New Story: The One-Two Screw Crew Does Christmas (Part 2)

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New Story: The One-Two Screw Crew Does Christmas (Part 1)

Merry slightly belated Christmas to all of you that celebrated it. If you didn't, then I hope you had a nice break nevertheless. My apologies for the lateness—in keeping with how the whole year has gone by, Christmas here was a crazy affair that defied preparation.

In any event, in what has now become a bit of a tradition at Smutty Footnotes, I present your Christmas Special, a story exclusive to this blog, by way of thanking you for the support you have given me throughout the year. That support is highly appreciated, I want you to know that.

Here is Part One of The One-Two Screw Crew Does Christmas, a little ditty that looks at friends Elizabeth Bowden and Shelley Caskill from Book III of The Adjusters, and spells out something that was alluded to in #34. It's a bit more of a character piece than some of the stuff I've written lately, but it has been knocking at the back of my mind wanting to be written, and so here it is. Part Two should be up either tomorrow night or the following.

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The One-Two Screw Crew Does Christmas (Part 1)


(Morgantown, West Virginia. Five years ago.)

“Come on, man! Cheer up, for goodness’ sake! It’s your job to cheer the kids up, not the other way around.”

Harry Colburn slaps my shoulder and shakes his head. It’s the first one that gets my attention. He’s at least a head taller than I am, and given that I’m six foot two, it isn’t something I’ve quite gotten used to yet, and he’s strong. So his slap almost sends me flying into the window of the minivan, to everybody’s merriment.

Harry grins his goofiest grin, the one that to anyone not knowing him well screams out just how much of a large lummox whose only pleasures in life are primal he is, the one that he told me he’s been practicing since his senior year of high school, the one that distracts players and coaches from opposite teams into thinking that he’s indeed a large lummox instead of the sharpest and quickest thinking strategist that the Mountaineers have ever had playing point.

“I’m just getting into character,” I grumble, rubbing my shoulder. I’ve got a Grinch costume on, which I think is an inspired bit of casting.

“Couldn’t you just be the post-epiphany Grinch?”

“Hey, dark and gritty, right? Isn’t that what the kids are into these days?”

“Not today, Garcia. Today, we’re here to make sick children laugh and smile. So you’re going to be upbeat and entertaining or I’m going to introduce our young friends to the underappreciated comedic aspects of Punch and Judy.”

Yeah, Harry talks like that. When he’s not playing dumb, he’s always referring to bits of theatrical trivia. The cognitive dissonance for most people is impressive: he’s big, he’s black, he’s got a goofy grin. And he’s also the best Shakespearean actor the School of Theater and Dance at West Virginia University has ever had, and one of their best student. That he joined the university under a basketball scholarship and led the team to two winning seasons is just icing over a particularly moist and flavorful cake.

Me, I'm Brandon Garcia, and I'm struggling. Which has been really messing with my head for the last semester. I was star athlete at my high school down in Miami last year, and while not Valedictorian I had a shot at it. Moving to West Virginia—WVU being the one place that was willing to foot my education bill via a basketball scholarship just like Harry's—was a bit of a shock, not just culture-wise, but ego-wise. Here, I'm above average, but not much more than that, both academically and athletically. It's been a rough transition, one that seems to be common, but knowing that doesn't make it any easier.

Especially now that I've received results for some of my courses, and it's touchy. I've got a single final left, in two days, and if I don't pass it, my scholarship's in jeopardy. So that's been on my mind. And instead of studying my ass off, I've got to be here, on this stupid field trip.

I'm being unfair. It's not a stupid field trip. Every year, around Christmas time, the basketball team heads over to the Children's Hospital, and spends the day with the kids, in costume. Both kids and staff love it, and it's the highlight of the end of year festivities for most folks on the team as well. No matter how much you live to party and drink yourself silly, there's nothing that beats putting a smile on a kid's face. I get it. And was looking forward to it, too. Until I realized just how close to being kicked out I really am. My heart's not in it now. I'm worried. My future's about to go down the drain, and I feel there isn't anything I can do to help it.

When the minivan drops us off at the hospital, Harry takes charge. He's done this before, and the nurses in charge of the visit know him, and love him. Because to be honest, everyone loves Harry. He's dressed, unsurprisingly, as Santa Claus, and he pulls it off. I don't know what he's got underneath that suit of his, but he looks twice his usual size, which gives him an imposing bulk.

There is a bunch of people in the foyer waiting for us, in costume. Harry told me that the team invites friends and family to join them, as long as they have the right attitude, as he says. A few girlfriends usually round up the group, as well as what he calls groupies. The cheerleading squad has also been known to join up, although today it doesn't look like that’s the case.

I’m a bit taken aback by the kids being wheeled about the lobby of the hospital, some looking well, others looking sick. I've never really been around sick people, so I don't really know how to handle myself. I stick close to Harry, happy to let him call the plays the way he does on the court.

And that's the reason I’ve got a particularly nice view when a sexy elf skips her way towards Harry. I'm real glad I've got a ton of makeup on because I'm pretty sure I'm gawking like a high schooler.

The girl—a thin short-haired blonde with a killer body wrapped in a short bright green tunic, light green tights, and a pair of white boots—jumps in Harry's arms when she's within reach.

Harry was fully expecting the encounter, clearly, because he catches her and holds her up against him as she tries and fails to wrap her long legs around his artificially large stomach and plants a loud kiss on his lips.

“Harry the Mule,” she grins. Her smile is infectious. “Funny meeting you here.” She presses her lips against his once more, a slow kiss this time, deeper, the kind that closes off the couple from the rest of the world.

“Huh, Shel, you may want to let the poor guy breathe.” Another elf, dressed exactly like the first, approaches the embracing couple. This one, just as beautiful but with more generous curves, has curly red hair down to her shoulders.

“You should kiss him, Lizzie. It's really weird with that big white beard he's got on.” The blonde kisses Harry once more time before dropping down before the big guy.

Harry smiles at the redhead, and leans down to hug her. “Hey Lizzie! How's my girl doing? Thanks so much for coming.”

“Hey Harry! Good to see you! You look...” She looks him over, shaking her head, “twice as big as you usually do.”

“Oh fuck,” says the blonde, putting her hand on the redhead's shoulder. “If he's twice as big as usual, I definitely got to try me some of that.” Her expression makes it very clear what she means, and once again I'm glad for the makeup because I'm certain I'm blushing bright red.

I think Harry picks up on my discomfort, because he turns to me, and waves a hand towards the two girls. “Come on, Garcia, meet my two favorite girls on campus. Elizabeth,” he waves to the redhead, “and Shelley,” then to the blonde. “Ladies, Brandon Garcia, our newest small forward, fresh out of high school.”

Elizabeth smiles in my direction and nods. “Nice to meet you, Brandon.”

“Hi Brandon,” goes Shelley, and then looks back at Harry with a grin.

Elizabeth is looking at me with an odd expression on her face, her head tilted to the side. I pretty much know what she's going to say, even though I would not have expected her to be the one to say it. “Aren't you short for a small forward?”

Before I can respond, Harry laughs a great big Santa Claus laugh that has some people in the foyer jump and stare. “You should see the boy jump, Lizzie. It's out of this world. He's six inches shorter than Ferg, but I'm pretty sure he's got a foot on him in the air. Out of this world.”

Harry loves to sing my praises. One of the reasons that I can't help but like the guy. I mean, he's a genuine warm-hearted person. I'm going to miss him when they kick me out for screwing up Statistical Reasoning. Damn—I had managed to forget all about it for a few minutes.

“Come on gang,” says Harry, addressing everyone in costume. “Let's do our thing. There are kids up there waiting for some fun.” He bids everyone follow the nurse in charge, and they all follow.

I watch the two elves head up the hall, Shelley and Elizabeth, my eyes automatically caught by the girls’ asses swaying to and fro, perfectly emphasized by their short and tight tunics.

“They're cute, ain't they?” says Harry in his best lummox voice, and a glint in his eyes.

“Can't deny,” I reply. I step beside him as he walks off.

I’m trying to formulate my question in the right way. “Huh, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“The Mule?”

He looks back at me and gives me his best grin, and I can almost believe he is indeed a simpleton, if not for the twinkle in his eyes. “Just a nickname, Garcia.” He practically winks. “Those two girls love me.”

I shake my head, and follow him up the stairs. If anyone can make me forget Statistical Reasoning, it's Harry. The cute blonde also has a leg up in that respect.


* * *


The kids are amazing. Our group has split up, going into different wards, and I've ended up in the cancer ward, of all places. And the kids just impress me. They're troopers, the lot of them, hooked up to the IV dispensers, some of them with post-chemo hair growth. We chat, we make faces, we do voices, and before too long, I'm laughing with them as we come up with odd games for the littler ones. They love us, and it's making me feel a lot better than I did before.

There's this little girl who's probably seen How the Grinch stole Christmas one times too many, and she insists I call her Cindy Lou Who. She's the cutest little thing I’ve ever seen, with a head full of blonde ringlets, and when she laughs she first looks like she's about to sneeze.

She's really taken by my Grinch costume, and she makes me do Grinch faces over and over again. And I get into it, and channel my inner Boris Karloff, and before too long we're singing the Grinch's song, which Cindy Lou says is her favorite song ever.

You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch.
You really are a heel.
You're as cuddly as a cactus,
You're as charming as an eel.
Mr. Grinch.
You're a bad banana
With a greasy black peel.

We both sing the last line in exaggerated fashion, and Cindy Lou starts giggling, and she half-laughs half-sings the rest of the song with me.

At the end of the song, I spy green from the corner of my eye—

You're a three decker saurkraut and toadstool sandwich
With arsenic sauce.

I turn my head and the girl that Harry called Elizabeth is leaning against the door frame with a smile on her face, watching me and Cindy Lou bringing the song to its end.

“That was beautiful,” she says, clapping softly and approaching the bed. My eyes dip down to her legs, looking delicious in her green tights, and I feel really weird about it because there's a kid in the room, and it's confusing. I think I mumble something, but thankfully Cindy Lou giggles again. “We're singing the Grinch.”

“I know,” says Elizabeth, sitting on the bed next to the little blonde girl, “and you did a fantastic job at that, sweetie.”

Cindy Lou is beaming, and Elizabeth looks at me and winks and I think my heart grows three sizes right there on the spot.

A nurse interrupts us before we can do anything else. “I'm sorry folks, but Amelie here is needed for an MRI.”

“Cindy Lou,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“She's known as Cindy Lou now.”

The nurse looks at me and manages to keep a straight face. “Really? Cindy Lou? Cindy Lou Who?”

“Cindy Lou Who.”

Cindy Lou—Amelie—and Elizabeth look at each other and giggle. Elizabeth leans over and kisses Amelie on the forehead. “Merry Christmas, sweetie!”

“Merry Christmas, and Merry Christmas to you too, Grinch.”

I manage to grunt my best “Bah, humbug!” not caring about mixing my Christmas stories. Elizabeth and I wave to Amelie and leave the room.

“That was nice what you did,” says Elizabeth.

“What was?”

“Singing. I think it meant a lot to her.”

Again, I'm glad the makeup is keeping my blushing from being advertised all over the place. “Well... it was sorta the natural place to go.”

She grins. “Still, it was sweet. You have a nice touch with children.”

“Yes, well, that's one of the things you get for growing up with too many younger sisters.”

“Lucky you.”

“Sometimes. Other times, not so much. How about you?”

She shakes her head. “Only child.”

We’re interrupted by Elizabeth’s friend, Shelley, who comes skipping towards us and hugs Elizabeth.

“They are so cute! The whole bunch of them! They're the best kids ever. I want one.”

Elizabeth smiles. “May not be the best idea right now. It may get in the way of your degree.”

Shelley dismisses the notion with a wave of her head. “Nonsense.” She looks in my direction, and I can't help but notice once again that's she's just beautiful—which is surprising because I tend to like long flowing hair. But the short haircut fits the blonde perfectly, and gives her a slightly mischievous air. “Besides, they're so much fun to make.” She grins at me. “Right, jock boy?”

She gives Elizabeth a kiss, on the lips, and laughs to herself. “I should go ask the Mule if he’s is willing to make babies with me.” And just like that, she heads off in Harry's direction, her short tunic bouncing and giving me a tantalizing glimpse of her upper thighs, and desire flashes within me, that of bending the little bimbo blonde over and baring her ass and sliding my dick inside her. I shake my head. Where did that come from?

Elizabeth looks at me, and it's like she can read my mind. “Don’t mind Shel. She gets a bit overexcited at times. She's usually more...” She searches for the right word. “Subdued.”

“Really?” I make a dubious Grinch face.

Elizabeth laughs. “No, not really. But she's sweet.”

She's gorgeous, and a little cocktease is what I want to say, but I bite my lip. She's Elizabeth's friend, after all.

Again, the redhead reads my mind. “Yes, she can be a bit of a tease. But it's all for fun. She's not trying to be mean. And you should see the looks the teens on the ward give her. They all love her, and they all try to look up her skirt. And she lets them. Sometimes.”

“That's cruel.”

“Really? Why? They enjoy themselves, so does she. No one gets hurt.”

I frown. “You make it sound almost... noble.”

She grins. “I guess in a way, it is. Hey, it's the season. It's all about passing on the cheer.”

I don't respond to that. I spot Shelley, on the far side, of the room, chatting with a bald-headed boy in a bed, two IVs stuck in his arm, and she's sitting on his bed and the boy doesn't seem to know whether to stare at her face with her broad smile and sparkling eyes, or her legs that are but inches away from him. He's got a goofy grin on his face that rivals Harry's on his best days.

“Speaking of cheer,” continues Elizabeth, looking at me looking at Shelley, “you seem to be doing better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Downstairs. When you got here. You seemed pretty out of it. Worried. I'd almost say anguished.”

“Ouch,” I say, trying to sound more lighthearted than I really feel. She saw that through the makeup? “What are you, psych student?”

“Ah! Please no! No, I just... I know some about anguish.”

I'm curious, especially since she has a bit of a faraway look on her face as she stares out at nothing, but I'm not particularly keen on this conversation to start with. “So what's your major then?” I'm assuming she's a student at WVU.

“Design, actually.”

Interesting. “And where does that lead?”

She makes a face. “I don't really want to say. I'm just toying with the idea still, and it's a bit... hokey.“ I swear she looks embarrassed, and the blush on her face harmonizes with the red in her hair and the green of her tunic in a surprisingly nice way. “What about you?” she asks.

“Me? Math.”

I expect her to react the way most people do when they hear what I study, especially when they know I’m on the basketball team. Like athletes can't be math geeks. But no, she just takes it in like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Cool. Couldn't do that myself. Don't have the head for numbers.”

I don't bother correcting her that at that level math has little to do with numbers, although I get the distinct feeling she would actually understand were I to explain it to her. Which makes me wonder what she’s doing hanging out with the blonde who seems mostly interested in giving boys boners and fucking Harry. I shake my head. The dark cloud that I thought had lifted is back, with a vengeance. I grunt. “Yeah, well, I'm starting to wonder if I do have one myself.”

She looks at me, and leans back against the wall, facing me. Her arms are crossed in front of her, and they pushed her breasts upwards and create a nice cleavage perfectly framed by the collar of her green tunic. “There's that look again. Tough semester?”

“Yeah, something like that.” On the other side of the ward, Shelley is goofing with one of the players, and either accidentally or not her tunic rides up her thighs and an older sick boy sitting on a bed across from her is looking at her legs with eyes wide and I see, just like he does, that she’s wearing green thigh highs and not tights like I thought she was. I love thigh highs. And here’s a girl with a killer body sporting a nice pair underneath her tight dress. I look back at Elizabeth, wondering for a second whether she is also wearing the same.

“Let me guess: top of your class back in high school?” she asks.

“Pretty much. Second. But just because the top was a brown-noser extraordinaire.”

“So top of the class in high school, and probably star basketball player. And then you show up here, and you're run of the mill, just one guy amongst others, good, but not great.”

I look at her. Who is this girl? I'm not sure how to respond.

She does—she laughs. “Don't look at me like that. It's pretty common, believe me. Me, I was average all through high school. So the transition wasn't so bad. Just more of the same. I fade in the background here like I did in high school. But for some people, the step is harder.”

“I doubt you faded in the background anywhere you’ve ever been, including high school.”

“Awww... You're sweet, you know that, Brandon Garcia?”

Wait, how does she know my name?

She doesn’t add anything, merely leans against the wall looking angelic, innocent, almost pure. But the way she presses her breasts upwards, the way she's arranged herself to put her legs on display, the smile that's on her face and that I'm tempted to qualify of predatory, all of that suggests that I'm being played, and played well.

My dick responds for me, and throbs. I find myself wishing Shelley was here looking at me the way Elizabeth is, but I don't actually mind Elizabeth.

“I think what you need is some distraction,” she says, a smile still hovering on her lips.

I snort, and shake my head. “What I need is someone to teach me about fucking statistics.”

“You make it sound like two different things.”

Before I can ask her what the hell she means by that, she leans over to press her lips against my cheek in a soft kiss, and heads out to return entertaining the kids, making sure to give me a little wave on the way.


* * *


The next two hours pretty much fly by, as we keep making the rounds through the hospital, hanging out with the patients and even the parents, which I gotta admit are pretty good sports about the whole thing. I'm not sure how I'd react if some cheerful costumed clowns showed up while my kid was sick and I was half worried out of my mind. But they seemed to appreciate out company, and I don't think I've looped together so many balloons or attempted my hand at so many card tricks before. I sucked at them, but the kids didn’t seem to care.

Every once in a while, I'd catch a peek of Elizabeth and Shelley, and I'd watch Shelley's tight little body. I'm usually not attracted to bimbos—I like my girls smart and being able to hold a conversation—but I have to admit that the blonde one is rocking one sweet body, and ever since noticing that she's wearing thigh highs, I would drop my eyes to the hem of her tunic, sitting high on her thigh, and see that she would flash her stocking tops at every opportunity, giving a good show to the boys that she ran into. I idly wondered what sort of panties she was wearing. I imagined something racy, possibly with lace. I was hard despite the setting, and despite my impending scholarly doom.

It was difficult to not be fascinated by Shelley. She was a goof with the young kids and a flirt with the older ones, but when she was with Harry, she was practically a tramp. I felt a surge of jealousy towards the big guy for the way he had this perfect little blonde all over him whenever he was close to her. I watched him put a big hand on her ass and her responding by pressing back into it before snuggling up in his arms. I wondered how she would look with her legs spread wide while the tall point guard, double her size, plowed into her like there was no tomorrow.

Elizabeth was kind and warm and smiled a lot, to everyone, and she was sexy as hell with her red hair and her mischievous smile, but without the spark, the vivaciousness, the playful quality that infused Shelley’s every move. Elizabeth seemed as comfortable around Harry as Shelley was, touching him frequently, and he responded in kind, hugging her and laughing and generally acting like his most genial self. Harry's always been popular with the ladies, but these two girls circled around him like fireflies.

At the end of the visit, as we're all slowly gathering together after saying goodbye to the kids, I spy Elizabeth pulling Harry down to her and talking to him. After a while, she looks in my direction. Harry looks as well, and he nods his head sagely, and the two chat for a few minutes before Elizabeth reaches up and kisses him, a slow kiss on the lips that lingers. Harry reaches down and cups the redhead's ass, grinning. Amazingly, she does not push him away, and she grins right back.

As I’m told they do every year after the visit, the whole group heads to Maxwell's, where Harry has reserved pretty much the whole restaurant. It's a nice spot. I don't go there nearly enough, and while I should really be going back to my dorm to study for fucking Statistical Reasoning, I'm hungry, Maxwell's has the best Reubens in town, and if I'm honest with myself for long enough, I know that going back to my dorm really mean going back to play Minecraft because I can't make heads or tails of what I should be studying anyways. Denial is the last recourse of the desperate.

We take over much of the dining room, and whatever other patrons show up afterward get warned, because we're loud. Not obnoxious loud, but we're buzzed from the feel-good afternoon, and it's the end of the semester. I'm the only one, it seems, with a bugbear on my back. But I try to put on a brave face.

I'm sitting between two of my teammates, two freshmen like me, nice guys that I'm not particularly close to, but we share enough sports interest that we can shoot the breeze while eating and basically listening to Harry driving the whole show from his spot at the head of the table.

Elizabeth found a seat in front of me, and we chat a bit, the two of us, as well as my teammates, who seem intrigued with her. And not just because she’s cute, but she can also hold up a conversation with the best of them, even when she has no idea what we're talking about, as when we stray into the details of how the league classifies players and assesses their long-term potential. I've seen many girls, and probably just as many guys, blank out during such a conversation. She doesn't.

Her friend Shelley is sitting next to Harry, and the two are laughing it up like crazy. Again, jealousy rears its ugly head, which I don't really understand because expect for the fact that she has a body made for fantasy fodder, bimbo blonde is not really my type.

Elizabeth is already more my type, and I do enjoy talking to her, and she seems to enjoy talking to me, and midway through the evening, I get the feeling that she's flirting with me. I'm pretty rotten at noticing subtle flirting, usually, and I guess what's happening here is that she's anything but subtle. She's taken off her boots and by the time the waitress has passed by to grab our plates and drop off dessert menus, one of her feet is making its way up my leg and nuzzles up against my inner thigh. It's a classic move, almost cliché, and she knows it, because when I look up she's smiling the smile of the cat who's just caught the canary and is about to swallow it whole.

But still my eyes keep going back to Shelley, who's by this point, all over Harry. I don't see what her hands are doing, but they're underneath the table, and Harry's grinning all teeth blazing, and I can't help but imagine that she's rubbing her hands all over his admittedly large dick. I’ve seen him in the showers. The Mule indeed.

I shake my head to clear it. This is crazy. I'm about to get kicked out for stupidly failing a stupid course that not only I should be smart enough to pass, but one that I should have never taken in the first place. Who takes Statistical Reasoning freshman year? Big shot Brandon Garcia, of course—taking on way too much, and paying for it now.

“You're thinking again,” says Elizabeth from my left. She’s moved next to me without me noticing. Dessert has also arrived—I must have really been out of it the last few minutes.

I merely shrug. Elizabeth leans on me, and drops a fork into my carrot cake. I'm happy to share. I'm not hungry anymore anyways. “It's not just the course, is it?” There she goes again, reading my mind.

I shrug again. Part of me wants everyone to go away and leave me alone and let me wallow in my miserable life.

“It's Shelley,” continues Elizabeth, taking a bite of cake. There's a bit of icing clinging to her lower lip, teasing me. In a flash, I see Shelley licking of the icing off from her friend's face. What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm depressed and angry and horny, all at the same time.

“You like her, don't you?” continues Elizabeth. “I can't blame you, she's awfully fuckable in that little outfit.”

“She’s okay,” I say, lying, but also speaking the truth.

Elizabeth nods and smiles, and for a second I suspect she's inside my head again knowing exactly what I'm thinking.

At the head of the table, Shelley is nuzzling Harry, her face against his neck, probably kissing it. From her position, she looks like she's half in her chair and half on Harry's lap. It actually looks pretty hot, and Shelley herself looks like she's getting into it. Harry is smiling and laughing and once in a while his hand disappears under the table and Shelley closes her eyes and seems to moan.

I almost jump in surprise when I feel Elizabeth put her chin on my shoulder. She's warm, right there next to me. For a second, I'm wondering whether she'll run her hands down my lap like Shelley did before to Harry. I want her to—who wouldn’t?—but I also would like Shelley to be here right next to me dropping her hand to my dick and rubbing herself against me.

Everyone around is busy in conversation, some of them slow-dancing in the middle of the dining room after having convinced the manager to dim the lights and to put on some music. I don’t want to know how much money the basketball team put up to basically take over the restaurant like that. But the point is that no one is really paying any attention to Elizabeth and me, or to Shelley and Harry at the end of the table.

Shelley, at this point, is running kisses down Harry’s face, and she’s square on his lap now, and from the way she’s moving her ass, she must be grinding down pretty hard on Harry’s dick. Harry’s making a face that I don’t recall him ever making, midway between delighted and torn. He’s speaking to Shelley, but I can’t hear what he’s saying, and he seems to be trying to reason with her, and all she does is kiss his neck and run her hands over his chest and undulate her body in a way that suggests she must be a wonder in bed.

Elizabeth’s arm is wrapped around my shoulders, her hand is caressing me softly, her head is still leaning on me. She seems to be watching Shelley and Harry, but I’m pretty sure she’s watching me watching Shelley and Harry. I can’t help it. It’s hot to see those two together, and I wish I was the kind of guy that could get a cute little blonde girl squirming over my dick like Shelley seems to be on Harry’s, nothing in her pretty little head but the desire to be fucked and fucked well. And she’s probably not even worried about courses, either—probably majoring in psychology or something. All the hot girls major in psychology, it seems.

Elizabeth laughs softly and shakes her head—sending some of her hair tickling the side of my face—as she see watches Harry trying to reason with Shelley, who makes it clear that she’s not listening. I look at Elizabeth, a question on my face.

“It’s Shelley. She’s trying to get Harry to come back with us to our rooms for a little fun."

My ears pick up her use of the plural: with us, our rooms. "But?” I ask.

“But Harry can’t tonight. He’s rehearsing. Look at her though. She’s trying to convince him to skip the rehearsal. And her arguments can be pretty good, believe me. Shelley’s stubborn. But Harry more so. Especially when it comes to acting.”

“Yeah," I say. “He takes his acting seriously.”

“As he should. He’s very good. He was amazing in Coriolanus two months ago.”

“Maybe, but I admit that if I was glad when he was done with it. If I had to go on hearing him shout, ‘Go, get you home, you fragments!’ whenever he was unhappy with the team during practice, I’d have punched him.”

Elizabeth laughs, her laugh a clear sparkle in the dim light of the restaurant. She remains pressed against my shoulder, and I’m tempted to ask her if she wants to dance.

I hesitate too long, though, and before I can say anything, Shelley is coming to sit with us, slamming down on a chair with a pout on her face, while Harry stands up and tells everyone that he has to take off and to all be good. He thanks us all for our participation in the afternoon, and then leaves, his Santa Claus hat jingling as he walks away.

“Bastard,” Shelley grumbles.

Elizabeth, her head still on my shoulder, smiles gently and patiently to her friend. “Shel, I told you he couldn’t make it. He’s got rehearsal.”

Shelley makes a face. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You and him. Rehearsal this, theater that. Let me tell you, my pussy’s better than any theater.”

She looks at me, defiant, challenging me to say anything. “What’s wrong, jock boy? Too frank for your taste?”

I’m not sure what to say. Shelley looks angry. At me or at Harry is not clear. What did I do anyway?

“Don’t be too hard on Brandon here, Shel,” says Elizabeth. “He’s having a tough time.”

“What tough time? Did somebody stole his ball and he can’t play no more?”

“Come on Shel, don’t be mean.”

“I’m not being mean. I’m horny. I’m fucking horny and my favorite cock’s gone off to rehearse some stupid play.”

I feel the need to chime in and defend my friend. “It’s not just any stupid play. It’s Oedipus Rex, and it’s a classic.” Like she would know about that.

She snorts. “Like you would know about that, jock boy. Stick to reading your Sports Illustrated, or you’ll hurt yourself.” She stands up. “I’m going home.” Without waiting for a comment or a response, she swivels and heads to the exit. I follow her, caught between staring at her tight little ass wrapped in her green too-short tunic and swaying with her every booted step, and fuming at her.

I exchange a glance with Elizabeth, who herself seems caught between befuddlement and amusement. "Sports Illustrated?” I ask, indignant. “Who reads Sports Illustrated?”

Elizabeth bursts out laughing, and her laughter is infectious and soon I join her, and she’s hugging me as she laughs, and I have to admit it feels nice.

When we catch out breath, I ask her. "What’s wrong with her?”

“The thing with Shelley is that she doesn’t take rejection well. And she seemed to have had her eyes set on spending the night with Harry.”

“Are they... are they an item or something?” Harry has never said anything, but he likes to play his personal life close to the chest.

“Harry and Shel? No way. But we all hang out sometimes.” The way she says it suggests something more, and I can’t help but imagine those two girls—the long-hair redhead and the short-haired blonde—naked against my large teammate, and it’s a damn hot picture. I abort it before things get even more clear in my head. I don’t need to hate Harry, on top of everything else going down the drain.

Elizabeth sees all of this in my eyes, and I have once again the distinct impression that she knows exactly what I’m thinking. It’s unnerving, to say the least. When she continues, she looks almost apologetic. “I probably should go with her, make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.”

She lets me go, stands up. I think I feel disappointment.

“What about you?” she asks. “What are you going to do?”

“Me? I dunno... probably go home, study some stats...” The gloom is back, all at once, like somebody turned off the light. I’m going to go home, stare at my textbook and my notes with growing despair, and that will guarantee that whatever I’m reading and trying to figure out will look even more opaque than before, and then I’ll grow frustrated and then angry and then... and then nothing.

Elizabeth looks at me, her head cocked to the side. “You know what? If you go home, I’m picturing you doing absolutely everything but trying to study and not taking in a single bit of information. That’s pretty stupid. Come with me.” She extends a hand.

I stare at it, beckoning, inviting, soothing. “I don’t know. I really should...”

“Should, should, should. Just trust me. I have an idea. An idea where everyone comes out the winner.”

I look at her, uncertain.

She smiles her warmest gentlest smile, the one that I’m sure can melt just about anyone’s heart, and mine is no stronger than anyone’s.

I take her hand, and let her lead the way.

EMCSA Woes

Writing Journal: Busy end of year. But I'm still around, if silent. And still writing, don't worry: hacking on The Adjusters #36 and #37, and since it looks like the end will take longer than I expected—did I mention I tend to overwrite?—in part to set up the next few books appropriately, the epilogue of Book III looks like it is going to be #38. Although, now that I think of it, I don't have a sex scene lined up for #38 yet. Ah well, something to worry about over the Holidays. Oh, and I'm also trying to put a Christmas Special together, too. Tricky tricky.

---

Some of you may have noticed that the Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive has been having problems these last few months—sometimes showing the latest updates, sometimes showing the updates of August 4th. Long story short: there are two load-balancing servers serving the pages, and one of them failed to replicate the database past August 4th. So depending which server you hit, you either got something recent, or not.

Things appear to be back to normal now, but it's based on a small data sample. if the issue reappears, know that you can just hit refresh until you land on the right server. Alternatively, you can use Svengali, which you should know about anyways: it's a tagging overlay on top of the EMCSA, which gives you more descriptive tags and a search engine.

What else? There's an interesting thread on the MC Forum (partly prompted by the server problems alluded to above) as to whether the EMCSA is dying. Short answer: doubtful. But the discussion is fascinating. What? You're not a member of MC Forum? Sign up, and check it out. It's a nice community.

To put you in the proper Holiday spirit, here's Amia Miley having herself a Naughty Christmas.

As far as reading materials for the week, I've been in touch with Marlissa, and was reminded that one of that author's stories was an inspiration for The Adjusters. Specifically, The Conditioners: “Keith starts working at a secretive corporation and is given the power to condition women's minds.” An interesting longish story.

The other major inspiration, if you're curious, was Simon bar Sinister's The Treatment: “Ed accidentally learns about a diabolical conspiracy to brainwash nubile women.” Short, but delightfully arousing.

Of course, The Adjusters has evolved way beyond the original idea that was prompted by those two stories. But the seed is still there, buried deep, and you might even recognize it when I come around to the relevant plot points.

New Story: The Adjusters #35

Here is December's installment of The Adjusters, “A Wedding and a Lead”, wherein our Special gains a new Vessel for his Ministry, and Daniel discovers what may be a promising lead.

As usual, comments welcome.

I'll also remind you that we have a Speculation Thread available for general discussion. (A thread which I read but do not comment on.)


The Adjusters #35 - A Wedding and a Lead

(Point Pleasant, West Virginia. Two months ago.)

He sneaks into the church with all the other guests--it is a large
wedding, the parish church struggling to contain everyone--and nobody
notices him.

That is a certain advantage with large groups, near anonymity--nobody
gives him a second glance. But it has the potential of making it more
difficult to find the bride. There is still an hour to go before the
official start of the ceremony, so he is not worried. Not yet.

He will have to venture in the back of the church. Not a problem. He
heads in that direction, and begs an elderly lady who shots him an
initially distrusting glance for directions to the nearest
restroom. She finally takes pity on him and walks him down a small
recessed hallway.

It is a single-person restroom, which is what he hoped for. He locks
the door, then buttons his shirt all the way up after sliding on a
clerical collar. A quick turn of the comb, and he feels confident he
can pass off as a minister. A distinct advantage of religion--a
singular respect for authority figures. He grins to himself in the
mirror--if he cannot pass off as a clergyman, he has little business
with godhood, does he not?

Continue reading...


Next month: “No Wedding but a Suspect”.

Update on The Adjusters #35

Between a bad head cold and some SQL code that simply refuses to do as it's told, dammit, I've been crawling my way through the final edits to The Adjusters #35—which is a 13000 words monstrosity. Especially since I realized yesterday that I have a fix for a problem that was plaguing me and that actually belongs at the end of #35, so there was a bout of fresh writing to mess with my barely thought-out plans.

All that to say, here's the first half of The Adjusters #35, as a teaser, until I get the rest up sometimes tomorrow night. Again, your patience is vastly appreciated.

---

The Adjusters #35 - A Wedding and a Suspect
The Adjusters #35 - A Wedding and a Lead

(Point Pleasant, West Virginia. Two months ago.)

He sneaks into the church with all the other guests--it is a large wedding, the parish church struggling to contain everyone--and nobody notices him.

That is a certain advantage with large groups, near anonymity--nobody gives him a second glance. But it has the potential of making it more difficult to find the bride. There is still an hour to go before the official start of the ceremony, so he is not worried. Not yet.

He will have to venture in the back of the church. Not a problem. He heads in that direction, and begs an elderly lady who shots him an initially distrusting glance for directions to the nearest restroom. She finally takes pity on him and walks him down a small recessed hallway.

It is a single-person restroom, which is what he hoped for. He locks the door, then buttons his shirt all the way up after sliding on a clerical collar. A quick turn of the comb, and he feels confident he can pass off as a minister. A distinct advantage of religion--a singular respect for authority figures. He grins to himself in the mirror--if he cannot pass off as a clergyman, he has little business with godhood, does he not?

Back outside, he takes a second to orient himself. The actual minister is the only person he really needs to avoid. He has to find the bride. He walks slowly, paying attention to noises and opening and glancing at the room beyond every door he encounters. He crosses path with a few people, but they do not say anything beyond a respectful "Good afternoon." He merely keeps his face gentle and neutral.

Beyond one door towards the end of the hallway he sees a mirror and clothes piled in a corner, and he sighs softly when he sees a bridal veil hooked on a chair by the wall. But where is the girl? He enters and closes the door behind him, trying to remain quiet. Then he hears a faint noise, and freezes.

A whisper. "Ssshh... Stop it--I heard something."

"It's all in your head." That one is a man's voice, louder.

"No, I'm telling you. I heard something." Still whispered, but louder. A woman's voice.

With a eery sense of calm he does not really feel, he notes the deep curtain used to block out the large bay window, and hurries to hide behind it.

And just in time, too.

"Fine," he hears. "Hold on. I'll check. Look--" the voice is louder now, coming from the direction where he has seen a door that he assumed was a closet. "There's no one here."

"Still," the woman's voice this time, giggly and nervous at the same time. "You shouldn't be here."

"Ah come on," the man says, amusement in his voice. "It's not that thing about seeing the bride before the wedding, is it? That's just a bunch of hooey, honey."

"I don't know..."

"It is... now kiss me. You look so hot in that dress..."

He picks up sounds of kissing coming from the other side of the curtain, followed by sounds of rustling.

"Lucas, what are you doing? Behave yourself!" the girl says, with another nervous giggle.

"Come on, Chris. I'm getting desperate here! You want me to explode right there during the ceremony? Or even just have a plain old big boner the whole time, sticking out of my pants?"

The girl--Chris--laughs, and there is more rustling.

"How about a little head, Chris? A quick one, just to take the edge off. I can eat you out, too, if you want. It'd be hot with that dress up around your waist..."

"Lucas! I told you, no! I love you, I'm going to marry you, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you, but I'm not taking your.... I'm not taking you into my mouth. It's gross! You pee from there, for Pete's sake!"

"Well, I eat you out!"

"And that's your choice. I'm certainly not asking you to do that. But you enjoy it, and I sometimes think you do it more for you than for me."

"Hey, that's not fair!"

Chris snorts, but her tone grows softer. "Fine. Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. But it's true. Look, you enjoy giving oral sex; I don't. So don't ask me to do it, please?"

"But it's our wedding day. A little treat, you know? Something special..."

"Hey! Don't make me out to be a prude, okay? Who was it that let you fuck her in the laundry room at his brother's place last week, while his family was in the other room? So there's one thing that's off the sex plate. Deal." Her tone of voice is starting to rise. "Now just drop it."

Lucas sighs exaggeratedly. "Okay, okay. But that's just because you're staring at me with those big innocent blue eyes that you know full well I can't resist."

Chris laughs, still sounding a little edgy. "Good. Now kiss me some more, you big log. And come in the other room--you're right, I should help you take care of that little... problem you got in your pants. Not that you deserve it, but I think a quick hand job would do the trick, don't you?"

Her voice fades somewhat as she guides her fiance through the door once more. "I'll let you come on my thighs, if you want. And I won't clean up. So you'll know your cum is dripping down my legs all through the wedding...."

Lucas's moan drifts away as the couple leaves the main room.

He remains behind his curtain for a moment, wondering what to do next. He has no intention of wasting this opportunity. It is time for some Godly acting.

He steps out from behind the curtain after a quick peek to ensure the room is clear. What he thought was a closet door is almost closed. Soft moans and sounds of flesh rubbing on flesh can be heard. He makes his decision quickly. He goes to the main door, opens it without attempting to cover the noise, and steps loudly on the floor a few times, grunting out.

Immediately, a startled cry comes out of the adjoining room, sounds of mad shuffling, and whispers. He grunts again. "Who's there?"

A few seconds later, the groom emerges from the adjoining room, red faced, adjusting his jacket. "Oh... Reverend... I'm sorry... I didn't think..."

"Who are you?"

"I'm... I'm with the wedding party... I'm..."

"You should not be here. This area is restricted."

"Of course... I... huh... we..."

"Leave, now."

Lucas, the groom, looks back towards the adjoining room, and after a moment's hesitation leaves in a hurry.

The door to the adjoining room is mostly closed, and there is no sound coming from it. He looks at it, smiling to himself. He closes the main door behind him, and locks it.

He waits a few seconds, then calls out to the bride. "Miss? I know you're in there."

After a long pause, there is some shuffling, and a head peeks out of the slowly opening door, face red with embarrassment. "Huh... Reverend?"

He pinches his face into a frown, trying to look as disapproving as he can. "Come here, Miss."

The bride, Christina, emerges from the room, looking crestfallen. The redness on her face goes all the way down her generous cleavage. Her dress is tight, hugging her body close, revealing round curves and long limbs. It goes down mid-thigh straight, remaining tight the whole way down, the material wrinkled and bunched together horizontally in fine lines. Her legs, wrapped in white nylon, are simply perfect.

He must have stared for a moment too long, and certainly in a way unbecoming of a minister, because Christina is frowning by the time his eyes have made their way back to her face. Her voice is uncertain. "Reverend...?"

There is no time to waste. He takes the two steps separating him from the bride, and although she reflexively moves back, he presses his fingers into the soft flesh of her naked shoulders.

The familiar sensation runs up his arm, and his fingers tingle on her skin. Christina's face grows blank.

He sighs with relief, and lets his fingers run down her shoulder to her sternum before dipping down the valley of her breasts, teasing the gentle slope of flesh encased in her dress's corset. His cock, already hard, twitches in expectant excitement.

She is more beautiful even than on the pictures he has seen--porcelain skin, round piercing blue eyes, large breasts, long legs. She is a model, Lizzie told him. And now, she is his, ready to be a Vessel for her Lord.

"Christina," he says, raising his palm to her face. She is looking at him expectantly, the tip of her tongue teasing her upper lip. Her breathing is deep, which does wonderful things to her breasts. "I am your Lord, your Savior. I am the Light that illuminates your life and reveals the Truth. You are my Servant. You are my Vessel."

Christina's face flushes red again, this time with arousal, and she lifts a hand up to her chest, as if to hold it in. It rests on the cleft between her breasts where his hand was a moment earlier. Bright red fingernails tipping dainty fingers tease him with the promise of playful scratches.

"I am yours, my Lord. I am your Vessel. Do with me as you please." Her voice is filled with unmistakable lust.

His cock throbs.

His hand on her face trails down to her mouth, and he runs his index finger over her ruby red lips. Her breath catches.

His eyes looking deep into hers, he slides his thumb between her lips, and she gently slurps the invading digit inside, wrapping her tongue teasingly around it, scratching against the nail.

He thrusts his thumb deeper, and without prompting Christina starts to suck on it, softly at first, then more vigorously. Her eyes never leave his.

He is starting to see why Lucas was so keen on getting head from this pair of lips--she looks like she was created to do exactly what she is doing now, sucking on something thrust in her mouth.

He sighs. He is under a time constraint--and indeed, the groom must still be around, and is bound to come and investigate what has happened to his dearly beloved if she does not emerge from the room, but good sense takes second stage to sheer lust. The feeling of Christina's mouth suckling on his thumb makes his cock twitch in synchrony, and he wants to feel her mouth on his shaft. She has probably never sucked on a man before--but here she is, about to have her mouth invaded for the first time by a God.

"Christina," he says, pulling his thumb out of her mouth and moving to unfasten his pants, "prepare me, for I shall penetrate you and shower you with the gift of Life Eternal."

"Prepare you, my Lord?" Her look is half innocence, half wickedness.

His cock springs free, hard and angry and demanding attention.

"Have you ever pleasured a man with your mouth, Christina? Held a hard shaft between your lips and let it slip into your mouth and possess you?"

"N...no..." Even through the haze of his control, he can see she is hesitant, her strong natural reluctance fighting off against the signals of lust and desire that must have been radiating from her sex.

He smiles, and lifts two fingers to her mouth, and slowly pushes them in the wet orifice, thrusting them in deep before pulling them out and sawing back and forth in a simulacrum of fellatio. Christina moans, and sucks.

"You will prepare me with your mouth, Christina--prepare your Lord's spear so that it can penetrate your sacred slit and consecrate you. Get down on your knees, and worship your Lord like a penitent, like a suppliant, like a wench seeking forgiveness for her sins. Take me in your mouth, Christina, and revere your Lord!"

He gently presses on her head, and she haltingly slides down his body to kneel at his feet, her face only inches from the tip of his hard cock. She looks at it with fascination and apprehension, her mouth open, breathing hard.

He runs his hand through her hair and gently pulls her towards her reward. "Go on," he says, "take it in..."

The tip of his cock makes contact with her lips, and she closes her eyes and shivers. He pushes in, taking his time, enjoying the sensations of her lips closing around his flesh, of her tongue dancing on the surface of his glans, of her cheeks as she sucks in hard.

She gags slightly when he touches the back of her mouth, and he relents. She lets him slide out, and then takes him back in, this time helped by a hand on her head. After a few iterations, he lets her go, and she bobs gently on his cock, sucking him on her own, taking him as deep as she can before releasing him at the edge of discomfort.

For someone that has never sucked a man, she is a natural, her mouth playing his shaft like a well-trained flutist her instrument. Her eyes remain closed as she bobs back and forth, slowly, soft sucking sounds filling the air.

"Christina," he says, "look at your Lord."

She does, looking up at him as she keeps sucking, her big blue eyes full of desire and adoration.

He caresses her cheek. "You truly are beautiful."

Christina blushes, and sucks harder, the slurping sounds from her mouth music to his ears. She is not the best fellatrix he has ever sampled, but she has enthusiasm, and her beauty makes it all the more rewarding. For what man does not secretly crave for a model to lavishly worship his shaft? What God?

"Christina," he adds, after a particularly deep thrust from the blonde makes him shiver, "I will grant you a Boon. From now on, whenever you have a hard shaft in your mouth, you will get arouse--you will get wet--wetter than your deepest dirtiest unmentionable fantasies have ever made you. Every thrust of a shaft in your mouth will ratchet up your arousal, bit by bit, until you crave for sweet orgasmic release."

As soon as he finishes, Christina moans, and her efforts on his cock redouble in ardor, as if she is possessed by an increased hunger--she takes him deeper, repeatedly, and the act sends delightful sensations up his spine every time she forces his cock to bump the back of her throat. She cannot take him all, but he does not mind, not this time. What she is doing is wonderful enough.

He nods approvingly when he sees that while bobbing up and down on his cock she has lifted her dress up her thighs and has sneaked a hand underneath it, undoubtedly to finger herself. He almost tells her to stop and take off her dress so he can witness the spectacle of her dainty hand thrusting a few fingers up her hungry twat as she sucks him off, but the feelings on his cock are simply too good to be interrupted.

For the first time since he started his Ministry, he contemplates releasing his seed in a Vessel's mouth before inseminating her, for the sheer pleasure of it. The way she thrusts herself forward, the sounds of suction escaping her lips, the moans emerging from her throat, the press of her cheeks and her tongue and her whole mouth around his cock is incredible, and he does not want any of it to end.

Christina's hand under her dress is more frantic now, and it becomes clear that she is thrusting fingers in and out of her pussy, the soft squelching sounds merging with those from her blow job in a harmony of lewdness.

No--he needs to adhere to the Plan, the Vision, the Prophecies. He cannot afford to stoop to satisfying some primal desires.

"Christina, stop--"

She does not. She does not hear him, or so he tells himself. Because the alternative is that she resisted his Command, a Blasphemy the consequence of which he does not want to consider.

"Christina, stop at this moment!" He does not want to raise his voice. He grabs her hair and pulls her off his cock.

Her head back, her mouth wide open with strings of saliva connecting her lips to the tip of his shaft, her eyes crazed and unseeing, she looks like an animal--a beautiful, sexy, utterly desirable animal. She keeps thrusting a hand under her dress, hard, and the whimpers that she cannot control suggest that perhaps his Boon earlier was too much, that perhaps her mind is unable to cope with the pleasure he has forced through her system.

"Please... my Lord... Please! I want... I want... my Lord, I want to taste your cum!" It looks like it is a struggle to resist the urge she feels to dive right back onto his cock, and he cannot help a smile.

"You want your Lord's seed, wench?"

"Fuck yes," she says, her eyes finally focusing on him, her free hand rising up to grasp his hard shaft and stroke it lightly. "I want you to splash it all over my face, all over my mouth--I want to drown in your cum, my Lord!"

"You will get my Seed, then. Lie down, lift up your dress, spread your legs. Offer your holy hole to your Lord, so that He may consecrate you with his Rod."

Christina obeys him, lying down on the ground at his feet, not caring about the dirt floor. She pulls her dress up over her thighs, exposing the top of her stockings--along with the garter--and then her sheer panties, which are almost translucent at the crotch so abundant is her arousal.

He points, while stroking his cock. "Take them off."

She does. She then spreads her legs wide, and caresses a beautiful pussy covered with a fine dew of light hair. She moans, as her fingers busily dance up and down her swollen labia.

He stares, still stroking his cock, admiring the beautiful blonde with her long legs spread, ready to welcome him and please him.

"Please," she moans, lifting her pelvis so that her crotch sways closer to him, "please enter me, my Lord. Enter me, and fuck me..." Her voice trails as she thrusts two fingers into her pussy to heart-warming sloshy sounds.

"My thoughts exactly," he mutters as he stretches himself over her and presses the head of his cock against her pussy. She does not wait for him to push in, preferring to thrust her groin upward and impale herself on his descending shaft.

She groans a loud "Oh fuck!" and comes in his arms, shivering with her pleasure. As he slowly fucks in and out, she clings to him, breathing hard in his ear, her legs wrapped around him, the tip of her high heels digging into his calves, her body pressed against his.

"You fill me up so good, my Lord," she whispers in his ear, as she thrusts back against him.

He lifts himself up on his elbows to look at her. Her skin is gleaming, her eyes are half closed. Her mouth is open, her lips wet, her tongue dancing in one corner. Without thinking, he runs a finger over those red lips.

Christina grunts and grips the tip of his finger between her lips and suckles on it before opening her eyes and while keeping them trained on his, sucks that finger deep into her mouth.

"Mmm," she moans, as she gives his finger a blow job, a little smile on her lips, her big innocent eyes watching him.

He fucks her harder.

She seems to enjoy that. She lets go of his finger, grasps him behind the neck and pulls herself up, her nose against his, breathing through her mouth. "Are you going to stuff that big cock of yours in my mouth, my Lord? Are you going to fuck my mouth? I want to swallow you whole, my Lord--I want to drink you all up..." She mashes her lips against his and kisses him hard, bucking underneath his rutting body.

He is taken aback, and almost explodes right then and there. He pulls back, closes his eyes trying to think of something suitably neutral, and when he is calmer, he finally speaks.

"Christina, I will now baptize you into your new Faith. You will accept my Seed deep into your womb, and carry it to term so that you can bring forth a new generation of worshippers for your Lord. Tell me, do you want my Seed?"

"Oh yes! Spill in me, my Lord! Feed me your cum, drown me!"

It is not quite what he has in mind, but the enthusiasm behind the thought pleases him to no end, and once more he almost gives in to his desire to pull out and shove his cock into her mouth and continue introducing her to the joys of oral sex.

But he does not. Duty comes first. Duty always comes first. Duty is the code that keeps the Spirit from flying off into space like a helium balloon. He thrusts into Christina harder, cementing his determination. She moans as she feels him inside her, and urges him on.

He smiles to himself. There is no reason why he cannot derive pleasure if Duty is seen to. After all, even Gods need rewards. He raises himself on his hands, and looks at the bride, her eyes closed, sweat dripping off her brow, her mouth open and panting. "Is this how you want your mouth fucked? Hard and fast?" He punctuates his question with a few hard thrusts.

Christina's eyes fly open, her lips parting wider, the tiniest bit of drool seeping off the corner of her mouth. She looks crazed. She moans loudly before wrapping her nylon-sheathed legs around his waist and clutching him close.

"Fuck yes," she groans before her tongue sneaks out to lick his lips. "Fuck my mouth hard and deep--fuck my mouth like a cunt, my Lord--shove your cock down my throat over and over and over and--Oh! God! Yes! Like that!"

She clutches him tighter, pulling herself off the ground, her legs wrapped around him. His arms are starting to shake from having to support their combined weight. Christina is panting in his ear, little animals sounds coming from her throat. "Fuck me, my Lord! Fuck me!" she repeats, like a mantra.

He pushes her down and redoubles his efforts, his hips driving his cock deeper and deeper into her welcoming pussy. The wet sounds from their coupling testify to the arousal Christina is subject to. When he runs one of his hands down the side of her face, she swivels her head like a panther and grabs his hand and sucks two of his fingers into her mouth and she swallows them repeatedly, gagging loudly, and the sounds from the mouth compete with those from her pussy.

Her eyes are closed. Her hips do a mad dance. The hand grasping his hand holds it in a death grip, while her other hand is on his butt and urges him deeper inside her.

And then she pushes his fingers down her gullet and elicits a gag that threatens to make her retch on the spot, and she stiffens underneath him, and practically explodes with an orgasm that nearly throws him off.

And the feeling of her pussy squeezing his cock in the throes of her passion brings him over the edge, and he lets go--spurting jet after jet of his Seed deep in her womb, while she sucks harder and harder on his fingers as if they are about to provide the same nectar for her to enjoy.

He slumps to the ground next to her, drained. The cool floor is hard against his side, but he does not care.

Christina snuggles up to him, still keeping his hand near her face, gently licking his fingers. Her other hand is softly stroking his cock, which is barely deflated.

When he recovers his breath, he looks at her. He tries to summon enough energy to sound powerful and dominating. "Christina," he says, pushing his voice low.

"Mmm... yes, my Lord?" She licks the palm of his hand, looking for all the world like a cat playing with a mouse.

"You are now a Vessel of your God."

"Mmm... yes, my Lord."

"You and your soon-to-be husband are blessed. He shall be rewarded for offering his bride as a Vessel. Listen to me well, Christina." He raises himself on an elbow.

Christina looks at him, nibbling on one of his fingers.

"From now on, you shall provide your husband-to-be with oral sex whenever he so desires. No matter when he wishes it, or where he wishes it, you shall endeavor to satisfy him to the best of your considerable skills. You will offer to wake him up every morning with a blow job, and you will make it very clear that your mouth is his for the taking. You will, at your convenience, practice your oral skills, seeking to become the most accomplished fellatrix you can be. Your Boon, Christina, will remain your gift. But your oral-driven orgasms when satisfying your husband-to-be with your mouth will be even more pleasurable than any other."

Christina is listening, absorbing, changing upon hearing his words, even as she is sucking on his finger.

"Now show me," he says, lying down on his back. "Show me how you are going to suck your husband's cock--worship your Lord like you would him."

Her grin is wide. "With pleasure, my Lord!"


* * *


(Charleston, West Virginia. Two months ago.)

Elizabeth Bowden strolled through the lobby towards the security guard behind his reception desk.

"Kanawha Insurance," she said with a smile.

The guard nodded without looking up from his bank of security cameras. "Sixth floor. Please sign in."

He only looked when Elizabeth was signing her name, and from the corner of her eyes she saw his double take, and repressed a smile. People--mostly men--had been reacting that way to her as she made her way to Greg's building, which confirmed that she had done well. The security guard at least was trying to remain professional, in contrast to the corner florist who unashamedly gawked at her as if she were a Saturday night stripper whom he had paid good money to ogle.

Not that she was dressed particularly scantily, she reflected with a touch of wonder as she smiled to the guard after picking up the bouquet of flowers she had purchased from the corner florist and heading to the elevator bank. The pale raincoat she wore was perhaps a little bit high on her thighs, and the way she kept it cinched tight at the waist did wonders for her figure. But her shoes were anything special--runners, what anyone with half a sane mind wore to walk around the city. But the white nylons that were visible between the hem of her coat and her shoes caught the eye, and certainly her hair and makeup were flawless, which they had better be because she had spent nearly an hour perfecting them, brushing her long red hair in exactly the way that Greg said he loved, and she knew she looked good. Smashing, in fact.

And she looked good because she felt good. More than good, great! With two months to go before she and Greg would tie the knot, two months before they could move in together without her father getting a stroke, two months before her husband could ravage her and make her a woman. Like a puppy picking up on the excitement of her mistress and happily wagging its tail in anticipation of something good, her pussy tingled in sympathy.

She was alone in the elevator that carried her to the sixth floor, which gave her some time to get ready mentally and rehearse what she wanted to do. She had visited Greg at his office often enough, and sometimes for exactly the reason she was there today--sex--but never in such an elaborate fashion. Never with anything but, say, her own satisfaction in the balance. Today, she was not there for herself, she was there for Greg, and that added a certain pressure, a certain weight, which made her just a touch nervous.

When she thought about it cold, early in the morning upon waking and before leaving the comfort of her bed, she still had trouble coming to terms with what she could only qualify as her good fortune. She was a romantic at heart--had always been--and even as she was growing up, she had had to hide her favorite movies from the boys without whom she used to play and spend most of her time. She had grown up a tomboy with a wild closeted romantic streak. And fifteen years later, she had come full circle and was a wedding planner. While she was clear eyed about the realities of modern marriages--not everyone took it equally seriously, and as long as both parties agreed that this was the case, there was no harm done-- but she held the deep feeling that the institution was special, was worth preserving, that vowing love and support and partnership in front of witnesses and through a ritual had benefits that went beyond economy or companionship. And that's why the push to recognize gay marriages is really a Godsend, she thought, not for the first time, it counters the narrative that permeates everything nowadays.

The elevator dinged for the sixth floor. She grinned to herself thinking about running that argument by her father--he'd have a stroke, albeit a smaller one than if she had moved in with Greg before her wedding. Her father still fumed and exploded when he spoke of young people living together without getting married, and the sheer concept of homosexuality--gay men in particular--was one he hated so much it did not even warrant a rant on his part. Elizabeth wondered the extent to which his time in the army had shaped his views, wondered whether he had witnessed or experienced something that had traumatized him. He rarely spoke of the war. About being in the military, yes, all the time. But the war itself, almost never.

She stepped out of the elevator onto the comparatively busy floor that housed not only the offices of Kanawha Insurance, Greg's employer, but also a small investment bank and a orthopedic practice. Her mother, in the year before her death, the year during which she and Elizabeth had talked endlessly and had grown much closer, had always maintained that her father was a good man, deep down inside, but a wounded one. Wounded beyond any physical damage. Some damage is not visible, she had often repeated.

Elizabeth nodded her head and smiled to a few of Greg's colleagues that she recognized, having met them at several official functions where she had been introduced as his fiancee. She barely noticed the looks they gave her, hungry, lustful, predatory looks, the kind of looks she saw throughout her college years. Her father was still foremost on her mind as she wondered, not for the first time, how he would take her upcoming nuptials. She worried about him--he seemed happy for her, encouraging, even begrudgingly recognizing that Greg was an "upstanding young man" even though he had never served his country.

Giving up his legs for his country in Iraq during the First Gulf War had been tough, but tougher still had been his reintegration into society. In a story line calqued almost shamelessly from the headlines of a Second World War paper, he had fallen in love, not with a nurse, but with the doctor at the rehabilitation center in which he had landed back in the States--and he had been at first surprised, then disbelieving, then reluctantly hopeful upon realizing that his feelings were shared and that his doctor, Elizabeth's mother, shared those feelings despite his damage, despite his nonfunctional lower body, despite his perceived uselessness.

Elizabeth had been three years old at the time. She did not remember her biological father--the man her mother used to call the Bastard. Elizabeth had never met him, had never sought him out. And it did not matter, because Sergeant James Bowden of the 24th Infantry Division filled the role of father as if it was meant for him in the first place.

And he had been wonderful and supportive when her mother--his wife--died eight years later, even though Elizabeth knew full well that that time had been terrible for him, a hell not unlike that of his war years and the loss of his legs. And yet he soldiered on, taking care of her, and she carried in her heart the secret that perhaps, just perhaps, she might have given him a reason to live, a role to play, a home to stoke the fires for. He treated her like she was his own daughter, like she was blood from his blood, grown from his own seed. And for that, for not abandoning her, for giving her a home and giving her his heart, she would forever be thankful.

She shook her head to clear it as she approached the desk of Greg's administrative assistant, which he shared with four other colleagues. The assistant, Meghan, stared at Elizabeth with wide eyes. They had spoken often a functions and parties thrown by Greg's company, and they had gotten along quite well. That the assistant was but a few years younger than Elizabeth helped, and that they came from similar backgrounds helped even more.

"Miss... Miss Bowden," said Meghan. It had become a joke between them, calling her Miss Bowden, although Elizabeth suspected that the young Meghan mostly meant it, as she had always seemed a bit in awe of the redhead. Not that Elizabeth knew why. Shelley's theory, when Elizabeth had mentioned it, after asking if the assistant was pretty--not a beauty, but not unpleasant to look at either, the word mousy fitting, too reserved and unwilling to put herself forward--was that the assistant was indeed awed, awed by Elizabeth's togetherness, beauty, and the fact that she had landed her direct boss, for whom the assistant might bear the slightest crush.

"Hi Meghan. Is Greg in?" Somehow, that Meghan might have a crush on Greg, on her man, endeared the young woman even more to Elizabeth--as if they had something more in common. Elizabeth was not generally prone to jealousy, and she did not get any vibes indicating she might need to feel otherwise towards the reserved administrative assistant.

Meghan nodded. She was still staring at Elizabeth as if she were an apparition, her eyes wide. "Yes... yes, he is. Miss Bowden. He's been back from lunch as of half an hour ago. Do you want me to tell him you're here?"

"I was thinking of dropping in to surprise him, to be completely honest. Is he alone?"

Meghan nodded once again, watching Elizabeth put her large handbag on the desk and pulling out from it a pair of white stiletto pumps.

As Elizabeth slipped off her runners, Meghan seemed fascinated by the shoes, and then appeared to realize that she was staring and blushed and without really looking at Elizabeth asked about the wedding. "You must... you must be excited about the big day... Miss Bowden? Two months to go?"

Elizabeth grinned as she slid her feet into her pumps, immediately gaining four inches. She noted that at least one man in the office was staring at her, exactly what Meghan was avoiding at all cost. Elizabeth felt a bit of a blush coming to her cheeks, recognizing the spike of arousal that she remembered so well form her college days when she felt male eyes on her that cemented the power she held over them--one that she never abused, but enjoyed greatly. She had toned it down after graduation, considering it part of growing up. But perhaps Shelley was right about this--as Shelley was wont to be about most things--that it was her true nature to show off, to feed on sexual energy. She wondered, again not for the first time, whether Greg would approve, and how he would react to learning about that aspect of her personality, if he had not already guessed it.

"Nine weeks," she answered, putting her runners in her bag. She decided not to put on her tiara--she had not been sure, but now that the choice had to be made, it did not feel right. "But who's counting, right?"

She flashed a happy smile to Meghan, who responded with a small smile of her own. "You're so lucky," she said, wistfully, looking as though she wanted to add more.

"Oh, I'm not the one who's lucky today." She gave Meghan a weighty wink. "Can you make sure Greg is not disturbed for the next, oh, let's say, forty-five minutes?"

She did not wait for the now brightly blushing Meghan to answer before strolling to Greg's office door, teasingly imparting the slightest exaggerated sway to her hips for the benefit of the anonymous gawker whose eyes she still felt on her back and on her legs. The thrill that perhaps the older man would masturbate thinking of her, imagining what she wore underneath her coat and what she was going to do entering her fiance's office added to her arousal.

She slipped into Greg's office. Her fiance was at his desk, reading from a folder, a frown on his face, tapping a cheap plastic pen on the surface of the desk in time with some rhythm only he could hear. It took him a moment to register her presence, and only looked up startled when Elizabeth pulled the deadbolt on the door with a finality that would have been frightening if not for the smile that split her face. She did not say a word as she leaned back against the door, her arms loosely crossed before her, her handbag dropped by her side.

"Lizzie?" He looked surprised, confused, and Elizabeth guessed maybe even a bit apprehensive. Which he should be, she thought.

"Hey baby," she said, trying to make her voice throaty. "Is this a bad time?"

He looked down at his files. "No... no... just... an adjustment that's being contested, and..." He looked up, embarrassed. "But that's not interesting. What are you doing here? I've already had lunch, and..." His voice trailed once he took in how she looked. "Wow..." he said, his voice low.

"I'm not here for lunch. I was out shopping this morning with Shelley, and I needed your opinion on something."

"Okay... Right... Sure... Of course. What... what do you need?"

(to be continued)