I take a deep breath.  Don’t freak out Kent—you’ve done this a million times before.  All you’ve gotta do is follow the script.  I make sure my bowtie is aligned and that it looks smooth, then I check my booty shorts and ensure they’re not riding up.  Last thing I do is raise my arms and check ‘em with a quick sniff.  All is good.

Booty shorts and bowtie—that’s the uniform that she’s ordered me to wear.  I pick up a platter of her favorite treats—an assortment of gluten free delectables—take another breath, and trudge out the door into her throne room, a cheerily false smile plastered to my face.

She beckons me over, her lips curling in a reptilian smile.  “Kent!  Bring that filthy Man Whore ass over here!”

“Yes Ma’am!”  The smile stays affixed to my face as I carefully monitor the pep in my step; too much and she’ll send me into solitary, too little and i’ll be sent to the salt mines.

I hold the platter out to Supreme Ruler Martha Stewart, and she carefully inspects the food on it.  I try to keep my hand from quivering; last time, I didn’t hold the platter steady enough, and she made me belly-crawl across her marble floors until my knees and elbows were dripping blood.

Please let her be satisfied.  Please Dear God in heaven let her be—

She closes her eyes and clucks her tongue.  Then she shakes her head in muted disappointment.

Oh no.

“Kent Kent KENT…I asked for all these mini-cookies to be baked with GREEN M&Ms.  I see here there’s a blue one.”  She grasps the offending cookie with impeccably maintained hands—though she’s well into her second century of life, her mastery of vampiric psionics has gifted her with the appearance of a healthy woman in her mid-forties—and lifts it up so that it’s directly between both our lines of sight.

My smile grows desperate.  I stammer, “I think that’s just a fault in the color additive; all the M&Ms were green when I stuck them in the oven and—”

The index finger of her free hand presses against my lips.  “Shh.”

I shush.

She turns the cookie in front of her eyes, staring at it like its some exotic jewel, then looks at me again.

“Open your mouth Kent.”

I open my mouth, my cheeks quivering from held-back tears.  She slowly pushes the cookie into my mouth, then uses the same hand to lift my lower jaw up, enclosing my lips around the pastry.

“Now chew.”

I chew, trying not to whimper.  I can’t help myself—I start crying.  Through my bitch-tears, I bawl, “I’m sorry Martha!”  I drop to my knees, delicious crumbles falling from my mouth.  “AH GOD I’M SORRY!  PLEASE FORGIVE ME!  PLEASE!!!!”

She stares impassively at me for about a full minute, then her unnaturally smooth mouth breaks out in a smile.  She places a hand on top of my head and pats me.  “There there Man Whore…don’t cry.  It’ll all be okay.”

My breath hitches as I sniff up mucus.  “R-r-really?” I ask.

Shadows deepen on her face and her smile turns malevolent.  She reaches back over her shoulder and draws a giant, two-handed dildo-sword from its sheath—the fabled Dildo Claymore.

“As soon as you’ve paid your penance.  Now bend over.”

I scream, “NO!”  I scrabble up off my knees and make a break for the throne room entrance.

She yells, “GUARDS!” and the rest of her slaves—former world leaders, MMA champions, captains of industry—rush from the edges of the throne room and pile onto me.  They force me to spread-eagle onto my stomach and yank off my booty shorts.

“I’m sorry,” Elon Musk whispers into my ear.  “It’ll all be over soon.”

I keep screaming and thrashing.  “NO NO NO NO!”  In the midst of my flailing, I blindly grab an eReader from someone’s pocket and open it to Echo.  Magic flash.

BRRRT!  BRRRT!  Dozens of twenty-foot high stained glass windows (all depicting Martha from various moments in her cooking shows) burst inward as black-clad commandos abseil into the throne room.  Guards begin scrambling and yelling, either trying to grab cover and fire back or speaking into their comm-links to call for backup.  Martha charges the assaulters, felling handfuls with her Dildo Claymore.  One of the commandos ducks under it, then staggers Martha with a muzzle-jab from her submachine gun, and clinches with her using a Muay Thai plum.  The commando throws a vicious series of knees into the Food Network icon’s midsection. 

Martha stumbles back, clutching her stomach, gasping, “Who ARE you people?”

The one who struck her rips off her balaclava, revealing herself to be none other than Jessica Rabbit—my childhood crush.

“The Man Whore Liberation Front.  Staffed by soccer moms from all walks of life.  Kent Wayne is mine, bitch.”

Jessica disarms Martha with some Krav Maga-looking maneuver and knocks her unconscious with her own dildo-blade.  She hoists me over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, cups a hand to the side of her mouth, and yells, “WE’VE GOT WHAT WE CAME FOR!  LET’S GET THE HELL OUT OF DODGE!”

Eight soccer-mom-commandos establish up a rough perimeter, blasting away at Martha’s thralls and protecting the rest of us as we egress out the shattered windows onto a series of hover-bikes.  I take my seat behind Jessica and she guns the throttle.  Through a bleary mess of tears, I thank my savior.

“Think nothing of it,” she says with a grin.  “You’re MY Man Whore now.”

And the rest of my days were spent in the throes of ecstasy, far far away from salt mines or bow-ties.  Man Whore perpetuum!

 

Its only a matter of time before she takes over the world.  If you find yourself slaving away within her salt mines, then remember:  Echo can save you!  Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here:  Vol. 1 on Kindle.  Vol. 2 on Kindle here:  Vol.2 on Kindle  Vol. 3 on Kindle here:  Vol. 3 on Kindle  #kindle #kindleunlimited