Jenna Takedown: NADS Buster
By Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com)
Chapter 3, Jen and Stef  are sweatin' and tokin'; Tonya's double croakin'. 



Copyright 1999 Avida Dolor 

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. 

Chapter 3 

It's Sunday morning, and we're in the Jimmy heading to Santa Patella to 
get Brad from Tonya and drive him into the hills. We're not going on 
much sleep. Last night's party was the shit. I finally got to see Brit's 
and Cait's arms, and they were worth waiting for. Especially Caitlin, 
who is a very well-shaped 17 cold. Bitchin' genetics, just like her 
legs. Plus, she spent a year on PHEW. A drug made from the pineal gland 
of hogs, not *too* weird. But it works, never mind the metallic b.o. 
Except she reached a point where she couldn't stand the smell. Then her 
training dropped off to a sort of maintenance level. High maintenance--
she weighs 178, which could be awful hefty on someone only 5-3-1/2, but 
she carries it like it's a custom-tailored sex suit. Great rack, firm 
and full, thick pink nips, makes my mouth water just thinking about 'em. 
I'm trying to talk her into going on Largesse. I have the feeling she 
could really get big on it. And it's got no odor. Nothing to mask 
Colossally Calved Cait's intoxicating aroma of natural nookie. I close 
my eyes and breathe in. I can still savor the blush of her bush, PHEW-
fattened lips and clit bulging out of a dark, dank jungle of fun fur. 

To say I like this girl would be the understatement of the year. I could 
marry her. But I have to be careful about how I come on to her. She and 
Brit are an item and I don't want to fuck with their relationship. And 
what an item. They look so cute together, they should do a girl-on-girl 
pictorial in Slam Gams. Brit's sure got the thighs for it and Cait's 
calves are in the Zmeskal Zone. I hope they can find a place to live 
with no hassle when the truth gets out about Dennis. He's the one who 
owns the house, and he's not gonna be paying his mortgage anymore. I 
made sure we didn't turn the TV on last night, since I was afraid to run 
into a story on his demise. It's in today's paper, but they still 
haven't ID'd him. "Man Found Beaten to Death at Mall." Hard to get 
dental records on a Sunday, I guess, all the dentists are either on the 
golf course or fucking their hygienists in motels when they're supposed 
to be on the golf course. 

Never mind, we're at Tonya's house. And things go down the toilet in one 
quick flush. Tonya lets us in, just grunts hi, ushers us into the living 
room and sits down, looking mortified. She's totally delectable in a 
diaphanous red silk peignoir, but she's fretting about something, her 
face has that look like when the first set of numbers come up and 
they're all 5.2's. 

"What's the matter? asks Stef. "You come down from that drug OK? You 
were really flipped out last night." 

"Well, Stef, I came down from the drug," says Tonya, "but not before I 
did somethin' you're not gonna like." 

"What?" says Stef with alarm. "You let Brad go?" 

"Worse. You want a drink? I killed him. The fuckin' bastard's dead. I 
accidentally greased the motherfucker." 

Not *too* totally Tara. All the light goes out of Stef's eyes, and her 
whole body sags inward like her bones are collapsing. "How!? How'd you 
kill him?" 

"I, uh, fucked him to death? I came home, still on whatever I was on 
last night, sweat pourin' off me like a waterfall. Af-Gro Sheen, shit. 
Had me so high and horny I didn't know what I was doin'. Got naked, 
kinda rubbed myself all over Brad while he was tied to the bench, and he 
got a big one on and I backed myself onto it and sat on his lap and just 
squatted up and down on him for the longest time, really workin' on him 
with my pussy. I was *so* wet. And so *strong*. First time I did a guy 
in ages, had no idea I had such a snapper down there. Then I switched to 
my asshole and *really* put a grip on him. I did a lotta ass work with 
Chili, you know, even if I couldn't fuckin' win a tug o' war with a 
chain up my poop. Had him goin' for over an hour, he came *four* times, 
kept comin' back up for more in a matter of minutes. Fuckin' stud. I was 
using poppers on him to help him along." 

Stef closes her eyes and tries to deep-breathe her rage away. "I can't 
believe you're telling me this, Tonya. You're telling me he died from 
*pleasure*?" 

Tonya frowns and looks down at her feet like her skates are untied. 
"Well, no, I wouldn't say that. I think it was pain, and I'm not just 
sayin' that to make you feel better. I think I was out of control on the 
drug and I put such a vise on him it killed him. He was makin' all kinds 
of noises under the duct tape, and they didn't sound like pleasure. I 
mean, his heart musta gave out. From the sexual, uh, pain. And all the 
amyl nitrate. Some people can't handle that shit." 

"The guy's what, 22 years old?" I go. "He had a *heart attack* from 
fucking?" 

Tonya looks at me with that innocent girl-from-the-trailer-next-door 
face that didn't work on the Olympic Committee either. "I don't know 
what condition his heart was in. I didn't give him a fuckin' EKG. All I 
know is one second he was alive, the next he was dead. Though he still 
had a hardon. I swear, I was pumpin' on a dead man's rod there for a 
good minute. Shit, I had deceased cock up my ass, is that fuckin' freaky 
or what? What do they call that? Isn't there a word for that?" 

"How about murder?" Stef seethes. 

"Necrophilia," I go. "But you really need to *start* with a corpse in 
order for--" 

"Where's the body?" Stef cuts in. "Is he still in the weight room?" 

"Shit, no!" Tonya says indignantly. "I had him picked up by a Roids 
disposal team last night. I can't have a carcass around here, I'm on 
permanent probation. Look, I'm really sorry, Stef. I really am. I'll 
make it up to you somehow. You were gonna kill him anyway, right?" 

Stef sighs and massages her temples like she's getting a major migraine. 
"Yeah, but I had to get info from him first. There are three more guys 
I'm tracking down. Now I have no leads to them." 

"Stef, maybe it's better this way," I go, rubbing her supertensed thigh 
sympathetically. "Dennis and Brad are dead, you've got the big part of 
your revenge. Not *all* your revenge, but most of it. Think of how 
paranoid the other three will be when they find out Dennis and Brad were 
killed *on the same day*. They'll be living in fucking mortal terror 
from here on out. And one day you'll find them. It gives you something 
special to look forward to." 

Stef smiles at me and her eyes brighten. "Jen, you're so sweet and 
sensible. You're right. No point in being down about this. What's done 
is done. Just tell me he suffered, Ton. Tell me he suffered." 

"You can judge for yourself," Ton goes. "I videotaped the whole thing." 

Cut to the following night in Reno, Nevada. Tonya has a Reckless 
Wrestling show at the Linda Hamilton Civic Center. We flew in, thank the 
Goddess, no all-day fucking drive having to listen to Ton's music in the 
car. Fucking Shania Twain and her country abs, she's got a thing for 
her. Fortunately, clever Ton has deluxe travel arrangements written into 
her RFW contract: A tiny turbo prop that barely got our combined weight 
off the ground. Deluxe accommodations too: A pair of rooms at a Motel 6. 
There are so many conventions in town, all the good hotel space is 
booked. Just our luck. Speaking of luck, there's a slot machine down the 
hall from our rooms, but Ton got pissed after losing a bucket of dollar 
coins and she bent the handle all funny so it doesn't crank anymore. 
Sort of like she did to her ex-husband's dick, I guess. We did *not* 
watch the Brad fuck tape, by the way. We called Michelle's friend in the 
hills and canceled our dungeon reservations and that was it. Stef would 
prefer to take it on faith that he suffered. He's been forgotten. At 
least till we see Brit and Cait again. We also called the Soleus Sisters 
a few times but never got an answer. We left a message saying we wanted 
to come over and find out some more about Af-Gro Sheen. 

So it's showtime. The arena is pretty full, but it's a small arena. The 
usual load of white trash, and the usual load of white trash kids 
sitting ringside, flashing homemade signs, their middle fingers and 
occasionally their butts. The kind of kids who got dropped on their 
heads on the trailer stairs once too often. Stef and I sit at a press 
table and we keep ourselves covered in official RWF jackets. We don't 
want to get gawked at by this crowd, they're too skeevy. I guess I got 
some 'splainin' to do about Ton's wrestling gig. Well, she doesn't 
wrestle. This is like any other guy-centered wrestling business--the 
chicks are icing on the cake. Ton is presently playing the manager of 
these tag-team idiots, the Mad Mongols. Two 400-pound Japanese slobs 
with topknots, failed sumo wrestlers, who have such big titties I keep 
getting the urge to offer them the bra off my back. Assuming I was 
wearing one. Since I have the jacket on, I'm just wearing a tank top. 
Anyway, Tonya doesn't wrestle per se, but she does a lot of physical 
things in the ring when she has "disputes." Since she's strong enough to 
manhandle and bodyslam guys--not guys like the Mongols, but managers and 
sometimes refs, who are normal-sized, as well as some of the wrestlers' 
"girlfriends"--she humiliates two or three every show. Tosses 'em 
around, airplane spins 'em, puts a sleeper on 'em, that sort of thing. 

Tonight she's going to have a big argument in the ring with Charlie 
Montrose, who manages Kunta Kirkland, this 7-2, 460-pound black guy from 
Baltimore, who used to play offensive tackle in the NFL till he ruined 
his knee. Kunta is wrestling the Mongols all by himself, though not at 
the same time. But fuck that, it doesn't matter. It's all staged 
bullshit. Stef and I flip through magazines while this is happening. In 
fact, I brought the stolen copy of Slam Gams with me, Caitlin let me 
keep it, as well as another new mag called Burly Girlie, this one 
published by the NADS. Yeah, I know the NADS are supposed to be my sworn 
enemies, but the chicks in this magazine are lip-smackin'. Speaking of 
which, it's not all staged when Ton gets in the ring and does her thing. 
That's worked out in advance too, of course, but Ton, being an impetuous 
showoff, gets caught up in the moment and likes to be spontaneous. At a 
show in San Diego a couple weeks ago she got carried away during a 
tussle with Mink, the "girlfriend" of Mikhail the Mighty, who's supposed 
to be a former Russian Mafia hit man, though he's really the son of a 
Greek bus driver from Boston. Anyway, Ton grabbed Mink, who's like 5-6, 
120, and that's counting her 20-pound implants, and not only bitch 
slapped her for real about half a dozen times, hard enough to loosen her 
molars, but then ripped her blouse off and tried to tear her big black 
leather bra away while Mink flailed at her like a feral ferret. Broke 
all her press-on nails off. Mikhail had to step in and bodily spirit 
Mink to safety. The slapping was supposed to be  faked, of course, and 
the blouse was just supposed to come open in the front. Mink was going 
to take off the blouse herself in a minute, as if she was going to duke 
it out with Tonya. But Tonya couldn't wait. Then she decked a ref, just 
for the hell of it. Put the guy flat on his back with an elbow in the 
chest that left one nasty bruise on his breastbone. Looked like he was 
hit with a crowbar. He had Polaroids taken so he could make a formal 
complaint against Ton at the next RWF employees meeting. 

So Ton is in the ring now, breathing fire, gesturing wildly in that 
exaggerated wrestling manner where everyone plays to the balcony. She 
looks kissy-delicious in this red vinyl jacket, wide open to the cinched 
waist, with nothing but a red vinyl bikini top under it. She's got 
nothing on below except a red thong and knee-high red vinyl go-go boots 
with four-inch heels. The RWF commissioner, Ned "The Head"--he's got a 
huge shaved noggin--Brando, has decreed red to be Ton's official color. 
The match between Kunta Kirkland and the Mad Mongols has ended in a 
disqualification--one of the Mongols kneecapped Kunta with an aluminum 
baseball bat that Ton handed him. This is a violation of the rules, 
though it's all right to bring a folding chair into the ring. Anyway, 
Ton's raising hell now, pushing the ref around the canvas with atomic 
shoves, then Charlie Montrose slips through the ropes and gets in Ton's 
face. Charlie is this scrawny black guy who dresses up in a sharkskin 
suit, a skinny tie and a fedora with a feather in it. I don't know what 
he's supposed to be. A pimp from the '50s? Whatever. While the Mongols 
occupy the ref's attention, and Kunta writhes on the mat clutching his 
knee, Ton starts pushing Charlie around, threatening to unload on his 
jaw with a big right hand. They argue, the spit flying out of their 
mouths, then Ton takes her jacket off--this is in the script too--and 
flexes a few times, making it clear to Charlie and the crowd just how 
easily she can squash him like a bug. Then, while they're nose to nose 
screaming at each other in twin apoplectic fits, Ton head butts him 
between the eyes and he goes over flat on his back like he's out cold. 
Actually, he *is* out cold. The head butt was supposed to be faked, but 
I guess it wasn't. It sure looked real from my angle. Ton's on her knees 
frowning into Charlie's face, then she's waving for the house doctor. 
Charlie isn't moving at all. The Mongols and the ref are gathered around 
him in horror, and Kunta Kirkland is on his feet now, walking around in 
consternation, his knee magically healed. Too bad I can't say the same 
for Charlie Montrose. He's taken out of the ring on a stretcher and 
rushed to the hospital. We get the news about a half hour later in the 
dressing room. He's dead. Massive brain trauma. Ton killed him with a 
goddamn head butt. What a motherfucker. 

"I can't *believe* it!" she wails, nervously lighting a Camel. She 
usually doesn't smoke around us, we don't like it, but now she's frantic 
and she'll be chainsmoking for hours. "What's his head made of, fuckin' 
paper!? I didn't butt him that hard!" 

"You weren't supposed to butt him at all," says Stef quietly. "How many 
times did you practice the fake head butt?" 

"But how many times do you practice the *real* head butt?" I go. "It's 
not easy to pull up on a move like that, when your specialty is breaking 
a 60-pound block of ice with your head. You never shoulda head butted 
him, Ned never shoulda put it in the act." 

"Damn right!" Tonya yells. "I'm all fired up there in the ring! I'm all 
pumped up! All those fuckin' 9-year-olds with their hands in their 
pockets rubbin' their little hardons. How can I *pull* a head butt just 
like that? And *he's* supposed to help make it work, that fuckin' 
skinny-shit Montrose! Half the fake is his. He didn't fade back at all! 
Shit shit shit, I killed two guys in the last 48 hours, you two realize 
that?" She looks at us with tear-filled pleading cow eyes. 

"Chill, Ton," says Stef. "This one's an accident, the first one's a 
secret." 

"But I'm on *probation*," Ton whines, pacing like a tiger, sucking 
nonstop on her cigarette. "The Feds ain't gonna like this." 

"The Roids'll get you off," Stef says soothingly. "The worst that'll 
happen is you might have to do the Feds a special favor. Maybe make a 
couple sexual abstinence PSAs. Big deal. Gets your pretty face out on 
the TV more. Good exposure for when you go national."  

Ton pauses in mid-pace and looks thoughtful. "Yeah, maybe you're right. 
Make some PSAs. Wear something high-necked, no cleavage, but tight so my 
tits look big, and sleeveless, gotta show off my guns." Ton, who's 
wearing nothing but the red leather ring bikini, flexes a right bi and 
looks it over with an admiring eye, then starts licking the massed 
muscle, tonguing the heavy veins like they were mouth candy. She does 
the same for the left arm, spit-shining the muscles with a slow, sensual 
tongue motion, giving little wet lip kisses to her brachiage like she 
was worshipping herself. Well, she is, and so am I. My clit is standing 
in my pants like a ring post. I'm tempted to ask Ton if I can sit on her 
face right now, but I hold my tongue. I know she won't approve. It would 
look bad if someone found her chewing carpet mere minutes after Charlie 
Montrose was declared an official stiff.  Then Ton pulls a pint of 
Gordon's gin out of her gym bag and takes a big hit, offers the bottle 
to us and we each take a swig. She's smiling again, the gray eyes 
sparkling, along with her spit-slick arms. Shit, that PSA idea was the 
bomb. Stef is so good in a crisis. She should be a hostage negotiator. 

Cut to the next day. We're back home with hangovers after our Charlie 
Montrose memorial party in Reno. Suffice it to say we broke two fucking 
Motel 6 beds and I got to ride Ton's face so long and hard I still have 
bite marks from her molars all over my netherlips. Stef and I just got 
in, we collapse on the sofa, and, bing! we get a call from Tonya. She's 
frantic again, I can hear her chainsmoking over the phone. "The tape's 
gone!" she shrieks. 

"What tape?" 

"The tape of me fuckin' Brad to death! It's gone! They took it!" 

"Who? What they?" 

"The fucking NADs! What's the matter with you, Jen? Get a clue. The NADs 
have me by the balls now." 

I put Stef on the phone. My head is throbbing, and she's the hostage 
negotiator. "You sure it's gone, Ton? You sure you just can't find it?" 

"I left it in the *safe*. The lock's been *drilled out*, this was done 
by professionals. They came in through the back door, it's jimmied. 
Shit, why'd I tape it? Why?" 

We have to drive over for some handholding. We end up holding a lot more 
than hands. It's another drunken orgy. Hell, I already have a hangover, 
why stop drinking now? But we can't console Ton, no matter how much we 
make her come. It looks like the NADs really do have the tape, and we 
can't do a damn thing about it. We leave when she finally passes out in 
her comfy chair, and we go home and sleep off all the booze ourselves. 

Great. The next day should be a marked improvement. We got a message 
from the Soleus Sisters inviting us to their house in the afternoon, 
where they promise to reveal the secrets of Af-Gro Sheen. And we're 
going to have dinner tonight with Brit and Cait at Brad's house. The 
*late* Brad's house. The guy'll never know how easy he got off. I'm sure 
Stef would've prolonged his torture for weeks. Instead he got hunched to 
death by Ton. There are guys who would *pay* to go out like that. Shit.  

"Sheeeeeeiiit." That's Nadina looking at Stef's arm. We're in their cute 
little stucco ranch house in Santa Tarsus, sitting around the kitchen 
table passing a huge doob from Brit's stash. We came over in tiny tube 
tops and micro-tight cutoffs, hoping to wow the Sisters into an 
interracial sex mood. But despite all the coiled caucasian 
concupiscence, the only thing wowing the cousins of color is Stef and 
her centerfold arms. She's all blown up from an hour of bi work just 
before we left and the Sisters are oooohing and aaaaaahing over her 
ordnance just like I'd be cooing over their calves, if they'd let me. 
The Sisters are wearing Nike Brandi Chastain signature soccer bras--they 
come in B,C,D and World cup sizes--and baggy Fubu cargo pants that hang 
on the floor. So the fucking cargo is below-decks. In other words, I 
can't see their extremist lower extremities, not even in faint outline. 
They won't pull the oversized pants legs up, take the damn things off, 
nothing. I can't even get a glimpse of ankle, this is like a fucking 
episode of Masterpiece Theatre. 

"We don' show da goods 'less ya'll from da 'hood," Natina explains. I 
think what she means is she doesn't want any honky bitch eyeballing her 
superstems. I'm almost at the point of begging, trying to subtly hint to 
Stef that I need her help in figuring out what kind of tit for tat we 
can arrange with the Sisters, though tits and 'tats don't actually come 
into play here--unless it'll help get me some knee nookie if I agree to 
have Soleus Sisters inked into my forehead. But Stef is busy getting off 
on her own self. The Sisters have produced their tube of Af-Gro Sheen 
and are delicately rubbing it into Stef's right bi, which was already 
blown to 23 fast-twitchin' inches when Stef walked in. Now it appears to 
be getting bigger just through iso flexing. According to the Sisters, 
they got the stuff from a new Roids lab in Santa Herminosa. Some weird 
older chick known as Professor Pep gave it to them for experimental 
purposes, after seeing Stompin' at the Savoy. It's a combination love 
drug and muscle enhancer. 

The love drug is called Rapture, the muscle drug is called Vascu-Phil. 
They say it's not roid-based like Load Lotion. That's all the Sisters 
know about it, and based on their experience with it, that's all they 
need to know about it. "Ah come so good awn dis shit, ah don' tink ah 
evah wanna be *off* da muthafucka," Nadina giggles. They rub it on their 
calves, of course. You only need to put it on a small body area--"small" 
being a relative term, here--to get high. The reason they coated Ton's 
entire body with the stuff is 'cause they were hoping she'd freak out 
and kill someone. Well, she *did*, but we won't tell *them* that. "When 
we seen dat ice-skatin' bitch go out an' do da muhfuckin' pose show of 
her muhfuckin' *life*, we jus' say, like, laytuh," says Natina bitterly. 
"Sorry we wasted so much o' dis shit on dat muhfucka." 

"No wonder Ton had such a killer come onstage," says Stef, who's sitting 
there looking hot and bothered, with her arms flexed elbows-high like 
they're too bloated to unbend. Maybe they are. The Sisters have rubbed 
their magic stuff into both Stef's biceps now, and the results seem to 
be visible to the naked peeper. Not only are the high-riding veins 
bigger, bulging thicker than candy-coated co-ax, the whole arms are 
bigger, all the way around to the wheel-block-wedgy tri's. I sense a 
Kodak moment developing. 

"Girls, you got a Weider meter?" I ask the Sisters. "You gotta have a 
Weider meter for your calves, right? I think Stef's setting an arm 
record here. We gotta hook her up." The Sisters just look at me, all 
glassy-eyed stoned, like they never heard of a Weider meter, while Nancy 
Sinatra sings These Boots are Made for Walkin' on the clock radio they 
have next to the electric can opener. KFBB is doing an oldies hour. 
Stef, in the meantime, is doing a power hour, and she's also setting a 
sweat record. The house is decently AC'd on this pretty hot day, but 
she's pore-ing bullets from all over her face and neck, and her powder 
blue tube is soaked so much it's turning wavy navy. Her nipples are 
bulging obscenely through the damp top like hard rubber teacups, and 
Stef, her upper bod in a state of advanced excitation, has a lot of 
involuntary pec motion going on. I'm hoping this will get the Sisters at 
least a little horny, when Stef suddenly jumps to her feet and says to 
me in a breathless rush, "Gimme some resistance, girl, I've gotta pull, 
my muscles are screaming." 

I extend my hands to her, we grip up and Stef jerks me to my feet and 
starts to lean back and haul on me like she was water skiing. I have to 
strain to keep from stumbling forward as I desperately try to maintain 
my grip with Stef's sweat-wet hands. Her palms are so moist they're 
dripping, and her fingers are all slick and sticky. I manage to keep a 
grip, though, and she pulls on me, palms up, for what seems like three 
minutes, grunting like an animal, her eyes rolling in her head, her arms 
swollen so big I'm afraid she might tear something--like her skin. 

When Stef finally lets go of me and sits down, Nadina gets up to get the 
meter. She pauses in the doorway to the kitchen, her bodacious back-rack 
thrust in the air, and looks over her creamy brown shredded shoulder and 
says to me, "Look close, girl, I abou' tuh give ya one lookit mah laigs-
-jus' 'cause ah like ya face." Then she steps out of her Candie's and 
pulls the pants up to knee height and slowly rises up on her bare toes 
and holds the pose, the calves detonating in a firestorm of mocha-
muscled megatonnage, cartilage cracking and popping in her knees and 
ankles at ground zero. My gut knots up in pleasure-shock, my pussy 
palpitates and my rectum thrums like a drum. I wanna crawl across the 
linoleum on my hands and knees and kiss those diamond-mindbending 
beauties, but she's gone. 

Stef, still sitting there flexing and sweating, says, "I've got those 
vision things going on now, just like Ton was talking about." 

"What's it like?" 

Stef blinks her dilated eyes a few times as fresh streams of sweat run 
down her neck. "Like she said. Things aren't the right distance. They 
seem either closer than they really are or too far away. And there's no 
pattern to it. If I look at the toaster over there"--Stef points across 
the room, locking out her arm so the huge muscles snap taut like cables, 
prurient pellets of perspiration peppering the tabletop--"it seems a 
mile away. But the cabinets above it seem like I could reach out and 
touch them. It's really freaky. And there are little flashes of green 
and gold in the corners of my eyes, like little weird tropical fish are 
swimming around in the air." 

"Cool," I go, praying Stef isn't gonna freak out and get paranoid or 
something. Then I notice the zig-zaggy streak of electric green on the 
periphery of my vision. Then a gold one. They're flitting like amoebas 
on a microscope slide, just on the far edges of my sight now. Then Stef 
looks a little *closer* to me than she's actually standing. Did her tits 
get even bigger? "Oh, fuck, I've got it too," I go, as I realize how 
damp my panties are. "I've got the same visual fucking things you do, 
Stef. What is this, some sort of fucking contact high?" 

"Ya'll got dat right," Natina says with knowing satisfaction. "It's in 
huh sweat. Now it's in *yo*. It's skin adsorbent, ya know whut am 
sayin'?" 

"*Ab*sorbent," says Stef. 

"Whatevuh. You both be trippin' now, dat's fuh sho'." 

The sweat is running down my neck now, and I can feel it pooling at the 
back of my head where my hair is tied in a high pony. I suddenly realize 
I'm *panting* with haunch hunger, I need a gam jam so bad I can taste 
it. "How about a leg massage?" I say to Natina, trying not to sound like 
I'm begging. "I've got really great hands." I hold up my monster mitts 
and wiggle the long, strong fingers, the short nails painted Pokemon 
pink for that girlie touch. 

"You got all da leg action you gettin', girl," says Nadina in the 
doorway. She's back with the Weider meter. "We give ya'll some Af-Gro 
tuh take home witchew jus' 'cause we so goddamn *nice*." She squeezes a 
little from the tube into a tiny screwtop container like you might use 
for contact lenses. "Den ya git you ass up tuh da Prof's place an' git 
you own. Now les' put this muhfucka awn." 

I take my Hi-8 out of my bag and get it ready while Stef does three 
quick sets with 50 pounds on an EZ bar that Natina brings in, just to 
keep the pump fresh. I shoot Stef curling, and when I casually pan over 
to the Sisters, they look daggers at me. Then they put the bands on 
Stef, careful not to rub her sweaty skin too much. The Sisters don't 
wanna trip now, they say they have to go out soon. Like *we* don't have 
to to out soon? In the meantime, I've got a problem with sweat running 
into the blinking eye I have to the viewfinder, and I have to rely on 
autofocus since I can't see straight, so I can't do any of the cool rack 
focus moves I've been practicing. No, those are not tit closeups. 
Anyway, the meter's always a trip; the way the muscle inflates, the 
tight-fitting band stretches, then this big red LED number comes up on 
the little box that's attached by wires. I stand back and shoot the 
whole thing, while Stef sits at the table and flexes over and over, slow 
and concentrated, the Sisters sitting close to her, stoned and sullenly 
stunned at Stef's size. The right arm tops out at 23.7, the left at 
23.6. The meter measures in tenths, like in the Olympics. 

"Fuck mah ass wit' a Lexus," Nadina groans in awe. 

"Holy mother of the Goddess!" I blurt. "Stef, you're setting personal 
records here." 

"But it's drug-assisted," she goes, grinning wildly, her face and body 
glowing golden gorgeous in the streaming kitchen sunlight. 

"You're close to 24 inches!" I go. "You should pump up some more, maybe 
you can get there!" 

"Ain' no time foh dat," says Natina. "We gotta go somewhere. Got some 
bidness  tuh do. Ya'll gotta go now." She's making shooing motions at us 
as I'm taping her. 

Stef detaches herself from the meter and stands up, her pecs flexing 
wildly, the veins in her wet neck throbbing in a blood pulse. "Got some 
business?" she echoes dazedly. My cunt is blazing now, I can feel the 
lips blubbering, and I'm jerking my clit in my pants with pure pelvic 
power, the fat nub so chubbed up it's thrusting into the tight crotch of 
my cutoffs hard enough to make joy-jolts run through my cheeks and my 
asshole buzz like a kazoo. 

I feel like I'm going to pee myself, then I realize I *am* peeing 
myself, and I crane the camera down at my own body and shoot myself 
peeing myself, the hot piss running down my legs and onto my sandals, 
the front of my shorts stained dark and sopping. I don't make a pee 
scene in the kiddie pool anymore, by the way, Stef isn't really into 
that. So this is, like, total liberation. Jesus, it feels so good I'm 
almost shitting, then the Sisters are yelling something about "da pussy 
need a littah box," and I respond with, "They just made a movie in honor 
of you two--Thighs Wide Shut," and then Stef and I are in the street, 
some frumpy black matron in a sunhat is walking by, staring up at us 
with her mouth hanging open like we just got off a spaceship, and then 
Stef tells me to drive, she's too fucked up, and there I am behind the 
wheel of the Jimmy, my cutoffs steaming in the sun, trying to focus on 
the road, wondering what the hell will happen if I look in the sideview 
mirror, which says Warning: Objects May Be Closer Than They Appear. I 
venture a glance, and the fucking *mirror* seems about half an inch 
away, never mind what's in it. I get out of Santa Tarsus without running 
over any pedestrians, but I have to keep my eyes glued to the road 
behind my Killer Loops--one sidewise glance and my sight gets all razzle 
dazzled with streaky stuff, and it's not just peripheral now, it's 
starting to creep right out in front of me. 

Then Stef pulls her shorts and panties down past her knees and lows like 
a heifer in heat. I have to look over. She's sitting there on the other 
side of the armrest, which is lost somewhere under her massive resting 
arm, with a big, glistening purply-pink clitstand. She touches it just 
the tip of one pinky, causing her quads to knot so hard I think she's 
gonna have a fatal muscle cramp as her gut sucks in and her chest blows 
out, the huge bustline practically hitting the windshield like reverse 
airbags. "Pull over and eat me!" she howls. Then she tugs on her nipples 
through the soaked tube top, pulling on the mushroom-meaty kissy caps 
with thumb and forefinger, her head thrown back in ecstasy, the golden 
throat gulping for relief, jugulars bulging. 

I try not to look at her, 'cause it's making me drool, literally, my 
mouth is filling with hot saliva and it's leaking over my lips. "I can't 
pull over, there's nowhere to park!" I shriek, the scalding spit flying, 
as I try to refocus on the road. OK, it's clear we're never gonna make 
the long drive home, we need to go somewhere now and get it on. We're 
both still sweating like pigs, and all the perspiration combined with my 
pee smells so raunchy ripe, just breathing through our noses is 
unbearably exciting. 

"Hank's!" Stef shouts, after thinking frantically while chewing her lip 
and nervously slapping her knees. "Santa Gasma is on the way. We'll use 
his office!" I get to Gasma without hitting anybody, pull into the 
parking lot in a squeal of brakes and we run into the club, which, at 
this time of the afternoon, has eight drunks in the audience and one 
emaciated coke freak with implants onstage air-fucking a pole. We burst 
into Hank's office--Mahmoud, the male bouncer, who is not nearly as big 
as us, and knows us anyway, just watches us pass in wonder--and there's 
Hank getting his cock sucked by one of his skinny, phony-titted 
showgirls. 

"Hank, get outta here right now!" Stef screams. "Jen and I gotta get it 
on immediately--in private!" 

Hank, who understands the ways of the flesh, stands up in a hurry, his 
big schlong bounding before him, and rushes out of his office, the tow-
headed cocksucker in tow for more head elsewhere. Then Stef and I strip 
naked and writhe all over Hank's sofabed, and we're so sweaty it's like 
we're hot oil wrestling. 

Cut to a half hour later, when we're dressed again in our stinking 
clothes, drinking all the Great Bear in Hank's office water cooler in an 
effort to rehydrate ourselves. "Didja come good, girls?" Hank asks. 

"Yeah," says Stef wearily. Her pelvis must be sore from all the 
contractions. "Sorry about the intrusion Hank. Hope we didn't ruin your 
blowjob." 

"*Ruin* it? Seein' you two burst in like that wearin' almost nothin' was 
the best thing I coulda seen. I came like a sumbitch." 

A dim sumbitch. "That's very nice, Hank," I go. "Now please don't 
disturb us, we're in post-cunnilingual bliss. We'll be gone in a couple 
minutes, honest." 

Hank nods and continues to stare at us as he lights a Lucky. "You know, 
you girls have dilated eyes and you're all weird and sweaty and 
superhorny. Just like Tonya the other night. And you know what? My two 
girls who went down on Ton after her act? They both got high on whatever 
she was on. Like it passed through skin contact or cunt juice contact or 
something." 

"It did," I go. 

"Well, what is it?" Hank demands. "Some kind of mescaline or something?" 

"We're not sure," says Stef. "We're in a strictly experimental stage at 
the moment. When we know something conclusive, we'll get back to you." 

"But if you're on it now, and it's transmitted through skin contact, why 
can't I, like, touch you a little and get high too?" 

"Hank, do we look like the kind of girls who let skeevy strip club 
owners feel them up?" I go. 

"No," he says soberly. "How about this?" he adds, his eyes lighting. 
"Let Tawny feel you up and then she'll let *me* feel *her* up?" 

"Who's Tawny?" Stef wants to know. "The one who blew you?" 

"Nah," Hank scoffs. "Tawny is one of the lookers who made Ton after her 
act. She got high off that head and she wants more." 

"So get her," says Stef. "*She* can feel us up. We owe you that much for 
throwing you outta your own office while you were getting your ding 
donged. Then we're outta here. Move it." 

Hank runs and gets Tawny, who's in her stage bikini, all wiry lap-
dancer's muscle and giant eggplant-size implants. But she's got good 
hands with none of the usual nail salon claws and she's genuinely cute. 
"Oh, cool, you girls are on that *drug*," she trills in this idiotic 
Marilyn Monroe voice. We just nod and smile. We're trying to be nice. So 
she fondles us all over, rubs herself against us like a cat on a 
scratching post--she only comes up to our chests and she keeps nuzzling 
her nose into our titties--and when she's good and soaked with our 
sweat, which is still running off us like we were in a steam room, we 
get the hell out of there. We have to check in with Tonya, she could be 
really distraught. We don't know what's up with her Reckless problem. We 
tried her on the cell a couple times and got no answer. So we head home. 
I'm still driving and I've still got a lot of vision things going on, 
but it's easier to handle now, I'm getting used to it. "So that explains 
why Brad died," I go. 

"What explains why Brad died?" Stef wonders. 

"He got rubbed all over with Tonya's sweat, and she was tripping on a 
total Rapture overdose. So he got it too, but he had no idea what it 
was. Then she gave him a bunch of poppers and put a clamp on his dick 
that must've been like an iron fist grip. You *know* what a wicked cunt 
she's got. Then she vised him with her *ass*. You know what *that's* 
like too." 

"Shit, yeah," Stef nods. "She wrecked 'em with her rectum." 

We both start laughing insanely and I almost swideswipe a pickup with 
some construction worker-type guys in it who are staring at us like they 
just saw Jesus in a tube top. Well, we eventually get safely into the 
apartment, and there's fucking Tonya sitting on the couch holding an ice 
pack to her face. She has the key, it's part of our bodyguard deal, like 
she can call on us anytime, even if we're sleeping or fucking. She also 
has a seriously fist-decorated face, which is not part of our bodyguard 
deal. Shit. "What the fuck happened to *you*, Ton?" I go, trying to be 
casual. 

"Oh, nothin' much," she goes, taking a hit off our good bottle of Bombay 
gin, which it looks like she half-finished already. "I just tangled with 
two fuckin' *huge* NADS bitches, that's all. Where the hell where *you* 
motherfuckers?~!" 

"Chill, Ton," urges Stef. "We called your house before, you weren't 
home." 

"Sorry, I was out gettin' my ass kicked!" She lights a Camel and puffs 
on it furiously. She's looking real fine in a tube top and cutoffs, just 
like us, but she's got an eye and a lip out to here and her discolored 
cheek is puffed up all funny like she's got an apple stuffed in the side 
of her mouth. 

"The fact of the matter is we were paying a visit to the Soleus Sisters, 
trying to find out what the hell they drugged you with at Hank's." 

"And you must've found out," she says. "Your clothes are *drenched*. 
Jesus, did you piss yourself, Jen?" 

"Yes, I'm afraid I did." No need to tell her how fucking fabulous it 
was. After her super pissgasm at Hank's, I'm sure she knows. Maybe I can 
talk her into making a pee scene with me, but this isn't the time. "Stef 
and I are still tripping on that drug, so we're, like, a little high-
strung right now," I say as soothingly as I can. "So calmly tell us what 
the hell happened, and we'll, like, develop a plan of action." 

Tonya snorts and waves a big arm around dangerously. "Fuckin' A you'll 
develop a plan of action, you jackoffs," she snarls. Shit, she's getting 
liquored and she's ornery when she's liquored. Stef and I exchange 
Rapture looks. Ton is bringing us down. Why'd she have to pick today to 
get beat up? "My *bodyguard* babes," Ton spits. "Wait a motherfuckin' 
minute, I have to get tomato or orange fuckin' juice or somethin' to go 
with this gin." She heads unsteadily into the kitchen, and then she lets 
out this roar of anger that shakes the walls and almost gives me a heart 
attack. She comes running back into the living room waving a page from 
Burly Girlie that I tore out and stuck on the fridge 'cause I thought it 
was so sexy. "These are them!" she shrieks. "The fuckers who beat me up! 
You have them on your *fridge*? They fuckin' *friends* of yours?" 

"That's just a page from a new NADS mag," I go. "I thought the chicks 
were hot. Never saw them before in my life." 

Tonya's livid. She throws the ice bag across the room so hard it 
explodes on the wall and all the cubes fly out. She's got veins standing 
out in her neck and upper chest, her fists are rhythmically clenching 
and unclenching and she's breathing like a Brahma bull, her big tits 
heaving, like she's gonna flip out and start swinging at us. It's 
moments like this when I'm glad she's a foot shorter than we are. 
"Right! A *NADS* mag! Of *course* they're in a NADS mag! They're in the 
fuckin' NADS! They're--" 

"Tonya, your face looks like shit," Stef interrupts. "Sit down and tell 
us the story and we'll Zmeskaline you and get some more ice on you. 
You've got a show the day after tomorrow, you know? The Hung 
Republicans? At the Santa Humonga Armory? 

"How can I do a show so soon with a face like this?" she wails. 

"Zmeskaline should heal you enough to do in show in 48 hours," I go. 
"You'll wear a ton of makeup, anyway. Don't you have a jar of your own? 
You haven't put any on yet?" 

"I didn't have any. Another reason I came over here. But I couldn't find 
yours." 

"It's in the bedroom, I'll get it," says Stef, who rolls her eyes at me 
as she leaves the room. I'm left standing there feeling guilty in front 
of Ton's accusing gaze, but I don't feel guilty, I feel horny. Ton looks 
real good to me, never mind that her face is all fucked up. And I have 
to pee again. I'm tempted to just do it in my pants, since they're 
already wet, but I need a kiddie pool or something to stand in. I 
haven't had a kiddie pool since I was in stir. I miss it just like I 
miss Sara. I pick up the page from Burly Girlie that Ton threw on the 
floor and study the chicks while Ton drinks and smokes feverishly, 
muttering to herself about what assholes we all are. It's a big 
pictorial in which they tittie torture this little skinny guy, but the 
page I put up is one before the guy appears in the layout, so it's just 
them admiring each other's arms and bustlines. And there's an awful lot 
to admire. These are a pair of really hefty brutes who wear bras that 
look more like hammocks. And they've got big meaty powerlifter's arms 
and shoulders, but with oversized biceps and plenty of deep cuts in the 
delts despite all the weight they're carrying. Stef comes back in and 
kneels in front of Ton, applying the Zmeskaline to her bruised face. 

"How tall are these girls, Ton?" I ask, holding up the page. 

"About my height," she says bitterly. "And at least my weight. You can 
see how big their arms are. And they know how to fight. They're in the 
Daughters of motherfuckin' Slaughter." 

"So what happened? Did they break into your house?" 

"Yeah, to steal the tape, I think, though they didn't say so outright. I 
bet they sniffed everything in my fuckin' underwear drawer." 

"They wouldn't even have to open the drawer to do that, since all your 
undies always smell like a fucking moldy Mia Hamm sandwich," Stef 
mutters. 

"Fuck *you*, Stef," Tonya cleverly retorts. 

"But where'd you have the fight?" I go. 

"At Slutty Sue's." 

Stef stands up and slams the Zmeskaline jar down on the coffee table. 
"How many goddamn times did we tell you not to go to bars alone?" 

Tonya puts her on indignant face. "I needed a fuckin' drink and it's the 
fuckin' dyke dive down the street, OK?  What's the big deal? I got a 
call this mornin' from fuckin' Ned the Head. They're still workin' out 
the legal shit about the death of Charlie Montrose. It's a good thing he 
died in Nevada, accordin' to Ned, they don't give a shit about anything 
there. Ned's tryin' to work this thing in my favor. He figures it makes 
me more of a villain and enhances the image of the RWF. But fuckin' 
Charlie Montrose's family--the scumbag was married with kids--is suing 
me *and* the RWF." 

"Are you suspended or something in the meantime?" Stef asks. "We've got 
a show next week in Salt Lake City--that's the one they're billing as 
Stormin' Mormon Monday." 

"Dunno, Ned's gonna get back to me on that," Ton shrugs. "Anyway, I'm in 
the bar, havin' some beers at a table in the back by myself. Mindin' my 
own fuckin' business. These two big bitches sit down uninvited. They're 
in Rimfire Girls muscle tees and cutoffs and their tits are so big just 
bendin' over must be like settin' a fuckin' deadlift record. Dunn and 
Gomez are their names, they tell me. `We're a mick and a spic and we 
don't do dick,' they go. Like they got an act." 

"In their Burly Girlie layout, they nearly kill a guy with their tits," 
I point out. "It looks like they *do* have an act." 

"Fuck their layout and fuck them," Ton hisses. "They tell me they got 
the tape of me killin' Brad, then they tell me they can also pin the 
murder of Brad's roommate on me. Some Dennis guy who got crushed to 
death in a revolvin' door or somethin'. I'm like, *what*?" 

Stef and I exchange nervous glances. We didn't really explain to Ton 
about Dennis. Ton's got a big mouth, and the less she knows the better, 
as a rule. "So they're trying to blackmail you?" Stef goes. 

"Exactly. But not for money. They're trying to *turn* me. They want me 
to join the NADS. Like I'd *ever* do such a thing. The Roids rule!" 

"So you swung on them," I prod her along. 

"Fuckin' A. I sucker punched Gomez, knocked her right off her chair 
while she was reaching for her beer, but Dunn was way faster than she 
looks. She hit me with a right hand while Gomez was still falling. 
Knocked *me* right off *my* chair. Was on me with her fuckin' hikin' 
boot before I could get to my knees." Tonya stands up and turns around 
so we can see the immense right thigh that's bulging out of the frayed 
leg of her cutoffs. It's got a series of ugly purplish-black bruises on 
it that Stef tenderly Zmeskalines while Ton continues talking over her 
huge shoulder. "Then she pulled me off the floor by my neck like I was a 
rag doll and punched my face a couple times, then Gomez got up and 
punched my face a couple times. I couldn't do shit. They hit *real* 
hard, I was in an instant total fuckin' daze. They coulda killed me if 
they wanted to. But they just dropped me on the floor and left." 

"Well, you'll stay here with us now," says Stef. "You're sure to hear 
from them again." 

"How am I gonna hear from them again if I'm here with you two?" Ton 
complains. "You'll scare 'em off." 

"You wanna go back to your house and stay there *alone*?" I go. 

"Yeah," she says, like it's obvious. "This time I'll be ready for them. 
And now I'm ready for some more of that fuckin' drug the Sisters got. 
They give you any?" 

"No," I lie. We're saving it for Cait and Brit tonight, and it's a good 
thing Ton won't be around, she's too weirded out to party with us. "But 
we got a lead on where to get it. We're gonna score a quantity real 
soon, and we'll get a tube for you for sure." 

Ton belches, glares at us dubiously and scratches her bare belly, 
flexing her abs so they ripple under her probing fingers. I'm thinking 
it's a good thing Dunn and Gomez didn't work over her midsection, 
despite Ton's nearly gutpunch-proof stomach of steel. These NADS Nancies 
look like the kind of girls who can maul your midriff so bad you'll shit 
out your ovaries. "Did you get it on with them?" Ton wants to know. "Did 
they oil you up?" 

"They did my biceps, then Jen got a contact high through me," Stef 
explains, not mentioning her record-setting bi-high as she unconsciously 
flexes her arms, which swell so big they make my cunt quiver as a sharp 
intake of breath jerks my stiff nips skyward. I bronco'd on Stef's arm 
at Hank's--what we like to call a bi ride--grinding my crotch on that 
glory gun, letting the muscle mushroom into my mons till I shot a hair-
trigger load of come dum-dums. Well, OK, I don't really ejaculate, not 
like that Hungarian chick who shat on Mickey, but it sure *felt* like I 
did. I came so good I got a deep burn through my ass that crawled up my 
spine like a slo-mo lightning bolt and almost turned my bowels to gut 
goop. "The stuff is skin absorbent," Stef adds, "it's in your sweat." 

I think Ton's gonna ask to rub us like Hank did--we're *still* sweating-
-but she just nods, lights another cigarette and says, "I guess them 
mulatto motherfuckers are startin' to warm up to the white race. I 
couldn't believe it when they volunteered to cream me up with that 
shit." We don't tell her that the Sisters were trying to make her crazy 
when they oiled her and ruin her life--again. She already *is* crazy, 
anyway. She leans her head back, taking another big pull on the Bombay 
bottle, belches again, then farts, actually lifting her leg to poot like 
she was a male dog marking his territory. There's a cheesy odor all of a 
sudden that's thankfully masked by her Camel smoke. "I still need a 
drink," she goes, like this was a bar. 

After a pregnant pause, during which I'm sure Stef is wondering along 
with me if this bodyguard gig was such a good idea after all, Stef says, 
"I'll get you one, girl, sit down and relax." 

The Sinew centerfold goes into the kitchen and I'm standing there 
looking at Tonya, who's standing there with an ice bag on her face 
looking at me with her one good bloodshot eye. "I know what you bitches 
need to do for penance," she says, slapping her unbruised thigh for 
emphasis. "Toss my fuckin' salad, the both of ya." Tonya unsnaps her 
cutoffs and peels out of them. She's not wearing any panties. Didn't 
have any clean ones, no doubt, though I don't see why that would stop 
her. Maybe she just felt like feeling a zipper on her fat clit. She does 
her laundry like once a month. 

"Sure, babe," I go. Tossing Tonya is not exactly a chore, though it 
takes her forever to come. Despite her laundry lag, she keeps her 
either/orifices spanking spotless like a salad queen should. Moreover, 
she's got the cutest winky-pink asshole buried beneath great globes of 
muscle butt, and her pussy's a wet and wild love muff with lips as tasty 
as a spliff. "Though I'd hardly call it *penance*," I add. Still holding 
my pee in--it feels real good to have a full bladder, maybe it's the 
Rapture--I get on my knees behind Ton and she bends over and wiggles her 
muscle-plump cheeks in my face, then farts loud and long, practically in 
my mouth. There's that stink again. Mondo fucking gross. "Ton," I go 
crossly, waving fresh air around with my hands, "you can't fart in my 
face while I'm doing this, it's not nice." 

She giggles, then wiggles some more, actually gripping the tip of my 
nose with her sphincter. "Can't help it, I got bad gas. Did I mention 
the bean burritos I had at the bar? Now get your tongue up there, 
girlfriend. Call it fuckin' penance." 

--30--