My name’s Sofia, I’m twenty-three, and I get dumb when I fuck. Always have.

I tried runnin’ from Fayette at eighteen, figured college might fix me, straighten me out.
But college wasn’t for me—I fucked too much to keep a clear head. Truth is, I fucked before college, I fucked through college, and now that I’m back in Fayette, well... ain't much else to do but fuck.

And you ain’t ever fucked until you’re fucked stupid.

Sheriff Carl Tate tries his best to keep the town’s bored kids from gettin’ too wild, but he’s just one man with two deputies and a town full of heat and bad ideas. Bad ideas churned stupid and dripping with regret and wantin’ alike.

Talkin’ of stupid—Old Hog Carter, name long forgotten, grows his crops and brews his shine, but hell—we still steal it. He's seventy-eight and don't run fast no more. Just that one time thru’ his fields with a rake yellin’ like Jesus ownin’ him bail. His dog’s the real threat, but we learned treats buy forgiveness. And shine makes stupid shine brighter.

The real trouble? That’s Junebug Pritchard. Yeah, real name’s June—Southern sin with a cunning cunt. Eighteen, barefoot from April to damn near October, with a switchblade smile and a Marlboro tucked behind her ear.

She haunts the old train tracks or the skatepark, trailed by a posse of kids who look up to her like she’s some Goddanged prophet in cutoffs and chipped black nail polish. She don’t say much, but when she does, folks listen. Even the boys. Especially the girls. I just get wet and stupid.

She’d be smokin’ and drinkin’, writin’ angry little poems in the backs of her math books.
Got her sassy ass suspended three times senior year and still walked the stage with her middle finger up under the robe.

She knows how to hotwire a four-wheeler, break into Hog Carter’s shed, and steal a kiss just to see you flinch.

This summer, she fucked whoever she wanted.

Mostly, that’d be meaning me. Sometimes just her. Sometimes, she and her boyfriend. Sometimes it’d be her friends, while she leaned against Hog’s barn, watchin’ like I’d be a movie she’d be directing—like she’d be wantin’ to see what I’d do with folks watchin’. The more I fucked, the dumber I got. I tried to smarten up in between. But when horny came callin’, I always picked up. Did something stupid, let my body answer before my brain had a say.

People say I talk too much, but if I stop talkin’ I start fuckin’.

But then, I never could say no to Junebug. Not when the air was thick and her hands found my hips, not when her lip curled just so, not when she looked at me and said, “You’re mine ‘til the summer ends, Sofia. You know that, right?”

The problem is, August came and went—and I never stopped being hers. I told myself I’d quit her, stop hangin’ around the skatepark like a damn fool, but I kept dressing in loose t-shirts and denim overalls, tits bouncing, cunt pressed raw against the rough fabric. I chewed on straws, wore a hat against the sun, and let my light brown hair fade damn near blonde from all that August heat. And when she texted, I didn’t think—I’d just be meetin’ her.

She stood resting her leg on her skateboard and grinned when I arrived.

“Howdy, hussy,” she’d yell, grinnin’ with that sharp little gap in her teeth like trouble had carved a home right in her smile.

She’d light her cigarette with a flick of her chipped black Bic, wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, and nod toward the shade beneath the old oak tree—our spot. No words. No plan. Just that look.

Her red curls stuck to her neck, her callused heels kicked up dust as she passed, giving me the full view of her cutoff shorts and the soft curve of her thigh, half-hidden by sweat and summer sin. I followed like I always did, a good little hussy on a leash made of wantin’.

We didn’t talk much anymore. Didn’t have to.

She’d drop her board, lean against the tree, flick ash with one hand while the other slid up the inside of my overalls like she’d be ownin’ the right. ‘Course she did. She’d cup my titties just so and twitch, or she’d be groping my cunt just to find out if I’d fucked without her.

“Still mine, huh?” she’d ask, voice low ‘n hot, like it wasn’t a question.

And I’d nod.

“Fucked stupid lately?”

I’d blush, 'cause she’d always be knowin’. Always. And she’d grin wider every time, like my shame was just another flavor to her tastin’.

“Damn, bitch,” she laughed, voice thick with nicotine and summer, unbuttoning those ragged little shorts of hers. “Gimme a minute. Gotta piss.”

She didn’t ask me to look away. She’d never do.

She’d be wanderin’ just far enough to squat behind the oak, her back still in sight—feet flat, thighs wide. I heard the stream hit the dirt, sharp and careless. She sighed like it was bakin’ Sunday cookies for church. Like she wasn’t pissing five feet away while I sat grinding my cunt against worn denim, pulse thudding high in my throat.

She looked over her shoulder, eyes catching mine.

“You watchin’?” she asked—not mad. Just curious.

I didn’t answer.

She grinned. “You nasty, Sofia.”

Then she stood, tugged her shorts back up without wiping, like sweat and piss ‘tween her legs didn’t mean a darndest thing. Like maybe she liked it that way.

She dropped beside me, stretched her legs, and took another drag. Her skin smelled like sun and dirt and something sweeter I couldn’t name. She didn’t say a word, just passed me her cigarette.

I took it, lips still warm from biting back need.

She leaned close, voice low. “Next time you fuck dumb, call me first. Might as well be watchin’.”

Then she spat between her legs, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and flicked her pen like she was sketching a map to hell itself.

“Get naked,” she hummed, not even looking up. “I wanna figure how stupid you’ll be gettin’.”

The heat pressed down like a hand on the back of my neck. I was hesitatin’—not for lack of wantin’, but because want. Because the way she said get naked lit something behind my ribs that burned hotter than the sun.

She didn’t look up; she just kept scribbling in that beat-up notebook—probably another poem about fire, hussies, and wreckage.

I slipped the straps off my shoulders. Denim puddled around my ankles like surrender. My shirt hit the dirt next. My titties bounced like it was Saturday line dance, and every bra had been stolen. She didn’t glance once.

That was the worst part.

She just said, “Spread your legs a little, honey. Sunlight’s too pretty to waste.”

And I did. God help me, I did.

Because when Junebug told you to get stupid, you didn’t ask why. You’d just be hopin’ she’d look when you fell apart.

She rustled through her backpack, pulled out her phone, and started filming.

“In the deep Alabama sun,” she drawled, slow and syrupy like some backwoods documentary narrator, “the wildcats are always in heat. And just yonder the shady trees, she’ll twist her honey hole inside out in desperation.”

My thighs trembled. I couldn’t help it. My fingers curled inside me just from the tease in her voice—that lazy, cruel affection she laced into every word like poison in molasses.

“Why are you filming me?” I panted, cheeks flushed, cunt slick, shame bubbling up behind my ribs.

“I ain’t,” she grinned, not even glancing up from the screen. “We’re streamin’.”

I froze.

But my molten hips didn’t. They’d started fuckin’ my hand on their own.

That’s the thing about getting fucked stupid—you stop remembering what dignity tastes like. You’d be filled with the taste of peaches and promise and be receiving salt and vinegar, smilin’, thankful, all the way ‘thru.

She tilted her phone, caught my swaying tits, nipples hardening, but kept the camera off my face.

“The Alabaman wildcat spreads her scent, hoping a male’ll catch her on the wind and come take her. Thing about the Alabaman wildcat, though—”

She grinned wide, zoomed in on my throbbing cunt.

“—driven desperate enough, she’ll eat wet biscuit just to feel.”

I moaned. Loud enough for her phone to catch it. She’d turned my shame into worship like Jesus himself was watchin’. Because the sun was hot, and my body was hotter. Because when Junebug said, "perform," I became the whole damn show.

She flicked the phone to herself and grinned.

“Y’all know what to do.”

Then she tucked it away like none of it meant a thing.

She lit another cigarette like she hadn’t just streamed my soul for strangers. Like this was any other summer afternoon.

The smoke curled from her lips as she leaned back on her elbows, watching me like a farmer watching crops grow—lazy, expectant, already sure of what would bloom.

“I want you to cum standing,” she said, calm as thunder. “And if ya haf’ta pee, I’m not gonna mind.”

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t wink. Just dragged on that cigarette and waited.

And me?

My legs were already trembling. My thighs glistened in the heat. The shame burned, but the wantin’ burned hotter. My hands moved on instinct—too far gone for grace, too far gone to pretend I wasn’t wet enough to soak through sin itself.

I was suckin’ my own titties, bakin’ my cunt so hot I half expected her to spit cupcakes—burnin’ her with sun and sin.

She’d be watchin’ like it was a show.

And it darn right was.

I was.

Junebug didn’t need no touch to be breakin’ me raw. She just needed look.

And in that heat, in that dust, with the smoke hanging between us and the taste of salt on my lips, I knew:

She didn’t love me. She didn’t need to.

She just wanted to see how far I’d go.

A cloud of dust and the rumble of a tired engine rolled over the horizon—someone coming down the dirt road. A pickup, probably. Sheriff’s, maybe. Or worse: a neighbor.

Someone’s daddy. Lord, better not be mine! Someone who knew me.

Someone watching her stream?

God, I hoped so.

Because I didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Too close now.

Too soaked between my thighs.

Too fucked in the head.

Too owned by her voice.

Too stupid from need.

“You oughta be able to rub one out ‘fore they get here,” she grinned, eyes fixed on me, cigarette dangling loose from her lips. “Don’t waste it, hussy.”

The engine roared closer. I felt the gravel tremble under my feet.

My hand moved faster.

She tilted her head, curls bouncing just slightly.

“There ya go. Show ‘em how Alabama girls beg for it. Might be quicker with a finger burnin’ your bum.”

I moaned. Loud. The kind that tore out of me like not caring who heard, or maybe I’d be wantin’ them all to hear.

The truck crested the hill, sunlight glinting off the windshield.

But I didn’t stop.

Because the edge was too sharp. Because Junebug’s voice was too sweet. Because deep down, some wild, ruined part of me wanted to be caught.

And Junebug? She’d just be watchin’, smilin’ like the devil in a denim skirt.

My knees gave in, and as the pickup pulled to a stop down by the fences, I was still fucking the last tremor out of myself.

“Good hussy,” she smiled as she waved at the guys down by the fence.

I stayed on my knees. Dirt biting my skin. Thighs sticky. Chest heaving. That slow-drip ache still blooming between my legs.

The truck door slammed, and boots crunched gravel. Sounded like three pair of boots, but might as well be a horde. Too stupid to count, too dumb to care.

Junebug walked away without a second glance, her cigarette trailing smoke behind her like a signature.

“Stay as you are,” she’d said. And I did.

Because I didn’t know how to be anything else.

I heard Waylon first—voice low, cocky.

“Damn, June. You been busy?”

She laughed—bright and full, like church bells on a dirty Sunday.

“She’s just warm-blooded,” she said. “Had to get it out her system.”

Todd whistled.

Chris muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

But no one stopped looking.

I kept my eyes low, tried not to breathe too loud. I wasn’t sure if I was a slut, or a pet, or a warning. Maybe all three.

Junebug sauntered back over, standing just behind me, her shadow stretching long across my back.

“I reckon she’s got another one in her if you boys behave.”

Waylon chuckled.

“Always do.”

I closed my eyes. Because I knew I’d not be done, not as long as Bug thirsted. Because she ain’t told me I was.

They sat in the grass beside me like I was part of the scenery—just another wild thing tangled up in dirt and sin. Chewed straws, cracked jokes, passed the jar between ‘em.

Waylon tipped it toward me.

“Want a shot ‘fore I stuff your cooter, Sophia?” he asked like he was offering sweet tea on a summer porch.

The jar was slick with sweat and dust. It smelled like fire and bad decisions. I took it because I was already past choosing.

The moonshine hit my tongue like gasoline and slid down my throat like heatstroke. My eyes watered, but I didn’t cough. I swallowed and handed it back with shaking fingers.

“Good girl,” Junebug murmured behind me, all sugar and steel.

Todd leaned back on his elbows, smirking. “You reckon she even knows her name?”

Chris stared quietly, like maybe he was waiting for someone to stop it. Or maybe just memorizing the way I looked on my knees, ruined and ready.

Waylon stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, and pulled down his zipper.

“Let’s see what Junebug’s wildcat tastes like when she’s soaked in shine.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t have to.

Naught of me was mine anymore.

I was hers.

Even when someone else was inside me.

“Fuck, she’s wetter than a drowned beaver today, Junebug. What’d y’all do to her this mornin’?”

June just grinned, slow and wide, like she was made of molasses and meanness.

“Ain’t done nothing much,” she said, tossing her red curls back. “Just pissed behind a tree. She must’ve caught my smell.”

Waylon chuckled, low and mean, hand stroking himself as he looked down my split peach, fuzz ‘n all.

“Do her real dumb, Waylon,” Junebug purred, flicking ash off her cigarette. “For me?”

“She’ll be gettin’ it dumber than fuck,” he grinned.

He grabbed my hair gentle but firm and guided me how he wanted. I wasn’t fightin’, and I said nothin’. I breathed shallow and sharp, like I’d forgot how air worked.

Because I had.

Because when Junebug gave word, I stopped bein’ anythin’ woman—
and started bein’ a thing.

Fair play and all that. Ain’t like I been thinkin’ much on sin or God or eternal damnation—not when fuckin’ feels this good. Feels right.

He drew moans outta me the second he pushed in, and I spread wider, pushed back—’cause a cock like his oughta be felt as deep as my fur pie’ll allow.

“Nothing prettier than a girl in heat,” June whispered, thumbing his phone back on.
I blushed at the thought. “Ya ain’t streamin’ me, Bug?”

She grinned. “Nah,” she said. “This here’s for later. Might catch a dollar off the web from it.”

Chris twisted in his shorts, and Junebug rolled her eyes.

“What y’all waitin’ for, boys? She got three holes—ain’t no reason to be standin’ ‘round starin’.”

It was a downright spectacle—Waylon just lifted me up, cock damn near burstin’ my cunt, and rolled onto his back ’fore a girl tumbled on top of him. He switched holes with no ceremony, just slid into my butthole like pain and mess didn’t matter.

I might’ve drooled a little—’specially when Todd crushed my cooter and stretched me wide open.

Good thing I was droolin’, too, ’cause Chris needed some lubin’ slidin’ down my throat.

“And just like that, the Alabaman Wildcat answers the call of the male rut, makin’ sure all her Goddamned holes get properly filled,” June narrated. “Don’t y’all love a stuffed Southern peach?”

I was already dumbed out.

I knew I’d go lookin’ for the video. I knew I’d pay to see it. I knew I’d be wet and needy, lyin’ to myself all over again about quittin’ June.

She’s awful tight like this,” Chris moaned.

“You ain’t gonna blow her hole full just yet?” Waylon teased.

“Might just haf’ta,” Chris groaned.

A girl can take a lotta stretchin’ when it’s done right—but a man in heat don’t always do things right.

And I’m bendy to a point, but Lord, I’d be sore in the groin for days the way Chris bent my legs over my head and pounded my fuck hole like a rabid desert dog.

Y’all’d think he was tryin’ to breed me proper.

“’Tis the best summer ever, Bug,” Waylon panted, “More pussy than a guy needs, just as much as he’s wantin’.”

Todd didn’t leave me drippin’ empty for long, and not havin’ a cock down my throat made breathin’ easier—and moanin’ like a sunstruck cow better.

He didn’t mind pushin’ Chris’s slick into me and outta me, and my honey jar damn near busted ‘round him.

June is a cunning cunt, but she ain’t cold to nature—she just takes longer to rev than a simple girl.

She twisted her legs outta her shorts and started playin’ with that overgrown, red bush like she was coaxin’ something holy outta herself.

She tasted like fire and sin—sometimes cum and piss, sometimes oil and grease.

I knew I’d be face-down in that hellfire inferno soon enough.

And that thought alone made me cum again.

Waylon thought it might’ve been him, groanin’ all pleased in my ear as my thighs trembled and my voice turned high and needy.

Todd never did know how to hold against a trembling fuck hole, so he busted everything inside me quick as sin on a Sunday mornin’.

June? She just grinned and fingered—slow, steady, certain. She’d be wet like a fresh fat cartridge just busted open.

Ain’t nothin’ like a man strong enough to lift a hussy clean off the ground on his cock and flip her face-first into the dirt.

I chewed grass and gravel and mooed as he slipped outta my gaping ass and shoved himself deep inside my well-filled babymaker.

I’d be damn well-bred before Christmas.

By next summer, they’d be milkin’ my udders and fuckin’ my cunt like I was made for it.

I crawled toward the fire—toward her spread legs—draggin’ Waylon and his cock through the dirt behind me.

I tried to eat all of her at once.

“Ya ain’t gonna piss in me this time, Bug?” I asked, breathless, mouth already slick with her.

She was still filming, even as her fingers parted to give me room.

“There it is, folks,” she narrated, “The only real fear of the Alabaman wildcat: swallowin’ a bit of pee.”

Nah, I thought to myself through a moan, I wasn’t scared she’d piss in me. I was just worried I’d be too dumbed out to pretend I didn’t like it.

She curled her legs—dirty feet, heels diggin’—‘round my neck and shoved me deeper into her mess.

Waylon was still behind me, pushin’ dumb from my cunt and into my skull, so hard I thought I’d gag and cum straight into June’s filthy hole.

We’d been fuckin’ so downright dumb we forgot just about anything.

Even as Waylon pumped me full, and June moaned around my lips, we’d not realized how busted we’d gotten.

Not sure how long Sherrif Tate’d been idling by the fence, but Southern hospitality might’a had him waitin’ for Bug to spray my face before soundin’ his siren.

Waylon flopped his cock outta me, all wet and twitchin’, but June just held me down with her heels.

She wasn’t done with me yet. Hadn’t gotten all the way through.

She let a final tremor roll into my mouth, then sighed soft as her legs dropped to either side of me.

She didn’t piss on me. Not that day.

Bug’s got nerves of steel—or maybe she’ ain’t much smarter than me—but she lay there, easy as you please, watchin’ Sheriff Tate stroll up the hill toward the tree.

“June Pritchard,” he sighed, not even flinchin’ at the sight of two naked girls leaking sin, “We talked about sex out in the fields, didn’t we?”

June just spread a little wider and grinned a little brighter.

“Ya ain’t never complained when I sucked my way outta a ticket, Sheriff.”

Alabaman law’s built different than elsewhere, and Sheriff Tate just took his hat off, wiped the sweat from his face.

“You awright, Miss?” he asked, lookin’ down at my dumb-fucked face.

I didn’t know how to talk to no law—uniforms and all—so I just spat grass and red pubes outta my mouth and nodded. Besides, I’d regressed into re-learning the alphabet and was just managin’ vowels. Mostly long drawn A’s and O’s.

He jolted, just a little, then straightened up—composed himself as best he could.

“Turn that camera off, June,” he said. This time with a bit of real authority.

June sighed, heavy and disappointed, but did as she was told.

“I ain’t even fucked properly,” she complained.

“Just clean this mess and get outta here,” he scoffed, already tryin’ to walk it off.

But Junebug?

She ain’t a girl who knows when the stoppin’ starts.

“Lonely out on these hot, dusty roads, Sheriff?” she poked, voice syrup-thick and full of trouble.

A man’s only as strong as his posture—and Tate wasn’t walkin’ or arrestin’. He was starin’, tryin’ to find his words.

“My pussy ain’t pretty,” she said, casual as summer rain, “but I washed her this mornin’, at least.”

When Bug lays her voice thick with honey and sin, ain’t no man—or girl—willing to let it slip.

She grinned, all teeth and slow poison.

“Y’all been tryin’ to arrest the old man for nothin’ for years—”

She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, then lazied her gaze onto him.

“—Y’all should fuck me, just in damned Southern spite, no?”

She got on her knees and crawled to his boots; I ain’t never seen a man dominated by a kneelin’ girl before.

“Hot out here, ain’t it, Sheriff?” she growled low, “I bet your balls are clingin’ to sweat and skin like mud on pigskin.”

She undid his belt.

And he didn’t push.

“Let a gal help you breathe a little, Sheriff,” she murmured, voice thick with sun and sin.
“Ain’t nothin’ but sermon and sin goin’ on in this town. I don’t mind ball sweat.”

She unzipped him and dragged his pants down to his ankles. She didn’t even flinch at the bulge in his boxers—looked like she’d damned near expected it.

“A gal’s happy to fuck her boyfriend most summer days,” she grinned, eyes full of mischief, “But sometimes, a fat man-cock is what the cookie needs.”

I ain’t never seen law and order crumple so hurried—it was like cuffs and code just melted under the sun.

I’d clawed back a little clarity, but watchin’ Bug work him over started smoothin’ it away again.

Was he thinkin’ 10-99? 10-24?

Why’d he end in a sixty-nine?

The mouth on that girl?

I ain’t never seen a cock that fat—veins poppin’ like blisters on sunburn—but she swallowed him raw, like he was nothin’.

I wouldn’t mind a man-cock myself.

I wasn’t the only one mesmerized.

Waylon’s cock found its way into my mouth, and I sucked, ‘cause what else is a girl supposed to do?

I’d tasted my sweet cunt on his cock before, and his slick cum mixed with my sugar was better than honey on fresh-baked bread.

He pumped more than I pushed, and that familiar vacuum—suckin’ my brains clean out—was as messed up as it was needed.

And in that vacuum, the brain defaults to Southern indoctrination.

I remembered a sermon spoken in Alabaman fear of God.

That’s what she looked like—grindin’ herself onto the Sheriff’s face, slurpin’ his man-cock like she was suckin’ a milkshake dry.

The Scarlet Whore, corruptin’. Ridin’ the beast.

Good thing Chris lifted me off the ground and shoved inside me—’cause there’s only so much fuckin’ a girl can watch without needin’.

And I ain’t never seen Junebug fuck before.

She’d always been the one makin’ sure I was the one receivin’—and she’d always made sure it was good.

But now?

She slid herself off his face and spun ‘round, drownin’ him inside her twat like her cunt was the earth itself—and his cock the last man swallowed by God’s wrath.

It wasn’t pretty.

Ain’t sure it was meant to be.

I heard them held horses down at their farm, but June didn’t just ride, she was steering her beast into death and ruin, beggin’ for the apocalypse to burn him good.

But the law fought back.

Lifted her clean off the ground—still fuckin’—and slammed her up against the trunk of the tree.

Bark grindin’ into her back, twigs pokin’ her ass raw.

She looked pretty and tiny.

And he looked big. Grotesque.

Ain’t never seen a pussy split like that before.

It was a sight that left Chris throbbin’ inside my cunt, already readied for Todd—who’d damn near rubbed one out just from watchin’.

But Junebug?

She just moaned more sinfully, askin’ the Sheriff if that’s all he had. Grabbin’ the branches above her—

Holdin’ on to nothin’ but bark and cock, and filled with nothin’ but greed.

“You’d better make me cum like a drunk banshee splittin’ with good ol’ sin, Sheriff,” she panted, voice all rasp and challenge.
“Or I’ll be lookin’ for your missus to finish the job.”

It was enough to make me tremble.

I spit Waylon’s cock out, drool and lust spillin’ down my chin, just long enough to gasp—
“Harder.”

Then I took him back in.

He’d better be cummin’ in my mouth—’cause my pussy was damn near full.

Waylon’d been listenin’ to his girl whimper ‘round another man’s cock—

And when she banshee’d, caught between tree bark and Sheriff cock, he unhinged.

I didn’t know whether to swallow, spit, or just breathe it all in.

But he was all throb and endless spill.

Y’all know what I’m talkin’ about.

But the Sheriff wasn’t done—not yet.

He just kept poundin’ her leakin’ fire-hole like naught else was happenin’.
Like sin hadn’t already soaked through the dirt.

Gave Todd just enough time to fill the last caverns of my stupid fuck hole—
Spillin’ fuckery as he pulled out, leavin’ me twitchin’ and full of nothin’.

But June?

June ain’t June without bein’ June.

“Y’all can stop poundin’ now, Sheriff,” she sighed, almost bored already, “You can finish in her.”

I ain’t never cried from June before.

But when the Sheriff mounted me, I started sobbin’—’Cause there’s only so much pleasure a girl can take unnoticed.

He was big as the Bible, and his rough man-hands on my ass felt like Hog’s plow—
Splittin’ my fields wide open before seedin’.

I ain’t never cum that loud.

There’d be rumors of a feral wildcat huntin’ livestock for years after that day.
If only they’d known I was just a dumb cow—eatin’ grass, gravel, and sand to stop my throat from tearin’.

June squatted in front of me and held my head through it.

Wasn’t much work. I was empty. Not a single thread of thought or understanding remained inside my skull.

I’d never felt a man pump inside me—

But the Sheriff?

That was a full-blown flushin’.

She grinned as she peed the grass before me.

And when she let go, my face smacked wet to the ground.

Ain’t been much happier to hear the Sheriff buckle up, and when he stumbled off down the hill, I was damn near grateful to hear his car rumble back to life.

I stayed as I was—’cause it was all I was anyways.

Grass seeped in sweat, cum, and piss soaked into my skin. My breasts weren’t even pinched to ruin. Not groped with need.

Just left.

Waylon asked if Bug was comin’, but she just stretched back under the tree—lazy as sin—and said she’d stay ’til the sun stopped bakin’.

“See you, Sofia,” he grinned, and the boys took off down the road.

I tried to reply, but it came out a gargle of piss and cum, grass and red pubes.

Then silence.

Just the scribblin’ of a pen.

A shuffle. A sigh.

“And here, the Alabaman wildcat rests in ruin,” she narrated, “simmerin’ in all sin yonder the shadow of a single tree.”

Not ’til the sun stopped bakin’ did I try to move.

She grinned at me.

“I can’t do this no more,” I whispered. “I’m quittin’ you, Bug.”

She just tilted that pretty face and nodded, soft as anything.

“You’re pretty when you cum, honey,” she sugared. “See you tomorrow.”

And I knew she was right.

But I needed to think I wasn’t lyin’.