IT STARTED WITH A BANG

The year 2001 always remained bitter-sweet for everyone in the family. In a strange sort of serendipity, it came together. At the same time though, other aspects became unravelled. The cost of such unity came at a price few were willing to pay.

Some old problems were dealt with in the most unseen and unseemly of methods. The gang called “The Nameless” in Spanish (Sin Titulo) who had precipitated a brazen foiled bank robbery the year before then proceeded to stalk me, Janet and Melanie had literally disappeared from the face of the earth; or at least their old identities did.

All it took were some questions in the right channels before they were living on borrowed time. Killing them (physically) however, was a problem. I didn’t need to be implicated in anything unsavory, so I had to resort to a different method: I mind-wiped the Sin Titulo.

After I had stalked and tracked them down one by one, each of them “died” in the sense that I erased their episodic memories—those types of memories that held one’s identity. I was rather crude in my methods at first (possibly inflicting mild aneurisms on the initial victims) but I got progressively more adept as I worked through their ranks. I surgically removed almost all of their long-term episodic and explicit memories to insure me and my darlings’ would remain unknown. I left them with their semantic and procedural memories (or what I could—I was over-zealous early on).

The Sin Titulo were essentially hit with mass-amnesisa. I released them without their identification, photos and credit cards (the cards I solicitously shredded and I left whatever pocket change they had alone) where it was convenient. The final few members of the gang let me practice the ability to “jump” from one victim to another through passive mind-sight; they had hidden themselves after their buddies had mysteriously become retarded or forgetful. I tracked them all down and mercilessly sacked their minds.

As for Detective Waters, I didn’t need a new enemy but a new friendly contact. Jacob Waters was only a robbery and assault detective, but he knew a lot more about the seedier underbelly of San Francisco than I did. He was the first, but not the last helpful ‘normal’ I made acquaintance with.

Waters information had revealed someone in the agency—possibly Brian Cox (that wild man)—was investigating me. Checking in on my activities and the like. For all I knew, they were surveilling me day and night while I shuttled from one place to the next, checking in on my five darlings.

Did I say five? I meant six—or will mean—all six. You’ll see why.

One of the most pleasant surprises the week leading up to New Year’s 2001 was when I got a surprise visitor. I was in the tub but fully dressed. I was testing myself, shrouding my body with as much repelling force as I could muster, and seeing if I could immerse myself in liquid without getting wet when the doorbell rang.

To my credit, the wall of water around me barely wavered as I climbed out of the tub. I popped the drain plug with telekinesis and answered the door.

“Viktoriya?” I gaped as my Slavic siren marched in, bags in hand.

‘Kiss me you fool!’ She thought-spoke plainly.

Viktoriya let drop her bags and threw her arms around me, driving me against the wall with mad little kisses. I noticed she floated bags neatly into a small pile next to the old sofa. She was still pissed about the demolition incident a few weeks before and she showed it. Viktoriya and I had an angry little love-making session which ended with our clothing scattered all over the room. Afterwards, she admonished me aloud—a good signal that she was seriously concerned.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again Stanislav!” she bit my ear tenderly.

I was too spent to reply with anything save a grunt and a nod. I probably should’ve paid more attention to my exhaustion and kept my mental guard up, but I couldn’t. Not with the healthy naked girl straddling my cock. Viktoriya immediately sensed I had a new squeeze toy and began pestering me about Jamie.

Yep—that holiday season was a bit hectic.

I spent the more family-oriented Christmas with Jamie and Jill. Jill wanted some toy doll about half her size. It was an easy snatch (since it cost upwards of $500 dollars it was out of reach for most parents). Jamie scolded me privately for spoiling her, but I didn’t mind. By now I treated Jill pretty much like my own daughter.

Jamie knew of my other obligations and stayed mum on her part. The one gift I knew she wanted was something I couldn’t have just picked up right off the shelf (a stable lifestyle). But I did what I could: I bought a small $1000 fifteen year T-bond (U.S. Treasury Bond) and gave it to her for Jill’s college.

“It’s not much,” I seemed more unhappy about it than she. “But it’s a start.”

“Oh you didn’t have to,” she hid her disappointment well, “Thank you Stanley.”

Of course, I was no fool. There was a bracelet and necklace set Jamie had saw once when we were just browsing the Stonestown mall. She had demurred any further interest in it, but I didn’t get this far by not paying attention to what my women desired. As Jamie placed the envelope in her purse (with the cash from Vegas, she got a safety deposit box at the local bank), I telekinetically snatched the jewelry box from beneath my coat in the corner.

“I almost forgot,” I murmured, “For mommy.”

“What?” Jamie turned and saw me, “Oh!”

Her eyes lit up as she lifted the lid.

“Why Stanley,” she gushed prettily, “You remembered!”

“How couldn’t I?” I grinned wryly, “Especially if all I could think of was you wearing just that.”

Jamie blushed as only she could and hugged me. I joined her and Jillian for a small family dinner with her family and gave her as much a stress and worry-free Christmas as I could. After we put Jill to bed, I met that lovely young mother under the mistletoe and made sweet love. She teased me too—donning just the little bits of jewelry and luring me into her arms. Jamie silenced her screaming by covering her mouth with mine when she came.

By now, both Melanie and Viktoriya knew I’d been hiding Jamie in a nearby apartment until everything got sorted out, but neither said a thing to Janet for different reasons.

Melanie treated every other girl with the sole exception of Shawn with equal jealousy. Oddly enough, she was friendly with everyone at the same time. Little Chen was empathic to Jamie’s inner pain and said nothing because for fear that Janet would have me cast Jamie out of the household.

Viktoriya could’ve cared less what I did with the other girls so long as she could get a chance to “dyke out” with one every so often. My Baltic bisexual beauty had her initial sights set on Rachelle, but she was more than happy to munch on Shawn’s snatch when the chance arose. Now that she knew about Jamie, she was manuevering to get into her pants.

‘Imagine her body.’ Viktoriya licked her lips lewdly. ‘On top of my body Stanislav. We’ll make sure you never walk straight again.’

I rolled my eyes at her suggestion and groaned, prompting her only to grin like a feral bitch in heat. Introducing Jamie to our debauchery would be premature, so Viktoriya had to settle for Janet instead.

Janet, Melanie, Viktoriya and I started New Year’s Eve at the Embarcadero’s Equinox (the food was medicore but the view was fantastic). Afterwards, we partied through Union Square and ended with a moderately reserved four-way in my old room. The first day of 2001 pretty much started with Janet getting cunnilingus from Viktoriya.

To this day, Janet is still embarrassed at how easily she surrendered to Viktoriya’s advances; it was a foregone conclusion considering she was the only ‘normal’ at the event.

I slammed all three girls with equal ardor. About the only argument that came up was when I used saran wrap on Viktoriya. She and I had always done things bare-backed because she was able to push fluid back out with her mind. And despite our fucking around, we had remained with a limited set of partners. Hence she was suspicious about wrapped cock until Janet reminded her that it was for everyone’s protection.

“I mean you and Stanley have done this before right?” my First threw me a concerned look. “Because if you haven’t, you were taking big risks with everyone missy.”

Viktoriya realized how close we both were to being exposed, so she made up a lie.

“I always had protection,” she shrugged. “So Stanislav never bothered to show me this.”

‘Liar, liar, pants on fire.’ I chided her mentally.

‘Fine. No pussy for you tonight kisa.’ Viktoriya was smiling despite her thoughts. ‘You’ve had enough!’

Viktoriya’s thought-speech was laced with brazen attitude, but I knew she didn’t mean it. I grinned, pulled her towards my wrapped cock, and fucked the shit out of her. Afterwards, I broke my personal record of three times in one night when Janet and I bumped into each other in the hallway. As she stumbled back out of the bathroom, I cornered her and had my way with her on the kitchen floor. I suppose the spontanaeity of that moment and a stroke of good luck were what finally got my First knocked up.

In the mean time, bids had come in on the site. I sifted through them and picked out the ones I’d knew were semi-official. I wanted them to be able to understand I was paying principally in cash and a certain level of trust needed to be there. Shawn had forwarded me the plans for what she termed, “a solar girdle” that would collect solar energy, store it in batteries, and turn it into practical electricity we could use. I took one look at that her schematics and knew I had one heckuva engineer in the family. All in all, the new year began with great positive energy. Too bad it didn’t last.

WELCOME TO JAPAN FOLKS, WHERE THE LOCAL TIME IS ... TOMORROW

A few things of note happened the summer of that year. First off, Janet was about the size of a damn blimp thanks to her pregnancy (she was about seven months along when I flew to Japan). Between her mood swings, her hectic work schedule at the firm, and the pressure from her parents and our parents to have a wedding before she popped, she was as much a handful as Jillian was.

Thankfully, Melanie was around to help between classes. I thought about introducing Jamie to Janet at that point but decided against it. In Janet’s state, there was no telling what any emotional distress would’ve done. I wasn’t risking a damn thing when it came to our first-born.

I wondered though, how long I could keep Jamie and Jillian apart from the others. I was dividing my time so much, it felt like I was back in school juggling Rachelle, Janet, Melanie and Shawn all over again.

What a fun time that was.

I winced from the thoughts in my head and massaged my temples. I was on a jetliner humming over the Pacific towards Japan. Shawn’s absence had made me miss her so much I took out a week towards the end of July to visit her in Tokyo. When Viktoriya heard I was heading out of the country, she reminded me that she was going to Rome with Cristobel for a vacation around the same time.

It sounded eerily familiar to me. Rachelle started moving apart when she moved (so did Janet, although I may have zapped my First so much that she grew addicted to me instead) then fell for another man. I pondered the similarities and prepared for the worse. I also wondered if Viktoriya knew how jealous I was.

‘Oh don’t mind Cristobel.’ Viktoriya beamed me a hint of slyness on her mind. ‘He’ll behave kisa. And I’ll have a surprise for you when I come back.’

When the plane landed, I was in a daze and don’t remember much save for Shawn’s bright baby blue eyes welling up with tears as she crushed my lower face with her massive boobage. My poor pumpkin’s cup size had finally stopped growing—at an H-cup.

She chaperoned me back to her tiny little “rabbit hutch” apartment amidst the Tokyo sprawl and I settled in for a brief vacation in Japan. I slept through most of the first day (which was technically tomorrow), only to wake up around the local time of 10 P.M.

“You missed dinner,” Shawn sighed. “I wish you could stay longer Stanley. Your body clock is all messed up!”

“Yeah sorry muffin,” I had hopped out of the shower feeling refreshed but was mildly shocked by how dark it was outside.

“That’s okay,” she said and turned back to her books.

I sat back and admired my plump lil’ darling. She still stood nearly as tall as me and had gotten a little wider as well. I didn’t mind, so long as she was healthy. I tilted my head.

No, I thought.

She seemed a little thinner. Shawn was still a big girl, but her waist had slimmed. Maybe she had nearly finished with her growth spurt and started growing up. I remembered how I measured her lovely ass so many years ago and got a nasty little idea.

“Hey Stanley,” Shawn piped up, “There’s some udon I—” she felt my hands around her breasts “—Stanley!!”

“Sssh baby girl,” I said. “Didn’t you tell me there’s a noise ordnance after dark?”

“Stanley please!” she tried squirming out of my grip to no avail.

For me, I had just woke up, showered and ready for action. Shawn was on local time and aiming to wind down. This could work out, I thought. I just needed to do all the work. I bent her over the small desk in her room and undid her belt. She kept silent as I pulled her pants down, revealing that ample apple-cheeked ass of hers.

I bit her ass once, twice, thrice—it took ten bites for me to go from one side of her ass to the other (five per side). My plump darling had grown indeed. My thirst wasn’t slaked though. I wanted more. Shawn gasped as I kissed her brown little shithole. I slapped her meaty cheeks and she squealed softly. I sucked in her nutty, racy sex musk and revelled in the days where I’d fantasize about fucking her in the school’s band room.

“Oh Stanley stop,” Shawn pleaded. “I’m crushing my books!”

I stood up and pulled her to me. We kissed and I felt her hands reaching for me. I pulled off Shawn’s top and freed her two gi-normous tits. She lay down on the tatami with a sigh and let me work my magic on her breasts and between her thighs. Using the same trick of telekinesis on Jamie, I fattened up my cock and plunged into Shawn’s pungent hoary hole to her delight.

“Umm—gwad!!” Shawn’s eyes bugged out.

She wondered what I’d done to fill her so completely now. I grinned at her look of surprise, leaned over and kissed her while I bounced happily on my big cuddly darling. Shawn’s face flushed as I drilled her for a few minutes more before she and I both popped. It was one of the few times that I was much more active than my partner after a session. Shawn yawned and stretched lazily over me as I continued to grope, touch and molest her.

“Stop it!” she slapped my hands away. “I wanna sleep now.”

“Now you know how I feel like 90 percent of the time,” I laughed and gave her a pinch on the meatiest portion of her ass. “This is sweet revenge!”

Shawn sniffed and threw her entire weight (approximately 150 lbs or 68 kg) atop me. I groaned from the pleasure. I liked having her on me. Even without my telekinesis, it was like having a soft fluffy fuckable piece of sweet meat resting on you that made smart conversation. My dick sprung to life between her legs and she glared at me.

“Geez Stanley,” Shawn mumbled, “Do you miss me that much?”

“You bet I do,” I ran my hands down her sides. “Oh yeah, you know that solar wall of yours? It’s been turning some heads at the fabrication company.”

“Really?” Shawn kissed my chest then became thoughtful. “Maybe I should do my dissertation on that instead of quake reinforcement systems.”

“Maybe,” I nuzzled her scalp. “How much of it have you written?”

“I have my thesis ready,” she said plainly. “And a preliminary draft of my plans. Why don’t you finish ‘em for me?”

“That’s cheating,” I growled and felt her whole body jiggle from her laugh.

“I’m only kidding!” Shawn bit her lip shyly and sprung a zinger on me. “So who’s this Jamie person?”

“Eh?” I almost pissed myself from fear. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Melanie told me,” my plump dumpling looked at me with mild disapproval. “She tells me everything about back home. You know she’s there when you screw around right?”

“Oh,” I chuckled.

By now, I wasn’t actively reading or scanning my darling’s minds as often as I once was. I found it to be invasive and jeapordized the trust we’d built. Besides, after a few years I wanted to be surprised. Knowing what someone thought before they gave me their aaudible answer really sucked the life out of surprise parties and presents.

I only used scanning in dire emergencies, at work, or when I earnestly needed to know something. I suppose I sound like a hypocrite, but I’d stopped pushing my luck with my darlings. I was happy with the women I was with (or the ones I had retained) and I wasn’t about to troll for fresh meat.

Jamie fell into my circle out of necessity, but stayed because she felt she couldn’t do much worse. I also didn’t mind her stripper’s body (yes—Jamie had stripped at a few clubs before Pincelli set her up as a ‘casino worker’). Of all the things that Jamie ditched in Vegas, she didn’t ditch the fireman’s pole (later installed at her place) and a pull-up bar. Even strippers knew a good thing when they see it.

But where was I? Oh yes—Japan.

“Well if Yu-Ching’s told you everything,” I feigned a yawn and closed my eyes, “Then what’s there to tell?”

“Because I want to hear it from you!” Shawn pinched my cheeks with her fingers. “Five wives?! Are you crazy mister? Does Vicky and Jan know about her!?”

“Barr—yerr—marr?” my lips were impaired by her obnoxious grip.

She let go so I could speak sensibly again.

“Are you mad?” I asked. It was the only question I could think of and the one question I knew the answer to already.

“Well I want to say yes!” Shawn said exasperated. “But no—I really don’t know!!”

She bent her legs at the knees so I could see the soles of her feet. They were pretty, pink, and still smooth like a young girl’s. Shawn began picking picking stray ends of her hair as if she was lying on a bed or something.

“You’re confusing me,” I frowned playfully.

I knew Shawn wasn’t mad. She felt I still loved her (true) and I wouldn’t cut our ties so abruptly (also true). Besides, she’d been through a lot worse (very true). Her shock and surprise though, were genuine. It was like I’d found a new piece of ass from nowhere.

“Well you remember Jamie right?” I murmured.

“No, not really,” Shawn sighed. “Why are you asking me?”

“Think back,” I said. “Rubenstein’s class back at high school. The girl whose boyfriend was stabbed at a dance your freshman year.”

Her eyes pitched down, her mind trying to recall old faces and old places. Finally, the correct memory surfaced.

“No way!” Shawn gaped at me. “Her? The girl who was the school slut?”

“Whoa,” I blinked. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Now Stanley this is gossip okay?” she saw I had gotten defensive. “Ashley was spreading gossip everywhere and about everyone.”

“Well this is the first I’m hearing about it,” I frowned.

“Look, that’s all in the past,” Shawn sighed, “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“All right,” I grinned. “Don’t worry about it. Just be careful what you say all right? I don’t want to belittle her in front of her kid.”

“She has a kid?” her eyes went wide. “Melanie didn’t say anything about that!”

Oops, I thought. Damn Melanie, her blurry thought-stream, and her chatter-box mouth.

“Oops,” I repeated my thought aloud.

“Stanley!!” Shawn growled ferociously, “Did you?! I mean before Janet?”

“Hey, don’t you go spreading rumors now,” I pinched her. “And no. The girl’s from a previous guy. I’m just—taking care of the package.”

“That’s awful!” I wasn’t sure if Shawn meant me or Jill’s father. “What’s her name? How old is she?”

“She’s five. Her name’s Jillian,” I said, “Jillian Chen. Jamie changed her name at the county records office.”

I decided to level with her about Jamie’s choice of the last name. However, I omitted the various reasons why.

“Wow,” Shawn gave me a lop-sided grin. “All I did was head outta the country and you got a kindergartener for a daughter. You’re a wild man Stanley.”

“That’s me,” I gave her a sardonic grin. “Can you believe it?”

She giggled and rested on top of me. Soon, she was snoring softly. I listened to her breathing for a while longer then picked the big sleeping beauty and carried her to bed. I took another quick shower and pinged Viktoriya.

‘How’d Missus Dumbo take the news?’ Viktoriya greeted me.

I saw Cristobel’s face across the table in sunny Italy. Viktoriya looked down and I saw she was at lunch.

‘Now Vika. Remember what I said about those nick-names you make.’ I scolded her mentally.

Viktoriya scoffed at me on our mental channel. I saw right next to Cristobel was another fresh faced young man and a sunny blonde. The four were sitting at a street cafe.

‘Shawn was okay with it.’ I came off more relieved than I wanted to. ‘Jillian was the only thing that took her by surprise.’

‘She’s very cute.’ I watched as Viktoriya took a sip of water and pass furtive glances at the blonde and two men in her party.

‘Are you talking about Jill or the hottie you’re having lunch with?’ I gave her a mental flash of laughter.

‘N-yah—mind your business nosy man.’ Viktoriya thought mirthfully. ‘How late is it in Jipang Stanislav?’

‘It’s around 11 right now. Night-time.’ I replied. Japan was small enough to fit into one time-zone.

‘Drat.’ She displayed disappointment. ‘Tune out lyubimy. I want to surprise you.’

‘Promise you won’t do anything crazy.’ I thought-spoke with concern. ‘I got enough worries already.’

‘Look who’s talking.’ Viktoriya shook her head and began to stand. ‘But I promise if you can be safe for me too.’

‘I will sweetheart.’ I thought wryly. ‘Have fun! Because when in Rome ...’

‘Pfft! You’re a poor comedian.’ She pulled out her compact so I could see her blow a kiss at me. ‘As if I haven’t heard that from you for the millionth time now.’

I grinned and broke off mind-sight.

I puttered around Shawn’s apartment and found an old art pad and some pencils. Being the artists we were, she and I would take about ten or fifteen minutes a day to sketch something quickly. While neither of us were very good, it kept us in good practice. This freehand skill came in handy when we’d wanted to draw something quickly to show something with a quick illustration.

I decided to push my gift a little more. Using remote viewing, I drew Shawn nude as she slept in bed. I was normally pretty lazy about sketching, but since I didn’t have much to do (apart from worry about new plans and projects waiting for me when I got back to work) I added as much detail as possible. I darkened the details of Shawn’s brows, hair, and outline of her enormous teats.

After an hour, I was pretty tired from both drawing and keeping my mind alert. I set the sketch pad down, washed the graphite from my fingers, and crawled back into bed next to Shawn. I slept pretty well until someone gave me a hard shove.

“You screwball pervert,” Shawn greeted me by holding my drawing with both hands in the morning. “How DARE you draw me nude. And my tits aren’t that big!”

“Oh sorry,” my mind was a little sluggish. “I forgot something.”

She handed the pad back to me. I picked up a charcoal pencil, signed my name in the corner and sunk back under the covers.

“Oh very funny,” Shawn growled. “You’re going to get it now mister. Get up!”

I heard her put the pad away then felt her grip on me. She flipped me over and sat on my chest, her pudgy round face wearing a mask of mischief.

“Where do you wanna go today?” she asked me.

“Anywhere but there,” I flicked my glance down at her crotch.

“Hah. You got that right!” Shawn put her hands on her hips and laughed. “Come on you sleepy dope. I wanna show you around Tokyo.”

We spent the day touring the various districts of Tokyo. I was blanketed by such a rush of signs, billboards, and marketing I was impressed. Tokyo was as built up as New York, if not more so. Shawn didn’t think it was much, but I insisted on checking out the Tokyo Institute where she studied. We hit the Ginza next and poked our heads into any shop that we fancied. Shawn and I ended our day at Shibuya where something un-civil happened.

If I had a lottery jackpot every time I went to a foreign city and some ruffians or psychotics attacked me and my date, I’d be an infinitely wealthier man. The event started with a rising wave of fear and panic. I sensed it easily as I watched Shawn buy some gummy sweets from a street vendor and pop one in her mouth.

The panic and fear rose in crescendo as Shawn searched for a second piece of candy for me. Then I saw him as he turned the corner just a mere twenty or so feet from us. A crazed and disturbed man armed with a bloody samurai sword. I didn’t know why or how the man got such a thing—I knew Japan had some of the strictest weapon control laws on earth.

I zeroed in on his mind and found a jumble of thoughts: hatred of foreigners, hatred of his job, hatred of his love life, and what-not. He reminded me of Michael Douglas’ character “DEFENS” in the movie “Falling Down” except he was Japanese and he was waving one sharp-ass sword. I learned later it was a quality “three man” sword (meaning it could cut through three adults at the waist with one stroke); not the best, but clearly razor sharp. Something (or someone —I never found out who) triggered his built-up reservoir of anger and frustration by busting the dam of self-control in his mind.

Something the poor sap had taken years to fortify cracked in less time it took to exhale. Unlike that time with the inept thugs at West Portal, I didn’t have time to sugarcoat reality for Shawn. My plump dumpling looked up just in time to see the crazy fool charging her with his sword upraised and screaming curses in Japanese. Her own scream barely left her lips when I caught the man’s sword arm with one hand and caught his face with an open palm.

I didn’t do anything physical, but I easily overloaded his synapses. I took the sword from his loosened grip and stuck it in a nearby trash bin. The man was babbling incoherently, frothing at the mouth and crawling on all fours when Japanese policemen and emergency personnel came running up to us.

It was much different from my tussle at the bank back home. Here, I was treated with a little more leniency. It wasn’t a difference of cultures (or appearances—the Japanese cops appreciated Shawn’s cleavage as much as a man would anywhere) but it was because I had practiced restraint.

Viktoriya was both right and wrong: perhaps I was a little more ruthless than I was, but I also understood discipline and control.

Tseng finally had his protege, I thought dourly.

Shawn was no less emotional than Janet, but she put on a braver face than my First. She hugged me tightly once we were back at her place. While I was in the shower, she fired off an excited e-mail that got me in a heap of trouble. As word got around back home that I was involved in yet another dangerous scrape, Janet went ballistic.

“What the hell are you doing?!” she cried over the phone.

I had to sit down and reassure my First (long-distance) that no, I didn’t have a deathwish—and no, she wouldn’t be a widow before our first child was born. By the time we were done, the charges to the phone bill were ridiculous. Too bad video conferencing wasn’t available—not that it would’ve helped.

“So that thing about the bank robbery?” Shawn asked me peevishly. “Are you some kinda neighborhood Spiderman or something Stanley?”

“Don’t you start,” I lay down in the room, tired and weary.

“I’m sorry,” she knelt beside me. “It’s just I never saw you that before. You were so cool!”

I laughed despite myself. I never thought of myself as cool, suave, or debonair.

“I can totally brag now,” Shawn went on absently. “My boyfriend can kick anyone’s ass.”

“Hey now,” I pulled her down and kissed her. “None of that understand? It’s not my day job.”

“So what’s the use then?” she teased my ears and pulled my hair playfully. “If I gave you a list of people to beat up, could you do it?”

She laughed at the dour look I gave her.

“I’m just kidding!” Shawn sighed. “I miss the old Stanley. The one who could joke around a bunch not just beat up people.”

“The maniac will be fine in a padded cell,” I growled. “And I can still be a laugh riot.”

I stuck out my tongue and licked her sloppily on the cheek.

“Eew! Yuck!” Shawn giggled and returned the favor.

We kissed for a good minute or so before she got on top of me. When I thought I was going to get some peace and quiet, Viktoriya thought-spoke to me in a practical state of panic.

‘STANISLAV!!’

I nearly winced from the vehemence of her thought-speak.

‘Yes milenky?’ I replied as Shawn began nuzzling my neck and shoulders.

‘What the hell is this email?!’ Viktoriya was staring at her laptop at an internet cafe.

She glanced up and I caught her reflection in the window. She appeared angry. ‘Are you okay?!’

‘I’m fine.’ I thought dryly. ‘Shawn’s about to start, if you want to watch.’

‘Don’t change the subject you liar.’ Viktoriya’s thoughts registered distaste. ‘I thought you only interrogate! Or are you the agency muscle?’

‘It’s complicated milenky.’ It was getting hard for me to do anything save mind-sight when Shawn began teasing my nipples.

‘Then explain it to me!’ My Russian bride-to-be demanded haughtily.

‘Look, I’ve been working on my telekinesis on my own.’ I thought back. ‘Just trust me. I’m getting better at it. I want to show you when I see you again.’

‘Oh.’ Viktoriya’s rage and worry diminished when she sensed I was telling her the truth. ‘Okay. Well at least you have that.’

‘Yeah.’ I groaned as Shawn began her trademark biting.

‘Well good then.’ A feeling of relief came from Viktoriya. ‘I’ll leave you two alone. I have to go now.’

‘Any place good Vika?’ I inquired.

‘It’s private.’ Viktoriya became coy. ‘Just promise me you’ll stay safe.’

‘I will.’ I thought-spoke. ‘You too okay?’

‘I will if you try.’ Her tone was acidic. ‘Speak to me tomorrow ... or when you wake up. Bye kisa.’

‘G’bye.’ I rolled Shawn on her back and fucked her massive titties until I jizzed.

The rest of my time in Japan was uneventful. I did have some sad nostalgia when I came across a clothing shop. I wasn’t able to learn how to make kimonos or yukatas but I remembered Rachelle had always wanted one. I had hazarded a good guess on her size from the last time I saw her nearly three years ago.

She was my age now—about 25 or 26. I inquired about a size for a “Western woman” about “yay high”. The clerk assumed it was Shawn. My plump dumpling was browsing the racks but wasn’t interested in dolling up in silk robes. She only went to Japan for school, but she wasn’t totally nutty about its heritage. So I did a bit of careful shopping and even bought a few matching scraps. I was halfway positive the shop in Japantown was able to do some alterations.

“Who’s that for?” Shawn asked me.

“A gift for an old friend,” I said simply.

Or rather an old girlfriend, I thought with a trace of longing.

WHAT’S GOOD FOR THE GOOSE IS GOOD FOR THE GANDER

Of all the stupid things Viktoriya did, I admit the most audacious thing was what she did during her trip to Rome in 2001. Specifically, the most audacious thing she did was Cristobel and his boyfriend.

Confused? Yeah. Me too. Here’s what happened: I came back from Japan, went to work for a few days and took a two day weekend to New York City to surprise Viktoriya. Delighted (and forewarned when I used mind-sight) she showed me her promised “surprise” after a light dinner at a little Greek place in the Village.

Her “surprise” definitely surprised me: it was a set of high-resolution digital photographs of her in what appeared to be a sleazy Italian porn film. No one was more shocked than I. Viktoriya sensed my jealousy before I even said a word. She tried to explain as I tried to make heads and tails of it all.

‘It’s not what you think.’ She sat daintily in her jeans and t-shirt.

“I don’t know what to think,” I scrolled through the set on her computer.

The photos were a sexy little vignette. The girl (Viktoriya) and guy (I assumed it was Cristobel) were frolicking in a richly decorated seaside bedroom when another guy walks in—I guessed the husband or something—and the three proceed to have a helluva time.

I poured through the photos and noticed that the photos began to focus more and more on Viktoriya’s face. Of the two men’s faces, I saw little or nothing of once the simulated “action” got started (most soft-core and erotic photography do not show pentration or the genitalia touching during coitus).

One shot showed Vitoriya’s tongue dangerously close to both men’s cocks while another showed her face contorted into beautiful agony while she was supposedly penetrated by both men at once.

The whole vignette ended with a fabulous shot of Viktoriya splayed out nude on the bed with both the guys curled in fetal positions beside her (their faces hidden). I noticed that in all her shots— particularly the last dozen ones, Viktoriya was looking right at the camera.

Right at me, I realized. Despite that part of me which was aching with jealousy, I found myself a little aroused.

“That’s Cristobel,” Viktoriya pointed out unhelpfully.

“I thought you said he’d behave,” I said dourly and hid my excitement. “Some dancing partner Vika.”

“Oh Stanislav, you prude,” she pulled up another folder and clicked on some other files. “Crisotbel’s gay.”

And that was supposed to make me feel better, I thought.

“Wait,” I back-pedalled. “What did you just say?”

Viktoriya pulled up a photo of a handsome European fellow brazenly kissing another dark-haired guy. Both had good physique and looks women would die for.

“His boyfriend’s uncle is one of Rome’s most famous erotic photographers,” she said quite casually. “We took these for fun!”

“I bet,” I growled.

“Don’t pout,” my Slavic siren scolded. “Since you love pornography so much, I wanted to surprise you with some—starring me of course.”

“You mean you love pornography,” I shot her dirty grin.

“Don’t be jealous,” she laughed, “Cristobel and Marcello had to jerk each other hard in between shots. They couldn’t even look at me or they went soft!”

I had to smile. My dusky Russkie felt my relief and she needled me about it.

“And of course Cristobel is gay,” Viktoriya smiled smugly. “Why do you think I get along with him so well?”

“I dunno,” I scratched my head, “What’s that say about me?”

‘You’re jealous kisa!’ She straddled my lap, putting herself right in front of me.

‘Damn straight I am.’ I felt foolish.

‘Now you know how each of us feels too!’ She kissed me gently on my forehead.

I felt my embarrassment rise along with a more physical part of my anatomy. Scientists theorized that when men do not see their mates for some time, they generate a greater amount of sperm when they mate. This was thought to be a way for a man to insure that the woman he mates with will get his deposit, and to beat out some imagined rival who may have banged his woman in his absence.

I’m an architect and a telepath, but I’m not a scientist. I couldn’t prove if that theory was true or not, but I will say this: I fucked Viktoriya with a renewed vigor as if it was our first time. My mind kept rewinding back to Viktoriya getting double-teamed. I knew it was faked—the pictures showed no penetration and there were no trace of body fluids at all.

She even showed me that part of her trip (mind-to-mind). While everyone was nude for the shoot, Cristobel and Marcello pressed their dicks against Viktoriya’s body (for physical warmth) but the thought of penetrating a woman simply wore at them throughout the shoot.

Besides, the whole thing was more artistic than it was obscene, and knowing her love for the arts, I doubted I had much to worry about. Heck, Viktoriya was so scared of pregnancy when she was younger she didn’t even dare to mind-control other men. She wouldn’t jeapordize herself physically. Still, it was the “possibilities” that got me all hot, agitated, and bothered. I wanted her more now, not less. I wanted to make her mine again, and Viktoriya immediately became aware of it.

My Slavic siren yielded to my advances when I reached for her. She sighed with pleasure as I pounded her pussy raw. After the first time, I rested and waited maybe a couple minutes before I went a second time. With each stroke, I pounded my dominance back into her mind and body inch by aching inch. In between her swooning and impassioned cries, Viktoriya egged me on as best she could.

When I climaxed for the third time, my mental defences creaked ajar slightly. Viktoriya finally realized she might’ve stepped over the line but I was doing my best to hide it.

She and I didn’t speak about it, because we dedicated the day to her chores (laundry, shopping, unclogging her drain, etc.) and fucking like wild beasts when the mood struck us. By the time I was ready to leave, my testicles had been working overtime regenerating sperm. I was literally fucked dry. Before I headed out the door for my cab, Viktoriya hugged me tightly.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you kisa,” she whispered aloud. “I won’t do that ever again.”

“That’s okay,” I patted her bare shoulder, “I guess I should pay more attention to you.”

“You should,” she sniffled but added in thought-speak: ‘If you can. You barely have enough time yourself.’

“I’ll make do,” I kissed and bumped foreheads with her. “Love you much Vika.”

“Love you much Stanislav,” Viktoriya embraced me, her fingers caressing my neck.

I finally had to leave when the cab driver began honking like crazy. Just a little over three weeks after I came back home, I got a second surprise from Viktoriya. She gave the news directly to me before she broke it over e-mail.

‘Stanislav!? Kisa?! Wake up!’ Viktoriya’s thought-speak pierced my slumber and roused me from bed at 4:30 A.M.

I groaned. I hated that three-hour temporal gulf more by the day.

‘Wake up lyubimy!! I’m pregnant.’ That got my attention. I sat up and realized that I was sleeping alone for the first time in many weeks.

‘What was that again?’ I cleared my thoughts and made certain I was awake.

‘I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant!! I’m pregnant!!’ Viktoriya’s mind sang happily. ‘Oh kisa, you’re going to be a papa!’

‘Oh great Vika.’ I thought and headed to the restroom. ‘Great news.’

I knew I wasn’t going to hear the end of her for a little while, so I might as well get to work.

INTERLUDE—THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

So Viktoriya was carrying my second child while Janet was having my first. Not that it mattered to my parents. They were already bugging me about marrying poor, swollen Janet before she gave birth to a bastard. All that (and more) from my own father—a man who regarded Western organized religion a sham to bilk money out of honest men and women through the tithe.

I couldn’t blame him though. There was considerable shame in bastard children even in the old days. Damn rustic peasant ideology. My father did one good thing for me: he taught me skepticism about theology and belief. His beliefs were summed up in one word: secularism.

It was a concept I took to heart. In contrast to my father, my mother was more worried about Janet’s physical and mental well-being, and begged me to marry her before the shit hit the fan.

Therein lay the problem: Janet and I didn’t want to be married. First off, the paperwork would make me a bigamist should the other girls insist on the same arrangement. Secondly, we didn’t really want to. You can call it some New Age (or Milennial) Domestic Partnership bullshit or whatever, but we didn’t want to “marry” in the traditional sense.

“Marriage—pah!” Janet said in her best imitation of Patty Bouvier from The Simpsons. “That’s girl stuff!”

I grinned at her audacity. Unfortunately, such bravado didn’t last long from constant verbal assault from her parents and mine. We finally relented and got married at City Hall before a magistrate. It was so quick, my dad didn’t even need to put in the full $1.50 for the parking meter.

From then on, for the purposes of my Form 1040 I filed every year to the Internal Revenue Service and California State Franchise Tax Board, Janet Kam-Ling Wu was my wife.

The next day (Saturday), I rushed Janet to the hospital. Several tense (and painful) minutes after being admitted, she gave birth to a healthy 6 lbs. 12 oz. baby boy. I was in a strange mixed state of elation, confusion, anger, and disbelief. Janet cuddled the new arrival as he gurgled and cried. She looked at me both with a fierce pride I hadn’t seen before.

“Stanley sweetheart,” Janet said softly. “Come hold our son.”

I was so dizzy with excitement, I was afraid I’d fry his infant brain with my touch. I took the peculiar precaution of donning a pair of latex gloves then held the little bastard (er, son—sorry—it’s my vernacular) while he was swaddled in soft cloth.

After a little while, I turned him back over to his mother. I had other things to take care of (drawings for yet another development in Santa Clara County). Melanie was non-plussed when I got back from the hospital. I mistook her quietness for something else. I knew she wasn’t all too happy when Janet and I got the marriage license. Now to compound things, Janet just gave birth to our son.

“Yu-Ching,” I tried to comfort her. “Li-dou-gei? Wo-dei douyou gamching-ge*, okay?.” [* Cantonese: You’re jealous? But we have feelings for one another too.]

“I’m not jealous,” Melanie preened her lustrous dark hair and shot me a spiteful little glare, “But what about Jamie and Jillian? Don’t you think it’s about time you told everyone about them?”

“I’ll get to that,” I sighed and gathered her gently into my arms, “You’re the strong one. You’re always so helpful.”

“Only because I keep all your secrets,” Melanie murmured, “Is that why you keep me around?”

“Don’t be foolish,” I lifted her by the chin and winked, “You’re my second and you know it.”

Little Chen blushed and hugged me anew. She was my soulful Second —she and I both knew it. I just hated assigning rank to people I loved.

“So when are we going to get married?” Melanie looked up at me inquisitively.

“I don’t know,” I pinched her. “Graduate school, get a job. Then we’ll talk.”

“But I wanna be next!” she whined. “I don’t want Viktoriya beating me because she’s pregnant now!”

“Hey this isn’t a race. Besides, it’s just a piece of paper,” I sat her down. “For taxes and all that. I made a promise to you, Jan, Shawn Ellen and Vika. I’m not going to break that.”

“No,” Melanie gave me a small smile. “You’re just going to add to it.”

She pirouetted on her heel before I could reply. My youngest darling headed into the studio to go online and do god-knew-what on that (then) hefty Pentium-4 desktop I used for work. She was probably downloading yaoi-tentacle porn again.

‘Stanislav? How is she?’ It was Viktoriya asking about Janet. The Baltic brunette was sitting in a waiting room of what appeared to be a doctor’s office.

‘She’s fine.’ I sat down wearily on the sofa. ‘So is the baby. How about you?’

‘Well our baby’s coming along. This is just a follow-up.’ Viktoriya glanced down so I could see through mind-sight her stomach hadn’t changed much. I guess it took a little longer for her body to show changes.

‘You look glowing sweetie.’ I grew apprehensive as I thought of my next question. ‘Did you tell your parents yet?’

‘No.’ I sensed Viktoriya’s apprehension as much as she felt mine.

I shook my head and chuckled quietly. I felt she understood the irony behind my thoughts. She was going to be a parent (I just become one about four hours ago) and at the same time, we were scared to death of confronting our own parents about our lives.

‘It’ll be all right.’ I felt my eyelids droop. Damn, I was tired.

‘You’re sleepy Stanislav.’ Viktoriya thought-spoke. ‘Lay down. Let me sing to you.’

‘You ... don’t need ... to.’ I yawned and lay down anyway.

Her homely little ditty was floating through my mind when the phone rang.

Good God, I rolled off the sofa like a dead log. Kill me now— like right the fuck now.

‘Stanislav! Don’t be so impious!’ Viktoriya scolded. ‘Think of Janna’s son! Think of ours!’

‘Sorry. Phone call. Catch you in ten?’ I thought-spoke.

‘Twenty maybe.’ She beamed back. ‘I think it’s my turn ...’

I saw Viktoriya’s vision dim as she rose to the nurse’s wave.

Twenty minutes then, I thought.

I picked up the phone and spoke, “Hello?”

“Hello? Stanley bieu-guo?” It was a voice I hadn’t heard in a while.

“Aurora?” I brought the handset with me to the kitchenette so Melanie wouldn’t overhear. Not like it mattered. The place was as small as Shawn’s “rabbit hutch” SRO (single resident occupancy) back in Tokyo. The only difference was I had an outer room to call my studio.

“Li-jou-mut-ng-lei-tam-wo-eh*?” she asked me in a soft voice. [* Cantonese: Why didn’t you come visit me?]

“I’m a little busy here,” I said matter-of-factly. “Besides, you know I don’t have much business on the East Coast.”

“Oh? Hai-meh*?” her voice had an edge to it. “Auntie Aileen (my mother) said you went to New York last year!” [* Cantonese: Oh really? (or the more modern version, “orly”)]

Uh oh, I thought.

“When’d she say that?” I asked and cursed my own mother for being such a gossip harpy.

“New Years,” Aurora sounded earnestly sad. “Bieu-guo-wo-hou-gwa-jue-li-ah*. Why didn’t you visit?” [* Cantonese: I miss you a lot, cousin (see chapter 2 for a more detailed translation)]

“Well I miss you too,” I lied, “But I was busy.”

“You miss me really?” I heard her sniff over the phone. “Tell me how much.”

I rolled my eyes. Aurora was younger than Shawn but older than Melanie. Yet somehow, I didn’t see Yu-Ching’s ever growing maturity in my cousin in her correspondence or otherwise.

“Lots,” I said simply.

“Did you like those pictures from last time?” she asked sweetly.

I blinked, feeling a little panic. Melanie was on the same computer I used to check Aurora’s obscene mails. I relaxed when I realized I never saved any of her images to disk.

Aurora’s last set of pictures were over the top to say the least. I never knew how she found the time and inclination to do what she did. Apparently, shoving foreign objects into her cooze and ass then taking a digital snapshot was her modus operandi.

While I didn’t mind the free porn she was emailing me, I did mind that her images were taking up space in my inbox. My email address starting to bounce other emails back (like those from Rachelle and Phillipa). Instead of getting a new (second address), I decided to up the storage space and had to pay out of my own pocket for that privilege.

“Yeah,” I decided to play along. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Stanley,” she breathed, “I wish you were in me.”

Good god, I wanted to laugh. I had a little homewrecker on my hands. I was deliberating if I should have Viktoriya pay her a visit when Aurora dumped a mild bombshell on me.

“I’m coming to visit you,” Aurora said suddenly.

“Oh yeah?” I asked, “When? And why?”

“Because!” she exclaimed happily, “I miss you. Besides, I graduated and I’m trolling for an internship in publishing.”

“You mean like books and stuff?” I noticed Melanie peeking from a crack in the door. When she saw me on the phone, she crept back in and closed the door.

“Kinda,” Aurora was thoughtful. “But I want your advice.”

“Uh, sure,” I shrugged despite her not being able to see it. “I guess.”

“Great!” her voice was filled with delight.

With a step-daughter from Jamie, a son from Janet, and a third child coming from Viktoriya, I figured it would be best to break things off with Aurora.

Let her down easy, I thought.

Or I could include her in the pack. I winced at the thought. So I was going to violate bigamy and cosanguinity laws. How can I lose before a judge?

I soured at my own sarcasm as some rustling noises from the other end came through. Aurora’s voice came back on shortly after.

“Lemme give you my flight info,” she said.

I took down her flight number and bid her goodbye. I wrote everything on a post-it note and placed it on my wall calender. I distinctly remembered the date I took her call: September 1, 2001. Ten days later, Aurora Lang was dead—along with hundreds of others both in the air and on the ground.

2001-09-11-0852 INCIDENT

After a few days at the hospital, Janet and our son Michael lived with me at 35th Avenue for a little while. My room was mostly cleaned out by now save for the barest of necessities for the baby and mother. While the 43rd Avenue site wasn’t furnished with any furniture, some of the interior finishings where done. The gas, electricity and water were running, so someone could live there in a pinch.

I busied myself juggling the books to fake my mortgage payments. As a “private security contractor” I was able to throw in just enough money from the difference of my actual paycheck at Ferguson to make the mortgage payment each month. Judging from the insane amount the county of San Francisco asked for my property tax (1 percent of a million was a load of dough—and my building didn’t cost just a million) I knew I had to ask Tseng for some more “odd jobs” to cover my expenses. Hence, I was more than a little distracted and occupied when the shit hit the fan.

I remember it was a Tuesday and I’d gotten up early to finish calling up the interior decorator (this one hottie from my school, Gracia Kosugi, was definitely fuckable material if I wasn’t so involved already) and finalizing some less-than-legal cash payments to my licensed contractors.

Suddenly, I felt this odd creepy feeling like something was missing, like I’d forgetting to put on an undershirt to keep my body warm. I thought I was just tired. I shook my head and tried to shake that feeling. I even tip-toed to the bathroom to get my water. Janet and the baby slept in the warmer inner room and turning on the lights in the kitchenette would wake both of them up.

As I stared in the mirror, an eerie feeling came over me. Two presences that I’d known and become familiar with for years had dimmed. They had gone dark and would never light up again. My mind went into action almost immediately—with me mind-pinging those I held dear in silent panic.

Janet and the baby (Michael) were safe I knew. They were with me. I went down my list as quickly and as carefully as I could: Shawn was fine in Tokyo; Melanie was still snoozing (she had a late class); Jamie and Jill were still slumbering but they were slowly coming to; Viktoriya—

‘Vika?’ I thought-spoke.

I stumbled in the dark, trying to find my mobile phone.

‘Viktoriya?’ I mind-pricked her once more.

No answer. But there was a slight buzz of mental activity. I felt my innards chill and my heart skipped a beat.

I pinged her repeatedly. I sensed she was alive. Why wasn’t she answering?

I was about to dial her on my mobile phone when—

‘S—stani—slav—a?’ Her thought-speech was weak and jittery, like she was distracted and un-focused.

‘Vika?’ I thought-spoke. ‘Are you okay? I just had this awful feeling.’

‘Help ... me ...’ I couldn’t see her but I knew she was terrified.

‘Vika? What happened?’ I thought-spoke.

She didn’t—or couldn’t—reply.

‘Vika?’ I grabbed my jacket, keys, and anything else I thought I needed.

Nothing.

“VIKTORIYA!!” my shout startled the baby and he started crying.

Janet stirred, obviously agitated. I came back into the room, picked up little Mikey and took him to the chilly outer studio.

“Sssh little guy,” I swayed him side to side. “You piss off your mother and she’ll have you for breakfast.”

Of course, my son didn’t really understand me—even if I spoke to him mind-to-mind it wouldn’t have done much (infants, I later learned, were extremely susceptible to mind-control and were the easiest to mold into whatever a telepath wanted; it was for this reason alone that I’d left most of the punishment to his or her mother when they were younger; I too, was human, and could make mistakes I’d regret).

Baby Mikey began fidgeting and crying as I bounced him gently. I had to be careful. If I shook him too hard, his brain (and organs) would splatter like those banditos I used to dust on the border. All this time, I sensed Viktoriya was unable or incapable of communicating with me.

I started to earnestly worry. My fiery little Cossack cutie never minced words. When she wanted to speak her mind, she did. So what was capable of staying her tongue?

I decided to ping Faraz and see where he was before I called him like a normal person. He was in New York City. Maybe he could check on her. Unfortunately, that eerie blackness I had felt earlier greeted me instead of his presence. He simply wasn’t there.

Impossible, I thought. There was only one way that could happen. I turned on the radio in my studio for some light music to soothe little Mikey and that’s when I heard the news about the attack. I fought the nausea that welled up in me as reality hit.

Two aircraft? Like jetliner aircraft? Or propeller craft like the one that hit the Empire State Building some sixty odd years ago during World War II?

“Stanley? Sweetie?” Janet was up, her hair made for a great rock band cover.

“Something just happened in New York,” I handed our noisy son to her waiting arms. “I have to go.”

“Go? New York?” she was bleary eyed and confused. “Why? What’s going on?”

I turned on the television in the inner room. The radio blared as well: “Two planes—we’re not sure how—have just hit the two buildings of the World Trade Center in New York City. Repeat: two planes—”

“Oh my god,” Janet sat dumbstruck on the bed. She was autonomously rocking Michael as he wailed for attention.

“I have to go,” I turned to my First. “Vika’s not answering the phone. I need to check on her and—”

I didn’t need to finish before Janet spoke.

“Go,” she nodded to me, “Call me when you get news. I’ll check on everyone else.”

As I headed out the door, I thought-spoke to the one person who could get me to New York City in the blink of an eye.

‘Ghost Light. This is Snake Charmer. I need a favor.’

CASCADE REACTION

Thirty minutes later, I was in bleak, sunny Brooklyn near Viktoriya’s apartment.

“Thanks,” I nearly stumbled as I got my bearings.

“Don’t mention it,” David stepped back cautiously.

It had taken him thirty agonizing minutes to answer my thought-call, realize it was me (and not a nightmare), fully come around, displace his wife someplace safe, and check out the current events before he picked me up on the corner near the Java Island coffee shop.

Because that part of Brooklyn where Viktoriya lived wasn’t really a part of David’s “area”, we displaced as close as possible and ran the rest of the way. It was probably the first time he had put his hands on me willingly and displaced us. Normally, he wouldn’t dare near me, for fear that I could read his mind.

“Do you need me here?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I hurried to Viktoriya’s building, “I don’t know. Why?”

“I snatched a few people before the tower started collapsing,” David said softly, “But there were still people in there. Some firemen —”

“Can you picture yourself trapped under a hundred thousand tons of rubble?” my tone came off colder than I wanted.

“No,” the sandy haired displacer kept pace with me.

“Then don’t think about trying to go back,” I said and was immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry, but just leave it to the pros. You’ll need specialized breathing gear for the fire anyway.”

“I know it’s wrong for me to think it,” David said quietly. “But you know what’s fucked up?”

“No,” I said curtly.

“I’m glad I can get away,” he pursed his lips. “And I don’t want to go back in.”

I had no good answer. Heck, given the choice, I wouldn’t have gone back in either. A chunk of building that large and which was missing so many support beams would be condemned by building inspectors as unsafe. Wrecking crews would’ve demolished before it collapsed. In hindsight, I just wished the emergency crews who went into the towers knew that before they committed themselves to their one-way trip. Poor fucking bastards.

David and I ran up the stairs—Viktoriya lived on the fifth floor —and I knocked loudly on her door. Not wanting to wait for a response, I placed my hand over the door knob and feigned using keys on the door. I simply used telekinesis to unlock the tumblers. She wasn’t home.

“FUCK!!” I made a fist and punched a nearby wall.

POP

David displaced a bit away from me. I glanced at the hole I had made.

So much for Viktoriya’s security deposit, I thought. Have to remind myself to fix it—after I find her.

“Could she be at work?” David asked helpfully. “Or at her dance school?”

The institute! Of course! I was still on West Coast time and wasn’t thinking New York City was some three hours ahead. Viktoriya had been up for a while—she’d be at work, not at home. I wasn’t thinking straight. I raised my hand for silence, closed my eyes and pinged.

Viktoriya, I thought. Where are you honey?

I reached out and felt her presence. She was fine, but she was in —

“Manhattan,” I glanced at David, “The Bartenieff Institute—can you get me there?”

“Can’t say,” he said. “I’ve never been there before.”

Great, I thought darkly.

“Then the closest insertion to Eighth Avenue and West 37th?” I snapped.

“Time Square would be close,” he suggested.

“Do it,” I held out my arm, my hand shut into a fist.

David frowned but nodded and grabbed me by the arm.

POP

I looked around. We were in a side alley off the main street. I walked out and saw people were moving away from Battery Park—moving north. Some were fixated on the huge screen showing the dark dust cloud of concrete and charred remains of the planes and their passengers rolling ominously out from the event site like pyroclastic flow from a volcano.

I ignored the spectacle and started walking. I shifted my focus, pushing attention away from me. I didn’t need a panicky cop or something telling me where I needed to go. I needed to reach Viktoriya, and the Believers’ gods help any ‘normal’ who tried to stop me.

After a few blocks, I noticed David was trying to keep up but I didn’t slow down even for a second. My legs felt stiff and my joints and muscles started to ache. I couldn’t TK-skate, levitate or do anything else. Neither did David. It would’ve been too flashy. Such was the price for remaining incognito.

Another thirty minutes later, I reached the intitute. I sensed Viktoriya was nearby. The doors were locked by electronic lock. I cursed and concentrated. I found the strut inside the door and snapped it in two. I wasn’t going to be dissuaded by mere metal at this point. I pushed into the mostly empty institute. A scattering of students were rushing out with bags or in dancing tights. Some were glued to TV sets, while others were crying.

The mood of the place—the whole city—was one of shock and awe. I turned this way and that. The hallways were confusing, but didn’t do much to hide my quarry. Her presence finally magnified as I made one final turn.

“Viktoriya,” I breathed with some relief.

Despite the pain and numbness in my legs, I jogged down the hallway and opened the door. It was a dance studio, devoid of everything save —

“Vika!” I shouted aloud with relief.

My dark haired darling sitting uncomfortably on the floor.

“Are you okay?” I asked as I approached her.

Viktoriya looked up, eyes and cheeks wet with tears.

“Stanislav?” she whispered.

I knelt as she took my hand into both of hers. I felt something was horribly wrong.

“Vika? Are you okay?” I whispered. “What’s wrong?”

She began crying uncontrollably. She couldn’t stop. I held her and looked around. The studio was empty save for me, Viktoriya, David, and a ruggedly handsome man. I had seen his face before, if only in photographs.

“You are Zanislav?” Cristobel pointed, “Vika’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” I rocked her as she sobbed, “What the hell’s going on?”

“The two towers,” the young man looked at me and gestured. “Boom!”

“We heard,” David nodded soberly and glanced at my weeping woman. “What happened to her?”

“She is,” Cristobel frowned and searched for the words, “Emotional. Very crying.”

Suddenly I heard him speak much more eloquently—in my mind: ‘She is in psychic shock.’

I glanced at him but the gay Italian stud betrayed nothing.

‘You are a telepath?’ I thought-spoke. ‘One with the empire?’

Cristobel’s eyes flicked toward David and he audibly offered him a bottle of water. David took a bottle but wasn’t going to stay.

“Hey Snay—er, Stanley,” David nearly referred to me by code name, “I’m going to take off. Do some stuff.”

“Gotcha,” I nodded, “Thanks.”

He nodded and left the studio without another word. Cristobel watched the door close behind David before he dared broadcast.

‘I am like you friend.’ The handsome fellow sat on a chair and thought-spoke. ‘But I am from the Old World. You are from the New World.’

‘There’s a difference?’ My curiosity was piqued but I turned back to the whimpering woman in my arms. ‘Nevermind. Tell me later. What’s this about Viktoriya? What happened?’

‘She was exposed to an empath?’ The well chiseled man cast his gaze on Viktoriya and me both.

I sensed a POP and David was gone. Probably gone back to check on his wife Millie. I knew David considered this transportation a favor. I wondered what he’d ask of me later.

“Yes,” I decided to speak aloud. “I know an empath.”

My touch by now had calmed Viktoriya enough that she was only sobbing now. I soothed her as best I could and cradled her tenderly in my arms.

‘Sssh!!’ Cristobel jumped out of his seat and locked the studio’s door. ‘You want the world to know?’

‘Sorry.’ I thought-spoke. ‘I’m not used to your voice in my head.’

‘It’s a small discomfort compared to what people would do if they find out about us, no?’ The Italian stallion thought back. ‘I am more conversant in what you call “thought-speak” than when actually speaking.’

“Really?” I slipped into normal speech again.

He gave me a short, heavily accented, “Yes.”

“About Vika,” I rocked her, “What happened?”

Cristobel started his explanation: Empaths were typically receivers. They felt the mood and feelings of others around them and instinctively “know” about it. Cristobel’s mentor (a citizen I later met) knew from experience that prolonged close physical with one may occasionally “infect” (that was the term Cristobel used) another psychic sensitive and give him or her the same emotional sensibility.

Viktoriya’s breakdown stemmed from several things: her new susceptibility to emotions; two plane-loads of people suddenly realizing they were going to die a split second before being incinerated; the people in the trade center buildings who died on impact (psychic echo); those in the buildings above the point of impact (I learned later) who were doomed, injured, or dying; and the witnesses—those goddamned ‘normal’ witnesses who watched the whole thing unfold and heaped their fear, terror, and what-else in a rising wave of alarm and panic.

They’re the ones who blasted my Vika, I realized. Dumb fuck ‘normals’.

‘She’ll be all right after a while.’ Cristobel regarded me carefully. ‘You are not an empath are you?’

‘No.’ I thought back. ‘How’d you know?’

‘Because you either do not care about what just happened, or you have no susceptibility to emotion.’ He observed thoughtfully.

‘I care—’ I started my thought then abandoned it, for I knew it was untrue.

Well, partly untrue. About an hour ago when I rushed out of my house clear across the other side of the country, I’d only gave a damn about Viktoriya and our as-yet unborn child. I could’ve cared less about anyone else. One thing got me curious though.

‘If you’re empire.’ I thought-spoke. ‘Did you tell Viktoriya about it?’

‘Partly. She knows I am a dancer.’ Cristobel thought back. ‘And that I can speak to her mind when we are close, but nothing more.’

‘But why?’ I wondered. Later, I learned that Cristobel’s existence —not Viktoriya’s faux porn shoot—was the “surprise” she had intended to show me.

‘We do things differently in the Old World. Psychokineticists are generally robbed of their gift at birth. They can become too dangerous.’ He thought-spoke in pragmatic terms. ‘That fellow Singh (he was referring to Tseng—Cristobel had his face in mind). He wants it that way. Please keep Vika ignorant about the rest of us.’

‘What is he?’ I thought it a joke. ‘The emperor?’

‘Why yes.’ Cristobel looked at me with mild surprise. ‘You did not know?’

‘Say again?’ I blanched at the handome homosexual.

‘After deposing the last leader for his excesses.’ Cristobel explained. ‘Singh (Tseng) took over.’

My insides froze up. Tseng was the leader of the invisible empire?

A million questions went through my mind. What was his interest in me? And what was that about psychokineticists having their gifts taken? Tseng was one—possibly one of the most powerful and skilled of them. Then that policy didn’t make sense.

Why would he refuse to see Viktoriya? Was it jealousy, and Tseng was afraid of a rival? Or was he afraid of infringing on my domain? Or was it something completely different and more nefarious?

Viktoriya aside, Tseng was certainly playing with fire. He had exposed himself to the agency almost without regard to his own safety, as if his position wasn’t important. At least, that’s what I thought. Cristobel helped me grab and pack Viktoriya’s things from her locker as I pondered all of that for some time.

In the aftermath of this incident, I realized there was much more at stake. The world was indeed an ugly place, and it was about to get a whole lot uglier. And despite my apolitical leanings, I was to become the source of some of that misery. It’s something few knew about outside the invisible empire.

FALLOUT

Tseng and I were busy in the weeks after September 11. On our semi-public side, he and I (along with a small support staff) were organized into the Para-surveillance and Sensitive Investigation (PSI —I know—cute) detachment of the agency. It was hush-hush, like Tom Clancy’s fictional Third Echelon. The Homeland Security bureau that was formed later never knew about us or what we did.

When the torture and advanced interrogation techniques Senate investigation came up, we were never mentioned. That made sense. We didn’t need a detainee’s cooperation to get what we wanted.

Although it was probaby Cox’s wet-dream (or the agency’s higher-ups) to have us mind-scan every suspect they brought in, several things proved to ham-string their efforts: (A) the agency wasn’t wholly sure they could “trust” someone like Tseng, who had made it clear that he was quite independent and capable of backing it up, (B) the agency wasn’t wholly trusting of me—as they saw me as his student, (C) neither of us could understand Arabic (I only knew enough to make awkward passes at Faraz’s sister Ami), and (D) I was still personally pissed off because Cox and the agency screwed with me by insinuating to the San Francisco police I was involved with last year’s bank robbery; I might’ve had ulterior motives they didn’t know about.

So “PSI” was fairly limited to interrogating prisoners who knew English or were domestic terrorists. The agency directors were smart enough to put me where I could use what “talents” I had shown to them. The agency was also smart enough to entice me with enough incentive that if I didn’t cooperate, maybe all those girls I was slamming on an almost nightly basis might be in danger. It was a good plan because it worked—bio-terror was something even I couldn’t foresee.

Just days after the trade center attack, the anthrax letters started going out. I didn’t show it, but I was genuinely terrified. Unless one knew about the infected letters beforehand, there was no way for any empire citizen to instinctively “know” what was coming. Publicly, it’s still murky about the who, the what, and the why the letters started, but suffice to say that it eventually stopped.

All I can say is that the anthrax track-back operation was Phillipa’s first mission (even though she was only fifteen at the time —clearly a violation of U.S. Child Labor Laws). She had been training for about a year or so, and living with her “aunt”—a Susan Roget—in New York City. Aside from regular schooling, the agency employed her for “extra-curricular activities” under Tseng’s hidden supervision. I got the distinct feeling that the three formed some kind of impromptu foster family. I suspected it was something for Phillipa’s benefit to help her fit into the invisible empire, the agency, Tseng’s personal agenda, or all three.

Despite the fact Tseng had been the one who killed her Uncle Pauly and cousin Patch, Phillipa was tolerant of Tseng; at first I suspected some mental trick was being played on her. Later, I realized that the reedy red-head didn’t recognize who Tseng was due to several things: (1) because in the chaos, everything did happen quickly and she didn’t glimpse Tseng’s face through David’s “portal”, (2) Tseng didn’t participate in field operations with Mirage using his code-name Talisman, but rather as a mindful mentor, and (3) the agency, Tseng, and I never told her the whole truth.

In any case, Mirage snuck into the suspected facility with Ghost Light on stand-by. David was there to yank her out in case something went wrong. I was there to surveil captives and perhaps, try to use my “limited” mind-reading to assist Mirage in evading sentries (she was a smart girl—she didn’t need my help).

David and I watched the grainy video feed as Phillipa spied on the lab, got what was needed, and reported in. It all went without a hitch —FBI agents (the NSA was there as support and surveillance) took down the place without much trouble. I personally doubted if all that was needed; I noted the FBI’s tactics could’ve been greatly enhanced with my psychokinetic abilities. Thankfully, there were no casualties. The suspects were arrested and I never heard about them again.

Before I headed back home, I spent a brief half-day with Phillipa and her “aunt” Susan. To say that they looked nothing alike would be an understatement. Despite their differences though, Susan Roget was mindful and attentive to her niece’s needs. Miss Roget was pretty for a woman in her fifties. I poked in and around what memories I could read without alerting her. I found she was the grand-cousin of a shitty author by the name of Paul Roget. Some manuscript Paul had wrote had piqued her interest—something about invisible people— and Tseng found her through his investigations.

The two found a common thread and discovered that the invisibility myth in the Roget family was passed on from one generation to the next. Of course, there was more: the gift was passed from a male descendant to another male descendant. So Uncle Pauly and Patch made sense. All that made Phillipa’s case interesting, I mused as I studied the tall, leggy redhead.

The frightened dirty teenager I had pursued, cornered, and coaxed out from the barn in up-state New York was now a radiant beauty with soft white skin, perky little tits, freckled nose, and frazzy red hair. Aunt Susan must’ve noticed my stares because I caught her thoughts as they streamed from her: ‘Can this young man be more obvious?’ and ‘Horny bastard.’

I almost smiled. If Phillipa was eighteen, I would’ve fucked her rotten. But since she was still a kid (and I wasn’t), I simply gave Phillipa a tender hug and flew back home on time (for once).

On a different level, Tseng and I were also busy in other respects. Cristobel was right about empaths. Tseng and I had to find and—in a handful of instances—neutralize the psychotics. There was that term again. I was ready to pounce Tseng if he even suggested “neutralizing” Melanie.

Thankfully, it was all “psychic” neutralization. Tseng introduced me to a very quiet fellow named Feodor Pinzevesky who was a “stabilizer” (or some shit like that—I can’t recall exactly). All I knew was that if I found an empath who was reacting badly in the wake of the event, I pinged Feodor and he’d come pay that individual a visit. I never knew what happened exactly, but I knew there wasn’t any killing or dead bodies. I know because I followed up on all of Feodor’s visits afterwards to make sure Tseng wasn’t bullshitting me.

On a more personal level, my best friend of ten years was dead. I confirmed that when I called his widow. Faraz had started his job at the New York Stock Exchange but had gone to visit a colleague at a firm at the trade center that particular morning. I liked to believe that he died instantly when the first (or second—it’s all a jumble) plane impacted, but more than likely he probably saw that wall of fire, metal, and charred bodies coming at him a split second before he died.

Occasionally, I wondered how much he suffered, or if he even did at all as his flesh and skin melted, his hair ignited, his bones turned to ash from the incredible heat of gooey flaming jet fuel. From my later studies in structural reinforcement in a post-9/11 world, I knew it was as if napalm had been slushed through the whole building, roasting everyone alive.

I never told Ghandia about that. Sometimes ignorance was bliss.

Faraz wasn’t the only one I knew personally who’d died. I got more bad news in the hours after I’d found Viktoriya. I had taken her back to her apartment in Brooklyn to recuperate that day. I put her to bed then puttered around and waited. I needed at least three or four hours before I could call back home as my method of travel wasn’t exactly public knowledge. With Viktoriya asleep and looking for something to do, I headed out to find a local hardware store and bought some spackle and small can of paint.

I came back in time to answer Viktoriya’s phone—twice.

The first call was from the institute’s director, who wondered where my lovely Cossack cutie had gone (I told her she was in shock from the attack; the director understood and hung up) and the second was from the Lychenkos. They were surprised I answered their daughter’s phone; I reassured them she was safe and said she was resting in the room from today’s shock.

It was early evening in New York while I sat bedside next to Viktoriya, dividing my attention between the news feed on television and looking over her, when my mobile phone rang. It was Janet calling and she had more bad news from my mother.

My cousin Aurora was on one of the other planes that had crashed that day. Mother had gotten Aurora’s flight info from my post-it and found that the flight she was on was the one that crashed in Pennsylvania. My resourceful Lady Wu did her best to distract my mother, who was wondering where the hell I was.

Janet herself was mildly surprised. All flights had been stopped for a while, so how I was I able to get to New York on such short notice was incredible.

“Your contract work?” she asked in hushed tones.

“Something like that, yeah,” I replied plainly.

“Be careful,” Janet murmured, “Don’t make me a widow.”

“I won’t—” I gripped my phone so tightly I cracked its housing, “—ever.”

Two days passed and Viktoriya’s condition hadn’t changed much. She ate, went to the bathroom, and slept, but she was a shell of a person. I had to lead her into the shower to get her cleaned up. Cristobel suggested that I get her away from New York City to see if her condition changed.

‘It’s the people here.’ He surmised. ‘I’m not empathic-receiver and even I can feel it.’

I took him up on that idea. Cristobel, his boyfriend Marcello, and I bullshitted the institute’s director into letting Viktoriya take an extended sabbatical. It was for her pregnancy anyway, so the director agreed. I packed Viktoriya’s things and we flew back to San Francisco. Once there, I put her up in the first finished unit (first floor west) at our 43rd Avenue home.

Despite her condition, Viktoriya wasn’t empathic, hence I never called Feodor. Her state of shock only afflicted her mind but no one else. And Feodor wasn’t the only one who could treat psychic wounds (although his method was more of an excision rather than earnest healing)—Melanie seemed to have a healing touch as well because Viktoriya noticeably got better when ever the young woman visited.

Aside from Little Chen, Janet and Jamie both came to call at different times (mostly Jamie—who was fearful of coming between Janet and me) to pay their respects. By the end of the week, Viktoriya was well enough to push me around again (we resumed many of our telekinesis exercises) although I sensed she was still fairly fragile inside. Viktoriya surprised me most by remaining on her best behavior when Janet brought along little Mikey for a visit (Jamie never brought Jillian until later). My dancing darling had been humbled from both her pregnancy and her close brush with catatonia.

On a related note, I was worried about Yu-Ching. From what Cristobel had said, I was afraid she’d breakdown as well. However, I noticed while she was surprised and saddened from all this, she didn’t get overly emotional. I hypothesized it may have been personal affection. Viktoriya had been living in the Big Apple for nearly four years whereas Melanie had only visited it once (and briefly).

Funerals and memorial services were held by those families who could reclaim and recognize the bodies. Some, like my friend Faraz and my cousin Aurora, only had empty caskets because “rescue workers” couldn’t find enough of their remains to fill a salt shaker. But at least my cousin was on the passenger list; this meant her family got some kind of closure.

Faraz’s visit to the World Trade Center was unauthorized and totally under the table. I only knew about it by correlating my gift with the message he left on his wife’s voice mail.

“He said he knew someone in a brokerage firm,” Ghandia confessed, “He told me he was going up there to see if he’d like working there.”

In the vain hope that he was still alive, Ghandia would call his number. Ten days after 9/11, Faraz’s voice mail reached its limit and took no more messages. Me, Ghandia, his sister Ami, and his parents pretty much knew he wasn’t going to return our calls.

Faraz’s service was small and very private. Only close friends and some family (those few who had left Saddam’s Iraq) were in attendance. In lieu of his body, there was an effigy of him wrapped in white linen. Ghandia was in denial right up to the moment that the effigy was hauled away by the iman.

Up till then, she’d been quiet with tears running down her cheeks. The next thing I knew, she broke down with such a cry of depair, I looked around as if I was embarrassed to be next to the weeping widow. Ami nudged me so I helped Ghandia up. The weeping widow bawled out on my shoulder as I did my best to console her. Heck, I wasn’t that close to her—just Faraz.

That’s when I saw Rachelle at the mosque. She wore dark sunglasses and a scarf that doubled as a hood covering. The black beauty was alone and dressed conservatively. I still saw she had a killer figure. She saw me clear across the mosque’s small chamber and I locked eyes with her. I caught a stray thought or two from her: shock at seeing me and Ghandia embracing then her thoughts turned to the business at hand.

As Rachelle walked up to us, I disengaged from Ghandia as politely and as gently as I could. I sensed the two needed some time alone. If they didn’t, I did; I excused myself and rinsed my hands and face in the washroom.

The close deaths hadn’t affected me as much as I had thought. The sight of Rachelle though, had awakened some bad memories. I thought I had gotten over her—I had started a family (of sorts) and moved on —or so I thought. But some feelings just never go away. They just lingered. As I stepped out from the washroom, I bumped into her.

“Hey,” I grinned wanly.

“Hey, Rachelle’s hands were shaking as she rummaged through her purse.

“Doing good Rachelle?” I asked casually.

“Yeah,” she pulled out a cigarette and lit it as we walked outside. “And you Stanley?”

“Can’t complain,” I glanced at her, “Still smoke to keep thin?”

“These?” Rachelle grinned nervously, “No, it’s—you’re right. I should quit.”

She stubbed her cigarette and remained smoke free for the rest of the time I saw her, although I noticed her whole body would tremble.

“Hey, I know this is a bad time to ask,” I said slowly, “But it’s been a little while since your last email.”

“Yeah,” she said, “Been busy and all that.”

“So do you have a moment?” I smiled, “We should catch up.”

“Still the same old Stanley,” Rachelle laughed and brushed her hair back, “Sure. Let’s get some coffee.”

So we talked a bit at a tapioca cafe. She was a broadcast producer now, working in some office in Los Angeles. She ticked off some shows she’s handled (none I recognized) and asked me how I was.

“Same old,” I regarded her with a small smile.

I told her about my work at Feruson Graphics and little bit about the building on 43rd Avenue (it was the first “baby” Shawn and I had, even if it was made of wood, concrete and light steel and weighed 1500 tons). I omitted a lot of other things. We sat in an awkward silence for a while. I dug a bit into her mind and sensed she was hiding something.

Heck, I thought. We both were.

“So how’re you and Craig?” I pressed.

“Okay,” Rachelle was a little dismissive.

It was then I noticed even in the interior of the cafe, she kept her sunglasses on. It caused me some concern as I studied her face. I blinked and noticed there was a small crack in her lip. It was miniscule but it wasn’t noticeable unless someone really looked for it.

Having fucked and sucked those luscious lips of hers, I knew exactly what I was looking for. I sat stunned as a I hazarded a guess as what Rachelle was trying to hide.

“We should double date,” I said slowly.

I didn’t know how to proceed, but shaking Craig’s hand again might do for a start. I wanted to know what he was up to and how he could live with himself striking a helpless woman.

“Are you still with Janet?” Rachelle asked.

I nodded but said nothing about our son.

“I see,” she dipped her head. “Maybe later. Here’s my number. I’m staying at the Parc 55 on Fifth until Sunday.”

“I’ll do that,” I took her glossy card.

It read: Rachelle Hollister, Producer. 555-1821. There was an email (the same one she’d been emailing me recently) but I didn’t recognize the company. I realized that her name hadn’t changed. I glanced at her left hand. She wore no ring.

“Thanks for coffee,” she rose and waved. “Keep in touch if I don’t see you later, okay?”

“Sure thing sugar,” I replied so naturally I didn’t realize I had called her by the pet name we both used years ago.

Rachelle froze up and I thought she was going to hit me. She gazed at me sadly with her soft brown eyes and I felt her mind and body were both at ease.

“Same old Stanley,” she turned to me and grinned for the first time in a long while.

REDISCOVERING RACHELLE

Despite all the death that had occurred, Rachelle ignited something I had long repressed within me. I still loved her, and I sensed she still had feelings for me.

I agonized over Rachelle’s card all day at work. Janet was at home taking care of the baby, Viktoriya was starting to show, and Jamie was more than eager for Jill to recognize me as her new father. So going out and fucking an old high school girlfriend absolutely made sense. I was already pushing things with five girls—one of whom remained an unspoken secret.

I made a face and clone-stamped a new set of corner braces for a T-junction on my computer. I shouldn’t have been thinking about Rachelle: her long tan legs. Smooth brown thighs. Soft tits with those dark chocolate nipples. Her face and those little looks she’d give me when I crawled on top of her and stuck her like a squealing little piglet.

I slammed CONTROL + S and saved my project before I practically leaped for the phone. I called Janet first, and told her I wouldn’t be back. My desperate horniness aside, I wanted definitive proof Rachelle was in trouble. A cracked lip was hardly anything to get worked up over, but if she was really hiding her abuse—

“That’s fine,” my First replied. “Yu-Ching wants to help with Mikey so we’ll be fine.”

My next call was to Jamie, telling her I probably wasn’t able to stop by a little later.

“Oh that’s all right I guess,” she said softly. “Oh, and Viktoriya’s here.”

“She is?” I asked.

‘I am Stanislav.’ Viktoriya’s thought-speak made it a quasi-conference call.

“Oh, Jillian wants to talk to you,” Jamie said over the handset.

I waited for the handset to be passed while Viktoriya continued to speak to my mind. ‘Jillian is very cute! Why did you not mention her before?’

‘Knowing what you want to do to her mother?’ I scoffed at her mentally. ‘You’ll scar her for life.’

‘We’ll never know until we try won’t we?!’ Viktoriya’s capriciousness had been revived.

‘Vika, don’t be so imeptuous.’ I thought-spoke. ‘At least have our child first before you start cleaning carpets again.’

‘Bleyah.’ She gave me a mental sigh. ‘I’ll die of boredom before then.’

‘Just play nice.’ I begged her. ‘Janet still doesn’t know about Jamie. Or Jill.’

‘You filthy brute!’ Viktoriya feigned horror. ‘Impregnating women left and right!’

I was about to correct her when Jillian came on and greeted me excitedly, “Daddy!”

I grinned nervously. Her exuberance still freaked me out a bit. It was like looking at a portal into the future—kids who would explode with excitement.

“Hey Jillian,” I greeted her. “What’d you do today?”

“Lots o’things—!” and she proceeded to talk for another five minutes while I replied with “mmnn-hmm”, “gotcha”, “sounds cool” and listened with half an ear while Viktoriya and I thought-spoke.

‘Do you think Janna will agree?’ Viktoriya asked me. ‘A fifth wife? She doesn’t seem very forgiving. Her cunt has all the trademark features of a—’ She used a Russian term that was the equivalent of “anal retentive tight-ass bitch”.

‘I hope you didn’t tell her that.’ I soured. ‘Janet eats babies. Your babies.’

‘Myeh!’ Viktoriya sniffed and began mentally teasing me with what she wanted to do to Jamie. I was mildly surprised and impressed. I didn’t know women could bend like that.

By now, Jillian had spent herself, so I decided to end the call.

“All righty, listen I gotta go,” I said, “Please put mommy back on the phone.”

“U’kay I luv’you bu’bye!” Jill passed the phone back to her mother.

“Gosh she’s a talker,” Jamie and I both spoke at once, stopped and laughed.

“Do you want to say ‘hi’ to Viktoriya?” she asked.

‘But we already talked!’ Viktoriya beamed me her point of view through mind-sight and I saw her waving her hands and shaking her head.

“No, that’s okay,” I said. “I bet she’s saying no.”

Jamie laughed, “How’d you guess?”

I chuckled and was about to bid her goodbye when Jamie whispered into the phone in a hushed voice.

“Stanley,” she murmured, “We have to talk tomorrow. Can you make it?”

“Privately?” I asked. Through Viktoriya’s mind-sight, I saw she was teaching Jillian how to dance. Jamie was leaned over the sofa in her living room.

“Of course,” her words wore a sultry tone, “I need to talk to you, understand?”

“I’ll swing by tomorrow,” I made a note to clear my day. “Promise.”

“Cross your heart?” Jamie breathed.

“Hope to die,” I replied.

‘You will if you do me after her!’ Viktoriya growled to my mind unkindly. ‘Me first kisa! You can rub my feet too. They’re all sore and swollen.’

‘Fine.’ I relented. ‘I’ll do you first before I leave for Jamie’s place.’

‘Good Stanislav.’ My dusky Russkie signed off.

Jamie caught none of the dialog between me and Viktoriya.

“Okay, I’ll see you then,” she whispered and hung up.

As soon as she did, I called up Rachelle.

Man, I must be out of my fucking mind, I thought as the other line began to ring. Rachelle tonight. Viktoriya tomorrow to be quickly followed by Jamie—and who knows what after.

Well, I’ll die happy, I thought darkly as I turned my attention back onto my current call. It had been ringing for a little while. I was about to hang up after five more rings when someone picked up.

“Hello?” Rachelle came over the other line.

“Hey Rachelle,” I calmed myself. “It’s Stanley. Free tonight?”

“Um, wait.” I heard the speaker brush against something before she spoke again. “Tonight? I don’t know. What time?”

I glanced at the clock then said, “Seven how’s that? I know a little place.”

“I think I can do that,” she said.

I asked her the one question on my mind since seeing her ringless hand, “Anyone else coming?”

“No,” she sounded strange.

“Hey are you okay?” I asked her.

Rachelle didn’t answer immediately. I heard a voice in the background and wondered if that was pale-faced Craig. I kept silent on my end and listened.

“No one!” she suddenly cried out.

When I heard that, I stood up in alarm. I heard sounds of a struggle over the phone before the call went dead.

Great, I soured. More trouble.

I sensed Rachelle was terrified and not suprised. For me, it clearly sounded more like a domestic issue and not a robbery. I hesitated only for minute before I headed out the door. The office phone I had used had blocked caller ID. There wouldn’t be a way to find out out who called unless Rachelle talked. I headed down to the street and hailed the first available cab.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

“Parc 55 on Fifth,” I said and sat back, wondering how I should proceed.

I decided to risk it and dipped into Rachelle’s mind a bit using detached mindsight. I found her view being jolted from one side to the next. I could barely make out the fellow in the room, but I knew his skin was white. I also knew I needed to hurry.

“Hurry if you can,” I glanced at the driver sideways (as a rule, single male passengers sit up front with the cabbie; this is to mitigate robberies by passengers).

“I’ll do what I can,” he sounded annoyed.

“$100 if you get me there in five minutes,” I snapped.

“You’re the boss.”

The cab lurched on a right turn, then a left, then straight ahead. We stopped only briefly for red lights before the driver made some unscheduled turns through some alleys and a corridor. His time was a shade over five minutes but I didn’t care.

“Must be some date,” the driver remarked as I stepped out and rifled my wallet.

“Keep it,” I threw down two $50 bills and ran through the front doors.

I didn’t need the front desk to locate Rachelle. That would’ve meant getting caught on camera. I was still familiar enough with Rachelle’s presence to find her though. I jogged through the hallway on the ninth floor trying to zero in on her.

I pinged and got different results: a whore here and there (actually by 2004 as nearly 10 to 15 percent of the guests at any upscale hotel were in fact, prostitutes of male, female, and transex persuasion in and around the San Francisco area), and the occasional business person or touring family.

I finally found her room: 9306. The lock was secured by electronic keycard.

I put my ear to the door and heard some scuffling past it. I didn’t use mind-sight but I did feel Rachelle’s urgency. She felt she was in danger—mortal danger. I suppose I could’ve knocked, but I was so worked up from the trip and from her frantic voice over the phone, I evened out the tumblers and burst into the room.

The pasty faced fellow I’d met years ago at Faraz’s and Ghandia’s engagement dinner had Rachelle by the neck. He was using a twisted bedsheet to choke her. Even from the doorway, I could see her face start to turn into a pale green-blue from lack of oxygen.

My sudden entry really did a number on Craig. As soon as I cleared the door, I focused a small telekinetic push backwards and slammed it shut behind me. I wanted no witnesses.

The pale-faced man wanted to shout but I shut him up by bounding across the room and gripping his throat. He clawed at my face and beat at my chest but I repelled his feeble attempts to fight me off. I focused my telekinesis on my hand that now held him and shackled him to the floor.

I applied more telekinesis and pressed his upper and lower jaws together so he could moan loudly, but could form no words. I didn’t need him to speak anyway.

“Rachelle? Sugar?” I looked back and saw she was (thankfully) coming around.

She was coughing but she seemed all right.

“Stanley?” she got up woozily.

I surveyed the room and said, “Get your things. Pack up. We’re leaving.”

“What?” Rachelle swayed on her feet, dizzy and disoriented. “No, I can’t—”

“Please don’t argue sugar,” I prodded her gently. “You’re hurt. Just grab your purse and coat and wait outside by the door okay?”

The mulatto winced as she gathered her purse and a coat. As soon as she was out of earshot, I turned back to the man I was holding to the ground.

“You can leave or stay. I don’t care,” I let my finger graze his cheek so I could “mark” his presence. “But if I see you near Rachelle again—if I even think you’re harrassing her—”

I released my telekinesis on his jaws so he could speak.

“Fuck you,” he hissed. Craig tried to struggle but my grip only tightened.

“I ain’t going to ask again,” I lowered my voice, “Consider this your only warning. And if you call the cops—well, you know what happens to wife-beaters.”

I applied some pressure to neck and closed off his airway. Craig thought I was choking him to death. I might as well have. I relinquished pressure as soon as he fell faint. I knew Craig would be pissed once he woke up. He might say I even kidnapped Rachelle, so I doused his memories: I became an unknown loud noise.

From Craig’s point of view, he walked away from Rachelle to investigate and when he turned around, she had fled. To explain him being on the ground, I “suggested” that he drank himself silent. I still needed physical evidence though, so I pulled open the mini-bar, opened a few bottles of alcohol, splashed their contents over his hair, neck, and chest, and scattered the bottles around him.

I was sure toxicology would disprove my set-up, but I was also sure there would be no toxicology test. I wasn’t going to kill Craig, and there would be no police report from Rachelle or about her. I would take care of things. I hadn’t physically touched a thing at all, and Craig hadn’t put his hands on me period. Still, I needed to appear ‘normal’, so I grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom and covered my hands.

I left the room using the hand towel as a cover, and visibly wiping my hands clean. I found it unnecessary as Rachelle milled about outside in a complete daze.

“Stanley? Wha’happened?” she was tipsy, “Is’sit seven already?”

“Yes that’s right,” I took her gently by the arm, “C’mon sugar. Let’s go.”

Getting Rachelle into the cab was easy; it was masking her dishevelled state that was hard. Instead of bringing her to a fancy restaurant as I had intended earlier, I brought her straight to my new home on 43rd. Aside from the unit Viktoriya was using, its companion unit (the same floor) was operational (the solar installer and I agreed we had to test the batteries and electrical systems on something aside from the garage door and elevator—Shawn agreed and signed off on that portion).

Despite my hectic schedule, I had moved almost all of my things here to (what I thought) was a temporary location. Shawn, Melanie, Janet, and Viktoriya hadn’t picked where they wanted to live yet, so I figured I’d sort that out later. I helped Rachelle into my working room and lay her down on the fold-down sofa-bed. The bed was the same model as the one in Viktoriya’s New York City apartment. I liked it so much, I bought one from Pier One imports.

Rachelle herself was a mess. I was amazed she had remained awake this long because she blacked out as soon as her head hit the pillow. You may wonder why I hadn’t brought her to a hospital. Well for one thing, I didn’t trust them. I also didn’t want records of her admittance. I guess I was still hopped up from Jamie’s situation. I certainly was unsure how Craig would react and didn’t want to leave a trail he could follow. I wondered now how much the police would involve themselves despite all the precautions I took.

Well, we shall see, I thought. I had to have patience and see how things turned out. All I knew was that I was part of the invisible empire and I took care of my own—be they gifted or not.

I examined Rachelle’s face and her bruising. Her wounds were very much like Jamie’s after Pincelli hit her. I grabbed an egg from the refrigerator and plopped it into a pot. As the egg simmered in the boiling water, I ran some towels through some hot water. I wrung them dry and applied them gently on her arms and face. When I did, Rachelle gasped and opened her eyes.

“Stanley?” she croaked, “What happened?”

“You were beaten,” I measured my voice with care, “Looks worse than it is though. Are you in great pain?”

“Just sore,” Rachelle winced when she tried to adjust herself, “I feel awful. And tired.”

“Okay. Relax and rest,” I stroked her hand gently, “You’re safe now. He won’t bother you ever again.”

She closed her eyes. I could see tears well up as she fought the urge to cry. I sensed her anger and embarrassment so I turned away to tend the egg on the stove. When the water boiled the egg for a bit, I shut off the gas stove (yeah, the pipe-fitters had a field day with that task—eight outlets for natural gas as well as pumps to force it up five stories and shut-off valves for emergencies—cost a pretty penny) and took it back with me with a dish rag.

“Ouch!” she winced when I rolled the hot egg gently against her mocha skin.

“Sorry sugar,” I gave her a brave grin, “Should’ve warned you.”

“What’re you doing?” Rachelle whispered.

“It’s an old wives’ remedy,” I explained, “Similar to a heat-pack. Helps dissipate bruises by increasing your blood circulation.”

“Is it edible after?” she asked, “I’m starved.”

“I bet you are. Just wait a sec,” I rolled the rapidly cooling egg on Rachelle’s cheeks and temple.

Her eyes watched me as I finished. I felt her body and mind relax a bit.

“Here,” I handed the egg to her. “I’ll get you something for the shells.”

I grabbed a bowl and some napkins, passed them to her then headed back to the refrigerator and filled her a cool glass of chilled water.

“Better?” I sat beside her.

Rachelle nodded.

“So I pretty much wrecked dinner,” I smiled apologetically. “Let’s order in. What do you feel like?”

“Anything’s fine I s’pose,” she said quietly.

“All right,” I patted her hand.

I rung up a nearby Chinese place and ordered some wonton and dumpling noodles, and some Chinese broccoli in oyster sauce. I went out and was back in ten minutes. When I came back, I heard the shower hissing.

“Dinner’s served,” I unpacked everything on the table.

The shower’s hiss stopped and I could hear her call out, “Stanley? Do you have towels?”

“What?” I soured. “Right. Sorry. Gimme a second.”

I slipped into Viktoriya’s unit and grabbed two clean towels.

“Here,” I handed them to Rachelle.

She took them gratefully and closed the bathroom door. When she came out, Rachelle was wearing just a bath towel. She had donned the one of the pair of slippers I used when I stayed overnight to work on the building interiors.

“Is this where you live now?” she asked me.

“Not exactly home is it?” I looked around.

Compared to my old room, the unit was spartan and bare. Only some of the lights had been installed (the basic ones) and flourescent working lights illuminated the unfloored rooms. Spare wires stuck out from cut-outs in the walls and grease pencil and spray paint marks delineated where future details were to go. I considered myself lucky to have a table, chairs, and a drawer full of napkins and disposable eating utensils.

“It’s different,” Rachelle smiled bravely. “Doing some remodelling?”

“Yeah,” I took a bite from a dumpling. “Working on it for some time.”

“Oh I see,” she said. “What’s your landlord got to say about this?”

“I am the landlord,” I replied as Rachelle smiled thinly.

I prodded her when I saw she didn’t touch her food. “Not your kinda thing?”

“No it’s good,” Rachelle pushed a wonton down and it immediately resurfaced around her fork. “I just don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“Trouble? What trouble?” I asked as I pulled some condiments from a packing box.

“Craig may be a douche,” she said quietly, “But his dad has friends in high places.”

“Oh really?” I pricked my ears and then searched her mind. “How high?”

“I don’t know,” Rachelle said with a defeated tone. “Just high. That’s how I got my job at the studio.”

“You’ll be fine,” I patted her hand, “If not, I’ll do what I can to help.”

“You’re too kind,” she sounded despondent.

“What’s wrong?” I tried to cheer her, “Tell me.”

“Well, it’s—” Rachelle sighed, “I know my job and all but it’s not something I’m that good with. I feel kinda lost to tell the truth.”

“Don’t feel that bad,” I suddenly remembered something.

I got up and rummaged through the things I’d already moved here. I found the package I was looking for. It was thrown in with a bunch of things labelled “fabric samples”. I thought it was foolish of me to include it but I wanted anything and everything that could be used as examples for Gracia (our interior decorator). But there it was, unopened, just like I’d bought just today instead of a few months ago.

“Here,” I slipped the package to her. “I meant to give it to you the next time I saw you, but things kinda got busy.”

“Oh?” Rachelle grasped the corner then looked at me. “May I?”

“Of course sugar,” I grinned that trademark grin of mine and she blushed.

Her slim dark fingers put a little hole in the package and slowly tore it open. Rachelle’s curious look was replaced by one of confusion then surprise as the contents poured out into her hand.

“Oh—my—” she gulped as her wide eyes saw the kimono I’d bought in Tokyo.

“I kinda guessed your height and size and stuff,” I laughed nervously. “Hope it fits; if not we can adjust it—”

“J-town,” Rachelle whispered.

“Yeah you remember right?” I grinned at the memory. “Remember that shop on the bridge? And, hey—sugar, what’s wrong?”

I sensed she was fighting back the urge to cry, but that only made things worse. I stood close by and touched her arm gently.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I said gently, “I’m sorry Rachelle. I didn’t mean it.”

She looked at me with wet but happy eyes; I waited patiently for her to say something but she only leaned close and hugged me.

“Well look, if you hate the color that much,” I joked good-naturedly, “I’ll help you exchange it. No problems sugar.”

Rachelle drew back in shock. Then she saw my stupid face and cracked a small smile. I laughed and ruffled her curly brown locks.

“Stanley Chen,” she hugged me and cried, “I shouldn’t have ever let you go.”

“Sssh darlin’,” I held her close, “It’s all good. No harm done.”

I blinked, surprised that Rachelle’s sobs coming out stronger rather than subsiding. Did I say something wrong?

I dared a peek into her mind and found that her life was pretty screwed up. Not as screwed up as Jamie’s, but almost as much. Soon after Rachelle and I broke up, Craig had pretty much taken up the role of “bored” boyfriend and taken her for granted. Rather than simple sex, he found controlling her more his thing.

Craig helped her get a job at a low rent cable company, but it wasn’t an act of altruism. His father owned a stake in the business and he had put Rachelle’s livelihood under his thumb as well. All that she bought and owned was—in a sick way—owned by Craig.

Suffering under that kind of stress, I saw why Faraz had asked me if I saw Rachelle recently. Now that I had a chance to examine her closely, I noticed her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks were shallow, and her skin was a little discolored.

“Seeing you and Ghandia was just too much,” Rachelle hugged me tightly.

“What?” I gave her an odd look, “Why’s that?”

“It—it just made me so jealous,” she dipped her eyes, “Am I crazy Stanley?”

While Faraz wasn’t the closest person to Rachelle (he was close only through Ghandia), having her own problems made her feel all alone just the same. Seeing Ghandia so widowed made Rachelle (and later on, me) wish that Craig had been the one killed instead of Faraz.

I was never really interested in Ghandia. We were never close and I only tolerated her (and her big Jewish nose) because Faraz loved her so damn much. But after so many years, one can’t just cut ties so easily; I tried to understand it from Rachelle’s point of view and dealt with it as best I could.

“No,” I said, “You’re not crazy.”

I fell into a silent gloom almost immediately. Talking about Ghandia simply reminded me of Faraz. Neighbors of his own countrymen, Saudi Arabians, had killed one of their own and didn’t know it. It was like me killing Vietnamese boat people in the Tenderloin simply because they got in my way.

Where was the sense in that? What kind of fool would let his self-righteousness blind him from rational thought? I had gotten so riled from Faraz’s death, I didn’t notice I was unconsciously crushing Rachelle with telekinesis.

“Ugh, Stanley,” she fidgeted, “You’re crushing me.”

“What?” I relinquished my grip immediately, “Oh, sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Rachelle touched my cheek gently, “It must be hard for you too.”

I shook off the feeling. I didn’t need it clouding my mental clarity.

“I’m fine sugar,” I kissed her hand, “I’m more worried about you.”

“Same old Stanley,” she murmured, “You worry too much.”

“Maybe,” I let out a small laugh and stroked the small of her back.

The black beauty’s next words came out slow, “What about her?” There was only one person she was referring to: Janet Wu.

“Don’t think,” I kissed her, “This is our time.”

Rachelle didn’t shy away, but she didn’t respond either.

“Can you hate me for being so jealous?” she asked softly.

“Sugar,” I rubbed her back, “I can never hate those I love.”

“What?!” she looked at me evenly, “You can’t be serious about —”

When Rachelle saw my foolish grin, she shook her head and tried to pull away from me.

“C’mon sugar,” I tickled her chin, “It’ll be just like old times.”

“Along with old hurt,” Rachelle glared at me, “I can’t!”

“Rachelle. Sugar,” I calmed her as best I could, “Sit. I think you need to hear me out.”

I lead my mulatto minx to the sofa-bed and sat her down. I took her hand and started to explain. Okay—so I also did a little “persuasion”. Sue me. I loved her, she was in trouble, and there was only one way I knew how to do things. I started with Janet (and left out the naughtier parts), moved onto Shawn (ditto), Melanie (had to), Viktoriya (bimbo), and lastly Jamie (hubba-hubba). Rachelle was completely cowed and blown away at my revelations.

“Y—you’re kidding me right?” she looked at me in horror, “You’re a Mormon?”

“Hell no,” I made a face, “You knew me from back when we were dating—I don’t do church crap.”

“But what you’re doing is—” Rachelle covered her mouth.

“Sssh!” I put a finger to my lips, “It’s called bigamy and it’s illegal but only if paperwork is filed.”

She looked at me confused, “What do you mean if paperwork—?”

“Look, Janet and I have been researching this for some time now,” I explained. “She and I think we have it air-tight because we’re not going to leave a paper trail.”

“What?! That’s crazy!” my dark darling lay back, “You’re crazy Stanley, if you think you can marry six women and get away with it.”

I grinned and grazed her smooth tan thighs, “Wanna bet sugar?”

Rachelle had the temerity to laugh. I didn’t care if it was directed at me or not; so long as she was smiling. I felt her old self slowly coming back. My touch had the effect I wanted. She was relaxed now, her mind and body susceptible to my words once more. Nevertheless, I sensed her reluctance. It was only natural, I knew but I was pumped from all the running about. Having my mocha-skinned mulatto alone with me in a room and so close brought back both nostalgia—and a level of horniness I hadn’t possessed since I was a teenager.

I cautiously extended a hand and rested my palm on her knee. Rachelle didn’t push me away, nor did she urge me on. I gave her knee a squeeze and I saw her cheeks redden slightly. Thus encouraged, I began massaging her thighs and calves. She groaned softly as I slowly worked over her body with my fingers.

It had been some time since the two of us were intimate, so Rachelle was mildly surprised that my grip was so much stronger— actually, it was a combination of practice (I had plenty) and telekinetic support. Although I was not as adept as Viktoriya with telekinesis initially, I was surprised how skilled I became with it with constant practice.

Rachelle’s lovely legs trembled as my fingers danced over her dark brown skin. When I sensed her doubts waning, I leaned down and kissed her gently on a spot of her cheek that wasn’t bruised. She gasped in surprise and her legs clamped shut. I went slow, calming her down and stoking my dark darling’s inner lust. We hadn’t seen each other in four years and I wasn’t sure if (or how) her habits and boundaries changed.

As I kissed her neck and breasts, Rachelle sighed and signalled she was quite content with what I was doing. I slipped my hands under her towel and she responded instantly by grabbing me in the right places. I slipped the kimono back into its pouch and put it gently on the ground.

Rachelle smiled shyly as I pulled off the towel that hid her nakedness and draped it neatly beside her on the bed. Her twat was now a thich patch of curly fur—very much like what it used to be except a bigger, thicker expanse. I bent down and sniffed. Her familiar mocha musk came back to me and I felt my dick point to attention at the scent.

She gasped as I pulled her legs apart and kissed the sides of her thighs and backs of her calves. Fucking five other girls on a nearly regular basis for the past fourteen years had pretty much made me a seasoned pro. I teased her freshly bathed legs and buttocks, not bothering to dive straight for her twat.

The room was a little chillier (not all the insulation had been installed because I was waiting for the sound-proofing panels) so Rachelle pulled the towel over her like a makeshift blanket. I didn’t mind as my mulatto minx half-lay, half-sat her nice long tan legs spread wide. I crammed myself in between her tender brown loins and ate her out.

“Oh fuck that feels good,” Rachelle sighed as she lay down on her back.

I felt her whole body relax and wondered if I should ping Viktoriya. After all, she did want to see Rachelle. But then again, Viktoriya was carrying my child. There was no telling what the pregnancy was doing to her mind.

Would she get jealous, I wondered. Or would she blab about it before I could have a chance to explain (or persuade) anyone?

I decided to leave Viktoriya alone for tonight. After all, she was going to be the first one I was going to see tomorrow. I’d speak to her then about this. Rachelle’s cunt had cracked open just a bit from my teasing. I slowly kissed the insides of her legs—first one side then the other, and inched slowly towards that sweet slice of mocha muff.

“Oh Stanley stop,” she whispered, “I—I’m not on the pill.”

“I got that covered baby,” I nibbled her clit such that it made her cry out.

As Rachelle was caught in the sudden throe of ecstasy, I used telekinesis to yank a little box of saran wrap from the top of the refrigerator. The box slew silently (and unobtrusively) under the sofa-bed. I gave the dark beauty a few loving licks, savored her delicious cooze ooze, and tore a small bit of wrap for my cock.

Without any cooking oil, I had to improvise a little. I lay kisses on her beautiful brown body as I crawled beside her so my head was level with hers. I played with her titties and shrouding my fingers with the gentlest force my mind could create, I slid a “fattened” version of my fingers into her vagina and easily reached her G-spot.

“Omigod!!” Rachelle’s eyes bugged out as she sucked in her breath.

“Feel good sugar?” I asked her with a wink.

She nodded and kissed me tenderly while I jerked her juice box. With her fuck musk now flowing, there was no need for lubrication. Her face registered only mild disatisfaction when I pulled my shrouded fingers out—but only briefly. Rachelle moaned with pleasure as I slid in atop her.

“Oh yes. Oh fuck yes,” Rachelle kissed me and put her arms around my neck. “Just like old times.”

I grunted as I slaked my lust on my old girlfriend. I pumped her as she wrapped her legs around me. I felt her thighs surround my waist and remembered the stupid things we did so long ago. The handjob in Santa Cruz. The second time we did anal. The dates we’d go on where’d we’d tried to sneak a quickie: at the playground, at the school stadium, but most of all, in my old room.

My old room. Where my legally married wife and first-born son were living now. I frowned as I thought about it. My black beauty must’ve misread me because she pawed my cheeks gently and held my head as I began to thrust harder.

“Fuck me sugar,” the mulatto breathed hotly in my face. “Fuck me just like old times. I want you.”

Rachelle ran her fingers through my hair and coaxed me until I climaxed.

INTERLUDE—CHINESE SIX-COURSE MEAL

The day after taking Rachelle back into my life, I was a busy man. I left early and grabbed some things (without arousing Janet’s suspicion) from my old room at 35th Avenue, headed back to the unit at 43rd Avenue, peeked in on Viktoriya (who threw a fit when she learned I had bedded Rachelle without letting her in on the action—go figure).

Next, I took Rachelle back to her room at the Parc 55 so she could grab what was left of her things (Craig had checked out a day and took mostly his things), headed back to 43rd Avenue where Viktoriya invited Rachelle to stay the night (three guesses why), spent the day with Jamie and Jill (Viktoriya traded my time to get to know Rachelle—a fair trade).

I finally ended the night by spending time with my First wife and son but I was so tired, I mostly let the baby eat, sleep, poop, and drool on my face (not all necessarily in that order). Backers of polygamy as the “ideal” male lifestyle can suck my filthy uncut dick. I felt more like Ray Liotta’s mob snitch in “Goodfellas” than the king of the world. I seriously wanted to kill myself so I could get a good night’s sleep. Janet Wu of course, nearly saved me that trouble.

Viktoriya occasionally called her “Tom-Boy” behind her back, but I had another nickname for my dutiful First. I called Jan the “three-strike” woman. This wasn’t in reference to the three-strikes law in California (she was only for three-strike violent misdemeanors and felonies—I favored execution by invisible empire) but rather it was in reference to the three strikes I had done her wrong:

My first strike: Rachelle Hollister.

My second strike: Jamie Yang (formerly Young) and her daughter Jillian.

My third strike: Including the aforementioned into the household.

She stayed dutiful and devoted despite all three affronts, so I pretty much didn’t have much wiggle-room after that. Everything came to a head in less than a month’s time. It wasn’t all Jamie’s fault, but with Viktoriya, Melanie, and Shawn knowing Jamie’s existence and keeping it a secret for different reasons, Janet was sure something was being snuck under her nose. So she asked Melanie to help her bring some things to the 43rd Avenue building so she could snoop around.

Janet had a legitimate reason though—she wanted to see her unit up close. By now, I had asked everyone for their preferences: Melanie and Shawn immediately took the top-most floor, each for different reasons.

Melanie wanted to cook and aside from being close to the rooftop garden, her ventilation system would be running at full blast. The structural engineer (an impeccable fellow named Jules Fontana—yes this is a plug in a porn story), Shawn, and I figured it would be best to build an easily replaceable vent pipe from the top-floor east unit to the one side of the building that wasn’t covered by Shawn’s solar wall.

The larger pipe was the only thing that marred Melanie’s unit but she didn’t mind. She painted a target on the side and fired spitballs at it when she was bored. The wider pipe did give Yu-Ching’s unit a slightly lower ceiling in that part of the kitchen. Being the tallest one (i.e., my height) Rachelle suffered a mild concussion once when she ran headlong into it when she was chasing one of the kids around. For some reason, she was wearing heels that day—but all that came later.

Shawn wanted the other top-floor unit simply because she wanted to be near the roof system she had so lovingly crafted. The drainage schematics she’d drafted when she was a student were perfected by Jules and included into the design of the solar girdle-wall (heating some of the water for the plants at night). In fairness to her great contribution, the others agreed.

Up for grabs were the second and third residential floors (there was the ground floor and a first residential floor above it). Janet was leery and wanted to be on the same floor with me. However, I hadn’t picked yet a unit yet. Since I couldn’t get the interior designer (a fellow Berkeley CED alum Gracia Kosugi) started until everyone had a unit, Janet gave up trying to predict where I would stay and opted for the second floor’s east unit.

“It’s about the middle,” Janet said. “I’d figure I’d meet you halfway.”

“Thanks,” I grinned. Of course, nowadays she claims I took great liberty with her answer.

Viktoriya had gotten quite comfortable in her unit (first floor west). Since she was getting bigger by the day, she decided to stay put.

“I’m quite comfy right where you put me kisa,” she stated simply.

“All righty,” I rubbed her tummy gently. “But if you change your mind—”

“Stanislav,” Viktoriya scolded. “Don’t worry any more. I’m happy. Understand?”

I wanted to add that Viktoriya’s unit is one of those earnestly weirder set-ups. She requested smoothed, curved vertices in her room, so I had to add some special mouldings on the tops of the rooms. Viktoriya also requested that the lights in her room be inset or smoothed over with their housings. Later, I learned it was so she could practice pushing balls with her telekinesis without any protrusions getting in her way.

‘How are you going to hide that from the baby?’ I thought-spoke with her one day.

‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’ Viktoriya gave me a goofy grin. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll figure out something if he’s not like his mama and papa.’

‘How do you know it’s a he?’ I grinned while not a peep of our conversation leaked audibly to the others.

‘Mother’s intuition.’ Viktoriya placed my hand on her enlarged belly. ‘I think he’ll have your eyes lyubimy.’

We bumped foreheads and swirled once or twice in mid-air before settling down for the night.

Meanwhile, I personally opted for second floor west, right next to Janet (she was happy) and right above Vitkoriya (who licked her lips at the suggestiveness turn of that phrase). I certainly didn’t want to stay in the first-floor east unit—it was directly over the one garage door to the ground level parking garage.

I figured even with sound-proofing, the noise would keep whoever stayed there batty. I proposed that it be used as a guest unit (or storage space) or until a better use could be found for it. Like the other units though, it was fully furnished, so anyone could live in it in an emergency.

So Janet (carrying Michael) and Melanie walked into this mess when I drove back to 43rd Avenue with Rachelle and Viktoriya.

I had been speaking with Gracia about the materials and other furnishings, conferencing with Jules (mostly about the piping in Melanie’s room) and Shawn (I paid for all her phone conferences on the project—she wanted to put in her two cents on her room if not the girdle-wall) so I wasn’t on my highest alert.

Janet’s first reaction when she saw Rachelle was, “What’s she doing here?!”

While I was trying to formulate an answer, Jamie (seeing the garage door open) walked in with Jillian in tow. When Jill rushed up to hug me screaming, “Daddy!!” the resulting din was heard a block away.

“WHO THE HELL IS THAT!?” Janet shrieked.

Baby Mikey started wailing from her outburst. Melanie caught the baby in time as Janet’s legs wobbled nearly gave way. Viktoriya supported her until she could lean on a nearby car. My dusky Russkie then did her best to steer clear of my rampaging First.

‘Uh-oh kisa.’ My Baltic beauty tought-spoke. ‘Busted!!’

Yeah, I felt my face grow hot. It was going to be one of those days.

ILLNESS

Janet was livid with fury. She only calmed down enough so she’d stop raising her voice. It only annoyed me and made little Mikey cry out with consternation. Still, it made me nervous. Her fury threatened to bubble up again when she got it out of Viktoriya, Melanie and Shawn that they’d know about Jamie and Jillian since last year and none of them had told her about it.

I suppose I could’ve apologized and take what was coming, but I didn’t. I did the one thing I knew I was good at—I tried to persuade her. I was stretching it for sure but I only needed to sway my strong-willed Janet. I had one hand on Melanie’s shoulder and a second on Viktoriya. I surmised it had worked before (in Shawn’s apartment all those years ago) so I decided to take a gamble and risk it.

I had worked too hard and too long to forego it all. If Janet decided to leave, I suppose I could’ve kept going. Maybe even drown my sorrows in a new woman. But I didn’t want a new woman— not anyone permanent. I wanted Janet.

I wanted her to stay so we could make each other happy, or mad, or crazy. I wanted her to help me pelt our kids with paint ball guns or bushwhackers if they misbehaved. I didn’t care what we did so long as we could grow old together. It was a hard sell but I pushed for it.

Facing Janet’s stern granite face like they were on trial, Jamie’s and Rachelle’s faces were a mix of confusion, embarrassment, and (from Jamie) fear. I realized later I was speaking Cantonese most of the time (sorry, no dialogue here, because I couldn’t even remember more than a tenth of it). Melanie understood the whole thing (she doesn’t like to talk about it) and Viktoriya got the gist of it as I spoke.

When I finished, I felt more dead than alive.

The strain must’ve been getting to me. Not only was I busy with my own building, but I was setting up a new method of laundering more money. I went through Jacob Waters’ mind to look for some hints on money laundering and racketeering (well more the former than the latter). I learned that if I owned a discount dollar store (where items sold for a buck) and cooked the books, I could clean the dough I’d earned from the border (all ten or eleven million).

The process was easy—buy a bunch of crap from overstock and sell it for $1 (per item). This generates some sort of sales. Use the dirty money as your investment, report it as revenue (how ever fantastic it was although $500,000 meant you sold 500,000 items), pay your damn taxes and ta-da—“cleaned” money.

Of course, it didn’t help that I spent three days in Cartagena and Medellin in Colombia. There, I assisted Tseng and two other empire citizens (Galen and Kari—these two are geocaching fanatics; they just completed their fifth trip around the world) in taking on La Corporacion. We went into town and came out with a pretty neat cut.

Galen and Kari were a complicated couple: he was descended from an Algerian “pieds noir” (French colonist in Algeria), looked white, but acted like he was right at home in Africa. She was a light skinned Nubian lovely who readily spoke French and English as much as she did her own tongue (forget which one exactly).

Both were perfectly happy taking the drugs for resale. I took a split of the money with Tseng (roughly 30-70—which still amounted to about ten million for my share) and I took what weapons I could find. In the wake of 9/11, I had to be extra careful with cargo.

Cash I could move easily; Galen and Kari could take care of their drugs and Tseng—well, he was Tseng. He’d find a way to get what he wanted.

I was about take some of the heavy stuff (to get familiar with them) but decided not to. Where the hell was I going to store a 100 mm tankgun (stripped from a new build Russian T-55)? Or Chinese made anti-aircraft Silkworm (Stinger clones) missiles? Or Russian AT-8s? Or tele-guided MILANs? I’ll tell you what—no where.

As for the rest, I settled for two stolen M-82s (.50 caliber BMG anti-material ‘counter-sniping’ rifle), a vintage M2 Browning Machinegun (dating back to the Vietnam War), a dozen Russian AP-mines, a few SAIGA automatic shotguns, a crate of AK-74Us (with the then-new synthetic stocks) along with their associated magazines, mounting rails, ammunition, and cleaning gear. There were also some handy low-light night scopes.

There was even a case of experimental H&K G-11 caseless ammunition. I was eager to see how that stuff worked since I was so focused on breaking firing pins and depressing safeties. By now, my weapons stash on Masonic Street had gotten so ridiculous, the block was liable to become a crater if the building caught on fire.

My extra-curricular activities compounded the pressure when I applied for and got a new job at Ditomer Design. Not that Ferguson hadn’t been good for me in the year and a half I’d been with them—I just felt I needed to expand my horizons. At my new job, I wasn’t simply a CAD-man but an actual architect (with CAD drawing as my forte).

My new income was a little more (like 105,000 instead of 95,000) but that still barely covered my mortgage and expenses. Janet’s pending decision didn’t help my situation. Rachelle and Jamie (Jillian was at her grandparents for the day) were with me in the hall while Janet conferenced with Viktoriya and Melanie. Because of her time difference, Shawn e�-mailed her opinion. However, Janet was in no way obligated to take her opinion into account.

Great apprehension filled me when we were called back in. Janet looked unhappy, and rendered her decision: since I was such a damn fool, Jamie could stay (along with Jill).

“And Rachelle?” I asked.

Janet’s nostrils flared and didn’t answer. But at the corner of my eye, I could see Melanie pat my First on the hand.

“She can stay too Stanley,” my Little Chen said quietly.

I nearly swore aloud with relief. I didn’t know how, but Melanie managed to convince my testy Janet once more. I never asked Yu-Ching to do anything like that crazy ever again—it explains why I spoil her so much now.

“However, as a condition,” my First interjected, “I want both of them to undergo AIDS/STD screening. No if’s, and’s, or but’s.”

“What?” Rachelle felt insulted. “Why I never—!”

“This isn’t about you,” Janet’s voice was icy cold. “I don’t want anything to happen to our children—or their mothers.”

Rachelle’s mouth snapped shut while Jamie fidgeted under Janet’s stern gaze and mumbled acceptance.

“Thank you,” I said finally.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Janet wore a hateful little grin.

I froze, fearful of what my First would say next.

“The results aren’t in yet,” she hissed as her gaze shot past me and focused on a cowering Jamie and a defiant Rachelle.

I sensed Janet was feeling mighty spiteful and vindictive. I knew if either girl hit positive for an STD (or worse, HIV/AIDS) she’d not only kick them out, but Janet would likely forbid me from ever touching her ever again.

Wow, I thought. Viktoriya was right. Janet can be a real bitch.

‘Told you kisa.’ Viktoriya gave me a rueful smile as she sat quietly beside Melanie and Janet.

As humiliating as her request was, it made logical sense to me. Jamie though, had been preparing for this. She’d gotten tested a week before and had the paperwork and results to prove it. When I asked her why, she confessed.

“I—I wanted to show you I was clean,” Jamie stammered, “I want to have another child with you Stanley. I didn’t want you to worry, especially—”

I stopped her before she started blubbering. This was already hard enough. So all that remained was for me to take Rachelle down to the hospital to get tested. The mulatto felt humiliated and stepped on. I caught thoughts from her that I dared not repeat aloud to Janet. While I had convinced Janet to let Rachelle stay, my dark beauty was nearly fed up with my First’s bitchiness.

“What do you see in her?” Rachelle complained as we headed back to the car.

“Jan’s cool once you get to know her,” I felt woozy.

I had given a little blood. And why not? To show support, I underwent the same test as Rachelle. I wanted to prove to Janet that I was fine too.

“Yeah right,” she sighed. “You know she’s what broke us up right?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, “Don’t remind me.”

“Hey sugar?” I felt Rachelle’s grip on my arm. “You okay? You don’t look too good Stanley.”

“Me? Don’t be silly,” I laughed but it sounded more like a cackle. “I’m fine.”

“No, you look pale,” her voice carried worry. “You sure you want to drive?”

“I just got a new project at Ditomer,” I began rambling. “We’re specialists in arcology. Presentation next week. Won’t Shawn be proud?”

“Stanley?! Sugar!?” Rachelle’s voice seemed far away.

Was it time to sleep? It sure felt like it. I was tired.

I wondered why the bed was so cold though. Must be because it was made of concrete.

I lay down and slept. Rachelle can take care of things. Heck, any of my talented darlings could.

BEDRIDDEN

I was dimly aware of what happened next. From what I could gather later, Rachelle dragged me back into my car and drove me to the emergency room. After a few shots and a few quick tests, the doctors slapped me with a $100 emergency room bill and sent me to my new home to rest (or so went the idea).

“Nervous exhaustion,” one of them said.

I was pretty much out of it, but picked up thoughts and spoken sentences as I drifted in and out of consciousness in bed. I wasn’t even sure which unit I was in; all I knew was that Janet used my collapse as an excuse to agitate against Rachelle.

“Why’d you let him draw blood?” Janet snapped. “He didn’t need to get tested, or did he?!”

“You selfish—” Rachelle held her tongue at the curse but went on, “He was supportive. He got tested because he wanted to! And how about you?!”

“What about me?!” my First’s voice rose appreciably. “I’ve only fucked one guy for the past fifteen years! How many times did your ‘ex’ dive in au-natural!?”

“That’s none of your damn business!!” Rachelle’s voice broke into a scream and pointed to Jamie. “And how about her?! Why’re you picking on me?!”

“Don’t look at me!” Jamie backed away quickly, “I only—”

“No one asked you!!” Janet shrieked and turned to face Rachelle.

‘Kisa! Wake-up please!’ Viktoriya pinged me with thought-speak. ‘Stop them! They’re both giving me a headache!’

I heard her, but I was too knocked out to answer.

“You two-timing, conniving no-good—” Janet nearly said the one word (the n-word) you don’t say to someone like Rachelle when my dark beauty interrupted her.

“Say it!” Rachelle stood with her hands balled into fists. “I dare you to say that right now to my face!!”

Thank god, I thought as I caught up with everyone’s train of thought. Rachelle thought Janet was only going to call her a bitch. Wait. I giggled soundlessly. That wasn’t good either.

Janet rolled up her sleeves and stared down the bigger girl without fear, “You stupid dumb—”

“STOP IT!!!”

The silence was as sudden and as surprising as who said it. My eyes didn’t need to be opened because I knew that voice. I had been familiar with it since she was just a child.

“Enough you two!” Melanie cried. “Don’t you think you can help Stanley guo-guo instead of fighting!? What’s wrong with you?!”

Janet was flustered, “Melanie, I—”

“Shut up!” Little Chen said, her eyes filled with angry tears, “That’s all he does day in and day out! He worked himself sick for you! All of you!! Don’t any of you remember why he did this in the first place?!”

Melanie looked at all of them in the room (I guess it was either my temporary room, Viktoriya’s room, or the newly furnished room upstairs).

“Stanley built this home so everyone he loves can be happy,” Melanie reminded them. “It’s so he could be with us and be a family. Right now, you two are just making his life miserable!”

‘Ouch.’ Viktoriya thought-spoke then remembered I was probably asleep. ‘Dorogoi, if you can hear this, I think the little one just appointed herself as your guardian angel.’

That’s nice Vika, I wanted to reply but I was so weak, I only stared mindlessly at the blobs in the middle of the room.

“So, unless you want me to really lose my temper,” Melanie said through clenched teeth, “All of you get out of my room and let him get some rest.”

Huh—interesting, I thought dimly. I guess I was in Melanie’s quarters. It’s just that Jules and the contractor hadn’t put in her ventilation pipe yet. That could explain why it was so warm.

‘Don’t think about ventilation pipes.’ Viktoriya thought-spoke as she ushered the others out. I saw she had little Mikey in her arms. ‘And don’t worry Stanislav. I will try and mediate if they go at it again.’

I barely remembered how to thank her in Russian. ‘Spasee-ba.’

‘You’re welcome lyubimy.’ She placed a kiss on my son—her step-son. ‘Rest now. You’re in good hands.’

DUE RECOGNITION

Thankfully, Rachelle’s test results came back negative. I breathed a big sigh of relief because trying to celebrate New Year’s 2002 was one of the most arduous things I’d done to date.

I had to do “ying-chou” to Janet’s family (who wanted to spend the holidays with their grandson), my family (ditto), and down the line I went: Melanie’s family, Jamie’s family, Rachelle’s family (they’d moved to a better neighborhood), Viktoriya’s family (we flew to Indiana, where we had to placate them with a sham marriage—legally, I couldn’t marry again without being indicted with bigamy), and on and on until I ran out of obligations.

I thought I was going to get ill all over again. Temporarily at least, Janet and Rachelle settled on tolerating one another, if only for my sake. They avoided one another when they could, but kept quiet when they had to be in the same room. I knew they couldn’t abide one another until their old rivalry died out, so I didn’t force the issue. I knew I had to give them time. People changed as they grow older. Besides, one can’t have it all—but I had to admit I got pretty damn close.

During my illness, I did my best to telecommute, falling back to do plans where needed. Ditomer did not do construction drawings—that’s what firms like Ferguson are for and what I chiefly specialized in. I learned later this would come back to haunt me (but more on that later).

The fallout from the trade center’s destruction continued. As soon as I was well, I called away to surveil the source of the antrhax/ricin letters with the team (as mentioned before). Once I got back, I was (of course) flooded with business to take care of.

It was around this time some exciting news occured with Shawn. My plump dumpling had been away from the bru-ha-ha at the household when Janet and Rachelle finally met and had it out. I was curious about how she voted though. Since I couldn’t mind-read e-mail, I dug a bit into both Shawn’s and Janet’s minds and tried to figure out how Shawn voted. As it turned out, that whole voting idea pretty much upset the old ties that the girls had developed.

Originally friendly (or at least amicable) towards everyone (especially Melanie), Janet began forming a deeper bond with Jamie out of the commonality of being mothers. I suspected Janet also found Jamie very much a well-meaning doormat. While Janet was still friendly with Melanie, she was more wary since Yu-Ching’s outburst. It seemed no matter what Janet thought, Little Chen would likely be on my side rather than her side.

Viktoriya and Rachelle were friendly (although my Russian hottie was pretty disappointed that Rachelle didn’t muff dive) but to say they were close would be a mistake. Viktoriya was equally friendly with both Shawn and Janet (mostly because these two had muff dived—though that pretty much stopped once they had children). She didn’t mind Melanie, who was generally as perverted nor did she mind Jamie, who was still sexually permissive once she had a few.

Rachelle was principally friendly with me, although later on, she grew quite close to Shawn (having met her before). Shawn was one of the few girls who voted for the mulatto (and told her so in private later). My dark beauty appreciated Shawn’s honesty and straight-forwardness. Rachelle also had a good relationship with Viktoriya. While I was still ill, Viktoriya had accompanied her down to Los Angeles so she wouldn’t have to face Craig alone.

‘Wait.’ I thought-spoke when I learned of their plans. ‘What if he gets violent? You can’t just punch him Vika. Not in the state you’re in.’

‘I’ll do more than punch him.’ Viktoriya mused. ‘I can probably floor him easily with what you’ve taught me.’

Well, I didn’t want it to come to that. My Cossack cutie wasn’t as well-versed in how things were done in the empire. Nonetheless, I wasn’t in much condition to assist physically. So, I called on some help.

Faraz’s sister Ami was attending school in UCLA. She and Faraz had both experienced backlash after the 1993 WTC bombing (and again in 1996). After 9/11, she was practically ostracized by all but her closest friends. She was glad she could prove useful and still “American”. Ami grabbed her stun gun and pepper spray and escorted both women until Rachelle got her things and left. That show of support was more than enough to cow a coward like Craig Simmons.

Jamie and Shawn were the meekest of the group, but each for different reasons.

My beautiful Asian siren had a tough time fitting in between Janet’s strong-willed bullying and Viktoriya’s salacious attempts to get her drunk to dyke out. After Viktoriya had given birth (this was a few months later), Jamie often accompanied the Baltic brunette to get back into shape (all the women worked out—save Shawn, who was content to swim like I did; Rachelle, Viktoriya and Jamie preferred pilates and gym machines while Janet and Melanie preferred calisthenics and tai-chi).

One day, Jamie came back from the gym with a rather shocked look on her face.

“Stanley,” she nudged me, “Did you know Viktoriya was bisexual?”

“Uh, maybe,” I hesitated briefly, “I think she told me before. Why? What’d she do now?”

“Because,” Jamie whispered, “I think she just made a pass at me in the gym.”

“If she makes you uncomfortable,” I patted her hand, “Then tell her off.”

“Could you come with me?” she pulled me along, “She’d listen to you.”

So we both went to Viktoriya’s an hour later and tried that. The next thing I knew, I was sandwiched between a nude, undulating Viktoriya and a nude, undulating Jamie as their bodies shuddered to their repsective orgasms. Apparently, Viktoriya and I were able to trigger a localized psychic event ourselves. It was pretty cool.

While Viktoriya’s baby was in the same room, his mind was still thankfully too undeveloped to be affected by a general psychic event —only a focused effort would’ve affected him (later on, as I grew more adept at managing such unexpected mental reactions when I kissed Viktoriya or Melanie, I always made it a rule to have our children someplace else—next room, another unit, at a friend’s house, etc.—when I was intimate with one of their mothers; I didn’t want to scar them for life). When we left, Jamie was still in a mild state of shock.

“I’d never thought that’d happen!” the Asian beauty confessed sheepishly.

“Me neither,” I put my palm against her ass. Jamie kept it there as we walked together.

‘See Stanislav?’ Viktoriya gloated through thought-speak. ‘Told you it’d be fun!’

‘Ah-ha.’ I thought back. ‘But I can still walk.’

‘Braggart.’ Through mind-sight I watched Viktoriya pick-up her baby to nurse him. ‘Next time, I’ll fuck you into a cripple.’

‘Now who’s bragging?’ I felt giddy knowing my dusky Russian was feeling like herself again. The doom and gloom she had felt weeks earlier in New York had vanished.

Jamie was ultimately more than happy to spend time with her daughter Jillian, with Melanie, or with me. Her CS/IT (computer science information technology) studies had been coming along great and she was rapidly getting the hang of things. Jamie also wasn’t idle; she was searching for entry level jobs at the college as she completed her studies.

Shawn in the meantime, was shy simply because she wasn’t as attractive as the others. She was a little on the pudgy side (although she could probably beat someone to death with those H-cup tits of hers) and a bit clumsy (except when playing the flute, which she loved). However, she possessed a sharp mind where it counted.

And it was Shawn’s sharp mind that got the attention of Architectural Digest (a well-known magazine in our business), Architectural Record (our professional journal), Scientific American (about inventors and inventions), and Popular Science (a science and technology periodical).

This was exciting news (for us designers at least). Shawn’s solar wall design and drainage system (with Jules’s assistance) for the rooftop garden got noticed by a busy-body at the fabrication yard and he made some calls. Since I had used our 43rd Avenue address for the invoice, I was more than surprised that several official looking letters were addressed to a Miss Shawn Ellen Horten.

“Hey muffin,” I called her late one night (early afternoon for her), “Did you know Architectural Digest, the Record, and some other magazines want to interview you?”

“Interview me?” Shawn gasped. “Really? You’re not pranking me are you Stanley? I’m too old for that now.”

“Sure you are,” I laughed. “Just like you’re too old to enjoy pumpkin gelatin and sweet milk.”

“Lucky guess Stanley,” she breathed into the phone, “How’d you know I was havin’ that?”

Because I can spy through your mind, I thought.

Instead, I chuckled and said aloud, “Because you have such a sweet tooth, cutie pie.”

Shawn giggled and I pictured her plump body jiggling cutely as she did. We discussed when she could come back without jeopardizing her graduate studies in Tokyo.

From the work schedule, Gracia (our interior designer) was about to make-over the place by the end of summer. We figured that would be the best time to talk to the Digest (which was more of a fashion showcase than an actual journal) whereas we wanted to prove the structural elements of the girdle-wall and drainage systems to the Record.

Since the the Record was a professional journal, Shawn’s article would have to be reviewed and approved by a panel of three other licensed and practicing architects or engineers; she already had enough to do at the Tokyo Institute of Technology without doing more work.

So, it was up to Jules (our structural engineer guy) and me to test the girdle-wall and saw to it that the drainage system on the rooftop worked. Run-off water (from the roof and rain and the building’s showers) was to be collected and recycled back into garden gray water. But they’d also be funneled through part of the solar wall to collect heat; the water could be used to insulate the house in summer (water is a great heat sink) and to keep the plants warm at night as heated gray water.

Because of the building’s steel framework (the contractors bitched about that) could bear a greater load, I was able to build a small (light wood frame) pavilion in the midst of the garden and used soft mats (from recycled tire rubber) to protect the roof from foot traffic. Overall, the roof of the building could bear a great deal of weight—more than fifteen times the “standard” amount. Jules (like all structural engineers) erred on the side of caution.

It was all good. The only interruptions (aside from work) were from the occasional agency calls, Rachelle’s temporary move into my unit at 43rd Avenue (until her unit was finished by Gracia), Melanie’s new job as an apprentice chef at the Pacific Coast Club of San Francisco, Janet going back to work and bitching (to me, who else?) about leaving Mikey with my parents or her parents (everyone took turns), and Viktoriya giving birth to Milhail.

For a time, I shuttled back and forth from three places: Jamie’s rented apartment (so I could check on both mother and daughter until their lease expired and their unit was ready), my old room (to be with Janet and Mikey), and my new building (Rachelle and Viktoriya).

Thus, I was extremely grateful I was at 43rd Avenue when Viktoriya’s water broke. Rachelle helped me drive her to the hospital, where I expected her to be in labor for just a little bit, but Viktoriya wouldn’t stand for it. I broke into a nervous sweat when some parked cars outside started up their alarms—my Baltic siren was lashing out with her telekinesis.

I finally helped her focus and form a gentle bubble over the baby and eased him out. Milhail (essentially ‘Michael’ in Rumanian) popped out with such ease that Viktoriya’s discomfort gave way to a sudden relieved grunt. She looked at me in surprise and asked aloud if “it” was out. I grinned and handed her the wailing infant so he could nurse. Mother and child stayed at the hospital just for a day (observation) before Viktoriya insisted on going home.

‘Maybe that old sow Janna still has milk.’ Viktoriya brought up some of her old barbs as I drove mother and child home.

‘Now Vika.’ I scolded her. ‘You nurse him. I think it’ll be best.’

‘Who are you to say!?’ She thought-back. ‘I need a wet-nurse or baby formula otherwise he’ll chew my nips off! Or do you not care about me you heartless beast?’

Oh boy, I thought. Thankfully, I had some help on hand. Despite being saddled with work and Mikey, Janet made herself useful by going to Viktoriya’s unit at 43rd Avenue to help out. I felt mild panic when Janet moved into her new place on 43rd Avenue.

By now, my parents were very curious about my comings and goings. They were suspicious how I could get that place at all; however, my worries were more about how’d my parents would react to Viktoriya’s son. I was sure they’d hit the roof if they visited Janet at the new place and found Viktoriya bouncing Milhail on her knee— and despite his Eurasian features, the little infant was unmistakably mine.

“You mean they’d blow their top like me?” Janet gave me a sour look. “It’s not personal or unseemly. Viktoriya’s the perfect solution. She’s home all the time and I’m sure she can take care of Mikey.”

“So trusting all of a sudden,” I gave her a nervous laugh. “Should I be worried you’re cooking something up?”

Janet sniffed and mumbled something under her breath. I caught the tail end of it when I pounced her fleeing thoughts.

“What was that?” I prodded her.

“I said,” Janet pursed her lips, “That you marrying the six of us could be the best thing to happen to me.”

Six? I wanted to hug her. Finally, Janet acknowledged Rachelle’s existence, although I sensed she didn’t like it. I held my breath and eagerly awaited her answer.

“You look like you’re about to have a heart attack Stanley,” Janet eyed me sternly. “What’s the matter? Don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you,” I grinned stupidly as she picked up Mikey and swaddled him in a warm cloth blanket.

“Don’t patronize,” my First growled, “I’m just saying you set up a network of moms for me. I don’t have to do it.”

She eyed me warily as I automatically checked the baby’s tote and made sure everything Janet needed was in there: bottle, formula, wet wipes, powder, diapers—

“You planned this didn’t you?” Janet said suddenly.

“What?” I was so distracted, I looked at her surprised.

“I said, ‘You planned this’,” Janet repeated and sighed. “Damn. I can’t believe I’m a bloody Mormon wife.”

I skimmed her mind and relaxed. It was just my First being sarcastic and bitchy.

“That’s right,” I gave her ass a good slap, “I was twelve and knew I was going to marry a half-dozen brood-mares in ten odd years. Sire a schoolbus full of kids too.”

“God you’re awful,” Janet made a face, “I wasn’t making a joke. I was serious. I can’t believe Melanie sweet talked me twice into going along this shit.”

“So you think it’s a plot now?” I teased her, “You’d also better watch that mouth of yours. Gao-wai-xi-di-jaeilui*.” [* Cantonese: You’ll teach the children bad behavior.]

“Don’t be a wise-ass mister,” Janet glanced at Mikey then at me, “How can I not be suspicious?”

“You don’t look the type,” I wanted to laugh but her glare hardly induced laughter.

“Melanie’s always on your side,” Janet went on, “And you’re always so in-sync with Viktoriya, it’s like you two plan everything ahead of time and act out a script.”

My First was wandering into a dangerous topic, so I steered the conversation away as casually as I could.

“Do you feel like a second-rate woman, honey?” I asked her.

“Try fourth-rate,” Janet replied angrily. “You’ve been fawning over Shawn Ellen a lot lately.”

“Hey now,” I held my wife and son close, “I don’t play favorites. If you want me to spend more time with you, I’ll try. I just have plenty of ying-chou*.” [* Cantonese: social/family obligation]

“Ying-dou-li-yeem-a*!” she snorted but rested her head against me in resignation. [* Cantonese: (no direct translation) Equivalent of ‘Oblige your obligations until you’re shit-tired of ‘em’.]

“Thanks for the support Ling-Ling*,” I said with sarcasm. [* Cantonese: As mentioned prior, depending on the syllables of a girl’s Chinese name, repeating the last one was a diminutive nickname in some cases.]

“I hope Michael never inherits your charm,” my First huffed, “I can’t imagine what kinda crap that’s going to put me through.”

“So you’ll be a grandmother several times over,” I winked and patted her ass, “More diapers and burping for you.”

“You obnoxious dick,” Janet bit my cheek playfully before we headed over to Viktoriya’s place.

INTERLUDE—REMEMBERANCES OF THINGS PAST

Janet was right up to a certain point: I was a dick. I was also sarcastic, selfish, sleazy, and a little sensitive when it came to certain things, but I knew where to draw the line. Not fucking my newly dead best friend’s wife would be one of those things I never did.

Faraz’s widow Ghandia was certainly vulnerable, but I didn’t do a damn thing about it. As much fun as it would’ve been to capitalize on her vulnerability and bang the crap out of her, I felt I had already used up all of the leniency Janet had. I wasn’t going to push it.

Besides, she was my best friend’s wife. After helping Ghandia move to a more affordable place in Brooklyn, she and I kept in touch through e-mail and traditional Christmas cards. Faraz’s widow eventually remarried, but it took her a little while to get her life back together.

While I was in New York, I also dropped by Viktoriya’s apartment, cleaned it out for the next tenant, and filed a change of address form. Having given birth to Milhail, Viktoriya was going to stay in San Francisco for a little while. Secretly, I was elated. Finally, we were going to be together.

All that elation evaporated though, when I called on my Uncle William and Aunt Regina—Aurora’s parents—in Newark to offer my belated condolences. My dear Lady Wu certainly did a swell job keeping my mother in the dark about where I was on September 11 and the few days afterwards. Before I left, Aunt Regina gave me a small shoebox with Aurora’s things.

“Are you sure you want me to have this?” I asked.

“Yes, certainly,” my aunt nodded, “She had some things she only meant for you.”

“Oh,” I took the box gingerly as if any movement would break it, “Well, I don’t know what to say.”

“Just don’t forget her,” she said quietly. “She was quite fond of you.”

Aunt Regina was a northerner (buk-fong-yun). She spoke both Shanghainese as well as Cantonese with equal aplomb but opted for English most of the time. I bade my aunt and uncle goodbye and headed for the airport. With all the extra security measures in place, I was tempted to toss the box away. Ultimately, I was glad I didn’t.

When I arrived home, I checked Aurora’s shoebox. It was filled with a few sealed letters addressed (but never mailed) to me at my old address, as well as a few photographs of me and her on the beach in Kowloon. One unmarked letter had only a single photograph in it but no letter.

Curious, I checked it more closely and found the photo was the one of her topless and staring serenly at the camera with her dark doe-eyes. Aurora’s face appeared so calm and content, it was as if she knew right then and there what she wanted—and who she wanted to be with.

Well, it wouldn’t do to have the girls find this, I thought. I was about to shred it when I flipped the photo over. There was writing on the back (dated 2001 August 20)

DEAREST BIEU-GUO:

I FEEL SO DUMB WRITING THESE THINGS WHEN I COULD JUST E-MAIL YOU. BUT I CAN’T. I DON’T EVEN HAVE THE COURAGE TO MAIL THEM.

I’M COMING TO VISIT YOU SOON. I’M DONE WITH SCHOOL AND I WANT TO SEE YOU. I’VE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!!

I LOOKED INTO CONSANGUINITY LAWS AND I THINK WE HAVE A CHANCE. I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE STILL SEEING HER, I’LL BE CONTENT IF YOU JUST SAY, “YES” AND LET ME STAY.

IF I CAN’T BE YOUR WIFE, THEN I’LL BE YOUR MISTRESS.

YOUR BIEU-MUI ALWAYS, AURORA LANG

Foolish girl, I thought sadly. Of course, she only knew I was seeing “someone”. Still, it was her unrequited love that touched me. I had no intention of regarding Aurora as anyone except my cousin. That one torrid summer aside, I felt we didn’t click much.

It still wore on me when I realized Aurora didn’t have a clube of my intentions. She died before she could plead her case to me. I didn’t realize it, but I was crying. Her tragic death was having an effect on me—or perhaps it was the psychic backlash Cristobel mentioned.

I roused myself and shook off the feeling of gloom. I cleaned my hands and face then stared at the box of memories sitting on the table.

No, I thought. It wouldn’t do to have the girls find this. But I didn’t want to throw it out. So, I made arrangements.

I knew a girl at Carter Reprographics who specialized in making etchings onto metal. She made a copy of Aurora’s classic beach bunny pose on a small metal tin. The tin was large enough to hold all of Aurora’s memories of me. I layered the inside with felt and charcoal and took the whole package to the San Francisco Colombarium.

There, I bought a small cubby in a small shaded corner of the place, and arranged for it to be upkept for as long as I could afford it.

Visitors who pass by now see a young skinny Chinese beauty in a string bikini etched on the lid of a metal box. A small white card with clean black lettering sat by it, reading: AURORA LANG, B: 1979 JULY 9, D: 2001 SEPT 11, IN MY MEMORY YOU LIVE. Every year since, I left a white rose at her alcove.

Aurora’s shrine became an annual fixation for me. I never attented the big organized hate-rallies at (what was to be termed) “ground zero”, the Pentagon, or even the field in Pennsylvania where my cousin’s plane crashed. It wasn’t her decision anyway, to die in an empty field in the middle of nowhere. A group of dumb fuck ‘normals’ had forced her fate on her, and I seethed over that feeling of powerlessness.

So, I came to the Colombarium alone to grieve alone. From there on out, I would take no chances when it came to the safety of my family. I made up my mind that the world around the invisible empire would never impinge on it or those under its protection ever again. Those who did found themselves living on borrowed time.

MELANIE’S MOMMY MANIA

By the start of 2003, the girls more or less understood my apprehension about the up and coming wedding. Janet tried to relieve my tension by joking it was a “mass marriage” (like that episode of The Simpons joining the Movementarian cult) but that hardly helped. Janet gave up after a few tries—she wasn’t as humorous as she wanted.

I couldn’t blame her because she was also under considerable stress as well. My First was in the midst of buying her first home. With the salary she was pulling down (we both earned nearly a quarter million in combined income at this point) she was itching to dump it into a mortgage so she’d have some equity instead of sending it to the tax collector.

Interestingly, Janet managed to buy the two-story house just right next door the site on 43rd. Her mortgage wasn’t as much as mine, but it still stung. It was also a bit odd; Janet’s ready to live-in house stood right next to my not-yet ready eco-condo. One day, as we were taking baby Mikey back in the stroller, the discrepancy in building heights caught her eye.

She leaned into my ear and whispered, “Golly Stanley, it’s like my house is kneeling down to give your house a blowjob.”

“Oh grow up,” I shot her a mean glance.

Janet giggled like a goofy girl and kissed me. It was just her weird sense of esoteric humor, and I loved her more for it. Of course, there were other problems besides new property.

Way back at the start of 2000, Janet and I had confronted my parents about Melanie—with spectacularly bad results. They hadn’t brought it up when my First and I legally “hitched” but I sensed they were both anxious and nervous as Melanie began officially hanging around me more and more.

Yu-Ching had been working at the Pacific Coast Club as a part-time apprentice chef (mostly on Fridays and weekends) so she wouldn’t be home Friday and Saturday nights (and Sunday afternoons). She hated it, but understood she had to earn her keep. Still, it upset the schedule the two of us had set since we were children (grocery shopping on the weekends).

“I’m going to open my own restaurant one day,” Melanie came home late one Sunday evening.

She threw her arms around me as soon as she got through the door to my new place (second floor west). I was holding little Milhail in one hand while his older half-brother Mikey rolled happily on a yoga mat Jamie had given me. Having experience with Jillian, she had some great ideas (like putting the babies on clean floor so they don’t fall off beds and stuff).

Janet was working on a new ADA (American Disabilities Act) case and needed her sleep. Apparently, so did Viktoriya. As tough as she thought she was, her new son had pretty much obliterated her with his constant demands.

‘Here. Take him.’ Viktoriya thought-spoke curtly to me and gladly passed me baby Milhail before she wobbled downstairs to her own unit (right underneath mine) for some much needed rest.

For the next few minutes, I congratulated my second son for doing in a few months what it took me years to do: break Viktoriya’s will to do anything except have a quiet night at home.

‘Both of you are holy terrors.’ I chuckled as the little infant continued to wail.

‘Shut ... up ... Stanislav.’ Viktoriya picked up my thoughts and slapped me one last mental barb before she fell asleep.

Now that Milhail was finally quiet, I didn’t want to rouse him again so I spoke in hushed tones.

“Oh really?” I whispered to Melanie, “You do that and you’ll be out every night keeping ingredients ready for your patrons.”

Little Chen knitted her brow then wrinkled her nose at me.

“You’re such a spoil-sport,” her round dark eyes fell on baby Mikey who began stumbling towards her, “Li-gum-man-diem-a-xiao-di-di*?” [* Cantonese: How are you tonight little boy?]

Mikey babbled his baby-words happily as his soon-to-be stepmother picked him up. Actually, I hadn’t even figured how that would work. When I poured over the materials I had on polygamous families, I found I only had the Mormon model to go on—“The Golden Lotus” and “Tales of Genji” dealt little with the modern family.

Given how I regarded all Western religion to be bunk, I pretty much disregarded the Mormon model. I wanted us to find our own way. The term “sister-wife” was definitely creepy and didn’t sit well with anyone at all.

“Why don’t you wash up,” I said to Melanie, “Then you can play with him until he tires or you do.”

“Bet he’ll be asleep before me!” she grinned and handed Michael to me.

She washed and rinsed her hands then quickly took the tot off my hands. We both sat down on the sofa-bed in the living room and fawned over the two kids.

Unlike my old room, my new place was slightly larger. It was arranged similarly to the other seven units: a full-sized kitchen, a full bathroom (toilet, sink, and shower in a tub) with a small laundry room next to it, a “living” room that doubled as the dining area (merged organically with the kitchen), and two small bedrooms with as many storage closets as I could practically add.

Depending on the girl I asked, I got different opinions: Janet thought it was homely and small; in that, Rachelle shared her opinion. That made sense since they were both accustomed to living in houses. Jamie thought it was an improvement and loved it.

My leggy Asian beauty’s only other concern was where to stuff the second kid we were planning on. I raised my brow at this since her unit was the one with the fireman-stripper pole in the corner of the living room (Jamie loved doing her version of the pole-lympics).

“Don’t gimme that,” Jamie smiled saucily, “It keeps this—” she rubbed her ass against me “—nice and firm.”

Viktoriya was fine with it as well—and wondered if she could install one as well (she eventually did settle on a different design that didn’t run all the way to the ceiling). My Russian bride-to-be liked her room in San Francisco, and only complained about the overcast weather and relative quiet compared to the bustle of the Big Apple.

Well, her unit was certainly larger than her old place in Brooklyn. Viktoriya also asked for full length mirrors, a rail, and a specially prepared floor for her to practice dancing as well as flexing and stretching.

‘I could give lessons here if you didn’t mind kisa.’ She thought-spoke the day after the workmen finished her place.

‘Careful there sweetie.’ I cautioned her. ‘Everyone’s doors are locked but strangers can go down into the garage and do who knows what mischief.’

‘It’s just a thought.’ Viktoriya turned around, her face full of displeasure.

‘If you want to do that.’ I thought-spoke earnestly. ‘I’ll just get you a studio in the city and you can do teach there.’

‘Get me a studio?’ She knitted her brow and playfully pulled me towards her with telekinesis. ‘So you’re a millionaire now?’

“It’s just a thought,” I grinned.

Hiding my thoughts, I kissed her and that was the end of that (for now). Only Melanie and Shawn had no opinions (Shawn had only seen what Gracia had done to her unit via pictures and second-hand accounts).

Melanie was a strange little creature. Aside from making the fewest number of demands on me (aside from fatherhood), she had a wide range of interests and pursued everything with a sincere passion as only a precocious child would. She’d taken up cooking because she found it was something that we’d shared when we were children. Seeing my fascination with Shawn’s flute playing, Yu-Ching learned the pei-pa (Chinese lute) as well as the Chinese zither on the side while she attended City College and became quite good with it.

Apart from Janet, Melanie was also the only one of us who could write calligraphy at a collegiate level. I always marvelled at her skill with the brush. One figured that with such an interest in the old and traditional that Little Chen would be a neo-Luddite or something, but one couldn’t be further from the truth.

Melanie knew a lot more about computers and the internet than most of us; only Jamie could equal her once she finished her degree a few years later. My little darling also constantly pushed boundaries— she was part of the Green Party until they did something that irked her (I forget what exactly) then she became a Liberatarian.

Yu-Ching even played videogames (something only Andrew was semi-interested in; both he and I pretty much stopped once we grew older). She bought an Xbox after Halo came out and invite some of classmates (and friends of friends) to her place for LAN’ed matches. Luckily, Rachelle and Jamie had nothing to complain: I knew the sound proofing I installed was worth it.

My electric bill though—that was another story. It nearly matched my water bill. I never knew the utility company started billing me at business rates once my kilowatt hours went over a certain limit. Even with the environmentally friendly LED lights, appliances, and Shawn’s solar wall, Melanie’s Halo parties racked up monthly electrical bills that ran in the triple digits. That was Yu-Ching just being herself and I loved her for it.

“What’s daddy smiling about?”

I blinked and glanced at Melanie, who was holding Mikey up and pointing him at me. I was so lost in thought again, I wasn’t paying attention to reality.

“C’mon Mikey,” Melanie shook him gently, “Say ba-ba. Baa-baa.”

My first born son merely grinned and drooled on her hand. Michael wasn’t retarded, but he was a quiet sort of kid. Melanie giggled and kissed him on his chubby cheeks. Seeing her so content and in-tune with an infant in her arms spooked me. Chen Yu-Ching was just herself a child when I first met her so many years ago.

Was it so long ago? I did a quick mental calculation. It was early 2003 now.

Wow, I thought. Going on twelve years. And Janet? Going on sixteen years. That was longer than some marriages.

“Yoo-hoo, Stanley?” Melanie waggled my son in front of me like a maracas. “I think Mikey needs a change.”

“Don’t you know how to do that?” I jutted my chin at the stack of disposable diapers on the table.

“Fine,” she sighed and got up.

While it would’ve been more responsible for us to use cloth diapers, the amount of energy and water used to clean and then dry them would’ve nullified the benefits of the switch. The other thing about cloth diapers was that they leaked as they had no elastic band around the tot’s thighs. But even disposable diapers needed to be used properly, or you’d have a disaster.

That’s precisely what happened to my dusky Russkie that one time: Viktoriya had offered to take care of Michael and Milhail while Janet was at work. Still new to motherhood, she had wrapped Michael so loosely that the toddler began dropping little brown nuggets all over her condo. I was wondering why there were M&M’s all over the place until I bent down to get a closer look. Luckily, baby Mikey was content to play in front of the full-length mirrors in the living room (and the floor was hardwood) so clean up was quick. Perhaps more fortunately, none of us owned pets—it would’ve added greatly to the mess.

I watched Melanie as she took out Mikey’s old diaper and cleaned his bottom. I admired her slender fingers as she skillfully threaded a new diaper around the toddler.

“There,” Melanie tapped the tape on his diaper, “Feel better now?”

Mikey waved his stubby little arms and legs and tried to sit up. Yu-Ching laughed and kissed his exposed belly. We carried the two kids into their cribs and placed them face up. Milhail, being only a few months old, was now quiet and sleeping. He was in a small sleeping suit that Mikey had used just a year ago. I checked the cribs for loose objects, strings, cords, or small bits of something they’d try to eat (kids put crap in their mouths like a drug addict would with pills).

I arranged the hush-puppies around the base of Mikey’s crib (but not with Milhail because he wasn’t yet strong enough to push anything away from his mouth and nose) and settled down for the night. Despite having her own unit upstairs, she’d drop by my place to visit like if I was still living in my old room. I found Melanie had beaten me to the shower.

Her petite form was more or less “set” now. At 21, Yu-Ching would grow maybe an inch or so more to her current height of 5’-2/3” (approximately 157 cm). Of my six lovely treasures, she was the shortest, followed by Shawn and Janet (both 5’-5/6” or about 166 cm). Next came Viktoriya and Jamie (about the same height at 5’-6/7” or 168 cm). Rachelle was the tallest (she was as tall as me, and I was 5’-8/9”).

Seeing Melanie in her naked glory evoked some odd memories for me. She reminded me of my late cousin. I had watched Aurora shower in Shek-Kou years ago. When the storm let up, our bodies were sticky with sweat and grimy from our sexual adventures. Aurora hopped into the shower with me. Her long black hair hung down below her waist as we washed and explored the limits of our young bodies. Seeing Melanie’s long dark locks now, I was filled with a pang of remorse. Would it have been better had I not bedded Aurora?

“Li-mong-meh-yeh-a*?” Yu-Ching gazed at me. [* Cantonese: What the heck are you staring at? (in this context)]

We had both divested our clothing into the hamper and were ready for a bathe.

“You know this is why you have your own place right?” I chided her and began filling the tub.

“But this is more fun,” Melanie wrapped her long lustrous hair into a bun and snapped a large shower cap over it.

The “tankless water heaters” I specifically ordered were electronically controlled and heated the cold water tap quickly. Unlike the ones used in Hong Kong, these were electric heaters (not natural gas). I immersed myself into the tub, to be followed by Melanie. Her sack of hair whapped my face a few times when she turned her head.

“I’m sorry,” Melanie seemed unhappy. “Maybe I should cut this short. It’s starting become a hassle.”

“Well not too short,” I brushed my fingertips against her lithe young body. “I like it.”

“You do?” she was kneeling between my legs, working up a lather with a bar of soap.

“You bet baby girl,” I leaned close and kissed a spot not yet covered in bubbles or foam.

Melanie giggled as she turned around so I could wash her back. I ran my fingers down her sides, feeling her breasts, and rubbing her shoulders and sides.

“Oh Stanley,” she sighed, “Don’t tease me like that. It’s really late!”

“So?” I rinsed off her smooth flawless back with a wet sponge and kissed the base of her neck.

Melanie shivered and leaned back into my arms.

“You’re so naughty,” she scratched my arm gently, “Seducing me when I was so young.”

“I’m just a dirty old man,” I pinched her tender nipples softly.

My little darling gasped and kissed the bottom of my cheek as I rinsed off the rest of her body. She wriggled free and ushered me around.

“Deng-wo-xie-ley-a*,” she said. [* Cantonese: Lemme wash you.]

I groaned as I felt her soft hands on my back and sides. Melanie lathered then washed me off. As I felt her press her small breasts against my back, she reached around and grabbed my stiff cock.

“Ha-hah,” Melanie chuckled, “Now I got you just like Janet jie-jie.”

I chuckled. Years before, I had told Yu-Ching how Janet had jumped me in such a fashion. It was so long time ago, it was mildly surprising that she suddenly sprung it on me again. Neither of us said anything but Melanie’s thumb began pressing down on the head of my penis, eliciting a delighted gasp from me.

She bit my sides gently as she began massaging my cock and nipples. Having made love so many, many times, Melanie was as seasoned as any one of us. She was just a little more perverted when things got crazy.

“I wanna see it,” she whispered. “Cum in the bath water Stanley.”

“Hell no,” I took her hands gently and turned around. “I got a better idea.”

Melanie complained only with a squeal as I hauled her out of the water. I grabbed two large towels and took us to the bedroom. Once there, we towelled ourselves dry.

“Lei-xiang-deem-a*?” she asked coyly. [* Cantonese: What are you going to do?]

“What do you think?” I tickled her twat and kissed her.

“O—wow—o—god—o—fuck,” Melanie gripped my erect dong as I held her legs apart.

She hissed with pleasure as she guided me slowly into her warm, waiting cunt. Melanie was a little dry, but that soon proved to be moot as I formed a gentle little force of telekinesis and “rolled” her Grafenberg spot. Melanie cried softly as her pussy grew moist and loosened up. Her tight college girl cunt sucked my cock in with a wet sucking sound. Melanie stared at me with wide knowing eyes. I was fucking her raw.

No saran wrap. No condoms. No pills. No planning. My little darling quickly realized what that could mean.

“Oh yes,” she whispered with joy, “Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!”

I surrendered to her wicked wiles and wrecked that tiny tight ass of hers. She kissed my cheeks and tips of my ears as I buried myself into her eager little body.

“Yea—fuck—yea-fuck,” Melanie was panting endlessly in my ear.

She took a cue from Viktoriya and raked my back with her stubby nails. I wasn’t expecting it, but the sudden pain didn’t distract me —it only made me hornier. Melanie emitted a muffled squeal as I redoubled my efforts. I pounded her so roughly, the bed began to shake. Her baby chute contracted and quivered as she came in a heated rush.

“MWUAHH!!” she cried softly.

Melanie’s whole body tightened and tensed as she orgasmed; her empathy pulled me along easily. I dumped the contents from my balls right into her without complaint.

“Ohh! Oh!! Ooogh!!” she shook with pleasure as I ground my hips against hers. “That felt so good Stanley. So good! I love you!!”

“Hah,” I kissed her neck content, “That’s going to be a problem if you wind up scoring.”

“Why?” Melanie asked wide-eyed, “I’ve been ready for like— forever!”

“Sweetie, you’re only 21,” I patted her thigh gently, “You’re still not settled into that job of yours yet.”

“Don’t worry,” she stroked my neck, “I’m fine with being a housewife.”

“Now don’t be like that,” I propped myself up to avoid crushing her, “You’ll make a great chef.”

“Stanley Wei-Keung Chen,” Melanie dared call me by my full name, “Xi-doy ngtong-le*. I can do a lot of things online and have children. Don’t be such a lao-bing*.” [* Cantonese: Times have changed. / Old coot.]

“Ni-hen-quai-ani*,” I pinched her cheeks and she laughed. [* Mandarin: You’re so naughty.]

“Li-gei-xsi-hauk-t’suo-quok-yu-a*?” Melanie poked me in the stomach. [* Cantonese: When’d you learn to speak Mandarin?]

“It’s a secret,” I smiled.

Actually, I hadn’t done much at all. If an observant Cantonese speaker heard enough Mandarin, he or she could pick it up easily. Besides, slamming little Melanie now was like boning my late half-Mandarin cousin, only Yu-Ching was so much more sweeter.

Melanie was soon snoozing nude under the covers. I got up, dressed, and headed back outside to the living room where the kids were. I crashed on the sofa-bed once I had closed the door to the bedroom. It didn’t last long though. First one, then the other tot roused me with their agitated crying. I felt pretty dead the next day.

Ah, the joys of family, I thought sourly.

MARRIAGE AND DISHARMONY

Thankfully, Melanie didn’t get pregnant. It was kind of a win-lose situation for her. It meant she was still ready for the wedding, but it also meant she went into overdrive trying to fuck my brains out during the whole time. I played at being asleep or just plain busy whe Yu-Ching made passes at me. I suppose Melanie’s resemblance to Aurora was just dead-on from a few angles, and being in Hong Kong wasn’t helping.

As for why were we there in Hong Kong? For the wedding of course. I had forgotten that some of my grandparents were still alive in the former British colony (at least on my mother’s side). Since they wanted to see me get married, I obliged them—six fucking times.

The seven of us couldn’t help but arouse suspicion if the ceremony was held in the United States, so we all agreed on a (what we thought) clever way of doing things: we’d cement the whole thing in a traditional Chinese wedding feast. But to put on the show six times was excessive! We had to do it once for each girl while the other five would sit in as “maids of honor” (all whom I’ve no doubt dishonored— sometimes multiple times and for hours on end—huh-uhu-huu) or on the side-lines as mystery guests.

As for the presence of the children—we had to simply make do. Michael was nearly a year and a half old. He ran around and threw tantrums (he was still teething) but Janet and I kept him on a short leash. Milhail celebrated his first birthday just before leaving the country.

Unsurprisingly, Viktoriya was more anxious than I about the trip; we didn’t want to leave little Milhail, but the risk of S.A.R.s (chicken flu) loomed over the whole trip. We kept our noses and our rooms clean. My Russian bride splurged a little for freshly steam-cleaned towels, and the hotel staff was happy to olige.

Jillian was the one who was most excited (apart from me). Eight years old, curious, and having lived a sheltered life in Las Vegas (Jamie never showed her the glitzy parts), my step-daughter put as much of a demand on my time as any of the brides. Malls weren’t her thing, so I scheduled a few half-days at Ocean Park between festivities. Janet and Viktoriya didn’t mind either as Mikey and Milhail appeared to have thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

Of course, that was just the logistics with the girls and the kids. Things were trickier with the in-laws. Aside from getting my side of the family to go along with it, we were also flying each of the girls’ families out (their friends came at their own expense). We then had to trick them into thinking it’s just that girl I was wedding that day.

When my grandparents learned about my plans, they expressed rude shock such a practice was still legal today (it wasn’t under the new laws of Hong Kong S.A.R.). Still, they were supportive and gave me the final bits of advice and methods I needed to make everything come together. To them, I am extremely grateful for their wisdom. But despite having almost all our bases covered, Andrew was still had his doubts about the whole affair.

“You still think you can pull this off?” he asked me.

“Little too late for that now isn’t it?” I gave him a sideways glance and grinned, “You’re MC-ing the final act in about a minute.”

“Yeah that’s great,” Andrew stretched a bit, “I’m beat.”

“Me too. I’m damn glad this is the last one,” I said, “Shawn’s about ready to faint. I can’t believe she drew the longest straw.”

“She’s a funny one. I can see why Yu-Ching likes her so much,” he laughed, “Mom and dad are still talking smack though. They can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Wanna trade?” I asked him in a jest, “You deal with that six-pack of harpies, and I’ll deal with mom and dad.”

“Hope they don’t hear you say that,” my little brother chuckled, “Sachiko is already a handful when I even glance at other girls—not that you’d made it easy all these years, a-guo*.” [* Cantonese: Big brother; colloquially, it could literally mean “bro” or “brah” in American slang but here it is used with affection and genuine familial respect]

I nodded glumly but grinned inwardly. Sachiko Kosugi was Gracia’s little sister (born 1983, just a half-year younger than Andrew and Melanie). She had shown up when Gracia was consulting with me about the building’s interiors (we were working on the hallways at the time) and Andrew went a-ga-ga over the pretty petite Japanese girl with the ever-so soft voice but spunky manners.

I knew I shouldn’t have intervened, but I felt sorry for my little brother. He wasn’t particularly ugly—in fact, he turned out to be taller and more rugged than I was. However, he was shy. I was partly to blame: my constant womanizing had belittled and overawed him when he was younger. When he’d work up enough nerve to ask a girl out, they’d might go out on a pity date with him but he was clearly too shy to spark that kind of interest in women.

So (in what spare little time I had) I did my best to steer Sachiko into his lap. After a brief mind-scan, I saw the two had something in common: both were studying psychology and human behavior. Well okay, Andrew was studying psychology and Sachiko was into bettering human behavior through bio-chemical psychiatry.

Both were anime-crazy (Sachiko was a cosplayer), so all it took was a little serendipity and help from big brother. I mentally nudged Gracia into a quick double-date (for us, it was business—I didn’t touch Gracia at all) and our two siblings hit it off a few weeks later.

But back to my wedding—er, wedding farce.

All six of the girls knew we couldn’t commit a darn thing to paper, so we had to settle for something earnestly traditional. It was a tradition to orally pledge one’s loyalty to the groom’s and bride’s parents by kneeling and ceremoniously offering a sacred cup of tea.

For the groom, there were two oaths he made: to his bride’s parents, he would promise to take in their daughter and to care for her and the children she’d bear him (equivalent to death ‘til us part); to the groom’s own parents, he’d swear that he would uphold and honor the family name (Cantonese culture is patriarchal), to conduct no disreputable business in its name, and to teach and raise the children from the union to adulthood.

For the bride, she made equivalent oaths: to the bride’s parents, she promised to honor their family by doing nothing dishonorable in her husband’s name or household; she’d share in the hardships of her husband and in return he’d share what joy he would earn; she would also swear filial piety to the husband’s parents, for (in the traditional method) they were now her parents (oiy-gaa-lui).

By now, I had recited my oaths five times before over the course of ten days. There was no question Janet would be first (the other five had drawn straws to see who went next). Shawn flew out to Hong Kong from Tokyo, having gotten a week’s reprieve for the occasion.

In addition to the in-laws, there were also some very close friends and family. Only the closest confidants were let into all six ceremonies though. Ami was one who knew what was going on. She even gave me good advice: don’t neglect any of ‘em or take them for granted. Indeed I wouldn’t, for I was a happy man six times over.

Cristobel was present only for Viktoriya’s ceremony but he pretty much got the gist of it. I was sure he wouldn’t rat us out; besides, that man had secrets of his own, just as Vika and I did. Cristobel understood our need for privacy. He spent much of the time during Viktoriya’s day to thought-speak to both of us.

‘Does that mean you’re not coming back to New York, Vika?’ The handsome young man looked hurt.

‘Stanislav and I discussed it.’ Viktoriya greeted the guests as that day’s bride. ‘I’ll be there just part of the time when Milhail is older. It’ll work out my friend.’

‘Who will I dance with when you’re gone?’ I heard Cristobel lament. ‘Oh but for art my dear!’

‘Why don’t you try that blonde Vika tasted in Rome?’ I suggested.

Viktoriya and Cristobel both scoffed at my ignorance.

‘Freya is a rhythmic gymnast.’ Viktoriya explained. ‘Different from what we do.’

She shot me a brief memory of that lithe lovely blonde contorting her body into vulgar positions to keep a plastic ball adhered to her body.

Ah, I thought. I realized now why my Slavic beauty was so interested in bending Jamie into a pretzel that time they fucked.

‘STANISLAV!!’ I sensed her embarrassment as I broadcast the thought to every sensitive citizen in the room.

Cristobel covered his mouth timidly to hide his laughter as Viktoriya shot a glare back at him then at me.

‘Sorry about that.’ I thought-spoke.

‘Like Janna would say: You better watch it mister!’ Viktoriya smiled like a panther and began sashaying towards my parents with Milhail in one arm.

I grinned nervously despite what I’d done about two months before. My parents had barely let the shock of my words settle in about what I intended to do with my girls—all six of them—before I introduced Milhail by having Viktoriya carry him in.

“Mother Chen. I am Viktoriya. I present your second grandson, Milhail,” Viktoriya said plainly and plopped him into my mother’s shaking arms.

As if to compound the problem, Jamie and Jillian came in, followed by Rachelle (Janet and Melanie were sitting by me, ready to leap to my defence). My parents recognized Rachelle but didn’t know who Jamie was. After some curt explanation, there was a period of awkward silence. My little brother Andrew coughed nervously and apologized to Janet and Rachelle for the crap I’d put them through.

“That’s my brother,” he tried his best to break the silence, “He’s a dick.”

“Hey,” I jabbed a finger at him, “Watch your mouth in front of your niece and nephews.”

Luckily, my mother didn’t faint, but my dad finally had enough that he had to lie down.

“Holy shit dude,” Andrew joked with me later in private, “You pretty much wowed dad with that one.”

All in all, everything went off without much of a hitch (at least on the surface): the six beauties wore a slightly different colored cheong-pao on different days. The bride for that day wore red. The others would have to wear a different color.

Viktoriya grinned mischievously and snapped up six different colors (most of the other girls were fine with two sets—red and sunflower gold) ranging from sky blue to royal purple. Thankfully, all my darlings were informed ahead of time not to choose white (color of mourning).

After Shawn and I ended our six day wedding marathon, she changed back into her gold cheong-pao (as did Viktoriya). We wanted one picture of all of us as equals. None of the waiters or serving girls thought anything was amiss. As we sat, I faintly recalled the dream I had once a long time ago. Back then, only five of the six were there, but I’d grown fond of Jamie and Jillian I’d thought nothing of including them into the gang.

‘Oh Stanislav? Dor-o-goi?’ Viktoriya pricked my mind awake. ‘Just a little longer my love, and you’ll die tonight a happy man.’

‘I don’t aim to do that just yet.’ I thought-spoke. ‘Wait. What’d you mean by that?’

‘There are six of us now kisa.’ Viktoriya’s thoughts were running amok at the possibilities. ‘What do you think we’re going to do?’

I felt a shiver go through me as Viktoriya smiled saucily and leaned innocently against Jamie. I saw Jamie giving me a surprised glance. From the way I grinned, the Asian hottie knew what I was thinking too, and she blushed a deep crimson.

‘Not all at the same time that’s for sure.’ I thought-spoke with sincerity and took my place in the middle of the front row.

‘Why not?!’ Viktoriya sharpened both her gaze and thought-speak at me.

‘For one thing, I’m not twenty any more.’ I went on. ‘I can’t go that many times in one night.’

‘Oh just you wait.’ Viktoriya tickled my mind with old memories. ‘We’ll team up and put you under yet!’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’ I almost growled aloud.

‘Fine then.’ She seemed resigned. ‘I suppose I’ll have to settle with one of the others tonight.’

‘Don’t do anything crazy to scare the children now.’ I reminded her.

‘Of course not! How dare you compare me to you, you vile beast!’ Viktoriya’s thoughts wavered between the silly and the serious. ‘Ravishing poor Melanie while our son was asleep next door. You animal! I should castrate you.’

‘As if you weren’t guilty when you jumped me and Jamie that time.’ I stirred her memory of the menage-a-trois between me, her, and Jamie.

“Yuu-bei! Yut-yee-sam*!” CLICK. We continued our chatter despite the cameras. [* Cantonese: Ready. One-two-three.]

‘You can’t wholly blame me!’ Viktoriya smiled broadly. ‘I never saw you so frisky before or since. Admit it Stanislav, you enjoy watching me while you plow us, you vile old pervert.’

A flurry of flashbulbs gave me a good case of floaters and after-images. I excused myself from the room and headed for the restroom. As I brushed by Viktoriya, I shifted my focus on her sweet ass and telekinetically pinched her bottom.

‘You shameless animal!’ Viktoriya thought-spoke with mischief. ‘You dare call yourself Milhail’s father?!’

She got up and followed me to the bathroom where she jumped me in the stall. We were lucky that no one saw us—I held her up while I was standing in front of the toilet, taking what was probably the longest silent whizz in the establishment’s history. Great wedding, eh?

So it was with some surprise—and trepidation—that I was served papers to appear in court about a year later in mid-2004. Shawn had finished with her studies in Tokyo and she had moved into her (now) finished condo. I had just finished collapsing the last of her moving boxes when the mail came.

“What the hell is this?!” I nearly lost my mind when I read the papers. The Hortens had filed suit and accused me of being a bigamist.

FAMILY FEUD

Janet and I had been careful. The only marriage license that existed was the one she and I got back in 2001. However, that didn’t mean I neglected any of the other women. I kept my promise to them without filing paperwork. I had made promises and I intended to keep them—all of them. So how exactly did Shawn’s parents nab me?

The Hortens (George and Laura) used the very invitations we had foolishly sent out as kindle for the fire. They had contacted the Hollisters and then the Lychenkos (the latter did thought it bizarre a second ceremony was held a year after Milhail’s birth). Thankfully, the Youngs proved impossible to contact because of Jamie’s name change.

All that and a charge that a “suspicious ceremony” was held outside the United States. Of course, it was all bunk. I suppose we could simply deny any of the ceremonies having took place, but that would be perjury.

Janet was worried sick as three year-old Mikey toddled between his five other step-mothers. Established precedent in bigamy cases allowed the the state to take the family’s children away from the parents. That was what everyone was concerned about now—the children.

I pointed that out as not being a possibility. In the case where the father committed statutory rape by wedding (then bedding) teenage brides, the children were often taken into state custody. Well, despite the borderline crap I did when I was younger with Melanie and Shawn (and Janet to me), I had “wedded” women—not young girls.

“That’s bull and you know it,” I glanced briefly at Jamie before turning back to my First, “They can’t do that can they?”

“I don’t know,” Janet was showing again.

We had gone at it soon after the wedding and she got knocked up a second time at the age of 33.

“Maybe we were asking for it,” I wanted to punch myself for being so obvious. The invitations were a paper trail, but they were also part of the cover.

“C’mon sugar,” Rachelle chimed in, her words echoing my thoughts, “It’s crazy anyway. Who saves wedding invitations?”

“A father would for an only child,” Viktoriya held Milhail firmly as he tried to stand on his own.

My black beauty’s eyes flicked towards Shawn.

“Oh honey,” she pursed her lips, “I’m sorry if I sounded mean.”

“That’s okay,” my plump dumpling had said little since the news broke.

The seven of us were in Shawn’s art-modern unit. The furniture was slick, jet smooth and black, and very stylish; exactly as they appeared in that issue of Architectural Digest. The only people there were me, the girls, and the tots. Jillian was at my parents’ place. They had come to accept her as their own granddaughter, even though it took a while.

The only children there—Michael and Milhail—didn’t understand a word that was said, which was all the better. They would’ve been scared shitless that their mothers were now considered criminals, and they could be forcibly taken away to foster homes.

“What now?” Jamie wrung her hands nervously, “Is there an out? I don’t want to lose the children Stanley!”

I could see the Asian beauty was a nervous wreck. Jamie was about as advanced in her pregnancy as Janet. I had nailed the two of them within the span of a week. Apparently, I was a busy lad during our trip to Oahu.

“Not so fast, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Janet tried to keep calm despite our predicament. “They might have something worse; so far the invitations can be taken as fakes or a fabrication.”

“But they have our names on them,” Jamie countered, “And dates too.”

“Don’t forget there were lots of photos,” Melanie said glumly and hugged little Mikey, “They’re going to use that against us aren’t they?”

“Only if they subpoena them,” Janet explained, “And that’ll probably happen only in a criminal case—no one’s seen them right?”

“They’re on SD cards,” Melanie looked between her and me, “I hadn’t printed them yet.”

“Well,” I scratched my head, “I’ll get some new cards and we’ll hide the old ones.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Janet put her hands over her ears, “All I know is that for a civil suit, they’d have to dig through a lot of trash with private detectives and not count on the police for a search.”

“Oh god,” Jamie buried her face in her hands, “This is crazy. We shouldn’t have—”

“Have confidence zaichik,” Viktoriya interjected, “Stanislav and Janna will think of something.”

“You sound confident,” Rachelle passed her glance over Janet as she looked at Viktoriya and me, “How can you be sure?”

I hazarded a guess that my Cossack cutie was sure I’d try my persuasion.

‘Of course yes!’ My dusky Russkie thought-spoke an affirmative. ‘Now would be a good time as any. But where do we start Stanislav?’

My jaw tightened. I suppose I’d have to do this the empire’s way. I began parsing the details and organizing it in my mind as the others talked.

“Viktoriya’s likely right,” Janet was thoughtful, “I don’t think it’ll hold up in criminal court unless there’s another marriage license somewhere. An invitation isn’t a legal document. Heck, it could even be forged.”

Viktoriya and I conferred quickly and made sure our own tracks were covered. The sham marriage in Indiana was done with a “persuaded” magistrate and a fake license. I paid the clerk in cash but he never filed the license. My dusky Russkie snatched it from the file using telekinesis while I blurred the clerk’s mind so he forgot about the whole thing. I even deleted the record from the computer by “persuading” him that he was making an erroneous entry.

Well, that was one less thing to worry about. Viktoriya gave me a reassuring smile. I relaxed as my dependable Lady Wu continued talking.

“Look, I know it’s hard for everyone,” Janet said quietly, “But I’m going to have to ask that you bite the bullet on this one, and simply disown Stanley for the record.”

The others fidgeted nervously. Rachelle deliberately averted her gaze to avoid looking at Janet.

“If you’re asked if you’re married,” my First kitted her brow, “You’ll each going to have to say, ‘No’.”

“And the kids?” someone asked.

“A bloodtest will only be asked for paternity,” Janet looked glum, “But I guess it can be argued that paternity isn’t evidence of bigamy. Just bastardship.”

“What about you?” Rachelle asked suddenly.

“What about me?” Janet kept her cool, “Legally, I’m his wife. I know it sucks, but it was something our parents pushed us into.”

“I suppose divorce is out of the question?” Viktoriya asked aloud.

“It won’t matter,” Janet shook her head, “If the invitations are going to be the cornerstone of their argument, they were date-stamped, as was our marriage license. It’ll just alert them we’re up to something.”

‘Stanislav.’ My Baltic beauty eyed me on the sly. ‘We can take care of that just like in Indiana.’

‘I suppose we can.’ I was running through the different scenarios. Each had different difficulties involved. I wondered how many loose ends I needed to take care of.

“What? No, don’t think of it like that!” Melanie exclaimed, “Stanley and Janet jie-jie can’t get divorced!! The taxes they pay if they’re single will bankrupt them.”

“Taxes are going to be the least of our worries,” I said to her, “There’s jail time for convicted bigamists it seems.”

“Shawn Ellen, can’t you do something?!” Melanie looked accusingly at my Anglo angel, “Talk to your dad!”

“I never told anyone this, but dad hates Stanley’s guts,” Shawn looked sick as she shook her head, “Dad never liked him even as a boyfriend.”

“Lucky for me I’m not into him eh?” I grinned and tried to inject some humor into the situation.

“Now isn’t the time,” Janet put a hand on my shoulder. I took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Look, the case is going to pre-trial soon,” my First went on to explain, “I’ll find us a good lawyer and we’ll do our best to keep Stanley and the rest of us out of trouble.”

“But we got to—!” I sensed Melanie’s growing vehemence and it was being directed at the wrong person. I decided to stop it before it got worse.

“Stop now Yu-Ching,” I said gently to her, “This isn’t Shawn’s fault and pointing fingers won’t help. We need to be cool about it.”

“He’s right,” Janet patted my little darling’s hand, “I’ll ask around. Don’t you worry. We’ll fight this thing.”

Melanie nodded slowly, as did the others. Thank god for the little things, I thought.

Viktoriya and I made some headway on our own. Just a few days before the pre-trial, the Lychenkos opted out of the suit. My Cossack darling demonstrated her guile by berating her parents. She threatened to pull Milhail away from them forever if they didn’t “... drop this nonsense against the father of her child!”

The Lychenkos didn’t know me well enough that I’d do more than that if they continued to make legal threats against me, Viktoriya, and Milhail. They agreed and we retired to the guest room for the night. As soon as we were alone, my Russian lover clutched me tightly.

‘My god Stanislav.’ She trembled mightily and thought-spoke. ‘I was never so scared in my life!’

‘You were wonderful milenky.’ I replied in kind. ‘I am glad I married you, if only by a spoken oath.’

The three of us flew back to San Francisco after a short weekend with Milhail’s grandparents. As lucky as we were with the Lychenkos, the Hollisters proved a bit more difficult to challenge. I went with Rachelle to talk her family down from the suit and things got a little rough. My dark beauty’s answers weren’t clever enough to thwart all their suspicion. One of Rachelle’s sisters (Tanya or whoever the other one was) accused me of breaking up Craig and Rachelle.

“That’s true,” I nodded and asked her plainly, “Do you know why?”

“Because you’re a selfish asshole,” she snapped.

“Perhaps,” I cleared my throat and hardened my tone, “But if you stop being a whiny bitch for just a minute, you may have noticed Rachelle’s skin doesn’t have all those splotchy bruises from the beatings Craig used to give her.”

There was a collective gasp as I levelled a stern gaze at the obnoxious young woman.

“I think that might’ve been a bigger issue than this nonsense,” I snapped unkindly. Rachelle looked at me with mounting disapproval.

“Stanley! Please stop!” my black beauty hissed as her sister turned on her heel and stormed out of the room. Needless to say, the Hollisters showed me the door. They begged Rachelle to stay but she shook her head.

“No I need some space,” she exclaimed, “I can’t stand this!”

We left, but Rachelle was clearly exasperated.

“I thought you were a smooth talker,” my dark darling scowled, “Now you just pissed them off! How could you talk to my sister that way?”

“How could they not know what you were going through with Craig?” I asked her gently, “Did you—?”

“They didn’t know,” Rachelle sighed, “I didn’t tell them.”

“I’m sorry,” I patted her knee, “I’ll apologize later, but things are really ornery right now.”

“You don’t say, Stanley!!” she groaned, “I’ll never hear the end of this one!”

So damn Shawn’s father. His single-minded determination to “rescue” his daughter made him dangerously obsessed. He got it in his mind that I had “kidnapped” his daughter Shawn to live in a (what he termed) “polygamist compound” right there in cosmopolitan San Francisco.

George Horten not only began looking into my personal life, he was digging into my professional one as well. He had called up my boss at Ditomer Design, told him I was being sued for bigamy, and got me fired for “not representing the clientele Ditomer wished to cater to”. The schism Mormons (the ones who practiced polygamy) were apparently getting one bad reputation in building circles. Of course, I didn’t need to hear the call George Horten made to my boss to know it was his doing; I knew it as soon as I scanned the older man’s mind.

So that’s where he had his weight, I thought. The was the same “friend” Horten had hinted about when he wanted me to stop dating Shawn. The friend was one of the senior fellows at Ditomer Design.

Using my earlier illness as an excuse, I was “let go” for being an unsatisfactory employee. That was fine by me. I didn’t subscribe to the faggot-ass empty design theories being pitched all the time at Ditomer. From my time at Ferguson, I was grounded in reality and in how systems were built.

In my mind, form had to follow function, otherwise, one was just drawing a bunch of meaningless lines on a piece of vellum. Being daring and artistic were fine if our firms were designing butt-ugly contemporary sculptures for corporate headquarters—but architectural firms designed buildings that had to withstand daily use by every-day people. Ditomer was a firm formed of people who were far removed from reality and I was happy to have nothing to do with them.

In the mean time, Janet found us some lawyers through her co-workers and friends. The lawyers we got were a team: one specialized in marriage and estate law, the other in custody and family law. Both were good, sensible and thorough. Though our story was pretty flimsy, our legal duo realized immediately that the state similarly had a flimsy case.

“It’s the civil suit you should be worried about,” the man named Eric Stanton explained, “Those things can get out of control.”

“I agree,” his partner, a hawkish woman by the name of Emily Rogers nodded.

“Nevermind the civil suit for now,” I kneaded my temples wearily, “Can anything happen to the children?”

“I think not,” Janet squeezed my hand and spoke with our counsels, “The state has to be involved and you said there wouldn’t be a criminal case, right?”

“You’re partly right,” the man called Stanton explained, “Some states have filed civil suits before, but unless they can prove you’ve endangered them, CPS (Child Protective Services) won’t have authorization to do a darn thing.”

“Besides,” the woman called Rogers tapped her nails on the table, “We can make the argument for single parent custody. You’re doing as well as anyone right? No financial hardships?”

“No, not at all,” Janet smiled, “My boss Teddy said you guys were good.”

Stanton and Rogers both grinned kindly.

“That’s a relief,” I looked at them, “Is there anything we can do in the mean time?”

Stanton nodded, “Stay put, stay silent, and let us do the talking.”

“Thank you Mr. Stanton, Ms. Rogers,” I stood and shook their hands.

Despite their professional advice, I intended to do no such thing. I had my own way of doing things—the invisible empire’s way.

The case went before a judge (no jury) for a pre-trial hearing. The argument by the plaintiffs (only the Hortens were there—the Hollisters were absent) was that while officially married to Janet, I had conceived another child with Viktoriya. Now, I had absconded with their daughter Shawn, and “god knows who else”. The evidence was flimsy until their lawyer showed some snapshots from our wedding ceremony.

I showed up alone as my counsels recommended. Stanton and Rogers maintained that I didn’t need to add more kindling to the fire with the presence of the women.

“This shows the defendant Mr. Chen, clearly participating in a wedding ritual,” their lawyer spoke.

The photos were small and to the point. However, since there was no Westernized garments, the judge had only to go by the color of the clothing and our faces. Shawn was sitting next to me, but we were both staring straight ahead (we showed no public displays of affection just to be on the safe side).

Although I recognized it as a Chinese wedding, the judge thought little of it as he studied the pictures. Thinking (rightly) he was losing the judge’s interest, Parker pulled another piece of paper from his folder.

“Additionally you honor,” the plaintiff’s counsel continued, “We’ve taken the liberty of making a photocopy of Mr. Chen’s marriage license in Hong Kong.”

I nearly jumped out of my seat. I had forgotten about that. To satisfy Melanie’s desire to frame something, I skipped down to the local records office and bullshitted the clerk into giving me a blank marriage certificate. Of course, after Melanie and I filled out the whole thing, she had framed it and left it in her room—a room she shared with Shawn. Of course, when the Hortens visited Shawn that day before the wedding—

Motherfucker, I thought. Old man Horten was investigating me since Hong Kong.

I was inwardly furious, but hid it well. If I wanted, I could’ve reached across the table and snapped Horten’s neck with just a mild thought. I didn’t though. There was far less bloodless—and more effective—methods of dealing with weasels like George Horten.

I looked at the judge and wondered how much I could blot out from his memory without alerting him. As I gathered the effort and concentration to cloud his mind, I sensed I was jumping the gun. I relaxed and waited instead. The old magistrate’s eyes narrowed as he read the blurry photocopy.

He glanced up at both parties and said, “This is all in Chinese. I can’t read a damn thing. Care to explain yourself Mr. Parker?”

Horten’s lawyer, Parker, shifted uncomfortably and offered an explanation.

“If you have someone translate it your honor,” he started weakly, “You can get the gist of it.”

“Mr. Parker,” the judge let the sheet of paper fall from his fingers as he spoke, “Even if you manage to translate it, the names of the bride and groom are in Chinese. They have no translation. They have no pictures. And even if Mr. Chen is as rapacious and bold as your client claims he is, he does not appear to be stupid enough to admit that his name is on this license, understand?”

I could’ve kissed the old Caucasian coot as he went on, “Now what else do you have besides photos of people in a Chinese New Year’s Parade?”

I sensed disappointment in Horten’s mind as I relaxed. This judge was no fool. He understood that Shawn’s father was unhappy about me eloping with his daughter. However, there was no clear evidence of bigamy apart from the wedding invitations, and the judge thought Horten printed those up himself.

Stanton and Rogers studied Parker and the Hortens as carefully as I was. However, I wasn’t wholly interested in what Parker had to say. I had George and Laura Horten in the room. They were my targets. As the pre-trial hearing went on in the judge’s chambers, I sifted through their memories, looking for something—anything—I could use against them.

As a rule, I never dug into anyone’s life too deeply for fear of being discovered. Just a slip of concentration and they’d be alerted that “someone” (likely me) was spying on their mind.

Now, I had no choice. I had developed my technique over the years, so a ‘normal’ wouldn’t really know he (or she) was being mind-read. For a ‘normal’, it was very much like recalling memories and not really knowing why save that I was staring intently at him (or her). However, that staring suited me fine now. I ransacked the Hortens’ minds desperately looking for something incriminating.

Sorting through the memories of the parents of a woman I was in love with was something I didn’t relish, but I muscled through it. I needed to stay out of trouble to keep my family safe.

When I finally found what I was looking for, I nearly recoiled at the discovery. I glanced at George Horten and instantly developed a new hatred of the man. His interest in Shawn was less than wholesome. It wasn’t anything unsavory with Shawn; it was just a form of selfishness I vowed never to emulate. George Horten kind was the worse kind of men.

NEVER FUCK WITH A TELEPATH

The pre-trial hearing went nowhere and Parker insisted on a trial, using the invitations and wedding photos as evidence. The worse was yet to come though. Since my parents were there at the event, Parker served them sub-poenas. Now, they would be committing perjury if they lied. But unless they did, I was pretty much going to get caught.

I sensed Horten would stop at nothing, so I arranged a meeting. I called his house from one of the last few pay phones in the Inner Sunset and asked him to meet at a nearby coffee house. Of course, I was already there waiting for him when he and Parker appeared.

“Sit down,” I didn’t look up as I went through my mail.

After my firing from Ditomer and a week or so of panic, I applied at several firms and gotten some receptive letters. Being on the cover of the latest Architectural Digest didn’t hurt either. I had four interviews scheduled for next week.

Actually, that dickish move by my boss at Ditomer hurt the firm more than it helped, for in the feature about Shawn’s solar wall and the building, I was identified as a Ditomer employee. When prospective clients later called, Gracia, Jules, Shawn, and the Ditomer human resources manager had to direct them to my new firm.

“So,” George Horten said curtly and sat down across from me, “Ready to give it up? Where’s Shawn?”

“She’s hardly on speaking terms with the weasel who got the man she loves fired,” I pinged Parker and felt his unease.

Ah, I sensed the reason behind the sudden nervousness. The weasel was wired. So, we’re going to play the game without rules. That was fine by me. I was used to this kind of crap on the Mexican border. I played with confidence because I knew I always won.

“What ever it is you’re talking about,” Parker was clearly aiming to set me up, “My client has no knowledge of. Please be more specific or show up with your attorney.”

George Horten sat back, his face impassive, but I sensed his exuberance of ruining me.

Irony, I thought. If you weren’t Shawn’s father, you’d probably just vanish. I might as well do that. For what I was going to do was far worse than a mysterious disappearance.

“No need,” I put away my mail and looked George Horten straight in the eye, “I’ll make it simple. Drop this silly suit and things go back to normal.”

Silence. Parker and Horten looked at one another in confusion.

“That’s it?” George asked. “What about Shawn?”

“What about Shawn?” I asked, “You’re free to call on her anytime. It’s not me who’s hanging up on you everytime you try. It’s not me who’s refusing you entry into what’s essentially her home. I am more indebted to Shawn than she is to me.”

Horten flinched like his face was slapped. I could sense his rage and anger bubbling within.

Good, I thought. This will make things go easier if he slips up. ‘Normals’ didn’t think clearly when they got enraged.

“I’m going to ask once more,” I grinned acidly, “Please drop your suit against me Mr. Horten. Let it go.”

Parker’s eyes slid over to his seething client.

“No,” he said.

That was the answer I needed to hear—it was what I wanted to hear. Later, both Melanine and Viktoriya both remarked how grimly pleased I was in the days after George Horten’s fate was sealed.

“Then we have nothing more to discuss,” I rose and bowed, “See you in court gentlemen.”

Things occured quickly after that. Using a job interview as a pretext (I didn’t say with whom), I drove down to Fresno and found the person I was looking for. Once I completed the first few minutes of chatter, I had gotten what I needed and I did my thing. I drove back up and got home in time for a real interview the next day, confident that I had saved my bacon and extremely sorry for what was about to happen. I was about to gain freedom, but Shawn was about to have her world shattered.

By the time I started as a designer at a firm called Down-To-Earth a few weeks later, I was going into trial. Through some clever persuasion, I managed to head over to the civil court on MacAllister without appearing as a dead-beat slacker the first few days of my new job.

Parker opened with a tirade on my lifestyle, some of which wasn’t in-tune to the income I was supposedly reporting (actually, it was a fabrication since I had the paperwork and taxes to prove it). He intended to prove that I was in clear violation of not only bigamy laws, but also keeping women and children in a “compound” along with a bunch of other crap I could care less about (it amazes me still what people sue over in civil court).

Stanton and Rogers fired back by showing the issues of Architectural Digest that featured Shawn’s solar wall and the interiors of the house.

The magazine had done that piece a while ago—my plump pumpkin even flew out to San Francisco for the photoshoot. Also in the feature: Jules Fontana and Gracia Kosugi. The four of us posed in a group and as a couple (Jules with Gracia, me with Shawn—nothing kinky—this wasn’t a Hustler photoshoot) in each of the furnished units.

“Does this look like a compound to you, your honor?” Stanton asked.

The judge didn’t answer but I picked up his thoughts and nearly cracked a smile: ‘No sirree.’ ‘It looks better than my own house.’

My parents would be part of the case, but the prosecution wasn’t going to start with them. Instead, Parker focused on the girls and sought to break open the case with them. Rachelle went on the stand first. Viktoriya was still in New York City with Milhail. She wasn’t due to come in to testify until later. Janet and Shawn sat nervously in the chamber (Jamie had just started her new job as an IT-tech and Melanie was working the country club because both were scheduled to be called in later).

“How would you characterize your relationship with the defendant, Mr. Stanley Chen?” Parker asked her.

“Friendly,” Rachelle said curtly but with a smile. Janet had schooled her well.

“Ah I see,” the counsel went on, “And are you intimate with the defendant, Miss Hollister?”

“I was,” my dark beauty gave an inch begrudgingly to the prosecution.

“I see,” Parker mused, “Was this during the time that Mr. Chen was married?”

Rachelle nodded—another point for the prosecution.

“Are you aware that Mr. Chen is married?” the lawyer asked her.

“Yes,” Rachelle flicked her eyes to Janet. My First—bless her— grinned bravely and nodded her head just slightly. I sensed Rachelle relax in mind and body.

“So you admit to adultery?” Parker pressed.

“Objection,” Stanton called out.

“Sustained,” the judge eyed Parker, “I thought this was a case about bigamy counselor. Not a divorce case.”

“As the court pleases your honor,” the gray suited lawyer turned back to Rachelle, “So, you can say that you and Stanley are not in an exclusive relationship?”

Here was the kicker: Janet and Emily Rogers had wracked their brains on this possible question all night, trying to impress on the others how the answer would probably hurt or hinder my case.

See, if there was an admission of some sort of exclusivity, it could be likely construed as one of two things: (A) a marriage of some sort, or (B) some sort of payment for exclusivity (which could lead to solicitation and prostitution charges). Rachelle though, clearly knocked Parker’s question out of the ballpark in her own way.

“Stanley and I are not in an exclusive relationship,” she said evenly.

I sensed the pain as she said those words for a matter of public record. Still, the record mattered little, especially if we weren’t inclined to let it dictate our lives. Rachelle knew I loved her, and I knew she loved me. It was enough, and it would have to do.

“So if someone were to ask you out on a date,” Parker was annoyed by her answer, “You wouldn’t dismiss him—or her—out of hand because you have no terms of exclusivity with Mr. Chen?”

“That depends who’s asking,” Rachelle tilted her head thoughtfully.

“Would you be willing to say, ‘yes’,” Parker pressed, “If someone asked you out on a date Miss Hollister?”

“Again, that depends on who is asking,” she regarded the skinny balding prosecutor with pity in her eyes, “Sometimes saying I have a boyfriend or fiance can be handy when I don’t want to be bothered by guys I don’t like. You haven’t gone out on many dates have you, Mr. Parker?”

I heard a sharp snorting laugh behind me as the courtroom buzzed with laughter and snickering. I turned around and to my surprise, found Janet covering her mouth in a vain effort to compose herself.

‘What the fuck?’ I mouthed my question to her. Janet read my lips and she gave me a surly smile. She shook her head and sat back, pinning her gaze back at the prosecution’s table.

“Mr. Parker,” the judge appreciated Rachelle’s sarcastic candor, “You’re beating a dead horse. I think you’ve established Miss Hollister is free to choose whom she dates, if she chooses to date one individual or several, and if she wants to tell a harmless white lie; it has no bearing on this case at this point. Have you more questions for your witness?”

“No your honor,” Parker was red-faced.

Stanton’s cross-examination was brief and to the point (and far gentler). It carried us up to the lunch hour. All this time, Shawn didn’t bother to look once at her father. I sensed the conflicted feelings she had in her. I felt absolutely rotten that it would all be ten times worse before the day was out.

When they finally came, it was shortly after lunch. The judge motioned for the baliff to escort the two deputies to the bench.

“George Martin Horten,” the judge read the sheaf of papers, “I have here a warrant for your arrest.”

There was a general uproar in the courtroom until the judge smashed his gavel several times.

“There will be order in this court!” the judge’s voice came over the audience’s roar as the deputies “Miranda-ed” George Horten and hauled his sorry ass off to jail.

Wondering what happened? Here it is in brief: Remember Shawn’s older brother? The one who was killed in an “accident”? It wasn’t a complete accident. See, Shawn’s brother was killed by another man in a fit of revenge. Her brother (then a fourteen year old) was dating a girl his age.

I don’t know what George Horten was thinking (well I sort of did and it still gives me chills) but Horten had the hots for the young girl. He fucked her while she was half-dozing on a mix of codeine and a little alcohol.

When the girl started showing, the girl’s father tried to confront Shawn’s brother when he was biking his way towards the girl’s house. The girl’s father killed him by accident when he ran the boy off the road and over a barrier—the accident broke the boy’s neck.

Once the elder Horten realized what had happened, he fled like the damned coward he was. Instead of owning up to the truth and facing down his son’s murderer, he saved his own ass. The accident strained the Hortens’ marriage, but it didn’t break it. That was how the Hortens relocated to San Francisco where I met my plump petunia.

Meanwhile, the girl in Fresno gave birth. Her family covered it up as another child but the memories the girl had of George Horten were still there in her mind.

‘Dormant but present,’ was the phrase. All I needed was to have her recall the incident, and recall she did. With the remains of the son’s accident still on record and the available DNA, there was enough to bring suspicion on Shawn’s father with the similarities in gene alleles.

What happened after was particularly devastating, especially to Shawn Ellen. When she heard the truth, my normally jolly darling became unglued and estranged herself from her father. Only Melanie (thank god for her) kept Shawn from slipping into terminal depression. Shawn’s mother—Laura Horten (maiden name Benton)— divorced her husband soon after, citing that she could not abide living with a sexual offender.

With the civil suit brought on by the Fresno girl’s family, Shawn’s old home in San Francisco was sold off to pay off the attorney fees. It seriously derailed George Horten’s plans in court and interfered with the case against me.

Shawn never spoke to her father again, and both she and Mother Horten didn’t connect with the boy who was essentially Shawn’s half-brother. Because it was partly my fault—and I didn’t want Shawn going through her misery alone—I invited Mother Horten to live in the vacant guest unit until she and Shawn were ready to face the world. The others agreed on the surface; I sensed a modicum of jealousy from Rachelle that I treated Shawn’s family with more respect than hers.

I was about to admonish her pettiness when I snapped my mouth shut. I had set-up Shawn’s father, I wanted to say. Before the words could leave my lips, I came to my senses and kicked myself for being stupid. No, no one knew what I did, I realized. The normal world was separate from the invisible empire’s various actions.

So, I swallowed my pride and apologized to Rachelle’s sister (it was Tanya, professional bitch-at-heart) soon afterwards. I even made nice (doing her a favor) and hired the brother of Tanya’s current boyfriend as an office gopher for a summer internship. He sucked ass and I was glad to let him move on once his term was over.

As for Geroge Horten, the last I heard of him was only in passing on the news. Some inmates had attacked him in the prison shower and he died from a brutal blow to his head, not to mention the plastic shivs (made from toothbrushes) stuck in in his heart, eyes, and testicles.

But all that was down the road. After court adjourned, I saw the judge speaking with Brian Cox out in the hallway. I zeroed in on their thoughts and picked up some quick thoughts: ‘Investigation.’ ‘RICO.’ ‘Grand larceny.’ ‘Professional service.’

“So what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” I looked at Agent Cox.

“Ah Mr. Chen,” the judge held out his hand and I shook it. “Mr. Champion here tells me the State Department and the country owe you a great debt in the wake of 9/11.”

“It’s always a pleasure your honor,” I said sagely, “Good to see the system in good hands.”

He nodded and headed off down the stairs. Once the judge was out of earshot, I glanced at Cox who kept his hands behind his back.

“So,” I asked him casually, “Thinking about hitting me up for RICO (racketeering influenced and corrupt organization) charges?”

“No. Unless there’s a reason to,” the burly agent replied.

Cox was cool but I sensed his thoughts. He was thinking about bringing RICO charges against the judge if he wasn’t cooperative with the first explanation concocted by the agency. The N.S.A. was using a lot of C.I.A. dirty tricks in the wake of the trade center incident.

The big man knitted his brow and eyed me disdainfully, “What happened in there?”

“Someone jerked my chain,” I said simply, “I pulled back.”

“Sounds like you broke it,” Cox looked around to make sure we were mostly alone, “Do we have a place we can talk?”

I skimmed his mind and knew what he was going to ask about: interrogating some new detainees from god-knows-where.

“That depends,” I asked and stopped in a corner of the hallway, “What you do you want?”

Cox looked displeased with my meeting spot, but he made his proposal as casually as possible.

“It will be next week,” the big agent put down a card with an address and a suite on it, “Please be on time.”

“I’ll be there,” I said, “But see if you can get this cleaned up. I don’t need it hounding me.”

“That’s what I spoke to the judge about,” Cox said, “Consider it done.”

“And the usual retainer would help,” I cocked my head.

“La Corporacion not enough?” the big agent sounded as if he wanted to make a joke, “You almost destabilized Colombia.”

“Be seeing you Champion,” I gave him a pleasant smile but said nothing more as I walked away.

I said nothing more to incriminate myself. I knew Brian Cox was a screw-fuck; I went through his mind and verified Jacob Waters’ story. My agency handler had met with Waters about the bank incident and me. I didn’t care why at that point (it would’ve meant digging deeper, alerting Cox to my mind-probe) but I didn’t care. I just needed to be careful around the agency. Tseng was right—our kind needed to be extra careful.

For now, I had my fill of the ‘normal’ system of doing things— and of the agency bailing me out when they needed me. As handy as that was, I needed to call the shots and not subject my fate to someone else’s whim. I finally realized why Tseng was so adamant in the invisible empire maintaining independent and strong. Viktoriya was only partly right when she said our “mental-selves” were better. No, we were better than them. As an empire citizen, I maintained a discipline in my life many ‘normal’ individuals would envy.

Brian Cox’s activities spurred me to action though. I still had some counterfeit bills from my “odd jobs”. While I had been using them up as reasonably as possible (most of the counterfeits used the same rag paper the counterfeit pens couldn’t detect—that made sense since the inks, printing presses, and paper formulas were in the hands of ex-Arab nation allies the U.S. had supported decades earlier), I was sure the serial numbers would be traced.

Although the discount store scheme was interesting, I wasn’t able to spare the time (or had the inclination) to go into the retail business. Retail meant having an inventory, which could be seized, sabotaged, or otherwise fucked with. I wanted to minimize the potential avenues of the agency jerking my chain, so I opted for the traditional service industries: laundromats, dry cleaners, and a delicatessen franchise.

The cleaning business was a given in San Francisco. With so many high-profile business people and tourists, coupled with a high rate of renters, the laundry business was pretty sure-fire. Taking a cue from my mother, I installed a few pachinko and videogame machines to occupy the laundry customers. It wasn’t gambling (since the games were free and reset after 10 minutes) but it grew quite popular; patrons would tell me they could gauge when their laundry was done by how many games they played.

As for the delicatessen business, I joined a sandwich franchise and opened up two stores: one near Janet’s old house (a shopping mall on Sloat Boulevard) to cater to the student lunch crowd, and a second one in downtown removed enough from the dregs on Market Street to nab business from the local McDonald’s.

Business was good. Several days a week, I’d check with the various store managers and handle the money. I’d have the largest denominations from my stash and swapped about half of the day’s proceeds (my official excuse was ‘allowance for the kids’ although after exchanging hundreds and thousands of dollars, that was starting to wear thin). It was still petty, but at least I got rid of most of my fakes. The rest was real money (laced with traces of cocaine, but still genuine) so I simply used it for daily expenses, or buying the occasional precious metal ingot and putting it someplace safe.

By now, I had moved the cash pile from my old room to my new unit —it’s a good thing I was the building’s architect and a telekinetic. I knew where I could pull up the floor boards or remove ceiling panels to stuff the millions in loose change (Tecate, Ojinga, and Colombia) I had left.

After I had cleaned the rest of my loot (that took quite a while), the places were profitable (marginally) that I didn’t pull the plug. For a time, I even used the businesses as a teaching tool in class (most licensed architects are required to teach or to continue their education in order to keep their licenses—since I hadn’t tried it, I decided to try teaching at City College).

See, design students sometimes threw themselves into projects without regard to what was expected from them. In the one lesson plan I had created, it was to design a combination business/residential unit—a “micro plaza”—that included a variety of food vendors, cleaning services, places to exercise, and light urban housing. Among the criteria of the project’s program: nearly everything had to be in walking distance.

By exposing my students to actual experiences (not necessarily food cooking), I hoped to have better prepared them for the rigors of what was to be expected of them (unlike me, these students were not “gifted” as I was and needed to work far harder).

Of course, any student who opted to work was “expedited” and slotted some extra hours (to avoid violating labor laws). I was a pervert, a telekinetic, a mind-reader, a polygamist (case dismissed), a pedophile (once with Melanie—and thrice with Shawn; it was break-up / make-up sex after she dated Scott and she was practically eighteen), but I wasn’t about to cross the Department of Labor.

Oh yeah—the bigamy case against me was soon dismissed. Between the pressure being brought on by the agency and the lack of interest on part of the state attorney general’s and local district attorney’s offices, Parker wasn’t paid. The case floundered before the judge had the decency to throw it out before it cost more taxpayer dollars. The Hollisters backed down when they realized how much it would take to win, and that they had no particular reason (especially a financial one) to go after me.

Despite our earlier disagreements, I was feeling more gracious with them than George Horten; I knew they were bullied into siding against me. Rachelle was surprised I even paid their end of the legal bill (Parker’s billable hours for his clients were non-negotiable).

“Please come and visit,” I said to Rachelle’s parents, “We’ll be more than happy to have you over.”

Rachelle was more than overjoyed. It was a far better outcome than she expected.

“Thank you sugar,” she said, “For not holding a grudge.”

“’Course not,” I smiled but I suspected there was a reckoning to come.

Craig Simmons had made trouble for me again. He was the one who had been keeping tabs on Rachelle and was the one who had directed George Horten to the Hollister family. Looking back, I should’ve offed him and be done with it. There was nothing redeeming about his character, his opinion, or his very person.

But at the time I thought I had done enough. I had torn apart what little was left of Shawn’s family, sown strife and fear in the Hollisters and Lychenkos (okay, Viktoriya helped with the latter but it was all good), and stepped aboved the law so high I would’ve broken my neck. So I didn’t do anything with Craig Simmons. It was a decision I’d come to regret later.

SHARED EXPERIENCES

2007 marked a mild milestone—it had been twenty years since I’d met my lovely, capable First and yet we were still relatively young. She was only 36 (with two children) and I was just 32 (with a lot more kids to keep track of). By now, our family had grown somewhat.

Janet had two children: Michael (born 2001) and Frederick (born late 2004 after the case against me was dropped). Melanie had her first child (er ... wait, wait, wait ... right, Norman) in February of 2007. Shawn had given birth to Kady (born 2005) while Viktoriya was totally fine with just having Milhail (born 2002) due to her business in New York City.

I knocked up Rachelle (after a little more trying) and she surprised everyone by popping out a set of twin girls (Danielle and Janelle) in mid-2005. Jamie had already gave birth to our own child Jenny in 2004—nine years Jillian’s junior.

My step-daughter suddenly found she had plenty of siblings to help with. Luckily, there were enough moms around to keep the constant feeding, diapers, burping, and agitated cries to a minimum. Jillian (like me) really only enjoyed playing around with the babies and not the other stuff. Unfortunately, as the common father, I couldn’t eschew my responsibilities.

What really got to me around that time was Viktoriya. My most daring darling was moving back to New York City. After her initial sabbatical in 2001, she quit the institute to take care of Milhail until he was old enough to be schooled. But dancing was still on her mind and the Big Apple tempted her with its secret palpatating heart. She went back to the motion studies institute as an instructor and a dancesport competitor in early 2006—just when Milhail qualified for pre-school.

She left Milhail in mine’s and Janet’s capable hands. That irked me greatly. I didn’t mind the extra responsibility, but I had earnestly enjoyed our brief time together as man and wife.

‘I’ll be back kisa.’ Viktoriya bumped heads with me before she left. ‘I always do. You know that!’

‘Doubtless, I’m going to miss you terribly.’ I thought-spoke.

‘Don’t be surly Stanislav.’ Her fingers brushed the corner of my eye and I felt a warm wetness on my skin.

‘And don’t cry.’ She admonished me. ‘Seeing you so will make Milhail think I’m leaving forever.’

As we hugged each other at the security checkpoint (I could no longer stay with Viktoriya at the gate until she left because of the new security measures) I leaned close to her ear.

“Dos vedanya*,” I whispered fiercely. [* Russian: Goodbye]

“No,” her voice nearly broke, “Only until tomorrow Stanislav. I promise!”

Viktoriya kept me posted daily through mind-sight just as we did all those years ago. I knew that once she was back in New York, she’d shack with her “friend” Freya in the old Brooklyn neighborhood for a while. Why she did so was no surprise (considering her secret Sapphic appetites); however, I also knew Viktoriya was terribly lonely. Milhail would’ve been too if Jillian and Michael hadn’t kept him company. I wondered how long it would take for her to become homesick again.

Still, there were other developments that kept me busy. Aside from my professional and familial responsibilities, I had started a second personal project in 2005 that was eating up more of my time. In an effort to keep my mind off my absent Cossack lovebird, I engrossed myself in them.

First and foremost of them were my five other darlings (and their respective children).

Jamie had graduated in 2003 and began working on various websites as the internet boom re-surged after the ‘99 dot-com crash. Since she was general IT (information technology) all she pretty much did was stay on top of networking protocols, Java and Java Script, communication products (Outlook, Web-X, NetMeeting, and the like), and had most of the day to herself.

While Jamie worked odd hours, she also had the freedom of doing pilates (or light yoga) when it suited her. It certainly helped her (and Viktoriya) regain their lean athletic figure after giving birth. The current company she was at, News Corporation, was a giant multi-national conglomerate handling several well known web properties. Because she worked downtown, she and Janet would often have lunch along with Shawn and I (if we were available).

Janet had left Friedman, Hoch, Brenner, & Glasser after some polygamist groups began pestering her after the civil suit against me fizzled. Her reputation was starting to taint her cases (another reason I’m not particulary sorry George Horten went out the way he did) so she opted to go elsewhere. Luckily, a bigger firm (Haeder and Reed) had noticed her track record in earlier civil suits and they hired her once she was available. Along with the bigger cases came more billable hours—and a higher fee.

Much of my First’s track record of course, was mostly me “looking into” the parties she was involved with. Horten’s case was merely a prelude to the secrets I could unearth. I simply sat with Janet at public dinner appointments with her clients and scanned their minds.

Through them, I’d do some “investigative work” on my lunch hour to dig up secrets and drop hints of it when I could. To me, it was an exercise. For Janet, she thought I was a lucky charm. That suited me fine. I loved my first darling enough that I’d do anything for her, and she for me.

Remember that house Janet had bought? She planned out a big, big surprise for me on my 31st birthday. Janet decided to install an outdoor swimming pool in her backyard so I could use it to exercise. She knew the costs were nearly prohibitive, but did so out of her love for me.

It started when Janet began noticing Shawn and I coming back late on certain days. At first, Janet thought it was me spending a little more time with my Anglo angel due to the recent events with the Hortens, or we were coming back late from the City College of San Francisco (as licensed professionals, Shawn and I had to either continue our education or contribute to it in order to keep our license to practice). Janet herself took extra coursework from San Francisco State but did so online, so she was home most of the time.

However, as time passed, our “late nights” were fairly predictable. What made it all interesting was Shawn and I often came back at the same time (and with our hair wet from showering). Janet grew suspicious (and a little jealous) and finally wormed it out of my plump dumpling that we’ve been spending our early evenings on off-days at Rossi Pool.

Rossi was one of the few indoor, heated pools in the city of San Francisco. Every day, a number of hours were set aside for citizens to use it for lap swimming or diving & “freeplay” (the latter can occur concurrently since the deep end of the pool was used only for diving and the shallow end for seniors, children, and physical therapy).

I didn’t like lap swimming since I could propel myself through water faster simply using telekinesis. However, working out normally even just a few days a week had started reducing my paunch, as well as slimming Shawn’s waist and belly. So Janet decided to “gift” me (and the family more or less) with our own pool.

It wasn’t big (her lot size was a big squat square—my big building more or less determined the rest of the lots on that block) hence she simply went the way of a deep wading pool. Janet ordered the whole thing (online) and had the workmen install and fill it one day.

I took notice when I saw a trio of jumpsuited workmen walk out of her house when I came home. I knew I hadn’t scheduled any repairs or construction, so I got curious. I pinged the work crew lightly and found they were from CostCo and they greeted me when I introduced myself as the houseowner’s neighbor.

“It’s a surprise for her husband,” one of the guys said off-hand, “That lady couldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Oh really?” I scratched my ear, “I guess she can get long-winded sometimes.”

“You bet,” the workman grinned, apparently oblivious he was talking to the lady’s husband.

“Yeah well, we’re done,” the older foreman nodded towards the wood-slatted eyesore in Janet’s backyard. “She even requested to be filled so the lucky lug can get his surprise when he gets back.”

“Oh that’s nice,” I said. A play pool in San Francisco? I almost laughed.

Of course filling the pool was expensive. Water in our city was billed twice. Once (at an exorbitant rate) for how much is used and a second time for how much is expelled (generally the same number). Hence our water bills in San Francisco were generally four to five times that of other counties like Santa Clara or Alameda.

I waited until Janet came home and surprised her when she was leering over the edge. She let out an undignified shriek as we both hit the water. I had used telekinesis to dampen the shock on both of us. Still, being kerplunked into a big pool of chilly water as the sun set wasn’t the greatest feeling.

My First spat out a stream of water as she surfaced and screamed, “Li-shaouw-jou-a?!*” [* Cantonese: Have you gone mad?!]

I laughed and pinned her to the side of the pool where I macked on her warm, wet face and lips.

“You maniac!” Janet slapped my face, “You’ve ruined a $400 pantsuit and made me all wet.”

I laughed it off as I hauled her out of the water then out of those wet clothes. Seeing Janet’s hair wet, her make-up a blurry mess, and her petite little Cantonese woman’s body as she slipped off those damp clothes gave me a raging hard-on. I seized her roughly by the wrist and before she could utter a suprised cry, I fucked her raw on the grass next our new pool.

“You brute!” Janet pinched my ears viciously, “Viktoriya’s right. We should have you neutered.”

We celebrated our 20th “meeting” anniversary with a home-cooked meal which we ate off each other’s bodies. Jan and I officially celebrated that night at the Cliff House restaurant. After dinner, we both took a short, chilly walk down to the beach where we had spent our time together as kids.

“Remember when I told you I’d be a pedophile if I slept with you?” Janet embraced me at the sea wall.

“Yeah you sicko,” I pinched her bottom, “You screwed me up for life.”

“You fucker,” Janet bit my chin playfully, “Can’t you behave yourself? Some dad you are!”

“Sorry Ling-Ling,” I bumped noses with her, “I’m glad things turned out the way it did.”

I was surprised at how much I had grown to tower over my regal First.

“Me too,” she clutched me tightly, “Especially since I love you.”

“Well, love you too,” I returned her hug tenderly.

As happy as things with the pool (and everything else) turned out, Janet and I discussed safety precautions in earnest. We both knew all the children (except Jillian) were too young to be playing in a pool, so we made it a strict policy to disallow them from coming into Janet’s house until they reached the age of six. It suited everyone anyway, since the eco-condo was safe and secured from the outside.

Melanie in the meantime, had moved up in her job at the Pacific Coast Club. Once a part-time apprentice chef, she became a “special guest” chef because of the fresh, natural way she prepared her dishes.

The grocery trips we went on when we were children paid off as Melanie would demand only the freshest ingredients. Her skill with the knife would make any sadistic psychopathic chirugurgeon proud—she knew which portions were good and which weren’t.

Yu-Ching also developed something of a temper in her work-kitchen. While she was patient and gentle with the children, junior and apprentice chefs soon learned to fear her more than that British fellow on Hell’s Kitchen (Gordon Ramsey—that’s his name right?). Melanie didn’t just have a checklist—she had a goddamned time-table—along with the exact portions of each dish.

God help any ‘prentice chef if he (or she) fucked up in her kitchen. Even me, with my affinity to grab a feeling from Melanie (and having cooked with her for nearly a decade and a half), sometimes pushed her buttons.

“Out, out, out!” Melanie kicked me out of the kitchen when I was over at her place once.

Of course afterwards, she was apologetic. Melanie quietly put baby Norman to bed as I cleaned up our dishes. I sat down and hadn’t closed my eyes for a half minute when I felt Yu-Ching’s weight on my lap.

“Yuen-lieung-wo-a-dai-yieh*,” Melanie slipped into archaic Cantonese when she wanted to tiptoe back into my graces. [* Cantonese: Please forgive me sire.]

My eyelids parted slightly and I saw her curled in my lap, just as she had when she was a child.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said with half an ear.

I just wanted to sleep but Melanie had other ideas. Encouraged by my casual forgiveness, she nuzzled my neck tenderly. I groaned more from annoyance than from arousal. I drew an arm around her and pulled her close.

“You love me right?” I asked her.

“Of—of course I do!” Melanie sounded shocked, “Why?”

“Then lemme sleep okay?” I gathered her in my arms like a stuffed toy.

I heard Little Chen sigh as I rubbed her belly. She had taken to doing stomach crunches in addition to water resistance exercises in Janet’s pool to get her petite figure back. All that hard work showed. It’d been mere six months since little Normie had been born and Melanie’s stomach had flattened back into shape. Only some minor stretch marks remained, but I thought it gave her more character than she thought.

I gently scratched her baby blemishes and drifted off into sleep. True to my heart’s fondest wish, Melanie didn’t disturb me a whit. When I woke refreshed the next day, I found myself tucked in tight with a blanket and had one of the soundest sleeps I’ve had yet in some time. My youngest darling wife had taken Norman downstairs to my place so his cries wouldn’t wake me.

Across the hall from Yu-Ching’s unit, my doughty darling Shawn was doing fine despite the estrangement and recent death of her father. She and Mother Horten (now going just by her maiden name, Laura Benton) grew much closer after Kady’s birth. With Mother Benton taking care of Kady, Shawn was able to get back to work at Forrester-Duncan (whose offices were actually two floors below mine at Down-To-Earth).

“Fo-Dunk” was an engineering contracting firm that did work with Pacific Gas and Electric, one of Northern California’s premiere utility companies. Shawn’s solar wall and its inclusion into my building was a big first step in the green energy industry (now). One of her first projects at Fo-Dunk was to simplify the connections of her solar wall design so they’d be modular. She eventually did so with my help (and Jules looking over our shoulders to make sure we didn’t make any mistakes).

“Thank you Stanley,” Shawn kissed me.

Earlier that week, she handed in her report and gotten some rave compliments.

“Don’t forget Jules pumpkin,” I gave her ample ass a tender squeeze, “He helped too.”

“I’m sure he’ll settle for a handshake,” she said quietly.

My plump dumpling had become less boisterous since her father’s sordid business. When she smiled, it was only because her daughter Kady had managed to burp, fart, cry, or gurgle.

“I only kid,” I pouted comically, “Forgive me, muffin?”

“Of course,” Shawn rested her head on my shoulder then added, “For you, always.”

Kady was downstairs with Shawn’s mother, Laura. I looked around, and making sure we were alone, I pinched her bubble butt playfully.

“Ouch!” Shawn glared at me angrily, “I said I forgave you—why’d you pinch me?”

“What do you think?” I laughed and pulled her to the couch. My plump dumpling’s cheeks (both sets I knew) immediately flushed red.

“Stanley, stop!” she cried as I pulled her pants off.

She sounded so concerned that I immediately stopped what I was doing.

“What’s wrong baby girl?” I asked.

“I—I don’t have any condoms and I’m not on the pill,” Shawn said flatly.

“So?” I winked, “That’s what food wrap is for.”

“Oh no you don’t,” her eyes grew wide, “Some of it leaked out last time and that’s how we wound up with Kady! And her fat head nearly wrecked my vagina—I’m not doing that again!!”

“Damn,” I glanced at her with a frown.

Shawn had the easiest birth I’d seen. Those wide hips of hers really helped with the delivery. My Anglo-angel was right though— our daughter Kady did have a fat head. She was earnestly one of the most stubborn children I’d dealt with. It might’ve been because Kady was unplanned. I planned for the other kids (well most of them) but Shawn was happy being childless for a bit longer since our work-load had been steadily increasing with all the building that had been going on. As Shawn tried to pull away, I decided to have a little fun.

“C’mere you,” I pulled her back so I encircled her body with my arms.

“Whaaaaaat?” Shawn sounded annoyed, “I have stuff to do.”

“Really?” I kissed her neck, “I just wanna check your boobs.”

“Why?” Shawn turned her head partly so I saw her puzzled look.

“Lumps, what else?” I gently fondled her fatty H-cups through her bodice.

The plump young woman was healthy now and I wanted to keep it that way. Shawn had breast-fed Kady; as much as my daughter loved her daily breakfast being served from the largest pair of natural jugs in NorCal, I had personal interest in them too.

“You horny little man,” Shawn sighed and pawed my crotch, “You should just jerk off occasionally, y’know?”

“Now why would I do that?” I asked and gently squeezed her fat tits through the fabric.

Shawn shivered a bit but her voice held firm, “Because I read something that if a guy cums twice a week, his chances of getting testicular cancer drops by a good 50 percent.”

“So if I do the math correctly,” I chuckled, “I’ve dropped my chances by like 5,973 percent?”

“You pervert!” Shawn giggled softly and leaned into me as I massaged her massive mammaries.

The warmth of her breasts flowed through the sheer fabric as I kissed the nape of her neck. She felt soft, warm, and pliant. No part of her felt out of place or lumpy and having played with Shawn for so long, I knew what was out of place. My Anglo angel rubbed my pants (skillful little minx she was) and stroked me hard.

I groaned as Shawn’s fingers dug at my crotch—we had learned that with a little fabric or underwear, our skin was far more sensitive than simply skin-to-skin contact. Something to do with the nerve endings. Whatever it was, it was something Shawn and I had gradually shared with the others over the years.

Shawn slowly worked my balls and cock out of my pants (the skillful little minx she was). I could feel her not only enticing me, but also checking me up as well. My plump petunia didn’t give great head, but she knew how to handle my balls—she learned it straight from Janet. I relaxed and my feeling of comfort passed from my mind to Shawn’s as I held her. I felt her weight as she slumped lazily into my arms.

“Feel nice baby doll?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Shawn gave me a bubbly grin. Her hands were on my own as we reclined on the sofa.

“Just you wait,” I snuck my hand down her pants and buzzed her love button with my gift. Using a little telekinesis, I pressed her sensitive area from within while I leaked a thin stream of erotic thoughts and feelings to her mind.

“Oh god!” Shawn swooned as she grabbed a handful of my hair.

“What’s the matta’?” I brushed her hair back, “You feeling okay pumpkin?”

“Oh—oh—oh,” was all she could say as I TK-rolled her G-spot and buzzed her mind.

Shawn mewed softly as I pulled off her pants and top. I placed my Anglo angel on her on her back and roved all over her body. Where I knew she’d be sensitive, I stopped and kissed her with my soft lips and tickled her with my tongue.

“Ooohg,” Shawn’s skin flushed red with excitement.

I kissed her breasts lightly and climbed on top of her. Shawn let out a short cry of surprise as I rammed her raw, not caring if Kady would have another sister or brother in nine months. My dumpling’s whole body was rosy red as she came a total of four times over the course of twelve minutes (heh—women).

Once was enough for me though. I pulled out and sprayed so much spunk, it dribbled over her fat titties and ran all the way down to her rose red cooze. I basked in her warmth of her cute cuddly body for an hour or so and called it a night. As much as I would’ve loved to spend the night at the girl’s unit, we were all more comfortable in our own respective units. For a loud snorer like myself, it was a good solution; I kept no one awake, and my girls loved me for it.

The unit just above mine was where Jamie, Jillian and Jenny lived. The youthful Asian mother was both bright and eager to make up for lost time. The time Jamie felt she’d wasted in the late ‘90s always seemed to haunt her.

“Never do that again,” Jame would repeat over and over to Jillian when the girl ran into difficulties or make an error, “Learn from your mistakes, understand?”

There was a sense of urgency the way the mother pressured the daughter as the latter grew older. I tempered Jamie’s roughshod attempts with a little more sophistication. In every case, we both did our best for her.

Jillian wasn’t aware that something was strange about her “real” father until she was a little older. Because of her mixed step-siblings (Milhail, Kady, Janelle, and Danielle), Jillian never gave her appearance much thought. Jill wasn’t even too conscious that her half-sister Jenny appeared markedly different from her. And sometimes, like sisters, they’d did some crazy things when they were kids.

“Dad!! We need some help,” Jillian hauled the three year-old bundle that was Jenny Yang into the room where Jamie and I were pouring over Rachelle’s latest disaster.

My black beauty had a dead hard drive and some files had for work were lost in limbo (Melanie and Jamie later set up a private family server to back-up vital data and records). Thankfully, Jamie was on hand to do some quick repair work (Melanie was at the country club that night).

“What is it?” I looked up and saw Jenny’s face was marked up like a crazy clown.

I chuckled as Jenny squealed excitedly and ran towards me, her eyelids, lips, and cheeks each a different garish shade of red, green and black.

“Jillian!” Jamie’s tone came out a litte harsher than I liked, “What happened?!”

“We were in the bathroom and we were playing,” the pre-teen became pensive. I sensed she was a little fearful of being punished.

“I’ll take care of this,” I gave Jamie’s shoulder an assuring squeeze, “Should come off right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Jamie scowled and glared at Jillian, “Did you play with the nail polish?”

“No mom,” Jill rocked on her heels as I strode between them, pulling Jenny gently along.

“Okay. Make sure you don’t,” Jamie turned back to Rachelle’s dead drive and cursed under her breath.

Jenny squirmed and fidgeted as I rubbed her face gently with a diluted Noxeema pad. It was a strong chemical for a toddler, but Jamie’s make-up was water resistant.

“Mom’s always so mean,” Jillian said as she sat dejectedly in corner, “You’re cool though dad.”

“Now don’t say that,” I soaked a wash cloth to rinse off Jenny’s chemical laden face, “Your mom’s doing her best. Just try not to give her too much to do, okay? She’s got her hands full with your sister and her job.”

“’Kay dad,” Jillian replied as she caught Jenny by the arm.

The tot was trying to wander back outside before she was completely cleaned up. The little girl whined loudly until her older sister sat her on her lap and mimicked a bouncing ride. For a kid who suddenly had a bunch of step-mothers, Jillian was holding up pretty well.

As part of her growing up, Jillian knew to call her own mother (Jamie) “mom” but she called the others by their first names after a suitable title (i.e., Mommy Janet, Mother Shawn, Momma Rachelle, and so forth, but never an ‘aunt’ unless we were in public).

With Melanie being the closest to Jillian’s age (by a slim margin of thirteen years), I was probably the most adamant on this topic. The generational divide had to be drawn somewhere, and Melanie was as young as I was willing to go—publicly anyway. Jillian was my little girl and that was that—I had promised Jamie that years ago and I stuck with it.

Jenny was finally cleaned up and she sped off to pester her birth-mother once more. Thankfully, something had been done while I was scraping off a ton of mascara and rouge from my daughter’s face. Rachelle’s hard drive was humming but there was a data cable going from one tower to another.

“It’ll take a while,” Jamie bounced her youngest on her knee, “But it’ll work.”

“Thanks sister,” I winked and she blushed.

Jamie kissed Jenny and wrinkled her nose when she smelled the chemicals used to clean up the mascara mess. My Asian beauty smiled lop-sidedly at me and I grinned stupidly back. She rubbed Jenny’s cheek as she tried to squirm out of her mother’s grip. Jamie set Jenny down, who then proceeded to putter towards me. When I reached for her, she squealed and zipped back to her mom.

I saw Jillian peek around the corner at the corner of my eye. I sensed that she saw us in the room, and that we weren’t mad. Jill retreated back into her room. She probably had enough of Jenny for the day and was probably going online to chat on her netbook before dinner.

Kids today, I sighed inwardly.

Things certainly had changed since my darlings and I were teens. Jamie installed spyware on Jillian’s machine and vigorously tracked where she was and whom she was talking to. That, coupled with my occasional “light reads” to know what she was up to meant Jamie’s policy about boys was rigorously enforced—Jill wouldn’t start dating until she was in high school.

As Jamie put it: having a boy as a friend was okay, but a “boyfriend” was not. I wasn’t one to argue with Jamie—even she had more experience parenting than Janet—so I followed Jamie’s lead and backed up her play.

“You know,” Jamie cleared her throat, “You should tell Rachelle to keep all that on a data drive. Swap it out if her system drive crashes. It’s less of a headache if it happens again.”

“You tell her that,” I gave her a small grin, “You’re not afraid of her too are you?”

“No,” she was apprehensive, “It’s just that—well, you know.”

Yeah, I thought. I did know.

Janet still harbored a grudge against Rachelle (and vice versa). The only reason things didn’t break open into open sniping was because I absolutely forbade it. It wouldn’t do for the kids to choose sides either, so that was the one thing on my mind when I knocked their two heads together after another one of their shouting matches.

However, the Rachelle vs. Janet divide was still evident and I was keenly aware who was siding with who. Janet was the queen bee (there wasn’t a doubt) but aside from Jamie, there was precious little support in ostracizing Rachelle.

In the effort of not rocking the boat, Melanie, Shawn, and Viktoriya all treated Janet and Rachelle neutrally. Only Jamie, with her lack of understanding how the others thought (coupled with her not knowing how the rivalry started) decided to throw in her lot with Janet. Despite that (or because of the guilt of it), she’d interact on Rachelle on a more limited (but friendly) fashion behind Janet’s back.

“We could back it all up to tape,” I suggested, “How’s about that employee discount of yours for a small server?”

“Are you crazy?!” Jamie’s eyes widened, “You want to get me fired?”

“It was just a thought Jay,” I chuckled and kissed her tenderly.

Jenny whined for some attention and Jamie happily relinquished her to me. The transfer was done by dinner-time and I hustled the unit across the hall to Rachelle’s place; my black beauty was out that day, having taken the twins to visit her folks. I headed back to Jamie’s for supper. After dinner (it was one of Jamie’s Saturdays—we had a complicated rotating schedule where everyone eventually got a weekend, unless they didn’t mind a small get-together), I took Jamie out for one of our rare evenings alone.

Normally, I refrained from public displays of affection with any girl when we went out as a group. It would’ve been a bit obvious what was going on. Besides, if I paid attention to one woman, I had to do the same for the others. It could easily get out of hand (especially when Melanie started up a competition). However, when I got time alone with one of my darlings, I lavished as much time on her as if we were dating exclusively.

For Jamie, our time alone was a nice change of pace when she wasn’t on 24/7 call for her IT department. Since she made time for me, I eagerly reciprocated my time for her.

Jamie dressed to kill and did it with the minimum of clothing. She only wore a conservative black bikini that wasn’t so conservative once one knew that was all she was wearing on top. My sultry siren kept warm with a short denim jacket. It showed off the killer body she possessed (strip-dancing at home and the gym helped) and bared her lean mid-riff for all to see.

Her jeans were torn in just the right spots (heh-heh) and even with a thin belt on, I could see her bikini line peek over the pant’s top hem. Jamie finished off her ensemble with a pair of low-heeled white leather pumps that practically screamed “white-trash whore”—except Jamie was very Asian** and totally fuckable despite her “mom” status.

[** Author’s note: Some of you have asked why I’ve discriminated Janet and Melanie from Jamie by using the term, “Asian”. The simple fact of the matter is that Janet and Melanie have retained their native cultural language whereas Jamie hasn’t bothered using it at all. Some first generation children do not speak their parents’ native dialect, although they can understand it (as stated in Chapter 3). Externally, Jamie is Mongoloid; however, she is probably more Americanized than the other two “Asian” girls, hence the generic adjective.]

The two of us hit some of the livelier places on Polk Street (between Sutter and Post) and had a relaxed (if loud) night of carousing. Since I never drank large amounts of alcohol (I stuck chiefly to Bloody Mary’s if pressed) I was able to watch Jamie as she took in a few and got totally blasted.

“Gimme—hic!—me anud’der beb’bee,” Jamie slurred as she threw herself on top of me during the cab ride home.

“Whoa Jay-doll, just wait a sec—” I waved for the driver to start up, “43rd and Geary.”

The cabbie started without another word. I calmed Jamie down with a brief touch and kept her pacified and sitting on my lap. I noticed the driver tried hard not to look into the rear-view mirror as Jamie took of her jacket—revealing her athletic shoulders and back—then proceeded to give me a private lap dance in the backseat of the car.

For keeping the cab on the road and not crashing, I tipped the guy a $50 bill. He could use some of that to buy a new pair of pants after ogling my wife.

I covered Jamie up and helped her stumble back inside her condo unit. The Asian beauty was drunk but still extremely frisky. When I tried to usher Jamie to the shower, she grabbed and pulled me into the living room. There, we wound up fucking on the carpet for what seemed like the first time in a long, long while. What a night that was!

In contrast with Jamie’s much improved life—just across the hall from her unit—Rachelle was having a tougher time of things. After she left Craig, there wasn’t a good way for her to go back to her job in Los Angeles without her ex’s slimy attempts trying to worm himself back into her life. My black beauty quit his company but with her mediocre skills, it was tough to land another job.

Nonetheless, neither Rachelle or I were discouraged. I regarded video production like book publishing—Rachelle just needed good product knowledge and how to work it so people would watch it (or buy it; for broadcast, views and audience reach determined advertisement volume). I encouraged her to take some night classes to sharpen her skills and to expand her repertoire.

“Get some good vocational stuff going,” I suggested, “You said you know about video editing right? Then do some more until it’s second nature, sugar.”

“Oh Stanley,” Rachelle returned the compliment, “You and the others are so talented it puts me to shame.”

“Try not to think that way,” I patted her hand, “Everyone’s good at something; you just need to find it.”

So Rachelle tried her hand at video editing soon after giving birth to the twins. Jamie even grabbed some video editing software from her work to help out (Melanie found the cracks to hack it so the license was freed). Rachelle didn’t do badly, but she didn’t excel either.

Rachelle could’ve excelled, but she often tried to goof off instead of putting in some extra work to polish her pieces. I suppose I could’ve berated her, but that wasn’t really my way. If she wasn’t doing what she enjoyed doing, no amount of lecturing would’ve changed her habits—nothing short of complete mind-control.

I didn’t bother with that because that meant one of two things: (A) I spent every waking moment of my life consciously controlling her every conscious action—not a happy situation—or (B) I completely alter her memories and experiences that made Rachelle who she was. At her age (32) she was more or less set in her ways.

And despite Rachelle’s light skin, she was not as favored as one might think; her family wasn’t privileged. Her father was a mill-wright—not a Boule—and Rachelle’s mother was just a plain old secretary. Upsetting as it was, I had to accept Rachelle for who she was (a methodical thinker who got easily distracted). The alternative was to cast her and our two twin girls out of the house, and I wasn’t going to do that.

As heartless as I was with strangers and outsiders, I took care of my own. So I did my best to encourage Rachelle despite her penchant for being a scatter-brain. One thing was for sure, she knew how to have fun. Rachelle was into the little shops and Bohemian micro-neighborhoods all over San Francisco. On one of our days together, she and I explored a small candy shop in the Castro District with the twins in tow.

The girls had a blast, munching on enough candy to give them a mild tummy ache a little later. Janelle even threw up before dinner. This caused her sister Danielle to cry out in alarm (I later learned the twins were empathic, but only with each other). The rest of the day was spent cleaning up toddler vomit, laundering clothes, and stroking their bellies until they felt better. Later that night, Rachelle was bewailing herself for letting her babies get sick.

“Don’t blame yourself,” I patted her hand, “Kids get sick all the time.”

“I’m talking about me,” Rachelle sobbed, “I’m a horrible mother! A failure! I’m hopeless Stanley!”

“Hush sugar,” I held her, “You’re a good mom. And you learned something right?”

“What?” she sniffed, “What did I learn?”

I wanted to roll my eyes at her slowness of thought, but I maintained my smile. She was still thinking as if she was a young woman and not a parent.

Well, too late for that now, I thought.

“Don’t let them eat too much candy,” I chuckled and tickled her chin.

Rachelle hugged me tightly and said, “You’re so sweet.”

“Hey,” I joked, “What’d we just discuss about candy?”

“Huh?” she glanced at me quizically. It took her a moment but she finally got the joke.

“Oh you and your word games,” my black beauty laughed.

The twins were asleep (finally) and we had just a few more hours left before I’d have to go. I stroked Rachelle’s bare arm but she was hardly in the mood (I admit the stench of vomit was a buzz-kill). So, I spent the rest of the day checking out Rachelle’s unit and seeing what needed to be fixed. Aside from being the owner of the building, I was the landlord. While I was sure none of my darlings would, technically they could each sue my ass for neglecting to fix their units.

Rachelle followed me around, and the two of us fixed some of the odder systems in the condo. Because the building used “tankless” heaters, fixing leaky pipes took a different approach. For example, there wasn’t a separate hot water pipe, but a section of pipe that was specially built to be heated. Replacing it required shutting off circuit breakers to prevent electrocution.

My dark-skinned darling got her hands dirty, nosing around the basement and under the sink. The two of us learning something got us back into the mood. When the last of our tasks were done, Rachelle eagerly touched my hands and arms, signalling that she was ready. By then, I was a little too tired and distracted. So we compromised and bathed together. We did a little laundry afterwards and I marvelled how much clothing our twin girls went through. That and the pressure from her job at the Public Broadcasting Station (PBS) kept her awake at night. No wonder Rachelle was often so harried and weary.

Once the laundry was done, Rachelle was dead tired and completely wiped out. After checking in on the twins, I scrubbed my hands, arms, and face—baby bile had a pretty noisome stench. Thus cleaned, I made way to Rachelle’s bedroom and found her in bed staring vacuously at the ceiling.

“You okay Ra-Ra?” I sat by her bedside and touched her forehead. Her temperature felt normal, and I could sense she wasn’t feeling woozy or ill.

“I’m just tired,” Rachelle threw me a weak smile, “Thank you sugar.”

I grinned and clasped her hands between mine. My mocha-skinned mate was lovely even after the twins’ birth. There was talk of having a Caesarian, but at the last minute, Rachelle toughed it out and squeezed out both girls with little trouble. Having worked my gift with Viktoriya, I was (barely) able to do it again with Rachelle. Thankfully, Melanie was there to calm her down (Rachelle tends to hyper-ventilate when she panics).

We sat for some time looking into one another’s eyes, enjoying the rest of our quiet evening. I stroked her brow and forehead, my fingers feeling the little bumps and ridges of her beautiful face. As I did, I felt a mild sense of unease within me. I hated myself for what I’d done to Rachelle, not merely all those years ago, but also for taking her in.

I wondered if it would’ve been better to let Rachelle gone on her own way, let her find the happiness on her own instead of forcing all this on her. After we had reconciled (over the violent objections of my First), the mulatto and I gradually grew accustomed to one another once more. With a little persuasion, much of the old love we had was rekindled despite Janet’s best efforts to snuff it out. Then before we knew it, the marriage came and went. In another blink of an eye, Rachelle had bore lovely twin girls. And yet, I dared to wonder about the possibilities.

“What’re thinking about?” Rachelle gave my hand a squeeze.

“Nothing much,” I grinned weakly, “Should I be?”

“I know that look,” she chuckled, “You’re thinking of something. That’s what makes you so smart. You’re like the Energizer Bunny of Brainiacs.”

It was my turn to laugh as I replied, “Well sometimes it’s just nice to have peace and quiet—both in and out of my head.”

Rachelle nodded as I realized what I had just said was practically the truth. I watched her grab a little shut-eye and before we both knew it, she was snoozing contentedly. I tucked her in, gave her a warm kiss, and after checking on the twins once more, I headed downstairs back to my place before the sun rose.

While Rachelle struggled, everyone did their part to help her. Aside from my beautiful darlings, I had another asset who helped immensely with the children. Shawn’s mother, Laura Benton (she changed her last name after the divorce) was staying in the guest unit at the eco-condo (just across from Viktoriya’s empty unit). Benton saw first hand that her ex-husband had been both right and wrong.

Old man Horten was right—I was a polygamist; however, Shawn’s mother also realized that I worked my ass off for that privilege (for what else could it be?). I also was there for the children and their mothers, and provided whatever I can. My personal habits were also exemplary by most Western standards.

I had developed strict habits due to the peculiarities of my gift: I didn’t drink (alcohol and telepathy were a bad mix), I didn’t gamble (or if I did, I seldom lost), I never smoked (not much more when I started noticing my gums and mouth bled from the toxic smoke; Viktoriya quit long ago and Rachelle stopped at the insistence of the others because it endangered the children’s health), and the only carousing I did was mostly with the kids (or with their mothers behind closed doors).

So it was one night in late 2007 when I ignored the strict boundaries I’d set earlier and threw all my self-imposed discipline out the window.

CALIFORNICATION

Finals in design studio are a little different than the traditional lecture/lab finals. There are no blue books. There’re materials one studied for, but there was also plenty of craftsmanship (for models and such) and presentation (for the presentation boards, etc.) as well as a little flair for flim-flam where one bullshitted the instructor to perusade him (or her) that what you just spent 12 weeks of your life on was worth the grade he (or she) was going to give.

Of course, I always managed to be persuasive when I was student but it was a wholly different experience when I was on the otherside. Being a telepath didn’t help, because I intrinsically scanned each student for their sincerity (it kept me in practice when I did interrogations for the agency).

But how was I to translate that into a letter grade? I needed them to present and demonstrate their dedication for that—just like any ‘normal’.

I got some practice at City College’s design courses but felt they were distinctly lacking in certain aspects. It was probably the student body. More than half were not serious or had no idea what they wanted to do. Half of the successes went on (I think in grave error) to the Academy of Art in San Francisco (AOASF)—a private school that taught (or tried to teach) different aspects of design and techniques without any serious structure.

While the AOASF was accredited in California, it didn’t hold much esteem in my mind. I guess I was still more a traditionalist. So, I found myself teaching undergraduate studio at my old alma mater, the University California at Berkeley. The student body there was a little better (and a little more focused) and I had quite a time toning down my expectations.

I was assisting two senior instructors, so in a way I was doing assistant teaching again. However, fourteen years of this crap had indeed made me a more perceptive student-teacher. I levelled with the crew on day one of the course (in August).

“I know this is probably the first studio you’ll have,” I said slowly. “And it’ll likely be your last if you’re not serious about it.”

I studied them each in turn, “If you’re horse-fucking around, or not totally sure you want to be in design, or have two or more other classes this semester, please do yourself and your G.P.A. (grade point average) both a favor and drop the course NOW.”

Of course, no one dropped out—not with the education system mandating every student must take twelve units of study to be considered “full-time” (this was for financial aid consideration). I cheated my way through college by being “gifted” and “persuasive” but it was still not a picnic for me. I could only conjecture how hard it was for a middling ‘normal’ (like Rachelle) being constantly under the gun to excel and perform.

By the sixth week, the permanent drop-outs were gone and only the desperate, the hangers-on, and the earnest students remained. I was a 30-something (specifically 32) college instructor—fairly young in most cases. Perhaps more exceptional was that I was a heterosexual man in a field that was roughly 80 percent homosexual and 20 percent “everything else” (respectively). Male designers who wore starched shirts, ties, and slacks with sharp seams and weren’t gay were an endangered group in the field.

Perhaps it was the way I joked good-naturedly with the guys, or grinned at the girls, or simply asked—to the point—what each student had to contribute, but my section started getting popular. Out of pity, I even started to build my own version of the final project out of scraps and some materials I didn’t need at DTE (I was able to write that off to the firm as a “charitable donation” hence making that a tax deduction for my bosses at Down-To-Earth). One of the other instructors asked me what the hell I was doing, competing with the students in the class.

I simply shrugged and said, “Ideas should be free.”

I harbored that ideal notion, despite the fact much of the invisible empire was still hidden from me. I likened it to John Carmack’s idea (one of DOOM’s creators at ID Software) that information should be free. Carmack had been an advocate of a community where ideas were freely shared, as did I—to a point. His concept of the internet was similar to how I viewed the invisible empire.

I suppose the only difference was that I actively combatted parties I didn’t like. Mr. Carmack likely never fired anything except his virtual weapons on a regular basis. Apart from what Cristobel hadn’t told me, the only things I weren’t wholly sure about was Tseng and his role as our network’s supposed “leader” and whether or not he had killed Viktoriya’s brother, Pitor.

But back to my studio—rather than simply sharing the ideas I had, I showed my students. While this was akin to opening a door to having them just copy my ideas, I gave them a quick lecture about incorporating the various attributes into their final project.

“Use this stuff as a jumping off point,” I warned, “Don’t just copy it because it’s simply from Graphics Standard**. Improve on it. I know you will all be able to make something better than what’s here.” [** A standardized set of facility and spatial drawings and measurements, updated annually, which architects and designers use in the United States. The newest editions included provisions for the American Disabilities Act.]

“Age and wisdom are not substitutes for creativity and empathy for your facilty’s final inhabitants,” I lectured, “Think of how you would use it. Think of how your family would too, as well as your friends.”

All this “chumminess” did pay off (especially since I nudged the most promising students in the right direction with my gift). Of the twenty or so students I had, they averaged about a dozen “A”s, and the rest came out with “B”s. When the final presentations were over, my section had the highest number of top-ranked students. I was proud not simply of myself, but of the work these kids put in. I gathered my group together and gave them a last bit of advice before I adjourned the final class.

“Look, I know you guys and gals are all dying to take off for the holidays,” I gave them my trademark smile, “But before you do, take good snapshots of your projects.”

“Keep all those pictures organized for your portfolio,” I said as I put a bag of Kodak fun cameras on the table.

“Your work can be in electronic form or an album but keep one,” I went on, “It may be a start for some of you, but I hope it will be a habit for all of you. Good luck!”

I bid them all goodbye and even shook hands with a few (keeping my desires for some of the hotter girls earnestly in check). I ducked out to the office to file the paperwork for their grades, did some more last minute paperwork, checked in on my own projects at DTE, and decided to grab a quick bite to eat at Los Compadres on the north side of campus instead of heading straight home.

I knew Melanie would be eager to stuff us all until we’re bloated for the holidays. Her eight course meal for Zhung-Chou-zheet* gave me and Rachelle heartburn. [* Cantonese: Mid-Autumn Harvest Festival]

The others (even Shawn from her days eating with Melanie and Janet) knew to eat in small portions (the kids were simply finicky, so they’d stop eating when they were full). I over-ate simply because Shawn’s daughter Kady wouldn’t eat unless I did. Leading by example for a half-dozen kids was no easy task.

Now, if I could just feign fullness when I got home, I could get away without spending an hour crapping the meal I just ate. I was so engrossed with Melanie’s cooking antics, I hadn’t noticed someone calling to me until she tugged my arm.

“Oh hey-O!”

I turned and came face to face with a pretty young girl. I immediately recognized her from the class I had just adjourned for the semester. I was so startled, I racked my brain for a name instead of quickly scanning her mind.

“Miss Chae,” I smiled thinly.

Ah, there it was. I remembered her name. Rosalind Chae. She had that same bright, wide-eyed look Melanie had but she was waaaaay the fuck younger (like borderline jail-bait). I remembered this young lady because she was one of the few freshman students who wrangled a spot in studio.

Normally, studio was designed for juniors and seniors— upperclassmen. However, she was suitably impressionable (that or I was interested in seeing how things would turn out) that I approved her adding the course despite the additional workload it implied. Rosalind did not disappoint; in fact, she impressed. She was one of those who got a “straight-A” grade in the class.

While I was friendly in class, I wasn’t particularly interested in beign bothered outside of it unless it was for business reasons. Besides, I had six pieces of tail waiting for me at home (well, six when Viktoriya and I could see each other).

“Where’re you headed off to Mr. Chen?” she asked brightly.

“Just dinner,” I said slowly.

Rosalind spooked me, I realized. Melanie, despite her short stature, ethnicity, and shared language was really nothing like the late, air-headed Aurora. But this little Asian spinner was nearly a dead ringer for my cousin.

“Oh,” Rosalind smiled sheepishly, “Um, would you like some company?”

“Sure why not,” I smiled warmly as alarm bells sounded in my head.

I sensed Rosalind’s excitement as she uttered, “Great!”

We made quiet chatter as we both waited for the crossing signal to change. While we did, I kicked myself for having a dick. Janet was going to kill me. I must be some kind of magnet for young women—I skimmed a bit deeper into Rosalind’s mind and grew hot under the collar.

Correction, my mind yammered. Young women who were also star-struck groupies. What the fuck was I doing?

“Los Compadres okay?” I earnestly hoped it wasn’t. My hopes were dashed though, when she quickly agreed. We headed over to the place, only to find it had closed early. However, the pho (Vietnamese noodles) place next door was still open, so we went there instead.

Rosalind was a sweet girl, but hardly shy. Her final project had won admiration from not only me but also from the other instructors and judges who attended (among them Gracia Kosugi) and gave insightful criticism. Much like Melanie, Rosalind had hair that reached her waist. She was skinnier—almost as much as Aurora was when she was alive.

I hadn’t paid much attention to the appearance of my students but I noticed Rosalind had a small piercing on her nose, in addition to the ones on her ears. Maybe she wasn’t as innocent as I initially thought.

I began some light thought-mining her just in case. I had enough of a bad experience with George Horten that I was leery of being close to anyone on a personal level. I found that she had known me long before I even taught, which was weird since I didn’t remember meeting her.

Fearing that I’d lose control and dig too deeply, I withdrew my focus and concentrated on the audible ‘normal’ conversation at hand.

Rosalind and I talked as we leisurely ate. I revealed little apart from my work at DTE (Down-To-Earth) and my involvement with the (now termed) solar wall being touted by Forrester-Duncan as the next new wave of wall (and curtain wall for skyscrapers) design.

The little lady revealed a bit about herself, how she got into design, etc. It was all pretty boring but I feigned interest just the same (having six wives, I pretty much got used to it).

“So like, thank you Mr. Chen,” she said as we stepped outside the restaurant.

“Don’t mention it,” I grinned.

“No seriously,” Rosalind smiled back, “For like, dinner and everything. Are you going to teach next year?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged and maintained my smile.

“Oh,” Rosalind smiled bravely, but I sensed she was disappointed with the answer.

Well, my answer was the honest truth. While the Company had been grabbing insurgents left and right for those of us at the Agency to question, Tseng and I had been noticing a steadily rising wave of domestic unrest. For this we had no certain explanation, apart from the resentment of the growing casualty lists from overseas. Hence, NSA-PSI was tasked to do more and more interrogations against individuals suspected to be linked with domestic terror groups.

I also noticed there were also more missions that were physical retrieval operations than “hands-off” surveillance. David leaked that shit to me after he’d be asked to grab Mirage a few times when resistance was a little more robust than expected. Of course, I got a bit more out of it than merely David’s own words. I bet Millie would probably be less than thrilled that her husband David got a boner everytime he put his hands on Phillipa. I filed that away for future use. It may come in handy down the road.

In any case, discontent was evident to all but the most thoughtfully ignorant. Even the staunch early supporters of the war effort—like Heidi (Rachelle’s old cheer squad buddy)—apparently had their fill. Moods change quickly if the “War on Terror” hit close to home. Heidi and her two daughters were some of its victims.

Her husband Jon-Peter (an Army Ranger) had had survived Bosnia (Operation Joint-Shield and Joint-Guard) and Afghanistan (when the U.S. officially started operations there in October 2001) only to be KIA when he went to Iraq as a security contractor in mid-2006.

It was that incident, as well as watching how the death of Patrick Tillman (from friendly fire no less) unfolded in such an ignoble and shameless manner that made me think twice about being so gung-ho patriotic in a post-9/11 world. I knew for sure Janet was spooked by the Tillman incident. It didn’t matter to her if the D.O.D. (Department of Defence) fucked-up his citation or the details of his death. Dead was dead, and Janet definitely felt uncomfortable. It didn’t help that it was being blasted over the news nearly 24/7 for a period of weeks.

I suppose it did hit a bit close to us; my lovely darling was just a year older than Tillman. In the days after the details of Tillman’s life came out, Janet would being eagerly waiting for me when I paid her a visit. She was equally worried when I took private calls (she assumed Cox and the agency contacted me by phone).

I reassurred Janet that I wasn’t doing anything outside of the United States. She visibly relaxed after that. While money could be a powerful tool, explosives were too. Both things were highly indiscriminate when it came to doing their job. I realized I could handle money—it was explosives I was nervous about. Despite my ability to “repel” certain substances, I wasn’t able to telekinetically control the air. A concussion or airborne shockwave would’ve ruptured my insides. I wasn’t stupid.

Rachelle and I were at Jon-Peter’s service when what was left of him got scraped into a paint can so it could be shipped back State-side for burial. I found some new faces and very few old ones. Ghandia’s current beau was a hawkish fellow in both his nose and his political leanings. When he made a comment about “killing all those bastards” to Heidi, Ghandia stood up and walked out.

“What’s her problem?” he asked.

Rachelle took a glaring Heidi aside as I smiled acidly at the ignorant bastard. I took him aside so as not to make a scene with the family or (worse yet) in front of Heidi’s children.

“Did you know Ghandia’s first husband?” I asked the man plainly.

“Yeah, she mentioned him once or twice,” the dumbshit seemed bewildered, “Died in 9/11.”

“Yep,” I nodded then asked, “And?”

“And—?” he stared at me puzzled.

I pinged his mind. He was so shallow, he hadn’t even bothered to dig deeper.

“His name was Faraz,” I watched his face.

His expression remained blank until I began filling in the blanks Ghandia had omitted because it only reminded her of the past. The look he wore at the end of was priceless.

“He was a Shia Iraqi,” I finished, “And he was our friend.”

He stood there mute and ashen-faced.

“Good luck with the apology,” I kept my tone casual. “You’ll need it.”

With that kind of simple-minded ugliness running amok in the normal population’s psyche, I knew NSA-PSI was likely going to pull me out of from my life to work over cases both domestically and internationally. I would definitely need the time to work with the agency in addition to my projects, spend time with my family, and learn some new hobbies.

All this while, I was still broadening my knowledge. I had taken up making Andaluvean flint knives and spear points after watching (and being fully impressed by) Mel Gibson’s “Apocalypto”. I found I was able to give Yu-Ching a run for her money when we had a little meat-carving contest. Little Chen was so impressed, she asked (well, okay—demanded) a set of flint and obsidian blades for Christmas that year.

Aside from going back and exploring the Stone Age, I was also boldly forging ahead. The caseless rounds I had stolen from the raid in Colombia gave me an idea to develop a “caseless cartridge” handgun. After three years of tinkering, I had developed a system that used a gas operated rotating breech system to load, fire, and clear (the fumes and heat from) caseless ammunition.

The whole package fit into the palm of my hand. It was a unique (and almost steampunk) kind of weapon. The problem wasn’t the gun though—it was the ammunition. I hadn’t come from a strong chemistry background, and I wanted to use easily reloadable (and common) slugs for a caseless cartridge.

As Tseng noted, I needed a method to neatly execute someone should the need arise and the method had to be a natural phenomenon. Until I was able to formulate and construct my own propellant and cartridge, I had a nice gun-shaped paperweight when the caseless ammunition was used up. Of course, there was also the little problem of forensic ballistics—those cartridges were one of a kind and using them meant discovery.

In any case, I figured that with so much work, Tseng would be called in as much as I to take off some of the load. However, I had been seeing less and less of the old Chinaman with the thinning hair. I wondered if Tseng was really retiring or just not showing up. He looked as if he could give it a few more years. If he was up to something though, I wouldn’t be suprised.

David was more than pleased that Tseng wasn’t around. Regardless if everyone was present or not, with the anticipated amount of work I knew I was going to get myself involved with, I honestly thought it better if I took remote learning courses (like Janet). This way, I could work my hours at the firm, spend as much time with my family as possible, and learn new methods of killing ‘normals’ with what little time I could spare.

But back to Rosalind and me in December 2007. We were about to cross the street back into campus (I had to take the BART—Bay Area Rapid Transit—train back to the city unless I wanted to telekinetically levitate across the bay to get back home). Rosalind was still hitting on me and trying to perk my interest.

“So, would like to come back to my place?” Rosalind did her best to sound alluring, “For some coffee I mean?”

Coffee my ass, I thought. I sensed she was trying to set me up with something. She definitely had something else in mind besides coffee. The girl was so nervous, she was practically about to shit herself trying to get down my pants.

“Sure, I guess,” I grinned and nodded.

“Oh great,” Rosalind smiled back. I sensed her excitement build as soon as she heard my reply.

I needed to play this hand adroitly or Viktoriya would know and leak the details to everyone. Still, my Russian minx wasn’t a blabbermouth like Melanie (who was like a sieve when it came to secrets). Besides, knowing Viktoriya’s proclivities with other women, she might actually demand to be a part of the fun. Still, I wanted to err on the side of caution. I also wanted to try a new technique I had been experimenting with lately. It was something I called “selective memory”.

Essentially, I was compartmentalizing my experiences into small isolated portions of my mind. It was almost like consciously suppressing a memory but better because in “selecting” what I could remember, I didn’t risk thinking of it when I was asleep or distracted. With this technique, Viktoriya wouldn’t be able to read my mind like an open book.

I sometimes wondered if that was what she’d done too. Perhaps she only remembered certain things to keep me ignorant about parts of her life. I shrugged it off. There was nothing I could do even if Viktoriya had done that. Of course, by using selective memory, I’d forget the experience. I wondered if it was a good idea to try this “Johnny Mnemonic” bullshit. It might cause me to forget who I am. Now that was a frightening thought.

You’re probably asking why I was going to great lengths to hide what I was doing. One could argue the whole point of being a “mind-reader” or “mind-controller” was to bang the chicks (or dudes, whatever, I don’t judge) and have the memory of that experience to relive as much as one wanted. Well, for one thing, people generally will remember what they’ve done.

Only serious intervention of a normal’s mind (irreversibly damaging it and the persona) can allow one of our kind to get a a person to do our bidding unwillingly. While it was true I had done some earnest mind-control, it was against banditos and coyotes down on the US-Mex border and Colombia. Even then, I stuck to passive methods to incite violence. I hadn’t used blatant mind-control on anyone I didn’t wish to seriously injure or kill.

The permanent damage aside, I was also in a bind. I had six-pack of pussy at home (Viktoriya still counted even if she was 3000 miles away). And the last thing I wanted was to raise the ire of any of my girls—not to mention the rage of my uncomparable First. I was sure this time, she’d definitely kill me.

Still, I was a man. And if a pretty young (legal) girl wanted to pork your brains out, you should check your equipment (and your preferences) if you refused her offer.

“So you like, have a girlfriend?” Rosalind had a few cases of wine cooler (I know illegal drinking was a problem at all universities) in her fridge. She had gone through four bottles already and was a bit tipsy.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I countered gently. I was still on my first bottle and it was barely half empty.

“B’fair!” she burped, “I ash’ked you fu’rst.”

Since I didn’t consider the girls my girlfriends anymore, I answered, “No.”

Lying by omission of course, was a standard agency interrogation technique. So was twisting the meaning of words. I learned from the best at the N.S.A.

“And you?” I pressed, “One question, one drink. Okay?”

Rosalind grinned and nodded. I wondered if she’d feel the same way if she knew I was calculating how to zap her synapses to erase what I wanted, but leave the rest of her mind intact. I was also concentrating and placing all of what I was doing into a portion of my memory that was “short term”. That’d mean I’d have no memory of this event after a few days, no matter how deep Viktoriya would dig. It was all very similar to what I had done to the Sin Titulo years ago, but far more refined.

“No buff—boyfriend,” Rosalind toyed with an empty bottle.

I glanced at the clock. It was nearly 9:30. Today was supposedly “my day” (a day that I didn’t have to spend any time with the girls unless I wanted to) but going home late wasn’t really something I did unless the agency called me out.

“You married?” she asked.

“Of course,” I spread my hands and smiled.

“But you haven’t a ring!” Rosalind sounded more annoyed than angry.

“We don’t put our trust in jewelry,” I chuckled, “Just each other.”

“Oooh, that’s smarts!” she glanced hungrily at me, “And sweet. I wish I could get a guy like you.”

At that point, I was glad I was a telepath. Most normal guys (well the cool suave ones anyway) would be able to pounce on her line and get snagged by her wiles. Half of those guys would probably be okay with what she was doing—the other half probably not so much. I knew from actual experience that few would’ve been able to afford it.

Rosalind was trying to solicit me for sex.

Now, I didn’t mind sex. I wouldn’t mind even paying for it (because all those bills at the eco-condo were paid with actual money and not Monopoly money). But to actually pare down the relationship to its most basic form was a mild shock; I’d never paid for sex before (and Jamie didn’t count—prostituting herself for the sake of her child was noble on her part and I gladly took in mother and daughter into my house) nor did I anticipate doing any more screwing around after the children were born.

My girls were happy. I was happy. Heck, even the kids were happy (they’d better be considering all the time, toys, and teaching the seven of us vested in them).

However, the current situation called to me. Aside from Rosalind’s implicit solicitation, I also picked up other thoughts that made me reconsider the whole thing in a different light: ‘Damn, he’s fine.’ ‘I feel bad for him though, pressuring him like this.’ ‘But damn it, I need money.’ ‘Stupid school fees are so high.’

Wow, I thought. Were things this bad now?

My youngest darling Melanie had been out of school for some time, and Rachelle had just finished her three year vocational earlier in the year. Of course, with my backing, none of my girls really had much of a problem with tuition and living expenses. Janet and I both made well over a quarter million now (and some of my income was augmented by special assignments) so we never felt a crunch.

Of course, being the archtypical parismonious Asians helped too. Janet’s car was the same one she had back in college—a 1989 Toyota Camry. My own car was even older: a 1985 Toyota Corolla (both of our parents loved Toyota’s reliability records back in the 80s and early 90s; the company can thank Consumer Reports for that). My dad transferred it to me when I was old enough to drive.

The other girls weren’t slacking either. Shawn’s income from Forrester-Duncan brought the family haul even higher. The only thing that stopped us from joint filing like that was it would be criminal (it was only evidence of bigamy) but also highly unfair to other non-polygynandrous families who didn’t have as many deductions.

In any case, Shawn was still flush with a lot of dough she kept stock-piling either into her 401K or treasury bills. Since my plump pumpkin could only deduct herself and that stubborn daughter of hers, I suggested that she should plunk down some dough on a small place for her mom (since Laura couldn’t live with us forever). We did some shopping around and Shawn bought her mom a small place in the Alamo Square Historic District shortly after Kady was born (in 2005).

With a little help from my persuasion, I managed to ease the loan officer into the deal. Hell, I eased the home’s seller to settle it for far less than three-quarters million due to the place’s dilapidation (which isn’t a problem since Shawn and I were in the building business).

All this combined with the other girl’s incomes, meant our family lived quite comfortably. It hadn’t occured to me that other people weren’t as lucky as we were. I put my hand on Rosalind’s and squeezed. I couldn’t believe I was jumping in with both feet into this mess. I definitely needed to re-think about applying “selective memory” now.

“You’re cute,” I controlled my tone of voice carefully.

Rosalind smiled but eyed me warily, “What about your wife?”

“She doesn’t have to know,” I lied.

Well, Viktoriya might if I didn’t forget this. Thankfully, my Russian bride and I had our mind-meld earlier that day. I knew she was out partying with Freya tonight. Despite her offer to watch her lez-out with a blonde rhythmic gymnast, I wanted to do other things that night—too bad I didn’t know I was going to do Rosalind Chae.

“I see,” Rosalind’s tone quickly became cool, “Just for the record though, do you have money?”

“Money?” I feigned mild shock, “Wait, you mean you’re—?!”

“Don’t say that!” Rosalind blurted suddenly. “I mean it’s just that studio was expensive, y’know?”

“Yeah,” I nodded and grinned, “Studio always is and always will be.”

“I mean, I’m not a hooker,” she said flatly, “I just—”

“Okay, calm down now,” I stroked her hand gently. “Want to tell me about it?”

Rosalind swallowed and recited verbally what I already knew from skimming her mind. She was a student, born from Korean parents. Since she was one of four kids, her parents were hard pressed to put them all through school. Rosalind was lucky that she got accepted into the University of California. She was something of a party girl; however, she managed to hang on and get herself together and focus on tasks (unlike Rachelle).

“So that’s the story,” Rosalind said sheepishly, “You must think I’m awful, tricking you like this.”

I grinned at her choice of words. Trick indeed, I thought. Well, I was willing to try anything once if it wasn’t physically dangerous. I could tolerate her for a little while.

“I don’t mind,” I said.

“Really?” Rosalind smiled wanly at me, “I mean I’m being honest— this is the first time I’ve tried this!”

“Really,” I stroked her arm, “And don’t worry about it.”

As she felt a thin trickle of my mental broadcast, she blushed crimson.

“Officially, you’re no longer my student,” I said, “So whatever we do now—it’s fine.”

“Oh, okay. Great,” Rosalind visibly relaxed, “So like how much you have on you?”

“Not much,” I said.

I only carried spare change for emergencies like the kids of the girls getting into some sort of horrific accident and I’d pay out of my nose to keep them alive and well. I dug out my wallet and sifted through the bills I had. Rosalind’s eyes grew wide.

“Holy moly,” she gasped, “You carry around that much cash?”

I glanced at her and realized that “spare change” for me was probably a lot of money to a starving student.

“Too much?” I chuckled.

“Oh I didn’t mean to sound greedy,” Rosalind’s eyes never left my wallet.

Of course not you little gold-digger, I thought as I counted out five hundred dollar bills. That still left me enough to buy her body a half-dozen times over.

“Wow thanks,” she gingerly took the money into her trembling hands.

I nodded and stood up.

“Where’re you going?” Rosalind asked.

“I’m just going to wash up,” I said, “Put that away, okay sweetheart?”

“Sure thing,” she blushed when I phrased it that way.

It was kinda kinky; like I was her father or something. Or a sugar daddy. I laughed inwardly at the thought.

I headed to the restroom and washed my hands and face. I stared at the man in the mirror. I hadn’t done that in quite some time. The young cocky teenager who had been bagging (and banging) a handful of girls way back in the last century was now a hard-faced thirty-something Chinaman. I was in good form, having worked out a “resistance training” into my regimen.

Originally, I did so because the people at Rossi pool were becoming more annoying and less pleasant, but it was chiefly because Shawn no longer cared to go there. Her increased workload (and the kids) demanded that she increase her time at home or at the office.

So my Anglo-angel made the best of things; she traded “parent time” with Janet so she could wade in Janet’s pool while watching Michael, Milhail, and Kady as soon as the little imp learned to walk. This let Shawn keep her pudginess to a minimum (although she was always a roly-poly girl). Of course, she skipped out on dipping and wading once cold weather arrived.

I on the otherhand, went a different route. I needed to practice more telekinesis on the human body to know how much force was too much. By now, I knew I could punch through several centimeters of reinforced steel; however, I was more interested in the thresholds of telekinesis to safely restrain people. Not having many choices, I used myself as the guinea pig (although I was very careful throughout the process). Eventually, I had designed my physical regimen around “pushing” myself with my own telekinesis. In an odd way, I was getting a double work-out—I was training my mind and my body at the same time.

While I didn’t need sturdy, hardened thighs and calves for much (TK-skating was faster), I did enjoy the concentration required to hook myself upside-down and attempt to curl my upper body forwards (and upwards). While I helped myself with a little “mind-lift”, this also meant I had a fairly firm mid-section. I wasn’t portly and I wasn’t male-model taut, but I had a toned stomach and waist.

I examined my face closely. Crow’s feet were around my eyes and there was some slight bruising—bags—under them from a mild lack of sleep. I had shaved that morning, so there was only a faint shadow on my chin and lips. I spotted a stack of razors in the bathroom and nicked one for myself. I was sure as poor as Rosalind was, she could afford the nickel for a new disposable razor. I primed my face smooth for what I was about to do and studied the reflected image some more.

My hairline wasn’t receding though; or it hadn’t yet. I was most anxious about that if only for different reasons. The man I called my father all my life had a full head of hair, although his was streaked with white now that he was approaching his sixties. Tseng though, was balding but appeared to be younger. I knew male pattern baldness was hereditary. Part of me was dying to know the truth about Tseng’s personal interest in me, and I feared the day when I’d find the answer.

“Oh hey,” Rosalind knocked on the door but didn’t come in, “So um, like you want me to come out now or what?”

I considered her offer briefly before I opted for something else.

“Grab a towel for me would you?” I said.

I rinsed the razor and wrapped it in a paper towel. I’d probably take it home or get rid of it later.

“Er, okay,” she replied. “Just’a minute.”

I heard her shuffle away from the restroom, I opened the door and pinged—lightly as not to be detected. Five of my six lovelies were home in the “City by the Bay”, as were the children. Rachelle and Jamie were messing around with a new version of video software (Jamie found that she enjoyed homemade porn—something Viktoriya would find they had common interest later) while Shawn was watching Jillian play dress up with her sister Jenny, the twin girls Danielle and Janelle, and little bull-headed Kady.

A few floors above, Melanie and Mother Benton were trying to teach our oldest boys Michael and Milhail how to cook some midnight munchies —macaroni and luncheon meat with sweet peas. In the living room, Janet paced around with little Norman in her arms while her own son Frederick clamored for attention and begged his mother for a chance to hold the baby.

In other words, it was all normal. I relaxed, knowing my family was safe and preoccupied. I shifted focus a bit and zipped to New York City. I picked up Viktoriya’s rapid mile-a-minute train of thought as Freya eagerly fucked her with a double-ended vibrating strap-on. Viktoriya’s legs were splayed apart by Freya’s weight and my bisexual Baltic beauty was fixated on her “friend’s” perky breasts while she was being dyke-fucked.

Well, I thought wryly as I withdrew my focus. At least she’s having fun. Now I guess I can have my fun with a nubile young hottie in relative peace. Rosalind snapped me from my mental reverie when she pressed a fluffy blue towel into my hands.

“So um, what’s your first name?” she coughed lightly, “Or do you just prefer Mr. Chen?”

“Stan,” I grinned and she giggled. “Funny name huh?”

“Oh no,” Rosalind grinned back, “It’s a classic name. Guys are like all ‘Theo’ or ‘Justin’ or ‘Matt’ now.”

“I’m a classic,” I chuckled and eyed her. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

“Yeah,” Rosalind nodded, “Yeah, so what do you wanna do?”

I sensed her hesitation, and it wasn’t just the mind-scan that gave me the story. I felt it—she hadn’t done this before. I also sensed Rosalind was infatuated with me, but I hadn’t realized why for the life of me. I needed to dig a bit deeper if I wanted to know, but I hazarded a guess that it was something akin to puppy love.

Stupid girl, I thought foolishly.

“Why don’t we take a bath?” I pulled her gently towards me, “Get cleaned up and chat a bit more?”

“Oh, yeah,” Rosalind smiled nervously, “Sure.”

We undressed slowly as the tub filled up. Rosalind wound her hair into a coil and snapped a shower cap over it.

“Hope you don’t mind, but I washed it all this morning,” she said, “Hate to let it dry on a night like this.”

“Ah don’t worry,” I started, “Yuu—” I stopped myself before I named names “—I know what you mean.”

“You do?” she looked at me curiously.

“It takes about an hour or so to dry,” I said and remembered Melanie’s long locks of hair.

“Wow,” Rosalind was impressed, “So you like, know every woman’s secret or what?”

“C’mere,” I drew her close, “Let’s find out.”

My former student tip-toed closer and gingerly sat on my lap. I kissed her lightly and felt my body react naturally to her touch. Compared to my experienced darlings though, Rosalind was rather tepid. As I caressed and squeezed her tender body, I realized that it was her inexperience rather than lack of enthusiasm which made her less attractive. After some awkward kissing, I bade her to take a dip.

We both scrubbed in the tub and soaked for nearly a quarter hour as the water cooled down. I used that opportunity to press my body against hers to get both of our psyches in harmony. Rosalind sighed as I rubbed her arms and nuzzled her neck. She leaned back against my body as I gently kissed her cheeks and neck.

“Feel good?” I asked softly.

“Humm, yeah,” Rosalind turned her head and kissed me.

Nude, I saw my innocent looking student still wore her decorations from her party going ways. Beside her nose piercing, Rosalind had her nipple rings and a shiny button gem on her naval. I knew Jamie once had a naval piercing a long time ago; she told me about it when I asked her about the scar. My sultry Asian siren had it removed when she had Jillian (it’s embarrassing to have that shiny dangling thing with a distended belly) and kept her tattoos tasteful.

Seeing Rosalind so devalue her own body, I felt more than glad to forget the whole mess after that night. After rinsing, the two of us towelled off and Rosalind led me to her bedroom. I lay down, eager to spoon her when she hunched over my cock.

“What the—?” I stopped and winced as I remembered how some girls thought giving head was “only natural” when pleasing a man.

Rachelle and Viktoriya gave great head, and that was only because my Slavic siren would tickle my asshole with her telekinesis while she did. Rachelle though, was utterly shameless when it came to gobbling cock. She enjoyed swallowing my meat whole (balls and all) and seemed to get off on gagging (that was what probably suggested to Craig she was a bit on the submissive side).

However, I never really enjoyed getting head. I disliked the chill of the girl’s spit or the messy clean-up afterwards. I liked Janet’s method the best: body warm veggie oil, saran wrap, and a hearty dive right into a moist cooze. Melanie and Shawn understood and didn’t mind my pickiness in love-making.

Of late, I only made exceptions for Jamie. She liked it because she enjoyed having her teeth right there. Like my plump dumpling, Jamie developed into a biter—she had been directing her efforts on my rock hard cock the past few years and I certainly didn’t mind it.

Rosalind’s technique was pretty simple, if boring. She slid her mouth over my schlong but I felt little enjoyment. She didn’t know how to tease a man apart from taking him into her mouth. From the thoughts I’d gathered, I wagered she was a virgin, and her technical display more or less removed all doubt.

She was on all fours, curled with her head towards me and her ass nowhere near my face. It was great for giving head, but I could care less. I wanted some pussy and I was going to get some. Rosalind gave a horrified squeak as I grabbed her and flipped her around. She calmed down though, when she realized I wanted to “sixty-nine” her. I spread her butt cheeks wide and buried my face into her shaven cunt.

“Mwhaa!” Rosalind cried out as I tongued her clit and squeezed her soft ass.

Extending a bit of focus, I gently began rolling her insides with telekinesis. The results were immediate and rather dramatic. A thin clear gush of pee and cum sprayed from Rosalind’s cunt onto my face as she came in an uncontrolled upsurge of pleasure. Rosalind moaned softly as her body tensed up from the feeling.

“Ooogh!” she shivered and sighed.

Wow, I thought as I tasted her musky juices. She was pretty backed up in there. I snurbed her pussy and knew that the tingly sensation that Rosalind felt wasn’t simply from the rockin’ orgasm she just had, but from my mild mental broadcast. I wanted to fuck her brains out and she suspected it. I sucked and tongued her sweet slice, and relished in the fresh taste of teenage cum.

By now, Rosalind had stopped sucking my cock. She was so thoroughly enjoying the warm, fuzzy feeling of my face-fucking, she only held my semi-rigid staff with a loose grip. However, her girl goo was definitely arousing. My dick was hard and it needed attention. I reached down with a free hand and shoved it into her face. Rosalind got the idea and began sucking me off once more.

We continued for a time before I changed positions. I spooned her like a love doll and played with her small perky titties and little pea-sized clit. Because I could “roll” the telekinesis when I wanted, my hands were free to touch, grope, fondle, or otherwise molest different parts of her tight, young body. I toyed with her piercings and found the parts of her which were sensitive.

“Here do it this way,” I flipped Rosalind onto her back and pulled her close.

“What?” she glanced at me, “You want to do it missionary style?”

“Yeah.”

Rosalind handed me a condom as I sat on my haunches. I unwrapped the little latex disc and pulled it over my erect cock.

“A little large don’t you think?” I knitted my brow. The condom was made for Mandingo—not Charlie Chan.

“Sorry,” Rosalind murmured, “I was in a hurry. I didn’t know, y’know?”

“Well this won’t do,” I was able to easily grab a large swath of the condom, despite its slick artifical oils.

I glanced her, “You have food wrapping?”

“You mean like Cling Wrap?” she blinked.

I nodded but Rosalind shook her head, “That stuff won’t do. It’s too thin!”

Says you woman, I thought darkly. Janet and were fine fucking like that before you were born.

“Well,” I mused, “How ‘bout a rubberband? One of the small ones?”

Rosalind thought a bit, hopped off the bed and came back with a small thin rubberband. Its diameter was about that of my thumb. Perfect. I snapped it (painfully) over the base of the condom. Rosalind bit her lip gently as a smirk crossed her face.

“Cool,” she lay down and spread her legs apart.

I leaned over her and thwapped her shaven cooze with my wrapped cock. Rosalind sighed and I pushed into her slowly. She grimaced a bit. Like with Aurora and Melanie, I went slow. Virgins were not my idea of a swell time. They earnestly took too much work to get accustomed to. I felt Rosalind’s cunt relax as she acclimatized herself to having me in her.

Once I knew she was comfortable, I began moving. The little Korean girl’s face went slack as her lips parted slightly. Her breaths came out in shallow bursts as I pumped her slowly and rhythmically. Rosalind put a palm on my shoulder and traced her delicate fingers over my chest as I fucked her.

Her eyes swam over me as I concentrated on getting off. Like Aurora, Rosalind was a convenient piece of meat. Not quite the meal at home, but a handy sweet treat right before the main course. As I came close to unloading, I slowed down my thrusting. I stopped just short of cumming.

“What’s wrong?” Rosalind blinked at me, “Is it something I did?”

“No,” I shook my head and rolled her atop me, “Give it your best shot. I’ll stay hard for you.”

“What?” she looked at me confused then realized, “Oh. Okay. Just— you—ungh.”

Rosalind straddled me and bounced her ass over my rigid fuckstick. She leaned over on all fours and I could see her face contort into beautiful agony as I “rolled” her insides with a mixture of telekinesis and my physical cock.

“Ugh—ungh—fuck!!” Rosalind closed her eyes and gripped me tightly by the shoulders as she began slamming herself down on my erect unyielding dick at an ever faster pace.

“Feels good huh?” I scraped and scratched her back gently as she moved her hips so forcefully, the bed began shaking.

Rosalind barely heard me as she came a second time, her quim rippling as she squeezed my hardened joystick. She was unable to form coherent words as a torrent of Korean and English curse words poured from her throat. My former student opened her eyes, saw my saucy grin, and smiled bashfully.

“Did you cum yet?” she asked shyly.

I shook my head and her eyes grew wide.

“I think you’ve got a few more left in you, sweetheart,” I kissed her gently, “Let it out. I’ll wait.”

To entice her, I grabbed her ass and pressed my hips against hers while “rolling” my telekinesis a bit. To Rosalind, it felt like my dick was this unimaginably thick, massive fuckstick which was custom made just to fit and pleasure her body.

“Oh god,” she gasped, spit and tears covering her face, “Oh my god.”

I bit her bare shoulders gently as I slowly fingered her puckered little asshole. Incredibly, Rosalind cried out again and came a third time.

Jesus Christ, I thought. She was a sensitive little slut.

She kissed me savagely, biting my lips, tongue and mouth. I slowly began thrusting her on my own accord and Rosalind swooned from the sheer amount of pleasure I was giving her.

“Feels good,” Rosalind panted, “So good—ungh!”

She tensed up, her cooze gripping my shaft and came yet again. By now, I could smell her sweet sex scent filling the whole room, soiling the sheets, and splashed all over my thighs. Rosalind collapsed breathless on top of me, my hard-on still erect and deep inside her. After a few minutes, I picked her up and put her on her back. Rosalind’s eyes went wide as she realized I was still hard.

“Y—you’re incredible!” she exclaimed with disbelief.

“So are you,” I grinned smoothly and licked her lips tenderly.

I moved slow and rolled her G-spot with telekinesis as I smashed her tiny cunt. I parlayed my twenty years of expertise into an incredible experience that Rosalind wouldn’t soon forget. Apparently, I didn’t want to forget it either. So, I shuttered the whole thing into a small part of me. I kept it hidden from the prying minds of both my Ukrainian beauty and my lovely Lady Chen.

Just about when Rosalind thought she couldn’t stand the building wave of pleasure anymore, I mind-zapped her where it counted (just weakly). She cried out as a crescendo of climaxes wracked her body. As her teenaged body writhed and trembled under me, I grunted and shot a massive load of love scuzz into the waiting receptacle.

I rolled her atop me as we both struggled for breath. Since neither of us were drowsy, we talked a bit more. I revealed my love of seeking out new experiences and learning (though I didn’t reveal the more doubtful topics like chemistry for explosive mixtures for caseless ammunition and bombs) while Rosalind filled me in on how her parents (particularly her mother) guided her into design. What really perked me up was when she mentioned she had met me before. Not at school, but long before that.

“I have?” I was mildly surprised.

“Yeah,” Rosalind blushed coyly as she ran her fingertips over my brow and face, “My mom worked at Ferguson Graphics.”

“Oh yeah?” I grinned, “That’s some time ago.”

“Mhm—hmm,” she traced a line down my face, as if she wanted to remember it. “I saw you when I came in on Bring-Your-Daughter to work day.”

“Oh,” I knitted my brow.

Now, that was some time ago. I ran through my list of old co-workers but no one seemed to ring a bell, so I began fishing Rosalind’s memories.

“You probably don’t remember,” she murmured, “I was like eleven.”

Holy shit, I thought. Now I remember (dimly). There was a pretty Korean woman (whose named escaped me) in the old Ferguson office who was there when I started. I barely remembered anything about her save that she had a daughter. Comparing that fuzzy memory with Rosalind’s memories more or less confirmed my suspicion. I gave the sweet young thing a good look over. I was practically robbing the goddamned proverbial cradle.

My heart skipped a beat at the thought. She was even younger than Phillipa Roget. At least Mirage was born during the Reagan Administration. As I sat wondering if Rosalind was born before or after the Berlin Wall fell, I sensed her apprehension as she kissed my neck.

“So yeah, sorry it had to be like this,” the Korean teenager murmured, “School’s just so expensive.”

“Don’t remind me,” I soured.

I had paid off my student loans easily once I started working. Andrew though, still had a ways to go. My problem was that in helping him, I’d leak out my activities on the border. My family didn’t need to know about the agency or how many banditos I had willingly neutralized. Still, I made the occasional $300 deposit into his account, and told him it was from the deli franchise. It helped somewhat.

“So, like, would you wanna do this again?” Rosalind’s fingers grazed my forehead.

To forestall her disappointment, I replied, “Yeah sure.”

So we parted that night on good terms. I called her up again when she was with her family in San Jose and arranged to meet her for a torrid evening of dinner, clubbing, and fucking. After drilling her a second time at a posh hotel near the San Jose Airport, I sensed what Rosalind wanted most with what I knew she needed: love and money (respectively).

I had to admit, the sex with Rosalind wasn’t all that bad. It was just a bit creepy. She was fourteen years my junior—nearly double the age gap that Melanie and I had. As fun as it was, I was worried how much trouble I’d get into if anyone of my darlings found out. Besides, why would I pay a woman for sex when I had my choice of a half-dozen free flavors at home?

Still, I couldn’t ignore Rosalind’s potential. She was talented (in an architectural design) and it’d be a waste to squander her skills. Besides, I suspected that if she was willing to prostitute herself, she’d get into some sort of trouble sooner rather than later. And it would be the same sort of trouble that Jamie got herself into when she was younger.

It would be wrong to ignore such promise, I argued to myself.

“So look,” I took her to a bar and grill after our latest fuck session, “Let’s make an arrangement.”

“What kind of arrangement?” Rosalind looked at me warily as we sat in the booth.

“I don’t mind us hanging around for a while,” I measured my words with care, “But you know this isn’t long-term.”

Rosalind nodded and did her best to keep smiling. I gave her arm an encouraging squeeze.

“You’re a good designer,” I said, “Or you have that potential to be. I don’t want you getting mixed up into anything crazy. So how about this ...”

With that “other thing” (Red Rock) I was busy with, the family and kids, I was earnestly stretching things. Luckily business at NSA-PSI had been so brutally busy, I had nearly trebled my nest-egg I’d accumulated before the marriage. Tseng and I also found a few weekends to do follow-up hits on La Corporacion in their expansion operations in Riohacha, Santa Marta, and Barranquilla.

I suspected the agency knew what Tseng was doing—or he had cut a deal with them—and the D.E.A. (Drug Enforcement Agency) certainly didn’t mind an independent contractor “settling things” for the price of a song. Of course, what we actually took vastly dwarfed the nominal “fee” we were charging U.S. taxpayers (and be glad of it).

Near the end of 2007, I was a multi-millionaire but still lived visibly within what means I reported to the tax collectors. While most of it was ear-marked to be laundered or for family emergencies, it still left me with more than enough spare change than I could legally spend. I couldn’t just plop it in front of my darlings—that was a sure way for the IRS to dig into the family. So I had to be careful with it.

To Rosalind, I proposed a very straight-forward and practical solution. For a monthly stipend of a hundred bucks a day (essentially $3000 USD a month), she was to keep her nose out of trouble, her eyes on her books and academics, and to forget about money until she finished her undergraduate courses. Rosalind’s face positively glowed when she heard what I was going to do.

“Are you sure?” she asked pensively, “I mean, won’t you get in trouble or something?”

“You let me worry about that,” I slipped her an envelope of clean bills of hundreds. “You worry about your studies.”

Rosalind counted the money and then looked at me, “So what am I now? Your mistress?”

“If you want to think of it that way,” I didn’t like the term, but I kept my grin up. I sensed she had other questions too, like could she see other people.

“I don’t think of you as—” I lowered my voice “—a mistress. I’m not here to control your life Rose. Do what you want. I just don’t want to see you squandering your time trying to make ends meet instead of devoting your time to the craft.”

We ate quietly when our meals came. She poked the bits of her food she didn’t eat. As a matter of practice, I cleaned off my plate as efficiently as possible. I sat patiently with a glass of water and waited while she finished her meal.

“Why me Stan?” Rosalind finally asked, “What makes me special?”

We had pared our names down to single syllables. As an exercise in memory, it helped me avoid any mistakes when I spoke with my own family.

“Because you have potential,” I smiled pleasantly.

At least I was more honest than Tseng, I thought. Besides, I also don’t need her mucking up my life. At least Rosalind didn’t know where I lived.

“You think so?” Rosalind whispered, “I never imagined my first love would be my sugar daddy one day.”

“First love?” I chuckled and peered at her over the top of my glass, “Do tell.”

“Don’t be like that,” my former student gave me a surly grin, “You’re the first guy I fell in love with. I even wanted to give you a Valentine’s Day card but I got scared ‘cause of my mom. I still have it!”

“Weren’t you a little young?” I winked, “To be sending out Valentine’s Day cards to grown men in sixth grade?”

“You’re like the coolest guy I ever met,” Rosalind laughed, “You have that effect on women, did you know that?”

No, I tacitly corrected. I’m the richest guy you’ve met so far and I could make you cum at will.

“News to me,” I gave her a wry grin.

“The girls in studio all had the hots for you too,” she lowered her voice a bit, “Some of the guys too.”

“Now you’re just flattering,” I replied genially with a smile.

“No it’s true!” Rosalind laughed, “You’re like the best design teacher they had.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” I grinned.

I knew I wouldn’t be teaching for a while. Things at NSA-PSI had gotten quite busy, it cut deeply into my fledgling academic career. Business had picked up not just in the Middle East and Africa, but also hiretho “medium risk” regions like South America, Central America, and—of all places—North America.

People were discontent for one reason or another, and the United States was being every other countries’ favorite (non-nuclear) whipping boy. The invisible empire wouldn’t care too much about it, but I did. I lived here, as did my darling women and my lovely children. They were all under my protection, hence it became the invisible empire’s problem when I thought anyone of them were threatened. The next year looked like it was going to be a busy one for me.

ISLAND OF DREAMS

Oh, I should reveal more about that “other” project I had—Red Rock. Despite what one may think, Rosalind was actually more of a hobby than a project. Aside from the opposite sex, I often had to make time for that one love which earned my keep: architecture. Rosalind was a fun hobby; as long as she didn’t get too rapacious or intrude too deeply into my life, I was content with checking in on her once a month then putting her away after I was done playing with her.

When I was busy, I would only drop by and review what courses and materials she had been studying. I’d do my best to bring out Rosalind’s curiosity and passion to learn, and made modest suggestions when she felt aggravated or stuck. I celebrated her success, and did my best to help her analyze her failures. But my personal project was something much more ambititious than a mere girl. When completed, it would put my eco-condo on 43rd Avenue to shame.

The Red Rock project started back in 2005. At first, it was supposed to be a simple little thing. As the days and weeks and months went on though, I obsessed with it more and more. It eventually took on a life of its own and commanded nearly as much time for its financing, design, construction, hood-winking the property assessors’ office, and keeping it all a secret from my family. It was also the closest thing to making myself a visible target—something Tseng certainly frowned upon. I didn’t care though, it was one of those things that I knew I wanted to do, just so I’d know I could.

My “other” project was literally an island. I had first heard of the place after the bigamy case was dismissed. Taking my considerate Lady Wu’s suggestion, I took Shawn and her mother Laura for a short weekend getaway on the bed and breakfast inn on East Brother Island. That island was part of the state park system but had a lovely refurbished inn run by some dedicated staff.

That weekend was good for Shawn and me (I think that’s where that roll of saran wrap I brought along got all mucked up in the travel bag and I got my precious petunia pregnant) and at best, relaxing for Mother Benton. The island was just off the coast of San Pablo point in the bay, but it seemed more isolated once the fog rolled in. On our way back home, I overheard from the boat’s skipper that there was a privately owned island in the area—and it was undeveloped.

The place was called Red Rock Island, and it sat in a spot where three counties intersected: San Francisco, Contra Costa, and Marin. First purchased in the 1920s, it was sold to different people at different times. All them had big ideas, or were land speculators. The latest owner was some gem trader originally from San Francisco, but who lived in Thailand with his wife. It was early 2005 when I put out some feelers.

There was no asking price but I wagered the sale price would’ve gone up appreciably. The guy had tried to sell it to California Fish and Game, but it was 2001—the dot-com bust had just occured and the state was in dire straits already (California always seems to be). So the guy just sat on it. Red Rock was only 500 by 750 feet (a shade less than six acres and erosion would reduce that in a few years), or roughly about 70 percent the diameter of the man-made Strawberry Hill in Golden Gate park.

I didn’t want to charter a boat to see the place, nor did I want to risk detection by levitating out there. I simply grabbed a copy of a map from county records, and eyeballed the measurements from the Richmond-side bridgehead using some binoculars. Apart from its unspoiled virginity, Red Rock was also obnoxiously close to one of the many bridges that criss-crossed the San Francisco Bay Area (the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge). Lastly, Red Rock had a tendency to attract trouble-making trespassers from the Richmond** Marina. [** The city in California. It shared the name of the San Francisco district Shawn, Melanie, and I grew up in.]

Still, it was something unique and I wanted to do something with it. As a matter of luck, I managed to catch up with Galen and Kari when the three of us were in Africa (I was on an agency assignment and they were on vacation). They suggested that I trade some gemstones for the island. It might work—the owner being a gem trader and all. Galen suggested that I come visit them and they’d “help” with my problem.

The “help” they had in mind was apparently a series of trades in eastern Angola and the Katanga region (of what was Zaire) that extended into Zambia. Armed mercenary training camps, funded by blood diamonds, were a source of ready buyers for the cut and processed drugs from our tasks in Colombia.

Of course, Galen and Kari were simply bringing me along for the ride. I had already taken my share from La Corporacion and I wasn’t there to do business. However, I found it profitable just the same. With a little persuasion and some light telekinesis, I managed to swipe a few of the largest uncut (and as yet unexamined) rocks while no one was looking.

With a sackful of these stones, I flew to Thailand to meet Red Rock’s owner to cut a deal. He had originally bought the damn thing for about $50,000 USD in the mid 1960s. At first he tried to brush me off, but then I pulled out the first of my hidden aces: a quarter of the blood diamonds I had acquired from overseas.

Now of course, he knew they were blood diamonds, but I didn’t look like anyone’s errand boy. There was also no “real” way of proving or disproving the rocks were being used to fund the operations of criminal syndicates or insurgent groups. In any case, I was prepared to offer more if the bastard was willing to sign it all over to me.

I was unwilling to take “No” for an answer as I had some projects at Down-To-Earth that needed my attention desperately back home. So I pulled out my second hidden ace: persuasion. After a bit of arguing, we agreed to an asking price of two million; as part of the agreement, he’d say that he sold it to me in order to better humanity and for me to practice my method of arcology (architectural ecology).

In return, I gave him most of the gems I acquired (okay, stole) from the insurgent camps. The half dozen pink and gold uncut diamonds (big as golf balls) I had swiped from the Congolese mines were worth considerably much more than the selling price of the island on paper. I mean seriously, he didn’t do much with the place in the first place now, did he?

Once the papers were signed, it made a bit of a buzz in local news. I was incredibly lucky that my lovelies were too involved with work, school, and the kids (or being pregnant with them) to have noticed. I had Red Rock now, and I had plans for it.

Dealing with the three different planning commissions in the three counties was a hassle though. The guys in the San Francisco department I had down pat. The ones I deemed helpful, I had entertained and feted well; those who didn’t often suffered a mild “breakdown” and prolonged migraines until they resigned. The Contra Costa office didn’t seem to have a problem since most of the island was in their territory (hence, most of the taxes would go to them).

It was the Marin office that proved most difficult. They insisted on re-assessing the value several times, despite the fact that the point of sale was deliberately low so I could afford the property tax on the damn place every year. I had deliberately bartered away some gems that would’ve made my six lovely treasures even more lovely (especially if it was the only thing they wore) just so we could keep the “official” price reasonable, but the tax men in Marin were greedy beyond belief.

So I did some rather brusque and heavy-handed “mind-twisting” while getting some of the contractors who’d worked on my old building to start breaking ground. The troublemakers suffered severe migraines when I confronted them; essentially, it was me trying to wear them down—or drive them mad so I’d get a replacement who would go with my flow. Eventually, I got what I wanted, but the process was as exhausting for me as it was for them.

MISTER AWESOME

Growing up, I was always the runt at school and in my class. I blamed this partly on my birthday, September 30th. That made me just eligible for the current class of students when the school year started in fall (the United States had a school system that revolved around the summer agricultural harvest due to its history of being an agricultural British colony; school started in August or September and ended in May or June).

So each year, I would likely be the youngest in my class. If not for my gifts, I probably would’ve developed into quite the introvert.

Well, I did my best and had my fun. Still, I never saw myself as cool, suave or debonair. I mean Hugh Hefner was cool (back in the 1970s) when Playboy was at its height of popularity, but not me. I was just plain old Stanley Chen. True, I could screw with people’s minds and stuff, but being cool or fasionable wasn’t in my deck of cards. Telepaths who opt for the shadowy, loner lifestyle preying on teen girls and boys were hardly the cool bunch.

A couple of wonderful women changed that.

The first was my fashion conscious Lady Wu. She dropped subtle hints on how I should dress when she’d pour over “GQ” and “Ms” when we were younger. Viktoriya, despite her love of long skirts (so she’d skip out on wearing underwear) had her say with me too. In New York, the busy burg constantly bombarded her (and through her mind-sight, me) with fashionable attire I emulated to please my dusky Russkie.

Rachelle too, influenced me heavily despite our interregnum during the late 90s. She was as fashion conscious as Ling-Ling (if not more so) because she lived in Los Angeles, and worked with cable broadcasters for a while. After my dark beauty got her life back in order, the two of us occcasionally did a little shopping therapy.

Without denigrating or dismissing Melanie, Shawn, or Jamie, my newest toy was contributing to my playboy reputation if only unknowingly. Rosalind Chae was young, vivacious, and a blank template for me to mould into a good woman despite being just a young nineteen year old girl.

A middle-aged man in the waning years of his prime with a young woman on his arms certainly turned heads. And despite the brief time we’d known each other, her air-headed, pseudo-valley girl attitude was a refreshing reminder of how much I’d grown. Rosalind was foolish to be sure, trying to turn tricks while going to school to satisfy her tuition. However, I knew talent when I saw it, and Rosalind was talented (in a design sense, not in anything else). Her youthful energy instilled me with a raw desire to better myself even further.

I suppose one could call it a burgeoning guilt, but I was able to spin the negativity of our secret liason into positive action: aside from dedicating more time into my hobbies, I included the kids and sought to broaden their interests. With my girls, I didn’t find my libido waning. In fact, after a day of strenuous activity, I was more than ready to snuggle the living shit out of them at night much to their (occasional) annoyance.

“Geez Stanley,” Shawn pushed me off after one impromptu session, “What’s gotten into you lately?”

“Nothing unhealthy I hope,” I chuckled and groped her massive mammaries.

“Stop that,” she swatted my hands, “It’s not like you’ve been blue-balled lately. Have you been taking Viagra?”

“Now why would I do that?” I growled and bit her cheek lightly, “That crap just slows me down.”

Shawn sighed and began picking at the frayed ends of her hair. I sensed her anxiety and wished I could control myself. My plump dumpling often procrastinated when I was around and in the mood. It seemed that we were both trying to re-capture those lazy weekends when we’d hit the books, did a little homework, and then fucked like bunnies right before and after dinner in the privacy of my old room.

Those days were gone now, and replaced by demanding schedules (as befitting our profession). We also had a responsibility to our daughter Kady, who was getting into her formative years. Everything we did or said seemed to have a direct affect on the precocious little hard-case; it didn’t help that she was also a stubborn child. I rose, got dressed, and stepped out into the living room so Shawn could be alone. Outside, three year-old Kady was doodling on an oversized sketchpad that doubled as her play-mat.

“Da-daa! Look!” she got up awkwardly, her colored chalks threatening to make a nice mess on Shawn’s ivory carpet.

I quickly scooped her and her things up and set them all on the teflon coated kitchen floor.

“Didn’t mom and I tell you to draw in the kitchen?” I gave her a quick painless swat on her bottom.

“I dun’wanna!” Kady rolled and tried to squirm out of my grip.

“It’s so there’s no big mess, understand?” I grabbed her tiny hands gently, “See all this color chalk? It goes on what Kady?”

“The skitch’bad!” she pointed helfpully.

“And where should you put the sketch pad?” I asked her.

“Th’kitchen,” Kady mumbled.

“Good girl,” I gave her quick kiss as her plump mother stepped out from the bedroom, her clothes neatly arranged and back on.

“C’mere Kady,” Shawn grabbed the little girl and cleaned off the chalk powder on her fingers.

Despite Shawn’s reservations about Kady’s stubborness, our little girl was thankfully obedient when both of us were there to teach her.

“So, are you going now?” my plump dumpling asked me.

“Yep,” I grinned, “Dropping by Jay’s to um—surprise her.”

“Oh yeah sure,” Shawn grinned at me wryly, “Like you did me?”

“Of course pumpkin,” I laughed and kissed her, “Want me to take Kady along? Let you do some work?”

“Would you?” Shawn’s eyes sparkled, “Thanks.”

“You want to join us for dinner?” I asked, “Jay’s trying her hand at some of Melanie’s dishes tonight.”

“No way,” Shawn grinned shyly, “Jamie? Cook?”

My eyes and grin both grew wide as I wagged a finger, “You be nice now, and give some support. Melanie’s going to rip Jay a new one for mucking up her recipe. Jan’s bringing a roll of Tums just in case.”

Shawn shook her head, “I’ll drop by and keep Rachelle company.”

We both smiled weakly. My First and my mulatto darling still did their best to avoid seeing each other. While Frederick played well with Rachelle’s twin girls, Michael and (by extension due to Viktoriya’s absence) Milhail weren’t so close to them (not that it mattered much since the boys could sometimes get rowdy) but it was something I felt the children should decide for themselves whom they liked and didn’t like—not their parents.

Shawn, Melanie, Jamie, and I would always try to schedule something of playtime between all the kids. That was fine with Janet and Rachelle, but getting the two into the same room (let alone sit at the same table) was always a chore. It was yet another thing that kept me worrying late at night.

“All right,” I sighed and turned to our bi-racial little girl, “C’mon Kady, we’re going to let mommy work. Let’s go to mother Jamie’s and see your sisters okay?”

“’Kay!!” Kady escaped her mother’s clutches and ran to get her shoes on.

The girl liked playing with her sisters, Jenny, Jillian, Danielle, and Janelle as much as she enjoyed rolicking with her brothers Michael, Frederick, Milhail and Norman.

Kids, I thought wryly. They were certainly enjoying themselves.

Shawn remained sitting on her haunches while she watched our little dynamo tie her shoelaces without help. She felt my hand on her shoulder and she looked up at me. Seeing how she was kneeling before me, Shawn blushed and quickly stood up. I pulled her back and gave her a light kiss before Kady and I headed down one floor to Jamie’s unit.

That just another snapshot in my family life as it stood as the new year 2008 started. I was riding high on many things, when the innocent (and private) fun I enjoyed with Rosalind was turned on its head. I suppose I couldn’t blame her; being young and foolish, she had ideas of her own. Looking back now, I guessed my crime was I didn’t nudge Rosalind far enough, for fear of potentially injuring her as I had with Rachelle—and with my hesitation, things spun out of control.