The Bodice Ripper

by Taylah Morgan

  THE BODICE RIPPER

  TAYLAH MORGAN

  The Bodice Ripper © Taylah Morgan 2017.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Taylah Morgan

  To my writing group, the most supportive group of people I’ve ever met

  “Ma! Get in here. Judge Moody is about to ream this lady.”

  A short middle-aged woman with huge fake breasts shuffled out of her kitchen and into her living room where her son sat on a green plaid couch. “What’d she do?”

  The man on the couch, with blond hair pulled on top of his head in a small bun, shook his head. “A woman was buying a custom-sized wig and the lady she bought it from didn’t give it to her. Paid $700 for the wig. Now the wig lady is counter-suing her customer for tarnishing her image.”

  The woman snorts. “Ha. Whattanidiot. Turn it up.”

  “Now let me get this straight. You received payment from Ms. Stanley--”

  “Yes, your honor, but--”

  Judge Moody slammed her gavel in quick succession. “Interrupt me one more time and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

  The man on the couch slapped his knee as he laughed. “Hoo-o-o-o-ey Mama! She’s diggin’ herself into a hole.”

  The woman chucked. “Ain’t nobody interrupts Judge Moody.”

  Just then, a xylophone staccato sounded and on the screen in large black and red letters, the words ‘BREAKING NEWS’ flashed.

  “Well I’ll be damned, Mama. Judge Moody can be interrupted.”

  A handsome man with a receding hair line and ill fitted suit stared straight at the camera.

  “I’m Varland Sierra.”

  The screen pans over to his co-host, a woman in a form-fitted red dress with busty cleavage. “And I’m Tellie Ramirez.”

  Varland Sierra takes the screen over again. “We are interrupting our regularly scheduled program for a car chase in South Valley right now.”

  Tellie Ramirez nodded. “It’s breaking news and you are watching it right now, on this monitor, right now.” She pointed to the television screen showing a blurring bus moving down an open road. “There’s no telling exactly how fast this driver is going right now, on this monitor, right now, at this speed, but we have heard up to ninety miles per hour at some point along the routes we have been following.”

  The television screen switched over to a scene of a green and blue bus without a roof darting through multiple cars on a two-lane street. In the bottom of the corner of the picture, the logo for NBC is shown.

  Varland Sierra leaned forward to read from a stack of papers in front of him. “And this chase started a short while ago. According to our competition at NBC, police started following this party bus, occupied with at least fifty touring South Koreans, at about First Avenue south by southwest. Scanner traffic tells us the vehicle was going upwards of ninety miles per hour. Then exited Fifty-First avenue east by eastwest, now it’s on surface streets and headed west.”

  “Hot damn, mama. Did he say somebody stole a party bus?”

  The woman on the couch nodded. “Turn it up, baby.”

  Tellie Ramirez stared into the camera, but the camera man zoomed in so only her neck and bouncing bosom were visible. “Right now, we wanna check in with Joshua Bruce. He’s been following them since the highjack was reported this afternoon. Bruce, Good Afternoon.”

  Joshua Bruce sat in a pilot seat with two large ear mufflers over his ears and a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. “Good morning, er night, hem, afternoon. Yeah, we’re up here. The Fort McDowell Casino News Chopper has been following this guy as he’s gone through a bunch of—here he’s gonna turn around here.”

  The shaking camera zooms into a view of a black car.

  Joshua Bruce continued. “A BMW…Ah nah, that was a car that had stopped. Ah, lemme catch up to him. But he’s been definitely cruisin’ through the neighborhoods here pretty quickly as, ah, the police follow him. Oh there he goes at the cul-de-sac. He’s going to probably gonna bail out here. The police has basically backed off hoping it will help lower his speed since he’s approaching a school zone. He’s east bound going towards El Mirage.”

  Joshua Bruce is cut off and the footage from NBC took over the screen again. Under the sound of propellers, hip hop music blasted in the direction of the bus. “Go shawty, it’s your birthday, we gon’ party like it’s your birthday.” The people on the bus stood up and waving their hands. A couple in the back seat was seen making out.

  The man on the couch gasped. “Are those people partying?”

  Cocking her head the woman next to him nodded. “Turn it up, baby.”

  Joshua Bruce is pulled back up on the screen, this time following a green pickup truck driving into a school. “We know that the police are pursuing in some fashion. Obviously, we have not seen any, ah, police in the picture since we picked up this chase. We have reason to believe this person doesn’t have a plan right now.”

  The screen cut to Varland Sierra and Tellie Ramierez. “What is he following?” The two news anchors whispered to each other, unaware they were live. “Let’s just use NBC’s--”

  NBC’s footage pulls up again and the speeding bus reached a large six-lane intersection and slowed to a stop.

  Varland Sierra’s voice is played with the footage. “It does look like they are stopping right now as opposed to what they were doing earlier--”

  Joshua Bruce’s voice cuts in. This time his camera followed the previously stopped party bus as it accelerated. “Found him, Earl, put me back on!” The shaking camera attached to Joshua Bruce’s helicopter steadied out as he followed the bus. “Now he’s going northbound, running that red light. In the wrong lane of traffic. Just crossed through the center lane. Could be looking for another way back onto the I-17.”

  Shouts from the tourists are heard from the camera. “We love America!” Then the bus turned onto an empty street in a suburban neighborhood. A picture of the two announcers popped up in the corner of the television, and they look serious as they watch the chase.

  Varland Sierra looked back into the camera. “Folks, we are trying to get in touch with the Phoenix PD as to figure what exactly led to this pursuit--”

  Joshua Bruce’s voice cut him off. The camera drifted away from the party bus to a vehicle on the parallel street. “This chase, ah, this white Bronco you see on the screen right now, is just careening all over North Phoenix. North, North Valley. Is that Happy Valley? I think that ends at an airbase.”

  Varland Sierra frowned at Joshua Bruce’s footage. “Joshua, you’re supposed to be following the bus, not that Bronco.”

  “Wait, uh what-, you sure?” Joshua Bruce chomp-chomped on the cigarette in his mouth and hits the ear pad attached to his ear. “Yeah, man. Forgot. These suburbs can be confusing. I’ll find him again.”

  A ringtone sounded from behind the couch. If you’re horny. Let’s do it. Ride it. My pony.

  Gathering her foot in her lap, the woman picked at her toenails. “Knew they’d be callin’ you, Bubba. I’m surprised they waited as long as they have.”

  The man groaned and stretched out. He looked down at his boxer-and-sock-clad body. “I was
ready for a day of lazin’ and Judge Moody.”

  “Never been to Arizona before. What they got over there, ya reckon?”

  “Heat. Sun.” He burped. “Buncha crazies stealin’ buses.”

  The ringtone sounded again. My saddle’s waitin’ come and jump on it.

  “Enjoy the sun, boy.”

  The man stood, letting out a long stream of flatulence.

  “Shit, boy, musta’ been backed up.”

  The man scratched his belly, grabbed the phone off the table, and disappeared into the hallway. On the television, the chase continued.

  Tellie Ramirez stared at the monitor to her right, watching as cars darted out of the way of the speeding party bus. “For the people of the valley, it is a dangerous and confusing situation out there. And it’s frightening to think--”

  “This just in!” The camera panned to Varland Sierra, zooming in so the screen filled with the balding news anchor’s profile. “The driver of the stolen party bus has been identified.” A picture of young, brunette woman with a bowl cut, thick green glasses and unrelenting acne is magnified on the screen. “Faye D.A.B. Brynes from Strawberry, Arizona.”

  Tellie Ramirez’s voice-over sounded, “Yes. We are receiving this news in the studio, right here, right now. Faye D.A.B. Brynes committed a double homicide, according to police.” Brynes’ picture is minimized to the top right corner of the screen. “The victims are currently being identified but it is rumored to be Brynes’ own parents. We’ll reveal more as we find out.”

  The screen switched back to the NBC coverage of the party bus, pulling a U-Turn, tourists’ hands up in the air as the bus turned. Hip hop music could be heard underneath the tourist’s screams. Rack rack city, bitch, rack rack city, bitch. “Whoooooo! Fighting!”

  The man emerged from the hallway perfumed in a cloud of Old Spice. “See you later, Mama.”

  “Mmm,” the woman replied with a wave of her hand. She reached over to the coffee table, picked up the abandoned remote and raised the volume of the television. “I love this song. Ten, ten, ten, twenty on yo titties, bitch.”

  Varland Sierra looked at his paper as the image of Brynes in the corner transformed into a video of a blonde woman wearing a hair net and a stained red and white shirt. “Brynes is said to have left her job at Piggly Wiggly Hot Diggily Dawgs, just a few hours ago. We have coverage from one of our competitors at the scene.”

  The muted video of the blonde woman played. NBC’s logo, visible in the corner, led into the heading: Jess Draude, Fast Food Employee. Zoomed in, Jess appeared to be stirring something in a a large metal can.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Ms. Draude, you were saying Faye had just left on an errand, and never came back? Will you expand a little?” A voice off-camera asked.

  Jess Draude nodded her head. “Yeah. Okay. But first I want to say,” Jess Draude looked straight in the camera, “I am imperfect, yet my imperfections make me a masterpiece. All the women out there who are afraid to dance because they think they’re ugly or fat or tall or stumpy—let go of your inhibitions because your body hears EVERYTHING your mind says. You are all beautiful and perfect and worthwhile. Don’t let anyone else, including yourself tell you any different.” Jess Draude went back to churning meat.

  The person off camera that held the microphone started to interrupt but Jess leaned further down and spoke louder. “Now. I was standing behind the food counter because this woman called in an order for fifty Diggly Dawgs for a party she was having and I noticed we were running low on the meat. Faye was behind the register, over there,” Jess Draude stopped stirring to point off camera, “and since the lobby was empty, I asked her to round up some of the neighborhood animals. So she left and then customers started appearing from left and right. Mark came out from the back room and ‘said where the hell did all these people come from’ and I said ‘I don’t [bleep]ing know but I still got twenty-five Diggly Dawgs left to assemble.’”

  “Ma’am please remember our audience and--”

  Jess continued as if she hadn’t heard the anchor. “Although now that I think about it, it was probably around fifteen Diggly Dawgs, but either way we had ran out of meat. So there we were, unfilled Diggly Dawg orders and a bunch of random[bleep] customers all wanting their Dawg Meat.”

  The camera panned over to capture look at the anxious anchor. “Ms. Draude--”

  “Then this four-hundred-pound guy started asking me what was taking me so long, and by this time, Faye had been gone for like, forever, [bleep]. I was afraid this guy would start eating me. He was talking so much [bleep] about how hungry he was. And it’s not the first time that happened though. Then the guy slammed his hand on the counter, all angry-like, you know? And I was getting [bleep]ing pissed cause I’m busting [bleep] trying to get that order filled and he’s slamming the desk and causing all sorts of [bleep.]”

  The camera cut off to solid blue accompanied with the sound of a drawn-out buzz. After a few moments, NBC footage of the bus chase resumed, but was shortly followed by another xylophone staccato. The words ‘BREAKING NEWS’ flashed as Varland Sierra and Tellie Ramirez stood still watching the monitor to their right with questioning expressions.

  If you’re horny. Let’s do it. Ride it. My pony.

  The woman on the couch snorted. “Looks like Bubs arrived to the mad house. Hopefully, he’ll be done before Judge Moodys’ over.”

  A man with long flowing, thick, blond hair flew across the screen. His bare, chiseled chest shone nicely under the setting sun. Wash-board abs dipped sensuously into a V shape, causing more than a few eyes to follow the path down to his ever-moving hips.

  Clinging, as he flew, were black-metal egg-shaped balls—just one of the many items on his seemingly cluttered utility belt. They intermingled with a multitude of in-motion dildos of different colors and sizes, some softly vibrating or pulsing, and some twirling. Closer to the side of his hip, a loop held knotted but loosely-tied straw, fabric, and leather ropes. The other side of his tight belt held silk, furred, and striped blindfolds, wood and leather paddles, and feathered French ticklers.

  Below his belt, he wore a thong that left very little to the imagination. Two strips of fabric at the waist, read The Bodice Ripper in white stitching and a translucent black pouch kept his unmentionable contained.

  Finishing up his outfit was a vibrant orange cape on his back, also embroidered with The Bodice Ripper in white stitching. It was held tightly around his neck by a metal-ringed harness creased with clamps and handcuffs.

  Varland Sierra picked up a paper from in front of him as Tellie Ramirez continued to stare at the man’s flight. “Uh…although it is hard to tell, the police have been in pursuit. Undercover cars…” Varland Sierra struggled to keep his eyes off the screen and focus on the paper, “have all been off-roaded by Brynes’.” He paused then, putting the paper down and giving into his earlier urge. “However, it looks like other reinforcements—”

  “The Bodice Ripper,” Tellie Ramirez breathed out. Her eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, and due to the high-quality picture on the television, her hardened nipples, visible, under her red dress.

  Varland Sierra stuttered but no comprehensible words came out.

  The camera panned over to the now identified Bodice Ripper. His orange cape and blond hair fluttered in the waves of heat as he finished his flight.

  “Yes,” Tellie Ramirez moaned, “it’s the Bodice Ripper, a virile visitor from the Deep South who came to Phoenix with powers, abilities, and techniques far beyond those of the average male escort.” Her hand inched across the table towards Varland Sierra. “The Bodice Ripper, who can arouse the desires of even stingy prudes, and pop cherries with his bare hands. And who, disguised as southern hick, a crude-mouthed farmer, fights a never-ending battle for indulgence, debauchery and the American way!”

  Varland Sierra stared at Tellie Ramirez throughout her entire speech, his eyes only drifted to her out-pushed chest twice. “How do you know this…?�
��

  On the scene and caught up with Brynes’, the Bodice Ripper dropped down five hundred feet away from the speeding bus. His landing shook the ground, releasing tendrils of steam. The piloted bus swerved to avoid the newest roadblock but instead of halting, it drove in circles along with You spin my head right round, right round...When you go down, when you go down down...blasting from its speakers. The tourists had their hands in the air as the bus weaved them into a never-ending U-turn.

  “Rumors state that when he’s between your legs,” Tellie Ramirez continued, “he’s more powerful than the engine of a Bugatti. You only have to ride him to believe.”

  The Bodice Ripper sauntered to the swerving bus, grabbed its tailgate, and thrust with his powerful hips forcing it into a screeching halt. “Faye D.A.B. Brynes. I am the Bodice Ripper, here to release you from your sexually-frustrated antics. Open your legs as you open that bus door.”

  Brynes, who looked vastly different from the picture earlier shown, opened the wooden door of the party bus and took a tentative step out.

  “That’s right, Darlin’. Nice and easy. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of real well.”

  Tellie Ramirez’s voice lowered. “And able to rip clothes off a person from over two miles away.”

  Removing his glasses, the Bodice Ripper, with a slow gaze, perused Brynes’ body. After he finished, he smirked and a loud ripping sound split the air. The clothes on Brynes’ body tore off as if invisible hands were right in front of her, pulling them apart.

  The shapeless green shirt she wore was the first to go. Frayed right down the middle, then burst like a small explosion into miniscule shreds of green fabric that sprinkled the ground. As the latch of the top of her ill-fitting mom-jeans unbuttoned, the Bodice Ripper started walking towards Brynes.

  “Are you a magician, Darlin?” He asked. “‘Cuz when I look at you, everyone else disappears.”

  Her jeans, fully unzipped, lifted away from her skin. Then with a snap of his fingers, they exploded—joining the sprinkling remains of her shirt.