what you were missing out on when they blew your asses out of cyberspace
to make the world safe for free market capitalism.”
“Ballsy,
putting up his own woman as our victory dance prize. But whatever, as long as
we get our Call of Booty after our Call of Duty. The outfits and gear are in
there.”
The
guy in the hoodie and tactical game gear gestured to a half-open bedroom door
down the hall. Just then Murphy came in with a beer keg and several cases of
beer on a dolly and the guy in the hoodie jumped to help him.
“C’mon,
Lara. Let’s not keep the guys waiting.” Meg grabbed Whitney by the arm and,
with a devious smile, led her toward the bedroom.
Whitney
closed the bedroom door behind them. It was dark in the frat house bedroom
except for an open laptop with a Girls, Guns and Tattoos screen saver
flashing various intensities of light as the images changed. On the roughly
made double bed was a scattered pile of what looked like tactical assault gear.
Meg walked to the bed and reached down into the pile.
“And
just what kind of trouble are you getting us into now, Lucy? I don’t think
Ricky and Fred are going to be too happy.” Whitney stood cross-armed by the
door.
“This
might get us both in the show, Ethel.” Meg picked up a control panel with what
looked like two hi-tech video game controls mounted on it, each with a headset.
In chargers on the front of the whole assembly were two sleek black vibrators
with clitoral stimulators.
“Oh
no, Meg… you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking! No way we’re going
through with this. Payback is one thing, but this? Can’t you just get some guy
all worked up and make the dickhead jealous, like usual?”
She
was used to Meg’s recklessness and red-headed passion and pride. It was what
had drawn her to the girl during their freshman orientation. Whitney often
wondered why Meg kept a shy, Southern Cali surfer girl and computer geek
around, even if Meg had told her on many occasions that Whitney saw through her
fiery exterior into her true, soft heart. Meg only ever got this furious, and
this obsessed, when she was really hurt.
From
the gleaming look in her eyes and the way she hurriedly began to undress, Meg
was utterly devastated. Whitney knew better than to argue, stripping down to
bra and panties like her friend and picking up the outfit full of straps and
buckles, looking at it in confusion. Meg helped her put it on, cinching the
straps with a satisfied nod and then putting on her own. Whitney helped tighten
her in, admiring her friend’s long, bare legs and cleavage. The gear didn’t
hide the way her breasts threatened to spill over the top of her Victoria’s
Secret bra.
Didn’t
hide Whitney’s, either, for that matter, she noticed, adjusting her own bra
straps and then picking up one of the vibrators. She hefted it, cocking her
head at Meg, who held the control panel.
“Are
you sure about this, Lucy?” Whitney teased. It wouldn’t be the first time
they’d played around together. It wouldn’t even be the first time they’d played
around in front of an audience. The boys loved it when they kissed each other
in front of them and, Whitney admitted, she liked teasing the animals. Meg did
too, in spite of her allegiances to the occasional masculine life form. Like
“Killer Miller,” who, she suspected, was about to get blown away by his girl.
So to speak.
“We’re
going to give them— and him —the show of their lives.” Meg
nodded satisfactorily, using the controls to make the vibrator in Whitney’s
hand tremble to life.
“If
you say so.” Whitney heard the whoop and holler from the boys in the basement
and knew their team had won. That meant they’d be expecting the show Meg was
intent on giving them. But where were the girls that were supposed to be
wearing these ridiculous outfits, Whitney wondered, tugging on one of the camo
straps to cinch it tighter around her svelte middle.
“For
me?” Meg lifted her gaze to
to make the world safe for free market capitalism.”
“Ballsy,
putting up his own woman as our victory dance prize. But whatever, as long as
we get our Call of Booty after our Call of Duty. The outfits and gear are in
there.”
The
guy in the hoodie and tactical game gear gestured to a half-open bedroom door
down the hall. Just then Murphy came in with a beer keg and several cases of
beer on a dolly and the guy in the hoodie jumped to help him.
“C’mon,
Lara. Let’s not keep the guys waiting.” Meg grabbed Whitney by the arm and,
with a devious smile, led her toward the bedroom.
Whitney
closed the bedroom door behind them. It was dark in the frat house bedroom
except for an open laptop with a Girls, Guns and Tattoos screen saver
flashing various intensities of light as the images changed. On the roughly
made double bed was a scattered pile of what looked like tactical assault gear.
Meg walked to the bed and reached down into the pile.
“And
just what kind of trouble are you getting us into now, Lucy? I don’t think
Ricky and Fred are going to be too happy.” Whitney stood cross-armed by the
door.
“This
might get us both in the show, Ethel.” Meg picked up a control panel with what
looked like two hi-tech video game controls mounted on it, each with a headset.
In chargers on the front of the whole assembly were two sleek black vibrators
with clitoral stimulators.
“Oh
no, Meg… you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking! No way we’re going
through with this. Payback is one thing, but this? Can’t you just get some guy
all worked up and make the dickhead jealous, like usual?”
She
was used to Meg’s recklessness and red-headed passion and pride. It was what
had drawn her to the girl during their freshman orientation. Whitney often
wondered why Meg kept a shy, Southern Cali surfer girl and computer geek
around, even if Meg had told her on many occasions that Whitney saw through her
fiery exterior into her true, soft heart. Meg only ever got this furious, and
this obsessed, when she was really hurt.
From
the gleaming look in her eyes and the way she hurriedly began to undress, Meg
was utterly devastated. Whitney knew better than to argue, stripping down to
bra and panties like her friend and picking up the outfit full of straps and
buckles, looking at it in confusion. Meg helped her put it on, cinching the
straps with a satisfied nod and then putting on her own. Whitney helped tighten
her in, admiring her friend’s long, bare legs and cleavage. The gear didn’t
hide the way her breasts threatened to spill over the top of her Victoria’s
Secret bra.
Didn’t
hide Whitney’s, either, for that matter, she noticed, adjusting her own bra
straps and then picking up one of the vibrators. She hefted it, cocking her
head at Meg, who held the control panel.
“Are
you sure about this, Lucy?” Whitney teased. It wouldn’t be the first time
they’d played around together. It wouldn’t even be the first time they’d played
around in front of an audience. The boys loved it when they kissed each other
in front of them and, Whitney admitted, she liked teasing the animals. Meg did
too, in spite of her allegiances to the occasional masculine life form. Like
“Killer Miller,” who, she suspected, was about to get blown away by his girl.
So to speak.
“We’re
going to give them— and him —the show of their lives.” Meg
nodded satisfactorily, using the controls to make the vibrator in Whitney’s
hand tremble to life.
“If
you say so.” Whitney heard the whoop and holler from the boys in the basement
and knew their team had won. That meant they’d be expecting the show Meg was
intent on giving them. But where were the girls that were supposed to be
wearing these ridiculous outfits, Whitney wondered, tugging on one of the camo
straps to cinch it tighter around her svelte middle.
“For
me?” Meg lifted her gaze to
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