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Necessity Breeds Creativity

They only knew her as Tangelina Grimes – Tangie for short – and no one knew where she came from.  She drifted in and out of the studio, working odd jobs for the janitors when there was extra mess to cart away.  The directors, actors, and crew came to smile at her bright orange hair as she bobbed and weaved among them without a word, just a brilliant smile with a gap between her front teeth.  She had only given her name once, to the head janitor Jose, but it had spread like wildfire.

So they were surprised when she shared much more of herself.  One of the producers, Sam, stepped away from the gang-bang shoot for a few moments to make a call in the kitchen.  He opened the door to find bright-haired Tangie sitting on the counter, her legs spread under her skirt and a condom-wrapped banana halfway in her pussy.

Her eyes popped open as she heard the door, and though she tensed, her smile was as wide as ever.  "Hullo,“ she said.  Sam froze, his iPhone squawking halfway to his ear.

"Call you back,” he said, and pocketed it.  "Tangie.  I – didn’t realize you were in the business?“

Her face scrunched up adorably.  "Oh, psh, I’m not,” she laughed.  "I’m not pretty enough for the boys to stay hard.  See?“  She pinched the tiny love handles, made prominent by her scrunched position on the counter, and giggled.  "Nobody wants to watch this.”

Sam’s eyes drifted down to her pussy, sleek beneath the close-cut hairs.  "Oh, I think they will.“

Tangie wriggled off the counter, slipping the banana out with a pop.  Behind her, lined up along the counter, was a colorful array: the orange of a carrot, the white of a lotion bottle, the red of a toy firetruck.  She laid her banana next to these, and Sam’s eyes widened.

"All of those?” he asked in a husky voice.

Tangie tucked her hair behind her ears, her cheeks warming even as she giggled again.  "I get horny, okay?  And like I said – the boys don’t like me.“

"I think,” Sam said, clearing his throat because there was suddenly an awkward lump there, “you’d be surprised.”

“Let me show you,” she said eagerly, lifting her skirt again so pink peeked out.  She took the lotion bottle and dipped her hand down to gather moisture, then ran it over the top of the bottle.  Pulling a nose-wrinkling face, she squatted and gently pushed the bottle up inside.  Sam crossed his legs.

“Will you try one session?  Just one.  And if you don’t like,” he added quickly, because a bit of fear danced behind Tangie’s eyes, “you can go back to being a janitor.”

She thumbed the bottle thoughtfully, managing to think and relax against the stroking at the same time.

“Sure,” she said, “just one.”  And with a little gasp and shiver and titter, she squeezed so hard the bottle popped free.

“Oh good,” Sam said.  He couldn’t stop staring.

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An Unusual Weapon

She is almost six feet tall, her breasts bound in plated strips of pulsing charged armor.  Most of the rest of her body is nude, except where similar electrified panels hold in the un-aerodynamic parts of her body.  She moves like the night, dark and sudden, shadowed and malicious.

It doesn’t strike me that anything is unusual about her until she draws her blade.

My hand drops to my holster, but her weapon whips out and strikes my hand.  My hackles rise, my ears flatten, and by instinct a howl fills my throat, a cry of pain equal to the sting of her blade.  Instead of a mortal wound, a harsh red welt rises on my wholly intact furred fingers.

I stare in disbelief at the warrior woman’s weapon, which quivers upright in the air.  It shimmers insubstantially, as if undecided on what form it will take.  One of those forms is distinctly phallic, and now the weapon hardens into this shape as she smacks it into her other palm with a toothy smile.

“We both know how this fight ends,” hisses her translator.  Her grey lips do not move, but her eyes narrow and widen expressively.  "You, on your knees, ass in the air.“

She is so frank that I give her the benefit of the doubt.  My jaws work around the words of the common language, but it is like gnawing tough game.  "And if I shoot you first?”

“You won’t,” her translator says, and follows this up with an eerie facsimile of a chuckle.

Something whips under my feet and I am on my face in the loam, spitting leaves.  She gently rests her booted feet against my hips, and the cool tip of her weapon slides into the small of my back and against the waistline of my uniform.  She leans down, so close that I can feel the pulse of her armor on the back of my neck.

“Now,” she says, and it is not the translator speaking for her anymore, “let’s see how you like this.”

The tip of the weapon moistens and slides down my skin as I shudder with anticipation.  If only every spat between bounty hunters ended like this.