Get Them Off

Ron's friends Emily and Rachel are strange. They constantly crank call him and play pranks on him. He plays along with it because it's usually a welcome distraction from his collegiate studies. One night, he gets a weird phone call from them. Unlike before, there's no giggling involved. Ron's afraid they may be in trouble and decides pop in on them. What he finds boggles his mind. Less
This is a short story that features graphic depictions of explicit threesome sex. It is only intended for adult and mature readers.

Excerpt:

One night, I was up late drinking coffee and stressing out over a research paper I had to write for a veterinary science class. It was not the most exciting thing. After all, Feline Urinary Tract Infections: A Literature Review is not the most sexiest of titles, especially when you’re surrounded by doorstop tomes with bearded and bespeckled old men smiling on the back jacket flap. I sighed in relief when my cell phone rang and the caller ID announced Emily Boyers. I picked up the phone and wondered what sort of silliness was about to transpire.

“Oh my god Ron, you have to get them off me. Get them off me! Ron, please, you have to get them off me right now! Ron! Please! Get them off me.”

I was dumbfounded. Emily’s voice seemed higher pitched than normal, and it seemed slightly screeching. There was no of her coy drawl—no hint of the wink, wink that was normally in her voice. It seemed like she babbled incoherently, with her sentences and fragments swirling around the words “Get them off me.”

I sounded like the phone fell out of her hands , and Rachel took over. “Please, Ron, get them off me. You must! You must get them off me! Now! Get them off me. Holy shit, get them off me.”

Now, I was really perplexed. Like Emily, her voice was loud, urgent. There was something else there – like a note of fear. I began to get a little worried. Then phone seemed to fall again. I sounded like it hit a carpeted floor, and it also sounded like it had been kicked around a few times.

Then, they started shouting together, but it sounded like they were distant, farther away from phone than usual. “Dear God, Ron, get them off us?! You have to get them off us! Please! Hurry!” And then the connection went dead.

I tucked my phone into my shirt’s breast pocket. I scratched my cheek and stared at my laptop screen. The veterinary science paper would have to wait. I was bleary from staring at text all night, anyway. I got up, walked to my coat rack, and I pulled on a jacket. Sure, this had to be one of their prank calls. However, I wasn’t 100% sure. What if it wasn’t? What if they were in trouble? What if a group of criminals invaded their home? What could I do? If they were being attacked, wouldn’t they call one of their thickly muscled football friends? Or the police? Why call a wannabe cat doctor in a time of urgent need? Still, it seemed better to just walkover to their place. In all likelihood, they would have their laugh at my expense, and I would just go home and suffer through another night of writing about cats and their urinary problems. After all, both of them were theater majors, and this could what they routinely called avant garde performance art . . .