Ingenious, huh?
But not as ingenious as an M.F.-er. That’s the gadget developed by really advanced phone phreaks. In its simplest form, the M.F.-er is a small box about the size of a cigarette package. It has a button on top, twelve buttons in front, and a speaker in back. The top button produces a prerecorded 2,600-cycle tone. The others produce prerecorded tones corresponding to the digits on the telephone dial. The two extra buttons are for specialized frequencies like “KP,” which stands for “Key Pulse,” and are used for overseas calls via satellite or cable.
The advantages are obvious. A cassette can only play prerecorded tone sequences. With an M.F.-er, the phone phreak can dial any number in the world. All he has to do is hold it up to the telephone mouthpiece and push the buttons the way he would if he were using a push-button phone7 .
It’s really something else, the M.F.-er . . . .
“. . . M.F.—er.” I’d spoken aloud without realizing it.
“Sonofabitch!” Randy, thinking I’d been cursing her, responded.
“Up yours!” My patience was frazzled.
“That’s where it is,” she reported.
“And whose fault is that? If you weren’t so stubborn . . .”
“I said I’d think about it.” Very haughty.
“You’ve had enough time to think,” I told her.
“What’s the answer?”
“No!” Her tone said it was final.
“Well, in that case . . .” I pushed her over backward and fell on top of her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Outraged virtue.
“Guess!” I got her two wrists together, grabbed them firmly with one hand, and forced them to the ground in back of her head. With my other hand I squeezed her breasts, teasing the nipples to erection. I moved slowly inside her, trying to catch her up in the rhythm. When she stubbornly refused to respond, I pounded harder and faster, bending my head to kiss her at the same time, forcing my tongue between her clenched lips.
Randy bit it so savagely that I feared a permanent lisp. When I hastily withdrew it, bleeding, she started to scream.
“RAPE!” she howled. “RAPE! RAPE!” Over and over. “RAPE! RAPE! RAPE!”
“You’re getting redundant,” I pointed out.
“RA-A-A-A-A-APE!”
How about that? We’d been groin-joined for over an hour, and now she decides she’s the victim of a sexual attack! I swore to myself that if I ever got out of this I’d take a vow of celibacy! But of course my fingers were crossed. “Shut up!” I put my hand over her mouth and she bit it. I jerked it away, mangled.
“HELP! I’M BEING RAPED!” She bellowed like a banshee with its tail caught in a lawn mower. “I’M BEING RA-A-A-A-APED!”
Grimly I kept pounding away while touring the erogenous zones with my maimed mitt. I probed her navel, pinched her struggling bottom, dipped into the cleft between her burning cheeks, twanged her clitty. The last two brought results. Despite herself, Randy began to squirm with a tempo that was as much sensual as resistive.
But I congratulated myself too soon. Her panting breasts still testified as much to fury as to passion on the upswing. She pulled one hand free and belted me. WHAM! The wallop caught me smack on the old schnozzola.
“God damn you!” The blood pouring out of my beak made me furious. I slapped her face. Not hard enough to do any damage, but she felt it.
Randy whimpered.
I felt like a heel. The feeling put me off my guard. The next thing I knew she was clawing at my eyes, long nails plucking at them like they were ripe grapes ready to be taken from the vine.
For a minute I was blinded. Then I recaptured both her hands and pinned them again. “Cut that out!” I told her. “It’s throwing my rhythm off!”
By way of answer, she spit in my face. I leaned down and bit her breast. She pulled a leg out from under me and kicked me in the neck. When I grabbed for it, she got one hand free again and gouged my torso from chest to groin. I punched her in the arm muscle until she stopped scratching.
Out of breath, she subsided a little. During the pause I realized that something was happening. Her vagina was pulsating to the tune of my movements. The violence turned her on!
I let go of her hands. I dug my fingers into her thigh flesh. She pummeled my back and shoulders with her fists. I bit her ear, and then her neck. Her knee snapped up to jar my behind. I twisted her breast brutally. She went for my throat with her teeth.
But all the time, with all this going on, she was moving with me, not missing a stroke, her bottom bouncing to the tune I was calling, her hips writhing this way and that as I shifted the impalement, her clitty caressing the base of my joystick in a perfectly choreographed dance of mounting passion.
Now Randy’s aggression was channeled into the quest for lust release. She was shouting out the four-letter words again. I let her pull her legs loose, and she propped the soles of her feet against my chest, pedaling as if I were a bicycle.
The way she was doubled over, my weight was resting on her burning, perspiration-slicked haunches. I felt myself about to explode. On a crazy impulse, I lifted my hands and feet from the ground so that I was supported only by the swollen penis buried in her.
It drove her nuts. She began to shake like a castanet, then to explode like a string of firecrackers. When I myself detonated, the last firecracker went atomic!
Randy’s legs suddenly straightened out. The bottoms of her feet slammed against my chest. My cannon went off! Her volcano erupted! Love lava mixed with tar! . . . And I was propelled backward, abruptly ejected from her tarbox, stumbling to my feet, and then back down again as the dry prairie dust gave way under them. I settled hard on my rear end.
“SHEE—IT!” I roared.
I’d landed smack on a goddamn cactus!
CHAPTER NINE
“There are no cactus plants in Iowa!”
“No?” Standing, I stretched my arms behind me and plucked thorns from my bottom with both hands. “Then what the hell do you call this?”
“Cactus grows only in the Southwest,” Randy insisted. “Texas, New Mexico, places like that. Iowa’s too far north.”
“Nuts to that! I know a cactus when I land in one!”
“That plant is not a cactus!”
“Then what is it?” I kept pulling out bristles.
“I’m not sure. What do you think I am? Some kind of botany expert?”
“That’s how you’re coming on. But if you can’t label it, then it’s still a cactus to me. After all, it’s my behind.”
“It looks like a pincushion!” Randy giggled.
“Thanks a heap. That’s very helpful.”
“You want me to help?” She reached out and yanked a quill.
“OUCH! . . . Mother! I can do it myself!”
“All right. But let’s walk while you pluck. I’d like to get back to town before daylight.”
We made our way silently for a while. Then there was a howl in the distance. “Coyote,” I remarked.
“There are no coyotes in Iowa.” Now she was a zoologist, too.
I let it pass. I had other things on my mind. Like the fact that it was getting cold and we were both mother-naked; like the problem of unpricking my bun; like the reason I’d tracked down Randy Beaver in the first place.
“About Tom Swift . . .” I said.
The last time I’d raised the question, Randy had been prevented from answering by a sudden dip into hot tar. Dipped along with her, the question had been blotted from my mind as I hit the inky bottom of the glub tub. But now I was ready for some answers.
“Who?” Over-innocent. Randy’s acting ability wasn’t improving.
“The guy you worked for back in Vermont,” I prodded her. “As a Seeing Eye girl for his blind dog.”
“How’d you know about that?”