'twas Mid February, a few years back...
Valentine’s Day (Ass)Massacre(!)
When you have an addictive personality, you have to practice all things in moderation. I had a cigarette last Thursday. One. Because that’s the rule I made when I quit smoking a decade ago. One cigarette, no jacket, no coat, no sweater, and ONLY when the temperature drops down to the single digits. Because smoking SHOULD hurt, and it SHOULD make you look stupid. Which it did. At least 4 passerby asked me if I’d gotten locked out, while I shivered, teeth chattering, and flashed my own Proximity Key to unlock the door for them, as they walked by, shaking their heads.
Because it should make you look stupid. And it should hurt. And it did.
I drink. But only on Friday Night. And knowing that alcohol clouds judgment, I decide ahead of time exactly how many drinks I’m going to have, and I hand the bartender my car key in advance. And he knows the rule. When it’s time to go, I open Uber, and slide the pin from the tavern, along the map, over to the house of my next door neighbor, whose actual first name is Cosby. For obvious reasons, he got it changed to James, because an Uber Driver named James is going to get fewer cancellations and more tips than an Uber Driver named Cosby. But I’ve known him since back in the day, so I still call him Cosby.
Cosby already has the distinct disadvantage of being an Uber Driver in a city that doesn’t have Uber yet. So when he really needs to work, he usually takes several days, sometimes a week or more, to do an Uber Tour of Uber Friendly cities. But if he’s home on Friday Night, he turns the app on at night, just for me. Even if he’s in bed.
To punish me ever-so-slightly for summoning him from his home, he starts the meter before he leaves his house, insuring that he gets paid for the full round-trip. Same deal when I need a ride back to my car the next day. Which, although obviously is a violation of Uber Law, is just fine by me.
Uber, in some ways, can be very lenient. They obviously overlooked his DUI from a decade ago, the one that got Cosby thrown into the same mandated alcohol counseling class as me, where we were quite supportive of each other. See, Cosby and I are both former alcoholics.
I know, I know. I just heard all of the “Friends of Bill W.” scream at their screens. But in spite of the brainwashing that AA tried to do, the lesson that some of us take away is “Everything in Moderation.” See, it wasn’t the drinking that hurt me, or Cosby. It was the getting caught. It was admitting to the officer that “yes, I’m on my way home from the bar, but I only had a couple of drinks…”. And it’s why I’ll never, ever talk to another police officer again, for any reason. Ever. Period.
Cosby, like his namesake, is a witty, kind person, who, like everybody else, has a few flaws. Cosby is also my drug dealer. In Moderation. Or “Street Pharmacist”, as he prefers to be called, which is not unreasonable, when you consider the fact that he never touches the merchandise, except to lab-test it for safety and purity; and is using the proceeds from the sale of his high quality merchandise to advance his degree, one night at a time, at Augusta U Medical School.
At first, just weed. He won’t let me try Heroin. Says that just one dose can hook you. And he refuses to sell me Coke. But occasionally, if he has some cocaine to spare, lets me sample it for free. But only if I inhale it off his pubes, while his thick black cock is so far in my mouth that it makes me want to gag. Which is good. Because doing drugs should hurt. And it should make you feel stupid, which I do, when I try to come up for air and realize that even though the Coke is all gone, he’s still going to make me keep sucking until I swallow his disgusting negro semen. Last time, I threw up afterward, and some of the goo came out my nose, with a pain and a smell and a feel and a taste that was awful enough to make me barf some more. And good. It should hurt. Life is hard; harder when you’re stupid.
Still, I refrained from sucking that cock after my ride home last Friday Night. It just wouldn’t have felt right, since my boyfriend was going to be home on leave over Valentine’s Day Weekend. Just by coincidence—don’t worry, the US military isn’t getting sentimental on you. They don’t give their enlistees Valentine’s Day off because it’s Valentine’s Day. Except when they happen to be due for time off.
It was already feeling bad enough that I’d cheated on him—with a black guy, no less—while he was off fighting for, well, somebody’s freedom, though I can never remember whose. I felt like he should be rewarded, and I should be punished, a bit. Hurt, and made to feel bad. “Suffer” is the word I’m looking for here.
After drinks, and dancing, we got back to my place, where I poured a big glass of scotch for Brad, even though I knew full well that scotch makes him mean, and sometimes even violent. I poured a rum and Coke for me, and I knelt before Brad. But rather than give him the blowjob that he was expecting and hoping for, I confessed. To sucking off a black drug dealer, who would remain nameless, for everyone’s sake. I knew there was a chance that Brad might try to force the name out of me, perhaps even using some of the Advanced Interrogation Techniques he’d been subjected to in his military training. But, being a woman, I was certainly tougher than any enemy combatants. Not to mention smarter and more wily than any tough-guy soldier. And I already had the answer prepared, should things get hairy. A Defiant “NO! Not even if you tried to Ass Rape it out of me…” Followed by a “Wait, what are you doing? No! You wouldn’t DARE!”
See, men, being men, think they are the ones who are always in control. Even when they are being controlled. And I’ve always been a skilled practitioner of human manipulation.
But as it turns out, Brad didn’t even bother to ask who. Evidently the Bro Code that Uncle Sam had instilled in him left the other man blameless, and me shouldering all of the blame. As it should be.
So as Brad sat there, being sullen but reasonable, I shifted strategy, and then I made him an offer. An offer that I hoped he couldn’t refuse: You know how guys always want to stick their thingy into their girlfriend’s butt? And how girls always say NO WAY? You know, because we’re not completely insane?
And this is where I told him the little white lie, that I hoped might save our relationship. Two lies, actually. I pulled out two Rohyphenal Tablets, told him what they were, and that the guy who I usually only bought weed from, had made me suck his cock to get them. As a Valentine’s Day Surprise, for YOU, Baby! Because I want you to be able to fuck me in the ass, like you’ve always wanted to.
And then I popped them in my mouth, and swigged my Rum and Coke. He didn’t see me spit one of the capsules back into the glass, or see me retrieve it when I took the glass into the kitchen. (After all, I didn’t want to be COMPLETELY out-of-it. I just wanted to be able to relax a bit, and pretend to be passed out while I endured what I imagined would be the most horrible sexual experience of my life.
Besides, I might want to save the other one for some future Valentine’s Day Adventure. And it hadn’t been free, by the way. Cosby, unlike his namesake, charged $100 a pill for this fine knock-out medication.)
Brad was still on the couch, still looking stunned, when I emerged from the kitchen. I peeled off my top and my bra, dropping it to the floor while I lowered my already too-revealing skirt. I hoped the fact that I was panty-less, and had been all night, said something to him. But I also added a few words…
“I’m already feeling like I have to lie down. Finish your drink, if you want. And pour another, if you want. Then come to my room, if you want. I’ll be laying facedown. Or, if you just can’t bring yourself to forgive me, then show yourself out. Either way, I’m so sorry for what I did, and that I ruined Valentine’s Day. G’night.” And then I stumbled down the hall, and collapsed on the bed.
As the twilight of near-sleep embraced me, I thought about my new job, and my new boss, Mr. Valentine. Tall and handsome. And dark. One of the rare black faces on the huge campus. It was an equal opportunity employer, of course. But the fact of the matter is that the job required a lot of typing. And spelling and grammar skills. And at least the ability to speak proper English. Which meant that even in this city, it was a lily-white campus. It also meant that the ladies outnumbered the guys by at least 4 to one.
So it was only natural for Mr. Valentine to be on my mind a lot during the day, even invading my dreams at night. I’d been spending the 8 mandatory hours with him every day during training. Exactly 8 hours. The proximity lock on the classroom door didn’t work until the digital clocks clicked 8:00. And the rustling of myself and the other students gathering our stuff and putting our coats on starting at about 5:28 told him that any attempts to keep us past quitting time would be laughably futile. The 15 minute breaks and 1 hour lunch format were also stringently timed.
Even though I sat in the back row of the full classroom, nearly all of the dialogue was between myself and Mr. Valentine. It seemed that all of the other students were shy, and overwhelmed by the material. And probably intimidated. Most of them came from the suburbs, and I’m guessing had never even been alone in a room with a black man before. So even if I was pretty sure I understood something that was a bit confusing, I took it upon myself to ask questions anyway, the questions that my classmates were too shy to bring up.
It was amazing how quickly I became the Teacher’s Pet. He chose the seat right across from me in the lunch room, and one hour was barely enough to scarf down our meals, with all the talking we did with one another, on all topics, well, except religion and politics, which were strictly prohibited on campus.
He was, of course, polite when others would speak to him during lunch. As was I. But it was clear to anyone who approached that our mutual goal was to get back to talking to each other.
And if I noticed the change in the size and shape of the big bulge in his khakis at the mere sound of my voice, others must certainly have caught that as well. And so, as the group got to know each other a bit, the inevitable teasing commenced. Gentle, but persistent. Every day I “overheard” references to me as “his girlfriend” and to him as “my boyfriend”, even though his marital status was no secret, and his wedding ring was on full display.
As sleep came nearer and nearer, I thought of my patented “assman’s blowjob technique” that I’d been practicing on the black dildo in my nightstand. Probably should have hidden that better, by the way, just in case Brad, taking advantage of my perceived unconsciousness, took the opportunity to snoop through my drawers.
But anyway, the technique goes like this: With just enough of just the right shade of pink lip gloss on, I make my full lips tight and small. Too tight and too small for a cock to pass through. Until the cockhead mashes against them. Pressing harder and harder, demanding entry as they slowly spread just a little wider, then just a little wider still. UUUGH! I grunt, just as the head pops in, and my lips seal very tightly just past the groove of the head. And then I suck super hard, which makes the lips tighter still. Another grunt as I thrust forward hard, but only gain another inch, because it’s still too tight. Another grunt, another inch. Repeat as needed, until half-way in, all the while sucking much too hard. Pull back until only the head is still enclosed, the suction level increased still more by the vacuum created by the absence of cock volume. Then a big thrust, going past the halfway point this time. Another withdraw, and then, finally, all the way in, lips mashing hard into the pubes, while using my hands to mash the boobs, now acting as stand-ins for asscheeks, into his balls. And of course, still sucking too hard, lips, still too small and too tight for the outrageous girth of the cock forced between them. Another grunt, morphing into a sigh of despair, defeat, and resignation to one’s fate. And if the cock really is too big, it’s OK to gag, which the assman will surely enjoy, just as much as he would a convulsing rectum.
Until I came up with the Roofie idea, I pictured myself surprising Brad with this technique, in an attempt to spare my poor ass from its inevitable, eventual fate. But first, I imagined practicing the technique on someone with an even bigger cock than Brad. Like Cosby. Or perhaps Mr. Valentine.
Thoughts of Big Black Cocks erupting in my throat, catapulting the yucky goo directly into the warmth of my tummy without the need for me to smell or taste it, was the last thing I remember before the utter blackness of deep sleep overtook me.
And I did sleep, hard. With my face buried in a very soft pillow.
Until.
The next thing I felt was Brad’s cock, being slammed up my asshole—all the way up. And for a moment, nothing made sense. It felt like it hurt, but it didn’t. And I felt like I should scream, at least on principle. But I didn’t. I didn’t feel like I had the energy. And quickly, I remembered that I was supposed to be unconscious anyway. The cock was moving easily in and out, and I realized he must have lubricated it with something, undoubtedly for his own comfort rather than my own, but if the lube fits…
The combination of lube, the Roofie-induced state of complete and utter relaxation, the alcohol, and oh yeah, a double dose of the muscle relaxant my doctor had me on for the leg cramps that I’d been having lately all combined to anesthetize what should have been unfathomable agony into a mild discomfort, which might, if endured long enough, turn into a throbbing soreness, at worst. And unlike a real anal rape, this I could endure.
The lack of pain quickly progressed me to a state that real rape victims often complain of, the feeling that I was a spectator, rather than a victim. From behind my closed eyelids, I looked down upon the scene from above, critiquing my too-fat hips that stuck out too far on the sides from beneath Brad’s perfect Military Physique. I was just lying there, and had to fight the urge to fuck back to make it better for him, which, feeling no pain, I would gladly have done, were I not faking unconsciousness.
Was I faking? I felt like just the natural movement of lolling my head from one side to the other would take so much effort. Dick up my ass or not, I literally could have shut my brain off for a quick nap, if I decided to, but I was suddenly distracted by the realization that Brad, normally a silent lover, was talking to what he thought was the unconscious me. Quietly, in a tense whisper that I had to focus on to hear, in my fuzzy mind state.
It was a rant, so hate-filled that had he been screaming it instead, it could have been mistaken for a Sam Kinnison routine. Seems I was a Slut, and a Whore, and a Drunken Pothead, who deserved to get ass-raped by a whole pack of Niggers in my Niggardly little asshole. Using both N-words incorrectly, though for different reasons.
“I’m gonna piss in your butt, Bitch, when I’m done with you!”
Guys couldn’t do that, right? I mean, dicks didn’t work that way, right?
WRONG! Turns out, about 2 minutes and about 2 quarts later, I found out they can work that way, if the guy is motivated enough. Which was fair enough. I didn’t get the pain I deserved, so the humiliation of suddenly having my colon used as a military latrine was, oddly, comforting in some small, twisted way.
My anus, cruelly stretched though it was, somehow still managed to seal tightly upon his withdraw, spilling not a drop of either of the deeply injected fluids. “So Long, Cunt.” I heard him bid me as he left, and I made a mental note to get up and use the bathroom, but instead just relaxed for a minute, and woke up Monday, late afternoon, with 4 messages from the HR department of my new job, wondering where the hell I was.
I remember the rape, which brought a sad smile to my face. Then I suddenly remembered the urine! Where was it? I sat on the toilet, but nothing came out! And my bed wasn’t damp. I must have absorbed it all, into my bloodstream! Oh My God! Was I going to die? Turns out, Google is our friend, and saved me a trip to the ER. Who knew that Urine was sterile? And why does everyone go around washing their hands after they pee?
Brad had left, amid a freak snowstorm, without closing my back door. A snowdrift had blown in, but thankfully, no critters, as it was too cold even for them to be out and about. My furnace, working constantly and valiantly, had kept the place in the high 40’s. The outside thermometer read 9 degrees. Thank God. Naked but for my slippers, I closed the door from the outside, and on the icy back patio, lit a cigarette, closed my eyes, and wondered if Brad was gone for good.
If not, I promised myself that the next time he wanted to buttfuck me, I’d fake roofy-ing myself again, only this time, take no roofie at all. And no muscle relaxant. Still gonna have a couple of drinks, I mean, I’m not a masochist. I don’t think.
But I did need some pain next time, just a little bit. Or a lot. Or however much I got. And I did need another sin, for which to be punished. Would a black cock, double the size of Brad’s, hurt, even with that last Roofie in me?
I looked over at Cosby’s house. He was standing in the window, watching me, a naked smoker, suffering in a snowstorm. And when he saw me look at him, HE ducked, as though he were the one that was naked and being looked at. I turned my back to him, to spare him his embarrassment, for one thing. And to give him a look at my naked booty, for another. Was it true, I wondered, that a white “5” with a fat ass was a “9”, in the ‘hood?
I dropped the smoldering butt in the snow, and was just inside the door when I saw the phone light up. HR again. I was to report to Mr. Valentine’s office at 7:30 AM. On time. And bring all company property with me. My proximity key would now only open the door at the lower level security desk. And security personnel would escort me through the rest of the doors, all the way to Mr. Valentine’s office. And please leave all metal objects in my car. Did I understand?
Yes. Yes I did. There was no missing a day of work without calling, ever. But especially not while the job was so new. And when your business is advising other businesses about Risk Management, there would be no “disgruntled former employee” scenes of any kind.
“Was I being terminated?” I asked, stupidly. Already knowing what their canned response would be.
“I don’t know.” And they didn’t know, not for sure. But they knew enough to not put an optimistic tone in their voice.
I hit End Call. Contacts. Brad. The number I had reached, (the number that had been his for as long as I had known him), was no longer in service. Fuck.
I opened the little lockbox in the junk drawer. Not enough weed left for even one joint. Good thing Cosby was home. I’d also mention that I might need a ride tonight and tomorrow morning, since I was definitely going to need 6 or 7 stiff drinks tonight. And I was starting to think that I REALLY needed to “powder my nose”.
And there was only one cigarette left. So I stood, just inside the door this time, and lit it.
What? It was still plenty cold right there, and I was still naked. And I pushed the storm door open every time I exhaled.
After taking care of business next door, I actually walked to and from the bar, not wanting to be tempted with more cocaine and the awful cost of it. Besides, walking home in this town after midnight, there was actually the possibility of getting abducted, raped, and kept in some pervert’s basement for a while. Which at the moment, seemed like a pleasant alternative to facing the security detail, the HR department, and Mr. Valentine in the morning. But no such luck.
I slept for a few hours, skipped breakfast, and overdosed myself with coffee, black. I was standing next to the lower level entryway proximity sensor at 7:29, and at 7:30, the lock turned green, and I pushed past it. The black shirts wanded me, X-rayed my purse, and threw my key into the shredder.
At his office, Mr. Valentine sent the security detail away, and shut the door and locked it, with just us inside. Something I’m almost positive he wasn’t supposed to do. Even as a trainee, I knew that was some pretty piss-poor risk mitigation right there. It must mean that he wanted to try, somehow, to give me another chance. And that was even before he knew I had aces in the hole.
He was not happy. “Were you in a car accident?” I shook my head. “Were you in the hospital?” Again, no. “Were you the victim of a crime?” I thought about it. But of course, the answer had to be no, since a yes would require an explanation. And being both the victim and the accomplice in the crime, didn’t exactly scream “Excused Absence.”
“Give me SOMETHING!” he raised his voice, and suddenly, I felt, for the first time in my life, literally unable to speak. So I just shook my head again. “You’re Killin’ me here!” A tear ran down his cheek.
I looked away, so he could wipe it without knowing that I’d saw it.
“Anybody but you.” He said, shaking his head. He wanted to give me another chance. But how could he, considering how borderline inappropriate our relationship had already been. “You know what they’ll think. You know what they’ll say. I’ve got a wife, and 3 kids, for Cripe’s sake.” (Christ is not allowed on campus.)
“Why did you shut the door?” I’d found my voice. “Why did you lock it?”
“I know, right? Freakin’ rookie mistake. Amateur hour in here.” We were both staring at the latchset, and the old-fashioned mechanical lock. A little push/twist button. He reached for it, but I was faster. Younger. More nimble. I blocked it with my body.
“HA!” I smiled. “You can’t get out of her without touching me. And in 13 minutes, you’re late.” I was already unbuttoning and unzipping, kicking off my shoes.
“I’m allowed to be late. And today, they’ll assume that the reason why you were late is because I was handing you your ass down here. Are you sure you want to do this? Because at the very least, it ends with one of us being transferred, or turfed down to second or third shift. And by one of us, I mean…”
“I know. I don’t care where they send me, or when. Will I still be able to see you?”
“Only with the very highest attention to risk mitigation, and discretion.” I dropped to my knees, and reached for his fly. He was completely awed by my new BJ technique, collapsing into his chair as his completely drained dick pulled back out through my lips, which maintained the illusion right to the end of being reluctant to let it go. Truth is, blowjobs suck, even when you’re into the guy; and semen sure is yucky. But sometimes, a girl just has to suck it up, and suffer.
Still, I must have been smiling as I got dressed, because he told me to quit smiling. “Here’s a copy of my key” he added. “Don’t let anybody see it, because it’s got the green strip on it, that means ‘all access’. You’ll be able to get down here with it. I want you to come see me during lunch today, and after work, too. If anybody asks—they won’t, but if anybody does—we’ll just say I’m tutoring you to help you catch up from the material you missed yesterday. They won’t buy it, but what else can we do? Now, don’t be late for class. Today, or ever again. I’m going to be a few minutes late, because I’ve got to run out to my car to get some pills.”
“What kind of pills?” In the odd company hierarchy, the senior people got the worst parking spots assigned. They wanted visitors to feel the most welcome, of course. But trainees and rookies, too. But the parking spots for the real brass were nearly a half-mile away, with the president of the company, Mr. Foote, parking proudly in the very farthest corner of that lot. The job itself, you see, is very sedentary. But they wanted their employees to get in shape and stay in shape. The elevators were strictly for guests; all the employees took the stairs.
“If you must know, Viagra. I’m not as young as I once was.” How many milligrams did he need, I inquired. “Well, if we’re going to do this twice more today, I think 100mg now, and 100mg more after lunch.”
I snapped open my Louis Vuitton, produced a prescription bottle, and shook out three of the little blue pills. Two for him. And I popped the third into my own mouth, swiped his Evian, and downed it.
In response to his WTF look, I explained “I live next door to a pharmacist. Kind of.”
“But, but, you took one.”
“Geesh. Men. You always think everything in the world is made for you, don’t cha?”
“But…”
“Google it. It’s 7:54. I gotta go, if you don’t want me to be late.”
“Just a second. I’ve got to yell at you. Like, actually yell. For being late. You know, because there’s people out there. You ready?” I nodded. “I DON’T CARE IF YOU NEED A FREAKIN’ KIDNEY TRANSPLANT. YOU SCHEDULE PERSONAL STUFF ON YOUR OWN FRICKIN’ TIME! YOUR UNEXPLAINED ABSENCE WAS A SLAP IN THE FACE TO EVERYONE WHO WORKS HERE, FROM THE CUSTODIAN, ALL THE WAY UP TO MR. FOOTE, THE PRESIDENT OF THE COMPANY. NOT TO MENTION TO YOUR FELLOW TRAINEE’S WHO WOULD BE FIRED INSTANTLY FOR SUCH INSUBORDINATION! IT’S ONLY BECAUSE YOU GOT THE HIGHEST TEST SCORES IN THE CLASS THAT I…” i looked up at him and mouthed ‘i did’? he nodded “…THAT I WENT TO BAT FOR YOU! BUT DON’T COUNT ON US TO BE SO FORGIVING IF IT EVER HAPPENS AGAIN! DO YOU HEAR ME.” i actually nodded, and actually had tears run down my cheeks. He was really good at this whole yelling at people thingy. “GOOD. NOW GET TO CLASS, AND DON’T BE LATE. GO!”
And I went. Almost running, until I was out-of-sight. But then I slowed down, and smiled. After all, it was his proximity key that would be recorded when I went in. And he was allowed to be late. I walked to the back of the full classroom, and everyone quit talking, as if I were suddenly an authority figure. I was in my seat by 8:02; and Mr. Valentine arrived a few minutes later. Other than my typical back and forth questioning to Mr. Valentine about the subject matter, not a single person would speak to me for the rest of the day.
I met him back in his office at lunchtime. There really was some material from the previous day’s class that I needed to be brought up-to-date on. But that would have to wait, as the Viagra had had more than enough time to kick-in. His big arms encircled me from behind, hastily undoing my blouse and front-snap bra, freeing my big mammaries. Then with a ZIP, ZIP, down went my skirt, and out came his oversized anaconda. “Do it like you’re mad at me.” I whispered over my shoulder. “I am mad at you.” He replied.
“Then do it like you hate me…”
RIP went the crotch of my panties, and then he tangled his fist in my hair, shoving me down hard over the desk. I felt the throbbing, too-big cockhead mash against the dripping entrance of my slit. “OH!” I said, quite loudly as I felt him tense for the attack. But before I could turn it into an “OH NO!”, his other big hand covered my mouth tightly. And then I saw stars.
The big metal desk, like one from a 1960’s office, or a 1970’s classroom, or a 1980’s government office, had six metal drawers, probably weighed down with a rainforest full of paperwork, printed with a drum full of ink. It didn’t budge an inch. My bikini line bore the weight of the attack, and it would be black-and-blue tomorrow. In contrast to my buttocks, which I’m sure were fast turning red from the ongoing battering of his pelvis against them.
His cock was big. Too big. Much too big. And it hurt. But I was loving it, in spite of the pain. My sex-addled brain swooning at the thought of how much it was going to hurt when he rammed that terrible weapon up my poor asshole, probably right after our shift was over. How could I be expected to get any work done at all this afternoon, knowing my terrible fate?
And with that thought, suddenly, my orgasm came, and triggered his.
We each popped another pill, then we reviewed yesterday’s classroom material. Then he sent me to the cafeteria with enough time to scarf down a cup ‘o soup and a candy bar, while he stayed at his desk and chomped on a banana from a fruit basket someone had sent to a co-worker.
When I got back to the classroom with two minutes to spare, the A / V guy was wheeling in a big screen, and popping in a DVD. A big snooze-fest about the founding and the history of the company, and how much it’s grown, and all the important work we do. And after that, the HR guy came in, ready to play a DVD called “Stopping Sexual Harassment in its Tracks”. Did anyone have any questions before he hit PLAY, he wanted to know.
“When’s Mr. Valentine coming back?”
“He isn’t. Mr. Valentine is no longer employed here.” With that, the HR guy hit play, and then headed out the door. I got up, intending to follow him into the hallway to ask why. I felt the eyes of everyone in the classroom on me as I lunged for the door, but it lunged first. Two Black Shirts stopped me in the door way, one of them pointing back to my desk, and advising me to gather up all my belongings, and then come with them.
Once in the hallway, they confiscated my proximity key, thankfully dropping it in one of the hallway shredders without even noticing it was actually Mr. Valentine’s key. “Am I being fired?”
“We don’t know” said the chatty one.
“Well, are you walking me to my car?” I asked, as we walked right past the nearest exit door.
“No. Not at this time.”
“OK, then where are we going?”
“To see Mr. Foote.”
“Seriously? Are you joking?”
“We’re security. We don’t make jokes.” And sure enough. We went up the stairs. All of them. To the top floor. To Mr. Foote’s office. With its famous door, off the hinges, and just leaning on the wall next to the doorway. Until I walked in. Then, two maintenance men lifted the heavy door, aligned it, popped in a couple of hinge bolts, and gently shut it behind me.
Mr. Foote stood up. “It’s just a metaphor, really. A good photo op. I want people to think I have an ‘open door policy’, but who has the time, really, when you’ve got a big company to run. Even the security guys just had temporary keys, to bring you up here. Otherwise, this entire floor is really off limits, to anyone except my inner circle.” Then he began introducing the other people in the room.
“You know who I am, right?” I nodded. “Well, this is Mr. Azelle, from Legal.” The shyster stood up and shook my hand. “And this is Mr. Hollingsworth, from Accounting.” The bean counter also stood and shook my hand. “And you may have seen my Administrative Assistant Tiffany around campus. The secretary kept her seat, kept her hands on her iPad, and nodded a cold “hello”.
Mr. Foote and his guys sat down, and he gestured for me to do likewise. “Upon reviewing security camera video from Mr. Valentine’s office today, we dismissed him on-the-spot and had him escorted off-campus. But…
“Wait, what?” I interrupted. “I didn’t see any cameras in Mr. Valentine’s office.”
“Our cameras are cleverly disguised” he responded, swiveling his big, 46” desktop computer monitor so I could see it. On it was me, now, live in real-time. Instantly calculating the trajectory, I looked up at the wall, directly behind and above Mr. Foote.
“Fake smoke alarms?” I gasped.
“Oh, they’re very real. Smoke, Heat, Carbon Dioxide. But they also have built-in, hi-def, full-color, stealth surveillance cameras.”
“With sound?” I asked.
“No. That is their one limitation. Actually, they can be set up for sound, but we only have so much bandwidth. And with a hundred or so of these running 24/7, we had to forgo the audio tracks.”
My mind began to piece together what it must have looked like out-of-context: They think he raped me!
“Anyway” continued Mr. Foote. “After we watched the video…”
“Wait. You ALL watched the video?”
Mr. Foote replied: “I knew right away that I was going to need a legal opinion…”
Mr. Azelle looked up at the ceiling.
“…and we agreed that it could escalate into a financial liability”
Mr. Hollingsworth looked down at the floor.
I looked over and glared at Tiffany, who was blushing.
Mr. Foote nodded toward her and continued “…and since I never really learned to type…”
“Oh for Fuck’s Sake. Who else has seen it?”
“No one! And no one ever needs to.” Mr. Foote hit Eject on his computer, put the disk in a jacket, and handed it to me. “This is the only copy. And we don’t want it. It’s yours. Do whatever you want with it. Keep it. Give it to your legal team, if you feel you need to hire one. Or you can destroy it. Our shredders are at your disposal, if you wish.”
“Legal Team?”
Mr. Azelle took over. “We fired Mr. Valentine without hesitation, and without notice. But that is the extent our ability to punish him. If you choose to have him prosecuted, the disk that you hold in your hand should be sufficient for a prosecutor to move forward with charges.”
“Look. Mr. Valentine may not be Employee of the Year, but he’s not a criminal.”
“You may want to review the video before you…”
I cut the shyster off “I know what you think you saw. But you’ll have to take my word for this, it was completely consensual.”
“Consent given under those circumstances, is invalid.”
“Do we have to spell it out? He was sent to fire you. Instead, he coerced you into having sexual relations. Twice. And then let you keep your job. Which he was not authorized to do.”
“He didn’t coerce me. In fact, I was the aggressor. And you’d know that, if you had the audio recording. I gave him Viagra for fuck’s sake!”
“We don’t need to hear about that. Tiffany, don’t write that down. Look, he had authority over you. Not to mention seniority. He was supposed to know better, even if you didn’t. He was a bad manager, and a criminal. As far as I’m concerned, good riddance to a bad nigger. Tiffany, I swear to god, if you write that down…”
“Alright.” I said, standing up. “I think we’re done here. Just to be clear, I am fired, right?”
“No.” said Mr. Foote. “And please, sit back down. You too, Mr. Azelle.”
I sat down. “So you’re not firing me?”
“He can’t.” Said Mr. Azelle.
“He can’t? I don’t understand.”
“You can’t fire a rape victim.”
“I’m NOT a Rape Victim.”
“I’m sorry. A rape ‘surivor’.”
“No. I mean, there was no rape.”
“Well, we think there was.” Mr. Foote nodded.
Mr. Hollingsworth looked at the floor.
Tiffany blushed.
“Well, anyway. You won’t regret this. I appreciate the second chance. I’ll be a model employee from now on.”
“No, you won’t.” Said Mr. Foote. “We’ve been down this road before. There’s nothing worse than an employee who can’t be fired. They start showing up late. Then they realize they can just come and go as they please. Their work begins to suffer. The other employees start to hate them. Managers too. Next thing you know, there are food fights in the cafeteria…”
“We need you to resign.” Intoned the shyster, popping open the latches on his briefcase. We’ve prepared this letter of resignation…and this non-disclosure agreement…with this no-compete addendum…this liability waiver…and this receipt for advance wages.
“Advance wages?” My ears perked up.
“In exchange for signing all this paperwork” explained Mr. Foote, “We’re going to give you what’s called a ‘severance package’. Something that we usually reserve for parting ways with members of our management team. And usually it amounts to something like a week’s pay for every year they’ve been with us. But obviously that formula won’t work in your case.
“So we’re just going to round it up, and give you a full year. You were hired in at $10 an hour, 40 hours a week, for 50 weeks a year, because new employees don’t get paid for the 14 weekdays during the year on which we are closed. So Mr. Hollingsworth, what’s 10 x 40 x 50?
Mr. Hollingsworth punched the buttons on a hand-held adding machine that’s about twice the size of a smartphone, and prints out a paper receipt. He rips off the receipt and hands it to Mr. Foote, who circles the amount with a red pen, and pushes it over to Tiffany. A second later, a check spits out of the printer on the countertop behind Mr. Foote. He swivels around, signs it, and then spins back to slide it across the desk to me. $20.000.00. More money than I’ve ever held at one time in my life. “How does that sound?”
“Sounds good. I’ll sign ONE of these documents for that. Whichever one you like. You’re choice.”
“We need you to sign ALL of them!” insisted Mr. Azelle.
“Then I need you to write a bigger check.” I replied to Mr. Azelle, while looking Mr. Foote dead in the eye.
Tiffany actually gasped!
“How much bigger?”
“Well, it just occurred to me how difficult it’s going to be to get a new job, when I can’t even tell them why I was fired from my old one. And when I can’t tell them company secrets. And I can’t even work for a competing company. I might never find another job. So just to be safe, I want the present value of my future earnings. Right up until retirement age.”
“And how old are you, exactly?”
“DON’T answer that!” Mr. Azelle admonished me, and then gave a cut-throat signal to Tiffany, who set her iPad in her lap. Then he leaned in to whisper something in Mr. Foote’s ear.
“But it’s got to be in her hiring packet, doesn’t it?”
“Doesn’t matter. You can’t make payroll decisions solely on a person’s age.”
“Fine.” Then Mr. Foote looked back to me “How many years until you were planning to retire.”
I did the math in my head, and gave an honest answer. “25, maybe.”
“Mr. Hollingsworth! 10 x 40 x 50 x 25 ?”
The bean counter crunched the numbers, and handed the boss the slip. “Fuck me!”
He sat there and fumed for a minute, before circling the number, and pushing it over to me.
“So, for this much money, you’ll sign all of these, today, right now?”
“Just so I’m clear, once I accept this money, I don’t have to come back to work here ever again?
“Just to be clear, once you accept this money, you won’t be allowed on the premises, ever again.”
“Fine by me.” and I signed.
“Sir” chimed in the accountant. “We can’t pull that amount from the payroll account without it being, ah, conspicuous.”
By now he was hammering away on Mr. Foote’s keyboard, and accessing the accounting software.
“Where can we take it from?” Mr. Foote’s eyes followed the accountant’s finger on the big 46” computer monitor. “OK, well, how do we get it from there, to her.”
“Best way, and the only instant way, is by using crypto currency, if she’ll accept it.” They both looked at me. “And you’re smart if you do, because then you don’t have to report it as income. Don’t write that down, Tiffany.”
“You mean like Bitcoin?”
“Not ‘like’ Bitcoin. Bitcoin. 506.4 Bitcoins, to be exact.” I opened the app, and e-mailed them my Bitcoin QR code. A minute later, I was a Bitcoin 1/2 millionaire. I signed their paperwork, and then when the Black Shirts arrived to escort me out, I asked Mr. Foote for one more favor.
“I’m gonna miss these proximity locks. Now that I’m rich, where can I buy one for my front door?”
“Tiffany, have maintenance meet her at the exit, with one of those leftover locksets from the storage room. Now, probably any locksmith can install that for you. But I’d recommend Bobby’s Lock and Key on State Street. They put all of ours in, and I know they’ve got one of the encoders too, which you need to active the keys.”
“Thanks, Mr. Foote. You’re not so bad, after all.”
“Kind of you to say so. Have a nice life, Ms. Timmons. And don’t spend all your coins in one place.” And with that, the Blackshirts politely, but firmly, guided me out the door, to my car, and watched me drive away.
The locksmith was happy to accept Bitcoin. And Cosby said he would, too, once he looked in to it. But for some things, I’d need cash to live on. So I paid the fees and cashed out 10 of my coins, for some $9,600.
I turned into Mr. Valentine’s apartment complex, but stopped and parked a few hundred yards away, when I saw the U-haul truck backed onto the sidewalk. He was picking up his belongings from the snow-covered front yard, which had evidentially been tossed off the balcony by his soon-to-be ex-wife.
When the truck pulled out, I followed, at a safe distance. All the way across town to another complex, this one not-as-nice. It was a series of run-down duplexes.
The front door was wide open, so I walked in, softly calling his name while navigating cautiously around boxes that had been placed randomly about the floor. He must have been in the back of the U-haul truck, because he walked in behind me, carrying a big box. When he saw me, he dropped the box with a loud THUD. I spun to face him, but he turned away for a moment, slamming the door shut. Then he locked it, deadbolted it, and secured the chain, which I believe is called a “safety chain”. (Isn’t that ironic?)
Still more irony: Atop the box that he just dropped was a huge, red heart-shaped box of Valentine’s Candy, with “To Shaniqua, Always be my Valentine, Love, Me” written in bold black sharpie across the lid.
“YOU” he spat contemptuously. “You cost me my job, my home, my wife, my kids, and my dog. All in one day. And you’re back! Want my car, too? How about my baseball card collection? It’s in one of these boxes, but I don’t know which one. WHY DON’T YOU JUST TAKE THEM ALL???!!!”
“I, I, I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? You’re SORRY? They think I raped you! Did you tell them I didn’t? At least not yet, anyway.” He’d closed the distance between us, and his hands grabbed the inside of my blouse, all eight fingertips within it, and they pulled it apart mightily, buttons popping off and flying throughout the room. Back over my shoulders, and down my arms, and in an instant, it was gone. The big hands then grabbed my big black bra, one in front and one behind, and suddenly my arms were over my head, and the bra was gone too.
“Yes! I told them! I told them you’d never rape anybody! Though I’m now starting to think that that may have been a bit premature…”
He spun me to face the arm of an old leather couch, the only piece of furniture in the room. From behind, his thumbs dug into my waistband, and suddenly, my skirt and panties were wadded up around my ankles. With a relatively gentle push, I faceplanted on the couch cushion, my legs flying up, trapped between his thighs. The cushy arm of the old couch was bearing the brunt of my weight, as well as elevating my ass right in front of his crotch.
“Why shouldn’t I? I got punished for it already, that’s for sure!” I heard his zipper, and resigned myself to the inevitable rape. Hopefully, it would help to mollify his insane rage.
He rested the shaft between my buns, and rubbed it there hot-dog style for a few strokes before drawing the dickhead down, down closer and closer to my nakedly quivering vagina, which hadn’t had any time to moisten in preparation for what was sure to be a violent entry.
But the massive mushroom head never made it down that far. It stopped the moment it butted against my butthole, and his huge hands palmed my asscheeks, parting the crack still farther to clear the path for the obscene invasion.
I gasped when I realized my fate. Was he really going to do it? And wasn’t it really exactly what I wanted him to do? Needed him to do?
How bad would it hurt? I was about to find out. He pressed forward, mashing the cockhead hard to the anal entrance. Then he lunged.
“STOP!” I cried, as my sphincter dented inward, but did not open. He lunged again, and I saw stars. “It’s too big! It won’t fit!” Just the very tip of the head had pried my anus apart, but it was too much to bear. Another brutal lunge. Each millimeter advance seemed to stretch my hole another inch wider apart. I had begun to struggle, arching my back and squirming from side-to-side, my dangling tits bouncing wildly about and smacking into each other as I tried in vain to claw my way forward even one inch farther away from the pillaging penis. “For the love of God and The Baby Jesus, Mr. Valentine, can’t you see it’s just too big?”
“Once I get the head in, it’ll be fine. It’s almost in.” Another brutal thrust forward nearly robbed me of my consciousness. But I realized he was right. The head was the biggest part of the shaft, and my sphincter was the narrowest part of my asshole.
“Wait! Use some lube!”
“I don’t have any lube. This isn’t Walgreens. Just. Need. To. Shove. Harder!” he punctuated each word with a cruel lunge, but still, the head would go no farther.
“WAIT! Butter! Mayonnaise! From the Fridge!”
“Nope. Nothing in the fridge yet. Completely empty. No groceries.”
“WAIT! STOP! Hair Conditioner! Jheri Curl! Wait, is that a racist stereotype?”
“A little bit. But I’ll forgive you, since you are a white girl being raped by a black man, which is also a racist stereotype, but also a little bit true.”
“OK, Shaving cream! You must have shaving cream!”
“Probably. In one of these boxes. Or one that’s still on the truck. But I have no idea which box. I kind of had to pack in a hurry.”
“Sorry about that. OH! Wait! I got it! The Valentine Box! One of those chocolates must have a creamy filling. That’ll work.”
Without pulling the cockhead from my crack, as I had hoped for, he was able to reach the box of candy and fling it onto the couch in front of me. “Find it. You’ve got 30 seconds, then I’m goin’ in dry.”
I flung the lid aside, digging in with both hands, bringing the tasty treats to my mouth hand-over-fist. Bite, discard. Bite, discard. Bite, discard. Turns out, assrape is like a box of chocolates: You never know what you’re going to get.
Almond Praline.
Solid Milk Chocolate.
Coconut Macaroon.
Chewy Caramel.
Mint Medallion.
Chocolate Covered Macadamia.
Ganashe Swirl
White Chocolate Raspberry.
…I felt him collecting his strength for the final, fatal lunch that would tear me asunder…
…and FINALLY, a Cherry Cordial, preserved in Dark Chocolate, with a creamy, white, sweet liquid fondant!
I savored the taste of the portion I’d bit away, an intense sugar high washing over my brain as I carefully passed the uneaten portion back, and felt him dump it with a PLOP at the top of my ass-crack. Grabbing me by the hair, he pulled me a bit more upright, so the liquid would ooze down into my crack, rather than down toward the small of my back. He pulled his cock back out of the way. The thick liquid inched closer to my anus, pushed by the cherry itself as it rolled in a slow-motion avalanche down the canyon of my crack.
And just as the cherry entered the pit of my recently indented anus, he stabbed forward with his prick. The poor cherry exploded, blown to smithereens as the massive mushroom, with the aid of the sweet lubricant, burst through the tough but tiny muscle, stretching it beyond belief before it snapped tightly onto the thick cockshaft.
“YEOW! Take it out!” I screamed and squirmed, my fat tits slapping painfully together once again as he released my hair in favor of gripping my love-handles. The pain of yet another faceplant into the leather couch cushion was masked by the far greater agony of a second wild lunge as the wide cockhead went screaming deep into my bowels. Another forward volley and I was certain I could feel his cock at the back of my throat, and swallowed hard to control my gag reflex. One more thrust, and I felt his hips plow into my buttocks, grinding my already bruised bikini line hard into the arm of the sofa. Already black and blue from my lunchtime encounter, it would now look like I had a head-on collision with a Hyundai while pushing a shopping cart.
Palming my buns again and stretching them painfully wide apart, he was able to gain yet another brutal inch along the stolen path. All in all, my asshole was so tight it took him five powerful lunges to completely bury his long cock there.
“For Fuck’s Sake! Just stop! For a minute! Let me get used to it!”
“Nope” was all he said. And he pulled back, HARD. All the way, until the rim of his cock banged against my sphincter muscle, this time from the inside. Had he pulled back any farther, that poor muscle would have screamed at the prospect of being asked to once-again stretch that wide so soon, with no time to recover. Furthermore, all of my internal organs, which were stuck like glue to his retreating cockhead, would have come tumbling right out of my ass. For the first time in my adult life, I would have been a size 1.
But he didn’t keep pulling out. Instead, he rammed it back in, this time, all the way with ONE thrust! “YEOW! NO! STOP IT, GOD DAMMIT! YOU’RE KILLING ME!” Again I struggled; again I arched; again my boobs wobbled. But there was nothing I could do to even slow him down, as he began fucking my ass with a steady in-and-out rhythm.
“Shhhh.” He shushed me.
“Did you just shush me?”
“Everything’s gonna be OK.”
“That’s easy for you to say! You don’t have a BNC reaming out your asshole!”
“BNC?”
“Yes. It’s slang for Big Black Cock.”
“BNC is slang for Big BLACK Cock?”
“Well, it would be politically incorrect for me to say the N-word.”
“I think in this particular case, an exception could be made.”
“OK, Great. Would you mind removing your Big Nigger Cock from my asshole?”
“No problem, M’Lady. Just as soon as I’m done.”
And with that, he went completely nuclear on my ass. With all the violence of, well, of a big black man who’d just been called the N-word.
My mind reeling with delirious agony from the insane increase in the tempo of the attack, I could almost hear a gaggle of Social Justice Warriors mingling in the room around us. “Do you see that privileged white girl getting her ass destroyed by that poor, oppressed minority? I wonder what she did to make him so angry?”
“Well, I heard she called him the N-Word.”
“Oh well. Guess it serves her right then.”
By now, sweat—some of it his, some of it mine—was dripping down my back and down my crack. It was rinsing away the lube, which had already worn thin by being driven up the full length of my colon. The friction was causing heat, and the heat was getting hotter. Scalding hot.
“SLOW DOWN!”
“NO WAY!”
But on the very next outward thrust, it popped all the way out, re-stretching and re-traumatizing my tortured asshole muscle. And on the next inward thrust, it went all the way up my snatch, where he stopped cold in his tracks.
“Yeowch!” I screamed.
“What happened?”
“It slipped out. You’re in my cunt.”
“Wow” he said, stroking in and out a few times. “How come you’re so wet?”
“Never mind that! Just put it back in my ass.”
“What? I thought you didn’t want it in your ass.”
“Well, you seem to like it there, so…”
What I didn’t tell him was that as soon as it went up my twat, I knew that if he fucked me there, even for just a minute, I would cum, and cum hard. Embarrassingly hard.
“OK then.” So, now, with the head and shaft completely shellacked with a full coating of pussy juice, he rammed it all the way up my ass again, and right from the start, began fucking me even harder than before.
“Jesus, Joseph and Mary on a Toboggan, that hurts!”
"Feels good to me!"
“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts” I repeated, over and over again, hoping to mask the fact that I had been unable to suppress my orgasm. Thankfully, he was distracted by his own impending orgasm, and probably didn’t even notice when I began to fuck-back, my fingernails tearing through the leather of his battered sofa. His cock, now hard as a steel bar, probably didn’t even notice that my guts were clamping around it and milking it as the warm, creamy load hosed my ass-channel completely full, some of it even escaping the tight seal that my milking anus had made around the thick base of his shaft.
A full minute later, he pulled the shrinking dong free, and even in its semi-flaccid state, the retreating head felt like it was the size of a grapefruit as it popped free of my poor, brutalized sphincter muscle, which vowed then and there to never open again, for any reason.
The entry into the New England Journal of Medicine would read “Doctors baffled by woman admitted to ER with completely sealed-shut anus. Diagnosis: Well, for starters, she’s full of shit.”
By the time I could even stand upright, Mr. Valentine came out of the bathroom with a steaming hot towel. Having wiped his weapon off and tucked it away, he tossed me the towel. “Find your clothes and get dressed if you can. I’ve probably got a T-shirt you can borrow, if you need to. And here, order us a Domino’s Pizza, I have the app on my phone.” He unlocked his phone and placed it in my hand, then headed out to the U-Haul. “I’ve still got a few more boxed to bring in.”
“What’s the Address?” I asked, and he had to go read it off the mailbox, and then he shouted it back to me. “Pepperoni, Mushrooms, Onions, Both kinds of Peppers, and Both kinds of Olives OK?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
After I ordered the pizza, and in between his trips of bringing in boxes, I downloaded the Bitcoin app to his phone. Then I zapped half of my coins over to him, and took a snapshot of his wallet, and messaged it to my phone (in case he lost his phone, and therefore the code to his Bitcoin wallet). I hid it on the 3rd page of his “miscellaneous” folder. I’d text him about it some other day.
The pizza, like the sex, was hot, fast, and, well, pretty great. I helped him carry in a thrift-store bedframe and mattress.
“You might as well take the rest of these with you” he said, putting the cover back on the heart-shaped box of candy. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I haven’t seen him since.
Afterward:
I haven’t seen him since. But I did text him when the crypto-currency market hit $21 K per coin. Blackjack, Baby! I liquidated my Bitcoin wallet, and advised him to do likewise. “You’re the $6 Million Dollar Man, Mr. Valentine.” I told him where his wallet was, how to cash it in, if he wanted to, and explained to him, in detail, why I’d given him such an awesome Valentine’s Day gift.
“OK. Great. Thanks.” Was the only reply I received. Obviously, he did not believe me at the time. But a few months later, I saw in the media that he had opened his own Risk Management Firm in a brand new office building. Not quite as big Mr. Foote’s company, but still, a formidable competitor. Mr. Valentine, you see, fired with no severance package at all, had not been compelled to sign a no-compete agreement.
I too built a new structure with my fortune. A small, lakefront mansion. Cosby is my full-time driver and personal pharmacist now. Drugs, Drinks, Nightlife. Funny how, as soon as you can afford that stuff, everybody is now willing to give it to you for free.
Meanwhile, relatives that I’m sure I’ve never met; classmates from High School “hey, remember me?”; even Brad’s been trying to get in touch, leaving his “new number” on my old iPhone. A phone that silently rings a hundred times a day. But that’s not a phone I answer anymore.
I understand that Mr. Valentine is shacked-up with some pretty, petite Asian girl now. I’ve seen some Asian Porn. I bet she just lies there submissively and whimpers and whines when he rapes that BNC up her petite little Asian ass. I bet she doesn’t scream, or struggle, or beg for mercy. I bet he gets tired of her. I wonder if he remembers our time spent together as fondly as I do.
Epilogue:
This is my first Valentine’s Day in my new house. When I moved in, I brought my proximity lock with me and had Bobby’s Lock and Key install it, and leave me with a stack of extra key-cards.
I wrote my new address on one of them, along with the word “anytime”, and included a few nude “selfie’s”. Along the bottom of those photos are printed some “love coupons”. One is good for a FREE BLOWJOB. One is good for UNLIMITED VAGINAL PENETRATION. And the third one?
ANAL RAPE.
Is that a Valentine’s Invitation that any man can resist? I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out. But just to make it extra tempting, I sent him a box of chocolates. NOT an assortment, mind you. No. Just a box of Chocolate Covered Cherries…
The End, and Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody!
