Kimberly

Chapter One



It was time I settled down.  I was a "road warrior", a professional engineer who'd made some darned good money over the last few years running around the country from one project to another where my expertise as a "hired gun" for electrical power systems was commodity in much demand and well, frankly, it paid GOOD!  Finally, though, I figured I'd seen enough hotel rooms and RV parks and even an offshore platform's living quarters or two, and I'd had enough.  I sent out a few resumes and then took my choice.  Now it was time for Timothy Duncan to put down roots.

I gave the new job a month and a half before I regarded it as a fit worthy of my efforts.  During that time I lived in my old road haunts, a custom travel trailer parked at an RV park.  During those weeks I surveyed the housing situation and located what I was looking for, a nice two-bedroom apartment in a little fourplex, owned by a local entrepreneur who wasn't chasing the big bucks and the government dollars, so his occupants were a pretty decent and stable bunch.

Yeah, I "reconned" the area, noting after dark what sorts of cars showed up, how many kids were running the parking lot (none) and who used the pool ( a couple), and after seeing what I wanted, I signed the lease.

It was moving day.  No, **I** wasn't doing the moving.  I made money to make MY life easier, so I paid a moving company to go to a storage unit I'd been renting for the last few years, gather up my stuff from my previous life, and bring it to the new digs.  I also bought a lot of new stuff, furniture, new stove, appliances, furniture, and then scheduled all that stuff to be there on THE day.

Naturally when the trucks showed up, there were curious eyes peeking through curtains, and an older couple, late sixties, maybe, came out to see the festivities.

Neighbors.  MY new neighbors.  Time to start off on the right foot.  I walked up to them.  I was dressed in my "engineer at work" uniform: safety toe shoes that didn't LOOK like safety toe shoes, khaki-shaded heavy tactical (you knew that from the thigh pockets) pants,  a cellphone holstered at my belt, and a dickies work shirt, starched, with a pocket protector full of pencils, pens and a six-inch steel scale.  I looked like an engineer.

"Hi," I said, greeting them.  "I'm Timothy Duncan.  I guess I'm your new neighbor."

They both smiled.  The old guy said, "Welcome, Timothy.  I'm Robert Stevens and this is my wife Gloria.  Call me Bob."

I shook both offered hands.

"Retired?" I asked.

"Does it show THAT bad?" Bob laughed.

"And loving it," Gloria filled in.  "You're an engineer?"

"Does it show THAT bad?"  And we all laughed.  "Yes ma'am.  I work at XYZCorp on the west side of town.  Just started a few weeks ago.  Looks like we agreed that I can stay."

"Welcome to the neighborhood, Timothy," Bob said.

"You can call me Tim," I said.  "This looks good.  I checked.  "Quiet, clean…"

"And we like it that way.  My cousin owns the place.  It's well run.  If you need anything, let us know."

"Well, thank you.  Same goes."  I looked off to my left and saw a furniture guy approaching.  "Looks like I need to go give direction," I said.  "I'll see you folks around."

I followed the furniture guy inside and pointed out the master bedroom as the location for my newly purchased queen-sized bed.  Also how to arrange the living room furniture.  And the new big-screen TV.  And a stack of boxes for a home theater system.

And off to the other side of the festivities there was another observer, maybe five feet eight inches (tall girl) tall, maybe a hundred forty pounds, carried very well in the tall frame, dressed in cut-off jeans and a t-shirt with the logo of the local high school on it.  Light brown hair, casually arranged, if arranged at all, length to the nape of her neck, a little curl under her jaw, bangs cut straight above her eyes.

I made a point of ending up on that side of the parade of workers hauling things into the apartment.

Eyes.  Blue eyes.  I waved.

"Hi," she said.  "Are you moving in?"

"If I'm not, these guys are haulin' stuff in the wrong direction…  I'm Tim, Timothy Duncan.  Engineer."

"Oh, I'm Kim.  Kimberly Elkins.  I live in "D".  High school student."

"Pleased to meet you."  It was Friday.  School day, so I had to ask.  "You're not in school today?"

"On Fridays I send my clone…"

"I deserved that," I laughed.

"Yeah," she smiled.  "For that "haulin' stuff in the wrong direction" comment.  I'm skippin' today.  Just Friday tests."

Oh," and you don't think you need to take them?"

"My teachers think I don't need to take them," she said.

"There's a story here, no doubt," I said.

"Yes, there is.  Uh… do you swim?"

"Yes.  Why?"

"I swim every day.  Meet me at the pool after four and I'll tell you my sad story."

I did a quick visual survey. "How sad can it be?  You don't seem to be missing limbs or anything…"

She looked over my shoulder.  "That guy's waving for you.  I expect you to be there at four?"

"Sure."  I trudged back to give further directions.  I spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking and stowing clothing and gear for my life with roots.  Hooked up my entertainment electronics.  Checked out the DSL, configured a wireless router, connected and checked out the TV/stereo/ DVR.  Made a list for a grocery run.  Checked my new recliner for the proper operating angle.  Realized that it would take a while for me to figure out how to fit myself into this new home.

"Crazy," I thought at ten minutes to four as I retrieved my decidedly uncool swimtrunks.   I changed into them, then looked into the mirror.  I decided, based on what was there, staring back at me, that I didn't exactly need a stick to beat the women off as they flocked to attack my studly demeanor.  I was an honest six feet and an inch tall.  Forty, but without too much of the spread that was a definite trend for middle-aged engineers.  Hair was still there on my head, a sprinkle of grey starting to show.  And somewhere in the last couple of decades I added a pretty good amount to my chest and back.  I wasn't exactly a bear, but I definitely had a crop of body hair.  "Well, dumbass," I thought to myself, "MEN are supposed to have hairy chests."

I grabbed a towel and headed out of the front door towards the pool.  The towel and my house keys went on a poolside lounge chair and I dove in.  By myself.   Kimberly hadn't shown up.  I ducked under the cool water and when I came back up I saw a pair of long, well-formed legs walk through the gate.  And with a splash, she was in the pool, coursing from one end towards the other in an easy crawl.

I started doing the same.  I could swim.  I liked swimming, and while I was nowhere near a competitive swimmer, I could do pretty good for forty, and besides, it was about keeping the poundage off my butt, anyway, wasn't it?  Her head came out of the water, she saw me, and then started swimming beside me.

Okay.  I'm a man.  And us men, we don't lose to girls, especially when there's nothing in it for us.  So I stretched out a bit, picking my stroke up from "lazing around in the pool" to "little burst of speed", expecting to leave Miss Kimberly in my wake.  Except Miss Kimberly wasn't in my wake.  As a matter of fact, Miss Kimberly was pulling ahead.  Okay, increase speed from "Little Burst of Speed" to "Let's Show Her What We've Got".  I put effort in it.  A lot of effort.  And was rewarded by watching her feet in front of me.  Ten laps later, she pulled up at the end of the pool, hanging on the end wall.

I pulled up alongside her.  Not too close.  Just close enough so we could converse.  "Well, THAT didn't work out like it's supposed to…"  My chest heaved, re-oxygenating after the effort.

"What," she giggled.  "You got beat by a girl?"

"You have destroyed my male superiority."

"YMCA swim team.  And high school.  I have trophies." She smirked.  "And you made me work at it.  You're not doing bad."

"Yeah.  Thanks."  I ducked my head under water to shed  a bit more heat.  "I like swimming.  Good exercise."

"Me too.  But it's October.  The pool will close soon for the winter, then what?"

"YMCA?"  I said.

"Aunt Jenny can't afford it.  So I'm out until next spring."

"What about school?" I asked.

"I don't swim there.  Not any more."  She said as she hauled up out of the water.

I pulled myself out and toweled off most of the water.  She'd already passed that point and was wrapping the towel around her head.  She sat on the edge of a lounge and turned to lay back.  I took the lounge next to her.

"So you said something about a sad story?" I asked.  "But you don't have to tell me anything if I'm prying."

""Uh, no.  I brought the subject up."

She spoke, not looking at me at all.  "I'm sixteen.  And this year I graduate from high school."

"Sixteen?  That's… uh… odd. Little young, isn't it?"  I commented.

"Yeah."  Now she turned to face me.  

'Okay, I can do this,' I thought.  I rolled onto my side to face her.

"Do you know the significance of the term, 'pink monkey'?" she asked.

"Sure. Not only do I know it, I've BEEN it.  You take a cage full of monkeys who've been living together, change one in an obvious way, paint him pink, and return him to the cage, and the rest ostracize him."

"You've been one?" she asked.

"Yeah.  High school. I was a nerd before nerds were invented.  Why do you think I'm an engineer now?  So what's YOUR story?"

"I've skipped two grades in school.  I have a 4.0 average.  I can TEACH most of what the teachers are trying to teach. And I'm not, shall we say, socially active."  She sighed audibly.

"I can sympathize," I said.  "But you know what they say about sympathy…"

"Yeah.  Where you can find it.  It's in the dictionary between 'shit' and 'syphilis'."  Another smirk.

I laughed.  "Kimberly…"

"Please.  Kim, okay?"

"Okay, Kim.  If this relationship is gonna work, you have to stop beating me.  You outswim me, and you're stealing my jokes."

This got me a tinkling laugh, eyes included.  "Oh, I didn't know we had a 'relationship', sir…"

"Oh, not a 'relationship' relationship…"  I smiled.  "So how's Kim doing as the pink monkey?"

"Not real good sometimes.  I don't have a lot in common with my own age group."

"That's because you lack peers, lady.  You have age in common.  But that's all.  And you see things differently.  You either dumb down, or you do without."

"I'm doing without.  Friends. Oh, there are some girls and guys that I talk to, but that's easy to do when all you have to do is get through the pause between classes and before and after school.  Past that, I don't fit in.  It's like I'm the wrong species or something."

"Maybe you are."  I sighed.  "I can tell you stories.  It's not easy being the pink monkey.  Even people who think that the absolute most wonderful thing in the world is a cute pink monkey get tired of them after a while…"

"Sounds like you have a story…" she gazed at me.

"A few.  But this is YOUR turn."  And sixteen, and what in the WORLD was I doing?  "You said something about your aunt?"

"I live here with her," Kim said.  "Mom's out of the picture.  And don't even ask about a 'dad'.  Mom saw to that pretty good."  Serious look darkened that pretty teen face.  Okay, maybe not 'pretty' as in 'look who's Miss October' but pretty as in 'you know, she's pleasant to look at' pretty.  Okay.  Cute!

She continued.  "D'you want to hear this?  I met you what, three hours ago?"

"Four," I said, "But who's counting?"

Giggle.  "Touche'!" 

"You talk, I listen.  It's called 'conversation'.  Some people really like it."

"Okay.  I live with my aunt.  That's Virginia Elkins.  Called 'Jenny'.  She took me in.  Only living relative and all that."

"What about your mom?"

"I was getting to that.  Mom's, uh… in the care of the state.  For six to ten years if she gets time off for good behavior."

"Prison?"

"Yep.  I am the only daughter of a convicted felon.  Let's see… Drugs.  Prostitution.  Auto theft." Sigh.  "Gee!  I'm sooo proud.  And the whole school knows…"

"Put another coat of paint on the pink monkey…"

"Talk about." Another sigh. "So that gives a whole new set of handles for them to toss at me.  'Yer mamma's in jail' isn't exactly what gets you invited to the good parties.  Anyway, so when they sentenced Mom, I moved in with Aunt Jenny.  And that's a whole different set of laughs."

"Ooooo-kayyy," I said.  I determined that this was my time to just keep my mouth shut and listen.

"Let me paint a picture of Aunt Jenny.  Lots of flannel men's shirts. Jeans.  Sensible shoes."

"Bingo!"

"You got it, Timmy," she said.  "My aunt is Lebanese."

I shook my head.  "Owwwww..."

She smiled.  "Sometimes I think …  Oh, I don't know… what is going to happen next.  But really, Aunt Jenny's pretty good to me, compared with living with Mom.  And none of Aunt Jenny's 'friends' have hit on me.  I can't say that about Mom's.  One of THEM went to jail."

"Jail?" I asked.

"Yeah.  After he got out of the hospital.  And I'm thinking that he's got quite the conversation starter in the showers."

"Oh, I HAVE to hear this," I said.

"A year and a half ago.  I was just fourteen.  Sleeping in my room.  Mom's "friend" walked in, thinking that since Mom was still out "working", he'd try his luck with a little young stuff."

"You have my undivided intention."

"And he came in my room naked, thinking that just the sight of his scabby naked ass would turn me uncontrollable with lust.  He crawled in bed with me and started trying to kiss me."  She had a far away look in her eyes.  "Poor guy.  I guess he thought that when I grabbed his dong with my left hand, he was on his way to heaven.  My right hand had a Ginsu knife.  He was layin' on the floor bleeding and screaming when I called 9-1-1."

I cringed inside, as any man might, at the thought.

She continued, "I understand that they reattached things for cosmetic purposes." Little giggle. "And a week later, Mom got picked up for good.  Aunt Jenny likes the story about the Ginsu."

"Ouch.  Remind me not to piss you off."

She laughed.  "I'm not a violent person, Tim," she said. "And just for the record, Aunt Jenny's not one of those man-hatin' lesbians.  She actually dated men. Just doesn't… you know…"

"Okay," I said.  I sat up.  Stomach was thinking about dinner.  I said so.  

"What do you usually do for dinner?" she asked.

"I usually have something in the house.  I can cook up quickie meals, or I do a big batch of something and freeze some, but it's looking like a restaurant this evening.  Tomorrow is the big 'get everything you need' grocery shopping day.  What about you?"

"Probably soup and sandwich tonight.  Friday night is a date night for Aunt Jenny."

A light bulb went off in my head.  Here was an alternative to the 'go sit in a restaurant by yourself' thing.  "Say, would your Aunt Jenny object to me taking you out for dinner?"

"You're assuming that I want to go out to eat with you…"

My heart fell.  Of course I was assuming.  But I didn't mean anything but a shared meal.  But I'd forgotten a whole range of dichotomies:  Male-female.  Young-old.

She broke into a grin.  "Gotcha!  I don't think she'll object at all.  Let's go ask her."

And that's how I met Aunt Jenny: me clad in baggy swimtrunks and sandals, with a towel over my shoulder, my right hand clasped tightly in Kim's. Eexactly where SHE had captured it.

And Kim was on her game.  She led me into the living room.  "Aunt Jenny," she squealed.  "Look what **I** found!  He followed me home.  Can I keep ‘im?!?"

Her Aunt Jennifer eyed me quickly.  "No, you may NOT!  They're noisy, they pee on the carpet and you can't house break them!"  So that's where THAT attitude came from.

"Hi," I said.  "I'm Tim Duncan.  I just moved into "B".  I thought I was asking if Kim could come have dinner with me."  I looked at Jenny.  Five-four.  Maybe a hundred and fifty, plump, but not grossly so.  Face soft and round, expressive brown eyes under a head of thick brown hair, cut short, not manly short, but shorter than Kim's, and another set of bangs.  Jen was cute.  Thirtyish.

Jenny laughed.  "Sorry.  Kim and I don't cut much slack.  Are you going out dressed like that?"

"Aunt Jennyyyyyyy," Kim giggled.  "Be nice.  Of course we're changing."

"Then go.  And while you're looking at Little Miss Sweet Sixteen, ask her about Ginsu knives."

I winced.  Visibly.

"Oh!  She's told you already…"  Jenny's turn to smirk.

"So," said Kim, "where are we going?  So I'll know how to dress."

I named an Italian restaurant.  "That is, if you like Italian."

"Kind of expensive, don'tcha think?" Kim asked.  Jenny looked at me.

"Uh, I invited you.  That means **I** worry about the cost.  And I'm not worried."

Jenny said, "Then go.  And remember, I'm out runnin' the roads tonight, and you'll NEVER know when or where I'll show up.  Now let me have a minute with Tim, babe."

Kim left the room.  Jenny turned to me.  "Okay, buster, lemme tell you something.  That kid is SIXTEEN.  She might be legal in this state, but she ain't available, if you know what I mean."

"Uh… Jenny…  This isn't about THAT!"  I tried defending myself.

"Maybe not, but despite the fact that her momma's a whore and a druggie, Kim's a good kid, and she's gifted, and I don't know, maybe vulnerable.  Don't make me have to get a Ginsu myself.  I know where you live now." She paused, then a wry smile appeared.  "She can use friends.  Be one, okay?"

"Okay," I said.

"Kim," Jenny hollered.  "I'm cutting you two loose.    Bring your phone.  You've got my number…"

Kim bounced back into the living room, still in her bathing suit.  "Thanks, Aunt Jenny."  She turned to me. "Gimme an hour, okay?  Shower, and all that stuff."

"Sure," I said.  "See you in an hour."  I looked at Jenny and smiled.  "And nice meeting you, too."

Jenny smiled back.  "Did Kim mention…"

"Yeah.  So?" I said.

"Oh, I dunno.  Some guys get all weird…"

"Nope.  You're you.  I'm me.  Kim's Kim.  Wonderful world. Kumbayah and all that."

"Hah!  You're fun!  See you around, then, Mister Tim Duncan."  And she let me leave.

An hour later I knocked on Kim's door.  It opened, and there was Kim.  Yep.  Let's see.  Five foot eight.  Hundred and forty.  Light brown hair, two shades darker than blonde, cleaned, brushed to perfection, shiny.  If there was any make-up involved, she recognized that she needed make-up like noontime needed a night-light.  And a dress.  Simple. Straight skirt, stopping at a few inches above a knee, pumps matching.  Purse clasped in front of her with both hands.  A tiny diamond stud in each ear.  And all of it with a beautiful smile.  

A word came to mind:  'WOW'.

"Are you ready?" I asked.

"Do I look ready?" she answered.

"Yes, my dear, you do.  Now where's the Queen of England?"

Giggle.  "I don't know about the Queen of England, but Aunt Jenny knows this guy…"

"You're a horrible person," I laughed.  "Talking about our diverse society like that…"

"Pfffttt!" she said.  "He's the one who calls himself 'queen'.  I just repeated it."

"Let's go, my dear.  I think there's a linguine with clam sauce waiting for me."

"Then let's go!" she smiled, and led me towards the parking lot, reaching to hold my hand. 

I noted the hand-holding thing for the second time today.

I retrieved my keys and beeped the doors open on my big pickup truck.  She walked around and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Wow! Big truck!"

"Yeah.  I use it to tow a travel trailer.  You need a big truck to do that.  Next week I'm buying something smaller."

"Oh," she said.  "I'm not being negative."

"And I didn't take it that way.  The truck's a tool.  If you want to pull a thirty-five foot travel trailer long distances, this is what you need.  Now I need to run around town in a more economic manner, so we go car-shopping.  This thing goes into storage."

"Oh," Kim said, "so what are 'WE' going shopping for?"

"I'm thinking a small SUV.  Oh, do YOU have your license?"  And yes, I noted the term 'we'.

"Sure do.  Aunt Jenny's a good teacher.  Why?"

"Just nice to know.  In case I need help moving vehicles around."

"I've never driven anything like this," she said.

"It's a truck.  Turn the wheel.  Push on the pedal.  It goes.  Push the OTHER pedal, it stops.  Don't try to drive it in close spaces until you get used to the size."

We maneuvered that damned truck into the parking lot of the restaurant and went inside.  Salads, soup, main course.  She had lasagna and I had the linguine with clam sauce.

"Am I being impolite if I ask you for a bite?  I've never tried that."  Those blue eyes.  And well-mannered, too, maybe not ready for the big table at Buckingham, but then, neither was I.  But definitely good enough for anything in THIS town.  And most others.

"No, please!"  I pushed my plate toward her.  "You'll never know unless you try."

She picked up a forkful and tried it.

"Well?" I asked.

"That's good!"

"And you were expecting?" I said.

"I don't know what I was expecting.  This is good."  She smiled.

"Then you can order it next time."

She sipped her iced tea.  "Uh, this place isn't on the list.  Aunt Jenny's budget, you know."

"So this is the last time I get to bring you out for dinner?"

"I hope not," she smiled.  "We're having a good time."

We were.  I found in a sixteen year old girl a wry sense of humor, horrible puns and plays on words, a knowledge of current events and a love of technology, as in "Tee-hee, I saw when you fired up your wireless router.  And you protected it.  Spoilsport!"

"OH, really?  How was the signal?"  I asked.

"A couple bars, sometimes three.  Good enough.  We don't have wireless.  But I have an old laptop I bought with baby-sitting money…"

"And you're hard-wiring it?"

"Yeah," she said.  "Kinda ties me down.  Aunt Jenny can't afford a wireless router."

"Forty bucks?  And I've got an old one…  Or I could get your MAC address and enable you on mine."

"Kinda trusting, aren't you, Tim?"

"How so?"

"I could use your network to do nasty things."

I looked at her.  "I guess that is kind of trusting.  But you seem to be somebody I can trust.  And it's not like you can't go on my computer and see what's on the hard drive, including everywhere I've been on the internet, if you're like half a hacker."

"What?  No kiddie porn?"

"Hardly," I said.  "That's not to say that some of my oddball google searches didn't send me to some places that made my skin crawl before I clicked out."

Grinning, she said, "I know about THAT.  I'm talking about a directory on your computer that says "Fat young boys 2008" or something."

"I am horribly conventional, little lady."

"Horribly?"  Her eyebrow raised.

"And celibate.  By choice."  I said, treading onto thinner ice.

"No girlfriends?  Wives?  Friends with privileges?"

"No girlfriends.  One ex-wife in California.  You may meet our joint offspring at Christmas IF her mom deigns to let me get her.  And as far as the last, nuh-uh.  I am horribly old-fashioned.  I cannot separate the physical aspects of a relationship from the mental and spiritual."

"That's unusual these days.  I figured that you, good-looking, good job, et cetera, you'd have all kinds of women."  She looked at me with renewed interest.

"I guess it is.  I've had offers.  And after the divorce, I admit I, uh…  Am I supposed to be having this conversation with YOU?"

"Sure you are," she said coolly.  "You, sir, are a Responsible Adult Role Model.  So 'mentor' away."

The waiter cleared our plates and asked about dessert.

"Kim, have you ever had tiramisu?"

"No, what's that?"

A delightfully rich and tasty dessert.  But you have to like coffee."

"I love coffee."

To the waiter I said, "Give us a tiramisu.  And two forks."

He left.  Kim propped her chin in her hand, attentive.  "So, Responsible Adult Role Model, where were we?  Oh, yeah, you were explaining away your profligate lifestyle of sex and debauchery…"  Said with a more wicked grin than I expected.

"Okay.  After the divorce, I sort of died for a while.  Friends dragged me out of my cave and onto a dating scene that I wasn't ready for.  And women who were just as predatory as a lot of men.  And some of ‘em thought that a couple of bounces in the hay would snag ‘em an engineer for life."

"Sounds like you could've gotten a good deal.  That's what I think," she said.

"Nope.  Been there.  Got the scars to prove it.  If, and that's a big 'if', I get married again, it's going to be somebody whose idea of literature means more than having a subscription to 'People' magazine, whose musical tastes have a big wedge of classical, and who has a vocabulary including words with more than two syllables."

"Wow!  That's quite a speech."

The tiramisu came.  I watched her face as she tasted the first tentative bite, as trepidation morphed into a smile.  "Hey, this is GOOD!"  I signaled the waiter for a second portion.

The meal ended and I flipped a piece of plastic to cover the bill, including a good tip.  I was coming back here.  From the pristine condition of Kim's dessert plate, I surmised that I would not have to twist her arm to get her back here with me.

We walked out to the truck.  She got in on the passenger side, and I got behind the wheel.  We buckled in.

"D'you mind if I listen to your radio?" she asked.

"No, go right ahead."

She turned it on and the sounds coming out of the speaker were from a CD.  Boccherini.  I stole a glance.  I was expecting a teeny-bopper "Yuck!"  I was wrong.

Her eyes lit up.  "Boccherini.  Italian baroque.  String quintet in E Major…" she sighed.  "Even Aunt Jenny thinks I'm strange for listening to this."

A gong was going off in my head.

She turned the music off and said, "Antidisestablishmentarianism."

"What?"  I blurted.

"Twelve syllables, thankyouverymuch.  Just showing you that you shouldn't give up.  I'm sure there's somebody out there that meets your requirements.

"I'm not complaining, Kim.  I have a pretty good life, you know…"

"Yeah, I imagine so.  But isn't it just possible that somewhere there's some lady who's having a pretty good life, too, and the two of you'd fit together, and change 'pretty good' to fairy tale?"

"I suppose it's possible.  But I'm not going to tear myself apart in the search.  And I get to make my own rules."

"Yes, you do."  We pulled into the apartment parking lot.  "Look!" she said.  "Aunt Jenny's car is here.  I wonder if she's… uh, yeah, the living room light is on…  Let's go see what's up."

"Uh, babe," I said, "If she's got a friend…"

"Oh, you old thing.  It's not like that.  If she's got her friend, they're sitting in the living room talking, or the light wouldn't be on.  She's VERY discrete.  It's not like leather and harnesses and whips and stuff."

"What do YOU know about leather and harnesses?"

"A girl gets quite an education when her mom is a notorious slut."
