Political Fortune

                                                                           POLITICAL MISFORTUNES

                                                                                          PART 3

                                                                                    By Shorterbus

  When Catherine's twelve-hour shift was done. she snatched up the tiny costume she wore for only moments in a day and hurried out of the Panda Room through a back exit. Mopping as he went, dragging the bucket behind him, Herb Snell quickly followed.

 

  Grimacing, she thrust out her chest and dug her fingers deep into the small of her back. Carrying those huge tits around all day took an agonizing toll on her spine. When she had found as much relief as she could, she tossed her costume into a bin, unbuckled the shoes and pulled them from her feet. A look of sheer relief crossed her face when the shoes were off.  She placed the shoes on one of the shelves, careful to put them in the space provided for their size, then hurried on.

   Her next stop was the communal shower. Herb followed her in.

  Slurpee's never closed, so the girls worked in staggered shifts, fewer girls in the morning, progressively more as the day wore on. Catherine's day was ending, but for some of the girls it was just starting, so the showers were crowded.

 

  “I see you got your shadow with you,” said one of the other girls. Catherine turned on the water, ignoring the girl's remark.  It was true, though, that was exactly what Herb was, Catherine's shadow. Every moment of every day, except for the hours he was on shift and the snatches of sleep he caught in his car, he was her shadow. At first people laughed at him, but soon it was no longer funny and they began to eye him with scorn and disgust.

  Catherine used to scream at him, demand he leave her alone, called him a sick fuck and begged Security to make him stop. But he would not stop. Could not stop. She was his addiction, his drug. Despite her complaints, management did not interfere. As long as he kept his shifts, remained unobtrusive and worked during this free time without pay, he was free to follow her wherever she went.

  None of the other girls complained, not even about his presence here in the showers. After all, it wasn't like they weren't used to people seeing them naked.

  Catherine knew who he was, of course, and had good reason to suspect her being here was in some way his fault, but she had long ago decided he was neither help no harm, so when her shouts and complaints failed to work, she decided to just ignore him. She refused to acknowledge he was there, or even alive.

  From the goosebumps on her flesh and the way her nipples hardened into little knots, it was obvious the water was cold.  It always was. It wasn't like the girls were going to complain. Or quit.

  She peeled off the false eyelashes and let them wash down the drain. She snatched up a bar of soap from the floor and began scrubbing at the glitter and heavy make-up. A few minutes later she was done. She could have lingered longer, as long as she liked, but Herb could tell she was exhausted and in need of sleep. There were no towels, of course, she had to rub herself dry and wring out her hair as best she could.

  He followed her into the dorm, a large room with narrow bunks stacked four beds high. Most of the beds were already full, but she found an empty slot near the back and climbed in. There were no sheets or bedding, of course, another pointless expense, just a thin, dirty mattress that reeked of stale sweat.

  It was not dark, for the lights never went out, nor was it quiet, for several of the women continued to talk, many of them to themselves. Others snored or muttered in their sleep. Still, she closed her eyes and was soon fast asleep. Herb mopped at the floor and waited for her to begin dreaming. A few minutes later she did. She twisted and flailed in her sleep and cried out for her children.

  Exhausted himself, Herb stashed the bucket and mop and headed for his car.

  Nine hours later, when she awoke, Herb was there. She sat up, yawned and stretched.

  Suddenly, Deeks, a member of Security, strolled in. The dorm went instantly quiet.

  He moved across the room and stopped at the bunk in which Catherine lie. His eyes ran up and down the length of her naked beauty. Catherine was smiling, of course, but Herb could almost smell her fear.

   “Mister Alford is in town,” said Deeks. “He's called a meeting. He wants you there. One hour. Don't be late.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Catherine stammered. “Thank you.”

   When Deeks departed, the whole dorm let out a sigh.

   Catherine sprang from the bunk and hurried to the showers. Mop and bucket in tow, Herb followed.

  She gasped as she stepped into the stream of water, which was in the mornings always particularly cold. She sorted through the bottles of hair dye scattered about until she found one that was pink and then applied it to her hair, rubbing it in thoroughly then rinsing it out. She reached down and grabbed one of the razors littering the floor and ran the blade across her thigh. Finding it too dull, she tossed it aside and snatched up another. First she shaved her legs, then squatted down and went at the more difficult task of shaving her sex and anus.

  Herb watched as she worked, marveling.

   She was only ten when Herb first noticed her. She was stunning, even then. But more than that: graceful and self-assured. She crossed a room and everyone watched. Even the men. And the women.

  Her school days were spent at an exclusive girl's academy in Paris, but each summer she returned, always more beautiful than before. Herb didn't know her, of course, he was too old and his family certainly did not move in those circles; but Walden was not big and if you discovered the right places you could catch glimpses: through the fence, her long tan legs gliding across the tennis court; through a gap in the shrubs, the chauffeur opening the door and those same perfect legs stepping from the car; through a chink in the garden wall, she on a bench, absorbed in a book, a maid approaching with a glass of lemonade on a sliver tray. Herb lived for those glimpses and relished every one of them. Stolen glimpses was all he imagined he would ever have. Yet, here she was, right in front of him, squatting naked, a dull razor scritch-scritch-scritching across her bald cunt.

  She tossed the razor aside and hurried to the make-up room where table after table was piled high with every grooming product or device imaginable: cosmetics, creams, combs, brushes, hair curlers, hair straighteners, hair dryers. And mirrors. Usually this room was packed with girls and she had to jockey for position and claw for the items she needed, but it was mid-shift now and the room was empty. Catherine went quickly to work. Twenty minutes later she had transformed herself into the sexually charged caricature Slurpee's demanded. Herb could hardly breath. She glanced at the clock. Only ten minutes left and it was important to be early.

She raced down the hall and grabbed a pair of shoes. Herb could tell she wanted a costume as well, but there was so little time to find one that fit and besides, they would only make her take it off, and somehow that was always worse. She strapped on the shoes and clomped the rest of the way.

  She walked in smiling.

  A dozen or so men and women, all of them in suits and business attire, sat around a conference table. All heads turned in her direction. The clock had been wrong.

  “Tiffany, you're late.”

  “Sorry, Mister Alford,” she said, her smile wavering a bit before forcing itself back into something wide and brilliant.

  Herb took up a spot in a distant corner and began mopping.

  Alford was Vice President of Marketing, in from Birmingham, where Slurpee's was headquartered. He sat at the head of the table. Catherine hurried to his side.

  “As you can see,” said Alford, punching another slide onto the screen, “Despite a considerable amount of spending, market trends in the Northeast are down almost two percent.” Some of the people around the table nodded, others were taking notes. “Admission in both Portland and Seattle are up nearly four percent, but tips and miscellaneous are off.” Alford paused to get input and opinions from around the table.

  “Tiffany?” he said, when the everyone else had had their say.

  “The housing crunch has hit that area particularly hard,” she replied, “As well as an unusually unseasonal winter, meaning higher heating costs and lost production. We're doing a good job of drawing them in, but they've got less disposable income to spread around.” She pointed up at the chart on the screen. “Credit card receipts indicate we are drawing considerably more customers, only getting few repeats – typical in a stressed market – which means we are only getting one shot at them. I suggest we institute a two-drink minimum, only make no mention of it until after the customer is inside. He'll be too embarrassed to ask for a refund. That should increase your miscellaneous a good five percent, plus, tipsy customers will be more loose with their cash. Also, program the ATM machines to dispense cash in increments of fifty rather than twenty. That should stabilize your tips.”

   That was why she was here, of course. She had a degree from Harvard Business, and she worked for free. Of course you used her.

  While someone at the table added to Catherine's remarks, Herb studied her face. You had to know her to see it behind her bright smile,  but on the inside she was dying, dying a thousand times over. She hated being the only one standing, hated a thousand times more being the only one naked. Especially in front of the well-dressed women. It was taking every ounce of effort not to collapse to the floor in shame.

  There was more discussion, with the entire room eventually agreeing to implement Catherine's plan.

  “Now,” said Alford, “On to a more important matter.” A face flashed onto the screen. “Senator Quinlan Smoot, champion of the Moral Majority and the Religious Right. He has vowed to drive us out of business.”

  The table erupted into a chorus of hisses and boos.

  “Not to worry,” said Alford, “Tiffany is on it. She's already got him hot to trot, and he's scheduled for another visit next week. This time we stiffen the drinks and give them all the privacy they need. Smoot is the author of the toughest sodomy laws in the nation, so when Tiffany gets him alone she's going to convince him to give it to her up the ass.”

  From the look of horror that rippled for an instant across Catherine's face, Herb could tell this was the first she had heard of this.

  “Of course, our cameras will be rolling. When we threaten to release photos of Smoot with his dick up the ass of a cheap little stripper, he'll change his tune!”

  The room erupted into cheers. Catherine was markedly late to join in.

One of the women raised her hand. “Supposing he claims the photos are fake?”

  “I'm way ahead of you, Miriam,” Alford replied. “I've arranged for a fertility doctor to be on hand. He'll collect the sperm out of Tiffany's ass and use it to impregnate her. The moment Smoot claims the photos are fake, we march her out, knocked up to here and ready to pop. The paternity test will prove Smoot is the father. The public will assume that if he fucked her one way, surely he fucked her the other.”

  While the rest of the room was marveling at the sheer genius of the plan, Catherine was gripping the back of Alford's chair, trying hard not to faint.

  “That concludes our meeting. I'd like to thank you all for coming.” He turned to Catherine. “Tiffany, I'm disappointed you were late. Go see Mister Spurger. Tell him you need some motivation.”

  Catherine was already doing everything she could to control her emotions. The prospect of a session with Spurger was more than she could bear. A sob erupted from her throat. “Please, Mister Alford!” she begged, “I'll not be late again. I swear!”

   Alford's face hardened. “Tiffany, are you questioning my judgment?”

  It was with inhuman effort that she managed to pull herself together. She forced the smile back across her face. “No sir. You are right. I apologize for my lapse. I'll go see Mister Spurger immediately.”

  “See that you do.”

  Catherine staggered out. Herb followed her. One thing he was certain of, Catherine had just ratcheted up her timetable for escape.

“Tiffany!” said Spurger when Catherine walked through his door. “Imagine my surprise!” He sprang from his desk, obviously delighted. “My, my, my!” he said, rubbing his hands together with relish, “How the mighty have fallen!”

  Herb pushed his bucket into a corner and started mopping.

  Spurger was with Security. He was in charge of administering “motivation”. Spurger was the reason the girls worked so hard, the reason they always smiled and never complained, the reason they dared not tell anyone who they really were. A session with Spurger left a girl crippled for days after, both physically and emotionally. Of course, that did not mean she was allowed to miss any shifts. If a girl missed a shift, or failed somehow in her duties, it only meant the session had failed and she needed another, more severe one.

  Catherine stood naked before his desk, her face streaked with tears, head, down, unable to raise her eyes to him. “Mister Spurger, Sir,” she managed between sobs, “I require additional motivation.”

  “Indeed, you do, child. Indeed you do,” purred Spurger. You could drive a truck through his smile. “I'm busy at the moment, so go fasten yourself in as best you can and wait for me.”

Weeping even harder now, Catherine stumbled into the next room, to Spurger's ”Motivation” machine. Herb followed.

  She positioned herself in the device and started with her feet, stooping to buckle the straps around her ankles. Herb could tell it was somehow much worse, having to lock herself in, having to cooperate in her own torture. When her ankles were securely fastened, she buckled her left wrist to the frame. Both ankles and one wrist now secured, she just stood and waited and sobbed.

  A few minutes later Spurger entered. “Ready, are we?”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice and began sobbing even harder.

  Spurger hummed while he fastened her remaining wrist.

  “Please!” she said, “Not too much. I beg you, not too much!”

  “Only what is needed. Nothing more. Nothing less.” He slid around behind her and stood a moment, watching her shiver, then ran his fingers down her sides. At his touch, she gasped and shuddered violently.  He leaned in and licked the nape of her neck, then attached an adhesive electrode over the moistened flesh. He leaned down and this time licked the base of her spine, attaching an electrode to this spot as well. He moved around to face her. He paused again, drinking in her gloriously naked, beauty. He took one of her breasts in his hand, lifted it to his lips and licked her nipple. He stuck an electrode there as well. He did the same to her other nipple. Finally, he stuck one to the flesh beneath her breasts. This, he did not bother to lick, it was to monitor her heart. He gazed into her wide eyes. “Mind the teeth,” he said, stroking her cheek, “Wouldn't want to lose your tongue.” Then, calmly, he reached over and flipped the switch.

  Catherine's body went instantly rigid. Her hands balled into tight little fist, her toes curled under to her heels. Well-honed muscles knotted beneath her suddenly sweat-sheened flesh, tendons stood out like taut cables. A groan lurched up from deep in her belly, a noise both ugly and animal. Spittle spewed out her clenched teeth.

  Spurger folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall and watched.

  This was more than Herb had seen him give anyone, ever.

  Sweat poured off her body now, like fat drops of rain. Foam gushed out her mouth, spilling over her chin like soap suds. Her eyelids fluttered open and her eyes rolled back. Her body was vibrating violently now, like a tuning fork struck hard enough to shatter. Her joints creaked and moaned as her muscles spasmed. Her pink hair began smoking. The line on the monitor went flat and her heart stopped beating.

  Herb wondered if her life was flashing before her now, wondered, if, at this moment she was that startlingly beautiful, icy-eyed ten-year-old girl staring out at the world as if she owned everything in it. Was she seeing her graduation? Her marriage? The birth of her children? Was the girl surprised to learn she had come to this, a naked puppet dancing her life out on four thin strings?

   Spurger reached out and flipped the switch.

  She hung there, lifeless and limp, not breathing; the only sound the steady drip, drip, drip of sweat hitting the floor.  Then the monitor gave out a small, half-hearted chirp. Just one. And then finally another. Then, after what seemed an eternity, another. Suddenly she gasped and heaved a breath so deep it seemed to suck all the air from the room. And then her heart sprang alive, beating furiously.

  Spruger moved to within inches of her, again drinking in her beauty. Her hair was drenched and hung over her face in pink ropes. He brushed it aside and peered deep into her eyes. It was obvious from her face that shards of agony were still coursing through her, but also, there was infinite gratitude that if was finally over.

  “Two more just like that,” said Spurger, stroking her cheek, “And we're done for the day.”

  Her eyes widened in disbelieving horror just as he flipped the switch.