The Bodice Ripper

by Taylah Morgan

  After he stood right in front of her, the Bodice Ripper reached out a hand and stared down at Brynes. “Sweetheart, your lips look lonely. Would they like to meet mine?”

  Brynes nodded and leaned into him. Grabbing her by the hips, he dipped her low and plundered her mouth with his well-practiced tongue.

  When the camera panned out, censures appeared over the still-partying tourists. And in the bottom corner of the screen, Tellie Ramirez started removing her dress by lowering the shoulder straps. Varland Sierra, already speechless, changed hues from peach tan, to burnt orange and finally a strawberry red—the same color as Tellie Ramirez’s discarded dress.

  The woman on the couch picked at a callus on her heel as she watched the television with a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. “I done taught him right.”

  The Bodice Ripper pulled away from Bryne’s lips, a trail of saliva stretched between them like melty cheese on a pizza. “Sorry ma’am. I can’t hold on,” he said, “I’ve already fallen for you.”

  Brynes stared up at the Bodice Ripper, “Are you real?” she asked, her chest heaving.

  “Yes ma’am.” He looked down at her small sagging tits, “and so are you.”

  The tourists on the bus were all but completely blurred out by the station’s censors but wails and loud slapping sounds sounded from their direction.

  Bringing them both to a vertical stance in front of the bus, the Bodice Ripper held Brynes’ face between his hands, staring. “Tell me beautiful woman, why’d you steal a bus full of innoce--,” orgasmic moans from the bus interrupted the question.

  Brynes reached down and shifted the fabric-encased erection to the side of her body. “Sorry. That was poking me.” She looked at the bus. “It was my birthday. My thirtieth birthday. The day where I start greying and my flesh starts sagging. The day my senior citizen’s discount gets activated at McDonalds and AARP starts sending me notices in the mail. It’s the last day of my enjoyable life and everyone forgot. Everyone always forgets.

  “The tourists, they seemed like they were having such a good time as they passed by the Piggly Wiggly earlier and I couldn’t help but want…that, you know?”

  The Bodice Ripper nodded with an understanding smile.

  “I guess…,” she sighed. “I mean, I just didn’t want to enter the senior years of my life without one last adventure.”

  “Oh, Darlin’,” the Bodice Ripper tried to gather Bryne’s short dark hair between his fists but it kept slipping out. Instead, he opted to grab her tits. “Forget the bus,” he said, conviction radiated from his tone. “Stealin’ a bus is a great idea, but darlin’, it’s punishable in a court of law and you’re far too beautiful to be a pseudo-lesbian’s wife in prison trading sex for soap. If you want adventure, I’ll give you adventure. I’ll make your last decade alive so dirty, you’ll still be screaming my name when you’re six feet under.” He took a step back and with a whoosh, he whipped the orange cape off his shoulders.

  When the cape touched the ground orange, soft fur sprouted from the top as it lengthened and warped, slowly transforming into a vibrant shag rug. The Bodice Ripper smacked the ground with a long leather whip, the sound seemed to incite even more transformation and a tear formed in the middle of the new rug. Then, two long phallic-shaped yellow wooden sticks rose from the dark hole, and spread horizontally. Every inch separated unfolded a large four-poster bed with a red and orange rooster print comforter and burnt-yellow pillows, topped with a smattering of yellow sunflower petals.

  Pops sounded once the bed settled into its new existence and two nightstands sprung up. One nightstand held a few lit candles in mason-jars, and the other held a vase filled with more flowers. Next to the vase, a small Bose speaker popped up and powered on.

  Then, from his utility belt, he pulled a tiny metal-ringed object out of a pocket and placed it on the ground just across the bed. Turning, he took Brynes’ hand and walked her over to the front of the bed, the object expanding into a thirteen-foot tall pole behind him. “Take a seat, Honey. Let me give you a proper birthday gift.”

  After Brynes’ hopped to the bed, he gave a chaste, but drawn-out kiss on her lips before heading over to one of the nightstands. From the top drawer, he withdrew a red velvet Stetson.

  When he closed the drawers using a quick flick of his hips, all sound ceased. The music from the bus muted, the orgasmic screams from the tourists faded and even the small murmur from the watching crowd on the streets grew silent.

  Settling the hat firmly on his head, he turned to Brynes. A soft shadow brim of the hat covered half his face. Then, he spread his legs and gave Brynes a rakish grin.

  Opening sounds of a honky-tonk country song blared from the speakers next to the bed. Well, I walk into the room passing out hundred-dollar bills. And it kills, and it thrills, like horns on my Silverado grill.

  In the corner of the screen, Tellie Ramirez’ back faced the camera as she loosened the buttons of Varland Sierra's suit.

  And I buy the bar double round the crown. And everybody's getting down. An' this town, ain't ever gonna be the same.

  The Bodice Ripper glided to the newly expanded pole in front of the bed on his knees revealing a bedroom out of thin air wasn’t his only superpower.

  Along with the red Stetson, he now wore brown assless chaps, yellow high-heeled cowboy boots and a white-patterned bandana tied around his neck.

  When his groin met the pole, he kicked a leg out, spinning effortlessly around the pole into a standing lean that faced Brynes. And yet another transformation was revealed.

  Brynes’ eyes widened as they dipped to below the sight of his swaying hips.

  His manhood was moving.

  First it grew out, hardening and lengthening, until inches turned into feet. Then it succumbed to gravity and dropped with small bounces.

  The woman on the couch snorted, “Definitely ain’t get that from his mama.”

  Cause I saddle up my horse and I ride into the city. I make a lot a noise cause the girls they look so pretty.

  After the expanded monster settled between his boots, the Bodice Ripper hooked onto the pole with his left leg and did a caterpillar climb up the length of the pole.

  Riding up and down broadway on my old stud leroy and the girls say: Save a horse ride a cowboy.

  He paused once he reached the very top, and squeezed his thighs together to keep him mounted. With his open hands, he grabbed his expanded weapon and wiggled it towards Brynes.

  Everybody says: Save a horse ride a cowboy.

  “Ready to ride the horse, sweetheart?”

  Brynes gulped. “Yes.”

  “YEEEEEE-HAW!” He leaped off the pole with a scream. His hands and legs were spread out to the limit and Brynes had to quickly lay back to avoid a possibly painful collision. Hands landed just outside her shoulders, his knees latched onto the sides of her hips but his monster schlong? That hit her, hard, right in the lady parts.

  “Oh. My. God.” Brynes whimpered.

  “God is only one name you’ll be screaming soon.”

  Tellie Ramirez stared at Varland Sierra after just lowering his pants. “Oh my God. That…I…did not expect.”

  Varland Sierra shrugged and pulled Tellie Ramirez into a lust-driven kiss and together, they collapsed on the floor behind the table, hands and clothes flinging everywhere until they were no longer visible.

  On the couch, the woman had fallen asleep with her face plastered against the remote control, unknowingly raising the volume of the television even louder.

  Joshua Bruce flew over the Grand Canyon, still searching for the party bus.

  And finally, when the screen went back to the Bodice Ripper and Brynes, he was between her legs and she held onto his hair like the reins of a horse.

  “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop. Don’t. Stop.” She cried, her words slurred together.

  “Not in a million years, darlin’.”

  Brynes squirmed under the Bodice Ripper’s ministrations, an
d had moved almost to the edge of the bed.

  The Bodice Ripper sat up with a cheeky grin which caused a frustrated yell from Brynes. “I can’t let it be over that quick, can I?” he asked, opening a pocket on his utility belt and pulling out a yellow-furred handcuff. He spread Brynes’ leg wide and cuffed her ankle to one of the beds posters.

  “Ooh. You’re kinky.”

  “You bet your sweet ass I am.” He said, cuffing her other ankle to the other side of the bed. “Liked to be tied up, darlin’?”

  Brynes’ body flushed at the question before a giant grin split her face.“Yeah.”

  The Bodice Ripper let out a low, gravelly laugh as he climbed back up the bed between Brynes’ out-spread legs. “I’m not done yet.” He leaned down, kissing her until she squirmed beneath him. Brynes’ hands groping anything and everything she touched, but as distracted as she was she didn’t notice being inched further and further up the bed.

  Her legs stretched as far as possible and straightened, the Bodice Ripper reached under the top of the comforter to pull out two more sets of furred handcuffs attached to long metal chains. He leaned down, kissing Brynes’ neck until her hands relaxed. Right on the precipice of Brynes’ loud moaning, the Bodice Ripper ripped away from her and slapped the remaining handcuffs on her wrists.

  He looked down at his handy work. The writhing woman didn’t even realize what he’d done, for her body still strained to reconnect to his.

  With a quick pat on her belly, he shuffled off the bed and grabbed his phone out of one of the nightstands.

  Brynes followed his movement with soft whines. “Hey! What are—”

  “She’s all yours boys.” He said with a wink towards Brynes’. In the passing moments it took Brynes’ to figure out what happened, the Bodice Ripper was gone. Cops and FBI swarmed the area, walking straight to the cuffed naked woman.

  Brynes’ pinned one of the officers with a frustrated growl. “Can you at least finish what he started?” she asked, wiggling her hips.

  The officer rolled his eyes, “There’ll be plenty of that in prison, let’s go.”

  A xylophone staccato sounded and on the screen in large black and red letters, the words ‘WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAM.’ flashed across the screen.

  THE END.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Taylah Morgan spent most her twenty-five years of life reading the adventures of Captain Underpants and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. She dreamed that when she grew up she would have a bacon-bringing husband and cuddly children to read her childhood stories to. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.

  www.taylahmorgan.com

  ALSO BY TAYLAH MORGAN

  Birthday Sex: Gas Station Edition

  In a way, it’s my best friend’s fault for forgetting my birthday that I’m giving head to a stranger behind the counter of a gas station right now.

  My day was going great. The coworkers surprised me with my favorite butter rum pound cake and a forty-dollar Visa gift card and I had a plan to work for a few hours, get ready, then go out clubbing with my best friend.

  After work finished, I spent the gift card on a Brazilian wax because the jungle of pubic weeds spreading and sprawling down my legs needed to be manicured. I wanted to show miles of leg at the club and more to whoever took me home. I wanted to be silky smooth to anyone (and everyone) who touched me. And somebody better touch me – I didn’t go through the pain of having Helga rip out my pubic hairs to have my vagina remain untouched.

  Unfortunately, plans changed after checking Snapchat and viewing videos of my best friend out on a date. The bitch forgot about me again while she was chasing after another boy.

  My best friend is like a gas guzzling SUV. She meets a man and for a while their relationship is wonderful. They have a fabulous and indecent adventure together, full of cocktails and lots of cock. But like gas, her passion burns out quickly and soon she’s ready to be refilled again with a different boy. She loves me, I know she does, but she loves her boy toys more. We’re only friends because, if the position were reversed, I’d do the same thing.

  So seeing the posts of my bestie in a low-cut dress with the hash tags: #datenight #bae #relationshipgoals let me know that she'd be occupied for the next few days and I would be spending the start of my twenty-fifth year of life alone.

  After realizing my birthday shenanigans weren’t going to happen I decided to watch Dexter. Dexter is a television show about a sociopathic serial killer that murders bad people who were missed by law enforcement. The main character, Dexter, is my spirit animal. In order to cover up his vigilante ways, he has to keep up appearances at work and in his personal life. The people around him think of him as kind, charming, and considerate. They don't know that he just washed the blood off his hands before handing them donuts.

  I don’t kill people, and I’m not a sociopath (in my opinion), but I am good at keeping up appearances. At work, I’m always smiling and appear very modest – sometimes blushing when somebody says a cuss word and refraining from speaking discourteously of anyone. I shy away from dirty jokes and never ask anything too personal. At home, I watch porn and secretly fantasize about my boss bending me over and slamming his uncut Russian penis inside of me while pouring vodka all over my body.

  Dexter has two sides, and so do I. See? Spirit animals.

  I watched the episode where Dexter had sex with his pyromaniac love interest. He pushed her Lila onto the bed with a savage look on his face, and Lila gave him a come-hither smile. I had a great come-hither smile. So tuned into the show, I didn’t realize my hand had itched into my underwear until Dexter moaned when Lila bit his shoulder. I didn’t have a shoulder to bite dammit! I became unbelievably frustrated at my lack of shoulder and even more so when I realized I was at home, watching soft-core porn, alone on my birthday.

  There are two vices I typically indulge in when I start to feel like shit – either solo sexy times with my intergalactic dildo named Bob or alcohol. Since both seemed a little pathetic, I created a third option and ended up at a gas station. Twizzlers, Red Bull, Almond Joys and Gummy Bears along with a midnight screening of Brad Pitt’s older movie would be my companions for the evening.

  I unloaded my single-people food on the register and watched the cashier start to ring up my purchases. My eyes were drawn to his dirty hands. Maybe he was cleaning something, I'm not sure, but dirt laid under his nails and dark grime smudged in between skewed hair on the outside of his hands. This guy needed a pair of cleaning gloves, Dexter would never let his hands get dirty. Shit, thinking of Dexter reminded me of the titillating scene I left playing on my television and warmth rose in my cheeks.

  Don’t think about sex. Don’t think about dark, passionate, serial killer sex.