Early New Years morning

It was New Years, and the big bash I’d paid big bucks
to go to was over. We’d raised Hell and danced and had
our fancy dinner and a show and the champagne to ring
in the New Year and it was two thirty in the morning.
Coming out of the city on the main highway, I rounded a
corner to find blue lights everywhere. Shit. Well, I’d
had a bit, but I’d eaten well and danced my ass off —
and I didn’t FEEL impaired, so MAYBE… It wasn’t as if
there was anywhere to go — all three lanes led in one
direction, toward the roadblock.

The right lane seemed to be moving faster, so I got
into it; it wasn’t as if being in the left lane,
stopped, was going to get us there faster, despite what
the majority of idiots in this state — who all tended
to believe they had a God-given right to drive in the
fast lane, fast or not — might believe.

The tactic proved effective; I bet we got to the cops
ten minutes ahead of those who stubbornly stayed left.
I didn’t worry about it because ten minutes one way or
the other wasn’t going to save me from a DUI if I was
over the limit; if I was going to start the new year in
the drunk tank, I might as well get there early.

Mona spent the whole time in the front passenger seat
worrying, running just north of hysterics; Bonnie spent
her time leaning up to rub her shoulders and soothe
her. The other two girls were mostly silent. I could
see Lucinda in the center seat in the rearview; she was
as canned as I was if the cops got serious, since she
was an illegal. Grace wasn’t even visible; she was
doing her thing, blending into the background.

The cop was HUGE and all business — not a surprise,
actually, given the fact that they were tying up the
entire road. “License, registration and CAP card,
please.”

“We haven’t done anything!” Mona erupted. She’d had a
bit, and she had her own very serious worries about
anything that might separate us.

“Shush!” I snapped. Bonnie took the sting out of it by
murmuring, “If there is a problem, you’ll only make it
worse,” while rubbing Mona’s shoulders.

“Have you been drinking this evening, Mr., ah,
Connors?” the cop asked. Mona moaned, but I answered
truthfully, “A bit. I think I’m legal, though.”

“Would you step out of the car, Sir?” He stepped back a
bit.

“Certainly.” Mona whined again and Bonnie went, “Shhh!”
I got out and stepped away from the car, looking
around. This was a major setup; there were big, heated
tents on either side of the road and a couple of big
trailers. Cars were trickling through — reasonably
quickly, on occasion — but some were being collected
beside the road in a parking area. I wondered if mine
was going to appear over there soon. The cop waved me a
few feet away from the car and asked, “Will you consent
to a breathalyzer test? It will speed things.”

“Certainly, officer.” I was good or I wasn’t…

Then he did something uncharacteristic; he went over
and squatted to look in the car windows and asked, “Is
this your pre-pack?”

I blinked. “Actually, it is.”

The ‘cop’ turned to me and grinned, uttering that
classing George Peppard line, “I love it when a plan
comes together!” He hopped up and crossed back to me,
murmuring, “If you’ll call your concubines out of the
car, we’ll get this show on the road!”

I got it. This wasn’t about my blood alcohol level,
after all — or it might have been if my CAP score
wasn’t seven point six, but in this case…
“Ladies…?” I beckoned and the doors came open.

Mona was first, dashing to me as fast as her chunky
legs could carry her, wringing her hands and crying. I
cuddled her to me and whispered, “It’s all right — in
fact, it’s GREAT, Sweetie. Just settle down…”

***

Mona was unusual — and looks had very little to do
with it. She was twenty-four and five feet five and
daintily built — above the waist. But she had a big
ass and sizeable thighs before everything shrank back
down to calves and feet that matched her upper body.
She was a brunette with pixie features and a bit of
Italian swarthiness and high-riding grapefruit-sized
titties — but that ass kept the boys away.

It didn’t keep ME away, however; I tend to find
something to appreciate in the majority of women — but
the whole thing STILL wouldn’t have happened without
the Swarm. You see, when it became more important for a
woman to get noticed than it was for her to compete on
an equal footing with a man, the ‘politically correct’
custom of pretending to ignore women in public settings
fell into disfavor, to be replaced by something long
practiced by Hispanics and Italians — and perhaps the
French — overt appreciation.

The ‘wolf whistle’ has resumed its place in the male
arsenal — and women were finding reasons to dress
naughtily and show off their wares — reasons directly
linked to survival. Suddenly, telling a strange woman
she was hot got dimples instead of a glare and ‘sex
object’ wasn’t the negatively freighted term it had
been only recently.

I met Mona in a grocery store, of all places. She was
going over the produce on one of the tables — yams, I
think it was — while I was hunting Vidalia onions on
the other side of the table; I glanced up and my
eyeballs rolled down into her soft, round cleavage. She
was wearing a pink and white striped tube top under an
open hoodie — which was somewhat modest and offered an
opportunity to be more so while displaying her breasts
and midriff quite provocatively.

I said, “Wow! Nice rack!” — something that would have
been seriously distant from anything resembling
politically correct a couple of years before — and she
smiled shyly, blushing, while I watched her nipples
stiffen.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, regarding me with doe-soft
eyes.

“Thank YOU!” I replied, rounding the table, the onions
forgotten. “Are they real?” Pretty rude, huh? I’ve
gotten better, but I’ve never been gifted at romantic
conversation. The negative parts were visible before
she turned to face me — her butt made her lean forward
a bit and resemble a duck — but I was past the point
where I was going to be concerned by a little extra
padding in the fundament; this chick’s whole vibe was
throwing out the welcome mat, and I was NOT inclined to
turn such a thing down!

A note about me, I guess. I’m thirty two, about six
feet, one eighty or so, rangy, not muscular looking. I
have bland brown hair that’s thinning on top
embarrassingly and a baby face that requires a
moustache to ensure that you realize I’m not a college
kid. Otherwise, it’s a pretty nondescript face, though,
and I don’t have perfect shiny white teeth, so I don’t
smile much. I did some time in the military but got out
when it became apparent that my horizons were too
limited; now I’m a tech geek — well, actually, I
always was.

The point is, Superman wasn’t bearing down upon her
from around the produce table — but Mona’s eyes said
she liked what she saw, and that was unusual in my
experience, to say the least! My next utterance — “Can
I see them?” — should have killed things, but it
didn’t; she just looked up at me, wide-eyed, and said,
“Uh huh.” Later, Mona told me that we were a done deal
the moment I put my hand on her bare waist as I asked
her that question.

I broke my gaze away from her hypnotic eyes and glanced
around; some dried-up looking forty-something bitch was
glaring at me, but nobody else seemed to be paying any
attention. I slid my hands under the hoodie and under
the sides of the tube top, and then lifted it forward
and away from the cutest set of brown-capped globes…

My delighted visual and tactile examination was
interrupted by a rasped, “Young man! MUST you make a
spectacle of yourself in a public place?” Forty-
something was glowering at me disgustedly.

I glanced up and down the aisle; there were a couple of
teenyboppers in transparent blouses and more than one
MILF showing the entire top half of her titties — down
to the nipples. I snarled at the busybody, “I see at
least three other sets of tits visible at a glance;
just because you can’t compete doesn’t mean SHE can’t!”
Ignoring old grouchy, I returned my attention to the
chubby pixie in front of me, “Baby, these are SWEET!”
They were soft and round and firm and drooped just a
bit out of the support of the top — and they felt
wonderful!

Mona played with her fingers then ran her hands down my
chest and belly, mumbling, “I’m glad you like them,”
while looking at my crotch — which was bulging.

Reluctantly, I wormed my hands back under the top and
re-settled it over her breasts. “Got a boyfriend?”

Mona cocked her head, surprised. “No.” Her tone said,
‘How on Earth would I attract a boy?’ as clearly as if
she’d said it out loud.

“Want one?”

You’d have thought I’d slapped her. Her face tightened
up and her lower lip came out and she said, “You’re
teasing me. Have you seen my…” She looked behind her.

I stepped in and ran my hands over her stretch pants,
taking a big double handful of ass flesh. “Your ass?
Yeah, that’s a party, I bet…”

“Wh–what?” Mona looked up at me in wonderment.

I was discovering ass — and lots of it — more or less
for the first time. I slid my hands under the waistband
of her stretch pants and her panties and squeezed the
soft flesh. “Do you like having it played with? I’m
having a ball, here…”

Mona said, “Ummm…” and pressed herself against me and
slid her hands up under the sweatshirt I was wearing to
rub my back. “Oh, oh, oh…” After a few seconds, she
pushed back so she could look up at my eyes and said,
“Were you serious?”

“As a heart attack!” I insisted, nodding. From my
perspective, it was ‘love at first feel…’

“Okay.” She took the basket I’d dropped on the table
and transferred the contents into the cart she’d been
pushing. “Do you like yams?”

“They’re okay. I don’t cook them.”

“You won’t have to.” She took my right hand and shoved
it back down inside her stretch pants and we moved off
slowly down the aisle, me moving on her left. That hand
didn’t leave her ass until we hit the checkout. Thirty
minutes later, I sat watching her as she put OUR
groceries away in MY cupboards and refrigerator,
wearing nothing but her little rubber flip-flops with
the pink and yellow sunflower or whatever sprouting up
between her cute little toes.

She’d followed me home in her drab little Nissan and
carried two bags of groceries to my one as we went
upstairs — and when I said something about being
unable to wait to see her naked, she’d stripped down to
nothing in the entryway, blushing but grinning like a
pixie at the look on my face. I had a hard-on that
could drive nails in concrete — but I was waiting for
the dream to be over.

I figured I would bust a nut all over myself and wake
up when the goo hit my belly and chest… Sure, she was
being all domestic — but I was looking at the puffy
lips of her hairy, wet snatch and the crinkle of her
anal ring as she bent to put lunchmeat in the meat
drawer of my refrigerator… Shit, I didn’t have to
FUCK her — just remembering this would do me while I
jerked off until I had blisters…

She looked over her shoulder at me and a little furrow
developed between her eyebrows. Turning to face me, she
said, “What?”

I blinked. “Nothing.”

“Something is wrong.”

I sat looking at her, my eyes moving from her cute
pixie face to her sweet titties, past her little puffy
belly and the thick gathering of curls over her puffy
pink snatch, right on down over her knees to her
meticulously red-painted toenails. “Not wrong, exactly.
Too right. You’re the first woman who ever darkened
that door,” I said, pointing at the entrance to my
apartment, “and I’m wondering when I’m gonna wake up
and find out that I’ve been mauling a pillow or
something.”

She came over and knelt before me, worming her way
between my legs until her breasts were on my thighs and
looked up at me with big brown eyes and said, “I’m
twenty four years old, and you’re the first guy outside
my family to tell me ANYTHING about me was attractive.
And you are ABSOLUTELY the FIRST guy EVER to treat my
ass as ANYTHING but a joke or something awful to look
at! I promised myself…” She swallowed, choked up. “I
promised myself that if some guy ever said anything
seriously nice about me — ESPECIALLY my ass! — I
would offer him whatever he wanted, even if he looked
like a Wookie and smelled like old motor oil!”

I chuckled, embarrassed. “With a little luck, I might
exceed that standard…”

“Omigod!” she exclaimed, her hands under my sweatshirt,
“You’re sweet and hot and hard and handsome…”

“Huh?” I blinked. “What? Sweetheart, how long has it
been since you’ve had an eye exam? I’m not handsome. I
might not be THOROUGHLY homely, but handsome? Let’s
just say my track record argues against it.” I paid for
pussy, one way or another, period. Maybe it was a
hooker, maybe it was in booze or whatever for a one-
night-stand with some drunken barfly as desperate as me
(and usually older), but there was, historically, a
direct connection between large outlays of cash from my
wallet and wrapping my cock in anything warm and wet.

I’d never dated in high school or college — oh, there
had been a few group outings, but in every case, if
there were females present, they were attached to
someone else.

The military had been worse; the areas around military
bases tend to be places where serious competition
exists for any pussy that doesn’t have a bar code
tattooed on it — Hell, even THAT doesn’t come cheap,
in some places. Even now, I didn’t go out much — it
was a waste of time — and Swarm or no Swarm, workplace
policies forbade anything smacking of ‘sexual
harassment’ through the sheer inertia of the legal
system.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking — ‘So why did you go
nuts on some strange chick in a supermarket?’ Well, I
was just coming off a weekend with a couple of crazy
guys who managed to make the whole ‘wolf’ thing work
and I was pumped up by their success; it seemed like
suddenly chicks were willing to up some, rather than
pretending to be drones or something.

I’d only been an observer, too fearful that I would
fall flat on my face in front of them and give them
reason to give me shit about it until the end of time,
but things seemed to be looking up. The other thing was
the fact that Mona just tripped my trigger…

Mona’s answer was, “You’re handsome to me…”

Somehow, I couldn’t argue that. I chuckled and said,
“As long as you think so, I’m good to go, I guess. Let
me know before you go to the eye doctor, so I won’t be
surprised.”

“My vision is fine,” she insisted, “or, at least, no
worse than yours. My ass…”

“I see it,” I replied. “So what?”

“It’s always been more than enough…”

I cut her off. “It IS more than enough — question is,
is it too much? I don’t think so.”

“You would be the first,” Mona asserted.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “I’m just the first guy to
TELL you so.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Mona replied. “You win the
prize, such as it is.”

“And what’s the prize?”

“Me,” she said simply. “As much as you want.” And she
turned those hypnotic brown eyes on me.

To say that I was taken aback would be to traffic in
understatement.

“Tonight?”

“Until you tell me to go away.” She cocked her head,
watching me like a hawk. “You asked me if I wanted a
boyfriend. The answer is yes.”

“Well…” Part of me was thrilled to death — and part
of me wanted to run! What had I gotten into? What was
the downside?

Mona interrupted my confusion with, “Can I suck you
now? I’m not very good, but I’ll get better — I just
need practice…”

“Uh, sure…”

Permission came while she was already opening my pants.
When my fly was open, Mona tugged at the elastic of my
boxers, revealing my probe, and whispered, “Omigod!”

Now, no woman I could remember had gone all reverent
when faced with my dick — but then, I suppose all of
my sex partners to date had seen it all before. I’d
gotten comments, here and there, from hookers — and
figured it was all part of the service, if you know
what I mean. ‘Pump the guy up over the humongous size
of his little cocktail frank…’

To be fair, it was bigger than a cocktail frank — even
a normal Oscar Meyer was going to be eclipsed — but I
didn’t figure I was hung like a horse or anything. But
both of my heads swelled as Mona regarded my meat with
wide eyes. She started dragging at the waistband of my
jeans, so I lifted my ass — and she dragged those
suckers all the way to the floor. Then she gently
pulled my cock down and away from where it was pulsing
against my belly and slid it between her puffy red
lips…

Her opinion of her abilities as a cocksucker aside, I
lasted about six incredible seconds before flooding her
mouth with jizz — to my COMPLETE embarrassment!

Mona, however, was pleased to death, smiling as she
swallowed a larger than usual load of my babymakers,
then continuing to vacuum my still stiff erection.
“Ummm, still hard! Can we go to bed now?”

DUH! I waved and croaked, “That way!” and ninety
seconds later she was on her back on my unmade bed with
her feet up as I crawled between her legs. I stopped to
give her a little lick (highly appreciated) but we were
both in a hurry and she was plenty wet…

There is no way in the world I could have gotten into
that thing on the first pass without blowing a nut
while still at the gates! Later on, Mona told me that
she’d had sex — well, heterosexual sex — once in her
life and it had hurt like Hell and lasted ALMOST as
long as my blowjob. The guy doing it had only been
looking to put a notch on his gun belt, so once he got
his, it was over. All I knew is that I’d been in pussy
that was snug before, but usually because it was dry.

Mona’s tunnel was lubed with hot oil and tight enough
to make every inch of my necessarily slow penetration
exquisite! I took it slow because I had no choice — I
was opening up territory that might as well have been
virgin — and I stopped at every little grimace, but
every time I did her little hands urged me forward,
deeper, until there was nothing left of my length to
seat. I ground my pubic bone against hers and she
moaned, “Yessss…” — and we were off to the races! I
started slow, but Mona wanted more, then I wanted more,
then Mo
na wanted more…

Pretty soon, I was cycling like a sewing machine! We
lasted maybe ten minutes, blowjob or no blowjob — but
I watched Mona get hers twice before I lit off. Mona
wouldn’t let me get up; I drifted off to sleep at
probably eight-thirty at night with my dick still
buried and my seed soaking into Mona’s womb.

I woke up about two a.m. on my back. I had to piss, but
there were lips around my dick. That’s one of those
unsatisfactory situations where there doesn’t seem to
be any way to get everything you need; blowing a nut
isn’t possible while you have to piss that bad, but
pissing means removing those Heavenly lips. Later, Mona
offered me a solution, but that night I had to gently
disconnect her and go take care of business.

When I got back, the time for appetizers was over; Mona
was on her back, asking, “Please, do me again…” I
managed to last half-again as long as the previous
effort, with an appropriate increase in the number of
orgasms produced in my little lover; once my balls were
drained, I rolled us over and she collapsed atop me,
damp and sweaty and cuddly and beaming. “I’m in love,”
she announced. I opened my mouth, but she covered it
with her hand, saying, “No, I know it’s too early and
I’ve just scared you — don’t say anything. Just let me
be happy for a while.” Fuck it. I didn’t argue. We went
to sleep until the alarm rang.

Mona never left. Well, technically, she did, I guess,
but when I got home that night, her shitbox Nissan was
in the other parking space assigned to my apartment —
and it was full to the gills with her shit. I pulled up
and she got out of it and stood there, head down,
looking up at me with those eyes — and I just opened a
door and collected an armload of her clothes and headed
for the door.

I rearranged my dresser and my closet and by eight or
so I was sitting on the couch watching TV and listening
to Mona hum as she fried something for dinner. We
didn’t discuss it — we didn’t set rules, or
expectations — she just moved in. When we did get
around to it, several days later, I learned that rules
were my problem, and obeying them was hers. That night,
she cuddled up to me on the couch and said, “I’m a
little sore, but I’ll be glad to suck you — or…”

‘Or…’ turned out to be opening that ass for business.
I opted for that — and enlightened self-interest
dictated that I make SURE she enjoyed it, so I went
slow and gentle and lubed her like crazy and made sure
she was hotter than a pistol before I even THOUGHT
about nosing my cock against her little rosebud. The
results were gratifying; Mona LOVED having her back
door probed, and I loved doing it, and another use for
what she considered a useless part of her body was
discovered. Everything was rosy.

Now, I know, some of you are going, “What are you —
nuts?” But this is all about something that guys know
instinctively, but women forget regularly. Basically,
it’s simple: Guys are simple creatures, even if gals
aren’t. Suddenly, home-cooked meals started replacing
the litany of “Whose take-out do I order tonight?” —
and there were NO dishes afterward. My dirty laundry
started disappearing and turning up clean in my
drawers.

The sink wasn’t full of dirty dishes and the toilet and
shower were clean without any effort from me. And last,
but by NO MEANS least — I was getting my balls drained
regularly — and very pleasantly, too, I might add!
‘No’ wasn’t a word in Mona’s vocabulary — worst case
seemed to be, ‘That receptacle is out of service,
please select another…’

Let’s face it, that one item is THE key to the
domestication of the male; keep his dick drained — and
keep him enjoying it and operating under the impression
that YOU enjoy it — and everything else is gravy. If I
had to put up with a reduction in essential services, I
could clean or do laundry or do dishes — or even cook
(or order take-out) — but having my joystick played
with on a regular basis was a fine incentive to learn
to share my bed with another warm body.

Women get tied up in domestic this and that and self-
actualization and such and totally forget that the
smell of wet pussy is what nailed their man’s feet to
the floor — until the corollary slaps them in the
face; once regularly supplied, men don’t willingly do
without, and if he can’t smell yours, he’ll follow
another piece home, sniffing, unless powerful
incentives are provided to keep that from happening.
Temptation is just around the corner…

Here we get into how women are different than men;
women will say, “That’s what marriage is for.” Wrong.
That’s what DIVORCE is for — it’s the stick you beat
him with for following the fresher scent — but it is
closing the barn door after the horse has left. Sure,
you’re punishing him — and for what? Breach of
contract? What happened to YOUR end of the bargain?
“Well, I cooked and cleaned and kept house…” Uh
huh… Ask him — would he rather have a clean house or
wade through piles of dirty laundry to get between your
legs? Priorities… his are SO simple — how on Earth
do you lose track?

There is another possible issue, here — an obvious
one, actually. ‘Clearly,’ you theorize, ‘Mona moved in
because of your CAP score; she was looking for her ride
off-planet.’ Sorry, that ain’t it. How can I be sure?
Because CAP scores didn’t come up between us for three
solid weeks — and what she did AFTER she discovered
mine makes it very clear that she wasn’t aware in
advance…

Chapter 2

Bonnie surfaced two weeks after Mona moved in; one day,
I opened the door to head off to go to work (this was
before Mona learned my CAP score) and this long lean
chick got up from where she was sitting on the floor
opposite the door and said, “I can’t make the rent.”

Naturally, I said, “Huh?”

Bonnie clarified things for me, “Mona was my roommate;
now that she’s living here I can’t make the rent.
You’re Pete, right?”

“Uh, yeah…” I wondered what was next — a lawsuit?

“Mona says you’re pretty nice,” Bonnie added, looking
me over. I returned the favor. She was a long, tall
drink of water in one of those flower-child floor-
length skirts and a halter top that, well, seemed
undernourished in the cups. The hair was long and
blonde — but a shade dark enough that I didn’t think
it came from a bottle, especially given the reddish
highlights. The face was, well, plain — a little
rabbity with buck teeth and freckles and not enough
chin to keep it from being just slightly pouchy. She
was about as different from Mona as you could get —
long and narrow everywhere Mona was round.

I continued my sparkling repartee by grunting, “Uh,
thanks. MONA!!!”

Mona stuck her head out the door and said, “Oh, hi,
Bonnie. Pete, I told you about Bonnie…”

“I remember.” That didn’t explain why she was here,
though. “She says she can’t make the rent or something.
I, uh, need to go to work.” Yeah, I was sprouting
feathers, big time — I did NOT want to get into
whatever fight this pair was going to have! I hurried
off, wondering if I was going to have to subsidize this
Bonnie’s rent in order to keep my chubby little main
squeeze in my bed where she belonged. Worry was
distracting; they could be tearing each other’s hair
out, the cops could get called, Bonnie might convince
Mona to move out (THAT was a worry — I was already
thoroughly addicted), I might have to appear as a
witness in Judge Judy’s court, — all kinds of
possibilities occurred to me…

Everything but what actually happened.

When I got home — a touch later than usual, as I’d
stopped for a beer to fortify me before heading on home
— Mona met me at the door, dressed in my favorite
manner — which is to say buck naked — rubbed my
crotch and got right to her point, purring, “Pete?
Could Bonnie move in with us?”

Caught flat-footed again, I blurted, “Why would you
want to do that? Why would you want another woman
around? Is she gonna pay?” I couldn’t imagine a
scenario wherein there was no reduction in my domestic
tranquility.

“Sweetie, Bonnie and I go way back — we’ve been
together for years! THAT won’t be a problem…” Mona
assured me, while making sure the blood all rushed to
my little head, leaving the big one at a disadvantage.
She had my cock out, running her little fist up and
down it with the confidence of someone thoroughly
familiar with the tools of her trade.

“Where will she sleep?” I sputtered. I was NOT giving
up my office in the second bedroom!

Mona dimpled. “Why, with us, silly!”

“Won’t that cut into…?”

“Oh, no! In fact, she’ll help! I can barely keep up —
you’re SUCH a stud…”

The first thought that occurred was ‘Bullshit!’ That
was laying it on a bit thick, I thought. Later, I
discovered that at any given moment, just about any
woman can ride three guys into the ground — but they
tend to take longer to recover than we do, so the next
night, while the guy is likely to be fully recharged,
she’s likely to be looking for the night off.

I’ve discussed Mona’s method of handling such things —
and it works, pretty well, three weeks out of the month
— but Mona was approaching that fourth week, when
women generally don’t generally want anyone playing in
the mess. Apparently, that came up somewhere in
Bonnie’s arguments earlier in the day, “Baby,” I
blustered, “In my limited experience, women fight over
guys…”

“That’s when one of them is STEALING,” Mona assured me.
“We’ll be SHARING!”

“And what does Bonnie think of this?” I asked.

“She’s fine with it,” Mona replied, the undercurrent
being, ‘of course…’ Before I could say anything about
wanting to hear this assurance from Bonnie, Mona turned
and yelled, “Bonnie!”

Before I could decide whether it was politic to wrestle
my erection out of Mona’s grasp, Bonnie came around the
corner wearing a baby-doll nightie short enough on her
to allow me to tell that the drapes matched the carpet.
In fact, Bonnie’s pubic hair — such as there was of it
— was more or less straight, flowing in from the sides
to a peak at the center that pointed at her clit. Her
eyes found my cock and lit up, “Oh, wow! NICE one!” I
got the impression that Bonnie had seen a few — an
impression that she proceeded to confirm by going
smoothly to her knees and SWALLOWING ME WHOLE!

“HOLY SHIT!” I gasped. Somehow, Bonnie managed to run
her tongue over my balls while her nose was in my pubes
and the head of my dick was in her throat! A week
before, I’d have blown a nut right there, but I was
becoming somewhat seasoned; still, I lasted MAYBE
ninety seconds while Bonnie took the tip of my dick
from her lips to beyond her epiglottis probably thirty
times… When I grunted incoherently that I was about
to blow, she collected it all in her mouth, then
proceeded to play with it, straining it through her
teeth and showing it on her tongue before snowballing
half of it to Mona. Needless to say, my cock didn’t go
down…

Bonnie’s nipples came up, though, tenting the nightie;
she had some serious points, there — and there was
something odd about them… I reached out gingerly —
rings! Bonnie had rings in her nipples!

“You like?” Bonnie grinned like a shark. The aggression
level here was totally different than the flower-child
persona of the morning. This chick seemed pretty
certain of her capabilities… I just nodded. “I do,
too,” she announced. “I like to have them twisted a
little while I fuck. Are you up for that?” I nodded
again and found myself being led to my bedroom by my
boner.

Bonnie knew ALL about fucking; after stretching me out
on my back, she tossed her nightie over her head,
revealing some VERY interesting tattoos, and proceeded
to ride me cowgirl-style until we were BOTH wasted.
Once again, the difference was night and day; sex with
Mona tended to be gentle and loving and romantic, but
sex with Bonnie was fucking — hard-edged, get your nut
and enjoy it to the max, go to Hell fucking!

I learned later that was the way they taught it at the
school where Bonnie learned about sex; her brother hung
out with bikers, and Bonnie got sucked in to a gang.
She’d been a ‘seat cover’ for a couple of years before
things just got too harsh and Bonnie went looking for
something more gentle than the kind of rough bastards
that liked to gang-bang a bitch until she was wall-
eyed. Mona was the other end of the spectrum, soft and
cuddly and considerate and most of all, needy — but
she didn’t have a dick, and now, after sampling the far
side for a couple of years, Bonnie was interested
again, particularly if the owner of the dick involved
could manage to approach the idea of being a little bit
considerate.

I could do that.

Bonnie had some of the damnedest marks left over from
her days as a biker bitch; a favorite was on her right
butt cheek, where an arrow pointed at her asshole
beside the notation, ‘Oil weekly.’ Dipping Bonnie’s ass
let you know she’d been ‘oiled’ DAILY at one point —
and that sphincter of hers remembered EVERY trick! I
have to sheepishly admit that I got off on twisting
those nipple rings; she would get this look on her face
and say, “God! That hurts SOOOO good!”

So Bonnie moved in, too, and I got a bigger bed. The
next week, we ran into what COULD have been a
complication of that ‘down week’ issue — you see,
Bonnie and Mona had been living together for years, and
as sometimes happens, their cycles matched. Bonnie,
however, actually got hornier when she was bleeding —
she claimed it was the ‘bitch in heat’ effect — so I
learned to fuck it bloody. The texture was a little
different; I won’t go into details to keep from
grossing anyone out.

A couple of days later, the girls were in the kitchen
cleaning up after supper, gabbing. I was working at the
dining room table — don’t ask why, since I have an
office. I had papers scattered here and there, and my
desk was already a mess, probably. Anyway, they were
providing a background mumble until Mona, suddenly ten
decibels louder, says, “Yes! I’m happy! I’m gonna be
with Pete until he tells me to go away, then I’m gonna
sit outside on the porch and cry for a couple of days
and hope he changes his mind! What’s wrong with that? I
want to have his kids, but with those bugs or lizards
or walking toadstools or whatever they are coming, it
doesn’t seem worth it…”

Thoroughly keyed in, I picked up Bonnie’s quieter
rejoinder — one that proved that she was the deep
thinker of the pair: “Whiskers, Pussy Cat, despite the
fact that Pete says ‘Huh?’ a lot, he’s pretty smart,
except for common sense stuff. Did it ever occur to you
that he might be smart enough to get picked up? What’s
his CAP score?”

“Jeez, I dunno…”

“You don’t know? You tie up with a guy in a grocery
store and you DON’T KNOW his CAP score? What DO you
know about him?” Bonnie demanded.

“Everything I need to know!” Mona insisted. “He’s sweet
and he loves my ass and…”

“Yeah, and he’s a soft touch and he’s got a nice long
cock — Hell, I love him to death, too — but what
possessed you to just up and go home with a strange guy
on the spur of the moment is beyond me!”

“You had to be there!” Mona declared stubbornly. “We
just clicked!”

“And you don’t know his CAP score…”

“No, Cricket, I don’t. It would be rude to ask,
anyway!” (I never heard either of these pet names
before this particular conversation, but I discovered
that they’d been using them for years…)

“Pete…” I jumped a foot, guiltily, and Bonnie smirked
a bit before finishing the question, “what’s your CAP
score?”

“I don’t care!” Mona declared staunchly, sticking her
head around the door behind Bonnie.

“I know you don’t, um, Pussy Cat…” I replied.

“See?” Bonnie insisted, “He’s not stupid — untutored,
but not stupid! He didn’t call you Whiskers…” Bonnie
drew a finger across her upper lip and I got it —
Italian girls sometimes grow a little fur there.
Personally, I think it’s cute… “But you didn’t answer
the question, did you?” Her eyes turned calculating.

“It’s okay, I love you anyway!” Mona assured me.

I turned to Bonnie. “What about you? Do you love me
anyway?”

Bonnie gave me a crooked smile that reminded me just
how worldly she was and said, “Sweetheart, you beat the
fuck out of just about any guy I ever had sex with —
but if you don’t have a five at least, then there is
something about you that isn’t right. I DO kinda hope
it’ll be a long time before I find it, but…” She
would cover her ass — it had been burned too many
times.

“Would you go with me if I was picked up?” I asked.

Bonnie cocked her head. “Can I be head bitch?” I
flicked a look at Mona and Bonnie handled the
objection, “Whiskers can’t be head bitch — she’s too
soft and cuddly.”

“She still might be the favorite,” I argued. Mona
preened.

Bonnie laughed and nodded. “True, but she wouldn’t WANT
to be head bitch — too much responsibility.”

“Stipulated,” I agreed.

Bonnie turned to Mona. “Pack your bag, Pussy Cat! Did
you hear that fancy word? Our Petey isn’t any three and
a half, Hon…” She cocked her head. “C’mon, Pete, quit
screwing around…”

Sighing, I reached in my wallet, pulled out my card and
handed it to Bonnie. Her eyes bugged. “Fuuuuuck me!”
Then she locked eyes with me and added, “Any time!”
making sure I realized she was serious. Turning to
Mona, she declared, “Pussy Cat, we have a problem! We
have to find two more girls that we can put up with so
our lover man has a full house!”

Mona blinked. “What?”

Bonnie flipped the card upright so Mona could read it.
“Our Petey doesn’t get just two girls, Sweetie — he
gets four!”

“You can go?” Mona’s eyes glowed — then her face fell.
“You’d take me, wouldn’t you?” she asked hesitantly.

“In a heartbeat, if I can,” I agreed.

Mona frowned. “Why couldn’t you?”

“If they pick me up somewhere and you’re not with
me…”

“I don’t want to lose you!” Mona declared, her face
tragic. “I want to go everywhere you go, okay?”

I thought about it. “That might be hard…”

“No,” she insisted, “I can do it. I’m sure I can!”

“I dunno. What about the Men’s Room?” I challenged.

“I don’t care. Please?” She turned those killer eyes on
me.

“Don’t you have to work?”

“Do I?”

“Don’t you have bills?”

“I don’t have rent, now…” She eyed me sidelong,
realizing THAT could change. “I don’t have a car
payment.”

“I bet you have insurance on that piece of shit,” I
pointed out.

“If I ride everywhere with you I don’t NEED a car!”

“That’s a point,” I conceded. “Cell phone?”

“It’s not a lot…” Mona started picking her fingers.

“Food? Beverages? Clothes? Make-up? Shoes?” I tossed
out.

“PLEEEZE!” Mona begged.

‘What about you?” I asked Bonnie.

Bonnie shook her head. “I can’t be that dependent. What
happens if you DON’T get picked up?” She eyed Mona.
“I’ll carry me so you can carry her.”

I rubbed my jaw. “We’ll try it.”

“YIPPEEE!!!” I ended up on the floor; Mona has plenty
of mass low to the ground to tackle me.

Since then, basically, Mona is never more than thirty
feet from me — ever. That started the morning after
she discovered my CAP score. She called in to her work
and quit her job as a secretary at an auto dealership
and she went to work with me. I ended up putting an
extra chair in my cube for her. The boss freaked until
he discovered that he was getting almost twice as much
work from the two of us, and he wasn’t paying salary or
benefits for Mona; that made it all right. If I wanted
to screw Mona in the janitor’s closet, it wasn’t an
inappropriate workplace romance — she wasn’t an
employee. Nobody was gonna get sued.

We had a hairy couple of days; I thought I was going to
have to quit because HR kept threatening to have Mona
escorted off the property, but I found a couple of
articles on ‘The New Workplace’ where women committed
to a high-CAP individual contributed to the company in
exchange for the ability to be close to their ‘sponsor’
at all times on the Net and the hassle went away.
Nowadays, I don’t go to the Men’s Room alone; Mona
shakes the dew off my lily. It’s just how it is. Does
it bother me? NO!

We go shopping. We go to the grocery store. We go to
the beauty shop. If I get grumpy about going somewhere,
we either DON’T go, or Mona makes sure I’m happy about
it. Do I have to draw you a picture? Okay: She gets
down on her knees… At this point, there are two other
guys in my department with the same deal — and the
girls are basically fighting off female employees to
defend their territory, and I’m VERY highly thought of
for blazing the trail!

Some turkey in the legal department created a ‘sexual
harassment waiver’; I’ve got about two dozen signed
ones in my desk drawer, with sticky notes attached from
the female involved making sure I know all of her
contact information — usually hand-delivered to make
sure I can attach a face — and other body parts — to
the piece of paper.

Of course, the downside is that I’ve painted a big
bulls-eye on my back for Earth First crackpots and
other whackos. Bonnie got me a gun — and when it
became evident that she was absolutely serious about
it, I went out and got my own — legally, this time.
Between my military background and my CAP score,
permitting — even the concealed weapon kind — wasn’t
a problem. Gun laws were going away, for a couple of
reasons — first, there were the infernally stupid; I
mean, if we COULD move the whole planet, we would,
right?

So caterwauling about how if you can’t go NOBODY should
is just selfish — and shooting and bombing people to
make your point makes you a terrorist. I think
terrorists should be used for target practice —
preferably starting at the extremities and working your
way inward to the vital areas. High CAP people needed
guns to protect themselves from people WITH guns, no
sense, and a death wish. Second, it was kind of stupid
to limit the individual’s right to bear arms when
EVERYBODY was going to NEED them in the very near
future!

Like everything else though, limitations tended to
occur as CAP scores dropped below five — guns don’t
kill people, flatheads with guns kill people. If you
have a three point two CAP and want to train with guns,
you go down to the local National Guard Armory and let
THEM train you — and turn the rifle back in to the
Arms Room before you leave. It’ll have your name on it
when the dickheads land… I taught Mona to shoot, but
if someone was gonna watch my back, it was gonna be
Bonnie; Mona was hopeless.

I figured that if I was down and she could see through
the tears, the perp — and several innocent bystanders
in his general direction — would end up dead, but
short of that, Mona handled a gun as if it might bite.
Bonnie, on the other hand, was a fair shot with a nine
millimeter — and had no compunction about using it.
The possibility that she might have appeared on the
surveillance video of one or more convenience store
robberies occurred to me, but I considered it
irrelevant — Bonnie’s bad old days were over.

Bonnie didn’t come in to work with us unless we were
having a function or something special that might draw
a pickup. If we went out to dinner or somewhere public,
she contrived to be there, given the increased
probability of a pickup. I traded my heap and Mona’s
piece of shit for a Dodge Charger, figuring we could
use more room and four doors, especially since Mona —
and Bonnie, in particular — were serious about picking
their harem mates; if possible, Bonnie rode with us.
Bonnie DID show up periodically — often enough to
stifle commentary about my apparent proclivity for
collecting short chunky women. She went in with us the
second day of the new era —

Mona in the cube — and when I got called to the boss’
office, she had me wait and went in first — and came
out smiling and licking her lips. I arrived thinking I
was going to get fired and left after a quick
injunction to not ‘make a spectacle of yourself.’ I
suspect that draining his balls drained his
indignation. HR took a couple more days to let up, but
the boss withdrew his support for anything punitive. A
month later, I got a raise ‘to help me support the
girls.’ I guess he figured it was the least he could
do, since Mona was filling in for the Help Desk
dispatcher, who was on maternity leave — and doing a
noticeably better job — for free.

I do plenty of late work, and Mona made waiting for
those midnight OS updates and reboots a LOT more
pleasant — for everybody — but it also generated
Lucinda. Lucinda worked for the cleaning company; she
came in at six or six-thirty and vacuumed and dusted
and watered the plants and made sure the dishwasher in
the break room ran — and kept scrupulously to herself.

Mona detected her one evening, though. “She’s cute,
huh?” she asked, pointing Lucinda out. Now, I’d noticed
Lucinda, so I DID have a pre-formed opinion — Lucinda
was cute. She was curvy, somewhere between Mona and
Bonnie (more toward Mona’s end), a bit closer to being
in proportion than Mona, despite being a little hippy
and showing modest love handles — but she had bigger
tits.

Okay, I admit it, I would stand up to watch her vacuum,
so I could have a drop shot down that cleavage — VERY
nice! She was sweet-faced, and one of her hesitant
little smiles brought the impression that she knew her
place in the presence of a man with it — something
American chicks have been educated away from, in the
vast majority of cases. She was in her mid-twenties
somewhere and was clearly in the habit of being useful,
rather than decorative. “Yeah, real nice,” I agreed,
figuring either Mona was looking for an excuse to be
jealous or it was just commentary.

It was neither. Smelling something that might work out,
Mona called Bonnie and Bonnie showed up thirty minutes
later — and the pair of them gave poor Lucinda the
third degree somewhere out of my sight. When I stood up
from the database migration I’d been doing two hours
later, Bonnie braced me with the results: “Pete, Mona
and I think you ought to take a look at Lucinda, here.”

Making me look stupid apparently ISN’T a fine art — or
maybe Bonnie is just an artist, since she’s so adept at
it; I blinked and mumbled, “What?”

“Do you know Lucinda?” Bonnie demanded, pointing at the
cute little Chiquita in her tank top, hip huggers and
sandals, eyeing me with her head down and a hopeful
expression on her face.

“Well, we’ve never been properly introduced…” I
stepped up and gingerly put out my hand — and Lucinda
placed hers in it, rather than shaking it.

While I stood there smiling at her and wondering if I
was supposed to kiss her hand, Bonnie announced, “Mona
and I think she might be an asset to us — for one
thing, she knows who is boss…”

“Asset?”

“You’ve got two more slots to fill, Hon.”

“Uh, I see. She’s volunteering? Based on what?”

“Mona and I have talked to her,” Bonnie replied calmly.

I was instantly worried. “You didn’t tell her anything
I’m gonna have to be embarrassed about…?”

Lucinda smiled artlessly and said, “Bonnie (she
pronounced it ‘Bah Nee’) says you have big…
cojones…”

“Um, yeah, that’s embarrassing,” I muttered, grimacing.
“What do you think of that?”

“It’s a good thing, maybe…” Lucinda opined, her
expression serious.

“So what have these two told you?” I asked.

“They say you have the big score and need more women,”
Lucinda replied.

“And you’re… interested?” I asked. It still wasn’t
clear to me how I’d collected TWO women, let alone how
I could be interviewing a third…

“Yes,” Lucinda replied simply.

Bonnie stepped in. “Lucinda is from Costa Rica, and
she’s um, visiting her sister and brother-in-law. The
situation isn’t, ummm, perfect, if you know what I
mean.”

“My sister’s husband is… not honorable,” Lucinda
related. “When my sister is not around, he… takes
liberties… makes demands… I have tried to speak to
my sister of this, but she does not believe me. She
says that if these things are happening, I am inviting
them. She says I am not a proper sister and becomes
angry when I try to…”

“What has he done?” I asked.

“Grabbed my… hooters? Boobies? Tetas…” She hefted
her jugs, just to make sure I understood. “He tore my
blouse!” Somehow, that seemed to be more important than
having her breasts mauled. “He… exposed himself…
and grabbed my head and tried to make me suck him.”

“I would be looking for a good deal more than that,” I
noted.

“You are not my sister’s husband!” Lucinda replied.

“You understand that if we are not together when I am
picked up, I can do nothing about it,” I advised.

“Yes,” Lucinda nodded.

“The more time we spend together — especially in
public places — the more likely it is that you will be
with me to pick up. Mona spends ALL of her time with
me, while Bonnie spends less, but we try to make it
quality time.” I sighed. “I can’t make any promises
about being picked up, since I might not be — but if
we seem to do well together, then I promise that if I
AM picked up and you are with me, you’ll go…”

Lucinda nodded. “This is all I can ask. I would live
with you?”

“Uh, yeah…” ‘I JUST got a king size bed! What is
bigger?’ I wondered.

Lucinda, detecting my lukewarm response, insisted, “I
will work…”

“That’s good,” I assured her. “There are already three
of us — I was just wondering about bed size.”

“I must leave my sister’s house…”

“Of course,” I agreed. “We’ll work it out.”

“There’s got to be a test drive,” Bonnie interjected.

“Absolutely!” I agreed. “Everything is based on that
working out!”

It did. We took her home and Lucinda didn’t have
Bonnie’s experience — or even Mona’s — but she was
energetic and enthusiastic and exotic. She had the
brown eyes, but hers held this fire that differed from
Mona’s. Bonnie taught her that she had a lot to learn
about blowjobs (and I managed to hold my nut —
something about being serviced regularly gives you
stamina) then I did an inventory of Lucinda’s erogenous
zones before getting down to serious business. She had
the cutest little droopy pussy lips — and a thick,
straight, black bush.

Her love handles were matched by a little belly roll
that was smaller than Mona’s, yet somehow more
pronounced, and her breasts were big and soft and
tender and sagged just a bit. She wasn’t technically a
virgin, but she hadn’t been around; I took it easy,
penetrating her from a position standing beside the bed
while she lay on her back with her legs up on either
side of my head. That allowed her to press back against
me if it seemed like I was getting ahead of her. Once
we were settled, she got rapidly enthusiastic — and
VERY vocal.

My Spanish isn’t good enough to tell you what she was
saying, but the tone was clear — she loved it! Pretty
soon I had claw marks on my ass from her goading me to
further effort… I did her twenty minutes’ worth and
through several orgasms (again, stamina induced purely
through practice) and when she’d milked me dry, I
decided to pass on her ass, while ensuring that she
understood that it was coming at a future date.

Then Bonnie had Mona check out her lingual skills —
two orgasms worth. You could tell that Mona liked her
tongue a lot without getting in anyone’s face and
asking. By the time the four of us wedged ourselves
together to sleep on my crowded king-size bed, the
grade reports were in and Lucinda passed.

So the next morning, we took Lucinda home to her
sisters to collect her stuff. Hoo Boy, what an
altercation! Right from the start, both of them were
going at it, hammer and tongs, in LOUD machinegun
Spanish — I couldn’t understand a word, but you would
probably have had to be on speed to decipher it,
anyway, since the syllables were all coming out,
“Braaap!” like bursts from a minigun. Add the arm-
waving and histrionics and it was quite a show!

We were probably lucky that the husband was at work.
Lucinda’s sister helped her move out — if you call
dumping double armloads of her stuff on the porch
‘helping!’ I was just as happy that I didn’t have to go
inside… Mona and I took off for work once it was
clear that the place was getting close to being cleared
out, leaving Bonnie to help Lucinda settle in.

By evening, they were all set; Bonnie and Lucinda came
to meet Mona and I at work and we went out — something
we did more and more often, as it increased our chances
of being picked up. Things settled down to a cycle for
a while; Mona and I would go off in my car, and Bonnie
would drop Lucinda later on her way to her shift at the
fast food place where she worked, then we would all go
home together about nine when Lucinda got off — or
meet Bonnie at a restaurant somewhere.

The only real issue was bed space — four in a king-
size was tight, but the girls realized without me
saying anything that I had to have an office, so they
developed some kind of rotation among them where one of
them took the couch. I didn’t ask how they worked it
out, realizing without thinking about it that it was
probably arcane — some things you leave to women and
don’t screw with, you know?

That lasted until I got the raise for Mona’s
productivity; immediately after that, I started getting
gentle hints that we needed a bigger place, so we ended
up moving to a bigger but less opulent three bedroom
place closer to work — and I started worrying. Even
with the raise and the chump change Bonnie and Lucinda
were making from their jobs, more money seemed to be
going out than coming in — it wasn’t much, but it WAS
a steady drain on things. The up side was that now one
— or maybe two — of my ladies could sleep in a real
bed in a separate room and we all had a bit more space.

Then, in the fall, Lucinda got laid off — and I
finally realized that when Bonnie had described
Lucinda’s situation that first night, she had gently
hinted that her papers were no good — and it had gone
right over my head…

That would have stopped some people, but Lucinda had a
built-in work ethic; she went out stumping the streets
in the local neighborhood and got three separate gigs
doing regular maid and cleaning work — days, which
helped move dinner to an earlier time. She even managed
to find overflow, and passed it to Bonnie, who was soon
making better money than the burger joint.

Rich folk EXPECTED Lucinda to be an illegal — it meant
they could stiff her on wages compared to a regular
domestic from a cleaning service. The two of them put
their heads together at some point and bought uniforms
of two varieties: the drab grey domestic type and the
foxy French jobs in black with the little white aprons
and the even littler skirts.

Lucinda I wasn’t sure about, but I was pretty sure
Bonnie was offering blowjobs as an item on her list of
domestic services; I didn’t ask. We were in the black
again — and, more important, could afford to go out
more and be available in public for a pickup. All of us
were generally out of work around the same time, too,
which let us be out eating or shopping or going to
movies or whatever during primetime.

We had little tactics to keep the Earth First whackos
from detecting a guy with three women; I would run with
one as a couple and the other two would hang together
in the immediate vicinity, for instance. A few feet of
distance between the pairs in a mall or handling
shopping in different aisles made all the difference.

If we went to the movie, I sat with my arm around ONE
woman, not two — I could switch at some point without
worrying too much. The girls would get up and go to the
Ladies’ Room and come back to sit in a different
configuration without attracting any attention, too.
Bonnie was usually the instigator of such techniques,
which only firmed her position as ‘head bitch.’

That got us through until recently, when some chick
from the secretarial pool showed up to drop off one of
those ‘sexual harassment waivers’ and show me that she
shaved her pussy by lifting her skirt. Mona looked on,
amused, and when I tossed the thing in the drawer after
the girl’s departure, Mona reached in and dug the stack
out and said, “Why don’t you ever look at these? You
need to fill a fourth slot…”

Chapter 3

I eyed her and said, “One more hot, high-performance
pussy would probably put me in my grave!” When you
start looking forward to NOT fucking, you’re DEFINITELY
getting too much; I knew that when I got picked up,
augmentation would increase both my interest and my
capabilities, but in the here and now I was servicing
three women regularly — and I had to take one day off
in four in order to do a proper job! Filling that
fourth day with another hungry gash would likely leave
me anemic, at least, as I was pushing large quantities
of protein out my dick on a regular basis. Pussy is
wonderful stuff; having too much to be able to
appreciate it properly is, well, sad.

“Maybe you should be looking for something else, then,”
Mona replied, and started digging through the forms.
The forms themselves didn’t mean anything, of course —
they were just releases. I was in the doghouse with HR
for being the visible reason for a couple of major
policy changes, the first being the stuff they had to
put together to suffer Mona’s presence on-site under my
supervision, and the second being the whole sexual
harassment waiver thing.

HR made Mona and I sign some forms that made it clear
that the company didn’t owe her anything — they
weren’t obligated to pay her or anything, they merely
allowed her to be there — and I was responsible for
her. She had to sign a nondisclosure agreement, blah,
blah, blah… While it wasn’t the letter of the
agreement, Mona could basically see anything I did —
and that meant she could help out, although she was not
obligated to any more than the company was allowed to
pay her. Sitting around bored didn’t work for her,
though, and soon she was ‘helping out’ more than some
salaried employees.

The sexual harassment waivers weren’t REALLY my fault,
although they covered Mona and she signed one; they
were coming in, anyway, as a more or less necessary
change. We had to go to a briefing by the legal
department and HR and sign a paper that said we knew
about the waivers.

Some snippy HR bitch (okay, if you’re in HR and you’re
offended, I apologize, but for every HR person I ever
met who had any sense and truly cared for people, I’ve
met three who embraced every stupid idea in the book
and did fucked up things like post job requirements
that specified ten years’ experience with a product
that had been out for two. If you’re in group one, I
apologize humbly; if you’re in group two, suck it
up…) stood and declaimed on the matter for a while in
terms that indicated that she didn’t want to get her
tongue dirty making things understandable, then the guy
from the legal department got up and earned his keep by
managing to keep it clean while making things clear to
the densest of us.

“Basically, the deal was that company dress codes,
fraternization policies, blah, blah, blah, continued to
be in place — but you COULD opt out. If you did, the
company wasn’t liable in any way, shape, or form.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” as he put it, “If you sign a
waiver and choose to wear clothing that displays a
sexual characteristic on company property, you need to
remember that you are displaying it to EVERYONE, not
just one or two individuals of your choice. That means
that ANYONE may examine or comment upon said
characteristic, and you waive the right to complain
about it. The rules are deliberately permissive, up to
and including actual sexual acts.

“No still means no and unwanted sexual contact
continues to be illegal — but the company is NOT
liable in any way, shape or form; you need to contact
law enforcement if you wish to pursue a complaint
against an individual who violates your person; you
waive any right of civil action against the company for
allowing you to pursue your sexual identity. Did you
all get that?”

Several people present appeared befuddled, so he said,
“Let me throw out an example.

“Let’s say that a young lady in Sales notes that her
bust gets her a certain amount of attention, and she
determines that her sales quota will be more easily
filled if she bares it. To do so, she must sign one of
these waivers, and if she does so and she wanders past
the warehouse and gets wolf whistles, that is NOT
grounds for a sexual harassment claim. Despite the fact
that her display is intended for customers, if the
warehouse staff is exposed to it, they are free to
comment upon its size and so on, either favorably or
unfavorably.

“If this young lady doesn’t want the warehouse staff to
see and comment upon her bust, she needs to cover it
up, not expect the warehouse staff to pretend to ignore
it. Moving things up a notch, the young lady may even
allow others to fondle her bust if she wishes, in
locations and at times that don’t interfere with
company operations. Should an individual decide to do
so WITHOUT the young lady’s permission, the authorities
should be called and the assault reported.

The company is NOT in the business of determining the
guilt or innocence of any party involved in such a case
and all consequences will be confined to those imposed
by the legal system. By signing the waiver, the young
lady absolves the company of any responsibility in the
matter; the company is neither criminally nor civilly
liable for situations wherein the company’s policy of
allowing free sexual expression leads to untoward
results.”

The lawyer looked around and sighed. “To be a bit more
graphic, if you expose your breasts and a dirty old man
eyeballs them and drools, tough. If you don’t want them
seen by him, cover them in his presence. If he insists
upon feeling you up, call the cops — don’t bother HR.
Don’t expect us to fire him if you don’t win your
assault case and he doesn’t go to jail — don’t even
expect us to suspend him, with or without pay, while
the incident goes through the courts. Frankly, if you
sign one of these, it is going to damage your ability
to win a rape case.”

A woman in the back raised her hand. “What if I don’t
sign a waiver and I don’t want to see?”

The lawyer pursed his lips. “We’ll handle it in the
least disruptive manner possible. See your supervisor
for alternate seating, for instance. I’m looking for an
extreme case for this, so bear with me. If a gentleman
exposes his genitalia to you and you find it
distasteful, look away. If that doesn’t work, pointing
and giggling might…” That got a laugh. “If he’s
persistent, discuss it with your supervisor — no doubt
the individual’s productivity is down if he’s waving
his privates under your nose on a regular basis. If he
IS your supervisor, feel free to discuss it with HIS
supervisor or with HR.”

He looked around. “We expect some tolerance from those
who do not sign waivers — and we expect some effort at
decorum from those who do. Extreme behavior will get
you disciplined because it is disruptive — I would
recommend avoiding actual sexual activity in the cubes.
We’ll be looking for locations to designate; for now,
break rooms are probably your best bet. Make sure your
boss and co-workers aren’t going to be too distressed
about it before you come to work nude — it’s the
polite thing to do. And messing with someone who hasn’t
signed a waiver and isn’t interested IS sexual
harassment and WILL be dealt with, even if it isn’t in
a zero-tolerance manner.”

He glanced around again. “A couple of things: Either
this thing is on or off. If on Monday Brenda X sticks
her bare breasts in your face and you cuddle them, then
on Tuesday she does it again, but you’re not interested
because you discovered on Monday she has implants, then
on Wednesday she comes back, don’t go to HR, waiver or
no waiver. What you have is an interpersonal
relationship problem, not a sexual harassment problem;
you gave up your right to file a complaint when you
felt Brenda up on Monday.

“If Betty shows up on Thursday to see if you have blood
in your veins, then you have a complaint against Betty
— IF you don’t test drive her. Another note — if you
dress as if you signed a waiver, expect to be treated
as if you signed a waiver. Don’t go running to HR
because you exposed yourself and got commentary on it,
but haven’t signed a waiver — go home and change
clothes, or sign a waiver; that’s what HR will tell you
to do. Are we clear? I’ll be available to answer
individual questions.” He grinned. “In fact, I’ll enjoy
it.”

So, anyway, Mona starts going through the waivers;
there was no requirement for anyone to actually give
anybody else a copy of the form, but girls did it.
There were little stickers you could put in your cube
that said ‘Free Expression Zone’ to clarify things —
but I digress, again… The point was that someone had
generated a little sticky-note form that allowed you to
stick a ‘personal ad’ to the waiver, telling the
recipient that not only was it safe to play, but how
interested the girl was and in what.

The thing had been written tongue in cheek, with
entries like: “Sex: (Circle All Applicable) Male Female
Hermaphrodite Transsexual” and “Preference: I am:
Straight Gay Bi Undecided” and “Practices: I do: Oral
Anal Groups Bikers Interracial Dogs BDSM – Whatever you
tell me to do” (that last was a popular choice).

The girls filled them out, anyway, including the
obvious jokes. Physical characteristics were on it,
too, as well as contact info, an a little space for a
free-text note — usually a come-on. I’d read a bunch
of them for amusement, but nothing had stuck out. Mona
went through them, with numerous giggles, while I
resolved someone’s printer problem, and separated them
into two piles.

“This is the adult personals,” she told me, “and this
is just the personals.” The first stack held the vast
majority of forms; the second turned out to be only
one. I picked up the ‘personal.’ The sticky note was
filled out meticulously, even providing info that
wasn’t anything impressive, like the fact that her
height-to-weight ratio wasn’t that good (it wasn’t
awful, either, but she wasn’t going to be a swimsuit
model).

Most chicks filled out the good parts and left out the
bad, like the one who filled in the fact that she had
44DD breasts, but managed to not mention the fact that
she was five foot three and weighed 240 pounds. Brown
hair, brown eyes, glasses, 38D… nothing seemed
impressive. But she hadn’t written anything in the text
box but, “Please see the letter,” — no come-on or
anything like that. I took a look at the piece of paper
clipped to the waiver and the sticky note:

Dear Peter (people who know me call me Pete — but she
didn’t),

I don’t know why I’m bothering with this, but you seem
like a nice guy and I’m a little bit desperate, so I
figure it’s worth a try.

There’s nothing special about me; my girlfriends say
I’m invisible — and guys don’t see me, so it must be
true. I’m thirty, and I have two little girls —
Caitlin and Karen — and a little boy — Mark — and I
love them to death and would do anything to keep them
from being eaten by Swarm things.

I think I have the mechanics of sex down pat — well,
the baby-making part, anyway, since I couldn’t manage
to hold onto a husband. I would learn to do anything
you want, though — I promise! I have my teaching
certificate and would love to run a day care or a
kindergarten, but for now I have to work here to put
food on the table. My CAP score is 5.4 and the
subscores are…

(She went on to detail them — the codes on the card
and the numbers — something no one else had ever done,
to my knowledge. I went online to the CAP testing site
and looked them up — sex was middle of the road, self-
reliance was a bit low, her self-image was pretty poor,
but her intelligence was high and her parenting scores
were well up in the seventieth percentile.) I read on:

If you are at all interested in rescuing me and my
kids, I’ll do everything I can to make you happy you
did.

Sincerely,

Grace Murphy

“Not bad, huh?” Mona opined. “Do you know her?”

“No.” I thought about it. “I don’t think I saw this one
come in; I certainly don’t remember reading it before.”

Mona nodded. “I bet she brought it sometime when you
weren’t here.”

“Probably,” I agreed.

“So where is she?”

I looked Grace up in the employee directory. “Customer
Service — the call center.” I grimaced. Chicks that
sat on their ass and answered the phone all day tended
to have big ones. Customer Service ran to some pretty
good-sized chicks. Having to spend all day talking to
irate customers didn’t help their self-images, either,
apparently. From my (admittedly distant) observations,
half of them smoked — in this day and age when
everybody KNEW it was bad for you — and the vast
majority looked like the drowned their sorrows in a big
tub of cookie dough ice cream at least once a week.
‘Ah, well…’ I thought. “Let’s head down there at
lunch.”

Grace WAS invisible; it took three passes through the
cube farm to find her. Mine was a known face, so we
gathered attention, too, which didn’t make anything
easier. Mona muttered, “Maybe she’s on vacation — it
IS the week after Christmas,” after the second pass,
but the attendance data said Grace was there, so I
shook my head and dove back in.

The pictures of the kids and the crayon art are what
finally caught my eye. Grace’s nameplate had apparently
fallen — it was lying flat on her desktop, half-tucked
under some papers — but there were 5 x 7 framed
pictures of a couple of little blonde waifs and a boy
in a crew cut with missing front teeth and colorful
stick-figure pictures of ‘Momy’ on the cube walls; when
I stopped to look at them, I discovered the nameplate.
Grace was on the phone saying, “I apologize, Sir, for
the delivery failure — could you give me the order
number so I can track it?”

Listening while Grace discovered that the moron had
backed out of an online transaction and only THOUGHT he
ordered product, I eyed her from the rear. She was
definitely pear-shaped, but not as disproportionate as
Mona. The clothes she was wearing were designed to hide
an elephant — but she wasn’t one, really. It was all
pretty standard — mouse-brown hair pulled back in a
ponytail with little frizzies escaping at the neck (I’m
a sucker for that, actually — it makes me want to kiss
the neck), eyeglasses, fair skin.

The finger- and toenails were well cared for, in clear
lacquer and that white stripe — I think they call it a
‘French manicure’ — the feet displayed by the ever-
popular (not to me, but apparently among women of all
ages, everywhere) rubber flip-flops. There were
probably thirteen variations on her basic type in sight
— but most would be bigger or not as clean or have
something else going on.

Grace said, “Thank you, Sir. Buh-bye!” and poked the
telephone hang-up button with a pen and spun to us,
surprised. “Oh!”

There was nothing on display; the bra she had on would
have pressed a pair of five pound lead weights to her
chest. She was wearing a round necked blouse and a
sweater buttoned at the neck, so the postage stamp-
sized area of skin she had on display framed a small
necklace and no cleavage at all. But I’d been sold at
the kiddie pics so, with my usually debonair flair, I
blurted, “Grace? What are you doing New Years Eve?”

As Grace tiptoed through the snow in her heels at the
back of my little harem, I reflected that she was
probably wearing or carrying stuff from three well-
meaning girlfriends — and despite the fact that
probably none of them could dress, she had turned out
halfway decent looking. The calves on display below her
skirt were a little heavy, but not bad, and the ankles
were decent. Grace DID have cleavage — soft stuff —
and it was on display tonight.

Earlier in the evening, over the dinner and the dancing
and the champagne, the three of us had interviewed her,
the girls wanting to know if she could be bi, and
probing for her experience. It was extensive, from an
experimentation point of view; in her desperation to
hold onto her husband, she’d learned deep throat and
anal and had even swung — but he had left, anyway.

When I asked for a sample, she turned the most
beautiful shade of pink — but she hiked up her narrow
sequined skirt and crawled over to my chair and opened
my pants and proceeded to prove that she’d practiced
THAT extensively. Bonnie, who got down with her, gave
her the nod in the first thirty seconds — but I was
FEELING it and had MY opinion before that. Even if she
was a dead fuck — and I doubted it — we had other
uses for her in the grand view of things. As I stood
there holding Mona under my left shoulder, I watched
her array herself between Bonnie and Lucinda and nodded
to myself. Yeah, she was going.

I turned and asked the Marine — I now knew he wasn’t a
cop — “This is pretty extensive — what’s the layout?”

“Transport pads are in the trailers,” he replied. The
tents are for real drunks and for prospective
concubines — you obviously won’t need to visit the
tent, but some guys do. Gals we pick up we tell what’s
going on and let them choose whether they want the
pickup tent or not — drunk or sober. Guys are, well,
sort of case-by-case. Drunks go to the drunk tent —
and off to jail, when it fills — but female sponsors
can tour it, without letting on. Sober guys, well, we
use our best judgment in offering the pickup tent.
Sponsors, of course, are briefed, drunk or sober.”

He touched his Smokey Bear hat. “Just wait here with
these guys,” he said as he led us to a cluster of three
or four other guys with a couple of confused-looking
gals in tow, “and someone will be along to pick you up
and take you to the transport pads.”

I stood watching as the Marine who stopped the guy in
the center lane next to me handed off to a shorter,
REAL cop and went over to speak quietly to the woman he
was with. Clearly, the guy wasn’t a sponsor. He was
also a bit belligerent, but the trooper started asking
him about sobriety testing.

“Of COURSE I’m not going to consent to that!” he
ranted. “I’m not giving up my rights!” I rolled my
eyes. I could tell he was lit from here, but the
trooper settled for field tests — the nose touch and
straight line stuff. That went on for a few seconds
before the girl he was with erupted, ‘Mickey! This is a
pickup!”

“What? It is?” Mickey was instantly VERY angry! “You
bastards!” He reached behind his back and I saw metal;
there was a ZAP! — but there were also enough gunshots
to support a firing squad, including one from me and
one from Bonnie. The cop stood there looking like he
was about to shit his pants — he’d been WAY too close
to Mickey and could easily have been perforated by the
vigilante response!

“P-please don’t do that again!” he husked. Three or
four of us mumbled, “Sorry!” Meanwhile Mickey bled out
in the snow. Mickey’s girlfriend went back and forth
for a while, but eventually trudged off toward the
pickup tent.

The Marine came back and emphasized the cop’s position.
“Please allow us to handle disruptions, at least
initially.”

We all promised we would stand down. Several other cars
in the visual range had to be emptied rapidly and the
occupants searched and calmed down. “What’s up with the
girlfriend?” I asked.

“She’s… biddable,” the Marine replied. “He was her
man, so she was loyal to him — to the point of letting
him know the setup, knowing he had Earth First
leanings. But she wasn’t Earth First material and once
he was gone there was no need for her to pretend to be.
She’ll be looking for a new owner, one way or the
other.”

Then the shit hit the fan. Four rows back, four guys
erupted from an SUV with automatic weapons, alerted by
Mickey’s demise, and started lighting up the place.
“Shit! Down! Shoot!” I grabbed my two closest girls and
Bonnie grabbed Grace and we hit the deck, then Bonnie
and I started peppering the terrorists. It was STILL
four to probably fifteen, six of them augmented Marines
— but surprise netted the bad guys a couple of
wounded, including the sponsor next to me — and Grace!

“She’s bleeding!” Mona wailed.

“Medic!” the Marine yelled. Two guys dashed over
lugging tubes that floated on their own; one of them
eyeballed the guy next to me, then asked me to help him
get the guy in the tube while the other asked the girls
to help with Grace. Naturally, I was somewhat
distracted as I assisted with the lift; the medic
attending to Grace said, “Don’t worry — she’s gonna
make it!” and we all drew a breath.

Once they were both loaded, our Marine said, “Follow
the medics — they’ll get you to the ship!” We trudged
off through the snow to the trailers, worry about Grace
eclipsing just about anything else. As a result, I
didn’t stop at the door to take a last look at my home
world from ground level; the medic asked, “You got
everybody?” I nodded, and he said, “Step into the
beam…”

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