This short story is an entry in the 2002 Soc.Sexuality.Spanking Summer Short Story Contest and is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission. Personal/private copies are permitted only if complete including the copyright notice. The author would appreciate your comments
Category: Adult
Black Helicopters
By
Mara Maharakshasa <MaraMahaRakshasa@aol.com>
Over the past two years, Frank has grown crazier. There's no doubting it in Jennifer's mind. She understands the roots of his paranoia, but won't excuse him for it. Yes, he's a Vietnam vet, and yes, he did lose a series of aerospace jobs in the downturns. He also drinks too much bourbon and beer, and he chose to isolate himself here in Montana, home of the right-wing kooks. Living off his pension and some income from odd jobs, he's free to rant to as many as will listen ? surprisingly few ? about his interpretations of current events. Yes, the new world order is taking over. It's the Illuminati, it's the Masons, the Jews, the central banks, the Pope, the Trilateral Commission, the United Nations, the World Trade Organization. It's whatever pops up on a given day. UFOs have contacted the president, Roswell was a cover-up. But above all, it's the black helicopters that give him nightmares, and set him off on rants.
Jennifer has never seen one.
"They use Stealth technology, with silenced engines," he explains.
"What are they doing here?"
"Practising for the military takeover."
"Of Montana? Why bother?" she asks.
"Of the whole frigging country!"
Of course, paranoids can be right. They can have enemies. For Frank, it's himself. Partially invalided out of the Army, Frank has made himself worse by choosing jobs that cause him repetitive motion-related disorders. Jennifer suspects, though, that his biggest problems of this sort come from jerking off on nightshifts, and tilting his elbow at the bar too much.
It's 'Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town,' on the car radio as she leaves that evening. She suppresses a hoot of laughter, and drives on.
Rodent Butte ? known to all locals as 'Rat's Ass' ? is the nearest big town. With a population of about 750, leaping to nearer 2000 for a brief moment as the welfare checks arrive, twice monthly.
Jennifer will be cashing hers, buying groceries, and looking for some entertainment that doesn't center on rotgut booze, satellite TV, and conspiratorial rants.
Meeting Helen in the 'Sack Of Goodies' checkout line, she instantly knows what she wants. The two women are old friends. They drive to Helen's doublewide just outside town, which to Jennifer is heaven.
Helen likes to indulge her friend, and is happy to take the strap and the cane to her, reviving her lost skills as a prison guard. Then, when she has Jennifer striped and sore, she dishes out some 'prison sex,' strapping on a dildo and mounting her, pulling on a latex glove and fistfucking her, dragging her around the trailer, and out into the moonlight, by her ponytail.
Afterwards, Jennifer is aching, bloodied, but radiantly happy.
"Christ, look at these bruises! Look at the bitemarks!
The scratches!" she says in wonder.
"Yeah, I got carried away. How'll you explain them to noodledick, hon?"
"If he even notices? Abducted by little green UFO perverts? Black helicopters? Whatever. He'll believe it, too!"
"Want some more, then?" "Oh, please!"
The End
© Copyright by Mara Maharakshasa, 2002. All rights are reserved by the author. Do not retransmit, store (except for personal use) or publish without permission.
Reviews
John <johnb(at)ssec(dot)wisc(dot)edu>
I really wondered how the author was going to hang this piece together. But in the end, it does.
Pam <pamiMac(at)aol(dot)com>
This sure is a bitter story. I've been assuming Mara is a woman but this story is very male. I don't care for it but it sure is well written.
Pablo Stubbs <Pablo.Stubbs(at)newsguy(dot)com>
Bizarrely, so much of the energy in this story is spent on the setting and characterisation of someone who scarcely figures. What remains feels somewhat rushed and perfunctory, as if what the author *really* wanted to do was to describe the male paranoid, but needed to veer away from him at the last minute to make the story somehow fit the SSC. As such, it really doesn't hang together - a vivid setting wasted with an empty story.
Owen Williamson <ashthorn(at)maildulf(dot)com>
I'm afraid that, for me, this story spent far too much time in setting the scene, so that there was very little space for the story. Pity, because I think it could have been a really good story.