The Art of The Squeal

Smokey Saga #63: "The Art Of The Squeal"

*****

My first thought was to call this "Hooked II," but that would make very little sense. The characters and storyline are completely different, and besides, the Smokey Sagas past #50 are all Sapphic. Perhaps they should now be known as Sapphic Sagas. It's going under Lesbian Sex, but you'll want to know that this also involves BDSM, and sort of Non-Consent, though that's debatable. Oh, yes, and this is not a story idea suggested by someone else; we are now back to those directly from the wonderfully twisted mind of yours truly. And you know the drill, friends: feedback's welcomed, valued and appreciated.

*****

Humdrum Doldrums

Saturday, April 23rd, 2016, 9:47 a.m.

Dawn, as it had a fairly regular way of doing, dawned. It was a beautiful thing to behold: springtime Saturday.

Citizens of Juniper pursuing weekday occupations slept in and took it easy. Business picked up at leisure outlets such as stores and restaurants. Children awoke to favorite cartoons and then it was outside to play with their friends. Baseball and softball season were underway. Yard sales dotted every other suburban neighborhood. And Miss Sylvia Quibley was bored out of her ever-loving skull.

47-year-old Sylvia was the last surviving member of the wealthy Quibley dynasty. The payoff—quite literally—was that she'd become heiress of her family's multitrillion-dollar estate. She lived in the Quibley family manor on her own, but by no means was alone in the colossal mansion. She was accompanied and catered to on a daily basis by her staff: dozens of butlers, maids, and additional servants taking turns doing her bidding. Their servant skills were impeccable. This was, after all, what they were paid for. They toiled tirelessly around the clock, tending to both the welfare of their beloved heiress and the household in general. Still, Sylvia couldn't help wishing more and more lately that her servants were paid as well to be her friends. To just hang out with her. Or more.

It wasn't as if she wished to selfishly take advantage of her employees for her own gain. It also wasn't like Sylvia was isolated while the staff did their thing elsewhere. She had plenty of interaction with them, mostly in the form of waiting on her. But to Sylvia's disenchantment, the staff was, well, stiff. Too "professional," were there such a concept. As much as she tried to laugh and joke around with them, the most she got out of the servants was a polite smile and a, "Delightful, Madame."

While Sylvia wouldn't count this as a complaint, it left her feeling disconcerted nevertheless. As if being doted on day by day by a collection of robots, or Stepford Spouses. If, heaven forbid, Sylvia found herself in any form of dire peril, and cried out for help, she'd no doubt her servants would come to her rescue. Whether they'd display any real emotion in doing so was the question. At times, she had to fight off the urge to poke, goose, or tickle them, just to see if she could get a reaction.

It occurred to her more than once to get a pet, but some of the staff were allergic. Also, Sylvia preferred a companion who could talk and share personality. But while she waited to find one, there were also times she was glad for her privacy. The last several years unearthed a plethora of hobbies for Sylvia to enjoy. In due time she'd meandered through reading, hiking, online networking, crocheting, playing polo, writing poetry, origami, and the contents of her sizable game room. Finally, the last year had brought along Sylvia Quibley's newest pastime, of which she'd grown most fond: painting.

Her super-sized study was converted accordingly for each passing fancy. It was now turned into a studio, occupied by easels, palettes and watercolors, her chosen medium. She'd dabbled in oils and acrylics, but at the end of the day found that the good old-fashioned aquarelles served her best. She did nature works, country settings, abstracts, a few uncategorized miscellanies, and the occasional self-portrait. She couldn't keep all her canvases, so some she framed and hung. Others she scrapped, gave to friends or donated elsewhere. She'd yet to have any professionally displayed, but didn't mind; painting was an excursion for her own enjoyment and pleasure, that was all.

Similarly, it would be nice to unveil a finished piece for a servant and be met with more than another, "Delightful, Madame"...but Sylvia couldn't really expect that either. Men and girls Friday who took employ in such an upscale environment respected the chain of command far too much to tamper with it. They didn't fraternize, little as Sylvia would've minded. They simply went about their duties. And Sylvia didn't want them to slough off completely; maybe just take a break for a minute to keep her company, and alleviate her utter boredom. Canvases were nice to work on and admire, but they couldn't converse, tell Sylvia amusing stories, or laugh at her jokes.

Friendship was not the only interaction Sylvia missed in her life. A romantic or sexual playmate would be just as nice to have about—but a big no-no where servants were concerned. Being her own sexual playmate was fine, but got repetitive. There were lots of ways to spice up her private happy time: digging into her stash of toys and pornography, experimenting with different techniques...but cuddling up in bed and whispering sweet nothings to a dildo was rather pointless and silly.

Sylvia knew what a challenge it was to find a soulmate—or a suitable substitute—for normal nontrillion-heirs. In her case, there was also the factor of money. Off-grounds, she could pretend to be middle-class with someone else, but only keep it up so long before wanting to take her home. Wealth could go a good way towards "convincing" a woman to have feelings for her, but Sylvia wished to be desired on her own merits. She was decent, kind-hearted, and she liked to think attractive and funny. In middle age-dom, she was getting wrinkle-worn in the kisser and going silver on top. And honestly, she didn't mind it much. Although there was ashy snow on the roof, there was still a fire in the cellar. And while she could afford enough hair dye and facial cream to last the rest of her life, she didn't feel it necessary. When she looked in the mirror, her wrinkles and silveriness gave her a sense of being almost supernatural. Like a wise withered old sage, who might just be able to cast a magic spell. She couldn't...but it was fun to imagine.

Then sometimes the thought was placed in her mind how to describe her perfect woman. Such a person may not have existed, but Sylvia's taste was pretty eclectic. She hadn't really any specific "type"; she was interested in all sorts of gals: younger, older, blonde, brunette, ginger, race or ethnicity notwithstanding. Physical characteristics weren't more vital than those of one's persona. Then again, even should she meet a girl who was nice on the surface, take her home and discover her true colors, Sylvia believed she could "persuade" said girl to conduct herself with a bit more benevolence, via...other means.

She smirked at the reflection in her compact as she sat this morning in her big comfy recliner, bare, pedicured peds wagging on the footrest. One of her gentleman-servants, a fellow called Chippers, passed by.

"Would you prefer breakfast here in the living room, Miss Quibley?"

"That'd be only lovely, Chip, thank you," she gratefully nodded up at him. "Oh, and could you turn on the TV for me, please? Thanks so much, buddy."

Chippers switched on the set, then adjourned to the kitchen to have the chef prepare Sylvia's Saturday morning fare: two eggs sunny side up on French toast, two pigs in buttermilk blankets under a drizzle of blueberry syrup, and a nice big glass of fresh-squeezed OJ. A short spell later saw Sylvia enjoying both the repast, and her second half-hour of TV.

"Will there be anything else, Madame?" asked Chippers.

Yes, please: a woman. A cute little thing with bangs, dimples and a big heart who laughs at my jokes would be nice.

"No, hon, I'm fine. But...hey, why don't you take a little break. Yeah, actually, sit and check out the tube with me a while. Go ahead."

Chippers made a strange face.

"...Miss Quibley, I really should be off to tend to your chambers," he said, starting away.

"Oh—please?" Sylvia asked, reaching for his elbow. "Chip? Please, just...just, hang out with me a little?...It would mean a lot to me."

"...'Hang...out,' Madame?"

Sylvia grinned. "Yeah!" She smacked the sofa cushion beside her invitingly. "C'mon, grab some plush! Knock a load off!"

Chippers felt awkward and unsure about this, having practically never done anything like it before, but he wandered over and sat.

"There ya go!" praised Sylvia, patting his knee. "Good! So what's your favorite show?"

This made Chippers uncomfy. But Miss Quibley's wishes were the staff's command, even if said wishes went against their code of professionalism. So he supposed since she had specifically requested his company, he was within boundaries to perch on the sofa, and "hang out" with her. This seemed highly unusual. But, if it was what Madame wanted...

The simple question she'd just put forth, however, confounded him.

"I...really haven't any favorite programs, Miss Quibley."

Wacky as Sylvia found this to believe, she sensed he was uneasy about sitting to take a break when he felt performing his duties was the right thing to do. But...gol-ly, she thought. Okay, just...small steps.

"All right, well, let's just do some channel surfing and see what happens."

So Sylvia flipped for a couple minutes, pausing for varied intervals, until a particularly colorful, flashy-looking show caught her eye.

"Whoa, what've we got here?"

The question was rhetorical, but Chippers advised her that she could press Guide to bring up the program's info. Sylvia kept this tip in mind as she noted something else in the meantime. Her eyes fell to the bottom right-hand corner.

"GSN? This...this whatever it is is on the...game show channel?" Sylvia wondered aloud. "This doesn't look like a game show to me."

This time Chippers had nothing conversation-wise to contribute. But something about the flamboyancy on the screen fascinated her. After a couple minutes, she began piecing together what the show was all about. And it intrigued her deeper.

"Oh-ho-ho," Sylvia assessed. "It appears this, uh...'game' show," she finger-quoted, "Is relevant to one of my interests."

It was true. Sylvia could definitely see developing interest in this strange and interesting activity. It looked like something she might even be able to do herself. She was only missing what these "contestants" were using. Not that she necessarily wanted to be on this show. Though it could serve as inspiration for a fun new tangent project. But, where and how would she find...

The show went to commercial. A promo appeared for one of the network's zillions of Family Feud airings. "Name something," Steve Harvey read from his card, "A husband asks for for his birthday that his wife would never get him."

The contestants hit their buzzers. The one to ring in first shouted an answer that almost made Sylvia's orange juice come right out of her nose. The show might've been called Family Feud, but some of its content wasn't extremely family-friendly.

"Oh my God, that's horrible!" Sylvia guffawed. Then she allowed her mind to process. She stopped laughing.

A brilliant light bulb clicked on over her head.

"...Chip?...Remind me to have Jenkins fire up the limo this evening, would you, please?...

"...I suddenly feel like taking a little ride."

*****

Pro Prowl

Saturday, April 23rd, 2016, 8:25 p.m.

The limo made its cautious way into Hemdale and slowed by the corner of Kent Street and Blevins Road. This particular corner and those adjacent were notorious for being rife with ladies of the evening. The sisterlode, as it were. A trove of working SYLFs of all shapes and sizes to choose from. They were approached and picked up on too by all sorts, but had yet to see anything the likes of this.

The myriad of poofed hairdos and makeup-caked faces gravitated to the limo parking before them, like the massive eye candy it was. Three doors opened, including the driver's side. Sylvia's chauffeur Jenkins exited, as well as two large armed bodyguards. Some of the SYLFs expected a red carpet to spill from the car and roll on up. Instead, they were greeted to the sight of a mature silver-haired fox shrouded in a fluffy stole. The chauffeur crossed beside her holding a suitcase.

So began the perusal. One bodyguard tagged Jenkins and Sylvia, and the other stayed beside the limo. Sylvia and her driver gave the girls a quick once-over, one at a time, and moved on. Sylvia had something that could be considered an advantage. Under most circumstances, the SYLFs were disinterested and aloof when someone happened along. But none of them anticipated meeting someone this glamorous. And what was more, it was she who came to them. It seemed a little unusual having their services sought out by a woman—to say nothing of this particular wealthy lass—but maybe something else was going on here. Maybe she wanted one of them for somebody different.

This was quite the smörgåsbord, Sylvia noted. She was liking the merchandise here...well aware they were dolled up like each evening for the occasion, but even so. And she knew she needn't take anyone home to entertain her tonight. She could just do some window shopping, and come back another night should the urge arise again. No one said anything be made to happen, she thought as she and Jenkins stepped off to cross the street. Hypothetically, any one of these SYLFs could give her the night of her life and vice versa, but it couldn't be forced or pressured. After all—

Sylvia stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes fixed on a clearly illuminated figure beneath a streetlight outside a liquor store.

There she was.

Sylvia knew it before they even came over for a closer look. She could clearly make out her lines and curves, her slopes and contours, her deceptively innocent porcelain face. And those wispy but full bangs Sylvia adored so much, swooping elegantly over her forehead. She was perfect, leaning up against that pole, her hair and dress tossed gingerly by the soft breeze. Indisputably perfect. Sylvia had to have her. She and Jenkins moved in side by side, their bodyguard still just a few feet behind.

"Do pardon me, if you please."

Miss Bangs turned, regarding the two of them with arched brows. She wasn't accustomed to such an introduction. Noticing someone approaching out of the corner of her eye, she'd come to expect such colorful greetings as a gruff, mangy-sounding, "YO, BITCH!"

She gazed at Sylvia, who smiled back with a small curtsy.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Again, the young woman was taken aback. Just who was this high society-looking dame, and what was she doing here?

"I expect you're wondering who I am, and what I'm doing here."

Bangs nodded, slow and discreet.

"The...thought did fucking cross my mind..."

Sylvia batted her eyes at the young lady, thinking of ways to get her to smile and see some dimples.

"Let's put it this way: I've something to offer you, in the way of an...opportunity," Sylvia purred.

Keeping only her head turned their way, Li'l Miss Bangs furrowed her brow.

"...Why me?" she asked skeptically, skipping to the second query that entered her mind.

"Well, after scouting the goods," the silvery fox explained, "It seems there is a small faction that finds you exceptionally desirable."

The young SYLF's expression barely changed at all.

"And...just who the fuck would that be?" she wanted to know, nodding towards the tuxedo-clad Jenkins. "Scamper over here?"

Jenkins raised a single eyebrow, muttering to Sylvia out of the side of his mouth. "'Scamper,' Madame?"

"Penguin joke," Sylvia uttered back. She readdressed their prostitute friend. "In fact, my dear, no. It's not my friend here; it's myself."

Madame Bangs of the Liquor Store Streetcorner gawked at her with widened eyes.

"...Come again?"

"Not until my first, thank you very much."

She was hoping to get at least a chuckle out of her, but no dice. Sylvia went on.

"But seriously, my friend, all joking aside...how much may I expect to compensate you, to provide me with your lovely company?"

The girl stood motionless for several moments, as if she thought this strange woman must be out of her mind.

"I...don't think there's enough fucking money in the world for that, lady..." she finally told her. "I'm...not gay."

For another few seconds Sylvia remained silent. Then, she clasped her hands together and nodded.

"...Well, if that's what you believe..."

"Uh, I don't have to believe it, lady," the potty-mouthed Miss Bangs said adamantly, growing a bit irritated. "I know it."

Sylvia smirked at her, coy and flirtatious, batting her eyes again.

"Are you, eh...quite certain about that?"

The SYLF gazed back at her incredulously. She could not have been serious.

"Just about as certain as I can be about anything, my friend," she snapped, biting off the words. "Team dick. End of story."

Her patience was wearing. Sylvia could see it was time to play her high cards. She nodded to her chauffeur, who undid the suitcase latches.

"Would a...possible lifetime of being pampered, spoiled and catered to in a new mansion home, for a start, not to mention..."

Jenkins snapped the lid open.

"...Five hundred thousand dollars...change your mind?"

Bangsy's eyes fell more or less obligatorily upon the suitcase. But once she saw it, both periwinking eyes and both ruby lips opened wide. A couple of her faculties almost gave out right on the spot. Her cigarette dropped from her fingers and bounced on the pavement. Sylvia couldn't help smirking in self-congratulatory satisfaction. Even with the mink and the limo, she knew it would be hard to convince these girls of her manor. But the money she could prove. Very few individuals had ever seen this much cash in one place in their entire lives. And just to hammer home that she was on the level, Sylvia took one of the banded stacks for her to see, and flipped through it. Her young friend had to close her mouth and swallow saliva that suddenly wanted out.

"Ah, isn't that a glorious sound," Sylvia gushed. She took Miss Bangs' paw and placed the stack in her palm. She knew feeling it for real, in her own hand, would take it up another notch. She leaned in to murmur to her.

"Ten grand," she whispered, to the girl's visible and audible astonishment. "Consider it an advance. Do come home with me, then...

"...Would you please?"

*****

Not Just Another Pretty Place

Saturday, April 23rd, 2016, 10:21 p.m.

"I'm so happy you changed your mind! Now then, I'm called Sylvia. Sylvia Quibley. What's your name, my friend?"

"Um, I'm Noelle, Miss...Sylvia lady...Noelle Beckman."

The limo pulled back out of Hemdale and started north, back to Green Plains, now with one additional occupant. Miss Bangs, Noelle, still wasn't sure about this, where they were going, or what this wealthy lady had planned when they got there. She was wary about this whole arrangement, quite frankly, but decided to come along. And not just because of the drool-inducing sight of a suitcase stuffed with cold, hard, scrumptious cash. What Sylvia'd said about a possible new residence and new life resonated with her. While Noelle'd admit to liking sex and money, she didn't honestly enjoy being a hooker. And though she wasn't lying about her heterosexuality, being chosen to partake in a possible opportunity of fortune and glamour made her feel special and nice.