Sabrina Carpenter Versus 5,000 Trucks (Sabrina Carpenter)

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

# Sabrina Carpenter vs 5,000 Trucks

To save her career Sabrina Carpenter must destroy it.

(m/f, mmm/f, orgy, bondage, oral, anal)



Sabrina Carpenter approached the Stannhauser Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

That was what people still called it, at any rate. It had probably been renamed at some point since the 1950s—likely at the same time they'd daubed the walls with murals of frolicking kittens and puppies—but to what, she didn't know..

Now it's probably called St Nonjudgmental's Center for Growth and Healing, or some shit. She thought before the gates. And the guards are "angels" and the inmates are "guests".

But the structure had been built in a less politically-correct time, and divulged the facility's purpose.

Walls clawed upward like castle parapets. Bulwarks jagged like knives pressed against the throat of the sky. This place was a fortress. One that was far, far easier to get into than to get out of.

Stannhauser was the place they locked you when an entire Home Depot's worth of screws started rolling around loose in your head.

---

In the shadow of the gate, she hesitated. Couldn't take the first step. Keep walking. Go inside,. Sabrina squared her shoulders, pushed her anonymizing glasses further up her nose, and wrapped her jacket closer around her body.

And tried to be brave.

Her press agent, Nigel Penridge, cleared his throat, and rested a hand on his client's shoulder.

"Let's not do this. I'll make phone calls. We'll find the best PR guy in the business to launch the single. You don't need...this person."

His doubt—his *disbelief*—was a fire lit in her. It scorched away doubt and fear. She put a foot down, then the next footstep happened of its own accord, and then was forging ahead through the gate. Nigel's cultured Ivy elocution became a shrill wheedle. "Don't do this! You're making a mistake!"

"Not doing it would be a bigger one."

---

"Name?" the front-desk officer drawled behind a layer of bulletproof glass.

"Sabrina Annlynn Carpenter."

"Reason for your visit?"

"I have a meeting with Robert Goffman."

He whistled, as if impressed by her cojones.

"Goffman is a classification nine-three-nine. You need a court order to see those."

Ten steps ahead, Sabrina slid a form through the slot in the glass. The officer stared nonplussed at the judge's signature on the form, then back up at her.

"What do you want with Goffman? He's completely bugfuck. Came in nuts and turned even nuttier. He's started referring to himself in the third person, for some reason. Are you gonna work with him, or sumthin'?"

"Are you gonna buzz me through, or sumthin'?" Sabrina tossed her head. Her tawny wolfcut hair tumbled around her shoulders. "Are you gonna keep your job, or sumthin'?"

"Fine." The man muttered bitch just loud enough for her to hear. "We need to metal-wand you for contraband.."

An orderly swept a metal-detector up and down her 5'2 body.

It hit her breasts, and flashed red. Beep.

Sabrina looked confused. Then she sighed.

"I was just at dance rehearsals. I'm still wearing the rhinestone bikini. Do you have somewhere private I can take it off?"

"Not really," the desk guy said, enjoying her discomfort. "Take it off right here, or don't come in."

If he was thinking he'd called her bluff, he was mistaken.

Sabrina ripped her jacket wide open, exposing her bikini-clad body. A explosion of flesh dazzled the room like a flashbang grenade. Guards did double-takes behind their desks. She heard intakes of breath.

Her body was physically ruinous: short but explosively thick, packed with muscle and puppy fat. Under the rhinestone bra and matching bottoms, a taut, voluptuous ocean of hot, sexy young girlfmeat rolled and seethed in restless currents.

Her thighs had the sculpted thickness of Grecian pillars. Disney-cultivated dance fibers shimmered and flexed beneath the taut skin of her quadriceps. Bulges of delicious meat swelled and spilled out from the straps of her bra and thong, as though her gaminish figure resisted any form of clothing, no matter how minimal. Tan-lines criss-crossed the girdle of her hips.

Reaching behind her back, she unclipped the rhinestone bikini and peeled it free.

Her apple-sized breasts bobbed free, capturing a chiaroscuro of light and shadow as they lolled audaciously. Twin moons, offering disclosures of light and dark, locked in a phase that was always full. Her nipples swiftly erected in the cold air.

She was defiant. Immodest. Didn't seem to care that she'd just gotten naked in front of six total strangers in a mental asylum.

She didn't flinch from the stares; just picked up the jacket she'd discarded on the floor, and belted it tight around her hot naked body. This was a hard, masculine place. Inside it, Sabrina was a soft, warm, intensely sexual veldt of womanhood.
Every single person in the room wanted to fuck her. Even if they didn't, they still would have stared. She was *discord*.

"You got what you want. Now give me what I want."

She flung the rhinestone bikini on the man's desk. Clank.

"Twenty minutes with Goffman. Alone."

---

"I need your help, Robert." She said in a private interview room.

"Robert does not exist," the skeletal figure sitting crosslegged before her said. "You are talking to The Fourth Day."

Robert Goffman—the disgraced former promoter who'd once styled himself The Fourth Day—was nightmarishly tall. 6'6? 6'8? Hard to tell, sitting down. He looked like a human origami sculpture, his huge frame bent and angled and folded.

He was in his early forties. Lanky. Tattooed. His institution shirt hung like a sail from his ragged, hard-ribbed torso.

Ten years ago, this dishevelled madman had been the greatest PR svengali in the business. A shock-and-awe promoter of the Malcolm McLaren stripe, Goffman prided himself on results. He could polish a flattened dog turd into a hit record, could send Helen Keller to number one.

He was so successful, in fact, that everyone had spent an embarrassing length of time ignoring the fact that he was clearly insane.

In 2013, he'd finally sunk his career. Amidst drug abuse, death threats, and delirious megalomania, he'd been arrested. Only small-time charges, and he probably could have skated with fines or community service, but he'd made the fateful decision to represent himself in court.

His behavior—which had included public nudity, a ten minute prayer to the aliens orbiting the courthouse, and an attempt to sacrifice a live goat to Satan—had so appalled the judge that she'd involuntarily committed him.

He'd now been entombed inside Stannhauser Asylum for over a decade.

"I can get you out of here, Robert," Sabrina said.

For the first time, he glanced up at her. His gaze clashed against hers, like two rapiers sparring.

"They tell The Fourth Day you're some famous new star," Goffman slurred brokenly. "But if you're expecting the Fourth Day to kiss your ass, you are mistaken.."

Sabrina maintained her composure. Advice from a dozen how to deal with sociopaths guides chyroned across her mind. Don't play mind games. Don't let them into your head. Keep your feet on the ground.

"I want a number one hit record," Sabrina said. "And I don't care what it takes. If you do this for me, you'll have your freedom. Sound good?"

He completely ignored her.

"The Fourth Day has been locked up since two thousand and and fourteen. He hasn't listened to any music since Amy Winehouse. She was a fake human, by the way. Half the guards here are fake, too. Have you noticed? They look like real humans, but then their eyes glimmer, and you see they're robots. Or bugs. The Fourth Day sees the truth about things. That is his gift. Also his curse."

She gestured at the bleak stone walls. "You don't belong here, Robert. Imagine being free. Away from the bugmen. All I need is a hit. That's easy for you. You've done it for shittier singers than me."

Finally, some of this started to land.

"And how will The Fourth Day go free?" Goffman screwed up his face in concentration.

Sabrina's nails tapped a fierce staccato rhythm against the concrete floor. "As luck would have it, my personal physician has a brother who's on the board of corrections. She writes him a letter, he writes them a letter, and then your case goes up for review. Sleazy, but that's how politics goes. If I start the gears turning today, you'll be walking out of here in two weeks."

"When does the record drop? The one The Fourth Day is promoting."

"Four weeks."

He thought about it.

"Tight schedule. The Fourth Day will need to begin planning your campaign right away..."

Then he stood up, towering over her.

"But understand..." his voice was a knife raked over obsidian. "When The Fourth Day takes on a client, he demands total control. Over everything. You will do everything The Fourth Day asks you to do, with no argument or hesitation."

Sabrina thought about it. Weighed what she'd give up to save her career.

Decided the answer was everything.

"I agree."

"Suck The Fourth Day's cock."

---

Goffman pulled down his institution pants.

A titanic, barbarous-looking prick tumbled out, unspooling and unfolding in stages, like a disgusting living caterpillar. As it began to to engorge and stiffen, her eyes grew Bambi-wide, matching it.

Bigger and bigger and bigger...

Fully erect, it swelled and teetered ominously in front of her, a huge obelisk of pulsing skin. It jutted ten inches from his hips.

The slit in the peach-sized dick head was the size of a coin slot. It oozed a runny-strand of pre-cum, which slid out and splatted on the concrete floor.

She wasn't a virgin. She'd sucked cock before. But this was a cock that looked like it sucked *you*.

Goffman crossed his arms. His tattooed face was a Poker face from a man who had nothing to lose; who'd already lost anything.

"The Fourth Day is waiting for you to accept or deny his terms." His lips barely moved.

This was the second time a man had attempted to call her bluff in an hour, and it ended the same way as the first time.

Sabrina Carpenter moved deftly and surely. She pulled a ribbon from a pocket, and pulled her ash-blonde hair into a ponytail. A flick sent it over her shoulder.

Then—still with no hesitation whatsoever—she kneeled on the hard concrete, grasped the overheated shaft in a tiny hand, and plunged it into her mouth.

Schlmmppf!

The head pierced her lips with a wet *slurrp*, splaying them horrifyingly wide as it tore through. The tip of his cock alone seemed to fill her mouth entirely. It was hot and musky and overwhelmingly *present*. She sucked the head, swirling her tongue across the glans, feeling it ripple and shudder under her pliant tongue. A jet of pre-cum shot against her uvula.

Staring ahead, his shaft filled her world. It was like fellating the barrel of an M1 Abrams. She imagined her head being torn off when he busted, exploded by a depleted uranium round.

Moist, lewd gulping and chugging sounds filled the interview room as she sucked him off, struggling to make him cum. Too much cock. Too little girl. She wondered if she'd made an unrecoverable mistake. He wouldn't do this if the room was wired with cameras or microphones...but he's crazy. Maybe he has.

As she gazed into the shadowed darkness of his crotch, she wondered if this man could truly help her.

Maybe Nigel's right. Goffman might have been big-time back when "What Does the Fox Say?" was on the charts. Now he's a crazy person who needs a guard's permission to take a piss.

But she was out of options. Her career was fading. "Please Please Please" at #1. "Taste" at #2. "Bed Chem" at #14. She'd eaten well off those. Then "Sharpest Tool" went to #21, "Dumb and Poetic" to #40. Her followup to that album had flopped.

There's such a thing as a *Disney star curve*, and Sabrina—in the eyes of Island Records—was now on the falling arc of one.

Promotional budgets were getting slashed, personnel getting fired. Even if she wasn't a dimming star, her label seemed hell-bent on making her one. And now they wanted a new hit single. In one particularly frosty meeting, they'd called it a comeback single.

A quickish study, Sabrina had gotten the hint. I am now in do-or-die territory.

She'd spent a huge amount of her own money holed up in the studio, working with an elite stable of producers and songwriters. The result was "Cross in the Road", a thudding, rousing anthem of female empowerment.

Her label had thought it was absolute horsecrap.

They'd built a machine learning model that predicted the chart success of unreleased songs. When they ran her track through the model, it predicted it a #98 chart entrance, and a disappearance the week after. "Cross in the Road", to them, had failed before it had even been released. But she'd believed in the song—predictive models could be wrong sometimes, right?—and had fought them until they'd chiseled out a small concession. We'll release it, but we're not promoting it. Money down the drain. You figure out a strategy. And you pay for it. Unless she did something drastic, the single was going to bomb, and her career would be *finito*.

Given those constraints, she couldn't afford not to work with psychopathic lunatics in mental asylums.

Still sucking Goffman's jaw-breaker of a cock, she glanced upward.

There was a deep, powerful charisma to this man. His gaze fired a shaft of lightning across her soul. It was like gazing directly into the sun. She felt psychic fires flashing up inside her brain, leaving black excisions. The lunatic who dragged you down - or up - to his level.

Ten years ago, everyone had wanted to work with this man. Now? They pretended they didn't know his name. That he'd never existd.

And her pussy started to dampen with arousal.

Her tongue swirled around his shaft. Clockwise, then counterclockwise, like his dick was a lock she was testing tumblers on. She watched excited little ripples illustrate the lean tissue of his skinny thighs. His body was a parchment excitement, disclosing a map of excitement. Mad or not, he was a man.

Her jaws were aching; her masseter muscles screaming in pain. His seemingly endless shaft seemed to be getting bigger and bigger, until it swelled to fill her entire skull like a nuclear blast.

Goffman wanted to break her with his dick. He didn't know she was already broken.

His penis convulsed greedily, pillaging her flesh. She glared up at him, wanting to win, wanting to beat him.

Time to finish this.

She gripped his hips and lunged forward, devouring his length, sucking it down deeper and deeper, making it vanish, one glistening inch at a time. The spasming cockhead messily impacted hit the back of her throat...

....and kept going.

She deep throated him, letting his erection ride down into the spongy flesh of her esophagous. His breathing roughened. She felt his accelerating pulse between her fingers, through the lips wrapping against pelvis, through the cock jammed down her throat.

beat...beat...beat...beatbeatbeat...

She'd practiced deep-throating with cucumbers. But she didn't know she could take a penis this size until she already had.

"UGHH!" he grunted, his cock lurching in her neck.

A gag reflex wracked her. She suppressed it.

Lewd wet squelches and slaps filled the room as he bottomed out in her mouth over and over. No air was entering her lungs. Her vision was going red. His enormous bitch-breaker of a dick was stuffed directly down her throat, curving like a colossal banana down her neck. Wedged against spongy, fluffy throat tissue, she felt a maddening tickle as he leaked pre-cum down her throat.

A more immediate issue was that she couldn't breathe with a ten inch cock filling her throat like a Chinese finger trap. Her red tinged vision was going black. Either he cums in the next ten seconds, or you suffocate.

Goffman gurgled and grunted as her lips pressed flat against his crotch. His voice was a sandpaper rasp; his hands were tearing through tangles in her wolfcut hair. His hips were bucking now against her lips, a gentle rocking that was increasing in speed, force, and feral violence. She could feel the wild pleasure coursing within him, seeking escape down her throat.

"Hunhh...Unnhhh...hunhh...bluhhhh," wet gurgles were all that escaped her mouth as his huge tool plunged down into her guts.

Moments before she passed out, it happened. His immense prick leaped and surged, rippling with orgasm.

His balls began pulsing out cum in disgusting quantities.

Sperm surged out from his testicles in a scorching rush. Torrents of pale fluid exploding, like liquid moonlight.

Four huge spurts of jizz BLURTED directly down her throat.

Then he was pulling out of her throat, with a sound like a wet boot being extricated from knee-high mud.

Schluuuuuuuuuckk!

As she greedily gasped for air, he gripped his ten inch cock like a gun. He pumped four more jets into her left eye. They impacted hard enough to sting, like slaps.

Then he angled his cock, and ejaculated another four jets into her right eye. Cum exploded against skin, splashing like supernovae across the swirling stars of her vision.

As his penis softened, he laid it across her hair. So much for keeping it clean, she thought as a final weak spasm of jizz trailed over her scalp, soaking through it, then running down her back. Even when you win, it's never all the way.

She felt the thick bead of cum roll down her spine, charting a path between her shoulder blades, finishing in the crack of her ass. The blob of sperm itched and tickled, and she squirmed.

Squirmed, and fingered the sloppy softness of her vulva.

"It is done. The Fourth Day will work for you," Goffman imperiously put his cock away.  Then he reached a scabbed hand under her chin, and lifted it back up to meet his eyes.

"Do you know why The Fourth Day is called The Fourth Day?"

She coughed, spluttering up a mouthful of sperm. "N...no..."

"...Because that's the day God created the stars."

---



She was as good as her word. Two weeks later, Robert Goffman stood in a room of Island Records executives.

In Sabrina's opinion, he was less intimidating now that he was out of institution attire, and wearing a black turtleneck sweater. He now looked like Steve Jobs after a frontal lobotomy.

"Gentleman," he told the room. "You now stand at the cusp of history. To promote your client, The Fourth Day will deliver a spectacle of phantasmagoric potentiality, of anathema and abhorrence, of sorcery and sortilege. You will laugh - they always do -, but you will brag someday that you stood in the room where this dark Asmodean vision was unfurled like a dread pirate's banner."

There was a loud yawn. Goffman ignored this.

"A publicity stunt, my friends. We will stage a publicity stunt. The biggest and most shocking in history. This is an art form that The Fourth Day has decorticated to the utmost science."

He turned to the whiteboard.

"Study the unforgettable, successful PR coups of the past—Sinéad O'Connor ripping up the pope's photo on live TV, Britney kissing Madonna, KLF scorching a million pounds to ash—and they all have exactly four things in common."

The marker pinched precariously in his shovel-sized hand went *squeak-scratch-squeak*.

"These are Reach, Relevance, and Rage."

Sabrina Carpenter waited for someone to point out that this was three things. Nobody did.

"First," he said, "Reach. We need to get in front of a lot of people. Otherwise, nothing we do matters. Sabrina will be the proverbial tree falling in the forest, silent and unheard. Thanks to the internet, this part's easy. We'll promote the stunt through leading social media sites like Facebook, Myspace, and Google Plus."

Myspace? Google Plus? Sabrina screwed up her face. What are they?

"Second is Relevance. The stunt needs to mean something—to connect with anxieties that young people—young women, particularly—feel in today's world. Who controls my destiny? Me, or someone else? We must tie 'Cross in the Road'' to these issues."

Nigel Penridge coughed politely, looking up from his notes. "Out of curiosity...have you even listened to Sabrina's song?"

Goffman sniffed in contempt. "The Fourth Day does not listen to his clients' music. It dilutes his judgment."

Nigel sagged back in his chair, and muttered something. It sounded like kill me.

"Third—and most importantly—is Rage. We need to do something crazy, spectacular, and mind-blowing. We need to pack the primitive, unevolved monkey brains of the unwashed with semantic Semtex and pull the trigger. We need a spectacle that haunts peoples' dreams at night. Something they cannot look away from. And that's why The Fourth Day is proposing such a transcendently, magnificently—"

"Can you cut the crap and just tell us?" Sabrina was out of patience.

"It is simple," Goffman said. "The song hits streaming platforms on March the 3rd. On March the 2nd, we..."

He described the start of his plan.

He never got to the end.

As he talked, Sabrina's eyes narrowed. Her hands clenched. Then she shot up from her chair, and began striding toward him.

Despite her shortness, three room-eating strides brought her up in front of Goffman. She balled her fists, and spat up in his face.

"Fuck you, you piece of *shit*".

She slapped Goffman, and walked out of the room.

---

Fuming in the hall outside, she phoned Nigel.

"You were right. Fuck this loser. We're ditching him."

"Thank God. I was wondering when you'd see reason. I'm sorry you had to listen to that filth, Sab. Aside from being disgusting, it wouldn't even work. It would ruin your career. I'm glad you're not even considering going down that path. We'll find another way to promote 'Cross in the Road.'*"

"I'm going to going to get that appraisal of sanity invalidated. I want him thrown back in Stannhauser for another ten years. It was a mistake even trying to work with him."

Then, there was a pause.

"By the way, there's something you should know. You know that predictive chart model your label has? They ran 'Cross in the Road' through it again."

"Oh yeah?" She coiled hair around one finger anxiously.

"Before, you were entering at #98. Now, you're entering at #144. A forty-six place drop. Sorry, Sab."

Her shoulders sagged. "Great."

"*There's still some hope. I have an idea to promote it. We can get the song played in a few megachurches in the deep south. It has the word 'Cross' in the title, so we can pass it off as Christian rock. Also—*"

"Thanks, Nigel," She sighed despondently, and hung up.

---

She remembered Goffman's stare, Goffman's words. Goffman, The Fourth Day, the man who created stars.

He was a clown, but it was a clown's world.

Was this her choice? To either fail with Goffman, or fail without him?

I can either burn my career down with his bizarre stunt...or watch as it gutters out like a fire being pissed on. What difference does it make? I'll be working as a real estate agent by age 40 either way.

...but if I choose the latter road, I'll go mad, wondering what might have happened if I'd been bolder.

And then - rising through troubled darkness - came broken fragments of her song's lyrics, taking wing like birds.

...sometimes, you just need to make a choice..."

Yes. Sometimes you did.

---

In the days that follow, a series of strange ads blanketed Twitch, Tiktok, and Youtube.

YOU CAN DO ANYTHING...EXCEPT LOOK AWAY

#SabrinaCarpenter #March3 #CrossintheRoad

Ripples and eddies of curiosity spiked across the internet. Just what was this?  There were no advance listening parties. No drops. No clips. Just the promise that on March the 3rd, the world would see something it would never forget.

---

At a remote site, Sabrina worked with her crew to realize Goffman's plan. Even Nigel reluctantly agreed to cooperate.

She almost pulled the plug several times.

Goffman was an incredibly annoying person to work with. Emotional. High-strung. Paranoid. Delusional. Prone to crying fits, which Sabrina personally had to assuage—assuagement that always ended with her sucking his cock. He rented a trailer—with her money—and blasted "They're Coming To Take Me Away, Ha Ha!" at deafening volume across the field where they'd camped. He demanded that her entire staff provide proof of ID, so he could verify that they weren't CIA replicants.

Three days before launch, she had to stop her road crew from killing him. She was balls-deep in a logistics problem relating to her upcoming tour, when she heard shouts echoing across the field.

She flung open her tour bus window.

A fight was happening on the gravel campsite. Carl Winslow, her head of security, was smashing the shit out of Robert Goffman. He was a massive guy himself—next to her troubled promoter, he was a few inches shorter and fifty pounds heavier—who'd been a first draft pick for the Los Angeles Rams. And now he was whaling furiously on Goffman, who was cowering beneath the punches.

Sabrina launched herself between the two gigantic men. Now that career ruin was almost assured, she'd become far less protective of her body.

"Cut that shit!" she yelled, raising her hands. "Carl, what's going on here?"

"This piece-a-shit said The Sex Pistols were a boy band!" Winslow growled.

"It's true!" Goffman wailed. "They were!" When Winslow cocked a fist, he shrank back from it. "Look it up!"

"Go for a walk, Carl," Then Sabrina spun to face her promoter. "Robert, I'm trying to make this work, but you're making it really difficult. Stop picking fights for five minutes. I can't keep protecting you."

"He was a fake person, anyway," Goffman muttered, slinking away. "The Fourth Day saw the glint of metal in his eyes. Silicon. Don't turn your back on that one."

Sabrina stormed back to her tour bus, flung herself into bed, wrapped a pillow around her head, and screamed.

---

On March the 1st, she couldn't sleep. Neither could anyone else.

Outside her tour bus, she heard Nigel make endless, anxious phone calls to her record label. His voice had the pleading tenor of an abused child trying not to get screamed at. Yes. I understand. I know you're not paying for it. I know you're not accepting legal liability. I understand!

From further away, she heard Goffman and Winslow talking around a campfire. They seemed to have patched up their feud over a blunt. That was good. One problem down.

She counted down the hours, then counted down the seconds, as night seemed to fold around her like the curtains of some hypnogogic seraglio. She played "Cross in the Road" on repeat as March the 2nd dawned. The day arrived like any other. An anticlimax. That, too, was fine.

If Goffman's plan worked, the climax would be hers.

---

The newly-constructed I-3 Interstate Corridor spanned central California, with San Ysidro as its southernmost terminus.

The three-lane, asphalt road slashed across the state like a black surgical scar. It was designed to relieve traffic congestion between nearby freight channels.

Its daily traffic was estimated at over 5,000 trucks.

A few miles out of the city, a large bridge overpass overlooked the I-3. It was a steel-cabled arch that spanned the six lanes, its sides shielded by a wire mesh fence to deter jumpers.

Sabrina, Nigel, Winslow, Goffman, and her tour roadies set up on the overpass at nine o'clock, when traffic really started to slug the road.

Alright, she gulped, standing thirty feet above the I-3. .She gripped the edge of the fence, staring down into the onrushing river of traffic.

Five thousand trucks a day used this road. And if she stood against the fence, half of them would see her.

Goffman had found her an audience, at least.

"What if we get arrested?" Nigel adjusted his collar.

"Mission accomplished." Goffman said flatly.

"What if a truck crashes?"

"Again, mission accomplished."

"What if we..."

Sabrina's nerves were wound garrotte-tight. "Nigel, don't you fucking get it? There is no form of publicity from this that could be bad for us."

"Precisely," Goffman said. "The only way to lose the game is if nobody cares."

"Alright," Sabrina said, staring into the wind, feeling it tear her hair at the roots. "I think I'm ready."

Liar.

"Tie me up against the fence."

---

She undressed; left her clothes on the overpass. She stood, a caterpillar molted to a golden butterfly.

Then her roadies lifted her up - Carl Winslow palmed her ass, enjoying the chance to grope his boss's naked body - and lashed her against the fence, high above the road below.

Her arms and legs were spreadeagled and secured with silken Shibari ropes, which were double-looped to crossbars on the iron fence. Her body sagged. It did not fall.

She hung like Jesus, crucified naked above the highway, passing divine feminine judgment on the trucks speeding between her outspread legs.

At first, the howling wind stole Sabrina's mind, her awareness. It reduced her into a blank space, rattling and freezing in space. Then, what she was doing crashed in on her.

Everyone could see her naked body. Everyone. Soon she'd be captured on the dashcams and cell phones of hundreds of truckers, who would share them across the internet.

Knowledge of this sent a knifeblade of arousal through her moist and throbbing twat.

She loved to sit at home and masturbate while thinking about all the men jerking off to her pictures, her videos. And none of them had seen her like this before: tits exposed and flapping, cunt being fucked raw by the wind's cock. Less than a dozen men had seen her naked. By the end of the day, the number would have increased to thousands. Once the videos hit the internet, tens of millions would see her naked body. Hundreds of millions.

Sabrina breathed in gray exhaust from the road thirty feet beneath. It filled her mind with poisonous, stinking dreams. She was taking control of her destiny; revealing who she was.

A whore.

This time tomorrow, she would be a viral sensation. And into that media environment, "Cross in the Road" would fall like a match into a tank of gasoline.

Spreadeagled, pinned between metal and the foul petrocarbon air of the highway, Sabrina prepared for the unknown. The one thing you cannot prepare for.

She heard Goffman reading extracts of Blake. He loudly declaimed verse over the chorale of trucks.

"In seed-time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
*Drive your cart and your plough over the bones of the dead.*
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
*Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.*
He who desires, but acts not, breeds pestilence."

Her hefty thighs quivered. Moistness trickled out of her slit, running down her left thigh to her knee before the dirty wind dried it. Her whole body itched and boiled with sweat. She wanted to scratch herself, but couldn't. She wanted to masturbate, but couldn't do that, either. Her arms were restrained with the Lux Bondage knots.

"Hurt me," she hissed to the men of her road crew.

Winslow and two other guys approached the pile of bondage equipment stacked at the edge of the overpass.

They selected black tribal facemasks, each depicting the heads of animals, each chased with gold filigree. Winslow chose a boar mask. The second man chose a stag. The third, a fox.

Goffman already wore his mask: a cat. He watched from the side - not intervening, just staring, and shouting.

"The cut worm forgives the plough.
*Dip him in the river who loves water.*
A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
*He whose face gives no light shall never become a star."*

Nigel stood well back, at the far side of the overpass, sweating his pomaded hair to lank tresses. He wanted no part of this.

Then Sabrina's roadies advanced, and started beating her.

The stag swung a paddle against the curvaceous thickness of her ass.

SMACK!

The blow landed dead center in the middle of her ass cheek. Lashed in place, she swung against the fence, biting back a scream. Pain-embrittled pleasure burst through her crotch.

He paddled her ass over and over. SMACK!  SMACK!  She felt her hefty economy-sized buttocks shake and jiggle with each impact. Trembles ran up her spine. An excited frisson burned in her mind like a live coal.

With muscles bulging in his arms, the stag-man beat on her like a drum. Pounding her ass until ivory-white became pink, and pink became red.

She moaned in delirious rapture as the fox-masked man selected a heavy silicone braided whip. He swung it experimentally. The plaited coils hissed and cracked, declaring itself in a sussurant voice made of woven plastic and pain.

He lashed it against her back.

Swish! Crack!

Sensation. Raw sensation. Her mind was plunged reeling and blind into a conceptual abyss. She'd never imagined something could feel so bad and so good.

The two roadies accelerated their assault. One paddling her ass, the other flogging her back. Her vision streaked with tears. She saw trucks driving under her—dozens of trucks, perhaps hundreds—until they all blurred together into one. A racing snake made of metal and eyes, all of them staring up at her quaking body, her jiggling tits. An exhibitionist's paradise.

Swish! Crack!

Sabrina's clit was pounding frantically. A countdown seeking a bomb to detonate. Desperately aroused, Sabrina tried to hump herself to orgasm against the fence.

"UHHHH! UHHHHH! HARDER!"

All culture, all civilization fell away from her as she moaned out in lust, pumping her hips. She was a creature consisting of bundled nerves, focused tightly around erogenous zones, and all of them were now communicating a bleak, deathlike pleasure.

The pleasure of the beaten.

"The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
*The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.*
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
*The nakedness of woman is the work of God!"*

Swish! Crack!

"AHHH!" If she didn't cum, she would die.

Swish! Crack! *Swish! Crack!*

"Fuck me now!" she roared, matching the trucks in volume.

The two men stepped back. Nigel, looking shellshocked by the debauchery in front of him, did so as well - forgetting her was already at the edge. He almost fell, and was caught by the fence.

Then the boar masked man - Winslow - dived right in, ripping the mask away and burying his big head between the big pale orbs of her sweaty ass. He cupped the paddle-heated bottoms of Sabrina's buttcheeks, squeezed her monstrous orbs until they swallowed his entire head. He grunted and gurgled like a pig at a trough, fat penis throbbing. Sabrina shuddered as her ass was motorboated.

His hands rubbed, sought, and found. One hand slid a thumb into her asshole, worming into her bowels. She bucked her hips back onto it frantically. The second teased her clit.

He jerked her off, until pleasure crescendoed upward, overwhelming her mind.  She was a prisoner of sensation. Her vision glaze, froze, then broke like snow. She glimpsed the trucks in front of her, heard Goffman's chanted apocalypse behind her. Felt the finger beneath her, pumping her clit.

She came, almost screaming her voice-box loose..

Her eyes rolled upward, her pelvis jackhammered against the fence, and an enormous spasm twisted through her midsection.

A huge arc of squirt pulsed out of her convulsing pussy. She watched it blast downward, the arc curving with gravity and wind-shear, until her bolt of female ejaculate smacked against the windshield of a passing truck. She heard the messy, splattery sound as it slammed against the glass. Even from thirty feet up, the sound was audible.

The truck driver didn't hit his horn or swerve or offer any reaction to the girlsquirt drenching the cabin window of his Mack rig. He just stayed the course, passing beneath the overpass like all the others.

Some people were just professionals. Sabrina liked that.

"As the plough follows words, so God rewards prayers.
*The tigers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.*
Expect poison from the standing water.
*You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough."*

Sabrina was still rattling against the fence, prisoner of an all-devouring orgasm, but Winslow wasn't finished. His huge throbbing hard-on pointed straight at her naked slit. He gripped Sabrina's shoulders and drove his cock into her pussy.

schloorpp!

She arched her back like a bow as his fat shaft gaped her. Winslow just plunged his cock into the warm hole beneath Sabrina's trembling butt cheeks, gasping as he went balls deep, pummeling the shit out of her cunt. He fucked relentlessly, five minutes becoming ten. His boss's sneakered feet waved helplessly against her restraints as her pussy was violated.

"FUCK YEAH!" He grunted and let his cum blast. Rope after rope poured into Sabrina hot snatch. "UHHH I CAN'T GODDAMN STAND IT!" After about ten seconds of orgasming, he sheathed himself, going soft inside her soft, cum-filled depths.

SHLUCLK! His big, flaccid prick pulled wetly from her abused slot, which released a drenching river of sperm down both her legs.

"That's for docking me pay that long weekend," Winslow said, slapping her beaten-raw ass hard enough to leave a handprint.

Sabrina's head fell back, her mouth flapped open, and her drooling tongue lolled out into the howling wind. Anxious sweat baked through her skin, instantly drying. A film of filth and exhaust was sticking to her glistening body.

Then the stag-masked man stepped up.

"You got a real nice fat ass..." Stag Mask panted, gripping Sabrina's plump, fleshy buttocks with both hands, squeezing the doughy cheeks and causing the mounds to spread apart. He dug his fingers into the soft, kneadable flesh, letting handfuls of taut jiggly babyfat escape his fingers.

Stag Mask spread Sabrina's big buttcheeks apart, exposing her puckered asshole. A dark spot, staining a sweat-drenched field of flesh. The wrinkled ring of muscle winked at him between the two pale mounds of assflesh. He spat into it, scoring a bullseye right on her butthole.

Sabrina screamed and cried as he began fucking her, tossing her head, thrashing her body. His stubby cock pummeled her slack cunt relentlessly.

She grunted and rolled and swung in space. His jackhammering hips were causing the wire fence to visibly sway and bend. She heard a rivet go pop somewhere. I might deadass just fucking die here, she thought, imagining herself tumbling thirty feet down, to die beneath the rolling eighteen-wheelers. Five thousand trucks a day. But I'll only need one.

Stag Mask slammed his cock into her pussy, rutting her sloppy cunt furiously. He blasted his load seconds later, filling her like a turkey baster. She climaxed with him, screaming her release into the thrumming ostenato of the trucks rattling the overpass.

To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
*Damn braces; bless relaxes.*
The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest.
*Prayers plough not; praises reap not; joys laugh not; sorrows weep not.*

Up next was Fox Mask.

"Gonna tear you in half..." final roadie growled, rubbing his rock-hard cock between Sabrina's cheeks. He slapped her ass, watching the pale flesh jiggle loosely.

He penetrated her from behind, railing her furiously.

Sabrina had regained some measure of her composure. "Can't you fuck me any harder with that big dick you have?"

He wrapped one hand around a meaty ass cheek, and began ploughing ever more deeply into her vagina, using her hips to gain leverage.

SPLURG! SHLICK! SCHLORP! The obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh echoed from the overpass.  Sabrina's clit began pulsating, and she had a third orgasm. She whined shrilly as her cunt began to open and close like a milking machine around his rock-hard pole.

Cum began blasting out in torrents, pouring down her bucking and pumping legs like twin waterfalls.

Obscene squelching. Loud schlicking. The Blakean ranting of Goffman. The endless sempiternal roar of the traffic. The pounding of her slipstreaming pulse as it race-race-raced in her ears. It all seemed linked somehow. Connected. Like she'd laid a finger on some elementary heartbeat, some secret language that everything that fucked and moved and loved and lusted and burned and destroyed knew and could speak.

Fox Mask was grunting and moaning, his thrusts losing rhythm. The moist, sloppy sounds of her cunt being pulverized flooded the air of the overpass—fleshy, messy, drippy, gut-smashing sounds of unbridled intercourse.

"Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
Where man is not, nature is barren.
Truth can never be told so as to be understood and not to be believed.
Enough! or Too much."

Sabrina's thick body bucked and wobbled as he pounded her, thumping eight solid inches into her breedable pussy.

His balls erupted and a torrent of hot cum slammed out of his wide open piss slit and spurted into her twat. His penis duct flexed with the size of the blasts pouring into her.

Then he pulled back, only to be replaced by a fourth cock.

Goffman? No. Too small.

She twisted her head around, and saw Nigel mounting her!

She squawked in surprise as he started fucking his hot boss. She hadn't thought he had it in him.

"UGH..." Sabrina grunted and moaned. Her snatch convulsed around his plunging cock, writhing slickly. The wrongness, the weirdness, the strangeness of being fucked by a man she'd been seventy percent sure was gay was doing a number on her..

All men, no matter how well behaved, are just one hot pussy away from turning into total werewolves.

She grunted loudly as he picked up the pace. the sound of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh emerging through wind and traffic.

Nigel lunged into the ultra-hot pop singer, jackhammering his pelvis into the soft pillows of her ass. He gripped her hips and blasted: loud splattering noises were audible as he filled her pussy with thick sperm. His cock pulsed six shots into her before his balls were empty.

He pulled his soft cock out with a satisfied grunt. A disgustingly huge creampie flowed out of the stunned girl's pussy, running down to the concrete. There was so much. Her leg-spread body was now suspended over a puddle of sperm and squirt.

Last was Robert Goffman.

He flung the poetry book aside and approached her, panting like a demon summoned from hell. She heard—and felt—his hot panting on the nape of her neck, and shivered.

Goffman grabbed Sabrina's wide hips, his fingers sinking into the doughy flesh. He positioned the tip of his cock at her quivering asshole.

An orgasmic shudder coursed through Sabrina's body. Her asshole winked, as if coquettishly inviting him in.

With a hard thrust of his hips, he plunged his thick shaft deep into her bowels.

"Unnngh! Tight ass!" He grunted as he began pumping his cock in and out of Sabrina's rectum. Her anal walls squeezed his throbbing shaft, gripping him like a velvety glove. He could feel her heartbeat through the thin membrane separating her ass from her pussy.

He pistoned his hips faster, slamming his cock deep into Sabrina's guts with each powerful thrust. His heavy balls slapped loudly against her pussy with meaty smacks. Wet squelching noises torrented out into the wind as he sodomized her, punctuated by the driving drumbeat of flesh clapping flesh.

CLOPP! CLOPP! CLOPP!

Sabrina couldn't believe that his ten inch monster was inside her rectum, thrashing frantically like a living thing. Her anal walls clenched around him, gripping his enormous plunging prick as it savagely defiled her back door.

The prick filled her ass all the way up. Then it pulled back, the sudden vacuum almost as discombobulating as the penetration itself. Then thrusts began. Powerful, hard, and fast. Her insides went from empty to full a hundred times, as the man solidly sodomized her with long strokes. She felt as if she were being turned inside out, the enormous pole wreaking havoc on her guts—shredding them or mashing them to a pulp.

He was pistoning in and out of Sabrina's shitter with relish, squirting out smooth precum to lather up her anal chute until the sounds of sloppy, sticky buttfucking filled the air.

"Yeahhh take it! Take this cock up your shitter!" Goffman snarled, giving Sabrina's asscheeks a hard spank. He gripped her love handles for leverage as he pounded her asshole into submission.

He fucked Sabrina's ass with animalistic grunts, his cock sawing in and out of her stretched anus. He could feel his climax approaching, his balls drawing up tight. With a bellowing roar, he unloaded his pent-up semen directly into her bowels.

"Fuuck! Gonna FILL YOUR ASS!" Goffman groaned as his cock lurched and throbbed, pumping thick ropes of jizz deep into Sabrina's rectum. Her anal walls clenched and rippled around his shaft, milking out every drop of his cum.

Goffman pulled out of Sabrina's ass with a wet plop. A river of semen oozed out of her gaping asshole, dribbling down her taint and dripping onto the tarmac. Her puckered rosebud remained obscenely stretched, unable to close properly after being gaped by his huge cock.

And then...

With the world spinning, the ground and air changing place, trucks seeming to drive not across the road but across the vault of the sky, eighteen wheels tearing gashes through cloud...

...They released her restraints.

Sabrina's exhausted body crashed slackly to the concrete. She was shuddering, out of her mind with pleasure. At first, she didn't know if she wanted to return to the world. Then, as details of the overpass sketched themselves before her eyes and the sound of trucks hammering the road returned to her ears, she decided she did. It was a strange but wonderful world. Woven of horror and wonder, of mutually annihilatory extremes fluxed and coiled around and inside each other like a Klein bottle, inseperable and a unity. A world she could remake in her image. A world where she could be queen.

I did it. I pulled it off.

Fuck you, Island Records! You want scandal? You want a spectacle!

Sabrina - broken, battered, sweat-soaked, sperm pouring down her legs from both holes - stood and raised her fists on the overpass and screamed in triumph down into the pounding traffic, feeling like Russell Crowe.

Are you not entertained?

---

The next day...nothing happened.

There were no videos concerning the incident.

No tweets.

Not a single mention that the world's biggest pop singer had spent the morning getting gangbanged by her entire management crew on an interstate highway.

Nothing.

---

!alt text

A mood of defeat hung over their meeting on the day of the single launch.

"Well, that sucks," Sabrina said miserably.

"I don't believe it!" Goffman had been crying for hours. "HOW COULD WE BE SO UNLUCKY?"

"I always said it was a stupid idea," Nigel said, with some satisfaction.

Sabrina smacked the table, wanting to cry.

"What are the odds that yesterday would be the day they close the I-3 Corridor to civilian traffic, so a fleet of Waymo self-driving trucks can use the road? What are the fucking odds?"

"It was listed on the California Department of Transportation's website." Nigel said.

Then he glanced pointedly in Goffman's direction. "Not to point fingers, but isn't it *someone*'s job to stay on top of details like that?"

Goffman threw an empty beer bottle against the wall. It exploded.

"I'VE BEEN IN AN INSTITUTION FOR TEN YEARS, YOU JACKASS! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW SELF-DRIVING TRUCKS EXIST?!"

Then he ran out of the room, tears streaming down his face, and slammed the door after him.

"I notice that he's stopped calling himself 'The Fourth Day'," Nigel observed.

"Whatever." Sabrina didn't give a fuck what that dork called himself.

"The self-driving trucks will have recorded you on their dashcams," Nigel said, trying to raise her spirits. "So there's still a chance..."

Sabrina sighed. "Nobody's going to look at the dashcam footage unless there's an accident. And even if they do, the single will be long forgotten by then."

There was no way to avoid it: the stunt had been a bust.

Her back ached from the flogging she'd received. She was walking bow-legged. Her cunt and asshole felt like MC Escher and HR Giger had imaginatively redesigned her interiors using a jackhammer, a trench-hole digger and the jaws of life. She'd blown all her money on ads, thrown away her dignity, burned whatever bridges remained with Island Records...and what for?

She had nothing to show for any of it.

So ends a dream.

Over a thousand trucks had passed under the bridge while she was getting gangfucked.

...a thousand trucks, with not a single person inside them.

---

"Cross in the Road" was released on March the 3rd.

It received little promotion. A couple of megachurches played the song at assemblies and public events. Rumors of payola could not be substantiated.

But the few people that heard it loved it. The more they heard it, the more they requested it.

And slowly, the song became a sleeper hit.

From the megachurches, it flowed to Nashville, and soon entered superhot rotation in the incestuous network of AM/FM stations radiating like bicycle-spokes from Nash-vegas. They promoted the shit out of the track. Soon, the didn't have to. It was promoting itself.

Its chart position began bulleting upward. From #80, it went to #40, then to #19, then into the top ten.

That winter, "Cross in the Road" was featured in a Hallmark movie about a cute dog who becomes a Christian. And then a Hallmark movie about a cute extraterrestrial who becomes a Christian. And then a Hallmark movie about a cute Christian who becomes an even better denomination of Christian.

Sabrina's new, heavily Baptist audience ate up the song, particularly the lyrics - which they understood to be a pro-abstinence message. Soon, she was being booked for interviews at places called Songs in the Key of Christ and and Sunday Morning Fever and Jesus Take the Aux Cord and *Soulify Praylist*.

"Sabrina, it's a wonderful message you're sending girls with this new song," the host of Christian music podcast Hymn and Hers effused to her. He looked disturbingly like Ned Flanders, except his sweater was blue instead of green. "Young women have a choice - they don't have to dress and act like sluts! Instead, they can be spiritually slutty...for Jesus!"

"And we really love how you promoted it!" His female co-host wore pearls, a cross necklace, and hemlines ten demure inches below the knee. "No twerking. No booty shorts. No disgusting sexualized publicity stunts. When those ads started appearing, I worried that something gross was coming up. But instead, you focused your fans' attention on what matters - God!"

"Uh, thanks." Sabrina fidgeted in her seat. "Yeah, I guess that's what I was going for."

---

"Cross in the Road" hit number one on the Billboard Hot 100 a month after release. Sabrina kept trying to pinch herself awake.

When she heard the news, she decided to pay a certain acquaintance a visit.

She found Robert Goffman dwelling in a filthy dive off Venice Beach, eking out a living on the stipend she had paid him. The Fourth Day seemed to have lost his mojo. He had not worked with any other clients since his parole.

She stood in front of his apartment door. It was hard to miss. A cat's mouldering skull was nailed to the door, and the sentence THE EARTH WAS WITHOUT FORM AND VOID, AND DARKNESS WAS OVER THE FACE OF THE DEEP was scratched into the wood.

She turned up her nose. Good to see you living your best life, Robert.

Inside, she found the former svengali hunkering in squalor, looking despondent.

"We did it, Robert!" she squealed, bouncing in front of him. "The song's the biggest hit of my career! My manager tells me I'm the year's breakout Christian music sensation. Whatever, I guess. I'll take it!"

"Why thank me?" he mumbled. "I didn't do shit. I failed. Nigel's plan made your song a hit."

Goffman stared out of the window of his grungy third-floor walk-up. He looked delusional, disconnected, and somehow...piteous.

"I'm not The Fourth Day anymore. I can't create stars. It's gone. *The bugmen won.*"

She clasped his hand in hers, and sat next to him on the bed.

"You know, I never gave one thought to what that song was actually *about*. The lyrics were written by ten different producers. That's the business. You sing someone else's words and pretend they mean jack shit to you."

She began to grow aroused. A glow started to uncoil in her; twisting and writhing like a burning hot wire in her flesh.

"But you were right. It is a song about taking control of your destiny. Of making a bold, courageous choice, even if it turns out to be the wrong one. Robert...*you did that*. You gave the song its meaning."

He stared into her eyes. His mad, intense eyes pierced her to the wall like crucifixion nails.

"Do you know why I'm here?" she asked.

Goffman shook his head, but it was a lie. A little mischievous turn of his lips gave it away.

He knew.

Sabrina couldn't sit still. "Because, I want the stupid choices to *just keep coming*."

His huge space-alien hands were all over her, making her flesh sing. Choices made; die cast. They were kissing; they were undressing. Her cunt throbbed with desire. I want to fuck the alien some more.

THE END