Lollipop

by David Fletcher

  It had all been so different in the past. Then he'd been able to scoff anything and it simply made no difference. None whatsoever. His lanky frame remained just that, long, lean and angular. Food never left a mark. It just slipped down through his body - along some sort of freeway, some sort of six-lane, super-fast, food-freeway, where nothing ever stopped, where everything just whizzed on through and out - his body never given a chance to stop it - and then add it to his frame.

  But then something happened, something sinister, and it involved an interchange. Renton was sure of it. There was now a turnoff on that freeway, a turnoff onto a B-road somewhere near his stomach. And more and more of the freeway traffic began to take this minor road, a scenic route that rejoined the freeway further on down. Only the scenic detour was through Sponge county. And Sponge county adored calories; it just soaked them up whenever it could. So now not all the food made it through his body unscathed. Some of it got “waisted”, its calories sucked out by that sinister sponge. And then the calories were stored, hoarded away as a layer of fat, a thick layer of fat round a now thicker waist. Not so much that many people would notice, not even if they caught sight of him naked save for his hipsters - but Renton noticed. For him his waist was something he viewed with increasing displeasure, so much so that it was now threatening to become almost as tiresome as the main bane of his life: his hair, that poor tangled mop on the top of his head.

  And in a way it was worse. At least his hair had the grace to be an entirely lost cause, something he could always care for but something he could never cure. And therefore it never inspired a feeling of guilt. Nothing, that is, like the one he now felt as he gazed at his lunch - at his oversized dollop of dough. And he would eat it. All of it. He just knew it. And more of those damn calories would be off at the interchange, and the sponge would inflate and his waistline dilate…

  'Pepper, sir?' enquired the waitress, a huge wooden penis clutched tightly in her hands.

  'Uhhh, uhhh, uhhh yes,' managed Renton. 'Uhhh, yes, just a little please.'

  She smiled. Then she held the pepper-penis over his plate and, much to Renton's surprise, she began to jerk it. Up and down. Vigorously. And suggestively. She even groaned as she did it. And then a great cloud of ground pepper spouted from its end. All over his pizza.

  She feigned a gasp and then smiled again. But Renton didn't notice. He was still coming to terms with his first experience of a condimentary ejaculation. One done in public. In the middle of a restaurant. At lunchtime. He could hardly believe it.

  'Is that enough, sir?' asked the waitress, the giant phallus now held closely against her body, its rounded tip pressed firmly to her cheek.

  'Uhhh, uhhh yes, uhhh yes,' stumbled Renton, 'that's uhhh quite enough. I mean yes. Uhhh, that's fine thanks. Yes, that's just fine…'

  'Thank you, sir. In that case, enjoy your meal. And, of course, enjoy the show.' And with that she was off, no doubt to seek out another meal to abuse - somewhere else in this vast eatery.

  'The show?' puzzled Renton. 'What show? This is lunchtime. They're hardly going to put on a show at lunchtime. Not here in the restaurant. She must be confused. All that jerkin' I suppose.'

  Having dismissed this little item from his mind, our solitary diner then returned his thoughts to his pizza. He'd risen late on this first morning aboard the ship, very late indeed. And this meal was really his breakfast as well as his lunch. So maybe he shouldn't feel too guilty after all. About all those calories, that is. Heck, they'd be his first of the day - although, there again, there were rather a lot of them…

  He picked up his knife and fork and considered where to wield them. A cut towards the centre? A wedge with an olive on, maybe? Or should it be a crispy bit, a sliver of kizzened cheese from around the edge? Or how about a bit of neat pepperoni sneaked from the top?

  No. It would be a wedge with an olive. That was what he wanted. And his implements went to work. An incision was made, and then another. And then there was a roll of drums, a very loud roll of drums. The restaurant reverberated to the noise.

  He stopped. What had he done? He was only trying to eat his pizza. God, he hadn't won something, had he? This wasn't their millionth pizza, was it? Oh, shit. That would be awful. That would be just dreadful!

  He looked around. The drum roll had given way to applause. Everybody in the restaurant was clapping. And, thanks be to God, they weren't clapping him. He wasn't the centre of attention - and the cutting of his pizza had nothing to do with the noise. Because he could now see what was the centre of attention. It was a trio of people - on a low stage at the back of the restaurant. And making up this trio was a man dressed in a white tuxedo, a man dressed in lunchtime casual, and a woman dressed in lunchtime arousal: a brief skirt and a very tight shirt. And she was blonde! And tall! And… well, as much as Renton squinted he couldn't be absolutely sure, but he didn't think those eyes of hers were brown. They had to be blue. There was no doubt about it. She fitted the bill. She had all the obvious attributes, and maybe she had the other one too, the one that would mean it was her!

  Mr Tuxedo began to speak.

  'Hi, and welcome to the lunchbox challenge,' he boomed. They'd obviously put the micro-mike too close to his lips.

  'Well folks, today we've got you a real treat. And when I say a treat, I mean a treat. Hell, just look at these two, will ya. This here is Jake. And ain't he a big boy…?'

  Tuxedo winked, still managing to leer with the unwinked eye. And then he went on.

  '…and this here is Carla. And well, jus' look at her, folks. Don't come better packaged than that, I reckon. No sir. I think Jake's gonna have himself one hell of a time - even if he don't beat the challenge.'

  There now followed a cascade of whoops and whistles from the restaurant's patrons, the same people who, until just a short time ago, had been normal lunchtime diners, alternately chewing and chatting, and all apparently enjoying the convivial atmosphere of a midday's mutual munching. But now it was different, as different as it could possibly be. Now it was more like a music-hall than a restaurant. And the diners' attention had turned from their food and their companions to the man with the loud voice and his two charges. Tuxedo, Jake and Carla were now the main attraction. They were the top of the music-hall bill.

  Renton was bemused. But he was also fascinated. That girl was just so much the right fit.

  'So let's get on with it. I know you don't want to sit there listening to me piping on any more than you have to. No sir. But before we do, let me jus' remind you of the rules. Remember, folks, it's no helpin' with the undressin' and then when it's all off, it's any amount of helpin' they like. And, of course, Jake's gotta make it within fifteen minutes. Anything over that and it's just pleasure - but no prizes.'

  He turned to Jake.

  'Got that, Jake? If you come too late you don't get no prize. Nor does Carla. You and her just go away empty handed. You got that?'

  Jake nodded. Carla just smiled. Renton wondered whether she understood any more of what was going on than he did. And he also wondered whether she had a tattoo on her right tit - and whether he was about to find out. He knew it was lunchtime, but anything could happen in this place - and that explanation of the rules did seem to imply that there'd be a bit of disrobing involved…

  Another drum roll. It reminded Renton that he'd still not begun his pizza. He looked at it. It was beginning to congeal. And when he looked up again, the lunchbox had appeared. Part of the ceiling had opened and a large, clear-plaspex box was now being lowered into the restaurant, just above its obtrusive and, one had to say, its hideous, water feature. There were more whoops and whistles and then some of the diners at the tables closest to Renton started to cheer.

  Renton began to feel a little indignant. Even with the prospect of locating his target - or at least eliminating another suspect - all he really wanted to do was to have his lunch. And he would. Whatever else was going to happen would happen whether he was eating his pizza or not. So he might as well eat.


  As he was chewing the third mouthful of his cooling repast, the first one with a decent amount of pepperoni with it, Jake and Carla were being escorted towards the box by Tuxedo. The MC had now abandoned his speaking rôle, as even with the help of his mike, he wouldn't have been heard above the noise of the crowd. And that's what the bistro-teers had now become: a crowd, a baying crowd, an expectant crowd. Something was going to happen. And it was going to happen soon. And in that box.

  Renton had begun to imagine what this might be. And that made him hurry his pizza. If it was going to be that, he didn't believe he'd be able to continue eating. Not even the pepperoni.

  Jake and Carla were now in the box. They had climbed up a little ramp device at the edge of the water feature and through a tiny door in the side of the box. Then Tuxedo had closed the door.

  The box was about the size of Renton's cabin, about twenty feet long, ten feet wide and eight or nine feet in height. It was also visible to everyone in the restaurant - as were its occupants, both of whom now looked mildly nervous and a little self-conscious. Not surprising really. In their situation, Renton would have felt like a prat.

  At this point in the proceedings, the laughing policeman arrived. His appearance made Renton stop in mid-chew.

  He was as tall as the lunch box, the shape of a pear - and legless; he was just floating along, two or three feet above the floor. And in his hands he had a pole - with a hologram at its end, a large white hologram of the number fifteen.

  Renton guessed immediately. The other diners already knew. This was clear from the roar that greeted his arrival. He was the timekeeper. And his entrance meant only one thing: that the show was about to commence.

  The crowd continued to roar as the bulbous officer glided between the tables and towards the box, a great Kelly-man swaying from side to side, and all the time laughing like something possessed. It was a bit creepy really. There was this big fixed grin on his jolly policeman's face, but a grin that belied the deep belly laugh - and that reinforced the obvious: that the policeman was a tacky fairground attraction - and something of a hideous one to boot.

  Not that it wasn't done well. Whoever had put together the hover technology inside that uniformed clown had done a very good job. And he'd left room inside for something else, something that meant that those hands that were holding the pole were for real. There was no mistaking it. It was the way the arms moved. They were animate - or at least something inside them was animate. Renton guessed it was some sort of insectal with suitably strong limbs, whose job it was to spend his days in said device for the sake of all these punters here, for their delight and their entertainment. As jobs went it was a bit of a bummer; all that work, all that dreadful confinement and no recognition, just the sort of anonymity the back end of a panto horse must endure, but without even the companionship of a bloke in the front. And then that bloody awful recorded laughing…

  And now this copper was near the ramp. And then he was on the ramp - with Mr Tuxedo. And Mr Tuxedo was slowly but deliberately pulling something from his pocket. Then it was out. And in the same instant another drum roll joined the noise in the bistro - and quietened it, all of it - even that terrible laughing. And at the end of the drum roll, complete silence, a pregnant silence.

  Then the master of ceremonies pressed whatever it was that he'd taken from his pocket and it emitted a loud siren sound. At the same time, the mad policeman's fifteen sign turned to red and started to pulse. And something was happening in the box. Jake and Carla were beginning to mimic the policeman. They were beginning to float.

  'Good god,' thought Renton, 'it's a bloody gravity insulator. They're at zero G in there - and they've got to get their kit off and then have it off, and all while they're floating about. And all in front of us, us lunchtime noshers - before some of us have even finished our pizzas.

  'Blimey, I'm not sure I can cope with that…'

  But he did cope. Partly through his dedication to his work - heck, he had a suspect in there who was about to reveal her identitty - and partly through his natural voyeuristic tendency, one he appeared to share with the rest of the restaurant's diners.

  And it was funny, grotesquely funny.

  She did him first. To start with this involved a sort of soixante-neuf position, but one where Carla's interest was just in socks and not in sex. Jake, it appeared, had shoes that were loose but socks that were not - and they demanded her careful and close-up attention - and hence this erotic embrace. And then the soixante-neuf position morphed into any number of other positions as she began to tackle his other clothes.

  And all the time, Jake wasn't helping. Nor had he made any attempt to remove any of Carla's clothes - and he'd certainly had the opportunity. It must be in the detail of the rules, thought Renton. She peels him, he peels her - in that order - and no cheating. After all, that wouldn't do, would it? This was a respectable competition, an established challenge-game with standards to maintain. One could hardly just let them do what they wanted. It wouldn't be decent.

  Renton realised he was picking pepperoni bits from the remains of his pizza. They were wonderfully salty. And now he wanted a swig of beer.

  He was just into another swig when Carla began her final manoeuvre: her assault on Jake's trousers. This was not going to be easy. Pulling anybody's trousers down - successfully - relies very heavily on the assistance of gravity. In fact, gravity is no less than essential, in that it guarantees that the trouser wearer will remain where he is when his trousers are pulled in a down-the-leg direction. There is, of course, no such guarantee in zero G. And what tends to happen instead is that the wearer gets pulled down as well - and stays in intimate contact with his clobber. So, no matter how hard Carla pulled, she couldn't separate Jake from his trousers - or his underpants. And only after several minutes, when she'd decided to lock her legs around his middle, did she finally succeed - and manage to reduce her partner to the unadorned condition required by the rules.

  A cheer went up from the crowd. The policeman's hologram was now a seven. They would have to get a move on or they would fail to win their prize. But now it was Jake's turn. And he'd clearly learned from his own defrocking…

  The first thing he did was to repeat the soixante-neuf approach to his partner's footwear removal. It was a doddle. Then, he locked his legs around Carla's waist, and it was off with her skirt - along with her drawers - which were so insubstantial, that they could have stayed where they were - and no one would have been any the wiser. A quick flip round, and then it was her top half. And very soon she was naked. And Renton could eliminate another suspect from his enquiries. Yes, her right boob was without a tattoo. This was not the young lady he wanted.

  So he could now leave. According to the timekeeper's display, there were four minutes to go. Or, as Tuxedo had previously explained, four minutes to come. And Renton wasn't sure he had the bottle for that. And he had no appetite left either. So he took a last swig of his beer, stowed his napkin, shuffled his chair - and then stayed. Well, what would the other diners think? That he was some sort of inadequate? Or worse, that he'd had some sort of accident - before the climax to the show? No, he had better just stay and… well, just look in the vague direction of the box - but with his eyes out of focus…

  And that way he could easily claim that he barely saw any of the concluding act. That he had only the slightest glimpse of the freefall foreplay, of the gropings and the strokings, and then of the really hard part - and of the really hard part being brought into play. It was, but only with the greatest of difficulty. It was a little like mid-flight refuelling - but with the wrong equipment, pieces of kit that didn't quite fit. So when Jake boy first pounced, Carla just bounced - and then with it in, he still couldn't win… Instead he was all over the place, jerking away but not getting far - and finding no thrust to put in his lust - the very worst aspect of sex without G. Yes, humanoid sex had clearly developed in a gravity bound environment. If anybody doubted it they need only have looked at Jake's face.
It was purple and covered in sweat.

  But then it lit up. The business was done - and the hologram was still at one. The cock had beaten the clock if only with seconds to spare. And that meant Carla and Jake had won. They'd won this bizarre lunchtime challenge.

  The crowd cheered, the laughing policeman waved his clock-on-a-stick, and Tuxedo shouted that 'the lunchman hath cometh'. Then it was just a matter of extracting the exhibitionists from the box, covering them up with a couple of bathrobes and confirming that they'd won for themselves another week on the Lollipop - free of charge - and presumably another opportunity to copulate in front of another appreciative audience, should they so wish.

  Renton wasn't quite sure what to make of all this. So, in the end, he settled for a small helping of confusion, topped with a modest confection of shock and discomfort. And this consumed, his thoughts then returned to his real meal - and to how much of it remained. For there it was in front of him: a hardly eaten pizza. Yes, there must have been more than two thirds of it left, two thirds of all those calories abandoned on his plate. But still he felt full. Satiated. Even if Sponge county might not feel the same…

  He smiled. 'Well,' he thought, 'diets don't work. It's an accepted fact. But there again, maybe if it's a diet of outrageous, salacious nonsense, then it does work. And maybe I should have tried it before.'

  Then he smiled again, because on top of that, on top of his triumph over the calories, he had now eliminated another suspect from his enquiries. And that was good. It meant it was all going well; this private-dicking stuff he was doing was all working out fine. Hell, he might even be a natural at it. And that would be more than just good. That would be bloody excellent. And a damn sight more satisfying than any not-even-half-eaten pizza…

  3.

  Renton's new-found optimism lasted all afternoon. Indeed it did more. It became so entrenched it took root. And by early evening it had blossomed into a full-blown confidence, albeit one nourished more by expectation than by experience.