("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
`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
http://www.asstr.org/~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