HOME MAID: A Super Pies Tale
VOLUME ONE—Origins of a Super Slut
9
No sooner had Maddy stepped back in the door of her own house, than the phone rang.
Caller ID said “Paul’s Office”.
“I shouldn’t answer it,” the big-boobied superhuman housewife soliloquized aloud, with a glance in the wall-hung mirror above the phone to reckon well her whorish appearance, and, perhaps, a thought to reckon certain whorish distractions of mind, would make it hard for her either to comprehend much of anything said to her, or be comprehended by more or less anyone in what she said, in her current state. The constant buzzing in her mind seemed ever at odd instances to completely erase her previous thoughts. For instance, she’d just been thinking while walking the distance from Pud’s door to her own about what it meant, what Pud had said, about her being like that famous vigilante—The Trixter. But before she could even get going on that idea, it was supplanted by a significant worry—What if her neighbors saw her!, having entered her neighbor’s house the night before, stumbling back home again the next morning dressed like a storybook prostitute—pink stiletto-heels, a sparkle-green latex mini, and white tube-top “blouse”, so tiny and revealing so much cleavage and “under-boobs” (as Pud had explained—and yet it had escaped her college education—such essentials of female anatomy were called), it was only lucky she didn’t have a bra to wear it with—she wondered—else, by covering up more than the blouse did, the bra gave the lie to the shirt’s even being one of those. She wasn’t wearing any underwear and her pussy-lips, all but for the skirt exposed to the open air, still “twitched” like an itchy dog—like they never had before, in short—as if fated to replay forever their part in the morning’s and night before’s protracted fuck. She had wondered if her nosy neighbors saw all that, and flushed crimson in the mere presentiment of it, though blushing didn’t stop her pussy from twitching more; but she couldn’t help its twitching! No matter how ashamed and guilt-ridden she was at finding herself feeling so “Gawl-Dang” good, Maddy simply couldn’t stop feeling that way. It was bliss to have a body!, was how it felt to her. And what a body! Hot tears of humiliation welled up in her soft, green eyes as her pussy all but drooled for uncontrollable joy . . .
But then, miraculously, before she’d even passed the Swein’s Food truck parked in the street before her neighbor’s house, her mind succumbed to that familiar buzz—which was in her head always—and she conveniently forgot to feel ashamed anymore. She couldn’t remember what had caused her latest bout with it, nor that she’d even just experienced such a bout. Instead, her thoughts went a wonderful blank. It was several seconds before her mind finally recalled something out of the haze of buzzing, the image of her “Puddy-Daddy’s” wonderful cock, and she smiled at the thought of it, just as she had done an hour or so earlier when she’d seen his picture in the magazine. She felt warm inside to recall it, safe, and unutterably, as if permanently, aroused.
Maddy’s pea-sized clit reared its rosy crown from its dank burrow, thus brushing itself ticklishly now and then, in the space between steps, against the rough hem of her mini. She longed to stop what she was doing and, right there in the middle of Cream Tart Lane, “go to town” . . . She resisted the temptation but pressed her inner thighs together as she shimmied the remainder of her short trip, in hopes they might do some of the rubbing for her lax fingers; and indeed they did, though it was accidental at best and merely drove her madder with incipient lust. Pinching her thighs together while she walked caused her butt to pop out the more in back, which in turn caused the hem of her mini to rise even higher on her ass than it was naturally given to doing; and so, long story short, if any neighbor had seen the woman walking the not fifty feet from one house’s door to the other (though making lots of stops), he or she should have got a sufficiently dirty eyeful; Maddy was right to worry.
But now she was inside and the phone was ringing, she at once forgot she’d just been intent on fingering herself. Something of the old Maddy returned to her, though not at all consciously, merely as a sort of “force of domestic habit”. She put by the closet the plastic garbage bag of “clothes” with which her neighbor had so philanthropically endowed her, in consideration of her own clothes not fitting her any longer, and on condition she wear a different outfit in it everyday and pop into his place for what he called a “fast fuck” wearing it.
“Shore was nice of Puddy-Daddy . . .,” Maddy had thought with regard to the bag. She might have gone on to wonder from where he’d got all those slutty clothes for big-titty women, and why keep them where they were bound to wrinkle in an old black garbage bag?, but these oddities didn’t strike the dudded out wife enough as such for her even to float such questions.
But presently she picked up the phone from the endtable in the dining room, by the entranceway to the kitchen, still holding in her other hand her latest basket of “fruits”—she was characteristically reluctant to put that down—and wholly regardless of her own wise counsel of a moment ago to let it ring, unanswered, again as if wholly by force of habit.
“Puddy-Daddy’s residence, Mammerslammers speaking,” she said chirpily into the receiver.
“Maddy?” It was Paul! “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Huh?” Maddy had to wonder at the question. Had she just told a joke? In fact, she had no idea why she had said what she had, was in the process even now of trying to remember what it was she had said—so maybe it HAD been a joke, whatever it had been, after all. That would certainly explain why she didn’t understand what little of it she remembered saying. After a long pause, Maddy snorted.
“Weird sense of humor, Honey. Anyway, no time to chat, I just called to apologize for not coming home last night. Pulled another all-nighter at the office. Don’t say it—I know-I know, it’s not easy on you and Clare, but it can’t be helped. What I’ve been working on lately—You know I told you it’s BIG? Well, it’s about to come to a head, Maddy. I mean, something’s literally about to explode underneath me, feels like I’m sitting on a dam about to burst!”
Maddy grunted, which Paul took as an implicit affirmation of his words, and at any rate an indication she was listening.
“By the way, I called last night and left a message, but it was pretty late—after ten—so you were probably in bed. Did you get my message?”
Maddy grunted again, which this time Paul took as indicating a negative.
“No biggy. How’s Clarabelle?”
“Dirty,” this unexpected word slipped out of the mother’s mouth wholly as if of itself, and a second later, when she realized what she had said, she blushed and breathed frantically: She shouldn’t have said that, she bet! She tried to save it: “Uh. Sh-She needs a bath real bad!”
Luckily, that buzzing came back to Maddy’s mind just in time, so she was suddenly too stupid to feel stupid for the absurd remark a second after saying it.
“Um, well, she’s a teenage girl . . . Don’t they need to bathe more or . . .” Paul fumbled here in evident anticipation of Maddy’s corroborating what he said and taking over for him, as he was a complete idiot when it came to teenage girls or the complicated, odor-relevant biology of women in general, and became more aware of the fact the more he had to talk longer on either topic.
But his loyal stay-at-home was not even thinking about that anymore. Another fear had taken hold of her slim attention, even amidst the buzzing in her head: she was breathing strangely heavily, it occurred to her; she grew convinced now Paul would smell their new neighbor’s cock on her breath even through the phone. All her efforts were thus focused of a sudden on trying to breathe through her nose, which she found really hard to do for some reason, maybe because every time she tried to breathe, she would forget to close her mouth, and then when she closed her mouth, she would conveniently forget to breathe . . . And so Paul struggled on: “Because of their hormones, am I right?, um . . . I mean, don’t they bleed more, or . . . At any rate, that has nothing to do with the reason I called . . .”
And while her husband chattered on concerning whatever that reason was, Maddy at last solved the problem of breathing through her nose. Simply by sticking her finger as far down into her mouth as she was able, she found she began breathing through her nose almost automatically—like magic!
“(LCK!)”
“Yes?” by his wife’s soft gag, which might have signaled to him the woman meant to start talking, Paul suddenly spoke up so she wouldn’t have a chance to, “ . . . But that reminds me, sweetheart—I’ll be home in a couple hours—still have some calls to make and about twenty pages of documents to scan and email to some friends of mine at the Capital. In other words, I won’t be around to help much get the house ready for the dinner tonight . . .”
Maddy actually heard and comprehended this part of her husband’s call, comprehended enough of what he said, in fact, she could comprehend she didn’t understand at all what he was talking about . . .
“(GAG!)” Maddy tried again without the finger in her mouth: “D-Dinner?”
“Maddy! Don’t tell me you forgot! Barry and Betty Cobbler . . ?”
Actually, yes, these names did ring a bell for Maddy.
“B-But,” she stammered, “That can’t be! You said, not till Saturday . . .”
“What day do you think today is, dum-dum?”
Maddy’s spirits fell; if she weren’t already flushing as red as she could, she would have flushed more: “Um. Ono . . .”
“My good little cook Maddy forgetting a dinner party? Impossible! You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you, Dear? Very funny! I admit you almost had me there for a second. But I know you’re going to make everything just great like always. You’re probably busy cooking up a storm in preparation of it even as we speak. If there’s one thing I can say I’m glad I married you for, Lambkins, it’s your cooking. You might even make a pie or two. You know how Barry just loves those jam-packed pies of yours! You know, . . . I hate to put it to you like this, Maddy, and don’t take it the wrong way, but I’m really going to need Barry’s endorsement down the road. He’s been a Yellow man since the early days of the Party, and there’re those who think he’s more influential in who the Party nominates than about anybody else. It’s VERY important you’re nice to him, in other words, and that we both make a really good impression this time. Now, you’re always nice, honey, I know that, but be especially nice to him this time, okay, Sweet’ums?, and don’t bring up that thing you did at the barbecue last summer, you know, about how your old man and mom met convassing for the Blue Party during the war—um: awk-waaaaard . . .”
Maddy had begun breathing so heavily again she was practically panting into the phone. She was in the midst of having an honest-to-God and entirely inimitable panic-orgasmic attack. It had just occurred to her, if she were hosting a party, then others would inevitably see her new enormous “boobies”—it wasn’t like she could possibly hide them forever, of course, but she had secretly hoped she could accustom one person at a time to the freaks, starting with her husband. She was wholly unprepared for explaining them to any satisfaction under the combined scrutiny of her family and guests! And then she couldn’t even think what that would mean. She couldn’t guess at what might be their reaction, but for some reason, that just scared and simultaneously aroused her the more. Her perfect—if wholly unsatisfying—previous life in a flash was usurped in the woman’s sporadic imagination with her new corrupt—if entirely satisfying—imagined present-future life. She saw herself in a strange instant the subject of a disturbing utopian vision, no longer at home in her huge McMansion, no longer devoted trophy of her darling Paul, no longer loving mother of her precious What’s-her-name—No, now Maddy saw herself in a world completely new to her, frightening and oddly alluring, her family, and all her previous unremunerative obligation, forever lost to her. In this new world, she was dressed exactly as she was now, standing on a dirty streetcorner in the inner-city, accepting a wad of dollars from a man of all hands, leering at her “boobies”, grabbing at her “tushy”; next, she led the man down the alley . . . O—and tears came again to Maddy’s good-wife eyes even as different juices altogether came again to her right-whore “kooch”—why did that have to turn her on the same time it horrified her!
“Maddy?” It was Paul again, probably wondering why she was panting so hard into the phone and not flattering him with her stupid affirmations and jokes at her own expense, as she always did. “You exercising or something? You’re breathing awfully . . .”
“Huh!” And at the mention of her breathing, Maddy again recalled her fear—“Pud-Pud’s” cock on her breath! Again she held her breath, and this time about passed out, as, oddly, holding her breath did not at all stop her mighty chest’s previous operation of violent heaving. But—“That’sh better . . .”—a second later and there was that weird buzzing in her head again . . . Thought escaped Maddy and she drew at last a complete and singularly emollient blank.
“Maddy?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Um. Well, Honey, I can tell, whatever you’re up to, you got a lot on your plate right now. It’s those pies of yours again, I bet, isn’t it?”
Indeed, Maddy had just been struck by her “pies” again, as might only be expected someone who’d only just come into consciousness and, with zero short-term memory to distract her from finding out the most conspicuous “thingies” in her new environment, reaching out her feelers to “investigate” ’em.
Maddy gasped! “O—mmnnn—yeah!!!”
“Attagirl, Honey! I knew you’d go all out for tonight! I really am sorry I didn’t make it home last night. But if it’s any consolation to you, I slept just awful on the sofa in my office. You know the one, black leather and too small. Either my feet stick over the end or my head does, or else I gotta curl into a ball and you know . . .” and the husband prattled on to his pleasantly delirious significant other, as do prattle on those clueless cuckolds with zero self-perception and a singularly infantile fascination with narrating the very most boring parts of their lives to poor innocent bystanders.
“. . . But I have to tell you, Maddy, because I just HAVE to tell somebody—You’re not going to BELIEVE it. What I’ve been working on, it’s got nothing to do with what they say I’ve been working on in the news, fixing C.O.’s Public Transport. That’s what I’m ‘supposed’ to be doing, yeah, that’s what Mousserschmarrn assigned me to do as his City Transportation Secretary. But, to tell the truth, I’ve been assigned to that project for over a year and I haven’t even filed a simple A10-70 yet, or done a review of poll numbers for the communities that will be affected by the Mayor’s Upstart Program. No, Maddy, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the whole COPT should be scrapped! It’s not City Hall’s job to spend taxpayer dollars driving poor people around the city like their personal chauffeurs—that’s what cars are for. The Mayor just doesn’t get it—he thinks he can spend our way out of the deficit mess he’s got us into. But residents aren’t buying that baloney sandwich any longer; they know a ‘pig in the poke’ when they see one. I told him this yesterday, said he needed to cut back the spending, encourage the business sector—He said the same thing he always does: he’ll ‘think over’ my ideas. Think over my eye! If I’d known how much he’d ignore me, I never would have signed on to work with him. The only reason I agreed to move to City Hall and endorse him for the last election was I thought I’d have influence. And yet he hasn’t responded to one of my memos—I send at least five a day!—not even regarding the scrapping of the COPT, which, after all, he was the one who assigned me to, so you think at least he would pay attention to what I have to say about that! You know—I really should have run against him in the Yellow Party primaries last time—missed opportunity. You’ll wonder my saying all this over the phone and about my boss, but the man’s not fit to call himself Yellow. He does the Party more harm by his policies than he does it good by his popularity. Yes, he is very popular, I know that, everybody knows that; it’s why the Grand Old Amber never gave him the boot last time round. Though don’t ask me why voters like him. He’s been terrible at just about everything, and even almost lost his re-election. What good is being popular, that’s what I want to know, if the ones who love you most are the same as hardly vote? Nah, his core support is blacks and poors, a shiftless constituency—it doesn’t at all help the Party! His being re-elected didn’t affect our still having a Blue governor, either, a Blue senator, seven Blue state reps . . . I probably shouldn’t even say what I’m about to, Maddy, but rest assured: all that’s about to change; the Mayor won’t stand in the way of the Future of the Yellow Party, or the future of this city, for very much longer, I guarantee you that. And then it’s somebody else’s turn at the brass ring—and why not mine! When your Paul gets through with her, Cherry Orchard’s going to look totally TRANSFORMED, honey! And that’s not all—I guarantee she won’t like some of the changes I have in mind for her at first, but just wait till I’m on my way out: She’ll be at my feet, her new trimmed-down, super fit figure in all but humble worship before me, praising my name, begging ‘FOUR MORE YEARS’! Imagine it, Maddy—a completely new city, like her old brain was taken out and a new, all in all more economical, one put in there. Ha ha! But all joking aside: I do intend to help remake Cherry Orchard, the way the Great Designer Ambidexter Jeckonty intended it when, after his prophetic dream in 1853, he sold his dozen profitable slave ships in the Capital and moved out west here to Bain-Marie—which wasn’t a state yet, even, but still part of the Grand Tatins Territory! As everybody knows from gradeschool, yourself included, Maddy, he came out here with a simple vision: to found our very own Cherry Orchard right in the middle of what was then little better than a desert! Did he have government handouts to help him do it? Not a dime! Only a few land grants, sure, on condition he lay track for the transcontinental railroad. More importantly he had a gun, a mule, the sweat of his brow, a cute obedient Christian wife at his side, some kids—he was a manly family man, Maddy, like yours truly, with old-timey Christian values, an unimpugnable work ethic and enough saved capital to keep his own private militia of some hundreds of ‘Freedom Keepers’, for so he named his personal dependent army of mercenaries; though, of course, what with the infamously crazy number of savages in the region at the time (remember, Maddy, some seven tribes were pushed back to Tatins Territory in the famous Peace with the Picksum-Stixum of ’39), private enterprise did not suffice him in all; he still had to rely on the Federal Army on occasion, which it’s hard not to see as a slight taint to his legacy. But even the boys of nearby Fort Fraggem looked up to our Founder: Why, just see what The Hero, General Pounder Jellynut, himself wrote in his diary about the guy, in January, 1856—I’ve got it handy: ‘Never have I met a more single-minded man. We’ve fought the engines off for him seven times seven times now, and the ornery coon-sniffer just won’t pack up and go east, but insists on fulfilling a dream no one but him understands!’ Now, THAT’s determination, Maddy, that’s what we need in Cherry Orchard today, more true-life heroes like Ambidexter Jeckonty, men of incredible will and untranslatable ambition! . . . But I got off topic. I could talk about that great-great man all day, you know me, Maddy. But, the point is, this other thing I’m on is way more important than buses; I’m not allowed to say what I’m talking about, though—it’s top secret. Even the Feds used those exact words ‘top secret’. I mean, it’s really-really BIG, Maddy, just remember that—it’s going to cause an EXPLOSION. The biggest explosion your own Paul’s ever found himself sitting on in his whole life! If all goes well with this, I might even be next in line for a VERY IMPORTANT position right here at City Hall . . . If I could just get the endorsement from the Party bigwigs . . . (Snicker!) I know you’re probably dying to find out what I’m talking about, Hon-Buns. But I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait like everybody else till this coming Friday—that’s all I’ll say—that’s when I have my next sit-down with Su on The QT. The Feds have greenlighted me to let slide a few details in that interview, details about our reclusive Mayor, which just might make him a TEENSY bit more cooperative with yours truly in the future. But why are the Feds interested, you ask? I don’t know all the details. All I know is that they’re looking for a guy they call Public Enemy #1, and they think, after my little interview with Su, our beloved Mayor might volunteer to help them in their search. They’ve been trying to get this guy for years, Snook’ems, but he’s always got away . . . until now! And it’s the information I got that’s going to make all the difference this time! Big, hard, explosive information! My guys in the Capital—though I won’t say who they are, of course, top secret—they want to see this dirty old city cleaned up just about as bad as I do, Maddy: cleaned up, cut down, and holding tight the ride of The Right Artery—that’s what I’m thinking of calling my autobiography, by the way, which I mean to have ready for the next election cycle, after the name Jeckonty gave his first homestead in Bain-Marie: the R.A. Corral, quoting from Ecclesiastes, or something, I think. (I’ve already had an offer from a prominent ghost writer, but never mind.) Well, what do you think of your husband now, honey? A hero? Yeah, I guess; But I’m just doing what any concerned citizen and follower of our founding father would do. But I won’t give away the ending for you, Maddy—it’s top secret! You’ll just have to wait till Su’s show on Friday like everybody else . . . But after that—You’ll never guess! I know I just said I couldn’t tell you what I’m in for after this story hits, what my plans are; I mean, I’ve really said too much already, but . . . I just got to tell somebody, Maddy, it’s driving me crazy, having to keep all this to myself, and for so long, it’s such big news, you ARE my wife . . . ”
At this exact moment there was a ding of the doorbell and, without thinking, Maddy set the phone down on the basket of fruit—which was now on the endtable by the phone cradle—and walked to the door to see who it was. Behind her, her husband’s voice could still be heard the other side of the line, chattering away on those matters the import of which she had obviously not comprehended at all.
“Uh-huh?” Maddy less said than emitted breathily as she answered the door.
Before her stood the postman—not Trip Ladyfingers, as it happened, but a different one she had never seen before. If Mrs. LaMode were a more observant person in general, and had she not recalled something “real funny” precisely first thing upon opening the door—she might have noted how disheveled and strange appeared the postal worker, not to mention how ill-fitted and not at all “standard issue” was his present uniform. But, as said, she had just called to mind something “funny”—on the walk to the door she had spotted SlimJim weaving a delirious, whiny path out of the kitchen, and sporting a bigger, thicker, much more weirdly pulsating hard-on than even the day before—and despite how grotesque the spectacle was, how evidently pitiful was the dog to be in any way associated with it, and though it had taken her the entire walk to the door to conceive of it as such, a second following her addled greeting, Maddy burst out in a belated fit of snorting giggles.
“(Snort-snort-snort),” went the little piggy wife, “Tee-hee-hee,” she spittled and choked in uncontrollable mirth. Really!, and Maddy blushed as in vain she struggled to explain her amusement to the stranger, “H-his . . . (CHOKE!) . . . Doggy, little, BIG . . . (SPLORTLE!).” Too bad her “Puddy-Daddy” wasn’t there, Maddy thought, HE would get it; he would think that was so funny!
The mailman, who had a sort of “shifty” air to him at any rate, came off only the more wayward overall following Maddy’s unpredicated paroxysm by his not saying two words in response to it. He was to all looks, however, at an honest loss for them—and casting fleeting sideways glances at the brunette’s immense cleavage, which heaved, shook and grew before his furtive gaze as the slut giggled and choked her over-achieving nipples to near full exposure.
“You got a package for me or what?” gruffed the mailman at last. “‘Home Office’ sent me . . .”
Maddy all at once stopped in her hysterics. She smiled. That wonderful buzzing had just returned.
“Hm?” and she turned her glassy, moon-eyed face up toward the dawdling worker, her plump wet red shiny parted soft lips as if begging for someone to slap something hard on them.
“Package?” the man repeated bluntly, as if limiting his use of syllables, as one should with a two year-old.
“You gotta package. For me?” and Maddy said this so unconsciously sluttily, it was a staggering mystery how the mailman took it for anything but a come on, especially as she added a second later: “GOODY-GOODY-GUMDROPS!” Why, Maddy went wide-eyed with girlish wonder, that was two in two days!
“Not for you!” the guy was upset, maybe because his job forced him to be out and about at all in the awful day; it was cold, cloudy, and drizzling, like the night before. Or maybe he was gay. “For me! You got a package for me? Um. Ma’am?”
Maddy stared stupidly up at the postal worker—how did that work, the mailman asking her for mail! Unconsciously, she adjusted her top so the nipples were arguably less exposed (one could still see them dark and pressing through the pleated white fabric strained tight in front). She didn’t understand it. Shouldn’t he be roughing up her “whoppers” by now? Shoving her back into the storm porch the better to stop her trap with his . . ?
“Uh-uh.” The housewife shook her head, almost poutingly.
“O,” the worker seemed honestly apologetic for the mistake, “You sure? They said 1010 Cream Tart Lane. Must’ve given me the wrong address, those two idiots—heheh. Well, sorry for the inconvenience, Lady. Have a nice day!”
Maddy stood there puzzling a few minutes more, before at last the buzzing in her brain subsided long enough for her to recall what she had left just sitting there on the endtable!
“Wakka-wakka-wakka-wakka . . .” she muttered to herself like the fruit’s name were an exotic Tantric mantra, as she made her way back inside and back to the basket by the phone. Paul’s voice greeted her from the receiver when she got there:
“Maddy! Maddy, are you there?”
“Uh-huh,” she gasped just as breathily into the phone as she had just done at the door.
“Well, why didn’t you say something? Where’d you go?”
“Door,” Maddy iterated, sounding like a petulant or just bored child, “Mailman.”
“That’s impossible, Honey!” and her husband scoffed in that particularly twerpy way he had of doing that; that is, the supposed impossibility of his wife’s contention—and its dark implications concerning either (or both) the actual reality of where she’d been or (and) his wife’s arguably deteriorating mental powers—interested him infinitely less than that pleasure it gave him to point out she was wrong and he was right based on some incredibly trivial privy knowledge, which he now revealed to her in the most patronizing and self-infatuated tone of voice:
“The postal service doesn’t deliver on Saturdays anymore, Honey. I told you that a month ago. They discontinued the service—and thank God! Waste of taxpayer . . .”
“(Gasp!)” in a moment’s unusual break in her head’s habitual buzzing, Maddy suddenly recalled, if not actually something, then the firm conviction she really ought to be recalling something.
“What’s that, Snook’ems?”
“. . . Something I’s s’pose-ta tell you . . .”
“Well, don’t keep me on the phone all day, Sweetie. Geez, you’d think I didn’t have a million other better things to do with my time, could afford to just blab-blab-blab for the fun of it on the phone with you! Time is money, Honey, how many times do I have to tell you that? And some of us have real work to do. So . . . yeah, what’s on your mind?”
“U-u-u-u-u-uh . . .”
Paul sighed at the familiar sound of his wife’s audible brand of thinking: “Knowing you, Sugar-Pea, whatever it was, it probably wasn’t important . . .”
“Yeah . . .” Maddy smiled into the receiver with the relief Paul’s estimation of her forgotten thought made her conscience feel. “Wait—NO! I’m shore it was VERY important, um . . .”
“Well, tell me tonight, then, when I get home, okay?”
“Okay,” and Maddy didn’t feel relieved at her husband’s second interruption of her thought, because she couldn’t remember of a sudden why she’d ever felt anxious. The wonderful buzz had taken over her mind. She was again wondering what “Puddy-Daddy” was up to. She bet he was jerking off that wonderful perfect giant penis of his. If only she were there with him, she could . . . “Yummnnnn . . .”
“What’s that, Pan-Drippings? You didn’t forget to charge the phone again or something, did you? Because I’m having a real hard time understanding you today. O well. I should be going anyway. Talk to you later, dear! And don’t forget . . .”
But Maddy had, in response to her husband’s first premature sign-off, automatically hung up the phone.
She stood there a moment wondering what he had been about to say. But then her eyes again came to rest on the “fruits”.
“Wakka-wakka-wakka-wakka . . .”