Out Of Order Ch 02

Author's Note: Per your request, chapter 2 of this story is here, one exact year later. This idea came to my head in April last month, timing is purely coincidental. There will be a 3rd and final chapter but depending on when inspiration strikes, I likely won't have anything for it out until next year. Please see the previous chapter for content warnings; in addition to those triggers, this chapters also mentions but does not condone: NeoNazi & white supremacist people and ideology, physical violence, explicit depiction of sexual assault, and racial slurs.

Feel free to leave a comment below with suggestions for how Ch 3 (final part) should end or DM me. That will help me put it out quicker, if you want it, since I have so many other stories in my internal backlog.

Thank you! And enjoy the read ;)

***********************************

"It's being reported that the crime took place sometime after 10pm Friday at the Brunswick Foodarama grocery store outlet. Officers say that at least three parties were involved in vandalizing the store's porta potty, spray painting its doors with an eerie, racially charged message..."

"Hey, honey, isn't that the store you shopped at yesterday?" asked her husband, Bob. He was sitting at the breakfast table, chewing heartily into the french toast Helen made, watching the 12pm news.

The local news station was buzzing with live updates on its latest story; a vandalism that took place at the Brunswick store's back lot area, seemingly inviting people to perform sexual crimes on a minority group. The lead suspects: a gang of Neo-Nazi bikers notoriously known as "The 7th Ward" seen leaving the quiet grocery chain around the time of the crime.

Helen had in fact shopped at that store on Friday, and the details from that night -- and early morning--- were still fresh in her mind. The naked trembling black female employee shackled to the porta potty walls like a bitch in heat. Her pitiful whimpers as she was forced to bend to Helen's whim. Her pierced tongue lashing desperately at Helen's mature cunt and asshole, praying for salvation in the sweet nectar of her folds... it all sent delicious chills down her spine.

She reflexively licked her lips, then stopped herself as she realized her husband was still staring at her, waiting expectantly for an answer.

"Hmm?" She asked, as if puzzled by the question, "Oh, no, I went to the one in Woodmore last night. Too much traffic down there."

"Ah." Her husband nodded, apparently satisfied with this answer. As if it was perfectly normal for his wife to change her 4-decade shopping routine. She always went to the Brunswick chain on Friday's, rain or shine. But her husband hardly paid attention to her nowadays, which is why their marriage was where it was in the first place.

What worried her more was what the local officials had paid attention to.

"The severity of the damage and the messaging on the porta potty indicate this was a hate crime. We are unaware if any minority groups were actually assaulted in the porta potty, as the message suggests, but it is believed the suspects damaged the cameras in the parking lot to destroy incriminating footage.

Locals who witnessed the bikers leave the store in their signature silver and purple-flame motorcycles say that the members looked "threatening", but they could not have anticipated this heinous event. They have chosen to remain anonymous for their safety.

The owner of the establishment has given a written statement to our station this morning as well, stating 'This event is a shock to us all and does not reflect what we stand for as a community. We are taking the proper steps to ensure our locals and staff feel safe and we ask that you respect our privacy at this time.'

Local investigators are still on this case. If anyone has any information about the vandalism, or the identity of the perpetrators, please call the TFS News Stations hotline at 1-800-HOT-TIPS."

"Wow," Bob set his coffee cup down, a long furry line burrowing his face where his eyebrows were. "Some sick bastards. Hope they take 'em out, whoever they were."

"Yeah. Right." is all Helen mumbled. Inside, she was thankful that the security footage had been damaged that night. She had the biker gang to thank for that, and her quick thinking for ensuring the black girl was cleaned up and coerced into silence. A part of her wondered what the owner of the store must have thought when they arrived to find the porta potty completely vandalized and their only night employee in a different set of clothes, unable to recall the night's events.

But her innards were tingling again. Not from the fear of getting caught, but of the need brewing within her. Thinking back to the hot, panting mouth of that 20-something employee who'd mouthed her off ---and later eaten her out -- into four amazing orgasms. Two of which were when she'd driven back to the scene of the crime for a second go-round.

Never in her six decades of living had Helen Campbell so much as thought of doing anything even remotely salacious, and yet fate had dangled a carrot in front of her that evening to break her resolve. A carrot in the form of a young black woman, practically served on a platter for her to sin.

It was blasphemy for a devout Southern Christian woman such as herself to lean into those sexual deviances, to utter the racist filth that she did while letting another woman defile her parts.

But as wrong as it was, her panties still glistened listening to the news reporter describe the horrid events; still bunched in her soaked pussy at the memories of the trembling girl's tongue, the fear and lust and power from last night's orgasm replaying in her brain over and over and over again...

No, she had to snap out of it. As

good

as it was --- and she couldn't stress that enough --- it was a one time thing. Women like her did not behave in such degeneracy. She was someone's wife, mother, grandmother. An upstanding church goer and hardworking civilian. She had a respectable reputation to uphold.

And yet...she'd never felt more revered, more alive than with those hot, succulent brown lips on her white pussy.

She shook her head. That was exactly what she couldn't allow. She could not let a moment of weakness unravel everything she'd worked so hard for.

Her train of thought was interrupted when her husband, Bob, burped long and loud, sending a ripple of hot, cheese-fumed air her way, while wiping his fingers on the fresh shirt she ironed for him.

"Think you can get some whipped cream on your way to the Woodmore store next time? Could've used a little more in this toast. Thanks, hun." He said, rising from his seat. He was already grabbing his things and heading out the door before she could respond. Not that her response mattered anyway.

Humph. If only others could see the respect she worked so hard to uphold.

***********************************

Saturday and Sunday came and went. Since her husband worked the weekends, Helen was left to her own devices. But all she could do was replay that Friday night in her head.

She made an effort to occupy herself, sweeping the house, dropping her grandchildren off at her daughter's house, and even driving down to the Woodmore location to buy the whipping cream Bob requested. But nothing quelled the ache in her loins. If anything, the mindless errands only made her lust stronger, to where not even her misfortune at the Woodmore grocery chain fazed her.

"Sorry, ma'am." A pimple-faced teen store clerk said in a monotone voice. "We're all out of whipped cream."

She would buy it on Monday, then.

***********************************

When Monday finally rolled around (and the "Neo Nazi" news had died down, thank God), work did not fare much better for Helen. At her office, her coworkers continued to overlook her, talking amongst each other. The team seemed welcoming to the opinions of her fresher-faced colleagues, who talked as if they'd been managing the project from the very beginning. But Helen stupidly made the mistake of pointing out that all their confidence couldn't replace the need for a senior lead to sustain the project's trajectory. The quiet looks on their faces told her all she needed to know.

"Helen, do you have a minute?" It was her boss, Clyde. Although he was only a few years younger than her, his fake corporate smile and synthetic personality made working with him just as, if not more, painful than working with her millennial colleagues.

"Yes, I suppose I do." She replied dully. He escorted her to his office, which had a monochrome layout that matched the emptiness in his eyes, and started his spiel.

"Helen, you've been a great employee with us these last 40 years, and we truly appreciate your contributions to this company. But we want to make sure everyone's career trajectory is on an eventful path. Have you, maybe, considered our offer?"

Helen cringed at Clyde bringing up the company's shameless offer to her. The offer to buy her out into retirement. The offer for her to resign "gracefully" with a generous pension plan and stock option package, provided that she not file for severance pay.

She narrowed her steely blue eyes at him.

"This is because of what I said this morning about the new youngsters? Jesus Clyde, I won't make another comment like that, but come on, you and I know it's true! It doesn't make sense for them to just roll in these hump-faced weirdos to boss us around!"

"Ut ut--" Clyde tutted, simmering her down as if she were a child throwing a tantrum. "It's talk like that that concerns upper management about your...standing with this company. Calling our younger employees 'hump-faced weirdos' doesn't exactly foster a friendly atmosphere---"

"It's political correctness," Helen said flatly.

"It's being a team player and not having a hissy fit every time things don't go your way." Clyde interjected. He flexed his hands, as if to go back into straight-laced corporate mode. "Now, I don't want to seem persistent, but I think we made you a very generous offer, Helen. We're giving you two weeks to think it over."

"To think over what?" Helen raised an eyebrow. The look on Clyde's face made her humph in disbelief, the unspoken not needing to be said. Without another word Helen got up from her seat mustering all the willpower she had not to give Clyde the middle finger, and stormed back to her cubicle.

Resign with 'grace', or be fired with indignance, apparently. Those were her two options. After 40 years of service to this company, this was the thanks she got.

On her way to her desk, she swore she saw a slanted smile from one of the young, cocky blonde and tan associates.

"Cunt." Helen scowled under her breath.

***********************************

Helen wanted to make the drive to the Woodmore Foodarama to get the groceries her family needed (she was doing everything to avoid the Brunswick outlet), but the afternoon's lecture from her boss was seared in her mind, making her seethe.

The so-called "future-friendly atmosphere" she'd worked tooth and nail for for the last 40 years was now tossing her to the curb like she was disposable trash. All for some snowflake associates who were young enough to be her grandchildren.

What she needed more than anything was a drink.

She peered out her driver-side window, looking for a bar that was open and not swarming with the demographic she despised, when a silver motorcycle parked in front of a low-lit bar caught her eye. But it wasn't the motorcycle itself that caught her eye; it was the logo on the motorcycle that made her stomach do a backflip.

A purple flame and in an obscure shadow behind it, a black swastika.

"Holy..." She whispered, swerving her car into the parking lot of the bar before her mind could fully put the pieces together. There were four other motorcycles perched next to it, similar in color and symbol. She'd recognized that distinct logo, from anywhere. It was the gang!

The gang that had vandalized the potty of the Foodarama store, stripped the young black female employee naked and...done things to her. And incidentally, given her the will to do the same.

The quiet voice in her head told her that it was bad trouble for her to be in the same vicinity as these folks, especially since they had made local headlines. What if someone recognized her too? But she dropped all rationale at the door once she stepped into the bar.

The place was packed. Drinks were being slugged left and right by beefy shit-faced men, followed by rowdy masculine banter. But Helen continued on, silently praying for the opportunity to run into her secret savior from that night, the man who'd shown her a world she never knew could exist.

"Well, well, well." Her thoughts were answered in the boom of a big burly voice.

Helen whipped her head around to see a familiar build of ivory skin, grey hair, and scraggly goatee. "I thought I recognized you. If it isn't my grocery gal. Foodarama, right?" He smiled with a crooked set of beer-stained teeth, extending his hand.

"Yes...Nice to see you again. I'm Helen." Helen found herself replying and shaking his sweaty hand. What was wrong with her?

She didn't object though, when the man offered her a seat near his booth --- which was filled with his other crony buddies downing shots of hard liquor --- or when he ordered her a vodka tonic.

"Arnold." The goatee man introduced himself, giving her hand a firm shake. He then turned to the bartender and asked for doubles on their order.

"Oh I don't drink hard liquor." She managed weakly.

"I bet you usually don't do a lot of things," He winked at her, causing her to blush.

He ribbed her as she took the seat next to him, face flushed pink. "Oh I'm just teasin' ya. It's a pleasant surprise seeing you here."

She gave a dry chuckle. "I could say the same to you." He raised a bushy brow at her which prompted her to say what had been on her mind since that day. "What happened that night---that was incredible."

Arnold took a slow swig of his tonic once it arrived.

"All of it...I mean, you all did that because...because of me?" Helen continued, still in disbelief at how everything unfolded. Had her spat with the black employee really spawned all of this?

"That girl had a mouth on her with us too, don't forget." Arnold said. "But yeah."

Then, in a clear, unmistakable register, "Us whites have to stick together."

It was still surprising to hear the words come from Arnold's mouth, much less in such an open forum, but Helen still had an involuntary reaction."Oh!"

Arnold raised an eyebrow at her.

Trying to mask her shock, she quickly followed with. "I mean-uh-yes! Us whites do have to stick together, haha. Especially our generation." Her response didn't seem convincing, but her curiosity won the best of her. "And your... buddies here... that's why you stick together? For your-I mean-'our' race?"

"That's right." A big man with long grey hair,covered with tattoos similar to Arnold's who'd overheard their conversation, sidled next to them from two stools over. "If we don't stick up for ourselves, who will? It's just us, bars like this, and folks like yourself on our side. You see on the news how they're spinning it. Anything to defend those niggers."

Helen shrank back into her seat as cheers passed through the gang. By the rave and looks of the ink-coated crew, they were more than in agreement.

She took a timid sip of her tonic. Dry and rough. Not her favorite, but she didn't want to go back now and disappoint her new audience. She raised the glass to her lips.

"Besides, it was bound to happen sooner or later." Arnold shrugged.

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"That girl and the way she was actin', she was askin' for a roughin' like that, they all do." This time his voice went lower, enough for the few in his circle to still hear but not much more. "You see here, Helen, in this life there are two kinds of people. The conquered and the conquerors. For millennia our ancestors have been the conquerors, and they left their legacy - our land, power, destiny - to us. "

He stressed the 'us' to their pale skinned brethren around them, to which Helen shifted uncomfortably at.

"...But now, the descendants of those conquered folks want to turn that upside down. They talk sideways at us, come into our establishments, our land. Demanding that we 'make space' for them. Tryin' to take our legacy right from underneath us. That's where we --" He jabbed a finger at Helen, "come in and remind them where they came from in the first place. Let 'em know 'enough is enough'. You don't come into our land, into OUR establishments and try to take over. You kneel to us or you don't kneel at all."

Helen shivered, replaying the look on the girl's defeated face and the piss and bruises on her body when she'd submitted to Helen in earnest.

The heat in her loins was growing now.

"You... do that regularly? Make them...kneel?" The last word was a breathless whisper on her lips.

"Not always that extreme, but when you see a nigger or spic that doesn't know their place, you turn 'em right, and then they learn quick." Arnold said. He downed the last of his drink, eyeing Helen's. "Of course, if anyone asks, you didn't see us. Drink up, woman."

"Sorry, just --" She hesitated fiddling with her drink in hand. "I'm just so fascinated by it. I didn't realize it until when I-when it- happened. But...it felt so...natural. It didn't feel wrong at all." How could something that felt so good be so wrong?

She didn't want to sound like some old sex freak, but that day had awakened something in her, and she didn't want to go back to the simple old life. If sex was Heaven on Earth, that night was her Nirvana.

Arnold cracked a toothy smile. "That's because it never was wrong. We've been taught to sit by while those fucks take over our town. That taking a stand against it is supposed to be 'wrong'. No, nothing about pissing down a disrespectful nigger's throat and watching her drink you off is wrong."

Helen was startled by his crassness but even more so that the talk was getting her hornier than when she'd entered the bar.

So much for cooling her down.

Arnold eyed her, as if he was reading her mind. "Say, you want to have a go at it again?"

Helen blinked, flustered. "What? Oh, n-no I --no, that would be---" Helen stuttered through the list of lies she wanted to rattle off. 'She didn't want to experience something like that ever again, it wasn't in her character!' 'She didn't believe in putting anyone in their place.' 'The only destiny she had to protect was her reputation!' All of those lies were on the tip of her tongue.

But she said none of those things.

"Where would we?" Helen finally replied. "I mean -- what are the odds of that opportunity coming again?"

Arnold shrugged. "That's the thing. Niggers are always up to no good and gettin uppity, wherever they are in this town. It's up to chance." His phone started to buzz off and grab his attention. Staring at it, he frowned then tapped the grey-haired man near him, and rose from his seat. "Speak of the devil. Plaid, looks like there's trouble at Curt's shop, some no names wanting to start a scene. Says he wants to get the cops involved."

"To hell he will. What good are those useless fucks going to do anyway, when they let those rascals infiltrate our spaces to begin with?" Plaid spat. "We can go in there and help him out ourselves."

Arnold grinned from ear to ear, as if Plaid had uttered the words 'game, set, match' to him. He looked to Helen, "Say, Plaid? Think it's time we show our new friend, Helen, how we do?"

"With pleasure," Plaid smiled with his entire two front teeth. He started for the door, with Arnold close behind and the rest of the crew slowly following.