PLUNDER


Her eyes tracked the server's tight little butt as he strode away with
the order. That was one of the attractions of this place, the handsome
young studs who waited tables . . . and their unusual uniforms. Domino
masks covered their eyes (conjuring up thoughts of the Lone Ranger). They
wore formal tuxedos, complete with cummerbund and top hat, but the pants
were form-fitting -- very much so -- and the entire seat was cut away
to expose outthrust buttocks. Bare buttocks. A nice rear view, indeed.

Eileen had a fleeting desire to summon him back and ask him upstairs.
But no, the evening was still young and there were so many others to
choose from. The rooms at the top of the stairs cost $500 per hour,
not counting a tip for the chosen escort. But, *damn*, he had buns to
die for. Maybe later . . .

Half an hour later they were upstairs in the small room. Jason was
lying on the narrow bed, facedown. He wore his mask, still, but nothing
else. From the crack of his ass there protruded a slim rubber hose leading
to an old-fashioned red rubber enema bag suspended from a rusting coat
hook. Eileen wanted him immaculate both outside and in for what she had
in mind. Even the simple act of inserting the nozzle into him had left
her flushed and excited.

Girl, this better be worth it, she thought as she buckled on her harness,
then secured the oversize dildo in the metal ring. This little evening
outing at the Plunder Club was going to plunder her savings for more
than she could afford. Quite a bit more.


    I deserve life's little pleasures. Damned if I don't! Haven't I had
    to fight for everything as long as I can remember?

    I was the first one in the family ever to attend college. Years of
    grunt work as a typist, receptionist, secretary, and general office
    slave. Got my first real break when the VP of production chose me
    as his assistant. I'm finally pulling down a halfway decent wage,
    but at what cost? Working long hours, going to night school to get
    my degree, giving up any pretense of a social life.

    Relationships? No time. Romance? That exists only in pulp novels and
    the movies. Sex? Empty-headed idiots clumsily taking their pleasure
    from my body. Now it's my turn. This one's for me.


The gurgle of the toilet in the adjoining bathroom signaled that Jason had
finished flushing away the enema solution and assorted other contents
of his bowels. Good -- nice and neat. Squeaky clean right where it
counted. Eileen was very much into strapons and anal sex, but she just
hated the little surprises -- the messes and the stinks -- that all too
often accompanied it.


    She remembered the first time. Her initiation into anal. It was
    the summer after graduation, and she had just turned 18. She was
    working as a camp counselor. On a dare from one of her friends, she
    had impulsively jumped into a shower stall with the director. He was
    hung like a horse, according to rumor. "He'll screw anything on two
    legs," they said. Eileen had to have him.

    He just laughed, and reached for her. She let him turn her around and
    bend her over. "Reach back and spread your cheeks," he said. *What?*
    "Spread 'em, girlie. I can get pussy any time. It's your ass I want."

    This wasn't quite what she had in mind, but . . . she *had* fantasized
    about that sort of thing. Those of her girlfriends who had tried it
    either loved it or hated it.

    "Come on, girl. I know what I'm doing. You'll enjoy it as much as
    I will, maybe even more. I'm not gonna force you, but make up your
    mind. Either open up your ass for me or get it out of here."

    She had to choose. Now. She hesitated, then spread her cheeks.

    It hurt a little going in. He had "lubed" himself up with soap, and
    it felt like a rather large cucumber sliding in and out of her. In
    and out of her ass. It was actually starting to arouse her by the
    time he came. He scrubbed her back and helped towel her dry. Very
    considerate of him.

    Later, she had a bout of diarrhea. The soap must have irritated her
    intestine. And yet . . .


His eyes widened momentarily as he entered the room. She already had
on her equipment belt and her tool was ready and waiting. Most clients
liked kisses, caresses, and a little foreplay before the going got hot
and heavy. This woman obviously didn't need any preliminaries.

She pointed at the bed. 'Bend over,' her abrupt hand motion indicated.
Talking wasn't part of the protocol here, and it just got in the way of
the action anyhow.

He had already lubed himself as part of the bathroom routine, but she
wanted to make doubly sure. Or maybe she just needed an excuse to grope
around inside his ass. No matter. This was included in the basic services
the clients paid for. He bent over the bed.

She liked it hard and brutal. Her grunts punctuated the silence as she
slammed in and out of him. Small, involuntary farts escaped from her,
unnoticed in her excitement. Trained to fully relax his sphincter ring
muscles, he still felt the stretch and friction as she plowed his ass
(damn, that was one monster dildo). Despite his professional detachment,
it was turning him on. He felt his dick slowly hardening beneath him.

She screamed in triumph as she collapsed atop his muscular back. (The
rooms were more or less soundproof.) The sweat from her bare breasts
mingled with his own. She held on tight to his hips for a moment more,
then withdrew out of him with a sound like a vacuum seal being popped. He
rolled over, and she giggled as she saw his erection. She grasped it
hard in her fist and pulled it toward her.

An open-palm gesture informed her that this was an extra-cost service. She
shrugged and pulled two fifties out of the pocketbook on the nightstand. A
slight shake of the head from him and she fished out another fifty. That
got her a nod and a smile. It was her turn to bend over.

He touched her pussy. It was sopping wet. She raised her right fist and
pumped it. Into her then, doggy style. His training included delaying
ejaculation, and twenty minutes later he was still hard inside her. A
synchronized clit massage had brought her three orgasms, but she needed
something more. Needed it badly.

She slapped his flank twice, indicating he should pull out. He complied.
Reaching behind herself, she inserted an index finger into the crack
between her buttocks. No mistaking *that* message. He held up three
fingers. That would cost another three hundred (ouch!). She ransacked
the pocketbook and somehow managed to scrape it together. Beans and
canned spaghetti for the rest of the month, but fuck that. (No, fuck
me! Now! In the ass, you beautiful stud.)

Eileen smiled as she drifted off to sleep in her own bed later that
night. She had a pleasant ache in her loins . . . and elsewhere. Over
a thousand dollars poorer but with memories no one could ever take away
from her -- memories of bare flesh and white-hot explosive sex.



Six months later she was back at the club. Her finances were once more
healthy enough to plunder, and she wanted to plunder Jason again. She
*needed* him. He had haunted her dreams and intruded into her daytime
thoughts.

The evening dragged on, and still no Jason. Masked as the servers were,
she would have recognized his bare behind in an instant. There was a
feast of deliciously naked male buttocks out there, but none belonging
to *him*. Where was he?

A hundred-dollar bill bought her the information that Jason had left
for parts unknown several months back. She staggered out of the club,
tearing at her hair, sobbing. Gone. The object of her desires -- lost.



"Jensen 'Jason' Warnecke," the private detective was saying. "We've
managed to track him as far as the Port Authority Terminal in New York
City. Further than that .  . . " He shrugged his shoulders.

Jason, it turned out, was quite a character. A shady character. He had
an extensive police record -- fraud, embezzlement, and once, selling
drugs. Twenty years old and a hardened criminal already. No matter.
Eileen had to find him. *Had* to. Every cell in her body craved him.

"Yes, ma'am. We've got a warrant out for him. If you see someone
matching his description, call us." The desk sergeant at the 91st
Precinct hadn't been very helpful. At least now she knew that someone
who looked like him had been seen near a crack house on 5th Street,
off Avenue D. Drugs. No. Please, no.

"Yeah, lady, maybe I seen da guy, maybe not. What's it worth to ya?" The
boy had steely, world-wise eyes. The bidding went up to twenty before
the street urchin motioned her to follow and ran off.

He lay on a dirty mattress in a dark room. There was an overpowering
stench of decay and human waste.

"Jason, Jason, what's happened to you?"

"Drug OD, lady," the boy said. "Prolly he'll croak any time now."

She had his head cradled on her lap and her tears streaked the dirt on
his face. His eyes opened.

"I think -- yeah, I remember you." He grimaced. "The dame who couldn't
get enough. Wild, wild woman. Did me, then I did her -- "

"Jason, I think . . . I think I love you. Hang on. I'll get help. I'll
make you well again."

"Too late, lady," the boy said. Jason had gone limp in her arms.



All this happened some years back. Before people wised up. Before most
everyone became paranoid about anonymous sex. Before AIDS.

The authorities closed down the Plunder Club. Later it reopened, under
new management, and considerably tamed down. The servers no longer had
parts of their anatomy on display, and the upstairs rooms were off limits
to the clientele. The food and drink improved, though.

Eileen has done quite well for herself. I should know. We're partners in
Entertainment Holdings, Inc. It's the biggest outfit of its kind in the
region, and one of our hottest properties is the new Plunder Club. I'm
also her lover and confidante.

Twice a week, we both do volunteer work at the local drug hotline. We've
saved quite a few people from Jason's fate.