Jenna Takedown: NADS Buster
By Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com)
Chapter 2, A troubled double donging and a heady evening at Hank's Hideeho


Warning: This work of fiction contains frank language and explicit sex 
and violence. No one under 18 permitted to read without the express 
consent of parent or guardian. 



Copyright 1999 Avida Dolor 

Chapter 2 


Michelle looks down at Brad, squinting with one eye like she was 
sighting down a gun barrel. "Oh, cool," she says nonchalantly. She 
smiles at me, that crooked front tooth looking so cute. "You look good, 
Jen." 

"Thanks, babe. You looking pretty fine yourself. Like, are you pumped, 
or what?" 

Michelle is streaming sweat down her neck and bare chest, the 
perspiration running in rivulets in the valleys between the thick 
pulsing blue veins that coil across her massive pecworks like flesh 
fiber-optics. She's got a modest bustline by big-girl standards, but, 
like Brooke, with pecs like these, who needs nay-nays? The small, stiff 
brown nipples spread wide in rising arcs as Michelle tightens her tit 
tension, the pec plateaus shifting like continental drift. "Been 
benching," Michelle offers by way of explanation. "Really got into it." 
I don't wanna ask what she pushes lately. I bet it's more than I do. 
She's not as big as me, overall, but she's still got bigger arms than 
me, and her pecs look totally superior to mine, chiseled like Easter 
Island tit totems, and not just because I have a big girlie rack and she 
doesn't. Michelle is 20 now, and never got into Titanic. She got out of 
Tonya way ahead of us and we got her a supply of Largesse--this was in 
the pre-T days--which did her pretty nice, considering she was already 
18. She went from 6-0, 185 to 6-1-1/2, 215, and the only reason her 
weight is so low is she's got virtually no bodyfat. She has so many tie-
ins showing it leaves me tongue-tied. "What's with the guy?" she 
wonders, casually belching loud and long like a frat pig. 

"This is my ex-boyfriend, Brad," says Stef, throwing the blanket aside. 
"You remember the story about Brad?" 

"Oh, shit," Michelle hisses. "The guy who raped you." 

"One of 'em," says Stef. "One's already dead. He discovered that what 
goes around, comes around. But this one is the chief culprit, since he 
was the one who should've been protecting me from his *friends.* Right, 
Brad?" Stef stands over Brad, her teeth bared savagely, and stares down 
into his terrified face. Brad makes grunting noises from under the duct 
tape and twitches around as much as he can in a hog tie, which isn't 
much at all. Stef really knows how to truss someone. Then she pulls his 
underwear down to his knees and his poor exposed little dick is hanging 
there looking soft and vulnerable. Stef is flushed with excitement 
again--she's blushing a hot neon pink all over her neck and cheeks and 
she's starting to breathe hard, her fists clenching in a violent rhythm, 
her feet pawing the floor like a brooding mare's. 

"If you kick him in the balls too hard, you could kill him, Stef," I 
warn. 

"I *intend* to kill him," she says. 

"But not in one shot," I go. "You wanna make it last, don't you?" 

"Why kill him now at all?" Michelle wonders. "He's a rapist. Why not 
just let him suffer for a while? I know a girl who has a farm in the 
hills with a *real* dungeon in it. You take him up there, you can just 
leave him for a week to starve in the pitch black. Give him nothing but 
bread and water and let him shit and piss on the floor in the corner. 
Then go up and torture him at your convenience, after you demoralized 
him first. Think about it: He spends a week suffering in solitary, 
knowing it's only gonna get worse when you let him out." 

Michelle knows a lot about solitary. That's where she spent the better 
part of three years in Tonya. "Wow, Michelle, it sounds like you've done 
this for a client," I go. "Did he pay extra for the bread and water?" 

"We don't have time to take him up to the hills now," says Stef before 
Michelle has a chance to reply to my wisecrack. "We have a show with 
Tonya tonight." 

"Well, if you want to beat him to death now, make it snappy, girl," says 
Michelle as she idly scratches under her thong. "Gotta shower and put my 
outfit on. Got a guy here in an hour. Followed by four more. This is a 
big work night for me." 

Stef should've called on the cell. This isn't going right. "Why don't we 
take him to Tonya's and leave him there overnight, then take him up to 
the hills tomorrow?" I suggest. "Tonya won't mind." 

Stef pauses and thinks. Then she grabs Brad up with one hand under an 
armpit and, with a grunt, lifts his 220 or so pounds in the air so he's 
dangling with his knees off the floor. Then she punches him in the face 
so hard blood squishes around her knuckles like she hit a fistful of 
ketchup packets. She loses her grip on him and he bounces on the wood 
floor on his knees and falls over on his side like a bowling pin, blood 
leaking from his nose, his eyes gone all fuzzy. "Shit," says Stef, 
looking at a cut on her hand that's apparently from one of Brad's teeth. 
Then she sucks on her knuckle like a vampire. "I shoulda put a glove on. 
I cut my hand right *through* the fucking tape?" She bends over and rips 
the tape off Brad's mouth. There are two cracked-off teeth stuck to it 
and blood dripping off it, with more bubbling out of Brad's swollen 
mouth. Shit. Stef hits hard when she's mad. "But that's a great idea, 
Jen," she says brightly. "Let's take him to Ton's and leave him there. 
Michelle, can you call your friend and set this up for tomorrow?" 

"Of course. But you gotta toss me first. Having you two over here is 
making me hornier than a nymphomaniac on nembies." Michelle turns her 
back to us and bends over, sliding her bikini bottom down slow and sexy 
like a professional stripper, her buttcheeks writhing with flirtatious 
flexion.  

"Gee, that sounds like a real chore, Michelle," I joke, as she grabs the 
backs of her knees and pulls her head through her legs, her tongue in 
extended snake-flick like she's going to toss *herself*. Wow, Michelle 
is awful limber for someone made of timber. And she sure has mellowed. 
She was a Nancy in Tonya, not a Hard, and she had a reputation inside as 
most likely to be a serial killer. Though she wasn't in for murder. She 
got the book thrown at her for fucking up her abusive alcoholic parents. 
And that was before she got really big, when she was only 15. She 
permanently crippled her father and made him deaf in one ear and ruined 
her mother's kidneys and throat. Her mom's on dialysis now and talks 
with one of those freaky larynx buzzers. I merrily get on my knees and 
spread Michelle's ass, though she does most of the spreading herself 
with sheer muscle power, keeping her cheeks flexed apart, her asshole 
gaping in my face in a lip-smacking display of sphincter strength. I 
slip my tongue in and Michelle grabs it and holds it firmly with her 
muscles and actually starts to suck it in deeper with poopchute 
peristalsis. Wow, again. I'm a very big girl now and I have a very big 
tongue. It would no more fit in the average asshole than my fist would. 
I haven't seen Michelle in a couple months, we don't get out to Chucho 
too often. Her buttworks just keeps getting stronger and stronger. I'd 
ask her what exercises she's doing for her third eye lately, but I can't 
get my tongue out to talk, she's gripping it like steely fingers. Then 
there's a terrible squealing noise behind me and Michelle lets me loose. 
It's Stef fucking Brad. She went into the bedroom and got one of 
Michelle's huge strapons. She's got her jeans around her knees, she's 
untied his legs and she's got this big black thing rammed up Brad's ass. 
The pathetic prick has no tape on his smashed mouth, and he's 
caterwauling like a cocksucker, blood still running from his broken 
teeth and lips. 

"You should be videotaping this," Stef says with clenched jaw to 
Michelle. 

"I'm getting my salad tossed here," Michelle whines. 

"I'm gonna wanna see this later, and so's Tonya," says Stef. "Shoot this 
first, then I'll give you such a fucking toss you'll shit golden 
bricks." 

"Oh, all right." Michelle puts her thong back on and gets her Hi-8 while 
I walk over for a front view of Brad. Sure enough, that big dildo up his 
ass has stiffed his cock but good. And he's big. Not nearly as big as 
Harry Dexter, which is my only real-life gauge for cock size, but big 
nonetheless. "Stef, this guy's got a monster dong on him," I go. 

"That's 'cause he's got a monster dong *in* him," Stef snarls. "How's it 
feel up your ass, boyfriend? Feel good?" Brad snivels in protest as Stef 
hunches him harder and deeper. Michelle is videotaping now, and Stef 
starts to put on a show, holding Brad in a sort of modified full nelson 
so she can literally lift him into the air and jackhammer his butt so 
his hips are bucking in space. 

Then my heart almost stops--there's a knock on the door. "Who the fuck 
is that?" I hiss in a minor panic. 

Michelle hands me the camera and looks through the peephole. She turns 
around and grins at me devilishly. "It's my first appointment, almost an 
hour early. Exactly the kind of shit I'd expect from this little fucker. 
He needs to be punished." Michelle opens the door and extends her arm 
around it--she's almost naked and has to mind the neighbors--and pulls 
the guy in so hard he falls down. "Why so rough, Mistress Michelle?" he 
complains shrilly. Shit, it's Mickey, the little imp from Mr. Wheezy's 
Squeezy, the scissors magazine. His eyes light up with glee as he sees 
Stef and me. "What's going on?" he asks excitedly. "You have a session 
on already? Jenna and Stef! Great to see you girls! You're looking 
totally fabulous!" 

"Uh, thanks, Mickey," I go, squinting at him through the viewfinder. I'm 
still taping. Mickey won't mind, he's a familiar face. *Too* familiar. 
He's actually a fellow resident of Santa Shorta. He lives just a couple 
blocks from us. So does Brooke, for that matter, but we don't see her in 
the street much, she has slaves to do all her shopping. We see Mickey a 
lot 'cause he's always walking his Chihuahua. He hasn't been around 
lately, though. I heard he went east for a vacation or something. 

I'm about to ask him about it when Michelle growls, "I don't believe you 
had the fucking spleen to show up here early again," shaking the runt 
violently by the sleeve of his polyester Hawaiian print shirt, which is 
surely a men's small, unless he got it in the boy's department at 
Penney's. She rips the sleeve right off his shirt, then rips the whole 
shirt right off *him*. "I'm gonna have Brad here teach you a lesson 
you'll never forget," she sneers. 

Mickey looks dazed and euphoric, despite the fact that his shirt is 
ruined. He told me once he has a lot of money in the bank, his father 
owned a car dealership. "What?" he says brightly. "Who *is* this guy? 
And who punched his mouth so hard? I thought *I* was the first session 
of the day." 

"You're *Brad's* first session of the day," says Michelle as she takes  
Mickey, who's like 5-3, 135, right off the floor and undresses him in 
the air like he was a doll. An anatomically-correct doll. Michelle pulls 
off Mickey's little Hush Puppies, then whips off his dorky Dockers and 
his very brief Calvin Klein briefs, and his wong is suddenly flopping 
around like a happy hose. But Mickey's not merry now. He's kicking and 
struggling and making all kinds of verbal threats, but he can't do a 
thing against the big girl, who bitch slaps him so hard his moussed 
pompadour is spun into spikes. Mickey's face goes dark. He knows what's 
coming even before I do. He's got a sixth sense about personal bodily 
harm. I know he recently had some ribs busted and a lung collapsed 
during some scissors session gone bad. Mickey won't divulge the details, 
he says he's writing an article about the experience. I also know he 
once got busted up so bad by a Hungarian midget wrestler/bodybuilder 
circus chick he had to have surgery on his knees, wrists, elbows and 
even a shoulder--he's scarred up like a junior Frankenstein. It's what 
turned his hair half gray, he's only in his early 40s. Harry Dexter is 
actually selling a videotape of this event--he's got a very professional 
label now called Venomous Video--along with footage of Mickey getting 
beat up and shat on by another slightly bigger Hungarian muscle chick. 
The tape is titled Little Man's Fate, and Tonya has a copy, but I went 
in the bedroom the one time she had it on when I was over. I don't need 
to see tiny middle-aged guys get horribly humiliated by tiny foreign 
chicks, it's perverted. Though the chick who shat on him also ejaculates 
from her pussy somehow, and that part I watched over and over in slo-mo. 

But right now I'm about to see a tiny middle-aged guy get horribly 
humiliated by a big American chick and a big American dick. I'm also 
about to videotape it. Maybe I can sell it to Harry for Little Man's 
Fate 2. Never mind the maybe, there's no doubt about it. Michelle grabs 
the now naked Mickey--she even took his argyle socks off--in a front 
bear hug and puts it on him so hard he screams in pain and all his 
vertebrae pop loud and clear like he was in the clutches of a demonic 
chiropractor. Then she bends him down so his head is between her thighs 
while she grabs *his* thighs, which are skinny enough for her to grip in 
her big hands like they were wrists. Stef is still ramming the strapon 
into Brad, who still has a massive, throbbing hardon. Mickey is howling 
from between Michelle's mighty thighs now, slapping her iron hamstrings, 
his little hands making futile smacking sounds. He's hysterically trying 
to communicate something about he just got over surgery for some kind of 
sodomy? . . . and he can't be subjected to . . . it's lost in a wail of 
agony as Michelle and Stef maneuver their men together so Brad impales 
Mickey on his length with one deep rending thrust and then Stef starts 
fucking Brad, which makes Brad fuck Mickey, who's getting a big stiffy 
himself, and it's a daisy chain of anal assault. 

This goes on for three minutes or so, Mickey screaming bloody murder, 
though he's muffled between Michelle's massive thighs, while Brad 
hopelessly mutters, "No, no," barely moving his busted mouth. I must 
say, I'm impressed with Mickey's equipment. He's got a hell of a schlong 
on him for such a little guy. It's bigger than Brad's by far. I figured 
Mickey had a healthy hunk of manmeat just by the way his hardon bulges 
in his pants--he always has a rod on when he sees me in the street, and 
I always think he's about to whip it out and start pounding it, he looks 
so damn sex starved. But this is the first time I've actually seen his 
cock in the flesh. Or any cock, besides Harry's. Except for Brad's. Hey, 
I saw two new cocks in one day! And four balls! Wouldn't my mom be 
thrilled! But wait, it's money-shot showtime. Brad, with a faraway look 
of glazed pleasure in his eyes, shoots his wad deep up Mickey's ass. I 
know Brad's coming because he's groaning, "Oh, God, I'm coming!" I zoom 
in for a nice closeup of Brad's buttocks flexing as he explosively 
ejaculates like a barnyard raunch rooster, then I zoom out expertly as 
Stef withdraws her drained rapist, his cock still fat and half hard, 
dripping spunk streamers, and Michelle takes her scissors off Mickey and 
lets him collapse on the floor, still with a fair-sized hardon himself 
despite the blood and semen trickling out his bunghole. Mickey's moaning 
and muttering, "Oh, God, I don't believe it," over and over, and we 
eventually get the story, between sobs. It seems Mickey just got back 
from *another* hospitalization, this one across the country. He was 
visiting an old friend at Amy Fisher and he got sodomized so severely by 
some kind of hairy little muscle zombie guy--I couldn't quite follow the 
story, Mickey's crying too much, but the guy's name must be Phil--he had 
to have intestinal surgery, just like Abner Louima, that immigrant in 
New York who had a cop shove a broomstick up his behind and then made 
him lick it. Well, Mickey didn't say anything about Phil making him lick 
it. But *that* attack on Mickey was videotaped too. Shit, I'll have to 
buy Tonya a copy of Little Man's Fate 2 for her birthday, it sounds like 
she'll cherish it always. 

Anyway, we get out of there. But first I put down the camera and get on 
my knees and work Mickey back up to full stiffness with my big, strong 
but tender and spit-slick hand. He looks up at me, lying there all 
pathetic on his side, and gives me this admiring gape like I was a mouse 
pulling a thorn out of his paw. I'm pulling more like a tree trunk. 
Mickey is so big in my hand now it's like I'm gripping a kosher salami. 
I haven't got clue one about how to jerk a guy off, but I must be doing 
something right 'cause a minute later Mickey is spewing cock custard all 
over the floor, almost squirting the icky sticky stuff on my legs. 
Gross. I carefully clean my hand off in the bathroom and we skedaddle. 
Michelle will have to get her salad tossed another time and she'll have 
to tend to Mickey's rear, too, now that I've tended to his front. He's 
howling for an ambulance now, he needs to see a proctologist, his ass is 
hemorrhaging, it's an emergency. Michelle can deal with this, the guy is 
*her* client. Stef binds up Brad again and we head home to clean up and 
eat. Brad, securely hogtied in the back, isn't struggling now. I guess 
he's mellowed a little, after getting his balls drained up some strange 
guy's rectum. 

On the way back, Stef says to me, "Why'd you give that little shitbird a 
free handjob?" 

"I thought it was the least he was entitled to after we *violated* him 
like that. All he did was show up for his appointment early." 

"It was Michelle's call, she's his Mistress," Stef shrugs. 

"Yeah, but he's our *neighbor*" I point out. "He's a nice guy, and he's 
got the cutest little Taco Bell dog. He drove me home from Tonya, too. 
He was there in a big Buick the moment I got out the gate." 

"He just wanted to cop a feel," Stef scoffs. 

"Stef, he needed a good come after that humiliation, and I gave him one. 
It only involved one minute and one lousy hand. You're too down on men 
right now to dig it, you're obsessed with Brad and Dennis and the other 
guys. Let's talk about it another time." 

"You're right, babe, but bear with me," says Stef, rubbing my thigh 
warmly. "I'm on a vengeance murder spree. It's something I've gotta get 
outta my system." Then she turns around and leans into the back and 
punches the bundle that is Brad hard enough to splinter bone. His bone, 
not hers. Why weren't Stef's rapists smart enough to join a Tibetan 
monastery? 

Cut to Tonya's house in Cobblestone Gardens, a nice neighborhood in 
Santa Patella where everyone's got perfectly manicured lawns and freshly 
painted white picket fences. She lives alone now. She had a girlfriend 
living there for a while, this beefy tattooed barmaid she met in a 
tittie tavern, but the chick split, Tonya punched her around too much. 
Tonya punches a lot of people around too much. She was married to a guy 
after she left Jeff Ukulele or whatever his name was, but she beat 
*that* guy up so bad he divorced her. Used to knee his nuts and stuff 
while she was pretending to want a hug. Tonya's a mean drunk, and she's 
got a natural nasty streak. Especially around men, though she likes to 
bitch slap babes too. Then she swore off men and got really big. And got 
a very nice Reckless Wrestling contract to go with her new bod. If the 
RWF ever goes national and gets a real cable deal, she's gonna be 
sitting pretty. 

She's sitting pretty right now, too. Pretty *huge*, stark naked in a big 
leather recliner across the room from her 50-inch projection TV, which 
is showing a CNN report on the Cali K-Fad "epidemic"--that fucking drug 
that makes you crazy that we had so much trouble with in stir. It's 
getting wider distribution now, via Mexican girl gangs who are just 
using it to foment general anarchy, dosing people randomly. I don't 
wanna think about it, it makes me think of Sara, who I miss so much it 
hurts. She killed Brooke's little slave while crazy on that drug, and 
she even tried to kill me. I swing my gaze back to Tonya, who's 
massaging her quads with this glow of pleasure on her face like she's 
giving herself foreplay. "Girls, gonna be a great show tonight," she 
says in a throaty warble. Ton's voice got deeper from Largesse. It had 
to, I guess, she grew everywhere. Even her brain is bigger, I bet. She's 
too smart nowadays to trust her career to *men*, that's for sure. "I'm 
so pumped up I can hear the blood running through me," she goes. "Sounds 
like the whoosh of highway traffic on the fuckin' interstate." Tonya 
flexes her right arm into 19 inches of massed, mounded muscle and 
beckons to me with the pointed bludgeon of her elbow. "Put your ear 
against this, Jen. You can hear the ocean." 
   
I kneel next to the chair and put my ear against Tonya's arm. I *can* 
hear the ocean. Shit. I squeeze Tonya's bicep in my big hands and trace 
the bulging veins with my fingers. "Girlfriend, you are *enormous*" I 
go. "We should put some Load Lotion on this arm and get a measurement on 
videotape. I flick my tongue over one of Tonya's stiff cherry red 
nipples, then lean into her lap and fasten my face on the hot tittie 
tip, the back of my throat flooding with saliva. 

"Uh, Jen, you're forgetting about the *load* we have in the truck, 
aren't you? Let's tend to all that soon-to-be-dead weight before we 
start counting inches, OK?" 

I pull off the teat treat with a puckery pop. "Oh, right. Sure. Tell 
her, Stef." 

So Stef fills Tonya in on Brad and gets permission to store him here 
overnight. She gets the bundle from the Jimmy, and after we let him pee 
we tie Brad naked to Ton's Dan Lurid home gym. We bind him real good, 
mouth taped again, the whole deal. He can't move anything but his eyes, 
which are darting around in sheer terror. Then we head for Hank's House 
of Hideeho. It's a regular strip club, except on two nights a month when 
it's Sapphic Saturday, dykes only. Brooke is the one who got the idea 
going, and this'll be the fourth outing. Her slaves, these two little 
identical twin cutie pies known as Thing 1 and Thing 2, used to dance 
there for the guys, but these foxy blondes are so muscular they started 
attracting a lipstick lesbian strong-girl-lovers crowd, which really 
freaked out the regular male customers. In a good way. 

Then Brooke "discovered" the Soleus Sisters when she got ahold of a copy 
of their amateur "bootleg" video called Stompin' at the Savoy. The 
Sisters rented a room in the Savoy Hotel in Santa Tarsus, hired a friend 
to operate the camera, invited four unsuspecting white guys up for a sex 
and drugs party and proceeded to trample them to within an inch of their 
lives. It's a bias crime, and I'm biased in favor of it. Tonya has a 
copy of it, and this one I watched all the way through--five times. The 
chick who handled the videography was really good and the Sisters know 
just how to play to the camera: Stomp a chest with enough force to 
shatter ribs, stop and pose the leg, digging the ball of the foot into 
the carpet, then pivoting hard on the suckably perfect, puce-painted 
toes so the calf bulges big as the guy's pain-dizzy head. Just thinking 
about it makes my groin giddy, I can't help myself. Anyway, Brooke, 
always the entrepreneur, appointed herself the Sisters' unofficial 
manager and talked Hank into having a Dyke Night. Then Ton agreed to top 
the bill--she loves showing off in a thong for an adoring throng--and 
now Sapphic Saturday is a standing room only smash with a line around 
the block. 

It's standing room only in my pants too. I've got a clit-stiffy that's 
pup-tenting my knee-length spandex ski stretchies like a baying bitch in 
estrus. As cool as Ton's act is, and as whip-lean sexy as the Things 
are, it's the Soleus Sisters who really toast my muffin at this lesbo 
peepshow. Nadina and Natina. Cousins, gorgeously light-skinned black 
girls with matching bleached blonde cornrows, both 20, they look a lot 
alike and they're built almost the same. They've got fitness-finessed, 
uppity upper bods with nice wide shoulders framing full, solid D cups; 
add nicely peaked arms and a crossfire of cuts in the back and abs, with 
really tight, tapered midsections, along with the expected blast-furnace 
booties--but it's their legs that rule. The 28-inch cafe au lait columns 
of muscle-bloated thigh I can understand, though it's a bit 
overproportioned on them, but black girls aren't supposed to have 
gastrocnemii-openers like this, it's not in their genetics. These girls 
are around 5-5, 160 and they've got 21-inch calves. That's about as big 
as their fucking *waists*, not to mention bigger than my arms. It's not 
human. They're on a drug called KaBoost, it's engineered for the black 
metabolism, delivered in suppository form, that's how it works best. 
Fine. If you need to stick something up your ass every day for calves 
like this, I'll be happy to have you bend over, clean or dirty, while I 
do the insertion myself. But the Sisters won't tumble for me. They don't 
like white chicks. Or they just like each other. I don't think they get 
it on with anyone else but themselves. They rejected come-ons from Stef, 
from Ton, even from Brooke. Joan of fucking Arc couldn't resist making 
the likes of these three, surely not ultra-look Brooke. Speaking of the 
mile-high hoyden, here she is now as we enter the club. Things 1 and 2 
are on stage, doing their strip routine for a hooting and hollering 
horde of diesel dykes. There are plenty of lipstickers too, but they're 
getting pushed to the rear by all these brawny brutes with nose and 
eyebrow rings and flaming dragon tats. 

"Hey, girls," yells Brooke, trying to be heard over the techno din. 
"Ready for a big show? I checked out the heel-and-toe ho's backstage. 
They've got a new thing where they split the seams on their hooker hose 
with a leg flex. It was such a turnon I just about pulled my pants down 
and *begged* them for a foot fuck. But they won't have me. I've really 
gotta respect them for that. Most girls would *pay* to even get a kiss 
from me." 

"Most girls would pay to get a word in edgewise in a fuckin' 
conversation with you," says Tonya, only half-kidding, as she looks 
impatiently around the big smoky room, her pecs jerking nervously under 
her too-tight red silk bowling shirt, which has "Nancy" sewn in script 
above the breast pocket. Ton's always wound up before a show. If she's 
not careful she's gonna pop a button--or someone's nose. She could throw 
a punch in a crowd without even knowing what she's doing, she flicks 
fist like other people sneeze. 

"I love your new Sinew layout, Stef," says Brooke, ignoring Tonya 
completely. Brooke doesn't provoke anymore, and she doesn't like rough, 
uncouth, bad-side-of-town girls like Tonya. She saw the light when she 
got that near-fatal heart punch at the last fight night in stir, and 
she's been this mellow New Age freak ever since. 

"Thanks, Brooke," says Stef with a smile, trying not to come off too 
chilly. She has a hard time being nice around former Nancies, and she 
doesn't have the weird bond with Brooke that I do. "You doing another 
yourself?" 

"I don't know. I got an offer from Mega Ms. to do a movie. They've got a 
video division now. And there'd be a layout in the mag to promote the 
movie. If I go with Mega Ms., though, I can't work for Sinew. What a 
fucking rivalry they've developed." 

"I'd be wary of Sternum," I go. "They say she's a cunt." 

Brooke smiles, and even in the dimly lit club her teeth shine like 
perfect rows of miniature klieg lights. "I know what they say. But I met 
her. I was invited to her office in Santa Emasculata. She was real sweet 
to me. She's not a cunt, but she's sure *got* a cunt. What a snatch on 
her! And she didn't play hard to get. Not like the sweet, sweet 
Sisters." 

"You *made* Gloria Sternum?" I shout. 

Brooke leans down close to me, so her sweet lemony breath is caressing 
my cheek. She's 6-fucking-11 and I'm finding it strange to be looking 
*up* at someone, though it's sort of a pleasure for a change. "We didn't 
go all the way," Brooke husks, nibbling my ear. "She won't sit on my 
face unless I sign with her. But I got a good look at her body. I mean, 
she strutted her stuff for me, I didn't even have to ask. Her 
transformation is just stunning. She's built kinda thick and dense, yet 
she's supple and shredded. Really nice peaks on her bi's too. A woman 
that age, hard to believe. She's *hot*. You should meet her, she'll like 
you for sure, she's into athletes." 

"I wonder if she has my wrestling tape. Everyone else in the world does, 
thanks to Harry." 

"She's going into *competition* with Harry, and as clever as that 
bastard is, I think she's gonna whup his hairy ass. She's *smart*, not 
just street smart."  Brooke runs her obscenely huge tongue around her 
obscenely beestung lips. "So how *are* you, baby?" she thrill trills. 
"Why don't you come over sometime soon for a fisting? We'll blow some 
hash." 

I smile up at Brooke and rub her hard, bare, beautiful ass with my hand. 
She's wearing a black leather bustier, black panties, fishnets and 
garter belt with four-inch spike heels, which puts her well over seven 
feet. She walks around the club all night like this, flexing a lot, 
letting all the chicks eyeball her up close, it's part of the Dyke Night 
attraction, something she worked out with Hank. She's making me melt, I 
can smell the hot musk rising off her like dream steam, but every time I 
see her I have to make myself forget that she once engineered a bunch of 
snuff tapes and got some friends of mine killed. I think. "I will," I 
purr up into her perfect ear, rubbing my nose against the tiny silver 
and black obsidian love stud in her luscious lobe. "I'm kinda busy with 
Tonya. But I'd like to make a scene with you. And the Things." I stroke 
Brooke's gleaming bare arm, and she tightens her muscles so the bicep 
leaps into my hand, the deep-tanned heads pulsing under my palm, a fat 
brachial artery pressed into my skin like a lifeline. Jesus Christ, 
Brooke is built! Titanic did her so righteous. Her T tattoo, the snake 
and anchor, stretches so much now when she flexes it looks like it's 
reflected in a funhouse mirror. The hooded executioner chick on her 
other arm is just as distorted. Funny tat for a pacifist. 

Shit, we have such a history together. We're a regular sideshow. 
Brooke's the one who put me in Tonya and paid for my capping. Fuck, that 
makes me think of Sara again, who won't leave Texas. I talk to her on 
the phone all the time and beg her to come back, but she's frozen with 
fear or something, Ice, that evil bitch, mangled her mind. Then the 
Things are leaving the stage and the Sisters are getting ready to come 
out. Brooke gives me a kiss, stuffing my face full of that giant wet 
pink tongue, and drifts off into the crowd to show off, as Tonya, Stef 
and I take our reserved seats at a table on the upper level and a wiry 
waitress rushes over with pitchers of beer. I light a doob as soon as I 
sit down and pass it around. Gotta be stoned for the Sisters. It's from 
the dope I copped at Brit's house. Primo shit. The Hideeho is a free-
smoking environment, thanks to a deal Hank made with the cops. He's got 
good ventilation, and I don't just mean his fly is always open, though 
it is. 

Then Brittany and Caitlin show up. Hank ushers them to our table. "These 
girls say they're with you," Hank goes. "I have my doubts, they don't 
look big enough." Hank's cute. I don't mean like that, he's just a 
character. He looks sort of like the late Charles Bukowski, except 
Hank's uglier. 

"They *are* with us, and this one here has calves big enough to do a 
show with the Sisters," I say. 

"Then why's she wearing long pants?" Hank wants to know. 

"Because I'm *modest*," says Caitlin. "When you got it, you don't need 
to flaunt it." 

"If everyone had that attitude, I'd be out of business," Hank goes. 

"Well, the Sisters don't have that attitude, and they're on now." I say. 
"So get out of here, Hank, your face and their legs don't mix." 

"I wouldn't say that," Hank goes. "Their ankles look great, don't they? 
They'd look even better slung over my shoulders." 

"Hank, take a hike now or I'm gonna rip your nuts off and stuff them up 
your ass," Tonya says, only half-kidding, her pecs in a fast twitch, the 
red silk swelling like a Chinese junk sail. 

"Oh, is that all?" Hank quips, staring at Ton's straining chest with 
unconcealed lust. "I was afraid you were gonna head-butt me." 

Then he scoots as I pass the joint to Brit and Caitlin. Shit, they can 
probably recognize their own shit. I don't have time to worry about 
this; the Soleus Sisters are introduced by Gertie, the huge-titted fat 
dyke MC, who is actually Hank's ex-wife. Backed by Rod Stewart's Hot 
Legs, remixed as a hip-hop beat, with a rap track overdubbed by the 
sisters themselves, Nadina and Natina, as always, rock my world. And the 
new stocking-buster routine is the absolute bomb. They do it together, 
broad backs to the audience, standing up high on the sharp toes of their 
stiletto heels, somehow tearing the nylons in sync. I assume the hose is 
doctored in some way, but who cares? They leg press each other, leg 
raise each other, leg curl each other, donkey raise each other, play-
scissor each other, and then link up in a human wheel and ro ll around 
the stage together before going into this simulated 69 routine in their 
tiny, shiny gold bikinis. Then they somehow pull their metal ankle 
bracelets--they each wear a pair--up over their calves and bust *them* 
in sync. Edibly incredible. I sit there stoned silly, guzzling beer and 
rubbing my forearm over my crotch, my mouth hanging open, almost 
drooling. Everyone else at the table is the same way, even too-taut Ton. 
The Sisters are just totally riveting. The applause is deafening, and 
half a dozen dykes peel out of their jeans and throw their boxer shorts 
on the stage. Tonya has a hard act to follow. Lucky she has a hard head 
to follow it with. 

"I gotta go backstage and get loose," she says, doing a long, languid 
neck roll, which is belied by the cords of sinew standing out around her 
throat like high-tension wires. She excuses herself, shouldering her way 
through the crowd, shorter and wider than just about everybody she 
passes, and I breathe a sigh of relief when she gets behind the curtain 
without hitting anybody. Now we get the chance to acquaint ourselves 
with Brit and Caitlin. And Caitlins's legs. I sit close to her and she 
pulls her Bongo bell bottoms up and puts her colossal calves across my 
thighs.  

"I don't believe we were sitting at the same table as Tonya Harding," 
Caitlin says in amazement. "She's a *friend* of yours?" 

"She's more than a friend," says Stef. "We're her bodyguards. It's a She 
Roids deal." 

"A girl built like that needs bodyguards?" Brittany scoffs. 

"She's only 5-4," I go. "As big and strong as she is, how would she 
defend herself against someone Stef's size, say?" 

"She'd go low and break my fucking knees before I had a chance to 
blink," Stef says with a wry smile. "Let's put it this way, girls: If 
you have to guard a body, she's got a great body to guard." 

The girls nod solemnly in stoned wonderment. "So what happened to Brad?" 
Caitlin asks, her delectable toes wiggling at me in her Tevas. 

"He's under wraps," says Stef, trying to sound official. "In a safe 
house. So he's, like, safe." 

"And what about Dennis?" Brittany asks, pouring everyone more beer. "Any 
word?" 

"Nothing," says Stef, trying to look concerned. "Dennis is incommunicado 
at the moment, but we have a lot of people on the case. Were you close 
to him? He had that picture of you in his wallet." 

Brit shrugs and rolls her stoned-out eyes. "He was crazy about me, but I 
wasn't *close* to him," she says with a giggle. "I mean, not *sexually.* 
I had to give him a few handjobs here and there to live in his house 
with Caitlin rent free, but that was about it. I'm really not into 
guys." 

"What the hell do you girls do for a living?" I ask. 

"We sell drugs," says Brit nonchalantly. "Why do you think we had all 
that dope on the table?" 

I nod and quickly change the subject, feeling guilty about the bags I 
grabbed as we left their house. I mean, I don't have any right ripping 
these girls off. They rock without cock. I guess I thought I was robbing 
from the late Dennis, but I wasn't. I'm too embarrassed to mention it, 
though they probably know anyway. They must've counted the bags, even if 
they didn't recognize their own dope. "So where's Lake Manioc?" I ask. 

Brit looks at me dumbly for a second. "Oh, the picture? Down the road 
from the Amy Fisher Correctional Facility for Girls. Dennis and Brad 
drove us cross country. We stayed in motels, separate rooms for girls 
and boys. But Dennis got jerked off every day on *that* trip. He paid 
all the gas and all our meals. I even let him come on my tits once." She 
makes a face and shudders, and I admire the way it makes her big bubbies 
jiggle under her long-sleeve button-down guy shirt. Caitlin's dressed 
the same way. They're still concealing their arms, playing hard to get, 
I guess. Or maybe they thought you had to dress quiet at a club called 
Hank's Hideeho. How could they know it was no men allowed tonight? 

"What about Brad?" Stef asks, trying to seem unconcerned. "He get any 
helping hand from you?" 

"He didn't get jackshit," Caitlin reports. "He has no money. He has no 
job. He's a drunk. He never gets laid. Just sponges off of Dennis." 

"So why'd you go cross country?" I wonder. "Were you visiting someone in 
jail?" 

"No, we made a pilgrimage to Amy," Brit continues. "To see Amy, not just 
her prison. She was doing a show in town, at the Ramada? A NADS 
convention. We're, like, really major fans. Of Amy, not the NADs." She 
looks warily at us. 

"How was she?" asks Stef. "I've never seen her in the flesh." 

"Totally awesome," says Caitlin, who's pointing her toes hard and 
rubbing her bulging calf across my quad as I inch myself further off my 
chair so she can make contact with my crotch. "I'm curious to compare 
her to Tonya." 

"Well, Amy doesn't do the head thing," I go. "That's, like, really 
flipped out."   

"What's the head thing?" Brit asks. 

"Oh, never mind, just watch her act," Stef says. "Let it be a surprise. 
She'll be out in just a few minutes." 

So we talk about Slam Gams instead, and Caitlin makes me confess that I 
stole her issue by torturing my clit with her calf--actually by 
threatening to stop rubbing it. Talk about leg brutality. "It's out in 
the Jimmy, Caitlin," I moan. "I'll give it back to you when we leave, I 
swear." 

"Hey, those Soleus Sisters should do a Slam Gams centerfold," says Brit. 

"Fucking A," I go. "I'll mention it to Brooke. She probably doesn't know 
the magazine either, it's too new. Who publishes it anyway? It's not 
affiliated with Sinew, right?" 

"No, it's some guy named Jerry Margulies," says Caitlin. "I just read 
his editor's note before you barged in this afternoon. Really 
interesting stuff. He had some kind of scissors affair with a girl who 
was his student, he taught high school phys ed. She was really big and 
she accidentally gave him a stroke with her thighs. He was partially 
paralyzed for months, but he thinks that's cool. Like, it's a badge of 
honor or something." 

"And does he say what happened to the girl?" Stef asks. 

"Yeah," Caitlin replies. "Get this: She got a year in *Amy*. Was charged 
with `femoral sodomy.' He calls her a political prisoner. The whole 
fucking magazine is dedicated to her." 

"She must have one fucking fine pair of thighs," I muse. "Any pictures 
of her? I didn't get to go through the issue yet, I just checked out Kim 
so far." 

"No," Caitlin goes, frowning. "She's, like, camera shy. According to 
what this Jerry guy wrote, it was a big scandal. He lost his job, was 
almost drummed out of town. She was on his volleyball team, see, he was 
the coach. And he had their sessions secretly videotaped and the police 
got all the footage when EMS had to be called when he had his stroke. A 
tape made from the sessions is circulating in the video underground now. 
Not *too* weird." 

I make a mental note to ask around about this. Maybe Harry has a copy. 
Or maybe he's the one circulating them. "You should send him a picture 
of your calves, Caitlin," I suggest. "You were *made* for this 
magazine." 

"Yeah, but I should have a guy's head squeezed between them," she 
laughs. "Maybe I'll make Dennis pose with me when he comes back." 

There's an awkward silence while Stef and I ponder the irony that Dennis 
hasn't got much of a head left to squeeze. "Well, I'm glad this stroke 
victim guy started a magazine," Stef finally says, "even if I don't have 
the legs for it." 

"Yeah, right, Stef," I chortle. "Your sticks are so scrawny. I'm 
surprised they just don't *collapse* under all that upper body weight." 

"And I'm *really* glad Gloria Sternum started Mega Ms.," Stef adds, 
arching an impatient eyebrow at me. She probably can't focus on anything 
except getting her hands on Brad tomorrow. "I may've been in Sinew 
twice, but that doesn't mean I won't jump if the money's right." Stef, 
who's wearing a ridiculously tight and tiny Tonya Forever silkscreened 
baby tee, unconsciously rubs her gargantuan guns, thinking about how 
she'll look in her next centerfold, no doubt, by which time she'll 
probably be stretching the tape to 24 inches, and this auto-massage gets 
a cute little slightly drunk girl at the next table so horny she comes 
over and starts touching Stef's biceps and making these loud oooohh and 
aaaahh noises, cooing, "Fuck me, what a pair of fuck-it-all arms! Fuck 
me, what a fucking awesome pair of arms!" 

Shit, I wish *I* had a body part that made strangers babble like 
bubbleheads. Unbelievable. I'm 6-4, 250 and I'm sitting her complaining 
to myself that I'm too *small*. Stef politely shoos the intruder away 
after letting her cop some finger-lickin' feels, then our attention is 
thankfully diverted as Tonya comes out on stage in six-inch zebra-skin 
platforms and matching G-string and pasties. The crowd erupts in an 
avalanche of hoots and hollers, throwing ice cubes from their drinks at 
her. This is a sign of approbation, though Brit and Caitlin don't get it 
yet. Tonya proceeds to do the aural sex posing routine with the headset 
mic, but this is not just another squeeze it 'n' tease it--she's got a 
better pump on now than I've seen on her in quite a while. Maybe ever. 

She's all oiled up, way more than usual, and she's *glowing* up there 
under the hot lights, looking so motherfucking vast and vascular I have 
to blink a few times to make sure I'm not hallucinating. I'm not. Tonya 
has it on so big and so hard she's practically coming in her pants, I 
can tell by the I'm-gonna-shit-a-minivan expression on her face. Stef 
taps me on the arm and nods knowingly at the stage. She can see it too. 
Actually, so can the rest of the crowd. Ton's emanating waves of pure 
pussy power. She's got a ton of 'tude. As in fucking pulchritude. She's 
got a hot pink auragasm around her that's clinging to her curves like a 
flesh-fresh bodysuit. As the excited ex-Olympian turns for her achy 
breaky lat spread, boxer shorts and Jill straps--these jockstraps with 
butt and cunt plugs built into them that diesels like to wear--are 
flying through the air, along with Polaroids, scented notepaper folded 
into airplanes and personal confessions of love on audio cassettes. 

Even jaded, faded Hank, sitting stageside smoking a Lucky Strike, or 
rather holding it erect in his quivering lips, is dumbstruck by Ton's 
dazzling display. The only sound in the place, besides all the heavy 
breathing, is Ton moaning into her mic, and we're all tuned into this 
frenzied frequency like ham radio nerds on the cheesecake channel. Ton 
spins around out of the lat spread, her back furling down like a steel 
cape, to hit a crab, her traps bunching up big as shot puts around the 
cobra fan of her neck, the jugulars bulging so bright-as-life blue I can 
see the veins beat with a corpuscular pulse. Now Ton's building toward 
that rare and wonderful thing, a center stage super spend. I know this 
not simply as a matter of female intuition: I can see her upper thighs 
twisting into tight fists of muscle while the quads teardrop like 
torpedoes above her knees; her gut is knotting up in a neural network, 
writhing wildly as she gasps for breath; her chest is flexed so hard her 
titties are rigid right down to the bullet-tipped teats--she's pulled 
the pasties off, all her skin needs to breathe. It's an FIO: a flex-
induced orgasm, not from her big fat nub rubbing against her pussy 
pouch, though her big fat nub is indeed rubbing against her pussy pouch, 
not to mention her swollen labia, which are dripping like summer-
slobbering slices of seedless watermelon. No, it's not just a clitoral 
come, it's not just a vaginal come, it's a total bodygasm, it's making 
her toes curl and her scalp tingle, and a tsunami of sweat is breaking 
out all over her, mixing with the heavy oil slicked on her skin. It's 
like her insides are getting wrung out, I think she may start running 
blood in a puddle of pore gore any second. She lets out a vulnerable 
girlie shriek that whistles through the PA system in a frig-frantic 
falsetto, then doubles over, knees knocked, fists locked, elbows cocked, 
triceps convulsing in forked phenomena, her face all twisted in a mist 
of ecstasy, then she's pissing her pants. It's running under her sopping 
G-string, down her thighs and calves, and she's dirty dancing with 
herself, her hips in a slow grind as she sinks to her wet knees, her ass 
high in the air, belly imploded, on all fours now, gibbering into the 
mic like a fuck monkey, heavy-breathing like a wheeze sleaze, and the 
crowd explodes in a crackle of collective come current, stamping their 
feet and screaming hysterically. 

I finally take a breath, and I realize I'm sweating almost as much as 
Tonya, my clothes are soaked. Whew! That was intense! But the climax of 
her act is still to come, so to speak. Ton gets back to her feet, takes 
the headset off, her pecs in a fidgety fast-twitch, and two of Hank's 
lean and implant-busty regular club strippers wheel out the 60-pound 
block of ice on its special platform. Tonya, still panting, raises her 
arms for quiet, the biceps arcing in semiflex like thunderbolts, and she 
gets it instantly. You could hear a pinhead drop, and I think I do as 
some big dyke down in front yells at a girl making noise, "Shut it, ya 
stinkass retard!" then decks her with a right cross. Breaking a block of 
ice with your bare head requires a lot of concentration. Tittie-tense 
Ton stares down at the block, takes a few long, deep yogic breaths, sets 
and resets her stance a few times, and suddenly strikes it with an 
atomic head butt, accompanied by an insane kiiii-yaaaaa. The block 
collapses inward on itself and splits right down the middle almost to 
its base, chunks of ice falling on the floor for just the right effect. 
Another eruption of demented collective acclaim. Tonya, looking a bit 
dazed, smiles, hits a huge double bi, then pumps it slow and hard half a 
dozen times, the perspiration, I swear to the Goddess, dripping off her 
elbows and running like a dam-break from her dank, stubbly pits. She 
studies her own arms with astonishment for a moment, the spotlight 
sparkling on her pisswet thighs, and walks off the stage a little 
unsteadily. 

The ice routine really rings her chimes. It's no trick, it's totally for 
real. It's something she practiced during her apprenticeship with Chili 
Rodriguez, a.k.a Tijuana Ass. Ton wasn't really suited for advanced butt 
control, but Chili wanted her to "specialize" in something, so she went 
for advanced head control--and she got it in skullbusting spades. She 
can break boards with her head like other girls do with their fists and 
feet. And it doesn't even leave a mark on her. I don't get it. I mean, I 
know Tonya's a hardheaded ORG--original riot grrrl--but this is 
ridiculous. 

Anyway, Stef and I excuse ourselves to go backstage and see if Ton's OK. 
We leave Caitlin and Brit in stunned wonderment, staring stoned into 
their beers. As we head for the curtain, there's Hank looking like he 
just saw the Virgin Mary in a see-through blouse. "What an act!" he 
crows. "I think I crapped myself." 

"Well, you're about due for your monthly underwear change anyway, huh, 
Hank?" Stef goes. Hank yuk-yuks in mock laughter and lets us pass with 
an exaggerated show of gentlemanliness. He knows not to go backstage 
now. If he did it could prove fatal. Ton won't have a man around before 
or after her act, it's bad luck. 

We get back behind the curtain and there she is, in her stark lewdy 
nudies, standing up holding onto the wall for support while she gets 
chewed front and rear by the strippers who wheeled the ice out--they're 
down on their knees in their stage bikinis, lapping at Ton's privates 
like they were in a hair pie-eating contest. "I'm still coming!" Ton 
shrieks by way of explanation. 

"Ton, that was totally unfuckingbelievable," Stef exults. "Your best act 
ever, totally killer. How's your head? You OK?" 

Ton blinks in befuddlement. "I think so. I don't know. I'm still seeing 
double a little, but that should clear in a minute. I've got all kinds 
of flashes of light in the corners of my eyes, and things look kind of 
weird, like I'm seeing through binoculars backwards. Never had that shit 
before. Did I say *kind* of weird? It's fuckin' freaky." 

"Looking at Stef's arms is *like* seeing double," I go. "And so are 
*your* arms tonight, Ton. How did you get such a pump on? You were blood 
bloated when we left the house, for sure, but this was a muscle chubby 
like I've never seen." 

"It's the Soleus Sisters," Ton gasps, as she slow-rotates her hips 
toward the strippers' lips. "Before the act they oiled me up with 
something they called Af-Gro Sheen. It's like Load Lotion for black 
girls, they said. But it must be ten times as potent as Load Lotion. It 
did me like nothing I've ever felt before." 

"Where are they now?" asks Stef. 

"They left. I don't even know if they stayed for my act." 

"Did they say what's in the stuff?" I ask. "Did they leave the bottle? 
Why would it only be for black girls? I mean, it worked on *you*, 
right?" 

Ton shakes her head in ecstatic confusion, drops of sweat flying off her 
chin. "They didn't say exactly what it was, they didn't give me any to 
keep. It came from an unmarked tube. They just said it was the greatest 
muscle rub in the world. The fact that they volunteered to oil me 
knocked such shit out of me I just let them do it, no questions asked. 
They'd never even touch me before tonight." 

"We'll have to get ahold of them and check out this stuff," says Stef. 
"Run it through the Roids lab." 

"Aaaaaaarrrrgggghhhhh!" That's Ton coming again, gripping the strippers 
by the hair fore and aft and grinding their faces into her dripping 
happy holes so hard I'm afraid she might suffocate them. 

"Ton, let go of those gel bag bitches and come back to our place," urges 
Stef. "We're gonna party with Brittany and Caitlin. Aren't they cute?" 

"They're nice," Ton agrees, her chest heaving in volcanic big-O throes, 
"but drop me off home, I'm too fucked up to party. I swear to the 
fucking Goddess you look like you're 50 feet away, you two. That head 
butt really screwed my eyes. I hope I don't need a CAT scan. I'd rather 
get a pussy probe. Anyway, I wanna mind the little fella we left in the 
weight room. Don't want to keep him waiting. Brad, right? Bad Brad." 
Tonya giggles idiotically, steps out from between the lap-lunch munchers 
and slaps them both on the back hard enough to knock them flat. "Nice 
tongue work, girls. I owe you." They don't say anything. They probably 
can't talk, their jaws are jellied from all that chewing. "Where are my 
fucking clothes?" Tonya mutters, pulling on her own stiff nipples, all 
her muscles jumping. 

As the strippers scuttle away, I lean down, steady Ton's hulking 
shoulders  and get a good look into her sweat-shiny face. Her eyes are 
dilated so big they look like super pupils. What the fuck is up with 
her? Never mind. She'll be OK. She's tougher than a titanium two-by-
four. We get her dressed, quickly pour a couple beers into her before 
she dehydrates, then, with Brit and Caitlin following in their cute 
little Neon, drop her back in Cobblestone Gardens and head home to make 
a fearsome foursome. I've got some slammin' gams I wanna wear for a 
nightcap. 

--30--