A deep crimson sunset hangs low over the bare, gnarled trees when I pull up to the house at 7:00, exactly on time. I see strobe lights through a broken window. The pink painted tire swing twisting gently in the breeze is a strange contrast to the black house. They’re making me wait. While I watch the windows, I’m trying to imagine what poor, lucky son of a bitch they’ll likely coerce into painting it some shade of pink for them.
7:15, hanging a cigarette out the window as it burns dangerously close to my fingertips and flipping through radio stations, I see the strobe light shut off. A minute later, Violet, Scarlet, and Magenta come down the steps in a jerky, gliding V formation, like a flipbook flock of seagulls, elegant ostriches in 5″ stiletto heels. I know these aren’t their real names, the same way I know they’ll demand a disproportionate exchange for that information. Slave for a week, a date in drag, something like that. But I’m not into that shit. I’m just here to take them to the party.
Dr. Hawthorne adores them, buys them those physics-defying shoes and then imagines the heels caught under the gas pedal, speeding 95 MPH over a cliff, these flamingos, his little peacocks, clawing their one and a half inches of painted plastic talons off against the windows in a vain attempt to escape as they plunge to their deaths. He tells me this over a patient’s chart, reviewing the pathology report as I’m documenting the character of the colostomy drainage. “Unbelievably hot,” he says. “They’re angels. You’ll love them,” he promises. “Keep your eyes on the road and you’ll be fine. Don’t answer any personal questions,” he warns. “They can smell fear, so act cool.” Right. “Just get them there safe and sound and I’ll give you $100 for it.”
$100. It’ll only cost $5 in gasoline. No doubt he’s trying to impress them, flashing a Franklin for a 20-minute drive. One of them — Magenta, I’m guessing, from the color of her mohawk — appears at my window, plucks the cig from my fingers with pink claws, sucks in smoke and stalks around to the passenger side where she swings the door open and slides into the seat beside me, exhaling in my direction. Before I realize what she’s doing, she’s moving to stab it out in my lap. I tense reflexively, knees jerking upward, yelping “What the Hell!” and then the back of her hand is pressed against my crotch, the cigarette grinding out against her palm. She smirks as if she’s just performed a magic trick beyond the audience’s comprehension and runs her hand through my hair, ashes and talons and all. “Nice to meet you, too,” I mutter, exhaling slowly, and she laughs, leaves her bright lipstick on my cheek.
Violet bounces into the backseat and scarlet follows, climbing over her to settle into her seat behind me, extending a toned leg in a controlled, calculated manner before crossing it high over the other knee. My eyes meet hers in the rearview mirror. A real-life Jessica Rabbit, her deep red hair, slick and straight, falls over one eye. She slides her tongue between dark, full lips, arms crossed beneath her breasts, elevating and emphasizing her cleavage. Her dress, long and sleeveless, is slit up the side, revealing a firm white thigh. I swallow hard and force my eyes forward, thinking about catheters and STDs.
Violet begins to hum. She’s the only one with hair of a natural color, blonde curls to her shoulders, though her transparent shirt and skin-tight pants reflect the same color obsession. She sings softly under her breath as I pull out onto the street and get in the turn lane for the highway. A Garbage song. “I came to cut you up. I came to knock you down. I came around to tear your little world apart.”
Focusing on the radio, I merge onto the highway, accelerating to 60. It’s quiet for a minute, just the sound of the road beneath the tires and the background noise of the radio until Violet’s high voice, almost a little girl’s, pipes up from the back. “Are you a doctor, too?” I remember what Dr. H said and keep my mouth shut, but she persists. “Are you, Mister? Are you a doctor?”
What can it hurt? It’s a simple question. “I’m a nurse,” I answer.
“A nurse!” Scarlet laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder and narrowing her eyes in contempt. “Are you gay?” She leans forward, displaying more cleavage. Violet giggles. Already regretting having fallen for the bait, I keep quiet this time, turn the radio up a notch.
“What’s that, boy?” Magenta demands, cupping a hand around her ear and leaning in. Then she leans down, head almost in my lap, and asks again, “What?” She straightens up and says over her shoulder, “Well, the cock will talk, even if the boy won’t.” My eyes jump in her direction but I quickly shift them back to the road, recalling the doctor’s warning. I feel a hand in my lap, fingers at the button and zipper of my jeans, and my breath catches in the back of my throat as her claws dip into my boxers, closing gently around my cock. I’m thinking eye injuries and hemorrhoids.
She slides cool fingers around the lengthening shaft, running the pad of her thumb over the head. I start to sweat. “Jesus,” I whisper, and she laughs again. Scarlet and Violet are leaning in to watch the show as Magenta unbuckles the seatbelt and gets up on her knees on the seat, bending forward to bring her lips so close to my cock I can feel her hot breath warming it. Thinking perianal abscesses. Thinking of vaginal birth. Oh Gd, it’s not working.
“Let’s play a game,” she says. “The faster you go, the faster I give it.” Painfully hard now, I’m finding it impossible to keep my eyes on the road as she lowers her mouth over my cock, fitting it like a glove. A strangled moan fights its way out of my throat, against my will. DAMN, but she’s good at what she does and she knows it. Violet calls out my speed from the back — 65 — and I feel my foot heavy on the pedal, unable to stop it as her lips come within an inch of the base.
My lips move but no sound escapes. I clear my throat and try again. “Please…” Not even the thought of circumcision without anesthesia can save me now.
Violet calls out 70 and Magenta pulls back enough to ask, “What’s that? Faster?” before picking up the pace. Her tongue, her cheeks, her lips, her hands, they’re all in on it and she executes it like a pro, introducing me to sensations I never knew were physically possible. I hear 75, then 80. Legs trembling, I open my eyes to see the back of a car rapidly approaching. Holy shit. I slam my foot on the breaks, swerve sharply to the left. Violet tumbles into Scarlet. Horns shout from the left and the right. My cock is acquainted with Magenta’s teeth and the cursing from the car behind me pales next to what breaks from my lips.
Shaking, my blood pounding in my ears, I swerve into the right lane, moving toward the nearest exit, but Magenta takes the wheel and guides it back into the middle lane of traffic. She places a hand under my knee, easing my foot up from the pedal. We slow back to 60. “New rule,” she says, and her voice is low, steady. “Stay under 65 and I’ll suck you off.”
“What the Hell is wrong with you?” My voice sounds strange, distant and weak to my own ears. She ignores me, though I can’t say I expected an answer. Violet announces my speed as 60 and I feel an arm around my ribs, a hand on my chest, Scarlet’s, her palm over my pounding heart. Those claws reaching up under the shirt, scratching over my chest just below the threshold of pain. Warm lips slide back over my cock. This is torture… amazing, incredible torture.
“Sixty-four,” Violet warns, and then her mouth is on my neck. A violent shudder wracks my shoulders, jolts of electricity slamming through my spine. I wrench my foot off the pedal, stiffening my ankle to keep it raised while my hips writhe in the seat. This is fucking insane.
I can hardly breathe. Magenta’s lips touch the base of my cock. Her throat fights valiantly with the head and I’m nearly in tears with the effort of holding off the climax, trying not to ram the car in front of me. Scarlet drags her nails over my chest and through my hair, Violet setting my ears and neck on fire. The thought is no longer possible. All I can do is pray.
My prayers are answered. I see the exit ahead of me. Magenta’s throat contracts around my cock once more and every muscle in my body locks up, eyes shut tight and I’m not sure if I’m coming or dying, foot slamming down involuntarily, pushing the pedal into the floor. We skid to a violent stop at the light. Slowly, I open my eyes and see that we’re still alive.
Chest heaving, eyes streaming, mind numb, I miss the light before I realize that green means go and the parade of angry cars behind us are honking at _me_. Magenta leans back in her seat, flips down the mirror and reapplies her lipstick with surreal nonchalance. Violet slips her fingers into her ringlets, checking that each is still in place. Scarlet adjusts her cleavage, looking out the side window. The radio continues to play.
We drive another few blocks before I realize that my pants are to my knees, cock hanging out of my boxers and covered in lipstick. My face is wet with tears, my neck surely marked. I pull my pants up, boxers cold and wet, cringing at the thought of having to rip them off when I get home. Rubbing the lipstick off my neck with my palm, I exit the car on unsteady feet. The girls leave their doors wide open, somehow graceful on those ridiculous heels, and are ringing the doorbell already by the time I’ve shut the car doors. When I reach the front door, Dr. Hawthorne is there to greet me with the money and a strangely concerned expression on his face. “You look terrible,” he says. “The girls tell me you’re having urinary problems. Come on in, I’ll take a look.” And blushing pinker than the lipstick with which Magenta has painted my cock, I shake my head in horror, scrambling for an excuse…
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