Posted by C on January 08, 2002 at 08:56:19:
It was a fine spring day in London. Nigel Mycroft, magic detective extraordinaire, was seated at the desk of his City office, when he heard a knock at the door. “Come,” he said. In stepped a dark-skinned, seven-foot tall man in a turban, a ceremonial dagger at his side. The tall man bowed.
“Good morning, Atman,” said Mycroft. “I take it Lord Lechley is here?”
Atman Singh, Mycroft’s faithful manservant, nodded.
“Show him in then, and thank you.”
Singh departed, then returned with a trim, middle-aged Englishman in a Saville Row suit. His gray hair was short-cropped, and he had a pencil-thin moustache. Long service in Her Majesty’s armed forces had given him a rigidly straight bearing. Singh bowed again and left. Mycroft stood up, walked over to the visitor, and shook his hand.
“Lord Lechley!” he said. “It’s been a long time.”
“Quite,” said Lord Lechley.
“What brings you to London? Your secretary was (how best to put it?) cryptic over the phone.”
“Yes, I apologize for that. It’s just that . . . one doesn’t know who might be listening . . . whom one can trust.”
Mycroft showed Lechley to a comfortable chair, then offered him a drink. Lechley thanked him and refused. Then Mycroft sat down again behind his desk. “Take your time, my good man,” he said. “And I assure you, nothing you say here will be overheard by another.”
“Well,” said Lechley, gathering his thoughts. “You know that I bought Narthex Manor in Oversex about a year ago?”
“What you may not know is that I seem to have inherited something else . . . something terrible.”
“Well . . . the estate has a number of tenants, servants and farmhands mostly. Among them were a boy and girl in their teens. They disappeared a month ago. We all thought, because of what we knew of them, that they had eloped. No great matter.”
“Alas, they hadn’t. Their bodies were discovered a week later in the forest adjoining the estate.”
“They had been . . . punctured, and drained of blood. Not a drop was found anywhere.”
“Hmmm,” said Mycroft.
“We thought it might have been some sort of large predator. But an eminent physician of my acquaintance ruled out bears, wolves, and everything else he could think of.”
“It gets worse. Certain agents of mine questioned the tenants, as well as the owners and tenants of every estate in the region. It came out, after much prodding, and some threats, that this sort of thing has happened before–many times before. ”
“I see,” said Mycroft. “And how is it that word of this hasn’t made its way to London?”
“I have ways of keeping things under wraps for a little while,” said Lechley. “I don’t want to start a panic. But my neighbors seem to be old hands at covering this sort of thing up. And where they’re concerned, I suspect darker motives. Many, no doubt, are simply afraid. But some, perhaps, are more intimately involved than they would like anyone to know.”
“Why come to me? Why not just let Scotland Yard perform its usual exemplary investigation?”
“Because,” said Lord Lechley, “I’m afraid Scotland Yard might not be able to handle it. Please look at this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. Then he emptied the bag onto the desk. Mycroft saw what appeared to be a four-pointed silver star, at the end of a broken chain. “This was found right next to the bodies,” said Lechley. “The parents of the two unfortunates had never seen it before. It’s . . . strange. For one thing, it . . . it glows, and it’s always warm to the touch.” Indeed it did glow, giving off a greenish light, very unlike the gleam of ordinary silver.
“A tetragram,” said Mycroft.
“A what?” said Lechley.
“An Atlantean tetragram. It facilitates the casting of spells, and when it’s used for that purpose it absorbs a small amount of the energy that’s expended. The glow will eventually fade, of course. By the way: nothing provides more energy for spells than human blood.”
“Diabolical!” said Lechley. “So you think this would be in your line of work?”
“Absolutely, my good man. Absolutely.”
“Do you have a notion . . . what we’re up against?”
“No,” said Mycroft. “I have no ‘notion’; rather, I know exactly what we’re up against: belles dames sans merci . . . noble succubi.”
“Noble . . . succubi?”
“Yes, the most dangerous species of succubus. They lurk by preference among the aristocracy. They feed on the blood of servants and retainers, as well as using it in their depraved rituals. And they threaten the aristocrats with the same treatment should they resist, or tell anyone else. Most are happy then to let them be. If you persist with your investigation, you can be assured of a visit very soon.”
“The aristocracy, you say? Might this evil then reach . . . to the highest level?”
“Impossible to say. I would suppose that, at the least, every wealthy family in Oversex has been compromised. And some may be more than compromised.”
“You’re aware, Mr. Mycroft, that I earned my title; I wasn’t born to it. You must believe I knew nothing of any of this.”
“I believe you.”
“This is . . . horrible. What shall we do?”
“Well,” said Mycroft. “The succubi must know of your investigation. Rather than kill you straight out and risk further attention, they’ll attempt to win your silence with threats . . . and rewards.”
“Don’t even let your thoughts go that way! For that is the path to certain destruction! Now let me think. They’re formidable, but over-confident, and terribly vain. Give them an excuse to come to you . . . one that allows them to show off. Then, if they do, I’ll have them!”
“Can they be vanquished?” said Lechley.
“Oh yes,” said Mycroft. “In a number of ways. Now let’s form a plan . . . and discuss my fee.”
It was a first in the history of Narthex Manor. The previous owners had been elderly and retiring. But the new owner, Lord Lechley, had done what was previously unthinkable: he’d invited every substantial family in Oversex to a garden party. And not just any garden party, but a fashionable, Londonesque affair, featuring the powerful and celebrated from all over the Island. The music alone guaranteed a sensation: Lechley had hired the rock band Zoo Two, which had just gone triple-platinum. The invitations were gilt-edged, and each contained these words: “Ladies, please wear your loveliest finery.”
“A bit rude to remind them to dress well,” said Lechley when he saw the invitations.
“A minor and forgivable lapse,” said Mycroft. “You cannot imagine the vanity of these creatures until you’ve met some of them.”
“Have you . . . met any, Mr. Mycroft?”
“Oh yes,” said Mycroft. “Yes indeed.”
“With what result?”
“Let’s just say that I relieved them of some of their plumage.”
On the day of the party, Lord Lechley was there to greet everyone, and so were Mycroft and Atman Singh. Singh, of course, wore his Sikh’s turban and dagger; he also had on what looked like a golden belt, wrapped several times around his waist. They all stood at the big door of Narthex Manor as the guests filed by. Mycroft soon noticed that several of the young ladies were preternaturally beautiful. And these really lovely ones wore tetragrams, just like the one he’d seen in his office! He was also struck by their attire: everyone with a tetragram was dressed in a mini-skirt and high heels. He drew Lord Lechley’s attention to this fact, and Lechley said: “Yes, it’s apparently all the rage in Oversex; has been since the mini first came out, I hear. I was a little puzzled at the start, but I got used to it. Mind, I never complained.”
“I really must come to Oversex more often,” said Mycroft.
After about half an hour of greeting, a particularly elegant guest appeared. She seemed to be in her mid-thirties, full of breast and curved of hip. Her shoulder-length hair was lustrously black; her eyes were a strange shade of light green. She wore a short-sleeved black blouse, together with a leopard-skin mini-skirt and leopard-skin pumps. Around her neck was a chain–with, of course, a tetragram. She extended her right hand in Lord Lechley’s direction.
“Lady Spankhurst!” he said, bowing down and kissing the hand. “Always delighted!”
“As am I, Lord Lechley,” said his beautiful guest. “Thank you for having me. You look very busy at the moment, but there is a matter I’d like to discuss with you. Perhaps one of your servants here can relieve you . . . .”
“Oh they’re not my servants,” said Lechley. “Where are my manners?” Calling Mycroft “Mr. Overhill” and Singh “Mr. Gupta,” he introduced them to the lovely creature in front of them.
“Well, Lord Lechley,” said Lady Spankhurst, “I’d still like to talk with you when you’re free . . . I’d like to . . . . “
Just then, a much younger-looking woman ran up–a blonde minx in a blue mini and matching heels. Mycroft remembered that she had arrived about fifteen minutes earlier, but he couldn’t remember the name she gave. “I . . . I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said, “but I . . . .”
“Petula,” said Lady Spankhurst, “this is not the time.”
“It’s an emergency; I . . . I lost my necklace!”
“What?” said the older woman with a hiss.
“I . . . I lost it; maybe when we were last in the woods . . . .”
“That’s quite enough. You can go find it later. If you don’t, you know what will happen.”
Petula looked as if she were about to burst into tears. She bowed her head and, trembling visibly, said: “Y-yes, Milady.”
“Leave us–right now.”
“Y-yes, ma’am.” She managed a quick curtsy and ran off as fast as she had come.
“I apologize,” said Lady Spankhurst. “One of my personal assistants, who may be leaving my employ before much longer.”
“I hope I’ve done nothing to get the poor girl in trouble,” said Lechley. “You know of course that I’m very interested in anything you have to tell me. Let me get one of the butlers to take over. I like to greet my guests directly, but I must admit I’m ready for an intermission. We can chat in my office.”
A servant took Lechley’s place at the door. Lechley exchanged pleasantries with “Overhill” and “Gupta,” and then he escorted his guest to the office. It was a richly appointed room with a Persian carpet on the floor and a huge desk in front of a picture window. He offered Lady Spankhurst a chair, and then sat down behind the desk.
“Well, Lord Lechley,” she said, “it’s like this. It seems that an unfortunate accident involving two of the local farmhands has taken up a great deal of your attention . . . . “
“I like to look after my tenants,” said Lechley.
“Of course, of course,” she said, “but really, my dear, sweet man, you’re causing a dreadful stir.”
Just then there was a knock at the door. “Come,” said Lechley. In walked Mycroft and Singh.
“I . . . I thought we were going to have a private meeting,” said her Ladyship. She was clearly angry, though she controlled it well.
“I beg your indulgence, Milady,” said Mycroft, “but I have a few tests to perform. They won’t take long at all.”
“Tests? Whatever do you mean?”
Mycroft approached her. “It can go very quickly if you don’t make a fuss . . . . ”
“What are you babbling about? Lord Lechley, what is he babbling about?” With this, she stood up from her chair.
“I have to rule out some . . . possibilities,” said Lechley. “Please just let the man do what I’m paying him to do. Five minutes of your time at most.”
“Absolutely not!” said Lady Spankhurst. “You’re no gentleman, Lord Lechley, to be imposing on me like this!” She then reached for the hem of her miniskirt, as if to straighten it.
“Now, Atman!” cried Mycroft. In one swift motion, Singh pulled loose his golden belt, then tossed it at the woman. Like a python, it wrapped itself around her at waist-height: once, twice, three times. Her arms were bound firmly to her sides. Then Mycroft pushed her none too gently against the nearest wall.
“The mystic Belt of Benares,” he said. “According to legend, it binds one kind of creature, and one only. Let’s test the legend, shall we?”
“You’re . . . mad,” she gasped. “I’m surrounded . . . by madmen!” Ignoring her, Mycroft unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Her white panties would have been quite unsurprising, but for one thing. A four-pointed star had been monogrammed on the front, in silver thread.
“As I suspected,” said Mycroft. “Panties of Power. She was about to blast you with them; you can thank Atman that she didn’t.”
“This . . . is an . . . outrage!” wailed Lady Spankhurst. “I know the best barristers in England. You’ll pay for this! You’ll pay!”
“Another test,” said Mycroft, and he took hold of her panties and yanked them to her knees. Her groin was completely hairless. An aroma like freshly cut clover began to fill the air. Mycroft then slipped the fingers of his right hand between Lady Spankhurst’s trembling legs. She squawked indignantly as he did so. He then withdrew his hand and held it out to Lord Lechley. “Sniff that,” he said. “This is no human female.”
Lord Lechley lowered his head and took a whiff. “Delightful,” he said. “Are you sure you have enough proof?”
“More than sure,” said Mycroft. He turned to Lady Spankhurst and said: “You’ve had quite a long run, it seems. But now it’s over. You’re done.”
“Am I?” she said in a haughty tone of voice. “So you know what I am; goody for you. Do you think I was stupid enough to come alone? Even now, my followers sense that something’s up. I’d say you’re the one who’s done.”
“Of course you didn’t come alone,” said Mycroft. “We were counting on that. Thus the reinforcements.”
“W-what do you mean?” she said, and some of her arrogance slipped away. Just then, they heard a high-pitched scream from the garden; and then another; and then still more. They also heard what seemed to be . . . barking! Loud, deep barking that rattled the picture window.
“To the garden!” said Mycroft. He pulled at one of her Ladyship’s elbows, but she resisted. So, with a strength that often surprised others, he hoisted her up and slung her, face first, over his right shoulder. He then secured her bare bottom with his right arm and dashed out the door. Shrieking with rage, she kicked frantically, but accomplished nothing, except to work her panties further down her legs. The two other men fell in behind them.
When they reached the garden, what they saw brought them to a sudden stop. Mycroft put Lady Spankhurst down in the grass and just stood there. Nothing to do now but watch what he had set in motion.
Everywhere in the garden, people were running and screaming. The reason was plain to see: about twenty enormous dogs had descended on the party. They looked something like St. Bernards, but were even bigger, and were coal-black from snout to tail. They ran back and forth after the guests and emitted deafening barks as they did so. Everybody was in a panic; but it soon became clear that the dogs were interested only in certain prey. Each had singled out one of the exceptionally beautiful female guests and was chasing her.
In their mad rush to get away, the girls were running at a breakneck pace; their speed was astonishing. “How is that possible in high heels?” asked Lechley.
“They’re magic heels,” Mycroft replied. “They’re actually fused to the girls’ feet and make them swifter than any mere human runner.”
Unfortunately for their quarry, the dogs, despite their size, were at least as fast. In fact, it soon became apparent that they were playing with their victims. Just as a breathtaking, black-haired girl in red mini and heels was running past Lechley, a dog caught the hem of her skirt from behind. He pulled back hard, making her shriek. Then he let go, only to seize her hem once again. More shrieking and sobbing, till he once more released her. Another dog and girl–this one blue-skirted Petula–were playing a kind of tug of war. She stood facing the dog, and pulled on her skirt for all she was worth. Her face was red with tears, her ample breasts were heaving. “Let go! Let go!” she wailed. Suddenly the skirt tore loose, and Petula fell squealing to the ground. The dog considerately waited for her to get up, then chased her some more. A redhead in yellow was briefly cornered at a tree. “Please don’t! Please!” she cried, shutting her eyes as the dog began to nuzzle her groin. Then, he gave a big woof! and pushed her away from the tree with his nose. She started running again, and he followed close behind her.
Clearly the dogs enjoyed their little game; but eventually, they began to herd their prey toward a blank expanse of stone wall on the western side of the Manor House. Another few minutes, and the girls had their backs to this wall. There would be no escape: their pursuers had them quite hemmed in.
At this point, Lord Lechley looked out over the garden and saw that most of the legitimate guests had fled. (Zoo Two and their road crew had taken off at the first sign of trouble). A few, however, remained, peeking out from behind trees or hiding under picnic tables. “Party’s over, everyone!” Lechley called out in the authoritative voice one gets from twenty-five years in the Army. “We’ve had an emergency, and you need to be on your way. My servants will show you out.” Looking very bewildered, the remaining guests got up and left, escorted by some of Lechley’s bigger, rougher-looking retainers.
Lechley then turned to Mycroft. “If others are involved, we’ve certainly forewarned them.”
“Don’t fret,” said Mycroft. “You can’t flush out a nest as big as this one without drawing attention. We’ll have to be what the Americans like to call ‘pro-active.’”
“Very good,” said Lechley. “Now–and only because you promised to tell me–just what are these beasts you’ve brought down on the neighborhood?”
“The Hounds of Hengest, the finest hunters of noble succubi in the world, or out of it. Luckily, Ectoplasm Is Us was having a clearance sale. Now let’s go have a look at the endgame.”
Mycroft put Lady Spankhurst over his shoulder once again, and then walked over to see how things stood. Lechley and Singh followed close behind. They counted twenty lovely young women, all lined up against the wall. Every one of them–except Petula–had a tetragram. At least as interesting: every one of them had lost her skirt to the playful hunters. Each girl clutched protectively at a trembling bosom with one hand, and at her panties with the other. All were weeping with terrified despair. Twenty Hounds stood just a few feet away, eyeing their quarry closely, but otherwise not moving. Mycroft placed Lady Spankhurst on her back in a comfortable-looking patch of grass about ten feet behind the Hounds. Seeing her panties bunched at her ankles, he took hold of them and tugged them past her toes. Then he threw them on the grass beside her.
“I want to make it as clear as clear can be that these are down for good,” he said.
“You’re . . . terrible! Terrible!” she cried, and then she just sobbed like a little girl.
Mycroft now gave a nod to the Hounds. In response, they lunged forward, each aiming at a groin. Effortlessly, their muzzles batted the girls’ hands aside. Then they all nipped–with surprising gentleness as it turned out: just enough to penetrate both panty and skin for a moment. Now they drew back. Gentle the Hounds may have been, but their teeth exuded a powerful venom; the girls shrieked with the hurt of it and kicked out with their pretty feet. Several wet themselves. Moreover, the shock of being nipped loosened their tongues. (Noble succubi are the most talkative of wicked fays– especially when they’re in mortal trouble.)
“Ouch! My puss!” cried one.
“Oh, mine too!” wept another.
“Oooo, it’s worse than cramps when I was human!” wailed a third.
“How . . . how could this happen?” whimpered yet another. “We . . . we all wore our lucky panties!” Sure enough: after their venomous nipping, the girls’ hands had fallen nervelessly to their sides, and Mycroft could see a little silver L monogrammed on the front of each pair of undies–right where her Ladyship’s pants had sported a tetragram. Some of the L’s were obscured by a dab or two of blood; but it was plain that all the girls had them.
“I can help you with that,” said Mycroft. “Magical luck is an ill-directed sort of force. If everything else is going against you–as it was today—your luck can play turncoat, and ally with your opponent. I’d say that’s what happened: if you’d worn ordinary panties, some of you might have escaped; instead, we’ve bagged you all.” Predictably, this news was greeted with tears and sobs.
Just then, an especially haughty-looking redhead spoke. Even at bay, she was lovely, with her electric green eyes, green blouse, and green heels. Mycroft remembered her from when she’d arrived an hour or so before: Pamela Paddleworthy, a local ingenue who’d gained some tabloid notoriety for her antics in London.
“This is really a bit of a bore,” said Pamela.
“Whatever do you mean?” said Mycroft.
“You’re using these . . . monstrous creatures to detain us, and we haven’t done a thing! Not deliberately, at any event.”
“How’s that?” said Mycroft.
“It’s all the fault of this . . . Spankhurst creature! She cast spells on us, made us her slaves! We were quite unwilling the whole time.”
At these words, Lady Spankhurst cried out: “You . . . traitor! You . . .disloyal little bitch!”
“Do you mean to tell me,” said Mycroft, “that you’ve never drunk the blood of a human being or engaged in unspeakable rituals?”
“Never willingly. We were always under her power!”
“Oh! Oh!” said Lady Spankhurst. “For once I’m speechless; but I’d just like to say . . . .”
Mycroft cut her off: “You’ve both said enough for me. Every one of you is obviously a full-blown succubus. That means that, of your own free will, you’ve all drunk human blood and performed Satanic rites. It’s over, it’s done with: you’ve been caught, your pussies have been punctured, and the Hounds are going to finish what they’ve started. End of story.”
This was too much for Pamela. Her eyes widened. Her breasts and lower lip began to tremble violently. Her pretty knees started knocking together. She turned to Lechley now and said: “L-lord Lechley! You can save me from this . . . this lunatic! You think I’m b-beautiful, you know you do. You must remember that n-night in London. That was just a foretaste. I can give you unimaginable p-pleasure. Please, please, don’t let him . . . hurt me! Please. Oh dear God, please!”
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Lechley. “You weren’t quite forthright with me (for one thing, you told me you liked to shave down there). I can’t have a relationship without honesty, now can I?”
Mycroft gave the Hounds another nod, and they lunged again. Down came twenty pairs of lucky panties. Twenty hairless twats trembled as their owners fearfully awaited the next assault. It didn’t take long: another lunge, and the girls cried out pitiably as they were nipped a second time. They all fell kicking to the ground.
“Panties down,” moaned one.
“Forever, it seems,” sighed another.
“My pussy’s . . . had better days,” sobbed a third.
Now it was nip, nip, nip, until the death orgasms began. Five, six, seven times they came--and they spurted clover-scented honey every time! At last, they were still.
Mycroft turned to Lady Spankhurst: “I haven’t forgotten you, my dear.” The biggest of the Hounds, the one who’d finished off Pamela, came loping over.
“I . . . I can do more for you than any of those silly girls!” her Ladyship cried. “I can give you pleasure beyond your wildest—aaaaaahhhhhh!!!” Nip, nip, nip: soon she, too, was coming and dying.
When the leopard-skin pumps had kicked for the last time, Mycroft, Lechley, and Singh just stood there a while, catching their breath.
“Good show,” said Lechley at last. “But what now?”
“Well,” said Mycroft. “My Hounds need to feed. They swallow their prey whole, by the way. It’s fascinating to watch, but we really do need to make some further plans.”
“Right,” said Lechley. So the three men left the Hounds to their sumptuous banquet and went back to the Manor.
Part III (One Day Later)
The Prime Minister sat at her desk at No.10 Downing Street and reviewed the latest news from Oversex. It was anything but reassuring. Nothing whatsoever had been heard from the Oversex Coven. All witnesses were in substantial agreement as to what they’d seen: a pack of enormous black dogs, with a penchant for chasing beautiful women. It was most distressing, but one had to conclude that the Hounds of Hengest were abroad once again. So many years of careful planning–and now this! This could be quite the sticky wicket.
Just then there was a knock. One of the two mini-skirted attendants opened the big door, and in came Pansy Pimlico, the PM’s most trusted aide. She was a slender, strawberry blonde in a tan mini and heels. She had some papers in her right hand, and she looked very worried.
“What is it now?” snapped the PM.
“A sighting, ma’am, on the outskirts of London.”
“A sighting of what?”
“The . . . the dogs, ma’am.”
The PM jumped up. “Let me see that,” she said, and took the report. It was true: about twenty of the big beasts had been seen this morning on the edge of town. With her free hand, the PM began to stroke the front of her elegant black skirt. It wasn’t a mini; even a Prime Minister couldn’t get away with that, but it ended just above the knee, looked ever so nice with her black pumps, and could be lifted quickly at need. The PM brought her hand to rest right over the tetragram on her Panties of Power. Let them come, she thought. We’ll blast them all. “Let’s take it up to Level 1,” she said. “I want everyone’s panties primed.” She then saw the look on her aide’s face. “What’s wrong now?” she asked.
“It’s just . . . it’s just that . . . I’m afraid, ma’am. I’m afraid!”
“Afraid of what, dear?” As she spoke, the PM walked over to where her aide stood, visibly trembling.
“Of . . . of being caught!”
“And . . .? ” As the PM said this, she took the girl in her arms and stroked her hair.
“Of . . . my panties down . . . and the hurt . . . they say it hurts! Oh, I don’t want to be caught! I don’t want to be caught! I’m so afraid!” Pansy started weeping on the PM’s shoulder.
The PM slid her right hand under the girl’s mini and then down the front of her panties. Pansy was already moist with the thought of hurtful Hounds, so it was no great matter to slip a finger in and gently massage her clit. Still crying, the girl began to gasp and whimper. Then, with no warning at all, the PM scored the tender flesh with a dagger-sharp fingernail. Pansy squealed and fell to her knees.
“Who should you be afraid of?”
“Y-you . . . j-just you!” Pansy sobbed.
“Excellent. Now go take us to Level 1, before I get really angry.”
“Keeping her eyes averted, Pansy got up unsteadily, made a quick, shallow curtsey, and left as fast as she could.
The PM was returning to her desk when she heard the first screams from outside. Then the door burst open, and in rushed Pansy with a Hound right behind her. It seized the hem of her mini and pulled her shrieking to the floor. Two more Hounds barreled in and brought down the attendants. No leisurely play here: three pussies were bitten, hard, before their owners could even think of shooting back. The PM fell against the wall, fumbled her skirt up, and said “Fire!” The tetragram on her panties glowed red, and one of the Hounds exploded. Now she just had to power up and fire again.
But there was no time! Five more dogs forced their way into the office, and the biggest of them came right at her. Before she was even half-way charged up, it had bitten through her tetragram and skewered her puss. The PM screamed, then fell sobbing to the floor.
It was only then that Nigel Mycroft and Lord Lechley entered the room. “Strike while the iron is hot,” said Lechley. “That’s what they always taught us at Sandhurst.”
“Quite,” said Mycroft. He walked over to where the Hound was stripping the PM of her panties. “Why, Prime Minister, I believe you’ve been bagged.”
“Enjoy your triumph while you can,” she hissed. “You haven’t caught us all; I will be avenged, I tell you; I’ll–ohhhhhhhhhh!!!” And it was nip, nip, nip, until the pretty black pumps were done kicking.