The Adventures of Wonderslut - Installment Twenty-Four

When we last left Felicity and Jason, they’d just spent the night and morning with Ma and her five girls, RayAnne, Pearline, MinniePat, SueEsther, and George, and a visitor named Harry.  Quite a handful for our heroes, even the notorious Wonderslut and her sidekick, The Piston.  After a mission well-done, they’re flying home for some rest.

“I really hate you sometimes, you know that?"

Jason had to chuckle as he gobbled down the last bites of his cheeseburger.  Felicity only told him she hated him in regard to one subject...food, especially the greasy, delicious kind like the thousand or more calories he'd just consumed.

With her eyes still focused on the instruments of the Slutmobile, she reached out and snagged one of his fries.

 “If I ate like that, I'd blow up like a blimp."

“Try it and find out."  He held the oily bag toward her.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

“Hey, I'm a guy.  I like my burgers loaded and my women plush."

She pretended to scowl at him, but the curve of her lips betrayed too much smile to pull off any real disapproval.  And she did finish his fries.

When she’d eaten the last one, he took all the wrappings and napkins, wadded them into a mass, and stuffed them into the fast food bag.  “Thanks for stopping.  I was famished."

“No problem,” she said.  “The look on the clerk's face was worth losing time."

The expression had been priceless.  Half way between “What the fuck" and “I must be dreaming."  Felicity had had to wave the money under the guy's nose a couple of times to get him to take it.  “He probably doesn't get too many Maseratis in his drive-up."

"With a woman wearing nothing but a man's shirt at the wheel and a bare chested guy in the passenger's seat,” she said.

"I bet he would have liked the French maid's outfit better."

"What there was left of it," she said.  "That'll be a tax write-off.  Business expense."

"Nice work if you can get it."  He reached over and squeezed her bare thigh.  Come to think of it, she really could do with a bit more padding.

"I hope you're through stuffing your face for a few minutes,” she said

“Funny thing…as soon as the effects of Ma’s food wore off, I could have eaten a horse.”  Had to be some kind of withdrawal thing.  No wonder Felicity felt so out of sorts.  She was probably as hungry as he’d been but refused to eat for fear of harming her girlish figure.  He’d cook her something great as soon as they got home.

“Besides, I had quite a workout,” he added.  “Should I remind you I had to satisfy five women?"

“And you did it without breaking a sweat," she said.  "I'm proud of you, kid."

That wasn't strictly true.  He'd sweated plenty.  Ma's girls had wrung him out like a rag.  In any sane world, he wouldn't get another hard-on for a month.  Working with Wonderslut, Avenger of the Non-Orgasmic, hardly qualified as sane.  He'd probably get a boner the moment they got back to the Slutgrotto.  Felicity could do that to a guy.

“So, what did you and Ma talk about while I said good-bye to the girls?" he asked.

“Business."  She kept her gaze on the instruments, but her eyes crinkled at the corners the way they always did when she had a secret.

“Am I going to find out what kind of business?" he asked.

“Ma and I have a lot in common, when you think of it."

“Riiiiight.  She's an old coot, and you're the world's most desirable woman.  She has a shotgun, and you have a website.”

“There are a few differences,” she said.

“She can cook, and..."

“Okay, so I don't make biscuits and gravy."

“You barely eat."

“What's gotten into you?"  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.  “Don't you like my body the way it is?"

“Love it, but if there were more, I could love all of that, too."

“Not in this lifetime."  She nodded toward the glove compartment.  “Now, why don't you see what's in there?"

He did as instructed and found a brown paper bag.  Inside was a plastic container of what looked like something you might put into a hookah and light.  “Is this what I think it is?"

“You don't smoke it."  Her eyes crinkled again.

“You put it in brownies?"

“You're getting warmer."

“Did Ma give you this?" he asked.

“After a bit of...ah...negotiation," she said.  “Some of her magical herbs."

He put the package back in the glove compartment.  “What did she get out of the deal?"

“Well, it seemed you really impressed her."

Hey, wait a minute.  Doing the nasty with Ma?  No way.  He was an open-minded guy, but a woman old enough to be his mother’s babysitter?  A woman with a shotgun?  No fucking way.  “I hope you didn’t promise her anything.  She’s not exactly my type.”

Felicity laughed loudly enough for her voice to ricochet around the interior of the Slutmobile.  “Don’t worry.  Ma’s not interested in you for herself.”

“The girls?” he said.

She didn’t answer but just smiled.

“Did you offer a return engagement?" he said.

“You could say...something like that.  You had a good time, right?"

“I barely survived."

She patted him on the cheek.  "It's good practice for you.  You're always going to be in great demand, kiddo.  Better get used to it."

He crossed his arms over his chest.  “Have you taken five guys on at once?"

She gave him an evil chuckle.  "Didn’t I ever tell you about the Americans for a Decent America convention?"

"The ADA?  You attended one of those?" he said.

"Undercover.  Research purposes only.  You've never seen a bigger bunch of twits and pervs."

"Really?  I would have thought they'd be squeaky clean."

"You know what I always say...scratch a prude and find a pervert."  She banked the Slutmobile and settled into their regular landing pattern.  They'd be back at the Slutgrotto in a matter of minutes.

"Now, that's a story I'd like to hear," he said.

"Rustle me up some of your special scrambled eggs and meet me at the hot tub.  You won't believe your ears."

*

It had been seven years earlier.  Felicity had just graduated to the top tier of Sly's assistants when Sly gave her her first real assignment - infiltrate the Americans for a Decent America's annual get together.  Disguised as a milquetoast biddy, albeit a young one, she’d dressed up in sensible shoes and support hose, a gray suit with a pleated skirt that fell to mid calf, and a wig that hung into her eyes.  She drew no attention at all when she registered.

The whole scene was sickly sweet...all the vapid smiles and “praise the Lords."  They obviously didn't let atheists in, or maybe atheists had their own prudish group-gropes.  Hard to picture what that would look like.

For the first day of the conference, she attended seminars on “Family Values, Weaponized," "How to Pretend You‘re an Oppressed Minority," “Bringing back the Ladies Auxiliary,” and various other stifling subjects.  By five, she needed a few stiff drinks to wash the taste of all that righteous indignation out of her mouth.  But first, she stopped in the ladies room on her way the hell out of the hotel.

The murmuring and giggling were her first clue that something interesting was going on near the sinks.  She ducked into a stall and climbed up on the toilet seat before any of the fine examples of moral femininity discovered someone was eavesdropping.

"Enrapture," one of the women said.   "My Charles says he's enrolled me in a special session for this evening.  There are a few other openings if you sign up right away."

That was met by squeals of delight of the kind that serious discussions of morality didn't normally elicit.  In fact, their voices held a more or less obvious sexual excitement.  Enrapture, indeed.  Felicity needed to get herself into that session and get names and evidence.  So, when the voices stilled and the door opened, she gave the women just enough time to get out into the hallway before following them.

They weren't hard to spot.  Three perfectly coiffed heads hovered together as the women proceeded down the corridor in a flutter of decent clothing and barely restrained estrogen.  Felicity hung back enough to hide from them while keeping them in her sight.  They went down a small staircase and around a corner to a part of the conference center she hadn't noticed before.  Nothing in particular marked the room where they ended up, just a table at the doorway and an upstanding middle-aged couple taking the registrations.  The pair didn’t remark on the first three women but merely checked their names against a list on their clipboard, but Felicity was another matter entirely.

The woman sniffed.  “She’s not on the list.”

“I-I’m sorry.”  Felicity did her best to stammer in a subservient manner.  “I only just found out about this session, and I do so want to attend.”

“You weren’t supposed to know about it.”  The woman stiffened.  “It’s only for a few select of our members.”

“My dear, why don’t we let the young lady in?” the man said.

The woman stared at him as if he were some kind of idiot.

The man gave her a patronizing smile.  “What harm could she possibly do?”

“She’s not on the list,” the woman repeated between gritted teeth.  She turned an insincere smile on Felicity.  “Who’s your sponsor, dear?”

“Sponsor?” Felicity repeated.

“The man who registered you for this event,” the woman said.

She couldn’t get in without a man.  Didn’t that just figure?  “Oh, you mean my sponsor!  Well, he’s…um…that is he…he’s in the men’s room.”

The woman slowly set down the clipboard.  “And what’s his name?”

“George,” Felicity said.  “George Smith.”

The man gestured toward the closed door to the conference room.  “You go inside.  We’ll send George along when he gets here.”

“Don’t you dare.”  The woman gestured with her head, and the couple moved several feet off to have a private conversation.  By the looks of things, it didn’t go well.  The man loomed over the woman in a particularly intimidating manner, while she gesticulated and got red in the face.  Finally, he waved his finger under the woman’s nose, and the words “submit” and “male authority,’ wafted to Felicity.

After a few seconds, the woman returned, her lips a straight line of displeasure.  “You can go inside now.”

The man opened the door, and as Felicity walked by, he put his palm at the small of her back.

“The changing room is over there,” he said, his lips nearly grazing her ear.  She glanced around.  Newly out of Sly’s academy, she hadn’t yet learned complete control of her astonishment, and she gasped audibly.  He might have said “changing room,” but the women hadn’t changed into anything.  They were all nude.  No, not completely nude.  Each wore a delicate collar around her neck, connecting them by leashes to their male partners.

“I gather George didn’t explain it all to you,” the man said.

“He left a few details out.”

“Then, he hasn’t given you a collar?”

She could answer that question honestly enough.  “No.”

“Don’t worry, there are extras in the changing room.  Take one you like and bring it back to me.”

“You?”  She hadn’t learned to keep the tone of her voice even, either, because the pitch went up a few octaves.  She gestured toward the doorway and the corridor outside.  “What about your wife?”

“She has things to keep her busy.”  His smile turned unctuous.  “I’ll watch out for you until George gets here.”

“I don’t know.  George might not approve.”

A cold light entered his gaze - a warning they could both stop pretending George existed.  “Run along now.  The session is about to get started.”

“Right.  That is, yes sir.”  She eased her way through the crowd in the direction the man had indicated.  Wonderful, she was going to get naked and put on a collar for a man whose name she didn’t know.  Did she even want to know?  Probably not.

For the first time, she took in the composition of the crowd.  Most participants were in pairs - one man and one woman - but several of the men held more than one leash.  Polygyny, of course.  The opposite - one female with more than one male - didn’t exist inside this moral universe, it seemed.  And forget any man-on-man or woman-on-woman love.  Well, hell, where had she thought she was going?

As she walked across the room, the microphone on stage came to life with a screech.  A woman - clothed, this one, and with a bouffant hairdo that made her head the size of a melon - took the mic from its stand.

“Enrapture,” she breathed into the metal orb.  “Ladies, we’re here to show you how to enrapture your men.”

Didn’t that just figure, too?  Rapture didn’t go both ways in their world.

A chorus of ooohs went up around the room.

“And we all know what our men like best, don’t we, ladies?” the woman crowed.  “Oral sex.”

That would probably go in one direction, too, and the man who’d escorted Felicity inside would no doubt expect service from her.  She’d trained for this for years.  She could do whatever he required and do a damned good job of it.

She ducked inside the changing room, finding only one woman who was in the process of fitting a slender leather collar around her neck.

“They’ve started, haven’t they?” the young woman asked.

“Just now,” Felicity answered.

“You’d better hurry,” the woman said.  “The men don’t like it when we’re late.”

And what the men wanted ruled.  “I’ll be right out.”

The woman left the changing room as if she were late for the last bit of chocolate mousse.  Felicity stripped, leaving her clothing in a heap on the floor.  She kept the wig on her head.

Being naked felt good, even under such weird circumstances.  Being naked was natural…the way she conducted business.  It gave her an edge.  Now in her element, she selected a lace collar from the collection hanging from hooks on the wall, fixed it around her neck, and emerged into the main hall.

On stage, the woman with the pouffy hair had settled to her knees before a man in a finely tailored business suit.  She held his rigid and impressive cock in her hand.

“And now, ladies, learn to explore your man,” she said.  “Find his sensitive spots.  Learn how to give him maximum pleasure.  Remember, the enraptured man is a captured man.””

With that, the instructor proceeded to give her partner head with an expertise that would make any of Sly’s students proud.  Well, Felicity could do even better, so she went off in search of her sponsor…whatever the hell his name was.

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The Voluptuous Correspondence of Lady X - Installment Twenty-Two

My dearest Richard,

Finally, I found some amusement even here in exile so far from you.  After a delightful half an hour this afternoon, I rushed back to the house and my rooms so I could share my discovery with you.  'Twould only have been more delicious if we could have watched the spectacle together, but I'll increase my delight by relating the scene in absentia.

I don't believe I've mentioned the local vicar.  I'd hardly have thought him subject matter for correspondence like ours.  This afternoon, I discovered how wrong I was.  The word that comes to mind at the mention of him is "round."  He has round cheeks, a round belly, and huge, round eyes behind the round lenses of his spectacles.  He orates from the pulpit with rounded tones.  All in all, he's a solid fellow, exactly what you'd expect for a sleepy hamlet and countryside like this.

I happened to be walking along the road near his house half an hour or so past and had taken a shortcut across his property when I overheard his voice in the kitchen garden.  I could scarce believe my ears when I heard him declare that he'd been a very naughty boy.  Imagine my further astonishment when a woman's voice answered that, indeed, he'd misbehaved and would have to suffer the consequences.

Secreting myself behind a wall, I determined that I'd eavesdrop at the very least and hope to observe directly what these consequences might be.  As I peeked around the corner of the stones, I was able to identify the leading lady of the scene.  She was Mrs. Rutherford, one of Vicar Hollyfield's flock at the Anglican church.  I'd noticed her several Sunday mornings and wondered about her attentiveness during sermons.  Several of the congregation hang on the man's words as he has a ponderous oratory style and a reputation for delivering the wrath of God even more forcefully than the Catholic monsignor in the next township.  Mrs. Rutherford shows such rapture at his utterances, I felt no surprise at finding her, alone, with the great man.

Mrs. Rutherford was clothed as one would expect in a modest dress.  The vicar, however, wore the clothing of a schoolboy - jacket, tie, and short pants.  I can't imagine where he'd obtained a suit like that, especially given that it would have to be tailored to cover his belly.  But there he was, standing before Mrs. Rutherford, staring at the ground like a student before his headmaster.  For her part, she held a ruler in one hand and slapped it against her other palm, a stern expression on her features.

"I found the nasty volume amongst your books, young man," she said.  "It depicted acts unacceptable even between adults.  How could you have come upon such a monstrosity?"

"Found it in my father's rooms, ma'am," he replied, his head dropping even lower.

"I shall have words with him, I assure you," she said.  "But not until you've had your punishment."

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered.

"Assume the position," she ordered as she continued to tap the ruler against her palm.

I had to cover my mouth to keep my laughter from reaching them.  The whole scene was so ridiculous.  The Reverend Mister William Hollyfield of the Church of England about to receive corporal punishment at the hands of one of his parishioners, as I could scarcely doubt that was what the two of them meant, given her brandishing of the ruler.

Imagine my further astonishment when he reached to his belt in preparation for lowering his pants.  I was about to be treated to the spectacle of the vicar's naked bottom and perhaps a view of his aroused cock, as well.  I fairly held my breath for fear that I might give myself away, but the two of them were so engrossed in their game that they didn't even glance around to make sure no one could see them.  For heaven's sake, they were outdoors, after all, and not far from the road.  One's faith in human intelligence falters at such times, it surely does.

In any case, the vicar soon exposed buttocks as rounded as the rest of him.  I received only a fleeting view of his privates as he turned and bent over a wooden table.  I had a thorough opportunity to observe the pink flesh of his arse and watched as Mrs. Rutherford raised her ruler and brought it down on his bottom.

The blow made a loud slapping sound as the ruler landed on his arse, and the vicar flinched.  Grinning, Mrs. Rutherford repeated the process, raising the wood high and bringing it down on the other buttock.

"I don't want to do this to you, Master Hollyfield," she declared.  "Your ill behavior compels me."

"I'm sorry, ma'am.  I truly am," he said.  He didn't sound the least bit sorry, though.  His voice came out breathy as if he was enjoying her infliction of what had to be no little pain.  I imagine he did take pleasure in the lady's blows to his hind quarters.  Otherwise, how could I understand their actions?

As she continued striking his buttocks with the ruler, his skin turned a livid pink.  Rather than alarming Mrs. Rutherford, the color seemed to encourage her to give him more of the same.  In response to the continuing beating, the vicar began to beg, his voice high and whining.  "Don't hit me any more," and "I'll behave myself," and "I've learned my lesson, truly."

"You're an evil child," she answered.  "See there.  What are you doing with your hand?"

Until she said that, I hadn't noticed that he'd reached under the table, and his arm moved rhythmically.  I could only deduce that he'd reached to his cock and was now stroking it.  Evil, indeed.  Completely debauched and wicked.  Positively delightful.  I had to bite down on my lip to stifle my laughter.  As a voluptuary myself, I had no reason to question anyone else's sexual practices.  And yet, the scene really was funny.  I do wish you could have watched it with me, my darling.

And so they continued, with Mrs. Rutherford applying the rod to the vicar's arse and the vicar stroking himself with great vigor.  I feared for the vicar's buttocks and wondered whether he'd be able to sit on his seat under the cross at church.  I'll have to watch on Sunday to see if he flinches as he lowers himself to the chair.

"Show me what you're doing with your hand, you filthy child," Mrs. Rutherford demanded.

"Please, not that," he replied.

"Do it, or I'll have to take you to the headmaster," she said.  "He'll use a switch, and you won't be able to sit for a week."

"You won't tell him, will you?" he said.

"Do as I say," she thundered.

In reply, he stood, exposing his erect cock.  It was pudgy and thick, barely sticking out past his belly.  She took great delight in it, squealing.  "Oh, Charles, see how long and firm you've become."

"All for you, dearest Mary," he answered.

"I must kiss it."  At that, she fell to her knees before him and, cradling his sac in her palm, slid her mouth around the head of his cock and then down to take nearly all of his shaft.

All role playing now over, the vicar rested his hand on her head for balance and proceeded to thrust into her mouth.  He made quite a sight, my dearest, standing mostly clothed but with his short pants tangled around his ankles.  I’ll never look on him the same again without remembering this afternoon.  I fear I’ll only have to see his face to break into titters.

Thus they proceeded for some time as the Reverend Hollyfield became more and more excited, his face contorting in the sort of pleasure a man only receives from enthusiastic oral sex.  Eventually it became clear that Mrs. Rutherford would have to swallow a copious amount of his semen if they continued.  But the good vicar was made of sterner stuff than that.  Before his lover had pushed him past the end of his endurance, he removed his cock from her mouth.

Gripping the base of the shaft in his fist, he ordered her.  “Now, dear Mary, you assume the position, and I’ll give you your just rewards.”

She fairly whooped her agreement - a very unmatronly sound.  In a moment, she’d risen and then bent herself over the table in the same manner he had before.  Similarly, she eased her hand between her legs, no doubt in search of her pearl.  He didn’t hesitate to lift her skirts and take his place behind her naked rump.  The respectable and upright woman of his congregation had worn no drawers.  From now on, I’ll have to imagine her naked beneath her petticoats on Sundays.  I’ll never keep my features even in church imagining the two of them undressed, but at least, the service will never again bore me, I assure you.

When his cock entered her body, she let out a loud coo of approval.  They fucked merrily for the next several minutes, making animal noises far removed from their usual demeanor.  Convinced I’d witnessed the most interesting parts of their performance, I decided to slip away before the final climax.  But no, they finished with a loud duet that said they’d reached orgasm at the same moment.  Quite a satisfying afternoon for both of them, I‘m sure.  At that point, I slipped away quietly before the two of them could come to their senses.

Well now, my dear, it seems we’re not alone in our love of the forbidden if even the local representative of the Church of England should engage in such salacious play  Though I felt no shame in our love before this, I shall certainly hold my head a bit higher in the future.  I do hope this little tale amuses you and we may soon laugh over it together.

Until then, I remain,
Your devoted X

The Adventures of Wonderslut, Installment Twenty-Three

Coitus interruptus.  At the end of our last installment, we left Felicity in the front passenger seat of the Slutmobile, impaled on the cock of a man named Harry who lines truck beds for a living.  Jason was still in the shack with Ma and her five perpetually horny “girls.”  They’d both had heaping servings of Ma’s doctored country biscuits and gravy, which had turned out to be a potent tranquilizer and aphrodisiac.  Harry had been hooked on the stuff for a year.  Will Felicity and Jason suffer the same fate?


As it turned out, Harry had all the right equipment to give Felicity a really good ride.  Though not as big as Jason (what other man was?), his cock filled her nicely, and in this position - kneeling across his lap - the muscles she used to push herself upward in rhythm with his thrusts also caused her pussy to squeeze down on him, creating a delicious friction.

“Oh, man,” he said from between gritted teeth.  “I never felt anything like this.”

“Enjoy, Harry.”  Truth be told, she was having a pretty good time her-own-self.  The special herbs and moss Ma had laced her food with heightened all sensation, so not only did the thrusting of Harry’s erection inside her come through loud and clear, but her breasts had become super-sensitive, the nipples grazing against her costume with every movement.

“Shit, I’m gonna come,” Harry said.

“Not yet.  Too soon.”

“Can’t hold off.”

“Yes, you can.”  She reached into her mind and found the center of her power - what Jason had labeled the Slutray.  She didn’t manipulate people’s sex drive or organs lightly, but Harry here needed to learn some control.  Her mission in this world was to make sure all nice people had really nice sex, and Harry’s future partners would thank her for his new staying power.  She stared into his face.  “Harry, look at me.”

“Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” he said as he continued plowing into her.

She took his face between her hands.  “Open your eyes and look at me.”

“Gotta come.”

“Do what I say, or you won’t come, not now not ever.”

That got his attention.  He opened his eyes.  “Huh?”

Without saying a word, she sent a charge of power from her mind into his.
Immediately, his expression cleared.  “I understand.”

“You can last as long as you want.”

“Hot damn,” he said.  “Thank you, Wonderslut.”

“All in a day’s work.  Now get back to fucking me,” she said.  “Like you mean it.”

He did, and he did a bang-up job of it.  His strokes became sure now, sliding into her with a precision that would make an angel weep.  Lord knew she was no angel, and there was a great big orgasm waiting in the near future, just for her.  Harry even got creative enough to ease her French maid’s costume down to free a breast.  He cupped it, massaging the flesh, and then tugged gently at the nipple.  Now that she didn’t have to worry about Harry finishing too quickly, she concentrated on her own pleasure.

Easing her hand between them, she managed to get her hand into the hairs that covered her pussy.  As you’d expect after how she’s spent the night and was now passing the morning, she’d soaked herself completely.  When she reached her clit, it was already throbbing in anticipation of climaxing.  She fondled it gently, stretching out the approach to the peak.  Man, but it felt good - Harry’s sweet fucking and her own expert touch on her hot spot.

“You’re going to come, aren’t you?” Harry said.

“Oh, yeah.”

“What about that?” he said.  “I’m going to make Wonderslut come.”

He was getting a little help with that, but why argue at this point?  She kept riding him and diddling her clit, feeling the pressure build and counting down to a major lift-off.  Ten, nine, eight…oh hell, three, two…

“Don’t stop, Harry,” she cried.  “Don’t…stop!”

Her entire being became one exposed nerve as the orgasm rocketed through her.  Deep, hard spasms rocked her, gripping at Harry’s shaft.  Sweet, sinful, perfect.  It held her in its grip for long seconds, finally leaving her limp, her pussy fluttering around him.

“I can come now, right?” Harry asked.  “I need to in the worst way.”

“Go for it, lover.”

And he did, with a great deal of enthusiasm.  Staying with him was like riding a bronco, and she might have thrown one arm up for balance if she didn’t need it to hang onto his shoulders.  He moved as if he had the devil inside him, thrusting upward with powerful jerks of his hips.  Finally, he stiffened, slammed inside her one more time, and stayed there while he opened his throat in a roar.  Harry had arrived, and he’d done one helluva job of it by all appearances.

Then, he did a rag doll imitation, crumpling into a moaning pile, and this time, she held onto to him to keep him from sliding down against the gear shift.  He could take an eye out that way if he hit it with his face.  She’d suggested fucking in the Slutmobile, after all, and she had some responsibility to make sure he didn’t hurt himself…at least, not too much.

“Wonderslut, that was amazing,” he murmured against her shoulder.

“See how nice it is when you stick around for the Big Finale instead of leaving at intermission?”  Nice analogy.  She’d have to remember that one.

“I should never have questioned you,” he said.  “You’re the expert.”

Of course, he hadn’t questioned her, at least not while she’d had brain enough for it to register.  He could have recited The Gettsyburg Address while she was fingering herself, and she would never have noticed.  But now, she had other problems to deal with.

“We need to move,” she said.  “I’m getting a cramp in my thigh.”

He opened his eyes and gave her a wicked smile.  “I can massage it for you.”

“Not in here.  No room.”  She started to climb off him and hit pain bad enough to stop her.  Between crouching in the foot well and all the thrusting she’d done, she was having major muscle problems.  Namely, they’d stopped functioning.  She tried straightening out a leg and only managed to bump her shin against the gearshift.  Damn, but that hurt.  “Shit.”

“Let me see if I can help.”  Harry grabbed her ribs and tried to hoist her upward.  She only ended up leaning over his shoulder with her foot jammed under the side of his seat.  The angle bent her back in ways only snakes could move, and she let out a loud moan.

“Just don’t help me,” she said between gritted teeth.

“Sorry,” Harry said.

She settled back down onto Harry’s lap, which was now without a hard-on - a situation she had no desire to fix at present.  After a couple of deep breaths, she tried pushing herself up onto her knees.  Her thighs trembled with the effort, and after a second she folded and fell back into her original position.

“If we yelled, your friend could come out and help,” Harry said.

“No fucking way.”  She would not give Jason a reason to laugh his ass off over her predicament.  She got herself in here, and she’d have to get herself out.  No matter how she did it, she was going to end up stiff.  Right about now, she’d kill to be in the hot tub in the Slutgrotto with a good, stiff brandy in her hand.

“Then, how are we going to get out of here?” Harry said.

“Open the door.”

“The door?”

“The metal thing on your other side,” she said.  “The one with the handle.”

“It is open,” Harry said.

She glanced down to discover he was correct.  In their eagerness to get to each other, they hadn’t bothered to close  it.  “All right, you lean that way, and I’ll lean toward the door.  On three.  One…two…three.”

They came apart, sort of.  Harry more or less climbed over the gearshift toward the driver’s seat.  Felicity didn’t look to see how his family jewels made the journey, but he didn’t make any noises, so he couldn’t have hurt anything important.  She grabbed the doorframe and pulled herself out of the car.  Unfortunately, her legs still didn’t quite hold herself up, and she ended up falling out onto the ground.  Luckily, the redwood duff cushioned her fall, and at least she was free of the car seat and Harry.

For a while, she lay there, staring up into the trees, contemplating life and how she’d come to arrive at precisely this place.  Sure, she had a pretty unusual occupation, but the past twenty-four hours had certainly been strange.  Role-playing with a pair of strangers - just the samo samo for Wonderslut and her sidekick, The Piston.  But then, things had gotten weird.  Captivity, group sex, drugged biscuits and gravy, oral sex in the foot well of a Maserati.  Now, here she was, flat on her back, dressed in the remaining scraps of a French maid’s costume with redwood duff getting into her hair and, yes, a rock beneath her right hip.  Maybe she should have listened to her mother and majored in engineering or something that would have gotten her a real job, after all.

“Do you like working on trucks, Harry?” she asked without bothering to sit up.

“It’s good most days.”

“Do you ever get bored?” she said.  “After all, if you’ve seen one truck bed, you’re pretty much seen them all.”

“Not at all.”  Harry rose, zipped up his fly, and adjusted his clothing.  “There’s small ones and big ones…and really big ones.”

“That pretty much describes my own job, you know?”  And didn’t that just underline the unity of all human experience?  Truck beds and cocks, the truly important things in life.

“Say, how do I measure up?” Harry said.

“There’s a question you never want to ask, Harry.  You might not enjoy the answer.”

“Shoot.  I thought you liked me.”

“I do, but by now, a gentleman might have offered to help me up.”

“Sorry.”  Harry reached down a hand and assisted her to her feet.  There wasn’t a lot left to her costume, and one of her boobs hung out.  She had redwood duff all over her, and twigs stuck out of her hair.  She needed a long, steaming shower, and somehow, the shack didn’t seem as if it would have enough hot water to get her clean.

“Hey, Felicity,” Jason’s voice called from the cabin.  “Are we staying for dinner or not?”

She turned toward him.  “Not.  I’m not sticking around for another orgy.”

Jason’s eyes widened as he took her appearance in.  “What have you been doing out here?”

“My job.  What were you doing in there?”

Jason’s clothing was what one might call in disarray, with his shirt buttoned up wrong and the tails hanging out of his pants.  He didn’t answer her question but merely blushed.  Playing with ma’s girls again, no doubt.

“Did you eat more of Ma’s food?” she asked.

He avoided eye contact.  “Maybe.”

“We’ve both had enough.  I’m going to have a little conversation with Ma, and then it’s time to go.”


What does Felicity have to say to Ma?  Will the girls let Jason leave?  Does Ma have ammunition for the shotgun in the shack?  And can the French maid’s costume be saved?

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