Author: Bulgroz the Third
Title: The Adjusters #34 - A Wedding and an Investigation
Keywords: MF, FF, mc
Posted: November 1, 2012
Edited: November 1, 2012




			  The Adjusters #34


		    A Wedding and an Investigation



(Ravenswood, West Virginia. Six months ago.)


He is fuming by the time he reaches the church. The traffic on the
Interstate was insane, and he had all sorts of difficulty finding the
church, the address he had scribbled in his notebook had smudged, and
he ended up looking for Cross Avenue rather than Crooks Avenue. And he
did not want to stop and ask for directions, not wanting to attract
attention.

Not that he thinks that what he is doing is wrong--but heathens so
rarely understand when confronted by designs beyond their comfort
zone.

He steps out of his car, and freezes. Guests are coming out of the
chapel, large smiles on their faces, congratulating each other.

He is too late. The wedding is already finished.

He swears under his breath. He is too late. And he cannot hit the
reception afterwards, because Lizzie has told him that the reception
is a tightly guarded affair--one of the guests is a well-known local
politician.

He will have to abort. He will have to forget about this and go back
home. But he has taken his pills already, and his shaft is throbbing
in his pants, demanding release. And he has primed himself up in the
car, looking ahead to the impregnation ceremony that was to take
place, to the joy of exploding deep in the womb of his next chosen
Vessel.

Maybe not all is lost. He puts on a smile, and advances towards a
group of older guests slowly going down the steps of the church. He
always has better luck with the older folks.

"Excuse me," he says to a woman that has to be in her eighties, on the
arm of a woman that has to be in her sixties. "Did I miss the
ceremony?"

The younger woman looks at him with a slight frown. Is she suspicious?
"Are you with the groom's party?"

She must be with the bride. "Yes. I'm an old friend of the family." Be
vague. "Haven't seen them in forever. I had to move away. When he
wrote to tell me of this joyous occasion, I made sure I could clear my
schedule, but..."

"Don't mind Gwen," says the older woman, "she's a sour puss. Jealous
because she's an old spinster--"

"I'm not!" protests Gwen, turning to the older woman. "Jealous, that
is. I think it's wonderful."

The older woman ignores her. "In any event, yes, the ceremony is
done. And quite nice it was, too. I'm delighted for my great
niece. But you will be able to join us at the reception, yes?" Her
eyes are kind, and he feels a ping of guilt at using her. But then
again, her relative will bear his Offspring, an honor that will
reflect on the whole family.

"Sadly, I can't attend. My father is in hospital--kidney cancer--and
he could go anytime, and I do not want him to be alone. So I have to
return shortly. Do you know where I could find the bride and groom, so
I can congratulate them?"

The older woman pats him on the arm. "I'm sorry. I'm sure your father
appreciates what a good son he has." Wendy's back straightens at the
comment, and she looks about to protest once more. The older woman
ignores her again. "Sandra and her new husband are out back for
pictures. You should be able to find them easily."

He thanks them both, profusely, and excuses himself before heading
down the path that brings him around the back of the church. He walks
quickly, but without rushing. He had planned on everyone being busy
with the wedding preparations, as opposed to everyone just lounging
around, basking in the Saturday afternoon sunlight.

He spots the couple with the photographer and her assistant by an
imposing tree in the courtyard of the church. There is no convenient
place to hide, so he stays near the rear wall of the church, in the
shadows, hoping that they will be too distracted to notice him. He
should really abort this outing, but the hardness in his trousers is
screaming loudly for release. His seed wants--no, needs--to
propagate. He can do this.

His arousal is not helped by looking at the bride--Sandra--who is
trying to follow the photographer's suggestions and sit, with her new
husband's help, on the lowest branch of the tree, a mere two feet from
the ground. The tall redhead is hindered by the long sleek wedding
dress she is wearing, which clings to her curves like the most
revealing of evening dresses. The long pencil skirt is wrapped tight
around her legs, preventing her from moving as she truly wants. Her
husband has to heft her up, which she lets him do with much
giggles. They look so in love even he has to stop and appreciate it.

After a few pictures with Sandra on the tree with her arms wrapped
around her husband's neck, the opportunity he has been waiting for
arrives. When the photographer's assistant plants her sunshade into
the grass and says something to the photographer before taking off for
the church, it is time to act.

He is near the door. It is a simple matter to reach out with an
"Excuse me, Miss" as she passes by him, and lightly touch her
shoulder. That touch is enough, as it always is. The expected
sensation travels down his arm and tingles in his finger tips. She
stops, looks confused for a second before turning towards him with
wide almost adoring eyes. She seems about to say something. He
interrupts her before leading her inside.

"Don't say a word. You will continue doing what you were about to
do. But when you get back to the bride and groom, you will tell the
bride privately that her aunt Gwen wants to see her for a few minutes
in the church, alone." Gwen is the only person whose name he knows in
the bride's party, and he hope that Sandra does not have a feud going
with the discontent celibate. "She says she has a gift for her that
she doesn't want her mother or anyone else to know about."

The assistant nods quickly, her eyes still wide, her lips slightly
parted. He ponders almost reflexively whether she could serve as a
Vessel before dismissing the idea. She is pretty, in her own way, and
if one squints at her just right, she may even pass for elegant--he
idly wonders whether she is good in bed, or how much practice she has
suckling on men's shafts--but she does not have that aura of purity
that shines from women when they choose to unite themselves to their
soulmate.

"Go, now, continue your errand," he says, and after a slow shake of
her head, the photographer's assistant turns and heads down the
hallway towards what he guesses is the restroom.

He worries for a second about using his Gift on two women within so
short a time. This outing is turning out to be more uncertain than he
imagined. He resists cursing to himself. It would not do--this is a
house of worship. And he is a God.

He tucks himself behind a column when the assistant emerges from the
restroom and returns to the courtyard. He watches through a window as
the couple poses for more pictures, the groom vaguely awkward but
clearly head over heels for his beautiful bride, the redhead wife
maintaining a radiant smile throughout the proceedings, her hand never
really breaking contact with her new husband.

It tugs at his heart, before he quashes it down. The pain inside,
undirected, shifts slowly to anger.

He smiles to himself when the photographer's assistant, taking
advantage of the photographer adjusting the cummerbund of the groom,
leans towards Sandra and whispers in her ear, nodding towards the
church. Sandra looks up, a slight frown marring her perfect features,
but thanks the assistant. Sandra tells the group that she needs a
restroom break, and that she will be right back.

He watches her slowly make her way through the grass towards him,
walking slowly because the tight skirt of her dress hampers her
movements and because her tall heels tend to dig into the soil. That
slowness only serves to exacerbate his arousal. His new Vessel is
coming towards him, in all of her virginal splendor.

When Sandra comes through the doorway and stops to look around
searching for her aunt Gwen, he steps behind her after confirming that
they are alone and gingerly runs his fingers down her naked shoulder.

The contact is strong, the buzz going down his arm is chilling, and
Sandra shivers at the touch and its effect. He keeps her from turning
around immediately and holds her in place to admire the view before
him, the way her neck is exposed by the high bun and the low-cut back
of the dress, the way her waist is cinched by the corset she wears
underneath, the way her ass is emphasized by the cut of the dress
coming down her hips. For a moment he feels dizzy, overwhelmed by the
prurient desire to push the redhead down to her knees and mount her,
just like that, without ulterior motive but sheer selfish lust.

He shakes his head to clear the thought. He has a job to do, a
Ministry to populate. It would be blasphemous to think
otherwise. Pleasure is a distraction, possibly a sin--he looks up to
the cross above the altar down at the end of the chapel he can see
from where he is--and it is his duty to seed Worshippers.

"To the bathroom," he tells Sandra, giving her the smallest of
pushes. "Hurry."

After a last look around to make sure no one is looking at them, he
follows Sandra, who tries to go so fast she practically hobbles her
way to the door in her unpractical dress.

Inside, he locks the door after them. Sandra has turned around, is
staring at him with large eyes full of meekness and desire. She
reminds him of his Lizzie, with her red hair bunched up over her head,
her high cheekbones, her ruby red lips. His cock throbs, screaming for
release.

"Sandra," he tells the bride, "I am your Lord, your Savior. I am the
Light that illuminates your life and reveals the Truth. You are my
Servant. You are my Vessel."

Sandra shivers, closing her eyes for a few seconds before opening them
and nodding, maintaining eye contact. "I am your servant, my
Lord. Your vessel."

The way she says it makes his cock throb even harder. This is getting
dangerous. She is temptation, perhaps sent to distract him from his
Duty, from his Path, from his Destiny.

"Turn around," he tells her. "We don't have much time. Lift your
skirt, and bend down over the sink." It will be easier to resist if he
does not have to look her in the eyes.

Sandra obeys without saying a word, turning around and pulling the
skirt of her dress up her long legs. He unfastens his pants while she
does so, pulling out his cock who responds like it has a mind of its
own. He is primed, there is no doubt about it.

Sandra is having much difficulty pulling her dress up her thighs, so
tight it is. She struggles, and he loses patience. He pushes her down
over the sink--Sandra shrieks in surprise, then moans in pleasure--and
pulls hard on the material, which rips along the slit already cut in
the side. The rip goes up nearly to her waist. He does not care. He
bunches the dress up over her hips, telling her to hold it in
place. Part of him does wonder how she will explain her new look at
the reception, but then is distracted from that line of thought.

"My, my! No panties?" he says, surprised at the sight before him. Her
stockings are garter-belt thigh highs, in which the garters are built
into the stockings and frame the redhead's round and exposed ass like
a prize painting. The wedding garter sits high on Sandra's left
thigh. He can see the sparse reddish hair between her legs, embracing
dark pussy lips that pout away with desire.

"Rhett asked me to go without," responds Sandra, her voice husky. "He
said he'd find it kinky to know I was butt naked beneath my dress at
my own wedding. Said it would provide some fuel for our wedding night
later."

He grunts at the thought. Did he just feel a wave of jealousy at the
thought of Sandra and her new husband--Rhett--cavorting in their
honeymoon suite? He has to snap out of it. Jealousy is beneath him. He
has no business getting emotionally involved. This whole day is
turning out disturbing, and possibly dangerous. All of a sudden, he is
anxious. He has to finish this, and quickly.

He frees his cock, which jerks and slaps Sandra between the cheeks,
prompting her to moan and reach back to grab it. She grasps it and
starts jacking him off against her ass, swaying it in time with her
tugs.

"Slide me in, Sandra," he says, reaching down to pull her dress down
from her chest and paw the released breasts. "Welcome your Lord into
your womb for He shall impregnate you." He squeezes her breasts,
pulling her back against him.

Sandra lines his cock against her pussy and pushes back, sending the
hard shaft deep inside her in one smooth motion. "Oooooh!" she moans,
grinding her ass against him when he is fully inside.

Within a minute, he is fucking her with long thrusts that threaten to
send her into the mirror overlooking the sink. He watches Sandra's
face twisted in bliss as she bites her upper lip to keep from crying
out loud. He watches Sandra's breasts swing with each lunge, her
nipples big and red and advertising their readiness to feed the
Worshipper she soon will grow within herself. He also catches sight of
himself in the mirror, and avoids maintaining eye contact as much as
possible.

With Sandra bucking and moaning beneath him, he realizes that he is
reluctant to breach the question of the boon for her husband. Which is
unfair to the man, who is generous enough to share his bountiful wife
with Him and to let her bring a new Worshipper for his Ministry into
the world.

He grunts under the conflicting emotions, and Sandra mistakes it for a
signal to head down the finish line, and she reaches between her legs
to fiddle with her clitoris while increasing the frequency and melody
of her moans. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" she breathes out.

He focuses on the task at hand. He will deal with the husband
afterwards. The whimpers Sandra makes with each of his thrusts merge
with the sound of flesh slapping on flesh, and he instinctively puts
his hands on the redhead's hips to pull her back against him more
forcefully as he starts to rut into her with added vigor. He is
getting close.

Sandra herself is on her way to a massive orgasm, if her jerky
movements are anything to judge by. She is still fiddling with her
clitoris while at the same time squeezing one of her breasts, her eyes
closed, her breath short, her mouth open. The garter has slid down her
leg to pool around her ankle.

"Sandra," he rasps, the sensation deep in his balls telling him he has
to hurry, "I will now baptize you into your new faith. You will accept
my Seed deep into your womb, and carry it to term so that you can
bring forth a new generation of worshippers for your Lord. Tell me, do
you want my Seed?"

Sandra's initial response is a series of short bursts of breaths and a
tightening of her already narrow pussy around his cock. "Yes..." she
moans, thrusting back with force. "Yes! Yes!" She puts her hands up
against the sink to offer more leverage. "Yes! Come deep inside
me--flood me! Make me your woman, my Lord!"

He does. One strong lunge and he explodes inside her, and that act
seems to trigger her own orgasm, for she stiffens and her hands clench
on the sink and her mouth opens wide but no sound emerges and her
pussy clamps hard on his cock and then seizes madly, milking whatever
leftover Seed he has not already spurted deep in her womb.

Sandra goes limp, her knees buckling, while he is trying to catch his
breath and shivers every time she moves--his cock is too damn
sensitive after climax. Thanks to the pills he has taken, he is still
hard, and he remains embedded inside her, stopping her pussy with his
shaft, giving his Seed a chance to propagate his Godhood.

"Sandra, you are now a Vessel of your Lord."

Sandra merely moans in response, trembling slightly with the
aftershocks of her orgasm.

And now, time to deal with the husband. Who is probably starting to
wonder what his darling wife is up to. He fights the battle that is
raging inside him. Part of him does not want to help out the
husband. He stares at the red hair pulled up in a bun atop Sandra's
head. Lizzie. He will not share Lizzie. He shakes his head. However he
feels about it, he has to offer the husband his boon. Doing otherwise
is to shirk duty, and even gods have to abide by rules, for otherwise
the foundation for morals crumbles.

"Sandra," he says, running his hand over her back, "tell me of your
husband's fantasies."

"My Lord?" Sandra's voice is tentative, as if coming from afar. Like
she is not used to coming so hard, he thinks. Which both makes him
proud and protective. Then he curses himself for getting attached.

"Your husband--Rhett, is it?--must have a fantasy, involving
you. Something he would like you to do, would like you to be, that you
are hesitant to procure, hesitant to become. Tell me, Sandra, tell me
of your husband's fantasy. Does he have a secret he doesn't know you
know?"

"My Lord," she starts, after a moment's hesitation. "Rhett sometimes
writes fan fiction stories for a dirty web site."

"Oh really? And what does he write?"

"Stories of girlfriends and wives with an exhibitionist fetish,
showing themselves off to other men, or other women, and getting
turned on."

"Interesting. And you think Rhett's into that?" He is still hard, and
slowly starts sawing in and out of her pussy, almost as an
afterthought.

"I know so," she says, sighing and twisting her hips in time with his
movements. "He's tried to get me to wear more revealing clothes when
we go out, says he loves the thought of other men looking at me and
wishing they were with me. It always makes our lovemaking more
vigorous afterwards when we get back."

"Bet he's gonna like that little alteration we made to your dress,
then," he says, thinking of the long rip that will undoubtedly bare
the redhead's long legs.

"I'm sure," she says, moaning as his cock pushes deep inside her.

"Listen to me well, Sandra." He grips her hips, and starts plowing
into her again, picking up speed with every sentence. He knows he will
not come again, and they do not have time for a prolonged make-out
session, but the way her pussy grips his cock is too good to pass
up. "From this point on, you will get turned on--really turned on, wet
your panties on the spot turned on--when you feel men and women
looking at you and wanting you. You will get off on showing off your
body as much as possible. The thought of going around naked all the
time, your big boobs out in the open, your pussy gaping wide open
beckoning tongues and cocks, drives you crazy with lust. But you will
defer to your husband for matters of dress. At the beginning of every
day, you will ask him what he would like you to wear. When you go out,
you will model for him different possibilities. You will bring him
shopping, asking him to build you a wardrobe of the sort of things he
would like to see you in. Do you understand, Sandra?"

"Yes, my Lord," she groans, as he pounds into her with force. "Oh! I
will dress the way my husband wants me to dress, and the more
revealing the attire, the more men will look at me and the more turned
on I will get. What... Oh! What if Rhett wants me to flash people?"

"Then, my dear Sandra, you will happily flash people, basking in the
knowledge that you are admired, wanted, desired, and that will make
you even hotter."

Sandra groans louder at that, pressing herself back against him and
grinding her ass into his groin. He admires the line her dress makes
with her legs, the exposed posterior a soft rounded cushion for his
hips to slam into on every thrust.

He cannot help putting in a little dig. Does that make him evil? Is
that the first step in the slippery slope to self-damnation? He does
not know--does not care at the moment. For he is a God, and he is
rutting.

"In fact," he says, watching the redhead make her way rapidly towards
another orgasm, "you will have a lot of fun tonight showing yourself
off at your own wedding reception, making the most of that new slit in
your dress. You will bask in the knowledge that all those men are
stealing glances at your legs, thinking of what it would feel like to
feel those legs wrapped around them, imagining how tight your pussy
is, how soft, how warm, cursing your new husband for being the lucky
one to have snagged out the hot piece of ass you are. Tonight," he
ads, while Sandra's moans grow in desperation, and her thrusts back
against him start to lose their rhythm, "I want every man guest at
your wedding to go away thinking you are the biggest fucking
cock-tease they've ever laid eyes on. We'll see how your dear Rhett
feels about that!"

Sandra comes--he does not know exactly what she is thinking, what has
gotten to her, whether she has deeply held exhibitionist fantasies of
her own, but he reaches out quickly and puts a hand over her mouth to
muffle her screams. He cannot not risk being discovered. They would
not understand.

His hard cock is still embedded deep into the spasming pussy of the
redhead who is going slack against him, a line of sweat sliding down
her forehead. She is beautiful, of course--every bride is, it is part
of the ritual. And now she is a Vessel.

There is no time to waste. He pulls out with a twinge of regret, as he
would have liked to enjoy her more leisurely, and fastens his
trousers. "Sandra, clean up, and go back to your husband." His timing
is impeccable, because just as Sandra is straightening up and
readjusting her dress--that ripped slit up her side does bare a
cock-hardening amount of white flesh--there is a knock on the bathroom
door.

"Sandy? You in there? Are you okay?"

A man's voice. Probably Rhett, he figures. He leans towards Sandra, and
whispers in her ear. "Sandra, you will go out and apologize to your
husband. You will not remember me being in here with you--all you will
remember is coming in here and making a decision to be more daring, to
be more revealing, because you finally realized that it turns you on,
and it turns your husband on. As far as you are concerned, it will all
be your idea, a product of a long reflection. Do not answer me
back. Wait for me to be in the stall, and then leave. Do not let him
enter the bathroom."

Without waiting for an answer, he crosses the bathroom trying to make
as little noise as possible and enters the stall, climbing on the
toilet just in case Rhett manages to peek in. He hears Sandra unlock
and open the door.

"Sandy! Are you okay? You look... my gosh! What happened to your
dress?"

"Rhett, my love! I'm fine. I just... I just had a crazy wicked idea. I
hope you won't mind..."

He cannot hear the rest, as the voices fade with the door of the
bathroom closing. He allows himself a sigh of relief.

Today has been an infuriatingly close day.

And his cock is still maddeningly hard in his pants.


				* * *


(Charleston, West Virginia. Six months ago.)


"No. Not quite."

Elizabeth Bowden looked at Shelley Caskill, her longtime friend, and
sighed. "What's wrong with this one?" She looked at herself in the
mirror, liking the way the wedding dress fit her, with its open top
showing off her collarbone, the embroidered corset doing just enough
to push her chest upwards and hint at cleavage, the widening skirt
with its satin shine. She turned to the side, and ran her hand over
her flat stomach.

Shelley shook her head. "I sill maintain you should wear something
shorter."

"Shel, this is my wedding--it's not prom."

"Sweetie, when you got it, you flaunt it. You said it, it's your
wedding--it's your day. Time to show off. Time to make sure every guy
knows exactly what they won't be in the running for no more. And," she
added with a sly grin, "I bet you anything you want that that prom
dress you wore back then it still causing hard-ons to this day. Hell,
if I had your legs, I wouldn't wear anything that went down further
than my ass."

Elizabeth laughed and shot Shelley a you-don't-fool-me glance. "You
never wear anything past your ass, Shel." She made it a point to eye
the short sundress that her friend wore and which exposed an
impressive expanse of flesh.

"Yeah, but if I had your legs, then guys would flock to me."

"Guys flock to you all the time, Shel."

"Ah! Guys flock to me because I'm easy, not because of my legs."

Elizabeth shook her head. This was not a new argument, more like a
dance routine in which every dancer knew their steps. "Well, I like
this one," she said, turning around to look at herself from the back
over her shoulder.

Shelley grunted, and turned to the salesgirl who was moving mirrors
around so Elizabeth could look at her backside without destroying her
vertebrae. "I think I saw this dress in a version with a long tighter
skirt instead of the princess one?"

The salesgirl nodded. "Yes. Would you like to try it?" she asked
Elizabeth.

"Yes, she does," answered Shelley.

The salesgirl looked at Elizabeth and Shelley in turn, and when
Elizabeth shrugged and smiled, the salesgirl went to look for the
dress.

Shelley stepped up on the platform to help her friend disrobe, her
short blonde hair giving her a mischievous air that fit the young
woman perfectly. Back in high school, Elizabeth recalled, Shelley's
hair, still blonde, was long and flowing while her own red hair was
shorter. Shelley cut her hair early in their college years, while
Elizabeth grew hers to the long and curly look she favored these days.

Shelley, pulling down the tight corset's zipper, looked up in the
mirror to see her friend looking back at her. "What?" she asked.

"Just thinking about high school. And college," replied Elizabeth.

Shelley snorted. "I know you're getting married, sweetie, but you're a
bit young for the nostalgia bit."

"It's not nostalgia. It's just... You know I love you, right?"

Shelled stopped as she pulled down Elizabeth's dress, letting it slink
down to her waist. Her eyes dropped down to the lacy blue bra
Elizabeth had on. "You so need some sexy lingerie for your wedding
day. White, too. Pure white. Virginal white. And for once in this
crazy world, that's going to be appropriate."

She raised her eyes, and Elizabeth was surprised to see tears pooling
on her lower lids. "I love you too, you silly goose." And she hugged
Elizabeth.

They were interrupted by the salesgirl returning with the requested
dress, but the young girl seemed unconcerned by the display of
emotion.

Elizabeth stepped out of her dress to switch it for the new one.

Shelley whistled. "Damn, Lizzie, you still have a rockin' body. Breaks
my heart."

"Right--like you really let yourself go, Shel."

Shelley took the dress that the salesgirl handed her and gave her a
weighty glance, and the girl understood immediately and disappeared,
leaving the two friends alone.

"Ah!" Shelley snorted once more as she helped Elizabeth step into the
new dress. "I've got to keep up my shape--not all of us have hooked a
prime fish on our bait like you have."

Elizabeth sighed. The short-haired blonde nursed her body carefully
through many hours at the gym and regular triathlons with the odd
marathon thrown in for good measure. She had a hard, toned body that
looked like it belonged in an Italian courtyard, preferably sculpted
by Michelangelo. How she could prefer Elizabeth's body--rounder,
softer--was a mystery to the redhead.

"You'll find your man," said Elizabeth. "I have no worries."

Shelley shrugged, pulling the tight dress up around Elizabeth's waist
and lining up the sides of the corset.

"We'll see. Honestly, if I can just get Ronaldo to call me within a
week of us getting together, I'd consider myself satisfied."

"You're still seeing him?"

"Seeing is a bit strong. We cross paths once in a while--the odd race,
the odd bike event. Sparks fly, and then it's back to our corners to
recuperate before the next round."

"Commitment-phobia?"

"I think it's not so much commitment he's got a problem with, but
me. He likes me--but I also infuriate him. I don't think he's equipped
to deal with me. That I race and that I often beat him makes me an odd
creature, but that I'm independent with my own career just sticks in
his craw if he thinks about it too much. He's brought in a lot of the
Old Country with him from Spain, and I'm not quite what Mommy Dearest
wanted for him, a good wifey that would stay home and raise the kids
and wait for him with stars in her eyes."

"So he's not hot for an aerospace engineer on the fast track to take
over her division and on her way to make human space travel to Mars
possible?"

Shelley was pulling up the zipper in the back of the dress.

"I don't think he knows how to deal with it. It's like he doesn't
really think it's serious. Like he thinks I'm doing it just to pass
the time until I find myself a good man and settle down and be a good
catholic mother. Like he thinks my bosses are just playing along,
indulging the silly little girl until she realizes the truth and
leaves the serious stuff to real men."

Shelley was heating up, and Elizabeth could not help but grin at the
image that Shelley was painting. Shelley had been a spitfire in
school, and she and Elizabeth had partied hard and had milked their
years both in high school and in college for all they were worth, but
Shelley had worked even harder than she partied, and finished top of
her class in mechanical engineering so far above the next candidate
that her name was still whispered in the hallways of the Mechanical
and Aerospace Engineering department at West Virginia University. The
thought of Shelley--who could verbally rip apart a poorly thought-out
design in less time it took to physically rip the blueprints it might
be printed on--whiling away the time until a man would take her away
from her delusions of space travel to a life of gleeful domesticity
was risible.

"I'm going to regret asking this," said Elizabeth, "but why are you
still giving him the light of day if he's so... what's the word?"

"Chauvinistic? Old-fashioned? Backwards?"

Elizabeth nodded.

"The sex, sweetie--the sex is just out of this world. The guy is a god
in the sack. He's got this big dick that stretches you out just right,
that gets in and fills all the nooks and crannies, and when he starts
pounding with it, he just batters the very air out of your lungs. And
you know how crazy I get for a big dick backed by a guy who knows just
how to use it..."

The look Shelley gave Elizabeth carried so much history that the
redhead, already shaken emotionally by the dress shopping
experience--which cemented the reality of her upcoming nuptials down
the road six months from then, but who was counting really?--felt a
few tears of her own in her eyes.

Shelley must have noticed, because she stopped fiddling with getting
the sleeves of the dress perfectly right and hugged her friend from
behind once more, and Elizabeth melted into the hug and wrapped the
blonde's arm around herself like a blanket.

To try to lighten the atmosphere, Elizabeth quipped. "Of course I
remember. What was his name? Harry? Harry Mulholland, I think"

Shelley grinned. "Oh yeah--Harry the Mule. Dick as long as my forearm
and nearly as thick. God, you know, I still get soaking wet thinking
about him? I'm sorry you never got to experience him--when he pushes
into you for the first time of the night and he forces it in and your
pussy finally gives in and spread wide open, it's like nothing else
I've ever experienced."

"I remember exactly what his dick looked like, thank you very much,
and I also remember you screaming like a banshee when he thrust into
you."

"Screams of joy, sweetie."

"Could have fooled me."

"Pain--joy--two words, one concept. He made me come, and come hard,
didn't he?"

"Was that what it was? I thought those were epileptic fits."

"Oh, mock, mock, mock. But I distinctly recall you not making fun of
it when you were slobbering all over his third arm after he was done
with me."

"Really? I though you passed out after he fucked you."

"Not passed out enough to fail to notice that the Mule was too much
even for the Deep Throat Queen of Kanawha County."

"Not for lack of trying, for sure," Elizabeth responded, a light blush
spreading to her cheeks. Those were good memories, and much to her
dismay she could feel herself getting damp between her legs. Almost
automatically, she started plotting how she should steal a moment with
Greg later that day; perhaps she could convince him to take a
mid-afternoon coffee break if he was too busy with meetings.

"No shit," said Shelley, a flush coming to her own cheeks. Her arms
tightened around Elizabeth, and her hands pressed against the
redhead's sides. "I thought you'd choke yourself on that much meat. I
swear your throat was bulging--and there was what, at least four, five
inches left to go? There was so much spit dripping down to your tits,
sweetie, it was disgusting--and very very hot." She pushed her hands
up Elizabeth's chest, which did nothing to help the redhead's
increased arousal.

"Harry certainly seemed to enjoy it," she said, her breathing
accelerating. He nearly killed me when he started fucking my mouth--I
don't think he was quite thinking straight."

"Who would? There he was, with his cock almost balls deep into the
redhead with the hottest mouth on campus, kneeling before him and
slobbering all over his tool with her perky tits hanging out, after
fucking the hottest blonde on campus into oblivion, and getting ready
to do it all over again." Shelley's hands had reached Elizabeth's
breasts, and were squeezing hard through the tight corset which seemed
specifically designed to emphasize a woman's assets.

Elizabeth moaned in response, and gave a quick glance to see if the
salesgirl had come back before closing her eyes and enjoying her
girlfriend's caress. "Shel, the salesgirl could come back any
minute..."

"Let her. She's cute. I wouldn't mind spreading those scrawny legs of
hers and seeing how she enjoys some good old-fashioning pussy
licking."

"Shel, you're an oversexed slut, you know that?"

"Oh, look who's talking--" One of Shelley's hands dipped down to
Elizabeth's crotch. The skirt, straight and tight down to Elizabeth's
heels, had a long slit that came almost obscenely high on her thigh,
and Shelley slipped a hand through it and touched Elizabeth's naked
thigh. The redhead shiver. I'm definitely finding Greg after this, she
thought, meetings or no meetings. And in six months time--but who's
counting?--he'll be able to plow into me the way I want him to.

"So, how's Greg?" asked Shelley, breaking into Elizabeth's dreams and
fantasies of being taken, and taken hard, the way she had seen her
best friend being taken so many times over their many adventures.

"Greg? He's fine, what do--"

"No, you silly goose. In bed--how's he in bed? And what caliber is he
packing?"

"Oh! He's good--better than good. He's got a wonderfully flexible
tongue, and magic fingers. And he can play me like a piano. And his
cock is quite nice, thank you. Not a monster like the Mule--nice,
straight, thick, just the right fit for my hand and my mouth, and for
my pussy. Reminds me a lot of that freshman we cornered back at
Christmas that year, you remember?"

"Oh yeah. Sweet kid. Brandon something, right?"

The way Shelley said his name made Elizabeth curious. "I think you're
right. Brandon. He fell for you pretty hard that night."

"I seem to recall he was very fond of you throating him, Lizzie."

"Only until you straddled him and pushed your dirty little cunt into
his face and made him tongue-fuck you before you jumped his bone."
Elizabeth saw Shelley blush lightly, something she had rarely seen her
friend do, and she wanted to ask further, but then Shelley's fingers
finally sneaked their way to Elizabeth's panties and underneath the
gusset and touched the dripping folds of her pussy and caused the
redhead to moan. 

"Do you think one day we'll double-team that hubby of yours?" asked
Shelley. 

"Ah! So you can snatch him away with your wily pussy?"

"Lizzie, sweetie, by that point, he'll have sampled yours," replied
Shelley, her fingers teasing the opening as she talked about it, "and
it's going to be pristine and new and so fuckin' tight that he'll have
no consideration for any other so you have nothing to fear."

Elizabeth snorted, but did not argue with her friend. "Anyway, I don't
think Greg's quite ready to hear about all of my adventures."

Shelley looked at her friend's face in the mirror, and her smile had a
naughty twist to it.

"You've got to be kidding me, right? Come on, Lizzie--aside from the
fact that no heterosexual male has the ability to pass up the chance
to take the One-Two Screw Crew to bed, I've seen that look in his
eyes, your Greg. He might be all sweet and nice and innocent, but
there's a little pervert inside screaming to get out. Trust me--you
know I can spot them--and Greg's one of 'em. I don't know what sort of
fantasies that fiance of yours has in that good little catholic boy
heart of his, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind a threesome. "

"I don't know, Shel..."

Shelley's fingers were dancing over Elizabeth's lips and once in a
while would dip upwards to tease a hardened clitoris begging for
attention. Elizabeth was having difficulty staying upright, and found
herself leaning back into her friend, at the same time providing the
blonde ever greater access.

Fuck, I had forgotten just how good she can be with her fingers,
thought Elizabeth in a haze.

"Imagine this, Lizzie," continued the blonde. "After the wedding,
after Greg's finally popped your cherry, after you've drained your new
husband dry, I come in and join you--I'm sure we can give him some new
life upon seeing his new bride and her maid of honor dyking it out,
all dressed up in wedding paraphernalia--guys go crazy for that stuff,
you know that, and Greg's not gonna be any different."

"Shel..."

"It'll be like in the good old days--the One-Two Screw Crew back in
action, getting it on while a guy looks on, until he can't help
himself and jump in the fray. Except this time--" and Shelley
punctuated her statement by pressing the tip of her finger between her
friend's lips, breaching her pussy and eliciting a deep moan from the
redhead, "this time, you'll be the one with your legs wrapped around
the guy's waist, getting plowed by a thick cock while I'll be the
cum-craving slut slobbering all over it afterwards while it's still
wet with your juices."

Elizabeth shivered and trembled under Shelley's treatment and her
words--she could see it way too easily, her Greg rutting inside her,
fucking her hard, her legs wrapped in fine white stockings clinging to
him, her hands clasping his shoulders, shivering in orgasm after
orgasm as he unloads deep inside her, and then her best friend, her
dear best friend with her naughty fingers and even naughtier tongue
swoops in and cleans off her new husband's cock and sets about to get
him hard again for yet another round of debauchery. And Elizabeth knew
that she would let her best friend fuck her husband, and she would
play with the blonde's small breasts while she did so, and shivered at
her husband's reaction and realization at exactly what kind of girl he
had married, and she also knew, deep down inside, that Shelley was
right, and that Greg would unleash his inner animal, his inner
repressed self, and that he would embrace it, embrace her, all of her.

She turned her head and Shelley's face was right there next to her,
and her lips were there, close by, rosy and wet and smiling, and
Elizabeth leaned forward and her lips pressed her best friend's and
they kissed, softly but with growing passion, and the kiss stifled the
moan that rose from Elizabeth's throat as Shelley's fingers found
their target and drummed a slow burning orgasm from the redhead who
would have collapsed as her knees buckled had Shelley not held her up.

By the time the salesgirl returned to see how Elizabeth was faring,
the two women had readjusted their clothes, Elizabeth was breathing
normally, and Shelley was smiling while sucking the tip of one of her
fingers, a smile on her face.

"We'll take the dress," said Elizabeth.


				* * *


(Yeager Airport, Charleston, West Virginia. Now.)


Daniel followed Shawbank down the hallway of the airport, towards the
car rental stations. He tugged at his new suit, vaguely
uncomfortable. Then he shook his head. Had I taken that job with the
Advanced American Institute for Democracy, he thought, I'd probably
have had to wear a suit anyways. Lose-lose on that front. He looked at
Shawbank, who was dressed in a suit of her own, covered with her long
leather jacket. "So what's the plan?" he asked.

"First, car. Second, hunt." She did not turn to look at him. She had
said little on the flight, closing her eyes and remaining motionless
for the hour-long hop. "Did you read the report?"

The report. Before leaving, Brisecoeur had transferred a detailed
internal report on Specials to Daniel's tablet computer, and Daniel
had perused it before boarding and during the flight. What he had
read still sounded incredible to him, even taking into account his
own experiences at Darnell University over the previous year. At
least then Cindy had suggested that whatever had happened to the
girls was a combination of drugs and neurolinguistic programming, as
she had called it. But what this report hinted at was something else
altogether.

"Magic? Really? You want me to believe in magic now?" He shook his
head, grunting. "Tell me you're joking." The thought of Shawbank
cracking a joke was funny in and of itself.

The report had pointed out, among other things, that Specials were
characterized by their ability to affect the decision-making centers
of human females, as well as their memory and automatic
responses. Some neurological pathways involving the amygdala, the
hippocampus, the medial temporal lobes memory structures, and the
parietal cortex were described by way of hypothetical mechanism
explaining the effect. The mechanism required skin contact, although
the extent of the contact, the length of the contact, as well as the
depth and strength of the affectation depended unknown factors that
varied on a case-by-case basis. Brisecoeur appended a list of typical
cases going back five years, highlighting Specials from the weakest
that had to lay hands on a victim's back for four hours to exert a
mild change in a decision that the victim did not feel strongly about
to more powerful Specials who could control up to three women at the
same time with barely a touch of the fingertip through cloth. Specials
had been known to be able to affect animals as well, the closest to
the genetic makeup of Homo Sapiens, the more effective their
control. Estimates for the number of Specials in the United States at
the present ranged between one and five thousand, a number that
tripled once latent Specials were included. The estimates for
world-wide population were unavailable, but believed to be a lesser
fraction of the population.

"No joke. And we don't talk here," Shawbank whistled. "In the car."

They approached the car rental counter, where a timid young
man--clearly subdued by the cold tall woman with the striking
raven-black hair who was dominating him without raising her
voice--handed them their keys and pointed them to a sliding
door. Shawbank headed out without looking back, her boots clacking on
the hard floor.

In the car--a nondescript dark G6--Shawbank sat behind the wheel and
navigated them out of the rental lot and to the airport exit.

"So, magic?" asked Daniel.

"Not magic. Did you read Appendix C of the report?"

"You mean the medical gobbledygook? I'm sorry, but I skipped Advanced
Neurobiology at Darnell."

"Biochemistry, actually. Although there does seem to be a neurological
component involved in the Specials' physiology. In short: a Special's
neurological system--their sympathetic system most likely--seems to
undergo a mutation, and to carry impulses that can affect specific
biological markers in a victim's cells. Those markers are responsible
for the production of specific proteins that affect very specific
regions of the brain."

"Like a virus, then?"

"Same idea. But much faster. The exact process is still not
understood."

"You realize that sounds completely crazy, right? Someone touching
someone and poof--something happens inside someone that immediately
affects their brain?"

Shawbank gave a thin joyless smile. "Crazy. Yes. But true. Just wait
until you see it."

Daniel wanted to ask Shawbank whether Cargyle had been a Special. His
name did not appear in the list Brisecoeur had given him.

"The report said something about effects on the... the Specials."

"Nuts. The Specials generally go nuts."

"What do you mean?"

She gave him a sidelong glance. "What I said. They go nuts. Best
guess--the mutation of the neurological system of the Special does
actual damage in the long run, and causes a severe form of
psychosis. Exact form of the psychotic episodes vary based on the
psychological traits of the Special in question. They're dangerous,
Malcolm. Not much better than rabid animals. Always keep that in
mind."

"So are we going to get the police to help us? The feds?"

Shawbank shook her head. "No. Not unless we absolutely have to. Cops
tend to... react badly to learning about this. And when they react
badly, they talk. And when they talk, people panic. How do you think
the plebeians would react to knowing that they have people who can
control minds in their midst? The less people know about this, the
better."

Before Daniel could retort, Shawbank had turned to flash him a hard
look. "Same goes for you, Malcolm. You do not talk about this to
people outside ADCorp, and even then, not even to people outside of IE
Division, understood?"

Daniel nodded. "Of course."

"I'm serious," she added, a hint of threat in her voice.

When are you not? he thought. "I won't say a word."

"Good."

Shawbank drove in silence, leaving the city proper. The scenery turned
agrarian in the blink of an eye.

"So where do we start?" asked Daniel.

"You tell me. You read the data Brisecoeur gave us?"

"I did. Let's see." He pulled out his tablet computer, flipped it to
the appropriate page of notes he had made. "In the past twelve months,
there have been fifty-one first-child births with possible conception
on the parents' wedding night. Analysis projected a total of
thirty-five births with those characteristics, with a variance of
three point six. Problem is, we don't know which of those sixteen
births are extra." Daniel impressed himself with how collected and
knowledgeable he could sound--he felt he had no real idea what was
going on and what was expected of him.

"Good. What's our first step, then?"

She was testing him. "Well, I guess we go and interview those
fifty-one mothers, get their stories. Your theory is that there is a
single person--a Special--that impregnated those women--"

"Not all of them."

"Right, not all of them. Your theory is that a Special impregnated a
subset of those women. So we interview the women and find the one man
that has had an affair with some of those women."

"Problem. The Special probably wiped their memory."

"He can do that?"

"Yes. If he's got an ounce of sense. If he's an idiot, he'll be easy
to find. But don't count on it. They're cunning."

"So we need to find someone that has slept with those women and that
has... what? blanked their memories of the event?"

"Right."

"How are we going to do that."

"Again, you tell me. Who do we start with?"

"I don't know... does it matter?" He scrolled down the list of names
Brisecoeur had provided them, trying to see if any of them stood
out. "Oh. The vasectomy. The wife whose husband had a
vasectomy. Natalie Grifford, nee Maynard."

Shawbank nodded.

Daniel brought up Grifford's file. "The child--a girl--born four
months ago. Cesarean delivery. They live in... Beckley, West
Virginia. Maybe half an hour from Charleston."

Daniel raised his head just in time to see the sign on the highway
flash with the indication that the next exit was Beckley.


				* * *


They found the house--a small bungalow in the outskirts of Beckley
with a large yard and little by way of trees. Natalie Grifford
answered the door, and let them in once Shawbank explained they were
with ADSec, a security agency investigating a string of unexplained
events in the area.

"Thank you for talking to us, Mrs. Grifford," Shawbank said, following
the blonde to the dining room. "I'm Agent Shawbank, this is Agent
Malcolm."

Grifford nodded to Daniel. "Would you like some tea? The water just
boiled. I was... the little one's finally asleep, and I have been
craving a tea for the past..." She did not finish her sentence.

Daniel looked at her. The woman looked tired.

"No thank you, Mrs. Grifford," replied Shawbank. "But please go
ahead."

"Thanks." Grifford moved to the kitchen to one side of the dining
room, and pulled a box of tea sachets from the cupboard.

Daniel looked at her carefully. She was medium height, perhaps five
foot six, with a slim frame, and nice curves. Her long blonde hair was
pulled into a ponytail that wanted to curl up over her shoulders. She
was dressed leisurely for a day at home taking care of an infant, with
grey sweatpants and a tee shirt. Even in her casual clothes, there was
a certain elegance and grace in her demeanor. He tried to look for any
sign that she had been affected by a Special, but he saw nothing, if
there was even something to look for.

"We will only take a moment of your time, Mrs. Grifford," said
Shawbank, sitting at the dining table. Daniel followed suit.

"Sure. Whatever. It's just nice to talk to someone who's not spitting
on you every five seconds..."

Natalie Grifford came back with a steaming mug--World's Sexiest
Mom--and sat down at one end of the table, cradling the mug in both
hands. "What's this about?"

Shawbank took control of the questioning. She was serious, and did not
crack a smile. Daniel did not know what role he was meant to play in
the interview, so he listened while trying to maintain a more pleasant
composure to contrast with Shawbank.

"This is about your what happened to you twelve months ago,
Mrs. Grifford. Events that led to the birth of your daughter, Chloe
Grifford. It has come to our attention that there has been some
questions about the identity of the father?"

Natalie Grifford frowned and clutched the mug harder. "What... what is
this about? What are you asking exactly?" The tension in the room shot
up immediately. Shawbank's expression changed not at all.

"Mrs. Grifford, what do you know about the man that impregnated you?"

Natalie Grifford's back straightened and she looked from Shawbank to
Daniel and back, moisture forming in her eyes. She had trouble forming
words, and when she did, her voice was shaking. "Who... what are you
saying? Who... who are you people?" She was starting to stand up, and
still Shawbank's expression never changed--she kept her eyes on
Grifford, studying her every movement.

Daniel decided to intervene. "Mrs. Grifford, please. We
are... investigating a suspect in a series of cases involving severe
sexual harassment and assault, and one of our leads led to you. We are
looking for a very bad man, Mrs. Grifford, and we need your help to
stop him. Please."

Grifford, half standing in her chair, stared at him for a long time
before sitting back down. "I did not cheat on my husband, Agent
Malcolm," she said, keeping her voice steady.

"We know, Mrs. Grifford," replied Shawbank. "We have our theories
about what might have happened to you. But before we can explore
those, we would like to hear your side of the story."

Grifford looked at Shawbank for a beat before shrugging; her shoulders
drooped low, and she held her head in her hands. "I wish I could help
you, but I... I don't know what happened. I mean, nothing happened!"

"Could you walk us through your wedding day?"

Grifford looked up and stared beyond both of them, a gentle smile
creeping on her face. "Best day of my life," she said. "We had the
ceremony at this little here chapel in Beckley, where my mother got
married, and it was just perfect--there was a question about whether
the organist we had hired could make it that day because of a flu, but
she did--and then we took pictures and it was like a dream. We had our
reception at the Ramada up in Charleston, with maybe a hundred and
thirty people, and we danced and we laughed and everybody had a lot of
fun."

"Nothing weird happened during the day?"

"Nothing, nothing at all."

"And the wedding night?" asked Shawbank.

Grifford blushed slightly, and smiled. "It went great. I mean, Steve
and I... I mean, we weren't virgins or anything, so..."

"Anything weird happened that night or later?"

Grifford shook her head. "Nothing. This is Beckley, Agent
Shawbank. Nothing ever happens here, weird or otherwise."

"And yet, there you were, nine months after your wedding, pregnant,
with a child that could not have been your husband's because of his
vasectomy."

Grifford blushed again, this time with anger. "Except I did not cheat
on my husband!"

"Huh, vasectomies have been known to reverse themselves," Daniel
interrupted. "Do we know for certain that the child is not your
husband's?"

A sad look passed over Grifford's face, and she nodded. "She's not
his. Steve had a paternity test done when Chloe was born." Her eyes
were rimmed with red now. "That's when..." She took a deep breath to
steady herself. "That's when Steve threatened to leave--he was so
upset..." She paused for a long time, staring off into space.

"Mrs. Grifford," said Shawbank, "do you think we could have a copy of
the report for the paternity test? It may help us identify the
father."

Grifford looked at Shawbank, seeming to come back from afar. "What?"
She shook her head. "Oh, yes, yes, of course. I think..." She looked
around the room, looking lost for a moment. "I think we put it..." She
stood and headed for a cabinet on one side of the room with shelves
holding a few books and various pieces of decorated ceramics. She
opened a drawer in the lower part of the cabinet and pulled out
folders and papers, looking through them quietly.

"Did you make those, Mrs. Grifford," asked Daniel, to break the
silence that had fallen in the room.

Grifford raised her eyes for a moment to see where Daniel was looking
before getting back to searching through the papers. "No, Steve--my
husband--he's an amateur potter, has been for a good six years
now. That's how we met, in fact--" she smiled, "when I was looking for
a gift for my mother at the local crafts fair two years ago. Ah, there
it is."

She returned with an envelope. "I'm not sure how to copy..."

Shawbank extended her hand. "May I?" She took the envelope, extracted
the papers it contained, and laid them on the table. She then pulled
out a small camera and photographed them.

"You said... you said you had theories for what could have happened?"
asked Grifford, looking at Daniel.

"Yes..." he said, slowly, looking at Shawbank. He was not sure how
much he should tell, and suspected that anything close to the truth
would completely freak the poor woman.

Shawbank pulled him out of trouble. "Yes. One of our current working
theories involve one or more males coating underwear in stores or
perhaps in manufactures with semen mixed in with a product to keep the
sperm viable for long periods of time."

Grifford made a face. "Urgh! That'd work? But I wash everything I buy
first thing..."

Shawbank looked up while putting the papers back in the envelope. "Did
you soak your underwear in bleach for at least twenty-four hours
before wearing them?"

Grifford looked taken aback. "No..."

"Washing them with normal detergent in the standard wash-rinse cycle
would not eliminate the product, according to our analyses."

"Oh. Wow. That's... that's... that's disgusting."

"Indeed, Mrs. Grifford. And we will try our very best to catch the
responsible parties. But as I said, it is but one of our theories, and
we are exploring all options. Including something that may have
happened at your wedding."

Before Grifford could answer, the front door opened, and both Daniel
and Shawbank turned. "It's Steve," said Grifford. "Baby, we're here."

Steve Grifford, a tall man with short dark hair in a short-sleeved
shirt and trousers, stepped into the dining room, eyeing the two
agents with a question in his eyes. "Hey," he said, stepping next to
his wife and kissing her on the lips. He noted her reddened eyes. "Are
you okay? What are these folks doing here?"

"They're here to help find the man who... well..."

"Mister Grifford--Agent Shawbank, with ADSec." She flashed an
identification card. "We're here to investigate the events that led up
to the unexpected pregnancy of your wife."

Steve Grifford made a face, and tried to hide it immediately. Daniel
figured that there was still a lot of tension in the couple on that
topic. He noted the body language--husband and wife were close,
although he sometimes leaned away from her, especially when the topic
of the pregnancy came into play. Daniel doubted that Steve Grifford
was even aware he was doing it.

"Of course, anything we can do to help. I mean, what happened was
just... crazy."

"Anything you can tell us, Mister Grifford? Anything you noticed
around the time of the wedding, anything out of the ordinary? Think
back to the ceremony, or the reception. It doesn't have to be big, or
it may seem completely unimportant to you, but it may be a clue."

Daniel, who was still trying to understand the subtleties of the body
language of the couple--the intensive training he had received over
the past three months had kicked in, clearly--saw the shadow that
flickered over Steve Grifford's face. He looked over at Shawbank, but
her expression had remained as cold and neutral as it always was.

"Offhand, no, I can't think of anything, no. It was... I mean, it was
a wedding. I mean, it was beautiful."

Natalie Grifford looked at her husband, a smile on her face. "It was,
wasn't it?" She hugged her husband's arm, and leaned over for another
kiss.

A wail to shatter windows cut through the domestic scene. Natalie
Grifford jumped, then excused herself. "That's Chloe, clamoring for
her late afternoon snack, I'm afraid. I'm going to have to
go. Steve--" she turned to her husband, "should be able to answer your
questions."

Shawbank glanced at Daniel and held his gaze for three long seconds
before calling after Natalie. "Would you mind if I head up with you,
Mrs. Grifford? I would like to ask you a few questions about the
guests at your wedding."

"Not at all," replied Natalie Grifford, heading up the
stairs. Shawbank followed after her.

Daniel was left with Steve Grifford, who had pulled a beer bottle from
the fridge and was pouring it down a tall glass. "Would you like one,
Agent..."

"Malcolm, sir. No thank you."

Daniel had the gut feeling that Shawbank had seen the shadow pass over
Steve Grifford's face a minute earlier, and had left him to explore
the meaning of it, man to man.

"Mister Grifford--"

"Steve, please." Grifford sat down at the table, and grabbed his head
in his hands, unknowingly mimicking his wife not twenty minutes
earlier.

Upstairs, the cries of the babies had gone one up level.

"Okay, Steve. Huh... Are you okay?"

Grifford replied without looking up. "Ever felt like there's stuff
happening in your world that you have no clue about and that you feel
completely unable to control?"

Until a year ago, no, not at all, but I've made up for it since,
thought Daniel. "It has happened, yes. Sucks."

"You can say that again." Grifford took a long swallow from his glass.

The baby upstairs--Chloe--had calmed down, and the house was silent
once more.

"Mist... Steve, may I ask you a question?"

"That's what you're here for, isn't it?"

"When my colleague asked you about anything odd about your wedding,
you made a face..."

Grifford made a face again, this time without trying to hide it.

"Is there anything you would like to tell me?" Daniel glanced at the
glass of beer. "Anything would help finding the son of a bitch that
did this to you and your wife. The man that tried to ruin your life."

Grifford's face clenched, and he looked like he was about to scream or
hurl his glass at something. But then an expression of despair crossed
his features, and he grabbed his head in his hands once more.

"I don't know... I mean, it's all been so weird, you understand?
Getting married to this wonderful woman, even though I can't have
children because of a rare genetic disease that would condemn any kid
of mine to almost certain misery, and then bang! Learning that my new
wife is pregnant, with a kid that cannot come from me! Bang!"

"But there is something else..."

Grifford's smile was bittersweet. "You know how sometimes someone you
love surprises you, I mean, in a good way, but in a way you never
expected?"

Daniel nodded, noncommittally.

"Well, Natalie's been... I don't know... she's..." Grifford took a
deep breath, followed by a swallow of beer. "It's crazy, it's got
nothing to do with anything, it's just..."

"Steve, please. It's hard to know in advance what's useful and what's
not. What my colleague said was true: every little bit helps. Even if
it looks unrelated. Because it's not. Everything's
connected. Everything affects everything else." Great, now I'm
sounding like a holistic bonehead. Way to go, Daniel. If that doesn't
shut him up, nothing will.

But Grifford nodded, as if agreeing with the statement. He took
another deep breath. "Maybe a month after we got married, before we
knew she was pregnant, Nat and I went to a party with friends of ours,
and she hooked up with an old friend from high school, a cute little
blonde, real sexy. And, to cut the story short, we spent the night
together, the three of us. If you know what I mean..."

Daniel nodded. "I take it this sort of thing hadn't happened before?"

"No. I mean, I wanted it to--fuck--sorry--what guy doesn't, right? Two
beautiful women together. I mean, at some point, I did say that to
Natalie, that it was sort of a fantasy of mine, like many other guys,
and she'd given me a bit of grief about it. But last thing I expected
was for her to make the first move and make it happen. I didn't even
know she... she was into girls, you know? But she's the one that made
the move on her friend, making out with her before coming to get me
and telling me that if I wanted to I could do her and Sasha. I thought
she was teasing me until she dragged me to the bedroom and there was
Sasha, naked, on the bed, with her legs spread, and Nat just took off
her dress and lay down between her friend's legs and just like that
started eating her out, shaking her little ass to get me to go behind
her and..."

Grifford stopped, realizing what he was saying and who he was saying
it to.

Daniel gave a smile and nodded. "Lucky man," he said to maintain a
connection.

"No kiddin'. Best night of my life. Nat was like an animal in bed that
night, you wouldn't believe." He looked up at the stairs, to see if
his wife was getting back down, as if he should not be telling Daniel
any of this, hesitating.

"There's more?" asked Daniel.

Grifford sighed, nodded slightly, his eyes still on the stairs. "It's
been like that ever since, you know? If we go out and I just happen to
look at a girl--you know, she used to get pissed at me, even if it was
just a casual look, just my eyes flying over--but now she'll snuggled
up to me and whisper in my ear that she looks... you know... fuckable,
and she'll ask me whether I'd like her to join us in bed, and you
know, I say no, of course not, but she'll insist that she won't mind,
that she'll go and talk to her and try to convince her, her or anyone,
and..." His face reddened.

Daniel nodded softly. "As I said," he smiled, "lucky man. And I take
it she was sincere."

"Oh yeah. We... well... you know, I told her once that, you know, to
shut her up, get her to quit teasing me, that yeah, that one girl was
pretty sweet, and next thing you know Nat's off to talk to the girl
and fuck me if she's not coming over for a drink at the house later
that night and Nat and her made out right there in the living room
and..." He shook his head again, stopped speaking.

Daniel digested everything he had been told, and considered Grifford's
reaction. It was not the reaction of a man that had his fantasy handed
to him on a silver platter. It was the reaction of a man who fears he
has made a deal with the Devil.


				* * *


"So what did he have to hide?" asked Shawbank once they were in the
car.

Daniel repeated what Steve Grifford had told him as Shawbank drove
away from the bungalow. "I think that's one of the reasons he stayed,
why he gave her a second chance, why he accepted the kid even though
it wasn't his," he concluded.

Shawbank gave a sharp nod. "Sure. Wife's happy to fulfill your deepest
fantasy, over and over again. That shifts the equation."

"And he clearly loves her," added Daniel.

Shawbank shot him a hard glance, but did not comment. "So what have we
learned?" she asked, instead.

"Well, she seems to have no memory of the event, and I tend to believe
her on that account. We do have a DNA test for the child, which can
help us narrow down suspects." He tried to read Shawbank's
expression. "But you think I'm missing something?"

"Yes."

Shawbank hooked her communication earpiece, and thumbed a button on
its side. "Brisecoeur? Do a narrowed search on the women in our target
set. Correlate with any change in behavior coinciding with their
wedding." She paused, listening. "Focus on behavioral changes of a
sexual nature, read broadly." Another pause. "Yes. Shawbank out."

Daniel interpreted the exchange.

"You think whoever did this also made it so that the wife would
indulge in threesomes? That's... weird."

Shawbank's lips curled slightly. "You better start getting used to
weird, kid."