Sunday night fever By Avida Dolor Lori helps Jolie beat up Bob Warning: the following 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. It's a cool, crisp Sunday morning, sunny, my laundry morning, 9 a.m., and I finish blowing a joint in the car and I'm lugging my bulging two weeks' worth of laundry bag into the laundromat, trying to breathe easy and stay calm. It's no breeze after last night. The place is blissfully uncrowded. No Korean attendant on Sunday, you're on your own. I head for a machine near the back, where it's warmer by the dryers, and I load methodically, trying to maintain an air of beatific stoned roboticism. The twin leers of Bob and Jeanine keep creeping into my waking dreams, though, especially when I handle the jeans with the bloodstained knee, and I know I'll get my revenge, I just don't know how. I'm already peripherally aware of the big blonde near the back, at the end of the row of dryers, she'd be hard to miss even if you were shitfaced, but when I look up and she's staring at me. I stare back for a moment, trying to be inscrutable behind my wraparound shades. She's huge, and really cute, and I swear she's smiling at me. I look away and start my machine, staring for too long at the coins in my hand, typically stoned, and when I look back she's still turned in my direction, and she's taking off her UCLA sweatshirt, and she's wearing a t-shirt, absurdly tight, like a football jersey, but with the sleeves cut off almost at the shoulder, it's number 89, could be her bustline, and then I begin to catch on to the size of the arms I'm squinting at in the blinking fluorescent light, and my chest tightens up so my heart squeezes. I take a few steps toward her, she's still smiling, and she says to me, loud enough to be heard over the dryer rumble, "Awful hot back here with all these dryers." Very few are running, actually, and it's not really hot at all. Another big suggestive smile, all strong white teeth, she's got a cute little button nose and pretty blue eyes, slightly incongruous in a broad, brutally powerful face with a very solid jaw, and her braided flaxen hair's not bleached, I can tell right away, and I get my wits about me in a hurry, sensing something big is going to happen, and I say, "I wasn't hot at all till you took your sweatshirt off." Whoa, what am I doing? It's a blatant come-on, I haven't made a girl since college a few years ago, when I spent two semesters cuddling with Linda, my Sapphically inclined roommate, but I've never seen anyone like this before, never. It's Sunday, football Sunday, and all I can think of is football, her arms are as big as footballs, her tits are bigger than footballs, much bigger, am I dreaming? Her come-hither smile loosens my tongue: "I mean, I work out myself, but I've never seen a pair like that, they're enormous." I'm real close now, an arm's length away, and she pulls her shoulders back and thrusts the chest toward me so her nipples, which are popping through the jersey and whatever kind of industrial bra she's wearing, are almost within sucking distance. "You talking about this pair"--hands under breasts, cradling the hefted weight in palms--"or this pair"-- both arms flexed with the elbows pointing down, maybe so as not to attract too much attention from the other end of the room, the upper arms swelling as big as honeydews, a latticework of thick veinage coursing down the massive forearms, running all the way to the sledgehammer knuckles. Good Christ! "Well, both pairs, actually, but those arms, like, they're unreal, they're, like, uh--" "They're completely real, make no mistake about that," she cuts in. "No steroids in me, girl. It's all hard work and genetics. You say you work out?" "Yeah, for three years." "You got any muscles?" "Well, I thought I did, till you took your sweatshirt off." "I'd like to see what you've got," she says, and it sounds like an order, I'm thinking maybe I should strip down on the spot. Under my jacket is a flannel shirt, under that nothing. I don't need a bra. I take the jacket off, pull the right sleeve of the shirt way up and give her all the arm I've got, hoping she won't laugh. She seems genuinely impressed, I do have a lot of definition. She traces the well-peaked mass of my bicep with a finger that looks strong enough to poke through a tree, then shakes my hand, swallowing it up in a fist the size of a wrecking ball, and she introduces herself. She's Lori, I'm Jolie, and of course the subject of my shiner, which is too big and nasty to conceal under the shades, comes up. So I tell her the story, the story of last night. My relationship with Bob, that scumbag, had been deteriorating for months, but the shit he pulled on me last night was just unbelievable. I knew he was seeing someone behind my back, he wasn't good at hiding it, or maybe he didn't really try too hard, but when I went over last night-- at his invitation--there was Jeanine, his "new" girlfriend, lying on the sofa wearing nothing but one of Bob's button-down shirts. I'm looking at a large, fleshy blonde with a pair of oversized thighs, between them a dark thatch staring back at me. A bleached whale, big tits sagging to the sides making big obscene bulges in the striped shirt. She's got the cable remote control in one hand, a lit joint in the other, she's watching the Home Shopping Club, they're selling "collector's edition" beer steins. Bob's standing up bouncing nervously next to the couch, babbling about how the two of them want to get it on with me. Bob knew I'd played with girls years ago, and I guess he figured before he dumped me completely he'd try to get a trio out of me. How he ever figured I'd want to make a piece of garbage like Jeanine is beyond me, but Bob can be a major idiot. Bob finishes his "new heights of sensuality" spiel, I'm looking at Jeanine, we're making significant eye contact, I get the impression she likes me, I'm quite the looker in a lean, wiry Mediterranean style, she leans forward, her tits flopping onto her belly, to hand me the joint, an act of comradely warmth, I guess. I take it, pull a deep toke, and just stand there, saying nothing, a rage building inside me. Bob is spieling again, he apparently asked me what I thought and I didn't answer him, so I continue toking and he continues talking, his menage-a-twat rap mixing with the beer-mugging on the TV, as Jeanine continues flitting her stoned eyes between me and the tube, and I finally say something when I'm down to a fingertipped roach: "Bob, you dumb fucking shit, do you really think I'd ever get it on with this trailer-park-trash cunt?" Jeanine shoots to a sitting position, pretty limber for someone her size- -she must run 5-7, 160, all fat, I've got no doubt my 117 pounds will pound the shit out of her if it comes to that--and she spits, "Hey, fuck you!" She turns to Bob and says, "Get your shitty little titless ex- girlfriend the fuck out of here, before I kick her little ginny ass." Well, didn't I peg *her* perfectly! I suddenly find myself in an uncontrollable rage, the culmination of nine months of misery with Bob, now to be unleashed on a slutty girl I've never even seen before who had the misfortune of firing a one-two punch to my chest and my ethnic heritage. I drop the roach onto the hideous orange shag carpet and grab Jeanine by the collar of Bob's shirt and pull her to her feet in a quick jerk, some seams splitting, much to my satisfaction. Even I'm impressed by this move, and I can see Jeanine is plain unwitted by it; she looks at me blankly, like she's a sock puppet and I'm Shari Lewis, and I'm saying something right into her stunned face like, "Fat fucking chance you'll ever kick my ass, you fat shit," when she gets her wits about her and hits me in the side of the head with the big remote control she's holding, and as I try to grab it out of her hand she punches me in the mouth with the hand that's holding it, she's got a big tacky ring on, maybe from the Home Shopping Club, and I taste blood in my mouth, and now I want blood, and I'm working purely on stoned vicious instinct now, I've never been in a fight before, actually, but I was watching this amazing Thai boxing on ESPN2 just the other day, and I grab her bleached locks with both hands and whip her head down, driving my knee up into her face, and the impact is like a head-on collision, it makes a terrible noise, and I just whip her head back up and away from me and step away from her and she falls like a lump back onto the sofa, and her nose is gushing, maybe her mouth is too, there's blood on her chin, it's dripping onto her neck and Bob's striped shirt, and the I realize Bob is screaming at me and coming at me, and I'm too late to block the punch. Bob unloads with a right cross on my eye, knocks me halfway across the room where I bounce off the dining room table, but I stay on my feet, and there's Bob sitting on the couch now, his bloody handkerchief to Jeanine's face, he's cooing sweet nothings into her ear, and I might as well be dead, and I feel really *bad* all of a sudden, and my eye is throbbing, and I can feel my cheek swelling up, and then Bob's yelling at me, "I think you broke her nose, you fucking bitch, I ought to kill you, get the fuck out of my house!" and I stumble to the door, jump into the car and drive home, where I cry in front of the TV with an icepack on my face and drink vodka tonics till I fall asleep. Lori's reaction to the story is decisive: "You should break Bob's fucking legs, and break Jeanine's fucking arms." Why *his* legs and *her* arms I don't ask, I don't want to fool around with Lori, she sounds serious. "I can't break Bob's legs, he's too big. Jeanine's arms, probably. " "I can break Bob's fucking legs," she says, and I know she's not kidding. She must be a contract hitter or something, maybe she works part-time for the mob, she told me she bounces in a dyke bar on weekends and her "money job" is in furniture moving, she didn't elaborate. "What would it cost me?" I ask, and she looks hurt. "Nothing," she says, "I'll do it 'cause I like you and he deserves it." Now, I have to pause to think this one over, and I finally say, "Let me sleep on it. It's a tempting offer, but I don't want to get in trouble with the law. He's not worth it." "Don't worry about that," she assures me, "I've got friends in the police department. My father's a detective." Well! We exchange phone numbers, and I gawk like a child as Lori takes her stuff out of the dryer, her bras are the size of my t-shirts. As she's about to leave she grabs me suddenly behind the neck and kisses me hard on the mouth, her fat tongue probing my palate, and I make no effort to resist, I'm quite literally melting inside, and my tongue is playing footsie with hers and it feels so good I'm trembling all over. She lets me go and smiles at me suggestively, and I know I'll have to see her again soon. Real soon. She calls me later that afternoon. I'm walking around the house stoned, drinking Molsons, watching the Dolphins with my shades on 'cause I don't like seeing my face in the mirrors, I look like Quasimodo with this scrunched up eye and purple bulging cheek, and she wants to come over and talk about the revenge plan. How can I refuse? I sense her vicious power, and I don't want to fight it, I want to flow with it, while I'm on the phone with her I feel like a couple of her tent peg fingers are gonna punch through the receiver and tickle my ear. So she's sitting in my living room, a bottle of Molson looking like a toy in her hand, something from the Barbie Goes Bar Hopping set, and I'm telling her how Bob lives on the end of Canyon Road, there isn't another house for 100 feet, it's just all too perfect, and she wants to do it tonight. I hesitate. It's not that I don't want to see Bob and Jeanine busted up, it's that I don't want to get busted for it. She insists it's not a problem, there will be no witnesses besides the victims, I can leave prints, I'm his girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend, and she's very good at not leaving prints, but we'll clean everything up anyway, and at any rate I don't have to worry about it, we'll have alibis. There are friends at her dyke bar who'll vouch for us, we were there all night, not to worry. When I still look unconvinced, she suddenly shoots out of her chair and grabs me around the shoulders and marches me over to the hall mirror like I was a Raggedy Ann doll, whips off my shades and holds my head before the glass. "Look what he did to you! He unloaded on you 'cause he wanted to, he didn't have to. He could've just grabbed you if he was afraid you were gonna hit Jeanine again. No, he tried to lay you out. He hit you like you were a guy in a bar brawl. Don't you want to hit him like he hit you?" "Yes, I do. But you're so strong, Lori, what if you kill him?" "I won't kill him. Don't worry about it. He may wish he were dead, but I won't kill him. Let's go over there tonight and get some justice." Then she turns me around so I'm facing her and she just lifts me under the armpits, effortlessly, so my face is even with hers, then we're tongue kissing again, and I'm getting all gooey inside, and then she's carrying me like a child to the bedroom and I'm lying on the bed while she pulls her tee off, then she unstraps the giant bra as I shimmy out of my shirt, then we're sitting together on the bed and I've got a nipple in my mouth that's bigger than my whole tit, I'm a five year old with a superscoop strawberry ice cream cone, and everything's dripping, and she's tenderly kissing my bruised face, and I've got my hands on her big arms, I can barely get my fingers around the swollen coils of muscle, there's a power pulsing there that makes my head swim, and she tastes clean and good all over and I'm crying again . . . I was once a 98-pound weakling, I'm thinking to myself as we drive up Canyon Road, about to beat the shit out of two unsuspecting soon-to-be total losers. I really was. 5-6, 98 pounds, nary an ounce of fat on my body, flat as a board, sticklike limbs, couldn't gain weight no matter what, and I don't eat like a bird. The doctor told me to drink a couple quarts of whole milk every day, but I'm not a dairy queen. When I graduated college, about the time female bodybuilding was getting a little television exposure, I finally hit upon the idea of working out; I figured if I couldn't have tits I might as well have pecs. Little did I know how my body would take to the gym. I still don't have an ounce of fat on me after three years of steady training and eating like a horse-- that's just my weird metabolism--but I've gained 19 pounds of muscle, and there are not only all kinds of cool curves to look at but they move. I've got cleavage now, pec cleavage, and heavy veinworks all the way up my arms, right up through the delts--being shredded is my normal condition, after all--and for most men it's an acquired taste. Bob was very ambivalent about my body for all the time we dated. I think if it wasn't for the fact that I've got a deep-tanned Italian fox face, and I'm so great in bed--my vaginal muscles are as well-developed as all my other ones--he would have left me long ago. A flop-titted, fat-assed floozy like Jeanine is more to his liking. We're both wearing jeans, sneakers and dark sweatshirts, and Lori's wearing an oversized fanny pack to match her oversized fanny--her haunches are layered with the kind of muscle bulk you'd see on a Preakness winner. I don't ask her what's in it, maybe I'm afraid to find out. We park in a woodsy area a little way from the house. Jeanine's car is there, just like last night, everything's looking good. The plan is for me to just ring the bell and claim I want to make up. I figure Bob will let me in, he'll still have it on for that triple. Lori, who'll be standing in the bushes, will just step in after me, and then we'll go into action. This works like a charm, and there we are in the living room, Bob in track shorts and an undershirt, Jeanine spread out on the sofa just like last night, again in one of Bob's shirts and nothing else, this must be her fucking loungewear, but her face is all puffy and purple-greenish across the middle, with not so subtle swelling running from just under her eyes down to her upper lip. There's Sunday night football on the tube, the Dolphins and the Rams. The first thing Bob says, of course, is, "Who's your friend?" He's eyeing Lori with obvious relish; her breasts are thrusting 'neath the sweatshirt like 20-pound bags of aerated cement, the nipples, as usual standing out clearly somehow through the heavy bra like obscene plum tomatoes, and her face is just so damn cute, she looks like an angel. The angel of death, maybe. "This is Doreen," I say. "She likes group sex, and we've got quite a sexy group here now." Stoned-again Jeanine has perked up on the sofa and she's eyeing Lori suspiciously. Lori makes Jeanine look small, after all, and Bob's loyalties are instantly in question. "Cool," says Bob, who's beside himself with excitement, "I'll get you both beers and then we'll do some lines." Obviously, the sight of Lori has caused him to take leave of his senses. If he knows me at all, he'd know damn well I would never want to touch him 24 hours after he tagged me with a TKO blow, even if he thinks it was justified in defense of Jeanine. What a dumb fuck. He's running his eyes over Lori like he just regained the gift of sight, she's got the hips and ass of the Venus of Willendorf in her tight Levi's, the musk is rising off her in a green phosphorescence like swamp-girl gas, and as he leers at her like a pervert he says, "Wow, you're really a *big* girl, Lori, aren't you!" A pathetic attempt at patronizing someone who could obviously pound him to rubble. "Yup," she says with mock resignation, "Six feet and a half inch, 216 pounds." "Yow!" Bob is stunned. "How could you weigh that much? I'm 5-11 and I'm only 180!" "Muscle weighs a ton, Bob, and Lori's got loads of it," I say. He looks at me askew. "She works out too!?" "Yeah, and she's got more mass in one calf than I have in my whole body. But don't worry, Bob, Lori keeps her bodyfat levels up in the womanly range, unlike me, and those boobs are everything they seem to be, and then some. The real deal." Bob nods approvingly, and his eye is twitching with desire. The hardon in his shorts is jerking around like a riot club and his hips are already starting to piston faintly like his lower brain has been activated. He bounces merrily off to the kitchen, and I walk over to Jeanine and stand above her, staring down into her cleavage, which I have to admit looks pretty damn kissable. "I'm sorry about last night," I say, smiling like a shiteater. "I got out of control and I want to make it up to you. How's the nose?" "It's not broke," she says petulantly. "How's your eye? It looks bad." She sounds satisfied. "It *is* bad. Bob's a strong guy. But it's getting better." "Bob's a strong guy?" she says. "Your friend looks like she could toss Bob around like he was a Frisbee." Prophetic words. Lori smiles at Jeanine, a face full of perfect white teeth in a jaw no doubt strong enough to bite through concrete. She's put her fanny pack down on the hutch, and she's trying to not make too much knuckle noise as she impatiently clenches and unclenches her Thor's hammer fists. Jeanine pats the couch next to her and says to me, "If you want to make it up to me, sit down here and give me a kiss." Shit, the girl *likes* me. I sit down and lean in close to Jeanine, grin through a faceful of her beery nicotine and weed breath, lock lips and start probing her palate with my muscle of a tongue. Jeanine shifts her weight to embrace me and responds like it's a women's prison film and she just got out of solitary. She's practically moaning as she pulls my sweatshirt off over my head--I've got nothing on underneath--and starts licking my pecs and sucking my nipples like a delirious St. Bernard. Shit, I guess she's not getting enough from the Bobster! As I realize I'm starting to like this, sitting there flexing my pecs into her suctioning maw, I hear Lori's commanding voice: "Jolie, this isn't a fucking *girl* party." Oh, yeah. Sorry, Jeanine. Time to suck knuckle. I stand up abruptly and put a right on her cheek from out of nowhere, all my hip behind it, like Lori showed me that afternoon, and Jeanine goes down like a stunt girl, she's on all fours between the sofa and the chipped coffee table, and I quickly straddle her ass and grab her in a full-nelson and jerk her to her feet like that, and I look across the room to Lori, who's nodding at me appreciatively, her sweatshirt is already off, she's just wearing the white industrial bra, and Bob is still in the kitchen, and I hear a crashing noise as Lori scampers in there, and Bob is yelling, and Jeanine is starting to struggle, she's trying to shake me off her back, and I muscle hard into the full-nelson and start to squeeze, and Jeanine groans and starts to stumble forward across the room, trying to grab for my hair with her frantically groping hands, and I dig in and try to fight her, it's like steer wrestling, the bitch is 160 pounds and she's no weakling. Our feet get tangled and I fall on top of her on the floor, still holding the nelson, then I break it and press my knees into her back and start punching her in the side of the face, getting her cheek, her ear, her temple, I can feel the stinging hard blows shooting up my arm, and she's trying to cover her head with her hands and I jump to my feet and start kicking her in the side and she rolls over and curls herself into a ball, she's grunting and whimpering, and I kick her in the ass, the thighs, the lower back, then I look up and there's Lori holding Bob in a headlock under her right arm, marching him back into the room, her left hand holding a bottle of Heineken. Bob is naked and his hands are behind him, he must be tied or something, but I don't notice any damage on him, and he's cursing, yelling, and I turn up the football game to drown him out a little, then Lori just leans forward and snaps the beer bottle into his balls, spilling a little, and she lets go of him and Bob falls over on his back, and rolls up like an armadillo, making an awful keening noise, and Jeanine is scrambling to her feet, and Lori puts the beer down and hustles over to her and just rips the shirt right off her, then grabs her by the elbows and turns her around so she's facing me, and Lori says, "Now hit her hard enough to knock her down, girl, just like I showed you," and I set myself, for a split second admiring Jeanine's lush nakedness, she's not really fat, she's just voluptuous, then Lori shoves her at me, and I lean in hard with a right to the jaw that sends Jeanine careening off in a new direction, and she stumbles back a few steps and falls onto her side like a bag of shit, and Lori is applauding me, and I feel good. Lori is guzzling the beer again and she says to me, "Where's that coke, let's do some lines." The coke is in a little wooden box on the coffee table, and I set up ten lines on the cute little Michelob mirror while Lori goes to the kitchen for another beer. Bob is on his back, his cock tiny, or maybe it's that his balls are swollen too big, and he's staring at the ceiling, yelling, "Jolie! Jolie! What the fuck is going on here!?" But I can barely hear him, it's third and ten for the Rams, and I've got one eye on the game and the other on Jeanine, who's struggling to her feet, damn it, I thought I knocked her cold, but the idea of hitting her again seems so nice, and I toot two lines, it's good coke, Bob always has good coke, I'll say that much for the guy, I can feel the rush fan out across my face like moonlight, and I amble over to Jeanine while Lori heads for the mirror. I grab Jeanine under the armpits and jerk her to her feet, and, to my absolute amazement, she fires a right elbow backward into the side of my head, my ear practically goes numb, and now I'm enraged and I start to punch Jeanine all over, mixing up lefts and rights, hitting her tits, her face, getting in a real good shot to her belly when her hands go up, and Jeanine is bleeding from the mouth and nose, and then I front kick her in the chest, like Lori showed me, and Jeanine bounces off the wall and slumps to her knees, blood trickling off her chin onto her tits, and I can see red welts on her side from the kicks before, and I'm thinking of what to do to her next when Lori says behind me, "Shit, that's good coke." I turn around, and Lori has taken off her shoes, socks and pants, she's standing there in giant bra and panties, her thighs are massive, sweeping columns of muscle, huge teardrop bulges above the knees that leave them in deep shadow, each triangulated melon of calf muscle seems bigger than my head, and her immense chest is heaving, I swear I can see her heart beating from across the room. And she starts to flex, working through a pair of side chests to a front lat spread, big fists of pec clenching up and bulging over mountains of sweaty boob, I can hear all her joints popping from across the room, the wedges of tricep bigger than wheel blocks, then she hits a double bi and holds it so her whole body quivers, the massed heads exploding in vein-bursting relief, she's so big she's sucking the life out of the room, I can't take my eyes off her, not even when I hear Jeanine moaning behind me, then Lori's strutting over to Jeanine, and she grabs her by the feet, pulls her legs out and up and begins to squeeze the middle of each foot, thumbs on the soles, and Jeanine is screaming like a banshee all of a sudden. Is Lori doing some Chinese pressure point, or is she just plain crushing the girl's feet? I pick up Lori's beer and light a cigarette while I ponder it, but Lori has stopped the foot torture, she's holding Jeanine off the ground by the ankles, she's holding her up high so Jeanine's hands can't reach the ground, then she lets Jeanine's clawing fingers touch the carpet, then she's standing on Jeanine's wrists, holding her aloft by the ankles, then she's become a human rack, she's pulling up on Jeanine's legs, the poor girl's hands pinned to the floor under Lori's stompers, and Jeanine is screaming again, her whole body is taut and it's starting to look like her limbs are gonna be coming out of their sockets, but Lori takes her feet off the wrists and flips Jeanine backside down onto her shoulder and holds her there like she was a duffel bag, and she says to me, "You did a good job on this girl, she's starting to bruise up real nice. Wait a few minutes, then have another round on her." Then she launches Jeanine into the air, just pushing her off her shoulder like a shotput, and Jeanine lands on her ass on the other side of the room. I wonder if she can walk, if maybe her feet are broken, and my eye idly drifts to the football game, there's a long punt return happening, but Lori has caught my attention, she's going over to Bob and lifting him up by his cuffs, yes, he's been handcuffed, and it's stretching out his arms behind him something awful and he's screaming, and I yell at her, "It's too damn bad poor Bob won't get to suck on your titties, Lori. He'd die for something like that." "Well, he can't suck my titties, but he sure can kiss my chest, can't you big Bob?" Bob starts to say something, something about the police it sounds like, when Lori grabs him with one hand by the hair and slams his face into her upper chest, hard, real hard, super hard. It makes a sound like a fist hitting the heavy bag, and Lori just keeps doing it, like she's curling his head, she's slamming his face into her chest again and again, her chest must be as hard as a brick wall 'cause Bob's face is bleeding now, his nose and lips are smashed, he's leaving bloody kiss marks on her chest, there's blood on her white bra and some spatters on her neck, and after about a dozen of these slams she holds him up by the back of the neck for my admiration, and Bob looks bad, it looks like he walked into a bus, his nose must be broken, it's gushing freely and his breathing is all wheezy, and I think he's missing a tooth in front, and then she drops him like a dead dog and looks down at her massive chest and says, "Fuck it all, I've got tooth marks all over me," and she's heading to the kitchen for a beer, and I ask her to get one for me. I look at Bob lying there like a bloody wreck, all vulnerable, and I think about kicking him in the balls, but he may be unconscious, and I don't want to waste it. I do two more lines, they're rushing through me like a freight train, and I get down on the floor and start doing pushups, not keeping count, just focusing on the chest contraction with each rep, then Lori has suddenly lifted me off the ground and she's holding me over her head like I was a baby, then she's kissing me on the mouth and my legs are wrapped around her thick, chiseled waist, and she's practically fucking me, her immense clit is bulging through her panties and it's rubbing hard against my jeans, and I'm getting really hot and bothered, then Jeanine starts groaning and breaks the mood. "It's time to work over Jeanine again, love," says Lori. "I don't know if I want to," I whine. "My fists hurt already from hitting her. I think my knuckles are getting swollen." "So use your knees and your elbows, or kick her," Lori suggests. "Hey, what about that foot thing. Did you break her feet? Can I try it?" We go over to Lori for a close examination of her feet. They have reddish-purple finger marks on the tops and soles, but feel OK to the touch. "No, they're not broken," Lori says glumly. "I could smash them good by stomping on her instep, but the finger thing won't break them. It's just for pain." "I want to try it," I say, and I do. The coke has me all jacked up, and the power flowing through my arms seems greater than ever before, the veins are standing out like coaxial cables, and damned if Jeanine doesn't start screaming again as I try to make my fingers touch my thumb right through her foot. Then Jeanine starts flopping around like a fish and the big slob kicks her feet loose from me and actually manages to scramble to her knees. I leap on her back while she's still on all fours and wrap my left arm around her neck so the peak of the bicep is pressed into her throat, then I flex the arm hard and start hauling back on it with my other hand, and Jeanine is gagging instantly, but damned if she doesn't struggle to her feet with me hanging on her back--shit, why couldn't I weigh 50 pounds more?--so I start pounding her in the neck and head with my right, I no longer care about swollen fists, and then I unwrap the left arm from her neck and spin her around and start firing shots with both hands, and I'm getting really good punches in to her eyes and nose, then I go to the ribs and tits, she can barely make an effort to block anything, she's all dazed again, then she's down in a crumpled heap, and I'm going to start kicking her again when Lori calls to me. I turn around and she's got Bob standing up in front of her and he's got the biggest erection I've ever seen on him, she's stroking it gently with a fist, and he's sort of moaning and crying in pain, and she's walking him forward kind of funny, like they're attached, and then she turns to the side a little and I realize she's got a dildo strapped on, her panties are off, and she's got this big black latex thing shoved up his ass, I can see trickles of blood on the backs of his thighs, and she must be poking his prostate with it, how else could he be so damn hard, then Lori tells me to pick Jeanine up and bend her over, and I do it, though it's not easy handling her when she's semi-conscious, but I'm feeling really strong, and with some difficulty I get under Jeanine on the couch and hold her hips up in the air, I know just what Lori wants to do, and she guides Bob's swollen prick to Jeanine's cute brown asshole, nestles the gorged purple head there for a moment, then drives it in deep, and Jeanine is screaming again, and her ass is ripped, it's bleeding onto the couch, and Lori reaches around the two of them and locks her fists on Jeanine's sternum, spreading her tits out wide, then she pulls Jeanine off the couch like that, making a Bob sandwich, then she's fucking Bob's ass and Bob is fucking Jeanine's ass, and I keep a steady grip on the front of Jeanine's hips to make sure she doesn't slip out, and while this is going on Lori is crushing Jeanine's chest with her arms and Jeanine's back is crushing Bob's chest, and I get the feeling Jeanine is going to have her lungs collapsed and all her ribs broken, which I guess could kill her, 'cause Lori is really squeezing now, I can see the tension in her huge arms, and I can hear her grunting, and I'm going to say something before Jeanine has the life crushed out of her, when Lori lets go and Jeanine falls forward onto me and I can see over her pretty shoulder Bob skewered in space, his feet off the ground, his stiff cock, bloody from Jeanine's ripped ass, pointing practically to the ceiling and he's coming like a fucking magnesium flare, shooting all over Jeanine's back while he moans and gibbers like an idiot, and Lori is humping his ass hard with that black monster, her hips are churning like the horsie ride in front of Lamston's, then she pulls him off her lance, she's still holding him off the ground, then she lifts him up onto her shoulder and hurls him shot-like over my head onto the dining room table, which he bounces off with his ass, then smashes into the wall, finally rolling back under the table where he lies motionless. Lori stands there with that glistening black thing ramming out of her looking pleased as punch, and she glances down at me, I'm lying under the semi-conscious Jeanine, who's drooling into my ear, or maybe it's blood, and I roll Jeanine off of me, her face is pretty battered, her eyes are swelling shut and there's blood all over her, and I'm not sure what Lori is gonna do, in the back of my mind is the thought that she's gonna buttfuck *me* now, but she says, panting, "That was damn good! You think we did them enough, or should I really break his legs?" What a relief! "Oh, no need to break his legs. He's been humiliated beyond all fucking belief." "Yeah," says Lori, "but you haven't hit him at all. You worked over Jeanine real good, but you haven't hit Bob once. You gotta punch him up." Oh, no. "Lori, my hands are gonna break, I keep this up." "Oh, shit, don't be a baby, just hit him a few times." She's strutting over to Bob's crumpled form, she pulls him off the floor with one hand and sets him up in a nelson for me to work over. I do another two lines and flex my fingers extravagantly like I'm about to play a piano concerto in the key of face flat. I turn to the Bobster, slumped in Lori's grip. He doesn't look too good, but then again he didn't get quite the beating Jeanine got, and he's the one who hit me in the eye. So I launch into him, and I find my rhythm, and while Lori shouts encouragement I pepper Bob with lefts and rights and there's blood actually flying off his face like this was a videogame. Then I start kicking him to the body, my hands can't take it anymore, and I kick him till my knees are weak. I stop, panting, and Lori, with a strange glazed rage in her eye, lifts Bob overhead by neck and thigh, cleans his weight in one quick motion and holds him there as she breathes deeply, her chest rising like a tidal wave. The blare of the TV catches my attention in the sudden silence. The Rams are getting battered, I'm thinking to myself as the score is flashed onscreen and just then, in some sort of nasty moment of synchronicity, Lori brings Bob down to hip level, and, holding him just like a battering ram, drives his head into the TV screen in an explosion of glass and blood. Oh, shit almighty. Is Bob dead? He's into the now mute TV up to his shoulders. There's smoke or gas or something in the air from the blown picture tube. Lori's standing there hands on hips, surveying the damage, looking very pleased. "Did his skull just break?" I ask as politely as possible. "Nah, don't be silly. A head through a TV is no big deal, I've done it before, no one's ever had any serious problem." Oh, of course, she's done it before. "He'll need stitches in his scalp, whatever, that's all," she pooh-poohs. "Now let's clean up, get the bottles and the stuff we touched and get out of here." And so we do, no problems encountered, and of course we take all Bob's weed and coke. I spend the night with ice packs strapped to my aching, swollen hands, my head cradled in Lori's gigantic arms, propped against the twin bolsters of her chest. I hope she doesn't have a bad dream and break my neck in her sleep.