Safe Word

“Let me tie you up,” he coaxed eagerly, and brandished a length of soft rope for her inspection.

Where did that come from? she wondered. She peered at the rope and then at him. “You’re into bondage?” she asked him. “I…”

“I’m a part of the BDSM community, Claire,” he told her. “We use the ‘B,’ the bondage, to impose restraints on our partners in order to enhance the sensual experience.”

Claire had heard of bondage, of course, from books and films and dirty magazines; she just never expected the handsome man she knew a little from the bar and from school, to be into…

“I thought we were just gonna fuck,” she said bluntly. This man she had not chosen at random. She’d picked him up at the college tavern just down the street, and hoped to persuade him to give her a passing grade in the class he taught. Professor Ames had a reputation for being randy, but she’d never…

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, Claire,” the Professor went on. “It’s always mutually consensual, at least with me. And together, we set the boundaries.”

Claire peered up into his pale blue eyes, saw nothing but benevolence, and asked herself if she might actually go through with it. She bit her lip.

“You can trust me, Claire,” he said. “In the community we practice what’s known as Safe, Sane and Consensual (SSC) and Risk-Aware Consensual Kink (RACK) relations. Your safety and pleasure are my top priorities,” he assured her glibly.

Wow, thought Claire. This guy is like a used car salesman; he has an answer for everything. I wonder if next he’ll offer to check my oil? A spontaneous giggle leaked out. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked, as though he were lecturing in his classroom.

Questions? she thought wildly. You bet!

“Exactly what is involved?” she asked naively. Claire had never participated in anything this…erotic, before.

“Good question,” he said approvingly. “My plan is this: we’ll disrobe and then I’ll tie your wrists together behind your back with this rope. Then I’ll put you face down on the bed, spread your legs and tie them to the bedposts.”

Claire gulped.

“Next,” he went on, “comes the flagellation.”

Claire furrowed her brow. “Huh?”

“I’ll spank your backside with my belt,” he explained, pulling the wide leather strap from the loops in his pants. “Don’t worry, I won’t do it hard, just enough to make your butt red and more sensitive.”

“Then what?” asked Claire. She wished now she hadn’t drunk so many beers at the tavern.

“Then we’ll role play,” he said. “I might be a policeman who has caught a burglar or a prostitute or a fireman who has just saved your life. Or a teacher who has caught you cheating on an exam.” And here he smiled at his own little joke. “It can take any form. It’ll be spontaneous, impromptu, unscripted.”

She peered curiously at him. He smiled reassuringly.

“Where does the sex come in?” she wanted to know. “I just wanted to, you know, have sex.”

He nodded. “At some point in our little drama, I’ll mount you from the rear,” he said. 

“I can’t climax when I’m taken from behind,” she pointed out. “No clitoral shimulation,” she said drunkenly. Was she missing the point of tonight? she asked herself. Claire, at 19, had had only 3 lovers in her lifetime, and she felt woefully ill-equipped to…

He nodded again. “That’s the beauty of the dominant-submissive dynamic,” he explained. “While you won’t come, you will be highly stimulated, from the ass-beating and from the vaginal stimulation and from the helplessness you feel. You’ll feel like your head is going to explode,” he promised.

“Won’t I ever get off?” she asked.

“I’m usually good for three orgasms per evening,” he boasted. “The first time I’ll come in your puss; the second time in your ass; and…”

“My ass?” she yelped in alarm.

“It won’t hurt unduly, I promise,” he swore. “Sodomy is the lodestone of good BDSM sex,” he assured her. “Besides,” he went on, “I’m not heavily endowed and I think you’ll like it.”

Claire made a face. “I don’t…think I want that,” she said.

“Alright,” he said easily. “No sodomy.”

Claire exhaled.

“What happens next?” she prompted.

“I’ll unbind your wrists, turn you over on your back and then fuck the shit out of you!” the Professor promised roughly. The whites of his eyes glinted eerily.

“What if you can’t get it up again?” she asked practically. He had had lots of beers too.

He was growing a little impatient. “Then I’ll eat you out,” he said shortly. “There’s one more thing,” he said at the last moment.

More? Claire thought. What more could there possibly be? Getting a passing grade — even a B — in his class was beginning to seem like an imprudent rate of exchange.

“What’s that?” she asked suspiciously.

“Your Safe Word,” he replied.

Claire shook her head uncertainly. “What’s that?” she asked again.

“The Safe Word,” said the Professor, “is what you’ll say if you suddenly — and for any reason — want the sex play to end and to be released.”

They settled on their Safe Word and then the play began. Claire discovered that, to her surprise, she was soon invested in the sexual dynamic. Always a leader, at school and work and amongst friends — she was in the Student Government at university, and a shift leader at the pizza joint where she worked — it felt good to step back and relax and take a submissive role. And the Professor, despite his feigned assertiveness, was in fact quite gentle. When he beat her ass with the belt, she felt, as he’d predicted, as if her head would explode, she was so turned on. 

Just before Ames went down on her, she asked him, “Have you ever been in love?”

“No, never,” he said.

When the sex play was over and her lover had departed, Claire sat cross-legged on her bed and reviewed the evening’s events. The Professor had not mustered the stamina he’d promised, getting hard only twice and then for only short periods. She had almost laughed at his frustration, but she felt pity more than scorn. She’d never had occasion to utter the vaunted Safe Word. After he’d released her and kissed her goodnight, he had told her that “Next time, my love, you can be the dominant one.” She thought about that for a long time.

In class on the following Monday, Ames seemed impassive, neither making eye contact nor paying her any mind. She felt a bit miffed at first, but then recognized that anonymity was probably the best policy. She looked around the room, at the other nubile coeds, and wondered which of them he had been “tied up with.” Again, a giggle  escaped her lips. But when Professor Ames passed back the previous week’s essay, Claire was happy to see a “B+” etched in purple ink across the top of the paper. This was two full grades higher than her previous score.

Two weekends later, Claire found herself back at the college tavern where she’d picked up the Professor. The previous weekend, she’d had to work at her job as assistant manager at Pizza Hut and so seducing her teacher then had been impossible. He’d called her nearly every day. Claire was intrigued by the promised role reversal; it was her turn to be dominant. At the bar, Claire spotted her erstwhile lover, talking to another teacher who was the Professor’s age, or 20 years older than Claire. When he spotted her, he forsook the other woman at once.

“Catch you later, Maeve,” he said, turning away. Maeve, a hot-looking brunette, shot hateful daggers at Claire as the Professor edged his way through the tightly packed tavern. He stood before Claire, smiling warmly. Their date for after the close of the pub was unspoken, but understood. Precisely at 2 a.m., following Last Call, the two of them walked the four blocks to Claire’s small house.

Sequestered once more in Claire’s bedroom, they again discussed boundaries and limits and what the other would and would not countenance. The Professor, as it happened, was amenable to more radical treatment than Claire had been willing to endure. “Really give me a workout,” he said huskily. At this, Claire’s eyes opened wide. Finally, they settled on the Prof’s Safe Word; for simplicity’s sake, he selected the very word that Claire had herself chosen weeks before.

In order to prep for the experience, Claire had used some of her tip money from Pizza Hut to order a couple of  risque videos from Amazon. After Ames had been stripped and bound, she worked him over. Rather  than use the Prof’s leather belt, however, she turned up her Pickle Ball racket and beat him relentlessly until a tiny drop of blood surfaced on his cheek. She kissed it away.

“God, Claire,” gasped Ames, only half in jest, “I think I’m in love!”

Claire had read in a book, “The Joy of BDSM Sex,” that this was not unusual for the recipients of flagellation. Twisting her lips thoughtfully, she pulled out a prodigious dildo, which she cinched around her narrow waist. She allowed Ames to see what she was doing.

“My God,” he said, panting excitedly, “it’s so freaking big!”

Claire plied the instrument of love for all she was worth, until at length Professor Ames gasped, “God, Claire, I AM in love!”

Claire smirked and felt that an A was well within her grasp. Their relationship, such as it was, continued apace, until it didn’t. Several weeks later, the Professor and Claire made a date to meet for lunch at a high-end restaurant on the top floor of the college’s Student Union. Claire had never eaten there before; it was beyond her means. The maitre de acknowledged her reservation and escorted her to a table. Minutes later, Ames joined her. Smiling, he took a seat. Claire had something important to discuss with the Professor, and Ames had suggested the restaurant.

“Have you ordered yet?” he asked.

She shook her head no. As if by magic, a waitress appeared at their table and they placed their order. They engaged in small talk, and when the food had been served, Ames turned to Claire and asked, “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

“My grade on my last essay,” she replied. At his inquisitive look, she continued, “I got a C-, Jeffrey,” she complained.

Ames took a drink of water and nodded. “That’s the grade you deserved,” he told her.

Claire only stared at him. “But, I thought that we…”

He shook his head. “There is no ‘we’ with respect to your identity as a student, Claire. Our relationship in class is that of instructor to student. You didn’t expect me to amplify your scores based on our sleeping together, did you?” he whispered. “That,” he said primly, would not be ethical.”

As Claire sat looking at the Professor, the wheels were going round inside her head. “You  mean ethical,” she began, “as in the ethics of your having sex with a student in your class?”

Now it was his turn to stare at her. Suddenly there was a bead of sweat on his upper lip. “Claire,” he said, “do you think that you’re the first student to try to extort a higher grade out of a teacher? What problems do you think you can possibly create for me? I’m a tenured professor.” He chuckled softly.

Claire had never before noticed just how beady Jeffrey Ames’s eyes were. She stared back frankly at him.

“Everything, Jeffrey,” she told him, “is political.” He raised his brows in exaggerated fashion. 

“Meaning?” he asked, dabbing delicately at his soft lips with a napkin.

Claire shrugged. “I don’t know; do you feel that your academic reputation might suffer if your colleagues knew you’d been butt-fucked by a 19-year-old student of yours? Could be unseemly at student conferences and faculty soires, what have you,” she suggested. When he said nothing, she picked her large purse off the floor and grasped the huge dildo with which she had sodomized him on many occasions. She pulled the head out several inches.

“It’s your word against mine,” he said, glancing nervously at the phallus.

“Jeffrey,” she asked, “how do you know that I didn’t video our…encounters?” Claire pulled the fake penis several inches more from the purse.

“Put that damn thing away!” he hissed, gazing furtively at the other tables. Rather than comply with that request, she slapped it down hard on the table top, rattling the silverware. 

“I’ll just leave this with you,” she said serenely and, closing her purse, took up her wrap and walked out of the restaurant. She didn’t look back.

At the tavern some weeks later, Claire was drinking pitchers of beer with friends when she spotted Professor Ames across the bar, eyeing her. She paid him no mind. At length, while Claire’s friends were dancing, Ames approached and stood before her, swaying on his feet. Finally, Claire looked up.

“Professor,” she said neutrally.

“Claire,” he said, then burped. “Alright if I sit?”

She nodded.

He stumbled into a chair. He was really drunk, thought Claire, but she had little sympathy for him. She was a little intoxicated herself. It had been some weeks since they had been bedmates. Claire’s grades had plummeted too. More than that, she had experienced an unexpected sense of loss.

“I want us to get back together, Claire,” he slurred. “I miss you.”

She stared at  him impassively. “What’s in it for me?” she asked.

“Transactional, eh?” he asked.

“You bet.”

“What do you want?” he asked, pouring a beer from her pitcher and spilling it across the tabletop.

“An A for the course,” she said crisply.

He nodded his head ponderously. “Done!” he agreed. “Let’s go to your place.”

“After grades come out,” she said. “The semester ends in two weeks. I see an A on my report card, and I’ll take you home with me.”

He stared at her.

She stared back.

Finally, Ames nodded. “I’ll see you on the 19th.” That was the day that grades came out. He stumbled to his feet and left the bar.

On the 19th, grades were posted to her email account and Claire was beside herself with joy. She had aced “Literary Masterpieces of Antiquity,” the required backbreaking course taught by Professor Jeffrey Ames. Ames had called her earlier, telling her he was coming over to collect. She considered blowing him off, but fair was fair. Besides, she’d never been so turned on as when she was in the throes of BDSM. Her relationship with Jeffrey was complicated. So she told him to come on by. Still, he was full of himself and a bit creepy; besides, with the skills she’d learned, she could find other like-minded partners. Partners with more stamina. Still, she’d felt safe with Jeffrey.

After Professor Ames arrived, Claire offered him a drink, but he demured. He was sober for once, she noted. They swiftly disrobed and climbed into bed. “What’ll it be tonight, Jeffrey?” asked Claire. “Do you want to be dominant, or shall I?” She licked her lips in anticipation.

“I just want to hold you,” he said unexpectedly, and they extinguished the light and drew a sheet over themselves and lay in one another’s arms.

Claire didn’t know what to think. Was Jeffrey ill? She pulled him close and lay with her cheek against his chest. She was surprised when, hours later, she awoke to find out she’d slept the night away. Jeffrey was awake and looking at her.

“What…what time is it?” she asked. He told her. “What happened last night?” she asked next.

“I had an epiphany,” he admitted.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m in love with you, Claire,” he said softly.

“Love?” she repeated, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

“Yes,” he said. “Love.”

Love had been their Safe Word.

A Dream That You Dared To

She had a dream about her mom’s dick.

Even in the dream she was confused.  Like, why does mom have a dick?

Her dad was there, too.  She asked him about it.

She said, “Why does mom have a dick?”

“Shhh,” he shushed her.

His eyes were fixed on the dick.  He nodded at it, eyebrows up, like ‘Get a load of THAT.’

It wasn’t too long, but it was wide — a chode, they call dicks like her mom’s.  And it was all fucked up.  Diseased, for sure.  But like, naturally fucked up too.  Birth defect fucked up. The squat shaft was covered in boils and the coiled skin piled like soft serve on a cone.  A giant vein snaked back and forth up the shaft and ended at what looked like some sort of underdeveloped pig-faced burn victim with botched skin grafts.  The penis hole was wide, and every time the vein pulsed, the hole stretched wider like it was gasping for air.

Her dad came up behind her and whispered in her ear. 

“Suck it,” he said.

She didn’t want to suck it.

“I don’t want to suck it,” she said.

He sighed and she could feel his disappointment.  The feeling said, ‘All your mother’s done for you?  All she’s done, and you can’t even suck her dick?’

She looked away from the preemie burn victim pig face of a dick and up at her mom.

Her mom looked patient, with a kind smile and soft eyes.  Her mom nodded, just a little nod.  A nod that said, ‘It’s okay.’  

The nod made her feel safe.  She said to herself, “It is okay,” and dropped to her knees.

She put her hand around her mom’s dick.  It was clammy, a little sticky.  

It stiffened.  The penis hole gasped quicker, opened wider.  The vein pulsed with her mom’s rising heart rate.

She looked at her dad.  He was trembling, shifting his weight back and forth.

She scooted in, brought her face closer to her mom’s dick.

And then she heard something coming from the penis hole.

Singing.

She put her ear to the hole.  Puffs of air tickled her hair. The voice was beautiful, a child’s voice, and it was singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’

“Waaaaay uuup hiiiiigh,” it sang.

She knew that voice, that penis hole voice, familiar in a comforting way.  Her apprehension lifted. She smiled.  And opened her mouth.

Her jaw unhinged, and she took her mom’s dick in her mouth.

The whole thing.

Preemie pig faced burn victim and all.

The whole thing.

Boils ruptured.  Puss ran from her lips, dribbled down her chin.  It tasted wholesome.

She moved her mouth up and down on her mom’s dick.  

Bobbed her head.

Her dad squealed, hopped in placed while clapping his hands.

She gripped the shaft, bobbed her head faster.

And faster.

And faster.

Her mom groaned, thrust her hips.

And then…

And then…

Her mom ejaculated.

Her mom’s preemie pig faced burn victim dick became a hot spring, and she gulped with each pulse, in rhythm.  

But it kept coming.  The pressure was too great.

It shot from her nose, her ears, dripped from her eyes.  It pulsed through her pores, entered her bloodstream, moved through her organs, into her heart.

Joy.  Electric joy, ecstatic joy.

And then it was over.

She sat back onto the floor and cried.  Cried tears of joy. Of joy and cum.  Her parents came to her, wrapped their arms around her, cried with her.

And then she became someone else, somewhere else.  She was a child – she was her mother as a child.  She still sat back on her knees, but on a worn rug in front of a black and white television.  Judy Garland was on the screen, wearing a checkered dress and a look of nostalgia.  

Judy was singing.

“Sooooommewheeere oooover the raaainbow…”

Her mother’s voice sang along, her child’s voice tender, matching Judy’s nostalgia.

“Bllluuuuuue biiird flyyy

Aaaand the dream that you daaare to

Oooh whyyy, ooOoh whyyy caaan’t Iiiiiiiii.”

Fortunate One

“Hey baby, come take a ride in my T-bird.” Jimmy took the last drag off his smoke and tossed it on the ground near the little cutie’s blue sandals. He scoped her body from that sparkly pearl polish on her toes up to her high waisted short shorts. He paused at her knit tube top, which matched her sandals, and settle on that unimpressed frown she wore on a pair of juicy pink lips, which were wrapped around the red plastic straw of a Slush Puppy cup. He licked his lips, thinking she probably tasted like cherry slushie and cotton candy too. 

That’s how most of the high school girls tasted in the summer time, and they all smelled like cheap drug store perfume, heavy on the coconut and tangerine. He liked that just fine. Trashy was his world, and these young ladies didn’t have enough life experience to know that a man living in his car and drinking Jack straight from the bottle was bad news. 

Jimmy had two things going for him. One, his good looks. Like James Dean and John Travolta were lovers then some how one of ‘em pushed out a puppy. And two, he had the gift of the gab. That was thanks to his uncle, Tony the Wop. His whole family were wops, if he was being honest, but he didn’t do honest so much. He liked to fancy himself one of them hispanics from across the border. The girls liked them better. Something about them being seen as ethnic instead of grifters.

The girl pulled down her Ray-Bans and gave him a gander. Jimmy flashed his teeth. He liked to show off his gold caps so the girls knew he had money even if he didn’t. 

“Who you calling baby?” she said. 

Jimmy cut the engine. John Fogerty belting “It ain’t me,” over the radio fell into silence. The distant tinkling sound of the merry-go-round and drunk carnival revelers filled the car.  

“Well, I fancy that’d be you, baby. What do you say?” Jimmy stroked the leather seat beside him like he was caressing a woman’s thigh. 

“Not interested. Thanks.” But she didn’t budge just the same.

“And why not?” Jimmy craned his neck, taking a gaze around the drive-in parking lot, then behind her to the fair. “You telling me these jock boys with their varsity jackets and heads square enough to shove in a socket got more to offer than Jimmy? 

“Jimmy is it? I heard of you. You come into town creeping on high school girls.” 

“Creeping, huh? No. You got a look about you. That blonde hair like a halo.” He crossed himself. “I wouldn’t steal an angel from the lord and savior. Now, I don’t know what you heard about me girl but I just wanna be friends. My intentions are pure.” 

“Mhm,” She mumbled skeptically and crossed her arms. “Like they were with Carolyn Deary?”

“Can’t say I know that name.”

“How about Hannah Jeffrey?” 

“Not that one neither.” 

The girl rolled her eyes and looked like she was fixing to walk off.

“Look baby, you got me wrong. I swear. Come in my ride, we’ll have a nice private chat and clear things up straight.”

“You wouldn’t try to take advantage of me?” 

“Cross my heart, baby girl. Anything you don’t want, I ain’t offering. I mean, you might just change your mind, and I’m not gonna promise I can say no to you. Because oof…” Jimmy made like he was outlining her body with his hands. 

“Aren’t you 25?”

“I seen 26 summers to be exact, but I can’t see how that means nothing.” 

“Maybe ‘cause I’m jailbait.” 

“Like Carolyn and Hannah?” 

“Thought you didn’t know them.” 

“I don’t. Look your age don’t bother me.” 

“It should.” 

“Tell you what, we drive up to the old mill, look out on the valley, pop a little Jack in your slushie. We’ll have a good time.”

“Daddy told me not to get the car with strangers.” 

“Daddy ain’t here baby, and you’re big enough to make that decision without daddy’s help. I can tell.”

“Think so?” She put her hand on her hips and flashed him a grin. She liked that.

“Oh I know. Come on baby what do you say?” 

“Maybe I am, but maybe my answer would be, no thank you mister.” 

“Ooh what I gotta do to get you in my car, huh? Didn’t you hear from your girlfriends Jimmy’s a lot of fun?” 

“I heard you gave Hannah the Clap.”

“Ain’t true. None of it.” 

She leaned against the car. Jimmy reached out and stroked her shoulder. She shrugged his hand off like he had leprosy. “You been framed, huh?” 

“Yes, ma’am. I am an innocent man.” 

“Innocent, huh?” She leaned her elbows on the window frame and popped her head in the car. She gave Jimmy a sniff and assessed the car’s interior.

“Everything check out? Yeah, she’s a cool ride. Smooth too. Come give her a test run, baby.”  

“You even know who I am?” 

Jimmy scratched his chin. “Billy or Betty. Something like that.” 

“Bobby. Bobby Sue Constance.” 

“Yeah, that’s right. See I knew that. You coming, baby?” 

“I tell you what, Jimmy. I accept your invitation and go for a ride, there’s two things that’s gonna happen.” 

Jimmy slammed his fist on the steering wheel and squealed.   

“Hot dog, girly. You got it. What do you need?”

“I’m choosing where we go for our chit-chatting.” 

“Fair enough.” Jimmy was already thinking about pulling that periwinkle tube top over his neck and wearing it like a collar while they tested the suspension. He leaned over and opened the passenger door. 

“You listening, Jimmy?” 

Jimmy popped his head back over to the drivers side.

“You still standing there? Get in girl.” 

“You haven’t heard my second conviction.” 

“Sounds a touch churchy but shoot.” 

“No kissing. No cuddling.” She leaned in and ran her fingers down his nose and shoved one in his mouth. “And no caressing.” Jimmy let out a sweet little whimper like a puppy at the teat. She hooked his bottom lip. “Understand, baby?” 

“Uh-huh.” Jimmy nodded. 

Bobby Sue dragged her fingernail out of his mouth.

“Good, I’m young enough to get you tossed in Folsom.”

Jimmy sucked his lip and tasted blood. Watching that fine little vixen strut around the front end of his T-bird, Jimmy’s heart started flapping in ways it never had before. She dragged that nail across the hood and kept her eyes on his. He didn’t care none if she scratched the paint. This girl was his kind of woman. 

She crawled in and blabbed on about going this way and that. Jimmy went through the motions, turning the wheel when she said, stopping at a red light when told, nodding the affirmative while she smirked and sucked that slush puppy. Jimmy was busy eating up the way her shorts crawled up her thighs like panties, and thinking about the trouble they could cause if he convinced this sugar plum to run off with him. Jimmy had never considered taking a girlfriend, but Jimmy and Bobby. Now, that had a nice ring to it. 

Now don’t be a fool, Jimmy boy. This girl’s pushing seventeen. Maybe. Ooh but the way she lifts her brow when she glances my way. She’s no angel. No sir. She could be my little devil. 

“Cut the engine right here, Jimmy.” 

“Well then, we’re in an alley, baby.” Jimmy peeped the light flickering over a rusty metal door, looking like the back entrance to a slaughter house. The far end of the alley was walled up with bricks. No doubt, this place gave him the creeps, but he had to admit it was cozy. 

“Not quite as romantic as the old mill, baby.” 

Bobby threw off her belt and put her feet up on the seat. She sucked the last of her slushie noisily and grinned.

Jimmy’s eyes went places they shouldn’t with a girl saying “no touching” and the like. He wiped his mouth. “Ooh girl. You’re asking me to break my promise, aren’t you?” 

Bobby kicked off her sandals. Those bare feet slithered across the seat then wriggled around his leg like a python. 

“I have done no such thing.”

“What are you playing, little lady?”

“I’m getting you into trouble.” She pressed her foot into his manly business.   

He moaned. “Oh mhm, you are, girl.” 

Jimmy took a gulp of Jack. The warmth spread through his chest and tingled his head. He passed the bottle to Bobby then massaged her foot. She held the bottle out, wagging it from side to side. Not taking a drink. Just watching him with a naughty grin. 

Jimmy crept over, sliding his hands up her thighs, and laid a kiss on those cherry lips. She shoved her tongue his mouth and twirled it around like an expert. 

“Ooh girl, you’re delicious like strawberry cream. I wanna taste the rest of you.”

“I said no, Jimmy,” she whispered. 

“Your body’s telling me something else, baby.”

He went in for another kiss, to which she obliged. 

The alley exploded with light like an asteroid burning up in the atmosphere. Jimmy cocked his head like a rooster and felt his retinas sizzle. Blinding white like search lights. They started to dance around the interior of the car.  

“What in the hell you suppose that is, baby?” Images of little gray men pranced through Jimmy’s head. He was not a man to lose his cool but this was something.  

The passenger door opened behind Bobby. One of the spotlights blasted Jimmy directly in the face. 

Bobby. Were they stealing her for one of them experiments? 

Jimmy pawed around trying to keep hold of his little treasure. No way space men were stealing this morsel from him. He found her breasts in the confusion and said, “Bobby, baby, you feel me?” 

A hand closed around the collar of Jimmy’s shirt. The damn space men had infiltrated the drivers side too. An arm wrapped around his chest. The grip was firmer than he expected from someone who spent all their time on a space ship. Jimmy squawked. 

“Shit, help me, girl. Them aliens got me.” 

Bobby didn’t scream. She didn’t kick up a fuss. Nope, the girl sat there giggling. 

The landing lights shifted behind her and Jimmy saw a face. Not a green sickly face with black bug eyes over a pinched, lipless mouth, but a thick black mustache and a peaked cap. Bobby looked at Jimmy and smiled. She handed the bottle of Jack to the officer behind her and said, “Hey Daddy.”

“Hey Honey. What kinda trouble you get into?” 

“None Daddy, but this big man was looking to do impure things to me.” 

Jimmy felt like he’d taken a bullet in the chest. This girl was bad, badder than him, no doubt. Two officers pulled him out of the car. One of them saying to Jimmy, “you must be some kind of stupid parking out back of the station.”  

They dragged his ass around the trunk toward the street. He craned his neck trying to catch one last look at that naughty vixen.

Bobby’s father, chief badge on his hat, helped her out of the car. The beating in Jimmy’s chest came to a full stop. 

Look at me baby. You’re gonna break my heart.

Bobby sashayed around the back end of the car like a pointy tailed succubus and tossed Jimmy a smirk. 

Jimmy fought the arms around him but it was useless. He resigned himself and screamed, “Bobby Sue, I love you.”

The Flu

Sunday morning Bob set the kitchen clock behind an hour like Lisa, his wife, had asked him, moments after she gave him a blow job, while he sat at the kitchen table having his morning coffee. He wanted to come on her face, but she wouldn’t let him because she had already put her make-up on for the day. Instead, she lifted her shirt and let him pop on her tits with a paper towel in hand.

On Monday morning, the same time he left for work every day, he noticed there was something different, but it didn’t register that it was darker, the sun was barely up. Bob’s brain felt lazy, slow to fire. He had stayed up way too late watching dwarf porno online. Most men had fantasies about a threesome with two women. Bob’s fantasy was to make love to a pretty little woman with stubby legs and a hairy bush. He fantasized that she was passing through town with the circus.

Late Monday afternoon his manager told him not to work too late. Bob groaned and continued to stare at his computer screen. “I got to get this done,” he said.

“It’s a full moon tonight,” the manager said.

“I know,” Bob said. Everybody knew. They announced it all day long on the radio, before and after every commercial break, before and after the news and weather, and before and after every song. Any idiot knew there was a full moon tonight.

Bob’s phone rang. He answered quickly. “Bob here.”

“It’s dark out! You’re still at work?!” Lisa screeched.

“What?” Bob said. “I’II be right home.” He hung up the phone, and quickly logged off his computer. “Bob, you dumb shit!” he yelled at himself. How did I forget that it was no longer daylight saving? What kind of stressed-out moron forgets a thing like that? Me, that’s who. Stress. It plays on your mind in many subtle and covert ways. It sneaks up on you and causes disaster, sometimes a heart attack, sometimes a stroke. This time the danger is much different.

Bob had no one to blame but himself.

“Don’t stay too late. Remember. It’s a full moon tonight,” his manager had announced over the intercom after lunch.

No shit dumb ass.

Lisa called him around four o’clock in the afternoon, “Make sure you leave before dark.” 

“I know, got to go. Busy. Love ya.”

Now, a couple of hours later Bob walked out of the building into the light of the full moon. It was sharp and bright in the clear, crisp autumn night. Conversations from the day buzzed around his mind. His coworkers, George and Monica had prattled on about the Flu and everything everyone already knew about it. How it makes you emotionally and physically hypersensitive. It turned the mildest mannered individuals into violent psychopathic sex fiends who would be in their glory if they could beat you after they screw you, or even vice versa. That was how it got the nickname, FFF, Fight and Fuck Flu.  

“Awe, sonofabitch,” he in uttered, and all the implications of his blunder came into focus. This was bad, very bad. “You get me out of this one, God, and I’ll…” Bob didn’t want to commit to church every Sunday. That was unrealistic, and God knows that would be a lie. “I’ll, I’ll. . .” The list was too long and unattainable. “Please God,” was all he could say. 

Bob ran to his car, the hard leather soles of his shoes cracked on the street and echoed through the buildings.

Damn these shoes! Why didn’t I wear my sneakers? Those with the FFF have acute hearing. He was the fastest runner in high school. From then, his fitness had gradually gone downhill until this moment when he labored out of breath with every weak stride.

About a couple of blocks away, he heard the howl, the excruciating half-human bleat of someone inflected by the FFF. Bob knew how fast they could run, the distance they could cover in a hurry. The mutation caused by the FFF with the catalyst of the full moon made them physically superior but not immortal.  It was very similar to lycanthropy, being a werewolf.

No distance was a safe distance.

Terrified and exhausted, Bob limped to his car. 

I’m not going to work tomorrow.

The car beeped when he unlocked it. It sounded as loud as church bells to those with the FFF.

His hand was shaking, so he found it difficult to put the key in the ignition. A deep breath gave him a momentarily steady hand. The car started, and he was on his way home. Things were looking up. Before he pulled onto the street, he popped open his glove box and grabbed his 9mm pistol.

On a normal day of the week, there would be traffic, others commuting, but tonight because of the full moon, there wasn’t a car in sight. Without stopping, Bob turned left on a red light onto Hwy 14 across the marsh towards home. The full moon looked brighter in the dark marsh. 

Bob’s risk was less now. Those with the FFF didn’t go after fast moving vehicles, even as crazy as they became. His next worry was when he got home. He would have to slow down to pull into the driveway and into the garage, and that’s why the gun was next to him. Bob heaved a sigh of relief, thinking he would probably get home safe, as the song Riders on the Storm came on the radio, and it eerily became background music to his life. 

Up ahead Bob saw something on the road glittering in his headlights. He was on top of it before he realized what it was. When he saw the jagged edges of broken bottles, it was too late. His two front tires blew violently and immediately, so he pulled his limping car to the side of the road.

“Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!” Bob groaned. He squeezed the steering wheel until his body shook with self-loathing. Then he banged on the dash one time for good measure. “God, you must want me fucking dead!” He yelled at the ceiling of the car. He grabbed his gun and checked the clip. It was full. He looked up and gave a disgruntled, “Thanks.” Then he dialed 911.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the female voice asked.

“My tires blew on Highway 14 as I was crossing the marsh. There are shards of glass all over the road.”

She didn’t ask what he was doing out on a full moon. There was no judgement. “Are you in imminent danger at the moment?”

“Do I see anyone with the Flu? No, not yet.” He didn’t tell her he was armed, because he didn’t have a permit to conceal and carry.

Then the dispatcher said, “We are getting multiple calls about broken glass causing flat tires. We believe it’s those with the Flu causing this. I need you to keep your lights and radio off. Make as little noise as possible, and we’ll get an officer there as soon as possible.”

“Busy night?” Bob asked.

“Always on a full moon,” she said.

“I lost track of time at work. Forgot it wasn’t daylights savings.”

“You’re not alone. Be safe sir. Good-bye.”

Bob didn’t like her “good-bye.” She said it like no one would hear from him again.

He quickly texted his wife to let her know his predicament and that he didn’t call because he had to be as quiet as possible. 

“Oh, no,” she texted with a sad emoji.

“The police are coming,” he texted back.

She replied with a smiling emoji.

In the distance, Bob couldn’t tell how far, he heard a chilling howl. It cut loud through the heavy dark. Bob looked at the clock in his dash. Only fifteen minutes had passed since he left work.

The car felt stuffy, so he cracked open his window to get a little fresh air. The buzzing cacophony of insects in the marsh sounded very loud to him. The howling stopped, but there was the shuffling sound of feet on the asphalt road near the car. Bob stared intently into the darkness, but before he saw anything, there was a rap on the passenger side of the car and a strained gravelly voice called his name through the crack in the window. “Hey, Bob.”  

“What the fuck!” Bob startled and pointed his gun at the window. 

“It’s me, George from work.”

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Bob rolled down the window to talk to George, but when he took one look at George’s bulging eyes, slobbering jowls, and pins of coarse hair all over his face, Bob rolled the window right back up.

“Roll down the fucking window!” George shrieked. 

“You got the Flu, George.”

George pounded and pawed at the window. Bob waited for it to break, ready to shoot the moment it did. George gave up on the window and kicked the door. It pissed off Bob as much as frightened him.

“Stop kicking my goddam car!” Bob yelled.

“Come on out, so I can fuck you in the ass and cum on your face, you pussy!” George yelled and leaped onto the hood of the Corolla. George’s vertical jump impressed Bob, since George was a chubby guy that moved like a sloth at work. But Bob knew it was the FFF that gave George the spring in his step.

“Get off my car, George,” Bob ordered and pointed his gun at him through the windshield.

“Go ahead, shoot,” George dared. “If you miss, the windshield will still break, and I’ll be standing over you with my dick in your mouth.”

“I won’t miss,” Bob said. He stared into George’s pus-filled yellow eyes and felt sorry for him.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. You’ll have the Flu soon anyway,” George snickered.

“What?” Bob asked.

“She fucked you too, right?” George slurped and drooled onto the hood of the car. 

Bob shivered from the chilly reality of the situation. 

“Who?

“You know who. Pammy-poo that’s who,” George tittered then snapped. A shot of fury jolted through George’s fevered body. Dirty infected hormones multiplied and blasted through his veins.

“Oh shit,” Bob said. He had not used a condom when he had sex with Pam. 

“Oh, shit is right, buddy boy,” George said excitedly. “But she sure was a good fuck, wasn’t she?” 

Pam, the woman from the Milwaukee branch, came to town to give a seminar last Friday in the Sunset Hotel conference room. Later in the bar after a couple of drinks Pam whispered to Bob, “I know you want to fuck me.” Pam was short and chubby with stubby legs and small breasts. She had a cute bookish face with big glasses. Her dress suit was gray and drab and all buttoned up, but when she tossed her clothes off, and Bob saw her bushy dirty blonde snatch, he got as hard as concrete. She was as close to Bob’s dwarf fantasy as he had ever come. Bob was so turned on by her, he popped twice, one in the mish position with her heels pinned to her ears and the other from a voracious blow job. Afterwards, Bob took a quick shower to rinse her off before he went home. While he was in the bathroom, she yelled, “I’m going back down to the bar.”

“I’ll be heading home. It was nice seeing you,” Bob laughed. He wondered how long it was before she brought George up to her room. Even before someone went through their first full moon transformation, the infection caused nymphomania. 

George dropped his pants and exposed the purple head of his erection. He massaged his balls and slapped his dick against his belly before he wrapped his hand around it and stroked it vigorously.

“Stop it! Stop it! Or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you, George!” Bob knew what was going to happen, and it happened sooner than he thought. He hardly had a chance to react before George was ejaculating all over his windshield with three hefty ropes.

“Oh, baby!” George bellowed. “There ya go motherfucker, take it all.”

“You asshole, George. You were an asshole before and you ‘re asshole now,” Bob said.

“You want asshole? I ‘II give you asshole,” George said, and as an encore he turned his ass towards Bob and sprayed muddy light brown diarrhea all over the windshield. It gushed out in one huge spurt.

Bob gagged. Irate, he jumped out of the car and shot George three times in the chest. The gunshots blew George off the hood of the car. Bob had to walk around to the other side to see him. George was lying on the ground, pants at his ankles, and his dick was still erect.

“Oh man, you didn’t have to shoot me,” George groaned. “I was only having a little fun. I wasn’t going to hurt you. I just wanted a little piece. I’m horny as hell.”

“You would have fucked me to death, George,” Bob said. He still aimed his shaky gun at George.

“Am I going to die?” George sobbed. 

“I don’t know. I think so,” Bob said. 

“Could you do me favor?”

“What?” Bob asked.

“Suck my cock?” George asked with a raspy laugh and placed his hand over his crotch before he died.

Bob stared at the moon and heard the ear piercing sirens approaching. He felt a little tingle in his groin and the urge to kick someone’s ass.