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 Dee STP 14 by peregrinf

   Maria treated Bessie and the area around her like a crime scene -- short
of calling the lab in -- before we got her to the bike shop.  Then she took
me home and I went from her comforting professional care straight into
Mom's warmly welcoming arms.  Never was I so glad that my mom is my Mom,
with a capital "M." If it had been Missy's bike, her mom would have said,
"Oh, it's only a bike.  Do you think we need new curtains in this room?"

   Missy's dad would have said, "Don't cry, sweetie, the stock market is
up. I'll buy you a new one tomorrow" and gone back to the evening news.

   But my Mom knew what Bessie meant to me and, thank God, Elaine was smart
enough to take her cues from Mom, or maybe Mom had clued her in.  Whatever,
they took me into their bed, and held me between them while I cried some
more, and then held me when I had nightmares about what it must have been
like for Bessie, chained and helpless, while thugs slashed her tires, and
her seat, kicked the spokes out of her wheels and jumped on the rims, even
bending the front fork, leaving her twisted and broken.

   The tears were gone by morning, but even Mom's French toast with lots of
butter and warm maple syrup stuck in my craw.  I was mad and vowing that
when I found out who'd done it the bastards were going to suffer the way
Bessie had.

   Mom knows me.  After extracting a promise that I wouldn't do anything
stupid and that I'd call her before I did she gave up trying to get me to
stay home.  Instead she gave me a ride to school and our hug was longer and
tighter than ever.  Finally I pried myself loose and got out of the car, my
feelings under lock and key as I walked up to the main entrance, my head
held high, fists clenched.

   The crowd on the front steps, there to watch the current crop of NiSers
strip for their last school day in The Program, parted like the Red Sea. 
Whether they meant to or not, the escorting seniors formed an honor guard
for me to walk through.  All they needed were swords crossed over my head.
Obviously word had already gotten around.  Everyone knew what had happened,
and where and when.  By noon everyone in school would know the who.

   The only question in my mind was how I'd make them pay when I found out.
Up until now this had been just me trying to protect The Program from some
unknown oppponents.  With the attack on Bessie this had suddenly become
very personal.

   My closest friends -- Missy, the Lunch Bunch and Matt and Heather --
greeted me at my locker.  They were brave.  Everyone else avoided me like I
was radioactive.

   I asked them for their help.  By lunchtime -- the end of the day at the
latest -- I'd know who'd done it.  But I insisted they leave the rest up to
me, rather than get in trouble themselves.

   A strong hand suddenly gripped my shoulder, but knowing whose it was, I
ignored it, finishing what I had to say.

   My shoulder got a hard squeeze.  "My office.  Now."

   "Yes'm." There was no arguing with that tone or that grip.  Mrs. 
Devers's forehand is legend on the tennis court.  I followed her through
the halls, chin up, everyone's eyes following me, the crowd giving me wide
birth.  I couldn't help wondering which of them was the one, or one of the
gang that had done it.  I kept alert to limps, contusions or bruises on
lower extremities.  Okay, Bessie was only a bike, but I liked to think she
had somehow fought back.  Maybe one of the spokes had punctured a foot or
something.  Anything!

   My plans for summary revenge went awry at the sight of Ms.  Andrews in
the vice principal's office.  Not that I wasn't glad to see her, but my
counselor knew me even better than Mrs.  Devers did.  If Devers hadn't
already read my mind Ms.  Andrews would have spelled it out for her.  She
gave me a hug, but carefully backed off when she realized how stiff I was.
Then I felt bad, because her sympathy was genuine, so I returned the hug.
There was nothing artificial about this woman, and ninety-nine percent of
her is heart.  She gave me an extra warm squeeze.

   "How's Bessie?"

   Just the question stung, so I delivered my carefully rehearsed attempt
at a light-hearted answer.  "Bessie is in intensive care, resting quietly.
She's at the top of the transplant list.  The doctors at Wheelin' 'n'
Dealin' say it'll take time to come up with some of the parts, since she's
no longer young and they have to find an alloy match.  A rear wheel will be
hard.  The front's easier.  Locating a new front fork may be the hardest
thing, but they assure me that eventually they'll have her as good as new
-- or maybe that should be old."

   I know -- weak joke.  It bombed with my audience, but I rode it out to
the bitter end.  I hoped if bicycles had a soul Bessie's was in the frame,
because once she was whole again she'd be close to being like George
Washington's hatchet, looking so good after two hundred years, with two new
blades and three new handles.

   Wheelin' 'n' Dealin' had offered me a used replacement, at half what it
would cost to repair Bessie, but I told 'em "NO!" knowing it wouldn't be
the same.  I promised my help rebuilding her and that I'd somehow pay
whatever it cost.

   "They tell me I was lucky whoever did it didn't have tools or more time
or it could have been worse.  They could have hitched chains to her and
used a car to tear her apart.  With bolt cutters they could have simply cut
the chain and stolen her and had her cut up and melted down as scrap before
I had a chance to find her."

   Just the thought of that made my voice break.

   Mrs.  Devers shook her head.  "They left her on purpose.  You know as
well as I do they wanted to send you a message."

   "But wouldn't just slashing her tires and seat and been enough?" I
clamped down on my feelings before I turned into a human fountain again. 
"Why'd they have to stomp on her!  She was chained and helpless!"

   Mrs.  Devers sighed.  I think for the first time since I'd known her she
wasn't able to find words.  Then I realized she was as upset as I was, and
it was because of me, so stiffened my resolve by thinking of what I'd do to
the perps when I caught up with 'em.

   "I'll be okay."

   Yeah.  I lied, and we all knew it.  I was disgusted by how low the human
race can sink.  All this time I'd been playing at being an adult, chairing
that committee and everything and this threatened to crack me wide open.  I
knew if I broke down now everyone would see the scared little girl behind
the curtain and that made me only tougher.

   What was it someone said?  That which does not kill us only makes us
stronger.

   Mrs.  Devers handed me a piece of paper.  "Take the day off."

   I took it, looked at it, trying to make sense of it.

   Permission to leave school.

   A get-out-of-jail-free card that any kid would have given her right arm
to have.

   "No."

   She sighed.  "That's not permission, it is an order.  Call it a
suspension if you must, though it won't go on your record.  It's not that
I'm unsympathetic, Dee, but I don't want this turning into something any
uglier than it already is, and I don't want you getting into serious
trouble.  I'll see you Monday, and if you still have that homicidal glint
in your eye I will send you home again.  Ms.  Andrews, get her out of here.
Use a tranquilizer dart if you have to!"

   Ms.  Andrews urged me up out of the chair.  "You and I have an
appointment on the archery range.  You've got some issues to work through."
Her tone sounded like she was addressing someone not of sound mind.  Which
she was, come to think of it.

   "But Frau Blucher...." I was grasping at straws, but I really did have
an oral report to deliver that afternoon, in German, no less.  Die gute
Frrrrau zeemed to like my ahx-tscent.

   Mrs.  Devers was not interested in negotiating.  "I'll talk with Frau
Blucher.  Go!  Take her out the back way."

   Knowing I was beaten I was surprised to feel some of the tension
draining out of me.  I'd been braced for a fight but now she'd taken that
away from me.  "Will the range be open this early?"

   "I made a call," Ms.  Andrews answered.  "They like me there."

   "We send them so much business there's talk of them sponsoring a school
archery team," Mrs.  Devers added.

   "If you do don't you dare make me captain," I warned her.

   "Don't worry.  It won't happen.  Our weapons policy bans bows and
arrows," Mrs.  Devers assured me as I headed for the door.  "I'll see you
Monday."

   "Yes'm."

   Ms.  Andrews led me out the teachers' entrance, away from the crowds,
which was a relief.  I was in no mood to face -- depending on whose side
they were on -- either sympathy or gloating.

   The archery range is in the Fun Park, along with a driving range,
miniature golf, skateboarding ramps, a go-kart track and a paint-ball
course.  I had yet to try that, but not this day, since it requires
opponents.  Not that I wouldn't enjoy working over some as yet undetermined
miscreants.

   The range itself is basically a fenced off field with a shack for the
attendant and supplies.  Stands to hold bows on when they're not in use
mark the firing line, while supports for targets are set at various ranges.
For hunters there are lifelike foam mockups of things like deer and
turkeys. This day I might have liked a few human silhouettes, but settled
for a traditional paper target with its black, blue, red and yellow
concentric rings, with the little black bull's-eye in the middle.

   Unlike swimming, where my mind can wander, when I'm launching sharp
projectiles at a target I have to both concentrate and relax, a combination
it takes me time to assemble, given the mood I'm usually in.  When I first
start I'm a threat to everything in front of me, from low-flying planes to
gophers under the grass.  It doesn't really matter where the shots end up
since each arrow carries some of the bad feelings down range where they're
buried, usually in the grass at first.  However, it's more satisfying when,
as I cool down, they wind up in the target with a satisfying THWOCK!

   It is all very violent.

   It is all very Zen.

   Of course Ms.  Andrews didn't bat an eye when I began to take my clothes
off.  She knows I like the sensation of being naked in the open air.  I
like to get down to the raw basics, just me versus the world.  Once I was
in nothing but skin I did a few stretching exercises, trying to loosen
myself up before I slung the quiver of arrows across my back and picked up
my bow.

   And that's it.  It's just me, the bow, and the arrows.  No fancy
equipment.  My bow is a simple recurve, forty-pound pull, which is heavy
for the average girl, which I am not.  There's no arrow rest on it, the
first knuckle of my bow hand -- the left -- will do.  No special release,
just the tips of the first two fingers of my right hand to draw the string
back.  No sight.  I don't wear an arm guard or gloves or even finger tabs.
True to my masochistic nature, I want it to hurt.

   Ms.  Andrews says it is cathartic.

   This early I was alone on the range, and given the circumstances wilder
than usual.  But no-harm no-fowl -- pun intended -- the pigeon overflying
the target at an inopportune moment only suffered the loss of his dignity
and some tail feathers.  Two of the arrows had actually hit the target by
the time I emptied my quiver, though nowhere near even the outer black
ring.

   When I reached for another arrow and found nothing but air I didn't even
think.  Since I was still the only archer there wasn't the usual cease fire
called.  Placing the bow on its stand I went to retrieve my ammunition. 
The first time always involves a search through the grass, which is why I
use bright orange arrows with day-glow fletching.

   Back on the line I picked up my bow and began again.  The arrows began
finding the target more regularly, then the pattern they formed began to
contract closer to the bull's-eye.  I was barely aware of Ms.  Andrews
sitting behind me, watching silently as I went through the routine, time
after time after time after time -- shooting, retrieving, shooting again.

   And again.

   And again.

   And again.

   Inside of two rounds I was at the point where nothing existed but me,
the bow, the arrows, the target.  Rather than take the time to replace the
target I shot at it until it was in shreds, the center of it a lace doily.
I discarded three arrows that got de-feathered in the barrage, plus two
more because of a Robin Hood shot -- one arrow splitting another right down
the middle.

   Ms.  Andrews saved that to hang on the wall of her office.  I take no
credit.  It wasn't in the bull's-eye, and it's just a matter of the odds
getting even over time.

   Ms.  Andrews got replacements from Eddie, the attendant.

   I shot until my shoulders burned and my back ached.  I shot until at
last I couldn't raise the bow one more time and was blinking away sweat and
maybe some tears.  At that point Ms.  Andrews took the bow and quiver from
me and walked me back to sit on the bench.  After pressing an opened bottle
of cold water into my aching and blistered bow hand she dug into her
shoulder bag.  As she fussed over me I sipped water, still mentally out
there on the firing line, my mind running like a hamster in an exercise
wheel.

   Finally she stirred me out of my trance.  "Come on, let's walk, and get
some lunch."

   "It's that late?"

   "That's how long it took for you to do this," she explained, raising my
right hand.

   I gazed dumbly at the bandages on the fingers I drew with and the pain
messages suddenly got through.  I'd never done that before!  "I'm sorry."

   She smeared some salve on the inside of my left forearm where the
bowstring had rubbed it nearly raw.  "What for?  It's your hand, not mine.
Come on.  I'm hungry."

   I suddenly realized I was, too, ravenous in fact, and put the pain
wherever it is I put pain so I can deal with it later.  A little ice and
I'd be fine.  "I should call Mom and tell her where I am."

   "I already did, while you were in the zone there on the range.  I told
her I'd bring you home."

   "Thanks." I became aware of the hot sun overhead, the green of the grass
of the field, the bouquet of arrows blossoming from the remains of the
target, my bow dangling from the stand.  "I should...."

   "Leave them.  Eddie will get them," Ms.  Andrews assured me.  "Come on."


   "Don't you have other people who need you?"

   "Nobody more than you right now.  My substitute can deal with any that
come along."

   Done with my nature girl routine, I dressed.  We found the refreshment
stand and sat at an open air table watching ducks on the small pond, a
rainbow arcing in the spray of the fountain.  We drank sweet/tangy/icy
lemonade and ate hamburgers and French fries drenched with ketchup, me
left-handed, my shooting fingers soaking in a cup of ice water.

   She observed the water turning pink.  "That must hurt."

   "No more than I deserve."

   "Don't be silly!"

   "I should have been there," I confessed.  "Instead I was in the showers.
Greg and I were in the showers making love -- fucking -- while those
animals tortured Bessie.  If I'd been there I could have at least tried to
protect her."

   She shushed me sympathetically.  "You couldn't have been there.  "

   "But...."

   "But nothing!  It's obvious they had it all planned out.  They probably
had a lookout -- someone to warn them when you were coming so they'd be
gone.  They're too cowardly to face you head on."

   Reaching across the table she gently took my face in her hands and
raised my head so her warm dark eyes bored into mine.  Behind that look as
all the mojo of her great-grandmother, who, as a twelve-year-old slave
girl, had been sold for $250.  After the Civil War I bet she'd danced on
her masters' graves.

   "There's nothing you could have done, and it was not your fault!"

   "But I should ha ...."

   "Not your fault," she insisted, squeezing my face.  "You must understand
that it is not your fault!  They planned it.  They knew exactly what they
were doing.  There's nothing you could have done to stop them.  If they
hadn't done it yesterday they'd have waited for another chance when you
weren't around.

   "They did it!  Not you!  What happened is not your fault."

   I tried to wrap my mind around that as we walked and talked that
afternoon.

   I can't forget even now how long it had taken Peggy to come to the
conclusion that her rape was not her fault.  Heather wrestled with her
demons till the day she graduated, and beyond.  She's a cheerleader at the
state college now, and will probably be the most fashion-conscious social
worker in the history of the profession as she tries to make up for not
blowing the whistle on The Worm when she'd had the chance.  This was pretty
small potatoes compared to what they'd gone through.

   The ice cream Ms.  Andrews and I later shared on the sunny grass helped
me surface from that swamp.

   "The question is, now what are you going to do?" she ventured.

   "Get even," I answered.

   "How?"

   "Don't know yet."

   "Another broken nose?"

   I shook my head.  "Doesn't seem adequate."

   "A word of advice from an old lady survivor of the civil rights wars?"

   "You're not that old!"

   "I'm old enough to remember what my momma taught me about Birmingham and
Selma.  She was there!" she countered.  "Violence is not the answer."

   "But look what they did!"

   She took my hand -- my clenched left fist, not the sore right one -- and
somehow her touch melted it.

   "Think!  You're a bright girl.  Think outside the box.  If you respond
to their violence with more violence it'll only make things worse."

   "What are we supposed to do?  Turn our backs on them?" I thought for a
moment.  "Maybe that's not a bad idea.  Just look through them, ignore
them. What's the word I want?  Ostracize.  Maybe I could get the whole
school, or most of them, to ostracize them."

   "You ever hear of shunning?" she asked.

   "Isn't that something the -- who is it?  -- the Amish or someone like
that do it, don't they?"

   "They do, but they're not alone and they didn't invent it.  It is as old
as humanity, older.  I believe chimpanzees do it.  It is the worst kind of
bullying, treating someone as if they are invisible.  Don't even think of
it."

   I mulled that over.  The school had an anti-bullying policy, not that it
was easily enforced, but something about the whole idea gave me a bad taste
in my mouth.

   "Just don't do something stupid.  There's an old saying -- a couple of
them, in fact -- that might help."

   "What are they?"

   "The first is 'know your enemy.' Before you do anything, find out who
you're dealing with, get to know them, why they did what they did.  For all
we know it might be just more dupes like Wil."

   "You know about Wil?"

   "I know, and I'm proud of the way you handled that."

   I thought about that.  Maybe if I did get to know them I'd learn
something useful about who was behind the whole thing.

   "What's the other saying?"

   "'Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.'"

   After what they'd done the thought of trying to get close to them made
me want to puke.  "Who said that?!"

   "Some say it was a Chinese general, Sun Tzu, others Machiavelli.  To me
it sounds like something from a Hollywood screenwriter."

   "And just how am I supposed to do that?"

   "Darned if I know, but if anyone can do it you can.  Now I think it's
time I was getting you home.  Are you going to be okay?"

   I nodded.  "For now, at least.  Thank you so much!"

   Again there was that warm, nonjudgmental, soothing hug.  A Band-Aid for
my psyche.

   Releasing me, she waved off my thanks.  "That's why I'm paid the big
bucks."

   She couldn't fool me.  I knew there was more than that to her.

   "Come on, let's get you home.  I just hope someone's there to hold your
hand."

   Ms.  Andrews didn't need to worry.  Mom's early warning system had her
there, waiting for me.

   "Missy's been trying to reach you," Mom reported after gathering me into
her arms, then making sure I was at least semi-sane.  "She wouldn't tell me
why."

   "Thanks." I reluctantly pried myself away from her and got my cell out
as I headed to my room.

   Missy picked up on the first ring.  "Where have you been?" she scolded
me.  "I looked everywhere but no one saw you after you got hauled off by
the Devil.  I've been trying to reach you!  Where'd you go?  What happened?
Why don't you ever have your cell on?"

   "Sorry.  Devers threw me out of school.  I guess she was afraid I was
gonna kill someone.  Ms.  Andrews took me to the archery range."

   "Oh.  You probably needed that.  I shoulda known.  Anyway, we got
'em...."

   I figured she had and I'd been thinking about what Ms.  Andrews had
said.

   "Don't tell me who they are," I cut her off.  "Really, I do not want to
know.  Not yet, anyway."

   "But...."

   "Really, don't tell me who did it.  I'm still so mad I might do
something stupid," I explained.  "Tell Mrs.  Devers, though.  Let her deal
with them.  She probably already knows who did it, but tell her anyway. 
She should still be at school.  Tell her I'll see her Monday morning,
early."

   "Are you okay?  I could come over this weekend -- tonight if you want,"
she offered after digesting that.  "Want me to come over?"

   Did I?  It sounded like she was almost pleading.  Oh God, don't tempt
me, I thought.  I so needed warm caring people around me, but what would
the dynamic be, me plus Maria plus Missy, with the mood I was in?  Just the
thought of that was enough to melt my resolve not to impose on Missy, melt
my resolve along with the soles of my sneakers, or maybe that should be the
crotch of my panties.

   Oh God!  Was I destined to be in love with her forever and ever, and be
perpetually horny for her as well?

   Well, there are worse things, The Stick pointed out.

   Shut up!  I told my invisible companion.

   Not that it would do any good, of course.  With my mind unleashed by the
archery my alter ego was on a roll.  I decided I'd better be honest with
Missy so she'd know what she'd be letting herself in for.

   "I...." I choked.  "Yes, I'd love it.  But you know what that would
mean, don't you?  What I'd want?  I mean...."

   "I know," she answered softly.  "I ...  wouldn't stop you.  I don't
think I'd want to stop you.  I want to hold you and hug you and...."

   "But you're...."

   "Not that way?" she continued the thought.  "But, well, maybe I'm not
but I think you need me, and I miss you, and you went to the wall for me
when ...  you know ...  and when I think about it now, well, it doesn't
seem all that bad, and...."

   "Someone else will be here," I confessed.

   "Oh." I could almost hear her heart breaking.

   "But you're welcome, too, of course.  You know me.  There's always room
for one more in my bed." At the same time I was juggling the telephone as I
got out of my clothes so my skin could breathe.

   "Wait a minute.  Three in a bed?  That's how we got in trouble the last
time," Missy pointed out.

   Reveling in my nakedness, I stretched.  "It's not the same, not exactly.
For one thing Mom and Elaine'll be home, and this time the third isn't a
boy." I didn't add that our virginities were also long gone.

   "Oh?  Oh!  Who?"

   I knew she was still afraid of being labeled a lesbian.  "Maria Sanchez.
You know her.  You know she won't tell anyone.  What happens here stays
here."

   "Detective Sanchez?  You and her...?  She's hot!  You really want me to
come?  You're not just saying it to make me feel good, are you?"

   "You know me better than that, Missy.  You'll always be welcome -- in my
home, at my dinner table, in my bed, whatever!  No strings attached. 
Please come.  I do need you.  Especially you, my oldest and dearest
friend."

   Pajama Party!  The Stick shrieked joyfully.

   I asked The Stick when, exactly, was the last time I'd worn pajamas. 
That shut her up.

   I realized I was fondling my bare tit, the bandages on my fingers adding
a delicious scratchy feeling and scolded myself even as I pinched my
nipple.

   Then I had another sobering thought.  "Oh, will your mom let you -- stay
overnight, I mean?"

   "I hope so," she breathed softly, then, more brightly, "I'll tell her
it's a hen party.  That's the truth.  But she may want to talk to your Mom.
What's for dinner?"

   "Spaghetti."

   "Yum!  See you soon!"

   "Call Devers first and tell her what you know." After switching off I
took a quick shower and tried to get my mind on some homework and ignore
the delicious smells from the kitchen.  Then I played the gracious hostess,
helping my friends out of their clothes as they came in the door,
exchanging what were, for me, chaste hugs, rather than scaring them off. 
The orgy, if there was one, would be after supper.

   Truthfully, I wasn't quite sure what would happen.  Maybe, for a change,
I'd let them lead the way.

   By unspoken agreement there was no "Save the Program" talk at the dinner
table.  After all, we had the whole weekend ahead of us.  Upstairs, in my
room, there was a moment of awkwardness, and then Maria and Missy closed in
on me from either side and all three of us tumbled onto the bed in warm
tangle of naked arms and legs and torsos and crotches and breasts.  Lips
kissed and tongues tasted -- faces only so far -- and I felt loved and safe
as I loved my lovers.

   When we took a break from that Maria took my hand and studied the
bandages.  "What's this, Chiquita?"

   "Four hours of archery," I explained.  "I think.  I wasn't keeping track
of the time, I was working off my mad."

   Maria tenderly kissed my fingers, each of them, sucking on them with her
generous lips, nipping gently, oh so gently, with her teeth, tripping
little stinging arousing touches of pain when she did it to my bandaged
index and second fingers.  "You should take better care of yourself,
Chiquita."

   "Yes, you should," Missy agreed, snuggling warmly against me, her hand
cupping my modest breast, her thumb twanging my alert nipple.

   "I'm better now," I assured them, looking down at Missy as she cuddled
me.  "Are you going to tell me who did it?"

   "You told me not to."

   "That was then.  I'm better now, and I won't be in school until Monday.
I've cooled down."

   "Not going to tell you," she chirped resolutely.

   "Please?"

   "Nope."

   "Pretty please?"

   She shook her head.

   "Pretty please with sugar and cream on it?"

   "Uh uh," She grunted through tight lips.

   I could see Maria watching our by-play, a twinkle in her dark eyes, her
full breast warm against my side.

   "Tell me!" I poked Missy in the ribs and she shrieked.

   "No tickling!  Won't tell!  Won't!"

   That, of course, was an invitation to a tickle attack.  My fingers
counted her ribs, explored her armpits while she squirmed and cackled
desperately.  She tried to fight back but I held the high ground and
finally wound up straddling her, both of us sweating and panting, while
Maria looked on benignly, one hand buried in her own furry crotch.

   But it was Missy who had my attention now.  She was hot and exciting
between my thighs, my hands stretching her arms out to the sides, pinning
them to the bed.  "Tell me!"

   "Can't!"

   "Can't?"

   "Mrs.  Devers made me promise not to tell you," she explained.  "Said
she wanted you to cool off over the weekend.  I'm sworn to secrecy."

   "Oh." I knew there was no answer to that!

   But another, more urgent interest was driving me now as I looked down at
her, her sweet face, her lovely rounded breasts, their pink peaks stiff and
aroused, and I lowered my head, and saw the mixture of desire and concern
in her eyes, her lovely lips parted, swollen and inviting drew me closer,
and closer, and we touched and oh, it was so sweet!  It was gentle, and
sweet, and warm and I tasted her again and it was as sweet as it had been
the first time and she tasted me and I could smell her desire and knew she
could smell mine.

   Rising up, I rested my butt on her thighs, my knees clamping to her hips
to feel her warmth.  I slid my hands up her arms, cupped her soft, warm
breasts with their pebble-hard peaks.  To my relief she put her hands on
top of mine and pressed them closer.

   "I think I have something you'll like, that won't upset you," I
ventured.

   "What?  How...?"

   "Maria?  In the drawer?"

   "Ooooo Chiquita!  You naughty, naughty girl!"

   Missy's eyes got big.  "A strap-on?"

   "I borrowed it from Elaine.  I thought, maybe, you'd -- prefer it -- to
-- uh...." I licked my lips.

   "Be gentle?" she requested timidly.  "And maybe, when you want ...  I
could maybe do you with it, rather than -- uh -- eat you?"

   "Of course, if you'd like.  You know I'd like that.

   "There's lubricant, Maria.

   "Missy, if you say 'stop' I'll stop, and don't be shy about it," I
assured her, even as I got off her and let Maria help me into the harness
with its fake cock.  She had a suspicious familiarity with the straps and
snaps.  The dildo -- not a huge bludgeon of a dildo, but a modestly sized
one -- had a protrusion that nestled against my pussy, nuzzled into me
enough to torment my clit and threaten the gate to my vagina, so I'd get
something out of this, but that wasn't my main goal.  My goal was to
pleasure Missy to the max.

   I giggled as I watched Maria lube it up, her pudgy-strong hands stroking
it as lovingly as if it were real.  She was wearing a heavy silver ring set
with a turquoise.  Once that was done, instead of going right to it I
indulged Missy with a lot of foreplay, Maria looking on, toying with her
own lush, copper-toned body.

   How do men do it?  The dildo got in my way as I snuggled Missy, kissing
with her, kissing her lovely breasts, suckling on her nipples, her areolas.
I fingered her pussy, felt the welcoming moisture there.  Her hips rose
responsively, her legs parting.

   "Yes, Dee, oh yes, please!"

   I gently settled myself between her thighs, kissing, kissing, kissing
her, as much in love with her as I'd ever been.  I moved, sought her
opening awkwardly with the unfeeling strap-on, and Maria came to my rescue
by guiding it to Missy's opening.  My dear, dear friend gasped, stiffened,
but when I hesitated her hips rose and she cupped my ass, drawing me toward
her, drawing the tool into her.

   As I tenderly, carefully worked my appendage into her I wondered what
must it feel like for a boy, a man, when he enters a woman, her warm, slick
flesh embracing him.  I felt a small pang that it was a sensation I'd never
know.  All I could do was sink that numb and dumb plastic cock into Missy's
cunt, pressing the butt of it against my own pussy.  Hugging her I began
slowly and tenderly fucking her while our mouths mingled, tongues tangled.
It was a little awkward, the straps of the harness chafing, but not enough
to discourage us.  She was whimpering, squirming her body against mine, her
boobs soft and warm, her hard nipples nuzzling my hard nipples.

   Meanwhile Maria was snuggling against us from the side, stroking us
both, sharing our kisses, her body hot satin against mine, against Missy's,
and I felt and heard Missy's coming, her hips jerking, jerking, jerking
while my own orgasm hovered just out of reach.  Frustrating as it was I had
to content myself with pleasuring Missy.  We strained against each other,
Maria straining against us, her hips working, scrubbing her crotch against
me, and I knew she was as close to coming as I was, but just as unfulfilled
as at last Missy sighed and went limp beneath me.

   Slowly, slowly, slowly I eased the dildo out of her and after some
lingering kisses and murmurings I rolled off her onto my back.  Never the
shy one, Maria crawled over Missy to straddle me.  I looked up at her,
glanced down to where her pussy hovered, and she guided the dildo still
glistening with Missy's juices into her own blossoming cunt, sank down on
it.

   And she rode me, an Indian -- pardon me, Native American -- riding me
like I was a mustang on the plains, her full jugs jostling and quivering as
she fucked herself.  I reached up and grasped her breasts, sank my fingers
into the warm globes before pinching her jutting nipples.

   She rode me hard, froze a moment, rose, dropped on me again, and again,
gasping, and came down on me hard yet again, my hips rising to meet her,
and this time the butt of the strap on did its work, smashing my clit like
the firing pin of a six-gun.  Reaching for her I ignored the pain in my
bandaged fingers as I grabbed Maria by the shoulders, hauled her forward
and down on me and we smothered each other with kisses as our orgasms,
swept through us.

   As I came down from my high all the pain and misery and ecstasy and joy
of the last two days overwhelmed me.  I think I slept for a time, rousing
when Maria lifted herself off of me.  She escaped my reach, and I felt her
freeing me of the strap-on.  She and Missy whispered and giggled, and I
felt a thrill when I realized what they were doing, adjusting and fitting
the device for Missy's more generous curves.

   Then it was Missy snuggling me, kissing me again, her hand cupping my
boob, pinching my nipples, first one and then the other.  She even suckled
on my poor, inadequate breasts and the flames rose inside me.  When she
moved to cover me I spread my long legs, welcoming her, felt Maria's hand
between us, once again guiding that fake cock to its goal.  When Missy
hesitated I grabbed her lush ass and drew her in.

   As she began to fuck me some devilish impulse led me to finger her
asshole, drawing a gasp from her.  She hunched her butt, welcoming the
invasion!  As my finger wormed its way into her tight pucker Missy only
fucked me harder, her teeth clashing with mine as we tried to devour each
other.  I was panting into her mouth, and she was panting into mine, while
Maria, again the odd one out, contented herself with touching and stroking
us and hugging us.

   I made a mental vow that Missy and I would gang up on her the first
chance we had.

   Then I began to come, and heard Missy grunting as she jammed the dildo
into me and I discovered she was stronger than I thought when my legs
tangled around hers and we worked together to grind our pelvises against
each other.  Every jerk of her hips worked the strapped-on dork in my twat
like a fat swizzle stick until I was positively frothing right along with
her.  I came so hard I was afraid I'd piss her, and she was just as
overwhelmed until we both ran out of strength and slumped into a soggy
heap.

   The three of us staggered in to use the bathroom and tidy ourselves up
before crawling into bed together, teasingly wrestling over who got to hold
whom and how.

   I fell asleep thinking that tomorrow was another day and that maybe I
could get Missy to tell me, in spite of her promise to Devers.  Then again,
even if I couldn't it would be fun trying.