The Pugilisticon Part 4
By Avida Dolor
Wylie in the ring


Copyright 1997 Avida Dolor (avidadolor@aol.com)

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

E-mail from: Daryl Buck 

To: Paul Buck 

 It was time to take on a seasoned, respectable opponent, and that 
opponent presented herself in the imposing figure of Carmen Santos, a 
burnt sienna beauty who had the distinction of going four rounds with 
Bovee (in a scheduled six-rounder) before falling victim to the three-
knockdown rule with just a handful of seconds left in the fourth. It was 
a TKO, you understand. She was up from that third knockdown on the count 
of five. She has not fought Rayleeta, and probably won't. She's refused 
the big girl's invites so far for the perfectly understandable reason 
that Ray's just too damn sizey. 

 Here's the dope on Santos: she's 27, Puerto Rican by birth, 5-8, 177, 
no excess blubber, a bodybuilder's physique, rippled abs fer chrissakes, 
excellent pointy-pert C-cups, great skin, hair, teeth--a delectable 
mountain. Fast hands and feet, a good but not great jab, not much reach, 
good with her elbows, great stamina. Should be a pro poser, no idea why 
anyone so cute would fight, but there she is, and she's beat the crap 
out of plenty of chicks--as a light heavy fighting usually at 167 (she 
was 9-1 in the last year as an LH, but the loss was to the champ, Tina 
Chen, more of whom later). She's only recently bulked herself over 175 
to go heavyweight, and in short order got herself a gig with the champ, 
based I guess on her good LH record and her great looks. So she produced 
an impressive showing against the champ after knocking out two 
journeyman nobodies, and now here comes up and comer Wylie, a big, 
strong girl who'll go down hard, thinks Carmelita, as she's known to her 
friends, one of whom I'd like to be someday. 

 Wylie has other plans, of course, and would like nothing better than to 
mash that pretty face with her knee. Unlike me, Wylie is not sentimental 
about the miens or the ways of others. Nor herself, for that matter. 
Now, Carmelita can be an awfully dangerous girl. We watched three of her 
LH bouts on tape, as well as the Bovee match, and were quite impressed 
to see her break a girl's clavicle with her elbow. The match in question 
was against this wispy redheaded light-light heavy who looked like she 
had to bulk up to make the weight. She was tall, lanky and not the least 
bit strong looking, though she had a whipcrackin' jab. She actually won 
the first round with her cool jab, then in the second she got hit hard 
in the belly, doubled forward a bit and Carmen brought down this right 
elbow on her like she was slamming a garage door. It was a weird moment, 
caught in semicloseup by a perfectly positioned camera. The poor girl's 
face was twisted in pain and confusion, her head angled to the side, one 
shoulder up, the other, the caved-in one, down, her gloves too low. Then 
Carmelita left-hooked her right to the canvas and that was the end of 
that. They took her out on a stretcher. Another of Carmen's taped LH 
KO's was a straight-on right elbow smash to the face that utterly 
flattened this ugly black chick's frequently broken nose. Carmelita 
likes to eat with her elbows on the table. 

 But never mind that. We wanted to see her go four rounds with Bovee. 
For some reason neither of us had been present at this fight, though 
we'd known about it and read about it in the Ranger later on. Anyway, it 
was an impressive showing. Up until she got tagged with a big right 
about halfway through the fourth, Carmen had bobbed, weaved, jabbed and 
kicked her way through about 10 and a half minutes of hulking Bovee 
assaults to emerge virtually unscathed. She'd even won round 2 on all 
cards and drew round 3 on two of them. She was in excellent condition; 
kept in constant motion, making a very hard target, kept Bovee off 
balance with crisp jabs and kicks with both legs, and was strong enough 
to hold her own in the occasional clinches. 

 Unfortunately, halfway through the fourth, she misbobbed and ran into a 
looping right that wobbled her. A body flurry backed her into a corner 
where a left hook piled her on the mat. She was up in six and tried to 
cover up under a vicious head and body onslaught that drove her into 
another corner, but Bovee got a slashing right in that dropped her 
again. She was up again in six, the round was running down fast but she 
looked dazed and hadn't the strength to throw anything. She covered up 
OK, but Bovee dropped her gloves with a wicked body combo, then went 
upstairs and pitched her over on her head with a right to the jaw. Bing. 
Just missed getting saved by the bell. 

 The third knockdown ended the fight right there on a TKO under these 
wussy New Hampshire rules. Didn't matter if she got up before a ten 
count, which she did. The fight was over. Bovee was gracious in her 
praise in a post fight interview that's on the tape. Called Carmen the 
toughest ``light'' heavyweight she'd ever run across or was ever likely 
to, a highly skilled fighter with great conditioning, but she's a 
natural LH and should go back down and fight Tina Chen again for the 
title. Which Carmen is reluctant to do, which leads me to a description 
of the Chen-Santos LH title fight. 

 Tina Chen, 5-7, 164, built much like Santos, well-muscled, goodlooking, 
handsome face, skilled fighter, good hands and feet, good speed, a lot 
of technique, great conditioning and so on. The big diff is she's a 
southpaw, and the reverse stance gave Santos one big headache. She 
couldn't adjust to it at all, was jabbed incessantly, kept off balance 
with lead kicks and lost the first three rounds on all cards. In round 4 
she took more risks and started kicking more herself and fell victim to 
a spinning backfist that put her down for a few seconds. Nothing much 
else happened but she'd now lost four in a row. Round 5 was the same 
story. She was being outjabbed, couldn't find a groove, tried to clinch 
and work inside, tried to get a knee in, was instead uppercut to a state 
of advanced wobblage. Didn't go down, held on, covered up and got 
through the round, now down 5-0. 

 Came charging out for 6 and landed a good right, her best punch of the 
fight, but Chen wasn't that stunned, covered up nicely and then 
countered a body attack with a good right of her own. Again Carmen tried 
to get in with a knee and Chen worked another piece of advanced 
technique on her, a spinning elbow to the temple that dropped her like a 
log. She was up on eight but could marshal nothing martial after that 
and spent the rest of the fight dodging kicks and jabs. 

 So there it was: Unanimous decision, two knockdowns, and head-ringing 
near-concussions from the backfist and the elbow. Otherwise her face was 
just a little swollen around the brows, not too bad, no blood anywhere. 
But it was a totally frustrating defeat and Carmen isn't ready to try 
her hand at this talented southpaw again. Who can blame her? Chen would 
be a bitch to fight as a righty; as a lefty, she's murder. 

So Wylie is training hard for Santos. She's down to a well-honed 199, 22 
pounds more than Santos, and though Carmen is surely faster, Wylie 
surely hits harder. Just this morning I had the perverse pleasure of 
getting in the ring with Wylie while wearing the focus mitts and the 
body armor. I do this occasionally. Feeling her slam those fists into 
you is weird in the extreme. It hurts just enough to have a strange 
masochistic edge to it that kind of embarrasses me, but after getting 
pummeled up and down the torso several times, when I got out of that 
ring and took all the padding off, and all my clothes off, I was 
trembling with desire. Desire for Wylie. 

 She was sweaty and hard-breathing in the locker room as she de-gloved 
and I gently pulled her soaked gray workout tee over her head, drank in 
the dizzying volume of her bra-bound breasts for a moment, then unhooked 
the fighting harness and watched the dewy honeys spill free. The air 
went bakery fresh as those thick nipples swirled up with the springy 
delicacy of pastry puffs, and I leaned in to chew one with the earnest 
deliberation of a baby. Wylie moaned and cradled my head, rocking my 
face against her chest. We went back into the shower stall, still locked 
in a deepsuck, and I popped my face off her boob long enough to pull her 
shorts over the round hills of her ass (her training has firmed her 
cheeks up nice!), followed by her hard clingy cunt cup, from which I 
inhaled the rank, dank and frankly stimulating scent, a stinky tincture 
of delight. I went back to teat teething, frigging her with my right 
hand now, and in no time she started peeing on my hand and arm, warm, 
rich fragrant juice, all part of our ritual, as I thumbed her gibbous 
clit. After some more sucking, I went down on my knees and ate her 
pisswet patch for a few minutes till she grabbed my head with both 
hands, started grinding her broad hips into my face, then came like a 
bitch, her big thighs tightening so hard I thought she'd rip a tendon. 

 Now it's my turn. Wylie straps on a dildo, a big thick flesh-colored 
latex beauty that's about the size of you, dearest daddy, and takes me 
doggie style as I bend over a bench. I'm quite moist, lip-smackingly 
lubed, in fact,  and she slips her sizy stick in like a charm. Wylie 
really knows how to hip thrust, and I get a damn good fucking, she's 
pounding my cervix, and I frig myself and suck my own tits while she 
pumps me up. I spend in about five minutes, my legs locked out and 
spread, standing high on the balls of my feet, a wrenching come that 
makes my calves and thigh biceps knot up like twisted tree roots. I turn 
around and kiss her full on the mouth and she tells me she loves me and 
she means it, and I tell her I love her too and I mean it. Wylie and I 
have a damn good relationship. 

 So now it's the Wylie-Santos fight. We've kidded Wylie about 
consistency, which would dictate she get her nose bloodied for the third 
time in a row, but this is really not a joking matter. Santos, in 
lavender tights, looks good enough to eat, every inch of her buffed 
essence reflecting the bright lights in a prism of lust. I mean, this 
girl's a looker. She came in at 179 and I have no reason to believe the 
extra two pounds aren't sheer muscle. You almost never see washboard abs 
in heavyweight Tough Gal, but there they are on Santos, rippling with 
every breath. Shit. Even Wylie, not exactly an aesthete, is transported 
by her beauty. 

"It's a shame I'm gonna have to punch that pretty face in," she says. 

 I try not to be a sentimentalist. "Break her fuckin' jaw, her nose and 
her skull," I suggest with venomous near sincerity. "It's the price she 
pays for tangling with Wylie." 

 Wylie likes this sentiment, and hurls her well-conditioned 199 pounds 
at Santos at the opening bell and is instantly jabbed so hard in the 
face, I'd have to call it a KO-quality straight left. Bing! Her nose is 
bleeding. We're stunned. It's ten seconds into the first round! Well, 
Wylie doesn't lose her head, though her head is losing blood; she keeps 
her cool, circles and jabs, her jab is singing. She fakes a foot now and 
again and keeps Santos at bay. Late in the round Santos unloads a 
spinning backfist that misses Wylie's jaw by an inch, and Wylie, with 
amazing speed for her size, puts a left hook on Santos' jaw that almost 
knocks the latin spitfire on her ass. Wylie moves in for the kill and 
lands a good right to the body. Santos is backed into a corner, first 
covering up then trying to hold on. Wylie just muscles her off before 
the ref can intervene and catches Santos with a beauty of a right to the 
side of the head that rocks her good. A left to the body is setting up a 
killer right--when the bell rings. 

 Never mind, Wylie clearly took that round there in the last 30 seconds. 
She comes back to the corner looking satisfied, not winded. We plug up 
her nose for a change and wipe down her chin and neck. 

"Keep up the good work," I say. "Circle and jab, cut the ring down on 
her and go to the body in the corner. You're strong enough to fight off 
her clinches and work her good inside." 

 For some reason, Santos decides to try a kick strategy in round 2. She 
keeps throwing foot jabs--she's a pretty good kicker--mixed up with foot 
fakes and lunging rights. None of this really accomplishes much except 
to tire her. I'm sending mind signals to Wylie to grab the leg, when 
Santos tries some more fancy technique: a spinning backkick that whizzes 
over Wylie's bobbing head and leaves Santos off balance and vulnerable. 
Wylie moves in and pounds a short right to Carmelita's tit, setting up a 
left hook, when Carmen, who's very fast, you understand, makes an 
instant recovery and snaps an uppercut elbow into Wylie's face, 
undamming her nose. 

 Beware the Santos elbows, as we know only too well from that wicked 
footage of her cleaving that poor chick's clavicle. Santos follows the 
elbow with a smokin' front kick to Wylie's plexus that clearly hurts 
her, then, zoom, more technique, another backfist and, baby, this one 
lands full on Wylie's cheek, snaps her head to the side like a sniper's 
bullet and sends a spray of blood from her nose that's framed in the 
light against the crowd like kinetic art. She kicks Wylie in the tit 
coming right off this, a left hook hits glove and Wylie is clearly dazed 
as a right brushes her jaw. Wylie backs and covers, bobbing wildly, her 
mouth and chin dripping with nose blood, and Carmen starts pom-pomming 
to the body to the roars of the crowd, which had the temerity to make 
her a slight favorite. 

 The girl's got lightning fast fists, but, as I suspected, the pom-pom 
was a setup for a right elbow lunge to the mouth that thank God Wylie 
took on her forearm, but the agile left was right there to the tit, then 
Carmen leaps on the wounded Wylie and goes for the knee. Wylie has good 
knee defense technique, we've practiced it long and hard, but I regret 
to say at least one of those osseous arrivals got past her gloves to 
fatten her lips and further fuzz her brain. Carmen is driven back out of 
the corner by Wylie's driving knee D and Wylie is clinching her up in 
such a way that she can't throw any more leg, so she pounds Wylie's ribs 
with two rights that look and sound like they could be bone breakers. 

 Wylie is wincing in pain; this round isn't working out too well at all. 
Santos is trying to shake off another Wylie clinch, practically thumbing 
Wylie's face, when Wylie, in an unexpected burst of energy, no doubt the 
adrenaline rush of the desperate, grabs Carmen's head and tries to drive 
a knee. Carmen manages to twist her head in such a way that she gets the 
knee, which got through her gloves, on the ear, but Wylie has lost her 
grip and Carmen bobs down and away from Wylie and is spinning again, 
whipping herself around with another backfist that glances off Wylie's 
chin. 

 But as usual, the crafty Carmen is there with multiple technique. A 
right foot to the belly scores; she drives with a right elbow smash that 
hits gloves but follows skillfully with a nasty left to the ribs and a 
ripping right uppercut that blasts Wylie's jaw, and my first reaction 
is, That's it, my poor baby's been KO'd. I am frankly amazed to see her 
still on her feet after this blow, though she is clearly wobbly. Carmen 
pounces on her and drives a knee into her tit, but she can't get my 
girl's head down and she gets all clinched up. The ref pulls them apart, 
and thank God the bell rings and Wylie is still standing. 

 She practically staggers to the stool as we survey the damage. The nose 
is running red, the lips are Ubangi banged all out of shape and the 
cheek and eye are puffy and purpled from that backfist. I check for rib 
damage, but she seems OK. 

"She's faster than a hummingbird," Wylie complains. 

"And she's got about as much power," I say encouragingly. "She put a 
right uppercut on your jaw that should've KO'd you and you didn't even 
go down." 

"If she doesn't have the power, why does my chest feel like I've been 
hit by a car?" 

"Get out there and jab," I command, "and watch for elbows and backfists. 
She's trying too much fancy technique. You just have to counter it, 
that's all." I try to sound upbeat. We replug her nose, wipe her off and 
send her out for God knows what. I have a bad feeling about the fight, 
'cause Santos is just too fast and her technique is too assured. Maybe 
the savvy fight crowd knows something I don't. Even if she doesn't have 
the power to KO Wylie, she can just beat the shit out of her for six 
rounds. 

 So here's 3. Wylie moves and jabs, Santos is again throwing leg probes. 
She follows a leg fake with a lunging right that Wylie slashes and my 
girl clinches her hard and drives her back, clawing at her head for the 
knee. Santos tries to wiggle out, her fists playing a Sousa march on 
Wylie's kidneys, when Wylie slips in a right uppercut that jerks 
Carmen's head up, and get this, Wylie follows fast with a perfect right 
elbow swipe full in Carmen's eye, then a left hook to the tit, and she 
pounces on her for the knee, starts pumping it like a scum majorette and 
Carmen is getting hit, her gloves aren't set properly. Then she hides 
her head on Wylie's side, she's got Wylie around the waist and my biker 
babe drops an elbow smash on Carmen's back that could snap a normal 
girl's spine. 

 I sense victory, snatched, as it were, from the elbow of defeat, and 
Carmen has dropped to her knees, causing the ref to step in and shoo 
Wylie away for a count. Carmen looks glum and numb and her mouth is 
bleeding. She paws at the trickle of blood on her chin and lurches to 
her feet on six. There's still half a round left and Wylie is impatient 
to get on with it. She smells blood. Carmen's left eye is closing fast 
and she backpedals as Wylie charges, then, to my amazement, digs in her 
heels and launches a right elbow strike as Wylie leans in for a right to 
the body. The elbow catches Wylie on the forehead but doesn't stop her 
or even slow her down. It must've glanced more than it looked. 

 She throws the right to the tit and combos it with a left to the other 
tit, which lands hard and on target, but a grimacing Carmen keeps 
fighting through her pain. She snaps a left elbow that doesn't cover 
enough distance, which leaves her body open for another right, and Wylie 
delivers it. This is a very hard body punch; the wind has gone out of 
Carmen's sails and there's still plenty of time to put her away. But 
Wylie can't. Carmen dances a retreating rhumba, Wylie pursues, but 
Carmen is a ringwise wench--she bobs, weaves, clinches and fox trots 
expertly, throwing practically nothing, and she gets out of the round 
without further damage. 

 Damn. Well, anyway, Wylie's up 2-1 in rounds now and Carmen has a 
slitted eye, a bloodied mouth, a bruised back and a knockdown to deal 
with. She knows she's in a fight. Wylie comes out for 4 with a renewed 
confidence that you can see in her stinging jab. Carmen's having trouble 
seeing out of her left eye, which makes the jab all the more effective. 
Carmen's jab, meanwhile, is not getting in. Wylie even slash blocks one 
and throws a tit kick off of it that makes Carmen backpedal in pain. 
Then she does something really weird. She goes southpaw. Maybe it's the 
eye. Maybe it's that the jab isn't working anyway. Maybe it's a memory 
of Tina Chen. But there she is in a reverse stance, throwing lead 
rights, one or two of which connect, and I'm wondering what Wylie will 
do. 

 I don't have to wonder long. There's a clinch, a wrestle, another Wylie 
attempt at a knee, which Carmen slips out of, but as she bobs loose she 
gets caught with a right to her bad eye and she goes down. Was it a slip 
or was the punch that hard? The ref calls it a knockdown and starts 
counting. Carmen is up on five, breathing hard and looking so batteredly 
beautiful I want to slip a hand in my pants. There's a minute left to 
the round, and as they come together she tries technique from a southpaw 
stance--a right hand spinning backfist--but Wylie has it all the way, 
slashes it, jerks Carmen uncertainly to her toes with a left to the 
armpit and bashes her nose with a straight right. Carmen is backpedaling 
to a corner looking dazed again and Wylie charges in on her, faking a 
right, throwing a left to the tit, and Carmen's nose is bleeding as she 
tries to pom-pom her way out of the corner--a pulse-pounding adrenal 
rush, clearly--but Wylie catches her with a feet-planted right to the 
side of the head and Carmen drops in the tracks of her glandular rush. 

 There's about 30 seconds left in the round, and that three-knockdown 
rule that Bovee won on is looming as large as my Wylie's bustline. 
Carmen is up on eight and she looks winded and woozy. Wylie charges in 
again behind a right front kick that Carmen just barely fends off with 
her gloves and you can bet there's a fist behind that--a looping left 
that connects with Carmen's head, which sets her up for a right elbow--
yes, an elbow--between the eyes, delivered with such force that it's 
clear to me instantly that it's over, we've won. 

 Not only has Carmen dropped for the third knockdown to put her away, 
but she's stone unconscious from the blow, and won't be revived for the 
better part of a minute. Well, shiver me timbers. Carmen goes down on 
three knockdowns in the fourth, just like with Bovee, only here she's 
sent packin' with a fitting elbow, a bitter taste of her own medicine 
indeed that leaves her eyes filmy with blood. And there's Wylie again 
making big arms to the crowd, again looking a mess with her flattened 
nose, misshapen cheek and fat lips. But Carmen's pretty face is worse, 
with her now closed eye and her own smashed nose and enlarged kisser. As 
for the Bovee comparison, though Wylie had been damaged by Carmen, which 
Bovee hadn't been, Carmen has also been far more damaged by Wylie than 
by Bovee and has been authentically KO'd, not just put down three times. 

 What I'm getting at is Wylie felt she was ready for Bovee--more than 
that projected six months has elapsed at this point, you know--but as it 
turns out, Bovee isn't ready for Wylie. The word is: "You've got to get 
past Rayleeta to get to me. I beat the big black brute, now *you* beat 
her." This would take some thinking about, lemme tell you. 

So Wylie is itching for Bovee, but gigantic Rayleeta stands in the way. 
We check with Ray first thing to see if she's up for Wylie and dammit, 
she sure is. We're on the lakefront at the Ponder-Oh-So, as our beloved 
property has been intellectualized even by biker ilk, who are always 
thoughful here, which is to say they won't fart in your face when you're 
eating them doggie style. Wylie is sitting in a beach chair, practically 
caving it in, wearing denim cutoffs and shades. That's it. She's in the 
shade, gloriously topless, her immense boobage resting on a rounded gut 
that is considerably firmer and harder than it was before all this tough 
gal business started, her navel gaping like a stunned cyclops. This is 
just a few days after the Santos fight. Wylie's lips and nose aren't 
really swollen anymore, but there are still some greeny-purplish bruises 
on her tits and ribs. she's smoking a 'Boro Light and drinking a Heini--
her cig intake has gone down from about a pack a day to under half a 
pack, by the way--and waxing philosophical about the latest fight news. 

 The story is this: Dot Grisham desperately wants a rematch with Wylie. 
It's a personal thing, we presume, she wants to rip my girl's face off, 
and she's prepared to do just about anything to get that fight. She's 
made a strange offer: she will fight Rayleeta in a four-rounder, and if 
she goes the distance, win or lose, Wylie must fight her next, within 
four weeks. If she doesn't go the distance, all bets are off. Wylie's 
not inclined to take the offer. What's the point, after all, except the 
possible pleasure of watching Ray beat the crap out of Dot? The only 
other possible advantage is that somehow Dot would injure Ray in a 
permanent enough way to make a fight with her impossible, thereby 
allowing Wylie to go directly to Bovee. By New Hampshire fight rules, if 
Ray is incapacitated for any length of time, Bovee  has to defend her 
title against a worthy challenger, which Wylie certainly is at this 
stage. As Wylie sees it, she has little or nothing to gain, unless Ray 
is trashed, which is rather unlikely. 

 "I don't wanna fight Dot again," she complains. "I fought her, I beat 
her, that's the end of it. Time to move on. And Ray's ridiculous, she's 
too big, she should be in a different weight class. I wanna test my 
talents against Bovee, and that's all there is to it." 

 Deena and I can't disagree, so, over a bong of Tulsa tops, we agree to 
turn down Dot's offer. I'm sitting in the sand bareassed, the warm 
granules tickling my crack delightfully, buzzed out of my mind on this 
homegrown shit, which has gotten better with each batch Wylie gets. 
"There's only one thing to do, Wy," I manage to say with some coherence. 
"You've gotta fight Ray and beat Ray. Bovee did it. If you're as good as 
Bovee--or better--you'll have to do it too." 

 Deena, topless, nods from her cross-legged position on the sand, then 
looks downward with stoned fascination to watch a large bead of sweat 
traverse the steep valley between her giant Coppertone-slick breasts. 

"I'm afraid you're right," agrees a resigned Wylie. "Let's set up the 
Rayleeta fight. I'll just have to jab the shit out of her. Even if I 
can't put her down, I can take her on a decision." 

"That's the spirit, big girl!" I spout in my best voluptuous den mother 
style. 

So the date is made. Ray comes in at 240; don't ask where she lost the 
two pounds, I can't see their absence anywhere. Maybe she crapped just 
before the weigh-in. Wylie, who has been training like a demon, 
expecting to have to go six hard rounds with this monster, is a 
relatively buffed 196. The plan is to stick and move, don't clinch, 
forget about using the knee, and maybe try some fancy spinning technique 
when the opportunity presents itself. 

Well, this won't take long to run down, 'cause a truly remarkable thing 
happened. After a minute and a half of good jabbing from both girls, Ray 
drives Wylie toward a corner and clinches her, looking to use the knee. 
Wylie will have none of it and is plenty strong enough to have her way, 
and after they're separated, with Wylie still in the corner, Ray loops a 
right that's off the mark and stupidly leans forward to follow up the 
punch, bringing her left down. Wylie counters expertly with a right 
cross, her hips set and swiveled, all her weight behind it, and she hits 
Ray so hard in the cheekbone it sounds like a bag of wet cement being 
dropped off a roof. Ray's knees buckle, she looks dumbfounded, like she 
doesn't know who, where or what she is. 

 Her right hand drops and Wylie hits her with a left hook, again hips 
set and swiveled, 196 pounds of power behind the blow, and Ray stumbles 
back like a wounded elephant and falls to her knees. She staggers back 
to her feet on five, amazingly, and for some idiotic reason attempts to 
attack. She paws a confused jab at Wylie, who counters textbookishly 
with a right hook over the outstretched arm that pounds Ray's eye and 
makes her head jerk. What follows is a series of uppercuts to the jaw 
and chin, a flurry that's hard to follow with my elated eye, but I 
clearly see Ray's head snapping back three or four times like she's a 
madly pecking experimental growth chicken. 

 While Wylie is still pumping punches, Ray is collapsing onto all fours, 
and Wylie finally backs off, the ref pulling on her arm, quashing the 
urge to hit Ray while she's down. So there's Ray, a very large 
quadruped, looking as dim as a triceratops, getting counted out. She 
makes some kind of primal effort to regain her feet; her body shivers 
and jerks, her head cranes upwards like a turtle taking the sun. But she 
never makes it. Wylie has KO'd the behemoth at 2:48 of the first round. 
To say we're ecstatic would be the understatement of the year. Deena 
actually lifts the triumphant Wylie and carries her around the ring on 
her shoulder, which is almost as impressive as lifting the whole fucking 
dock. Brenda Bovee, here we come! 

But first a digression of some significance: Gina. Nutro-Gina. 150 
pounds of lapidary perfection, who I took under my other gorgeously 
feathered wing and primed to take the upcoming New Hampshire Iron Miss, 
where she'd be competing as a heavyweight. No need for this chick to 
diet, she lives at contest weight, some kind of metabolic anomaly. All I 
did was work out with her three times a week at the Ponder-Oh-So, and 
give her posing tips. Well, I gave her more than posing tips, I 
videotaped her routine time and again until she had it down to my 
satisfaction. 

 The Miss, which was held right here in town at Fistic State U., turned 
out to be two weeks before Wylie was skedded to take on Bovee, so I had 
my hands full as trainer/mentor, but I'm good at this sort of nurturing 
thing. At the contest, I had every confidence Gina and her big cups 
would walk out with the big cup. The judges have a rep for looking for 
symmetry, polish and good looks, which is exactly what Gina is all 
about. Not to mention her excellent, fluid, graceful yet very hardcore 
posing (just like mine!). Anyway, Gina wiped the floor with the other 
girls, who, admittedly, were not that imposing a posing lot, and she had 
the crowd hooting and hollering with lust. 

 We all went out that night to the Royal Carpet in Billington where a 
local biker chick gang called the Womads was in attendance. Gina is 
doing her usual two-piece bare-bellied number with the halt-who-goes-
there! halter, spraypainted jeans and red leather fuck-my-ass spike 
heels. She looks good enough to eat, then regurgitate and eat again, her 
chiseled abs in snaky coils, her nipples thrusting obscenely, the bumpy 
Braille of her areolae reading "Place mouth here," her big arms primed 
like dynamite caps. She looks so good, in fact, she attracts the 
particularly advanced attentions of a Womad leader by the name of Cheryl 
Calhoun, known as Beaver Breath: a large, loud, tattooed brunette, not 
unattractive, really, in her early 30s, who insists upon coming over to 
our table and buying beers for Gina. She'd been at the contest, she 
says, and when Gina was onstage she frigged herself so vigorously she 
not only came, she peed herself. I think she's serious, this is no 
exaggeration; her crusty Levi's have a slightly pissy odor about them. 

 Anyway, Wylie eventually tells her to fuck off when Beaver Breath tries 
to arrange a date with Gina. I can see what's coming--a parking lot 
party, so to speak--and I take Wylie aside and expressly forbid her from 
getting involved in any fisticuffs. She has Bovee on tap in two weeks 
and there is absolutely no way we are gonna endanger this. She agrees, 
and asks how we're gonna handle Beaver Breath. 

 The answer is simple: we leave. There's nothing so royal about the 
Carpet, we only went there 'cause they had a two-for-one beer deal. Time 
to head back to the ranch and hit the hay, along with the thatch. OK, 
fine. Just one problem: Beaver Breath, who is kind of drunk by this 
time, won't let us go peaceably. As Gina gets up to leave, she grabs the 
bronze beauty and starts to tongue kiss her while holding her in a bear 
hug. BB, by the way, is six feet tall, goes about 210. Lot of fat, lot 
of muscle, don't know how strong she is but certainly stronger than 
Gina. Well, Deena steps in before Wylie can react, takes BB off of Gina 
with a choke hold, turns it into a sleeper, and a bunch of Womads leap 
up from a table across the way and come charging at sweet Dee. This 
sends Wylie into action--there really isn't any alternative at this 
point--and she puts down three Womads with some punch-kick combos, just 
ripping through them like Angela Mao in some chop socky film. 

 Well, I finally get to throw my own fist in anger. One of the Womads 
who avoids Wylie, a girl about 160 pounds, I'd say, almost my height, is 
about to run by me to get to Deena; I hit her with a right cross and she 
drops so fast she might as well have been clotheslined by an all-pro 
middle linebacker. Two other Womads beat a fast retreat as Deena lifts 
the subdued BB onto her shoulder and hurls her onto a table, which 
collapses, just like in a Western. Well, now it's our turn to beat a 
fast retreat; we pile into the Jeep, which is conveniently parked in 
front of the bar, and we take off. They don't pursue, and that seems to 
be the end of that. 

 We go home and party up a storm. The next day, as Gina is leaving her 
Lucille Roberts gig, in the shopping center parking lot at about 6 p.m., 
a white van pulls up to her, four "grungy" chicks, as they were later 
described, leap out and grab her, hurl her in and speed off. That was 
it. She was kidnapped. We have the description of the van and the girls 
from two eyewitnesses in the parking lot who saw Gina's forcible removal 
and promptly notified mall security. Dirtyish white van, Ford Econoline 
type, some graffiti on the side, the usual illegible ghetto scrawl. 

 Wylie gets wind of the situation when the Lucille Roberts manager calls 
to break the weird news. When the manager informs Wylie that the perps 
are described as grungy biker-type chicks in cutoff denim jackets, Wylie 
instantly knows what the deal is and she speeds over to the Ponder-Oh-
So. The police have been duly informed of the scene by mall security, 
but they are too late to catch up to Wylie, who's now with me. I'll have 
to admit I was quite alarmed at the thought of Beaver Breath holding 
Gina as her personal sex slave at the Womad clubhouse, though it also 
has its titillating side, but I'm intent on not getting Wylie involved 
in her recovery. The Bovee fight looms. 

 So we talk it over with Deena and decide we'll have to pay a surprise 
visit to Womad HQ, backed by at least a half dozen of the best and 
biggest Dunham Dolls--and Wylie isn't coming. So we assemble our forces-
-me, Deena and six sturdy, streetwise Dolls, all of whom are prepared to 
bleed for Gina. We drive over to Billington in my Jeep and one of the 
girl's Broncos, stop well short of the Womad nest, which is in an 
industrial section on the outskirts of town, deserted after dark. The HQ 
itself is an old, partly corroded, abandoned corrugated tin structure 
with large dirty windows, good security lighting out front. We approach 
stealthily on foot and immediately have second thoughts. There are fully 
a dozen motorcycles parked outside, as well as two pickups, a Jeep and a 
van--an old blue VW van, not at all the van in question. 

 "There could be more than 20 girls in there," Deena says. "We could 
barge in and get ripped to shreds. Furthermore, I don't think Gina's in 
there. If this Beaver chick really took Gina, she couldn't possibly be 
so stupid as to keep her right here in her hangout. She'd have her 
somewhere in secret and I doubt all the other Womads would know about it 
either. Maybe just her closest associates." 

 "So you're saying there's no point in going in?" I ask hopefully. The 
thought of getting booted around like a soccer ball by a biker gang is 
not sitting pretty with me. "Should we just hide out here and observe 
who comes and goes?" 

"I think you and I should go in by ourselves and make polite inquiries. 
See what we can find out without starting any trouble." 

 Oh. Just then, who comes roaring down the road to Womad Central but 
Beaver Breath herself, sitting erect on a big Harley, which she skids to 
a very cool stop right in front of the door. She has no helmet on and is 
immediately distinguishable by her crazy mane of frizzy dark brown hair. 

 "Goddammit, that's her!" I hiss. Deena, who is clearly in charge of the 
Gina rescue program, takes action, bursting out from our cover behind a 
partially crumbled cement shack, to yell, "Hey, Beaver Breath!" 

 BB turns, looking wary and ready for action. I trot after Deena, while 
the rest of our girls stay in hiding. 

 "Oh, if it isn't my friend the strangler," spits BB. "What brings you 
way out here? You wanna strangle me again?" 

"Not at all. We've got a problem I expect you'll be interested in. At 
least I hope you'll be." 

"And what might that be?" 

 "The girl you were so hot on last night, Gina--you remember her, don't 
you?" 

"How could I forget her? She's sweeter than a honey douche." 

"Well, she's been grabbed by some people and she's missing." 

"What? Are you fucking with me?" BB sounds sincere. If she's acting, 
she's a damn good actress. 

 "No, I'm not. At about 6 tonight, in the parking lot at the Fistoshop 
mall, as she was leaving Lucille Roberts--she works there--she was taken 
by force by about four chicks wearing jeans and cutoff denim jackets. No 
colors, though, as you'd expect. There were two witnesses who gave 
accounts to mall security. Gina was thrown in the back of a white van 
with some black spraypainted graffiti on the side and that's the last we 
heard of her." 

"Fuck. You didn't get a ransom note, a phone call or anything?" 

"No. Not yet, at least." 

"You can't be here 'cause you need Womad help. You've got all the Dolls 
you can want. So you're here because you think it was *my* girls who 
took her? Come on. I was horny last night, and she's a real piece. But 
kidnapping? I don't think so. I mean, I can be weird at times, but I'm 
not a nutcase, you know?" Again, BB sounds real sincere. Frankly, I 
believe her right off the bat. 

"Well, can we come in then, and talk this over?" Deena asks. 

"What's to talk over? I swear, we had nothing to do with this, 
absolutely nothing." 

 "I believe you. That's not it. I need your help to get her back. You've 
got a lot of clout, a lot of resources. Much more than the Dolls. We 
need that now." 

 BB frowns. "All right, come on in." As the door opens, a throb of Seven 
Year Bitch  blasts us in the face, along with the powerful sweet-sour 
aroma of beer, cigarettes and never-change-your-undies chick sweat. BB 
marches over to the stereo and turns it down, as a few tables of Womads 
glare at us over their beers. "Listen up, babes, I've got an 
announcement to make. These chicks--most of you met them last night, 
actually--have come to us with a weird story and a plea for assistance. 
They say the groovy builder chick I was after last night was--get a load 
of this-- kidnapped a few hours ago from the mall parking lot in Fist by 
a bunch of biker chicks in a white van. They naturally considered me a 
likely suspect, but now that they know I had nothing to do with it, they 
want our help to find the real culprits." 

 "If she was kidnapped, you'll get a ransom note, wontcha?" asks a 
skeevy fat girl with buck teeth. 

"Maybe," says Deena, "but we were hoping we wouldn't have to even wait 
for that. Maybe someone here knows some chicks who are likely to do this 
kind of thing? Another gang? Something like that?" 

"The Dolls," someone in the back jokes, and everyone giggles. Then they 
all shake their heads, at a loss to provide any help and eager to get 
back to their beer and music. I scan the place nervously with darting 
eyes, trying to look relaxed, on the eyeball for other rooms, trap 
doors, whatever, I'm getting real paranoid. I see nothing, it all seems 
one big central space, 'cept for a door way off at the far end. 

 "Look," says BB, "if we have anything, we'll call you." She grabs a pen 
and paper off a counter and tells Deena to write down our number. "And 
we'll keep our eyes open." 

 Deena leaves the number, we mutter our thanks and are about to be 
ushered out when, suddenly possessed of an idiot's surge of courage,  I 
ask if I can use the bathroom. BB says sure, and points to that door at 
the far end. I walk over and get a whistle from someone at a table and I 
hear some mumbling about "Miss Iron Miss" and such. Behind the door is a 
long corridor with several doors; the bathroom is on the right, door 
open, unoccupied, not as raunchy as I expect it to be, and, indeed, just 
a bathroom. I don't really have to pee, so I just admire myself in the 
not that dirty mirror for a minute, then march out. To my shock and 
amazement, Deena and BB are locked in a passionate embrace, tongues 
engaged in glottal groping. They pop apart as I get close and Deena 
turns to me to explain that BB demanded a "taste" for her help. 

 Well, OK. As I think I mentioned before, BB's kinda cute, actually. So 
we leave. The Dolls are still waiting impatiently across the road. We 
fill them in, express our belief that BB had nothing to do with it and 
head back home for a pow-wow. Wylie, who's already put away at least a 
six of Heinis, is smoking nervously, horrified at our assertion that the 
Womads had nothing to do with it. I can't get this image out of my head 
of Gina in rigid cruciform splendor shackled to a wall in some dungeon-
like basement, one boob protruding obscenely from her ripped blouse, 
and, what's worse, the image is turning me on bigtime. Wylie is getting 
increasingly perturbed. 

 "If the Womads didn't do it," she sputters, "then who the fuck did?" 

 "Good question," I mutter. "Let's sit down and think for a minute who 
has it in for Gina." Then it hits me immediately, and it hits Deena at 
the same moment. "The contest!" I blurt. "That black girl was one 
fuckin' sore loser!" 

 "It's her!" Deena shouts. "Her name was Latoya! Latoya Williams, wasn't 
it?" 

"That's right," says Wylie. "Latoya Williams. She's got some fuckin' ego 
problem, just like Latoya Jackson. She actually had the fuckin' nerve to 
stand there on stage and say in a voice loud enough to be heard in the 
first few rows, `I should be winning this contest, this is fuckin' 
racist bullshit.' She shoulda been beaten to a pulp on the spot." 

 I haven't filled you in on the contest, I realize, O massive patriarch, 
but to make a long story short, there were five heavyweight finalists, 
and they stood on stage together to hear the order in which they were 
placed, after they were humbled by Gina in the posedown, and Williams 
was fifth, Gina first, of course. Williams was fuming from the moment 
her name was announced, and she clearly hated the four (white) girls who 
beat her out, and I guess she hated Gina most of all. 

We had some questions to answer immediately. Where did Williams live, 
where was she now? Some phone calls to the Fistic U. officials who run 
the show reveal she gave a Billington address, but calls to Billington 
did not turn up a Latoya Williams. We call BB to ask if she knows the 
chick from around town and where to find her. Yes, she knows her, she 
trains a lot at the local Fern's Fempower gym, and BB will try to track 
her down immediately. So far, so good. but actually this was far more 
sinister than the Womads taking Gina. 

This Latoya struck us at the contest as a psycho.I guess I ought to run 
her down for you. She wasn't in bad shape at all, but she was just a 
shadow compared to Gina. She's no more than 5-6, about 145, good muscle 
size but nothing outrageous, decently ripped, OK poser. She's not a bad 
looking girl, she's got a good cafe au lait color for muscle display, 
and she's got really close-shaved natural hair, almost an eight ball 
dome, which I found kinda sexy. But she got fifth and that's all there 
was to it. The fact that she actually thought she was going to finish 
ahead of Gina indicates she's unbalanced. 

Then we get a call from BB. Seems she has reliable info from neighbors 
that Latoya skipped town no more than two hours ago, heading north. What 
was she driving? Not a white Ford, but a blue Dodge Caravan. She seemed 
to be alone, which is to say no one was visible next to her in the front 
seat. The van emerged from a garage attached to the house proper, so 
anything could have been in the back. Well, that puts us in a fucking 
bind. If Latoya has been on the road north for two hours, we'll never 
catch her, even if we know where she's going, and we don't. Canada? 

 We have to call the police, give them the info on Latoya's van and see 
if they can latch onto it somewhere. So we do. I'm friendly with the one 
dyke on the Fist force, Hannah "She Always Gets Her Woman" Harrington, 
and I get her at home and fill her in. She'll put an APB on the car, and 
that's all we can do now. Wylie is a bundle of nerves on her ninth beer. 
I tell her to go watch some TV, do a bong and sit the fuck down. The 
Dolls go home, Deena is preparing the dope and we're gonna have to do 
some waiting. 

 Well, let's jump ahead to the next morning, 5 a.m. to be exact, and 
we're all asleep in various chairs and sofas. Deena and I got it on 
after the bong, Wylie just fell out in her TV chair. Well, the phone 
rings at 5 and as I jerk awake I think it's gotta be the cops with bad 
news. They found the van, Gina was in the back dead. Why else call at 5 
in the morning? Well, imagine my shock when it's Gina on the phone! 

 "Gina! Where the fuck are you!?" 

"Upstate. Near a town called White Pines." 

 "Are you OK?" 

"Not too bad. I'll be fine." 

 "Well, what happened to you?" 

 "I was grabbed by a gang of Portuguese dykes. Crackheads, real 
druggies." 

"Not Womads or some cycle group?" 

"Nah, they just have an old van." 

 "What'd they do to you?" 

"Sex shit. They dildo'd me a bunch of times, that's about it. They 
didn't really beat me up at all. They had me tied up, I couldn't really 
resist." 

 "Did they let you go?" 

"No, I escaped. You see, that's the thing, I may be in trouble with the 
cops over this." 

 "What do you mean?" 

 "I killed three of them. Two of them at least, I'm not sure if the 
third one died. Two others got away before I could get to them. They're 
on the loose somewhere. They've gotta be brought in, of course. But I 
could see where I could be brought up on charges for killing these 
bitches, it was, like, in cold blood. You know how sick this country 
is." 

"Don't worry about that now," I say, "I'll get you a great lawyer. Just 
make sure you don't say anything to anyone about this until you talk to 
your lawyer. Now just concentrate on getting back here safely and 
staying away from the other two. Why don't you stay put and we'll come 
get you. Where are you calling from, anyway?" 

 "Their place. It's just got the corpses in it now. I think I'm gonna 
have to call the cops now. I mean, it's the right thing to do. Legally. 
I've got two bloody stiffs here, I've gotta call them in. So the police 
will take me into custody. So drive on up here and head for the White 
Pines police station. OK?" 

 Lemme make a long, absolutely amazing story short but no less 
incredible for its brevity. Latoya didn't take Gina at all. She had 
nothing to do with it, nor did Beaver Breath. There are these five 
notorious Portuguese dykes,  live up in White Pines in this little 
tight-knit and impoverished Porto community, where they do a lot of 
drugs and get into a lot of trouble. Two are sisters, actually. They're 
all vicious, into petty thieving to support themselves, drug sales, what 
have you. They were downstate on a three-day booze and crack binge when 
they spotted Gina through the Lucille store window and were 
thunderstruck by her beauty. They didn't even know about the Iron Miss, 
though they all work out bigtime. They cased the place till she left and 
grabbed her. 

That's it. They didn't know her from a hole in the wall. They took her 
back up to White Pines, brought her into this out of the way farmhouse 
they own, tied her up and raped her with a big black dildo in between 
crack pipes. They just found it all very amusing, had no particular 
animosity toward Gina at all. They would have untied her in fact if she 
had been willing to freely participate in the fun, but she's too haughty 
for that sort of thing. They eventually came down off the binge, drank 
almost three bottles of vodka and all passed out. Gina hadn't been tied 
too well and was gradually working her hands loose. She got them loose 
some time after 4, and, interestingly, made no effort to just slip out 
and get away while they were all unconscious. She wanted blood for her 
trouble. 

 There was a large hunting knife on a table right near her--the 
Portudykes were armed only with knives, no guns--and Gina picked it up 
and immediately dispatched the two girls nearest to her in mere seconds 
with heart thrusts. A third scrambled away as Gina came after her and 
took what Gina thought was a deep lung wound in the back. While this one 
was running, wailing and bleeding, the other two, in nothing but 
panties, had the chance to barge out the back door before Gina could get 
to them and they just kept running (the wounded one had also scooted 
right off the property). 

 Gina took a couple minutes to calm down and put on some clothes, then 
called me. She then called the cops and sure enough they took her back 
to the station where Gina was smart enough to give absolutely no 
statement until her lawyer was present and started to investigate the 
scene. One thing Gina  pointed out to them was the videocamera, which 
had been running for most of the previous night. It seems their multiple 
dildo rapes of Gina were all on tape. More about that later. 

 In the meantime, the third dyke, the wounded one, commandeers a car and 
goes to the local hospital to be sewn up. She has no choice, she's 
bleeding to death. The hospital, of course, informs the police and she's 
neatly taken in. The other two are still missing. So we three scoot 
upstate in the Jeep as fast as we can. Wylie, who is high as a kite on 
love-pride and bloodlust, keeps asking me to recount the phone 
conversation. She's thrilled that Gina has killed two and wounded one, 
but she's bugged that two are still loose, and she only hopes she can 
get to them before the cops do. To telescope matters still further, 
after her lawyer arrives, it's clear that the police have no intention 
of charging Gina with anything. 

 Whether their viewing of the tape was the deciding factor, I don't 
know. Considering Gina's rep--she'd just won the Iron Miss the day 
before, after all--and the dykes' rep--they had a rap sheet of assorted 
misdemeanors and plea-bargained felonies even longer than your mighty 
prick, my great one, it seems unlikely they would've charged Gina with 
anything in any event. Now the big problem was the press. They'd be on 
this like flies on shit, as they say up in White Pines outhouse country. 
We whisk Gina into seclusion at the Ponder-Oh-So and arrange through the 
lawyer to get a copy of the videotape. We're all dying to see it, even 
Gina. 

 The other outstanding concern are the two on the loose, who could 
conceivably turn up downstate for revenge. They were apparently a very 
closeknit group. As for the one nabbed at the hospital, she's charged 
with rape and kidnapping and other assorted crimes based on violations 
found in the house, and Gina won't even have to testify, thanks to the 
tape. She'd just submit a sworn deposition. but it wouldn't come to 
that, our lawyer assured, because the girl's goose was clearly cooked 
and she'd plead guilty to lesser charges in the usual plea bargain 
manner and get something like 5 to 10 instead of 8 to 15. The lawyer 
seems to think she'd do five years, maybe more if she didn't behave 
herself. 

Gina doesn't seem the least bit traumatized by the whole thing, and is 
mainly concerned with Wylie's upcoming fight with Bovee. She agrees to 
take two weeks off from work and just stay at the Ponder-Oh-So pending 
the capture of the two dykes on the lam, who turn out to be the sisters, 
Paulina and Anna DaCosta by name. Big, earthy, dark and sensual  
Mediterranean sun-drenched types who have taken to the warmed over 
climate like fuckaducks to water, but, unfortunately, drugs or 
congenital defects have addled their brains. 


Excerpt from: Lisboa Constrictors: The Inside Story of the DaCosta 
Rampage. By Denise Massey. A Sinfully Sinew Bench Press Book. 

"This pickup is shit. It sucks. We gotta get a new car." 

 This is Anna talking, around her gum as usual. Always unsatisfied. 
Always wants something new, something else. She lights a Kool, goes good 
with the Trident, and keeps one squinting eye on the road while she 
snakes a finger up the tight leg of her sister's way-too-small track 
shorts--they're wearing other girls' clothes, and, as you might expect, 
those other girls aren't quite playing in the DaCostas' league--to see 
if her clam, as they call it, is wet. 

"Hey, your clam is wet," she says to Paulina, with a triumphant pop of 
her Trident combined with a smoky exhalation that turns into a giggle. 

"When isn't my clam wet?" asks Paulina reasonably. 

 "We oughta pull over so's I can do you up good," Anna suggests. 
Anything to take their minds off the shit they heard on the radio. 
Marita and Gloria are dead, Chi-Chi is in custody in the hospital. That 
bonito chick from Lucille Roberts turned out to be a mean motherfucker. 
They shoulda never forgot the handcuffs. You can't trust rope. 

"Fuck that," says her sister, "let's get a room. There's a cheap motel 
right there," as a Motel 6 slips inexpensively into view around a bend 
in the interstate. Anna swerves into the parking lot, seemingly forcing 
herself to decelerate, her face drooping into a malicious frown, and 
both girls' attention is instantly riveted by a black buffette who is 
unloading bags from the back of a Dodge Caravan. The chick is wearing a 
tank top and cutoffs--it's another globally warmed  hot one well north 
of Live Free or Die country--and her back and arms are rippling with 
cords of thick muscle that glitter with sweat in the bright summery sun. 

"Oh, my fuckin' God, will you look at the body on that motherfuckin' 
negra," Anna says to Paulina with hushed, breathy wonderment. 

 "Let's make this bitch," says Paulina, "she's salsa." 

Anna pulls up close, rolls down her window, and a backdraft of grilled 
air overwhelms the pickup's wheezing AC and pricks her cold neck like a 
pervert's fingers. She gets the girl's attention with a, "Hey, honey, 
are you a professional bodybuilder or what?" 

 Latoya Williams, still smarting from her fifth-place dusting in the 
Iron Miss, turns and looks up at Anna, her face an expressionless mask 
behind her shades. She's trying to figure if this is a legitimate come-
on or just another gawking civvie with stupid questions to spout, like, 
"I bet you take steroids to get like that, dontcha? They put hair on 
your nips?" She squints up at Anna and does some quick calculations: big 
Spanish type, maybe early 20s, pretty good face and hair, looks like a 
thick strong neck, seems to be another next to her just like her, could 
easily be her sister. Too bad I can't see more. They're not blondes, but 
they're sure bombshells. "Well, you don't get muscles like this from 
painting your fucking toenails," Latoya says, cracking a wan smile. 

 "Well, if you got any weights with you or stuff like that, we sure 
would like to borrow them, 'cause we been on the road a while now and 
we're not getting our usual workouts in, you know what I'm sayin'?" This 
is the other one, leaning across the driver's lap, their big tits 
mashing together--are they actually braless?--with that casual intimacy 
that immediately suggests these two may be more than good friends. 

"Yeah," adds the driver, "we need to pump some iron real bad, we're, 
like, losing our edge bein' on the road, you know what I'm sayin'? Hey, 
like, we could all work out together." 

"Well, why don't you girls get outta that pickup and show me what you 
got. Then we can talk about working out together. You damn fuckin' 
straight I'm a professional bodybuilder. And I just got my motherfuckin' 
butt reamed at the Iron Miss. I don't work out with just anybody, you 
know." 

 Anna parks the truck and they get out and stretch. They're both wearing 
t-shirts and track shorts and everything is uncomfortably, outrageously 
tight, since they're not their clothes, you understand, though they 
can't very well explain this to their new friend. They indeed are 
braless; the bras at the Lassiter house were just too small to clasp, 
though the Lassiter sisters are pretty big girls. They go close to 
Latoya, twin sets of nubile nipples straining to kiss the baked air, and 
Anna says, "Hi, I'm Anna, this my sister Paulina, and like, we're really 
glad to meet you." 

"Yeah," chips in Paulina with a leering grin, "you're, like, really put 
together. We never expected to find a girl who really knows how to pump 
up way out here almost in fucking Canada. Did you just say you were in 
the Iron Miss?" Anna and Paulina know about the Iron Miss now, since 
they heard on the radio that the girl they fucked just won it. 

"I'm Latoya," says the Iron Miss-misser, who is instantly inflamed by 
what she sees, and is more than grateful for the distraction--anything 
to take her mind off that motherfuckin' apartheid humiliation. The spano 
girls are hefty, strapping babes, like an easy 5-11--they're both 
barefoot!--200 apiece, and it's immediately apparent they have not only 
big tits but big asses and big arms, though how much definition they 
sport remains to be seen. Bulkwise, they seem to be pretty happenin'. 
"And, yeah, I was just in the Iron Miss. That's why I'm so ripped right 
now. But I got robbed at that motherfuckin' show and I'd rather not talk 
about it. So you girls work out?" 

 "Jesus fuck," says Paulina, in tones of mock-hurtfulness, "can't you 
tell? Do we look that bad? Do we look like we been doing nothin' but 
painting our fucking toenails?" She looks down at her naked pink-
polished tootsies and wiggles them, tightening her legs so her quads 
bulk up big and threaten to split her shorts.  Then she pulls the tight 
short sleeve up on her right arm, pulls it way up over her shoulder, 
stretching the material so much that you can hear threads popping, and 
pumps the arm experimentally a few times with her fingers extended, 
watching a big melon of muscle rise up. Then she makes a hard fist of 
the right hand and puts the raised bicep up under Latoya's eyes, as if 
it were on display in a dessert cart, some immense Napoleonic brown 
sugar treat. The arm is obviously in the 18-, 19-inch range, a softball-
sized delight. Latoya nods lazily, pretending to be underwhelmed, 
practically an involuntary gym and backstage reaction, part of the 
psych, but the thought running through her overheated mind is, These 
bitches are massive! 

 "Look, we may not be buffed like you," says Paulina, "but we do 
definitely have some real size. Show her yours, Anna." 

 Anna does the right arm pump and pose routine, and damned if she's not 
a cantaloupish carbon copy of her sultry sister. 

 "Oh, you girls have some size, all right," Latoya admits. "You lookin' 
damn good, as a matter of fact. Damn good." 

"And we also have some good shit to party with if you're into that after 
we work out," says Anna with a lascivious grin. "Or before we work out." 

"Or during the workout," adds Paulina with a laugh. 

 Latoya blinks nervously behind her shades and tries not to look at her 
bags. "Cool. OK, then. I've got dumbbells and plates with me, and a 
chinning bar too. Check in, why dontcha, and come and knock on my door, 
right here, room 19, I just checked in myself. We'll get to know each 
other." 

"Cool," says Anna waggling her Trident on the tip of her long thick 
tongue. 

Latoya enters room 19 and chooses, for the moment, till she checks out 
these girls, to leave one of her bags in the van--the bag with the two 
motherfuckin' keys of cocaine in it, enough to get her $40,000 or 20 
years in jail. Latoya wants the $40,000. She hasn't got the right 
temperament to work a 9 to 5 anymore, not even in a health club. She's 
an embittered African queen without a throne, as a former girlfriend 
once told her. She just wants to stay at home, train with her blonde and 
beautiful copacetic lover--as soon as she meets her blonde and beautiful 
copacetic lover--and win next year's motherfuckin' Iron Miss. 

She quickly unpacks, stashes her piece, a Smith & Wesson snub-nosed .38 
that she picked up a few weeks earlier for $400, in one of the dresser 
drawers under her sweats, lights a joint and turns on the TV. Jenny has 
teenage girls who go out with 50-year-old men on, and some of the chicks 
are real hot. She's getting stoned, completely wrapped up in the 
succulent beauty of this overdeveloped 15-year-old blonde nookie nymphet 
who's dating a 54-year-old auto salesman with grey tufts in his ears, 
when a big fist bangs on the door. 

"Oh, shit," Latoya mutters to herself, and reaches for the drawer with 
the gun, when she remembers that those hefty hot twins are coming over. 

"Who's there?" she yells. "It's Anna and Pauly," is the merry Iberian 
reply. "We're here to pump and party." 

 Latoya's dope-shot eyes light up at the thought of those big and bouncy 
girls on her bed. She whips the door open and they're framed in the 
afternoon glare, big as trees. They saunter in, plop their big straw 
bags on the bed and their big asses follow. 

"Glad you could make it," Latoya hisses while holding in a toke, and she 
hands the joint to the nearest one, Anna, it happens to be, though 
Latoya hasn't sorted them out yet. 

"Hey, cool, thanks," says Anna, who takes a hit and passes it to her 
sister. "That blonde is really built," Anna notes, nodding at the TV. 

Latoya smiles. They already have something in common. "Yeah, I've been 
really getting off on her. She's the type of chick I really dig." 

"She looks like we did a few years ago," says Paulina, standing up 
suddenly, taking another pull on the roach before handing it to Latoya. 

 "She's like us," says Anna, staring hard at the TV blonde, " 'cept she 
got no muscles yet. She needs to hit the iron in a big way, fill out 
that frame. Just like we did. Know what I'm sayin'?" 

"Yeah, fuckin' right," says Paulina. "What good's a body like that you 
don't build it? Hey, Latoya, where are your weights? I've gotta pump 
some shit." 

Paulina's clenching her fists, she looks hyper. Latoya guesses they 
snorted some lines before coming over. "All the shit is in that bag on 
the floor,'' says Latoya, and Paulina springs over and starts to slap 
plates on the bell handles. 

 Anna, in the meantime, has pulled a joint of her own out of her bag, 
and, running her tongue slowly along its length, says to Latoya, "Let's 
smoke some of mine. It's from Hawaii." 

 "Cool," says Latoya, who's already completely fucking stoned from her 
own joint, and is starting to feel bummed because Jenny has gone to a 
commercial, and, based on what she heard her say, she suspects that 
segment with the big blonde is over. 

Suddenly Paulina has attracted her attention, pulling her reefered gaze 
away from the screen: she's screwing the chinning bar into the bathroom 
door frame, her tiny t-shirt pulled up to expose an expanse of creamy 
brown belly, the thrusting tits pulled taut, stiffish nipples popping 
like pylons. Latoya suddenly realizes, Fuck the blonde on the TV, these 
monster spanos are here in the flesh, and she is instantly aflame with 
passion, she can feel her pussy moisten up like oven-fresh devil's food 
cake. She takes a big pull off Anna's joint, hands it off and strides 
over to Paulina who has just finished erecting the bar. "You mind if I 
pull your shorts down and check out your big beautiful ass?" she asks 
Paulina. 

"Hey, go ahead, baby, you wanna strip me, I'll be happy to work out in 
the nude. These clothes don't fit anyway." 

"Why your clothes so tight, girl?  How'd you even squeeze into these 
things?" 

Paulina giggles. "We had to make a wardrobe from someone's else's house. 
All  we had on was panties. We borrowed their pickup, too," she laughs. 
"And their pot and coke. It's a long story. Maybe we'll tell it to you 
later." 

Latoya shrugs and peels the tight shorts and panties off Paulina's 
cheeks in one quick motion and studies the bounteous buttocks for a 
moment. She hears the crack of Paulina's elbow and shoulder joints as 
the big girl lets her weight hang from the bar, arms going taut. She 
peels the clothes down over Paulina's massive brown thighs and off--
Paulina's feet are conveniently hanging in space--then parts the cheeks 
with her fingers and peers over the tops of the shades she's still 
wearing, to check the gaping brown eye with her own eye and nose for 
kissing quality. When she's satisfied that the ass is clean enough, she 
takes her shades off and buries her face in it like she was dying of 
thirst and this was a watermelon. It's more like two watermelons, and 
Latoya is not stopping to spit out the pits. Her long tongue is arcing 
around well past Paulina's crack to take wet swipes at her fat cunt 
lips, which are beginning to drip. Paulina does pullups while Latoya 
chews, her tongue struggling to keep level with the rise and fall of 
Paulina's hips. Finally, after a deep, grunting 18 reps, the big girl 
drops from the bar and bends over, spreading her sex wide for Latoya's 
tongue. 

"You really eat good pussy, baby." 

"You got plenty of good pussy to eat," Latoya mumbles, trying to talk 
with her mouth full. She hears a groan of muscle pleasure behind her, 
looks over her shoulder and there's Anna curling 40-pound dumbbells, one 
eye on the TV. She feels hands on her shoulders, turns back as Paulina 
is pulling her tank top over her head, muttering something about "time 
to see the stage bod." This makes Latoya think of the contest again, and 
she trembles with anger for a second, but quickly gets it under control 
and brings herself out of her cunt kneel to her feet to hit a few upper 
bod shots for Paulina, who sits down on the toilet seat to watch. 

Paulina works a finger into her wetness as she says, "You got great abs, 
girl. Shit, wish I had abs like that." Paulina peels her tight tee off 
and looks down glumly at her cute little party paunch. "I got a lotta 
baby fat on my gut. But under it is all hard muscle, you can stand on it 
no sweat." 

"Well, you can't stand on *mine*, girl, you must weigh 200 if you're an 
ounce." Latoya blows all the air out of her lungs in a long pursed-lip 
exhalation, then clasps her hands behind her head and squeezes up her 
abdominals into thick ridges, a solid-steel six-pack of studied brown 
perfection. At least in her opinion, and maybe the chubby spano's. 

Paulina stands up and playfully punches her in the gut. It's like 
hitting a brick wall. ``Hard like fuckin' rock,'' Paulina coos, and she 
stands close to Latoya, close enough so the black girl can smell her 
mentholated reefer breath, and rubs her hands up and down Latoya's hard, 
lat-thick sides, then she kisses her on the mouth and works her tongue 
all around her teeth and into the back of her throat. They're going at 
it hot and heavy when Paulina breaks off the embrace and says, "I gotta 
do some more bar work, I need a good pump." Those first 18 got the blood 
flowing; Paulina can feel the muscles starting to swell in her back and 
shoulders, and it feels so good. 

Anna, meanwhile, has put down the 40s and set up lines of coke on a 
little mirror on the bed. "Hey, Latoya, let's blow some of this blow." 

Latoya takes a rolled dollar bill from Anna, kneels by the bed and 
vacuums up a pair of lines as Paulina starts another set of pullups. 
Paulina concentrates on her pump, back to the room, and manages 16 reps. 
She pauses a minute, flexing her back and arms rhythmically, then grips 
the bar again for 13 reps. Anna's gone back to the bells, doing bent-
over flyes and Latoya is watching TV in some sort of daze as Paulina 
switches to chinups and does a set of 17. She flexes out for a minute, 
her muscles getting big with blood, then does a set of 15, straining on 
the last rep, her bent legs kicking. 

 Anna has put down the bells and is back on the bed with Latoya, rubbing 
her back and kissing her neck. She takes Latoya's sports bra off and 
sucks on the hard chocolate brown nipples, kneading the small pec-thick 
titties with her strong fingers. Paulina gets back on the bar for a set 
of 12 chins, it's all she can do, her biceps are burning, and she's 
sweating freely now, her massive shoulders coated in a slick sheen. She 
starts flexing in the bathroom mirror, and she likes what she sees. The 
arms look fearsomely big; so big that heavy blue veins are starting to 
swell under the brown flesh, which doesn't happen much when you carry 
this much meat on your bones. She licks her swollen biceps, smearing the 
salty sweat on her lips, then cranes her neck to dart her long tongue 
into her dark wet armpit thatches. Ummm, good. Then she flexes her chest 
hard and puts first one big rubbery nipple then the other in her mouth 
and sucks on them quickly like she was preparing a baby bottle. She goes 
over to the night table, gets all the coke stuff and sets up lines for 
herself over by the desk. Latoya and Anna are wrestling around on the 
bed, kissing and licking each other all over. Paulina does a pair of 
lines, pauses for a minute to watch her sister chew on Latoya's ass--the 
black girl is naked now, and the whitish-yellow stretch marks on her 
hard brown cheeks look good like marble cake--then does another pair of 
lines, picks up the 40s and starts curling. 

Paulina's lost all sense of time now--what a stroke of luck that the 
Lassiter girls had six grams of such good coke--and she works her way 
through a shitload of sets, alternating regular curls with hammers, 
getting down to where she can't squeeze out reps without cheating, one 
eye on the sexplay on the bed, the other on the TV, where Jenny is 
talking to transvestites with eating disorders. 

 No eating disorder in this room: Anna and Latoya are splayed out toe to 
head, lapping each other's pussies like they were doing tongue aerobics 
on Kiana. Paulina drops the 40s and stares at her fists as she iso 
flexes the arms. She can't feel anything, her arms are floating on a 
superpump, and they're swelled up so big now her thick blue brachials 
are standing up on the mass of her biceps large enough to lick, and she 
does just that, bathing them in spit. Then she goes over to the bed, 
lifts Latoya right off while Anna's tongue is still flicking at air 
where her glistening pinkish brown pussy used  to be and grabs her up in 
a crushing hug, latching her mouth onto the black girl's and sucking 
hard enough to pull her tongue into her head where she blows it like it 
was a cock. 

 Latoya is almost gagging, her tongue is practically being ripped out of 
her mouth by Paulina's suction, and Paulina is biting down on it now, 
trapping it between her teeth, and Latoya starts pounding Paulina's 
massively built sides, trying to make her leg go while she makes noises 
of protest in the back of her throat. That kicks Paulina into the nasty 
place where she likes to let her body play, and she puts the hug on. 
It's a crushing bear hug that takes Latoya right off her feet and mashes 
her against Paulina's big body so hard she can't move, her arms are 
trapped. 

Anna sits up on the bed and tingles with an adrenaline rush that makes 
her stiff nips burn like dry ice. She knows what's happening, she's seen 
it before and there's less to lose now than ever, they're already on the 
lam, so why not go all the way? 

Paulina looks at her sister over Latoya's shoulder and says, "She's 
gonna bite me, hold her head." 

Anna stands behind Latoya and slips a big arm in between the girls under 
Latoya's chin. She flexes the arm and pulls back and up a bit, keeping 
Latoya's mouth well clear of Paulina and also putting enough pressure on 
the windpipe to make breathing difficult. Then Paulina really turns it 
on, her face a jaw-clenched mask of exertion, as she tries to pull 
Latoya right through her, and almost succeeds. Between the arm around 
her neck and the lung-crushing grip around her back, Latoya is gasping 
for breath, her eyes are bulging, veins are popping in her temples, but 
Paulina can't kill her this way, it's not like that little Sandy girl 
who's buried in the woods now. Little Sandy's ribs started snapping, 
then her back broke, you could actually hear her spine crack like 
breaking a broomstick over your knee, and her bowels opened up like a 
sewer and she was dead.  Latoya is too strong for that, there's way too 
much muscle on her chest and back protecting her innards, and Paulina 
gives up on the hug after a while, her arms are aching, and she just 
starts punching Latoya in the chest and belly while Anna continues to 
hold her in the strangle grip, the huge bicep pressing into her throat. 
After hitting her so many times her knuckles are numb, Paulina stops and 
stands back, panting, and realizes Latoya isn't moving. "Hey, Anna, 
she's unconscious." 

Anna unwraps the neck vise and Latoya drops on the floor in a lump. The 
girls stare down at her, puzzled. Her eyes are bulged wide and glassy, 
her mouth is all contorted, she doesn't seem to be breathing and her 
head is twisted kind of funny. 

"Fuck, is she dead already?" Anna asks, as she turns to get a Kool out 
of her bag. 

"Yeah, I think you broke her neck. It doesn't look right, does it? The 
way her head is facing?" 

Anna gets the coke mirror and holds it in front of Latoya's gaping 
twisted mouth. Nothing. "Well, she's dead, whatever killed her,'' she 
says, passing the lit Kool to her sister. "Maybe she had a heart attack. 
You sure punched her in the chest enough times." 

"Never mind, that was salsa just like it was. It felt good hitting her 
like that. I have got *some* fucking arm pump on. Too bad she doesn't 
wear our size, her clothes won't do us any good." 

"But we can sure use her van, know what I'm sayin'? We gotta dump the 
pickup, even with the changed plates we've had it too long." 

"Let's go through her stuff and get moving." 

"Suck my clam first, baby." 

--30--