The rented office space was above a laundromat. Although this made the monthly payments extremely affordable for the Bureau, the noise from the machines downstairs made recording work difficult. The microphones planted in the club transmitted directly to recording devices, as did the phone taps. However, personal comments recorded by agents in the room sounded terrible, and phone calls could be an adventure when all of the driers ran at the same time.

Nowhere would have been better for watching the comings and goings of the club, though. As luck would have it, the nefarious dealings inside "Sweet Nothings" took place mostly after 10:00 pm, when the hum and drone of the washers and driers below ceased.

Agent Mike Lupus was in charge of the operation, and his name could not have been more appropriate. His dark hair was accented by gray sideburns, and a gray streak started in the center of his pompadour and followed the wave of his coiffure to the top of his head. Small dark eyes flanked his nose. Pointed teeth gleamed when he smiled, and Lupus smiled often. Agent Lupus was God's gift to Agent Lupus.

The listeners on that night's shift were a pair of younger agents, Grace Park and Steve De Falco. They were the only ones in the room that worked directly out of the Seattle office.

Heather Stanton and Gerald Maytag were there, too, principally as observers. The operation was centered more on narcotics than the sex industry, but they had uncovered Sweet Nothings as a front, so they were privy to the gathered intelligence and invited on sight as a courtesy. They accepted, mostly because they liked Seattle-- certainly not because they liked Mike Lupus.

"What do you guys say to some coffee?" asked Lupus.

"I'll go," said Maytag and Stanton simultaneously. But Stanton had stood first, and she was halfway through the door before Maytag could say another word.

"Quick as a fox," said Lupus.

"Indeed," replied Maytag.

"Kind of foxy in other ways, too, huh, Maytag?"

"She's a mammal, if that's what you mean," said Maytag, with a grimace. All a part of Lupus's considerable charm, thought Maytag. He also thought this had the potential to be a long evening.

Surveillance work was a delicate balance of being attentive without being anxious, and remaining loose while fighting boredom. Maytag believed he was incapable of any of those things while in the presence of Mike Lupus.

Meanwhile, Agent Stanton walked down the street in search of coffee. I should have asked for a good spot close by, she thought, but that would have prevented her immediate escape from the room. The operation had yielded good information on the skimming of pornography profits, the illegal traffic of some questionable Asian bondage videos from Seattle into Vancouver, and, of course, the dabbling of organized crime into the local strip clubs.

All of that, however, could be sent across their desks. Seeing Mike Lupus in person made Heather wish she was back there in front of her desk, despite the current harsh winter weather in D.C.

Seattle was more pleasant this time of year, though, and the rains were not as prevalent. Now if she could only find some coffee. "Shouldn't I have tripped over a Starbuck's by now?" Stanton asked herself aloud.

That's when she saw the blue neon sign that read, "St. Muffins." No matter the religious denomination, any place with muffins for sale had to have coffee as well. Stanton crossed the street and approached the door. Inside the fragrant warmth of a bakery greeted her. The smell of baked goods was unmistakable, and the scent of coffee carried Stanton to the counter seemingly with her eyes closed.

Then, she was not sure she ever opened them. The vision before her was from some kind of dream. Some kind of adult dream. From behind a demure white apron emerged a veritable cliff of man. Taut tan muscles fought triumphantly in the quest to show their well formed lines to the world, against the meek cotton t-shirt that would attempt to hide their definition. The peak of the mountain was covered in tight dark curls of Grecian origin, the eyes dark gemstones. The bottom lip was turned down, as a stone eroded and smoothed by year after year of flowing river falling in a glorious cascade. The gateway of the waterfall opened, and a mellifluous, resonant sound emerged, whose beauty was apparent even if its meaning was obscure.

Until he repeated himself. "Welcome to Saint Muffins, how can I help you?"

Given a second chance, Heather comprehended this as intelligible speech, but she hesitated to answer. She forgot why it was she was here, but she certainly knew how he could help her. Then another equally delicious boy, of a thinner, heart shaped box variety, stepped behind his distant, stonier cousin, and stepped back out with a cappuccino.

"I need some coffee to go. Five, in fact," Heather stammered.

Stony nodded in assent, taking a cup from his left-hand side. He shifted it to his right hand and carried it to the vacuum bottles on his right. While holding he cup under the nozzle, he pressed down on the pump mechanism with his left hand. Where there were muscles, they twitched; where there were no muscles one appeared.

Four more times, he repeated the sequence: his long arm uncoiled to snatch a paper cup, then flexed in a short series of actions to fill the next cup of coffee. Heather wanted to order more coffee, and a camera.

Instead, she stalled for time by asking for a muffin: a banana nut muffin, to be exact. She was so glad she had. Stony turned to reveal the opposite side of the mountain was as remarkable a product of nature as the front. A deep valley ran between the shoulders of the range, until the breadth of the land thinned then fanned out again in two lovely, rolling hills. Stanton hoped that the trend for bigger and baggier jeans never caught on within the four walls of the coffee shop.

She ordered a blueberry muffin, a lemon-poppy seed, one corn, and one bran. Each time, she waited until her biddings could produce a full half rotation. She could only delay for so long, however, and the time had come to pay the bill and return to the stakeout. After throwing a dollar in the jar marked 'Tips', she left the cafe.

On the way back, Stanton was still somewhat distracted, and she found herself walking to the front of the building. That was a mistake: they were supposed to use the back entrance. She walked past the laundry building without breaking stride, and walked halfway around the block to the back entrance.

"Did you get lost on the way here, or what?" asked Lupus when she finally walked through the door.

"Don't blame me," protested Stanton, "I thought this was supposed to be the cafe capitol of the nation. It took me this long to find a place."

"It ain't my town," replied Lupus, "Tell it to these yo-yo's."

The yo-yo's were busy manning the communications equipment, and unavailable for comment. They did eagerly take the cups of coffee that Stanton offered them, however.

"What's in the other bag?" asked Lupus.

"Muffins," replied Stanton, "Help yourself."

"Look at that," exclaimed Lupus,"Muffins! How motherly of you, Agent Stanton. I didn't know you had those kinds of instincts."

Maytag thought to himself, but didn't say aloud, that he hadn't realized Lupus had a mother and knew what one was. Stanton's reply, which she did voice, was considerably tamer. "Actually, I baked them myself. How's that for maternal instincts? I'm just charging the bureau two dollars a piece so I can supplement my income."

Maytag reached into the bag and grabbed the blueberry muffin. "Speaking of which," he said, "the per diem doesn't come through until tomorrow. Do we have any petty cash on hand to pay back Stanton?"

After grabbing the lemon poppy seed muffin, Lupus nodded his head. He took a large bite, wiped his hands together to remove the crumbs, and then brushed the heel of his palm against the side of his pompadour. With the same hand, he reached into the vest pocket and removed an envelope.

"Receipt?" prompted Lupus.

"Oh, shit," said Stanton. "I forgot to get one. I'll go back later."

Although pleased to be returning to "St. Muffins" later that night, Stanton was not happy about surveillance work in the interim. She sat, almost slumped, in a chair by the window, and alternated between watching the entry with binoculars, eating her corn muffin, and sipping coffee.

The quality of the product was as high as the quality of staff. The coffee had the gently burnt quality of roasted chestnuts, and the corn muffin was moist and crumbly at the same time. Heather wished she had some butter because the muffin was still warm. The thought of it melting down into the countless cracks and fissures made her want to return for more. She also noticed the slogan on the paper cup. "St.Muffin's - For a Heavenly Body". What a wonderful double entendre, Heather thought to herself.

As expected, the surveillance proved a test of stamina. They endured a litany of toilet humor. They recorded a full conversation on the duration, persistence, and ultimate causes of the farts of one "Big" Tony Ignacio. When that was done, the conversation turned to the past NFL season and the relative gambling successes of those involved.

That conversation might have turned into valuable information about the local sports bookkeeping, but it did not. All the agents learned was: "The Seahawks couldn't cover the spread if you let them play a high school team."

Most of the time, Stanton watched standing waves on the surface of her coffee caused by the vibrations from the machines downstairs. When they stopped, she had long since finished the cup. Half an hour after that, changes took place at "Sweet Nothings."

The subjects had decided that business was slow tonight, in both the front and back office. They wanted to call it a night and move out into the club.

"I'm going over there," announced Lupus.

"Are you serious?" asked Maytag.

"Yes. And you and junior, here," he pointed at De Falco, "Are coming with me."

"This is a covert operation," said Stanton. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"We can't hear what they're talking about from here," Lupus pointed out as he straightened his suit. "Besides, I want to get a good close look at some of these guys."

"We'll be made for cops as soon as we go in there," said Maytag. "Sure, the club bouncer is probably a chump, but they almost certainly have some muscle in there that can make out a piece under a suit."

"So we leave the hardware here," offered Lupus with a shrug.

"What happens when you tell the waitress, 'Three club sodas, please'?" asked Stanton.

"Well, this one happens to be a juice bar so the dancers can be nude on stage," answered De Falco.

Lupus laughed. "See? All taken care of by our friends in the legislative branch. Let's go."

"I'm not going," said Maytag.

"Yes, you are. I need another good set of eyes. This is my op, and I need you there," declared Lupus. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Fine. But I think this is a terrible idea."

"Great, put it in your report. Stanton, you and Park hold down the fort."

With that, the three were gone. Stanton suspected that Lupus actually wanted to go in for surveillance of another sort. She offered her opinion to Grace Park, who agreed.

"He's been jonesing to get in there for as long as I've been on this assignment. He watches those dancers walk in and out of there like a house cat staring through the window at pigeons outside. It's pathetic."

"It might help them look less suspicious, though, if he hangs all over the dancers while they're in there," Stanton joked.

"I'm sure he'll use that as an excuse," Park replied.

"So how long have you been on this assignment?" Stanton asked.

Grace said she had been with it from the beginning. It was only her second assignment, after doing some wire-tapping on a RICO case. Her parents were disappointed that she became an FBI agent. They had wanted her to become a doctor, or an engineer. Grace noted that, ironically, her job was principally electrical engineering.

Not at all the life she had expected. Grace had become hooked on the FBI after seeing "Silence of the Lambs" as a teenager. With good grades and scholarship level soccer, she chased the brass ring. She was enjoying it, but she wanted to get outside of the wiring rooms more often.

"You'll get your chance," Stanton assured her.

"How about you? What made you join the bureau?" asked Grace.

"My father was a cop, his father before him. It seemed natural to me and my brother. Mom was furious. All that college education to walk a beat, she said. Dad expressed his reservations, but we both knew it made him proud.

When I had the chance to join the Bureau, I took it. Here I am."

Heather had not told a complete story, but Grace seemed satisfied. Having established a mutual dislike of Lupus, they lessened the tension of the operation. Of course, they were then the only ones in the room.

Both women were slender brunettes with long silky hair, but their faces were quite different. One had the soft curves and milk and honey skin of an Asian. Her nose rose smoothly from one cheek, reached a small peek and gently descended to the other side. The lips were painted darker than nature had chosen to color them, but closer to the dark hue of her eyes and lustrous ponytail.

The other face had the irregularities of an occidental. She had high cheekbones where the bone left little room for skin and allowed the blood flowing beneath to appear as a pink blush. Her nose protruded sharply away from the brow, and her eyes shone bright blue.

"So, what did you think of Saint Muffin's?" Grace asked.

"Tasty. The corn muffin was excellent."

"That's not what I meant," she said, smiling. "What did you think of the staff?"

"Ah." Heather paused before speaking, "I'd have to say they were excellent, too. So you know the place?"

"Everybody does, I just didn't want to say anything in front of Lupus. It's a big joke in Seattle right now."

"Why didn't De Falco say something?" Heather wondered.

"He probably didn't want to say anything in front of me," Grace answered. "They opened that place a few months ago, and it is full of women at the lunch hour, and gays at night. People call it 'Stud Muffins' instead of 'Saint Muffins'; I think they wrote the S-T like that on purpose."

"I like the 'for a heavenly body' tag-line, too," said Stanton.

"Isn't that hilarious?" Grace laughed. "I'll tell you though, they have this one guy in there that looks like a goddamned Greek statue come to life."

"I think he waited on me tonight," Stanton said.

The two looked at each other and smiled.

"You know," said Grace, "If he's working when I go in there, I bite my lip as if I'm thinking about what to order. What I'm really doing is making sure I don't drool at the counter."

Heather laughed and told her how she ordered each muffin one at a time to watch him turn around.

"Classic! You know," Grace said, lingering somewhat on the 'oh' sound before completing the thought, "you really should go back there tonight to get that receipt before they close out the day's totals."

"I think you need to come with me."

Grace gestured at the equipment next to them, "And what about all this?"

"Well, Lupus saw fit to wander off to gawk, I don't see why we should be stuck holding the ball."

"No, you're crazy. I can't leave my post. This is only my second assignment."

"Then maybe we can call and ask if they could deliver the receipt here after close."

Grace's almond-shaped eyes looked at Heather with disbelief. "You really are crazy" they seemed to say.

"It's worth a shot," offered Heather in response to a statement never made.

Grace capitulated. They called directory assistance for the number, then dialed. When there was no answer, they thought they might have been too late, but after the seventh ring, a young man's voice spoke. "Good evening, this is Saint Muffins."

The voice must belong to the pretty boy, Heather thought.

She pictured him as a poster taped to the metal door of a teenage girl's high school locker. Only the lips moved when he spoke; the eyes and face were stuck in the perennial pose of a teen heartthrob.

"Yes, my name is Heather, and I made a large purchase there earlier tonight, but I forgot to get a receipt. Could speak with the man who helped me? He had dark curly hair."

Pretty boy sounded annoyed, but called for his coworker, and Heather heard the clunk as he put down the phone.

"This is Peter, how can I help you?" His voice had the mythic ability to melt the insulation of telephone wire.

Heather explained her story again. He said he remembered the order and he was sure he could find the receipt in the roll of the day's transactions.

"We're still open for another five minutes if you can come down," he suggested, "Or I can leave it along with a note for tomorrow's staff and you can get it then."

"Damn. Is there any other way I can get that tonight? Maybe you can bring me that and a few of the muffins you have left over and some coffee. Three coffees." Heather recalled the jar for tips. "I'll give you a nice tip for the effort."

"I'm sure he's heard that one before," Grace quipped.

Heather gave her a playful slap on the arm while Peter answered. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Please? Five dollars for a few minutes. I'm two blocks away."

As Grace had earlier, Peter gave in and said he should be there in ten minutes. Heather gave him directions for the back entrance.

Grace shook her head and said that she could not believe that had actually worked. Heather said she was just as surprised.

"But then again," Heather stated, "You never know until you try. The problem now is that he can't see all this equipment. Lupus's stunt tonight was bad enough."

"Leave that to me." Grace explained that the office space used to be the apartment of Madame Rose, a fortune teller. There was an entire back room that she had used for tarot card reading, seances,and so on. For twenty years before her death, Rose used the flat as her 'gateway to the spirits'. She was the one that insisted on a rear entrance. It was more mysterious for clients, and then she would occasionally have an assistant run the driers downstairs late at night to add 'supernatural rumblings' when Madame Rose attempted to contact the dead.

Grace and Heather did not explicitly state what they might do with such a room, but they agreed it was satisfactory. "Just let me make one phone call," said Stanton.

Maytag answered his cell phone, but Stanton could barely hear him over the music of the club. She wanted to know how things were going. Maytag said something she could not make out, and then ended with what sounded like 'closing time'.

"Until closing time?" she repeated

"Looks that way," said Maytag over the din.

Stanton thanked him, told him she had won twice in solitaire already, and ended the call.

"Looks like the cat is chasing pigeons for another couple of hours," Heather announced.

Grace completed the thought: "Leaving the mice all on their own."

The mice giggled and scampered around while they waited. They pulled drop cloths from the furniture in Madame Rose's parlor. Red velvet padding and dark-stained wood seemed to be the theme of the room. A large round table dominated the center of the room. There was no crystal ball to be found, much to the ladies disappointment.

When the bell rang, Grace looked at Heather and said, "This might be a bad idea."

"Still time to back out," Heather countered.

Grace dismissed the idea by extending her palm and saying, "After you, Mizz Stanton."

"Quite right. Thank you, Mizz Park."

The two descended the staircase. Waiting there was Peter, in a black leather coat, holding two Saint Muffins bags. "OK, here's the coffee, a bag of muffins we would have thrown out, and both receipts. The total is six dollars."

"The money is upstairs, would you mind coming in?" asked Heather.

"Actually, I would mind. I'd prefer to stay right here."

Grace said, "Oh. OK." Their chagrin was obvious, and the two hastily climbed the stairs.

They returned with twelve dollars. Heather stood behind Grace, who said, "That third cup of coffee was intended for you. Are you sure you won't come in?"

Peter looked at the attractive women in the doorway. "Look, girls," he said, "It's just not real smart for a delivery guy to step inside someone's home."

"We won't bite," Heather lied.

"I'm sure you're very nice," Peter hoped. He looked at Grace and said, "I've seen you around the store a lot, and I told someone else I was making this delivery, but some things just don't seem right."

"Such as?" Grace coaxed.

"This dark alley thing, for starters. Then the difference in orders. First five coffees, then three, now you tell me one is for me. Plus, who needs a receipt that can't wait until tomorrow? It seems like a big set-up," he protested.

"What kind of set-up?" Heather asked.

"A mugging."

"But this is your only delivery of the night, and it was for six dollars. What could you possibly have that we want?" Heather hinted.

"Well, maybe this is just for kicks," Peter said slowly, "But there were five coffees the first time. How do I know there aren't three crazy guys up there waiting to attack me?"

"How do you know there aren't three more women waiting to attack you?" Grace teased.

"It just doesn't seem right," Peter hedged.

"Maybe," Heather mouthed as she approached him, "we can convince you that we're friendly."

"Can you?" Peter said, hopefully.

"I think we can," Grace agreed. She stepped forward as well. Heather's hands were already on Peter's chest, pushing the lapels of his jacket aside.

Grace made eye contact and headed directly for him. He bent down slightly, and was greeted with a kiss from Grace and by Heather's lips on the side of his neck. After a minute or so of craning to meet their kisses, Peter stretched back and said, "I think it might be safe to go inside now."

One step at time, the trio meandered upstairs. The women moved backwards, and by staying ahead of Peter, they stood eye-to-eye with him. They kissed and kissed again. Tiny stubble around his mouth stung the women, while his wet lips and tongue provided a salve.

Four hands roamed inside Peter's jacket, sampling his torso's topology. To someone walking behind him, the small bulges that appeared from one shoulder, crisscrossed, then ducked away again under his arm or at his waist would have looked like tiny creatures, lost and frantic to escape. Fingers dipped from the tails of the jacket and squeezed at the juncture of Peter's thighs and his firm buttocks. Another set pulled on the curls on his neck from within the collar. Their emergence ruined the illusion of independent animals, and betrayed the enthusiasm of the women that commanded them.

Peter responded as best he could under the circumstances. He placed one hand each in the middle of their backs. A strong thumb pressed against the ribs, or the bottom of a shoulder blade, while his fingers massaged their lower backs. When their kisses flared in intensity, he would pull one or the other closer to him, or drift from the center to wrap his arm around their waists, rest his palm on their hips, or rise straight up and take a fistful of hair from the back of the head.

The recipient of his hands' attention did not always correspond to his mouth. Seemingly random choices made for feedback that engaged both women, and rewarded both of them whenever either did something to raise his arousal.

Such as when Heather squeezed his balls. Her hand had passed over his cock, which was stiff with excitement, and the feel of it jolted her eyelids open. Mischief flickered in her blue irises, and Heather grabbed and tugged at Peter through his jeans. He bit her tongue in response, and Grace earned a slap on the ass, a gentle admonition for an offense unknown to her.

Sometimes they took two or three steps at once. Often they lingered at one spot. Always, however, they moved upwards. The foreplay grew in intensity, such that by the time they reached the landing, blouses were unbuttoned, zippers were down, and Peter's fingers were slightly wet. Explorations of Heather and Grace's bottoms had made them both damp and redolent.

"I suppose we can have that coffee now," Peter said as Grace led the way into Madame Rose's parlor.

"You two do whatever you want," Heather replied, "I know what I'm having."

With that, Heather knelt in front of Peter. She pulled the clingy t-shirt from his jeans, and distracted herself from her planned cock-sucking. Peter's abdomen was segmented into more partitions than the cubicle layout of a telemarketing firm. His skin was impossibly tan for this time of year in Seattle, and a stream of dark fur ran from his navel to below his waistband.

Heather licked at him and relished the salt. She raised herself slightly on her legs, and traced her tongue over him. It bounced over the ripples of his abdomen like a speedboat in choppy waters.

Grace also caught the sight of it and ran a hand along the hard, undulating surface on the side opposite Heather's face. She then moved her hand away to remove the shirt entirely and uncover the remainder of his upper body.

While Peter ran a hand through her hair, Heather hooked her thumbs over the back of his jeans and pulled them down. Grace's hands were as quick to pounce on the curves of his ass as Heather's mouth was to envelop his cock.

"Damn, that feels good," he groaned.

Earlier, Peter attended to the women with determined effort. In the current situation, he could do little. Pants somewhere around his knees, he could not move his legs. Heather's sucking locked his midsection in place, and he could do little other than hold her head and guide her.

"Like that, huh?" Grace said. It teased Peter and aided Heather, who would have liked to say something but her mouth was quite full.

Grace noticed Peter's predicament. She removed some more of her clothes, bending over to show her ass, flinging undergarments at Peter. When she kneeled on the ground next to Heather, she was naked.

Heather stopped sucking on Peter's cock, and Grace immediately took up the task, grabbing his shaft with one hand, his ass with other and stuffing the head of his prick between her blackberry- painted lips.

Standing, Heather gave Peter a kiss. Her mouth was hot and wet from pole-smoking. Peter reached behind and squeezed her ass. Awkwardly, he attempted to push her pants away while holding the back of Grace's bobbing head.

"Need a little help, tiger?" Heather asked.

"Please," he said.

Heather kicked one leg out of her pants, but before she could put down the bare leg, she gasped. Peter's finger was swimming inside her cunt.

"Goddamn, that feels good!" he exclaimed.

Heather only moaned in reply.

"I think I need to slip inside there a moment," he said.

Peter gently pushed Grace away, slipped his hand out of Heather's slit, and then used both hands to grab her thighs and lift her off the floor.

Grace ducked out of Heather's way, and the loose pants leg brushed against Grace's face. After she cleared it away and looked up, she saw Heather's ass, spread by her own weight resting in Pete's hands. Directly underneath , Heather's cunt swallowed Peter's cock, sliding off and falling back onto it again.

"Oh, yeah," Grace said.

Still, Heather only moaned.

Grace wanted to see what Heather's face looked like, so she stood and got onto the sofa for a better vantage point. Heather had one arm wrapped under his arm onto his back, and she clutched that hand with the other, thrown over his shoulder. Her mouth was open wide, desperate for air and the eyes focused narrowly on Peter.

"Oh, yeah," grace said again. She stepped off the sofa, and ran her hands over Peter's broad back and tensed arms. He was sweating from the effort of holding Heather, but did not show signs of tiring.

Heather unclenched her hands, and slid one to the back of his neck, and another to his hard chest. She then leaned back, so that the arm holding his neck was fully extended. Her head was now parallel to the ground and her hair hung straight down. All the while, she slid her pussy over his hard cock.

Somehow Peter kept his balance. He supported Heather by holding onto her haunches, and concentrated on that feat of strength. Impossibly, Heather tired before he did. She slid off of his cock, lifted herself to his chest, saying "Jesus fucking Christ", then unwrapped her legs from around his waist.

Peter let out a long breath, and stretched his back. His cock twitched and bounced in the air, supported by muscles as strong as the rest of his impressive figure.

Heather fell onto the sofa. Peter turned to face her. Grace kissed him, then worked down his chest and stomach to take his cock in her mouth once again.

"Give me something to lick," he said.

The three then sampled a variety of positions that would allow Grace to suck Peter while Peter licked Heather. What they settled on was Heather sitting on the back of the scarlet sofa with her feet on the cushions and Grace lying on the sofa with Heather's foot nudged under the small of her back. Peter opened his legs wide, dipping his cock into Grace's mouth and burying his face between Heather's legs.

Heather looked down and saw Peter's dark curls and broad shoulders. His thick arms rested on her thighs and his hands were on her ass. They had never strayed far from her ass since the three climbed the stairs.

Heather stole a glance at Grace. Her breasts had spread out into pools on her chest, and swayed lightly back and forth. Grace reached with one arm back under Peter, most likely to stroke his cock while she sucked. The other rested between her legs, where she circled her clitoris again and again.

The sight of it blended with Peter's licking to push her over the edge. Her legs were too weak from the earlier fucking to hold back at all, and the orgasm drove over her in a sudden blast. She tensed-up, and moaned, and pulled on Peter's hair.

Grace moaned deeply, and wondered whether Peter had come in her mouth. For a moment, she pictured Peter gushing onto Grace's waiting tongue and licorice lips, and that thought ushered in the last shudders of her climax.

Peter had not come, however, and soon Heather was once again sucking his cock. Grace had slid along the sofa so that her back rested against one arm. Peter lay on his belly, licking her and sliding a finger or two inside her. Heather kneeled on the floor next to him and sucked and stroked his cock.

"Please," Grace said, "Get up here and fuck me."

Peter did as ordered. He pushed his cock inside her and stroked. Heather pulled up a chair by the table and watched in delight as his ass flexed during the fucking.

Grace was not shy about touching herself, and as she had while sucking Peter off on the sofa, she rubbed her pussy while Peter humped. Skilled, Grace soon got off. She threw her head back and twisted underneath the unrelenting stroking. Her grunts were deep and loud, and echoed off the walls of Madame Rose's parlor, calling to spirits of orgasms past.

Her contortions and evocations finally managed to summon Peter's climax. His plunges broke rhythm and turned into a sporadic burst of fast thrusts. His face showed nothing but pure pleasure, and shortly after he fell on top of her.

Exhausted, the two might have drifted asleep if not for Heather.

"Hey, kids," she said, "It's time to get dressed and get moving."

"Why?" asked a confused Peter. "Are your parents coming home?"

"Actually, yeah," said Heather, "Something like that."

Maytag, Lupus, and De Falco were more akin to the police than their parents, but the urgency was the same. Soon enough, they arrived, but not before Grace and Heather kissed Peter their good- byes and smuggled him out into the night.

All three were offered coffee, but only Lupus wanted any since it had long since cooled. He drank it down along with another lemon poppyseed muffin.

"I hope you fail your next drug test," Stanton thought to herself.

In a fit of boredom, Maytag counted the cups the next day, though, and noted there were only eight. If Stanton had gone back to get a second round, he wondered, why weren't there ten cups?

He never asked about it, though. He was a lot more curious to know what Stanton and Park were doing with their free time in the next few days. They were highly secretive about it.

He finally asked Stanton about it on the plane home.

"Just a little rock climbing," was all she said.

Maytag thought he knew better, but he let it drop.

End