Posted by Moore on March 16, 2004 at 10:33:18:
I am weeping in the shower at the gym. "How could they be so cruel? Stupid Blondies!" I wasn't the prettiest girl in the world, but I wasn't a fat cow. I wasn't trying to bug them, just work out. But they came flouncing on over when I was trying to exercise, all bottle tanned, and bleached blonde. The five of them are tall, tone, and lean, with perfect makeup even at the gym. I envy them so much. I don't have the money to have plastic surgery, or get the latest workout clothes. I was in the gym trying to lose a few pounds before I went to the beach in the spring.
"Why did they call me a fat cow?" I thought. I looked down at myself. I am cute, not quite pretty, with an OK body. I could use to lose a bit here and there, but that is why I was in the gym so late at night. "I do not look like a beached whale. The Blondies probably just wanted the gym all to themselves," I rationalized. "I really wasn't worth picking on. They probably just had a routine, which I messed up."
I turn off the shower. The gym has a row of individual shower stalls, each with its own changing cubical attached to it, off of the main women's dressing room. I step out of the shower stall and into the changing cubical where I had hung my clothes on the hooks on the walls. My flip-flops thwap as I walk. The large dressing room was very quiet otherwise. I dry off. I had just about finished when I hear a thump, and kind of a cough. I was hoping to get showered and out of the gym before the Blondies finished their workouts. Then I hear a noise like a slap. I wrap the towel around myself, and peek out of the changing cubicle's curtain.
One of the Blondies is straddling the long wooden bench in the main part of the dressing room. She is being held down so she is on the straddling the bench on her stomach. Blondie is facing me. Her hands are slapping the bench, and she is trying to buck off the brunette that is on top of her. Blondie's face is red, really red, and she has tears running down her cheeks. It was then that I see the cord, a jump rope maybe, that is wrapped around Blondie's neck. The cord is pulling Blondie's head back, so I could see her large breasts heave against her expensive tank top. The cord jerked, and Blondie made this odd noise, more inhuman then I would have thought.
The cord is being held tightly by the brunette. The brunette is wearing a tank top too, although not a designer one like Blondie's. But the brunette has the sexiest stomach I have ever seen. It is muscled, but not gross like a bodybuilder's. It looks soft, and sexy, and intriguing, and I wonder what it feels like.
Then the brunette looks straight at me. I am frozen. The only sounds are the struggles of Blondie to get some air. My fingertips start growing cold; my groin gets hot and tight. The brunette looks at her gym bag, which is out of reach on the floor. I know it is hers, and not one of the Blondies' because it is old and ratty. The brunette looks at me and says; "Shh."
I watch, silently. I don't want to help Blondie. And there is something raw, and primal, about the brunette. The brunette watches me, but needs to use all of her strength to control Blondie' struggles. I think I am holding my breath. The brunette isn't gorgeous. Her eyes are too far apart, and her nose is too big, but she is attractive. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She is young, and very fit. She has a vein that I can see that runs from her right wrist up to her biceps. I know I should run away, but I don't want to. The brunette has thick legs, and I can see the definition in her shoulder muscles. She is shapely and proportional, not overly muscled or manly.
The Blondie is struggling less now. Her face is more purple then red. She doesn't look nearly as pretty. Blondie can not even raise her hands now, and her tongue... well her tongue is beginning to come out of her mouth. I find myself staring at it. She is not making any noise now.
All too soon, Blondie goes limp. I am just standing there in a towel. I start breathing again, but I am not sure I can get my legs to move.
The brunette stalks over to me. I stare at her in breathless anticipation. She looks like she is going to punch me. "Before you kill me, c' c' c' can I lick your stomach?" I stutter. The first part come out only as loud as a whisper, then I stammered out the rest. "I can't believe I asked that. I don't stutter," I think. The brunet looks at me curiously, like I had surprised her. "You are not going to ask me NOT to kill you?" she asks after a brief pause.
The sexy brunette is taller then me, and seems so much more solid. Her eyes are like chocolate, warm and delicious, but bad for you. I am trying to be calm and get the words out. "I just saw you kill her. I don't think you are going to let an eyewitness live." She doesn't say anything for a second, then she walks back to the dead Blondie without taking her eyes off of me. "Help me put her in the shower."
The brunette hooks her arm through the straps of her gym bag and brings it with her. She takes Blondie's feet, and effortlessly lifts her half of Blondie. I put my hands under Blondie's armpits. Her skin is hot, and I can smell her expensive perfume. My hands inadvertently touch Blondie's large breasts. I think the brunette notices. I feel my face getting warm. I don't want her to see me copping a feel off of a dead girl.
I struggled to carry Blondie into the shower stall, and I trip over the divider between the changing cubical and the shower stall. Blondie's body falls right on top of me. Her face, with its nice protruding tongue, is nested right on my chest. Her large chest is on my stomach, and my legs are spread wenchily around Blondie's waist. I rub my aching hips against the dead Blondie. Maybe I am a slut like my mom said. My flip-flops have fallen off.
The brunette seems amused. I give her a smile as an apology for my clumsiness, and reluctantly get up. My body will be on top of Blondie' soon. "Will I be face up or face down?" I wonder. "Who will find us sprawled together in death? Where will our faces, our breasts, and our hips line up on each other? I don't think the brunette will let me turn Blondie face up first. Maybe she will make me kiss the dead Blondie, touch her chest, rub my chest against hers, straddle her, have..."
My thoughts are interrupted as the brunette pulls a small gun with an attached silencer from her gym bag. I could hear my father in my head yelling at me from the past. "IT ISN'T A GUN! YOU STUPID GIRL! I HAVE A GUN IN MY PANTS! IT IS A PISTOL! AND DON'T EVER CALL IT A SILENCER! IT IS A SOUND SUPPRESSER, YOU WORTHLESS IDIOT! A SOUND SUPPRESSER MAKES THE WEAPON QUIETER, BUT NOT SILENT!"
"Get on your knees," she orders. I drop to my knees. The concrete is hard. My boyfriend, Mike, would let me use a pillow to cushion my knees when I am in this position for him. She stalks closer; confident, assured. She is the huntress, I am her prey.
I look straight ahead at her magnificent stomach. It is shapely, and defined, and smooth. I wait; I can't bring myself to move. She waits a moment, then puts her left hand on the back of my head. I shiver at her touch. She pulls my head to her belly and commands me, "lick." I lick her lightly, not daring to do more. Her stomach is flat and firm, and even though I know she is about to blow my brains out, I don't think I have ever been so aroused.
I want to lick lower; I want to so very much. "Tell her you have never been with a girl and you want to try it," I implore myself. I want to start touching myself, but what would she say if I did? I couldn't stand it if she laughed; I would just die. That makes me laugh and the brunette looks down at me. "Very nice," I mutter. Then I rub my cheek against my goddess' abdomen and shut my eyes blissfully.
"Look at me," she commands. Her eyes are suddenly hard and deadly. She puts the pistol near my left temple. "Not this way! It is going to be too quick, just like a light going off. I only get to die once, make me FEEL it," I scream in my head.
Then we both hear someone else calling, "Veronica? Where are you? Why does it take you so long to take a piss?" The brunette looks at me, but doesn't pull the trigger. I look at her, almost wanting her to, but then I realize why she doesn't. Even with a sound suppresser ("FINALLY GOT IT RIGHT," my father's ghost echoes in my head,) there would be a noise about as loud a a wet towel slap if she pulled the trigger. Then the "ting" sound of the ejected shell casing bouncing around. This other Blondie would hear the noise. I'm not sure my brunette is done killing the Blondies yet.
"Not a sound!" Although she says it quietly, her words have the force of authority behind them.
I nod meekly, and purse my lips shut. "I'm on your side," I emote silently, "go get Blondie."
With a glare that refires the heat in my groin, her pistol in hand, the brunette picks up her gym bag and slides into the dressing room without a sound.