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From: Mr Slot <dalech33@optusnet.com.au>
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Subject: {ASSM} Write Club - Souvie v Father Ignatious <*>(FFF, toys, oral / MF )
Date: Mon, 9 Oct 2000 11:10:06 -0400
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Rules
3 hours on the honour system.
Words
Nat.
bomb, stationery, closet
Souvie
escort service, gazebo, pink
Slot
Olympic, perforate, reunion.
Result posted on ASSD
Please Enjoy
=========================
Lovin' to Go (FFF, toys, oral)
(A Trudy Tolliver Story)
-----
"You need four parts sugar, six parts potassium nitrate, and a small
container like a Coke bottle, and make sure to perforate it. Once you
have all the ingredients--"
I stared at the small television as I walked into the break room.
"What are we watching?"
"How to make a bomb," someone volunteered.
"It's a new daytime show. 'Sammy!' or something like that," Melissa
said. I sat down at the table with her, my back to the TV set.
Melissa worked in copy and we'd gone to the movies or to lunch a
couple of times. She was okay in a sort of bland, vanilla kind of
way.
"So what's new, Trudy?" she asked, offering me some of her grilled
chicken salad.
"Nothing," I said, taking a bite. "I'm thinking about taking some of
my vacation time."
"Where ya want to go?"
"I don't know, maybe someplace warm and exotic and far away from Mr.
Peterson's damn bellowing."
Dirk stuck his head in the doorway. "Trudy, Peterson is bellowing for
you."
I smiled ruefully at Melissa and took one last bite. "Jamaica, I
think. Yes, definitely Jamaica."
---
"You want to run that by me one more time," I said, trying to wrap my
brain around what my boss had just told me.
"What part of English don't you understand, Tolliver?" Mr. Peterson
said, rummaging in his desk for a cigar. "You're going undercover as
an escort."
"Escort as in escort service?"
"You know of another kind?" He gave up his search, and slammed the
desk drawer in frustration. Everyone at the office knew that Mrs.
Peterson was trying to get her husband to quit his cigars.
"Why me?"
"Because I just decided to make you this papers new investigative
reporter. You want it engraved in stone or something?"
"Okay, now why?" I settled back in my chair. I couldn't wait to hear
this explanation.
"You may or may not know this already, but my sister is married to
Councilman Voeks. Someone is blackmailing him."
"Isn't that a problem for the cops?" I interrupted.
"Normally, yes, except for the highly sensitive nature of this whole
thing. It's election year, and he's being bribed with porno
pictures."
I whistled. "Got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, huh?"
He waved a hand in the air. "My sister swears that they're doctored.
Either way, we need to find out who's behind it so that appropriate
measures can be taken."
I interrupted again. "How can he not know who's blackmailing him?"
If this Councilman Voeks was representative of our city government, we
were surely on our way to Hell in a handbasket.
Peterson frowned. "The blackmail pictures and demand arrived unsigned
by mail. He's supposed to deliver $30,000 by tomorrow at noon to an
abandoned building downtown, or else the pictures will be sent to the
local rag mags."
"Then how does he know this escort service is involved?"
"Shit, you're full of questions today, Tolliver! Because he's gone
through the escort service to acquire a date for society functions
when my sister was out of town. He swears the company is legit, never
a hint of anyone coming on to him or propositioning him, but something
doesn't sound right to me. And that's where you come in."
He tossed some papers across the desk at me.
"What's this? I asked, picking them up and thumbing through.
"Your application for employment and some other forms you'll need.
I've already placed the preliminary calls. Actually, I had Melissa
place them for me. I need as much information as you can get me
before 11am tomorrow."
I stopped flipping through the papers and pointed to one of them. "I
never had a physical."
"It's required, I guess to make sure the employees are in good
physical health. I had Dr. Rosetti fill out one for you."
"Dr. Rosetti from the county morgue?"
"He's a licensed doctor. It'll hold as long as no one goes checking
his AMA license." His chair squeaked as he rolled it back and stood
up. "Now shake your ass and get."
-----
I stopped at my apartment to get a small bag of clothes together.
According to my cover story I was Trudy Thicket, fresh off the bus
from Kansas and in desperate need of a job and place to stay.
I was debating on whether or not to change out of my jeans when Remy
stuck his head inside the door.
"Okay, you *are* home. The outer door was open so I just let myself
in," he explained, leaning against the doorjamb.
"Yep, but not for long. Whatcha need, Remy?" I gathered my hair up
in a ponytail.
Remy lived in the apartment below me, and was a private investigator.
The epitome of "tall, dark and handsome" he was the subject of many of
my late night erotic dreams. I'd never tell him that, though. We had
a nice, simple working relationship and I liked it that way, and I
guess he did, too. Sometimes fantasies are nicer when they never come
true.
"I don't need anything."
I looked him dead in the eye and raised my eyebrows.
"Okay," he said, smiling sheepishly. "My high school reunion is
coming up this weekend and I wanted to know if you'd go with me. I
don't want to go by myself."
"What about Maria?" Maria was his current love du jour.
"She's got to go out of town, her mom's sick."
"As long as you're positive she won't mind, then sure I'll go. It's
not formal is it?"
"My old high school? Nah, something casual is fine." He grinned and
hugged me. "Thanks, Trudy."
"No problem. Oh, while you're here, got any suggestions for subtly
altering my appearance? I don't need anything drastic or permanent -
just something so that I wouldn't be easily recognized." My picture
had been in the paper recently because of that big wrestling case, and
I didn't want to take the chance that anyone at the escort service
would recognize me.
"Hmmm. I've got that long black wig I wore last year when I was
investigating a company for insurance fraud. You could wear that;
it's not one of those super cheap ones where you can tell it's a wig.
And you could touch your eyebrows up with mascara. That way it won't
look like a dye job."
"Thanks, Remy, you're a lifesaver!" I kissed him on the cheek. I
could have sworn he blushed. "You go downstairs and find that wig, and
I'll just do the mascara touches and be down shortly."
-----
Discriminating Delights was in a high-class business slash residential
section of downtown. It decidedly was *not* what I'd been expecting.
The office was in a renovated colonial style home, traces of old
wrought iron fence posts framing the front entrance. The trim was
done in a light pink color, and there was a gazebo set off to the
side, a profusion of roses climbing up the trellis.
I walked up the brick path, and through the large oak doors. A
receptionist in a room off the foyer took my name and asked me to have
a seat. I looked around, feeling like a hick on her first time to the
big city. The understated elegance of the whole place had me
wondering if I'd gotten the address right.
"Mrs. Coopersmith will see you now." The secretary's voice broke
through my perusal of the room.
I shouldered my overnight bag, and walked through the door that the
secretary had gestured to. An older woman was inside, sitting behind
a large desk, and she smiled and stood up as I entered. "Trudy, so
nice to see you. Please, have a seat."
I sat in one of the plush chairs in front of her desk, and
automatically handed her the sheaf of papers that Mr. Peterson had
prepared for me.
She took the papers,and started rifling through them. She asked me
some basic questions: Where was I from? How long had I lived in
Dallas? Why I wanted to be an escort?
I'd rehearsed my answers to questions like these in the drive over,
and answered them with confidence.
Mrs. Coopersmith put me at ease. With her upswept hair, chic suit and
friendly ways, she reminded me of someone's well-to-do grandmother,
not the owner of a successful escort service and potential
blackmailer. I wondered what was wrong with her.
"Well, Trudy, all your paperwork is in order, and your physical checks
out just fine. I'm willing to take you on on a one week trial basis
if you're still interested."
"Oh, I am!"
"Good." She looked at the top paper again. "I understand that you
don't have any place to stay, is that right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Her laugh was as clear as newly spun glass. "Please, just call me
Constance. We're not *that* formal here at Discriminating Delights."
"Okay, Constance."
"Very good. Now, I'm writing down Cynthia's address. She's one of my
most popular girls and she's got a spare room you can stay in until
you get on your feet."
"Are you sure she won't mind?"
Constance handed me a piece of paper with an address on it. "She
won't mind if she likes her job."
She smiled and stuck out her hand. "Welcome to our family."
-----
Cynthia lived in an upscale condo with an Olympic sized swimming pool
directly behind it. I thought that if this was how most of the
escorts lived, I was in the wrong line of work.
A girl wearing workout clothes answered the door. "Hi, you must be
Trudy. Constance called to let us know you were coming over. I'm
Priscilla," she said, stepping aside to let me enter. From what I
could see of the condo during Priscilla's quick tour, it was almost as
nice as the company's office I'd just left.
Priscilla led me to a room at the end of the hallway upstairs. "This
is your room. I'm right across the hall, Cynthia's roommate, more or
less."
The room was huge. I could have fit my whole kitchen just in the
closet alone.
While I put my clothes away, I kept glancing at Priscilla from the
corner of my eye. She looked *awfully* familiar, but I couldn't quite
place her. "Where is Cynthia?" I asked, placing my empty bag under
the bed.
"It's her turn to do the grocery shopping. She should be back soon."
The phone started ringing and Priscilla reached across my bed to the
phone on the nighttable to answer it.
The conversation was brief and she scribbled something down on a piece
of paper. When she hung up she said, "That was Constance, you've got
a date tonight. Mr. Adams will pick up you at 8pm, for the opera."
"Already?" Damn that was quick.
"Yes, it doesn't take long for her to 'initiate' you to the business."
She laughed. "If you stay in this line of work, one thing you won't
lack for is a date. Do you have something to wear?"
"For the opera? No."
"You're about Cynthia's size. I'm sure you can find something in her
closet that's appropriate."
"I've got it!" I said, snapping my fingers and giving a Cheshire cat
grin. "You're Priscilla Princess aren't you?"
Her face turned a pale white. "Oh, God." She sat down on the bed.
"I knew someone was bound to recognize me."
"You're face was plastered in all the papers when your father threw
that 21st birthday bash for you last year. It's not everyday the
daughter of the premier oil baron of Texas turns 21."
"You're not going to tell my father what I do for a living, are you?"
she asked in a quiet voice, looking up at me with worry in her eyes.
"He thinks I'm modeling."
"I won't tell," I answered, sitting beside her and putting my arm
around her shoulders. Call me crazy, but the cute little waif was
already starting to grow on me. Maybe because she reminded me of the
kid sister I'd never had.
"I need to tell you something before Cynthia gets home," Priscilla
said, her voice hushed and almost urgent.
"Priscilla, get your bitch ass down here and help put up these
groceries!" The front door slammed shut, and I could hear high-heels
tapping across the tile floor.
"Too late," Priscilla said with resignation. "Coming!" she yelled
back and left me sitting there on the bed.
I wondered what she had been about to say.
-----
Within the first five minutes of talking to Cynthia I'd come to the
conclusion that she was a self-centered, stuck up little cunt. She'd
informed me that if I was to be staying there, it was her way or the
highway.
"Some of us girls do a little work on the side," she explained while
she sifted through her closet, looking for something that would fit
me. "You live here, you're going to do it, too. If not, one call to
Constance and you're ass is back on the street."
"What do you mean by 'a little work'?" I already had a pretty good
idea, but I wanted to hear her say it.
"You look pretty smart, Trudy, I'm sure you can figure out what I
mean." Cynthia tossed me a black strapless gown, floor length - a
Versace, if I guessed right. It probably cost about a month of my
salary. "Ruin it and you'll pay me for it." She crossed to her
dresser. It was only when she started to sort through her keys that I
noticed one of the drawers had a lock on it. She unlocked it and took
out a small wirebound book. "For the after hours stuff we all have
code names. Yours will be . . . Trixie, I think." She wrote
something down. "I've got an appointment with Sam tonight, about 1am
or so. It's a two-person job so you'll come with me. That way I can
watch you in action and know if you're going to give me any shit."
She snapped the book closed and gave me a look that practically dared
me to make trouble. "Any questions?"
Without a word, I turned around and walked back to my room.
-----
Mr. Adams turned out to be a kindly old gentleman, a retired lawyer
who was so polite to me, you'd have thought we were related. He took
me to see Phantom of the Opera and I had one of the best times I'd had
in a long while. He told me all about his son who'd taken over the
firm and just opened a branch office in Ft. Worth, how his wife had
died recently of cancer, and how his granddaughter had just been
accepted to Vassar.
He dropped me off back at Cynthia's condo and gave me a chaste kiss on
the cheek. With a smile and a wave, he climbed back into the limo.
I had less than 30 minutes until the "1am or so" that Cynthia had
mentioned earlier. I went up to my room to change clothes. She
hadn't said what to wear, so I grabbed one of the few outfits I'd
brought: denim mini-skirt, blue western-style shirt and some low
sandals. I went to walk back downstairs when I noticed that
Priscilla's light was still on. I tapped quietly on the door and then
opened it. She was lying on the bed, dressed in a frilly nightgown,
an open book on the bed in front of her.
"How was your date?"
"Suprisingly, I had a great time."
She smiled. "Good. I'm sorry I didn't have time to warn you about
Cynthia earlier."
"It's okay," I said. "Are you in her little book?"
The smile became a laugh. "Oh, no! Cynthia told me early on that I was
'butt ugly' so thankfully I'm spared from having to sell myself."
"Are all the escort girls in on it?"
"No, just the ones that want to be. The exception is anyone who stays
here with Cynthia is automatically drafted into it."
"No one busts her?"
"They could go to Constance, but she wouldn't believe them. Cynthia
is her niece."
That explained it.
Cynthia appeared in the doorway. "You ready?"
I nodded.
"Then let's go."
-----
"Oh yeah, that's it baby, right there. Fuck me with your long tongue.
Mmmmmmm Don't stop now. Fuck it!"
Sam turned out to be short for "Samantha." She was built like a
linebacker, talked like a sailor, and handed enough money to Cynthia
to make Midas smile with glee. I was quickly learning more than I'd
ever wanted to know about lesbian sex. We'd gone through several
toys, some I couldn't identify, and both my ass and pussy felt like
they'd gone ten rounds with Evander Hollifield. Sam liked to give as
good as she got.
Cynthia had taken perverse pleasure in telling her how much I *loved*
doing women, and vice versa. Now, with my ass stuck up in the air
like the Goodyear blimp, and my face being squeezed between Sam's
meaty thighs, I wondered if I'd have a blister on the end of my tongue
come the morning. It seemed like I'd been tongue-fucking and
clit-licking Sam for hours.
While I was getting up close and personal with every hair on Sam's
bushy mound, Cynthia was using a strap-on to go at me from behind.
Every time she rammed the fake penis into my pussy, it shoved me
forward deeper into Sam's crotch. If Cynthia was trying to make me
come, we were going to be there a long while. Or so I thought.
I jumped as I felt a vibration against my clit. I came up for air and
looked down between my legs. Cynthia had picked up a small silver
vibrator and was using it against my clit, while she continued to fuck
me from behind. Okay, maybe I would be coming soon.
"Get back here," Sam growled, she reached to take a handful of my hair
and I quickly bent back to her pussy. The last thing I needed was my
wig coming off. I don't know how it'd stayed on this long - Remy must
have used industrial strength tape.
"Yes, baby, give it to mama. Make me squeal like your pig, honey.
Fuck this pussy good." Sam was back to her verbal encouragement,
gripping the bedsheet in both hands and grinding her hips up against
my face.
I could feel my own orgasm imminent, all because Cynthia had found my
one weakness - the old vibrator on the clit trick. I bucked my hips
in counterpoint to Sam, trying to reach that exalted plateau.
"Ungggggghhhhhhhhhhyeahhhhhhh!" Sam screamed, her whole body
stiffening. I quickly raised my head before it got smashed in the
viselike grip of her legs.
Cynthia applied her tools with more vigor now, and my own orgasm swept
over me like a rush of icy hot water. I cried out in pleasure, and
swore I could see stars at the periphery of my vision.
I collapsed on the bed, out of breath and out of energy. Sam leaned
over and smacked me on the ass. "Damn you're a hot little piece of
ass. This one's a keeper, Cyn."
That was *not* what I wanted to hear.
-----
I awoke at 8 o'clock the next morning, feeling soreness in my limbs
that had nothing to do with the hard mattress I'd slept on. I
stumbled into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. I
didn't have much time to find out who was behind the blackmail scheme,
and I needed my wits about me.
Stumbling back into the bedroom, I tugged on a pair of sweatpants and
a tank top. I gathered my hair up in a loose knot on the top of my
head, and went to go downstairs to find something to eat. I noticed a
wad of cash on the dresser; Cynthia must have left it there while I
was passed out from exhaustion. I quickly counted it - $1675. Damn!
I never knew I was *that* good. I shoved the cash down into the
bottom of my dufflebag, and headed down the hall.
On my way downstairs I noticed something that hadn't really registered
with me the previous day - along the walls were beautiful photographs
of prominent American landmarks. There were some fantastic European
scenes mixed in among them, but what was unique, other than the
quality of the photos, was that Cynthia was in every one of them. She
must really have traveled to . . .
I let the thought trail off as I started playing back the events of
the past twenty four hours. I backtracked and knocked at Priscilla's
door. She opened the door, hair all sleep tousled and eyes barely
opened. "Trudy."
"Priscilla, you said your father thinks that your modeling. What
makes him think that? Just your word?"
"No, I send him some pictures every now and then."
"Do you go to a studio to have them taken?"
Her brow wrinkled, trying to figure out where I was going with all
this. "No, Cynthia takes them."
"And she does such a good job, your dad thinks they were
professionally done?"
"Well," she chewed her bottom lip, "she scans the pictures in and then
uses this high-tech photo manipulation program to make them seem like
they're ads that would appear in magazines."
I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my system in full force.
"Is Cynthia home now?"
"No, she usually goes to the gym every morning for a couple of hours."
"Excellent." I hurried back down the hallway to Cynthia's room.
Luckily for me, the door wasn't locked.
"What are you doing?" Priscilla asked, following me into the room.
"Trying to catch a blackmailer," I answered, deciding to start at the
computer desk. I already knew where she kept her tally book, I needed
to find the disk where hopefully, she kept the pictures on.
Deciding to trust Priscilla, I filled her on who I really was, and
what I was doing there. She seemed awestruck and a more than a little
excited. She offered to stand at the head of the stairs and be my
"lookout."
There wasn't any sign of the disk, or possible negatives, in the
computer desk, on the computer hard drive, anywhere in the dresser or
under the bed. I started in the closet.
Priscilla stuck her head back in the room. "Any luck?"
"Not yet." I wiped the back of a hand across my forehead. "Is there
anything that Cynthia is obsessive about? Something that she never
leaves the house without or something she can't do without?" If she'd
taken it with her to the gym, I was out of luck.
Priscilla thought for a minute. "She's addicted to Oreos, but I don't
see where that would help."
Oh, but it had helped. I went back to the dresser and opened the
bottom right hand drawer. Underneath some boxes of cards, stationery
and pens, I found what I'd passed by earlier - a bag of Oreo cookies.
I took it out of the drawer and eased out the plastic tray of black
and white cookies. There, left in the package, was a blue computer
disk and an envelope.
I slid the cookies back in the package and replaced it back in the
drawer. I found a metal file in her makeup tray and used it to jimmie
the lock on the top drawer. With disk, negatives and code book in
hand, I headed back to my own room, Priscilla trailing behind.
I threw all my stuff into my bag, and slipped on my tennis shoes. I
slung it over my shoulder.
"Where are you going?"
"To the newspaper. I've got to get this stuff to my boss." I stopped
and gave her a quick hug. "Are you going to be okay, Priscilla?"
She shrugged. "Oh sure. I'll claim ignorance, and probably get fired
anyway, but that's okay. According to my dad I'm just 'spreading my
wings' and will come to my senses sooner or later."
"I'm in the book if you ever want to get together and do something.
Something that doesn't require code names and lesbian encounters,
please."
She laughed. "You've got it."
-----
"Remy, I do believe that you make the *best* margaritas I've ever
tasted." I licked the salt from my lips and sighed in satisfaction.
"You flatter me too much, ma cherie," he replied, his Cajun drawl
drifting around me like flower petals.
We were out back on his patio, enjoying the rest of the lazy Friday
afternoon.
"You sure you don't want to start your vacation tomorrow, instead of
hanging around to go with me to my reunion?"
"Hey!" I protested. "I gave you my word I'd go, and besides, it's
only a two day wait." I could hear Jamaica practically shouting my
name.
I'd gotten the stuff from Cynthia's room to Mr. Peterson in plenty of
time. Councilman Voeks had pulled a few strings at the police
department to keep the whole thing, and the specific details,
hush-hush, and by noon, Cynthia was taken into custody, and the rest
of the women involved in her little extracurricular activities rounded
up.
In gratitude for my snappy little detective work, Councilman Voeks was
paying for my vacation. An all expense paid, seven day trip to
Jamaica was mine for the asking. And let me tell you, I asked. I
didn't even have to ask to bring along a friend, he suggested it
himself. After all, what vacation is complete unless you have someone
to share it with. To that end, with a little digging I unearthed
Priscilla's number and invited her along. I thought it was the least
I could do since she'd been a kind of help to me.
I felt a few twinges of guilt at what I'd done because of Mrs.
Coopersmith; the nice lady didn't deserve to have her business raided
like that. I told Remy about my misgivings.
"Constance Coopersmith?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Didn't you read today's paper? She was listed in Cynthia's little
book, too. Went by the name of 'Candy' I think."
My guilt melted away. I'd wondered what was wrong with her, now I
knew.
"Remy, are we the only two sane people left in Dallas?"
"I don't know, Trudy. Sane is relative to everyone."
"You're right. Now, what should we toast to?"
Remy touched his glass against mine. "How about good friends?"
I clinked my glass against his."Good friends who don't make me play
footsies with big-boned women named 'Sam'."
Remy through his head back and laughed. "Trudy, you a truly one of a
kind."
I smiled. "Thanks, Remy." I added under my breath, "I think."
-----
THE END
=========================
Bang, Bang, You're Dead (MF <*>)
(c) September 2000 Father Ignatius
FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com
-----
Write Club Duel
Opponent: Souvie (souvie@netdot.com)
Referee: Mr Slot (dalech33@optusnet.com.au)
Special rules: None.
Challenge Words:
Souvie: escort service, gazebo, pink
Nat: bomb, stationery, closet
Mr Slot: Olympic, perforate, reunion
-----
When I was a teacher, I got quite ho-hum about bomb scares. The
first was was pretty memorable, though. I recall doing all the
right things--keeping calm, exhibiting a relaxed attitude to keep
from scaring the kids, directing them to the gazebo at the bottom
of the garden for roll-call, having them file quickly, but in an
orderly fashion, towards the nearest exit, teacher to be the last
one out of the class, leave all doors and windows wide open to
dissipate the blast, the whole nine yards.
And then the Deputy Headmistress zoomed into the room, chivvied
the kids into a panicking, stampeding horde that got jammed in the
staircase (two kids got trampled) and broke glass getting out of
the window before running screaming off into the suburban
hinterland, not to be seen at roll-call or for the rest of the
day. She shat me out for my laggardliness, the bitch, but our
relations were already as strained as they could get, so no loss.
We had started out on the standard neutrally cordial terms of new
colleagues but things went rapidly downhill. This was a shame
because she was intensely fuckable. Her name was Anna-Marie van
der Westhuizen and she had Absolutely No Sense Of Humour. This I
discovered when, as would any red-blooded male not actually dead,
I started try to chaff her into bed. Furthermore, she had a good,
thick coating of Dutch Reformed Church mentality behind her.
Frankly, we had zip in common beyond a strong physical attraction
that I wasn't even sure was mutual. I certainly lusted after her
and, in the face of her scornful rejections, fell back on the
standard male rationalisation that her hostility was a measure of
her doubt that she had the strength to resist me. I might even
have been right. Who knows? It was moot, though, especially
after the day I discovered that her friends called her "Bunny" and
found it funny.
One result of this was, if I opened the classroom doors and
windows to "dissipate the force of the blast", she would--as she
now did--forcefully and self-righteously shut and lock all the
doors and windows and in the words of the Health and Safety
Officer, "contain and accentuate the blast". Turns out that she
knew more than we did about that, though; there never was any bomb
but there was plenty of petty theft. The one time the Deputy
headmistress was off sick, the doors and windows stayed open and,
when it was all over, the school stationery cupboard had been
cleaned out of five hundred bucks worth of supplies.
After that, bomb scares became pretty routine. We all got into
the routine of trooping off down the garden and I got to stand up
in the gazebo, right where the shards of flying glass would cut me
up for the amusement of the kids, and take roll-call. Then we'd
stand around and the kids would flirt and bullshit and sell each
other dope and fight and sneak off in pairs into the bushes and so
on--the standard high-school kid repertoire. When the cops and
the sniffer dogs finally arrived, we'd watch them go through the
whole school for bombs, room by room and closet by closet, and
find nothing.
The most fun thing was when the dogs would insist on someone's
locker being opened. One time a girl who'd been surprised by her
period had to open her locker to reveal bloodstained underwear
that the Dobermanns wanted sacrificed to them. And another time,
one of the dogs that had been on the airport run sniffed out a
bunch of cocaine and marijuana stashes. The Deputy Headmistress
like to died of shame and the relevant kids got their best excuse
ever on the topic of "Why I Did No Homework".
After we'd had enough bomb scares it all settled down into
routine. The whole circus took around ninety minutes so two
lessons out of the teaching day were completely torpedoed.
The final stage, after we'd all trooped back to class, the cops
would interview whoever took the telephone call announcing the
bomb. How long did you keep the caller on the line? What time,
exactly, did the 'phone ring? At what time, exactly, did the call
end? What were the exact words of the caller? What time did they
say the bomb would explode? Where did they say the bomb was
located? Why was there a bomb at all? What kind of bomb was it?
What sex was the caller? Did they sound cultured, irrational or
what? Was there and background noise--machinery, street traffic,
voices? Anything at all to try and establish a pattern on
whodunnit.
One day, I happened to be in the front office, transferring the
Deputy Headmistress's latest bunch of memos from my pigeon-hole to
the waste-paper basket when the 'phone rang. The secretary was in
the Deputy Headmistress's office taking dictation so I picked up.
Big mistake--it was the next bomb scare and the subsequent
interview took a whole 'nother chunk out of my day. I was mildly
interested to pick up, from what was said by the cops in referring
to earlier interests, that there is quite an art to making bomb
threat calls. A minor form of performance art, you might say. It
matters a lot, in police circles, what you do and don't say and
how you do or don't say it. They are endlessly seeking to tie
different threats together against the day, they hope, when they
tie the threats to individuals. Nothing upsets them more than a
bomb scare that doesn't fit into an existing pattern; it means
there's a new kid on the block and they have nothing, absolutely
nothing, to go on. They have a lousy job.
All this eventually faded into memory following an unfortunate
understanding involving me and one of the prettier, hornier Grade
10s. Teaching and I decided that we weren't for each other and,
rather than face the labyrinthine administrative procedures
concomitant with a legal dismissal in these enlightened times, I
was invited to resign. The Deputy Headmistress unblinkingly gave
me a rip-roaringly good reference, designed to get me off the
premises and into a better job as soon as could be managed. I
soon found myself going steadily crazy with boredom doing office
work in a large corporate.
The job was "better" in terms of money only (nothing except
nursing pay worse than teaching). Saturated in stultifying
boredom of well-paid routine, these offices can get pretty
childish as under-utilised brains try and find ways of keeping
themselves fully occupied. The office grapevine hums and thrums
to the least little snippet, be it real, made up or misunderstood.
There is petty bickering over the flexitime records and whether
someone did, or did not, arrive three minutes into core time and
so on and on and yawningly on. This is the sort of atmosphere
that leads to the expensive appointment of motivational
consultants and productivity measurers and what all. This tends
to stir up interest as people fear for their jobs and either are
or are not fired but it eventually wanes and the cycle wearily
repeats itself in a fresh enlargement of the administrative
overhead.
One welcome variation is provided by the arrival of a
physically-attractive female consultant. She provides material
for prurient speculation around the tea-table about her
relationship status, her desperation level for the relief of her
psycho-sexual tensions and who the right man (or men) for the job
might be. The racier spirits might make book on who the lucky guy
is and the traditional lies are told with greater or lesser
conviction and it usually dies as the newcomer ceases to have
novelty value or, through a failure in good taste, rejects all
come-ons and so takes on the inevitable label of
"either-frigid-or-a-lesbian-who-cares-which?"
One day, it was different. We all vacated out cubicles to
gather-round-folks and welcome the new motivational consultant and
who should it be but Bunny van der Westhuizen? What the fuck was
she doing there? And as a "motivational consultant"? Her
schoolmarm clothes had been replaced by executive woman power
suiting and the schoolmarm bunned hair by a stunning hair-do:
short, glossy and sleeked back. The Dutch Reformed Church does
Lilith Crane. She was stunning and there were the usual
anonymous, unattributable little grunting oohs and aahs from the
gathered bull-penners. She caught sight of me during the
chairman's welcoming speech and looked startled and annoyed. She
was not charmed at the thought of a reunion with yours truly. For
my part, I scented the chance of some ill-intentioned fun.
I approached her afterwards and, as a good Christian, she tried to
start fresh with a clean slate. It was a brave but hopeless
attempt.
"Hi, Bunny, whatcha doing out of the classroom?"
"Hello, again, Simon. Please don't call me that. I was hoping we
could work well together."
"Sure thing, Bunny. Whatcha doing out of the classroom?"
"I used my retrenchment package from when the school closed to do
an MBA. I'd got about as far up the tree as the school was going
to get me so I started out on a new direction. Many of the skills
are relevant; men in the workplace are little different from
high-school boys."
"They sure aren't, I'll give you that. Fixated on pussy and
getting pissed, you mean?"
She flushed. "Please don't talk dirty. Let's please work well
together."
"Sure thing, Bunny. I didn't know the school had closed." Didn't
much care either, frankly. It was a dump. It had even been
cruelly and accurately lampooned in a Wilbur Smith novel as a cram
school for spoiled brats whose parents could afford to bribe their
kids' way into enrolment when their list of sins got so black or
so long that none of the respectable schools in Cape Town would
take them.
"Yes, more than two years ago, now. It came as quite a shock to
all of us, I must say." This was either monumental naivety or
monumental spin-doctoring--the dump had been on the skids for
years and everyone knew it. "I dare say you saw the reports in
the papers?"
I hadn't actually, for whatever reason.
"No. What happened, Bunny?"
"You didn't hear? Someone bombed the gazebo. Several of the
children were wounded and the teacher taking roll-call was
killed."
The chairman turned round at my bark of laughter and came over
before Bunny could fully express her deep anger at my
insensitivity to the fate of my successor. Oozing professional,
distinguished-grey charm, he said, "I see you two know each
other?"
"I worked with Simon at my last job," muttered Bunny, caught
between wanting to slap my face and truckling to the boss.
"Yes, indeed," I said swiftly, "Bunny works for the "escort
service" I use to keep our Japanese visitors occupied over
weekends." I used Reagan bunnies ostentatiously to put the quotes
around "escort service" and winked laddishly as the chairman
reeled and blanched and beat a hasty retreat.
"You absolute bastard, Simon!" hissed Bunny, humanity cracking
through the thick Dutch Reformed veneer. She stalked away to hide
in the ladies and, with luck, bawl her eyes out, the bitch. I saw
the chairman asking the writhing, wrong-footed head of personnel
pointed questions. Before the end of the afternoon, the grapevine
was completely up-to-speed on Anna-Marie using the name "Bunny" in
her second, after-hours career as a call-girl. As the authority
on Bunny, the book-making lads round the tea-table were anxious to
know the gorey details.
"So, Simon, why's she called 'Bunny'?"
"Only one reason I can think of," I said, with wink and leer. And
they nudged each other and chortled appreciatively.
"So, have you been there?"
"Have I _been_ there?" I said, picking my words carefully and
rolling my eyes theatrically. Of course, this was taken to mean,
"Is the Pope Catholic?" More nudging and chortling.
"So, Simon, what's it like?"
"What is it _like_?" More eyeball-rolling.
"Yes, man. No bullshitting, now. What is it like?"
"It's very keen." They crowed a locker-room, masculine-group
laugh and looked round furtively. Female eyes all round the floor
hooded over. It was only too obvious that men were unashamedly
being men again.
I leaned forward confidentially. They leaned forward to me.
"I want this to remain strictly between us," I said, knowing full
well that whatever I next said would be all over the building in
twenty minutes. They nodded eagerly, in unison, swearing undying
discretion, the lying bastards. Their heads crowded together
around mine while female ears came out on stalks from nearby
desks.
"Well," I said, "it's a little embarrassing but, frankly, I
couldn't keep up with her. Enough is never enough, know what I
mean?" They nodded as one man. Yes, they knew what I meant. Like
hell; I didn't even know what I meant. But from that time forward
Bunny got hit on by everyone in the office, by Japanese visitors,
mail mean, men delivering water bottles for the cooler, the works.
And, boy, did she know who was responsible, the frigid bitch.
Just like at the school, though, things couldn't get any worse so
there was no percentage in bothering to mend fences. It was more
fun that way, anyway.
* * *
Until the day came when we had a bomb scare. People were crowding
out of the tea-room after watching yet another South African
hopeful, nationally touted for months as a sure-thing gold
medallist, finish seventh or eighteenth or forty-first or
whatever. South Africa's greatest Olympic distinction to date was
to supply the first arrest for trying to smuggle steroids through
Sydney International Airport. I came into the room shortly before
the chairman appeared on the floor with a gold-lace-enhanced
policeman.
"I need your attention please," he said into the hush. "We have a
problem. We have been advised of a bomb in the building."
Everyone reached for their coats and started to evacuate. There
have been twenty bombs in Cape Town in the last two years. the
time for shrugging off hoaxes has passed.
"_Wait_, please, everybody. Do not evacuate the building. I
repeat, do not evacuate the building. The situation is somewhat
unusual. Colonel Swart here will explain."
The colonel of police spoke in flat, guttural tones. "We have
been informed that the bomb has been placed low down in the
building. The telephone call advising of the bomb specifically
warned us that, if there was an attempt to evacuate the building,
the bomb would be detonated. It is therefore most important,
ladies and gentlemen, than no-one, and I mean no-one, tries to
evacuate the building."
There was the briefest silence and then bedlam. Anything more the
colonel had to say was lost. Eventually--and this is 'way the
condensed version--things calmed down and people began reacting,
each in their own way, to the prospect of imminent death. A
couple of people, incredibly, tried to carry on with their work.
Mostly we gathered in corners and talked nonsense in hushed
voices. Sounds of sobbing came from various quarters. But
boredom works even in the face of death and eventually someone
said flippantly, "Well, if I'm going to die, I'm going to die
happy, perving those Russian gymnast girlies." There was an
uncertain bark of laughter and a general movement back towards the
tea room. I joined in, sort of. This took me past Bunny's
office. I noticed as I went past that Bunny seemed to be taking
things worse than most. She was sitting, white-faced and
trembling, on her visitor chair, knees clamped together, hands
white-knuckle clasped. She might have been trying to pray.
When she saw me, something leaped into her eyes. Some of it was
pleading. Please don't tease me. Please don't tease me. I can't
take it. I can't it. She was ready to break, waiting for the
shrapnel and glass to perforate her pretty pink pelt and brink her
life to an untimely, unfulfilled, unprepared end. Some of it was
longing. You're my friend, really, aren't you? Please be my
friend. Please.
"Hi, Anna-Marie," I said, walking gently in and closing the door.
the blinds were already closed, so we were immediately private. I
sat next to her on the desk, and put my hand on her shoulder.
"Are you maintaining, skattie?" They were the first kind words I'd
said to her in years. She slumped back, looking down. Her head
shook once, vigorously. She wasn't maintaining. Her hand came up
and covered mine. It was trembling. The other hand came up and
she clasped my big hand in both her small ones.
"Oh, Simon, I'm so scared." A whisper.
"There, there." I dug in the box of Kleenex on her desk and dabbed
at the tears on her cheeks. I sank down on my knees and put an
arm round her shoulders. "There, there."
"Oh, Simon." She turned and hugged me, very hard.
"There, there." I hugged her back and found that she was kissing
me and crying and hugging me and trembling and breathing in
shuddering, sighing gasps. Startled, I struggled to stand
upright. She stood with me, and pressed her cheek to my chest as
she hugged me desperately hard and leaned back on her desk. My
bastard, ungentlemanly body betrayed me and, bomb or no bomb, my
trousers inexorably tented out as my cock reacted to the woman I'd
wanted to fuck for years.
There was no way she couldn't notice.
"Sorry," I said, feeling my ears burning with embarrassment. It
was the first apology she'd ever got from me. I tried awkwardly
to stick my bum out and get out of contact but her fierce hug
dropped from my chest to my waist and I felt her small hands on my
buttocks, pressing me back into her stomach.
"Oh, Simon," she said, and one of her hands left my butt and moved
in between us. She fumbled at the catch of my trousers until,
impatiently, I opened them for her. She slid the front of my
underpants down and hooked the waistband under my balls. She
lifted her legs and clasped calves to my waist. Her skirt fell
back, revealing thigh-high stockings and--would you
believe?--sensible, white cotton panties. Here was a woman who
hadn't dressed that morning in anticipation of being undressed by
a lover. And, despite all, there was a damp patch at the crotch.
I levered the panties under her buttocks but couldn't get them off
while her legs were gripping my waist. They gave no signs of
giving up, nor did I want them to. I found I could lift them just
high enough to thrust my cock under the waistband, scraping
deliciously on the taut edge and I felt forward for her warm,
welcoming wetness. I shuffled around a bit, trying to get the
exact right place--my arms were above hers and around her
shoulders and I couldn't see what was going on down there. I
wriggled around, embarrassed, poking around.
"There!" said Bunny as I hit the bull's eye. I pushed gently
forward and sank slowly into her as her head went slowly back with
a long gasp. I saw her gazing sightlessly up at the ceiling. She
rolled back, pulling me forward, and balanced on her buttocks,
clinging monkey-like round my neck, her face in my shoulder, her
calves still gripping my waist.
I pulled gently back and she pulled me firmly forward again.
Oh, Simon. Oh, Simon. Oh, Simon. She chanted the time like a
little monkey coxswain, leading me forward through the race,
slowly building the pace.
Oh Simon, oh Simon, oh Simon. Slowly faster and faster and
faster, until Simon, Simon, Simon, SimonSimonSimon. Simon! Simon!
Simon! Simon! And we were collapsing slowly down onto her desk.
Out on the floor outside, by the bull-pen, the chairman's voice
could be heard saying, "Ladies and gentleman, Colonel Swart
advises that the bomb has been found and defused and removed from
the building. Please carry on as if nothing had happened."
I left Bunny's office, tie round my ear, ostentatiously zipping my
fly. One of the book-making lads saw me and his jaw dropped.
Did you...? asked his eyebrow. Is the Pope Catholic? replied my
smile and wink. A small gaping crowd gathered outside Bunny's
door. I heard it slam irritatedly as I made my way down to the
bathroom.
* * *
"Did you hear that one about the woman in the airliner when all
the engines failed?" i asked in the tea-room next day, "There
these passengers all are, facing certain death and wondering how
to go about it and the first one to crack is this woman, you see.
She goes to the front and tears off all her clothes and throws
them at the other passengers. She stands there, stark naked, and
shouts, 'Who's going to make me feel like a woman, one last time
before I die?' Well, there's this stunned silence, you see, but
eventually this Australian stands up in row three and says, 'I'll
do it'. And he tears off all his clothes, too, and throws them at
her, and says, 'Wash these, bitch'."
I laughed uproariously at the punch-line--it always cracks me up.
Most of the tea-room laughed with me. Oddly enough, Bunny didn't
laugh. Maybe she'd heard it before.
-----
ENDS
- The Stories of Father Ignatius are at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Stories.html
- I would be pleased to hear from you, at
FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not you liked this
story, and why.
- Thank you for reading me.
Stories now available at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/mr_slot/www
in Text, HTML, PDF, and Palm Pilot Format.
It's always funny till someone gets hurt...
and then it's absolutely friggin hysterical
--- Running with scissors.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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