The Games at Kingpin Island Ch. 02

The first thing Pete noticed when he and Tyler entered the Card Room was a fat woman's naked, hirsute vagina as she closed her legs and smoothed her skirt over them, taken by surprise; they hadn't knocked. The nearly naked male model kneeling at her feet planked to a kind of attention.

A robotic camera mounted on a wheeled appliance that reminded Pete of a Mars rover whirred off, lens independently focused on the fat woman's midsection. Pete looked around; three more of these gizmos buzzed around the room, filming various people. One turned at him just as he scanned to it.

"Ezmerelda," said the fat girl, giving Pete the hand not parked on the crown of the handsome man squatting in attendance to her. "Welcome aboard. We've got a couple seats for you." She gestured at a couch near the busy, sizeable game table centering the room. Tyler, not much for pleasantries, giggle-snatched a computer tablet from the cluttered table and scrambled to a LZ-Boy further in, leaving Pete to stand, baffled.

"We're just, um, 'wrapping up,'" Ezmerelda panted, giving the model a wink. She buttoned her blouse.

Apparently she'd recently exerted herself.

The handsome man at her feet licked his lips indifferently. But Ezmerelda didn't introduce him. Instead she gestured to another man Pete had hardly seen, sitting at a gaming chair adjacent to the table, with yet another supermodel in kneeling obeisance, this one female. "This is Andy Stone."

Andy lifted his weight off the couch, using his girl's head as ballast. She wobbled at his feet, silently struggling to take his weight. Pete felt wetness and warmth on Andy's palm.

Tyler, meanwhile, started flipping through the e-tablet.

"Let's see who's on deck," he mumbled. "Amber," finger flick, "Becky," finger flick, "Colette," finger sweep... "Oh, wow. Natalie. I definitely got off on Natalie."

He picked up a phone. The phone had no buttons, Pete noticed.

"Hello, yes? Let me get a Löwenbräu, twenty-ounce, and, let's see, tuna salad, extra mayo. Really drown it. If Natalie's available, that would be great."

He paused.

"How about the mid-rise Liz Riddle siren. Pink. Yes, the jeans. Full-length. Zipper at the ankles." Pause. "Says here she's a two. How about squeezing a one on her? I like 'em tight." Again. "With the gold chain belt. And the pointed toe pump."

He hung up and handed the tablet to Pete, who sized it up. A menu with four options: "Talent," "Clothes and Accessories," "Food and Spirits," and "Toys." Each option came with a photo. "Toys" showed some instrument Pete didn't recognize that looked like a turkey baster. "Talent" was a blonde babe in a pink bikini, cocked to one hip. Like the nameless girl at Andy's feet she shyly stared down, shamefaced. She was easily young and good-looking enough to be a college cheerleader or a lingerie model.

"We were just wrapping up a game of hearts," said Andy, gesturing at the cards and kingpins on the table. Games, games, games. "Gretchen, be a doll and get my money and the cards, would you?" He gave the pretty girl at his feet a condescending pat and snapped her flowery ornamental headband. She nodded, elegantly rose and did as she was told without once lifting her eyes from her feet or speaking a single word.

Pete, meanwhile, idly tapped the "Talent" icon. Up came a photo of a slim black-haired cupcake on a commercial athletic field. Her abbreviated blue soccer jersey was tied between her ample mammaries, baring her tapered, tan midriff. Below that a skintight white boyshort with a knot at its high middle barely hid her sex. "Amber," read a knockout to her right. "Age: 18, Dress Size: 2" (not that she was wearing anything remotely like a dress), "Bust: 34D, Ethnicity: Caucasian, Restrictions: Standard." Low on the screen, in smaller type: "Current Status: Fully Available."

Interesting.

Finally, bottommost right, was an unobtrusive button: "Learn More About Amber."

He swept his finger across the screen and the tablet cycled through easily two dozen more photos of young girls with statistical knockouts. All between eighteen and twenty, dress sizes zero to four, no outliers. And to say these chicks were fuckable was an understatement. Every last one was so pulchritudinous, so hard-bodied, that she could easily cocktease the last dime out of Pete's pocket. Or, more likely, never give him the time of day.

He kept scrolling. Veronica, Wendy, Yara, Yasmine. Then three men he didn't much care about—but they were of a type correlating with the women: young, muscular, tall (for some reason, the height of the guys, but not the girls, was listed in their knockouts). Then the catalog wound back around to Amber again.

"Four hands?"

Pete looked up, and now immediately recognized the girl at Andy's feet as Gretchen, the gorgeous ginger in the catalog after Fanny. Stuck on her t-shirt outboard of her right breast was a sticker: "Hello my name is GRETCHEN," the name handwritten in a careful, capital script. She was clumsily shuffling the cards, studying them.

"Huh?"

"We wanna get another game going. If we deal you in, we can pair up. If not, we'll have to play something else. Card games for three suck."

"Your, um," Pete gestured at Gretchen, skippingly shuffling like a third-grader, and the man at the fat woman's feet, "your, uh—people—aren't going to play?" He wasn't sure what to call them.

Pete and Tyler chuckled in tandem. "Nuh-uh. You'll get the hang of it. Talent doesn't play games. Talent don't trade kingpins. Talent deals."

"Oh. Okay." Pete didn't think it was a dumb question, but apparently it was. "Sure. Count me in."

Maybe talent dealt, but, ironically, talent didn't do it too well, least not if Gretchen was any indication. A couple cards fell face up and after she finished everyone had one too many.

"Gotta excuse her," said Andy. "This dumb twat gets by on her looks."

Pete thought he saw Gretchen roll her downcast eyes but other than that, she had no response to this rather shocking insult.

"You gonna order something?" the fat girl asked. "I wanna get another look at that menu, and you oughta call it in before we start the game."

Pete remembered he had the e-tablet.

"Oh, right."

As everyone (well, everyone except Natalie and the male stripper) studied the hands they'd nearly been dealt, Pete flipped through the "Food and Spirits" submenu. He went for the phone.

"Greetings, Mr. Wigman," came a soothing female voice before he'd even said anything. "What can I do for you?"

"Um, hi. Let me get a whiskey sour, double. And some saltines."

"We'll just send a bottle. Would you like a particular server? Feel free to browse your tablet's talent database."

"Oh, right." Pete fingerpoked his way back to the gallery of young women and scrolled through it once more, alighting finally on a buxom brunette leaning against a corrugated door in a pair of denim shorts and an off-one-shoulder blouse.

"How 'bout Mandy?"

"Ah, excellent choice. Let me see... Yes, she's fully available. I'll send her right over. Any wardrobe requests?"

"Wardrobe re—?"

"Anything in particular you'd like Miss Mandy to wear."

Pete hadn't put any thought into it. "Surprise me."

There was a timid knock at the door just as Pete hung up.

"Get that sweet ass in here," groaned Tyler.

The knob gently turned and in came Natalie, a frosted young blonde carrying a tray with a sandwich and tall glass of beer. She put a wiggle in her slender hips as she made her way to Tyler's EZ-Boy. Pete took a long look at her; her waist, though thoroughly trim, bubbled up cutely over the lid of her painfully snug pink jeans. Her white haltertop bared her smooth, sun-enriched midriff, bellybutton centering the plane of her flat abdomen. Her bra-less breasts bobbled under the loose top with her step.

As she passed Pete, he caught a strong but pleasant peach of perfume. With her walk her naked spine snaked left to right and back above her gold-chain-belted waistband. The plumps of her callow bottom swayed as she walked, carefully and deliberately, putting one polkadot pump in front of the other in a line. She had a bottle opener in her left pocket, the fabric so tight Pete could see the twists in the corkscrew.

"Damn, man, you are hypnotized," Andy jested with a chuckle. Pete realized his mouth was hanging open. "You don't get a chicken dinner as juicy as Natalie every day, that's for sure. I can smell that sweet meat from here."

"Mmm, all I smell is tuna," said Tyler. Pete went on gaping at Natalie's marble-smooth backside, Elizabeth's Riddle stitched on top of her empty right back pocket as she bent at the waist, knees together, to offer Tyler the tray. He took the sandwich and beer without acknowledgment. Tapped the neck of the bottle. Natalie took the opener from her left back pocket. With it she popped the top off the bottle in Tyler's fist.

"All right," said Andy. "Let's focus. Who's got the two of clubs? Ain't me."

Pete snapped out of his reverie and picked up the hand Natalie'd sloppily dealt him. He saw he had the two of clubs and slapped it down.

Tyler took a bite out of his sandwich. He bent forward and snapped his finger. "Come here." As he fanned his cards Natalie reluctantly took a step up until her lower torso was mere inches from his face. He leaned out until his nose was a hair's breadth from her crotch. He sniffed her petite but clearly defined cameltoe through her undersize pink jeans. Inhaled deeply.

Without looking away from his girl, Tyler laid down the five of clubs. Andy followed suit with a seven, Chippandales girl with a ten. Pete had no idea how anyone could concentrate on the game at all, with this weirdness going on. But he laid down a jack and took the trick.

A groan went through the room when Tyler palmed his chin and drooled the half-chewed bite of tuna sandwich onto his hand. He sniffed the mealy, slimy food, followed by one more deep inhale of Natalie's willowy, pink-denimed chink, comparing.

"Where do they get this shit pussy reeks like tunafish? This beaver's got the bloom of appleblossoms."

"That's disgusting, dude," Andy grimaced. "Have some manners. Why can't you just stick your dick in 'em like a normal fucking person? Why do you always come up with all this twisted shit?"

"Cause it takes me forever to get lumber. And once I do, I heat up so much on all these tasty fillies I can't poke my wood up their slicks for more than a few seconds." He started ranting. "I lose it right off and spew goo all over."

"Bah. I think you just like to try and cause wipeouts."

Tyler shrugged and put the bite back in his mouth. "Here," he said to Natalie, handing her the rest of the sandwich. "Eat my leftovers."

Natalie looked confused but raised the sandwich to her mouth and tentatively took a tiny bite. She chewed for a long time, accepting.

"Take your time choking that down, chickie. After I fatten you up, I got a plan for you."

A sudden hunch came to Pete. He tapped the e-tablet, which was still on Mandy's profile, to scroll over to Natalie's. He tapped the "Learn More About Natalie" button. More pictures of her (all stunning), full name, date of birth. Favorite books (none listed), favorite movies (Beverly Hills Chihuahua?). Politics (ugh, Republican), turn-ons . . . and sure enough, topping the list of turn-offs: tunafish and mayonnaise.

"Huh," he murmured. "Piece of work." He handed the tablet to Ezmerelda. "Here. Check this out."

She loosed a mean chuckle when she saw. "Tyler, you truly are a fucking asshole."

It took Natalie ten grimacing minutes to dry-heave her way through the goopy double-turn-off special Tyler'd served her. All that time she very slowly walked around in place on high heels, at Tyler's behest, as though she'd been skewered on a vertical spit. When it wasn't Tyler's turn at hearts, he took in every inch of her revolving body. Mere millimeters separating his face and hands from her, he traced the contours of her breasts, the taper of her naked waist, the luscious swell of her tight bottom and firm thighs under her too-snug jeans. Parts of her he wasn't passing his hand over he insistently sniffed like a curious dog, nostrils likewise right up at her. Man, talk about getting in someone's personal space. This Tyler guy was turning out to be a major creeper. All the while, though, Natalie stood impassively, sullenly chewing, white goo gathering on the corner of her mouth. She looked down at the unwanted sandwich in sad silence. She let Tyler relentlessly ogle her. Perv all over her.

"I finally got a stiffy," he mumbled, face fixed on Natalie's navel, groping his own crotch.

"Jesus," said Andy. "I should think. You've been doing this . . . This whatever it is you're doing for forever. I'm starting to get a tent in my trou just watching and I only got finished off last like a half-hour ago."

"What are you doing?" asked Ezmerelda.

"I can't even touch these girls, mostly," Tyler explained. "I lose it in my pants. It's that bad. So this is how I make myself hard."

"Well, why don't you take a picture?" Ezmerelda handed him a camcorder from the game table. "It'll last longer."

"That's a good idea," Tyler exulted. He started filming Natalie's body foot to crown and back to front, holding the lens so close it would doubtless capture nothing but black smudges. Over and over Pete was noticing that there were cameras everywhere.

"Jack of diamonds," said Andy, slapping down a card and gathering up the trick. "That's it, win for me."

"Fuck," said Ezmerelda, throwing up her hands. "You're too good at this, you're gonna wipe me out. All right, have your girl add it. She's such an airhead maybe she'll screw up and give me some free points."

Gretchen obediently stood, gathered up the cards, a paper and pencil and went to work.