AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 62

Griff closed the Book, and examined the Book marks: not the right combination for another risk.  It pissed him to no end, but he continued wailing away at the black armies.

Whatever drugs Timmy Book was on took his mind to solar systems that were beyond even blondie’s reach, and did not deter his sexual functioning.  Book and his partner in crime adjourned to the bed beyond for a bit of back-door work.  This revved Griff’s mixoscopia, and in between dice throws he put the Greek lovers on his video screens.

The things he could do with that hand-held remote control.

Griff noticed that Reed didn’t like this, so he went for some XXX-Rated close-ups: you could read the name-brand on the condom as it dipped into the fudge pot.  Miss Barbara was making a prodigious amount of noise: pleasure/pain squeals.

Reed was quietly getting intensely angry: but damn it, $400,000 dollars was $400,000 dollars.  Everyone else here seemed to think it was great.  Shall we give ancient Rome lessens in decadence?  All these luscious ladies, lounging around on pillows, half of them half-undressed in lace teasers & sheer catsuits & silk sleepshirts & other naughties, watching the high-stakes game and/or the TV monitors of the couple and their unnatural sexual intercourse.

Every few minutes Reed had to physically remove the blonde’s fingers from his flesh.

“Roll the dice, Griff,” Reed said.  “Quit playin’ with your toys.”

A male voice boomed from out beyond the open bedroom door, somewhere down the hallway to Griff’s living room.  “Hello!  Hell-OO-oooh!  The professional partiers have arrived, Griff.”

Invasion of the Sportsman regulars.  Party-people surged into the giant bedroom, humming with drunken excitement.  A six-pack of them, bludgeoning Reed’s already weakened concentration.

Square root of shit, Reed thought, as he recognized one of the voices.

“Reed!” Harlot sang out, routing out the Rock-and-Roll rooters, and polarizing the would-be horizontal hellions.  “It’s you!”

“What’s all this I hear about a half a million dollar bet on a game of Parcheesi?” one guy yelled out.

“Risk, you corksucker,” Griff yelled.

“But what’s this about the half a million?”

“Four hundred thou,” Griff corrected.  “Already in my bank account.”

“Roll the fucking dice,” Reed said.

“Griff!” Harlot yelled, “you need more TVs.  And tuned to something besides the Sportsman channel.  This is VUL-gar.”

“Hey, goddamn it!” Timmy Book shouted.  “Shaddup!  People’re tryin’ ta fuck, over here!”  Then he really shoved it to her, making Miss Barbara cry out in pain.

“Ah, bugger off, you two.”  Griff rolled the dice.

That brought California chuckles and hand clapping; and an “Oh, my Gawd,” from Harlot, who now saw that it wasn’t cable, it was live CCTV of the couple over on Griff’s gigantic bed.

Harlot found her way to floor level, edge of the Risk board, and squeezed up against Reed’s right side.  “Who’s your new friend?” she asked him.

“Where’s yours?”  He rolled the dice in defense.

“Oh, he got lonely for his orangutan.  I sent him home.  You really got four hundred grand bet on this thing?”

Servants were bringing in folding director’s chairs for the spectators.  A butler was passing around with edible goodies on a tray——he also enforced the No Shoes dress code.

“Play some tunes!” Harlot shouted, and low level Rock-and-Roll created a soundtrack for the bung-hole video.

Giles Griffin ended his turn, passed the attack dice to Reed; he was temporarily Big Man On Continents.

Reed turned the doubling cube over to 16, risked, and then brought a nuclear winter to the Risk board; a black invasion that darkened whole continents.

The “sporting gallery” went wild as the stakes were raised to $800,000 dollars.

Byron Reed thought for sure that he could wipe out Griff on this turn.  It would have been slightly safer to attack Anne first and get her cards, and then take out Griff.  But Reed didn’t really think of this until he was already committed.  He got angry with himself for not doing the obvious, but continued the attack against Griff.  He was not thinking clearly AT ALL.

And Giles’ luck was phenomenal; surprised even him.  Reed gloomily realized that he probably wasn’t going to wipe out Griff this turn, that when he didn’t, that the advantage would shift away from him.

“Hey,” Reed told Harlot.  “Go over there and distract him.”

“Distract him?”

“Yeah, he’s far too lucky.”

Harlot laughed.  “You doof.”  Reed was speaking loudly enough so that most of the people could hear him, including Giles Griffin.

“Come on, Harley.  I’m serious.”

“How am I supposed to distract him?”

“Sit on his face, steal his remote control; I don’t care.”

Giles Griffin laughed.

“No!” Harlot said.  “I’m leaving.”

Everybody was sorry to see her go, except Reed.  She made a big production out of leaving, completely stalling the Risk game; and she already had a male escort to take her home, a guy who had been waiting jealously while she had been sitting down next to Reed.

So Reed turned to Ms. Cape Canaveral, and launched a military satellite.  “Hey, get your hands off me, and put them where they’ll do some good.”  She looked at him like a phased out program.  Reed said, “Go over there.  Grab him not me, and make him forget all about this game.  Scramble his brains for me, will ya?”

Everyone thought this was cute.

This was NASA’s (Nymphomaniac Airhead Sexual Animal’s) big chance to capture the imagination of the Sportsman Public.  To get on TV.  To get back at Griff for four-F-ing her.  To get paid for doing it, too!  “Is that an order?” she asked Reed.

“Damn right, it’s an order!  Go to it.”

“Yes, sir!” she shouted, saluting him.  She crawled behind Anne and around the board, all white lingerie and white nylons, over to Griff, sending out seriously seductive signals.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Griff asked her.

“Following orders,” she told him.  Well, she was supposed to keep Byron Reed happy.  She slithered a hand into the pee-slit of Griff’s pajamas, and followed orders.

Reed did not achieve his intended effect.  The game entered a Time Out period while the blonde did some structural work on Griff’s solid-fuel booster rocket.  Griff fingered his camera remote-control, giving close-up, closed-circuit TV-coverage to the event.  The blonde opened her mouth as wide as the sky, and began her countdown.

The pro party people were hooting and hollering Animals!

Reed rolled the dice.  Giles Griffin defended himself: “Peach, this subversive . . . double-agent has laid siege to my fortress.”  He groaned as the girl-gantry’s rotating service structure went into action.  “Attack!”  He pointed at Byron Reed.  “Attack!”

The Mistress of the Sportsman mansion did what was necessary to remain the Mistress of the Sportsman mansion.  She gritted her teeth, pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, growled, and slinked her sinfully sexy body around the boardgame onto Reed’s lap.  She sabotaged Reed’s entire ensemble of objections; she made him hard, and she made him like it.  It was easy.  When he tried to stand up, and push her away, she put her arms around his neck, sat on his lap, and said, “Don’t.”  Her eyes said don’t.  Her hands said don’t.  Her kiss said don’t.  His erection said won’t.  She had it out of his boxer shorts and tuxedo slacks in a jiffy.

“Attababy!”  “That’s the way to do it!”  “Baaaaad!”  It was thumping, uninhibited applause from the director-chair balcony.  “AaaaaaalllRRRRiiiiiiiiiiiiiT!!”

The doubling cube on 16, $800,000 dollars, the bedtime blonde going down on Griff, humming & slurping & licking & clinging to him, the Risk board, black phalli exploding across the continents, driving the other colors into tiny cowering corners, the crude crowd going as wild as male beer-guzzlers at a wet T-shirt & topless dance contest, TV monitors ALL OVER THE PLACE, some filled with images of Gomorrah and fellatio, some with the sins of the city of Sodom, there were Reed’s attack dice thrown, two fives and a three, and Byron Reed in the middle of this dementia, being destroyed by a SEXUAL FIRE.  The decadence.  Every legal and moral standard of decency down the drain: this was zipper morality, his mind overruled; and Reed’s body LOVED IT.  Peach took off her pink panties, from under her skirt.  She tucked them into the tux-pocket with Reed’s hanky; they dangled openly.  Peach straddled Byron Reed.  “Fuck!” Reed yelled.  “Wait just one fucking minute!  I want a condom, damn it!”  She was biting his ear, squirming every lush curve of her body against him.  Griff gave a signal, and one of the females dug one out of a nearby drawer and took it over to Peach and Reed, and tore open the package, and the party girl smoothed it over Reed’s erect penis.  This elicited the standard SAFE SEX catcalls.  Peach fluffed her skirt up at his face, and she grasped his cock and inserted him between her legs; and he was Shadrach cast into her burning fiery furnace.

“Don’t you dare lose,” Peach whispered into Byron’s ear.  “Don’t you dare.  Watch out for Anne.  She works for Griff.”

A dignified butler approached with a thick, fluffy bath towel, and admonished them against fucking on the carpeting.  “Jesus Christ,” Reed yelled, but managed to get most of the towel under them without actually knocking the Risk board too far aside.  His foot sent armies scattering from some of the territories.

Griff ejaculated angry replacement instructions to the butler, as if it were his fault for allowing it to happen.

Like a chameleon, Anne stood up and stripped down her bluejeans for action.  Her Jockey underwear followed.  “Who has a tongue long enough for me?” she shouted.  Her figure was not spectacular, but eminently lickable.

The butler dryly supplied her with a towel, and spread it out on her space beside the Risk board.

One of the fast track boys ran around to oblige her.  He laid his head down on her towel, on his back, perpendicular to the board.  His happy-tongue did some warm-up exercises that brought a round of roguish laughter from the not-so-innocent bysitters.  Anne sat on his face, and as she lowered herself she told him, “I used to be a stewardess, so trust me: just put this over your nose and mouth and continue to breathe normally.”  He started to laugh, but was quickly muffled.  Anne grabbed him by his hair to encourage him: she was ready to continue the game.

Griff was a happyhappyhappy man; he had his orgy and he had his Risk game too.  He was hard and he was on TV and he was in a lovely lady’s trained mouth, and he was winning!

Giles Griffin threw his defensive dice; two 5s, and he directed the butler to remove two of Reed’s armies.

Softening of the brain and hardening of the cock; Reed’s mind was a blank, but his penis was fully loaded.  Now he was so turned on he COULDN’T come.  The condom was a goddamn 12-ply raincoat.  Reed picked Peach up, maneuvered her onto her back, mid-screw, and laid her out missionary-style; her head jiggled the doubling cube from the compass rose of the board, and Reed placed the cube down on the whale in the Atlantic Ocean, 16 up.  Peach’s legs clamped down on the backs of his knees to slow down his power-fucking and subtly redirect his thrusts.

The butler knelt down with exalted dignity, and assisted the participants.  He handed Reed the attack dice.

“I don’t fucking believe this,” Reed said.  “Iceland attacks Greenland!”  He was HOT, blasting with the sexual rush.  Awkwardly, he screwed Peach and threw the dice into the container the butler held for him.

Peach told Reed, “I’ve heard of big-shot generals screwing their supporters, but this is a riot!”

The guitarist and his groupie were now lost somewhere in anonymous innocuous cuddling——not TV worthy——and Griff had long since come, NASA accepted his payload and she was patiently rescheduling a second launch; Griff’s ceiling cameras could not seem to get acceptable angles on the nearby cunnilingus . . . so Reed and Peach were the new TV stars of the show, featured on the deca-redundant TV-monitors.

Scarlet-fever purple hose and pumps . . . standing there beside fucking Byron & Peach, close to the edge of the board; and up there on the giant TV monitors, there was her image: Courty, wearing some kind of absurd hospital gown instead of her jacket.  Beside her, stood Lauren, holding her shoes in her hands.

Whispering flashed like wildfire across the painted lips.  “That’s Courty!”  “Look!  Look who just walked in, look who’s over by Byron Reed!  It’s Courty!”  “Yeah, she’s a screw-stopper.”

Half-dressed half-heads (the coined dysphemism for Courty wanna-bes) did some headwork: Where did she get the awesome gray gown?  Where can I get one just like it!?  God, wonder if I’ll get a chance to ask her!  Ooooh, it’s sooo baggy, and sooo camp——I’d better hurry, or Everyone will be wearing one Without Me!

“Excuse me, Miss Courty,” the stately butler said.  “Remove your shoes.”

Reed saw Courty’s legs standing next to him, and Courty’s image up on the monitors behind Griff.

“Miss Courty.  Please take off your shoes.”

Peach was sexually dazed, but she didn’t look at all embarrassed as she noticed Courty standing over them.  She looked proud.  She smiled a deliciously evil smile of triumph, and continued her minor moans and sexual squeaks, continued tossing her head around in pretended passion, continued pulling and holding Byron Reed as if he were hers, continued her challenging look up at Courty.

But Reed was slumped, still, flaccid; devastated.

Griff was semi-hard and semi-pissed: “Courty!  Take off your damn shoes!”

Lauren was standing behind Courty.  She had her hand on Courty’s good shoulder.  “Courty, let’s go.  Peach, How COULD YOU?!”

Tears started to fall from Courty’s eyes.  Her eyes wet and blurry, she looked around . . . at the blonde fellatrice sucking Giles Griffin’s penis, at the cunnilinguist’s tireless tongue on the other player’s vagina, around at ALL THE TV’s and the obscene images they displayed . . . at Reed . . . fucking . . . Peach . . . Her tears were a river, now.  Courty turned around and, with Lauren’s help, stumbled out of the bedroom.

Reed backed off of Peach.  He was so limp, the condom slipped off and fell on the towel.

Peach fluffed her skirt back down over her genitals and thighs, and sat up.  She growled at the absurdity of the situation, and got up and went back over to Griff.  She sat behind him, putting both hands on him and giving him a neck rub, while the space cake continued to give Griff a penis rub.

Griff turned the doubling cube over to 32.  “Why don’t you just pay me now?” Griff said, a confident smile on his face.

The room hummed with sudden excitement: One million, six hundred thousand dollars bet on a game of Risk!

Byron Reed slowly put his penis back into his slacks and zipped up.  He wanted to die, or kill; he wasn’t sure which.  Instead, he reached, and tipped over the doubling cube to 64.  “Roll the fucking dice, Griff.”

COURTNEY, Chapter 63
 

Copyright 2005 Area 47