Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/H/HEAT1.TXT

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                                The HEAT

                                   by
                           James Charles Lynn


                                   1


     On July 11th, the temperature in downtown Willyville topped 94
degrees, a considerable jump from the high of 78 the previous day. The
high pressure area that Bob Katt, the weather forcaster for TV station
KNUT, had been predicting all week had finally arrived. The sun sat hot
and brassy in a sky devoid of clouds. Bob Katt had predicted that the
temperature would only increase for the rest of the week, at least. The
heat wave had begun.

     Three days later the temperature broke 100 and everybody knew the
heat was here to stay. The air was hot and heavy. Those unfortunate
enough to be working outside or without benefit of air conditioning
groaned and cursed the sun, giver of all life and bringer of all
misery.

     Skin became a much more common sight as uncomfortable humans
stripped down to the bare neccessities, if not farther, in search of
some relief. As clothes fell away, so did inhibitions as the human, the
horniest animal on earth (who was actually capable of becoming sexually
aroused at the mere sight of the uncovered body of a fellow human of the
preferred sex! Imagine that!) began to follow the urges that nature had
imbued them and that they themselves had honed to a fine and wonderous
art.

     In other words, once the night cooled off, they started fucking
like rabbits.

     But human nature can be a two edged sword, and while one edge was
sweet, the other was very bitter indeed. Hot weather and its attendant
ills caused tempers to flare where they otherwise would have been held
with discretion. Many great home truths, which had been considerately
unmentioned by friends, lovers, relatives, etc., suddenly came out in
full force with the expected arguments and fights following. Frustration
at the endless discomfort caused human to strike out at fellow human in
a futile substitute for lashing back at the true source of their
aggravation, a safe 93 million miles out of reach. The local
constabulary spent a great portion of their time quelling these
arguments. Of course, being human and just as uncomfortable as everybody
else, their tempers were somewhat shorter than they would normally have
been, and guess who they took it out on? Quite a number of offenders
made their way to the local lockup by way of the local emergency room.

     But all of this was simply human nature, and none of it was very
serious, at least not on a grand scale. Civilization had survived much
worse. But on a personal level some of the catastropies were very
serious. Some lives were changed completely. One such person who'd had
his life changed by the heat was Harold Sykes. And here's what
happened...

                                  -o-

     The moon poured in through the open window, flooding the bedroom
with an eerie half light. The air was warm, a pleasant 75 degrees.
Perfect temperature for nudity. Cindi settled back on the pillow with a
satisfied sigh of pleasure not yet faded to memory. Harold still kneeled
on the bed between her knees, his erection pounding almost painfully
against his belly. The moonlight spilled across her nude, fluid form,
and he lovingly eyed her firm, small breasts, still hard nippled in the
aftermath of her orgasm. His eyes roamed down her smooth, taut belly to
the wiry mass of her pubic hair, where he had but moments ago spent so
much time carefully and artistically bringing her to a powerful climax.
Whatever else you could say about his performance in the sack, he knew
how to give head. It was one of the skills he was especially proud of.

     But enough wool-gathering (bad pun intended). Harold leaned
forward, placing his hands on the bed on either side of her. He kissed
her fully and deeply as he gently lowered his weight onto her. For a
moment they simply lay there, as he savored the full body contact, the
feel of her naked skin against his own. Then he raised his hips and she
gently guided him into her.

     For Harold, at least, no sensation in the world could ever compare
to the warm, slinky feeling of penetration. He thrust deep, and her hips
moved in response. His excitement towered to new heights, and his balls
ached for release. Take it slow, take it slow. He kissed her again and
ran his hand along her side, from thigh to shoulder, feeling, touching,
loving.

     He began to pump in a slow sinuous rhythem, her hips moving with
his. Her legs raised and locked around his waist as her hands moved
along his back. Her breathing became short and rapid, and Harold knew
she was building to another orgasm. With each thrust, his own pleasure
mounted to a new height until finally he poised, breathless, at the
brink. Too soon, too soon...

     Too late. He cried out as his seed shot into the warm depths of her
body. Face straining, he pumped again, one last time, trying to squeeze
what last litle bit of feeling might be left after that almost painful
explosion of pleasure. Then he collapsed on top of her, exhausted.

     For an endless time he lay, gathering strength. Finally it soaked
into his sated conciousness that something was wrong. Cindi lay beneath
him wooden, unmoving. He looked down into eyes that stared back with
cold fury. "What- what's the matter?"

     The anger in her eyes flared as she placed her hands on his chest
and pushed him off. Her strength was surprising, and Harold fairly flew
against the wall by the bed. Blinking back stars, he looked at her in
confusion.

     "God dammit!" she yelled.

     Frightened now, Harold could only gasp, "What... what..."

     "You didn't even try to make it last!" Hands on hips, her bare
breasts jiggled fetchingly as she shouted. But Harold wasn't exactly
fetched at the moment.

     "I sure did try! It's not my fault-"

     "The fuck it isn't! You don't even TRY!" she yelled, "Two pumps, a
tickle, and a squirt and that's all you're ever good for! I'm sick of
it!"

     What the fuck was this? It was hard to believe she had been so
intimate and caring a minute before. Miss Jekyl had just turned into a
raving Miss Hyde and Harold was far too stunned to properly defend
himself. "You mean to say you haven't gotten any enjoyment out of
tonight?"

     "Ha!" She was gathering her clothes and putting them on now.
"Hasn't it ever occurred to you that I might get a little tired of being
frigged and licked every single night? I want a MAN, dammit! Not some
little boy who shoots his wad five seconds after he gets his pants
off!"

     He watched, unbelieving, as she stomped around the room. This was
the woman he had been so in lust with the last few weeks? Was he really
such a terrible lover? "Why are you doing this to me?"

     "You did it to yourself." she snapped. She was fully dressed by
now. Shouldering her handbag, she turned to him. "I'm leaving now. Until
you learn how to fuck, don't bother calling me." Her pretty features
twisted into an ugly ironic smile, "Have a nice life."

     And then she left. Harold stared at the door a long time, his
stomach churning along with his mind. Cindi had deliberately set about
to hurt him in the worst way she possibly could. The only thought that
kept running through his head was WHY?

     The sound of a car starting and pulling out floated in through the
bedroom window. Somehow this sound seemed to bring reality back into
focus and his mind started working again. With a snarl he jumped off the
bed and ran to the window, throwing the curtains aside.

     He screamed something out the window, causing lights to come on all
over the neighborhood: "YOU FUCKING BITCH!"

     He ducked back inside before anybody could see him, collapsing back
on the bed. Nothing was resolved, and some painful issues would have to
be dealt with in the near future.

     But he had to admit that, for the moment, he felt a little better.


                                   2


     The days seemed to grow longer, and if possible, hotter. Bob Katt
recieved the usual number of crank letters and calls demanding he do
something about the heat. He even went so far as to run a videotape of
an indian rain dance on his show. No such luck, and the local indian
community inundated KNUT with calls demanding Bob's resignation for
broadcasting racist material. A couple dozen even went so far as to
picket the station's parking lot. It was noted by many that some of the
placards bearing the station's call sign, the N and the U were
transposed, though whether this was accidental or intentional was
unclear. Bob was beginning to wonder if it was time for that long
overdue vacation. The station manager wondered the same thing.

     The growing membership of the Willyville Nudist Society (formed
somewhere around July 11th) petitioned the mayor's office to temporarily
modify the laws against public indecency so as to allow the nudists to
pursue their own version of 'personal freedom'. A story about it
appeared in the local newspaper, and a day later the mayor's office
recieved over a thousand anonymous letters in support of the petition.
However, almost 80% of those letters were mimeographed in the same
writing, unsigned, and sent without return addresses. Somebody had been
very busy, indeed. There was no comment from the mayor's office about
the whole situation. Rumor had it he had snuck out of town for a long
overdue vacation...

                                  -o-

     For Harold Sykes, the usual lunacy of Willyville passed over him
without notice as his days stretched into a grey cloud of depression. At
work he hardly spoke, and when he went home he drew the blinds and sat
in the stifling heat staring at a blank wall. When he saw a pretty girl
out on the street he would avert his eyes until she passed by. When his
friends at work spoke to him he would always jump, as if jolted from
some private world. When asked about his change of behavior, he would
simply dismiss it as the aftermath of a breakup. But deep inside his
heart ached and he spent long, sleepless nights wondering who Cindi
might be with and what they might be doing and being certain that she
was having a far, far better time now than she had ever had with him.
His depression grew deeper and deeper and he knew that over the horizon
lay only more dark clouds.

     The situation came to a head when Harold nearly throttled a
co-worker for singing "Zipity-Doo-Da" one morning after announcing his
engagement. After explaining to his supervisor (and the police officer)
that he had been under a lot of stress lately, he was awarded with a
two-week (unpaid) vacation and the advice to see a psychiatrist. Soon.

     Instead he sat at home, watching "Love Boat" reruns and drinking
some horrible beer and lemonade concotion bottled in New Jersey.
Masochism was the word of the day here.

     He was idly (and a bit drunkenly) trying to decide whether to use a
sledgehammer or a shotgun on the TV set when the phone rang.

     The harsh, obnoxious sound grated in his ears, pulling him from the
fantasy that enveloped him. A part of him begged to answer the phone, as
usual, to see who would be calling. The rest of him said screw it, why
bother?

     Finally, long ingrained habit won out. He lurched over to the phone
and yanked the reciever off the cradle. Placing it to his mouth, he
offered the most cheery greeting his jangled mind could come up with.

     "Go fuck yourself."

     There was moment's hesitation before a familiar male voice came out
of the other end. "Harold! How ya doin'?"

     "Hi, Tom." Harold sighed. Tom was Harold's best friend and a devout
hedonist, to boot. "I'm doing fine. Just don't feel like getting out
much in this heat, is all."

     "Yeah, right." Tom said in a voice that made it perfectly clear he
didn't believe a word of it. "Well, shit, man, you need to get out
sometimes, before you start to grow cobwebs or something. And I got just
the thing..."

     Harold silently groaned and rubbeed his temples. The only thing he
wanted was to be left alone. One of Tom's 'just the thing' ideas was the
last thing he needed right now. "Uh, look, maybe later-"

     "Later my ass!" The voice on the other end roared. "I know what
happened. Kelly told me." Harold's eyes widened but he really wasn't
surprised. He fully expected Cindi to blab to everyone who would sit
still long enough to listen. He tried to imagine that Cindy was sitting
in front of him instead of the TV and suddenly his hands fairly itched
for that sledgehammer.

     Tom continued, "Shit, man, something like that would've killed me.
Cindi has got to be the most twisted bitch I have ever heard of. Nobody
has a right to do that to somebody else."

     "Yeah, I ain't too happy about it either. But I can't do anything,
so how about I call you later-"

     "I ain't done yet." Tom interrupted firmly. "You've got to get out
of there and back into circulation. You stay in that dark house much
longer, you're going to do something stupid." Harold felt a sudden
shock. What had he been thinking? He had twelve payments to go on the TV
yet. Suddenly the beer and lemonade in his stomach began to churn.

     "Look, Harold, I'm your buddy. It hurts me to see what she's done
to you. I wanna help, and I think I know the best way to do it. There's
a party going on Saturday afternoon at this place I know over in
Squirrel Heights. Right off Wanker street. The whole gang's gonna be
there, along with a bunch of other people I don't know. Lots of
available girls, I hear. Hoping to add a couple to my collection myself.
I think you ought to go with me. Keep me from getting in too much
trouble."

     Harold's voice was thick as he struggled with his gorge. "I... I
don't know..."

     "Aw, c'mon. I want you there. You don't have to do anything or talk
to anybody if you don't want. Just soak up some rays and good feelings.
I ain't heard of anybody going away from a West Side Party feeling
bad."

     "Well..."

     "It's settled, then." Tom concluded, perhaps a bit prematurely.
"I'll be by about noon Saturday, and you can ride with me. I know you
don't drink, and I could use somebody sober to drive me home. If I go
home at all. If not, you can use the car. Sound good?"

     Harold had his voice under control and was actually feeling a bit
better. Tom's nonstop talking had distracted him from the full impact of
the crisis, and his depression was beginning to lift a bit. "Sure, why
not? Should I bring anything?"

     "Toothbrush and a change of shorts, maybe."

     They talked for a few more minutes and when Harold finally hung up,
he felt immensely better. He had felt so alone not long ago. It was good
to be reminded he had friends. Maybe with their help he could pull
through this depression and come out a whole human being once again. But
that was still a ways off.

     In the meantime, he tidied the house up. Lastly he came to the
collection of bottles from his binge that morning. He was astonished to
discover how much of that stuff he had drunk. Thinking about it reminded
him just how awful the stuff really was. He hiccuped once and ran for
the bathroom, hand over his mouth.

     He almost made it.


                                   3


     The week wore on and Willyville got even hotter, if such a thing
was possible. It also got weirder, and many had considered that
impossible, too.

     During the daytime the streets were like that of a ghost town, as
everybody remained inside with shades closed to beat the heat.
Air-conditioners became the number one most stolen item in the city,
beating out televisions by a wide margin. It made sense of a sort, after
all, you don't even need to get inside the house to steal one. Many a
homeowner returned from work in the evening to find a large hole in the
wall where the family's most cherished appliance once rested and
subsequently broke down in tears. However, the chief of police had a
sudden brainstorm that guaranteed a quick end to this new and despicable
crime wave. He promptly instructed all four hospitals in the Willyville
area to inform the police of any emergency room cases involving hernias
or slipped discs. When the anxious media questoned the chief of police
on this new tactic, he simply replied that the results so far were
"interesting".

     In other news, weather forcaster Bob Katt had been suspended for
appearing on his show wearing boxer shorts, a tie, and nothing else. It
seems the building's air-conditioning system had been stolen the
previous night (an impressive feat in itself, considering that the
compressor alone weighed half a ton) and Bob had refused to work in a
suit in the stifling heat. So he had walked into the studio, dressed
only in his skivvies, and up in front of the camera before any of the
stunned studio crew could even think of stopping him. Of course, it
would have been very bad form to yank him off the camera, so they simply
let him do his broadcast. Once he was finished he was greeted by a
purple faced station manager. Despite the indian pressure groups, Bob
was still very popular in Willyville, so he was not fired on the spot.

     Instead, the station manager sent him on a long overdue
vacation...

                                  -o-

     Saturday dawned bright, clear, and warm (surprise, surprise!).
Harold was up with the sun, mostly because he hadn't slept at all the
previous night. His stomach was a tight little knot and his heart would
not stop pounding. He was having second thoughts about the party. Harold
Sykes had never been a party animal, and recent... events... had
convinced him that he would be very wise to stay away from certain
segments of the human race (read: female) for a long time to come. In
fact, now that he thought about it, he was rather frightened of them.
After all, if he couldn't keep Cindi happy, would he be able to keep any
woman happy? And there would be lots of girls there, probably all
laughing at him. Why go?

     Then he thought about his depression of the last couple weeks. Tom
had a point: right or wrong, he had to do something.

     Tom came by at 2:30 and picked Harold up. As they drove over to
Squirrel Heights, Tom did most of the talking. Harold had lapsed into a
moody silence, soaking up Tom's words and saying almost something in
return. If Tom noticed, he didn't show it as he kept up a steady
monologue all the way to the house.

     The Squirrel Heights Boarding house was a dumpy three story affair
sitting in front of about two acres of worn out farmland. The place was
run by an aging ex-stockbroker named Michael Wilburn, who believed in
free expression of everything and threw wild parties as often as the
house's budget would allow. Some of the parties were solely for the
house's inhabitants, but most of them were for whoever wanted to come.
Booze and most kinds of drugs generally circulated freely, and Harold
had heard rumors even more outrageous than that. All in all, it was
pretty intimidating to an introvert like Harold, and as he stepped out
of Tom's car and looked at the peeling gray mass of the boarding house
looming over him, and the virtual sea of cars surrounding it, he knew he
had made a mistake. He as much as said so to Tom, who ignored him
completely.

     The affair was already in progress, as he discovered when Tom led
him around the back of the house. There must have been almost a hundred
people there, engaged in all manner of outdoor activities. People
everywhere, talking, yelling, running, horsing around, just generally
having a good time. A table had been set up by the back door, and there
was somebody serving booze and food to an endlessly regenerating queue.

     Harold looked around and noticed that Tom had abandoned him and was
nowhere in sight. For an instant he almost panicked and yelled for Tom,
then his rational mind took over. What's your problem? it said. You're
an adult, you don't need a keeper.

     So Harold decided to walk around and see what he could see.

     In one corner a net had been set up for a vollyball game. There was
a team on each side, if a pushing, laughing, staggering group of people
could be called a team. Harold stood off to one side with a small group
of spectators and watched. All of a sudden his attention had been
captured by one particular member of one team.

     She wasn't tall, maybe five seven or so, buxom, and maybe a few
pounds overweight. Which, as far as Harold was concerned, made her all
the more nicely rounded. Her hair was blonde and fell down past her
shoulders. Her face was pretty, but not spectacularly so. What had
really caught Harold's attention was what she was wearing, or, more to
the point, not wearing. She was dressed in frayed cutoff jeans that were
so tight they had split along the sides halfway up her hips, and a
string bikini top that struggled valiantly to hold up under the weight
of enormous breasts. Harold glanced around and saw that she had the
attention of pretty much every man in the crowd.

     His heart fluttered as he watched her move, and he couldn't help
but wonder what it would be like to take her to bed. He imagined her
long hair spread out over the pillow, glimmering faintly in the
moonlight, those magnificent breasts moving in slow liquid motion as she
arched her back in sheer pleasure, her frenzied gasps as she reached a
sudden and powerful orgasm...

     Harold shook his head to clear it. Get real, he told himself.
Someone like that certainly already has a boyfriend, and even if she
didn't, why should she be interested in somebody like him? He turned
around and began to make his way back towards the house.

     Sudden catcalls and whistles made him turn around again. She was
sitting on the grass, apparently having just fallen. When she landed,
the overburdened top string of her bikini had given way, exposing her
for all the world to see.

     He could not help but stare. Her nipples stood out hard, the
aurioles colored light rose pink. He ached to take them in his mouth, to
feel their soft but firm weight in his hands. Then he looked up and saw
she was staring directly at him.

     He locked eyes with her and suddenly his face turned beet red. Why,
he didn't know, because surely every other male here was staring and
thinking the same thoughts. She made no move to cover herself, she just
sat there, challenging him with her gaze.

     Finally, Harold turned and pushed his way through the crowd. His
heart was pounding in his ears and his balls, denied their release,
ached miserably. He still had a raging hard-on and kept his hands in his
pockets to conceal it. He felt sick, and ashamed. And he wanted to leave
this instant.

     But that stare kept coming back to him. On reflection, he felt
there was more than just a challenge in her eyes. What, he didn't know,
but he somehow knew it. It was almost as if a spark had passed between
them. Undoubtedly it was just his overworked imagination, but...

     He felt as if she wanted him, too.


                                   4


     Day gave way to night, as days usually do, and slowly Willyville
began to cool off. People moved out of their stifling houses (except for
those who hadn't had their air-conditioning stolen yet) and into their
back yards. They brought TV trays, TV's, barbecues, bedrolls, and just
generally prepared to enjoy the night in relative coolness.

     All over Willyville the night was alive with the sound of voices,
televisions, stereos, lustful moans and the other noises of humans
enjoying themselves outdoors. With one exception. In Squirrel Heights,
all was quiet. The place seemed deserted, in fact. Virtually all human
life in the area had gravitated to one spot. At the Squirrel Heights
boarding house, when night fell, the real party began...

                                  -o-

     Harold Sykes hadn't left the party like he planned, although he
came awful damn close to doing so when he spotted Cindi in the crowd.
But, in the end, the thought of going back to his lonely, empty, stuffy
house was just too much. So instead he wandered around the yard, just
watching the extraordinary panorama of human activity taking place
before him.

     Eventually he found a peaceful spot on the back porch where he just
sat and watched the sun set. Tom came by and asked him how he was
doing.

     "Better." sighed Harold, "I really feel better."

     Tom gave him a wink. "You may be feeling better than that before
the night's over, old buddy." and sauntered off before Harold could say
anything.

     Now what was that supposed to mean?

     As it got dark, the party outside thinned out. A few left, spinning
their wheels in the gravel lot out front, but most just went inside the
house. Probably gonna booze it up good, Harold thought, Although it
looked to him like they had been boozing more than adequetely already.
Harold didn't feel like drinking very much, especially after his binge
the other day. Drugs didn't hold much of an attraction for him, either.
Just sitting there, alone with his thoughts, seemed to do quite a bit
for him.

     Eventually he awoke from his musings and was startled to find he
was alone. With a sigh he got up and went in through the back door.

     The back hallway was unlit. There was the low murmur of voices and
music coming from somewhere ahead. He could make out dim light from
around a corner in the distance. Cautiously he made his way down the
hallway, hoping nothing solid was in the way of his shins.

     Eventually he made his way to the light, and when he turned the
corner he recieved the shock of his life.

     The front room was spacious and poorly lit. But the light was more
than adequete for Harold to see what was going on. There was about
twenty to thirty people sprawled about the room, all naked, contorted in
every kind of sexual position imaginable. And a couple that weren't
imaginable.

     Harold could only stare dumbly. The floor was almost lost amongst
the moving, writhing bodies. There were six people on the couch, in some
bizarre group contortion that made them look like something from another
planet. One man sat moaning softly in an easy chair with a hard-on that
Harold would have sworn was twelve inches long, at least. He watched in
total amazement as all twelve inches dissappeared into the mouth of the
co-ed sitting on the floor between the man's feet.

     The blonde he had seen earlier was conspicuously absent.

     He heard creaking above him, and he looked up. In the rafters, some
twelve feet above, a rope and pully setup had been arranged with a large
wicker basket. Three people were in the basket, which swung back and
forth alarmingly. Harold quickly moved several feet over, out from under
the setup.

     His head was spinning. His experience with sex had always been
limited, and now he was confronted with a full-fledged orgy. It was too
much. He didn't want any part of this. All he wanted was out.

     Watching his step carefully, he made his way for the nearest door.
He was almost there when he saw the one thing he *knew* he didn't want
to see.

     There was a clear spot at the far end of the room. Only two people
were there, a man flat on his back with a woman sitting astride his
hips, moving up and down in sensuous rhythem. He didn't know who the guy
was but he knew the girl. Cindi. Pain that had been mercifully submerged
now rose to stab arrowlike into his guts. Cindi turned her head at that
instant and their eyes met. Instant recognition and something spiteful
and unpleasant glittered in her eyes for a brief second, and then she
turned her attention back to what she was doing. Her movements became
more frantic, and her moans much louder, exaggerating as much as
possible.

     Her parting words rang in his mind: "I want a man, dammit!" Well,
fine. All Harold wanted was out. He averted his eyes and ran blindly
towards the closest exit. He stumbled over one couple on the way
(startling them into a premature orgasm) and mumbled apologies as he
kept going.

     Then he was in a hallway, but not the one he had come from. Doors
lined the hall on both sides. He grabbed one and pulled it open, only to
be rewarded with several outraged yells. Redfaced and near tears from
embarassment, he pulled the door shut and looked around desperately. And
empty room, anything, just so he could get out of sight and get his
thoughts together. If he didn't do it quick, he feared he might lost his
mind. He had to get away, somehow!

     There, at the end of the hall. An open door, the room dark within.
He paused at the doorway for a second, but could detect no movement
within. Empty, thank God! He slammed the door shut behind him and let
the blackness envelop him as he sank to the floor with a hoarse sob. He
lay in a heap for who knew how long before he finally calmed down.

     His heart gave a sudden leap as he somehow realized, in the total
darkness, that that the room wasn't empty after all. After a long
moment, he finally summoned up a weak voice. "Who's there?"

     There was a longer silence, and he almost began to hope he was
alone after all, when a soft voice answered "Are you all right?"

     Fuck NO! I ain't all right, you stupid... But Harold controlled
himself before replying, "I will be, eventually. In about fifty years or
so." He hesitated before the next question, "Are you, um, alone?"

     "Yeah." she replied, "I just wanted to be by myself. I kinda
outgrew the scene out front a long time ago. All the interesting guys
already have somebody. There was one guy, but I think he went home or
something."

     Harold got up, a little unsteadily "I'm sorry. Sorry I barged in on
you. I'll leave now."

     "Please, don't." she said, "Unless you really need to. I think we
could both use someone to talk to."

     Harold sat back down against the wall with a weary sigh. "Sure, why
not?" After a silent moment, he continued, "Would you mind turning on a
light? I'd like to see who I'm talking to."

     "Well," she began doubtfully, "you may feel more comfortable
without the light, but if you insist..." There was a click and a flare
of light exploded into his eyes, blinding him momentarily. When he could
open his eyes, he recieved the last shock of a very long day.

     Standing by a lamp on the dresser was the blonde from the vollyball
game, still dressed in the frayed shorts but minus the bikini top, which
lay discarded on the bed. She had her eyes screwed shut against the
light, opening them a moment later.

     "Oh! It's you!"

(Concluded Next Message)

 ________________________________________________________________________
/                 James Charles Lynn -o- [e-mail]                  \
|________________________________________________________________________|
|  "No, she's absolutely right," said Zeb, patting the enormous pistol   |
|  at his hip.  "This _is_ a penis substitute.  After all, if I could    |
|  kill at a range of thirty meters with my penis, I wouldn't need to    |
|  carry this thing around, now would I?"                                |
\________________________________________________________________________/