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Exercise And Cajun Cuisine

It's a hot, sticky summer day in Washington, DC. The air hangs like sweaty
underpants over the city. Maybe thunderclouds will gather and bring some
brief relief this afternoon. But now, the heat is rolling in like waves
over the downtown offices. The mirrorglass is shimmering in the midday sun.
Somewhere near L'Enfant Plaza, Selena is waving for a cab, hoping that she
gets one with at least a semblance of air conditioning. Fat chance, honey.
It's lunchtime, and she's headed out to Anacostia to see her
boyfriend. An afternoon off, that's her idea. Combined with an afternoon
'on,' getting it on in furious style, as long as the air conditioning is
working. Oh, keep those fingers crossed. She talks with at least three
cabdrivers before she finds one who'll take her.
Selena is a prim young businesswoman type in her late twenties.
Hispanic, but with that patrician Castilian look: sleek black hair, high
cheekbones, very pale skin. A nubile young lady, she jogs every morning,
works out at the gym several times a week. Fit, shapely, self-aware, driven
to succeed.
Her boyfriend? Almost none of the above, really. A well-known name
in the local rap music scene. Gold tooth caps, straggly dreadlocks,
intensely paranoid about his blackness. He's nervous, unsure of his power
despite the easy money that he attracts. Always interested in demonstrating
he's the kingpin.
The cab takes her to the side entrance of a basement club in the
sleaziest part of town, and races away with the impassioned shriek of bald
tires. Almost without waiting for a tip. It's one of those areas they don't
use for DC backdrops on CNN. A war zone Wolf Blitzer never visited. Boarded
up storefronts, pawnshops and liquor stores with burglar bars, automobiles
from every decade but this one. Street corner drunks clutching 40-oz. malts
as big as their sneakers, toothless Willendorfian crones, scrawny
mini-skirted hookers who can't stop scratching, they all watch her as she
bangs impatiently on the graffiti-covered steel door. Under other
circumstances, she'd be accosted, propositioned. But these watchers all
know how violent Speed-X can be, and how inclined he is to stop arguments
with a brandished .357 Magnum.
The door opens. Speed is there, a salacious smirk on his face, his
gold caps flashing. His hundreds of dollars worth of cheesy sportswear. On
either side, taciturn body builder types glare at her, arms folded. Speed
does the talking. "Yo, Princess, c'mon in . . ." He motions to the two
bodyguards. "Gimme a half-hour, no, better make that a sixty. Gym time,
huh? Go benchpress some fat white boys." They push past her, with nasty
glares. He grabs Selena's wrist. "Gym time for you too, honey."
He leads her into the gloom of the rancid basement. She doesn't
want to know why it smells so bad -- stale food, greasy food wrappers all
over the place, empty cans and bottles. And the scent of dope in the air.
There, near the back wall, by the tiny bar, is a small stage. Just large
enough for a rapper and his MC, or an 'exotic dancer.' Today, the stage is
filled with an exercise bike, brand new from some upmarket store, its
chrome shining, the matt black tubing making it seem even bigger than it is.
Speed cranks up some car-crashing music on the PA, and gestures to
her. "Git yo ass changed."
"Into what?"
"These." He throws her a shiny spandex leotard, some panties.
She looks around for somewhere to hang her office clothes. He pats
a stool, says: "On here. It's clean."
She tests it dubiously with her finger. Speed stands watching as
she folds her creme colored jacket, then unbuttons her royal blue blouse,
takes it off. A lacy black push-up bra, but she leaves that alone for the
moment. She's bare-legged -- who can stand tights in the DC heat? -- and
her pleated skirt is loose. She unzips, drops it to her knees, steps out.
Black lace panties, too.
"Oh, tray frahnsay," Speed mocks.
"Thank you," she says almost inaudibly.
"Wasn't a compliment, 'lena," he lisps. "Reminds me of that bitch
my bro Mo-Reece was dating when he got shot by the cops."
Always back to his 'bro,' a crazed stepbrother she'd thankfully
never met.
"Fixed her up good, we did. Some homeworker, computer thing she
did, din' have no fancy job like you. But still dressed real good. I don't
think she'd had a good fuck in five years. Mo-Reece, he preferred guys, but
had ta be seen wit wimmuns fo his image, ya know what i'm sayin'? Well, we
went visitin' after the cree-mation and give that uptight bitch a planking
she gon' remember good. Goodbye from the hood, kinda thing. Reamed that
tight twat out for her, had her howling at the moon."
Sickened at this oft-repeated tale -- it had even made it to one of
his artist's remix tapes -- she carries on. Helplessly, Selena unfastens
her bra, pulls her panties down. Speed glares in triumph at her shaved
pussy as she pulls the new pair on. She tugs experimentally. What are these
things? Rubber? Latex? Damn! Impossible to pull up without stretching. She
takes great care not to snag them with her nails. They fit tightly,
uncomfortably, swathing her hips and crotch, tight as a condom. Then, not
looking at him, she picks up the leotard, pulls it to her. His eyes are on
her small, firm breasts. The erect, dark nipples.
He holds up a beige and white object. A hot dog bun? No, a pantyliner.
"Pull the crotch down."
With difficulty, she loosens the latex panties a little. He lets
her see the liner, a familiar brand of maxi-pad. "Your very own special
size," he laughs. "I checked your bathroom cabinet." The liner seems damp.
There is a familiar nose-hair frizzing smell. He slips it between her
thighs, and orders, "Pull them up tight, now."
She feels stinging. Medication of some sort? These things are
supposed to be, what's the word? Hypoallergenic.
"Put that on."
She steps into the leotard, wriggles into it, pulls the straps over
her shoulders. What is this stinging? She wants to ask, but he points to
the exercise bike.
The bike is fitted with straps on the handlebars and pedals. As she
climbs on, she feels a strange heat in her crotch. Speed is strapping her
wrists and ankles.
"What is all this?" she asks, irritably.
"I had an idea about letting you rub your crotch in some nice hot
menthol ointment."
"No!" she reacts angrily, "You haven't, have you? Oh, you mustn't!"
"Oh?" he laughs. "Well, nah. I didn't . . . not quite. See, I
talked with some buddy of mine, some big fucking rocket scientist, an' he
says: 'Shoot, Speed, ain't you got the sense the good lord give a spare
tire? Idea's fine, and the bitch'll itch and tingle all right, real good.
But menthol. You nuts? She'll end up with that disgustin granny snatch
smell.' So, ha! I says 'no way.' And he says, 'so, how about substituting
some kinda hot peppers? Jalapeno, or Thai, or whatever, all dissolved in
some pepper oil? That way, mah man, the original pussy smell will be
retained, and you will be a happy homie. Cain't speak for the lady,
though.' "
"You didn't!? No!" she shrieks, realizing why her crotch is
throbbing so.
"Sure did! Right! That's why I asked a pro. Hey, coulda been a
tam-poon dipped in it, so think youself lucky . . . Now pedal, bitch. And
sit your ass down firmly on the seat. I wants ta see some ladylike riding .
. .None a this ass-in-the-air stuff . . ."
"No," she moans. "Oh, this is so . . ."
"So...? So hot, maybe," he laughs. "Pedal, damn you."
He taps hard on the handlebars. "See the little meter? Let's do
five miles. And let's be quick about it."
Speed is chuckling to himself as Selena begins to pump the pedals.
The seat presses the pad into her shaved crotch. "Good exercise this," he
tells her, walking round behind her. He looks around, and picks up a long
thin cane. "Sit tight and pedal, 'lena. Or I'll have to encourage you, with
this of course."
Of course.
And every time she lifts her cute round ass off the seat in
discomfort, whack! How much sense does she have? Not a lot. Her ass gets a
good number of strokes, because she just can't stay still on the seat. Her
crotch is burning hotly now, but she isn't eager to have her ass striped
with this cane either. By the time the little dial had clicked off five
miles, she is sobbing with effort, and wants nothing more than to tear
these clothes off and try to still the throbbing ache, rub herself, do
something, anything.
Unbuckling the straps, he makes no effort to stop her, laughing
aloud as she strips, ripping the panties apart, and hurls the evil maxi-pad
across the room in rage.
Now she is naked again, Speed grabs her, and with surprising
strength throws her on a table, stretched out on her back. From somewhere
beneath he produces a couple of straps, and quickly binds her in place,
legs spread, arms stretched above her head. Then, wandering out to the
kitchen, he returns with a small battered skillet, with steam rising from
She pleads. "No, whatever it is. No. Please? No!"
From it, with a smile, he pours a thin stream of melted butter on
her shaved pudendum. "I loves buttered muffin," he snorts. She shrieks, he
massages it in with his hand, parting her labia. And begins to lick it off.
"Oh, now I gets it wit dat big-assed honkie motherfucker and the blackened
redfish. Yo, this is positively cajun!"
One of his wardrobe-sized bodyguards inches through the door.
Seeing Speed about to pour another helping on Selena he growls: "Hold the
butter on my portion. I'm tryin' ta cut down on da fat."
The other appears. "To be really authentic, I guess we'd have to
put some wine on dat." Ah, the education you get in jail nowadays.
Speed smirks. "Melted butter for a reason: it's hot. And it's
greasy, so we can jes' slide right in her lil' ol' love holster. F'you
wants ta eat some beav, I got no problem with giving her a wash down with a
nicely chilled chablis or frascati afterwards."
"No merlot?" One of the huge thugs asks, disapppointed.
" 'fraid not."
"We'll live. So, she ready for some fucking, Speed? Sure looks it
to me. Cunt lips like a baboon's ass . . ."
"Like some honky politician's face . . ."
"Teddy Whassisname . . ."
"Smell dat. She really juicy."
"What you say, bitch? Wanna?"
Selena gives her usual answer. "It's why I'm here, dammit. Get me
untied. Come on, before all the others get here. I want a proper three-way."
"You gets to blow me then," Speed tells her with a big gold smirk.
He's stroking her left breast, while the others pull her straps free. Her
hands fly to her sex, and she squeezes and moans. "My bros gonn' rub that
better, 'lena. You don' hafta do nothin' but enjoy it . . ."
"Dat pepper shit gonna make my old bugle sore," the first thug
complains, unzipping.
"Then you gets the Hershey highway. My pecker is in the mood for
some peppery sauce. Yo!"

End of Story

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