Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 THE MYSTERY OF FLIGHT TEN-SEVENTY (Chapter 8)

   By KATZMAREK (C)

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   AUTHOR'S NOTE

   This is a work of fiction.  It remains my property and must not be used
for gain without my permission in writing.

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   Santisima Trinidada had once been a small fishing village ecking a
meagre living out of the Gulf of California.  Commercial fisheries had
stripped much of the useful species out of the accessible waters during the
fifties and sixties.  As a consequence, the village had fallen on hard
times and many of its inhabitants had left.

   BeN Sherman faintly remembered the village when, as a young man fresh
out of High School, he and some friends had passed through it in an old
Dodge van.  He recalled a dusty road, the poor red soil, and a long extinct
volcano cone.  The beach was cluttered with old, disused boat sheds and
rotting hulls.  The houses, clinging haphazardly in a semi circle around
the waterline, had the look of decay.  They had seen a few elderly people
and that's all.  He and his friends gassed up the Dodge from the only
service station, then moved on.

   By way of contrast, the air conditioned bus slid easily along a
tar-sealed 4 lane highway into Trinidada's flash, new depot.  Instead of
the abandoned fishermen's houses, a string of low rise hotels graced the
waterfront.  Inland, across the flanks of the volcano, a new town had
sprung up around the tourist industry.  The bay itself was full of pleasure
craft and Ben could see water skiers and Jetskis competing with bathers for
sea room.  He thought there ought to be more traffic control out there.

   A small fleet of white Jeeps provided the taxi service.  They revved
impatiently waiting for rides outside the bus depot.  Ben jumped in the
first on the rank and it took off at break-neck speed.

   His destination was the highest house in Santisima Trinidada.  It was
well up the winding road sitting on an ancient, eroded ridgeline.  It
featured splendid views well out into the Gulf.

   The house was a huge, rambling, walled, Spanish-style hacienda.  The
road lead up to an ornate wrought-iron gate.  The taxi dropped him off
before squealing back towards town, and another fare.

   Ben stood for a while.  The gate was at least 12 foot high and firmly
barred.  The wall was equally forbidding and unscaleble without a long
ladder or rope.  After about 5 minutes, however, a girl in her late teens
walked down the marble path and stood, facing him, on the other side.

   She was tall, blond, and impossibly pretty, wearing a bikini top and
tight shorts.  Around her hips, however, was a black leather belt, from
which hung a holstered machine pistol.

   "Si?" she asked.  Her eyes appraised him, blue and penetrating.  They
reminded him of a cat's noticing a mouse's flicking tail.

   "Er," Ben answered, "istas...  ah...  hacienda del Raul..."

   "You wanna speak English?" she asked, breaking out into a wide grin. 
Her accent was pure West Coast American.  "Your Spanish is crap!"

   "Ah," Ben grinned, relieved, "I've come to see Raul Hernandez," he said,
"is this the right house?"

   "Sure!" she replied, breezily, "he's my uncle...  sorta.  What's ya
name?" When Ben told her, she took a small walkie-talkie from her belt and
rattled away in, what Ben thought, was an Eastern European language. 
"C'mon in," she told him, sliding back the bolt on the gate, "he's
expecting you."

   "He is?" Ben said, confused.

   "Sure!"

   He followed her back up the path to another gate that lead into a
courtyard.  In the courtyard was an ornamental fountain and lush gardens.
The girl lead him through still another gate into more gardens and a
swimming pool.  Ben could see several young people lounging around.  They
looked up when he appeared.

   "This is Ben Sherman, "the girl announced to the others, "I'm Emilie,
but call me 'Em,' everyone does," she explained.  She unhitched the leather
belt and placed it, and the holstered weapon, on one of the pool tables.

   "Your Uncle?" Ben asked.

   "Well, he's kinda like my Uncle...  known me since so high," she
indicated, "my family and Raul's have been close friends since, like,
forever."

   Emilie introduced him to the others.  The first was a boy of 15, dark
haired and, like Emilie, tall.  His name was Kurt and Emilie said he was
Raul's Grandson.  A 20 year old woman followed next and, again like Emilie,
statuesque and blond.  Her name was Peta and Kurt's big sister.  Faced with
so many introductions, Bobby forgot the names of the rest of the young
people.

   "Uncle Raul's waiting for you inside," Emilie announced, "and Mom.  You
must meet my Mom, she's cool!"

   "Your Father?" he asked.

   "He's working," she replied, "he'll show up in a day or two."

   "What does he do?"

   "He's, like, in the travel industry," she laughed, "travels all the
time!"

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

   Ben Sherman wasn't sure what he was doing down here in Mexico.  He'd
lost the best job he'd ever had, his wife had walked out on him, and his
house had to be put up for sale.  Without a decent job there was no way he
could keep up the mortgage.  His wife had insisted on half of the proceeds
of the sale and what little else he had left.  In some ways he felt a sense
of relief that it was all over and he wasn't responsible for anyone or
anything but himself.

   Ari Ramcke, the German investigator with whom he'd worked on the 1070
investigation, had turned on him with a fury once he'd got back to Germany.
He claimed that he, Ben, had sabotaged the investigation from the start,
that he'd concealed evidence, and he was being paid by Boeing to blame the
pilots.  Ramcke claimed that the Americans had recovered the cockpit
section and concealed it from the investigation.  That cockpit would
reveal, he claimed, that the problem had been with the O2 system all along.
Faulty American design had been the problem, he'd stated.

   Amid the flurry of denials, claims and counter-claims, Ben had been the
ritual sacrifice.  There was no-way he was going to be employed in the
aviation industry again; his career was down the toilet.  All Ben had left
was the unresolved 1070 disaster.  He was determined to find the answers
for his own peace of mind, if for nothing else.

   Raul Hernandez wasn't alone.  Sitting with him was a woman, whom Emilie
introduced as her Mother.  She was a blond of around 50 and spoke English
with an Eastern European accent.  Ben concluded it was she to whom Emilie
was talking to through her walkie-talkie.

   "I'm Marina," she said, sweetly.  She stood and put out her hand.  "Are
you staying, Ben, for a few days, perhaps?" she asked.  "My husband is in
the US on business but should be home in a few days.  He'd be sorry to miss
you."

   "Ok," Ben replied, "if it's all right with Raul, I'd be glad to stay."

   "I'm sorry to hear about your misfortune," Raul told him, "and the
separation from your wife."

   "Thank you," he replied, "but how did you know?"

   "Oh, we have our ways of finding out things.  Tell me?" he continued,
"what do you intend to do now?"

   "Well, sir?  I don't really know.  See, this 1070 thing, well, it kinda
burns me up that we didn't find any answers.  Not that I could put in a
report, anyway.  I was hoping that you folks could fill in the blanks?"

   "And what blanks would that be?" Marina asked.

   "That bit with the cockpit being in Austin for twenty years...  the
whole time travel thing..."

   "You want to put that in the report?" she asked, surprised.

   "No, ma'am, I sure don't.  But I don't like leaving things without
finding answers.  Even if I don't inform the NTSB, I'd like to know for
myself."

   "What in particular?" asked Raul, "what do you need to know?"

   "Well, sir?  If those pilots travelled back in time with their ship,
then where are they now?  I'm pretty sure you know."

   "Yes, I know," he shrugged, "but they must reveal themselves to you.  I
cannot breach trust."

   "Yeah, I understand, but..."

   "Maybe, if you stay for a few days you might find some of the answers
you seek?" Marina explained.

   "And the time machine?  Is it man made?  And where the Hell is it?  Some
other century?"

   "All will be revealed...  in time," Raul grinned.

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

   Meanwhile, in Hamburg, Germany, Ari Ramcke hurried through the swing
doors of the Federal Bureau of Aircraft Investigations, the BFU. 
Conspiracy theorists had ensured there was a swelling knot of journalists
and film crews waiting outside.

   Ari was regarded by his colleagues as talented, but stubborn.  That
stubborness could, on rare occasions, turn to obsessiveness.  His
colleagues weren't surprised when he turned on the NTSB investigation of
flight 1070.  But they were surprised by the vehemence of his accusations.

   According to Ramcke, he'd been isolated and ignored by the senior
American investigator, Ben Shepherd.  The Americans had concealed evidence
from him; all for the purpose, he claimed, of exonerating the
manufacturers, Boeing.  Both right and left wing newspapers had a field
day. The story appealed to German Nationalists as well as those prepared to
believe the US was the font of all evil.  Already some demonstrations had
occurred outside the US Embassy, demanding the Americans admit the 'truth.'

   Outside the building, the pavement was crowded with jostling journalists
and security trying to open a route to Ari's waiting car.  They were
shouting out their agencies in the desperate hope Ari would grant and
interview.

   "I've nothing to say, nothing to say," he repeated as he pushed his way
through.

   "Ari?" a woman called, pushing against a guards arm, "CNN?"

   He looked into her face.  The woman was beautiful, impeccably made up,
with a low cut top that revealed a pretty cleavage.  On impulse he nodded,
indicating his car.  Woman and cameraman ducked under the security guard
and piled into the back of the Mercedes.

   "Hi!" the woman said, "I'm Ella and this is Fernando, my cameraman."

   "American?" he asked.

   "Yes.  Where're we going?  Is there a park nearby or somewhere where we
can get a nice back shot?  Maybe the cathedral?"

   "Sure," he nodded, "the catheral," he told the driver.

   The car travelled a short distance before turning off into the grounds
of the cathedral.  The Americans consulted briefly before agreeing on a
location.  Ella fixed a microphone to Ari's lapel.  As she moved in close
he could smell her heady scent, his eyes were drawn to her cleavage as if
by magnetism.

   Her smile, her eyes, disarmed him.  Media savvy, his instincts told him
to be on his guard, that this woman knew her job and could use her allure
to tease information from him unwillingly.  With growing uncertainty, he
found his eyes locked to hers.

   "This is Ella Hernandez reporting from..." she began into the camera. 
Ari scarcely heard her, overwhelmed by her sexuality.  "Mr Ramcke?" he
jolted back at the sound of his name, "what evidence to you have of a cover
up?"

   "There will be an enquiry," he replied, "I cannot say anything until
then."

   "An enquiry?  When, Where?"

   "Yet to be determined."

   "The families of the dead crew deserve answers, Mr Ramcke.  This must be
very upsetting for them?"

   "Of course!"

   "Are you accusing Boeing of bribing the NTSB?"

   "All will come out at the proper time!"

   "You've heard that the NTSB has fired Investigator Ben Shepherd?  Have
you any comment to make?"

   "None!"

   "Thank you, Investigator Ari Ramcke.  This is Ella Hernandez in Hamburg
for CNN."

   Ari wandered back to his car while the crew packed up.  "That was
softball," Fernando told Ella.

   "I know.  I need to get under his guard.  If I went hard I'll never get
close to him."

   "How close to you want to get?" Fernando smirked.

   "Close enough.  Hey, wait up?" she called, "you got half an hour?  How
about going for a drink?"

   Ari turned, startled.  He looked back at the pretty woman for a few
moments before making his mind up.  "I have some time," he told her, "maybe
a quick one?"

   "Sure," she replied, "a quickie!" She turned to her cameraman and
suggested he catch a taxi back to their car.  He grinned at her knowingly.
"Now cut that out!" she grinned back, before speeding after Ari.

   Ella Hernandez had been something of a rarity; a television journalist
who'd kept her name out of the gossip columns.  Try as she might, though,
her recent separation from her long time partner had become a talking point
in some newsrooms.  He'd been kind of reclusive and very few of Ella's
acquaintances had ever met him.  Rumours circulated and it wasn't long
before male colleagues began to hit on her.  People thought she was
remarkably well composed and professional about it all.

   Ari chose a nearby basement bar.  It was down a side street, small and
discrete.  He watched her negotiate the high steps and her short, tight
skirt from below.  Ella noticed with amusement his eyes, all too
predictably, trying to catch a glimpse of her panties.  They chose a table
to the rear and well out of sight from the door.

   "Are you based in Hamburg?" he asked her.

   "I go where the stories are," she smiled, seductively.

   "And you believe there's a story here?"

   "Of course!  Corporate corruption, government conspiracies..."

   "I never said any of that was true," he hastened to say, "I only stated
my suspicians.  You people misquote me."

   "Sure you did," she agreed, breezily, "but you also must have known what
effect such allegations were likely to have.  So what's your point, Ari,
what're you trying to achieve?"

   "The truth," he smiled.

   "Who's?"

   He lifted his drink in a toast before bolting it, grinning.  "So what
kind of stories are your speciality?  Scandals?  Or maybe European/American
relations?"

   "Science," she replied.

   "Ah, you have a science background?  You make a hypothesis, perhaps,
then set out to prove it?"

   "You've defined investigative journalism."

   "Yes, I have!" he chuckled, "and you have a particular field of
science?"

   "I'm interested in Temporal Physics!" Ella watched a shocked expression
momentarily flash over his face.

   He recovering instantly.  "That's a very specialised field?" he told
her, "and what has an air crash investigation to do with temporal physics?"

   "I guess I'm slumming," she laughed, "I need to make a living."

   "Ah, of course.  I guess there'd not be much call for such a
speciality."

   "Not a lot.  I wonder?" she eyed him, "if I gave you my card..."

   "Oh, I see.  If I have anything I might want to feed you, 'off the
record.' I know how the press works.  I'm afraid you may be disappointed?"

   "Honey, if I'm disappointed I just try another position."

   "Huh?  Ah, yes, I see, very good!" he flustered, "if I have anything
more to show you, er..."

   "Haha, yeah.  I get a private viewing?"

   "I meant to 'give'."

   "Of course you did, honey," Ella laughed, "be sure to call, Ok?  Show me
what you like?"

   Ella left the bar shortly after Ari.  She went around the corner and
took out her cellphone.

   "Contact made," she said.

   "Nice going, Ella.  Didn't give anything away, by any chance?"

   "No, didn't expect him to.  How're things going?  How's Anna?"

   "Good, Babe.  She says 'Hi.' The midwife says any day now.  We'll wait a
month afterwards before flying to Mexico."

   Even though it had only been a week, Ella felt strange hearing Fuller's
voice again.  Maybe it was thought that, after twenty years, things were
never going to be quite the same again.

   He wasn't her first choice for a mate.  She thought him too academic and
moody.  At the time she believed that her sister Ariana had the better
deal. Everyone liked Arnim, he was smart and quickwitted, oozed charm and
confidence.  Ella thought her sister would have trouble hanging on to him.
But, she had to admit, she did and, after twenty years, they seemed as
devoted as that first day in the car.

   Her and Fuller had decided not to have children early on.  The work
they'd been assigned to do made it difficult.  While her mate monitored
time travel projects and 'nudged' along Garland and Sumilov's team in
Seattle, she used her attractiveness to go 'out in the field.'

   The disappearance of Flight 1070 had been a watershed.  They always knew
that was likely to happen.  The peculiar circumstances of the disaster
shook the trees and a whole lot of likely characters fell out.  The team
had compiled a list and the more suspicious of them were investigated by
Ella.

   They knew experiments in temporal physics were being made in parallel
with the Seattle project.  Most, they knew, would fizzle out through lack
of funding or sheer frustration.  Who was behind the only other successful
program they knew about, they weren't sure.

   Unlike TV fantasy shows, such as 'Time Tunnel' from the sixties, time
travel was, in 2010, a complicated process.  Not only did they have to
contend with the physical and psychological effects on the human body, but
the device itself was expensive and complicated to operate.  One could
liken it to space shuttle launches.  There was a lot of things that could
go wrong and preparations often took a year or more.

   Kurzbach, Strauss and Fuller were pioneers of their era.  They'd been
carefully selected from hundreds of candidates and given false memories and
lives to adapt to life at the turn of the century.  They'd made two
experimental 'jumps,' as they called the transitions, by way of training
before the main mission.  Their psychological fitness was tested under real
conditions for signs of 'temporal disorientation syndrome.' 'TDS' was known
to result in depression and delusions in time travellers.

   The Hernandez family were contemporaries.  Each of the girls had made
the transition forward where the girls were 'hothoused' by the latest 21st
century techniques.  Ariana had learned 15 languages while her sister
became something of a sociologist.  Certainly, she had a remarkable way of
manipulating people's behaviour.

   She caught a taxi back to the newsroom.  Ari Ramcke still puzzled her.
He didn't seem the type to be involved in illicit time travel.  He seemed
to her way too concerned with his 'integrity.' In fact, she chuckled to
herself, he had a broom stuck way up his arse.

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

   Professor Sumilov was approaching his 83rd birthday.  Normally, he'd
expect to be enjoying a peaceful retirement in Florida, perhaps.  Instead
he was still living in Washington State near the facility he founded with
his friend, Bob Garland.

   He was in remarkably good health for someone his age.  He'd tell
everyone that 'science kept him young.' The pun was lost on most folks
who'd assume medical science was keeping him going.  But the professor
meant that his research was providing the mental fuel that kept the old
body fit.

   Bob Garland, himself, was well into his sixties.  Both of them realised
that time was against them, and they may never see the result of their long
years of experimentation.  They began to consider grooming others to take
over.  The importance and responsibility of the task, however, was too
great to leave to just any graduate.

   The principle of the temporal flare emitter had been well modelled on
computer.  Its construction was hampered by two factors, though; power
intensification and the means to direct the burst of energy resulting from
the implosion of dense elements.  The burst of energy was thought to result
in the curving of gravitional lines of force causing a 'time portal'
effect. Collapsing gravity fields were known to induce natural portals in
space called 'black holes.' These black holes, however, were on a vastly
larger scale.

   The computer revealed an area of the portal called by the scientists,
the 'boundary layer.' That term was appropriated by Bob Garland from the
science of aerodynamics.  The temporal boundary layer contained
gravitational turbulance, strong enough in some instances to tear a body
apart.  A strong electro-magnetic pulse would fry most electrical devices
in much the same way as a nuclear explosion.  How electronic equipment, let
alone a human body, was going to survive transition was another problem the
team had to overcome.

   Like all scientists, they'd received considerable advice from a variety
of interested parties.  The most valuable assistance, however, had been
provided by a local, simply known as 'JF.' The man preferred to remain
anonymous and the team had no choice but to respect his decision.  He was
difficult to track down in any case.

   An anonymous donor also provided the bulk of the funding for the
project. It was popularly believed to be Microsoft, via a third party. 
Regardless, the money flowed in from an account in a Texas bank, enough to
keep 2 dozen highly skilled staff working.

   Exaggerrated secrecy was the name of the game.  The facility was built
out in the wilderness between Seattle and Spokane.  Housing was provided
within the compound for the staff.  It was true to say, though, that only
Sumilov found the climate to his liking.

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

   Coming from the turmoil of Washington politics and the turbulance of his
domestic life, Ben Sherman found Santisima Trinidada an oasis of peace and
tranquility.

   The girls, Emilie and Peta, seemed to be devoted to his every comfort.
They were upbeat, vivacious and smart.  Ben found they could converse
confidently in any number of highly technical subjects.

   Swimming costumes and minimal clothing seemed to be the norm and it
wasn't long before he followed suit.  All the young people had slim,
athletic bodies, and he was glad he still kept himself in shape.

   He found out the Raul Hernandez had created the town and resort out of
the dying village.  He was regarded by the locals as a saint and, by
association, Ben was awarded instant respect.

   On the second afternoon of his stay, Ben went down to the town shopping.
Raul had insisted on him taking one of his credit cards.  He said it was
unforgivable that any of his guests should pay during their stay.  Ben had
to overcome his pride.  His marriage breakup had left him chronically short
of cash; a fact Raul seemed aware of.

   He had the use of a Jeep, standard transport in Trinidada.  A swipe card
gave him access to the gate so he'd no need to negotiate Emilie and her
sub-machine gun.

   Born a Texan, Ben was familiar with having guns around the house, but he
was a little perturbed to see weapons in the hands of a teenage girl.  He
was assured by her mother, however, that Emilie was well-trained in the use
of them.  Frankly, it didn't make him feel easier.

   He returned around 4pm to find most of the household outside around the
pool.  Kurt was swimming lengths with efficient, relaxed strokes.  Ben saw
he'd dispensed with his trunks.  He also noticed that both Marina and her
daughter were also nude, sitting in deckchairs, and talking casually in
Russian.

   Although the woman was in her early fifties, there was scarcely an ounce
of sag to her body.  Freckles covered her shoulders and speckled the tops
of her big breasts.  Her skin was naturally pale and gleemed with sunblock.
Her legs were apart and displayed a neatly trimmed bush flecked with
silver, for those that cared to look.

   Ben was a conservative when it came to human sexuality.  He couldn't
help it, he was raised in an atmosphere of Southern Baptist, Hell and
damnation.  Rather than develop an instant erection at the sight of the
women, his face burned with embarrassment.

   From behind him, Kurt emerged from the pool to say hi.  Ben's instinct
was to flee but he held his ground.  Nudity obviously didn't bother anyone
here but him, and he told himself not to be foolish.

   "What did you get at the Mall?" Emilie asked.

   Ben was compelled to look in her direction.  He focussed on her face,
trying to ignore the beautiful, lithe, nude teenage body below it.  "Just
some shaving gear...  a few clothes," he managed to say.

   "Cool!  You going to show us what clothes you bought?  Model for us"

   "Some trunks," he replied, "and underwear."

   "Yeah?  So?"

   "Don't tease the poor man," her mother chided, good naturedly.  Clearly
she was enjoying Ben's discomfort.  "Give him some time to get used to the
way we live around here.  Mr Shepherd, I'm sorry.  We thought you'd be
longer at the Mall.  Emilie would quite happily spend three days down there
without sleep..."

   "Yeah!"

   "We didn't intend to embarrass you," she continued, "if you'd prefer
we'll get some clothes on."

   "No, madam, quite all right...  doesn't bother me." Marina smiled. 
Somehow, Ben felt even more foolish.  He sat down at one of the tables,
attempting to act casually.  The others went about their business, while he
was left to re-evaluate his attitudes.

   He knew some folks practised nudity, particularly at home, of course,
and he'd heard it had nothing to do with sex.  He hadn't really believed it
before, until now.  He saw Peta round the corner of the house, completely
naked, smiling in greeting and absolutely gorgeous.

   "Hey!" she said, "someone's overdressed!" As Ben's face flushed red, the
others laughed.  He wondered for a moment how he was going to survive it
all.

   Later, they had the evening meal out by the pool.  Loose T-shirts and
pants had been restored to the bodies around him and Ben felt more relaxed.
A good natured political debate had ensured around the dinner table.  Most
present exhibited the liberal attitudes Ben expected.

   "In the Soviet Union," Marina said, "we talked about spreading freedom,
also.  'Freedom' extended only to the limit of the range of our artillery
and bombers," she said ruefully.

   "You can't compare the Soviet Union to America?" protested Ben.

   "No," she agreed, "and we used to say precisely the came thing in
Russia."

   "What Marina is trying to say, Ben," Raul intervened, "is that
'arrogance always comes before humiliation'."

   Ben knew they were wrong, but politics had never been his strong
subject. His innate patriotism was outraged, but he preferred not to
continue the argument.  It pissed him that America had made this man what
he was, that had provided him with a lavish lifestyle, and here he was
biting the hand that fed him.  More Americans should think about that, he
told himself.

   His Father always told him to avoid politics and religion, his Mother,
premarital sex.  Given the choice, sex seemed to be the safest topic.

   After dinner, he went for a walk around the grounds.  He still felt
angry and wanted to calm himself down.  Through some trees, there was a
little glade, a clearing, with a centre garden of well-watered roses.  He
stopped short when he became aware of a couple, lying down together, and
naked.

   It was Marina's daughter, Emilie, and Raul's grandson, Kurt.  The lad
was on his front and Emilie was spreading lotion over his back.  As he
watched, he was mesmerised by the girl's cute bottom, rising and falling as
she massaged the boy's back.  Her long, blond hair was loose and cascaded
over him.  Ben backed a little behind the tree so he couldn't be seen.

   After a while, Kurt turned over.  His cock stood up straight from his
body.  Emilie sat on her haunches beside him, before bending and kissing
him.  She ran her hands sexily over his chest and tummy, while kissing and
nibbling his chest.  Ben could see Kurt's chest rising and falling with
excitement.  The boy's hand reached up to gently caress one of Emilie's
perky breasts.  Meanwhile, her hand drifted lower until she began to gently
massage his stiff dick.

   Ben moved back, deciding he must pull away from the sight.  He was
suddenly aware of a person behind him and jumped, startled and guilty.

   "What are you looking at," came that throaty, East European voice Ben
recognised as Marina.  He turned to find her grinning and, thankfully,
dressed in a baggy top and pants.  "Oh!" she said, "my daughter...  I see!
Y'know, you needn't sneak around.  If they wanted privacy they'd have gone
to their room."

   "I'm sorry..." Ben stammered, hoping the ground would open up and
swallow him.  The couple had looked up at the voices and smiled.  Emilie
waved, before lowering her mouth onto Kurt's dick.

   "It must be difficult," Marina told him, "I should've realised.  It
must've been a long time since you've slept with someone." Ben nodded,
slightly.  "We are quite open around here," she continued, "coming from
Russia, I too was shocked at first, but I soon grew accustomed to it. 
There's only two sins of the flesh, deceit and the failure to enjoy what
you have," she grinned.  "The kids, here, were taught to respect their
bodies and others.  That means they are free to explore their sexuality. 
All we ask is they do it openly and honestly.  Y'know, you only need to ask
if you have, ah, needs.  You might be surprised by the answer."

   Just then, Ben heard a gasp coming from the glade.  The couple were
grappling, head to tail, and Kurt was furiously lapping at the teenage
girl's glistening pussy.

   "Come?" Marina said, taking his hand, "let us take care of you?"

   --------------------------------------------
   KATZMAREK (C)