Chapter 28
Various Ambushes

"Matheson," the investigator murmured into his cell phone.

"This is Scott. There seems to be a second team setting up at the Adams place."

"How many?"

"Three, I think. Unless they're smarter than they look."

"Any idea who?"

"Not sure, but at a guess, they're Pinkham's boys. I think that Flood is placing them."

"Okay, I'll alert the support team." Matheson hung up and called Davis, who had the security team for Nora at this time of the day.

"Davis."

"Matheson. Scott says it looks like Pinkham's people are setting up around the Adams place."

"Okay. We're up at the hospital -- Ms. Adams has a crowd. I'm pretty sure young Nate is planning to go get himself some clothing, though, from the intercepts." Christensen, managing the audio equipment, nodded. The pair were in a van, downstairs; Allenby was close-in, wandering the ward upstairs. Matheson had bugged the room himself, during his visit.

"Okay, I think we should prepare for something to go down," Matheson directed. "The three of you stay ready, and I'll go there and we'll have the surveillance team in place's support, too. That's about two to one..."

"Okay," Davis confirmed, "We'll be ready."

"We're going to want to ID these guys and get a grip on their intentions -- without seriously endangering Nora or Nate..."

"Roger." Davis' military background showed periodically.

"I'm headed out -- keep us posted."

"Will do."

Matheson made for his car, calling Scott back en route, "There might be some action; Nate is going by to pick up clothing. Get ready for trouble; the team on Nora is briefed and will let us know. I'm on the way there..." Next, he called the duty supervisor, briefing him. The surveillance team normally assigned to Sharon embarked in a van to assist.

Crossing George's palm with silver had gotten Flood into the apartment. "I bet you five bucks he ain't been here in a coupla days," he grunted. Jaime, scoping the living room, shrugged. "Okay, he ain't here now, so we back out until he gets here. Let's go!" Nate could have been a bunch of places, but he wasn't -- Flood was right. The pair retreated to positions outside the apartment, inconspicuously watching the approaches.

Randall nerved himself for his second 'tutoring session' with Peggy Ellis. Peggy had made things pretty clear, yesterday, receiving him in an empire-waisted sundress that was thin enough to see through and short enough to see under and a pair of sandals with short heels -- and apparently nothing else! Follow-on activity was just as obvious; she kept finding ways to wrap her unfettered breasts around his upper arm while leaning over his shoulder to look at the chemistry book. Late in the session, Peggy had begun overtly touching him, putting her hand on his back when she leaned in, and letting it drift over his ass as she withdrew. Randall had a hard time keeping his mind on the material he was trying to impart, which raised another of Peggy's shortcomings -- she wasn't the brightest bulb in the circuit, and probably DID need the assistance. Randall frankly didn't see any future in laying Peggy, but his glands kept telling him that the present would do quite nicely... Staring at the chessboard, he rubbed his forehead distractedly.

Jimmy Hightower grinned. "C'mon, Man, this move isn't rocket science..." He was winning handily, which told him that Randall was distracted as clearly as Randall's expression. "What's up?"

"I have to go tutor Peggy in Chemistry..." Randall sighed.

"That's a fate worse than death?"

"Well, it's supposed to be chemistry, but to Peggy, it's pretty obviously biology..."

"Oh? Porky Peggy is chasing you? When did THIS start?" Jimmy chuckled.

"Yesterday, out of the blue," Randall grunted. "I dunno..."

"What?"

"Well, she spent an hour and a half trying to get me to jump her bones -- and when you get past the basic size thing it's not like she's a hag or anything -- but she's pretty slow..."

"Ummm," Jimmy flashed a glance at where Amy Kelleher sat, ten feet away, reading a magazine, "Brains aren't everything, Man..." How could he couch this so as not to get in trouble with his girlfriend?

Amy demonstrated fine hearing without looking up. "I picked Jimmy for his brains, among other things -- but not because I want to compete with them. We have other things in common, but I let him run the brains department, while I bring other things to the table..."

Jimmy, mostly off the hook, wriggled the rest of the way. "Amy has the common sense franchise." His reward for this was Amy looking up from her magazine and blowing him a kiss. "And maybe a couple of other things... Point is, it might work for you."

"I dunno, Man."

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to try it out..."

"I guess not. Check." Randall moved a rook.

"Maybe getting laid again would make you a better chess player," Jimmy observed, taking the rook. "Mate. Go take care of business, Man."

Twenty minutes later, Randall was on Peggy's front step. This time, her mother answered the bell, and Randall got a look at what was undoubtedly Peggy in twenty years -- something somewhat larger in all dimensions. Still, the woman was somewhat sweet-faced, if a bit jowly. "Hi, I'm Randall. I'm tutoring Peggy in Chemistry..."

"Oh, I see..." The woman backed up and waved him in, her expression saying that she understood a good deal more than what was said. Randall entered gingerly, wondering what was up.

The answer seemed to be 'Peggy'. She'd found a halter-top that covered her belly while offering even less control of her breasts than yesterday's sundress. She was contriving to display a large amount of relatively creamy flesh at the back while the handkerchief-cut front dipped below the waistline of the short black skirt she was wearing with it -- and of course the obligatory sandals with the short stiletto heels... Thinking about it, Randall realized he'd NEVER seen her in flats; Peggy's calves, while large, were well-shaped for their size, and Peggy undoubtedly knew that defining them using heels was important. Randall, being Randall, wondered what they DID look like in flats...

The look on Peggy's mother's face said she usually did her homework in sweats -- but then, Randall had figured THAT out the day before. Ah, well... "Where were we?"

Peggy played up. "Mr. Friedrichs handed out a bunch of problems today -- molar volume calculations. Can we take a look?"

"Okay. Let's see 'em." Seconds later, Randall was wondering vaguely what Peggy thought he'd meant as she lurched up out of the chair, climbed onto it on her hands and knees, and leaned clear across the table to pick the paper up off of a pile there. The motion lifted the skirt halfway up the bare moons of her ass cheeks and Randall became embroiled in that age-old war to determine whether the head on his shoulders or the one in his pants ruled his existence.

Actually, Randall's basic programming rendered the supposed conflict moot; the little head won, hands down. Randall found himself looking at the blonde fringe on a pair of puffy outer labia that framed a set of thin, delicate, and mildly damp inner lips, slightly open to expose a hint of pink flesh.

Randall came back to himself with the realization that he'd been reprocessing the image for several seconds, and Peggy was again seated, turned to hold the sheet up for him to accept. A guilty glance at Peggy's mother revealed the fact that she was apparently unaware that Peggy was sans panties and he'd just gotten a major flash; her return glance was puzzled. Randall shrugged and collected the sheet of problems.

Peggy smiled sardonically as she turned back to the table. Got him! He'd seen it, and he'd reacted -- now all she had to do was reel him in... For the next fifteen minutes, she worked seated at the table with Randall hanging over her shoulder, going slowly from a start point with both his hands on the chair back (which was unsatisfactorily distant for both of them) to beside her with one hand draped over the chair back, to -- finally -- pointing out issues from close beside her with one somewhat sweaty hand on her bare shoulder.

Gladys Ellis, watching this out of the corner of her eye while she worked on dinner, was vaguely disquieted -- but both of them were apparently intent on whatever ungodly piece of science they were wrestling with, and the boy was OBVIOUSLY well-credentialed as an instructor...

Randall's bent-over position fig-leafed his erection -- until Peggy deliberately turned to her right and rubbed her shoulder against it. Randall flicked a nervous glance at her, to find her face expressionless, but her eyes laughing as she asked, "Is it 'v squared', then?"

"Uh huh." Randall's fingers spread and squeezed a handful of her fleshy left shoulder without conscious direction.

"Okay, then, so..." But the verbal flow stopped there while Peggy took a moment for gleeful anticipation. Randall was in the trap! Now, how to close the door... The day before, it would have been easier, since her mother had been out shopping, but Randall had been more wary...

"Ahem..." Randall prompted. Jeezus, she could be slow... Even distracted, Randall had worked this one in his head in a few seconds. Randall wasn't good at multi-processing, but he could do the math, worry about whether he liked the feel of her fleshy shoulder, and still have available processor time -- not to mention wonder if she'd picked up on his hard-on when she nudged it with her shoulder, and, if so, what she was going to do about it.

"Ummm..." Back to chemistry; Peggy put her mind back on the rails and cranked out the answer.

Gladys provided the excuse for the move to Phase III by turning on the small kitchen TV. "Mom! How am I gonna concentrate?" Working up a fine head of bogus steam, Peggy announced, "I'm tired of trying to work here, anyway! We'll be in my room, where I have a computer to help!" Gladys blinked and started to impede the move that Peggy had immediately begun preparations for, collecting books and papers and shoving an armload on her lanky tutor -- but Peggy had produced two apparently perfectly valid reasons why continued efforts at the table were a hardship. Besides, it wasn't as if the boy was visibly drooling on her or anything... She stood down, shrugging. "Leave the door open."

Randall couldn't decide whether this pleased him or not; the big head was relieved, while the little one ranted at the lack of privacy and maneuvering room the tactic provided. Peggy led him to the stairs to the second floor and preceded him up them; the little head insisted on backing off in order to take advantage of the changed angle to ogle the swaying moons of Peggy's ass as she ascended ahead of him. Those moons were good-sized, but Randall was learning appreciation for them as he went.

Once in her room, Peggy went to her desk and started her PC, settling into the task chair. Randall followed, and she took his armload from him while he murmured, "I'm not sure we need the computer..."

"Well, it won't hurt to start it," Peggy smiled, " since I told Mother we did." She started arranging books and papers on the desktop. "Okay, where were we?"

"Number eleven, I think." Randall moved up on her right and the little head insisted that he replace his hand on her shoulder while he bent forward to peer at the problem list.

"Okay." Peggy surprised him by sliding her hand along the inside of his left leg. The little head went nuts, screaming, 'She wants it! Get in there and cop a feel!' Randall blinked owlishly; there were issues, here -- why couldn't he seem to remember them? Peggy's position kept her from working her hand UP his leg -- she was limited to somewhere around the knee and below -- but it was just as deliberate an invasion of HIS personal space as his hand on her shoulder -- and they both knew it. Furthermore, she was moving the hand, up and down, encouraging Randall to do the same...

"Let's see what we have, here..." Randall leaned further forward, and in the process moved his hand along the top of her shoulder to her neck. "This one looks pretty straightforward; why don't you take a run at it without me in the way?" He raised up and Peggy reluctantly leaned forward, releasing his leg -- but Randall's hand started moving all over her exposed upper back.

'Okay,' Peggy thought, 'That works. Damn! What can I do to push things along?' She re-focused and started working on the problem; Randall's hand was enough distraction without conscious thought about how to keep it moving... She worked at it, plugging figures into the formula and doing the math, and the next step took care of itself, as she rolled her head to the left, trapping his hand against her neck when it ventured there.

Randall froze. He'd been mindlessly inventorying the smooth skin of her broad upper back when she pinned his hand. Removing the thing didn't seem to be the right thing to do, so now what? The most natural thing seemed to be engaging her upper arm with his right hand... The little head pressed the attack -- if you consider walking through the open gates of a totally undefended fortress an attack! -- and Randall began rubbing Peggy's right shoulder and upper arm while nodding over her efforts.

This was good... Peggy was having some issues with writing straight with her head canted over to the left to trap his hand, but she didn't want to give him the freedom to step away, just yet -- not before he was too committed to do so, anyway... Half of her brain was handling the math, which had gotten to the simple manipulation phase, the thought process defining how to handle the problem being over -- and the other half was reveling in Randall's touch. His left hand was gently squeezing her shoulder and neck, and his right was drifting from the point of her shoulder up and down her upper arm.

Randall's attention drifted from the arm to the breasts immediately adjacent; they were big and juicy and capped with a pair of seriously stiff nipples... Randall couldn't see the color, but the things were poking serious bumps in her halter; chemistry was drifting rapidly out of the focus of his attention.

Peggy, starting to sense a victory in chemistry, triggered Phase IV inadvertently by raising her head and flopping back at problem completion, "There!"

Randall, taken totally by surprise, found his hand on a soft, globular breast with a nipple on it every bit as stiff as it looked! Peggy's sudden shift had caught him in mid rub, and his hand had lost contact with her arm and dropped onto her breast as a result of her motion. Both froze in shock, then Randall snatched away his hand as if it were burned. "Wups! Sorry!" But the little head was cheering, and his hand tingled from the feel of the soft flesh. Peggy's breasts were a lot different from Darla Jean's in shape and size, but the actual feel of them was very similar...

"It's okay," Peggy husked. "My fault. Want to check the problem?"

Randall, embarrassed, kept his hands to himself as he stepped forward, tracing the flow of the solution with a finger. "Yeah, that's it. Uhhh..."

"Cut it out," Peggy murmured, pinning him by wrapping an arm around the base of his butt. "I haven't exactly been screaming and yelling, have I?" She rubbed the theoretically violated breast against Randall's left leg, eyeing him coyly.

"Uh, no..."

"All right, then. Let's forget about it." Her expression became feral, and she added, "Or let's not..." She deliberately took his left hand in hers, and, wrapping it around her shoulder, laid it on her left breast. "Now," she added, businesslike, "I need to pass this quiz..." She leaned forward to examine the next problem, her hand still pinning his wrist.

"Okay, on to number... twelve..." The little head was in full control; Randall couldn't rely on memory it didn't have. He released her right hand from his hip so he could step back, but squelched her momentary disappointment by shifting to a point behind her and collecting her right breast, too. He was amazed at himself, and amazed at Peggy, who seemed content to deal with any old intrusion as if it were a minor matter. His fingers automatically settled on the stiff buds capping her fleshy mounds, and he began teasing them, gently pulling and twisting.

Peggy inhaled sharply through her nose. Mother had better stay downstairs, dammit! She released his left hand so she could rub up and down the arm. This next problem was going to be hard to read, even, never mind work... "Maybe we should take a break?" Randall stood there, trying to decide whether he should take the high road and insist that they work longer when Peggy scotched it by leaning back and husking, "Take them out..."

Randall's little head spoke directly to his hands; in a moment, they were full of soft breast flesh without an intervening layer of fabric. Peggy snaked her hand up behind his head, and Randall found himself taking her offered lips. This was good -- VERY good -- and it got better when Peggy followed husking, "Yeah, break time," in his ear with a nibble.

Peggy was going full-tilt, trying to figure out how to bring this scene to the point where she could feel him moving within her. Gone were long-range concerns; his hands on her breasts had lit her already smoldering desire and she needed a good quenching. Trapping his hands against her breasts, she leaned forward and turned on her portable CD player, just loud enough to drown out the moans she KNEW she was going to make if she could just keep Randall moving forward... Trapping his hands again, she rose from the task chair, moving to her right and then backing into him. Old Mister Eveready seated himself between the cheeks of her ass, iron-hard even through her skirt. "Mmmmmmm..." She reached behind her and rubbed Randall's crotch. Could they fuck here? No, probably not -- Mother might wander in if there was a commotion -- and there was going to be, if she got THAT out of his pants! Where, then? Of course! Sliding out of her sandals so the heel click wouldn't give them away, she murmured, "Shhhh! Follow me..."

On the way out, however, she stopped, melting against him for a moment, then got his attention and pointed to her night table. Even the untutored knew a birth control pill case; Randall got it immediately, and the last vestiges of sanity disappeared with the concern over possible pregnancy. Red-faced, practically panting, he went to work on her neck, eliciting a shuddering, "Oh, God... Hurry!"

She broke free, taking his hand and after a quick glance up and down the hall, she led him quietly toward the room her father had outfitted as his office/study, leaving the bedroom door wide open behind them in an effort at misdirection. Once inside, she closed the door behind them and led Randall to the big leather couch. There was no fear that her father would catch them -- he was on a sales trip in the Midwest -- or at least that's what he'd told Mother... The halter went on the floor as she seated herself, pulling him to stand before her and putting his hands back to work on her itchy, tingling nipples. "I want to see it," she husked, reaching for his fly.

Randall couldn't have stopped her if it meant his death. He couldn't even talk -- things had gone 'way too far for sanity. Peggy wanted it -- the little head had been telling him that all along, and now it was coming out to play...

"Omigod!" Freeing Randall's erection from his underwear brought a surprise -- the thing was MUCH bigger than anyone she'd had, except maybe August Lippmann's, and while August was in the same class, Randall was noticeably longer -- and harder, too! "Wow! Soooo nice!" She leaned forward, and Randall thought that she might start a blowjob, but she merely inhaled the scent, kissed the shaft briefly, and rubbed it against her cheek. Then she went to work at his belt, opening his pants and working his erection back through the opening in his underwear so she could slide the whole mess down his legs.

That done, she held it while she lay out flat on the couch, spreading her legs and flipping up her short skirt to expose her cunny (and provide some belly coverage in the process). "Put it in me, Randall! Fuck me!"

Randall was in no condition to argue; he fought with the wad at his ankles so that he could work properly braced, then threw himself at Peggy's exposed pussy. He stopped for a brief moment of discovery, opening her outer lips with is finger and collecting a fingerful of her honey to spread up and down her slot. This was the first pussy he'd actually SEEN, close-up; Darla Jean's had been operated on in darkness. The thing was amazing -- and he could tell already that the pair differed widely. But both of them were feeling the urgency, so Randall didn't delay long; instead, he knelt up and began sliding his cock up and down between her puffy nether lips.

Peggy was in no mood for delay; she pulled him up and forward, demanding penetration with her hands. Randall complied, discovering instantly one difference between Peggy and Darla Jean; Peggy was TIGHT -- incredibly tight -- so tight that wedging himself inside her was unbelievably difficult! Darla Jean had been tight, but Peggy was virtually crushing...

For Peggy, Randall was everything she believed that he would be, and more -- too much more! Early penetration was painful, but the pleasure component overrode it. But when Randall got his rhythm going, it became apparent that the pair were mismatched -- Randall bottomed out before he reached full depth! Impacts on her cervix were painful, causing her to bring up her legs to fend him off, "Easy!"

Randall backed off. Peggy pulled him higher, which helped them both by taking advantage of his length to stimulate her along the channel between her labia. Friction along her clitoris had her hugging him to her, crushing him to her globular breasts, moaning, "Okay, like that! Go! Go!"

Randall went. He drove himself like an automaton, allowing her to control penetration by taking him on her shins, and getting stimulation from dragging along her labia. In very little time, Peggy went rigid, almost unseating him, but her hugging arms counteracted the pressure from her shins, "UuuuuUUUUUUuugggghhhh!"

Randall rode right through this, managing to maintain something close to his pace while Peggy jammed up. This was good stuff, but he was having a problem with that last, little bit of sensation that would bring him off... After Peggy loosened up, things got better, but the urgency was gone for a bit. Randall kept driving, Peggy rubbing his back and grunting with every stroke. This time, they rose toward climax together, Randall driving through Peggy's rising resistance. As she began to surge in her final approach, Randall felt that tickle that a hundred masturbation sessions told him was his final countdown. He stepped up the pounding, pushing past Peggy's resistance and bringing her over the hump, then ground himself against her as he let go of his spunk, pouring it out in quantity in long pulses while she gasped and whined beneath him, "Hhhrrrrrrgh!"

Peggy clutched him to herself, "Wow! That was..." Words failed her. "We'd better get up, though..."

"Okay." Randall struggled up. Looking down at himself, he felt kind of foolish; he was naked below the waist. Snagging his pants, he started climbing into them.

Peggy had it easier -- all she had to do was put on her halter. After that, it was time to clean the excess off the leather of the couch, while ignoring the white leakage running down her legs. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Randall was still tucking in his shirttails.

"Okay. I STILL need to pass that test..."

"Let's go, then."

"I have to hit the bathroom first. I'll be right there."

"Okay." Randall headed for the bedroom, while Peggy made for the bath.

Two minutes later, Gladys found the boy alone in her daughter's room. "Where's Peggy?"

"Bathroom," Randall shrugged. He hoped she'd be quick; he was beginning to feel his post-coital urge...

Peggy was sopping up the aftermath. She was sore -- really sore -- worse even than the night she lost her virginity. During the act, it had been great, but now she was going to waddle for a couple of days... When she was done, she went back to her room and stepped into panties, the very first thing. "Ready?"

Randall grinned. "Now I have to pee..."

Nate pulled up before his ratty-looking apartment building. "This'll only take a sec..."

"I'm here, Nate -- might as well see..." Nora insisted. "Besides, I'm not sure being alone out here is a good idea, either."

"Awright. It ain't pretty."

"And how is that YOUR fault?" Nora cocked an eyebrow.

Nate shrugged and led the way inside. Two shadows detached themselves from locations in the immediate vicinity and followed...

The apartment was run-down; the furniture saggy, the TV set had rabbit ears instead of cable, and the walls could use some paint. But it was clean, and Nora had no doubt that it was because Nate had cleaned it. This became particularly clear from the doorway of Nate's tiny bedroom, which was as neat as everywhere else -- except the OTHER bedroom, visible through the door at the end of the hall... No, a woman who left her own things in such a mess didn't keep her son's as neat as a pin... Nate started digging through the closet, laying out some jeans and a couple of shirts -- but he didn't get to the dresser; the front door opened, and two guys walked in -- a big black and a Hispanic.

"Yo, Nate! Where's your Mama?" the black asked.

Nate moved Nora behind him with his eyes, and replied, "Hospital."

"She shoulda paid better attention to Rodday."

"Mebbe," Nate replied. "Mebbe Rodday's in deep shit."

"Oh?" The black passed a significant glance with his partner. "From who?"

Nate passed it off. "Then again maybe Rodday had nuthin' to do wit' it..."

Scott, just outside the door, grinned. Nate was doing his work for him -- just like he knew he was there. Stretch, Flood's lookout, hadn't been alert -- probably since the others had been there for hours. 'Thud' Thompson, his backup, was well-named, although he'd managed to keep Stretch from making a loud one on the floor after he hit him...

Flood grinned. "What do YOU think, Boy? You be sure that your Mama comes to see Rodday, as soon as she's better, now. He wouldn't want to have something ELSE happen to her..." His grin showed even more teeth. "Hospitals are SOOOO expensive. She's gonna have to work hard to pay for this... Too bad she ain't got a protector."

"What makes you think she don't?" Nate replied.

"He'd a' stuck his nose in shit by now," Flood replied.

"Mebbe you're fuckin' blind. Mebbe somebody's gonna get their dick cut off..."

"By you? Hey, whatcha got here, anyway? Come around front, Sweet Thang -- let's get a look at ya." Flood flicked a glance back at Nate. "Mebbe if you put your little piece, here, on the street, she can pay Mama's hospital bills."

"Now you done it," Nate grated. "Now you fuckin' done it!"

Flood had, too. It was a trigger point. Scott and Thompson came very quietly through the door. Flood wasn't laying hands on Miss Nora...

Nate telegraphed nothing; to his street-wise eyes, the new pair was night and day to Flood and Jaime. Nora's eyes widened; she wasn't as sure -- but Flood took that for fear generated by his threats. "Hey, Nate, how about I break her in for ya? After she's had a few strange dicks in her, she'll be another meal ticket -- just like Mama..."

BZZZZZZT! Thompson used a tazer on Jaime; he never knew what hit him. "Wha?" was all Flood got out before Scott hit him the first time. Flood was big, but Scott had surprise and martial arts training behind him; it took all of a second and a half to leave Flood semi-conscious on the floor.

"Everybody all right?" Scott asked perfunctorily. "We'd have come in sooner, but Mr. Adams was conducting such a fine interrogation..." Nate and Nora nodded, mildly dazed, and Scott went to radio, "All clear, here. I think we already know what we need to, but we might as well take these three somewhere and sweat them a bit."

"Agreed. Is the back way clear?" Matheson replied.

"Was when I came in."

"We're bringing the van around. I'll call you when it's all clear."

"Bring muscle. One of these guys is BIG, and they're both out of it."

"Will do."

"You can go on about your business, Sir," Scott advised Nate, "but I'd wait to leave until we're all ready, since both yours and Miss Nora's surveillance teams are tied up with this bunch..."

"Cool." Nate returned to his room and resumed collecting his things; only Nora noticed how his hands were shaking. "Can you take this? I gotta do something, and I'm gonna need my hands..." Nora nodded and followed him meekly out of the apartment, just as Matheson and two others arrived. Scott and Matheson passed a glance, and Matheson nodded; Scott followed the pair out at a distance. It wouldn't be a good thing to discover that Rodday had put a second team in place...

Nate led Nora down to the first floor, but instead of going out to the car, he headed for the back of the building. Knocking on the last door on the right, he yelled, "George! Open the fuck up!"

A blast of cigar smoke rolled out of the open door as George planted himself in it, sucking his stinkweed. "Yeah?" His glance flicked to the white chick standing behind Nate.

That may not have been his undoing, but it didn't help. Nate kicked the big man dead in the balls. "You muthafuckah! NEXT time, you'll think twice before lettin somefuckin'body in MY place!" Nate hit him with a left that smashed his head into the door facing and caused the cigar to go flying. "You sumbitch! I coulda been killed! And them fuckers was gonna do my woman..." George, kneeling semi-conscious, took another kick. "I oughta fuckin' kill you!" Nate took him by the shoulders and flipped him on his back in an effort that appeared superhuman to Scott, watching from down the hall, then followed him into the room.

Now that he had the big man down, Nate didn't quite know what to do with him. He stuck a foot on his neck. "You remember this, you sumbitch! You ever cross me again -- ESPECIALLY if it puts my woman in a trick! -- and I ain't gonna stop here! You unnerstand?"

"Ack! Ack!" was all George could get out.

"I oughta break both your fuckin' arms -- but you do fuck-all around here anyfuckin'way..."

"Nate..." a soft contralto sounded from the hall.

Nate stood down. "You are SOOO fucking lucky..." he growled, and strode out. Scott, bemused, let him pass. The couple sat in Nate's car until the van came around and Matheson waved them off from his car. Once on the road, Scott related the confrontation with George... "The guy weighed three hundred, easy -- and the kid lit him up! It was pretty impressive... Even more impressive? Nora called him down with one word... Dude is seriously whipped, or she's a wild animal trainer -- or both..."

"Be sure you write it up..."

Armand alerted Sharon in his home office, "Some of Pinkham's people intercepted Nate and Nora at his apartment."

"Omigod!"

"It's fine. We had more people on it than you could shake a stick at. We collected their whole team and have sequestered them for interrogation."

"Armand, these things aren't really legal..."

"Neither are Pinkham's activities. We won't kill them -- which I wouldn't boast of a pimp."

"Well, all right."

"I'm told that one of Pinkham's people threaten to molest Nora, and Nate took umbrage. After the incident, he went downstairs and delivered a serious lesson in loyalty to tenants to the landlord." Armand's expression reflected amusement. "The Adams may have to move..."

"Maybe we should find Nate his own rooms, for now..."

Armand eyed her sardonically, "Why waste the space?"

"Well..."

"It's too late, Sharon. Besides, they're doing the 'two can live as cheaply as one' thing. And they're smitten with one another." He went back to examining papers. "It'll burn out, or it won't. In the meantime, her sex life is better -- if less varied -- than yours." He looked up reflectively. "I don't know if I can ever be gentle -- but there is always the Wench..."

Sharon went scarlet. "I'm not a -- a..."

"Lesbian?" Armand smiled. "Neither is she, I assure you. But I agree with her that a little gentle fun periodically won't hurt you."

"Armand!"

"Oh, all right! Come here!" He pushed himself back from his desk. "Now!"

Sharon backed up a step and turned to flee, but, "Dammit!" The house was bigger than Armand's office, but she was even less likely to escape... She flounced over to him.

He looked her over. "Pants? I'd meant to mention them to you. Not in the house -- understood? Get 'em off."

Sharon started to glare, but rolled her eyes. "Yes, Armand..." The more she thought about it the more she realized that crossing Armand HERE, in this HOUSE, just wasn't smart; the 'playroom', after all, was just down the hall... She stepped out of her slacks, taking the panties down with them.

"Those can stay in the drawer, too," Armand observed. Sharon merely nodded. "Nude," he prompted. Sharon nodded and divested herself of blouse and brassiere, quickly, efficiently -- before he became impatient and shredded them. "You know, I enjoy your little attempts at resistance..." he observed.

"Uh huh," she replied. "Maybe I should just roll over, like Felicia?"

"It's a tactic," he agreed, "but I might become irritated. Go get my pajamas and robe."

"Like this?"

"Of course..."

"I... don't know where your room is." Damn him! She was peeling layers off this set-up like an onion...

"Ask someone," Armand replied, his poker face failing to conceal his amusement. "The Wench, or Consuelo -- anyone, actually, although you may want to ask one of the women so they can point out where my clothing is..."

Sharon stamped a now-bare foot. "MUST you practice humiliating me?"

"Yes."

"Fine." She stepped to the wall and activated the intercom, "Felicia, would you meet me outside Armand's study, please?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Run along, then," Armand admonished, "You're distracting me. Wait in the hall." Furiously embarrassed, Sharon stepped out into the hallway. "Close the door."

'Dammit!' Sharon fumed to herself. She'd tried to outfox him, and he'd out-maneuvered her again! Now she was stuck here until Felicia arrived...

The Wench arrived fairly quickly; but it didn't take an expert in anthropology to see that she was suppressing a grin. "So he's started on you, huh?"

"Go ahead and laugh -- you're going to hurt your face, otherwise," Sharon grunted. The Wench kept it to a snort, and Sharon continued, "I need to go to his room and collect his lounging pajamas and a robe."

"And it has to be you -- and you have to be naked."

"Oh, of course," Sharon agreed sarcastically.

"This way..." The Wench waved her forward.

They found Consuelo in Armand's bedroom. "Master instructed me to brief you on the layout," she murmured, taking in Sharon's state.

Sharon nodded. "As you can see, he's letting everyone know who's boss." She thought a moment. "On the other hand, there IS a pecking order -- and you're not in the uniform of the day!"

Consuelo's face lost its look of suppressed amusement. "Yes, Mistress." She got out of her tiny black maid's uniform, stockings and all, while Sharon waited patiently. Afterward, she was all business while she displayed the setup and laid out Armand's pajamas for Sharon to take back.

"You can dress again when I'm out of sight," Sharon tossed over her shoulder, "and next time, you can leave the stockings and garters. But if I'm showing it, you'd better be, too. Pass the word to the other girls."

"That was brilliant, Mistress!" the Wench exclaimed. "Just the right note! But, uh, I think I'd let Velma stay dressed, if I were you..."

"Velma?"

"The cook." The Wench hung her hands out to parody Velma's girth. "Not too appetizing."

"Oh, yeah," Sharon agreed. "What reason should I give?"

"You don't need one -- she's unlikely to sue for discrimination or sexual harassment. And neither is anyone else..."

The pair parted at Armand's door, but it was only momentary; Armand caught Sharon at the door with a look. "Send the Wench in."

Sharon ducked back out the door, "Felicia!"

"Mistress?"

"He wants you."

The Wench high-tailed it back, through the door, and into position, kneeling before Armand. "Master?"

Armand waved vaguely at Sharon's discarded clothing. "Take this litter back to Sharon's rooms."

"Yes, Master." The Wench began collecting. Armand ignored her. Standing, he turned his attention to Sharon, "Undress me."

It had been a long time since Sharon had participated in this particular ritual, but she remembered the basics. She got him out of his jacket and shirt and into the pajama top with a minimum of cooperation, then went to work on the lower half. Was she going to go back to the full body-servant thing? Could she handle it, after all this time? Back when, the constant demands had nearly driven her to distraction... Shoes and socks, then trousers... Armand forestalled her, "The robe, first." The reason became clear when she thought about it; the robe shielded him from view while he was nude below the waist, which could make him look ridiculous, if someone barged in. She went back to the pants. Funny how she could just get into this, worrying about the practical issues while ignoring any import... His penis popped clear of his descending shorts, and she quashed an urge to give it a quick peck -- where had THAT come from?

Finally, it was done. Armand resumed his seat while Sharon neatly folded his cast-offs, then turned to him. She wouldn't kneel unless he made an issue of it, which amused him, rather than irritating him. "Come here," he directed indicating his lap. "Sit."

Sharon took a breath, 'Here we go...' She settled gingerly.

Armand began rubbing her back. "I was pleased with how you dealt with Consuelo," he announced, revealing that she'd been watched.

'Well, naturally,' Sharon thought, 'Why bother to do that and not reap the enjoyment?' "Oh?"

"The Wench is right -- you set the tone. While it is my province to humiliate you, they are not your superiors. Still, more for aesthetic reasons than anything else, I suggest that you exclude poor Velma. You can always claim that her kitchen duties make such things dangerous."

Sharon nodded, still not speaking. 'Suggest? When was the last time he merely suggested something?' They sat for a moment, Armand distractedly rubbing her back, before Sharon asked, "Why am I here?"

"Mmmm?" Armand drifted back from wherever. "Since you prefer rough male sex to soft female sex, I figured I ought to supply a dose. You need more practice; I've been neglecting you." He pushed her off his lap. "Make me hard -- oh, and get it good and wet; even I don't know where it's going, ultimately." He watched Sharon kneel there, the disgruntled look on her face as she went through the mental calisthenics that told her she had no choice, then reached for him. The Wench didn't do that; Consuelo didn't, either, or Leticia, or... The list went on, but the facts were clear; his 'broken' employees didn't stop to consider the consequences of disobedience reflexively, the way Sharon did. Even in the current situation, where Sharon hadn't uttered a peep of denial or demurral, her face still revealed that she was thinking about it...

Armand's cock was nothing if not familiar to her; Sharon reached into his pajama fly for it, masking her features -- no reason to let the bastard know she enjoyed the damned thing... Armand allowed her to jack him for a moment, then motioned for her to lower the bottoms, clearing them out of the way. Well, there it was, in all its glory... What was he up to, anyway? She leaned in and started licking the head, causing it to swell with blood above her jacking hand.

Armand relaxed and let her work. Sharon gave a better hand job than some women's blowjobs -- and her fellatio ran above that! There were two reasons for it, in Armand's opinion: First, she was trained to spec. She'd learned deep throat because he would accept nothing less, and her other skills were honed to his satisfaction. And second, whether she cared to admit it or not, she enjoyed the effort. She pissed and moaned virtually every time -- but she'd been known to orgasm in sympathetic detonation when he did. Armand cudgeled his brain in an effort to come up with some bit of brutality to differentiate this particular episode. Hmmmm... A mix of tactics presented itself, and Armand put them into play: "Go over there to the couch."

Sharon hopped up. Maybe he would just lay her out and fuck her, for once -- wouldn't THAT be novel! But no, no such luck, he seated himself and slouched down, announcing, "Okay, climb on and ride it, cowgirl!"

Hmmmm, how hard could THIS be? Sharon climbed onto his lap gingerly and managed an insertion -- she wasn't QUITE dry... Actually, although admitting it was beyond her, she knew she got damp any time she started to suck him, and this was no exception. Moving up and down told her that the tough part was doing all the work; normally, Armand provided the impetus. But then, she would control things, too, wouldn't she?

Armand's face didn't flicker, but he read every thought through Sharon's open expression; she never masked herself while they were in a scene. He'd trained her to THAT, too, relatively subtly -- she was unaware of it. No problem, he'd give her some rope...

The next twenty minutes were a revelation; somehow, Armand managed to keep her from orgasm on four different occasions. Despite the fact that the position was prime for controlled clitoral stimulation, Armand managed to ruin things by doing things like resting his fists on his thighs and denying her contact, or rocking her back and holding her there. On her third attempt, he started slapping the living Hell out of the sides of her breasts, totally breaking her concentration. Then exhaustion set in; Armand insisted that she keep moving, long after her legs were on fire. Finally, when movement just wasn't possible for her any more, he took his, brutally pounding into her from below with bruising force for a dozen strokes, then unceremoniously dumping her on the floor just in time to be bathed in his ejaculation.

Sharon slumped on the floor, somehow managing not to sob. "I suppose you want to know why," Armand asked heavily. "There were several reasons. I was going to flog you, but your handling of Consuelo was too well done -- but then, you tried to get away with controlling our copulation. Add to that the fact that I want you to get over this aversion you have to cunnilingus and the fact that I once again was required to remind you who is in charge here. Whose orgasms were you SUPPOSED to be chasing, here?"

"Yours..." There was a sob in her voice.

"I see you remember." He eyed her narrowly. "You won't see another cock until you've cum on the Wench's tongue -- do you understand? And I will see to it that you live in a bath of sexual frustration until you follow instructions! Oh, and ANOTHER thing! Wait too long, and that next cock won't be mine! I'll find someone else to work you over, just to prove I can!" Thoroughly worked up, he flung a hand at the door, "Now get out!"

Sharon found her feet at just about the time she hit the door -- until then, she crawled and stumbled on wobbly legs. Leaning on the door, she risked a question, "Can I dress?"

"I'm done with you. Ensure that you are PROPERLY dressed -- I'll check!"

"Yes, Armand."

"Close the door!" Armand shook his head, "Silly bitch."

Sharon staggered toward her rooms. Leticia came out of her room, took one look, and hit the intercom, "Wench! Come help Sharon -- she's in the north hall. Apparently, Master's been at her..." She braced Sharon, trying to stay away from the mess on her front. "Lean against the wall, here. I need to get to the kitchen, but the Wench is coming, okay?" Sharon waved her off, nodding.

"What happened?" was the first thing out of the Wench's mouth.

"It was time to teach me another lesson..."

"What went wrong?" The Wench tucked her shoulder under Sharon's, bending a bit to manage the height mismatch.

"I forgot who was servicing who. He seemed pleased about Consuelo..."

"He was watching, then?" the Wench grinned.

"Of course..." Sharon grunted sarcastically. "Anyway, I though that maybe we were gonna just have sex, vanilla style -- but he's got this new thing..."

"Being?" The Wench prompted. "C'mon, you can tell me..." The pair passed into Sharon's rooms, headed directly for the bath.

"It's -- I can't! Besides, it's YOU..."

"Oh." The Wench sighed. "Better tell me then -- or HE will..." She seated her charge on the toilet and started moistening a washrag.

"It's so embarrassing..." Sharon held still while her face was wiped. "He said that I couldn't have another orgasm from a... a cock... until I got one from -- I can't say it!"

"From me?" Sharon nodded. "How? You got a little diddle the other night..."

"Cu..." Sharon went fire engine red.

"Cunnilingus?" The Wench laughed. "You are SO hung up! No wonder he's screwing with you! You might as well be carrying a sign saying 'Tease me with this'!"

"I'm not a lesbian!"

"Neither am I! We've covered this ground before! A little cuddle with the girls won't cure you of dick, Mistress! Not when you consider what you like with it! Relax! Let it go, or he'll get even worse..."

"He said," Sharon gulped, "he said that if I screwed around very long, the next... cock I got wouldn't be his! He made it sound like he was gonna look for the most unappetizing man on the face of the earth, and make me have sex with him!"

The Wench grimaced. "You know Master better than I do -- but when he starts tossing out things like that..." She shook her head. "The SMART thing to do would be to go into your bedroom, lay back and spread your legs..." She eyed her Mistress a moment. "But you're won't do that, will you? You're gonna go hunting for martyrdom..."

"I... can't. Stupid of me, probably, but it's a matter of principle."

"Stupid of you, CERTAINLY! How many of these confrontations have you won?"

"To date?" Sharon grinned, wryly, "Zero. But hope springs eternal..." Somewhat recovered, she rose from the toilet. "Time to dress for dinner."

Fifteen minutes later, Sharon met her daughter and her boyfriend at the door. "Are you two okay?"

"Nobody even touched us, Mom," Nora replied. "Some black guy got to talk big for a minute, then half a football team landed on him..." That she was protected like a president, or something, was pretty amazing to her.

"Well, it seems like no one can catch their breath, this week," Sharon replied, her face serious. "There's been a death."

"Oh?"

"Inez's soon-to-be-ex husband had a run-in with a security guard in a plant in the Midwest -- and didn't survive. Inez and Bianca aren't happy. The whole thing reflects badly on your father and Jason, but I spoke to the manager involved and I believe they're blameless."

"Mebbe I should leave," Nate offered.

"Given recent events? No. On the contrary, I suggested that perhaps you should be given a room here for a time, but Armand feels that it would be a waste of space..." She gave Nora the eye. "He seems to feel that the room wouldn't get any use." Nora blushed furiously, and Nate looked away, embarrassed. "I need to run to the kitchen; apparently, despite the fact that my position with your father hasn't changed much, I'm in charge of the household..." She waved and left them at Nora's door. "Be sure and work on your homework!"

Nora rolled her eyes. "Like I wouldn't without that. The things she worries about..."

For the record, each was half-right. Books and papers were scattered all over the desk, but the pair were kissing when Jorge surprised them ten minutes later with an armload of Nate's gear from his car.

Flood wasn't having a good evening. A simple order to collect the Adams kid had netted him a serious ass-kicking. Now he was sitting, tied to a chair, getting the floodlight treatment -- and he thought he'd been given an injection... "So, tell us all about why you tortured Tabitha Adams," the voice behind the light asked.

"I din't do that," he slurred, angry at himself that he couldn't talk straight, "That was a pro -- guy from outta town..." Shit! Should he have said anything?

"Expensive?" the voice asked.

"Naw, the guy loves his work, from what I hear. Offered Rodday bargain basement..." Oops! Shouldn't have mentioned Rodday...

"So Rodday ordered it?"

"I didn't say that! I ain't gonna, either!" Flood returned belligerently. "Who the fuck are ya, anyway?"

Matheson chuckled. Truth drugs made anybody a comic. Time for a distraction. A nod, and Scott popped Flood in the kidney.

Flood rocked. Goddamn, that hurt! The guy just kept hittin' the same place...

"So, YOU ordered it?" Matheson prodded.

"Naw -- what'dya think, I run things? Well, sorta... I called him. Boss said check around on her a bit, an' call if nothin' turned up..."

"Got his number?"

"Some fuckin' where -- whaddya think, I memorized it?" Dammit! What have I said THIS time? Fuckin' kidney...

"Who's your boss, then?"

"Like I'm tellin' you?" Thud. "Ahhh, shit..." Flood was gonna piss himself if this kept up...

"Why didn't you check out Tabitha's claims of protection?"

"Would YOU? Pure bullshit! I asked around jus' a little, but it wasn't worth it -- no fuckin' way she had some invisible pimp."

"From a procurer's standpoint, you were right -- but she DID have protection, obviously..."

"No fuckin' shit!" Thud. "Aaugh!"

"Besides, no doubt Rodday was anxious to have his object lesson..."

"Yeah. The Adams bitch was perfect. If the guy wasted her no big thing..." Fuck, what had he said?

"I don't suppose you bothered with background, like who her son was dating?" the voice asked.

"Who gives a shit?"

"Indeed." Matheson gave Scott the high sigh, and Flood took one on the jaw, designed to anesthetize him. In the hall, Christensen met Matheson as he exited the room, "The other two are just poor muscle."

"Yeah," Matheson agreed, "Flood's a lieutenant; he admitted to calling in the contractor, too. I wish we could get THAT phone number..." Detail like that seldom came out under drugs, and Flood was unlikely to have the number drifting around in memory, anyway. "We'll keep them until after tomorrow's meeting. Then we'll get instructions, no doubt." Christensen nodded.

Bianca was in the kitchen with the staff, eating. When she'd left the Wench to return to her rooms, Mama was there, wandering around looking shell-shocked. They hadn't spoken; Bianca had just shelved the thing, breaking out her homework and burying herself in it. Leticia was taking up the slack as far as dinner service went, and Miz Sharon was wandering back and forth... Everybody had heard, and everybody offered condolences -- but it was clear that they were more focused on her loss than Papa's death itself. He had certainly been unpopular...

In the dining room, Armand put an end to Sharon's wandering, "Sit. They know more about this than you do. Eat your dinner, and worry about correcting deficiencies, rather than controlling the flow."

Nate and Nora were at the table, Nora relating the status of Nate's mother and the gist of the run-in at his apartment... "Then we went downstairs and Nate..." She wasn't quite certain how to proceed.

"I kicked George's ass. He gave them f--, uh, people the key. If that dude woulda touched Nora..."

Jason handed one of a sheaf of papers he was going through to Armand, pointing out a paragraph. Armand grunted, looking up. "This George weighed -- what -- three hundred pounds?"

"Yeh," Nate's eyes were hooded. "Mebbe."

"Impressive." Armand allowed his eyes to dwell on the young couple a moment. "Very. Do you think he's going to let you continue to live there?"

Nate shrugged. "Not like it's the Taj Mahal. We'll find another place -- mebbe one with fewer roaches..." He grinned, watching the women at the table flinch. Armand and Jason produced answering grins.

Things got fairly quiet after that. Nora set a new precedent by asking her father to be excused, and the young couple went back to her room to do schoolwork and neck...

Bianca continued to hang out in the kitchen, long after dinner was over. Velma was fussing over her, and it kept her from having to face her mother, who was apparently back and forth every few moments over the death and it's implications, good and bad...

Ed was there, too, hanging out for the second night in a row. What he was up to wasn't clear, but Velma wanted to give Bianca a little peace, so she lit him up, "Howcum yo' big ass is still here?"

"My ass? My BIG ass?" Ed turned to Bianca, "She has to take three steps before hers even begins to move, and she calls MY ass big! If she didn't have those airbags on her chest, she'd have killed herself goin' through walls from the inertia!"

"Three--! Airbags! Ah'm goin' kick yo' ass!" Velma rounded on Ed, snatching up a dish towel to snap at him. Ed hopped up out of his chair and dashed around the table as Velma hove herself here and there, trying to get a decent shot. Bianca broke up, laughing. Ed let her take four or five shots, then broke into the open. Velma closed in and let go another shot -- but Ed sidestepped and grabbed the towel, letting Velma pull them face to face. Grinning maliciously, nose to nose, Ed teased, "Guess you'll have to wear me out first...", then he danced back out of reach, unconcernedly walking to the coffee pot.

Velma stood there sputtering. Lord, he'd been leanin' agin her whole fookin' front side! She mastered the shock and got moving again, just as he apparently unconcernedly sauntered toward the door with a coffee cup in his hand. "Maybe you can think of something for that..." Then he was gone, his chuckle echoing in the hallway.

Bianca wiped her eyes. "How long has THAT been going on?"

"Since yestiddy night. Ah dunno what the fook happened -- Ed nevah said shit to me befo'..." Velma shook her head. "We ain't said anythin' polite to one another, eithah, but..."

"But what?"

"Ah think..." Velma looked embarrassed. "Ah think I dared him ta fook me..."

Bianca spewed coke all over the place, "What?"

"We was tradin' insults all of a sudden, and I said sumpthin' an' he said sumpthin' and the nex' thing he was talkin' 'bout rollin' me in flour so's he could find my..." Velma rubbed her face. "An' I was tellin' him I'd have ta bolt my door or he'd be back..."

Bianca giggled, "I thought they only did that in the movies!"

"What?"

"Pretend to despise one another until you fall into bed together!" Bianca burst into another fit of giggling.

"Well, jus' in case, what'd yo' say his fook-stick looked like?" Velma was embarrassed, but she HAD to know...

"Ummm." Bianca pictured it. "So long..." She marked a distance of about seven inches between spread palms. "Very hard-looking. Stringy. Veins on it. Head wasn't as big and mushroomy as some..."

Velma settled into a chair, shaking her head. "Ah cain't believe ah'm askin' yo' dat..."

"Well, he COULD be serious..."

"Naw, he's jus' teasin'." Velma wasn't sure, though.

"What if he isn't?"

"Ah'm goin' get me some, by damn! Once, anyways..." She chuckled. "Like that's gonna happen..."

"You never know..."

"What 'bout yo'? Yo' movin' on Pete?" Velma eyed Bianca sidelong, grinning.

"I, uhhh, no, uhhh -- I can't..." Bianca blushed scarlet.

"Cain't jus' wave yo' tits in front o' him, eh?" Velma laughed.

"Well, no..."

"Mebbe yo' oughta go swimmin', Honey."

"I... Maybe in a couple of days..."

"Havin' a man be sure to take yo' mind off things... Ah'm sorry, Honey, but yo' Papa..." She shrugged.

"Yeah, I know. But he WAS my Papa, nonetheless..." Velma nodded, and Bianca added, "Maybe you can show me how it's done..."

"How WHAT'S done?"

"Trapping a man..." Bianca grinned and swept out.

Charles was standing over the Wench in her quarters. "This last couple of days has been a mess, and things aren't getting any better. The Boss apparently has his heart set on you picking up after Sharon; I'm not sure what I'm doing around here."

Since he appeared to be expecting a comment from her, so she intoned, "Master will provide."

"I don't see how..."

"Perhaps he'll have you participate in Sharon's training?"

Charles blinked. "What?"

"Master has indicated that he wants to broaden Sharon's horizons; he may have you help..."

"Hmmmm..."

"Charles?" Armand's voice erupted from the intercom.

"Sir?"

"Is the Wench with you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'll be along momentarily." In a few moments, Armand strode in, moving directly to stand over the Wench. "What is Sharon's state of mind?"

"She's hung up, Master. She's gonna fight."

"Well, we're going to make it first difficult, and then impossible, Wench. And YOU are my tool in this."

"Yes, Master."

"Charles, I'll need a pair of locking mitts, two sets of binding loops for a queen-size bed, and a six inch vibrator."

"Sir." Charles had utilized his recent boredom well, inventorying the contents of the various toy boxes in the 'playroom'. He was back in no time.

Armand handed the Wench the mitts. "Go see her at ten-thirty. You will tell her that it is my will that she get nude and allow you to put these on."

"She'll buck and roar, Master."

"I have every confidence that you will convince her that resistance is a foolish thing; in any case, I will be along, after." He spent several more minutes briefing the Wench -- and Charles, who was to perform a supporting role -- in their duties over the coming hours.

Scott wandered past Flood, deliberately allowing the smell of his slice of pizza drift past the big man's nostrils. "So, how YOU doin'?"

"Fuckin' head hurts." Flood tugged at his bonds. "When you gonna let me go?"

"I figured we'd hold you another couple of days," Scott replied, "until Tabitha Adams gets out of the hospital. Then we'll let her turn you into a girl with a paring knife and ride your ass wearing a strap-on until your eyes bug out..."

"You--! Jeezus fuckin' Christ, Man! I jus' did what the Boss tol' me to!" Flood started trying to break the chair, throwing himself back and forth.

"The Boss? That'd be...?" Scott taunted.

"Fuck, Man! You KNOW who it is!"

"And you called some dude to work her over, but you don't remember the phone number..."

"It's in my cell!"

Scott went into the next room and collected Flood's cell phone. "Show me." He began flicking through recent calls.

"That one!" Flood yelled, "Fifty three!"

Scott believed him -- and was unsurprised. The support team had gone through Flood's phone hours ago, and that was the only number they couldn't verify -- apparently, it was a disposable. "Well, we'll see if we can get him to answer. Maybe he'll offer to take your place..." He walked out, into the next room where two others were watching Flood try to demolish the chair via video cameras. "Sedate him. We've got everything we need, but he needs to be out until tomorrow afternoon." The investigator in charge, an older guy named Chase, nodded. "I'm going to bed. See to it that Mr. Wilson gets all the video, as usual."

"It's all in the can, except for that last bit," came the reply. Scott nodded; time to go home.