Free The Dunwich Romance by Edward Lee

sat a card table bearing several illicit liquor bottles, along with evidence of gambling. In a corner was a typical tin water pail sufficing for a spittoon; Sary took uneasy note that its contents of expectorant was half an inch from overflowing.
    Tobias leaned over the counter, his high voice aggravating as an unlubricated caster. “Hey, cripple, why’n’t yew clip-clop thet thar cane aout’a heer rut naow, and yorself’n yor whore with it?”
    “Ef ye insist,” Kyler calmly replied, “but haow much sense be made aout’a runnin’ off payin’ customers, on accaount I dun’t espy much in the way’a business heer,” and then the man produced a quarter. “A wrap’a licorice is whut I fancy.”
    Tobias glared, but then resigned. He was as poor as most in these regions; any currency seeking emigration into his proprietorship would not be turned away. Crabbed hands begrudgingly filled a sheet of store paper with said licorice, then wrapped it up.
    “Thar’s yew’re blammed licorice, cripple,” Tobias declared, his adam’s apple bobbing on his old, thin neck. “Naow git aout.”
    “Ee-yuh,” laughed the girthy Wheeler. “Go’n tell more fortunes. ”
    Kyler tucked his parcel under his arm. “Nay, see, my friend heer got business as well...”
    Tobias and his ramshackle associates all turned hateful glares to Sary.
    Even before this, Sary was conscious of assessments being made of her; the hateful glares also possessed more than a small amount of lust as those blood-shot eyes roved her body. One man—the Lang—openly dandled his crotch.
    Tobias yelled, waving a bone-thin hand. “Only kind’a business she do is fuckin’ and suckin’! She dun’t got no cash money!”
    “Aw, but I got me some m—” Sary began, yet the owner’s outburst would not license the completion of her statement.
    “I run a ‘spectable operation heer, and I wun’t hev no whorin’ fer goods!”
    Wheeler’s brow rose, then he too rubbed his crotch while his eyes narrowed on Sary’s form. “Holt on a sec, Tobe. Mebbe we oughta dew some thinkin’ on this. Can’t hut ta give Stew Face a smidge’a food long as she put a fuckin’ on us fust—”
    “Ee-yuh,” added Lang. Did a tiny spot of wetness darken his crude trousers as his hand continued to knead his genital region? “Jess the look’a this ‘un got my pecker all riled up. And haow ‘baout them tits shewin through thet shiny dress?”
    Wheeler nodded with a grin, remarked, “Let’s see thet cut on her tew,” then briefly raised the hem of Sary’s diaphanous gown with a yardstick, the action of which briefly flashed the mound of plush, dark hair between her legs.
    Wheeler and Lang whistled.
    “Thar some meat fer the dogs!”
    “An’ my dog’s a-barkin’!”
    With a half-shriek, Sary jumped at the start, then righted the gown.
    This visual treat seemed to ameliorate Tobias’ previous condemnation. He, too, caressed his crotch. “Fuh-got jess what a looker she be onct ya git past thet roadkill face...”
    “ Thought yew’d change yer mind, Tobe.” Lang made a dismissive laugh. “The pussy on this bitch could put hardwood on a pack’a faggots.”
    A leering pause caused Sary to shrink; the ill-feeling in her gut gave her a clear impression what was taking place, and it was an impression with which she was all too accustomed. They dun’t even keer that I got money... By now, erections of various dimensions showed through the pants of the rapists-to-be—even the crackly Tobias, who must’ve exceeded the age of seventy. “Ee-yuh. Naow’s ye all mention it, it been a while sinct my dick had itself a good spit!”
    “Any livin’ minute this cunt ain’t full’a cum be a blammed cryin’ shame!”
    “And we’ll be a-fillin’, brother! We’ll be a-fillin’ it!”
    “Gonna get me some shit on my stick too. Mebbe a buttful’a my jism’ll make this dutty tramp think twice afore she shew her mess of a face in heer agin!”
    Sary was no stranger