Theodore Stickles: Prisoner Of Lust

God damn her burning, itching, flowing pussy! Would there ever be a minute in her life when she could turn it off and think about something else apart from how nice it would be to have a man's muffin-stabber coursing valiantly in and out of her brimming cunt?

God damn this gimping escalator! It glitched again and she nearly fell. Maintenance company was probably owned and operated by Hizzonner's brother-in-law. If ever she got enough clout and if ever she got off the city payroll where Hizzonner couldn't fire her at the first hint of rebellion Paula resolved to put a bug in the ear of the next grand jury. It was time somebody put a mousetrap in the till for Hizzonner's hand and his grasping family.

She was nearly to the top now and the escalator was still stuttering but-to hell with it. If it quit she could walk the last few steps and emerge with a simulacrum of a smile on her face, give her mid-thirtyish best imitation of some mindless sex object. She wondered if Playboy bunnies in those absurd costumes were ever troubled with itching, burning, fuck-hungry cunts.

Her face came up level with the second floor where she was supposed to make the presentation and Paula's worst suspicions were realized. Her watch must be wrong or else somebody had made sure everybody in city government was on time for once. The second floor lobby was full of councilmen, ward heelers, TV crews, every damn thing. Aha! Why hadn't she remembered Hizzonner was off and running again? He needed all the free publicity he could get and Paula, stuck in a city job and doubly skewered by the bar association, Paula was struggling to put a smile on her face and help elect the old bastard again even if she hated him like homemade sin.

As her head came up past the floor level the escalator gave another slight tremor. She struggled to ignore it, to ignore the mayor and all the leering chauvinistic faces as she peered into the TV cameras. What would happen, she wondered, if she were to grab a microphone and call the mayor a thieving bastard and announce her own candidacy?

Fat chance. It would be her first and last appearance on TV. It would also be the final appearance of her paycheck. She struggled to grin and bear it, make the best of a male chauvinist world. She peeled back her lips in a smile and the goddam escalator did its best to dump her in a sprawling heap before the TV cameras, before Hizzonner the mayor.

She kicked wildly and caught her balance and then realized with sudden horror what was really happening. She had forgotten about that goddam long-skirted evening gown. Halfway up the escalator she had let go of the skirt. Now the worn out escalator had snagged it, had gotten it thoroughly entangled, and the idiot machine was doing its mindless mechanical best to pull her to the floor, pull her through the floor, turn her into legal-educated mincemeat as it passed through the mesh on its return trip downstairs and upstairs down.

She was squatting already. In another minute she'd be down. She felt the skirt rip, remembered irrelevantly that she had nothing on underneath-no bra, no panties, no nothing except the blond ringlets of her pubic patch. As if it made any difference when this miserable machine was trying to kill her!

She reacted instinctively, threw her arms and shoulders back and straightened her legs. There was a magnificent rending, ripping sound. The escalator groaned for an instant and then she saw her long-sleeved evening dress go crunching through the grating, still in more or less of a piece as the escalator treads bore it down through the plating into the unseen Freudian underside of the machine, into some dark nether region inhabited only by maintenance company gnomes.

Paula straightened, shaking, her arms and shoulders still back and her full firm tits thrust forward like twin headlights, pointing straight into the impassive eyes of a half dozen TV cameras. She was so frightened by her near escape that for an instant she didn't realize the full significance of all those goggling male eyes, those TV lenses, the startled and absolute silence that filled the second story of city hall.

From the corner of her eye she saw the smart-ass fellow law student who had gotten her into this. He was staring as silent and wide-eyed as all the others. Hizzonner's slightly bourbon-focused eyes were attempting to put it all together. And Paula finally did.

The goddam evening dress was gone forever. She stood here before Hizzonner, before the bar association, before the city council, before six TV cameras, and before Smart-ass and she wasn't fully dressed. She had on a pair of high-heeled shoes. She wore her tight-pulled chignon. In between the only covering she wore was the blond bush of her prominent mons veneris!

It was worse than a bad dream. Paula had been having bad dreams too long to even suspect this might be one. She was too alive, too totally aware for this to be anything but the tearing, mauling, humiliating truth. She was naked before half the city! Naked before everybody she knew-everybody who counted in her life.

Hizzonner had finally gotten his unbelieving eyes in focus. He was licking his lips. And now it was beginning to turn into a bad dream. Paula stood paralyzed, still frightened stiff by her narrow escape. She supposed she ought to make at least a token effort, put a hand over her pubic patch, try to cover her tits, turn around-do something!

She couldn't. Totally paralyzed, mouth dry, even her cunt dry for once in her lusting life, she stood looking into the TV cameras, into all those burning, yearning male eyes that stared silently back.

They were all paralyzed too, she suddenly realized. It must be at least as startling to them as it was to her to be expecting a dignified lady lawyer and have it turn into an unannounced striptease. The bar association would have a few uneasy years living this down. And Hizzonner's political enemies must already be rubbing gleeful hands, thinking of all the wonderful uses they could make of this moment, all the unprintable jokes that would liven up the forthcoming campaign. Grimly, Paula realized that at least she had done something. Hizzonner wouldn't be able to fire her for this. He'd be too busy trying to keep her from suing the city. But she'd done her little bit to spike his campaigns Maybe the old bastard would lose, thanks to her.

But at what a price? She could never live this moment down. If she lived another fifty years, if she were to grow as decrepit as Whistler's mother, Paula knew she would still be remembered for this unforgettable moment before the entire city government, before six separate TV cameras. Oh Jesus!

And still nobody moved. How long had she been standing there naked, arms and shoulders back, tits thrust out like a radiator ornament? Ten minutes? One minute? Not over two seconds at the most, she realized. No wonder they talked about drowning men reviewing their whole lives. It seemed to her that she had been there forever, standing on the block at some slave auction, her body exposed for the delectation of all these male chauvinist pigs and who was going to bid? Would somebody buy her? Would somebody take her home and rape her? Would somebody rape her twice before he got her home? Would somebody spread her legs and put his great thumping mass of virility in between her legs, part of her quiff, stuff her full of chauvinism and slide his male supremacy in and out, in and out until she moaned and squealed and giggled?

Dimly she realized it had happened. Somebody had broken the spell. Somebody had bid and bought her and now he was rushing forward to claim his prize. Dimly she perceived that it was Smart-ass, her longtime law school rival. Of all the miserable chauvinist pig sons of bitches, he'd naturally be the one.

Totally undignified, totally lacking in courtroom decorum, he was galloping toward her, tearing off his topcoat as he ran. "Jesus H. Christ!" he gasped as he threw it over her shoulders, "Let's get out of here!"