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Subject: {ASSM} The Innocent Fugitives Ch12 {Varkel} (MF Mg oral rape)
Date: Fri, 16 Feb 2001 20:10:04 -0500
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The Innocent Fugitives
a Novel by Varkel
Copyright (C) 2001, Varkel



Chapter 12:  The Big City



In addition to 30 $100 bills, Hanna had enclosed a note in her 
envelope.  "Call Bernie Nails in Chicago at the number below.  
I've already talked to him.  He'll fix you up.  Good luck to you, 
honey."

On the outskirts of the big city they stopped at a turnpike plaza.  
Paul and Bobbie went to the ice-cream booth while Jenny 
telephoned.  Though a woman answered the call, Jenny was 
pleasantly surprised that she didn't have to wait.  A polished 
masculine voice, sounding immediately on the line, gave her 
directions that she wrote on her notepad.

When she found Paul and Bobbie's table, she was again surprised.  
They had remembered to buy her a sundae, too.  "We're in luck," 
she announced as she sat down.  "This guy, Bernie Nails, has a 
furnished apartment for us.  He gave me the address.  He said the 
key was on top of the door frame."

"It's in Chicago, too?" Paul asked, looking up from his dish.

Jenny nodded brightly.

"Have you ever been in Chicago?"

Jenny wagged her head slowly.

"Me neither.  How are we going to find this place?"

"He said it's on the South Side near the university," Jenny 
offered.

"I suppose if we don't go north or west we'll be safe, but what 
university?"

"I don't know, Paul.  Let's just drive in the right direction and 
ask people where Dorchester and 57th Street is."

It took them hours to locate the place, and then another twenty 
minutes to find a parking spot two streets over.

"It looks kinda nice," Bobbie opined as they walked back to 
Dorchester Avenue along 57th Street.  "There's a lot of trees."

"I worried it would be a slum," Jenny admitted.  She carried the 
valise with the money and Paul lugged the larger suitcase.

A thirty-ish black man slouched toward them on the sidewalk from 
the other direction.  His clothing was stained and he hiccupped as 
he walked.

He greeted Paul, standing at bit too close.  "Hey, my man.  You 
got some change?  I ain't eaten today."

"We're broke and homeless, fellow," Bobbie piped up.  "Do you know 
where we can find a soup kitchen?"

"Shee-it, people.  Y'all got suitcases.  That's more than I got.  
What's in them?"

His hand moved to grab the large suitcase, but Paul easily pulled 
it aside.  The man staggered, nearly falling on his face.  Paul's 
rising apprehension changed to contempt.

"We're three against one," he growled, "and this little girl is 
the worst of us."

The guy jerked back, hand fumbling in his pocket as if for a knife 
but reappearing empty.

"What you saying, mothafucka?" he exclaimed indignantly.  "That 
little girl can't hurt me."

"Of course she can, but I won't let her," Jenny interrupted with 
sneering smile.  "You see, I'm the pro here, a nurse.  My 
specialty is the scalpel," and she reached into her purse.

"You crazy muthafucken people," the man exclaimed, backing off and 
retreating down the sidewalk.  "You better be careful.  You hear 
what I'm sayin'?"

A car suddenly screeched to a stop at the curb and two very large 
black men jumped out.  They were dressed in business suits and 
wore fedoras.  One of them grabbed the troublemaker roughly and 
threw him to the pavement, where he groveled and whimpered.  The 
other approached the white trio with cold sternness evident in his 
handsome, coal black face.

"I'm sorry if he bothered you," he said very politely, though 
betraying not the least obsequiousness.  In fact he stood taller 
and disdainfully superior.

"Thank you, Mister ... " Jenny stammered.

"Rashid Mohammed, ma'am.  We're just doing our job of keeping our 
neighborhood safe.  You people moving in?"

"Yes, we are."

He studied all three critically.  "Well, behave yourselves and 
you'll be all right."

He turned abruptly and went to the car.  The original accoster was 
on his feet and racing at full tilt in the opposite direction.  
The two imposing men got into the car and drove off.

"Who were those guys?" Bobbie asked wonderingly.

"Vigilantes of some sort," Paul replied with a grin and lightly 
fondled Bobbie's flaxen head, adding sarcastically, "It appears 
we're in a safe neighborhood."

Jenny snarled, "Such arrogance!  'Behave yourselves!'"


* * *


Tom saw two adults and a child turn the corner and head toward him 
near the stoop of the apartment house where he had just washed the 
single window to his basement flat.  They bore luggage like 
refugees.

"Good evening," he greeted them as they stopped to check the house 
number in the growing dusk.

Tom failed to notice the young girl's intense gaze because he was 
busy ogling the pretty woman, some years older than he and he 
thought, very desirable.

"Hi," the man said to him with a smirk, interrupting the too 
obvious ogle.  Tom blushed in deep embarrassment, shuffled his 
feet and wondered where to put his hands.

"This is the place," the man said, turning his attention away from 
Tom and toward the two females.

"Well, finally!" Jenny exclaimed in evident relief.

"Are you moving in here?" Tom asked lamely.

"Yes," Jenny replied, "into one-A."

"That's Lorraine's place," Tom replied in a voice of despair.  
Lorraine, an expensive hooker, had promised to let him have a 
quickie at a discount.  He had been saving his money for months.

"Well, it's ours now," Bobbie announced.  She cocked her head 
cutely.  "What's your name?"

"Tom, Thomas Hoger," he replied, looking into the face of the 
lovely woman who returned his gaze warmly.

"Do you live here?" asked Bobbie.

"Yes, in the basement."

Jenny smiled sweetly, recognizing the young man's attraction to 
her.  "Well, Tom, it seems we're to be neighbors.  This is Paul, 
this is Bobbie and I'm Jenny."

"Oh, oh, Jenny!" the young man stammered.  "I'm so glad to meet 
you!"

"Let's move it," Paul groused. "I need some sleep."

"Can I stay down here and talk to Tom?" Bobbie asked in seeming 
innocence.

"No, darling, not tonight," Jenny replied and pulled on the girl, 
surmising only too well how her "talk" would progress.

Tom watched the three newcomers ascend the few stairs of the stoop 
and enter the building.  The little girl turned her head as she 
went through the door and gave him a wicked grin.  He didn't 
notice.  His eyes were fixed on the backs of Jenny's jean-clad 
thighs.  Four months had passed since the last time he got lucky.


* * *


The apartment was comfortable, possessing two bedrooms, and with 
two baths surprisingly luxurious.  All the utilities worked, 
including the telephone, as Paul discovered when he ordered pizza 
delivered for supper.  Afterwards he and Jenny showered and made 
love placidly, prompting her to remark with a giggle, "I feel like 
an old married again."

Paul cocked an eyebrow.  "When we get our problem straightened 
out, I want to talk to you about that."

"When do you think that will ever be?" she asked.

"I don't know.  Turn off that lamp if you can be content tonight 
with only one man."

She raised up but paused, arm extended toward the lamp.  "Half a 
one."

"What?  Damn it, just a moment ago you were groaning like --"

"Look."

He raised his head and saw Bobbie standing dejectedly in the 
doorway.

"Come on," Jenny invited, beckoning to the girl, who with alacrity 
jumped into their bed on the other side of Paul.  The newcomer 
wrapped an arm around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

"What's the matter, honey?" he asked.

"I'm hungry."

"I think a couple pizza slices are left."

"Not for food."  Her hand reached down his torso.  "For this."

"Good god!  Imagine a twelve year old hungry for dick!"

"They all are," said Jenny with a grin.  "Most just don't know it 
yet."  She got out of bed.  "I'll give you two more room."

"What for?  I don't think I can get it up again."

"Bobbie, do you think you can help Paul with that problem?"

"Of course I can!" the girl declared.

"Bobbie, if you want loving action tonight, you'd better suck Paul 
hard.  Then your can show him your trick."  The woman took 
something from her purse.  "But put this on him before he gets to 
your bottom."

"A rubber!" sneered the girl, but she took it and slipped it under 
her pillow before bending eagerly and expertly to the man's groin.

"Wow!" he breathed.  "What a wicked little tongue!  Bobbie, you've 
been practicing on something besides a banana."

The girl chuckled through her nostrils but maintained her 
position, nose buried in his pubic bush.

He raised up slightly, reaching for her hips.  "Swing around here 
and I'll taste you, too."

She crawfished around in the bed until she had straddled his face, 
never relinquishing her mouthful.  He pulled her hairless slit 
down to him and began to lick gently.

Jenny returned to bed and lay propped on her elbow next to his 
head, watching the tongue work well lit by the nearby lamp.  She 
said musingly, "Bernie Nails wants to see us at ten o'clock 
tomorrow morning.  He gave me an address on the north side.  We'll 
have to take a taxi, Paul."

He grunted disapprovingly.

"I know you don't want to spend any more of the original cash, but 
my three grand is hardly touched.  If we don't take a taxi, we'll 
have to get started at dawn to find his place.  Somehow I think it 
would be a big mistake to get there late."

"Uh huh," he agreed through his nose.

"Good!  That's settled.  Bobbie, isn't it hard yet?"

The girl made strenuous nasal noises.

"She can't be coming so soon!" Jenny muttered.

The young hand reached blindly for the woman, caught her shoulder 
and pulled her toward the other end of the man.  Dutifully Jenny 
spun lower in the bed.  Bobbie's eyes sparkled up to her.

"My god, have you done it?  Paul, your cock is out of sight!  
Raise up, Bobbie, and let me see."


* * *


Paul paid off the taxi driver, computing almost the exact 15 per-
cent tip, and followed Jenny onto the sidewalk.  The cab jerked 
away, slamming the door out of his hand.  He asked aggrievedly, 
"Isn't 15 per-cent still right?"

Jenny shrugged and took a breath.  "Whatever.  We're here.  That's 
the right number.  He said to tell the doorman his name."

Paul led her to an imposing man in a fancy uniform, standing at 
the door under the sidewalk awning.  "We're here to see Mr. Bernie 
Nails," he told the man.

"Lucky you!" retorted the grand fellow.  "Go to the last elevator 
and push P for Penthouse.  It's a controlled elevator."

"Thank you," said Paul.  They passed through the door that the man 
held open.  He made a clucking sound as he closed it behind them.

"What did he mean by that noise?" Paul wondered.  "Did he expect a 
tip, too?"

"Probably.  Good heavens, Paul!  Somebody actually lives here?"

The lobby was all gold columns, leather couches and marble inlay.  
Paul chuckled.  "Resembles a bank, doesn't it?  Come on, we'll 
find out.  Looks like the elevators are down this hall."

"What's a 'controlled elevator?'" she asked.

"Guess we'll find that out, too."

The control panel of the last elevator had only three buttons, 
marked B, L and P.  When they were well inside, he pressed P.  
Instead of the expected door closing, however, they heard a 
buzzing sound.  He exchanged glances with her.  "That is a P, 
isn't it?"

With a click the grill on the panel emitted a male voice.  "State 
your name and business."

Paul squeezed Jenny's hand and declared, making his voice gruff, 
"We're here to see Mr. Bernie Nails at the appointed time."

"And your names are?"

Paul took a breath.  "He knows about us.  He's letting us use his 
place at Dorchester and 57th."

The grill remained silent.  After a moment Jenny asked in 
annoyance, "Why didn't you want to tell him our names?"

"We don't know who's at the other end of this, do we?  Suppose 
it's the cops?"

"Oh."

The voice sounded again.  "Ms. Collier, please open your purse and 
hold it under the light."

She looked wonderingly at Paul.  He nodded.  "Do it."  A camera 
lens was inset in the car ceiling beside the decoratively shielded 
bulb.

She opened the purse.  After a moment the voice intoned, "Thank 
you."  The doors hissed closed, and smoother than most, the car 
began its ascent.

Shortly movement ceased and the doors hissed open.  They debouched 
into a small marble-walled room containing a desk with computer 
terminal beside a large satin-steel door.  An armed man in a guard 
uniform, complete with Sam Browne belt and Cook County deputy's 
badge, sat behind the desk.  He rose at their arrival, stepped 
around the desk and opened the steel door.  "Go right in and have 
a seat.  Mr. DiGrazia will see you shortly."

"Who?" asked Paul.  "We're to see Mr. Nails."

The man smiled slightly.  "You will.  Bernie Nails is his 
nickname."  He smiled apologetically at Jenny.  "Sorry about the 
purse, ma'am, but some cosmetics sniff a lot like explosives."

"It's all right," she assured him but rolled wondering eyes at 
Paul.

Inside they found several comfortable couches, reminding them of a 
doctor's waiting room.  A heavy man in dapper business attire put 
down a magazine and stood up as the door sighed shut behind them.

He grinned at Paul.  "You can tell _me_ your names."

"Paul Lanning and Jenny Collier.  Are you Mr., ah, Digrats?"

"Digrazia.  No.  But he is expecting you.  My name is Corley.  Ms. 
Collier, do you need to freshen up first?"

"No, thank you."

"Then follow me, please."

He led them down a hall past several closed doors to one near the 
end.  Inside was another large marble room with padded chairs, 
mirrors on three walls and a bathroom sink.  In the center stood a 
raised chair occupied by a male figure wearing beautifully shined 
loafers, silk stockings and a royal blue satin robe trimmed in 
gold.  The figure lay back in the chair with a steaming towel 
wrapped around its face.  A man in a white cloak hovered near, 
sharpening an old-fashioned straight razor on a leather strop 
affixed to the chair.

Corley indicated chairs for them and said, "This is Mr. DiGrazia's 
morning toilet.  Please have a seat."

Another suited man, smaller than Corley and the barber, lounged in 
the far corner, reading a newspaper.  He glanced up but said 
nothing.

Corley sat on the far side of Jenny from Paul.  "You may be 
somewhat confused about the name.  In his youth Bernardo DiGrazia 
distinguished himself by his enthusiasm and success in collecting 
bad debts through attention to a debtor's appendages.  He's been 
known affectionately ever since as Bernie Nails."

Paul gulped unconsciously, Jenny a moment later.

As if he had been waiting for that reaction, Corley continued, 
"Hannah Agnew is an old friend of Bernie's.  She did him a 
significant favor once when the feds turned up the heat on 
Chicago.  As a result he is inclined to favor whatever she 
proposes.  As you probably know, she spoke to Bernie about you 
two, describing your problem and, ah, Ms. Collier's talents.  I am 
authorized to tell you that your problem in Ohio is not a problem 
in Illinois, particularly in the view of DSC."

"DSC?" asked Paul.

"Bernie's company: the Discretionary Security Corporation."

"That's ... very kind of ... Mr. DiGrazia."

"I'm also authorized to tell you that your residency in our place 
on the south side is assured."

"That really is kind!" said Paul with more enthusiasm.

"On one minor condition," the man added.

"Condition?"

"Hannah had some very nice things to say about Ms. Collier.  The 
condition is that she demonstrate her talent."

"Her ... talent?"

"If it proves as, ah, capacious as Hannah claims, Bernie is also 
prepared to offer Ms. Collier a job -- a very rewarding one, I 
might add."

Jenny's eyes widened but Paul's face darkened.  "What did Hannah 
say?"

Corley's dark eyes were direct.  "Three things."  He held up one 
finger.  "That Ms. Collier is a registered nurse, which we have 
already verified on the web with the Ohio medical board.  Aren't 
computers wonderful?"  He held up another finger parallel to the 
first.  "That she is a looker with a good figure.  We already 
agree on the first part and will check the second in just a 
moment."  A third finger rose to join the other two.  "That she 
can admit a glans penis into the bottom of her throat without 
vomiting and there accept its ejaculate without strangulation.  We 
propose to verify these points here and now.  Ms. Collier, will 
you please disrobe completely."  He gestured to the half-reclining 
figure in the chair.  "Mr. DiGrazia will test you personally."

Paul jumped up.  "Just a minute!  You want Jenny to strip here in 
front of everybody and suck that guy's dick?"

Corley rose also, arms crossed on his chest.  He answered 
unperturbedly, "Exactly, if she and you want Bernie's support and 
concealment from Ohio pursuit, not to speak of a job worth four 
grand a week."

Paul ground his teeth.  "That's the most outrageous offer I ever
--"

"Shut up, Paul."  Jenny also stood up.  "We need Bernie, and doing 
this is a lot easier than most things they ask of nurses."  She 
turned her back.  "Undo that hook."

Feeling unreal, Paul assisted her in disrobing and folded her 
clothes carefully in a chair as she removed them.  The barber 
lowered the raised chair to the floor and appeared with a small 
rolled up carpet that he spread before it.  The man in the chair 
opened his robe, displaying an erect organ larger than Paul's 
though a good bit less than Todd's monster had been.  Paul wanted 
to ask her if she thought she could swallow this one, but 
refrained, unable to think of a less dramatic but still 
unambiguous way to phrase the question.

Corley leaned back, hand to chin reflectively.  Jenny, blushing 
slightly, spun slowly under his gaze.  The man nodded and smiled 
approvingly.  "You can depend on Hannah."

The hairy legs protruding from the barber chair parted immediately 
at her touch.  When she bent between them, Corley, barber, Paul 
and even the little man in the far corner, throwing his newspaper 
aside, hovered close to judge her performance.

But she looked up at the barber.  "Give me a warm, wet cloth."

Immediately the man went to the sink, ran water and returned 
holding a steaming cloth by its corner.  She took it and passed it 
several times over the entire exposed genitals before letting it 
fall to the carpet.

At last after a deep breath, she opened her mouth and deliberately 
admitted the penis.  Her head bobbed several times, each time 
sinking further on the shaft.  Arching her back and straightening 
her neck, she pressed slowly forward until her nose encountered 
his pubic pad.  She began to stroke back and forth, exposing then 
concealing some two inches of the base on each.

Corley gently clasped the extended throat.  "Remarkable!" he 
declared after feeling its repeated convulsion.  The little man 
pressed close and replaced Corley's hand.  He nodded and expressed 
the first word Paul had heard from him: "Damn!"

The man in the chair groaned and stiffened, thrusting up and 
forward with his hips.  Jenny's mouth completely engulfed him once 
more and froze.  Her hands, already inside the robe, gripped his 
buttocks.  To the fascination of all observers, her throat worked 
visibly.

"Oh, god!" moaned the man in the chair.  His hand snapped up and 
tore the towel off his face, but everyone was watching the 
spectacle at his middle.

The woman withdrew, momentarily exhibiting one string of white 
fluid between her lower lip and the eye of the distended penis.  
She looked around to find Corley.  Her mouth worked as she 
swallowed its contents.  She rocked back on her heels.  "Well?" 
she demanded.

But the little man from the corner punched the panting occupant of 
the chair.  "Get up!" he commanded.  The man in the blue robe 
promptly jumped out of the chair.

Paul stared at the now exposed face.  "That's just a kid!"

"Right," said the little man with a grin.  "My nephew, Little 
Pete.  I am Bernie Nails."  He was unhooking belt and britches as 
he spoke.  He stepped out of britches and underpants and flopped 
in the barber chair, spreading bony legs wide, exposing a half 
erection.  He leered up at Jenny.  "You passed the entrance exam, 
sweetie.  Ready for your final?"

The nephew stood to one side, grinning sheepishly at Jenny when 
she glared at him, penis still erect and dripping.  "What's going 
on here?" she demanded.

Corley answered her.  "We wanted to make it easy for you.  Little 
Pete is known as a fast shot."

The small man in the chair added, "Mine is a quarter inch longer 
than Little Pete's.  Think you can do it, sweetie?"

She looked at Paul.  He shrugged.  Her eyes dropped to the 
upthrust front of his britches.  She smiled.  "I'm glad men are 
all so much alike," she remarked, kneeling again on the carpet.  
She took up the fallen wash rag and attended similarly to the new 
set of genitals before leaning forward.

"Ah, yes!" exclaimed the little man with a smile, adding after a 
moment, "Nice tongue!"  He threw his head back in the chair, 
taking a deep breath.

Paul watched the bobbing head until Corley distracted him.  "It 
looks like we'll be working together, Lanning."

"Does it!"

"Yeah.  Your woman is talented.  And she's a nurse.  Do you know 
if she ever worked in a hospital?"

Reluctantly Paul tore his eyes away from the action.  "Yes, until 
the last year or two, or so I understand."

"In particular did she ever work in geriatrics?"

"Now, that I don't know.  Old people?  What's Bernie's interest?"

"Rich old men.  They need a lot of protection.  You might say 
they're the mainstay of our business.  They also need a woman's 
touch, but not just any woman.  A woman able to recognize when her 
attention becomes too much for her partner would be especially 
valuable to us.  I'd like to talk to you about that.  It 
represents an opportunity for you as well as Ms. Lan-- I mean, Ms. 
Collier."

Paul's attention was switching back and forth between the dapperly 
costumed assistant and the naked Jenny, whose sunken cheeks were 
now producing slurping sounds at the top of each partial 
withdrawal.  The man in the chair was saying again and again, 
"Damn, you're good, sweetie!  Damn, you're good!"

"Ah, what opportunity is that, Corley?"

"Bernie has sent some of his girls to nursing schools, but every 
one of them flunked out before they could learn anything useful -- 
except one who ended up getting the dean fired, but she didn't 
learn anything either.  It occurs to us that if we _start_ with a 
trained nurse, however, one with the right attitude, along with a 
dedicated administrator -- that's you -- we could run our own 
school."

Bernie, assuming indeed that it was Bernie who occupied both the 
barber chair and Jenny's mouth, had ceased to praise her verbally.  
Now he was grunting and thrusting with his hips.

"A school?" Paul asked, concentrating on Corley with difficulty.  
"For what curriculum?"

"How about 'Safe Copulation 101?'  In other words, what to watch 
for in an old man -- sometimes a _very_ old man -- so as not to 
kill him with love.  And what to do if the symptoms of trouble 
appear."  Corley leered.  "Of course it's not exactly love, except 
for the billions of dollars these old men control, but you get my 
drift."

"A school?"  Paul laughed despite the signs of imminent climax in 
the chair.  "How long can it take to teach safe fucking?"

"Oh, I think it might be tougher than you think.  You'll have to 
ask your woman.  But I can tell you this: we've lost several very 
good customers over this problem, each with severe attending 
complications.  It's worth a lot to Bernie to solve it."

But Bernie was distracted.  His groans and rigid body announced 
his crisis.  Again Jenny held her pose, gripping the man's hips 
under his dress shirt, her nose in his pubic thatch, throat 
working.

"How does she _do_ that?" Corley asked in awe.

Paul answered admiringly, "Something about locking the throat 
half-way through a swallow."

"Oh?  Can you do it?"

Paul drew back.  "Of course not!"

Corley patted him on the arm.  "Of course not.  Anyone with that 
talent is rare."


* * *


Tom was finished with his course work.  His MA diploma had arrived 
from the university along with the junk mail and had nearly been 
trashed along with the rest.  He had passed his orals and was 
writing his Ph.D. dissertation under the direction of a professor 
of incredible renown.  When he was not in the library, he hunched 
over a computer in his basement apartment, fussing with every verb 
and adjective, running keyword searches on file after file in the 
remote school computer, even fumbling through note cards that 
filled three shoe boxes.  Sometimes he took a break and 
masturbated while staring at pictures downloaded from 
alt.binaries.pictures.erotica.

He knew that he had something to contribute to the history of 
charcoal iron making.  He was passionate about the topic.  He 
paused over the keyboard, waiting for an inspiration.

"Hey, mister, what are you doing?" a small voice sounded from the 
doorway."

It was the little girl from upstairs.  What was her name?

"I'm trying to write," Tom responded with annoyance.  "How did you 
get in here?

"The door wasn't locked.  It just came open."

"'Just came open?'  Didn't it require a push?"

"Only a small one," she admitted, looking around at the cramped 
living quarters.

"Little girl, I'm very busy right now," Tom protested, remembering 
his niece, about that age, a real pest.

"I'm not a little girl!  I almost have titties, see?"

She snatched her pull-over up to reveal a bare belly and chest.  
She had roseate, swollen nipples and a bit of puffiness around 
them.  Tom was startled and slightly alarmed by her behavior, but 
the sight of the bare chest did not arouse him in the least.

"Straighten your clothes!" he commanded the girl.

Her eyes glittered as she dropped the pull-over.  "You think I'm 
just a child, don't you?"

"But you are," Tom answered.  When her face fell, he smiled 
affectionately and brushed her golden head with his finger tips 
for an instant.  "Are you even eleven years old?"

"I'm twelve!" she responded indignantly.  "I'm almost grown up."

"I think you still have three or four years to grow," Tom replied 
with an amused smile.  "You'll get a lot taller.  And when you 
pull up your shirt --"  He paused and looked away.  "Of course 
then you won't do it so freely."

"I won't?  Why not?"

"Because girls never do when they really have something to show."  
He sighed.  "What did you want?"

But she cocked her head, studying him.  "You think I don't know 
how to do it, don't you?"

He chuckled.  "I think you know how to turn a cartwheel or a 
somersault and jump rope with the other girls."

"That's childish!" she snorted in disgust.  "I know how to play 
with boys.  And men, too!"

"You think you'd like to learn their games, do you?" 

"I know all about their games already."  She took an object from 
her jeans pocket.  "And now because I'm almost grown up, they have 
to use one of these."

"Where'd you get that?" he demanded, staring at the coin-shaped 
foil package.

"My mommy says I have to start using them."

His voice was incredulous.  "You can't mean you're already 
sexually active!"

"You mean, do I fuck?  Doesn't everybody?"

Tom shook his head in disbelief.  The girl looked so young and 
cute.  Yet her mother had given her condoms?

"Don't use the F-word, little girl.  It doesn't sound right coming 
from your mouth."

"My name is Bobbie, and I'm not a little girl.  I was _sexually 
active_ for the first time almost two years ago."

Tom, suddenly worried about the turn of the conversation, stood 
and went to the door, pushing it fully open.  But he did not ask 
her to leave.

"Your mother might come looking for you," he explained.  "I don't 
want to get into trouble."

"Jenny's not my mother, although she is my mommy.  What kind of 
trouble?"

"I don't want her to suspect that I'm molesting you."

"Molesting?  Is that the F word again?"

"Yes."

"Well, she's not home.  She went away with Paul in a taxi this 
morning.  I'm here alone, but she told me not to go outside.  I've 
been watching TV all day.  It's so boring.  You can _molest_ me if 
you want.  That would be fun."

Tom's mouth gaped.  He was dumbstruck.  "You'd better go, Bobbie," 
he said nervously, but he did not move to shoo her from the room.

"Why," the child asked impudently.  "Do you have a jealous girl 
friend?"

"I don't have a girl friend," Tom retorted and immediately 
wondered how Bobbie had taken charge of the conversation.

"No girl friend?  Are you queer?

"I'm not a homosexual!" he almost shouted indignantly.

"You mean you just play with yourself?" she asked with a note of 
sympathy in her voice.  "You don't have to do that, Tom.  When was 
the last time you molested a girl?"

"You really have to leave now, Bobbie.  We shouldn't be talking 
like this."

Her face showed puzzlement.  "What's the matter, Tom?"

"You're what's the matter!"

"But what did I do?"

He shook his head.  "You have to go, Bobbie."

"Not till you tell me what I did."  Her warm fingers touched his 
bare arm.  "Why don't you like me?"

He took a breath.  "It's not that I don't like you, Bobbie.  It's 
just that ..."  He took another breath.  "It's what talk like this 
can lead to."

She smiled and stroked his arm softly.  "To doing it?  Why not?"

To his horror Tom felt the beginning of an erection.  "B-Bobbie, 
it's against the law for a man my age to ... _do it_ with a girl 
so young."

She sniffed.  "Who cares about the law?"

"Besides that, it might hurt you.  No, Bobbie.  Come back and see 
me when you're 16."

The girl glared at him in disappointment.  A car door slammed 
outside and through the window Tom saw Jenny and Paul walk away 
from a retreating taxi.

"Your parents are back," he said hurriedly.  "Please leave."

Bobbie went to the door and shouted up the stairs, "I'm down 
here."

"Good god!" exclaimed the man.  He rose to his feet.

The girl smiled at him.  "What's the matter?  They won't mind."

He heard feet on the stairs.  Jenny appeared at the door. "I'm 
very sorry," she began, but Tom cut her off.

"I didn't ask her to do anything!  She just came in here to 
visit."

"I know, I know," Jenny replied with a smile.  "Bobbie is a bit 
forward at times."

The relief on Tom's face was very apparent.

Jenny was both amused and intrigued by this young man who seemed 
so awkward.  He had a blonde face that had not entirely lost the 
prettiness it must certainly have possessed ten years previously.

"You're a student?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, nervous under the two sets of female eyes.  
"I'm writing a dissertation."

"Oh, that's impressive.  You're going to be a doctor?"

"A Ph.D.," he corrected the woman, whose body fresh from Bernie's 
shower assaulted his nostrils with the sweet aroma of soap and 
shampoo.

"We should leave you alone to get back to your work," Jenny 
suggested, taking hold of Bobbie's hand.

"I've lost my train of thought," he replied, wanting Jenny to 
stay.  "Would you like a coke or something?"

"Yes!" Bobbie piped up.

"That's very hospitable of you, Tom, but we can stay for only a 
short while.  Paul will get impatient if I don't appear upstairs 
soon."

Tom opened his refrigerator to reveal a general emptiness aside 
from an almost depleted two liter bottle of coke, two cans of beer 
and a small package of cheese.

"I'm almost out of coke," he apologized sheepishly.

"Give it to Bobbie." Jenny said with a wave of her hand.  "I'll 
have a beer with you, unless you're saving them for some special 
occasion."

He grinned at the woman as Bobbie took charge of the Coke bottle.  
"I'll restock tomorrow.  My GI bill check and my VA disability 
pension are due then."

"Pension?" Jenny asked with her head cocked.

"I was in the Gulf War.  I was one of the few on our side to get 
hurt."

"I hope you aren't badly disabled," Jenny stated with real 
concern.

"I can't play football anymore," he replied with a grin, "but I 
never did anyway...  I have a glass," he said to Bobbie, who was 
swigging the Coke from the large bottle.

"Don't mind her, Tom.  She marches to a different drummer than 
most people."

"She's cute," he stated in a purely avuncular manner, "though I 
have to admit she was getting my goat."

"She's a pistol," Jenny sighed and sat with Tom on the couch.  She 
smiled at him.  "I hope she wasn't _too_ forward!"

He shook his head.  "I was about to send her home."

They sipped beer from the cans.  Tom was aroused by the nearness 
of the lovely woman.  Here was an opportunity he must not let 
escape!  He placed his hand on her thigh as they watched Bobbie 
examine a closet.  Jenny looked down at it and thought to brush it 
away, but she liked the touch.  She covered his hand with hers but 
moved it closer to her knee, away from her groin.  She could not 
decide about this young man who obviously wanted her.  She gave 
his hand a squeeze and pushed it from her leg.

"I don't lock m-my door sometimes," he almost stammered.

Her eyebrows rose.  "Isn't that careless in the big city?"

He stared at her, blushing, and forced himself to return his hand 
to her leg.

"Bobbie," she said, standing up abruptly.  "It's time to go 
upstairs."

The two of them were quickly gone after perfunctory good-byes.  
Both favored him with a last thoughtful glance as they went out 
the door.

Tom was appalled at his boorish behavior, touching the woman.  He 
hoped he had not totally alienated her.  He thought of locking the 
door, stripping naked and masturbating on the bed.  But what if 
she did come back tonight?


* * *


Lucy was tired, but the light was burned out over the stairs that 
descended from the surface, which redoubled her basic caution.  
She had been lax about checking the hair before, but not today in 
the dark stairwell.  It was there, lit brown by the small 
flashlight from her purse, wedged into the grooves between door 
and wall beside the handle.  She touched it with a fingertip: it 
was still tight.  Breathing a sigh of satisfaction, she inserted 
her key and opened the door into her dark basement apartment.

Her hand slipped inside the door and turned on a light.  She 
marched into the room, slamming the door behind her, turning 
automatically to reset the deadbolt.  She set her purse on the 
little table and began to remove her sweater.

"Huh!" she gasped, as much in astonishment as fear.  A big man, 
dressed entirely in black, moved toward her from the open door of 
the dark bedroom beyond.  His face was covered by a woman's hose.  
Faintly she could see a smile through it.

"Good afternoon, Lucy.  What kept you?" he asked in a bass voice.

"How could you possibly get in here?" she demanded with genuine 
curiosity.  "That's the only door!"

"Yes, and no window," he agreed, still smiling.  "I wondered if 
you would check the hair."

Her eyes widened.  "Then there's two of you?"

"No, Lucy, only myself."  His smile became smug.  "Actually I'm 
rather proud of that hair.  It's not the same one you left there.  
I did break that one when I first picked your lock -- and almost 
gave up the idea of a personal interview.  But you don't empty 
your trash cans often enough, Lucy.  I found several nice long 
hairs in one.

"If you'll check the knob plate, you'll find a slight difference: 
a groove cut in the wood underneath it.  I was able to wedge one 
end of the new hair into your door jamb, slip it into the groove 
on your knob plate though not deep enough to catch, then thread it 
through my new groove back to the door edge.  All I had to do then 
was duck under the hair into the room, close the door behind me 
and pull the hair tight through the crack of the door, snugging it 
up on the knob plate and breaking it off.  Do you understand, 
Lucy?"

Her big eyes indicated that she understood only too well.  He 
added, "Fortunately you left me several hairs to practice with."

She drew a deep breath and warned, "If you don't get out of here 
I'll scream."

He shook his head.  "That would only give you a sore throat.  As a 
motel maid, you're always the first tenant home in the afternoon.  
I've checked.  This building is completely empty.  We have a 
little over two hours to settle our business."

Her face had paled.  "What business?"

He stood aside.  "Let's go into your bedroom, Lucy."

Her eyes grew even larger.  "You ... you gonna rape me?

"That's merely a detail," he responded impatiently.  His hand 
lashed out and gripped her arm.  "Into the bedroom."

She did scream.  She tried to kick between his legs.  Her 
fingernails reached for his eyes.  But he turned her away from him 
with overwhelming power, and she found herself propelled ahead of 
him through the bedroom door.  He flipped on the overhead light as 
he passed the switch and, actually lifting her off her feet, flung 
her onto the bed.

"Oh, my god!" she cried, bouncing, one hand enclosing her bruised 
arm.  She tried to rise but he fell upon her.  In a few seconds of 
wrenching forces she was restrained, spread-eagled on her back on 
the bed, wrists and ankles caught in -- she turned incredulous 
eyes to her extremities -- caught in velvet-lined handcuffs that 
he must have installed on her bedposts while he waited for her.  
He went around to each in turn, doing something to the small woven 
chains that attached cuffs to bed, removing the slack, stretching 
her hands and feet well apart.

He did not pause to admire his handiwork.  His hand emerged from a 
pocket with a large caseknife that opened out into a wickedly 
sharp blade.  He began cutting the laces of her high-top sneakers 
and proceeded to rip the knife up the legs of her jeans.  It 
passed irresistibly through the tough cloth as it would tissue 
paper.  For a few seconds the room was filled with ripping sounds.  
He even cut through the wire understay on her brassiere, though to 
do so he must exert himself enough to raise her torso momentarily 
clear of the bed.

Lucy's mind, by no means a weak one, was racing.  In the minute or 
so since his assault she had reached a conclusion.  Now as he 
paused at last, standing over her contemplatively while he folded 
the knife, she sighed.  "You wearing a mask.  You ain't gonna kill 
me?"

He answered in a calm, even voice, breathing no harder for his 
violent effort, "Not necessarily.  Although by the time you 
finally tell me what I want to know, you may be in a shape bad 
enough to welcome it."

"Oh, god!" she cried fearfully.

He chuckled slightly.  "What did you expect, Lucy?  I found your 
list taped behind the drawer.  When you blackmail that many 
people, soon or later one of them will get back at you.

"I noticed a couple of cokes in your refrigerator.  Would you care 
for some?"

Her mouth worked.  "I feel like I'm gonna be sick."

"On the other hand, you might come out of this with no loss at 
all."  He whirled away into the kitchen of her little apartment.

She tried drawing up arms and legs to no avail.  She lay in the 
ruins of her own clothing, sweating though far from hot, panting 
lightly with fear, and asked loudly, "But what if it's something I 
really don't know?"

"That's the worst case," he answered as he returned with two coke 
bottles.  He twisted the top off one, turned his back to her and 
took a swig after lifting his mask.  Facing her again, he leaned 
over the bed and placed the bottle mouth upon her lips.  "Wet your 
throat, Lucy.  You'll talk better."

She swallowed what he gave her, hardly noticing the cold liquid.  
"Mister, I'll do anything you ask.  I'll tell you anything you 
want to know.  Just please don't hurt me."

"I have no wish to hurt you," he declared, stepping back.  "Do you 
have a man friend, Lucy?"

"A what?  I don't have any friends."

"Why is that, Lucy?  You actually have an attractive figure, you 
know."

"I'm afraid of them."

"How old are you?"

"37."

He put his hand on her belly, rippling the slight bulge.  "And 
most likely never born a child.  Don't you know your biological 
clock is ticking?"

"Let it tick."

He chuckled.  "Also in that pouch taped behind the drawer I found 
your savings book.  You can certainly afford a child, Lucy, better 
than a lot of women."

His hand moved lower.  She shuddered.  "Is that so unpleasant, 
Lucy?"  He compressed the flesh at the top of her vagina between 
three fingers inside her and the thumb outside.  "At least you 
have known a man."

"I've been raped before."

"Have you!  Did he hurt you, Lucy?"

"The first one did."

"Yes, I can understand that.  The first one, eh?  How about the 
second one?"

"When word got out about it, the men wouldn't leave me alone.  I 
had to move away.  Mister, I'll do anything.  I'll suck your dick, 
anything you want.  Just please don't hurt me."

"That's a kind offer, Lucy, and I appreciate it.  I believe it's 
sincere."

"Oh, it is, Mister!  I'll show you if you give me the chance."

He grunted.  "I've never passed up a helpless cunt yet.  But I was 
thinking about fucking you up the ass.  Oh?  Not so pleased with 
that idea?"

"I've got piles."

"That's no drawback, from either point of view.  A good fucking 
will relieve the itch and push them back inside.  But I've changed 
my mind, Lucy."

"You ain't gonna do me?"

"You're not on the pill, are you?"

"I don't need no pill."

"Then I think we'll just find out if your clock still has a few 
ticks left."

"What you mean?"

Instead of answering he pushed down his black jeans and white 
underpants, freeing a half-erect organ that widened her eyes.  
With pants crumpled above his boots, he waddled across the bed to 
her face, presenting the meaty apparition to her lips.  "Suck it 
up, Lucy.  If you bite it, I'll gouge out your left eyeball."

"I ain't gonna bite you!" she declared before opening her mouth 
and sucking him inside with a slurp.  He leaned closer, giving her 
another two inches.  Her eyes stared up at him, one obscured by 
his pubic bush.

"Actually that's very good, Lucy.  You know where to put your 
tongue, don't you!  I can't believe all your experience has been 
involuntary.  I'm tempted to white-wash your tonsils, but I'll 
restrain myself this once."

He backed away from her.  She raised her head to follow him.  He 
escaped her with a pop and waddled down between her wide-spread 
legs.

He found her eyes still locked with his.  She said, "That sure is 
a big one, Mister, bigger even than most black ones."

"Oh?  You've seen a larger black one?"

"Not many."  She raised her pubic area.  "Go ahead."

"I brought some Vaseline to use on your ass.  Do I need it in 
front?"

"No, sir."

She proved correct.  He entered her with little difficulty, 
gradually increasing the depth of his thrusts.  He contacted a 
firm cervix almost immediately, causing her to grunt.  Soon he had 
penetrated completely.  Her hips began to roll.

He said half humorously, "I'm raping you, Lucy.  Aren't you 
afraid?"

"Scared to death," she answered unsmiling, eyes still locked on 
his through the hose.

"Then where's all this wetness coming from?"

"Nobody can blame me.  It's rape."  Suddenly she shuddered 
violently, then stiffened for a moment.

"Coming, Lucy?"

"Oh, god!"

"Lucy, what's the matter with you?  Women's Lib will have your ass 
for coming while being raped."

"Oh, god!"

"You like a dick better than a dildo, is that it, Lucy?"

"Oh, god!"

He chuckled.  "And you love a good excuse best of all, right?"

"Oh, god!"

"Lucy, I'm about to fill your juicy cunny with a big load of jism.  
My wrigglers will swim right up your plumbing and fill you full of 
twins.  Maybe even triplets.  What do you say to that as a 
souvenir or three?"

"Oh, god!  Oh, lord, lord!"

"Fair enough."

He groaned as he climaxed but immediately backed away from her.  
She lay with heaving chest, shuddering occasionally.  He got off 
the bed and pulled up his pants while contemplating her, at last 
remarking, "You're a hot number, Lucy.  You ought to find yourself 
a man or two."

"Ain't found ... none like you."

He chuckled.  "Thanks.  You're a discerning woman, but we knew 
that already, didn't we?  Want some more coke?"

"Please."

He poured a few swallows into her mouth, then straightened up.  
"Pleasant as it was, that was merely a detail.  Let's see if you 
meant what you said."

He took two photographs out of his shirt pocket, busts of a white 
man and a woman in a nurse's uniform, and held them a foot from 
her eyes.  "Ever seen these two, Lucy?"

"The cops already asked me about them."

"I heard.  And you said you never laid eyes on them.  But I'm not 
a cop, Lucy.  I have ways to stimulate your memory that the cops 
are unwilling to use.  Before we go into that, which I guarantee, 
you don't want to know about, let me see if you'll sing 
voluntarily like you promised a moment ago.  So I ask you again, 
did you ever see these two?"

"Yeh, but I never saw the woman in a nurse's uniform."

"You saw them at the Agnew Motel?"

"Yeh."

"Did they have anyone with them?"

"A big girl, twelve or thirteen."

"Describe her."

"Blonde, plump but not fat, just starting boobs.  Wild."

"Wild?"

"Fence behind the motel.  Boys a little bigger than her play 
behind the fence.  I saw her suck them off through the fence."

"Through the fence, you say?"

"Through a knot hole.  I was just leaving for the day and looked 
out the window."

"How interesting!"

"I thought so, too."

"I'll bet you did!  What did you do about it?"

"Nothing.  Ain't had time."

"Lucy, tell me what you did about it."

She sighed.  "Made a note about the names and the car."

"Now we're getting somewhere!  What names were they using?"

She sighed heavily.  "I was afraid you'd ask me that.  I don't 
remember."

He studied her and to her surprise nodded.  "I can understand 
that.  Where did you write this stuff down, Lucy?"

She sighed again.  "My purse is in the front room."

He fetched the purse and knelt on the bed.  He opened it and 
dumped out its contents beside her.  "What am I looking for, 
Lucy?"

Another sigh.  "A little tan notebook."

"Here it is.  Thank you.  Now, Lucy, I'll tell you something that 
may surprise and should please you.  I'm not interested in the 
dirt you've gathered on the other Agnew guests.  I only care about 
this couple.  I'll open this book with it facing you so I can't 
see what's in it.  You tell me to turn until I reach the right 
page."

Her eyes widened on his.  He held the open book before her but 
faced away from himself.  She glanced at it.  "Flip forward."

He flipped slowly, page after page.

"Stop.  Okay.  You want to take this down?"

"I'm going to tear off the last page in here.  Do you mind?"

She shook her head, eyes studying him.

He held the torn page on the back of the notebook and took a ball 
point pen from his pocket.  "Shoot."

"Registered names were Mr. and Mrs. Timothy A. Smith of Cleveland, 
Ohio, but she calls him Paul.  He calls her Jenny.  They call the 
girl Bobbie.  Car is a blue 78 Ford wagon, beat-up, Ohio plate ...  
You ready?  MG-24509, valid date."

He wrote busily.  "Anything else?"

"You don't care about dates, do you?"

"No.  I'm trying to locate them."

"Then this might help.  Hannah talked to somebody named Bernie 
about them the day they left.  His phone number --"

"Pay dirt!  Go ahead."

She dictated a telephone number.

Pen and paper joined the photographs in his pocket.  He flipped 
the notebook among the scattered contents of her purse, leaned 
over, pulled up the bottom of his masking stocking and kissed her 
full on the lips, probing with his tongue.  When he raised up her 
eyes were wide again.

"I'm very well pleased with you, Lucy.  I intend to give you 
another reward."

She studied him.  "You ain't gonna kill me?"

"No.  I admit it's taking a chance, but I'm a softy at heart for 
smart women.  Especially the ones that love my dick."

"It's a fine one," she agreed.  Her expression showed hope.

He produced a roll of money, secured by a rubber band.  "This is 
500 bucks, Lucy."  He flipped it also among the purse contents.  
"I'll unfasten your cuffs in just a moment.  But first I need to 
impress something on you."

"I know," she said confidently.  "You'll come back and kill me 
real slow if I ever rat."

He chuckled, bending to remove her ankle cuffs.  "No, that's not 
it, though it's true, of course.  What I wanted to tell you is, 
don't douche."

"Don't ... _what_?"

"Give my wrigglers a chance.  You'll enjoy raising my baby, Lucy."

The woman dared to laugh, rubbing her wrists after he released 
them.  "You want me to have your baby, is that right?"

"Unless it's a girl.  Drown her if it's a girl.  But if it's a 
boy, you'll never find a more loyal son."

The restraints disappeared into a capacious pocket.  He stood at 
her door momentarily.  "Next time, so you'll know me, I'll replace 
the hair with a piece of tape."



NEXT:  Chapter 13: Working Stiffs
Varangian:  ludmax11@hotmail.com
Kellis:     kellis@dhp.com

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