Disclaimer:
This story is the result of a thread in the Author's Hangout titled "What if they wrote Porn?" The premise being, what would erotica from the classic authors like Hemingway, Poe, Chaucer, et al. would be like. I submitted a blurb rewritten from O Henry's "The Ransom of Red Chief." I received several PM's asking (ok, demanding) that I finish the tale and submit it.
So without further ado (or threats of physical violence), and with my eternal gratitude to O Henry for giving me a brilliant story to start with and my sincere apologies for the same reason, I present to you,
*
IT LOOKED like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in Alabama -- Bill Dickdrill and myself -- when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, "during a moment of temporary mental apparition"; no doubt caused by six months without consensual, on his part, sex while in the hoosegow, but we didn't find that out till later.
There was a town down there, as flat as an 8-year-old girl, and called Hilltop, of course. It contained inhabitants of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole.
Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent burlesque theater scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in semi-rural communities; therefore and for other reasons, a kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that Hilltop couldn't get after us with anything stronger than constables and maybe some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the Weekly Farmers' Budget. So, it looked good.
We selected for our victim, the daughter of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Corset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and forecloser. She was a girl of late teens, with bas-relief freckles, breasts like halved cantaloupes and hair the colour of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when you don't want to catch a drip from the red light floozies. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. It was the mesmerizing sway of her hips that convinced Bill, "I'd part with more than that just to watch her walk past in her pantaloons." Says he. But wait till I tell you.
About two miles from Hilltop was a little mountain, covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions. One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Corset's house. The girl was in the street, daring young farm hands to show her their fence posts. Most were sporting them.
"Hey, young lady!" says Bill, "would you like to have a big box of chocolates and a nice ride?"
The girl flashes Bill a peek of the lush foliage under her skirts. "You old farts wouldn't last a minute in there." Then she threw a rock the size of a ripe plum and hit Bill square in the left temple.
"That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars," says Bill, climbing over the wheel.
That girl put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got her down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. We took her up to the cave and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain.
Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. There was a burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the banker's young daughter was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tail feathers stuck in her red hair. She points a stick at me when I come up, and says:
"Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Pussy, the wildest lay of the plains?
"She's all right now," says Bill, pulling up his trousers and examining some bruises on his wrists. "We're playing Indian. We're making Buffalo Bill's show look like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I'm Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Pussy's captive, and I'm to be castrated at daybreak. By Geronimo! That girl can suck the brass off a Boson's pipe."
Yes, sir, that girl seemed to be having the time of her life. The fun of camping out in a cave had made her forget that she was a captive, herself. She immediately christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that, when her braves returned from the warpath, I was to be impaled on the stake at the rising of the sun.
Then we had supper; and she filled her mouth full of bacon and bread and gravy, and began to talk. She made a during-dinner speech something like this:
"I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I had a boy lick my pussy down by the millpond one night, and I was nineteen last birthday. I hate to go to church. Crabs ate up all of Jimmy Talbot's aunt's pussy hairs, I heard. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want some more gravy. Does bigger boobs moving make pecker harder? I had five orgasms one night. Not with the same guy o'course. What makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I fucked Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don't do girls. You dassent catch clap from toilet seats. Does a pecker make any noise? Why are boobs round? Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got three balls. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish can't. How many does it take to make an orgy?"
Every few minutes she would remember that she was a pesky redskin, and pick up her stick spear and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to rubber for the scouts of the hated paleface. Now and then she would let out a war-whoop that made Old Hank the Trapper shiver. That girl had Bill terrorized from the start. He ain't seen any pussy like that before.
"Red Pussy," says I to the girl, "would you like to go home?"
"Aw, what for?" says she. "I don't have any fun at home. I like to camp out and Old Hank the Trapper has a funny bend in his pecker that rubs me just the right way when he can keep it up. You won't take me back home again, Snake-eye, will you? I'll suck both your balls dry if you promise not to take me home."
She undid my fly and started sucking like one of them new fangled vacuum sweepers. I recon another minute or so and she'd suck my balls right through my pecker. I grabbed two hands full of that red hair and skull fucked her hard enough to knock the freckles off her tits. When I squirted my milt she swallowed every drop and licked her lips, then she looks up at me with those baleful green eyes and just waits.
Says I. "We'll stay here in the cave a while."
"All right!" says she. "That'll be fine. I never had such fun in all my life."
We went to bed about eleven o'clock. We spread down some wide blankets and quilts and put Red Pussy between us. We weren't afraid she'd run away. She kept us awake for three hours, jumping from me to Bill and reaching for her broom handle whilst we recuperated. Even after Bill and I did her from both ends at the same time she was still rearin' to go. "Hist! pard," she'd whisper in mine and Bill's ears, as the fancied rustle of a leaf revealed to her young imagination the stealthy approach of the outlaw band. At last, I fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that I had been kidnapped and chained to a tree by a ferocious pirate with red hair.
Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful screams from Bill. They weren't yells, or howls, or shouts, or whoops, or yalps, such as you'd expect from a manly set of vocal organs -- they were simply indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such as women emit when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It's an awful thing to hear a strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently in a cave at daybreak.
I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Pussy was sitting on Bill's chest, with one hand twined on Bill's shriveled manhood. In the other she had the sharp case-knife we used for slicing, bacon; and she was industriously and realistically trying to take Bill's balls, according to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the evening before.
I got the knife away from the girl and made her lie down again. But, from that moment, Bill's spirit was broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that girl was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along toward sun-up I remembered that Red Pussy had said I was to be impaled on the stake at the rising of the sun. I wasn't nervous or afraid; but I sat up and lit my pipe and leaned against a rock.
"What you getting up so soon for, Sam?" asked Bill.
"Me?" says I. "Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I thought sitting up would rest it."
"You're a liar!" says Bill. "You're afraid. Your ass was to be reamed at sunrise, and you was afraid she'd do it. And she would, too, if she could find a stake. Ain't it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will pay out money to get a little imp like that back home?"
"Sure," said I. "A bawdy gal like that is just the kind that fathers dote on. Now, you and Red get up and cook breakfast, while I go up on the top of this mountain and reconnoitre."
I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran my eye over the contiguous vicinity. Over toward Hilltop I expected to see the sturdy yeomanry of the village armed with scythes and pitchforks beating the countryside for the dastardly kidnappers. But, what I saw was a peaceful landscape, dotted with one man ploughing with a dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed hither and yon, bringing tidings of no news to the distracted father. There was a sylvan attitude of somnolent sleepiness pervading that section of the external outward surface of Alabama that lay exposed to my view. "Perhaps," says I to myself, "it has not yet been discovered that the wolves have home away the tender lambkin from the fold. Heaven help the wolves!" says I, and I went down the mountain to breakfast.
When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of it, breathing hard, and the girl rubbing his groin with her coconuts.
"She put a red-hot lip lock on my johnny," explained Bill, "and squeezed my balls until I shot my load. Only nothing came out, Sam. She's drained me, Sam, and still tryin' to get more. I can't take this, I'm getting' friction burns on my Johnny. Have you got a gun about you, Sam?
I pulled her off of Bill by her fiery tresses, "I'll fix you," says the girl to Bill. "No man ever yet twisted the Red Pussy's nipples but what he got paid for it. You better beware!"
After breakfast the minx takes a piece of leather with strings wrapped around it out of her pocket and goes outside the cave unwinding it.
"What's she up to now?" says Bill, anxiously. "You don't think she'll run away, do you, Sam?"
"No fear of it," says I. "She don't seem to be much of a home body. But we've got to fix up some plan about the ransom. There don't seem to be much excitement around Hilltop on account of her disappearance; but maybe they haven't realized yet that she's gone. Her folks may think she's spending the night with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbours. Anyhow, she'll be missed to-day. To-night we must get a message to her father demanding the two thousand dollars for her return."
