Edward Lee - The Backwoods

Patricia looked around guardedly. No one around. She felt satisfied. She walked off to the trees, then thought nothing of skimming out of her shorts and top. A moment of hesitation; then the rest came off, panties and bra dropped atop the sandals. And one last look around . . .

Everyone else is skinny-dipping in Luntville, and I’m skinny-dipping here . . . . Simple. There was no need to be self-conscious or embarrassed—she was a logical girl. So she shrugged her bare shoulders, then, and walked nude across the field. See? No big deal. She giggled. When she looked down at herself, the only shock was how white she was. She was fair-skinned; she didn’t tan well. Her natural hue touched over by the moonlight made her look ghostly.

The warm air caressed her skin as she moved on. Another giggle: I’m walking naked in public! The night’s heat licked up and down her body.

Cicadas buzzed in their unique drone. The pond lay flat and still before her, a solid black mirror with the moon’s reflection floating on top. Mud squished up through her toes when she stepped in, first to her ankles, then to her knees. She lifted her foot and took the next step, which should’ve brought her hip-deep, but—

Splunk!

—she dropped into a surprise gully deeper than she was tall. She sprang back to the surface, laughing, then began to dog-paddle around. Where the night’s heat had felt heavy on her skin, the cool water felt absolutely luxurious. A sudden liberty swept her as she let the water devour her: No one knows I’m here; I’m totally alone. She liked that feeling, a forbidden independence—being naked and by herself, as though the world existed solely for her, and she were its only inhabitant. The moon looked down, a luminous voyeur. Her flesh felt buoyant; cool water rushed between her legs and over her stomach and breasts. She smiled to herself, kicking out farther, totally tranquil in the water.

Patricia was at peace. . . .

It was some sort of a sack, canvas, or maybe several layers of burlap; she’d never figured out what it was exactly. And she never saw it coming.

He must’ve been in the water the whole time. Waiting? But that was impossible, because no one knew she was out here. She’d told no one she’d be skinny-dipping tonight; in fact, she hadn’t even made the decision until after leaving the theater. Nevertheless, as she’d turned to come back closer to the pond’s edge, a heavy, wet sack was pulled over her head from behind and tightened immediately by a drawstring. It couldn’t have been more effective. . . .

It smothered her scream.

A strong arm girded her neck. Her attacker was breaststroking back to shore, Patricia in tow, but as he did so his hand plowed into her most private area as though it were a squeeze ball. Fingers tried to wriggle in. Each time she attempted to suck in a breath and bolt out a scream, the wet sack sucked against her lips, and all she could do was wheeze. And when they reached the edge and her ankles began to kick through mud—

Thwack!

—a fist hard as a stone knocked her unconscious. Deathlike blackness filled her mind. Was she dead? No, but as her consciousness began to trickle back, her previous terror had been supplanted by an all-encompassing nausea. She opened her eyes but couldn’t see. It wasn’t the sack; instead, the only thing she could figure was that a wide strip of tape had been pasted over her eyes. When she tried to move, her wrists and ankles rose . . . but only an inch.

She’d been tied down.

More of her senses began to fall back into place. Her eyes had been taped but her mouth hadn’t, and just as she sucked in a deep, deep breath to try another scream, a palm slapped across her lips.

Then something very sharp and very pointed pricked the side of her neck.

“Feel this?”

A coarse whisper.

“It’s a knife. If you make any noise at all, I’ll cut your throat. Understand?”

She felt burning hot yet immobile, as if frozen solid. At first the terrified paralysis wouldn’t even allow her neck muscles to work.

The knife point pricked a little harder.

Patricia nodded.

Next: “If ya bite, I’ll cut‘cher tongue out ‘n’ slice yer big tits off and leave ’em on yer mama’s doorstep. Understand?”

Patricia nodded.

The clammy palm left her mouth, only to be replaced by a slavering mouth. At least her rapist was passionate—he wanted to kiss first. The dirty mouth sucked her lips, a tongue pushing through. Reflex caused Patricia to squeeze her eyes shut in spite of the blindfold, and from there . . .

Her mind went blank.

More reflex, more defensive instinct. Earlier it was the moon, but now, blinded and lashed to the ground, she became her own voyeur, sight replaced by sense. It was as though she were watching herself with her mind. Her mouth fell open and she simply let him do it— Don’t fight your rapist , she’d read in a women’s column once—so she admitted his tongue, tasting liquor and bad breath. The tongue continued to slaver, his drool falling into her mouth. Then the strange mouth sucked her own tongue out, sucked it hard, and that was when she noticed the gap.

His two front teeth were missing.

Eventually the abominable kiss ended; the mouth lifted, then fell right back to her breasts. Wet, ugly suction drew each nipple between the gap in his teeth, and the tongue began to whirl furiously. She could feel that he was naked himself—that hot, hard weight pressing down. All the sensations and mental images collided with revulsion, but Patricia now was disengaged, her own self not part of what was happening.

He never said another word.

She simply lay there and let him molest her, her belly sucked in, her arms and legs pinned out straight as steel rods. Her nipples buzzed now from the furious tendings of his tongue and the way the gap in his teeth isolated the dark areolae. A moment later he sat upright as though her stomach were a seat. His scrotum lay like a hot bag of pudding on her belly, his manhood no doubt inflamed by his own demented desires. His hands opened and closed over her breasts, intent, as if he expected to wring out milk. The sensations hurt; she imagined handprints bruised into her flesh. Next, his fingertips closed on her nipples, tweaking at first, then grinding. Patricia’s hips squirmed beneath his weight as he twisted her nipples as if turning screws into a wall.

The weight began to shift. He kneed himself backward, off of her. Was he done? A foolish question. Of course he wasn’t done—he was just beginning. Only now did she realize how widely her legs had been parted. Hands gripped her upper thighs, and then the mouth lowered.

Oh, God . . .

Her revulsion collapsed on her like a brick wall against the fiercest wind. The most secret and personal part of her body was brazenly invaded by the detestable tongue. First the tip traced around the opening of her vagina, stimulating the outer ridges, then delving up and down the groove. It was a long tongue, too, evidenced by how deeply it delved inside after each revolution. These ministrations lasted for a long time, until she thought the body she was perceiving so distantly would go nuts and simultaneously choke on vomit.

Could she actually feel the moonlight on her skin even with taped-shut eyes? Patricia could almost see herself writhing, half in arousal and half in utter repugnance.

The mouth rose and its new target was no surprise. . . .

Now the wicked suction drew over the assailant’s true target in a variety of movements: back and forth, up and down, then hard circles. And all the while it continued to suck, drawing the nugget of her sex through the gap in the front teeth—a macabre inversion of fellatio.