Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Sex Kitten Of Doom Arrives On The Scene

Here’s the most recent installment of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. A designated page with the full story puts the pieces in order.

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Velma Smith’s breasts entered the hotel lobby. Exactly 4.368” later Velma followed. When she did, the concierge turned white and the receptionist turned red. A couple checking into the honeymoon suite, faced the biggest challenge of their new relationship as the bride involuntarily hissed like a snake and the groom tried to stare at literally anything on earth but the breasts… and failed.

Ignoring the lover’s spat growing at the receptionists’ desk, Velma glided toward the concierge. “The thing we’ve discussed. Today’s the day.” It was an order. She was used to giving orders. Men always followed her orders. (Women were a different matter. They would either follow her orders or try to kill her. The latter never failed to amuse her.)

Men have been rating women on a scale of one to ten since the first man learned to count to ten; which, not surprisingly, was several years after the first woman figured it out. Velma, however, wasn’t merely a ten. She was beyond standard number theory, a disruption on Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity, and proof positive that genetics is totally unfair. Every curve was where a curve ought to be, every lock of hair was exactly the proper shade of awesome. Her every motion was fluid and perfect. If she chose to shake a hip or purse her lips it would rock the firmament.

She wasn’t hot. She wasn’t smoking hot. She was “I’ve just met you and here are the keys to my sports car” stupidly unreasonably gorgeous.

“But… um… Highly irregular.” The concierge stammered. He was a middle-aged man, happily married, of good humor, and completely respectable. Him standing up against Velma was as unlikely as a goldfish defeating a barracuda. A month ago, Velma’s sexually charged and carefully honed arguments had caused him to agree (unofficially of course) to allowing one of his hotel guests to be abducted. He’d meant to say “no”, but she was just so persuasive. He’d have handed over the keys to his Saab had she asked.

“Oh dear,” she pouted and the concierge began to hyperventilate, “it’s a surprise and I’d hate to disappoint my lover.” At the word “lover” from a being like her he had an instant erection and froze up. By that time the receptionist had dispensed with the huffy bride and baffled groom. She rushed to the concierge’s aid.

“Can I help you Miss?”

“Oh, that’s a lovely top.” Velma placed both hands on the receptionist’s shoulders and examined the top in detail. The receptionist decided then and there to become a lesbian… immediately if possible. The concierge scampered off to call his wife and tell her he loved her.

“I’m glad you like it. Um…what was I saying?” The receptionist had lost focus.

“Rick here,” Velma glanced around for a Rick that she knew had fled (smart man!) “agreed to help me surprise my um…” She paused seductively.

The receptionist sprang to life (secretly hoping for a threesome and the other party could be a lizard for all she cared) “Say no more. What do you need?”

“I already have a reservation, room 890. I just want some friends to escort him there. He’s a terribly busy man and the best way to get time together is to surprise him. And also, we like to play games. You know how it is.”

The receptionist did not know how it is! She’d never had to abduct anyone. Furthermore, this wasn’t helping her odds at all. Dammit!

Velma sensed the receptionist was drifting from “obey her every whim” to “kill the unreasonably hot competition”. This was nothing new. “After my lover and I… well you know…” She paused for effect. “Maybe just us girls can meet, to talk.” Velma could manipulate people like a virtuoso works a Stradivarius. She’d said “talk” in a way that would make a prostitute blush. It’s all in the cadence and tone.

The receptionist melted. Velma raised an eyebrow. The receptionist agreed to everything Velma said.

And Velma said a lot; none of it would be agreeable to a sane person. The receptionist agreed to temporarily make herself scarce. The receptionist agreed to take no notice of anything that ensued in the next half hour. The receptionist gave Velma her phone number. Then the receptionist fled, abandoning her post with the urgent need to get a mani-pedi and buy some new clothes before Velma was ready to “talk”.

Alone in the fancy lobby, Velma made a call. “Boys, get ready. Be by the elevator. Wait for my signal.”

Then she lounged in a chair, like a cat stretching. She had a role to play and she was going to play it to the hilt. Her smile drifted from charming, to mischievous, to icy. If a cat had been watching it would’ve thought “that’s what I look like before I pull the wings off a bird”.