El Santo down a hallway to a drawing room. Black velvet paintings covered walls painted metallic gold. Instead of Elvis or buxom senoritas, the paintings were close-up depictions of fellatio and penetration. Hot pink cheeks and ruby red lips and vivid white streamers of ejaculate. At the far end of the room were two doors. Two more beefy, ball-caged El Santo clones stood guard.
A small brown man greeted them, and El Santo went back to the front door. The small man was wearing stiff new Levi's, a cream-colored embroidered shirt with pearl buttons, and a Stetson so big he could have used it as a bathtub. He had a white scar running from ear to ear, across his face and under his nose. The scar pulled his upper lip into a permanent sneer. He was also wearing a belt and holster like a sheriff in an old western. A six-shot revolver with inlaid pearl grips was in the holster.
"Hola, boyce," he said. "My name ees Pistola Grande. Wha can I do for you thees evening?"
"We're here to see some of your girls," Hanes said. He was either completely stoned or completely fearless, because he sounded calm and cool.
"Eet ees good," the little man said. "Okay, ees very seemple." He indicated a door behind him to the right. "Thee more dinero you got, the nicer a girl you get. Wan hunnerd dohlarse get you theese door, you go een, you peek a girl." He then indicated a door behind him to the left. "Feefty dohlarse get you theese door, girls still muy hermoso, but nad so yong or maybe nad so beeg een the teets."
Iverson thought it sounded like a bullshit shakedown, and he wasn't too keen on boning some whore and catching Christ-knew-what, but he could always sit back and enjoy a nice covered beej. Besides, the sun and beer and pot had left him as horny as hell.
Johnnie Ray gave way to Pat Boone's flaccid rendition of Tutti Frutti. The boys opened their wallets.
"You gotta be jerking me off," Iverson said.
Meagle gave him a look.
"I spent all my cash on booze," Iverson said, "And forgot to cash in any traveler's checks." He pulled a single ten dollar bill from his wallet.
"Traveler's checks?" Meagle said with a laugh, "What are you, somebody's dad?"
"Fuck me, man." Iverson looked to the other guys. "Say, any chance you guys could spare—"
They were already handing over their cash to the small man. Four of them went through the door to the right. As Hanes stepped through Iverson heard him yell, "OH YEAH!" He sounded like the Kool Aid Man.
"Sorry man," Meagle said. "I only got sixty and change."
Iverson watched Meagle open the door on the left. Meagle looked inside. He paused and said, "This is second tier? Jesus!" He threw Iverson a wink and disappeared from sight.
Iverson turned to go back to his car when the little man reached up and set a hand on his shoulder.
"Don worry, my fren'. We have especial theengs for every bad-jit." He snatched the ten dollar bill out of Iverson's fingers with a grin. Then he led Iverson back into the hallway, and opened a door.
A hand-lettered sign hung from a rusted chain, and Iverson had to duck under it.
Las Pequeñas Estrellas de Mar.
Wooden stairs led down into flickering orange light. Iverson smelled sweat and dust and spilled beer.
It took Iverson a moment to figure out what the sign said. He said, "The Little Starfish."
"Si," the small man with the gun said. He grinned. "Or in the eenglish we say, fockpappies."
Iverson went down, thinking maybe he could at least get a handjob. Maybe the fuckpuppies down there really were grandmas. That would give the guys a laugh. The door closed behind him.
The floor was stone, strewn with sawdust and hay. The ceiling was low. Decorative lanterns hung from the ceiling at each end of the room. There was a fourth El Santo down here, sitting on a wooden stool. His gut was pendulous and hanging down over his caged groin. Along one wall of the narrow room were wooden pens. Iverson had visited to a few websites showing veal calves crated up in pens like these, back when he was dating a girl who was a member of Peta, back when he still thought her perfect tits outweighed the amount of bullshit that came out of her.
In each pen was a stained mattress. Three of the pens were occupied.
In the pen closest to Iverson was a thing that looked like a grayish football almost five feet long. Iverson stared. The football was covered in bruise-colored flesh that shone with a sheen of sweat. The football was studded with little holes that looked like craters or tiny round mouths. Some of the mouths sucked air. Some blatted it out in soft farting sounds. The football also had three large gaping vaginas, irregularly set along the rounded form.
Iverson felt his stomach clench and a foam of beer and vomit creeping up his throat. He looked around the room, convinced this was some kind of a sick joke.
In the next pen was a thing that stood on two stumps. It was about three feet tall. It had a round belly. No arms. The skin was a ruddy pink. It had a thick neck and a small head. The head was flattened, and Iverson had the vague idea that this thing likely had all the brains of a sheep. The head was mostly toothless mouth and huge, soft lips. A man in a Texas Rangers ball cap was standing in front of the pink-skinned thing. His worn old blue jeans and drawers were down around his ankles and he was sliding the head of his erect penis in and out of that soft lipped mouth. The thing he was fucking was sucking him, suckling him, like a hungry calf.
"Howdy," the man said. He face was bright red. "Ain't this the strangest shee-it you ever saw?"
Iverson staggered to an empty pen and threw up on a stained mattress. El Santo 4 angrily muttered something in Spanish.
Don't puke on the freaks, gringo, Iverson thought.
"Those storage vaults in the old mines got all kinds of ugly shit in 'em," the man in the ball cap said. His eyes were closed and he was smiling. "I know, cause I've drove a few truckloads down here. Old chemicals and industrial waste, hell, probably even radioactive stuff. They aren't too good about regulatin' down here."
The man was driving the entire length of his erection into the mouth of the thing standing in front of him, the cheeks of his skinny ass bunched up like fists. "Consequently," he said in a conversational tone, over the sloppy sucking sounds coming from the thing he was fucking, "You got a high quota of freaks in the region."
Iverson looked into the last occupied stall.
Lying on the mattress was a thing that did look like a starfish... if you were depraved and half blind. It had dry, smooth skin that was almost blue. It was hairless, and the size of a child. Instead of arms and legs it had limbs that looked like short fins. The two most fully developed features were the big brown eyes in a rounded, featureless face, and the prominent labia between the stubby leg fins.
"Give 'er a go, son," the man in the ball cap said, his breath coming in a rush now. "I done that one a couple of times. Some good fuckin'. Close your eyes and that's a right tight and silky pussy."
Iverson looked down at the thing with the big brown eyes.
The thing looked back at him.
Suddenly Iverson knew without any doubt that the thing was aware. Aware of what it was. Aware of what it could have been. Aware of what was being done to it night after night.
"Jesus," he said. His breath hitched and he wiped tears out of his eyes with his knuckles, pawing at his face like a little kid.
A slit of a mouth opened below those big brown eyes. The mouth opened and closed. Breath whispered in and out. It was just moving air, but the eyes...
"Trying to talk," Iverson said. "My God, it's trying to talk."
The man in the ball cap thrashed and uttered a series of consonants; gggg...dd...fffff.
El Santo 4 stood up. He pointed at Iverson and said something harsh.
Iverson looked into those big brown eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. His voice was tender, as if he were talking to a baby. "I'm so very sorry."
El Santo 4 started crossing the room, his gut swinging like a bag of gelatin.
Iverson squatted, scooped up a handful of sawdust, and threw it into the fat Mexican's eyes.
Ela Santo 4 shouted "Ay caramba!"
Christ, I can't believe he just said that, Iverson thought in a distracted way. He knew that under any other circumstances the Mexican's exclamation would have sent him into a screaming fit of laughter.
He kicked El Santo 4 right in his caged balls. He was wearing an old pair of Converse sneaks, and he felt the kick in his toes. He kicked again. And again.
The fat Mexican grabbed the metal cage, now crimped and crushed around his genitals, and screamed in pain.
When Iverson heard the Mexican scream yyyeeeehaaahhh like a player in a Mariachi band, he couldn't hold back and let out a high pitched pealing laugh even as more tears blurred his vision.
"What the fuck you doin', son?" The man in the ball cap was walking toward Iverson, pulling his jeans up around a half-hard dick that was still drooling.
Behind him, the thing with the big soft lips went on mindlessly sucking air.
Iverson stepped past El Santo 4 and grabbed one of the decorative lanterns. He threw it into an empty stall, a casual underhand toss. The lantern burst open and the hay, mattress and wooden stall frame burst into flame.
The man in the ball cap shouted, "Jesus Jesus Jesus!" He stuffed his prick into his jeans and yanked his zipper. His face went white and he let out a shriek, sounding like a wounded bird.
Iverson saw a good hunk of dickflesh caught in the man's zipper, and saw blood flowing, before the man turned and limped up the stairs.
There was a flat bang. Iverson was quickly crossing the room to the other lantern. The man in the ball cap rolled back down the stairs, a small bloody stain on the crotch of his jeans, a large bloody stain over his left breast.
The small man with the big hat and the big gun came down the stairs. He was cautious, moving slowly. That was a mistake. He was watching the man in the ball cap die. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he looked up and saw Iverson's arm moving in an arc.
The second decorative lantern hit him in the throat. Fire splashed across him like water. He didn't make a sound. He dropped the gun, turned, and got halfway up the stairs before he collapsed.
The stairs began to burn. Behind Iverson, the entire room was going up.
El Santo 1 was screaming in the doorway, above and beyond the growing fire. Fuck you, Iverson thought, coughing on the raw smoke filling his throat.
He returned to the finned thing with the big brown eyes. It looked up at him for just a moment, staring, unblinking. Then it waggled a fin, and Iverson looked in that direction.
There was a narrow window high in the wall. There was a heavy mesh of metal over it, but it was locked with an old fashioned sliding bolt lock.
He looked down at the finned thing. It... she... held his gaze a moment longer, and then closed those big brown eyes.
"I'm sorry," Iverson said again. He ran for the window.
The guys were already outside, standing by the cars. There were a few other patrons in the parking lot as well, looking annoyed by the interruption of the fire.
"Jesus," Meagle said, "Do you believe this shit? What a night. I didn't even get to blow my load."
The blond kid with the 'fro grinned and clapped Hanes on the back. "What do you know, for once Mr. Premature Ejaculation is the only satisfied guy here."
"Up yours," Hanes said.
They all laughed, all but Iverson.
When Iverson and Meagle were driving back to town, following the two cars ahead of them, Meagle said, "Hanes says it's not a total loss. You gotta cash some of those fuckin' traveler's checks tomorrow, bro."
"What for?" Iverson asked. He was glad Meagle was driving. He felt unable to move, almost unable to talk.
"Well shit, man," Meagle said. "You don't think that's the only whorehouse in town, do you?"
User Reviews
Submitted by phuchuebuddy (user info) at 2008-09-10 21:41:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Wow - I'm gonna have nightmares about this
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2008-04-03 10:23:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Ltap (user info) at 2008-04-01 10:43:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by LittleMonster (user info) at 2008-04-01 10:25:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You are rocking my face off at the moment.
Submitted by FALLEN (user info) at 2008-04-01 08:56:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
um. woah.
yeah...
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2008-04-01 07:52:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I like the part where the sombrero tip accidentally slips in her meat stand.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2008-04-01 07:24:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Reminiscent of Clive Barker.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-04-01 04:54:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
McCallum
Submitted by sparkle_pink (user info) at 2008-04-01 02:12:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Cool story.
Submitted by X54 (user info) at 2008-04-01 00:22:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
It held my interest right through to the bitter end. What more can you ask?
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-04-01 00:14:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by AsshOly (user info) at 2008-04-01 00:14:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
this is exactly what happened last time i went to mexico. except i fucked the fish bitch.
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2008-03-31 21:47:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
No Content
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2008-03-31 20:55:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Q: What's old, creepy and regularly slurps on Jack McCallum's ass?
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2008-03-31 20:39:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2008-03-31 19:41:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
The level of depravity that you're willing to sink to never fails to amaze me.
Excellent tale...
_________________
Jack never sleeps. His dreams are enough to. . . I don't know.
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-03-31 19:57:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i read this.
some bits were nice, almost James Herbert like.
The ay carumba was too much though dude, lost the level of suspense that had built.
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2008-03-31 19:41:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
The level of depravity that you're willing to sink to never fails to amaze me.
Excellent tale...
Submitted by ilikesteak (user info) at 2008-03-31 17:41:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Really, how hard would have it been to have just used italics for the broken english?
Submitted by jigglypuff (user info) at 2008-03-31 17:38:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I didn't read it, but I will tomorrow when I am able! I'm sure you deserve the +2 based on all previous work I have read.
Submitted by pandora (user info) at 2008-03-31 17:36:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Wow.
Submitted by Shlongy (user info) at 2008-03-31 17:22:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Good title...too fucking long of a story.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2008-03-31 17:16:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
El Santo...
http://www.wam.umd.edu/~dwilt/santo.html