I’d been gunning for that son of a bitch, Dick Cheney, but it was hard enough for a woman my size to hold and shoot a Desert Eagle, much less aim one.
I had it in for Cheney for keeping my Carlisle in Iraq twice as long as he said he would. I had it in for Bush, and Rummy, and Condi too. Cheney just happened to be interviewing on Larry King.
Carlisle was with the 1st Battalion out of Camp Lejeune. They were the baddest-ass marines on the planet, and they were assigned to the baddest-ass place in Iraq—the Anbar province. So, don’t get me wrong, I was proud of my Carlisle, but it was time for him to come home.
I figured I might kill someone for real if I didn’t get some of Carlisle’s special loving soon.
The next morning, I went to see Rusty. The remains of my TV lay scattered throughout my trailer like pieces of a Humvee hit by an IED.
“You want me to build you a what?” Rusty’s eyes looked like ten miles of bad road.
I invited myself inside his trailer and spread my plans across his kitchen table. I’d gotten up early to work on them.
“A spanking machine,” I told him.
“You mean as in whup your ass, spanking?”
“That’s right.”
Rusty was an old jarhead himself, a Vietnam veteran. When he wasn’t drinking, he operated the best handyman business in Onslow County.
“Well, Jo,” he said, “I’ll whup your ass.”
“This ass belongs to Carlisle.”
Rusty was thirty years older than me and knew where we stood. He’d appeared on my doorstep two days after Carlisle deployed. He acknowledged that I was Carlisle’s new wife and all, then offered to fuck me every once in a while in Carlisle’s absence so I wouldn’t be tempted to step out on my man. He considered it a patriotic gesture. I’d told him no thanks, but said we could be drinking buddies.
We howled at the moon a couple of times a week.
After studying my plan, he said, “I don’t think this’ll work. You got yer gizmo where yer jimmerjammer should be.”
“Well, can you build me a spanking machine, or not?”
“You’re goddamn right I can, but it won’t look like this.”
“How much you want to build it?”
“Your money’s no good with me.”
“How ‘bout I cover materials and buy you a case?”
“Carolina Blonde?”
“Yep.”
“You got a deal.”
We shook on it.
Five days a week, I waitressed at the M-16 Diner on Topsail Island. It wasn’t bad, if you didn’t count the toxic level of lard exposure and the guys hitting on you. Anyway, it was only temporary. Carlisle and I had plans to move to Colorado and open our own diner—about as far away from North Carolina, the Marines, and hurricanes as we could get.
That evening, I came home, stacked large pieces of my TV in a wheelbarrow, and carted them to the Dumpster. Rusty’s pickup was nowhere in sight.
I figured it was a good time to rub one out for Carlisle.
I started with a hot bath before setting up the video cam and tripod. I pulled the shades, lit candles, and turned back the covers. I took out the dildo I kept in the drawer of the nightstand. It was an exact replica of Carlisle’s cock, all the way down to the veins along the shaft and the ridge left over from his circumcision. We’d had it made in Raleigh just before he shipped out. Behind a curtain that barely hid us from view, I’d taken him in my mouth. When he was hard, a plaster cast was set. From the plaster cast, a woman with tattoos and piercings created the dildo.
I got on my hands and knees, stuck my ass in the air, and flipped on the video cam with the remote. I spoke into the headset that held the microphone, “Video #272.”
I tugged the flyswatter out from under the mattress. I reached behind and caressed my butt.
“Hey, Carlisle, I’m missing you again tonight,” I whispered into the mike.
I ran the flyswatter over my bottom while teasing my slit with the dildo. I bumped and humped like a stripper. I peeked at the camera from under my armpit.
“I was thinking about how you like to take me over your knee, just like Daddy, when I’m a bad girl. That’s a good game, isn’t it?”
I did my best to swat myself. It was a little awkward, which is why I needed that spanking machine.
“I was thinking about how you like me to assume the position, sergeant. I’ve been a naughty little private, haven’t I?”
I rubbed the dildo against my clit. I was as wet as a leaky faucet.
“Or maybe, Preacher Carlisle, I’ve been teasing you while you’ve been trying to save my soul. I’m so bad.”
I swatted again and felt the endorphins kick in.
“I was thinking about how you like to lift my skirt over my hips, yank my panties down to my ankles, and paddle me with the palm of your hand.”
I pushed the head of the dildo between my pussy lips. I gasped and fought to slow myself down.
“And after you warm me up, I love the way you finger-fuck me, Carlisle. You know, bring me to the edge, back off, then spank me some more.”
I punctuated these last few words with more swats. With practice, I’d gotten so I could deliver some pretty good blows.
“I can feel your cock pressing against my belly, Carlisle, as I squirm on your lap. I know you’ll give it to me eventually. You’ll give it to my mouth, my tits, my pussy, or my ass—wherever you want. Yeah, baby, you’ll give it to me.”
With those last words, I plunged the dildo deep inside and groaned like a construction worker swinging a hammer. I zoomed in with the remote. I wanted Carlisle to see my reddened cheeks and the wink of my asshole. I wanted him to see the way my pussy gripped his cock.
“Oh, Carlisle,” I said, “fill me up, baby.”
I rocked and bounced. I turned up the volume so he could hear the squish I made as I closed in on my come.
Just before it hit, I glanced over my shoulder, cooing for the camera, “Can I come, baby? Please, let me come. Please, Carlisle, please.”
I could imagine his bass drawl across the miles. Go for it, girl. Come on Daddy’s big cock.
I sat back and ground out an ass-twitching, thigh-shuddering, belly-clenching, top-of-the-lungs-screaming, bitch-in-heat orgasm. It left me face-down and panting.
The dildo slipped out with a soft plop.
I turned and faced the camera. I squeezed my 36Cs, milking the nipples. “Now, shoot on my titties, Carlisle. That’s it, shoot your man-juice all over me.”
I closed my eyes and gave him my best “fuck me” face. I imagined him standing there stroking off. I imagined the slip and the slide, the blur of his hand. I could almost feel him hot and creamy on my skin.
“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Give it to your girl.”
I was about to go for another round when I heard banging at my door. I kissed the camera, told Carlisle how much I loved him, and signed off from “The Western Front.”
I pulled on my jeans, slipped a T-shirt over my head, and padded through my trailer.
My nipples were still hard from fucking Carlisle and Rusty’s eyes locked on to them the moment I flung the door open. He leaned against the railing, a toothpick jutting from one side of his mouth.
“You all right?” he asked.
“How long you been standing here?”
“Long enough to hear you carryin’ on.”
“I stubbed my toe.”
He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Whatever.”
“So, what can I do for you, Rusty?”
“I went to the junkyard. Picked up some parts for your machine. I thought you might want to see.”
“Let me get my shoes.”
His truck was loaded down. There was an electric motor that weighed about three tons, a couple of old bicycles, rusted bed springs, shafts, cranks, and widgets you wouldn’t believe.
“The commode’s for me,” Rusty explained. “Man can always use a spare.”
�
�Impressive.”
“I figure to hook up the electric motor to those bicycle wheels, then adjust the tension with a gadget. We can use the bedsprings . . .”
“I don’t need the details. I just need to know how long.”
“A few days.”
“The sooner the better.”
We unloaded the pickup into Rusty’s workshop. It was high Carolina summer, hot and humid enough to drown flies. After unloading, we dragged a spare window air conditioner into the yard, plugged it in using a long, orange extension cord, and set up a couple of lawn chairs. We positioned a twelve-pack between us.
After a couple of beers, I went inside and microwaved a pizza. After a couple of more beers, along about firefly time, Rusty asked if Carlisle and I were into that kinky shit.
“Depends on what you mean by kinky.”
His eyes narrowed to slits and the smoke curled above his head like a serpent set to strike. “You know, tying up. Whips and chains and such. It’s un-American.”
“We’re not into the lifestyle,” I explained. “We just like to play games.”
“Games?”
“It gets me all worked up.”
He blew three smoke rings and considered what I’d said. “How’d y’all get into that?”
“Just messin’ around. We didn’t know we’d like it so much until we gave it a try.”
Rusty flicked his cigarette butt into the parking lot. Sparks flew. “Damn, honey.”
“Anyway, it’s none of your business.”
“I’ll work on that machine first thing in the morning.”
I kissed him on the cheek and weaved back home. Just before turning in, I uploaded video clip #272 to the website I’d set up. Carlisle’s password allowed him to watch and wank to his heart’s content.
I opened the curtain and peeked out. Rusty was just finishing the twelve-pack. He cast a lingering look at my trailer before plodding inside.
He forgot to turn off the air conditioner and it cooled the mosquitoes all night long.
Days passed. Every evening, I’d check Rusty’s progress.
“Not yet,” he’d growl.
I’d wake in the middle of the night and hear banging, drilling, and sawing. Once, I saw the flash of welding.
To pass the time, I made videos #273 through #275.
Then, one morning, a used TV sat on my doorstep with a note from Rusty. He’d made a second trip to the junkyard. The TV was a throw-in from the dealer. The note went on to say that he expected to finish work on the machine by the end of the day.
I hustled tables and slung food in a daze. Eggs and hash browns. Omelets and sandwiches. Cherry pie à la mode.
In the dead time between two and five, CNN reported that our third hurricane of the season was forming off the coast. When I left work for the day, I could smell that ‘cane brewing to the east, could feel the breeze on my face, could see the chop in the water. Dark clouds lay on the horizon. Hard-bodied boys and girls rode the high surf on Topsail Beach.
Rusty was sitting in the yard with his air conditioner when I pulled up. He was already deep into a twelve-pack of Blonde.
“This one’s on the house,” he said, handing me a bottle. “You still owe me a case plus materials.”
“You finish my machine?”
“Damn straight.”
“How’s it look?”
“Come on.” He led me to his workshop.
It stopped me in my tracks.
He’d built a twelve-by-twelve wooden platform and mounted the damn thing on bedsprings. At the rear of the platform was that electric motor we’d busted a gut unloading from his pickup. Attached to the motor was a rod that led to two bicycle wheels. The wheels drove a piston with an arm. Sprockets and springs dangled. The end of the arm was fitted with a ping-pong paddle. In front of the paddle was an old vaulting horse with stirrups bolted on the sides and handles for holding on to. A faux fur saddle stretched across the top.
“Whaddaya think?” he asked.
“Jesus Christ.”
“It’s somethin’, ain’t it?”
“Jesus Fucking Christ.”
“You like it?”
I sat my beer down on top of a table covered with dust, bug carcasses, and discarded nuts and bolts. Hands on my hips, I turned on him. “What the fuck, Rusty? This’ll never fit in my trailer.”
He looked like he’d been kicked in the balls. “Yer trailer?”
“You think I want to traipse over here every time I want my hind end lit up?”
He frowned. “I didn’t know you wanted a portable machine.”
I walked around it. He’d put in a lot of effort. His craftsmanship was obvious.
“Does it work?” I ran my fingers over the scratchy surface of the ping-pong paddle.
Rusty approached a control panel. He flipped a switch and it lit up like a Christmas tree. “Goddamn right, it works. We need to test for pressure and fit, but she hammers away pretty good.”
“Pressure and fit?”
“You can calibrate the height of the saddle here and the strike force there.” He made pointing motions.
“I see.”
“And the horse is mounted on rails, so you can adjust the distance from the paddle.”
“Okay.”
“The electric motor is hooked up to a generator, which allows for usage even in the event of a power outage.”
Outside, the sky was turning green.
I touched the faux fur. “Where’d you get this?”
“The pawn shop. The horse vibrates too. It’s optional.”
“Vibrates?”
“Three different speeds. Remember those vibrating beds in cheap hotels?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that was before my time.
“Whaddaya think?” he asked. “Aside from the size?”
“Aside from the size, it’s damned impressive.”
His eyes lit up. “I may be able to miniaturize, but we should try her out before I make adjustments.”
“Try her out?”
“A test drive.”
“Well, I see your point.”
“I’ll show you how to operate it. Once you’re in the saddle, the control panel is within reach.”
“All right. Let’s give her a go.” I was still dressed in my waitress uniform, but I put one foot in the stirrup and threw the other over the horse.
I hiked up my skirt, positioned my heinie, and grabbed hold. Rusty pushed a button and that big electric motor commenced to hum. The bicycle wheels squeaked into action. The arm swung and I felt the pop of that paddle to the bone.
“Might want to turn her down a notch,” I hollered over the racket.
Rusty cranked a dial. He lowered the front end of the horse for a better angle.
Whack! That sumbitch caught me again.
“What speed?” he shouted.
“Every fifteen, twenty seconds. Can you make her switch from one bun to the other?”
“Hell, yeah.” He came around behind me. “I just need to loosen this thingamajig.”
Pop!
“That’s better.”
“I like yer pink thong. You want to try the vibrator?”
Smack!
“Sure, might as well.”
Rusty turned another dial. “High or low?”
Crack!
“Right there.”
That horse thrummed between my legs like a Harley.
“Mind if I sit?” Rusty pulled up a chair.
Whack!
“Make yourself comfortable.” I readjusted the dial for more pressure and faster strokes.
I squeezed my eyes shut and thought about Carlisle, his firm hand and sure touch. I thought about how he could lift me up and bring me down. I thought about his broad chest and hard abs, his strong thighs and stiff cock. I gripped that horse a little harder with my thighs.
Whap!
Suddenly, I felt flushed and drippy, breathy and lost in the moment. It was more than I’d counted on. I wa
s about to explode.
“All right, that’s enough. Time to turn this thing off, Rusty.” I sounded calmer than I was.
He was on his feet, a concerned look on his face. “Hold on.”
Kapow!
“I said turn this damn thing off.”
“Hold on, the whammerjammer’s stuck on the dingaling.”
Unlike Carlisle, that machine didn’t know when to let up or stop. My ass was on fire, my pussy aglow.
“Rusty . . .”
He had a plumber’s wrench in his hand. He swore and delivered a clanking blow.
But I’d reached a place with only one exit. I ground my pelvis into the thrum and howled.
Just then, the machine chugged to a halt. I collapsed, moaning as the aftershocks coursed through my body. It didn’t satisfy. It just left me wanting more.
“You all right?” Rusty asked.
“No, I’m not all right. I’m a fuckin’ mess.”
He stood in front of me, a big old boner tenting his jeans. “Sorry,” he said.
“You shouldn’t be sorry.”
I slid off the horse, loose in the belly and weak in the knees.
He took my hand and I stepped into his embrace. “I was just tryin’ to help.”
“Oh, Rusty, I miss my man.”
“I know, honey,” he said.
He was beery and sweaty and hard as a tire iron. I loved Carlisle and all, but damn, it felt good to be held. The bulge behind Rusty’s zipper twitched.
I ground my pelvis against his. I kissed him on the neck and whispered, “I could help you with that, Rusty.”
He went tense all over. “I thought we had an arrangement.”
“I could make an exception.”
I dropped to the floor. I unzipped Rusty’s jeans and unfurled his hard-on.
“Jo, you don’t need to . . .”
“Oh, yes I do.”
He tasted like a man, not a silicone dildo. It had been six months since I’d had that taste. I bobbed and swirled, licked and sucked.
Rusty gazed down at me like I was an angel.
I stood, turned, and lifted my waitress uniform over my head. I bent over that horse. “You got a . . .”
He dug in his wallet. I heard the crinkle of a wrapper. “You sure about this?”
Tight Women in Hard Places Page 14