Jenna Takedown: NADS Buster

By Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com)

Chapter 7, Mickey discovers that man's best friend isn't.  


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 7

So I'm dropping Bon, who's still in a silent state of shock, at 
Michelle From Hell's house in Chucho. Bon arrived last night, her 
bags are already over there. I've got the driving-under-the-
influence thing under control, so I'm trying to make some normal 
conversation with Bon, snap her out of this anal-retentive mood of 
mourning before we get to Michelle's. Frankly, I'm starting to feel 
guilty about the whole thing, since Bon would've never been at 
Professor Pep's if I hadn't invited her to join me. I'm sure after 
she thinks about it long enough, Bon'll blame *me* for her getting 
ridden by a middle-aged midget like she was the butt bronco at the 
rectal rodeo. "So how'd you spend the night last night anyway?" I 
ask as we pull onto Michelle's semi-seedy street. She lives in the 
"bad" side of Chucho, where the lawns don't look like putting 
greens and all the cars parked in the street are, like, old Chevys 
and Toyotas with the fenders falling off. It's the only place she 
could afford to rent a whole house. "Did you get it on with 
Michelle? Or did she have clients all night?"

Bon sighs and looks at me like she's in pain. "She had a couple 
clients, but then we had a few drinks and a doob and got it on. It 
was nice. Mich has a helluva body. And she hasn't got a cock! 
Godammit, why'd you let me get butt-butchered like that!" Big Bon 
moans like she's lamenting her tragic fate.

I knew it. She's 6-9, 325 and I "let" her get procto-probed. "Shit, 
sorry I asked, Bon. Try to chill, OK? I mean, you practically had a 
sign taped to your ass that said Enter Here." It crosses my mind 
that I could stop in and see my mother after I unload Bon, it's 
just on the other side of town, but I nix that idea immediately, 
I'm too fucked up to handle her. I'll call her later. Or tomorrow. 
Before we get out of the Jimmy, I, of course, have to swear to Bon 
to mention none of the afternoon's events to Michelle. Bon doesn't 
want her to know about Rapture--Michelle is weird enough when she's 
sober--nor does Bon want any Rapture for herself. I'm secretly very 
pleased with this, since dividing the Rapture between us would be 
difficult, and this way there's so much more for me and Sara. It 
also crosses my mind that I forgot to ask for a tube of Vascu-Phil, 
which might be a lot of fun to use while on the Rapture. Or while 
on anything, for that matter. I'll have to get it next time. I 
intend to call Pep real soon and arrange to come over, and I'll 
bring Sara with me. In the meantime, my plans for tonight, after I 
do my back/shoulders workout at the gym in Shorta, are to have a 
Rapture party with Clit-Bit Brit and Colossally Calved Caitlin. 
Brit has a Tonya-style nickname now, since I learned she always 
yells, "Bite my clit! Bite my clit!" when you go down on her. I 
learned this the *hard* way, you might say, not to mention the Hard 
way. Yeah, I tossed them both good last night. I'm sure Brit and 
Cait are spending the day spit-shining their poopchutes awaiting my 
return. I've got a helluva tongue on me, if I do say so myself.

So I go in with Bon to say hello to Michelle. Bon and I have our 
Killer Loops on, so Michelle won't be able to tell from our eyes 
that we're tripping. But she knows something's been going on right 
away. She sniffs us all over and says, "What's up with you two? You 
both smell like pee."

Great nose on this girl. I make a mental note never to shit my 
pants around her. "Uh, Bon and I had a really weird piss party in 
the bathroom at the Pussy Pueblo after lunch," I lie. "We just 
*had* to get it on, not having seen each other for so long. You 
been to the Pussy Pueblo yet? It's not as good as the Hooter 
Hacienda. I mean, the food's as good, but the waitresses are kinda 
skanky. And I think there was a pubic hair in my guacamole." Shit, 
I'm babbling.

Michelle looks at me like I'm insane. "Fuck's the Pussy Pueblo?"

"A new bottomless restaurant in Santa Shorta. Hey, you shoulda come 
with us. But Bon said you had some daytime clients."

Michelle shakes her head sadly, as if to say, What's the world 
coming to? "I did. And what are they gonna open next? A fag fajita 
house called the Penis Ponderosa?"

This gets me giggling good. Michelle can be so funny for a girl who 
almost killed her parents and spent three years in solitary 
confinement. I'm feeling really horny, and I'd really love to turn 
Michelle on to Rapture right now and make her up, down and 
sideways, but Bon, at the moment, is like having a giant, nervously 
perspiring nun standing guard over you. Michelle, to my great 
relief, is wearing a soaking gray sweatsuit--she rides a Tunturi 
like this every afternoon while watching TV--so I'm not overly 
tempted by her body. I give her a warm hello kiss and try to keep 
my tongue from climbing down her throat. "So, Michelle, what 
happened to Mickey that day after he got bungholed by Brad? Did you 
call an ambulance for him?"

Michelle looks at me dimly, trying to recollect. She has about five 
or six clients a day, and it's hard to tell one humiliated half-man 
from another. "Oh, that day when the little fuck came over an hour 
early while Stef was sodomizing the rapist? Did I call an ambulance 
for him? Certainly for shit not. Do you think I need to call 
attention to my business like that? The only reason I'm in business 
here at all is 'cause Evelyn Roper has put in a word for me with 
the cops. I just sent the fucker and his bloody rectum packing. 
Gave him some little shirt some little guy left here, since his was 
torn right off his back. He hasn't been back since, and I'm not 
sure he will be. Good. He's one of the pushiest assholes I've ever 
had. And always trying to whittle his fee down, too. I should 
whittle his fucking prick down--to a nub."

On the mention of "fucking prick," Bon stumbles into the bedroom 
and collapses on the bed, mumbling something about needing a 
"beauty rest," or maybe it was "booty rest."

"But I got my revenge on him but good," Michelle continues, 
smacking my shoulder with an open hand for emphasis, hard enough to 
knock a small girl down. "In the words of Thucydides, `The strong 
do what they can and the weak suffer what they must.' "

I nod like my mother had the fucking quotation in a framed 
needlepoint on the kitchen wall when I was a kid. Thu-who? Sounds 
like some Greek or Roman. I bet Michelle and Gloria Sternum would 
really hit it off. 

"I sold the tape of him you made to Harry Dexter for five grand 
cash," Michelle continues with a complacent gleam in her eye. "You 
should get a cut, you handled the camera beautifully. How about I 
lay a thou on you right now, I've got it here in the house?"

Oh, shit. Looks like Little Man's Fate has a new segment. Maybe the 
DVD version of this title will have a special soundtrack option 
where Mickey offers a running commentary on his torture. "Aw, no, 
that's not necessary, Michelle, you keep the money. You're a 
working girl and I'm on the She Roids payroll."

"I may be on the Roids payroll soon, too," says Michelle. "Did Ev 
Roper ever give you the rap about this new special-ops unit called 
the CHICKA? She called me up the other day to, like, pre-enlist 
me."

"Yeah. We may *all* be in the CHICKA, Bonnie, Stef, everybody. 
Well, maybe not Stef. She only kills for personal reasons."  

I shoot the shit with Michelle about Stef and Tonya, give Bon a 
goodbye kiss on her sweaty, fevered brow, copping a quick feel of a 
thigh-sized tit, and get outta there. I've got to get in a good 
workout, so I'm going to shoot by Shorta, hit the gym and pick up 
some stuff from the apartment, then head to Retributa and party 
farty. I'm getting a delayed gas attack from lunch. 

So I do the workout, though I'm technically violating the terms of 
my "lay low" agreement. It stands to reason the Moms know I train 
here, they can stake the place out and nail me easily, even though 
there are always a couple of very big Roids girls around. The Moms 
travel in packs. It would be tough to take me out at the gym, 
though, 'cause I'm farting so bad the Moms'd need gas masks to get 
near me. I walk over to the apartment, which is being staked out by 
the same pair of ugly Mexican gangbangers that were on Tonya's room 
at the hospital. I explain to them I just want to get some stuff, 
and they let me in with no hassle. Don't even ask for a few gropes. 
I don't know if they're well-disciplined, very respectful of my 
reputation or I just don't turn them on. Whatever. This is no time 
for me to explore my lack of self-esteem. And if I ever needed an 
ego boost, I get one when I'm downstairs loading the Jimmy. None 
other than Mickey himself comes by walking his Chihuahua.

He's wearing baggy khaki shorts, sandals and a loud, cheap Hawaiian 
shirt, similar to the one he had on when Michelle messed with his 
mojo. His mostly gray hair is moussed up like he's an over the hill 
Elvis, but his salt and pepper goatee makes him look distinguished. 
Or maybe it makes him look *ex*tinguished. Mickey's got this kinda 
pale, spectral not-there quality about him, despite the fact that 
he's got the standard Cali tan, I guess from being hurt so bad so 
many times. Or maybe it's 'cause he's so damn short. "Jenna! So 
good to see you! How are you? You look great!" He starts fondling 
my bare thigh like he was a blind man with the world's smallest 
seeing-eye dog. OK, I was wrong, Mick's got a very hands-on, 
definitely-there quality. 

"Fine, Mickey, how are you? Hi, Pedro! How're you doing, little 
fella?" I squat down to pet the tiny dog and get my quads out of 
Mickey's reach, and I can't help noticing the cocker in the feisty 
fella's front. Shit, I wonder what this guy would be like on a love 
drug? I rise again to my full height and Mickey looks up at me 
expectantly, waiting for me to bend over so he can give me a 
friendly peck on the lips.

I lean down and his nostrils are flaring as he picks up my rank 
scent. Besides all the Rapture residue and the dried pee, I sweated 
another couple gallons at the gym while coating myself in my own 
cloud of farts--and didn't shower. I figured I'd shower at Cait's. 
I've got my hair tied back in a greasy high pony, I'm all oil-shiny 
and I must smell like a rutting ferret. "What's that fragrance 
you're wearing? It's a total turnon!"

"Uh, it's called Eau de Rapture. You like it, huh?"

"I wanna lick it off every inch of you," he says as he lights a 
Lucky Strike, offering me one like we're having a post-coital 
moment in the street. 

"Mickey, you know I don't smoke. And you're being awfully forward, 
talking about licking me all over. That's no way to treat a young 
lady." 

"Jenna, you're young, but you're no lady. Uh, I mean that in a good 
way. I know a kindred spirit when I see one. I'll never forget what 
you did for me when I had that horrible experience at Mistress 
Michelle's. I don't mind telling you I'm head-over-heels in love 
with you. Bonaly in love, I think you'd call it in Tonya."

"Very good, that's right, Mickey," I go, trying not to appear too 
pleased. Mickey obviously thinks I'm his prom date or something 
because I gave him that charity handjob when he was on the floor 
all ass-ripped. Which reminds me that he was babbling about a hairy 
little muscle guy who tore his guts up so bad he needed surgery. 
"Hey, you know, I just had a kind of orgy with a guy kinda like the 
one you mentioned that day. Short, very hairy, very built, hung 
like a dinosaur."

Mickey's face clouds over and his whole body seems to sag inward.  
"You're kidding. Where?"

"At the Roids lab in Santa Herminosa. I went to visit this 
Professor Pep woman, and she's got this guy she sort of keeps, 
he's, like, a dimwit, and, uh, we sort of got it on with him. And 
her. Mickey, you OK?"

He's turned ashen gray and started trembling all over. "That's him! 
Phil! That's the motherfucker who played with my colon like it was 
a dartboard!"

"I don't think so, his name was Rick, actually."

"She changed his name! That mad fucking professor! She changed his 
name to Rick, fucked him up with drugs, he doesn't know who he is 
anymore! Did you say you *fucked* that deranged bastard?!"

"Mickey, chill, you're shouting." We're standing in the street and 
people are staring at us. They'd be staring at me anyway, I'm 6-4 
in a tank top and cutoffs with tits and arms out of a comic book, 
but now they're staring at Mickey too, like I'm about to eat him. 
"I didn't touch him. It's a long story and I'd rather not go into 
it now."

"Where did you say they are?"

"Santa Herminosa. The Roids have opened a big drug lab there and 
Paulette Pep has come in to run it. She said she used to run the 
med facilities at Amy Fisher."

"Yeah, she did, all right," Mickey growls, pulling frantically on 
his cigarette. "I have a mind to kill them both."

"Mickey, don't even talk like that. Professor Pep is a She Roid and 
so am I. I've got more bad news."

He looks up at me aghast. "What?! What could be worse than finding 
out that my arch nemesis Phil lives near me?! He has such a super 
cock on him now, the next time he jacks off, sperm could shoot 
through my fucking window! What!?"

"Stop it, Herminosa isn't exactly *near* you. Though I'd keep your 
windows closed, Rick or Phil or whoever he is can probably shoot a 
wad all the way to Mexico. Anyway, that tape I made of you getting 
raped at your Mistress Michelle's? Or should I say your *ex*-
mistress? She sold it to Harry Dexter. It's gonna end up on a 
Venomous Video release, probably. I'm sorry."

Mickey hurls his cigarette butt on the ground, so it bounces up in 
an explosion of fiery ash, almost burning Pedro, who's sniffing my 
ankle like he wants to marry my foot. "Not as sorry as Harry 
Dexter's gonna be someday," Mickey barks. "There's *another* guy 
who needs a good whacking. I'm still trying to find out what 
happened to the tape of me getting my chest collapsed. Dexter 
swears he doesn't have it. Some shit about some NADS bitches took 
it at gunpoint from Shanna and are keeping it to blackmail her 
longterm. I'm sure the two-faced bastard is lying."

"*What* tape of you getting your chest collapsed?"

"I shouldn't be telling you this, but I will anyway, just so you 
don't think  girls your age don't like me," Mickey hisses, looking 
up and down the street like he's about to reveal a state secret. 
"They *do* like me. A lot. This was my old friend Shanna, from back 
east--I used to live with her mother--who was on tour out here with 
Amy Fisher. Shanna's *huge* now, like Brooke's size, and about as 
cute. I had a little drunken fling in my apartment with her, I mean 
Shanna, not Brooke, Brooke doesn't make *guys*, and it got kind of 
out of control. She put a body scissors on me and I ended up in the 
hospital. It was taped, we had a tripod setup, she took the tape 
with her and it was stolen by these DS chicks. Or so the story 
goes."

"Shanna? The one who fucked up that Margulies guy who now publishes 
Slam Gams?"

"Yeah. You saw that mag?"

"Yeah! With Kim Zmeskal on the cover? Not *too* awesome."

"*I* should be on the fucking staff over there. I have the feeling 
the Coach is gonna wipe Mr. Wheezy's right out of existence. He's 
got a real full-color mag and Wheezy's is more like a shitty 
newsletter. The second issue of Slam Gams is out, by the way. 
Shanna herself is on the cover. I have a copy over at my place. Why 
don't you come up and check it out? Get me out of this mood I'm in 
or I'll sit around all day planning how to whack Dr. fucking 
Dexter."

"Mickey, stop talking like you're a hitman. You're more like a tit 
man."

"Oh, I'm a tit man, all right, not to mention every other bodypart 
you've got. Come on, come up to my place right now and have a 
drink. I have some really good pot, too," Mickey adds as 
suggestively as possible, like I can't get my own smoke.

Before I can answer, while I'm still trying to figure out how to 
brush Mickey off or whether he might actually add something useful 
to my party with Brit and Cait--he does have quite a length of hose 
on him, and Brit and Cait aren't averse to making guys--Dunn and 
Gomez pull up in a big black Ford Explorer. "Hey, Jen, baby, what's 
happening?" Gomez goes, leaning out the passenger side window so 
her tank-topped tits are mashed over the door frame like a flesh 
avalanche, the nipples bulging right through her superbra. "And if 
it isn't the little fucker who got his chest caved in! Hi, Mickey! 
How's your mouse?"        

Mickey's brow furrows in anger as he shouts, "How the hell do you 
know about my chest getting caved in?"

"We have a tape of it," Gomez explains with mock innocence. "Wanna 
see it?"

Mickey looks like he's gonna pop like a firecracker. "So *you're* 
the NADS chicks who stole the tape from Shanna?" 

"Fuckin' A," laughs Gomez. "Shanna's such a totally ace chick. She 
shoulda squeezed you into lung paste, you sawed-off little homo." 

Mickey struts right up to the car door, drawing himself up to his 
full 5-3, pulling Pedro hehind him, like he's about to beat Gomez 
into submission with  brickbats of righteous indignation. Then I 
guess he gets a better idea of just how big she is, and he pleads, 
"I'm *not* a homo. And I *need* that tape. It's gonna illustrate a 
fabulous article I'm planning to write for, uh,  Slam Gams. Maybe I 
can do a feature on you two for Slam Gams. Just looking at you both 
from the waist up, I'm *positive* you are kicking total ass from 
the waist down."

"Fuck Slam Gams," says Gomez. "Burly Girlie rules. You write for 
Girlie, maybe I'll let you have a copy of the tape. A *copy*. You 
know what I'm sayin'?"

Then Mickey's eyes light up with the cockshock of recognition. "You 
two are the chicks from the Smother's Little Helper pictorial!"

"Hey, we're famous!" Dunn laughs from the driver's seat, pulling in 
feigned excitement on the steering wheel so the blue veins swell in 
her love-squeezy, 19-easy, freckly-white Irish cop guns. Then she 
twists her whole torso and leans her huge, barely contained tits 
over Gomez's massive arm to smirk at Mickey, who is now in a state 
of extreme sexual agitation, and I swear I can see the tent in his 
khakis growing like time-lapse photography of a sapling. 

"Those pages were so hot they burned my hands,'' Mickey enthuses.

"That must've made it tough jacking off," Gomez cracks.

"You babes have gotta make a video," Mickey forges ahead, ignoring 
her remark.

"So let's go make one right now," says Dunn. "You can handle a 
camera, right, lil' fella?"

"Yeah, but I've got my dog with me," says Mickey.

"So bring him along, he's cute. Hey, Jen, you should join us. Hop 
in." 

Mickey turns to me with a hopeful smile on his face. "Come on, 
Jenna, let's party with these big girls."

I step close to Mickey, my tit almost poking him in the eye, and 
say quietly, "Mickey, you saw Smother's Little Helper. The guy got 
his face beaten bloody. You sure you wanna play with these babes?"

Mickey fixes me with a confused simper. "That was mostly faked, 
wasn't it? They didn't *really* beat that guy up with their tits. 
Did they?"

"Mickey, I don't think there was anything phony about it. I'm sure 
they hit him with more than their tits, but I'd be willing to bet 
all that blood was real. These girls play rough. You saw the 
magazine. You know how big they are."

Mickey fends off the bad vibe with a wave of his little hand. "Jen, 
you'll be there if they get too wild. And Pedro will bite 'em if 
they mess with me." He laughs tentatively and looks fondly at the 
heavy-breathing dog.

"Whatever. Your call. Where are you going?" I ask the NADS nasties.

"Why not just come up to my place?" Mickey offers.

"Nah, we need more room, your apartment's too small," Dunn 
complains.

"How do you know what my apartment's like?" Mickey whines. 

"We saw the *tape*, you fuckin' half-pint a' pig piss," Gomez goes.

How about Tonya's place in Patella?" Dunn suggests, rubbing herself 
all over Gomez's chest, her nipples blooming like an Irish spring. 
"You've got a key, right, Jen?"

"As a matter of fact, I do, and I've got it with me." As a dutiful 
bodyguard, I always kept Ton's key on my keychain.

"Great, then we won't have to pop the lock, you know what I'm 
sayin'?" Gomez chuckles.

I pause for a second, trying to force myself into a reality check. 
Do I really want to get involved in a scene with Dunn, Gomez and 
*Mickey*, especially in Tonya's house? There's still a tinge of 
Rapture tugging at my lovelines, and the thought of finally getting 
it on with these burly brutes is making my loins moisten. I have 
all night to party with Brit and Cait. I'll call them on the cell 
and tell them I'll be home later. "OK, but I'll follow you in my 
car. Why don't you ride with Dunn and Gomez, Mickey? I'll drop you 
back here later." I don't want him chewing my ear off, and who 
knows what else, while I drive. 

"Great," says Mickey as he picks Pedro up and tosses him onto the 
back seat, leaping in like an excited kid. "This day is turning out 
to be fabulous!" Dunn and Gomez laugh and pull away with a screech 
of tires. Well, I guess I won't actually be following them, but of 
course I know how to get there. I get Cait on the phone and tell 
her what's up and she wonders why I'm not inviting Dunn and Gomez 
to *her* house. "You don't want to have them over with this Mickey 
guy," I explain. "He's kinda old and very small. We'll party with 
them another time. And just wait till later. Have I got a surprise 
for *you*."

"What is it?" Cait asks. I can just picture her bouncing barefoot 
in anticipation, her calves pumping like flesh engines.

"Eyedrops! Sorry, gotta run!" I turn the phone off. Give her 
something to think about. Speaking of eyedrops, I stop a block from 
Ton's and re-Rapture myself in the Jimmy before I go in, and I 
leave the vial in the car, though I take in a pair of doobs. I 
don't wanna waste any of this stuff on the others. I admit it, I'm 
selfish.

The three of them, four if you count Pedro, are waiting for me on 
the front porch. Dunn and Gomez are in Rimfire Girls tank tops and 
the required industrial bras today, with the usual cutoffs, 
sweatsocks and Timberlands, which I guess is their battle gear. 
"See how good we're behavin'?" Gomez goes. "We're not bustin' in. 
We waited for you like real ladies, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"That's so civilized of you," I say, scanning the street for prying 
passersby. Cobblestone Gardens is such a cute, quiet, kinda elegant 
neighborhood, though I have yet to see any cobblestones, unless you 
count Ton's abs. Me and the NADS nookies stand out like gargoyles, 
but no one's in sight, though it's already getting difficult to 
judge distances and make out what I'm looking at down the block. 
The Rapture's hitting me hard, harder than at Pep's--were my two 
drops bigger drops than her two drops?--and I have a little trouble 
fitting the key in the lock. Then we're in, and Dunn and Gomez 
immediately pull a camcorder out of one of their bags and hook it 
up to Tonya's humongous Mitsubishi projection TV. Then they turn on 
all the lights, close all the blinds and curtains and clear out the 
center of the living room, pushing the sofa, the chairs and the 
coffee table off to the side like they're making a ring. I fire up 
a doob in the meantime and pass it to Mickey, who's let Pedro off 
the leash so the little pooch can scamper around like a big rodent. 
"Do *not* pee in this house, Pedro!" Mickey yells as the dog 
tentatively lifts his leg in a corner. "Wow, I can't believe I'm in 
Tonya Harding's place," says Mickey, waving the joint around 
dramatically, impatient no doubt to wave *his* joint around 
dramatically.

"She's got a nice house now," I muse. "A far cry from the trailer 
park days. So what'd you talk about in the car with Dunn and 
Gomez?" 

"The magazine scene. They're gonna try to get me a gig with Burly 
Girlie. And we dished about Shanna. They know Shanna pretty well. 
They drove her to and from Amy Fisher. *I* drove *you* home from 
Tonya. Remember, Jen?"

Mickey's grinning up at me like it's his birthday. "Sure I 
remember, Mickey. I had to take your hand off my thigh so many 
times, I thought I was gonna get a repetitive motion injury." 

"But you'll let me touch your thigh today, won't you, Jen?" he 
whines. Then he squeezes my bare quad, trying to dig his little 
fingers into the iron-hard muscle, then he smacks my resilient butt 
like I just scored a touchdown. I can imagine where he wants to put 
his extra point.

"We'll see what happens, Mickey. You're a guest in Tonya's house, 
keep in mind, so behave. Hey, you should go into her bedroom and 
check out her underwear drawers." 

"Her drawers drawers!" Mickey hoots, though it really doesn't 
register with me as I'm watching Dunn's thigh bi's and calves bulge 
as she bends over with her knees locked to get something out of her 
bag. 

"She almost never does a laundry," I say to Mickey when he gets my 
attention again by running his hand up my calf real slow and slimy, 
muttering something about how it's as big as both of his put 
together, which it probably is. "She just puts her stuff back in 
the drawer when she takes it off and reuses it. Her panties reek. 
Her bras aren't far behind. I give you permission to sniff your 
heart out." 

Mickey nods enthusiastically, takes a quick hit and hands me back 
the jay, which I have a hard time grasping since my distances are 
already shot to hell. He saunters upstairs to find the bedroom, 
while I wander into the kitchen to get some paper towels to wipe my 
face off with. I'm sopping from the Rapture, and it's hot in the 
house, all the windows are closed. Gomez comes into the kitchen and 
checks out the fridge, reaching out for the joint, which I hand 
her, trying to make it seem smooth. "All right!" she yells. "Girl's 
got two sixes of Dos Equis in here! Musta knew we were comin', you 
know what I'm sayin'?"

"Gimme a beer, Gomez, I'm dyin' over here," I go. "Gotta turn on 
the AC." I take a beer and go back into the living room, where Dunn 
is admiring her racked-out profile in the TV. She has the camera 
set up on top of the set, which is about as tall as she is. "Big 
fuckin' TV," she says admiringly. " 'Nother reason to come here. 
You can really get inspired watching yourself on a baby like this."

I turn on the AC and take a long pull on the beer. "What are you 
planning to tape?" I ask, blinking at the squiggles in my vision.

Dunn tears her eyes off the image of her own big bustline on the TV 
screen and looks at me like I'm a dimwit. "Mickey's gonna make a 
Smother's Little Helper vid. Isn't that what we're here for? You 
don't mind handling the camera, do you, baby? I've got a really 
nice digital Handycam here that handles available light like a 
charm on a cunt bracelet."

Gomez comes in, hands Dunn a beer and the roach and they both light 
Newports. "Fuckin' Harding left all kindsa shit in her fridge 
that's goin' bad, you know what I'm sayin'? Like, a pound of 
chopmeat, man. Who goes away for three months and leaves meat in 
the fridge? It's gonna be a fuckin' science experiment when she 
comes back."

"Fucking Mickey's gonna be a science experiment, too," says Dunn. 
"The science of titology." With the cigarette hanging off her lip, 
she slaps her rack with the heels of her hands while flexing her 
pecs, making vaguely threatening meaty thuds as her chest heaves 
like a fleshquake. 

"Wait a minute, I thought we were gonna get it on," I mutter 
spacily. "You two and me." 

"What's Mickey gonna do, watch?" Dunn wonders. "We don't fuck guys. 
You gonna let him fuck *you*?"

I probably *am* willing to let him fuck me, now that Rapture has me 
by the balls, but I don't wanna seem like a dickchaser to these 
chicks. "No, he can't fuck me, but I might jack him off," I go. "I 
kinda feel sorry for the little guy."

"Don't bother," says Gomez. "And don't get all sappy about him. 
We'll take care of his needs, you know what I'm sayin'? He'll come 
like a bitch, don't you worry about it. Where is the little shit, 
anyway?" 

"Upstairs smelling Tonya's underwear," I go. "Hey, girls, how about 
a hug and a kiss in the meantime, huh? I'm feeling unwanted over 
here."

I sidle up close to Dunn and Gomez and start to rub their big arms. 
My palms are moist with sweat and I work it into their biceps as 
they flex for me. They start to oooh and aaaaah appreciatively and 
I whip my tank top and sports bra off, feeling really strong and 
sexy--there's something about being around short girls that relaxes 
me--and I feed them each a tit as we all grind together, rubbing 
each others' asses. They're really into it now, they're melting 
into me and we're kissing and licking and groping each other all 
over, then we all frantically get bottomless, shoes and socks 
flying every which way, and start to frig each others' crotches, 
and the sheer size of their clits is sending me into a sex swoon. 
"Jesus Christ, you two, those are humongous fucking woodies," I 
husk.

"Testo-Glandex EF," says Dunn reverently, pulling on her chubby 
with her thick fingertips and stroking it up bigger and harder till 
it's at least as big as the top joint of her thumb. "The drug was 
made for us."

"Shit, I was just hearing about that drug before I met you," I go. 
"Any bad side effects?"

"Nah," says Dunn. "Unless you call the almost uncontrollable desire 
to beat people up a bad side effect. I don't." Dunn makes a fist of 
her right hand, the oversized knuckles cracking threateningly, and 
punches her left palm with it, making a very pregnant meat thud. 
Then she holds the fist up and admires it, curling her wrist back 
and forth slow and hard, so the vein-wrapped forearm bulges. This 
is the fist that knocked Tonya on her ass, I remind myself. I hate 
to think what it could do to poor little Mickey.

"And what's going on down here," I mutter as I notice a liquid 
flash of silver in Dunn's sultry snatch. I get on my knees and 
flick my tongue over her bloated nub, sucking on it for a second 
like it was a pucker post. "You've got a labial ring! It's so 
cute!" It's hard to see since Dunn's cunny folds are so fat. I 
stick two fingers in her and spread the wet, pink, pulsing flaps; 
the ring has DS inscribed on it, one letter on each of the little 
fetishy balls. I don't know what the balls are called, I'm not hip 
to piercings. I don't even wear earrings anymore. I don't have to 
ask what the DS stands for, of course. "So it's true what I heard 
about the DS and piercings. Just like the Doom Patrol used to have 
those awful neck tattoos. This is so much cooler. And discreet. You 
too, Gomez?" I ask, looking up into her big brown eyes as she 
sidles up to Dunn and puts her arm around her pale partner's huge 
shoulders. 

"You think Dunn is DS and I'm not?" she snorts. "Get real, girl! 
*'Course* I got a ring. It's real hard to find in this thatch, 
though." I rummage in her big black bush till I finger the ring, 
then I pull her folds open and plunge my tongue into her twat, 
trying to lick her cervix, her clit sticking into my flaring 
nostril. Gomez giggles, grabs me by the head and starts to slow-
pump her hips, fucking my face with her clit, squishing my nose in 
with it, then mashing it into my mouth. She's sopping wet now and 
her snatch smells like fried calamari, it's baking my brain and I 
can feel my asshole opening like an unclenched fist. I have to pee 
and I just want to let it go, but pissing on Tonya's floor doesn't 
seem nice. And then the dog would smell it and probably have to pee 
over it to reclaim his territory or something, or maybe he'd take a 
shit, and while I'm in the middle of this idiotic Raptured-out 
reverie, Mickey comes back downstairs and Dunn and Gomez start 
cackling.

I pull my face out of Gomez's deep-pile pelt, get to my feet and 
check out the joke. Mickey's wearing nothing but Tonya's bra and 
panties, and he's not wearing them too well. I guess he was posing 
prissily when he first entered the room, but now that he realizes 
I'm stark raving nude, he's just standing there with his tongue 
hanging out, gawking at me like a moron. He's got the big bra 
stuffed with socks or something, but the harness itself is way too 
big for his scrawny shoulders and it's hanging on him sort of 
skewed. The panties are too big for his scraggly ass, and as he 
turns around on command from Gomez I can see he has them stuffed 
too, and when he turns around again the front is stuffed full of 
his stiff cock. "Jen, you are such a sight!" he gasps. "And Dunn 
and Gomez, you're naked from the waist down, I'm gonna come in my 
panties! Look at the bushes on you babes!"

"This is too much, we gotta get this on tape," says Dunn, who picks 
up the Sony and starts shooting.

"What's so funny?" Mickey asks with mock innocence. "Never seen a 
guy in drag before?" He starts traipsing around the room like a 
queen, Pedro running behind him barking, which is more like this 
little nipping sound like you'd get from a windup toy.

Dunn suddenly puts the camera down, turns to me and goes, "Fucking 
shit, are you on Rapture? I got corner colors over here and I'm 
getting all overheated. Gomez, you got the green and gold going 
on?"

"As a matter of fact, I do, Dunn," says Gomez, lighting another 
Newport. "Jenna fuckin' Takedown, did you skin-high us?"

"Um, well . . ." Oh, shit. I forgot all about that absorbency 
business. I sweated all over Dunn and Gomez and now they're 
tripping too.

"Take your shades off," Dunn orders. She steps close to me, her 
tits brushing my belly, pulls them off herself and looks up into my 
eyes. "Her pupes are blown into the fuckasphere, Gomez." Dunn hands 
me the shades, shaking her head with mock resignation as she pulls 
gently on one of my stiff nipples. Then she turns to Gomez. "Looks 
like we're gonna be sailing, homegirl. Better get us some more 
beers." 

Gomez nods. "How'd you think you could do Rapture, rub all over us 
and not have us find out? You must be stupid in love with us."

"I'm sorry," I mumble. "I forgot about the skin thing. I'm new to 
this drug. It's been a weird day. So you know about Rapture, right? 
You've done it before? You don't mind?"

"Don't mind at all," says Dunn as Gomez goes to the kitchen for 
beers. "Just as long as we can keep our whistles wet, we love doing 
the joy drops. We don't do 'em too much, though. Jesus, they make 
us sweat like hogs! I mean, our clothes'll get so wet it's like we 
showered in 'em. Right, Gomez?"

Gomez comes back in and hands me and Dunn beers. "Rapture? Too 
intense. Wrings me out like a wet rag. One drop don't make me horny 
enough, two drops fucks me up like a drunk chicken. This is a 
better way for us to get it, by contact. Won't be as big a dose."

"What's going on?" Mickey demands crossly as he lights a Lucky. 
"Are you all doing a drug? Aren't you going to offer me some?"

"Well, this drug is absorbed through the skin, and in a minute your 
head's gonna be between my big sweaty titties, Mickey, so you'll 
get high as a kite."

"Really?" Mickey asks hopefully.

He looks so dumb standing there in Ton's oversized undies, I'm 
about to have a laughing fit. Then Dunn takes my beer out of my 
hand and hands me the Sony. "You've gotta shoot this whole thing, 
Gomez and me are gonna be busy," she says in a sudden businesslike 
manner. "All you gotta do is keep a good composition, which is a 
cinch with this 4-inch swivelscreen. Isn't that cool? Here are the 
zoom controls. As you can see, assuming you can see *anything* 
fucked up on Rapture, I've got really long cables hooked up to the 
TV, so you can move around freely. Everything else is ready to go. 
OK?" 

The pull-out color viewscreen on the side of the camera is like a 
little TV. I get to watch TV while I make TV. Weird. "OK," I go 
dubiously. "But what's happening?"

"Mickey's having a tete-a-tit," she chuckles. "You ready to feast 
your face on these meat mountains, my man?" 

Dunn takes her tank top off and stands proud in just her white 
underwire bra, her beer belly sucked in hard, pulled so tight under 
her massively jutting ribcage that a thick, chiseled six-pack of 
abs is visible. Despite her paunch, I have no doubt Dunn can take a 
belly battering with the best of them. As for the bra, maybe it's 
an overwire bra. I guess it's steel-reinforced everywhere. It's 
really too big to be called a bra. Not even brassiere will do. 
Maidenform doesn't have a form of these dimensions, not even if 
they were Milk Maidenform. It seems to be about as big as Bon's 
heft harness, but on Dunn, who's like a foot and a half shorter and 
a hundred pounds lighter than Bon, it looks like the Boob Bridle 
From Beyond. Mickey is staring at Dunn with his eyes popping, 
unconsciously handling his panty-packaged prick. "What a set!" he 
shouts as he excitedly stubs out his cigarette in an official 
Winter Olympics ashtray. 

Dunn pivots on the ball of her stomp-foxy foot, presenting her 
broad back to us, and eases her lats out into a slow, achingly wide 
spread, elbows arcing around in awesome equipoise, the industrial 
straps stretching as the back widens, stretching so far I'd think 
they might break if they weren't made for a heavyweight hammock. 
I'm zooming out and I'm stepping back to keep Dunn's dorsal display 
fully framed when she pivots quickly again and somehow reaches 
behind her, making her traps and delts bulge and her cleavage 
deliciously lift and separate, and unfastens the harness herself, 
which must take some practice. It doesn't fall, of course, it's 
sitting on her tits like a ta-ta-tailored tarpaulin, but then she 
starts fast-flexing her pecs with her hands on her hips, smiling 
lasciviously, and all the mam meat starts twitching, the boobage 
starts bouncing and the bra bucks right off and falls with a thud 
at her feet, and the nipples are not of this earth, the areolae are 
big as dessert plates, the tittie tips like top-down teacups with 
inch-long rubbery-thick and pointy palate probes on them, and 
Mickey hollers, "Holy fuckafish!" and advances on Dunn, licking his 
lips like a lecher, and that's when Gomez grabs him. 

I pan smoothly over to the action as Gomez, still clothed above the 
waist, muscles Mickey into a headlock and just works it on him, 
levering her left arm tighter as Mickey struggles, smacking 
uselessly at her bare brown ass. "Shit, Dunn, I'm really gettin' a 
trip goin' now, you know what I'm sayin'?" 

"Yeah, it's a nice head," Dunn agrees, pulling on her nipples, 
which seem to actually be getting even bigger under her urging, and 
I swing back to her as she lifts a heavy boob up on her palm and 
sucks the nip into her mouth, then loosens her jaw like a python 
and starts to inhale as much of her tit as she can till her face is 
stuffed so full of it her cheeks bulge, the nip tip no doubt poking 
down her throat. I zoom in close on this, chin to forehead, then I 
glance over at the TV. Jesus Christ, that's pretty. It's bigger 
than life, and even in life it's bigger than life! Dunn eases the 
tit out of her mouth, regurgitating the nipple, which looks like 
it's being born, all spit-shiny and trembling. "Speaking of nice 
head," Dunn says to Gomez, "you're not breaking that little 
fucker's skull, are you?"

"Nah, he's OK." Mickey is making all kinds of noises in there, 
muffled by Gomez's muscles. Her arm is so big I can't see his face 
or even much of his head, it's just all swallowed up by close to 20 
inches of bicep, the peak of which must be pressing into his 
throat. Is she killing him? I'm about to say something from behind 
the camera, when Gomez gives Mickey one short pop with her free 
fist right in the nose, then lets him go. He immediately falls to 
all fours and stays like that, dazed and panting, blood dripping 
onto the hardwood, one of Ton's men's undershirts half-hanging out 
of his bra. Thank the Goddess they rolled her Persian rug out of 
the way. She bought it from a real Persian at a flea market in 
Santa Mulla.

"Nice shot," says Dunn approvingly. "Now you're ready for some dug 
diving, Mick." She goes close to him and bends over to look into 
his face. "Gotta get some lube on the boob, you dig?" Mickey looks 
up at her, his eyes crossed with pain, blood trickling into his 
mouth. I've got a really good angle on him with Dunn's massive 
tricep in the foreground, and Mickey's about to say something when 
Dunn grabs him by the hair, pulls him to his feet and mashes his 
face in between her tits, really grinding it into her steely 
sternum, his head buried in her colossal cleavage, as Mickey makes 
this moaning sound, I guess protesting 'cause his sore nose is 
getting squashed. I backpedal to get a better composition as Dunn 
pulls his head back up by the hair and holds him like that as 
Mickey is gasping like he just got a swirly in a titty toilet. I 
can't tell whether the look on Mickey's face is pleasure or pain, 
now that he's had a taste of Dunn's diabolical dugs, then she bitch 
slaps him across the jaw so hard he falls down like a doll.

I cut to Mickey on the floor, then to Dunn, who's holding her tits 
apart with her hands, showing off the smears of blood in her boob 
basin, which is shockingly red on her pale white, sweat-shiny skin. 
Then she struts over to Ton's stereo and turns it on. It's tuned to 
KFBB and the same damn Joan Jett song, I think it's called Push and 
Stomp, comes on that was playing when I had that nasty knife scene 
in Cait's kitchen with Nora and Glo. Shit, that memory sends a pang 
of revulsion up my ass, and I'm getting an even bigger pang now, as 
I realize Mickey is in the process of getting severely boob 
battered, and *I'm taping it.* Just an hour ago I was apologizing 
to him about having his ass rape at Michelle's sold to Harry 
Dexter. Fuck, I feel like such a scumbag. On the other hand, I 
*did* warn him that Smother's Little Helper was no pitty-pat, 
titty-tat party, it was the real deal. 

"Jen, get me while I take my tits out," says Gomez. I swing the 
camera over to her as she takes a long pull on her beer, her rather 
pronounced Adam's apple gulping sensually--is that a Glandex 
effect?--while she's making bedroom eyes at me, then she delicately 
puts the bottle down, bends over to pull the tank top off, twirls 
it on her finger like a stripper, then flings it over her shoulder, 
laughing. Her bra is the same as Dunn's, white and just as big, but 
on Gomez's deep-tanned physique it looks even more startling. Gomez 
does the same routine as her bosom buddy, giving me the rear lat 
show, really fanning it out, making the straps stretch. "How'd my 
back look with a big black bird a' prey across it, the wings 
curlin' right around my spread, you know what I'm sayin'?" she says 
to me over her bowling ball of a shoulder.

"Gomez, your back is gorgeous just like it is, you've got such 
beautiful creamy brown skin," I say from behind the camera. "A big 
tattoo is just gonna be a distraction."

"That's what *I* said," says Dunn. "Tattoos make you look like a 
no-class jerkoff. While you *are* a no-class jerkoff, Gomez, 
there's no reason to look like one. Like that fucking Nihilator 
with those stupid chicks on her chest. Really dumb stuff."

At the mention of Nora, my asshole spasms, but I keep quiet. Nora's 
DS, they're DS. That's just the way it is. No point in discussing 
it. No time either, Gomez is in action. After a quick, "Go fuck a 
potato," to Dunn, instead of taking the bra off herself, she orders 
Mickey to do it. He struggles to his feet, wiping the blood off his 
face with the shirt that's hanging out of Ton's bra. Great, he just 
ruined one of her undershirts, I'll have to throw it out. He's sure 
to get blood on the bra he's wearing too, and those custom-made 
babies are expensive. I'm about to suggest he take it off, but he's 
having trouble undoing Gomez's clasps and I don't want to disturb 
him. She's keeping her back flexed wide, keeping the straps 
stretched and the little guy seemingly hasn't got the strength to 
pull the huge elastic bands together enough to get the hooks out. 
As he struggles, he's pressing his protuberantly pantied package 
into Gomez's butt crack, then he saucily spreads her cheeks with 
his hands, showing her hairy asshole to the camera.

"Get your hands off my ass and undo my bra, you little worm, before 
I break all your grubby fingers," Gomez demands.

"I can't do it," Mickey whines, trying again desperately. "Let your 
lats in!"

This sends Dunn into a laughing fit, but it enrages Gomez, who 
spins around to face Mickey, takes him off the floor around the 
hips, puts him on her shoulder, reaches with her right hand under 
the panties he's wearing and does something that makes Mickey 
scream bloody murder. Then she casually drops him off her shoulder 
so he lands hard on his knees, and before he can finish falling she 
kicks him in the gut and sends him halfway across the room like he 
was a soccer ball. I have the camera on Mickey, who's curled up on 
the floor clutching his belly and groaning, but Gomez says, "Jen, 
face me, I'll have to take the bra off myself." 

"What'd you do to Mickey when he was on your shoulder?" I ask as I 
frame Gomez from the waist up. 

"She gave him a buttclaw," says Dunn. "Gomez, as you may have 
noticed, keeps fairly short but very sharp fingernails, and she has 
the grip strength of a fucking hydraulic clamp. I guarantee you 
Mickey's ass is bleeding in those panties right now."

Great, another garment I can dispose of. Gomez finally takes the 
bra off herself, doing the same tittie dance as Dunn did, making 
the cups leap off her lulus and fly to the floor like twin 
parachutes. She's got creamy light brown bikini lines and immense 
melons of thrusting tittie, with dark-chocolate-colored rubbery 
thick teats that are making the back of my throat flood with hot 
saliva. The whole udder-wonderful mass is a couple shades less 
olive than the rest of her, and I'm finding this color contrast to 
be stunningly erotic.  Maybe it's the Rapture, which makes the 
plain act of seeing way more intense. But the sight of Gomez, 
viewed any which way, is no plain act of seeing. Her bellybutton is 
so deep, so wide and so inviting, I wanna fuck it with my clit. She 
looks at me and smiles, like she's reading my mind, then she goes 
over to Mickey, pulls him roughly to his feet by his ears, sucks 
her gut in so her abs swell in cement sections and, gripping him 
firmly by the hair, slams his face into her tensed midriff a few 
times, leaving blood smears on her belly. She smiles at me again, 
still holding Mickey by the nape like he was a puppy, then slams 
his face into her upper chest, which is thick with flexed muscle, 
then she wedges his head in between her tits and holds it there as 
Dunn slips behind Mickey and steadies him by his frail shoulders so 
he can't escape. Gomez keeps Mickey trapped in her cleavage, 
apparently trying to suffocate him as he slaps uselessly at her 
steel sides, then she finally steps away from him, freeing his 
face, only to punch his nose again with another short right, which 
gets the blood flowing again good. 

I'm dancing around looking for the best angle, trying to blink the 
sweat out of my eyes, totally into this cinematography thing, not 
giving a shit about Mickey, who has now fallen to all fours again, 
more blood dripping from his nose onto the floor. Then Pedro comes 
into the shot and licks Mickey's blood off the hardwood like he was 
a vampire dog. Gomez swats the pooch away with her foot, as Mickey 
looks up at me, which means he's looking right into the camera, and 
says, "Please, please . . ." but before he can finish the thought 
Dunn grabs him from behind, spins him around so he's facing her, 
holds his head in a vise grip with her hands and starts twisting 
her torso back and forth so her tits are slapping his face like he 
was in some kind of cartoon mam-slam machine. This at least doesn't 
hurt, I don't think, and I notice as I pull back a bit that Mickey 
has a big hardon in his panties, so maybe he's enjoying himself 
now. 

Well, maybe not. The tits are in fact slapping his face so hard the 
blood from his nose is spraying in the air, and Dunn is pressing 
into his temples with the heels of her hands so hard his eyes are 
popping. Then Gomez pulls his panties down from behind and sure 
enough Mickey's left cheek has five bloody fingernail marks in it, 
but I only get to see this for a split second, 'cause Gomez is in 
the way now, on her knees, reaching around Mickey and gripping his 
prick in her right hand--she's not going to put a claw on it, is 
she?--and jerking him like a handjob hussy, bringing him up really 
big, and then Dunn steps close to Mickey and squats a little, 
slipping his length between her thighs, which she then squeezes 
together tight, I can see the muscles swell right up into her hips, 
the quads bulging over her knees, and Gomez is still stroking the 
bottom part of Mickey's shaft, which is all that's exposed, and 
Dunn is gripping the head of Mickey's dick in a femoral fist, but 
Mickey must like this 'cause he's moaning with pleasure now, he's 
really got a rod on, then Dunn lets him loose from her legs, drops 
to her knees and bends forward and down with her head at Mickey's 
side so her cleavage is angled at his prick and he plunges it into 
this immense valley of meat and muscle, Gomez urging him on with 
her hands on his ass, and he starts hunching Dunn's sweat-soaked 
tit fissure like there's no tomorrow, and there may not be, he's 
grunting like a pig, Dunn has her tits pressed together tight with 
the heels of her hands, her pecs superflexed, and then he's coming, 
his balls are jumping and his scrawny ass is quivering, and then 
he's falling over on the floor on his side, the panties around his 
ankles, all the stuffing falling out of them, his semi-stiff salami 
still pulsing, all purple and glistening, then Dunn says, "Jen, get 
this," and I pan up to her, still in a heavy-haunched squat as she 
pulls her tits apart, and there's all this sticky spunk in there, 
kind of pinkish white, mixed with the blood, I guess, and it starts 
running slowly down onto her moist midsection as I zoom in close to 
get what I guess is a really late money shot. 

"How's about that, Mickey?" says Dunn. "Come good? You really shot 
a load straight at my heart, dude." Dunn stands up and flexes her 
chest for the camera, then pushes her tits together hard and bloody 
jism squishes up over the top of her cleavage as more leaks out the 
bottom, like her rack is a giant sperm sandwich. 

"See, Jen?" says Gomez. "Told you we'd get the pathetic fuck off, 
know what I'm sayin'? And the puny runt really shoots like a big 
boy, don't he?"

"Yeah, he came like a mother, all right," I go, relieved. So maybe 
it's over. Mickey not only shot his wad, he got a free tit fuck 
from the likes of Dunn, with a handjob assist from the likes of 
Gomez. You can't *pay* for dreamgirls like this. Well, actually you 
more or less could, especially with Mickey's Wheezy connections, 
but it would be big bucks. And he didn't spend a penny! Not even 
for gas. Plus we made a nice tape and he's not hurt too bad. Just a 
bunch of nail punctures in his ass and maybe a broken nose. For 
him, that's a walk in the park. "Can I stop shooting now?" I ask, 
as I take a hand away from the camera to wipe the sweat out of my 
eyes. "I'd really like to sit on someone's face, that scene made me 
hornier than hell. Someone female, if you get my drift." 

Then Pedro comes back over from wherever he's been hiding and 
starts sniffing all over Mickey, who's still lying on the floor in 
some kind of post-orgasmic stupor, still with the bra on cockeyed 
and the panties twisted on his feet. I automatically pan down to 
the dog and out of the corner of my gold-glinting eye I can see 
Gomez looking at the scene on the big screen. "Keep shooting, Jen, 
and I promise when we're done I'll make you come so good you'll 
shit yourself, you know what I'm sayin'? I got one more thing I 
wanna do. Dunn, I just had a great idea."

"What's that, babe?" Dunn wonders, lighting a Newport. 

"What's that dog's name again?" Gomez asks.

"Pedro," I go. 

"Yeah. I bet Pedro's hungry," Gomez titters. "Just a second." 

She runs to the kitchen and I eat up her naked, bounding hugeness, 
all the muscles in her legs pumping, with the camera. I swing to 
Dunn for a few seconds and watch her smoke a cigarette, the way her 
chest fills up mightily on the inhale. Then I swing back as Gomez 
returns with beers for us all and the chopmeat she mentioned 
before. She's gonna give the dog the meat, OK. "Why do I have to 
shoot the dog eating the meat, Gomez? I wanna just drink a beer, 
smoke another doob and get some head." 

"Because Mickey's gotta get some head first. Some dog head. You 
know what I'm sayin'? Dunn, hold Mickey over your knee." 

Dunn nods and stubs her ciggy out, like she intuits the whole 
thing. Oh. She's gonna rub meat on his prick and the dog'll lick it 
off. That's kind of stupid, isn't it? Who'd want to see that on 
tape? Lassie? Mickey must be paying attention to all this, because 
he flicks the panties off his foot, quickly scrambles to all fours 
and tries to escape, but Dunn grabs him by an ankle and literally 
takes him off the floor and dangles him upside down with one 
locked-out arm like he was a toddler, while a profusion of bitter 
"fucks" and "shits" pours out of his mouth, which stops abruptly 
when she punts the ball of her foot into his teeth, making his lips 
bleed. Then she sits on the floor and spreads him face down across 
her lap and holds him fast while he tries to writhe wildly, which 
makes her chest, delts and triceps swell so nice I have to pause 
and savor the sight in the swivelscreen.

While I'm doing this, Gomez has taken the meat out of the package, 
and when I pan off Dunn's torso, the busty bronzed brute is taking 
a glove out of her bag, one of those latex jobbies like doctors 
use. Jesus, this girl comes prepared! Must be that Rimfire 
training. She puts the glove on and starts stuffing Mickey's 
asshole with meat as he starts to scream bloody murder again, 
crimson-tinged spit flying off his lips, but Dunn has him fixed 
fast across her thighs like he was an infant on a human changing 
table. Gomez takes a moment to stuff the panties into Mickey's 
mouth, then she goes back to stuffing his rectum like it was a 
turkey, while Pedro impatiently stands next to her, trying to lick 
her meat-sweet hand. And I'm standing there shooting this like it 
was a fucking commercial for the Beef Council.

Well, she packs Mickey's ass but good, and I mean she *packs* it, 
like she's some kind of professional sausagemaker, spreading his 
scrawny cheeks with the strong fingers of one hand while stuffing 
the meat way in with the other, really plunging her fingers in 
there, she'd make a great proctologist, assuming she filed her 
nails a little, while Dunn says encouraging things like, "Cram it 
in, Gomez, deeper!" and Mickey makes hysterical muffled moans and 
choking sounds, the panties halfway down his throat.

Despite the brain-overheat I've got from Rapture fever, I'm 
catching on to what the deal is now, and it's starting to really 
disgust me. I hold the camera at arm's length, so the swivelscreen 
isn't right in my face, but it's still freaking me out, so I turn 
my head away entirely and I'm looking at Mickey's suddenly giant 
ass on the projection TV, which freaks me even more, and I turn 
back to the action and I'm thinking about asking Dunn to hold the 
camera, but she's got Mickey spread across her lap, and she's 
giving me this Rapture-intense look that says, "Don't be a wussy, 
you've got to shoot this, girl," and then Gomez is calling the dog 
to chowtime, going, "Come on, Pedro, come on, little fella, eat the 
meat, eat the meat," and the dog dives right in, licking excitedly 
at Mickey's asshole, then he's got his little snout practically 
shoved up Mickey's ass, nibbling the meat like a maniac, his little 
doggie tail wagging wildly, and Mickey is *dying* behind the gag, 
he's making these horrible choking noises and I'm thinking he's 
gonna swallow the panties and asphyxiate, but instead he defecates. 
Yup, he starts shitting, it must be some kind of involuntary rectal 
spasm. The meat that's shoved up too far for Pedro to get at is 
pushed out with a flood of loose, little light brown turds behind 
it, and I think I'm gonna heave, I can feel the regurge roiling in 
my guts, but I'm still shooting, and Pedro is still in there eating 
the shit-flecked meat, and Dunn and Gomez are making all these 
groans of amused disgust.

Then I catch the evil smell, the stench wafts up and punches me in 
the nose and I lose it, I can feel it coming up, and I 
instinctively yell to Dunn and Gomez to get out of the way, and 
Dunn slips out from under Mickey just in time as I scamper up close 
to him and lean my head over the camera, still shooting, and hurl 
all over his shit-stinking, meat-munched ass. All the beer comes up 
and various white, brown and yellow remnants of lunch, and I do 
this while holding the camera with both hands at hip height, so I 
*perfectly capture myself vomiting all over Mickey.* Not *too* 
fucking bizarre. Dunn and Gomez are thrilled to the marrow by this, 
whooping for joy, and then Pedro, who backed off in alarm as I 
rushed in, comes back in himself and starts tentatively licking the 
puke, then burrows his nose back up Mickey's ass to get more meat. 
Is this the kind of fucking dog that eats you if you die alone with 
him in an apartment? Jesus, I had no idea Chihuahuas were, like, so 
perverted. Anyway, no one's holding Mickey down anymore, and he 
gets painfully to his knees, pulls the panties out of his throat 
with a horrible "Blaaaaggghh" sound, and starts crawling away, the 
dog following, nipping at his ass. 

"Goddammit, it fuckin' reeks in here!" Gomez gleefully yells. "Is 
it enough to make you puke your giblets out or what? Jen, I don't 
believe you upchucked on this little motherfucker, you know what 
I'm sayin'?"

"Gomez, he *shat out the meat.* It was the most disgusting thing I 
ever saw. But it's the stink that got me. I guess it's the smell 
combined with the image that did it."  Jesus Christ, what am I 
babbling about now? I sound like I'm doing the play-by-play at the 
Mr. Diarrhea contest. 

"Well, now that there's vomit and shit on this little asshole, I 
might as well take a piss on him," says Dunn philosophically. She 
stops Mickey's crawl across the floor by stomping delicately on the 
back of his head, mashing his face into the hardwood, then she 
gives him a paralyzing punch about mid-spine with that wicked right 
fist, and this stuns Mickey so bad he just lies there and wheezes. 
Then she squats over his back, keeping her gut tight and all her 
muscles flexed, and wrings her bladder out, as I continue shooting, 
keeping my distance and using the zoom. I'm not getting near that 
odor again, which now has my stomach contents added to the aroma. 
Then I realize *I've* gotta pee so bad I'm gonna die. I silently 
hand the camera off to Gomez, make sure I don't breathe through my 
nose and squat over Mickey facing Dunn as she squeezes out the last 
drop. I grab her by her sweatslick shoulders and fix her eyes with 
a Rapturously sex-synced mind meld. 

She looks at me pointedly and nods. Good, she knows just what I 
want. She gets behind me, crushes her tits against me and frigs my 
frantically while I ever so slowly let my pee dribble out all over 
Mickey's head. It's splashing my ankles, but I don't care. I've got 
the most fantastic orgasmic build happening, the hot pee trickling 
out of my pussy while Dunn works my fat, throbbing clit like she 
was playing Flight of the Bumblebee on groin guitar, her left hand 
gripping a fistful of my big tit for dear life. By the time I'm 
done drip-draining my kidneys, I'm coming so hard I'm doubled over 
in ecstatic throes of insane Rapture-rut, bellowing this gut-
wrenching "Aaaaaagggghhhhhh!" over and over while Dunn works three 
of her fuck-fine fingers up me so fast they're just a beautiful 
blur. When the last paroxysm of joy subsides, I back away slowly, 
still moaning, Dunn still fused to my ass, Gomez shooting the whole 
scene. Then Pedro steps in again to fill the void, sniffs all the 
fresh pee all over Mickey and lifts his little leg and lets his own 
stream go right into  Mickey's fucking *ear.* The guy hasn't moved 
all this time. Did Dunn break his spine with that punch? No, his 
leg is twitching, and now his head is starting to turn since his 
ear canal is filling up with fragrant dog piddle. Gomez giggles 
behind the camera, Dunn titters into *my* ear and I have to start 
laughing too. Until I think about who's gonna clean up this mess.   

"What are we gonna do with Mickey?" I ask in a mild panic. "His 
clothes must be upstairs in Ton's bedroom. But he's so fucking, 
like, *defiled.* I don't know if I can bring myself to clean him up 
without heaving again. And I've got nothing left to heave. You barf 
on an empty stomach, you can get, like, an abdominal pull, I 
heard."

"Don' worry 'bout a thing," says Gomez, tenderly rubbing my cast 
iron tummy--iron on the outside, at least. "We'll call a NADS 
cleanup squad, they'll take care of Mickey, we don' have to touch 
him, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Cleanup squad? That's not like a Roids disposal team, is it? I 
mean, they're not gonna make him permanently disappear, are they?"

"No way," Dunn husks into my ear. She's still standing behind me, 
burning holes into my back with her incendiary nipples. "They'll 
just clean him up and deposit him in front of his building. The dog 
too. And they'll leave this place sparkling. They'll even clean the 
ashtrays."

Pedro, in the meantime, has bravely gone back into Mickey's asshole 
for more meat. "Yeah, they'll have to clean the dog, too," I go 
with disgust. "They got a K9 unit? He's got shit and chunks all 
over his muzzle. Can you imagine what his breath is like?"

Just then Mickey lurches to his feet with this horrible scream 
issuing from his bloody lips like he just woke up from a terrible 
nightmare. He spins around to face me, his swollen, smashed mouth 
curled into an insane grin, and he's about to say something when 
Gomez, still shooting, rushes in close and hits him over the head 
with the imitation Tiffany lamp that's on the table in the corner, 
the stained glass shade shattering on his stained, glassy skull. 
Mickey goes down like a safe fell on him, unconscious, bleeding 
profusely from the scalp. "Great," I sputter, "let's start breaking 
the furniture. This is *Ton's* place, girls!"

"Chill," says Dunn, handing me a beer, which I suck on greedily to 
get the hurl taste out of my mouth. "We'll replace the lamp later. 
When the cleanup squad is done here, everything'll be as good as 
new. Except for Mickey."    

They both giggle like kids while Pedro sniffs with interest at the 
blood leaking out of his master's head. "At least he doesn't have, 
like, a Doberman," I go, trying to put a happy face on things. 

"Well, maybe he'll get a Doberman now," says Gomez. "For 
protection. This Chihuahua thing didn't work out too well for him." 

"Oh, yeah, a Doberman," Dunn goes. "Dog'll fucking *rape* his ass 
and walk *him* on a leash." A gale of laughter from Gomez, who's 
shooting a macro closeup of Mickey's head wound, which on the big 
TV looks like something from The Surgery Channel. I have to admit 
I'm chuckling a little myself. Christ, am I becoming a cold-hearted 
psycho bitch or what? If Mickey was conscious right now, I'd give 
him a charity handjob for sure. 

Assuming I could use Gomez's glove. 

--30--