Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Dee STP 24 ver N 4/28/2014 7:58 AM by Peregrinf

   "I tell you, nothing happened up on that stage yesterday.  Nothing
happened.  Nothing!  Nada.  Zero.  Zilch!"

   I was in the infectious isolation ward, namely my bedroom.  Missy was
reporting in to me after having debriefed her minions at school.  She was
wearing a surgical mask, courtesy of Dr.  Elaine Smathers's pantry of
prophylactics.  And if you're thinking "prophylactics" means "condoms" get
your mind out of your groin and look the word up in the dictionary.

   "I'm a sick woman.  Don't mess with me, Missy, or I'll rip that mask off
you and sneeze in your face!"

   For a moment I almost thought she was lying to protect her Mom's passion
for Pastor Paul and his so-called One True Church, but came to what I had
of my senses, given my cold.  After all, Missy had been fondled, however
briefly, by one of the Pisstor's -- as I'd come to think of him -- minions.
She'd hang the Pisstor before she'd defend him, even for the sake of her
mother.

   "Nothing!  Happened!" she repeated redundantly.

   "But I SAW it!  I saw that girl go under the podium.  I saw Pastor Paul
come, right there in front of the whole fucking congregation.  It was as
plain as the orgasmic grimace on his face."

   "No, we did not actually see her go under that podium," Missy argued
patiently.  "We only thought we saw it.  We didn't see him come, either. 
That was all an act.  We saw what we wanted to see, not what happened."

   "How do you know?"

   Her inhale sucked the paper mask against her face, making it wrinkle and
crinkle -- not her face, the mask.  Her exhale ballooned the mask out.

   "Mom always tapes the broadcasts so she can rerun it Sunday afternoon
and then wallow through her favorite parts during the week," she admitted
wearily.  "Yesterday, pretending to be a dutiful daughter, I watched with
her during her usual Sunday matinee replay.  Trust me, it was nauseating
deja vu all over again, and I still wasn't sure what we'd seen.  So I
sneaked down after Mom and Dad had gone to bed and watched just that part
in slow motion until I was sick of it.

   "The girl did not go under the podium," she concluded confidently after
another crinkle punctuated breath.

   "But...but...but." I was so sure we had him dead to rights I was
sputtering like a motorboat.

   "But...but...but," she mocked.  "While everyone was moving around the
girl simply walked offstage and returned with her water bottle, rejoining
the choir after the story.  Not that I wouldn't put it past him to pull
such a stunt, but in this case he didn't.  He faked it."

   How could I have been mistaken?  My mind was trying to race, not very
successfully.

   It was all there, the misdirection, the distractions, the missing girl,
the orgasmic delivery of Pisstor Paul's polemic to his adoring acolytes,
everything.  It was obvious!

   Too obvious?  The Stick suggested.

   Shit!  Why didn't you say something sooner?  I asked my head-space
companion.

   Don't blame me.  Remember I see the world through your eyes.

   But think.  What if what you thought you saw was exactly what he wanted
you think you saw, but didn't?

   Sorting out that twisted syntax bent my brain.  Then I considered the
implications.  Then I practically levitated right off the bed, a blast of
near-homicidal rage rattling my throbbing sinuses.  "That sonofabitch! 
That dirty, double-dealing mother-fucking shit-head bastard!"

   As I weakly flopped back down on my pile of pillows, drained by my
eruption, I mentally chucked a roll of quarters in the curse jar
downstairs, figuring I'd owe more than that before I was done with that
prick.

   "What?" Even Missy was rocked by that explosion.

   "You're right," I admitted weakly.

   "Of course I'm right.  Uh -- right about what?"

   "It didn't happen.  Don't you see?  It was all a performance, the whole
fucking thing, right down to his last breathless 'Thanks be to God!' No
wonder the sonofabitch looked so smug as we walked out past him.  He set me
up.  He wanted me to think I had him dead to rights, thinking that he'd
gotten a blow job right in front of us, in front of the whole fucking
congregation, and I went for it hook, line and stinker.  Fuck!"

   "Huh?"

   "Don't you understand?  It was a sham!  It was a double-cross.  He knew
we'd be looking for something incriminating and faked it to make it look
like it was what it wasn't."

   After a moment of brow-furrowing thought she caught on, her eyebrows
shooting skyward.  Then she had another thought.  "So what are you so upset
about?  You should be relieved that he didn't take advantage of the poor
girl."

   "Sure!  I am glad for that, but don't you see?  He fucked with me.  He
staged the whole thing just to suck me in.  If I'd gone to the cops with
what I thought I'd seen all he'd have to do was show them his own
recording, or just give them a look at the podium to prove there's no room
to hide anyone inside it.  I'd look like a fool and the cops would never
believe me again."

   I sucked in a deep breath and suffered a coughing fit that made my ribs
hurt, finally hawking up enough phlegm to fill a bucket.  Now that's what's
known as a productive cough.  Ick!

   "That miserable, no good double-crossing motherfucker!" I wheezed out.

   Mom must have heard me coughing 'cause she stuck her head in my door. 
When I reassured her with a nod and a weak wave she retreated, but not
before waggling a scolding finger at me.  I didn't know whether that was
because I'd over-exerted myself into coughing up parts of my lungs or
because of my cursing.

   "You're just mad 'cause he outsmarted us," Missy suggested pertly.

   Gotcha!  The Stick chimed in.

   I made a face at her because she was right.  "Yeah, but I'm blaming
myself.  And don't give me that 'us' shit.  It was my fault.  I talked you
into seeing what wasn't there.  You wouldn't have seen it if I hadn't
planted the idea in your mind.  I was so sure!  What an idiot I was."

   "What?  You don't think I can make up my own mind?  You didn't plant the
idea in my head, all you did was look at me.  I'd already had the same
thought.  So we both fucked up.  So deal with it."

   "Yeah, right," I grumbled.  "Anyway, thanks."

   "For what?"

   "For saving me from making an ass of myself in front of Maria and
everyone else down at the station." After a minute of counting backwards by
threes I managed to get myself back on track.  "So what happened during
coffee hour?"

   "Nothing."

   "Didn't your spies stay for the coffee and cookies?  Fran would never
miss a shot at free cookies.  They were supposed to check out the
classrooms and stuff."

   "They hung out and they looked around, but they didn't see anything
because there was nothing to see.  Nothing happened.

   "Figure it out," she went on.  "With all those parents hanging around?
You know as well as I do the bad stuff happens one-on-one, like with you
and The Worm, or at least only in the company of fellow perverts.  The day
I got groped Brother Edward got me alone by asking me to help tidy the
room."

   "So what happened to your triple-cross-my-heart promise that you'd have
stuff for me?" I knew I was being mean, but I felt shitty, and now this. 
"I hate to sound ungrateful, but we need to establish probable cause" --
Cripes, now I was even talking like a cop!  -- "so they can get some
warrants.  Where's our evidence?"

   She looked gloomy.  "I don't know.  Maybe you'll find something on this.
It's from A.  J." She handed me an unlabeled DVD.

   "What's on it?"

   "I don't know.  He wouldn't tell me.  I know he had his laptop with him
at the service yesterday.  He just slipped it to me at school and told me
to give it to you.  Said you'd know what to do with it."

   She checked her watch.  "I'm sorry, Dee, I got a ride waiting.  Damn I
wish you hadn't moved across town!"

   "Me, too," I agreed, wishing I could hug her.  She left me propped up in
my bed, still trying to catch my breath, my throat sore, my head throbbing,
sunk deep in a serious mope.

   Finally, with nothing better to do and not much hope I dragged my laptop
up off the floor, stuck the disk in and called up the directory.

   There was a shitload of folders labeled with stuff like "SecCam" and
"Fin" and "Prov," the kind of names that'd be meaningful only to the user,
and if it was encrypted....  I didn't like to think of that, so I started
opening folders.  Five minutes later, my hands shaking, I was on the phone
to Maria.

   Before she arrived I took the disk out and carefully fogged both sides
of it with my infectious breath and wiped it clean with a tissue.  I knew
at least two people had to have handled it before me, and from what I'd
seen I didn't want any fingerprints on it, especially A.  J.'s or Missy's.
If the cops dusted it -- which they would -- they'd be on anyone who'd
handled it like stink on shit.

   When my favorite detective got there her oh-so kissable mouth and
sparkle-adorned nostril were surgically masked.  After putting the disk
back in my 'puter we spent the next hour side-by-side on my bed -- oh how I
wanted to have her in my arms!  -- studying what A.  J.  had downloaded off
Pastor Paul's network.  Even to my uneducated eye there was enough stuff on
there to put a lot of people behind bars for a long time to come.

   The mildest was in the SecCam folder.  The church apparently had
security cameras -- probably simple web cams -- in every nook and cranny,
including the old school annex's classrooms, the gym, locker rooms, showers
and bathrooms.  It was a voyeur's wet dream.

   Out of the goodness of their hearts -- yeah, right!  -- the church ran
well-advertised athletic programs and other afterschool stuff to keep "our
precious youth" off the streets and out of trouble.  By the looks of their
clothes, when they had 'em on, some of these kids had been living on the
streets, others merely in poverty.  Trading the sidewalks for a meal and a
warm shower, literally at the hands of Pisstor Paul and his fellow pervs,
was a bad bargain.

   Free child-care my ass!  Those kids paid with their bodies.  Shots of
the showers showed a surprising number of men, and even a couple of women,
helping both sexes wash off the grime and sweat.  The footage was silent,
but I could almost hear the adults saying "don't tell anyone, this'll be
our secret" as they violated the kids' trust and their bodies.

   There were enough different adults to make me suspect he was running a
rent-a-kid operation for every perv in the county, maybe from out of state.


   Beyond the security cams there was raw full-motion, full-color footage
that was ...  well, raw.  I'm no stranger to sex, even exotic and sometimes
what some would call perverted sex, but always by my choice.  What I saw
them doing to some of those kids at that age -- some maybe eight or nine or
even younger -- made me sick to my stomach.

   Pastor Paul himself took obscene pleasure from not sparing the rod,
leaving wicked welts before giving some of his victims the shaft -- his
shaft.  One of the targets of his pleasure was Horace's pale tail.  If it
weren't for bad luck that poor shit would have no luck at all.

   That was in the folder labeled "Prov," which name had me puzzled until I
remembered the proverb about sparing the rod and spoiling the child.  Some
people call that tough love.  Some love!  That's an invitation to abuse if
ever I've seen one.

   Then there was footage taken at his summer camp's lake that made me
wonder why my relay team had to keep our suits on for our motivational
bump-up.  I wasn't about to forget that meet.  It was the only loss we had
that summer.  And yeah that still sticks in my craw.

   Keeping up appearances, of course The Stick informed me caustically.

   There were folders of other stuff -- "Fin" seemed to have spreadsheets,
others contained address lists, emails that didn't mean much to my
snot-clogged brain.  I let Maria skim through it, trying to remember some
of her muttered Hispanic invective for future reference.  Obviously there
was stuff on there that should never have been on the network.  Someone had
been criminally stupid.

   But then they were criminals, after all, so what else should I expect?

   When Maria was done she sat back.  "Where'd you get this Chiquita?"

   I took the disk out of my computer, handling it carefully by the edges,
and slipped it into a fresh, unused sleeve.  "I can't tell you."

   "Can't tell me or won't tell me?" She took it from me as if it were a
time-bomb.

   "Is there a difference?" I knew there was, of course.

   She let that pass.  "Who else has seen what's on it?"

   "Nobody, as far as I know for sure."

   Well, it wasn't quite a lie.  I didn't know for sure that A.  J.  had
seen at least some of it, but I wasn't about to mention him to Maria unless
she pushed.

   Fortunately she didn't dig any deeper than the person who gave it to me
and I could reassure her about that.

   "You tell anyone you think of who might have seen this disk or anything
that's on this disk to forget they ever saw it.  If anyone asks about it
the answer has to be 'what disk?' Comprende?"

   Her Hispanic tripped my own linguistic switch.  "Por qué?"

   "Because your dear Pastor...."

   "He's not my dear anything!  He's a 'Pisstor' to me."

   "Suits.  We suspected he was in with some very, very, very bad people
and this proves it.  If those people find out we got this they'll be gone
with the wind, but before they disappear they'll clean house, and some
people will wind up dead, probably starting with the Pisstor.  Remember
that Robin Hood was after you on the archery range?  We gotta keep him in
isolation or he'd already be on his way to his happy hunting ground."

   I felt a chill.  "You think Paul's the head of it?"

   She shook her head.  "No.  He's a pervert, not a mobster.  But he's sure
in bed with 'em, and that's why he'd be the first to go.  So you never saw
this, right?" She slipped the DVD into an inside pocket of her shoulder
bag.

   "Saw what?" I responded obediently.

   She nodded.  "Don' say anything to anyone about this, and tell your
sources the same thing.  If word got out these pinche cabrones" -- I knew
that translated roughly into fucking bastards -- "would leave a pile of
dead bodies -- an' one of them might be yours -- before they vanished and
we'd never catch up to 'em."

   No shit, Sherlock.

   Hush!

   She obviously had another thought.  "You didn' make a copy of any of
this on your system, did you?"

   I shook my head.

   "So what happens now?"

   "We gotta get warrants, make plans.  An' we gotta do it fast.  Better
for you you don' know nothing." When she's upset or excited her accent
thickens and grammar deteriorates.

   I so wanted to be there to bring that prick down, but she read my mind.

   "Not you, just us cops!  You stay away from that puerco (pig) Pisstor.
Don' have nothing to do with him.  No more, no más, no way!  He gets pushed
into a corner he's likely to turn an' bite you."

   "What about Missy's Mom?  Can't I warn her?  When this goes public it's
gonna break her heart!"

   "Nothing to no one, Chiquita!  If one whisper of this gets out the whole
thing will blow up in our faces.  Especially not her.  You think that woman
could keep her mouth shut?"

   I could only shake my head.  The woman in question was totally demented
when it came to her choice of pastors.

   "An you be careful what you say on the phone, even."

   "My cell...?"

   "Especially your cell."

   Shit!  How could I warn Missy and A.  J.  ?  Well, I'd think of
something.  "How long?" I asked.

   She knew what I meant.  "To get warrants?  Depends.  Not more'n a week,
I hope."

   Maria left me stewing in my sickbed.

   It was going to be a long week.

   And where was Greg while all this was going on?

   Always in my heart and in my mind.  Often by my side, but not as often
as I would have liked.  In my hand, my mouth, my cunt or my ass as
circumstances allowed, which was not often enough for either of us.  But
for my cold he would have been in my bed at that moment if I'd had a
choice.

   Of course on Sunday he'd been at the Restored Temple of the Holy
Redeemer Reformed Evangelical One True Church.  I saw him, he saw me.  But
because of the undercover nature of our assignments we were no more than
ships that passed in the night.  But by Thursday, thanks to skilled
nursing, I was back in school with him instead of at home a-bed and a-bored
and a-chewing my nails.

   And how did this miraculous recovery come about?  What is it they say?
Treat a cold and it'll be over in seven days, ignore it and it will take a
week.

   And here it had only been four days.

   I credit my two Moms, one of them a board-certified physician, for
tag-teaming me with their remedies.  The moment I'd gotten home from church
Sunday I had been prescribed massive oral infusions of Doctor Smathers's
Weapons-Grade, Professionally-Prepared Chicken Soup (Registered Trademark)
at temperatures that threatened to blister my palate.  That unleashed
buckets of revolting nasal emissions to sweep away the viral hordes.  It
alternated with mega-doses of Vitamin C and zinc from Mom Number One
calculated to kick-start my immune system, washed down with kegs of orange
juice.

   As I absorbed dose after dose one sentence out of my sick-bed reading
kept running through my mind.  "Will no one rid me of this meddlesome
priest?"

   As far as King Henry II was concerned Thomas a Becket was a royal pain
in the ass.

   I know, I know.  I read too much, especially history, and to compare
Pisstor Paul to Thomas a Becket is to slander the noble Sir Thomas.  And I
sure as hell wasn't any Henry II.  But the sentiment fit.

   Maria may have been after bigger fish, but my focus was on the kids
being tormented.  I kept praying for the sky to fall on the church and the
river to rise and sweep it all away.  The situation ate at me so much I
even tried to distract myself with Goethe's Faust, part of my German
homework.

   It turned out to be a poor choice of escapist literature.  What's the
first thing Faust does after striking his deal with the devil?  He uses his
newly acquired powers to corrupt an innocent young girl, making her
pregnant.  What is it with these old farts, anyway?  Is there nothing new
under the sun?

   Anyway, I'd been climbing the walls, driving my moms crazy.  That
probably encouraged them to declare me non-contagious and release me on the
world.

   I welcomed being back in school, the distractions offered by my friends,
classes and lunch followed by more classes.  Then Coach flogged us through
swimming practice, showing me no mercy, flushing the last remnants of
congestion from my skull with chlorinated pool water, leaving my head
clearer, the pool filters toxic, my body exhausted and brain aglow with
endorphins.

   The high point of my day was luxuriating in the post-workout shower with
Greg.  Trust me, there is no more wonderful sensation than your lover's
hands laving your whoooole body with soap under a hot shower after a hard
workout, unless it is returning the favor, of course, exploring and
appreciating all the curves and lines, the nooks and crannies and
appendages.  It was a squirming, giggling (me), chuckling (him) tangle as
we simultaneously tried to reach the most interesting parts while not
missing any of the less exciting.

   And never mind that we had the whole swim team, boys and girls, as an
audience.  They were used to it anyway, and some even followed our example.
We weren't about to wait for them to finish their shower and leave us alone
with our lust.  It had, after all, been a while since our last sexual
interaction -- six days, twenty-three hours and fifteen minutes to be
exact, but who's counting?

   We lathered each other with soap from top to toe, which got our juices
flowing.  Avoiding mouth-to-mouth interaction -- fearing I might still be
contagious, Dr.  Smathers's professional assessment to the contrary -- had
its benefits.  Leaning against the shower wall, resting my forehead on my
forearms, I offered Greg my delectably tight ass.  From behind he reached
around me, one soapy hand massaging my boobs, pinching my rubbery nipples
into flame while the fingers of the other explored my swampy crotch.  His
jutting cock nudged suggestively at the crack of my butt.

   Oh yeah!

   For a time I lost myself in the total bliss of Greg's manual
explorations.  When difficult thoughts crept past my mental shields I
reached blindly behind me and curled my fingers around his throbbing rod,
relishing it's hot, hard strength, savoring the chance to enjoy our love,
anticipating its penetration.  I milked his prick and it responded with an
encouragingly hot spurt of pre-come.

   After Maria's visit I'd warned Missy and A.J.  through secure channels
to avoid any leaks about the existence of the computer disk.  Still I kept
returning to the problem of preserving the faith of good members like
Missy's mother.

   So in our post-swim shower, to banish those concerns I concentrated on
toying with Greg's dick.  I took my time making sure it was really really
slippery with soap before I encouraged him to put it where I most wanted
it. I knew the moment I'd offered him my ass he'd be more than willing to
penetrate that tight, dark hole.  Guiding the head of his dick to my rear
door I arched my back to present my puckered opening, pooped out a bit
against the nuzzling tip of his woodie, my insides all squinchy
anticipating how good it would feel to have Greg slowly slide his cock up
inside that dark passage.  It wasn't the same as taking it in my cunt at
all.  It was like having an itch way up inside there and scratching it real
hard.

   Happily indulging my perverted pleasure, Greg began working the tip of
his pecker into my sphincter, wedging it open, making it stretch and sting.
Ahhh, at last, at last, at last we were coming together, or soon would be.
With the plummy head wedged past the tight ring of muscle he gripped my
hips with his strong fingers and ever-so-slowly and thoughtfully and
relentlessly drove his stiff rod up inside me.  I was gasping and he was
grunting as he powered his way in, deeper and deeper, until his hips
pressed against my buttocks and he was completely buried inside my rectum.

   I was almost able to completely lose myself in the sensation of having
my bottom totally packed with Greg's hot, hard, living cock.

   Almost.

   "Hard!" I urged, eager to abandon myself totally to my buggery.

   Ever willing, Greg withdrew, powered back in, driving me against the
wall as I braced myself for his thrusts.

   "More!" I urged.  "Fuck the shit out of me!"

   Which is exactly what he did.  Oh God, it felt so good!  I reached down
and curled two fingers up into my cunt.  I scraped at my G spot while
Greg's dick burned through my anal sphincter, in and out, in and out.

   "Faster!" The impact against my ass jolted me all the way up my spine. I
was pumping my fingers in my twat, mashing my clit with my palm, until
nothing existed for me but the roaring flames of my coming.

   Thank God for Greg's stamina -- maybe he'd masturbated, or gotten his
rocks off somehow during the day.  I bet that Greek goddess in his third
period class -- what was her name?  Callista -- had asked him for relief
and he'd obliged her in the most elemental, natural way possible, perhaps
even indulging her in the same Greek fashion he was doing me.

   And yes, that was a Program violation if I ever saw one.  Getting relief
through any kind of penetration was frowned upon.  I didn't mind if he had.
With every drive into me I knew Greg loved me, loved me, loved me.

   Aaaahh I was coming like a volcano, and I sensed he was getting closer
to his own orgasm by the way he gripped my waist and pistoned into me, over
and over and over.  He shoved deep and hard and fast one last time and I
felt his pecker pulsing, shooting hot jets into my shitty depths, pouring
his fuel on the fire of my own coming until I was seeing stars.

   We held on as long as we could, but all good things must come to an end,
and I slowly returned to reality, my butt crapping him out.  Turning around
I slid down the shower wall and reached for his dick and the soap so I
could wash it clean before giving its soft head an affectionate kiss.  I
love fondling it when it is all limp and squirmy in my hands, and as long
as I'm gentle he likes it, too.

   But eventually duty called and we dressed.  My post-orgasmic bliss was
ended by a distress call from Missy.  She was -- upset doesn't quite
describe it.  Stressed?  Concerned?  She said something cryptic about her
mom and an elephant crapping in her living room, which made no sense.  That
she needed me was all I got out of it.

   Her house being within easy walking distance I left messages with both
Mom and Maria that I was headed there and that I'd get a ride home from
Missy's or call if I needed to be picked up.  I loved my new home, but this
living across town from my BFF was a pain in the ass.  It made it so hard
for us to get together outside of school since neither of us had a license
yet, let alone a car.

   As far as I knew the Pisstor and his demons were still on the loose
since there'd been nothing but silence from Maria.  However, I wasn't
oblivious to the suspiciously anonymous series of vehicles lurking within
sight of my house since Tuesday.  Either she'd gotten her bosses to put a
watch on me or I was in deeper shit than ever.  Even though I didn't hear
back from her I was careful to keep her informed on where I was.

   Maybe it was the lingering remnants of my cold, or my lust-addled wits,
but I should have tried harder to interpret Missy's message.  Since we'd
been three years old she and I'd had an open-door policy, so I just waltzed
up her front walk and in the door.

   The moment I walked into Mrs.  Wilson's very familiar, proper,
oh-so-perfectly furnished living room I found myself waist-deep in
metaphorical elephant dung.  The elephant crapping up the carpet, or rather
sofa, was Pisstor Paul himself, in his usual ministerial garb of black
slacks, a shirt so white it matched his polished smile.  No Cadillac
cufflinks, at least - the cuffs of his sleeves were folded back to reveal
his hairy wrists.

   Nope.  Change that elephant metaphor.  Given Maria's warning I realized
I'd just walked into a tiger's cage and the big cat was grinning at me like
I was a pork chop.

   Never trust anyone who's always smiling.

   My instinct for self-preservation kicked in and I greeted Mrs.  Wilson
politely, managed a respectful nod to Pastor Paul and a friendly wave and
self-conscious "hi" to Missy, thinking fast.

   "Missy, do you have some juice or something?  I just finished swimming
practice and my blood sugar wouldn't power an ant."

   I could have found her fridge blindfolded, but bless Missy, without a
bobble she picked up on that we needed some private face-time.  "Sure, come
on in the kitchen, I'll find you something."

   By the time we were huddling with our heads in the refrigerator I'd
discarded my first panicked thought that she'd spilled any beans to her
Mom. For one thing Missy still had no idea of the explosives on the disk,
and if she'd said anything Mrs.  Wilson's first reaction would have been to
call Pisstor Paul to ask if it were true.  In that case he'd probably have
been on his way to Rio.

   So presumably he still didn't know what we had on him and his
accomplices.  Dammit, what was taking Maria and company so long?  They'd
had the goods on him since Sunday, when were the cops going to put this
bunch out of circulation?

   "What's he doing here?"

   "Mom and I got into an argument over me going to church again.  She
asked him to come over and convince me all is wonderful in pervert land and
I've been getting it in stereo from them since, which is why I called you.
Sorry.

   "Now where's that juice?" she added louder for the benefit of the
audience in the living room.

   "I'm glad you did."

   That got me a tumbler of juice along with a smile and a thanks.

   Okay, so I lied, but she needed support.  While I chugged down juice my
brain was juggling the possibilities.  I got so deep into worrying about
what he knew, what I knew, what he thought I knew, what I thought he knew
about what I knew, that my brain went into overload.

   I thought the cops had him under surveillance.  If they did where was
Maria?  If they had tailed him was I again at ground zero of another SWAT
raid?  To say that the situation was unstable was putting it mildly.  I
needed backup, bad!

   I put the empty tumbler on the counter.  "I need to use the powder room.
Make excuses for me."

   Missy looked confused, but didn't bat an eye otherwise.  Fortunately the
facility was just off the kitchen, so I slipped in without being seen from
the living room and I had to risk firing up my cell phone.  This time Maria
answered.

   "Maria, where are you?"

   "At the church.  There was a big meeting here.  We've busted 'em, except
Paul, who didn't show for some reason."

   "He didn't show because he's sitting right here in Missy's living room!"


   "Shit!  We're on the way."

   "Wait!" I had visions of a SWAT team crashing through the doors, bullets
flying, and broke out in a cold sweat.  "Don't come in guns blazing. 
Everything's calm at the moment.  I'll unlock the back door, and keep him
distracted so maybe you can get him without a fight."

   "How you gonna do that?  Don' go doin' somethin' stupid!  You pull
another Worthington...."

   Been there, done that, got the tee shirt!  The Stick reminded me.

   "It won't come to that," I assured them, flushing the toilet for effect.


   "It better not!" And I got that simultaneously from both Maria and The
Stick in case you're wondering!

   "But I can't promise nothing!" Maria went on.  "I ain't the top cop in
this operation, more the tail of the dog.  We got Feds up the butt!  They
don't take orders from nobody."

   Shit!  The Stick grumbled.

   Ditto!  I retorted in my head.

   "But he's not carrying is he?" I asked Maria, checking my reflection,
noticing how flushed my cheeks were.  "If he's not there's no need for
deadly force."

   "Don' know.  Some of his friends were, so assume the worst.  I'll try to
calm things down."

   "I'd appreciate that, thanks!" I disconnected.  Could he be armed?  He
was supposed to be a man of the cloth.

   And in his mind you're a blushing virgin.

   Oh, I think he knows me better than that!

   Exactly!  Don't assume anything.

   You're not very reassuring!

   I tried to remember how he looked when I came in.  Maria had once told
me all the different places there were for a man to carry a gun.  Given
Pisstor Paul's lack of a jacket a shoulder or belt holster were not viable
options.  Since he kept his shirt tucked in even the small of the back was
eliminated, unless he somehow contrived not to let anyone behind him. 
There was still an ankle holster as a possibility, but his cuffs had ridden
up and I didn't see a bulge there.

   I checked to make sure the back door was unlocked before picking up my
juice.

   "Sorry," I apologized as I reentered the living room.  "Nature calls. 
It's been a busy afternoon, swimming practice and all that." Before I
babbled myself into hot water I shut myself up by taking a swallow of
juice, hoping he'd take the first shot, conversationally speaking.

   Fortunately he did, still smiling broadly, showing his fangs.  "So, what
did you think of our service last Sunday?"

   "Are your 'time for all ages' messages always so -- uh -- stimulating?"
I inquired.

   Oops!  That last word almost came out "simulating."

   Tsk.  So I went a little light on the "t" in it.  So sue me!  The way he
looked at me did not make me comfortable.

   His grin became even more predatory.  "Did you enjoy that?  I was hoping
you'd come with the other youngsters."

   Was that "come" a pun intended, I wondered, or not?  At least Missy had
relaxed some now that I was there.  How little she knew!  She was in an
armchair, watching us lob verbal grenades like it was a tennis match. 
Pisstor Paul was on the sofa, side by side with Missy's mom, who looked
distinctly uncomfortable.  I was pacing, trying not to look scared
shitless, wondering just how this was going to play out.

   "Oh, you know, I'm a teenager -- not quite an adult but not quite a kid,
either.  Confused I guess you could say.  I kinda wish I had come up.  You
put so much passion into your presentation.  I woulda liked a closer look,
I think."

   Not really!

   No, I assured The Stick.

   "You're certainly welcome to return anytime," he offered.  "There's
always room in God's house.  I'm trying to convince Missy to come back to
our services.  Perhaps if you attended with her?"

   "Oh, that would be wonderful," Mrs.  Wilson gushed, still denying
Missy's experience with Brother Edward, totally oblivious to the drama
playing out in front of her.  This was a fencing match.  He and I both knew
I'd never take him up on the offer.

   "Oh, I don't think so," I responded.  "I might make some of the pastor's
-- what should I call them...."

   Suckers The Stick suggested.

   "Congregants," Pisstor Paul responded.

   "I might make some of his congregants uncomfortable," I concluded.

   "Why would that be?" Missy's Mom asked.  How innocent could that woman
be?  If ignorance was bliss she was blissed out beyond belief.

   "Well, given his sermons against the Naked in School Program I don't
think they'd accept my activities promoting it, for example.  And his
preachings on homosexuality, well, after all, I've never made it a secret
that I'm bi-sexual."

   Missy's Mom flushed at the thought.

   Keep him talking, I thought, how can I keep him distracted?  I took
stock of the weapons at my disposal and his vulnerabilities.  All I could
come up with was my body and his sexual proclivities.

   Well, ya gotta go with what ya got The Stick pointed out.

   So glad you're with me!  I retorted, beginning to toy with the top
button of my shirt.

   I was actually fairly conservatively dressed -- a crisp blouse and
shorts and as much underwear as I ever bothered with.  Since I was still
recovering from a cold.  I hadn't thought of this as a good time for some
Program Outreach, but circumstances were changing my mind.

   I decided I didn't want just to distract him.  I wanted to dominate him,
if I could.  For that I needed to go right for his gonads.

   He was lucky I didn't have a bow and arrow in my hands, or a fistful of
chains, or I'd've used those to get his attention.

   "I'm not sure your congregants would be as accepting of me," I
concluded.

   "Well, certainly not if you flaunt yourself!  You should not come to our
service in -- how might you put it -- the nude, or dressed as a man?"

   "In Program uniform," I suggested, unfastening the top button on my
shirt.  "And cross-dressing doesn't necessarily have anything to do with
homosexuality."

   "Still, nude is hardly Sunday go to meetin' dress, now is it?" he
drawled.

   "I don't know.  I suppose it depends on the meeting.  My brother's
girlfriend went to her church naked.  She's Lutheran, by the way, even gave
a reading.  I've met naturist Christians.  They feel what better way is
there to meet God than naked -- meet the Almighty in the altogether, so to
speak.

   "Why, now that I think of it, that sounds almost like sermon topic," I
decided.  "Think about it!  It might even increase attendance, especially
with that lovely choir you feature appropriately displayed.  Not only do
they sing like angels, they're positively angelic in every way -- your own
flock of cherubs!  I'm sure you find them attractive yourself."

   Don't lay it on too thick, The Stick cautioned.

   "As you say, angelic," Pisstor Paul responded warily.

   Was he wavering?  What, exactly was I trying to accomplish?  I was still
walking a tightrope.  Did I just want to hold his attention, or was there
something else here?

   "Anyway, I don't understand how nakedness can be seen as a threat to
society," I continued reasonably, glad to notice that his gaze had slipped
down from my face to where I was toying with the button between my bashful
boobs.  "Certainly there can't be any concealed weapons."

   I couldn't avoid a fleeting thought that I was about to unleash my own
small-bore pair.

   "True, but the sight of a naked woman can stir the lusts of a man," he
argued.

   I did realize I had him in an awkward position.  He couldn't openly
attack me without losing credibility in the eyes of Missy's mom and further
alienating Missy.  Both of them, for some reason, seemed to be important to
his plans, whatever they were.

   Missy's mom was frowning, confused as usual.  Meanwhile Missy's telltale
dimples were sort of flickering at the corners of her mouth.  She thought I
was up to something.  I wished she'd tell me exactly what it was, 'cause I
sure as hell didn't know.

   I popped the next button open, the one between my modest breasts.  "I'm
certainly not going to try to debate scripture with you, sir, but isn't the
whole point behind your faith that a man, or woman, for that matter, should
control their impulses?  It seems to me that all those 'thou shalts' and
'thou shalt nots' in the Old Testament are telling us what not to do -- not
to kill, not to commit adultery, for example -- and what to do, like honor
our parents."

   "With God's help, of course," he responded, breathing harder, "and
risking God's wrath if we don't."

   He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, discreetly trying to readjust his
package.  I was getting to him!

   "But with the Almighty's help surely these impulses should be easily
controlled, wouldn't you say?  Isn't it true that if we study the
scriptures and pray to your God He should support us, help us to know the
difference between right and wrong and be able to choose according to His
law?"

   Which, I'm sure, prohibits molesting children!

   I agreed with The Stick, but didn't want to rock the boat that far. 
Instead I slipped one hand inside my shirt to toy with my nipple, tweaking
it into red-alert posture, you might say, sending tingling messages to my
pussy.

   The Pastor's Adam's apple bobbed.

   Adam's apple -- one of these days I'm going to have to look up the
origin of that term.  I bet it has something to do with Adam and that tree
in the Garden of Eden.

   "But man is weak," he countered nervously.  I noticed he didn't include
women.  So much for political correctness.  Oh well, I guess that was to be
expected.

   He was right though, some men are weak, as are some women.  Taking the
present case in point, I had him positively quivering and I hadn't even
taken my shirt off yet.  Suddenly I was hoping Maria didn't hurry. 
Something told me I had him right where I wanted him.

   I kept unbuttoning.  "But surely your -- what is it?  -- omniscient and
omnipotent God is strong enough to keep a man from yielding to something as
innocent as the exposure of a young woman's breasts?" I argued, slipping
off my shirt so he could appreciate my tits.

   Missy's Mom was squirming uncomfortably.  "Dee, uh...."

   "I'm sorry, I'm just trying to figure out what it was about a girl's
body that would have such an effect.  I don't have a lot to show off, but
that should make it easier to resist, don't you think?"

   Mrs.  Wilson blushed and looked away.  He stared, gulped, and licked his
lips.  He was a deer in my headlights.

   "Unless, of course, you prefer younger women," I suggested coyly,
standing there topless, crossing my arms to toy with my already alert
nipples for a moment.

   "Ahh, well, certainly the Lord's strength helps, but young girls, such
as yourself, really have no idea how seductive they can be!"

   Oh yeah?

   Don't be sarcastic, I chided The Stick.

   "It's just a chest," I pointed out, spreading my arms.  "I've seen body
builders with bigger pectorals than my tits.  And men, too, have nipples.
I've always wondered, what are the purpose of a man's nipples?  Is that
intelligent design?"

   I couldn't resist the jab.

   "Mine are for suckling a baby, of course, but they also give me great
pleasure as a primary erogenous zone, too.  Do men get pleasure out of
having their nipples sucked?"

   I knew damn well they did, some of them at least, but wanted to plant
the notion in his warped brain.

   "Dee, I...."

   I cut Missy's Mom off with a look as I unbuttoned the waist of my loose
shorts.  "It's alright, Mrs.  Wilson.  I'm just trying to understand how a
man can be so -- interested -- in a girl less than a third his age.  I
thought I'd dramatize the issue.  Even as tall as I am I'm still just a
girl, not really a woman.  A girl your daughter's age, in fact.  Isn't that
right, Missy?  By the way.  How old is Brother Edward, the Sunday school
teacher who grabbed your ass that day?"

   Missy's mom flinched.  Pisstor Paul's lips puckered.

   "Older than Pastor Paul," she answered stonily.  "Certainly old enough
to know better.  And he didn't take 'no' for an answer, either.  I had to
pry his hand off my ass.  I'm surprised I didn't put his finger in a splint
in the process."

   That jolted Missy's mom, who had so stubbornly dismissed her daughter's
complaint about being molested.  Maybe by fleshing out the scene, so to
speak, Missy and I were finally getting through to the woman.

   "Well, like I say, you young ladies just have no idea how -- appealing
you are," Pisstor Paul stammered.

   I was getting the feeling that the only thing bigger than this man's ego
was his id, which worked to my advantage.  I let my shorts drop around my
feet, leaving me in my panties -- nothing lacey, they were just plain
cotton panties, but they were a bit snug.  I knew there was a camel's toe
down there.

   "Appealing to whom?  We don't have anything different than any woman
does.  Less in some cases, such as mine.  Surely a mature adult should be
able to take responsibility for his actions around an innocent child and
pick on someone his own --uh -- age.  Or size?  Maybe that lesson -- pick
on someone your own size -- was left out of the Bible.  Or is that the
message from David and Goliath?"

   It's strange the connections my brain sometimes makes.  I pushed my
panties down, let them drop around my ankles before shaking my feet out of
them and my shorts, toeing off my cross-trainers to be completely naked.  I
stretched sensuously.  His eyes dropped to my naked pussy and he licked his
lips.

   Missy's mom was practically catatonic.

   I felt I had to come up with an innocent explanation for my baldness. 
"Since I'm a swimmer I keep myself waxed -- it cuts down on turbulence,
drag.  I like to swim naked.  You like it?  Just like a little girl's
pussy, isn't it?"

   His fingers were digging into the sofa cushion like claws, proving I
knew how to push his buttons.  "Now Dee...!"

   I decided it was time to turn the screws.  "I prefer Diane from you,
thank you.  Dee is for my friends.

   "Would you like to be my friend?" I asked mockingly sweetly as I let my
fingers trail over my pussy.  Believe me, I was enjoying this.  I was
aroused, but not by this slug.  I found his reaction empowering, you might
say.

   I decided it was a time to fire a dart.  ''Incidentally, that was a
pretty impressive production, your 'Time for All Ages' theatrics last
Sunday.  For a time there I actually thought you had sneaked a girl under
the podium to suck your cock.  Very clever.  I almost fell for it."

   Missy's mom looked like she was about to faint.  I hoped she knew the
trick of putting her head between her knees, so we wouldn't have to pick
her up off the floor.

   As for me, being down to bare flesh I guess it's fair to say I was
running out of material, so I moved closer to him.

   "Now, this is my body." As I ran my hands up my torso I thought I heard
a noise in the kitchen.  Maybe Maria had managed to tame the hounds and get
in the back door.  But I had Pisstor Paul pinned to the sofa,
metaphorically speaking, and I didn't dare look away.  I hoped, for the
sake of the Wilsons' front door, that Maria had convinced the forces
without that things were under control within, assuming I did have them
under control.

   I wasn't quite sure of that myself so I casually lifted one foot to the
sofa beside the Good Pisstor to display my intimate charms more openly.

   "But I really don't think you understand how the Naked in School Program
works -- I think the word I want is 'counter-intuitive.' Because while it
is mandatory, the intent is to empower us teenagers.  We can't say 'no' to
participating, that's the counter-intuitive part.  We're ordered to spend a
week naked in school.

   "But during the week that we're in The Program we learn our bodies are
nothing to be ashamed of.  We learn to be comfortable with them, even proud
of them, and especially that it is our body, not a plaything for someone
else to use as they wish, that we have the right to say 'no,' and when we
do that 'no' means 'no.'

   "Kids in The Program learn to say 'no' real quick, and kids not in The
Program, who don't listen, who try to take advantage of a program
participant, quickly find themselves in The Program so they learn the
lesson."

   Pisstor Paul couldn't take his eyes off my twat, while Missy's mom was
trying to get as far away from him as she could, looking distinctly green.
I was glad to see Missy take her in hand and guide her out of the room.  I
still had no idea how this would play out, but at least they'd be out of
the line of fire.

   I shifted my lifted foot, nudged his leg to get him to uncross his legs.
Ah yes, he was definitely appreciating my display.

   "By the end of the week most participants are a lot wiser, a lot more
comfortable with their bodies and definitely more confident.  Being naked
strips away all the trappings of status and reveals each of us for what we
are -- you might even say as God made us."

   I fingered my pussy.

   "They learn the truth about sex and how to enjoy it responsibly, they
learn about the opposite sex, they learn about sexuality -- be it hetero or
homo -- so they won't be taken in by your bullshit about sexuality being a
choice.

   "By the way, have you ever really thought about how someone could
possibly choose to be homosexual, knowing the pain people like you will
inflict on them?

   "But let's get back to the sex act itself."

   I moved my foot to his lap -- his crotch.  He was immobilized,
practically petrified as I pressed my advantage at his groin.  I could feel
the hardness, the heat, and the dampness right through his expensive black
slacks.

   "Why would God give us the potential for such pleasure if He didn't
expect us to enjoy it?  It brings people together, strengthens the bonds of
love -- which is the basis for good sex, of course -- and, if they choose,
marriage.  But long before we're old enough for that we're subject to these
wonderful desires.  We're curious.  We explore and experiment.  We all do!

   "So while we are in The Program we learn about alternatives to
abstinence, so when God isn't there to restrain us we can avoid
unfortunate, life-changing consequences.  If we don't already know it we
learn how to masturbate, for example."

   I began to demonstrate my toes' dexterity.  Greg and I had experimented
with mutual toe jobs, carefully, knowing that athlete's foot of the cunt is
a bitch to treat.

   He started to come up off the sofa but pressure on his cock and balls
kept him down without my having to say a word.  I was close enough to him
to smell his flop-sweat.  This was fun, but maybe it was about time I
brought this little interlude to a close.

   "You and I both know why you want to kill The Program, and it is not out
of some fundamentalist fucking religious nonsense regarding nudity and
shame."

   I teased him by offering my naked sex to him, closer.

   "You prey on children's innocence and ignorance so you can molest their
tender, innocent bodies."

   "They're asking for it!" he insisted hoarsely.  "They want it!  Just
like you are!"

   I pushed back, working my foot up and down in his lap.  "Bull!  They
don't even know what sex is!  They're curious.  All they know is that
they're getting attention, maybe attention they can't get at home, and that
it feels good.  They're too young to make a rational decision about what is
right for them, or wrong.  You're taking advantage of them.  You're
supposed to be a responsible adult.  You're trying to rationalize the
irrational and it just won't work.

   "And as for your noble church, at the same time you're molesting the
children you're fleecing their parents for another pair of gold cufflinks
with your high-flown rhetoric, you heartless bastard!"

   He shook his head, but still couldn't look away from my twat.  I worked
his dick harder.  It was flopped up against his belly.  I could have opened
his pants, but somehow this was more fun.

   I worked a finger into my own twat, for his enjoyment more than mine,
though I had to admit I was getting off on this.  "And then there are the
most vulnerable children of all, the ones that won't be missed, the ones
living in doorways or abandoned garages.  You suck them in off the street
with offers of a hot meal and a hot shower, then betray their trust,
violate them, brainwash them.

   "And what do you do then?  We know of one foster family that your church
recommended that planned to sell six siblings off into a life of slavery,
prostitution and drug addiction.  How much were those creeps going to kick
back to you for that privilege?

   "Which makes me wonder what other rackets you are into and where all
that money comes from, and where it goes."

   I was on a roll now and so was he, his hips working against my pressure.


   "You saw The Program as a threat to all of that, didn't you?  Kids came
out of it wiser, no longer suckers for your schemes."

   "Oh God, you are beautiful!"

   He wasn't even listening!  He still wanted me.  I couldn't believe it.
It gave me a feeling of power that was positively scary, and incredibly
sexy.

   Maybe I should be a Domme.

   But I went on, trying to get through to him.  "I know Christians claim
to be forgiven.  I saw it on a bumper sticker once, 'Christians aren't
perfect, they're just forgiven.' And here I thought the message was to not
sin in the first place.  I find it hard to believe that a just and merciful
God will ever forgive you or people like you."

   I gave his cock a roll with the ball of my foot and he suddenly began
coming in his pants.  I could feel his cock pulsing, the hot spreading
wetness staining his crotch.  I kept my foot there, moving it, milking him
of every spurt as he grunted mindlessly, until there wasn't a drop left and
his pecker began to shrivel under the sole of my foot.

   I actually had a little shiver of a coming of my own.

   "You are pathetic, you and that whole bucket of perverts you run with,"
I concluded, lifting my foot and wiping the come off of the bottom of it on
his knee before I bent down to pick up my clothes.  "You're an insult to
the decent people who fill what you call a church."

   I'd seen Maria in the kitchen doorway, her handcuffs dangling from one
finger, a dangerous smile on her face.

   "Detective Sanchez, will you please remove this piece of crap."

   Pisstor Paul snapped out of his daze and tried to make a break for it,
so I tripped him.  He went down face first with a crash that brought Missy
and her Mom back into the room.  I was glad for them to see his
humiliation, so I stepped on his ass, trying to grind the prick's prick
into the carpet.

   "He seems to have messed in his pants, Maria.  Do I have to change his
diaper for you, too?"