Accidentally On-Purpose Pt. 06

"Nope, not good enough. Here's one to grow on," the judge responded, putting all of her weight into a low blow that contacted the faux-bejeweled head of the butt plug with a loud crack.

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She was with Lena in one of her animal pens, looking at one of her new acquisitions, some kind of reptile wearing a dark suit, which had just expressed its anal glands and filled the pen with a horrid, skunk-like stench.

Michelle opened her eyes to see one of the stagehands waving a broken capsule of smelling salts under her nose. She tried to stand up but couldn't, and it dawned on her that she was still tied to the padded bench. Then she remembered where she was.

"It appears that our valedictorian has rejoined us," Félix said into his microphone, "so we can continue with the next part of this evening's event, and I can reveal the winner of the penultimate auction, the for the person who gets to take little Michelle's anal virginity." The crowd murmured in anticipation.

Michelle noticed that she (or rather the bench with her on it) had been turned around to face the audience. She strained her neck to find the table with Joaquín Obregón and Billy. She spotted it, but neither Billy nor James were present, just Obregón watching her, his eyes unblinking, his hands clasped around one knee.

Félix continued: "And the winner is..." — he consulted his phone — "...our most esteemed friend, Sheriff Orville Ledbetter!"

Michelle watched the corpulent Ledbetter shuffle his way up the the stage. He was the man she had earlier mistaken for a judge, looking like a dissolute Colonel Sanders wearing a bolo tie and cowboy boots.

He stopped by Michelle's head and patted it like a dog, before walking behind her to greet Félix and Hendrix. They chatted a moment about his winning, and at one point he stopped to thank his wife, the lady who earlier had beaten the holy hell out of Michelle's butt, and blew her a kiss.

"Now Sheriff," Félix said, "I have been told that you are an unusually well-endowed gentleman. Is there any truth to the rumor?"

"Let's just say," she heard the sheriff reply, "that in my youth I was called the 'Stud Bull of Pottawatomie County' and it wasn't just because of my height." The audience laughed.

"Oh my god," Michelle thought, "if he's half as big as I think he is, I'm in serious trouble." She tried flexing her anal opening, and found that it was very loose; the plug must have been removed while she was unconscious. And yet... she was still sexually aroused. It's clear by this point that being naked, exposed, and helpless, and being treated like a piece of meat or some sort of object, well, it had to be her "thing."

She felt a finger run down the cleavage of her cheeks until it found her sphincter; "Ooooh, yes," the sheriff drawled, "just loose enough to keep from bruising my pecker, but tight enough that it will feel like my wedding night all over again." Laughter. A small man in a tuxedo sitting near the stage called out, "Save some for her owner!" More laughter, and the sheriff replied "No can do!"

"The combination of the physical abuse and the smelling salts must be causing me to hallucinate," Michelle thought. "Because that certainly looks like a spotted tomcat walking down the center aisle toward the stage."

The cat sauntered down the carpeted walkway, leapt onto the stage, and then climbed gracefully onto the padded bench next to Michelle's head. The cat purred and rubbed its head against Michelle's. And that's when she realized it was not a domestic tomcat at all, but rather an ocelot. A Brazilian ocelot, to be precise. A Brazilian ocelot whom she knew personally.

"Winston!" she whispered.

She heard the judge behind her say "What the hell?" He must have grabbed for, or swatted at the cat, because it reared back on its hind legs and jumped directly at him.

Michelle heard the judge begin to bellow in pain, and Hendrix yelling "Get it off! GET IT OFF!" in a panicked voice, while the audience broke out in a cacophony of gasps, shouts, and screams. Some audience members were frozen in place like deer in headlights, others were scrambling for exits, others rushing the stage in a misguided effort to assist.

That's when the smoke grenades went off, and that's when the audience decided unanimously to save their wealthy old hides and make for the exits.

Michelle craned her neck, searching for the source of the pandemonium when she saw the most wonderful, welcome sight she would ever see in her entire life: Cal.

Calvin Wainwright strode down the same walkway that Winston had travelled, moving like he walked through choking crowds of panicked people all the time. He was wearing his catcher outfit, the one with the pocket-covered vest she had seen him in on her first day at HCI, an air filter mask and goggles, and casually resting on one should was a short, heavy shotgun with a variety of doo-dads bolted all over it.

He had made it to the steps leading to the stage when the biker guard, awakened from his dozing backstage, appeared through the side-stage opening in the curtain; Cal shot him square in the chest with the shotgun. The biker fell backward, flinging his drawn pistol in the air.

"Hiya, noob," Cal said to her with a grin, stripping off the mask. "Ready to get out of here?"

"JESUS CHRIST CAL!" Michelle shouted. "You just killed a guy!"

Cal reached for a pair of bolt cutters, slung on his back in a quiver, and started clipping off her restraints. "Look again," he said.

Michelle stood up, steadying herself against the bench, and looked at the biker stretched out on the floor. "No blood?" she asked, confused.

"Beanbag rounds, with an electric shock chaser" Cal said as he cut through the cuffs on her ankles. He glanced at her and winked: "I'm a catcher, not a killer."

I don't care if he's gay, Michelle thought, I want him so bad right now it's not even funny.

"BOZHE MIY!" a familiar voice called out, "Michelle! Over here!"

It was Lena! She ran down the aisle, followed by a young man in a black tracksuit with white racing stripes. Cal removed the last of her bonds, and she staggered down the steps toward Lena, who met her with open arms.

When Michelle released her embrace, she looked her best friend over. For some reason, Lena was wearing a safari outfit, like one from an old Tarzan movie, complete with a wide-brimmed hat (the brim pinned up on one side), a leopard-print scarf tucked neatly into her khaki jacket, and jodhpurs. She also had a long, heavy rifle — a hunting rifle with a telescopic sight! — slung over one shoulder.

The young man in the track suit came up beside Lena and set down a large suitcase-looking thing. Michelle did a double-take.

"Pyotr?" she said, astonished.

"Da!" he replied with his trademark sly grin and ice-blue eyes. "Is good to be seeing you again." Michelle noticed a machine pistol dangling loosely from his other hand.

"Are you alright?" Lena asked Michelle.

"I think so, nothing permanent anyway," she replied. "I just need—"

"Pyotr!" Lena exclaimed, "Give her your jacket."

Pyotr stripped off his track suit top while juggling his pistol, causing Michelle and Lena to duck. Just as he was getting disentangled, Lena looked behind Michelle and shouted "LOOK OUT!"

It was Hendrix, covered in deep, bloody scratches and torn clothing. Cal was nowhere to be seen, and Hendrix was lurching towards them with his ugly knife in his fist, screaming "You little bitch!"

Before Michelle could react, Lena had unslung her rifle, aimed it at Hendrix and fired. But instead of a loud bang it made a softer bloop, and a she saw a red flower blossom on Hendrix's chest. Hendrix stopped, looked down at his chest with a confused expression on his face, then plucked out the enormous tranquilizer dart just before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed in a heap.

Pyotr handed Michelle his track jacket, then walked over and nudged Hendrix with the toe of his garish athletic shoe. "Is dead?" he said, looking at Lena.

Lena shrugged. "It is designed to stop an angry Cape Buffalo in its tracks, so... maybe?"

Pyotr shrugged too. "O-kay," he said, stooping down and going through Hendrix's clothing, taking his wallet, watch, and phone, and stuffing them in the pockets of his track pants.

Michelle zipped up the jacket, then looked at Lena. "A tranquilizer rifle? Seriously?"

Lena pouted. "It was short notice, and it is the only gun I own," she said, sounding slightly defensive.

"I'm kidding," Michelle said, and hugged Lena again. "I love you, boo. Thank you for coming for me."

Lena smiled and hugged her back. "I love you too, booboo."

The theater had mostly cleared out, and was a bit quieter now. Michelle heard the crackle of gunfire outside the tent, but then it, too, stopped. She looked up at Obregón's table, and it was empty.

Lena reached into a pocket and pulled out a small device. Pressing on it rapidly, it made a loud, metallic click-click-click noise, and almost immediately Winston came sauntering out from behind the curtain. Lena cooed his name several times, coaxed him over then picked him up and placed him gently inside the suitcase, which Pyotr hoisted onto his shoulder.

"I am thinking we should now be leaving," Pyotr said.

Lena nodded her head. "Yes, let us go find Uncle Yaro," she said.

"Wait!" Michelle said, taking Lena's arm. "What about Cal? And Billy was here—"

"Cal is to be outside," Pyotr said, then led the way to the main entrance of the (now deserted) tent, stopping briefly until Lena dissuaded him from prying open the cash register drawer.

Stepping out into the cool night air, Michelle witnessed a scene out of a disaster movie: a jam of expensive cars, limousines, and one thing that looked like a tour bus, piled up on the main exit road because it was blocked by an unmarked armored car with a Gatling gun mounted on top; some cars had tried to cut through the surrounding fields and gotten stuck, a few still spinning their wheels. She could see that some of the corrugated steel wall sections around the inner compound had been knocked down, and a couple of the outbuildings were burning. A helicopter further away from the tent was starting up, its engine whining as it started slowly turning the rotor. Small knots of Obregón's security men were kneeling with their hands on top of their heads, while men clad in black armor and masks stood guard over them.

"So are we leaving or what?" Cal's smiling voice came from off to her left.

Michelle turned to see Cal approaching, carrying an unconscious man by his ankles while a truly enormous man — literally built like an industrial freezer — carried the man by his armpits. For some reason, the enormous man was being followed by a chef: white jacket, hat and everything.

The unconscious man was Billy.

And the chef was—

"Karla?" Michelle cried out, and ran towards her.

"Hey sweetheart!" the woman shouted, and jogged to meet Michelle halfway. The two women embraced for the, what, third time that day? Michelle didn't even know, she was rapidly reaching the end of her ability to deal with what was happening.

Lena walked up to the two of them, smiling. "You must be lady who called," she said, She held out her hand, and Karla released Michelle so she could take it; Lena pulled Karla a bit closer and kissed her on both cheeks. Karla actually blushed.

Cal and the human refrigerator arrived, and set Billy down on the ground. Michelle immediately kneeled down next to him and looked him over. He was in bad shape, bruises on his head and face, his hands wrapped in bloody rags, but his shallow breathing was steady. Cal knelt down next to her: "Obregón's men. They wanted something from him, something he wouldn't give. We got here just in time, but we've got to get him to a hospital ASAP."

Michelle nodded. "Do you have a car?" She asked.

Cal grinned. "Of course." He stood up and sprinted toward a hole in the compound wall.

Michelle looked around, mentally and emotionally overloaded. Gotta start sorting things out —

"Karla," she asked, "why are you wearing a chef's outfit?"

"Swiped it from Wardrobe," Karla replied. "I wanted to blend in with the kitchen staff that was bailing, figured I could sneak out with the crowd. But then I ran into your friends here, and took 'em where they needed to go."

"Between you and Lena, I feel like we're leaving a Halloween party that's gone terribly wrong."

"Cal told me to wear clothing that I would not mind getting dirty!" Lena complained.

Michelle looked at the huge man, wearing his own black track suit, and noticed that he had very hairy thumbs.

"Shit," she said. "You were at my inspection, weren't you?"

The huge man looked at her impassively, replying "Da."

Lena stepped over to him. "This is Pavel, my uncle's bodyguard, and I asked him to watch over you when things went wrong at HCI. He is very sorry that he lost you to those thieves, aren't you Pavel?"

The huge impassive face actually took on an expression like a sad puppy. "Da," he said, "very sorry. I look for you nighttime and daytime." He took Michelle's hand in his enormous paw and gave it a surprisingly gentle squeeze.

"Oh, that reminds me," Lena said. Taking from her pocket something that looked like a brick wrapped in brown paper, Lena handed it to Karla and said "Thank you. I can not truly repay you but hopefully this will be a start."

Karla opened a corner of the package and whistled. "All I can say is, 'You are very, very welcome!'"

Michelle raised an eyebrow at Lena; "I found it in an old purse, from when we went antiquing," she said.

A loud Diesel engine noise drew their attention, and Michelle saw a Wells Fargo armored truck drive through the hole in the compound wall and rumble toward them; she noticed that the front bumper was mangled, and the grill dented in places. The truck ground to a halt in front of the group, and Cal hopped out from the driver's side door. "Don't worry," he said, "I'll return it in the morning."

Cal, Pavel and Pyotr carried Billy toward the truck's rear doors, which Lena opened. When she unlatched it, it swung open with unexpected force, knocking her to the ground. A bald white blur leapt out of the back, driving a foot straight into Pavel's face, sending the huge man toppling over; landing, he executed a spin and kicked the machine pistol out of Pyotr's hand, then gave the young Russian a double punch that put him down, doubled over.

James turned to face Cal, who had left his shotgun on the front seat of the truck. Cal struck some sort of fighting pose (Michelle had no idea what else to call it, it was obviously some martial arts thing) and the two squared off. She really couldn't even describe the fight that ensued, it consisted entirely of combinations — attack and counter-attack — that were performed nearly simultaneously by both combatants with what to her was superhuman speed. Then James attacked low, but Cal apparently anticipated it because the whirling tornado of their fight halted like a paused video: James frozen in place with his hands low and one leg extended in a missed sweep, Cal standing behind his right shoulder having avoided the move, and holding a stubby four-barreled pistol in his other hand, which he pointed at the side of James' head.

The two stood motionless, each rapidly analyzing their options, until James slowly raised his hands and placed them on top of his head.

"On your knees," Cal said in a conversational tone. "Cross your ankles. Sit back on your ankles. Lace your fingers."

After James did so, he looked very deliberately at his own shirt pocket, then back at Cal. Cal considered him for a moment, then nodded very slightly. James pulled out a card and handed it to Cal; Cal placed it in one of the hundreds of pockets on his vest. Cal smacked the back of his gloved hand with the butt of the pistol, there was a little noise like a crunch, and he waved it under James' nose. James crumpled on the spot, unconscious.

"Tranq powder," he said as he stood up and began tucking the small pistol into yet another vest pocket. "You okay?" he asked, looking at Michelle.

"Depends, you got a crane in one of those pockets?" Michelle replied. "Because there's no way you and me and Karla are getting all these guys into that truck by ourselves."

For the first time that evening, Cal's Lando Calrissian-like cool flickered with uncertainty; then he spun around, aiming the small pistol at the interior of the armored truck. A figure stepped out of the darkened back half of the truck, raised his hands and said, "Can we talk?"

Michelle giggled, then chuckled, and ultimately laughed so hard that tears rolled down her face. It was Félix Obregón.

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"So he helped us load everyone into the truck, including James and Pavel if you can believe it, but not Karla, and we smuggled him past Lena's uncle's men and dropped him off at a bus station."

"Why not Karla?" Renee asked. "What happened with her?"

Michelle smiled. "Donny showed up! On his motorcycle, along with most of the Diablos. He was the one who actually called HCI and got through to Ms. Steiner, which set the whole thing in motion. No, he was already working on his own plan to bust Karla out when I showed up, so it worked out well for them, as far as anyone knows she disappeared in the chaos."

She took a sip of water and looked across the cafeteria table at the new intern, Renee. She was a very nice, and very smart, young white girl with glasses and really long brown hair in a single braid down the back of her HCI uniform. Sandy had been telling tales to Renee about Michelle's exploits, and she wanted to hear about them straight from the source.

Sandy. When Michelle got back to HCI, late on the night of her liberation, Sandy and Kiara had been waiting for her, beside themselves with worry and guilt. When she climbed out of the Wells Fargo truck they had both rushed her, tearful and apologizing profusely, competing with each other to be the first to hug her and the first to take responsibility for what had happened; she knows now that they were both just distraught, and in reality were blameless. The surprising thing was that Sandy had kissed her full on the lips, and then so had Kiara; Michelle hadn't been sure that Kiara really even liked her very much.

"But surely her name or her SRN or something will come across a system and she'll be reported as a runaway?" Renee said.

"She and Donny both assured me that it wouldn't be a problem, that the Diablos Verdes had resources that would take care of that," Michelle said. She decided not to mention that she had seen Judge Ledbetter, stripped naked and trussed like a Christmas ham, slung across one of the Diablo's bikes. They had stuffed a wadded-up red bandana in her mouth, making her look even more like a pig with an apple in its mouth. Michelle didn't ask, but she assumed that when not sucking off bikers Judge Ledbetter would probably be one of their identity-change "resources." Actually, she wouldn't put it past them to give the judge Karla's identity, tattoo an SRN on her, and sell her on the tertiary market in one of the Midwestern failed states, where oversight was nearly non-existent. And despite her own brush with involuntary slavery, that didn't bother Michelle at all.

"Last I saw of her, she was on the back of Donny's bike, headed out into the night. I hope she's okay, I really owe her. I'm also glad Cal and company didn't have to fight the bikers: they were unhappy about what the Obregóns were up to with regard to Lena's uncle and didn't want to get on his bad side, so they left at the first opportunity."

"What was the story with that, anyway?" Renee said.