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Unconditional Love

By: AssObsessed



I had just started dating Erin when her dad was getting re-married. I was her guest at the wedding, and I could tell straightaway that this was going to be an experience. Maybe not good maybe not bad, but it was going to be an experience. You see, I would have the distinct misfortune of having to get to know everyone in both of these families at the same time I was supposed to be Mr. Romantic at this wedding. So I would simultaneously have to entertain Erin, while getting to know her entire family, her entire New family, and not knowing either the bride or the groom. Joy of joys, this was to be my first real test as the new boyfriend.

Now, I can't paint myself a picture of ineptitude, I did at least know enough to stick close to Erin at all times, and I had the obvious advantage of having met her father the night before. My conversation with her father was long, boring, and more than a little threatening. He made it very clear that Erin was not someone he would tolerate trifling with, and that he still very much valued her presence at family functions, so I was a little bit intimidated to begin things. 

Bless her, she knew just how to settle me down. 

The night before the wedding, the two of us were staying at her dad's house, and I couldn't sleep a wink. It was decreed at the outset that she would be staying upstairs, and I would be staying in the basement, but that hardly stopped two creative lovers such as ourselves.

When I heard footfalls at 2 AM, squeaking the floorboards on the stairs, I knew just what to expect. It would be Erin, coming for a late night tryst to calm our nerves. I heard those feet thump-thumping down the stairs for what seemed like an eternity, until I heard the door knob turn and the door open.

"Psssst...Are you awake?"

Now this was strange, this was a voice I didn't recognize. I was certain it would be Erin, but even in hushed tones I could tell that this was someone else entirely.

"Hello?"

"I thought I heard something in the garage. I was wondering if it was you," a feminine voice, albeit a whisper, came from the doorway.

"Where's Erin? I know it's late, but I thought you were her."

"Well, I'm not, I think she fell asleep two or three hours ago."

I could smell something strange coming from that doorway too, and every time she spoke, the smell wafted past my nose. It was a sweet smell, but pungent too, something I recognized, but couldn't put my finger on.

"Wanna get some fresh air?" she asked me, finally, and I wasn't sure what to say.

"I guess so, but what the fuck is that smell? I can't figure it out, and it's driving me nuts."

"Come on out through the garage, we'll figure it out."

I followed her, as I was told, as she walked through the garage door and flicked on the light. I could see she was wearing clothes from a night out at the club, and she walked like she was three sheets to the wind. As she stumbled to the front of the garage, she reached up and opened the overhead door, which was a clear strain for her, as she was only five feet tall, and drunk as fuck.

"Help me, would you for Christ's sake?"

"Oh sorry about that, hold on."

I came around the front of her and grabbed the older looking handle she was using to open the large faux wood door. As I lifted upwards, I felt something awful happen in my back and I doubled over to make the pain stop.

"Fuck fuck fuck that hurts."

"What's wrong with you? I thought we were getting this door open."

"Gimme a minute, I think I hurt something in my back"

I managed to extend my back enough to get the door up, and then I walked out into the cold, dewy night to breathe a little easier. I took a deep breath and then decided to get to the bottom of things.

"So who are you anyway?" I finally got around to asking.

"I'm Becca, the one Erin apparently didn't tell you about."

"Oh oh, right, the sister. I'm sorry, it's nice to meet you, I'm Bastian, Erin's boyfriend."

Had I known what was about to take place, I don't think I would have stopped it, even knowing how far Erin and I have come as a couple. I trust her implicitly, as she does I, and I wish to death I had another solution to the conundrum that this young woman became, but I'm a man after all, and there was no stopping the feeling I got.

"Bastian? That is the weirdest name I've ever heard. Is it foreign or something?" she said in typical American fashion. If it's different, it must be 'foreign." Americans have a strange sense of humor.

"Oh, yeah, it's German, but my parents aren't actually from Germany, I'm originally English."

"Wow, we'll see how you get along in this all French-Canadian family, they don't take kindly to strangers."

I could see she was joking, but I was hardly in a laughing mood, my back hurt like hell, and I still couldn't figure out that fucking smell. I was ready to write this young woman off when she surprised me a little.

"Do you want some?" she offered me a puff of what I assumed was a fag, but the smell finally made sense to me as I sized her up.

"Oh, I don't know, I haven't touched the stuff in months, it'll probably make me sick."

"That'd be the first time I ever saw someone get sick from smoking weed," she was right, I would have to come up with better than that. And besides, I loved the stuff; I could hardly ignore the opportunity to soothe my nerves at this point.

I grabbed what I now saw was a fairly spent roach, and cursed my luck that she hadn't gotten me earlier. Upon lighting it, I realized there was no chance of a cherry there, and handed it back to her.

"It's spent. Fuck, that really would've hit the spot right about now."

"Here, try this then," she offered me something more substantial, and I was all too happy to light up the blunt in my hands.

I was puffing away happily for the next two or three minutes, as we sat and looked at stars. It was tough to see anything for the artificial light all around us, but we made do with the brightest of constellations, until she finally brought up Erin.

"So, how long have you known my sister?"

"Seems like forever, but in reality, it's more like eight or nine months. We only started dating maybe two weeks ago, we were just friends before that."

"And she hasn't told you one thing about me?" she sounded a little hurt with this.

"Oh no, she did, I just didn't have a face to match the stories."

"Gotcha, well as you probably figured out, Sherlock, or whatever your name is, I'm a little gone right now, so carry me inside, because I think I'm gonna be sick."

"You're kidding right, I mean, it's 2 AM, and I'm high as hell."

"No sir, I am not kidding, and hurry the fuck up, because puke doesn't wait for snotty Englishmen."

Sure enough, it didn't wait, but thankfully, neither did I. By the time we made it into the bathroom, she probably still had a ten or twelve count before the waterworks began. I found it to be a touching moment, as this was the exact same kind of event that first drew Erin and I together, but that's another story for another time.

After holding her hair back for three or four volleys and constantly flushing the toilet so as not to arouse suspicion with her father and step-mother, Becca decided that I was released from my duty, and could go about my business.

It was clear to me that she was new at this drinking thing, and that this was just a rookie mistake on her part. What with her not even being legally old enough to drink, I figured this was probably as safe a bet as any.

"What did you drink anyway?"

"Oh we had some Aftershock at the party and my friends and I decided to snack on the crystals a little bit. I know my friends didn't realize how strong they were, they're probably worse than me."

I had to admit, she was pretty together mentally for someone who just spent the last ten minutes spilling their guts.

"Don't you guys have another sister?"

"Yeah, but she won't be around 'till tomorrow at the earliest, but don't worry, she's not nearly as fun as me."

"This is not my idea of fun, although I do have to thank you for the weed, I was starting to bug out a little."

"Don't mention it, but I wasn't talking about drinking and puking when I said fun. I was just talking about being up at 2. How many other people in this family are around to help you to sleep at 2 AM?" she said it in a tone I had only heard Erin use with me, and it made me very curious.

I finally took a moment to notice what she had been wearing during this whole travail, and as I said before, the whole outfit just screamed 'club.'

She was wearing a black top with all kinds of crazy straps on the back, and it hugged her midsection very nicely, I had to admit. That, and a pair of pants that I couldn't imagine her squeezing herself into, they were also black with a zipper right up the crack of her ass. I can't lie, I just love that look when Erin and I go out, and I oftentimes get myself hit for staring too long, but I had a feeling there would be no such punishment this time.

"So...how did you get home?"

"Oh, my friend James took me home, luckily for me he wasn't drinking yet."

"Your friend?" I asked in what I thought was my least 'sleazy guy' sounding tone.

"Yes, my friend, and I'm not sure I get what you're going for."

"Well, I just figured, it's Saturday night, don't young women generally go out with their boyfriends on Saturday night during the summer?" I was apparently doing a poor job pulling off this 'not sleazy' act.

"They do, yeah, but when we don't have one, that makes it tougher."

I decided on the spot that I liked her, she was caustic, biting, apparently fun loving, and fine as hell, where could a guy go wrong?

"Did you burn out that blunt yet? I feel real funny."

I had not, and decided that it was probably a good idea to settle her stomach down a little bit. I handed it over in her direction, and she made a pouty little look of tired gratitude. I had a conscious thought that I would love to see that look more often, and got a surprising charge out of the image passing through my head.

"Stop staring, you're making me sick again."

"Yes, I'm sure that's just what's causing it," if she can bite, I can bite back. Nevertheless, I was officially so sleepy I couldn't stand it, so I told her I was going to pack it in.

"Don't wait up."

"Nice to meet you too."

The flirtatious banter was probably a little too much, but I was having such fun, it felt like sport. I crept inside the garage as quietly as possible and left her to her business. I came around the bend and saw the fridge standing open in the downstairs kitchen, adjacent to my bedroom. I went over to shut the door, and heard some scuffling outside. I passed back through the garage and saw Becca, lying face down on the ground.

"What the hell happened? Are you okay?" all lecherous thoughts from a moment before were gone, and I was considerably more cogent now.

"I'm okay, I think my lip is bleeding. I just slipped." Fair enough, she would require a little bandaging judging by her face, but she was no worse for wear.

"I'll get some peroxide, stay put would ya?"

"Can do, but I need to lay down, my head is spinning."

I came over and hoisted her up somewhat jokingly, and slung her over my shoulder like she was a sack of potatoes. We trotted inside, and I plopped her down on the futon in my room. About two million and one bad ideas popped into my head based on her compromising position, but I did my best to sweep those aside and tend to her face.

I left to get the peroxide, which I guessed was in the medicine cabinet (see, I am Sherlock), and came back into the room to discover Becca half asleep and babbling.

"Hold on, hold on, I need to get my coat," to what coat she was referring was anyone's guess, and I was certain she wasn't going to explain.

"Just hold on, I'll get you fixed up," I said as I dabbed some peroxide on her lip and cheek.

Suddenly, she jerked up and grabbed the collar of my shirt, she pulled me far too close for comfort and told me that she wanted to see James right away.

"I can't believe he just left me here like this, what if I was really, really sick?"

"Frankly, you are really, really sick, and I think you should get some rest."

And then the moment I had already pictured about a hundred times in my head, she started to slip off her shoes and made like she was going to take off those tight, black pants.

"Could you turn around for a minute? I really need to take these off."

Damn, a thousand times damn. There couldn't have been a worse way for this to play out. I held my breath and did as I was told. Becca lifted her butt up in the air and started to wiggle her hips in an attempt to shimmy out of her pants.

"Ah, fuck it, could you just lend me a hand?"

Again, doing as I was told, I turned around, grabbed her hips and pulled the second skin right off her thighs and then down her calves. I actually got a considerable hard-on just doing this.

"I would love to just crash here, but I should head upstairs so no one thinks anything. Can you carry my stuff?"

This was truly the last straw for me, and I had to do something about it immediately. There was some conscious thought in my head when I did what I did, but more of it was carnal than anything else. I knew she had been purposely teasing me for the last ten or fifteen minutes, but it was me who finally made the first move.

Rather than just grabbing her stuff and helping her up, I took a closer look at her underwear as I reached over to lift her. She was wearing a shimmery thong that had a butterfly covering her vagina, and it was about the most appetizing thing I had seen in some time.

I toyed with the notion of just pushing that little butterfly aside and diving right in, and, to my credit, nearly thought better of it when she returned my gaze more than a little knowingly. 

"Isn't it cute? I just bought these two days ago, just for the club tonight."

"Fuck you," I thought, "you know just what you're doing to me."

"I guess they are nice aren't they? But up you go, let's get you to bed."

I touched her and then stopped myself, I had to do this, something was telling me this was right (it was probably my hugely engorged penis, but that's neither here nor there). I slid her butterfly to the side and stared at a perfectly shaven and positively gorgeous looking vagina.

She squirmed a little when I touched her, but she was not willing to try and get away, it was clear what she had on her mind. I slid her thong all the way down to her ankles and buried my face in her perfumed pussy.

It may sound strange, but to this day, I can swear that she uses something to make it smell incredible, and I had never imagined that at the time; I was so turned on by it, I started doing things with my mouth and tongue that I had never dreamt of before. 

I swirled her clit with my tongue and I buried it in her vagina until my jaw started to hurt, and then I did it some more. I sucked on her hood and toyed with her lips to her great delight. She literally rolled back and forth on the floor showing me exactly where she liked this treatment best.

I continued for some time and when her body became simply wracked with an intense orgasm, I finally decided to come up for air.

"Where the fuck did you learn to DO that? I love it."

Wiping the drool and juices from my face, I was hardly in a state to comment, so she took the prolonged silence as her key. She laid me on my back and unzipped my pants to reveal a straining cock that was not to be contained any more. Once her tongue touched the tip of my dick, I literally gasped at the relief I now felt. She was clearly only getting started, and already I felt such a sense of release, I thought I might cum right then and there. Being the pillar of self-restraint that I was, I held fast and waited for her to really get going. I certainly appreciated the effort she put in.

I gazed down at her intently as she began to consume my cock from tip to hilt; she was extremely talented. I was getting eager as could be by the time she started licking my balls, and I stood on my knees and flipped her onto her back.

"Wait, wait, do you have anything?"

I didn't, and I didn't care, but she would have none of it.

"Get that thing the fuck away from me if you aren't wrapping it. There's no way my sister's boyfriend is getting me pregnant."

I thought about a long, pleading diatribe about how low the odds of that happening actually were, but instead, I had a much better idea. I hopped up, went into the kitchen, and opened the fridge I had seen before. I grabbed whatever I could find from the fridge and searched the cabinets for what I needed, but came up little in the way of options. Again cursing my luck, I grabbed a stick of butter and hoped for the best.

"What the fuck are you gonna do with that?"

"Something I've wanted to do all night."

I flipped her onto her back and pried her ass cheeks apart to peer at the little bud lying between them. She squealed a little as a form of protest, but I could not hear that now. I grabbed the stick of butter and began to grease her asshole to get it ready for me. I poked a finger in after a minute or two, and was certain I heard her protesting again, but I paid her no mind, mostly because she didn't try to get away, and she wasn't voicing her displeasure very loudly either.

After one finger it was two and I reached those fingers further and further into her ass in my most honest attempt to get her ready.

"Hold on, I've never done this before, please be gentle."

Now, that I could probably do, but with the single-mindedness I rarely showed anyone, I continued to plow away at the little hole to get it geared up.

Finally, I felt she was ready to take on my cock, and she sensed that that was what I was thinking. She grabbed the butter herself and passed it between her cheeks for another second before I was on top of her. I pressed the head of my cock against her resistant asshole for a second or two and then plunged in. I could see her bury her head in her pants and try not to scream, and felt like I should back off. Quickly, she turned her head almost all the way around and screamed at me, "don't fucking stop now, get that dick in there."

I could hardly believe what she was telling me to do, but who was I to argue? I pushed forward again, and another yelp of what I thought was pain was heard. She continued to make little noises as I began to thrust just a little quicker with each stroke. 

Becca turned her head around again, and I realized that I had misread her expressions in a big way. Her mouth was a perfectly formed "O" and I could feel her pussy start to tighten up underneath her. I continued plowing away at her, and picking up speed and force, only to listen to her yelping turn into moaning, and moaning then giving way to sounds of pure joy. I had never heard of someone enjoy anal sex this much, and to witness it was the biggest turn-on of my life.

Finally, she spun around again and shouted, "fuck, don't stop, fuck that ass harder, I'm gonna cum!"

I started to tear into her with real force, and she welcomed that effort and more, until she finally tensed up so much I couldn't bear it any more; I had to come, right then and there.

"Cum in my asshole, you fuck! I wanna feel that cum in my asshole, please."

I needed no more cue than that, and I let fly with four or five thick streams of cum, right inside her ass. As I did, she started gasping, and I could feel every muscle in her body tense up so tight it actually hurt my dick to be inside her. She started spasming and fell flat on her stomach as she was finally spent.

Afterward, we spoke very little as she tried to stand, but just couldn't manage. I sat her up, put her clothes on her as best I could and carried her to the couch that sat across the partition from the kitchen area. I laid her on the couch, making sure to clean up any fluids that might have found their way onto her clothes, and shut off the light, while wishing her a good sleep. I was sure this wouldn't be the last time we met like this, and let me tell you, no prospect could have made me more excited.


Unconditional Love



I thought about the wedding that was coming up that evening, and couldn't imagine what the people there would say if they knew. I knew I was playing a dangerous game, and nothing thrilled me more than to know that I was winning.



Unconditional Love



I think the sight of that farmhouse kitchen will live with me for the rest of my life. I'd attended my fair share of murder scenes before, but I felt slightly faint when I first saw that. The man's body was face down on the floor, his head still attached to the rest only by a small flap of skin, a black pool of dried blood staining the floor tiles beneath his torn throat. The woman was on her back, her eyes wide in shock, her white cotton dress scarred by an ugly red stain across her midriff, the material revealing the gash where the meat cleaver had slashed deep into her.

But it was the boy who really caught my attention. The poor kid was huddled in one corner, his back against the join of the walls, his arms locked tightly around his legs, which were doubled up in front of him. He was as white as a sheet, and his whole body shivered as if he was suffering from hypothermia. His eyes were fixed unwaveringly on the floor. At a nod from my boss I went over to him and squatted by his side. Slowly, carefully, I wrapped an arm around his shoulders. I untangled his knotted hands from each other, and held one of them in mine. He was as cold as ice. Softly, I said, "Peter, my name's Jenny. You can't stay here sweetheart. We need to take you to a doctor, and make sure you're okay."

His head swivelled, almost like an owl's, and he turned fathomless black eyes on me. "I can't go. I've got to stay with mum and dad. I've got to look after them." He gestured vaguely with one hand towards the two lumps of meat on the floor.

I felt my throat tighten and my eyes prickle with tears. Working at keeping the emotion out of my voice, I said, "We'll take care of them now sweetie. But we've got to take care of you too. Your mum and dad would want us to make sure you're all right, wouldn't they. Come on, there's an ambulance waiting for you outside, and we need to make sure you're fit and well." 

I edged the arm around his shoulder down beneath his arm and stood, gently pulling him to his feet with me. Carefully, both staring fixedly at the exit door, we picked our way past his mother's body. Peter clung to me all the way to the ambulance. I'm only five-feet-four and, although quite thin, he was nearly six feet tall and his weight bore down on me. I was going to hand him over to the paramedics, but he made a desperate grab at my arm. "No, please, don't leave me alone, please." I glanced at my boss; he gave a helpless shrug, and nodded to indicate I should go with Peter. After all, he just might say something important.

All the way to the hospital he held on tightly to me with his arms around my waist, his head on my shoulder, while I continued to cuddle him and hold his hand. I didn't ask him to tell me what had happened - it wasn't the time or the place. The last thing I said to him before a harassed young doctor sedated him at St Luke's was "You're safe now Peter, no-one's going to hurt you here. I'll come back and see you tomorrow, I promise."

I'm Jenny Cross, and I'm - well, I was then - a detective sergeant with the South Thames Constabulary. At 31 I was the youngest female DS in the region, and the only Indian detective. (Well, half Indian, on my mum's side.) I took a pride in my work, but I didn't sleep very well that night. I tossed and turned in bed, unable to close my eyes, afraid of what I would see if I did. I was worried I might keep my husband awake, but he continued to softly snore beside me. In the morning I looked at my reflection in the mirror in dismay. My short black curly hair looked as if rats had made a nest in it; my normally glowing olive skin looked grey and baggy; my eyes were dull and bloodshot, and had dark circles beneath them as deep as the Rift Valley. Basically, I looked every bit as shitty as I felt.

Naturally, as soon as the entire team was assembled in the office we got into the inquest on the disaster that had happened at Eastgate Farm. The dead couple, John and Sheila Richmond, had been key witnesses in a high profile murder case we were bringing to trial. They'd seen a road rage incident in which the killer had leapt out of his car and blasted a van driver in the face with a double barrelled shotgun. The killer had then calmly climbed back into his car and driven away. Within two hours he reported his car had been stolen the previous day, but he hadn't noticed the couple sitting in their car in a side street, with their 18-year old son in the back seat. They had a grandstand view of the whole thing.

All well and good, except that the accused just happened to be Craig Marston, a member of a notorious South London crime family. John and Sheila had picked him out of a line-up without hesitation, and were key to the prosecution. Their son Peter would be a witness to what he saw, but his parents had not wanted him to go through the trauma of the line-up procedure. The Marstons had been tampering with witnesses for generations, so naturally we were concerned that Craig's brothers would want to persuade the Richmonds that their memories were faulty. We had provided police protection for them, and with less than two weeks until Craig was scheduled to stand trial everything seemed to be going well. Until the previous night.

My boss, Detective Chief Inspector Andy Purvis, had a face as black as thunder as we settled in the briefing room - not an easy trick for a blond bloke with a fair complexion. He scanned us like a lighthouse, then started. "The Richmonds were the key to getting Craig Marston put away. They had a right to expect us to protect them, and we let them down. Well, bloody uniform let them down. The farm's 23 acres, for God's sake, with access from fields on all sides - and the fucking woodentops on duty last night were parked at the top of the fucking drive!"

When I'd arrived at the farm the previous night I had seen the two patrolmen Andy was referring to, standing by their car. They were both young, deathly pale, and looked as if at any moment they would burst into tears, throw up, or both. It wasn't their fault, they were only doing what they'd been told. Of course we should have done better by the Richmonds, and I didn't envy the senior officer who would have to answer to the inevitable inquiry. He of course would argue that budgetary constraints didn't allow for more personnel to be assigned to the family 24 hours a day, for the weeks it would have required, let alone accommodating them elsewhere, even if they'd agreed to that. That's the problem with modern policing - the service isn't run by coppers anymore, it's run by men in suits with calculators and slide rules in their hands. I wondered bitterly how two slain, innocent witnesses to murder, who had shown the courage to come forward, figured in the cost benefit analysis.

I realised with a start that Andy was speaking to me. "Jenny, are you with us? Sorry, I know you had a rough night, taking the kid up to St Luke's, but as I was saying, he's the key now both to the Marston case and to catching the bastard who wasted his parents. We've got him under armed guard, and we've got photo ID on every member of staff who's looking after him, so he should be safe enough. But you made a connection with him last night - could you go up there today and see what you can get out of him?"

I nodded absently. I could still remember the haunted look in Peter's eyes, and I wasn't looking forward to asking him to recall the previous night's events. But I had promised him I'd visit him anyway. We discussed the way forward on the new case for a while, with top of the agenda being to get the Metropolitan Police to check out Craig Marston's brothers. It was a safe bet that Richie and Scott would have cast iron alibis, but it had to be done. Then we'd start looking at the scumbags who we knew worked for them.

At the hospital I spoke to the consultant treating Peter, who told me he was still pretty heavily sedated. The door to his room was guarded by a chunky uniformed officer, with a short vicious-looking automatic weapon slung obtrusively across his chest. I knew him slighty, but he still asked to see my warrant card, which I was happy about. The window curtains were drawn, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. I stepped softly across the room and sat in the stiff metal-framed chair beside the bed. Peter stared at the ceiling, and didn't seem to notice my presence, even when I took his hand in mine.

I stayed two hours, nearly dozing off in the still, dark room, but it was obvious I wasn't going to get anything out of the boy that day. I went back the next day and things seemed a lot better. He was wide awake, although he still looked very pale, his face a stark contrast to his mop of unruly black hair. The curtains of the room were thrown open, revealing a bedraggled vase of daffodils standing on a table in front of the window. I asked Peter how he was feeling, then launched into my spiel. "Peter, I need to ask you about what happened at the farm."

He rolled his head away from me, and threw his forearm over his eyes. Feeling awful about what I was doing, I gently squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry lovie, I know it's the last thing you want to think about. But if we're going to get the person who did this to your mum and dad we need to know what you saw, while you remember it, and it's clear in your mind. I hate asking you this Peter, especially so soon, but it has to be done."

He nodded reluctantly, and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then, after taking a sip of Lucozade from a bottle beside the bed, he began to speak, slowly and hesitatingly. He'd been up in his bedroom, on his computer, when he heard what sounded like a scream. At first, he dismissed it as the cry of an owl or a fox, but then he had gone to the top of the stairs and called down to his mother but got no response. He went down to see if everything was okay, and walked in on the bloodbath in the kitchen. 

He started to shake at that point, and I pulled him to me, my arms around him, stroking his hair and making soothing sounds. After five minutes or so he pulled away, clearly embarrassed, and continued his narrative. He'd seen a movement through the kitchen window, and a man had looked in at Peter. The boy saw him quite clearly in the neon light from the kitchen: his description couldn't have fitted Richie Marston better if the thug had been standing in the room as Peter spoke.

The intruder had looked as if he was going to return for Peter, but the kid screamed with shock and the guy fled. Peter immediately rushed to the kitchen sink to throw up, then he'd phoned 999. After a few minutes the message had been relayed to the patrol car at the entrance to the farm's drive and the two young lads there had rushed in and found Peter sitting in the corner, where I saw him nearly an hour later. 

My heart went out to the poor little sod. With two swipes of a kitchen cleaver he'd become an orphan, and had seen his parents lying on the floor of his home, slaughtered like pigs. It was a shame he hadn't gone straight to the officers on site, we might have caught the assailant. But anyway, the one good point was that he wasn't in the kitchen with his folks -- if he had been, Marston would probably have done for him too.

Nevertheless, there were things that bothered me about Peter's account. If the purpose of Marston's intrusion was simply an assassination, wouldn't he have taken a weapon with him? Why did he grab a cleaver off the kitchen wall? Also, there had been two screams: it was a warm night, and the coppers parked forty yards away had their car windows down - how dopey were they not to have heard anything? Come to that, Eastgate Farm was a good two miles from the main road, and there isn't much traffic on those country lanes at night. How had Marston arrived? He must have driven, and even if he was parked some way from the front of the farm the patrolmen might have been expected to hear his car engine, especially as he left, surely in a tearing hurry? I made a mental note to mention these points to Andy, fearing the worst for the two poor young plods.

I visited Peter for the next few days as well, not to ask him anything - I kept my concerns about his confused recollection from him -- but just to keep him company. He had no other family, and nobody else to visit him. After a couple of days I heard Richie Marston was in custody. Andy was cock-a-hoop. "Naturally he's got an alibi - a 22-year old tom" - his slang for a call-girl - "who admits she was high on smack the entire night. Who do you think a jury's going to believe, her or the bereaved offspring of the deceased?" Andy and I went to see Peter with a photo line-up. Richie's solicitor tagged along, but we needn't have worried. Peter took one look at the snaps of the six heavy set, bearded men and instantly pointed to Marston, as a tear rolled down his cheek.

With our suspect in custody the investigation began to wind down a bit and I switched to catching up on my reams of paperwork: another triumph of modern policing - bureaucracy 1 rainforest 0. I wound down my visits to Peter too. I told myself it was for his sake, that my continued presence would only remind him of that dreadful night. Nothing to do with the ache of pity I felt every time I saw him, and the way the sight of him brought the vision of that kitchen back into my mind.

It was a fortnight after the murder that Andy called me into his office. I was surprised to see that our superintendent had actually rolled his fat arse down from the fourth floor to grace us with his presence. Andy gave me what I thought was a nervous smile and asked me to sit. "Young Peter's about to be released from St Luke's. He's got no relations, and we need to find him somewhere to stay." I was slightly surprised at that. Obviously Peter must still be in a delicate mental state, but at 18 he was an adult, and finding him digs seemed unusually paternalistic for us, almost human.

Superintendent Petty took over. "The point is, we're worried about him. Not so much psychologically, the head shrinker's given him a clear bill of health, but his physical wellbeing. He's now the star witness in two Marston trials, and the family aren't going to be best pleased."

Like a pair of well-drilled relay runners, he passed the baton back to Andy. "We've decided a safe house is the only option. We've found a place up north, nice and quiet, where he won't be noticed. Thing is, Jen, we need a minder for him."

So that was it. They wanted me to babysit the kid while the legal process worked its agonisingly slow course. I sat forward in my chair and squawked, "Sir! I'm sorry but...can't the local force look after him?"

Andy was already shaking his head. "We've already let him down once, we're taking full responsibility this time - I mean the detective branch." He'd cleverly scotched what he'd guessed would be my next argument: if someone had to do it, why not someone from uniform, let them dress up in civvies for once.

It was clearly a stitch-up between my two senior officers, but I was determined to fight my corner. "Why me? And how long for? I'm not sure my husband'll be too chuffed."

Petty made calming gestures with his hands. "You, because DI Purvis tells me you've already laid good groundwork in building a relationship with the boy. He trusts you, and that's important. How long - well, we'll need you to be ready to leave tomorrow afternoon. I'm sorry for the short notice, but I suggest you take the rest of today off to prepare. We're trying to get Craig's trial rescheduled for the end of the month, and accelerate the other brother's to take place immediately afterwards. After that we'll look at options for the boy - resettlement, a change of identity, whatever is considered appropriate. And as for your husband - I'm afraid, Mrs Cross, that this sort of thing is part and parcel of joining the detective branch."

I walked straight into that one! Petty by name and by nature, he was one of the old school, convinced that it was pointless having lady detectives, because they'd just up and waltz off with women's problems and babies and things five minutes after they were appointed. If he had his way, we'd have burly moustachioed officers in Vice, posing as hookers. Utterly defeated, I grumbled, "Well, do I at least get someone else with me? Or am I on a 24-hour shift?"

Petty avoided my eyes. "Unfortunately, the budget won't really stretch to two officers for this, not in the current financial year. You will be paid overtime of course, plus the usual allowances, and we can work out something about time off in lieu." I groaned inwardly. So I really was expected to nurse the kid 24-7. Great! I had expected it though -- thanks to the sodding budget the squad was already carrying two vacancies the force couldn't afford to fill. I was seriously tempted to contact my union steward, but their bureaucracy was as bad as the force's - by the time they got their fingers out the Marstons would have completed their sentences! As I rose to leave, my shoulders slumped, Petty called me back. "By the way, Detective Sergeant - your firearms certification is up-to-date, isn't it?"

I'd been certified to use firearms for three years, but apart from the annual test and the required practices I'd never carried a gun, let alone actually fired one. I hate the bloody things, and it was only because that was the last hurdle to becoming a detective that I reluctantly complied. Andy assured me that there was a weapon waiting for me with the armourer, and I reluctantly went and signed for it, and 20 rounds of ammo.

Jim guessed there was something wrong as soon as he got home that evening. I'm not sure what gave it away: I suppose it could have been the fact that I'd cooked his favourite dish, chicken chasseur with Yorkshire dumplings. Maybe it was the very intoxicating wine that I served with it. But I think it was probably the fact that I was wearing what he called my 'come and fuck me frock', a thin body-hugging black number with a plunging neck to reveal my plumped-up C cup cleavage, and side slits right up to my hip bones.

After he'd eaten, before he had a chance to start questioning me, I took his hand, led him to the couch, and thrust my tongue into his mouth and my fingers into his fly. Jim loved it when I played the whore. He groaned as I pulled his cock out of his trousers, and I dipped my head down and wrapped my lips around it. I tucked my knees up so he could get at me, and the groan turned to a growl as he reached under my dress and discovered I wasn't wearing panties with my stockings and suspenders. He cupped his hands around my bum cheeks and kneaded them as I stroked my lips up and down his member, flicking the tip with my tongue and grazing his balls with my fingernails. I could tell his climax was going to be a big one, and steadied myself as his hips jerked and a stream of hot jizz hit the back of my throat.

Jim sank back into the couch and regained his breath. Then, peering at me through half-closed eyes, he said, "Right, what is it? What are you softening me up for?" We both snorted with laughter at the inappropriateness of the reference to 'softening'. I told him slowly, between long, sexy kisses, making the fact that I was going to be away at least two weeks sound almost incidental. By the time I'd finished he had my boobs out and one of my engorged, dark chocolate nipples locked between his teeth. I could tell his main interested at that point was getting me upstairs and giving me a good seeing to, and he sighed and said, "Okay, we'll talk about it in the morning."

The sex was great. Jim buried his face between my thighs and had me weeping with arousal as he licked and fingered me to a massive orgasm. Then I sat astride him and bounced up and down on his prick, gasping with each downward thrust as he reached up and twiddled my nips like radio dials. Finally, after a recovery kiss and cuddle, he fucked me long and hard, my legs over his shoulders as he pounded into me with his last ounces of strength, his balls slapping against me. I'm not sure he had any ammunition left, but I certainly did, and I had another quaking, roaring climax. Jim would never have claimed to have the biggest equipment in the world, but he always knew how to make the most of it. I went to sleep that night a happy, well fucked woman.




Unconditional Love



The morning wasn't so happy. Jim awoke grumpy about my impending absence, and things went downhill from there. When I told him simply to call my mobile if he wanted to contact me, he snapped, "For fuck's sake Jenny, you can't tell me where you're going, or who with, or why -- who the bloody hell do you think you are, Laura fucking Croft?" I'm my own worst enemy sometimes: the pedantic cow in me couldn't resist pointing out that the character's name is Lara. That just pissed him off all the more. "Jesus wept, I'm you husband for Christ's sake, who the fuck am I going to tell, Murder Incorporated?"

When I left, Jim ignored the peck on the cheek I gave him, and the stroke of his hair, and the sweet, simpering, "Bye darling, love you" I murmured as I walked out. I took it out on the other motorists on my way to work, driving like a maniac and turning the air blue. I decided to vent my frustration on the firing range, and that sobered me up a bit. I concluded that as long as I was attacked by a barn door I probably had a two in five chance of winging it. Then I tidied up my files, passed a few case notes to my colleagues, told them where to shove their jokes about romantic sojourns with teenage toyboys, and, after a late lunch, made my way to collect Peter.

We were driven to King's Cross Station, then escorted to a first class railway carriage. I settled into my train seat, acutely aware of the unloaded pistol nestling in the small of my back. Peter had barely said a word in the car, just stared listlessly out of the window. He clearly wasn't in the mood for conversation so, slightly worried about his mental state, I pulled on my reading glasses and buried my nose in my Georgette Heyer. Next thing I knew, Peter was shaking me by the shoulder and saying, "Sergeant, wake up, we're here." Some bloody bodyguard I was!

We were met at Darlington Station by a towering fat, jolly local copper and his equally tall, slim, glowering colleague -- I immediately secretly christened them Stan and Ollie. After an interminable drive we finally arrived -- in the middle of nowhere. In the dark of the evening I could see only an outline of some sort of small house. I could hear the crashing of waves, so we were clearly somewhere on the coast, but I couldn't see any other signs of life. Ollie bustled into the house switching on lights and heaters, muttering to himself. It was a small cosy cottage, that looked as if it had stood there for centuries. 

Peter and I lugged our bags up the stairs, then returned to a grinning Ollie. In a broad Yorkshire accent he announced, "There you are love. The red buttons around the place are panic alarms, so don't knock them accidentally, and we'll be doing regular drive-bys. If you need to speak to us in a hurry, dial 777. The kitchen's fully stocked, so you're set up to go." Tired and hungry, I told him coldly that I was not his love, I was a detective sergeant. His grin never wavered as he cheerily replied, "Right love, I'll try and remember that."

Peter was as knackered as I was, so I made us both large plates of baked beans on toast, then I secured the doors and we retired to our bedrooms for the night. I rose early the next morning and scoped out the area. We were about a quarter of a mile from cliffs which looked down on the turbulent North Sea far below. I had been right about the lack of neighbours, but at least there was a huge home cinema set-up and a well stocked DVD cabinet. There was also a fully fuelled car for our use -- not that I intended us to go far. When I returned inside I found Peter moodily prowling the house. He turned and looked despairingly at me. "What are we supposed to do all day? There are no shops, no cafés, nothing for miles."

I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "It looks as if there are some nice walks round about. And there's the TV. There's an old table tennis table we could set up in the conservatory if you like. And you can use the computer in the office as much as you like." He rolled his eyes and tutted dramatically. Then he mooched to the computer and, apart from the three square meals I insisted he eat, I saw nothing of him until the evening. That was spent with us both slumped in silence in front of the TV, watching whatever Peter chose. At one point I phoned home, and had a rather strained conversation with Jim. I went to bed thinking, "Oh great, I'm just going to love two weeks of this."

The next day Peter couldn't have been more different. I went downstairs to find him making me a lovely cooked breakfast, then we went for a walk along the cliff, after which he showed me some really interesting websites I hadn't known existed. After a sandwich lunch we sat in the conservatory soaking up the sun and chatting. Peter told me about the subjects he had liked at school, his ambition to attend college, foreign holidays he'd enjoyed, and I told him about some of my experiences in the police. I also persuaded him that my name was Jenny, not 'Sergeant'. He grinned, and quipped, "So it's not loove then." 

He had a really engaging personality, and a quirky sense of humour which had me laughing more than I had for a long time. I carefully avoided any mention of his parents or the trials to come -- plenty of time for that later. In the evening we watched Blazing Saddles on DVD, then played Snap. That was fun, with us slapping each other's hands off the cards and falling about laughing.

The next day, my boss Andy had news when I checked in with him. "You remember Richie Marston's tart gave us that crap alibi for him? Well, he's changed his story now. According to him, some mystery woman phoned him and told him she had dirt on John Richmond that would stop him giving evidence against Craig. She told him to meet her at a café in Whittingford the night of the murders, but she never showed up." Whittingford was a village a few miles from Eastgate Farm. I asked if anyone could back up Richie's story. Andy chuckled. "Nah, the caff was shut and he claims he sat in the car park for half an hour then gave up. We might get him on CCTV along the route, but that'll just prove he was in the area where the crime took place. Honestly, what a load of bull." It certainly seemed a strange story for the accused to make up if he was trying to claim innocence.

Peter and I continued to get on well, but I began to feel quite melancholy. He was a really nice young man, and quite handsome too, and he truly didn't deserve what was happening to him. I knew I should be asking him about the murders, but I kept putting it off: he seemed to have banished that night from his mind, and I didn't want to upset him more than necessary.

One morning I got up and was surprised to find the house silent. Peter had got into the habit of getting up before me and turning on the kitchen radio, although he'd promised never to unlock the doors until I was around. We'd got to bed quite late the previous night, after playing Trivial Pursuit, and I assumed he was having a lie-in. I made him a cup of coffee and knocked on his door. When he didn't answer I pushed it open with a cheery "come on sleepy..."

The words died on my lips. Peter's rumpled bed was empty. I dropped his mug in shock, the coffee spreading across the polished wooden floorboards. Trying not to panic, I quickly searched the house, but he was nowhere to be seen. I had to pause for a moment to keep from hyperventilating, then I checked the doors. A side door was unlocked! I dashed outside and looked around desperately for him, calling his name without response. 

I could feel terror building in my belly, and I rushed down the path towards the cliffs, praying Peter would be there. I suddenly realised I had pulled my gun from its holster. I had never actually loaded the bloody thing, and with shaking hands I dug three slugs out of a pouch in my jeans. I dropped them in the grass and scrabbled wildly for them, a constant stream of "Oh shit, oh fuck, oh no, please, no" running through my head.

Having finally loaded the gun I raced towards the cliffs and cast around. I could see nothing at first, then I almost collapsed in relief as I saw the wind catch a tuft of black hair behind a rock. I stumbled around it to see Peter sitting on the grass, his back against the rock as he stared moodily out to sea, tossing pebbles over the cliff edge. He glanced up when he heard me, and looked shocked at what he saw. He scrambled to his feet and I stepped towards him, not sure whether I was going to hug him or brain him with the gun. In fact, I just stood panting, and gasped, "You stupid, stupid, little bastard! Don't you ever scare me like that again."

He hugged me then, and I fell against him, sobbing with the release of tension. He held me tightly, murmuring, "Oh God, I'm sorry Jenny, I really am, I didn't think, I just needed some time to myself. Please don't cry, I'm so sorry." I realised he was kissing my cheeks, kissing away my tears. I should have stopped him, but I was just so relieved that he hadn't been abducted or worse. We walked back to the cottage with his arm still around me, as he apologised every step of the way.

I felt edgy the rest of the day, and more or less followed Peter from room to room. Mid--afternoon Andy called me, sounding quite down. "We've got a problem with Richie Marston. Seems like he might have an alibi after all. One of the local curtain-twitchers saw him in that café car park he claimed to be in. The old bloke thought it looked suspicious, so he kept an eye on the car. It was there from 8.25 to just after 9pm, then took off along the A2 towards London -- the opposite direction to the Richmond place. I was hoping Richie might have been trying to be clever, and got a stooge to go to the café, but if he did the bloke was a dead ringer for him. The witness said the guy in the car was a big ugly bloke with long dark hair and a stubbly beard."

There was worse to come. After a pause, Andy said, "I'm beginning to be worried about your boy. There's too much in what he said that doesn't add up. Plus, we found out today, he had psychiatric therapy when he was 15. The bloody specialist won't tell us what it was for of course, bastard, but Peter's school reckon he was being bullied and turned the tables, kicked the shit out of the bully and put him in hospital for three weeks. The victim's family wouldn't cooperate with the investigation, so it was dropped, but Peter's obviously got quite a temper when he's roused. Look Jen, I'm not jumping to any conclusions -- yet -- but just be careful, that's all I'm saying."

Just as Andy was about to ring off, I asked him to check something in the Scene-Of-Crime Officer's report. I heard rustling paper, then he came back on the line. "Right Jen, no, according to the SOCO the computer in the boy's room was switched off. Why, is it important?" I said it wasn't and rang off. Peter had clearly told me that he'd been on his computer when he left it to go to the horror show downstairs. If that was true, at what point had he found the time to go and turn off the PC?

After speaking to Andy I crept up to my room and listened to the tape of the 999 call Peter had made. I had taken it with me but had never heard it before. In flat, shocked tones, he told the operator, "I've...they're dead...I...my parents are dead, send someone." He had quite a light, asexual voice. Richie Marston had said a woman had called him to the café. If he'd wanted, Peter could easily have sounded like a female on the phone without too much effort. I was growing fond of Peter -- always a mistake for a copper -- and I really didn't want to think of him what I was starting to suspect. I'd seen him that night -- he was terrified, clearly a victim, he couldn't kill anyone.

My day didn't get any better. Since my loving husband had never bothered to call me, in the evening I went into the entrance hall and called him again. Once again he sounded gruff and unwelcoming on the phone. I was just about to end a rather stilted conversation when I heard, quite distinctly in the background, a female voice say, "Jimmy, where's the...oh, sorry."

I instantly went from simpering and wheedling to rottweiler, demanding to know who the woman was. There was a moment's silence, then Jim replied, slightly uneasily to my suspicious ear, "It's my sister, who the bloody hell do you think it is?"

I felt insulted by the obvious lie. "That was not Gina's voice. And when the fuck did she ever call you Jimmy? Look Jim, what the hell's going on? Who have you got there?"

His response was an enraged bellow. "Just what the fuck are you accusing me of Jenny? For Christ's sake -- look, why don't you just fuck off and get on with your work, whatever the fuck it is." I stared in bewilderment at my mobile as it flashed 'call ended'. I told myself I wasn't going to cry not in front of Peter, not again, it was so bloody unprofessional. Then I heard a huge racking sob, and my vision blurred with tears.

Peter appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, staring at me in amazement. Then he walked over and gently wrapped his arms around me, murmuring into my hair, "I think someone needs a hug." I shouldn't have let him hug me. Apart from the fact that I was nearly twice his age, and a married woman, I was there to ensure his security, not to flirt with him. But at that moment I just felt completely miserable, and he was right, I really did need it. I buried my face in his chest and wept bitter tears as he led me back into the sitting room and sat me beside him on the couch, continuing to hold me.

God knows how long it took for me to calm down. Eventually I sat up and, sniffling, apologised shamefacedly. Peter wiped a tear away with a finger, then cupped his hand to my cheek and gazed into my eyes. He had such pretty hazel eyes. He almost whispered, "Jenny, I hate seeing you upset. You're such a sweet, lovely lady, I'd like to see you happy all the time." I chuckled cynically at the idea of that. Then he sat up straight and said, "I know what, I'll give you a foot massage."

Before I could stop him he'd dropped to the floor and slipped off my trainers and socks. I did start to tell him to stop, but my voice died at the feel of his soft, warm hands on my bare feet. He held each foot in the palm of one hand, manipulating and caressing each toe with the other, then gently massaging my soles and ankles with strong, subtle fingers. I knew I shouldn't have let that go on, but he was so good at it, and it really was relaxing. He smiled up at me and murmured, almost hypnotically, "I used to do this for my mum when I was young. She said I had magic hands. She used to really enjoy it." I wasn't surprised, if he massaged her feet as skilfully as he was mine. I doubted her young son doing it to her had the same effect it was having on me though. As Peter worked my feet I felt little electric charges tickling slowly up my legs -- and congregating in a part of my anatomy where they had no right to be.

I shuddered as Peter's hands slipped up inside the leg of my jeans and began to knead my calf. My eyes closed, I let my head fall back on the couch. I could feel a blush spreading across my chest, my tongue was rimming my open lips and my breathing was getting deeper and more regular -- exactly the way my body reacted when Jim was building up slowly to making love to me. If Peter had only known it, at that moment he could have done anything he liked with me. I opened my eyes in surprise and, I hated to admit to myself, disappointment as I felt his hands leave my leg and he stood. He smiled and stroked my hair. "I'll do that again for you tomorrow if you like. And now I'm going to run you a nice bubble bath and make you a cup of cocoa to take to bed with you." I tried to keep my eyes on his face, but they rebelled and flicked down to the front of his jeans, and the very obvious bulge there.

In bed that night I lay wide awake, feeling terrified of what I was getting myself into. I was starting to feel more than fond of Peter. How could that be? A teenage kid shouldn't be capable of having that sort of effect on an experienced married woman. And at the same time, I was beginning to have serious concerns about Peter's role on the night his parents died -- quite frankly, though I desperately wanted to, I just didn't believe his version of what had occurred. But the thing that scared me most of all was that that didn't matter to me -- the way that man, that 18-year old man, had made me feel that evening was overriding my better judgement and my commonsense. I decided I was going to have to find some way to convince Andy Purvis to replace me on this job, without telling him I feared that if he didn't I was going to end up sleeping with a murderer!

The next morning Peter was his usual self, but I couldn't look at him without flushing. After breakfast he spent the morning on the computer, and I sat and tried to read my book. After maybe an hour I jumped as I felt his hands resting on my shoulders. "God Jenny, you feel tense." He began to knead my shoulders and upper back with his hands. Almost instantly the same electric charges as the previous day radiated through my body, again ending up in the same place. "Is that good?" he whispered. I nodded, my eyes closed, my head lolling back onto him, my nipples straining against my bra. After a few minutes I forced myself to break the contact and, standing on shaky legs, I told him I needed a breath of air.

I went for a walk along the cliffs. It was a dereliction of duty - I should have stayed close to Peter - but I needed space to think. I knew that, despite every shred of sense in my head, I was falling - what, in love, in lust? - with Peter. I knew that if I wanted to save my career, and probably my marriage, I had to ask Andy Purvis to replace me as the boy's minder. But I didn't want to - I wanted to be near Peter; I wanted to be with him.

After lunch we watched a sweet Whoopi Goldberg DVD, Corrina Corrina. I was a bit worried that the subject of grief over a lost parent might impact on Peter, but he didn't seem to make the connection. Something had changed between us though; I was no longer in control of our relationship, he was. We were sitting side by side on the couch, and at some point during the movie I felt Peter's arm snake around my shoulders. Instead of moving away and telling him off, which the sensible me would have done, I tucked my feet under my bum and snuggled into him, exactly as I would have done with my husband, my hand resting lightly on his chest. I went for a lie down in my room after that, and fretted about what the hell was happening in my head.

We had a light dinner, then Peter suggested a game of Trivial Pursuit. As I laid out the board, he said brightly, "I'll tell you what - we should do forfeits for each question we get wrong. Like, every time you don't know the answer, you, I don't know, erm, have to give me a kiss." 

That was the key moment. I should have told him not to be stupid. I should have sat him down and given him a stern talk, adult to youth, about my responsibilities as a wife and a police officer. Obviously I should. Instead, I heard myself reply, "Oh yes? And what do you do when you get one wrong?"

Peter sniggered. "Um, I have to kiss you!" It was crazy, absolutely insane, I knew it even as I made my opening throw of the dice. But when I fluffed an answer, Peter presented his cheek to me and, meekly, I leant over and kissed him. On the fourth wrong answer, he moved his face and my mouth slipped from his cheek to his lips. By the seventh answer, whichever one of us was paying the forfeit, it was automatically mouth to mouth. I began to suspect Peter was getting things wrong on purpose. Gradually the kisses became more lingering, and our hands began to rest on each other's shoulders, our eyes closed as we shared each moment. Oh God, by the time I answered the final question and ended the game, I knew deep down that I was going to be his - it was just a matter of time.




Unconditional Love



When I'd packed the board away, Peter said, quietly, "Would you like your foot massage now?" Like a Pavlovian dog I sat and kicked off my shoes. From almost the first touch of his hands I felt my pussy twitch. By the time he slipped his grasp up to my calf I could feel my labia peeling open like a flower greeting the sun, my insides smouldering. 

My last rational brain cell fired onto gear, and I pushed myself off the couch, away from him. Barely able to stand or speak, I husked, "That's enough for tonight Peter. I need an early night, I'm off to bed now. Could you lock up please?" I raced up the stairs and changed dazedly into my sleeveless nylon nightdress. My sopping pants stuck to my pussy when I peeled them off. I knew if I'd stayed with Peter any longer I wouldn't have been able to keep my hands off him.

I got into bed and switched off the light, feeling hot and miserable. I really wanted to fuck that young man, and I didn't think I could resist for another day. I lay wide awake, my pussy aching for satisfaction. After half an hour I was just about to reach my hand down my body when I heard Peter softly climbing the stairs. I listened for him passing my door to his room, then realised with shock that he'd opened my door and stepped into my room. I lay with my back to the door, trembling with anticipation. A moment later the side of the bed sagged as he slipped under the duvet behind me.

I felt a warm hand on my bare shoulder, and breath on my ear. Peter whispered, "Jenny, are you awake?"

"Yes." Fucking hell, was that all I was going to say, to this presumptuous teenager who'd climbed into bed with me? Swallowing, I said "Peter, this really isn't right. You should go to your own bed."

He shuffled closer, and I felt something press against my bum through the nightie. I realised he was naked. His lips almost brushing my ear, he whispered, "I know, I'm sorry, but I was thinking about things downstairs, and I got sad. I was hoping we might have a cuddle.

God help me, I didn't say a word, I just lay there, my back to him, my whole body trembling. He took my silence as consent, and his arms wrapped around my waist. He moved closer still, and it was obvious that he was aroused -- very aroused. His rampant cock nestled between my bum cheeks, pushing the nightie into my cleft. Still I lay in silence. After another minute, Peter's hands slid up to my breasts, and cupped them. He softly kissed the nape of my neck. I had to do something about it, I just had to.

The hands moved again, and slipped through the large arm holes of my nightdress. His hands cupped the flesh of my breasts, and I shuddered as fingers and thumbs rolled my nipples. I hissed with arousal. I could feel him trying to push up the nightgown with his erection and, in the final surrender, I reached back a hand and lifted the material to my waist.

We both gasped as he entered my cunt. He began thrusting into me, fast and deep, his hands squeezing my boobs to match his rhythm. My last inhibitions shattered, my tongue lolled out and I pushed back against him, my pussy burning with lust. We gradually rolled until Peter was on top of me, hammering his cock into me to the hilt, his hips banging against my bum cheeks. Peter was the fifth man who had fucked me, and my cunt had never felt so stretched before -- his organ was clearly both longer and thicker than my husband's. 

I lay with my cheek pressed into the pillow, growling "God yes, fuck me, fuck me, come on, good and hard my darling." I couldn't remember having wanted any man so desperately in years. I was still overheated from the foreplay downstairs, and within a couple of minutes I felt my pussy boiling and howled as my head span and I bucked to a massive orgasm. Peter carried on for another minute or so then, with a huge release of breath, he gave one almighty push that drove my face into the pillow and I felt his release.

Totally lost, beyond shame, I rolled over and hugged my teenage conqueror to me, smothering his face with wild kisses. He flopped beside me, his eyes slightly glazed, a happy smile on his lips, and I sat up and cast off the nightgown. A short while later, as we kissed and cuddled, I asked Peter if that had been his first time. He smiled shyly, "No, I've had sex once before, with a teacher at my boarding school. She was older than you are -- I've always found mature women attractive. But with you it was great -- much better than I imagined. You're so beautiful Jenny, so lovely." Completely abandoned to my lover, I glowed with his flattery. He groaned with delight as I wrapped my hand around his big cock and slithered down his body to gaze at it. Looking down at me, he said, "Is it all right? I mean my..."

I chuckled. "God, Peter, it's lovely, beautiful -- just like you. And huge too." He gasped as I ran my tongue down its underside from the tip, then across his scrotum. I feasted on his dick, slavering my lips over it, licking it, taking his balls into my mouth, stroking between his legs with my tongue then working my way back up again. He lay on his back moaning, one arm thrown over his eyes. Finally I mouth-fucked him, wanking his stem with my fingers, until he shot his bolt down my throat.

We did a lot more kissing, cuddling and caressing, and Peter fucked me once more. That time we were face to face, smiling at each other as he screwed me with long, deep, powerful strokes, grunting with each thrust. I raked my fingernails up his bum, which he loved, and guided one of his fingers to my clit, showing him how to stroke it to really excite me. I didn't think I'd cum again, but I did, a sweet gentle orgasm, which radiated warmth through my body like the Mediterranean sun. Peter, with the energy of youth, erupted into me like a volcano yet again.

We lay in bed together until the middle of the next morning, mostly just kissing and giving each other goofy smiles. Then reality hit me. I checked my phone after I'd dressed, and found two messages from Andy. "Jen, I need to speak to you asap. Call me back." "Jenny, where are you? Look, we've got to talk, and soon. What's happening, is everything all right?" I switched the phone off guiltily.

Peter and I went for a long walk along the cliffs, hand in hand. At one point I pulled him down onto a grassy knoll and we lay and kissed for a long time. I felt like a 16-year old with my first boyfriend again: very much in love, feeling slightly awkward about it, but enjoying the feeling. When we got back to the cottage I saw my old friend from the North Yorks Constabulary, Ollie, pounding on the front door. I quickly released Peter's hand, but not before the smirking flatfoot had noticed.

He called across the garden to me. "Oh, there you are love. Your boss was getting worried about you and young fellow-me-lad. He's been trying to get hold of you, urgent like." May face flushing, I told him my phone had developed a fault and I couldn't get incoming calls. He nodded doubtfully, then turned to Peter. "If you'd like to wait in the front room, lad, I just need a word with Sergeant Cross here." We went into the kitchen. Ollie closed the door firmly behind us, started to make himself a cup of tea then turned to me. "The reason your boss wanted you was to tell you he'll be up here tomorrow morning -- to arrest your boyfriend there." I glared at the man, but didn't rise to the bait. Oblivious to my reaction, he continued. "DI Purvis wanted you to be ready, make sure the lad's compliant."

After that Ollie parked his fat backside in a kitchen chair and tried to make small-talk, but I was barely listening. Clearly Andy had made up his mind Richie Marston wasn't our murderer; I wondered queasily whether they'd found new evidence against Peter, or were just too suspicious of his story. Mad thoughts went through my head. Maybe we could make a bolt for freedom. I'd heard on the police grapevine that there were pubs in Liverpool where you could order a false passport at two hours' notice. Then I realised what I was doing -- trying to work out how to help someone I believed to be a murderer to escape the justice I was sworn to uphold. A murder who had become my lover, and my master.

I didn't say anything about it to Peter for some time. We cuddled up as we watched a film, then he massaged my feet and we went to bed. I was just about to suck his sweet cock into my mouth again when he stopped me. "I want to do that for you tonight." He eased me onto my back and squatted between my thighs. I love being eaten out, and I nearly swooned when I felt his tongue tickling my inner thigh, inches from my pussy. 

He had obviously never done that before, but he was enthusiastic and a quick learner, and within a few minutes I was moaning over and over, writhing as he fucked me with his fingers, licking my tender flesh around them, stroking my labia with his nose and chin, and tickling my clit as I'd shown him. I had another big orgasm, my hips lifting until I was more or less riding his face, his neck craned backwards to allow his mouth to keep contact with me.

I enjoyed it so much that I decided I wanted some more, and I squirmed round on the bed until our heads were between each other's legs. Peter got the idea immediately, and gripped the back of my thighs as he pushed his face into me. I massaged his cock with my lips, tongue and fingers, and he moaned into my pussy, even as he thrust his tongue deep inside me, sending rivers of molten lava through my veins, and into the void of my cunt. Afterwards, as I nestled in the crook of his arm, I whispered, "Peter, sweetheart, they're coming for you tomorrow. You've got to tell me what really happened that night."

He glanced down at me, immediately understanding where I was coming from. "You already know, don't you?"

I nodded. "I know the story you've told me so far doesn't work. You've got to tell me the truth, honey, so I can try and help you. If you were defending yourself, for example..."

He nodded slowly. "I was, in a way. My father started abusing me when I was about six. It felt wrong, but he was my dad, and your dad doesn't do bad things to you, does he? I didn't think mum knew -- dad told me the way he loved me was our little secret. It stopped when I went away to boarding school at 13. But then, after we witnessed that murder, dad began hitting the bottle, and...that night it started again."

He took a shuddering breath, and tears appeared in his eyes. I hugged him to me, and stroked his chest. He took a deep breath and continued in a shaking voice. "He was drunk, and he told me he loved me. It was the way he said it that scared me. He came and sat next to me and put his arm round me, stroking my hair. Mum was there and I thought she'd say something, but she just looked away. I begged her to do something. She just gave me this cold, hard stare, and said he was my dad and it was his right. Then she walked out of the room. She'd known all along what he was doing to me.

"I tried to push him away, but he was too strong. He pulled my jeans and pants down and started fingering me. I kicked him and managed to get away, but he came running after me, screaming that he'd kill me. He was nearly on me and I just reached out for something to fend him off, anything. I swung it, and realised I'd picked up the cleaver. Mum came in and screamed, and threw herself at me. I didn't mean to kill them, either of them, but...I just had to stop her screaming." 

He was openly crying now. I should have felt sickened, repulsed, but I just felt a yearning sympathy for him. I hugged him and kissed him whispering, "It's okay baby, it'll be all right, really it will." His account hadn't mentioned the mysterious phone call to Richie Marston, which had brought him conveniently close to the murder site on the night when Peter's father just happened to try and rape him, but...I didn't ask Peter about it.

The next day we dressed in silence and sat on the couch, cuddling and trying not to cry. When Andy arrived, with another of my colleagues, he was cold and formal with me. He asked me if I would charge Peter, but I shook my head, unable to speak. With a huge sigh Andy brushed past me into the sitting room, and without further ado I heard, "Peter Stewart Richmond, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of John and Sheila Richmond. You do not have to say anything..."

Events moved quite quickly after that. When I returned home Jim and I were cold and distant, like strangers. I was quite relieved when, on the third night, he decided to go and stay with his sister. We didn't use Peter in the Craig Marston trial, and we got a conviction based on CCTV and firearm evidence. For Peter's trial, Andy wanted to include the phone call to Richie Marston in evidence. That could have been quite damaging, but I managed to convince the Crown Prosecution Service that the link to Peter was too tenuous -- there wasn't a shred of evidence that he'd made the call; in fact, I embroidered, he was prepared to swear he'd heard his mother making furtive arrangements on the phone.

I used our savings, mine and Jim's, to get Peter the best defence team I could find. They went with his self defence story, and we were lucky to get a sympathetic jury. The female QC who led the prosecution went quite easy on Peter too, I thought. I gave evidence for the prosecution, but I did my best to put across the view that Peter was as much a victim of his parents as their killer. As I left the witness box Andy Purvis refused to look at me, his expression one of undisguised disgust. Peter caught my eye from the dock, and mouthed, "I love you". That finished me: I fell to my knees in the well of the court, sobbing for my poor, sweet lover. The press hyenas gobbled it up, and I was on the front pages the next day.

Peter was sent to an open prison. That's quite unusual for a killer, but his psychiatric report said he was a low flight risk and would struggle to cope in the testosterone-fuelled environment of a closed prison or a young offenders' institute. I'm not a police officer anymore. I'm now a trainee social worker, with the city council where Peter's prison is located. My friends -- my former friends -- think I've lost my mind, literally. Maybe I have; I've certainly lost my marriage, my career, my nice two-bed semi, my social circle and, according to Superintendent fat-arse Petty, my moral compass, whatever the hell that means.

But Peter will need me when he gets out; he certainly hasn't got anyone else. He was given seven years, and with luck he'll be out in less than four. I visit him every two weeks: my new boss is very good about me making up my time. Mostly we just sit and hold hands across the table, reaffirming our love for each other. And we are in love, deeply. It's difficult to explain, but we really have connected spiritually as well as physically and emotionally. I need him too. And I know that, whatever happens, I really can't imagine my life in the future without my darling boy being in it.



Unconditional Love



As usual, when she heard his car pull into the drive ... her heart began to race. She hurridly undressed in preparation of the evenings routine. She smiled as the brandy flowed into a snifter, the amber liquid moved across the glass as she carried it to his chair and placed it on a coaster beside where his hand would come to rest.

Waiting patiently in the darkness, she took a match quietly from the box and held it poised to strike. She watched his face as he came into the room. He looked tired and that made her heart swell with love for him. The glow of firelight illuminated his favorite chair and the glass of brandy. 

As he sat in the chair, she stepped forward and waited until he had chosen the cigar he wanted. The sharp snap of the cutter closing on the tip of the cigar seemed loud in the room. But, no more than the scratch of the match across the striker and the hissing flare of the flame. Her eyes couldn't seem to pull away from his lips as they drew the flame across the tip of the cigar.

As it began to glow she waved the flame out and tossed the match stick into the fire. Silently she moved between his legs and knelt down, waiting. His strong fingers lifted the snifter and a shiver ran across her naked skin. Closing her eyes, she bent her head and waited. She knew that soon he would acknowledge her presence and she could prove once again that she was worthy to belong solely to him. 

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Your slave." she answered.

"Who am I?"

"You are my Master."

"Why am I your Master?"

Joyfully she answered, "Because you have taken me, taken my heart, taken my soul for your own."

His hand moved beneath her chin and tilted it up with two fingers. Her eyes were trained on the ceiling and her body displayed clearly for his eyes. She could feel his eyes move over her skin. It seemed to flush under his gaze and her nipples became engorged, darkening to a deep rose hue.

"Stand."

She did so, quickly, her eyes closed and upon reopening they were trained on the floor. 

"Sit on my lap."

A bit confused at this sudden change in the nightly routine, she quickly complied. His hand lifted and tangled in the long red curls. Grasping the thick mass of hair, he pulled her back across his lap. His eyes, dark in the firelite room, moved slowly over her bare skin. Laying the burning cigar aside, he brought his hand to her shoulder and began an agonizingly slow movement down along her body. The softness of his touch, little more than the brush of a butterfly's wing on her body. She shivered and her heart began to pound.

As his fingers gently moved between her legs, she bit her lip to trap the moan that threatened to spill from her throat. He smiled as her heavy, full breasts rose and fell with each shallow breath. Separating the lips of her pussy with two fingers, he dragged the tip of his longest finger over her clit. She jerked helplessly at the touch and it made him smile.

"Good." he said.

She looked at him silently, the glow of devotion in her soft green eyes. Lifting his finger he showed her the wetness that glistened there. She blushed with embarassment at her lack of self control with his most simple of touches.

He looked down at this woman who had given him everything she was, everything she had. He looked at the love and trust shining in her eyes. He felt her surrender on his fingertips. 

He bend his head and covered her lips with his, almost drawing the breath from her body. Distracted by the kiss, she didn't see his hand move to the inner pocket of his suit coat.

The sudden feel of something cold and foreign pressed to her clit caused her to tense and her eyes locked with his. He leaned back in the chair and smiled down at her.

"I have a little gift for my slave." he said.

She forced herself to relax and trust him. She knew this was only another test of her devotion to her Master. He kept his eyes on her face and she never looked away or finched at the cold thing moved over the swollen lips of her pussy. First up along one, then down the other. A sudden shiver made her gasp as the thing reached the entrance to her vagina and pushed inside. 

"shhhhh." he whispered.

A sudden low hum began as his fingers found the control to the vibrator. The pulsating began slowly, almost gently inside her. She began to relax and softly smiled up at him. He quirked one brow and the speed changed, the throbbing grew stronger. She clinched her hands into fists to keep from whimpering. Slowly he turned off the vibrator and withdrew it from her body.

"Go, stand on the rug." he said.

She sat up slowly and fought to catch her breath. His eyes seemed to grow darker and she could not look away from them. Slowly and very carefully she backed to the small diamond-shaped cotton rug in the center of the room. Waiting for his instruction, she began to regain control of her breathing and her heart rate slowed to something close to normal again. 

He stood up and moved across to stand in front of her, just out of arms reach. He began to speak softly to her. The slow deliberateness of his speech, almost hypnotic in its patterns, began to curl around her mind. She felt her pulse quicken and her heart began to pound, harder than before.

He spoke of his love for her and how her devotion to him and his needs, pleased him. She trembled but couldn't take her eyes off his. A sudden raging need swept through her as she felt the rush of wetness drip slowly down the inside of her thighs.

He turned and slowly began to circle her as she stood quietly on the rug. The only sounds in the room were his words whispering into her brain. That, and the soft panting that came from her barely opened lips. As he moved out of her vision, she did not turn ... but instead, closed her eyes. Nothing interfered with the sound of his voice in her ear now. Nothing distracted her from the words that came from his lips.

She pressed her hands to the hot skin of her thighs, her nails digging into them and leaving red half-moon shaped cuts behind. She never flinched or even acknowledged the stinging pain that she surely felt. His words were all that her world consisted of at that moment. The words, the sound of his voice and how they made her body throb with need. Each step he took brought him in an ever tightening circle around her body.

He stopped just behind her right shoulder and leaned closer, whispering into her ear. His words, whispered words, of the pleasure her love and devotion gave him ... left her gasping. Somewhere in the back of her mind the realization of an impending orgasm registered. But, because he never stopped whispering to her, she was afraid to shift her concentration from his voice.

The need to hear his words was stronger then the spasms that were rapidly approaching. He looked down at her hands and watched with satisfaction as they curled into fists, little drops of blood seeped from the palms. Looking further he saw that her knees were shaking weakly. Leaning in closer, until his lips almost touched her delicate earlobes, softly he whispered one word ... 

"cum, pet, cum for your Master."

Helplessly she sank crying to her knees and he watched as a gush of clear liquid ran down her thighs and onto the rug. As she collapsed onto the floor, he turned and walked back to his chair. He was pleased at her response and settled back into his favorite chair.

He picked up the cigar and puffed it back into glowing life. She lay gasping, her cheek resting on her extended arm. Her face turned toward this man who controlled her in every conceivable way. Her body shook with the slowly fading spasms, but her eyes glowed with devotion. He watched her by the light of the dying embers.

"come kiss me."

She lifted herself up onto her hands and knees and crawled, trembling, to his chair. When she raised up to kiss him, he pulled her up onto his lap and cradled her in his arms.

"you please me." were the only words he spoke.



Unconditional Love



{Just in case a certain detective is still alive, and still interested, this is a complete work of FICTION!

Yet this story is completely true, even the fantasy part. Does that make any sense at all?

Some of you will get it, some of you will not. Unconditional love, it's wonderful thing. It can also be a terrible thing when it is just one way.}

+++

I didn't mean for things to happen the way they did. But I guess I am getting ahead of myself.

I remember the first time I saw her. They say there is such a thing as love at first sight, if there is then that is what it was.

Red flowing hair, every color possible in it, round wire framed glasses. She wasn't dressed in a manner that was designed to be sexy but there was simply no way that she had to avoid it.

All she did was serve me some eggs, nice crispy hash browned potatoes and some whole wheat toast with butter.

That is all she did, except she looked directly at me with her large green eyes and smiled.

My breath caught in my throat, I could not even speak. 

I was lost.

I told my brother who was my partner in our Texaco gas station franchise that I was going to marry her as we drove back to the station.

"Who?" Martin asked.

"That redhead." I told him.

"You are out of your mind, that's a skank." He told me.

"I have never seen a woman that looked like that." I responded.

"She isn't even pretty, and she flirts with every guy that goes in there." He snorted.

I didn't listen, Martin never liked any of my girl friends and he was always coming up with someone for me to meet.

I was coming up on 30 years old, just a guy. I was even married once for a short period. That was one of those things I got sort of pushed into, yea, Martin again. No point in going into it, that gal tried to run my life, tell me what to do and when to do it. I tried that for awhile, I really did.

There were lots of fights, upsets. One day it hit me that I didn't want to go home to all of that, so I didn't.

Martin's taste in females for me ran to the studious types, if I hooked up with someone who could do the books and accounts he would think that was perfect.

Very likely he had one of those ulterior motives about that.

His own tastes ran more to what I called "big'uns", by that I mean not just up top but everywhere. Thinking back, I don't remember him ever having a girl friend under 160 pounds.

Nothing wrong with that of course, the one he finally married was a sweetheart. 

But for me, I liked slender and sleek, showoff type women.

Which brings me back to that redhead. What was it about her?

I have to say it beats the hell out of me, one look and I wanted her, not just in bed but for keeps.

My own gift of gab got hung up on my tongue, not normal for me at all.

+++

The next day Martin was busy pulling the cylinder heads off an older Ford Fairlane, it had driven in running on seven cylinders. It had the little 289" V-8, probably one of the easiest jobs on the planets at the time.

Like always, he bid the job a couple of hundred bucks too high and got it anyway, but it was a rush job so he skipped lunch. Martin did have that gift of gab also, he could talk an oriental hooker into giving him credit, or at least taking a bad check. 

I went to lunch that day by myself.

She was there, I still didn't know her name. I sat and watched, she was extremely efficient, every movement got something accomplished.

Once again she set down my plate, those green eyes studied me again.

"You were in yesterday, weren't you?" She asked.

Voice like music.

"Yea." I managed to get that out.

That was it, our first conversation other than me giving her my order.

Then she went down the counter and served a tall good looking blond guy, they talked quietly. I saw her nod her head and smile, then she went back to work.

"The heads are in the tank." Martin told me as soon as I got back. I was a bit late, Martin didn't like that.

I nodded, it would be 3-4 hours before they were clean enough to work on.

"I need them by six, OK?" He pressed me a bit.

I nodded again, knowing my own part of the job.

"Want to come over tonight? I have someone I want you to meet." He told me.

Martin's house was just over the hill on the little 10 acre farm we owned. His wife was a sweet and on the chubby side woman named Brenda.

I liked her, and one thing that woman could do was cook. If possible, I never missed a chance at having some of her food.

Otherwise I probably would have begged off, like I said, Martin's taste in females was contrary to my own.

I think her name was Marilee, the female Martin had me set up with. I am not sure since it's been a long time.

We all sat around on the floor and played Monopoly, like usual, I ended up pretty much in control. Easy stuff, I formed a partnership with Marilee, got control of that and then the game was over.

Later Marilee and I walked down the hill in the dark to my house. I sat in my bean bag chair and played my guitar for her, I was a long ways from being good at it but the songs I did know I could play pretty well.

Marilee and I didn't really talk about her staying the night, by around midnight we both sort of assumed.

I set my guitar aside, she was sitting cross legged on the floor in front of me.

"Want to stay?" I asked. She just smiled.

Sex with someone a person barely knows is different than sex with someone you know very well. The movements, the touch is all an experiment, a discovery.

I was fumbling in the drawer by my bed for a condom, she whispered in my ear that she was on the pill and hated those things.

In today's world that is a crazy risk, but this was 1973.

She also wanted the lights out, my house was extremely dark with the lights out since it was 25 miles out in the country.

I did notice her tummy felt flat but on the soft side, her breasts were smallish but firm. Funny that I remember all of that part but I am not sure of her name.

I also remember thinking of that Redhead as I climaxed.

The next day I dropped Marilee off at her house, it was only a couple of miles past our station.

We kissed, there were no promises to call or anything like that.

I did see Marilee a few times after that when she stopped in for fuel. She smiled and I could tell she was...hoping might be the word?

Finally though, she gave up.

Martin was unhappy with me, but even though Marilee was on the pretty side and very eager in bed, I did see her body in the light the next morning.

The strange softness I had felt the evening before was stretch marks, she obviously had a child. She had never mentioned that and I didn't ask. 

The marks were not a turnoff for me, I just was not ready to add that to my life as yet.

And I had that redhead on my mind.

And kids? Those are neat things, nice to have around for a few hours, then when it's time for company to head home, take them with you.

Why didn't I just ask Patty out? I guess the answer is that I don't know. Instead, every day, I ate and I watched her.

There was several weeks of that. My brother had that chatty manner about him, took after Mom in that respect. I took after Dad, taller and on the quiet side, maybe even shy. Sure, get me relaxed and I could hold my own, but something was different about this.

I was in love, or at least some crazy infatuation, and I had no idea at all of what to do about it.

+++

One morning I went to the cafe where the redhead worked, it was early and slow. She served me my usual meal, then she asked me why I never ate anything different?

"I am just trying to make your job easier." I told her with a smile.

Again those large green eyes, it was like she was looking deep inside of me.

"I'm Patty." She stuck out her hand.

"Ted." I answered, I took her hand, delighting in the touch. Her palm was warm and felt slightly moist.

"You are cute, you need to ask me out sometime." She told me with a happy laugh, then went back into the kitchen.

"How about tonight?" I asked her when she came back out.

"I have a date, that new movie called 'Sometimes A Great Notion' is playing and I want to see that."

"Oh." I took a bite of my food.

"Saturday?" She asked.

"OK. Sure!" Patty wrote her address on a napkin, handed it to me.

Hell, today was Friday and tomorrow night she would be with me! 

I was on cloud nine.

+++

I scrubbed myself until I was pink, put on my best slacks and sports shirt. I saw her looking out the window when I pulled up in front of what was a rather run down duplex.

I was 15 minutes early.

"Come on in, I still need to get dressed." Her hair was wet, and she had on a robe. I apologized, told her I could come back later.

"Sit!" She grinned, pointing at a pretty beaten up couch with one of those hand knitted things draped over it.

I sat down on her couch, she went into another room and I heard a hair dryer running.

"Where are we going?" She called out atfer she shut off the dryer.

"To a concert down at the park, then maybe to dinner if you are hungry." I replied.

"Neat!" She said, then she walked into the room and over to a sliding wooden door.

All she had on was a pair of lime green bottoms. Not panties, but bottoms. Perfect and freckle covered breasts bare!

Now that was a surprise. I did my level best to not react, since she acted like it was nothing.

"There isn't much closet space here, so I keep some of my clothes in this closet." Unabashed at her nudity, she selected a short outfit that matched the bottoms she had on, slipped it over her head. It tied with a soft strap at the side, draped across the front.

They called those "sizzler" outfits in those days, I had seen young women wearing those many times.

"OK. I am ready, let's go." She flashed that now familar smile at me, like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

The concert was nice, a local band trying to make a name for themselves. later we went to a steak house, it was on the expensive side and Patty got a lot of looks in the outfit she had on.

As I drove down the freeway, I turned on my signal to make the exit to her place.

"My room mate is there, can we go to your house instead?" She asked. She was already sitting as close to me as she could get.

That night my fantasies came true, we made love for a very long time. Patty most certainly was not concerned about nudity, in fact, she delighted in it.

It was well after 3 in the morning when we finally slept. I woke up at seven like I always did, got up and made some coffee.

She was awake when I came back into the bedroom.

"You are very good." She smiled at me. She stretched her arms over her head, which displayed her magnificent upper body nicely.

That did it, I was right back in the bed with her.

After, she said something that gave me pause.

"I like it when guys take me out first. That guy last night insisted on fucking me before we even left my place, then the jerk took me to a Kentucky Fried Chicken!" She broke out laughing.

"You mean, you just..let him?" I asked.

"He wanted to, so what?" She shrugged.

The phrase, "I should have known." applies. I had already realized that Patty used certain words that were at odds with normal conversation.

She said the word "fuck" like she was talking about eating a sandwich.

The truth is that younger people back in the 1970's were relaxed about sex, and I certainly had my own share of one night stands.

In fact, I had never been in any longer term relationship, most women I had dated had been just once or twice.

There was one longer one that started out with just one but ended up with her sharing her sister with me. That one lasted for nearly six months and it was lots of fun.

The problem was that fun was all it was.

With Patty things were different, I had a crazy infatuation with her. She was completely relaxed about her body, completely free.

I never met anyone like her, not before or since.

To her, it was her body and she would use it as she saw fit.

For about a month I did my very best to monopolize her time, but she continued to date others.

That was frustrating because Patty had made it very clear that she would not date anyone she would not fuck.

Which meant she was, of course she was.

But I did not own her, so what could I say?

Then one day after Patty told me she couldn't go out with me because she had a date, I sort of snapped at her.

That pissed me off and I guess I let it show.

"Now what's the matter?" She asked me.

"I don't want you going out with other guys." I told her.

"Why not?" She asked, then a smile crossed her face.

"Because I love you, that's why!" I blurted out.

Patty stared at me for a very long time.

"Why didn't you just say so? OK, we can try it." She turned and walked down the counter to where a young man about my age sat, spoke to him for a few seconds.

He turned and glared at me but said nothing.

Patty was moving her things into my house the next day. After just a month, I asked her and she said yes. We flew to Reno and married in one of those marriage mill places.

+++

Happy? I was delirious. I was crazy about this woman, the way she moved, the way she acted, the way she made love was wonderful.

She also was a social animal, so our house was soon filled most evenings with friends of hers, and a few of mine.

My brother Martin's response was to be expected.

"You are out of your rabbit ass mind!" He told me.

"Patty is perfect." I told him.

"Christ, her complexion is terrible, she isn't even pretty! And she looks like she was rode hard and put away wet!" He said.

Martin was right about that, like many redheads, Patty did have a complexion problem. I saw none of that, though.

They say that love is blind, if that is truth then glasses would not have helped me one bit.

Things were fine for about six months. Martin even began to tolerate her.

One morning we were lying in bed after one of those wonderful early morning sessions.

"Have you ever thought about having sex with someone else?" She asked me.

I told her no, the truth was that I was completely satisfied being just with her, so I told her that.

"Really? Most men would jump at the chance at getting some strange pussy." She giggled.

"I am not most men, I guess." I told her.

"But you fucked other women before you met me." She said.

"Yes, but I am with you now."

Patty appeared to be disappointed at my response.

"Why? Are you thinking you want to be with someone else?" I asked her.

"I do miss doing it with new guys, I mean, every time is different."

"You mean, I am not enough for you?" I asked. I probably sounded upset at her comment.

"It's not that, Honey. You are great, nice and big and so far you are the best one in bed I have ever had." She reached out and grabbed my cock to emphasize her point.

"How many men have you slept with, for God's sakes?" I demanded.

"I don't know, I never kept count. 20, maybe 30, maybe more."

Then she saw the expression on my face.

"So how many women have YOU slept with?" She put it right back at me.

It hit me that I really didn't know, at least a dozen though.

"It's easier for women, they can have any man they want." I told her.

"It's just as easy for guys, all you have to do is be nice and ask. We girls like to fuck just as much as you guys do!" She broke up laughing.

I looked at her, I didn't think that was quite true. She picked right up on my expression.

"I guess I will just have to make do with this one." She giggled, sliding her lips over my cock.

So I forgot all about that conversation and things went on like before.

+++

"So? How about Sara?" Patty asked me one evening after everyone else had left. Sara was spending the night like she often did.

Patty and Sara had gone to high school together and were close to inseparable.

Plus Sara was still playing the field, and when she stayed overnight she was not concerned one bit about nudity.

Just like Patty in that respect.

I found that out one evening early on as I sat in the living room picking some notes on my guitar, Sara had gone in to take a shower before bedtime.

When she came out, she was completely naked and walked right by me, dabbing at her hair with a small towel.

"Doesn't Sara have a nice set of tits?" Patty laughed, finding my reaction funny.

"Why thank you Patty. Yours are cute too!" Sara giggled and went right on by.

So when Patty asked me if I wanted to fuck Sara it wasn't a total surprise.

"No, not really." I answered.

"Liar." She laughed.

"I'm not lying, Sara is just....Sara." I told her.

"Sara! Come out here!" Patty called out. Sara was in our spare bed rooom at the time.

"What?" Sara asked when she came out. Now she had on a shorty robe.

"Sit down and show Ted your pussy." Patty said with a snicker.

"What?" Sara looked confused.

"Ted claims he has no interest in fucking you, so I want you to show him your beaver and see how he reacts." She said with a giggle. 

It struck me she was stoned to the gills, nothing really abnormal there either. Both Sara and Patty had pot around all the time.

Sara grinned and plopped down, spread her legs. My eyes went right to it, I think any man's would and no way to stop that.

Her lips were very large, larger that Patty's even. She didn't shave it, either, her crotch was dark and curly.

Then with a wicked grin, she reached down and spread herself open!

I could not help it, there was her naked pussy spread open right in front of me, I felt myself begin to get an erection.

"I thought so." Patty snickered.

Then Patty was fumbling with my pants, I tried to stop her but she pushed my hands away. With a couple of flips of her fingers, she had my jeans open.

"Isn't this the most beautiful cock you ever saw?" Patty was laughing, her hand pumping up and down.

Sara was staring, that made it worse and I grew to my full length.

"Move your hand out of the way, Patty." Sara asked, her voice husky.

Patty used two fingers to hold me, displaying my erection to Sara, who acted delighted. She even leaned forward to get closer.

I let them do that, I am ashamed to say.

"You can go ahead and fuck her if you want to, can't he, Sara?" Patty said.

Sara just nodded. I had never seen her quite like that. Something in Sara's eyes, lust I guess?

But I managed to decline. Finally Patty used her hands to finish me off, this right in front of Sara.

It didn't take very long, since now Sara was rubbing herself. She even opened her robe, baring her tits.

That was one crazy moment.

Some spattered on my thigh, Sara reached out and wiped up some, stuck it right in her mouth. I never saw anyone ever do that before, either.

"God, he even tastes good, you lucky bitch!" Sara teased Patty.

"Christ, it looks like the end of a fucking baseball bat!" She mumbled, sticking one finger inside of herself.

Hell, It isn't that big, although I knew from back in high school gym class that I had more going on than most of the guys.

They both broke out into crazy laughing as I put myself away.

"What in the hell was up with that?" I asked Patty later when we were in bed.

"Just having some fun, honey. It's no big deal." She cuddled up close to me.

Again, I let that slide, although it was a bit disconcerting.

+++

It was about two weeks later, I got home from work and two guys were in my living room, one of them had a vacuum cleaner he was showing to Patty. No way in hell was I going to buy that thing, it cost 10 times more than a normal cleaner and was noisy as hell.

And Patty was sitting there in a chair watching them demonstrate. Her outfit was not exactly what I would expect her to wear when people were around, she normally had on a heavy T-shirt and pants unless we were going somewhere.




Unconditional Love



Instead it was a halter top that was kind of loose and baggy legged shorts. A goodly portion of her tits were showing and if she turned the right way you could see right up her pants legs.

One glance told me she had been teasing the hell out of the two guys, which was clear when their reactions were unhappy to see me.

I got them out of there in record time.

"What in the hell?" I demanded as soon as they were gone.

"Oh, I was just having some fun, I wasn't going to buy the thing." Patty told me.

"I don't like you being dressed like that around men when I am not here." I told her.

"You are turning into a damn prude, aren't you? Sexy stuff is fun, so why not have some?" She gave me a huge innocent smile.

"You are supposed to be with me now!" I blurted out.

"I am! I am here whenever you want but it's still my fucking body, not your private property. I will do whatever I fucking well want to!" She yelled.

I sighed and went into the living room. Things were on the cool side around our place for several days.

+++

"You should have been with Sara and me today." Patty told me a few days later when I got home.

"Why, what happened?"

"We were down at Chuck's apartment, she jacked Chuck off right in front of me. That was hilarious, he was so bashful. I had to help her pants him, he put up a struggle. Then his dick, it's real long but no bigger around than my little finger." She held up her pinkie finger to demonstrate.

I knew that Chuck was Sara's current boyfriend, she changed boyfriends like some people changed sheets.

"I suppose you helped with that?" I accused her.

"No. Of course not." She said that with some hesitation.

I didn't quite believe her.

"Is that what you two girls do while I am at work?" I asked her, pissed off at what she had just told me.

"Oh, don't be silly. We were just having fun." Patty said.

"Well, that kind of fun has got to stop!" I told her.

"Christ! There you go again!" She stormed off to the bedroom, slammed the door.

"At least I told you, it's not like I am keeping fucking secrets from you!" She yelled through the door.

I went and sat down in the living room, there was no point in arguing with her.

Again, things were cool for several days.

+++

The big blowup came when Patty, Sara and another girl I didn't know other than to see in the car with them at our gas station headed off to a concert.

It was country-western stuff which I really didn't care for all that much, so I begged off.

Sitting on grass listening to some guys singing through their noses does nothing for me.

The concert got over at 10 PM, 11 came and then 12, no Patty. I called Sara's apartment, no answer.

By 2 AM I was about to get into my car and go looking, I was worried because I knew that they would be smoking weed and probably be drinking, so maybe an accident or something?

Then I heard Sara's rattling Volkswagon drive up. I looked out in time to see Patty climb out of the back seat, she leaned back in and kissed some guy wearing a cowboy hat.

Sara was driving, and another guy also wearing a cowboy hat was in the passenger side.

Sara waved and took off, Patty walked up the driveway.

"What in the fuck is up with that? Where in the hell have you been?" I demanded.

"Oh, don't start on me. We were at the concert, Sara gave those guys a ride home."

"You just kissed the son of a bitch!" I yelled.

"So what? He had some killer weed and shared it with us."

"I don't believe this shit."

"I felt sorry for him, he is blind in one eye. Besides, he is a nice guy."

"He just wants to get into your pants, I bet."

"Yea, probably. So what?" Patty stormed by me, went into our bathroom. I heard the shower start, that was something new, also. Patty normally showered every day but not at after 2 in the morning.

I went to bed. It took her a very long time to come to bed, I don't remember that part because I fell asleep.

The next morning Patty woke up late, I was sitting at the kitchen table when she came out.

I asked her point blank if anything had happened between her and that guy, she denied it. I tried several times to worm some information out of her, all I got was more denials.

She did tell me that since it bothered me, nothing like that would happen again. For about three weeks, nothing did.

+++

"Sara bought a mobile home, she has a lot just a few miles down the road she inherited from her Granddad. It's cool, right on the creek." Patty told me one morning.

"That's nice." I answered, not paying a lot of attention. My brother Martin and I were having some struggles at our Station, there was an oil embargo and supplies were short, plus prices were going up.

I was worried, and also very involved with all of that. We had already laid off our helpers, and gone to each of us working 12 hour shifts.

"I am going to help her move over the next few weeks, so some nights when we are unpacking I might be late getting home, OK?" She told me.

"OK. I will be late myself anyway." I replied.

I guess I should have paid more attention to that.

+++

Patty should have known I would find out, maybe she thought that since I was working until nearly midnight every single night I would be too busy.

Our station was one of those 24/7 operations, Martin took the midnight to noon shift and I was on noon to midnight. No help, it was a period where we could not afford any help and keep things running.

Patty was home before I got home every night for over a week, I didn't think anything of it since my mind was elsewhere.

Then came the day the pumps stopped, out of supplies. With rationing, it was going to be a week before we could get another truck.

For the first time in several years, I shut the operation down.

I was home at 9:30.

No Patty.

Then it registered on me, Patty was over at Sara's new place helping her to move in. I got in my car and drove over there, it was only about four miles.

There sat Patty's car, and Sara's, plus two others.

I parked out on the street, walked up and prepared to knock on the door. There was a window by the front door, I glanced in.

A cowboy hat sat on a table by a chair!

I stepped over and peered in through the gap in the curtains, there was Sara on her back on the couch, a naked man on top of her.

That sure as hell was not her boyfriend Chuck.

There was no sign of Patty.

I walked back down the steps and made my way to the other end of the trailer home. This had to be the back bedroom but the window was too high to see in and besides, the curtains were drawn.

There was a small gap at the bottom, but too high for me to reach.

I put my ear to the side of the building, listened.

I heard her. The sounds were familiar, I had heard that many times before when Patty and I were making love.

Not a single doubt in my mind.

I went and got into my car and drove up to a local small park, my mind was strangely completely blank.  I waited until 12:30, then I drove home.

Patty was there.

I didn't let on what I now knew, keeping everything as normal as possible.  We didn't make love, actually we hadn't very much for weeks anyway since I was always exhausted.

The next day before noon I left, like I did every day. I parked where I could see down the street.

I barely got my own car shut off, then Patty came out, got in her car and drove over to Sara's house, me behind her far enough she didn't notice.

Again I parked and waited. That took a long time, it was just beginning to get dark when a car pulled up. A guy wearing a cowboy hat got out, went to the door.

Patty answered his knock, they kissed and it wasn't a peck on the cheek. I saw the guy's hands come up and fondle her breasts.

Five minutes later another cowboy type arrived, he had a 3rd guy with him that was wearing a bill cap.

My woman, the woman I loved was having one hell of a good time with at least three guys, and knowing Sara there was unlikely to be any jealousy in passing them around.

All while I was working 12 hour days, trying to keep our lives afloat.

I drove home, went out to my garage. I got a five gallon can of gasoline I kept there for my lawnmower, drove back down to Sara's trailer.

I walked up again and peeked in the side window, saw no one. Walking to the other end of the trailer, I heard lots of laughing, Sara's voice, then Patty's.

But I couldn't see in and from the voices I couldn't really tell what was going on. 

I walked back to the other end, there by the side of the trailer was a wooden ladder. I carried it back down and set it up, being as quiet and possible. There was perhaps a half inch of window below the curtain.

Patty sat on the bed, she was naked. Sara was on her elbows and knees, sucking on one of the guys who was also naked. I saw the one man that I had seen before, he was still wearing that stupid cowboy hat. He had something wrong with his left eye, that I could see.

Then the ladder shifted, made a small scraping noise.

"What was that?" I heard him say, he slid off the bed and came to the window as I ducked down.

But it was now dark outside and the lights were on inside, I knew he could see nothing.

"Come back here, Len. My old man is down at that stupid gas station, he won't get home until after midnight. It's just a fucking Raccoon or something." Patty said that loudly enough for me to hear. The man turned away from the window and went back to the bed.

Patty reached out and tugged his red underwear down, began to mouth the guy. 

Yes, red fucking underpants.

Hell, he was nowhere near as large as me, I saw that.

"Hey save some of that for me!" The guy that Sara was sucking on said with a snort. Just then the 3rd guy came through the door, he had apparently been in the bathroom of something.

Naked also, kind of pot bellied. His stubby little dick pointing straight out.

He hopped onto the bed and began playing with Patty's bare breasts as she had her mouth on the one eyed guy.

+++

I was there that night. I was outside, in the dark, the can of gasoline in my hand.

+++

[That did it. Actually, it should have done it long before, but that familiar act between them just tore it, I saw red. 

More than that, I wasn't thinking at all, all I knew for a few minutes was hate!

I think I had planned part of what I was going to do anyway, in fact, I know I did. But my thought had been to set the guy's cars on fire, some stupid act of revenge?

I got the can of gasoline, poured a circle all the way around the trailer, using a goodly portion on the wooden porch. When I got to the two big propane tanks in the front, I made sure both valves were open.

I wanted the break the lines but I didn't want to make any noise. Those type of tanks have what looks like a tire valve in them for refilling, so I found a little stick and jammed one of them open, getting a satisfying hiss.  I tried to jam the other one but the stick I had was rotten and kept breaking.

Then I heard Patty's loud cry as she orgasmed, clear from the other end of the trailer. 

I poured all of the rest of the gasoline around the two tanks, setting the plastic can down beside them.

Back at my car, I found a piece of newspaper, lit it with a lighter. Then I tossed it at the pool of gasoline from what I thought was a safe distance.

A buring piece of paper is hard to throw, I missed. It flared up quickly, then went out. I heard someone inside yell, "What was that?" A face appeared at the bedroom window, holding the curtain back.

I lit another one, balling it up some first. I moved closer, knowing very well the guy saw that. That time it went up. 

The size of the explosion surprised even me, I had to jump back quickly to avoid being a part of it.

I started to my car, already the flames had moved to the vehicles parked in the driveway. The huge flames lit up everything, licking high up the sides of the mobile home.

Someone screamed. I ran, thinking they would have time to get out but it would teach them a lesson.

I heard the first propane tank go when I was about a half mile away, the next one went just seconds later.

+++

I got off work at midnight, after sitting in my gas station all the rest of the evening. The knock on my door came very early, around 5 AM.

Two police officers stood there. They told me about the tragedy, I broke down in tears, hysterical. 

The tears were real, I loved that woman.

Apparently what happened is there was a party, someone had stored a can of gasoline near the propane tanks and it had a leak.

That's what they told me, anyway.

Stupid, of course, but people do stupid things.

A spark from somewhere, lord knows? They told me that, all the while looking at me closely to see my reaction.

There was one surprise, it wasn't five people, it was six. I didn't know that Chuck was there, he was found in the spare room. Sleeping, maybe?

I was sad about that too, I liked Chuck. But then it hit me that if he was there, then he was fucking Patty also.

+++

I think I got away with it.

I think.

I really didn't plan on what happened, it just happened. I was in a blind rage.

This one detective keeps coming around, about 3-4 times each week. He asks the same questions, over and over.

He acts like he doesn't believe me.

He told me about how they found one man in the hallway, the remains of one of those small fire extinguishers by his side.

I knew that was probably the one eyed guy.

Nearly five gallons of gasoline going off at once?

No chance in hell.

The rest? All in the bedroom.

The detective kept telling me about it, in great detail, watching me closely for a reaction.

No end to that. He did ask me what I was doing at our gas station since we had no supplies to sell, I told him I was cleaning up and getting things ready, we had a tanker wagon due in the following Monday.

The man looked at me, just nodded.

He asked me the same question again another day, I gave him the same answer.

He also asked about insurance policies, I had one but it was on me and Patty was the beneficiary.

Like I said, I loved her.

Martin told me how sorry he was, but that was it.

He looked at me funny, too.

"She was cheating on you, wasn't she?" He asked me pointedly just once.

"Yea." I answered.

Martin just went back to work and never said another word about it.

I looked up, saw that detective drive up again.

More questions.

No end to it.]

+++

{Like I said, this is a work of fiction. Lots of truth mixed in here, too. I happen to know that a certain woman will read this story, she reads all of my stories since she knows I write and some of them are about her.

I never did tell her that I was there that night. I even had that can of gasoline in my hand.

The truth?

I went home that night, to the beginning of the end. The lies? Those kept right on up until the end, and continue to this day.

Unconditional love. It saved her life. But now she knows just how close she came. 

I was there that night. 

Why did I write this? 

Those emails.

It would pay her to not send those any more.}