HOME MAID: A Super Pies Tale
VOLUME ONE—Origins of a Super Slut
5
Maddy opened the door to discover, aside from the big bumper-rump and intelligent face of Officer Cherie Turnover, the no less attractive ass, if in the current event inordinately less intelligent looking face of her daughter, Clarabelle LaMode, who was evidently either so drunk or out-of-her-mind high she could barely stand up next to the tall black female cop beside her.
“Miss La . . !” Officer Turnover gave the busty housewife, naked but for a fur coat, a good once over with her astute eyes. Bimbos must run in the family! flashed through the cop’s mind. She cleared her throat.
“This your daughter, Ma’am?”
“Is it?”
Sure didn’t look like it! Not only was Clarabelle apparently having just trouble standing, she was wearing way too much make up—Real trashy! And those clothes she had on—Real sexy!, Mrs. LaMode puzzled, Not at all like the boring Pudding’s Academy uniform she usually wore to school!
Maddy blinked as if to shake from her mind an insidious suggestive image just suddenly occurred to her of her own daughter “posing” in her current get-up—a pink nylon miniskirt and revealing bright purple tanktop. Heavens!—Maddy sweated—What a sight to think! What was wrong with her! Quick, had to say something:
“Young lady . . !” Maddy began automatically before she too stopped mid-sentence. The words were barely out of her mouth, in fact, before they struck her in their tone and affected high-mindedness as perhaps more inherently perverse than anything she had ever before expressed in her life. She glanced down self-consciously at the ample cleavage even still she was “flashing” the more and more curious very pretty and really quite nice, actually, black lady “copper” on her doorstep.
“Um.” Maddy then gulped back another “gawsh darn it”, lest she look too conspicuously out of her maternal element. It didn’t help having to juggle these strange new, uh, “fruits” of hers, at the same time as juggle her daughter’s strange new “whatchamacallit”, at the same time as . . . Wait, how many was that?, Maddy stared glassy-eyed straight in the cop’s puzzling pretty face an instant, before Officer Turnover, observing the clueless look of the woman and, despite her best efforts at aloof professionalism, feeling sorry for her, kindly recalled Maddy’s attention to the matter at hand.
“Found her and a friend stumbling ’round a ditch by the abandoned Princess Lolly candy factory over in Peppermint Hills, Ma’am. Pretty picture they made, too, I tell yo’. God only knows what all they got in ’em. If I had to make a guess, say it was Angel Spank—or the latest knockoff—by the looks of your daughter’s eyes, ma’am, and, um, well, her eyes. A whole lot of it, too. Just lucky I spotted ’em first, or they might ’a got picked up by the first creeper passed ’em by, and what could they a’ done ’bout it? Course, I reck-a-nized straight ’way these weren’t none o’ yo’s typical ‘good girls’, regardless o’ their . . . uh, uniforms: too young and purdy, and the other one of ’em had her bookbag still on, with schoolbooks and smartphone in it and shee-yit . . . um, excuse my French, Ma’am: anyhows, not the typical stuff yer working girl’s goin’na be luggin’ ’round wit’ her, not the kind walks the streets in daylight and over on the industry side o’ town, at any way. You gosta go over to your Cherry Flatts, your Caramel Valley, you wanna fine yo’self one of dem truelife schoolgrrl hos, usually—er, not that I’d know, Ma’am, ’cept I have a, uh, associate-friend works the beat there . . . Uh, yeah, so I tried to get a name from yo’ daughter or her grrlfriend, as to who got ’em high, and on such a big dose!, lucky they di’n’t OD on O-gasms—”
Maddy, who had been having a very hard time following along with the cop’s account of things up till that point, picking up little but the occasional profanity—which made her blush and for some reason got her excited “down there”—unaccountably snorted at these totally unexpected words of the cop, though not even a second after she was dismayed at her own levity (yet, “gawsh darn it!”, that DID seem so . . . “goofy!”, overdosing on orgasms, whoever heard of . . . “[snort!]”?); Officer Turnover, on the other hand, seemed actually rather concerned at Maddy’s entirely too blithe reception of the news:
“No laughin’ matter, Ma’am, seen it happen too many times. But yo’ daughter and her li’l grrl-friend was all so ‘blasted’, couldn’t even tell me their own damn names—pardon my language again, Ma’am. Had to use the other’un’s phone to trace the address, even—lucky the two of ’em live on the same street, or I’d a’ had a’ have to call in HQ for info ’bout some o’ dem recent missing persons ’n’ shit. No need to get HQ involved now, dough, if we don’t have to, ’m I right, Ma’am? These teenies been through enough by way o’ O-gasms and all dat today as is, ya ask me. Yo’ neighbor, Miss Eyeful, said the same thing. She’s the one as gimme yo’ address, Ma’am, ’case you’re wond’rin’,” the officer pointed. “Welp, no use in questionin’ yer daughter nomore dis evenin’. And no need for a report, ye ass me. Not ’less you want, and I don’t advise it. With girls so young, and a first offence, I’s sure you’d prefer to sweep it all undah da’ rug. Don’t want news of it gettin’ on the TV, huh, Miss LaMoan? Yo’ neighbor Miss Eyeful—re-e-eal nice lady—she was real concern’d ’bout dat, too. Said if we could catch the guys did this to ’em wiffout gettin’ the gals in trouble or reported on, well, she’d shore like that ’way better. But it’s gettin’ late. Yo’ daughter should be gettin’ some sleep. I’ll be by tomorrow to follow up. Maybe by then she’ll remember the name o’ the sons o’ bitches done this to her, if you’ll excuse my French again, Miss La . . . ”
For good reason the police officer had once more stopped abruptly in her address. Maddy’s attention had again wandered: she was that instant rubbing the side of her head (where she’d hit it) and simultaneously rubbing a very fleshy firm right butt cheek (it felt good to and she’d just discovered it was wet and sticky there for some reason) and the sticky spot on her butt got her thinking, in turn, about the sticky juice of that fruit, what was it called?—wakka-wakka!—Was there any of it left after the pies? O yeah, pie! She bet she could choke down some of that charred one from the oven, see if there weren’t any traces of that yummy flavor left in it . . . For some reason she just had a HUGE craving for that flavor all of a sudden . . .
Maddy snapped to at once she realized the police officer was no longer talking but staring at the housewife and her now fully exposed butt cheek with a pondering, even perhaps suspicious, look.
“You got. Uh. Lotta ’splaining . . . To do. Young lady!” Was that what the “copper” wanted to hear Maddy say?, she wondered. Maddy sent the officer a guilty smile, doubtless meant to help endear the big-bootied “copper” to the big-boobied mom, but really just made her look like a demented, absurdly self-conscious stripper, waking up, lost and hungover, in some “sugar-daddy’s” suburban home. Then she waved a finger as if threateningly at Clarabelle all of a few seconds, as she’d seen moms on TV do when their kids acted up. “So, like, yeah. March right upstairs to your froots this instant . . . Wait—di’ I jes’ say ‘froots’? Haha! I mean, ‘room’, ‘room’ . . . And, um, right away. Young lady!!!”
“Don’t be too hard on her, Miss LaMoan, all kids these days be a-fuckin’ dem-OWN-selves up on the Spank, ’least once. Get a few like o’ them in every week down at the station. And really this ‘blast’ din’t end as bad as some I seen. ’Say it’s, like, a rite of pasture or some shit . . .” Officer Turnover was not a suspicious cop by nature, but rather one of the infinitely better, congenial variety, provided one merely “throw her a bone”, so to speak, put on a show of formality, and it never hurt to be standing in the doorway of a quarter-of-a-million-dollar home, too, for the record, even if, as in Mrs. LaMode’s case, one stood there practically naked . . . Rich folks is weird, the cop indeed might have breathed the aside to herself, at first looks at what Mrs. LaMode had on, the extreme distraction and disinterest she evinced with regard to her putative daughter’s condition, and not to mention the plumes of smoke that greeted the officer on that doorway’s first being opened. But Cherie Turnover, though far from unintelligent, was first and foremost an officer of the law, and like many of those, respected nothing better than the easiest answer to any question, and hollow formality above all else. So she took the bait.
“Don’t forget yo’ package, Ma’am . . .” the black woman officer did mention with all the intermittent affability of a generally nice person; she had evidently taken a liking to the “flashing” housewife, and let us suppose as she was one of that ubiquitous type of black woman who immediately feels a secret, patronizing affection for a nothing if not equally ubiquitous type, and the type she reckoned Maddy was, the quintessential brainless rich white “horny ho”. Clarabelle had just managed a half-conscious toddle in through the doorway—with the cop and mother’s combined help so she wouldn’t fall over—and Maddy was just preparing to shut the door behind her—hard to do with one hand ever on one’s coat, the other tentatively arresting one’s flesh-and-blood from falling face-first onto the yellow, baroque-patterned ceramic tile below.
“Wha—?” blurted Mrs. LaMode at the officer’s cue, making no attempt to hide her confusion, staring with her mouth open at the cop, and so at once dropping the stupid smiling nods she had just previously been offering the departing officer by way of reassurance that “everything’s fine now!”
“Down there,” and Officer Turnover again pointed. Sure enough, there was one, pushed off the frontstep into the dirt under the eastern cedar bushes that hedged the front of the LaMode house up to the driveway; Maddy’s eyes lit up as soon as she espied the package.
“Goody!” the grown woman squealed like that afore-posited favorite daughter getting a gift from her daddy on Christmas.
“Heh,” averred the copper, somewhat shy of a sudden.
Maddy, who at just that moment was the only thing still keeping her delirious daughter on her feet, at once let go of the whore-dressed teen, who then fell predictably and with a loud whump! to the floor of the storm porch. Without so much as a look over her shoulder at her fallen daughter, the dumb mom promptly bent forward from the waist to retrieve the package from the bush, and in the process flagrantly mooned the overseeing Turnover with equal parts plump swollen cunt-lips, erect rosy clit, pale firm butt-cheeks, and the ripest merriest asshole as ever begged an overlooking copper for a plug.