[Intermission, Part 1] Simple Sunday Mornings

Ding-dong.

Exactly three classes of people rang that infernal device: gophers for politicians, religious salesmen, and Charlie when he'd been drinking. The analog clock on the nightstand, bulbous and with every alarm switched off, read 8:58AM. That eliminated Charlie; he always came around before 5:00AM. It was a tad early for stooges, too, especially on a Sunday. The lump under the comforter shifted and groaned; it was not in the mood to humor old ladies pushing Jehovah or the young, pitying stares of virgins sworn to a Utah cult.

Ding-dong.

8:59AM. A persistent one. With a huff, the covers were flung away. Ophelia sighed with all the morning excitement that her newly unemployed nights of binge-drinking allowed: a low, bassy grumble that caused her to wince as she maneuvered on the bed. Her prosthetics were on the right side of her bed, angular and black like the stark, cheap furniture she had chosen for her bedroom. Swinging her right leg over, she began the rote process of wiping the ends of her residual limbs clean of the nightly ointments, strapping herself in and, once her form was complete again, not bothering to put on clothes before taking the Glock out from under her pillow and marching towards the door.

"God and Heaven help whoever the fuck thinks they can wake me up..." the veteran grumbled as her nude, scarred form carelessly walked past her hallway window. She stomped past her ill-used kitchen and through a living room that was naught but a black loveseat, a wall-mounted television, and a liquor cabinet that was, like the bottles within, mostly empty glass. She flicked off the safety and readied for a violent breach as she stalked up to her own door. Better be an overzealous Jesus freak, or so help me I'll be on the news... Cautiously, after checking the deadbolts for tampering, she saddled up to the door and peeked through the hole. Isn't... isn't that...? She shook her head in an effort to rid herself of confusion. How the Hell did he find out where I live...? Fuck it, probably here on Hawthorne orders- no... that doesn't make any sense... right? "Whaddya want?" she called out, and immediately regretted as her head throbbed.

"I... can't talk about it in the hall, but I just want to talk about what happened." Ophelia's mind went to her nosy neighbors; it was bad enough some 18-year-old punk was at her door. She shook her head and immediately regretted it. John. That was his name. John Newman, as she learned later when she did a background check. He had called her last night in the middle of her drinking binge; he claimed he found her number on Vanessa's phone, unlikely as that sounded. She tried to recall their conversation beyond that. What did he want? She racked her brain as she looked at the fish-eye image of the boy: jeans, a white t-shirt, a backpack, and a smile.

She looked down at herself; still naked and not yet bathed. The memory of their "time" together bubbled up, and she snorted. Still, no reason to give him a show... there's no way that that is what he wanted to hire me for... "One second..."

Two minutes later, a series of bolts and chains rattled as the preamble to the portal opening to reveal the boy. She stood by the door, sheathed in a pink bathrobe, at profile as she scanned his body. Meeting his eyes, she had to admire his will as an eighteen-year-old: despite knowing what she looked like under the bathrobes, he didn't wear pity in that gaze. Worry, perhaps, but not pity.

"May I come in?"

"Get in here."

John complied, walking past her... and taking in the bare walls and minimal furnishings of a soldier. He looked ready to comment when he turned and saw her close the door with her prosthetic... and hold a silenced Glock at her right hip, previously out of sight. Much as she hated firing from the hip, the distance between them was too short to risk bringing the gun any closer to him. His surprise, and lack of armed response, almost made her regret the extra security. "You'll have to excuse my hospitality, Johnny," Ophelia muttered, "but I can't imagine I gave you my address, even if I was knocking back shots when you called." Coyly, she added, "Asking a girl while she's drunk is a dirty trick, by the way."

John held his hands up. He looked nervous and... amused? The boy was a mystery, but Ophelia was pretty sure that getting shot was no basis for a laugh. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to hire you as soon as possible."

"Hire me?" She almost made a quip about being unable to afford him... but then, Vanessa seemed to take his offer to buy the maids seriously enough. "What for?" John raised an eyebrow at her. "... You already told me, didn't you? Well, tell me again, Johnny boy."

John grimaced past the hated nickname. "Well... you told me it took about six grand to get those maids to safety... and I agreed to get you that money. For a bit extra, you agreed to teach me how to shoot a gun."

The gentle sounds of downtown traffic, even on a Sunday, could be heard here from the fourth floor. The A/C had not yet kicked in; such was the only noise in the air as she took a minute to recall glimpses and slices of the conversation she had lost to vodka. "Why the Hell do you need to learn how to shoot?"

"I... don't want to rely on others," he admitted.

What the Hell does that mean? "How noble of you.... but yeah... I'm getting bits of it back... You were going to pay me today, was it? It's all there, in that backpack?" John nodded, and moved to remove it. She tensed, but kept the gun trained on him as he worked. He made his movements more deliberate as he opened the bag completely and let it flap open... revealing two bars of what looked a Hell of a lot like gold and a wad of Benjamins rubber-banded into a roll. She shook her head slightly; she was sure she had remembered that part of the conversation wrong. Gold? The money was strange enough, but these fat-cat bricks were far more than a step stranger. "There's... no way those're real."

"You can get them verified if you like... I'll leave it all here, and when you're satisfied... maybe we can have after-school or weekend lessons?"

Ophelia's glare swapped between the impossible bounty, which John now stacked neatly on her cheap carpet floor, and the absurd, secretly rich boy. She had done in-depth background checks, tapped a friend in the FBI, even drove by his house just to check out his alleged address. It had all added up to a somewhat privileged life, but virtually impoverished compared to the average Academy student household income. Yet here we are... But if the gold was gold... what's a bit of firearms training? Think straight, Ophelia. First you need to make sure it's all on the level. "Sure... but I'll need at least a week to have it all verified. Are you alright with a week?"

"Sure!" Too eager, but his smile seemed earnest. Her nose flared as she contemplated what could be a new enemy. "Um... should I leave, then...?" John eyed her robes as they parted slightly, revealing the swell of the only breast she had next to the straps of her left arm.

She bit her lip to repress the laugh. Almost cute, Johnny. "Get out."

"Yes, ma'am."

[NOTE: The other half of this chapter is focused on a certain janitor and contains violent ****. If that was upsetting or undesired last time, then skip over the remainder of this intermission chapter.]

Gerald sipped his coffee slowly, pursing his leathery face as he enjoyed its bitter flavor. The Cuck Factory was his favorite haunt, the kind of place the rich would never be caught dead in if they could help it, and 4:04AM was just the right time for him to be alone: the truck drivers had already hit the road, the few that came this far in-town, the security guards had paid their tips, but the gardeners hadn't quite woken for coffee yet. Sure enough, outside of his booth and the two dames who all but ran the joint, the place was a ghost town. As his fat lips suckled on his cup, he eyed the furious blonde sitting across from him. He smacked his lips and sighed his loud satisfaction as he took her in. "So, you understand, right?"

Vanessa, in the cheapest designer hoodie she owned and with her face half-covered in a scarf to protect her identity, only nodded. She clenched her phone hard enough to turn her knuckles white. He had texted her the link anonymously before to lure her here; the threat had included a warning to not bring anyone else, lest the link automatically get replicated and shared to news outlets, and she had obeyed so far. Here, in the cold, cold booth of a Sunday morning diner, he showed her all his other videos: of her tormenting Frank, her having other football players eat her out as they followed her commands, and ever more of her sexual debauchery. He had been preparing a long, detailed dossier to **** her... but the video that brought her here, the video that was impossible, was the real mystery. Obviously he doctored it, but how did he do it so convincingly? It was timestamped: the Friday that just passed, the day that Vanessa had felt just passed her by while she contemplated a way to get John back. Her friends had seemed out of it, too. Did something magical... no, did something horrible happen? "That first video is fake..."

"I thought so, too, princess," Gerald chuckled, "but my cameras don't have any reason to fake a video for me, now do they? We weren't the only ones fucking in the closets, either... tons of kids, in every single one, having all kinds o' fun... heh heh..." That was half the story, of course: Gerald had gone home expecting and remembering nothing. His memories had been as wiped of all school sexual activity as everyone else's... and indeed, even his phone had been checked for footage and recordings, of which every single one of Vanessa had been deleted. But no one checked the closets for hidden cameras; no one checked his home computer for its connection to the networked HUB that each hidden camera reported to. And so there it was, to confuse and slightly terrify Gerald: a long, brutal video of him fucking one of the richest brats at Ashcroft; the same brat whose blackmailing he had been working on for weeks. He had no explanation... but he had ugly, greedy prayers of praise to whatever Devil put it on his server, even if that same devil somehow made him forget.

"And you think you'll get away with this?"

"I've got far less to lose than you and your daddy, that's for sure... and trust me, ain't no one you can hire who'll do more than tell you how fucked you are. I've got these links prepped all over to go off simultaneously. The news, the UTuube news, the tabloids, Republicans, Democrats- Hell, I even got it ready to send to some old buddies of mine just to show 'em I still got it, hah!"

Even with her pretty face sheathed, he could read her furious grimace.

"I tell ya... they never shoulda kicked me out of school... I knew where computers were going, y'know? But ah well, here I am... hitting the jackpot."

"You can't think my estate will just give you money for this."

"Estate? Hell, sweet cheeks, I'm a simple man: I know you get a few thousand as fun-money every week... heck, you bragged about it twice in my little love dens," he quietly cackled, tossing the odd glance at the waitress to make sure she was busy doing nothing at the far-end of the diner. "I just need one of those thousands... and your attention, whenever I want it."

Vanessa's eyes seethed with fury. "My... 'attention'? I'll have you in cement boots before the sun comes up, you ugly fucking piece of-"

"And then what?" Vanessa clenched her teeth. "C'mon sweet cheeks, what happens when all this goes live before you can even hire the guy who will tell you it's impossible to find out everything I set to go off? What happens when it all goes... live? Your dad's political career? You mentioned some pretty ugly things to your boyfriends in there... how your daddy made troublesome people disappear, and how they'd disappear too if they ever spoke a word. Remember that?" The warmth of her anger drained from her face. "I did some homework on the name you dropped... Henry Dallas? Poor kid... just think what they'll say when they found out it wasn't an accident? That's your 'estate' in the shitter, at least enough to ruin your life. You'll be out of the Academy, 'course, with all the blackmailing and fucking you do there... and, well, the rest of your life... heh... maybe you can sell the book, but that's about it for a prissy cumslut with no friends."

"... I..." Vanessa choked on her words.

The janitor leaned in, and the coffee on his breath made his words sting her eyes. "I will fucking end everything for you if you so much as shake that ass in a way I don't like. Capiche?"

Tears welled in her eyes as she looked up at him. She felt powerless... again. How did this keep happening? How did it get worse? His tongue rolled between his lips as he looked down the zipper of her jacket, and she leaned back against the booth's miserably stiff cushioning. She was trapped... for now. "Fine... I'll do what you want, for now..."

"Yeah, for now," he chuckled. "Okay girlie: I'm going to the men's room." He lowered his head as he eyed her past his eyebrows, and she stared back blankly, unsure of his meaning. "I'm going to expect you to follow me in there after a minute. If I get to three minutes without you coming into my stall, the videos go live. Got it?"

Vanessa panicked and stumbled her syllables as she asked for clarity, for mercy, for more time if she could have even that- but he already stood up, threw a twenty onto a table with the remains of breakfast and coffee for one, and lurched towards the men's room.

Two minutes later...

Vanessa immediately took a step back as he reached for her, but the hesitation of knowing the price of freedom kept her close enough for him to grab her by the back of her hooded neck and lead her forward and into the narrow men's stall. His greedy fingers scooped her head, and removed the hoodie, in one motion; a tug brought her mask down, and his gash of a mouth engulfed her lips in a sloppy, coffee-tinged kiss. Gagging at the stench of either him or the restaurant restroom, her body began to quake as he shoved her further in; she was being shoved into one of the ghastly stalls of this place. Gracelessly, she fell over the toilet until her hands and face came to rest against the filthy tiles of the back of the stall. Gerald followed close and closed the stall behind him as he pressed his bulk against her body. His hands traveled down and hooked his meaty thumbs into the hem of her sweatpants. "You're gonna bend over and keep your mouth shut," he hissed, "and I'm gonna collect my first favor before I gotta work at six. You're gonna be a good girl, right?" Her legs threatened to give as he peeled her pants and panties down in a single, humiliating gesture. He soaked in the toned rump of a cheerleader, the legs that went for days, the completely adult, child-bearing hips of a girl who probably had little to no intention of birthing anyone's brats. He gave in to temptation and nestled his nose against her sex, snorting up the scent of the quivering quim before him. Her eyes burned; as much as she wanted to put her mind anywhere else, her attention to every horrible detail burned too white-hot. "Oh yeah... that's the stuff. So you're going to be good girl, right?"

"Yes," she choked out.

It was all the consent he needed. He pulled her back until his back was against the stall door and pushed her torso down so her hands propped onto the dirty toilet. With a happy sigh, he fished his old seven-incher out, hard as tack from anticipation, and with the aim of a sailor gave it a generous wad of spit from mouth to cock. His hand pumped it twice to make it glisten, and he was ready to delve into his dry new mistress the way he apparently did in the video of the Friday he had somehow forgotten. Gerald was confused, mundane, alarmed... but he was also old enough to not look a gift horse in the mouth. Questions of memory and reality were muted as he sighed with the joy of feeling his dickhead peel apart and press through the folds of teenage pussy. He was about ready to nut already; he had no time to waste.

Hooking the tip of his manhood into the dry hole that awaited it, he gripped her hips and tugged. She cried out, and covered her mouth for fear of being discovered. He shoved again, dragging barely-slick cock through a barely-moistened tunnel of clenching meat. Her body wanted to reject him; it just squeezed and urged him on as he gave her a few more testing pumps, reveling in getting half his meat into her before her body finally stopped resisting and finally started helping him. She wasn't aroused-not in the slightest, as her mind was on the verge of wandering into a coma from the despair that welled in her-but the body knew better than to invite injury. Slowly, her hole grew wet enough so he could slowly, achingly, fill her down to his hilt. "Oooh... no wonder I managed two rounds with ya, girly... you're tighter than a dream..."

Vanessa felt ready to vomit into the toilet below, but any noise from her could be a **** sentence in her mind. I'll find a way out of this... I'll... I'll kill him. Somehow, I'll get the videos deleted... I'll find out how he did this... and I'll kill him... I'll kill him... I'l kill him...! He pushed her away slightly... and viciously humped back into her. She sentenced him to ****. For every pump he died, and with every groan of his came her tortured realization that she had no idea how she'd do it. The bathroom stall shuddered with his brutal pounding; her body quaked in tandem as it adjusted to being slowly, painfully fucked. It was not an unfamiliar sensation, but this was far from her familiar love; where John would have taken her to the stars by now, here she could do naught but groan over the toilet at the joyless waves that vibrated through her. She couldn't come; her body had been trained for another, and, without another magical intervention, it was all that kept her body from quivering on his cock. John... John... please... She screwed her eyes shut as she realized her plea. Save me... please-

"Take... it... all," he grunted. She nearly screamed, but even this could not overcome her fear of discovery by that addled waitress or the crone in the kitchen. She swallowed her scream... and dripped tears into the toilet as she felt him begin to flush her cunt with sperm. Was she fertile, after everything John had done? She still didn't reinsert her birth control... as she had admitted that much in the video. The bastard knew this, and the bastard didn't care in the video or now as his swimmers bathed her cervix. They'd swim in her uterus for almost a week, hoping and waiting for their prize. The sweat on Vanessa's back grew cold at the realization. Cum dripped in a long, thick line from between her legs to pool at the center of her sweatpants and thong, promising a disgusting ride back home. He slid out of her. It was over.

"Clean me up," he chuckled. "And if I feel teeth? It's lights out for you and your prospects." Gerald handled her until she was sitting on the toilet, letting the rest of his seed ooze into the bowl as she faced his still-twitching meat, now caked in his cock batter, a smidgen of her juices, and just a tinge of red. Vanessa nearly gagged looking upon it. He wasn't willing to wait for her to get adjusted before grabbing her head and guiding her lips onto it. "Say aaaah." Silently, she screamed as requested. Her lips parted, and the cock slid over her tongue with the awful taste of his spunk. Her body convulsed as she felt it hit the back of her throat; he didn't let up. "Look at me while you clean me off." With burning red eyes, she did; she glared up at that smug, almost stone-like face, etched it into her memory, and could barely taste anything as her body threatened to faint. Men. A reminder. Her consciousness returned in full, and she burned the horrible flavor of the lesson into her memory. She would remember it, this time.

Satisfied, Gerald withdrew from his new piece of rapebait and smiled smugly as she remained seated, his seed dripping from her and her lips caked in his leftovers. "Have the money for me on Monday... and hey: maybe I'll get you nice and wet first, next time."

He left without her; she wouldn't follow for thirty minutes as she squatted on the toilet, her body trembling.