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Message-ID: <47395asstr$1081717805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Imagineer <imagin8r47@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cruel Summer 17 {Imagineer} (FMsolo ScFi)
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Date: Sun, 11 Apr 2004 17:10:05 -0400
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Cruel Summer

copyright 2001-2004 by Imagineer.

comments to 
imagineer 47: yahoo green eggs com ham
but without the green eggs or ham

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Imagineer/www/


// 17: Illustrated


  Andrew had an assistant follow up with hospitals in the area and the
local police on all pedestrian-car accidents that happened the day
before he arrived. Only one, an elderly man knocked over in a grocery
store parking lot. He'd put them on bodyshops next, though this task
was a bit more daunting -- light-colored cars with front-end damage.
Here he'd gotten lucky -- the next day they'd found a pale yellow Saab
that looked like it'd hit a telephone pole at 10mph.

  "I-I- I don't really remember much about her." The man brought the
highball up to his lips, his hand shaking so violently the ice rang the
crystal like a wind chime.

  Andrew Dean leaned forward, putting on his best reassuring look.
"Again, Mr. Peck, you're not in any trouble here. I'm sure the girl
jumped out in front of you just like you said. It could have happened
to anyone. I've narrowly avoided a couple of incidents like that
myself. I'm not with the local police department, and I don't see any
need to inform them. It's not you were interested in, Mr. Peck. I need
to find the girl."
  "Is she in trouble?"
  "I think the less you know about her the better, for your -- and
you're wife's -- safety."
  "Why, is she dangerous?" Panic recrossed his face.

  "No, nothing like that. But she is involved in a matter of national
security." 

  Andrew loved dropping the "N.S." phrase. It was a powerful
informational laxative. People stopped asking questions and started
answering them with excited patriotic effusiveness. Suddenly *they*
were important to their country.

  "W-well," the thin man began, "she couldn't have been more than 25.
Kind of tall." Andrew raised an eyebrow. "I mean tall, at least as tall
as me. Short hair, dark brown."
  "Skin?"
  "I didn't really notice. Smooth, I guess. Clear complexion if that's
what you mean."
  "I mean skintone. Ethnicity. Racial background."
  "Oh. Oh! White, er, I mean, caucasian."
  "That's fine, Mr. Peck. Was she pretty?"
  "Excuse me? I didn't really get a good look."
  "Granted, but she's a young woman, you're a presumably straight man.
In your split-second evaluation, was she pretty?"
  Peck's eyes danced a bit as he replied, "Well, yes. I guess so."
  "Thin? Slender? Curvacious? Fat?"
  "Oh no, not fat at all. Like I said she was tall."
  "Like tall and skinny tall? Or tall and stacked tall?"
  "Stacked? What are you getting at, Mr. Dean?"
  "Was she built like a boy, or like a woman, or like a truck?" Andrew
pushed the questions on Peck quickly, starting to speak before Peck
finished his last syllable.
  "Um, like a woman."
  "You're sure? You're sure it wasn't just a slender young man, perhaps
a basketball player?"
  "Oh no, I'm quite sure, it was definitely a young woman."
  "A stacked young woman."
  "I must say, Mr. Dean, your questions are quite unorthodox."
  Mr. Peck expected hostility; instead he got a gentle sigh. "Look,"
Andrew said, locking eyes, "it's a fact that men subconsciously
evaluate other human forms according to their potential suitability as
a mate. It's genetic, you can't help it. When you connect with the
memory of that evaluation you get a much more detailed description of
the subject's key physical attributes. So tell me, did she have big
jugs or not?"
  "N-no, not really. But she wasn't flat-chested either," Mr. Peck
added, loosening up. "She was well-proportioned. Athletic but feminine.
Graceful, I guess. Rather reminded me of my wife," he smiled.

  "That's great, Mr. Peck. Do you mind if I send one of my associates
over to see you this evening? He's a compositor, and-"
  "You mean, a sketch artist?"
  "Well, we use a computer program these days. It's faster and more
accurate."
  "I'll do anything I can to help."
  "Thank you, Mr. Peck. Your cooperation is greatly appreciated. Now do
you remember what she was wearing?"
  "What they all wear, I guess. T-shirt, jeans, boots or sneakers. I
don't remember anything specific."
  "Jacket? Hat?"
  "Um, no, I don't think so. It was warm, but not hot, you know, like
most days this time of year."

  "And you didn't take her to the hospital? You didn't call an
ambulance?"
  "Oh, no, she insisted she was fine!"
  "And you let her go like that? Mr. Peck, I saw the damage to your
car."
  "I could hardly believe it myself, but aside from some scrapes to her
clothes she appeared to be unhurt."
  "Unhurt? It was probably adrenaline. Or something she was on. Didn't
your insurance adjuster ask you what happened?"
  Mr. Peck looked down at his feet. "I told them I hit a newspaper box."
  "But all that damage was caused by hitting a girl."
  "A young woman," Mr. Peck corrected, "yes. But she swore she was
unhurt. In fact, she jogged away through the park before I could get
her name."
  "Through the park," Andrew confirmed.
  "Yes."
  "And you haven't seen her since."
  Peck looked surprised for a moment. "No; why would I?"
  "It's common for an accident victim, especially a pedestrian hit by a
car, to contact you a few days later to get more money out of you,
perhaps threaten to call your insurance company or the police -- the
insurance company being the more effective threat these days." Andrew
stood up. "But I don't think she'll be bothering you any further, Mr.
Peck. You hitting her was an unlucky coincidence. If I'm wrong, though,
please call me at this number." Andrew handed the man a business card.
"If you get voicemail, leave a message and I'll call you right back."

  Andrew stopped at the door. "One last question before I go, Mr. Peck.
Did you notice her wearing or carrying any jewelry? Large stones
perhaps?"

  Mr. Peck's face scrunched up with the effort of memory, then smoothed
and brightened. "Now that you mention it, after she ran off into the
park I chased after her a bit to make sure she was really all right.
And I came around the first hill and saw her standing next to the
fountain. She was holding something up to the light, reflecting like a
mirror... or a crystal. It seemed really strange at the time. I was
about to call after her when she took off running again. I asked the
jeweler if maybe she'd stolen something from him or there was something
missing from his store, and he said No, but she'd asked him to appraise
something. Turned out it was just glass, he said."

  "Thank you Mr. Peck. You've been very helpful."


  Boys may come and boys may go
  And that's all right you see
  Experience has made me rich
  And now they're after me


  Andrew crashed on the sofa in his hotel room. He hadn't gotten much
from Mr. Peck, but at least he had a general description of the girl
and corroboration of the jeweler's story that she'd had at least one of
the gems with her. Or at least something that matched the gem's
description, and the gems Andrew was looking for were the most likely
match. Medium-blue diamond-like stones that big were hardly a dime a
dozen, not something that a girl like that would come into possession
of and bring to a downtown retail jeweler for appraisal. And in a few
hours he'd have a composited image -- with luck his team could find a
match in a local high school yearbook. Andrew assumed this was another
of Eric's "clean cut" girls, but he could have it run it against the
mug shot databases as well -- now that he wasn't a data hound, it was
no skin off his nose.

  The trail was getting warmer.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Angela tried hard not to look at her watch. It called to her from its
perch wrapped around the strap of her oversize purse sitting in the
light of the skylight on the counter behind her. If she didn't look at
it, maybe she would accidentally work late. Maybe so late that when she
called Ricky to apologize he would tell her 'that's okay, never mind, I
worked it out without you.' Oh how she wanted it to go away. She never
should have agreed to model for him.

  She'd already cancelled on him once. "I have to work late," she'd
lied. The points of the conversation ticked off in her mind. No, she
was working all day Monday. He reminded her of their date Monday night.
No mention made of trading the date for a modeling session; Angela'd
been afraid he'd suggest it, and afraid of what it would've meant about
their relationship, but it didn't happen. Tuesday night? Umm... She
froze up, unable to build a plausible excuse. Okay. Maybe she could
cancel when she saw him Monday night...

  But that didn't happen. Angela recalled with mixed feelings the way
Ricky had talked all night about his art. About how he'd been thinking
hard about pursuing it as a career. About how he'd researched the
possibilities, and the sheer number of independent publishers. About
how some guy named Todd McSomething had seen one of Ricky's inks at a
convention and called it "Stunning." About how there was an added
sparkle to his work lately, even though the new style wasn't quite
gelled yet. About how excited he was that she was going to help him the
next night.

  How could she say no? It would crush him. The way he'd talked about
it had even gotten her a little enthused about it.

  Though now as the time drew near her dread returned. Memories of that
time on his bed when she'd unintentionally exposed herself mixed with
those of her humiliation at Josh's and of her outings the past few
nights. She thought less and less of herself and of Sapphire lately,
even as her patrols got longer (and her "recovery" got more intense)
with each night. She was afraid Ricky might get the wrong impression.
Or maybe the right one? She wasn't sure of who she was anymore.

  A glint from the parking lot drew her eye. The long rays of the
setting sun reflected off the chrome grille of a big sedan into the
store. Ricky's dad had a car like that. She remembered Ricky running
around the front of the car and catching the sleeve of his sweater on
the hood ornament. Angela smiled. He was always running around to open
her door for her. 

  At first she was mad at him. From the time her father had died when
she was a little girl, Angela steeled herself to be her own person, to
be independent and strong, just like her mom was. Angela was determined
not to be somebody's helpless flower. She saw a man opening a door for
a woman as a sign of dependence, of weakness, of submission. She
remembered it was one of the reasons she'd gone with Josh, he'd never
wooed her with any of that gentleman junk -- only now did she realize
it wasn't because he respected her independence, it was because he was
a thoughtless jerk. Still, she saw gentlemanly moves in the abstract as
demeaning, and told Ricky she would open her own doors from now on. 

  But she'd stopped protesting after he'd told her it was important to
him. The whole thing of Sapphire sticking up for him and his friend Jim
bothered him. Having a girl do that -- even if she was some
martial-arts super-girl -- made him feel a little, well, unmanly. Being
a gentleman made him feel better. It wasn't that he felt she couldn't
open her own doors, it was just one of those little things that
reminded him he was a man, and a better man than those jocks. (It was
funny to hear Ricky refer to himself as a man, and yet not funny,
natural, almost comforting at the same time.) She felt a little guilty
about being the one (as Sapphire) that made him feel that way, so she
acquiesced. Besides, when theory became practice and a handsome young
man actually opened your door for you with such a gracious, honoring
manner, it was hard to be insulted. Being treated like a lady was its
own kind of strength.

  The shop door's announcement bell jingled with the customer's
entrance. The healthily-built woman didn't make eye contact, but began
browsing the rows and rows of fabric bolts. She lingered over the
linens, her fleshy fingers grazing an off-white linen. Angela knew that
particular bolt; she'd made the dress she'd worn last night with it...

  "Wow, Angela, you look like a million bucks!" he'd gushed. Outwardly
she downplayed the compliment, remarking how it was really a very
simple design that anyone could make and could make anyone look good,
while inwardly she congratulated herself at a shrewd choice and a
competent sewing job. It was the only time she'd talked about herself
all evening. Ricky had done all the talking and it was all about his
art. Except for an occasional break to compliment her -- her hair, her
eyes, her smile, her glow. She got a warm, rosy feeling even now just
thinking back on it, a feeling that calmed her nerves. What was she
worried about? Ricky was a gentleman and a friend. A good friend. Maybe
she was unsure of a lot of things lately, but she was sure that she
felt safe when she was with him. He respected her. He made her feel
good about herself. She needed that, now more than ever.

  Someone was talking. "Excuse me, Miss?" The customer. "I know it's
closing time, but there's a lot more things I need. Would you mind
waiting for me? I'll be as quick as I can."

  Angela turned to the side counter and opened her bag; her watch was
wrapped around the base of one of the straps. Five o'clock. Hey, she
was right. It was closing time. She noticed her Sapphire shoes had
worked their way to the top of the bag, almost falling out as it sat on
the counter; she pushed them back in the bag. She didn't notice the
shoes lacked the protective bands that kept her sapphires out of the
light and fully charged.

  "Actually, I've got kind of a... date." Whoops, that slipped out...
  "Oh." The older woman thought a moment; a suspicious smile crept to
her lips. "You were thinking of your date just now, weren't you?"
  Angela was caught by surprise, enough that she answered without
thinking. "Yeah."
  The customer's smile broadened. "You looked just like my daughter
does when she's thinking about her fiance."
  "Oh." Angela turned beet red. "Well, I can stay a little late," she
stammered. "It's no big deal, we're just kind of hanging out tonight
anyway."
  The woman shook her head. "Any young man that makes you smile like
that shouldn't be kept waiting. I'll come back tomorrow. Can you hold
these things at the counter, and I'll finish tomorrow morning?"
  "Uh, okay, sure, thanks!"


  Angela leaned up against the side of the house, still seated on her
bike. She couldn't believe she'd agreed to come straight over; she'd
wanted to go home and get cleaned up and changed. But Ricky'd made some
smart-aleck comment about wanting to get started sometime this week...
"Seriously, Angela, my dad will be home at ten, and you know how he is
about friends staying over after ten." Especially girls... "You can
take a quick shower in the master bath; I promise I won't peek." Angela
was seriously weirded out about taking a shower at a boy's house, even
if it was Ricky, but when she resisted, he started sounding pouty. She
didn't want to make him mad; he was about the only friend she had
lately... And she knew nothing would happen. Nothing she didn't want to
happen, anyway... Where did that thought come from?

  Angela swung her leg over to dismount. But her foot got caught on
something... Oh, no! She felt herself falling over as she tugged her
foot away from whatever snared it; she broke free but it was too late.
She landed Whump! on her side with the bike crashing down on top of her.

  Her heel had caught on the garden hose hung in coils on the wall.
Indeed, as she slowly got to her feet she noticed the heel broken off
her right shoe. Great. She dusted herself off... and felt something
slimy on her hip!

  "Oh, yuck!" She tried shaking the muck off her fingers. It was...
mud, from where the hose drained onto the ground. She checked herself
and found the muddy water ran up her thigh and soaked into her denim
miniskirt. Another slimy patch had soaked into her tank top right on
her boob. "Well, shoot."

  Angela picked her bag up off the ground -- tossed clear of the mud,
at least, though her Sapphire shoes had worked halfway out of the bag.
The exasperated young woman made her way around to the front door.


  "Hi."
  "Hi."
  Ricky was silent; Angela waited an awkwardly long moment for him to
open the door further and invite her in. Finally she looked up to see
what the holdup was...
  ...and caught Ricky staring. She blushed.
  "I don't wanna hear it. I slipped in the mud by the side of the
house. If you laugh I'll kill you..."
  But Ricky wasn't about to laugh. Her hair a tousled mess on one side,
a few locks slipping down over the other eye, rumpled tank top clinging
somewhat transparently to one breast, big brown stain on her short
denim skirt and running down her thigh, hips cocked to counter one
broken high heel...

  To Ricky she looked beautiful.

  "I'm sorry about the puddle. The faucet leaks a little. Come on in,
but stand here on the mat until I get you a towel. Take your shoes off,
dad'll kill me if you track mud in the house."

  A moment later, Angela was toweling off the mud from her leg and
skirt as best she could, but the stain was still obvious.

  "Tell you what, why don't you go take a shower and I'll get you a
pair of my shorts to wear."
  It was then that Angela realized the clothes she'd wanted to wear for
the modeling session were back at home. She didn't even remember what,
if anything, she had in her bag.

  Uh-oh.

  Nothing but her wallet, her Sapphire pieces, and the white bodysuit
she'd grabbed that morning for her patrol tonight. For better or worse
she pulled it out and headed for the master bathroom.

  Angela held up the garment. My, this was pushing it. The
bodysuit/teddy was a translucent nylon mesh except for a solid patch
over each breast and one in the front of the crotch. The sides were cut
quite high, the top cut quite low, with slim spaghetti straps and a
lower-cut back. She tossed it on the counter and got the hot water
running. Maybe what I'm wearing won't be so bad once I've had a
shower...


  Ricky rummaged through his bureau drawers and came up with an old
pair of black nylon running shorts and a boy's white tank top. He
carefully hung these on the outside of the master bathroom doorknob,
hesitating only for a moment at the possibility to "bringing Angela her
clothes" and "accidentally seeing Angela in the shower." Ricky busied
himself gathering his sketches and pencils.


  Angela noticed a bottle of skin lotion on the counter. She held it up
to her nose. It smelled nice. She squirted a little onto her hands and
rubbed it in, then held her hands up to her nose. Aloe. Not so feminine
that a man couldn't use it every day, but not so manly that she
couldn't use some now.

  Angela rubbed the cool lotion all over her legs. Huh, that was
strange. They were still perfectly smooth, not a hint of stubble
anywhere. She couldn't remember the last time she'd shaved her legs.
Last night before her date? No, they were still smooth then from...
Sunday? Saturday? Friday? The teen's brow furrowed. Had it been that
long? Sheesh, girl, only 18 and you're already going senile...

  She saw her reflection in the mirror and became suddenly
self-conscious. Here she was standing naked in her friend's dad's
bathroom! She turned to the pile of clothes on the floor. Her bra was
wet with dirty water, as was the side of her panties. Now that she was
clean she didn't want to put that muckwater up against her skin. But
the alternative was the risque bodysuit.

  The house creaked with Ricky's footsteps in the other room; Angela
quickly grabbed the mostly-sheer teddy, apparently the lesser of two
evils owing to its cleanliness. (She kept telling herself it was a
leotard.) She reached around the ajar door and pulled a boy's tank top
and nylon running shorts off the doorknob. The tank top was tugged over
her head before she hurriedly stepped into the jogging shorts.

  The shorts fit okay in the waist, but they were awfully tight down
lower. The boy had no butt! Either that or Angela was gaining weight.
She better not be!
  "Knock knock." Angela jumped. "You okay?" Ricky asked from the other
side of the door. "Yeah," she said as she barged out of the bathroom
nervously. "I'm fine. Thanks for letting me take a shower, I feel much
better now."
  "No problem. Everything fit okay?"
  "Yeah." Actually she was stretching out the tank top, but it would
do. Anyway, if he was going to draw her she couldn't wear baggy
clothes...
  "Come on into my room then, let's get started."

  She followed him into his room. He cleared a couple of things off the
bed, pushing her bag to one side so she could sit down.

  "Hey, I noticed you have Sapphire shoes."
  "Huh?"
  "Those shoes in your bag," he pointed to the bag on the bed. The toe
of one of the shoes was sticking out; the brilliant blue gemstone
sparkled in the light. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
  A hot flash ran through Angela. Oh no, he knows! No, maybe not.
Think! "Oh yeah, I found those at the discount shoe store on clearance
and thought they'd be kinda fun."
  "Fun? You could poke an eye out with these things," he said as he
pulled one out of the bag. Angela started to lunge for the shoe -- my
Sapphires! -- but stopped the reflexive move. He didn't mean anything
by it, she told herself. She gently reached for the shoe. "Yeah, so be
careful. Leave these to a professional." Oh, that could be taken in a
bad way... Angela began to put the shoe back in the bag but caught a
puzzled look on Ricky's face. Oh yeah, he's wondering why I'd buy shoes
just like Sapphire's and bring them along if I wasn't gonna wear them.
Angela pulled the other shoe out of the bag and slipped them on. She
scarcely noticed the little charge they gave her as her toes slid under
the narrow mesh strap.

  "Wow, those look... cool." It wasn't the word he wanted, but he
couldn't think of a better one.

  "Yeah, I guess so." Angela stood up, turning one ankle and then the
other as if examining the shoes. The gemstones sparkled brilliant blue.
Did she forget to put the covers on the stones after last night, or had
they fallen off in the bag? She tried to think back through the day...
Oh well, she coudn't do much about it now. They'd been covered up in
the bag all day anyway, she should be fine. Worst case she might have
to cut her patrol a little short that night.

  But the gems were far more depleted than Angela figured. If she'd
been thinking clearly she would have thought back more carefully over
the events of the day and realized how unstable the twin stones could
be. She *had* forgotten to put the velvet cover bands over the stones
the previous night. She'd dropped them at the foot of her bed after a
particularly vigorous patrol and even more vigorous "after-session."
There they'd basked in the light of the full moon and then the morning
sun, gaining back none of the energy she'd drained from them. Once
tucked into the dark safety of her special "be prepared" oversize purse
they began recharging, but this process was interrupted each time she
opened the purse or carelessly put it down. And she'd opened it to
check her watch a lot that day...

  "Hey, are those real sapphires?"
  "Hahaha!" Angela burst out laughing to cover, forcing it almost too
hard. "Don't I wish. I got these shoes for $10," she lied. "They're
just glass."
  "Well, they sure do sparkle. Like your eyes," Ricky flattered. His
eyes locked hers and he smiled.
  Oooh, he was a charmer, wasn't he? She couldn't help blushing, even
though she knew he probably just said it to be corny.
  "And they make you taller, too. How tall are they?"
  "Um, four inches, maybe five."
  "Man, I don't know how you walk in stilts like those."
  I don't either, Angela thought, but somehow a girl manages...
  Of course Angela did know, if she wasn't thinking about it at the
moment; the gems on her shoes provided a stabilizing force, just enough
to steady her. Though she was pretty good in her own high heels now
that she wore them regularly... and she liked the way they made her
legs look long and sculpted. And the way they made her taller. At 5'4"
she wasn't the shortest woman in the world, but she preferred not to
look up to practically every guy she met. Even Ricky, though slight of
build, was 5'9" or so -- his freshman growth spurt seemed to have been
all height, no bulk -- and in her skyscraper Sapphire stilettos she was
just eye-to-eye with him. Her gems pulsed now, too subtle for her to
notice. Without her tiara there was little for them to do but cast a
faint warm glow over her...


  Ricky put her through several standing poses, each one holding for a
minute or two while he sketched or shaded, occasionally flipping madly
through his stacks of partials to pull another sheet to the table.

  "So where's your dad?"
  "Tuesday night is bowling. Inter-precinct league or something."
  "Bowling, huh?"
  "Yeah. I guess it was big when he was growing up."


  "Okay, good. Now I need a flying pose." For a flash Angela thought
about missing her tiara, then realized he didn't expect her to actually
fly; silly girl... "So stand on one leg, no no, face more towards me,
yeah, that's it... Woah, don't fall! Okay... now, lift your other knee
as high as you can, good, point your toe a little more, Okay... now
turn your hips to the left, and turn your shoulders to the left, more,
yeah, just like that. You okay? Good, now with your left hand make a
fist and tuck your arm like this... perfect! Now take your other arm
and strreeetch it over your head, more like an arrow, like you're
pointing to where you're going... now look up, no, down a little,
there. Awesome! Do you think you can hold that a few secs?"

  Ricky didn't wait for an answer, he simply set about sketching, first
long light strokes and circles, then progressively shorter, more
purposeful lines. Angela occasionally peeked down but couldn't really
make out the drawing without losing her pose. Boy, this modeling stuff
was hard work!

  Angela struggled to maintain her balance as seconds became minutes.
Her body stretched out in an unnatural curving twisting arching
position, the Sapphires on her shoes were working overtime to fulfill
her silent request for stability...

  ...she felt herself getting flush, as the stones' energy gradually
turned up the heat in her body...

  ...then a little dizzy, the two overworked gems fading into more
intense feedback...

  Angela finally succumbed, just barely catching herself as she lost
her balance. "Ricky, I can't hold it anymore. It's just too hard,
especially in these shoes." Ironically it was only the forces of the
gems affixed to her 'stilts' that allowed her to hold such a pose for
so long. "I need to sit down for a minute, this modeling's hard work!" 

  Breathing a little hard, the flushed teen plopped down on the bed;
her breasts jiggled. She was disappointed that Ricky didn't notice; his
glances up to her and back down to his drawings were coldly clinical. I
thought he was interested in me, but all he wants is to play with his
pencils. Hmmph! 

  Little did she know that Ricky was struggling to maintain his
composure; already his member was beginning to twitch...

  And little did Angela know how quickly the two gemstones on her feet
were destabilizing, pumping more and more of their remaining energy
straight through her already-heightened senses...

  She felt so comfortable around Ricky. She knew she was safe with him.
She knew he wouldn't try anything. Her brow furrowed -- in fact, she
was a little confused about why he hadn't tried anything yet. Didn't he
find her attractive? She supposed she'd have to find out...

  Ricky looked up again, noting the way she sat on the bed, legs
crossed, one leg idly rocking back and forth, the clear plastic
high-heeled slipper hanging casually from her toes, shoulders pitched
back as she leaned back on her hands, her chin tucked to her chest,
looking up at him with those smoldering eyes... The shirt and shorts
he'd given her didn't leave much to the imagination, both pulled tight
over her feminine curves. Her flawless skin seemed to glow. He
remembered the last time she'd been lounging on his bed. She'd flashed
him a lot of skin that time, too, quite on accident. Was this an
accident? Should he say anything?

  "It's kind of warm in here," she suddenly announced.
  "I'll open the window-"
  "No, don't. Then it'll be too drafty, and I don't want to catch a
cold. Let me just take off my tank top."

  That seemed to answer the question of intent... Ricky battled
internally over whether he hoped she was wearing something underneath
or not. He watched, mesmerized, as Angela slowly peeled the tank top
over her head. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw the
bodysuit. Cut low enough to show plenty of cleavage, the white fabric
was see-through like nylons everywhere except for a squared-off satin
patch over each breast. Angela's breasts suddenly seemed bigger in the
highly-suggestive garment, the curves of her flesh seen all around the
opaque patches, which couldn't have been more than two inches square.

  "*That's* your workout leotard?"
  "What? Oh, no, this is just something I picked up at this little
boutique in the shopping center where I work. I like it because it
breathes well and keeps me cool when it's hot out, but it doesn't
actually show anything if you know what I mean." The lie was laced with
innuendo; in truth she'd bought it out of desperation when she realized
she had nothing left to wear on patrol, and it was the only teddy the
boutique had in her size. Angela stretched like a cat, resuming her
recumbent pose on the bed. She smiled wickedly, noting with pleasure
the way Ricky's cheeks were turning redder. 

  "Well, um, ahem, it looks really good on you."
  "Thanks. Is it tight enough for you?" Her chest seemed to grow as she
arched her back for effect.
  "Huh? Oh, uh, yeah, I mean it's not covering anything up, I mean,
it's not *hiding* anything, er, I mean, I can see your shape just
fine." Ricky was having a hard time stringing together a sentence as
this 5'4" vision of sultry beauty twisted and turned languorously on
his bed.

  "Good. How's this pose? Maybe for flying." She lay on her side, her
front facing him, hands outstretched over her head, her whole body in a
single dramatic curve. Ricky could see her stomach muscles quiver
underneath the sheer bodysuit.
  "Um, maybe..."

  The sapphires pulsed with undirected energy; without a focused
outlet, they continued discharging subtly through the unsuspecting
girl. 

  "Darn it, these shorts are really uncomfortable, they keep riding
up," Angela interrupted. Ricky had certainly noticed the way they
strained to contain her tender flesh. "Here, let me take it off."
  "Uhh, uhh, Angela, i-"
  "Relax, it's not like I'm *naked*. I'm wearing a bodysuit, it's like
a leotard. I'm just trying to get comfortable so I can pose for you."
And with that she stood, hooked her thumbs in the elastic waistband,
and peeled the tight nylon shorts down her legs, bending at the waist
as she did so. She deftly stepped out of it, the faux-Sapphire shoes
slapping softly against the soles of her feet as she lifted one then
the other free of the discarded plastic garment. "Much better," Angela
cooed as she resumed her stretched-out position laying on her side,
facing him. She tossed her hair over her arm, turning her head up to
gaze at the ceiling.

  Ricky was speechless. The see-through nature of the bodysuit
continued almost all the way down, a little triangle of satin just
concealing the junction of her sex. His pants suddenly felt too small.

  Angela's heart was pounding. Her skin was flushed. She positively
beamed with sexual energy. Her tease seemed to be working; Ricky looked
more and more at her and less and less at his sketches. Time for the
big test...

  She slowly rolled over, first on her back, then away from him to face
the opposite wall, exposing her luscious backside to her artist's
disbelieving eyes. His pencil sketched madly on the sheet in front of
him, his skilled hand fighting off nervous shakes as it worked
furiously to capture the perfect sexual form before him.

  Angela thrust her hips back, then began swaying them slowly from side
to side, the toes of her top foot tracing up and down her other calf,
feet hanging off the edge of the bed, the stiletto mules sliding
sideways, exposing her round heel and arch. The perfect curves of her
ass seemed to expand and contract with each oscillation. Her top hand
slid slowly up and down her torso, occasionally dipping out of sight in
front of her.

  And then she rolled over on her back, arching it seductively, drawing
one knee up slightly, tossing her head to the side, eyes closed and
lips pursed in a look of pure rapture. Ricky's eyes never left her
body; they didn't need to. His eyes guided his hand without having to
check his work, earnestly channeling the erotic muse impossibly
writhing in front of him.

  The confused gemstones poured energy into the burning girl's
erogenous zones, making her lose all sense of self and place and time.
Angela's fingers traced up and down her body, lingering more and more
over her most sensitive areas. Eventually they stopped roaming, one
settling in to tease a breast, the other pressing ever more insistently
against her sex.


  Noel Aquino entered the house quietly, not wanting to disturb his
son. Though the boy was probably still up drawing his comic book
characters...

  Noel had bowled nine strikes in a row the first game, and eight
strikes in the second game. He'd come home from his hottest night so
far in the league...

  ...to find a heat of a different kind coming from his son's room.

  Noel wasn't one to spy on his son, but the sounds he heard coming
from down the hall were unusual. What was he doing in there? He'd never
"walked in on" Ricky before; he assumed that's why the door was
sometimes shut. But now it was wide open, the room's light etching a
geometric form in the dark hallway.

  When he got to the end of the hall and peeked in, his jaw dropped.

  There was a girl sprawled out on Ricky's bed.

  She was wearing some kind of see-through leotard... a sheer teddy,
said a distant voice in the back of his head, checking the mental
archives of Frederick's catalogs.

  It was Angela.

  And she wasn't just laying there.

  Noel was horrified. And entranced.


  Ricky had stopped drawing altogether, staring haplessly at the
amazing vignette unfolding before his eyes while his hand of its own
accord rubbed his dick vigorously through his shorts.

  The girl's gentle gasps became punctuated more and more frequently
with quiet "oohs" and "ahhs." The nearly-discharged Sapphire mules
dangled precariously, slowly working their way off her toes as she
continued squeezing and gently pumping her legs... 


  Noel couldn't believe it.

  She was gorgeous.

  And she was here to prey on his son.


  Angela was stroking herself with abandon now, slender fingers ablur
over the now wholly sheer and thoroughly soaked garment. Her voyeur too
had lost all decorum, guilt overridden by desire, one hand jammed down
into his pants and tugging frantically. God, she was so hot!

  Finally, the stones gave their last; Angela squealed as the orgasm
hit her. Her leg twitched. The stiletto mule, balanced so delicately on
the edge of her toes, finally slipped off and fell to the floor. The
wave crashed through her, making her whole body shudder wonderfully;
the other shoe lost its purchase and joined its mate below.

  Now barefoot, she slowly rolled onto her side as the rush subsided,
drawing her knees up, hand still trapped between her legs. She mewed
softly, gradually recovering her breath.

  Ricky had never seen anything so powerful in his life. He exploded,
his shaft throbbing violently in his shorts, over and over, cumming
like he'd never cum before. His vision tunneled as he grunted out the
last spurt, spent to the last.

  The grunt from the other (unseen) side of the room snapped Noel out
of his reverie. He burst into the room...


  "What the hell is going on here!"

  Ricky sat bolt upright. Oh shit! He looked on in horror as poor
Angela flopped around on the bed like she'd been hit with high voltage,
trying desperately to cover up, get up, and not look like she'd been
doing what she'd been doing. She managed to roll herself off the bed,
getting one foot planted.

  Mr. Aquino lunged into the room like a wild animal, grabbing Angela
roughly by the arm. "Ow!" she squealed as he yanked her to her feet.

  "This is a *decent* house! I can't *believe* what I just *saw*!" he
yelled, shaking Angela with each emphasized word. The girl's breasts
danced about underneath the front of her sheer teddy; her arms and legs
flailed like they were made of rubber.

  "Dad..." Ricky started, but hesitated when he couldn't think of
anything to say. "You're hurting her."
  "You be quiet, young man! *You* are *grounded*! *What* were you
*thinking* letting this... *whore* into *my* *house*? She will never
come here and you will never speak to her again!"
  Ricky was shaking with fear as he started to stand. "Dad, stop...
she's not a..."
  "SHUT UP!" he screamed, pointing at his son and staring him back into
his chair.

  Mr. Aquino turned to look at the scarcely-dressed girl dangling in
his adrenaline-fortified grip. "*You* should be *ashamed* of yourself!
Seducing my *son* like that! I've *never* seen such a *shameless*
exhibition!" He spun her around him, expertly turning her arm up and
around behind her back. He felt her firm young buttocks pressed up
against his thigh.

  "Ow! Mr. A-Aquino, I- I don't know- It- It was an a-accident!" Angela
protested weakly.
  "An *accident*? Do you think I'm *stupid*? Get out of my house!" He
shoved her forward; she squealed as her arm was pulled higher. She
began staggering forward, out the door and down the hall.

  Ricky got up and chased after his father. "Dad, please... don't..."

  "*Get* *out* of *my* *house*!" Mr. Aquino screamed "*Out*! OUT!
*OUT!*" He threw her out the front door; she stumbled and crashed to
the ground. She lay there in shock.

  The door reopened. "And take your stripper shoes with you!" She heard
her Sapphire heels clatter to the ground and land in front of her as
the door slammed again.

  Angela heard the muffled yelling of father and son from inside the
house. She felt... Dirty. Ashamed. Her vision blurred with tears as the
enormity of what had happened weighed upon her fragile soul.

  The cool night air crushed in all around her, an evil spirit jabbing
her with a thousand chilling knives. 

  She got up, grabbing her heels in one hand. 
  Running for her bike. 
  Jumping on, bare feet pedaling furiously. 
  A frightened rabbit, half-blind, eyes welled up, her whole body
shivering, gasping, sobbing. 

  Devastated. 
  Crushed. 

  Angela cried all the way home, lonely wailing sobs the only
accompaniment to her trail of tears.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Noel Aquino tossed and turned in a fitful sleep. His son hated him.
But he was only trying to protect the boy. Couldn't Ricky see how
dangerous she was? How sinful? Angela had graduated high school; she'd
had a boyfriend, and was obviously experienced in the ways of wooing
men. Very experienced. The petite girl had the assets, and she knew how
to use them!

  Noel had always felt uneasy about Angela. Every time he saw her, he
was reminded of his wife at her age. Margaret... Boy had she been wild.
It was that raw animal energy that had drawn him to her in the first
place. Her utter lack of sexual inhibitions had turned off the
conservative police cadet on an intellectual and moral level, and yet
her charming wicked smile inexorably drew him in. Eventually they found
a common if safe rhythm, though she'd always made it clear she was
ready to expand his horizons if he ever worked up the nerve. Seeing
Angela's... display was an electric shock to his long-buried memories
of his wife. They seemed so much alike... so much untamed passion, so
little shame, so much need for restraint, so much rebelliousness,
begging to be shaped, yearning to find deeper more meaningful
encounters...

  ...he saw Margaret's face turn into Angela's... and Angela's face
turn into a demon's...

  "Aaauhh!"

  Noel awoke, heart pounding. His sheets were soaked with sweat and
twisted around his limbs. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a
nightmare.

  Bare feet padded into the master bath and stared bleary-eyed at the
exhausted face in the mirror. He couldn't just stand by while his son
was... hurt. Noel still remembered the heartache of when Margaret
dumped him... and the double heartache of losing her a second time. He
couldn't let his son go through that.

  He saw a small pile of pale yellow fabric on the floor... a bra and
panties. Angela's, no doubt. How long had she been here? What was she
doing in his bathroom? What were *these* doing in his bathroom? Was she
so shameless? Was she flaunting it? Was *he* meant to find them? Just
what designs did Angela have on his family?

  Noel Aquino would find out.

  He checked the clock on the nightstand. Two-thirty AM. If he hurried
he could still catch Keri on the graveyard shift in Records. She was
known to take a Probable Cause Break whenever she heard Officer
Benjamin Franklin wanted to see her in the break room...

  He toweled the sweat off his body and threw on some clothes. As he
tied his sneakers his gaze rested on the two scraps of delicate
lingerie. He picked them up, his hand hovered over the trash... the bra
dropped, sinking among the lint and business reply cards and toilet
paper tubes.

  But the panties found themselves shoved into his pants pocket.

  Noel Aquino, Police Detective, headed out into the night to do a
little investigating. 

   


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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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