Steamy Screams: Anthology of Erotic Horror

DIRTY LITTLE FISH STORY Tonia Brown

Buster hated fishing. He’d hated it his whole life, but, like clockwork, every Friday night, he dragged his fat ass down to the lake to put the boat in the water and drop a line. It was his old man who did it to him, ingrained this idea that real men fished. Well, actually the old fart used to say that real men did three things: fought, fucked and fished. Buster hadn’t been in a fistfight since Dale Clemet broke his jaw five years ago. He also hadn’t been within licking distance of a pussy since that same night, so he reckoned there was only one thing left for him to do to prove his worth as a real man.

Fish.

Which he hated.

At least it was a peaceful hobby. Nice quiet lake. Quiet boat. Quiet line. Quiet fish. Fish didn’t nag you. They didn’t boss you about either. When fishing, there was no one to talk you into spending your whole paycheck for a little slip of a nightie that she wasn’t gonna have on for more than five minutes anyway, with the assurance that she wouldn’t fuck you again until you got it for her. No one to invite you over for the whole weekend while her husband was supposed to be out of town, then cry rape when said husband came home a day too early and caught you banging the wife’s gong. Yeah, fishing was a swell enough hobby. Better to chase a fish than chase that stupid old cunt. There was very little difference in the smell, and if you happened to put your dick in a fish, you didn’t end up with your jaw broken.

Be that as it may, Buster still hated fishing.

He supposed he hated it for the same reason he did it in the first place: ‘cause his old man loved it so damned much. Buster didn’t hate his dad. No, it was more like the other way around. On a normal day, which is to say just about every day, Dad never had more than four words to say to Buster, and those went something like, ‘hand me another worm’ or cricket or chicken liver or whatever bait they were working with that day. Buster didn’t want to hate his dad—no young man really does—so he spent his youth cultivating a loathing disgust for even the very thought of fishing instead. Then Dad died, and all Buster had left was his hatred for fishing and the family boat. He soon learned that old folks passed on old adages because there was so much old sense in them.

In this case, old habits were very hard to break.

For a time, it was just him, the boat and the usual lonely Friday night fishing fest. And lonely it was. Lake Jackson was enormous, so big you couldn’t see one side from the other. A guy could set out in his craft and lose sight of the shore before he knew what had happened, which was just what he liked about this body of water. Buster supposed he could have stuck to the popular spots, made fishermen friends and spent those Fridays swapping tales of conquests and not being so lonely. But he had gotten to where he liked other folks even less than he liked to fish. Well, there was that and the fact that he didn’t want to share his secret spots with other folks.

Specifically, other men.

The truth of the matter was simple. Buster’s dad didn’t just teach the young lad the merits of good fishing while spending night after night on the waters of good old Lake Jackson. He also taught the kid how to work a pair of binoculars, and which kinds of lake folks didn’t think to pull the shades at night. It was a sloppy education in the female body and the deeds of sexual congress. Now, as a man, Buster certainly didn’t need to stoop to the act of peeping when he had the Internet full of porn back home, however, once on the lake, he found again that old habits were indeed very hard to break. With a line in the water and a hand down his shorts, Buster kept his habits hard.

Until, one evening, his habits changed.

The better part of this particular evening was spent watching a busty forty-something MILF get fucked up the ass with a strap-on by a woman so identical that the pair could have passed for twins. The sight of this sin drove Buster to almost tear a hole in his pants in an effort to get to his pecker. He came twice at the display, less than an hour apart, which was a record for him. Then, the bitch ruined it by going ass to mouth on her sister, shoving the strap-on down the girl’s throat without so much as a swipe at the thing with a tissue. That put Buster off his nut for what he thought would be the rest of the night.

So back to fishing it was, which led him to a little island on the north end of the lake. Catfish loved to stick to the craggy areas of the coves, so he trolled his line slow, dragging it along the bottom, wiggling his worm and waiting for those damnable bottom-feeders to pick up on his bait. He was so focused on the hated act of fishing that he almost didn’t see the shimmer of a woman’s pale skin shining in the moonlight.

Buster did a double take at the sight of so much exposed flesh in the distance. Was it? Couldn’t be! He grabbed his knocks and brought the small island into focus. It was a woman all right, and not a stitch of clothes on. The island itself was just a few feet across, just enough for the woman to stretch across with a little room to spare. The chick was quite a young thing, couldn’t have been more than twenty, if that old. She had a knockout figure, too. Big tits, flat tummy, wide hips. Her neatly trimmed bush said she was a natural blonde too, or at least she took the time to make the carpets match the drapes. Little Buster strained against his trousers as Big Buster leered at the display. Who was she? And what in the hell was a woman as beautiful as that doing buck-ass naked on the rocky shore of some random isle in the middle of a lake?

Buster knew better than to ask such things aloud, because what the Lord giveth and all that garbage. He just set to peeping and diddling and doing his best not to make a sound, lest he frighten the poor girl away. But she wasn’t going anywhere. Didn’t move much either. She just lay real still, on her back, with her legs spread wide and those perfect breasts pointed heavenward, which was just where Little Buster was headed.

After about an hour, both his arms got tired, even with switching out his stroking hand, and it was then he got a bit worried about the woman. She wiggled once or twice, shifting her weight about like she was trying to get comfortable, but she never moved more than that. Buster, who was now thinking with the big head instead of the little one, eyed the landscape a bit, but couldn’t make out a boat, or raft, or her clothes for that matter. He started to think maybe, just maybe, something untoward had befallen the pretty young thing. Perhaps someone had brought her out here earlier in the night, had his way with her, then left her stranded. There was a good chance that she might not be lying out, all naked and pretty, just for him stare at and jack off. There was a good chance that she might be in genuine trouble.

His dead dad could have lit a fire under Buster’s ass and he wouldn’t have moved much quicker. Buster hightailed it from the scene as fast as his oars could carry him, lest he be associated with the possible crime. The fishing line was still in the water when he started rowing for the southern shore, but he let his best rod drop into the murky depths rather than hang around to cut the thing free. Buster arrived back at the dock in record time and was huffing and chuffing as he dragged the little boat back onto the trailer. His heart was still jack-hammering when he fired up the truck and sped away. He didn’t really calm down, didn’t really draw a deep clean breath until he was back at his farm, miles away from the lake. That night he swore off both the despicable act of fishing and the peeping that went with it.

His resolution lasted a week. Buster checked the papers every day, just to make sure that no one saw him leave, and in the hope of finding out who the hell the poor girl was. There was nothing, not a peep in the papers about him or the woman. Maybe she was just out… what was it Carla used to call it? Moonbathing. That was it. Carla liked to moonbathe. Buster always thought it was weird, but Carla wasn’t his wife, so what did he care? Carla was Dale’s problem, but the woman on the lake was Buster’s dream. He decided it was safe enough to chase that dream all the way back to the lake.

Three weeks came and went with Buster spending every free night at the lake. And there she would be, spread out across the rocky ground, as if she were waiting for nothing more than him to come and spend his seed at the sight of her. More than one night, he had trouble finding the woman, as well as the island. He supposed he must have gotten turned around; it was easy to do on such a big lake. He would just row and row until either he got tired of rowing or she all at once appeared, island and all, like a ship parting the fog. Buster always left his lady fair just before sunrise, worried that the sunlight would give away his shameful deed.

Over this time, he developed an idea of who she was. It was obvious when one thought about it for more than a few moments. She must have been the daughter of one of the lake folks. The debutante of some rich family who snuck out each night, stripped on her private shore and swam all the way out to the island, where she would rest for the night, drying out before her swim home again. Sure. That explained it all. The lack of boat. The lack of clothes. Her incredible figure. Sure. That was a reasonable explanation. Wasn’t it?

Buster also fished between peeping sessions. He refused to go to the lake with the sole purpose of leering at some naked chick, so he always packed his usual fishing fare. Sometimes he fished before he sought her, sometimes after. Sometimes he would jerk off, fish a bit, then come back for another turn. He even made a game of it, refusing himself the sight of her body or the pleasure of an orgasm until he caught a decent-sized bass, or a catfish, or a perch. His freezer was full before the first week was out. Which was kind of a shame, because not only did he hate to fish for fish, but he hated to eat them, too.

At the end of three weeks, on another lonely Friday night, Buster decided he was tired of just watching. The woman was everything he had ever wanted in a mate. Sure, there were other beautiful women in the world, but none as fine as his mysterious moonbathing beauty. Sure, he didn’t know much about her personality, but he didn’t really want to know anyway. Personality equaled nagging, and he didn’t want a nag. He wanted a shag. Now. Tonight. It was time to call off his pussy ban. Five years of pulling his pud by his one-some had finally gotten old.

Buster found the island early that evening, and the mystery woman was there as always, the steady object of his oversexed desires. At first he panicked, rowing his little boat to his usual hidey hole where he could hyperventilate in peace. But as he looked to her resting in the distance, the need to meet her rose up in him like the swelling tide. He longed for her, much more than just to touch or taste or even sink himself deep inside of her. He just wanted to be near her. He craved her proximity. He was drawn to her, the moth of his desire pulled to the glow of her skin, the sheen of her sex, the sight of her perfect body shining like a white flame under the light of the full moon.

Plus, he was kind of hoping, if everything worked out, he would get to fuck her.

God, did he ever want to fuck her!

Buster closed his eyes as he whispered his well-practiced lines again. “Ahoy there. I saw you while I was fishing and wondered if you needed any help. Would you like a ride back to the shore?”

Would it work? Probably not, but Buster would never forgive himself if he didn’t at least try. He looked to her again, or rather her pert tits and velvet puss, then swallowed hard as he put his back to his dream and rowed into the moonlight toward her shore.

The oars cut the water with expert hush. Buster had spent so long trying not to alert her to his presence that he almost forgot to make noise on purpose. As he drew his vessel closer to her, it dawned on him that he was, in all essence, sneaking up on her. A few yards from the shore, he slapped the water with his oars, relishing the ensuing splashes for the freedom they gave him. He was here, damn it! He was here and she was going to see him for the first time, and hopefully not the last.

The splashing oars didn’t faze her. Buster turned in place to see his buxom beauty ignoring his watery pleas, remaining her usual stoic self. He hit the water harder, doing his best to splash and make all manner of noise as he rowed to her. But no, she didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did. Maybe she noticed, but was just too cool to care. Maybe she knew a man was approaching her by boat but wasn’t willing to interrupt her moonbathing long enough to see if she knew him. A woman who was so comfortable in her own skin that she didn’t mind showing off her body to a total stranger? It was possible. Especially a woman as beautiful as her.

This last thought hit him with the realization of a thousand little ugly truths. She was beautiful. Much too beautiful for the likes of him, an underpaid textile worker with the IQ of a loaf of bread and all the charm of a rabid weasel. What was he thinking? She would never, ever go for a man like him. No way. No how. Buster wasn’t an ugly man, but he was by no means a handsome one. At best he was average. Well, he used to be average before the split jaw left him with a scar across his face as long as his prick.

Buster centered himself and reminded his bruised ego that this was the right thing to do. He also convinced himself that this was what she wanted. Surely she wouldn’t just lay about in her altogether if she didn’t want someone to look. She had to be a… what was it Carla called ‘em? An exhibitionist. That was it. She was an exhibitionist, and he was a voyeur. It was a match made in heaven.

He drew upon this idea, steeling his nerve as he called out, “Ahoy there! I was fishing and I saw you and I wondered if you needed me?” Buster winced at his words. What was the use of practicing them for days on end if you were just gonna flub them when that special moment came at last?

The blonde didn’t respond. In fact, when he turned to look, she hadn’t moved at all. She still lay there in silence, eyes closed, as if he hadn’t said a thing. Maybe he wasn’t loud enough? Or close enough? Nonsense! He was practically on top of her. Well, he wished he were on top of her. And inside of her. God, he wanted to be inside of her so bad!

Buster took her non-response as a good sign. Not saying ‘go away’ was just as good as saying ‘come closer, you hunk of a stud.’ Wasn’t it? Sure! In Buster’s hormone-fueled mind, anything was possible.

He rowed his boat right up to her island and called out, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought you might need a ride back to shore.”

No answer. A normal man might have taken this as an insult, but not Buster. He smiled wide at her lack of refusal as he rowed the last few feet to land his boat right on her shore. Shaking with excitement, Buster stepped out of the boat, over the small row of jagged rocks that lined the shore. His sneaker sank with ease into the wet sand, lending him little footing as he clambered out of the craft.

Giving her one more chance to say no, Buster asked, “Ma’am? Can I help you? I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t have a boat. I have a boat. Can I give you a lift?”

Two things occurred to him at her lack of refusal.

One, she was even more beautiful up close. Her hair was waist length, and spread in a fan around her head. Her face was a delicate ensemble of features, and her skin was pale to the point of being translucent. But he didn’t care about her hair or face or skin. His gaze flicked back and forth between those big boobies and that thatch of curl down below. Her breasts were stunning, but her pussy was even better. It pouted at him, begging to be stroked, petted and, most of all, fucked.

The second thing that came to him was the fact that she was out like a light. Buster thought carefully about this. What kept her from responding? Was she on drugs? Could be. Or maybe she was just so exhausted from the long swim, she was in the deepest sleep he had ever seen. Whatever it was, Buster had a choice to make.

Would he rouse her, then try to arouse her?

Or would he try to grope her as she slept?

He grinned with the wild idea. Could he? Could he really sneak up and fiddle with a girl in her sleep? He had seen such things all over the Internet, but could he do it for real? One more longing look at that pouting puss, and he knew the answer was yeah. Yeah, he could do it for real.

Buster crept to her side, wobbling on the unsteady footing of the sandy ground. As he drew closer to her, his confidence waned. She was going to wake up and find him with his hand in her cookie jar, and it was going be another Carla incident all over again. He was lucky to escape with just a broken jaw last time. Carla had to drop the sexual assault charges after Dale found those pictures of her with a mouthful of Little Buster and a smile on her face. Should he tempt fate again just for a lick of that tasty lolly spread so prettily at his feet?

Oh, hell, yes he would!

But just to be sure, just to excuse himself the burden of what he was going to do to this unconscious woman, he asked, “Hey, you awake?” She stayed silent, filling him with even more bravery. “I was thinking I might go down on you a bit.” She didn’t object, so he pressed on. “I’m gonna eat your pretty little pussy. Would you like that? Just lay there nice and still and don’t say nothing if you think you’d like that.”

Of course, his dream girl didn’t move a muscle.

Which gave him all the permission he needed.

Buster loosened his slacks, giving Little Buster a bit of well-deserved air. His cock was hard just from the prospect of touching the woman. He stroked himself, ever so lightly, as he fell to his knees between her wide-spread legs. What a sight that lay before him! Such a woman, all primed and raring to go. Seemed a waste to spend time on oral foreplay when she wouldn’t be awake to enjoy it anyway. As Buster pulled on his aching cock, he decided that he would skip the appetizer and go straight to the main course.

He leaned into her, placing a hand on either side of her waist, flat on the ground. It occurred to him, somewhere in the back of his small mind, that the island wasn’t made of sand, but of something else. The ground was soft and wet and rough to the touch. Rough but not sand? Sure, why not? Buster pushed this thought out of his mind, replacing it with the prospect of his first fuck in five years. He lined up his cock and thrust himself home.

And nearly came on the spot.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

Her puss was as tight as a fist, gripping him with such power, he almost checked to make sure he wasn’t in her back door. Buster gritted his teeth as he held himself inside of her for a moment. Sure, she might not have been awake, but it wouldn’t do his delicate ego a lick of good if he came before the first thrust. At length, he was ready to fuck her and fuck her good. He shifted his hips, trying to unsheathe himself from her heat so he could plunge her depths again, but found instead that he couldn’t move. He was stuck to her, inside of her, and she wasn’t letting him go.

For a second, he thought it was the result of his overactive hormones. That maybe he was so swollen with need and she was so tight with inexperience that there was nothing better to do than just come and be done with it. He took the pretty thing by the hips, intent on getting a better grip as he tried his best to hump her. Yet the moment he touched her skin, he was affixed to her. He couldn’t lift his hands from her hips, couldn’t pull his cock from her cunt, couldn’t wiggle his groin free from her groin. It was as though she were made of some kind of glue instead of luscious lady bits.

As he was held there, helpless and horny, the island about him began to shake.

The girl beneath him trembled, quivering from head to toe in time to the shivering ground. Buster, who was doing his best to keep his wits together, finally lost it. He screamed for help as he struggled against her. But the more he wriggled, the more he writhed, the more he got stuck into her. Like some seductive tar-baby, the sleeping beauty pulled him to her, skin for skin, until Buster was trapped in full atop her, screaming for his life.

All the while, the island moved and shifted. The lake roiled, the water slapping the shore with boiling waves as the ground quaked. Giant boulders and razor-sharp rocks burst forth from the shoreline, surrounding Buster and his sticky sweetheart in a sweeping arc. Then the island rose! Up, up, up into the sky it took Buster, lifting him into a hover over the lake itself. Above him, there fell a dark and chilling shadow. Something the exact shape and size of the island was dropping over him and closing fast! And that’s when Buster knew. His mind tried to warn him, but his cock wouldn’t listen. When he first got to his knees and touched the ground, he knew it wasn’t just rough with sand.

It was rough just like a tongue.

Buster stopped struggling and laughed aloud when he realized that after years of despising the act of fishing, after years of working his lines, trolling the shores and reeling in his catches, he had finally fallen for someone else’s bait. His mystery woman had lured him onto the tongue of some great beast. Hell! She was the tongue of some great beast! And there he was, stuck to the bait, ready to slide down the thing’s gullet and into the oblivion beyond. His last thought, before whatever the hell it was swallowing him did indeed swallow him, was this:

Buster fucking hated fishing.