Babbling Brooke By Avida Dolor Gunpoint rape and beating Copyright 1997 Avida Dolor Warning: This work of fiction contains frank language and explicit sex and violence. No one under 18 permitted to read without the express consent of parent or guardian. I pull open the locker with a creak, not sure where the creak's coming from, maybe me, I'm as stiff as the Tin Man, pumped to the gills, my tightened fists seem tiny and distant, spot welded at the ends of hydraulic titanium robot arms. I peel out of the soaked sweatshirt, just a sports bra underneath, soaked too, and the pungent sweet stench of exertion rises off me in thick waves, frying the air like Santa Therma Freeway asphalt. I curl myself into a slow, aching crab and look down to admire the blood bloat; I'm swollen up like a vast bone bruise, my wet flesh is cresting like the salty breakers at Santa Curla. I shimmy out of the sweat pants, sweat running in trickle tickles behind my knees, and there's a sound behind me, the whooshing of big, silken girl thighs. It's Brooke, drama queen extraordinaire, dramarama mama, wearing nothing but a towel around her wide, healthy shoulders, it artfully covers her breasts, the white terry cloth a stark contrast with her deep vacation tan. She must have been in the shower, her long hair is a slick whip behind her, her dark muff has the fresh wet look that spells zestfully clean, but I didn't hear any water running; maybe I thought it was the blood coursing through my head. Brooke is standing on the other side of the locker aisle, there's a bench separating us. She's grinning at me like an idiot, she doesn't look quite right, there's something off in her face, it's more than the usual diva sneer that the haughty hussy was probably born with. 'Jenna,' she says, 'you're, like, fuckin' pumped up.' This comes out slightly slurred in a strange mechanical cadence, like a tape played a bit too slow. Oh, shit, she's fucked up. 'Yeah,' I say tentatively, 'it was a really good workout.' Brooke does drugs? The girl who won't smoke cigarettes 'cause they make her hair smell bad, as she attested in a public service announcement she made last year in video class, her arms sturdy and succulent in a sleeveless pom-pom prom frock, the PSA played endlessly on public access cable to the delight of a legion of dirty old Calvinists who were coming in their pants? And how does she know my name? Maybe from the wrestling team coverage in The Cheech, the school paper. I'm *the* undefeated heavyweight, unlimited division, actually, two years running, all conference, all state, all everything. Like anyone gives a shit about girl's wrestling. Dykes in tights, they call it. Fat on the mat. Some girls are heavy, heavier than they should be. I've had to grapple foul-smelling 200-pound pigs, they just try to crush you under their bulk. And against me, they fail miserably, I pin them all. My 160 is all muscle, fighting weight. Oh, I have my fans all right, about ten, equally divided between male and female, my groupies, they worship my body, they'd part with a leg before they'd miss a match, they videotape everything. But no time to ponder these portentous matters; Brooke, whose fans are legion--the audience hung on her every mortar-slick 'Brick' but two weeks earlier when she played an Amazonically-charged Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof--is stepping unsteadily over the bench between us, her eyes are pencil beams of determined confusion. She pulls the towel from around her shoulders, it slithers off her like a wet snake, she tosses it away with a flick of her wrist that makes her bicep jump like a rainbow trout, and she stands there, almost in touching distance, grinning nakedly. Her small breasts are pertly flirtatious, the nipples stiffed up to thick brown nubs, the pecs not bad at all, sculpted around the sternum and rising in faint arcs of clamshell up to the collarbones. The girl has been in a gym somewhere, probably at the Santa Chucho Golden Palms Resort, where the only Mexicans to be seen are clearing your table in the dining room. I don't know what to say, I'm trying not to stare at her body, trying to keep my gaze leveled on her unfocused baby browns, when she steps forward, her dilated pupils searching my soul, her sweet breath caressing my face, and she says, 'I've always wanted to kiss you, Jenna. You're, like, real cute.' What the fuck! Is she on some kind of Ecstasy? I've heard it makes you want to love everybody. Who'd want a drug like that? I'm in the process of formulating some dumb reply, like, maybe, 'Thanks,' when she grabs me around the neck and plants her mouth on mine with the vacuum force of a docking space shuttle. There's a reverse wind tunnel of suction pulling my tongue into her mouth, and I'm wondering how bad my breath is after the gasping workout, as she works her big hands over the knotted thickness of my upper back like a champion masseuse. Isn't this flattering? Brooke walks on water at Santa Chucho High, heretofore no one was good enough to carry her tampon, not even drama queens like Cindy and Courtney, though there *have* been some rumors that she and Cindy were an item for awhile. I return the kiss automatically, my hands cupping her hard buns, and we're sealed like a Ziploc bag, our hips moving in slow humping rhythms, a love grind, but we're in the locker room, I remind myself suddenly, and if someone walks in and sees this, Brooke, when she comes to her senses, will say I molested her and I'll probably be suspended--end of mat season. I got away with the beating of Cindy and Courtney a few months ago, but just barely. Drama brahmins rate real high at Santa Chucho, but I'm king shit in the girl's phys ed department and Coach McCallister pulled some weight for me. So I got off with just sort of a vague warning--it was hard for them to pin anything on me since it was obvious that Cindy had beaten up Courtney, her knuckles were swollen something awful, and I was battered, too. Anyway, I'd better disengage myself from Brooke, and fast, says a little voice in my head, the rarely heard voice of reason. If she wants to make me, she can do it in my bedroom after school. Mom won't mind, in fact she'll be impressed. I grab her by the gracefully angled planes of her pretty head and pry my face off of hers, slip my hands to her wrists and try to get her off my back. No go, she wraps me in a bear hug, my face pressed into her sweet-smelling neck, her nipples grinding into me like hot kisses, and I'm muttering something like, 'Brooke, get a grip on yourself,' but she's got a grip on me, I'm in this big squeeze, she's no weakling for chrissakes, she's licking my ear, lapping at it with a big, dripping tongue, and the only thing I can think of is when was the last time I used a Q-Tip. Fuck this. I press my thumbs into her throat, hard, and she jerks her head back and up with a surprised gurgle; her arms come off my back, and she takes a step away from me, looking wild eyed. I'm starting to say something about, 'OK, Brooke, fun's over,' when, out of absolutely nowhere, she front kicks me in the belly, hard and well-placed, like she's been practicing for years. A swift kick, so swift I don't block it. I guess they have karate classes at the Golden Palms. I double over in a sudden stun and she punches me in the jaw, a right hook that seems intended to rip my head off, and if I was a pretty-in-pink petite like the typical Santa Chuchette it probably would have decapped me clean like Jayne Mansfield's car wreck. Brooke hits as hard as she looks, but I've got an iron jaw to match my bod, just ask that fat pot dealer over at Santa Flora Park who cold-cocked me and broke her hand. Nevertheless, I bounce off the row of lockers and don't have time to fall as she drives a knee into my chest, and this too is no amateur move, she drives the knee like she does 50 of these every morning before breakfast and it hits me like a Chevette going 40. I bounce off the lockers again, and as I try to curl in on myself to block the next blow I search her face for a clue; she's put on this enraged, teeth-bared mask, her eyes are scorched with venom. Now she wants to kill me, not kiss me. Is this PCP? I heard it makes you want to kill everyone once you get pissed about something. Maybe I should try some. The next blow is a left that just slashes my arm out of the way so she can fire a clear right at my jaw. I'm ducking forward as she punches, though, and she gets mostly shoulder. I lurch into her and grab her around the hips, and she pounds my back once with a hammer fist that makes my spine shiver before I set my legs and lift her 160 or so pounds off the floor, up onto my shoulder, and in the cramped space her head bangs into a locker behind me, and the lockers seem like such a nice idea I step forward and whip her off my shoulder and her convenient 5-11 size extends her to the lockers across the way, and her head connects hard with a crash. I drive her ass into the lockers with my shoulder, then I straighten up and let her feet hit the floor as I hit her with a series of hip-set lefts and rights to the chest and belly, I must throw at least ten punches, I'm in a blood rhythm, every punch is slipping in under her arms and scoring, I haven't felt like this since I had to put away those two Mexican girls who tried to steal all my shopping bags in the far reaches of the Santa Sella Mall parking lot, God, they both must have had ruptured spleens and all kinds of internal bleeding, and when I stop she crumples in a naked heap to her knees, then sinks over in a fetal moan, her breath coming in tortured wheezes, and I realize there's blood trickling from the back of her scalp, the locker smash opened her head a little, and the wheezing could be broken ribs, I was throwing punches with the raw abandon of a cracked-up Tyson. But Brooke, strappingly resilient, is already back on her knees crawling away from me, she's getting to her feet, only a little bit shaky, dammit, she's tough, and she's turning to face me again, and the look now is pure murder. Shit, she's not done yet. 'Brooke, what the fuck is the matter with you? If you don't get out of here now, I'm really gonna hurt you.' Her face is twisted in anger, or maybe it's pain, she's holding her torso kind of funny, but she smiles like a lunatic and laughs. 'Wrestling team fuckin' prima donna. I'm gonna rip you a new asshole,' she adds, as if she'd just invented the line. 'I'm gonna tear your head off and shit down your neck.' 'Any other cliches, hon? Brooke, you're bleeding from the back of the head, you maybe need stitches, put your clothes on and go to the fucking nurse right now.' She puts a hand to her hair and starts exploring with her fingers. After a moment it comes away bloody, and her eyes go wide with terror. 'You broke my skull!' The girl has really wigged. 'Brooke, I'm *gonna* break your skull you don't leave me the fuck alone--' She charges me like a fashion rhino. I just reach into her rush Steven Seagal aikido style and pull her on through it and hurl her past me down the aisle where her legs get tangled in the bench and she goes down hard in a long-limbed splatter. I think about stomping on her, but instead I quickly pull my sweatshirt back on, I want to get the hell out of here before something really nasty happens. I make the mistake of trying to jump into the sweatpants as she's getting to her feet; she's on me in a wild leap while I have one leg in and one leg out and she's got her hands around my neck and I can feel my windpipe shut off like an emergency valve. As I hop to maintain my balance, the thought flits across my overstimulated consciousness that Seagal would poke her eyes out now, but that will never do, this is not a fucking movie. Still, I'm being choked to death, Brooke's big hands are squeezing my throat so hard I think my head may pop, the girl has the strength of the insane. I reach behind me, get a grip on her pinkies and bend them steadily back to make her let go, but to my shock and amazement she doesn't, maybe she can't feel pain on the drug, and before I can even think about what I'm doing I snap them with sharp knuckle-cracking reports that could be drive-by shots from a .22. Brooke lets out a wail as her hands pull away from me and I take the opportunity to spin around and punch her in the nose, a perfect straight right, and that breaks too, I can hear it crack like a dropped egg, and then it begins to bleed, a steady leak that's running into her mouth, and her face begins to fold up in hysterics, I think she's finally gonna take off now, but damned if she doesn't charge me again. I don't see how she can grab me with the damaged hands, and sure enough she throws a long front kick at the last second, but it's slow; I catch the leg, slip up to the top of the thigh and I'm about to lift her onto my shoulder when she drives an elbow into my head hard enough to make me hear Quasimodo's church bells, and as I lose my grip on her she punches me in the mouth with her left, working right through the pinky pain like an animal, and this is followed by an exquisite right cross to my eye that knocks me off balance, my feet are tangled in the sweatpants, and I tumble over the bench onto my ass. But Brooke doesn't pounce. She's over by her locker now, near the far end of the row, and she's rummaging in it, and now she's pointing a gun at me. It's not a big gun, it's a small silver automatic, it looks tiny in her big hand, and it seems to have the usual pearl handle, though it's hard to see in her monster mitt, and she's holding it like she knows how to use it. I'm starting to get nervous. Real nervous. 'Brooke, I can't believe you're pointing a gun at me.' I can feel my lips swelling up through the words. 'Believe it, sweetie. The party's over. Now we'll play this game my way.' 'Is that loaded?' Brooke looks at me incredulously, starts laughing, and wipes her bloody nose with the back of her free hand, her pinky sticking out funny. 'Of course it's loaded! What good is an unloaded .32? It's a little small to pistol whip you!' What a sensible girl. 'Brooke, this is getting totally out of hand. Put the gun away, let's be friends. This whole thing is ridiculous. Why are we fighting?' 'We're not fighting anymore, Jenna. We're making love, not war. You're gonna come over here and eat my pussy, or I'm gonna kill you. Very simple.' 'Brooke, you want me to eat you, all you have to do is ask. It's not the kind of thing you have to hold a gun to my head for. You're the most beautiful girl in the school, for chrissake.' Maybe I can butter her up and then batter her down. Brooke looks unimpressed. 'Except for Cindy. She told me all about what you made her do to Courtney. I admire you for it. I wish I had done it. But I can't trust you without this gun, you're too strong. Now, get naked. Take your clothes off and pose for me. Now! I'm a crack shot with this cute little thing, I can put a bullet between your eyes no sweat at this distance, or I can shoot your knees out, you'll be on the fucking wheelchair wrestling team.' They have a target range at the Golden Palms, too. I take off the sweatshirt and bra, and kick out of the sweatpants. I get to my feet and stretch. My eye is throbbing and my lips feel numb. I start to flex for Brooke, making eye contact and smiling knowingly. I have to ingratiate myself with this maniac. I've never posed at gunpoint before, it's kind of stimulating. I work through a whole routine, and since I'm topless I lavish extra attention on my chest, pec flexing in a steady rhythm that makes my small but sculpted tits jerk up and out in a pec parabola, then I add my arms to the pulse, my biceps are pumped up as hard as ball peen hammers, the knotted peaks look like ripe pears on the horizontal, a thick blue vein running across the top of each bulging head and snaking up through the swollen swell of delt, my whole body is beating like a bloated heart and Brooke is suitably impressed. 'Fuck, Jenna, you are *really* built. Turn around, let's see your ass.' I turn around, fists on hips and give her an achingly wide lat spread as I tighten my glutes, which harden up and dimple deep on the outsides as all the striated muscle clenches up like giant fists. Brooke is sort of moaning, and there's a funny whistling noise coming through her nose as her breathing gets heavy. She comes up right behind me and puts her free hand on my back, the gun pressed into my kidney. I think about trying a spinning takedown on her, but I can't risk it, I doubt I can move fast enough. Brooke is rubbing her big tanned thighs on my ass, and now she's rubbing the gun on my ass. The cold metal feels good. 'Bend over,' she orders, and I do, praying she isn't gonna give me a hollow point enema. She's rubbing her free hand between my spread cheeks, her fingers lightly tickling my asshole, the gun pressed into the small of my back, and I'm gripping her fingers with my butt, holding them playfully and making her pry them loose, and then her fingers are slipping around to rub the lips of my pussy, and I'm getting wet, and I reach a hand behind me to Brooke's pussy, and she's sopping. I slide a finger into her and she moans, then she grabs me by the hair and roughly spins me around and drags me to my knees, sticking the gun in my face as she sits down on the bench. 'Put your hands behind your head and keep them there and eat me now. Your hand comes off your head I put a bullet in your head. I'll spill your brains all over my cunt. Now do it.' I put my hands behind my head, which makes my arms swell up deliciously, a detail Brooke doesn't miss, and I kneel before her altar and bury my face in it. She's got her left hand gripping my head by the hair, the right pressing the gun hard against my temple. My lips are puffy, but I chew on Brooke's thick juicy labia like I was at a calamari festival. I tongue her swollen clit in a steady lapping rhythm, her pussy smells good, like pudenda potpourri, and when she pulls her knees way up I stick the tip of my tongue into her asshole and lap the cute brown eye like it was a peanut butter cup. I go back to the clit, sucking it into my mouth like hard candy, and I work on it till Brooke is groaning with pleasure, all coiled up, her tight abs are fluttering, and several minutes of this sweet and sweaty exertion passes in some kind of twilight zone, then she comes like a volcano, gripping my head between her strong thighs in a skull crush, and I'm afraid she's gonna squeeze the trigger in her ecstasy, so I take the opportunity to wrench the gun out of her hand fast and back out of her reach. She's sitting there naked and beautiful in the final throes of orgasm, panting, her knees pulled up, wind whistling through her broken nose, it's bleeding again, her pinkies sticking out like sore thumbs as she pulls on her nipples, blood trickling down her back from the scalp wound, it's bleeding again too, and now I'm holding a gun on her. Better get rid of this thing before I shoot her. I figure out how to remove the clip, and damned if it's not full. I figure there's still a bullet in the chamber, and I don't know quite how get to it, so I just take the whole works, put them in my locker and snap the combo lock shut. There. Now I can get out of here alive, at least. Brooke stands up, stretches and smiles at me. Her teeth are dazzling. I want her mouth on me now. Why couldn't we be in a motel? 'Sorry I took the gun away from you, Brooke, but you don't need it, we're friends. Did you come good? I loved eating you, you're sweeter than honey from the bees, babe.' Brooke smiles at me again, it's hypnotic. God, I hope she's gonna offer to chew my rug, I'll take the risk in the locker room, what the hell. She extends her beautiful arms to me, pinkies poking out like curb feelers, and says, 'Jenna, I think I love you. Gimme a kiss.' I fall for it, hook, line and sucker punch. As I lean into Brooke's embrace, she tags me with a short right molar-rattling uppercut under the chin that snaps my mouth shut like a bear trap. We grapple with each other, and Brooke starts trying to head butt me with her forehead like a mad woodpecker, grunting savagely. I'm a little dazed from the punch, but I grab her around the lower back and put my lats into the hug and crush her against me so hard she can barely breathe, then I have a brainstorm--I'll stuff her into the big equipment locker at the end of the row and seal her in with her combo lock, which is hanging open on her locker. I slip my grip down to her thighs and lift her onto my shoulder and start to carry her like that, doubletime, my hands digging hard into her tight ass, deftly grabbing her lock as I stagger by, but she's trying to pull my hair out of the back of my head, she must be gripping it with all her still working fingers and the pain heats up my brain like a blow dryer from hell. I whip her off my shoulder just outside the equipment locker, slam her against the wall and, completely fed up now, put a right cross on her jaw that actually lifts her a couple inches off the floor and moves her a couple inches to her right, like she was caught in a mini tornado. She's TKO'd by this punch, she's gone all glassy and she's gonna go down, but before she does she stumbles to the opposite wall and pulls the goddamn fire alarm that's conveniently located right next to her. It's a simple turn and pull job, nothing to break. She trips the alarm as she's falling down, she's quite a sight with the bloody nose running all down her chin and dripping onto her neck and chest, and I'm running to get my pants back on, but security is there in a split second, dammit, it's Mrs. Becker, a 250-pound dyke, she likes me, what dyke wouldn't, but she likes Brooke more, most dykes would, and she's really in a state at the sight of us both naked, but she manages to compose herself enough to detain me forcibly when I suggest I go get help, and she squawks on her walkie talkie for reinforcements. . . . Well, I have some difficult explaining to do. Make that impossible explaining. It's Brooke's word against mine, and her word rules. She's the fucking Santa Chucho perennial prom queen, the chick voted most likely to get a Hollywood Square, and I'm just a girl's wrestling star, a fringe event in every sense of the word. We go before a board of inquiry, and her story is, just as I suspected, I attempted to 'rape' her, at gunpoint--yes, the gun is locked in my locker after all--and when she resisted I beat her silly. Brooke has seven stitches in her scalp, a broken nose, a broken jaw, two broken fingers and two cracked ribs. At the inquiry she looks like an extra from ER, she's wearing more gauze than King Tut, she'd get the sympathy vote from a panel of serial killers. I'm up shit's creek and there's no strings for my parents or Coach McCallister to pull. My documented history of girl-gang run-ins doesn't help either, and my wrestling rep only makes me seem all the more aggressive. And the gun seals my fate. Brooke must've bought it hot, it turns out it's stolen from a sporting goods store in Virginia, I'm expelled immediately--they have a new gun law--charged as a minor (I'm still 17, thank god) and sentenced to a year in the Tonya Harding Correctional Facility for Girls, 10 miles up the coast in Santa Rauncho. Tonya, as the place is known, is a tough joint. Lucky thing they have great weight training facilities, I'm gonna have a lot of time to work on my body. And I heard a lot of girls there like to wrestle, maybe it won't be so bad.