Volksie: Read online

  Volksie: A Tale of Sex, Americana, and Cars

  Copyright © 2012 by P.M. White

  Edited by Sharazade for 1001 Nights Press. Cover design by BookDomme.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Adult Content Warning

  This story contains sexually explicit acts involving consenting adults. It is not intended for minors under the age of eighteen.

  Volksie

  A Tale of Sex, Americana, and Cars

  P.M. White

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Old Muddy Bug

  Chapter 2: Bug Love

  Chapter 3: The Bug Hunt

  Chapter 4: Bug Bashers

  CHAPTER ONE

  OLD MUDDY BUG

  People said her mouth reminded them of the iconic Rolling Stones image of giant red lips: plump, brash, and lusty all rolled into one. Whoever modeled for that image probably got shit-loads of sex because of those lips. Samantha certainly did.

  She felt the two cocks press against her mouth. Both tried to get in there at the same time. One was just a tad smaller than the other. Both were hard as a rock. She could see the smears of her cherry red lipstick on both fleshy shafts. Numerous veins bulged on the larger one; it looked like a throbbing alien worm from outer space. She saw only one bulging vein on the tad-smaller cock. The latter she slurped into her mouth. Gary, her boyfriend, filmed the whole thing. He hovered around the threesome like an orbiting satellite.

  The four had just returned from the small café on the corner where she’d picked the two men up. One worked at the place. She’d talked to him a couple of times in the past and always thought he was kind of cute. She’d often wondered how he’d be in bed. The other she’d just met that afternoon. Gary challenged him to a game of chess while Samantha hung out with Ernest, the baristo, which she learned was the term for men. She remembered explaining her love of sex, but making sure he understood there was more to her than just that. She was fiercely protective of her family, she told him, but wasn’t what many would consider “noble.” Her love of sex in all its lusty forms made it difficult for most people to call her that.

  As she looked up at Ernest, while stuffing Carl’s penis deep in her throat, she could see only passion in the young college student’s eyes. His tousled brown hair and dark eyes made him look quite the road scholar – a young traveling writer, perhaps a poet. He’d often wear a black knit scarf around his neck at the café. But now, seeing his swollen manhood and naked body, she wondered if he’d only nodded and said he understood so he could sleep with her. It didn’t really matter anyway. She’d fallen hard for Gary in a very short period of time, and loved his perverted side, just as he loved hers. Ernest’s true intentions didn’t matter. She’d fuck him this afternoon and go back to a server-customer-style relationship with him after.

  “I love your lips,” he said to her. His cock angled closer to her mouth, almost begging to be sucked with the other man’s. Carl seemed to be in heaven. She didn’t think he’d mind if she grabbed both dicks and tried to stuff them in together. Ernest certainly didn’t seem to care. She knew from past experience that some guys, the sort who shied from anything homosexual, went soft the minute their privates touched another guy’s privates. Not the case with these two.

  Gary arranged for Carl to join them. Also a student at the nearby University of California campus, Carl had gone to the coffee shop to do homework. But that was before his invitation to screw the blonde girl with the jiggly tits and round ass with another guy while her boyfriend filmed the whole thing. Who could say no to that?

  Her lips felt stretched to the point they’d split. But she forced both men in as far as her lipstick-smeared mouth would allow. Gary leaned in close behind her to capture the action on his small camcorder. His free hand unclasped her black lace bra. It fell loosely around her white mounds. She shrugged it off the rest of the way, freeing her large tits. Though she focused on the two rods pressed against her teeth, Samantha could feel the men’s eyes admire her heavy breasts and quarter-sized brown nipples. She felt like they hung too low on her tits, didn’t like how they pointed downward, but she also knew guys didn’t care. No one, not even women, complained about her boobs. At least not to her face.

  Gary leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “Nice. Suck both of those cocks, honey.”

  She doubled her efforts, jerking as she worked her mouth. Both men groaned happily. Carl grabbed the end of his shaft, stretching his foreskin down to make the tip larger. Ernest pulled away a second later.

  “Keep sucking Carl, Samantha. I’m going to get behind you,” Ernest said. Gary backed off as Ernest made his way to her rear. His camera caught every second. Samantha lowered herself onto all fours. Carl sat on the edge of her new couch. She spread her legs apart, ready for the pleasure of Ernest’s erection and took Carl back into her mouth.

  Ernest entered her with ease. She’d been slick with desire since the café. For her, his entrance was long overdue. He slapped his stomach against her ass. Gary had the camera aimed at her round cheeks, filming Ernest’s length as it laid into her. His own plump dick was now hanging out of his unzipped pants. He played with himself while watching the baristo fuck her.

  She soon found herself sandwiched between Gary and Ernest, with Carl comfortable in her mouth. The three men agreed not to reach orgasm until they were each able to do so at the same time. Later Samantha sprawled on her back, holding the round asses of two men while Carl got himself off over her face. Gary and Ernest each shot their loads over her breasts and smeared their sperm over her skin until it shone like a layer of glaze over her flesh. She ran her fingers over the juices and slid them into her mouth, tasting each man’s flavor.

  Soon the men got dressed, though there was no hurry. Samantha was nearly ready to ask for a second round when she saw the letter on the mantel. Even across the room she could tell her brother’s sloppy scrawl. He’d finally deigned to write.

  Samantha waited to open the letter until she was on the back deck. Gary walked the two men out. Sammy, as she was called by just about everyone who knew her, rarely closed the door to the deck on the second floor. Silky white drapes hung from the aperture. It was expensive material and Sammy liked to see them dance in the breeze. The salty Marina air blew in constantly, making the townhome cool and crisp inside.

  Her friends called her uptight about a lot of things, with money being high on the list. While she never thought of herself as a caring person, she did worry about her older brother about as often as she worried about how she’d get all the bills paid. And both stressed her out regularly.

  Sammy and Gary had just moved into the place together. They’d only been there a couple of weeks, but she’d already begun to think about how to pay next month’s rent. The little Marina home was one of the only affordable areas in the Monterey Peninsula. Even then it wasn’t cheap.

  The letter was dog-eared and stained with dirt – at least Sammy hoped it was dirt. The return address read, “Alston, somewhere in Arizona.” It was addressed to “Sissy.” Her brother never called her anything else. Neither did Mommy Bennington.

  “What up, Sissy!” the letter read. “I’m hanging out in a shit-hole called Bellemont, Arizona, as I write this to you.”

  Sammy could picture him there, thanks to a photo Alston had sent her some months ago. He’d started balding early, look tanned, and wore a pair of bagg
y jeans most of the time. He’d tuck a white tank top into his pants, just as he had when he was a teenager. It was always tight as hell, clinging to his trunk like a second layer of flesh. In the photo he leaned on his metal crutch, resting his bum right leg. The VW necklace Mommy gave him hung around his neck.

  The picture had been taken on the side of a highway. Pine trees were visible behind him, as were a few stubby hills. A blue duffel bag sat on the side of the road by his feet. As his good hand gripped the crutch, his left was out toward the highway with his thumb sticking out. Sammy doubted anyone had stopped for him.

  “This place is where all the people hiding from the law go. It’s kind of nasty,” the letter continued. “I saw a Hyundai drive by the other day. There were three little buttheads inside and they were all looking out the window at me. They were shoving each other to get a better look. You remember when we were like that? We used to fight all the time!”

  “I remember you used to fight. I would get beat up,” Sammy muttered under breath.

  There was nothing on the back deck on the second floor. Not one piece of furniture occupied the rather spacious area. Sammy read the letters and smoked, something she only did when a letter from Alston arrived. The dresser by the door to the deck was never without a pack of Camel Lights, a stack of letters kept next to them in the top drawer.

  Sometimes they came every other week, sometimes every other month, but they always came. Alston never forgot to check in, even though Sammy often wished he would. She could still feel the bruises on her arm, even though it had been over a decade since he’d given her the last one.

  The Bennington family never had four members; not human ones, anyway. Alston always had a rodent of some kind, usually a rat, while Mommy Bennington liked cats. Sammy usually adopted one of the latter as her own. They’d never known their father. They knew his name, Andy Plain, but that was about it. Sammy and Alston had never even seen a picture of the guy. Just as they had never known what it was like to have a daddy, nor did they know what it was like to have money.

  Mommy Bennington worked for a restaurant as a waitress and made just enough money for the family to rent out a small guest house in Seaside from one of Mommy’s friends who owned the larger house attached to the same property. Sammy and Alston had to share a room for much of their childhood. She liked it when, years later, Alston was put in a group home in Ventura. It gave her breathing room.

  They’d owned a 1977 navy blue Beetle. It had a couple of dents in the back rear fenders and a slab of wood, like a railroad tie, for a rear bumper. It smelled like cat pee inside. Sammy could still smell it, just as she could still hear Alston’s favorite two words.

  * * *

  “Slug bug!” he shouted.

  With that, he turned and planted his fist into her arm. Alston never punched right. He did it the mean way, with his middle finger bent into a point higher than the rest of his fingers. When his fist made contact, that middle finger dug right into her bone.

  Outside the car window, she saw a red Volkswagen shoot by on the opposite side of Highway 68, which led from Salinas to Monterey. They were going the opposite direction, to the Salinas Mall. There to get clothes and makeup for Mommy and inexpensive toys for the kids’ paltry allowance. Sammy was working on her Smurf collection back then. Alston usually got models or action figures. He had a collection of old airplane models and cars, most of which he’d spend a week building and then set on fire in the alley behind the house.

  Sammy babied her arm and prayed her brother didn’t spy any more bugs. She shouted for her brother to stop, but that never helped, not even when Mommy intervened.

  “Quit hitting your sister so hard,” Mommy told him. From their view all they saw was a shock of yellow hair that glowed like sunshine from the front seat. “Hey, there’s one! It’s a white convertible.”

  “Slug bug!”

  * * *

  For all she knew, he still played that game, planting his fist in the arm of whomever he happened to be traveling with at the time. When she read the letter, she found that Alston remained on his quest for the girl named Volksie. Knowing him, and having read his numerous letters, she could see the whole story.

  “I’ve been here a couple of weeks now,” Alston wrote. “Truck’s got a trailer outside of Bellemont, remember him? He was called Brian back in the day. It’s hot in Flagstaff, which is near here, about five miles up the street. Truck doesn’t have AC either, so I’ve been sleeping on the floor with no blankets and hardly any clothes on! He stole a pink bug and hid it under a tarp behind his place. I have a feeling I am on her trail. Volksie has to be around here somewhere!”

  “Volksie,” Sammy said. She was Alston’s dream girl, a dream girl he’d had the privilege to find in real life. It wasn’t something that happened to normal people, Sammy thought, not even to her. Only those who go out and live on the fringes get so lucky.

  * * *

  It was in a place called Loony’s Ballroom that he first met her.

  Alston was in St. Louis with a guy he’d met years ago in Juvenile Hall. Both were in for car theft. Loony’s Ballroom was a bar where a number of locals hung out near downtown St. Louis. The place was a dive, according to Alston, which meant it had to be pretty nasty.

  “So what will we do tonight, Alston?” Grumbine asked. “Should we head down to the arch and see some hot tourists? You got money for some beer?”

  The air felt muggy in the small pub. Dim yellow lights hung from the low ceiling in an irregular pattern. Chairs, most of them cracked and busted, lined the walls. Three guys dozed in the corner. They looked as if they hadn’t changed clothes in over a year. Pool tables, stained with beer and body fluids, ran from the back of the pub and wrapped closely around the old wooden bar. Despite the name, no sign of a ballroom could be found anywhere.

  Alston slurped his coffee and thought about Grumbine’s suggestion. He had no money. His last wad of change had just bought him the coffee. On the bar counter before him sat a dirty envelope, a cheap red pen, and a scrap of paper. Alston had just written his sister’s California address on the envelope and was working on what to write in his letter when his friend interrupted him.

  Grumbine was the kind of guy who obeyed. He never came up with fascinating ideas on his own. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy: strong chin, shoulder-length dirty blond hair, and green eyes, but he wasn’t the sharpest tack in the drawer. Grumbine had a collection of knives that he kept in his backpack. He was never without the backpack; it either sat at his feet or hung around his shoulders. His best suggestion, so far as Alston knew, was to get drunk and scam on women. He was, however, a good hawk. His eyes were sharp, especially when he was sober.

  Grumbine would have to use those eyes tonight, Alston figured, just so they could have some extra cash. As always, his friend would be the lookout while Alston got the car. Where to find a car remained the only problem.

  “Check it out!” Grumbine hollered. He pointed to the front window of Loony’s Ballroom, or at least the part not covered in grime and posters. A pale-yellow Volkswagen, with a perfectly rounded roof, whipped into the parking lot. Its rear tires spit up dust and pebbles as it careened toward the front of the building. The chrome detail appeared flaked and rusty, even from a distance.

  “It’s a bug,” Grumbine continued.

  “A ’73 or ’74 Super Beetle, I think. I’d have to check the trunk in the front to be sure. It’s got the curved front windshield, though,” Alston corrected him. “Tonight may be easier than I thought.”

  The car came to a shuddering halt right outside the ballroom. A girl sprang from the driver’s side door in a flurry of puffy clothes, beads, and jet black hair that spun around her face in an explosion of raven ink. The girl ran into the ballroom as if a pack of slavering hellhounds snapped at the hem of her floral skirt.

  Alston and Grumbine gave each other a blank stare as the woman banged her way through the front door. Her skin was pale, like ivory, and almost hidden behind her dark
hair. Alston could see a set of thick, pouty red lips and dark brown eyes over a thin nose and petite face. She was covered in over-sized clothing, from the long floral skirt, blue with yellow daisies all over it, to a white shirt buttoned at the wrists. The top looked three sizes too big for the small female, maybe four sizes. There were small black shoes with straps on her tiny feet, like little school girl shoes. A number of strangely colored beads hung from her neck, wrists, and even a few could be seen around her slim ankles.

  Alston felt his breath catch in his throat. She had to be the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on. Without saying a word to Grumbine, Alston let his heart beat faster and faster as he watched the girl approach the bar near them. The thumping was a new experience for him, like adrenaline, but different.

  “Do you know where I can find a guy named Chris?” she asked the bartender, mere feet from where Alston sat. The bartender shook his head and continued to clean his glasses. Alston thought she seemed a little frantic. She looked behind her like she expected someone to be there. After a brief pause she turned to Alston and Grumbine.

  “Do you guys know Chris?” she asked them.

  “Afraid not,” Alston replied.

  “He said he would be here,” she said to no one in particular. “He had my cell phone, my purse, everything.”

  “I like your car,” Alston complimented her.

  “It’s a ’73 Super Beetle,” she answered. Then, as she looked out the window, she said, “Crap, crap, crap!”

  Two big guys strolled into the parking lot. They would have looked like pro football players were it not for all the tamales. Their bellies pressed out against their shirts. Both wore Polo shirts and khaki pants. Silver watches reflected the sunlight on their wrists. Alston thought they could be brothers, except for one had a face like mashed potatoes, while the other could have been a movie star. It was the latter guy that carried a purse with him. He clenched it in his meaty hand like a squished burrito.