Christina Hendricks Eats Boys Like Air

tags: bbw, big tits, MILF, mature, masturbation, m/F, f/F, blowjob, titfuck, anal, MILF, femdom, feet

Christina Hendricks’ reign of terror reaches new heights when she takes over an all-male boarding school! But the evil mega-titted MILF may have finally met her match…in a scrawny youngster who is immune to her charms and has something she really needs.

A/N: All characters are over 18. The story is set in the same universe as my previous stories *Christina Hendricks Needs an 18-Year-Old Boy* and *A Day in the Life of Christina Hendricks*. These re-imagine CH as a ludicrously evil monster (who may have some unspecified low-level supernatural powers). I lurve my Christina. She’s the best! I based on Dyanne Thorne’s character in *Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS* and its sequels. (Note that Christina Hendricks is a natural blonde IRL + has dual American-British citizenship and wouldn’t need a work visa to live in the UK.)

Introduction

Even at twelve, she was wrong.

Her British father took her to the Nievecraft Clinic of Child Psychology, one of the UK’s most prestigious institutions. For two weeks in 1988, she was subjected to the most extreme psychological examination ever legally performed on a child.

Dr. Helen Plotzker, the clinic’s head of assessment, threw everything at her. The Stanford-Binet. The Wechsler Intelligence Scale. The DAS-II, and a battery of other psychometric tests. Sally–Anne tasks. Cued recall exams. Dual n-back drills. Raven’s Progressive Matrices. CT, MRI, and PET scans. Even her genome was sequenced using two-dimensional chromatography.

Everything.

Dr. Plotzker’s final report on the girl is eighty thousand words long yet could be summarized in four.

High intelligence. No empathy.

The twelve-year-old was a sadist. She enjoyed inflicting pain. She seemed incapable of remorse, and knew morality in the weird, broken way the blind know color, the deaf know music—a rote, book-learned way, alien and unfelt. She had strange tics: like an inability (or unwillingness) to remember your name if she judged you unworthy of her attention.

The girl was devious. Machiavellian. A mask over a mask over a mask over a horrific, rapacious need to be the queen, the empress, the world. Unlike most children at the clinic, she reveled in the attention and the questioning. It validated her self-image as someone incredibly special.

In 2025, an alphabet soup of classifications exist for such a girl. Borderline Personality Disorder. Antisocial Personality Disorder. Histrionic Personality Disorder. Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

But in 1988, a different term was used to describe Christina Rene Hendricks.

Psychopath.

---

Christina’s parents had ample reason for concern.

Their smiling, precocious daughter attended school in Fairfax, Virginia, where she was the target of bullying accusations. These were difficult to prove: her supposed victims had a tendency to disavow their stories when questioned, claiming they’d lied.

Christina also had countless friends willing to testify that she was not a bully. That she was actually the kindest, sweetest, most rosy-cheeked little doll in the whole damn school (and perhaps the world). Who would ever call such a lovely, dew-eyed girl a bully? (No, seriously, who? Who told you this?)

But janitors would often unlock classrooms on Monday morning, and discover someone’s all-night punishment—hundreds of chalk lines scrawled over blackboards and walls. SORRY XTINA, FORGIVE ME XTINA, PLEASE DON’T BE MAD XTINA.

And girls kept getting caught doing dangerous and stupid things—like standing on the school roof next to a lightning rod during a thunderstorm, or climbing into a mastiff breeder’s backyard with dripping red meat tied to their skirts—and refusing to say why they’d done it. Or for whom. Ask Did Christina Hendricks make you do this? and they’d go silent. Try Was it someone whose name starts with “C”? and they might nod, slowly.

Some of the rumors about twelve-year-old Christina Hendricks were very nasty—while not exactly sexual, they had a perverse edge unlike standard mean-girl bullying.

One student claimed that she’d been forced to accompany Christina to the lavatory in the middle of winter and warm Christina’s toilet seat with her face. Another claimed Christina had stolen her treasured Barbie Doll, cut off its hair, and made her eat and swallow the plastic strands.

To be fair, many of these rumors were clearly fake. Such as the one about Christina’s so-called “Sunshine Game”, which was so horrifying that it simply couldn’t be true.

Regardless, many of Christina’s schoolfriends were clearly terrified of her—often, the same ones who claimed she was nice, and wouldn’t hurt a fly.

None of it added up. It was as if reality blurred, bent, and leaked when Christina Hendricks walked into the room.

---

Helen Plotzker’s 1988 report can be read online, almost in full. Only the last page is missing.

It ends with a handwritten, personal note directed at Christina’s parents.

Subject JANE DOE is a juvenile psychopath. Given her obvious skill at manipulating others, she must be watched. Do not trust her to tell the truth, and do not allow her to have power over others. Yesterday, your daughter told me…

What follows is a bombshell. Dr. Plotzker had learned something extremely disturbing about Christina. Something even worse than the Sunshine Game. Something that would have killed Christina’s career as an actress and gotten Mad Men pulled off the air at the height of its popularity.

…But this secret cannot be read in the online copy. The final page is missing. It was either not scanned, or scanned and then deleted. We don’t know.

The actual report was lost in a fire.

The same fire that burned the Nievecraft Clinic of Child Psychology to the ground in 1990, killing three people—including Dr. Plotzker herself.

---

38 years later…

Day 2 of Christina’s Regime

The schoolboy’s penis spilled heavily from Christina’s fist, a dangling flesh hose. Sperm oozed from its slit, pulsing a thick gray rope over her tits.

Teenage cocks. Christina thought, coaxing out the last of his ejaculation with her tongue. There is no higher God.

She knelt before the boy in her new Nievecraft office, hearing his post-orgasmic gasps beat above her head like the thrashing of disembodied wings.

He’d heard about the new teacher’s sexual obsession with young men. He was still visibly shocked by how aggressively she’d moved on him once her office door was closed—tearing down his pants, slamming him hip-first against the wall, sucking and devouring his prick with her lipstick-bloody mouth. Snakes ate their prey with less rapacity.

His breathing ebbed. Silence closed around them like a fist. A bead of condensation shined on his forehead, flaring beneath the overhead light.

He coughed politely. “Um, my name is Dave, by the way. Just in case you wanted to know.”

Christina’s eyes slid from cock to face. He tried to meet her stare: broke it seconds later. She seemed ten feet tall, even when down on her knees.

Her eyes were soulless. Two windows straight into a tomb.

Thank you for your name… Christina thought, chewing a lip. I cannot conceive of a universe so empty of dust motes to name and sand grains to catalog that I will ever experience the degree of boredom sufficient to actually REMEMBER it, but thank you all the same.

Her hand snapped open, dropping the boy’s flaccid prick. It swung like a pendulum, bouncing on her tit and splashing ripples across drum-taut flesh.

Still silent, still on her knees, Christina slapped his cock between her breasts.

She began titfucking him hard again.

Her hands slid beneath the huge bulks of her tits, scooped them out of her bra cups in ludicrous overflowing handfuls, and packed them into place on either side of his cock. Her cleavage flooded into position, bulging and swallowing his rubbery penis, engulfing it in a white sea.

SLAP! PLAP! GLOPP!

“Goddamn!” Dave convulsed as a storm of mammary meat crashed into his pale skinny thighs. “Not so fast!”

Yes so fast. Christina smiled her predatory smile, feeling blood spurt into the penis buried in her sweaty gorge of titflesh. His prick swelled hard, inflating like a balloon animal. She felt veins twitching, felt a heartbeat going pulse-pulse.

Her cunt drooled under her pencil skirt.

Christina wanted cock. Young, virile, teenaged cock.

Cock able to ram her to a mattress for hours. Cock able to cum again and again—and more importantly, make her cum again and again.

She didn’t give a fuck about the pimply, talkative, annoying bag of meat that these cocks came inconveniently attached to.

If any of her boy toys had names, they could keep them.

Christina’s hands worked like machines, pounding and plunging her tits in huge sweaty bomb-blasts. Stroke after stroke broke against his thighs, grinding out a new erection between her enormous fuck-tanks.

“Such a nice boy…” Christina purred over the noise of her roiling, slurping tits.

As she spoke, her voice rolled like thunder through her chest. Dave felt each syllable vibrate through a solid foot of breastflesh, quivering upon his glans.

“…Created for me. All for me.”

Fear swung like a scythe through Dave when she said this.

Not enough fear, as it turned out. And he felt it too late to matter.

---

Christina had arrived at Nievecraft two days previously. Much had changed since her 1988 examination. The clinic was gone. A school had been built in its place.

A boys’s school, to her inestimable delight!

Obviously, she was generously sampling the students, but her true purpose lay upstream of shagging barely-legal teenagers. It was not true that all of Dr. Helen Plotzker’s reports had been destroyed in the fire.

---

“Mmmf!” Dave jolted as two huge globes surged over his cock, pressing areolae sweat onto his pelvis.

SHLUCK! PLOPP!

The tits filling Christina’s hands were the size of heavy, saggy soccer balls. She hefted them—obscene rolls of flesh spilling between her fingers—and then flung them forward onto his crotch. Brutal shockwaves pounded out with each impact.

SHAKK-SPLATT!

With her tits eating his prick with vicious rolling strikes, Dave’s cock blindly spiked through her surging cleavage. It wasn’t long enough to touch the bottom.

Again and again, her motorcycle helmet-sized breasts rippled wetly, impacting against his scrawny legs. She slung them forward, letting them explode against his crotch, engulfing his prick like a slobbering hungry mouth. Two eager wolves, baying for blood

PLAP! SHMACK! SHLUCK!

“Do you know why I’m here?” Christina asked the young man impaled upon her tits.

“You wanted to teach an acting class?” Sweat dripped daggers down his face, while her breasts tore at his crotch like storm-force weather.

She nodded. Contemporary acting, to be precise. That was the lie she’d told the East Midlands provost, to secure a teaching post.

“I visited Nievecraft once as a child. Fond memories, et cetera. Would love to live here for a while…but I need a work visa. Suppose I taught a class?”

The provost had found merit in the idea. This would be a cultural experience for the boys—famous American actresses were thin on the ground in the East Midlands. (Unlike Christina, who wasn’t thin anywhere). As such, the educational board granted permission for Christina to teach an optional class at Nievecraft over the two-week Easter holidays.

This arrangement was unorthodox, but seemed free of risk. Student attendance was a sixth its usual levels—a mix of burnouts retaking classes, and high-achievers cramming for the GCSEs and A-levels. Christina’s class fulfilled no curricular requirements, but would grant additional credits for those who wanted or needed them.

They’d given her enormous privileges over the hundred-acre estate on the moors: she had her own set of keys, her own office, and living quarters for herself and two personal assistants. She had assiduously ensured that nothing she did would be recorded in any sort of logbook.

For two weeks, the school was hers, and nobody was watching.

Huge jugs thundered against him, churning out wet and meaty slaps. Christina smiled, leaning her head in to suck the glans of his prick as it reared out of her heaving tits.

Christina began speaking—not to the quivering Year 13 student—but to the cock she was defiling with her breasts. The important part.

“This used to be a psychological clinic here. Until…”

---

Nievecraft locals still spoke of the fire of 1990.

Some called it The Fire, as though it was a judgment preached and prophesied and finally unveiled.

The East Midlands Arson Unit believed that the blaze had started in the clinic’s record room. An unshielded wire, most likely.

Several tons of paper—Dr Helen Plotzker’s case notes—had ignited, creating a firestorm so hot that even the bricks had melted. Fueled by oxygen from the ventilation shafts, the inferno had burst the building apart like an ulcer. The staff had largely gotten to safety, but Helen Plotzker and two adjuncts had rushed back into the blazing record room for reasons unknown.

They hadn’t come out.

As she titfucked the sweating, moaning boy, Christina shot a quick glance out the window of her office. A drainage ditch carved along the Nievecraft property like a scar.

She frowned in disgust at the ditch. How unlucky for her that it was where it was.

An explosion had flung a heavy filing cabinet through a window. It had sailed a dozen feet and landed in the ditch. Freighted with Plotzker’s paperwork, the cabinet had sunk into several feet of loam and mud, which had protected it from the heat.

The cabinet had remained buried for over twenty-five years…until a week ago, when a sleepy Welsh trencher had dug into the ditch and hit metal with his claw. CLANG!

They’d winched the cabinet free, and found documents inside—priceless, long-lost reports by esteemed psychologist Helen Plotzker, dated 1984 to 1990—that had set the world of child psychology abuzz.

Christina Hendricks had not slept a wink since.

She was quite certain that her report was in that filing cabinet, whose contents were now stored in the Nievecraft library

It did not name her—she’d been a minor—but a forest of identifying details would give her away. She did not want academics poring over those documents, and a swarm of them were probably Pricelining tickets to the UK right now.

And worse, it still had the final page. The one containing her little…slip.

It was imperative that she find and destroy the 1988 report, before it found and destroyed her.

But there was a problem. Her report was missing from the library. Someone at this school had found and stolen it first.

---

Christina’s explanation of this was distorted both by lies and by the cock in her mouth.

suuuucckkkkk Her cheeks hollowed, sucking on his glans, making his eyes flutter in glassy ecstasy. His heavy veined shaft swelled between her pumpkin-sized tits.

“Understand that it’s not my report,” she said, spitting him out to talk. “A childhood friend was evaluated at the clinic forty years ago. I promised her on her deathbed I’d find it, and give it back to her family.”

“Wow. That’s so…nice of you.”

“Thank you. I’m a nice person.” She smiled disingenuously, and released her left breast from her hand. The sweat-slippery orb crashed back inside the GORE-TEX reinforced bra, slamming with near cup-cracking force. A second later, she let her other, equally vast tit drop alongside it.

WHAP! SPLAT!

Then she stood, panting in barely restrained lust, gripping Dave’s prick like a support beam. Her hand squeezed harder than it had to, and he cringed.

Their eyes swung level, and fear hit Dave’s gormless face. Suddenly, Christina didn’t look nice at all. Not even slightly.

Hissing like a cat, Christina paced stalking circles around the boy. The fifty-year-old woman’s stare was terrifying in its lethality: like looking into the bore of a revolver and seeing the glint. Her hands drifted all over him. Loosening his tie. Unbuttoning his shirt. Her touch raised goosepimples wherever it landed. Once he was stripped for her pleasure, she undressed in turn. It took five minutes and twenty-four revolutions around his body to do this. Her discarded apparel went sailing to all directions of the office.

She reached down to her waist, and tugged down her panties.

They came away from her crotch with a wet suctioning sound. Phlocckk! Her aroused cunt had been drooling into them for half an hour.

“So, Darren, now that you know the truth about why I am here…” Christina said. “You’ll help me find the report?”

“It’s Dave.”

“…What?” An irritated eyebrow lifted above his swaying cock.

“My name is Dave.”

Rage cracked the perfect ice of her face, disappearing before he could fully notice it.

“Either way, Dave, I require assistance.” She unhooked her bra. Gallons of pungent warm titflesh gushed across her stomach, flowing in a sweaty ocean. “Not right now. I need to fuck—no, really, I’m dying. But perhaps you can answer some questions about the report while we screw?”

“But I don’t know anything about your report…OW!”

She palm-slammed the naked teen back onto her oak office table. He gasped in shock, suddenly staring up at her office ceiling. She was startlingly strong and forceful. The crush of her right palm had stamped a red outline onto his chest, like a cattle brand he was now marked with.

Christina climbed onto the desk with him—climbed onto him—and sneered down at the confused boy. She straddled his scrawny body—became a tigress, pinning its prey in place. Huge breasts slopped from her sternum, dragging across him like heavy pink tongues. A pungent mixture of her sweat and his precum dragged two wet stripes across his midsection.

Christina’s thick meaty hips swung over his prick.

“As I’ve said, it’s not my report.” She snarled, yanking his cock back like an aircraft’s throttle, angling it at her cunt.

She balanced, legs splayed and knees quivering. Her fleshy pubis was suspended precariously atop his dick. Her fleshy cuntal lips parted before his big spit-shiny knob, baptising it in fluid.

“I am finding you a bit slow on the uptake, Darren. It’s tiresome. Please keep up.”

Christina grunted and dropped, planting her meaty hips down atop his.

SPLAP! SPLACK!

She fell on his shaft. Her cuntal lips opened up like a mouth, swallowed his length. Pussy juice splattered the desk as she hilted herself to the balls, hissing in pleasure.

“Oh! Christina!” His hips buckled under her sudden weight.

“Yes, that’s my name.” She smiled, staring down, her teeth locked in pleasure as his fat cock burrowed into her with a toilet-plunger sound. His prick felt wonderful, packing her cunt with its huge throbbing heat—her quivering fuck-chute clenched in slippery ripples against it, greedily slurping him into her body.

The horny fifty-year-old woman began humping him, big jiggly hips slapping and sloshing from side to side. She arched her back, whipping his glistening erection along her shuddering, drooling fuck-socket.

Dave’s nostrils flared at the pressure—and pleasure—of her hips. At the way this sexually voracious woman was using him like a dishcloth. The way he just had to lie back and think of England.

Christina did not pause to see if her story was believed. She smiled, lips drawn back over teeth like knives.

“I am waiting for my answer, Darren. Where’s the report?”

He wracked his brain. “In the library room? Ugh! Not so rough!”

Dave was gasping for air as the massively zaftig woman rowed her hips down on him, humping him like a bitch in heat. Every time she bent forward, breasts swung over him like curtains.

She grunted and pumped her hips down, drowning him in her hot, fleshy folds.

Submerging him in her obscenely thick body.

Dave was blanketed by tits, by snarls, by the thick, perfumed smell of her. Her steamy, sweaty cunt as it slurped audibly on his genitals with every lunge and thrust. There was just so much of her, so much Christina. She was like a hamburger with three pounds of meat and two pounds of cheese.

Her hips gyrated, twisting her pussy left and right. Applying greater leverage on the erect cock she was fucking herself senseless on.

“Yes,” she gritted out. “The library’s where they’re supposed to be. Obviously looking there was the first thing I did upon arriving at school—”

Not true, actually. The lovely young gentleman who took my coat was the first thing I did. Followed by his two friends

“—And obviously if it had been there, I wouldn’t need you. They’ve been stolen. I need to find the thief.”

“How would I know who the thief is?” He gasped as her guillotine-slamming hips smashed him flat.

The smile left her face. It was replaced with a horrific revenant version of itself: savageness and bestial cruelty, unguessable as smoke, ineluctible as steel.

Christina’s nails sank into his shoulder, triggering a hiss and a flinch.

Her butcherbird’s stare pinned him. She hungrily flung her meaty haunches down on his cock, dragging the convulsing vaginal rugae of her muscle-walled cunt along his shaft as it walloped up and down. But her eyes did not move.

SHPLAT! SPRACK! SPLOGG!

“Because maybe it’s you. If so, I am now graciously giving you a chance to return my property.” Christina said, mouthing you fucking idiot.

Her face was shuddering tight with hatred, with a need to fuck and consume and destroy him. Color drained from his own.

“I haven’t stolen anything, I swear!” He whimpered, missing her little mistake. My property. “Why blame me? It could be Michael Crane, who runs the…ughh…library computers! Or that klepto Trevor Wheatley kid who tidies the grounds. He’s always pinching things…ow! There’s fifty boys here who could have stolen it!

She rolled her eyes at this babble, rolling her squirting hips with the same gesture. “Then I will ask fifty boys, Darren. Right now, I’m asking you. So spill. Have you taken my report—my friend’s report, I mean?”

“No! I haven’t! I swear!”

Her breath thundered, steam-engine loud. Her face was beetroot-red and tight with a rictus of lust.

“I think you’re lying, you shitty, unworthy brat.” Veins stood out on her neck as she stroked hip-thrusts onto him. “Your eyes say you stole it. It’s all over your face. Don’t argue or play games: I’ll get the truth out of you, one way or another.”

She slam-fucked him hard enough to shake the office desk, again and again, blasting her body against him like the kind of bombing campaign the Geneva Convention was formed to stop.

Her head swung down still closer. Strands of red hair touched his.

“Did you like the tea I made?” Her aspiration sang a hot, depraved rhythm over his face.

Dave glanced sideways while she viciously engulfed him with her cunt.

A teacup lay on the desk. An empty one.

Christina had insisted he drink it before she’d torn his pants down and sucked him off.

The teacup jolted each time her massive, meaty hips collided against his body. God, she was so big and heavy. It was like fucking a wrecking ball…she seemed to have doubled in weight in the past ten seconds.

He felt watery. Strange. Not all the way there. What was in that tea? His mouth gaped, fishlike. Words eluded his tongue.

Her cunt still made lewd squelching noises as she rowed her hips atop him. Except even this sound—which had filled his world—felt curiously distant.

Her voice became a study in calm. “The tea you just drank contains fast-acting phenobarbitone, plus certain other drugs. You now have temporary anterograde amnesia, Darren.”

Her sweaty face loomed above his like a cursed moon. “These drugs impair your brain’s ability to form long-term memories, Darren. You can talk, and you can act. But you will not remember.”

Her red hair flashed as she tossed her head. She rebounded off him, legs springing her big body upward, and his hips leaped upward with her this time. His cock popped into the cold air.

“For the next hour I can do anything I like to you, Darren,” She hissed, eyes slitted like a snake’s. Her words became more wind and heat and need than sound. “You won’t remember. You won’t tell. You’ll forget it in an hour. Good or bad, it’ll become like a dream to you. Tell the truth, or I’ll make it a bad one.”

Christina bellowed like a pig in heat. With a brutal jolt of her hips, she shunted her cunt onto him with a loud slobbering noise. A starburst of female fluid flashed across his belly as their genitals clubbed together, smearing wetness on skin.

“In fact, I’ll make it the worst nightmare you’ve ever had! UGH! I’M CUMMING!”

SHPLUTT! SHPLUTT! SHPLUT!

The lust-crazed woman didn’t stop fucking, couldn’t stop fucking, wouldn’t stop fucking. Her pelvis just kept humping his teenaged prick right through her climax, lunging her voracious sucking hips down on him. Dave felt like Christina was trying to physically rip his cock out of his body like a weed with her cunt-convulsions. It took thirty seconds for her twat’s pressure to relent.

Snarling, Christina swiveled her cunt over his cock. It slurped with a rude suctioning sound, rotating inside her vaginal vestibule. Strands of thick pussy juice streamed out, spewing wetly down his balls. “Well?”

“Christina…ma’am…I don’t know” he whimpered. “I…I’d have no reason to steal it! It means nothing to me. I wouldn’t even know it’s yours…I mean, your friend’s!”

She spat in his face. “Bullshit. I think you’re lying.”

With one hand, she opened a drawer and retrieved a safety pin. Her cunt kept rising and falling through this. SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT! It was unceasing in its messy, squirt-splattered churn.

Christina flicked open the safety pin, and held it before the boy’s face.

“You have a choice to make, Darren…”

Light gathered on the metal point. Razor sharp.

His pupils constricted in fear.

“…If you admit to stealing my report—to hell with pretending it’s not mine, you’ll just forget anyway—and all will be forgiven. You will spend the night enjoying my body. We will fuck until you beg to stop. I am the chariot that will take you beyond the sky.”

The hand on his shoulder slid down his arm, until it gripped his wrist and locked it to the table in a sudden move. She was incredibly strong. He tried to break her grasp, but couldn’t.

“Or we can play it another way…”

Anchoring him in-place with her steadily fucking hips, Christina’s other hand vanished from his view, taking the safety pin with it.

…its metal point reappeared as a gentle pricking sensation underneath his fingernail. He felt tremendous force coiled up behind it. She was going to jam it into the soft flesh beneath the keratin.

“…Lie to me again, Darren, and I will introduce you to agony. Agony like an ocean.”

“I will make you regret the fact of your life—the fact that you were ever born at all. You’ll have forgotten by tomorrow morning…but it’s not tomorrow morning, is it? It’s now. And pain is about to take you.”

The metal point began to prick beneath the nail.

Bowel-loosening terror filled Dave.

“Choose, Darren,” she purred, her face floating over his like a dark moon in an already dark sky. “The time is now. Save yourself. Tell me where you hid my property.”

Still not relenting the grip of her snaking hips as they clobbered at his penis, or the grip at his wrist, or the unyielding vector of steel against his finger.

Her control over everything was total and inhuman.

She orgasmed again.

The needlepoint didn’t even move as Christina arched her back and flung her twat onto him, catlike and sleek. Her pussy lips surged audibly, pumping out thick squirt. Then she let herself collapse atop him. Breasts ballooned like throw-pillows between their chests, squishing with a shiny layer of pungent, warm sweat. Sweat of arousal from her chest, sweat of fear from his.

He ejaculated suddenly, hardly aware that he was doing so. His second load hosed into her, splattering out with no discernable pleasure at all.

Squelching her pussy against his crotch, she placed her mouth to his ear, as if to whisper. Dave began crying.

For the first time, he saw Christina Hendricks. Truly saw her.

A monster.

And he saw himself. Truly saw himself.

Food in that monster’s teeth.

With the safety pin ready on his finger, Christina’s delicate lips touched his ear…and bellowed his skull into a howling tunnel of meat.

“WHERE IS MY FUCKING REPORT?”

---

The East Midlands were a bad place to scream.

This was lonely country. Emily Brontë country.

From the school, low, undulant hills serried their way toward horizons of endless cloud. The faded green of ryegrass and foxtail was interrupted only by limestone karsks—splashes of hard white in the heather and bog moss—and the occasional bike path, switchbacking through the moors. A biting March wind clawed rawness into everything. The landscape looked literally half-finished—as if God had taken an urgent phone call halfway through, and hadn’t returned.

The Nievecraft village consisted of a dozen cottages huddled around a green box stamped with National Grid Electricity Distribution. At night, Northampton’s light could be faintly seen blushing over the eastern horizon. In the day, even this faint intrusion of the outside world disappeared, leaving Nievecraft adrift upon the moors’ rolling sea.

West of the village, the Nievecraft Upper Secondary for Boys occupied a hundred-acre sheet of moorland. It had room and board for three hundred students, but with Easter Break underway only sixty or seventy remained.

And an American actress who counted for two.

---

A mob of sixth form boys sauntered down a cobblestone path that connected the classrooms to the dormitories. Their green Nievecraft uniforms were just a shade darker than the fox-sedge of the lawn.

They talked about Her. Big Red. Joan Holloway’s puppeteer. X to the T and you wanna be INA.

What else was there to talk about?

“Did you see the strappy red dress she wore on Monday? I jacked off four times after class let out…”

“Holy norks, man. They’re the size of watermelons!”

“Wanna hear something Steve told me? Christina had him meet her in her office after class. Alone. They did something.”

“You mean she shagged him? Phwoar, get off it!”

“Steve doesn’t know! Says he can’t remember what they did…”

“Load of bollocks, man. How could you shag a bird like that and not remember?”

“I dunno, but you know Steve. He’s not the sort to tell lies like that…”

They couldn’t believe Christina fucking Hendricks was at their school! They were utterly smitten with her. Her tits. Her ass. Her hair!

As they made their way down the path, they saw the groundskeeper’s assistant toiling on the lawn. They snickered, sharing grins.

It’s Trevor Thiefley. Hang on to your wallets, boys!

Trevor Wheatley was a weird lanky kid, neither liked nor trusted. They’d heard stories—how he wasn’t even a student at Nievecraft, but an ASBO juvie crime case fulfilling community service.

They cupped hands and yelled taunts. “Oi! Klepto! Carjacker!” Trevor’s sandy wedge of hair lifted, and he made eye-contact with the sneering sixth form boys—his eyes seemed older and sadder than a boy of eighteen—before he returned to his chores.

When ragging on Trevor Thiefley got old, they headed down the path.

Now they stood in the shadow of a Neo-Gothic brick building facing onto a ditch. Its roof took a triangular bite out of the gray steel sky. During the school year, this house served as the headmaster’s living quarters and office. Now that Easter Break had started, it was Christina’s throne room.

The boys gazed in awe at the moss-devoured brickwork. They tiptoed as close as they dared, eyes on the windows.

They hoped for a glimpse of the famous actress. Or one of her helpmaids.

Christina hadn’t come alone. With her were two mysterious women, both about twenty years younger than her. Nobody knew their names. One had black hair, a curved Levantine nose, and modest clothes. The breasts swelling out her long-sleeved, empire-waisted dresses were nearly as large as Christina’s. Boy after boy hit on her, without success. She just shyly looked away and demurred. I can’t. I’m busy. She needs me. Never saying the name of the she.

The second was a tattooed hellbitch who blew gum and looked unimpressed at you beneath a shock of blue Myspace hair, which she invariably either spiked or straightened with a curling iron. She responded to male advances with a scowl and a middle finger. Beat it. Fuck off, creep. A Suicide Girl who wanted you to die.

Both women were unapproachable. They often flanked Christina Hendricks on her strolls, like bodyguards protecting a mafia don.

Christina was no mafia don, though. She was sweet and kind.

“Shh, I hear something!” A boy dug an elbow into his mate’s side.

A loud female groan foghorned out.

They tiptoed around the building, using brick walls and heath bushes as cover. Another moan sighed out. Sharper this time. A sharp groan crested above it, male and female voices bleeding together.

The boys exchanged looks. Someone’s having sex in Christina’s house!

“Are you sure your friend Steve’s not lying?” A pimply-faced boy gawped.

“Honest to God, he says he can’t remember. When he tries his head goes woozy and soft. Like his memory’s bruised, innit.”

“What did she do? Club him unconscious with those big fuckin’ Bristols of hers? God, sign me up for that next.”

The youngest boy shook his head, gobsmacked. “She’s at least fifty. They wouldn’t let her bonk students! That’s too far.”

Yes, of course it was too far. But still…the possibility of Christina taking boys inside her private kingdom and dimming the lights…it seemed on the edge of plausible. Christina seemed like a woman constructed from a healthy amount of fantasy, with only one foot in the real world.

She flirted shamelessly, blushing and giggling and batting away your awkward compliments. She behaved around boys in ways that would have gotten a normal teacher probationed, fired, and maybe arrested. She bummed cigarettes off students. When she was in the mood, she gave absurdly generous hugs, squeezing her vast chest against theirs until it flowed up under their chin.

And she laid hands on her students constantly. Caressing them, pinching them, poking them. Checking their muscles with her hands. Saying things like oh, so strong and big under her breath as she lasciviously groped their teenage bodies.

Sometimes she even kissed boys. Often on the cheeks, as a mother would. Sometimes on the lips, as a mother wouldn’t. Then she touched her lips afterward. Shh. Secret.

Teenage boys run on hope and hormones. Christina Hendricks inspired great surges of both.

They reached the far side of the house now, hoping for sight or sound of Christina or her female protégées.

Of sight, there was none. Of sound, there was plenty.

Wails and moans carried through the walls, musical in timbre and tonality, propelled by an animalistic brutality. An urgency. They shared shocked and thrilled looks. It was undeniable now. Someone was having sex in Christina’s house!

The oldest boy saw movement in the tinted glass, and swatted his mates. “Hide!”

They dropped, crouching to avoid being seen. A hoarse female whine shook the glass.

Then male bellows scorched the air. “AHHH! OOHHHHHH!”

Jaws fell open at the voice. David Gilvies!

They shared grins. Dave was inside centre on the Nievecraft rugby team…and inside center of something else, apparently!

“So she is fucking boys,” one of them said in awe. “And I thought Steve was lying!”

“God, what a slut she is!”

They giggled at the lewd intensity of the grunting, the panting, the moaning. The bricks almost seemed to sweat with the sound of copulation. They crouched beside the rose bushes, hoping to get a sight of the colossally-titted actress through the windows, despite their heavy orange tint. God, suppose she was naked! Wouldn’t that be something!

“NOOOO! AHHHHHH!!!”

Dave’s shrieks cut through the walls—loud and shrill.

Their smug grins faded, replaced by looks of confusion. Or alarm. None of them wanted to be the first to say it, because it was crazy, but…

“OHHHH! OHHH! AHHH! NO! CHRISTINAAA! CHRISTINAAAAAAA!”

Those didn’t sound like screams of pleasure.

They just sounded like screams.

---

Day 3 of Christina’s Occupation

“And that…” She tossed her head. Her coiffure blazed like a match head’s flame in the stage light. “…Is the principle of Tricher pour la Caméra. Cheating the camera.”

She stood in the center of the classroom, monolithic and stupendous. The Chartres Cathedral with tits.

A Fresnel stagelight was fixed above her, blasting her stacked body with fierce argentine light. Its radiance carved a deep trench into her cleavage, seemingly several miles deep. Her demonstrations had made her hot, so she’d thrown her ombre jacket aside—boys had fought for the honor of picking it up—to reveal a low-cut scoop cami, the front exploding with cleavage.

Her breasts were beyond big. They were colossal. Her camisole dress—size 18, it was rumored—was stretched to bursting point by flesh.

Fifty lovesick boys leaned forward. None had given a shit about acting before she arrived, or would after she left. More stood in the hallway. The hardest part of Christina’s contemporary acting class was getting through the door.

She waved a hand at an imaginary camera.

“When I am in a wide shot, facing another actor, I will necessarily be filmed from the side.”

She leaned forward, granting a view down her scoop cami. Two mountains heaved in her neckline, ready to spill out. A soft, awed sound sibilated from the crowd.

It would be a mistake to say that Christina had conquered the school. The boys had surrendered without a fight.

“So I turn thirty degrees off axis, facing the camera, so that I am not in profile.” Her heel pivoted on a chalk line. Colossal tits swung and jiggled as her overfreighted body veered to face them. “Few actors look good in profile, so I ensure I never am.”

There was another reaction from the crowd. Another agonized hiss. Seductive white flesh oozed out of every hole and crevice in her dress.

Christina’s heel clicked. “Every actor cheats toward the camera. They also cheat toward the light. If a scene requires me to be staring at a laptop, let’s say, I raise my eyes to the top of the laptop screen. Like this, see?” She faced the blazing stagelight and lifted her chin. “This way, my face is not in shadow. It means I cannot actually see the laptop’s screen, but what of it. It’s fake. Just as I, in the end, am fake. I am an actress.”

The stagelight transfixed her body, flinging away a shadow that copied her gestures from the floor. Two silhouetted breasts jolted and bounced with the same obscene heft of her real ones. Her shadow, like her body, loved to swing, spill and jiggle.

“An actor finds themselves in a thousand different scenes, living a fractality of phantom lives. These scenes are united, ultimately, by their unreality. The conversation is fake lip-flap, the laptop has placeholder text on it. Even the camera is not real. The one thing a camera cannot film is itself. Only the audience’s perception of what it captures matters.”

Dozens of boys nodded, pens going scritch-scritch. So many were doing odd things with their laps. Blazers were strategically folded and laid, hands were crossed and steepled and tented at waist level, desks were drawn crushingly tight to bodies, shirts were untucked. Fifty raging erections disguised.

Her smile was wide and calamitous. Her lips seemed bloodied by the Fresnel. “If the public ever saw reality on a screen—ever saw an actor actually looking at the person they’re talking to, ever saw an actor actually looking at the laptop they’re typing on—they would reject it, quite violently. We have taught them to accept the unreal.”

Christina raked her stare like a sword across the ring of pale, acne-ravaged faces. Worship and obsession glared out from every set of eyes.

So many cute boys! Her cunt moistened with ravenous lust.

She was going to break every last one of them like firewood.

---

Two hours later.

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

“Ugh! Harder! Harder, you useless brat!”

On the floor of her office, Christina drove her hips backward, fucking back as she took a dick up the ass. Huge breasts sailed and swung freely under her torso.

“Harder, you little SHIT!” Sweat dripped daggers down her face, her foundation running freely.

The air stank with the brutal musk of anal sex. Christina was on her hands and knees, spread doggystyle on a tatami floor mat. Legs apart, face down, hips raised, spine arched like a recurve bow, shuttling a barely-legal cock through her puckered rectum.

A sixth form Nievecraft boy grunted behind her ass, grasping fleshy hips for support. His hair was buzzed to colorlessness—it could have been blond or brown or even gray. He seemed to be an athlete: his build was powerful and thick: cords of youthful muscle swelled in his legs as he fucked.

Squelch-squelch-SQUUUUEEEELLLLCHHH! SQLLLLLCHHHHH-GLOOOP! His cock ploughed deeply and sweetly through her. Sweat ran down her back, pooling in its hollows.

“UGHHH!” Christina drooled from multiple holes, haunches quaking as the schoolboy’s fat schlong pounded long, slippery strokes up her shit-pipe.

They’d been buttfucking for an hour. She had cum four times, and the office around her was spinning and shaking, reality fracturing beneath her clit’s insistent throbs. She balanced on one hand, using the other to masturbate herself frantically.

“Don’t stop!” Christina roared like a beast, her hair in disarray. “Fuck! FUCK! OHMYGAWWD!”

SQUUUUOOOOOSHHHHH! Squish-squish-SQUUUUISSSSHHHHH!

She rocked her hips back, planting his thick pistoning prick ever deeper into her warm, sucking bowels. Crotch-thrusts connected with a thick squelching sound, which rang through her head like a nail pounded through her cock-obsessed brain. The boy straddled her, sawing in deep—each ass-splitting stroke blasted overwhelming anal pleasure through her. God, there was nothing like a big-dicked teenager up your ass!

“You’re making me cum!” She screamed at the boy as he slugged away at her. “Harder! Oh God…OH GOD! I’m gonna cum! I’M GONNA CUM!”

The boy paused, looking concerned—half the East Midlands could hear her yells—before resuming, his pelvis lunging forcefully. She braced against the impacts with her arms. Each time he thrust into her ass, two big, meaty udders wobbled from around her back, cannonballing wildly. Rivulets of sweat poured down the deep valley of her cleavage. The tatami underneath her was wet with sweat, dripped and flung from her huge clapping tits.

The boy gasped, pulling back, gripping both halves of Christina’s huge white ass, and plunged his shaft back in, as deep as it would go, viciously fucking around the swerves of her rectal ampulla and superior rectal valve, plummeting down to the balls inside her dark, sweltering depths.

SPLAT! As he socketed his cock into her moist, hot shit-chute, Christina felt his urethra swell against her perineum. Could feel his heartbeat pulsing inside her body.

Her fifth orgasm erupted like the blooming of an incarnadine rose. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God!

Pleasure broke over her, as fast and crushing as a freight train from the dark. Her mouth opened, her tongue lolling in bliss. His cock surged, thumping into her ass. Each splashed galaxies of pleasure across her skull. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then she was climaxing frantically, her entire body collapsing to a naked singularity around his cock.

Squirt exploded from her pussy. It fountained in a wild spray, drenching the tatami.

“Uh…uh…uh…UH!” Christina climaxed mindlessly, squealing like a stuck pig. Watermelon-sized breasts shuddered and jiggled obscenely, doing a frantic sweaty dance under her while her pussy blasted and blasted.

The boy found the cock he’d packed up her shitter suddenly gripped by gale-force typhoons of flexing muscle. Her orgasm pulsed hard against his shaft. He clenched his teeth, struggling not to ejaculate.

He assumed that Christina did not like it when boys came early, and assumed correctly.

Once her orgasmic contractions subsided, he resumed assfucking the mature woman, picking up force. A cacophony of slapping hips, clapping tits, and her lewd grunts and curses rose in a storm, scorching the air black. His ballsack swung, going plap-plap-plap as he buttfucked the big-assed actress. Her derriere exploded beneath his hip-strokes.

“Ohhh, fuckkkk!” Christina’s mouth twisted through abstract pleasure-shapes as the boy’s surging prick impaled her. He was strong, and could fuck like a bull. She could almost feel individual veins writhing on his pulsating prick as he shoved it up her thick dirty ass!

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Christina’s teeth were gritted. Pounding strokes landed, cascading ripples through her heavy, lust-reddened flesh. Her body swung back and forth. Tits swung like pendulums, hurling sweat in both directions.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

She rolled her big ass backward, greedily humping his slick, stabbing cock into her rectum. More, more, more. The boy was not one to abstain. His hips plunged forward with big, muscle-fired tosses, defiling her rectum with loud, lewd blasts of sound. The slippery length of his cock punched down Christina’s slurping, squelching shitter, following the downward curve of her lower back from her ass. She felt it send thrills up her spine as he fucked her into a black hole of pleasure.

The boy bent forward, driving deep, fucking fast. Oh hell, she was cumming again!

“DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING STOP! I’M ABOUT TO…AIIIIIEEEEEEE!”

She banshee’d wild pleasure as she orgasmed. Her eyes closed, her teeth bared like blades. Then her mouth opened in a scream, a tongue flashing beserk in her howling void of mouth. Her empty, sucking cunthole pulled upon itself in knotted jerks of pleasure, as if even it didn’t realize the boy had buried his cock in the wrong hole.

She squirted orgasm number six onto her tatami floor mat. This time, the boy up her ass didn’t miss a stroke as Christina burst like a crushed grape under his hips. Even though her back was a running river of sweat and her jiggly ass was flying like boulders made of meat and her pussy’s orgasmic surges transformed her asshole into a cock-crushing sock of clenching, gripping flesh, he just powered through it, not breaking stride. Liquid squelches and the meaty SLAP SLAP SLAP of flesh on flesh only intensified as he gripped handfuls of her derriere and laid into her.

Christina wept and drooled onto the tatami, smacking it with a fist. Pleasure screamed through her erogenous core, so strong it was like a sneeze. Her ass quivered, her rectum knotting tight. She heard his gasps, knew he was close.

The boy lunged in, burying his veiny erection to the balls in hot asshole. His huge heavy scrotum settled upon her perineum, and began jerking.

“UGHH!” She felt his balls pulse, expelling their thick gooey load.

He ejaculated massively up her ass. His porridge-thick load burst deep inside her guts, drowning their twists and loops in a roiling hot tide of baby batter.

SPLURT! SPLUTT! GLORRP!

Christina’s feet kicked in blind ecstasy, almost breaking his legs. Her convulsing asshole sucked out strand after strand of spunk, dragging them out of his ballsack like ropes of spaghetti. The last jets spurted out into her bowels, then he heaved his cock out.

Christina felt his fat prickhead burst from her anus like a cork, pulling out a stream of cum with it. Her rectum snapped itself closed a wet squelch, his load escaping in a slow rivulet.

She collapsed to the floor, legs unhinging, breasts cushioning her face. Her head spun, fried with pleasure. Her lower body had been fucked numb.

“Thanks, ma’am.” The boy—whose name was Erik Stanthorpe—spoke with absurd decorum as his cock dangled and dripped on the carpet. It was as though they’d been sitting fully clothed in this office, discussing the Kuleshov Effect for the past hour and a half.

Christina groaned on the floor. Her lust-crazed, boy-broken body jerked and rattled senselessly. She listened to the churning, dyspeptic noise of cum pouring out of her ass. A thick river of baby batter was slopping out of her ass onto the mat, then onto the carpet.

He gestured apologetically at the mess. “There’s a steam cleaner in the supplies shack. I’ll tell Trevor Wheatley to clean it up and bring it in. Don’t let him do the job unattended, though. That kid pinches stuff.”

Christina gurgled incomprehensibly. Her lips were connected to the carpet by a spiderweb of drool, tinged pink with her lipstick.

The boy tried to leave, and found he couldn’t. Christina had shut the door before they’d fucked. As he tried to turn the knob, he realized she’d also locked it.

With his clothes on the other side.

“Um, ma’am? The key?”

Christina lifted her head up, and scratched it. “What key?”

“The key to the door? I have to make lacrosse practice.”

Christina rose from the floor.

As she stood and straightened her legs, a single long rope of jizz slid from between her butt-cheeks, snapped off by a sudden clench as she reached full height.

“No.” She sat on the edge of her desk, and crossed her legs. Her breasts plopped meatily in her lap. “You don’t have lacrosse practice.”

When he looked skeptical, she tapped out a text to someone. A reply came back, and she showed it to him. It was from Rob Tyburn, team captain.

HI XTINA. YEP. WE CANCELLED PRAC. SENT A TEXT, BUT ERIK NEVER CHECKS HIS PHONE.

Erik had no idea what to say as he read that.

What? How? How does she even have the captain’s number? It was like this massively-built woman had reshaped reality with a thought, a gesture—like she’d just decided that his lacrosse practice not only didn’t matter, but didn’t exist. Was that possible?

“Don’t worry, Ethan,” her painted nails went tap-tap. “I will find the key for you shortly. But before I let you go, I want to discuss something with you. A missing document.”

Christina outlined her situation.

She was looking for the old Helen Plotzker case files. Not for herself, but for a childhood friend, who had been evaluated at the old clinic around 1988 or so.

Helen Plotzker’s reports had been pillaged. A section dating from the year 1988 had been removed with surgical precision.

“So, what do you think of that?” Christina asked innocently.

“I don’t think anything of it, Ma’am,” Erik was confused—and dismayed—by the fact that she was making no effort to unlock the door.

“I think you need to work harder to satisfy me of that.” She smiled when he frowned, like they were emotional yin-yang mirrors.

Erik shivered. It was cold. He was naked. Christina just sat and watched his discomfort. Just when silence became unendurable…she pretended to have an idea.

She laid back on her desk—turning it into a splendid flowing moment, like a burlesque bawd sprawling across a piano. Her tits flopped and settled in pink oceans of skin and flesh.

Stretched like this, Christina reached into the desk drawer, and found what she was looking for.

A thermos with a screw-top lid. And a white teacup.

Christina tilted her face down, letting her hair’s shadow fall across her features until she was just lips and black. Her lips curled.

“Would you like some tea, Ethan?”

“Erik.”

“Erik…” Her lips coiled, and she seemed to taste his name like an aperitif. “Whatever. I want you to try very hard to remember what might have happened to those reports. Perhaps if you wrack your memory hard enough, you’ll remember something you forgot.”

Feeling caught in a nightmare, Erik’s gaze flicked around, looking for escape routes. There were none.

Except, of course, the route of compliance.

Naked and smug, Christina Hendricks unscrewed the lid on a carafe, and poured out tar-black liquid into the cup. A thread of steam unspooled into the air.

She gestured at the cup.

“Drink. This might be a long discussion. I don’t want you to get thirsty.”

---

Day 4 of Christina’s Regime

Trevor Wheatley raked leaves. Fat lot of good it did. Straight away, the wind pulled half of them back. You’re a loser, Trevor. The leaves seemed to hiss and rustle, swirling against his ankles. A big fat loser.

He and that word were becoming weirdly close. Loser was his comfort, the comfortable shoe she slipped on of an evening. When you’re at the bottom, you have nowhere left to fall.

Trevor saw two Nievecraft toffs walking down the path. He waited for them to notice him. Sure enough…

“Oi! Trevor Thiefley! Nicked anything today, ASBO kid?”

Trevor shrugged, eyes down on his work. Raking leaves while the Year Thirteens hooted and whistled like a November wind.

“Pinch yourself some better trainers, Thiefley! Those look like shite!”

He yawned—same old, same old. Yes, he’d nicked a van. Yes, he’d been slapped with an Anti-Social Behaviour Order. Why did people remind him of his mistakes, over and over, like that helped? He couldn’t change the past, or what he’d done.

He couldn’t even remember why he’d committed car theft: couldn’t recall his thought process at all on that day.

He’d been loitering at a Poundland at Battersea, hands sheathed in his tracksuit against the cold, and seen the glint of a key in the ignition of a Ford Transit. He didn’t remember if he’d lunged for the driver’s side door instantly, or had agonized for long minutes, making up his mind. His memory ended at the key glint, and restarted with him up in the driver’s seat—phwoar, so high!. He’d started the engine with thoughtless twist of his wrist. It had felt great. Mine! All mine!

He’d pulled out from the curb, realizing he’d just made a life-ruining mistake—oh shit, why did I do that?—but there seemed to be no way back. A car took his parking spot, so he’d merged, entering the infinite metal snake coils of London traffic, and swiftly got lost there. He’d felt sick. Mine still echoed in his head, but it now seemed bad. My curse, my burden, my albatross. He’d driven the car in aimless circles for hours, from Battersea to Deptford and back again—spiraling ever deeper into his own horrified gut. What could he do? Return the stolen car? To whom? He didn’t know the owner from anyone.

Night had fallen. He’d ditched the Ford Transit off the B305 and slunk on foot across the bridge to his mate’s Harlesden flat. Maybe I won’t get caught.

Nice dream. The London Met had dispelled it at dawn with a knock and a warrant for his arrest.

“Mr Trevor Joseph Wheatley, please take the stand. How do you plead to this offense?”

Trevor had apologized to the judge, to the Transit’s owner, and to society in general. He didn’t need a lecture—he knew stealing was wrong. And yet…for fuck’s sake, if you leave a van curbside with the keys in the ignition what d’yer think’s gonna happen to it? Was the owner subnormal?

He hadn’t pointed this out to the judge, of course. He’d been contrite, not that it helped. People were going to hold the car theft over his head forever.

The judge had sentenced him to a six month community sentence, and a choice of five places to serve it at. He’d picked assistant groundskeeper at Nievecraft. “Assistant groundskeeper” had turned out to mean “groundskeeper”—old Mr Tibbs was barely here and drunk off his arse when he was—but Trevor still felt he’d gotten off light. He was cleaning bogs, mowing hedges, and washing windows, he was in the clean country air, instead of at HMP Wandsworth.

The Nievecraft upper form boys made noises for a few more minutes, then walked away, bored. “Bugger off, Thiefley! You’re no fun at all!”

He grinned at their receding backs. What would you pampered Sloane Rangers know about fun? Go and study some more. Get good marks in your A-levels, so you can get that job a robot will be doing in five years. The ASBO kid is more free than you.

They went back to their lives.

He went back to his.

---

Crimson hair caught Trevor’s eye from the left of his vision.

Christina Hendricks, on an afternoon stroll.

Her sybaritic ass swelled out behind her, an exploding bomb contained by her skirt. Her butt cheeks swayed and undulated, obscenely big and heavy, bouncing with her step.

She had huge hips, and massive thighs. Her pencil skirt clung to her ass like paint. As her thick, muscular legs crossed back and forth, the skirt looked ready to burst from the fat ass chewing away inside it. Beneath its hem, her calves bulged fetishistically inside white stockings.

She wore a sharp French beret. Beneath it, flame-red hair was twisted in a chignon, and was pinned back against her head. Her lipstick was red, deeper than her hair.

Christina moved with a dirty, sexual stride. She was like a living 1930s pinup, stickered on a Boeing B-17’s nose. The real woman probably wouldn’t have fit in the cockpit.

The face above her huge body was chiselled and beautiful. Her lips were perpetually amused. Her smile had a fascinating hint of depravity, as though she was uniquely privy to your dirtiest, darkest thoughts.

Trevor stopped work, leaned on his rake. and watched her pass. She seemed to detect his stare, and her head swung to meet it.

Her eyes were all over him. Making an anthropological study of his skin, his hair, his build. He felt dissected.

Then Christina smiled the way a wet match lights: briefly and hatefully. She licked her lips, exposing flashes of white dentition, then swung her head back and walked on, dragging a retinue of star-struck admirers behind the luscious swings of her ass. Christina Hendricks, the Wide Piper of Hamelin.

Trevor kept his watch until she was at the door of the headmaster’s house.

Weird old bitch, he thought. A little sad to be her age and trying to psyche out an eighteen-year-old ASBO who didn’t even attend school here. Whatever, though. To each his own.

He did not like that woman. Not one bit.

Every boy was obsessed with the visiting actress. Trevor’s duties including emptying the rubbish, and suddenly every bin in school was overflowing with cum-soaked tissues.

But Trevor couldn’t stand her, didn’t understand what qualified her to teach a class, and the fact that he felt this antipathy alone was fuel to the fire. He didn’t want interests in common with the sociopaths and bullies at this school.

Honestly, was she even that hot?

Trevor found Christina Hendricks to be fat and old. Her breasts were repulsively big. They had all the erotic jouissance of slabs hanging from a butcher’s hook.

They’re probably all wrinkly and saggy. Bet they hang to her waist like an African witch doctor’s. He shuddered at the thought.

Trevor wasn’t gay. He liked girls, thank you, but that meant hot sexy trim his age—B cups, arse tight as a snare drum, know what I mean? Humping some fat old slag with her tits knocking on her knees just didn’t sound appealing to him. Especially when you’re following half the entire East Midlands educational system into her twat.

She was fucking boys by the cartload at the school. That was perfectly obvious. What was less obvious (but still readily apparent to those without Christina’s tit-goggles altering their vision) was that several of her boytoys had quit the school.

Dave Gilvies, for one.

The school’s star athlete had never been the same after staggering from her office, pale and shellshocked, with a bandage around one finger. He said he’d hurt it on the rugger pitch, even though the season had ended.

He couldn’t remember what had happened in Christina’s office, nor a lot of other things.

My name is Darren, isn’t it? He’d said that over and over. No, it’s Dave. Why do I keep thinking that? Like he didn’t know what his own name was anymore. The next day, his Mum and Dad had arrived and taken him away. A nervous breakdown over his A levels, some kids said. What the fuck was that about? Since when did star rugby players give a toss about A levels?

Christina had done something to Dave. Trevor was sure of it.

She should have the ASBO, not me, he thought. At least I never hurt anybody.

---

Day 5 of Christina’s Annexation

The door burst open. The vast, wobbling pillar of Christina body poured in.

“So, have either of you found Plotzker’s report yet?”

She flung her riding jacket over a chair, eyes on the two women on the cabriole sofa. They blanched with fear.

Zoe Danielopolis sat left. She was a curvy twenty-something lesbian, with a scene-queen explosion of blue spiky hair, a bitchy sneer, and tattoos by the armload. Christina had fired her for stealing jewellery, only to rehire her for reasons she’d explained to the girl as none of your business.

Chaya Belkowicz sat right. She was a borderline OCD case who washed her hands a dozen times a day. Her modest garb was a lingering influence from her Orthodox Jewish upbringing. She’d left the yeshiva behind: Christina was her god now. Her front swelled with utterly monstrous breasts. Chaya had gigantomastia—her tits might possibly exceed her mistress if she gained about sixty more pounds.

Christina sniffed. Her nostrils curled in distaste.

“It smells like the inside of a dirty cunt in here. Were you two fucking while I had a class?”

“No,” Zoe said boldly.

Christina’s stare went right to Chaya, who immediately broke.

“Yes…” Chaya whimpered, looking apologetically at Zoe. “But it was on our lunch break, and…”

Christina strode over to the cabriole sofa, and slapped Zoe hard. WHAP!

“That’s for lying. Don’t forget, you’re re-employed on a casual basis and I will fire you again any time I want. Give me a reason. I dare you.”

Then she spun and slapped Chaya. WHAP! “And that’s for…I don’t know what that’s for. I just felt like hitting you, I guess.”

As her assistants whimpered and rubbed their smarting faces, Christina began undressing, flinging aside clothes.

“Now, where’s my report? Have either one of you slags made progress in finding it?” Christina’s beret went sailing, miraculously landing on a hatrack hook.

Zoe and Chaya shook their heads.

“Well, that’s no good!” Christina pouted, shaking her head with a cruel smile. “Why not?”

“We’ve looked everywhere for it!” Chaya wailed. “We’ve been through the library filing cabinet twenty times!”

“It’s not in the cabinet, you abnormally stupid cretin,” Christina yawned, beginning to undress. “As I keep saying to everyone, one of the boys has it in his dorm.”

“Well, it’s off-limits then.” Zoe said. “We can’t just walk into the student dorms.”

Christina’s face purpled with rage as she unbuttoned her jacket. “If you yank your head out of the nearest axewound and use your imagination, you’ll find that you can, Zoe!”

“But how?”

“I don’t know. Break your way in. Shag your way in. Teenage boys are braindead and sex-obsessed. For fuck’s sake, don’t tell me you’re giving up against the weakest targets God ever made. Are you both totally incompetent?”

Zoe and Chaya looked crestfallen. Christina sucked in a breath, buried her temper, and tossed them a crumb.

“Well, I’m a bitch right now, aren’t I?” She barked out a laugh. ““Look, I’m sorry. I’m just…under a lot of pressure. You know how I get when I’m stressed. I tend to…girlboss a bit too hard. Don’t take it personally.”

Christina giggled as she stripped down to her underwear. “Don’t take it personally. I truly love you both. But I’ll love you even more if you find that report!”

“What’s in it?” Zoe asked suddenly.

Chaya looked aghast. Even Christina looked surprised by her assistant’s boldness.

“That…” She said slowly, “Is not your concern.”

Christina began the complex feat of disencumbering her breasts from her GORE-TEX toughened bra. Cleavage heaved and flopped and then the cups fell away. Her vast tits slopped down after them, pouring down to her chunky waist. Finally, Christina yanked her plus-size panties out of her vast, sweaty asscrack, and kicked them to the floor. She stood naked before them, body bared like a blade.

Neither Zoe nor Chaya reacted to the sight of Christina’s naked body. It was something they saw many times a day, whether they wanted to or not.

Christina smiled solicitously, gesturing at her genitals. Her shaven cunt gleamed, catching the light like a bright, wet lens flare.

“I need someone to help de-stress me, I think.”

Chaya and Zoe shared a weary glance, and stood.

De-stressing Christina Hendricks was quite an ordeal.

Zoe unfolded a Zenses massage table, and stood it upright. It was a body-length bed suitable for a masseuse, beautician, or tattoo artist, engineered in Germany for heavy loads.

Chaya’s fingers worked the latches of the heavy Samsonite cases they’d transported at great expense from Christina’s California mansion. One by one, the trunks swung open like crocodile mouths, revealing vistas of steel and sin. Phials of oil. Butt plugs. Shibari ropes. Dildos and vibrators without number. Benwa balls. Medium-voltage alligator clips. Numberless implements of pleasure and pain.

Christina lifted a leg across the massage table, and dropped her enormous, naked body on top of it. She collapsed with an exhausted sigh that the bench seemed to share: every rivet groaned beneath her bulk. Heavy pink flesh pooled from her hips and thighs. Her ass quivered, settling in a landslide of lard. Colossal breasts spilled from each side of the table, hanging in pendulous sacks that swung back and forth.

“I’m so god damned horny,” Christina whined, reaching behind her body and thumbing her cunt. “Please just make me cum so hard my brain shuts off.”

The last five or six teenaged boys she’d defiled hadn’t been worth the effort.

Chaya and Zoe dutifully snapped on rubber gloves, tugging the latex past the wrist. They slathered their arms to the elbow in petroleum-based lube. You would have thought they were helping a horse give birth.

As they moved with glum choreography to either side of their mistress’s body, Christina spread her thick legs, exposing her holes. Her genitals throbbed with lust. Inside thick overlapping folds of pungent flesh, her moistening cunt and asshole glinted like diamonds.

Neither assistant was fazed by the sight of Christina’s genitals.

Exhausted, perhaps. She was a demanding boss.

“Well?” Christina smirked, resting her chin on her crossed arms. “What are you waiting for? Get me off, or I will stop being so nice.”

They masturbated Christina—reaching in, digging deep. Their gloved, lube-drizzling hands dug squelching paths through her fleshy pudenda and mons pubis, sharks hunting for erogenous zones. They stretched apart her asscheeks like pizza dough, squishing fingers into sucking voids of ass and cunt.

Her cunt oozed hot liquid over sliding, stroking hands. Thick thick labial folds swelled, fattening up to lewd, bulging petals. Her clit enlarged, sliding out of its hood.

Chaya navigated Christina’s labia majora, parted her labia minora, and began fingerblasting her clit with rhythmic jerks. Zoe teased a nail along Christina’s perineum, then knifed her index and middle finger into the gaping anal pucker, which spread wide to accomodate them.

Christina jerked as pleasure erupted from their fingers. Her toes curled, and moans began surging their tidewater from her deep chest. Hot pulses of lust shockwaved up and down her body, rippling her flesh, setting her hanging tits to still more jiggles.

Chaya and Zoe leaned into their greasy work, handfucking their insatiable mistress. Dextrous fingers hunted through gallons of piled flesh, rooting out nerve clusters, stimulating them to smoldering crescendos of pleasure.

“I want four orgasms.” Christina rapped out orders, feeling fear in each probing fingertip, relishing in it. “Hurry up, watch the nails, and don’t waste my time.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. Chaya’s expression did not change. Both hurried to comply.

Like their lives depended on it, as the saying goes.

Pump…pump…glurp… Christina was meat piled on meat piled on meat. Propelling their slippery fingers through so much resisting flesh was exhausting, and their faces shined with sweat. They both knew better than to stop.

Chaya’s 30KK breasts were peppered with half-healed cigarette burns. Two weeks ago, she’d cooked her mistress’s steak a little past medium. Christina had chain-smoked half a pack of Newports and used her assistant’s tits as an ashtray.

A month before that, Zoe had accidentally double-booked a Vanity Fair interview with a fan meet-and-greet. Christina had fed ten thousand dollars of her beloved Vivienne Westwood couture through a shredder.

You didn’t allow Christina to become angry. You just didn’t.

Christina yawned, sprawling imperiously. Letting four frantic hands excavate orgasms from her body.

squish squick slurp… Chaya’s fingers made a toilet-plunger sound as they went pumping in and out of her fat pink pussy. Zoe gritted her teeth, and plunged her entire hand inside Christina’s ass. Christina’s face tore opened in a moan, a snarl.

Christina’s body tightened like a bowstring beneath the cadence of fingers. Her heart hammered in her wrists. Her blood boiled in her ears. Her pussy was roaring with need. Screaming with it.

She set a countdown timer on her phone.

“You have thirty minutes to make me cum four times. Fail, and I discipline both of you.”

Christina let the phone slip from her hand to her handbag. Neither girl noticed that the timer had been set to 25:00.

---

Trevor dragged a sack of weeds to the compost. The sun was setting behind the hedgerows, punching a lens-flare into his exhausted brain.

One day closer. Soon he’d have settled his debt to society, and his ASBO would be revoked. Soon, he’d be free.

He was close enough that the thought had started to scare him. Free to do what, exactly?

Who am I? The weeds bulged like green fingers from the hemp sack he was lugging over one sagging shoulder. Who will I be, once I’m out of here?

He considered himself a loser, but that was mostly a pose. Protective armor. He didn’t truly think of himself as a loser…but what if he actually was? Or what if he was something worse—a genuinely bad egg, bound for prison?

Trevor had stolen a lot of things in his young life. Excuses were always easy to find—They ran their mouths, they deserve it, I need it more than they do—but they were never the truth.

Which was, he didn’t understand the sudden…compulsions that gripped him, ruled him, commanded him.

He didn’t know why he’d stolen the van. This frightened him. He couldn’t understand the icy, chemical rush that had surged through him when he nicked something that didn’t belong to him—it was like slipping into a wild churning river, and getting sucked into rapids. Maddening. Exhilarating. Worth living for, even though you know it’s likely going to end with you dead. All he knew was that when he’d climbed up behind the wheel of a Transit he didn’t own, seemingly twenty feet up in the sky, he’d briefly felt like lord of Battersea.

I’ll never afford the front bumper of this car, but suddenly, that doesn’t matter. It’s mine!

His youth had always protected him from truly bad consequences. But now he was eighteen. An adult. The London magistrate had been clear that his next offense would earn a sentence at a Cat C prison. The thought terrified Trevor: he didn’t want to go to Wandsworth or Acklington like Dad had. But suppose he was doomed to re-offend, because that was his nature? What if he was no better than those horrible kids he was reading about, in those reports he’d found in the library? What if the toffs who shouted Trevor Thiefley at him were right?

Trevor became conscious that he’d been standing still by the compost pit for a long time. The sun was no longer behind the hedgerows. It had been swallowed by the Earth.

He swallowed a mouthful of bitter saliva. He feared the future, and the fact that he was going to face it alone.

I want a girlfriend. A random thought. The same random thought that knifed into his mind, many times a day. I want a girlfriend, oh God. I want one so badly.

But what girl wanted a boy like Trevor Wheatley?

The arse-end of British society. A kleptomaniac chav with an ASBO instead of a GCSE. Criminals often found girlfriends, he knew. Drug kingpins. Arms dealers. Financiers snorting coke in their high-up Knightsbridge penthouses. Petty thieves? No. Particularly not the one thick enough to get caught.

Trevor’s perpetual girl-lessness was another thing the Nievecraft bullies had over him. What’s the one thing Trevor Thiefley won’t ever steal? Your girl. And this was harder to laugh off than the rest of it.

He was lonely, if you wanted the truth. Dead lonely.

I need to share my life with someone, he thought at the edge of the compost pit. Even though it’s not a life worth sharing.

He yanked the bag’s string, and dumped the weeds. They spilled out of the jute sack, almost sighing their way free.

A girl would save me. His hands felt cold and bitter, clutching on nothing. I don’t care enough to save myself, but maybe if I had someone else to live for, anyone else to live for—

Trevor didn’t cry. That wasn’t really done in the Harlesden estates.

But his face became hot and tight, his breath felt trapped in a cage inside him. His throat felt like it was MIG-welded shut. Everything in him was choking and freezing and failing…so fucking useless. You can’t even show weakness properly…

Trevor shook the bag empty. A few loose weeds and clods of earth tumbled out. Then he finished his chores, and made some ticks in his council logbook. Another day closer to walking back into freedom’s singing buzzsaw.

Then he went to Mr Tibbs’ granny flat, where he lived. The boys didn’t wanted the ASBO kid rooming with them in the dorms. This desire was mutual.

When he touched the door handle, he found that he wasn’t sad anymore.

Trevor Wheatley was back to his normal self. A cold, quiet boy who felt little of anything at all.

---

Day 6 of Christina’s Tyranny

Trevor was snipping dead branches from a Lavandula angustifolia when he heard words coming from within Christina’s house.

“Yes…yes…further back, oh yes…just like that…

He rolled his eyes. Someone was having sex in there. No prize for guessing who.

He glanced at the headmaster’s house, and the window.

Through a gap of hanging, moth-eaten curtains, he saw an eye flash, noticing him back. He caught a glimpse of a face like chiseled ice, under a flaming Molotov cocktail of hair.

The eye narrowed, blazing contempt. A hand tore the curtains shut.

---

Who is that boy? Christina frowned as she stepped back from the curtains. Goddamn peeping Tom. I wish people were more normal in their sexuality.

Then she turned, facing the center of the room. A bizarre armature of teenage flesh lay on the floor, waiting for her.

“Privacy is hard to come by,” she sneered, her body naked and sweat-fragrant. “Shall we continue?”

The two naked teenagers nodded.

“Good. I haven’t got all day.”

She was fucking both at once. Candles were lit on the floor, in thrilling breach of every public safety regulation in Britain. The petals of oud roses and peonies glittered in a wild pink strew, the edges black with rot. Overripe scents slithered on the air, giving the room a perverted, drugged-up atmosphere.

The two boys were gymnasts. Nievecraft’s gymnastics team had been eliminated in the first seed of the UK regionals, but Christina was enjoying the flexibility of its members, in more ways than one.

They sat facing each other. Their muscular legs were side-split open wide, exposing legs fastened with ligatures of thrilling lean muscle—adductor longus, sartorious, gracilis. She had spent a lot of time arranging them like dolls for her pleasure.

Large erections spiked out from their crotches, waving upward, slick with lube.

The buxom, boy-mad actress caressed their taut, toned shoulders lascivously. She kissed one, then the other, biting the second one’s lip. She humped her aroused, engorged pussy against him, leaving a wet imprint where her cunt drooled hot on his skin.

She stepped into the space between their bodies.

She was meat, they were bread.

One boy had her swollen pink labia lips glistening in his face. The other got a faceful of her enormous ass.

Christina squatted, sinking down low.

She controlled her fall, the musculature on her big sweaty thighs quivering as she plunged deep. The boy in front leaned back to avoid getting buried by her dangling tits. The boy behind was physically forced back as her ass jacknifed backwards.

A half-second later, she planted her thick body directly onto their cocks.

SPLUNT! SPLOOCH!

“Ugh!” Christina gurgled in pleasure as she was twice-filled and double-fucked. A fat teenage cock mashed against her pubis, bent, found her vagina, and burst inside in a spray of liquid. Simultaneously, a thick penis burrowed into her asshole.

With a lubed-wet squelch, Christina landed at the bottom of the squat, her thick body rebounding like elastic. Her hips lay at parallel, supported by two throbbing cocks.

Thighs split, knees out, face pleasure-drunk, hips locked out in an obscene, wanton squat, Christina deepened her stance, sawing the bulging prickshafts further inside her core. Twin erections pierced her like stakes through a vampire. She quivered in desperate need, face flushing, breath panting, feeling their hot penises throb inside her clasping walls.

She endured twenty or thirty of their heartbeats, letting pleasure soar like flame inside her mind.

“Mmmmff…” Sweat beaded as she rocked back and forth experimentally. “Oh my God…you wicked, wicked boys! Treating me like this…”

Christina began humping the two gymnasts.

With straining, lustful heaves, she hauled and then dropped her meaty body on their shafts. They slid out of her cunt and asshole, only to spear back in with glottal plosive slurps.

SHLOOP-SHHHHLURRRRRKKK!

Up, down, up, down…

Her holes drank cock with spasming, writhing surges, drooling fluid into the boys’ crotches. One cock sunk into her guts, viciously fucking her rectal trench with a lewd wet urrrpp. The invasion of an equally big cock matched it from the front of her body, rasping through her wet pussy.

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! As she buried their cocks in the rich soil of her body, her titanic 36N fuck-cannons bounced high. When she fell, they swung up in massive meaty arcs, nearly obscuring her screaming face, and then lunged back down, slamming explosively into her fat midsection. The basketball-huge tits smashed with the loudness of gunshots.

SCHWAP! PLAP! CLOPP!

Christina’s mouth yawned black. A climactic scream tore free.

“AHHHHH! UGHHH!” Cum fountained out of her, deluging the one in front in hot blasts of squirt. Christina swore. Her face burned, scalding like porcelain with libidinal ecstasy. She swayed, slowing the tempo of her riding, timing it with her muscular clenches.

These were twins, she thought vaguely as she slid up and down.

What were their names? Noam and Noah? Was Noah gaping her cunt, and Noam pronging her shit-pipe?

Christina’s tongue hung free of her mouth as her holes splayed open. Her arms snatched the one facing her for support. Her ass gushed between their bodies, gallons of faw PAWG meat spilling free as she rolled her powerful core around the two cocks.

…Or was Noah in her ass and Noam in her cunt? She wasn’t sure.

SHLOOP-SHHHHLURRRRRKKK! GLORNCH!

The moist, squelching sound of genitals stabbing together filled the room with heat and musk.

Christina rose and fell like a piston, collapsing on them. Her big mature hips swallowed two fat cocks to the balls with lewd, viscously gurgling strokes. Two greedy mouths, screaming more more more. Her flesh glowed refulgent with sweat. Two enormous breasts leaped with flashes like salmon leaping from a river, cracking back down a half-second after her trunk fell, gorging itself on two barely-legal cocks.

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

Christina weighed more than both teenagers combined. The fifty-year-old actress landed on them with jolts that shook their skinny frames.

Their faces were locked, teeth gritted, veins twisting. They both seemed to sense that failing this test would have worse consequences than failing the UK regionals.

“FUCK! HOLD STILL! UGHHH!” Christina was losing control, screaming and grunting and shaking. Sweat streamed in rivers down gulches of her flesh. Watermelon-sized tits jolted up and down, slinging with galvanic force.

The boys clenched their teeth and strained, bracing her body upright between their hips.

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

Christina orgasmed again, blasting a second time. Her ass and cunt kinked to delicious, gripping knots around both their cocks.

This set them off.

“Ahhhh!” The faces of both boys contorted into in identical expressions. Their hips jolted, connecting into the live fusebox of her body.

Their ballsacks lurched in frantic spasms, volleying cum into her cunt and asshole.

Schlooooorrrrppp-hissss! SCHLOOOORRRPPP-GLUUURK-SPLAT!

Christina felt both her gripping fuck-tunnels get hosed down with ropes of sperm. Cumshot after cumshot splattered into her, until their cocks were quivering inside thick reservoirs of seed, which oozed in rivers down their balls.

She collapsed, taking both boys down with her. Three sweaty, cum-splattered bodies sprawled on the carpet, flanks heaving by candlelight.

Not bad, Christina thought. But also not good.

Both boys looked relieved. No doubt they thought it was all over.

Christina’s clit was still pulsating ravenously. She would allow them five minutes to rest, before rousing them for the second session of the evening.

After the third or the fourth, the questioning would begin.

---

Trevor unlocked the door to his granny flat.

It was a tiny freestanding structure on the edge of the Nievecraft grounds. Asbestos in the walls, probably. No rats, at least: maybe they’d all died of mesothelioma. When he kicked off his shoes, he had to be careful they didn’t skid and mark the walls with grass juice. Mr Tibbs yelled at him for that.

He glanced at the window, made sure nobody was looking at him, and lifted the corner of the stained mattress.

He dug out a ring-bound folder he’d hidden in a corner.

Time for some reading.

Trevor flopped onto the bed, turning pages. He loved true crime—as a reader as well as practitioner—and a few days earlier, he’d come across a fascinating set of documents in the library.

---

Part of his duties included watering the ferns in the Nievecraft library.

This seemed a little outside a groundskeeper’s remit, and he was fairly certain that these ferns were plastic, but Trevor wasn’t one for complaints. At least he was out of the hot sun, and away from the bullies. When he’d arrived, he’d shared a brief head-nod with Michael Crane—the librarian’s son—but now, it had seemed, he was alone amongst the books.

He’d noticed a filing cabinet, with a card atop it. HELEN PLOTZKER COLLECTION

Who’s Helen Plotzker? He’d frowned, unable to place the name. A teacher at school?

He’d taken out his phone, searched the internet, and stared in shock at the news headlines.

Incredible discovery of documents…survived against all odds…believed lost in fire…buried in the ground…

Helen Plotzker, it turned out, had been one of the most famous child psychologists of her day. A veritable Freud of the Peppa Pig set. And a pile of her long-lost manuscripts had just been rediscovered at the small provincial school of Nievecraft.

It was amazing, the news you missed when you had a hundred acres of hedgerow to barber.

Trevor had glanced at the library’s doors and windows. (Shut. Drawn.) He’d looked for witnesses. (None.)

Then he’d looked at the cabinet with fresh eyes.

He’d approached it, feeling familiar things—his pulse hammering in his temples, a sick giddy feeling washing up from his stomach, his palms growing oily with excitement. Oh God, I told the judge I was sorry for stealing. Was I? Was I sorry?

He didn’t know.

But for a frustrated, lonely boy, this feeling was the closest to being alive he ever got. It was worth the arrest and the ASBO. He chased the rush any time he could. He’d probably die chasing it.

Trevor had yanked the filing cabinet open, reached into the pool of shadow inside, and—

---

—Look.

Look.

The million pound question was this: was he allowed to take a dozen of Helen Plotzker’s reports from the library to read?

To which the answer was yeah, kinda, sorta, maybe…

…All right, he’d stolen them, hadn’t he? But it wasn’t like there had been a sign up saying DO NOT TAKE THESE REPORTS. And that made it stolen with at least a few asterisks and footnotes, by his reckoning.

Really, it was their fault. If the library wanted to deter thieves, it would have been so bloody easy to padlock and chain the filing cabinet. Or post a guard. Or do anything. It was the stolen van again—you can’t leave out valuables for the world to take and complain when the world agrees.

Trevor would return the reports when he was done reading them, if they were lucky.

He would not feel bad about it.

This comprehensive psychological examination (henceforth “The Report”) contains a profile of the behavioural, developmental, cognitive, and emotional development of a twelve (12) year old female subject, D.O.B. 03.05.75 (henceforth “JANE DOE”). It was conducted in full compliance with Section 251(10) and 251(11) of the National Health Service Act (1986) and UKHSA’s Integrated Care Board ethical guidelines (Rev 11), and overseen by senior assessor Helen Plotzker (BA, BS, PhD.). The reader is advised that this document may contain sensitive and graphic material.

God, I hope so. Night fell, and Trevor began the plunge into a mind far more troubled than his…

---

Day 7 of Christina’s Tyranny

Everyone’s so useless, Christina thought as she lifted a cup of coffee to her lips. Chaya had brewed it and she hoped there would be a mistake, so she could punish the girl again—she was in a bullying mood. No luck. Barista quality, the fucking whore.

She was growing frustrated at Nievecraft.

Not with the boys, who were fun to romp with. Even the sexually insufficient ones found ways to amuse her.

Like the black-haired kid who’d mounted her from behind, slid his cock inside her, and ejaculated two seconds later. His assigned punishment: to warm her toilet seat with his lips for a week.

Or the boy who hadn’t even been able to get erect. To his relief, Christina had not seemed concerned by his limp prick. It’s nothing trouble. Let’s just cuddle. She flung her huge, heavy body on top of his, feigned a slip, and dropped her full weight onto his thumb. He’d screamed as the digit cracked beneath her bulk like chalk.

Christina had profusively apologized in the aftermath. She was just a big and clumsy old woman, nervous around handsome (and clearly intelligent) young boys like him. “You mustn’t think I do this often!” She’d gently admonished the naked boy in her bed. (White-faced, the boy had nodded agreement—then hurriedly shook his head). A shame he’s leaving so quickly, Christina had thought while watching him gingerly walk to the Nievecraft nurse to get the thumb re-set and splinted.

She’d wanted him to stay, so she could persuade him that she hadn’t touched him, that he’d broken his own thumb somehow. She didn’t know how she would accomplish this, but felt it was possible.

Christina had learned that she could convince anyone of anything, if given enough time to attack their mind. Her reality always overruled theirs in the end. Forget breaking fingers. She’d wanted to break the boy.

But none compared to the heavyset blond boy. She already regarded him as one of her masterpieces.

She had invited the nineteen year old to her house for sex. They’d adjourned to the bedroom together. Christina had sat crosslegged and smiling while he’d undressed, dropping his jeans, then his boxers. And then Christina had just stared at his paste-pink nude body, counted out ten seconds in her head, then made a sad and rueful clucking sound inside her cheek. Oh, you courageous boy, she’d said. So brave of you.

The fat kid, confused as well as naked, hadn’t understood her. Brave? How am I brave? Christina had clapped a hand on his shoulder. He was inspiration, she’d said. A hero. It took real courage to do what he’d just done—undressing before a woman, abandoning all fear and shame, believing in his heart that size doesn’t matter. She profoundly respected that.

His confusion had become anger, then resolved to confusion. After twenty minutes of her silver-tongued rhapsodizing, Christina had converted him. He really believed that he was brave!

“Wow, yeah, you’re right,” he straightened his back, ridiculous as well as naked. “I’ll be honest, I’ve been kinda worried about, well, that for years. But so what? Even if I am maybe a little small, that doesn’t make me any less of a man. And I refuse to act like I’m less! I refuse!”

“Exactly!” Christina tried hard not to laugh. “Young men like you are the change the world needs!”

Then she leaned to his ear, a trusted confidante, and whispered what he needed to do next. Photograph your penis, and send it to every contact on your phone. The girl he had a crush on. His friends at school. His pastor. His guidance counselor. His mum. Everyone. Let his courageousness shine like a light, for all the world to see!

To his credit, he’d hesitated before doing it.

Briefly.

Then he gulped, remembered that he had the soul of a hero in his breast, and snapped a photo of his prick.

Then he ruined his life, one SMS attachment at a time.

“I feel much better.” He sounded like he’d had a massive spiritual epiphany, as he sent his tiny dick to a phone contact marked GRANDMA MILDRED. “A weight’s lifting off me. What’s there to hide? This is just another part of me, no different to my face or anything else. You’ve changed my life, Christina.”

“I bet they’ll be glad to see your penis,” Christina cooed.

What a fucking idiot!

“So, uh, we’re still having sex, right?” He asked hopefully.

“Oh, no, sorry!” Christina shook her head ruefully. “After the breakthrough you’ve just had, it’d be a shame to cheapen it with something as mundane as sexual intercourse. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh. Um, I suppose…” He looked disappointed, all the same.

“Right. Get dressed and leave.” Christina pointed at the door.

---

All of this was fun.

But where was the report?

None of the boys who’d entertained her knew where it was. She’d heard gormless I dunnos from any number of young faces. None of them had any real reason to steal it: that was the trouble. What boy would find any interest in dusty old reports from thirty years ago? You could hardly interest them in their schoolwork from yesterday.

She heard footsteps approaching her office from the path outside.

She cut her gaze in the direction of the window, seeing him trudging up the path to her office. A cutie! She’d forgotten she’d made an appointment with this one.

As she regarded his hopeful face, and lank-shouldered build. Her cunt moistened in sexual heat, engorging like a predatory flower. She popped a breath mint and fixed her strap.

Maybe this one had the answer.

She didn’t think so, from the look of him.

---

The boy introduced himself as Michael Crane. Christina didn’t particularly care.

“Your jacket, ma’am,” he said, handing it over. He’d folded it with a reverence his stained, creased school uniform displayed no signs of ever receiving. “You left it behind in class today.”

She accepted it with a nod, but without thanking him. The smile she had worn in her classroom was no longer there. The perpetually lost jacket made a useful prop, in case anyone wondered why so many boys were coming to her office.

“A moment of your time, Michael.”

Christina stepped around her desk, her hips swinging audaciously. Her movement caused breasts as big as calving icebergs to swing and leap in her blouse. Michael’s eyes tracked them. He licked his lips.

She brushed past him. Stepped behind him. He felt the air displaced by her meaty body, and a thrill ran through him as she closed the door. Twisted a key in the lock. Klik-chak

“I enjoy your classroom contributions, Mitchell. They’re…very perceptive.”

“Thanks, ma’am.” Michael couldn’t remember saying one word in her class. “I try to help.”

“And is that how you see yourself?” She stepped close, filling his space with her presence and heat. Her gaze pierced his eyes deep enough to perform a frontal lobotomy. “A helper?”

“Huh?” Michael didn’t understand. The world foreshortened as she stared, and his heartbeat thundered apocalyptically. He gazed at her blouse. He wondered the odds that a button would burst off and blind him.

“Helper could mean one of two things, Mitchell. Someone who has done something helpful, or someone whose nature is to be helpful. Which would you prefer?”

He said he didn’t know.

“I’d prefer the second. I like the idea that our actions communicate deep truths about us.” She placed a small steel hand on his shoulder. “Helpfulness is a noble gift, Michael, and not to be abjured.”

Michael had no idea what was going on. He felt like he was being pulled off his feet by some dark undertow that existed in her office. But she was saying nice things about him—it sounded like it, anyhow—and if he just agreed, she might say more nice things.

“Well, I’m happy to help with anything you want, ma’am. Just say the word.”

“Anything? Anything at all?” She poked a finger into her cheek, as if deeply contemplating him. “You are very generous to make such an offer, despite the…danger.”

“Er, okay.” His erection was jabbing his school slacks. Lust had turned the inside of his mouth into sandpaper. Dangerous? What was dangerous? She was simultaneously speaking English and another language. But when Christina curtsied. his heart sprung a leak. Whatever she was saying, the answer was yes, yes, yes. Now and forever.

“So you’ll do anything I ask?” Christina giggled, playing with her food. She leaned forward. Huge breasts bulged and swung.

“Anything,” he repeated, more confidently. And I’m in, he thought. Christina was having the same thought, though for different reasons.

She giggled again, and swung an arm around his body. He felt uncomfortable inside it. It was like a steel band.

“I, like many women my age, am appreciative of young men who are…submissive.” Her lips brushed his ear, and he almost leaped out of his skin with desire.

Her hand returned to his shoulder, caressing his cheek. Then she pinched. Hard. His mind seemed to snap with that pinch like a stick of firewood. He blinked, and the small distance between them had somehow become no distance at all. Suddenly, monstrous breasts were pushing out like overfilled party balloons on his chest. Oh God! They were massive! And warm!

Her fingers drummed on his shoulder. Odd how you could feel dwarfed by a woman who was one inch shorter than you were. Christina’s head tilted slightly, like a Dutch angle. The corner of her mouth twitched upward.

Then she lifted her foot.

She wore vintage lace Victorian boots. Sheepskin leather with floral lace patterns and eyelets of gold.

“Give me a foot massage, Mitchell.” She smiled, tugging the laces undone. Her ankle flexed forward, pulling the shoe’s lip open.

“A foot massage?” He flinched as she tugged the boot off her foot.

Her teeth-bladed smile filled his world, a fanged and gibbous moon.

“A foot massage.”

She wasn’t wearing any socks. Her bare feet had been sweating directly against leather for God knew how long. As soon as she exposed her pink, sweaty toes to the air, a face-vaporizing stink crashed into him. His eyes watered. Christina’s foot was visibly fuming in the cold air.

She smirked wickedly, and wriggled all five of her toes in a line. Making the air boil with their stench.

“Massage my feet,” she hissed beside his ear. “Do it now.”

“Christina, er…” he babbled, backing away from her bare foot. “I don’t think I can…er…I have another class to be at…”

“Markham, I’m hurt!” Her eyes seemed to fill with tears, but her lip curled in savage amusement. “I thought you were special! You said you’d do anything!”

Michael looked guilty. Yes, he had said that, hadn’t he?

“Fine,” he said. “I guess I can give you a quick—”

“Get on the floor.” She pointed.

“What?”

“Get on your knees before me.” She snapped her fingers.

Because he didn’t move fast enough, Christina swore, snatched a fistful of his hair, and pulled him down to his knees.

“Hurry up.” Christina sounded bored as she kicked her other boot off. “You need to do what I say when I say it, instead of making me repeat myself five fucking times. I find that really irritating.”

Reeling with shock, Michael faceplanted on the carpet. He was big for his age and wasn’t used to being manhandled by other boys, let alone by teachers. He groveled before the terrifying woman. She’d suddenly transitioned from a sweet kindly maternal figure to fairytale ogre.

“Take off your shirt and pants,” she snarled to the cowering boy.

“My…pants…?” He didn’t understand, but his hands did, it seemed. They were already tugging off his Nievecraft uniform. Do what she says. Do what she says. Do what she says. It filled his skull like a catechism.

He stripped down to his underwear. Christina’s eyes wandered his pudgy body like flensing knives on a beached whale.

She often used a barstool as a prop in her contemporary acting classes. She sat crosslegged upon it now, planting herself in front of him. It creaked beneath the bulk of her huge ass, which spilled over the sides. He tried not to look as she stared down at him, tapping a finger impatiently.

“Get those knickers off too. Hurry the fuck up. I don’t have all day.”

Michael yanked his boxers down. His cock sprang out, bobbing into the air, disgorging a stream of silvery precum. The cold air made his bare privates shiver.

“See?” Christina said. “You’re not even hesitating now. Servitude is in your nature.”

Michael’s flesh tensed and goosepimpled as she slid her bare foot beneath his body, into the space between hips and carpet. Toes tickled his glans, and he squirmed. They had the coldness of slick, wet ice.

She smirked, pulling back her foot. “A little small. Well, no matter. I won’t be using it.”

“Christina, please…” The toes twitched maddeningly on his privates, an itch he couldn’t scratch.

She dropped both feet onto his shoulders like bookends. He gagged, revolted, as they squeezed his head.

“This is your purpose, Marcus,” she said, unbuttoning her dress pants. “You are not a person. You are a place for me to rest my feet. You are a high-density foam substitute.”

Her ankles scissored inward, gripping his neck hard enough to cut off circulation.

As his vision started to darken, she lifted her left foot from his neck to his forehead. She slowly dragged a foot down his face. Its thick, meaty sole filled his vision, dragging his face down like a rubber mask. Her callouses raked painful lines down his cheeks. He wilted before her foot-odor, sweating miserably, trapped by this twisted woman.

“I hope you’re happy as my foot stool, Matthias,” a kindly voice said from behind the smothering flesh blanket of her sole. “With a cock that small, this is as good as it gets for you. And for me.”

Her big toe hooked onto his lower lip, tugging it down.

“You are a sad specimen, aren’t you?” She said, making anatomical investigations of his face with her foot and toes. “I’d call you my property. But that would be an insult to me.”

As Christina spat abuse on Michael’s head, as her cheesy toes tore their stink into his nostrils, he realized that this was pulling him into a place he didn’t want to go. He found his prick tingling, his balls rise. No. I’m not enjoying this! He insisted this over and over as his scrotum tightened, every muscle bracing for explosion. It felt like the moment before a sneeze. Oh no. Not like this. Please God…

He gritted his teeth, tried to hold back sperm that was already spewing out in a hot flush.

“Urrrkk!” He choked off the sound. His cock thrashed, slapping his pink belly as it jerked and vomited his semen. Sperm arced out in thick eruptions, splattering across the carpet in overlapping strands. Splurt! Splurt! Splurt! His hips scythed forward, emptying his balls until they finally ran dry.

Christina laughed, tutting as his cock dribbled. “Bad doggie!”

Her foot smashed him in the face.

She kicked him repeatedly, pushing his face down into the carpet like a disobedient housepet. He gagged as she pounded her sweaty toes and wrinkled soles onto his nose.

Again. And again. And again.

Christina paused her kicking. She arched her head sideways, staring past the sleek blades of her legs and feet, and down into his crotch.

Despite squirting out his balls over the carpet, the boy’s cock had returned to full erection

“My feet make your little pindick hard, don’t they?” She laughed. Her feet slapped against his head, resting on his shoulders. They squeezed his head like a vice.

“Foot fetishists are disgusting. What an embarrassing kink to have, Matthew! Just the worst! I think I’d kill myself!”

Her hand reached into her unbuttoned dress pants. It dove under her panties, fingering her cunt.

“If I were a foot-fucker like you,” Christina said sweetly, masturbating as she bullied him. “I would seriously pretend to be a pedophile. Or one of those people who fuck lawn equipment. Anything’s better than getting hard for feet. You really drew the short straw in life, didn’t you? Foot-obsessed loser.”

A tear rolled down his face, causing her to bray out cultured, refined laughter. Her hand went shluck, shluck, shluck as she frigged herself.

“I can spot a foot freak on sight, you know. They have a weak, unmasculine demeanor about them, just like you. They exist to be walked on. Stepped on. Crushed like the littlest bugs.”

Oh my God, she’s nothing like this in class, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. He wondered if she was acting now, or had been acting then.

A foot curled against his face like a serpent. It was massive and heavy, somehow cold and hot at once.

“Anyway, enough about your sexual shortcomings. As you may have heard from your friends—assuming you have any—I am looking for a report.”

Her hand was slurping in and out of her juicing twat, pumping with lewd rasps of noise. It was somehow wet up to her wrist.

“One of the Helen Plotzker collection. It was stolen a few days ago from the library. By whom, though? I was wondering if…ugh…you knew anything about it.”

As Christina asked, she assumed the answer was no.

She’d expected to spend a long time psychologically and physically torturing this sad boy, breaking him down to his constituent atoms, reducing him to babbling human wreckage. But she’d also expected that he simply wouldn’t know. That this would be another pleasurable dead end, in a week full of them.

But instead, Michael said something she wasn’t ready for.

Something wonderful.

“I know who took it.”

Christina’s hand paused in her pants.

Color drained from her cheeks, then exploded back into them with a rush. Her head spun, giddy with excitement. Her skin felt like it was vibrating off her skeleton.

“Who?” She hissed. The room was foreshortening in a wicked lunge of color, blurring across her vision. His pathetic, tearstreaked face was now the only thing in the universe that mattered. “Tell me, Michael! Tell me!”

She started to masturbate again.

She leaned forward, her hand speeding up, becoming a frantic blur. She drooled, fingerbanging herself obsessively, watching as Michael lifted his quivering head…and told her.

It was amazing how the right words could take a gal’s clit straight to DEFCON1.

A sharp whine rose from her chest, becoming a scream as it left her mouth.

A wonderful burst of pleasure thrummed out from her twat. White-hot pleasure, radiant and consuming, delicious and pure, transforming Christina’s body and mind into something made by the everfucking angels.

“UGHHHH!” Christina’s fingers clawed at Michael’s hair, yanking him between her thrashing legs. His face crashed into her musky, engorged genitals, which throbbed with imminent apocalypse.

“YOU LITTLE BRAT, I’M ABOUT TO CUHHHH—”

Her urethra yawned open on his face.

Christina orgasmed, drowning his face in squirt. She bucked her hips into him with loud fleshy slaps, volleying cum into his eyes and nose for over thirty seconds. Her viscous load splattered down his chin, streaming to the carpet. She let her grasp slip, and he fell into a puddle of her squirt. SPLAT!

She rocked back on the barstool, reaching for her phone. Her voice was almost unrecognizable behind a fog of animalistic cum-drunk panting.

“Uhhh…Chaya…mmmffff…come…uggghh…office….RIGHT NOW!”

Then she glanced at the naked, dripping boy, gasping for wind on the expensive carpet. He lay in a puddle of thick female ejaculate, so hot it steamed the air.

Christina watched his cock twitch—a small rope of cum shot out. Her lip curled in distaste.

“Disgusting boy.” She kicked him. “Clean this mess up. If I see one stain on this floor tonight, I’ll kill you.”

---

Alone in his granny flat, Trevor read with pages six inches from his face. They trembled in the air, growing hot with his breath.

An ugly, sour scent rose from the paper. Smoke? Fertilizer? Something innocuous, like age or mould? Probably. But the deeper he spun into his reading, the more sinister the pages seemed. Like they’d been dug, not from a ditch, but from the bottom of a grave.

Helen Plotzker had specialized in juvenile delinquents, and her subjects had no names. Which made them seem cooler to Trevor. JOHN and JANE DOE became mythical figures in his head—chaotic trickster gods, like Loki or Enki or Bugs Bunny.

These kids were beyond the reach of God.

Trevor read about arsenic pills pressed into biscuit dough, razor blades scotch-taped to monkey-bars, housepet entrails torn out and arranged in mock-Satanic pentagrams, coffee machine drip-stems and blast-caps sawn and scotch-taped into homemade guns, younger siblings drowned in pools and suffocated beneath pillows…

He whistled when a nasty bit of business caught his eye. Stapling five-pound notes to a homeless bum’s face with a nailgun? Cripes. If the rich pricks at this school think I’m naughty, they should see what my competition’s up to.

There was one girl in particular who enchanted Trevor.

JANE DOE 1988.

He had her report in front of him right now: it was the size of a goddamn novel. He’d been reading it for two nights straight, and still wasn’t done with her story. JANE DOE ’88 was a go-big-or-go-home kind of gal.

Today I made another international call to Fairfax, Virginia, to speak to JANE DOE’s headmistress. She told me another story. JANE DOE fell out with a schoolmate (who started a rumor that JANE DOE’s hair wasn’t natural red, or something), and “punished” her with the theft of her expensive Birkin purse. The girl confronted JANE DOE, who told her she could have it back. “Meet me alone, in the school cafeteria, at midnight. I’ll make sure the door is unlocked.”

Trevor turned a page, making a bet that the girl hadn’t gotten her purse back.

…The girl reportedly entered the cafeteria that night to find JANE DOE sitting at the end of a long hall, holding her purse. She had taken every glass in the school and smashed them, scattering the shards all over the floor. JANE DOE said: “Want your purse? It’s here. Get on your hands and knees, and crawl. If I see even one spot of blood on the floor, you have to wipe it up and go back to the start.” The girl tried to crawl across the broken glass for over thirty minutes. She was hospitalized and required sixteen stitches on her hands, feet, and lower legs. JANE DOE denies this incident occurred, and (yet again) has an alibi proving she was elsewhere. The school’s glasses were indeed found smashed, but according to the school logbook they’d been destroyed the previous week, in an unrelated event.—H. PLOTZKER

Trevor whistled, and flipped a page. It made a razor-sharpening sound as it turned.

In our nightly chat: JANE DOE described another “friendship experience” (her term, not mine) she subjects her schoolmates to. It’s called the Sunshine Game. You sit in front of an open window, with a beam of sunlight falling over you. Your whole body must remain inside the rectangle of light. As it moves, you must move with it, following the beam of light across the floor. JANE DOE will occasionally inspect your body. If any part has strayed outside the sunlight, she stabs it with a needle. The Sunshine Game continues until she says it’s over. I intellectually understand the literature on indoctrination as a homosocial ritual (Blattman et al), but I admit I don’t know how any of this works from the inside. Why do the other girls allow this to be done to them? How does JANE DOE continue to get away with it?—H. PLOTZKER

Trevor nodded. How does she get away with it? Good question.

JANE DOE ’88 seemed shallow in her motives: Mussolini in a petticoat, exercising power over others, distracting herself from the fact that she would certainly die alone without a friend in the world. People like her came a dozen to a shilling on any schoolyard. The real mystery was why people around her…complied.

JANE DOE ’88 was a normal kid, right? She didn’t have superpowers or laser vision. She couldn’t banish you to the cornfield.

Like, suppose you said no to the Sunshine Game? What would JANE DOE ’88 have done? Cry? Stamp her foot? Tell you she wouldn’t be your friend anymore? God, talk about being threatened with a good time.

So why did no-one ever disobey her?

Actually, how old was JANE DOE ’88? Trevor flipped pages, found the date of her birth. May 3, 1975.

In 1988, she’d been in Year Eight. Just a twelve year old girl, and nobody can stand up to her. Yikes. What a sad and sorry species.

It occurred to him that JANE DOE ’88 attended school in America and hence wouldn’t be Year anything. How had an American girl ended up under psychological study in the East Midlands? That was weird.

Trevor yawned and cracked his knuckles, playing the calendar forward in his mind.

Alright, she was born in 1975, so…

JANE DOE ’88 was about fifty years old now, assuming she was still alive. What had time made of her? Had she stopped being a psychopath? Was it possible to stop? You rarely saw adults doing blatant sick shit like The Sunshine Game. Maybe sociopathy was something you grew out of.

Or maybe you just got better at hiding it.

Just then, a triple knock landed on the granny flat’s door. Rat-a-tat. He hurriedly stuffed the report under a pillow, and went to get it.

Trevor unlatched the door, and his life changed.

---

One of Christina’s helpmaids stood at his front door, her hands folded at her waist.

Her face was refined but very cold. Her cheekbones seemed made of chiseled ice. Her makeup was minimal, yet felt like a protective mask: as defensive as the glaze on a Bunraku doll. Her hair was serpent-coiled and stowed beneath a long scarf—a single stray strand revealed its color (black).

Her starched Victorian blouse went past her shoulders. Her dress showed nary an inch of ankle.

This girl’s religious. Trevor thought. She just has that vibe.

He felt sorry for her. Disgustingly large breasts swelled out from her chest, barely restrained by the blouse. She had clearly tried to dress modestly, but had a body that would look scandalous if poured into a burqa or a beekeeper outfit.

“Uh, hello?” Trevor said. He didn’t get a hello back.

“Are you Trevor Wheatley?” The woman’s American accent, her vowels jarringly Noo York, seemed to come from another planet.

He nodded. She retrieved an envelope from behind her back, and thrust it into his hand.

Without another word, she walked away, hands still folded at her waist.

Trevor shook his head. Goddamn, if Helen Plotzker’s files were as tightly locked up as that woman, I wouldn’t have a dozen of them under my mattress right now, I’ll tell you that for free.

He ripped open the envelope. There was a note inside.

YOU HAVE WHAT’S MINE
COME TO MY HOUSE AT 5.
NOT A SECOND LATER
-XTINA

To be continued…