Just The Three of Them
by Mr. Nobody
"Chrissy pumps, gasoline too"


--This is intended for mature readers. Don't read it if you are offended by
explicit descriptions that are often sexually oriented and violent in nature.
Names are totally coincidental. The actions described herein are not endorsed
and would be absolutely unacceptable in reality. This is adult fiction. --

Ranch Road JJ is a rough stretch that wends across and through desert mesas
and valleys. Nearby is State Route 6, a tar and gravel strip that eventually
reaches civilization some eighty miles south. They cross in Clayton, a ghost
town that ballooned to fifty people during the Halcyon days of strip mining in
the 1920s. An old gas station/garage still survives at the intersection of the
two roads, serving the rare traveler like the university archeologist who
passes through every month or so. Otherwise, Clayton is nothing but crumbling
adobe foundations and wooden shacks collapsed from dry rot, wind-swept vacant
lots littered with empty oil drums and rusted machinery.

He's a drifter. He parks his truck under the station's sagging canopy and
reaches for the oily rag that holds the cold steel of his revolver. It's his
second stop for gas in three weeks and that makes him this summer's most
frequent customer. He readies himself to rob the old man inside. The drifter's
wallet is on empty and his throat's dry. Like Clayton, his better days are
behind him.

The station's a barren place. Over near the wall is a display case. Its glass
front is fogged by decades of grime so that whatever its shelves contain is a
mystery. An antique cash register sits on the counter top. An old soda cooler
makes a whirring sound, like a bearing is seizing. The machine takes no coins,
so you have to pay the proprietor. Little bags of beef jerky are clipped to a
wire stand. They hang there forever.

The old man behind the counter, he's a leathery cuss. The hearing aid behind
his ear doesn't work well, so he's loud. His hands are black from automotive
work. They pencil something on a piece of paper, a note to himself.

The drifter nods at the old man for permission to grab a soda from the cooler.
The old man nods back but doesn't speak. The drifter sits at the lone table
and smokes. He pushes the brim of his hat and watches the outside as wind
whips dust through the open windows of his truck. He waits to make his move.

Things go suddenly awry. The old man shouts to someone in the back. His lungs
are weak and he fails to finish his sentence before hacking phlegm from his
chest, "Khawhunnnnh!" He shouts over his shoulder.

The drifter shows alarm, as he's sure the old man lives alone. His jaw
tightens, so he looks away to avoid suspicion. More than one person present
totally compromises his plan.

A voice booms back and the drifter's heart sinks. It's a woman. What, he's
married? The drifter's eyes roll. Damn! He needs that money, whomever or
whatever.

It's a bitter salvo she vollies to the old man, something much too vile for a
wife. No, this is the sound of youth, of contempt, of disrespect. The words
are modern and the sentences too bold for someone of the old man's generation.
It's street talk, impudence, venom. Who ever she is, her tone is as dark as he
is loud.

The drifter cringes. Now there's the problem of a witness, a possible
challenge, and being seen. Everything seems so perfect. A phenomenally
isolated place with an easy opponent, and the rare guarantee of unfettered
escape into the hinterland, maybe for hours or days -- perfect, until now.

He cares less about the spat, but it's a fierce one. There's a loud clang,
like a tool is thrown. "Then fix your own fuckin' truck!" she booms. Another
clang, and it sounds like she's kicking something across the garage. The old
man just shakes his head and smiles, monologuing to himself about the woman
and his desire to kick ass. The drifter cannot allow this to distract him. His
brow beads with the sweat of anticipation. Any moment now and he'll act, but
first another smoke. Then another.

The old man disappears to the back and a verbal fight ensues. He is heard
coughing mucous in a vain attempt to shout her down, "Khawhunnnnh...
khawhunnnnh!" The drifter gets up and walks to the counter, ready to pull his
gun.

Instead, she steps into the room, noticing him briefly, and brushes past his
stare to the cash register. He just stands there, his eyes, his mind, and his
breathing all jumbled as he tries to comprehend the girl. Yes, she's young,
perhaps just a teenager. She opens the register drawer and closes it, and his
chance for proffer slips away, perhaps forever.

He stares. It's the muscles and that hot military look. They go together.
Fatigues tight in the ass and billowing, pantaloon-like, atop her laced boots.
The tee-shirt struggles against the muscular upper body, the short sleeves
pulling up from the big, full shoulders. The body is so built she's difficult
to reconcile as a teen. Her full chest and that break your heart pug nose. The
thick, strong neck and the beguilingly innocent face. The impressively narrow
waist and that drop-dead gorgeous hair cut boyishly short like an athlete.

She's physical, very much so. "My keys, where are my fuckin' keys?" She's
obviously no angel.

She's not some curvy musclebimbo from Thursday night wrestling. No, with this
get-up, she's more of the warrior type, your local
schoolgirl-cheerleader-gymnast with big muscles, damn big muscles, her teeth
clenching a knife as she climbs down from her jungle lair. Like a hard-on
fantasy babysitter from down the street who becomes the freakishly vicious
guerilla, she rips the enemy's spleen from his body and hands it to him,
smiling as she watches him wobble like rubber and drop dead on the rainforest
floor.

Her eyes never leave the drifter; they are hollow, uncaring eyes, expressing
neither suspicion nor trust.

She shouts back to the old man again, "My keys, where are my FUCKIN' keys, you
asshole?" and gooses it a tad for the drifter's sake. If this gives her
audience pause, then so be it, but nothing in her face registers this
expectation. However, something works and the drifter begins to feel this girl
snake her way into his psyche.

He can't let go with his eyes, even though she doesn't try to earn his gaze.
No, it's the casual, unintentional moves on a boffo body like hers that beckon
his awe. The jut of her jaw as she blows the hair from her brow and the
muscles around the base of her neck hump up like a second set of shoulders.
The press of her pelvis as she leans against the counter and her tee-shirt
pulls up to expose a very hard, tanned tummy. Her fingers through that tangled
hair and her triceps make the drifter skip a beat. They're something you don't
usually see on a woman, or a teenager for that matter.

This is supposed to be a robbery, but his fascination with her undermines all
criminal intent at this stage. He quickly becomes gaga over her and his
attempts at small talk fall flat, enfeebled by her total lack of mutual
interest. He tries hard, acting clever, but her disinterest and poor social
skills provide little at best. Only by bankrupting his social capital and
nearly making a damn fool of himself with the questions does he eke out the
most basic of information about her.

She lives in back in the old trailer. It is her lifelong home. She states this
extraordinary fact without batting an eye, as if she wants him to make a snide
remark about it so she can shut him down. He suspects from the military issue
she's in the service, but she neither confirms nor disconfirms his guesses
about what branch, where stationed, and how long. All he learns is she's one
year out of high school and home on leave. The drifter does his arithmetic and
figures she's maybe nineteen. She smiles when he asks, but says nothing.

"And the old man back there?" He nods to the garage.

"The asshole? My father."

"Your...."

"Need I spell it? The asshole back there is my father!"

"I thought..." and the drifter stops. The old man is more like grandfather.

"He's not as old as he looks. Too many smokes, too much booze. He's sick, all
fucked up."

"Sorry." He apologizes.

"No need." Gaining sympathy is not her desire. The description she offers of
her father is cold and dismissive. Describing him conjures up within her a
deep inconsideration, a daughterly hatred so plainly obvious that her
expression, her manner, they chill the drifter. She resents the old man's
continued existence. His medical problems diminish him, devalue his worth, and
she says as much. He's weak, useless, and being weak and useless is a real
drag for her, an inconvenience. She chuckles over the frailties, saying it's
funny to watch him hack until he turns blue.

The drifter is taken less by her manner than her body. He marvels at how
strong she must be and watches the muscles in her neck tense up as she
belittles her father. Her callous sneer is sensual, the shapely curve of her
full lips implies a smug superiority, her words inviting the obvious contrast
between herself and her inferior father. "The puny fuck." She snickers and
repeats it, liking its sound, "The puny fuck."

The drifter's penis stiffens. She sighs in lament, giving off a sexy bimbo
squeak as she sighs again. It's erotic to watch the well built teen taking in
her deep breaths this way, expanding her chest in a manner that sweeps out her
sides and pushes them against her big arms. She looks to the side wall of the
room and takes another deep one that crowns her chest, pausing, holding it.

She looks back at her guest. The drifter sees at her wrists tighten, wrists
stronger than his own. "Notice how he coughs? The wheezy shit." Her jaw moves
back and forth, fetchingly. "So weak," her smirk fading into some sort of
reverie as she stares out the station's front, her head shaking slowly,
"so.... fuckin'.... weak."

She catches herself and looks back at the drifter. She doesn't speak, but her
lips part to let him see teeth clenched in a naughty, vengeful way. She
doesn't mind if he notices she's aroused.

The drifter clears his throat and breaks the spell. His finger spreads coins
in his cupped hand and he places them one by one on the counter to pay for the
soda. His eyes telegraph his admiration as he nods at her big arms, "Uncle Sam
give you those?"

The flattery works and she's all of a sudden more receptive. The impudent cock
of her head and the shit-grin smile on her face says she's willing to play
with him. He watches her press against the counter and make not so subtle
pulsations with her pelvis. She stands at attention and squares shoulders that
are broader than his own, facing him in a spontaneous test of wills the
outcome of which he cannot know ahead of time. He watches her admire herself
up one arm and down the other, fisting her hand and then relaxing it, fisting
the other and relaxing it in the same manner. It's all very theatrical, but
it's effective as hell. Her lazily hanging jaw makes her irresistably
narcissistic, magnetic.

"They ARE big, aren't they?" with a smile that teases him with the obviousness
of it all, peering at him from the tops of her eyes. Her jaw sways, as if
waiting for him, her finger tracing a vein on her forearm. Her tongue spits up
her fingertip and she wets a large vein on her biceps, a husky, self-indulgent
moan at the shiny trail it makes, "Mmmm.... mmmm."

She bends the arm across her chest, her fist nearing her shoulder, and she
examines how this roughens her skin with worms of vascularity crawling all
about. She fingers yet another big one and chuckles in a husky way, "This
kinda stuff scares the shit out of him." He watches her finish. She gives the
drifter a quick, knowing look. "How about you, you scared?"

She doesn't wait for his answer and drops her arms to her side, shaking them,
limbering up. Her head rotates to loosen her neck, speaking while jogging
lightly in place, "I tell him I gotta be in shape to make our country safe,
safe for shitheads like him," her fists drawing to her tummy in a defensive
mode as if anticipating some imaginary person about to throw a punch at her.
She stops and places her hands on the countertop, leaning into the display
cabinet, staring at him, insolently, "... all shitheads."

This is no contest. His pants are wet from a dripping ejaculation. No
dirt-fogged glass on the display cabinet's front can hide it. Being jerked off
without being touched is something new to him and he crosses his leg while
standing there in hopes she won't see what he cannot control when in her
presence. Things are at her complete discretion now. This teenager enjoys the
power of getting under this man's skin, pulling on his string, and making him
jump.

It's a calculated bet he won't leave the store now. She walks back to the
garage. There are more words with her father, worse this time. Suddenly the
two of them barrel out of the garage, the daughter following the father, past
the drifter and to the front of the station and outside under the canopy. It's
something about her keys again.

The drifter is drawn by something he does not know, but senses something very
lethal in this girl. He knows nothing of her brutal skill, how she turns one
day on the barracks bully and meatgrinds him with her bare hands, not letting
up, not letting up even as the man becomes a bloody pulp on the barracks
floor, several of her weak stomached fellow recruits feeling sick from the
spectacle.

As she stands under the canopy of the gas station and argues with her father,
the old man acts like a fool, just like the barracks bully, and he slaps her
across the face. Her father then returns inside to the cash register in a
triumphal strut. He harrumphs, mumbling about "that bitch." His chest heaves
and another eruptive cough releases, coarsely raping his raw lungs.
"Khawhunnnnh, khawhunnnnh-uh!"

She stays outside with her back obscuring her face. Her shoulders shake. The
drifter cannot tell if it's sorrow or rage, but she runs off into the hot,
midday sun, where to he does not know. The drifter is emboldened by her
absence. He pulls his gun.

"You have money. I want it."

"Oh, son!" The old man cannot believe this, placing a hand flat on the counter
and raising the other in a time-out gesture as he clears his throat. "You are
kidding.... khawhunnnnh.... uhaWWWW!" unable to finish the sentence, "'cause I
ain't givin' you a fuckin' thing!" He can barely speak without stopping to
soothe his vocal chords to avoid another bronchial spasm.

The drifter feels the weight of a decision looming; namely, whether or not
it's him or the old man who wins this. "I've seen the money before, goddam it!
Give it to me or I'll kill you!"

"What, SHOOOOT me?" The old man's tone mocks. He nods, satisfied with himself.
"It ain't gonna work. You're stupid son.... uhaWWWW, uhaWWWW. Now get the
flyin' fuck outta here!"

"I'll kill him."

Her voice freezes the action and startles both men, commanding them to stop,
to watch. She enters from the garage and stands a moment to view their
positions. She's barefoot. It seems preparatory to something. Her fatigues are
rolled a good eight inches above her ankles, and secured. The drifter is drawn
to the development in her lower legs.

Speaking to the drifter, but staring all the while at her father, she speaks.
"He's mine. I'm gonna kill him."

Her look is an arrogant one. It frighten whomever falls in its aim. The
drifter can halt the robbery by walking out right now, but he cannot stop this
teenager, nor can her daddy. The inevitability of what she's about to do and
the helplessness of both men, that's the rush she feels.

Her father backs up a step or two. He knows full well the possibilities. He's
suddenly a silly, placating fool. It's a sign of panic. "Okay, then take his
gun and YOU shoot me.... make you happy?" His desperation turns her on.

He turns to the drifter, his breathing now frantic. "Call her off. You've got
the gun. Come on, call her off! UhaWWWW, khawhunnnnh!"

The stench of his weakness and his smallness sickens her. "Oh, Daaaadeeee."
There's a phony, resigning shrug in her shoulders. Then a pouty smile. A false
sorrow in the slow shaking of her head. It lowers and she peers up. The voice
drops a bar or two, huskily, "Tsk, tsk, I don't need a gun, Daaaadeeee."

The schoolyard shove is a sissified way to make the opponent stumble back,
maybe falling on to his butt. Girls use it, sometimes in a joshing way. Her
shove is no josh. She takes out her daddy with a ferocity few can muster. The
thwacking sound is that of her palms landing to both sides of his chest,
landing with enough explosive force to fracture much of his brittle upper
ribcage, a hollow, rotten body pulverized by a savage concussion.

The drifter doesn't see the shove coming because he's distracted by the
playful smile and the teasing way the daughter bye-byes her daddy at the very
moment she causes contact. The shove is so powerful it physically devastates
the old man, and signifies his doom.

Daddy caroms about, hitting the cabinet and sending both it and the cash
register to the floor in a shower of glass shards. Daddy then slams into the
corner, where he crashes to his tailbone. He shrieks. He shrieks pain and
horror. His legs kick in a panic way to scoot himself as fast as he can away
from her, but he's back against the corner. His chest stings and the air he
needs to scream is like acid in his lungs. He gasps, waving his hands wildy to
ward her off, blinking, turning his head away from her.

"Yeah, oh yeahhhh!" laughing triumphantly, walking directly to her toy daddy's
prone body and "Bye-bye"-ing him again as her calloused bare foot slams into
the center of her toy daddy's exposed crotch. It lands with the thud of a
sledge hammer striking the side of a bucket full of wet plaster. It is as if
she drives her heel clear through his mid-section.

It's a stomp designed to cleave, to tear connective tendons from their
seatings. "FUCK!!!" and with sheer destructive power, she shatters his pubis,
his ramus, and all of the bridging bones in the pelvis region, all of them.
The determination on her face is evidence that the repeated shoves of her foot
are crushing his pelvis and crippling the man. The sight is graphic, even if
hidden from view by his moist pants. His insides fill quickly with blood.
"Fuckin' DAAAADEEEE.... you shit!" and her jaw tightens, and her teeth grit,
and she sneers her upper lip, and she grunts sexily with a steely martial arts
exhale as she sinks her heel into the twitching mush, twisting her heel left,
then right, then left again.

She turns and sees the drifter wincing, lifting her foot without aiming and
cannons her daddy yet again. The impact jerks her head and flings her sexy
hair. "Mmmmph.... mmmph!" and she exhales in a sensually satisfying way
through her flared nostrils.

"AaaaieeeeEEEE!" Daddy reels, rolls, and bucks convulsively, his
blood-curdling cry disintegrating into a hideous cough that cannot feed fast
enough on air. "Kuhaaaawwwwh.... kuh-kuh-kuh!"

Her heel lands again, now to the right of the first hit, a stomp that contains
more than the necessary concussive force to knock apart the cup-like
depression ball and socket joint of his hip. The toothy-smiled vixen screeches
in delight. She looks about, rapidly nodding theatrically as if acknowledging
a cheering hoard. A cock 'o the walk, she is. Heartless, an animalistic. It's
violence of the highest order, and its eroticism overwhelms the drifter.

Daddy literally shrinks, his body contracting in repercussion around her foot.
He's reduced to a nauseating, wiggling mess. The drifter watches the man
unleash a nauseatingly anguished howl as the sadistic teen places the ball of
her foot on his crotch and kneads him, pushing with her muscular leg and
rocking her weight on him, pressing fully into his hemorrhaging bladder. She
keeps her daddy pinned this way, her head swaying in arousal as she watches
his face react to the thrusts of her foot.

The old man's scream is robust for someone weak, robust enough to suggest a
body mustering one last ounce of energy against this attack. But it's an
anguished scream that fades quickly as his lungs fail. The drifter turns away
to avoid watching him suffer more, but not the daughter. She giggles with
impunity. Her body shakes from her giggles, an earthy, greedy impudency that
wants more of this. Now it's a chesty laugh.

Her daddy extends his hand, reaching to touch her, mouthing a silent plea of
mercy, his eyes squinting through tears and sweat. She opens her mouth in a
childish manner, "Awwww, we hurt?" and her face tenses as she lifts her heel
and drives it into his chest, crushing his sternum, the muscular leg
piledriving the iron heel with a thrust that slams the little body deep into
the corner. The mask of overwhelming anguish distorts the old man's facial
features and cuts cold any chance for mercy. She watches the thick drool grow
pink and bubble from his mouth, her foot pressing on the soft, contused
sternum.

The girl's eyes dart to the drifter and signal to him how satisfying this is.
Her eyes flame wild and her chest muscles heave like loaves of concrete, but
not from exertion. This is a cakewalk. Pummeling a man, or woman, say breaking
some fool's back in a lonely alley some evening -- she finds it easy, and fun.
She gets off on a dime knowing that, yes, she's that good and that strong that
she can break a human and enjoy it. With her it's more the basic urge to make
the person suffer, to be protracted and brutal about it, to be terribly unfair
and uncaring with them, like she is with her daddy right now as she steps into
him to collapse his chest.

"You like this?" looking at the drifter, "like watching me break him?" The
drifter nods, but is preoccupied. The hand in his pants, with its rapid
movements and the tensed look of his jaw, the rat-a-tat breathing and the
half-lidded eyes of a man incapable of stopping himself -- the drifter's head
and body jerk tightly as he cringes at the onset of a massive ejaculation.

She watches approvingly and bites down on her lower lip, slowly turning her
back to him and facing the wall that frames her daddy's body. "You watch me,"
she commands, "and cum when I say."

She falls forward and plants her hands on the wall above her head, assuming a
frisking stance. Audaciously, she steps onto her daddy's chest. One leg bends
at the ankle and knee while the other cocks backwards, her shapely hips
akimbo. Then she reverses her legs and her hips rock in the other direction.
She does this slowly and then faster and faster, stair-stepping on her daddy's
chest, dazzling the drifter with her playful abuse.

She looks back at him and coyly nuzzles her mouth and nose against the cotton
that stretches across her big deltoid, her voice muffled as her doe eyes flare
sternly, "Uh-uh, not yet. Hold it for me." Her command tests his restraint.

Her feet trample her daddy, but it's the phenomenally erotic jut of her ass
and the strutting motion of her hips that drive the drifter insane. The butt
jacks out enough to accommodate a laptop computer and a cup of java, a display
of exaggerated physical flexibility he's never seen. She rocks her butt back
and forth for him and squeaks at him, "Eee-eee-eee," her eyes batting
flirtatiously, her body cranking it up a tad.

"Cough for me, fucker, cough!" shouting cruelly at her daddy as her foot clops
his chest like a Lippizaner. The old man's head lifts and his hand weakly
grabs her left foot on his chest. As if blessed with eyes on the side of her
head, she slams his face back down without turning to look, the ball of her
foot jamming his skull against the floor and drawing incoherent whimpers from
a man confused and petrified. Her father draws cold comfort from the fact this
pales to having his pelvis shattered, but he sobs uncontrollably like a sad
dog struck by a speeding truck and then thrown to the side of the road to be
slowly abused to death.

She lifts her face enough so the drifter can see how she bites her sleeve and
tugs it with her teeth, the moves of a hot teenage tigress. She growls at him
and releases her sleeve, opening her mouth fully and tumbling her head back to
stare at the ceiling, laughing like Bathsheba as she directs her left hand to
her zipper. Her butt moves and her legs spread to accommodate. Her hand sinks
under her panties and the drifter hears the teen hiss approvingly at the feel
of her masturbation.

The fingerfuck fuels a laugh that grows chestier and chestier into something
wild and wanton, presaging a massive orgasm. The bare feet stop their clawing
routine on her daddy's chest and her legs freeze in position. Her hips then
begin to move slowly in a different way. It's a bump and grind that makes
mincemeat of whatever Alexander the Great concocts when he tells his captive
Persian seductress that she can save her own skin by dancing nastily for his
horny hoplites. Yes, this gas station muscle warrior is that good, if not
better. Her hips sway and swing, "Ooooh, ooooh, ooooh," and her thick lips
emit the coos of a shiveringly wanton teen.

It's a series of wildly gyrating pelvis bucks, forward and backwards, in and
out, as if a phantom dildo reaches from the wall and rams itself into her
vagina. She stops rigid when she mounts it and then rockets her butt back,
pulling off the priapus, and then, ramming forward again wildly, riding the
invisible phallus. She does this with a steady, mechanical rhythm. Her head
lifts from her ceiling gaze and her smile is of someone craven, unregenerate,
her athletic neck and shoulders sweaty and taut, her body throbbing
feverishly, her finger sloshing inside her panties.

This is well beyond normal masturbation and seduction. She reaches a vibrating
orgasm and her face cringes and her pug nose wrinkles deliciously. But it is
not a celebration of sexual release. It is prelude to frightening brutality
the likes of which the drifter cannot imagine.

She steps off Daddy and stands over him, her feet nuzzling near his armpits.
She looks down. He holds her pant leg with his hand, but she ignores it. She
bends down and grabs his head with both hands. Then she straightens herself
and violently yanks, pulling him through her legs while lifting him by the
head, slamming him back down into a sitting position. She locks onto him by
turning her feet under his butt. Then she grabs his right and left collarbone.

Her relationship with her daddy is all about her hands, defined by her hands.
All at once she's sixteen years of age again and sitting on a stool in the
garage. She watches her daddy work on a car, underneath the hood. She hands
him tools like a surgical nurse, anticipating his needs correctly. He loosens
six bolts on a water pump and walks to his workbench to examine its
replacement. He returns and grips the first bolt and turns it. Then, the
second and third bolts. The fourth is a tough one, as bolts often are after a
deceivingly easy start, but he torques down and works it free with his
fingers. The last two move easily but then bind up. He needs his wrench and
returns to his toolbox to find it.

She reaches down into the engine compartment and removes the two bolts with
her hand. Her prehensile strength is very real. It is impressive and it is
greater than his. But, she miscalculates terribly and starts to tease her
daddy with her feat. She waves the bolts with her greasy hand and laughs at
him. She's almost flirtatious with Daddy. He walks up and slaps her as hard as
he can.

Hers is a life of being slapped, but this is one of the last. At school she
becomes serious with physical conditioning. By graduation time, a year later,
she is much bigger and easily intimidates her daddy whenever the urge hits.
She does nothing to him physically, but she lets him watch how strong she is
in doing everyday things, like loosening bolts with her grip. At school her
work-outs are fantasies about hurting him, slapping him, breaking him.

His words remain poisonous, but he does not hit her again, not until the night
before she leaves for the military. She takes her daddy's guilty hand by the
wrist and twists it sharply, telling him never to hit her again. She watches
him drop to his knees in pain. He tells her to stop, but she twists harder and
makes him scream.

That night in bed she masturbates while rethinking this. Hearing her daddy
begging her to stop drives her to a sexual frenzy and she gets up and goes to
his room where he sleeps. She stops short and leaves him be. The next day she
waits out front for a special van to take her to the military induction
office. Her daddy stands at the trailer and shouts ugly words at her, rubbing
his wrist.

After boot camp she visits home for two days while in transit. Her daddy
cannot believe how she is so different. At five-seven she is nearly his
height. Her hair is short for the first time and she is tan. She is very
muscular. She sews a button that night and studies the strength in her hands.
She gets up from her chair and hurts him, just for fun. One hand holds his
shoulder taut as the other pushes his head sideways, her upper lip curling as
she watches his neck bend. That she can can break him right now arouses her,
but she releases

him when his eyes completely fill with tears. His injury is painful, but not
serious.

Tree surgeons call it a puncher, a combination awl and pincer that penetrates
hard soil and grasps the root. It severs perimeter root systems to make for
easy extraction of large trees. Her fingers are punchers. They eviscerate the
shoulder bones and tendons that support her daddy's skinny arms. The drifter
watches this, disbelieving.

She stares at the wall with her back to the drifter. Her hands grip the
clavicle, her shoulders muscling up as they lung her arms down to snap the
f-shaped bones on both sides of her daddy's neck. It is swift and it is
extraordinary to watch. It is beyond her prey's ability to withstand.

The scream is sharp, and then becomes a honking cough. His feet spasm. The
brawny undulation of her neck and shoulder muscles as she gouges his atrophied
shoulders reflects a grab and twist technique whereby she uses four fingers to
stabilize a bone as the thumb pushes oppositely. She repeats this on the left
side of his neck, her face firing off an disrespectful tweak at her daddy, her
lips pursed tightly, and her nostrils growing as she exhales assuredly,
"Mmmmph, mmmmph."

Her powerful wrists wrench the broken bones. Daddy's too far gone to
understand action and reaction, torque and twist, grip and pull. His brain
cannot fathom his pain's source or comprehend the outlandish distortion she
creates in his shoulder. The torsion of tendons hideously cranes his neck and
deforms him so badly something suddenly gives, jolting him wildly as a moist
popping sound says she's tearing him up now. She does the other shoulder in
the same manner, working her wrist until he pops again and feels soft.

She drops to her knees, spreading her legs and sinking until her butt sits on
him like a lap dancer's. She's too low, so she lifts up and moves her feet to
just under her butt for elevation. She pulls him to her front and presses the
interiors of her thighs against his sides to lock him tightly. Her hands press
his face into her chest, between her breasts.

Her forward stare is unflinching and clinical. Her hands scope the contour of
his skull as her fingers run through his greasy, dirty hair. She is
expressionless. Her thumb plays with his right eye, but backs off.

He is delirious. She shoves his nose sideways with her thumb until he
vibrates. She smiles knowing he can feel pain.

The drifter moves closer to watch, but she ignores him. Her daddy's like a
bowling ball cradled under her chin. One hand roams the skull, her fingers
reaching across the back of his head, her nails digging into his skin for
grip. Her other hand moves about, her fingertips plowing loose skin on his
cheek.

She cuddles the head, whispering some transparent palliative to a man who
hears nothing. His head looks small. Her forearms, biceps, shoulders, and neck
form a unity of thick, ominous brawn that dwarfs him, swallows him. She tilts
her head and rubs her cheek on his hair with mock affection.

She plants her chin on the top of his scalp, tucking him tightly. Her lips
purse, her eyes burn through the wall, and her face vibrates as her right palm
finds and presses his hearing aid into his skull. It's an old fashioned
behind-the-ear type, sitting atop his auricle and anchored in place with a
curved wired that is coated with clear plastic now yellow from years of use.
It is an obtrusive device, the size of a pack of gum.

Her right elbow lifts as her arm pushes on her palm. She tightns her jaw and
her neck births a muscular look, her head now shaking with effort. The jaw
opens slowly and rocks back and forth. She exhales a husky grunt and her teeth
clench again. "Unnnngh!" and she grunts loudly now as she pushes her palm. Her
fingers on the pushing hand spread wide and she pivots her palm to grind the
hearing aid into the head. The drifter gasps and gazes up and away at the
wall, his eyes fluttering as if he's about to faint, his hand stroking his
penis himself with abandon.

The palm pulls away from the head as the muscular arm loads and cocks. The
left hand regrips. "THWACK!" The palm that can drive itself through a paving
brick on a braggard's wager now drives the hearing aid into the skull,
breaching the temporal plate. "UNNNNGH! HOLY FUCK!!!!" as her hit nearly
launches the head from her other hand. "Shit, YESSSS! You.... fuckin'....
eggshell!" and she gets nasty, shoving the hearing aid, pressing the spongy
depression in his head, her pelvis rubbing his front quickly, her pussy
running hot and wet at the sensation, humping him harder and harder and harder
as her teeth grit and her brow furrows in uncontained, orgasmic pleasure, "Oh,
fuck.... fuck.... FUCK, YESSSS!"

The drifter is breathless watching the teenager maul him, her hard trapezius
muscles heaping, her balled shoulders thrusting out of her tight sleeves; her
forearms and wrists flexing like a stonemason's. The man's ear canal floods
with bright blood and cranial fluid ruptures about inside the skull. Like a
marionette whose wires catch in a machine's gearing, the man's body jerks
violently for a brief moment before falling still just as quickly.

"That make you cum? Huh? Lots?" She puckers at him, her smile pure caprice,
pure evil.

She holds the head with both hands away from her chest, suddenly releasing it
with dramatic flare as if it is boiling hot. The body wobbles like gelatin,
the head falling back and striking the floor with force. She reaches down and
wipes her bloody right hand on his shirt and then extends both of her arms out
to her side, jacknifing her powerful legs, springing to her feet like a
seasoned acrobat.

She walks to the back. Water runs. In a moment, she returns with a towel in
her hand, wiping her arms, running the towel under her collar and down her
back, watching him watching her arm move the towel. She says nothing. She has
her boots back on, loose and untied, their tongues flopping as she walks.

She pulls a metal sleeve from the cash register drawer. The money is not much,
less than the drifter hopes. She has a job. He doesn't. She doesn't want it.
He does. There is no law around here. People do not ask questions. The desert
swallows things, and bodies.

She lets her body press up against his, but the drifter tenses up and grows
immediately uncomfortable. He looks away to avoid her face. Her finger slides
into his shirt opening, sliding up and down, bumping two of his buttons. Her
other hand cups his crotch and feels how wet he is.

"I'm really not in the mood." He says this not looking at her.

Her hand does wonders. She stares at him, her grin growing, as he tries to
remain independent of her. His face slowly turns. Her hand is so strong. His
breathing shortens, quickens. She works him with confidence.

She cocks her head seductively, her feint grin waiting for him. "And now?"
She's her best after a work-out, after a fight. That's when she's hot and her
body is oily. That's when she smells. Her pussy is slippery.

She wants to use the table, to make it creak, to pull her dirty tee-shirt off
and let him stare at her. To be on top of him, to flex and make him describe
it. To ride him, to fuck hard, to stare at Daddy in the corner and fuck even
harder.