Page 221 of Devil’s Disciples

After I was bitten, I’d be flailing around like a beached shark. He would lie me flat on the ground at his feet, comfort me, and attempt to calm me. Using his massive hand, he’d brush the hair away from my face, peer into my eyes, and check the dilation of my pupils.

He’d whisper into my ear that a tourniquet would need to be applied, to prevent the venom from rushing to my heart. The tourniquet would be torn from the most delicate piece of fabric available, which was my dress.

Then, he’d need to tie the tourniquet between the bite mark and my heart. My upper thigh would be the most logical spot. Being the observant soul that he was, while securing said tourniquet, Porter would undoubtedly make note of two things:

One, that I was wearing a pair of red lace boy short panties. And two, that they – and my pussy – were dripping wet messes.

So, in summary, Porter would look me in the eyes, whisper in my ear, rip my dress to shreds, and then see soaked pussy. All while he was saving my life.

It sounded like a fool proof plan. With my eyes locked on the snake, I took the first step in starting the process.

“Where’d you say to grab him?” I asked.

“Right behind the head,” he said. “It’s the only safe place to hold them.”

I took a step in the snake’s direction. “Have you done this before?”

“I spent my childhood hunting snakes in Montana. Why?”

With my eyes glued to the snake, I gave a crisp nod. “Just wondering.”

“Slide your hand along the stick until you get to the snake,” he explained. “Grab it right where I’ve got it pinned down. Hold it firmly, but not like you’re trying to strangle it.”

The snake’s head was pressed hard against the densely-packed sand beneath it. Furious for being torn away from a day of basking in the sun, its body was coiled tightly around the stick, attempting to constrict it to death.

My heart pounded against my ribs. What little moisture was in my mouth evaporated, leaving a big ball of unswallowable cotton-like yack in its place. Fearful of what the immediate future might hold, I took a step toward the snake, reached under the tree, and paused.

I looked at Porter. Not for direction or reassurance – I simply wanted to see him one last time before things went awry.

He was strangely calm. The half-assed smirk he wore told me he was at least mildly entertained. I snapped a mental picture of his strikingly masculine jawline, turned to face the snake, and did just as he’d instructed.

I expected slimy and slippery. Instead, I got rough and warm to the touch. I gripped the two-inch diameter piece of muscle between my thumb and forefinger and then gave Porter a blind nod.

“I think I’ve got him,” I exclaimed.

“You better know,” he said with a laugh.

I increased pressure on the deadly reptile’s neck. “I’ve got him.”

He lifted the stick. In turn, I lifted the snake.

Its body began coiling upward toward my hand.

“Shake it up and down,” he said.

Fearing that it was going to wrap around my arm and constrict me into submission before it sank its fangs into my sunscreen slathered flesh, I promptly filled with regret for having picked it up in the first place.

“Shake it up and down?” I asked, frantic that his only instruction made zero sense. “What does that even mean?”

“Like you’re jacking off your boyfriend,” he said, moving his fist up and down like he was stroking a two-foot-long dick.

Just before the snake wrapped around my wrist, I did what he said. Miraculously, the snake’s body straightened. A second or two later, he began to coil upward. I shook him again, and down he went. The third time he coiled, he seemed less interested in completing the task. I shook him lightly, and he straightened.

Now dangling loosely from my grasp, the snake simply hung there.

“Holy Moses!” I shouted. “I tamed a live rattlesnake.”

“How’s it feel?” he asked.