Chapter #4A Little Self-Insertion by: rugal b.   (With assistance from Seuzz)
"Yeah, let's go outside," you tell Beth. You take her by the elbow and gently turn her around.
"Hashtag Me Too, bruh!" Ethan yells after you. You flip him the bird without turning around.
* * * * *
Beth leans against you but doesn't stumble as you go out the front door, and so you try to ignore it, until she sags against you so heavily that you have to put your arm around her waist to support her. And at that moment she seems to regain her balance, but keeps her hip against yours regardless.
"Let's go out there," she says, pointing to the street. "It's too hot too close to the house."
"Uh huh. What have you been drinking?"
Her hair tickles your ear as she turns her head to grin at you.
"You think I'm drunk, don't you?" she says. "I'm not, though, I only had like one beer. But I did hang out some with Joshua and Eileen before I came out here."
Well, that explains it. You've hung out with Joshua and Eileen too. Anyone coming within nine feet of them risks a contact buzz.
In fact, you're starting to wonder if you've gotten a contact buzz from off of Beth, because you're feeling a little flushed and dizzy yourself.
"Okay," you say when you've reached the sidewalk fronting the street. "Where do we—?"
"Shhh. This way." Beth puts her arm around you to tug you over to a car. One arm still around you, she fumbles around in her pockets with her free hand until she pulls out a key. Not this car, but one three cars down chirps and its lights flash. Beth stares, then giggles before pulling you toward it.
"So," she says as she opens the nearest backseat door, "I asked you out here, you know. But I saw you came with Dana."
"Uh huh."
She smiles at you from under her brows. Then she half falls, half climbs into the back seat and hops and humps her way to the far side. When you bend over to look in after her, she raises a forefinger and crooks at you to come in.
You take a deep breath. This is why I used mouthwash earlier, you tell yourself as you climb in after her. The door thumps hollowly as you pull it closed behind.
"Okay, Zach, so I—" Beth starts to say, but you don't give her a chance to finish. You put one arm across to push her back against the seat, and put your mouth to hers.
She gasps in surprise, but then relaxes. "Mmm," she groans as she gives you quick, wet kisses inside your open mouth. Your own lips are clamped sucker-like over hers, and caught by her surprisingly chaste response you have to pull away and recalibrate. You shove in closer to her, cradle one of her breasts with one hand, and slide your other hand down between the seat cushion and the small or her back. Then you go back in to nip and nibble.
She groans and giggles, and pulls away long enough to say, "My God, you're into this!"
You see no reason to dignify that with an answer.
Because, yes, you are into it, enough so that you really wish you didn't feel so queasy.
It's been coming on for awhile, you realize now, even as preoccupied as you are with prying at her closed lips with your tongue. It was warm inside Amanda's house, you thought, but now you wonder if it was you, if you're coming down with a fever. Your forehead feels like it's burning, and there's something like a hot and itching rash on your face where you felt like you got splashed by that bluish goo at Mark Taylor's house earlier. There's an itchiness behind your eyeballs. Worst of all, your gut is beginning to roil and roll.
That too was a sensation you remember having inside Amanda's, though it didn't feel like sickness but only like an unsettledness: a feeling like your guts had detached themselves from your body and were slowly rolling over and over, like a slowly spinning basketball. It's worse now, with a burning sensation like acid reflux.
"Oh God," you mutter as you break off to come up for air. "Whoa!"
"Yeah, it's nice," Beth says, and pulls at the front of your hoodie. "I was hoping— But what I wanted to tell you—" She puts her nose to the side of your face, and rubs it there. "If you and Dana ever, you know— Even if it's serious, I want you to know I'd still be up for— Um—"
You turn and put your mouth over hers again.
But if you were hoping that would stopper or stifle the nausea, you are sharply rebuked by what comes next.
* * * * *
It starts with a feeling like a coiled serpent unrolling itself in your gut, so much so that your eyes pop as you feel it slithering up your esophagus and cutting off your windpipe. Your jaw wrenches open quite on its own—unhinges, almost, it feels like—and the world goes dark as you feel your eyeballs rolls up and back into your head. Your scalp feels like it is on fire.
And then it is in your mouth.
It is hot and slimy yet solid as it slides, rushing outward, over your tongue. You heave and groan and gasp as your upchuck reflex kicks in, but the slimy hose—that's exactly what it feels like, a slimy hose!—just keeps pushing out. Through the roaring in your ear you are aware of other noises—cries and moans—but your whole mind and concentration are on the flexible mass rushing up from your gullet. The moment of maximum pain comes when it seems to hook and snag onto your lungs, turning them inside out and tearing them loose to follow it. Your muffled scream is barely audible as you feel your chest collapsing in on itself.
And then you feel so much better. You raise yourself up and look around—
Just in time to see the door opposite fall open and Beth pitch face-first outside it.
* * * * *
"Oh my God!" she screams around her coughs and grunts. "My fucking God!" She is on her hands and knees, heaving air and spitting at the ground. "Did you just throw up in my mouth?"
"Beth, I—"
"My God! Auughhhh!" A shudder rumbles through her.
You put your hands out to steady her, but she twitches and throws herself to the side.
"Don't touch me! Don't ever—! My God!" She covers her face with her hands, and belches. "It was like you shitted down my throat!"
You are wretched, on her behalf as well as your own. You would reassure her, but you have no idea what happened. You more than half suspect that she is right, and that some extraordinary mix of vomit and intestinal waste came charging up your gullet ... and apparently went down hers!
She won't listen to you, of course, and you don't blame her, and only feebly do you try to help her into the front seat of her car. She drives unsteadily away, her engine gunning every few seconds as she races the accelerator. You watch her go, feeling ill all over again.
But mentally ill only. Physically, you're not sure when you've felt better. You feel almost super-charged with energy.
Still, there is no point in going back in to the party, unless it's to say goodbye to people who will probably never speak to you again, not after Beth gets through telling them what happened. So it's a good thing you feel so fizzy and frothing, otherwise you might be tempted to drive your car into a river. As it is, you just go home.
* * * * *
You lay awake for a very long time, staring at the dark ceiling, wondering what the future will bring. It can only bring gloom, though, right? Even if Beth can't bring herself to charge you publicly with "puking down her throat," she will tell everyone that you were sick all over her. Even if no one says anything to your face about it, you know that they will start treating you differently.
So why don't you feel depressed? If anything, you feel randy.
Randy enough that soon you are untucking your cock through the folds of your underwear, and gripping it tightly as you think of Beth. Worse, you feel yourself hardening as you recall the sensation of that ... thing ... welling up inside you and rushing out. Was it really like a rush of vomit? It did feel more like a snake, if your first impression of it was anything to go by.
Or did it feel like ... an enormous penis unfurling from within ... plunging deeper into Beth than any girl has ever gone down on you before?
You groan, and grip, and your ass comes off the mattress, and—
Well, you pass out.
* * * * *
You are dog-tired when you wake the next morning, aching and dehydrated like a wrung-out dish rag. For a very long time you huddle in bed, not moving a muscle, not even your eyes behind your lids.
At last, with a crunchy feeling as your joints pop, you roll over, toss off the sheets, and sit up. You yawn and rub a knuckle into your eye.
Oh God, how wasted was I last night? you wonder. Three beers but maybe more, because you guzzled from a few drinks that Spencer and the others were drinking from. Plus what you smoked before you got to Amanda's.
So why do I feel like I should feel worse?
You get up and pad into your tiny bathroom: the one your grandfather installed while making your small bedroom even smaller. You blink at yourself in the mirror.
A tangle of blonde curls falls across your face, which you push away, only to have it tumble back down when you bend over the sink to shove your face under the faucet. Then you straighten up, toss off your top and your bra, and hike down the wooly bottoms of your pee-jays.
That's when you freeze with the feeling that something is wrong. You look up into the mirror.
Okay, you ask yourself. Why shouldn't I see myself there?
You gasp hard when you realize that you should be seeing Zachary Dillon there, not Beth Lartner. You have the following choice:  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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