Plot Twist (Text Version)

In which a certain birthday scheme goes wrong

“Plot twist!” is the last thing I hear as I turn, looking for the source of the sound, the street magician in a too tight-fitting tuxedo and sad clown face paint suddenly forgotten.

I spin. In the reflection of the store window, I see three faceless shapes in blue coveralls rush in, just blurs as my freshly cut and colored blonde locks, which by the way, if you want to know, look spectacular in the afternoon sun, whip around. I frown, thinking about how much I’d tipped my hairdresser, Jacki, and how pissed he’s gonna be when he hears about what they did to my hair. These fuckers are dead; they don’t even know it yet.

Before I can even finish screaming “I’m just going to a birthday party for…” I’m grabbed, hooded, lifted and carried a few feet. The screech of tires drowns out the all-too-well-rehearsed prattle of the sad penguin and a heavy sliding sound tells me only one thing — panel van. For fuck’s sake! Can’t I get kidnapped in like a stretch limo with a nice choice of pinot noirs and bottomless Cheez-Its? The air goes out of me when I hit the hard metal floor, and before I can even move, they’re on me, screaming, “Go go go! We got the bitch!”

“It’s bitchacho, douchenozzles!” The words spill from behind the mask as the van roars away. I can feel them grabbing, cutting, pulling my clothes off, pinning me to the hot metal floor of the van. I scream additional words of wisdom and profanity-laced guidance into the leather surrounding my head, but it doesn’t change a thing, other than now I’m fucking naked and someone’s opened the mask enough to shove a cloth that tastes like week-old socks in my mouth. Then I realize it might be my sock. I did a big Peleton workout earlier in the morning and hadn’t changed. If I’d known…

The van rockets down the street, hangs a left, hangs a right, then another right, then another right. What? There was a ‘no U-turn sign’ so they went around the block? Maybe they’ll drop me off back with the sad penguin, I think. His show was about as bad as this kidnapping thing, and hello! Did they leave my umbrella on the sidewalk? It’s shaped like a flamingo, and you can’t find that kind of thing just anywhere!

I do a quick self-assessment:

I’ve just come from my hairdresser, where One-Love Jacki gives me some highlights and retapes my extensions — don’t hate! — and I’m watching this tuxedoed street magician whose makeup and outfit makes him look like a sad penguin and who claims he can turn everyday objects into chocolate bars, and he’s just turned my flamingo umbrella into a rather large candy cane that actually tastes like a peach daiquiri when a gaggle of top-notch a-holes grab me and throw me in a van. Now I’m naked, mouth full of not-that-fresh sock, and the hands holding me are slowly being replaced by restraints. I can feel the snug leather around my wrists and ankles, my thighs and elbows, my throat. And now they’re bringing them all together and lifting me from the floor of the van like they’re hoisting a prized halibut catch for pictures at the end of a rickety old pier somewhere in Maine — seems like something that would happen in Maine, doesn’t it?

I grunt as they attach clamps to my nipples, and I remember the time I had some fun with clothespins when I was fourteen and hanging the laundry. Or was it more like when I was playing with those heavy duty paper clips you use to clamp a hundred pages together? Grad school. CeeCee was a bitch, but I did anything she wanted, including hurt my tits and make her cum. I’m wet. Fingers in my pussy and ass, and I can feel my hips grinding back against them like they just don’t give a fuck that I was on my way to a birthday party. ‘It’s not CeeCee,’ I tell my hips, but just thinking of how she towered over me and made me do all those things makes me question the motive of my kidnappers. I can see her face, her smile, that look in her eyes. I bite down on the sock, trying to stifle my moan as CeeCee slams her strap into my aching cunt and I cum for her like I did.

Suddenly the van screeches to a halt, and I hear someone very distinctly say, “There’s a very sad looking penguin in the road. He’s waving at us. Is it a mime? He’s holding a candy cane.”

I hear the van door creak open, and someone shouts, “Plot twist!”

I scream into my sock as the restraints disappear and I slam onto the van floor and flip over onto my stomach, ripping the clamps off my nipples. I shudder through another orgasm when they come off, and for a moment I lay still, wondering a) what happened to the a-holes, and b), if I put the clamps back on and rip them off again, will I cum again?

The hood comes off, but before I can extract the sock, I feel something furry pressing up against me. I jump and kick and flail around like the halibut would if I was suddenly free of the hook, but all I can find is four little kittens in little navy blue overalls purring ferociously and trying to both rub up against me and hold me down at the same time. Up front, I see a similar cat, this one wearing Ray Bans, sitting in the driver’s seat, glaring at me as preciously as possible.

Hmmmm. I don’t remember there being cats in the van. Cats in coveralls. A cat driving the van. I would remember this. But I don’t really care, and I’m allergic to cats, so rather than pet and cuddle and snuggle them — also I’m still naked, I look around for my clothes. I’d been wearing a pair of chunky black ankle boots and a neon yellow sundress that was probably a little too short and low cut to get me a seat in the front pew at church. There was no sign of either, but there is, um — I look around again — um, um, a glow-in-the-dark rainbow unicorn onesie and a pair of pink heels that would make Barbie wet.

The sad penguin stands before me, his arm outstretched, the candy cane extended while I slip on the onesie, curse a little at how snug it is, and slip into the shoes. The zipper in the front will barely come up because this was clearly meant for an A cup girl, or clearly meant for me to run around flashing my bouncy bits, but the stilettos are like stepping into a warm foot bath followed by a pricey pedi and ending with a panty-drenching toe sucking. I shudder as I slip my toes into place, and my next orgasm slides through my DMs like Zatanna after she’s written about deflowering Ranchy. Again.

I pluck the candy cane from the sad penguin, give the kittens a dismissive look, and make my way across the town square in the direction I was originally headed.

And step into the middle of a cross between a flash mob and a punk rock rendition of Swan Lake. A Ramones tune pours from the heavens while hundreds of mohawked and spiky haired ballerinas in chunky boots, tutus and denim jackets sporting chains perform some sort of synchronized mosh pit. I weave around them, careful to evade their perfectly choreographed frenzy. I tiptoe through the tulips, dodging to avoid them, but I can’t help but note hints of distress turning to anger in their faces. The farther I get into the square, the harder the glares, until I reach the very center and everyone freezes. The music disappears back into the heavens, and I can’t move.

An entire ensemble eyes me, and all I want to do is get across the square to catch the number 17 bus, which I know will take me to the birthday party — I check my watch, which was a gorgeous silver Tag Heuer with a pink face a little while ago and is now a yellow and black Charlie Brown and Snoopy Swatch — fifteen minutes. I’m going to be late, according to Snoopy’s left ear, if I don’t hurry. I hadn’t expected the plot twists; who does?

The spiky-haired army growls in unison, synchronized like their latest performance — four stars! I’m leaving one star off because the moment I start running, they’re after me!

I dodge and weave so much, my tits are spilling out of my onesie, and I’m shoving them back in as I evade. I’m that girl on the flag football commercials, twisted and turning, swooshing left and right as they dive at me, falling all over each other, howling, snapping their jaws like hungry wolves.My onesie is like teflon. Even when I feel a hand grasp me, it slips away. A pair of leather jacketed arms wrap around me, but I slip away, an elusive unicorn, a magical beast fleet of foot flying through the town square, my little velcroed-on horn bobbing up and down with each step, my flamingo-cum-candy cane-cum-flamingo umbrella squawking and flapping and making a ruckus as it tries to escape from my grasp. Maybe it’s as unimpressed with the punk era as I was.

In the distance, I see the number 17 coming down the street. Hands grab at me, the growls heavy in my ears and I race forward, my heart pounding in my chest. I hear the bus’ brakes squeal as the double-decker slows to a halt, and I feel the heat of the pack just as the doors creak open and the bus driver calls out. “Plot Twist!”

Suddenly, the pack is gone, butterflies swirling all around me in a vibrant dance of delicate hues. The flamingo is gone, flapping up into the sky. The bus driver stares at me, his hollow eyes like lumps of coal sunken into his weathered, cracked face. “Let’s go, ya know. Funky Town waits for no one.”

When I step through the doors, I can smell the ocean, the beach, the sun tan oil. The heat of the Caribbean washes over me, and the onesie melts away, revealing a barely-there indigo thong bikini. When the bus pulls away, I’m standing barefooted and bronzed looking out over white sands and blue skies. Oiled bodies reclining in the shade of massive palms and the sound of the waves draw my eyes to a distant expanse of green-blue waves. If this is indeed the bus to Funky Town, I promise myself then that I’ll be taking the bus more often.

A half-naked man sitting behind the driver pushes a machete into the sand and hands me a freshly cracked coconut, a yellow curly straw sticking out of the hole. I take a sip, savoring the rum cocktail, inhale the ocean breeze as I begin to make my way toward the water. It only takes a few steps and a few sips before I realize there’s something else in the air, or in the water, or in what I’m drinking. My nipples perk up as I find the couple on my right, see her sun-kissed curves as she kneels down and takes his rock hard cock down her throat. Her bikini is crumpled in the sand next to his feet, forgotten as she bobs on his fleshy fishstick, her flotation devices swinging heavily to and fro with the motion of the ocean.

I stop and stare as he moans and erupts, a wave of sea foam across her bow. Then as nonchalantly as a disinterested pelican, he scoops his pants up over his cutlass and walks away, leaving the little mermaid glistening in the sun, her eyes fixed on me. Or my coconut colada. Or my own coconuts. She licks her lips, whips her blonde braids over her shoulder and wipes a little dribble of sea foam from her chin.

“May I have a sip?” Her voice is a siren’s song. I nod as she rises, and a spark of desire passes between us when our fingers touch. It ripples through me like a wave, and I find her pulling the coconut into her hands as my knees tremble and surrender. “How’s it taste?” she says as she pulls the straw between her lips. I watch her eyes close, and I need to know. I inhale her sweet scent, hear the crash of waves, and I know there’s only one way to quench the thirst that’s building in me.

My lips fall on hers, my tongue slipping between her slippery folds, and I lap, tasting the rum colada again. The more I sup, the more my head swims, drowning in her heady juices, my body tingling, my clit pulsing. She moans and leans back against the vibrant green palm behind her, spreading her legs, giving me more access. Her hand rests on the back of my head, crushing me to her cunt. I drink and drink and drink her in until she shudders, coconuts falling all around me just as the first waves wash up to my knees, my waist, higher. She cums again, drowning me in sea foam, the ocean water sloshing up to my shoulders, where my own flotation devices bob.

She giggles, a swirling song of serenity and sensuality that sucks me in and sends my mind swimming against a current I can’t fight. I find her eyes, her lips pressing against mine, and then she lols and dives away into the next wave, her silvery mermaid’s fluke slapping the water and then disappearing before my eyes. I kneel there in the surf, and then I catch my coconut bobbing by and pull the straw between my lips. Empty. Fuck. I turn, looking for the old Rasta who was handling the drinks. “Bartender!’ I call, but just then, the sands beneath my knees shifted.

“Funky Town! Step to the front!” calls the bus driver, and suddenly it’s more than the sands shifting. The doors open, and the entire ocean drains onto the sidewalk, sweeping me along with it. The coconut slips from my grasp, and I scramble to catch just one more sip from the straw before I’m spat out onto the sidewalk upright, completely dry and dressed in a slightly-too-small pink sundress and flippies, my parasol flamingo descending in a gust of swirling wind to land in my outstretched hand.

“That’s more like it,” I think, but my mouth twists up as the bus floats away in the river of asphalt and black water splashes up onto the sidewalk. I dance away just as a strong gust of wind howls past, whipping my dress up and reminding me I’m commando. Before I can react, trying to catch an edge and push it down before a couple of bros stepping out on the sidewalk from the Gold’s Gym gets an eyeful of my sugar cookie, I go full Mary Poppins. The wind hits my parasol like the tornado hit Dorothy’s house, and suddenly my parasol squawks and pulls me in the air, legs flailing, a howl of shock and surprise spilling from my lips.

“Plot twist!” I hear from the sidewalk as I’m whipped higher and higher in the air, spreading sugar cookie goodness across Funky Town. But as I see my destination in sight, see the small gathering crowding into the backyard, I can’t help but shrug. My flamingo will get a special treat tonight, I’m thinking, as I begin to descend, then frown as I realize everyone at the party is getting the full sugar cookie experience and I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life in this town saying “You’re welcome” to everyone at the party.

“Birthday girl is here!” calls a voice as I land, and I spin around looking for her, but all I see is a small group of guys swooping in, grabbing me. “Pinata time!” they yell in unison, and before I know it, my dress is up over my head, the flamingo is squawking the fuck off somewhere else, and I’m dragged under the sprawling oak tree. I try to protest, but my mouth is taped shut, and taped into my mouth is a little plastic party kazoo, so each time I try to scream out in protest, all I hear is a long, sad toot toot.

I’m sure the words I’m tooting are something like “Wait, wait, wait! I’m not the birthday girl.” But for some reason these dickheads can’t understand me. Instead, a rope is wrapped around my wrists and thrown over the lowest tree limb, and I’m pulled up onto my tiptoes while the other end of the rope is fitted around my neck like a noose. Every time I try to pull my hands down, every time I come down off my tippy toes, the noose tightens and I’m gasping and tooting.

“Baby oil!” They yell, and I can feel the hands all over me. This I can’t complain about because the oil goes everywhere, and some of the everywheres are gonna make me cum if they keep it up. But then they’re done and I hear “Glitter bomb!” Boom! Boom! Boom! Glitter everywhere, up my nose, in my kazoo, up my wazoo! I feel it hit and stick, and when I open my eyes, I look like a disco ball on legs.

“Pinata? Pinata! Pinata” they yell and pull my legs apart, staking me open as the noose tightens. “Who’s first?” I hear, and a hot young thing I’ve not had the pleasure to meet yet steps around into my view with a hot pink cat o’ nine tails and a grin from ear to ear. “Me. I’m first,” she says, her voice full of gleeful malice as she rears back. The first blow sears my tits, and howl toot the only way I can, thrashing, choking, my pussy flooding. The second blow hits my clit and my mind separates from my body. I hover over the little party as the blows come in one after another, and I can see myself choking and cumming just as a familiar face enters the little circle around me.

“You fucks didn’t even wait for the birthday girl?”

I blink, a sad little toot blubbering out of the kazoo taped into my mouth.

“Z?” The girl with the cat stares, then looks back at me, then back at her standing there in a black tank and welding pants, her blond bangs shaping her narrow, striking face currently sporting a broad smile. ‘But we thought…” The sentence hangs in the air between them.

“That’s Sesame, you dummies. But don’t let me stop you. I love pinatas. Next let’s play pin the tail on the donkey?” And with that, she leans in, the smile on her face not close to hiding the sinister look in her eyes. “Plot twist,” she whispers in my ear, sending shivers down my spine, and I feel my nipples harden.

The End