Excerpt for Outta Here by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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Johnny’s told me to steal a Chevy. It’s our big day. Johnny’s being released from prison at nine o’clock this morning and he wants to ride home in style.

I find a red fifty-seven Chevrolet Belair parked outside a bar in East Beresford. The bar’s called ‘The Raging Bull’. The fifty seven Belair’s a model Johnny likes, chrome spears on the front fenders, flat wing tailfins, the Ferrari grille. The Ferrari grille makes me uneasy. The Chevy’s got Florida plates. The Belair’s from out of town, but I’ve seen the Ferrari grille just recently, somewhere, I can’t remember where.

I’m not usually this jittery, but I don’t normally steal cars at half past eight in the morning in five inch heels and a polka dot dirndl skirt with spaghetti straps and a peekaboo neckline. Johnny gave me strict instructions about what he wants me to wear for his homecoming. He was especially particular about the imitation Dior silk panties. They’re damp already, and it isn’t the heat off the sidewalk. I’m only jittery because Johnny hasn’t held me in his arms for four years. I’m only nervous because I haven’t kissed those strong sinuous lips in four years, two months, twenty three days and sixteen and a half hours.

I hanger the window, slide in and hotwire the ignition.

I sit for a second and savour the rumble of the V8 engine. It comes up through the upholstery and does something to the backs of my legs. The Belair’s a classic car, but that engine’s taken some beating in its time. For an instant I think the sour smell’s me, but then I realize it’s coming up out of the red leather upholstery. The upholstery’s scuffed and a bit tired looking.

I have a peek across the sidewalk at the ‘Raging Bull’. The curtains are drawn in the upstairs windows next to the bar’s neon sign. The shutters are down out front.

I swing out into the traffic and get out of there pronto. The ‘Raging Bull’’s got a reputation.

Johnny’s being released at nine. With a bit of luck we’ll be back at the trailer before those shutters go up or those curtains open. We can dump the car behind the gasworks before it’s on any police computers.

My heart’s going like a grasshopper in a jam jar. It’s just like Johnny to want to be picked up from prison in a stolen car. It’s his way of making a statement. Nothing gets on top of Johnny, not even four years inside. Johnny’s got class. Sometimes I wish he didn’t have quite so much class. I’ll die if we get picked up and he goes straight back in.

The Chevy looks good on the outside but it’s not so great on the inside. The windows are dirty. The upholstery’s scuffed and smelly. Some torn trim swings from the ceiling. The backrest of the seat doesn’t feel too secure. The ashtray’s overflowing butt ends onto the takeaway cups and bobbie pins on the carpet.

The Belair isn’t so great to drive either. The gears keep slipping. The suspension’s lazy. There’s not much in the way of brakes. The accelerator’s moody. It’s hard to find the accelerator at all in high heels.

It’s not the car. It’s me. Four years is a long time. Nicole said I should get a vibrator, pretend it’s Johnny. I did. I got an expensive one, a Lucid Dreams G-Spot Maxi, but it wasn’t the same as Johnny. If anything, it came between us.

It’s not the Chevy’s fault I’m kangaroo hopping and heavy on the brakes. I’m over the moon, but I’m nervous too. It was hell visiting Johnny all those years, kissing through a Perspex screen, pressed up against the counter, so much need between my legs sometimes I thought the counter was going to catch on fire between my knees, so much love in my heart I felt sure the screen must melt. I’ll taste that Perspex for the rest of my life. I’m a good driver. I know everything there is to know about cars. It’s being so wet between the legs that’s got me heavy on the pedals.

Up ahead some lights turn red.

I hit the brakes.

The glove compartment pops open and a pistol falls out.

While I’m waiting at the lights, I stoop and pick it up.

A Glock something or other. I don’t know much about guns. Glock 21, it says on the barrel. It’s got a weird looking trigger, with a plastic bit in the middle. I turn it over. It’s hard to see where you put the bullets in. It’s probably not loaded. No one would leave a loaded pistol in a dodgy glove compartment in a car as easy to hotwire as the fifty seven Chevy. It’s impossible to tell whether it’s loaded or not. I don’t know as much about guns as I do about cars. I leave the guns to Johnny.

What am I thinking about? What the hell am I saying? I left the guns to Johnny. The guns are over and done with. The shooting’s finished. There’s going to be no more guns. The holdups are a thing of the past. Mister McPhelan, at The Pastures, says he’ll hold the handyman job open for Johnny even though he knows Johnny’s got a record. Head Handyman and Groundsman. Well, there’s only one handyman and groundsman at the Pastures, but if you’re him I suppose you’re Head. Johnny’s a knockout in a pair of overalls. The cool, lounge-y way Johnny moves he could do TV advertisements, for jackhammers, or cordless drills.

I know Mister McPhelan’s only holding the job open for Johnny because of me. Mister McPhelan says I’m the best care assistant the Pastures has got, and that the old people all love me, but really he just wants to get into my panties. Well—it’s true, I’m a good worker and the residents like me—old Mister Ricardo wants to mention me in his will me, but I said I get my reward from making him comfortable and listening to his poems—but it’s still difficult at times with Superintendent McPhelan. It doesn’t matter, but. Once he’s met Johnny he’ll realize what a hunky handyman he’s got.

The lights are taking an age to change. I’m going to be late to pick up Johnny.

I wonder if I should fire the gun, through the floor or something, to check if it’s loaded.

Hell! Where’s my head at? It’s all those years without Johnny, screwing up my mind. My panties are damp as dew on a desert ants’ nest. No one would be stupid enough to leave a loaded gun in a parked car.

The lights turn green. I stuff the pistol back in the glove compartment and shut it.

My heart’s racing. My breath comes in short, speedy jerks. I can barely believe it. In just a few minutes I’ll be holding Johnny in my arms.

I’ve got the trailer ready, balloons up, streamers in the windows, the sign hanging across the door: WELCOME HOME, JOHNNY, Johnny’s homecoming lunch ready to go in the microwave, a Papa John deep pan Hawaiian, his favourite, and Sarah Lee for dessert. Five minutes in the microwave and we’ll be eating like a king and queen. Make that five hours. The way I’m feeling, it’ll be the bedroom first, and Papa John later. I have an idea Johnny will be feeling the same way.

I put my foot down.


It’s these shoes as much as the pedals. Five inch strappy sandals.

I kick a Costa cup aside. Something grinds under the tip of my stiletto.

An abandoned bobbie pin.

It’s a strange world. It’s a blue enamel Betty Boop bobbie pin like Nicole wears.

I should take the shoes off while I’m driving, but Johnny gave me strict instructions, shoes, dirndl skirt, hair, the lot. It feels as if he’s in the car already. God, Johnny’s romantic.

Dirndl skirts are what shepherdesses wear in old musicals—well, the skirt, not the spaghetti straps and peekaboo neckline—it’s the outfit I wore on our first date! South Beresford Drive-In, when I was seventeen, before Johnny’s first spell inside. I’ve loved Leonardo di Caprio ever since. I was the happiest girl on earth that night, kissing in the back seat, so hot for Johnny I missed the Titanic going down.

The summer breeze streams over my shoulder and fingers my three-quarter length waves. I put my foot down. The old girl puts on a spurt. I feel so happy this morning, I could almost be seventeen again.

Beresford Prison’s built to look like ye olde English castle at the front, with turrets and battlements and arrow-slits, and iron studs in its big wooden gates. They had to extend it, but, and now there’s acres of steel roof and concrete walls and miles of razor wire stretching away behind the Medieval facade.

As I swing in off the freeway, I feel a twinge of regret. I’m going to miss the old place. In a weird sort of way I’ve become attached to Beresford Jail. Four years, two months, twenty three days and seventeen hours, come rain, hail or shine, I haven’t skipped a single visit. Even times when I was sick, even those times when Dave came round with beer and pizzas and I had to fight him off with my bare hands, I was always standing at those gates, first in the queue, with a smile on my face and my heart going like crazy. That’s how it is when you’re in love. This is the last time I’m ever going to have to drive round this parking lot looking for a free space.

You never find a free space straight away, even first thing in the morning. The people who design these carparks haven’t got a clue. Two thousand men locked up inside, and there’s only spaces for a hundred or so cars, and most of those are permanently nabbed by the screws and delivery trucks.

I have to keep feathering the wheel and jumping from accelerator to brake. The vehicles are all jammed in so tight it’s hard getting a wide car like the Belair through some of the gaps, especially with the steering being so heavy and the clutch keeping on slipping.

The Chevy’s like some of the old folks out at The Pastures, loose rings and temperamental with it.

There’s some security guys over by the service gates, a driver hauling cartons from a refrigerated lorry, some secretarial staff smoking on the steps outside the administration building.

A few of them look at the Chevy. No one says anything, or starts shouting for the cops, but I still feel paranoid.

Finally I find a free space, between a LandCruiser and a new Mercedes. It’s a bit close to the administration building for comfort, but it’ll have to do.

The space is definitely free. There’s a criss-cross of white lines under the Mercedes, and some white lettering under the Mercedes’s front bumper, but nothing in the space next to it.

I swing the nose out, find reverse and slot the Chevy into the gap.

There’s a noise of grinding metal.

Shit. That beam end’s a mile wide.

Glass shatters. Or maybe it’s Perspex.

It’s Johnny. It’s Johnny’s lips, the thought of being in Johnny’s arms.

I accelerate out. The Chevy climbs backwards up the Mercedes’s side doors.

Fuck. I’m still in reverse.

The way the Belair’s tilted I can tell the tail fins have knifed into the Mercedes’ doors. These gimcrack modern cars, they’re not built solid like the old classics.

Time to get out of here before the owner shows up.

It’s the new four door Mercedes Sport GLX, metallic bronze with the anti-glare sun sensor polarized glass windscreen. I know it’s brand new, not even registered, because I remember seeing dealership plates as I backed in. The cupie doll hanging in the Mercedes’ windscreen is still swinging.

I gun it. Nothing.

I’m wedged.

Over on the steps, heads are turning. The secretarial chicks heard the impact.

I tell myself to stay calm. I’ve been in worse situations, driving Johnny on a job. ‘Stay cool, babe.’ I can hear Johnny’s voice. ‘Breathe deep’. I can feel him, sliding into the passenger seat with a carrier bag full of banknotes. ‘We’re ahead of the game.’

I take a deep breath. I stay calm. I tell myself to be cool.

A hundred meters away, the door in the big gate opens. Jet black Brylcreem flashes in the sun. Johnny’s so tall he has to stoop awkwardly not to bang his head. His proud, cocky head. His drop dead gorgeous face. His lips. His eyes, hungry as a starving tiger’s, scouring the car park, scouring the car park for me!

I’m not cool at all. I can hardly breathe. I realize that I’m not staying calm.

I jump out.

The engine’s still running.

So am I. I’m running across gravel-sprinkled asphalt. I’m dodging between cars. I’m not ahead of the game at all.


I’m in his arms. My tongue’s down his throat, no Perspex, just the taste of Johnny. My heels leave the ground. He’s lifting me in the air.

He’s squeezing me so tight I can feel every inch of me pressing into every inch of him, no counter between us, no steel grille.

The fluttering in my heart starts fluttering between my legs.

Johnny’s erect. His cock’s stiff and hard. I knew it would be. He’s ready for me. He was ready for me before he even stepped through the gate. It’s why he stooped so awkwardly, the tip’s up past his low-slung belt.

“Hi, babe.”

He puts me down.

“Get the car?”

“You bet.” I lose my way in his eyes. “We gotta split, Johnny.”


“Fifty seven Belair. Quick!”

“Waheeeee! You’re my girl.”

“Six cylinder V8 engine.”

“Oh my!”

“Quickly, Johnny. Please.”

“Stay cool, babe.”

I want to run, but I’m heaved up on Johnny’s hip, his arm under my armpit, walking me on tiptoe between the parked cars, his fingers already under my spaghetti strap, registering the fact that I’m not wearing a bra, as instructed.

A surge of the biggest and best happiness I’ve ever known in my whole life lifts me up even higher, more happiness even than when I was seventeen, in this same dress, in the drive in. Nothing matters any more, as long as I’ve got Johnny.

My friends all pity me. Some of them downright laugh at me, not getting laid in four years, but it’s me who’s having the last laugh now.


Johnny surveys the Chevy.

“Very nice.”

He peers in through the window at the deluxe Belair steering wheel with its full chrome horn ring, the chrome a bit scuzzy, but, still, original.

“Beautiful, babe.”

“Gotta get out of here, Johnny. I picked it up outside the ‘Raging Bull’.”

“Sure thing, honey.”

“Had a bit of trouble parking.”

He grins at the dinged in Mercedes.

“We’re off.”

Johnny slides in.

“Let’s go.”

I slide in after him.

Johnny grins.

“You or me?”

He has the wickedest grin since the angels got kicked out of paradise.


He hasn’t driven for four years. He’s in one of his wild moods. The Chevy takes a lot of getting used to.

I gun the engine.

“Oh man!” says Johnny. “That V8 rumble!”

He climbs on top of me.

“I missed you, SandraLou.”

“I missed you too, Johnny.”

I’m looking up at the ceiling, my neck arched backwards over leather. There’s no headrest in the Chevy. Johnny’s tongue’s down my throat. My tongue’s climbing up into his mouth searching for the root of the big, delicious muscle that’s blocking off my air.

My skirt’s up around my waist. I spread my legs and Johnny climbs between them, his knees slipping and sliding on the edge of the seat, forcing my thighs apart.

There’s a scraping noise like a set of chrome teeth grinding, that’s the studs on Johnny’s belt catching in the horn ring.

He pulls my dress up round my tits and thrusts his fingers under the waistband of my panties.

The dew on the ants nest is running down my bottom. I’m climaxing already.

My pussy’s so wet his fingers sink in up to the knuckle. His knuckles are lost men wading in quicksand, hanging on to my pussy bone for dear life because I’m bucking so hard.

I don’t even have time to get my panties off. The wonderful sweetness of Johnny, the fact that there’s a Johnny in the world, stings my butt, the sweet kick that’s Johnny froths helplessly between his fingers.

“Oh! OH!”

I always come quick with Johnny but this is a world record.

“I love you, Johnny.”

“I love you too, babe.”

The horn blasts. They don’t make horns that loud any more, not even on forty tonne rigs.

Johnny’s sitting on the steering wheel. His fingers are tearing at the buckle of his belt. The horn’s as desperate for him to get his jeans off as I am.

“Gotta get outta her, Johnny.”

“Sure thing, babe.”

He lifts himself onto his knees. The horn stops blasting. In the sudden silence I can hear Johnny’s panting and the little sucking noises my pussy is making.

I look down. Knuckles and fingernails bulge my panties. They’re my knuckles and fingernails. I’m getting the next climax under way.

“Gotta get back to the trailer, Johnny.”

“I know.”

“Picked up the Chevy outside the ‘Raging Bull’.”


“Had trouble parking.”

“That’s right.”

Johnny’s always been clumsy with buckles and bra straps, frying pans and screwdrivers, everything except guns.

I moan and drag my fingers out of my pussy. My knuckles are wet. My fingertips are slippery. They slip and slide on Johnny’s Big Buffalo buckle. The buffalo’s horns glisten like it’s just gored a gluepot.

It’s an eternity before I get the belt undone. I drag his jeans and shorts down. And there it is—Nicole can keep her vibrator— the beautiful thing I haven’t seen for four long years, the thing I’ve dreamed about inch by inch, from its curly-haired root to its big swollen tip, every second of every minute of every hour of those one thousand five hundred and forty four days. It’s even bigger than in my dreams.

I flick the head with my fingernail, the way Johnny likes.

“This guy been working out or something?”

It isn’t just that it’s big and tall and stiff and rock hard. It isn’t even the cute little veins packed in at the side. It’s the fact that it’s his, Johnny’s. It’s the fact that it’s Johnny’s bone, and no one else’s.

He gazes down at my pussy, at its creamy preening, its coy chuckles. Four years in prison haven’t knocked the eager boy out of his smile, the dreamer out of his eyes.

“You gonna bone me?” I say. “Or you forgotten where it goes?”

His voice gets stuck in his throat.

“Just about remember.”

He gets his hands under my thighs and lifts me off the seat. His palms are big and callused. They rough up the softness of my butt. He lifts me easy. He’s been working out, keeping in trim. I only just get my panties down in time.

My pussy skates round the tip of his cock, searching frantically. My gash finds what it’s looking for. I impale myself like a lift with a broken cable. By the time I hit bottom I’m climaxing again.

“Oh! Yes! FUCK YES!”

I can’t tell whether it’s Johnny’s ribs or the steering column my legs are wrapped around. One of my stilettoes is caught in the gear stick.

Even with both arms around his neck, I’m giving it up too hard to mount his cock again. I’m grinding my pussy around his crotch like a bitch with worms, but it doesn’t matter. It feels too good to care. There’s so much juice my pussy’s sliding all over the place more than pumping.

Even with all the lonely nights, dreaming about Johnny, with the vibrator and everything, I forgot how wonderful Johnny is. He’s got all of me in his lap, all hundred and ten pounds of me, molten deadweight, but from somewhere deep inside him, so deep it can only be from his heart, his need rams into me, his love slams up into me, bouncing me in his lap, fucking me like he fucked me that first time, our first date, at the drive-in. It’s even the same blue and white polka dot dress up around my throat. It’s even the same ecstasy, except, instead of the ceiling of Johnny’s Mustang I’m staring at a pair of big, furry dice hanging in the window of a Chevy! I’m Lady Luck!

While he fucks me, we kiss, long and deep and hungry.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you too.”

The need slamming into me grows desperate. The love slamming up into me turns whiplike. The shudders running up and down his cock take over the whole of his body.



I can feel the elastic of my panties about to snap, they’re stretched so tight between my thighs. I’m listing sideways towards the window. My head knocks against loose glass. I get my foot up over his shoulder.

Johnny slips. His knee shoots down the gap between the seat and the door. Polystyrene cups crumple.

This time the sweet sting goes off in my brain jerking my body around in its wake. My pussy melts. We meet in midstream.


Four years? It feels more like four decades, the amount of cum he’s pumping into me. It feels as if a volcano has blown its top inside me and is hurling hot larva up into crevices and crannies where semen isn’t meant to go. A half second later it’s running down my bottom while my stomach sucks up all the love Johnny has inside him.

Something magic happens. It always does when Johnny’s around.

There’s a clunk.

The seat disappears.

I’m falling backwards. The backrest’s gone! Suddenly the backrest forms one flat, upholstered surface, a red leather bed, between the front seat and the back seat.

Polystyrene snaps and crackles. An empty plastic bottle crinks. Johnny’s fighting to get his knee out of the well between the seat and the door. He’s kneeled on the lever that drops the seat!

I’m flat on my back. My panties are gone. They’re round one of my ankles, I can’t tell which one. My legs are spread so wide the tendons tug. One shoe bangs against the door. The other shoe’s over near the glove compartment.

Johnny’s on top of me. He’s shafting me. He’s still fucking me! The massive load he shot— some of it still trickling down my bottom, some of it already squelchy and slippery on the scuffed leather, some of it still inside me creaming under his strokes—the massive load he’s shot hasn’t shrunk his cock in the slightest! It hasn’t softened his shaft at all. It’s got bigger! It’s stiffer than ever! Johnny’s like that.

“Yes! Yes!”

Cumming just makes him randier. He’s fucking me even harder now than he was before. I’m not complaining. It’s nice to be on my back. My spine arches. The twelve dollar wave Nicole put in my hair grinds into the leather, and I fuck him back.

“I love you, Johnny.”

“I love you too, SandraLou.”

This must surely be the happiest moment of my life. I’m even happier now than when he got out last time. Last time it was only a two stretch.

It seems like half a second and I’m ready to climax again. This time I hold it back, get into a rhythm, both of us are holding it back, getting into a rhythm, building up the ecstasy like two children working on the same sandcastle.

Sometimes my head’s propped against the back seat like a rag doll’s with my legs around his waist.

Sometimes my head is down under the steering wheel because we’re in the plough position.

Sometimes I’m kneeling on all fours with my cheek pressed against a window and Johnny’s mounting me like a big old dog.

Me and Johnny. We’re magic. When the orgasm hits—another mutual— one of my feet is up on the dashboard, the other’s down on the floor somewhere, and I’m bucking and kicking so hard, and my pussy’s lifting and rolling so bad, my foot slides off the dashboard and hits the glove compartment.

The glove compartment pops open, and something heavy falls out.

Johnny wipes the cream and cum off his shaft. A packet of tissues has fallen out of the glove compartment too and he rips out a handful.

“A Glock!”

His eyes glitter.

“Man, oh man! A Glock 21!”

He palms a slide-y bit, up on the barrel, and has a look inside the gun. “Point four five semi auto.”

He grins like a little boy at Christmas who’s just unwrapped his favourite present.

“Nine mil hollow points. Where’d you get this, babe?”

I want to say ‘Free piece with every car, Johnny’ but I can’t. I’m sucking Johnny’s dick. My juice and his spunk taste too good to stop. My mouth’s too full. His cock’s a fraction bendier, but it’s still rock hard.

“Point four five semi auto,” says Johnny. “You buy this thing?”

Suck suck

He presses a catch and a magazine drops out of the bottom of the butt.

“Fuck, man. Nine mil hollow points.”

Johnny clips the magazine back in.

“A fifty seven Belair and a Glock!”

Gobble gobble

“Baby, you sure know how to make a man happy!”

I manage to drag my mouth away.

“What about this?” I pout my lips. “This make you happy?”

A tightrope of spunk and saliva trembles from my bottom lip across to the tip of his cock.

I don’t like it when Johnny gets obsessed with guns.

I make a socket of my throat and shove his cock down deep into it. I clamp my teeth round his shaft and nip, puts some guillotine into it, let him feel how sharp my molars are—I’ve had my teeth polished specially for his homecoming— sharp enough to bite his cock off, except I love his cock too much to ever sever it, even when it drives me crazy. I rake the tips of my teeth slowly upwards instead of biting, and comb off the spunk and pussy juice, and the tenderness, the quiver of tenderness too.

“Oh SandraLou! You’re the greatest!”

My head’s beginning to bob. Up and down. Faster and faster. Little thwocking noises are coming out of the back of my throat. At every plunge the tip of his cock, like a big sponge-y mushroom, jams my windpipe.

My dress is bundled round my waist. Shepherdess dirndl, there’s a lot of it to bundle. I can’t remember if Johnny unzipped me at the back, or if I unzipped myself, but the sweetheart neckline is hanging down round my waist too, spaghettis strings tangled up in my elbows.

Johnny puts the gun down on the seat and grabs hold of my hair with both hands, guiding my mouth, hanging onto Nicole’s waves like I’m a stampeding horse.

I know how to make Johnny forget about guns.

I run my tongue up his shaft, from the web of skin between his balls, up and over the mushroom ridge. The salty taste turns creamy. I get a slurp of cum, pre- or post- I don’t know which.

Things are going to be different this time. No more hold-ups. No more shoot outs. No more life on the run. No more living in motels, sleeping in the back seats of cars. This time we’re going to settle down. I’ve got the trailer looking real nice and homely. My last paycheque from the Pastures I splashed out on a Romeo and Juliet bedspread.

I give the tip of his cock an all-lip massage. I can feel my mouth leaving the last of its Revlon Pink Pout on the natural pink round his wee wee slit.

His hips start to shudder like a stallion’s at a stud show.

It’s happening. It’s started. His fingertips are finding their way through my big sexy waves and they’re clinging onto my scalp. He’s coming. His big swollen mushroom is thudding into the back of my throat.

I’m not a teenager any more. I’m twenty three already. Soon it will be too late to have a baby. Not just any old baby. Johnny’s baby. When I thinks about it like that, Johnny’s baby, I want it so bad I’m swallowing the hot spunk he’s pumping down my throat, I’m swallowing it even harder than he can pump it. I’m inhaling his cum, so thick and sticky and choking hot, I can feel it filling my belly, rolling around inside me like, like, like... like a little white body rolling around in my guts, shaking its little white fists, an instant baby, mine and Johnny’s, ready to go, ready to be born, not even having to go through all that trouble down there, further down, wherever it is, where babies are usually made.

Johnny’s pumping the roof of my mouth so hard, my teeth jar. My jaws are knocking with the jolts.

Knock knock knock

Lovely strong hard loving knocks in the back of my throat

Knock knock knock knock knock

Battering against my gullet so hard they sound almost angry:


“What the fuck?” says Johnny.

Someone’s banging on the window.

A man’s face is pressed to the glass. The face looks angry.

He pounds on the window. The man points at the next door car. It’s a tan Mercedes. This year’s model with the new anti-glare sun sensor polarized glass, a cupie doll hanging from the rear view mirror.


Johnny’s winding down the window. The window’s stiff. The glass goes down in angry jerks.

“Johnny! No!”

Johnny’s got the Glock in his hand.


He’s a middle aged guy. Forty five, maybe even fifty. His face is red. The red reminds me of some of the old people out at The Pastures when they’re having a seizure. He tugs at the door handle.

“Cool it, bro,” says Johnny.

“No, Johnny!”

Johnny picks up his jeans and climbs out.


“Chill, man,” says Johnny. Even standing with the gun in one hand and his jeans in the other, Johnny looks cool. “It’s just a bit of paint and some tin. Alright?”

The guy bends and peers in through the window. I don’t know what to cover first, my tits or my pussy.

“OH, I SEE!” he screams. “THE LOVE SHACK!”

“Take it easy, bro,” says Johnny. “It’s only a car we’re talking about. We aint talking about a loved one or a newborn baby or nothin.” Johnny can be real poetic when he’s in a situation. “We’ll pay for the damage. Alright?”

“PAY?! YOU’RE GONNA PAY BIG TIME, PUNK.” The guy pulls out his cell phone. “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”

I nearly shit myself when I hear him say that, but Johnny keeps calm, stays ahead of things.

“Call the cops, bro. I don’t care. Cops don’t worry me.”

Johnny glances back at me. I slide behind the wheel, and put the Chevy into first.


I go tense all over. Johnny hates being called a punk. The word does something to his head, like when men call me a ‘tart.’

The guy’s eyes are wild.



The first bullet takes out the Mercedes’ right headlight.


“Her name’s SandraLou, asshole!”

The next bullet goes through the right tyre. There’s a sound of grinding metal. The Mercedes leans heavier against the Chevy.


The third bullet takes out the left headlight.

“MISS SandraLou to you!”

Johnny nods at the Mercedes’ wing mirror and it flies away.

The spectators have gone. The man with the red face has vanished. He’s on the deck. He’s dead. Johnny’s killed him!

I gun the engine. The V8 rumbles.

Thank God. The guy with the red face isn’t dead. He’s sprinting towards the administration building.


The asphalt squirts gravel at his heels.

Security staff are pouring out of the gates.


He clambers in and slams the door.

“Stay cool, babe. Let’s shift this thing.”

I put my foot down. There’s a grinding noise, the sound of metal tearing, a jolt. The Chevy pulls free of the Mercedes.

The man with the red face sprints up the steps of the Administration Building and disappears inside.

The clutch slips. The steering’s so heavy I sideswipe the LandCruiser as I swing out.

In the rear view mirror I glimpse white lettering on the asphalt, underneath the Mercedes’ shattered headlight. The writing looks like it says GOVERNOR, but that must only be because it’s upside down.


There’s no need to.

Johnny doesn’t have to. He’s made his point.

He’s only showing off.

Behind us, the Mercedes’ windscreen shatters. Laminated shards collapse onto the metallic bronze hood. In the Mercedes’ cavernous interior, a length of pink ribbon swings wildly from the rear view mirror. I can’t see the cupie doll anywhere.


A dim light filters through the curtains. It takes Arnold a second to register where he is: the upstairs bedroom at the ‘Raging Bull’.

The sound of a grille sliding open downstairs. That’s Big Frank opening up.

Arnold’s flat on his back. There’s a dead weight on top of him. A swollen heaviness is pressing down on his chest.

The heart attack. He’s had it at last.

Mum warned him about his cholesterol, the junk food, his lifestyle. ‘Home cooking and clean living, Arnold. Death hates a healthy heart.’

He groans out loud. How can you have a healthy lifestyle when you kill people for a living? How can you have a healthy heart, when the home cook, your guide and inspiration, the best mother a man could ever have, has finally been committed to an institution. The ‘Pastures’ calls itself a retirement village, but that’s what it really is, an institution.

The dead weight moves. It’s breathing. Down near his groin the heaviness is wet.

Blonde hair smothers his face. He inhales. A lacquer-stiffened strand climbs into his nostril. He’s gone and done something very stupid.

The bedroom shakes.


Big Frank’s turned on the sound system downstairs. Frank’s practising his rapping.


Arnold manages to turn his head sideways, out of the ringlets smothering his face, towards the bedside clock.



He’s supposed to be out at the Pastures at twelve to take Mum to lunch. Mum gets upset if he’s even five minutes late.


The rifle!

He left it in the trunk of the Chevy! He never leaves his rifle in the car overnight. His Cheytac .408. Eagle sights. Suppressor. Five boxes of point 300 hollow points. His Glock’s in the glove box too! He never leaves his Glock in the glove box.

It’s finally happening. He’s losing his grip.

He has to get up. He has to get up off his back, and downstairs, get his equipment. In Mum’s Chevy! With its antique locking, parked outside the roughest bar in Beresford!

The dead weight’s wet patch is grinding gently against his flaccid cock. Damp bush rakes his balls. The wet patch is getting bigger andbigger. He told her, last night—he’s not into sexual intercourse. Why do women never listen?

Time to get rid of her. Time to get her out of his hair and get out to the Pastures before Mum blows a gasket.

“Get off me, willya?”

Grind. Grind. Rake. Rake.

“I’m due at the Pastures at twelve.”

Mum comes down heavy on him if he’s even a minute late.

‘You choose to roam America, Arnold, selling insurance, the least you can do is be on time on the rare occasions you happen to be passing through Beresford.’

He doesn’t happen to be passing through. He’s here to kill someone.

There’s two swollen heavinesses, not one, pressing down on his chest. He’s lying under a pair of water beds. She’s a big girl. Nicole, or something.

“Hey. Get off me.”

She’s not asleep. She’s only pretending.


Frank Dzoba, downstairs, getting himself worked up with his rapping, getting himself worked up about the FBI dude he wants taken out.


Poles—they’re not cut out for rapping.

Frank’s going to want to discuss the job. This FBI agent that’s down in Beresford to investigate the operation Frank’s brother, Spizak—three life sentences, no parole—has got going with the prison governor, Philpott.


He’s due at the Pastures in fifteen minutes.

“Hey! Move, can’t ya?”

Arnold’s father died before he was born. He and Mum have always been close. It was always just him and his mother, till she had to go into the Pastures. Mum breast fed him till he was five. Arnold’s always been protective of his mother, on account of her never remarrying. His first hit—when he was nineteen—was a guy who tried to date her, not a paid contract.

The wet patch is growing lips. Make that gills. It feels like a fish is nibbling his inert cock. She can keep her wet patch.

“I gotta get something out of the car.”

He’s not assertive enough. He never has been. Mum used to call him out over it. ‘You don’t stand up for yourself, Arnold.’

Nibble. Nibble. Grind. Grind.

Fuck knows why she’s so wet. Surely she can feel he’s not interested. Not down there he isn’t.

A cold sweat breaks out on his forehead.


He told her what he does for a living! It always turns them on.


There’s an empty bottle of Southern Comfort next to the clock. He lowered his guard. He broke his rule never to tell a woman he kills people for his livelihood. It does something to their heads.

An overblown snore. She’s not asleep! She’s only pretending. Her breath hot in his ear. The snore turning to a dreamy murmur, a snatch of sleepy song:

“… Shoot me with your bullet… bullet… bullet…”

Jesus! He told her! She knows!

Her breath is voracious:

“… Go ahead and pull it…”

He’s going to end up in gaol. On a life rap. Thirty nine life raps. It’s the first law of his profession: never trust a woman. Don’t tell a woman you do hits. Especially a woman you picked up on the hard shoulder of the interstate, driving into Beresford. Mum’s the only woman he’s ever trusted, and he’s never even told Mum.

The morning murmur burns into his eardrum:

“… Kill it, baby, with your lovin… bang bang, baby, do it again…”

The waterbeds are growing warm. They’re spreading across his chest. Her nipples are huge. They’re the size of shot glasses, and nearly as hard. Her aureoles are bigger than most women’s breasts. She wiggles them. A hot pneumatic heaviness spreads towards his armpits.

It’s the question he never asked his biology teacher: Why don’t I have two mouths? It isn’t fair. ‘It’s not fair,’ he used to tell his mother when she asked about his day at school. ‘Why do girls have two breasts and boys only have one mouth?’ Even Mum couldn’t answer that one. ‘Girls only have one mouth too, Arnold.’ It’s not the same.

“...Shoot me with your lovin... but we feelin no pain… ”

He never picks up hitchhikers, particularly women hitchhikers, particularly women hitchhikers in hot pants. He’s not into hot pants. Standing on the hard shoulder, blonde hair, halter, her chest sticking out like the sign for Lake Chaunbunagunganaug.

“… Bang bang… a lotta bang bang, baby…”

They’re spread out over his chest now, two Lake Chaunnbunagunganaugs.

“I gotta unpack the car. Get off me willya?”

The wetness climbs his groin. A warm, Southern-Comfort-laced breath plasters itself to his mouth.

“Don’t you love me this morning, Arnie?”

“It’s Arnold,” he grunts. “Not Arnie.”

He isn’t into kissing. Never has been, never will be. Not romantic lip-lingering mucous membrane grazings, and not slobber-tongued gougings either. She—Nicki, Nicole whatever her name is—feels like she’s got half a pound of liver jumping around in her mouth. He’s buggered if she’s putting it in his. Mum never kissed him like that, and he and Mum were very close.

“Want me to ride you, Arnie?”

“No. No I don’t.”

His stomach turns over. There’s something wrong with her. There’s juice on his thigh. There’s juice on his hip. There’s juice up near his navel. She’s getting creamier too.

“Certainly not.”

She’s got his cock in her hand.

“Leave it alone.”

It’s long and limp. Can’t she see it’s flaccid? What part of the word flaccid’ doesn’t she understand? His penis is wet and slippery where her labia have been massaging it for the last half an hour, and it’s still one-hundred-percent flaccid, happily flaccid. Is she thick or something? Doesn’t she get the message? His cock’s as un-erect as the Play Doh snakes he used to make in nursery school, that Mum always made such a fuss of when he brought them home to show her.

“Want to ream me, big boy?”

“No. Not really.”

It’s big. That doesn’t mean it wants to ream anything. It’s certainly long. Nine and a quarter inches. He measures it regularly. The nine and a quarter inches has given her the wrong idea.

“Oh yeah!”

She’s stuffing it into her pussy!

“Yes… yes…”

She doesn’t feel how averse to sexual intercourse it is. She’s shoving it into her pussy like a length of boiled spaghetti into a hungry mouth! Her gash is wide open. It’s huge. There’s plenty of room for the six or seven inches of protesting shrinkage she’s stuffing in, plus the three fingers that are pushing it further up inside her, juiced-up muscles welcoming it in.

“Gonna bone up for me, big boy?”

“No! Please! NO!”

She starts jerking.

“Yes. Yes. YESSSSS.”

“I’m not a pussy man!”

She stops and looks down at him.

A seductive smile spreads across her broad features.

“Want me to blow you?”


“You wanna to cum in my mouth?!”

“Fuck, no!”

She’s too quick for him. Her nails dig into his chest, pinning him to the bed. Her head’s between his legs.

He grabs blonde curls, and tries to pull her off. He’s too late.

His cock’s in her mouth, all nine and a quarter inches of it, and some scrotum too. The tip’s somewhere in the top of her throat. She’s inhaling his penis!

Gobble. Gobble. Glug. Gobble.

He tries to pull her head away, but her neck muscles are too powerful. His cock’s going round and round in her mouth like a snake in a cement mixer. Her tongue pummels and twines. Her teeth run up the shaft, nip the tip and draw it out to its full length, flaccid as a skipping rope at lesson time.

“I’m into... I’m into...” He feels ill. He can’t breathe. “…I’m… I’m a tits man!...”

His cock drops from her lips.


She rears above him.


Her smile is no longer seductive. It’s better than seductive.

“Yes. Really.”

“You’re into tits?”

She looks down.

God they’re beautiful. They’re the most perfect pair he’s ever seen, and he’s seen a few.

Their skin is fine and tight. The quivering paleness is all but transparent. They’re tight enough to feed a dozen babies.

They shudder. She swings them gently. They stir, searching the air for hungry mouths.

And her nipples! Yes! The size of shot glasses. You could fill one with pink gin, and get drunk on a single hit.

He’s boning up already.


They swing down from way up there and slap his cheek.

They drag themselves across his mouth.

He snaps. Too slow.

She towers above him.

“You sure you’re a tits man?”

“I’m sure, baby.”

“You aint kidding me?”

They wobble, like two pink balloons filled with water.

‘You’re supposed to blow them up, Arnold, not hold them under the tap’. Those birthday parties when he was a kid. Just him and Mum.

“I aint kidding.”

“Open wide.”

She lowers one between his jaws.

The aureole is a bruised blue colour, like the rings around Saturn.

“No biting.”

The nip grazes his teeth. She doesn’t mean it.

He fits his mouth round the delicious softness, way out past the swollen corona that surrounds her nipple, and tightens the clamp, his tongue working hard on her teat.

She shivers. He feels the softness fill with ecstasy. Her heart beats against the roof of his mouth. He knows what he’s doing. He’s a specialist. He bites deeper, slowly, slowly, and drags the mouthful to its peak, tugging gently at the root.

“Yes… yes…”

She’s planking herself on his knee. He cocks his knee so she can rub her pussy on it better. His kneecap is wet and slippery.

“Oh Arnold!”

He should never have told her his name. It’s too late now.

He opens wide and she sinks the whole load into his mouth, nipples, aureole, teeth marks, pink skin, the endless wobble. It fills his mouth. She pushes in more and more. Her nipple scrapes against the top of his throat. His mouth can’t hold any more. She pushes in a whole lot extra. He can’t breathe. He doesn’t mind. She still has two or three inches out there she can’t squeeze in. She flattens them over his cheeks and nostrils.

Her other breast’s in his hand. His fingers squeeze and knead and nip and claw. It isn’t the same as gobbling, but it’ll have to do. He’s only got one mouth.

Halfway down his throat little spasms block his windpipe.

His cock is stiff. His shaft throbs and aches but the emotion’s all in his throat.

Dear old Mum. She breast fed him till he was five because she thought he missed his father—a total stranger.

The instant before he climaxes, she drags her tit out of his mouth and dangles it, wet and slippery, in his face. Dangles him over the abyss.

“Guess you are a tit man, Arnie.”

He gives her a big smile.

She’s great. He no longer cares about telling her that he’s a hit man. It’s not the Cheyac that’s turning her on. Or the Glock. Or his thirty nine tally.

“Where’d you get your enlargements, baby?”

He’s familiar with the names of most of the clinics.

She blushes to the roots of her hair.

“They aint enlargements, Arnie. I was born with these babies.”

He’s falling in love.

He nods at her nipples.

“You come yet, Vicki?”

His knee feels sticky.

She giggles.

“Not yet, Arnie…. They’re waiting for…”

She glances down.

It stands up straight and tall. Nine and a quarter inches. He measures it regularly. He measures it when it’s flaccid, and he measures it when it’s stiff. It’s always the same length. It never varies. Nine and a quarter inches. Never nine when it’s soft, limp as cold spaghetti, or ten when it’s stiff and ready to blow all over some girl’s chest. Not even that time he spunked on Mum’s sewing tape. He isn’t like other men. Always nine and a quarter. Not even nine and a half inches when it’s rock hard like now.

“You want to make love, Arnie?”

She’s more than ‘some girl’. She understands. She’s a girl in a million. She knows what true love is.


No ‘mounting’. No ‘reaming’. ‘No blowing’. No ‘cumming in your mouth’.

Making love.

She straddles him, a knee on either side, her slim waist bending gracefully, and dangles her tits above his chest. This is how the moon must have felt, waiting for the lunar module to touch down. Two lunar modules. By the time her nipples find a place to land his sternum’s melting. Her shot glasses settle onto his little boy nipples, five years old and milkless, in the shower with Mum.

“I love you, Arnie.”

“I love you too, babe.”

Slowly—he doesn’t care how long it takes—her breasts settle and spread, getting heavier and heavier, like two voluptuous metal detectors spreading out across his chest, listening to the racketing of his heart.

“You’re a hit man?”

“‘Fraid I am.”

“I’ve always wanted to meet a hit man.”

Just when he’s about to cum she begins to drag them slowly—they’re so heavy she can barely get them moving— down his ribcage, a rib at a time, a child on a beach, dragging her rubber rings over the ribbed sand, home.

“Can I see your gun, Arnie?”

“Guns, baby. Guns.”

He wonders if she’d like him to run his fingers through her hair. It looks like it’s been professionally styled.

It’s impossible to tell—no one could say—either him or her—whether it’s her cleavage homing in on his cock, or his cock homing in on her cleavage. The timing’s too perfect. The desire is too mutual. The joy is too savage to say.

Her sternum grinds up and down his shaft like the ripples in a washboard. Her tits clutch his cock. She’s got one in each hand. The wobbling softness turns into wobbling spasms. Her breasts clench and unclench as his hips lift and he reams them with his cock. The transparent skin burns. Their liquid softness engulfs his strokes. His coccyx bucks, shafting nine and a quarter inches of aching love, in deeper than any vagina.

“Can I fire your gun, Arnie?”

“Anything you want, babe.”

He’s holding onto her hair to stop himself being swept away. He wonders if he should put his finger in her vagina, look for her G-spot. Mum said some women like that. Luckily he can’t reach down that far. Her vagina’s up on his knee, trying to fit his kneecap in.

“Oh fuck, Arnie, Fuck.”

“Fuck, baby. Yes. Yes.”

His spine arches. His tip bursts upwards from between the pink mounds. They’re quivering. They grip him tight as he shoots hot skeins of spunk up and over their heaving softness and up her throat.

“I love you, Arnie!”

“Forever, baby.”

Her bottom jerks helplessly against his knee. Her tits turn red. They’re blushing!

She glances down.

“Someone put a contract out on me?”

“Must have, doll.”

He never knew he had that much spunk in him.

“You got me first shot.”

He doesn’t care any more about telling her he’s a hit man. Something’s happened. He must be in love.

She picks a boob up, and brings it to her mouth, and licks the spunk off.

“Want some?”

She offers him a tit.

“No thank you. It’s all yours.”

Her tongue hoovers up the white cat o nine tails spread across her breasts.

“Hey, baby. I gotta get busy. Got things to do.”

“Yeah?” Her eyes are big and wide. “Yeah? What things?”

She’s beautiful.

He tells her about the FBI agent, a Luke Hillier, who’s been sticking his nose into the operation Frank’s brother, Spizak, has got going with Governor Philpott, in Beresford Prison.

“Spizak’s doing triple life for some murders. He, the governor and Frank have got this operation going, making movies, in the prison… you know… with girls. Hillier’s been digging a bit too deep.”

“Wow, Arnie. ‘N you’re going to take this Hillier out?”

“Sure thing, baby. These videos are a bit special. It’s a million dollar business.” He nods at the sunlit curtains. “The guns are down in the car.”

She cuddles up to him.

“God you’re great, Arnie. I’ve never met a man like you before.”

It’s what Mum always said.

“Yeah. Well.”

Perhaps he’ll take her out to the Pastures, introduce her to Mum. It’s never worked in the past, introducing girls to Mum. But this one feels different.

He tweaks her nipple.

“Maybe you can come to lunch with me, ‘n meet my mother.”

“You’ve got a mother?!”

“Sure I have. She’s the other reason I’m down here. She’s out at the Pastures. It’s a residential home for the elderly.”

“The Pastures! I know the Pastures! My friend SandraLou works there!”

The windows rattle. The empty bottle dances on the nightstand.


The bar’s open downstairs.


“Yeah. Best get movin, babe. I don’t like leaving my equipment down in the car.”

Arnold climbs out of bed, walks to the window and pulls aside the shade.

“What the... F-UUUUUCK!"


When she hears the crunch of metal on metal, a tail light shattering out in the car park, the long scrape of someone parking a car badly, Pam Gibson is in the governor’s toilet, in Governor Philpott’s own cubicle, sitting on the seat, her legs spread wide apart, waves of pleasure uncoiling from her pussy, cream quivering up the shaft of her Lucid Dreams G-Spot Maxi vibrator, seconds away from finding Louise.

Crunch. Scrape. Gri-iiiiind.

If she weren’t so near orgasm, if she weren’t just moments from becoming one with Louise, she’d get up and have a look, but she’s too wet, her butt’s kicking, her stomach is buckling, the hand that’s clutching the vibrator, winding the globed tip in succulent circles round the mouth of her pussy, is already turning into Louise’s hand. Louise’s stiletto nails, acrylic blue with rhinestone embellishments, are already starting to clutch the controls and ram the tip into the churn of molten ecstasy, deeper and deeper, flicking the pulse from Medium up to Max.

“Yes… yes… oh… my darling… Lou… yes…”

Ker-uuuuuump. Ding. Tinkle.

Pam’s allowed to use the Governor’s private toilet, on the ground floor of the administration building because she’s Governor Philpott’s personal assistant. Philpott usually only hires attractive secretaries, beauty queen bimbos, but Pam’s need to find Louise, find out where Louise has disappeared to these last three days, discover what what’s been going on between Louise and Philpott this last six months, has made Pam so efficient, she’s beaten off the bimbos and held down the job. Pam has made herself so indispensable the sleazebag even puts up with the fact that she’s scrawny, buck-toothed, pigeon-toed and charmless. Louise never minded. Louise loves her.

Tinkle. Crunch. Scr-rrrrrape.

The noise sounds as if it’s coming from where the Governor’s Mercedes is parked. Pam sincerely hopes so.

Another half a second and she and Louise will be united in mutual climax, except… Pam so badly needs it to be the Governor’s Mercedes that’s being scratched, she draws back from the brink…

Fingers trembling, she gently pulls the vibrator out. Her vaginal muscles clutch at the globed tip as it slithers free. One jolt and she’ll explode. There’s so much juice on the clear, curved shaft, the black arouser stipples are coated with cum, like passion fruit seeds in a cream sundae.

“Oh… oh…”

She takes a deep breath, and holds herself back.

She switches the Lucid Dreams off, balances it on her knees and reaches down and takes a packet of tissues from her handbag. She wraps the vibrator, from tip to controls, in a triple thickness of Kleenex, and places it on the rim of the washbasin. The Lucid Dreams G-Spot Maxi is Louise’s. Louise gave it to her before she disappeared. It must not touch anything, vitreous china, stainless steel soap, anything, that Philpott’s hands might have touched.

As she climbs onto the toilet seat a drop of juice trickles from the crotch of her panties. Warm and sticky, the bead of cum makes it four inches down her left leg before friction, natural adhesion and the heat from her skin bring it to a halt. Her left leg. Not her right. The Left Hand Path. It’s a sign.

Pam wears trainers with her business suit. Balancing on the toilet seat is easy.

The bottom half of the window is frosted glass, but the top section is clear. She stands on tip toe and peeps out.

She was right. It’s a very bad piece of parking indeed. A red Chevrolet Belair is attempting to back into a space that’s too small for it.

Ker-uuuuuump. Ding. Tinkle.

She feels a smile spread across her face. Her heart lifts in song. She was right. The Chevy is scraping the Governor’s new Mercedes! Philpott’s pride and joy. Not just scraping— ramming and gouging and shunting! Whoever’s driving it must be off their face. Pam does a little dance, above the bowl. God bless you, whoever you are! She squints. It looks as if it’s a woman behind the wheel. Go, babe! Tear it up! Rip that paintwork to pieces! Shaft his precious Mercedes. Again! Again! Go on, ram him! Pam experiences a moment’s connection with the woman behind the wheel… the door of the Chevy opens... connection turns to panic…

The girl who steps out of the Belair is so beautiful that, for a moment, Pam forgets Louise.

Something terrible is happening.

Pam looks down. Her hand is up her skirt. Her fingers are pushing the grey serge aside, searching for her clit.

The chick’s gorgeous. Long legs. A butt to die for. Perfect boobs pouring from her peek-a-boo. A mane of blonde curls. A face made in heaven.

Pam’s fingertips are wet. They’re inside her panties plastering her clitoris.

…Panic turns to terror…


Pam whispers:

“Run, babe. Run. Get out of here!”

The Governor’s in the next room, in his office. Philpott’s on his way out already. He’s heard the impact.

“Please. Get back in that car. Quickly. Quickly.”

The girl starts running. She’s in high heels, but there’s an animal grace in the way she sprints, her blonde mane bouncing and billowing, dashing between the parked vehicles.

“No. Please. Get back in that car. Beat it!”

Pam has always had a lot of power, with her conjurations and psychic commands, but the girl’s not listening.

The door in the prison gates has opened.

A tall, gangling youth with a rocker haircut and the sort of face, unblemished by intellect, that some women find attractive, steps out.

The girl—she’s wearing a stunning dirndl skirt— throws herself into his arms.

“No… Please…”

What a waste. What a tragic, stupid, crazy, utter waste.

They stand entwined, kissing, directly outside the gate. The girl’s like a hungry animal. She’s all over the punk.

In the office next door, Pam hears the Governor open the filing cabinet, search, slam it.

“Beat it. Please. Get out of here!”

Pam sends the strongest vibration she can muster out across the car park, but her mystical powers aren’t working on the girl.

After what feels like an eternity, the girl and the punk untangle, and come canoodling back towards the Chevy.

Pam wishes the girl luck. She’s going to need it. The guy looks like one of those juvenile delinquent types of male who can’t kiss and think at the same time. They get into the Chevy.

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