Jenna Takedown: NADS Buster By Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com) Jen and Sara move north, and so does an unwelcome backdoor visitor. Copyright 2000 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 10 It's the next day, and Sara and I are getting debriefed in Professor Pep's office. We didn't have to stop by Marcia Mesto's on the way up, after all. She called me this morning to say Sara's already been approved for the bodyguard gig, there are Roids officials who know who she is and like who she is. I'm glad they like her, but I'm really bummed that we didn't get to see Marcia. I was hoping something horny would happen. Marcia wouldn't even tell me her weight yesterday, but I'm perfectly prepared to have her sit on my face so I can guess it. On the other hand, not seeing Marcia saves me the trouble of possibly having to deal with the weird shit I found on the tape she gave me. Is this making any sense? I'm so fucking stoned out all the time, and now with this Rapture, who knows what's going on with my brain chemistry. Sara and I did the love drug all night last night, plus we had half a bottle of Stoli and the usual ration of reefer. I've gotta start using a water pipe as a regular part of my mental hygiene, all this joint smoking is giving me a cough. Ordinarily, I'd use a pipe just for the sake of economy--what's more wasteful than letting a joint burn down while you're holding a toke in?--but with all the ounces I took from Cait, I don't give a shit about economy. Where was I? Oh, the tape from Marcia. The tape she gave me to tape the Bon-Fran fight on. Well, I played the fight for Sara last night--telling her that Fran survived a heart hammer isn't even worth the trouble when you can show it to her, one punch is worth a thousand words--and I let the tape run past where Marcia stopped recording, and much to my shock and delight on came footage of this big, beautiful mind-bogglingly built black chick with the most bodacious booty I've ever seen in my life. I mean, her ass makes Sara's look, like, normal. Even Sara was stunned by it, and she gets to see her ass every day. In the mirror, it's not *that* big. And yeah, when you have an ass like Sara's you *do* look at it every day in the mirror, whether or not you're doing calves or whatever. But that's not the half of it. My delight turned to tongue-hanging dismay when I realized this black chick was butt-torturing a pot- bellied, middle-aged white guy, but not just *any* pot-bellied, middle- aged white guy. It was Maury McCallister, my high school wrestling coach! Not *too* fucking bizarre! Not that I minded seeing Coach McCallister getting his cock compressed like it was a kielbasa in some kind of industrial meat tenderizer. The bastard offered me no support at all when I was tossed into juvie court after my run-in in the locker room with Brooke and they found *her* gun in *my* locker. He was too worried about his fucking job. Never mind that I was the star of his team, the star of the whole fucking state, the only reason he was on the Cali girls' wrestling map at all. He figured I was a goner--which I was, with these kneejerk school gun laws--and he bailed on me in a snap. Well, fuck him and the horse he rode in on, which I'm sure is one of those glue factory nags, considering what they pay high school gym teachers in this state. I never spoke to him again and he never tried to contact me either. I never much liked the guy in the first place, though he had some good mat strategies for me now and again, ways to leverage big girls onto their backs so they were as helpless as tortoises. He never tried to put a move on me, probably because I was strong enough even back then to break his arms, but there was always something unwholesome about Coach. Now there's something *really* unwholesome about Coach, assuming he's alive at all. I doubt he'll ever be using his schlong again after what this black chick did to it. There's only about three minutes of footage on the tape, then it goes blank for real, I checked out the whole tape, but those three minutes start with Coach's dick in a deep-to-the-nuts butt grip from hell, and I know it's from hell 'cause he's screaming bloody murder, his hands helplessly bound behind his back, and the black chick is bearing down on him real hard, doggie style, you can see all her muscles flex when she tightens her ass up, even her *hips* pop. Then she lets him loose and his poor prick comes out looking like he stuck it in an antique clothes wringer, it's like a very unhealthy shade of knob- throbbing purple and bent kinda funny, but it's still hard, like he's on a Viagra blast that's out of control. Then the black chick turns around and bitch slaps Coach so hard he falls down, and he's a pretty big guy. Then the chick rolls Coach on his back so his still-stiff dick is standing straight up in the air, his middle pushed up since he's lying on his crossed hands, and she squats down over him and starts to lower herself onto his battered ram again, sort of sucking his cock up into her ass with muscular contractions, like she's shitting him *in*, then Coach starts screaming again as she puts the vise on, her butt bulging with muscle, then it goes blank, like someone was making a dub and changed her mind. Now, the question is, who's the black chick--is she the chocolate center Marcia was talking about?--and why is this on the tape she gave me. Is it there by accident, or did she give me this particular tape on purpose? I thought about asking her when she called me this morning, but I decided not to mention it. *She* didn't mention it, so if she gave me the wrong tape and I wasn't supposed to see this, why bring it up? I mean, if she had my old coach tortured for me as some kind of insane favor, wouldn't she ask me if I saw it? Fucked if *I* know, but she's Doom Patrol, and they move in mysterious ways. So back to the present. We're in Professor Pep's office for what the plump but pretty bazooka-bazoomed secretary babe, who sits outside Pep's lair--she's known as Randy Mandy she told us, as if we were still in Tonya--called a debriefing. Fuck, that was still in the past. Anyway, I'm hoping that means getting your underwear removed, 'cause I've got it on for the Prof real bad. She looks whip wicked in her short-sleeve green scrubs, not long-sleeve like the other day, so her vein-coiled arms are on delicious display, but now that I know what that bulge in her bottoms is, I can't take my eyes off it. And neither can Sara, though she hasn't seen it yet. I gave her advance notice about the Prof's package, of course. I mean, it would be a trip to see her get the big surprise up close and personal just like I did, but I don't know how she'd take it, and it's a different story anyway, now that she works for the woman. Assuming Pep *is* a woman. Well, she's woman enough for me. And man enough too. Anyway, I had to tell Sara what's up front upfront. It was weird enough that when I went home after the Fran the Man fistics, I informed my new live-in girlfriend that, surprise! we're moving to Herminosa to be CHICKA bodyguards for the Roids' resident mad scientist. I couldn't overlook a little fact like the doc has a cock. And I prepared her for Rick the Prehistoric Dick too. Like, there's this very short, very muscular, very hairy fuck machine with the IQ of a bowling ball who's the Professor's sex pet. I didn't mention what he did to Bonnie, of course, the last thing I need is *her* mad at me. But no matter how weird the Herminosa scene may be, I think Sara was actually relieved to be getting out of the apartment and out of Shorta. She has this fear of angering Stef, left over from our Ton days, I guess. Stef had such a rep in Tonya, even a lot of Nancies worshiped her. So I packed up my shit--Sara traveled real light from Texas and hadn't even unpacked yet--and we drove on up like we were on our honeymoon. We got our own very cute one-bedroom bungalow in the compound, which is attached by this concrete corridor to the Prof's bungalow. And we've got a sunken whirlpool tub in the bathroom that we both fit in! Not *too* awesome! I was tempted to bring the Fisher Price, but it didn't fit in the Jimmy with all the other shit. I hope Stef can make some good use of it--when she's drunk enough she'll do anything. Or if not she can always give it to Ned the Head to jack off in. Anyway, they've got everything you could want in the little village here--a fully equipped gym, a great cafeteria, tennis courts, basketball courts, it's like a resort. Except it's all gated and walled in, like a medieval town, or it will be when they finish the rush construction job. That's to prevent anyone from getting medieval on our ass. Again. "I'm sure glad I was, uh, otherwise engaged the night of the attack," Pep is saying as she toys with a tiny monkey skull on her desk that she told us used to belong to one of her favorite lab animals. "I heard two of your assistants were killed," I go, shifting in my chair and twisting my torso so I'm giving Pep my best rack angle. I'm wearing a Tonya Rules baby tee that's so tight a baby couldn't fit in it. "Yeah," Pep sighs, licking her thin but sinful lips as she looks me over. "Good girls, too. But not fighters, researchers. Those Daughters just slaughtered them, broke their fucking backs. And now to think I've got one of those killers as my own little guinea pig." "Yeah, but you're not gonna fuck up Fran the Man so she can't fight or anything, right?" I ask. "The idea was to make her into a CHICKA warrior. Like a robot or something." Fran was in surgery last night, getting her smashed ribs and sternum attended to with Zmeskaline bone marrow injections, and I must say, after seeing how good she looked on EF and how tough she was facing off with Bon, I've got one on for her. I can't help it, I'm a Raptured-up bed bitch, an overmojo'd mattress mama, the crack of dawn is starting to look hot to me, I wanna do the dew. "Oh, she'll be a CHICKA warrior, all right," says the Prof. "Why do you call her Fran the Man?" "Like, that's a Tonya joke," I explain. "She got all hairy and deep- voiced on Testo Glandex. But she switched to Glandex EF, and it really did her up nice." "Speaking of which, aren't you going to get off Titanic and get on the EF, Jenna Takedown?" "I don't know. Should I?" "I think you should. You're topped out heightwise on the T, I'm pretty sure. You may be topped out heightwise on *anything* at this point, you're 18, after all. But the EF could do a lot for you in muscle growth, and it should do a lot in the area of, uh, feminine appurtenances." "What about me?" Sara asks. "I think I've got everything out of Largesse that there is to get. Can I go on the EF too?" "Actually, sweet Sara," says the Prof with a lusty leer, "I recommend PHEW 2 for you. There's something about the chemical transition from Largesse to PHEW that can work wonders with the right metabolism. Maria the Muscle is a perfect case in point. You know Maria, right?" "Sure we know Maria," I go. "And I just saw her the other night. She looked fabulous, unbelievably huge. But she said she was on EF and PHEW splits or something." "She did do some EF dosing, sort of as an experimental enhancement, but she's really PHEW-built now. She's a prime example of the growth stimulation that's possible in the Largesse-PHEW changeover. We're not sure what causes it, but it's worth a try for anyone who's getting off Largesse after a long run. Assuming you really want to pack on a lot more heavy muscle. Maria's so big now, she can barely reach behind her to scratch her own ass. But you're taller, Sara, and you've got a bigger ass. And a better ass. I understand they call you Sweetass, in fact, and you've got one of the best butts in the west, maybe second only to D'Shay, now that she's out here." "D'who?" I go. "This supergorgeous black chick who used to work at Amy Fisher. Has an ass you wouldn't believe, built it on KaBoost, this 'troph that works only on the female Afro-tabolism, it's a genetic thing, sort of like sickle-cell anemia. It's taken up the butt in suppository form." Is this the chick who ruined Coach McCallister? I don't know, and I can't ask. "What's taken up the butt?" Sara wonders dimly. "KaBoost," says Paulette, "and, frequently, my dong," she adds, grinning like a skirted satyr. "The Soleus Sisters are on it," I explain to Sara. "Remember, I told you all about them on the phone, they performed the night Ton went wild onstage and pissed herself?" "Oh, yeah," says Sara vaguely. She's still a little fucked up from all the Rapture last night. The shit leaves you low-level spacy way after the heavy effects have worn off. "Be that as it may," goes Paulette, "would you mind standing up and posing that gorgeous cunty seat for me, so I can judge it with my own prying eyes?" Sara shoots me a nervous look and I make telepathic peepers at her that tell her to do whatever Paulette wants her to do. So Sara stands up, turns around, kicks her sandals off, peels her cutoffs and panties down and steps out of them slowly and seductively, then starts flexing her butt, turning her hips this way and that, standing up on her toes and working her calves and hams into it, really putting on a show, then she does a full bendover and pulls her cheeks apart with her hands and makes her anus gape and the Professor has lost it, she's behind her desk with this faraway look in her sweet green eyes, clearly working her prick behind the desk like a cock rocket, muttering shit like, "Oh, yeah, oh, baby, that's so fine," like she was some old guy getting a table dance at Dugz. Then Sara sits down without putting her clothes back on, and Paulette stops jerking off and snaps her face back to attention, trying to get her breathing under control. "Like, whew!" she shouts, pounding a fist on her desk, making the monkey skull jump. "I gotta come up for derriere! Ever shoot a ball bearing outta your ass, girl?" "No. I've never even swallowed one." The Prof pauses and looks at Sara searchingly. nods idiotically. I hope she didn't get brain damage from the Rapture. "Anyway, would you like to be as big as she is?" Paulette suddenly asks. "Who? Jen?" "Maria the Muscle." "Oh. I haven't seen her since I was in Tonya," Sara goes. "But based on what Jen told me, yeah, I want her size. But I also want her chest. Is this PHEW gonna put any boobs on me?" "Who needs boobs? Put a bra on your butt and walk around on your hands." Paulette starts giggling at her own joke, the titters threatening to escalate into a laughing fit, then she mock smacks herself across the face and says, "Get a grip, girl!" She takes a few deep breaths, hands flat on the desk, then goes, "It could. Put on titties, I mean. It's really impossible to say. If you don't have big-tittie genes, you're at a disadvantage, there's no way around it. But there's no guarantee that EF will blow your chest up, either. It's all genetics and metabolism, factors we don't fully understand and usually can't control. Take your shirt off, Sara." Sara looks dumbly at the Prof for a second, like she's supposed to be modest now after taking all her nether holes out, and I chip in with a quick, "Show her your pretty pecs, girl," before Sara ruins the mood. I sense an orgy coming on, I can smell it in the air, and that's not Sara's squeaky clean pussy I'm whiffing, though it could be Rick's alpha sweat, I'm sure he's in the next room pacing back and forth in a slingshot jock stuffed full of throbbing cock. And I have my Rapture with me, in the unlikely event the Prof hasn't got any handy. So Sara struggles out of her Summer Sanders Dinner Theater baby tee, which is so absurdly small it couldn't fit on a fetus. I told her to dress supersexy just to make a good first impression on the Prof. Or else she could just walk into the room backwards and let her ass speak for itself. But she didn't, she likes to be demure. But now that her fully loaded U-haul is in Pep's driveway, so to speak, let's just get on with it and get it on. By the way, the Sanders is this place in Texas where Sara saw the former East German women's swim team perform A Streetcar Named Desire, she was telling me about it last night between Fisher Price frolics. There was so much pee in the pool, I could've used a mask and snorkel. So anyway, now she's sitting there in the lipsmackin', buttcrackin' nude. She doesn't need a bra or a sports bra or anything, of course, her solid- steel chest doesn't bounce around, but your fist will bounce *off* it, though I wouldn't let Bon punch her. "Make those beauties dance," I say to her, "Professor Pep hasn't seen you in the buff before, show her your stuff." "Oh, I can see your stuff just fine," says Pep as she takes off her heavy black-framed glasses and blinks in stunned stupefaction as Sara starts pec-flexing like she was trying out for the Olympic tit team. My girl is alternately fast-jerking and slow-jerking, her big shoulders thrown back, her rib box bulging, her hands gripping the armrests of her chair, the pecs rippling into thickly striated armored turrets on each contraction, and I can feel the steamy saliva pooling in the back of my throat as the autosuck mechanism in my brain kicks into overdrive. The Prof must be in the speed lane too; she gets out of her chair, comes around from behind her desk and casually straddles Sara's thighs, putting a meticulously manicured mitt over each pec so the hot, hard nipples are burning into the heels of her hands. Sara, who can be skittish with strangers, handles this pretty well and just keeps flexing her chest under the Prof's now pom-pomming palms. "Has she got a muscle rack or what?" I go, wondering if I should get up and start undressing. Is the door locked? Should I whip out my Rapture? Too late, I guess, Paulette is about to whip out something of her own. First she shimmies further up Sara's thighs so her crotch is pressed into the girl's iron wall of abs, but it's not her crotch pressed in there, really, it's her cock. The Prof's got a wicked one on, she's fucking Sara's bellybutton with it right through her pants, making these little "Uh, uh, uh," noises, then she fastens her mouth onto Sara's like a lip clamp and starts inhaling my girl's tongue. After 30 seconds or so of frantic face-mashing, during which time I take the liberty of closing the blinds all the way, Paulette springs off of Sara's lap and slinks out of her drawstrings so fast I think she did both legs at the same time. She's got nothing on under them except a big, vein-fat hardon. "Take your shorts off, girl, get on the floor and pull your legs up behind your head," the Prof instructs her new bodyguard, who obeys instantly, not even bothering to show her booty off again. Must be that Ice's-wife syndrome. Sara's naughty-naked now, on her back on the floor, which has a fluffy new shag rug on it that wasn't there the other day, and she literally pulls her legs back behind her head like a fucking contortionist--I didn't know she could do that!--her cunt gaping wide like a clam in heat, all her belly and thigh muscles tensed in expectation, the hams bulging like Christmas dinners. And Paulette, completely ignoring me, just gets down in pushup position and plunges into Sara and starts hunching her like . . . like fucking Rick the Prehistoric Prick! Where *is* the little hairball anyway? I hate to admit it, but I have a bizarre desire to get doggie-done by the ape man. There's something wrong with me, I admit it. Maybe it's the Rapture. But all I can do at the moment is watch. Paulette is hyperventilating, making this "Buh, buh, buh" noise now, fucking so fast and hard, Sara's pussy hair may catch fire. This goes on for about three or four minutes of continuous action, the last half accompanied by this really obscene sucking sound as Paulette makes sonic cunt booms in a vulvic vacuum, as I stand there like an idiot and admire my boss' naked boy-buns sticking out from under her shirt, which she didn't bother removing, her cheeks flexed so hard I can see individual muscle fibers popping. But her glutes go even harder than that. When she's finally at the point of no return, she stops pumping and her whole body goes so rigid I think she's gonna snap her own skeleton. At that moment, her ass is so totally contracted the cheeks spread apart through sheer flex power and her anus is exposed, gaping wide like a blossoming wildflower. Then the orgasmic groans start and I can see the muscles churning as she fires her load in so many long, aching spurts she could be a lay-in for Harry Dexter. Shit, this lady can really throw a fuck. She's lying there now, panting on Sara, who I think was pounded right into the rug, she must have shag burns on her back. "Jesus, Professor Pep, you have a stud muffin for breakfast or what?" I go, slightly miffed. "What about foreplay? For that matter, what about threeplay? I'm standing here like my balls broke." Paulette rolls off of Sara, her prick still thick and half-hard, dripping bullets of pearly spunk. She pulls herself to a sitting position with just her gut, then somehow gets to her feet without using her hands, just sort of rising up on her heels. Not bad for someone her age, whatever the hell her age is. "Good Christ, what a snatch on this girl!" she shrieks. "She's tighter than a monkey's asshole!" I wonder if she's talking about the monkey whose skull is on her desk. She didn't tell us how he died. "I wasn't really all that wet," says Sara, on her back on the floor like she just got rolled over by a fucktruck. "At least not for the first minute." "By the second minute you were sopping!" Paulette guffaws. "I'm sorry, Jen," she says to me with feeling, taking me by the hand and squeezing it warmly, running her thumbs over all the big veins. "I'm getting these strange moments of uncontrolled lust lately, like I'm an *animal*. I'm on this experimental drug, it's sort of a youth serum, it's made from the DNA of Amelie Mauresmo, among other things, and it's doing me in weird ways. I know that's a shitty excuse, but it's the truth." "Amelie who?" I go. "Mauresmo. The big-shouldered teen tennis dyke?" "Never heard of her." "Me neither," Sara groans. "She's not big on the circuit, not like those outrageous Williams girls and that bulked-up Mary Pierce, but she's *big*, and she's got the nucleic compatibilities I was looking for." "But if the drug is so weird, why are you taking it?" I ask. "For eternal youth. Or at least eternal middle age. It's one ongoing experiment where *I'm* the guinea pig," she adds proudly, as if she deserves her scientific fate. "I feel like a *stuck* pig," says Sara, who's still on her back on the floor, seedless spunk leaking down between her legs. "Oh, honey," says Paulette in a semi-baby voice, getting down on her knees to stroke Sara's big arm, "did I hurt you with all that nasty dicking?" "No, it felt great," says Sara, much to my relief. "You're a great lay, Professor. At least, I *guess* you are. I've never been fucked by a, uh, real penis before. It just sort of took me by surprise, is all." I know Sara has been skewered by strapons in Karla Faye. Both the Warden and Ice used to do her now and again, it was all part of her general humiliation, she told me on the phone during our months of Sprint sex. "Well, nothing took *me* by surprise," I complain. "Where's little Ricky? Watching you ram Sara like that makes me want to get a good dicking myself." "Rick is with his new girlfriend," says Paulette, beaming like she was talking about her nerdy son who never dated before. "That very nice black girl I told you about who used to be a guard at Amy Fisher, but certain, uh, legal circumstances have caused her to relocate to this coast." "What do you mean, his girlfriend?" I ask. "You making a joke?" "Well, yes and no. D'Shay and Rick have a special relationship. You see- -" Then the phone rings. Paulette picks it up and starts talking about some chemistry project, standing there casually with just her top on. It makes me uncomfortable watching her talk business with her prick hanging out. I *still* don't know if the door's locked. At least Sara has finally gotten to her feet and she's putting her clothes back on. Then the Prof hangs up the phone and says, "I have to head to the lab immediately, girls, something's up. Catch you later." She practically leaps back into her scrub bottoms like she's jumping rope. "But Paulette," I go with alarm, "we're your bodyguards. Don't we have to, like, accompany you?" "Here in Med Block? Nah. Security has been really beefed up here now, no baddies will be getting in. You saw what the main gate was like. You can't spend all day sitting next to me anyway, like you were my shadow, it's too paranoid. During the work day, I'll basically be on my own. If I need you I'll call you on the Motorola." We got these really cool yellow sports walkie-talkies when we checked in. "So what do we do now?" Sara asks as she squeezes back into her baby tee, the still-stiff nips threatening to punch holes in the shirt. "Anything you want," says Paulette. "Go work out. Play tennis or swim in the pool. *Pee* in the pool if you like. Hey, pee on the *tennis court*, you're my bodyguards, you can do whatever you want. Stop by the lab at 5 and we can go to dinner in the caf together, then tonight we'll party hearty in my house. Cool? Gotta run." She struts out and leaves us standing in her office with all the creepy paws, horns and skulls. And the door *wasn't* locked, judging by the way she opened it. Shit. Then again, Randy Mandy is out there, she's the only one who could burst in, I suppose, and I'm sure she's seen it all already. Though she hasn't seen *us* yet. We banter with her for a minute after Pep is gone, and I'm starting to work the subject around to sex, but then her phone rings and she puts on a business face, so we split. We go to the very well-equipped gym, which is empty, and do a 90-minute chest and arms blitz, then shower down and hit the pool, which we *don't* pee in. We're saving that for the sunken tub. Of course, doing Rapture during the day is kind of a violation of professional etiquette or something, since we're getting fucked up on the job. "But aren't we *always* on the job?" Sara points out. "Bodyguarding is a 24/7 deal, right?" "Right. And we can't very well *never* get fucked up. I can't go half a *day* without getting fucked up on *something*." "But you can function fucked up," Sara notes sympathetically. "You drive stoned all the time, right? You drive on *Rapture* for shit's sake. I could never do that." "That's right. So let's have a Rapture tub party. I'll steer." Our fun is interrupted by my cell phone several times, though. Cait calls, and of course she's appalled that I've moved up the coast. But she has Brit back with her, so why should I feel guilty? "But what about the Sock Her Moms?" she whines. "I *killed* one of them. What if they come after me?" "They can't come after you, Cait, Judy Palooka runs the Moms now, and she's on *our* side." I don't know if that's really true--I don't know *what's* up with Judy and Lally now, I need to speak to them, but it helps reassure Cait. For the moment. Then I get a call from Gloria Sternum, who won't tell me how she got my cell number, she gives me one of those "It's my business to know everything" routines, like I'd get from Harry. I know *I* didn't give it to her. Did Stef? Whatever. The point is, she wants me to come to her office for some kind of meeting on the film she wants to make. "But Stef's out of town," I go. "I don't want Stef anymore, she fucking killed my co-star," Sternum fumes. "I want *you*." Isn't this touching? No sooner do I get a new job than Ned the Head wants me to join the RWF and now Ms. Mega Ms. herself wants to put me in pictures. I agree to go see her tomorrow, assuming I can get a leave of absence from Paulette. I just want to get it on with her again, I have no interest in being in her movie. I have no time for that kind of frivolous shit anyway, there's a war on. "Yeah, there's a fucking war on, all right," Sternum spits cynically. It's the following morning, and I'm in her office in Santa Emasculata drinking coffee and she's pacing around in a bathrobe again like she's Ewe Heifer at the Slayboy Mansion. I got permission from Paulette to leave Med Block, but I couldn't take Sara with me, at least one bodyguard has to be in the compound, according to CHICKA rules or something. I feel kinda weird about being here alone, but after my taste of Sternum in the bathroom the other day, I need a whole spanksgiving dinner with all the quimmings. I've got a jones for the senior set now. Last night it was Paulette, who fucked all my major orifices so hard during our three-pee party, I think my pelvis got whiplash and I need to put my tongue in a splint. Or maybe my tongue got whiplash and I need to put my pelvis in a splint. And yes, she hosed me down a few times guy- style in our new deluxe supersize happy tub and it was so good I cried. Of course, I was out of my mind on Rapture, my vision refracted through a million prisms of sex-spangled lust. Sara is *still* out of her mind on Rapture the morning after, I think she was too out of it to make a scene with Sternum anyway this early in the day. But here I am. Looking pretty fit too, in an RWF: Day of Wreckoning muscle tee--that Day of Wreckoning idea was one of Ned the Head's promotional stunts, but most of his audience would never know it was spelled wrong--with my water weight down by an easy ten pounds after all the sweating I did on last night's group dope grope. And I'm feeling unusually chipper despite a semi-hangover, because, get this: I'm off Titanic and on TG-EF. Let's hope that stands for Thank Goddess-Extra Funparts. No more drinking the clear liquid every day and trying not to confuse it with the Stoli; now I take a blue capsule three times a day after meals, which is no biggie since I take a shitload of supps after every meal anyway, I've got a pillbox the size of a hat. And Sara is on PHEW 2, or actually the latest new and improved version, which Paulette calls PHEW 2+. It's a serum that she dispenses personally in a little plastic cup like at a methadone clinic, one cup every morning on an empty stomach, so Sara will be dropping by Pep's office on the way to the caf for breakfast. The Prof won't let Sara keep a quantity herself, 'cause she says an overdose can be fatal, PHEW 2+ is some really potent shit. Well, OK. Fatal is a word I can do without for awhile. Stef's got it covered for the both of us. She called me on the cell while I was driving over here to tell me she got Marty. Something about his head is no longer in Cleveland, just his body. She rang off before she explained, she's still on the move, heading into Canada to get Mitch, whose location she tortured out of Marty, I guess while his head was still on. Shit, she's on a fucking rampage. Well, she said she's happy for me and Sara and our new gig and I told her the apartment's waiting for her when she gets back and she seemed OK with it all, so, like, cool. And I'm happy to report that Sternum doesn't care about the movie script she gave Stef, which is now who knows where. That movie's over, now that Millie Montoya is dead. Sternum has a new movie in mind, but right now she's on a rant about the impending 20-inch armageddon between the Roids and the NADS. "They're both fucked," she fumes. "They'll sell anything to make money, never mind any bullshit about how they care about women's rights. Look at Quik Tit. No one who cares about women would be peddling shit like that." The deal on Quik Tit, according to Sternum, is it's the most dangerous thing to happen to women since the days of coat hanger abortions. "Quik Tit is supposed to be a do-it-yourself implant device, but it's not like a fucking pregnancy test," she snarls. "It's a bigass hypo that you'd stick a fucking rhino with, and nine out of ten self-administered users will fuck it up one way or another and end up with a pair of mismatched tits that'll have them at the free health clinic in a snap. And that's where they'll be, the fucking no-insurance clinic, cause these Quik Titters bought it in the first place cause they can't afford real breast enhancement surgery." She pauses, cocking an overpenciled eyebrow at me for dramatic emphasis, takes a big hit off her penis-mug of coffee and rolls her head around on her dare-to-be-square shoulders like she's getting ready to butt me to death. There's something scary about Sternum, like she's always a coupla heartbeats away from flying off the handle and doing some serious damage. If I wasn't bigger than her, she'd scare the shit out of me. Anyway, she goes on to tell me about the almost overnight network of Quik Tit implementers that's sprung up--chicks who, for anywhere from 50 to 150 bucks, will do the injections for you, which makes the application safer, but the expanding gel sac itself is not reliable, and there are gonna be thousands of women with catastrophic boob failure of one kind or another, or something like that, I'm starting to lose my focus, my mind is wandering, it's wandering all over her body, her fabulously corded neck, her only exposed part at the moment, is turning me on something nasty, I wish she'd take her robe off, and, like she's reading my mind Rapture-style--you bet my vile vial is in my bag--she suddenly whips it open, her abs flashing like freshly-sharpened thresher blades, the superstiff nipples firing 12-gauge sex pellets at me from under a bright red official Mega Ms. sports bra with pretty pink trim. Speaking of pretty pink trim, I wish she'd take her matching bikini bottoms off so I could get an eyeful of that nude, lewd, calamitously- clitted clam, but instead she shimmies the robe off her shoulders, grabs a pair of straight-backed spare chairs from over by the corner of the huge office, sets them up so they're facing each other at the narrowed end of her giant teak desk, sits down, puts her arm up and says, "Let's hit the table, Mabel." What? I'm sitting there stupefied in my comfy, stuffed guest chair, fantasizing about going back into the marble bathroom with her and getting fucked on the sinktop again, and she wants to *arm wrestle*? "Uh, Gloria," I go as politely as I can, "I'm kinda hung over from last night, kinda, like, *wasted*, I don't really wanna do anything *strenuous* right now--" "Get the fuck over here and put your arm on the table, girl!" she shouts. Shit, this is like the night with Nora in Cait's kitchen. "But I outweigh you by, like, 60 pounds," I whine. "All the more reason you shouldn't be making wussy excuses for not wanting to grip up with me. Now sit down and plant your fucking elbow and stop being a wimpy little douche bag. You think I'm Wendy the Wonderarm, I've had Zmeskaline bone marrow enhancement, I'm gonna snap your ulna like it's an ice cream stick?" "You had some kinda Hong Kong bone enhancement, you said so yourself," I pout. "That was osteo-gland therapy to get my skeleton up to snuff so it could support all this muscle. I assure you, I'm no terror on the table." "They why do you wanna arm wrestle?" " 'Cause it makes me horny. It's a form of foreplay. We *are* gonna get it on, right? Isn't that mainly why you came? To come? To get fucked by big beautiful me and my big beautiful tree? Don't you want what's in these hot pants, baby?" Sternum stands up, locks her hands behind her head like a belly dancer and starts slow-rolling her hips, working sudden lap-snapping pelvic thrusts into the motion, her abs so tightly coiled they look like charmed snakes. The bulge in her bikini bottoms is so big now, and pressed so hard against the sheer fabric of the crotch cover, I can see the outline of her engorged clitoral hood beckoning like grandma's house. This old lady really rocks. She has a hypnotic effect on me and I'm not even stoned, never mind Raptured. I stand up, iso pump my right arm a dozen times or so, then sit down and put my hand up like a good girl. She's still hip-whipping on her side of the table, and I reach out with a finger to touch that electric clit and she smacks my hand away hard enough to make my skin sting. "No touching my magic mountain till this girlie-Mann says so!" she commands. "Well, then let's arm wrestle already," I say with some trepidation. I have this lurking fear that Sternum is gonna put me down fast like I was a 98-pound cheekling, which would be so fucking Tara even if there were no witnesses. Ever since that endless match with Glo in Tonya, the day I got my ass kicked and Sara got that emergency tracheotomy that's left her with the cutest neck scar, I have a really negative vibe on table work. It's weird, 'cause in high school I'd arm wrestle anyone, not just all the girl jocks but a lotta boy jocks, and I never lost. Sternum's arm isn't helping my psych any either. She's out of the robe now, just in the sports bikini, and her business bi is so peaked-out and shredded, the deep-tanned flesh stretched over the humped muscles like a jungle drumskin, fat blue veins running crossing patterns over the whirling surface, the whole thing bucking and breathing with every twist of her wrist, it's goddamn unnerving. I can feel the power as she grips up with me, her fingers are insanely long and strong, she's clamping my hand so hard all the blood has been squeezed out of it, I can feel the spring- loaded tension in her arm, it's wound up like a catapult, about to snap me shut like a beartrap and then we're at it as she yells a sudden, "One, two, three go!" and I'm holding my own, thank the Goddess, I didn't go right over like a rag doll. "Look at the fucking size of your arm!" she spits between clenched teeth, but she doesn't really sound that impressed. Her arm's gotta be at least three inches smaller than mine, but it looks so big close up . . . hey, am I getting a Rapture vision effect here? No time to wonder, I've gotta concentrate on staying even with her, she's grunting like a power pig, trying to put me *through* the table, she wants to put splinters in my hand, she's starting to inch her big shoulder forward to leverage me down just like Nora did, she keeps shaking her long punk- streaked hair out of the way, why the hell won't she tie it back? when suddenly the bathroom door opens and this absolutely huge naked *boy* comes hulking into the room, blinks at us in some kind of druggy daze and then starts jerking on his big stiff prick, he's hung a rung or two below Rick on the length ladder, which is to say he's a monster, and I've never seen such thick, carved muscles on a guy before, he's four times the size of Rick in the brawn department, and I've lost my edge on the table, but Gloria breaks it off, unwrapping my pulverized hand as she stands up and yells, "Mark, for the fucking love of Christ, I didn't know you were still in the fucking bathroom!" He smiles sheepishly, his eyes all weird and unfocused, he's all sheened with sweat and breathing hard, like maybe he's a meth head, he's got that slightly crazed look about him, and he goes, "Sorry, ma'am, I got hung up on the pot, was reading the new Slam Gams, gotta admit, pretty awesome mag, who's the totally hot babe? Wait, I know you, I saw your wrestling tape." "Of course you have," I smile, relieved to be ungripped with super- ripped Sternum. "Everyone's seen it. This must be your personal trainer, right?" I go to Glo. "Right," she says with distaste. "Marky Mark, the mankiller. You oughta see this boy butt-ride his bum-buddies, Jen. You can, I made a great tape, I'll give you a copy. The kid's put the 'me' in 'sodomy.' I see he's out of his gourd on Crystal Phallus for a change. I'm telling you, Mark, that shit is gonna make you paranoid-schizo. You're gonna get the coke bugs, you keep this up, then you'll take a razor to your own arms, and that'll be such a shame, to ruin those beauties." "I'll *never* mutilate myself," says Mark with a demented grin, "I love myself too much," then he hits a double bi that is so big, so dense and so ripped, I can feel the adrenaline rush through my veins like the fucking bulls at Pumplona. This fucking high school kid has bigger arms than me, a bigger chest than me, bigger thighs, calves, fuck it, he's just plain bigger, though he looks to be under 6 feet. He must weigh as much as I do and he's got like 1 percent bodyfat, and I'm sure he's twice as fucking strong as me. "So this is Andromeda Strain, huh?" I go. "Like, wow! I've never seen a guy this big before in the flesh. I mean, he's practically the size of Mr. O guys, and he's not old enough to drive, I bet." "Oh, I can drive," he leers. "A hard bargain." "What do you weigh, Mark?" I ask, trying not to sound too turned on, but his big balls, hanging low and heavy between those monster thighs, are giving me a snake ache. After boffing Paulette last night, I've got a jones for bones, I can't help it. "I'll sit on your face and you can guess," he says with a twisted sneer. "No you won't," says Sternum. "This girl's from Tonya Harding, where your ass has to be so clean you can use it for a toothbrush holder. Mark, you fucking warthog, you don't even wipe." Ewwww, what a thought. Guy-asshole is a bad enough concept by itself; shit-filthy guy-asshole is enough to make me heave. "Do too," says Mark crossly, then he shifts his hairless bulk into a side chest and holds the pose for me, taking a few steps closer, the sheer massiveness of his muscles making me quiver inside like there's a force field around him. There is, and it's pure negative energy, he's got psycho vibes for sure. But what a fucking bod. "Look at that fucking chest!" Sternum roars. She stands up, strides over to him and pounds his pecs a few times with the heel of her hand, hard enough to knock an ordinary guy down. The blows seem to further invigorate him. His cock is even harder, bent up like a boomerang, the clipped purple head plum magnificent. His chest seems even bigger too, the tiny stiff cherry nipples looking like microdots on mountains, then he starts hyperventilating or something, deep-breathing like he's marshalling his ki, like Ton as she's about to break an ice block, he's hitting crab after crab, his traps bulging up to his ears, then, out of the absolute fucking blue, he lunges forward and grabs me by the hand, pulls me to my feet like I was a child, wraps his left arm around my neck, instantly suffocating me, then, with amazing skill, he unsnaps my cutoffs with his free hand and pulls my shorts and my panties down to my knees in one tug. I shoot a shocked look at Sternum, and to my further shock, she's suddenly got a Sony Hi-8 in her hand and she's *taping* this! Like it was planned! No time to think, I've gotta act. Mark has me in a vicious half nelson now, bending me forward, doubling me over with his unbelievable strength, reaching up with a foot and hooking my clothes down to my ankles, and I can already feel the head of his gargantuan glans prying between my butt cheeks like a heat-seeking torpedo, he's going into whatever hole he hits first. Fuck me with a house, I'm being raped! I'm 250 pounds of power, an elite CHICKA bodyguard, and I'm being *violated* by a minor in the key of F sharp. And it's a video! Sternum invited me over not to talk about a movie but to make one on the spot! Is life full of surprises, or what? I'm going on instinct now, taking whatever evasive action my reptilian forebrain commands. I bend forward, going with Mark's momentum, reach down behind my legs, grab him around the ankles and pull his feet out from under him, but he doesn't let go of my neck and I go down with him, on top of him, so that we get squished together in the worst way possible: with my ass slammed down on his cock, so his length is rammed right up me so far, I think it's gonna come out my belly like in a horror flick. I yelp in pain, my eyes are watering, he's up my ass to the root, all my weight forced down on his cock, the pain is corkscrewing up my into my head like a Preparation H bomb just went off in my bowels. I mean, it's not as if I have a virgin asshole. Harry was up there when I had my bogus freedom ride to get sprung from Tonya, and he's even bigger than this kid, but he used a lubed condom and went in slow and easy, inch by fat inch. Paulette was up my poop chute last night too, unsheathed, but she's like half the size of this prize stud. This is a dry run for the roses, and my roses feel like thornblossoms. I must take some serious fucking evasive action here. I throw myself to the side in an effort to unspear myself, but he's still got me in the neck grip and he starts fucking my ass on his side on the carpeted floor, he's choking me with both hands now, and there's Sternum looming above us shooting it all. Time to use some mat smarts. I kick the sandals, cutoffs and panties off my feet and push off with one leg, using all the strength in my quadradrive thigh, and right us so I'm back on top of him, then I bridge real hard, putting all my weight on the top of my head. You need a really strong neck to do this, and plenty of practice, but I have both, thank the Goddess. And thank Coach McCallister, for all those hours of grueling bridgework, which I almost never needed in a match, it was always my opponent who needed to desperately try to bridge her way out of a pin (she never could), but Coach worked me in practice anyway like he would any wrestler. And now it's paying off. So thanks, big fella, from one ass victim to another. I bridge so high, my back arched so far, I manage to clear Mark's big dick and free my ass, which feels like I just shat a whale. Thank the Goddess I'm 6-4 and he's not. Then I grab a couple of the fingers he's got around my neck, pry them up enough to get some leverage on them, and break them like they were pretzel sticks. Sternum is in real close above us, she's within kicking range of me, and I'm sure she got the bone-breaking sounds real good, they're sharp reports like amplified knuckle-cracking, and I must say they're music to my ears. But I don't kick her. If she gets pissed off, she could maul me something awful right now. Let her shoot. It's gonna be a great tape, especially when I shove it up her motherfucking ass. Mark moans, not much of a reaction for a guy who's getting his fingers snapped like dry twigs, but I bet the Phallus dulls his pain receptors. He *does* let go of me, though, and I spin off of him very fast and turn on him before he can react, catching him first in the ear with an elbow as I twist my torso into a punching posture. This is a great elbow, it stuns him on the spot, but then I start to work him hard with my fists, punching him in the face over and over, I'm pummeling him as hard as I can with my right, I'm in a seething rage, and I'd probably punch him till his face turned to jelly, but Sternum kicks me in the side hard enough to send me sprawling on my tits, yelling something about I'm killing him. I scrabble to my feet, spin to face the insane bitch, who's calmly standing there pointing the camera at me, smiling wildly behind the viewfinder like she's about to shout, "Cut. That's a wrap!" "I oughta kill *you*," I snarl, my fists balled up threateningly, the knuckles throbbing from Mark's fractured face. "Jenna, get a grip," she says quietly. "You're in *my* building, I've got a security team here that could really fuck you up, and I *don't* wanna call them in." I take a step toward her, wondering if I should attack her. I'm Roids, after all. Even better, I'm CHICKA. She won't really fuck with me, will she? Why not? She already *did* fuck with me, she runs the Mega Ms. empire, what does she care about the CHICKA? She can probably buy them off, I'm just another big girl to the CHICKA, I get wasted they'll replace me, that's all. I start menacingly doing my own hyperventilating, hitting a series of really hard crabs, getting my own ki up, but Sternum is calmly shooting all this, and I realize what a sight I must be in just the Day of Wreckoning muscle tee, like this is some bizarre promotional stunt for the RWF, and when I don't advance, Sternum pans away to the unconscious Mark, who's on his back, his face a bloody, swelling mess, his semi-stiff cock draped across his thigh like another limb, and Sternum says, "Shit, you really put his fucking lights out, he must have a broken jaw and cheekbone and who knows what the fuck else, I'm gonna have to get him to a hospital. Look at the way those fingers stick out funny, shit." She pans up to me again and goes, "Turn around and bend over and let's see if your ass is bleeding. He went all the way up there, didn't he? Christ, that must've hurt." I can't believe what I'm hearing. She thinks this is a game. I've gotta get outta here. She's out of her mind. I collect my panties, cutoffs and sandals and frantically put them on while she continues to shoot me. I'm thinking I should rush her and take the camera away from her, but then she stops shooting and puts it down on the desk. "You want this tape, don't you?" she says to me like it's an accusation. I don't say anything. I just look at her, my face a mask of hate. She takes the tape out of the camera and flips it at me. I catch it and hold it in my fist, still silent. "There. It's yours. A gesture of good faith. No hard feelings?" "*No hard feelings?* You just had your personal trainer rape my ass for your amusement or something." "But look at him," she goes, waving a big arm at his busted form on the floor. "You beat the shit out of him, as I knew you would. He's strong, yeah, but he's dumb as shit, fucked up on Crystal Phallus, doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. Like he had a prayer of going one-on-one with the likes of *you*? You're Jenna Takedown, not one of his little military school rectal rapees. And I didn't just have him do *anything,* that was all spontaneous, I swear it. I didn't know he was in the bathroom, I thought he'd left the office well before you showed up. I swear to Christ, Jenna. It occurred to me that he might try something, once I realized he was here in his usual condition, but I knew you'd be able to handle him. And you did. Now I need *another* personal trainer." "Shit, it's always all about you, isn't it, Sternum? You're one sick fuck. Fine, I'll keep the tape. It'll remind me of how fucking demented you are. Now I'm getting the fuck out of here, and you're not gonna try to stop me, are you?" "No, of course not, baby. You're having a bad day. By the way, I love you. You totally rock, girl. I got such a stiffy from you, check this out." She pulls her bikini briefs down and there's that super clit, big, pink and pearlescent, jerking at me like a living fling thing as she flexes her muscles in a sin salute. She's smiling at me like nothing happened, and she looks so damn old-lady cute I almost think I want to stay and ask if we can get it on like this was all a dream. But it wasn't, and I have the video to prove it. I say nothing, I strut out of her office and go down in the elevator with no hassle, get out to the parking lot and get in the Jimmy unmolested, and I can feel the squishy wetness in my pants, which must be the blood leaking outta my ripped ass. Fuck. Then my cell rings. It's her. "By the way, my office is totally wired for hidden video, I've got the whole thing on tape from four different angles. I can cut it up into a bitch of a title, it'll be one *hot* fucking seller, they love this kinda shit in the Middle East, they eat it up when the woman fucks up the man, the more the women are downtrodden in their society, the more they love it. Go figure." "Go figure on dying, you rancid cunt!" I hiss. "Oh, Jenna, chill, baby doll," she coo-coos. "We'll get together again soon, on neutral ground, you'll see, we're gonna be good friends." "Go fuck yourself!" I scream, as I resist the urge to throw the phone out the window. "With my clit, I practically can, girl," she giggles. Jesus Christ, what a morning! Do I need a squirt-a-flirt with Sara in the fun tub, or what? --30--