by Morgan Wolfe
He cried out and a thick spurt of man milk gushed onto her tongue. She forced herself to keep her mouth around him. Hold on, girl. Don’t pull off! No matter how ick—
And then…
Oh my God! she thought. It’s just like… I can’t believe it. Tastes just like…
She’d barely gulped down the first flood of cum when another came pouring out. She eagerly swallowed it too. Yum! Yum, yum and yum! Keep it coming, Doc, old boy! I’ll take all you’ve got! Oh my God, my God, my God, my God, my…
Minutes later, when she finally pulled away from him, Woody’s cock was limp and pink. Addie grinned at him, her lips smeared with cum. Woody fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
“That was an… incredible blow job, Officer Porter,” he mumbled. “Did you find out what you wanted to find out?”
“I sure did,” said Addie happily. “Cum tastes like chocolate! It’s not icky at all! I LOVE it!”
“Tastes like chocolate?” Woody said. “I didn’t know that.”
“It does to me,” Addie said happily. “Yum!” She looked in the rearview mirror and wiped herself carefully. “I’d leave it on but I’ve got to get back to work and I don’t think drivers would take me seriously with cum on my face.”
“Don’t forget my ticket.”
“I’m tearing up your ticket, Dr. Goodman. The least I can do!”
Woody smiled as he zipped up. Transcranial Influence was turning out to have all kinds of uses.
Tourists
A slip of a moon palely illuminated the waves that gently splashed on the shore of Matagorda Island, a hundred miles from Houston. Set aside as a wildlife refuge, no humans disturbed the long sandy beach, the rolling grassy dunes, the island’s shy wild creatures. No eyes but those of a long necked whooping crane and alert sand fox saw the rubber raft float past the breakers, saw the three wet suited figures jump out and haul it ashore.
No human eyes saw them flash a signal light to the submarine lurking two miles distant in the quiet Gulf waters. No but a lizard’s saw them drag the raft over the narrow island, then paddle across the strip of water between it and the mainland. No eyes but a roving owl’s saw them shed their wetsuits for tourist apparel, then bury their gear and deflated raft on a deserted strip of beach.
No eyes but a feral dog’s saw them hotwire a rundown van on a remote stretch of road. No eyes but those of weary truckers saw the van putter down the highway between the coast and the distant giant metropolis as the red sun rose above the horizon, a foretaste of the day’s heat.
No eyes but a homeless alcoholic’s, heavy with sleep and drink, saw the van park in a seedy section of downtown, saw three Orientals—Japanese? Chinese? Vietnamese?—scramble out, cameras dangling from their necks, to stroll down the cracked sidewalk, soon lost in the city’s pedestrian populace.
Louis and his buddy Georgie were hanging out near the Lone Star Bakery when they saw the tourists, two men and a woman, halt and stare at the bakery’s neon sign. One of the three, a skinny guy with graying hair holding a camera, approached them. “Excuse please, you take picture?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Louis. The tourists posed, the two men on either side of the woman, with the sign just behind them. “You want that sign in the picture, right?”
“Yes, please,” said the gray-haired one with a big smile. “Let friends know we in Lone Star state.”
“Okay.” Louis aimed and took several shots. Wacky trio, he thought. Where did they get those duds? One guy was wearing a lime green leisure suit with platform shoes, the other a Stetson and fringed buckskin jacket while the woman had on a tie-dyed top, miniskirt and white knee-high boots. Out-of-town? They looked like they’d stepped out of the 1960s or something, maybe from another planet.
“Thank you so,” said the man, taking back the camera. He took out his wallet. “Please to pay.”
“Naw, naw,” said Louis. “Happy to do it. Where you folks from anyway?”
“San Jose,” said all three together.
“Really? You’re American?”
“Yes, yes,” said the man. “We do food truck.”
“That so? Chinese food maybe?”
“Yes, yes. Call it ‘Chopsticks to Go.’ Fast, tasty,”
“Work hard all year,” said the second man, who was short and wiry. “Now we go vacation.”
“Come to Texas,” said the woman, who was young with almond eyes and silky black hair. “See Alamo, Dealey Plaza.”
“See cowboys, cattle,” grinned the first man.
“Giddy-up!” grinned the second.
“Yee-hah!” grinned the woman.
Louis and Georgie laughed. They were a little weird all right, but cheerful. “Well, welcome to Texas,” Louis said. “Hope you have a real good time.”
The three smiled and nodded as the two black youths strolled on. After a moment they turned and looked at each other. This time there was no warmth in their smiles, only conspiracy.
“We pass!” said the short wiry one, who name was Mung and had the keen, restless eyes of a predator. “Fools!”
“Not fools,” said the gray-haired one, who name was Jong. His smile settled into its habitual stern expression. “Training. All those weeks in Hometown U.S.A. They…” He searched for the right American phrase. “They pay off!”
“Right-on!” said the woman, whose name was Sook, her white teeth gleaming bright in the sunlight, a speck of red lipstick caught on an incisor like a spot of blood.
“Cowabunga, chick. Far out!” agreed Mung.
“Groovy, daddy-o!” said Jong. The three laughed gaily. They passed! They blended right in.
Meanwhile, at Harrowdale Asylum for the Criminally Insane…
Otto Krensch, crisp in his white uniform, whistled as he walked down the hall of Harrowdale Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Time for a midnight check on Emma Starke. By now the sedative he’d slipped in her ten o’clock meds would have kicked in and she wouldn’t put up a struggle, which in a way was too bad since he found a little resistance a turn-on. Come morning, she wouldn’t remember a thing. He got a hard-on just from thinking about her sweet MILF pussy warming up his good ol’ boy cock.
Otto smiled. Ordinarily, a fellow like himself—rural schooling, ordinary intelligence, no special gifts—would be employed in some low-end white collar job taking shit from everyone higher up – and everyone would be higher up. But with two years of community college he’d become a Licensed Vocational Nurse and that had changed his world.
He’d started at the bottom, of course, night shift in a mental hospital, but eight years later he was still there. He could have transferred to the day shift, gone to a regular hospital, worked for a private care company, all sorts of opportunities. He chose not to. When HR asked why, he simply shrugged, “I like the hours. I'm a night person.” They’d stopped asking long ago. The graveyard shift was hard to fill. They were glad he was there.
Otto was glad too. From 10:00 to 6:00 a.m. he wasn’t just the charge nurse for this wing, the one who monitored the sleepers, called the doctor if someone got out of control, did the pile of catch-up paperwork the afternoon shift left for him and briefed the day shift every morning.
Here, from 10:00 to 6:00 he was God.
Emma Starke lay in her narrow bed on her hard mattress, staring up at the ceiling. She couldn’t see it in the darkness, but she knew every inch of its features, from the water stain to the crack over the door to the cobweb in the corner. For months she’d had nothing to do but stare at the walls and ceiling of her cell. Memorizing it was part of the mental exercises she did to keep sane.
Because she was sane, despite her diagnosis, despite the court order, despite the violent fits that overtook her and kept her straitjacketed and gagged with a rubber bit when she was outside her cell. Despite all that, she was sane. He had put her there—he, Woody Goodman—and he was going to pay for it, pay dearly.
Oh, he was clever, no denying that. She’d underestimated him at eve
ry turn, from the first time he entered her office, a nebishy grad student in need of her signature to get his precious PhD, to the last time she saw him, here at Harrowdale with his fiancé, her own daughter, Candi! She remembered how she’d tried to warn the girl, how pathetic and mad she must have seemed, locked in a straitjacket, bit-gagged so every word came out as a babyish lisp. He’d played his cards perfectly, all phony sympathy as they dragged her back to the cell, flashing her a sneer of victory when no one was looking. He’d won! So far as Woody Goodman, PhD, was concerned she was out of his hair for good, framed for attempted murder—his attempted murder no less—locked away for the rest of her life.
And so she might have been if not for the toothache.
It had begun suddenly two weeks ago. Her misery was evident even to Harrowdale’s callous, hardened staff. They’d taken her to the hospital’s dentist. Diagnosis: infected lower right molar. Treatment: root canal. Since then she’d healed but now she had a sizeable dip in her gum. Next week they’d take her to a specialist for an implant.
Except next week she wouldn’t be at Harrowdale. She was getting out tonight, thanks to her toothache and Otto Krensch, midnight rapist. Every evening Otto sedated her with a heavy duty tranquilizer. She’d known that for a long time, but there was no way to resist him and no way to avoid swallowing the pill, the only capsule among her night meds. Otto was wise in the ways of patients. He made Emma open her mouth and lift her tongue so he could see the capsule had gone down with the rest of her meds.
But now she had a hiding place for the capsule. With a little deft tongue work she could tuck it in the recess in her gum, out of sight. After Otto left, she spit it out and flushed it down the toilet. She’d done this the last two nights, faking grogginess while he used her. The hard part had been keeping from throwing up all over him.
Tonight would be different, oh so different!
Otto shined his flashlight through the plexiglass window in Emma’s door. Out like a light, just like she was every night. He unlocked the door. He was feeling like a little anal action tonight. The woman had a nice round ass and tight pucker, a shame not to take advantage of it. He’d grease up of course. Sometimes, drugged as she was, she’d make noise when he shoved in. Couldn’t have that, so he’d brought the rubber bit, just in case.
Her breathing was slow and heavy. Her dark hair—with a few elegant strands of silver—lay tumbled on the pillow. She had lush eyelashes and full lips, positively Italian. Her chart said Emma was forty-one but the woman had taken care of herself and avoided middle-age spread. Real shame to let such a nice morsel of womanhood dry up and go to waste.
Emma had kicked her cover off – already dreaming about me, girl? She was wearing light blue pajamas provided by her daughter, which she filled nicely. He could see the contours of her body, breasts pushing against the shirt, hips snug against the pants.
Otto bent over and undid the buttons of her pajama top. Emma’s breasts were full and pendulous, the breasts of a mature woman, someone who had known marriage and childbirth and all that came after. Those breasts had once held life-giving nourishment. He liked that, liked the idea of putting his lips to her nipples, suckling her sweet milk. Too late for that of course but he could still suck and nibble, squeeze them with his hands.
She smiled and moaned faintly as he placed his mouth over an areola. That’s a first! Girl’s gotten to liking her midnight fuck! Looking forward to ol’ Otto! Pity he had to keep her knocked out. Maybe tomorrow he’d reduce the sedative, see what happened.
Otto gripped her pajama bottom with both hands and pulled it down, revealing the dark curly hair around her cunt. He put a finger to her slit. She pushed against him and moaned again. Hmm, that turn you on, Sleeping Beauty? He slipped his finger inside and wiggled. She was dry but her body wriggled at his touch.
Otto jerked the pajama bottoms off entirely. Maybe he’d sample this all-too-willing pussy before he dived into her ass. Something exciting about taking a woman when she was asleep. Hard to explain, like you bypassed all the flowers and candy and candlelight shit and went directly to what it was all about, plugging her hole fast and hard like a tomcat fucking some pampered pussy. And oh, he was gonna pamper this pussy, all right! Pamper and poke and pound it.
Otto tore off his pants and jockeys and crawled on the bed, straddling her. She whimpered in her sleep, moving a hand to caress her breasts. He lifted a foot to spread her legs. Oh, this was gonna be good. Gonna be sweet tonight. Gonna be—
Arrrrrrrgh! GOD!
Emma brought her knee up fast and hard. Bulls eye! She heard Otto gasp as her kneecap connected with his balls. She opened her eyes to see his face above her, contorted with pain, about to collapse on her. She pushed up with both hands and he toppled sideways onto the floor.
She leapt up and grabbed a wooden chair leg worked loose from the few sticks of furniture they allowed her. In between gasps, Otto was making low whimpering noises. He was doughty though; he’d managed to struggle to his knees, both hands on his groin. Emma raised the chair leg high and brought it down on his redneck skull with all the force she could muster. He fell to the floor and lay still.
She worked fast, stripping him of his underwear and uniform, even his socks and shoes. She tore her sheets into strips and bound him tightly: wrists, ankles, knees. Now another strip to pull his wrists and ankles together in a hogtie. She was about to stuff a rag in his mouth when she noticed the bit gag. Oh thank you, Otto, just what I need! She jammed it between his lips and buckled it tight.
She began pulling on his clothes. Thank God he was a small man. These were still several sizes too big but they’d have to do. Something lumpy in one of his pockets. Please, God, let it be what I hope it is. She pulled out a keychain. Five keys, one of them clearly to his car. One or two of the others had to be for here. Wallet in his hip pocket. She opened it and inspected. Nearly a hundred dollars in cash. Good.
A last glance at Otto, still unconscious. Naked and bound, he looked small and weak. How could she ever have been afraid of someone so pathetic? She eased open her cell door. No staffer was near enough to have heard anything, she knew that, but fear died hard.
The hall was empty. There weren’t even any faces at the windows in the other cell doors. She walked quickly toward the dayroom, silent and dim now, chairs clustered around card tables, sofa in front of a dark television. Now she was in front of “the cage,” where the nurses and attendants worked. She stood at the cage door and tried to insert a key. Nope, not this one. Not this one either. This one was for his car, only two left. Shit! Not this one either. Please, God. It went in and the door swung open.
Emma slipped inside, closing the door quietly. Beyond was a hallway, door to the next wing, doctor’s offices, supply room, and finally visitors waiting room with a door to the parking lot. She’d never been there but she’d learned all this from listening to the other inmates’ conversation those times they let her in the dayroom. They’d shut her mouth but not her ears.
She crept down the hall, holding her breath. A voice! Somewhere someone was talking. How many? She froze and listened. Just one. There was always at least a nurse and attendant on duty at night. This sounded like Fred: big guy, burly. She’d be no match for him. His voice came from one of the doctor’s offices. Who was he talking to? His wife? Not at this time of night. More likely a girlfriend. There was a cozy intimate tone to the conversation. Likely he’d let himself inside for privacy. Well, chat all you want, Fred. I won’t disturb you.
Past the doctors’ offices, past the supply room, into the visitors waiting room, chairs lined up against the wall. A framed print of a sad clown, a sign, Thank You for Not Smoking. On the coffee table, helpful brochures: So You Have a Loved One Who’s Criminally Insane?
The door to the parking lot looked like any other door but the thought of what was beyond made her tremble. Freedom! Freedom to revenge herself on that monster. Freedom to rescue her daughter from his clutches.
Enough of that. The fut
ure could wait. Would the same key work for both doors? It did! She opened the door, oh so slowly, just in case it had a telltale creak or squeak. Quickly she slipped outside. Quickly she shut and locked it behind her.
The cool night air was bracing – and intoxicating. She looked up at the slip of moon and twinkling stars. So beautiful! She hadn’t seen the sky in months! She tore her eyes from the heavens and looked around. There were only three cars in this part of the parking lot. She headed toward them, passing a sign that said the area was under video surveillance. She kept her head down and forced herself not to look around for the camera. In the unlikely event she was being watched, she didn’t want to look nervous. At a distance, she was just another male staffer on his way to get take-out. At least that’s what she hoped she looked like.
Three cars. Otto’s turned out to be the middle one, a well-used Corolla. She turned the ignition and the engine purred.
She took a deep breath. To the crime of attempted murder, she’d just added assault, escape from detention and in a moment, car theft. Quite a change of career for a lifetime academic. What else did the future hold for her? A thousand questions sprang to mind. How quickly would the police issue an all-points bulletin for a woman in a man’s hospital uniform? All she had was a hundred dollars. How soon would the bank freeze the credit cards in Otto’s wallet? She needed a change of clothes, money for meals, most of all money to get from Pennsylvania to Texas. How?
No answers came to mind. She’d gotten this far. She’d get the rest of the way. They couldn't stop her. He couldn't stop her. Surprise was on her side. She hadn’t felt him in her mind in a long time. He was too far away. He’d forgotten her. That was his mistake. Before, she’d underestimated him but now… now he’d underestimated her.
