The Crow’s Nest – part 4

“Double-crosses are my favourite type of setup,” Lucinda leered down at the messy pair. “But this must be my first double double-cross.”

“How easy it was to set these schmucks upon each other,” remarked Rachel. “Most amusing to watch. Good thing you could operate that cannon remotely, Lucinda; trust Helvetica to fluff an open goal. Utterly useless.”

Grey-skinned Helvetica said nothing, not daring to look at her boss.

“Their efforts on each other are only the start,” smirked Lucinda. “Now the fun really begins.” Her mouth dropped to a glower, bottom teeth bared. “STAND UP!! HANDS ON HEADS!!!” she bellowed, edging on a scream.

Helvetica obliged with fearful promptitude. A residual flake of pastry slid from her tit and settled on her big toe. She fixated on this fallen fragment as she pressed her hands into the mass of goo in her hair.

Amanda too clambered to her feet, but the fight hadn’t left her yet. Feigning contrition, she began to raise her arms, then bolted like a greyhound from the traps.

“OOOIIIIII!!” yelled Lucinda, leaping in the periphery of Amanda’s vision. The Crow clawed the tail of her blazer, but Amanda jerked out of the ruined garment. Down to her sodden shirt and tights, she sprinted on through the cervix.

Time distended as she pelted down the vaginal tunnel. Each dogged stride took an age, feet jarring to Earth, muscles contracting like pistons. The bumps and ridges on the crimson walls moved by slow enough to study. Behind her Lucinda snarled with fury, and ahead, the studio lights glowed soft pink through the labial curtains. Life itself beckoned at the end of this birthing canal – her first gasp of freedom. She prayed the crew members she’d sweetened would stand aside to aid her escape. She’d scale seating if she had to – never mind the gawps and protests of the audience as this messy, skirtless girl clambered over them. Then it would it be into her car, her bare foot on the accelerator. She’d get that flight to Hong Kong, back to her family. Even Lucinda wouldn’t be so obsessed as to fol—

AAARRRGHH!!” Two steps short of the tunnel’s labia, and Amanda’s panties and tights were sucked up into her own. Fingernails sliced her buttocks, snatching a handful of fabric. Her feet were plucked from the ground, transferring her entire weight and momentum to a thin strip across her vulva. Gasping in the wedgie, she was spun round, and her buldging eyes came inches from her captor’s.

The presenter seemed to have morphed into her very namesake. Her nose jabbed like a viscous beak, eyes shruken to lightless marbles deep in her skull. The obsenities she screeched were primaeval and demonic, bereft of linguistic content. The leather jacket had become black wings, and they flapped in a frenzy. One claw continued to lift Amanda by her crotch; the other plunged as though for her heart. Seam by seam, button pinging upon button, the Crow ripped Amanda’s shirt to shreds. A black bra went zinging up the tunnel, snapped elastic stinging Amanda’s back.

Amanda’s torso was largely clean, if damp and splotched. Ripe jugs glistened in the pink lighting, dark areolae round as five-pound crowns, each centred with a large, upstanding teat. A snapping sound and Amanda screamed from sharp pain at her left breast, enough to distract her from the wedgie, and surely beyond even a Crow’s talons. She looked down to see the areola crimped under the metal jaw of a mousetrap. She screamed again.

The Crow cawed – a spiteful, mocking caw that evoked the bleakest days of winter. Another mousetrap clicked by Amanda’s right boob. She struggled in terror, but the Crow held her fast, its wings beating down her arms.

“No no!” Amanda begged. “Please… AAAHHHH-OH-HOH-HOH!!!” The metal jaw sprang, this time pinning her nipple alone to the wood. Tears of pain formed in the Asian’s eyes as the Crow carried her, a trophy, back to its lair. The cervical doors slammed and locked.

Rachel had a hose trained on Helvetica, lest the girl should try mischief of her own, but Vet hadn’t moved a muscle. Amanda was shoved next to her, mousetraps jiggling.

“Disobey again and I’ll snap one on your fucking clit!” hissed Lucinda, returning to the English language. “NOW PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!!”

“You won’t get away with this!!” wailed Amanda, verging on a sob. “I’ll have you done for this. Just cos I’m a con don’t I think I won’t go to the Filth!”

Rachel regarded her with surprise. “But my dear Miss Tang, you agreed to all this.” She opened her briefcase and retrieved the bulky contract Amanda had signed in the pub. “I mean, you did read this, didn’t you?”

“It’s a release for tonight’s show,” chuckled Lucinda, returned to human form. “Rejoice, Amanda – you’re going to be a star! Quod petis, accipies.”

A capite ad calcem,” Rachel added with faux solemnity. “Oh, and Helvetica, you’re signed up to the same. You really should pay attention to the paperwork I give you.”

Amanda cursed her rashness. Her cheeks puffed, the sting of the traps periodically dwindling then returning with avengence, but pain took a backseat to fear. It was the sheer mutability of Lucinda’s moods that unnerved her most – one minute a savage beast screeching through primivative throat, the next exchanging Latin quips in scholarly tone. Despite the heavy mauling to which Crow had subjected Amanda’s messy form, the woman had not a speck anywhere beyond her fingertips. Amanda didn’t give credence to folklore, but she couldn’t shake off the spine-chilling sense that the presenter was not off this world – a shapeshifting ghoul who couched carnal ferocity behind classical music and green tea. At the least, the melding of brains and barbarity gave Lucinda an aura of invincibility. The leather jacket was destined for cleanliness, the crown of black spikes hers for keeping. It stood achingly, self-kickingly obvious that Amanda’s plot had been doomed to fail. She rued that sunny morning she’d driven to Surrey, rued ever posting her CV to Lucinda, rued her very ambitions.

“But why?” she blurted. “Why?! Rachel, I came to warn you of Lucinda’s plot. I offered you the perfect opportunity to take the Crow’s Nest off the air. And instead you side with her and stitch me up!” She turned on Lucinda, mousetraps wobbling from her heavy breaths. “And Lucinda, Rachel has nothing but contempt for you; she wants to boot you off the airwaves. Why are you working together? You hate each other!”

“Oh no no no,” purred Rachel. “Don’t confuse rivalry, however bitter, for hatred. Lucinda and I are old Oxfordians – Edmondsians, moreover. We’re part of a sisterhood. And like sisters we scuffle, we scratch and shout, we strive to win. But we never lose sight of our common provenance. We always act with honour.”

“And we’ll always close ranks against traitors,” said Lucinda icily. “But enough of the philosophy class. Let’s get these losers hosed down.”

Rachel nodded severely and turned the valve on the nozzle. Water, not mess, surged out, but it proved little blessing, being bitingly cold. Helvetica screamed and doubled up, while Amanda twisted away.


The pair obeyed, continuing to squeal and grimace. Lumps of goo dripped and slithered from hair and bodies as Rachel steered the hose with an adept hand. Sometimes she concentrated on one girl, methodically washing up and down the body, giving the other momentary cause for relief; other times she switshed the hose, alternating quickfire between the two. Amanda cried out as the jet buffeted the mousetraps, tormenting her nipples further. Helvetica’s panties, sopping and heavy, gave up their struggle. They slipped down her thighs, revealing a neat thatch even curlier than her head hair. She didn’t dare to pull them back up, nor did she protest when Rachel chased them all the way down to her ankles.

“TURN AROUND!!” ordered Lucinda.

The two girls duly presented their backs for wash-down.

“She thinks its a sexy arse,” Lucinda remarked of Helvetica’s prone, naked buns. “What say you?”

“I think it’ll be a very sorry one,” said Rachel, giving it a blast.

After an excrutiating age, Rachel shut off the hose. The girls hunched and shivered, bruises rising from their scuffle. Vet’s hair lay a flattened pile askew on her head; Amanda’s ponytails hung limp and her tights were streaked.

Lucinda rubbed her hands together. “Let the punishment begin!” she announced, as if events so far had been some sort of jolly for the girls. “Rachel, I’ll leave you to deal with your little snitch.”

“This is purely business, Helvetica,” said Rachel, as she indicated a set of stocks. “Your P45 awaits on Monday, but I’m afraid that isn’t punishment enough. Disloyalty is something I can’t afford to tolerate.”

Helvetica quietly took in her fate. The stocks were a double-seater (evidently Amanda would be joining later) but for now it was a ride for one. The naked girl padded over to them silently, not only resigned but somewhat relieved. The new Helvetica didn’t suit her; the pressure of audacity and defiance had started to take her toll. There was a wistful familiarity with which she reassumed the old Helvetica, re-affixing that “kick me” sign to her back, letting life buffet her along the course it had carved out.

She placed bare buttocks on a cold, meagre seat. A pair of planks formed two wide-set holes for her ankles; a horizontal pair provided a restraint around her neck. Rachel tied Helvetica’s wrists onto armrests.

“Your breasts are nearly as underwhelming as your productivity,” Rachel tutted. “We’ll have to do something about that.” With characteristic speed and efficiency, she wrapped further twine around Helvetica torso and looped it around those small portions of mammalian flesh. Skin was yanked and squeezed, rendering Helvetica’s breasts a pair of golf-balls up by her armpits, already adopting a blue tinge from the constriction. Not done yet, Rachel waved two glass tubes in front of Vet’s face. Vet was too naïve to realise their function, but learnt soon enough when Rachel placed one over her nipple, squeezing a pump to evacuate the air. Helvetica gasped as the tube pinched against her skin, her nipple swelling against the suction. Rachel repeated with the other breast.

“So you think it would be funny to set me up for a humiliating gunging on TV?” asked Rachel sternly. “To destroy my clothes, hair and reputation – you’d find that amusing, would you?”

“Oohh – no!” cried Helvetica, wincing at the treatment of her nipples. “I wouldn’t find it amusing at all!”

“The position you’re in, Helvetica, it’s not advisable to lie.”

“Ok,” admitted Vet, shame-faced. “Yes, I – oww! – I thought it would be funny. But I don’t now – honest!”

“Oh, that’s a pity,” said Rachel sourly. “Laughter is very beneficial. In fact, I’m going to let you have a good, long laugh.”

She wheeled over a squat device, with two feathery brushes attached to rotary motors. Helvetica had no doubts as to the purpose of this gadget, which was aligned with the brushes against the soles of her small, prone feet.

Rachel flicked a switch. Instantly Helvetica spasmed, her body bucking against the grip of the stocks. “Hih! Hih! Hih! Hih! Hih!…” came her rhythmical giggle, like a steam train on helium. The suction tubes wagged, as if conducting orchestras through a staccato piece. Her open thighs clenched and jerked as much as the ankle-holes would permit; her pussy appeared to be laughing along with her mouth.

“Yes, hilarious, isn’t it?” remarked Rachel dryly, turning a dial towards “max”. The whir of the brushes increased and with it Helvetica’s writhing cranked up a gear. Her giggles graduated to hearty belly-laughs, punctuated by gulps of air. “You can have a good few minutes to laugh over the matter.”

One person not laughing was Amanda, stone-faced with terror as Lucinda cajouled to a dim corner of the dressing room. There stood a statue of a femine figure, fashioned in crude artistry from bent metal rods. It stood at Amanda’s height, its hands on its head in mimicry of her present pose. The front half hung slightly separate from the rear half, a small gap between them. It wasn’t a statue at all, but a cage!

“No no no! NOOO!!” screamed Amanda. “Not in there! Please not in there!!” Her tight-clad feet slipped and scrambled on the slimy floor, fruitlessly trying to dig in. But Lucinda manhandled her inexorably towards her new prison.

“Such ingratitude!” sighed Lucinda, pulling the front half fully open. “I had it made at great expense to your exact measurements. It’s going to be a very a snug fit.”

“No no no…” The metallic scent heightened Amanda’s dread. The dull brown of the unfinished copper added an extra edge of barbarity to the eyeless husk of a figure. Resist as she might, Amanda found herself bundled into its embrace. The halves clanged and clicked, and she was trapped. Lucinda wasn’t fibbing about the custom built; at any point, the cage lay no more than a quarter-inch from Amanda’s fearful flesh. One cream bun too many and she might not have fitted. The copper conformed to the contours of her hips and the peach of her arse. It looped in glassless spectacles around her eyes, and a miniature construction enclosed her nose, adding to the sense of true imprisonment. Gaps at the breasts let the mousetraps protrude, and similarly there were spaces to allow Lucinda access at all the pertinent places.

Right now Lucinda utilised one of these access points at Amanda’s crotch, pulling out the waistband of Amanda’s tights and panties. She took a moment to peruse Amanda’s pussy; a dense tuft of black hair sprouted above her slit, as oriental ladies tended to have. Lucinda nodded in approval, but instead of inserting a hand, she fed in some tubing. Amanda let out a cry as the cold nozzle slid along her lips. Her arms instinctively made to defend herself but were trapped in position above her head. Her eyes widened further as they traced the hose back to its source; a transparent hopper of baked beans, mounted at the ceiling.

“They’re good for your heart, apparently,” chuckled Lucinda, revelling in the way her victim whimpered and trembled. Out of all the points in Rachel’s and her plan, Lucinda had fretted most about expending Amanda’s messy virginity, which she’d preserved with such patience, in the brawl with Helvetica. She’d worried it would blunt the girl’s squeamishness when her own turn came around. But far from it, Amanda’s quivering seemed undiminished, perhaps even enhanced, by this prior encounter.

“Bon appetite.” Lucinda flipped a valve. The beans surged under siphon action, flooding into Amanda’s pants with breathtaking pressure. Within seconds the undergarment brimmed, lumpiness bulging around her mound and buttocks. Packing tighter, the beans worked deeper, into her crack and the folds of her sex. She emitted a tormented moan as the individual legumes rubbed against her clit. The slimy coldness advanced into her pussy, and even threatened to invade her arsehole.

The panties could hold only so much, and the excess had to go somewhere. First a stream of beans erupted from the waistband at Amanda’s crack, then the floodgates opened via her leg-holes. The orange sauce ran in rivers to her feet, staining her tights, but the beans themselves got held up in the rungs of the cage, accumulating in bulges before overspilling to the next level. All the while, Lucinda cackled in Amanda’s face, partly metamorphosed yet again; only the cage protected Amanda from that jabbing jet beak.

The hopper emptied and Amanda stood shuddering in a feet-to-fanny encasement of baked beans. Lucinda withdraw the tubing and hit a switch, setting the cage spinning. Faster and faster Amanda whirled, akin to a pirouetting skater in her hands-on-head position. The beans rippled in her tights under the centrifugal force. Through the repetitive blur of spotlights and luxury furnishings and mess, the smudge of black that was Lucinda unfurled another hose.

With a stomach-turning gurgle, semi-set mashed potato spewed irregularly forth. Cold yellow-white splattered Amanda’s nude, spinning chest, like something from a porno Bodger and Badger. Sloppy yet powdery and thick, the stuff stuck to her flesh, covering her tits, mousetraps and all. Lucinda swept her aim vertically, coating her victim’s torso and the outside of her tights, though seemingly taking care to avoid the face and hair.

Once Amanda was thoroughly covered, the hose stopped. And so did she – a sudden, dead stop that left her head spinning. Amidst the disorientation, a hand pulled away the front of her panties again. Lucinda scooped out the bulk of the beans, leaving space for the latest material – a king-size tub of ice cream. Amanda reacted with horror, but in her dizziness and discomfort could not spit out the words of protest. Only the first frigid kiss against her lips shook her from silence.

“No, no no! Please Lucinda, no oooo-hoo-hoo!” Lucinda, unamenable to requests, shovelled at quickening pace into the panties. The ice cream pressed into Amanda’s loins, cold enough to hurt, but there was something else too: a fuzzy warmth encroaching between her labial folds.

“Wh-what flavour ice cream is this?” she enquired shakily.

“Cayenne pepper,” Lucinda answered in deadpan, as she grabbed the waistband and yanked in a wedgie.

“WWWAAAAAAAA-HAAAAAAA-HAAAAAAARRRR!!” Amanda’s howls filled the sound-proofed chamber, her vulva simultaneously frozen and aflame.

While Amanda’s agonies unfolded, Helvetica continued to thrash and guffaw as the spinning brushes played havoc with the nerve-endings in her soles. Rachel stood by checking her emails, not wishing to dirty her hands (literally or metaphorically), greeting Helvetica’s ordeal with nonchalance. Occasionally she paused to tip some ice from a champagne bucket over Helvetica, causing further wriggles and squeals.

Eventually, she shut down the tickling machine. Helvetica likewise wound down with a closing “heeee….”, decreasing in volume and pitch. Her muscles slackened and she went limp in the stocks, relaxing in relative comfort. She could almost have been slouching in an armchair at her grandmother’s on a Sunday afternoon. But her respite didn’t last for long. Rachel towered over her, bearing a sack.

“Seeing as your fingers itched over the intercom buttons,” said Rachel, “here’s something for the rest of you.” She shook a white powder over her disgraced employee, sparing nothing from the shoulders down. The powder stuck fast to Vet’s wet flesh, coating back and front, dust clouds rising as the sack’s contents fell. Rachel trained the dry snowfall along Helvetica’s legs, dusting the soles of her feet and leaving a hefty pile around her crotch. She even instructed Vet to lift her bottom from the seat (something achieved with difficulty), so that she could place a pile there.

“Er, perhaps I should mention I’m gluten intolerant,” rasped Helvetica as she lowered her behind into the pile.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” said Rachel smoothly. “It ain’t flour.”

She held up the sack for Helvetica’s perusal. The girl’s eyes all but popped from her skull and her jaw dropped to between her tied and suckered tits. Itching powder, the label proclaimed. The knowledge brought a thousand prickles to her skin, perhaps real, maybe psychological, but all intolerable. Her body wriggled as it had done under the tickling. Hands scrabbled against restraints.

“Tang by name, Tang by nature,” Lucinda tittered, unclasping the human cage to let her prey stagger out. Amanda, reeling from the piquant ice cream on her most tender square-inches of flesh, didn’t fight as Lucinda jostled her towards the stocks; the rush of endorphins left her in a daze. Lucinda tore her tights away (it only took the slightest pull to finish the bean-stretched hosiery), and the panties followed. Amanda, now fully au naturel, was secured into the stocks, side by side with Helvetica. Rachel turned the device so that the occupants were confronted by themselves in the full-length mirror.

“Quite a state.” Lucinda echoed their lamentations. “But as much as I love mess, it never takes that long to clean up. A severe trashing might require a few hours showering at most, and even indelible dye or a foul stench will be gone after a week or two.”

Lucinda stood rear of Amanda, Rachel behind Helvetica. With towels they ruffled their victims’ hair dry.

“We want to give you a longer term punishment,” said Rachel. “Something to remember us by – a reason to contemplate your treachery over the months, perhaps years ahead.”

Stomachs turned to stone as eyes caught hairdresser’s tables in the mirror, equipped with scissors and shavers. “Not our hair!” cried Amanda.

Lucinda answered by lopping off one of Amanda’s ponytails. Such a casual snip, such a devastating result. She tossed the dissevered plait into the bin, then chopped and chucked the other. Years of painstaking growth gone. Amanda had no words.

Helvetica too, who had so far accepted her humiliation without resistance or complaint, sat mortified. “But what will my boyfriend say?” she bleated.

“You’re dumped, probably,” Rachel scoffed as she revved up a shaver. “Let’s do this Lucinda!”

Over the next five minutes, the predominating noises were the buzz of the appliances, the sobbing of Amanda and Helvetica, and the singing of old college songs by Rachel and Lucinda. It was a rousing chorus, like shepherds filled with the joys of spring. Amanda and Vet, their heads held fast between the planks, could only watch the destruction of their barnets in the mirror. Helvetica’s unruly curls fell in piles as she was shaved to the scalp, Rachel leaving only a centimetre-wide stripe down the centre. Amanda didn’t have the small mercy of a fashionable punk cut; Lucinda hacked her hair into a monkish ring, surrounding a bald, shining dome.

The singing of shavers mechanical and human came to an end. Lucinda blew away some stray wisps and rubbed polish into Amanda’s newly exposed crown. Rachel applied hairspray to stand Vet’s new mohawk on end. “Maybe we should bury the hatchet for good and set up a salon together,” said Rachel.

“We could call it Crow and Dry!” Lucinda laughed as she opened the doors at the cervix.

“Two minutes to air, Lucinda!” called the director from the studio.

“Bang on time!” said Lucinda breezily. “Let’s get to work on the final stage.”

The snivelling girls had their bonds rejigged so that each’s wrists were poised over her neighbour’s crotch.

“I’m in a kind-hearted mood today,” Lucinda announced. “So here’s a little contest: whoever can make the other come first will not be humiliated out there in front of millions of viewers. On your marks! GET SET! GO!!”

Amanda was straight out the blocks, desperate for any means to lessen her ordeal. All the devastation and anger at losing her locks, she focussed into pummelling Helvetica’s roast beef. After some hesitation, Helvetica reciprocated, more from obedience than an urge to win this perverse contest. Amanda grunted as Vet’s fingers worked the (sp)ice cream into her sex, a burning blend of pain and pleasure. Helvetica too was getting hot and bothered, and not just from the itching powder. But though Amanda was her partner in mutual masturbation, it was Lucinda’s leather-clad thighs that filled her thoughts. It was that cleavage, round and perfect, that set her moaning in time with Amanda’s thrusts. Try as she might to summon her boyfriend into her fantasies, Lucinda dominated all.

Eyes closed as hands doubled down. Lucinda winked to Rachel and gently pushed the set of stocks. They rolled off into the vaginal tunnel, picking up speed on the shallow gradient.

The muted pink light of the labia dawned on the pair. The hubbub of the audience drew near. Lucinda had tricked them into further debasement, but even with time to cease their stroking, they found themselves unable to stop. Fatalism moved their hands; an unspoken agreement committed them to common orgasm, to complete their own humiliation in a burst of bliss.

The crimson curtains swished aside. A docking rail prevented the stocks careening down the steps. The pair had been reborn, naked as the first time, similarly wet, sticky and lacking in hair. The air was cool and the reception cooler. Idle pre-show chitchat tapered to stony silence. Row upon row of faces stared agog, cameras crowded round, and beyond, exclamations were uttered in thousands of living rooms. Helvetica wondered if her boyfriend still found her the prettiest girl on the screen. What on Earth would she tell him about the dress? She and Amanda – the punk and the clown – sat in the stark glare of scandal, unable to hide their faces or close their legs. They kept their fingers busy, wanking away their last shreds of dignity.

Both were close to the edge. Moans turned to pants rose to bellows. Climax hit, and a siren wailed above, perhaps emanating from the neon clitoris itself. The pitch modulated with the waves of orgasm, and as the girls squirted into each other’s hands, two deluges of PVA glue descended, slapping onto bald heads, running down faces, coating tits and the torturous appendages that wagged from them in shudders of mortified ecstasy.

The white glue hid Vet’s and Amanda’s blushing shame. Clouds of black feathers billowed upon them in their post-orgasmic dismay, making crows of a sort – not sleek and sly like the woman who’d orchestrated their downfall, but buffoonish caricatures. The raven plumes fell and stuck by the hundred, and the audience’s stunned silence cracked into laughter.

“Hmm, I reckon that was a draw.” Lucinda peered from the cervix at the rumpus. “Glue and black feathers was an excellent idea of Tang’s. I’m annoyed I didn’t think of it myself.”

“It’s certainly a new low for your programme,” Rachel commented disdainfully.

Lucinda snorted. “Not being at all hypocritical, are we Silverstein? Anyone would think you had nothing to do with events.”

Rachel shrugged. “Officially I don’t. It’s your name on the show.” A triumphant smirk spread across the businesswoman’s face. “You’ve fallen straight into my trap, Crow. OfCom will go nuclear over this; Wetherby will have no choice but to axe you.”

“We’ll see,” Lucinda replied nonchalantly. “Think I’d still be on air up ’til now if I didn’t have friends in regulatory places?” She checked herself in the gunge-splattered mirror. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a show to present.”

“Wait, just a minute.” Rachel retrieved a 1999 Moët from the champagne bucket and two flutes from her briefcase. “We should toast our success before we turn on each other’s throats again.”

The cork pinged off the wall behind Lucinda and froth gushed like a fountain of youth. Lucinda turned up her nose. “You know I don’t touch that poison.”

“I know something quite to the contrary.” Rachel filled a second glass, softly singing, “livin’ la vida loca!

Lucinda scowled at this skeleton from her past, through not without a flicker of fondness. “I have a show to present,” she repeated.

“C’mon,” Rachel held out a glass with one hand. The other ran down Lucinda’s lapel, fingers creeping inside to caress her breast. “Let’s party like it’s nineteen ninety-nine.”

“Alright!” Lucinda snatched the vessel and brought it tentatively to her lips. The alcohol greeted her unaccustomed throat harshly, but she found the champagne’s bitterness pleasing, not unlike green tea. Another cautious sip was followed by a gulp, and the glass was soon empty. She grabbed the bottle and poured another.

“We could’ve made quite a couple, Rachel,” she mused, strutting a little unsteadily around the room. “It could’ve been ecstasy. Too bad you were too proud.” She flopped onto a sofa, rapidly draining her second glassful. “You weren’t prepared to serve me.”

Rachel took a small sip as she watched her old rival. “If serving you meant getting a throatful of pubes every night, I’m most glad it didn’t happen.”

“You’d have loved it,” purred Lucinda, stifling a hiccup.

“Lucinda!” The director’s voice echoed up the vagina. “Lucinda! Are you ready? We’re on air!”

“Can you go to adverts for ten minutes?” Rachel called back. “She’s having a lie down.” Rachel told the truth; Lucinda lay sprawled on her back, her jacket crumpled, one nipple exposed. Her neck dangled off the edge of the sofa, eyes closed, teeth flashing in a tipsy grin. An arm held the flute tilted in the air.

“My glash sheemsh to be empty,” she announced with a giggle. “I need shome more. Sherve me!”

Stealthily, Rachel selected a head-shaver from the table. The trademark black spikes would go first, she decided, then that tangle of pubic hair would be glued in their place. The public may have been scandalised by Amanda and Vet’s obscene entrance, but they’d seen nothing yet.

She placed the shaver on a trolley loaded with pies and cakes, which she wheeled, without so much as a squeak, alongside her intoxicated arch-nemesis. She then pulled an unused hose from the ceiling and discharged a muffled test squirt into the side of the sofa – a lumpy green-brown slime, with a most unpleasant whiff. Perfect.

Lucinda’s eyes remained closed on her inverted face. Her famous mouth – bearer of that sardonic leer, domineering pout and derisive smirk – hung slightly open in a goofy grin. It was with this mouth that Rachel lined up the nozzle of her hose. A pang of affection struck her as she regarded her on-off friend and almost lover, but then she recalled her “trashing”, and knew what had to be done.

“Sherve me!” the mouth repeated, while the hand waved the glass aimlessly. “Sherve the Crow! Now!”

Quod petis, accipies,” replied Rachel, readying her finger on the trigger as she scooped up a banana cream pie in her other hand. “Say when.”

The End



About TG

Hunter of WAM media, author of WAM fiction, founder and administrator of the independent and community-led blog
This entry was posted in feathers, Gunge, Stories, Tickling, Water. Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to The Crow’s Nest – part 4

  1. briff1es says:

    Wow, the most extreme story this site has seen in a while. It was great to see the reputation and the depth of cruelty of Lucinda previously hinted at finally given free reign. I remember many stories on various sites in the past that featured head shaving, itching powder and the like and while I didn’t care for them before, but this time I could actually admire the creativity in the cruelty, and understand it as the actions and personalities of the characters leading up to their use were clearly laid out. I can’t help but shake my head at the same time as admiring the creativity in your torture of these girls (cayenne pepper ice cream, yikes, as well as the final exposed denuded and shamefully orgasmic final exposure of the two assistants). I wonder if when you first wrote The Gooseberry if you had an inking of what Lucinda would become… I would put Lucinda towards the top of my list of the all time villainous females in WAM stories. She would be pushing for the very top spot were it not for one tiny caveat…: her aura was built up as so mystical, so impenetrable and she as so fearsome and untouchable, that when Rachel was able to penetrate it with only some (presumably drugged) alcohol, it seemed a bit of an anticlimax. Lucinda had been portrayed as so cunning and one step ahead that if Rachel had been one further ahead it seemed like you could have made a bigger deal of it. But that’s just my opinion. Otherwise, a suitably pyrotechnic finale, I’m extremely impressed with the whole series!


    • TG says:

      Yep, it’s pretty extreme and no doubt will ruffle a few feathers (ok, I’ll stop with the crow puns now). Inspired by the likes of “The Demise of Kristine” and “Messy Bondage Minxes”, it combines WAM with other fetishes and BDSM. I probably won’t write anything else like this for a while. A terrible ordeal for Amanda and Helvetica, and definitely one that should never leave the confines of fiction (unless a consensual role-play with some very dedicated subs), but I’m glad you appreciate how it highlights the true evil of Lucinda. I didn’t have her character fleshed out to this level when I wrote the Gooseberry, though I think she was pretty nasty even back then!

      Sorry if the ending didn’t work for you. I’ll just say a couple of things. Firstly, the champagne wasn’t drugged – rather, as alluded to at points in the story, Lucinda is a non-drinker and a lightweight on the rare occasions when persuaded to drink alcohol. Rachel knew about this Achilles heel from the capers at the college ball, and casually exploited it.

      Secondly, because the story ends before Rachel strikes, we don’t know for certain whether she will succeed in bringing Lucinda to book. It leaves open the chance, however implausible at this stage, that the Crow will evade the mess and get the last laugh. Perhaps she is play-acting and has a trap set for Rachel. We’ll never know…

      Then again, maybe I just succumbed to temptation to slip in a cheap tease at the ending. Thanks for your honesty, in any case. I’ll certainly take what you said on board for future works.


  2. wolf324 says:

    Before I read the comments above, I’d seen the ending as being you putting into practice Lucinda’s thought process towards Amanda, that the moment of anticipation would (perhaps) always be better than the event itself, rather than a genuine attempt at leaving Lucinda’s fate open-ended. In that regard, I find the ending quite different from the norm in WAM fiction, and quite powerful.

    I do agree that you somewhat mitigated Lucinda falling for Rachel’s trap as, along with establishing her intolerance towards alcohol, you’d created a more complex dynamic between Rachel and Lucinda that could conceivably affect her judgement in a way that has little to do with cleverness, but more to do with human fallibility. That said, the timing of it seems a bit off, as it happens at precisely the time the reader might expect her to be at her most guarded. I could have bought into it more if Rachel had suggested it after the show, although obviously you didn’t have that option, as she has be seen humiliated on it for Rachel’s revenge to be complete.

    While there are certainly ways out for Lucinda, the idea of her setting a trap for Rachel probably needed a bit more development if you really wanted to keep the ending more ambiguous. For that to be the ending raises a lot of questions. As Lucinda notes she would never really put herself at risk of being humiliated, which she almost certainly is at risk of no matter how much she’s faking or has up her sleeve at the end, and for her to really be in total control of the situation at the end would seem to push her beyond cunning into near omniscience. While it doesn’t necessarily undermine the ending, most explanations for the ending seem to leave Lucinda at least somewhat out of character in an attempt to wrap up the story.

    Rachel’s plan does seem to put an awful lot of faith in Lucinda not being able to hold her drink though. While she clearly has some level of insight into this, and Lucinda doesn’t look too good, she’s still conscious, still unrestrained, and still physically quite fearsome. Would she really be totally helpless all the while through getting trashed AND shaved in two places?

    If the ending leaves plenty to the imagination, the torment of Amanda and Helvetica certainly didn’t, although the reader may well wish it did! You really got into the flow of things with some very high quality work, although I admit I did have to skim through a few parts that were a bit too brutal! As Briff1es did, I do appreciate that you let the characters run loose, especially since you’ve pretty much admitted this is Lucinda’s final appearance. It was also interesting to see Rachel’s own sadistic side coming out in response to her being threatened, while she also as noted in story kind of seems to try to keep her hands clean at the same time.

    Anyway, I enjoyed this series throughout. It’s a great piece of dark WAM fiction.


    • TG says:

      Yeah, the ending probably needed more thought and planning to be plausible, but hey ho. I’ll just ask that you be generous and choose the interpretation that works best for you. The link back to Lucinda’s musings on anticipation was something that didn’t occur to me, at least explicitly, but I like it.

      And thanks for sticking through what was a rather extreme story!


  3. yuck53 says:

    Wow, going off these comments this could simultaneously be both you strongest and weakest story of recent memory. Strongest because it’s got readers invested enough to feel compelled to find this must to say about it, weakest because they’ve invested so much they feel confused by the outcome (OK, this is going off two comments which are the only ones thus far posted but may not be representative).

    Although actually those are mutually exclusive terms, it would be more accurate to say it’s a very strong story with potentially large weaknesses (probably not very large).

    As you may expect I haven’t read it, I tend to steer clear of vicious WAM as I find it painful to read; it tends to get me worked up as I get more and more defensive of the girls involved. Impotent to help any, I’ve just stopped reading them.

    That said, and whatever your intentions, at the moment I have to admire you having the courage of your convictions and sticking to the ambiguity of the ending as you’ve done here. It must have been so tempting to give everyone what they must be expected to want to see and annihilate Lucinda. But you didn’t you’ve left it open as you say.

    Even without reading the story (or possible because of it) I can see how if you’d done an ending that was utterly clear cut that Lucinda was about to get what was coming to her and you were willfully depriving the invested readers of that which they’d been waiting for would be teasing to the point of robbery, which I’m sure you know. As I’m also pretty sure you know that the sort of play you’ve made could be construed as being crueler than Lucinda is. That’s a concept I quite like.

    So given this degree of investment maybe you should invite them to write and share how they think the cards are going to fall, see how similar and ‘correct’ their understanding of the story really is.

    These are just my thoughts from reading all the comments and none* of the story.

    *Essentially, it’s hard to miss the openings.


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