Dead Nolte by Borne Wilder Read Free Book Online Page A

a
professional fighter, hammering away with body shots. “Once he had you on the
ropes, no amount of duckin’ and weavin’ would set you free,” Alice would later
recall to her husband, Junior.
    The pervert seemed to be driven by a force unseen; he had
tried everything in his quest to fuck them. He would offer them money, feed
them beer, threaten to cut them out of his will. One time, even force was
applied, until, Alice had screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear and
caused Nolte to cut bait and run, the R-word scared the shit out of him. As a
last resort, if he was drunk enough, he would beg and pout. The begging, by
far, was the worst. Watching Nolte as he struggled to fake a look of loneliness
with his bloodshot 'puppy-dog' eyes, or at least his best guess at what
loneliness resembled, was beyond pathetic and bordered on torturous.
    Sometimes, Alice would actually feel sorry for him, maybe it
was pity, maybe it was generosity, she really never stopped to analyze her
actions, she just wanted a moment of respite from Nolte’s relentless
mind-fucking.  
    She would make sure no one was looking and slip her hand
down the front of his shorts. She’d rub him a few times to shut him up, and
then, avoid him like the plague for the rest of the day. Sometimes it worked
and she would have a bit of peace while he devoured his sexual brain candy, but
most times it backfired and fueled some dark fantasy and he would return with a
vengeance, not to be denied. In either case, it mattered little, because she
knew the time was coming when he was going to want more, much more.
    If asked, Nolte would have said these little ‘fondlin’s’
were not about satisfying or pacifying him, or meeting a need, per se, it was
about the beginning of the bitches schooling. He prided himself as a man of
patience, methodical planning and a master of manipulation. A man that knew
what he wanted, and knew how to get it. Besides, this wasn’t his first fuckin’
rodeo. He had been talking young girls out of their panties since Christ was a
corporal. Good things come to those who wait, his mommy had always said. You
can’t rush a good thing and all that other shit. It’s all about the big
picture, you know.
    The way Nolte saw it. You don’t toss all your fishing tackle
into the lake and splash around in the water until a fish comes. You gently
toss out your line, teasing the bait with little tugs. You make it dance until
the fish thinks it’s all good and natural, then, when the fish has become
convinced that what’s happening is A-okay, you set the hook and reel it in.
    Therefore, it only makes sense not to throw your dick at a
young’un and expect her not to run screaming to her mommy. You ease into it.
Gradual increments, if you will, slight imperceptible shifts from right to
wrong. Smooth out the naughty wrinkle. Get them used to the idea. Patience is
the key to success. Slowly and steadily, you increase the size of the carrot
until it’s ticklin’ the bitch’s tonsils and panties are no longer an option.
    If asked, Alice would have sucked it up and repeated what
her mamma had always said: “We all charge for pussy, Baby, it’s just that
sometimes we have to change the form of the currency, in order to get what we
want.”
    If asked, Martha would shake her head; look ashamed and more
likely than not, cry.
    Alice liked to day drink and this since this day was
special, she was tipping back a few more than usual. Bent backward at the waist
and holding the refrigerator door open with her knee, Alice gulped down the
last of her beer while simultaneously reaching inside for another; she could
almost hear calliope music backing her circus pose. She stuffed one under her
chin and pinned it against her chest, she would have a spare in case the next
one, (if her prediction was correct) went down as fast as the last one. She
imagined, all stretched out and catawampus as she was, she might look somewhat
like Stephan Hawking trying to