The Last Reflexive

By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret.

Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum

Chapter Two: Night to Day

The problems with the Society for the New World Order, were getting out of hand and grandfather had come up with a plan. It was a plan the Organization took years to formulate and was finally prepared to implement. I was ordered to take care of one last detail before carrying out the assignment. It was the mission's most important facet and I wondered why I'd been chosen to deal with it. The Organization had operatives trained in the art of recruiting, and I was not one of them.

According to the Organization all background checks performed to date turned up nothing irregular. I studied the reports carefully. She was clean as a virgin sacrifice and American as George Washington. She was hard-nosed, true blue and fiercely independent, and an accomplished dominatrix. She's a criminal's nightmare, giving her chief both hard-ons and headaches, bringing anxiety to every D.A. not in her stable. The information was difficult to believe until it came to her father. When I read she'd been raised by her father, Sergeant 'Kit' Harwicke Karson, I knew why I'd been given the task of recruiting her.

It was a storm-laden night and Dirty Harriette's alter ego, The Nun, used the strokes of thunder brought on by the hammer of Thor to accent the sound caused by her palm landing on the buttocks of Litle Slurp, the male she'd taken to bed that night. Spanking her twerp Slurp is how she's been dealing with the passing of her father during terrible storms. In the worst storms her dad had always been there for her with as much comfort as she needed, but now he was gone, and she was having some difficulty adjusting. She used Slurp and Sven to take her mind off her dad.

Her dad would hold her in his arms and tell her a story. He'd tell her of defending the Country, of being a good American, and sometimes he'd talk of her mother, whom she never knew, and later he spoke of the birds and the bees, whom she learned quickly to exploit. To those few who knew Harriette, the pair of males she snatched from the abyss of virginity and trained, along with her .357 magnum, were sorry substitutes for her father, but they were all she seemed to have, or wanted around. She kept two of them chained to the floor near her bed in case of an itch, the other under her pillow, in case of emergency.

I was looking forward to meeting the daughter of my hero in the morning and needed to sleep, but I too couldn't sleep during the storm, so I led each clap and roll of thunder with a rather loud 'squish', melding with 'sloshing' sounds caused by my cock plunging into the pussy of my soubrette, Holey Pi. She's both my deadly pet succubus borne to the shadows, and my big-breasted dumb nymphomaniac stress reliever. I never leave home without her.

Even after hours of bumping and grinding, and finally collapsing into the arms of my dark-haired bitch, my cock buried balls deep down her throat, relaxing, I slept light that night, my dreams plagued by Sergeant Karson's death and those of my buddies. Once asleep my dreams filled with continuous gunfire, bombs exploding, the faces of my pals, the sounds of agony. Knowing I was to meet his daughter brought me some apprehension, but who knew. If Sarge had been a female those long nights in the jungle, while draped over the limb of a tall tree sleeping, we may not have been sleeping and the stars would have taken on a new meaning for sure.

As is his job every morning, Sven woke Litle moments before first light, by poking him with a finger, so Litle could use his tongue and fingers to awaken Harriette, gently and affectionately. Today she was more sticky then usual and needed to peel her pussy off Litle's face. She looked down to find dear Litle's eyes glued shut and giggled to herself. Like every morning, the first thing Harriette did after sitting up was to warm her feet on Sven. Then she'd push Litle out and pull Sven, her 'sleep button', into bed to fuck for another hour. Then Sven sucked her pussy clean even if not permitted to ejaculate. Moments later she was showering and Sven was policing her bedroom.

Once in robe she went to the kitchen where Litle had a pot of fresh roasted and ground coffee brewing along with a slice of toast. Some days he'd have baked an orange scone. Today Harriette has no time to sit. She gobbles down the toast with gulps of coffee, then lights herself a cigarette and takes a breath to consider the day, and what to wear. Before the first swirl of smoke has left her mouth completely, she finds Sven licking at her clit eagerly and Litle's wet tongue wiggling into her behind. She stands like that, gazing out a window while smoking, as her males commune with mother nature. She finds it important for a male to feel he belongs, to feel wanted. The frail male ego is high maintenance, and requires rituals to keep it from disintegrating, so she's established for her males several rituals.

From their first morning together, Harriette's established a complex and demanding consuetude for Sven and Litle, which will continue evolving, growing more arduous with time. Sven and Litle have taken to it like fish to water.

For instance, the lads always stop whatever they're doing to witness the ritual of Harriette dressing for work, and find watching their mistress dressing most exciting. They took their places, kneeling to the side, out of the way, and while Harriette dressed they swiveled and sashayed around her, crawling and adjusting their positions so to get their eyes on what ever suited their fancy at that moment. Harriette was little more than an unraveling psychic ball of yarn teasing a pair of baby kittens.

Today Harriette began with a pair of seamless, crotch-less black leotards, which she worked herself into slowly, providing her boys needed entertainment. She then wiggled herself into her black leather skirt, the one from Marcelle, her couturier. It came to her knees and had a piano wire sewn carefully into its hem. The wire was invisible, yet easy to slip free. Then she donned her crimson colored blouse. It was silk and sported thirteen mother of pearl buttons, one of which was a miniature grenade of sorts, another was a bug, and one particular button was just in case she meets... She looked around to see if it met with the boys' approval. The way they were salivating and beating off said it all. But too, she realized they were biased.

Next she slipped into her holster, making sure its straps fit round her breasts comfortably, neither pressing on a button nor pinching. She then donned her black velvet bullet-proof jacket with the chinchilla collar, and finally she picked up and checked her gun. Always satisfied with how clean Sven kept it, she shoved it in the holster.

She then looked at her reflection in the mirror, satisfied with what she saw. Glancing to the side she found her two males on their knees watching her with eyes wide, each beating off like a couple of wild animals. She smiled and gave them a couple cheep cheese-cake poses.

After using the mirror, she slid her feet into her high black leather riding boots, which Sven laced eagerly. Satisfied with his work, she smiled and turned to grab another mug of coffee Litle had waiting. The lads rose to their feet and approached so Harriette could smack each on their foreheads, affectionately.

"This place better be spotless by the time I return," she warned on her way out, like any other average American in the morning on their way to work.