As Martha Stewart plays with my chest hair, I pillow my head with both hands, smiling smugly up at the ceiling.
“Best Man Whore I’ve ever had,” she marvels. “How do you do it?”
A mild shrug. “Locating the clit is just the tip of the iceberg—I’ve got girth, upcurve, an uncanny awareness of when to stimulate the butthole…” I favor Martha with a rakish grin. “A Man Whore never reveals his trade secrets. You wouldn’t give away a prize-winning recipe, would you?”
She gets out of bed, shaking her head in wry amusement. “All I can say is I’m getting my money’s worth. Same time next week?”
I’m about to answer when a car drives by, blasting DMX’s classic “X Gon Give It To Ya.”
Love this track! I bob my head and sing along…then fall silent and examine Martha. She’s standing stock still, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.
“Martha?” I scoot up onto my hands and butt. “Everything okay?”
She whispers, “Back in prison, when I was serving time for insider trading…I used to sing that song all the time.” She doubles over, clutching her chest and squinching her eyes. “HHKKK! Run, Kent—I can’t control her! She’s about to take over!”
“Martha?” I run to her side, holding out my hands in case she falls. “MARTHA???”
She straightens up and looks me in the eye, causing me to take a couple steps backward. Her expression widens into a sadistic grin.
“Prison Martha’s back, bitch.”
That’s all I get out before she slaps me silly with her engorged labia. I careen into the wall—my head snaps back as it mashes my nose. My legs give out, I fall to the ground, and for a heart-stopping second, the world goes blurry.
I dab my lip, staring disbelievingly at my bloody fingers. “Martha—”
I take two more labia slaps—wh’pap PAP!—briefly lose consciousness, then come to a moment later.
“What are you doing?” I murmur weakly.
She grips my hair, positioning her hips in front of my eye. “Bout to get me some dome.” And follows up with an evil chuckle.
Holy. SHIT. Martha Stewart is gonna stab me in the eye with her prison-strengthened clit. I gotta do something now, unless I want to spend the next few weeks wearing big-ass sunglasses, or trying to explain away my bloodshot gaze.
So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
In a rush of wind and quick-flash color, Superman appears behind Prison Martha. He puts his hands on his hips and gives her a Stern Look.
“Hands off the He-whore.”
Martha lets go with a dark chuckle. “Fine. But Prison Martha gets what Prison Martha wants.” She charges Superman with a blood-curdling howl, grabbing his hands and forcing him into a hellish game of Mercy.
Sweat springs out across Superman’s brow. “Run, Kent! She’s too damn…STRONG…” His right knee drops to the deck.
I flee the bedroom as fast as I can. Good God, if Superman can’t beat her, then—
I hear him shout, “No, not in the EYE!” before he lets loose with a long, wordless scream.
I can’t help it—I break into sobs. Yes, I escaped Martha’s wrath, but at what cost?
AT. WHAT. COST????
*Theme from Requiem from a Dream*
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