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The Trials of Tami (Airport edition)

With a very presumptuous motion Girardo took Dr. Lambert by the arm and led him aside. He motioned for Rod, who quickly explained the situation. The Doctor looked at the suffering naked girl in amazement and approached her. The distinguished Dr. Francoise Lambert, tall and elegant and exquisitely dressed in his three-piece suit, looked down at the naked five-foot-five quivering young woman, who strained to meet his gaze with wet, twitching eyes. “My dear, I’m very sorry . . . I’ve been told about the, uh, device inside you. Under the circumstances we can . . . postpone the rest of the interview.” Just then Homer busted onto the scene, wheeling in with an urgency that was very unusual for him. “We’ve looked everywhere. Nobody has any remote!” It was then, in the middle of an increasing circle of onlookers, that Tami Smithers shook and collapsed onto the carpet, her butt and the tail sticking up in the air, and began to sob. In the midst of this elegant restaurant and bar, and the fully dressed, if outlandish, finery of the smart fashion set, the naked girl with the tailed dildo deep in her rectum was on the floor, on all fours, her jerking butt high in the air. Absurdly, she tried to stand up and apologize to the distinguished men. Her tummy quaking, her navel twitching, she staggered up with a great, slow effort on unsteady bare feet as another crest washed over her, shaking her to the core. “D - doc - torrr . . . P - p - professsssorrr . . . I’m s-s-so sorrrry you . . . have to -- ohhh!” -- she bent forward as if punched in the stomach -- “Seee me like thissssss . . . ohhhh . . .” Dr. Lambert got up to speed much more quickly than Girardo had. “We have to take her to an emergency room,” he said. He didn’t look it but he was seventy years old, and gay, from an era when being gay was strange and abnormal and one tended to do other abnormal things too. He remembered the ill-advised experiments with tin cans, ketchup bottles, light bulbs. Embarrassing as it was, going to the emergency room was the only solution. “What can they do for her there?” Rod said. “That thing inside her is too big now to take out!” “They’ll have to break it inside her.” “How?! It will cut her up inside!” “Make a plaster of Paris mold around it, then crush it.” Homer said, “How can they work inside her with her jerking around like that?” They felt like explorers climbing through the vault of Tami’s rectum, looking for a way out. Meanwhile, in the outside world, Tami had crumpled to the floor again. The horrified and helpless circle of people looked on as she flopped around like a fish on a boat deck. “Anesthesia, of course,” Lambert said. “Would that work?” Rod said. Would knocking Tami out stop these intense reactions? This was different than when Spica and the other TL’s were at the house that day, toying with Tami like a marionette on a string. The efforts of their fingers on the touch pad ebbed and flowed with Tami’s crests and troughs. Here, it appeared that the moving bumps massaging and mauling Tami’s innards were continuous. Which was scary. Maybe there was no devious hidden person with a second remote. Maybe the thing was malfunctioning, stuck on “Drive Tami Crazy!” until whatever batteries worked it ran out. Hours? Days?! “Oh - oh - oh - ” Tami had flipped tummy up now, eyes squeezed shut, her hands and feet supporting her crab-like, jerking her open, palpating pussy up with each spasm, right into Lambert’s and Girardo’s faces. Her toes spread and squeezed in time. As they watched this gruesome scene, a strange fascination took hold. Especially on the part of the men, witnessing this spectacular display of the female multiple orgasm. What was it like, to have an earth-shattering climax -- and then, a few seconds later, have another, just as intense? And then another? And another? -- “Somebody do something!!” Terry said. She and Rod looked at each other. The only ones there who had read Tami’s freshman year diary, the only ones who knew the horrors the naked freshman had endured at the Chalfont Institute. Quickly Rod realized something. He pulled out his remote and saw Sarah Wickland’s card that he had taped to it. He whipped out his cell phone. Tami lay on her side, trying to catch her breath. “Oh Rod . . . please helppp . . .” He dialed the number of Ms. Wickland’s office in California, turning away from the scene so as to hear better, so that he faced the glass and the starry nighttime view of the runways. Homer wheeled around to his side. His heart sank as he heard a recording. “This is the law office of Sarah Wickland.” In fact it wasn’t Sarah’s voice, but the voice of her assistant Nina West. “We are moving this week and will reopen at our new location on Monday, March 30. If you need assistance call the Encino County Lawyers Service at 555-2367.” “Shit!!” Rod said. He said to Homer, who he thought should be in the loop, “a damn recording!” “Ohhh -- ” Tami was in tears, her face beet red, sweating, looking over at him. “Please Rod! Help me!” “I’m calling Mrs. Wickland!!” he shouted back. With urgent fingers he tapped out the new number. So urgent that he misdialed. Cursing himself, he started over. As he waited, and waited, watching his naked wife in her dire distress, he tapped his foot. Finally a ring. Then another. Then another. “Good morning,” a sprightly female recorded voice said. “Welcome to the Encino County Lawyers Service automated directory. Please say the name of the attorney you wish to contact. Say the first name first, then the last name. You can interrupt these instructions at any time. Don’t worry, I won’t mind.” “Ohhh . . . God . . .” Terry held Tami’s hand. Now Trent hugged her as she tried to catch her breath again. Nobody was counting but Tami was recovering from orgasm number fifteen. Rod hated these voice activated menus. With as even a voice as he could manage, he said, “Sarah Wickland.” A long pause. “Did you say . . . Farley Pickler?” the sprightly voice said. “Say yes if I have that correct.” “No!” “Please try again. Say the first name first -- “ “Sarah . . . Wickland!” “Eeee!” Tami wailed as she was pulled up to the peak yet again. Terry and Trent looked at Rod desperately. A pause. “Did you say . . . Perry Winkler? Say yes if -- “ “Sarah Wickland!!” A pause, punctuated by the sound of Tami’s sob. “Did you say . . . Scary Pinkler?” “Get me an operator please!” Rod closed his eyes and felt about to cry himself, with frustration. A pause. “Did you say . . . Gotmolly Pease?” Sprightly voice. “Get me an operator please!” A pause. “Did you say . . . Gremlin O’Reese?” Sprightly voice. “Get me a f**king operator please!!” A pause. “Did you say . . .” -- Trent was trying to give the rapidly dehydrating Tami a glass of water -- “Gotfranklin Reese?” Sprightly. “Get me a f**king operator please!!” Rod felt like hurling the cell phone through the glass enclosure. A pause. A long, long pause. Rod wanted to curse but dared not say anything more. “Let me transfer you to an operator.” “Thank God!!” Rod said out loud. When he got a live person, an old-sounding female, he blurted out that he needed Sarah Wickland in a hurry. Then was told Sarah’s cell phone was not public knowledge. He was in a private hell before he thought to say the magic words -- “Tami Smithers needs her right away!” Evidently the operator had a note allowing the cell to be given out if Tami called. Rod tapped out the cell phone number and, afraid of what he might see, turned to look. Tami’s body was upright and stretched out into an X, legs apart on the carpet, Terry stretching out her left hand, Trent her right. Her body was all red now and sweating, overheating, dehydrating. Jorge, the bartender, now began aiming water at her from the selzter spritzer hose behind the bar. Jorge must have been risking his job, knowing the water would ruin the elegant carpet. The arcs hit Tami all over, her face, her shaking breasts. Rod thought of Tami in happier times, sweating after her grounds crew labors, being doused by Jose. And there was that dream about that damn majorette, marching in the freezing cold, then dancing in the jets of fire hoses. . . After some hesitating, Jorge conceded the part of Tami that needed cooling down the most, and he began to concentrate the streams on her quaking, pulsating pussy. In an effort to tamp down her reactions, Barbara knelt in front, getting soaked herself, and pulled the outer lips open and apart as wide as she could, so that the ice-cold water could enter her womanly cavity. People crowded around to watch. Tami’s eyes blinked and blinked with her gasps. “Sarah! Tami wore the tail to a party we’re at and it’s gone haywire! It won’t stop! And it’s not me! I had taken the batteries out of the remote!” “That’s impossible,” the concerned voice said on the phone. “There’s -- ” A moment of silence. Then Rod realized the connection was lost. Do I call her or wait till she calls me? “EEEE!!” Tami’s eyes popped open.

47. Fortunately his cell rang right away and Sarah was back. “There’s only one remote,” Sarah said. “I made sure Stirchak destroyed the prototype. And right now there are no pony girls within a thousand miles of you. We keep track of them, you know.” “Who’s Stirchak?” “Ted Stirchak. He’s the guy who invented the new tail. A neurologist. He did the research about the crushing testicles -- ” “Where is he? Could you call him? This is an emergency! I don’t know how much more Tami can take!” A short pause. “Yes I can call him. I’ll be right back to you.” Tami had collapsed onto all fours, her head down. Evidently in a blessed gap between orgasms. Jorge had stopped spritzing. The place was quiet, everyone waiting to see what would happen. Tami’s voice was heard, half crying. “Oh Rod . . . Rod . . . help . . . EEEEE!” Her head jerked up and her eyes bugged out. Not again! Rod watched as Tami went through the strangest agony a woman can know. She bucked back and forth like a bull trying to throw off a rider. And now, to his horror, he felt his dick getting hard! He was not alone. Almost every straight male was having the same reaction. The cell rang and he was glad to focus on something else. This time it was a man’s voice, with a strange accent. Gretchen, a native of upstate New York, could have told him it was a Buffalo area accent. “Mr. Sykes! Is that you?” “Yes!” “I understand there’s no time for chit-chat so let’s go. There’s an override code. Put the batteries back in the remote . . . OK? Now, press the buttons in this order, purple, purple, white, green, white, green, white. After that you’re in override and you can press the black ‘off’ button.” “What am I overriding? Is there another remote?” “There has to be. The tail won’t go on and on just by itself. It’s got no internal battery and has to be activated from outside, and besides, there’s an automatic shutoff if the signal doesn’t vary for more than five minutes. I don’t know how it happened but somebody must have made another remote.” Rod fumbled with the batteries and dropped them and then picked them up and finally managed to shove them into in the damn remote. “So what’s that sequence again?” He pressed the buttons as ordered and then, hovering close over Tami, pressed the “off” button and aimed the remote at her as if he was shooting her with it. Nothing. Tami kept quaking. He tried it again. Tami kept quaking, waiting for the next onslaught. “Well then somebody must be overriding the override,” Stirchak said. “I just don’t know what’s going on. I’m sorry about this. Maybe an emergency room?” Now, an unearthly wail from Tami, as she looked up through the glass enclosure at the black night, and the full moon. Everyone held their breath as she launched into another orgasm, one she dearly did not want, as if in the last stages of an extended, tortured execution devised by . . . some deviant genius . . . O - ho! O - ho!” It sounded like the wailing of a widow, falling on her husband’s casket. With Tami on all fours like that, bucking back and forth with her tail, it might have seemed almost comical, a dog-bitch howling at the moon. That is, unless you loved her and cared about her. Homer said, “Let’s get her the hell out of here and out of range. Meanwhile we’ll look again for whoever is doing this to her.” Rod thought: Of course! Why didn’t anyone think of this! “Gretchen, can you work a stick?” “Of course, I’m a farm girl!” she said. “You drive her to our house. Meanwhile Homer and I will tear this damn place apart.” Terry and Karu and Trent and Gretchen carried the sobbing, sweating naked girl away, holding up her entire weight, her bare feet making only occasional contact with the carpet. She seemed trying to bring her legs together but was unable. “We’ll follow behind,” Terry said as they left. “Let’s get cracking,” Homer said. Again he divvied up the responsibility for searching each area of the terminal, among Rod, Trent, whoever else could help. It turned out everyone volunteered, without exception, including Girardo and Dr. Lambert. “This time look into corners, into closets . . . When I find that creep I’ll either run over him with this thing or strangle him.” It was ten minutes later when Rod got a call on his cell from Gretchen. “It’s stopped,” Gretchen said. He could hear in the background the loud clatter of that old VW’s air-cooled engine. He pictured Gretchen looking over at Tami, lying on her side in the back seat. “She’s crying a bit but I think she’s about to doze off.” “Oh thank God,” Rod said. At the moment he was sweating, shirt unbuttoned, sitting cross-legged in his destroyed suit on the floor of the restaurant kitchen. “Ask her if she can pull that thing out.” “OK I’ll -- oh wait -- she already pulled it out. It’s on the floor . . . Tami? No, she’s asleep now.” Well... it will be a good long time before Tami wants to have anything to do with that tail. “Gretchen, thanks. Can you stay over tonight?” “Sure. She needs taking care of now.” “Amen to that.” Rod sighed, the emergency suddenly over. He looked around him. He had searched under every cabinet, every table. Found out things about this restaurant that he rather would not have known. Like how dingy the sink was. But nothing that looked like a remote. He wearily dragged himself up and went out to the bar, which Jorge had practically dismantled. Homer was there in his wheelchair. People were coming back from their searches, exhausted. Tables were overturned, papers scattered. The place looked like a bomb had hit it. In the corner, two security guards were conferring, each looking quite perplexed. “She’s OK, out of range now,” Rod said. Homer was frustrated and flustered, not a usual condition for him. “I’ll be danged,” he said. “So it wasn’t a malfunction, there is another remote. But damn well hidden.” The night framed Homer and Rod, up next to the glass walls overlooking the airport. They looked at each other. Then their heads slowly turned up to the FAA control tower, unapproachable federal property, its silent tinted windows, black in the night, watching over everything.

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