Nancy, Redrawn, Pt. 4: The Case of the Stolen Similes, a short story by Rico.Viejo. Date added: 2012-05-05. Times viewed: 1412.

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Intro: Steve gets better acquainted with Nickel: Anal, BI, Bond, Het, Toys, UST

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After a busy, bouncy night of ball-banging, the happily exhausted Penny said: "You're my jolting jack-hammer and I'm your craving concrete, your anxious asphalt. You're my pummeling pile-driver and I'm your eager earth, your melting mud, your sucking sand!"  

"You're those for me, too," said Nickel, who'd joined them at the breakfast table.  

"Keep on being a daydream believer, Nick," said Steve.

 

Nickel had arrived home in the middle of the night and had tried to get into bed with Penny and Steve. Steve had temporarily un-cocked Penny to cold-cock Nickel and shove him under the bed. Steve then worried the rest of the night whether the pounding he was giving Penny was to annoy or impress Nick, Penny's husband. It had impressed Penny, who went on to plot more late-night nip-ins by Nick. "Be good to me about this, Nickel," she said, "and there'll be a night when you'll come home to find our boy roped and irresistible."

 

There was the noise of the ever-rattling front-door door-knob. Penny went off to see who it was. Steve, by now, and Nickel, by before, were inured to her practice of  going to the door naked, throwing it open wide, and saying: "Is there anything—at all—I can do for you?"  

While she was giving the errant UPS or Fedex man a treat, Nickel thought he could get a dig in: "You're an electrician. Can't you fix fucking—fucking fix—fix the fucking—fuck it!—the door-bell?"  

"Penny wants it that way."  

(So did all the delivery men and service people who could never seem to find the right house.)

 

Penny opened the door to Hugh and the twins. "We've got great news," said Hugh, as he pulled Penny off her feet and into his arms to kiss her and squeeze her ass.  

Meanwhile, the Spandexed twins had jogged into the house, crying: "Where's Steve? Where's Steve?"  

Coming out of the eighth kiss, Penny said: "Well, tell me!" and waved at the smiling mailman who'd come all the way to the porch before looking in his bulging pouch to discover he had no mail for them that day.  

"The twins want to make the announcement," said Hugh, as he carried her, folded over his shoulder, arm around the backs of her knees—to display her perfect posterior to the best advantage—into the kitchen, where he set her down on her feet on the kitchen table, then reached out and swept Nickel off his feet and into his embrace.  

Penny said: "Steve! Hand me something for these cobwebs."  

Steve reached a dishcloth to her. Penny snapped it open, grabbed a corner in each hand, draped it across her ankles, then slid it millimeter-by-millimetre up her body, wriggling and oohing and aahing as it caressed each naughty bit, until it formed a veil she could ogle everybody over. She then set about cleaning the brass ceiling fixture.

 

What a show! But nobody watched. Hugh was busy frenching Nickel. Steve was helping the twins out of their running shoes as the twins, undie-less, we're giving him  lady-to-the-shoe-salesman, do-you-think-my-panties-are-nice looks. Reaching up, and giving everyone—but no one—the up-shot to dream of, Penny said: "The news?"  

Hugh pushed Nickel's tongue out of his mouth with his tongue—or vice versa—and blurted: "The twins."

 

Penny snapped Hugh's shoulder with the towel and said: "What twins?"  

Nickel piped up and said: "Guess they were so excited they had to go fuck Steve." And resumed tongue-lashing Hugh. Penny tapped her pretty little foot five times. She was impatient, now. It would take Steve at least an hour to sooth the twins—but he'd got right to it—what a boy!—judging from the happy sounds coming from the bedroom. She snapped Hugh's shoulder again.  

"Make us another cup of coffee," was his reply.  

"You could at least fuck me, first," said Penny, getting down without anybody's help, which was precarious because of her six-inch-spike-heeled, fuzzy pink slippers with little bunny ears.  

Hugh put Nickel down onto his six-inch-spike-heeled, fuzzy pink slippers with little bunny ears and gave him a meaningful look. Nickel shrugged and clicked around to move the breakfast things off the table and wipe it down with the dusty dish towel.  

"Tits down," said Hugh. Penny pressed her shrinking nipples into the cold, cold, porcelain top.

 

Penny, Nickel, and Hugh were finishing their first cups of coffee, when the twins and Steve returned to the kitchen, holding hands. "The twins look worn out," thought Penny, "and Steve's a daisy. Amazing! Wonder if he's anything left for me?" But she remembered—the big news!

 

"So what's the news?" said Penny.  

A breathless teen gushed: "Big's sold the series. We've got funding. We can start right away!"  

"What do you mean 'start'? We've got four episodes in the can already," questioned Penny.  

"There's an issue with that," said the panting twin. "The Belgian Chocolate one has been out for a while and it's only got one review."  

"And that from a redhead," said the gusher. "And you know they're all tricksters."  

"If you're available, Penny, we can start tomorrow," said Hugh.  

"I'll tell my secretary to cancel my dinner with the POTUS and my appearances at the Congressional hearings. It'll be good to work on my back again!"

 

Metaphorically: Lights, camera, action!

 

"Siobhan is angry at you for missing a payment on her roadster," said Big. "So she's going to peg you as punishment."  

"Wait a minute!" said Steve.  

"I distinctly heard you say you'd do anything for her," Big lied, "didn't you?"  

"What does she say?"  

"She approves." (She should have, it was her idea.)

 

Siobhan stopped in mid-peg and said: "I can't enjoy this, I have to pee so bad. Give me a minute, Sam, I'll be back to reaming your ass out in a jiffy."  

Steve immediately noticed the lack of professionalism when the pegging resumed. Recalling Sampson, he snapped his bonds, tore off his blindfold, and turned to find Nickel cowering behind him. Steve tore the strap-on off Nickel and shoved it into his mouth.  

"You shouldn't have done that to Ned, Sam," said Siobhan. "You're just encouraging him!"  

"Yummy!" said Ned. 

 

"It's the law—Federal Law," explained Siobhan to Sam.  

"You're joking. How could nobody know about it? That they could, without warning, incarcerate hundreds of thousands of petulant non-valley girls?"  

"It's right there, face-plain, in three-point type. Footnote 234 to footnote 125 on the 856th page of the ninth amendment—authorizing cigarette smoking by kindergarteners—to the Patriot Act."  

"It says—got it here—somebody help me with the book—somebody strong—cute won't do: 'From now on and, like, henceforth, it's, like, illegal to, like, use the word "like" in any way, like, whatever, under the severest penalties of inequitable or, like, abusive taxation or, like, whatever, except in certain restricted locations in the Smog-Ridden Southern Left Coast.'"  

"They used the forbidden word!"  

"They can: they're above the law. As I am," said Siobhan.

 

"I'm surprised it got past the peerless scrutiny of all our elected representatives, men and women, who studied that law and voted it into existence," said Sam to Siobhan. "Surely it has no bearing on protecting our nation from international terrorists."  

"Ah, but it does," said Siobhan. "Among those girls were illegal aliens, many in burkas—whose speech was unintelligible except amongst themselves—or in the valley. And you're forgetting our elected domestic terrorists. They only peerlessly scrutinized the Act to be sure their ear-marks (oink!) got in there. The threats are unabiding—a source of permanent fear and patriotism and budget-busting!"

 

"Not with you looking out for us, Siobhan," said Sam, filled with pride for his lovely, clever, assiduous, maybe-daughter, and sliding his hand under her skirt and up her long, slim thigh to express his feelings.

 

"I mean," said Siobhan, wriggling with delight, "This movement by those little arch-conservative, tea-partying and other-partying chickies to have everything be black and white! We'll have to love or hate everything and everybody! We won't be able to just—whoops! you know—somebody or something."  

"Does that mean you love your Papa, Siobhan?" said Sam, his fingers past her thong and well into her warm-and-wet.  

"Yaaahhh!" she replied.  

(We leave the reader to interpret what she meant by that.)

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