8FOLD/ACRA: Jolt City # 8, Panic in a Pretty Box! [VERY STRONG ACRA!]

[Tom Russell]

          PANIC IN A PRETTY BOX!

   A gorgeous blonde straddles our hapless hero, her
ample cleavage nearly spilling out of her skimpy black
one-piece.  She wears a black domino mask that is
complimented by her black knee-high boots.
   "I am the Clockwork Contessa," she says, "and this
is not a story for little boys!"

   She's right about that, folks.  This story contains
FRANK DEPICTIONS OF THE SEXUAL ACT DESCRIBED IN
SHOCKING LANGUAGE.  READER DISCRETION IS HIGHLY
ADVISED.

   EIGHTFOLD COMICS GROUP PRESENTS 
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   # 8 MAY 2007 
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     BY TOM RUSSELL //

   Three kids in the midnight moonlight, singing in
the rain; eighteen or nineteen, singing without
lyrics, without notes: sharp vibrato twitches of
muscle and sinew, percussive heartbeats building, a
three-boy orchestra pretending to be the full-fledged
real-deal: a three-boy orchestra pretending to be men,
playing at being adults, at being crooks, at being
big-timers: three boys in kabuki masks, singing
without a sound--toss a brick and the glass hits the
ground.
   "Didn't need to do that," says one, his voice
muffled by the ancient white mask peeking out of his
hooded sweatshirt.  "We could've just floated in."
   "Shut up," says the boy who tossed the brick.
   "I'm just saying it was stupid to throw the brick."
   "Aw, leave him alone, will ya?  Whether he should
have done it or not, it got done.  Let's just get in
there and grab the jewels and get out, huh?"
   "This is the last job for you," snarls the first
boy to the second.  The second slumps his shoulders,
and the first turns his rage towards the third.  "I
should never have let you talk me into him."
   "Dude, he's my brother."
   "Um, guys?  I'm right here."
   "Let's just get the jewels, okay?"
   They turn back towards the broken window, only to
find our verdant vigilante barring their path.
   "It's the Green Knight!" says the maligned brother.
   "You shouldn't have thrown that brick," offers
Martin.
   He curls his fingers into a poem of a fist, tight
and beautiful and merciless.
   "Don't hit me!"  The brick-boy throws his hands up
and drops to his knees.
   "You idiot!" says the first boy.  "Did you forget
we got the floaters?"
   The two boys still standing quickly unzip their
hooded sweat-shirts, revealing, as Martin feared, more
of Doctor Costello's Vibra-Jackets.  With a turn of
the dial, their molecules begin dancing.  The third
boy quickly follows suit.
   The rain slashing right through them, they make a
run for it.  The leader of this so-called Kabuki Gang
runs right through Martin, leaving him feeling
slightly ill.
   He doesn't run after them: it's a wasted effort. 
And he learned over the last couple of weeks that
trying to punch them in their intangible faces made
him look futile and silly.
   Of course, letting them escape didn't do his
reputation any good, either...

   Martin lets himself in through Dani's apartment
window.
   "Hiya, hero," says Danielle as she enters the
darkened bedroom, dressed in plaid pajamas.  She hugs
him immediately, kissing his green mask.  "You're all
wet," she says.  "Let me get you a towel."
   She heads to the linen closest and calls back to
him from the hall: "How was your patrol?"
   "Bad.  More and more floaters.  Vibra-Jackets. 
They call them floaters now."
   "So I've heard."  She hands him a towel and turns
on the bedside lamp.  "It felt like we were winning
there for a while, you know?  Less drug dealers, more
unicyclists."
   "Hmmph," nods Martin.  He begins to pat the outside
of his costume with the towel.
   "Go ahead and peel it off," says Danielle,
irritated.  "You've seen me change.  Here."  She goes
to her dresser and pulls out another pair of plaid
pajamas.  "Might be a little small, but it'll keep you
warmer than your wet costume."
   Martin grumbles a bit and hands her back the towel.
 He begins peeling off his shirt, careful not to
disturb his mask.
   "But now that Snapp is giving these Vibra-Jackets
to his dealers," Danielle says, picking up where they
left off, "recruitment seems to be up.  Only way he
could improve would be to offer a dental plan."
   "That probably would have been cheaper," says
Martin, trading the shirt for the towel.  He rubs his
smooth chest and arms vigorously.  "I wish we knew how
he was mass producing them.  Fay Tarif said Costello's
prototype set the University back at least five
thousand dollars.  And since none of these vests
respond to the fail-safes, it's a sheer bet they've
been tinkered with."
   Danielle returns, having hung up the shirt to dry
in the bathroom.  "Pants too," she says with a wry
smile.
   Martin grumbles some more and removes his belt.  He
flicks off the silent alarm on the buckle and hands it
to Danielle.  "I ran into the Kabuki Gang tonight. 
They had floaters."
   "Which means it's not just Snapp's dealers," says
Danielle.  "If this spreads to all the other crooks in
Jolt City..."
   "We've got to get ahold of one of those jackets,"
says Martin.  "Then maybe Tarif can reverse-engineer
it, find a new weakness.  But to get a jacket, we need
to get somebody who's wearing a jacket, and since the
jacket lets them pass through solid matter..."
   "We'll figure it out," says Danielle.  "Pants."
   Third grumble's a charm.  Martin pulls off his
boots and his pants, and applies the towel to his legs
and groin.
   "You've got a beautiful body," says Danielle. "Bet
you have a beautiful face, too."
   "Dani," Martin warns.  Sweat piles up along his
face, trapped by the warm foam that protects his head.
 It's stifling.  At the same time, if it wasn't for
the foam, the mask would stick to his face, revealing
every contour.
   She touches the side of his mask, stroking the wet
spandex with her palm.
   "Dani," says Martin again.
   "I know," she says.  Slowly, reluctantly, she
withdraws her hand, retreating to his hard shoulders
and chest.  She finds his heart and leaves her hand
there, pressing her cheek near it.
   Martin puts his arm around her, hugs her close,
feels the itchy polyester against his body.
   They stand there for a moment, perfectly still and
content and yet, awkward and restless: they want this
moment to last and last and last, but now that it's
lasting, they're not quite sure what to do with it.
   Danielle breaks the tableau, sliding her hand away
from his heart.  She rests it just under the chiseled
border of his pectoral, her thumb inching over the
line.
   His nipple, already pimpled from the cold, proves
an irresistible target for her stealthy digit.  She
strums the sensitive tiny bud like a guitar.
   A gasp escapes from Martin's lips, dying in the
sweaty foam, an aural ghost the only hint of its
existence.  She keeps strumming, relentlessly
strumming.
   With a kiss, she pushes her face away from his
chest; her other thumb finds his other nipple.
   "Dani," he says.  His mouth is dry; his tongue is
heavy.  "I thought I was going to try on your
pajamas."
   "I changed your mind," says Danielle.  "Does it
feel good?"
   "Yes," says Martin with a shudder.  "Very good. 
But..."
   She releases the second nipple from her torment,
quickly sliding her fingers down to his groin.  His
cock, already half-awake because of her activity,
leaps to attention.
   He stifles the moan.  "Dani, this is going too
fast."
   "Does it feel good?" she asks, punctuating her
question with a quick, hard jerk.
   "Yes."
   "And you love me."
   "Yeah.  But."
   "But?"
   "Are we even dating?  I mean, you still don't know
who I am..."
   "I know who you are," says Danielle.  "You're the
Green Knight.  You're good.  You're brave.  I know
what makes you laugh.  And you love me, and I love
you."
   "Yeah, but..."
   "I want to know who you are.  I want to know
everything about you.  But you're not ready yet.  And
that's fine.  I know enough for right now."  She wraps
her hand around his cock, pumping it rapidly with an
amateur's enthusiasm.
   "Ease up a bit on that, huh?" he says.  "Be a
little more gentle."
   She drops to her knees, causing her back to creak
in protest.  "How about this?" she says, bringing his
head to her lips.  One dry kiss is followed by
another, and another, each one working its way along
his shaft.
   "You don't need to do that," he says tensely.  "I'd
rather you didn't."
   "I want to do it," she protests.  She flicks at his
cock with her tiny tongue: his whole body shudders in
response.  "And I think you want me to do it, too..."
   She parts her lips, putting its head into her warm,
sticky mouth.  The hot breath of her nostrils flares
pleasantly on his shaft.  Slowly and awkwardly, more
mechanical than passionate, she tries to slide her
mouth along his cock.
   "Please, Dani..."
   She slides him out of her mouth, long enough to
protest.  "I'll get better," she says.  "I forgot to
use my tongue.  It's supposed to feel good if I use my
tongue, right?"
   "Yeah, but..."
   "Let me try again."
   Noticing that his cock is losing its fullness,
Danielle pumps it in her fist again before taking it
back into her mouth, deeper this time around.  She
swirls her tongue around, not utilizing it with any
great skill, but still using it; for a first blowjob,
it's not bad at all.
   Hell, it feels good.  His eyes roll back as a moan
hums its way to the surface.  Encouraged, she
redoubles her efforts.
   But, as he looks down at her, he can still see that
it's mechanical and awkward.  Something turns in
Martin, and he feels a thousand-thousand eyes on him,
watching him and what he's doing to this poor woman.
   He remembers the white man in the park, the one who
raped him at gunpoint, who violated his mouth and
moaned and hummed.
   Within seconds, Martin's cock is limp and spongy;
Dani tries her best with the rubbery flesh, but soon
lets it slip out of her mouth.
   "I'm sorry!" she cries, tears spraying from her
eyeballs.  "I'm sorry I did it wrong!"
   "It's not your fault," says Martin.  "I don't like
being kissed there."
   She gives him a look of disbelief.
   "I don't," he says, almost sternly.  "I really
don't."
   "Okay," says Danielle.  "I'm sorry."
   He offers his hand and helps her off the floor. 
"Hand me the pajamas," he says.  "Cuddling's still my
favourite part."

The Knight's Den.  Morning.
   "Missed you last night," says Roy, closing the
trap-door behind him.
   "That's right, I was supposed to come by after my
patrol," says Martin.  "Help you with the..."
   "That's okay, I took care of it," says Roy.
   "Sorry.  I stopped by Dani's and I stayed the
night.  I just forgot."
   The pastor raises his eyebrows.  "Been staying
there a lot of nights, lately."
   "Yeah."
   "So," he grins, "been doing a lot of sinning
lately?"
   "Not your business, Pastor Riddle."
   "True," says Roy.
   "I think I'm in love with her," says Martin.
   "You don't sound wholly convinced."
   "Well, I am in love with her.  She's the closest
friend I have."
   "Thanks."
   "Don't be sensitive."
   "Does she know yet?"
   "No," says Martin.
   "You're going to tell her?"
   "I think so," says Martin.  "That's the thing
that's holding me up.  I don't want to get into a
relationship with her until I can be honest with her."
   "So tell her."
   "I dunno," says Martin.
   "What are you scared of?"
   "Well, what if she gets pissed off?"
   "Language."
   Martin sighs.
   "The Green Knight is everybody's hero," says Roy,
"while Martin Rock is considered the scum of the
earth.  How could she possibly react badly to that?"
   "Lot of help you are."
   "You're the one asking a pastor for dating advice,"
says Roy.
   Martin concedes the point with a nod.

Later.
   "Knock, knock."
   "Come on in, Roy."
   Roy lifts the trap door and enters the Knight's
Den.  "Got a public appearance lined up for you
tomorrow.  Private school up near the Corridor."
   "Private school?" says Martin distastefully. 
"Like, a religious school, or...?"
   "No, a prep thing," says Roy.
   "I don't want to do that," says Martin.  "A public
school, maybe.  I want to support that.  That's where
I come from, what I want to stand for.  Not some
hoity-toity prep school.  Sends the wrong message."
   "I'll call and cancel?" says Roy.
   "No," says Martin.  "You already said yes.  Just
don't do it next time."
   "Righty-oh," says Roy as he departs.

   Martin rides his new unicycle through the crisp
January snow with surprising ease.  He stops at the
huge black gate and dismounts.  There's a call box at
the front.
   A woman answers.  "Yes...?"
   "It's the Green Knight."
   "We've been expecting you."
   There's a buzzing noise and the gate opens.  Martin
tucks the unicycle under his arm and enters the
grounds.
   Big, stately brick building, cold and symmetrical
and new; an empty playground, snow weighing down the
swings and slides: the gate swings shut behind him as
the door swings open before him with synchronized
efficiency.
   As pretty as the building is, the blonde is
prettier: tall and firm in a business dress, heels
clicking down the stair-steps.
   "I am the Contessa Erika Fumetti," she says,
extending a black gloved hand from a dark blue sleeve.
   He takes her hand, gives it a quick and efficient
jerk of a handshake, almost doing a curtsey with his
palm.
   "Let me show you around," she says, turning towards
the door.  With each step, she stops for the briefest
slice of a second, her hips swaying with the
herky-jerky staccato of a broken metronome.

   "Our auditorium," says Erika, pointing with a
swivel of her golden tresses.  Martin peers through
the door's tiny glass window at the large, empty
theater.
   "Certainly looks impressive," he says, having
nothing else to say.
   "And expensive," says Erika, as if that is the most
exciting word in the world.  "And over here," she
says, pointing with the slightest twitch of her
puckered red lips, "the ballroom.  I feel all children
should know how to dance."
   Martin peers into the grand ballroom and finds that
it, too, is empty.
   "Where are the students, by the way?" he asks.
   There's a pinch in his palm.  He turns towards
Erika in time to see her withdraw a pin from his hand.
   His legs go rubbery.
   He falls.
   And he sleeps.

   His wrists hurt.  He opens his eyes.
   Light pours into his eyeballs, causing them to
dilate.  He's on his back.  On a table.
   Chained at the wrists.
   And the ankles.
   His grogginess is fading.  His eyes are adjusting
to the light.
   "Hello, my love."  Erika's voice.  To his left.
   The business suit is gone.  In its place, a black
one-piece that leaves her shoulders and thighs bare,
not to mention a generous amount of cleavage.  Black
gloves up to her elbows.
   And a domino mask.  Pointless, when he already
knows who she is.  She must be crazy...
   Shit, she must be a villain, a four-colour.  He's
never met one that was sane before.  Wait, did she
say...?
   "Darling," she says, rubbing her black glove over
his green costume with a slight murmur of pleasure.
   "I don't know you," says Martin.  "So I sure as
hell aren't your darling."
   "I'm Erika Fumetti," she says in soft reminder. 
"The Clockwork Contessa."
   He flinches at her touch.  "And why's that?"
   "I build robots.  Automatons.  Children."
   She claps her hands.  Identical, genderless
child-robots step into the light.
   "But they're not real," says Erika.  "Can't think. 
I can't teach them anything.  I need real children." 
She's touching him again.  "Your children."
   Her fingers trace along the spandex until she
reaches his clunky belt.
   "Lady," says Martin sharply.  "I think you're going
about this the wrong way.  I'm not interested in
you..."
   "You'll learn to love me," she says as she removes
the belt.  It falls to the ground.
   He struggles against his bonds, but all the
writhing in the world doesn't do him any good.  She
giggles.
   "I like watching you squirm, darling," she says. 
"It turns me on."
   Martin shudders, something heavy in his stomach
pounding at him from inside.  She digs her leather
fingers into his pants, tugging them down at the
front.
   "I'm a little disappointed," she says, running the
glove along the length of his half-awake cock.  "I was
hoping it'd be green.  Ah well."
   She climbs onto the table, kneeling between his
legs.  She carefully pulls his cock free of his balls,
and then licks up the sweat that was gluing them
together.  She follows the first long, deliberate lick
with another.
   "Please stop," pleads Martin.  "I don't like this. 
I don't like being kissed there."
   "Well, I like it," says Erika lustily.  She
proceeds to swirl her tongue along his length, spit
trailing down his engorged muscle.  "And he seems to
like it too."
   "You don't even know me!" says Martin.  "You have
to stop this!"
   "Of course I know you," says Erika, laughing
throatily.  "You're the Green Knight.  You're good. 
You're honest.  You're a hero.  I love you."  She
punctuates her pronunciation with another long lick. 
"And you love me, whether you like it or not."
   Erika takes the base with one gloved hand, the
leather sticking to his cock; with her other hand, she
gently tickles his balls.  She puts the head into her
mouth and begins to moan uncontrollably.
   Pleasure ripples through Martin's body, and with
it, revulsion and nausea.  Go limp, he commands
silently.  This doesn't feel good.  This isn't right.
   This can't be happening.  Not again.  Not to me.
   Go limp.  Think of something disgusting.  Vomit,
shit, death, war.
   But no matter what image he conjures up, he can't
blot out the image of Erika, of her ripe red mouth
wrapped around him, of her huge white breasts hanging
between his thighs.  He can't concentrate, can't blot
out the involuntary shuddering of his cock.
   Oh God, what's wrong with me?  This isn't good. 
This can't feel good.  I'm sick to my stomach.  What's
wrong with my body, can I control it at all?
   He feels a thousand eyes on him again, caressing
his body with their unerring gaze.  He feels the cold
metal against his head.
   He remembers the man in the park and even it's not
enough to make it go away, to make her stop...
   "Stop!" he begs.  "You got to stop, please! 
Please!"  He's sobbing now, his voice feminine and
shrill.
   "Okay, baby," says Erika, adopting the soothing
tones of a mother's voice.  It makes his stomach churn
once more.  "You're right, that's enough of that.  I
suppose you're adequately firm to proceed."
   She rises up, squatting over his thigh, as she
fidgets with the buttons at her groin.
   "No!  No!" he cries.  "You can't do this!"
   "I'd have you eat me out first," says Erika, "but
then we'd have to take off your mask.  And that would
ruin it for me, baby.  It really would."
   "Stop!  I'm begging you, please..."
   She parts her pussy lips, and his body twitches in
horror.
   "Shut up, baby," says Erika.  "I'm afraid you're
getting tiresome."
   Why won't it go limp?  Why is it still hard? 
What's wrong with me?
   Oh God no
   She slides herself onto him.  It's the first time
he's felt a woman around him in nearly ten years.  It
feels terrible.
   But his cock won't go down.
   All his muscles tense up.  Something heavy in his
throat.  Hard to breathe.
   She's bobbing up and down, screaming with joy.
   He tries to make a sound.  Tries to protest or
scream for help.  But he doesn't have any words. 
Nothing comes out.
   He opens his mouth and nothing comes out.
   He opens his mouth and he thinks of the man in the
park, and so he closes his mouth, closes his mouth to
keep him out.  But the man has a gun.  He tells him
what to do.
   He talked to him then, the white man in the park
with the gun, he talked to the little boy, to Martin,
he called him names and made him feel like a girl.
   Tears run down Martin's face.  I'm the Green
Knight.  This isn't supposed to happen.  Not to a
hero.  Not to the Green Knight.  This isn't
   This isn't supposed to happen at all.
   This monster's on him, and he can taste the man in
the park, he can feel him inside him, he
   He can't breathe
   His body's shaking, bucking, convulsing
   She's screaming for joy.  She thinks he's getting
into it.
   My body must be going into shock.  Please.
   Please let it go into shock, so I can't feel this
anymore.  She feels so good around my cock and that's
not right
   Make it stop
   It didn't feel good in the park.  Did it?
   Oh God what's wrong with me
   It stops.
   The convulsing slows down.  Air fills his lungs. 
There are voices, sounds.  And a face.
   Dani.
   "Hero, are you okay?  Can you hear me?"
   "Y.  Yes..."
   "Let's get you out of this, okay?"
   "Okay..."
   "Bitch!" says Danielle.
   Erika: "What?"
   "Bitch, where are the keys?"
   They argue.  Martin's head is getting hazy.  Hard
to see.  His eyeballs are white like gauze.  Floating
gauze...
   He's sitting up now.  Danielle's helping him up. 
Makes him nauseous.  Has to swallow the vomit.  Burns
his throat.
   Erika in handcuffs.
   "Here's your belt," says Danielle.
   Martin tucks in his cock (soft now) and pulls up
his pants.  He takes the belt and fastens it.
   "The belt," he says slowly and softly.
   "Yeah," says Danielle.  "Silent alarm alerted
Father Riddle.  Called me a few minutes ago.  Got here
as quick as I could."

   "What do you mean, you're not pressing charges?"
Danielle demands.
   Martin holds his head in his hands.  "I can't.  I'm
sorry, Dani.  I can't."
   "She'll go free."
   "The Green Knight... he can't... people can't
know..."
   "That's shit and you know it."
   "No, it's not.  People got to believe in him... or
it doesn't work... Everything we've worked for,
Dani... it'd be gone."
   "I refuse to believe that," says Danielle.  "You
really want to make a difference, hero?  Press
charges.  Let people know what happened.  Let them
know that rape victims don't have to crumple up and
die, that they can be strong and move on."
   "Let someone else send that message," says Martin. 
"Let someone else tell that story.  Not me."
   "But why--"
   "Men don't get raped, Dani."
   "That's exactly the kind of attitude that you can
help to combat."
   "You don't understand," says Martin.  "You don't
understand what it's like to be a man and have this
happen to you.  It's worse than shame."
   "What, worse than a woman's?"
   "Yeah."
   "Why, because women are supposed to get raped?"
   "No, that's not what I'm saying.  But men aren't
supposed to have this happen."
   "No one should have this happen, ever," says
Danielle.  "Look, I can get you in touch with a crisis
center, with a counselor, and then maybe you'll change
your mind about the charges..."
   "No!  No one can know!  No one!" says Martin,
crying.  "You don't understand.  I can't go through
it.  I can't.  All their eyes, looking at me."
   "But she'll go free," says Danielle.  "Because
you're too cowardly to face a little bad P.R., she'll
go free to do it again."
   "There has to be something else we can get her on,"
says Martin.  "Operating a school without a license,
building the robot children...?"
   "She has a license, and robotics isn't a crime,"
says Danielle.  "Rape is.  That's all we've got, and
that's what she did."
   "I'm not a coward," says Martin.  "But I can't.  I
just can't.  You don't..."
   "I don't understand, so you've said," says
Danielle.  "And you're right, it doesn't make sense. 
If I was raped, I would want to put the bastard behind
bars, I'd want to take a stand and protect others. 
That would make sense to me.  The only thing I can
think of that would prevent me from coming out is if
it wasn't rape."
   "What are you saying?"
   "Maybe... maybe you liked it.  Maybe that's why you
won't press charges."
   Martin stands up, his muscles tense and quivering. 
He takes several deep, quick breaths.  "If you knew
me, Dani," says Martin, "you wouldn't ever say a thing
like that to me."
   "Whose fault is it that I don't know you?" says
Danielle.
   Martin doesn't answer.  He fastens his grapple on
her window sill and slides down to the snow.

   He stops at the Knight's Den and changes into his
civvies, he takes off the mask that Danielle and Erika
are so in love with, replacing it with the face of
public enemy number one: Martin Rock, the man they
blame for the park massacre.
   God damn, does he hate that park.

   He can't stay in the church, not even in its
secular basement.  He doesn't want to feel God's
thousand eyes watching him and his anger.
   He doesn't want to visit Roy in his manse, doesn't
want to be lectured about God's stained-glass love
when he felt so little of it this afternoon.
   He doesn't want to go to the shelter where Martin
Rock spends most of his nights.  He hasn't been there
for a while-- he should, just to keep up appearances,
protect his identity-- but he doesn't want to be
surrounded by the crime and the sweat of other men.
   He wants to be alone and he wants to be angry, and
so he walks the empty streets this dark January night.

   He has a crumpled five dollar bill to his name (a
luxury) and so he stops to get a burger.  He picks an
out-of-the-way booth in an out-of-the-way place,
hoping that fewer customers means fewer people that
will recognize his face.
   "Thought that was you."
   He knows the voice before he looks up at the face. 
"Pam."
   Pam Bierce, tall and curvy in tight blue jeans. 
She is a captive of her pants and her black top
(spaghetti straps, angel-hair thin), her whole body
bound up and barely contained by her wardrobe.  He
thinks about her spilling out of it, of the fabric
bursting apart spontaneously.
   "Gorgeous as ever," he says.
   "Well, thank you, Mr. Rock," says Pam.  "Mind if I
sit with you?"
   "Please do."
   She slides in, sitting across from him, resting her
huge breasts on the greasy table.  "So, how've you
been?"
   "Been better," says Martin.  "But I guess I've been
worse, too.  Just... just had a really bad day,
y'know?"
   "Want to talk about it?"
   "No, not really."
   "Private person," says Pam.  "I didn't forget."
   "Yeah," says Martin listlessly.  "So, how's
business?"
   "It's pretty good, actually," says Pam.  "We
figured we'd be taking a dive with... all that
happened last year.  But actually, we're up.  I think
what happened was, you got us a lot of good publicity
after that business with the Crooked Man.  Once Willis
came into the picture, the publicity wasn't so good
but we still had name recognition.  I mean, really, a
business like bail bonds isn't exactly a big public
relations business in the first place."
   [*-- Martin defeated the Crooked Man, in Pam's
office, in JOLT CITY # 2.  Pam was kidnapped by Nathan
Willis-- the park sniper with a grudge against Martin
Rock-- in JOLT CITY # 3-4.]
   "Yeah, well, I... I've said it before, but I just
want to say again, I am sorry about getting you
dragged into that whole mess.  I didn't even know the
guy was still alive..."
   "Martin," says Pam with a wave of her hand, "water
under the bridge.  It was traumatic, but in the end, I
came out okay and I don't blame you for it.  I just...
needed to distance myself from you, y'know? 
Especially right then, right after it all happened."
   "It's understandable.  But you're here now and..."
   "Exactly," says Pam.  "So there's no hard feelings,
okay?  I just didn't feel like cozying up to you right
then, y'know?"  She smiles and laughs (spontaneous,
light) and pats his hand affectionately before
starting to inch her way out of the booth.
   "What about now?" he blurts with an embarrassingly
earnestness.
   "What do you mean?" says Pam, turning back towards
him.
   "Were you just being cordial, just `no hard
feelings'... or..." He trails off.
   "Or...?"  She leaves her luscious mouth open in an
expression of confusion.
   "Were you, ah, cozying up?"
   Her mouth makes a quick stop at "surprise" before
arriving at a smile of such delicious wickedness that
it makes Martin swallow, hard.
   "Why, Mr. Rock," says Pam, "you nasty old man.  Did
you want to cozy up with pretty little me?"

   They head over to her office.  First, because it's
closer than her apartment.  Secondly, she says in the
quiet sort of voice people use when they want to gloss
over something, she feels safer there.
   She locks the door and leads him past the lobby
into her private office.  She turns on the desk lamp. 
Martin stares at her face in the lamp's faint
yellowing warmth, and she stares back at his.  Long
awkward seconds pass.
   Then Martin kisses her, he lunges forward, his
hands around her head, his mouth hungry against hers,
exhaling hot and fast against her nose.  He
relinquishes the kiss, and she steps back a bit,
breathing heavily, gasping for air.
   "Kiss me again," she demands, and he does.  He
feels her lipstick smear against his mouth.  He hates
lipstick, hates eye shadow and rouge and make-up of
all stripes, hates the fakery of it.  But the presence
of the cheap-and-slutty fire-truck red smearing on his
skin makes his cock skip a beat, and so he kisses her
harder.
   He gropes her ass and pushes her against the desk,
and now her hands are all over his head and in his
hair.  She grabs ahold of a clump of it and yanks
back, hard, holding his head at eye level.
   "Put your hands on my tits," she says.
   "I'm not one to argue with a lady."
   He feels her cottoned breasts, heaving and soft
beneath the fabric.  She pulls his head down, plants
her lips against his lips, never letting go of his
hair.  Her tongue dances in his mouth, a brief and
energetic little two-step, before she pulls his head
away again with another violent yank and another
breathless command: "Tear my blouse."
   His hands shaking, he grabs her top in his fists.
   "Tear it!" she says.  "Rip it in half!"
   He knots the fabric in his fists and rips it off in
one efficient jerk, his well-trained muscles freeing
her gorgeous brown tits (her nipples thick and huge
and lovely).
   "Suck `em, baby," she demands, shoving his face
into her bosom.  He loses himself in her soft flesh,
practically slobbering over her natural bounty.
   His head is pounding from the heavy breathing, and
his cock is straining hard against his pants.  He
fidgets with the zipper and the button.
   "Let me do that," says Pam, releasing his hair for
the first time.  She slinks down to her knees and
pulls out his rock-hard cock.
   "Ooh," she coos.  "Is all that for me?  Is this
big, beautiful cock all for me?"
   "Y-yeah," shudders Martin.
   "I dunno," says Pam.  "Do you think it will fit in
my tiny hot little mouth?"  With that, she descends,
snapping it up in her beak, running her tongue along
its length while sliding it past her glistening lips,
back and forth, back and forth, the rhythm building
and varying.
   Martin puts his hands around her head, guiding his
cock deeper and deeper into her wet mouth.  He jabs it
too far back and she starts to cough and choke.  He
pulls it out immediately, the thousand eyes crawling
over him once again.
   "I'm sorry," he says.  "God, I'm so sorry, Pam, I
didn't mean to..."
   "Shut up," she snaps.  "Shut up and fuck my slutty
little mouth with your big, hard cock!"
   With a savage growl, he grabs her head and rams his
cock back into her mouth, bucking his hips with
reckless abandon.  The thousand eyes are gone.  Faster
and faster, harder and harder, he shoves it deeper and
deeper down her throat, her hair balled up in his
fists like the fabric of her torn blouse.
   He slows down, less for the sensation than for the
sight of her red lips and sexy eyes, sliding passively
along his long, hard cock.  The sight itself makes him
twitch, and he lets it slide out of her mouth so that
he won't come just yet.
   "Bend over the desk," he says, his voice a dry,
lusty husk.  "Pull down your pants."
   "Alright!" says Pam, wiggling her hot ass out of
her jeans.  "You gonna fuck me, baby?"
   "Yeah, baby," says Martin.
   Pam bends over, spreading her long gams and her
glistening pussy-lips.  Martin looks at her for a few
long seconds, and he feels his erection pulsing in his
hand, strong and steady and unyielding, unhesitating.
   "Fuck me fast and hard, baby," says Pam.  "Fuck me
like a slut."
   He slides it into her pussy, and his whole body
shudders.  "Been so long," he says.  The last time he
made love to a woman was ten years ago.  The
afternoon's events are forgotten and erased; they
don't count.  In fact, it feels like the park doesn't
count anymore, either, but thinking about it makes him
feel uneasy.
   He loses himself into the moment, grabbing onto her
hips, fucking her fast and hard, as she requested,
fucking away the man in the park and the gangs with
the Vibra-Jackets and the woman in the school, fucking
away the insecurity and the frustration and the guilt:
fucking her because he wants to fuck her, because he
needs to, fucking her with passion and lust and anger
until his cock just can't take it anymore.
   He pulls out and holds his twitching cock: "I'm
gonna come, I'm gonna come, I'm coming."
   It sprays out in quick, steady bursts, arcing
through the air and dribbling down his hand.  His
head's still pounding (he had forgotten how much it
takes out of him to do this standing up) and he feels
himself start to fall over.
   Pam rights him and leads him to the bathroom
adjacent her office.  She sits him on the toilet,
takes out a rag, and starts running the water.  "We'll
get you cleaned up," she says, as if an explanation
was necessary.  "Did you like that?"
   "Yeah," he says.  "I did.  I wasn't too rough, was
I?"
   "Nah," she says.  "Maybe next time, though, we can
do it a little slower, a little nicer?"
   He chooses to ignore the implications of `next
time'.  "I didn't mean-- I just, it seemed like you
were into it..."
   "I was," she says with a shrug.  She feels the
water, ascertains that it's hot enough, and puts the
washcloth under it.  She takes ahold of his cock and
starts to gently rub it clean.  "I mean, it looked
like you needed a fuck, and hey, I needed a fuck, so
we fucked.  But next time, let's try making love,
huh?"
   He just kinda nods.
   Pam knows this doesn't bode well.  "Is there going
to be a next time?"
   Having finished cleaning off his cock and balls,
she moves onto his hand, locking eyes with him.
   "I dunno, Pam," says Martin.  "Let's... let's just
kinda play it by ear, y'know?"
   "We'll see what happens?"
   "Exactly."
   "Why does it feel like a brush-off?"
   "It's not," says Martin.  "But we don't know each
other very well, so you can't expect me to move in or
anything."
   "You're still homeless, aren't you?"
   "There's the shelter," says Martin.  "And I have
friends."
   "Lady friends?"
   Martin hesitates.
   "You're a very private person," says Pam.
   "I am," says Martin, quietly.
   "But you can trust me, Martin," says Pam.  "I'm not
going to judge you.  I accept you for who you are.  I
like Martin Rock.  I wouldn't have had sex with him
otherwise."
   "What do you like about me?" says Martin, almost as
if it's a challenge.  "What do you know about me?"
   "I know you're good," says Pam, sitting down on his
lap.
   "What, because I saved your life?"
   "No," says Pam.  "Though I guess that's part of it.
 But it's more than that.  There's something in you,
something good, and something else, something
restless.  Dynamic.  Attractive, sure.  But not
dangerous.  I feel... I feel safe around you, Martin. 
When you came back into my office the day after Willis
was arrested, I didn't feel threatened.  When I saw
you today in the restaurant, when I told you to rip my
blouse: I was completely unafraid.  It was like...
like some secret part of me, and I could just be me,
completely.  And I felt like you could just be you.
   "You had that restlessness in you, this anger and
this violence, but you are in control of it, and you
recognize it, and you're... you're just good, okay? 
That's what I know.  That's what I like about you.
   "Maybe you're scared a little," says Pam.  "You're
scared of the restlessness.  Of the anger.  Of
whatever you did or whatever was done to you.  But
when you tore my blouse, when you bent me over that
desk and fucked me, you were fearless."
   "A lot of people," says Martin after a long time,
and then he stops for a moment, thinking.  "Let me...
let me phrase this right, okay?  So that it makes
sense."
   "Just be honest, just let it out," say Pam.
   "A lot of people, lately, they've seen only one
side of me, an image, and they're in love with that,"
says Martin.
   Pam cocks her head.
   "What?"
   "Well, a lot of people hate you."
   "Yeah, but this is different."
   "This was before?"
   "No, it's just... I can't explain it," says Martin.
 "But let's say that there are people who hate me and
people who love me and the people who love me don't
know that there's people who hate me."
   "What, they live under a rock?"
   "No," says Martin, his temper flaring.  "It's
just... what I'm saying is, you like me.  You like
Martin Rock.  And you understand me.  For who I am. 
Not for some pretty public image.  But for who I am. 
And so I can be honest with you."
   "You have a funny way of showing it," says Pam.
   "I'm the Green Knight."  He blurts it out, and as
soon as he does, he wants to shove the words back into
his mouth.
   Pam's lips part slowly.  "Really?"
   "You kissed me right here," says Martin, pointing
to his forehead.
   "You're the Green Knight," says Pam.
   "Yeah," says Martin.  "Don't... don't tell anyone."
   "I'm not stupid," says Pam.  "So.  You said you had
a bad day today.  Was it a bad Martin day or a bad
Green Knight day?"
   "Kinda both."

   And they talk.  As they get dressed, they talk.  As
they walk to her apartment, her jacket zipped up to
compensate for the now worthless blouse, they talk:
   Martin tells her about the man in the park, and
about Ree and his time in Iraq.  Pam talks about her
father and Martin talks about Ray, and they hold each
other as they cry.
   And then they kiss, and they make love, a little
slower, a little sweeter: they love their pain and
their anger away and she falls asleep.
   Martin lies down and stares at the ceiling, and he
thinks about Dani, and he looks at Pam: ripe young
Pam, who isn't even his type.  Dani was his type, or
Ree.  Older women, women his age.  What is he doing
with Pam?
   And he wonders what will happen tomorrow, and the
next day, and the day after that.




NEXT TIME: Martin Rock... a supervillain?  Be here
next month for...

   "... A.K.A. THE HALLUCINATED MAN!"

(C) COPYRIGHT 2007 TOM RUSSELL.



Tom Russell

=====

"Personality is everything that's false
in a human being."-- Sam Shepherd

turtleneckfilms.blogspot.com
associatedcontent.com/user/53373/tom_russell.html
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