Mistresses, Masters

by bluepervina - © 2000

( bdsm, M/F/F, F/f, ped, ws, scat, beast, rape, snuff )

This is an incomplete story, basically a novel (or at least a novella) that I just don't have the energy to write. The key elements are in place but are only written as little more than plot-points here. It is doubtful that I will ever do anything more with this story, but I think it has enough interesting moments to make it worthwhile to post it.

This almost-story, incidentally, first appeared in an excite.com club of mine, back before excite went so "awry".

 

In the beginning, it was Susan who wanted to be fisted. She sent Jamie out for some more Astroglide. Jamie picked up some extra batteries and camcorder tapes, too, just in case. It seemed like they were always running low on things like that.

But before she grabbed the keys to the Jeep, Susan had pushed Jamie's face firmly up against the stained glass of the front door and told her to pull up the back of her skirt. Very slowly, with one hand gently squeezing Jamie's throat, Susan pressed three yellow ping-pong balls against her moist asshole, tenderly kissing Jamie's ear as each one popped its way up inside. As Jamie licked her mistress's fingers clean, the hand at her throat tightened, and her face was pushed even harder against the flat cold glass. Through a bright red cloud Jamie watched the bay outside, across their deep front yard and the gray curve of Bayshore Boulevard, the crimson water indifferently rocking the pelicans to sleep. Susan nibbled Jamie's earlobe and whispered.

"Fuck somebody from the drug store before you come home," she commanded. Jamie grunted her understanding, and Susan withdrew her hands to wrap them far around her servant's waist, her fingertips massaging Jamie's shaved and heat-swollen labia. "That is what Jackson demands of you." Jamie shuddered, silently licking the welded joints of glass. Susan smelled of gardenias and the dogs from the back yard.

"He also has a bonus," she said, her teeth pressed against Jamie's exposed neck.

"You must have each of the three balls signed in black permanent marker by your drug store conquest. On the first ball, he-or she-must write their first name. On the second, the middle name. On the third, the last name. Then they are to be reinserted and held until I order them released." Susan stroked Jamie's clitoris between opposing sets of fingers as Jamie watched the smoky red pelicans, one by one, lift themselves up heavily out the brightly blooded water and then ponderously fly out of sight.

"If you are successful," Susan purred, "then you can shave my head."

Susan, with an odd note in her voice, then said, "We have been promised a great reward." She then let Jamie go out the door, and she went upstairs to sleep a little. If Jamie returned, of course, everything would start to change. Jackson had already seen to that. Susan thought she was ready.

* * *

Jamie would somehow always remember that. In a month her twenty-first birthday would come and then go, and she would barely notice. But she clung to the promise, and she obeyed. "A great reward." Indeed.

If you truly lived the life, that is.

* * *

Jamie relished the wetness that slid down the insides of her thighs as she walked across the parking lot to the drug store. The late afternoon rains had just finished, and the asphalt rolled out ahead of her dark, steaming. It was still hot, but it was wet-hot. Nobody out there wrestling with shopping carts in the parking lot seemed to take offense or even notice that Jamie wore no bra beneath her pale green silk blouse, that it was unbuttoned to her navel, and that the rings piercing her nipples stood out like thick twin halos against the thin, damp fabric. The blouse was soaked from sweat, of course, because Jackson always made her drive the Jeep, which had no air conditioning. She'd always be hot in that thing, and now she didn't mind. Sweat trickling down the long line of her back, dripping from the bottoms of her breasts to melt into the swaying softness of the blouse, it all meshed nicely with the feel of that slippery juice sliding down from the crown of her thighs.

The white skirt she wore flowed loosely around her calves, despite the fact that it was slightly twisted around and had stuck itself crazily to her hips from sweat and from sitting in the Jeep. Jamie walked across that melting parking lot with determined long strides, imagining herself the most dedicated housewife alive on a mission picking up some kind of prescription, diapers, a little bottle of hair color to add just that bit of red to lay her husband waste. It was impossible to feel the ping-pong balls anymore. Her rectum was quite used to such cozy and light little visitors by now. Disappointing, in a way: they were a far cry from the handful of large heavy ball bearings she'd carried within her a few weeks before. For a while, at least, she would have to be satisfied by concentrating on this current absurdity, imaginary motherhood, and have a little stupid fun while she waited to take her plastic shit.

She knew it was ridiculous, but she almost felt normal barreling into the drug store like that. From far away inside a little voice called her name and she did see herself, in a cracked, smoky kind of way, as a mommy. A tiny girl that looked like her, with flaming hair and a long nose, was stumbling up out of her nowhere to hug Jamie's leg and cry. Jamie's-Mommy's-head was still shaved, her nipples and her nose and her tongue were still pierced, her armpit hair still dripped sweat onto her ribs every time she extended her arms, and the little girl's arms and legs around her own leg tore painfully at all that soft bronze hair, but Jamie thought maybe it could still work, maybe if she would keep the kid in day care or something normal like that most of the time, and of course only maybe if Jamie could still fuck while she was pregnant, if Jackson could still whip her at nine months, if Susan could still zucchini-fuck her ass, maybe, if the doctor said it was OK. Maybe then she'd have a little girl. Errands would suddenly be for real, and Jamie could buy the batteries and camcorder tapes and Astroglide right along with the diapers and the rice cereal and nobody would ever look at her the way they did now. She thought, maybe.

A sweaty translucent silk shirt on a Mommy? Nipple rings? Ping-pong balls shoved up her ass? Up a Mommy? Well, fuck yeah! What an eternal turn on, Jamie thought, a mother who really is a fucker.

Then she hit the cold front of the store, and she came. The air conditioning that blasted across her soaking body as she stepped inside the door shot bolts of icy shivers straight into her cunt, and she was crystal. For a moment she stood, her knees locked together, leaning against the magnetic theft detectors just inside the doorway, racheting hard, jerkily grinding her thighs as everything spasmed. And then she set off to find the condom aisle.

The clerk behind the register had seen Jamie shaking there in the doorway with her eyes squeezed shut and her breath shocked frozen and held suspended in that first loud gasp. Jamie announced her pleasure to the sixty-eight year-old grandmother of nine, and grandma promptly closed her register and went on break. That left Jamie with the forty-ish female manager, up front counting things-and two male Philippino pharmacists and a teenage boy sweeping the floors in the back. The boy, of course, would be her target, but she thought the pharmacists had potential, too.

Luckily, the condoms and sexual aids were all lined up at the end of a row at the back of the store, right in front of the industrious pharmacists and the boy, who was mindlessly sweeping himself into a corner. Crooking a basket in her arm, Jamie dropped in a few bottles of lube and very slowly bent to examine the adult diapers lined up on the bottom shelf. A housewife suddenly appeared beside her, studying the condoms. Jamie, immediately magnetized, firmly bumped the woman's hip with her wet ass.

"Excuse me," the woman said, stepping back. Jamie did not stand up. She remained bent over at the waist, her basket on the floor now, as she looked back over her shoulder. Even upside down, the woman was quite pretty. Jamie's tongue began to feel a little thick as she studied the softly-curved lady from her awkward, exciting vantage.

The woman was at least thirty, with dull brown hair pulled back into a pony tail. She wore a thin white tank top over a thinner white bra, and her own breasts appreciated the cold as much as Jamie's. The woman stood a bit spraddled, having half-stepped away and then stopped. Jamie could see right up the leg of her cut-off jeans at the dark hair curling around the edges of her milky underwear. The woman bore pale stretch marks on her inner thighs without much fuss, it seemed, and the wedding and engagement rings on her hand appeared eminently tasteful and costly. Her children must be angels, and her husband a gentleman, or something like that to make this woman dress a little like trash but step back a little like Bambi (even if Bambi was a boy).

A heartbeat passed, and Jamie had seen it all. A succulent woman, perhaps, but would she suck her man's asshole? Would she sprawl out on top of the big master bathroom counter and finger-fuck herself when things were getting a little slow? Would she smell her son's dirty clothes on purpose until she got light-headed and thought she might come? Would she slide ice cubes up her vagina two minutes before fucking? Would she fuck her old college roommate if they got drunk one last time? Would she fuck her again the next morning when they got together to apologize? Would she watch Jamie fuck that boy with the broom? Would she watch Jamie and go home and fuck her husband or her girlfriend or her son with nothing but hunger and violence and shredding teeth for a cunt, dripping, blazing?

Would she submit?

And then Jamie was sure: she saw the woman's toes. She was wearing black flip-flops, and her feet looked as soft as petals. Someone paid regular attention to those feet, and that meant this woman was used to feeling good, floating in foot-rub heaven. And the nails! Her toenails were each painted a different color, thickly laminated. It was an almost perfect home job, only two of the cuticles hung out, and only one of them had been polished over. Few professional pedicures looked so good, Jamie thought, and few toes in this world will ever taste as good. Like butter and cinnamon.

Jamie bit thoughtfully for a second on her swollen tongue, then chuckled. Three of the woman's toes stuck through delicately carved silver rings. Without doing much, Jamie knew she could at least make the woman notice her own toe rings, and her other rings, and just go from there.

"Oh, no, it was me!" Jamie laughed, apologizing. "I'm just stretching my back. It tightens up now and then." She pressed her palms to the floor and pushed her cunt toward the woman and moaned at that pleasure she imagined in her back. "Oh yeah, that's better," she grunted, stood up, and turned around.

To Jamie's mild surprise, the woman hadn't left. Jamie quickly glanced at the pharmacists, but they had a line of elderly customers waving various small scraps of paper at them. The boy, however, had stopped sweeping and stood leaning on his broom behind his pitiful smear of dust. Jamie's ears began to ring strangely. She felt a bit light, and very hot. Susan would never believe it, of course, but Jamie decided to try out an idea that was just too good to pass up.

Jamie suspected that this woman had children and that someone else was
watching them just now so that she could get some things done. It was a Sunday afternoon, so they couldn't be in school-if they were even old enough-so something mildly special or unusual was going on in this mother's life for her to be able to get out in such a casual manner. Her husband was out golfing or in the boat, maybe, and her best friend was on vacation or else was the one corralling the kids for her. She'd come to pick up some contraceptives to be able to properly say thank you to her man for a day of freedom. Maybe she'd grab some tampons and a Southern Living, too.

She wore a small raffia purse over one shoulder, and she shifted it somewhat warily, as if it was a rifle strap, but she appeared to remember proper manners and smiled at Jamie, just a tiny bit.

To Jamie, it was obvious.

Standing in front of her was a woman who hadn't been out alone in a while-or, if she had, she'd begun to wonder why she'd always liked those solitary times so much.

So it boiled down to this: Jamie thought it might be possible to turn her on, and her imagination burned wild with these perfectly flammable scenarios. She wanted the woman to watch her fuck the drug store boy, and when Jamie was done with him she wanted the woman to catch those ping-pong balls in her long soft hands and to suck them clean.

But then the woman spoke, and for a moment Jamie almost fled.

It came out like an accusation, like the voices she'd heard so often in the past five months, harsh, defensive, afraid-and thus dangerous:

"What happened to your hair?" the woman demanded. But then she stepped closer and raised a hand. Her fingernails were clear-polished and trimmed quite short. "Do you mind if I touch it?"

Jamie started a bit, but then she calmed herself by watching those fingernails. They were short and smooth and perfect for stretching out the anus.

The woman ran her palm lightly over Jamie's half a millimeter hairdo and chuckled. It was a strange kind of sound. The woman paused, still grazing Jamie's scalp. She appeared to consider her chuckle, as if she couldn't decide if Jamie as a whole was funny, or just her hair, or simply the fact that normally she would never touch such a weird-looking person. She chuckled again and kept on rubbing Jamie's head.

Now both pharmacists and several senior citizens were joining the teenager in openly staring. Her rectum violently wrenched at the ping-pong balls, and she nearly came again. The woman then, to Jamie's sweet horror, began her own seduction.

She said, "And you have such an exquisite face. Truly, truly beautiful." And she clucked her tongue and shook her head in a rueful manner, mock-shameful. Then she stroked Jamie's cheek-just once, whisper-light, and Jamie leaned right into it, nearly closing her eyes and completely soaking herself straight down to her ankles. Her feet in her own sandals suddenly felt large and heavy, and damp, and she wasn't sure how to proceed. The urge to shit was almost overwhelming. If Jamie sat down, bent over, or even thought about squatting, three bright yellow ping-pong balls would skip right on down the toothpaste aisle.

But the woman wanted to flirt. She leveled that chuckle at her one more time, certainly to acknowledge Jamie's speechless and desperate consternation, and then she reached past her for a box of condoms, almost touching her the whole time. Trojans, blue box, ribbed, nonoxynol-9, reservoir tip, one dozen for $8.99-Jamie was suddenly inspired.

"I can roll one of those down a ten-inch zucchini with just my mouth," she tried to purr, just a little hoarse, "and I can fuck you with it, if you'd like."

The woman did not smile. She did not chuckle or look away. She thoughtfully pursed her lips, then said:

"I would like."

She paid for her own and Jamie's things, and Jamie took her to the Jeep. It was against the rules, perhaps, but this particular rule had never been discussed. Jamie took her random fuck back to the house.

It was a seven minute drive. The woman sat quietly staring out at the shady houses along Bayshore, tapping her fingers over her crossed knee as if counting the palm trees or children in the yards that they passed. They pulled into the driveway at Sensaciala and the woman finally said something.

"My name is Karen. I'm thirty-eight." Jamie held her breath. The woman in the seat beside her was not altogether beautiful, but she was clearly smarter than most people. In her eyes and around her mouth there lingered something Jamie could only conceive of as will. It lit her up and sexed her out, made her look dangerous. It reminded Jamie of Jackson.

Karen kept talking and kept touching Jamie. In her voice there emerged a low note of control, of something slowly circling up from the woman's belly, tightening the air around Jamie's racing heart. A fly in a fist.

"I'm something like a corporate 3; well, I work back that-a-way in one of those skyscrapers." She pointed over her shoulder with her chin toward the business district behind them, across the narrow head of the bay. "Let's say I own some things, and I tend to wear boring business dresses with knee-high hose and without underwear. I usually take time once a week to get completely nude in a bathroom stall somewhere very public, and I piss like that, standing up." They didn't move or say anything for a moment. Jamie wondered briefly if Karen was waiting for that ordinarily shocking news to sink in. Maybe this woman has a bit of a dramatic streak. In any case, it did the job. Jamie's cunt throbbed against her thighs, against her asshole, against the ping-pong balls lined up in her pea-pod rectum. She thought maybe they should get started, before she simply died. But then, as Jamie reached back for their bags Karen caught her arm.

"Let's say my man is a painter," she said simply. "He has a gigantic cock and he knows how to keep me in a certain kind of love." She rubbed just above Jamie's elbow with her thumb, and Jamie's throat went dry.

"You should know that I'm going to want that zucchini of yours, and your fist, and a good part of your arm. Then I'll piss in your mouth. After that, I'll call my man over and he'll whip you and fuck you until you decide to quit. And then he will not stop until you beg him to go on," Karen smiled tenderly. Her palm traveled up Jamie's arm to cup her chin. Jamie was suddenly very conscious of her own lips, pooched-out, parted and dry.

"I waited in the parking lot until I saw a suitable girl walk by," Karen nodded as if confirming the facts. "You were obviously a walking fuck, and you are now, I see, very lovely and intelligent and hungry. I'm glad I followed you into that drug store."

She suddenly turned from Jamie and stepped out of the Jeep. Jamie discovered that she couldn't move without Karen's permission. She was suddenly very afraid of disappointing this strange new mistress. Wouldn't just following Karen's lead by getting out of the Jeep look like boldness and impertinence to such a powerful lady? But Jamie burned to move!

Karen silently waited, sitting on the porch talking into her cell phone for twenty minutes, before returning to the Jeep.

"Shall we go in?" she asked lightly. As Jamie squirmed nervously in her seat, the squishing sound was embarrassingly loud. Karen grinned. "There's no sense in wasting all this good juice on old Army leather."

* * *

Susan, who stood watching from upstairs, never announced her presence. She remained in the house but out of sight until Thursday morning, when Karen and her man finally left.

She was not jealous. In fact, she exulted. She allowed Jamie to chain her in the backyard to the tree for the entire day, to abuse her as she saw fit-the best reward, for both of them, that Jackson would allow. But mainly that day Jamie slept naked upon the grass at her feet. Susan had time to ponder her master's designs, but she did not weep.

Eventually Jamie awoke and went to fetch the razor.

* * *

Jackson returned from his journey that night and Jamie and her mistress met him at the airport. As he stepped off the jetway Susan meekly presented him with three bright yellow ping-pong balls, each one bearing two names. Gravely, he reached up and pulled at Susan's hair, and the wig came right off. Without speaking he kissed her shaved head, then turned to nod at Jamie, who calmly watched the floor between them. If any of his fellow passengers were pausing to note their odd behavior, the three of them didn't notice.

Susan, strangely with tears in her eyes, led Jamie to the terminal's public restroom while Jackson bought coffee. Susan pulled Jamie into the farthest stall and immediately undressed.

"Take off your clothes," Susan said, rolling down her knee-high hose.

Jamie imagined she could sense Karen across town, maybe at a gas station or a mall. Jamie thought she Karen would have her doing exactly the same thing, and suddenly, strangely, she very much wanted to urinate. Soon both of them stood nude, barefoot, trembling at the slight chill. Susan grasped Jamie's cunt firmly in one hand, raised her chin with the other, and for several minutes they deeply, sweetly kissed.

Other women came and went in that busy restroom, but the two were not disturbed, and they never noticed anyway. Finally, Susan stuffed their clothes and shoes into the toilet. Water sloshed up onto her arms and over onto the tiles to wet their feet. Jamie almost panicked, nearly reaching out to stop Susan, but her training held her fast. Her only outward sign of distress was compassionately ignored by her mistress: Jamie pissed all down her legs.

"It is Jackson's command that we leave this restroom completely naked and lie down out there in the middle of the terminal and fuck."

Jamie sank to her knees on the cold tile, in the toilet water and urine. She did reach out then, her fingers pulling at the backs of Susan's calves. Jamie's heart pounded straight up into her ears, and she could barely hear her mistress's trembling voice. She felt long fingers tenderly rub her head, and Jamie screamed inside. They were both bald, naked, cunt-shaved, tattooed, pierced, splattered in piss and possessed by their own inexorable heat. Jamie's heart pounded straight down to her crotch; she was beside herself with lust, despite it all-lusting to be used, longing to be abused. They would certainly be arrested and then God knows what!

Susan was speaking, pulling Jamie up softly, her hands about her servant's face.

"Sweet girl, it is our master's command that we fuck. He intends for us to be arrested, tried, convicted, and imprisoned. He vows not to defend us nor to visit us in our confinement. In fact, he is already driving home to Sensaciala in the car we brought here for him."

Jamie stood slowly and wept against Susan's shoulder, even as she imagined thick women's hands shoving her against walls and cold steel bars. Biting her cunt. Clawing at her nipples and her belly. Fists in her ass.

Susan's hand was working its way inside her, and Jamie undulated against it until her mistress, crouched as never before in front of her slave, drove her clenched hand hard up against Jamie's aching womb. She cried out once, and that was enough.

They both had the courage to leave that stall, to exit the restroom and step, shivering, into the exact center of the concourse.

Jamie lay back on the weary all-purpose carpet, spread her legs, and easily accepted Susan's curled hand. People gasped, shouted, walked away and stopped and crowded about and hid children's eyes and dialed cell phones and pointed and laughed and ignored and threw money and knelt close and touched them and cheered and called security.

Jamie came the hardest when two teenaged boys, speaking what sounded like French, knelt behind Susan and took turns licking her asshole. Just watching her mistress cry out in surprise and pleasure like that was enough to blind Jamie to the rest of it for a very long time.

* * *

Nine security guards took turns with them before the police ever got their chance, and the baby each woman delivered while incarcerated was immediately remanded to the custody of the state.

Both the mistress and her servant endured sentences of equal and difficult length.

* * *

Upon the day of their convictions, Jackson moved to the mountains of West Virginia and established a specialized sort of academy. He sold Sensaciala to a Pentecostal church group, who was intending to use it as a guest house and retreat. The irony pleased him immensely.

When his two prizes were finally paroled, his peculiar influence granted them both immediate release from their parole obligations. He shipped them in clothes stitched from sack cloth straightaway to his estranged seventeen year-old son in England.

* * *

In England, both women were chained inside a high, bright room for many months. They were never bathed nor brought fresh water. They drank from their toilet. Out of necessity, and later only out of boredom, they helped each other pick at sores. Eventually, Susan accepted a phallus from her young master so immense that the bleeding in her vagina could not be stopped.

Jamie was made to sit between her mistress's faintly trembling legs and drink her cunt's last blood. Susan stroked Jamie's snarled, long hair, once, near the end.

But the words which she whispered were too light for her servant to hear.

* * *

Karen, aware of Jackson's designs, quietly waited for the bizarre arrest at the airport and for due process to take its inexorable effect. She waited then until the women bore their daughters. After a time, when her sources proved the wretches were gone overseas, Karen used her own peculiar influence to buy their little girls from the state, and those two small beauties immediately, officially, vanished.

The Japanese expatriates who came for them when the girls turned ten were extremely impressed with their training. The girls did not need to be drugged to embrace one another or any number of strange men and women and dogs. They marveled at how their orifices were so supple, pliant, and sweet to taste. But the Japanese were the most amazed when the horses were finally brought in.

Both girls survived, healed, and left with the foreigners. There was a large plantation in South America that had become a sort of refuge for men like those, where power and indulgence would not be denied by any morality or attempts at law. The girls would both die within a few weeks of being taken there, and the men would be contacting Karen, sooner or later, for more of the same.

* * *

Jamie was returned to Tampa some time later, arriving nearly dead, starving, filthy, and nude inside an otherwise empty container off-loaded from the super-cargo vessel Geronimo III. Karen showed her the video tapes of her daughter's week-long series of rapes, tortures, and degradations before the Japanese expatriates. Jamie wept with a feeling she could not begin to describe to her new, last, mistress. Every morning, as she ate a bowl of Karen's shit, she said a small prayer of thanks. Often she paused to stroke herself, though she knew it was forbidden, and occasionally she came.

* * *

Karen acquired Sensaciala from the Pentecostals shortly after Jackson sold it. The simplicity of the transaction gave Karen deep satisfaction for many years afterward. All she did was fuck the pastor a few times, show him the pictures and videotapes of it, and then hold out her hand and ask for the keys. He did call her a few names, plus he tried throwing water-and then cooking oil-on her, but her painter made sure that only happened once. After that, the pastor was gone to house his flock up on Nebraska Avenue somewhere, but of course he continued paying the Sensaciala mortgage out of his own funds.

And so Karen moved in almost before the pastor's semen was dried on her cunt. She even kept the crosses on the walls, though occasionally she did decorate them.

* * *

Jamie was twenty-nine when the North Dakota nursing home found her unconscious at its doorstep. She wore an impeccably clean white nightgown, laced to the throat, and she screamed when the attendants removed the impossibly large phalluses from her vagina and rectum. While Jamie was under heavy sedation later that night, three attendants crept into her room and fucked and beat her with equal savagery.

Her seizure near the end was unexpected, however, and she nearly choked to death on the penis that she'd bitten off.

Instead of killing her, the two attendants simply drove her and the unfortunate third attendant to Wisconsin and left them in a dumpster behind a grocery store. The attendant never regained consciousness, but Jamie did.

* * *

One night Karen disappeared.

Sensaciala was burned to the ground, and no trace of its mistress was left
behind. She had been carving her name onto the back of a fourteen year-old runaway girl when several large men wearing ski masks entered the house. The girl, chained in the center of the torture room, barely standing on her toes as her thumbs were pulled toward the ceiling, was unable to recall anything useful about the assailants. Except for when they raped her, of course, digging at the fresh knife wounds in her back. She was able to talk about how her cunt and ass were fucked at the same time while she still hung from the ceiling, how she got punched so much in the face that her left eye was permanently destroyed.

But what was left in her, on her, and around her amounted to a forensic plethora of nothing. No DNA matched anyone the Tampa police or the feds could find as a suspect, and no motive was apparent anyway. The case was closed relatively quickly, since no one ever came demanding justice for Karen or for the girl.

Unconscious when she had been dragged from the house, the girl was sent as a ward of the state to live in an orphanage, then a foster home. Her family was never found, nor did she volunteer any information about them. Within a few months, she was pregnant. A few months after that, she simply disappeared, walking near the bus station in the rain.

* * *

Karen's painter calmly discharged a shotgun into his mouth a few hours after driving up and seeing the mansion aflame. He left behind a canvas covered with his brains and blood, along with a note directing its sale at auction. His note requested that it be entitled "West Virginia". An anonymous buyer, through a representative lawyer, bought it at the auction for $425,000. The proceeds were intended, as written by the painter in his note, to be spent rebuilding Sensaciala as an art museum; but the money was embezzled by his lawyer, who bought a house in Italy and never returned.

* * *

Wearing the attendant's clothes, Jamie walked and hitch-hiked from North Dakota to Tampa. Twice she rode in the dark hot trunks of cars because the drivers were oddly afraid of her. Mostly, though, she just fucked the trucker or the car's driver and then rode quietly for a few hours. Once, seeing her vacant expression, a woman riding next to her in the back of a pickup truck put out a cigarette on Jamie's bare arm. Of course Jamie didn't flinch at all, which made the woman extremely agitated. Within a few minutes, the men in the truck administered the worst beating Jamie had received since the nursing home attendants had left her for dead.

She ate grass and bugs and whatever roadkill she came across. If she could make shit, she at that, but catching grasshoppers provided more regular sustenance. The few times her hitch-hiking rides bought her food, it was usually so wonderful and rich in comparison that her stomach turned, and often she puked it up. Nevertheless, she was grateful.

Upon seeing that Sensaciala was gone, Jamie merely turned and walked out onto Bayshore Boulevard. The SUV that hit her ripped her head off. Traffic was stopped and then diverted away from there for six hours. A frenzied chase ensued at one point when a stray dog ran up and took a loose fragment of her arm. It was finally caught, nine blocks away, resting under a tree next to a convenience store, gnawing contentedly on the bone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Copyright 2000 by bluepervina.

Feedback welcomed!