Unsure of how to extricate herself, gracefully or otherwise, from the compromised position she found herself in, Madonna stayed rigt where she was.

She said not a word as she stared down at Lance, who said not a word in reply, and was even more confused than she was.

The fading beauty had always been able to think her way out jams, and as jams go, this wasn’t much of one. There were no witnesses to the aborted sexual assault. In fact, even if there was video footage of what had happened, she could plausibly say that rubbing her heaving mammalian protuberances across the boy’s face was absolutely involuntary, that it could have happened during an intense spell of vertigo, which could be a delayed side effect of the CORONA virus.

No one would believe a word of it, of course, but she would never be convicted in a court of law, not even if the pack of merciless legal jackals prosecuting her were dead loyal to Lady Gaga. Besides, Lance wasn’t going to be complaining to anyone, anyway, so, no harm no foul.

Unless, of course, the boy reported the innocent, harmless transgression to Kitty. If that happened, shit could get ugly. And Madge knew damn well that if little Kitty Kaboodle’s black eyes turned red with fury, she could transform into a Hellcat, the likes of which had not been seen on this planet since Artemisia I of Caria lead the second Persian invasion of Greece.

At an early age, Madonna Cicone learned to not be prone to panicking. She didn’t have to read Kipling to understand the veracity of his most famous quote; the vast majority of her knowledge was empirical, and she called upon it now, to deal with the small mess that had been caused by her inner demons. The best thing to do, rigt now, was just to drink it over.

So, after straddling the boy for almost a minute, she finally spoke. “Sorry, Lance, that got a little out of control. Adrenaline is a crazy thing,” she said, getting to her feet. Then, just in case, she said, “I think I had an attack of vertigo, too. Maybe a delayed side effect of the virus.”

Not knowing what the fuck to make of what had just gone down, Lance got himself into a sitting position on the floor, but remained silent until Madonna said, “I think I need a drink,” and asked, “You want one? A beer?”

“Sure, a beer sounds good,” the boy said, thinking maybe she was gonna get him drunk, and then rape hm.




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