ONE

Though the day was hot, both Maytag and Stanton dressed formally. Gerald Maytag wore a dark olive suit with a glen plaid, an off white button-down shirt, and a simple necktie. Heather Stanton also wore a dark pants suit, but the material was a light synthetic blend, and unlike her partner, she did not have the burden of a closed collar and knotted tie constricting her neck.

In a way, this was fitting; Maytag was hotter for the case, as well. As often with this pair of FBI agents assigned to monitor the pornography industry, Maytag had seen a newspaper article that he thought warranted investigation, while Stanton thought it called for a guffaw at best. This time, the dubious cause for alarm was a report of radioactive strippers.

The article offered a photograph of a woman's torso partially masked by two strategically placed black boxes. "Unfortunately," read the caption, "We cannot show you the evidence of the radioactivity in this family newspaper." The article did bolster this evidence with witness testimonials, including the quote, "she ought to have that looked at, if you know what I mean." It even made allusion to a secret defense industry factory close by to the scene.

Stanton thought the article must have come from a supermarket tabloid, but it actually ran in a small regional newspaper from western Connecticut. Maytag insisted on following up the article. He called the newspaper, spoke to the editor, and received the contact information for the reporter who filed the story, Neil Farrier.

Farrier lived in a century old farmhouse with weathered shingles, creaking porch steps, and tired window shutters. Bright turquoise paint livened the walls of the house, though, as did flower boxes by the windows that spilled over with flora. Maytag and Stanton walked to the screen door and knocked. There was no answer.

Maytag wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, and brushed back his short brown hair. "Mr. Farrier?" he called through the screen door.

"Let's try around back," Stanton said.

The two made their way down the porch steps and around the side of the house, with Stanton leading the way. Her dark hair swayed as they moved past a Volvo wagon parked in front of an open garage and around the side of the building. Behind the house was a large vegetable garden surrounded with chicken wire to hold back foraging creatures from the nearby woods. Flowers lined the footpath on either side, a mix of white, red and purple. The two called out for Mr. Farrier, but were again met by silence. They were about to leave when they heard a dog barking.

Out of the woods bounded a sheep dog. It stopped in its tracks upon spotting the pair of agents, bayed again, and looked back into the trees. A figure emerged and the dog circled back to his side and offered another bark to announce the master's arrival. As dog and owner came closer, Maytag and Stanton held still.

The man wore khaki shorts, hiking boots, and a white tank top that contrasted with his tan skin and revealed part of a chest as full of dark curly hair as his head. His angular face was colored by black stubble around his chin and jaw line, and pink sunburn on his nose and the tops of his cheeks. He carried two pails, and the muscles in his bare arms stood out in response to the load.

He looked on the two strangers with curiosity but without concern, and the sheep dog had taken on the same calm, confident attitude. "Can I help you?" the man said.

"Are you Mr. Neil Farrier," Maytag asked.

"That's right," he answered, putting down the pails. He approached the pair who were dangerously close to stepping on his impatiens.

"I'm agent Maytag of the FBI, this is Agent Stanton."

Farrier extended his hand. "Agent Maytag, Agent Stanton." His gaze lingered on Stanton. She met it right back, with blue eyes that looked out from under a frame of shiny black hair. The beginning of a smile came to Neil's lips. "I hope you aren't here to arrest me," he said. He didn't sound like he meant it.

"No," Maytag replied. "Just here to ask a few questions."

"What about?" Neil asked.

"An article you wrote for the Steeple Times," Stanton answered. She didn't specify which article.

Neil was intrigued. "Fair enough," he said. "I just picked some blackberries from a patch out in the woods. There's some lemonade, too. Why don't we step inside for a second."

The inside of the house was as bucolic as the outside. There were walnut-stained wooden chairs and a matching table, with embroidered lace place mats and a matching doily under a short, fat beeswax candle for a centerpiece. Copper pans hung from pegs on the wall. Even the appliances looked rustic. Stanton expected to see hand painted duck decoys, but could not spot them anywhere.

Neil served them tall glasses of lemonade and small bowls of ripe blackberries. He sat down and plopped a large juicy berry into his mouth. "So what do you want to talk about?"

Maytag rotated his glass with his fingers. "You wrote an article about possible radioactive contamination at a local bar. We'd like to ask you some questions."

Neil almost spit out the berry. He looked back and forth at the FBI agents. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Of course we are," Maytag said. Stanton took a sip of lemonade and looked more amused than serious.

Neil leaned over the table. "Well, that article was a mistake, a joke."

"You mean there are no radioactive strippers?" Stanton said mockingly. Her comment was directed more at Maytag than Farrier.

"No!" Neil said. "Look, you have to understand some things about the Steeple Times. In one way or another, I've worked for that paper just about my whole life. When I was a little kid I had a paper route with my bicycle. In high school I loaded trucks. When I got out of college I did ad copy, and now I write the occasional article or two.

"A couple of years ago, the paper was bought out by a big chain. To save money, they closed the local office, and do all the editing and layout in New York or Newark or some damn place. Anyone writing articles here just sends them along by computer. They print and distribute locally, but all the administration is done centrally. They do the same thing for lots of regional papers. It's how they make money.

"Anyway, it also means the editor doesn't know anything about what goes on here. I wrote that article as an April fools joke piece, kind of a tradition with the Steeple Times. They must have misplaced it back then, found it again this summer, and decided to run it."

"How about that, Maytag," Stanton said. "The whole thing was an April Fools' prank."

"Then why didn't they print a retraction?" Maytag asked. "I saw a letter to the editor in today's paper praising the report."

Neil shook his head. "Sorry, Agent Maytag. I saw that, too, and had a good laugh. That letter was from the owner of the go-go bar. He said he 'saluted the editor's instincts and abilities.' It was pure sarcasm. It's even funnier that they printed it. This is a small town, and everyone knows what's going on. No one is happy that the paper was bought out like that, and so it's fun to see the new management get egg on their face. There was no retraction because no one told them they made a mistake in the first place."

"So why didn't you correct them?" Maytag asked. "It's your reputation, too."

"My reputation is fine, Agent Maytag. People figured it out soon enough, and word travels fast."

"Sorry we wasted your time, Mr. Farrier," Stanton said.

"I still have a couple of questions," Maytag said. Stanton sighed and drank more lemonade. "In the article, you described seeing a dancer with luminescent...features."

"Correct," Farrier replied.

"Did you really see that, or did you fabricate that?"

"Actually, I did see that. There's a dancer named Starr there that does a special show once in a while. She uses a special paint and it glows under black light."

"Do you know that she uses paint? Did you ask her?"

"No," Neil answered. "I didn't explicitly ask her."

"Does Starr work there regularly?"

"I believe so," Neil answered.

"OK, then," Maytag said as he stood. He offered Neil his hand. "Thanks for the help, and the lemonade. Very refreshing. If you could tell us where this go-go bar is, we can be on our way."

"Sure," Neil said. After shaking Maytag's hand, he explained where the bar was. "But it won't be open until later tonight," he cautioned them.

"Thanks again," Maytag said, as he left he kitchen.

Neil looked at Stanton. "Is he serious about this?"

"He's very thorough," Stanton explained. "We'll be at that club tonight, you can bet money on it."

"I doubt you both need to go there," Neil said.

"No?"

"I mean, there's better things for you to see here than some dive nudie joint."

"Oh, really?"

"Absolutely. Why don't you have dinner with me tonight?"

Stanton smiled. "Always so forward with strangers, Mr. Farrier?"

"Only when I know I don't have long to act," Neil replied.

Stanton needlessly flipped her hair over her shoulder. "What time is dinner?"

"Let's say seven."

"Seven it is," Stanton said as she left the room.

"Oh by the way," Neil said. "How the hell did you two ever find that Steeple Times article in the first place?"

"Like I said," Stanton replied with a grin. "He's very thorough."

TWO

"Are you sure this is fine with you?" Stanton asked.

"Yes, I'm sure, Stanton. Like I said, you were right, I was wrong. I dragged you up here for this, at least you should get dinner out of it."

"Don't sound so defeatist, Maytag. You're going to this strip club by yourself now. Enjoy."

"I'm only going to wrap this thing up," Maytag protested. "This is about closure."

"Uh-huh," Stanton said with a wink. "Well, you can keep your closure going until closing time, if you want. I'll get Neil to drive me back to the inn." She stepped out of the car. "See you later."

"See you later, Stanton," Maytag called back to her. She closed the door and walked up the steps. He waited until the door opened and then drove off to the bar.

Stanton could say all she wanted, all Maytag wanted to do was find Starr, and verify Neil's story. Once he did that, it would be back to the room to type up the case notes and then get to sleep.

The bar was a dump. Smoked glass mirrors lined most of the walls, and fake wood paneling filled the gaps. Men sat at the bar, hunched over mugs of beer, watching a girl in a sequined thong sway her shoulders in time to 70s guitar rock. The mustached bartender wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off to reveal beefy arms. "What can I get you?" he asked Maytag.

"Is Starr working tonight?"

"No."

"I need to contact her," Maytag said.

"Uh, yeah, hold on a second." The bartender walked away. He returned with a small, balding man wearing large tortoise-shell glasses. The man introduced as the owner and asked if something was wrong.

"Nothing's wrong," Maytag said. "I just need to ask her some questions."

"She's legal," the man said. "I can assure you of that."

"I'm sure she is," Maytag said. "But I have a couple of questions for her and for you. Starting with her address and phone number. If you cooperate, I'll be on my way."

His way led to a red brick apartment building on a secondary road. Using the intercom system, he buzzed the unit number he had been given.

"Hello?" it was a woman's voice, distorted by the intercom.

"Agent Gerald Maytag, FBI. I have a few questions, nothing serious."

"So I've been told. Come on up."

She kept the chain on the door while Maytag showed her his identification. When she was satisfied, she let him into the apartment.

"Miss Pearson," he began.

"Call me Starr," she said, sitting down. She looked like any number of young women in their twenties: fit, smooth skin, long brown hair held up with a banana clip. There was nothing to indicate she danced at a go-go bar, and there was nothing in her modest apartment to mark her of interest to the FBI.

"Starr, I want to ask you about the article Neil Farrier wrote about you."

"Who?"

"Neil Farrier. Do you remember the article in the Steeple Times about your act?"

"Yeah, sure. That was just a joke. It's just an act."

"I see." Maytag held a pen and pad, and took notes.

"Are you here for that? You don't think any of that was true, do you? Radioactive and all that shit?"

"The owner said he won't let you do the show anymore. Why is that?"

"Well, he will, but he won't pay me for it. Not proper, anyway. That paint costs money, and he wants me to pay for it."

"So it is just paint?" Maytag asked.

"Paint and special make-up." She held up her hand and twiddled her fingers in the air. The nails were painted a pale off-white.

"And the expense is the reason he won't let you perform this act?"

"Well, that and the you vee," Starr said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The black light, the ultraviolet light. Some of the other girls in the club don't like it because they have cheap dye jobs and it makes their hair glow."

"Neil Farrier didn't mention that in his article."

"I guess there were real blondes there that night."

"Would you mind showing me the paint?"

Starr looked at him for a moment. "I think I know what's going on here," she said with a smile.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't be like that. What kind of FBI man comes out to this little town to investigate radioactive strippers? And shows up at the go-go club to find me instead of just looking me up?"

"Miss Pearson, I'm just doing my job, and the way the day went, it made sense to try to speak with you this evening."

"Right," she said, dragging out the word. "I think we have something in common, you and I."

Maytag shrugged. "How is that?"

"OK, I'll play along. I know what I like, even if you won't admit it. Not like I get to do it at the bar anymore. So you want to see the paint, huh?"

"If it's not too much trouble," Maytag replied.

"No trouble at all. Just give me a second." Starr walked to the bathroom. She emerged a moment later, smacking her lips. "You might as well see the lipstick, too. Give me one more second." She slipped from the bathroom into another room, which Maytag guessed was her bedroom.

"All I need to see is the paint," Maytag called out.

"Whatever!" she yelled back. Back in the main room of the apartment, dressed in a lavender terry cloth robe, she looked at Maytag. "Go back to the bedroom, take a seat."

Maytag walked past her and into the bedroom. There was an unmade bed, a large chest of drawers, and a padded armchair. Shades on the window were pulled down, the only indication there were windows at all. On the wall hung posters of tigers and dragons against black backdrops. He sat in the armchair.

"Now sit tight," she said. "And don't worry."

He almost asked her what he had to be worried about when the lights went off. Instinctively, Maytag reached for his weapon in the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, though, he saw that the room was not completely dark. The animals of the wall posters glowed vividly, and dozens of pale green stars decorated the ceiling.

"Do you like?" Starr asked. Maytag looked for her. He could not make out her shape, but he could see parts. Her lips shone bright pink, and white streaks marked the tips of her fingers. A bikini bottom, the same pale green as the stars above, stretched from between her legs and up over her hips. That Y shaped strip floated and buckled in the air. "This radioactive enough for you?"

Maytag coughed. "The paint," he said.

"Patience," she scolded him. "We're getting to that."

Starr turned and walked to the bed. Maytag could tell because the Y shape of the reflective thong was thinner in the back, and it grew smaller as she moved away from him. The bedsprings creaked with her weight. She faced him again. He heard the popping sound of a lid being flicked open.

Even with the knowledge it was coming, the paint still took Maytag by surprise. The fluid seemed to appear from nowhere, a spring of light from a cleft in the darkness, too weak to do anything but drop straight down. It picked up the ultraviolet light and reflected it as a milky blue. The luminescent liquid spread out on a sloping surface. The flow slowed as the path curved out, then fell off abruptly and splashed another surface below.

Maytag realized what he was seeing just in time for a second stream of bright green color to start a twin journey. The liquid had coated her breasts. Paradoxically, Starr had been naked, but only by covering up with the luminescent paint was her nakedness made known. The other-worldly color clung to her like a second skin. It slithered down her torso, speeding up on the more extreme curves. Paint dripped toward the glowing Y of her crotch.

"Ooh!" Starr exclaimed. "That tickles."

Maytag found his mouth dry when he tried to speak. "So this is your show?"

"Half of it," Starr replied.

"Half?"

"Mm-hmm," Starr purred. Floating pink lips mouthed words in the dark. "But you've seen the paint, so I can stop if you want me to."

Maytag said nothing.

"That's what I thought," Starr said with a giggle.

A pink neon smile formed in mid air and swayed side to side, the vestige of a Cheshire vamp. Next to it a spot of white light appeared, much as the paint had. Only this light did not pour, it extended. It danced side to side next to the smile, growing wider and then longer. Not a solid light, but a lattice, it looked like ivy or lace. The lattice wrapped back on itself as if it was a tube of some sort.

"Oh, my," Maytag murmured, just as those smiling lips parted and took in the shaft and its glowing hatch marks. He reasoned it must be glass, or acrylic, something transparent. Resting on the edge of his seat, he peered closer. The fluorescent pink lips stretched around the invisible shaft and its luminary lace work surface. Almost the entire bright pink O of her lips could be seen as more and more of the shaft vanished into her mouth.

Starr withdrew the shaft from her mouth. "Do you like?"

"Yes," Maytag said. "I've never seen anything like that."

"How about this?" The shaft turned end over end with the white tips of her fingers dancing along its length. It moved down the side of her body and over to the Y. White fingertips moved over the Y, and the dark portion of her hand obscured the cloth. Starr yanked the material down and it rolled down her invisible legs. When she kicked it away, it seemed to spring off on its own accord.

There were lips, finger tips, and a torso splashed with paint. But for the lacy shaft, Maytag could see nothing else. Without the thong he could see nothing of her below the waist.

Starr knew what he was thinking. "Sorry about that," mouthed the ghostly kiss. "Normally you can see those lips, too. I didn't take the time tonight. Maybe you can picture it from what isn't there." As she said the last bit, the shaft became shorter. It moved upward, vanishing into a black curtain that parted in two.

Starr's mouth was open in an O. The shaft grew longer again, then shorter. The pink O collapsed on itself, and the lower half rolled up, She was biting her lip. The shaft changed length at a faster pace. The white light of two lozenge shaped finger nails circled at the top of the black curtain. Maytag slid off the chair and moved on his knees to get a closer look.

Though his face was inches away, he dared not disturb the dance of those lights. He got so close that he could smell her. From that distance, he saw that there were little flecks of light inside the clear shaft. There were dozens of them.

"Too late to be shy now," Starr said. She took Maytag by the head and forced him down to her crotch.

Maytag licked. He ignored the lightshow and licked, over and around the solid acrylic shaft. Starr relinquished her grip on the toy, and Maytag took over for her. He fucked her with the bar and fluttered on her sensitive skin with his tongue. He moved slowly at first. Encouraged by Starr's moans picked up the pace.

"Oh, that's good!" she said, raking her fingers into Maytag's short hair. "Just like that!"

Starr ground her hips into the bed. She was coming. Maytag looked up and saw her chest, covered in psychedelic blue and green, heave as she shook with pleasure.

"Damn," he mumbled.

"Oh, that was wonderful," Starr said. "This black light stuff gets me so hot. I needed that."

"It looks hot," Maytag said. "They're fools not to let you do that show."

"Well, they never let me do that part," she said.

"Do you like my toy?"

"Yes," Maytag said. "I didn't realize there were little flecks inside."

"I love that," she said. "Like stars wrapped in a white cage."

"Your lips look great with that pink gloss," Maytag said.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, come up here and let's see how it looks on you."

Starr helped Maytag get out of his pants. He sported a throbbing hard on, and the tip was slick with pre-cum. With her thumb, she rolled the pre-cum over the swollen head. Maytag gasped. She brought her face next to his johnson.

To Maytag, it seemed that only a floating pair of lips approached, until Starr's warm wet mouth engulfed his cock. Before, he had seen a glowing rod penetrate an unseen cleft. This time, a dark shaft slipped inside a vibrant pink orifice. Maytag could feel it, though: every wet, sucking bit of it. White fingernails settled in a neat row along his pole, counter stroking against the motion of the pink lips.

"Oh, Starr," Maytag moaned.

She pulled away. "You can't come yet," she said. The fingernails moved away. Maytag heard a crinkling sound but saw nothing. The nails returned with a pale blue saucer. Starr pushed the disc against the head of his cock. The white beads of her fingers surrounded the head and rolled down the condom onto his slobber-covered dick.

"Now let's try that again," Starr said. She returned to sucking him off. Now Maytag could see his dick, covered in a glowing blue sheath, but he the liquid heat of Starr's mouth was dulled.

Starr pushed her mouth off and slapped herself on the chin with his cock. "It's like a day-glo dildo," she said.

"I can honestly say no one has told me that before," Maytag said.

Starr laughed. "But that's what it looks like."

"You're right. It does."

"Wanna fuck me with it?"

Maytag moved his hand to where he judged her cheek would be. Her skin was warm and soft, but thin. He felt her jaw and cheek bone under his fingers. He lowered his face to hers and kissed her neon lips. She returned his kiss with passion. In his palm, her jaw moved to accept his tongue. They broke the embrace. "I'd love to," he said.

Starr turned over. With her breasts and lips facing the other way, Maytag could no longer see any of her. "I'll never find it," he joked, as his fingers move down her back.

"Oh, I don't think that'll be a problem," Starr replied. He saw her fingernails reach around behind her. They spread out like claws and collapsed on each other, and then pulled apart.

Maytag saw a striated ring of white. It looked like the center of a powdered donut. It looked like..."Oh, shit!" he exclaimed.

"I guess I had time to get something ready," Starr said.

"You certainly did."

"Well, are you going to do it, or do I have to hold this pose all night?"

Maytag took hold of his blue cock and centered it on the luminescent target. He pushed slowly, and found less resistance than he expected. The glowing stuff must be a lubricant, he thought. Still, there was resistance enough. Her anus pinched down on the swollen tip of his prick as he pushed. When the crown cleared her muscular ring, he felt a wave of relief before the feeling of that same pressure on his shaft washed over him.

She moaned but took more than half his length. He might have bottomed out, but at that moment was more interested in bucking out than plunging further. Her ass pulled back on him, squeezing. The back stroke stretched her sphincter, and Maytag saw that where his blue cock ended abruptly, the white ring of her asshole began and strained to keep shape.

He made another few strokes. The sensation of her squeezing overwhelmed him. He came with his hips perfectly still. Each spurt into the condom was an intense burst of pleasure, as the cum struggled to pass a corridor collapsed by the pressure of that tight hole. He moaned far more than she did.

Maytag almost slipped out of the condom as he withdrew from her ass. He discarded the sheath to the side, and looked down. Her cheeks touched again, and he could not see the white around her ring. They were two people alone and in the dark.

Clumsily, he thanked Starr for her help and for other things. Graciously, she told him not to mention it and saw him out the door. She returned to her room when he left.

Starr did have a thing for black light effects. One that she found particularly amusing was how, under ultraviolet light, dried semen would glow in the dark.

THREE

Neil answered the door, wearing a pair of pleated pants and a chambray shirt. He smiled and invited Stanton inside.

"You shaved," she said.

He ran a hand over his chin. "You were unannounced this afternoon. I try to look better for my invited guests."

"You're doing a good job," Stanton said. "Did you shave the dog, too? I might like to see that."

"Newsie is outside, and he's just as shaggy as ever."

"Newsie?"

"Oh, yeah. As in 'newshound', get it? Bad joke, I know."

"No, it's kind of cute," Stanton replied. "So is he. So are you." She moved closer to him.

"I could say the same thing about you," Neil said.

"Then why don't you?"

Neil leaned in next to Stanton's ear. She felt his breath on her neck. He whispered, "Because our dinner will catch fire if I don't get back to the kitchen."

Neil moved away with a grin on his face. Stanton followed him into through the house, admiring how his ass moved as he walked. On entering the kitchen, the smell of cooking food flooded Stanton's nostrils.

"Oh, that smells delicious," she said. "What's for dinner?"

Neil attended to a couple of pots on the stove, and then handed Stanton a glass of white wine. "I have prepared a grilled mix of eggplant, zucchini, and red bell pepper from the garden, new potatoes from the root cellar with fresh parsley, and braised duck with a coulis made from the blackberries I picked today."

"Mmm," Stanton said as she sipped her wine. "That sounds wonderful. Did you shoot down the duck with your own bow and arrow?"

"Ha! If I were a more insecure man, I would think you were insulting me there."

"If you were a more insecure man, I wouldn't be here."

"No, Heather, I imagine you wouldn't. You don't mind my calling you Heather, do you?"

"Not at all. We can't go around calling each other Mr. Farrier and Agent Stanton all night, can we?"

"I guess not," Neil said. They clinked wine glasses and enjoyed another sip of wine.

They ate in a small dining room, by candle light. Throughout dinner, they managed to call each other Neil and Heather with no complications. Stanton told stories of other examples of her partner's thoroughness, and Neil countered with anecdotes from his Steeple Times journalism career. The conversation moved back and forth easily, and complemented the meal as well as the wine did.

"Dinner was wonderful, Neil," Stanton said. "Thank you for inviting me."

"Thank you for accepting. But we're not done yet. Dessert awaits, and I promised to show you the local sights." Neil stood and cleared the plates from the table. He brought them to the kitchen and returned with a small picnic basket. "Shall we?"

"Where are we going?"

"To see the sights. Don't worry, we're not going far."

Neil led them back through the kitchen and outside. The sheepdog sauntered over to them, wagging his tail.

"Hey, Newsie," Stanton said, scratching him behind the ears.

"Sit, Newsie, sit. Good dog." Neil pulled a small package from the basket and dropped it on the floor. "Duck leftovers," he told Stanton. "Now, stay, Newsie, stay. We'll be back."

Neil reached into the basket and removed a flashlight. "We have some moonlight, but I brought this just to be sure."

"You really come prepared," Stanton said. "What else do you have in that basket?"

"Nothing special," Neil responded. "C'mon, give me your hand."

Neil led the way through the woods. Each almost tripped a couple of times, and they laughed among the trees as they walked.

"How far are we going?"

"Not much farther!"

"Do I hear water running?" Stanton asked.

"Yes, you do. There's a creek right up ahead."

The chattering of the running water grew louder as they walked. They reached a clearing, and Stanton could see moonlight reflected in the creek. Neil pointed to a flat slab of rock. "Have a seat."

Stanton settled on to the rock, and Neil sat next to her. He removed two small bowls from the basket, covered in plastic wrap. He removed the wrap and handed Stanton a bowl and a spoon. "Chocolate mousse," he said.

"Ooh, if I had known that I could have walked twice as far." Stanton took a spoonful. It was thick, but creamy, and delightfully sweet. They both inhaled the dessert, leaving small glass bowls with trace markings of mousse. "Oh, Neil, that was fabulous. And it's pretty here."

"I'm glad you liked it. This may be my favorite spot in the world. Thirsty?"

"Yes," Stanton said. "You have something else in the basket?"

"Not really."

Neil moved off the rock and felt along the ground. He picked up a taut white length of string. He pulled up on it and followed it to the water. There he lifted a bottle and returned to the rock with it. "Champagne," he announced. "Chilled by the creek."

"You really are prepared," Stanton said. "And presumptuous, I might add. What made you think I would follow you out into the woods?"

"They give FBI agents guns, right?" Neil popped the cork on the champagne bottle.

"Yes, they do. But they don't issue champagne glasses. You have any in there, too?"

"No. Use the bowl. Be a little decadent."

They drank chilled champagne that tasted suspiciously of chocolate, and giggled when the bubbles exploded from the wide surface and attacked their noses.

"C'mere," Stanton said. "I feel like being a little decadent." That first kiss, under the moon, by the gurgling stream, tasted sweeter than dessert and went to her head faster than any wine. She had a handful of his soft curls and her lips locked onto his. He moved slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, but it only made her more insistent.

His hands moved along her back, then along her sides. As they kissed and their tongues brushed lightly against each other, their hands moved to explore and to embrace. Neil cupped her breasts and gave them a gentle squeeze, and he circled his fingers around her hardening nipples. Stanton felt the muscles in his back, muscles that she knew gathered pails of fruit, and she guessed chopped cords of wood.

Stanton pushed him onto his back. She rolled on top of him and straddled him with her knees midway between his hips and armpits. Neil put his hands on her waist. His thumbs rested just above her hip bone, and his fingers nestled into the valley of her lower back. "Damn, you feel good," he said.

"You feel pretty good, too," she countered. She moved her fingers over his chest, raised mounds of smooth muscle over the ridges of his rib cage. She began to unbutton his shirt to see with her eyes what felt so good to her hands. She leaned in to kiss him again, and his hands slipped easily onto her ass.

As they kissed, Neil ran his hands in large circles on her ass. He gave her cheeks a squeeze, and then a slap. He drew his lips away from hers. "What's the chances of me taking these off and getting a better grip on this fantastic ass?"

"Why don't you try doing it instead of talking about it?"

"Is it that simple?" Neil asked, slipping a hand in the waist band of her pants.

"Mm-hmm," Stanton purred. She swept her legs over his thighs and brought them together. While Neil worked her pants over her hips, she kicked off her shoes. Neil's thumbs hooked over her panties as well, and he had her ass exposed. Pushing the pants down, his elbows and forearms rested warm and furry on her thighs.

When Neil reached her knees and could no longer move the clothing off her legs, Stanton lifted her calves. He slipped the pants up over her smooth lower leg, and past the smooth delicate plane of her ankles. He dropped the garments on the rocks and used his free hands to lightly stroke her toes, feet, and calves.

The night air tickled her, too. Invisible fingers brushed her rump, her thighs, and the backs of knees. It sent a shiver along her spine. She twisted in response and brushed her hip against Neil's body, rolling along the stiff dong in his pants. "Is that for me?" she cooed.

Neil slapped a palm against her bare ass. "I was just going to ask you that about this?"

"You ask too many questions," Stanton said. "I think we might have to do something about that."

"Like what?" Neil asked.

"Like this," she replied. Pushing against the rock with her palm, Stanton thrust her body forward. The soft curls of his chest grazed the bottom of her ass as she moved her pelvis to Neil's face.

"I see!" he exclaimed.

"What do you see?"

"Looks like you shaved, too."

"I try to look better for my invited guests."

There was a narrow tuft of dark hair above her slit. Neil moved his nose through the curls and took in her smell. He moved his mouth down to her pussy. The soft surrounding flesh was as dry and puffy as a marshmallow, but the seam itself was wet and sticky, like a ripe fruit. Neil licked tenderly, sliding his tongue along her lips. He took two handfuls of her ass, and used the tips of his fingers to probe at her crease from the backside.

Stanton probed as well. She thrust her hand into Neil's trousers and took hold of his tumescence. She gave it a squeeze with her palm, and the length of hard flesh replied by jumping in her hand. Neil moaned his approval, and as he did so, his tongue vibrated against her sensitive lips.

The more Neil licked at her seam, the less Stanton was able to lean back and twist her wrist to stroke his cock. With the pleasure growing, she decided to abandon the effort and concentrate on herself. She brought both hands forward and ran them through the lush curls of Neil's head. She raked his hair, took hold of his head and pushed her twat flush against his mouth. Neil increased the pace and depth of his tonguing.

"Right there!" Stanton groaned. Neil focused his efforts where he was, moving his lips and mouth in concert with his tongue, swirling in ever tighter circles. He reached up and fondled her breast. Stanton grabbed his hand and raised it to her mouth. She wrapped her lips around two fingers and sucked them deep into her mouth.

Again Neil moaned, and again the vibration added to the warm anguish of the cunt licking. He cupped her ass with his free hand and used his arm to roll her up and onto his spastic tongue.

Stanton's body succumbed to the relentless pressure. Her fingers clenched Neil's scalp like talons while her thighs clamped onto the front of his face. Neil pulled his fingers from her mouth so that at least one of them could breathe. When her orgasm ebbed, Stanton shimmied her ass down Neil's chest and brought her mouth down to his to give him a kiss almost as wet as her pussy had been.

Neil hurried to slip his pants down his thighs. He gripped his equipment and pointed the shaft up in the air. Stanton took it from him and lowered her slick cunt onto it. She sat down on his cock and moaned for the entire forest to hear.

"Goddamn, Heather!"

"Oh, Neil," she said. Stanton started to rock with his prick buried inside her. Then she lifted herself off him and slammed her bottom back down again. She pounded him like that without pause. Even as she felt him shoot his load inside her, she kept at it. She didn't exactly come again: maybe the initial orgasm had never really ended. The only reason she stopped was that she ran out of breath. She collapsed against Neil's chest and draped her long dark hair over his face.

Neil brushed her silky hair out of his face and struggled to uncross his eyes. His balls were sore from Stanton's ride. "Oh, Heather, you are unbelievable."

"Mmm," was all she replied.

They reclined like that for a short while, until they felt Neil's cream start to flow back onto his body. Stanton pushed herself off and gave him another kiss.

"You can clean up in the creek," he said.

"No, thank you!" Stanton laughed. "I drank the champagne, remember? That water is cold! I'll just use your shirt." Stanton picked up the shirt and wiped herself with it.

"My shirt?" Neil protested weakly.

"Well, you live right here. Not ashamed to walk around with that sexy chest of yours, are you?"

"You know how to hurt a guy," he said.

"And you know how to treat a woman. This was great."

"But there's more!"

Stanton laughed again. "I admire your endurance, Neil. But I have to get back."

"Not that," Neil said. "Not that I wouldn't want to. Just hold on for a second." Neil jumped off the rock, pulled up his pants and frantically searched the ground.

"Lose something?"

"Just sit tight, Heather," he said. "Aha!" He held a long stick in the air. "I love this spot, and not just because of the creek. Behold!" Neil strode to a line of bushes that bordered the clearing. He reached the end and pushed the stick into the leaves. Then he ran, dragging the stick behind him, through the bushes. Hundreds of tiny yellow lights appeared in the bushes, and filled the air with chaotic blinking. The light spread behind Neil like the tail of comet and spread out in to a whirling, expanding cloud of flickering yellow points of light.

Neil finished his sprint by running up to Stanton. "Photinus pyralis," he announced. "Better known as the firefly."

"Oh, Neil, that's beautiful," Stanton said.

"Like it?"

"I love it."

Neil smiled and watched her watching the flickering fireflies. "So what do you say we stay a little longer?"

Stanton looked over to him and smiled. "You really do ask too many questions," she said before kissing him.

EPILOGUE

"I want to thank you again for the help, Neil," Maytag said. "I'm glad we straightened this out."

"My pleasure," Neil answered. "I should thank you, really. I'm gonna get a nice article out of this, and I get to make fun of newspaper management while I do it. 'The Day the FBI came to Steeple.' Should be a good one."

"As long as you write nice things about us," Stanton said.

"Don't worry," Neil replied. "You'll get a glowing review."

END