Anonymous: Uncle Roy's secret

Dapple the patch of ultra-white skin at the roots of her boobs and between them. She let the lad lick the drops off her.

After all, it was his drink.

He paid for it.

Tipped Sadie Mae a lot.

And Sadie Mae actually spat the drink out daintily into the sink as soon as the dude wasn't looking or maybe while he was.

Of course, sometimes the guys would drink it right from her own lips.

If they were in shape for it.

"I'll have one of those," the singer in the punkrock clothes said. "Less you got something better for me."

"We got something called Sex on the Beach-with iced vodka and nine different rums-"

"That's a little out of my reach."

He perused the fringes of cuntpleach straggling from Sadie Mae's snatch.

Pussfur snaggling out from underneath her frayed panties and the stringy frazzled slants of her shortshort cutoff shorts.

"How about a Screaming Orgasm?" Sadie Mae posed. "You look like you could use one of those. Grain alcohol straight up with a snuff of locoweed to help you off."

"I'm game."

Sadie Mae smiled.

He was a tame one, regardless of whether he was dressed like a hoodlum from a low-budget science fiction movie with bleached hair, leather, and studs all over the place.

"You from around here?" Sadie Mae said setting the drink down.

"Louisiana. Lafayette. That's my name, too. You like our sound?"

"Huh?"

"The band-"

Lafayette took a sip of the drink.

Made an unguarded face.

Sat the glass down again in front of him. Took a pinch of snuff from the tin Sadie Mae had sat beside it.

Then suckered the rest of the juice down.

"Burns," Lafayette said. "Good stuff. But I didn't get no orgasm."

"Have another?" Sadie Mae snickered.

A hand-slim fingered and bigger than most-now rested on Lafayette's shoulderblades.

Sportjacket, string tie.

Bootheels clicking just underneath the din of the jukebox as the band lurched into silence taking a break between sets.

"Howdy. Eye-dee."

"Don't have identification with me," Lafayette said. "But I'm old enough. I was in the army."

He showed a tattooed bicep.

"I can get one of those," the man said, "any cub scout could," flashing out a wallet with a badge pinned inside of the leather flap. "Tell me something, boy. Where you from?"

"Please," Sadie Mae said. "He's one of the musicians in the group playing tonight."

"Sorry. Law is you gotta card everyone."

"Fuckingchrist," Sadie Mae said. "Mister. You better talk to Little Ramona-"

"Already did, No luck for you there. Seems she and her sister clearly propositioned me-on behalf of some other available ladies-"

Of course.

Sadie Mae should have known something was screwy about the cleancut dude in Western duds including shiny boots.

Usually in these particular parts only foreigners- tourists, collegiate types-and sometimes off-duty state troopers wore these allegedly traditional get-ups.

Sadie Mae snuffed.

"This is a set-up," Sadie Mae snorted. "I saw you come in-your papers say you're Yancey? I saw you came in with Lafayette."

"So I did," the string-tied one said, "At the same time at any rate."

"Just a fucking minute," Sadie Mae said. "Pm calling the real police."

"Yancey, please," Lafayette said. "My man? Pm willing to do the chilling-I believe this was primarily my fault."

"Maybe just give them a summons-huh? A fine? Some other time. Some hero you are. And you know what happens to heros without exception-"

Little Ramona came through the crowd.

"See, Yancey?" Ramona said. "Everything's legit here. We were only kidding before. Sallie Anne and me ain't whores."

Little Ramona's tight pyramidal nippletips were visible through her sleeveless teeshirt sweat-wettened to near transparency.

"Well, I sure am embarrassed," Yancey said, dancing his revolver from his waist, "about this case of mistaken identity," holding the firearm to his face and clicking it twice to inspect the chambers like looking at his fingernails. "Regardless. We're closing the place."

Little Ramona thought she read Yancey's mind.

"What's the fine?"

"You could do time for that, little lady."

"For fuck's sake," Sallie Anne gagged through caked craw. "Lighten up."

"Nothing light about attempted bribery."

Little Ramona barfed:

"There's something illegal about all of this. Since Deputy Yancey insists, I'll telephone the local constabulary-"

"Be my guest," Yancey said.

Slowly there was a tide of turned heads crawling over the crowded dancefloor and booths and tables. Youths who wanted to evade any trouble at all-being too drunk for comfort, whatever-made way for the doorways in slow daze. Customers of Uncle Roy's roadhouse faded away.

"Looks like we're closed anyway," Sadie Mae said as she noticed both Lafayette's and Yancey's heads moving back and forth.

The boys were apparently popping their gaze between Sallie Anne and Sadie Mae and seeming to note a physical resemblance that might have been generic or might have been familial.

"We want a biowjob," Randy and Bubba rang in tandem, oblivious, or nearly so, to the score going down in Uncle Roy's Roadhouse as they fooled around with Mercedes, now ensconced in a rear booth with toots of beer and straight alcohol.

Sadie Mae hemmed and hawed.

Looked toward Little Ramona, who spoke leisurely, with some eagerness.

"Sure. Well close up."

Sadie Mae thought she would try a stay of execution: "How about some of our friends stay to help us out?"

"No bones about that," Yancey said, scratching one of his earlobes.

"Come on," Ramona said to Yancey and Sallie Anne. "We need us privacy."

Sadie Mae wiped a tray as Ramona and Sallie Anne sashayed with Yancey and Lafayette back into the small office. Through the window pane Sadie Mae saw the boys in the band land their minimal array of equipment in the back of a cabined truck.

Lounged around blowing smoke.

Sucking beer.

Not too antsily.

Not overly concerned.

Merely waiting for their lead singer to return.

"Blowjob," Mercedes shrieked. "A real one. This is fun. Come!"

Mercedes looked down into Randy's opened crotch. Cool pinkish white cockmeat crowed in a limber curve up his belly.

Mercedes licked her chops.

Took pricktip between thumb and forefingers.

Lingered.

Looking longingly for an instant.

Saw the jimstick hop.

Dipped her head.

Corked her mouth with dingdong.

"Yum."

Tamped it in.

Mercedes sucked the penis in down her throat. Ran her fingers under the nuts.

"Unh."

Randy's hips bucked.

Mercedes clucked Randy's hard-on on the tip of her tongue.

Ran her dentition in the crease between the head of the dick and the thickening bulge of its shank, Jacked it with jaw.

Bubba Buster foamed his craw over with a load of beer.

Leered inwardly.

Saw from a side angle the twanger jammed inside Mercedes's mouth.

Watched the way Randy skittered about.

"Uuuuuh."

Bubba sat the mug down.

Played his paw along his lower face and scraped brew onto his wrist.

Took a gander at the insistent twisting of Mercedes's mouthlips.

Torquing Randy's hammering hard-on with scratchy slides of her tongue.

"Eeeaaaooouuugh."

Bubba jerked off at the yip:

"Say, Mercedes, my sweet. How about a kiss for this one?"

Silent or unheard whimpers.

"Since you insist," Bubba said with aimless flicks of both wrists.

Bubba yanked the hair at the back of Mercedes's head. Reached into his own trousers and frittered around a bit.

Unbuttoned his fly.

Extracted a nib of flesh.

Engorged growler gaped up like a disturbed tyrannosaurus rex.

Scenting prey.