The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“So, is this, like, BITCHIN’ or WHAT?!”

I couldn’t figure if she was talking about the house, the guest house, the garden house, the nursery, the pool, the tennis courts, the staircase that went on forever, or all the funky nekkid statues in the hallway, so I just kept nodding my head as she pointed ‘em all out. I kept expecting to see Colonel Mustard come running out of one room or the other chasing Mrs. Peacock with a candlestick, if you know what I mean. Hell, it was something right out of Lifestyles of the Too Rich and Pompous. Bubbles was going on and on about this piece of art or the other, but I was more interested in finding out where Henry managed to hide the orchestra that played “When the Saints Go Marching In” when you opened the front door.

“That’s just a door chime, silly,” she said with cute sigh, and went back to telling me what Picasso was thinking when he was dribbling art on one painting or another.

Door chime, hell, I wondered what they play when you open a window in this place. I promised myself to find out. Could make one hellava alarm. Imagine being a burglar, cracking a window and suddenly hearing “Who Let the Dogs Out?” played by a 16-piece orchestra at 3 in the morning. Certainly would make ME rethink my life choice.

Ah, life choices. Seemed like only a week ago I was laying in my alley, soaking up the sun and smog and playing the King of Fuck to my adoring homies. Now suddenly, I’m George Jefferson, Jed Clampett, and my man Fresh Prince all rolled up together and taking a tour of Paradise Acres from a schoolyard lawyer in miniskirt and pigtails who absolutely adores me, cums on command and gives the best damned head in the state. Yeah, life was sweet.

But, damn it, I STILL wanted to find out where Henry kept that orchestra. Door chime, my ass.

“I bet they’re in here,” I said, as I stuck my head in a large door between a Rockwell and a cheesy imitation statue of David.

“No, silly, that’s, like...”

The biggest damned closet I’d ever seen. They COULD have fit a 16-piece orchestra in there if they were all very friendly and didn’t mind sitting on luggage racks. It was almost as big as my last room at the downtown Hilton. Hell, the CLOSET had its own fucking ceiling fan and a light that came on automatically when you opened the door. No lions or witches, but there WAS an especially large trench coat hanging from a hook waaaaay down at the other end. My guess is that it covered the entrance to the secret door that led to the secret passage that led to the billiard room. Or the dungeon. Or China. Left myself another mental note as I pulled my head back out and shut the door.

“Does this place have a dungeon?”

“What?”

“You know. A dungeon?”

“No, silly, of course not.”

“You sure?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Have you looked?”

“Well, no.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Well, like, Henry would’ve told me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. He tells me EVERYTHING.”

“Did you ask?”

Her eyelashes fluttered once, then suddenly stopped as her eyes looked off into that far off place where cute bimbo barristers stare when they’re pondering such important issues. Or maybe it was just the pizza she had for lunch. Anchovies, you know.

“I bet you’ve never even ASKED,” I sighed and wagged my finger. “Here, this is going to be home, the most important place in the world, the place you’re going to be coming back to every night after work, not to mention weekends, and you don’t even KNOW whether or not the guy you’re going to be living with, maybe spending the rest of your LIFE with, has a torture chamber under his house?”

“But, but...” Her lower lip started trembling now. “Henry’s not LIKE that!”

“Well, you know what they say, Bubbles. You used to hang with the criminal element all the time in your job. It’s always the nice, shy, quiet ones who have the iron ladies and racks and beds of nails and such in their basements...”

Her eyes started to tear up. “But...”

“I mean, look at this guy,” I pointed to his portrait hanging next to the Picasso. “Yeah, at first glance he looks a cross between Tom Hanks and Wally Cox, but you never can tell what deep, dark secrets he’s hiding behind those glasses.”

“But...” Her mascara was starting to run now.

“Trust me, I’ve seen it time and time again. One moment you’re makin’ out in that big waterbed with that canopy thing on it, your top down and ready to get heavy and...BOOM, out comes the carving knife and the house staff gets Bubbles Burgers for the rest of the month.”

In between sobs, she closed one eye and stared at me. OK, so I’m not Stephen King or even Thomas Harris and she just looked so damned pathetic in that cute, lost kitten kinda way, with black stuff leaking from those big eyes, and I cracked first. What can I say, I’m really a big softie. Heh.

“Oh, that’s, like, SO messed up!” she yelped, taking a halfhearted swipe at my shoulder.

“Yeah, OK, well maybe not, but you know I just want to be sure.” I looked at the portrait again. She told me his great grandfather or great great grandfather or someone down near the trunk of the family tree died at the Alamo. The tree must’ve gotten oak blight since then, though, ‘cause Henry was more the kinda guy who probably would’ve been up in the church tower window lecturing Santa Anna on the finer points of the Geneva Convention while Davey, Travis, and the rest of the gang were doing the bayonet boogie downstairs. The kinda guy who probably had nightmares for weeks after calling the exterminator to get rid of the termites. Still, Bubbles had this thing for him and I’m not one to get in the way of TRUE LOVE. Whatever the hell THAT is.

“Sure?” she peeped, wiping the mascara off her face. “But...”

“Won’t take five minutes.”

“But...you won’t, like, HURT him...”

I hesitated for a second as I glanced back at the portrait. “Eh, no,” and passed on the obvious comment about how I may be a miracle worker, but I’m not God. Some things just can’t GET any worse.

“I mean, you’re not going to make him, you know, grow a mustache or anything.”

“Mustache?”

“I mean, nose rings and tattoos are OK, but, like I draw the line at facial hair. That’s just gross.”

“Eh, Okaaaay.”

“Oh, yeah, and, like, no messing with his cute little animal thing, OK?”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

Ever the negotiator, she got out the fingers. Both hands, even. “And, like, no messing with his voice, taste in ties, shoes, movies, Broadway shows, TV, fine art and that, you know, cute little butt...”

“You know I don’t do asses.” Well, OK not mentally, anyway.

“...sense of humor...”

“He HAS one?”

“Well, not like YOURS, obviously...”

“Obviously.”

“And, whatever you do, you know, don’t you DARE mess with his, like, vocabulary.”

Now THAT was tempting. I’d only been around him for total of a day or so, but the guy REALLY knew how to make you feel really small simply by opening his mouth. Luckily, he evidently heard enough about me to know better. I’d been around my share of braniacs, but nothing like Henry. The guy was a walking, talking, Roget’s Thesaurus and Websters and World Book Encyclopedia—The Library of Congress in a three piece suit.

Speaking of Henry, just when I thought she was gonna start counting on her toes, into the hall walked the test subject himself, one Henry Higgenbottom, fifth in the line of illustrious Higgenbottoms, current Professor of Law, lover of all creatures great and small, and easily old enough to be her father, not that I thought about that kind of thing much. Especially not at that moment, because following him into the room was one of the nicest specimens of Latino womanhood I’ve had the pleasure to meet and I’ve met more than quite a few. Long, dark, thick hair; skinny at the top, wide at the bottom, this girl had a phat ass that would put Jennifer Lopez to shame. I mean, they could use this woman’s backside as the high diving board at the next Olympic synchronized diving event and create absolute works of fucking art. I’ve been on trampolines with less bounce, but I’m getting ahead of myself now.

Her name was Karina, was the head maid, and I’m guessing Bailey didn’t do the hiring on this one because she likes ‘em small. Which, in turn, meant that maybe Henry wasn’t such a loser after all, ‘cause she was SO unlike Bubbles and if he hired her maybe it meant he had a more varied taste in women than I gave him credit for. Back then, of course, it never entered my mind that she might have actually been a GOOD housekeeper. Heh. Yeah, right. A lot of things were different back then. But as I keep saying, I notice EVERYTHING, and right at that moment, I was noticing Henry noticing Karina, if you know what I mean. He wasn’t exactly good at hiding it, either. Both Bubbles and Karina had to be aware of it, but they weren’t talking, which told me all I had to know about THAT domestic relationship. Between Henry, Bubbles, Bailey, Liz, and now Karina, this place could keep even a hack like Neil Simon in material for the rest of his career.

Add me to the mix and it REALLY gets complicated.

Oh, yeah, I probably forgot to mention that Henry finally let Liz move in upstairs in exchange for Bailey letting Bubbles stay in the guest house. After the radio thing with Gladys Hemline, Bubbles got a bit too...err, famous and had to quit the Public Defender’s Office or whatever it’s called. She was down at first, but I fixed that right up by convincing her she could make more money and get more job satisfaction by defending really righteous folks like, well, you’ll see. Heh. Besides, now she had more time to spend on the REALLY important things in life. Like me.

Well, yeah, and Henry, of course. As soon as he slid over to Bubbles—this guy slid almost as well as Bailey, they must teach Sliding 101 in rich kid’s private school somewhere—she grabbed him by the neck and planted a big sloppy one on him in front of Karina, me, all the nude statues and at least half a dozen portraits. The kid has absolutely NO shame.

“Hey, Higgy,” she chirped as she broke the lip lock. “I was just, like, showing Bandy around and I figured you two need to, you know, get to know each other.”

“Well, err...” he stumbled, his face turning as red as his tie. Something they evidently do NOT teach in finishing school is how to respond to such vulgar displays of private affection in a public place. Or how to wipe copious amounts of cherry-flavored lipstick off your face.

“Yeah, Higgy,” I reached out and snatched the handkerchief from his vest pocket, ever the one to help out, and began wiping it roughly across his face. “We’re just, like, going to get along SO well, I can just, you know, FEEL it.”

“Well, I, err...” He backed away from me and made several futile efforts to grab the hankie. He was confused, angry and just plain scared. I tend to see that combination a lot. Go figure.

“Oh, c’mon now, Higgy, nothing to be scared of,” I grinned wide as I grabbed Bubbles with one arm, slid my other around him and squeezed hard in my own widdle wabbit way. “Group hug!”

If you can imagine a puppy getting tossed out from a warm house into freezing snow he’s never felt, smelt, or dealt with before, you can get some idea of how Henry Higgenbottom the Fourth was dealing with THIS particular situation. No, he didn’t quite piss all over himself, but he was starting to tremble noticeably as my arm snaked around under his suit jacket and felt the chain I was looking for...

“Cool!” I beamed as I reached out and snatched it from his vest pocket. “I didn’t even know they MADE these things anymore!”

“Uh...well, now...err...” he stuttered as he reached out to grab it back. I ducked underneath his outstretched arm and stuck the hankie back into his open hand, while twirling the watch and chain in my other. “Now you WAIT just a...”

I moved away from them quickly and grasped it tightly, bathing in the feelings—the soft metal warm against my fingers, the tick, tick, magic Swiss miracle machine sending pulses of pleasure through my entire body. It was like Nolan Ryan and a baseball, Elvis and a microphone, Marilyn Chambers and a ten-inch vibrating dildo... Only ten times better.

An evil mind-controller and a pocket watch.

OK, so it wasn’t quite heaven, but seeing as there’s no fucking way in hell I’m gonna ever get within five zip codes of THAT place, I take it where I can.

“Now, see here now...” he stammered, trying his best to regain his composure. “That’s a priceless family heirloom...”

“I’ll give you five bucks for it.”

“That’s preposterous!” I had to give him this—he had that insulted look down; fists balled up on his hips, brows sticking out five inches past the rim of his glasses, shoes sliding back and forth on the marble floor. I figured he must’ve had lots of practice when he was younger.

“Just as well, I guess, I don’t have five bucks anyway.” I wiggled my non-painted eyebrows and fondled my nonexistent stogie as I moved slightly closer and lowered my voice. “How about a trade.”

“I don’t see as there’s anything...”

“How ‘bout her?” I smiled wide and repeated my best Groucho eyebrow wiggle as I nodded across the room towards Karina, who had her back to us as she went about dusting David’s marble fig leaf.

“Surely you can’t be serious,” he said, his eyes slowly following mine and his voice lowering, a sure sign his insides weren’t exactly agreeing with his outsides if you know what I mean. Of course, at that very moment, the lady in question bent over to tickle David’s feet with her dustbroom, giving him the perfect view of the kind of full Mexican moon drunk poets write songs about. Sometimes, even I can’t plan things THIS well.

“Now THAT is a priceless family heirloom,” I whispered in his ear, while I twisted the chain around my wrist. “This is just a watch.”

“Well, err... yes, but...” He stammered, trying his best to keep his tongue from between his teeth and his eyeballs behind his glasses.

“Come now, Henry old chap, you can’t tell me you don’t go to bed every night just DREAMING of what’s between those.” Karina must have found something particularly bothersome between the Greek statue’s toes because the entire time we were negotiating, her ass kept a’shakin’ back and forth as she kept busy getting rid of whatever was bothering David’s feet. Or something.

“It won’t hurt a bit.”

“Uh, couldn’t you just, you know...?” He pushed his glasses back up his nose with a finger.

“Well, if it were ME, yeah, but when it’s a BIGGER job, I need to get a bit more elaborate.”

“Elaborate?”

“Yeah, you know like on ‘Bewitched.’ Most of the time all she had to do was wiggle her nose, but on the really BIG jobs, she had to get all fancy, wave her hands around and do a rap.”

“Rap?” Geez, you’d think a man of the arts like Henry would know this kinda thing. But here he was with this really dull blank stare as I tried to explain the finer points of incantation versus plain everyday nose wiggling. Probably grew up watching something like “Family Affair” instead of the real CLASSICS of the idiot box.

“See, it’s like this,” I started, putting my arm around him and lowering my voice, “for The King of Fuck to get a woman, all I need to do is blink my eyes once or twice and ‘poof’ she’s mine forever.” I winked at Bubbles over his shoulder as she tried her best to listen in. “But for someone like you, no offense...”

“None taken.”

“...for someone like you, I got to put just a little more effort into it.”

“Effort?” Still with that blank stare thing working. And I hadn’t even DONE anything yet.

“Yeah. Effort.” I repeated, and pulled the watch back out in front of his face. “That’s where this little artifact comes in.”

“Oh, you can’t really expect ME to believe that old chestnut about a watch...” At least the stare thing vanished. Luckily, I’m no slouch in the strange facial expression department myself. I’m particularly good at indignation.

“Do you see any spinning spirals around here?”

“Huh?”

“Or subliminal music being piped in?”

“Uh, no.”

“Or bizarre computer programs that don’t seem to do anything?”

“I don’t see...”

“Rigged cell phones?”

“Rigged what?”

“Voodoo dolls?”

“Certainly not!”

I shrugged and twirled the watch around. “Sometimes you just gotta fall back on the old standards.”

He started to say something, then put a hand to his chin and I could almost see all those IQ points rolling and popping around in his head, like lottery balls trying desperately to fall into the proper sequence. Obviously Marx Brothers routines weren’t a part of his upbringing either. “I still...don’t...” he stuttered.

“So, now, you ready to start?” I raised the watch in front of his still-confused eyes and tapped my foot impatiently on the marble floor. “Just keep your eyes on nice shiny watch.”

He did manage to get enough of the numbered Ping-Pong balls assembled in order to get one eye fixed on the watch, but the other one shot straight towards Karina, who was still busy working on David, who by now probably had the CLEANEST damned tootsies of any knockoff Michelangelo ever made. “Uh, shouldn’t SHE be the one...?”

I took a deep breath, sighed and brought out the righteous indignation thing again. “Listen, I don’t tell you how to do your lecture and teaching stuff and you don’t tell ME how to do the mental fuck-over stuff, capice?!”

That got both eyes back on me and the watch as I started it swaying back and forth. “Uhh...I suppose...”

“OK, now that we’ve got THAT settled,” I started, lowering my voice into a dull rhythm like I figured Mandrake woulda done it if comic strips had soundtracks. Never believed that “gesturing hypnotically” stuff—always thought that line was just thought up by some dumb writer who ran out of ideas. Not that I had any fucking clue whatsoever what I was doing, mind you, aside from having some fun with Poindexter here. “You need to focus on the nice, shiny, piece of metal on the nice shiny chain.”

“See the nice shiny piece of metal go back and forth and forth and back. The nice piece of metal is going to get you a nice piece of ass. Back and forth and side to side and front to back and up and down. Let the nice piece of metal fuck with your mind so you can fuck with the maid. Right to left and left to right and side to side and up and down. Let the nice piece of metal screw your brain so you can screw her pussy. Back and forth, up and down, left and right. Follow the shiny to get the hiney.”

Yeah, OK, so I’m no good at this kind of thing. So sue me. One part Mandrake and nine parts Jesse Jackson. Henry’s eyes did their best to follow, but his teeth were biting into his lips in an obvious attempt to keep from busting out. Not that I’d blame him ‘cause if mine weren’t so busy flapping, I’d have been right down with him. I was about to give it up when I happened to glance over his shoulder and notice Bubbles.

Did I tell you I love that girl? Here I was doing an act that wouldn’t have made it ten seconds on the Gong Show and my little schoolgirl lawyer has this really, really INTENSE expression on her face that she usually saves for twenty minutes into the heavy thumping. Sweat is pouring down her neck, one hand is busy inside her shorts and the other has her tank top down nesting under those 34As as her fingers are alternating between Nipple #1 and Nipple #2. Her head’s ten feet away and her eyes are FRENCHING the fucking watch.

And I’m only TWO MINUTES (at the most) into my routine. I tell you, it’s enough to make an evil mind-fucker cry. And, no, all you others out there CAN’T have her. She’s mine.

Not to mention just what I happened to need right then and there. You’d think with an ego the size of Houston, I wouldn’t need these little off-the-cuff reminders from time to time (snif), but people like Bubbles stumble into the lives of evil scum once in a lifetime. Kinda like soul-mates without the soul, if you know what I mean...it’s enough to make one reach for the Kleenex.

But fuck all that eye-watery shit. The room was slowly filling with Bubbles and Henry’s nose started twitching uncontrollably, which was a sure sign I was gonna lose him, so I decided to give up on the watch crap and do things the old-fashioned, King of Fuck way, even if it DID disappoint my oh-so-willing (and undeniably cute) audience of one. It’s not like I’d not done it at least ten-thousand times before.

Just don’t ask me what happened next. Why the devil sneezed at just that time. Or the full moon moved into Capricorn or whatever. I’m the master of a half-dozen mystical rituals, can command a thousand law-abiding folk to screw on their taxes or wives or husbands, can say the most STUPID things and five hundred people will laugh anyway, but to this day, I STILL don’t know what happened at that very moment to turn the situation into a fucking Tex Avery ‘toon. I kinda heard Karina give a startling cry (which of course she shouldn’t have) from behind me, but other than that, my memory’s kinda fuzzy in the places where it’s not totally blank.

A totally unusual, not to mention embarrassing, situation, to be sure.

Next thing I know, I’m laying on the floor with Bubbles standing over me dressed like a fucking LAWYER, and the first thing that comes to mind is how the Supreme Court of the United States totally screwed up in the Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad Co. case.

And it only got WEIRDER from there.

“You OK?”

“Bubbles?”

She hesitated for a second. “Yeah.” She closed one eye. “I think.” I coulda sworn her manner seemed a bit less abecedarian the last time we met. But then I coulda sworn I never knew the meaning of the word “abecedarian” the last time we met either. Not that I was altogether certain I knew what it meant NOW either. It just seemed like a cool new word to use. I knew a whole LOT of new cool new words, but they were all kinda hard to process, kinda like trying to use a thesaurus without having a dictionary around to figure out what all the synonyms meant. That was a kinda interesting thought to think about for a while. So I did.

That’s when she SLAPPED me, the little whore. “Bandy!” OK, so she was still a CUTE little whore, even if she WAS doing that cheap JC Penny’s lawyer jumpsuit thing again. “What the hell is going on?!”

“I was just thinking,” I said politely, as I went back to thinking. Corporations shouldn’t have rights like citizens under the Constitution, should they?

“Thinking?!” She opened the closed eye and closed the open eye. “Since when do YOU think?”

“Hmm, good question.” My turn to hesitate. “Let me think about it.”

That’s when she slapped me AGAIN, the little whore. “This isn’t FUNNY!”

“You’re telling ME?!” I stopped thinking and rubbed my cheek. “You’re not the one with the red face and all sorts of strange words in your head.”

She was staring intently at her hand. “Hey, that felt really nice,” she muttered to herself with a half-smile, then looked back at me. “Can I do it again?”

“Eh, maybe later,” I said, backing away quickly. “What the fuck happened to YOU?!”

“You’re asking ME?” One hand pulled at the waistline of her pants. “YOU’RE the one with the all-powerful, hocus-pocus, magic power mind stuff.”

“Sorry darlin’,” I shrugged. “Last time I saw you, you were doing the standing, one-handed bush-beating dance and staring at my...” I glanced about the room, “...watch.” Yeah, something was very wrong, all right. For starters, it took me almost two minutes to actually NOTICE the room wasn’t quite the same as it was a few memories ago.

“You mean...” she started, staring at me with a mixture of confusion and unbelief. “I just thought this was another one of your...”

“Nope.” I had to smile at the irony of it all. “But I can now sing you all the songs from ‘The Mikado’ if that’ll make you feel any better.”

She wrapped both arms around herself and began to shake, her face clenching up. “Ewwwwwww...”

“Hey, my voice isn’t THAT bad.”

“But that’s HIGGY’S favorite play!” She blurted out, and jumped about a couple of inches off the floor. “This is all just SOOO messed up.”

We both turned at exactly the same time and stared at his portrait on the wall. Mr. Peepers, indeed.

“Uh-oh.” I muttered.

“What do you mean, ‘Uh-oh?’”

“You want a definition?” Hey, sometimes even a guy with the Webster’s memorized has to fall back on the old standards.

“Don’t be stupid!” She was coming at me with that open palm again. “DO something!”

“Exactly what would you suggest?” I said, ducking.

“Hell, I don’t know!” She brought one hand back up to her forehead and the other was doing a fan wave through the air. “Wave your arms around and put everything back the way it was.”

“The way it was?” I gave her my best Alfred E. Newman shrug.

She started shaking both hands at me. “You...know, the way it WAS?”

“What exactly IS the way it WAS?”

Her hand stopped abruptly and she cocked her head as she slowly moved her eyes towards me. “You...you’re serious?”

I’m sure I remember having some snappy answer or another to that one, but neither of us heard it because it got drowned out by the hurricane that moved into the room about that time.

“BANDAN! it thundered. “Where the HELL are you hiding, you little SHIT!”

It sounded like Bailey. Even looked like her from the neck up. She certainly managed to get MY attention. Hell, even in her extremely agitated state, Bubbles couldn’t suppress a case of the giggles.

“What the HELL do you think you’re DOING, you FUCKING asshole?!” It came at me quickly with both hand extended towards my innocent little neck—well as quickly as a hurricane can wobble in seven-inch platform heels, anyway.

“Cool outfit, Bailey,” Bubbles snickered as I managed to shuffle backwards out of the way of the storm. “I didn’t know Fredricks of Translvania had an outlet in town.”

“Listen, I don’t need any crap from YOU, you little TART!” she yelled as she managed to regain her balance and tugged at the right cup of the ruby red corset where a nipple had managed to come up for air.

“You really need to get some red shades if you’re gonna wear that color, Bailey. And I’d suggest violet nails to go with the thigh-highs. Also, you might want to remember that the T-Back goes INSIDE the garters so you don’t...” her voice lowered to a playfull whisper, “look so much like a whore.”

Bailey veered away from me and towards Bubbles and started to say something REALLY nasty, but I guess all those years of private schooling and mental training in the art of stoical law got the better of her. Or maybe she just noticed Bubbles had managed to put three sentences together without a single “like” or “you know.” “What the hell happened to YOU?”

“Haven’t looked in a mirror lately, have you?” Bubbles giggled.

SLAP!

OK, so she surprised me as she did a perfect 90 degree piroette on the stripper heels. In my defense, I cop to being distracted by the word “paraphrastic.” Or maybe I was just beginning to LIKE being manhandled by two resplendent examples of femininity in fetish gear. Happens to the best of us. But I draw the line at going for my neck.

“Stand still, you little pervert!” She yelled as I managed to duck again. “Haven’t you humiliated us ENOUGH already?!”

“I dunno,” I replied, as she began to lose her balance again and tumbled towards the sofa which was strangely out of place in the middle of the room, “HAVE I?”

“Don’t play STUPID with me, you little twerp!” A lot of venom in that one, coming as it did from someone with a face full of cushion and both tits now bouncing around free. On the Bandan determination under pressure scale, 9.5 on form, up to 9.8 for the recovery. The tits were back under cover in less than two seconds and the Armanis never left her nose. “Nothing like this happens around here unless YOU want it to.”

I didn’t know whether to be offended or honored. “Hey, you think I get my jollies by seeing Bubbles dressed in ugly pantsuits and you stumbling around like Frankenstein’s monster in garters? Geez, Bailey, give me credit for a little more imagination.”

“Yeah, right.” She obviously wasn’t buying it. To be perfectly honest, I probably wouldn’t either if I didn’t know myself so well. She managed to right herself and get her outfit straight, except for one of the shoes from hell that had fallen off her foot to the floor. Nanchallantly, she picked it back up and slid it back on, all the time giving me the evil eye from behind those expensive shades. “So it was MY idea to put on this fucking outfit and give Henry a blow job, right?” she hissed.

It’s not often that I’m left speechless. Hell, if I think of a good line, I can even manage to blurt it out with a mouth full of pussy or in the middle of an almighty orgasm. But a muted “Wow” was all I could manage, and this was AFTER I swallowed the dictionary.

“I’ve never been so fucking humiliated in all my life.”

Heh, I guess it’s a good thing she can’t remember getting eaten out by all the defense lawyers in Aunt Peg’s jury room the FIRST time we met. I may be a pervert, but I’m not THAT sadistic.

“I spent fifteen minutes brushing my teeth and I STILL can’t get rid of the taste.”

“That’s ‘cause you use Crest,” Bubbles opined. “Colgate works better.”

Bailey and I both did a double take as we looked over at her. Not often you catch me doing one of THOSE either.

“Well, it DOES,” she added. Quite sincerely, even.

After a very short moment of stunned silence in honor of the latest of Bubbles’ many contributions to the sciences of oral hygene and product placement, our favorite ADA cum fetish model threw up her hands in defeat and sat cross-legged on the couch. “OK, I give up. Just fucking do whatever else you’re going to do to me and get it over with.”

“Hey, don’t look at me, somehow I managed to sleep through this one.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she muttered, all the while painstakingly adjusting the tops of her hose to even them out, after which she turned her attention to straightening her garters. That might sound hot, but it was actually kinda disturbing.

“Really,” I shrugged and turned to Bubbles, who seemed lost in thought. Well, more lost than usual, anyway. “She just woke me up a few minutes ago.”

“Hmm,” Bubbles mused softly to herself. “All I got was a three-way with the maid.”

“Three-way with the MAID?!” Now I was starting to get royally pissed, feeling kinda like Charlie Brown on Halloween.

I got a blow job from a DA dressed like a Victoria’s secret model!

I got a three-way with the Mexican moon maid and a schoolyard lawyer with lips like a vaccuum cleaner!

I got a rock.

Well, a head full of strange new words anyway. I felt fucking short-changed. Something else that doesn’t happen to me very often. He even took his damn WATCH back, the ingrate.

“Yeah, Karina,” Bubbles giggled, not paying the least bit of attention to my bruised ego. “And she taught me some really COOL new nasty Spanish words, among other things.”

“OK! OK!” Bailey interrupted, launching to her feet and stumbling towards me with obvious ill intent. “I suppose you’re going to tell me THAT wasn’t your idea either?”

Now I WAS offended and stood my ground. “Oh, yeah, like I’m gonna throw an orgy and NOT invite myself?”

“Yeah,” Bubbles threw her two cents in, “I FELT like something was missing, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Never been in an orgy without Bandy around.”

“Riiight,” Bailey was still unconvinced as she stood towering above us, one hand balled in a fist on her hip while she unconsciously dug the black thong out of her butt crack with the other. “So you’re telling me you had absolutely NOTHING to do with this?”

I was about to shrug and go into my innocent act again when Bubbles interrupted as only Bubbles can. I wasn’t the only one who noticed Bailey adjusting her underwear.

“Geez, Bailey, you SHAVED?!”

“Of COURSE I fucking shaved, you imbecile!” She started trembling, which can be hazardous to your health when you’re wearing platforms. “You think I’d be seen in PUBLIC in something like this if I didn’t...if I...” Both hands flew to cover her face and she plopped down backwards onto the sofa again and sat there unmoving for a few moments. “Oh, just fucking SHOOT me, already,” she muttered, finally.

“Sorry,” mumbled Bubbles as she sat down beside her. “If it bothers you so much, just take it off,” and she reached down for one of the pumps.

“Don’t you think I’ve TRIED?!” Most of the fire was gone, but she had enough left to reach down and slap Bubbles’ hand away from the shoe. “These damned shoes have fallen off by themselves at least fifteen times, but I keep putting the fucking things back on.”

“COOL!”

So much for compassion. Bubbles, being Bubbles, just HAD to try it out for herself and grabbed one of the shoes with all her might, which resulted in a two-minute tug of war over a clear blue seven-inch platform shoe that neither one of them would be caught dead claiming under normal circumstances.

Just another day in casa la Higgenbottom.

Whatever Henry did to Bailey was stronger than Bubbles’ attention span, not that that’s any big feat in itself. The man needed to learn the art of subtlety, though, ‘cause making your wife walk everywhere in seven-inch heels isn’t exactly safe, even if she DOES have free health insurance provided by the city.

“Wow!” commented a breathless Bubbles as she finally gave up the fight and collapsed on her side of the couch. “That’s some strong mojo.”

“Hmph!” I hmphed. “Dilettante.”

“Words are cheap, Bandan, even the big ones.” Bailey was looking straight at me, but I figure the evil eye was probably a bit dewy behind those Armanis. “How many bones do I have to break first?” She practically shoved the shoe back on her foot. For emphasis, I assume.

“I dunno how much I can do,” I mused, “because I don’t know exactly what was done. I might just end up making things worse.”

“Oh, yeah,” countered Bailey, who obviously hadn’t lost her sarcasm along with her fashion sense, “we couldn’t have THAT, could we?” She gave one of her garters a sharp “thwack” for effect.

I smiled wryly and backpeddled quickly away from the sofa. “I suppose while I study the situation in more detail, I can ADD a thing or two.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Her face contorted again as she jumped off the sofa in my direction, “Not MORE!” and she practically skated across the floor in the heels towards me. Luckily, I happened to be wearing my two-hundred dollar Air Jordans and it really wasn’t much of a contest.

“COOL!” chirped Bubbles, as her eyes followed Bailey through several sharp twists and turns around the various works of art in pursuit of yours truly. “Stripperwear Slalom!”

OK, so she wasn’t exactly Gold Medal material, but I bet even Ginger Rogers couldn’t have managed as well in those shoes. And I certainly wasn’t going to allow her to get my neck within hand’s reach. She finally gave up somewhere between that Statue of David and a bust of Thurgood Marshall. “I’m gonna...fucking...kill...you...” she panted.

“heh, you’re...gonna...have to...stand in line,” I panted back. “Anyway...that’ll...have to do until I...can find Henry and figure out...”

“You’re really...serious...about having...nothing to do with...”

“Well...I wouldn’t say...’nothing’...exactly...”

“So...you’re telling me...that Henry—that little...nerdy dweeb I...married...”

She followed my gaze back to his portrait. I swear those eyes got nastier each and every time I looked up there.

She waved a hand dismissively at the picture. “...HE did this to me!”

“Well, I’m sure it’s just a LITTLE more complicated than that, but yeah.”

“Oh, c’mon,” she said, rolling her eyes with one half of her brain while straightening her thigh-high seams with the other, “Henry’s as harmless as a hamster. The man can’t even look me in the eye half the time, for chrissakes.”

“That was the OLD Henry, I’m afraid.”

“The ‘OLD’ Henry?”

“Yeah, you know I’m like the old Army in that I like to help the people around me be the best they can be?”

“If THAT’S what you want to call it.”

“Well, I think something went screwy.”

“Screwy?”

“Let’s just say now I’VE got the script to ‘My Fair Lady’ running through my head, not to mention each and every Supreme Court decision that Earl Warren ever copped to.”

“And Henry?”

As if on cue, Karina sauntered into the room, now wearing a tired chiche French maid outfit, doing her best blank-eyed Stepford Maid impersonation, and holding out a broom in one hand and a vibrating red rabbit in the other.

“Work or play?” she smiled and asked, to no one in particular.