("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: accident.txt (mf-teens, 1st) Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com) Story title : Accidents Will Happen -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 2004. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Accidents Will Happen by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com) *** A Who-Done-It? Where the two culprits volunteer that they did it. But it doesn't look like an accident to Sheila Wright, Private Eye! (mf-teens, 1st) *** Urban legends have five characteristics. (1) Attribution to a reliable source never precisely specified, a cousin, for example. (2) Embellished detail, often locational or "Last year". (3) Authority. Rarely is an allegation presented, "It was discovered that..." but rather, "A Harvard researcher discovered that..." (4) Unlikelihood the listener prefers to accept. Tiffany's billing some sucker $64,000 for a recipe? (5) A possibility of embedded truth. Have your students rewrite urban legends into short stories. They thus start with a decent plot, quite often concerning a hook-handed escaped convict and two teenagers parked on a lonely road. Make it scary, tell them. We don't want all their creativity invested detailing why the couple was in the car. Here's the one called "Changing in the Sleeping Bag" or "Accidental Intercourse". "At a well-known Kentucky summer camp, the campers play this little game. The boys elect a girl and the girls choose a boy to share a sleeping bag while they change into swimsuits. The others keep their eyes out for the counselors. The couple jostles together as they wiggle out of their clothes, trying to conceal evidence of wayward brushes. "But last year this one couple gets stuck halfway and the others gather round to see why. When their friends unzip the bag, each has one leg in one suit and one in the other. The two can't move without initiating accidental intercourse. So the other kids just zip them in again and watch till it happens. It was their first time and she got pregnant. "My cousin was there and saw them orgasm. The girl really came! My cousin says that the kids who stayed afterwards said that when the two got out of the bag, they were still so horny that they did it again on top of the air mattress. The girl really, really came!" PRIVATE EYE by Holly Rennick September 2, 10:05 AM. My telephone, a $29 wall-mount with serpentine cord, was evidence enough. Evidence is what my line of work is about. Sheila Wright, Domestic Situational Research, (859) 764-4889. I probably should have attached the phone to the wall, but the instructions seem to suggest some sort of special screw for wallboard and I'm not that mechanical. To be a private investigator one needn't be mechanical, but one should note evidence. I'm reasonably astute about a variety of things, just not wallboard. Not chain-smoking while waiting for my first client doesn't fit the detective genre, I fear. But even if I did smoke, the Virginia Slims would cost more than any fee I might make if the phone actually rang. Half of Stan's assets were enough to sustain me for a while if I didn't buy a $129 phone with indecipherable options about messaging. "Let Uncle Sam Pay You" describes several IRS tests for business use of your residence: (1) Your business name on your mailbox in case an auditor visits. (2) A phone card for personal long distance, since they can check your carrier. (3) Don't claim "client entertainment" when you and a girlfriend have coffee. My other book from the library, "Investigation Science and Management" by Helen Babcock, Ph.D., I'd studied extensively. The woman author includes such things not picked up from TV as, (1) Designing your business stationary with MS Word. (2) Use of wigs and glasses. (3) Including "and Associates" in your business name. You may grow. (4) Keep things in lists. If the above evidence suggests an again-single female embarking on a promising service-sector career in private investigation, you may have some feel for evidence yourself. Babcock says it's a growth industry. There'll always be clients wanting to clarify their spouses' relationships, I figure. I'd have no insight into corporate spies or smugglers of endangered parrots. INQUIRY "Hi, Ms. Wright. It's Allison." Allison? Oh, of course! Betty's Allison. I'd known Betty since we were in grade school. She'd married a fullback from the class ahead or ours and this was their Allison. Fifteen, I'd have guessed. "Allison! It's been ages, honey. So how you doing?" "Great. Great. No, that's why I called. Not great. You're really a private investigator?" "In the process of identifying potential contacts." Babcock says to do this early on. "OK. I need some help." "From me?" momentarily forgetting that I was sitting in my office. It looked so much like my kitchen. "I need to know about domestic partnerships," she proceeded. "For the future, I mean. I just had my period, so I didn't get pregnant," matter-of-factly. Sex is involved. "That's good. Well, all I can really say is that it's still pretty much in the courts. But why a domestic partnership?" "It'd be illegal for us to get really married." "The guy's already married, right?" suspecting a domestic partnership wouldn't work either. If married men want to screw around, leave the 15-year-old Allisons alone, damn it! "No. It's just Wesley. It was accidental intercourse at camp." I processed that one. "It sometimes seems like it, honey. You think you can just rub..." "No. It was because how we were putting on our swimsuits." "Accidental intercourse? Wanna come over to my office?" It sort of looks like a kitchen, though, I noticed. "Better yet, meet me at McDonald's for lunch." I'd have a little time to research "Accidental Intercourse". Babcock calls this the Literature Phase. Hello Google. INVESTIGATION September 2, 12:15 PM. I was planning to start with an individual interview, as Babcock suggests, but Allison showed up with Wesley in tow. We got our Happy Meals and found a booth in the corner. (I couldn't remember if I was supposed to boycott MacDonald's fries, so I partook.} Allison: 5 feet, 7 inches. 125 pounds. Brunette, shoulder length, ponytail. Braces. Tommy Hilfiger attire, though I didn't verify the labels. Retro Doc Martins. White bra, straps apparent. Wesley: just slightly taller. 150 pounds. Blond, combed upward, presumably in the style of a music idol. A little Clearasil. Jeans. Light blue turtleneck. I began, "So I'm going to ask you just one question. Ready? Did you have sexual intercourse together?" They nodded. "Two questions, actually. Why not fess up that you got carried away, like happens to everybody? It's a major thing to tell your moms that you had sex, of course, but at least you know that they've done it too." (Actually, Allison, I didn't add, your mom was plenty pleasured by your age. I knew a lot myself, but more from listening.) "It wasn't our fault," replied Wesley with conviction. But, like Babcock says, never trust what clients first tell you. For teens at camp, I told then, it's very, very average to have sex. It's well documented. Almost every girl when I was there did it the night we had the big campfire and played capture the flag afterwards. (I didn't tell them that I snuck all the way to the enemy prison and grabbed Larry Gleeson's hand so we got freebies back. I thought he'd might take me behind the archery range and make me make out, but he found Bonnie Sue Krebbs, instead. So I didn't have sex, but could hear the squeals.) Allison agreed about it happening at camp, but said that they weren't playing that kind of game. They were just changing into their swimsuits in a sleeping bag and their legs got mixed up and they got stuck together. "Huh?" my professionally-restrained response, but I chose to not pursue the "how" for a moment. From my own camp days, I recalled that your sleeping bag was where you dressed if you didn't want people to see everything. But together? LEGAL REMEDIES Before figuring out the real story, they needed to know the difference between a cop, a lawyer, a judge, a jury and a Domestic Situational Researcher like myself. Babcock calls this Anticipating the Remedy Contingencies. Here's where this thing could go, if not properly investigated. (1) The police could arrest Wesley because he's the boy. "Maybe it's just second degree rape or something," I wondered. I wasn't sure about the degree, but something serious. (2) They could sue the camp for lack of due supervision, or whatever, because the camp would have insurance for accidentality. (I just made up the word, but I'm sure attorneys would use it.) Just like for a camper falling out of a tree. "But here's the problem. An accident," quoting from my Literature Phase printout, "is a fortuitous circumstance, event or happening; an event happening without any human agency, or if happening wholly or partly through human agency, an event which under the circumstances is unusual and unexpected by the person to whom it happens; an unusual or unexpected result attending the operation or performance of a usual or necessary act or event; chance or contingency; fortune; mishap; some sudden and unexpected event taking place without expectation, upon the instant, rather than something which continues, progresses or develops; something happening by chance; something unforeseen, unexpected, unusual, extraordinary or phenomenal, taking place not according to the usual course of things or events, out of the range of ordinary calculations; that which exists or occurs abnormally, or an uncommon occurrence." I was lost too. I cited the Michigan Judicial Institute. We'd have to allege "an unintentional or accidental sexual contact or penetration that occurred under what is normally thought to be lawful circumstances, such as performing a medical procedure, bathing someone, or changing a child's diaper, to name a few such circumstances." But putting on swimsuits? But even if they won, their lawyer would screw them for more than they accidentally screwed each other. (3) A judge could decide what the law says. But in Northland Insurance v. Briones, the California Court of Appeal held that there's no such thing as "unintentional child molestation", "negligent harassment", "negligent stalking" or "accidental intercourse". You can't argue with a judge. (4) A jury could decide who's to blame. But I reminded them that a jury awarded $500,000 to a lady who spilled MacDonald's coffee on herself, so who knows? (5) So you're of course right to start with a private investigator with a domestic specialty, I assured my clients. Sometimes, private investigations are private for a reason. "OK," agreed Allison. "We'll go with you. All we need to know is if we can be domestic partners, like I said on the phone." I made a note to myself to get a little notebook to keep track of my billable hours. Babcock says it's really hard to remember afterwards. CONFESSION So why call it an accident? Police, lawyers, judges and juries would have a field day. The only answer that came to mind was that they somewhat believed it. Then something in Ann Landers sparked the hunch that would prove to break this case open. "OK, kids. I'll need to do some investigation. Allison, I'll need you to loosen your belt. Don't worry; nobody can see us back here." She paled, probably envisioning some sort of DNA sampling. I've read they do that, but Babcock stresses traditional sleuthing methods. "Just lean forward, honey, and pull it out just enough for me to see the hem of your underwear." She must have been somewhat surprised, but her mother must have told I'm a detective. Lavender cotton briefs. Hunch supported! I was hesitant about my next check, but I had to find out. "Same thing for you, Wesley. Pull out your belt just enough to show the top of your shorts." I guess he figured he could deck me if I tried anything weird, but after all, I am a detective and we were in MacDonald's. Lavender jockeys. Hunch confirmed! Having read Ann Landers about today's tags of teenage sexuality, I was direct. "Now you can level with me, or we can waste a lot of time. Yes or no. Are you homosexuals?" Their mouths dropped and Allison took Wesley's hand. They both nodded. I hoped they were enough impressed as to not further conceal pertinent information. Babcock says to either act dull so they drop their guard, or really smart so they quit trying to fool you. I'm the smart type. (The Ann Landers angle was from my own reading, not something suggested by Babcock, I might note.) But this would be a difficult case, to be sure. Realizing the futility of concealing the truth from a professional, Wesley stepped in. "OK, so it wasn't exactly an accident, but we didn't get carried away like you suspect. The other Assistants made us." "Made you?" "'Cause we're not straight," he reminded me. "OK, then. Let's start this thing from the start." Motives usually explain what investigators investigate. Babcock says to get the Background Information. BACKGROUND Allison began. It was Madonna kissing Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera on MTV and later how Aguilera put her tongue down Britney's throat, according to Britney, that got everybody talking about girls smooching. (I didn't point out that Madonna's being twice the age of the starlets makes it more like child molestation, Britney being not quite a girl, not quite a woman.) "So I told Wesley that I'd decided to be a lesbian, 'cause I knew that he'd understand." "Because I'm gay," explained Wesley. "That's why we're best friends. We're exactly different and exactly the same," clarified Allison. "Keep talking," I ordered. "We're not dangerous or anything," argued Wesley, a bit defensively. "I may be gay, but I don't let some fag mess with me. Us guys just goose around sometimes, you know." "Really," attested Allison. "He's perfectly cool. Maybe we're not into each others' bods, exactly, but we do everything together." "Everything?" Perhaps she'd unravel this story herself. "No, not everything, like that! Just regular stuff like basketball and baking. Honest, he never touched me on purpose except when we were whacking each other with cushions or something. We're not interested." "You're holding hands," I noted. "So what? That's because we're might become domestic partners. It's not like how I'd hold hands with a girlfriend," she blushed. "So, just for the record, not for your mom," I followed up, "you do have girlfriends?" "You mean lovers, right?" She brightened. "I'm planning to." "You two know about orgasms from, you know, maybe in the shower?" They avoided looking at each other and again nodded. "And it was like that when you did it?" "Better, actually," volunteered Allison. "But since we're gay/lesbian, it was a one shot deal. No, I mean that Wesley shot a buncha times, it felt like to me (right, Wesley?). It was a one time deal." She looked at him for confirmation. "But we still might want to be domestic partners some day. That's why I called you. Everything you read about domestic partners looks like it's just for two girls or two guys. It's discrimination," she mused, but then had a happier thought. "Mr. Saxton, our Principal, says that if somebody will start a Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual/Transgendered Club, we can get Federal grant for field trips and stuff!" SCENE "So let's go back to the incident." Babcock says to note the scene. There were eight Assistant Councilors and as tends to happen, pairings evolve. Hank and Clarice were the "best looking" and "most popular". "Dominant male and female" came to my own mind, but I didn't want to lead the testimony. Jon and Marti were both into swimming. Sean and Jessica each had steadies back home, so were just going together for the summer. Wesley and Allison were the leftovers, but that was OK. When the Assistants paired up, most often after campfire or during free hour, Wesley and Allison could talk. Once Marti saw them climb up into the lifeguard tower. Her exaggerated conclusion that they'd been making out was actually OK, the two agreed. Why go to a bunch of effort claiming that you weren't doing exactly what everybody else would have been doing? "Actually," admitted Allison, "I sorta thought Marti might be worth getting to know a little better. She kinda had that look about her. But maybe it wasn't anything. Or maybe if there was, she didn't know it yet. In Health Ed, they say it takes years to decide." "But things started going wrong," reflected Wesley, "when Hank looked in my trunk and saw my magazine." "It wasn't bad or anything," Allison hurried in. "Just about fashions. Ever heard of GQ? Mostly sport-coats over tee-shirts." Wesley finished, "So Hank makes this joke to the other guys." "Like you're some sort of molester," consoled Allison, holding his hand still. "And the girls, not Allison, I mean, the others, it's like, 'Do you like makeup?' And 'cause Allison and me hung out, maybe she's weird too." "Like maybe I'll French kiss the assholes," pouted Allison. "Bet a quarter Marti would have before the magazine thing. What would a gay and lesbian do, anyway, except talk?" She went on, "So all of us went hiking to Big Falls the day between sessions. The boys stripped to their underpants and jumped in, so we did too. Plus bras, I mean." She giggled. "We were just splashing around, was all," clarified Wesley. "Afterwards, we all went to different places to dry in the sun. Us two just stayed on the rocks, since we didn't need to be private. And then after a while, they came back and asked us how it went. I said, 'Fine,' and Hank said 'So how come she's not naked?' and I didn't answer. Then they all started laughing and saying we were probably virgins, even." "Which we were, honest!" interjected Allison. "So then somebody started to push me over against Allison and pretty soon they were sitting on us and we were all squished together." "Anything happen?" I asked point-blankly. "No, not really," responded Allison. "We were in our underwear and everything." "Meaning?" I interrogated. "I just," admitted Allison without looking at Wesley, "you know, Wesley was pushed against me and I, you know, could sorta feel his bump, I mean. But it wasn't his fault, how it got." I turned toward the boy. "Oh, no, Ms. Wright! We were just squeezed together, was all. Maybe some of the other girls rubbed it, but they were careful their boyfriends didn't see. Allison was trying to keep them away, was why her hand was there." "Assholes," commented Allison, who then hastened to resolve their predicament. "They let us up, like it was all this big joke. They let us rest together first, though." THE INCIDENT "It was later, maybe three or four days," recounted Allison. "One of the girls said, guess what's behind the sports field? We went to see and they threw a blanket over my head. A camp prank, they told me. When they took it off, Wesley was there too and the boys were holding him. Right, Wesley? And then they said that we had to make out. We said no, but the girls said they'd steal my shoes, so Wesley said, OK, and gave me a little kiss. That wasn't good enough, Clarice said, so he had to do it on my mouth. It wasn't like Britney's kiss, really!" her rue not totally hidden. "And then they told him that he had to feel me, second base, you know. I said, no, and then somebody pulled up my shirt and my bra and made him. They could all see! I'm not that big, actually." "But she's my favorite size," offered Wesley gallantly. "He was nice and gentle," showing me Wesley's hand. "Like this," passing his palm over her chest. He looked around nervously, but didn't resist. "'Cept, of course, it was on my skin. Don't worry, Ms. Wright, we're gay/lesbian." Then her voice darkened. "And then they said we had to get naked together and we got really scared. But they pantsed us anyway. We were fighting, but they didn't care. They made us look at each other, but it was pretty hard to see much. "But here's when I knew it wasn't just some joke because we were different. They'd brought a sleeping bag and if we wouldn't do it all the way, they'd make us. "We said, no, they couldn't, and they put one of our legs in each other's underpants and made Wesley, you know, be between. The guys felt me up while they were doing it. Even between my legs! Hank sorta knew how, which kinda made a difference. Don't worry, though, I didn't let him do me past the front part. "They tied Wesley's hands abound my back with my bra. It would have been more comfortable if they hadn't." I interrupted, "What about your hands?" "They made me hold them around his back. If I let go, they pushed them back together. So when they had us like they wanted, they zipped the sleeping bag around us. If we fought too much, we'd just be fighting each other." "So where were your hands now," I persisted. "Around his back still. If I'd have let go, the only place they could go was down. It was real tight in there. It was an accident because of the way we were together. He just kinda kept getting bigger and the way it was pointed made us accidentally make love. Right, Wesley?" I looked at the accused, though Allison's accusation was hardly meant to be such. "I didn't think it would go in very far," protested the accidental penetrater. "But then Marti sat on my butt and pushed." "I knew she wanted to lay me," agreed the victim. Returning to her more-immediate partner, "And it hurt like shit, but once he was there it didn't so much. If I twisted too much to the side, it might have hurt him. So the only way I really had to resist was to go up and down." "You know, Allison," I consoled, "sometimes when you're in a dangerous situation, the safest thing to do is to cooperate." "That's sorta what I was thinking," she agreed. "So, Wesley, it got hard and just sort of found his way in?" I still found it a bit hard to believe. "Not that easily at first, but then it slid better when she got..." "Lubricated, we say. So who came first, orgasmed, I mean?" I needed the full story. "We both did!" Allison smiled at the thought. "Afterwards, we could feel each other's heartbeats, even! I guess it was kinda good how they'd taken my bra off." I agreed that it's difficult, no, impossible, to stop a climax. "They told us it was just to get us experienced and now we were all the same," concluded Allison's inadvertent lover. "But everybody knows you can't just change your orientation like that." "So how come you gave me this version about changing swimsuits?" I asked. "Really weak." Allison replied. "You can't squeal on your friends, Ms. Wright. Sean and Jessica were pretty cool about it afterwards. The four of us went back up to Big Falls and they said they were sorry if we hadn't wanted to. Since they'd seen us, we could watch them." "Are we talking sexually?" I asked just to make sure. "They'd seen us undressed already, so it was perfectly fair," judged Allison. "They were a lot better, though, 'cause of practice. Wesley's just as big, though," she added somewhat proudly. Want some advice?" I offered. "Sure." "Get on the pill. Accidents will happen." Babcock says to summarize your findings. (1) They were together in a sleeping bag, in accordance with their initial testimony. (2) They each had one leg in one pair of pants, another in the other pair, again in accordance with their initial testimony. (3) Wesley's penis did work its way inside Allison, again in accordance with their initial testimony. (4) But they weren't changing into swimsuits. "Just one of those things along the highway of life." I reassured them. Allison beamed, leaned over her burger wrappers and gave me a kiss. A really big kiss. Actually, I realized after a moment that she was working all around inside my mouth. Teenagers can be so exuberant. "Really, you shouldn't, honey!" "Well Madonna likes to with Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera, and they're about the same age difference as us." I agreed that it was quite nice, but, after all, I'm a private investigator. "Some private investigations are best kept private," Allison reminded me. If I'd had my more-professional business suit, she'd not have seen my nipples. COLLECTION Babcock notes under Collection of Remittances that clients may be unable to settle their account. As Betty's my friend, her daughter's bill's not the sort of issue that you push. I suppose I should have had them pay for my Happy Meal, though, an out-of-pocket expense. As noted earlier, I have some savings, so income just means more tax forms. "I'll tell you what, Allison. A kiss that sweet makes my fee half-settled." She giggled and it occurred to me that such opportunity shouldn't be squandered. "Wesley? Do you know that way, how Allison did that?" "Not really, Ms. Wright." "Well then Allison, to celebrate everything turning out fine, maybe you could give Wesley one too?" She beamed at me. I wasn't sure if she really winked my way before turning to her friend and catching him full mouth. "People might see!" he protested after they were done. "Hey, Ms. Wright? Can I ask you something?" still licking her lips. "How'd you guess that Wesley and me were gay/lesbian?" "Lavender underwear, honey." "Lavender underwear?" She thought a moment and then grinned. "You got it mixed up with jelly bracelets. It's different. Lavender undies mean we're not done choosing." WESLEY ALONE And I was still due half my remuneration! "Wesley, come on out to my car for a couple of minutes. Won't be a second." Babcock says that people are more willing to talk in a car. Getting out of the booth, I gave his arm a nice up, over and down, the full breast. He got in the passenger side, but I had such trouble holding my clipboard with the wheel in the way. "Here, trade me places," sliding across his lap. Now you can't really judge anatomy without wiggling down rather unprofessionally. You can tell, however, if he rises up or scrunches down. (Babcock doesn't say this, but girls know.) In Wesley's case, he pushed up. Nuzzling my knee against his, "Just a few more facts for the file." "Whatever you need, Ms. Wright." "Sheila. First of all (and you might just as well be frank with me), you've never had homosexual intercourse, right?" With what I hoped appeared to be an absent-minded gesture, I undid my top button. He looked appalled. "No way!" "I'm very relieved. HIV, you know. Stay out of goosing contests, while you're at it. With boys, I mean." I casually laid my hand on his knee. "OK, now when the other Assistants were tying you up and everything, did the girls do anything to you?" I slid my fingers a little to the middle. "Like what?" pretending not to notice. "Like rub you up and down to get you ready?" I only slightly moved my hand, but the direction was up and down. "Maybe like having a nice time in the shower?" "I guess." "So you just responded. They probably knew how to rub pretty well, right?" I straightened my forefinger. "Sure," still trying to ignore my attention. "Clarice, anyway." "I figured she might. Next. Did you push when Allison was ready?" My fingertips slid just a tiny bit up his thigh. "Just a little." "Good man. Being a sensitive guy makes you understand what a girl likes, first time and all. Next. Did you hold back at the end, to make it better for her?" I could feel the warmth through his denim as I began to wedge his legs apart. "I wasn't really sure how. I mean, Marti was bouncing me." He was trying to steady his leg. "OK. But keep in mind that it's just a two-person thing." He at last moved his knees a little apart. "It felt OK? Pretty nice, even? Allison, I mean," I asked, adding silently, "And it's starting to feel pretty nice now, isn't it, Wesley?" Captured, he nodded. Confirmed, I ceased. "So for you, young man." He watched me intently. "You owe Allison big-time for helping you with your orientation. It could take psychiatrist years to get you back on track. You two have some catch-up to do, I'd guess. You'll probably need to work on slowing things down, maybe. You hear me? Don't go macho too fast." He nodded, wide-eyed. It occurred to me that kids these days do a lot of nodding. I could have done a Clarice and he would have kept nodding. "So what I suggest," trying to be practical, "is maybe the two of you play Clue over at her place this afternoon. Her folks are at work, I'm pretty sure." In my day, I told him, we'd play Clue and go to real rooms to ask the questions. But since Allison wouldn't have a billiard room, they'd need to choose another one. I didn't elaborate that once Keith Jarvis got me there and asked if it was Miss Scarlet with the candlestick and said he'd have to search me to find out. Maybe that's when I started wanting to be a detective. Thinking of accidents reminded me of something. "But stop by Wal-Mart first. You took Health Ed, right? You two can figure out how to wear it, I suppose." I was just being professional. "And when your orientation's on track, here's what you do." I gave my phone number. (I really should have business cards, like Babcock suggests.) "Call my office. If an Associate answers, just say its business with the boss. I'll work you into my schedule." Wesley looked concerned, as probably he should have been. "Don't worry," I assured him. "Nothing that Allison wouldn't have got you started investigating." I undid another button for good measure, scooted back across (perhaps less professionally) and shooed him back to Allison. FOLLOW-UP November 12, 10:32 AM. My phone still needed mounting on the wall, but it takes those special screws and I was baking bread. Perhaps I should have bought a better phone, as the redial was already kaput. Anyway, I have this gizmo that makes bread. My neighbor Alice makes the coffee and we eat whole-wheat fresh from the machine. The phone rang. "Hello, Ms. Wright? It's Wesley. Howsitgoin'? You know, I was sorta remembering how you said to get back to you after a while?" "Why, yes, Wesley! It's time you did that. Let me check my schedule... Yes, there is a slot come open this afternoon. You do know where my office is?" I gave him my address. "You see, I'm involved in a long-term surveillance of a suspect," looking across the fence at Alice's, "so I'm working under cover. My office sort of looks like a bedroom, but it's really comfortable." Well, it occurred to me, I would be working under the covers. Won't need Babcock for this one. INVESTIGATION CLOSED THE END Holly on the Web Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers. As literary errors (or just poor word usages) are made known to me, I'll repair that which is salvageable on /~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native language. You can contact me via the site's message form, that HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR. I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you didn't like it before, that much will remain the same. But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more cleanly. Holly * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime, so take good care of it! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Kristen's collection - Directory 27